Cheesecake (Take Two), 200 Posts, and a Giveaway

This is not how I’d expected this post (recipe) to go.

I was going to come out, all my culinary guns a’blazing, showing off my growth with an awesome cheesecake to celebrate 200 posts.

But, alas, that was not to be.

Instead, things did not quite go right…

So, Wednesday was my husband’s birthday – and I had the whole day (foodwise) mapped out.  Breakfast in bed, lunch out, tasty dinner, and a lovely cheesecake (his favorite) since last year’s did not go according to plan.  I was going for gorgeous looking and delicious this year.

The morning was a whirl – as I cooked breakfast, made the cheesecake, and set up dinner in the crockpot.

The cheese cake was a recipe I’d found on foodnetwork.com and had almost 500 reviews with a culminating score of five stars.  I was confident it was going to be a snap.  And it seemed as if it were.  The only thing that threw me off was that the recipe said to take the cheesecake out after baking for 45 minutes and that it should be jiggly.  It even stated ‘do not overcook.’  So, I left it in about 5 minutes longer and then forced myself to remove it, jiggly, as the recipe said.

After that it needed to cool and then be placed in the fridge for 4 hours to firm up.  No problem.

And when I finally took it out and released the springform mold, it looked gorgeous!

No cracks and a perfect crust! I was so proud…

It wasn’t until I began to slice, that things started to go wrong.

Apparently, it had not set.

I was so thankful at this point that we did not have guests.

(Did I mention that I wasn’t feeling well, so our friends cancelled?)

(Oh, and the dinner I made was not eaten – I’ll share that story next post.)

All in all, it was not turning into great day for him (or me).

Isn’t this just what you’d want on your special day??

(And yes, I also made a delectable strawberry coulis that was totally wasted – for those interested, mix strawberries, honey, and a little lemon juice to taste in a blender until smooth.  Delish!)

I was so sad.  I really felt like I’d let Hubs down on his special day.  But, of course, he found the silver lining of throwing away the rest of the cake, “At least we won’t eat all those extra calories, right?”

Sure, I guess.

But I was so looking forward to all those calories.  (And I felt that I’d let him down.)

Anyways, after a little introspection, I’m feeling that this recipe was a lesson for my 200th post.  It was the Cooking Gods letting me know that I still have so much to learn – so they gave me a little humbling experience to drive in the point.  They wanted me to renew my desire to continue to grow as a cook; to take chances and gain from the successes and the failures.

So, that’s what I’m going to do.

(And, as the Cooking Gods are my witness, I will make a perfect cheesecake before post number 300!)

