there will be swear words

Do you enjoy and delight in tales of other people’s failure? Well then, you’ve come to the right place. I’m finally ready to tell you a story about the pie that nearly broke me. But a word of warning, I’m probably going to swear a lot, so if you don’t like that be forewarned. It would be simply impossible and completely dishonest for me to even attempt to relay this tale of failure without a few choice four letter words. I also use Jesus’ name in vain at least once (sorry, Heather). Don’t say I didn’t warn you. It’s just that this story needs to be told exactly as I would say it to your face and in person, well, I swear kind of a lot.

So I became obsessed with the idea of making this pie the first time I saw it. I have no idea why, I’m not even THAT into pie or butterscotch. I think it was the browned butter and bourbon aspect that got me all excited. Plus, I must admit, I’ve gotten a little cocky in the kitchen since the success of my pumpkin whoopie pies. I thought that if I can make a delicate baked good like that, then I can probably do pretty much anything. I was wrong.

I thought Thanksgiving would be the perfect opportunity to knock everyone’s socks off with this decadent homemade masterpiece. I banked on this pie being so life altering that I didn’t even put much thought into my appetizer (which is usually my strong suit). I was totally hosed by the very idea of it. I read the recipe through several times, because it was clear that making the pudding filling would be a matter of precise measurements and quick action, and I knew I needed to be ready.

Tragedy one came with the crust. I misread the stupid recipe and used only butter, no shortening. Seasoned bakers know that this means your crust shrinks up when baked. Kind of a shitty thing to happen when the filling is going to be liquid. Not to mention the fact that well, it looks like crap too. I shook it off and moved on.

Tragedy two came while I was preparing my ingredients. Since I knew once the butter was browned and the sugar melted I would have to start moving fast, I prepped a finely measured out mise en place (thank you Top Chef). About ¾ of the way through my prep I realized that the recipe called for evaporated milk (which I did not have), not sweetened, condensed milk (which I had). As the kids say these days: fuck my life. This was the day before Thanksgiving at 5 p.m., arguably the worst time to be in the car and/or grocery store and I would rather eat glass before I did either. Not to mention the fact that I already had a pie crust par baking in the oven and a countertop covered with already measured ingredients. You should know that right now my cat Bruce is very interested two things: human food and acting like a dick (read: jumping on the counter whenever my back is turned and trying to eat things out of the sink drain- gag-) so I really would not have put it past him to haul his fat ass up there and nosh down on a stick of butter while unsupervised. I sprinted (Sprinted. Seriously- this has pretty much only happened twice in my life and one time it was because the cops showed up at a party) down to the corner store. Dude working there, smelling my tragic desperation, goes: “can I help you find something?” “evaporated milk?!” (surely my corner convenience store would have this random bomb shelter food, right?) “nah, sorry” (he looked truly apologetic) to which I looked up at the sky and said “fuuuuuuck” and then sprinted back out the door and back to my house. When I got home I googled “substitutions for evaporated milk” and found I could use half and half. I French kissed the internet and dashed back to the store and then back home.

When I got back to my house I decided to get a little Zen about the whole process. Slow down, chill out, focus my attention. This called for a cocktail. I took five deep breaths, made an extremely strong Old Fashioned and headed back into the tenth circle of hell: the pudding circle.

very necessary pause:



feeling slightly hopeful:



Here, I started to get down to the brass tacks of the recipe. The recipe, which would prove to be a filthy lying pirate hooker of a recipe, told me that it would take 10 minutes to brown my butter. I kept it low, I was vigilant, I was careful. Guess what happened? Burned to shit. Heinous, reeked up my kitchen, ruined a pot (guzzles bourbon, cracks knuckles, shakes it off). Stick No. 2 browned without issue. Then I added the brown sugar and things started looking up, then I added the half and half and started to feel like a successful person again and THEN came the part where I had to temper the cornstarch with a half cup of the liquid, stirring viciously the whole time. THEN came the part where I added that mixture back to the pot on the stove and had to stir the whole time but only for a minute! Because apparently after a minute cornstarch starts to LOSE its thickening ability. Perfect. I might as well be on a game show at this point. THEN I had to temper the four egg yolks and then add that mixture back to the pot. Oh just so you have a slight idea of how many pots and bowls were dirtied in the process, here is a photo of my kitchen. Keep in mind I don’t have a dishwasher, so…yeah.



