Taco Tuesday with Zillion Dollar Fish

It's Taco Tuesday.


In my youth of yesteryear – you know, like three months ago – on this weekly holiday we typically would hole up at Area 52 which is a dive bar near our house that serves $1 tacos that are so delicious yet somehow also make you hate yourself and your life choices. But when you wash them down with a $2.75 well cocktail, it evens itself out. Since I've been trying to cook relatively healthy every day, and I had a hankering for halibut, I decided I'd make some healthy fish tacos and circumvent our usual Tuesday routine.


I walk past Portland Fish Market every day on my way home, and today I stopped in. I asked for enough halibut to serve two people, and the friendly fish monger – side note, is that not the best job title EVER? I want to be a monger, of any variety – grabbed two small fillets, weighed them and proceeded to ring me up.


TWENTY FIVE EFFING DOLLARS!


I'll let that sink in. $25. For two small pieces of halibut.


First of all, you shifty fish monger, halibut is a bottom-feeder and really is like the mole of the fish world. YES it is delicious, but how do you sleep at night? Do you roofie yourself, or perhaps drink enough to forget that you make a living charging people 4x the hourly minimum wage for two slabs of fish?


Here's where the story takes a predictable turn (if you know me). I smiled and handed him my money with no objection whatsoever, because I didn't want to cause a stir. If you ever want to swindle someone out of money with whatever cockamamie scheme you can hatch, come knock on my door because I am too nice to object.


Next stop was the grocery store for guacamole ingredients, cabbage and cotija cheese. If you've never had cotija cheese, do yourself a favor and buy a wheel... and then eat the whole thing without utensils of any sort. Whether you set out to do that or not, that is what will happen.


I no longer buy tortillas because one night I was craving tacos and had consumed a few adult beverages and logged onto Amazon and ordered pastured lard, 8 pounds of masa, a tortilla press, and one of those tortilla warmer things you get when you order fajitas. I thought I'd be a certified Grown Up when I turned 30 but those dreams have been shattered. I am an impulsive fat kid with a paycheck.


Anyways, homemade tortillas are absolutely delicious and easy. How many of these do you want to shove in your face?

On to the fish. I followed the recipe from my food bible, The Food Lab, for breaded fish and got it cooking after finishing up my tortillas and tucking them into bed in their fancy little warmer (I GOT FREE SHIPPING). I threw together a quick guacamole with a chopped onion, tomatoes, lime juice and 3 avocados. One thing I appreciate so much about Latin cuisine is that it is so delicious in its simplicity – the tortillas take like five seconds to pull together if you're blind and lazy, and guacamole really just requires a fork, a knife and enough upper body strength to brush your hair.


Considering it cost me more than I would typically spend on a dress, leggings, and a pair of sandals at H&M, the fish was lucky that it came out phenomenal otherwise I would have thrown it against my wall which seems to be a pretty undignified way to end ones earthly presence. Finally, it was time to assemble.

Homemade tortillas. Crisp leaf of Boston lettuce. Homemade guacamole. Crispy breaded halibut. Shredded cabbage. Cotija cheese.


It was delicious. It's very satisfying to see all these simple elements come together – it sounds cliché, but the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. The sharp crunch of the onion, the creaminess of the guacamole, the chewiness of the tortillas, the crispness of the fish all topped off with a mild but pungent cheese – it was godly. It clearly cost more than the $1 taco down the road – and I did miss the sideshow of weathered day-drinkers trying to karaoke – but worth every penny.

I highly recommend getting drunk and ordering tortilla-making supplies on Amazon, and creating your own Taco Tuesday. Next week I think I'll make a taco with mango salsa because that sounds fancy and weird. The world is your oyster – go forth and Taco!*


*Note to self: Oyster tacos might be a thing

Bonus: Halfway through, with extra guac.

Braise Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself

Have you ever had one of those weeks – the kind where even the Buddha himself personally waking you up in the morning wouldn't inspire you to not pull a pillow over your head and hit the snooze and punch EVERY SINGLE BIRD that was chirping in their cute stupid face (seriously, shut up birds)? The kind of week during which you'd be walking through molasses to reach the Holy Grail even if it was full of Nutella and rainbow dreams and sunshine?


