Vomelette

What makes this whoops particularly embarrassing is that I once hired a professional food stylist/chef to come over and show me how to make an omelette. We looked at a Martha Stewart cookbook and found the "shake, scramble and roll" technique. Now the only thing shaking is my stomach as I prepare to eat this. I think what happened is, I added too much half-and-half, which made the whole thing into a very unappetizing, liquidy pale yellow mass (or mess). It became impossible for me to manipulate this thing with a spatula. Meanwhile, the bottom was burning on the pan.

(The toast is embarrassed to be seen with this culinary travesty on the plate, so it is hiding.)

I wonder if the neighbor's dog might eat this...

... but he probably has better taste. Dinner was supposed to be Ruth Reichl's spaghetti carbonara. (I don't mean to drag this venerable author's name into this fiasco, though, so I must state that any resemblance between actual events or meals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.)

There were many factors which contributed to the unpalatability of this dish: pre-grated supermarket Parmesan, and my inability to properly cook the subpar bacon I bought (Reichl specifies "good-quality") - I wasn't sure what the right temperature for frying was, and the bacon fat started sticking to the bottom of the skillet - it never got very liquid. But the main problem, obviously, was the eggs. Instead of producing the rich, creamy sauce that the recipe promised, they immediately turned into tiny scrambled curds.

"Hey, I don't really like creamy sauces anyway," my husband offered charitably.

A Stomach-Turning Sauce

I had such high hopes for today's lunch. But now, just like a bad relationship, I just want to pretend it never happened.

(A few friends are coming over later, and I don't know what it is about visitors that makes me want to experiment, but it's probably best that they not know about this. I wouldn't be a very good host if I served them this culinary accident - I think I'll just break out the packaged cookies.)

You see, I thought I'd make a cream sauce. (Not an oily, curdled cottage cheese sauce.) I had garlic, olive oil, white wine, half-and-half (oh, and some smoked salmon - that's what those little orange things are). All good, right? No. Not good. I'm not exactly sure what happened, as I had the heat on really low, but the cream took on a truly nauseating texture. (I should mention that while I was trying to "cook," my son was deleting important messages from my answering machine, so it was hard to concentrate.) I am pretty sure I put too much olive oil in there, though.

A popular saying comes to mind when I look at this pan: "Let's not and say we did."

Soup's Off - My Worst Cooking Disaster Ever

After reading my previous posts, you're probably wondering, how on earth could I have caused an even greater culinary disaster? Believe me, I did.

I was living in a $600 basement studio on Trowbridge Street near Harvard Square, Cambridge. The studio was located in one of those awful, pre-fab '70's-style townhouses, and it was in bad shape. According to the realtor (she only told me this after I'd moved in), numerous dogs and cats once inhabited the place, and they probably did their business all over the carpet. Soon after I started renting, the boiler had exploded, and since it was in the basement, I suffered the worst of the flooding (and you don't even want to think about what the carpet smelled like).

Throw in a really, really bad ant infestation, and you have the setting for what was truly one of the most unpalatable experiences in history - and a most disturbing image (if you are faint of stomach, please read no further).

I thought I'd try to improve my surroundings by making a delicious soup. I had some recipe for butternut squash soup, and it called for two cloves of garlic. I had never used either common ingredient before. The peeling and seeding of the squash seemed to take forever - I had no idea there were so many seeds.

Then, it was time to peel and mince the garlic. Easy enough, right?

The problem was, I wasn't familiar with garlic terminology. I thought that the word "clove" referred to the entire head of garlic. I was wondering why it was taking so damn long to peel and mince two measly cloves of garlic. Finally I just started throwing the cloves in whole. A dastardly witches' brew began to simmer in my soup pot.

A couple friends rang the doorbell. I excitedly told them about the soup I was making. They looked horrified as they surveyed my counter full of garlic skins. "Um, didn't you know that a clove was just one little section of garlic?"

My face fell. I made the wisest decision of the day: I dumped the soup down the drain.

My kitchen being infested with ants, a black line of them populated the orange line of soup in the sink. I daresay they liked it.

(I moved soon afterwards.)

