For most people, Black Friday is that crazy day after Thanksgiving when hordes of otherwise reasonable people frantically swarm the malls looking to get something for practically nothing.    And unfortunately for me, from this year forward, Black Friday will always represent the agonizing day that I almost lost my baby.

What is it about this day that turns bargain hungry shoppers into deranged lunatics?  These seemingly normal people appear to lose all sense of reality as they camp outside of  Wal Marts and Best Buys for days, and then trample over each other for the honor of being one of the first inside when the doors open. The evening news reports are full of stories about innocuous soccer moms fighting like mad dogs over PS3 consoles and Let’s Rock Elmo.  Oh, and let’s not forget those silly Lalaloopsey dolls.   What is wrong with people?!?!  No, thank you – not for me!  There isn’t any material thing in this world that I want or need that badly.  It’s insane!    

At around 4:00 pm on Black Friday, I decided to stop by a local gift shop that a friend of mine owns. I spent half an hour or so visiting before I left to go home.  As I drove out of the parking lot, I noticed that there had been a car accident at the nearest intersection.  The fire department and a few police cars were already on site.  I remember looking at the crumpled cars, thinking that it looked pretty bad and that I should turn off as soon as I could so as not to get in the way.  I drove about six blocks when my cell phone rang.  I didn’t recognize the number, but I answered the call anyway.  A disembodied male voice asked me if I was Mrs. SCGG.  I started to get an uneasy feeling in my gut.  When I replied that I was, the man told me that my daughter had just been in an accident and was injured.  At that point, I think my heart stopped for a minute.  Then,  I asked the question that I suspected I already knew the answer to:  “Where is she?”   He told me that she was at the very intersection I had just passed.  My blood ran cold!   Filled with dread,  I turned around as fast as I could and raced back to the scene. I called Mr. SGCC on the way (using my hands-free Bluetooth).

When I got there, Mini SGCC was in the back  seat of the car.  She was obviously in  pain and I think, in shock.  She complained that she couldn’t move.  The man who had called me was with her.  He had witnessed the crash and rushed over to help.  God bless him.

Mini SGCC had been riding with her BFF and the friend’s father, who was driving.  Apparently, some stupid woman, probably high on shopping, had run a red light and plowed right into them.   Now, no one except her will ever know for sure why she ran that red light, but I’m betting it had something to do with a cell phone or some other distraction.  Drivers that are paying attention to the road do not randomly run red lights.

When the EMTs arrived, they told me that Mini SGCC might have a broken back.  I thought I might die right there and then.  They strapped her to a cold, hard spine board and lifted her into the ambulance.  At the Emergency Room, we were elated to learn that Mini SGCC “only” had a broken right clavicle, a broken left wrist, a few cracked ribs and lots of bumps and bruises.  Hah!  Imagine being elated about several broken bones?  Well, as bad as that was, I was happy to hear it because it meant that my baby would eventually be okay.

Mini SGCC is in for a long recovery.  In the meantime, her right shoulder and arm are in an immobilizer sling and her left arm is in a cast.  She had surgery on her wrist a few days ago.  They put a huge steel plate in her arm and screwed it into what was left of her wrist bones.  The prognosis is good, but she will never be whole again.   And, for the rest of her life she will have the dubious distinction of setting off metal detectors wherever she goes.  But, I’m not complaining.  It’s a small price to pay.

Hopefully, Mini SGCC will be able to go back to school soon, though she will need a full time aide for a while.  With both of her arms out of commission she can’t do anything for herself.    But it’s her senior year, and I don’t want her to miss any more of it than she has to.

I realize that this post has nothing to do with cooking or baking, but I had to get this out.  In fact, I think the Thanksgiving leftovers are still in my garage fridge waiting to be transformed.  But, I don’t have the energy or desire to worry about them right now.   As incredibly thankful that I am that Mini SGCC wasn’t hurt worse than she was, I am also angry – so very, very angry.  I’m angry at that reckless woman who wasn’t paying attention and ran the red light.  I’m angry that my child was in the wrong place at the wrong time.  I’m angry that she’s had to suffer from so much pain.  I’m angry that the memories of what should be the one of the happiest times of her life will be now marred by these events.   I’m angry for her scars.  I’m also angry that our society has become so engulfed in commercialism that Black Friday even exists.  And, I’m angry at the Wal Marts, Best Buys and other stores in this country that whip consumers into a frenzy promising “doorbusters” that can’t be passed up.  I don’t remember it being like this years ago.   Seriously, people, is a good deal on a TV really worth risking someone’s life?

I have to tell you, people, I never intended to publish this post.  Ever hear of Murphy’s Law – If anything can go wrong, it will?   Well, that’s how it was for me from the first moment I decided to make this Coconut Fro Yo.   First of all, when I took the tub of yogurt I’d bought out of the fridge to make the base, I noticed that it had expired.  Actually, it was already expired when I bought it the day earlier, only I didn’t notice.   I’m usually a very diligent label reader, but on that particular day I was in a hurry and didn’t check the expiration date.   My bad.  Except the %*#@ing supermarket employees shouldn’t be stocking expired items on the shelves. This was not the first, second or even third time I have seen this.  I think that they’re so worried about the bottom line, that they keep those old products out, banking that most shoppers that get one won’t bother to take it back.  Either that or the stock guys just can’t read.    I know we’re in a recession, but poisoning your customers with spoiled dairy products is not the way to boost sales! 

I did return the yogurt.  And then when I went to get another tub – they were completely out of the kind I needed.  UGH! So, I had to drive out of my way to another store to find it.  Now keep in mind, that the yogurt I was looking for was just regular Greek yogurt, and not some fancy, gourmet kind.  Just any old brand of plain, whole milk, Greek yogurt.

By the time I finished driving around looking for the yogurt, I was too aggravated to make the fro yo.  So, I put the Greek yogurt in the fridge for later.  The next day, when I took it back out for my second fro yo making attempt, about a third of it was gone.  Yes, gone.  As in someone ate it.  And of course, no one would admit to it either.  Not even Bella.  I’m not pointing any fingers, but I know for a fact that it wasn’t me.

Hmmm. Come to think of it, Bella does look a little guilty, doesn’t she.

So, off I went again to the grocery store to buy another tub of yogurt.  I went back to the same place I had gotten it the day before, and guess what?  They were now out of it too.  I kid you not, people.   While reciting the Serenity Prayer to myself, I drove back to the first store again, hoping that they now had the yogurt.  They did.  And, the expiration date was three weeks away.  So, I grabbed two tubs and ran.

I finally had plenty of yogurt, and went to get a can of coconut milk out of the pantry.  Only now guess what?  No coconut milk.    How could this be?  I always keep a stash of coconut milk!  I never don’t have any coconut milk!  Except for last Thursday, apparently.

ARGHH!

I hopped back in my car and drove back the the market for coconut milk.  I bought three cans.  I also bought a bag of flaked coconut.  I was pretty sure I already had one at home, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

Finally armed with all of the necessary ingredients, I whipped up a batch of the most indescribably delicious coconut frozen yogurt ever – and promptly ate half of it on the spot.  Did I mention I was a stress eater?  The other half went into the freezer to firm up.

Later, when I was trying to photograph the fro yo, was when things really started to go wrong.

I decided to go for a “tropical” feel for the shots. I toasted some coconut to sprinkle on top of the fro yo.  I dug out a brightly colored bamboo mat and bowl, as well as a cute, pink, paper drink umbrella like you might find at your friendly, neighborhood tiki bar.   I set up the first shot, taking great care to get the light just right.  The sunlight was streaming in the window at two o’clock, and my foil covered foam board was positioned directly opposite to bounce the light at just the right angle.  The finishing touch was a matching spoon jauntily perched on the side of the bowl to make the suggestion that the fro yo was about to be consumed.  I took a few test shots to make sure that all of my settings were spot on.

And then…

Kerplunk!

The foam board fell over on top of the fro yo, and the smushed fro yo toppled over.  I scooped it up and threw it in the sink.  And then, I went shopping.

Two days later, I looked in the freezer and there was still some fro yo left in its container.  I got this crazy idea that maybe I could still get a few decent shots of it.  Maybe the tropical theme idea wasn’t meant to be.  Maybe an Asian theme would be better.  There was coconut milk in the fro yo.  Yeah!  An Asian theme was the ticket!