At some point I added the bourbon also, both to the pot and more into my mouth. As I’m stirring the mixture I realize that there are some gnarly gelatinous chunks throughout it. Well, isn’t this just ducky my pudding looks like the gelatinous sacs that the Gremlins birthed themselves out of. I got out my immersion blender because my solution to pretty much anything disagreeable in the kitchen is to puree the shit out of it with an immersion blender. THEN, once cool, I had to strain the whole mess through a mesh strainer. My mesh strainer is for cocktails (of course it is) and holds about two ounces of liquid at a time. As you can imagine the straining process was a total blast considering the size of my strainer relative to the size of the Gremlin chunks of sticky pudding. At some point during this process my friend Michelle had called to confirm our plans for that evening. She cheerily asked how the pie was going to which I lamented to her the ridiculousness of the whole process noting without a hint of irony that “this motherfucking thing better taste like Jesus’ tears for the work I’ve done.” I took a taste of my liquid and felt the slightest whiff of hope, it did taste really good. I dumped the strained pudding liquid into the crust, tossed it into the fridge and put the whole mess behind me as I gassed it over to Michelle’s to drink the pain away. At her house I helped her make her side dishes and appetizers and almost felt human again. When I got home hours later I excitedly checked on the pudding, to see if it had, well, pud. The pie was still decidedly liquid. That’s okay! I thought, my head warm with red wine and hope. By tomorrow that pie is going to be perfect and delicious and it’s going to be the best Thanksgiving ever!

In the morning we packed the car up and headed to my aunts’ house. The pudding had still not pud. I was like a psychotically determined person for whom reason did not apply. When Paul gently suggested that I simply just leave the pie behind I kindly told him in my sweetest voice that this goddamn pie was going to goddamn Thanksgiving with us whether it was solidified or not. As you can probably imagine by the time we arrived at our destination at least two tablespoons of the un-pudded pudding had trickled onto the floor of my car. But that’s fiiiine. I’m sure that cooked half and half, butter and bourbon smells SO good in automobile upholstery. I relayed my tale of woe and un-pudded pudding to my mother and aunts who promptly passed me a pumpkin martini and told me to shake it off. My Aunt Sally told me that it would look fine once I garnished it with whipped cream and reminded me “don’t you know that ‘garnish’ is French for fuck up?” I felt better and still held out hope that perhaps the pie, now in the garage freezer, would solidify by the time dessert rolled around.

Several bottles of prosecco hours later, I made up the whipped cream and removed the pie from the freezer. It had some ice crystals in it. I pretended it was solid and soldiered on. Because I am completely delusional and psychotic and, at this point, was fairly drunk, so I was truly unstoppable. I walked over to the dessert buffet; pie in hand, turned my head to the right to say something to my mom and promptly dropped the cursed pie, whipped cream side down, directly onto my sister in law’s cake. My mom howled with laughter. Still, I righted the pie, replaced the whipped cream, smoothed out the whipped cream that had assaulted Renee’s cake and placed the pie confidently on the buffet. It was, without a doubt, the ugliest and worst looking pie in the history of pies. The filling, liquid as it was, did taste good actually. My sister in law was the first besides me to try it “Dang, Jess I just drank some of your pie and it tastes great!” a teeny tiny light bulb sparked to life in my fuzzy drunken head. Drink my pie. That’s it! I decided to take back power from the pie that wouldn’t pud, picked it up, strained the whole thing into the martini shaker with some Baileys and vanilla Stoli, shook it with ice and poured a round of shots for me and my aunts. Suck on that, pie. We are ingesting you whether you are edible or not.

Gorgeous, isn't she?



Does this looked pudded to you?



So if you’re still here, congratulations, you probably don’t have ADD, because this is the longest blog post in the history of blog posts. There is a lesson here: if life hands you a shitty pie, drink that bitch. Fin.

