Life by Lady B

Friday Favesies

2014-09-19T11:26:00.001-07:00

Welcome to Friday Favesies, a little glimpse into some of the stuff I'm loving each week!

Amazing Grilled Thai Beef Salad recipe The Hubs and I tried this week. NOMS!

My mama treated me to my first opera experience. Placido Domingo in person! BRAVO!!

My bestie Chrissy and I are getting some matching ink from the incredible Dr. Woo soon. CANNOT WAIT!!

Speaking of my spectacular bestie, check out The Mac Family Adventures, where you can see her own Friday Favorite Things! I LOVE this girl. My cup runneth over...

Happy Friday, loves!

Riding on the Metro

2014-09-02T16:05:00.002-07:00

The Metro was crowded. Hot. Humid. Stinky. I was over it. A woman shoved her way past me, separating me and my husband. I watched as Todd had no choice but to move about 15 feet away from me, grateful for the silent “You okay?” he shot me with his eyes across the train packed with Parisians.

“I’m fine,” I wordlessly nodded back. But I wasn’t fine. I wanted off this damn train. I wanted the smelly man across from me to stop leering at me. I wanted the other smelly man next to me to stop brushing my hand with his as he pretended to just be adjusting his position on the pole. I wanted to lean against my husband instead of this sweat-slicked pole. I wanted to reach our stop and escape to the perfect summer afternoon above ground.

As we approached the next stop, I hoped enough people would exit that I could breathe again. Instead, twenty more boarded.

“How are we all going to fit?” I thought to myself, knowing damn well the answer was that we just would, same as it goes every day on any subway in the world. Sometimes, you just do. I sighed as I was forced closer to the smelly men while weary passengers pushed their way into the train car.

As the doors were about to close, I noticed a handsome black man struggling to board before he lost the chance. Though it went against everything my cramped, tired, perspiring traveler’s body wanted, I stuck my arm out to catch the door for him. Only then did I notice the two small children with him.

“Merci,” he said breathlessly. I blanked on the French words for “You’re welcome” so I smiled warmly, hoping he understood. We locked eyes and my world stopped. The look of sheer gratitude in his eyes took my breath away. This tiny act of kindness was clearly not something he encountered on the Paris Metro often.

I glanced down at his children, two young boys so beautiful they made my heart ache. The older of the two, probably around 5 years old, smiled so big at me. The younger, looking to be around 3 years old, just stared at me with the biggest chocolate eyes I’d ever seen. My heart melted. My uterus quivered a little.

The moment was interrupted as the four of us realized simultaneously that by saving them from missing the train, I’d also made it possible for another 10-15 people to squeeze their way in behind them. Firmly holding my position with my hand on the nearest pole, I saw the look of panic flash into the father’s eyes as a man slipped between he and his older son, separating them. Without thinking, I reached for the boy’s hand so he could hold onto the same pole I was. I squeezed to the side as much as I possibly could to allow the smaller one to join, mentally cursing my curvy figure for taking up so much space. Once again, the look of gratitude in the father’s eyes took my breath away, shaking me out of my momentary pity party. He moved close to us and asked with only his thankful eyes, “Are you sure it’s okay?” My eyes answered back, “Of course.”

For the next three stops, the boys stayed with me as their father was forced to stand just a few feet away, keeping a watchful eye on his boys. With each rough movement of the train, he would look at me and wordlessly ask again, “Are you sure it’s okay?” I hoped he understood as I eye-spoke in response, “Of course. And they’re beautiful.”

And they were. The boys held the type of the beauty that only comes with innocence. Each of them held a spark in their eyes that said, “Live! Love!” At least, that’s what my heart kept hearing.

A lump formed in my throat as the older one snuck a curious glance up at me, smiled, and moved his hand up the pole so he could just barely touch mine. I smiled down at him to let him know he was safe. We began an adorable game of cat and mouse with our hands. He would gently touch mine, I would smile, he’d sheepishly move it away, I would smile again, and he’d move his hand back to touch mine. Again and again, until he finally giggled and I thought my heart would explode. The father spied our game and a sharp look of concern flashed across his face. “Is he bothering you?” his eyes asked before shooting his son a stern but loving warning look. “Not at all,” mine responded. I don’t know how but I immediately knew what an amazing father this man was. He smiled gratefully again.

The younger boy was getting tired, his tiny legs struggling to keep him upright on the jostling train. I shifted slightly so he could lean against the pole more. Instead, he leaned against me. The move was so natural, so primal, I was breathless yet again. He closed his eyes and leaned his small head against my stomach, a move I could tell he’d made a million times with his own mother. There’s something about the softness of a woman’s stomach that children are drawn to, like nature’s pillow. A small sigh of contentment escaped his little lips. My entire body started to hum with a feeling I’d wanted for so long but hadn’t yet felt on my own…motherly. The lump in my throat grew.

I looked up at their father, expecting him to be irritated with my sudden closeness with his cubs. Instead, his eyes seemed to say, “It’s great, isn’t it?” For a few moments our eyes locked and we held an entire conversation about how beautiful the boys were, how much I wanted one of my own, how appreciative he was that I helped, how much I loved visiting his city, how impressed I was with his parenting, all without ever saying a single word. I looked over at Todd, now a bit closer to me than before but still out of my reach. His eyes said, “Nice job, babe.” I just grinned like a maniac.

At the next stop, the crowd thinned a bit as many passengers exited. The father was able to move a few inches closer to us. “Still okay?” his eyes questioned. “More than okay,” mine answered as my body relished the delicious feeling of the tiny head against my tummy. The older boy and I continued our hand/pole game, though he’d become more confident and less shy about it. Now he smiled hugely, showing me all his adorable miniature teeth. His eyes danced with mischief. I longed to play a real game of tag in the park with him. I bet he’s really good.

The smaller boy leaned even closer into my stomach, letting his eyes close again. My heart felt like the Grinch’s at the end of the story, growing two sizes till I thought my chest may burst. The rest of the train seemed to disappear and I could only focus on the family of three. This stunning, perfect beautiful little family in Paris. I knew nothing about them, knew not where they were going or where they had been, nor where the mother was. But I knew I loved them. All of them. And in that instant I knew that our nationalities didn’t matter. Our different languages didn’t matter. Our potentially opposing world views, political persuasions, values, morals, favorite types of cheese didn’t matter. We were human. We knew love. That was all that mattered. That was universal.

Suddenly, the train doors opened and the father reached for his boys. It was their stop. I wished it wasn’t. I let go of the elder’s hand, shifted slightly so the younger, who was now an almost-sleeping puddle of jello against me, knew it was time to move. He looked up sadly, obviously not ready to relinquish his post against my stomach, the stomach I usually hated for being so soft and round but was now suddenly proud of for providing comfort. I smiled down to say, “It’s okay. I like you here, too, but your dad needs you more than I do.” He smiled back as if to say, “You’re right. And thank you.” The elder looked at me with his impish grin, squeezed my hand one last time, and went to his father. As they were almost out of the train, they all looked back at me. The dad’s eyes said, “Thanks again.” Mine responded, “Thank YOU” as the doors closed.

The Metro had never felt so empty. And my heart had never felt so full.

