Veggie Korma

I don’t have a tried-and-true method for coping with a bad day.   Maybe it’s blogging?  Eh, no, I’m much more of a cliché than that: I’m sure it’s food.  Yesterday I had a particularly angsty day (one of those “What do I want to do with my life?!” and “This is all I’ve accomplished so far?!” melodramas that is in no way unique).  Ah, the cries of the passionless….

Anyway, Matt and I have ate out four times last week, and indulged in brownies, cookies, cakes, and chocolates, and oh, the holidays are most definitely here.  So I had to take the ladle by the handle and say, “Enough!”.  I decided what we needed, in fact, was more food, but home cooked this time, and there is no other cuisine that I am more obsessed with lately than that of India.

On one of our many culinary excursions we dined at an Indian buffet for lunch on Friday.  I could positively bathe in curry.  That’s how much I adore it.  It was a sea of browns, oranges, and reds, mixed with cream and tomatoes and fried onions.  I had channa masala, then a rich dish with paneer (which is cheese, and which you have to be crazy not to love), then vegetable korma, then veggie masala.  And don’t forget the fried veggie fritters and the naan and heaps of basmati rice flecked with peas.  If you’re trying to eat vegetarian, there is no better place to start than with Indian food: the land of lentil dhals and chickpea curries.  Matt, of course, helped himself to some goat.  I think they are the most endearing creatures (after dogs, of course), and he thinks they are the most delicious.  We also made a deal that if we are to eat vegetarian at home, he could eat whatever he damn well pleases when we’re out, even if it includes, yes, goat.  Oh, and steak.  The boy has been eating his fair share of that lately, too.

So last night I threw myself into this dish: Vegetable Korma.  It’s simple but probably the most involved Indian dish I made to date because 1) I had to grind cashews to a fine powder which I found sort of thrilling, and 2) the spice list is a bit out of control.  I even, get this, tried to make it with tofu.  That’s how out-of-my-mind I was.  I love tofu out, namely because they fry/bake-that-bean-curd-to-a-crisp – what’s not to love?  My forays into tofu have been disgusting, at best.  Years ago we tried to make it in a stir-fry but DID NOT DRAIN IT, which is a fool’s mistake and tofu 101, but we’re amateurs.  Yesterday I put paper towels above and below that wobbly white cube and then, in a moment of divine inspiration, but my Kitchenaid Mixer above the whole mess for 45 minutes.  A Kitchenaid is quite possibly the heaviest thing in your home, let alone in your kitchen.

I then cut the tofu into rectangles and fried the darlings.  After eating one I screeched, “Psf!”  I know I had to marinate those suckers in the sauce, and that tofu can take on many flavors, but I was just so turned off by it, and not to mention I made something healthy into a fatty fry-y mess, I threw it out.  (Although Matt and Penny helped themselves to some.  That doesn’t say much as Matt, as you know, eats goat, and Penny has been known to devour banana peels.)

But nevermind the tofu, because this has broccoli, cauliflower, bell peppers, peas, and carrots to help keep you satiated (forget I ate an apple and some cereal later in the night).  Next time I’ll probably throw in some boiled potatoes to boot.  The recipe I followed didn’t include the broccoli and cauliflower, and I thought that was a travesty (and I had two near-rotting heads in the fridge), so I put them in.  The gravy is thick and flavorful and mimicked what I’d had out at restaurants.  The recipe, with the whole tofu debacle, took me over an hour to make, but was therapeutic in its own aromatic way: and that’s what I’d consider a culinary success.  My interpretation of Veggie Korma is below.

