Pimp My Burger

The lovely Bride-To-Be

The truth is that I am not a purest when it comes to burgers. Yes, I want the meat to be sensational and I’ll smack anyone with a spatula if they attempt to flatten, poke or overcook my fat and happy burger, but in my opinion a burger is not a burger without a piece of cheese, a sauce, and two or three vegetables on top of it. In other words, I like my burger pimped out.  

Wagyu Gold

     When The Bride To Be, (aka  Daughter #1) said she thought that we should do something easy, like grill some burgers, for the 40 or so guests that would be at the Rehearsal Dinner, all I heard were the words "Gourmet Burger Bar”, going ding, ding, ding, in my head. I can hear you now, asking, why on earth would the mother-of-the-bride want to spend the day before THE BIG DAY cooking? Well, I can give you three good reasons: 1. I love to cook for a party, 2. I am an over achiever and 3. I was over budget, so having it catered was out of the question. Pssshhh…I can do this in my sleep, I told The Bride To Be.

     First off, we had to have some killer sauces. I made a chimichurri—full of fresh parsley, oregano, a little cilantro, a lot of garlic, some lemon juice and olive oil. Then my favorite— roasted tomato ketchup, which consists of roasted Roma tomatoes, jalapeno, cilantro, red onion, and some other secret ingredients. I also made a pesto aioli (with homemade pesto, mind you), and a chili aioli (the “chili” being Sambal Oelek), which in my house for the last 15 years or so, we have referred to as “Snakebite Sauce.” It’s simple and wicked good on everything from burgers to potatoes to deep fried anything to straight off your finger. I also doctored up a store bought BBQ sauce with some celery seed, white wine vinegar, and liquid smoke and finally a Marinara sauce, courtesy of Emeril.

Rubbertoe, working it

     The toppings tray was filled with sautéed garlic mushrooms, caramelized onions, bacon, pepperoni, avocado, plus the traditional stuff like lettuce, tomato, onion and mustards.

     And then there were the cheeses—oh Lordy the cheeses! Co-jack, smoked Gouda, Provolone, Swiss, Sharp Cheddar, Pepper Jack, and Blue.  And finally, the star of the Gourmet Burger Bar was 15 pounds of Wagyu ground beef that I lovingly formed into big fat beautiful patties that were grilled just until the juices started to run.

    Most of the guests had never had Wagyu beef before and they couldn’t stop raving about it! I took the opportunity to wallow in the fact that my freezer is full of 100% Wagyu gold. Everyone with a heartbeat noted the finer texture, the deeper flavor (oh my God the flavor!), and those juices! These beauties were perfectly cooked by the tag team of Rubbertoe and The Baby Daddy, and then dressed up to the hilt. Pimped out or not, these lovely patties are better than any meat that you will find on any corner. 

I usually make this chimichurri and roasted tomato ketchup to go with a marintated and grilled flank steak.  According to me and the 40 or so burger connoisseurs at the Rehearsal Dinner, these sauces were just as yummy on a burger. Go to the "Misc. Recipes" tab at the top of this page to view the recipes for these two sauces.  If you want the recipe for my Snakebite sauce, contact me and I'll give it to you.

    

Sturgis ~ Been There, Done That

     I am usually a been there, done that kind of gal, especially when it comes to things that I don’t really want to go and do again, like the Sturgis Bike Rally. No matter, I have let myself get talked into going at least 3 times in the past 25 years.

     Unless you have been living under a rock for most of this past century, you know about Bike Week in Sturgis, SD. This year marks the 70th year that scooter trash from around the world will make the pilgrimage to the Black Hills.

     The first time I went, I went willingly. The Big Guy had ridden his Harley to Sturgis, and a few days later I drove myself over. We had plans to meet up at the McDonalds and then go from there. Before you take away my certified food snob card, I'll tell you it was NOT to eat, it was just the “meeting” place. Anyway, I’m usually not one to be intimidated by big guys with tattoos wearing Harley shirts, mostly because I’m married to one, but let me just say that I was scared shitless. McDonalds was full of bad-ass looking hombres, and not one of them was my hombre. I looked very un-bikerish in my casual, cute, going-to-a-BBQ clothes—or maybe I just looked like I was from another planet, I’m not sure, but guys wearing vests and do-rags were staring. My biker man finally showed up and if I hadn’t have been so glad to see him, I would have killed him for making me wait for 30 minutes, while I felt like bear bait. Besides my clothes not fitting in, (mostly because I was wearing some) I went ahead and demonstrated the classic, novice biker, uncool move, by immediately burning my calf on the tailpipe as I got on the back of Big’s bike, which caused me to perform the next uncool biker move—scream like a girl. I don’t remember much else about that trip, but I still have the burn scar as a souvenir.

     It was 5 or 6 years later before my biker man talked me into going again. He also talked me into camping at Hog Heaven…in a tent and you know I hate camping! All night long music blared and Hell’s Angel wanna-be’s revved their engines. As if that wasn’t enough to make me want to slit my wrists, he dumped his bike over and ejected me off it. We were barely moving, so it was no big deal, but I still put a knot on his head just for the principle of it. He promised to never drink beer and ride the Harley at the same time again and I promised to stop using my brand new, pink helmet for head butting. Besides the pink helmet, I came home with chaps and a tattoo, but overall I still thought Sturgis sucked.