The Self Healthy Eating Challenge: Night One

2013-04-17T19:15:00.001-07:00

I recently turned 32. Quarter-life crisis that accompanies that aside, it got me thinking. I'm not a kid anymore. Like, really. It's time to stop half-heartedly paying attention to my heath and finally just get healthy once and for all.

So I quit smoking (Again. I know.), I've been jogging a bit more frequently, and I'm seriously considering inflating (and using!) that workout ball mom got me for my birthday. And I let this pin take over my life for a week.

Have y'all seen this pin yet? Cuz it's everywhere.

It excited me, this pin. Organization and food pins are my porn. I really didn't even need to click on the pin before I knew I had to do it. Whatever it was. Mostly, I just wanted pretty tupperware filled with pretty veggies.

So I clicked. And found this:

So Self, what you're telling me is I can have an organized veggie-stocked fridge, eat crazy healthy, AND be just like Kelly Kapowski? Challenge accepted. (Okay, sure Self didn't exactly call this a challenge or anything. But it was way more fun to approach it as one. Plus, that's what the Bayside Tigers would do.)

According to celebrity trainer Kathy Kaehler's pin-worthy plan, the first thing I had to do was shop for all of the ingredients listed on her crazy easy shopping list. Seriously, she's even got it sorted by aisle with exact amounts. Her plan is for one person so I just doubled up. The grand total for everything (I already had some of the staples) was $150.32 which seemed a bit steep for just one week's worth of dinners for two. Until I got home and read the receipt. $39.96 for the halibut?!?! WTF??? I'll admit, I never checked the price when I asked the butcher for 3 servings of halibut (I got one extra in case I fucked one up. I'd never cooked halibut before.). So did I mess up on the portions or is this fish made of frickin' gold?

Next up, prep! Following the handy outline, I chopped, diced, halved, sliced, ground, zested and juiced for two and half hours. I did everything except toast the almonds, pound the chicken, and drain the beans, but mostly just because I ran out of tupperware and fridge space. Once I was finished I discovered that for some reason I had WAY too much cauliflower left over. Anyone have any recipes?

A word to those rising to the "challenge": Label everything! Good luck telling the difference between chopped white and yellow onions if you don't.

Honestly, most of the prep process was kinda fun. Though it's time consuming, there's nothing difficult about it. Chopping so many onions made me cry like a girl stood up on prom night but the fridgefull of food porn was totally worth it.

Before I could tackle making the first meal, I needed to not look at my kitchen for a few minutes. So The Hubs and I took a rooftop wine break.

Then it was time to tackle Cheesy Baked Shrimp with Roasted Tomato Quinoa. The recipe was super easy to follow and took a little over 45 minutes. The quinoa turned out a little watery but it was my first time ever making it so I cut myself some slack.

The Hubs and I agreed that while it looked flavor-packed, it was actually pretty bland. We gave it a respectable 3.5 out of 5. Would we order it in a restaurant? Probably not. But it was wicked easy to throw together, mildly tasty, and hearty. The roasted tomatoes were amaze-balls delicious and sure to be in heavy rotation in our home. Next time, I think I'll swap out the Feta cheese for something stronger. Though it looks cheesy, neither of us could taste the cheese at all. Which bummed us out. Cuz we love us some cheese.

Which is probably why I really need to stick with this healthy challenge...

We now return you to my regularly scheduled existential crisis...

2013-02-15T15:53:00.000-08:00

Remember when I was good at blogging? Yeah, me either. It's been five months since I last posted. Five. Months.

Remember this post? One of the last before I virtually shut the hell up? The one where I was all fulfilled and excited about new beginnings? Remember when I thought I finally had it all figured out? Yeah. Me either.

I thought I'd found it, that I'd finally figured out what I want to be when I grow up. But here am I, looking 32 in the face, still wondering what I'm going to do with my life. Sure, my new (okay I guess it's not so new anymore) bakery life has its perks. I love getting all OCD on chocolate dipping cookies. I adore many of my customers. I've learned a TON. But if I'm really honest with myself...if I really quiet all the rambling questions and to-do lists in my brain and allow myself the luxury of self-reflection...this isn't it. I thought it was. But it's not.

My feet hurt. My schedule sucks. Customers treat me horribly on a good day. I'm broke. I miss my husband. I'm too tired to write. I miss weekends. And holidays. And the ability to call in sick. And sleep.

So, now what? I feel like a professional failure. To borrow a term from my former flak days, I've "rebranded" my career so many times I'm starting to lose track. Teacher. Publicist. Operations Director. Writer. Baker. (to name a few) I can't decide if my resume looks diversified or schizophrenic.

If I'm even more honest with myself, I know exactly what I want to be when I grow up.

I want to be a mom.

But that isn't going to pay the bills. Quite the opposite actually.

So...

Now what?

When in doubt, margarita.

Thank you...

2012-09-05T13:56:00.001-07:00

My Sweet Husband,

I went to the store to find you a card this morning. I spent an hour reading and re-reading every anniversary card available. And you know what? They sucked. None of them came even the slightest bit close to expressing how truly and deeply I love you. Not a single one could properly convey just how much being your wife means to me. No card could really say how thrilling, comforting, and awe-inspiring the past three years have been.

There isn't an employee at Hallmark or American Greetings or Papyrus that understands how lucky I am to have you. But how could they? How could they know the pure unabashed joy that is waking up to your face every morning? How could they possibly get the enormity of the hurdles we've bridged together? How could they ever realize what it really means to fall more in love with your best friend every day? I can hardly put it into my words myself.

So I walked out, sans anniversary card and decided to write you a letter instead. A thank-you letter.

Thank you....

For being the best possible version of yourself for me, just as you vowed three years ago. For every morning, every day, every night you've loved and accepted me. For pushing me harder than anyone ever has. For letting me do the same to you.

Thank you...

For having the patience of a saint. I'm not easy to live with. We both know this. But every day, your gentle patience and encouragement just plain floors me. Whether it's my hemming and hawing over swtiching careers, my hesitation to risk leaving the Valley, my many failed attempts to quit smoking, my special brand of mood swings, or just waiting for me to realize that Dr. Who is in fact one of the best TV shows ever made (there, I publicly admitted it), your tolerance has never wavered.

Thank you...

For pushing me to follow my dreams, no matter how often they change. For helping me figure out what kind of woman I want to be and doing everything and then some to get me there. For pushing me to test my limits and step out of my comfort zone. For loving me in spite and because of my baggage.

Thank you...

For knowing when to call me on my shit and when to bite your tongue. For understanding me better than anyone in the universe, even when I make absolutely no sense. For killing the spiders, moving the furniture (repeatedly), and enduring marathon visits to Target. For being the best taste-tester and sometimes fibbing when I flub a recipe to make me feel better. ("No really, it's good." Uh-huh.) For hiding your boredom in Living Spaces. For still always holding my hand.

Thank you...

For never letting the romance die. For every impromptu date night, weekend getaway, dance party and adventure. For getting lost with me. For finding me when I get lost in myself. For showing me the world...both physically and through your eyes. For making me swoon even in the most mundane moments. For making me laugh. For letting me in. For never giving up.

Thank you...

