Sunday Night Blues

Sunday’s are hard for me. Pretty much always have been. I have a tendency to get more and more down as the day goes by The BF and I made a pact this past summer: We can’t be sad until 8pm. At 8pm we can be complete grumps (read: A-holes) and snap at each other for no real reason, except that it somehow relieves the Sunday pain, even though it really doesn’t. When I say "we" what I really mean is "me", as usual The BF is far better at controlling himself then I am.


The only problem is that in the winter it gets dark sooo early, and 5pm feels more like 8pm then 8pm does when the time changes. And then I get confused. And the confusion only compounds my Sunday night blues. In fact, The BF and I have determined, through intense scientific testing and research that he does indeed suffer from SAD.


So lately we’ve found that cooking for Sunday night meals eases the pains. Mostly because we’re just too distracted and stressed out with cooking disasters (grease fires and the likes) to notice the sun fading, the time just ticking away, another weekend.


This weekend we decided to really embrace the distraction making an entire Indian feast. Let’s see there was Raita, Saag Paneer, Chicken Tikka Masala, Cilantro Chutney, Vegetable Dal, & Naan. I’m still full. But it was good. It was like we-couldn’t-believe-we-made-it good. Also, I think we just wanted to give ourselves some props after an entire day of cooking truly from scratch—we made the paneer (cheese) & Naan from scratch.


I’d include recipes if recipes hadn’t gone straight out the window as soon as we got going. And so did note-taking, right around the time the second gallon of curdled (but not curdled enough) milk was tossed down the disposal (along with a variety of expletives by The BF) during cheese making.

So though I can’t offer recipes this time, I do recommend that you join in a little food therapy next time you’re feeling blue. If you're not up for Indian, you could try these, I think they would help.

Well, There Goes Another Weekend

So this is the post I talked about last time, where I was going to be all positive and "I love life" and stuff, but then decided I just wasn't a good enough faker. Basically, I removed the trite, happy paragraph that led into it, and put this in instead. Isn't honesty always the best policy anyways? I guess sometimes I'm honest to a fault. It was a good weekend though; sure as hell beat this last one...


The weekend before last, The BF celebrated his 25th birthday in the form of a surprise weekend getaway. When he found out on Thursday night that he wouldn't have to be going to work on Friday and that we were going up to Sea Ranch, he was shocked, to say the very least. (Apparently he doesn't give me enough credit for manipulative capabilities.) Needless to say, when we made it up to Sea Ranch and I informed him that we were actually going to be joined by his closest friends (and some of mine too), he was catatonic with astonishment, which was followed with complete panic.

"But, we don't have enough food. I have to clean. Where are they all sleeping? How are we going to entertain them?"


Both The BF and I happen to be Type A personalities; we have a hard time relinquishing control to fate. However, after I assured him that everything was taken care of and everyone showed up, we had a great time. We ate more than I care to recognize, but it was all fantastic. The men cooked a potluck with a variety of food that could never possible go together anywhere else, like short ribs and red chile beans, steamed salmon, flanks steak with chimchurri, as fresh as you can get abalone ceviche, and fish tacos. It was quite the smorgasboard.




We could not have dreamed of better weather, espcially in November, daylight savings weekend, on the northern coast of California. We played out our fantasies of moving up there for a few months or even a few weeks like we always do. And though a good majority of me wanted to just stay up there forever, and pretend The City was just a place I visited, the sunset on our drive home, reminded me that are defintely some things worth coming home for, even with work, all the projects, and daily life dramas (like my Mac costing $700 to be repaired). I wouldn't have wanted to miss that sunset for the world, even if it meant that I didn't have to deal with rent or my crazy clients anymore. Wait, now that's a bit extreme. It was good, but certainly not that good. I'm pretty sure nothing is that good.

Wholesome Fun With Whole Grains

Admittedly, mistakes were made last Friday. So perhaps to atone for my sins, I spent the rest of the weekend as wholesome as can be, holding babies, lot’s of family time, and of course, cooking. The BF and I spent Saturday in Santa Cruz feeling far worse than we had intended. Needless to say, when we woke up on Sunday we knew we had some amends to make, the first to our disgruntled bods, who were still, yes still, angry about the gin and vodka and gummi bears. We needed something that would heal our weary souls.

Soup, we determined immediately. The BF was outvoted two to one (when I really want something I count as two). It just so happened that I had been wanting to try the Mushroom Barley soup from November’s Food & Wine.

