Sometimes you just need a warm and gooey grilled cheese sandwich. Today, was that kind of morning.
These single-digit numbers we’ve been waking up to in the mornings make you want warm fuzzy everything.
This is the first winter I’ve enjoyed since I was a kid. I stared winter right in the face and said, “Hi, remember me?”
I was always a summer person but now after a horrendous year, I am appreciative of every season.
I am “wintering” like the nature and animals around me. It’s like a “when in Rome” kind of feeling. A feeling of acceptance.
Nelly is lying on a heated blanket after coming in from doing her business early this morning. She’s no dummy!
Instead of hating to put on winter shit to go out, I am appreciative for my warm fuzzy hat, gloves, scarf, socks and down jacket. I love my winter muck boots and leg warmers.
No, I haven’t gone off my nut, even though I’ve gotten pretty close, I’m slowing down, and looking around, and living in the moment.
Last year, at this time I would have said what a bunch of bullshit like many of you are.
However, when faced with the notion you may be lucky enough to be here for another winter or two, shit changes. Big time.
Last year’s health crisis took its toll on my mind and body; and now it’s showing.
All that stress and anxiety has caused my hair to shed, I hate to use those words “fall out” like crazy.
I’ve lost 50% of my hair all over not in clumps thank God. I am lucky I started with a thick head of hair.
My hair still looks good but it’s thin. Let me tell you it’s been scary as hell with every handful or brush full that comes out.
It has made me cry for weeks on end creating even more stress. My strong thick hair is a part of who I am.
I don’t want to jinx myself but I think it’s finally slowing down. My doctor said it would grow back and I’ll have my thick hair back in no time. 🙏🤞🏼
I had a small bout of psoriasis show up again but I’m showing it who’s boss.
It rears its ugly head when I am very stressed. It started when I was 9 years old, I had a nervous breakdown of the skin.
That was the year we moved away from family and friends, I went to a new school, and my mother turned on me and started treating me like Cinderella.
Right now it’s pretty much under control. I dealt with it for the first two years of the pandemic. I know what to do.
I’ve been exhausted after months and months of stress which I am giving into while I am “wintering.”
Sometimes you just need a grilled cheese sandwich, a kiss on the head, and be told everything will be fine.
Everything will be fine. I haven’t been able to share this until today. I had no idea I would write about it until the words formed easily.
As always, thanks for reading and following me on this rollercoaster of life. ❤️
By now, most of my readers know I am from New Jersey. I grew up in Elizabeth for the first nine years of my life; then we moved to Iselin. It felt far away, far away from the Italian section of Elizabeth.
It wasn’t until I moved to Vermont that I realized that people outside of downstate NY & NJ didn’t understand the Italian American lingo. You didn’t have to be Italian to know the lingo; people just did.
It felt so weird to me when I had to pronounce Italian food “properly” if I wanted people to understand what the fuck I was saying.
I still tawk the way I tawk at home, but I have learned to speak broadcast news when need be. Here is what I’m talking about:
Written by Peter Genovese from NJ Advance Media
Rule Number One for Speaking Jersey Italian: Drop the vowel at the end of each word. Most of the time, anyway. This is like that “i before e except after c” rule you learned in fifth grade. It holds true except when it doesn’t. So, “cavadeel” instead of cavatelli, cappacol or gabbagool instead of cappacola, “manicot” or “manigott” instead of manicotti.
Pasta fagiole is “pasta fazool,” right? Not so fast. Several chefs pronounced every last syllable – “fa-gee-o-li.” Others pronounced every letter in “cavatelli,” not the widely accepted “cavadeel.”
Rule Number Two for Speaking Jersey Italian: Get the “easy” words right, then proceed to the tougher ones. “Gnocchi” looks uncomplicated, but to speak it like a true Italian, you must roll the “gno” – “gnawww-ki.” It is certainly not “knock-ki.” Same with “ravioli.” Give the “ioli” a little operatic flourish, prolonging the three syllables a bit, but not so much that people start thinking you learned Italian by reading cans of Chef Boyardee.
Rule Number Three for Speaking Jersey Italian:Impress your Italian friends with the proper pronounciation of words they thought they had been pronouncing right all along. One good example: bruschetta. It’s “broos-ketta-a,” says Filippo Russo, the chef/owner of da Filippo in Somerville. “That’s all over Italy.”
Rule Number Four for Speaking Jersey Italian: It’s “sauce.” Unless the chef insists it’s “gravy.” Which is correct?
