Bake and Shake

Grain Gang: Brown Rice Salad

"We have to get your Organs ready for harvesting season, son. They'll pay a premium if we give them premium product."

August was a horrible month. I am so glad that it is over.

Now, September. Let's hope we're off to the races. I feel like we are. I hope we bet big money.

I made this today and felt so good about everything that I had to share. I hope life, and September, is just as keen for you.

Brown Rice Salad

1 cup uncooked long-grain brown rice (or three cups cooked brown rice)

1/4 cup lemon juice
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 large garlic clove, peeled
Salt and pepper, to taste
1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes

1/4 cup minced parsley
4-5 scallions, sliced (use both the white and green bits)
1 carrot, peeled
1 small zucchini, diced roughly
1 red pepper
Zest from the same lemon you juiced, above

Bring a large pot of water to a boil, and add the rice -- I learned this cooking method from reading Angry Chicken, and I love it. Basically, you boil your grains like pasta, which not only makes them cook faster but makes them taste better. You're probably already doing this. I don't mean to be so behind the times. Anyway, check the package directions and base your cooking time off of that and the good old fashioned tooth test, where you taste a grain and decide if it is tender enough for your liking. My rice took around twenty minutes. Once done, drain the rice really well, fluff with a fork and sprinkle with a little bit of olive oil. Set aside.

Whisk together the lemon juice, olive oil, salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes until a nice, lemon-y emulsion has formed. Check for seasoning, adjust if desired and then grate (using a microplane, if you don't have one just very finely mince or smash the clove into a paste) the garlic into the dressing. Whisk to combine and add half the mixture to the warm rice, stirring lightly with a fork. Set the remaining dressing aside.

Now, using your peeler, scrape the carrot into long ribbons. Core, seed and stem the red pepper, then slice into thin strips. Add the carrot, red pepper strips, diced zucchini, parsley, scallions and lemon zest to the rice, stir gently to combine, check and adjust seasonings one last time and serve -- also fantastic when chilled.

Could bring a Grizzly down: Raunchy Meat Lasagna

"Whoever finds the molar is king or queen for the day!"

I think that one of the good things I can do, with very little warning, is throw together a choice lasagna. I enjoy it, for one, which means I take care and time in selecting good ingredients, making sure everything is 'ready' before even sliding it in the oven. And two, I believe in layered flavors. Radical, I get it. I know. The future is here and it just pissed in your car. You can kick it out now, on this highway, or you can take a deep breath and let it tell you all about the Freegan movement.

But I think that lasagna is one of those things that can make people angry, if it isn't what they're expecting. My youngest sister has strict ideas concerning layered pasta dishes. I don't know why, I don't know what layered pasta dishes did to her locker, but she's ready to testify in peer court. I know my lasagnas of times past are in the clear, because she's eaten them willingly, but not without letting me know how they've let her down. Most of the time her complaints have no structure, but they have passion behind them, and they eventually boil down to "It doesn't look like Teen Movie Lasagna," meaning I've included spinach, and not enough cheese, and rarely use meat. When I do, it's turkey, and not the golden, coconut-scented limbs of Zac Efron, so I can understand the disappointment.

Most of the time I throw surprises between each layer. Last time, popcorn kernals and foreign coins. Texture. Fiber. Fear. But in honor of my youngest sibling, who is getting ready to start college, I made a lasagna that heaved with cheese, savory meats, plural, and a layer of fluffy, spiced ricotta. No green, anywhere, besides the flutter of torn basil that I scattered right before serving. The sharp, green anise flavor cut through the richness, and it was a delicious meal on a cloudy August day.

If you're a fan of sauce-y lasagna, feel free to double the tomato sauce portion of the recipe, which will leave you plenty of plain sauce to drip between layers, or serve on the side. As it is, this is a compact, dignified structure. I hope it pleases you.

