Jumps in the Mouth

Sorry, today’s post is about a meal I made last Thursday. I understand it’s been awhile, but I’ve been out of town…drinking. And chugs before blogs. Feel free to use this new slang in the blogosphere. I’m a trendsetter.

So, I have a boyfriend. I guess I should say that. I’m not a mushy person, so we’ll keep it at that. But, I made him dinner. I decided to revisit an old recipe from Cooking Light: Lemony Chicken Saltimbocca. In a nutshell: Chicken wrapped in prosciutto and fresh sage, with a light lemon sauce.

Saltimbocca is Italian for “jumps in the mouth.” It is usually made with veal, but since we are dealing with a light dish, chicken seems like a logical substitute. I like this dish, because it’s simple. Further, I like lemons and this lemon sauce is light and tasty.

I served it with angel hair pasta and green beans. The pasta picks up the excess lemon sauce well.

Bad lighting. Deal with it.

I will be blogging more often this week, because I finally figured out time management. Also, I’m cranky, which will make for better reading. Also, I’m making polenta fries.

Also checkout this site: punchfork.com. It’s basically a site that gathers all the top recipe sites. Don’t read unless you have free time or you are fine with slacking off.

Graduate School Snapshot

It’s 10 PM on Wednesday. I’m jittery from drinking too much coffee. I only had two bowls of cereal for dinner.

So, I made a ham and Swiss grilled cheese sandwich on wheat. It will accompany me while I grade and watch Dawson’s Creek.

Did Plato eat oatmeal cookies when he thought about shit?

I am currently watching Dawson’s Creek and drinking Dunkin Donuts’ Pumpkin Spice coffee (very out of season, it was on sale at Target). I should be reading Plato’s Protagoras. This is every Saturday for me. While being a PhD student has some glamour to it, you can never wake up on a Saturday and proclaim “I HAVE NOTHING TO DO TODAY.” This is especially difficult when you are a social butterfly and want to stay out late on the weekends. I get that I’m an adult, but I’m only 26. I want to wake up in  a dark alley, not in a pile of books.

This week has been one of closure, and my lack of productivity is due to a lot of deep thinking. I have come to the realization that I have grown up a lot last semester and that I, in fact, am happy. I have never had two positive feelings at once and I just want to ponder on this. You know, before graduate school slaps me with its always expected “You are not good enough” hammer.

So, I cleaned today and thought a lot. Then, I made some oatmeal cookies, because they remind me of my childhood and Saturdays without things to do.

Whenever I want to bake those staple items, I turn to Smitten Kitchen. I used her recipe for thick, chewy oatmeal raisin. BUT, I replaced the raisins with butterscotch chips and kept the walnuts. So, overall: I made Butterscotch Walnut Oatmeal Cookies.

 

They turned out pretty damn well and I got to use my cookie scooper. Okay, reflection over. Time to read some Socratic dialogue.

OMG!

She’s at it again. We won’t see her until next semester!

Hey chill out. I’m coming back tomorrow.

For now, since it’s hump day and it’s time to talk about some woman issues…

Read this article from Jezebel: Hugo Schwyzer’s “Timeless Bad Advice: Settling for a Guy Who Loves You More.” 

Do you have to let it linger…

I have had a bag of cranberries in my fridge since Christmas and every time I open the fridge,I swear the Cranberries song “Linger” plays. I’m sorry cranberries, I didn’t mean to leave you in the fridge. Fine, I’ll use you.

In Scotland I was introduced to compote, that thick syrupy stuff with fruit that goes great in yogurts and cakes. My local bar, the Black Sparrow occasionally hosts these fantastic 4-course brunches. I took a friend there for her birthday and we raved about their brioche French toast with cranberry compote. So, I had compote on the mind. You know I’m such a fool for you. So today I bring you: Cinnamon French Toast with Cranberry Pear Compote.

Fresh fruit, bitches.

