Epic weekend of cooking and debauchery

In honor of the super bowl, I embarked on my own weekend of superlative challenges: an ultramarathon of cooking, eating, drinking, running, and general debauchery. Well, the running was negatively impacted by the debauchery, but three out of four is not bad, I think.

Somehow friday afternoon I got roped into making pizza for a crowd that night at my house, of all places. For future reference, this is not hard to do:

You: "Hey, can I come over and you can cook for me and then I wont help you clean up?"
Me: "Sure! I always have time to whip up some pizza dough after work!"

4 pizzas later, when we were all drunk on mozzarella (aka wine), we missed out on our planned ice skating excursion. But, as we all know, you shouldnt ice skate until an hour after eating anyway, or else you might get a cramp and die.
Saturday was the hand to hand combat/ extreme lugeing / pork segment of my cooking ultramarathon. I literally did not leave the house except to beg for kitchen twine at the restaurant on the corner (it helps to speak spanish).

My pulled pork sandwich adventure was truly a labor of love. It roasted for no less than 6 hours, filling my apartment with the smell of succulent pig and driving both me and Lorenzo nuts. While the pig was roasting I had time to take no less than 2 naps to gather strength for the final stretch of this epic challenge.

Roasting a pork for 6 hours may be enough cooking in one day for some people. But my many, many readers know that I'm about as normal as a chocolate covered grasshopper. So I spend the rest of a snowy saturday afternoon butterflying and stuffing a beef tenderloin (what, like you were actually doing something cooler?). Not only was this exciting, but I got to sharpen all my knives in preparation, and that always makes me feel pretty bad ass. My butterflying performance scored a 9.7 for execution, and a 10.0 for style, by the way. I stuffed that sucker with caramelized onions and mushrooms, and rolled it up like a huge... herbal cigarette.

Speaking of herbal, that twine I convinced the restaurant to give me was not what I was expecting. I dont think it was kitchen twine at all, in fact, I think it was the kind of hemp that wannabe-hippie-phishheads-in-high-school make into necklaces and wear to prove their cred at concerts while playing hackey sack. I was fairly sure that it would either  a) ignite in my oven, or b) make the whole apartment smell like weed, and further convince my neighbors that I am a bad influence on their children.

Luckily, the hemp did neither. I seared this gorgeously rolled and tied roast in my le creuset and then finished it in the oven. Served with polenta topped with broccoli rabe and pinenuts and copious amounts of wine..... perfetto!

You would think that after two nights of excess I would be all tuckered out. But no! I  rallied the troops and made it to a super bowl party, which was really a pulled pork party with the TV on. My sandwiches were perhaps more popular than I was, which doesn't bother me that much. Lorenzo had his first encounter with a cat, and I had my first encounter with a jalapeno popper. Both of us left feeling a little bit changed.

Hail To The Victors Valiant! Hail to the Conquering Heroes!

Here it is, my first place Pudding-Off trophy! It completely exceeded my expectations of what an office cooking contest trophy would be. Notice
1) how huge it is 
2) The inscription: "TaskStream Fe Chef Battle: Pudding Winner" That's right, because we use the periodic table  abbreviation for Iron. We're way smart here.
3) the shady androgynous chef on top. Is it a man? A woman? Why is she wielding a knife in that menacing way? And is that a wishbone in her hand, or a divining rod? The world will never know. I am just curious what this figure says about me (a subtle hint that I'm too gender-normative, perhaps...).

 

I think I've never been more proud of myself in my life.

Marrow bones and prosecco: Dinner with Patty

Two ladies, three working legs, and nothing to lose:

I mean, did I really expect anything less?

That's right, I asked for a big girl glass.

Pudding WIN!!!

That's right, your favorite food blogger has won the New York City Marathon! And by New York City Marathon I mean my office Pudding-Off!

