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Insert Joke About Cutting the Cheese Here.

I was at the grocery store the other day, and I saw a hunk of cheese.

A hunk of cheese that, it appeared, had no earthly business sitting in a grocery store in Fayetteville, NC.

Sage Derby Cheese

I moved on.

Then I came back.  Then I picked it up.  I stared at its martian green marbles, tried sniffing through the plastic.

Then, instinctually, I set it back down.

No earthly business, I thought.

But I came back again.

It’s just so enticingly green, I thought.  I love green things.  Green is the color of nature.  And dragons.  And travel.  All of the things I love.

(Okay, so travel isn’t green per se, but green is the color of U.S. paper currency.  Which allows me to travel.  So there ya go.)

Green is also the color of mold, which, okay in most cases maybe isn’t a good thing, but I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that mold and cheese belong together.

Just like me and Scott Bairstow.

He just doesn’t know it yet.

So by that logic, this must be the BestCheeseInTheWorld.

So I bought it.  And there, in the store, through the miracle of modern technology, I found a recipe to use it with as well.

Since I had no idea what this cheese tasted like, I didn’t want to risk buying it and have it sit in my fridge for a decade while I, still rife with indecision, decided what flavors would go well with it.

While I was at it, I also did a little background research a la Wikipedia.  Apparently it’s sage — not mold — that creates the marbled effect (hence the name), and it’s pronounced daaahrby — not derby — with a proper English accent, as the British are wont to do.

When I got it home and ripped into the packaging with the ferocity of an 11-year-old girl at a Justin Bieber concert, (hey — I like my cheese), I actually found the flavor pretty mild.  Nothing to get worked up about.

But the open-faced sandwiches I ended up making with it?

Those are worth mentioning.  And I would venture to say that you don’t need to hunt down Sage Derby cheese to make these bad boys.  Any good melting cheese will do the trick.

They’re open-faced corned beef, cheese, and pickled onion sandwiches.  I found the original recipe here, on Food.com, and it’s everything you could look for in a summer weeknight meal:  it’s fast, and it uses the broiler so you don’t need to heat up the entire house with the oven.

To make them, you will need:

  • 1/2 onion, sliced paper-thin
  • 2 Tbsp. cider vinegar
  • 2 Tbsp. water
  • 2 Tbsp. sugar
  • Pinch red pepper flakes
  • 4 slices of Irish Soda Bread or French Bread or some kind of thick, crusty bread
  • Mayonnaise
  • Spicy Mustard (like Dijon)
  • Thin-sliced corned beef
  • Sage Derby cheese (or some kind of good melty cheese you know you like)

1.  Slice your 1/2 onion as thin as possible.  This would be much, much easier with a mandoline.  You know.  In case anyone wants to buy me one.

2.  Stick the onion in a bowl, and add 2 tablespoons of cider vinegar…

…2 tablespoons of water…

…2 tablespoons of sugar…

…and a pinch of red pepper flakes.

Toss to coat, cover the bowl, and stick it in the fridge.

3.  Preheat your oven’s broiler.

(Um.  I don’t have a photo of that.)

4.  Slice your bread as thick as you’d like.

5.  Spread a thin layer of mayo and spicy mustard.

6.  Remove your pickled onion from the fridge and drain the excess liquid, then add that to your bread slices and top with corned beef.

7.  Slice your cheese thin and add that as the final layer.

8.  Place your sandwiches on a baking sheet and stick ’em 6-8 inches under the broiler for 3-4 minutes.

Watch close — you don’t want to burn the cheese!

9.  Okay, so it looks like boring peasant food, but trust me.  Just take a bite.

Feel better?

Open faced corned beef cheese sandwich with pickled onions

I mean, if I’d slapped a French name on it, like Croque-Monsieur, you’d be all over these puppies.

I know we were.

Two nights in a row.

Chicken & Waffles: Like Socks With Sandals, It Just Makes Sense.

Last weekend, a baby and her adorable parents took us to lunch.

See how cute those parents are?

In Durham, NC, there’s a place that, while the menu had grown over time, specializes in exactly 2 things:

Chicken ‘n Waffles.

Say, what?

Sounds strange, but Durham people know that Dame’s Chicken & Waffles is something special.  Which is why we weren’t too surprised to see the gigantic line outside.

Bummed, but not surprised.

How long is the wait?

So we waited.

And we watched people eat.

And we studied the menu.

And we became mildly concerned that we were going to starve to death, right there on the street, watching people devour heaping plates of fried chicken and waffles.

Jesus, my husband has to stop looking cute while holding babies.

We became delusional from the hunger, gnawing on mice and stray appendages.

Have I been reading too much Hunger Games?

They called us just in time.

And all was right with the world.

So I’ll get right down to it.

The place has a great atmosphere — tiny, crowded, and cramped enough to see what everyone else is ordering.

(Pssst – I’ll give you a hint:  Chicken.  And Waffles.)

