Or, How to Get Your Kitchen Clean on a Leisurely Sunday Afternoon.

1. Collect a bunch of eggs from your chickens and pop them in an incubator.

2. Watch the chickies hatch.

3. Feed the Chicken Littles till they become Chicken Bigs.

4. Kill them.

5. Several months later, pull two of them—now Chicken Chillies—from the freezer and set them on the counter to thaw overnight.
6. The following morning, nestle them in your glass-lidded, sixteen-quart stock pot and boil them till the meat falls off the bones.
7. De-bone the chicken, returning all nonedible parts to the stockpot.
8. Boil the bones till bedtime. Turn off the pot and go to bed.
9. Boil the bones in the morning. Turn off the pot and go to church.
10. Boil the bones after returning from church.
11. Settle the kids for rest time and head into the newly arranged downstairs room to visit (no funny stuff) with your husband.
12. Talk, chaw on Starbursts and Swedish fish, munch on naked pita chips, and talk some more. Contemplate taking a snooze.
13. Suddenly—CRASH! BANG! SIZZLE! CLATTER!
14. Sit bolt upright and then freeze, straining your ears. Say, “Hon, you better check on that,” and then hightail it out of the room after your hubby.
15. Reach the kitchen and screech to a halt. Do NOT enter the kitchen. It is wet and hot, covered in bones and fat.

16. Take a few seconds to be confused. You have never seen this situation before. Disorientation is allowed in cases like these.

17. Your husband says, “The pot exploded.” Absorb this.
18. Note that the lid, after rocketing into the air, landed on the stove top and did not break. Count your lucky stars.
19. Note that the explosion somehow turned on your husband’s cell phone. Also note that there is broth pouring out of the innards of the house phone.
20. Note (there’s a lot to note) that the now broth-coated counter that is usually mounded high with papers was devoid of nearly all paraphernalia (minus the phones) at the moment of explosion. Count your lucky stars again. They are few in number, so this is an easy task.
21. Note that no child/adult was present. There are no burns or injuries. This is a very large, shinning lucky star.

22. Whimper.
23. Moan.
24. Giggle.
25. When your husband says, “Where is the camera?” go fetch it, for he almost never suggests that you take pictures.
26. After splashing through the greasy broth to capture the chaos from different angles, snatch some dirty towels from the laundry, fill up buckets with hot water, step out of your Sunday skirt, and start scrubbing the floors in your blouse and panties.
27. Ignore your husband when he tries to make you nervous by rapping his knuckles on the door frame.
28. Mix copious amounts of hot water and soap with the oily broth and slip-slide your way around the kitchen, scooping up bones and fatty skin as you go.
29. When the worst has been cleaned up, get the kids up from rest time, pop them in the car, and drive them into town. (Don’t forget to step into the tub to wash up your feet and put your skirt back on first.) Drop them off at a birthday party and head to a café to write, drink coffee, and eat a strawberry scone. This allows you to gain perspective and gives your husband space to finish cleaning up the kitchen (which includes taking the top off the stove to mop up the large pool of broth that has collected there, as well as taking apart the phone to try—to no avail—to fix the answering machine).
30. Return home and sigh happily over the spotless kitchen.
31. Listen as your husband solemnly accounts for the cost of this particular pot of broth: a new answering machine and a new cell phone. Ouch.
32. Make a mental note to never, ever, ever boil broth without first cracking the lid.
33. Unless you are desperate to clean your kitchen. If you are desperate to clean your kitchen, then this is definitely the way to go. It produces an element of … pressure.
34. But there are easier ways, ways that don’t kill your answering machine, cell phone, and your Sunday afternoon in one fell swoop.

About one year ago: Sticking my neck out. Speaking of butchering chickens…

Some people tap out coherent, meaningful, witty blog posts in thirty minutes flat, but me? I ponder, handwrite, think, procrastinate, take pictures, write more, type, backspace, procrastinate, edit, write, twiddle my thumbs, edit, and post. And edit again.

Why do I do this? I ask myself this question frequently, but especially on days when writing feels like I’m scrip-scraping my nails down a blackboard. On those days I host mega-pity parties, complete with dunce caps and boo-horns. You’re wasting your time, I tell myself. No one cares. Your voice is just one among millions, cluttering up the airwaves. Just shut up and go thin the radishes. At least you can eat radishes.

Who is this blog for anyway? I write it, but you read it. The line between us can get pretty blurry sometimes. Who comes first? You or me? Me or you?

The answer is “me,” of course. (The answer is always “me.”) But I write for you, too.

However, I write for me first. I have to. I started this blog for me, and no matter how big (or not big) this blog gets, it’s still for me.

Sometimes I think I would like to be famous. I imagine crowds of people flocking to fawn over me, peppering me with questions, stroking my ego, telling me I’m Something Special. If that were the case, I imagine, my heart would continually beat out the I-just-got-a-compliment happy-rush pitter-patter and my cheeks would be forever rosy, the blush of the humble star.

My imagination embarrasses me sometimes.

The other week I listened to a music group get interviewed on NPR. The group had been singing together for many years and had only just recently made it to The Big Time. The interviewer asked them if they ever thought about what it would’ve been like if they had made it big back when they first started out. One guy said that, yes, he thinks about it, and he believes it would’ve changed their group considerably. We’ve had to work really hard, all the time, he said. Young singers who come out of the starting box and go straight to the top, they don’t fully appreciate all they have gained. We, on the other hand, savored every little success. Each one was a gift that made us so over-the-top happy. We wouldn’t have enjoyed them or even noticed them if we had been instant successes.

