I know what you’re thinking, and no, I haven’t gone all nutjob on you. This is, indeed, a casserole recipe that will not make your jeans explode.  We are still in the thick of the Save the Ass! campaign here at Chez T., mainly because it’s time for my hubs’ bi-annual commitment to Le Regime.  Sigh.

Those of you unfamiliar with the butt-pain that is Le Regime can catch up here.

In short, Le Regime entails a lot of high-protein, easily portable mini-meals and grueling hours of exercise. For both of us. For husband, it means lots of little noshes and sweat sessions. For me, it means: Dana never has time to eat because she’s so busy making high-protein little noshes and lifting pots and pans while listening to her spouse grunt, groan and arrrrrrrr it out in the other room with his dumbbells.

It’s a good thing he’s so dang cute, let me tell you.

This breakfast dish fits the bill perfectly–it’s got about 20 grams of gut-busting protein per serving and can be made in advance, wrapped up and toted to the workplace or gym or wherever your lifestyle takes you.  I like it because it serves four, meaning I get three “free” mornings where I don’t have to fret about what to feed my vain girly-man.

So if the holidays were a little vindictive to your hind end, or whether you’ve resolved to eat more meatless meals, or you’re slave to a girly-man, I’d suggest you give this recipe a try. It’s delicious, not too spicy, and full of cheesy goodness.

Chiles Rellenos Casserole

serves 4

approximately 300 calories per serving

6 large eggs

1 cup low-fat milk

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1/4 teaspoon chili powder

2 (5.75oz) cans diced green chiles, drained

1 chopped jalapeno pepper (optional)

1/4 cup sliced scallion

1 cup diced red or orange bell pepper

salt and pepper

4 ounces reduced fat, extra sharp Cheddar cheese, such as Cabot or Cracker Barrel brand*

1/2 cup chopped cilantro or parsley

Preheat the oven to 350. Grease a shallow 2 quart casserole dish.

Combine the eggs, milk, flour, chili powder, drained chiles, jalapeno, scallion, red pepper, 1/4 teaspoon salt and 1/8 teaspoon pepper in a large bowl. Stir well with a whisk. Gently stir in cheese and half of the herbs.  Pour into prepared dish.

Bake for 35-40 minutes or until golden and puffed; the center should still jiggle slightly.

Cool on a wire rack for ten minutes, cut into wedges and sprinkle with remaining cilantro/parsley.

In other news, I’ll be a little scarce this week–there’s a bunch of fish frying over here–some good, some not so good. I’ll spare you the details. But I’ll leave you with a photo of our newest little resident. He’s been spending some time hanging out in the back yard and rolling in my dead garden.  He’s quite the charming fellow. The girls have given him the name (so creative) of Mr. Fluffytail.  Both he and I wish you the most wonderful of weeks!

{ 27 comments }

The Birthday

January 19, 2012

I have never seen such a mountain of  filth in my life.

“Holy…?” I say under my breath, reaching behind my back to shut the door. The door of my sister’s apartment. The apartment I have a key to and never use, but today I have a surprise birthday present in my arms.

The living room is blanketed with ash. Bowls of cigarette butts overflow onto tables, couches, area rugs. Candles lay weeping in their own waxy juices, spilling onto end tables and shelves. Candles everywhere–what the Hell? Who does my sister think she is? Sting?

There’s discarded dirty underwear on the floor.

Niiice. I kick it into a corner.

Glasses. Cheap cocktail glasses–the ones I helped her pick out from Tuesday Morning–pepper the room, abandoned in various stages of consumption.  Smeared with lipstick and grease and nicotine and God knows what else, those glasses wink in the late day sun.

I drop the gift in a corner and yank open windows. How long has it been since fresh oxygen has seen this apartment? How long has she been marinating in here, in this shitty little box, with the yellowed linoleum and the dessicated carpet and the kitchen the size of a closet?

I walk into the kitchen. The stove has been broken for months, but C. doesn’t care. The girl can’t cook, won’t cook, thinks cooking is “boring.”  My sister is single and fierce and will not fry up that bacon in the pan, that’s for sure.

She eats, though.

That’s pretty evident from the wasteland of plates, forks and bowls encrusted with vestiges of cheese, lettuce, stuff. I’m looking at days upon days, weeks of days of dishes.

She hasn’t bothered to rinse anything. Her dishes are a Rorschach of past meals–salsa, vivid orange pools of Kraft French dressing, errant smears of mustard. Jesus.

She doesn’t own a dishwasher, but that’s a moot point. Looking at the edible inkblots, I know this isn’t party wreckage I’m staring at. Every stain on every dish smacks of C.–the salads she makes when she’s barely able to bring the fork to her mouth, swimming in French dressing, full of cheese and questionable lettuce.  The toast she makes and dips in mustard, when there’s nothing else in the house to eat.  In the sink, her signature is everywhere.