Sturgis finest

     It should be noted here that The Big Guy has gone to the Rally every year since 1987, with the exception of 1994, 2007, and 2009. He's a die-hard and he loves Sturgis for the Indian Tacos almost as much as he loves it for the drags (races, not queens) and for the great bands that play every night at the Buffalo Chip. Right about now you must be thinking I’m clueless to make such an idiotic statement, because Sturgis is as much about the chicks as it is the bikes. It’s kind of like saying you buy Playboy for the articles. Well, if you’ve seen one Miss Buffalo Chip, you’ve seen em all and what I learned about Sturgis after my first trip is that the girls not wearing clothes are the ones who really should be. I’ve seen better looking ladies on Hollywood Boulevard…oh wait…they were drag queens. Don’t get me wrong, there are beautiful women there, like there are everywhere, just not as many.

Yes, he is getting a tattoo

     So, every year he invites me to ride along and every year I decline. The last time I manged to hold out for about 10 years before I finally agreed to go, mostly because he promised me a hotel room and something besides an Indian Taco to eat. The Road Kill Café was not exactly what I had in mind, but hey, I can be bikerish when I have to be, so I bellied up.

Our friend, Dennis,
 riding the Needles Highway

     Truthfully, Sturgis is much more than the greatest freak show on earth. Yes you will see a lot of big, hairy guys walking around noshing on turkey legs and there are bound to be some big hairy woman street fighting. But there are also beautiful custom bikes with unbelievable paint jobs, the best rock bands in the world, and even some Playboy worthy girls. If you haven’t been there, you should go—at least once. The best part and the real reason that I have been there at least three times, is for the ride on the scenic Needles Highway and through beautiful Custer State Park. The trip wouldn’t be complete with out a ride past Mt Rushmore and Crazy Horse.

     This last time I went I got a sunburn and a fake ponytail. I was even, sorta-kinda starting to look the part. I won't admit it in a court of law, but I may have even liked Sturgis, but no need to go there this year. Been there, done that.

Grilled corn with Green Goddess Butter
and with Parm-Herb Butter

I'm not a real street food lover (unless it's from an authentic roach coach), but if I was going to do food for bikers, and sell it at Sturgis, I would make corn on the cob, with gourmet butters. Two of my favorites are Green Godess Butter (from Cuisine Magazine) and Parmesan-Herb Butter (from my own kitchen). Corn is in season now, so try it. You may never go back to plain old butter! Go to the "Soups-Salads-Sides" tab at the top of this page to view it. 

My Daughter Is A Triathlete ~ Call 911

She did it!

So—my daughter—the one who is prone to having seizures on the treadmill, tells me that she is “training for a triathlon”. There is nothing like those four words to strike fear in the heart of a mother who has a daughter with a seizure disorder. It’s not the running or biking that scares me, it’s the swimming. Minor road rash isn’t likely to be fatal, but have a seizure in a lake and it isn’t going to be pretty. Needless to say, I was less than thrilled with this news.

     First off, I have never understood why people run. I mean, for no reason. I’m not stupid, I can see running if someone is chasing you…with a gun. But if no one is, then c’mon, seriously people, why would you run??? I’m not knocking it without having tried it. I did it once when no gun was even involved and I’m here to tell you that my knees and my boobs didn’t like it one little bit. The truth is I have no desire to break a sweat unless Macy’s is having a clearance sale. 

After the bike race

     So let’s talk about biking—the kind you pedal. I love biking—just not the kind you pedal. The Big Guy has a Harley, so I can honesty say that I have actual biking credentials, such as a helmet. The down side to my kind of biking? A bad hair day. The up side? No spandex shorts with a maxi pad sewn in the crotch. Nuff said?

     Swimming. Ahhh, yes, at last a sport that I can get into! I happen to have my very own personal flotation devices and am quite comfortable in the water. Especially if the cabana boy brings drinks around every hour or so.

     So, when Sierra told me that she WANTED to do a triathlon and there was no gun or blackmail involved, I could only assume that her last fall off the treadmill had caused a head injury.

     Before I went into panic mode, I decided to assess the situation and see what I could do to put the brakes on it. The short answer—not a damn thing. 1. she is too big to spank; 2. I can’t take away the keys to her car (something about the title being in her name); and 3. because she is 27, the statutes of limitations for grounding have run out. So I did what all desperate mothers do—I cried. Then I suggested shopping, cooking and wine tasting as a nice alternative to triathlons. I mean there is some running, lifting, and discipline involved. Still, she wasn’t having any of it. I got the memo…shut up mom, take a valium and just show up to cheer me on.

