What could go wrong when you mix bacon and heavy cream??

So I call this recipe "Throw-stuff-together-from-the-kitchen-because-you-don't-want-to-go-out-and-face-the-'black-Friday'-crowds" recipe. "Stuff from the kitchen" for short.

Here's what I did. And I am no gourmet cook, like my Dad or anything, but I think it turned out good. And I made it from scratch. And I created the recipe all on my own. These are all monumental achievements that should be noted because they may never happen again.

I refused to go out "there" today. It's Black Friday. One glimpse of the stampeding crowd told me stay far away. Plus, I've done most of my shopping online at 3 in the morning when the baby gets his bottle.

So, here's what I did.

I found great northern beans in my cupboard. I threw a cup of them in my dutch oven (that's gourmet for "big pot you can cook things in") with 6-8 cups of water, brought them to a boil, let them boil for several minutes, and then let them sit for an hour. I should be clear these are the packaged beans, not the canned. You can use canned if you are short on time.

I strained them and then threw them in a crockpot. I added a bunch of chicken stock (enough to cover the beans and then some) and some other stuff. Here's the stuff:

A dash or two of kosher salt
A ton (like 4 or 5 cloves) of mashed (pressed) garlic
Penzy's Turkish Seasoning (I'm telling you-get some!) It's basicallysweet paprika, salt, cumin, peppercorn, garlic, (yes, more garlic, don't judge me) oregano, sumac (?), and cayenne pepper.
It's kinda spicy without being obnoxiously so.
About a glass of white wine.

Then I let it sit on low for 3 or 4 hours. I lost track. When I decided it wasn't moving along fast enough, I cranked it from low to high and (get this) added more Turkish Seasoning, garlic salt, and about 3/4 cup heavy cream. Oh and somewhere in there I threw in a Tablespoon of bacon grease that I have in the freezer. (or was it fridge?)

After about an hour, I added some cut up leftover turkey. I let it go for another 45 minutes or so and then I added 3 pieces of bacon cooked and torn up and some shredded asiago cheese. I stirred it altogether and served it with some leftover olive bread we had on hand.

It was REALLY, REALLY good. The only thing I would say is don't be afraid of adding more salt, pepper, and garlic to taste. Other than that, it was yummy.

And I didn't have to go out once today. I have no idea how many calories it is. Depends on if you go back for seconds.

Rock and Roux

My Step-Dad, whom I from now on will call "Dad" because that's what I call him, has a philosophy that can best be defined as "Jackson Browne/John Lennon/Bob Seger/ Little Feat" with a touch of gourmet cooking thrown in.

Basically my Dad thinks everyone should know how to rock and they should know how to roux.

The "rock" part I never had a problem with. To prove that my Dad taught me how to rock, I would have no knowledge of Bob Seger, Johnny Lang, Little Feat, Sting, or Bryan Adams if it weren't for him. In fact, when I was in High School and I told him I wanted the new Pat Benetar album for Christmas, I thought I saw him grin from ear to ear. When I told him I wanted the new Rick Springfield for my birthday, I thought I saw him hang his head in shame.

The "roux" took me a little longer to catch on to. In fact, my Dad used to quote some cajun song that had a line that said, "Baby, can you roux?" and I had no idea what he was talking about.

But once I learned how to roux, I was rouxing all over the place.

A basic roux (that's french for "roo") is this:

For every Tablespoon of butter you melt in a pan, you must use a Tablespoon of flour and a Cup of Liquid.

What kind of liquid and other ingredients you use depends on you.

This is my most recent example:

My husband came home with a 7 pound (!) pork tenderloin that he found on sale in the grocery store. On sale is very big in my husband's family. If it's on sale, it must be good. But that's another blog.

Anyway, he found this pork tenderloin on sale and brought it home. I was actually excited because I like pork tenderloin and hey, half off is half off. After my meat buying fiasco with the meat truck (see previous blog), I wasn't about to criticize my husband for a great deal even if I did have NO IDEA what I was going to do with the thing.

I decided on cutting the huge hunk of meat in half and cooking one half one night and the other half the next night. I created a rub made of kosher salt, pepper, thyme, sage, and Turkish Seasoning (Google "Penzy's Spices"). I threw about 4 pounds of the pork in the oven at 350 degrees and cooked it for almost 2 hours.

But the awesome part of the meal was the roux. The sauce. The stuff that you pour on top that makes everything amazing.

Because we were having a friend over for dinner, I doubled my Dad's pork sauce recipe.
I melted 2 Tablespoons butter in a saucepan (don't let it burn) and added in 2 Tablespoons flour. Stir until the flour and butter are smooth and just barely beginning to bubble. Slowly pour in 2 cups of liquid of your choice. For this sauce it is 1 cup milk, 1/2 cup red wine, and 1/2 cup low sodium soy sauce. Stir constantly on low-medium heat until sauce thickens and bubbles around the edges. Take off heat and then serve with meat.

YUM. I mean it. Yum.