Vegetable Korma

• 2/3 - 1 cup unsalted cashews or almonds (gently toasted in dry skillet)
• 3 tsp poppy seeds (gently toasted in a dry skillet)
  
• 2 onions, sliced
• 2 bell peppers, thinly sliced
• 4 cloves of garlic, finely minced
• 1 TB ginger paste (or 1 inch fresh ginger, finely chopped)
• 2-3 carrots, finely diced
• 1 cup cooked peas
• 4-6 cups steamed broccoli and cauliflower
• 1 56 oz. can crushed tomatoes
• 2 tsp dried fenugreek 
• 1 1/2 tsp ground cumin
• 1 tsp ground coriander
• 1 tsp turmeric 
• 2 tsp red chili powder (to taste)
• 2 tsp garam masala
• salt and pepper to taste
• juice of 1 lemon
• chopped cilantro to garnish

Using a spice grinder, grind together the cashews and poppy seeds into a fine powder. Set aside.
 

In a skillet with 1-2 Tb. oil, cook onions until soft. Add the ginger and garlic. Stir fry an additional 2 minutes and add the spices (salt, pepper, ground cumin, ground coriander, red chili powder, garam masala and the fenugreek). Stir fry for a few minutes until fragrant. Add the carrots, stir fry for just a minute and add the bell peppers. Continue to stir fry for a few more minutes. Then stir in the ground cashews.  Mix well and add the crushed tomatoes, broccoli, cauliflower, and peas.

Add 1/2 - 1 cup water and let simmer on low uncovered for 10-12 minutes. Then squeeze the lemon juice over the dish and granish with cilantro.  Serve with rice or naan. 

 The dish before the tomatoes were added.  Those colors are like Christmas!

 The ground cashews and Matt's now-dirty coffee bean grinder.  Bwhaha!

Finito.

Proof that it's freezing in our house...

Even Penny is making herself at home in front of the space heater.

Swirly Cream Cheese Brownies

So I love brownies; sue me! There is nothing much better with milk, and not a whole lot more decadent. Matt isn't a huge dessert person (what guy is?) but he craves two things: apple crisp, and brownies. When he makes the latter, I insist he put nuts in at least 1/2 of the pan, because I like my brownies without 'em and god knows I'd eat the whole pan if I could.

Last weekend I made these cream cheese swirl brownies, sans nuts, and ended up eating the leftovers for breakfast the next morning. Matt came downstairs 30 minutes later and I said, "I did something bad." Without pausing he said he assumed I would eat the brownies; it was a given.

I like that we have that sort of understanding.


Swirly Cream Cheese Brownies

• 1/2 cup unsalted butter, in pieces
• 3 ounces unsweetened chocolate, in pieces
• 1 cup sugar
• 2 large eggs
• 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
• 2/3 cup all-purpose flour
• 8 ounces cream cheese, softened
• 1/3 cup sugar
• 1 large egg yolk
• 1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
• 1/2 cup semisweet chocolate chips
  

Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter an 8 to 9-inch square baking pan. Heat butter and chocolate in a saucepan, stirring until just melted. Remove from heat and whisk in sugar, eggs, vanilla, and a dash of salt until well combined. Whisk in flour until just combined and spread in baking pan.

Then whisk together cheesecake batter ingredients in a small bowl until smooth. Dollop over brownie batter, then swirl with a knife. Sprinkle chocolate chips over mixture. Bake 30-35 minutes, or until edges puff from pan.

Butter or chocolate?: I really don't know which one is more delicious.

Pre-swirl.

And post.

I had six of these for breakfast the next morning. NO JUDGING!

It really would be easier if they came from a stork.

I got my period yesterday. I attribute my being upset to my want-it-now generation. The generation of text-messaging and the “Buy it Now” button on Amazon. Matt and I have been trying for six months. Six months is not very long, and terrifically short for a 27-year-old, but realizing you once again got your period, in your work bathroom, after no less than half a dozen friends or colleagues mentioned they got pregnant “without really trying”, is still a lonely experience.

And it’s not for a lack of trying. On our second month I bought a fancy ovulation machine and pee on sticks half the month. (It goes without saying how very sexy that is.) My GI said I sure do like to drain the romance out of the situation, and I had to smile sheepishly. I have gone back to the gym, and although I’m stronger, I’ve combating any weight loss progress with double helpings of curry when I return home. You know I’m getting serious when I put the serving spoon down. (Well, that part hasn’t happened yet, but I swear, on all that is holy and my reproductive system, I will stop eating leftover brownies for breakfast and eschew white rice, I swear it!) On a related note, why, oh why, must fertility be tied to weight?

