Tag Archives: household attrocities

Tak for Mad: Abelskiver

Right now I’m suffering from a not-enough-hands-and-too-many-pies kind of situation.

Maybe suffering is not the right word. Because I’m loving this time of life. Reveling in it.

My desk is covered in books on photography, typography and cooking, crowded by an empty bottle of gin, a glass of iced tea, an unopened wedding invitation, business cards, watercolor paints and brushes, my journal, a bendable ruler, an empty picture frame and a cast iron skillet.

My mess is glorious
and energizing.

Why can’t I just put my hands in pies for a living?

In a serious nesting fit, a couple of weeks ago, I went a-searching on Etsy for some food art to put on the walls of my kitchen. I found a few things that I thought were fun, but nothing caught my eye and said “ME. CHOOSE ME!  YOUR KITCHEN HAS BEEN UNBEARABLY EMPTY AND COLD BEFORE NOW!!!”

I posted a few of the potential pieces on Facebook, where my friend Amanda suggested (in that sort of casual, yet genius way that she has of saying significant things) that I should just make foods that I like, photograph them and frame them myself.  I just love that girl.  I immediately connected with the idea and when James and I were talking it over that night, he added the suggestion that I make foods from my family’s cookbook, photograph them and blog about it…

***DING***

WELL YEAH.  I coulda thought of that. PRObably.

With enough gin.

Several years ago, my aunt Janet compiled a WHOOOLE bunch of our family’s favorite recipes and bound them together in to a cookbook.  Our Danish ancestry is a big part of the food that we eat and how we eat it (I learned pretty early to spread my butter ALL THE WAY TO THE CRUST) and Janet titled the book “Tak for Mad” which is the Danish expression for “Thanks for the food.”

I have my own copy and while I rarely make the traditional Danish recipes like Rabarbragrot or Frikadeller, I frequently reference it for my favorite banana nut bread recipe and my Grandma Jane’s Cinnamon Rolls.

A few days after the seed for this idea was planted by Amanda and James, a birthday gift from my mom arrived in the mail that cemented the whole plan.

Good gracious, who dented my pan???

THIS, my friends is an Abelskiver pan.  And Abelskiver is THE very first recipe in Tak for Mad.

“But what is Abelskiver, Laura Jane?”

I’m so glad you asked.  Abelskiver, or Aebelskeever, or Ableskivver, or Ebelskiver or any number of variations is basically a pancake ball.  The word itself is Danish for “Apple Slices” which were sometimes put inside the pancake balls.  (Stop drooling, I see you.  Gaping mouths are unbecoming.)  These pancake balls were a part of my growing up.  We had them at family get togethers and my mom’s pan got lots of use whenever my sister and I would bring friends home from college to visit.

THIS is how you make them.

Simplicity. (Or, enkelhed, in Danish.)

If you can’t see the picture all that well (or if you just want to copy and paste the recipe) it’s

Abelskiver

1 T. sugar
1 1/2 c. flour
4 t. baking powder
2 eggs (separated)
2 T. water in egg whites
1 1/4 c. milk

Mix the dry ingredients, add beaten egg yolks and milk. Fold in the stiffly beaten egg whites.

That’s about where Norma stops giving instructions, so I’ll let you know that you can put delicious surprises in the middle, if you’d like.  Obviously, you can put apple slices inside, or jam, or custard, or heck…peanutbutter…chocolate… You could even do some savory versions with bacon or garlic and butter or cheese inside.  The possibilities are endless!  You can have abelskiver at every meal!!

*ehem*

In terms of HOW to prepare these little guys, I had the best results placing the pan on a lower setting and letting the abelskiver cook slowly.  I put a little bit of butter in the bottom of each divot and let it melt first.  Then, I poured the batter in until it was about 1/2 an inch from the top.  It took long enough that I had time to snap some shots of the anticipation in the kitchen.

I like to keep him waiting because then he makes this face.

SISTER!!!! You can still kind of see the lines on her face from sleeping on the couch. heh.

I also found that it was easier to turn them over using a kabob skewer, but you can use a fork. Or a crochet needle. Whatever tickles your ableskiver.

In a bowl. Like a boss.

Even the puppy waited her turn.

Covered in maple syrup and powdered sugar. Oh, and clumpy powdered sugar at that. How embarrassing.

They’re best served hot hot out of the pan.

And preferably with mimosas.

Next time I post a recipe from Tak for Mad, I’ll try to make something that doesn’t require a specialty pan like this.  Something you can make from home.  Like “Liver Postej,” if you’re in to that kind of thing.

So much love!

 

Poultry Garb

Not too long ago, I visited Amazon.com and was a little surprised to see that SOMEthing in my previous purchase history prompted them to recommend that I buy a rubber chicken purse.

I looked at the picture of the chicken purse for a long time.
I tried to picture myself holding it at parties
or shopping around town
digging around through the inner workings of a chicken to pay for a parking meter.
And I thought “naw…I couldn’t possibly get away with that.”

So I went about my business and did not buy it.