PS, I will have a real recipe up ASAP. I just couldn’t resist sharing this tale of failure.

most delicious tear gas ever

I’m not even close to ready to describe to you guys the massive failure that was my Thanksgiving Pie. For right now, I will just let you know that my cheeseball was a resounding success (cute, right?)



...and that I made French Onion Soup and you should too.



It’s so easy. Not like the pie (cracks knuckles, makes angry fighting face).



I used Julia’s recipe. Because, I mean, who else? And it was seriously a cinch. The only issue is that you will be peeling, slicing and cooking about 3 pounds of onions. So protect yourself and be prepared. I wore safety goggles, which started out as a joke but clearly became very necessary.


(don't mind the mega greasy hair and myspace face. I was obviously joking)

Because when Paul came downstairs he started weeping an ugly cry because our whole house was like a World War I trench flooded with tear gas. The cats retreated to the third floor with tissues and gasmasks. We had to open all the doors and turn the fan on high.



But the good news is once you add the wine and the stock the pungency and eyeball torture tempers down a great deal.



And the soup. Good Lawd, the soup. It was so delicious. I ate it for lunch that day and several other days this week. I even ate it without the bread and cheese because it was that rich and delicious and good god, I mean, who the heck eats onion soup without the cheese, the whole point of the soup is usually because it’s a good excuse to nosh down on a half lb. of melted cheese, right? Seriously though. That good.



FRENCH ONION SOUP

2 tablespoons butter
¼ cup olive oil
3 lbs onions, halved and sliced thin
2 cloves garlic, minced very fine
1 teaspoon granulated sugar
2 cups dry white wine (I used Sauvignon Blanc)
6 cups beef stock (I had to round this out with about one quarter chicken stock. It worked fine)
salt and pepper
1 Turkish Bay Leaf (optional)
1 few pink peppercorns (optional)

Toasted slices of French baguette
Olive Oil
Grated gruyere
3 teaspoons grated Parmesan

In a large saucepan over medium heat melt the butter and oil together. Add the onions, garlic, and sugar. Sauté until slightly colored, stirring occasionally (don't stir too much -- you want them to brown) for about 10 minutes. They won’t be completely caramelized, but they will have cooked down a bit.

Add the white wine, raise temperature to medium high, and bring to a boil. Lower temperature back down to medium and cook for 5 minutes. Add the stock, raise temperature to medium high and bring to a simmer. If using, add the peppercorns and bay leaf. Lower temperature to low and simmer uncovered for 90 minutes.



To serve, ladle the soup in oven proof bowls, float one or two slices of baguette on top and cover with grated Gruyere and a sprinkle of parmesan. Place under the broiler until the cheese is melted and bubbling and browned in some spots. Watch closely, all broilers operate differently and you don’t want to light the bowl on fire. I don’t own any oven proof bowls, so I simply brushed my baguette with olive oil on both sides and toasted each side, then I placed the slightly browned slices on tin foil, topped with Gruyere and parmesan and toasted them to melt the cheese. I then placed them on top of my soup. Delicious. Bon Appétit.



Two more quick things: I cannot tell you how it pained me to the depths of my very soul to use two whole (drinkable) cups of white wine in this but c’est la vie. It does make the soup totally delicious. Second, this is one of the cheapest things ever to make. A bag of onions and beef stock, pretty much the only thing you need besides the wine (but you probably have a bottle kicking around, right? Or would like an excuse to purchase wine and drink the leftovers on a Saturday afternoon, right? Don't worry this is a judgment free zone, boo).

counting blessings, not calories

Gathering together to eat. This is the only thing we need to do to celebrate this holiday. If you can’t get behind that, well then, move along, there’s nothing for you here. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that Thanksgiving pumps me up. It’s definitely in my Top Three Holidays, with the two other being, in no particular order: Halloween and 4th of July. Halloween because it’s a great excuse for me to get to wear some fake facial hair and/or spandex and 4th of July because der: fireworks and day drinking! But Thanksgiving is slightly more poignant. Gathering the people I love together for a meal is pretty much my favorite thing to do in the world (unless you count an On Demand marathon of Teen Mom) and taking the time out for recognition of the good things in our life just wakes up the touchy feely yoga teacher inside me.



