Sin Mayonesa, ¡Por Favor!

Moving on Up!

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Sat, 08 Aug 2015 22:54:00 +0000

In case the autoredirect has failed, I'VE MOVED! Check out la blog 3.0 over at WWW.SINMAYONESAPORFAVOR.COM

Let's Make the MOST of Our Lives Like We're Gonna DIE YOUNG!

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Mon, 16 Mar 2015 15:03:00 +0000

{Source}

I hear your heaaartbeat to the beat of the drums

Oh what a shame that you came here with someooooone

So while you're here in my arms

Let's make the most of the night like we're gonna die young!

Wednesday, March 4, 2015. 6:20 pm.

I'm driving from my new 9-5 to my next "job" at my aerial dance studio, where I work the front desk, teach lyra, and take as many pole and lyra classes as my body can handle every week. The new job is kind of intense, and that Wednesday, I was physically and mentally spent. My 2001 Accord, doesn't have an auxiliary port, so I'm forced to play mix CDs (as if it's 2001) in order to free myself from the maddening cycle of the same seven songs played on mainstream radio when I'm not in the mood for classical music.

That day, I was not in the mood for classical music. I was a bit restless. I wanted to jam in my car while driving through the mothereffing rain that was the teaser to yet another fucking snow storm. I reached for an old favorite, my "Some Nights in Murcia" cd (because all my mix cds have titles, duh) and transported myself back to 2012/13, back to where it all started…Murcia (moorsee-uh).

View from atop the Castillo de Monteagudo

It has been 7 months, 1 week, and 6 days since I stepped off a plane from Madrid at JFK international with Kona, 4 carry ons, 2 checked luggage, a heart full of memories, and a head full of anxiety after two life-changing years in Spain. In these seven months, my transition back to full time American has been surprisingly uneventful. My aforementioned anxiety largely centered around finding a job. I temped as an executive assistant for six months, and then last month my temp gig finally yielded on its investment, and I transitioned into a salaried, benefit providing, and career forwarding job as a health program specialist. Huzzah! And even before that blessing actualized, I did manage to spend some time with some of the most important people in my life in the tri-state area. I also succeeded in sticking to my rule of celebrating New Years in a new place, and saw in the start of 2015 in Los Angeles for my first trip to the west side of the sun to visit my one and only foodie paramour (whom I met in Madrid). That whole hitting the wall of reverse culture shock didn't really happen--aside from my forgetting how insanely large American portion sizes can be, which I can legitimately say blew my effing mind. I remain horrified that serving me a pound of "food" and half a gallon of drink is considered normal here. But in considering the larger picture, I lived in Spain for two years. I learned a new language. I climbed mountains, and forded streams, and followed every fucking rainbow!

Archena, Murcia

I kept expecting the, "OMG, you left Madrid to come back to Baltimore, what on earth have you done?!" shoe to drop and hit me in the face. But it felt so normal to be back. It was so seamless a change, that it almost as if I never left, and THAT was the strangest part of my return.

Or so I thought.

Then March 5th rolled around, and I started to realize maybe not all is as smooth as I thought. I was sitting on the couch on the verge of a meltdown and half way to tears as I was frantically texting with my besties, Hillary & Alihah, bemoaning my solo status for a destination wedding I'm to attend in the fall. To be very clear, when I RSVPed for my single occupancy room, I was 1000% OK with being my own date. In fact, my initial plan was to country hop from St. Thomas after the nuptials, and land in Caracas for another lonely planet adventure. But alas, in my return to American life, I had forgotten that vacation time is doled out in miserly portions AND Caracas isn't ideal for solo travel as a woman. So I settled on the idea of a quick island jaunt for a wedding weekend, and adventuring alone another time. My reasoning was I know the bride well (obviously), and a couple members of the bridal party. So what if they're coupled up?! We're all friends, and it's 3 days on an Island, which entails the pre-wedding excursion, ceremony, reception, y ya estaá. Going stag barely made a blip on my radar. But then, I got a text message from another one of my besties (who won't be attending because she's knocked up) and was advised that it would best if I had a date, seeing as how all the people I know well are in the wedding, and literally EVERYONE else will be coupled off. And the wall started to crumble...

The wall being the mental barricade I've had to build to stop my mind from spiraling down the rabbit hole of "while I was indeed living a very different, and mostly better version of life in Spain for two years, and learning and growing and changing in ways which are collectively tangible, completely impossible to explain, and are still revealing themselves to me and others every day, I was also BURNING through my adult life's savings, stagnating professionally, completely hating every second of it once every few months (also known as Bad Spain Day Syndrome), and was completely removed from the social network and game of chess known as dating and mating for keeps. Meanwhile, my entire social circle was doing the things that humans do as they mature, which is pairing off, getting married, moving to new cities, changing jobs, having babies, buying houses etc. Not much of this standard cycle of life appeals to me. But I am still human, and the desire to find the ultimate travel and life partner isn't something I've eschewed, not in the least. The fact is that I'm a woman who travels, and my plan to make myself a permanent expat complicates the process even more. Now that I've decided to come back to the land of the walking workaholics, I find myself fighting and losing the good fight to kick start my social life while balancing my professional life and extracurricular pole dancing and lyra habit. Essentially, I'm at a COMPLETE LOSS for a social life--both romantic and platonic. Everyone in my close social circle has paired off in a serious or permanent way since I left and came back, and as hard as I've tried to fight this feeling of being left behind, it's hard to avoid when my constant solo status keeps surfacing and poking me the ribs when I'm least expecting it to.

I'm not even sure if I'm allowed to be this girl whose whining about being the single girl in the group. I'm the adventurer, dammit! I'm the foodie, the go-getter, the extrovert with a big personality, big dreams, and some of the most ridiculous expectations of life, and very little patience for anything that falls short of them. I moved to Spain with my dog (and my shoes), alone! I traveled to ITALY, all by my damn self, and celebrated the start of 2014 in the cold midnight air of St. Mark's Square in Venice, with a group of strangers from random parts of the world, and loved that experience in ways I can't even explain. I'm not supposed to be that girl who feels "woe is me, everyone has a plus one and I don't even know where to start to find one". I'm not really that girl at all. But I would be lying if I said it didn't cause me anxiety. Not because I'm busy comparing myself to everyone else, but because at the end of the day, my social circumstances aren't what I want them to be, and I can no longer ignore that. I'm starting over in a lot of ways. Coming back from the adventure which I "chose" to embark upon changed me in ways where I feel a bit out of place from time to time. And feeling out of place and not knowing where to go with it is frustrating.

Alhambra, Granada

And there it is, the reverse culture shock, which jabbed me in the throat on a Thursday night while I was sitting on my couch, trying to watch Nashville. It's knowing that I'm different, even if I still have a short temper, and most things, and some people stayed the same. It's knowing I missed out on things that will never be again, and I wasn't present when I really needed to be. It's knowing that the nature of relationships change with age, and that two years away add a layer of to that change. It's constantly seeing things with different eyes, feeling things with a changed heart, being acutely more in tune with my needs and true wants, because I've learned to largely forgo superficial wants that I previously would've made poor choices to attain. It's fighting against falling back into old habits, and constantly fearing that I'll lose everything I gained in the the inertia of daily life. It's trying to fight that inertia and not knowing how to when when there are only so many hours in a day. It's wondering how on earth, and where on earth am I supposed to meet who I'm looking for, when so much of my life feels like it's up in the air.

Labyrinth of Buda Castle, Budapest, Hungary

So back to me in my car, screaming Ke$ha lyrics like my life depended on it.

Because it kind of did. Because when I go to this dark place….this anxious self pitying, self loathing, can't see the light at the end of the tunnel, miserable space where I feel like I've fallen between two worlds, two countries, two lives, two languages, where nobody can really hear me or see me, and I'm just plugging along for recognition and a paycheck, so I can buy some new clothes (which I legit need) and maybe if I'm dumb enough, I'll splurge on those Tom Ford shoes that I tried on in Beverly Hills, that I'll have nowhere to wear them to, and I'm thinking that leaving Spain was the worst choice I had to make because it was the fiscally responsible thing to do, and I didn't want to play teacher anymore, and I miss my friends who are still across the pond, and some days I miss walking into a classroom full of children who will invariably make me crazy, yet I wonder how they're doing without me, and I wish I had done more with my time with them, and I don't know for sure how I'm going to go back to Spain in 5 years and get residency, but I know in my heart of hearts that I have to go back, because Madrid is my home….

Torre Pacheco, Murcia

I let the music that permeated so much of my being during my first year in Spain in Murcia, transport me back to my happy place. Where I made some of the best memories and friends that forever altered my life, that led me to my second year in Madrid, where I had a bit less "fun", worked a hell of a lot more, and lived it up as best I could with more amazing friends, and made more amazing memories, and stories to tell, and ups and downs and highs and lows, that sometimes I can't believe I made it out on the other side, and sometimes I can't believe I want to do it all over again.

And those songs, these pictures, those memories make me feel full and happy because solo or not, I've made the most MY LIFE like I was going to die young.

And if fates on my side, I'm just getting started.

Some Nights in Murcia...

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Wed, 28 Aug 2013 19:24:00 +0000

Michiel & me, Granda, June 15, 2013

From the streets and mountains of Murcia, to the sprawling boulevards of Valencia, through the magical gardens of the Alhambra, and in and every damn playground we could find from Spain to Romania, my friends and I treated the act of having fun like a contact sport and a drinking game.

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There isn't much to be said about me reliving my college partying days on an epic scale of international and therefore ridiculous "come home with the sun" proportion, aside from the obvious in that it was a lot of fun . In 10 months I literally drank more beer than I had in all four years of undergrad (because I didn't really do beer in undergrad and had upgraded almost exclusively to vodka once I got to grad school), discovered the upper limits of my alcohol/consciousness limits...twice (St. Patrick's Day was the set up!), loved and loathed la madrugada, and got to know some of my fellow expat friends in awesome, terrible, and hilarious ways.

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While it may appear that this aspect of my experience is purely superficial, I assure you it's not. Naturally, I learned what most not quite 30 year olds do in these situations. That drinking and dancing till sun up on a regular basis is best left to those age 25 and under. Needless to say, I won't be drinking down that road nearly as much this year in Madrid. But I also learned how to have fun in almost any setting--including an alternative/rocker dive bar that went from being the last place my bougie ass would ever go, to my favorite hangout (and not just because they made really good 5 euro caipirinhas). I've since discovered a broader segment of rock and alternative music I formerly overlooked and I'm loving it. (check out Two Door Cinema Club and Penguin Prison, I implore you!)