Alaina and I got started with champagne and lemonade.  You know, to celebrate getting in.  We were going to go with mimosas, but our waitress killed us on the up sell.  The great thing is that they ended up being less than $7.00 each, and we were able to carry our mini wine cooler-tasting bottles of champagne through the Durham art show, taking nips to dull the pain of my poor choice in footwear.

I’m glad our drinks were light, because the meal was certainly not.

First came the sides.

A bowl of incredible fresh fruit — plump, ripe strawberries and sweet, juicy pineapple.  The cheese grits (left) were delicious — not gritty at all, which, in my non-southern humble little opinion, is the only way grits are tolerable.

The spicy greens, while not exactly aesthetically appealing, were divine, if you like that sort of thing.

spicy collard greens

Judge with your mouth — not with your eyes.

And the mac ‘n cheese.  Oh, my.  I could’ve had this as my meal.

mac 'n cheese

But we were just getting started.

On the back of Dame’s menu are several suggested chicken ‘n waffle combinations, including the “Orange Speckled Chabo,” served with a fried chicken cutlet, sweet potato waffle, honey-dijon mustard, and orange-honeycomb schmear, or the “Buff Brahmas,” served with your choice of wings or cutlets drizzled with whiskey cream sauce, a classic waffle, and peach apricot schmear.

The Buff Brahmas.

The verdict?

My fried chicken was cooked perfectly — nice and moist inside.  Unfortunately, it was a little soggy due to the whisky cream sauce, which, while mighty tasty, definitely took away from the texture of the chicken.  But everyone else loved theirs.

Now.

Let me tell you about the waffles.

And the schmear.

What’s schmear?  Well.  According to me, they’re little flavored dollops of mouth exploding gastrogasms.

To Dame’s, they’re flavored dollops of whipped sweet cream butter.

I schmeared my peach apricot schmear all over my beautiful waffle (and I’m not normally a waffle person), topped that with some maple syrup, and died.

Dame's Chicken and Waffles

Then I came back to life to eat some more.

Then I died again.

It. Was. Incredible.

Justin order the “Orange Speckled Chabo,” and we both felt that the sweet potato waffles were inferior to my classic ones.  Though his orange schmear was zesty and delicious.

But mine?  That combination of peach apricot schmear, whiskey cream sauce, and maple syrup was phenomenal.

A plate full of artery-clogging, diabetes-triggering deliciousness.

I wouldn’t take it back for a second.

In the end, we all felt like this.

But it was well — well worth the wait.

Have you had any excellent meals lately?

Dame's Chicken & Waffles on Urbanspoon

Better than Alive.

My apologies, but I’ve had no real time to write or edit photos — Headed to Baltimore in a few!

Isn’t this always the conundrum of someone who wants to write about travel?

When you’re traveling, where is the time for writing?

But I can tell you this — I feel great.  Alive.  Better than alive.  The road is better than any rejuvenating facial cleanser sold at the local drug store.

In the meantime, check out this killer crab cake sandwich I stopped and ate on the drive at a place called Java Jack’s Coffee House:

Taken with my iPhone.

In a last-minute decision to take Hwy 301 North from Williamsburg, VA to Annapolis, MD so I could avoid the ever-terrifying experience of I-95 around D.C. (though sadly bypassing the IKEA there as well), I passed through a little town called Tappahannock.

No, I don’t know how to pronounce that.

It’s perched along the southern edge of the Rappahannock River.

No, I’m not making this up.

Anyway.  I saw this little white house once I passed the inevitable slew of fast food and American family style restaurants and entered the older part of town.  I was greeted with a smile and told to seat my self.  I was, by far, the youngest patron there on a Monday morning at 11:15.  Sadly, I’d just missed breakfast, which I’m convinced now would have been spectacular.  I was just about to ask whether they’d make an exception to their 11:00 lunch rule when the waitress informed me that one of their specials for the day was a crab cake sandwich.

Well.

I hadn’t technically crossed the Maryland border yet, but I figured my 15 minutes late for breakfast was a sign I should partake an hour early in some famous Maryland crab.

For all of my culinary expertise, this may have come from a can.

Taken with my iPhone.

But I can tell you this:  It certainly didn’t taste like it had.

With a full belly and more solitary scenic driving ahead, Java Jack’s proved an excellent Virginia sendoff.

Oh, and the bathroom was spectacular.

Taken with my iPhone.

Java Jacks Coffee House on Urbanspoon

Dinner for One: The Microwave is my Friend.

Okay.

I’ll admit it.

I misled you.

I don’t cook myself an extravagant meal every night to enjoy with a glass of vino on the back deck while Justin’s away.  I don’t even always go so far as to construct an elaborate sandwich or a box of Mac ‘n Cheese.

Sometimes, simple really is best.

Whole wheat crackers with sliced, spiced Havarti cheese, an artichoke microwaved (yes, microwaved) and served with basil mayo, and shortbread cookies topped with salted chocolate.

Of course, I ate it on the back deck with a glass of wine.

Some things don’t change.