As the crunch of the holidays with all of its insane consumer craziness, traffic and aggression bears down upon us, we take this one day to move slow. To cook a bird for hours and hours, to simmer gravy and drink wine, to sit and eat and talk and maybe even take a nap. It’s like the calm before the storm, a gathering place where we meet together and remember, if only for a brief, moment, that simply being together is what it’s all about.



So, having gotten totally Namaste on your asses, what’s cooking for tomorrow? If I were the kind of woman that had her eggs in a row and had made and photographed and blogged, I would have a Thanksgiving recipe for you. But we both know I am not that woman (and if I were, I probably wouldn’t be as much fun to hang out with). I am heading home after work to make the oh-so-classic Cheeseball appetizer (always a hit and super easy) and a Browned Butter Butterscotch Pie (makes a serious face). I will let you know how everything turns out.



Meanwhile I have peppered this post with a couple photos I took last weekend. I whipped up a batch of Homemade Cranberry Liqueur (which I wrote about here. Did I mention I am blogging sometimes for edible South Shore? Well I am. Isn’t that fun! Thanks to my good friend, Aja, who is their blog administrator now) which will be ready in time for Christmas and took a long walk. These photographs were taken on said walk. We live a mile and a half from the coolest spot, Nickerson Beach, where granite cliffs peppered with birch trees drop off into the Atlantic Ocean and there are sweeping views of the Boston skyline. It is a really neat spot to walk and I only get moderately scared that we are going to stumble upon some Goth teens performing devil worship out there. On the way back we saw hundreds of birds all gathered together on some power lines. I think they were just chilling out before continuing on their southbound flight path. I just love the look of them.



Lastly, because someone has always said it before, and have definitely said it better than I could, I will leave you with two cute quotes about Thanksgiving. The first is totally squishy and ladylike and the other is quirky and by a lady I like. Have a wonderful holiday and take the opportunity to employ my lifestyle motto: everything in moderation, including moderation.

xoxo, jess

Grace isn’t just a little prayer you chant before receiving a meal. It’s a way to live

unknown

What we're really talking about is a wonderful day set aside on the fourth Thursday of November when no one diets. I mean, why else would they call it Thanksgiving?

Erma Bombeck

full o' beans

I love that expression. It reminds me of when I was little. It’s like a cute G rated way of saying “you’re totally lying a/k/a you’re full of s#!t.” But so cute. “I think he’s full of beans!” It almost makes me like the liar in question. I don’t know why having a belly full of beans would make you prone to bending the truth. When most people are full of beans they’re just more prone to cut one, but hey, liars and farters, the world is full of them. Good thing I’m neither. So this soup is, quite literally, full of beans. I’ve had this recipe on the brain for a while now and hm, wow, two weeks ago (good lord, we are officially in the holiday time warp zone) I finally worked it up and put it together.



However, we are about to tread into untasted territory. I did not make this soup with the ingredients that are set forth below. I did use the prosciutto, onion, garlic, sage and beans, topping it all off with chicken stock, but I did not use the potato or the wine/vinegar. Or did I? I might have used the vinegar. Crap, I should start writing things down. Anyways…in its first incarnation this soup was very good; however, it was a little too soupy. I had visions of a creamy, decadent, yet healthful soup and what I got was, well, not exactly that. It tasted like beans and chicken stock that had seen the business end of an immersion blender. Don't get me wrong, I did eat it and the flavors were great and like so many soups it got better as each day went by. So I endorse this soup, I just am not sure if the tweaks I’ve made to the recipe will work or not. You will have to let me know.



The recipe I’m providing here allows for some thickening by way of potato. I’m basing this adjustment on my experience making potato-based soups in the past and finding them to be hearty, thick and satisfying without having to drop a cup of heavy cream into the mix. There’s a time and a place for heavy cream and it’s not in my lunch on a Monday, know what I’m saying?



As for the addition of vinegar or wine (whichever you have on hand, really) I believe cooking the solid ingredients down with a bit of acid or alcohol will add another layer of flavor here and due to the large scale presence of white beans- which, admittedly are great, but need work to be really tasty- an extra layer of flavor in this soup is a good idea.

