To get you all in the spirit

After that one post where I railed against society for leaving the designing of Hanukkah decor to basement-dwelling monsters, I'd like to say that I made peace with the situation and moved on to more productive endeavors like, say, designing something more aesthetically pleasing to prove that it could be done.

Well, I can't say that. Because that's not my way - to go out into the world making right what is wrong. No, my way is to bitch about it.

Which is why you see a label on this blog called Finny Bitches and not one called Finny Fixes.

It's a character flaw of mine which I've fully embraced. I figure, why fight something that comes so naturally?

Anyway.

What actually happened after I ranted about the aesthetic abuses laid so heavily on Hanukkah decor was that I went on to find more fuel for the fire. Meaning, I went to the internet to hunt down even more ugliness. Just to prove to myself that there was, indeed, some sort of awful theme running through Hanukkah decor outside of the few examples I easily found and linked to from my post.

Well, HO HO, was there ever some ugliness to be found. WOW.

Though I found that the most egregious missteps were to be found in the menorah department.

This is the department where, if you're a Jew or someone who knows a Jew or someone who's marketing a product to a Jew and wants to appeal to every type of Jew on the planet and needs an outlet for kitsch where one can express all of one's alliances through a single holiday vessel - you come to let your hair down and really Be Yourself with the innocent and unknowing menorah.

At least that's what the menorahs out there are telling me.

Particularly the cat ones and the Harry Potter ones and the Mel Gibson ones (though the irony here is intensely satisfying and also no one's really taking this one seriously).

I'm going to go out on a particularly precarious limb here and say that people are treating menorahs like some treat their Christmas trees - all decorating them up to be a unique and authentic representation of themselves and their most honored and random-ass pastimes.

Much like the golf-loving father may have a golfing-type ornament for their tree, a golf-loving Jew may also have a golf-themed menorah.

Like high heels? If you celebrate Christmas, go here. If you're a Jew, go here.

Vespas anyone? That random enough for you? Christmas-havers. Jews.

My point is this - while Christmas and Hanukkah may be different holidays celebrated by different religions and different people doing different things while filling themselves to the brim with different not-so-good-for-you foods, the decor can be equal (and mystifyingly similar) in its ugliness and at the root of it all everyone is overdoing it.

A point I've been trying to prove all week on Facebook as I've been celebrating a new holiday called The Festival of Ugly Menorahs which I'll share with you now. Enjoy.

Festival of Ugly Menorahs : Night One
The Sea Monster Night

Festival of Ugly Menorahs : Night Two
The Special Holiday Visitor Night
(Hint: those are tampons)

Festival of Ugly Menorahs : Night Three
The Inflatable Night
(This thing is 6 feet tall and goes on your lawn)

Festival of Ugly Menorahs : Night Four
The I Had Too Much Manischewitz and Spent Night Three in the Loo Night

Festival of Ugly Menorahs : Night Five
The Musical Night When Our Ears Also Witness The Ugly
(Hint: This menorah plays Klezmer)
(Hint: Klezmer is Jew music)
(Hint: Think clarinets and accordions)
(I think you get the ugliness now)

Festival of Ugly Menorahs : Night Six

The Night of Holographic Ugliness

Nights 7 and 8 are yet to be revealed as they have not yet occurred, so I will spare you the final days. Perhaps, if all goes well and I find some particularly stunning gems, I will share them with you as I ready my latke-making outfit for the final night's festivities.

And, before you comment and ask me what the fuck a latke-making outfit might entail, I will tell you that it is not fanciful, nor does it include flashing lights, inflatable accessories or outwardly visible tampon strings (no, that's for beach whoring. And, ew.)

My latke outfit, as it's commonly known around my family, is a black cotton v-neck sweater, jeans and low-heeled boots (2 inch heel max) with gel insoles. One must always be Gellin' when one is Latke-Makin'. Or something like that. Also important are the breatheability and cotton-ness of all items of clothes because that means that they are washable in HOT water and don't shy away from two tons of detergent.

Because you will smell like a nice crispy french fry when you're done frying enough latkes to feed any Hanukkah crowd and the smell will haunt you unless you go home and immediately burn or thoroughly wash with scorching water and soap all of your clothes from that day. You should also take advantage of the "Repeat if necessary" option on your shampoo, shave off all exposed hair, hose yourself off with Purell and commence a week-long diet of kale and purified water until the latkes have been expunged from your soul.

It's an effort, I won't lie to you.

So, if I get through all of that without accidentally lighting myself on fire (which has some implications I won't go into due to the super pissing-off-of-random-people-ness it provokes) during the lighting of my parents' traditional and not-ugly menorah, I may come back here and share with you nights 7 and 8.

If I don't, well, you can assume I've had all I can take of Hanukkah, menorahs, ugliness and smelling like a french fry's armpit and have moved on to other things. Like figuring out how to get through Christmas without yanking down my neighbors' musical manger display running amok next door.

If bacon is fat, I don't want to be right. [RECIPE]

Ok, so that title is a variation on an hysterical comment Bubba made regarding his recent pie gluttony (If pie is fat, I don't want to be right), but really, it goes just as well here.

Y'all, as though I was trying to reinforce the shakiness of my Jew-y center, we just had ourselves a very porky, bacon-y weekend.

I do believe we had a pork item in 3 of 6 meals over the weekend. Sometimes, there was more than one pork item in a single meal.

A SINGLE MEAL WITH TWO PORKS? Bad Jew, Good Sammich.

See, I will blame this on Donk.

She sent me, because she is a lovely friend who knows me right down to my soft seemingly unJew-y center, a recipe for Bacon-Cheddar Quick Bread, which arrived on Friday afternoon folded into an adorable card and tucked into my mailbox just like in the olden days.

FUN! Real mail that doesn't want me to do anything except bake with bacon. I love that a lot.

And since we still had some of our bacon share left this month (applewood smoked maple bacon AT THAT), I decided that after my Run That Doesn't Suck, I would bake us up some of this alleged "Quick" bread for no other reason than we had bacon and then all the other things the recipe called for.

Including fresh sage which is random because who has that on hand? Not usually me, is what I'm saying.