People always say it happens when you’re not stressed, se la vie, go on a vacation and wham bam, it will happen! I know they mean the best, and I’m sure there is some science to it, but I notice it’s always people with kids who say that. Regardless, we went to update our passports three weeks ago. I’m thinking a cheap all-inclusive in the Caribbean, although Matt is stuck on Machu Picchu. I told him that altitude is not conducive to romance, but mainly I just want to get out of having to walk the arduous Incan Trail.

Even with my obsessive, worry-wart personality, there’s levity in the situation. First of all, it’s been six stinkin’ months! I mean, really, Kathryn, calm the hell down. Secondly, it has created a lot of off-color bedroom talk between Matt and I. Jokingly I’ll say it’s Matt’s fault, he must be sterile, and he’ll laugh and shoot back I’m barren. Or I’ll say his sperm are lazy and probably taking a smoke break, and he’ll say something about it being an epic journey for them and they’re heading for almost certain death, so I should be nice. Okay: maybe you have to be there.

I told my GI that my surgeon said I have knots of scar tissue flanking and circling my fallopian tubes, and you know what her response was? “I wouldn’t worry about that so much; I would be more concerned about that raging infection you had in your body.” Matt and I like to joke about that too. We know having, or not having, a biological child isn’t the end-all, be-all. We know we’d wouldn’t do rounds of in vitro if we do indeed have any issues: it is what it is. We’ve always talked about adoption (being a fertile Myrtle or not), but have brought it up even more so now. But I can’t deny it wouldn’t be, at least at first, disappointing to not see what our biological child would look like, or how he or she would behave, because obviously they would have a lot of panache, be blazingly witty, and be tall and oh-so-elegant.

Or, heck, maybe they would just be really hairy, like Matt. It’s on those days I hope for a boy.

Zhu Zhu Pets, really?!

Oh man oh man, my favorite stock photo ever found, bar none. I love this guy!

"Press 1 is you made a purchase today for $200 at Leather Goods in Staten Island, NY. Press 2 if you did not authorize this purchase."

Motherf'in A! 2 2 2 2 2!!!!!!!!!! Click. Human voice. "Hi, Ms. Hopkins. My name is Karen. You've reached with fraud investigation department at Citibank. How are you today?" What am I supposed to say? "Fine, thank you." Now kindly get to the point, Karen.

"We'll get this taken care of right away. Can you tell me if you have your credit card in possession?" I said I did. "Did you make a purchase online for $1200 of Zhu Zhu Pets today ma'am?"

"You have got to be kidding me, why would I want those stupid..." Karen continued. "Did you visit a McDonald's in Brooklyn, NY and spend $250? We also have a salon purchase in Brooklyn for $300." I said no, and asked Karen how anyone could spend $250 at McDonald's. Karen wasn't as curious as me.

You see, my credit card number was stolen and the thief made a fake card and programmed my number in their magnetic strip. I'm irked but I gotta say, I find this highly impressive. Petty crooks aren't what they use to be. I'm thinking this guy should work at NASA.

I've never had my card stolen. I feel very violated, and now I'm questioning everywhere I shopped. On Friday I picked up lunch at Whole Foods and paid via credit, and it there's one thing I think when I imagine Whole Foods, it's FRAUD! Oh, and vegan cookies. Obviously.

The point of my nonsensical ramblings is this: triple check your bank and credit card accounts! Or go off the grid and live in the woods. Your call.

Lentil Soup

Doesn't lentil soup just feel healthy? Well, that's what I like to think, anyway. Last week, amidst my bean escapade, I made a vat of the stuff. It lasted for three days and became a short-lived joke ("What are you having for lunch?" "Lentil soup." "What are we having for dinner?" "Lentil soup." And so on and so forth.)