I looked far and wide for a recipe that wasn’t processed or asked for orange liquor. I mean, I don’t ever use orange liquor. I found a recipe on Cooking Light (fucking surprise) that accompanied a cheesecake recipe. I like this compote, because it asks for all fresh fruit. Plus, it takes very little time (Seriously: cut some shit, put it in a saucepan, heat it up). The only adjustment I made was to cut the pear instead of shreading it. I like those pear chunks more, to be honest. For the French toast, I bought a cinnamon swirl bread, to compliment the cinnamon in the compote recipe.

I made this last night for dinner, because I have named Thursday night, “Do what you want” night. I have had Friday seminars the past two semesters, and my Thursday nights had been a mix of dragging my tired body to the coffee maker and frantically reading. So, it’s nice to have Thursday nights back. So, last night I wanted fucking French toast and a Breaking Bad marathon. A very baller night, indeed.

This compote is great, because it does that cheek-pinching cranberries are supposed to. You know, when you consume cranberry things and feel in the back of your cheeks. The compote initially shocks you with that, but you adjust.  And oh, you adjust.

Oats, Brown Sugar, Walnuts, and Compote. Yep.

I had leftover compote, which goes great in your oatmeal. I added some brown sugar and walnuts. A kick ass breakfast for a cold, snowy Friday.

Today I tutor and read, and tonight I eat and celebrate the 3-day weekend. Any fun plans in your future weekend? 

My Humps: I’m not crazy, you’re just an ass

This is part of a series on women’s issues in health. It’s on Wednesday…hump day…My humps…get it? I am here to share opinions, rants, and resources. I am not a medical professional, just a facilitator of discussion. 

In 1944, the film Gaslight (starring Ingrid Bergman) told the story of a husband that used flickering gaslights to get a reaction out of his wife, and then suggested that she was seeing things. This was all part of a plan to get his wife sent to a mental institution so that he could collect her pricey jewelry. The term gaslighting was recently discussed in Yashar Ali’s “A Message to Women from a Man: You Are Not ‘Crazy’“:

Gaslighting is a term, often used by mental health professionals (I am not one), to describe manipulative behavior used to confuse people into thinking their reactions are so far off base that they’re crazy.

He states later:

Those who engage in gaslighting create a reaction—whether it’s anger, frustration, sadness—in the person they are dealing with. Then, when that person reacts, the gaslighter makes them feel uncomfortable and insecure by behaving as if their feelings aren’t rational or normal.

While this manipulation can happen to all people, Yahar explains that women are exposed to it often in the workplace, relationships, and everyday interactions. I recommend reading the article and the discussion following.

So, I’m a women and I’m coming to grips with the fact that I am not fucking crazy. I have been convinced otherwise by most men in my life. During a summer of my undergraduate education, I worked as a technical writer and a male-dominated workplace (I was 1 of only 2 women there). One day the rain was falling hard and, having brought my lunch, I planned on staying in the office to browse Facebook and eat my lunch during my break. Several of the male interns and some of the senior staff planned on going to lunch and asked if I wanted to join them.

“No thank you. It’s raining and I’d prefer to just stay here.”

To which a senior staff member replied: “You are in a sorority, so you’re used to wet t-shirt contests.”

Insulted, I walked out the room to eat lunch elsewhere only to return to the office later to see an unflattering Facebook photo of me plastered around the office claiming that I was anti-social for not joining the men for lunch.

Well, I marched into the boss’s office and cried, cried, cried. I said I was taking the rest of the day off. And, I did. I do what I want.

The rest of the summer was hell, because I was treated like a delicate flower that, at any point, could lose it. I had cried in the workplace, I was clearly crazy.

Okay, people listen. I’m fucking pissed off about being pushed to the limits of breaking. When I have a bodily reaction–when I cry–this isn’t weakness. This isn’t an emotional hot mess. This is a person reacting to an asshole.

So, my new year’s resolution is to listen to my body when’s it’s upset and use my words to turn off this gaslight, rather than adjust my attitude in fear of being that “crazy lady.”

