Lamb Chops in Experimental Balsamic Reduction for a Mother of Three

Lamb Chops in Balsamic Reduction

Ingredients

I made a couple extra, for lunch

• 1 tsp dried rosemary
• 1/2 tsp dried basil
• 1/2 tsp dried thyme
• salt and pepper, to taste
• 2 lamb chops, at least 3/4″ thick
• 2 tablespoon olive oil, divided
• 1/4 cup minced shallots
• 3 cloves garlic, minced
• 1/3 cup balsamic vinegar (use the best kind available, with low acidity)
• 3/4 cup chicken broth
• 1-2 tablespoons butter

Directions

1. In a small bowl, mix all spices together. Rub spices onto all sides of chops, place on a plate or in a small bowl, cover, and place in the fridge for at least 30 minutes.
2. Heat 1 tablespoon of olive oil in a skillet over medium-high heat and add lamb when oil begins to smoke. Cook for about 3 1/2 minutes per side. Remove from the skillet and keep warm.
3. Add second tablespoon of oil, followed by garlic and shallots, and sauté until fragrant. Stir in balsamic vinegar and scrape any bits from the bottom of the skillet, then stir in the chicken broth. Continue to heat and stir until sauce is reduced by half (about seven minutes). Remove from heat and stir in butter. Continue to stir until butter is melted and sauce has thickened, pour over lamb chops, and serve.

Serves: 1

Serve with: Mashed potatoes and asparagus

Pairs well with: Zinfandel, Opium, and experimentation.

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…for a Mother of Three

I made dinner for one the night I smoked opium the first time. It was a Saturday, and it was delicious. The lamb was so tender, so juicy, and tasted like when I was a kid and life was a future. The opium showed me things and the balsamic was the good kind, the kind from Whole Foods, the kind I never had before but knew I needed. For this. For dinner. And it was just the slightest bit sour but also balanced and glided over my tongue in a way I’d never experienced before, and it helped the sticky smoke billow out in a puff of floral-scented kisses. Oh the opium was good. I dreamed of a forest full of butterflies and a giant lamb stalked me. I ran, of course, but the smell of lilacs and daisies and even roses infiltrated my senses, and I could see the soothing smell of lavender, which I stopped to fully drink in. And just like that, my fear of the lamb was dissolved; I hugged the woolen beast and the it licked my face. I apologized for eating its cousin, but the lamb, he just apologized for fucking mine and we made up and I woke up feeling more refreshed than ever, in all forty two years of my life, and the vague remnants of my lonely dinner for one wafted through the kitchen and up the stairs and reminded me that I’ll never need you again, so long as I live, except to take the kids on weekends. Though it had been left out all night, I sat up from my nest on the couch and let the blackberry notes from last night’s third glass of zinfandel roll over the back of my tongue and release to my nose. The sun spilled through the cracks of the blinds and I breathed two lungfuls of air, imbibing the future. I cleaned the dishes from the night prior and set about my day, happy the kids were with their father another night.

Christmas Morning Strata and Other Things I Fucked Up When I Was Eight

Christmas Morning Challah Bread Strata

INGREDIENTS

• 1 pound challah, cut into 1-inch cubes (about 8 to 9 cups)
• 7 large eggs
• 1/2 cup milk
• 1 tablespoon butter, melted
• 1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
• salt and pepper, to taste
• 1/2 pound maple flavored breakfast sausage links, diced
• 1 cup shredded cheddar cheese
• 5 oz. crumbled goat cheese
• 2 tablespoons honey, divided

COOKING DIRECTIONS

1. Cut the Challah bread into 1-inch cubes and layer in the bottom of a small bowl. In a separate bowl, whisk together eggs, milk, olive oil, salt, pepper, and butter, and pour over bread cubes. Cover and place in refrigerator overnight.
2. In the morning, preheat oven to 350° and grease a 9×13 baking dish. Dice and brown the sausage links in a skillet over medium heat.
3. Layer the bottom of the 9×13 baking dish with half of the Challah bread cube mixture and half of the cheese. Repeat a second layer. Crumble goat cheese over the strata and drizzle 1 tablespoon of honey over the top.
4. Bake uncovered for 45 minutes, or until cheese is brown and bubbly. Drizzle the remaining honey over the cooked strata and serve.