Here is how I understand the difference between the two. Marinara sauce contains no meats. The sauce is made and cooked quickly, in under an hour, and is bright red.
I call “gravy” Sunday sauce. It’s a 50/50 split, as people call it. Sunday sauce is always eaten on, you guessed it, on a Sunday as a family Sunday dinner.
Sunday Sauce is usually made on a Friday or Saturday since the prep time is lengthy and the sauce cooks on a slow simmer all day. This type of sauce always tastes better when prepared a day or two ahead.
“Gravy” is used because it contains several kinds of meats such as braciole, pork ribs or neck, sausage, and meatballs.
The meats are browned before adding them to the sauce, giving it a rich, brownish-red color. Meats are used when making any gravy; see how it makes sense now.
Yesterday, I made butternut squash manicotti with a creamy parmesan sauce with shallots and thyme. I served it with chicken Milanese. The two dishes were delicious and worth the time and effort.
While I was working in the kitchen yesterday, Marty asked me if a bomb had gone off in the kitchen. I have to admit the kitchen was bad even though I usually clean as I go, but that didn’t happen yesterday. When I have to pivot while I am cooking, things get wild.
Here is why I had to pivot. After attempting to make butternut squash ravioli, which failed miserably, I decided to make manicotti. Here’s what happened.
I rolled out my pasta dough. It was perfect, and it wasn’t sticking to the workbench. I used a small scoop when portioning out the squash filling on the dough.
I was holding my breath as I placed the other piece of pasta dough over the top. I carefully began to press the top to the bottom around the filling, and the dough started to break, and the squash was squishing through the top. Mother fucker! Ugh!!
After swearing, I took the top off, wiped the filling from the dough, and put it back in the bowl. The dough was very wet, so I needed to add more flour and knead it until it was smooth. This is gluten-free mind out so things were iffy at this point.
This was the point I had to decide what to do. Do I make lasagna like last time, or do I make manicotti? After I rolled out some rectangles, I blanched, filled, and rolled them.
The next step I didn’t plan on, but the manicotti needed a bechamel sauce. I’m a great sauce maker, so this extra step was no biggie.
I still had one last messy thing I had to do, pound out chicken breasts, bread them, and fry them. I popped them into a warm oven while the manicotti baked.
Then I tackled the inevitable clean-up, which was not that bad.
Here is the kitchen all cleaned up with the manicotti waiting to be popped into the oven. This cooking project was way more work and effort than I had planned.
I’ve yet to successfully make gluten-free ravioli after trying many times. It took me seven years to perfect our spatzle, so this is no different. I’ll figure it out. Someday.
Me on Saturday night before heading out to a party.
Now that I am back to thinking about food again, I decided to improve the kitchen skills I already have and look at alternative techniques.
When someone has an interview for a chef position in a restaurant, many times they are asked to make eggs.
Eggs are harder than you would think and to get them absolutely perfect is even harder.
I’ve been making soft and hard-boiled eggs the way I watched my parents make them.
I’ve perfected hard boil and 6-minute eggs, but I didn’t even think about soft-boiled eggs.
I loved soft-boiled eggs when I was little, I liked any kind of dippy eggs. The only time I got soft-boiled eggs was when I was sick.
Why? Was it because they are easy to overcook? It could have been.
Was it a pain in the ass to cut the egg in half and scoop the insides into a bowl? Served with buttered toast.
Mmmmm, a good childhood memory. Again, about food. It’s always been about food for me.
I felt like having grits with soft-boiled eggs on Sunday morning and wanted to try a different technique.
I followed a recipe and was shocked at how many different ways people prepare soft-boiled eggs.
I decided on the foolproof 6-minute egg technique that people swear by.
The difference between the way I made soft boiled eggs and the recipe was mine started in cold water, and the new way used boiling water.
My way, when the water came to a rolling boil, the heat was turned off and the pot was covered for two minutes.
The new technique had you add the egg to a smaller amount of simmering water.
You set a 6-minute timer and let the egg cook in the simmering water uncovered.
When the timer goes off, you lift out the egg and put it into an ice bath immediately.
When the egg was cool enough to handle, instead of cutting it in half and scooping out the insides I peeled the egg: easily.
I was skeptical as I placed the egg on top of the creamy grits. I took my knife and opened the egg.
It was perfect and professional looking. I was tickled pink!
There were no shell bits like when you scoop out the insides. Amazing!