Throw it over roasted garlic, rosemary, and onion cubed red potatoes too.

YUM!!

It's my Dad's recipe, so I can't take credit for it, but it makes me look like a darn good cook.

And it will make you look like a darn good cook too.

I can't HANDLE it...

If you haven't discovered the Pioneer Woman, you are missing out. Please google her and find her website. I really love her.

My favorite thing she has on her website lately is under her category of "Homeschooling".
The article refers to Jack Nicholson's character in "A Few Good Men" and his famous line "You can't HANDLE the truth!"

It was suggested that when you are feeling frustrated that you apply that famous line to your life.

For example:
" I can't find my pencil."

"You can't HANDLE the pencil!"

I'm about to try it out on my 3 year old. I'm about to say, "Bedtime."
She will say, "I don't want it to be bedtime."
I will reply, "You can't HANDLE the bedtime!"

I'll let you know how it works out.

With my luck the baby will wake up right then for a bottle and bedtime will be delayed.
Then she'll get to say, "You can't HANDLE the bottle!"

Fire!!

Once again, I am reflecting on the things that I have to be thankful for that I haven't done in awhile.

School fire drills.

It took me some time to distinguish between the fire drill buzz and the earthquake drill buzz. And then it took me some time to remember to bring out my class list to the playground so I could actually take attendance to make sure no one was left behind terribly injured or burning.

We would know ahead of time if we were going to have a fire drill because it was one of the things we went over in staff meetings. And the kids would know ahead of time because we would tell them. Because we foolishly thought telling them meant they wouldn't scream. And we thought asking them not to scream would mean they wouldn't scream.

6th graders are the worst screamers at fire drills.

"Okay, class, today we are going to have a fire drill."

"Really?" "When?" "A fire drill?" "But we just had one." "Can we stay out on the playground when it's over?"

"Yes. Later. Yes. I know. No....And let me remind you there is NO TALKING during a fire drill. NO TALKING while we line up. NO TALKING walking to the playground. NO TALKING when I take attendance. NO TALKING while we wait to go back to class. That also means NO SCREAMING when the bell goes off. Savvy?"

"Yes, Mrs. (whatever my name was at the time)."

And the day would move on at as normal a pace as you can get for 6th graders who know at any minute there could be a fire drill.

At some point during the day I would say, "Would you people just calm down?"

They liked it when I called them "you people". It was a step up from what I normally called them.

BUZZZZZZZ!!!


"AAAAAAHHHHH!!!"

"NO SCREAMING!! Just go line up!!"

I'm thankful I haven't done a fire drill in awhile.

Math Lesson

A week ago last Friday as I was hauling the baby and my daughter out of my car, this service truck pulled up in front of our driveway. Two thoughts of why they would be there ran through my mind: 1) Maybe this is just like one of those suspense movies where all of a sudden I have to throw the kids back in the car, slam the car in reverse, and run into the truck as I back up into the street and race off for my life because they think I have something they want (Think "Enemy of the State") or 2) They're selling something.

Wouldn't it be my luck that it was #2.

It was one of those "we-sell-meat-by-the-box-so-you-get-an-amazing-price" type of meat trucks. Too bad for them I had already been swindled 11 years earlier by Colorado Meat Company (which if you remember, ended up on an evening episode of "Dateline" because of the way they were ripping people off-it was that bad). So when Joe and Dave stepped out of the truck and asked me if I eat meat, I said, "Rarely". Well, that got Joe salivating over the idea of a challenge and he started yanking out these boxes of meat explaining that they just "wanted to go home", but had to get rid of all this meat and would I be interested if I could get a discount? I explained that I was on a tight budget (gesturing toward my two little ones as if to say, "These guys are really expensive") so thanks, but no.

Joe really liked a challenge because that got him talking even more about how he could sell me this meat for an amazing price and where did I usually buy my meat...yadda...yadda...

Meanwhile, the three-year-old is starting the "c'mon, Mom" tug on my arm while I'm precariously balancing holding the car seat, the diaper bag, and my laptop.

Joe is opening boxes and spreading out vacuum packed meat on the sidewalk and Dave is playing bad cop to his good cop- "I don't know if we can let it go for that price" kind of thing.

Long story short- they had me at "Filet Mignon".

I was so proud of myself. What was first 6 boxes of meat for $389.00, was now $100.00 for 4 boxes of meat AND I could choose any 4 boxes I wanted. So I grabbed the Filet Mignon, the Flat Iron Steaks, the Rib-Eyes, and the Burgers and headed into my house. (Running back out to grab the baby in the carseat who was still on the lawn).

I'm not a big meat eater, but I had visions of Filet Mignon wrapped in bacon in my head. Yum.

So I get in the house, empty a shelf on my freezer and start unpacking my $100.00 treasure.

Here's the set up for the Math Lesson. As I'm unloading $100.00 of meat and putting it in my freezer, there's this little thought forming in the back of my mind. This doesn't feel like $100.00 worth of meat.