For all of it. Every kiss, hug, giggle, sigh, tear, minute, week, year. "Every word."

I love you.

Letter to a Stranger

2012-07-31T17:40:00.001-07:00

Dear Old Man,

You've come into the bakery almost every morning since I started. I hear it's been years. You order a cup of coffee and you sit. For hours.

And you're dying.

Every morning, I see less life in you than the morning before. When I first served you, you were able to mutter shakily, "Small coffee." Now, you can only shake. Luckily, I know.

I know that you like your coffee piping hot, almost scalding. I know you like this because you sip it for hours and this way it stays warm just a little bit longer. I know that you like maps as you often have your head buried in an atlas, struggling to see past your blurry eyes at all the faraway places that maybe you went or just wish you had. I know that you really like your red plaid shirt. You wear it a lot. I know that you walk to the bakery and that it takes every ounce of strength you have to make that journey. It also takes a cane. I know that sometimes you really, really want a second cup but get discouraged at the thought of dragging your exhausted legs back to the counter. I know how much that walk took out of you. I know you can't stop trembling, and that your skin is literally falling off, and that you can hardly speak. I know that it makes it easier when I notice your empty mug and bring you a refill before you can reach for your cane. I know the unbelievably kind smile you give me in return makes my whole day.

But there are so many things I don't know. I don't know if you realize how much I've wanted to make your last days at the bakery just a little bit sweeter. I don't know if you know that I wish I could do so much more than give a warm smile, know your order so you don't have to struggle through it, and refill your mug. I don't know if you know that I look forward to seeing you each morning just as much as you look forward to that cuppa joe. I don't know if you have a family or if you are alone as I fear. I don't know your story.

And I don't know why you haven't come in this week.

But I hope your mornings are just a little bit sweeter and you have all the refills you need.

Fondly,

Lady B

Livin' the Dream

2012-06-11T11:43:00.000-07:00

You guys. Seriously.

It's happened.

About a year and a half ago, I came home from work exhausted, weary, and on the verge of a complete meltdown. Every. Night. I told The Hubs, "All I want to do is frost cupcakes and write."

I wanted a life in which I made people, and myself, happy. I wanted something pure, something nourishing, something sweet, something filled with love. I wanted to actually have the time to do the things I loved. I wanted to love what I do. I wanted people to feel loved by what I do. I wanted to feed people. And write about it. Operation Frost Cupcakes became the dream.

Over time Operation Frost Cupcakes became our code for, "When Andrea finally gets to work in a bakery, write, move to a kick-ass part of town, and completely love her life." The Hubs and I talked about it all the time. I dreamed about it constantly. I told anyone that would listen that someday, someday. I put it out into the universe. It got me through the days. I wanted that new adventure so bad I could taste it.

It's been a tough journey. Really tough. Twists and turns and doubts and so many unexpected curve-balls made me come thisclose to giving up the dream. Almost daily I seriously questioned just what the hell I thought I was doing. Each hurdle made the dream seem further and further away.

But then it started getting closer. The Hubs, my friends, my family, YOU held my hand, dragged me kicking and screaming, and cheered so damn loud as the finish line got closer and closer. I wanted to give up. You all wouldn't let me. So I ran faster, dreamed bigger.

And then it happened. I crossed the finish line.

I'm here. Living the dream.

Working in a bakery. Freelance writing. Loving my new town. Drafting a book. Blogging. Laughing. Dreaming. Loving.

Living.

I love you. Thank you.

The Nice Fight

2012-06-08T11:54:00.000-07:00

Have you ever niced your way into an epic fight? Does that question make any sense at all to you? Lemme 'splain.

The Hubs and I have this amazing habit of getting into arguments because we are being TOO NICE to each other. I know. It sounds completely stupid. And it probably is.

This fight almost always starts over snoring. Not in the way you think. I don't get mad when he snores. I don't see red when it sounds like I'm laying next to a wild boar making love to a chain saw. I don't get upset when the bed is literally shaking from his log sawing.

I get nice.

Rather than kick him and push him out of the bed (though it's sometimes it's very, very tempting), I simply grab a blanket and my pillow and move to the couch. Inevitably, he will wake up an hour or two later to discover my absense, wander into the living room to find me asleep on the couch or the floor, and then it starts...

The nice fight.

"Why are you out here? Come back to bed."

"You were snoring. I'm fine here. Go back to bed."

"No, I'll take the couch. You have a bad back. Go to bed."

"No, you have to work in the morning. You go to bed."

"No, no. I don't feel comfortable with you out here. You take the bed."

"No. Really. You're the breadwinner. I don't feel right kicking you out of bed. You take the bed."

"No, babe. TAKE THE BED."

"No, really sweetheart. I'M GOOD HERE. GO BACK TO BED!"

"But I love you and I don't want you to be uncomfortable. TAKE THE DAMN BED!"

"I love you, too. SO, TAKE THE EFFING BED!"

"What the hell is wrong with you? GO THE FUCK TO BED!"

"Why are you being an ass? GO! TO! BED!"

"How's it feel up on that cross? TAKE THE BED!"

"Cross? CROSS?!?! Ah HELLNO! I'M SO TAKING THIS COUCH! GO TO BED!!!!"

And then we're in a huge fight.

What is wrong with us? Who in their right mind gets into arguments because they are trying to out-nice each other? Does anyone else do this or are The Hubs and I certifiably insane?

And it doesn't end there. We get in the nice fight more than any other fight. We've got conflicting events on the same day? Watch us battle over who will cancel their plans to accommodate the other. An unappealing errand to run? We'll go ten rounds over who gets to do it so the other doesn't have to. A mess to clean up? Literally clawing our way to said mess to get to it before the other person can. And the best part? Neither of us even necessarily WANTS to do the nice thing. We just can't stand the thought of the other being put out so we'll gladly play the martyr card in order to feel nice.

What the hell is that about? Does anyone else have nice fights?

Ready to feel old???

2012-06-02T12:49:00.002-07:00

George Michael's "I Want Your Sex" was released TWENTY-FIVE years ago today. Yeah. I'll let that bit of craziness sink in while we take a trip down memory lane...

Love in the Time of Cameltoe

2012-05-29T16:58:00.001-07:00

Actual exchange between me and the Hubs:

*It should be noted that prior to this exchange, I gave him a mistaken mohawk, made him a kick-ass dinner, and shared two bottles of Cab Sauv with him.*

Hubs: *from bathroom* Babe, can you come here?

Me: *from living room* Hang on!

Hubs: But I need your help! There's a wonky part in the back! *of the mistaken mohawk*

Me: *silence*

Hubs: BABE!

Me: Hang the FUCK ON! I'm looking at Mariah Carey's cameltoe!

Hubs: *enters living room to find me on laptop staring huge-eyed and drop-jawwed at said cameltoe*

Full thirty seconds of silence till I look up at Hubs, WHO HAS TEARS IN HIS EYES.

Hubs: You've never been more my wife. *seriously, tears in his eyes, you guys*

Me: Huh?

Hubs: I'm serious. You're just the perfect woman for me. You gave me a mohawk, made me that delicious dinner, we're drunk and you're yelling about Mariah Carey's cameltoe. You're just so my wife. I love you so much.

