Casserole Crazy

Okay, I’m no Scarlett Johansson, but I will be appearing on the Brooklyn Cooking Dating Show, and as far as I know, they have no dude to set me up with. Are you a man who lives in Brooklyn? Do you like to cook? Do you like to eat more than you like to cook? If so, you should consider applying to be on the show. But first, some facts:

• If you are paired with me, you will learn to make my signature casserole. Then you will eat it. Then you will be happy.
• I do not trust skinny foodies.
• I will not date or sleep with vegetarians.

If this sounds good so far, and you live in Brooklyn and do not like the Yankees (their rule, not mine) and can spell (my rule, not theirs) sign up. Even if you don’t meet those requirements, check out the show.

The Brooklyn Cooking Dating Show

Due to some unfortunate incidents in my former apartment, I’m spending November couch surfing and cooking when I can. Obviously, I’m not doing much blogging. I am, however, perusing my usual reads and this morning found what was probably the most clever, and probably quite expensive piece of marketing material I’ve ever seen: a food company’s annual report that must be baked before all of the content shows up on the pages.

Every Friday I have friends over to test the casseroles I make, and help me get rid of them. But after four straight weeks I got tired of entertaining and decided to cook for myself tonight. I made my own pasta sauce from scratch for the second time in my life—it’s surprisingly easy and cheap, and it tastes so much better than the jarred stuff. I also decided to cook up the chicken I was going to put in the casserole I didn’t make tonight. I know this Friday Chicken isn’t a casserole but it was prepared in one dish and is too good and easy not to share. So good, in fact, I had to call a friend over to help me eat it.
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Whenever I meet a man and tell him I’m writing a cookbook, no matter the man, the response is always the same: “I love to cook, too; I make a mean breakfast.”

My ex boyfriend prided himself in all three—and sometimes four—meals of the day, but it was his lavish breakfast of eggs Benedict with maple-infused hollandaise and pork tenderloin that always sent me straight back into his bed until the mid afternoon.

Why is it that men perfect the art of breakfast before a rare t-bone
or mushroom risotto? And why do they take such pride in the first meal of the day? Is it a sex thing? Or is it just the first (and sometimes only) meal men choose to do well?

When I go to Coney Island, I eat everything. If a half-rotted crab washed up on the beach, as long as it could be battered and deep fried, I would probably eat it. So yesterday, I ate everything at Coney Island (save any half-rotted, deep-fried crabs) then walked to Brighton Beach and ate everything there. Then, on the way home I stopped for mint-chip gelato. One day of that is fine, right? Right. Except I just had a ginormous brunch at Brooklyn Label and am going to a barbeque later. I imagine I’ll soon be replacing all of my waistbands with elastic.

I cannot tear myself away from the Food Network. Giada in Paradise, The Next Food Network Star, and the freaking Food Network Challenge is candy castles! I’m exhausted and I have two articles due tomorrow, but all I want to do is watch the Food Network… forever and ever. Until Rachael Ray comes on of course, then I shut that shit off.

OK, not exactly twilight, but the world is a very different place in the morning. Since returning from my trip, I’ve had a hard time sleeping late. I never quite recovered from Netherlands time, which is fine, because getting up at 7 in Amsterdam is like getting up at 1 in the afternoon on the East Coast. And I used to do that— often. I’ve now found a happy medium and wake up around 9 every day. Fine. I’m actually more productive when I get up early. Go figure.

Anyway, I’m going to The Meatwave today and wanted to pick up a nice cut of steak and some sausage, but at 10:00 on a Sunday none of the meat markets in Greenpoint are open. I’m going to blame it on Sunday and not this crazy time we call “morning.”