And then, my friends, genius struck.

BAM

What if we had some of last garden tomatoes on this "Quick" bacon bread with some lettuce and the rest of the bacon and called it a BBLT?

IT WOULD BE A BACON SANDWICH WHERE THE BREAD WAS BACON.

Oh damn. That is genius!

See, told you.

Anyway, it goes without saying that the proposal for Bacon Sandwiches Where the Bread is Bacon went over very well with Bubba and no one paid any mind to how many B's were in that sentence or anything. We all just started drooling and getting excited for lunch.

But first, I baked the bread as follows. And, you know, you could, too. And you could also have a Bacon Sandwich Where the Bread is Bacon if you wanted to. Bad Jew or not.

Bacon Sandwich Where the Bread is Bacon
Recipe adapted from Bacon-Cheddar Quick Bread with Dried Pears, Bon Appetit 10/08
My changes in bold

Ingredients
5 bacon slices, cooked/chopped
1 cup shredded white English cheddar
1/2 cup or so of 1/4" white English cheddar cubes
1 T minced fresh sage
1 3/4 c flour
1 T baking powder
1/2 t salt
1/4 t fresh ground black pepper
3 eggs
1/3 c evap milk (we never have milk)
1/3 c extra virgins
(I left out the pears and walnuts because that's stupid)

To make
Crispify your bacon and let it drain somewhere nearby.

Preheat that oven to 350.

Grease or spray flour a metal loaf pan.

Mix all the bacon, cheese and sage in a bowl. Whisk flour, baking powder, salt and pepper in another bowl close by. Whisk eggs, milk and extra virgins in YET another bowl. Pour the egg mix over the flour mix and mix together until just blended. Don't get crazy here. Add the bacon mix and stir some more.

It'll be WICKED sticky.

And also look nasty.

Spread that whole mess in your prepped pan and bake it up for about 55 minutes or until it's browned on top. Try checking in at the 35 minute mark to see if it's looking burny, and if it is OR you're worried it might go in that direction, cover it loosely with foil and put it back in to bake until that toothpick comes out clean like it's supposed to.

Does not taste like the doody it looks like.

I cooled mine on a rack before we charged into it and I think it helped, but the longer you let it cool, the more solid the bread will be and the easier it will be to slice it and sandwich it.

That in there? That is love.

OH! That reminds me, if you need instructions on how to make a BLT or if you just want to see the pictures I took of ours, please follow along:

Those are some of our last tomatoes. Weep.

Ingredients
Bacon bread (see above)
Lettuce leaves
Garden tomatoes
Mayo (OH YES)
Black pepper

To make

Yes, we put mayo on bacon bread. SINNERS.

Slice all ingredients to your own specifications. If you're filthy (we're filthy) shmear a bit of mayo across one or two of those slices of bread and layer tomatoes, bacon and lettuce with a lid of one slice of bread. Eat damn it.

Bacon x2 - so beautiful.

Whether you choose to do so while being surrounded by suspicious looking beasts, that is up to you.

I will have to open my mouth very big to eat your whole sandwich and arm, Mom.
Like so.

And then whether you decide to get the cat into the action by dropping a piece of bacon on her fur and then directing the dog toward it is also up to your discretion. I will say that it adds an entertaining element to lunch time, if you're into that kind of thing.

No cats were harmed during the lunch entertainment.

Enjoy.

Running update: I now make up special names for my running clothes to legitimize my shopping.

I am about to launch into many months of gardeningblahblahblah so I thought I'd share some parting words about my winter running, the forthcoming spring time running and how I'm worried that not running a single half marathon this year will ruin my life or at least cripple my not-really-a running career to the point where all I'll do during the times when I normally would have been on a 12 mile training run is wander the neighborhood in my running shorts pointing at the race medals strung around my neck going, "Look, fuckers! These mean I don't *have* to run long distances anymore, OK."

Yes, my mind wanders when I run and I have an awesomely creative and inappropriate imagination.

Also, I realize that 13.1 miles is only considered to be "long distance running" to some people so don't get all "Um, loser - you're not running long distances until you're in the 26 mile range, OK?" in the comments because I'll ignore you and also quietly hate you. And, despite my innate crabbiness, I don't want to hate you.

Anyway, mostly I just worry about The Fatness and not being able to hike as fast on our backpacking trips, as I set my sights on the 5 and 10Ks in the ever-present Active.com Upcoming Events in Your Area emails.

I mean, yes, I have been vaguely tempted to sign up for the Seattle Rock N Roll Half Marathon, if only for the chance to maybe possibly see a bald eagle, like, right there along Lake Washington again so that I can be an inappropriate ass, again, and shriek "Holy Shit!" amongst a sea of horrified runners, but I've learned an important lesson about re-running a race:

Don't do it because it's very boring.

Yep - thanks San Jose Rock N Roll, for that life lesson.

OK, so the second time I ran it, it was OK. I was going for time, which I made swiftly and with little added effort, but the third time (last year), the race was terrible. I was bored to the point where I considered just running off the course at the six mile mark *knowing* that I wouldn't care later about ditching out on the run because I was *so over it*.

But, thankfully, the tiny competitor in my mind (and let me be clear when I say, "tiny", because I'm not all that competitive) forced me to stay and finish what I started. So, really, it probably wasn't the tiny competitor in my mind, but more the HUGE A/R accountant in my mind that wouldn't let me flake on a commitment. Or a race entry fee.

OK, the fee part was probably the tiny Jew in my mind, but whatever. Jew, accountant - let's not get buried in semantics.

All in all, the lesson was learned and as I was finishing that dull drag of a race, I decided that I would certainly not run it again. At least for a while. Because HI no one did anything remotely interesting to their front yards in the year's time between the '08 and '09 races and so I had nothing to look at but the same tired landscaping and the ankles of the toads in front of me.

Boh-ring.

About my winter running, though. Well, I think we're done with that season now, too.

I had, officially, one day that required YakTrax, but as I had not yet purchased the YakTrax, I spent the duration of that run slip-sliding away and very nearly snapping a groin muscle (no injury sustained, though, so YAY).