Last week I had one of those weeks. The rut I found myself in was mighty, and it was wide. Every day, I had great aspirations to cook stews and roasts and all those lovely things – evidenced by the now vacuum-sealed 9 pounds of meat in my freezer (IT WAS ON SALE, DON'T JUDGE ME). And yet, every night... I just wanted to braise vegetables from the recipes in The Food Lab (my food bible). I could not be inspired to do anything more than brown, add butter, close a lid, and open it. In the meantime, I would hang out with my chickens, who remind me that even if you have a shitty day, chill out and check yo'self – they are little feathered dinosaur creatures and they shit their little poultry-pants in pure glee when I hand them a bunch of weeds. I mean really, how bad can my problems be? They prance around me like I'm about to douse them with holy water when I walk into their coop with weeds that I'd otherwise toss in my yard debris bin.  I hear most children are not so appreciative - hey, prospective parents, consider hens!


Anyways, on to the week of braising. I started with asparagus. Side note – I am one of those freaks of nature that cannot smell a change in the odor of my pee after eating them, so I get super paranoid going to the bathroom in public after eating them. After this particular batch, I walked down a floor to pee in a bathroom I knew to be less populated by people who I know and would certainly knock me down a few pegs if they smelled my asparagus pee. I don't know what asparagus pee smells like, and maybe it is horrifying. The suspense of not knowing will plague my life until my dying day.


Anyways – I didn't know what to expect, as I've never braised vegetables before. After browning, I added a healthy dose of grass-fed butter and some homemade chicken broth, tossed on a lid – and that was it. When the broth and butter had simmered down into nothing, it was ready. The asparagus was coated with this perfect lacquer, and it was absolutely delicious.

Okay, so that was like.. one foot up on my way out of the rut. But I wasn't quite there, so the next night I decided to replicated that recipe with carrots. Okay – go find every cookbook and recipe you have regarding cooking vegetables, and set them aflame. They are utterly useless. Braised vegetables are like that girl in high school who wasn't only the prom queen and valedictorian, volunteered at Humane Society and hand-fed bunnies, but was so nice that the only reason you hated her was because you couldn't hate her.  (SCREW YOU, JULIA)*

Day 2, carrots.  Oh my God.



Braising is the buttery popcorn version of vegetables, except minus the guilt because VEGETABLES. My husband and I did not use a fork on Day 1 or Day 2 of my braising week. Fingers are the utensils that god intended for braised vegetables.


Day 3 I decided to braise some green beans, and this time I mixed it up a bit. While I'd usually use butter as the emulsifying fat, I slow-cooked some slab bacon, drained it, and used the leftover bacon fat instead. Also added some red wine vinegar, and holy crap. It looked like mushy drain leftovers... but it was the best yet of the braised vegetables. Served it with a Portuguese sausage because, come on... why not.

Braising is a beautiful thing. Fresh organic greens, healthy fats, low cooked until perfection. After my epic-level rut of a week, it was like Xanax braising every night. Well, braising in combination with my chickens, who continue to be my 7 little therapists. I mean, they only care about me when I'm feeding them and they smell like shit... but same goes for human babies and people love them right?


I found myself in a rut. In accordance, I only cooked using the same technique every day but with different vegetables. Even just mixing it up that much got my wheels spinning, like finally catching traction when you're stuck in the mud. Tiny little deviations – they go a long way when you're trying to crawl back to the surface.


Happy braising y'all.

*Julia doesn't exist.  I was fortunately enough to go to high school with some classy-ass ladies, whom I don't resent (because I can braise better than them)

Being Both Flawed and Tasty: A Lesson in Life and Ugly Food

Have I bitched enough yet about how hot it is? I don't know if it's my verified Northern/Western European heritage (no seriously I had DNA testing done), but this heat just saps me of any and all energy. I could not even stop by Safeway on my bus ride home for cooking supplies, lest I faint. So I decided I'm cooking whatever the hell is marginally edible in my fridge and hoping for the best and then calling Al Gore and screaming, “FIX IT!!”


