This same time, years previous: chaos and creativity, another one of those homeschooling rants, puzzling it out, a milestone, three vignettes: my husband, and the fort goes up

Have you noticed that I haven’t been writing about food much anymore?

Yeah, me too.

I know that some people classify this as a food blog. I think I must be a terrible disappointment to them. Especially after the boxed cake and KFC dinner. I’m such a fraud.

(An aside: the other day I was on the phone with my mom and I told her—I don’t remember what we were talking about—that I felt like a fraud. “What?!” she said. “A fraud,” I said. “Excuse me?” she said. “A fraud!” I bellowed, “I feel like a FRAUD!” And then she busted up laughing. She thought I was saying “frog.”)

I still cook, of course, but it’s often out of necessity, not frivolous pleasure. Not that cooking out of necessity can’t be pleasurable, because it can. But I’m not cooking just for pleasure—I used to do that all the time. Back in the day.

(Though couple afternoons ago I got the urge to cook, to make something just for the sake of making something. It felt really weird, that little urge did, which just goes to show you how my cooking urges have shifted. Or faded. Or been drowned out. Something.)

I’m still cooking and writing for the newspaper, of course. I forgot to alert you to the article from a couple weeks ago, and the most recent column just came out on Wednesday. So let’s play catch up, shall we?

The former column was about bulk cooking (I told you I’ve been cooking with a purpose!) and the recipe was golden chicken curry. I’ve written about it here before. We like it a lot.

The latter column included a new recipe: roasted red pepper soup. My aunt served it at the soiree, and I made it when I came home. I’ve been drinking a mugful every day for my lunch.

Yesterday I finished off the last of the batch. So sad.

Roasted Red Pepper Soup
I’ve adapted my aunt’s recipe. She had adapted hers from one she found on My Recipes.

4 large red bell peppers
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 onion, chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
28-ounce can plum tomatoes (or 1 quart home-canned)
1-2 teaspoons minced chipotle pepper in adobo sauce
2 tablespoons smoked (or plain) paprika
3 cups chicken broth
3 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
2 teaspoons salt
black pepper
sour cream, for garnish
chopped cilantro, for garnish

Cut the peppers in half, remove the seeds and white membrane, and place
on a baking sheet, cut-side down. Broil for 15-18 minutes until the
skins are blistered black. Put the roasted peppers in a bowl and cover
tightly with plastic. Allow them to steam-soften for about 10 minutes
before peeling off and discarding the skins.

Saute the onions and garlic in the oil over medium high heat until
translucent and soft. Add the roasted peppers, tomatoes, chipotle
pepper, and paprika. Simmer for several minutes. Blend until creamy
smooth.

Return the soup to the kettle, add the broth, lemon juice, salt, and
pepper to taste. Heat through and taste to correct seasonings. Ladle
soup into bowls and garnish with dollops of sour cream and cilantro.

Yield: one-half gallon

This same time, years previous: old-fashioned brown sugar cookies, Mr. Handsome’s birthday of 2010, anticipating the mothballs, the dogwood wild runner

Yesterday was my husband’s birthday. On Sunday I asked him what he wanted for his birthday supper.

Me: What do you want for your birthday supper?

Him: I don’t know.

Me: (Staring at him pointedly, waiting.)

Him: What?

Me: I said, what do you want for your birthday supper?

Him (dismissively): Whatever you want.

Me: I want to know what you want. That’s what I want.

Him: I don’t know!

Me: (Silence, waiting.)

Him (sighing heavily): Something that the kids like, I guess.

Me: (More silence. Still waiting.)

Him: Um…I like fried chicken. But that’s complicated, right? So never mind. It’s too complicated. I don’t want something that will stress you—

Me (thoroughly irritated): Is that what you want? Fried chicken?

Him (anxious): It sounds like a lot of work…

Me: That’s not your problem. I can make anything. If you want fried chicken, I’ll make fried chicken.

So yesterday afternoon, the kids and I drove to town to buy his birthday presents (gumdrops, spicy hot peanuts, tinned mints, and Skittles—we’re a real high-class bunch), and I got the chicken…from KFC.

Back home I dumped the mountain of extra crispy legs onto one of my big baking trays and slipped them into the oven to stay warm. I heated up some leftover corn, made a big bowl of mashed potatoes, and opened a jar of applesauce.

I dumped the contents of a boxed angel food cake into a mixing bowl, added water, mixed well, and slipped the pan of white goop in the oven to bake while we ate our supper.

My husband like the chicken. He asked lots of questions about it.

Him: This is good. What’s in the coating?

Me: See if you can guess.

Him: Probably flour and water and spices.

Me: That might be right.

Him: Cornflakes?

Me: No.

Him: Oatmeal?

Me: Nope.

Him: Bread crumbs?

Me: Um…I’m not exactly sure. (The kids were laughing their heads off.)

Him (comprehension dawning): You didn’t….make this. This…this is Kentucky Fried Chicken!

Me (giggling demurely): I told you fried chicken wouldn’t be a problem!

I didn’t take a picture of our gourmet chicken dinner, but I did snap a photo of the cake. Be impressed, y’all.

Do I ever know how to rock a birthday or what?

PS. We wrap our birthday gifts in newspaper. Real snazzy.

PPS. My husband was reading through this tonight, a little smile on his lips, when all of the sudden he erupted with a roar, THAT WAS A BOX CAKE?!

He didn’t know! I had no idea!

Moral: if you’re using a box cake, make it look real bad and everyone will think it’s homemade.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (10.10.11), apple pie