More Death-Defying Adventures in the Kitchen

I thought I'd have a few mom friends over for lunch. Some of them have read this blog, so they helpfully offered to bring food. I thought I would just make some cookies from a mix; that seemed safe. Except it wasn't.

"Something's burning," said one of the women, a note of alarm in her voice.

"Hmmm. But the cookies have only been in there for about 10 minutes," I said. "Do you think they're done?"

The mystery as to what was burning was soon solved. I'd haphazardly stuck a sheet of parchment paper on top of the cookie sheet, and at least three inches of it were hanging off the edge. It was this paper that was singed black. (Recently, someone on Facebook begged me to stop cooking for my and my family's safety. I guess he was right.)

Fortunately, one of the women (a much better cook) advised me as to the incorrect placement of the rack and of the parchment paper problem. It was her opinion that the cookies were quite done - "But they're still so soft on top!" I protested - and she was indeed quite right.

(In case you're interested, the cookie mix was the French Kiss chocolate-chunk cookie mix from Jacques Torres. It's really great when you don't burn it.)

Hold On While I Disconnect the Smoke Detector...

Oh Lord, what a disaster my kitchen witnessed this evening! To give you some idea...

The picture on the left is the black lava produced by the world's weirdest volcano. The volcano is located in Tanzania, and its lava is as liquid as roofing tar.




The picture on the right is what happened in my kitchen about an hour ago. So, what brought on this entirely manmade, unnatural disaster?

Well, you see, I wanted to try to make chicken teriyaki. Mind you, I'd never cooked meat before; I was a vegetarian for many years. But I had a package of free-range chicken breasts in the freezer, and I thought they should be put to use.

The first problem arose during the thawing. Not having access to a microwave, I placed the wrapped package of chicken breasts in a bowl of cold water. As directed, I changed the water every half-hour; I'd read that this was the safest way to thaw chicken. But the meat just wasn't thawing, it seemed.

A couple hours went by and I decided to just put the half-thawed meat into a bowl of improvised "teriyaki" sauce. (The sauce was supposed to contain rice wine or honey mixed with water, sake, sugar, and soy sauce - I had no sake, rice wine, or honey, so I put in maple syrup and a bottle of Chardonnay that our neighbor had inexplicably handed to me when I saw him in the hall. Do I look like I need a drink?)

Another hour or so passed and I had to admit, the interiors of the chicken breasts were basically chicken-flavored ice. They had been marinating in the bowl of sauce - how was I to attempt to thaw them again? I took them out, hastily wrapped them in some plastic wrap that had lost its cling, and plunged them into another bowl of (warmer) water. Gradually they thawed.

In the meantime, I attempted to reduce the marinade in a saucepan. It had some nasty grey stuff in it from the chicken - fat, maybe, I don't know what it was. At any rate, it was now time to broil the chicken. The recipe directed me to broil it at medium heat, turn the chicken pieces over every few minutes, and to baste often. I only had a small plastic brush that was probably meant for pastry. And I was really unsure about what constituted "medium heat"... I thought broiling meant high heat. So I put the oven on its highest setting.


Oh, I also tried to fry some pierogies for my son during this time. He only has one-and-a-half teeth,

so he mostly eats soft things. This project also went badly, as I mistakenly browned the butter and burnt the dumplings. I still tried to make him eat them; was this child abuse?



The chicken was now (un)safely in the oven. I took the spatula I use for omelettes and overturned each breast several times. When I saw my son heading for the smoking hot oven, I panicked and yelled for my husband to come get him. I poured the pan of sauce, nasty grey stuff and all, over the chicken breasts, but it seemed to pool on the sides of the pan, er cookie sheet. Did I mention that I'd put the chicken breasts on a cookie sheet? I guess this doesn't really matter as I have to throw it out anyway.

The whole time, I was terrified that we were going to contract salmonella, because I don't have a meat thermometer and parts of the chicken were dangerously pink even ten minutes into the broiling. I finally understood why people pound chicken breasts.

