Angie Gets Macerated

I know what you’re thinking.

No butter? No cream? No chocolate? And you have the nerve to call it dessert?!

Et tu, Angie?

Calm your mind, my confused friend.  I have not abandoned my senses completely.  I’m still a faithful devotee to all desserts, be they light and fluffy or heavy and sweet enough to make your teeth hurt.  It’s just that sometimes all one needs is something just a touch sweet and a mayhaps little boozy to made one feel that the world isn’t a terribly unfair place.

Well, lately I have been feeling that the world is a terribly unfair place.  Then I went to the grocery store, where decent-looking fruit was going cheap and my favorite wine was on sale.  I decided that the world was okay sometimes, but it could still be made a good deal better.

Believe me, my loves, the world has never not been improved by macerated berries.

I just love the word macerated.  Culinarily speaking, it means to soak food (usually fruit) in a liquid (usually booze).  The intent is for said food to absorb the flavors of said booze and get all drunk and happy, and then you eat it and get all drunk (not really) and happy.  In theory, you can macerate fruit with only sugar.  Just sprinkle some sugar over the berries, give the whole mess a good stir, and then let it steep in its own goodness.  Alas, I cannot leave well enough alone.

It’s amazing how much brighter the world can look after a bowl of this stuff.

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Boozy Berries

strawberries
blueberries
blackberries
lemon
sugar
macerating liquid

There really is no recipe for this.  Adjust the fruits according to what you can get, or what looks good in the store that day.  The sugar is optional; I only used a tablespoon or so because the strawberries I had weren’t really that fantastic.  Use what ever liquid tickles your fancy.  Booze is the standard, but I do happen to know that balsamic vinegar and strawberries are a lovely couple.

Give everything a good rinse.  Hull and slice the strawberries, and for heaven’s sake try not to eat them all before you’re done slicing.  Toss ‘em in a large-ish bowl with sugar, the juice and zest of a lemon, and a generous glug of wine (or whatever).  Cover it and shove it in the fridge for half an hour.

When you feel you’ve suffered long enough, spoon the magic over some angel food cake (store-bought, because it was on sale and I’m lazy.)

Eat.

Sigh.

Be at peace.

Eat happy,

Angie

Baked Mac & Cheese

I’ve been sitting here for a solid twenty minutes trying to think of some witty, insightful introduction for this recipe, but there isn’t one.  This recipe is a simple and wonderful as a rain shower (please, Mother Nature, we can haz?), as homey and comfortable as an old pair of perfectly worn-in sweatpants, and as delicious as any product of a grandmother’s kitchen should be.  I grew up eating it, and it’s probably one of the reasons I grew out as well.

I feel it’s only fair to warn you that there is absolutely nothing healthy about this recipe.  What it amounts to is about six servings’ worth of pasta, draped in fourteen ounces of melted cheese and a half stick of butter, give or take.

You’ve been warned.

Grandma Elsie’s Baked Mac & Cheese

Preheat the oven to 375 and generously butter a round casserole dish.  Don’t skimp, kiddies; anything worth doing is worth doing right.

You’re gonna need some stuff:  2 cups of uncooked elbow mac; 6 ounces of Velveeta; 4 ounces each of sharp cheddar and colby; half a stick of real butter (I’m serious, put that pansy-ass fake stuff away), and a can of Milnot.  No, you don’t have to use the Milnot brand, but Grandma always did and I’m not cheeky enough to mess with perfection.

Bring a pot of water to a rolling boil and cook the mac by the package directions, but shave a minute or two off the cook time.  We’re gonna bake it later.  While your pasta is doing it’s thing, drag out your food processor and grate the sharp cheddar and colby.  Yes, you’ll want to grate your own.  The pre-shredded stuff is coated in things like corn starch and failure and it will only cause you heartache.  And yes, you could use a box grater, but you don’t know where yours has disappeared to, and if the Lord in all His infinite wisdom had wanted you to use a box grater, why on earth would He have made food processors?  Once you’ve done that bit, hack six ounces off that block of processed cheese product and cube it up.

Once the mac is done, drain it, but don’t rinse.  I dump the pasta back into the hot pot; this way, any residual moisture will cook off.  Toss the mac with the cheeses.  I was feeling frisky, so I added a couple good dashes of paprika.  I think you probably should, too.  Dump everything into the buttered casserole dish.

