The Red Spoon

quiche lorraine

Meg — Thu, 17 May 2012 22:11:33 +0000

To be completely honest, there are times when I am my own worst enemy in the kitchen. I find recipes that sound perfect and are photographed impeccably, and they give me culinary epiphanies where I realize this will be the greatest dish ever and I have to make this immediately, but then I continue reading and discover countless comments claiming the recipe to be a garbage worthy failure. And yet I think I can beat this, I can make this recipe into the jewel it is supposed to be. And, inevitably, I find I cannot beat this. I cannot make this recipe into the jewel it is supposed to be.

Oh, I still try. Despite repeated failures, I still try to fix it. Occasionally I win, usually I throw in the towel. This past month, I have barely made one recipe that works correctly and tastes wonderful because I seem to keep picking/being drawn to the duds. Then I look back on the week and realize I fed my family unsaveable disasters (if they’re lucky), or, in many cases nothing.

As with most things I had to go full circle. We went out to a little French Cafe for lunch a few weeks ago and in my stubbornness I ordered duck confit, absolutely positive it would be superior to my husband’s humble quiche lorraine. It’s duck people. It’s the best. It’s posh snobbery, like the French do so well, and snubs its nose at such things as diced up ham and softened leeks in a shell of egg custard. I mean really.

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pickled radishes

Meg — Wed, 09 May 2012 19:48:32 +0000

We’re back in the pits folks. Our peak was grilled pizza, and now we’ve slumped further. This time due to a recipe (for molten chocolate lava cake!!!) that refuses to work no matter how many times I make it. It’s depressing. Oh, the chocolate and eggs and sugar I have gone through this past week trying to coax little souffles to set up just right so that their exterior is stiff enough to keep its shape, but soft enough to give way to a flowing mudslide of unbaked deep chocolatey batter when gently poked with a spoon! Yes, I do believe depressing is the right word when your Mother’s Day dessert disaster has become your nightly spoon bread dinner for the last week. Pity me please.

That being said, I hope you enjoy pickled things just as much as warm gooey chocolate confections. Not that these are bad, or in anyway unworthy of these here pages, it’s just not chocolate. It’s not cake. It’s not half baked. It’s not ultimately what I wanted to give you pre-Mother’s day. (Okay, now you can pity me, and us, for real this time.)

Honestly the story isn’t nearly as interesting as chocolate either. I made these to “zing up” some ~~lobster~~ crab rolls we’ve have been chowing on since we were introduced to authentic ones two months ago. Yep, that’s the story. The whole story — see I told you it was boring. But on a random note: I’m noticing that my pregnancy pickled vinegar obsession borderline “I am in reality a pickle, not a human” syndrome is still my answer for everything (kind of like how the hubs thinks cinnamon solves all cooking conundrums when asked, “this needs something, but what?”). We need help, folks. Please send in the reinforcements.

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grilled white pizza

Meg — Tue, 01 May 2012 18:21:02 +0000

My husband and I are not big grill people. (Does that mean we can’t be friends?) It is, however, something I would like to do a bit more of this summer, as I think my little red charcoal grill is decidedly cute and adorable (though, little baby fish lips will win any contest hands down) plus there’s just something about that charcoal flavor that tastes like America. (I’m officially weird, got it.) But when spring has been so nice, and our recent rain attack has washed away most of the pollen plaguing my household members I thought it would be fun to pull out the rusty gal and grill up some pizza.

Grilling pizza is just as easy as baking (that is, if you actually keep yours outside on fancy platforms like decks or patios; not in your shed because you have no such thing as a deck or patio) and gives you the added bonus of charcoal flavor, grill marks — those are pretty right? — and the slightly charred, crispy, grilled flavor that none other can impart than a grill.

To begin, you must pre-heat your grill — something that can take you over an hour if your names are Josh and/or Meg and you are working in unison against the wind with every possible weapon to get it to light, but failing miserably. But that’s just us. I’ll assume all you grill masters know exactly what you’re doing.

Once your coals are lit and not in danger of going out, move the coals into a pile on one side of the grill, leaving the other half empty. Cover the grill and let it get super hot.

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potato salad with lemon dijon vinaigrette

Meg — Sat, 28 Apr 2012 18:42:28 +0000

Nearly three weeks ago I told you about the purple potatoes I scooped up at the market because they were purple and then let them sit for weeks growing monstrous sprouts completely ruining them because I was in a funk. A funk due to cooking blocks that no matter where I turned were unbreakable. Thankfully Bailey’s helped turn that around, but after crossing my fingers and repeating please, oh please, oh please a million times on our way to the market, they thankfully still had the little purple orbs and I again grabbed them determining something beautiful would be made with them.