All assholes better check themselves.

For further reading, please check out this article from Jezebel by Lisa Dremousis: “I’m Mad at You Because You’re an Idiot, Not Because I’m a Woman.”

Stay tuned tomorrow for: French Toast with Cranberry Compote

Happy 30th Kate! Hope it’s banging!

Remember when America ruined a lot of British television shows. Skins? Top Gear? We’ve certainly beat and hog-tied the shit out of The Office (it was good, but it should have ended a while back). Well, to continue this American tradition, I’ve taken Bangers and Mash and made…Brats and Mash.  I’ve also managed to add that authentic American laziness to it. Kill me.

America!

Okay. So, back to all things British. I have had a slight obsession with Kate Middleton. While in Scotland I did the following things that support this assertion.

1. I got a creepy touristy photo in a passport booth in Dundee’s train station that put my face in place of William’s in their engagement photo.
2. I bought a fucking awesome mug celebrating their wedding.

Not creepy enough? See the picture below:

I make Mark Wahlberg in Fear look like a lamb.

Well, today is Kate Middleton’s 30th birthday. So, I made bangers and mash (not to be confused with the Radiohead song, I may or may not have listened to it on repeat while preparing the meal). According to wikipedia (I don’t care, that source always rocks), the word “bangers” originated around the time of the WWII, because if you did not poke the sausage with a fork they would explode while cooking (because they were filled with much more water then). Mash…you got it.

I went to D&R Market in Lafayette expecting to buy sausage, but they had blueberry maple brats, which are my favorite. Mostly because it makes me think of my hipster friend that doesn’t iron his shirts. We call him the Jewish Casanova, because he invites girls over to his house and grills sausages for them. Also, he’s Jewish. So, I bought them. Then, I bought pre-made mashed potatoes. You know what? Judge me, fine. I have to read most of a book tonight about modernity. I don’t have time to mash some fucking potatoes.

Anyway. The onion gravy was very much British. I found a recipe in the Telegraph online. It is freaking simple to make. They say to “add a good slosh of wine.” The Brits are adorable. I don’t usually like cameralized onions, so I was quite worried I’d hate it. I LOVED this gravy. I licked that wooden spoon, people. Sorry for the bad photo quality. It is night. 

Kate-approved.

I used white wine and a sweeter variety of onion, since the “sausage” was sweeter. For being half American and made with much laziness, I think I did pretty well for a school night. It was fun eating it, imagining that Kate and I were watching The Only Way is Essex (now on Hulu) and calling girls slappers.

Now, I’m going to make some English breakfast tea and read until I pass out from a potato coma. Cheerio! 

This is how we make Texas Sheet Cake.

It is hard to be academically productive when: (1) you’ve been on an awesome winter break, and (2) it’s a nice, sunny day in January. School starts Monday (shit, tomorrow) and I’m not mentally prepared. I need another week. I am excited to be busy again. I’m happiest when I’m busy, because I don’t have time for negative thoughts. Though, I regretfully forget to put things into my hectic schedule that help me destress. I hope my return to cooking and baking will fix that issue.

Letting the sun in.

So, I spent Saturday with all the windows uncovered so I could let the sun in. I had a party in the evening, so I decide to bake Texas Sheet Cake. I found the recipe in the recent issue of Cooking Light magazine, which I linked above. I told several people I was making this and no one knew what the hell Texas sheet cake was. Well, it is a thin chocolate cake with this shiny layer of fudgy frosting on top. It also had a cinnamon taste to it, which I appreciate. So, anyway. I fucking made it and it was harder than planned.

Freaking breakage.

With the sun shining in and with my old oven on, the house became quite warm. I can sometimes rush around the kitchen, because I feel like I have to do everything so quickly. I need to stop that. Anyway, I ran into problems adding the frosting layer, which you have to do when the cake is still warm. It kept breaking the cake below.