I shifted gears and set up a new coco fro yo scenario.  I used some pretty little black bowls that I’d picked up in San Francisco’s Chinatown last Fall.  I found a blue drink umbrella and a sweet little matching blue spoon.  This time, after I scooped the fro yo into a bowl, I froze it so that it wouldn’t fall over so easily – just in case…

Again, I set the shot up just right.   This time I used a black background to eliminate the need for sunlight and the foam board.  I placed one of my studio lights on one side of the bowl and took a few more test shots.  I liked what I saw!  Then, I stepped back, steadied my tripod and…

Bella ran in, bumped the tripod, which bumped the light, which fell on top of the fro yo, which knocked it to the ground, which mashed it into the carpet and chipped my beautiful bowl.  The last thing I remember as I ran out of the room screaming was Bella licking the fro yo off of the rug.

And that, my dear readers is why I never intended to write this post.

But, then I realized that it just wasn’t fair of me not to share this super rich, smooth and luscious frozen treat with you.  Especially not in the dead of summer.  No, no, no!  I couldn’t have that on my conscience.  So, here it is – the most incredibly scrumptious coconut frozen yogurt made with just three ingredients.  There are no thickeners, stabilizers, emulsifiers or any other additives.  It’s a cinch to make, and you don’t have to drive anywhere or wait in a long line to get some.  A series of unfortunate events and blurry, mismatched photos aside, I think it was the right thing to do. Don’t you?

Everyone has their own Achilles’ heel – the thing that sends dread seeping through their pores.  That one thing that takes hold of their breath, brings them to their knees and gets their hearts racing like a runaway freight train.  There often  isn’t any rhyme or reason to it.  It just is.   And, it’s terrible.

My Achilles’ heel – the one I spent most of my life, including years of therapy, trying to conquer – is my fear of elevators.  There is no scientific name for it.  However, that doesn’t make it any less real.  Many describe it as a combination of acrophobia (fear of heights) and claustrophobia (fear of closed spaces).    I don’t care how science defines it.  I call it terror. 

For years, whenever I have had to ride an elevator,  I have manipulated the situation so that I wouldn’t have to ride alone.  I’ve loitered in more building lobbies than I care to admit, waiting around for someone – anyone -  else to come along and push that “up” button.  I’ve even grabbed people off the street and begged them to ride the elevator up with me!  Oh, the shame…

These past few years, I’ve gotten a lot better about dealing with elevators.  I told myself that if I wanted to start traveling on my own to various blogger conferences, I would have to suck it up and “get over it”.  So, I found a relatively tall building here at home, and practiced going up and down its elevator by myself until I could do it without breaking out in a cold sweat.  After attending several conferences, I began to get pretty good at it.  Sure, each time those big steel doors snapped shut on me, my heart skipped a little beat.  But, I was okay.  Dare I say that I even became a little blasé about it.  Score one for me!

Why am I telling you this?  Good question.  I had intended this to be a lighthearted post about my experience in Atlanta last weekend for BlogHer Food.  I reconnected with several old friends there and made some great new ones too.  I gleaned lots of valuable information from the lineup of talented and generous speakers.  And, though it wasn’t everything I hoped it would be, I had a pretty good time – until I was ready to go home.

On Sunday morning, after the conference, I went out for a late breakfast with Andrea Meyers from Andrea’s Recipes and Sean Timberlake from Hedonia and Punk Domestics.  We went to Café Intermezzo and had some delicious food and great conversation.  I was feeling pretty content and relaxed about my flight home.  My bags were packed and ready to go and all I had to do once I returned to the hotel was grab a cab to the airport.  Easy peasy, huh?  Hah!

Once back at the Westin, Andrea, Sean and I hopped into the elevator to go to our respective rooms.  There were also several other people with us – two cute, young Chinese girls who didn’t speak any English, and Greg and Annette, a nice couple from Jacksonville visiting with their teenaged daughter.  Their significance will soon be revealed.

Andrea got off on the 18th floor.  Sean and I were riding up to the 29th and 30th floors.  We were chatting with our elevator-mates, when all of a sudden the damn thing stopped.  That’s right.  STOPPED! It took a few seconds for me to grasp what was happening and then…

OMG!!!  WE’RE STUCK IN THE ELEVATOR!!!

My Achilles’ heel had just been stabbed.  And, it took me down.

OMG. OMG. OMG.  I kept repeating it over and over in my head like a mantra.  I didn’t know what to do, but I knew that what I didn’t want to do was have a full blown panic attack in front of my fellow prisoners.

Everyone else seemed pretty calm, especially the Chinese girls, who didn’t seem to even realize what had happened.  They stood huddled in a corner, chatting and texting nonstop.   “Were they crazy?” I thought. “Don’t these people realize that we’re trapped in a giant tin can?”

As it turns out, Annette works for Starwood Hotels, the company that owns the Westin.   She immediately took charge, sounded the alarm and pressed the call button for help.  Annette was the epitome of cool, calm and collected professionalism.  The voice of the Westin’s head of security was soon piped in to us, telling us that help was coming.  She unsuccessfully tried to reset the elevator several times.   I had no idea that they could be controlled remotely!   Finally, she was able to get the elevator moving upward.  We went up, up, up to the 45th floor, and then we stopped.    But, the door wouldn’t open.  We couldn’t get it to open, and the Westin’s head of security couldn’t get it to open.  So, there we were, dangling like bait on the 45th floor in a nonfunctioning elevator cab.

My head was swimming and everyone around me started to look like Dali’s Melting Clocks.

By the way, did you know that hotel security speak for guests stuck in an elevator is “elevator entrapment”?  Neither did I, but I sure do now!

Anyway, I was completely freaking out inside and doing my best not to let it show.  Unfortunately, I don’t think I was all that successful.   My heart was pounding, my palms were sweating and my feet were having a tough time holding me up.  I kept looking over at Sean, who seemed to be doing a lot better than me.  I tried to speak, but the small, weak voice that poured out of my mouth sounded more like that of a three year-old toddler than the polished, self-composed businesswoman I pretend to be.

The others seemed to get that I was teetering on the edge of hysteria.  Maybe you really can smell fear.  Sean kept patting me on my shoulder, and Greg and Annette just kept me talking – and reminded me to breathe.

“So, where are you from?”

“What did you think of Atlanta?”

“Blogging conference, huh.  How interesting!  What was it like?”

“You’re from Sarasota, you say.  Such a lovely town!  What do you do there?”

“Okay, honey.  We’ll be fine.  Just keep breathing.”

Despite myself, and to my great surprise, I was actually able to carry on a conversation with them.  And, for a few fleeting moments I even forgot that I was a victim of “elevator entrapment”.  Honestly, I don’t know how I would have coped with the situation if Greg and Annette hadn’t been there.  They talked me off the ledge.  I am so thankful that they – and Sean – were there with me.  I shudder to think what might have happened if I had been trapped in there alone!

After a while, the disembodied voice of the security lady told us that the Atlanta fire department had been called and to hang on because help was on the way.  Hang on?!?!  Was she kidding?!?! We were on the 45th floor.  What did she think we were going to do – make a jump for it?

We waited for what seemed like centuries before we heard some signs of life outside.  There were sounds of banging and clanging and scraping metal.  Finally, the elevator doors began to part, and I could see the face of a cute young fireman.  As soon as the opening became wide enough for me to fit through, I leapt, practically right into his arms.  I couldn’t get out of there fast enough!   Sean, Annette, Greg, their daughter and the two Chinese girls followed close on my heels.  Our ordeal on the 45th floor lasted for 45 minutes.

After much hugging, email exchanging and blood pressure checking, we all went our separate ways.  It was already past the time that I had planned to be at the airport.  Seeing how shaken up I was, (and probably worrying about possible legal ramifications), the hotel manager personally escorted me to get my luggage, put me in a taxi (at his expense) and sent me on my way.  I think I saw him breathe a little sigh of relief as the car pulled away.  I know I did.

The first thing I did when I got past airport security was head to the first bar I saw and order a stiff drink.  That, and sign in on Twitter.  Ah, the healing powers of Twitter!  My Twitter stream was already aflutter with tweets about the “elevator incident” and speculation about who the unfortunate victims were.  Sean and I were both sharing the gory details and sympathetic @mentions poured forth.

