Live Like a Mensch : Cooking

In Defense of Convenience

Emily Guy Birken — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 21:13:00 GMT

Image courtesy of Amazon

J and I recently purchased a juicer. Not just any juicer, mind you. No, we bought the Breville 800JEXL Juice Fountain Elite 1000-Watt Juice Extractor.

(Don't ask how much this bad boy set us back.)

(It was $285.)

(I know.)

We became juicers in the only way that I've ever heard of anyone becoming a juicer: we watched a documentary (Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead) that convinced us we needed to juice or die.

In point of fact, J watched the documentary over a year ago. He became gung ho about the idea of buying a juicer, and showed me some of the models online. I looked at the cost, looked at our perfectly serviceable blender, and suggested maybe we could just focus on making more smoothies for breakfast. J sighed and relented.

Then about 6 weeks ago, I watched the documentary. I became gung ho about the idea of buying a juicer. J shook his head at my (inevitable) change of heart, and helped me research the best one, which is how we ended up with the $285 Breville 800JEXL Juice Fountain Elite 1000-Watt Juice Extractor.

Despite all this buildup, my post is not actually about our juicer (although if anyone would like to share juicing recipes/ideas/strategies in the comments, I certainly wouldn't mind). This post is actually about convenience.

One of the many articles I read about juicing had an extended interview with a family of committed juicers. The parents were talking about how they were able to get their children to drink green juice (veggie juice with some apple or other fruits thrown in for sweetness) more easily than they were able to convince them to eat their vegetables.

As the mother of a confirmed veggie-phobe (not to mention the wife of a veggie-take-it-or-leave-it-maybe-I'll-eat-it-if-you-make-it-easy-for-me type), this seemed like a major upside to spending big bucks on a juicer. LO (and J) would finally get the veggie nutrients I've been trying to force on him for years.

Then, I started reading the comments on this article, because I'm a terrible masochist who has not yet learned to ignore comment sections on major news websites.

There was quite a bit of vitriol spewed regarding the negative lesson these parents were teaching their kids by serving them juice instead of whole fresh vegetables.

This falls into what I like to call the "should problem." We all have a sense of the way life should be. Children should eat their vegetables without prompting. We should be able to resist the chocolate cake in the break room. We should be able to get up as soon as the alarm clock rings in the morning without hitting snooze seven times and then rushing to work with mis-matched shoes because we were so very late after all the snoozing. We should be able to be productive and adult members of society without having to trick, outwit, convenience, or otherwise make it easy on ourselves.

And yet, we don't live in the should world. We live in the world wherein I regularly need to put my car keys in the refrigerator to make sure I don't forget to bring my carefully packed lunch and then have to spend money for a meal. (Okay, that was regularly when I worked a traditional job, but the example stands). We live in a world where eating vegetables have long been the bane of both parent and child existence, and making sure kids get the nutrients they need while ALSO serving them whole vegetables with meals is a good way to keep your bases covered.

My problem with the should mindset is that it ignores the fact that human beings are ornery, fallible, irrational, and just plain weird. Yes, it's ridiculous that our species is so irrational that we have created an alarm clock that rolls around on the floor to ensure that you get up on time--but that doesn't change the fact that such a product works. (Even better than my old trick of putting the alarm clock on the other side of the room. I'd just get up, hit snooze, and head back to bed for the next 9 minutes).

The truth of the matter is that making things easy (in some ways) makes it more possible for us to do the things we really want to do. Simply throwing shoulds at the problem just makes you feel bad and doesn't actually change the behavior. So, I'm all for juicing vegetables and chasing rogue alarm clocks and basically outwitting myself in the name of making good behavior easier and more convenient for myself.

It might be nice to live in the perfect should world, but until we get there, I'm going to juice up some carrots for LO.

I don't think that's unreasonable in the slightest.

Passover Food Shopping

Emily Guy Birken — Mon, 25 Mar 2013 18:34:00 GMT

Image courtesy of David R. Tribble

Passover begins tonight.

