Back in Action

Hello friends! After an extended absence, I have returned.

I didn't mean for it to turn into an extended absence. At most, I expected it to last a month (I had to go to New York for work for almost all of October.) And then, my computer had an unfortunate run-in with a flight of stairs and I lost the ability to upload photos (though thankfully, not the computer itself.) And then work got busy and it was Thanksgiving and then I felt like I had nothing interesting to share with you all, especially without pictures, and now it's almost Christmas.

Which brings us to today. After reading this article about how more and more kids are writing to Santa for basic needs instead of toys this year, I decided to participate in Toys for Tots.

(Truthfully, I first called the New York City Post Office to see if I could participate in Operation Letter to Santa. I certainly meet the height requirements for elves. But alas, it was not in the cards this year.)

So I toted in a bag of toys to work this morning, feeling pretty jolly. I also had some champagne for Miri, who is celebrating her recent engagement. And then on the Metro, my friend Tess texted me to let me know that she had gotten the job that I had recommended her for. I was overwhelmed with holiday spirit and cheer and wearing my new red coat and then as I was crossing C Street it hit me:

Today, I am Jewish Santa.

Happy holidays from the little b!

An Important Safety Message from the Little B

Friends, if I can impart one piece of cooking knowledge from my novice repertoire, let it be this: Always keep your kitchen knives sharp.

If you don't, picture the scene: You may be planning to make yourself a magnificent feast of espinicas con garbanzos on your second full night home after a long trip. You may be planning an evening of Spanish food, red wine, and catching up on past episodes of Mad Men for yourself. There you'll be in your tiny kitchen, happily slicing bread with the serrated knife that your mother got you at Home Goods and probably cost less than the bread itself, when it will (because it isn't sharp) snag on the crusty bread, jump, and slice your left index finger through the fingernail and to depths that you weren't sure existed in your left index finger. And then you will feel faint and bleed and call your boyfriend in near-hysterics because you are certain, certain, that you will have to spend the rest of the night at GW Hospital awaiting stitches. You are alone in your apartment and you may die of sepsis.

(You won't.)

However! Espinicas con garbanzos will forever be tainted for you. Especially because they turn out to be not so delicious and certainly not worth nearly losing an appendage over.

This has been an important safety message from the Little B. The above story is fiction* and any resemblance it has to real life is purely coincidental.

* It's not fiction. My finger hurts.
** No, seriously, don't use dull knives.

Outta Cape Cod Tonight

Reader,

You must listen to this song. It will make you happy. It will make me happy that you are happy. And it's important to our reader-blogger relationship.

Happy Thursday!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=abNc1gLig3s

25 to Go

Friends, a disturbing piece of information has come to my attention: I have only been to 25 of these 50 great United States.

Now, this is revisionist history, to an extent. When I was ten years old, Momma B and Poppa B took the Little B family on a great cross-country minivan caravan. We probably traveled through 20 states that time, all with a Chrysler wood-paneled minivan and a CB radio. But I still had baby teeth at that point (plus we had a wood-paneled minivan and no cell phones), so I decided not to count that trip in my travels. Too pre-millenial.

I also did some good driving in 2008 on my way to and from Waco, TX. But I decided not to count any state that I didn't stop the car in. So Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia were out. (Rest stops don't count.)

However, this is an unsettling realization for someone who loves travel as much as Little B does. And especially unsettling for someone who wants to see all corners of the U.S. My top must-sees are (in the lower 48) Washington, Colorado and New Mexico; however, I've vowed to make it to all 50 someday.

So what's left on the list?

Rhode Island
South Carolina
Georgia
Alabama
Mississippi
Ohio
Indiana
Michigan
Minnesota
Wisconsin
Iowa
North Dakota
South Dakota
Nebraska
Kansas
Oklahoma
Colorado
Wyoming
Idaho
New Mexico
Arizona
Washington
Utah
Alaska
Hawaii

What about you, dear reader? Where do YOU want to go in the U.S. of A? And where should I go first?

P.S. Hi Alex!

My Very Own Cake Wreck

Today, as I was perusing CakeWrecks (and I don't think that anyone in the known universe has not yet heard of this blog, but today I needed a chuckle to get me through the pre-lunch stretch), I decided to share with you my own cautionary cake wreck tale. Don't let this happen to you!