Fortified by enough vodka to drown a whale, I then boarded my flight home.  In the air, I reflected on the “elevator incident”, and thought of the irony of it all.  What were the odds that, of all the things in the world that could have happened to me, the one that I feared most was what did?   They say that God never gives us more than we can handle.  If that’s true, maybe he was trying to show me that I am stronger than I thought I was.  Or maybe the karmic forces of the universe were just f*%#ing with me. I don’t know.  What I do know is that I was incredibly lucky to have had such caring and compassionate people to help me through the ordeal.

I believe that one of the best cures for a wounded Achilles’ heel is ice cream.  And, pie.  So when I finally got home from Atlanta, I made this ice cream pie.    A great big and tall, decadent, coffee, fudge, ice cream pie.  You’ve heard of mile high pies?  Well, I’m calling mine “45 Stories High Java Fudge Ice Cream Pie”, and I’m dedicating it to Sean, Greg, Annette, their daughter and even the two chirpy, clueless Chinese girls (they were kind of cute, anyway).

One thing that has always fascinated me is the art of making charcuterie.  For years, I have longed to learn the craft of salting, smoking, curing and drying large, fat-laden slabs of meat.  I’d even bought a copy of Michael Ruhlman and Brian Polcyn’s,  definitive tome on the subject, Charcuterie: The Craft of Salting, Smoking, and Curing.  Late at night, I would greedily pore over those pages, lusting after each photo and dreaming of someday presenting my loved ones with my own delicately spiced and perfectly balanced versions of sopressata, guanciale, pâté and confit.  I discovered other like-minded, charcuterie-loving bloggers as well – trailblazers in the metamorphoses of pork, duck and foie gras.

Until very recently, I have only admired those adventurous, bacon curing, salumi making souls from afar – never daring to venture into those uncharted waters myself.   Then, I found out about Charcutepalooza, a   twelve month blogging extravaganza devoted to celebrating the “elegant craft of salting, smoking and curing” meat.  Each month, the group tackles a different type of charcuterie, using Ruhlman’s book as a guide, and the participants each post about their experiences.  With over three hundred members and counting, Charcutepalooza is a great opportunity to explore, learn and share the ins and outs of homemade charcuterie.

I sat on the fence for a long time before I decided to join the group.  I worried that I wouldn’t have the time or the resources to follow through.  I also worried that the hot, muggy climate I live in wouldn’t be conducive to hanging and curing meat.  And, I was really afraid that I might unwittingly kill someone with my carnivorous creations!   However, when I finally found a local source of fresh duck and pork bellies, I threw caution to the wind and signed on.

I had already missed the first Charcutepalooza assignment, which was making duck prosciutto.  I decided to start there anyway as the process looked pretty easy.  It seemed like a good way to get my feet wet, and the end result sounded pretty awesome.

Little did I know then that my plans would soon go awry.

I prepped my duck breasts…

…covered them in kosher salt, and let them sit in the fridge for twenty-four hours.

Then, I rinsed and dried them thoroughly.

After that, I wrapped them in some unbleached cheesecloth and tied them up with butcher’s twine.

I measured the weight of each breast at the start of the process and every other day after that, carefully recording the results.   The prosciutto is supposed to be ready to consume after it has lost a third of it’s weight.  This is supposed to take about a week, but after two, mine still needed more time.

When I started out, the weather here was still hovering in the mid fifties, so I found the coolest spot in my house and literally hung those duck breasts out to dry.   And yes, that is a pasta drying rack that my duck breasts are hanging from.  Since I rarely make fresh pasta these days, I was glad that I could put the rack to good use.  I think they look kind of cute – sort of like an eclectic pair of great, big, meaty earrings.  Quick!  Someone call Tim Gunn!

When the temperature started to climb, I moved the rack out to the garage, which stayed several degrees cooler.  Eventually, I had to break down and hang it in my garage fridge.  It was just too warm to leave it out anymore.

This is where things went horribly wrong.

The next day after storing my duck breasts in the garage fridge, I went out there to get them for their daily weigh-in.   When I opened the fridge door, the rack – and my duck prosciutto – were gone.

HUH!?!?

At first, I thought that someone must have taken out the rack to make some room, and left the breasts in there.  But, I couldn’t find them.  I took everything out of the fridge, thinking that maybe they had fallen behind something else.  Still nothing.  Then, I looked all around the garage, hoping that whoever moved the rack had accidentally left them out.   I found the empty rack, but no duck breasts.

I moved my search inside the house and, with the keen precision of Sherlock Holmes, hunted from room to room for clues.   But, the duck breasts were nowhere to be found.  They had simply vanished!

By this time I was getting a little panicky.    Was someone playing a cruel joke on me?  Was I losing my mind?  Did Bella suddenly develop thumbs and teach herself how to open the fridge?   Did some duck-loving burglar sneak into my garage in the dead of night and steal it?  All sorts of crazy scenarios ran through my head.

Later that day, I kicked into “lawyer mode” and cross-examined both Mr. and Mini SGCC.  Both of them vehemently denied having ever touched the duck breasts. They both seemed like they were telling the truth.  Mr. SGCC even looked a little sad about the fact that he wasn’t going to ever get to try my duck prosciutto.  Still, how well do I really know those two?

I tried to question Bella too, but she wasn’t talking.  Hmmm.  Come to think of it, she did look a little guilty…

It’s been several days now, and still no duck breasts.  I kept hoping that they would turn up somewhere, but no such luck.  I honestly have no idea what could have happened to those little suckers.  And, I was so looking forward to sharing my first attempt at curing meat with you too.  It could have been a beautiful thing, people.   What a disappointment!

My next charcuterie experiment is going to be Charcutepalooza’s February assignment: homemade bacon.  I actually saw Michael Ruhlman demonstrate how to do this last Fall at BlogHer Food, so I’m really excited about trying it.    I’m hoping to catch up with the rest of the group, so I’ll also be working on the March challenge, which is all about brining.  How does some homemade corned beef for St. Paddy’s Day sound?

After my duck prosciutto fiasco, you can bet that I intend to keep a very close eye on all future charcuterie endeavors.   But in the meantime, if you happen to see any small, stray, cheesecloth-wrapped bundles of duck prosciutto lying around, or spot Lady Gaga sporting an eclectic pair of great, big, meaty earrings,  please let me know A.S.A.P.!   I’m willing to share.

Sometimes my life feels like a bad episode of the Twilight Zone.  It’s like I live in Bizzaroland!  Seriously.  I seem to have a knack of getting myself into situations where sometimes all I can do is thwack myself on the head in disbelief at the lunacy that surrounds me.  Take last weekend, for instance.  On Friday I received my much anticipated order of fancy schmancy, imported French fruit purees.  These are the purees that I use to make my lovely pate de fruits that I give as Holiday gifts.  After processing, the order was supposed to only take three days to deliver.  It took two weeks.   But, that’s beside the point.

As you can imagine, when my package arrived, I opened it immediately.  Since the purees were frozen, I wanted to get them all settled in the freezer as soon as possible.  As soon as I reached into the box, I noticed a pool of sticky orange liquid lying there.  When I lifted the first container of puree out of the  box, said sticky, orange liquid began dripping all over my hand and onto my floor.

Uh oh!  This was not good.

Upon further inspection, I realized my precious fruit purees were all completely melted.  Yes, people, all six kilos!  In fact, the containers weren’t even cold to the touch.  And, two of them were not even sealed, which explained the sticky orange liquid.  Of course, since they were already thawed out, I couldn’t use them anymore.  They were worthless to me.  And let me tell you, they were not cheap!

I was furious!  I had ordered the purees from a company that I had heard about, but had not dealt with before – L’Epicerie.  Their web site does recommend shipping frozen products overnight, but the cost of doing so was $140.00, which was more than the cost of my entire order.  However, the web site also states that frozen products will be shipped in insulated containers and packed with dry ice or cold packs.  Since I had ordered these purees before from other sources with no problems, I felt that they would be okay a couple of days with the cold packs, especially in November.

Well, there were no cold packs anywhere to be found in that box.  The purees were just plopped in a Styrofoam container and shipped out.