For Artichoke:

1. Lop off the top with a sharp knife, then cut away the remaining leaf tips with a pair of kitchen shears.  Cut off the bottom of the stem, leaving an inch or so — I left a little much.  The stem is an extension of the heart, so don’t toss it.  Rinse it well, and don’t drain.

2. Place it in a microwave-safe dish with a couple of tablespoons of water.  Cover tightly with a glass lid or plastic wrap.  Microwave on high for approximately 7 minutes.  A knife inserted near the base will slide right in — like buttah — when it’s done.

3. Remove with tongs and let it cool slightly.  Peel off a leaf, dip in some mayo mixed with a bit of lemon juice and fresh basil, and scrape the meat from the leaf with your teeth.  Discard the leaf.

4. When you get down to the heart, pull away the remaining tiny leaves and cut off the hair.  Yes, hair.  Slice the heart into bite-sized pieces so you can savor every bit.

5. Sip wine.  Relax.  Everything will be okay.

 

Dinner for One: Rustic Pasta Carbonara. And Did I Tell You I Had A Baby?

Last night I dreamt that I had a baby.

But the baby — and the having of it — wasn’t actually the main focus of the dream.

The main focus of the dream was how I kept forgetting that I had a baby.

Like… I would go to the grocery store to buy milk and bacon, apparently, and suddenly I would remember that I left the baby at home.  And did my dream self freak out about the fact that I’d forgotten my helpless baby and left it to fend for itself at home in the bassinet or whatever they call those frilly rocking things where babies sleep?

No.

My dream self just said, damn… I forgot my baby and then continued comparing one brand of ultra thick-cut hickory smoked bacon to another brand of reduced-fat maple flavored.  And if you even have to guess which one my dream self picked, then you really don’t know me as well as I thought you did.

And then I dreamt about blogging.  I had all of these fantastic post ideas that of course my dream self neglected to write down for my awake self to remember because it’s apparently as equally negligent of its writing needs as I am.  Anyway.  As my dream self was typing out one such brilliant post, it dawned on me that I completely forgot to tell the readers that I’d had a baby.

It was such an insignificant part of my existence that it wasn’t even blog worthy.

So, somewhere in the middle of my post about people pods or my crappy taste in music or vaginas on my kindle or any other such nonsense, I typed something to the effect of, “Oh, yeah!  And I had a baby.  I can’t believe I forgot to tell you.  Oops.  So about this road trip…”

Tell me.

What does this mean?

Was it simply because my new co-worker brought her doe-eyed pudgesicle of a pants-pooper into the office and I went grocery shopping the other day?

Or could it be more?

Could my dream self actually be mocking me?

Does it know what a crappy parent I’d be and is attempting to prove it to me via segmented black and white subconscious thought streams?

I mean, really.  I know I would be a terrible parent.  I don’t need my self to tell me that.  Mockery from my own Id?

Kind of effed up.

It’s like my subconscious thinks I carelessly flit from one thing to the next with little regard for whatever I just left behind, no matter how profound it may be.

So about this bacon.

I did buy some, and so far I’ve put it to good use.  I would go so far as to say that bacon is probably a staple when cooking for one — it can be added to almost anything (salads, meats, fish, pastas, etc.) for an instant slap of delicious flavor.  Just don’t go overboard with it.

For my first meal as a pseudo-single person, table for one, I knew exactly what I wanted to make for dinner.

Pasta alla Carbonara.

Sounds fancy, right?

Well.  It’s not.  According to Wikipedia, it may have first been made as a “hearty meal for Italian charcoal workers.”  In the States, it’s sometimes referred to as “coal miners’ spaghetti.”  It’s a simple, rustic, back-to-basics pasta dish that takes all of 10-15 minutes to prepare.  The basic dish requires some type of pasta (usually spaghetti or fettuccini), some type of pork (bacon, pancetta, or the traditional guanciale), a hard cheese (like  Parmigiano-Reggiano), eggs, and black pepper.

That’s it!

Of course, the internet is full of variation recipes that call for different herbs, spices, and a slew of other veggies and accouterments, and of course over time I’ve developed my own bastardized version that I’m sharing here.  It’s a perfect “dinner for one” because you can add anything you want, and the amounts can be easily adjusted to make as little or as much as you’d like.  You really can’t mess it up.  The amounts below are guesstimates, and you likely will have leftovers.  If you don’t want leftovers, just cut it back!

  • 1/2-ish pound of dried pasta (I think I used a little less)
  • 2-3 slices of bacon
  • 1/3-ish cup of pasta water
  • 2 egg yolks
  • 1/3-ish cup of frozen corn
  • 1 large clove of garlic
  • 1/4-ish cup of Parmesan cheese that you grate yourself, plus extra for garnish (I actually used a hard cheese called Grana Padano, which I had from another recipe, but good ol’ Parm will do the trick)
  • Black pepper to taste

1.  Boil a pot of salted water and add your pasta.  Cook until al dente.  In non-fancy terms, it shouldn’t be complete mush.