Serves: 4-6, or one fat 8 year-old, a tired emotionally drained wife, and a shitty drunk husband

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There’s something to be said about an easy make-ahead Christmas breakfast, but the only thing that comes to mind is This tastes like shit. That’s what my 26 year-old father said, anyway, before he finished his third screwdriver of the morning and threw the small glass plate full of puffy breakfast strata against the wall on December 25. He only took three bites, but really my mother should have remembered he hates sausage links and prefers scrambled eggs over some jiggly fucking mess of a breakfast. I thought Mom was a great cook and downed two fat squares of the strata huddled in the corner of my bedroom while Mom dealt with the rising tide in the living room. The tide sucked her in, though, like it always did (on its way out) and I would grow into never forgiving myself because I thought it fit me. Santa expected better, expects the opposite of cowardice, whatever the fuck that is, but I knew I didn’t have it.

I loved the way we decorated the tree that year, and although Mom said it was beautiful, I knew we should have used regular popcorn for the garland instead of caramel crunch, for obvious reasons. When I finished making a racecar with 246 little pieces of my new 450-piece Erector set, I ate a third piece of strata, savoring the maple-flavored breakfast sausage. The car was powered by a rubber band that wound around little cogs connected to the front and rear axles. I pulled back on the sleek frame, heard the click click click, and watched as nothing happened, the sound of Mom packing our bags floating through the house.

Honey Mustard Chicken and “A Fifth Date…”

 

Honey mustard chicken over Jasmine rice with steamed broccoli

INGREDIENTS

• 3-4 bone-in chicken quarters (I used thigh/leg pieces)
• Salt & Pepper, to taste
• 1/3 c. Dijon mustard
• 1/4 c. honey
• 1 Tbsp. olive oil
• 1 tsp. dried rosemary
• 1/2 tsp. crushed red pepper flakes

Preheat oven to 350°.

Remove skin from the chicken (if you want) and sprinkle salt and pepper liberally, if that’s your thing. Place in a shallow baking dish and set to the side.

Combine all other ingredients in a bowl and whisk together. Spoon mixture over chicken and add a couple more dashes of Rosemary on top, but don’t overdo it.

Place chicken in the oven, uncovered, and bake for 45 minutes or until a thermometer reads 180°.

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I decided to serve the chicken over 1 c. Jasmine rice with 3/4 c. frozen peas and carrots added. I cooked the rice according to the instructions on the package and added a little salt and half a tablespoon of butter. When the chicken was nearly finished, I steamed 1 1/2 c. fresh broccoli florets in the microwave with just over a quarter-cup of water, then set it to the side.

When I pulled the chicken out of the oven, I heated 2 tsp. olive oil in a sauté pan and toasted a small handful of slivered almonds for about a minute, then added the steamed broccoli along with a drizzle of honey (maybe 1 1/2 tsp… don’t add too much).

Want the nutrition facts for this recipe? Too fucking bad.

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A Fifth Date in Which We Eat Chicken and Never Fuck

I set the plates down on the table and lit the two stark white, lonely unscented candles to set the mood. Fucking pathetic wasn’t what I was going for, but the Nords weren’t really aiming for Hudson Bay, either. Standing at the scenic window overlooking the parking lot, I sighed and fidgeted with a pair of cloth napkins that I would probably throw in the trash to avoid having to wash. She was wearing red, a sure sign, or so I’d heard. A sundress. With an unassuming pattern of daisies wrapping around, and here I was in a plain black button-down and khakis as if I were attending a second cousin’s funeral. I took a deep breath and never exhaled, not once throughout all of dinner—dinner in the strictest sense of the term. Just dinner. Maybe I was presumptuous, or maybe I was dull, or maybe… I don’t know, maybe I give off a vibe. This chicken is delicious, she remarked. I know, I said. She shot me a glance, made a face, and examined her plate in more detail. Where’d you learn to cook like this, and I really like the color of your dining room couldn’t distract me from the thought of her head slamming against my headboard which in turn slammed the plum eggshell paint of my wall upstairs, in my brain. I don’t know, I just kind of picked it up, I guess, and Sure, yeah, I’m just glad they let me paint here, unlike my last place. After dinner we watched a documentary on Netflix about homelessness and when she left, the couch retained a soft floral scent that matched her dress. You’re a great cook, she said, but I’m not sure I’m ready for a relationship right now, y’know? Yeah, I know, I thought while packaging the chicken up for lunch the next day. I threw the napkins in the trash and left the pans to soak in the sink, then headed to bed, not quite understanding whether the world was the way it was because I was in it or because it was a predetermined path beaten down by God.