Sometimes I pretend to be a legit food or humor blogger

As my American readers know, tomorrow is Thanksgiving - a holiday revered by gluttons and intriguing to Swedish houseguests (see last year's post). Being raised by a mother who, by her own admission, is more of a sustenance cook than a chef, I'm not terribly useful in the kitchen. Whatever, I'm too smart and talented to be anybody's housewife. Usually when faced with the task of feeding myself, I throw a veggie burger in the toaster oven and then become distracted by the internet until my dinner catches fire. Once that happens, I either dump a bunch of Secret Aardvark Sauce on it or call in an order to the Thai restaurant.

This brings us back to the impending holiday. I've been spending Thanksgiving either on my own via orphan Thanksgiving extravaganza (my college years) or with Bobby's family (2006-present) for the last decade. My parents live too far away to drive, and I'll be danged if I'm going anywhere near an airport on the busiest travel weekend of the year. Christmas is much more fluid, so that's when they get to see me.

The first time I was due to spend Thanksgiving with my then-future, now-current in-laws, I asked what I could bring. Cranberry sauce is one of my preferred contributions, so I offered to make that. Bobby told me they usually just eat the canned stuff, and I was like:



Since then, I have been officially in charge of cranberry sauce at the Lilly Family Thanksgiving Extravaganza. Here is a photo tutorial for making easy-peasy cranberry sauce.

Step One: assemble your ingredients*



One package fresh cranberries (I always forget and buy two. If you're like me, double the rest of the ingredients too)
One-and-a-half (1 1/2) cups of sugar
3/4 cup of orange juice
Two-and-a-half (2 1/2) tablespoons of lemon juice
*One two glasses of wine. You've had a rough day.

(Note that my lemon juice expires on 11.26.2011. Under the wire!)

Step Two
Rinse your cranberries (they do come from a bog, and the word bog is gross) and combine all ingredients in a large saucepan. You know, the one you typically use when the regular popcorn bowl is in the dishwasher. It should look approximately like a diabetic coma waiting to happen:



Step Three
Bring your pile of sugar and cranberries to a boil, stirring occasionally so it cooks evenly.



Step Four
It's done when the cranberries start poppin' and the contents of your saucepan look approximately like this:



Step Five
Let it cool, and bring it to the Thanksgiving table like a pro.

A little sidenote about cranberry sauce - anyone who has spent Thanksgiving or Christmas with me knows that though I love the stuff, I must have it in a separate bowl. I am a major food separatist when it comes to sweet and savory things, and if the cranberry sauce touches my mashed potatoes, dinner is over. Separate. Bowl.

In the spirit of the holiday, I remain indescribably thankful for my friends, family, and friends who have become family. Thanks for keeping me sane, y'all; it's a tough job for sure.

Fine food and a house full of men

This past Saturday, spurred by a wine-soaked conversation the week earlier, we decided to have a little dinner party and movie double-feature. First on the docket: Fried Green Tomatoes.

I'd assumed we would order some pizzas and have people bring beer and snacks, but this was not to be. A cryptic text arrived from Jonathan. "Do you have cornmeal, milk, vegetable oil, flour, breadcrumbs, and kosher salt?" "Everything but the breadcrumbs" was my reply. 10 minutes later, he and Conor, their friend Daniel from Vegas, and Breylan were walking in my door armed with groceries. Breylan carried three pans of twice-baked potatoes and several containers of toppings. Thoughtful guy that he is, he segregated four of the potatoes for me, the lone vegetarian in the group. The rest were to be topped with bacon.



As the kitchen buzzed with activity, Candace and Brady arrived. They brought salad, cheese, a baguette, and a pineapple. More food! Jonathan and Breylan set about making the featured item: fried green tomatoes. Well, fried red tomatoes. Green ones are difficult to obtain! No matter. Observe:







As the tomatoes cooled on the counter and the potatoes bubbled in the oven, Breylan asked if we had any eggs. He wanted to make homemade aioli. Normally I avoid aioli, as it is merely mayonnaise in a Sunday hat. However, since this version did not contain actual mayonnaise, I gave it a go. Verdict: nom.

The potatoes were finished soon after the aioli, and I made my contribution to the meal by removing them from the oven and sprinkling cheese on them. Alas, my fabulous bright red jeans are out of the frame.



Here is the primary chef, looking like all this was no big deal:



Here is a tub of bacon:



Plates piled with carbohydrates and fried goods, we settled in to watch the first movie. Once it ended, we started Demolition Man. It's important to have a little something for everyone, says I. However, wine and Southern food do not make for alertness, and most of the audience members were asleep by the time we heard about the "franchise wars" that resulted in Taco Bell becoming the sole restaurant of the future. Fine way to spend a Saturday evening if you ask me.

For good measure, and for my mother who thinks I go out to eat for every meal, here are some additional photos. Sunday, faced with leftover buttermilk from the previous weekend's birthday cake, I decided to make some biscuits. I tore through several cookbooks seeking a recipe that didn't require a trip to the store, and finally found one in my mom's 1960s copy of The Joy of Cooking. Behold my baking triumph! They're good with raspberry jam.



Finally, here's the awesome stir-fry Bobby made me yesterday, since I was too creaky and sore from Monday's cardioboxing class to take care of myself. Yes, I went to, and survived, a cardioboxing class. Yeowch.