I sent an email to the company’s Customer Service department explaining what happened and expressing my displeasure.  Meanwhile, I had thirteen pounds of fruit juice taking up valuable real estate on my kitchen counter.  On Saturday afternoon, I was at the market doing my Thanksgiving shopping, when a call came in on my cell phone.  It was some guy with a very heavy French accent.  He said, “Blah, blah blah “L’Epicerie, blah, blah, blah.” (He didn’t really say “Blah blah blah”, but L’Epicerie was the only word I could make out.)  I replied, “Oh, hello!  Thank you so much for getting back to me.”

Things went downhill like a runaway freight train from there.

His next question was a very curt “What eez your problemme?”

I tried to explain as politely as I could what had happened.  Instead of a sympathetic “Mon Dieu!  I apologize.  How can we help?”, I got an “Eempossible! Eet could not have been our fault.  Eet must have been somezeeng you did.”

HUH?

He then pointed out to me that I should have had the purees shipped overnight as recommended on the web site.  I told him that I would have loved to, but an extra $140.00 for shipping was too rich for my blood.  I also pointed out that his web site specifically states that frozen orders will be shipped in insulated packaging with dry ice or cold packs – and it was not.  I mentioned that I had ordered these purees from other vendors before and had never had a problem.  He then started yelling (yes, yelling) at me about:

a)   How they do not use ice packs because they have spent thousands of dollars on scientific research to develop the perfect method for shipping frozen products so that ice packs are not necessary – again reiterating that I must have dome something wrong.

and

b)  How, out of the thousands of orders of frozen fruit purees they have shipped in all the years they have been in business, mine was the single, one and only complaint they have ever had.

and

c)  How I could not have possibly ordered the purees from another company before because they were the only company in the United States that carried them.

I tried to remain calm as I felt the outrage billowing up inside me for fear that my head would explode and quite possibly burst into flames.   I didn’t even lose my cool when he very rudely snorted, “So, what do you want me to do about eet?”

I told him that I would be happy to send the melted purees back in exchange for frozen ones.  I think he actually chortled at me then.  He said that he absolutely would never ship another order to me again because I was obviously a problem customer and he did not want the aggravation of dealing with me.  After I told him that I would contact my credit card company, he grudgingly told me to send back the purees and he would give me a refund.  He also told me not to order from the company again because they did not want my business.

WTF???

The final blow came this morning when I received an email from the company’s alleged Customer Service department stating that they would issue a refund if several conditions were met.  These conditions included refreezing the purees for at least 24 hours at 0ºF – 5ºF prior to shipping, and waiting one full week to ship them, on November 29, so as not to interfere with the holiday.   The email concluded by saying that they were offering this “ONE TIME ONLY” courtesy to me even though they were not at fault.  And, it was signed: “Thank you and best regards, Olivier, Customer Service Manager, L’Epicerie”

Well, f@%# you, Olivier.

I do not want to fill up my freezer on Thanksgiving week with a bunch of melted, leaking, rotting fruit purees.  I also do not want to keep them sitting in there for one solid week just to convenience you.  Customer service my a$$!   YOUR company screwed up by sending my order out improperly sealed and packaged.  And, your customer service representative was rude, arrogant, argumentative and downright abusive to me when I complained about it.

Unbelievable.

Now, I know that I am not completely blameless in this situation.  I could have coughed up the dough for the overnight shipping, and in retrospect, I probably should have.  I own that.  In fact, I had initially decided not to write about this fiasco at all, despite the company web site’s misrepresentation and the shoddy treatment I received.  But that email was the proverbial last straw.  If L’Epicerie has shown the least little bit of remorse or concern about what happened, you all would have never heard about the incident.

So, now what, folks?  If I don’t meet their “conditions”,  I’m out $120.00.  If I do, then I’ll get my refund, but will be more inconvenienced than I already am. Plus, I feel like I’ll be rewarding the company’s bad behavior.  What do you think I should do?  I could really use your input.

Oh, and in case you haven’t already guessed, I do not recommend ordering anything from this company – especially, anything frozen – unless money is no object.

Okay. Rant over.  Let’s move on to something more fun.  How about a recipe for the most awesome turkey condiment ever?  This cranberry chutney is sweet and tart and spicy and mellow – all at the same time.     I started with a base of sour cherry preserves, because I had a jar in my pantry, but you could use any kind you like.  I think that apricot jam or orange marmalade would be just as delicious.   Then, I added some dried fruit, brown sugar, fresh cranberries, apple chunks, and a fiery little chili pepper, and simmered it all in some orange and lime juice until everything got all soft and oozey.  To finish it off, I tossed in some tiny bits of crystallized ginger for a little extra zing.  I’m telling you, people, this stuff is so good, that I could barely keep myself from eating it right out of the pot!   Plus, it is a breeze to make. You just dump the ingredients into a pot, give it some heat and it practically makes itself.

If you’re looking for a last minute cranberry recipe, this is the one for you.

Enjoy!

This has been one crazy, messed up week!  Honestly, I don’t even know where to begin. But, if there ever was a week where I could have used some of Dorie’s sinfully creamy and delicious Burnt Sugar Ice Cream, this was it!

If you read my Lemon Linguine post, then you already know that we just got a brand new puppy.  Bella is a sweet little Golden Retriever puppy and she is absolutely beautiful, as her name suggests. I’m totally smitten with her, but I’d forgotten just how much work caring for a new puppy involves.  It’s like having a new baby and a toddler all rolled up into one.  They have very little control over their bodily functions and they get into everything. Except with babies, you can slap a diaper on them, pop them in a playpen, and they’re good to go.  Bella is a very good little girl, but I’ve worn a path to my front door taking her in and out to potty a gazillion times every day.  Plus, have you ever noticed that with puppies (and babies), there is no direct correlation between what goes in and what comes out. There is definitely a lot more of what comes out! Not very appetizing fare for a food blog, I know.  Just keeping it real. The rest of the time, I run around the house after her, pulling an assortment of inappropriate “chew toys” out of her mouth and trying to keep her from nibbling on a) the furniture; b) my Oriental rugs; and c) my shoes! Suffice it to say that this “up and down” and “in and out” situation is definitely not an ideal work environment!

Inconvenient as it may be, the Bella situation wasn’t really even the crazy, messed up part of my week.  That revolting development occurred last Tuesday evening.   I was out in my front yard trying to coax Bella to “get on with it”, when Mini SGCC came flying out of the house with my purse, yelling something about being late for a choir practice that I didn’t even know she had.   The three of us jumped into the car and took off.  Luckily, I had Bella’s pet carrier in the back seat.  Unluckily, my cell phone wasn’t in my purse. You will understand the significance of this later.

Mini SGCC’s school is less than two miles from our house.  It’s less than a five minute drive with no traffic.  Bella and I were on our way home after dropping off the kid, and I was stopped in the right lane, waiting to make a right turn.  I was diligently waiting for the oncoming traffic to pass before I did.  It was broad daylight.  All of a sudden, my car was jolted out into the middle of a busy six lane road and my head slammed into the steering wheel.  I literally didn’t know what hit me!  I scrambled to get the car back over into the right lane before I was roadkill.  As I tried to collect myself, there was a tapping on my car window.  It was the guy that hit me. 

The first thing I did was check to make sure the puppy was okay.  She was a little scared, but otherwise fine (thank God!).  My shock quickly turned into anger and I launched.  I started screaming at the guy, using words I didn’t even realize I knew!   You know what he said?  He said that didn’t see me.  DIDN’T SEE ME!?!?  HE WAS DRIVING A HUGE A$$ COMMERCIAL VAN AND HE DIDN’T F*#%ING SEE ME? He could have seen halfway to Texas from the driver’s seat of that van!  Plus, I was driving a big, German sedan. I wasn’t exactly hard to spot!

I reached into my purse for my cell phone to call the police, and…..it wasn’t there.  Remember, I said this would become significant.  Well, Mr. “I Didn’t See You Because I Was On My Way to the Fish Market to Buy Some Clams for Dinner and Wasn’t Paying Attention” didn’t have a cell phone either.  So, there we were – standing in the middle of US 41 – with not a cell phone between us.  He walked one way to find a pay phone, and I trudged the other other way, with the puppy in my arms, to find a shop where I could call for help.