I meant to use Alton Brown's recipe, which has rave reviews online, but as I was adding the lentils I very ungracefully dumped two times the amount the recipe called for of those little suckers into the pot. Unfortunately, I didn't have all the other ingredients to simply double the recipe, and improvised. It's hard to mess up soup, and it's hard to mess up something so simple as lentil soup.

The soup was delish. My version, of course, had to oodles more cumin and a whole bunch of chopped cilantro - there is just no other way in my book and the soup took on an Indian undertone. In fact, we had it with roti. (For a girl with Crohn's, I have a very questionable affinity for all things Indian food.)

Below is Alton's recipe in its pure form. My notes follow in italics.

Lentil Soup

• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• 1 cup finely chopped onion
• 1/2 cup finely chopped carrot
• 1/2 cup finely chopped celery
• 2 teaspoons salt
  
• 1 pound lentils, picked and rinsed
• 1 cup peeled and chopped tomatoes
  
• 2 quarts chicken or veggie broth
  
• 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground coriander
• 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground toasted cumin
• 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground grains of paradise

Place the olive oil into a large 6-quart Dutch oven and set over medium heat. Once hot, add the onion, carrot, celery and salt and sweat until the onions are translucent, approximately 6 to 7 minutes. Add the lentils, tomatoes, broth, coriander, cumin and grains of paradise and stir to combine. Increase the heat to high and bring just to a boil. Reduce the heat to low, cover and cook at a low simmer until the lentils are tender, approximately 35 to 40 minutes. Using a stick blender, puree to your preferred consistency. Serve immediately.

My notes: What the heck is "grains of paradise" anyway?! I opted to use canned tomatoes, a 30 oz. can, and omitted those crazy grains of paradise. I added MORE CUMIN, a dash of garam masala and coriander, loads of freshly chopped cilantro, a few dashes of chili powder, and garlic. I don't have a fancy stick blender so I dumped half the soup into my food processor (where I also had diced the veggies) and pureed. I left the other half in its whole form because I never recalled my mother ever pureeing her lentil soup. I also felt some of the lentils should remain in their true form. I know, I have no shame.

My own winter wonderland

Arch nemesis #1's alien-like glow.

Arch nemesis #2 (looking very proud with his homemade naan).

I dearly love my husband, and I want to be environmentally-friendly and avoid those winter heating bills that make me queasy, but a house should not maintain a steady temperature of 57 degrees (when we’re home, and much lower – sorry, Penny – when we’re out). Matt took it upon himself to buy a space heater when he was at Lowe’s, supposedly picking up a bit of wood for a homemade spice rack, last week. He was very pleased with himself as he showed me the box and said it was “infrared”. I told him it was ugly. He said it was space-like. I told him it doesn’t go with our decor. He said it has a “neat, alien-y” quality to it. He then unpacked it, plugged it in, and said it was “beautiful” as it became hot and gained an eerie, orange glow. Penny and I looked on in begrudged acceptance.

So for the past week we’ve been living with this thing pointed at our couch. It looks exactly like an oscillating desk fan, although it does not blow any hot air: it simply radiates warmth. During this past week we’ve also had thermostat battles so our house temperature was a balmy 64 degrees at times (my doing) and, like I said, 57 degrees when Matt got whiff of my doing.

We find our own ways to cope. Penny curls up in a tight ball and burrows her face in her underbelly; from afar you just see a black circular object on the floor, the whiteness on her muzzle beneath her. I’ve taken to long, hot showers, effectively increasing our water bill (and I suppose our gas bill to heat the hot water heater, too, although Matt does not see the irony in this) and cooking hot simmering meals on the stove. Matt is just Matt: he has adapted well to living at 57 degrees. I joke he has rhino skin: nothing penetrates it – he is never hot nor cold.