CARAMELIZED ONION, GARLIC and WHITE BEAN BISQUE

2-3 slices of prosciutto, diced
1 large onion, diced; or, 3-4 shallots
5 cloves garlic, minced
Sage, dried or fresh*
½ cup dry white wine; or, a splash of white wine vinegar
1 potato (I prefer russet), peeled and diced
2 cans cannellini beans, drained and rinsed
Chicken or vegetable stock (a 32 oz. container or two cans will do ya)
Salt and pepper, to taste
Splash cream or half and half (optional)

*y’all know that when you use dry herbs you half the amount you’re using, right? Dried herbs are a bit more intense (not in a good way) than fresh when it comes to their flavor. In this recipe, if you are using fresh sage, simply mince a few leaves (removed from the stems). If you’re using dried, as I did, use about a teaspoon and crush it up into a fine powder in your palm before adding it to the soup.



Heat a large pot or Dutch oven over medium heat. Brown prosciutto. Add onions, lowering the heat just a touch. Cook onions for about 20 minutes to a half hour, or until deeply caramelized, stirring often. Add garlic, sage, salt and pepper; sauté a minute longer, stirring constantly, until fragrant. Turn heat up a bit, splash in wine or vinegar and let cook off (about 1 minute for vinegar, a touch longer if you’re using wine) using your wooden spoon to scrape up any browned bits on the bottom of the pot. Add beans and potato and then top the whole pot off with chicken stock. Set heat at medium high and let cook about 15 to 20 minutes, or until the potato is completely tender. Taste and adjust salt and pepper accordingly. I used a good amount of salt, but if you are using prosciutto to start the soup, that will give you a nice salty base from which to build on. Lower the heat and let simmer on low until you are ready to serve. Before serving, you’ll need to puree the soup completely. If you have an immersion blender, use it to puree the soup to a smooth consistency. If you are pureeing the soup in a blender or food processor be very careful and do so in batches, because hot liquids expand. Once pureed taste again and adjust seasoning if necessary. Just before serving, feel free to swirl in just a bit a cream or half and half, if you’d like. Serve with a big salad or some grilled cheeses. I made a grilled ham and cheese using smoked Gouda and prosciutto. Highly recommended. Also, if you were to omit the prosciutto and make this with vegetable stock it would be a great vegan soup as well.

I'll take "s"words for $500

At the outset, you should know that when I pronounce the words “sword”, “swords” or “swordfish” I very clearly include the “w” sound. So while you read this, in your head, for the sake of accuracy, I would ask that you do the same.



What can I say about swordfish? Let’s see they have swords for noses, first off, so that’s pretty bad ass. I think we can all agree on that. If you could have a weapon for a body part what would it be and which body part would you replace it with? I can’t decide myself, I might replace my lazy eye with a laser beam, provided there wouldn’t be any free radical damage to my face and it would be the kind of laser beam used for good, not evil. Anyways back to the sWordfish.



When I was 16, I finally decided to expand my eating parameters beyond chicken fingers and steak tips and I decided that I liked swordfish. Probably because it was the most steak-like out of all the sea creatures. So when my parents took me and a friend to Anthony’s Pier 4 for a fancy dinner to celebrate my Sweet 16, swordfish it was. Nowadays, I don’t eat swordfish all that much, mostly because it’s pretty expensive and also not a very sustainable fish to eat; however, something inside me said “sWordfish” on Tuesday and I answered the call.





I had this idea in my head that I wanted to make a nice pan seared piece of fish with some sort of jazzy sauce. Tomatoes and capers came to mind. Mostly, because I knew I had both at home. I did some light googling and determined that this was, in fact, a combination that would work well with some swordfish so I decided to work it out and see what happened.



What happened was I found a sauce/chutney/warm relish type thing that is straight delicious. Make a batch and spoon it over chicken, fish or shrimp. Heck, just spoon it into a small bowl as a tasty addition to a spread of cheese and crackers. The swordfish was great but for me the major success of this meal was really the chutney. This stuff is tangy, salty and sweet all at once. It’s dynamic without being heavy and if you make it you will enjoy yourself I promise.



