Baking quiche for dummies by dummies.

Despite my lack of cooking prowess, I have decided to share my considerable knowledge about quiche with you.  That knowledge is this: I have eaten quiche a couple of times and have made it once.  But I have the Internet, an idea and a crap load of eggs.  So here we go!

Mini quiche in muffin form (Gluten free)

Now, first off.  When you think to yourself: Self, why do you need a family size package of eggs?  This is why.

Two lonely little eggs left.

Now, I will give you the recipe for one batch of muffins.  I doubled this -- hence the fact I used up all the eggs.  Also, I made oatmeal chocolate chips cookies (non-Gluten Free) for my husband because I am the greatest wife ever.

You need:

6 eggs
1 cup of milk
3/4 cup of GF Bisquik (which we picked up in the states!) or Bob's Red Mill Gluten Free Biscuit Mix (available anywhere)

Here it is.  Eggs, milk, Bisquick in a bowl.  Mixed.

Second, oil the muffin tins.  Either with a non-stick spray or oil on a paper towel.  Put a bit more on the bottom only.  It gets sticky.  Also, start the oven.  350 degrees is good.

Next, you need filling for the quiche.  You will see below that I have cheese, cheese and tomato, and cheese and spinach.  I also made ham and cheese ones which turned out the best.  The tomatoes made the bottom too soggy, so I'm not sure I would do that again.  Or, I would add the ingredients to the top.  I don't know.  I'm not a professional.

Obviously.

Mmm.  Toppings.

Finally, take the egg mix and fill in the cups.  I used a 1/4 cup measuring cup and filled them that way.  It's up to you.  I'm not the boss of you.  Well, I'd like to be, but you're really making it tough.

Voila! Filled muffin quiches.

You will toss these bad boys onto the middle oven rack for 30 or 35 minutes.  My oven is a wuss, so it took the full 35.  They will look all golden and delicious when they are done.

The left has been cooking for 10 mins already.
The right just went in moments before.

Pull those gorgeous creatures out when they are getting golden around the edges.  Let them cool, run a knife around the edges, and presto! You have muffin quiches.

Mmmm.  Goodness.

Now, The Guy who despises all egg things admitted that these smell pretty dang awesome.  I'm pretty pleased if I do say so myself!

Failures: Food and Hygiene

After last night's Valentine meal of cold pizza and cereal, I thought I should try and do something more exciting tonight.  It's the one night off we have together this week.  Meaning, he's off tomorrow and I leave for Saskatoon at 7am.

Thinking I would get a head start on a nice "fancy" dinner, I put brown rice on the stove just after noon.  I figured then I could mix it with the stuff it was supposed to be mixed with later and save me ages of time.

Problem with brown rice is that it takes a longer time to cook than white rice.  The problem with this is my attention span is maxed out at 20 minutes, so I knew 55 would be a challenge.  But, I set the alarm on the stove and figured that would be enough for me.

I should know me better by now.

At 3pm, I went upstairs again after playing on the internet and downloading all the music of artist Ingrid Michaelson.  It was then I remembered the rice.

I hesitantly opened the lid and peered inside.  The rice was white.  The bottom was black.  It smelled like popcorn that was left in the microwave too long.  I threw it in the garbage (melting the bag) and soaked the pot.

When The Guy got home, he suggested left overs.

***********************************************

On our last day of our two week trip in Cuba, I walked into the bathroom as The Guy was brushing his teeth. I stared at him and said, "You haven't been using that toothbrush this whole time have you?  It's mine."

He had forgotten which toothbrush he had brought with him, so we spent the entire trip unwittingly sharing the same brush.

He passed it to me and said, "It might be wet."

Burnt offerings: the first meal I cooked for The Guy

I read something (likely in a medical journal*) where it said that the first meal that is prepared by one partner for their significant other sets the tone for their entire relationship.

This cannot be good.

