ChgoRed, Girl Editor

Comfort Food

This is not fancy, but as comfort food it's hard to beat. It's perfect for those cold, rainy nights when you get the news that your mother is going to the hospital, immediately followed by a call about how your last great-aunt is probably going to pass away this week.

Like last night.  Thank God this week has some cake at the end of it.

The original is on the Bisquick box; this is my variation.

ChgoRed’s Cheeseburger Pie

1 Lb. Ground Beef (or 1.5 lbs, you know, depending)
1 Can Tomatoes and Green Chilies, drained
1 Chopped Onion (optional)
1 Cup Milk
3/4 c. Bisquick Baking Mix
1 Egg
2 c. Shredded Cheese (The original says 1 cup, but we’re going for gooey here)
Salt, garlic and pepper to taste

Heat oven to 400 degrees.

Brown meat and tomatoes (and onion if you want it).  Season with salt, garlic and pepper to taste. While that’s cooking, in a separate bowl mix the milk, baking mix and egg until smooth.

Drain meat, then spread in pie plate or Pyrex dish (our 9” square Pyrex dish works great). Cover meat with shredded cheese.  (Yes, all of it.) Pour Bisquick batter over the cheese. It will look gross and weird, and like a failure. But it’s not.

Bake 20-25 minutes, until the top has the look of browned cheese goodness.  Good hot; also good as leftovers.

...And a Dash of Passive-Aggressive...

So, as you may know, we have another New Year’s Eve party coming up (yay for that!).  We haven’t settled on the food yet, so I’ve been digging up recipes from various sources—books, sisters, Web sites, etc. 

The good thing about the Web sites is that they allow people to post their own reviews.  You can get a lot of different takes on the same dish.

The really good thing is when you come across something like this.  Remember: She’s supposed to be reviewing a cheeseball recipe.

I must preface this review by saying that my mother-in-law always asks me to bring a lettuce salad to family dinners because I assume that she thinks it's the only thing I can make,which by the way, is simply not true. So after trying this recipe at a bridal shower, I called her up and told her that this is what I was bringing to Christmas. She reluctantly agreed. When we arrived for Christmas dinner I saw that my mother-in-law had made a cheeseball her self and had it sitting out on the table. UUUGGGHHH! I refused to give up, so I sat my cheeseball right down next to her's. By the end of the night everyone was raving about MY cheeseball and had scraped the plate clean. Her cheeseball, however, only had a couple of bites taken out of it. She ended up wrapping her's up and putting it back in the fridge!! HA HA!! Victory is mine!!! Thank you so much for this wonderful recipe and the small gratification I got from making it. I added a little garlic powder and onion powder and I usually use about 4 green onions. This is the best cheeseball ever!!!

The cheeseball of passive-aggressive subtext.

January? Already?

So that was December? Some sparkles, some pretty paper, a lot of hacking coughs, and whoosh, gone?

Pretty much.

Originally, December was supposed to be the month of letting the cards sell themselves on the Web site while I went totally Martha on the house. I had a whole schedule that listed a month’s worth of Christmasy crafts and to-dos. I started out strong, shopping for Christmas CDs on Nov. 29, and then had to tell myself that perhaps they didn’t have any in stock because it was not actually December yet. I got cards printed up, started cruising the online stores, and spent a weekend making the doughs for the annual Christmas Baking Frenzy (scheduled for Dec. 10-12). That was on the 3rd.

That Was the Weekend that Was Really Nice

Bunny Bunny, Rabbit Rabbit

So we went to the movies on Sunday, the fiancé and I. Had ourselves a little date, a little afternoon out. Wallace, Gromit, popcorn, etc. High points: Adorable floaty bunnies (you’ll see), W&G, charming plot, and a pre-show short starring the penguins from Madagascar. Low point: The trailer that convinced me that Ron Howard should be barred from making any more children’s movies. Not content with the hatchet job he did on the Grinch, he’s now trashing Curious George, a character about whom I usually care very little. But even I am aggravated by scenes like "Curious George drinks a latte."