We had a mission, and with all missions, there are obstacles, namely in our case, the grocery store. As much as The BF and I would like be those kind of food people who can whip up something from nothing or cook based on ingredients just “lying around,” it’s not our forte. Unless it’s a sandwich, but that’s a different story altogether. Instead, we must drag our day two hangovers to the grocery store on a Sunday evening , at just about the time when every other person in Marin County is doing the same (sans hangover, I assume). It was foiled from the beginning.


We hit Whole Foods first; we wanted quality meat and mushrooms. My bad mood immediately sets in from crowds and it’s only exaggerated by the types of people you find at Whole Foods in San Rafael (see previous post on snobbery). And then: no pearled barley. Can you imagine? All those effin bins filled with granola, nuts, rice, grains, basically everything you could ever think of, but no pearled barley. I got that panicked, glazed look in my eyes and rushed to find The BF at the butcher counter. The headache was pulsing

“There’s no pearled barley.” I was deranged; I know because my voice hit those high octaves.

“Calm down, just calm down.” I took deep breaths as he followed me back to the dry good aisle, so that he could confirm that there really was no pearled barley.

Forty-five minutes later, after considering using hulled barley for close to ten minutes, we were at grocery store numero dos, United Market, ready to purchase pearled barley and the extra beef broth we forgot (go figure). While The BF ran in—I just couldn’t bear it—I called my mom, who in her endless quest to make sure I know just how overly indulged I act, reminded me that they always have pearled barley at Safeway. Thanks mom, noted.

At home, finally, we began to cook, and though I thought I’d at least have a couple of hours to whine about how much I hate crowded grocery stores while the soup cooked, it turned out I had less than an hour. Hence, this post; I just gotta get it out somewhere, right?

Based on just how damn delish that soup turned out, it seemed that somehow, among the aisles and people and carts, we finally undid our wrongs. If you’re looking for a little redemption yourself, I highly recommend that you make this, especially with the suggested changes. It may be the only thing you won’t regret this weekend.


Mushroom Barley Soup with Mini Meatballs adapted from Food & Wine
5 cups good beef stock
2 cup water
1/2 cup pearled barley
3 large thyme sprigs
2 tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil
1 lb. mixed wild and cultivated mushrooms, stemmed and thinly sliced (We used cremini, oyster, chanterelle, & porcini)
1 large shallot, finely chopped
1.5 lbs. ground sirloin
1 large egg
2 tbsp. dry bread crumbs
2 tbsp. freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano
2 tbsp. chopped flat-leaf parsley
salt & pepper

1. In a medium pot combine the stock, water, barley, & thyme. Season with salt and pepper and bring to a boil. Cover and cook over at a simmer until the barley is almost tender, about 18 minutes.

2. In a large nonstick skillet heat the oil. Ad the mushrooms and the shallot, season with salt and perpper and cook over high heat until browned, about 10 minutes.

3. In a medium bowl combin the sirloin, egg, bread crumb, cheese, 1/2 tsp. salt, & 1/4 tsp. pepper. Mix until just blended. Roll into sixteen 1-inch balls, about bit-size.

4. Add the meatballs & mushroom mixture to the soup and simmer over medium heat until the meatballs are cook through and the barley is tender, about 10 minutes. Discard the thyme. Stir in the parsley and serve.

I'm Sorry I Called You A Snob

I love the City; I truly do. But sometimes I start to think that the snob factor is just way too high. Maybe it’s because I’m from good ol’ alternative Santa Cruz where we boastfully yell “Go home Trannies” [Trannie is a slang term for a transplant, ie. not a local] to people asking where they might locate the beach—admittedly a form of reverse snobbery—but I can’t get used to the uppity attitude of so many people around here. The food snobs, sure, they're my people; the designer brand snobs, also close friends; the Whole Foods snobs; the Marina snobs; the non-hippy hippy snobs, the higher education snobs, found all the way on the other side of the City where I believed there were no snobs, they all drive me nuts.

However, I’m not going to lie, I think I might just be better than those people. See, that’s where I’m a snob or at least was a snob. One long evening of drinking on an empty stomach can really change a girl.

I’d like to say that it all started innocently enough, but in truth, our company’s Halloween party had most of us drinking before 4:00pm. Post party we headed over to Voda, a vodka bar tucked away on Belden Place. Quite picturesque outside, less appealing inside. Nonetheless, we jovially sipped on (gulped down) quite delicious $3.00 happy hour Lemon Drops, before deciding we needed a change of scenery.

