Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

When a Glass Breaks and Your Dog Escapes, Just Eat Some Granola

Yesterday started out perfectly. I taught the dog how to run alongside me while I bike, and we went for a beautiful jaunt through the park, soaking in sunshine and having a grand old time. It almost completely erased the bad memories of the day before, when beloved Maisey spent the morning ralphing up her weight in nasty dirt that she had eaten out of my in-law's neighbor's backyard. Needless to say, our carpet is in not-so-pristine and uber-stinky condition and we are sleeping in the tiny bed (we, meaning me, hubby and dog) in the spare room until we can clean the carpet tomorrow. So we haven't exactly slept well since dog vomitapalooza went down the other day, and the great time outside hit the reset button on a so far crap-tastic week.

But no. The joy was short-lived. We came home, Maisey snarfed some chicken broth and rice down to help her ailing tummy, and I cleaned the kitchen. And then a barrage of insanity and hysteria was unleashed upon my house like some sort of Old Testament scourge. 

It started out innocently enough, precipitated by some dish washing, which has apparently always been evil masquerading as culturally mandated cleanliness. I made it through the sink of dishes, and before my sudsy little sausage fingers could intervene, that heartless wench named gravity pulled a large drinking glass off the edge of the counter and hurled it to the ground. Glass shattered everywhere. It was like the glass was laced with explosives. Pieces hit the ceiling and flew through the kitchen into the living room. 

And then I heard it. The jingle of the dog's collar. She was slumbering in the corner like a giant woolly mammoth/snuffleupagus hybrid, and was jolted awake into a state of terror. I flew across the room (thankfully, wearing shoes), threw the back door open, and shoved the dog out onto the patio. We live in a condo complex and don't have a backyard, but we do have a gated patio. Which is great to sequester the dog in when she needs to be removed from the house. If the gate is shut. And the gate totally was not shut.

In a matter of seconds, the dog flew out of the gate, turned to look at me with an utterly devious look in her eye, and took off for the grassy common area. Stop one for psycho-beast: a gaggle of small, pre-school aged children. Of course. She began leaping at them, drool-covered tongue flapping in the breeze before it made contact with their peanut butter and jelly smeared faces. The carnage claimed five small munchkins before she lost interest. Beast begins chasing a man puffing a cigarette while pushing a stroller. I think he also claimed ownership of the previously assaulted children, but chose not to worry about an 80 pound monster licking them to death. Maisey jumped on the man. Maisey jumped on the stroller. Maisey graced the baby with a face slobber before she moved on to run psychotic circles around the rather large common area. 

I had no chance of catching her without some form of divine intervention. Maisey's favorite game is "chase me," so running to catch her only fuels the madness. Fifteen minutes later, as she stopped to smell what a male dog left on a tree, I managed to nab the scruff of her neck and get a firm grip on the collar. I herded her back into the gated area, and returned to the scene of the kitchen disaster.

I won't detail the cleaning of the glass, except to say this-after I picked up all of the large pieces and got the vacuum out to help with the thousands of small shards all over the floor, I thought I was home free. Nope. Not by a mile. The blasted vacuum struck the dog's massive one-gallon water bowl and dumped the whole thing all over the floor. Teensy-tiny shards of glass mixed with water. Freaking lovely. 

It was at this point that I let out some sort of primal growl that became a scream, channeling both a T-Rex and Velociraptor at the same time. It was lovely. I threw the vacuum to the ground, chucked a towel on the mess, and grabbed a giant jar of granola that had chocolate chips in it (the only chocolate in the house), sat down on the couch, and picked the chocolate out of the rest of the mix for a solid 15 minutes. 

I had no reason to share that story other than to (hopefully) entertain, and to serve as introduction to my recipe for some seriously trash-kicking granola. Go make some-it works out to about $8 for 10 cups of granola, and at 266 calories for a 1/3 cup serving, it is a nutritionally packed and totally scrumptious snack. I like it sprinkled on yogurt with fruit, dry, or served with a little almond milk. Every calorie is a hearty one, and is absolutely good for you. And it's a great decompression tool when you need a chocolate fix after your kitchen, gravity, dog and vacuum declare open war on you.



