Would You Eat This?

A long time ago, my husband was the restaurant critic for The Orlando Sentinel. A rather blighted city for dining, but some wonderful, local finds were to be found, fortunately, and we found them. Most joints were chains, pretty much like Applebee's: bar, bar snacks, blah. There was one I remember, named O'Hooligan's or O'Flannagan's or something. "Come! Have fun! Maybe get laid!"

One time, for April Fool's Day, Cranky decided to write about a "restaurant" he had discovered, called O'Notthisagain's. He lovingly crafted descriptions of this fictitious eatery, calling it a "sippin', suppin' and sidlinuppin' place." Peanut shells on the floor, posters of doors on Irish houses, stained glass lamps. Ferns.

Nobody in their right mind would want to eat there. Except, maybe, people in Orlando.

Yeah, so on the menu at O'Notthisagain's, Cranky lied, was a fabulous bar snack called "potachos." It was baked potato skins filled with nacho fixings. This was hugely hilarious back then, because although bar snacks in chain restaurants can be quite hideous, you really wouldn't eat potachos. Ew. There was no such thing in the real world. He was just trying to be funny.

His story runs in the paper, and suddenly he gets angry mail and phone calls from readers. "You didn't say where this place is! What's the address, schmuck?

Groan. Laugh, a little. Cry.

Decades later, Tastespotting is invented, and I spend a bit of time now and then looking at the meals created by food bloggers all over the world. Oh my god, these people are abusing degustation. Fake tacos, reinvented salads (everybody put strawberries in your green salads. Everybody!), peculiar cupcakes. I'll say, seriously, I do find some wonderful things there once in a while, but the pseudo creativity of some of these "cooks" is almost nauseating.

I mean, just the other day, I saw a recipe for potachos! They weren't called that, but they were exactly what Cranky had fabricated for his April Fool's Day piece, all those years back. Urghhh.

You know. And we made some.

Scraped out baked potato skins. Lined with a layer of refried beans, topped with grated cheese, and broiled. Covered with homemade salsa and a splorp of sour cream.

Pretty good.

Not fooling.

Pretty Little Box

Recognize this? Some of you might know it firsthand, and others of you will be able to figure it out because you are clever.

A few months ago, my brother-in-law called to see if we'd be interested in joining him, his wife, and his wife's parents at a special restaurant in Yountville. They already had the reservations, and were flying to California expressly for this occasion. Oh, and the treat was on the dad; he's well off and generous. Jeez. The correct answer, the only, always, necessary answer was yes. YES.

The restaurant serves a nine-course tasting menu. I don't have that kind of appetite, but I didn't have a choice. Well, I did have a choice, and that was to opt for the vegetarian tasting menu. With the help of a few take-home boxes, I ate, happily.

Naturally, everyone else at our table ordered the meat menu. I got the feeling that a few of them were perhaps a little jealous of my food, beautiful dishes of foams, sauces, sprinklings, impressivements and plants. So good. I heard that the meat in one of the courses the rest of the eaters ate wasn't good. They were a little disappointed. I WIN.

Too full for anything else, I just picked and poked at the desserts. Yes, plural, because the servers kept bringing out sweets. I did enjoy the house-made chocolate candies. I picked one with a passionfruit filling, and it was nearly the high point of the evening, though I admit I was delirious with satiation by that point, and my judgment may have been a little hinky.

Which didn't stop the staff from delivering to each of us our own pretty souvenir: that box, which we were told to take home, there to enjoy the luscious shortbread cookies inside.

And there's your clue. The clothespin. (You already guessed, didn't you?)

I'm Mad and I Eat Cranky's Food

My work is finished. Cranky made gravy.

Cranky Made Gravy.

I dashed into the kitchen at one point, to see if he needed any help. No. He was finished. (I will add here, though, that according to me, he wasn't finished. His gravy was too thick and floury, and needed more stock stirred in, with additional cooking time. He appreciated the fine tuning.)

We were both pleased with the results, and I have something to share: You can make beef gravy from hamburger. We discovered this when we made loco moco a while back. After the beef patties are fried in a skillet, the grease in the pan is really good; they say fat is where all the flavor is. Stir in some flour, and cook this roux to remove the raw flour taste. Then begin drizzling in your beef stock (we bought ours at a fabulous butcher we are patronizing; the hamburger, too).

The gravy will be pale, alas. We decided to cheat a little by stirring in a small spoonful of Bovril. And a splash of Worcestershire sauce. Voilà, color, and heightened flavor. The version in this picture was a bit paler than the one I concocted for my moco; for some reason, Cranky was pissed off at the Bovril jar and skimped, badly. But the flavor was so good.

I know, you're seriously grossed out. Doesn't matter. We're definitely making gravy this way whenever we cook up some of that superb ground beef, and you should be jealous. We even have a little gravy left over, in the fridge.

Somebody is going to make poutine soon. My work is finished.

The Boursin Legacy

Did you see that movie? The one with Jeremy Renner and Rachel Weisz? It's big and colorful and exciting, and I've watched it four times.

Oh, I got that wrong. It's The Bourne Legacy, an offshoot from all those Matt Damon movies. Yeah. Well, I guess I had Boursin cheese on my mind. Damn, I love that stuff, almost as much as that movie. And it's so easy to make at home.

Get a hunk of good cream cheese. The stuff in the foil is not allowed. Get a couple of green garlic bulbs and mince them up, fine. Chop a little handful of chives. Add this to the cheese, and shower with cracked black pepper. Mix well and allow to Boursin, I mean Bourne, I mean burgeon for a while.