Anyway, W&G was grand. Lots of small jokes, lots of puns, and even some fun poked at the British penchant for gardening--"It’s all we’ve got!" Delightful, absolutely.

Tapas Dancing

Before that there was wonderful company, fabuloso Spanish food, and a trip to the best chocolate store in town. All in a Saturday night.

The short version is that an old college friend of the Rev was in town for business doings with her husband. We offered an excellent excuse not to eat mediocre Chinese with her co-workers, and it was high time I’d met them anyway. Lord knows, we had talked on the phone often enough. So, they were nice enough to drive in from the suburbs, and away we went. Got to Bon Bon five minutes before closing—hooray! Boyfriend offered to pay for our bag of choccies—double hooray! Also, shared free samples of the most amazing drinking chocolate ever. How amazing? I only had three ounces, but the hot chocolate I had on Sunday tasted like beach sand by comparison.

Dinner at Emilio’s was all fascinating conversation—lots of politics--and tasty smallish things on our plates. Dates wrapped in bacon. Marinated seafood. Sangria. Serrano ham with manchego. And so on. Did I mention it was lovely? Such a nice time. Here’s hoping they come back and actually stay a few days next time.

(And about the choccies…am feeling very, well, nostalgic for London lately. No other way to describe it. I did try to describe it to my mother in last week’s phone call, and thought I was doing a pretty good job, when suddenly she asked, "So have you thought any more about adoption?" It took a second for my train of thought to recover, but it did enough that I was able to tell her in all seriousness that at this point, I would be more excited about going back to London than having a baby. She was not amused.)

Card Again

Greeting card project progress—so far, so so. Most of my designs are done, although I still have one set of four notecards and two from another set that I’ve been vainly trying to finish. The cardstock itself has been ordered, and the Boy has been notified that 750 cards & envelopes will be arriving this week. Where we will put it all, I have some idea. Some. We’ll see.

I have been busying myself with rudimentary miscellaneous hoo-hah (buying packaging material, designing labels) because the Big Worry is still in the back of my head and I can’t get rid of it. Said Big Worry being that my cards, created entirely in the computer, won’t meet some standard for craftiness. Like, maybe they won’t be quite "crafty enough," and will earn me the wrath or at least sneers of people who spend their time actually *making* things—e.g, herbal soap, knitted iPod cozies, stuffed animals out of old socks, etc. And I know, crafters are hardly the sneering kind. It’s just that my cards feel less like something I made and more like something I simply designed. I keep thinking, where’s the craft? I’m not making the paper, and the computer’s really doing the printing (rather than, say, me silkscreening them all). It makes me feel like a bit of a cheat. I know I’m not, but still. Can’t quite shake it.

Now of course, I’m picturing a gang of crafters—all decked out in handmade recycled jewelry and homemade sweaters—jumping me in…except, for the beatdown they don't use fists.  They use knitted iPod cozies.

What I've Learned Lately

1. The wrong way to cook fish. Take two salmon fillets. Roll in mix of kosher salt and chipotle powder. Broil till crispy. Creating a salt crust: Interesting in theory, awful in execution. I believe the Boyfriend's assessment of the first bite was, "WHOA!" And not in a good way.

Bless his heart, he ate his entire portion (between big gulps of water).

2. When The Boy's not home, the TV might as well turn into a big garbage pail considering the stuff I watch in his absence. Last night's highlights: A show about removing a 200-pound tumor (ew!); three episodes of Newlyweds (they are soooo breaking up); one episode of the Ashlee Simpson Show (girlfriend's mom needs to back the heck off there, what with the criticizing of the new hair and all. Gah.).

3. Spring is coming...someday, once the weather makes up its positively schizo mind. Friday--40s. Saturday--50s. Yesterday--Snowing.

4. For various reasons, I've been cleaning some old things out of my desk at work. This includes the wedding mags. As with many couples, we've reached an understanding: He promises not to fuss about the magazines that I love and of which he disapproves, provided I keep them out of his eyesight. That worked until this week, when I unloaded two years (about 10 pounds) of such magazines in the living room.