Ridiculous Lasagna For People Who Love Meat

1 box Barilla No-Bake Lasagna noodles

1 28 ounce can tomato puree
3 tablespoons butter
1 large onion, diced (divide into two parts)
2 cloves garlic
1/4 cup minced parsley
3-4 tablespoons torn fresh basil
Salt and pepper, to taste

1 pound lean ground beef (or turkey)
1/2 pound ground pork
1 clove garlic
1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes
Salt and pepper, to taste

1 large ball fresh mozzarella
2 cups grated mozzarella
Parmesan cheese

3 cups good-quality ricotta cheese
2 eggs
Salt and pepper, to taste
Parsley, minced
Basil, minced
1 clove garlic
1/2 cup grated/ground Parmesan cheese
1/2 cup grated mozzarella

Fresh basil, to garnish

In a medium saucepan, melt butter until foamy and add half of the diced onion. Saute until translucent, then grate (using a microplane, but if you don't have one, just mince really well) the garlic over the top. Stir, lower the heat to medium-low and pour in the tomato puree. If it's an especially thick batch, add 1/2 to 3/4 cup of water. Stir well, season with pepper (and salt, if it needs it), and simmer for up to half an hour. Right before serving/assembling, add the parsley and basil.

Meanwhile, in another saucepan, brown the pork, remaining onion and beef, chopping with a wooden spoon to break up any large clumps. Drain off any fat, and then grate a clove of garlic over the mixture, add the red pepper flakes, season with salt and pepper and turn heat to low.

Reserve 1 cup of the tomato sauce, and add the rest to the meat mixture.

Now turn to the Ricotta, dump it into a mixing bowl and slop together with the eggs, Parmesan, mozzarella, garlic, parsley, basil, salt and pepper. Stir well, set aside.

Pour a kettle of hot water over the lasagna noodles -- I usually pour the water into a 9x13 dish and slip each noodle in one by one. Let soften for ten minutes. You can preheat your oven to 350 F, too, if you like.

Now, in the bottom of another 9x13 (a little smaller, a little larger, you'll be fine) dish, pour the reserved plain tomato sauce and spread evenly over the bottom. Set down a layer of three or so noodles, then top with a cup or so of meat mixture. Dollop with the Ricotta mixture, spreading slightly, and sprinkle with mozzarella and Parmesan. Repeat, repeat, repeat, stopping only when you've begun to run out of things. Make sure the final layer is meat/sauce, and top with slices of fresh mozzarella and sprinkle with Parmesan. If you like, you can dab the top with a bit of softened butter.

Bake for 40 to 60 minutes, until piping hot, golden brown, and probably sputtering madly. Remove, carefully, from the oven and cool for 10 minutes. Scatter with torn basil, and serve that business UP. 

Note: Something I like to do, often, is sub out the ricotta mixture for a bechamel sauce -- my standard, completely offensive one is 3 cups whole milk, which is warmed with a bay leaf, two smashed garlic cloves, fresh nutmeg (use less then you would if grating it in at the last minute, like two scrapes across the microplane), then streamed into a gold roux (melt two tablespoons of butter until foamy, add two tablespoons flour and whisk until golden and slightly nutty smelling) and whisked until smooth and lump-free. Season to taste with salt and white pepper, and sometimes, only sometimes, add 1/2 a cup of Parmesan cheese to it. Layer that over the meat mixture, and use instead of mozzarella on the final layer. It is delicious and decadent, like any good substitute.

Let's just bathe in it: Butternut Squash Soup with Bacon and Thyme

"You think this soup tastes like Liquid Cashmere? I thought that's what you used to call Dad."

"He's a very silky man."

My Holiday was awesome.

It snowed, we had dinner on the table at a reasonable hour even though we had to trim nearly 16 pounds of beef tenderloin with dull steak knives, there was miraculously enough food for every single person present and there were a lot of us. We had dessert by candlelight and Straus Creamery whipped cream. There was a Buche de Noel and Tiramisu and upside down dark, damp black-cherry gingerbread cake, pecan caramel bars and I found a Fran's Gold Bar in my stocking that morning. And there was a six-month old baby who would press her damp hand against your chest and lean in cheek-to-cheek if you whispered in her ear, and if she caught your eye from across the room, would begin to flap her arms and clasp her hands together, smiling like a tiny imp. It was really incredible, and in so many ways I was more thankful than I was at Thanksgiving -- thankful that my long-divorced parents are such good friends that each is welcome in the others home with their fiances, that my mom's family still sees my Dad as son and brother, that my family always seems to repair any busted seams or stitches, that we like each other and that it is pleasure to see and be with one another, that my youngest sister's friends always show up and bring a shot of teenage energy with them, that my cousins are so great and we see each other so much more than we used to, that everyone is growing up and turning into good people. It was so good that I've been a little mournful, for the first time in a long time, that Christmas is over and wishing we could do it all over again -- but for different reasons then when I was eight.