Crunchy Quinoa Granola

*Note: this can be gluten free, if you get certified gluten free oats and oat groats
*Can be easily adapted to use different nuts, fruits and flavorings. Experiment!
*Easily adapted to be organic too! Mine was about 80% organic, with the exception for the fruit, and still only came in around $8 for the batch.

  • 2 cups whole rolled oats 
  • 1 cup uncooked oat groats (whole oats, not rolled)
  • 1 cup quinoa (1/2 cup red quinoa, 1/2 cup regular quinoa)-rinse well before using
  • 1 cup raw almonds, chopped coarsely
  • 1/4 cup raw unsalted sunflower seeds
  • 1 cup chopped dried papaya (I purchased 1/2 pound from the bulk bin and chopped it)
  • 1 cup chopped dried dates (1/2 pound from bulk section, chopped)
  • 1 cup dried orange flavored cranberries, chopped
  • 10 ounces of dark (85% cacoa) chocolate chips 
  • 3 tsp cinnamon
  • 1/2 cup raw honey, melted
  • 1 cup coconut oil, melted
1. Preheat over to 225. Line 2 baking rimmed baking sheets with parchment
2. Combine all dry ingredients, including cinnamon.
3. Chop fruit and nuts, add to dry mixture and combine well to distribute all ingredients.
4. Melt coconut oil and honey. Pour evenly over the dry mixture and mix with wooden spoon to combine.
5. Spread 1/2 of the granola mixture on each baking sheet and bake for 60 minutes.
6. Remove from the oven, let cool. When cooled, add the chocolate chips and mix to combine.
7. Pour into airtight glass jars. Store for up to two weeks.

Serving size: 1/3 cup       Calories: 266

Friday, April 12, 2013

Chocolate Conversations

My husband is adorable. And handsome. Smokin' hot. Excessively manly. But to me, he is mostly adorable. That's why I can give him a pass on having incomprehensible taste buds.

On our honeymoon, we spent four awesome days in Park City, soaking in the summer, walking through the bright and exuberant downtown, drinking in the sights and sounds of the local boho-chic/"yuppie ski-bunny on summer holiday" feel of the quaint town. It was amazing. 

There was a discovery made on our honeymoon that has become a focus of consistent conversation in our relationship. Chocolate. Get your minds out of the gutter-not that type of discovery. 

What I learned is that men and women evaluate, savor and consume chocolate very differently. 

I am an admitted food snob. My dream vacation involves me and my best friend eating our way through Europe, wearing only yoga pants to allow for maximum stomach expansion. I love going to restaurants where I can order a killer cheese plate and smear mellow-roasted cranberry garlic on hunks of crusty bread. I think my husband would cry if I took him somewhere like that. He has been very, very sweet about eating whatever I concoct in the kitchen at home (and has surprisingly become a fan of roasted asparagus and cabbage!), but I throw him a bone every few weeks and whip up a giant pot of chili or order him pizza. I knew I would have to do this when we got married. What I didn't expect was a massive divide between us on the subject of chocolate.

While we were in Park City, we were threading our way through some gorgeous art installations and photography galleries. BJ spotted a Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory around the corner, and suggested we go find a treat. I am going to play this experience out as best as I can imagine it in his mind, and with absolute reality in mine. All mental, no dialogue exchanged.

BJ: I'm hungry. Oh look, a chocolate store. Let's go get something. I'll score points with my new wife and it will only cost a dollar or two.

Lauren: How sweet! Rocky Mountain Chocolate is decent chocolate, for a domestic brand. Not bad. 

BJ: I guess we'll both get a truffle then, since that's what she is drooling over. I've never seen her eyes light up like that before. Man, those are really small. Ok, so they must be about fifty cents each. Why aren't there any prices on the display? Maybe they are samples...