It is absolutely my favorite holiday on the calendar, partially because of the food. Matza ball soup! Matza brie! (It's like French Toast, but with matza). Charoset! Gefilte fish! Manischewitz brand kosher-for-Passover macaroons! Chocolate-dipped matza! Excuses to eat horseradish!

However, as much as I love consuming and (mostly enjoy making) the food for Passover, I have to say that shopping for it is a major pain in the tuchus. This is partially because I live in a small town with a very small Jewish population, and so I will often have to go to two or three different stores in order to get everything I need. (For instance, you'll sometimes find Not-Kosher-for-Passover matzas prominently displayed on endcaps in our local groceries.)

And I don't even go all out when it comes to Passover shopping. I simply do not eat anything with yeast in it. I don't worry about corn syrup or peanut butter or any of the other things that many more observant Jews clean out of their houses this time of year. (I also don't have a separate set of dishes for Passover, nor do I use paper plates for the 8 days of the holiday.)

But even more than the annoyance of having to go to several stores to find matza and matza meal and matza cake meal and potato starch and the aforementioned Manischewitz macaroons, I always get frustrated at the cost of Passover shopping. I frankly don't have a good sense of how much a box of matza should cost--after all, I only buy it once a year. But every year it seems ridiculously expensive for me to stock up on the five or six boxes I'll need to get the family through the non-yeast-eating week.

Yesterday, I was able to purchase six boxes for just under $4 each. Is that reasonable? I'd seen boxes of matza for as much as $7 each at another grocery store, but that still doesn't give me a good sense of whether I'm paying a good price.

And that's how it goes with every Passover and specialty food I need to buy for the holiday. On the one hand, I recognize that it costs more for these grocery stores in my small town to bring in a fairly small number of these items for their few Jewish customers, and that they need to make a profit. But on the other hand, matza's just flour and water, as far as I understand it. How much is Manischewitz charging on their end?

I remember reading a Jewish Mom blogger a couple of years ago who was lamenting her annual $1000+ Passover grocery bill (and I think she said it was more than four times what she usually spends in a shopping trip). She is more observant than I am, and clears her house of anything that is not specifically kosher for Passover, and is therefore paying a premium for Pesadicha items that I'm happy to buy in their normal incarnations--like apple juice and yogurt. I understand that she is working hard to make sure she follows the exact rules of our religion, and I applaud her for doing all the work necessary for it. But it does seem unfortunate (ridiculous? something?) that following Passover laws is so durned expensive.

At some point, I know that we're all making our choices. If I wanted to, I could bake my own matza, and that blogger could just eat less expensive foods that are kosher year round (like produce, for example) rather than purchasing convenience foods. But at what point are these choices ones we could legitimately make? (Just saying--I hardly have time to make dinner some nights, so baking 8 days worth of matza is not on the agenda).

What do you think about having to spend extra for holiday needs? Are we paying a premium for something that the manufacturer knows we need? Or are we making our choice to spend money rather than time since it's only once a year?

Heart-Shaped Possibly-Tainted Hamburgers for Valentine's Day

Emily Guy Birken — Thu, 14 Feb 2013 22:31:00 GMT

Image courtesy of Ericd

J and I do not really go in big for Valentine's Day.

Case in point: tonight's dinner.

We will not be going out to a restaurant, partially because that sounds like our version of Hades on earth.

Instead, we're going to finally use the ground beef that I bought sometime last week and which required the sniff test when it was removed from its styrofoam. (We were not entirely clear on whether or not it passed the sniff test, which to my mind means that it did. Failing is definitive. Passing can be ambiguous.)

After being doused in Lea & Perrins, onioned up, and seasoned, I believe this ground beef will be edible. I suggested to J that we shape the patties into hearts in honor of the holiday.