Me: Awww, babe. But, seriously, DID YOU SEE THIS CAMELTOE SHIT?

And that's true love, folks.

PS But seriously, did you see this cameltoe shit? Mariah, girl, that looks downright PAINFUL!

PPS Mariah Carey's stylist should totally be fired.

PPPS So should Mariah Carey's vagina.

Lady B's in Love

2012-05-03T15:34:00.000-07:00

It finally sunk in the other night. The first couple of weeks were a SERIOUS adjustment, but it really and truly hit me this weekend, standing in front of the Kibitz Room at Canter's Deli as a light rain drizzled down on The Hubs and I, making the Hollywood lights glow a welcoming orange in the night sky. Hit me like a ton of happy, fluffy, warm and fuzzy rainbows and unicorns. And maybe a little Jack Daniels.

My new home is RAD.

Seriously, you guys? I wasn't sure if I'd get used to living over the hill. I know it sounds dramatic but this was a GINORMOUS change for Lady B. I left my safe Valley bubble for the frenetic, crazy energy that is Hollywood. And I downsized from a sprawling house to an apartment. I have to admit that the first week left me feeling overwhelmed, exhausted, out of place and scared to come out from under my covers. And then a list of awesomeness started to write itself:

I have not moved my car in over two weeks, yet I've gone out multiple times every single day.
I've lost ten pounds from all the walking, jogging and exploring I've done in my new 'hood.
The Hubs and I now unwind by sitting in our rooftop jacuzzi, looking out over the entire damn city.
That's the same rooftop my bestie and I gossiped, ate stupid-delicious Crumbs Bake Shop cupcakes, and were treated to a surprise fireworks show from Dodger Stadium last Friday night.
We live across the street from the historic El Royale, former home of Clark Gable and other legends. I'm obsessed with its Art Deco architecture and it's green neon sign shines down into our pool in the sexiest film noir kinda way.

Speaking of which, I feel the need to speak like a 40's dame living here. "That's the way it's gonna be, see." "Come 'ere, kid, and let Mama make a man outta ya." Know what I mean? Very Mae West.
Oh yeah. I also look out over the historic Ravenswood Apartments, where Mae West lived for close to 50 years.
The Farmer's Market is ridiculous and fantastic. There is a GOURMET SALT GUY, people! Fancy salt!!! Y'all know how much I love me some fancy-pants salt!
I have a GAS OVEN AND STOVE again! We're cooking with gas, folks! Oh fire, how I missed you.
The Village Pizzeria is now our second home. A delicious, warm, cheesy home.
Everything we own really does fit into this apartment! No need for a storage space as we'd feared! Boo to the YAH!
There's a book store! A real, honest-to-goodness, not-a-giant-chain book store!!!!
Our neighbors are NEIGHBORLY! Was totally not expecting that.
The amount of eye candy in Larchmont Village is bananas. Sexy, scruffy dads getting ice cream with the kids your kinda thing? Tight spandex-clad butts walking to yoga? Down to earth, yet painfully gorgeous celebs? Salt-n-pepper Clooney types? Get. Down. Here. Now.

I could go on for days but I don't want hit the world record for exclamation points in a single blog post.You get it though, right?

THIS PLACE IS HOME! AND HOME IS FREAKING AMAZE-BALLS!!!!!!!

I'm, Like, Totally Gonna Miss The Valley

2012-03-08T11:45:00.000-08:00

Why has the idea of leaving The Valley shaken me to my very core? Why is moving a measly 12 miles making me feel like I'm moving away?

I'm a Valley girl, through and through. Except for that awful 6-month stint in Arizona, I've lived here my entire life. It's all I know. And I love it. And I'm going to miss the holy shit out of it.

Don't get me wrong, I'm stoked for our new adventure over the hill. I can't wait to explore our new 'hood. The Hubs and I have always wanted to live exactly where our new place is and I keep pinching myself to make sure our dream is really coming true. But there's something absolutely terrifying about your dreams coming true. What if your dream was wrong? What if once you have it, you discover that you don't really want it after all? What if it just plain sucks?

Then again, what if it doesn't?

Still. I'm gonna miss the good ol' SFV. The 818. My stomping grounds. The smell of night jasmine in the air. Jogging along the Balboa path. October at the Tapia Bros. pumpkin patch. A frozen lemonade at The Sherman Oaks Street Fair. A movie at The Galleria. A Twain's pancake and a Dupar's pie. Orange and purple sunsets over the 101. A memory tied to each and every corner. My roots.

I've got 37 days left (Crap, it's still that far away? Is this not the longest waiting game ever?) as a San Fernando Valley resident. As a true Valley girl. And I'm going to make the most of it. I know I'll be back. It's only twelve freaking miles. My family and friends are still here. But there's something so bittersweet about leaving and I feel the need to respect that. So I'm going to spend the next five weeks indulging in some of my all-time Valley favorite pastimes. Want to join me?


Spring time at Lake Balboa

A Bob's Big Boy combo in Burbank

People watching over coffee at La Reina on Ventura Blvd.

Pool and darts with the gang at the Sweep.

Wholesome goodness at the Studio City Farmer's Market

Oh Valley, you're so pretty.

TV Dinners: Kelsey Nixon's Chicken Cacciatore

2012-03-07T17:05:00.001-08:00

Internet, I have a confession to make. I didn't want to like the squeaky-clean, annoyingly chipper blonde host of The Cooking Channel's "Kelsey's Essentials." She's too perky for my taste. And too sparkly. And too perfectly young. And all know-it-all about telling me the essentials of my kitchen.

But internet, I can admit when I'm wrong. Dead wrong.

I set out to make Kelsey's Chicken Cattiatore, scoffing when I saw the episode in my DVR. What could blondey know about true Italian food?

I love me some cattiatore. It's good ol' simple Italian rustic goodness. I've literally consumed gallons of said goodness in my life, but I've never attempted to make it myself. Internet, I also confess that I lack patience. Anything worth simmering in a Dutch oven requires a lot of waiting, and a lot of patience. Somehow Kelsey's "essential" version claimed to take only 95 minutes. Silly, Kelsey. You can't rush such goodness! Braising takes time. Dutch oven goodness takes time. *This is where my husband would make a Dutch oven joke. I'm pretty sure the only reason he bought me one was so that he could make these jokes whenever I use it.* Getting simple rustic flavors to truly reach their full flavor potential means giving them the respect, and time, they deserve. I take this shit seriously. *That's where The Hubs would say "I take Dutch ovens seriously" and probably fart.* I started preparing myself for another lackluster TV Dinner, already grumbling about the lack of any real flavor from these TV recipes and apologizing to you in the blog I was writing in my head...

I gathered up the ingredients. Simple ones. With wine. Yes. I opened the wine immediately. So it could, you know, breathe. In my mouth.

I salted and peppered chicken thighs before dredging them in flour and browning. The online recipe doesn't tell you to, but you should always pat your chicken dry before doing this. Use paper towels and blot, blot, blot. Dry chicken = crispy golden crust. Trust this. The recipe also calls for a whole chicken. I was lazy and the thighs were on sale. Trust in improvisation, too.