Lauren: Truffles! How wonderful! I love truffles! 

BJ: What the what? $7 for two bites of chocolate! This is highway robbery! I could get 7 Hershey bars or Snickers for that price. Gah! Oh well. GULP.

Lauren: I love to savor these. Little bites and let it melt and mellow. Yum. OH MY GOSH HE ATE THE ENTIRE THING IN ONE BITE AND BASICALLY SWALLOWED IT WHOLE!!! SAVAGE!!! MISCREANT!!! HOW DID I MARRY YOU???

BJ: So not worth $3.50 a pop. I couldn't even taste it. Pizza for dinner is the only way to make up for this.

Further investigation of the chocolate travesty has yielded this data. BJ (and I am assuming many men) look at treats through the lens of "how much can I get for the least amount of money?" My sister-in-law had a similar experience with her husband and a Ghirardelli chocolate, and he expressed the same sentiment. If I can get five candy bars for the price of one nibble of chocolate, then why would I ever eat the expensive stuff? I suppose I should applaud them for their thrift and economy.

It is useless to point out that Hershey's tastes like wax, or that Nestle leaves a funny film on your teeth. It is futile to do a side-by-side comparison of the increased quality of Cadbury, Guittard or Ghirardelli against store-brand chocolate. It is a waste of time of the highest order to encourage a bite of Callebaut, Lindt or my personal favorite, Ritter Sport. Never mind attempting to convince him that a trip to Europe to taste local chocolatiers would be worth his time. 

Bites will be inhaled. Nothing will be savored. Snickers will be coveted. Sigh.

A number of conversations with other women have all revealed the same attitude of their husbands and boyfriends towards chocolate. Such a tragedy. 

Yet another "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus" moment ;)

Oh well! Someday, cute husband will stay home with the children while I traipse through Europe with best friend, savoring every calorie-laden bite! He can have his Hershey bars. Heaven knows I love him for it!

Go eat some chocolate. You know you want to.


Friday, April 5, 2013

The Great Enchilada Debacle

There are moments in a marriage that make you scratch your head and wonder, "what the heck just happened?" Cute husband and I haven't been married too long (two years this summer), but we have had a few of those moments. My favorite is what I like to refer to as the Great Enchilada Debacle. I share this with the absolute permission of my husband. It's one of those moments of crazy that makes us laugh until we have tears in our eyes. I love that about our marriage.

My husband and his father have a long-standing tradition of movie night. They get together, watch some sort of manly action film, and eat a ton of junk food and drink crazy amounts of high-fructose corn syrup laced beverages. About three months after we got married, my father-in-law came up to our condo on a Wednesday evening to watch Thor with BJ while I went to a church meeting.

Hubby can pack away food in a way that defies physics and all consumption sensibilities. I don't know how he does it. BJ is not a big guy. He is compact, trim, and would have made a killer male gymnast because of his size and flexibility. Sometimes, when he eats, you would think he was an NFL linebacker. After only three months of marriage, I didn't fully understand his propensity for consumption. My father-in-law must be the genetic legacy for this ability, because the two of them together can decimate a large quantity of food. Ah, the bliss of marital ignorance, shattered once and for all by the Great Enchilada Debacle.

I am an OCD meal-planner. For this particular night, I planned to make Enchiladas Suizas, with the savory green sauce, from scratch. I didn't cull my own chicken, but everything besides that was made by my own two domesticity-loving hands. I roasted the tomatillos and peppers for the sauce. Blended them with delicious sour cream and chicken stock. Shredded and seasoned the chicken. Used the good Tillamook cheese. And made two dozen flour tortillas myself, rolling them out to perfection and quickly cooking them in a piping hot skillet. It was a meal any home chef would be proud of. After two hours of prep and assembly, two large 9 x 13 pans of crispy, melty enchiladas emerged from the oven, and I was in scent-induced heaven. I had to leave for my meeting so I decided to eat when I got home, bid farewell to hubby and father-in-law, and went on my merry way.