That's her, in the purple cap

IT'S THE BIG DAY! Sierra is ready, looking all fit and triathlonish. I discretely try to get the attention, by wolf whistling at one of the kayakers (aka spotters) in Lake Loveland, to let him know that he should keep an eye on my daughter; the one in the purple swim cap and unflattering black wet suit. In doing so, I just described approximately 100 other women in the third heat. Ruh-roh. I’ll just have to watch her myself, I decide. And I do, for about three strokes…then I lose sight of her. All those flapping purple headed women look a lot like ducks having grand-mal-seizures, so I just keep my thumb on the 911 speed dial for the next twenty minutes. My heart is racing and I want to throw up as I watch purple caps coming out of the lake…waiting…watching…praying that the next purple head will be Sierra’s. And finally there she is, looking like she wants to throw up too.                                             

Sierra, 2nd from left, no, 3rd
 from center, wait, 4th from
right, uhhh, in there somewhere... 

 She then has to run a ¼ mile to the transition area where she  put on the aforementioned maxi-pad shorts and some funny little shoes that hook into her bike pedals. I can’t imagine who the boy genius is who came up with that design, but talk about a face plant waiting to happen. (and see it happen I did-twice) Off she goes, looking like clamping your feet to your bike pedals and riding down the highway makes good sense. She knocks out 14 miles before I can finish doing the mental math to figure out if a bicycle can fit into an ambulance. I needn’t have worried—that girl can peddle her moneymaker with the best of them!

     Back to the transition area we go to change clothes and shoes again. (Come to think of it, this triathlon business is a lot like shopping—you change into several outfits, most of which you find unbecoming.) So, she shucks the uncool shoes, laces up the tennys and puts 4 miles behind her in less time then it takes me to decide what to fix for dinner.

     I am one proud, nervous, wreck when she crosses the finish line for the final time, completing the triathlon in 1 hour and 44 minutes, which is well under the 2 hour time limit that she had set for herself! No paramedics, no ambulance ride and no CAT scans were necessary! I’m happy to report that I made it through the entire race without needing any of that.

A few hours after the triathlon

     Now I’m just hoping that she has this triathlon nonsense out of her system because just thinking about her doing another one causes me to break out in a rash. So...I’m pulling out the big guns. I’m putting a bow on Mastering the Art of French Cooking, grabbing a nice bottle of wine and a hefty gift certificate to Macy's and then I am going to try my best to sell her on my idea of a triathlon. Girlfriends, arm yourselves with credit cards and stand by—I may need to call for back-up!

This is a recipe for a Tri-Color Pate. (get it? "tri") It's a fabby little appetizer to take to a dinner party or prepare for a crowd. This pate comes together fast, (no ducks were harmed in it's making) and it can be made ahead of time.  Any home cook worth her sea salt will have all the ingredients on hand. Go to the "Appetizers" tab at the top of this page to view it.

Free Ingwe: The What's Not To ♥ Boat!

It was raining, I was tired and The Big Guy said, "watch your step honey,” which immediately put a hex on me. I swear that I wasn't drinking (well, maybe one); I just didn’t have my sea legs yet. Anyhow, I slipped and fell on my keester as I was getting off the ferry in St.John. Mr. Big and I, the Lexuses and the Langfield’s had barely stepped off the red-eye from Denver, when I decided to show a bunch of strangers just how uncool I am. Hey, I didn’t really need that tailbone anyway. I picked up what was left of my dignity, my dog and my Bushwacker and headed off in the general direction of the Tamarind Court. Because my honey and my friends love me, they fussed over my aching butt and grimaced appropriately over the bruise that was definitely going to interfere with my tan lines. We took the edge off my hurt with a Painkiller before we headed to Rhumb Lines to have dinner. (order the Pad Thai or the salmon)

    The next day was the beginning of our week long charter on board Free Ingwe, a 45' catamaran, owned and operated by Matt and Mel Neidlinger, THEE best Captain and Chef in the entire Virgin Islands. We know this to be a fact, because The Big Guy said so. We settled in, then had a tasty lunch of tropical chicken salad, before going to Tortola to clear customs. The Brits had been forewarned that Elvis was "in the building" and for ten bucks, Matt bought their silence. We then had a nice, relaxing sail to Norman Island, where we tied up for the night and enjoyed Mels to-freaking-die-for Coconut Crusted Basa with Mango-Lime Ailoi.

Matt wanted to see what we were made of, so he took us to Willy T’s, a floating bar forever moored in a cove known as The Bight. Island music blared; white dudes bit their lower lips and mimicked the moves of the brothers, who grinded up against the whites dude’s women. We learned about “the posh-in” from a local, who was channeling Dr. Phil, and who definitely was not practicing what he preached. Being the fun-haters that our men are, they declined to partake in the body shots, which looked more like a free-for-all-booby-buffet. To whoops and hollers, us girls may/or may not have hiked up our skirts and/or pulled down our tops for a pirate tattoo, given by the bartender. We partied like rock stars on that rickety old boat! Thank God the kids (what kids?) were home in bed. 

    The next morning, as we were headed to Angelfish Reef for a dive, we got into an actual game of chicken with another boat that was trying to take a mooring ball that we had been waiting on. As we both raced towards it, it became clear that we were on a collision course. Our Captain was ready to open up a can of whoop-ass, as he told the other guy, in no uncertain terms, exactly where he was going to put that boat hook if he tried to steal our mooring ball! We cheered Matt on, and I can say that I personally shot my best stink eye at the Losers while the rest of the Free Ingwe crew smugly gave their adult best, “Our Captain Can Beat Up Your Captain” look. This exciting encounter gave new meaning to “Chicken of the Seas”!