After I was settled into my new house the summer I started dating The Guy, I invited him over for supper.  I thought it would be the perfect first meal -- simple, manly, not too many vegetables.  I had fresh steak (bought from a friend's husband who grows cows), garden potatoes (not my garden) and corn on the cob.

I fired up the barbeque -- confident in my capabilities as an independent woman! -- and got everything ready to cook.  I wrapped up the potatoes (sliced thinly and covered in spices) and corn in foil and got them ready for the fire.  Everything was going smoothly.

It was a really hot summer.  Like old people dying in the shade hot summer.  My little house with no air-conditioning was not going to work for dinner.  So, I set up for a romantic dinner outside.  Plastic chairs, an old table from my mom's sewing room, and my finest dinnerware.  It was crass, but there was a breeze.  I put on a flirty little dress and waited for my company to arrive.

The Guy arrived in perfect timing.  He brought me flowers (I think, but can't remember.  It sounds good though, right?) and commented on my dress.  Everything was going as planned.

That's when I smelled smoke.

I ran out to the barbeque and found most of the steaks in flames.  The handy spray water bottle I kept beside the barbeque just for times like this was put to use and the steaks were salvageable.  Much like my mother's rule, fire meant supper was done!

As we sat down for supper, The Guy sawing into his burned steak and grinning madly, I knew he was one I was going to have to keep.

Especially because he still had that grin when we found out the potatoes were still raw.




* We have a friend who tells us about things she's read.  Her defense has often been that she read it in a medical journal.  Thus, it is fact.  Thus, we tease her mercilessly.

Smoke alarm suppers

Yesterday, when I wrote this twitter, everyone thought I was joking.

The sad thing is, I'm not.

In our family, there is an inside joke about the smoke alarm.  When one would go off in our house, we would say "Supper's ready!"

And it usually was.

You see, I come by my cooking disasters naturally.  And I have a lot of them.  There are even stories I haven't told you.   My mother wasn't a bad cook, but it was not uncommon for things to get a little "crispy" from time to time.

I'm not sure if the smoke alarm was just in the perfect place to allow for the most accidental set off's, or if there were a lot of burned suppers in my childhood, but more than once that alarm was going off just in time to hear Mom yell that supper was ready.

For me, I tend to put supper on to cook and then get distracted by something shiny.  I wander around in my own world and then am brought back into reality by a panic that supper is likely burned.  So far, it hasn't been the case too often but that may be because the smoke alarm is on the other side of the house.

Bread: The final product

Since I started the bread story, I thought I should finish it. 

After a late night cooking, I had eaten my way through the pantry.  By the time the bread was baked, I was kind of over it.

But, I had been craving freshly baked bread with honey, and be damned, I was going to have it.

The final product!

It was a little cracked on the top, but it looked like bread!

Fresh bread and honey.  Mmmm

For gluten free bread, it was a darn sight better than the other one I'd tried.  I'm definitely going to do it again.

Eventually.

Ima bake bread now

I broke down the other week and bought a loaf of gluten free bread.  I wanted to eat a cold meatloaf sandwich and everyone knows you can't do that without bread.  It was a 4x2x2 loaf of rice bread for $8.  I set it on the counter with a heavy clunk (it was frozen) and laughed.  The Guy brought out his loaf of bread that was 12x5x4 that was $2.  It was pathetic.

I thawed the bread and looked at it.  It was spongy and weird.  I put together my meatloaf (made with quinoa instead of oats) sandwich and sat down to eat.  Huh.  It tasted spongy, but not terrible.  It was a sandwich, but I knew, that loaf of bread was not much worth $8.

I was inspired by my sister Ky to attempt to make my own bread.  She bought a Celimix package (which would make 6 loaves at a mere $2 a piece) and baked her own.  I thought, Ky has an idea here!

I bought the package, and the yeast and made a plan. 

Mix and yeast.

 I have never baked bread before.  I mean, without my Mom's help.  So, I followed the instructions which were pretty easy, and mixed the yeast and watch it do it's thing.

I had no idea yeast smelled SO EFFING TERRIBLE.  But, there is was.  It smelled bad.  And I'm going to have to eat it some later.  Yummy.