After that fateful day, however, I did buy the YakTrax and have since used them many times - in Tahoe. Where it snows. And where I like to take the dogs out for leash-free roaming while I drink wine out of a coffee cup.

Like I've said before, I'm a class broad.

I think the arrival of the YakTrax also marked the permanent stowing of the remainder of the winter running gear like the vest, tights, long-sleeves and thick running pants.

Though I may break the tights and long sleeves out for the Mermaid 10K if the weather makes an evil turn on the eve of the race like it did last year.

Fine. I'll manage.

But, in a deliberate attempt to welcome spring and force winter to the back of the closet, I got myself what I'm calling, a Transitional Running Top.

"Transitional" because it has short sleeves rather than long or tank sleeves and will let me transition between the cold ass mornings of the winter and the cool and lovely mornings of spring.

You get it.

Mostly this is because, while I'm ready to wear tanks on my morning runs, I tend to get the hairy eyeball from the freaks all wrapped around their paper coffee cups at the stop lights and sometimes the older gal in her head-to-toe winter running outfit (with matching headband - sharp!) goes out of her way to interrogate me on what exactly is my problem aren't I freezing.

Sure, I can say No and wipe some of my carefully cultivated boob sweat on her forehead to illustrate my point, but it's easier to just wear short sleeves so that my barren shoulders don't attract so much attention.

It's amazing how an extra two inches of fabric extended over the shoulders can mitigate so much unsolicited inquiry into my mental status.

But, surpriseSURPRISE, I actually quite like my Transitional short-sleeve top even though I thought I'd certainly hate it.

It's more form-fitting than the one-size-fits-most free race day technical tees I've been wearing, but not to the point where it rides up my midsection until it's sitting just below my boobs, thus offering up a quivering display of my midsection.

It's a nice, slick, breathey, wicking type of fabric - which is good for the inevitable sweating I do when it's *GASP* 40 degrees during morning intervals, and on top of that, I daresay this top has made me faster.

Oh sure - a top can do that.

And I would know, too, since my last two interval runs, for which I wore my Transitional Top for the first two times, have been in the 23s.

Yep - suck it - Runs in the 24s! 23 is the new 24! And I will now wear this Transitional SUPER FAST Top until such time as it becomes less maniacal to wear a tank top before the 7 o'clock hour.

Which sort of gives you an idea of what my spring time running will be like. Tank tops and shorts, intervaling out my Tuesday and Thursday mornings and long running my Saturday mornings, all with the ill-conceived goal of making time on my races.

In other words, 2010 probably won't be so much about trail running (as I'd previously thought) as it will be about nailing down some specific distance times. Like I've said before, I'm going for a sub-60 10K race time. And, since I managed a sub-30 5K at Thanksgiving last year, I'd like to now make that a sub-29 5K. Which isn't as glamorous as a sub-30, but it's faster than my finish time of 29:14, so you can understand my reasoning, yes?

Yeah, true, it's not as fun to say, "I'm going for a sub-29 5K PR and sub-60 10K PR this year!" as it is to say, "I'm running two half marathons", but when you get down to the bottom of all this, running isn't usually associated with "fun" for most people, so I can be a little less rigid with my standards of declaration.

I'm sure you agree.

And that is about all the running updating I have to do for now. Gird your loins for the forthcoming gardening talk.

Extreme Sabbath Mode vs The Pork Chop

I set out to make pork chops the other night on Bubba's request but without the proper know-how seeing as I grew up in a house that didn't have pork chops because we were trying to be not-all-the-way-bad Jews. We didn't follow most of the rules, but I think frying up the uncleanest of all beasts in chop form on the stove was too much even for my progressive folks.

Meanwhile, my future husband was growing up in the midwest, far away from the pork fearful and in a household very much in support of Pork Chop Night, of which I have heard much legend. Legends about "cornflake crust", applesauce on the side OR NOT and the merits of pan-frying vs oven-baking. And just for the record, I never heard the words, "Shake and Bake" mentioned in reference to the Almighty Pork Chop until I said it out loud and had to suffer Bubba's evilest evil eye. Scary.

No Shake and Bake. Got it.

Thankfully the All Knowing Cook's Illustrated provided a fabulous and authoritative recipe by which one, even one of Jew-y background, can construct Ultracrunchy Baked Pork Chops.

Bubba was very excited to revisit Pork Chop Night and I was very afraid of this untamed cut of meat.

Why is it so pale? What's the story with this big bone? How do you know when it's done when it's buried under all that seasoning? What about that big word that stands for the scary germ that lives in pork? Trich-ta-somethin-somethin...?

All very scary and bizarre. Plus I was afraid that it would taste like ass and I would have to chew and smile and be all, "Yes, my love, this is very good and worthy of your childhood memories", when I might really just want to hack it up in the trash and pretend it all didn't happen. But I went forward, somewhat bravely, into the dark scary forest of the pork unknown armed with my issue of CI and some chops that Bubba brought home from the store, all despite my Jewy inner fear of The Pork.

And then my oven rebelled by falling apart.

Yes. It fell apart. In the truest and most sincere sense of the term. I went to open the oven to begin the pork baking and upon grasping its one big handle, SNAP, it ripped off clean in my hand.

The handle. It broke the fuck off. Just right there for all the world to see.

And then the stainless steel sprung forward allowing the heat proof glass to come sliding onto my kitchen floor.

SNAP! SPROING! SHING! SLAM!

"What the hell was that??"

"Hehehe hahahaha heeeeeeeee hahaaaa"

"Baby? Are you ok?"

"Um....hehehe hahaha hehe"

"What are you holding? What was that crashing sound?"

"Oh. You know. My BRAND NEW OVEN just fell totally apart and apparently I think it is pretty damn funny."

And it kinda was. In the sense that I was standing in my kitchen, holding the big handle for the oven, which was in no way connected to the oven itself, while standing over a very large piece of glass watching the stainless steel available-at-an-extra-charge sproing to and fro, having been freed of its enclosure. Holding in my other hand, a rimmed and racked baking sheet with two perfectly coated pork chops ready for baking.