Crack open that can of evaporated milk and pour it over the whole mess.  Now for the butter, cube it up and sprinkle it evenly over the top.  If you’re feeling super frisky, break out the Panko.  Just a few handfuls over the top of the mac can be a wonderful thing.  The butter will melt over it and get all brown and crispy and lovely.  This stuff could bring about world peace if used properly.

Once you’re done drooling, scoot the casserole into the oven and do something else for about an hour.  It won’t be easy; the smell coming from your kitchen will drive you wild, but there’s precious little you can do until time is up.  When the joyous moment arrives, pull the golden-topped casserole from the oven and take a few minutes to bask in it’s warm glow.  Go on.  I’ll wait.

Hard as it will be, it’s better to let it cool for a few minutes.  I can’t count the number of mac-and-cheese-related injuries I’ve endured in my short life.  Well, I can, but it’s embarrassing.

Hello, lover…

Wanna know a secret?  The best bit is the burned stuff around the edges…

If you can beat me to it.

The Art of Fried Pickles

Alternate Title: Things Angie Did When She Should Have Been Cleaning Her Apartment

I consider myself a young woman of very refined tastes…

in bar food.

Specifically, fried pickles.  Having eaten many a fried pickle in my life, I’m here to tell you, friend, that not all are created equal.  Some establishments fry whole spears, which is just dandy if you’re not particular about your breading to pickle ratio.  I’ve heard of some places frying up whole baby dills, but you run into the same problem.  There just isn’t enough of the crunchy, slightly greasy exterior to balance the sharp taste of the pickle.

What a pickle. (Get it?)

My favorite fried pickles are dill chips.  Using chips, the batter/breading to pickle ratio is almost perfect.  This leads us to yet another factor to consider- bread or batter?  I’m partial to batter only because I prefer the aforementioned ratio to tip slightly in favor of batter.  The pickle is merely a perk.  However, we here at The Warped Cookie Cutter are Equal Opportunity Breaders.  If we find something can be dipped in egg and dredged in flour or cornmeal or Panko (or all) and cooked up to crispy perfection… well, who are we to determine which method produces the best madness?

Oven “Fried” Pickles
adapted from SkinnyTaste.com

I didn’t make the dip; it goes against The Rule.

First, you’re gonna preheat the oven and the cookie sheet to 450.

Now you’re gonna need some pickles.

Then you’re gonna take a handful and drain ‘em on some paper towel.  Try to wick away as much of the moisture as you can, hm?

Then you’re set up a dredge assembly line, got it?  Beat together one whole egg and one egg white.  A shallow dish, say a salad plate, is just dandy for this.  In another shallow dish, you’re gonna mix together some flour, some Panko, some cornmeal, some dried parsley, some salt, some pepper, and some paprika, because you’re feeling smoky.

Now you’re gonna dredge, and you’re gonna like it.  First in the egg, then through the dry mix, and then to a clean plate.  Easy, right?  Well, then, get crackin’!

By now, the oven and the cookie sheet should be hot.  Using anything but your bare hand, take out the cookie sheet and give it a good going-over with some olive oil spray.  Arrange the pickles in a single layer on the sheet, and then give the tops of the pickles a good spray.  Put ‘em in the oven and go do something else for ten minutes.  Might I suggest cleaning a certain blogger’s bathroom?  After that, take the pickles out, flip ‘em over, and give ‘em another good spray and five more minutes in the hotbox.

Not bad, huh?

This, my friends, is what we call “a happy.”

Use it wisely.

Salted Fudge Brownies… Kinda

No new recipe today.  My mind doesn’t belong in the kitchen.  Why do I say this?

Because my pan of brownies is more reminiscent of chunky chocolate milk than a chewy fudge desert.

We’ll try again later.

Until then, have a few episodes of My Drunk Kitchen.  I’ll warn you, Ms. Hart has a tendency to be a little offensive.

That’s why we love her.

Here’s hoping my cooking skills come back soon!

Hey Kids

Angie here.  Yes, that Angie.  The one that cooks stuff and takes pictures and writes about it.  Ringing any bells?

I know things have been quiet around this corner of Le Interwebz lately, but with good cause.  I started a new full-time job in early June, and all my spare time has been spent trying to remember what it’s like to be a responsible adult and finding something that closely resembles a daily routine.  I go into a little bit more detail here.