I had three eggs left from my mother-in-law's hens, which are culinary GOLD. Must include those. Some salad greens, some mozzarella, three-day old cherry tomatoes and an avocado. I can work with that.


Then this happened, which was neat.

Now I have two eggs left. I do not prefer to cook eggs under such circumstances as I am known to throw them out when I try to cook them and they suck. Not because I'm like a horrible, vindictive person who is prone to fits of rage (I'M NOT, SHUT UP), but to do them the favor of not living their brief life marred by disappointment and mediocrity. Now the pressure is on, because I have been failing on eggs so hard lately it's like I'm a junior high kid who thinks it's cool to skip class.


My husband prefers hard-boiled, and I prefer soft. So I whipped him up this awesome salad then got to feeding myself. That hard-boiled egg was on point.

I should also mention that today, I got a package from Crate & Barrel from my parents that was full of AWESOME NEW PLATES(!!!!!!!!) because maybe they're proud that their daughter cooks stuff and puts it on the internet and they are encouraging good behavior because otherwise I would totally be snorting nefarious things off of a toilet bowl at Hidden East Tavern. Or maybe just because they're awesome. They are fancy and colorful (both the plates and arguably my parents) and I must do them justice.


I roasted the tomatoes not out of any sort of culinary inspiration but because they were starting to go soft, and my chickens won't eat them. Roasted tomatoes might be my new favorite thing – they become so sweet and acidic at the same time, and they're awesome even though they're ugly and wrinkly which gives me hope for my future. I am turning 31 in a couple weeks, so the pruning process has begun.


Now for my soft-boiled egg. That slutty mistress. I followed the recipe from my food bible, The Food Lab, and have had a hell of a time nailing down the cooking time. I've been told I prefer six-minute eggs, but for me and our stove, it takes seven and a half. Many eggs have perished in this determination.


WOW HOW AWESOME. After just straight up dropping an egg on the floor, I stood in a kitchen that was already hot as balls over a hot stove, and my egg had cracked. Did I mention I am totally an egg misogynist and hate the ones that are ugly even though they probably taste fine or possibly delicious? I only did this for the picture. I do sort of enjoy the fact that it looks like Batman.

It actually tasted perfect. And the roasted tomatoes, avocado and cold mozzarella drizzled with a bit of olive oil and some sea salt was really a tasty combination. Lesson learned – you can be old or wrinkly or ugly or any combination of the three, and still be tasty.

Fat Kid Day

It was a stupidly hot weekend.

Dodging under random and ever-shifting spaces of shade, I accomplished a lot in the yard, and spent ample time kicking it with our awesome chickens – but I still needed to clean my bathroom and do my laundry and scrub the floors and solve world hunger, of which I did absolutely fuck-nothing because I was too busy drinking beer (FOR SURVIVAL) and sticking my face under cold running water while my cats tried not to die.  After a hot and draining couple of days, I was tired.  I dragged my sorry ass to work on Monday and just felt like I was lagging all day.  I hadn’t cooked a new recipe from The Food Lab or blogged the previous day as per my mission, and felt pretty poopy about it.

So, I got home Monday night determined to check off a couple of recipes from my (LONG) list, and I was so sick of salads and healthy things because hot weather makes me want to mainline White Castle burgers.

 I decided to make smashed potatoes with a from-scratch herb mayonnaise so I could eat all the oil in my pantry and also some starch, just for good measure.  Basically cholesterol therapy.

I drove to Safeway and they didn't have the right kind of potatoes because everything has to be a goddamn tragedy.  So I got yellow potatoes instead of new potatoes which is like eating rehydrated peanut butter when you wanted Nutella.  And then it makes you make outrageous comparisons that have no foundation in reality.

I made it home, also with a bottle of Cocoban which is the best cheap red wine on this planet.  I needed it because it counteracts personal and situational failure (at least during consumption) and I'll take what I can get.

The mayonnaise was a miracle.  We buy it from the store for our whole lives because it's one of those things that is a fridge essential but no one ever thinks to make themselves.  I always thought it was like churning butter - why in the name of fanciful Moses would I go through ALL THAT EFFORT when I could just buy it?  News flash - mayo involves dumping things into a mug and running an immersion blender.  If you're cross-eyed and lack basic motor skills, you can make mayo that is delicious.  Even add some garlic and call it aioli if you're fancy.