But then, I started thinking about it and how it might be a good conversation starter.  Or how it might just be quirky enough to be…dare I say it?  Cool.

But am *I* quirky enough to get away with using something that ridiculous as an everyday item? Am I?  Nnnnn……iuuuuhhhyeahhh?? I don’t know…

Something kept drawing me back and I actually deliberated for about two months.  I kept checking Amazon just to see if it was still in stock.

Finally, I gave in.

Chickenpurse was mine.

The first time we had an outing, I took it to class.  I was nervous and a little bit embarrassed.  What was I thinking?  People would surely laugh at the fat  girl with the horrifying purse.  I sort of tried to …hide it…as best I could.  I stuck it under the desk as fast as I could when I arrived to class early. And then, during a class break, I pulled it out to grab some money for the vending machine.

And an audible collective gasp from the back row made me turn around in shame.

But the gasp was not one of disgust.  All of these design students in my class loved it.  It made them smile and they asked if they could touch it.  It started conversations and it got us talking about ridiculous things.

IT. WAS. AWESOME.

I love how unique it is now.  I love that I can take it to a wedding and people take pictures of it.

And I love that now, I get random chickeny things as gifts.

Friend Lexi in Boston sent me a chicken hat for my birthday last week

and she asked me if I would wear it out with the chickenpurse.

I told her I might have to stagger the introduction of poultrygarb to my wardrobe, one piece at a time.

But who knows.  This could lead to a lot of great conversations.  Maybe I’ll even meet some other chicken enthusiasts.

A walk through my back yard, brought to you by NyQuil

Something has been attacking my immune system all weekend.  I’ve spent the past three days in bed with a roll of toilet paper a few inches from my face and I look like I’m being attacked by an alien from the inside out.  My bedside table is crammed with reading material, Nyquil, my journal, fruit, my phone, my computer and…I don’t know…a lamp.  Some other stuff.  It’s an incredible bedside table.

And you know the problem with this particular strain of face-attacking-alien?  I’ll tell you.  It seems to THRIVE off of Nyquil.  Like, I’m beginning to think that the whole purpose it invaded my body was because it knew I was trained, as a human, to go buy Nyquil once I get the sniffles.  I AM FEEDING THE BEAST.  Is it possible to get addicted to Nyquil?

A small part of my incredible bedside table.

Finally, for a few hours this afternoon, the clouds around my head dissipated, my sinuses cleared up and I was able to blink without feeling like my eyelids were made of sandpaper.

It was glorious. (And it is now over.) But for a little bit, I got to look at the world.  And here’s what I saw:  apparently, my backyard is getting ready for fall.

Lemons and sunshine!

A feline visitor! To give me more sniffles!

Flowers! Now, with extra pollen.

The neighbor's tomatoes. (I feel like there's a "That's what she said" somewhere in there. Am I wrong?)

Raspberries? Blackberries?

Pomegranate.

Moses supposes his toeses are roses, but Moses supposes erroneously.

 

Friends.  I’m going to go sleep the rest of this beast off, with the help of some more of The Cough Syrup Which Shall Not Be Named.

I love you all.

A short poem about a troll named Huey

I accidentally woke up my brain troll,
Huey
.

It all started last week when I went and got
a brand new set of goals.
They were fresh and new
and I washed them clean
and I stacked them up, and arranged them in an
aesthetically pleasing manner.
They were sensible, practical goals,
sturdy and well made.  Not those
see through porcelain goals I’ve had before,
easily broken, easily left unused
because of their delicacy.

And then,
I noticed a very
tiny
crack
in one of my goals.

And that teeny tiny crack made a noise loud enough
to wake up
Huey.

He lumbered in to my brain
knocking open the cupboards with his meaty hands,
casually wearing fuzzy bunny slippers
and a daisy print bathrobe,
dropping the ashes of his morning cigar on my floor
brewing a big cup of  insecurity, indecision,
disorganization and doubt.
His favorite.

On days when Huey shows up
when he’s knocked down and broken a whole shelf
of my clean, neatly arranged expectations
all I want to do is stay inside
call in sick
ingnore the world
and say
“No,
sorry,
I can’t help you today
I’ve got a brain troll.”

It’s easy to use him as a scapegoat:
a package of ready made excuses for why I
didn’t,
or couldn’t,
or wouldn’t,
do something important.

So easy.

But this time is different, and I’m not going to sit around
while he rips funny comics out of the newspaper
before I get a chance to read them,
and while he stinks up the restroom
with his troll sweat
and other things.

I’m going to patch the crack in my goal
and make it better than it was before,
and put it on display
and go outside and play until
Huey
goes away.

Escape Plan

Like most people, I need a routine.  I need things I can depend on from day to day.  I need structure and goals to stay focused.

It took me a surprisingly long time to discover this about myself.  It took me exactly 28 years 342 days and  14 hours to realize that without structure, I naturally forget to do important things like…put on pants.  Or brush my teeth.  Or have fun.

