Top Chef

For the past few days, I've been dreaming of nothing other than sharp flavors and fresh ingredients. I guess my boy has finally sunk into my basic being, what with his endless conversations with me about his finds at the Pike Street Market. Combine his found treasures with my desire for, well, food, and I created the perfect (palate) storm inside me. I've been musing about roasted corn with clarified butter and cayenne pepper. I've dreamed of fresh, fresh, the freshest berries. I've been having conversations with K. about having a cooking date.

All signs pointed to nesting today, and I finally got off my ass and did something about these cravings. I found a recipe for a broccoli quiche and for snickerdoodles, which, by the way, are the most godlike of all the cookies. I got myself off the computer and into the store.

(Aside: Apologies for the change of voice, my boy called, and it threw off my writing game. I shouldn't have answered.)

People, I must have called Wade four times while I was there. I didn't know what kind of flour I needed. Bleached? Unbleached? I didn't know what kind of butter I needed. Salted? Unsalted? You can see where this is headed. I'm grateful she answered the phone every two minutes. (Thanks, honey.)

I got home and got to work on the quiche. I hand-grated a half pound of swiss and a quarter pound of marbled jack. Let me tell you, if you have the choice, hand-grate the swiss. The softer the cheese, the more miserable the grating is. (You'll be glad to know that no blood was lost in the making of this dinner.) I didn't even measure the cheese; I just added it to the mix. I chopped broccoli. I mixed spices (marjoram, basil, garlic, salt, pepper) with eggs. I did all this. ME.

Next, I started on the snickerdoodles. I'll admit that I again tried to call Wade to find out how many tablespoons of butter were in a half-cup. She (wisely) didn't answer, so I called my boy. He told me that eight tablespoons were needed. Doesn't that seem like an ass-load of butter? Turns out he was spot-on. It also turns out that snickerdoodle dough is very dry. (I am the girl who wonder when, exactly, dough becomes batter, and vice versa. Luckily for all of us, I was too busy mixing to let that thought linger.)

Hours later, I had created a fantastic quiche and snickerdoodles that are smack-your-Momma good. ME! I did this! I couldn't be more pleased with myself.

I just finished telling my boy all this, and he complimented me in the phrase I hate the most. "I'm so proud of you." This time, people, it meant something. It wasn't condescending. It was sweet and loving.

I'll be cooking again, and soon.