So far, he's been pretending not to notice.

My Sister Wants Something to Read

1.  After reading my post about this past weekend, The Boyfriend declared it "Sweet, almost too sweet..." and claimed that I make him look far too nice in my blog.  Not that he minds, of course; he likes it.  But he does wonder if it's starting to hurt his curmudgeon image. 

So in the interests of balance, a scene from this morning.  He was half-awake; I was very awake and talking rather animatedly about, well, stuff.

Me:  I've settled on my Valentines designs, and I already have some ideas about next year's Christmas cards.

Him: Next year's cards?  Sheesh.  I'm going back to sleep now.

Me:  OK--so it's a little early.  They're just ideas.

Him: You make me long for a nuclear war.

Me:  What?

Him: You heard me.

Me: Fine.  But after nuclear war comes nuclear winter, and then...nuclear Christmas. 

Him: I can just see you--the commandant of the Christmas Concentration Camp.

Me: "I said MORE TINSEL!" 

Him: Exactly.

See?  Grumpy as all get out.

2.  When Mimi Smartypants says, "the high temperature today was six degrees. Six! That is not enough degrees!"  she is so right.  For our friends in warmer climes, six degrees is so cold that when you're in it, you don't want to breathe too deeply.  Because it hurts. 

It's even cold enough to make you rethink your apartment choices...especially if you have a lovely vintage apartment with lovely original windows.  Lovely, original, drafty windows.  And high ceilings with lots of airspace to heat.  Like we do.

We set the thermostat at 72, which sounds like "too warm and too expensive" to most people.  Then you discover that it's only 72 right around the heating registers.  Everywhere else in the house is about 66, unless you're by the windows, where it's about 50, and where you definitely want to be wearing shoes.  And you'd be right about the expensive part.  Last month's gas bill: $130. 

I'm guessing our next apartment will be very very modern.

3.  Christmas dinner: Baked chicken with lemon and rosemary; roasted green beans; red potatoes with parsley; either salad or some mushroom-onion dish; white wine.  Dessert--Chocolate and vanilla swirly loaf cake with ganache on top, assuming Martha's recipe doesn't flop.  If it does, people will just have to fight over the half-carton of sorbet left in the freezer.

Or maybe we'll have pie.

4.  We're opening our gifts Christmas Eve, right after The Boy gets home from work.  As I explained this morning, this plan will allow him to sleep as late as he wants on Christmas Day.  Could there be a better gift for a retail employee who just worked a closing shift?  I think not.

Him: So I can sleep till noon.

Me: Yep.

Him: Can I get that in writing?

Here you go, babe.  You can sleep as late as you want on Christmas Day.  Just try to get up before any guests arrive.

Jingle Jangle

Some 22 months in, and it’s obvious that The Boy and I agree on most things.  Christmas is not (yet) one of them.

Put another way… His mood: Grinchy.  My mood: Snoopy decorating the doghouse.

T is for Turkey; That's Good Enough for Me

The e-mails go back and forth.

Topic: Somethin' about thanksgiving

ChgoRed: Since you're the man of the house and all, you should probably carve the turkey. :)

RevSpork: Uh huh.

ChgoRed: Should I take that as a no?

RevSpork: No, take that as a "Uh...sure, I guess."

In other words, Thanksgiving is at our house this year. And as you can see, The Boyfriend and I have slightly differing senses of, um, "holiday involvement." Imagine Martha Stewart and Oscar the Grouch trying to put together a dinner party. (OK, maybe not quite that bad. Close, though. I never thought I'd have to justify preferring cloth napkins to paper.  The Boyfriend never in his life thought he'd have to have that discussion.) 

But we're putting in a big effort, because this is our first Thanksgiving in the same house, and because we'll have an audience.  Why go through all the stress if there's no one around to witness the inevitable mashed potato fight, right?  (Naturally, The Boy already made it clear he'd find that much preferable to an actual dinner.)