It was at this moment I realized the actual purpose of the Sabbath setting.

"Sabbath Mode: Beyond the automatic shut-off feature of this particular model, this ingenious and militant option keeps your oven free of any filthy unkosher items. When set, the oven will go to all lengths to maintain the sanctity of its observant interior, resorting to self-destruction if any attempt is made to force unclean flesh into its depths with the intent of cooking or otherwise."

As it turns out, my oven is something of a self-righteous Jew. Who knew this?

Anyway, my oven fell totally apart and I'm blaming it on my made-up oven feature for which I previously had no explanation (come on, did YOU know what Sabbath mode was for? See, no.) and the shoddy craftsmanship of some appliance manufacturer which will remain unnamed. Sadly, most of my appliances are from this particular manufacturer, so everything in my kitchen is getting the wary eye at this point, especially those with inexplicable features like Pots and Pans Cycle, Filtered Water Dispenser and Permanent Press. WHO KNOWS WHAT THIS ALL MEANS, REALLY?

It could be anything.

However, I think you might be happy to know that despite the Extreme Sabbath Mode setting under which my oven was previously operating and the fact that the door handle BROKE THE HELL OFF, I still managed to bring to life the ever-cherished Pork Chop Night in our humble yet combative home.


Bubba assured me that they were indeed quite good and definitely didn't seem like they'd been made under duress or anything, so I felt better knowing that at least his dining dream was coming true.

Meanwhile I stewed about the time I was going to have to spend escorting the retards from that service center which will remain unnamed until I have had my issue satisfactorily resolved around my kitchen so that they could fix these things that should have never broken, and certainly not so soon after I purchased them. Ahem.

Good news - I didn't have to spit anything out in the trash.

Pork Chop Night 1 - Oven 0.

Running update: 12

So, like most of you wise folks guessed, I did the full 12 miles.

What I liked the best was that you mostly based your guesses on the fact that I have a soft guilty Jew center rather than the fact that I am an amazing and dedicated athlete. 

What? You are not fooled by my faux athlete exterior? I thought it was maybe a little bit convincing. I have Nike shorts after all and I use BodyGlide a lot. Mostly for running.

Funny to note here that my Jewiness has some ironic limits since I feel guilty enough to run a full 12 miles but no guilt at all about doing it on a Saturday morning when, if I were a real Jew, I would be walking to shul with the nice men in their tallis and dark suits who I pass around mile 4.

WHATEVER. I ran 12 miles. 

And, hey, didn't die at all or shit the road or get the debilitating case of hot dog fingers about which I'd previously worried. 

(For the record, and specifically Lera, the condition known as Hot Dog fingers is not a real thing. I think Jack in the Box made it up and I've adopted it as a real thing in my life for the humor value. Also, I love hot dogs and wouldn't be sad at all if my fingers turned into hot dogs because WOO, handy snack. HAHA.)

At the end of the day, the run went fine. I had a particularly happy moment around mile 11 when I realized HEY this is the last long training run I'm doing before The Race Itself and next weekend, instead of trodding out 12+ miles, I'll get to start The Taper and run a distance more amenable to my Inner Lazy.

And then I gave myself the douche chills because I called it, in my head, a Fun Run. Like they call the 5k runs that go before the marathons so that the lazy people (me)can make themselves useful while other *real* athletes are doing the *real* races. 

At the time though, a run of any single digit distance sounded fun. Much like how my 12 mile runs must sound to someone training for a marathon. Boh - 12 miles? What's the biggie? 

Those marathoners are such self-important jerks. 

The point is that I did the 12 mile run in a time that indicates I *may* have the *chance* of *maybe* PRing this time should I not collapse into a heap of shame during mile 13. And that would be something.

And then, this weekend, I get to go on a Run That Doesn't Suck (new name, less douche-y) because I've decided that I'll just put on my iPod and run through all my favorite areas until I'm bored or tired and then I'll just go home. 

I predict this run will last no longer than one hour and may or may not include a stop at the donut place.

The Best Vegetable Beef Soup Ever. Yep.

OK, so I know that the rest of the Internets is (are?) all aflutter about Thanksgiving and turkey and wearing a pie on your head (wuv you Lady Lino!), but here at Finny's house, we're still all caught up in the 80s and pot roast and crockpots.

So, forgive me if I don't share my favorite Thanksgiving recipes with you and instead tell you how to make The Best Vegetable Beef Soup Ever. Yep. from that leftover pot roast.

Also, I've never really made Thanksgiving dinner before, so I doubt I'm to be trusted with such a traditional, anticipated, this is no time for abominations in the kitchen kind of meal. You want fabulous Thanksgiving, you go see Ree at Pioneer Woman Cooks and she'll set you up. She's fancy like that.

Meanwhile, if you want a very efficient and FUH-king delicious soup recipe that'll use up your leftover pot roast and every other random thing in your freezer/fridge, you stay here with Finny and I'll tell you my ways with the pot roast.

Just so you know, these are not the "sexy" kind of ways, so don't be afraid or feel like you need to close your office door from the prying eyes of your young ones or dog. (I get afraid of traumatizing the dog. Is that weird? Anyway.)

Let me first also tell you that this is not a fancy recipe. Nor did it appear all brand-new and original like in my brain. I started to make it from a recipe on Allrecipes.com, but then realized in the comments that every single person that commented (there were a lot, I was surprised) had made it a different way.

SO - because of that, I'm not crediting them with much except giving me the idea to use tomato juice. Which was a good idea. An idea I immediately bastardized when I decided to use vegetable juice instead because that is what they had at TJ's.

ANYWAY. About that soup.

Yeah, I'm using the same photo twice. Wanna fight about it?

Finny's The Best Vegetable Beef Soup Ever. Yep.
From my own pea brain + the tomato juice from allrecipes.com
My changes are the whole thing, so no bolding this time.