2.  Stick the raw bacon in a pan and turn the heat to medium-high.  My grocery store was out of the bacon I looooove to buy, Carolina Pride, which always cooks up deliciously even and perfect, so I was stuck with this:

This stuff, whatever it is, didn’t understand my style of set-it-and-forget-it cooking, so it decided to burn the second I walked away.

I’m pretty sure it’s the bacon’s fault — not mine.  I cooked some more and used the burnt stuff, too.

Hey.  Waste not, want not.

2.  While the bacon is cooking, separate your eggs.  It’s not as hard as it sounds.  Just crack the egg, split it in half, and let the yolk slide back and forth between the two shell halves while letting the white drip out.  Soon you should be left with just yolk!

Mix the yolks with a fork.

Steal some of your pasta water (1/4-1/3 of a cup) by dipping a measuring cup directly into the pot, and slowly add that to the egg while mixing with the fork.  This tempers the egg slowly so it doesn’t get all crazy cooked and coagulated.  You don’t want to end up with scrambled egg in your pasta.

Then grate some cheese into it and stir until it melts into the hot water/yolk mixture.

3.  Once the bacon is cooked, set it aside and add some minced garlic and corn to the hot bacon grease.

Stir around for just a couple of minutes until the corn is lightly cooked and the garlic is fragrant.  (This would be wonderful with fresh corn off the cob, but I use what I have.  And what I have is frozen corn.)

4.  Crumble the bacon, add it to the pan, and stir it around.

5.  Drain the cooked pasta and add it to the pan, stirring everything with tongs or a fork to cook and combine.

6.  Remove the pan from the heat and stir in the yolk sauce.  It will cook slowly, without scrambling, and give your pasta a rich, slick flavor.  It’s incredible.

‘Scuse the intense blur, but you get the idea.

7.  Add plenty of black pepper, dish onto a plate or into a pasta bowl, and pour yourself a glass of wine.

Toast to taking the time to cook for yourself.  Be happy you’re treating yourself right, even when no one else is around to see it.

Sleep well, and dream about forgetting your baby.

Hey.

We can’t all be perfect and sometimes the bacon does get burned.

Such is life.

Dinner for One: An Introduction

So I’m sitting here, staring at my grocery list.

It’s an extra challenging grocery list because I’m currently shopping for one.

When Justin leaves town (as he’s prone to do — gotta love that military), one of two things usually happens:  Either I become super motivated, finishing loads of house projects and writing assignments and exercising daily and cooking up all kinds of awesome and delicious girly dinners-for-one that I know Justin would probably not love if he were here, or… I become super un-motivated, letting personal and professional deadlines slide by unnoticed, cooking any convenience or comfort food I can think of including boxed macaroni and cheese, grilled mozzarella sandwiches, oven-broiled nachos, or basically anything with — you guessed it — cheese, and slovenly sitting in my own filth on the sofa watching the complete box set of Sex and the City (all six seasons) for the 27th time.

I never really know which Katie will appear until he’s gone, so there’s no way to properly prepare my pantry or agenda until it’s too late.

This time, we’ve been graced with the motivated Katie.  Today she’s already cleaned the kitchen, folded her laundry, taken the dogs on a 3 mile walk, finished 2 freelance assignments, edited photos she took for a friend and burned them to disk, and thought about doing her taxes.

Hey.

I’m a procrastinator.

Some things will never change.

But now I’m stuck.

I’m looking at the grocery list I’ve begun for the week, and it doesn’t look very promising.

If that’s not the shopping list of a Domestiphobe, I’m not sure what is.

The bacon will likely be used in pasta carbonara, a recipe I love to make when it’s just me, a glass of wine, and a chick flick.

The milk is just in case I have a weak moment and turn to the mac ‘n cheese.

But other than that, I’m at a loss.

On the positive side, I can eat anything I want.  But on the negative side, I can eat anything I want.

There’s no one to look at me with judgmental eyes — eyes that say, “Are you sure you want to make that chocolate peanut butter cream pie and eat the entire thing yourself for dinner?” while glancing down at my waistline to see how close I am to busting a button, which has been known to happen.

Not that Justin would ever do that, if he knows what’s good for him.

And I’m pretty sure he does.

So.  While this bacon guacamole grilled cheese sandwich looks like it would be a suitable replacement orgasm-giver while he’s away, I probably should pace myself.

This gastrogasm recipe courtesy of Kevin from Closet Cooking.

But it looks so amazing.

It might even beat the aptly named Orgasm Panini from a post of yore.

I can’t stop thinking about it.

So… um… Kevin.  What are you doing later?  Want to come over and make me a sandwich?

A nice, hot, gooey sandwich?

No, really.  I just want the sandwich.

No funny business.

At least not until after you leave and I’m alone with my sandwich.

Okay.  So maybe I’ll indulge every now and then.  But I’m pretty sure indulgence is the key to happiness.

My point is that eating alone doesn’t always have to mean Easy Mac and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  I’ve written about this before.

So I intend on sharing my personal indulgences as they come — simply to show you that the work I do for myself isn’t really work.  It’s a deserved reward after a stressful day.

And that makes aloneness a little less lonely.