My pants don't agree, however.   

I've never been one to gripe about how Holiday Food wreaks havoc on my diet, because I think that life wreaks havoc on my food choices. But goddamn, if this year didn't fully convert me. It isn't so much the amount of food, it's what kind -- butter, lots of it, on everything. Lots of bread, and bread products, and then the candy and sweets -- sugar was a huge problem. I don't eat it often, despite the evidence presented here, but I ate it like CRAZY. I ate chocolate just to eat it, and there were boxes of it (I will talk about this more in-depth very soon). I don't know what kind of person I come across as on this site, but let me tell you about the kind of person I was three or four days ago. The kind who stood in the doorway of a room, holding a wedge of tiramisu in her bare hand, casually eating it and talking to a small group of horrified people. No, I didn't know it was possible to eat a dessert normally served in bowls, with a spoon, as though it were a solid, either. Have a very merry feral holiday.

So now that we're done with the I-MAX presentation of "December: NO LIMITS" and I am enjoying my new winter coat of backfat, it is time to start talking about real food again. This soup was one of the first things I made that felt good to eat, you know, and even though it had bacon and a little cream in it it was so much lighter than anything I'd eaten prior that I felt angelic and heavenly, like a country singer or someone related to the Osmonds.

Heavy with pepper and savory from the thyme, smoky bacon and garlic, this isn't the normal sweet squash soup you may have had. While I did use cider in it, the sweetness is not the main player, meaning if you find yourself a little grossed out by the idea of a sweet soup, you're fine here. Let's hide in the basement and hope Tim Robbins doesn't out us to the aliens.

So Happy New Year -- I hope you enjoy this soup. And I hope I enjoy my new wardrobe, comprised mainly of caftans.

Butternut Squash soup with Bacon and Thyme
1 large peeled, seeded/de-stringed and cubed butternut squash (equal to a little over five heaping cups -- you could substitute pumpkin)
4 strips of bacon
1 small yellow onion, diced
2 cloves of garlic, peeled and smashed
1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes
16 ounces of chicken stock, either homemade or your favorite brand
1 bottle of hard cider (or 1 1/4 cups apple juice, or more stock)
1/2 teaspoon dried sage
1/2 heaping teaspoon kosher salt (less, depending on how salty your bacon is)
1/2 teaspoon cracked black pepper
4-5 sprigs of fresh thyme
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
Juice from half of a lemon
1/3 cup heavy whipping cream

In a large, heavy-bottomed pot, saute the bacon until fat has rendered and meat has crisped. Set bacon aside, and drain off all of the liquid fat. Add back 1-2 teaspoons.

Add the onions, garlic cloves and thyme, cracked black pepper, 1/2 teaspoon of salt, red pepper flakes and sage -- saute until onions are soft, then add the cider to de-glaze the pan. Scrape up all the brown sticky bits from the bottom of the pot, and simmer for three or four minutes. Dump in the squash, add the chicken stock and simmer over medium until squash is fork-tender and liquids have reduced by a bit. Turn heat to low, and add the remaining 1/2 teaspoon of salt, cinnamon and nutmeg, stirring and tasting -- add salt (by the shake) if you feel it needs a little more.

Now, if you have a hand blender, just whizz everything up in the pot. If you don't, puree in batches in your food processor, blender or food-mill. Depending on how chunky you like your soup, use your best judgment when it comes to texture and time. I like a velvety puree, which is further enhanced when you (and post-puree, now is the time to do it) add the lemon juice (stir well), and cream. Stir, heat on low if needed, and pour into bowls. Garnish with crisped bacon, a little heavy cream or creme fraiche, thyme or some Parmesan and fried crispy sage leaves if you like.

"Your biscuits are so savory, Giiiirrrrlll"

"Butter my back."

"I have to finish painting over your mural."