    After all this excitement we just needed to do some chillin. A spa treatment at Peter Island Resort was just what the doctor ordered, so Mrs. Lexus, the Langfields and I had a relaxing afternoon being rubbed, scrubbed and wrapped. Big, Dr. Lexus, Elvis, Matt and Mel, all sailed over to Trellis Bay to look at a catamaran that was for sale. It was more than our combined credit card limit, so at the end of the day, we were still all one, big happy family on Free Ingwe.

    The next day Matt took us on a dive of the RMS Rhone, a 310’ mail steam ship that sank during a hurricane in 1867. It was a thrilling dive with stunning sea life and abundant coral. As we entered the hull of the ship a giant sea turtle swam right past each one of us, and inside, schools of fish danced to the rhythm of our flashlights. We saw Fang, the giant killer barracuda (you shhhish, Matt) who lives on the Rhone, and finally we rubbed the porthole of the stateroom of the only surviving passenger. That afternoon we sailed to Virgin Gorda, where we snorkeled and hiked The Baths.

    The next day we dropped anchor at Great Camanoe and dingy-ed over to Litttle Camanoe Island where the Langfield’s became unlawfully wedded by Captain Matt. Big and I stood beside the happy couple and served as Matron of Honor and Best Man. Mr. Lexus wore a smart twinset (and was dapper, I might add—in an Old-Folks-Home-kind-of-way) when he walked the bride down the sandy isle. And speaking of the bride—she was positively pure looking (wink, wink) in white. The groom was handsome in a white linen shirt and bright red sunburn. Mrs. Lexus, always a bridesmaid and always a fashionista, was stylish as ever in her floral cover up and a 1980's sun visor. Mel snapped pictures and popped open the bubbly. We left the newlyweds to, ahem, honeymoon and us old folks went back to the boat where Mrs. Lexus wowed us with her water skiing abilities. Who knew? We had her pegged for a snow bunny.

    The rest of our week was filled with more great food and wine, picture postcard sunsets, awesome diving, smooth sailing, fun in the sun, and relaxing with great friends. Matt and Mel spoiled us in a manner that we could have become accustomed to! Mel put her Dive Instructor skills to good use and got the Langfields certified while on the trip, allowing us all to do a dive together at The Playground, a site just off Jost Van Dyke. It was a spectacular dive and we saw a huge shark! (Mel-you shhhish!)

     And speaking of JVD, we had lunch at Foxy's, a Painkiller at the Soggy Dollar Bar, and then spent the evening sipping one of Matt's famous concoctions while in absolute heaven over Mel’s dinner of Pork Tenderloin with Sweet Potato and Plantain Mash. (This trip she had the foresight to hide the plantains from The Big Guy, lest he mistake them for bad bananas again.)
    On our final night we had a drinks and dinner at Havana Blue on St.Thomas, one of my favorite dining spots in the Caribbean.

     The following day we were sad to leave Free Ingwe, but we were taking with us memories that would last a lifetime. As we walked out on the tarmac at the St.Thomas airport and began to board the plane, I was feeling pretty good. I mean, I had a decent tan, a cute sundress, new earrings from H. Stern and barely a bruise left on my butt. Feeling pretty good about myself that is, until The Big Guy said, “honey, watch your step.”

This is part 2 of 2, of a post about Free Ingwe--the trip of a lifetime. So, what are you waiting for? Book a trip with Matt & Mel this fall. The offer for the free Willy T tattoo is still good, if you drop my name (see Part 1). And just to tempt you, Mel is sharing her recipe for Coconut Crusted Basa with Mango-Lime Aioli. Go to the "Seafood" tab at the top of this page to view it, then go directly to the Free Ingwe website to book your trip. You'll thank me later! 
(Above right: Elvis, looking longingly at Free Ingwe)

Free Ingwe: Not Your Granny's ♥ Boat

     In the yesteryear of cruising, ships were filled with blue haired ladies in gold lame and floweridy prints (think Lilly Pulitzer on Boniva) and old guys in tuxedos, polka-dancing, pinching bottoms and pulling all-nighters (think Lawrence Welk on crack). Days were for playing shuffleboard and standing in a buffet line and nights were for fancy clothes and formal dinners.    
   Since the 21st century cruising has become family friendly. Cranky babies, whiney toddlers and sullen teens with uncool parents are all welcomed on board. Corona and Captain Morgan have replaced champagne as the drink of choice and pizza, nachos and chicken wings are de rigueur on the 24-7 buffet. The splash pool still gets peed in but it’s not just for the geriatric set dozing in wheel chairs anymore. The big cruise ships have become so economical that the whole fam damily can afford to go—so it’s still a great way to vacation, right?

     HAH! I know something that the people with Royal Caribbean luggage tags don’t! To see the Caribbean, you don’t have to spend a week with 2800 annoying people, standing in lines, plotting excursions in advance and on marathon duty free shopping sprees.