Ingredients

Whatever's left of your Simple Pot Roast (I had about 1.5 lbs left from the 3 lb roast), chopped into bite-ish sized pieces
1 medium celery root, peeled and chopped into bite sized pieces
1 bag of mixed frozen vegetables from the bottom of the freezer drawer OR Trader Joe's OR wherever. (Mine had peas, corn, green beans and carrots in it. In case you wanted to know.)
2 head's worth of broccoli florets
1 quart of vegetable juice (again, I used TJ's Garden Patch Vegetable juice)
1 can of beef consume
Whatever's left of your Pretty Fucking Good Gravy (I had about 1 cup)
4 cups of water
1 T dried oregano
1 T ground thyme
Lots of fresh ground pepper


To make

In a big stock pot, pour in your vegetable juice, consume, gravy leavin's and water. Then add in your chopped meat, celery root, frozen vegetables, herbs and broccoli. Stir it together well and cover.

Bring to a boil and then reduce to low to simmer for about 45 minutes to an hour. Before you serve, give it a taste and add as much pepper as you like. We like a lot, so I added a good bit. You may be surprised that this recipe doesn't call for salt, since I LOVE salt, but with the vegetable juice (I don't say "veggie" because it sounds stupid. To me.) and gravy and pot roast, it's PLENTY salty. But, if you must, go ahead. I won't laugh and point when your fingers swell into hot dogs.

Serve with a few challah bread rolls which you also got from TJ's thinking they'd be AWESOME but actually turned out to be meh.

I don't think that goyim understand that challah is egg bread. And egg bread should have a yellowish hue which is the direct result of having lots of EGGS IN IT and if the bread is not all yellow-hued, we all know you're barely using any eggs and the bread isn't going to be as good as it should be. Also, it should have poppy seeds on top, but I'm not going to push my luck.

I'm just saying is all. Because I'm barely a Jew anymore, but I know my challah (thanks mom for making it every Friday when I was a kid!) and this is not challah. Someone else tried to pass off some very white and unpoppy seeded bread as challah recently and it made my wee inner Jew soul very angry.

So, please, don't call your bread challah unless one of the main ingredients is eggs. And if you're looking at the package of challah bread rolls and "eggs" are one of the last ingredients, save yourself the pining and wanting for challah and just, in your head, remove the "challah" part from the name so that you can eat without sadness.

Or perhaps you're less dramatic and attached to things as bizarre as egg bread, in which case you won't have these issues and will just be able to enjoy your dinner without hysterics and swearing.
Some good parings with this meal are, from my experience, a 10+Diet Tonic and A River Runs Through It.

We're at least into the 90s on this one, folks. What's next? High Fidelity anyone?

On burning the shit out of myself.

Right now I'm currently obsessed with three things; my new knives, my new camera and the fact that the front of our house has been ripped off to make way for a new porch and in the last 12 hours we've had at least two earthquakes, so you know, our house could be 100% porch, and maybe even "house"-free, at any point.

Yay.

So, you'd think that I'd post about any of the above topics except that I don't have proper photos of any of those things and, without photos, I feel like their stories would fall flat. Mostly because I guess I need photographs to distract you from my poor storytelling abilities.


*Sigh* These are my short-comings as I've come to accept them.


So - in lieu of being able to show you the photo of my knives all snuggled up in the new drawer organizer or my camera producing something incredible (wow - the bells, the whistles, the WTF does *this* button do of it all) or my house without a front, I'll talk about pork.

Because obviously that's what a Jew would talk about in lieu of all standard subjects, right? Yeah, it makes no sense. Welcome.

In order to bring some semblance of reality to the purpose behind talking about pork, I'll preface this post (can it be a preface if it comes in the middle of a post? I don't know.) by saying that the pork isn't really the significant part of the story. No. The significant parts of the story are the rekindling of love with my favorite Brussels sprouts recipe (which incidentally includes bacon - appropriate) and the fact that EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. I make this pork chop recipe, I burn the fuck out of myself because I'm retarded.

Let's start the FACE part of this story, then, since the PRE part has been so frankly put.

Once upon a time I didn't make pork chops until I'd skated by all my life into my 30s. Which, for the record, was just two years ago.

Not that I didn't like pork or pork chops or pork loin or bacon (obv.), but because my mom never made it and so, therefore, I hadn't the foggiest idea where to begin and, hey, we've got all this other shit to eat, so why bother with The Mystery Other White Meat That Sometimes Comes With Barftastic Cream of Mushroom Sauce Barf?

But, Bubba? Oh, he likes pork chops. Yes indeedy. (Sorry, I really felt like I had to say "indeedy" right there, even though I'm totally ashamed of myself.)

So, being the husband-pleasey wife that I am, I set out to make pork chops. Actually, no, I set out to make The Best Pork Chops because I'm competitive and egotastic like that. I MUST ALWAYS BE THE BEST IN BUBBA'S MIND. ALWAYS.

I'm a psycho.

Anyway, I came across a recipe in Real Simple that seemed promising and would lend itself well to a pan sauce I was certain I could master with little effort on my part. I was pretty cocky about the whole thing, really, especially given the fact that I'd never laid a pork chop in a pan in my whole life and what the hell does a Jewess know about cooking pork chops but I set out sure I was going to make them The Best regardless.

Sometimes I can really be delusional.

So, I procured my necessaries, which was really only two bone in pork chops and some olive oil and set out to make these magical The Best Pork Chops like I'd been doing it all my life which I plainly had not.

And while I was all flush with I'm The Bestness I hoarded up our farmshare Brussels sprouts for two weeks so that I'd have enough to produce the Brussels sprouts feast that we've come to love thanks to Dig and her fantastic recipe which also includes bacon (bless you, Dig).

Really, in my head, we were preparing ourself for a The Best meal like none other.

And then I burnt THE CRAP out of my left hand doing the stupidest kitchen maneuver short of jamming my hand down the active disposer.

See, this recipe calls for browning the chops in a pan on the stovetop and then sliding them into the oven to finish cooking. Fine. This is all fine.

But because I was getting all fancy and shit, I had it in my head that, yes, I will brown them on the stove, finish them in the oven and then remove the chops to individual plates while I deglaze the pan with some white wine and VOILA create a very tasty pan sauce for the chops.