I’m still here, and I’m grateful that you are, too.  You can expect a post tomorrow (well, today really), because I love you.  Really, I do. With all my cheese-and-chocolate-loving little heart.

Chicken Strips and Dance Parties

So, imagine you’re me.  You’re at home having a Spice Girls dance party because you’re freaking AWESOME and it occurs to you you’re hungry.  Being just a step above destitute, you have to make do with what you have.  There are a half dozen frozen pizzas in the freezer, but a girl cannot live by Totino’s alone.  You’ve got cereal, Ramen, and pudding, because in your innermost soul you are still six years old.  You also have a bag of frozen chicken breasts that have just been STARING at you since you brought them home.

Your intentions were good.  Think of all the healthy, good-tasting things that can be done with a bag of boneless, skinless chicken breasts! Rosemary chicken!  Chicken parm!  Roast chicken salads and sandwiches!  Alas, not for you are these easy yet elegant applications for poultry, primarily because they require ingredients you don’t have and are in no mood to go searching for.  You desire something more rustic, something comfortable… and dippable.

You, my friend, want chicken strips.

And the heavens opened and angels sang, and all was well.

Then you remembered your chicken strip recipe.  It requires things like butter and breadcrumbs.  You have no butter, because you made Nutella muffins a few nights ago, and you have no bread because you like to feed the ducks that hang out in your back yard.

You do, however, have things like mayo and Parmesan cheese and tortilla chips.

So you defrost two chicken breasts in the microwave, toss ‘em with some mayo, and roll them in a mix of grated Parm, crushed tortilla chips, and some pepper for good measure.  You throw them on your grungiest looking cookie sheet and shove ‘em in the oven for 16 minutes, turning them half-way through.  Then you mix together some mayo and mustard with a bit of sour cream for dipping.

And all was well.

P.S.: I’ve done your gag reflexes a favor by NOT posting the pictures I took of the raw chicken swimming in mayo.  You’re welcome.

Of Muffins and Cake

Disclaimer: This is not a sponsored post.  The fine folks who make Nutella have never heard of me.  If I were to fall off the face of the planet, they would never know.  I just really freaking love Nutella.  Many thanks for your understanding.

Confession: there is no soft spot in my pastry-loving heart for birthday cake.  I have no problem with cake in general… or rather I have a very SERIOUS problem with cake in general.  I really can’t help it.  Baked goods make me all kinds of happy.  But barring a few exceptions, every birthday cake I’ve ever had has been dry, tasteless, and draped in stiff, too-sweet frosting that snaps, crackles, and pops when you cut into it.  I eat it because I’m the kind of girl that never turns down cake, no matter how unappealing it looks and tastes, and also because I’m the kind of girl that accepts what you give her with a smile and the utmost gratitude.

And because I just really, REALLY like cake.

It seems that as I mature, so does my taste in birthday cakes.  The sugar-flavored cardboard blocks I ate in grade school were decorated with whatever cartoon character was the most popular.  In junior high, my well-meaning mother obtained a photo of a certain senior at my high school, the eyes and biceps of said young man being fire to the powder keg of my pre-teen heart, and had his FACE put on my birthday cake.  I laughed and blushed redder than Florence Welch’s hair, and my friends mercilessly teased me for months afterward.  Thankfully, no photo evidence of this cake exists… right, Mom?

High school saw a veritable parade of nonspecific grocery store cakes, because in high school birthday parties aren’t about cake.  High school birthday parties are about being excited that you’re having a birthday party and being the center of attention but ACTING like you’re too cool for it and you’re only following through with this bizarre social charade to please your parental units.  Those cakes would be pretty non-descript, personalized only a swipe of airbrushed frosting in the celebrant’s favorite color—iris-searing orange was the shade du jour in those days—and the words, “Happy Birthday, Angi!”  No “e,” please, because you’re unique and individual and you thought that dropping a vowel from your name was the best way to symbolize your differentness.*

In my freshman year of college, Mom had a cheesecake sampler sent to the office where I worked.  I didn’t get a piece and I’m still bitter about it.  Sophomore year, my parents came down to my school and had an impromptu birthday party in the common area in my dorm.  They bought an obscene number of pizzas and brought with them a delicious carrot cake (one of the aforementioned exceptions) courtesy of Mom’s best friendLisa.  People, I have dreams about this cake.  You had to eat it on a real plate (or straight from the cake pan, if you’re me) because it’s so moist it can seep through the bottom of your average paper plate.  The frosting was creamy and fluffy and sweet without being overpowering.  Since that fateful cake, it’s become kind of an unspoken tradition.  And by “unspoken,” I mean I drop broad hits around Valentine’s Day that my birthday is a mere month and a half away and I sure hope with all my cake-loving soul that there will be a certain carrot-y confection in store for me.  I was thinking about this cake a few days ago, as my birthday looms perilously near (like, Wednesday) when it occurred to me then that in my 24-nearly-25 years I have never made my own birthday cake.