Mix, all mixed.

So, I mixed the mix together.  Stirred it just like it told me to.  And then I poured it into bread pan and prepared to wait.  It said to wait until it rose just to the brim of the pan... Ky says that's about an hour.

Mix getting ready to rise.

So, I'm watching Season 3 of Supernatural (Dean! *sigh*), eating ice cream, and waiting.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Wheatless home on the prairies

Since my sister Ky announced in February she was diagnosed with Celiac's disease, we knew it was a matter of time before the rest of us had to get tested.  We all have similar symptoms and have been going to doctors for years with limited success.  Now that we know it exists in our family, we can get tested.

I got home from Victoria and immediately went to the doctor to get the test underway.  One big blood test later (seriously, I don't think I had blood left when they were done) I had to wait for the results.  Since I've had numerous other health issues going on, the one week waiting period turned into three in order for all the results to come in at the same time.

Wednesday was that time.

I walked into the doctor's office, got into my paper gown (the physical was that day too, oh joy) and waited.  I've been a bit anxious about what the results of the Celiac test would be, so finally being so close to an answer was a bit nerve racking.

My lovely doctor came in, sat down, told me the results of the test and immediately took my blood pressure.  Not such a good choice it turns out.  Perhaps she should have reversed that?

I have Celiac's disease.  My levels were far and beyond the highest of the measurable scales.  The levels that were "extremely high" were left in the dust by my results.  For once, I'm an overachiever.  Yay me.

It means going on a gluten-free diet.  No wheat.  No bread.  No pasta.  No cereal.  Forever. 

I've had a month to digest this (pardon the pun) but it was still kind of a kick to the junk.  I know I will adjust.  I will be forced to eat healthier and this is awesome.  However, I have to admit, I am in mourning.  It's going to be a big adjustment.  I'm going to have to learn how to cook healthier, want to cook healthier, eat healthier, want to eat healthier.  I'm going to have to stop eating a family sized box of Mini Wheats a month.

I know it will be good for me.  I will likely lose weight (Dr. figures my body can't process the gluten so it stores it -- just in cases).  I will not be as tired.  I will not be as irritable.  I will not be as gassy.  (The world rejoices at that one.  Especially Monty and The Guy.  Dutch oven gets old fast.)  I will feel better. 

Really, I should be looking on the up side of this.  It will be nice not to have bi-polar intestines with the emotional stability of a pubescent teenage girl in the hysterics of unrequited love. 

But I will really miss Mini Wheats.

Cooking is dangerous and will disfigure you

I wanted my first post of the year to be thought provoking and interesting.  But that was before my stove tried to kill me.

This year, like every year before, I have resolved to eat better, exercise more, make more food at home, eat out less, etc.  This year's plan, like every year before, will likely fade out in about 3 weeks, but for now, it's the plan.

One of the easiest ways for me to eat well is to have lots of healthy food available that will not take long to prepare.  If I have little baggies of pre-cooked chicken ready, I am more likely to make salads with chicken on top or something like that.  It's a good plan and usually works for me.

However, it starts with the need to cook a whole bunch of chicken.  I spread 6 chicken breasts on a cooking rack and baked it.  When I knew it was done, I put on my oven mitt (I've burned myself before and did not want to do it again!) and opened the oven door.  I leaned in to get the chicken out and as I did, I bumped the oven door with my leg, closing it on my arm.

I ran it under cool water until it stopped hurting.  I followed the instructions in my First Aid book.  I ignored the pain and waited.  An hour later, I checked under the bandage.  It is the most disgusting thing I have ever seen!!!!  And now I will show you.

This is the outside of my arm.  The wrinkles are from the bandage (I cannot have anything near me that doesn't leave wrinkles on my skin!).  The blister is disgusting and the skin around it is super sore.  It hurts lots and I am pouty.

This just goes to show you, cooking will kill you.  Order take out.