Serve with some really nice crackers (these are olive oil and sea salt from the Rustic Bakery in Marin). Pop in that DVD (or stream it, you cloud hipsters) and sit back for Too Much Fun.

The World's Best Dog in the World

I've had five dogs. All of them were really great, beginning with Pepper when I was ten (but he ran away all the time because my parents didn't want him neutered). Then Chili, who was nice, but brain-damaged (a rescue puppy, he would sometimes fall into trances and bite me). Later on, Bean Dip was adorable, although Cranky wasn't totally fond of him. I missed him so much when he died that I bought a replica to replace him, Bean Sprout, who was nice and beautiful and smart, but not affectionate.

And now we have Bartlett, the first girl dog I've ever had. She's smart, athletic, pretty much obedient, funny, nice... and affectionate.

I could bore you, describing all those behaviors, but you get it, right? Yeah. So here's the behavior I want to share with you: She stops me and Cranky when we're squabbling. This is a relatively new thing (she'll be four in a few months). When the man and I begin to raise our voices over some dispute, Bartlett climbs up on my shoulders at the back of my neck (this always takes place in bed, a lovely place for squabbling). She spreads herself from one shoulder to the other, her ears flattened back (a sign of sadness), and leans her head around to the front. She puts her soft muzzle right up against my mouth, pressing gently, urging me to Shut the Front Door.

"Stop talking loud! Don't make those sounds anymore!" (Why she chooses me and not Cranky? I'm going to have to think really hard about that.)

It always works. I shut up, and so does Cranky. We laugh a little, actually, and comfort her, because she feels so sad. It's a little embarrassing, to tell the truth.

I love her the most.

Kittehs and Puppehs and Sweet Things

I'm not much known for having a sweet tooth, but sometimes it's fun to put something a little dessert-like together.

A few years ago I watched in queasy astonishment as one of our better-known food bloggers created a fruit pie that used two entire sticks of butter. I knew then I could whip up a treat that would be just as pleasing, just as appealing, but without all that cow grease. In fact, it would be more pleasing, at least to me.

Well, it took me this long to get around to trying my version. And I'm really happy with it.

'Tis the season, folks. Get those strawberries while you can. Rinse a couple of handfuls, pat dry, stem them, and then slice them in half lengthwise. Sprinkle them with a teaspoon or two of sugar, refrigerate, and wait. (We waited a day or two, but sooner is fine.) Grab some Greek yogurt (we always use the whole-fat kind, so, yeah, there's a bit of cow grease) and stir in a judicious (skimpy, but meaningful) amount of agave syrup or honey. Just a touch, knowing that your strawberries have been macerating and getting sweet.

OK, now, home stretch. What the heck is strawberry shortcake? Promise me you don't buy those ugly, spongy, yellow disks wrapped in cellophane at the supermarket. If you make your own biscuits for strawberry shortcake, you have my admiration. But I keep getting stuck on the word "short."

Shortbread! You know, those Lorna Doone type cookies, but superior, Scottish ones. Crumble a few and line the bottom of your parfait glasses with some crumbs. (We used juice glasses.) Now spoon in some of your yogurt, and top it with some of your berries. Repeat these layers one more time, and you have dessert.

It's bombtacular! Twerkdiculous! Reallynicetastic.

I would do this again. I AM doing it again; there are strawberries melting with a spoonful of sugar in the fridge.

Actually, I'm the Dip Around Here

We've been eating really well, so sometimes it just seems reasonable to boob out on a meal.

A lot of times, that means potato chips, swear to god. (We're partial to Kettle, and occasionally Tim's Cascade, unflavored.) And that always calls for a dip. Usually onion dip, homemade, and I will tell you roughly how to make it in a minute.

But for now I want to share this hideous, gruesome, utterly captivating shortcut. A little dish of Marmite. A little monkey dish of Marmite! You only need to touch the edge of your chip to this molten umami. Practice helps. You really don't want too much.

So is it good? It's insane. I'm afraid you're going to have to like Marmite in the first place. Who would ever have believed that Cranky likes Marmite? This was his idea, in fact. I wish you would give it a try, because, well... I'm sure you've already made up your mind on it.

And since it's likely to be a "No," let me tell you how we make onion dip, without the packet of Lipton dust. First, go to Costco and buy a big jar of dehydrated onion flakes. We keep one in the pantry at all times, for this dip. Second, gather up two beef bouillon cubes. We keep those on hand for the same purpose.

OK, boil a bit of water. Place the beef cubes and about a tablespoon of onion flakes in a bowl, and pour a teeny, teeny splash of the hot water on them. Maybe two teaspoons, maybe more but not too much. You are only trying to hydrate the onions and melt the cubes. Leave it alone for a few minutes while you rustle up a sack of potato chips (or "crisps," as I might say merrily).

Now, spoon some tangy dairy product into the bowl. About a cup, but you can be generous. We use Greek yogurt most of the time, but sour cream is allowed, if sour cream is allowed. Cranky likes to add a dash of Worcestershire sauce at this point, but I consider it optional. You might like it.

Stir it up, little darlin'! Stir it up. Set the dip aside for ten minutes or so to burgeon, develop, exacerbate, prioritize. (Darn thesaurus.)

It's yummy. Very light on salt. Low fat, if you stick with the yogurt, but we never use reduced fat yogurt, gag — so ya know. Give it a try.

Or you could get a little monkey dish of Marmite.