Mostly, though, I'm glad to be married to a man who is willing to eat questionable meat with me on national holidays rather than let good(ish) food go to waste. Hearts and cupids, my foot. What we have is real romance. (And potential food poisoning...together!)

Cost Breakdown of My Favorite Recipes

Emily Guy Birken — Thu, 31 Jan 2013 19:28:00 GMT

I love to cook. (I do admit to having the local Chinese restaurant on speed dial, however). One of the big benefits of cooking at home is how much money you save over either convenience foods or said Chinese delivery.

While I've never calculated the cost-per-serving of any of my favorite recipes, I do know that several of the recipes that I most often put into my cooking rotation are fairly cost-effective. Here are two of my favorite cheap recipes, and a basic idea of how much each ingredient costs:

1. Chicken Tikka Masala

Image courtesy of kelly sue

This is a new favorite after our neighbors served us this tasty goodness for New Year's.

Ingredients:

3 whole (to 4) Chicken Breasts

Currently $1.87 per pound at our local grocery. 3 whole breasts is about 1.5 pounds, so approximately $2.81

Kosher Salt
Ground Coriander
Cumin, To Taste

I already have all three of these in my spice cabinet. So even though it's not free, I'm calling it that.

1/2 cup Plain Yogurt

Our favorite yogurt is the Greek Gods variety, which is a pretty hefty $4 per 24 oz.

6 Tablespoons Butter

I can generally find a pound of butter for approximately $2.00

1 whole Large Onion

You can get a pound of onions for about $1.29

4 cloves Garlic

This is generally about $1.60 per pound.

1 piece (approximately 2 Inches) Chunk Fresh Ginger

About $2 per pound, if I can get it on special

Garam Masala

This is the expensive part. This spice concoction cost nearly $6

1 can (28 Ounce) Diced Tomatoes

Sugar

I have this on hand, so we're calling it free.

1-1/2 cup Heavy Cream

1 quart generally sets me back about $2

2 cups Basmati Rice

About $4 for a five pound bag.

Total: $26.70

Cost per serving (6 servings): $4.45

Okay, so the cost on this is not nearly as good as I thought it would be, but to be fair, once you've invested in the rice and the garam masala spice, it makes each subsequent cooking (of which our household has many) much cheaper.

2. Tortilla Soup (Found in the Fix-It and Forget It Lightly Cookbook)

Image courtesy of Collin Harvey

2 uncooked boneless skinless chicken breasts, cut into bite-size pieces

$1.87 per pound, and this would be about 1 pound of chicken

one 16-oz can fat-free refried beans

Generally, about $0.75

one 15-oz can black beans, rinsed and drained

$0.50

1 1/2 cups frozen corn

$1 for a bag of frozen corn

3/4 cup chunky salsa

About $1.50 for a jar of salsa

1/4 water
2 cups shredded sharp cheddar cheese

$2 for a 2-cup package

1 bag tortilla chips

$2 for my favorite brand of cheapy chips

Total: $9.62

Cost per serving (7 servings): $1.37 (This is such a fan favorite in our house, it should probably be considered 4 servings, rather than 7. But even with gorging ourselves, it still comes out to $2.41 per serving)

If you're curious about how the recipe goes together, put everything but the cheese and the chips in the slow cooker and cook on low for 4 or more hours. Add the cheese and stir to melt. Crush some chips in each bowl, and ladle the soup on top.

What are your favorite go-to recipes? Are they splurges or money savers?

Dried Beans: A Conspiracy From the Bean Lobby?

Emily Guy Birken — Tue, 29 Jan 2013 21:12:00 GMT

Photographic proof of the worldwide bean conspiracy courtesy of cookbookman17

About once every two or three years, I'll find myself in the bean aisle of the supermarket. Looking from the canned beans to the dried ones, I'll once again conclude that the lower price and sodium content in the dried beans means I really ought to be soaking my own instead of wasting my money on cans.

