Convenience Store Cuisine

I've mentioned my husbands taste in food a few times here (he doesn't have much, in case you missed those posts.) When I look at his childhood though, I really can't blame him. His mom hasn't cooked since 1985 (a New Year's resolution that she stuck to) and his Grandmother cooked most of the meals he fondly remembers. I love her dearly, but 90% of the ingredients in his favorite family recipes can be found at a gas station convenience store (for the record, she does make killer brownies from scratch.)

However, her stuffing consists of Ritz crackers, chicken & rice soup, an onion & canned mushrooms. Hawaiian chicken is salad dressing, onion soup mix and jelly. Salmon croquettes? Canned salmon. When Jeff's mother did cook, a dessert called "Yodel Pie" was her signature recipe, made almost entirely of one of the least nutritional foods on earth.

There is one concoction that I absolutely adore, and proudly serve at every party we host. It's called "Kahlua Dip" and consists of 3 ingredients that you can grab from a 7-11. Kahlua, Cool Whip, and Hershey's milk chocolate bars. When they combine, however, the result is pure magic. His family served this treat as as a dip with Pirouette cookies, but I prefer it as a mousse, garnished with raspberries and mint. It's also wonderful in those little chocolate cups as a bite-size dessert. (Or, better still, straight from the mixing bowl with a spoon. Because those calories don't count.)

How to make it: Grate 3 Giant Hershey's Milk Chocolate Bars (you only need about 2 1/2, so feel free to nibble.) Mix into 1 tub of Cool Whip.
Add 1/2 cup of Kahlua. That's it. It's best refrigerated overnight before serving. If you eat enough, you can get a nice little buzz and forget how exactly much saturated fat you just consumed. Perfect!

Honey, I'll cook tonight. Really.

Jeff did 3 loads of laundry last night. And he folded it and put it away. I was out for dinner at a friend's house with the kids and came home to this news, which he shared with me 2 seconds after I walked through the door. His face beamed with pride, displaying the same joy Lily's does when she masters perfectly writing a new letter of the alphabet. Naturally, I was suspicious. What does he want from me? Nothing, he said. There was laundry everywhere so I thought I'd help. Huh? This was a first.

Jeff does not clean. He does not cook. He does not run the dishwasher or the laundry machine or empty the humidifier. I'm sure he has no idea where the cleaning supplies are or how to clean out the vacuum.
Ask him to find a salad bowl and he'd be clueless. Grab a set of serving spoons? No way. But, the house is my domain and I'm fine with it.

On the few occasions when he's gone grocery shopping I've returned at least 5 items to the store the next day. (When I say fruit, I mean fresh, not neon colored and canned with syrup, for example.) And then there was the time he cooked dinner. I have a cornflake chicken recipe (milk, butter, cornflakes.) Couldn't be easier. I also marinate another recipe's chicken in Italian dressing and coat with breadcrumbs. On the night, many years ago, when Jeff decided to treat me to a home cooked meal, we were out of both cornflakes and breadcrumbs. I was on a big granola kick. Granola with dried fruit. Cereal is cereal, he thought, right? Wrong. I was served chicken marinated in Italian dressing at coated in granola. It looked, tasted and smelled absolutely revolting. He insisted on eating every last piece just to prove to me that it was in fact edible. Barely.
Needless to say, I haven't let him cook since.

I do appreciate the effort. It's sweet, in a pathetic sort of way. But, I'm home with the kids. I expect to do those things. And most of them I like doing them. And at least when I do them I know they're being done correctly (or, rather, the way I want them done.) I don't need to run the wash again, or return to the grocery store or remake the bed. It's just easier.

I do realize that by being this much of a control freak I'm discouraging him from helping around the house and stomping on any domestic inclinations he has. And that's totally ok. That's just the way I want it.

Food, glorious food

I really love food. I love eating at fancy restaurants. I annoy Jeff by walking down city streets and stopping to read every single menu posted outside. The thought of a 5 star, 5 course dinner gives me chills. Despite clipping coupons and gripping about gas prices, it's an expense I can totally justify. I still think fondly (and often) about the few really stellar meals I've consumed. I even love reading about other people's fine dining experiences.

I love cooking, too, especially when I have someone other than my taste-less husband to cook for (and, honey, no--taste is not subjective, you just don't have any--sorry.) I spend a good deal of time looking at food porn and drooling; I must have 300 recipes bookmarked, and look at them throughout my days.