I apologize, in advance, for the vulgarity of this entry. Some of you just want to make biscuits for your children, or street urchins. Scroll down. I know you're good people, who don't watch TV and mill your own grains. I have no wish to hurt you. The recipe is there, for your gentle eyes. Otherwise, read on, brother.

One of the most uncomfortable situations someone can find herself in is one where she's witness to someone who decides to participate in the time-honored activity of making food/female-anatomy/sex metaphors. Either insulting or wildly off base, they make things really uncomfortable for all parties involved. You usually don't know this guy, but check it, 3 am, his knowledge needs to be shared, with ALL the ladies, and with you, right? Am I right? Am I RIGHT, BRO?

"I guess I don't really get why you're comparing Non-Dairy Creamer tubs to breasts. Are all the 'fine bitches' in the Hotcake House conical and lactating tonight?"

Lately The Hills are alive with this, as Spencer decided to take it upon himself to spread word across this great land, through the carrier pigeons of mass media (USweekly, InTouch, OK! Life & Style, IlliteracyN'Fashun), that his arch nemesis was rocking deli meat in her pants.

"SPENCER SAYS: 'LC'S SMUGGLING FLANK STEAKS IN HER TRUE RELIGIONS'".

He insinuated that she had Bovine Meat Drapery somewhere on her body. I know. You know. I know you're watching it, and that you're wondering why Spencer hasn't been sent to Dr. Phil's "Man Camp", and why Heidi's parents haven't called in one Mr. Jeff from "Intervention", before things get crazy. "My name is Heidi. H-E-I-D-I."

What do you do in that situation? In any situation where you are not only publicly demeaned by someone who has no idea what he's talking about, but who still decides to make it as humiliating as possible. There's no "Let's do it Day Camp style, make sure your mom sends you with extra pants", no easing in, no "LC sounded like a Canadian Teen Actress in the second season", or "She has small, cruel teeth. Like a chupacabra."As evidenced by the rock his lady is sporting, Spencer goes big and then goes home, where he pays someone mutilate his walls with spray paint like they're the back of a jean jacket and the year is 1989.

In LC's case, she's Thank-Jesus got one Lo Bosworth (2:25) back in her life, and also, letting Heidi slowly wilt under the radiant Spencer Heat, until she's doing things like wearing pink converse with a pink t-shirt and white shorts and white anklets out in public. I don't think there could be better revenge, besides maybe calling Spencer "Logan Bruno's Crawlspace Cousin" the next time he "rolls up" on her at Le Deux.

"Leh-Doo."

Or waiting a few years, maybe five, maybe ten, until that day his daughter asks him why he's so mean to girls.

Or just make some biscuits, LC, and smother them with pain gravy.

Biscuits
Adapted from AllRecipes

2 cups AP flour, sifted
1 Tablespoon baking powder, leveled
1 Tablespoon granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon Kosher salt
1/3 cup cultured, salted butter, slightly softened
1 cup milk, buttermilk or a mixture of milk/cream

Sift or stir together the dry ingredients, in a large bowl. With a fork, knives or pastry-cutter, cut in the butter until you have a mixture that resembles coarse meal -- if a few pea-sized lumps of butter remain, that's absolutely kosher. Place the flour/butter mixture in the fridge for 30 minutes.

Remove the flour from the fridge and preheat your oven to 425 degrees F. Stream the cold milk, buttermilk or milk/cream into the flour mixture, stirring as you do. The dough should form easily, and depending on the weather, humidity and brand of flour you're working with you may need less or more than the full cup -- I only needed a little over 3/4 of a cup. When the dough has pulled in all the flour, and is pulling away from the sides of the bowl, you're done. Turn out onto a floured counter or board and knead exactly 10 times. Pat into a disc and roll into an oval that is around 1 inch thick, and cut into rounds with a floured biscuit cutter, knife or drinking glass. Or monocle.

You can gently re-roll any scraps, until you don't have enough left to form a single biscuit. Place each cut biscuit on an ungreased baking sheet and bake for 10-13 minutes, or until just golden brown around the top and bottom edges. Remove and cool for 1 minute, then serve warm, to friends, family, wild dogs.

"I found all of these things in my pants": Beans with Tomato, Lemon-Dill vinaigrette and Grana Padano

"I was thinking about how your dad's beard probably smells like Santa, or a Landfill."