I Tasted Carolina. And Then I Ate it All. (Part 2)

Okay.  So where was I on my fantastic Taste Carolina food tour?  I believe we were carrying Alfred’s pecaaaahn pie over to the Carrboro Beverage Company to wash it down with a brewski.  Because nothing goes with sweet pie better than a bitter stout.

Amiright?

Probably not.

(If you missed Part 1, check it out here.)

The Carrboro Beverage Company is owned by Tyler’s Tap Room, which is apparently a very popular tavern in the area.  I’ll have to go back to try it out.

You know, for research.

Unfortunately, I feel a little like this is where the tour started going downhill.  We were becoming full and tired, and then we introduced alcohol into the mix.  The guys working here were very friendly, but they seemed unsure about what they were supposed to serve us, so they just started handing out samples of whatever they had on tap.  There also happened to be a wine representative in the place, so we had more than our fair share of samples, but combine all of that with a slice of fresh pecan pie, and they almost had to roll me out of there.

Carrboro Beverage Company
Carrboro Beverage Company
Carrboro Beverage Company

They rolled me right into the place I’d been most looking forward to on the tour — Acme.

We’d eaten there with Alaina and Dirk once before, and from what I remembered, the food had been spectacular.

Which is why, needless to say, I was more than a little disappointed when they came out with what basically amounted to glorified nachos.

Acme Nachos

Sure they looked pretty, and the taste of the homemade chips dusted with goat cheese and a squeeze of fresh lime was good, like goat cheese, and who doesn’t like goat cheese, but it just… wasn’t what I’d been expecting.  I suddenly felt like the annoying neighbor who’d dropped by unexpectedly, so our hosts rummaged through the fridge and threw together whatever they could find.  And after a morning of service by enthusiastic and prepared artisans who were incredibly proud of their products, this just felt like a letdown.

That said, I’d still recommend them if you’re planning to spend some money.  The food really can be phenomenal, and they have a gorgeous courtyard out back.

The next 2 stops, Miel Bon Bons and Jessee’s served more as an interlude for all of the gastronomical craziness going on.  We sampled tiny macaroons and chocolate confections at the little patisserie with its stunning displays of pastries, candies, and the most beautiful wedding cakes I’ve ever seen (which they wouldn’t let me photograph, but you can see plenty on their website).

Miel Bon Bons

At Jessee’s, we took a rest and sipped refreshing flavored iced teas.

This was the reprieve we needed, apparently, because I felt rejuvenated.  Which was extremely fortunate, because for the next stop, I needed my energy.

Welcome to Vimala’s Curryblossom Cafe.

Now we’re back on track.

We were able to meet Vimala herself, who opened this restaurant with the help of the community.  After emerging — alive — from an abusive marriage, family and friends encouraged her to open this cafe, where her motto has always been, “When Vimala cooks, everyone eats!”  She will feed anyone who comes through her door, regardless of whether they can afford it or not.

But her generosity is not a cover for lack of flavor.

This was just… the best.  And my biggest regret is not taking sufficient notes so I could accurately describe to you the deliciousness that we ate.

All I can say is if you like Indian food, or you think you might like to think about liking Indian food, this is a great place to start.

Then finally — finally — we were nearing the finish line.

Our guide stopped us on a corner to talk about the place we were about to enter, the Open Eye Cafe, but I couldn’t concentrate due to the food coma my brain was trying to fight off, so I took photos of bees instead.

Dudes.  I totally felt buzzzzzed.

Ha.

So we entered the coffee shop, and I’ll be honest — I wish this would have started the tour, since they by far had the lengthiest and most informative presentation.  But after 9 stops and countless indulgences, I wasn’t sure the Open Eye Cafe could… well… keep my eyes open.  Which is a shame, because they took us into the back room, where a more conscious mind would have learned from a true coffee connoisseur how to brew the perfect cup of coffee.  From selecting the best free trade beans from individual farmers around the world, roasting their beans in-house, and adjusting the brewing water temperature to suit the particular bean — they knew it all.  Really.  This place could be more intimidating than a winery, and their super-trained and certified baristas do, in fact, hold tasting competitions with coffee.

It’s that serious.

He brewed a couple of different samples for us to try, and even my husband, who is not a black coffee drinker, had no problems getting this down.

If I learned nothing else, I did learn that coffee-making is an art much more complicated than pouring a glass of wine.

And, if done right, can lead to an exceptional tasting experience.

We drove to Dirk and Alaina’s to see the baby, but there’s a chance I might have wandered out to their porch by myself, stretched out on the couch, and took a nap.

Hey.  Don’t judge.  Eating Carolina is exhausting.

I Tasted Carolina. And Then I Ate It All. (Part 1)

It’s times like these.

Times when it’s cold, and the forecasters predict that later today it will progressively get colder, because there’s this evil thing called a COLD FRONT and it’s headed this direction and some time — some foreboding time later this afternoon — it’s going to actually start feeling a little bit like winter, and even though it’s already mid February, which means I’ve had months to prepare for this, I realize I’m still not prepared and I feel like it would probably be best for everyone if I just stayed snug under my 35″ high covers until April.