I browned a few pieces at a time to avoid overcrowding. While you wait for your little chickens to get all goldy browny, you may start to look at the clock and think to yourself, "Huh. Hour and a half? Riiiiiiggght." Just me? Fair enough. But I was highly doubting this dinner would really only take 95 minutes to make. So I passed the time by letting some more wine breathe. In my mouth.

See? Perfectly golden brown. Power of the paper towel pat down.

I took the thighs out of the pot to rest and started adding all kinds of happiness in my beloved Le Creuset. Even though it does require so much of that patience I've confessed to not having, I really do love any excuse to use it. It's a good calming exercise for my mental state. And my mouth.

Internet, I have another confession to make. I wasn't exactly sure what cremini mushrooms were. At the market, I guessed and got the little white ones. When I got home I asked the mighty Google and discovered I was wrong. Oh well. I will also confess that I forgot to add them until the last second. Improvisation, folks.

I added the happy golden chickens back into the pot to simmer and set my timer for 40 minutes. When it went off, I glanced at the the clock. And then my picked my jaw up from the floor. GUYS. It ACTUALLY TOOK 95 MINUTES. Exactly. Whoa.

Also, it looked like this:

And tasted like this:

Source: crunchybetty.com via Andrea on Pinterest

You know, if that kind of heaven were a flavor. Damn. That would taste good. Like this cattiatore.

Kelsey Nixon just made me compare chicken to Ryan Gosling. It's that good, people.

As The Hubs stuffed his mouth, I told him "It's a TV Dinner ya know."

Hubs: Oh yeah? It fucking rules. *shoved more bread and sauce in his face*

Me: Yeah. You have Kelsey Nixon to thank for this.

Hubs: Well, I'd like throw her on this table and make a woman out of her to thank her for this.

Yup. It's that good.

Lady B’s Final Say So:

Ease Factor: 5 out of 5 noms (And clean-up was wicked easy, too!)
Taste Test: 5 out of 5 noms
Truth in Advertising: 5 out of 5 noms
The Hubs’ Vote: "Possibly 5. But I'm also a little drunk."
Yeah, but is it pretty?: 4 out of 5 noms. Served with crusty bread, it's nothing fancy looking. But it's so pretty in your mouth.
Overall: Kelsey, will you marry us?

Glam or Gaudy?

2012-02-29T12:46:00.001-08:00

So, I'm moving. I may have mentioned it. I may have also mentioned that I'm a teensy bit scared of the big change.

But my Hubs is a freaking knight in shining moving armor. Moving armor? That doesn't even make sense. You get the gist, right? Like my adorably handsome bearded husband all made up in an armor suit made of moving and packing supplies? I guess that really wouldn't be decent armor though. You could just tear that to shreds if you were a moving supply dragon or something. Or could you? Cuz then you'd be made of the same stuff as the armor, which we've already established isn't very armor-y. Huh. Anyway.

My Hubs. He's amazing. He knows exactly how to make scary changes magically transform into wonderfully exciting changes with just a few simple words:

"How about we just sell all the living room furniture and start over with brand new stuff?"

What the WHAAAAA?!?!?

Yeah. Knight in moving armor. For reals.

Then he did one even better. He threw me in the car and ignored my whiny complaints about driving sooooo far as we made our to almost-Culver City. "I swear you're gonna like it," he promised. I pouted and whined some more. Cuz I'm awesome like that.

And then we arrived. And ohmyfuckinggodareyoufuckingkiddingme what is this magical place?!!

One hundred fifty THOUSAND square feet of sheer furniture heaven. Heaven, I tell you!!! Sure, most of the items in this interior design mecca are well out of our budget. But they have deals, people! And an outlet space! And just plain inspiration for DAYS!

It's rare when The Hubs gets into shopping of any kind. Ask him to go to the grocery store and it's like you've asked him to drop his pants and cough. But whenever we move he gets oddly excited about new furniture. And then surprises me with some secret magic furniture store juju. Reason #76492 why I adore him. And then dragged him around for 4 hours until we both couldn't look at another damn sofa.

Which brings me to this. We both adore the looks of hotels like The Viceroy and The Riviera in Palm Springs. Yes, we're also kind of obsessed with Palm Springs getaways. Whatevs. So we love the look. Kind of Hollywood Regency meets Mid-Century Modern meets just plain cool. But we don't want to look like we're living in Liberace's place. Okay, The Hubs doesn't anyway. I could totally rock that.

After our trip to what we now can't stop calling "HR Pufnstuf" I came home and ran to the laptop, happily researching budget-friendly options for our new Larchmont Loveshack.

And I discovered Polyvore. Are you on this, yet? Think Pinterest but you can make your own little bulletin inspiration board thingys. And I made THIS:

hollywood regency dream living room by ladyb29 featuring wide rings

Interwebs, I ask you: Is it just the right amount of glam? Or too gaudy? Be honest. I love it. I adore it. I want it. But I don't want to wake up three months from now feeling like old Hollywood threw up on my living room, ya know?

Glam? Gaudy? Just plain awful? Got a better idea? Wanna just go to HD Buttercup with me and drool on everything?

Yay!

Larchmont by Lady B

2012-02-28T14:57:00.000-08:00

Lady B is leaving the Valley.

Yeah. I'll let that sink in for a minute. Oh wait, except it really hasn't for me yet. Cah-razy, I tell ya.

But 'tis true. The Hubs and I are packing up the Mammoth Manor and moving over the hill. Something I thought I'd never, ever ever do. But I'm doing it. And I'm over the moon excited. And just a teensy bit scared. But mostly I'm just counting the days till all of this kinda awesomeness is literally steps from our front door:

Check out REISGroup.org for the story on our neighboring building

The Hollywood Forever Cemetery. (David McNew/Getty Images)

Lady B, Miss Pacman, and Jack. The local Barcade brings friends together.

We don't move for another 5 weeks. Five long, excruciating weeks. It's like waiting for Christmas morning and the first day of the school. Which would actually really suck if those ever happened on the same day but whatevs. You get it.

Larchmont, HO!

TV Dinners: Rachael Ray's Fettuccine Primavera

2012-02-28T14:25:00.000-08:00

Veggies, y'all. Veggies are super good for you. Good for your guts. Good for your taste buds. Good for when you're thinking that you should add more veggies and healthish stuff to your life. Since you're life's changing so much. Which isn't scary at all. Nope. No, siree. Not one bit terrifying or overwhelming. Like veggies. Not scary. Not scary at all.

So Rachael Ray, let's talk about veggies. Veggies in pasta. Let's talk about the yummy and healthy looking Fettuccine Primavera you whipped up on 30 Minute Meals. Let's chop and peel lots and lots of pretty produce to keep our minds off the nagging doubts and excited questions. Let's cook veggies. Healthy. Not scary.

Also, let's drink wine while we chop veggies. Not scary. Okay, a little scary so let's only sip the wine. Then let's thank Rachael for including wine in the recipe.

Veggies are pretty. Not scary. Not like change. Change is scary. Healthy carrots and zucchini are not scary. Peas are not scary. Easy peasey.

Boiling water. Natural. Familiar. Easy. Not scary. Add pasta. Calm and cool. Stir it around. Stone cold chillin'.