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Towards the end of "Season 1" of what we now collectively now refer to as the adventures of the Murcia Shore, my friends and I decided that we had to commemorate our time together in a special way. And that special way was through song, as inspired by our unwavering love for all things Glee and this youtube video. Please, however, bear in mind that with the exception of Michiel and Charlotte, none of us can actually sing. But details such as those hardly matter when there are memories to be made, and music to be recorded and auto-tuned in the Murcia Shore Recording Studio (aka Michiel's bedroom). So if the pictures haven't shown you enough of our fun, I think this video says the rest.

Video by Keith James Lewis, one my favorite people in the world <3

Till the next time in backwards story telling...

Walking Backwards

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Thu, 22 Aug 2013 15:59:00 +0000

Granada (revisited) June 15, 2013

¡Hola a Todos! So let's just skip past the part about me not blogging for 6 months, and start over from the beginning. Which, because I'm the author of this story, means I'll start at the end. And I don't actually mean the end, because this international love story between me and Spain is far from over...

16:50 Tuesday, June 25, 2013

So there I was in Madrid's Puerta de Atocha Estación de Tren. With the aid of a kind stranger, I had just stepped off the train with three, overstuffed pieces of luggage, two carry on bags, AND Kona in his travel carrier (which he loathes traveling in).

My struggle was so much worse than this. My suitcases were twice as big

Ignoring the puzzled look on people's faces as they watched me on the platform, I put forth my best "I can do this shit" attitude, confidently assembled my bags for exit, and 5 minutes later was smoothly walking backwards towards the escalator. And then I got to the escalator and realized I was majorly fucked. 'Cuz ya know, escalators are moving stairs, which created the very real danger of me falling face forward as I tried to haul my crap while walking backwards. I tried not to panic, but I was at a loss of how I was going to make it work AND I was blocking the escalator. Another kind gentleman witnessed my dilemma and helped me get on the escalator without face planting. We got to the top of, he helped me get my bags off and just barely out of the way of the travelers who had been trapped behind my little sideshow, and disappeared. Considering that when I got on the train in Murcia, and was fighting the good fight to lift my suitcases into the hold and NOBODY helped me, I was grateful. But then I looked at the 1000+ feet journey just to get to the main vestibule of the train station and my heart sank a little. I made several attempts to walk facing traffic with my bags behind me, only to lose control of them and have them fall sideways nearly taking me down with them, so I surrendered my pride to what worked. I have to say that walking backwards with 200lbs of luggage and a dog through Spain's largest train station was probably the longest 20 minutes of my life. By the time I made it through the main terminal and outside to the taxi stand, I could barely stand upright or even speak. But I stammered out my destination address, collapsed into the taxi, and exhaled. I was I halfway to on my way home. In two days I would be in Madrid's airport and heading back to the U.S. for the first time in 10 months. I had made it! So let's go backwards a little more.

09:00 Tuesday, June 25, 2013

As with every trip that requires me to take public transportation to get somewhere extremely important, I was anxious. Even though I had 4 hours before my train departed from Murcia to Madrid, and was 98% packed, I nervously flitted around my apartment. The weight of my departure once again was fraying my nerves. Finally, the time came to hail a cab, and Olly, the only one of my roommates home at the time, helped me lug the previously aforementioned bags downstairs to the our front square. We said our misty eyed goodbyes, and then I stuffed myself into a cab, and promptly started to cry after telling the cabby my destination. I looked out the windows and soaked up the scenes of Murcia just one last time. The tree lined boulevard outside my door. The palm trees. La Catedral. My mountains. The memories I made running around this city welled up inside my head overflowed. I was happy and I was sad. I was excited and I was terrified. I was exhausted and I was energized. The cabby asked if I liked it here, I said yes through my tears. I told him I would miss this place. I missed it as soon as I got on the train.

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12:00 Wednesday June 26, 2013 - 09:30 Thursday, June 27, 2013

I got Spained. This is not a typo. You see, having lived in Spain for 10 months, and thereby being required to submit to the will of several bureaucratic processes, I've discovered that Spain's method for doing paperwork is haphazard at best and an absolute clusterfuck at worst. This "process" of misinformation and disorganization will almost always find a way to screw you over, regardless of your efforts to avoid such mess. I refer to this unfortunate circumstance in verb form as being "Spained", because that's Spain, amigos!

As you might imagine, the day before my flight home, which was also the day of my appointment to receive my "Authorization to Return", the piece of paper enables me to return to Spain without having to renew my visa, was no exception. As I previously mentioned, I tried to avoid getting Spained. I had all the required documents and their copies, as listed in the damn guide on the facebook forum, ready to go. So when I finally got my turn with the man with the computer and the stamp, and eagerly gave him my papers and passport, only to have him frown and tell me that I should've done my paperwork in Murcia (which nobody in Murcia told me I should do when I asked about it) I about lost it. I threw a fit, I shook my head, I crossed my arms, and then I begged for mercy (I may be exaggerating). Essentially, what should've taken a few hours turned into an epic saga, which included me having to go across town to a separate government office to submit more forms, whose subsequent copies had to be submitted to the immigration office. And because government hours in Spain are 9-2, and the two offices were on opposite sides of the metro line, I was forced to return to the immigration office and stand in line (again) to submit ALL the forms to get the damn authorization to return on the morning of my flight! (departure of 16:00) Yes, my friends, this is what getting Spained looks, sounds, and feels like. It's kinda like locking yourself in a room full of crazy where you're not proficient enough in the language to give someone a neck rolling, tongue lashing. My experience in the airport was only marginally better. I was able to leave 2 of my 3 suitcases with a friend in Madrid, so I only had one overweight luggage, my carry on, and the poodle. But inevitably, I was given unclear direction as to which line to stand in order to check in with the dog and had to stand in three lines to get checked in before I even made it to the security gate. Getting Spained is an continuous process, which sometimes begs me to wonder why on earth am I going back. Which brings me to my final point of this blog post.

Sunday, October 7, 2012

I had just settled into my new digs, and ventured to the much talked about Murcian beaches on a group outing with several other English teachers. While walking around the deserted beach town, my new friend Michiel, couldn't contain his own personal awe of having moved to sunny Spain from his home of cold and wet Belgium. We both had previously worked full time in our respective countries, and had been woefully dissatisfied with our jobs. Michiel couldn't believe we had managed to escape what was making us unhappy in exchange for what seemed like paradise with pay (damned if it wasn't always late though) and almost felt like we had somehow cheated or ran away from real life.

Antwerp, Belgium December , 2012

I also struggled with this sentiment, but ultimately told him and reaffirmed with myself, that cheaters or runners we were not. What I, what all of us there, had managed to accomplish, is in fact the best thing we could have done for ourselves as adults, no apologies or explanations necessary. And in the months that followed, sometimes this affirmation was the only thing that kept me going when shit got real, paradise lost its sparkle, money got tight, and the little differences began to add up to a gaping cavern of culture shock that sometimes drove me to the edge of reason. That conversation with Michiel was the start of a beautiful friendship. That new found friendship begat more friendships, which begat new experiences, adventures, triumphs, and failures that collectively have taught me that the nature of growth is not necessarily linear, but that it is extremely powerful. So while at times I feel as though I've been walking backwards for 10 months, I know that the leap that will follow will carry me further than I can imagine.

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But enough with this heavy stuff, next time I'll start off with with something FUN...

{hint}

Bizzaro Land Christmas. And I Roasted a Chicken!

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Fri, 22 Feb 2013 19:41:00 +0000

Christmas Land in Murcia. Polar Bears I get. The Panda Bear...not so much. There was also a clown among other randomness..

So this is a Christmas post in February, and the longer I live in Spain the more it becomes evident that this country is basically bizzaro USA. To be clear, this is not actually my homesickness talking right now--though I would like to point out that homesickness is a very real and insidious condition that seeps into your bones and spreads through your entire existence like a cold, cancerous tumor which poisons your spirit and shrouds you and everything around you with an inky blackness on even the sunniest of days. [In case you didn't know this, I'm a bit of a drama queen. Sue me.] But back to bizzaroland España--a first world country with third world tendencies--a land where the local government thinks it's perfectly acceptable to not pay me for three months at a time, banks and government offices are operational just 5-6 hours (if you're lucky) a day, supermarkets are closed on Sundays, teenagers dry-hump each other against the walls of the convent that's just 4 steps from my front door, and the Christmas holiday season is a mere fraction in size, commercialization, and obnoxiousness that we've all come to know and love/loathe stateside.

{Source}

For this last fact, however, I am forever grateful. 2 weeks before Christmas I was an emotional wreck, standing in my local post office literally crying my eyes out for, among many things, the package carrying my best going out blouses, two of which were brand new, and my most favorite blazer in life (from Zara, no less), that never arrived to my mailbox from Madrid, where I had forgotten them at a friend's apartment a few weeks prior. This loss, coupled with the fact that the weight of my departure from my family, friends, and creature comforts of home had finally become too heavy to ignore, AND that I had yet to receive my first paycheck* was just. too. much. I knew even before I got to the post office that my clothes were long gone and definitely in the hands of some size x-small, thieving $@%!! [<---this insult is too profane, even for this blog. If you're not easily offended, go ahead and click the link and have a chuckle. Otherwise, fill in the blank with some innocuous, PG-13 insult instead, and pretend I don't say mean things]. But in an effort to maintain my sanity, I was holding onto that last shred of hope. But you already know how that went, and upon confirmation that the package was in fact gone, I fell apart. It took everything I had NOT to fall out in the middle of the post office and throw a temper tantrum in a catch the holy ghost in a Southern Baptist Church sort of way [start at 1:13]. I did however start boo-hooing at the the counter, and then proceeded to boo-hoo my way out of the post office and then boo-hooed all the way home. I wanted to go home, REAL home, and crawl into bed. On that day, not even the glorious sunshine and mild temperature could make me feel any better. I wanted out of Spain right then. This, my friends, is what homesickness can do to. I thank God that that the Spanish culture does not see fit shove Christmas down your throat they way it's done at home, or else I probably would've just died.

Almost immediately following my break down, however, I started to feel better. As soon as I admitted that I was sad about missing Christmas at home and came to terms with the fact that I was would have to do some serious shopping once I finally did get paid, I felt less like rolling around on the floor and shouting obscenities about how much I hated Spain. [Because I really don't hate it here, I just really wish they had Target, Old Fashioneds and would effin pay me on time.] And once I started feeling better, I was able to focus on three things:

1. That I was going to Belgium two days after Christmas. It was glorious, more on that next post.
2. I was playing host to an awesome Christmas Eve Dinner for my fellow American friends who, too, were homeless for the holidays, and for which I was preparing a Barefoot Contessa Roast Chicken
3. Barefoot Contessa Recipes make EVERYTHING better. #fact

Then, finally, Christmas Eve was upon me. Rather to feeling sad and alone, I thoroughly enjoyed the peaceful solitude of my empty apartment, and I reveled in the glorious sunshine and 60 degree temperatures. And just like at home, I filled my house with music, filled my glass with wine, and set out to prepare a Noche Buena (Christmas Eve) dinner of epic proportions--an effort that was promptly interrupted by the gas tank that powered my stove running out just as I started to prepare the food. What's a Christmas holiday without a little stress? After a near meltdown, some frantic text messaging, followed by level headed searching, I actually found the spare gas tank, only to realize I had no idea how to connect it to my stove. If you have ever thought that youtube may be one of the greatest inventions of our generation, you would be absolutely right. There actually exists a youtube video on how to connect a bombona to a stove. And hence, this is how the Grinch didn't steal my Christmas.