Matt has also proposed we do without air-conditioning. He grew up without this modern marvel and in a buzz of fans, and said you eventually are okay with it, and simply “sweat it out”. I told him “Kathryn doesn’t ‘sweat it out’” and hippie social trends be damned, I could not live without my air-conditioner (I had already absconded to a house temperature in the high seventies in the summer months). It also takes a good deal for me to sleep: OTC sleeping aids, a white noise machine, and in the warmer months, a fan and semi-cool temperature. Matt can fall asleep, I’m quite sure, on a bed of sticks. He might even enjoy it.

When I told him this, he said we could sleep in our sun room with the windows all open and the fan on. In fact, the summer before he had already hooked up a hammock in the room “just for fun” and had slept there on occasion with Penny laying on the floor beside him. Although he won’t admit it now, he always returned to bed the following night with a sniff neck and back.

We entertained friends (hi Lauren!) this weekend and I said there is “no way we’re subjecting them to this cold house of horrors!” Matt agreed and carried his “alien” heat contraption upstairs and I turned the temperature – oh, the thrill! – to 67 degrees. Typing this, I realize I still have to ask him why subjecting friends to a cold house is not acceptable, but doing the same to his wife is perfectly rational, so I just did ask him. Our undoctored IM conversation follows:

Me: (asking the above question, I posed to you, the reader)
Matt: (again, this is verbatim) many reasons
Matt: first, because they have the little kids
Matt: also, because it doesn't cost much to have the heat high for a day, but it does for the whole winter
Matt: also, they're guests, so they get preferential treatment.
Matt: like, we use our nice napkins
Matt: that we don't use on our own
Matt: and we clean for them
Matt: we don't clean for ourselves (Editorial note: This is true. We’re pretty slovenly. Fine, I am.)
Kathryn: but don't you care about your wife's comfort?
Matt: why do I feel like whatever I say is going to be rewritten and misrepresented on the blog?
Kathryn: i will quote you
Kathryn: no misrepresentation
Matt: if you really want we can turn the heat up
Kathryn: so it takes a threat of public humiliation to offer that?
Matt: it can be your christmas present
Matt: hehe
Kathryn: i see. you'll see parts of his conversation on the blog

So there you have it. He wasn’t happy I reposted that conversation, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. The space heater is nothing new, and not at all surprising. I agree with it, I do, but I think the house can be a bit warmer and the heater can take the place of a few degrees. I told him a few degrees could be hundreds of dollars in the span of a cold winter, but has a more “all or nothing” approach. In fact, he stated he already compromised with the 57 degree setting.

So it is no wonder I asked my grandmother for a Snuggie this Christmas.

My fleshy perspective

This morning I had my usual Friday ditty at the gym, and a friend who attends mentioned her husband told her she’s gained weight. This girl – and I am not exaggerating – is absolutely gorgeous; she could be a fitness model!

We’re doing crunches on the mat, my trainer in the middle, and she tells us what her husband, of a month or so, said. And then says it’s probably true, the cookie dough didn’t help, or the cupcakes, ad nauseum. If a girl like this – so physically “perfect” – can have these hang-ups – where does that leave the rest of us? And where the hell is her husband so I can beat him down, because although I do not know him, there is no way this boy didn’t marry up.

So there I am, a comparatively frumpy mess next to these two model-droids, and they asked if Matt would ever say that, and I let out a hoot and a holler and think, “Are you kidding me?” Look, Matt isn’t some scared, suppressed little boy who can’t voice his opinion, but he realizes I – and so many other women – are already our own worst enemy when it comes to outward appearances. He doesn’t have to say anything, because I already noticed…four weeks ago. We, as women, are already acutely aware of any so-called “imperfections”, real or imaginary. And he’s told me he’s not going to play that game. He washes his hands of this whole, sick obsession. No amount of baiting or whining or insisting would get him to say I was fat. Or my hair was bad. Or anything equally ugly.