Except that my brain does not comprehend the fact that once a pan has been in the oven at 400 degrees for 6-8 minutes, that the handle will remain at or close to 400 degrees for, oh, I don't know, about 10 minutes or more after it's been removed to the stovetop.

Like, YES IDIOT, the pan's not technically IN the oven anymore, but the handle's probably still pretty fucking hot.

Which it was. Which is how I burned the crap out of my left hand when I went to reposition it on the stove to pour in the white wine from the awaiting bottle (but not my Drinking Glass because obviously I need all that wine for myself).

Oh.

And, you know, on its own, that's not much of a story. Because who hasn't burned their hand on a hot pan handle at some point, right?

Except who, may I ask, has gone about making the same exact meal multiple times and burned the crap out of their same hand EVERY SINGLE TIME by doing the EXACT SAME STUPID THING because they just don't learn?

Well, I'll save you the suspense, it's me.

So, what I'm trying to say is that I've gotten really good at making these awesome Brussels sprouts and a white wine pan sauce while holding a bag of frozen peas in my left hand.

Also, I have a nice pan handle tatoo on my left hand into which my large sauce pan fits swiftly.

Yay for that.

Thankfully, after I did this last time and then saw my neighbors while still clutching the frozen peas, these same neighbors had pity on me, thought they'd save me from myself and came over for dinner the next night with a lovely and useful silicone pan handle cover so that I'd not burn my left hand down to a stump in the name of pork chops.

Merciful, these folks. I love them lots.

Anyway, as a thank you for sitting through this painful and rigorously mind-numbing post, I will offer up this menu as a token of gratitude.

Though I will warn you that you may want to keep that bottle of wine in the fridge until such time as you actually need it rather than doing a "one for the pork chops, one for me" dance with your wine glass because it can result in, ahem, impaired reasoning skills that may then result in burning the fuck out of your hand.

Just saying.

Pork Chops with White Wine Pan Sauce and The Best Brussels Sprouts

Pork Chops by Real Simple

Brussels Sprouts by Dig

Pan Sauce and all associated foul language by moi

Firstly, this is more an order of processes to a final meal than a recipe. So don't get all, what kind of recipe is this, loser? because I'll have to smack ya.

OK, firstly again, gather your Brussels sprouts up and trim and halve them so that what you have is a pile of perfect looking bright green gems with some loose leaves and IMPORTANT no little bugs hiding in their leaves. Yay. Set aside.

Preheat your oven to 400 degrees.

Cover a rimmed baking sheet with foil, lay out a few strips of bacon, per Nici's recipe, and slide them in the oven until they're roasty and not burnt, about 8 minutes. Remove the pan to a cooling location. Leave the oven on 400 degrees.

Warm up your ovensave pan and add the oil, thus beginning the pre-oven portion of Real Simple's pork chop recipe.

Set out some plates for later because this menu moves pretty fast. Just make sure they're out of the way enough so that you can still function.

Add your pork chops to the pan and follow the recipe, turning when they've browned - about 2-3 mins per side.

Slide the pan into the oven. Turn the oven light on to remind you that HEY IDIOT THERE'S SOMETHING IN HERE.

Grab a good sized mixing bowl and pour in the ingredients for the Brussels sprouts' dressing except the bacon. Whisk it up, crumble the bacon, stir that all in and set it aside. 

Take out a small sauce pot and add about 1/4 cup of water. Throw your Brussels sprouts in there with a pat of butter. 

OH YES BUTTER. 

Put the lid on the pot and position that baby over one of your smaller burners and bring it to a quick boil over medium heat. Turn the burner off and let it steam briefly - only until the sprouts are bright green. Strain them and dump them in the mixing bowl of dressing. Toss. Set aside.

Return to the oven (about 8 minutes have passed) and remove the pan from the oven WITH AN OVEN MITT.

Place the pan over one of your larger burners (turned off) and plate the two pork chops, leaving just the pan goodness in the pan. 

CRUCIAL DETAIL: Slip the handly silicone handle sleeve onto your pan, grab the half-drunk bottle of white wine from the fridge and turn the heat up to med/high on the stove under your pan. Wait a minute and then splash in enough wine to despackle the pan of all of its porky loveliness. Allow it to boil and reduce into a lovely syrupy sauce.  Pour it in equal amounts over the two pork chops.

NOTICE HOW YOU DON'T BURN YOUR HANDS. Rejoice appropriately.

Spoon the sprouts onto the plates. Refill your wine glass. Serve your dinner and enjoy savoring it without having your left fist wrapped around a bag of Trader Joe's frozen peas.

The end. 

Why it's good that Hanukkah stuff is ugly as hell

Alright, it must be said, the Hanukkah decorations I see around here are the ugliest, clunkiest, most designed-as-an-afterthought-by-the-gimp-in-the-basement pieces of shit imaginable.

Really. That is what I think.

Every time I'm strolling through Target, or doing some casual online shopping for whatever (shoes. It's usually shoes.) or on the off chance that I wander into an actual store sometime between the months of September and January and happen to cross the Holiday Decor aisle or the register festooned with holiday froo-frooiness, I see how Hanukkah has gotten the shaft in the decent decoration department.

And that's once I get past the sub par wrapping paper designs and cheesy clip-art paper plates and Fischer-Price dreidels. Those things I've long learned to live with in their totally-unremarkable-except-for-their-ugliness forms.

But the menorahs? That's where the rubber meets the road for ugly Hanukkah design.

I feel that, when it comes to designing menorahs, the job must have been doled out to someone as a form of punishment based on the results I see for sale in the greater USofA.

There is no way that a sane person, possessing both the ability to see out of both eyes and the aesthetic sensibilities of a diseased rat could create these menorahs unless they were being forced to create them, in the dark, with only a limited number of symbolic references and while at gun point. With the goal of making them as quickly as possible and uglier than the guy's next to him who's already had his arm shot off for making one faintly passable.

May I offer up a few examples?

I may:

Blue base. Blue light bulbs. Star of David. We get it - it's for Jews.

The cat-lovers version, naturally.
Because why wouldn't cats represent a holiday based on the miraculous ability of one day's worth of lamp oil lasting eight days? Now, show me one of these cats with its tail on fire, and we'll talk.