I'll take the beans home, follow the quick soak directions (which still takes a good three hours), and find myself eating crunchy beans and rice, or crunchy black bean chili, or crunchy seven bean soup at something like 11 o'clock at night, because of course I never leave myself enough time for the soaking.

At that point, I usually conclude that I'm doing something wrong with the bean soaking (specifically that I should be doing the long soak method instead), and that I'm not capable of planning far enough ahead to really utilize dried beans. I go back to buying the canned variety for another two or three years.

This pattern continued unabated until last week, when I once again decided that I needed to be buying dried beans. Dried black beans, to be specific.

So, after a late meal on Wednesday of cruncy black beans and rice, I decided it was time for me to finally try the long soak method. I bought another bag of beans, planned a delicious black bean soup dinner for Monday night, and set those bad boys to soak starting around 6 pm on Sunday evening.

At 6 pm on Monday evening, at which point our dinner guests had arrived and the soup was simmering and waiting for the beans, I drained my well soaked bounty and started pouring them into the stock pot.

Where they clinked on the bottom.

Yes, even after a 24-hour soak, my black beans were still crunchy.

I had to make a quick run to the grocery store (which, if you're keeping score at home, makes my third grocery trip in two days--and fourth if you count my wallet misadventure) so that I could get some canned beans of the proper consistency.

The truth is abundantly clear: dried beans are not actually edible. I believe they are some kind of tough pebble that bean growers somehow create in the bean-growing process. The bean lobby has figured out a way to market this waste product as a food source, by convincing people that it's possible to cook them. And when cooking doesn't work out, everyone simply assumes that they soaked it wrong or not long enough.

While I have heard some apocryphal stories about home cooks making dried beans in pressure cookers, I have decided that those stories are simply propaganda attempting to show that dried beans are useful for something other than mosaic art projects.

For me, I now know that it's worth the money to buy beans at the proper consistency in time for dinner. Because the alternative is just picking crunchy bean pebbles out of your soup.

The Cookie Conundrum and My Holiday Stealth Cookies

Emily Guy Birken — Tue, 18 Dec 2012 21:26:00 GMT

Image courtesy of Fagles, because it didn't occur to me to take any pictures of the 30,487 cookies I personally baked.

This happens every year. The holidays somehow manage to sneak up on me, and I find myself the week after Chanukah putting together our yearly holiday card, wrapping and shipping gifts, and baking more cookies than the average tree-dwelling elf could manage to crank out in a day.

It is about those cookies that I would like to talk today.

Because there is a real problem with cookies after a certain point in your life. Up until about age 22 or so, receiving a large package of cookies in the mail elicits this reacion:

"Yes! I'm going to eat all these cookies!"

After age 22, however, there is a completely different reaction to the spontaneous arrival of cookies to your home:

"Sigh. I'm going to eat all these cookies."

I personally experienced this cookie conundrum a couple of weeks ago. After the Oneg Shabbat (food and drink after services) one Friday earlier this month, there was nearly a whole package of cookies left uneaten. The woman who had brought them insisted I take half of them home, because she certainly didn't want them at her house. J and I looked at each other, each of us dreading the fact that we were going to eat all of those cookies.

Then we remembered that our neighbor's college-age brother was babysitting down the street, and we offered up the cookies to him. He was absolutely delighted at the idea of eating all the cookies, because his metabolism and/or stomach has not yet betrayed him.

So, as a 30-something purveyor of holiday cheer, I have some really conflicted emotions about my yearly urge to bake more cookies than we have the tupperware to contain. I want all of my friends and family to know I'm thinking of them. And yet I fear that the cookie conundrum will strike, and they will curse me and my chocolate chip-baking ways.

Luckily, my inherent disorganization and inclination to hurry may serve me well this year, for the cookies will in actual fact be stealth cookies.

Let me explain:

I baked all day Saturday, ending up with either eight or nine different batches of cookies. (I lost count). I packaged those bad boys up in festive tupperware and pretty boxes almost as soon as they were cooled, because otherwise J and LO and I might have eaten all the cookies. Sunday evening, I bought some padded envelopes to send out the cookies.