Here’s where it gets a little dicey.  I’m usually pretty calm in a crisis.  However, this time I was really shaken up.  And, Mr. SGCC was out of town and wouldn’t be home for three more days.  I was disoriented and my head was beginning to throb.  I couldn’t even think of someone to call.  The clerk in the store was very sweet, though.  Or, maybe he’s a sucker for cute little puppies.  Anyway, when he saw how my fingers were shaking as I tried to dial the phone, he did it for me.  I called my brother (the chiropractor) and he came to help.

Thank God the deputy that came to investigate the accident was also very nice.  I was such a mess that I spilled the contents of my glove compartment all over the car and couldn’t even find my registration and insurance card.  He was able to get all of the information he needed from his computer.  Did I mention that my head was throbbing?

While the deputy was writing up the accident report, I finally mustered up the courage to take a look at the damage to my car.  Trust me, you don’t wanna know.  It was pretty bad.  The whole rear was bashed in and the bumper was in pieces.  The trunk wouldn’t close either.  I was beginning to feel as though I’d been hit in the head with a sledgehammer.

In the end, the other driver was cited for careless driving and I was in the clear, but carless.  Ugh!  While I am very thankful that neither Bella nor I were seriously hurt, I’m very upset about my car.  It wasn’t a new car. In fact, it was over ten years old.  I probably needed a new car anyway, but here’s the thing.  That car belonged to my dad – and he loved it.  I have many memories of the two of us tooling around together in it – going out to lunch, Christmas shopping or whatever.  Every time I got behind the wheel, I felt a little bit closer to him. I drove my daughter to her first day of kindergarten and her first day of high school in that car. I dropped her off at her first school dance in it.  The value of that is something that you just can’t measure on any “blue book” chart or insurance company valuation table.  So, now it’s gone, and so is a little piece of me.  Yes, it’s been a crazy, messed up week over here at Chez SGCC. Did I mention that my head hurts?  My heart does too.

So, now as I wait for the lump on my head to go down, my black eye to heal and the various bumps and bruises to fade, I don’t feel too much like baking.  The fact that this week’s TWD assignment didn’t require it is a blessing.  I could handle ice cream.  Especially a fabulous ice cream like this one!

My thanks go out to Becky at Project Domestication for choosing this week’s recipe.  If you’d like to try it for yourself, the recipe can be found HERE.  As always, check out the TWD blogroll to see lots more versions of Burnt Sugar Ice Cream.

Do you remember the old United Airlines slogan “Fly the Friendly Skies”?  It was the tagline on most of the company’s advertising from 1966 to about 1996. They promised an idyllic in-flight experience comparable to what you might encounter at a 4-star resort.  Take a look:

Doesn’t that look like fun?  I don’t know about you, but I sure want Nancy as my flight attendant the next time I fly anywhere!

Well, let me tell you something, people.  United’s skies may be friendly, but here on the ground the airline is anything but!  In fact, this next video is a much more accurate representation of the treatment I received a few days ago when I attempted to fly to California from the Tampa International Airport. 

Yes, I said “attempted”.  That’s because I never made it on the plane.  In fact, I never made it to California at all, although not for lack of trying.  Right now, I’m sitting at home in front of my computer, absolutely seething with anger over what happened.  You see, dear readers, this Lonesome Traveler has been grounded!

It all started a few months ago when the kind folks at POM Wonderful invited me to come out to California as their guest for the first ever POM Wonderful Harvest Blogger Tour held on October 19-21.  The trip was to include a tour of POMS 18,000 acres of pomegranate orchards, a tour of their fruit processing and juicing plant, and a lot of great food, networking and fun.  There were around fifteen bloggers invited to participate and I was so flattered and excited to be one of them!

On Monday Mr. SGCC and I got up before dawn (which was a herculean effort for me), and made the 70 mile trip up to the Tampa airport, for what was to be the beginning of another Lonesome Traveler adventure.   My flight was scheduled to depart at 8:00 am, with a brief layover in Denver, and land in Fresno around noon.

We arrived at the airport at 7:00.  We didn’t want to waste time parking, so Mr. SGCC dropped me off right in front of the United Airlines entrance at the terminal.  I stood in line for for a while at the Skycap station to get checked in.  When it was my turn, I was told that they couldn’t check me in outside and that I would have to go inside to do so.  So, I went inside and waited for a while on another line.  By the time I got up to the front of the queue, it was 7:21.  I found myself in front of a scrawny, pinchy-faced, little blonde woman with an attitude.  I handed over my suitcase and told her that I was checking in for the flight to Denver.  Without ever even looking up at me, she informed me that check-in for my flight had just closed and that I wouldn’t be able to get on the flight.

WTF!!!

I started to get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and told myself that she must have misheard me.  After all, she didn’t seem to be paying much attention.  So, I tried again.

Me:  “No, I’m on the Denver flight.  It’s not set to take off for another forty minutes.”

Pinchy-Faced Snotty United Airlines Employee: “I heard you.  That flight is closed.”

Me: (incredulously) “Closed?  What do you mean closed?”

P-FSUAE:  “I mean closed.  We have a 45 minute cut off time.”

Me:  “But…I was here well before that!  I’ve been waiting in line outside and then on this one since 7:00!”

P-FSUAE: (randomly punching keys on her computer) “Well, you weren’t here.  It’s 45 minutes from the time you get here.”

Me:  “Are you serious!  I have plenty of time to make that flight!  I didn’t even know that you had a 45 minute cut-off! Every other airline I’ve flown on has a 30 minute cut-off”

P-FSUAE: (still not looking at me) “Well, it’s on our web site.  You should have checked.”

Me:  “Look.  I didn’t make these travel arrangements.  Someone else made them for me.  If I had, I probably would have checked your web site.  But, it never occurred to me to do so.  In the time we’ve wasted debating this, I could have already gotten through security and been on the plane!  I NEED to get on that plane!!!”

P-FSUAE: (as she turns and walks away) “Sorry, there’s nothing I can do.”

Me: (really pissed off and a little hysterical) “Listen lady, don’t you walk away from me!  I want to talk to your supervisor.”

P-FSUAE:  “She’ll tell you the same thing.  We can’t check you in.”

Me: (begging) “Please!  Isn’t there anything I can do to get on that flight (like buying you a condo in the Bahamas)  This is a really special trip?  I’ve driven all the way up here from Sarasota!”

P-FSUAE:  “No.”

Me: (thinking shitshitshitshit) “Sigh…Okay, can you get me on another flight that will eventually get me to Fresno?”

P-FSUAE: (back at the computer, clicking away) “You can go standby to Chicago, then standby to Los Angelis and then standby to Fresno.  If you make it on all of the flights, you’ll get to Fresno at 10:30 pm Pacific time.”

Me:  “That’s it?  So, what are my chances of making it on all three flights?”

P-FSUAE: (looking down again) “Not good.”

Me:  “So, there’s a good chance that I’ll be stranded in either Chicago or L.A.?”

P-FSUAE:  “Yes.”

Me:  “That’s it?”

P-FSUAE:  “Yes.”

Me:  “Whatever happened to ‘The Friendly Skies of United’?”

P-FSUAE: (blank stare and no response)

Then, P-FSUAE turned and walked away again, leaving me standing there with my suitcase, my unused ticket and an angry mob forming behind me.  I had no choice but to call Mr. SGCC and tell him to come back and get me.

I was crestfallen! I was bereft!  But most of all, I was f%@$*&g FURIOUS!!

(Photo from istockphoto.com)

When Mr. SGCC got back to the airport, we spent the next two hours running from one airline counter to the next trying to get me on a plane that somehow would end up in Fresno that day.  We got bupkis.   I do want to note, however, that every single employee we spoke to from every other airline was helpful, courteous and sympathetic – unlike those at United.  One lady at Continental told us that the United flight was probably overbooked and that they had most likely given away my seat before I’d ever even had my unpleasant exchange with P-FSUAE.  Based on P-FSUAE’s rapt attention to her computer screen, she probably already knew that while she was arguing with me!

Before leaving the airport, we eventually did speak to a rather apathetic United Airlines supervisor who told us that the reason that they didn’t check me in was because I had a suitcase to check.  She said that if I had only had only a carry-on bag, I could have still gotten on my flight.

HUH?!?!