(Oh, and I’m going to spoil Hubs rotten on Father’s Day to make up for it.  So don’t feel too bad for him.)

~~~~

Anyways, on to the really fun part of this post… the giveaway!

In celebration of 200 posts, I am giving away a $20 gift card to Williams-Sonoma to one of my lucky, lucky readers.  They have a ton of amazing culinary toys that are sure to please everyone.

To enter, leave a comment for the following:

First Entry:  Share your favorite recipe (and a link if you have one).  (I’m really looking forward to seeing these – always looking for new things to try. )

Second Entry:  Like Misadventures in Cooking on Facebook.  (If you already do, just leave a comment telling me you do.)  Or subscribe to receive emails in the box on the right.

Third+ Entries: Share this giveaway on your blog, on FB, on Twitter, or any other social media.  One extra entry for every time you share.

(Make sure that each of these is in a separate comment.  Enter your email in the comment form, so I can contact you if you win.  I will be choosing a comment using Random.org next Friday, June 22nd at noon, Pacific Time.)

Thank you all, once again, readers, for keeping me positive and encouraged – you certainly help me keep going after days like Wednesday!

Good luck!

Samoas Cheesecake

Or I could alternatively call it, ‘the one where Courtney does everything wrong’ – and it still turns out.

I’ll elaborate in a moment.

But first off, I have to explain why I keep using Girl Scout Cookies in recipes.  (Besides the fact that they can’t do anything but make a dessert better.)  As a family (well, Hubs and I) are trying to cut back a tad on the sweets.

(I know, I know, making a cheesecake is the opposite of cutting back… but I have sound reasoning.)

Since there are now two bakers in the house – occasionally trying to outdo one another – we have gone down a dark path to having goodies constantly in the house.  Which is not good for our health and waistlines, apparently.

Anyhow, we already have the cookies.  We have no self-control and will eat the cookies – sooner or later.  I also will continue to bake.  Soooo, my reasoning is, if I use the cookies in what I bake, we will eat less sweets since I’ll have used them up in my recipes.  So we’re only eating one bad thing (what I make) instead of two (what I make plus the cookies on the side).  Make sense?  Or am I just rationalizing my need to bake crazy delicious desserts??

I’m going to go with the greater good reason.  It makes me feel better.

Back to the recipe.  I kind of messed up pretty much everything in this and therefore, had to hodge-podge a bunch of recipes together.  So some parts have links to the original and others do not.

The Recipe:

Samoas Cheesecake, hodge-podged completely wrong by me

2 c Samoas cookies (or 1 1/2 c and 1/2 c graham crackers)

1/2 c butter, melted

24 oz (4 packages) cream cheese, softened

1 c sugar

3 eggs

2 T vanilla extract

8 oz sour cream

Preheat  oven to 325 degrees.

Crush Samoas (and/or graham crackers) in food processor until smallish and grainy.  Add melted butter and press into bottom of lightly greased spring-form pan.

Beat cream cheese until light and fluffy.  Gradually add the sugar until blended.  Add the eggs one at a  time.  Stir in sour cream and vanilla extract.  Pour batter into crust.

Bake cheesecake  for 1 hour 30 minutes then partially open oven door and turn oven off.   Let the cheesecake cool for 30 minutes more in the oven.  Run a knife  around edges and let cheesecake cool on a wire rack for 8 hours in refrigerator.

~~~~

Salted Caramel Chocolate Sauce, adapted from Epicurious.com

1/2 c sugar

1 c heavy cream

4 oz semi-sweet or bittersweet chocolate chips

1/4 t salt

1 T unsalted butter

Cook sugar in a dry 1-quart heavy saucepan over moderately high heat, undisturbed, until it begins to melt, about 2 minutes. Continue to cook, stirring occasionally with a fork, until sugar is melted into a deep golden caramel, 1 to 2 minutes.

Remove from heat and carefully pour in cream (mixture will steam and bubble vigorously). Once bubbles begin to subside, return pan to moderate heat and cook, stirring constantly, until caramel is dissolved.

Remove from heat, then add chocolate and salt and stir until chocolate is melted. Add butter and stir until just melted.