Then, Monday morning, I asked J to address the padded envelopes, and I hurriedly started shoving boxes of cookies in each envelope, sealing them. I was in a hurry, you see, because we needed to get to the post office before we picked up LO at school, and we were already running a little behind.

It wasn't until all but one of my padded envelopes was sealed that I realized I had forgotten something crucial: some sort of note included with the cookies to explain who they were from and that I was thinking of the recipient. Rather than try to find a way to re-open and then re-seal the envelopes, I decided that I would just be sending out stealth cookies this year. That way, my friends and family would either be pleased at the anonymous delivery of cookies that they would eat all of, or they could not know who to curse as they ate all the cookies.

So, if you've received a random package of stealth cookies, know that I'm probably the sender. I'm thinking of you! Hope you have a happy and bright season.

(And I want to tell you either you're welcome or I'm sorry, depending on where you stand on the cookie conundrum.)

Another Enormous Turkey

Emily Guy Birken — Thu, 08 Nov 2012 21:46:00 GMT

Pictured: what an enormous turkey looks like when it goes into witness protection.

You may recall that last year, J's company provided us with our giant Thanksgiving turkey. It's a nice, old-school gesture on J's company's part.

This year, J and I will be traveling for Thanksgiving.

This did not in any way dampen his enthusiasm for the company turkey.

We currently have a nearly 20 pound turkey cooling its jets in our freezer. J would like to cook it this weekend, but I fear that two weeks of turkey eating (which is what 20 pounds of turkey between two adults and one toddler will require in order to do this bad boy justice) prior to the turkey bacchanal that is Thanksgiving will bring on early-onset turkey fatigue. (Not to mention the tryptophan/nap connection. I still have 128 miles to run this year. I can't afford to be in a turkey-induced food coma for three weeks straight.)

We'd invite everyone we know over for a huge turkey dinner, but that's kind of what Thanksgiving is. They're all already planning on that on the actual holiday. And several of our friends are vegetarians, anyway, so that kind of defeats the entire point.

J is yet again excited at the prospect of making turkey jerky, even though I still have trouble taking him seriously when he says such things.

LO has no opinion, although I suspect he might regard the turkey suspiciously. He mostly likes meat in nugget or ball form.

If the turkey weren't taking up so much freezer real estate, I'd plan on saving it for January or February, when turkey and stuffing are mere delicious memories.

I can tell you that no matter what the turkey will eventually be cooked and eaten. If for no other reason than because I need room in the freezer for my ice cream.

Failing at Meal Planning

Emily Guy Birken — Fri, 26 Oct 2012 18:38:00 GMT

Nearly every week, I sit down on the weekend with a pile of cookbooks, a calendar for the week, and a pad of paper for my grocery list. The result generally looks like this:

Monday: Chicken Tortilla Soup from Fix It and Forget It Lightly

Tuesday: Citrus Pan Fried Tilapia from Mediterranean Cookbook

Wednesday: Eggplant and Bean Curry from Thai Cookbook

Thursday: Spicy Broccoli Fritatta from 29 Minutes or Less Cookbook

Friday: Spaghetti and Meatballs from my brain

Unfortunately, that well-planned out list can be easily derailed. For example:

Monday, at 4 pm I'll realize that I forgot to defrost the chicken for the tortilla soup, let alone put all the ingredients into the crock pot in enough time. I'll decide to make my default dinner of spaghetti and meatballs instead.

On Tuesday, in the hopes of getting back into the swing of my list, I'll actually make the tortilla soup. It's delicious. So far, not so bad.