The title of this blog post, Fresh Ideas, also refers to hunting for recipes each week.
Let’s face it, thinking of things to make for dinner is the hardest part of cooking. It’s no different for me.
Every week I would search for ideas and inspiration for dinner ideas. I would usually find a recipe from one of my favorite food blogs.
That’s when the lightbulb went off Sunday afternoon. I thought, “Hey dumbass, why don’t you subscribe to your favorite food blogs and have ideas and inspiration in your inbox.”
I subscribed to blogs that cover different cuisines such as vegetarian, ethnic, classic, gluten-free, Italian, and comfort food.
I’m looking forward to challenging myself in the kitchen and using more hard-to-find fresh ingredients used in ethnic cooking, especially in Asian and Indian dishes.
My quest for fresh ideas started with one egg. One perfect egg yesterday morning.
A shelf in our kitchen with one of my Christmas gifts from Noah & Aja. They found this couple for me when they were in Mexico!
I cooked and baked a lot of food between December 18-30. I haven’t cooked since.
Besides heating up leftovers from the freezer or frozen chicken nuggets and tater tots, I haven’t cooked.
We were invited to dinners at friend’s homes which was well appreciated.
I guess I cooked myself out. I didn’t want to think about food, look at food on my Instagram page, or go food shopping.
So, I didn’t. I was exhausted and listened to my body and rested.
Today, I had an inkling to make Thai food. I made Thai red curry with shrimp and jasmine rice.
Thai shrimp red curry.
Then I tried something new. I make pretty good Thai food for a white girl and understand what a Thai dish needs to be in balance.
I made warm silken tofu with a sauce I never saw or tried before. I never ate silken tofu as an appetizer either.
I loved it. Marty loved the sauce. He had a hard time getting used to the texture but ate it. I think he liked it.
The texture of the silken tofu was like a panna cotta and the sauce was sour, sweet, salty, and an umami flavor bomb.
The time I’ve spent not cooking was divided by reorganizing everything and cleaning.
The house looked like someone took random shit and threw it in every corner of the house.
I had laundry up the ass which I am almost caught up with. Lots of dirty cloth napkins, several tablecloths, kitchen and bath towels, and our regular laundry. Ugh!
My pantry looked like a bomb went off with platters, bowls, and other shit piled up on the floor in front of the shelves.
I’m about 80% done. You have to understand I am a total maniac when it comes to having a clean and organized home.
At one point during the holiday week, I said fuck it and stopped being stressed by the chaos and didn’t care.
I knew everything would be cleaned up eventually. I don’t run around like an energizer bunny anymore and kill myself to get done in one or two days.
Nope, I am not doing that anymore.
I felt free doing things when I felt like it and didn’t dread the chores like I used to.
I rested when I needed to. I realized there are no awards for killing yourself and overdoing it.
We picked up Klaus’ ashes on Tuesday. Marty and I were still shell shocked and happy he was home again.
Neither of us had it in us to open the bag containing Klaus’ memorial package. The bag sat on the window seat until today.
I decided to take things out of the bag and put him where he belonged, next to Otto.
I chose to do it today while Marty was at the farmers market, he and Klaus were very close from the day Marty brought him home in the cup holder of his car.
I moved the shelves around in the living room making a proper space for my boys. I can’t lie I cried my head off while I did it.
Nelly was sitting at my feet and at the bottom of the chair I was standing on. As I took Klaus and his bag of hair out of the bag ahead of me, she got up on her hind legs.
When I was done I sat on the floor with her still crying. Then, the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me happened.
Nelly began to smell my right hand, the one I used to touch Klaus’s hair. She put her paw on my hand and began to rub her forehead on my hand.
She did this for a few minutes. It was so touching to watch and I realized that love really does know no bounds.
My favorite photo of my happy boys with my Aunt Dee. They never both looked so happy at the same time.
Klaus was her big brother who taught her the ropes and they showed each other unconditional love, the way Otto did to Klaus when he was a puppy.
I have a million things to do but I played with Nelly until she was tuckered out, just like Klaus would have done.
She crawled on my lap and eventually settled down with her chin on my hand. I knew she missed her big brother and she now knew he was still here with us.
Are you crying yet? This is my last and final sad post about my boys. Thanks for your love and support. ♥️ ~julz
***No real editing I’ve gotta get back to cleaning and holiday prep and baking.
Well I did have to edit two photos after all. 🤦🏻♀️