But before I can tell this story, there's one thing that you need to understand about the Little B. I must confess it; I can't keep it in any longer. It's a serious problem that I grapple with daily:

I L-O-V-E holidays.

And don't misunderstand -- I'm not talking about the spirit of togetherness, love for your fellow man, wholesome parts of the holiday. I'm not anti-wholesomeness; it's just not what gets my holiday mojo going.

No, what I love most about the holidays is the kitsch. The tchotchkes. The overtly tacky garnishes that make others turn up their nose at the season. I currently have on display, in my home, in August: rubber ducks dressed as Pilgrims, Indians and a turkey; a light-up snowman figurine that blinks red and blue; and a miniature Christmas tree, festooned with miniature garlands and a miniature gingerbread man ornament. (People, I'm Jewish. I wasn't kidding when I said that this was a serious problem.)

(Don't worry, Mom -- Hannukah gets equal footing.)

So for this past 4th of July, I decided, to no one's surprise, that I would go over the top celebrating the spirit of the holiday. I decided that I would make this cake to express all the patriotic, America-loving, butter-craving gluttony that I was feeling that day.

The only small hitch in my plan was my painfully bare cake pan stash. I had one 15x10 pan, but the recipe required a 17x12 pan. "No problem," I shrugged, "I'll just only use enough to fill the pan and throw the rest of the batter out. How ingenious!"

To my great delight, ALL the batter fit into the pan. OBVIOUSLY, I was smarter than the recipe. Clearly, I was the pinnacle of baking geniuses, on par with the masters! I smugly slid the pan into the oven and waited for the patriotic glory to bake.

It should come as no surprise to anyone that this is what happened next:


Steve came in to pick me up for the baseball game 20 minutes later to find me wild-eyed, covered in flour and frantically scooping raw batter out of the pan. The overflowing batter had cemented to the bottom of the oven and had become charred, smoking, and a probable fire and health hazard. I had the partially-cooked cake precariously balanced on my oven range as I tried to chip the burned remains out of the oven with barbecue tools. It was not one of my finer moments.

In the end (after two more scooping sessions and a thorough excavation of the oven, we wound up with flag cake, in all of its caloric goodness.

But I think next time I'll pay more attention to the directions.

Weekend Update

It's HOT. Almost 100 degrees, muggy, close, steamy kind of hot. I've previously referenced how well I function in the heat (short answer - not well), so it's a particular accomplishment for me that I've been able to have the culinary-love fest that I've been having. To be fair, it's never really hard for me to eat.

Yesterday, we attended the Beer, Bourbon and Barbecue Festival at the National Harbor. There were tasting stations for hundreds of beers and bourbons, plus barbecue stations and cooking demonstrations. This guy was my favorite:

Yes, that's a whole pig. Yes, it was delicious. Plus, they were handing out FREE BACON.


(You didn't believe me, did you? That's why I had to provide photographic evidence.)

Then this morning Steve and I checked out a new restaurant on Barrack's Row, Ted's Bulletin. I highly recommend that you check this one out if you're in the DC area. The decor is very cool - it's built to look like a 1930's-era diner or scoop shop (they have an extensive menu of milkshakes), and it has a fun old-timey feel. It didn't hurt that the food was also excellent.

After brunch we took a walk through the Eastern Market. This is one of my favorite places in DC -- so many farmers and vendors come through there, and it's a great place to spend a Sunday morning. I picked up some sweet West Virginia peaches, fresh mozzarella cheese from the cheese stand (p.s.: We also sampled some 'pirano' cheese -- has anyone ever had this? It's supposed to be a cross between parmesan and gouda, and it's so rich and nutty and flavorful, I almost bought a block right there), and an enormous yellow beefsteak tomato. I am normally not a huge tomato fan, but I was happily eating these samples at the market. It's so fresh and summery - I can't wait to eat it with tonight's dinner. Which is going to be pizza!

I've made the dough (rising now), I've roasted the tomato with a big eggplant from the organic market, and I'm going to cover the whole thing with basil and mozzarella. Stay tuned for the full report!