Add veggies to boiling water. Okay. Kinda weird. Just boil 'em? Boiled veggies. Huh. Still, not scary. Definitely not scary.

Saute up some EVOO (that's Rachaelese for extra virgin olive oil), butter, shallots, garlic, peas, wine, and stock. Not scary. Not like drastic career change and moving OVER THE HILL scary. Not like that. Nope.

Mix it all together. Decide it's too boring and that's scary. Add grilled chicken.

Lessons learned? Veggies are not scary. Boring pasta is a little scary but easily remedied with leftover grilled chicken. Rachael Ray's Fettuccine Primavera really does only take an easy 30 minutes to make and is totally not scary. Facing giant life changes as 31 is lurking right 'round the corner is SUPER scary. Veggies, and wine, are good when things are scary.

Lady B’s Final Say So:

Ease Factor: 5 out of 5 noms
Taste Test: 3 out of 5 noms (would have been less without the chicken)
Truth in Advertising: 4 out of 5 noms
The Hubs’ Vote: 2 out of 5 noms ("But I'm giving one of those points cuz of the chicken. This is boring. Solid. But boring.")
Yeah, but is it pretty?: 3.5 out of 5 noms
Overall: Meh. It's easy and healthy. But almost scary boring.

Vegas, Baby. Vegas!

2012-02-20T17:56:00.000-08:00

The Hubs and I are back from a kick-ass weekend in Sin City. Although, can I really call it that knowing that I went specifically to catch The Fresh Beat Band in concert? Hmm.

No. I'm not a crazy lunatic. I know I don't have kids. So why on earth would I be SO FREAKING EXCITED to have tickets AND VIP passes to The Fresh Beats show? Well for one, the hilarious looks we kept getting from parents thinking The Hubs and I were weirdo adult fans of the Nick Jr hit.

But really because our dear friend IS Marina! We're so damn proud of and happy for her, it's crazy. I'll admit, I totally teared up when I saw her on stage. And again when I looked around the room and saw literally thousands of kids cheering for her. And again just now as I typed that. Sheesh! Ball of proud friend mush, I am. Love you, Tara.

Since our gal was playing a huge gig at Planet Hollywood, we decided to make a weekend of it. Vegas, baby. Vegas.

Stellar view from our Aria room.

His & Hers

Jean Philippe Patiserrie ~ gorgeous!

A completely edible creation

Good morning, Vegas.

Aria. Perfection.

Yes!!

Can you spot the celebrity fan?

"It was a great day!"

The Fresh Beats meet a very important fan!

Beauchamps & Fresh Beats!

Luck be a Lady B?

Lucky in love, anyway.

I know, I know, I know...

2012-02-13T16:09:00.000-08:00

I went radio-silent for a minute there. Sorry about that. I didn't forget you. I swear.

It's not you. It's me.

I've just been crazy busy.

I'm just in the phase of my life where I really need to focus on...

Ha! You totally thought we were breaking up, huh? Silly! We're not breaking up. Never ever. I heart you. A lot. Like for reals.

But seriously tho, I HAVE been crazy busy! Covered in sugar, Paula Deen amounts of butter kind of busy. Yumminess day in and out kind of busy.

Like this!

Piano Concert Dessert Table for Nicole

And these!

Superbowl Cake Pops

And how cute are these?

Hello Kitty Cake Pops for Maddie's 3rd Birthday

There were also these...

Wait, are those...?

Which led to these:

Boob Cupcakes!!!

There's also been a little bit of this:

Hire me for a dessert table. I'll jump in your bounce house, free of charge. You're welcome.

And some of this:

Catered creations for the lovely Lagatta's anniversary.

And maybe a little of this:

Whiskey-induced TLC dance party

Life's good.

It's Time for a Giveaway!

2012-01-19T08:29:00.000-08:00

That's right, peeps. I woke up feeling generous. And in the mood to make caramels.

Be the 100th person to "like" Lady B's Sweet Shoppe on FB to win your very own batch of fleur de sel caramels! Go! Do it now! I'll wait.

Your in sugar,
Lady B

TV Dinners: Giada's Redemption?

2012-01-18T17:38:00.000-08:00

So you may have read about Giada de Laurentiis breaking my heart with her cruel and inhumane treatment of artichokes and gorgonzola. You may also know that being Italian and Mexican, I'm damn good at holding a grudge.

But it's a new year. One in which I'm trying to be more forgiving. I decided to see if Giada could redeem herself. Enter: Giada's Baked Rigatoni with Bechamel Sauce.

Now let me tell y'all a little somethin'-somethin' about bechamel sauce. I loves it. And even though it sounds all fancy pants and French culinary school complicated, it's actually not. We can thank Bobby Flay and his adorable wife for teaching me the beauty of adding cream and cheese together until it's simmered to thick happiness. Did you guys see that sickeningly sweet episode of Brunch at Bobby's where he brings his wife into the kitchen and they cook French brasserie food together? Did you also then yell at your husband because he never cooks with you like Bobby's spouse does? Did you also then try to bribe him into co-cooking time with your take on Bobby's Croque Madame (Monsieur in our house) cuz that's The Hub's FAVE and makes you both get all mushy, Paris-trip-reminiscing, romancey-smoochy-faced? And did your husband just laugh at you and refuse to enter the kitchen but then still get all reminscing-mushy-smoochy-faced when handed his cheese covered sandwich? No? Just me? Huh. Well, you should totally watch that episode anyway.

Annnnyway, Giada. And her version of Bechamel, which I saw on her "Italian Comfort Food" episode, making me really, really happy. Pasta baked with creamy cheesiness and prosciutto? Possible Giada redemption? Yes, please.

Right off the bat, I was a little wary when she called for Fontina cheese.
Bobby used Gruyere in his version, which I love. But hey, Giada's not French so why would she use Gruyere anyway? But Fontina still surprised me. But who am I to argue? It's cheese. Who doesn't love cheese?!? But still...Fontina...? Sorry. I'll stop arguing with myself now.

Who doesn't love a recipe that starts with melted butter? Well, I guess Diabetic Paula Deen should, but, ya know.

Add some flour and whisk, whisk, whisk. Gradually add milk. Whisk some more. It'll start to seem like you'll never be done whisking but don't worry. The end is sight. Once everything all's good and mixed and starting to thicken, let it simmer for about 10 minutes till it's thick enough to coat the back of a wooden spoon. I'm kicking myself for not taking a pic of that step for you. *Bad blogger!*

Once that's done, throw in fontina and prosciutto, and season with the salt, pepper and nutmeg. Then just set is aside. Your bechamel is done. See how easy that was? Go ahead and make some. Try to wipe that smug look off your face when your guests are impressed with your culinary mastery.

Boil your noodles for just a few minutes. You don't want to cook them all the way as they're headed into the oven for some more cookin'. Toss the noodles together with your happy cheese sauce and throw it all in a greased baking dish. Top with more cheese and pats of butter.

Bake about 25 minutes or until it looks like this:

Now that is some fine lookin' pasta. I was stoked. So I called out to The Hubs, dished it up, and got ready to stuff my face hole.