     Nosiree, I know this wonderful little PRIVATE charter that will allow you to get up close and personal with the islands. Free Ingwe is a 45’ catamaran with better amenities then its much larger brethren. 
For starters, the food is made fresh and served minutes after coming off of the stove! No buffets, no MSG, no chicken wings (unless requested of coarse). Dinners are 5 star quality and served when YOU want them. Mel is an amazing chef and she can please even the pickiest pallet. (I won’t name names, but I happen to know a couple of people who think frozen burritos and hotdogs are two of the food groups). That said, even Savannah and Shane loved the food. No dressing for dinner here. Swim wear is perfectly acceptable attire.

     Second, there are NO LINES, unless you count waiting your turn to water ski or wake board, which means that you could have to wait for a sec while 1 or 2 other people get in the dingy.

     But wait, it gets even better! Captain Matt knows all the best spots for snorkeling and scuba diving and has tanks and gear on board. There is no looking up a dive shop, catching a taxi, standing in line and filling our paperwork, fitting gear and then waiting while it all gets loaded on the dive boat. You barely have time for one quick dive before you have to get in the long line of day trippers waiting to get back on the big boat. On Free Ingwe diving/snorkeling is like this: hmmm, I think I want to dive/snorkel today. Within minutes the boat is at a site and you are ready to take that big step off the platform. Don’t know how to dive? No problem, Mel is an instructor and she can certify you during your trip! You will find beaches so secluded that no one else will even be there. If anyone dares to have the nerve to invade your private paradise, Matt will find you another one. 

     Another thing, the big boats dock at the big ports of call, meaning you will be dumped off in a TOURIST TRAP (don’t forget…with 2800 of your new closest friends). On Free Ingwe you will be able to snorkel and/or hike The Baths on Virgin Gorda, have a spa treatment on Peter Island, go to Anegada and eat the best lobster in ALL of the Caribbean, kayak at Guana Island, water ski at Great Camanoe and do the bar crawl on beautiful Jost Van Dyk. 

     I can hear you now…but you like nightlife, maybe even a little show. Well it’s your lucky day buddy because Matt and Mel know the places where all the cool kids go. They can take you to a touristy trap like Willy T’s (there is always a “show” there), or a place where all the locals hang out, like Willy T’s or even a world famous place, like Willy T’s. Let me tell you, those crazy kids know how to par-tay! If that’s a little much for you, there is always the spectacular nightly show of the sun setting and the moon rising over the Sir Frances Drake channel. You can relax with 5 of your best friends (or favorite kids) and enjoy one of Matt's specialty cocktails. No trying to flag down a bartender here, no ticket to sign and no surprising bar bill at the end of the week! On this cruise, drinks are FREE! You heard me right--ZIP, ZERO, NADA!

     So if you are a mega-cruise-ship kind of gal, go ahead and bring your floral muumuu, your gold lame sandals and your straw beach bag, if you must, but under no circumstances will Grandpa be allowed to pack his penguin suit.

     TRUST ME, when I tell you that this is THEE way to cruise. And feel free to drop my name when you book your trip, it’s good for one free tattoo at Willy T’s.

Mel is sharing her recipe for Blue Cheese Crusted Filet Mignon with Port Wine Sauce.  I had it when I was on board and I can vouch for its delish factor. Go to the "Beef-Pork-Chicken" tab at the top of this page to view it. (Photo above  right: Your hosts-Captain Matt and Chef Melissa)

This is Part 1 of a 2 Part Blog about Free Ingwe, so stay tuned!

I Love NOT Camping!

Back in the early days of our married life The Big Guy and I lived in a Sheep Wagon. What’s a sheep wagon, you ask? (See picture above—shake head in disbelief then GASP!) Well, it’s kind of like an old time camper, only smaller…with fewer amenities…and less square footage.     
    Inside this little house on the prairie was a bed (slightly larger than twin size), a table that slid out from underneath the bed, a small cast iron stove that had been retrofitted with propane, one small cabinet and one shelf. We also had a tea kettle, a dish pan and a bowl. Water was hauled in and stored in cream cans and rationed as if it was gasoline and WW2 was still going on.

     The summer of ’82 we slept with the door thrown open and the one and only window propped up hoping for enough of a cross breeze to cool off this little easy bake oven that we were calling home. In the evenings we bathed in a nearby creek, and then afterwards had the romantic task of picking leeches off each other. We went to the bathroom anywhere we felt like it. Not having a pot to piss in took on a whole new meaning. In place of TV we watched nightly lightning storms and the rain was our radio. Life was simple. I needed my head examined.

     We spent one winter in the sheep wagon too, which was not so serendipitous. Baths were taken in a dishpan and we literally froze our butts off when having to go outside to use the “facilities”. I was stuck inside the 7' x 12' box, 24-7 and my days were spent painting ceramic mice, which would become Christmas ornaments once I stuck a metal hook through their heads. (This was after my lobotomy, by the way) The up side was that the sheep wagon was so small that it could be heated with the strike of one farmers match. Two matches and we didn’t need sock hats in bed. The propane stove was only used for heating water because when we fired it up the sheep wagon was turned into a sweat box in about thirty seconds.

