Can't Help Lovin' Dat Man Of Mine...

Settling into our new life together is a work in progress, but a month after moving, Justin and I are starting to settle into a new sense of normalcy in our lives. Things are calming down for us; though our weekends are still mostly filled with home improvement projects, organizational tasks, and cleaning, we've also started returning to some of the old mainstays of our relationship -- watching movies on the couch, trying new restaurants, and going to the theater. We'll still be doing the restaurants and theater to a lesser extent than we did before, now that we are house-poor, but tonight we were the beneficiaries of some generosity from Justin's parents, who had extra tickets to see Show Boat at the Lyric Opera.

Show Boat seems like kind of an odd choice for the Lyric, considering it's not an opera, but it was one of the very first musicals in the sense that we think of them today. It combined spoken and sung dialogue, dance, and a serious dramatic plot rife with controversial themes such as miscegenation and racial prejudice. Before Show Boat, American musical theater was dominated by revues, or collections of songs unrelated to any unifying plot, and dancing was not used to advance the narrative action but to showcase attractive women who would have been considered scantily clad by the standards of the time. Therefore, this revolutionary work by Kern and Hammerstein provided the template for the modern musical.

I've seen Show Boat once before, when I was almost too young to remember it, but I do recall that the last production I saw was a more traditional version. The Lyric's version, while brimming over with elaborate costumes and sets that one doesn't typically see with traveling Broadway productions, featured a strange combination of singing talent. Don't get me wrong, some of the performers, such as Morris Robinson, who played Joe (singer of the work's most famous song, "Ole Man River"), were absolutely brilliant. However, the cast seemed evenly divided between people singing in a traditional Broadway musical style, and people singing in the bel canto style associated with classical opera training. Given that Show Boat isn't an opera, the bel canto singing was distracting to me, and at times, it even made the characters seem a little ridiculous.

By all means, Show Boat was an enjoyable night at the theater. The music and lyrics may be a bit old-fashioned, but the plot and issues at play therein remain remarkably relevant today. Plus, after seeing many sad, stripped-down traveling productions of some of Broadway's greatest works, like Les Miserables and The Phantom of the Opera, it's refreshing to see a show produced with its proper pomp and grandeur. Distracting vocal inconsistencies aside, the Lyric's version of Show Boat is musical theater as it was meant to be seen.

Bite Me...

Apparently, this is my week for terrible health care-related experiences. Today, when I went in for a routine teeth-cleaning at the dentist where I've been going ever since I had teeth, my regular dental hygienist was giving me her standard overly-vigorous flossing treatment when she pulled out the wire connecting the permanent retainer that I've had bonded to my lower teeth for over a decade now, effectively breaking it. It was quite obvious that she had broken it, because the now-loose wire was jabbing me in the tongue. 

What happened next angered and disappointed me. The hygienist was quick to assert that the appliance was already loose, and that it would have broken the next time I flossed. She repeated this opinion to the dentist, who backed her up, as did the dentist's assistant, and the receptionist who made the appointment for me to come in and get it fixed later this week. Never mind the fact that I lived with the retainer in my mouth on a daily basis for years, and was adamant that it was in no way loose, and that I use a much gentler hand when cleaning around it than the hygienist usually does. There is no doubt in my mind that the culpability for its breaking was completely on her shoulders. 

Now I have come back and shell out a couple hundred dollars to have the retainer repaired, in what will doubtlessly be a painful procedure. All of this could have been avoided if the hygienist hadn't been so rough, and now I'm going to be the one suffering the consequences. What irks me even more is the way the dentist's staff closed ranks and protected their own instead of demonstrating some sense of value for me as a customer. I've been their patient longer than that particular hygienist has worked there, and given the sheer volume of dental work they've done for me over the years due to the congenital defect that left me without eleven of my adult teeth, I've more than lined their pockets.

Ideally, they would have offered to repair the problem for free, considering it was the hygienist's fault that it broke in the first place. At a bare minimum, I feel like they owe me an apology. I wish I could take my business elsewhere at this point, but I have such a unique case that I feel I should stay with the dentist who already has years of experience treating me. Curse the health care system this week!

Jagged Little Pill...

Learning how the other half (or in this case, the other 16%) live is a humbling experience. The 16% I refer to in this case is the percentage of of Americans living without health insurance, and though I am lucky enough to have it provided through my employer, I got to experience first-hand today what it is like to navigate the health care system without it. 

