A blogger acquaintance of mine who may or may not know I read her stuff, but I do read it because it's interesting, funny and insightful ... well, she posted a link to a groovy little app-like thing called I Write Like. You input your stuff, and it churns out a famous writer whose work yours vaguely resembles.
Apparently, this is me:
I think it might be the zombies.
July 20, 2010
July 13, 2010
Peanuts Happen
When I talk to my kids, I often use nicknames. There’s “sweetie” and "kiddo" and all the typical mom stuff, which I use mostly because I can’t remember their names. But they also have one nickname each that’s just for them. Almost like a name, except easier to remember.
My Aspie, he gets to be my pumpkin because he was born in October.
My diva used to be my sweet pea, until she realized she was really a princess and started behaving like one, and that’s what she’s been ever since.
And my little guy, who is much bigger than your typical nearly-five-year-old, he’s my peanut. Not because he’s little. He’s never been little, not even at birth. Nine pounds, nine ounces of baby, that one. I call him my peanut because he’s the only one of my three who got an ultrasound in utero during that phase when your soon-to-be baby still looks like a peanut.
It stuck.
Last night I was on the phone with my sister having a very deep conversation, because there’s a whole lot of deep going on. And I was eating a big bowl of ice cream, because my fella is moving to San Francisco and that means I get to eat ice cream. Suddenly I was interrupted by the pitter patter of little feet on the stairs. I jumped up to put my ice cream in the freezer before the little feet found me, because it was on the verge of melting anyway, and came back to find my little guy on the sofa.
At which point I interrupted my sister to say, “Hey, peanut. Why are you awake?” (Clearly, that was not directed toward her.)
I got a raspy croak in response, which generally means, “I have to pee, mom, but there’s zombies in the bathroom, and really I’d rather be sleeping.”
So I made my excuses to my sister, and when I apologized for the interruption she said, “That’s okay. Peanuts happen.”
Which I thought was funny.
Now you get to think so, too.
My Aspie, he gets to be my pumpkin because he was born in October.
My diva used to be my sweet pea, until she realized she was really a princess and started behaving like one, and that’s what she’s been ever since.
And my little guy, who is much bigger than your typical nearly-five-year-old, he’s my peanut. Not because he’s little. He’s never been little, not even at birth. Nine pounds, nine ounces of baby, that one. I call him my peanut because he’s the only one of my three who got an ultrasound in utero during that phase when your soon-to-be baby still looks like a peanut.
It stuck.
Last night I was on the phone with my sister having a very deep conversation, because there’s a whole lot of deep going on. And I was eating a big bowl of ice cream, because my fella is moving to San Francisco and that means I get to eat ice cream. Suddenly I was interrupted by the pitter patter of little feet on the stairs. I jumped up to put my ice cream in the freezer before the little feet found me, because it was on the verge of melting anyway, and came back to find my little guy on the sofa.
At which point I interrupted my sister to say, “Hey, peanut. Why are you awake?” (Clearly, that was not directed toward her.)
I got a raspy croak in response, which generally means, “I have to pee, mom, but there’s zombies in the bathroom, and really I’d rather be sleeping.”
So I made my excuses to my sister, and when I apologized for the interruption she said, “That’s okay. Peanuts happen.”
Which I thought was funny.
Now you get to think so, too.
July 10, 2010
A Whole Lotta Frittata
Do you all remember my pan? My sturdy, strong, beautifully seasoned cast iron frying pan? The pan with all that meaning and history. The pan I burned to bits about this time last year.
Yeah, that one.
I saved it. I scrubbed and I scraped and I seasoned, and then I seasoned again. I cooked a mountain of bacon (and created a true baconophile in my Aspie).
And I saved it.
Now it is making frittatas. Perfect, evenly cooked, gorgeously browned frittatas.
A few weeks ago, the family of my amazing au pair came to visit us from her home country of Belgium. We spent a lot of time with them while they were here. We had them over for dinner one night (check the Fast, Fake-Baked Ziti recipe on the right – it’s my go-to dinner for events like this because everyone, and I mean everyone, loves it). We went sightseeing with them. And we meant to go to the zoo with them. Except that it was insanely hot, the air quality was bad, and my heat-strokey Aspie and my formerly asthmatic diva would have melted.
So I kept them air conditioned, and we invited our extended Belgian family over for brunch the next day instead.
I didn’t have time to shop, so I just used what I had. Two-thirds of a loaf of Italian bread and a handful of eggs, a drop of vanilla and some cinnamon made a nice little French toast.
I tossed a fruit salad. I brewed some iced tea.