I had plenty of room in my carry-on bag for some fresh underwear and a change of clothes.  I could have easily left my suitcase behind with Mr. SGCC and just picked up a few things in Fresno. But, I didn’t have that option, because P-FSUAE, never told me that I was being denied because of my suitcase!  Remember, I asked her if there was anything I could do to get on that plane?  Why didn’t she tell me then?

I posed that same question to the apathetic supervisor and do you know what she said to me?  You’re gonna love this one!  She looked me right in the eye and told me “Well, you should have known that.”

I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN THAT???

How the f*&# should I have known that?  It’s not like I work for United Airlines and have anything to do with setting their policies!  I’m not a seasoned traveler who globetrots around the world and flies all the time!  I’m just a poor schlub food blogger who was given a once in a lifetime opportunity and got screwed because of a lazy and callous airline employee who never got the memo that the customer is always right!

By the way, when I finally got home and after I called Jeff at POM Wonderful to tell him what had happened, I did go and take a look on the United Airlines web site.  With a little digging, I did find the section about check-in times and yes, there is a 45 minute cut-off for baggage – not passengers. It was not listed under the Itineraries and Check-in section, which is where I would think is the logical place for such information.  Instead, it was listed in the Baggage section at the bottom of the page under the heading “Additional Information”.  If United Airlines is such a stickler on this issue, shouldn’t this information be more prominently displayed and easier to find?   In fact, why isn’t this rule printed on the travel documents themselves?

I’ve also spoken to several travel agents about what happened and every one told me that United Airlines was notorious for puling this sort of thing on passengers and that they were difficult to work with.  Each agreed with the theory that the flight was probably oversold and that they gave away my seat.

Now, I’m not saying that I am completely blameless in all of this.  In retrospect, I probably should have checked out the web site and I might have learned about the check-in rule.  Though, I wouldn’t have been looking for it, so maybe not. Since I’d never, ever had this situation come up before, it never occurred to me that this could happen.

What do you all think about it?  Was United Airlines right or wrong in refusing to allow me to board my flight when there was still time to do so?  Since I had obviously been waiting on line prior to the cut-off time, should they have tried to accommodate me?  Should  P-FSUAE have explained to me that it was my baggage that was the problem and let me have the option of leaving it behind?  Should the airline be more aggressive in letting passengers know that there even is a cut-off time?  Or, do you all think that I am a big crybaby who got what she deserved?

Jeff from POM and the other lucky bloggers who actually got to attend were kind enough to keep me posted on all that I was missing was happening.  I alternated between being happy and sad about that.  From all of the pictures and posts I’ve seen, I think they all had a wonderful time.   Below is a list of links of all the bloggers who were there. I wish I could have met them.  I hope you check out their blogs and see for yourself that POM Wonderful really is wonderful!

http://GreenLiteBites.com

http://balancejoyanddelicias.wordpress.com/

http://carrotsncake.com

http://www.fitnessista.com

http://www.thewickednoodle.com

http://livinghealthyintherealworld.wordpress.com

http://www.flanboyanteats.com

http://tasteofpace.blogspot.com

http://healthytippingpoint.blogspot.com

http://dinedishdelish.blogspot.com

http://glutenfreeeasily.com

http://www.visionsofsugarplum.com

http://ericriveracooks.com

http://heathereatsalmondbutter.com

And, the circle continues….For those of us who live in North America, today marks the beginning of another round of Daylight Saving Time. Every spring we move our clocks one hour ahead and “lose” an hour during the night and each fall we move our clocks back one hour and “gain” an extra hour. Except, it isn’t even #%*&@!*% Spring yet! But, here we are, barely into March, and we’ve already lost that precious hour of sleep. Another lovely gift from the Bush administration!

Originally the brainchild of none other than Benjamin Franklin, the main purpose of Daylight Saving Time (called “Summer Time” in many places in the world) is to make better use of daylight. The rationale for this theory was that energy use and the demand for electricity for lighting homes is directly related to the times when people go to bed at night and rise in the morning. In the average home, 25 percent of electricity is used for lighting and small appliances, such as TVs, computers and stereos. A good percentage of energy consumed by lighting and appliances occurred in the evening when families were home. By moving the clock ahead one hour, the amount of electricity consumed each day decreased. Plus, the extra daylight hours allowed many to indulge more in outdoor activities. When people are not at home, they don’t turn on the appliances and lights.

Daylight Saving Time was originally instituted in the United States during World War I in order to save energy for war production by taking advantage of the later hours of daylight between April and October. During World War II the federal government again required the states to observe the time change. Between the wars and after World War II, states and communities chose whether or not to observe Daylight Saving Time. In 1966, Congress passed the Uniform Time Act which standardized the length of Daylight Saving Time. Thanks to the passage of the Energy Policy Act in 2005, Daylight Saving Time was extended by four weeks from the second Sunday of March to the first Sunday of November. To me, that translates into a thirty hour sleep deficit, which I am never happy about!

However, there is quite a lot of controversy as to whether DST actually does conserve a significant enough amount of energy to justify the disruption in our lives. There is also evidence to show that DST can actually be a harmful thing. Here is an interesting article in U.S. News & World Report about this.

(Not a pretty sight, huh?)

Whichever side of the fence you may sit on regarding this issue, let me just say that in my opinion, Daylight Saving Time SUCKS! It is going to be sheer torture for my family and I to get up at 6:00 a.m. tomorrow, knowing it is really only 5:00 a.m.! The fact that we will have to do this for an extra four weeks each year sucks even more!

Another issue fraught with controversy is the great chocolate chip cookie debate. If you asked one hundred people to name their idea of the perfect chocolate chip cookie, you’d probably get one hundred different answers. Chewy, crispy or cakey. Milk chocolate or dark. Nuts or no nuts. Ever since Ruth Wakefield accidentally invented the chocolate chip cookie, there have been literally thousands of different incarnations of them, all in the quest for the “perfect” cookie. Several food bloggers have entered the debate. Even the New York Times has weighed in on the subject.

For me, the Holy Grail of chocolate chip cookies is one that strikes that perfect balance between crispy and chewy. You know what I mean. The one with the crunchy, crackly perimeter that kind of shatters when you bite into it, hinting of butter and caramel, and giving way to a ooey, gooey chocolaty center. The apparent key to this ultimate combination is the resting and chilling of the cookie dough from anywhere to a few hours to a few days.

One of my favorite chocolate chip cookie recipes is one I have adapted from Alton Brown. For my money, his “chewy” version is pretty close to “as good as it gets”. Alton uses melted butter and bread flour in this recipe. I found this a little unusual, but it works. I chill the dough anywhere from a few hours to overnight and I’m always rewarded with incredible sticky, gooey, creamy and chewy cookies. I always add toasted, chopped pecans to them. Sometimes, I put some toasted coconut in them too as I did here.

The Chewy isn’t the only chocolate chip cookie recipe that I like. I’m also very fond of David Lebovitz’s version from The Great Book of Chocolate. The only quibble I have with that one is that my cookies always tend to turn out really flat. I’m not sure why that is, but it is. I haven’t tried the New York Times recipe yet, although I’m sure that, at some point, I will.

Anyway, If you’re as bummed out about the reappearance of Daylight Saving Time as I am, make some of these cookies. You’ll still be just as tired in the morning, but at least you’ll have something wonderful to look forward to. I promise, they will help to ease the pain!

The Chewy (My Way)
adapted from Alton Brown on The Food Network
(Printable Recipe)

Ingredients:

2 sticks unsalted butter
2 1/4 cups bread flour
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 cup sugar
1 1/4 cups brown sugar
1 egg
1 egg yolk
2 tablespoons milk
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 cups good quality semisweet chocolate chunks or chips
1 cup chopped pecans, toasted
1 cup flaked coconut, toasted

Directions:

Heat oven to 375 degrees F.

Melt the butter in a medium saucepan over low heat or in the microwave. Sift together the flour, salt, and baking soda and set aside.

Pour the melted butter in a mixing bowl. Add the sugar and brown sugar. Cream the butter and sugars on medium speed. Add the egg, yolk, milk and vanilla extract and mix until well combined. Slowly add the flour mixture and mix on low speed until combined. Stir in the chocolate chips, pecans and coconut.

Chill the dough for at least 2 hours or overnight.