I boiled the potatoes until soft and smashed them with a pan, then fried in oil.  Do you know that feeling that you get when you walk into McDonald's that's equal parts "holy shit fried stuff" and "I make poor life decisions"?  Smelled like that.

I've been trying to cook healthy, and I deviated.  But I think there's something inherently healthy in indulgence.  I walk past Dairy Queen every goddamn day and never treat myself - instead I learned how to make mayo and fried potatoes like a really industrious fat kid.  It tasted like heaven and improved my mood as much as it damaged my waistline.

I'll eat a salad next time.

It is HOT, y'all.


Portland reached the high-90s this weekend, which means of course that everyone either floated the Sandy, drank PBRs from a cooler, and/or died. I drank some PBRs, avoided death, and ended up spending last night at my former roommate and good friend's house, which thankfully has central air. Have you experienced central air? It is a religious experience – if you were selling God alongside a central air system on a 100 degree day, I would be evangelical.


We cooked a delicious dinner in the first-world bliss of a cold house on a hot day. I'm reminded of a quote from King of the Hill, when the family went to Phoenix and Peggy said, “This city should not exist – it is a monument to man's arrogance.” Preach, Peggy. I can only survive these temperatures with ceiling fans and a bottle of Monopolowa vodka in my freezer, and friends with AC units. TRY ME, HOT WEATHER. I HAVE CIRCULATING AIR AND COLD BOOZE AND AWESOME FRIENDS.


This morning, my mother-in-law came over with an edamame plant (!!!!!!!!!) and fresh eggs from her hens, and promptly started weeding and feeding our chickens and just generally being a hummingbird of productivity, while I tried to trudge through my hangover (my friend pours stiff drinks, and the heat makes me verklempt). As she moved on to other ventures, her energy inspired me enough to weed all of our plots, water all of our plants, and feed our chickens some more weeds, all the while impressively not dying of heat stroke.


As I walked back into the kitchen after sweating my balls off in the heat and feeling like I would immediately perish until I stuck my head into the freezer, I saw my cookbook, The Food Lab, sitting precariously on my counter. My mission is to cook my way through it, and yesterday, I failed. I needed to cook something today. How convenient that I have a dozen fresh eggs from the most pampered hens in the Portland metro area? I decided to tackle creamy scrambled eggs – with goat cheese and roasted tomatoes, and a chicken sausage too because why not go beast-mode, protein-style.


6 eggs, 2 egg yolks, ¾ tablespoon of salt and I whisked it until it was frothy. After letting it sit for about 30 minutes, it turned from golden to ORANGE. Like Donald Trump before and after a tanning session. I added in 2 tablespoons of butter that I had chopped into little chunks and kept chilled, then threw it in a pan over medium-low heat and stirred it constantly. Eventually, the eggs started to curdle as the butter melted and then they eventually came together into a beautiful, custardy lump. How is that for making food sound edible?

I turned off the heat and added a couple tablespoons of heavy cream. After adorning the plate with tomatoes that I roasted then broiled, a bit of thyme, and some goat cheese – breakfast was served.


Oh Jesus. That lump of eggs was so good I wanted to break the plate over my head in a show of victory. The eggs were the perfect texture, the roasted acidity and sweetness of the tomatoes and the sharp, tangy goat cheese (which melted into the hot eggs) came together just perfectly. My husband literally licked his plate, and I served him the ugly plate that I didn't take pictures of.


I definitely heated up our barely-tolerable house by having the stove on for a half hour, and I would say it was worth it – but it wasn't. Our house is literally uninhabitable after two days of this heat and my stupid cooking venture. So, I am writing this from the Hidden East Tavern which has ample AC and cheap beer. I walked in and was tempted to take off my bra and lay down on the floor while the bartendress threw ice cubes at me. I settled for a PBR – and an ice water, which I will probably drink eventually but am mostly rubbing on my face like a feral human.


Stay safe out there, folks. And try those eggs, because holy shit they were good enough that I turned my house into the purgatory between earth and Hell and am now writing at a trashy bar on a Sunday afternoon just so I can exist without melting.