Cool sauce slightly, then drizzle over cheesecake.

~~~~

Toasted Coconut

sweetened coconut flakes

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.  Place a layer of coconut on cookie sheet.  Put in oven for about 5 minutes or until barely golden brown.

Sprinkle on top of cheesecake.

{Printable Recipe}

The Results:

Let’s start with the cheesecake itself… well, I learned that one box of Samoas does not make enough crust for a cheesecake – and when you don’t have any more, graham crackers (the last two you have) will do in a pinch.

Then, as I was making the cake itself, I realized I had grabbed fat-free cream cheese.  (That’s what happens when you shop with two boisterous boys.)

I forgot to soften it before mixing.

I got lumps.

I completely forgot about another addition from the first recipe I was using.  Then I tried fixing it with ideas from another recipe.  And then ideas from a third.

And then I just gave up and put it in the oven.

It was about 20 minutes in when my oven began to smoke.  Apparently, butter from the crust can drip through the pan and land on the bottom of the oven – and that causes smoke.  Note to all: place a cookie sheet under your cheesecake, please.

After finally taking it out, it still cracked along the edges.  I placed it in the fridge to take a little break overnight.  It looked a little overdone, but I was still trying to be hopeful.  And I was glad to let it go for the evening.

Additionally, I sprayed the stove with cleaner so it could work overnight, thinking all would go well in the morning – when I went to toast the coconut.

But the coconut did not go well, either.

The next morning, I actually remembered to wipe out the cleaner.  I placed my cookie sheet of coconut in the oven, and about two minutes later it began to smell.  It was a combination smell of cleaner, burnt food, and coconut.  Not what I was going for.  As I finally removed the coconut, it smelled bad, too.  So I dumped it.

I cooled the oven, re-sprayed and wiped the inside.  I also wiped it several times with wet cloths to make sure there was no cleaner residue.  When I went to preheat again, it continued to smell.  So I decided to set the temperature for 500 degrees to burn up whatever was left.

While this was going on, Hubs called.  I explained what was happening, and he informed me that the bottom of the oven was a ‘false bottom’ and that probably some of the butter dripped under it onto the element.  I was so excited to have a new place to clean in the oven.  (Insert sarcasm here – I mean seriously, the coconut was supposed to be the easy part!)

Anyhow, after the oven cooled, I removed the bottom piece (which forced me to remove all shelves and side doo-hickeys) and cleaned below.  And after about five tries, I got the bottom piece returned.  I preheated and finally, all was well.

I placed in my second batch of coconut, proceeded to get distracted, and burnt it to a crisp.  Ooops.

The third batch, and the last of my coconut, finally worked.  Here it is in all it’s glory.

After all that work, you're getting a picture. 🙂

Finally, I was able to move on to the caramel sauce – which was actually the part I was the most scared about.  Fortunately things finally went my way, and I didn’t mess anything up.  Hallelujah!

I did learn, though, that you really need to keep a close eye on it – and it took the sauce quite a bit longer to come together than the recipe says.  Also, warm up your cream a bit before adding it to the caramel, and then it shouldn’t seize up as much as mine did.  (I literally had a caramel pancake that took forever to melt back into the cream.)

(Side note, I want to thank you, if you’ve made it this far through my lengthy post!  I promise, we’re coming to the good stuff soon.)

Now that I had all the pieces, I just needed to put it together – and hope against hope that all this work was worth it.  Take a look or two and tell me what you think…

Do you need another view?

I thought so.

This was simply decadence on a plate.

The cheesecake was really good – though I admit it would be even better with regular cream cheese.  It was pretty light in flavor and texture.  The crust was a tiny bit disappointing, as you really couldn’t taste the Samoa-goodness of it.  I might try a thicker crust if I made this again.  But overall, I was quite  impressed with myself.

And now, onto the sauce, oh the sauce.

It was to die for.  Amazing.  Mouth-wateringly tasty.

Salty, chocolately, caramel-y perfection.  It’s sweet and salty mix was so perfect with the tangy-ness of the cheesecake.  (Seriously, I think I could bathe in this stuff.)

And the topper with the toasted coconut – it added just a touch of sweet crunch that moved this dessert over-the-top.