What followed was the Barefoot Contessa's Lemon and Garlic Roast chicken, which consists of both coating the outside of the chicken with butter, and then wrapping it in bacon. BACON.

And Roasted Broccoli with a garlic, lemon, and butter sauce.

And homemade wontons, courtesy of Margaret from Seattle.

And homemade cinnamon rolls, courtesy of Will from Portland. Will told me not to ask him what's in the cinnamon rolls. I didn't ask, I just ate them until I felt the wooziness of a sugar/fat coma. I also may have gained about 6 pounds. Totes worth it.

And Booze. So much booze...

And after way too much food and booze, a ridiculous white elephant gift exchange, and a 2 hour siesta, we good folks from the U.S. of A. put our party hats on and went clubbing in a "drink your face off" sort of way. Because apparently, that's what you do in Spain on Xmas eve.

A lump of carbon...Santa's been keeping tabs!

This country is so strange sometimes. I ~~mostly~~ love it!

Lost in Translation::Pollo al Horno con Puerros de Mantequilla

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Mon, 21 Jan 2013 17:00:00 +0000

After four months of living in Spain, you would think that by now, I would have fully adjusted and settled into my new life here. But the reality of the situation is that it's taken me just that long to feel as if I've found some semblance of balance and/or normalcy. And keep in mind the operative term of "semblance" because both my definitions of normal and balance seem be in a constant state of change. In any event, for many reasons, including this period of adjustment, I've been remiss if not purposely avoidant of updating this blog.

As you can imagine, there are lots of things that get lost in translation when one packs up their entire life and moves to a new country, and transitioning a domestic food blog to describe an international life is one of them. I have struggled here, not only with the language and from time to time, the distance from home, but the question of how to express myself in that full-on Bernadette way--complete with inappropriate levels of profanity, butter, and bourbon, whilst sharing the good, the bad, and the absurdity of my life in Spain.

January 13. on the beach!

It took me until last Sunday, whilst basking in the sunshine to avoid the chill of the January ocean breeze, for me to realize that this move has not only changed my address, it's also changed my narrative. I must also mention that it has also changed my ability to find a respectable brand of bourbon for home purchase, therefore making me feel estranged and lost without my one true libational love, and facilitating an unsatisfying rebound relationship with sugary cocktails and cheap beer.

These changes to my narrative and boozing habits, have also undoubtedly changed my cooking habits. Seeing as how I am now without 90% of my kitchen tools, currently share my kitchen with 3 other people, and actually have to be at work at 9am, I can no longer start cooking 3 hour long "whatever I feel like cooking" dinners after 10pm on a weeknight. Additionally, I've still not perfected the art of shopping at the grocery store, the frutería AND the carnicería smoothly, [this is because I'm lazy] and am constantly without an appropriate stock of food.

But, however, I think I have finally figured things out now. For starters, there are several posts from my pre-Spain life that I never found the time to post before I left, which once I got here, I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to share them. Until now. Whenever I'm feeling homesick, or waxing profanely about how the addition of Target and just a little more effort at being organized and reliable could make Spain one of the best countries on the planet, I'll share something old from home. Because life just isn't the same without a readily available bottle of 8 year aged bourbon, a martini shaker, and Archer Farms brand cookies and mossimo brand clothing. And while I can't do much about target, I can sure as hell rediscover my inner mixologist, and avail myself to the respectable selection of quality whiskeys. I'm just going to have to pony up the cash for some martini glasses and a shaker. If it's the little things that count, these two items can make all the difference in my world*. And, since this has always been more than just a food blog, I've decided to formally expand on what to talk about here. So yes, there will be food, but there will also be travel, and ~~partying~~ adventures, and rants about the crisis, and more food, and cocktails, and the personal growth, and who knows what else. I'm still trying to figure out what I want to do with my life whenever and wherever I settle down, but I know that this blog, if maintained properly can open doors to new opportunities abroad or at home.

So, without further delay, let's talk about this Roast Chicken with Buttered Leeks that I made way back in November, when there were 22 Erasmus students in my piso for dinner (Spanish time = >10pm) on a Wednesday evening. All I wanted to do was cook the chicken thighs that had been sitting in my fridge in some semblance of a Spanish way. But as it turns out, I don't actually know very much about Spanish home cooking.

My compañero de piso, Olly, was hosting the weekly Erasmus dinner party, and was making a Moroccan lentil stew. I saw fit to [because I didn't have much choice] to piggy back on the dinner party and add my not so Spanish chicken, maybe kind of Moroccan chicken as well as some definitely Spanish Delicias Datiles to the mix of English, Spanish, Argentinian, and American people and languages on that fateful evening.

What resulted was no less than chaotic. And delicious. And confusing, because at the time my Spanish was worse than it is now, which is to say that for every 10 words of Spanish I actually knew how to speak, I could only understand 2 of them when they were spoken to me. And loud. Oh, so loud. The neighbors asked us to shut it down at 1am, which if anything should indicate just how laid back this country can be. It would be a more beautiful thing if it didn't apply to EVERYTHING aspect of life here. But I'll not rant about that....today.

I'll just reminisce, and try my damnedest to remember the recipe for this chicken.

Buen Provecho

Roast Chicken with Buttered Leeks

See Recipe Here

Delicias Datiles

See Recipe Here

*Yes, I realize this makes me sound like a raging alcoholic. To this I say, "meh". My roommate Emily, bought she and I flasks from Target upon her return from the states this Christmas. I jumped up and down for joy when she presented me with mine. It's one of the best and most practical gifts I've ever received.

An American Macaroni & Cheese in Spain

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Mon, 10 Dec 2012 17:00:00 +0000

What happens when, while living abroad, you make one of the most American foods ever, which happens to be the most important side dish of the dinner of the second most American holiday in existence¹, for a quantity of no less than 30 people from six different countries, in a house in the mountains, where eating, boozing [repeat and repeat], laughing, hiking, and fighting the dog for stolen turkey bones from the garbage commence for approximately a weekend? You get zero pictures of the finished product in all it's magnificent glory, and are forced to steal any photographic evidence of its cooked existence from other people's facebook albums. And contrary to what you may initially have thought, your Thanksgiving in Spain is pleasingly similar to Thanksgiving at home, with the hilarious exception of the entire "family" getting plastered and the addition of a resplendent mountain backdrop and a pool. Basically, my Thanksgiving in Spain was amahzing, but more importantly my Spanish rendition of Linda's [mommy] famous macaroni and cheese was a success!

For starters, I must talk about the Españification of this American classic, because while the Spaniards are quite fond of cheese, they are not quite so fond of variety or importing good American cheddar. And though my Spanish is still not where I want it to be three months into this adventure, I was still able to clearly communicate with the guy at the carnicería that a gub'ment cheese-looking block of mild cheddar was not hell what I was looking for.

Eventually "we" came to an understanding that the ideal replacement for extra sharp cheddar was a manchego muy fuerte (very strong). And that I must return to said carnicería, where my presence has since been asked about. [More on that adventure when I finally get around to it.]

The monumentous task of cooking a ginourmous batch of macaroni and cheese--with 4 willing sous chefs--simultaneously as my roommate baked 4 pies from scratch was no less than slightly ridiculous. Skyping with 20 family members who just finished real Thanksgiving dinner whilst in the middle of doing so was absurd. And staying up till 5 am to finish preparing the mac and cheeses, only to be kept up till close to 6 am by miniature poodle who stole an entire slice of pizza and a result was sick for the remainder of the evening, waking up at 11 to put the macaroni in the oven, and leaving 2 hours behind schedule to the casa rual already made it a true Thanksgiving.

And then we got to the house in the mountains...

And we good folks from the USA, Spain, England, Belgium, Canada, & Scotland went in on Thanksgiving.

There was laughter. There were 2 turkeys. There was drinking (lots). There was dinner. There was drama. There was paella. There was inappropriateness. There was hiking. There was love. And for damn sure, there was fun.

And a merry, messy, and incredible Thanksgiving it was indeed.

Spanish Macaroni & Cheese

Print recipe

(Serves ~ 6 ppl)
1 Box Elbow Macaroni
1 1/4 Cup Irish Cheddar
1/3 Cup Manchego Muy Fuerte (very strong)
1/4 Cup Manchego Reserva (aged, best quality)
1/4 Cup Manchego Viejo (aged)
2/3 Cup Gruyere
1 medium onion, finely minced
1/4 Cup Seasoned bread crumbs²
1/2 Cup Milk
2-3 Tbsp Butter
1-2 Eggs
Paprika
Salt
Pepper
Olive Oil

Grate all cheeses, and set aside separately. Finely mince a medium onion, and set aside.

In a large pot, bring 1 gallon of bring water to a boil, season generously with salt and olive oil. Add pasta noodles, boil approximately 8 minutes, or until al dente, drain, and set in a large foil pan.

Preheat oven to 325F

While macaroni noodles are still hot. Combine butter, onion, 3/4 of bread crumbs, 1 egg, and 1/2 your milk, and 1/3 of all cheese together until evenly coated.

Then continue to mix in each of cheeses separately. Use all but 1/4 cup of at least two of the 4 cheeses and 1/4 of bread crumbs. While mixing in cheeses, add remainder of milk to ensure a semi wet and texture of the mixture; if it is too dry, add an additional egg.

Stir until all ingredients are well incorporated, and mixture has a semi-wet consistency that almost sticks to the spoon. Stir in salt, pepper and paprika to taste, and taste the mixture³! You should be able to taste the different flavors of each cheese, a hint of onion, and hint of the paprika. Top the mixture off with a final dusting of the remaining breadcrumbs and cheese.

Bake in a 325F oven for approximately 45 minutes, or until macaroni is firmly set, the top of macaroni is browned, and the edges are slightly crisp.

¹In my opinion, after 4th of July, nothing screams America as much as Thanksgiving.
²I made my own bread crumbs with stale baguettes, olive oil, salt and pepper. It's labor intensive, so there's no shame in buying them pre-made.
³When I was a kid, it used to gross me out when my mom did this, but it's absolutely essential.

A Place of Yes

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Mon, 12 Nov 2012 18:30:00 +0000

Alicante

If you speak even the smallest smattering of Spanish, I assume that you might find the title of this long overdue blog entry a bit contratictory to the blog's new namesake Sin Mayonesa, Por Favor. But I assure, it's not.