Culinary Disaster-piece Theatre: Turnip Puff edition

First off, all except those from our family and local church are thinking "What the heck is a turnip puff?"  A friend thought it was like cream puffs but made of turnips.  Not so much.  A turnip puff is a casserole of turnips and brown sugar coated with a crusty top.  It is my all time favourite thing to have at Christmas, Thanksgiving, and other pot luck meals.

Every year since the time before man, my Auntie Marj has been making Turnip Puff.  She makes one for every family meal and every church supper.  She confided in me that she has been really tired of making it year after year after year. 

When I decided to have The Guy's family over for Christmas, I decided I was making Turnip Puff.  I was a grown up!  Surely I could do it.  And, while I was at it, I could make one for church Christmas dinner!

Why do I do these things to myself?

I grabbed a recipe off the Internet.  I started my plans. I needed 6 cups of turnips for each casserole.  When I went to the store, I had to ask an old lady is turnips and rutabagas were the same thing.  She confirmed they were.  The rutabagas were bigger than any turnip I ever remembered.  Somehow, in my head from the reading of the recipe to the planning of the grocery list, I had changed from 6 cups to 6 turnips per casserole.  When I saw the size of the turnip-bagas, I thought I would just play it safe and get 4 per casserole instead.  I walked out of the store with 2 bags of turnip-bagas the size of a small child's head.

Today, I decided it was time to make the casseroles.  I was going to make them well enough ahead that I could freeze them and bring them out the day of the meal.  Much less stress that way. 

I started peeling the ruta-turnips.  Each one of them weighed about 5 pounds and proceeded to get heavier as I peeled them.  Slowly, one by one, I cut them up into little pieces into a pot of water.  Surely it won't fill the whole pot, I thought (not meaning to rhyme).  It did.

THE ENTIRE POT.  This cannot be a good thing.

I put it on to boil and waited until a fork easily slid into the pieces.  I drained the pot into a colander in the sink.  Only half the pot of pieces could go into colander.  From the colander, I poured the turnips into the measuring cup.  Only half the colander fit into the 8 cup measuring cup.

Do you see the pattern here?

2 hours, a used electric mixer, hand potato masher, and dirty food processor later, I have 3 casseroles and 10 small bags of cooked turnips.  The smell of turnip is now mixed with the smell of paint from the contractors downstairs and, to tell you the truth, I'm sick of the whole thing.  I may never be able to eat a turnip again.

Yet another reason why I order take out.

My mother-in-law purchased us a couple of chickens from the Hutterites.  We threw them in the freezer and never thought of them again.  That is, until I decided to make one for supper.  Around 3:30pm, The Guy reminded me that I should be throwing one in the oven. 

I realized that the chicken was frozen.  Panicked, I looked on the Internet to find out what I needed to do to cook it.  I've made a turkey before, but it had instructions on it and my Grandma was there.  I looked it up though, and was sure I could do it.  I mean, how hard could it be?

WHY DO I NEVER LEARN??????

I put the chicken in.  I cooked it the time it told me too.  I used a MEAT THERMOMETER.  I was serious.  It should have been perfect.  The Internet told me it would be. 

I cut into it.  It bled.  I thought maybe it was just chicken juice - but no, it was blood.  At this point, it was an hour after I was ready to eat.  In desperation, I tore the skin off and ate it.  The Guy doesn't like it any way and I figured that I likely couldn't get salmonella from the skin.  I contemplated either throwing it in the microwave or throwing caution to the wind and sticking the entire thing in my mouth.  I couldn't figure out what to do.  I put it back in.

I took it out again.  Used the meat thermometer again.  It was supposed to be done. 

It wasn't.  I threw the damn bird back in.  Finally, I ate the potatoes and veggies.  I pouted.  An hour and a half later, it was almost done.  The Guy had broken down and poured himself a bowl of cereal.  I put the finally cooked chicken into a container and threw it in the fridge.  I couldn't make myself eat it.

We'll have leftovers for the week which is good, but it is going to be hard to make myself eat it. 

Stupid effing chicken.