"Depending on his mood."

This is my favorite salad of all time.

If you're thinking ahead, you could serve this with seared, sliced tuna. Or you could eat it plain. Or with leg of Toddler.

I'm thinking about a lot of things, and thinking about doing a few more. But I couldn't leave this salad unshared, because it is really delicious and takes care of a few late summer gifts in one swoop. Peppery, pungent, cut with a verdant crunch and pulpy sweetness. Really great.

I'll be back tomorrow, with tales and failures.

Beans with Tomato, Lemon-Dill vinaigrette and Grana Padano
Serves two

Two large handfuls fresh green/string beans, stems snapped
1 heaping cup mixed-color cherry tomatoes
Grana Padano (or Parmesan)

Zest and juice from half a ripe lemon
1/2 teaspoon cracked black pepper
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 garlic clove, finely minced
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
2 teaspoons minced fresh dill weed

Combine the lemon juice, zest, salt, garlic, dill weed and pepper in a bowl or pitcher. Whisk with a fork to combine, and then slowly stream in the olive oil, still whisking (I continued to use a fork, but you could switch to a whisk) until the liquids have bound together, forming a thickened, sunny dressing. Set aside.

Bring a pot of water to a boil, and salt generously. Add the snapped beans, and blanch until bright green and tender, yet toothsome (Test one. Don't make me be your Grandma. Just do it, with your teeth, the way Grandpa caught that snake under the porch). My mind is telling me, in a shifty way, that this might take anywhere between 1 to 1 and a half minutes. Test as soon as they turn bright green, and the second you feel like you could eat the whole bean, they're done.

Remove from the water immediately, and transfer to a bowl. Pour the dressing over the hot beans and toss well to combine. Arrange on a platter or plate of your choosing, and scatter the halved tomatoes on top, pouring any vinaigrette remaining in the bowl over the beans and tomatoes. Shave or grate Grana Padano over the salad, and serve at room temperature. While the taste improves, the color of the beans fade to a muckier green -- you could avoid this by shocking the hot beans in ice water, but I find that they don't absorb the flavor as well.

That's it. Stuff your faces.

"Squatters Rights. Like old school Lease-To-Own."

Every summer my family rents a house on one of two lakes, each a good day's drive from Portland and Seattle, where all branches of our immediate family are located. We convene with coolers full of your finest Costco meat, flats of soda, milk crates full of IPA and Corona, and liquor.

The first two times we did this, as we are a late-blooming group when it comes to vacation, there is no adjective worthy of describing the passive-aggressive moments that filled the first two days. One day I walked in and saw someone pissing on the canned baked beans and marinating tri-tip roasts, declaring their domain.

Thankfully, we got better.

Now we just eat and swim, sun and sleep. We share rooms, deal with one bathroom and spotty cable. The first house we ever rented was crazy -- it had a big-screen TV in the basement and digital cable, which meant that we didn't see my cousin, youngest sister and her Best Friend for seven days, except for when they showed up to demand more queso, which no one in our family eats outside of those seven days. We're on someone else's property. Much like blood oaths, everyone forgets about partially-hydrogenated cheese dip once you're back in your own zip code.

The house we rented last year, the one pictured, was smaller, crowded, people had to drink in order to deal with the room assignments, but after the first five hours, it turned into the best vacation yet. The water was so fluid you thought you were swimming in the plasma of Dakota Fanning. The weather was perfect, and there was no fighting or strained exchanges.

We eat well on those vacations. One of my aunts, who is young enough that I feel weird calling her an aunt and go for the just as strained "My Uncle's Wife", is insane in the kitchen. She cooks like she has her own PBS show, and is so knowledgeable about techniques and blasé about slight mishaps that nothing ever tastes bad. I contribute little in the way of culinary adventures, usually because I'm suddenly ten years old on these trips, in my swimsuit all day, in and out of the lake, tangles in my hair, barefoot with scratched toenail polish, drinking can of soda after can of soda despite the iced beers and relishing the feeling of dry clothing on damp, cool skin. I like to bake beforehand, and shove a pan of brownies and stacks of cookies in beside our beach towels, stacks of magazines and coolers full of food we swore we wouldn't bring this year, and I like to throw together salads and man the rental-supplied blender, one hand braced against the unsure plastic lid, the other shaking the base slightly, saturated hair flinging with the vibration, droplets of water hitting my ears and lips. Last year I made Lava Flows, complete with pineapple and paper umbrellas. Next year, lakeside Brass Monkeys.