I open the freezer compartment of the refrigerator. A large bottle of McCormick’s vodka and a few stray Otter Pops.

A girl’s gotta have priorities.

I think about opening the refrigerator but I reconsider. My vision has already been overloaded–do I really want to engage the olfactory, too?  I don’t want to stomach whatever science experiment is festering in that thing.

Surely, I’ve seen the worst of it. There’s no way the bedroom can be fouler ground than that kitchen. I put my hand on the bedroom door, which is open just a sliver, and I pause.  I feel kind of dirty looking in my sister’s bedroom. I mean, isn’t the bedroom the most private and sacred of places?  Would this take my (already) borderline violation of privacy to a level that’s just flat-out terrible?

Then again, she did give me a key.

If you give a sister a key, will she use it? If she uses it, will she walk in the door at unexpected moments?  If she walks in unexpectedly, will she stay to inspect? If she stays to inspect, will she stumble into a wasp’s nest?

I enter the bedroom and throw the windows open.  It reeks of stale air and dirty clothes, but I stalk past, shutting the door behind me. A girl, any girl, deserves her secrets.

I walk back into the living room, flip the stereo on, scan the cd shelf, decide on the Gin Blossoms. I crank the volume, tuck my hair into a ponytail, and walk into the bathroom. Sleeves rolled, I locate the canister of Dow Scrubbing Bubbles and glaze the bathtub with a heavy white layer.

As the bubbles work magic, I grab two large garbage bags and go to work on the living room. She’s got an incense stand on top of the television. When did she start burning incense?  I think about the cigarettes and the candles and the incense and decide I’m glad she doesn’t cook. This place is kindling.

Bottles, empty Cheetos bags, butts, old magazines, near-empty nail polish containers, socks beyond saving. Trash.

I dampen a few paper towels and swipe across the tv screen.

“Dang,” I mutter. “How do you even see anything through this?”

I find a table knife and excavate candle wax, layer by layer, singing along with the Gin Blossoms.

All last summer as if you don’t recall
I was yours and you were mine forget it all
Is there a line that I could write
Sad enough to make you cry
All the lines you wrote to me were lies


I scrub the bathtub with the only stiff thing I can find, an un-used back-scrubber from a Bed, Bath and Beyond gift basket I gave her for Christmas last year. I force the brush back and forth, focused on the hard brown ring in the center of the bathtub and the mildewed faucet. I run scalding water over and apply another coat of bubbles.

I’m not sure how to deal with the ash on the furniture and carpet. I decide to vacuum first–yes, she does own a vacuum, in impeccable condition–and then study the tables and shelves. I decide to wet a big bath towel and plunder as much ash as I can for the money.  I riffle through towels in the closet. My hands fall on an empty bottle and one half-full one stashed in between the terrycloth.

Who you hiding these from, Ponyboy?

I rinse the soiled towel in the bathtub, pressing down hard until water runs clean. I wipe the bathtub again, smears of bubble and ammonia-scented air. I bash the plug into the drain, turn the water hot as I can get it, and fill.

I grab a bottle of Dawn dish soap from the kitchen and pour it into the tub, almost emptying the sucker. Bubble, bubble.

I collect the dishes, plates, silverware, glasses, bowls, cups from the kitchen and living room and place them in the bathtub until water threatens to spill onto the floor.  I look around the bathroom and throw a few toothbrushes in, just for good measure.

I’m waiting for the dishes to soak when she walks in, sunglasses on, cigarette and paper sack in hand.

“Duuude!” she squeals, grinning. “What’s up?”

She scans the room.

“This is…just…wow!”

“So okay, but your dishes are soaking in the bathtub. There were too many to deal with, so I decided to wash them in there.”

She laughs and gives me a hard, quick hug. “Hey, what can I say? Remember that book we had when were little?  The Man Who Would Not Wash His Dishes? That book was awesome.”

I don’t remember. She shuts the apartment door and tosses her purse on the couch.  She takes the bag into the kitchen. “You want a drink? I’ve got fresh tonic.”

“A drink is a capital idea.”  I go into the bathroom, pluck two glasses from the bathtub, rinse them in hot water, and bring them to her. “Strong.”

“As if there’s any other way. Lime?”

“Sure.”

She brings me my drink, takes a sip, then hands me her glass. “Wait. Hold on.”

She runs on tiptoes into her bedroom and emerges with an armful of  dirty dishes. “There’s mooore!” she says in a singsong voice, laughing.  She clanks them into the bathtub.

I set the drinks down. Present under my arm, I wander to the stereo and re-start the cd. Delighted, she tears into wrapping paper and ribbon. I pick up my drink, swallow and feel the burn.

