Monday, January 30, 2006
the best French word ever
Oeuf. Oeuf oeuf oeuf oeuf oeuf. Sing it with me now oeuf.
This isn't going to be a food blog. But.
Yesterday I made Oeufs en Cocotte with Sauce au Cari to soothe my hangover and oh dear me, it was heaven in a ramekin. I got the idea from this book my brother gave me for my birthday. You hit the nail on the head with that one, Alex.
Oeufs en Cocotte is blessedly simple. Preheat oven to 375. Put a Dutch oven with about 3/4" of water on to simmer. Butter small ramekins. When water is at a simmer, add a Tbsp of cream to each ramekin. Give it a minute or two. When cream is hot, break an egg into each ramekin. Transfer Dutch oven to now hot oven. Bake 7-10 minutes. Eggs are done with they are set, but still tremble when you shake the pan lightly. Serve with crusty bread and go go go.
I upped the ante with the curry cream sauce - also simple - just butter, minced onions, cream, curry, saltnpepa. I just spooned that action liberally, nay, extravagantly all over the runny yolks and devoured.
It has come to my attention that there are people out there who do not like runny eggs. These people are all kinds of wrong.
This isn't going to be a food blog. But.
Yesterday I made Oeufs en Cocotte with Sauce au Cari to soothe my hangover and oh dear me, it was heaven in a ramekin. I got the idea from this book my brother gave me for my birthday. You hit the nail on the head with that one, Alex.
Oeufs en Cocotte is blessedly simple. Preheat oven to 375. Put a Dutch oven with about 3/4" of water on to simmer. Butter small ramekins. When water is at a simmer, add a Tbsp of cream to each ramekin. Give it a minute or two. When cream is hot, break an egg into each ramekin. Transfer Dutch oven to now hot oven. Bake 7-10 minutes. Eggs are done with they are set, but still tremble when you shake the pan lightly. Serve with crusty bread and go go go.
I upped the ante with the curry cream sauce - also simple - just butter, minced onions, cream, curry, saltnpepa. I just spooned that action liberally, nay, extravagantly all over the runny yolks and devoured.
It has come to my attention that there are people out there who do not like runny eggs. These people are all kinds of wrong.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
that last PBR did it
I don't hang over so much lately, because A) I've slowly learned it doesn't feel very spectacular and B) I've become a serious lightweight. I pretty much stick to one or two drinks of an evening, maybe three if Armagnac is involved.
But when you do wake up hungover, the pressure is immediately on. You must quickly choose the right cure, or your day is going to suck and/or be an epic waste. The hell with Hunter S., there's nothing hip or romantic about feeling like the living incarnation of ass -- kind of like I did today after a night at the roller derby.
So. Hangover remedies. I don't actually have one, because I didn't start hanging over with any ferocity until my 30's. Damn you, metabolism! I need help, I need a ritual, I need something.
Awaken hungover. There are several directions here, but success or failure all hang on that very first call you make and there is no going back my friend. What kind of hangover do you have? Should you roll over and sleep until it starts to get dark again? But sometimes you feel so sick you can't sleep. Do you get up and heave yourself into a bracing/comforting cold/hot shower? Perhaps you best demolish the nearest chorizo burrito, or greasy diner breakfast? Maybe you ought to start popping the pills* -- I'm fond of the antacids/ibuprofen/mineral water cocktail myself. Nothing really helped me today until the McDonald's fries, and a road trip with me at the wheel. Driving and singing Fountains of Wayne (who sport their fair share of drinking songs) gave me something other than my misery to concentrate on.
My college roommate swore by Real Chili for hangovers, and I can concur. The Marquette Special -- spaghetti topped with chili with beans, cheddar cheese, raw onions, sour cream, and oyster crackers -- was consumed by yours truly on a semi-regular basis including the night of my 21st (thank you Chuck and Lance). But usually I'd hit Real Chili right after closing time, not so much the next day. Usually you can eat enough of it when you swerve in there at 2 a.m. to make yourself pre-emptively sick *before* you rack out, unquestionably the best way to avoid hangovers altogether, short of the unreasonable option of not drinking too much.
The roller derby was pretty cool, but not nearly as aggressive as I hoped for. They're recruiting members. I just got some sweet new health insurance, so I'm looking into it.