PAN SEARED SWORDFISH with WARM TOMATO CAPER CHUTNEY

Swordfish (about 1/2 lb. per person)

About a half package cherry tomatoes
Olive oil
Balsamic vinegar
Salt and pepper

Olive oil
1 shallot, thinly sliced
2 garlic cloves, minced
2-3 tablespoons capers
½ tsp. Dijon mustard
Pinch sugar
Red wine vinegar
Salt and pepper



Preheat your oven to 350. Toss tomatoes with a light drizzle of olive oil and balsamic, salt and pepper. Roast for about 45 to an hour, until they are blistered and have given off some of their juice. While this goes on you can do whatever you want, because this is the only part of this meal that takes a while, but is completely hands off. I drew a picture of my salt and pepper shakers with a ball point pen and did a load of laundry, if you must know. The picture came out awful but the laundry was fine. Win some, lose some.

While the tomatoes are roasting, trim the skin from your fish, salt and pepper each side and then marinate in a shallow pan in some olive oil in the refrigerator. When your tomatoes are ready, remove the pan from the oven. Preheat a skillet with about two tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat. Sauté shallots for about five minutes, add garlic, sauté another two minutes or so. Add pinch of sugar, salt and pepper and your Dijon mustard, stirring everything together. Splash a few drops of red wine vinegar (about 2-3 tbs. I would guess) in the pan, crank the heat a little and stirring constantly let the vinegar burn off. At this point in time, you can reduce the heat to low and let the sauce hang out while you cook your fish. If you’re adept at multi tasking you can sear the fish while making the sauce.



To cook the fish, preheat two tablespoons of olive oil and one tablespoon butter in a skillet over medium high heat. When the pan is good and hot, add the swordfish steaks. Let cook about 5-6 minutes on one side, flip and cook on the other side until cooked through. The directions I read on how to cook swordfish said 4 minutes per side, but when we got it to the table it was uncooked in the middle. Grody. I cranked the oven to 400 and put the whole pan in there for about 5 minutes and then the fish was completely cooked through. If you are timid about cooking fish and easily skeeved if things aren’t cooked through, this is my advice to you: sear the fish on one side for 5 minutes, flip, sear the other side for 3 minutes and then transfer the skillet to a 400 degree oven to finish cooking for 5 minutes. Once the fish is done, pour the sauce over. Serve with a green vegetable and brown rice or cous cous.




This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

what the chicken said

Sometimes the food speaks to you and tells you what to do with it. I had barely any groceries in my house on Sunday. It was cold and grey and windy outside and all of my roommates (the one human and two kittens) were nestled on the couch reading. Bruce and Bea were reading Dostoevsky and US Weekly, respectively. Me though, I was ansty. I desperately wanted to cook something but I would rather die than get back in the car. My grocery inventory was nil. I didn’t even have eggs. EGGS. So I started to putz. I pulled out the remainder of a roasted chicken and began to shred the remaining meat off, so that I could use the carcass to brew up some stock.



I looked over my pile of shredded chicken and said “speak to me” it whispered back in a throaty tone, voice dripping with sex appeal, “Buffalo sauce.” Could I? Would I? Checking in with the fridge contents I quickly determined no…Buffalo chicken dip would probably not be happening today; but the ship had not quite sailed. In my freezer I possessed a package of corn tortillas; in my pantry, a can of black beans; the cheese drawer held a sack of shredded cheese, just ready to rock. I also had some sour cream and a gallon sized jug of hot sauce. Somewhere in the background a Mariachi band began to softly play.



I simmered the black beans with a half can of tomato paste (which you will need to break up to incorporate), a generous douse of cumin, salt and pepper. Then I gushed a whole lot of Frank’s Red Hot in. Probably about ¼ cup at least. Then I stirred in the chicken. I layered this spicy black bean and chicken concoction in a baking dish, alternating layers of tortillas, the chicken and beans mixture and cheese until the pan was filled. Then I baked it at 350 for about 15 minutes, or until the cheese was bubbling. It was delicious. Not a groundbreaking work of food craftery, but all the same, a satisfying easy way to utilize my leftovers. Leftovers deserve love too. Even though they seem lame because you have already eaten them, if you repurpose them just slightly, they take on a whole new meaning and get exciting again. It’s just like Can’t Buy Me Love*, how all she does is rip his sleeves off and add mouse to his hair and suddenly Ronald Miller is a stud. Make your used up nerdy chicken a stud again. Add some mousse. Have some fun.