That’s right, we’re still sleeping in the guest room, in case you were wondering.

The progress on our bedroom is slow, and not very steady, but I promise you there is progress, even though it occasionally/all-of-the-time gets hindered by wine by the fire and new episodes of Revenge and me spilling baseboard paint on the carpet.

Yes, that happened.

Yes, I will tell you about that little fiasco one day soon, when I’m ready to share some more positive progress.

But anyway.  Not only do I have the overwhelming urge to hibernate this time of year, but I also reminisce.  I reminisce on happy times of yore, like just 4 months ago when it was pleasant and warm and sunshiny — when I could wake up with the bright morning rays, stand outside in all of my barefooted glory, sip my coffee and stretch to greet the world.

Nearly 4 months ago, on the weekend of my 29th birthday, we did something we should probably be doing a lot more frequently.

The concept is simple.  I’ve heard it called “taking a ‘staycation,'” in which the participants are traveling, but not, because they’re staying at home.  But I don’t really like those cutesy terms people come up with to make a concept stick — like “Brangelina” or “frenemy” because they make me feel lazy, so really.  I’ll call it what it was.  It was a day trip.  Something fun we could do without the cost of booking a hotel or packing camping gear or sleeping in the car.

I know.

It sounds like we’re taking all of the fun out of travel.  But hear me out.

See, with my unending itch to explore and discover and be moving all of the time and Justin’s desire to… well… not, we discovered this extremely enjoyable and compatible compromise that earned us at least 2 weeks worth of patting ourselves on the back for how awesome we sometimes are at being married.

We both love trying new foods, so when I heard about gourmet food tours by Taste Carolina, I knew exactly what I wanted for my birthday.  We opted for the walking tour of Chapel Hill and Carrboro, which is about an hour and a half from where we live, for $44.98 per person, which earned us over 3 hours and 8 stops at amazing, locally owned eateries.  That’s less than we would’ve spent on a “fancy” night out at our local Red Lobster.

We were pretty psyched.

Now this is where I’m a bad blogger.  Bad.  I actually managed to take many pictures this time, so no worries there, but notes?  None.  I didn’t expect to wait 4 months before blogging about it.  So, sadly, I don’t remember many of the details about what we ate, but I will try my best to explain and then let the pictures speak for themselves.

Our very first stop was one of the best, in my humble little opinion.  I was a little camera-shy at the start, so I didn’t get a photo of the place, but it was called Neal’s Deli.  I was a little disappointed that the tour didn’t take us inside the establishment, but instead we were parked on some benches outside.  My disappointment quickly faded when I bit into one of these:

On the left, we have what I believe to be some type of homemade pastrami with mustard.  The beef was unlike anything I’ve ever tasted — full of pressed spices and divine on the homemade buttermilk biscuit.  The other was some type of egg and cheese, with a buttery, melty consistency that made me want to eat one of these every morning for the rest of my life.  It made me very, very glad that I don’t pass Neal’s on my way to work.

Next, we headed to the renowned Carrboro Farmers’ Market, established in 1996.  It’s held every Wednesday and Saturday morning in the “town commons” (no joke), and it felt like stepping into a type of fairy land filled with fresh produce, vibrant blooms, hand-made crafts, and local meats, cheeses, and an impressive variety of gourmet delicacies.

Carrboro Farmers' Market
Carrboro Farmers' Market
Carrboro Farmers' Market

Our first stop in the market was at the booth of Chapel Hill Creamery, a company I love because I love to say its name.  Go ahead.  Say it out loud.  Sounds like something you might say if you’d lived in pioneer times, like in the game The Oregon Trail. “I’m off to the Chapel Hill Creamery to fetch some cheese before we leave,” you’d say, not knowing that you’re destined to die 3 days later from a broken leg you suffered during a wagon axle accident while fording a river, and you’ll wish you’d just stayed with the happy cows at the creamery, because California is probably overrated anyway.  (It’s not.)

My favorite was their Dairyland Farmer’s Cheese, which was very simple, creamy, and would probably taste delicious melted over some frijoles negros and tucked inside a burrito.

Next, we were treated to a very generous sample from The Pig, a restaurant with a booth at the market serving up fresh grilled pork franks made from local, hormone and antibiotic free piggies.

The Pig Menu
Sam from The Pig

Of course, I tried the Reuben frank because it marries one of my favorite sandwiches (the Reuben) with one of my favorite foods (the Hot Dog) to create this orgasmically inspired offspring:

Reuben Frank

They say you can taste the difference between real meat and the kind you buy discount packaged at the grocery store, and now I’m convinced.  You can.

(Remember this?)

I’m pretty sure if I were going to buy tongue, it would NOT be from my neighborhood Food Lion.

Moving on.

Our last stop at the market was at that of the fantabulous Alfred De La Houssaye’s Sweetwater Pecan Orchard.