On Wednesday, I'll realize that both the citrus pan-fried tilapia and the eggplant and bean curry sound hard to make (since they were both recipes I'd decided on the spur of the moment to try), and I'm not in the mood for the broccoli fritatta. I'll rummage through the cabinets and fridge until I realize I can put together a stir fry with things we've got lying around, as long as I don't mind cutting up the chicken while it is still frozen. A minor flesh wound ensues. Nonetheless, I manage to put a dinner together using ingredients I had been saving for other meals.

On Thursday, I'll spend 20 minutes wondering how I could make a broccoli fritatta without any broccoli (since I used it for the stir fry the night before) before I realize there's nothing to do but make a difficult recipe or call J to bring home some carryout. I call J.

On Friday, I realize that I've already used my take-out dinner card for the week and despair at the lack of meals I have any interest in cooking. After double checking every storage area in the kitchen to see if anything I'd like to cook has magically appeared, I decide to try the eggplant and bean curry. J comes home while the meal is cooking to tell me that not only did he have Indian food for lunch and is therefore not really in the mood for more curry, but he also overdid it a little at the Indian buffet (because it really is good stuff) and is not even remotely hungry. I end up eating saltines with peanut butter along with LO, and package up the curry in the refrigerator, where it will remain until it has become a science experiment, at which point we will throw it out and consider also throwing out the tupperware it is stored in, thereby certainly putting us behind in the entire money saving aspect of meal planning.

I tend to do better with dinner planning when I choose recipes that are either easy or part of my repertoire. And even though I know this about myself, I still find myself perusing the lesser-known recipes and the "interesting" cookbooks. Apparently, Emily doing the planning seems to think that Emily who will actually do the cooking likes a challenge, which is simply not the case. Clearly, this is another way that night guy can really make things difficult for morning guy.

Next time you see me with my nose a cookbook of ethnic/special dietary foods that requires a specific set of kitchen tools which the average American does not have, do me a favor. Slap me silly. I'll thank you for it.

When Challah Goes to the Dark Side

Emily Guy Birken — Thu, 29 Mar 2012 20:11:00 GMT

Over the past several years, I have been experimenting with baking my own bread. It started because I have grandiose visions of being Martha Stewart, but I've discovered that it's not that difficult and the result is a heckuva lot tastier than the sliced stuff you can buy at the supermarket. I hate being the sort of person who says this, but I find I can't eat the store bought stuff anymore because I can now taste the preservatives. (It's hard for me to admit that because I have found myself wanting to force feed Dairy Queen to new converts to non-sugar diets who spend their time proclaiming "Even grapes are too sweet for me now!" So if you sit me down with a package of Wonder Bread and tell me I can't leave the table until I'm done, I'll understand.)

The final frontier in bread-baking, however, is the ever-elusive Challah. Before I even started my road to sandwich bread snobbery, I tried and failed numerous times to get this delicious egg bread right. As of earlier this year, I found a recipe that resulted in a beautiful loaf of hockey puck:

I probably should have realized that this was not the Challah that would become family legend to my children and grandchildren. The recipe came from the last page of Sammy Spider's First Shabbat, a children's book that details the adventures of a young Jewish spider enjoying Shabbat with his family. (Sammy, by the way, is quite the busy Jewish arachnid. You can also read about his first Hannukah, his first Passover, his first Simchat Torah, his first Tu B'Shevat, and on through the holidays, both well-known and obscure. It's a lot of adventures for a creature that is, in fact, trayf.) In any case, I've never known spiders to be the bakers of the insect/animal/whatever spiders are that aren't technically insects world, so I should not have been surprised when the Challah turned out the be basically inedible both times I made the recipe.

But, I was bound and determined to find a good recipe that's not too difficult. I turned, as one so often does, to the internet. Allrecipes.com turned out to once again provide me with the culinary answer to a question I have been asking for years. (Next time I'm looking for a recipe, I'm going to skip all that backing and forthing with spider cooks and just go straight to the Allrecipe source).

I wish I could show you a picture of the beautiful Challah I created, but this happened to one of the two loaves I made before I had a chance to grab a camera:

I know who is responsible:

LO (and his agent J) had a little something to do with that "slight nibble" from one end of the loaf.