     I know what you’re thinking…we don’t seem like the type of people who would live like that. Well, all I can say is that we were young and dumb and broke and actually liked being together in small spaces. Also, it was the furnished housing that came with the job. The Big Guy was operating a dozer and scraper and working for a guy who was paying him THE BIG BUCKS! We were practically rolling in dough! So much that we likely could have afforded an actual pot to piss in. Think of it like a year long camping trip—with fringe benefits.

     The job ended a year or so later but the repercussions have been life long. To this day I hate camping, I’m terrified of mice, I have an aversion to arts and crafts and, not surprisingly, I refuse to pee outside. However, this whole experience was a lesson in reliance and commitment. Most young couples develop a trust—meaning that the one in the bathtub isn’t worried that the one with the blow dryer is going to toss it in the tub with them. Ours was different. When one is picking leeches off of the other one’s backside and takes the extra time to double check, it brings a whole new meaning to knowing that your mate “has your back”. We have known that about each other for over thirty years now.

     Those days are now long behind us and no way in hell do I want to spend another night in a Sheep Wagon. Not even for old time sake. There are some things you just don’t have to do twice in your life to be sure that you don’t want to do them again, like poking a hibernating grizzly, juggling chainsaws or bathing with leeches.

     Big and I spent the next 25 years without pitching a tent or unrolling a sleeping bag. We kept the girls a safe distance from s’mores, hotdogs, campfires and any movie that glamorized camping, like The Parent Trap.

     The thought of sleeping anywhere other than my own bed (or a hotel room) hadn’t crossed my mind in years when The Big Guy got a wild hair and decided that we should buy an RV. I reminded him that I’M NOT CAMPY! "It won’t really be camping," he said sounding somewhat convincing. "We’d have a bed and AC and a TV," he continued to sell me the idea.

    Ok, so I may have softened a little when I saw the push-button flush toilet and the computer desk. For a moment I thought I heard the chorus of Kumbabya playing in my head, Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya. The heated marble floors were a nice touch, someone’s singing Lord, kumbaya, but I still had my guard up. The two burner gas stove and convection oven made me think, "Yeah, maybe I COULD be campy!" Someone’s laughing Lord, kumbaya. Then I saw the dishwasher! Someone’s smiling Lord, kumbaya. Yeeesssss! THIS is my idea of roughing it!

     “Honey”, I said, “I’ll get the s’mores going while you go turn on that outside flat screen TV.” Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya.

     I love NOT camping!

I got this recipe almost 20 years ago, from the Sweetwater Restaurant in Jackson, WY. It is one that I have continued to make over the years and it remains one of our all-time favorites. Grilled Halibut with Thai Nut Relish isn't exactly camping fare, but it is as easy as hotdogs and I guaran-damn-tee you that it tastes a whole lot better. I have made this while "camping" in the coach and we have fine dined under the stars while watching the big sceen. It's got a nice bite, so serve it with an ice cold Pinot Grigio, then grab a second bottle and hit the hot tub! No leech picking required. Go to the "Seafood" tab at the top of this page to view it. (I served it tonight with saffron rice with chives, {snipped fresh from my herb garden} and grilled sesame-ginger zucchini. It was delish, my official-life-long-taste-tester declared!)  

Left: roughing it in Jackson. Why ya'll looking at me--do I look like someone who knows how to build a camp fire?

Below left: the kids in Jackson this past week, which is where we were loving NOT camping. They are giving me their best "I hate camping" look. Below right: sitting around the TV, which I gotta admit, kind of resembles a campfire. Is it just me or do you see the resemblance too? Kumbaya, my Lord....