Dinner disaster-piece

I have been planning tonight's supper for a few weeks.  My Dad and his wife, Tanya, were planned to arrive in time for supper to begin their 5 day stay with The Guy and me.  Tanya is a good cook and I wanted to do something that would be hearty and impressive.  I thought of my mom's version of Hamburger Soup and I knew it would be just the thing.

A week ago, I sat down and went through the ingredients to make sure I had everything I needed.  I planned out when I would need to start things and how long it would take to cook.  I shopped, I planned, and I plotted.

This morning came and at 11am, I could be found chopping onions, browning meat, and readying the soup pot.  I chopped the veggies, opened tins of diced tomatoes, and prepared the soup.  I finished in record time and sat around twiddling my thumbs waiting for the time when I had to turn on the stove for it's two hour simmer session.

Technically, I didn't twiddle my thumbs.  I made cookies, did 5 loads of laundry, cleaned the tub, walked the dog, planned the bisquits, and read a book.  It was a long 3 hours.

Finally, the time to start the soup came.  I turned the stove on to simmer and walked away.  A couple of hours later, I came to check on it.  The fat from the meat seemed to be congealing more than I remembered it doing in Mom's soup.  It also didn't smell right.  I thought I was just remembering it poorly, but maybe the heat wasn't up high enough.  I cranked the heat up a notch and carried on to make the bisquits.

The bisquits did not go as easily as I had planned.  I used too much moisture and not enough flour.  I ended up having to readjust the flour but that caused me to over-kneed.  They looked nice when they came out, but they were about 1/4 inch high instead of 1 inch.  Ah well, I will have to practice more often.

We sat down to eat in record time.  I served everyone up a serving and settled in to eat.  Dad was half way through his soup when I took my first bite.  It was ice cold.  ICE COLD.  The soup that had been simmering away all afternoon was cold as can be.  I panicked.  I threw everyone's soup in the microwave and apologized over and over again.

I took the soup pot off the table and put it back on the stove.  As I went to turn on the stove I realized what I had done.  I had turned on the wrong element.  I had simmered nothing for 2 1/2 hours. 

This is what happens when I try and cook.  And this is why I order out.

I should never be unsupervised

Tonight was a bit of a disaster. I should have stayed in bed.

I started supper. Ky and I had a craving for steak and I knew I had one package left in the deep freeze. I brought it up and got the potatoes ready to throw on the barbeque. Then I opened the package to thaw the steaks. It was a roast that had been mislabeled. So I ran back down and found another package I had forgotten about and got it ready. I turned the heat on the barbeque way down after learning my lesson from the last time I cooked. I put the steaks on and went inside. For 5 minutes. I came back to find the steaks on fire.

On FIRE.

Half the steak was in charcoal bits and the other half was raw. So, I left it to cook, hoping it would balance itself out. The final product was a well cooked, mostly burned piece of barely recognizable steak. My mother would have been proud. I learned all my cooking ability from her. Next time, I am ordering out.

Then, while getting ready for work, I had problems as I tried to step out of the tub. I had accidentally worn my glasses into the shower, so I had thrown them on the mat. I stepped out of the tub and saw the glasses at the last minute. So I tried to change the direction of my step. In mid air. In a slippery tub. I fell. I slipped backwards into the tub and caught the back of my heel on the lip of the tub. I caught my balance just before I landed but the damage had been done. My heel screamed in pain and almost instantly turned blue.

I hobbled into work and figured I deserved a break. I grabbed a Timmy's tea and settled at my desk. I looked down to see that I had a small problem. I had leaked. Tea was all down the front of my sweater and down the arm as well. My white sweater. It was so bad, I took it off and spent the rest of the night in my jacket and my tank top. It's hard to pretend to be a professional when you are not even properly dressed.

The rest of the night was a gong show too. It was slow until the end of my shift. Then BAM. All H-E- double hockey sticks broke loose and came out to play. I am so glad that was my last shift. Tomorrow I plan to wear a safety helmet and stay indoors.