I gotta say, it was just kind of meh. It was glorified mac n cheese for the bland palate. I think I was right about the Fontina. If I'd used, say, a Gruyere/Parm combo, I bet it would have had some nice flavor. But as is, it was kind of drab. It was certainly easy enough to prep and definitely comfort food worthy, but nothing you'd write home about.

Oh Giada, I wanted this to be your shining redemption moment. I really did. I wanted to tell all that would listen, er...read, that I was wrong about you, that you were a culinary genius, that I was a Giada convert. Instead I'll just tell you guys that it was okay. Just okay.

Even with the Bechamel. And guys? If you're itching to go make some Bechamel now, I highly recommend using the Mornay version from Bobby's lovey-dovey brunch episode. It's criminally good. Sorry, Giada.

Lady B’s Final Say So:

Ease Factor: 4 out of 5 noms
Taste Test: 3.5 out of 5 noms
Truth in Advertising: 4 out of 5 noms
The Hubs’ Vote: 3 out of 5 noms
Yeah, but is it pretty?: 3 out of 5 noms
Overall: Asi-asi. (Ha! How's that for some high school Spanish for ya?)

Sweet New Site!

2012-01-18T12:33:00.001-08:00

Lady B’s Sweet Shoppe has a brand new site! Check out our newest products and custom dessert table designs! Woo!

{originally published on 1/17/12 here}

TV Dinners: Melissa d’Arabian’s Crispy Golden Sauteed Fish

2012-01-18T12:32:00.000-08:00

I’m Lady B and I’m scared of fish.

Wholesome, frugal, and fish-friendly. All the things I'm not.

It’s true. I’m scared to catch it, scared to eat it, and beyond scared to COOK it. I partially blame my mother for this. It’s not what you think. She loves fish and cooks it like a pro.

BUT, when Mom directed a 4-year-old Lady B to SCRAPE A DEAD FISH OFF THE FIREPLACE HEARTH, she may have caused some long-lasting trauma. I now know that when she asked me to take a spatula to my dad’s poor fish that had somehow flopped out of his tank to his brick-y demise, she did so out of her own fear to do it herself. And she admitted years later that she was shocked I agreed to the morbid task. Nonetheless, I still can’t help but picture that poor little fish jerky stuck to the brick whenever I think of tackling gilled gourmet.

But it’s a new year. And while I didn’t make any real resolutions, I did make myself the following promises for 2012:

Step outside of my comfort zone.
Chart new territories.
Cook and eat healthier.
Moisturize regularly. (TMI, I know. But I am the WORST at putting on lotion everyday.)
Shrug off the small stuff.
Be more frugal with the cash-ola.

I’m pretty sure this recipe from Melissa d’Arabian’s show Ten Dollar Dinners tackles all of those promises I made. Well, except for the moisturizing.

I like multi-tasking.

The super awesome part of this recipe? I had everything I needed, except the fish, in my kitchen already, making the total cost of this dinner a whopping $6. (I could have made Melissa’s entire dinner, which paired the fish withBulgur-Stuffed Summer Vegetables and Watermelon with Ginger-Mint Simple Syrup. But since I already had jasmine rice and herb-butter asparagus from Fresh & Easy, I decided to to just go with it.)

Have I told you guys about the love affair I'm having with Fresh & Easy? I'm kinda obsessed.

Melissa, I think we’re gonna be friends. Your recipe is CAH-RAZY easy! And cheap (earning some serious kudos from The Hubs)!

Ready for how easy this is, interwebs?

Pat fish dry. Try not to squeal in disgust. Then be pleasantly surprised when you realize that talapia is neither slimy, stinky, or still wriggling around. No? Just me. Mmkay.
Salt and pepper both sides.
Dredge in flour. Tap off excess.
Pat dry again. (Double-patting gives you a perfectly golden crunch-tastic crust. Thanks for the tip, MD!)
Fry three minutes on one side in veggie oil over medium heat.

Fry fishes, fry!

Flip (Melissa gave a great piece of advice: Use a firm hand with your spatula to make sure you get all the crusty goodness in one move. So right.)
Once flipped, put pats of butter on top of fish. (Yes!)
Cook another couple minutes and remove fish.
Add lemon juice to pan (Melissa specifically said to be careful of splatters. She was NOT kidding. Let’s not talk about the gnarly hot oil burn I have on my right hand now, k?) and scrape up all the little brown bits while deglazing the pan.

Lemons are pretty. And will burn the holy shiz outta you when added to frying oil. Imagine that.

Throw in the chopped parsley, and drizzle the lemony buttery happiness on top of fish.

Close up buttery fried goodness.

That’s it! So easy! So inexpensive! So not fish-stinky at all!

And you guys? I totally ate it. Willingly. Happily.

I know it doesn’t make any damn sense at all, but I now feel like I have finally avenged dad’s fish’s untimely death and shoddy burial. (We maybe just threw dad’s prized pet in the trash. He was none too happy.)
Rest in peace, little fish! I now have the courage to cook and eat your friends.

Wait. Is that really avenging? I dunno. But let’s go with it.

Lady B’s Final Say So:

Ease Factor: 5 out of 5 noms (once I got over touching fish)
Taste Test: 5 out of 5 noms
Truth in Advertising: 5 out of 5 noms
The Hubs’ Vote: 4 out of 5 noms ( he originally gave it a 3.5. Then I told him how cheap it was.)
Yeah, but is it pretty?: 4 out of 5 noms
Overall: She got me to LIKE FISH! Bravo, Melissa. Bravo.

{originally published on 1/9/12 here}

TV Dinners: Giada De Laurentiis’ Baked Artichokes with Gorgonzola and Herbs

2012-01-18T12:17:00.000-08:00

Interwebs, I have a secret. I have a girl-crush on Giada De Laurentiis.

She’s Italian, sexy, stylish, AND she makes cooking look crazy easy. And even though she shows off her perfect Italian pronunciation like an overzealous anchorwoman, she manages to be adorable while doing so. I think The Hubs is hiding his annoyance with how much space Everyday Italian and Giada at Home are taking up on the TiVo. I can’t help it. I heart her.

So when my mom said she was making me Giada’s Baked Artichokes with Gorgonzola and Herbs, I all but squealed with glee. I loooooove artichokes. I love Giada. I love gorgonzola. Yup. Mom rocks.

Mom and I are artichoke snobs and we take them ever so seriously. Right off the bat, we were confused when Giada directed us BOIL them. Boil? Seriously? Not steam? We were baffled and I started to question my crush. But we pressed on.

Moving on to the cheese filling. Mmmmmm. Cheese. Ten ounces seemed like a LOT for such a strong cheese as Gorgonzola but loving the dairy delight, we shrugged it off and blended it all with parsley, garlic, salt and pepper. Shaking our heads, we pulled the ‘chokes out of the boiling water and filled them with the cheese mix, topped with a combo of bread crumbs and parsley, drizzled with olive oil and baked them for the 25 minutes per the recipe.

Timer dinged! Tummies growled! Oven opened ~ frowny faces. No crisp golden crumb topping as Giada had told us. Instead, a puddle of oily cheese gloop in some sad lookin’ artichokes.

We set the timer for ten more minutes.