There's A Body In My Freezer

     I wasn’t going to talk about it. It’s just too embarrassing and too personal. But then I thought, I can’t just not talk about it. Every twenty minutes, twenty-four hours a day for the past two years IT has interrupted my life. (Warning: If you are a guy reading this, you should probably stop right now because you are not going to want to hear the gory details.)  IT—my friends—is menopause. 
     The night sweats started around two years ago and within a few weeks they were followed by full blown hot flashes. A tingling sensation starts on my scalp, then within seconds my entire head heats up hot enough to fry an egg on. This incinerator force heat moves down my face, over my neck and then on down south, finally exiting through the soles of my feet. By then I have enough moisture running down my back and between my boobs to poach an egg, or at the very least to put out a small kitchen fire.
     After about six months of this picnic, the suicidal tendencies began. My sleep is interrupted about three times an hour as a hot flash covers me in a way that no down comforter can. I flip my pillow over searching for the cool spot and kick the covers off like a two year old throwing a temper tantrum. My poor husband—you know, The Big Guy, he lays there shivering, clinging to a corner of the sheet as all bedding is jettisoned. Sometimes there is sobbing, as one or both of us may be crying ourselves to sleep. I move the .38 off of the nightstand…just in case.
     Daytimes are worse, mostly because I am wearing more clothes. I’ve become quite adept at shucking my outer layer of clothing while driving, shopping, cooking, eating, drinking, walking, and talking. Don't ask me how, but trust me when I say that I happen to be “in the know”, that most nudists are over the age of fifty, which makes me believe that the majority are menopausal women looking for relief, and old guys…just looking. The Big Guy would be on board with this if it meant there would be a snowballs chance in hell that I would quit rolling down the window at 80 mph in the winter and kicking on the AC.
     Six more months pass and I swap suicidal thoughts for homicidal ones. I'm prematurely crabby and want to kill anybody who is not breaking a sweat in 40 degree weather. I hate everyone—even my poor hubby, whom for the most part I do truly love. He looks at me funny now---as if I’m someone who can turn my head 360 degrees. I move the .38 back to the nightstand…just in case.
     Before you judge me as some holistic or sadistic weirdo who won’t take hormones, let me just say that I am not a candidate for that cancer inducing treatment. I do pop herbal supplements like a pain addicted junkie, but have no idea if they are really helping me. I’d like to think that they are because I can’t imagine how unbearable this sweat-fest would be if they weren’t. I was ready to make a deal with the devil when I accidently found some relief for my own personal hell. It’s not the cure, mind you, but it is worth sharing with my hormonal sisters who have the same unwanted belly fat and propensity for murder, that I have.
     So, the other day I go to the freezer looking for something to fix for dinner. It is true that I spend a fair amount of time with my head in the freezer while contemplating dinner, but it was purely accidental when I stumbled upon what has been the best remedy thus far. While debating salmon or sirloin I felt that familiar tingle on my scalp. I stepped up on the ledge (where the door closes) of my Kitchenaide refrigerator/freezer, circa 2005, and found that my face was at the exact spot where the icemaker is. I flipped up that little door and a rush of freezing cold air blasted me, instantly freezing perspiration, frustration and exhaustion. I inhaled a breath of icy relief and made a mental note that if you are under 5’5” and weigh less than 140 pounds you are the perfect size to fit inside the freezer! It’s like it was made for my body! I thought I heard the devil whimpering, frozen in his tracks, as if that bottle of vodka in my hand were a crucifix and I was performing an exorcism.
     So ladies, if your current “treatment” hasn’t curbed your enthusiasm for murder, try sticking your head in your ice maker or climbing into your freezer. If you have a better home remedy or a sure-fire herbal recommendation, please pass it on. I’m completely open to suggestions. But hold that thought for a second…I’ll be right back…I just remembered that I forgot to take something out of the freezer for dinner tonight!

I am going to put my recipe for Killer Crab Cakes with Roasted Red Pepper Ailoi, with this post. “Crab” for obvious reasons, but also because they freeze well.  Make up an extra batch and stash them in the far corner of your freezer. You can always pretend that you are looking for them, if you happen to get caught with your head in the freezer for an abnormal amount of time.  Go to the "Appetizer" tab at the top of this page to view it.

Bacon Is The New Black

Bacon is the little black dress of cuisine. It goes with everything and is as much as a must-have as the classic LBD (little black dress). Right now it is very chic and fashionable  and it is popping up everywhere and in everything from meatballs to muffins to mayo. Besides the obvious, eggs (boring), bacon is being paired with seafood, chicken, pasta, and vegetables. I think I even saw bacon-wrapped bacon on a menu somewhere, but then again maybe I was just dreaming. This bacon revolution makes me very happy because I have loved bacon my whole life. I love peppered bacon, sugared bacon, Canadian bacon, Italian bacon (pancetta), even Kevin Bacon. 

      Vegetarians are dying for the stuff too and they have figured out a way to make BLT’s using tofu, which is a sorry excuse for bacon. I know this to be true, because I know a couple of real life vegetarians and they made me a tofu BLT. The tofu was dressed up with soy sauce and liquid smoke and maybe some other ingredients, then fried up in a pan. It lacked that distinct smell of bacon while cooking, and although it looked like bacon (kind of) and tasted like bacon (kind of), it was thicker than I prefer and had a weird chewy texture, like what I would imagine to be the consistency of semi-cooked-thin-sliced whale blubber. My final thought on it was that tofu should be ashamed of itself for trying to impersonate bacon. Bacon demands respect, dammit!

    I am even happier to announce that bacon is out of the closet and so are bacon lovers. The only reason I, and probably millions of others even did the Atkins diet was because it gave us carte blanche to eat our weight in bacon. Every. Single. Day. I ate it guilt free at a time when bacon was considered taboo, not to mention carcinogenic. I did lose a few pounds but gained a couple of nitrate headaches.

     Now there is something called “Bacon Explosion”. You have to look at these pictures (above) to appreciate its subtle complexity, but I’ll give you a heads up; it looks like something likely to be cooking on the BBQ grill at a NASCAR race or at a reception following your cousin's wedding. (I’m talking about the one where your cousin is the bride and your other cousin is the groom.) Unbelievably, it is bacon seasoned with bacon seasoning then wrapped around Italian sausage, which has been layered with crispy bacon pieces. The whole thing is then rolled up, does a little time on the smoker and then is finally BBQ-ed. It just sounds sick and wrong and delicious! My money says that the real explosion here is your arteries.