Elche

Allow me to explain. When I departed from the states on the 11th of September, I was carrying with me a bag of farewell cards from my friends, that I didn't have the stones [nor the time, or emotional capital] to read previously. But during the drive to JFK international, following my heroing defeat of all things Murphy's law on that fateful day, I finally decided it was time to put my big girl panties on, and read what my friends had to say. Naturally, all the cards made me cry. But one card hit a chord. One of my dear friends encouraged me to find my place of yes.

Murcia

You see, contrary to what I may have led you to believe via this blog here, I think "no" might be one of my favorite words in the Enlish lexicon. I find that I live a life of contradictions, in which I enthusiastically say yes to the big things, like moving abroad, and yet stubbornly box myself into a ridiculously specific set of parameters in which I tell myself I wish live my life. Obviously, this is a crazy and really stupid way to be. My friends point this out to me out constantly, and TJ specifically called out this particular aspect of my crazy before I left. God bless her.

Alhambra, Granada

And since arriving to Murcia, I've certainly said yes to many a new experiences. Like pizza with tuna. (I did not like it). And partying like a 22 year old (constantly), when I'm most certainly not 22 anymore. (My body hates me). And living with 21 and 22 year old Erasumus students (and they're awesome). And Canadian Thanksgiving (it's just like ours, but in October). And intercambios (language exhanges) where native Spanish speakers allow me to butcher their beautiful language in an effort to improve my ability (it actually works!) And staying in a hostel for the first time (and I didn't get murdered!). And staying up till 6am to watch the live election results. (Totally worth it, YES WE DID!) And hiking/climing a mountatin--yes, me, on a mountain. (Soon!) It turns out, finding my place of yes was inevitable, or else I would simply have imported my American life almost entirely to Spain. And that would have defeated the purpose of coming here altogether.

Mi compañeros de piso (roommates). Emily, USA; Sophie, Belgium; & Olly, England

Candadian Thanksgiving. This photo prooves that it's impossible to take good TG pictures once the food makes an appearance

I'm excited to think that I've only started to scratch the surface of what "yes" can do for me, where "yes" can take me, and how "yes" can help me grow.

Alicante

But I'm still saying no to mayonnaise. Sorry Spain, but it's just gross.

Fried cod, caramelized onions, raspberry compote. Amazing.
El Rincon de Tapas de las Anas

Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Wed, 19 Sep 2012 14:00:00 +0000

So after much preparation, and absurd last minute drama, I finally embarked on my journey to Spain. In the year preceding my decision to move abroad [2011] and the last weeks leading up to my move, however, I felt incredibly lost. In both these instances it felt as my life was in endless turmoil. With respect to year preceding this decision, I felt that every decision I ever made was wrong, and despite my best laid plans, the world insisted on stomping them into oblivion. In the weeks leading up to the move, the significance of my departure started to weigh on me like a ton of bricks and there were three tearful breakdowns. The first at my going away party, the second and most physically significant being fueled by a massive amount of vodka, courtesy of table service at my favorite strip club, and the last was brought on by a series of unfortunate events, including, but not limited to Kona being incredibly sick the day of our departure. As I sat in the vet's office that morning, giving them my tearful permission to run whatever tests were necessary, it was in that moment I was convinced that packing up my life and moving to a new country was the WORST IDEA EVER.

Even after leaving the vets office $200 poorer, with a bag full o' medicine and poodle on the mend in tow, I wasn't so sure that the energy that I was expending to speed to my mom's house in New Jersey where I was supposed to have been the night before, was worth it at that point. What was supposed to be the most exciting experience of my life, had morphed into the nightmare that wouldn't end, that kept getting more expensive, and invited everyone in the WORLD to tell me I was going to meet a Spanish man, fall in love and get pregnant. On the day of my departure, I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and stay there forever. But instead, I pressed on.

And then then the move happened. In spite of leaving South Jersey 2 hours behind schedule, we arrived at JFK ON TIME. I actually boarded the plane without too much trouble, and the plane actually took off without the flight attendants asking me and my noisy dog to de-plane. In fact, thanks to the more laid back attitude of the Spanish, the flight attendants didn't even bother me, and allowed me to keep Kona in his carrier on my lap, with my hand inside the bag to keep him quiet and calm [in addition to anti anxiety pills ]. Our flight was smooth, and my mental and physical exhaustion facilitated me to restfully sleep for the entire flight, save for the dinner, breakfast, and occasional crying Kona interruption.

Before I knew it, I was walking through Madrid's airport with a new stamp in my passport, my sister, my poodle who was in much better health, all 4 pieces of my checked luggage, and picking up the rental car. In the days to follow, I was still disoriented with jet lag and exhaustion, so I couldn't feel the it, the thing that drew me in here in the first place. But it's amazing what restful sleep can do for one's body and soul...

It wasn't until Saturday afternoon, as I sat in the square of the Catedral de Murcia, sipping on a cafè con leche, munching on a waffle drenched in a caramel syrup, and chatting with a returning language assistant that I began to take in what I had accomplished. I just moved to Spain, exactly 27 months after I set out on my 18-24 month "move to Spain" plan. I'm not here on vacation, I actually live here now. As the day went on, and I began piso [apartment] hunting with my new friend and now future roommate [more on that later] , the I began to feel it, and it on me that I would now have the time to explore my new city in the ways I longed for my last two trips to Spain. I will have the time to wander the squares, get lost in the maze of alleys, explore every damn shoe store in sight, sip coffees in the sun, and take in the beauty of another country and another culture, and be blessed with the gift of learning a new language, AND with my precious poodle in tow.

Whether or not I'm a wanderer has yet to be seen, but I know for sure that I'm not lost, and starting to think I never was.

I think Kona and I are going to have a good two years en España. And I just got to cross off the most important item on my 30 before 30 list!

¡Besos!

Top Ten Things I'll Miss About Home

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Thu, 23 Aug 2012 17:43:00 +0000

So the time is coming. In just 19 days I'm boarding a plane with my poodle, my passport, way too many shoes and boots that I'll surely be paying for extra for and my older sister (she's accompanying me for the first two weeks) and MOVING to Spain. [And yes, if you just did the math, that means I fly on September 11th...from JFK ...a bittersweet day it will be indeed]

Holy. Shit!

Needless to say I'm way effing excited and a little bit terrified, but I'm also slightly depressed. This past Saturday I had the most amazing going away Churrasco (post to come) and a ton of my family and friends came, and amongst the eating, laughing, boozing and reminiscing, there were more than a few tears that I just could not hold back. The fact is, I'm packing up my stuff and my dog and leaving behind the life that I've known for more than 25 but less than 30 years [don't y'all love how I never confirm my actual age even though 90% of you actually know what it is. I like to keep the mystery, lol]. So it goes without saying that there are people and things I'm going to miss about home. But it wouldn't be any fun if I didn't actually say who and what I'll miss, so here we go...

1. My sisters.
I mean, I'm going to miss my entire family in general, but my sisters and I have a special bond. Even though 6-7 years separate each of us, as we've all gotten older, we've found a way to bond. We don't physically resemble each other, but when the three of us get together, people know we're sisters, and usually try to join in our fun. This summer my younger sister Amanda spent the stayed in Baltimore with Odichi (Older sister), so we could spend more time together making it the first summer since 1995 when the three of us lived in the same city. Amanda and I even waitressed at the same crappy restaurant in the inner harbor, and as united sister front manipulated and purposely challenged/irritated the creepy/incompetent/jackhole managers while befriending the only two mangers who didn't suck. Cuz we're awesome like that, and non asshole manger #1 even said so. This summer as a collective we rescued a kitten, [he followed Kona home when sisters were poodle-sitting for me and I now have a nephew cat named Raja], frolicked, movie hopped, road tripped, and ate and drank all the summertime long--well as much as possible given all of our hectic and conflicting schedules. I can't believe my neither of my sisters will be a simple phone call (must figure out how to phone by skype) or short drive away. I can't believe I might not be here for us to go see the new superman movie in 2013 [Because we take our comic book action movies very seriously]. I've been in utter denial about how much I'm going to miss them. I'll stop typing now before I start crying all over my keyboard.

2. My friends.
For the last 10+ years, Aria, Hillary, Alihah, Toya, Tifanni, Liz, and most recently TJ have been the women I've been closest with in this world. Together and from multiple points of the New York through Virginia area, we've cut the f*ck up, laughed hysterically, cried, talked till we're blue in the face, drank till we could drink no more, vowed to never drink bottom shelf vodka again, said hilarious things that should qualify us for our own reality show titled "The Sunday after D.C.", said terribly mean things that make us slightly awful people, done absolutely ridiculous things, watched relationships become marriages, stood by each other when relationships failed, become mother's to children (Toya), become sisters to each other, traveled the globe, danced on stages and streets, danced on poles, swung from construction scaffolding, and engaged in various forms inappropriateness and tomfoolery all with mischievous smiles on our faces. I've also been in denial about the significance of my departure from my friends and have forbidden the girls from speaking about it all summer. Cuz I'm bossy like that. And I just can't face the reality of it. Again, I must stop typing before I start to cry.

3. Wegmans.
I never did get around to typing up a post about why I love Wegman's so damn much, but I literally LOVE this place. If you've never been to one, all I can say is that it's like the Nordstrom of grocery stores. And I say Nordstrom and not Bloomingdale's or Saks, because unlike the former two, Nordstrom/Wegmans is upscale enough to make you feel special and offer you an amazing shopping experience, but won't break your bank like Whole Foods. In fact, Wegman's is cheaper than Safeway (not sure about Giant) and since it's outside of the city, I don't have to dodge homeless people and walk around the cop car that remains parked out in front of the Safeway near my apartment. I'm that person who drives the 25 minutes to the county for Wegmans, with my grocery list, assembled, organized by aisle and printed from wegmans.com--with the total price I should expect to pay. I've heard wonderful things about the produce available in Murcia and expect to have an amazing food shopping experience, but at the end of the day nothing can replace my Wegmans. Nothing!

{Source}

4. 7% Sales Tax.
Anyone whose shopped in the EU or Canada knows about sales tax sticker shock. In Spain, the value added tax used to be 18%, but now thanks to this motherfucking economic crisis (which still has me on edge honestly) it's been hiked to 20%. I dare not ask what shipping from online shopping might cost, lest I fall out from shock and change my mind about this move all together.