Hairy Legs and Sausages

Roll up your knickers and splash those pits with ice water kids, because it is a HOT ONE today – and it is supposed to be around 100 all weekend. Here in Portland, we like to characterize such a weather event as if it were apocalyptic and certain to ensure imminent death of old people, puppies, and those with weak dispositions. Even on Weather.Gov, there was a special alert urging people to check on their neighbors and wear sunscreen. Good advice, to be sure – but seriously, it's like 25 degrees hotter in Arizona and I'm pretty sure they aren't relegating themselves to their “it's so hot it's burning my fee-fees” fallout shelters.


With that being said, we Pacific Northwesterners are well-versed in being total wieners about any heat level that is:


A. Below 50 but not snowing
B. Above 80 but not a Saturday
C. Both raining AND windy
D. Raining on a day you did up your hair all nice


So it's not a surprise that we're all freaking out about the hot weekend. I'm right there with you, PNW brethren. Tonight, I ain't cooking a gad-damned thing. I bought vegetables and a few sausages along with a loaf of local bread and we are drinking cold cocktails and grilling some encased meat and watching our chickens. To facilitate such a lovely evening, I stopped by Otto's Sausage Market near our house for some primo logs of pork. It was then that I had a internal crisis.


If you've never been to Otto's, it is an awesome place with tons of great meats and mustards and Europoean beers (THE BEST BEERS, AND YES I'M SAYING THAT TO YOUR FACE, PORTLAND). They also have a small deli where they will make you a sandwich that you can sit and enjoy, in an area adjacent to the cash register. Today, I grabbed me some cajun chicken sausage and some Denmark something-or-other that I was told by the “we close in 30 minutes why do you have to ask me questions” meat-slinger, tastes exactly like Swedish meatballs. IKEA, get in my mouth – I'm sold. A couple Pilsner Urquells and some local bread sealed the deal, and I got in line.


Before I allow this to continue, I'd like to make something clear. I was raised by a recovering hippie, who was raised by a legit card-carrying hippie, and I'm kind of a hippie. If I had been born 20 years earlier, I probably would have hopped on a VW bus and just seen where it would take me, man, probably to San Francisco. That being said, I've been observing a trend – maybe not even that, maybe it's just Portland being Portland – that straight up sends me into 1950s housewife mode. And I saw it for the THIRD TIME in one day waiting in line at Otto's. Let me remind you again, I am a hippie pro-woman feminite lover of all genders and sexual orientations and life decisions. But oh my GOD, LADIES – shave your goddamn legs.


Okay, look, it's summer and that's super awesome and stuff but the one thing I hate about this season is I HAVE TO SHAVE MY LEGS LIKE ALL THE TIME. When I'm wearing leggings all winter, I can generally get away with less because I put a ring on it and my husband legally has to deal with a couple days worth of stubble, but in the summer when I'm wearing dresses and skirts every day – just, no. Shaving every day is a reality which I despise. But I deal with it. And there are an increasing number of women in Portland who have not shaved their legs since the dawning of the age of Aquarius. And one of them was sitting in the Otto's deli in an adorable sundress and cute shoes and a fun, summery up-do – with legs that looked like a Mediterranean pirate used Rogaine as lotion for the entirety of his pillaging journey.


I am all for women's liberation. Hell, as a card-carrying woman I climbed the corporate ladder farther than many of my male counterparts and I drink and cuss and ain't feel like having no children so I ain't gonna and all that stuff. THE 21ST CENTURY IS AWESOME because I can do those things and not be an outcast. But, that little tiny slice of Betty Draper housewife inside of me just screams internally when I see hairy lady legs on parade. This runs completely counter to everything I've told myself I believe about female independence and it makes me question if one of my parents actually gave me some bad, lady-hating DNA.


Then I really started thinking – if I showed up to work in a dress, as I do almost daily, with legs I hadn't shaved since the coming of spring, PEOPLE WOULD TALK. People would stare. I have every right to not shave my legs if I don't want to – but I would be a pariah if I didn't. I think perhaps I am super jealous of the increasing number of chicks who are just like, “nah, I'd rather not.”