I nixed my previous thoughts about purple potato gnocchi as the images I googled looked like slimy purple goo balls on a plate, and decided to not go for purple mashed potatoes (mhm, exactly). I wanted something simple and easy, and something I could whip up quickly for a satisfying weeknight meal* while taking care of a grumpy baby who refuses to sleep because he’d rather roll over, and acts as if being on “his other side” equates to be starved, and/or tortured and/or whateverbabiesthinktheworstpossiblethingis. (Did I mention he only likes to do this while he is supposed to be sleeping? We’re a bit shut-eye deprived over here if you can’t tell.) What won out? Potato salad.

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infinitely adaptable oatmeal cookies

Meg — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 14:58:47 +0000

We were on operation clean out pantry this weekend, which really means we were trying to recreate the cookies I made for my dad’s birthday (ahem, six months ago) when I actually did clean out the pantry. Oatmeal raisin cookies are his favorite, and in my attempt to make them for him I realized after creaming my butter and sugar and adding an egg and flour that whoops, I had no raisins. My mind jumped to the next best thing I could throw in: chocolate chips. Have you ever had an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie? Goodness people, it’s better than oatmeal raisin! Soft and chewy and thick like a regular oatmeal cookie, yet it has gooey soft spots of chocolate throughout instead of sweet bites of chewy raisin. Yeah, I thought it made a good swap too.

The problem: I only had a handful of chips in my pantry. So I searched my drawers and my poor sad three shelf bookcase (my pantry is very pitiful, having no doors, shelves or much of anything. It’s still very much in the transitional re-do phase as it basically consists of bare walls with tears and rips and gouges where shelves once were, a cold tile floor, a five drawer dresser and a three shelf bookcase to hold everything in my life. It will be a glorious day when I actually have a place to put things, like flour, sugar, and pasta other than the floor). I found a leftover bag of craisins from a salad my mother-in-law made us a few day prior, and a few pecans that were toasted but unused. I grabbed them and threw them in the batter making the very essence of a hodge podge oatmeal cookie, gone slightly granola-bar-esque.

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coffee ice cream with baileys fudge ripple

Meg — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 23:11:16 +0000

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whole wheat pita bread

Meg — Mon, 09 Apr 2012 15:40:30 +0000

I have had the worst case of cooking block these past two weeks. Surprisingly the market started to get new, shiny, colorful spring things, like purple potatoes and bright green peas, and despite bringing them home and trying to decide which of my 42 potato recipes was going to feature some purple flair or which pea crostini version I wanted to audition, I barely cooked them in time and did so only halfheartedly. It only spiraled down from there — even the ice cream, ahem, two ice cream flavors we ate were ehh; tolerable to top off an Easter luncheon at best, but only because it was cold and involved a sugary custard gone wildly lemon. Then there was the little boss who had decided to take on a runny nose and lost; lost severely as there were many a fight to clear breathing holes and gently wipe, or ya know, attempt a gentle wipe when really it was an head-lock battle of mom vs. tiny screaming human with a soft pillow to wipe off cruddies and a torturous (problem solving, mind you) suctioning device that ended up as more of an empty threat since there was going to be none of that.

And alas, after week one of cooking absolutely nothing, at least nothing worth even mentioning, because, hey, I can’t even remember if I did, I got caught up in the edge-of-my-seat finale of Worst Cooks in America. I don’t even like reality shows, but Anne — whom I call my sister, except we’ve never met and only one of us knows the other exists; yeah my husband rolls his eyes too — is the supastar and as you can tell my chef crush is raging huge and I will watch anything she is in. No joke. I watched Next Iron Chef: Super Chef until she was wrongfully voted off. Then out of policy (with a side of spite) I avoided that show like the plague. But anyways, I got caught up in the last nail biting episode, hoping to get like a manicure out of the ordeal at the very least, when at last I was able to do my flail about the house in glee dance that looks something like a mesh of Snoopy and Elaine (basically, she won).