5. Driving.
So obviously, I'm not shipping my Honda to Murcia. I was going to sell it, but given the insecurity of the Spanish economy, I thought it best to be prepared, and am storing it in my mom's garage. And this will be the first time in six years that I won't have a car of my own. I don't like driving a lot, but I despise waiting for public transport, and I'm going to miss riding in the bat mobile, windows down, blasting Ke$ha, shifting gears and cursing at people. I've been told that the bus and tram system in Murcia is reliable and easy, but still I'm going to miss being the captain of my chariot. And what I wouldn't give to take my 5 speed manual on the winding roads of the Spanish Countryside. ~~But then again, that's what boyfriends with cars are for...~~

6. American Breakfast Food.
I live for pancakes, french toast and waffles with real maple syrup. While I know I can easily make these things in Spain, what I can't easily do is find maple syrup. It turns out maple syrup is more of a North American staple and is a foreign luxury that's about 20 euro for a few ounces in Spain. I honestly might have my family bring me a jug or two when they visit for Christmas, because I cannot live without the occasional pancake feast.

{Source}

7. English.
It's not that I'm not excited about being thrust into Spanish immersion. It's just that I know that the struggle to communicate with people can be exhausting. So I already know, I'm going to be that person, who upon hearing another English speaker in midst in Spain, will probably run to them and demand to know where they're from, what they're doing here, and talk their ear off for the sole purpose of speaking and listening to my native tongue. This doesn't make me an ugly American does it?

8. American TV.
So even though I can access Hulu Plus in Spain, Netflix hasn't quite caught up with the times, and foreign TV is well just that. Foreign. I've been attempting to observe American TV with a "foreigners" eyes these last few months, and honestly most TV seems strange to me these days. Either way, I'm going to miss the hell out of random interesting stuff on PBS, American commercials, and any and everything that I can't watch on Hulu (like Game of Thrones, True Blood, and How I Met Your Mother). On the flip side, I'm also kind of excited for this respite. I have a stack of magazines calling my name, and I have yet to use my kindle with which I've already loaded with several free books off my reading list from my 30 before 30.

9. Brown people.
I grew up in Camden, NJ which is like 90% Black/Puerto Rican and a handful of Vietnamese and Cambodian. When I went to University of Delaware, I had bit of a culture shock with 92% of the student body being white, but saw enough of the 8% minority population to not always feel like the lone chocolate chip in a sea of white [well outside of classes at least]. I currently live in Baltimore which is like 60% black [unfortunately 40% of them are ratchet, but I digress], so seeing people who look like me is my normal. I've never lived anywhere where the overwhelming majority of people that I will see are white--and I only spent 5 weeks in Italy so I never quite did get used to people staring at me because I look different than them. From what I've been told from other black women and brown girls in Europe, some days it bothers you, most days it doesn't, and every now and again, you may have to get to rolling your neck and cut a side eye at someone ig'nant and ratchet. Ni modo, así es la vida. I already know I'll be "the brown girl with the brown dog" wherever I find an apartment. This should be fun.

{Source}

10. American efficiency.
I know we've all been told that Americans work the longest hours and get the least amount of shit done, but I'm not so sure about that. Based on my experiences while abroad, there seems to be a general lack of urgency in attitude when it comes to things we Americans like to believe are urgent (like visa paperwork, and residency cards, airport check-in, etc). One of my fellow language assistants shared this video with me about what to expect when I go to apply for my residence card in Spain, and I found it to be hi-larious because I know it's true. This fact also scares the crap out of me, since my Spanish is still....lacking. Jesus be with me, lol.

Chickpea, Butternut Squash, & Sausage Saute (City Girl Stew)

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Thu, 26 Jul 2012 12:00:00 +0000

So I'm sure you're thinking that a post about stew in the middle of summer seems strange. Especially when the above pictured "stew" resembles nothing of what it's namesake traditionally suggests. But you know, this is city girl food, so I can call it stew if I want to. Besides, I assure you the strangest thing about this recipe is that I willingly and purposefully cooked with and ate butternut squash. Which as a notoriously picky eater and self proclaimed hater of all things squash, is a pretty big deal.

But when I get an idea in my head and am craving something different, crazy things happen. Honestly, I've been curious about butternut squash for a while. Restaurants seem to love putting it in ravioli with yummy sounding sauces like browned butter with crispy sage leaves, and on more than one occasion I've felt like I might be missing out because of my wanton disdain for an entire vegetable family. I mean, we all know that zucchini and summer squash are utterly disgusting and not to be eaten unless absolutely necessary. But butternut is clearly different with it's firm texture and gorgeous orange hue. I figured it was time I start acting like a foodie, and at least give it a try.

And lo and behold, I didn't hate it! On the contrary, I rather liked a lot, and this was in fact, one of those rare occasions when I conjured up an original recipe that turned out to be spectacularly amazing. I'm talking it was so amazing, I want Marcus Samuelsson to put this on his menu at Red Rooster.

OK, maybe wasn't that amazing. But then again, there is olive oil, butter, and Italian Sausage providing the fat/flavor base, so I might not be that far off my rocker #fatisflavor #Imjustsaying. In either event, a girl can dream.

And we all know what happens when one dares to dream...

¡Buen Apetito!

City Girl Stew
Print This Recipe

5 Hot Italian Sausage Links, roughly chopped
2 Cans Chickpeas
1 Bunch Collard Greens, sliced into 1 inch thick ribbons, ribs included
1 Medium Butternut Squash, cut into 1 inch pieces
1 Large Onion, chopped in eights
2 Cloves Garlic, Smashed
2 Tsp Garam Masala
2 Tsp Hot Paprika
2 Tsp Hot Red Pepper Flakes
2 Sprigs Thyme
2 Tbsp Butter (unsalted)
1 Tbsp Olive Oil
Sea Salt
Fresh Ground Black Pepper
**********************
Heat Butter and olive oil in large skillet or crock pot (enamel covered cast iron) over medium high heat. Brown sausage pieces in butter about 3 minutes each side. Remove from heat, set aside.

Reduce heat to medium, add squash, onion and garlic, garam masala, paprika, and red pepper flakes. Saute until squash is semi-fork tender, about 12-15 minutes.

Add chickpeas with water from can, collards, and sausage pieces. Mix to combine thoroughly, saute another 5-7 minutes until squash is fork tender and sausage is cooked through. Salt and pepper to taste.

Serve and enjoy. It's one of those soul warming dishes, best if shared. And don't forget the wine. Wine makes everything that much better.

*While tomato paste is clearly pictured, I decided I didn't want to risk it's acidity overpowering the recipe.

Rooster to the Wine (Coq Au Vin)

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Wed, 06 Jun 2012 11:00:00 +0000

So in 3 months, I'm packing up my best boots and poodle and moving to Spain, and 6 months ago I made Coq au Vin. That's right, 6 months ago, as in January. And I'm just posting it now, because 8 month ago I started the application process for the program that's sending me to Spain, and after that there was Thanksgiving and Christmas and Miss Xpose Prelims and Miss Xpose finals and lots and lots of boozin' and jackassery in between. Sue me.

So back in January when I tried my hand at Mastering the Art of French cooking, I learned a few things along the way, that I will now list in order of importance:

1. Any dish the requires the presence of three bottles of alcohol is clear win-win situation. #Realtalk.

2. Julia Child is a God send of a woman, to whom I am thankful for her dedicating her life to Mastering the Art of French Cooking, because French cooking is certainly more art than science, is a detail oriented pain in the ass, but it is damn good and well worth the effort.

3. I should really make a habit of reading a recipe in its entirety several times before starting the cooking process. On that note, it would appear that I have mastered the art of convincing my dinner guests, my roommate and my sister in this instance, to happily wait 2 hours while I prepare their dinner, after 8pm and on a weeknight. Shazaam!

4. Everything is done for a reason. So no matter how sacrilegious it sounds to boil the exactly 4oz of bacon, if Julia says so, you boil the damn bacon.

5. Because if you don't boil the bacon, its flavor will be too strong and overpower the other flavor elements. Besides, that boiled bacon goes on to be sauteed in butter, and the aroma that results from this is nothing short of intoxicating, and could probably be bottled and sold as an aphrodisiac. True story.

6. Setting food on fire is really f*cking awesome!

7. And last but not least. Pearl onions+mushrooms+butter+wine+herbs=indescribably delicious. No ifs, ands, or butts about it.

The end result doesn't look like much, but it taste fucking fantastic. No edit necessary, recipe found here.

It's Real

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Mon, 04 Jun 2012 18:30:00 +0000

Having had my own Spanish adventures I can say that the transformative effect of that Barcelona air isn’t just movie magic—it’s real.
-Melissa, Mostly Madrid

Truest. Story. Ever.

The same has been said about Sevillla, and I assume therefore it will be the same for Murcia.

{Source}

I'm feeling a lot of things right now, mostly tepid excitement given the economic crisis. But ultimately, lo que será, será.

Jump

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Wed, 23 May 2012 17:28:00 +0000

I haven't got much time to waste, It's time to make my way

I'm not afraid of what I'll face, but I'm afraid to stay

I'm going down my road and I can make it alone

I'll work and I'll fight till I find a place of my own

Are you ready to jump
Get ready to jump
Don't ever look back, oh baby
Yes, I'm ready to jump
Just take my hand, get ready to jump

-Madonna, Jump, Confessions on a Dance Floor

I love Madonna, and this one of my all time favorite songs of hers. Part of the reason I love this song, is because it's the background music in the montage scene in The Devil Wears Prada, where Andie has clearly gotten her shit together, and is seen sporting several fierce winter coats [and I have a growing obsession with outerwear]. And the other reason I love this song, is because it's motivational anthem, which for the past 3 years, 11 months, and 15 days, has often been necessary to get my ass out of bed and into my office. It's a song I've played often in order to invoke that sense that "I've made it"and as an educated, gainfully employed, independent, and occasionally awesome grown woman, and I'm totally living some version of 'the life' ".

Not.

As I've talked about many times on this blog, I was never really feeling it. So I decided to do something about it. I thought, a new job, a new city, an amazing fellowship could all be mine with some perseverance, prayer, and the hardball determination. But that all turned out to be a bust, and some of my closest friends and my family can tell you, I did NOT handle it well.

So I withdrew to recoup and mourn the loss of what I thought I wanted. In the process I made a few bad choices [retail therapy, an epically bad dating experience, more retail therapy] and one phenomenal choice. I didn't realize at the time that that one decision would lead to a moment of sharing, and that the result of both would alter the course of my life.

But here I type, life course completely and forever altered.

It's finally happened y'all.

¡Yo estoy a mudando a España! I'm moving to Spain!!!

I've been accepted into the not very competitive, but extremely nerve wracking to apply and then have to wait for 2 freakin' months to hear the official word program of North American Language Assistants in Spain!

Long story short, after I wrote this post about loving Sevilla and dying to get back to Spain, Latoya, who is one of my besties and the fabulous curator of the Quarter Life Chronicles re-posted it on her blog. One of her readers reached out to me and told me about the program, which she had just completed. After a few amazing emails from her, I finally got my shit together and registered two weeks after the application period started [fear is a real sum'bitch]. And then the waiting began, and then the waiting continued, and then it got ridiculous [Dios mio, the Spanish government...] and after experiencing every emotion you can imagine I finally got this email today.