If I remember correctly, he started the orchard because he loves pecans and he loves oriental persimmons.  Ignoring the fact that everyone told him he would not be able to successfully grow those things here, he managed to do so and to do so quite successfully.

Persimmons

With pizzaz.

Sweetwater Pecan Orchard

And I love him because he insists that the correct pronunciation of the nut is pecaaahn, with a soft “a” and not the harsh, biting hard A that so many southerners use.

And also because he makes these chocolate pecan chewies, which I couldn’t stop eating.

And also because he gave us each a slice of pie to take to our next stop, the Carrboro Beverage Company.

Carrboro Beverage Company

But this post is getting a little long, methinks, so I’m going to save the second half of the tour for next time.

Oh, but trust me.  It’s worth the wait.

There’s more! Click HERE for Part 2.

Top O’ The Muffin to You!

This weekend was dreary.  The kind of dreary that makes daily personal hygiene tasks like flossing my hair, combing my teeth, showering, and getting dressed seem entirely optional.  The kind of weekend where the sun doesn’t shine, not one little bit, and a certain amount of comfort food is required to get you through.

After all, would winter be winter without muffin tops?

Wait, not that kind.

I’m talking about the kind of muffin top you get in a bakery — the kind that inspired Elaine and her boss on Seinfeld to open a bakery that sells only the tops.  The kind with the glorious dome that spills out of the cups and spreads out across the surface of the pan, rising up with puffy, cake-like perfection, and comes fully adorned with a sugary dusting of streusel crumbles.

Okay, so maybe the first kind of muffin top still applies.

Damn.

But we can’t be good all of the time — that would be inhuman.  And if we have the secret to creating muffins with proper tops right at home, we can’t very well let that go to waste on a sunless weekend.

The secret, it turns out, is an extra thick batter.

I know.  That’s probably been keeping you up at nights.  I feel your pain.

But there’s no denying that there’s something about those tops.  Something delicious.  Decadent.  An added pouf of awesomeness that the muffin stump just can’t provide.

I know it.  Elaine knew it.  And now you’ll know it, too.

This recipe provides the key.  I did make some suggested changes based on the comments, particularly with the streusel topping, but I love how mine turned out.

To make them like I did, you will need:

  • 3 cups all-purpose flour
  • 1 1/2 cups white sugar
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • 4 teaspoons baking powder
  • 2/3 cups vegetable oil
  • 2 eggs
  • 1/3 cups milk (or less)
  • 2 cups fresh blueberries
For the topping, you will need:
  • 2/3 cup brown sugar
  • 1/4 cup flour
  • 2 Tablespoons butter
  • 1/4 tsp. cinnamon

*This makes 12 BIG muffins.  Seriously.  These muffins are BIG.  Cut this recipe in half if you know what’s good for you.  Of course, if you know what’s good for you, you won’t be making these at all.  So I’ll just stop talking now.

**Okay, I lied.  I’m still talking.  Because I also need to tell you to IGNORE the crappy photographs.  I haven’t been posting many recipes as of late because it’s too dark to get any decent pictures.  I thought, by making muffins in the morning, that I’d actually  have some light, but like I said.  Dreary weekend.  Total bummer.

Now.  This is a bit difficult, so pay attention.  (It’s really not difficult at all.)

1)  Preheat your oven to 400-degrees F and spray your muffin tin liberally with cooking spray.  Actually, go ahead and grease that puppy the old-fashioned way, because mine still stuck somewhat.  Even if you use those paper muffin cup thingies, still grease the top of the pan.

2)  Mix your dry ingredients — the flour, white sugar, salt, and baking powder, together in a bowl.

3)  Pour 1/3 cup of vegetable oil into a 1 cup measuring cup.  Add the egg to that same measuring cup (I beat mine slightly with a fork first), and then fill the cup to the top with milk.

4)  Pour the wet ingredients into your bowl of dry ingredients, and — this is EXTREMELY important — DO NOT OVER-MIX.

Yep.  Just mix it gently until the batter is barely moist. You might even have a few chunks of flour left, and that is okay.

Everything will be okay.

As long as you don’t over mix.

Then gently fold in your blueberries.

5)  Mix the streusel topping ingredients together with a fork.

You should get a crumbly topping.

6)  Fill each muffin cup to the brim with your batter.  There should be just enough.  Then, sprinkle with streusel topping (I had extra) and bake for 20-25 minutes until you can insert a toothpick in the center and it comes out clean.

I was going to take another photo of the finished product this morning, when it was hopefully going to be light, and bright, and sunny, but no.  It’s like yesterday.  Only… danker.

Because that’s a word, right?

Good thing I have bad photos of muffin tops to cheer me up.

Oh, and the actual muffin tops don’t hurt.

I’m Still Alive. I Think.

*In case you’re wondering, no. I did not reach Miami and just keep on drivin’ — cruising along 1A with its bars and beaches and bars some more, dancing a jig along the twists and turns of this country’s southeastern tip before winding my way to Hwy 1, then following it across actual oceans of water, the highway like a big strand of drool dripping off the goatee of Florida, passing Key Largo and Islamorada and Duck Key and maybe stopping in No Name Key before reaching Key West because, let’s face it, No Name Key is probably more my style.