I know you were dying of anticipation all weekend to find out what I made. I ended up going with one sweet, one savory, which was a good tactic because out of 11 pudding entries, voters were overwhelmed with sweetness and appreciated my rich, creamy, cheesey Savory Leek Bread Pudding even more. What? Its pudding. It counts.

In fact there were 3 bread puddings, 3 chocolate, one butterscotch, one rice pudding and one vermicelli pudding. Quite the spread. The only downer was that my Julia Child chocolate custard that was so delicious last night had kind of deflated by this morning and didnt look as pretty as the others.

In any case, I won bragging rights and this round of my culinary rivalry with my boss, which is all that really matters. I don't have a before picture, but this is the war zone/lunchroom post-pudding-off. Hail to the Victor.

My Weekend

(Left: Tart and mini-me tart)

That's right, you can stop holding your breath now. I have gotten my mojo back! And all it took was a little gauntlet throwing.

You may have noticed that on friday I was not-so-subtly challenged to a pudding-off. Not just any pudding-off, but one complicated by workplace hierarchies and thinly veiled culinary rivalries. The rules? None, apparently. The challenge? Accepted. With zeal.

So with the context of a pudding-off framing my weekend, I was in a cooking mood. I was thinking sweet and savory, scouring old food blogs, opening the cookbooks I got for Christmas. And sure enough, what shows up in my mailbox? Julie/Julia. Now, I know, I know, I have thoroughly enjoyed mocking that movie since it came out. It's not that I dont adore Julia Child, it was the smarmy cuteness and can-do chutzpa of Amy Adams that got my goat. And the fact that it was so f-ing popular, every yuppie in starbucks was now bragging about how they had Mastered the Art of French Cooking. Like other things, I am easily peeved when my favorite things become trends. No, I am not good at sharing.

But I digress. I had been passive-aggressively moving Julie/Julia down in my netflix cue as a way of postponing the inevitable. And sure enough, the darn thing one-upped me and passive-aggressively showed up in my mailbox when I wasn't looking. And yes, I thoroughly enjoyed the movie (although i think i enjoyed Julie's husband more than her), its depiction of the joys of eating and cooking, and the farce that overly ambitious cooking can be.

It seemed only appropriate to cook while watching a cooking movie. I was eager to try my favorite frienemy food blogger's olive oil  tart crust recipe (you win this round, Clotilde), and I happened to be in possession of a large quantity of leeks and shallots (what?). I had a lovely afternoon making this caramelized leek and gruyere tart (almost as much as I enjoyed eating it at 2 am saturday night). And with the leftover scraps of crust, the cutest tart that ever was was born (pictured above).

But it was not over! No, not by a long shot. I also had a recipe to test for the Holy of Holies, Cook's Illustrated. That's right, they want my opinion. What can I say? My reputation preceeds me. Anyway, I had to make this very un-exciting looking spinach salad with carrots and oranges (can you say booooring?). Peeling oranges and taking off the skins and pith is never my idea of a great time, but you can imagine how much fun it was with a ginormous hangover and no hairs of the dog in sight. Needless to say, I gave them a piece of my mind in my report. (To be prudent, the salad was actually pretty interesting. It had a sesame oil-based creamy dressing which was tasty, and toasted sesame seeds on top. Nice, but not really up to par for Cooks Illustrated) In any case, a very nice dinner of savory leek tarte, spinach salad, and Dolcetta D'Alba went perfectly with Sunday night football.

To round out the weekend were two of the worst-timed visits to the food coop ever conceived. Note to self: do not go to the coop on a sunday morning with a hangover, or you WILL start a fistfight with the lady with a double stroller. I mean really, a double stroller? How many kids do you have to have, lady?! It was only for fear of being suspended from the Coop for beating a child with a flaxseed baguette that I was able to restrain myself.

It's a PUDDING - OFF!!!

Details to come.