Now, I know this was a lot of work and hassle and stress.  But I pretty much forgot all of it while sitting at the table enjoying my slice.

After reading this, you know then that it’s gotta be really, really good.

And it certainly was.

Almond *No* Joy Brownie Bites

I really hate it when I get in my own way of cooking.

When I don’t think and just do – and when I look back and wonder, What in the world was I THINKING?!?

Well, I had one of those experiences this week as I attempted to make Lisa, from Flour me with Love ‘s, Almond Joy Brownie Bites.  (I’m so sorry, Lisa – you’ll probably never want me to try another one of your recipes again.)

Here we go…

The Recipe:

Almond Joy Brownie Bites, adapted from Flour me with Love

1 box dark chocolate brownie mix

1 (14-oz) bag of shredded coconut

1 (14-oz) can of sweetened condensed milk

1/4 c milk

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Line muffin pan with cupcake liners.  Mix brownies according to the directions on the box.  Fill cupcake liners about half way.  Bake for 12 minutes.

While baking, mix coconut and milks together.  Remove brownies from oven and spoon on some coconut.  Put back in oven and cook for another 14-16 minutes, until coconut is just starting to turn golden.

Remove from oven and allow to cool completely before removing from liners.

{Printable Recipe}

The Results:

Oh dear God, did I mess up.  And ruin everything.  Including the muffin pan.

But let’s go back to the beginning.

Everything started off lovely.  I was so excited to be making something with one of my most favorite combinations of ingredients – chocolate and coconut.

I had an easy time with the boxed brownies (lots of practice, you know).  And mixing the coconut was a breeze.  But it was right about here that things started to go wrong.

It looks innocent enough, right?  I had changed the original recipe by using a regular box of brownie mix instead of the family size… so I happened to have extra coconut.  What’s the problem with that, you might ask?  How can anything be bad about extra coconut?  I agreed, so I decided to just add it to the top of my brownies bites.  Extra coconut = extra goodness, right?

Wrong.  Absolutely, positively wrong.

(This is the what was I thinking moment. As I added coconut, the first dollop started sinking into the brownies. So I added some more.   And then maybe a tad more.  Not the best decision, as you will see.)

I realized that things may not’ve been going exactly as I’d hoped when I peeked in the oven and saw all the coconut overflow.  (This was also about the time that I leaned my wrist against the grate and got a small second degree burn.  Ouch!)

 And it was completely confirmed as I removed the pan.  These looked nothing like the gorgeous little bites on Flour me with Love.

And here were the final products.  None were beautiful, but at least four looked somewhat presentable.

I let them cool completely, as directed, and then went to remove them from the liners (so at least I could get a picture of one of them looking nice).

Fooled you!

Yes, this may look nice from the front, but check out the back.

Yes, that is cupcake liner, baked into the brownie and coconut.  No, you cannot remove it without losing at least half of the brownie bite.

Then you’re just left with lots of sweetened coconut with a tiny taste of chocolate.  Not exactly what I was going for here.

Pretty much just a big ole waste of time.

But honestly, it has such great potential.  You should check out the original recipe if you want to see what it should’ve turned out like.

Maybe I should just go back to meals.

Nah.

Boston Cream Pie Disaster

I don’t even know where to begin.

Let’s start with my baking confidence… it’s pretty much at an all-time low right about now.  And that is not a good thing.  This dish caused not one, not two, but three baking mishaps.  I think that’s a new record for me.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.  Let’s go back to the beginning.

My heart was in the right place.  My folks were coming over to watch the boys (date night!) and I wanted to make my dad his favorite dessert for a belated birthday present.  He adores Boston Cream Pie, so I thought, why not?

I started out making the actual cakes.  I found a recipe through google (Note to self: not a good plan, unless I know the cook or it’s rated highly.  Lesson learned.  Lesson whacked up side my head.  Lesson shoved down my throat.)

(Anyways, I won’t be sharing the recipe or any of the others, as I do not recommend them.) 