Then, the smoke detector went off. I remembered the time my son accidentally dialed 911 and the person on the line said they had to transfer the call to the local police precinct by law, and I then had to explain to the police officer that everything was indeed fine. I had visions of sirens and firemen rushing to our door with hoses; in vain, I tried to wave the smoke around with a pot holder.


My husband located the smoke detector and deactivated it. I breathed out a sigh of relief and breathed in the aroma of black, bubbling, burnt sauce. I extricated a chicken breast, placed it on my husband's plate, and he agreed not to sue me for spousal assault.

So that was tonight's dinner.

ETA: I've just been informed that I ran the risk of exposing the whole family to E.coli, as one should never use a marinade for raw chicken as a basting sauce. Fortunately, I'm sure my cooking "technique" killed any known pathogens.

How to Screw Up Creamed Spinach, Part Two

I guess I was a bit discombobulated tonight. I'd left my Blackberry at Starbucks, or so I thought, and when I went back to look for it, it was nowhere to be found. A young boy said he thought he'd seen it on a pile of newspapers. I located the pile, but not the phone.

Then I burned my thumb trying to take some underdone frozen tortellini out of the toaster oven. I guess I should've used an oven mitt. My thumb now has a blister on it, and I use my thumb to type, so this post might be shorter than usual.

Now we get to the spinach. Mark Bittman's simple creamed spinach recipe directs one to parboil (is that the right term?) and finely chop the spinach before plunging it into a pan filled with melted butter and cream. Preoccupied with my Blackberry and all of the juicy E-mails someone was probably reading, with my thumb wrapped in a wet paper towel, I just didn't have the patience to boil water and put the spinach in there and chop it. So I just sauteed the spinach in some butter - well, more accurately, I first put a pan of butter on the burner and wondered why it wasn't melting, and then realized I'd turned on the wrong burner - and then poured a bunch of cream in the pan.

I now had a bunch of sauteed spinach leaves and a large puddle of unabsorbed, watery cream. I would have taken a picture of this disaster for you, but as I mentioned before, I am no longer in possession of my Blackberry. (I use the Blackberry camera to take these unappetizing photos.)

(Fortunately, someone just called my home phone to say that they found it on the sidewalk outside Safeway.)

ETA: I just realized that I never posted "How to Screw Up Creamed Spinach, Part One." So I guess I'll stick it in right here. The last time I attempted to make Mark Bittman's creamed spinach, I tried to get creative and added garam masala, instead of nutmeg, for an ostensibly Indian flavor. I then dusted the spinach generously with black pepper. When I tried it, I almost coughed. I mean, I know I put in a good amount of pepper, but this was almost unpalatable. I looked at the list of ingredients on the garam masala jar - the second ingredient was black pepper.

Look, Don't Taste

What is this, you wonder? Is it vegan "tuna salad," or is it something you'd feed a horse? Alas, it is an experiment that will possibly (probably) go awry. You see, a friend posted his success on Facebook with Mark Bittman's maple cornbread cookies, which were already a variation on butter drop cookies. One of the other variations was olive oil cookies.

Well, I'm mighty fond of the farro extra-virgin olive oil cookies from Alce Nero; so fond that I have only half a bag left. Naturally, I wondered if I could try to approximate them. But the ingredients in Bittman's recipe diverge from the ingredients in this bag of cookies, of course. Bittman's recipe contains an egg, vanilla, and milk. The Alce Nero cookies only contain farro flour, farro flakes (this is something I could never find in this town), extra-virgin olive oil, brown sugar, and baking soda. There is no mention of egg or any liquid.

Right now I'm in the middle of this ill-fated project. I haven't yet added any liquid, just the egg, but it is clear that I need to do so. There is no way this cookie dough will be dropping off the spoon. Also, the smell of olive oil is overpoweringly strong - Bittman cautions one to use light olive oil, as the flavor is less intense, but how did those folks at Alce Nero get away with it? This is one case where no one's going to be fighting to lick the spoon.

ETA: Is there something wrong with my oven? The cookies have now been in there for 10 minutes and show no sign of baking.

OK, which cookie is mine and which is Alce Nero's? Whoever guesses right gets the whole batch of

mine, for free.