What do I mean? I mean if you go grocery shopping enough you learn what a pound of meat feels like. You learn what a quarter pound of meat feels like. I can tell you that these steaks weren't even a fraction of that.

So I look on each box to see if the label shows the net weight. Sure enough, it does. Each box weighs anywhere from 2 to 2.5 pounds. I had bought a total of 11 pounds of meat for $100.00. Rounding down, that was about $10 per pound.

You know that sick feeling you get in your stomach when you realize you've been robbed? That's how I felt. We just simply can't pay almost $10 per pound. Not when I can go to Costco. And how was I going to explain this to my husband?

Luckily, my husband jumped into action, called Dave and said, "Come back and pick up your meat and give us our check back."

And it all worked out.

So here's the math problem of the day:

Which is the better deal? 6 boxes of meat for $389.00, or 4 boxes of meat for $100.00.
See below for answer.

Answer: Neither. Either way it's a rip off.

Scared of Schoolwork

I grew up surrounded by educators. My mother was a teacher. My step-dad was a teacher. All of their friends were teachers. Teachers are weird.

I am a teacher.

Here's how the pay scale works. The more units (college, etc...) you earn beyond your college degree/undergraduate credential work, the higher on the pay scale you go. I cranked at units. I earned so many units that I even impressed the people at the District Office. I earned so many units that I could have a Master's Degree and MORE if I wanted.

Except that my units were never taken with the intention of getting a Master's degree. And here's why...

I'm a smart cookie. But please, please don't ask me to write a paper with footnotes and in some kind of format that has initials like MFA. Because if you ask me to do that, I will FREAK OUT and FREEZE UP.

Ask me how I know.

Because I tried. I tried to get a Master's Degree in Education. Or Administration. I can't remember. And I was doing fine until I was asked to write a paper at the end of the semester. The requirements for the paper were 2 pages long. And I had to use footnotes. I don't read footnotes, why would I want to write them?? And it scared me that everyone in the class seemed to know what Dr. Professor was asking for, but me.

So I ruined my perfectly good 3.8 average in units taken after my B.A. by dropping out of that class.

The moral of the story is: Just because someone is a Teacher, it doesn't mean they're not afraid of schoolwork.

Or: Don't spend a lot of money on a really expensive graduate school program if you think you're going to drop out when someone says the word "footnote."

L stands for Listen!

November is the month where we reflect on what we have to be thankful for.

I am thankful that I no longer have to do recess duty.

I've been thinking a lot about my job lately, the pros and the cons. There have been many frustrations involved with going back to work and being the new kid on the block again, but I revel in the fact that I will never have to do recess duty again. (Never say never, I know).

My memories of recess duty involve spending the longest 15 minutes of my life out on a playground trying to keep in order in a sea of complete chaos. It's okay to be in a classroom with those monkeys, that was my job, but then to be released into the wild with them was almost too much for me.

I would approach recess duty well armed. I had my clipboard complete with warning slips, my snack (string cheese, yogurt, and a piece of chocolate from the stash I kept hidden in my desk), and if I could find it in time, my whistle.

The best place to be for recess duty was the upper playground. There were less children and thus, less cause for anxiety. You still had the one child who followed you around and talked to you constantly like you were her best friend. There was also the child who would come and report to you the goings on in the farthest reaches of the playground just in case I wasn't looking.

I avoided that child because usually that meant that I would have to be responsible and trek myself (in my nice shoes) to the farthest reaches of the playground to tell those kids to knock off whatever it was they were doing.

My favorite recess story of all time happened early on in my teaching career. Two kids were arm wrestling on the playground. Arm wrestling is not allowed because it carries with it the possibility of a lawsuit. Looking back, I should have just let them continue arm wrestling and ignored the fact that other children were starting to take bets on who would win. Instead, I walked over and told these two boys to please stop arm wrestling and to go play basketball or something.

They looked at me like I was the meanest teacher that had ever lived, but they stopped. Long enough for me to turn my back and walk away. Then they were at it again.

As soon as I discovered what was up, I walked over again and told them, look boys, I know this is fun and all, but you really need to find something better to do at recess or I'm going to have to give you one of these here citation slips.

The boys split apart for all of two minutes that time.

When they went at it again, I stomped over to them, yanked the pen off my clipboard and started filling out citations. They had the nerve to ask me why they were getting a citation. I said, "because you have very short memories. I asked you twice to stop and you didn't."

Well, one of them grumbled about how unfair it all was. I don't know what overcame me, but the next thing I knew I was saying, "Maybe next time you boys will pay attention," and I had used my fingers to make that "L" sign on my forehead. You know the one.

One boy looked at another and said, "Did she just say you were a loser?"

I instantly had visions of parent phone calls in my head. The kind where I would have to justify my actions in front of the Principal and some hotshot from the District office. I had to back pedal. Fast.

"No! 'L' stands for 'Listen'!" And I smiled sweetly and walked away.