It isn't fun, cooking in a strange kitchen, stocked with dollar-store utensils and appliances that make no sense. After the first year, we've been sure to bring a can opener because I guess everyone else opens cans with their children's incisors. But it is exhilarating, to try and pull together a meal for a crowd mostly seen only on holidays, with the knowledge that tonight's dinner is also tomorrow's lunch. Most of the kitchens aren't big enough for more than two people to comfortably occupy space, and who wants to be in a hot kitchen, slipping on linoleum, when you could be outside, in that lake.

But last year, I also made a loaf of stuffed artichoke bread, which is something someone should eat once a year, if that. So yesterday, I made it. We're not going to the lake this year, because everyone has something going on (I don't, but goddamn, I like it when my family assumes that I am living a productive life), so why not make it for dinner, for people who were coming over to watch Big Love.

I guess it spurred something in everyone, because suddenly we're all about next year's trip, planning and deciding, weighing one house against the other, old vs. new. I am pulling for the one we rented last year, the tiny white house on the big green lawn up the hill from all of that blue. This bread tastes like summer, and death. I'm sure you've seen a variation of it somewhere -- I followed a recipe exactly last summer, and it wasn't that fun, no one really wanted a second piece. This year, I threw it together using what I wanted and it was gone in seconds. I suggest you make it.

Stuffed Artichoke Bread
Adapted from Midwestern Kitchens, everywhere

1 large loaf of sourdough or French bread (no baguettes)

1 12 oz can of artichoke hearts, packed in water
1 cup sour cream
¾ cup mayonnaise
1 teaspoon kosher salt
½ teaspoon black pepper
1 teaspoon garlic powder
3-4 dashes Tabasco or Franks Red Hot
4 slices of Thick-Cut Bacon
2 Tablespoons of Fresh Chives, minced (or 1 Tbs dried)
1 small shallot, diced
1 ½ cups grated Sharp Cheddar
¼ cup ground Parmesan

4 slices Aged Swiss Cheese
Or
1 ripe tomato, sliced

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees F. Line a sheet pan or cookie sheet with tin foil, and set aside.

Slice the bread in half, evenly. Using the tip of your knife, trace the interior of each half, leaving a ¼ to ½ inch border of bread. Now tear out the innards, and rip into bite-size pieces, no bigger than an inch in width or height. Reserve a heaping cup and a half of these, and dispose of the rest however you wish.

Drain the artichokes completely, and chop roughly. Slide into a large bowl, and add the mayonnaise, sour cream, salt, pepper, garlic powder, Tabasco or other hot sauce, and chives. Stir to combine, cover with saran wrap and chill.

Meanwhile, fry the bacon until crisp or done to your liking. Drain completely on a paper towel or napkins, and pour off almost all of the grease. Add the shallot, and sauté until soft, tender and golden. Cool slightly.

Crumble the cooked bacon and add the shallots into the sour cream mixture. Stir well, then add 1 cup of the grated Cheddar and the Parmesan. Stir to combine one last time, check for seasonings, adjust to taste, and fold in the reserved cup and a half of bread cubes. Divide the mixture between each loaf half (if your loaf is exceptionally long or wide, and I’ve heard it is, you might end up with only one full half – it’s better to have an overfilled half than a skimpy whole). Tear each slice of Swiss cheese in half, and layer diagonally (4 half-slices per slice) over each half. Or, use a tomato instead.

Bake for 30-35 minutes, until golden brown, bubbly and smelling ridiculous. Remove from oven, cool for ten minutes, and devour. And don't go swimming for at least forty-five minutes.

HOT AS BALLS. Just straight up Hot as Balls.

"I wish bones tasted like this. Like tiny people bones."

"So you mean baby bones?"

It has been broiling hot lately. Rolling heat, which flees the east and smothers the west. Last night, I kicked off my down comforter for the sheet, then tore that off too. My dog slept at the foot of the bed, and just as the air lifted and flew through the slats of my wooden blinds, the east wind blew in, with it the heavy temperature that has stuck to us all week.