Yesterday, from the beginning of the day onward, I noticed that I had to pee almost constantly. About every half hour or so, I needed to go to the bathroom. I suffered through getting my hair cut, going to a movie, and having dinner at a restaurant with my dad and Justin -- all activities that made it inconvenient to be rushing to the restroom over and over. Still, I didn't think much of it until late last night, when I started having severe pain as if someone were squeezing my bladder with all their strength. It suddenly dawned on me that I had a urinary tract infection; I've had them before, so I knew the symptoms. 

At that point, it being a Saturday night, my options were limited for what I could do about my predicament. My regular doctor's office wouldn't be open until Monday, and I might not be able to get an appointment even then. Going to the ER would be cost-prohibitive, and would likely take forever, given my non-critical status. The only remaining option would be to find an urgent-care center that would accept my health insurance. It would cost $75 -- more than twice the cost of an office visit to my primary care physician, but less than half of the cost of the ER. Unfortunately, my misery insurance company only covered two options within a ten mile radius of my apartment, despite the dozens of urgent-care centers I pass on my way home from work every day. One was far away in the suburbs, and the closest wasn't exactly in the most reputable neighborhood. Nevertheless, we decided to go with the closest option.

Once there, it became very clear that I was not their target constituency. The receptionist seemed taken aback when I told her I had health insurance, and when I attempted to pay my copay with a check, she informed me that they didn't accept them. Exasperated, she asked if I didn't have a credit card or cash, before giving me a long, hard look that seemed to say, "Hmm, she's white, she's got a full time job, she's got insurance... okay, maybe her check won't bounce." The reverse racism was palpable. 

Justin and I were virtually the only people in the waiting room, where the television was tuned into Univision, the Spanish-language channel. After we'd sat there for a while, the receptionist called out to us, "Hey, you can go ahead and change that, you look like you don't speak Spanish." Actually, as a matter-of-fact, I do recall enough Spanish from high school to get the gist of what was happening onscreen, but I decided to change the channel anyway.

When I finally got called in to see the doctor, I was confronted with a physician who barely spoke English. They gave me a cup to give them a specimen, minus any of the hygiene instructions I usually get at my regular doctor, and dispatched me back to the waiting area to use what was apparently their only restroom. I then had to carry my cup of pee back through the reception area and into the lab myself; there was no little door in the wall to leave it in. I hope they don't offer drug testing at that facility, because at that point, that urine could have come from anywhere. 

The doctor, after telling me that I was very good at self-diagnosis, finally gave me the prescription for Cipro that I had been expecting. While I was there, I asked her to listen to my chest, as I've been experiencing a vicious cough for the past several weeks. Her response? "Why? I give you Cipro. It kill whatever in there!" I practically had to beg her just to humor me. After all, I had paid $75 to be there. She gave my chest a half-hearted listen before announcing that I needed to use my asthma inhaler more. Very helpful.

As I was packing up my things, I happened to overhear a conversation between the doctor and a nurse in the hallway outside my room:

Nurse: "Should we send away her urine to be cultured?"

Doctor: "She have health insurance?"

Nurse: "Yes."

Doctor: "Sure, go ahead and send it in!"

Needless to say, even if I got the antibiotics I came for, I will not be returning to the Peterson Urgent Care Center. Still, my experience there was a sad commentary on the broken state of health care in this country. I only got a test because I had the health insurance to pay for it, and the doctor felt comfortable ordering that expensive battery of tests because a large, anonymous corporation would be paying the cost. I'm not a politician; I couldn't begin to provide a solution for the health-care crisis our country is facing. All I know is that I'm thankful to have health insurance for now, and I hope I don't ever reach the point where experiences like the one I had today define my interactions with the health care system on a regular basis.

The Vow...

I am a little behind on my movie-going this year. I saw one of the nine films nominated for Best Picture at the Oscars (once the nominations are announced, I like to rush out to the theater and see as many of them as possible before the award ceremony, but this year I was too busy with our new house), and I hadn't been to see a single movie all year so far until today. Hence, when I got a message from Taryn inviting me to see The Vow, I jumped at the opportunity for reasons beyond the excitement that comes with the chance to see a treasured friend.