So tonight, I'm the anti-housewife. Instead of cooking like I have been every night, I'm letting my husband grill big-ass manly meat-sausages while I whine about women who don't shave their legs. WHAT HAVE I BECOME. You know what, I need a bit of a vodka with a beer back just to prove I'm not Betty Draper (although I'm pretty sure she would knock that back so that's perhaps not the best example).


What is feminine, and who gets to decide what it is? Am I feminine because I love to cook, and is a woman who doesn't somehow less feminine? I am a woman because I shave my legs, and a woman who chooses not to somehow less of a woman? Why do we judge each other so much?


You know, this heat is really getting to me. I think tomorrow I'll shave my legs, strap on my apron and forget I ever questioned why I do either of those things.

I'm Stupid and So Are My Eggs

So after a long day of work – doing worky things, as I am wont to do – I was sitting on my bus heading home and thinking about what I might cook tonight for dinner. That devolved into surfing Serious Eats which devolved into Instagram which devolved into Redditting which then left me a sad, media-saturated shell of the woman that I once was when I first stepped onto the bus. Then, just to really rub it in, some average looking Joe sits next to me and – I swear to Flying Spaghetti Monster – starts timing himself on his phone while he solves a Rubiks Cube. Using ONE HAND. Repeatedly. I of course watch (I guess some people would say “stare” but I don't like those people) and observe his fastest time – TWENTY-FIVE SECONDS one-handedly solving a Rubiks Cube!! Like it ain't no thang! On the 19 Trimet bus while rubbing shoulders with people who shower biweekly and apparently gargle filth and cigarettes for breakfast! And also decent, respectable people such as yours truly but clearly I am not of the caliber of human that I once thought I was. I am the type of person that would peel off the colored stickers on the Rubiks cube and rearrange them because work smarter not harder, right? All I wanted to do was sit on the bus, think about food, stare at my phone, and feel superior to people who are smellier than me when THAT crazy smart asshole decided to sit next to me. What a JERK.


Ugh. By the time I got home, I felt like instead of cooking dinner I should binge Sudoku on Expert level and sip brandy from a snifter. Instead I poured my new favorite summer cocktail – 2 parts berry cider, one part red wine – and decided to cook a couple different recipes and techniques from my food bible, The Food Lab, BECAUSE I CAN DO SMART STUFF TOO, GUY ON THE BUS WHO THINKS HE'S SMARTERER THAN ME. Steamed asparagus, walnut vinaigrette, and poached eggs it is. And my husband absolutely had to make meat, so he bought a steak and kept my drink full like the dutiful man he is.


You know how I've occasionally mentioned or possibly outright bragged about how I could poach an egg in my sleep? Well Jesus tap-dancing Christ I don't know what kind of demon eggs I bought, but they WOULD NOT POACH properly. Every damn one, the whites just sort of spindled around in the water and outright refused to cradle up around their little yolk friends like I've so easily been able to convince them to do before. I threw two down the drain that were probably edible but so ugly they offended me, before I finally knocked out a couple good ones. That Rubik's cube guy – he really threw off my freaking Qi today. Poaching pro-tip – do NOT just drop your egg in the water after straining out the excess whites – gently tip it in like the delicate little flower it is. My last one came out PERFECT.


At this point my husband and I are both on the brink of starvation and I haven't even started steaming the asparagus yet because of my obsessive perfectionism over my stupid eggs that are stupid because if they were SMART like Rubiks cube guy, they would cinch up into a perfect little package like good little eggs. I finally decide fine, my eggs are going to be ugly, and I get the asparagus steaming while I prepare a walnut vinaigrette. Into my immersion mixing mug goes minced shallot, a tablespoon each of honey, dijon, and hot water, and three tablespoons of white wine vinegar. In a separate bowl, I combined olive oil and canola oil which I would then blend in slowly, emulsifying into a yummy thick dressing, and add the toasted walnuts.


Oh, shit. I forgot to toast the walnuts. WILL ANYTHING GO RIGHT IN MY LIFE.


