Breakfast Nook Confessional

My parents have sold their home. Well, our home. I've lived in about 13 rented apartments since college that were comprised of filthy carpet, chipped paint, uneven drawers and someone else's memories. Home was the steady, red brick, built-in-1920 structure I've returned to for the last 30 years, reading a book under the covers, leaving notes for Santa, writing teenage angst-filled poetry on my closet walls, walking my future husband up to the door....and confessing my truths in the breakfast nook. Our kitchen was fairly small, but like most old homes with unique character found around every corner, had a built-in breakfast nook that usually held my Irish Catholic mother in it late at night, as our curfews approached. She was the priest and we were the sinners. Nearest to the entrance at the back door, the kitchen was the first stop (and often the last) for friends, family, neighbors and an occasional stranger who snuggled up in the breakfast nook for a snack, a beverage and a good long talk.

Packing up my memories this past weekend was one of the more difficult experiences in my life. I spent hours on my closet floor reading notes from 5th grade boyfriends and marveling at how much time has passed. We were a young, new family when we moved in and today, connected in a way through experiences that only those walls have seen.

I made a frittata from whatever was left in the refrigerator for my family. As we gathered at the table to eat, my 6 year old niece and I discussed how she felt about the move. "I don't want to go to a new house because it won't have secret hiding spots," she said. We all shared stories of our own memories in the secret spots and laughed about that time when....

Just another chat in the breakfast nook.

Breakfast Nook Frittata
8 eggs
1 cup sour cream
Veggies - seriously, whatever is in the fridge
Meat - I like chorizo, but turkey or pork sausage is great too
Shredded cheddar cheese

Method:
Heat oven to 350 degrees
Heat olive oil in a pan and saute veggies
Add sausage until browned
Whisk eggs with sour cream and add a little salt & pepper
If oven safe, pour egg mixture in same pan and sprinkle cheese on top (if not, transfer to baking dish)
Bake at 350 for about 40 minutes

Until my next fix....

Oprah says it's both dysfunctional and destructive to "emotionally eat." Though I've been known to worship the great 'O' and have been caught sobbing on the couch watching her show when I should be doing pilates....girlfriend is dead wrong.

The apple pie (and two glasses of wine) I had tonight following my business trip dinner-for-one nearly provided me a spiritual experience. In fact, before my last bite, I thanked it. It was me, my book, the heavy, horrific, testing week behind, and apple pie a la mode.

My name is MegPasz. I am an emotional eater. And if there is a cure, I don't want to know about it.

The Sweetness of Crumble

It's probably true that any time we attempt to build, whether it be a relationship, a business or a triple layer cake, nothing is more devastating than watching it crumble. For activities including but not limited to our kitchen, I perceive newlywed life as a constant building project. We draw up our plans, sometimes in ink, and invest ourselves in a dream that rises higher and stronger than reality might allow. Sometimes the best laid plans are only lessons for those constructing them. If you're lucky, a lesson in love.

For Father's Day, I decided on a classic dessert for not just Dad and Papa Pasz but The Husband, as well - all skillful constructors of the best laid plans and always effective, strong hands when sweeping up the crumble. The best part of this dish is the contrast of the messy, unstable outside and the sweetest, most comforting inside you could ever imagine. When you get right down to it, you can crumble all you need to when your core is just that good.

Apple Crumble. For my Core.

6 McIntosh apples, peeled and diced into 1/2-inch pieces
1/2 lemon, juiced
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground or freshly grated nutmeg
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
1/2 cup flour or fine graham cracker crumbs
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 stick butter
1 pint vanilla ice cream


Method:
Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. In a 9 by 12 baking dish, combine apples, lemon juice, cinnamon, nutmeg and sugar. In a small bowl, mix flour or graham cracker crumbs, brown sugar and butter together using the tines of a fork and your fingers, working until even, small crumbles form. Sprinkle topping evenly over apples and bake 15 to 20 minutes until apples are just tender and topping is golden brown. Top dishes with small scoops of vanilla ice cream.

Convenience is a Crock

I burned the spaghetti sauce. Again. That's what this post is about. It's not going to win a Pulitzer Prize. But, here goes.