For well over a decade, Taryn has been my go-to date for seeing the most unapologetic, tear-jerking, eye-candy-filled chick flicks that have come to theaters. I will never forget the summer evening we went to see The Notebook; we were home on break from college, and had agreed that the film looked like "our kind of movie." We went, and wept through the end of the film, sobbed through the walk to the car in the parking lot, and had to sit in the car crying our eyes out until there were no more tears, just so one of us could drive home safely. To this day, Taryn and I still laugh about that epic sob-fest we shared together so many years ago.

That's how we knew we needed to see The Vow together. Sure, it looked corny. Channing Tatum can't even begin to emote, much less act convincingly, but at least the trailer seemed to indicate that his perfect abs would be featured prominently. Rachel McAdams will always be Ali to me, after seeing The Notebook. I went into The Vow expecting not to enjoy it very much, and I wasn't disappointed. But the quality of the film didn't matter so much as the act of going to see it with Taryn.

Even if the movie was bad, we could still wipe away a few tears together, and then commiserate about the film's unsatisfying ending. We could elbow each other when we spotted locations we recognized (the movie was filmed in Chicago). The shared experience of seeing a less-than-stellar film with a friend can make sitting through the movie worthwhile. Would I recommend The Vow? Probably not, unless you have a go-to friend for seeing chick flicks of questionable merit. Then by all means, schedule a girls' night out.

Constant Craving...

Generally speaking, I'm a salty snack person. I know people who don't trust themselves to have candy in the house, knowing that they'll devour it in the span of a few hours. Ever since I was a kid, however, my mom would throw away my leftover Halloween candy months later, and I can keep candies in a dish on my end table for weeks at a time without touching it. One or two pieces, and I'm good. I also have friends who can eat half a cake in one sitting, or a whole batch of unbaked cookie dough before it even makes it into the oven. I always have to come up with a strategy for disposing of my baked goods; I love making them, but I lose interest in eating them after a couple servings. 

On the other hand, I can scarcely allow myself to walk down the snack food aisle at the grocery store. I can polish off half a bag of Cheetos or Doritos within minutes of bringing them home from the store, and that's only after years of practicing self-control. I used to be able to eat the whole bag. Now I try my best to only buy them on special occasions. 

About once a month, however, I develop a certain predictable craving for chocolate. It becomes all-consuming, until satisfying my taste for it is all I can think about. When the urge to consume massive quantities of chocolate hit me earlier today, I knew exactly what I wanted to make to quell it -- brownies. I quickly looked up my Pinterest inspiration board for desserts, and was reminded of a recipe from Alice Medrich that made the cover of Bon Appetit around this time last year. 

Alice Medrich is somewhat of a chocolate guru, and I've made several of her recipes in the past with good results. I've still never found a single transcendent brownie recipe that I want to make again and again, so I'm always up for a new variation on the theme, and this one included brown butter. As I've written before, I don't really understand the brown butter craze that's gripping the baking world right now. I've yet to find the recipe that allows the fragrant aroma of browned butter to shine. I hear browned butter frosting for cakes and cupcakes is the way to go, and perhaps that's true, but I found that it wasn't worth the effort of going through the extra step of browning the butter with these brownies either.

That's not to say these brownies weren't delicious -- they were fudgey, chewy, and intensely chocolaty. They certainly satisfied my chocolate craving, and I think they would make a garden-variety chocoholic very happy. However, I think they would be equally good with regular melted butter, as the distinctive nutty scent of the browned butter was completely lost here. Chocolate is a fairly assertive flavor, and it totally drowned out the browned butter. 

These brownies more than sated my appetite for chocolate for this month, but my quest for the ultimate brownie recipe continues. Stay posted -- I'll be sure to let you know when I find it!

(Photo by Justin)

Cocoa Brownies with Browned Butter and Walnuts

adapted from Alice Medrich

10 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch pieces

1 1/4 c. sugar

3/4 c. natural unsweetened cocoa powder

2 teaspoons water

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 large eggs, chilled

1/3 c. plus 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour

1 c. walnut pieces

Position rack in bottom third of oven; preheat to 325°F. Line 8x8x2-inch metal baking pan with foil, pressing foil firmly against pan sides and leaving 2-inch overhang. Coat foil with Pam. Melt butter in medium saucepan over medium heat. Continue cooking until butter stops foaming and browned bits form at bottom of pan, stirring often, about 5 minutes. Remove from heat; immediately add sugar, cocoa, water, vanilla, and salt. Stir to blend. Let cool 5 minutes (mixture will still be hot). Add eggs to hot mixture 1 at a time, beating vigorously to blend after each addition. When mixture looks thick and shiny, add flour and stir until blended. Beat vigorously 60 strokes. Stir in nuts. Transfer batter to prepared pan.