Star-Crossed Cassoulets

Ok, even if you are not obsessed with pork and beans, this is strange. On Sunday, I recommended making cassoulet to a friend who had landed some pork shoulder. On monday I had a dream about making said cassoulet. On Tuesday, my boss told me about his upcoming cassoulet experiment, and we waxed philosophical about the magical properties of kielbasa (clearly, he deferred to my expertise, being from Chicago and all). On Wednesday, my boss came in announcing to everyone that he had brought me leftover cassoulet to taste. That cassoulet has now ruined lunch and dinner for me. Not that I'm complaining.

In the spirit of the cassoulet theme, I am thinking about making it this weekend for my eternally stick-thin friend, Max. He never gains a pound, and I never stop trying to get him to. Report to follow.

I think the phrase you are looking for is "scarf down like a rabid animal"

Now, I am not a huge bagel person. I know, this is hard to believe since I live in a city made out of bagels. But I have my morning pre- and post- workout breakfast routine, and it's consistency is comforting. Steel cut oatmeal before I run, yogurt and almonds once I get to the office. What? you expected a food blogger to eat cassoulet for breakfast?

But since I started running with a bunch of CRAZY LADIES every day, my schedule has changed a bit. For example, yesterday there was a plate of home baked cookies innocently sitting in the office break room, and I'm not saying anything indecent happened, but I found myself making excuses for my long absence to coworkers with crumbs all over my face.

And today--finally--I worked up to the mid-week mid-distance run. That means, as if running an obscene amount of miles every week isn't enough, these girls feel its necessary to do an extra "push" on wednesdays. The only thing I generally like to push on Wednesday is the "more wine please" buzzer. But I finally did it, still sore from monday and tuesday, and it wasn't pretty. 11 miles is not usually enough to blog about, but what happened afterwards was.

Usually I do long runs on saturday and then collapse into a coma (hopefully in the vicinity of my bed) immediately after, for about 2 hours. I then wake up and commence to eat every carb within hobbling distance. But on a Wednesday, I barely had time to limp to the shower and sneak into work late, let alone take a dead nap. And while hobbling to the train, I literally could not help myself from going into a deli and ordering a bagel with peanut butter. It was like an out-of-body experience. I could tell that I was walking into a deli, saying something, and then scarfing something chewy and peanut buttery like a rabid animal would maul a squirrel, but it was as if I was watching it from far away.

Who was this person who ate a bagel with peanut butter in under 4 seconds? will she be back next Wednesday? Is this what my life will be like from now on?

I'm sorry, I would write more, but I need to eat again. I think there are donuts around here somewhere.

A room with a view

Yes, that's right. Your favorite food blogger has hit the big time. Have I finally gotten national recognition from Eater? No, not yet. Have I been made a guest judge on Top Chef? Not exactly. Wine of the month club, maybe? I wish.

No, my many, many readers, my big success is not food-related. It's actually real estate-related. Intrigued? You see, when you courted by an employer, moved across the country, wined and dined (read: stale cookies left in the break room)... these things mean your boss thinks you are a good employee. But when your boss REALLY thinks you are the cat's pajamas, you may get... an office.

Now I know, I know, to you midwesterners this may not be that exciting. Your entry level offices are probably bigger than my apartment. But in New York... well, the only thing more cutthroat than getting your own office is trying to cut the line at Momofuku.  Let me just say that one wizened old friend told me it took him ten years of slaving to get an office. All I had to say to him was that I am obviously smarter.  And I am cuter.

Now that you understand how incredibly hot shit I must be to have gotten an office, just imagine the wild heights I must have reached in my boss' eyes to have been given an office with THIS view:

I can tell you are impressed. A view of the Hudson river (partially obstructed) isn't given away to just anyone. But what really warms my heart is the twenty foot high blood-sucking insect that was so thoughtfully placed in my eyeline. I mean really, what could be more motivational on a clear, cold winter morning than to stand at your own office window with your deli coffee and see... "Bed Bugs SUCK!"

Indeed they do, my friends. Indeed they do.