Sundays always bring two things for me- a mild depression that the weekend is coming to a close, mixed with a sense of responsibility for the week to come. Other than not getting fired from my job, the priority is often basic. Feeding us for the week. This Sunday, I had every motivation to squash the disgracefulness of our weekend eating and make a real, homemade meal. I got as far as defrosting the meat when the pizza delivery man arrived.

On to Monday. 6 a.m. I wobble out of bed, combine 1 lb. ground beef, about 1/2 lb. of spicy Italian sausage, 2 cans of plain organic tomato sauce and seasonings galore...and dump it in the crockpot. I managed to moderately clean myself, eat breakfast, make the bed and walk to the office by 7:45. I arrived a competent woman who could look forward to a stress-free night smothered in yummy, slow roasted sauce. Or not.

It burned. It was black. It didn't just crisp a little on the edges. It was an angry, ashy mess.


Convenience is a crock. We had fried egg sandwiches.

Just Another Bananas Friday Night

For reasons I'll reveal in an upcoming post that I'm just polishing up, Friday night just isn't what it used to be. Our newlywed residence is located in the heart of Chicago's Gold Coast, appropriately named Division street. The street name always rang true to me because it's nestled confusingly between quiet, tree-lined streets filled with gorgeous old brownstones from generations past and the most ridiculous bar district in the city. It's hard to describe, but on weekend mornings when I wake up early to take a peaceful walk to the farmer's market at the end of our block, I find not only the finest seasonal fruit, but the following:

- pink boas
- plastic necklaces of male genitalia
- 100,000 cigarette butts
- likely, vomit

The division between my former Division street (though NEVER a pink boa) self and my newlywed self was never more apparent than on Friday night. I dug out my "a stick of butter is the meaning of life'"Paula Deen cookbook, a gift from Mama Pasz, and made banana bread. On Friday night.

Banana bread recipe below that you'll probably not make on a Friday night.

Banana Bread
From Paula Deen's The Lady & Son's, Too cookbook
1 stick of butter, at room temperature
1 c. sugar
1/2 tsp. salt
2 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1 1/2 c. all purpose flour, sifted
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. baking powder
3 ripe bananas, mashed

Method:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease (again, butter) 9X5 inch loaf pan. In a mixing bowl, combine butter and sugar. Mix well. Add the salt, eggs, vanilla, flour, baking soda, baking powder and bananas. Mix well. Pour the batter in to the prepared pan and bake for 55 minutes or until a toothpick comes out of the middle clean.

Grill Envy

These days, the Pasz's have had a bit of a dip in the social life. Inherently social creatures, the symptoms of becoming reasonably responsible, married folk have shifted our routine a bit and we're just not invited to keg parties as much as we'd like to be. The husband is a man of substantial proportion, but make no mistake. He becomes light as a feather and can be turned upside down faster than our current economy if a keg stand is offered.

Weekends lately are comprised of movie nights, putt-putt, pizza joints and the occasional load of laundry. Some friends have moved away, others frequently traveling or preoccupied with doing their own laundry. And some are actual grown ups and don't wish they were doing keg stands.

This past weekend, a ray of light. A glimmer of hope. A former colleague emailed me on Friday to invite us to her cookout on Saturday. That's right, one day's notice. Most people would likely be booked on a Chicago spring Saturday. They would be too proud to accept an invitation that indicated such a clear afterthought.

My response (93 seconds later): "Hey! Absolutely! What time? What can we bring?!!!!!"

I made my most polished, perfected brownies from a box....from Walgreen's, gathered the husband, and off we went. We arrived to a glorious sun-filled deck stocked with every appetizer you can imagine, beer and wine for miles, and that large jug of vodka with sliced pineapples lining every inch of it. And, the GRILL. The grill, that since the beginning of time, has taken the pressure off of wives to remember to turn on the oven provide a decent meal and instead, called upon the man to deliver the goods.

The afternoon was filled with old and new friends, delicious grill-blessed food and, as you suspected, a whole plate of uneaten brownies I bought at Walgreen's. All in all, a great afternoon in a newly defined social landscape.

The only embarrassing moment was catching the husband suspended upside down chugging from the pineapple vodka jug.