Bake brownies until toothpick inserted into center comes out almost clean (with a few moist crumbs attached), about 25 minutes. Cool in pan on rack. Using foil overhang, lift brownies from pan. Cut into 4 strips. Cut each strip crosswise into 4 brownies.

Sausage Fest...

True to my pledge to experiment with more new recipes in 2012, I tackled a simpler meal this evening that I had spotted on my favorite food blog, Serious Eats. Every weeknight, they feature a column called "Dinner Tonight," that showcases a recipe that can be prepared reasonably quickly by the average working foodie. This particular recipe caught my eye ages ago for combining two things that I love -- Italian sausage and grapes in a savory application.

My love affair with grapes in my dinner stretches back many, many years to when I was first teaching myself to cook back in college. I came across a recipe from Rachel Ray (don't judge; I was young, and her simple recipes are helpful for those without many culinary skills) for chicken with grapes in a mustard cream sauce, and the sweet/savory combination was spot on. That dish quickly became one of my signature meals, and I made it whenever I was trying to impress someone with my budding kitchen prowess. My appreciation for grapes in main courses only increased with last year's chicken pesto pizza with grapes, and I've been biding my time, waiting for the right moment to give this new recipe a try.

Dominick's had both Italian sausage and grapes on sale this week, and I had some polenta lurking in the dark recesses of my cabinets, so tonight I was finally able to rescue this recipe from Pinterest purgatory. Aside from the fact that I don't really like polenta all that much, and felt that the sausage would have been better on top of a bed of garlic mashed potatoes, I really enjoyed this recipe. The sweetness of the grapes paired well with the spicy richness of the meat, and the crisp skins of the sausages played against the softened fruit. 

My only real complaint is that this recipe really didn't fall under the category of a simple weeknight meal. I'm still adjusting to life with my new stove, but each step took significantly longer than the recipe stated, and it was almost nine o'clock by the time it was ready to eat. I'd definitely make this again, minus the polenta, but it would have to be on a Saturday or Sunday.

 

Sausages in the Skillet with Grapes

adapted from Serious Eats 

1/4 c. olive oil

2 1/2 lbs. hot Italian sausage (about 8 links)

1 1/4 lbs. red seedless grapes

1. In a large (12-inch) skillet, heat the olive oil over low heat. Add the garlic cloves and, when they begin to sizzle, add the sausages in one layer. Cover the pan and cook gently, turning the sausages and moving them around the skillet occasionally, as they begin to brown and release some fat. Cook approximately 20 minutes, until the sausages are golden all over. Tilt the pan and remove all but a few tablespoons of the fat.

2. Fish out the garlic cloves and add the grapes to the skillet, stirring to coat them well with the pan juices. Cover and cook until the grapes soften and release their juices, 7-10 minutes, then remove the cover and turn the heat to high. Reduce the pan juices, stirring and turning the sausages and grapes often, until they are glazed and caramelized.

3. Serve the sausages over garlic mashed potatoes with the grapes scattered over them and the pan juices drizzled over the top.

Going The Distance...

From time to time, I find myself stricken by the urge to undertake a serious project in the kitchen, something completely impractical that will provide a true challenge to my cooking skills, and force me to learn new techniques that will expand my culinary skill set. I haven't really tackled any recipes of that magnitude since moving, but today I found myself with a day off for Presidents' Day, and virtually the only person I knew who didn't have to be at work. Since I couldn't make plans with anyone, I decided to stay in and tackle a cooking project that I'd been contemplating for quite a while now -- posole. 

Posole is an ancient Mexican stew with roots in Aztec cuisine, that most commonly combines pork and hominy in a rich, chili-infused broth that is subsequently topped with a vast array of garnishes, including, but not limited to: avocado, sour cream, queso fresco, chopped onion, radish, lettuce, fried tortilla strips, and lime wedges. I had a particularly delicious bowl years ago in Pilsen, the heart of Chicago's Mexican community, but I very seldom get over there, and I've been wondering ever since if I could possibly recreate it at home. I found a recipe, saved it to my "to-do" list, and bided my time.