Ha sido adjudicada la plaza en <DESC_CENTRO> - Murcia - España a su solicitud 12_1AXC000873 del programa de Auxiliares de Conversación en España.

Upon which receiving, I jumped and screamed and shouted, even though I'm in the throws of a cold with a fever, and literally feel as though my head might explode. I actually didn't get exactly what I wanted though. I had requested to be placed in the Region of Andalucía, with hopes of landing in the city of my destiny, Sevilla. But alas, due to economic crisis in Spain, the participating regions suffered budget cuts, and the number of available spots for auxiliares were reduced significantly. So I've been placed in the region of Murcia, which is literally right next to Andalucía, and I am THRILLED!

All this waiting has been the real reason for my blogging absence. I just couldn't focus long enough to put together any posts while I sat on this secret. But now that it's official, I'm back in business!

Yes, I'm ready to jump! And of course, I'm taking Kona with me!

Time Flies When...

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 18:09:00 +0000

You're prepping for your next pole competition! And you spend 90% of your time thinking about said pole competition, mostly because you spend 60% of your time at your ~~sucky~~ job, and therefore can only utilize the remaining 40% of your time to do everything else that life requires of you, which includes, but is not limited to: physically training for said pole competition, obsessing over and spending plenty of money on my costume for said competition, caring for the three animals with which I now reside [obvi my roommate and I split these responsibilities, but either way, it's a package deal, there's no way I can feed/walk/play with/scold one pet without doing the same for the other two], eating pizza/chipotle/scrambled eggs, & whey protein shakes because I no longer have time to cook or grocery shop, "studying" various pole techniques at establishments where women get paid to dance on poles as well as workshops with professional pole artists, sleeping , and some other stuff I can't really remember.

And then your pole competition comes and it was marvelous and terrifying and before you know it, it was over. I didn't place, but I didn't expect to. I was more honored by the fact that I made it to the finals, I had a LOT of fun, and I've got lots to learn/work on for my next competition, whenever, or wherever that may be ;-)

Sadly, I don't have video (yet), so I haven't even seen my performance. But I'll share if I can find it or find a way to rip it off the DVD

So now that that I have unofficially apologized for my wanton 30+day absence from the blog, allow me finally start posting about food related things again.

Well actually, I'll start with booze, since you know, Cinco de Mayo is right around the corner, and that calls for boozin' like you get paid to do it. I couldn't think of a name for this drink, but after some delightful Facebook suggestions, I came up with "The Hunt for Red Hot Summer".

You see I actually made this drink sometime in January. I tell you this because blood oranges are a winter fruit, and are typically available between December and March. And even though we had a disturbingly mild winter, I still wished it were summer instead.

And I didn't want you to think I was trying to pull a fast one on you. I probably haven't cooked a real meal since sometime in February, but I was busy in the kitchen before then, so I will be posting several wintery recipes just in time for early summer.

This is the point where I usually say I need to get my shit together and post more regularly blah blah blah. But clearly, after 2+ years of blogging and saying that, I've accepted that it's never going to happen. I cook, therefore I blog. And I'm a procrastinator, therefore many of my posts are from weeks if not months ago. True story.

The Hunt for Red Hot Summer
Print Recipe

Juice of 8-12 Blood Oranges*
~1/4 cup White Wine (light-medium bodied)
~1/3 cup White Rum
~1/4 cup Ginger Simple Syrup
Pulp of 1-2 blood oranges
1 tsp Candied ginger pieces from ginger syrup

Juice oranges into a measuring cup with a hand juicer (or fork in my case), set aside. remove remaining pulp from 1 or two oranges. Using a mortar and pestle, pound pulp with ginger pieces, add to juice. Combine juice and pulp mixture with rum, wine, and ginger syrup over ice. Shake vigorously to combine. Add more wine/rum/syrup per taste.

Serve in a cold martini glass and pretend it's summer. Or make a big batch of it for a Superbowl party and call it Giants' Punch. And be sure to taunt the Patriots fan who hosted the party with it, and refuse to let him drink any until he says "Go Giants!", and then salsa dance in his living room when the Giants win the game. #victorcruz #yesplease #gogiants

¡Salud!

*All measurements approximate, you know I don't write these things down

Soap Box Wednesday: What's Wrong with What We Eat

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 22:00:00 +0000

Wow, it's been a entire months since I've blogged, and probably a year since I've done a SBW post. But you guys know me by now, so you shouldn't be all that surprised. I've been super busy, with among other things, preparing for my next pole competition. I've got lots things I want to share (including food posts) but you're going to have to wait a bit longer for that. Until then, I really want to share this amazing video of Mark Bittman's Ted Talk about the dangers of our food culture. I have really been wanting to talk more about food policy on the blog, and I think this is a great place to start.

For the record, I agree 100% with what Bittman says, even though his speech caused me to feel a bit uncomfortable about some of my own food habits. But that's the point. I would love to hear what you guys think about it.

The floor is yours...

Meatless Monday: Red Quinoa with Cumin Garlic Butter

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 19:28:00 +0000

{Source;This is what my photos should look like. Obvi, I've got lots of work to do}

I would like to introduce you to my new best friend in food, quinoa. I don't know about you, but I'm way late to this particular party [which is fairly standard for me]. It's not that I've never heard of quinoa, it's been on my radar for a while, but it never really occurred to me to actually eat it until recently--and by recently I mean at least two months ago when I had some at TJ's house during one of our many pole practices. TJ and I like to pole, then booze, then eat, then pole some more. It's easy to see why we're friends, no?

But before I continue, allow me to wear my "health educator" hat for a moment. Did you know that quinoa [pronounced keen-wah] is considered a super food? Quinoa is an ancient "grain" [it's not actually a grain, but is closely related to beets, spinach and tumbleweeds] that is high in complete protein, meaning in includes all nine essential amino acids. It's also a good source of fiber, manganese, magnesium, folate, and phosphorus, vitamin E, iron, and selenium--which according to various resources may be especially valuable for people who suffer from migraines, diabetes, atherosclerosis, and weight control issues. That's pretty damn super.

But you know what really makes quinoa super? It's stupid easy to make AND it's amazingly versatile. It's a bit of blank slate, so you can jazz it up anyway you please, and so long as you don't deep fry it, it'll still be good for you. Seeing as how I was entirely too lazy to look up any recipes for it when I made it the first time, I opted to drench it in some butter, lemon, garlic, and cumin. Actully, "drenching" is poor wording choice. Drenching things in butter is what Paula Deen [and the French] do. A generous tablespoon [or two] does not a drench make. It does, however, make a delicious meal.

And yes, I am well aware that these pictures are awful. Just awful. But you should know, that more often than not, I'm on the edge of passing out from hunger when I'm cooking, and I always rush through the pictures. But I promise to do better in the future. And by future I mean after I finish posting my backlog of poorly photographed food posts. You love me anwyays though :)

Red Quinoa with Cumin Garlic Butter
Print this recipe

1 7oz package Red Quinoa
2 1/4 Cup Water
2-3 Tbs Butter
1 Tsp Garlic, chopped
1 Tsp Cumin
1 Lemon, zested
Smoked Sea Salt

Rinse quinoa in water using a fine sieve [if you have one, I don't, I just poured off the excess water]. In a medium saucepan, bring water and quinoa to a rapid boil, stir a few times. Reduce to low heat and cover with tight fitting lid. Simmer quinoa for 15 minutes. Remove from heat, and let stand covered for about 10 minutes for water to absorb; fluff with a fork.

In a separate saucepan, melt butter over medium heat, and allow to simmer about 2 minutes until butter smells toasty. Stir garlic into butter about 1 minute; add cumin to butter, about another minute. Remove from heat, stir in lemon zest.

Pour butter mixture over quinoa, salt to taste. Serve and enjoy.

Wildcard

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 13:00:00 +0000

I'm not the type of person who does things with explicitly clear intentions. In general, I tend to do things [or not do things] because the mood strikes me to do so [or not], and the outcomes of such actions or in actions are often not major concern. I'm not sure if it's one of my biggest flaws or strongest attributes, #kanyeshrug. That's not to say that I'm reckless. I'm probably one of the biggest squares you'll ever meet, so activities of an illicit or "poor life choices that will land you in a starring role of a lifetime movie" nature don't appeal to me. I just felt that I should clarify.

I mention this lack of clear intention for my actions, because this past Saturday evening was my pole competition, and before the show started, my fellow contestants and I were required to fill out a brief bio for the MC to read to during the show: Name, occupation, length of time pole dancing, and last but not least, "why I want to be Miss Xpose Fitness". As you can probably imagine, I had absolutely no idea how to answer this question.

You see, I had pretty much made up my mind last April, during the studio's combined Finals competition that I was going to compete. Also between then and October, I was fortunate to become fast friends with my sister in pole, TJ [picture above], who wouldn't have taken no for an answer regarding my entering the competition. So while it seems I was destined to enter the preliminary competition because of these reasons, I had never given thought to why I would want to win the title, or even if I wanted to win. For the record, I eventually wrote on my bio that I wanted to prove to myself that I'm that awesome. True story.

Fast forward to Saturday evening, after I performed in the Pole Diva category to a fabulous audience with 11 of my closest friends and family, including my Mom [bless her heart, I guilted her into coming, she enjoyed what she could]. The three category winners had already been announced, and I had easily predicted long before the show who would win each: Pole Diva--TJ; Pole Princess--Momo [pictured above]; and Floor/Chair Queen: Michelle [pictured below]. But then there was the brand new Lady Wildcard spot, which is awarded the competitor with the second highest score in any category, in absence of anyone who has already placed [you can compete in all 3 categories, I only did one, I'm lazy like that].

So as I was standing there with the remaining competitors, our Mistress of Ceremonies was saying how it came down to two points to decide who would win the wildcard spot and also advance to the finals, and as we all were stomping our heels for the drumroll, I started to think to myself, "Wait...do I really not want to win? I made almost all my friends drive here from out of state...I subjected my southern mother to pole dancing and booty popping for Christ's sake...If I lose I'm going to have to check my facial expressions and resist the urge to give whoever wins the side eye of a lifetime..." only to have my thoughts interrupted by "It's Bernie!" [that's me...you know, (Ber)Nadette].

My reaction was literally, "WHAT?!" As I got confirmation from the flowers and tiara bestowed upon me, I then proceeded to act a fool in front my of momma, including, but not limited to being dry humped by TJ and saying "holy shit" at least ten times...in front of my momma.

So I guess I am that awesome...and I've got lots of training to do before the finals on April 19th. Here we gooooooo!!

It's My Blogiversary!