See? It's not all burritos and takeout Thai food in my house. Just most of the time.

Sweden Day Four

"Jag är en amerikansk tjur i ett svenskt porslinsbutik."

Translation: I am an American bull in a Swedish china shop.

Madeleine took me and Bobby shopping in the main part of town today. We checked out some fun stores and I bought a few things for our house. I bought a butter knife that says "sluta smörar" (stop buttering) and a big printed textile thing that says "din mamma jobbar inte här" (your mother doesn't work here). On the way back to Erica and PJ's, we stopped at the System Bolaget (state-run liquor store) to replace the beer we've been drinking. We also bought a small bottle of rum to take to Way Out West. As we were putting our purchases in my reusable shopping bag, the rum tumbled out and shattered all over the floor (and my pants). I turned purple and said "förlåt!" (I'm sorry), and was totally prepared to walk away without rum. However, the cashier told me to go take another one. For free! I love Sweden, even though it seems I can't come here without breaking something. Big, clumsy, stupid American, that's me.

We made it back to our home base without incident, and now I am updating all of you while Bobby takes a nap. I slept terribly last night because some stupid telemarketer decided to phone me at 1:30 in the morning. Of course, it's not 1:30 in the morning where he called from, but when my phone rings that late at night, all I can do is panic. The call prompted me to panic about my phone bill, so I got up to make sure I didn't have a zillion dollars worth of data roaming charges. Then I couldn't get back to sleep. My brain was going all over the place, half in Swedish, and thinking about too many things. Then the telemarketers called again. No sleep for me.

Earlier today, Bobby and I went over to Sandy's house for brunch. She cooked an amazing set of things, which are pictured below. We were joined by Madeleine, Erica, Sanna, and Håkan. Brunch looked like this:







Of course, I felt right at home when I walked into Sandy's living room:



Tonight, we will make some dinner and head over to Debaser for a free concert with a local band called Hårda Tider (Hard Times). Tomorrow morning, we leave for Way Out West!

Dinner is such a hassle

Finding something to eat day in and day out is a right thorn in my side. Like my dad, I find the constant need to feed myself tedious. It gets in my way, and I'm not very good at it. I never really learned the science behind food preparation, so I mostly just wing it. Sometimes things turn out ok, and sometimes (read: often) there are tears. I have been known to eat a bread sandwich for dinner, or to throw leftover french fries in a tortilla, or to toss a Quorn "chicken" burger in the toaster oven and get distracted by the internet until the smoke alarm starts to harass me. See? Bad at feeding myself. Once, circa 2005, I even made this handy info-graphic instead of actually going to the store or getting takeout:



Though that was taken six years ago, it's pretty much what the inside of my fridge looks like all the time. I also hate going grocery shopping. Running out of things gives me anxiety; almost as much anxiety as going to the stupid store and trying to act like the adult I'm supposed to be and buy actual vegetables once in a while. I ran out of fakin' bacon yesterday and didn't buy more. Instead, I treated myself to a breakfast item at the local corporate coffee joint, which burned the bejesus out of my teeth. Fair play to the breakfast wrap, I had it coming.

It's not that I don't like food. I love food - when someone else makes it. Throughout my four years of college, I ate at Planet Fresh at least twice a week, and sometimes twice a day. I'd order a bean and rice tostada with black beans, brown rice, cheese, and guacamole, slathered in the hottest salsa they made. That salsa, by the way, is the most delicious substance on the planet. If I could figure out a way to reliably transport it from Santa Cruz to Portland on a regular basis, I'd be set for life. The bland salsa in the Pacific Northwest (and the equally bland Mexican food in general) can't compare. Why would it try? Oregonians hate spices and driving at proper speeds. It took about three years before my favorite cashier asked me my name and introduced himself, and after that, every time I came in, it was "Hello, Caitlin. Tostada today?" I'd sheepishly nod, partially ashamed of myself for being such a predictable creature of habit, and partially ashamed of my inability to cook. Pictured here is my college meal plan in all its delicious glory. I never ate the tostada shells.



By contrast, when I make my own food, it's the saddest food ever. It's bland, uninspired, hastily thrown together. See this web comic for further explanation. Making my own food, though cheaper, is merely an unsatisfying method of powering through until the next time I can visit a professional food-making establishment. It's a good thing I can write; I'd make a lousy housewife.

On that note, I'm off to have Morningstar Riblets and a strawberry shortcake for dinner. Don't judge me.

Like a good Southern girl!

Due to a slight misunderstanding with my Halloween shopping list, I found myself with an excess of buttermilk. Tired of red velvet cakes, I decided to try something different: biscuits! I looked up several recipes and finally settled on this one. With all my important ingredients in order (why yes, that is a glass of cheap white wine), I set out cooking.



After much sifting (well, if using a mesh colander as a sifter counts, because we don't have a sifter) and kneading, I had myself some nice dough.



About an hour in, I was ready to form the biscuits. The recipe told me to cut the dough into six pieces. SIX pieces. Well, seven if you count the excess dough I formed into an extra one. All that work for six stupid biscuits! Oh well, too late now.



Expecting disaster, I kept my eye on the oven while the biscuits baked. Miraculously, they came out looking like this!



Add biscuits to the extremely short list of things I can cook. They're awfully good with the berry-infused honey I had in my cupboard, in case you were curious.