Prior to the Super Bowl, I spotted some country-style pork ribs on sale for $1.99/pound, and thought back to the posole recipe I had bookmarked. I promptly bought them up and stashed them in my freezer. Finally, with the arrival of Presidents' Day and a whole day off to dedicate to the project, it was time to track down the rest of the necessary ingredients and try my hand at authentic Mexican cuisine. I found the hominy at the local Dominick's, but it took a trip to the pan-ethnic grocery store by my parents' house to find the guajillo and ancho chiles. Soon, I was ready to go.

The process for making the posole was unlike anything I had ever attempted before, which made me glad I attempted the recipe unto itself. First, I had to simmer the pork ribs with onion, garlic, and other spices for at least two hours, or until the meat was tender, thereby creating a rich, pork-y broth. The meat then gets removed from the pot and shredded, and the onions and garlic are pureed and returned to the pot. Meanwhile, I had to seed the dried chiles, use my brand-new cast iron skillet to toast them, then soak them in boiling water to soften them, puree the softened chiles, and then fry the chili puree in oil, before combining mixture with the rest of the soup.

The frying step of this particular exercise proved to be the most laborious; though the recipe warned "It will spatter," it should have warned that your entire kitchen will look like a crime scene. The chili puree spattered everywhere. It was all over my backsplash, all over the walls, all over the cabinets, and all over me. Thankfully, I had an apron on over my sleeveless pajamas (standard apparel for cooking in my house), but when I looked in the mirror later on, I found spots of chili puree all up and down my arms, all over my face, and even in my hair! I spent much of the afternoon cleaning the kitchen, and myself. Clearly, I need a spatter screen before I ever attempt to make posole again.

I do think I'll be trying my hand at posole again someday. Even though it took me between five and six hours to make it, I think it was worth the effort. The soup itself needed a little extra acid to balance the richness of the broth, but a splash of hot sauce and a squeeze of lime solved that issue. Otherwise, the complex broth was populated with chewy bits of hominy and meltingly tender chunks of pork, and was spicy without being too hot. Justin, in particular, was a big fan of the dish, partially due to his fondness for DIY topping bars. He loves to customize his food with various combinations of garnishes and sauces, always striving to attain the best possible combination of flavors. In the case of the posole, the garnishes on top were absolutely critical for adding textural and flavor variety to each bite.

It may take me a while to recover from the trauma of scouring my brand-new kitchen, but I'm happy that I took a risk and tried something completely outside my comfort zone. My current sense of accomplishment will be enough to last me a while, but I'm looking forward to tackling years of crazy kitchen projects in my new space. Stay tuned to see what I come up with!

Posole

adapted from Gourmet

4 lbs. country-style pork ribs

10 c. water

26 cloves of garlic (about one and half heads), peeled

1 white onion peeled and quartered, plus another 1/2 onion chopped

1 teaspoon dried oregano

5 whole black peppercorns

2 oz. dried guajillo chiles, wiped clean

1.5 oz. dried ancho chiles, wiped clean

1 whole clove

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

3 (15 oz) cans hominy, drained and rinsed

1.Bring pork and water to a boil in a large pot, skimming froth, then reduce heat to a simmer. Add 20 garlic cloves, quartered onion, oregano, peppercorns, and 2 teaspoons salt and gently simmer, uncovered, until pork is very tender, about 2 hours. Strain broth through a large sieve into a large heatproof bowl. Return broth to pot. Transfer cooked onion and garlic to a blender with 1 1/2 cups broth and purée until smooth (use caution when blending hot liquids). Add purée to broth. Discard bones and coarsely shred pork into broth.

2.Meanwhile, slit chiles lengthwise, then stem and seed. Heat a large cast-iron skillet over medium heat until hot, then toast chiles in batches, opened flat, turning and pressing with tongs, until more pliable and slightly changed in color, about 30 seconds per batch. Transfer to a bowl and pour 2 1/2 cups boiling water over chiles. Soak, covered, until softened, about 30 minutes. 

3.Puree chiles with 1 1/2 cups soaking liquid, chopped onion, remaining 6 garlic cloves, clove, and 3/4 teaspoon salt in cleaned blender until a smooth paste forms, about 2 minutes. 

4.Heat oil in cast-iron skillet over medium heat until it shimmers, then add chile paste (it will spatter) and cook, stirring occasionally, until slightly thickened, 5 minutes. 

5.Add chile paste and hominy and simmer 5 minutes. Season with salt.