Throughout the entire meeting, I fantasized about these enchiladas. At 8:30, I made a beeline for the parking lot, buzzed home in the car, and threw open the back door in a triumphant burst of glory, mouth watering and stomach growling. Then I saw it. The carnage. The horror.

There was one enchilada left. Out of two dozen. One. And it had been packed into a plastic container for hubby's lunch the next day.

I stood, dumbfounded, and stared into our darkened living room as BJ and his Dad watched Thor's golden locks ripple in the breeze and the sunlight sparkle on his perfect washboard abs. And I wanted to smash them with Thor's hammer. Hubby and father-in-law, not Thor's abs. Heavens no. Who could ever want to destroy those?

Alright, I might be overly dramatizing things here. But I was seriously pissed. Who eats 23 enchiladas in one sitting? Gluttons! Gah!

I think they both figured out something was wrong as I stood motionless in the dimly-lit kitchen, purse dropped to the floor, hands on my hips, mouth open in horror over the enchilada murder scene in my kitchen. Maybe they felt the heat of rage permeating the space between us. Maybe it was the flecks of foam frothing out of my mouth as I mourned the loss of my dinner. I'm not really sure, but the next thing I knew, I was scooping up my purse and dashing out the door in a frenzied state.

I jumped in the car, snorting like a bull about to charge through the crowds at Pamplona. I was sweating, hands shaking, and tears sprung to my eyes as I drove out of the parking lot. In two short minutes, I found myself pulling into the parking lot of the local frozen custard shop. I dashed in the door, and in a raspy and frantic voice ordered a large root beer float. It came out from behind the counter in all of it's frothy glory, and I gulped at it eagerly. Sweet carbonated nectar to my soul. Even better than Thor's abs...

It was about this time that sanity returned to my mind. I had run out the door like a whackadoodle, probably making wildebeest noises, with no explanation. I don't think that even Thor's abs could distract them enough to hide that fact. I slowly slugged my way back to the car as my body returned to homeostasis. The root beer and vanilla custard were working their way into my system, calming my frazzled nerves. I hopped in the car and fell back against the seat, temporarily satiated.

I drove home in silence, as the question, "what the heck just happened?" worked it's way into my mind. I was still mad, don't get me wrong, but I started to realize that maybe there was a slight overreaction on my part. I mean, I basically turned into the Hulk in my kitchen over enchiladas. Over dreamy, creamy enchiladas...delicious, but definitely not a reason for a psychotic break.

I arrived home to the credits rolling on the movie, and BJ looking confused and my precious father-in-law looking sheepish. They knew what had happened. There was no way to hide what I was upset about. The root beer float in my hand and crazy fire blazing in my eyes probably gave them a subtle hint. They both mumbled some apologies about eating all of the food, and then Dad left and BJ and I were left to debrief the Great Enchilada Debacle.

In the end, it took a few weeks before we arrived at a final post-mortem diagnosis of what happened. I could have asked BJ to save a few for me for dinner when I got home. BJ could have thought about my need to eat dinner before consuming 23 enchiladas. Lesson learned: communication is key! It wasn't until this experience that it dawned on me that I can't always expect my husband to meet my needs, especially if he doesn't know what they are. It actually helped me to be a lot more open about communicating what I needed, versus my previous modus operandi of being disappointed, guzzling rootbeer floats, and stewing over the injustice of pilfered dinner for weeks. My counselor introduced the idea to me that our partners can only meet our needs on their own 10% of the time. 90% of having our needs met is being able to communicate them effectively. This entire incident was a huge wake-up call for me, and I mark it as a turning point in our marriage.

Marriage and family are the hardest and greatest works of our lives. I am grateful to have the chance to learn, grow, laugh hysterically, and overcome being a complete nutjob with my sweetheart. Even if he does eat all of my enchiladas.