So, I mixed up the batter, added it to my wax-lined cake pans (as suggested), and placed them in the oven to bake.  I checked on them about 5 minutes early, and my toothpick came back clean.  I took the pans out and set them aside to cool.

Ahhh, back when I was still optimistic...

After the cooled, I went to take them out.  And, instead of two soft, spongy, light cakes, I had two hard, crispy, cookie-like disks.  If that wasn’t frustrating enough, the wax paper had melted to the bottom of the cakes.  Awesome.

Boston Cream Pie Gods: 1,  Courtney: 0

You would think this would’ve been a sign to stop.  But nowadays, I’m a fighter in the kitchen.  I wasn’t going to give up so easily.  And I figured my dad would really know it was my cooking, with a crispy cake instead of the soft one.

And so, I moved on to the custard.  And stupid me, I decided to work on while I was cooking my Tuscan dinner.  Not the brightest move.

I cooked my custard according to the recipe I found – from the same place as the cakes.  What was I thinking??  When I went to add my egg yolks…they, um, kinda cooked a bit…

Can you see the little flecks of cooked egg yolk?

And yet still, I forged on.  I placed the custard into fridge to cool. 

After it cooled, I went to dump it on one of the cakes.  And it came out… in one BIG lump of gelatinous goop.  I could’ve cut it with a knife and served it in slices, I swear.

Boston Cream Pie Gods: 2,  Courtney: 0

This is the point where I might have cried a little bit.  I was overly stressed from the dinner cooking, the cake issues, and now this custard lump.

Hubby was so supportive, after he got over being amused at my issues (yes, he did laugh at me, but in doing so, he helped me learn to laugh at myself).  He took out his tried and true Boston Cream Pie recipe and said he’d help me re-make the whole thing.

I was kind of over it at this point, so he basically did all the work for the cake and custard.  I was ready, though, to step up for the chocolate topping.

I thought for sure, with the already-tested and trusted recipe, nothing could go wrong.  And I could still at least tell my dad that I helped make his cake, even if it was just the topping.

So, I followed the recipe exactly.  Word-for-word. 

And my shaved chocolate pieces would not melt.  They just sat in the pan in little clumps.  I did not take a picture because I was not a happy camper.  At all.

Boston Cream Pie Gods: 3, Courtney: 0

Thank goodness Hubs was around, because he knew some tricks to fix it and make it work.  And he did.

So we had a cake to give to my dad…but here’s the last hilarious part…

It slid apart before serving.

Seriously, at this point, all we could do was just laugh.

And dig in. 

At least it still tasted good!

Frozen Corn is Hard to Cook

I haven’t shared any stories from the past in quite a while, so I figured it was about time to embarrass myself (yet again)…

When I was in ninth grade (and in high school), my parents decided it was time to move.  This was devastating to me, and not just because the new school district had ninth grade in the junior high (I’m really not still bitter about this.)

Anyways, I was at a brand new school, with new classes, and of course, new classmates.  And in ninth grade, you want to fit in.  Desperately.

Two weeks into my new school, I was taking an introduction to languages class.  We were in the Spanish Unit and were assigned a project and partner to work with.  I was ‘lucky’ enough to be paired with our ninth grade class president, captain of the every sports team, and all-around most popular girl at our school.

To say this was intimidating was an understatement.  I was painfully shy (still am sometimes), and was extremely anxious about working with her. 

And added to all that, it was a cooking project.

(Now, I’m going to preface the rest of the story with a disclaimer – this isn’t a really horribly awful cooking story.  No one was maimed or injured… It was just at the time, as a ninth grader trying to impress and fit in, it scarred me.  Just a little.)

S (let’s just call my partner S) was very comfortable in the kitchen.  She decided to work on the harder portion of the meal (the meat) while I was assigned the corn.  Frozen corn.

All I really needed to do was heat it up.

I wanted to look like I knew what I was doing, so…I followed my gut, got out a pot, put in some water, and dumped the corn in.  I turned on the heat and left to help S anywhere she needed it. 

Did I stir it?  Nope.

Did I double-check the water level?  Nope.

Did I check on it at all?  Nope.

When I returned to it many, many minutes later – there was no water left, and I had a disk.  A corn disk, you might say.  It wasn’t burned, at least.  But it was solid.   I literally could pick up every piece of corn in one hand.  Not exactly what we were looking for. 