As I toss back drink #2 as a healthy distraction from my utter failure as a human being, the asparagus perfected itself and I stared longingly at the one egg I poached that looked beautiful while resenting the others like red-headed stepchildren. Finally, time to plate.


Okay, y'all, that dressing with the crisp steamed asparagus and the runny poached yolk was absolutely DIVINE even for all of my bitching. The fatty, nutty crunch of the walnuts was an awesome contrast to the crisp, fresh crunch of the asparagus, and the dressing and yolk commingled beautifully and coated the spears in a tangy, delicious lacquer. Incredibly tasty, and I would make that dressing again a million times.


So I can't solve a Rubiks cube with one hand in 25 seconds, but I can make a mean asparagus dish with walnut vinaigrette and ugly, stupid eggs.

I Made a Salad to Cool Down As a Substitute for More Deodorant

So, yesterday I deviated from my food bible, The Food Lab, from which I intend to cook every recipe and technique – such is the purpose of this blog. I deviated because it was hot outside and I had an intense craving for Thai beef salad (it was yummy, No Ragrets). The heat did not subside today. Tonight, I came home to 7 chickens who were hiding in the shade under their coop, 2 cats who were sprawled out on the coolest concrete on our back porch as if they had melted like mozzarella cheese, a tortoise who as per usual did not give a fuck, and a garden full of not-so-perky looking vegetables of the “oops I tanned for too long” variety. Tonight was a night for another salad.


After flipping through The Food Lab, the recipe for Roasted Beet salad with goat cheese, eggs, pomegranate and almond vinaigrette caught my eye. I've always enjoyed cooking dishes with many elements, as it keeps my idle hands and anxious brain occupied – however, these dishes are usually long-cooked over a hot stove. This was perfectly feasible when I lived in an apartment with AC, but our current house feels approximately like some Man Upstairs is trying to turn us into jerky.


Salad it is. I did have to turn on the oven – to roast the beets, and hard-boil the eggs. Unfortunately, I could not find pomegranate seeds within a 10 mile radius so I settled on diced fresh cherries, which I added a bit of minced mint to. When the roasted beets came out of the oven, I let them rest for 30 minutes and headed out to the backyard with my husband to watch our new Reality TV – our 7 chickens.


I had taken the greens from the beets, chopped them up and sprinkled them in the chicken coop. They went absolutely balls-out nutty over them – flapping all over the place trying to properly position themselves for premium beet-green-eating positions. Even in the heat, they were so ridiculously excited for fresh greens that they pranced out from their shady, cool enclosure to eat them up like savages. If only we mere humans could be so inspired by fresh greens, amiright?


While I “cooked”, our cat Fender climbed to the top of a very large tree in our backyard while chasing crows. Jan sprayed him down with a hose, and I started to assemble what would soon be a pretty amazing salad.


I toasted some almonds then ran them through my food processor, adding them to a tablespoon each of honey and white wine vinegar. 5 tablespoons of olive oil would soon join the mix to create SUCH a yummy dressing that I went all George Costanza on it and double-dipped my finger in it a few times because I am unapologetically disgusting. Diced the roasted beets, drained some sliced white onion under warm water, and turned my attention to the hard-boiled eggs.

Hard-boiled eggs have always grossed me out, but Kenji's technique has me sold. They are perfection. Have you ever eaten a sandwich, or a bite of pasta, or a crisp bagel with cream cheese, or anything really, and said “MMM....” pause, another bite, “MMMMMMMM!!” Yep, that's it. After tossing some ice cubes in boiling water and peeling those little beauties, I assembled my salad.

As the sun began to set, the cats un-melted themselves; the chickens resigned themselves to their cliques in various corners of the coop, and my beautifully sprouting vegetables drank up all the water I just spewed on them. And my husband and I sat down to a delicious salad. We took a lesson from our chickens, and got enthused about vegetables even in the heat of the first day of June. This dish was absolutely beautiful. The crunch of the almond, the kick of the goat cheese, the almost creamy texture of the beets along with the crunch of the lettuce, raw onion and the egginess of the egg (for lack of a better word) – it was total perfection. On a hot summer night, I could not have asked for anything more.


There might have been some cider involved, just saying. But that never hurt anyone on a hot day.