A real recipe tomorrow.

*I think I have made Can’t Buy Me Love references on here before. Clearly that movie had a strong impact on my adolescent sensibilities. I blame the suede fringe outfit. I have always been powerless to fringe.

chips! chips! chips!

I have issues with potato chips. They are one of my kryptonite foods. This means that in their presence I have little to no self control. Especially if they are Kettle Chips, you know the ones with the flavors that make me want to high kick and punch the wind and do a roaring guitar solo because they are so, so good. Holy crow man, keep me away from those things.

Apparently, *they* say if you are going to eat junk food, you should make it at home. I believe that this theory is supposed to apply solely to sugared treats. For example, your made-from-scratch cookies, although high in calories, sugar and fat, are at least not made with a battery of strange sounding, multi-syllabic sucrose based words and Monsanto modified petrochemicals*. You get the point, and I like this theory. I can wholeheartedly get behind it. However, a broad sweeping generalization about how making things at home is “healthier” can be a dangerous revelation to someone like myself. Someone whose metabolism may or may not be totally mad at her and giving her the silent treatment lately and someone who’s jeans may or may not have been seen waving a white flag of surrender from the bottom drawer of my bureau this morning.



So last week I sort of accidentally invented homemade, baked kettle chips. Because that is how most incredible inventions and discoveries happen, by accident. Isaac Newton, Louis Pasteur, the dude who invented penicillin (possibly also Louis Pasteur?) and Porky Dickens. I’m pretty much on the fast track to having a laboratory named after me at MIT. And yes I realize claiming that making oven fries into a different shape and claiming that they are a new wonder of modern kitchen science is a bit exaggeratory and ridiculous, but hey you know what, it’s Friday and I’ma do what I want.



In fact, if I may, and I will, I’m going to take the liberty to call these little babies “crisps” instead of chips. Because crisps is what they call them in England and everyone knows that food from Europe and/or the UK is not as bad for you as American food and thusly, you can eat more of it [this is a theory I have used to justify consumption of copious amounts of Nutella for decades].



So this sort of enjoyable madness is what I’m talking about vis a vis the dangers of homemade junk food. Are these far better for me than an order of fries or a bag of chips? Yes. Does that give me license to eat like, three whole potatoes with reckless abandon? Sadly no. So be forewarned that these are delicious and addictive and potentially my new favorite sort-of-bad-for-you-sort-of-who-gives-a-crap side dish. Enjoy with caution. Happy weekend.

*holy crap, spellcheck automatically capitalized Monsanto. Gross! You know something is courting world domination if it get automatically switched into a proper noun in Word. Bogus.

SALTY, ADDICTIVE OVEN CRISPS

(serves 2, generously)

2 russet potatoes, scrubbed, dried, thinly sliced**
2 nonstick baking sheets
Olive oil
Salt and pepper



Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Wash and slice your potatoes. Arrange in a single layer on baking sheets. Drizzle olive oil over and rub and flip to evenly coat each side with oil. Salt, pepper and stick in the oven. Set timer for 40 minutes. At the 20 minute mark open the door quickly and remove one pan. Flip all the crisps to the other side. Replace the pan and take the other, making the switch on this pan as well. It is imperative that you only open and close the door at this point in the process and that you close it very quickly. This is crucial to crisping the outside edges. Take a peek (through the door) at the 35 minute mark to see if they’re done. They very well may be, mine cooked a bit quicker than the 40 minutes I allotted. Remove from oven and immediately toss with lots of sea salt and black pepper. Serve as a side dish to any number of things, I plated mine along with burgers topped with Gorgonzola and caramelized shallots.

**if you have a mandolin, you could slice them super thin. But BE CAREFUL and also, watch the cooking time, as I believe it would drastically reduce and your finished product will end up much closer to actual potato chips.