My heart started pumping because now I had to admit my mistake to S.  She took it in good grace, but I still remember this as one of my most embarrassing moments of childhood. 

(It didn’t help that we were at my house, and my mom may have cracked a couple of jokes about it right then and also every time we would see her after that.)

Good thing S had a great sense of humor.  And was truly a nice girl.

Because we became great friends and still get together even now.

But every time we do – she insists on going out or doing the cooking herself.

So close, and yet so far

I think I was starting to get a bit cocky.

I had a streak going — lots and lots of successes — and I was feeling like I could do no wrong.

But then I did.  I did something very wrong…

As you all know Easter is today.  One of the best Easter traditions is the dying of the Easter egg.  I’ve participated many times – and each and every time, those hard-boiled eggs magically appeared (well, maybe not magically, but my parents, husband, or friends always already had the eggs hard-boiled and ready to dye).

This year, I decided that the kids and I could dye some eggs during the week, so that they’d be all ready for the big Bunny.  The first thing we needed, of course, was hard-boiled eggs.

Now, I honestly thought that this would be an easy task.  I mean, seriously, eggs + boiling water = hard-boiled eggs.  Not exactly brain surgery, right?

Well, I wasn’t completely trusting of my own instincts, so I looked up how to hard boil an egg on the internet.  Surprisingly, there were lots of sites explaining this — and they were all completely different.  Some suggested boiling the eggs for x-number of minutes.  Some said to remove the pan from the stove-top immediately after hitting boiling, and letting them sit for a bit.  Others discussed soft boiling vs. hard boiling and the exact minutes needed for each.  My head was actually spinning from all the different ideas.

I decided, though, to go with the boil, remove, and let sit suggestion.  It worked well with my morning routine.  I could bring the pot to boil while cleaning up a bit, and just remove it afterwards.  Perfect.

This is where I should mention the fact that almost all the websites said very specifically to only let the eggs sit in the hot water for a short and specific amount of time.  I had read this…I knew this… and yet I still went upstairs to take a shower after turning of the stove.  I left it there while I got dressed and ready; and while I got my twelve month old up from nap and got him dressed, too.

As I came down the stairs, there was an odd odor.  It smelled kind of like egg.  Stinky egg.

I would like to imagine that this would’ve been a warning sign to me that things had not gone as planned.  That I maybe had messed up a bit…

But no. Nope.  I just assumed this was what hard-boiled eggs are supposed to smell like.  I put them in the egg carton and into the fridge.

And then promptly left the house for several hours.

When I got home, the smell still lingered.  I ignored it.

When Hubby got home, the smell still lingered.  He did not ignore it.  He immediately began searching for the cause of the smell.  When I casually mentioned I had hard-boiled eggs, he opened the fridge to check them out.

And then the smell did much more than linger.

It wafted. 

It advanced. 

It permeated.

I realized that perhaps something had gone wrong as Hubs pulled out the carton, and the stench grew stronger.

I immediately took the eggs out to the trash, but the smell would not leave.  Every single fresh food in our fridge was saturated with the aroma of rotten egg. 

It all had to go, too.

Oh, and I got to wipe down and disinfect the whole refrigerator to get the scent out.

Let’s just say we still haven’t dyed any eggs yet.  Hoping my mom might have some ready for the kids to use later today.

Happy Easter!

How to (almost) lose a guy in one date (or How NOT to cook your chicken)

Hubby and I had a typical college romance.

Boy meets girl.

Girl dates boy’s friend.

Girl breaks up with friend and then dates boy.

And the rest is history. 

Thank goodness – because I almost accidentally sent him packing early on in our relationship.  The one and only time I tried to cook a romantic dinner…

Our first two dates were pretty normal: dinner out, movie or fun activity, making out, etc.