Is this supposed to be a Basque take on the menorah? Wow. Maybe let's not push it.

My favorite of the heinous designs - the Made from Whatever Small Item We Have Nine Of design.

Why must there be so many electric versions? Are we not to be trusted with matches? Will the bulbs burn out automatically in eight days? What about on shabbat? Isn't there some rule against using electricity on the sabbath? I don't know any of these answers.

Anyway, what I'm trying to tell you people is that, even though I am about as unobservant as a Jew can be, I still find it disappointing that in this day and age of aesthetically-pleasing toilets, we can't even come up with a half decent array of Hanukkah holiday decor. And, so help me Hannah (that's a Finny's Mom special quote right there) if I see another deer candle holder being pawned off as a menorah I'm going to punch someone in the fucking throat.

Meanwhile, I've bought exactly zero Hanukkah, or even Any Holiday, themed merchandise in recent memory, save for the cards I put together with the help of Tiny Prints and under the guise of wishing people a "Happy Ski Season!" because I can't even be associating myself with holidays if they're going to look like this.

Thankfully, we'll always have the ubiquitous snowflakes, generic blue paper from the kid's birthday party supply aisle and silver ribbon from the wedding section with which to wrap the festive underwear and socks (what? You don't give your loved ones undergarments for Christmas? Terrible.) Though lately I've resorted to taking the horrifyingly bad wrapping paper and turning it white side out or scrapping traditional wrapping paper altogether and going for the Spanish newspaper some jerk-off keeps tossing on our doorstep.

As it turns out, El Mensajero offers better choices for giftwrap than Target. Something I never would have guessed.

But, hey, as long as all the accoutrement is completely unappealing, I won't have to torture Bubba with trying to convince him that we should have in it our house and that we should celebrate holidays like normal people rather than the way we actually celebrate them.

Butternut Squash Ravioli - the dramatic mini series

Episode 1: The good years

When I put this recipe from Sunset on my vacation To Do list (I have one of these because I'm unflinchingly anal, as you know, so stop looking all surprised) I had very little idea what I was in for.

See, there was shotgun pasta-making (since Safeway is an asshole and doesn't carry fresh pasta sheets), manhandling of whole butternut squash and a myriad other random duties to be performed before we could feast on the seemingly simple dish of some ravioli in broth. And I won't yet get started on the full-scale disaster that became of the leftovers. 

Not yet.

First, let me convince you to try this recipe because it is oh so very delicious and fancy tasting to the point where you, too, may want to buy a pasta roller thingee so that you can make it again and again with the squash that's coming to you in the farmshare. Or whatever.

The good parts:

• Peeling butternut squash with a standard vegetable peeler is sublime. No really. 
• The texture of pureed butternut squash is much like that of whipped cream cheese. You'll want to eat it out of the food processor, BUT DON'T. You need it for the ravioli.
• This recipe helped me get rid of some sage. The mystery herb that I have no idea what to do with.
• There's a lot of Parmesan in the filling and it tastes like heaven. Even if Parmesan "smells like fuckin' puke dude, what's up with that?" Long story.
• Fresh made pasta is a whole different pasta animal. A delicious one. Like if it were an animal, it'd be a pig. Because we know pigs are delicious. And also that I am a very bad Jew.
• The broth really brings it home. Yes, it's just chicken broth and butter, but it tastes divine with the ravioli, so don't even think about skipping it.

And with all that in mind, I suggest you try making this ravioli. And since I didn't alter the recipe at all, I'll just point you here, so that you can download it in all of its coherent glory.

Now that you're sufficiently duped into making this, I will tell you the bad parts.

• Rolling out pasta dough with a rolling pin is for suckers. The dough comes out thick and makes you want to buy a pasta roller, which you will do if you think about it too long like I did. My pasta roller should be here in a few days.
• Crushing almonds scares the dog
• Between the pots to boil the pasta and broth, cookie sheet to roast the squash, food processor to puree the squash and all the cutting boards and knives - I think I used most of my kitchen to make this meal. Which is why Bubba gave me a mean look when he went in to do dishes. This is not for the faint of heart dish-doers.
• Freezing of leftovers is only recommended if you freeze the ravioli in a single layer after cooking but before freezing in a bag with its friends. More to come on this.

So, that's not TOO bad, right? I mean, there are technically more good parts than bad parts, so it all works out.

But to get to the foreboding part about full-scale disaster with leftovers...

So, I got this wild idea that, with the leftover ravioli, I'd just bag them (after boiling) and freeze them and eat them later with arugula from the garden just like a naive kitchen idiot. 

I kinda knew when I did this that it was going to be a bad idea. Yet still, I forged ahead.

And when I went to retrieve six ravioli from the 20 or so that were frozen into a solid pasta block in the bag, things began to take a bad squishy turn.

And at this moment, Bubba decided it would be a good time for a kiss. I did not agree.

See, pasta doesn't like to be frozen together in a big lump. At least, not if the individual pastas are going to called upon to perform individually at a future engagement. And, if one becomes frustrated with the unsuccessful extraction of the six individual frozen ravioli and, say, decides to just throw the whole block into a pot of boiling water to see if it will "loosen up", things take an even more disastrous turn.

It's weird how this smelled really good while looking like boiling sewage.  Food is silly.

One that creates a heaving, spitting, foaming mess from which you may only retrieve a few mangled ravioli that bear hardly a resemblance to their glorious never-frozen brethren.

Sad.

The up side is that, when plated with a newly harvested arugula salad and topped with freshly grated Parmesan and some fruity olive oil, these ravioli still taste very good, despite their untoward appearance and the fact that you can see inside them to their very core. 

Episode 2: When disaster strikes

So, my advice to you is this, if you make this (and you should because it is YUM), please OH PRETTY PLEASE, freeze any remaining ravioli in a single layer on a cookie sheet BEFORE you put it into a zippie bag. Unless, of course, you like eating dismembered ravioli wads covered in Parmesan and olive oil.

In which case, proceed exactly as I did and enjoy a tasty, albeit ugly, meal. This approach is not advised for those attempting to impress a date. Just saying.