    The months roll past the love that you struck dead
    Did you love me only in my head?
    The things you did and said to me
    Seemed to come so easily
    The love I thought I’d won you give for free

    *Lyrics from the Gin Blossoms’ “Found Out About You,” from New Miserable Experience

{ 62 comments }

Mushroom Risotto

January 16, 2012

Dare I say that this risotto is better than the last risotto I made? The one with the saffron, the most expensive spice in the world? I think that if you haul out the big wallet guns and perfume your risotto with saffron, you’ve guaranteed yourself an unbeatable dish, right?

Almost, but nope. I have to say, I thought this mushroom version was superior, and Mama agreed.

I do have to preface this with the warning that it’s still not the cheapest risotto to stir on your stove; this recipe uses dried porcini mushrooms for extra oomph, and dried porcini mushrooms aren’t a penny-pincher’s dream.

Luckily, you don’t need a lot of dried porcini (only an ounce or so) to get your money’s worth, and boy, are they worth the money. Dried porcini mushrooms=luscious little flavor bombs.

I don’t know what happens to a porcini when you dry it, but it’s magic.  Drying sexifies those suckers in the best possible way.  They become almost meaty, and the soaking broth (you reconstitute them in hot water) infuses the rice with umami* love.

C’mon, say it with me: oooooooh-mami.  Umami is just dang fun to say. It’s right up there with another of my favorite words: kumquat.  How can you say kumquat with a straight face? I cannot. That word turns me into a giggly seventh-grader.  Am I the only word dork out there who plays favorites?

Anyways, dear readers, I think you should make this risotto.  It’s divine. And even despite the pricey porcini and the Arborio rice and the good Parmesan cheese, it’s not going to break the bank.  If you’re a veg-head, use vegetable stock instead of chicken stock and you’ll still be happy.  Personally, I like the richness that chicken stock adds to the dish, but if you object to a pot of simmering cluckcluck, use the veggie stock.

For those of you committed to the post-holiday Save the Ass! campaign, feel free to omit the last 1 1/2 tablespoons of butter at the end, but do not omit the Parmesan cheese, I beg of you.  Just ask Ina Garten. If you splurge on the good cheese, you won’t have to use more than a handful or two to really make this dish sing.  It’s worth a few extra minutes on the treadmill.

Mucho Mushroom Risotto

serves 6

1 (1-ounce) package dried porcini mushrooms (you can find these next to the fresh herbs in the produce aisle)

1 cup boiling water

4-5 cups low-sodium chicken stock, warmed

1 tablespoon each butter and olive oil

2-3 shallots, sliced

1 cup mixed fresh mushrooms, such as cremini, chanterelle, shiitake or button, cleaned and sliced

1 1/2 cups Arborio or other short-grain rice

1/2 cup dry white wine, such as Pinot Grigio

salt and pepper to taste

1/2 cup fresh Italian flat-leaf parsley, chopped

1 1/2 tablespoons softened butter (optional)

A few handfuls of freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Remove dried porcini from packaging and place in a small bowl. Pour boiling water over mushrooms and let soak until reconstituted and soft enough to chop, about 20 minutes. Remove mushrooms and chop. Do not throw away the soaking water!

Strain the soaking water through a cheesecloth placed in a fine sieve to remove any silt or dirt particles. Set soaking water aside.

In a large saucepan over medium-high heat, warm the chicken broth and the soaking water; keep at a simmer.

In a large saucepan (preferably non-stick), melt the 1 tablespoon butter with the 1 tablespoon of olive oil on medium heat. Add the rice and the shallots; stir until the rice is coated with the butter/oil and the shallots have begun to soften, about 4 minutes.

Add the chopped dried mushrooms, a little salt and pepper and the wine, stirring constantly, until liquid is nearly evaporated.  Keep adding warm stock, in 1/2 cup increments, stirring until liquid is almost evaporated and then adding more stock.

After ten minutes, stir in fresh mushrooms and keep stirring/adding stock as necessary. Cook about ten minutes more, on medium to medium-high heat, stirring frequently, until rice is tender but still has a good chew to it.

This could take up to 30 minutes if you live at high altitude, but check the rice at the 20 minute mark.

When rice is done, stir in butter (if using) and salt and pepper to taste. Stir in parsley and top with Parmesan cheese.

Serve in warm bowls, passing additional Parmesan cheese at the table, if desired.

*Umami is a relatively modern term, referring to what Asian cultures have deemed the fifth sense of taste.  Umami refers to a meaty, salty taste, often found in bacon, Parmesan cheese, mushrooms and soy sauce.  Those are all good things, are they not?

{ 31 comments }

Guest Post: Miss D.

January 11, 2012

Year Of The Veg: Celery Soup

January 8, 2012

Punched

January 4, 2012

Happy 2012! Year of the Veg

January 1, 2012

Annual Holdiay Cheer: Santa Stinky!

December 23, 2011

Roasted Caprese Salad

December 20, 2011

Holiday Snack Mix

December 16, 2011