What I had confused for so long were the words “routine” and “monotony.”  For me, a successful routine can include a 9-5 day job (read: short stretches of monotony) if it also includes weekend trips or vacations or mental breaks every few weeks.  But the key element (for me) is leaving time, money, resources and ideas for spontaneity.  (File this one under “First World Problems.”)

When I was in high school, I had an emergency escape plan.  If homework got too hard or if my parents “just didn’t understand” at the right time, I had an envelope hidden in my closet stuffed with:

an extra car key
a map highlighted with a route to California
and a wad of money.

That wad of money would have gotten me from Kansas City to about… Kansas.  But to me, that envelope was an insurance policy.  An escape pod.  I never used it, but it was there: a safety net prepared to catch me if adolescence just got to be too much.

Ten years later, I live in California, I have to work harder for my money and my insurance rates stay low if I put fewer miles on my car.  I’ve become an adult despite my best efforts.  I work for The Man, and even if my husband “just doesn’t understand” at an inopportune time, I have no good reason to to run away.  In fact, I have every reason to stay.

The past five weeks, I’ve been off work for medical leave.  At first, I thought this would be the ultimate staycation (a word I hate, but an idea I love).  But what did I do?  Instead of knocking off a few projects around the house, or reading those books I never seem to have time for, or teaching the puppy new tricks, I found myself sitting inside on gorgeous days,
staring at facebook,
forgetting to put on pants,
stuck in the rut of routine,
no, not routine.  Stuck in the rut of monotony.

With this face looking at me:

PLAY. WITH. ME. NOW.

Last Wednesday, it all got to be too much, and I needed to get out.

I *wanted* to drive to Joshua Tree.

Or Yosemite.

Or just out of Los Angeles for an afternoon.  It didn’t matter.  But when I saw that face and I realized I didn’t have enough ‘fun’ money to fill my tank and take an impromptu day trip out of the city… then naturally, that’s all I wanted to do.

Still, I needed to do something.   I pulled out an old bag and stuffed it with:

my camera
a blanket
a pillow
a bottle of water
a sweatshirt
puppy toys
a book
and some snacks.

It took me an hour and 15 minutes to get everything together,  find my shoes, charge my camera battery and put on pants.

When I left the house, I didn’t even know where I was going.  Consequentially, I didn’t get far.

I ended up going to a familiar place, with people I know:  A coffee shop I’ve been to a million times.  And to be honest, I felt defeated.

So I am resolved:  this won’t happen again. I’m hoarding away some extra cash, some day trip ideas, a blanket.  I’m keeping my camera battery charged, and my shoes by the door.  I’m going to keep an escape pod in the trunk of my car as a part of my routine: a plan to be spontaneous.

So tell me, what would you consider essential?  What would you keep in your adventure kit?

A moment of senseless snobbery, with Laura Jane

I’m reading a book called The Lace Reader by a woman named Brunonia Barry.

First off: Brunonia???  Sweet fancy Seinfeld, I hope that’s a family name.

Second: The premise of the book *seems* intriguing.  It’s supposedly about a family of women who can read futures by dangling a bit of lace in front of someone’s face, squinting their eyes and seeing shapes and stuff.  Supposedly.

I see two lawn gnomes doing a russian folk dance. Wait no, I see Darth Vader in ballet sllippers.

But I’m 137 pages in to this puppy and THERE’S BEEN NO READING OF LACE.  I’m a third of the way through the book and I’m still wading through exposition.

Painful, monotonous exposition.
And the dialogue (FOR THE LOVE OF JUSTIN BIEBER) is killing me.  At one point, I had to rest the book on my lap and massage my temples in a fit of literary despair.  My critique at that juncture was (and I quote) “I’ve read more intriguing dialogue in Harlequin novels.” Of which I’ve read, approximately 3.  Out of curiosity.  I swear.

I was going to make a snarky comment about how I could come up with a better tagline....but then...I couldn't.

So, I hopped on Goodreads.com.  I went to see if there were any other reviews of this book that could tell me whether I should stick it out or ditch the paper brick.  The VERY FIRST review was a one star review by (and you’re going to love this) a woman who writes Harlequin novels.  But wait, there’s more:  She’s an author of Harlequin novels who does Tarot card readings for her characters.



I
KID
YOU
NOT.

Of course, I had to ask her to be my friend.

I’m still undecided about The Lace Reader.  There are so many other books to read in the world.  But I hate putting down a book once I’ve started it.  I’ll let you know what I decide.  I know you’re sitting on pins and needles about this one.

Frosted Freud Flakes

A few nights ago, I had a dream that the neighbors snuck in to our house while we were sleeping.

Clearly, my Id and Super-ego were in the midst of an epic battle: the neighbors were guilty of breaking and entering, but they were passive aggressive enough to leave a note instead of waking us up.   The note was made of cut out letters from cereal boxes  arranged ransom-note style on the living room floor saying: “Perhaps you should diet.”

The next part of the dream included me ripping open bags of cereal on the neighbor’s lawn and dancing all over the Rice Krispies and Cap’n Crunch and Perhaps you should diet Puffs

I woke up in a great mood.