Weekend Update UPDATE:

It was pretty delicious.

(Not pictured: I set the bowl with the rising dough on the stovetop while I roasted the vegetables, figuring that the heat from the oven would help the dough to rise. It actually baked a part of the dough, meaning that I wound up with less pizza dough.) Steve enjoyed the half-baked/half-raw bread-like concoction that was created, however.

(Also not pictured: when I went to check on the pizza while baking, I pulled the rack out, and then lifted it a little bit to put it back in place. The result was the pizza sliding off the rack and the eggplant falling on the oven floor while I yelled profanities and Steve watched in horror. Still good, though!)

My Bad Habit

I have a terrible habit of putting my belongings in a safe place...somewhere that I'll be sure not to lose it. Somewhere that it will be secure. Somewhere that I will surely not forget where it is and will be able to find the important item at a moment's notice.

Unfortunately, I always seem to forget where that safe place is.

Take, for instance, the saga of my digital camera. I moved dorm rooms sophomore year of college, and when I packed up my stuff I put the camera somewhere safe. It was a random, and yet logical, moving space, I reasoned, sure to protect my precious camera during the treacherous move.

After moving I forgot where it was, decided it had been stolen, and lobbied my parents hard for a replacement...until I got packed up to go back to school in August and discovered the camera in a box of winter hats. Safe! Warm! Scratch-proof! (I had not yet learned that a camera case can serve the same function, apparently.)

You would think that I had learned this about myself and stopped hiding things in secure locations like some bizarre squirrel, but alas I have not. This past week I was positive that I had lost the purse that I had used at a wedding this weekend. I turned my whole room upside-down. I demanded that Steve check the bag that he had brought to my house, to ensure that he inadvertently tried to add a polka-dotted Longchamp bag to his wardrobe. I enlisted the help of roommate Michelle to scour the room with me. No luck. It was gone. I mourned the loss of my eyeliner. My favorite lip gloss. The train ticket that I had purchased for my trip this weekend. The cute bag, with its whimsical polka dots. Somehow, I determined, I had lost it.

Finally Michelle asked me where I normally put my bags after I came home. Rolling my eyes, I told her that I normally hang them on the corner of my bed frame. To show her how ridiculous a theory that truly was, I flung back the covers with a flourish to show her the empty bed post ...and found my purse. *

* In this case, 'safe place' can also refer to 'the spot where things are supposed to go, instead of the pile of laundry and debris currently taking up 80% of my floor space.'

What about you? What are your bad habits?

BabyGrill

Back when I was working on the campaign, my friends Richard and Melissa began referring to everyone as "babygirl."It didn't matter who it was: Heads of State? Babygirl. Presidential candidates? Babygirl. Supreme Court Justices? Babygirl. Mrs. Jones/Smith/Magoo in Litchfield, New Hampshire? Babygirl.

And the habit continues today as the rest of us picked it up. Roommate Michelle and I frequently refer to people, places, and favorite politicians as Babygirl. So when the newest addition to my culinary family arrived...


...I knew there could only be one name for it. Welcome to little b's kitchen, Babygrill. Now make me some hot dogs.

A Cooking Lesson

On Wednesday night, Steve and I were supposed to cook a quiet, relaxing dinner at home. He was going to pick me up from work, we would go to my place, and I would create some sort of homey, comforting culinary masterpiece that would satisfy both of us, body and soul.

What I didn't expect was that the heat, humidity, and general grossness that comes with living in DC would take such a toll on me. And when I say "take a toll", I mean "have a crankypants effect." I was hot. I was sweaty. And I was definitely NOT hungry.

So we got home and I draped myself in front of the air conditioning and rolled around saying things like, "it's HOT" and "I'm HOT" and "Aren't you HOT?", while poor Steve looked at me like a starving waif a la Charles Dickens. And then I got a little nutsy. I suggested that Steve cook his own dinner. This sentence struck fear into his heart. There was begging. There was pleading. There was tickling. And then I dragged my heat-struck self into the kitchen to instruct my boyfriend on how to make shrimp quesadillas, bemoaning my fate of living in the sweltering abyss of Washington DC in late May.

(It is at this point that I feel obliged to tell you that it had not even reached 90 degrees and the humidity index had not gone above 70%. I am an extremely sensitive individual.)