What to do, besides wear a turquoise terrycloth bathing suit cover-up as clothing, all day. Like, this is my outfit, all day. I'm in the backyard, shooting squirrels. I'm in the front yard, wrasslin' with my husband and cousin, and they are the same person.

I guess some people are ladylike in boiling heat. I guess I am not a lady, but a dude, because I become straight up raunchy. The aforementioned "outfit", which I wear to answer the door, and the hair that makes no sense to anyone at all, not even the dog, because it isn't so much dealing with my hair as winding it up around various sticks and pulling it through bands. "Do you want to see a movie?"

"I think the real question is, do you want to see a movie with me? Because right now, this is me."

"You're gross."

"Don't you dare underestimate my potential. This is so bland. I could be full Technicolor raunch, within five seconds. Let the temperature rise another two degrees, and you'll wish you had this again. You'll crave this."

Yesterday there were supposed to be guests, for cold wine and marinated vegetables, sharp cheese but they canceled and I had already made one component of the cheese tray, a recipe and idea ganked from Ina Garten. These tiny, pungent savory discs are crazy. They are small, so you eat like five and think you've had one actual cracker. They pack the same gut-punch as sweet shortbread, but somehow remain dynamic (taste-wise) in a way the others don't. Some seem a bit more herbaceous, others have the coarse, salty tang of Parmesan and others crack with black pepper. Their original christening of 'Cracker' misleading, these are absolutely a savory shortbread. Not crisp and flaky, but sandy and crumbly.

I ate almost all of them over a 48-hour period. Which when you break it down, is like half a stick of butter a day.

Which is so much better than my usual three.

Savory Herb, Black Pepper and Parmesan Shortbread
Adapted from Ina Garten

1 (1/2 cup) stick salted butter, softened
1/4 (heaping) cup of ground parmesan cheese
1 teaspoon freshly cracked/ground black pepper
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon dried basil (or thyme, etc.)
1 1/4 cups AP flour

Line a light-colored baking sheet with parchment paper. Set aside.

In a mixing bowl, mix together the butter, salt, parmesan, black pepper and basil until creamy and speckled. Slowly add the flour, and mix until dough holds together when pinched. If dough is still too crumbly, add up to 1 tablespoon of ice water. Turn out onto a floured counter top, roll into a ball and then into an elongated log, around 12 to 14 inches long, depending on how large you want your crackers. Try to make sure the log is an even length, and wrap in tinfoil or plastic and freeze for at least half an hour, or longer if you don't want to serve them today. If you do, preheat your oven to 350 F.

Remove from the freezer, and slice into rounds. I got 24 or so from mine, while Ina says you should be able to get nearly 36. Arrange in rows on the baking sheet, with at least a little space between them -- they won't spread like normal cookies or biscuits. Bake for 15-25 minutes, checking after 15, until golden brown around the edges and smelling delicious. Remove and cool completely, or serve slightly warm.

"I want you to make this in August": Baked Macaroni and Cheese

"No, it's cool, I don't need any Gladware. I just put the leftovers in my pockets."

Fair warning: So You Think You Can Dance? is on hiatus this week, and that combined with missing the Uncle Jerry Comes To Hollywood episode of "Rob and Big" has sapped what joy I have in my body, completely. So I'm kind of half-assing it, but wanted to put this recipe up, because I talk about it enough to make myself sick, and also because it was time to get something savory in your face.

When my family takes a trip to the lake, one of the things I look forward to most is the night I cook, with my mom. We usually choose "Enchilada Night", because every other night is "Grill Night", where cultural and culinary standards are thrown out the window, and my family of Nordic Vikings make hulking pans of flour tortilla wrapped chicken and ground beef enchiladas, only the chicken ones aren't even really food, I think, just sodium and guar gum. They're made with sour cream, cream of mushroom soup, green onions, olives, cheddar cheese, poached chicken and flour tortillas. The chicken, and maybe the flour tortillas, are what allow them to be classified as Enchiladas. I like to call them Casserole Burritos.

Or Death.