So, I decided to cut it into bars and throw out the ugly pieces. But, it looked like brownies. The taste was obviously cake and it was delicious.

The pecans added a nice nutty taste to the top layer.

Can you see the layers? Also, not brownies.

It got 2nd in Cooking Light’s recent chocolate challenge, which was this basketball-bracket inspired contest for all their past recipes showcasing chocolate. I’ll make the winner soon.

Oh, yeah. I went running yesterday. I have mixed feelings about this mini-marathon. I know I’m out of shape, but I refuse to quit. I’m finding that each time I run, I hate it even more and I have to avoid all the sexist men hollering at me in the neighborhood. I even found that there was doubt I could do it at the party I attended last night. Seriously, I had to sit there and listen to how I may fail at this. Great. Awesome. F you.

Other than that the party was fun. I spent the entire time dancing and most of the time by myself. I danced to Montell Jordan’s “This is How We Do It” more than once, but that is my jam.

Well, I guess I should read or do something. Maybe, I’ll start by putting on clothes.

Update: I have been asked since posting this on Facebook why it’s called Texas Sheet Cake. Well, I was asked by a Texan. SO, I feel like I needed to find an answer. Well, there is not one. I googled the shit out of it, and Texas Sheet Cake’s origin is ambiguous. If anyone knows…let’s hear it.

I live alone and have a Law and Order: SVU addiction

So, I’m Ashley.

Maybe I use my iPhone hipster camera too much. Maybe I don't care.

I’m currently sitting in my own apartment, which is refreshing considering that I’ve lived with someone else my entire life. And all of last year, a serious boyfriend. I think all women should live alone at least once. I’ve managed to obtain this can-do attitude. I fixed my shower when my shower head popped off and sprayed my ceiling. I put together my IKEA couch, television stand, and entertainment system. I even bought my first big girl bed, which has turned into a sick love affair and consistent tardiness to most of life’s events. I’ve even killed a spider with my bare hands without even flinching. I’m like the Lara Croft of apartment living.

The best part, though, is having an entire kitchen to yourself. My dishes get done when I want them to. I get all the fridge shelves and all the cabinet space. Unfortunately, I couldn’t take advantage of this kitchen until this semester, because I got home at 5 each day only to begin more work. So, I didn’t blog. But, I’m back…bitches. Is it okay that I call you bitches?

Last night was a usual Friday night. I made myself dinner and I headed to the Black Sparrow. You don’t know the Black Sparrow? Well, it’s the only bar I go to in Lafayette, IN. I go there a lot, sadly. You know what? Not sadly. It’s awesome. I don’t have a drinking problem. They have good food.

Stop judging me, alright?

Before heading out I decided to use the pizza stone my brother got me for Christmas and the Trader Joe’s herb pizza dough my mom had brought me. I also had Trader Joe’s part skim mozzarella and pizza sauce. After preheating the oven (400-ish), I added the pizza dough and cooked it until I saw some golden color. Then I added the ingredients: prosciutto, fresh garlic, and sauteed spinach (crushed red pepper when all was said and done). Then, back in the oven until the cheese melted and got those brown spots.

I prefer this herb crust to, say, the Trader Joe’s whole wheat, because it doesn’t taste like fucking cardboard. I’m sorry TJ, that whole wheat crust is shit. The pizza was the best I’ve made yet, I think.

Cooking Tip: So, that mozzarella comes in a huge block. I hate shredding softer cheeses, because last time I cheese grated my skin and it hurt SO BAD. So now I just cut it into smaller cubes and scatter it about. It works the same for me.

Then, to the bars. I don’t think I go to the bars because I like to drink, necessarily. When you are living alone for the first time (and after any time after a break up), you have to force yourself out the door. You have to turn off the Law and Order: SVU and go outside. You hang out with old friends, make new friends. Fucking, have a hipster PBR. Who cares? I don’t.

Otherwise, your night turns into tears and 3-buck chuck chugging marathon (and that is a drinking problem, folks). Thank goodness I’m past that phase.