     That heart attack aside, bacon in general has gone uptown. Vosges (the best exotic chocolates in the world!) makes an applewood smoked bacon, dark chocolate candy bar! It’s even salted. Three of my favorite things in one bite and worth every stinkin calorie. You know I just had to try it and now I'm a believer that bacon and chocolate love each other! 

     My best idea for that marriage would be redneck bacon meets haute bacon. The result would be Bacon M&M’s that we could buy at Walmart! Seriously!

     But there is more…I was thinking…if someone could figure out a way to infuse bacon in vodka and make a martini...so I googled it and sure enough, it has been done! This concoction gives new meaning to the term "Killer Headache". Think about it. After your Bacon Martini hangover you could have a little hair of the dog with a Bacon Bloody Mary then move on to a Bacon-politan for happy hour, followed by a nightcap of a Bacon-Tonic!  You could give up the Atkins diet for a liquid diet and still get to have your bacon and drink it too! 

    Ahhhh…Bacon….It’s what’s for dinner…and breakfast…and lunch…and happy hour!

This is one of my families favorite BLT recipes! It's Bacon, Linguine and Tomato, all lounging in a flavorful cream sauce, loaded with herbs and two cheeses. Our resident expert on pasta and cream sauces (Sierra) has been requesting this dish for over ten years. The picture above was my dinner tonight and it was delish! Go to the "Pasta" tab at the top of this page to view it and then get in the kitchen and make it! Call me, I'll be right over with the martinis!   

Hello Baby ~ Goodbye Money

My Daughter is a consenting adult, married for almost three years now, so it wasn’t like she needed my permission to… get pregnant. Still, I never saw it coming. How on earth did this happen? was the first thought that popped into my head when she handed me one of those home pregnancy sticks with the pink lines clearly displayed. Thankfully I managed to swallow the words just as I felt them about to tumble from my mouth. I am aware of how these things happen and I don’t need to hear the details. My Son-In-Law looked guilty of something and took a sudden interest in the lint on my carpet. My second thought was, “Oh my God, I am going to be a Grandmother, I better go shopping…I’ve only have eight months left!”

     Well, I’m here to tell you those first few months of shopping were HELL, even for someone who considers themselves a professional. I was drawn to everything pink—there is more of it and it is so much cuter than the blue stuff. A sales lady did me a huge favor by prying a tutu out of my hands when I fessed up and told her that we didn’t yet know if the baby was a boy or a girl. “Honey”, she said, shaking her head and forcing the handful of pink tulle out of my fist, “this is one thing that just can’t go either way.” She was right; I could almost see The Baby Daddy signing over adoption papers and the Two Grandpas notarizing them. No way in hell was their boy going to wear a tutu! So I bought diapers…and lots of them. 

     A month or so later Daughter has an ultra-scan and everyone in the room (5 adults with 20/20 vision) swears they see a dumbstick! (it should be noted here that “dumbstick” is my word—not the in-laws who were in the room, word) So...it’s boy...I'm fine with that. Boy is code for, “this is going to save me a $#!% load of money!” I immediately quit looking at paisley and start admiring camo. I buy cute little navy boat shoes, a Ralph Lauren polo shirt, a little golf outfit that says “Daddy’s Caddy” and an adorable outfit that has a little excavator on it. His Grandpa will be so proud, I think as I slide my credit card across the counter!

Everything is going well, no morning sickness, she's really happy, (see picture at left) no mood swings (wink, wink), cute little bump showing. She takes her prenatal vitamins and does what most pregnant cowgirls do—she has the veterinarian give her an ultra-sound. “Girl”, the vet says, like he knows what he’s talking about. Well, this changes everything! I stop looking at Carharts and go back to buying diapers while I wait for someone with an OBGYN behind their name to confirm this. 

Finally a few weeks later the MD concurs with the DVM. The shopping Gods smile on me and darling girl-baby-stuff practically multiplies in front of my eyes as I walk through department stores. I blow the dust of a credit card that I haven’t used in months and practice blushing while looking shocked,  as cashiers tell me I "can’t possibly be old enough to be a grandmother,” which triggers a weird reflex that causes me to throw another onesie on the pile. The other Grandma-To-Be is on the same mission, so pink and zebra and cute stuff pile up in the new pink and zebra and cute bedroom.      

   So here's the countdown:  $1240 later we have accumulated approximately 800 diapers, made 95 purchases that include 40-some outfits. It's 3 months until the due date when 2 families will be blessed with 1 little baby girl!  

Savannah’s all time favorite meal is her Grandma Di's Chicken & Dumplins. As a little girl she requested them on a regular basis and Mom always complied. They would mix up a batch of noodles and Mom would roll them out and Savannah would cut them. Using an old wooden spoon that had once belonged to MY Great Grandma, they would stir up the dumplins. Together, their hands held onto that old spoon as mom guided it around the bowl. The result was shockingly tender dumpling that soaked up the chicken broth, and thick, hearty, uneven and sometimes odd shaped noodles. Sadly, my mother is not here to make noodles and dumplins with the little girl who would have been her first great grandchild, but I’m sure she would want me to keep that old wooden spoon and the recipe alive.  Go to the "Beef-Pork-Chicken" tab at the top of the page to view it.