One person who shares my passion for food is my oldest and dearest friend, Jess. Thirty years ago, our moms were members of a gourmet dinner club together, and we're continuing the tradition. The last time she was here, she introduced me to the incredible Chicken Marbella,
and my life hasn't been the same since. She arrived last night for a 5 day visit and we already have each night's menu written out. Tonight it's appetizers, Thursday is crab legs, Friday is Mexican (and craft!) night and Saturday is strawberry salad, beef tenderloin, stuffed tomatoes and potatoes au gratin. Yum.

So much for not eating past 6 o'clock this week. It's just not gonna happen. But at least when I'm starving again next week, I'll have some really good meals to look back on. And until her next visit, some really yummy sites to visit and drool over.

Happy Birthday, Jeff

I give my husband a hard time on this blog, because, as I've mentioned once or twice, he drives me crazy. But no crazy stories today, because today is his birthday, and there's no better day to pay tribute to the
man I love.

Our first date was in September of our freshman year of college. Unlike most college romances it wasn't a random hookup or quick coffee at the school cafeteria. It was a fancy Italian meal off campus that he drove us to in his friend's mom's minivan. He brought me a single rose (for friendship he said, so not to freak me out) opened the doors, paid the bill and walked me home. I knew after that night, that my college visions of
"Girls gone wild" Jill were out the window. At the young age of 18, I had found the person I was destined to spend the rest of my life with.

He wrote me cheesy love poems and I made him juvenile art projects professing our love, they wall papered our tiny dorm rooms. He bought me a star (way before Baily on Party of Five,) my first gift of jewelry and frequent bouquets. He made lists of what he loved about me and wrote about us in the university paper. When we were torn apart by his fraternity pledging (five days spent apart, the drama!) he sent me cryptic notes and we had top secret, illegal meetings. We simply could not bear to be apart. I spent a week in Mexico and a summer in Florence feeling like my heart was left an ocean away. He spent a semester the next year miserable in DC because I was back at school (and because he lived with smelly roommates named Brock and Jose, but that's another story.) Countless sappy love poems and midnight phone conversations later, we reunited in St. Louis.

He proposed to me just months after we graduated. The proposal involved a "rose petal road," an insane number of votive candles and a trail of our mementos throughout the apartment. It lead to the bedroom where Jeff was waiting with the ring. Unfortunately, being the chronically early person I am, I arrived home prematurely from my botched hair appointment to find him fresh from a run, about to shower. Sweaty and in running shorts, he got down on one knee and tearfully proposed. After he showered, we spent the next 3 hours back at the salon returning my orange hair blond before celebrating. We knew, when sharing the news, that people thought we were too young, and why rush? But we knew better.

Thirteen years, 1 dog (well, 3 sort of,) 8 homes together and 3 kids later, he still sends me mushy love letters (although they are usually in the form of e-mail and thankfully no longer rhyme.) When asked to describe himself, he always lists "husband" first. He's a phenomenal father and ridiculously thoughtful and generous. He constantly tries to surprise me and keep me on my toes. I know he would do anything for me. And I would do anything for him.

Happy birthday, my love. And to many, many, many more.

My little cowboy's new bed

When I found out I was having a second boy, less than 2 years after Ben,
I daydreamed about my boys sharing a bedroom. I saw myself rolling my eyes at the condition they'd keep it... Lily refusing to step foot in the "stinky boy's room," a "no girl's allowed" sign sloppily taped to the door. They'd sleep in bunk beds, tell secrets late into the night and be forever best friends. It was a sweet (albeit, smelly) vision.
Last night, my dreams were shattered.

Ben's new bunk bed arrived yesterday. I admired it, unmade, still envisioning it holding my two little boys. And then it was time to make it. Oh.My.God. I worked up more of a sweat doing that than I ever did birthing him. Is there an easy way to make a top bunk? Because I couldn't figure it out. Granted, I am not someone who normally enjoys making beds; mine remains unmade most days. Now I realize that mine is a pleasure cruise compared to this hell. The thought off stripping and remaking the top bunk each week is unbearable. The boys will just have to become best friends in their own rooms.

It took me over 45 minutes to make it, all said and done. To add salt to my wounds, Jeff walks in, making three observations:

1. "I hate the way you put the blanket over the pillow, not under" (Did you not see the scowl on my face? You think now is the time to mention this information?)
   
2. "You took the tags off the mattress? You can't do that!!" (Is he for real?!)
   
3. And, finally, "You made a bed- what's the big deal?"
   

Jeffrey, dear, I did not make a bed. I made this bed. And it sucked.
Next time, it's all yours.

And, for your viewing pleasure, pictures of my little cowboy in his brand new big boy room.

Score: Jeff 2, Jill 1

I've made our children's looks into a competition.
And it appears that I'm losing.