But on our third date (which happened to fall on Valentine’s Day), hubby invited me over to his house for dinner.  Not expecting much from a 19-year-old boy, I was blown away by the crab-stuffed chicken, risotto, and fresh green beans he prepared.  Huh?  Really?!?  Crap, I was thinking.  Now I have to reciprocate and try to make it really good (because, of course, we were still in the ‘I’m lying exaggerating about things I like and can do’ phase of our relationship and I really didn’t want him to know yet that I had NO idea how to cook).

I went home and discussed this in-depth with my roommates (since they both could cook fairly well).  I needed an easy recipe I could prepare beforehand (didn’t want him to see my knife skills and just in case something went wrong, I could have time to fix it pre-his arrival).  We talked it over and decided I could make my friend’s famous salsa chicken.  It was so simple: just mix equal parts salsa and ketchup and mix with chicken cooking in a pan.  Perfect!  And I’d fake the side dish with a box of Noodle-Roni.

Now, let me explain that when you are telling someone a recipe and they truly do not know how to cook, you need to be very, very, very specific about everything or they are sure to make some sort of mistake.

In my case, letting me know that there is a minimum internal temperature you need to reach in order for your chicken to be cooked all the way through!  (Yes, I had no idea about this.)

So, I mixed my salsa/ketchup combo — which now, by the way, sounds so disgusting…we thought is was so gourmet back then — added it to my sizzling chicken in the pan and waited for my new boyfriend to arrive.  The chicken began to turn dark brown (almost burnt) around the edges (because, also, she forgot to tell me what temperature to cook the meat at and that I need to use some oil) right when he arrived.

I sighed with relief as I removed the chicken, plated it, added the “pasta,” and got ready to serve.  As I started to head to the table, the back of my neck began to prickle, as I remembered something about people getting sick from undercooked chicken.  Even though it was nice and brown on top, I figured it would be a good idea if I cut inside, just to check (plus my salsa mixture would cover the slice I’d make).

Now, I had distracted Hubs from what I was doing by suggesting he turn on music, so as he picked out the perfect CD, I tested out the chicken.  I checked Hubby’s first – his was a larger/thicker piece.  Oh my God – it was completely pink, liquidy, and cold inside!  Yikes!!  Using a different knife, I checked mine.  It was perfect, no pink, and quite warm. 

With him coming back to the table, me still new to dating him, and an embarrassing disaster heading my way – I did the only thing I could think of without giving away my dilemma: I switched our plates.

As he dug in, and at least ‘pretended’ to enjoy the food, I picked at the sides of my chicken and scarfed down the noodles, trying to act as normal as possible.  And guess what, he didn’t notice!  Or at least didn’t comment.  As soon as he was done, I cleared the table and dumped the disgusting chicken.

And he never knew I almost poisoned him on our fourth date.

If he had, I doubt there would’ve been a fifth.

Thank goodness for that neck prickle – or my life may have turned out a bit differently.

Gourmet Cooking Club

I’m on injured reserve this week. 

My hubby planned the week’s menu when I was not feeling so great – so he’s pretty much in charge until the weekend. 

But on Saturday I will attempt stew, I think.

In the meantime, I thought I’d delve into my past, again, and share the story of my brief, but eventful time in the Gourmet Cooking Club…

When I was in Junior High, I joined the Gourmet Cooking Club.  Not sure why… maybe I was still in denial of my cooking disability, or I actually thought I could learn something, but either way, I joined.

We met once weekly after school to cook a delicious and gourmet meal (or as gourmet as you can get from 7th and 8th graders).  Our advisor would demonstrate a recipe to make and then we’d be split into groups to start cooking.  She would wander the room giving helpful hints and advice.

I remember our first meal: beef tacos.  I remember this because it was where my first mishap occurred (if you can call a second degree burn a “mishap.”)  The actual cooking went fine — I think I even chopped some veggies for the tacos.  It was after we were finished that I unintentionally broke a cooking rule.  I was on dish duty and decided to take the sizzling hot pan and run cold water over it.

Did you know that causes burning hot oil and water to splatter and spray?  And if your arm is anywhere nearby that it can cause an indescribably painful burn? 

I do.  I learned that lesson very well that day.

But I didn’t give up.  I came back the next week ready to try again (and tried to ignore the fact that the advisor never strayed far from our group).