Corn, GPS - it's about the same.

I was going to get into some more of the, ahem, New Fun Things with my Garmin, but, alas, I just realized that I need to also download some more software to this machine (a PC, versus my Mac at home) and then download some crap from the USB stick and then sync it with my watch before I could share the more riveting of the details, so the watch update will have to wait.

Until I can summon the patience to get all my machines on the same page with the stick and the watch and the stars and call up a few miracles, etc.

Don't be discouraged or put off by the Garmin yet, though - I've run across some decent features and seen some fancy ass shit that I think you'll like, too. If you have the patience for all this. Or if you're like me and don't like to be bossed around by technology and forge ahead if only for the sole purpose of Principle and Not Letting the Machines Win, etc.

For now though, let's talk garden.

Specifically, CORN.

Dead corn.

As in, it's gone.

Gone corn.

That's right, friends, I took down the corn over the long weekend and WHOA did it take more time than I expected.

See, when it comes to the garden, I usually allot way more time than is necessary to do simple tasks like planting seeds or harvesting tomatoes. I think this is because I love these tasks and in my mind I want to spend the whole live long day out there doing it because I know the results will be lovely and enjoyable and I want to do all I can to make these garden-type things come true, faster.

Well, I had the same vision for the corn: that I'd probably set aside way too much time to do something that'd take me all of ten minutes and then I'd be left going what do I do with all my free time NOW which did not happen.

No, not only did it take me approximately 10x longer to pull the corn, turn the bed and cover it until the first full moon of October (I'll get to this), but it also wasn't nearly as enjoyable as, say, planting the corn seed had been. Or, to be honest, any other garden task save for The Science which always takes just as long and is as mind-numbing as I expect it to be.

I'm not good with math, folks, and doing it under the blazing sun doesn't make it more fun.

No. Pulling the corn and going through this process was sweaty, dirty, monotonous work that basically sealed the deal on maybe I'll grow another variety of corn next year.

It was, all told, something of a pain in my ass, and then it filled the whole yard waste bin so that if I'd had any designs on, say, mowing the lawn, pruning the tomatoes (and lordie do they need it) or taking down any other crops, I'd have had to move to the Pile Method, which is fine except it means a lot of hauling that is no fun to do when I'm already hot and sweaty and have that ankle ring of dirt that comes from standing in a heap of downed corn stalks without wearing proper socks.

So, to sum it up, taking down the corn, a single and benign looking entry on my To-Do list, turned out to be a boring and bleh process in the grand scheme of gardening.

HOWEVER - I did get to take some pride in how my little formerly crushed by a mysterious animal corn seedlings had grown into big, strong and could-be-made-into-a-sukkah-if-I-were-a-good-and-real-Jew plants which produced enough corn for us to have more than one Corn Feast.

We could have been a sturdy structure.

Even though the longer they stayed on the plants, the starchier and less edible they became.

So small and starchy. Cute.

At least, though, the little cobs I found while Taking Down were cute enough to warrant an, "Aw!" from Bubba who was busy preparing himself for a crawl under our house.

Ew.

I definitely had a better deal with the corn chore. At least I wouldn't be blowing basement dirt out of my nose all weekend. CAN YOU SAY GROSS? GOOD.

Not that he looks gross, mind you.

Because I find him to be quite adorable in his coveralls.

Before he goes into the basement.

So you know, the corn is now "down" and in the process of "downing" all the corn, I also removed every leaf from every stalk to use as mulch for the bed while it rests and awaits its turning and planting with fava beans.

Hi, tedious.

Whether using the corn's own foliage to mulch the bed is advisable, I'm not sure, but it's hard for me to let any viable composting matter go into the yard waste bin without at least one round as mulch.

Although I was totally imagining the possible results I'd get if I'd dared to stop what I was doing (HA! FAT CHANCE!) to Google "mulch with corn foliage" because I *just knew* it'd return something like, "Your garden will be rendered inert for the rest of its days." or something similarly dreadful. Thankfully, I just ran that search and it returned nothing of use. Mostly how to mulch corn plants, nothing about the corn's foliage.

So we're safe! Relief!

Notice I didn't mention any additional searches. Yes, that is because I don't want to be pushing my luck. You understand.

Now, getting back to that "plant fava beans at the first full moon of October" thing...

My neighbor, of Tomato Tunnel fame, planted fava beans last year as she does every year - at the first full moon of October, and last year I joined the fava ranks and planted some myself to rehab one of my nitrogen-dry beds - but I planted later in the year at a random time that coincided with some phase of the moon totally unknown to me.

Well, hers grew about twice as tall as mine.

SADNESS.

I mean, mine weren't total slouches, but if you were to, say, turn 180 degrees and peer through the gate, you'd have seen her favas just all held upright and proud with stakes and string because WHOA they were hugely tall.

Meanwhile, mine were just fine standing upright on their own because, oh well, they were only so tall.

Well, not this year, folks.

With the corn down and the bed sitting idle under its mulch of the same origin, I am patiently awaiting the arrival of October's first full moon (10/4) to plant my new heirloom favas which I hope will grow tall and happy and make me feel justified in following moon phase planting even though when I told Bubba that's what I was doing he rolled his eyes in a serious way.

For the record though, I know other experienced and well-regarded gardeners who plant by the moon phases, so I don't feel too eye-rolly, but still, Bubba doesn't believe in this method yet and so I'm prepared to test it out and await general consensus on its relative ridiculousness.

We'll see.

Meanwhile though, I've let the artichokes go to flower because they look groovy and also because I'm lazy and our crisper is full from the farm share.

Neato.

And if you're one to follow trackers, you might be interested to know that I'm up to 188+ lbs of produce which comes out to a rough value of $710.25 harvested from the garden this year.

Because I'm nice, I'll do the math and tell you the value of that is under $.50/lb, which is cheeeeeeeeeeeap.

We're not done yet, though, as the tomatoes, beans and WHOOPSY cucumbers are still producing. Even if I don't realize they have ripe fruit until I go to pick beans and find cucumbers climbing up the inside of the tepee.

Or whatever.