I seriously resent Jeff for having a mini-me in Lily. I carried her for 9 months and I get nothing??! No blond curls? No green eyes? No birthmark above the lip? It's so not fair. Jeff was out with her several months ago and someone actually asked, "Did her mother contribute any genes to her at all?" It's a good thing I wasn't there or he would have gotten a swift kick in the balls. And, mister, she does have my freaky double jointed thumb. So there.

I was elated that Ben took after my family. He looks nothing like Jeff,
and remarkably like my brother (and oddly like our old UPS man, but that's another story.) He has light green/blue eyes, my cheeks and even the same skin bumps on his arms. Ha! So, we were even.
Life was good.

And then there were 3. Evan came out sort of a mix. He was much darker than Ben, but didn't have Lily's huge brown eyes either. So there was hope. Everyday now, however, he is looking more and more like his sister. Not exactly the same; his eyes are turning a shade of green(!), his nose turns up more, and his chin is slightly different. But don't think there is any doubt who he resembles more.

And I'm pissed.

I hate Chinese Food

Nobody else seems to appreciate my daughter's works of art nearly as much as I do (totally understandable) so I promise not to post them incesently. I do want to share this gem.

The assignment was to make a "balloon person" doing your favorite activity. Most of her classmates made "people" who were playing or riding a bike or seeing a movie... Lily's is eating at a Chinese Restaurant.
(I'm not sure why the other dining guests are giant penises, but that's another issue for another time.)

Let me explain: My husband (who drives me crazy, if I haven't mentioned that) loves Chinese food. Not like a normal person does, but like a crazy person. He could literally (and I do mean literally) eat it for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Every day. It's a problem. He would rather eat it than any gourmet, 4 star cuisine. For a foodie like me, this is tough to deal to take. The other problem is the caliber of restaurant that he will dine at or order in from. Closed down by the board of health? Fine! Buffet with the grubbiest customers ever? OK! Grease covered, highly questionable, dark meat chicken? Bring it on! After 12 years, the smell of sesame chicken makes me gag, and I am totally unable to eat even the finest Chinese food.

Thankfully for both of us, he now has a new dining companion in Lily. They have dates at the buffet at least once a week. I have to hold my nose when Lily comes running in to hug me covered in sweet sauce. While I am thankful that I am now off the hook as a guest, I am resentful that this trait has been passed on to a new generation. Most meals I present are followed by "I don't want this, I want Chineeese food!"
(And I mean Jeff too, not just Lily)

Thankfully, Ben has not seemed to inherit this gene, so maybe there's hope for my boys. Just once it would be nice to make a meal that is deemed preferable to Hunan Express.

Maybe someday. A girl can dream, right?

My husband drives me crazy. CRAZY. CRAZY. CRAZY.

He calls me cheap. I prefer thrifty. I have always been this way. Good deals thrill me to the core. The buzz can last for days. I gleefully clip coupons, and I get chills when the checkout clerk tells me how much I saved.

My most favorite bouquet that Jeff ever gave me was a half-dead arrangement of peonies that he convinced the store to give to him instead of throwing out at the end of the day. After 6 years of lavish bouquets, he finally got me! Those wilted flowers made me far happier than a $100 bouquet of roses ever could.

I stalk maids at every hotel I stay at. I have done this for as long as I remember. I slyly wait until the maid goes into a room to clean before stuffing my bag (an extra one, brought solely for this purpose) with little bottles of shampoos, lotions and shoe horns. I have no idea what to do with a shoe horn, but I have at least 10 stuffed into my bathroom drawer. I now give the kids the small bottles to play with in the tub. They are really useless to me, but oh-so-much fun to acquire.

Anyway, my husband was in NYC for the weekend and stayed at a swanky hotel. He not only neglected to bring me any goodies from the room, but tells me that his room was next to the service elevator. An unlocked service elevator. He had countless instances to stuff his pockets with goodies for me. I got nada.

Well, that's not true. He did get me a new wallet from Salvatore Ferragamo. My old one is falling apart, and I told him to be on the lookout for a new one. I thought that implied that it be a good deal. This was not. It is leather. It is shiny. It is beautiful. It was so not on sale. It was not from Loehmann's, Marshalls or TJ Maxx. It was from an actual Ferragamo boutique. It is so going to be sent back to them tomorrow. I would have preferred the shampoo bottles.

But, he did just finish giving me a 25 shoulder massage that rocked my world. I think I'll keep him. Even if it means being driven slightly insane.

Edited on Tuesday, March 25th
A few people have asked to see the wallet in question, so here it is...
Don't even bother to tell me to consider keeping it. It's already on a plane back to it's original home in NYC, hopefully it will make somebody else very happy. Jeff does have a trip planned the week after next-- hopefully I'll get some shampoo out of that one :)