The playas: Leftover frozen shrimp. Corn tortillas. Half a can of black beans. One ear of corn. Shredded Mexican cheese.

The game: Defrost, peel, and coarsely chop shrimp. Using your chef's knife, scrape the corn off the cob into a large bowl. Heat oil in a nonstick pan and cook shrimp until just barely cooked through. Mix shrimp with beans and corn and seasonings (we used chili powder and cumin); set aside. Using the same pan, heat the tortillas, two at a time, until warmed through. Spoon shrimp/bean/corn mixture into tortillas; sprinkle cheese and fold. Flip. Eat.

The verdict: In Steve's words, "I thought I was going to have a really terrible dinner. But these are delicious!"

Sidenote: I even managed to overcome my sever heat exhaustion to eat some. They were in fact delicious. And then my roommate gave me a popsicle so I would stop talking about how hot it was. Did I mention I'm 4 years old?

Summertime Shrimp

Friday night we made The Pioneer Woman's Barbecue Shrimp. While I wouldn't recommend these to anyone who doesn't like shelling their own seafood, this was pretty much a perfect summer dinner for those who do.

First of all, these were really easy to make - you layer shrimp (in-shell), olive oil, Worcestershire sauce, salt, pepper, hot sauce, and butter in a pan.

Then, you pop them under the broiler until they look like this:


Then, you take them outside to your hungry friends...


And in a little while, your pan will look like this:

Two Experiments

Last night I held two experiments in my kitchen.

One of my most favorite summertime foods is roasted bell peppers. At my parent's house every summer, my mom always has a bunch of them on hand - to eat with barbecue at dinner; to make sandwiches; for cold salads with tomato, onion, and mozzarella. You can eat them with anything, and I mean anything. They are pretty much the perfect summertime food, hot or cold, and they always make me think of summer.

The way my mom always roasts her peppers is by laying big slices of peppers under a very hot broiler in the oven. Then, when the skin is completely black and crispy, she peels the charred part off and is left with the slices. However, all my favorite food blogs tell me that my mom has been doing it wrong all her life. They say to char the skin off over an open flame -- preferably on a grill.

THE EXPERIMENT (#1): I decided to test these two methods and determine once and for all if my mom had been leading me astray all these years. Since I had no grill I used my oven range, which I figured would work just as well.

THE METHOD: I cut up one red pepper and laid it skin side up on a foil-covered cookie sheet, on the highest rack in my oven. I laid one yellow pepper over a high flame on my oven.

THE VERDICT: For the record, there was no discernible difference, taste-wise, between the two peppers. However, as soon as the broiler-pepper was ready, I was able to safely take it out of the oven, let it cool, peel the skin off, and roughly chop them for my salad. I threw out the skins and the tinfoil and there you had it. Cleanup's a breeze!

The yellow pepper took longer, since I had to constantly rotate it, managing to burn my hand in the process. I also had some difficulties getting it off the flame - once it was nicely roasted, the yellow pepper was a little less manageable than it was in its raw form. I also had more trouble peeling it - it was unwieldy and I would up running it under running water to get the charred bits off. Plus, I couldn't easily chop it since the seeds were still inside - I had to rip into it with my hands, barbarian-like, to get the pepper cleaned and suitable for eating.

THE WINNER: Mom, FTW!

EXPERIMENT #2: I could also call this "lessons learned." Basically, I always read that if you want to remove some heat from your peppers, you should remove the seeds and membranes from inside. Being a person who loves spicy food, I figured that I would ignore this critical step...and promptly dumped a whole serrano pepper into the cantaloupe salsa I was making. (Recipe can be found here, courtesy of Smitten Kitchen.)

THE RESULT: FIRE! They're not kidding about the 'heat' - I cried and wanted my mommy. (Not that I didn't continue to eat it.)

Happy kitchen adventures, friends!
b

Welcome!

Welcome to my new blog! After spending altogether too much time reading about other peoples lives, I decided that I would start my own blog so I could chronicle my innermost thoughts, feelings, and innovative haiku.

I'm a food-lover, amateur cook, 20-something urban professional in Washington D.C. Join me on my blogging adventure!