Okay, I’m a lightweight, which is great for the pocketbook and less wonderful for me when I’m out on a drinking night with friends. By the time we made it to Toxic, the Lemon Drops had done their trick. That trick being stealthily intoxicating me without my gag reflexes or mental capacities realizing it. Of course I immediately ordered a vodka tonic and decided that the gummi bears in glass bowls lining the bar (Haribo, no doubt. I love this place now) were a perfectly reasonable dinner.

Since it was just 8:30pm when we got there, the bar was nearly empty, and so we had only one choice but to continue to drink. Only some of us didn’t just drink. Some of us (as described the next day by witnesses) decided to dance rather inappropriately, launch a gummi bear war across the bar, and shamelessly sing karaoke at the top of our lungs. In other words, humiliate ourselves in public. I wish I could blame all of this on an alter ego, but alas, there is only me. Humbled and embarrassed me. Some of you may be used to nights such as this one, but I am not. I was shocked with myself and mildly disgraced.

Thus, I must leave my snobbery at the proverbial door, because I have to face it. I’m no better than anyone else; I can be a real idiot too sometimes. All it took for me to come to my senses was one night in this City with its vodka bars, gummi bears, and oodles of snobs. It just wouldn't be the same without us.

Please note I did pay for my snob prejudices all weekend...

Wake 'N Bake

Not that kind of wake 'n bake. This is about actual breakfast. See I have this problem with breakfast. I’m just not very good at it. It’s not that I don’t enjoy it, because I do. I just happen to struggle with the actual act. I don’t eat breakfast during the week, and on the weekends, when I have the time I never want to eat it. It makes zero sense; during the weekdays all I want to do is lounge around with a plate of pancakes and good book, but on the weekends I find myself holding out on eating until noon so I can I dig into a BLT or an al pastor burrito.

In truth, when I do make it out to breakfast I end up indulging, like eggs benedict with avocado, home fries, and a scone indulging. It’s not something I’m proud of, but it’s just so good, and it’s never the same at home. I guess breakfast has become some illicit act that I save for one special morning once a month. But maybe it doesn’t have to be like that? The BF certainly doesn’t believe so.

This weekend I finally enjoyed breakfast at home in the form of strata. Strata is essentially a savory bread pudding. And boy is it good. We made it late Saturday night after getting back into San Rafael from San Francisco, and then baked it until bubbly in the oven.

I’d never had strata before. It’s just not quite as ubiquitous as frittatas and French toast at your neighborhood café. But it should be. Or maybe it shouldn’t, because it might be the only breakfast worth staying at home for.


Mushroom, Fontina, & Sausage Strata

7 eggs
3 cups half & half
8 cups sourdough bread, cubed, oven dried
12 oz. cremini mushrooms, sliced
1 medium onion, small diced
4 Italian sausages, fresh from the butcher, 2 hot, 2 sweet
2 ½ cups grated (soft) fontina cheese
4 garlic cloves, minced
2 tsp. fresh rosemary, finely chopped
Olive oil
Salt
Pepper

1. Preheat oven to 200F. Spread bread cubes across two sheet pans and cook in the oven for twenty minutes, flipping half way through. Remember we want the bread dry, not browned.

2. Whisk the eggs and half & half together in a medium bowl, with a big pinch of salt and a smaller pinch of pepper. Keep in the fridge until the other ingredients are ready.

3. Heat a saucepan with a tablespoon oil. Cook the onions with two cloves of garlic and a teaspoon of rosemary until caramelized. While cooking, season with salt and pepper. They should vary in color from golden brown to near black. Set aside.

4. Meanwhile, sauté the mushrooms in a separate pan with a tablespoon or two of oil, two garlic cloves, the remaining rosemary and a pinch of salt. Cook until the juices from the mushrooms have been cooked out. Set aside.

5. Remove the sausages from their casing. Keep in large, bite size chunks and begin to brown in a large pan. Brown until just cooked through, about 8 minutes.

6. Using a 9in. square baking dish, place a layer of the bread cubes, followed by a layer of ½ the mushrooms, onion, and sausage with a final layer of ½ the cheese. Repeat once more.

7. Pour the egg mixture over the entire dish. Place a heavy dinner plate on top of the casserole and press down. Leave for at least an hour or keep overnight so that the bread can absorb the egg and cream.

8.Bake at 350F, covered, for 1 hour. Remove the cover and bake for a final 15 minutes, or until the top is golden brown.

It's OK To Call It Frisco

If you know me at all, you know I like to read. I count on reading in the way other people depend on cigarettes, pets, myspace. It’s my go-to leisure activity, pass the time plan, sleeping aid, and personal therapy. But it’s not just reading, its books. I love the way in which they're tangible, consistent but ever-changing.