But so, after we make up pans of South Dakota's finest, and shove them into the oven you're not even sure is on because the house is so warm, and you're so warm, and everyone else is out on the porch drinking or lying on the couches, trying to get a fuzzy Colbert Report on, we round up anyone else who is game and run down for a pre-dinner swim. They're the best -- the light and water are both golden, the lake is calm and you can hear the slight breeze as it ushers in evening, just enough of a chill to make the water warmer than the air and goosebumps prickle up the back of your arms. And all that heat you picked up in the kitchen, the steam and sweat, the strange aroma of "meat" that clings to you, the greasy film from spattering oil, it is gone in an instant.

Yesterday, after I made a cake that ended up looking like I had been recruited as a plastic surgeon after two weeks as Dairy Queen Cashier, I made baked macaroni and cheese to bring to a BBQ at my Dad's. It was nearing 100 outside, by the minute, and I felt gross and the thin veneer of powdered sugar, the steam from boiling water that clung to my face, fingers sticky from picking over berries, still wearing my pajamas at two in the afternoon, the only thing that could fix all of that was a tepid shower. And it did. Later I changed into a pair of my favorite jeans, a blousy white kimono top and a vintage headscarf, big black sunglasses and worn out flats with stepped-on heels. We carried the food over, ate on the porch, and talked until the neighbors' illegal fireworks shushed us.

This macaroni and cheese is the one I've talked about before, one that comes close to what my Grandma would serve every holiday or family dinner. It is pretty non offensive, and it is yellow, and has nothing to do with gruyere or breadcrumbs. You can pump up the seasonings to taste -- I usually do. It's a dryer macaroni and cheese, the kind I'm used to eating in homes and restaurants in the neighborhood my Dad grew up in, so if you like a creamy, slippery sauced version, it might not fit the bill.

I need the dance, mother. I need the dance.

Baked Macaroni and Cheese

1 16 oz box of Barilla Elbows

2 Tbs Butter
2 Tbs AP flour
2 cups whole milk, room temp
2 3/4 cups shredded Cheddar, divided (I suggest using Tillamook)
1/2 cup shredded Monterey Jack
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
2-3 teaspoons Frank's Red Hot sauce
1/2 teaspoon cracked black pepper
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon Coleman's Mustard Powder
1 1/2 teaspoons garlic powder

Bring a large pot of salted water (I add a generous pinch, though some say that it should taste like seawater) to a rolling boil, and add the pasta. Cook for 8-10 minutes, or until done to your liking -- I like a softer noodle for this dish, and only this dish, but nowhere near mushy, and further along than "al dente".

Drain the pasta well, and set aside. Preheat your oven to 350 degrees F, and butter a large, ceramic, glass or Pyrex baking dish. 

Over medium heat, melt the butter until liquid and foamy. Sprinkle with the flour, and stir with a whisk or wooden spoon until a loose, golden paste forms and bubbles. You want to do this for at least thirty to sixty seconds, until a slightly nutty aroma arrives, meaning you've "cooked" the flour. However, don't let it get too dark, or burn. You want it on the lighter side of tan.

Pour in the milk, and if you aren't already using one, switch to a whisk. Whisk out any lumps until the roux has incorporated with the milk completely. Now add the salt, pepper, garlic powder, Franks Red Hot and nutmeg, whisking until combined. Continue to stir gently over low heat until the sauce comes together, thickens, and coats the back of a spoon and doesn't bleed back together when you run a finger through it, around three or four minutes, depending on your stove. Remove from heat, and cool for thirty to forty seconds.

Now, add the Monterey Jack -- I learned this trick from Cooks Illustrated, and was enamored the first time I tried it -- the softer cheese keeps the sauce from "breaking" when baked, meaning that you have a smoother, creamier texture without being obscene about it. Not too much though, or you'll be kind of grossed out. Whisk until the Jack has completely melted into the sauce, and begin adding 2 cups of the Cheddar. Whisk until completely combined and smooth.

Return drained noodles to their empty, dry cooking pot (breaking up any clumps with your fingertips) and pour the sauce over them. Stirring gently with a wooden spoon, fold the two together, making sure the pasta is evenly coated.

Pour into your prepared vessel of choice, top with the remaining 1/2 cup of cheddar cheese and bake for 25-30 minutes, until bubbly and golden brown along the edges. Remove and let stand for 2-3 minutes, and serve.