So if a gorgeous girl, who works out daily and actually looks GOOD in spandex, thinks she’s fat, where does that leave the rest of us? (And I’m thinking in my head, “If you think you’re fat, what does that make me?”) It’s taken me 27 years to get more comfortable with my body, and I still struggle with my weight. I lose five pounds, I gain five pounds. I am overweight: I have stretch marks and a dimpled butt and, count them, two stomach rolls (three depending on if I’m slouching). And it’s taken almost six years with Matt telling me I’m beautiful for me to finally stop saying, “Shut up”, and just….thank him.

I grew up tall and chubby and just BIG – I was off those growth charts – and was called “walrus” on the bus in middle school by the seventh grade boys. I cried (I like to think, proudly now, never in front of them) and prayed for the year to end so they would move up to our intermediate school and I wouldn’t see their rotten faces. Every day for a year they would taunt me, throw gum in my hair and tell me I should change my name to Jenny, as in Jenny Craig. As a kid, and now, I cannot believe the viciousness of their endless bullying, yet I know my situation was nothing unique. So, yes, like most girls, I grew up with a weight complex. And although I know nothing can be done about bullies and – although childless – I already am nurturing my mother-hen mentality: I know I will never let my child feel inferior in any way based on her physicality. It upsets me that girls are already too painfully aware of double chins, or flat chests.

I have my demons: I hate women who say, “Ooo…I’m being so bad eating this!”, but (and I hate admitting this) I occasionally do the same. I will always struggle with the scale. Just a few weeks back I wrote how I gained a few pounds, when instead I should have been thinking of the muscle I was gaining (seriously, I may have a jelly belly but my thighs are out of this world), and the home-cooked meals I was eating. Not that I’m celebrating fat – it’s unhealthy and I damn well know it – but something has got to give. We’ve all heard it before: we’re the fattest nation and the must obsessed with weight. Something isn’t gelling.


So I’ve been concentrating on more mindful eating, although portion control will always be a challenge (I mean, hello, fresh baked naan is waiting!!). And, oh yes, I will eat that Andes mint (thank you for offering) and I did partake in the “Espresso Explosion” ice cream, and I damn well enjoyed it. But then we eat a heck of a lot of colorful fruits and fibrous veggies. We eat out maybe once a week. We’re working on limiting our meat. We enjoy spending time in the kitchen.

There’s one small consolation since getting sick: I’ve been easier on myself, and happier. As clichéd as it is, it put things in perspective, as in, “Yeah you got some rolls and a zipper scar down your abdomen, but you just walked six miles with the dog and for once, she’s more tired than you. Take that!” And this morning, as I was blow-drying my hair in the locker room and thinking about what was said, I made a point to look at the other women in the there, and realized I was the largest. And I was happy for two reasons: I didn’t care, and above all, I’ve never even noticed.

This would bring casual Fridays to new heights...

Holy shinizzle! Look at what I just found! Now that's some fashion I could get behind.

I love legumes.

There they are. All my lovelys...

I am having an affair with beans. And Indian food. And lots of it.

I am perpetually stuffed, and I swear on all that is holy my stomach is sticking out more. Beans are fibrous and filling, so you don't need to eat huge plates full of the stuff, but I still do. With naan. And chopped cilantro. Let me explain: these past few weeks I've been increasingly enamored with legumes. I cannot help it. Maybe it's a gastronomic rebellion of sorts: I had to limit my fiber while I was sick, and now I'm having a gluttonous free-for-all with nuts and beans and tomatoes. And chocolate. Oh, and cheese. Help me.

Every night I whip up another curry or Indian dal or whatever, and, oh lord, I cannot stop. Beans are so damn versatile. And cheap. And healthy. Like I said, I'm having an affair with legumes. And baby, they're gooooood..... That being said, more bean recipes will be posted shortly. Sorry.

Tonight we had channa masala, an Indian chickpea and tomato dish. One of my favorites at Indian restaurants, second only to chicken saag. (Really, it's better than it sounds.) And to make matters worse, Matt just made a huge batch of homemade sesame naan. Perfect for scooping up more beans! Hey, when we get into something, we really get into it.

Here's to hoping you can stomach more beans...