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boston + new england clam chowder

Meg — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 00:30:41 +0000

On Thursday my husband and I woke up earlier than humanly possible (being parents makes you super human and thus able and unfortunately familiar with getting up before things like the sun, and other life forms) and schlepped ourselves to the airport and flew all the way to Massachusetts. Boston, to be more specific, if you couldn’t tell from the title all five inches above this sentence. It was impromptu, meaning it was planned three weeks before we left, but we decided to forget about all the packing needed for an overnight trip our wee tot would be making to camp spoil me (ahem, grandparents baby oasis spa manor fun house) which left us scrambling to get everything ready and thus cutting into our precious 5 4 3 hours of sleep.

All day I kept waiting to feel guilty. Guilt over finally leaving my son with someone other than myself or husband for more than two whole hours, but something about Boston captivated me like no other city, err, at least of the four I’ve managed to be in. To be honest, I ~~forgot~~ did think about him between the beautiful spring popping up in window boxes and tree lined sidewalks, the cobbled streets, and after I looked down alleys that look nothing like the creepy, dark, crime-mob-boss-kill-you-death alleys of NYC or D.C. or Sydney. No, these alleys, to be perfectly 5th grade here, took me back to the 1700s. Where I imagined once upon a time a corset, hoop-skirt clad woman darted through to escape a harrasser, or where scecret coded letters were passed, or the way to a back entrance of a underground meeting — yes, this is all very National Treasurer, but nonetheless, the alleys seemed quaint, historic and full of secrets and stories. Then again, it was Beacon Hill, I’m sure the majority of Boston is just like any other city.

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roasted brussels sprouts with caramelized onions and bacon

Meg — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 18:58:31 +0000

There is a long pointed finger of shame shaking in my face right now. It is a bit late to tell you about these brussels sprouts we had over a month ago, seeing as only the piddly bare-boned leftover sprouts are (dare I say maybe) left in the markets, and you will have to wait until fall and winter (shudder) before you can make a proper batch of these little cuties up. You see things (some people like to refer to it as life) got in the way. They were terrible, horribly, nasty things, like the baby mishaps we had two weeks ago, or my site — and everything that has happened/been cooked/baked/enjoyed over last two years — suddenly went kaput and I had to stare fear and death both in the face when a representative told me he needed to “set my expectations” (read: all is lost; you should crawl under a rock and die) and then my tweets were suddenly hacked and I spammed everyone on this green earth (completely embarrassing and humiliating myself) with horrible, nastygrams on the same day I was struck with a 24-hour bug of high fevers and chills and migraines — folks, it’s been rough.

I had planned to eat these (err, more of them — they are too hard to resist when so simple to make) and top them off with these and attempt a semi-serious (but not really) revolt with this humble dish of brussels sprouts. But these “things” came up and I had to deal with them and face the tune of needing a wig (hair pulling is a real thing in this house) or just, well, give up and live a life of grudges and growls and scowls and bitter looks in the general direction of the kitchen, food, internet, blogs, and all things that need updates. Thankfully, these people, are still the most fantastic, wonderful, genius, kind, patient, hard working, understanding, people I have ever dealt with — even at 2:30 in the morning as I was in tears trying to explain through blubbering that…the….links…..they….don’t…..work. I was soon directed to the master genius highness majesty king of all problems with wordpress hosting and in a matter of minutes he turned my tears into cheerleader split jumps and pom-pom frazzled hands and I wanted to skip about my house as fast as I could go without, like, falling on my face, as I sang Jason’s praise on the top of my lungs (I refrained for those sleeping, though the thought of “act now, apologize later” did enter my mind.)

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brown butter blondies

Meg — Tue, 13 Mar 2012 05:38:37 +0000

I have several obsessions in the kitchen that I am wary to break free from since that would mean less of them and more of things like kale or squash or allthethingsIloathe. So today, it should not be surprising that I am bringing to you perhaps one of my favorite obsessions: brown butter. Obsession, as in, would use a brown butter scented bath soap if I could find one–and yes, I have looked. I have prattled on and on about it all over these pages, fawning, yearning, drooling, even shunning you away so I could hoard it all to myself. But I’ve had a revelation. Probably after tearing up over the insane adorableness of my little Oliver Twist-ish child (thanks to a grandparent of course), but none the less a revelation: that I need to share, so that my son will learn to share, because I am positive he will not want to share anything resembling these blondies.

It’s taken me over a week of contemplation to finally come to terms with the fact that you should add these to your indulgences (indulgences? Or, missing element in the basic food groups?) but I reserve the right to keep the peanut butter brownies to myself, for now at least. A few more days of sending my 3 month son off to work and I’m sure I will be wallowing in them as well and needing someone (read: you) to sit down and help me eat them as I sob that he is already grown up and it happened way too quickly.

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