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.