Normally, this would be no problem, as I made two loaves, thus doubling the chance that I could take a beautiful picture. Unfortunately, the other one seems to be Jabba the Challah:

(If I had real computer skillz, I would have photoshopped a gold-bikini clad cinnamon bun chained to the bread into this picture, but I'm afraid you'll just have to use your imagination).

Thankfully, despite this loaf's uncanny resemblance to an evil Star Wars character, I suspect it will still taste pretty darn good. I just hope it survives until Friday night. We're nearly finished eating the pretty one and there's still 24 hours to go until Shabbat. Jabba, indeed.

Loving a Cookbook to Death

Emily Guy Birken — Mon, 19 Mar 2012 16:38:00 GMT

This weekend, I was, as Dr. Sheldon Cooper might say, on the horns of a dilemma.

This is Old Faithful, my Better Homes and Gardens cookbook:

I purchased this cookbook in 2001, when I was a recent college graduate with no money and no job and not a heck of a lot to do when my daily job search was over. I had an apartment, however, and I was going to make full use of the kitchen, dadgummit. (I had the full support of my roommate in this plan, I might add). After graduation, I had decided that 22 was too old to continue to live on ramen noodles and peanut butter, even if that was about all I could afford. So I went down to the local Barnes & Noble to find a basic cookbook that would help me master the kitchenly arts. I remembered my mom's repeated use of the iconic red-and-white plaid BH&G cookbook, and so I decided to invest in one of those.

Unfortunately, my budget could only cover the smallest mass market edition. Even at the time, I remember looking at the flimsy cover and thin leaves and thinking "I don't know how long this bad boy will last."

Apparently, I have my answer. Eleven years after that initial purchase, Old Faithful is now officially in three separate pieces, not counting the pages that have come out (and then torn in half). Luckly, those pages are for a lime zinger cookie, some sort of fish stew, and one other recipe I've never made and don't anticipate making anytime soon. It's time to do something about my standby cookbook.

And yet, I'm really proud of the battle scars Old Faithful is wearing. I'm a messy cook, which is certainly borne out by the stains all over the book. The cookbook falls open to favorite recipes, like roast turkey with stuffing, black bean soup, and meatloaf. It's clear that this cookbook has been used and loved.

Saturday, as I tried to find the correct page for pancakes (this is difficult because enough pages have fallen and been shoved back in willy-nilly that the page numbers are not necessarily consecutive), I realized that it was past time to retire the cookbook. The problem that I have been avoiding dealing with for the past several years, is that Better Homes and Gardens, in its infinite wisdom, updates its recipes each time it puts out a new edition. While I'm sure that the current edition's recipes are delicious, I want my cookbook and my recipes. One gets rather territorial after an eleven year affair with a cookbook.

I found myself wondering if I could laminate the pages of my cookbook and save it that way. I actually mentioned this possibility to J, who managed to refrain from laughing, but he did not keep the "okay, crazy lady" look from his eyes. Yeah, I know. It would be a ridiculous expense.

Then I remembered that I live in the year 2012, when any object you want to buy will be up for sale somewhere on the internets. Someone will likely have a binder/laminate copy of the 11th edition and will be willing to send it to me in exchange for some moolah. A quick Google search later, and lo and behold, there are several places where I can find such a thing, including Amazon, to which I just happen to have an unused gift card.

Long story short, my brand new (to me) 11th edition Better Homes and Gardens New Cookbook with laminate pages is wending its way to me as we speak.

And yet, I have this sneaking suspicion that I'll keep grabbing my tattered Old Faithful until it completely disintegrates or some well-meaning visitor to my kitchen throws it out, thinking that it's trash. I just hate to see an old friend thrown over for something shiny and new.

That, and I don't want to have to learn the new page numbers for roast turkey, black bean soup and meatloaf.