* Note for whoever missed this piece of alcholic wisdom: Never take acetaminophen (Tylenol) for a hangover or while drinking. It's horrendously hard on your liver and can be dangerous in a pretty short time.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Broken Household Appliance National Forest
Taking a moment to mourn the (impending) passing of my hair dryer. It's been with me since approximately 1984; I got it for post-cross-country-meet spin the bottle sessions. This morning it started to make those conking out noises accompanied with the burning smell... I'm gonna keep using it until it blows up or sets my hair on fire, but I sense the end is near.
I'm not *too* much of a tree hugger, but I do have this thing about appliances and vehicles - you gotta 1) take care of them, and 2) use them til they're well and truly dead. So much better for the environment if you get maximum life out of these bulky and non-eco-friendly products.
I had this Sharper Image clock radio from the late 80's that pretty much every roommate and boyfriend I've had since the early 90's has mocked. It was huge, first of all. Way bigger than any clock radio has a right to be. It was supposed to have rain and waterfall noises, but it really just was different speeds of static. Speaking of static, that's pretty much all the radio ever got. The digital lines in the time were all burned out it was hard to read. (And I can't see waking up sans contacts anyway.) Sometimes the snooze would work, sometimes it wouldn't, adding what I felt was an extra spice to the morning, but more accurately resulted in near unemployment on a few occasions. I called it Hal.
Hal summoned me forth to face the ongoing crisis I like to call "my life" until, after one of those near-misses with the snooze, a well-meaning boyfriend gave me a new clock radio for Christmas. It's a Sony. It has gigantic and well-illuminated numbers. It has a straight-up alarm and the radio alarm. The snooze works flawlessly. I plugged it in next to Hal and am duly, if dully, using it to this day. It has no name. It has no name my friends, because it has no soul.
I kicked Hal to the curb when I moved. I still feel bad about it, he having served me so valiantly and all. I mean, just think. Hal woke me up for final exams in Milwaukee to send me trudging out into filthy urban snowdrifts. For my Sunday morning bartending gig in Dallas, even though I was so hungover from Saturday night that I was ready to launch him through the window, had I been able to summon that kind of gall. For oral exams for my M.A. From disco naps. For work, for love, for money. I could keep going here, but we all know where that goes -- -eventually I find a way to connect my alarm clock to the futility of existence so let's just leave it where it is, and say vaya con dios, Hal. Oh, and to my hairdryer. Which doesn't have a name.
I'm not *too* much of a tree hugger, but I do have this thing about appliances and vehicles - you gotta 1) take care of them, and 2) use them til they're well and truly dead. So much better for the environment if you get maximum life out of these bulky and non-eco-friendly products.
I had this Sharper Image clock radio from the late 80's that pretty much every roommate and boyfriend I've had since the early 90's has mocked. It was huge, first of all. Way bigger than any clock radio has a right to be. It was supposed to have rain and waterfall noises, but it really just was different speeds of static. Speaking of static, that's pretty much all the radio ever got. The digital lines in the time were all burned out it was hard to read. (And I can't see waking up sans contacts anyway.) Sometimes the snooze would work, sometimes it wouldn't, adding what I felt was an extra spice to the morning, but more accurately resulted in near unemployment on a few occasions. I called it Hal.
Hal summoned me forth to face the ongoing crisis I like to call "my life" until, after one of those near-misses with the snooze, a well-meaning boyfriend gave me a new clock radio for Christmas. It's a Sony. It has gigantic and well-illuminated numbers. It has a straight-up alarm and the radio alarm. The snooze works flawlessly. I plugged it in next to Hal and am duly, if dully, using it to this day. It has no name. It has no name my friends, because it has no soul.
I kicked Hal to the curb when I moved. I still feel bad about it, he having served me so valiantly and all. I mean, just think. Hal woke me up for final exams in Milwaukee to send me trudging out into filthy urban snowdrifts. For my Sunday morning bartending gig in Dallas, even though I was so hungover from Saturday night that I was ready to launch him through the window, had I been able to summon that kind of gall. For oral exams for my M.A. From disco naps. For work, for love, for money. I could keep going here, but we all know where that goes -- -eventually I find a way to connect my alarm clock to the futility of existence so let's just leave it where it is, and say vaya con dios, Hal. Oh, and to my hairdryer. Which doesn't have a name.