And I made a frittata. A clove of garlic, half an onion. A handful of baby tomatoes, seeded and diced. Six little balls of fresh mozzarella, quartered. Several pretty green basil leaves. And, when it was ready for the broiler, a handful of freshly grated asiago sprinkled over the top.
Um, yeah, so I keep a fairly well-stocked kitchen.
My little frittata was yummy. So yummy that I made the same thing the next day for a house guest who had never had breakfast in bed. Everyone deserves breakfast in bed, dontcha think?
Look. Pictures.
That pan is a wonder. Not only did it cook up a stunningly gorgeous and tasty concoction of eggy goodness, practically by itself (yes, my pan is that good). But it didn’t stick. Not even a little bit. Clean-up was easy-peasy.
I love that pan.
Go get your own pan, season the hell out of it, then make a frittata. It will make you happy.
In a mixing bowl, whip eggs and milk until frothy. Turn on the broiler. Heat your cast iron over medium heat. Add the butter. When the butter melts, sauté the garlic and onions until translucent. Add the tomatoes and basil and cook for a minute or two longer to bring out their flavor. Even out the ingredients across the pan, then pour the eggs over the top. Drop in the quartered mozzarella balls. Leave that pan alone until the eggs have generally set (the top of the frittata will still be very wet), then sprinkle the asiago over the top and put the whole thing under the broiler immediately. Let it brown. Cut in the pan and serve in tidy little wedges. Or messy ones, if that’s your druther.
Do not serve with ketchup. That would be sacrilege.
Yeah, that one.
I saved it. I scrubbed and I scraped and I seasoned, and then I seasoned again. I cooked a mountain of bacon (and created a true baconophile in my Aspie).
And I saved it.
Now it is making frittatas. Perfect, evenly cooked, gorgeously browned frittatas.
A few weeks ago, the family of my amazing au pair came to visit us from her home country of Belgium. We spent a lot of time with them while they were here. We had them over for dinner one night (check the Fast, Fake-Baked Ziti recipe on the right – it’s my go-to dinner for events like this because everyone, and I mean everyone, loves it). We went sightseeing with them. And we meant to go to the zoo with them. Except that it was insanely hot, the air quality was bad, and my heat-strokey Aspie and my formerly asthmatic diva would have melted.
So I kept them air conditioned, and we invited our extended Belgian family over for brunch the next day instead.
I didn’t have time to shop, so I just used what I had. Two-thirds of a loaf of Italian bread and a handful of eggs, a drop of vanilla and some cinnamon made a nice little French toast.
I tossed a fruit salad. I brewed some iced tea.
And I made a frittata. A clove of garlic, half an onion. A handful of baby tomatoes, seeded and diced. Six little balls of fresh mozzarella, quartered. Several pretty green basil leaves. And, when it was ready for the broiler, a handful of freshly grated asiago sprinkled over the top.
Um, yeah, so I keep a fairly well-stocked kitchen.
My little frittata was yummy. So yummy that I made the same thing the next day for a house guest who had never had breakfast in bed. Everyone deserves breakfast in bed, dontcha think?
Look. Pictures.
That pan is a wonder. Not only did it cook up a stunningly gorgeous and tasty concoction of eggy goodness, practically by itself (yes, my pan is that good). But it didn’t stick. Not even a little bit. Clean-up was easy-peasy.
I love that pan.
Go get your own pan, season the hell out of it, then make a frittata. It will make you happy.
Rosemary’s Caprese Frittata
- 1 8” cast iron fry pan
- 6 eggs
- A dollop of milk (presuming milk can dollop)
- 1 T butter
- 1 clove garlic, minced
- ½ medium onion, diced
- 4 small tomatoes, seeded and diced
- 12 or so leaves of fresh basil, torn
- 6 balls of the little bitty mozzarella (if you know what they’re called, feel free to comment!)
- ¼ - ½ cup grated asiago or parmesan
In a mixing bowl, whip eggs and milk until frothy. Turn on the broiler. Heat your cast iron over medium heat. Add the butter. When the butter melts, sauté the garlic and onions until translucent. Add the tomatoes and basil and cook for a minute or two longer to bring out their flavor. Even out the ingredients across the pan, then pour the eggs over the top. Drop in the quartered mozzarella balls. Leave that pan alone until the eggs have generally set (the top of the frittata will still be very wet), then sprinkle the asiago over the top and put the whole thing under the broiler immediately. Let it brown. Cut in the pan and serve in tidy little wedges. Or messy ones, if that’s your druther.
Do not serve with ketchup. That would be sacrilege.
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