Using a medium ice cream scoop, scoop dough onto parchment-lined baking sheets, approximately 6 cookies per sheet. Bake for 14-16 minutes or until golden brown. Rotate the baking sheet halfway through for even browning. Cool completely and store in an airtight container.

Several months ago, I shared with you about a little rough patch I was having where every time I turned around, I seemed to fall down, bang into large pieces of furniture, burn myself or trip over something. One day, I even managed to get my hand slammed in my car door at the supermarket. It was after that last one, that my clever, sweet and funny friend, Manggy from No Special Effects, bestowed upon me the nickname “Accident Prawn”.

Accident Prawn? Bwahahahahahahahaha!!!

Mr. SGCC and I laughed our heads off over that one. But, the funniest part was that the name stuck! Ever since, whenever I’ve dropped, spilled, tripped or slipped, I’ve been pelted with the taunting strains of “Watch out! There goes Accident Prawn!” or “Uh oh! Accident Prawn strikes again!” Even Mini SGCC has gotten into the act!

Well folks, though it pains me to say it, (and I mean really pains me), Accident Prawn has indeed struck again.

It all started on Friday morning when I was getting dressed to go out. I wanted to wear a pair of new jeans that I had recently gotten. A pair of new jeans in a size smaller than all my other ones. The jeans were a little long, but I didn’t want to waste time hemming them. Instead, I decided to just wear higher heels. (Vanity is the quicksand of reason.) I dug out my favorite pair of Michael Kors sandals and slipped them on. With a four-inch heel, they kept the hem of my jeans off of the floor. My “skinny” jeans and I were good to go.

My jeans and I teetered all around town. We went to my office for a while to catch up on some work. We went to the post office, the dry cleaners, the supermarket and Mini SGCC’s school. We had a perfectly enjoyable and uneventful day. Then, we went home.

We were carrying a bag of groceries in through the garage. That’s when the inevitable happened. There was a small puddle of condensation from the air conditioner on the garage floor. I didn’t see it until it was too late.

CRASH, BAM, BOOM!!!

The next thing I knew, my jeans and I were airborne! When we landed, milk, flour, broken eggs and the contents of my beloved Marc Jacobs bag were strewn everywhere. As I lay on that gross and grimy concrete floor, (Oh, shut up! It was the garage, people! Who washes their garage floor, for chrissakes?), I became acutely aware of throbbing pain in an elbow, a wrist, a knee, my head and especially a foot. My driving foot, to be exact. Oh yeah, there was blood too. This was not good news!

When my eyes were able to focus again, I realized that I was wedged between the bike rack and some huge sheets of plywood that we keep around in the event of a hurricane. I tried to get some leverage so that I could hoist myself up, but I couldn’t. My injured foot wouldn’t support me. No one else was home, so I was pretty much stuck there until someone came to rescue me.

shitfuckshitfuckshitfuckshitfuckSHITFUCK!!!

After about ten or fifteen minutes, (which seemed like hours), Mr. SGCC came tooling up the street and into the driveway. He was my knight in shining armor, except his armor was a gray business suit and his horse was a red Prius! After he helped me up and dusted me off, he guided me inside and over to the couch, where I spent the rest of the evening and most of yesterday with a bag of frozen peas resting on my foot.

Needless to say, for physical and emotional reasons, cooking a complicated meal for dinner was out of the question. However, there was no way I was able to hobble my sorry butt out to a restaurant either. We actually ended up thawing out some of that wonderful Beef Barley Soup that I made last week and had it with some leftover roasted chicken. But, if I had been able to cook, this awesome and very simple chicken dish that I made a few weeks ago would have been a perfect choice. It practically cooks itself!

It is called Chicken Orzo, and I found the recipe in a cookbook called Cooking Greek Style, put out by the St. Barbara Philoptochos Society of St. Barbara Greek Orthodox Church here in Sarasota.

The original recipe calls for the dish to be cooked on the stove. I think it turns out better when baked in the oven. Either way, it makes for a delicious, hearty and satisfying meal, especially on a nippy Fall day.

Coincidentally, I found the Accident Prawn illustration on a web site called Uneetee. They sponsor a T-shirt design contest each year and it was this year’s winner. The artwork is by an artist named Loy. Check out the site if you’re interested. I just might have to get one for myself!

Chicken Orzo

(Printable Recipe)

Ingredients:

4 pounds chicken pieces (I used thighs this time)

1 stick of butter

1 large sweet onion, chopped

1 pint mushrooms, sliced (You can use any kind you like. I used Baby Bellas.)

3 cups chicken broth mixed with 2 cups water

2 cups orzo

1/2 cup Parmesan cheese, grated

Salt and pepper to taste

Method:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

Melt half of the butter in a large Dutch oven or other ovenproof pot over medium-high heat. Brown chicken pieces in batches on both sides. Add more butter, a little at a time, if needed. Remove and set aside.

Saute onions and mushrooms in remaining butter until onions are soft and translucent. Add chicken back to the pot and stir.

Mix in broth/water mixture, cover and bake in the oven until chicken is just about cooked through, about 45 minutes.

Add the orzo, salt and pepper and mix well. Add a little more water if needed. The orzo should be kind of soupy, but not drowning in liquid. Continue to bake until liquid is absorbed and orzo is tender. This should take about 20-30 minutes.

Remove to a serving platter and sprinkle with Parmesan cheese. You could also serve this with some Greek yogurt on the side.

Enjoy!

Here are some other chicken recipes you might enjoy from the SGCC archives:

Oven Baked Corn Flake Crumb Chicken

Apricot Glazed Chicken with Dried Plums and Sage

Kickin’ Chicken

]]> http://stickygooeycreamychewy.com/2008/11/09/accident-prawn-strikes-again/feed/ 51 http://stickygooeycreamychewy.com/2008/08/23/is-truth-really-stranger-than-fiction-you-betcha-and-the-ultimate-ice-cream-indulgence/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=is-truth-really-stranger-than-fiction-you-betcha-and-the-ultimate-ice-cream-indulgence http://stickygooeycreamychewy.com/2008/08/23/is-truth-really-stranger-than-fiction-you-betcha-and-the-ultimate-ice-cream-indulgence/#comments Sun, 24 Aug 2008 02:12:00 +0000 Susan http://stickygooeycreamychewy.com/?p=168 Samuel Langhorne Clemens, better known as America’s most famous literary icon, Mark Twain, once said that truth is stranger than fiction. Many times over the years, especially when I was actively practicing law, I’ve found these words to be quite true. Believe me, I could tell you stories …]]>

Samuel Langhorne Clemens, better known as America’s most famous literary icon, Mark Twain, once said that truth is stranger than fiction. Many times over the years, especially when I was actively practicing law, I’ve found these words to be quite true. Believe me, I could tell you stories that would make your head spin! Sometimes real life can be so freaking bizarre, that even the most fantastic fiction pales in comparison.

I had planned to write a whole different post today, but something happened to me on Friday night that still has my blood boiling, and I just had to share it with you.

Mini SGCC was off at the movies with friends, so the Hubs and I were on our own. We set out for a hot night on the town! We had a fabulous and cheap meal (under $50 for king crab, fresh oyster stew and jumbo wild Florida shrimp – and beer), at a casual neighborhood seafood place that we like, and were slowly shedding off the accumulated stress of the week. After dinner, being the wildly sophisticated and cosmopolitan couple we are, we decided to mosey on over to Borders to hang out for a while.

We arrived at about 7:00 – a little too late for the after school crowd and a little too early for the after dinner crowd – so we had the place almost all to ourselves. We popped over to see what was percolating in the coffee bar (shut up!) and threw back a few double White Chocolate Mocha Macchiatos. We love to live on the edge. Then, we leisurely browsed through the stacks, me in the cookbook section and Mr. SGCC, over by the DVDs. I picked up copies of Sky High: Irresistible Triple-Layer Cakes and The Home Creamery (I’ll tell you about those later.), plus the new Fall fashion issues of Vogue, Elle, Allure and W. What! Did you think that all I cared about was food? A girl still has to look good when she trolls the farmer’s markets, you know!