I don’t remember what we made that week, I just knew it was uneventful.

The following week was several dishes.  One of which included peeled potatoes.  Did you know that if your peeler is new and really sharp, you can peel a strip of skin off your thumb? 

Guess what?  I do.

The week after that I caused a small grease fire.   (Hot oil again – though I did know better than to put it out with water.  Thank God for small favors.)

My last week in the club, my nervousness led to a dropped knife.  It landed very close to a friend’s toe. 

I’m not making this up.  I wish I were.

It was one thing to put myself in harm’s way, quite another to involve others.  I decided then that my foray into cooking was over.

I’m sure the class and the advisor were quite relieved. 

And I really haven’t cooked regularly since.  Until now, that is.

With my track record, I say I am doing rather well, don’t you? 

(Obvious attempt for compliments acknowledged.)

Can I blame my Mom?

A dear old friend of mine (I think she’s all of late 20’s) reminded me of one previously unmentioned reason for my issues with food/cooking…

my mom.

Oh, yes.  I think I’ve repressed my thoughts on this, but now I’m pretty sure it all goes back to my mom.

(Sorry, Mom, if you’re reading this.  You know I love you.)

My mom can cook.  She can cook really well.  And she loves to experiment with her cooking.  I have many, many memories of the crazy things she made over the years. 

She’s never understood my aversion to food touching (previously mentioned here) and somewhat ridiculed my preference for wanting the basics (example: she still gives me a hard time for wanting traditional turkey and stuffing at Thanksgiving — what in the world am I thinking, after waiting all year for those specific foods?)  She’d rather add nouveaux (that’s new in fancy french) ingredients that test my tasting patience.

And she really likes to talk about what she’s cooking or has cooked and what she used to cook it in and how she cooked it, etc…

This is why her and Hubby are two peas in a pod.  In fact, she calls him the daughter she never had.  (Really, that doesn’t mess with my self-esteem at all.)

Technically she hasn’t done anything to make me not want to cook.  But, during my teenage years and possibly my twenties into my thirties, my stubborn nature led me to purposely not cook, just because she loved it so much. 

(It’s a mother/daughter thing – you understand, right?)

So, can’t I blame her, too?

Darn, I didn’t think so.

A Knife in the Hand is Worth…

a trip to the ER. 

I learned this – though thankfully, not recently. 

Today, I thought I’d share the main reason why I’m not a fan of knives.

One summer, home from college, I got a job at a cafe/bakery/bagel shop.  I was excited to be a hostess/server/barista/food prepper.  I knew I’d get lots of experience, and it was just down the road, so I’d be seeing all my friends and neighbors.

My first day was very low-key.  I was taken around and shown the ropes.  It was a crash course in everything, so I pretty much just watched from the back.  It looked easy, and since I’m really good at faking that I know what to do, I figured I’d be fine.

The next day was not as easy as I’d thought.  Suddenly I was making espresso, serving customers at their tables, and basically running around like crazy person.  I’ve learned that when I get like this, mistakes are made.  Big mistakes.

I went to slice a bagel with a very long, sharply serrated knife.  I was so smart that I held the bagel in the palm of one hand while slicing back and forth — blade towards me.  The bell on the door rang, and I looked up to greet the new customer.  And slooosh, I sliced right through the meaty part of my palm.  Like it was a stick of melted butter.

(This was seriously my second day of work.  I really know how to impress a boss.)

I didn’t scream at the sight of the big pool of blood soaking into the bagel and pooling on the counter.  (You have to realize how impressive this is, as I normally hate the sight of blood).  I casually grabbed a towel and wrapped it around the wound.  And pretended nothing had happened while cleaning up the mess.  (I really didn’t want to lose my job.)

It was about 5 minutes later when I passed out on the floor of the shop — towel soaked, that I realized I may have hurt myself more than I thought.  The other girl on shift called the owners, and I called my mom. 

And I had my first trip to the ER ever in my life.  And gained a fear of knives.

The owners kept me on staff (believe it or not) and learned all about the L & I process. 

(Really, I was helping them out, actually.)

And they bought one of these:

Very smart.