Nada. Another ten.

Nope. Another five.

Oily pool with some brown crumbs floating on top. We finally took them out and gave them a whirl.
WTH, Giada?!?!? Why do you hate me?

Sadly, ours looked nothing like The Food Network's pic.

They were awful. I guess the one saving grace was the Gorgonzola’s crazy overpowering of the artichokes shoe-leather like texture. We tried to power through, we really did. But after only a few bites, Mom and I were defeated by the rubbery leaves and greasy cheese. We never even got to our beloved hearts.

Giada, I loved you. I wanted us to be besties. I envisioned quaint backyard BBQs, sunset cocktails and girlish giggles over kitchen mishap story swapping. But noooooooo. You not only threw our love away, you made my mother violate defenseless artichokes and innocent Gorgonzola!

Sigh. Giaga, I beg of you. Never make people treat such perfect ingredients so cruelly again. I hope I can forgive you, but the artichokes and I will never forget.

See? She's mean to tomatoes, too!

Lady B’s Final Say So:

Ease Factor: 4 out of 5 noms
Taste Test: 0 out of 5 noms
Truth in Advertising: 1 out of 5 noms
The Hubs’ (well in this case, Mom’s) Vote: 1 out of 5 noms
Yeah, but is it pretty?: 0 out of 5 noms
Overall: Shame on you, Giada!

*Okay, I know my mom technically made this one. But as a witness to preparation and active participant in consumption, I’m using it, dammit.*

{originally posted on 1/3/12 here}

New Year, New Shoppe!

2012-01-18T12:15:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!!!! I can’t believe it’s 2012 already. And I gotta admit, I’m a teensy bit disappointed. The Jetsons totally had me believing that I’d have a flying car by now. At least a talking maid robot. Oh well. Moving on.

So as you may have read here, I technically don’t have a job. Scary. I know. EXCEPT…..

I did it! I really did it! Okay, well I virtually did it.

I OPENED LADY B’S SWEET SHOPPE!!!

Those that know me know how much I’ve been dreaming of this and now I’ve actually done it! Sometimes being unemployed can be awesome. Like when it forces you to get off your ass and go after what you really want.

I’m starting out small and hoping to ramp this baby up until I’ve got an actualy brick and mortar storefront, complete with commercial kitchen and adorably girly chandeliers. For now, Lady B’s Sweet Shoppe will reside on Etsy (with a brand new web site launching in the next couple of weeks, too!) and offer a slew of sinfully sexy sweets. Once the fancy-pants new site is live, you’ll also get to peep out my pretty-as-punch dessert table designs (like this month’s amaze-balls Hello Kitty table I’m creating for a very special birthday girl)!

The fleur de sel caramels and hand-dipped caramel apples are already a hit! I’ll be adding more items each week so keep checking in. Up this week: French macarons, pretty petit fours, and gourmet lollipops!
Internet? I can’t believe I’m really doing this. I’m so freaking excited, I can hardly sit still. Which is good. Cuz I have a LOT to do in the kitchen.

Yours in sugar,
Lady B

{originally posted on 1/3/12 here}

TV Dinners: Claire Robinson’s 5 Ingredient Butternut Squash Soup

2012-01-18T12:13:00.000-08:00

Each week(-ish), I’ll attempt to recreate a recipe from a hit cooking show and share my (brutally) honest opinions on the Cooking Channel and Food Network’s finest.

First up at bat in the TV Dinner review gauntlet: Claire Robinson’s Butternut Squash Soup.

Internet, can I just tell you how much I looooove the show 5 Ingredient Fix? It’s freaking awesome. Claire’s sassy, kinda brash, and adorably southern. And she doesn’t like shopping for a ton of pricey ingredients either. Yeah, we’d totally be besties in real life. Now if know me personally, you know how much I *detest* soup. Yes, soup. It’s very existence angers me. Either drink your drink or eat your food, people! What is this in-the-middle broth business? Completely useless in my opinion.

But I’m getting older. And I’ve been surprised by my constantly maturing palette. (Um, hello. I now eat guacamole, asparagus, clams casino, and grilled onions. With gusto. Bizarre, I know.) So I figured I’d give this soup business another go ’round, even though I assumed a soup made out of squash would just taste like glorified baby food. But, guys? I was so deliciously wrong.

As the show’s title obviously states, this recipe only calls for five ingredients; a 3 lb. butternut squash, chicken stock, olive oil, shallots, and curry powder. (Yes, I know the pic shows an onion, garlic, and veggie stock. So maybe I improvised a bit. I didn’t feel like taking off my jammies and going to the store.) Though the soup takes over an hour and a half to finish, the steps are all actually pretty easy. Except the first one. This Claire chick makes splitting a 3 lb. butternut squash in half seem easy. It’s not. You’ve been warned.

Once the bad boy was hacked in half, I scooped out the seeds (and wondered if there was any cool use for them. Any ideas? Anyone? Bueller?) . I drizzled some olive oil over the cut edges and generously sprinkled with salt and pepper (I know. That’s technically two more ingredients, for a grand total of seven. But Claire says those are free ingredients. I like free.)

Then I flipped those babies over on to a baking sheet, and popped them in the oven at 375 for about an hour, until they were soft with roasted goodness. Meanwhile, the smell that wafted through my house? AMAZE-BALLS. Seriously. Smelled like heaven and kitten cuddles.

Once they were cool enough to handle, I spooned the guts out into a bowl.I probably should have waited a bit longer to do this. The process was a lot of me burning my fingertips and dropping chunks of squash flesh while muttering under my breath “Oooh…aaah! Achi-mama that’s a hot! Oh Oh Oh got it, yowza! Okay. Ow!” Really. Let it cool first.

I grabbed the new love of my life (sorry, Hubs) and sauteed the chopped shallots (okay, FINE! Onions and garlic!) in some olive oil till softened, and added the squash guts, chicken stock and curry powder. I brought it to a boil, covered, lowered the heat, and let the squash break down for about 10 minutes. Then I just threw all that pretty orange chunkiness into a blender and pulsed till it was pureed to my liking. (Which was probably a little on the chunkier side but I was really having to fight my hatred of soup. Squash chunks made me feel like a rebel against the Soup Establishment.) I added a little salt and pepper, stirred one last time, and ladled into bowls for The Hubs and I, fully prepared to further cement my fear and loathing of soup.

Holy crap, y’all. It’s amazing. I wanted to hate it. I really, truly did. But I don’t. I don’t at all. I love it so, so much. I dream of it. I want to dip everything in it. Paired with an artichoke? Yes. Bruscetta? Uh-huh. Grilled cheese? You betcha. My fingers? No shame at all.

Damn, you guys. It’s just stupid good.

Curse you, Claire Robinson, for making it so easy to prepare this nutritious soup I hate that I love!

Lady B’s Final Say So:

Ease Factor: 4 out of 5 noms
Taste Test: 5 out of 5 noms
Truth in Advertising: 5 out of 5 noms
The Hubs’ Vote: 5 out of 5 noms (and 3 helpings)
Yeah, but is it pretty?: 4 out of 5 noms
Overall: OM NOM NOM NOM NOM!

{originally posted 12/12/11 here}