Later, I headed up to the check-out counter while Mr. SGCC scanned the New Releases one more time to make sure there was nothing he missed. There was only one register open and it was manned by a mild-mannered, pleasant twentysomething girl. As she scanned my purchases, a book on display at the counter caught my eye. It was an adorable children’s book titled How Are You Peeling?. The book was filled with beautiful and enchanting photos of different fruits and vegetables carved into faces reflecting different feelings and emotions. It was delightful and I had to have it! Um…now might be a good time to mention that I have an inexplicable and unnatural fascination with animated and personified food. The clerk had already scanned my credit card and as I signed the receipt, I asked her if she could quickly ring the book up for me as a cash sale. She happily obliged.

I looked around and there was only one guy behind me in line, flipping through a magazine. I turned to him and said (very politely), “Do you mind? This will only take a minute.” And then, my friends, is when my truth became stranger than fiction. Here are the highlights of the exchange that followed.

Him: Sure, go ahead. I’m just standing here waiting for you to finish so I can get on with my life.

Um…..okay, then. I proceeded to dig out money to pay for my book.

Him: After all, you’re the most important thing here, right? Don’t worry about me. It’s all about you!

Huh! I was a little taken aback. Surely, he must be kidding, so I turned, laughed nervously and said,

“Er…hehe…I guess so. Thank you for noticing…hehe.” I turned back to the clerk.

Him: Yessiree. It’s all about you, isn’t it. You are more important than everyone else. You probably own this store. That’s it. You own this store, don’t you? THAT’S WHY IT’S ALL ABOUT YOU!!! NO ONE ELSE IS IMPORTANT HERE, BECAUSE IT’S FUCKING ALL ABOUT YOU!!!

WTF!?!?

I looked at the sales clerk. The sales clerk looked back at me with an open mouth and wild, frightened eyes. Mr. SGCC came rushing over to the rescue.

Mr. SGCC: What the hell is going on here!

Me: I’m just trying to check out and this guy is yelling at me!

Mr. SGCC (to Mr. Nasty Crazy-Eyes Man): Hey, Pal. (Yes, he actually uses the word pal.) What’s your problem?

Mr. Nasty Crazy-Eyes Man: My problem? You want to know what my problem is? YOUR FUCKING WIFE IS MY PROBLEM. SHE THINKS EVERYTHING IS ALL ABOUT HER!!!

I looked beseechingly at the sales clerk for help. She and her wild, frightened eyes just stared blankly at me. She was incapable of speech. Where the hell was a manager? Didn’t anyone else in the store have EARS!?!?

Mr. SGCC puffed up his chest and stood up tall. So did Mr. Nasty Crazy-Eyes Man. Mr. SGCC is 6′ 2″ and was twice his size. He is a body builder and can bench press 350 pounds. Mr. Nasty Crazy-Eyes Man was not only nasty and crazy, he was stupid too. Mr. SGCC could easily trounce his a$$!

Mr. SGCC: LISTEN A$$HOLE. I THINK YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN!

Just then a scrawny little bird-like woman came rushing up. She grabbed Mr. Nasty Crazy-Eyes Man’s arm and started talking to him in hushed tones. He just kept yelling expletives at us over her shoulder.

Me: Look. It’s not my fault that they only have one check-out line open. I don’t know why you’re being so insulting!

Mr. Nasty Crazy-Eyes Man: I HAVEN’T EVEN BEGUN TO INSULT YOU, YOU COW!!!

And with that, he started towards me. Yikes!!! Both Mr. SGCC and the bird-like woman, who I assumed was Mr. Nasty Crazy-Eyes Man’s wife, jumped between us.

Mr. SGCC: (growling) I’m warning you. BACK. OFF.

Mr. Nasty Crazy-Eyes Man: OH YEAH…..OR WHAT!

I feel it’s relevant to mention at this point that the poor sales clerk had not moved or uttered a sound since this whole incident began. No other employee or manager had made an appearance either.

Both men were poised to strike – fists raised and nostrils flaring. I even think I saw smoke coming out of Mr. SGCC’s ears. I couldn’t believe what was happening! We were in a book store, for chrissakes!

Just then, Mrs. Scrawny Little Bird-like Woman turned around to face us. She looked completely panic-stricken.

“Please!” she begged, “Don’t do this! Just let it go….. please!”

Me: Hey, we were just trying buy some books. HE attacked US!

Mrs. Scrawny Little Bird-like Woman: I know, I know. But, please just go now. It’s not worth all this trouble. Don’t provoke him. Please!

I looked at her face and I had seen it many times before in my career as a divorce lawyer. It was the face of fear and abuse. I had my suspicions that Mr. Nasty Crazy-Eyes Man had taken his frustrations out on her in the past and might even try it again that night. Mr. SGCC saw it too. He spends his professional life dealing with abuse victims. We decided to end it there.

Mr. SGCC: Lady, your husband needs mental help. He has some serious anger management issues.

Mrs. Scrawny Little Bird-like Woman: Yes. Fine. Please, just leave.

The sales clerk was still in a state of suspended animation. No one from management had ever materialized.

Shell-shocked, Mr. SGCC and I walked out to our car. I commented to him that I was pretty annoyed that none of the staff in the store did anything to help. He said that most of those stores have a panic button behind the counter in case of a robbery or other emergency, and that maybe someone had pushed it. I didn’t know that.

As we were driving out of the parking lot, a police cruiser pulled in and parked right in front of Borders. Too little, too late. Mr. Nasty Crazy-Eyes Man and his wife had already left the building.

Let me tell you, after that ordeal I was in need of some serious ice cream therapy! Unfortunately, I was too shaken up to go anywhere else but straight home. The only thing left to do was to take my mind off things by making some homemade ice cream. Either that or drink heavily, and I’m not much of a drinker. And it couldn’t be just any old ice cream, either. It had to be the best freaking ice cream in the history of the World!

So, dear readers, if my story about our encounter with Mr. Nasty Crazy-Eyes Man didn’t shake you to your core, this ice cream will. In fact, you should probably sit down now, if you haven’t already. Please. It’s for your own good, because once you read about this phenomenally decadent, mind-numbingly delectable ice cream I have created, there’s no telling how you might react. I can’t have that on my conscience, so for heaven’s sake, please SIT DOWN!

I’ve gorged on gelato in Italy, glace in France and frozen custard anywhere I could find it. I know my ice cream, and this is probably the best ice cream I’ve ever had. It starts with a custard base containing milk, cream, egg yolks, white and brown sugar, fragrant vanilla bean and a generous pinch of sea salt. Once the ice cream is churned, crunchy toffee bits and thick, gooey dulce de leche are swirled in. It is like Prozac in dairy form! After a few bites of this stuff, I was asking myself, “Mr. Nasty Crazy-Eyes who?”.

I started with the French-style vanilla ice cream recipe in David’s book, The Perfect Scoop. From there, I played around with different measurements and ingredients and ended up with what I think is the ultimate ice cream indulgence. I hope you like it. If not…..more for me!

Brown Sugar Toffee Ice Cream with Dulce de Leche Swirl …………………………….(Printable Recipe

2 cups heavy cream

1 cup whole milk

1/3 cup granulated sugar

1/2 cup light brown sugar

1 generous pinch sea salt

1 vanilla bean, split with the seeds scraped out

4 egg yolks

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1/2-1 cup toffee bits (according to your taste)

1 cup dulce de leche

Heat the milk, 1 cup of the cream, salt, and both sugars in a saucepan. Add the vanilla bean seeds and pod to the mixture. Cover the saucepan and let steep for about 30 minutes.

Pour the rest of the cream into a large bowl and set a mesh strainer on top. Set aside,

In a medium bowl, whisk the egg yolks together and slowly pour in the warmed milk mixture, whisking constantly. Pour the contents back into the pan and cook over low heat, stirring constantly with a heat-resistant spatula until the custard thickens. Strain the custard into the heavy cream. Put the vanilla bean back into the custard and cream. Stir in the vanilla extract and chill thoroughly.

When chilled remove the vanilla bean and freeze in your ice cream maker according to the manufacturers instructions.

During the last few minutes of churning, add the toffee bits to the ice cream so that they can be evenly distributed.

Whisk the dulce de leche in a small bowl. When the ice cream is finished churning, pour it into a freezable container, alternating scoops of ice cream with scoops of dulce de leche. Gently swirl ice cream mixture a few times to mix things up.

Freeze to desired consistency.

Enjoy!

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