Martha Meets Lucy

How to celebrate Super Bowl Sunday when you just don't care

Step 1: make a reservation for brunch at restaurant that would normally be packed
(in this case, Charlie Palmers at Bloomingdales)

Step 2: study your options at the unlimited Bloody Mary bar. (Making your friends pose for the picture is optional, but encouraged)

Step 3: make a ridiculous Bloody Mary containing beef jerky, artichoke hearts, a pickle, and lettuce wrapped bacon. Then decide your next BM will be completely different

Jambalaya

Somewhere in the awkward mess that we all agree to call my life, I decided I was meant to be Southern. I don’t have a drop of Southern blood in my veins, but ya’ll I want to be Southern. When I was younger, it wasn’t about the food*, or the hospitality. And as terrible as this sounds, I loved the idea of sitting on a pre-Civil War plantation fanning myself someone else fanning me while sitting on the porch drinking sweet tea.

You guys, I want to be Scarlett O’Hara. I will always and forever want to be Scarlett. I will never ever be Melanie.

I've been infatuated with Gone With the Wind since fourth grade. My love of GWTW has existed longer than my love of Harry Potter. Also, my goal of becoming Southern is much more attainable than becoming a wizard. What I'm saying is I've been slighlty obsessed. I went to Margarent Mitchell's house. I've walked around holding a hula hoop around my hips to see if I could handle wearing hoop skirts.

Since reading GWTW, my obsession with all things south of the Mason Dixon line has grown tenfold.

For most of my life, I so very badly wanted to go to New Orleans. I’d been to Atlanta, and it was definitely NOT the charming beacon of the South I expected** so my expectations for NOLA were low. I figured the food would be good, but it was post-Katrina (2006). I figured I would wander around the city eating amazing food and looking at homes that were built over 100 years ago.

I did neither.

Maybe I set my standards too high. Maybe New Orleans wasn’t back on its feet. Maybe the conference I was attending should have let us eat a meal outside of the hotel because banquet food is gross no matter where you are. Maybe I drank too much at night, and my taste buds weren’t awake after two hours of sleep. Really, who’s to say?

To this day, the best Cajun*** food I have had has been found outside of New Orleans. Take for example, my mom’s jambalaya. Until last year, she had never been to New Orleans, but she has been making this for years. I do believe she adapted it from none other than Paul Prudhomme, so it has some authenticity. If you’ve ever had jambalaya down South, you may notice that her’s is fairly loose, more like a soup. That’s how we like it, but if you like it thicker, cook the rice in the jambalaya. If you’ve only ordered jambalaya at a restaurant above the Mason Dixon line, chances are it was served over pasta. That is wrong. If my mom finds out you served her jambalaya over pasta she will hunt you down. Don’t risk it. Serve it over rice.

Everything Popcorn

Decisiveness is not a quality that is regularly ever attributed to me. I just don’t have it. I’m always the last person to order at a restaurant. After the 45 minutes it takes me to decide on a restaurant, albeit with the caveat, “Ok we’ll try there, but if there is a wait we’re going here, there, or over-there instead”. Clearly, patience is a virtue I also lack.

Indecisiveness applies to more than just restaurants. Ask me where I’m transferring to school next fall and you’ll get some variation of this:

“Well, I really want to go to University of Texas, Austin, but I won’t get in, so I’ll probably go to University of Arizona or the University of New Mexico, unless I get into OSU or ASU.”

I've had three different majors, not including culinary school.

I wear the same thing everyday (jeans, t-shirt, flip flops), yet it takes me three tries before I’m content with an outfit...and I almost always change my clothes later in the day. To be fair, I’m usually covered in flour* or formaldehyde** and need to change.

Then there is the always epic bagel debate. I love bagels. I love all manner of bagels. Onion. Garlic. Cinnamon. Jalapeno Cheddar. (Do these flavor variations exist elsewhere, or are Jalapeno Cheddar bagels indigenous to the West coast like tri-tip?)

Anyways, my local bagel place has the perfect bagel for people like me. The Cheese Everything bagel. Caraway, sesame seeds, poppy seeds, onion, garlic and salt all on one bagel? Yes please. And let’s talk about the cheese for just a second. You know when you make a grilled cheese and some of the cheese oozes out and gets crispy and kind of sticks to the pan? Yeah, that’s what the cheese on the bagel tastes like. In other words, heaven.

But, alas, it is January. And since beach season apparently started a week ago (seriously, its been in the 80s), bagels are off the menu. I had my last hurrah with them (for awhile) on Christmas morning. So what’s a girl to do when she needs an everything bagel fix?

Cranberry Pecan Bakewell Tart

I love cranberry sauce. It has always been my favorite part of Thanksgiving. In a meal full of rich and creamy foods, the acidic pop of cranberry sauce is a welcome bright spot with almost every bite.

I make homemade cranberry sauce every year, always thinking “this is the year everyone will discover how awesome cranberry sauce is”. And every year I end up with a ton of leftover cranberry sauce because my mom and I are the only people that eat it. This year was no different. Long after the turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes were gone, cranberry sauce remained in the fridge. Every time I opened the fridge, there it was. Watching me. Waiting to be used. Until last week when my cranberry sauce found it’s final resting place.

I’ve had my eye on this Cranberry Pecan Tart for awhile. Honestly, how could you not want to make it? A shortbread-esque crust with a creamy pecan filling, studded with whole fresh cranberries? I’m getting hungry just thinking about it.