The best thing about SF is that it’s still crawling with independent bookstores. And I got to finally check out one of the more well-known gems this weekend. Green Apple Books on Clement. Just how many people had told me that I needed to check it out, that I’d love it. Have you ever noticed that when someone tells you you’ll just love something, you automatically grow weary?


But this time I did…love it. It was crowded and spread across three shops over two blocks of busy Clement. The colors alone made me happy. Book spines in red, purple, lime green, burgundy, chocolate brown. Endless aisles of books: cooking books, psychology books, plain old fiction books, nature books, used books, new books. A reading Mecca of sorts.

And if I’m the only person who picks up a used book and flicks through the yellowed pages wondering how many people have read this particular copy of this particular novel, then so be it, I’ll wear my nerdiness like a crown, but if there are others out there, then let’s go explore the dusty, wooden shelves of Green Apple together. I’ll even provide the Dim Sum.

Sexy in the City (Minus Unavailable Men)

So many amazing friends: Work friends, best friends, old friends, new friends, friends of friends. It takes so long to adjust to a new place, faces, ways of life, and then suddenly you look around and think: This is where I live.

The next time someone asks, in that inviting conversation way that polite people tend to ask questions, "Where are you from?" I'll respond with an enthusiastic gloat, "San Francisco." Though it's even more true than I realize; my great-grandparents--the oldest generation in my family that I ever knew--settled in SF after their long voyage from other countries. My ancestral roots have planted themselves firmly in this city.

Although after the delightful debauchery of this weekend, I'm not sure if those roots want to associate with me, or the likes of my friends for that matter. Okay, it wasn't so bad. Actually, it was really fun. There's nothing better than being around people who you know you can have a great time with, and who if you, say, fall over a couch or "lunge" on to a dance floor in a way that both simultaneously spills your drink on a person and damages your knee cap (possibly permanently), makes sure that the said incident is remembered as funny as opposed to what it might have been without your friends: pitiful.


And it was a riotously funny time, and yes, we rode a limo home on Friday night, and hell yes, we didn't have to buy one drink, not one.
(Though some of us couldn't partake in the free beverages because of concerned boyfriends, I mean, ahem, overly-zealous pre-partying). But it was still that good.

Big cheers to all of the gorgeous participants, those in the city, and those who actually had to make a real effort to enjoy it. Thank god we're finally wise enough to know the effects of shots, but young enough to take them anyways.

Better Luck Next Weekend, Guaranteed

Ah, Friday night. I bragged and boasted about it in my last blog, my first blog and yet, how did my Friday night go? It started out well enough. The BF and I some how managed to get dinner before 8:00pm, which is quite a feat. We ended up at this small slightly frightening – the bathroom doors were rotted through at the bottom – but all in all, surprisingly clean place in Japantown called Tampopo. Ramen, udon, soba…Three of my four most favorite noodle dishes (the missing being vermicelli). We dined well, and must of have hit a sweet spot, because the food was truly delicious (and cheap), and there wasn’t an empty table in the house as we walked out.

It was still beautiful outside and both The BF and I were looking forward to gourmet cocktails from Bourbon and Branch, one of the trendy bars in the Tenderloin that models itself after an old speakeasy, unlisted address and all. It was just our style (or so we hoped), pretentious but deservingly so. Of course, The BF was thrilled that I was going out with him and his friends, and I was thrilled just to be going out at all. But as we left there was a certain awful feeling deep, deep within me.

By the time we reached home there was no doubt that something was in fact wrong with me. My intestines had turned on me. The damn traitors. It was brutal, whatever it was, a bug, bad Vietnamese, a cruel joke, I don’t know. Mike left without me after I assured him that I would live, and should I be near death, I would call him immediately. The night was spent alone. not alone really; I had the TV, the computer, and my newest book I just delved into. Now that I write about it, besides the frequent “bathroom breaks”, it wasn’t all that bad. In fact, what I would give now, Sunday at 8:30pm for that Friday night again.

One of the most amazing people I've met, who also happens to be one of my best friends, will be with me this upcoming Friday. Thank the heavenly skies. I miss that girl. Only five more days, 120 hours (45 spent being tortured, 35, if I’m lucky, spent sleeping, 7.5 spent commuting, 37.5 spent either desperately wishing for sleep or dreading work) until our reunion begins. But at least this week I know they will be hours well spent.. Here’s to dance parties, sickeningly sweet shots, and finding the personal resilience to do it TWO nights in a row. Counting the days to another Friday (literally).