Seriously, though, we will be hosting the lovely Elmegil, Gremlin44, and their little sprout, Kevin (no blog yet). He's young enough that the lower-to-the-floor areas will need some babyproofing. Because we are lax, awful, non-parental types, this basically comes down to, "What are we OK with him pulling out and getting dirty?" Everything else will be put up high, or, most likely, thrown into a closet. Whatever keeps the stuff out of his hands.  (Whaddya know--we do sound like parents.)

Plus, because the holidays are all about family, my mom will be there.

Those who don't know my mom think that's a simple sentence. Those of you who do are murmuring sadly and sending me sympathetic e-mails lamenting the fact that I don't drink.

Let me say this right now: I love my mother. She can be very sweet and kind. She's been through some awful crap in the last few years, and I am glad she's finally come to see me even though she hates Chicago.

That being said, my mother is the most high-maintenance person I know. She's not nasty about it; she just wants things a certain way. Example: When I asked her what kind of coffee she wanted, she listed 8 different flavors of a very specific brand, then went into detail about how she takes her coffee (part half-and-half, part International Delight, and yes, she listed the acceptable flavors of that, too). She also suggested that I buy "just half a pound" of Specific Brand Coffee, and that on Friday we could go to the grocery store together, "So that I can get a kind I like."

She also asked how many bathrooms we had (1, which she finds amazing); fussed about the number of stairs she'd have to climb to get into our apartment (8, rather than the none she'd assumed); and asked what kind of water we drink, because she only drinks a specific brand at home. She was going to bring her own coffee filters and Sweet 'n Low, because since I didn't have any in the house, she assumed I couldn't get them here. Or something.

As you might have guessed, my mom doesn't travel much—which is probably good, because she is a notorious overpacker. Example: When my sister got married in 2001, my mom spent 3 days in town for the wedding. It took her two hours to unpack.

As you might have also guessed, The Boyfriend views this whole experience with some apprehension. He already thinks his girlfriend is loopy (although mercifully low-maintenance), and here comes a whole new kind of crazy. When he found out he'd have a day off while she was here, he nearly became the first person in the history of retail who actually wanted to work on the day after Thanksgiving.

For her part, my mother is thrilled to be coming. She has been dying to meet The Boyfriend (who just loves the mom-based scrutiny), and this is her chance to ask us, again and again, "So when are you getting married? When are you having babies?" in person. Because the current (and clearly inferior) arrangement limits her to doing it only once a week, over the phone.

Two weeks to go.  Plenty of time to reconsider that "no drinking" thing.  The Boyfriend, on the other hand, is quietly but impatiently quizzing his recently ill friends about donating their leftover Vicodin. 

Wish us luck.

Eaten Up

Last night, a dream:

I’m hostess to a massive dessert party, somewhere that is not my house. Plates of cookies, pies, fabulously decorated cakes—the works. And people everywhere. Even Gary Sinise showed up, which is pretty weird because, well, he’s Gary Sinise, I do not know him, and no, he’s not this guy. Whatever. Tons of food, plus tons of people watching TV and eating sweets. For, like, two days.

Moral: You can act like you’re not on a diet; you can refuse to call it a diet; you can even tell everyone you know that “it’s not really a diet.” But your body always knows. And your body would like a Frappuccino, like, yesterday, please.

None for Me, Thanks

I'm not one to put PSAs in my blog. Screeds, goofy interpretations of perfectly normal headlines--yes. I guess that flip-flop thing could be a PSA, but not really. Not like this one. So bear with me.

First, a little background.

I have a seizure disorder. No, this isn't something new. It's just news to many of you because I prefer to keep it private. I've been dealing with it on and off since 1986 (Jesus--has it really been almost 20 years...?). As best I've been able to tell, "seizure disorder" and "epilepsy" are the same thing. No doctor yet has been able to explain the difference to me. I control it with meds, and all is dandy as long as I remember to take them. I am very lucky that way.