Not that I would know.

I did not do any of those things, though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted.

I wrote this post last Wednesday. Today is Sunday. I’m posting it today because I finally have some internet access on a computer. Travel, while awesome, isn’t always convenient for blogging. And I do believe this is the longest I’ve neglected the blog in… ever.

Many things have gone down since I wrote this 5 days ago, but we’ll start here:

I drove to Florida yesterday — a trip that, theoretically, should have taken over 12 hours to complete, but instead only took around 11, including the 45-minute pit stop to catch up with an old college buddy off of I-95. It is for this very reason that I cannot bring myself to shun social networking; while the number of Facebook “friends” tallied on one’s wall has little to nothing to do with one’s real life social circles, it really is a fantastic way to touch base with people you would otherwise probably never see again.

Whether that’s good or bad, I’m not quite sure. But at least it’s interesting.

See, while most people don’t mind letting acquaintances slip away, I have this very odd way of wanting to hang on to people — of wondering how they’re doing, of what’s happened in their lives since we last intersected orbits — and Facebook provides that lost connection.

It keeps people neatly tucked inside my radar screen.

You think that makes me a stalker. I think that makes me… curious.

Okay. I have to interrupt myself for a second. I just took a bite of one of the most delicious items I’ve ordered from a menu in a long, long time. My sister has to work today, and my mother and brother don’t arrive until tomorrow, so I’m finding myself inexplicably untethered for the first time in a while.

And what’s a girl to do when she finds herself in a strange city with an entire day to indulge in whatever she chooses?

Head to the apartment pool? Nah… there’s plenty of time for that.

Walk one of the many miles of gorgeous ocean shoreline? I’m pretty sure sand is overrated.

Lie out, relax, and attempt to expose some of this pasty whiteness to the miracle of UV rays? For my skin, I’m afraid, the situation is hopeless until next May.

Plus, I think I may have divulged by now — I’m not your average girl.

So. Instead of celebrating what Florida is best known for — that brilliant, white-hot sunshine — I plopped my ass back in the car and headed 40 minutes north to West Palm Beach in search of a cafe I read about on Urban Spoon.

Why?

I had a feeling it would be worth my time.

Casper's on Park on Urbanspoon

And it is.

When I finally arrived at Casper’s on Park after many turn-arounds and indecision about whether I should really drive this far, I no longer cared about what I might be getting myself into. I didn’t care, when I pulled up, that the restaurant was nowhere near the water or any of the more fashionable areas of West Palm. I didn’t care that there wasn’t a single other patron in sight, or that they don’t have wi-fi (the owner/chef, Giuseppe, informed me he hopes to change this soon), or that it was too balmy for my northerner-at-heart self to sit outside on the dog-friendly patio.

Casper, by the way, is the name of the owner’s dog.

I was so hungry by the time I walked in that I asked Giuseppe to bring me the best item on the menu. After debating out loud between the gumbo and the jambalaya, he selected the slightly higher-priced (though not expensive at under $10 for the bowl) pasta jambalaya.

Alex, the co-owner, poured me a glass of sangiovese while I set up shop at a corner table facing the patio. He also brought me this:

Photo taken with iPhone.

And I think that maybe a part of me fell in love.

Some dreamy French music was playing when I arrived, but after multiple issues with skipping CD’s, they switched to something — a sultry almost-techno slow dance something-or-other — that was significantly less palatable, but who the hell cares because here comes my jambalaya.

I originally felt slightly ridiculous as the steaming bowl of bowtie pasta, hot sausage, shrimp, Parmesan cheese, and other New Orleans delicacies was brought to my table on this balmy afternoon, but now I feel like I am probably the most brilliant person anywhere with an 100 mile radius.

Photo taken with iPhone.

Another couple has just arrived and is sitting on the patio with their cocker spaniel. They ordered sandwiches. And while I’m sure he sandwiches are delicious, it’s taking all of my willpower to not run out there and tell them how crazy they are for not ordering Creole from a transplant.

Seriously.

Do I sound like a snob?

I’m pretty sure I can’t help it.

If it’s any consolation, I don’t look like a snob with my nose running from the not-spicy-but-not-not-spicy jambalaya.

It kind of sneaks up on you.

But I finished the bowl.

And now there’s no way I’m squeezing myself into a bathing suit.

Well.

If there’s anything I learned about travel, it’s that you should never rule anything out.

But for right now, I’m perfectly content to finish my glass of wine, watch Giuseppe lovingly pet the couple’s dog out on the patio, and wash everything down with the complimentary shot of espresso (looks like it’s been softened with something like cream — thank God) they just placed in front of me, which is exactly the motivation I need in order to plant my butt back in the car and head to Hollywood.

Hollywood Florida, that is.

P.S. It’s not espresso. Giuseppe informed me that it’s chocolate wine. Cocoa di Vino. Which pretty much tastes like a shot of Bailey’s.

And this just became my favorite place ever.