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 19:53:00 +0000

This week marks the 2nd anniversary of Eat, Read, Rant! Can you believe it? I've come a long way in the two years since I started this blog--which was catalyzed by a poorly timed break up during Snowmegeddon of 2010. In that time, I've grown as a foodie, grown as a writer [which ain't sayin much], grown as a photographer [that says even less], made new friends, connected with old friends in new ways, taken life changing vacations-twice, made declarations of epic and ridiculous proportions, started a small business, been pushed to the edge of sanity, laughed, cried, screamed, danced, failed, succeeded and ate, boozed, read, and ranted my through most of it.

Contrary to what I've convinced myself to believe, it's actually been a good two years. Life is hard, but I'm still standing, I'm still blogging, and most importantly, I'm still pushing forward. I'm unsure of what the next two years might bring, but I'm definitely excited ;-)

¡Besos!

30 Before 30. An update

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 19:32:00 +0000

¡Hola Lovers!

¿Guess what I'm doing el sábado próximo [next Saturday]?

I'm crossing #17 off my 30 before 30(+3) list, and performing in the Miss Xpose Fitness Preliminary competition! Holy shitballs!

I'm kinda freakin' about it at this point. I haven't performed in any capacity since I was like 23. And I've NEVER performed by myself, let alone scantily clad, wearing hooker heels, and twirling around a pole. And my mom is going to be there. I just fessed up to Linda this Christmas what exactly I've been up to at my "women's gym" for the last two years...and she's wasn't thrilled about my extracurricular activities. So yeah, I'm freakin' out.

And with 9 days to go, I'm still making big changes to my routine, impatiently waiting on my performance shoes and accessories to be delivered, still searching for silver booty shorts that aren't indecently short, and have developed what is likely to be tendinitis in my dominant arm. #freakingthefuckoutrightnow.

Such is my life. I may or may not get to post before the competition, and since I've stacked the audience with many of my friends and family, I'm hoping to get a few good pictures from the event, which I will of course share with you.

Until then, I'll leave you with some pics that would surely horrify my mom :D

What a difference a year can make!

HuffPo & Me!

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 17:58:00 +0000

GUESS WHAT?!

~~Arianna Huffington is my new bestie!~~ Valentine's Day is in less than two weeks. I usually don't give a flying fork about Vday. I'm an army of 1+poodle, and can't really imagine having the time or patience for much else. But even if I did have a +1, I really wouldn't have anytime for him seeing as my brownies have been FEATURED ON THE HUFFINGTON POST!

pardon the bad editing of this screen shot

THAT'S RIGHT! About a week ago, an Etsy Admin member contacted me about a possible feature on the Huffington Post's Valentine's Day Gifts for Men, from Etsy guide. I kind of half believed it was a hoax, but seeing as how they didn't ask me for my social security number and weren't claiming to be one of my long lost cousins from Nigeria (which wouldn't really have worked on me, seeing as how I've actually spent time with good amount of my family in Nigeria) I responded to the email and provided the information they ask for, and told myself that nothing would come of it. I'm a pessimist in that way, tragic I know.

But wouldn't you know, as I was I checking my Etsy stats this morning, I saw a big spike in traffic, and sure enough the source was from the one and only Huffington Post. #O.M.G.

As you would imagine, I'm geekin' at my desk right now. And I'm also thinking of every way I can drive traffic to the article . I'm also freaking out a bit, and worrying that this will either be a bust for and result in 0 sales, or be an amazing success resulting in more sales than I have space in my kitchen to bake with.

Obviously, I have issues. But either way, this totally just made my Friday!

And I would be remiss if I say it. What are you getting YOUR guy from V-Day? Butter is Love and Browned Butter is Lust. True Story.

!Besos de Chocolate!

Spiced Butter Pork Ribs. Oh yes I did!

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 12:00:00 +0000

Oh yes I did, rub pork in spiced butter. AND WHAT, Paula?! I made these months ago and Chef Marcus Samuelsson made me do it! It was glorious and I would do it again, the same time next year! I only regret that I never got around to using the remaining spiced butter, before it started growing mold. For shame! I'll do better next time. Mark my words!

So I've had this Marcus Samuelsson cookbook since grad school, but up until recently never really sat down with it and read its recipes. As I am coming to terms with my very real obsession with food, I'm starting to look at all my food literature differently. I'm realizing that a cookbook, is like a good novel. One that you should read over and over again. I've also realized that my food literature collection was really lacking, hence my request for Mastering the Art of French cooking for Christmas. I figured if a whiny writer with a passing interest in food could master Julia's recipes and parley her story into a half amusing/half annoying movie, the very least I could do was verse myself in the classics. I mean I eventually want to get paid to talk about and/or cook food, because that sounds a f**k of a lot better than going back and forth with grantees about their freakin' ~~TPS~~ final reports. And while collecting recipes from a bazillion different food blogs is fun, it just doesn't satisfy the soul in the way that reading a book of recipes does.

I'm sure you can relate.

Anyway, during one of my cookbook reading blitzes, I found this gem of a recipe for spiced butter. I mean flavored butter is pretty much the only thing better than butter itself, so I had to try it. I was also pretty amped because I totally had all the ingredients I needed. [In case you were wondering, I have a $hit ton of spices in my pantry. A whiiiile back, I took myself to my local halal grocer with a list and $20, and came back with 525103 different spices. And they didn't even have everything I was looking for. Don't sleep on your local ethnic grocer, you'll find all the spices you need and then some for half what you would pay for them at the regular grocery store. Booyah!] My only concern was that I was proposing to use this butter in conjunction with pork. But as you can see from the title of this post, I quickly got over it.

I'm not going to bother trying to rationalize this decision in anyway. To slather meat in butter is an indulgent sort of thing to do, to slather pork in butter is probably sacrilege. I'm fairly sure my friend David the Cardiologist [also father of one of my favorite babies] would have plenty to say about this, considering his contemptuous regard for my unrequited love of olive oil. And I'm certain that if Paula Deen knew of me and my little blog, she would have words for me, considering the hailstorm of criticism coming her way these days. But today I don't care about any of that. Sometimes, food is just too damn good to be bothered with details like cholesterol. #Kanyeshrug

Spiced Butter Pork Ribs
Print this Recipe

Ingredients
2-3 Pounds pork ribs
Sea Salt
Freshly Ground Black Pepper
2-3 Tbsp olive oil
Spiced Butter

Preheat oven to 350 F.

Rinse ribs thoroughly in cold water, pat try with paper towel. Season liberally with salt and pepper. Set aside. Prepare spiced butter (recipe below), set aside. In a heavy skillet, heat olive oil on high heat until just hot, but not smoking [should start to pale in color, and start to look a little wavy in pan, but not give off wisps of smoke]. Add ribs to oil, just a few at a time, sear ribs about 2-3 minutes on each side. Set ribs in a glass baking dish. Pour spiced butter mixture with onions and added spices. Place in oven on middle rack, bake about 15-25 minutes, until ribs are just cooked through.

Spiced Butter (adapted from Marcus Samuelsson, The Soul of a New Cuisine)
Print this Recipe

Ingredients

1 Stick unsalted butter

1/2 Onion, roughly chopped

1 Garlic clove, minced

1 1 inch piece of ginger, peeled and finely chopped

1/2 Tsp fenugreek seeds

1/2 Tsp ground cardamom

1/4 Tsp ground turmeric

1/2 Tsp cumin
3 basil leaves

Directions

In a medium saucepan over low heat, melt the butter, stirring occasionally. As foam rises to the top, use a slotted spoon to skim and discard it. Continue cooking on low until no more foam appears. Add the onion, garlic, ginger, fenugreek seeds, cardamom, turmeric and cumin and continue cooking the butter for 15 minutes at a low simmer stirring occasionally.

Remove the butter from the heat and let stand until the spices settle. Strain through a fine-mesh sieve (optional) I kept the spices and onions in butter.

This butter can be stored, covered and chilled, for up to 3 weeks. It can also be frozen for up to 2 months.

Plate up and ¡comer! [eat]

Maple Bacon Biscuits

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 12:00:00 +0000

Here we go with the cute food again. Damn that Adrianna! For the record, I cooked these biscuits exactly 2 1/2 months ago. Don't ask me what I was doing with my time in between then and now, because I surely couldn't tell you, though I know for a fact that lots of bourbon was involved. And yes, I'm aware of the irony of this post following my lambasting of our nation's favorite diabetic, butter loving, cigarette smoking, foul-mouthed grandmother. But I wouldn't advocate eating biscuits like these, or of any variety really, more than two or three times a year. This sort of indulgence, in addition to the labor that goes into to making good biscuits, lands them squarely in the "special occasions category". I'll step off my soapbox now, as my hands are covered in butter and bacon grease, and I'm hungry. #damnitfeelsgoodtobeagangsta

While the details of the last few months seem some what hazy, I can tell you that on one lovely and lazy Sunday morning in November, I woke up and decided to make these maple bacon biscuits. And what a glorious Sunday morning it was!

Have I mentioned that I love my new kitchen? If I haven't mentioned that, I should mention it now. I love my new kitchen. I love that my new kitchen actually has counter tops [plural!]. I love that I no longer have to do all of my cooking prep in a different room than my kitchen, and that I no longer have to walk across my small but still real living room/dining space to put food on the stove.

I also love that I no longer have to play a balancing game on the top of the microwave to use my waffle iron. And I love that I can make actual dough on an actual granite countertop, with full confidence that when I wiped it down, I didn't miss some unseen crevices full of salmonella ready to poison me, because I no longer have to knead dough on my questionable wood dining table.

And most of all, I love bacon. I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but I literally believe that bacon makes the world a better place. I think that a world without bacon, is like a night without stars. I wish that all religions ate bacon, because bacon is amazing. And I really wish, with all my heart, that people would stop referring to strips of alterted turkey as "bacon". If it ain't pig, it ain't bacon, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

So here they are, glorious little biscuits chock full o' bacon, and topped with a maple glaze. Personally, I thought the glaze was a little too much, and halved the proportions. But even with that "just a little too much" maple glaze, these were heavenly. And sometimes, a little too much is just right.

nom nom!

I'm a Skinny Bitch & Paula Deen has Diabeetus!

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 01:40:00 +0000

*Disclaimer* If you hadn't guessed by the title, there's some choice profanity sprinkled throught this post. You've beeen warned.

So I’m a skinny bitch, Paula Deen has diabetes, and neither one of use are having the best week ever! Unless you’ve been trapped underground for the last 7 days, you’ve probably heard by now that Paula Deen publicly announced last week that she has Type 2 Diabetes. This should come as a surprise to no one. If you’re my friend on Facebook, you may or may not have seen a really bitchy status I posted two weeks ago, in response to a “plus size” girl calling me a skinny bitch. She meant it to be funny, but I was not amused. I’m sure you’re wondering what my inability to take a joke has to do with Paula Deen but I assure you, I’ll get to that.