Challenge accepted.

It was past 9:00 last night when I decided to remedy this pertinent issue, and was in no mood to run to the grocery store.  So I yanked out my handy dandy recipe book and started thumbing through the dessert section to see what I could make with what I already had.  I was looking for a cake, but once I convince myself that I want something sweet, anything will suffice.  I stumbled across the word Nutella** in one of the recipe titles and decided that I didn’t care what vehicle was employed to transport the Nutella to my mouth.  Nutella was to be baked into something, and I was to eat it.

I found this recipe several months ago, but wasn’t in a position to do anymore than scribble it into said recipe book and vow to try it later.  The verdict?  Not too shabby.  I had to make some minor adjustments to the ingredients and didn’t have enough Nutella to do the marbling bit on top of each muffin, but as I’ve already said, I’m hard-pressed to find a baked good that doesn’t make me ten kinds of giddy.  I’ll have to try it again when I have enough/the right kinds of ingredients to make it according to the recipe.

Nutella Muffins
From FlourOnMyFace.com

3 ½ cups AP flour

1 ½ tsp baking powder

¼ tsp baking soda

¾ tsp salt

2/3 cup unsalted butter, room temp (this is no place for spreads or pansy-ass fake butter; please-oh-please use the real stuff?)

1 ½ cups brown sugar, packed

2 large eggs

2 tsp vanilla

1 ½ cups buttermilk

1 cup Nutella + ¼ cup for topping (pretty much a whole 13-ounce jar)

Pre-heat the hot box to 350.  Prep a muffin pan with liners, because you’re better prepared than I am.  If you’re a nitwit like me, spray some butter-flavored cooking spray on some paper towel and run it around the inside of each cup.

Sift together all the dry stuff and set it aside.  Cream together the butter and the sugar.  Add the eggs one at a time.  Make sure you completely incorporate one before you add another.  Add the vanilla and pulverize for 30 seconds.  I recommend dancing while completing this portion of the procedure.  It helps.

Mix in the dry goods, alternating with the buttermilk.  There is a method to this madness, like if you start and end with one or the other ingredients marvelous things will happen to you, or at the very least you’ll end up with superior muffins.  I can never remember what the right way is, so I started with flour and ended with milk.  Feel free to correct me on this, but I’ll probably still just do it my way.  Add in one cup of the Nutella and mix until smooth.

If you can find an ice cream scoop in your well-organized kitchen, dole out a scoop of batter into each muffin liner, filling it about ¾ of the way.  Then send me your ice cream scoop because I can’t find mine.  Take about a quarter-ish teaspoon of the remaining Nutella and plop it onto each muffin.  Use a toothpick or a fork tine to swirl it around.  Dancing is optional here, but recommended.

Toss the pan into the oven for half an hour.  While they’re baking, think about cleaning your kitchen.  Then wail and moan and gnash your teeth because you have to clean your kitchen.  In the end, don’t clean your kitchen.

Once the muffins are cool enough to handle, move them to a wire rack to finish cooling.  The smear of Nutella on top is optional; like I said, I didn’t have enough for the marble topping.  I was just able to scrape enough out of the jar to top one of the muffins.  Yields about 26 muffins.

Happy birthday to me.

*Oh dear, sweet, little Angie… you were a moron.

**You’ve heard of this sinfully delicious phenomenon, right?  If not, get thee to the grocery store with all speed.  Nutella is kinda like Fight Club.  We do not speak of it.  Only those initiated in its solemn rites are aware of its power.  I’ve been known to eat it directly from the jar with a spoon… or my finger.  Whatever.  Words hardly do it justice, but it’s chocolatey and velvety and slightly nutty (like, not the way I’M slightly nutty, but legitimately nutty) because it’s made with hazelnuts.  You know that creamy, dreamy goo inside those Ferrero Roche candies?  Yeah, that’s this stuff.