I’m fairly certain I’m never going to be famous. I don’t have the potential for it, nor do I think I actually want to be famous, all daydreaming to the contrary. But ever since I heard that interview I’ve been noticing how much I really do appreciate all the little happy moments (or sweet “successes”) that come to me through this blog (or in any part of my life, though this is my only consistent public presence, if you don’t count sitting on the front row of church every Sunday). This past week has been full of little hugs—sweet emails, phone calls, notes in the comments, and verbal recipe compliments. Each one makes my insides feel like champagne, bubbly and fizzy-sweet.

But good feelings only last for a few moments, maybe a day, tops. Then the euphoria wears off and I’m back to the grind, tap-tap-tapping, editing, thinking, and posting it all into the great void of nothingness. Most days there aren’t many (if any) comments, no I-love-your-food compliments, no emails, no phone calls. It’s just me doing my thing. Period.

And you know what? That’s okay! I realize my hand is forced in this matter (sour grapes, perhaps), but when it comes down to it, this strict regimen of fingertip tap-dance is something I enjoy. It’s my outlet, my discipline, my love. For all my griping and hair-pulling, I do enjoy the process, tedious though it may be.

I’m not sure what the point of sharing this is. I run the risk of sounding vain (I can be) and self-seeking (I am). I think what I’m trying to say is this: the internet is weird. It twists together the personal and public in some grotesque and awkward ways. The gift of instant feedback is also a curse. It turns writing, a thoughtful, ponderous process (for me), into a ping-pong game—I write, you talk; ping-pong, ping-ing, pong-ong. In many ways, this fast give-and-take trivializes the writing process. There’s too much, too fast, too often.

The challenge for me is to practice my art, yet keep my integrity; to write for myself, yet hold my audience in front of me; to say what I need to say, yet limit myself from writing too much. Because the internet is a void that could eat me alive.

I’m just keeping it honest, folks. That’s all. The internet whips my butt some days, and other days it puts me on cloud nine. It’s a struggle, keeping my feet on steady ground.

It’s a good thing there are some radishes out there in the garden that need to be thinned.

I will never be able to eat a regular hamburger again. I am ruined.

Ever since Ree’s (signed!) cookbook came in the mail, I’ve been experimenting with her recipes. I’ve had both abject failures and stupendous successes. The bacon-wrapped jalapeños fell into the latter category with a resounding thunk.

Last week I stopped by our local butcher shop (I just love saying that) to pick up some ground beef for the baked spaghetti and for our Friday evening burgers (not a tradition but writing it as though it were makes me sound—dum-da-dum—Together) and then ducked into the Latin American Grocer, which is just a little tent perched along the edge of the butcher shop’s parking lot. I bought a generous pound of pinto beans to make Ree’s beans and cornbread (woefully, they slithered into the former category, insipid miseration incarnate—sorry, Ree) and about a dozen waxy jalapeños for stuffing. Stuff the peppers, then stuff myself—that was the plan, Stan, my man-o-man.

Have you ever grown your own jalapeños? If you have, you know that each plant produces an insane amount of hot diggidy-dog peppers. One year I learned how to brine them and ended up canning about ten (or was it thirty?) half-pints. That was in 2007 and since then I’ve opened only one jar, maybe two, max. That jar has taken up permanent residence on the top shelf of the fridge. It gives me the spooks.

I haven’t planted any jalapeños since 2007, but after eating Ree’s stuffed jalapeños I’m tempted to turn the entire garden into a jalapeño thicket. (Not really. The urge to hyperbolize just got the best of me.)

Seriously though, you can tuck away oodles and kaboodles of fresh jalapeños when they come stuffed with cream cheese and cheddar, wrapped in bacon, and roasted in the oven for a slow hour. They have only the slightest bite—just a whiff of heat, really—but couched in billows of creamy cheese and edged in crispy bacon– Well. There will definitely be a jalapeño plant (or two or six) in my gardening future.

And then. And then! I put two of those luscious, crispy babes atop my juicy Friday Night Hamburger and promptly died and went to heaven. It was only for the briefest second, but I was transported to a glorious place, oh yes! Angels sang and harps twanged. I’m dead serious.

Bacon-Wrapped Jalapeños
Adapted from The Pioneer Woman Cooks by Ree Drummond

About the jalapeños—if you want some heat, leave in a few of the seeds and bits of the white membrane. If minimal heat is key, scrap them out very carefully. Also, the leftover chilled jalapeños were quite spicy, but after a quick zap in the microwave, they were as soothing as a lullaby. Is there some scientific explanation for this weirdness?

Adaptation possibilities include, but are not limited to, the following:
*Add a couple tablespoons of snipped chives or a sliced green onion to the cream cheese mixture.
*Add some canned pineapple or peaches, drained and chopped, to the cream cheese mixture.
*Brush the wrapped jalapeños with some barbecue sauce before baking.

12-18 jalapeños
8 ounces cream cheese
½ cup grated cheddar cheese
1 pound thin-cut bacon

Wash the jalapeños and slice them in half, leaving the stems intact. Scrape out the white membrane and seeds (unless you want your ears to smoke).

Using a fork, mash the cheeses together. Smoosh a spoonful of cheese mixture into each of the pepper boats.

Cut the stack of bacon in half. Wrap each cheese-stuffed jalapeño with one of the half pieces of bacon (not too tightly as the bacon will constrict as it bakes) and secure with a toothpick.

Set the wrapped jalapeños on a rack set over a sided baking sheet (to catch the drips). (I used one of my smaller cooling racks.) Bake the jalapeños at 300 degrees for one hour.

Remove the toothpicks and serve.

Do ahead:
*Assembled, unbaked jalapeños can be refrigerated for one day before baking.
*Baked jalapeños can be frozen. To serve, simply thaw and reheat.

About one year ago: Honey-Baked Chicken.