So let’s go back to 2 weeks ago, when I saw some bullshiggity of epic proportion on my Facebook feed. A friend posted a rant about his frustration about hearing that his women friends have been told they need to be a normal weight, and questioned what exactly a “normal weight” is. I briefly responded, leading with my public health credentials, that there is in fact a such thing as a “normal weight”, and seeing as how this nation is facing an epidemic of overweight and obesity—which are the biggest driving forces behind the skyrocketing costs of healthcare—obviously far too many people don't fit into that normal category [pun intended]. A third party then responded to the thread with, and I quote,

“I always hear it from my doctor; "Miss Iliketowearshinygoldleggings, you are healthy and strong as an ox....but maybe you should consider more exercise and diet because at your age and height....bla...h blah blah". I'm healthy, no joint issues, everything is where it should be.....so what's the problem???? I look damn good and I don't wanna be a skinny chick. Research shows that people with more body fat tend to be happier as far as personality goes. Why? (MoNique voice) Skinny bitches are evil! They hungry all the damn time!! Lmao”

Laser beam side eye; it just so happened that on that very day, I skipped breakfast [sacrilege!] and was, in fact, quite hungry and as a result was irrationally angered by her skinny bitch comment. [The irony of this situation is not lost on me, trust]. But hungry or not, what I wasn’t irrationally angry at was her attitude and blatant disregard for her doctor’s advice. I couldn’t let it go, so I responded as courteously as possible and pointed out that her youth (and that's she's blessed) may be protecting her joints [I'm a skinny bitch and have chronic knee pain, wtf?] and health now but that 5-15 years from now that probably won't be the case. I quoted some pertinent statistics [~80% of African American women are overweight or obese, hypertension, diabetes, heart disease are leading killers of African Americans]. I even made light of her calling me a skinny bitch, by reminding her of my credentials and that at the end of the day, it's my job to know better.

I may have overreacted, but did I really? I was really incensed by her laze fair at best, defiant at worst attitude about her weight and future health, because while she’s healthy now in her 20s, but will that be the case in her 30s 40s 50s? Highly unlikely!

So onto Paula Deen. Let me state this for the record, up until last week, I was a fan of Paula Deen as a TV personality. I mean, let’s face it, the woman is a lot of fun to watch on TV. She’s funny, she’s personable, she makes inappropriate sexual innuendos almost every time she has a man, who isn’t one of her sons, in her kitchen, and the word on the street is that she smokes like chimney, drinks like a fish, and cusses like a sailor. What is there not to love?? Even her incessant miscegenation of what could’ve been decent, though decadent, southern food with butter, mayonnaise and her deep fryer is something I kind of marveled at with fascination and sometimes just plain disgust. It was like watching a Lifetime movie; you get sucked in by the drama and stay in spite of the terrible acting [the same can be said for my newest TV obsession, Revenge]. I loved to watch her cook, but almost never wanted to eat what she made. And I was totally fine with that. When Anthony Bourdaine, who I’ve been a fan of for years, called her “the worst, most dangerous person” to America, I was inclined to side with Paula, because his comments were unnecessarily harsh, even though I agreed with him. But then last week happened. The queen of butter revealed that she had been diagnosed with diabetes 3 years ago and then literally in the next breath announced that she was working with the pharmaceutical industry to promote diabetes in a “new light.” Bourdaine’s reaction on twitter was, “Thinking of getting into the leg-breaking business, so I can profitably sell crutches later”. This time around, I’m team Bourdaine, because he kind of hit the nail on the head.

Paula has admitted that she does not plan to change her own lifestyle or cooking habits drastically, rather she’s opted to eat smaller portion sizes of unhealthful foods [which in her case is like trying to plug a damn a piece of gum]--and inject herself daily with the $500/month diabetes drug that she’s now paid to endorse. According to Paula, she’s “always preached moderation” [um, when ?!] and “she doesn’t blame herself”. As Chele from Black n Bougie says, red hot laserbeam side eye.

Really, Paula?! I haven’t watched her show in years, so maybe she started prefacing every deep fried episode with “moderation is key”, but I surely don't remember a moderation message when I did watch her show religiously. And it’s not unreasonable that she not blame herself entirely for this disease because I don’t know her family history, and you can’t eat yourself into type 2 diabetes [at least not entirely], and blaming one's self for anything is a destructive mindset. However, I am really disappointed she hasn’t taken one ounce of accountability for her condition, and admitted that her lifestyle of ultra rich cooking likely contributed to her disease and is something she can no longer embrace or promote. But instead she’s opted to do the very opposite, and in doing so, she’s lost fan in me, because I can no longer respect her. I. Just. Can’t.

And here’s how these two incidents are related. In both instances, there is a blatant attitude of disregard for the impact that one’s lifestyle and weight has on their health, an indifference towards personal accountability and sound medical advice, and an irresponsible deference to prescription remedies for a chronic condition. <---And this shit right there is what frustrates me as health educator [and generally contributes to me hating my damn job] and pisses me off personally. Professionally, it’s my job [or the job of the field of public health education and promotion] to change these types of attitudes, which as a tobacco control specialist, I can tell you it is really fucking hard. So imagine how much harder it’s about to become for my colleagues in obesity and diabetes when the average overweight, under-exercised, over-indulgent American sees Paula Deen slinging butter on the Food Network one minute, shooting up diabetes drugs in Victoza commercials the next, and appearing as she can bake her gooey butter cake and eat it too?

Exactly. I don’t know about you, but I’m pissed as hell about it, and for once I think I’m 100% justified in my anger.

Thoughts? [other than that this post was too damn long]

Salt "Crusted" Leg of Lamb

noreply@blogger.com (Nadette) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 15:28:00 +0000

Leave it to me to blog about the star of my family's Christmas dinner four weeks after the fact. But considering the fact that when I showed up at my mom's house two days before Christmas she didn't even have a tree, hence making my super extra last minute christmas eve shopping that didn't even get started till after 3pm due to a shortage of vehicles and competing interests, even more ridiculous than necessary, I guess you shouldn't be all that surprised. True story.

But really, it wouldn't really be a true "Nigerian Last name" family Christmas without a ridiculous amount of last minute scrambling, although this year we really out did ourselves. For the first time in our family history, we literally put up all the Christmas decorations, tree included, on December 24th. Additionally, my mother decided to instill a new tradition of each one of us bringing/cooking a new dish we've never made or shared with the family before. Hence this dabble into bread making for me, a pomegranate guacamole [not pictured, my bad] courtesy of my six years younger and six inch taller sister [really God? REALLY THOUGH? *tart face*] ridiculously delicious vegan collard greens [also not pictured, when, ever, will I learn that as a food blogger, I'm supposed to document all eatings at all times?] from big sister, and a turkey day repeat, by adamant request, of German Apple Cake from my mom [I think I tweeted this pic]. Hence, the reason for that hammer and nails on the kitchen table as I'm chopping herbs, in case you were wondering, is because my mom was in full decorating and/or fixing things mode while I was prepping the lamb, and everything had to be done in one night.

So let me get right to the business at hand--the lamb. I was inspired to make this dish by the one and only Pioneer Woman. Even though I've shamefully never seen her Food Network Show [In my defense, I haven't had cable since October, and Food Network isn't on Hulu Plus or Netflix] she's still my friend in my head. But then again, who isn't imaginary friends with P-Dub? Anyone who can make me want to visit a farm in Oklahoma has got to be pretty freakin' awesome.

While Rhee's recipe calls this a salt "crust", she references that it's not a true salt crust [which involves egg whites, several pounds of salt, and according to one Bon Appètit blogger, a gratuitous amount effort that doesn't yield much in terms of a memorable return] Formalities aside, I liked the concept, and probably for the first time in a long line of memory, I didn't have an under salted dish. In fact, if you got a slice with too much outer crust in proportion to inner meat , then it was in fact too salty. But when you got the perferct slice, it was just right I tell you. Studding the meat with the stripped rosemary stems was also a genius idea. I'll take credit for that idea thank you very much!

Anyhoo, this lamb was pretty awesome. It would have been awesomer, had I not overcooked it, but you know, $hit happens when you stay up till some unGodly hour on Christmas eve cooking and making dough and wrapping gifts, only to have to drag yourself to church at 9am [side eye] so that the service which was promised to be kept to 1 hour could be purposely dragged out an extra 30 minutes by someone with an opinion [side. effin'. eye.], come home continue to manipulate said dough, finally open your gifts, pass out on the couch, and remember to take the lamb out of the oven before it cooks 10 degrees past well done. For shame!

And such is the life of trying to document the cooking process while prepping a christmas dinner, I don't have any artfully plated photos of said awesome lamb. Not that I've ever had artfully plated photos. I'm really bad at that sort of stuff, if you hadn't noticed. But that's fodder for another day. Here's hoping it won't take me three weeks to get another post up.

Salt "Crusted" Leg of Lamb (Adapted from the Pioneer Woman)
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Ingredients

1 Leg of lamb, 4-6 pounds

4 Tablespoons olive oil

1/2 Cup coarse sea salt

5 Tablespoons black peppercorns, coarsely ground

6 Sprigs rosemary

1/2 Cup minced garlic

IMPORTANT: USE A MEAT THERMOMETER! COOKING TIMES MAY VARY WIDELY. [I forgot that my mom has a meat thermometer right up until the moment that I remembered she had one and that I overcooked the lamb by 10 degrees. I’m sorry, Lambchop!]

Place peppercorns into a plastic bag, and crush with a rolling pin [or crush in mortar and pestle]. Strip the leaves from the rosemary springs, and chop finely. Finely mince about 8 cloves of garlic (1/2 cup). Mix salt, crushed peppercorns, rosemary leaves, and garlic. Using a small, narrow knife, pierce several small, but deep pockets into flesh of the meat. Place stripped rosemary springs, into each of these pockets.

Pour olive oil over the lamb and rub mixture all over meat, making sure to rub into crevices around the bone and pockets with rosemary springs. Cover meat securely with foil, and refrigerate at least 6 hours, overnight preferably. Remove lamb from refrigerator, allow it sit at room temperature for about an hour; preheat oven to 325°F. [set it and forget it! Actually don’t forget it like I did]

Roast lamb for about 2 1/2 hours, then reduce heat to 300°F and roast for another 20 to 30 minutes or until a meat thermometer registers 145 for medium/medium well (lamb will continue to cook slightly after removing from the oven.)

Remove from oven and let rest at least 20 minutes before slicing.

*seriously, use a meat thermometer*

::Quick question:: is it really that wrong that I was singing the Lamb Chop's play along song while prepping this dish? I think I might be a horrible person, don't tell your kids!

¡Hasta Luego!