The Great Target Adventure

So, I'd like to begin this post by setting up my scenario, just so we all understand the setting and circumstances surrounding this story:

I live in an apartment just off of my college campus with two roommates, both female. For the sake of privacy, I'm not going to use their real names. In this story, we will call them Bridget and Madeline. I have my own room, but Bridget and Madeline share the second bedroom. We also have this huge living room that no one really uses, except as a convenient, slide-free shortcut to the kitchen. Usually, both Madeline and Bridget go away each weekend to visit their boyfriends, and I am left with the entire apartment to myself. As someone who is largely antisocial, I have absolutely no problem with this.

Starting last week, however, this arrangement changed in a very unfavorable way.

Madeline is pretty much your stereotypical loud, messy, social butterfly of a roommate. As a result, we don't see her around the apartment much as she is usually flitting around out and about. Again, I have no problem with this. It's almost as if I only live with one other person, and occasionally, a loud, messy tornado breezes through the apartment just to leave pizza rolls in the couch, distribute pans, bowls, and crumbs all over the kitchen, and open all of the cabinets in the entire apartment. Annoying, but tolerable.

As Madeline usually doesn't arrive back at the apartment until well after I am asleep (if at all) and sleeps in past the time I usually leave in the morning, I don't have very much opportunity to be annoyed with her. This all changed when her boyfriend began secretly living in our apartment.

One morning, I awoke to find that Madeline had taken her mattress out of her room, and placed it in the living room. My first thought was that she and Bridget had had a disagreement, and she decided to get out of their shared room. Then I noticed the grey, man-sized sneakers by the front door. I snuck a peak into the living room and saw not one, but two lumps snoring peacefully on the mattress in the middle of my living room.

Now, I know what you're thinking: What's the big deal? It's her apartment too. What's wrong with her inviting her boyfriend over for the night?

Absolutely nothing. Were that the case, I would be completely fine with their arrangement. But I'm not finished...

This event took place last Thursday. It is now Friday of the following week...He is still here...

As Bridget and I both leave for school pretty early in the morning, before Madeline needs to wake up, we are forced to awkwardly tiptoe around the apartment in order to get ready in the morning. The kitchen and living room are separated only by a wall, with two door sized openings (no actual doors) cut into it. It's not its own separate room. So as you can imagine, it's somewhat impossible to be quiet enough so as not to wake the sleeping, happy couple in the adjoining room as you chomp on cereal.

His constant presence has forced me to hermitize myself by closing myself in my room all day long, leaving only to pee or grab something that microwaves in under two minutes from the kitchen.

They have completely taken over my living room. From midnight to noon, the happy couple snuggles in their living room mattress, half naked, until one of them has some sort of obligation. They even bought guinea pigs together, which now occupy my laundry room/pantry (sidenote: did you know guinea pigs make the entire room they're kept in smell like a barn? Because they do).

Today, I finally cracked.

I left my room around 9 in the morning to obtain food. They were still asleep. I know this because of the snoring. I obtained my food and re-entered my room for the next 3 hours. I decided to venture out and take a shower at 11. Upon leaving my room, I once again heard snoring emanating from the living room. They were still asleep. Fine, whatever. I took my shower and decided to straighten my hair this morning, because what the hell, it had only been 6 months since I'd done that (I tell you this only to emphasize that I was in my room getting ready for a longer period of time than normal). At 12:30, washed, dressed, made up, etc. I decided it was time to leave the apartment.

I decided to go to Target for three reasons: 1.) It's extremely close to my apartment, 2.) We were on our last roll of toilet paper (hmm, maybe because there are currently 4 people living in my 3 person apartment?) which no one seemed too concerned about, and 3.) I really needed to just GTFO!

Upon reaching my front door at 12:30, I decided to glance behind me into the living room just to see what was going on. The happy couple was still snuggling in bed, half naked. If I hadn't already decided to GTFO, that would have been the exact moment I would have chosen to do so.

So I went to Target.

I had never in my life been more excited to go to Target. Pulling into the parking lot was a beautiful experience. Walking through those automatic doors was glorious. I was somewhere familiar, yet different in a this-is-not-the-inside-of-my-apartment kind of way.

Then I immediately got super bored.

I didn't know how to otherwise pass the time when all I had to do was buy toilet paper. I couldn't very well just obtain my item and head straight back to my awkward-as-all-hell living room! So I did what any rational person would do:

I decided to narrate my entire Target trip to my best friend via text message.

The following is an exact (sort of) transcript of those messages:

12:51 pm: (after explaining the situation)"I've been wandering Target for 20 minutes now, and all that's in my cart is a family-sized bag of peanut M'Ms."

12:57 pm: "I'm wondering how much time I can kill here. Cart tally at the moment: peanut M'Ms, goldfish crackers, peanut butter filled pretzels, and 2 boxes of cereal. I'm a f*&$ing adult."

12:59 pm: "Cart update: I got rid of the peanut M'Ms so I would hate myself less. Also, they were $10 and I'm cheap."

1:02 pm: "Cart update: Milk for the cereal and 2 cartons of soup so I don't have to cook for 4 days. Still no toilet paper. Stay tuned."

1:11 pm: "Cart update: toilet paper acquired. Didn't have patience to compare prices, so bought largest package with the word "sale" posted above it. Also added to cart: berries, pourable egg substance, and pumpkin-spice coffee creamer. My goal is complete, but I don't feel I've killed enough time. How to kill more time without killing bank account?"

1:16 pm: "Shopping update: walked past dog section, got sad. Now in makeup. Ran into awkward guy from chem with obnoxious friends. He dropped socks in front of my cart and apologized. I forgot why I went into makeup. Must now figure out escape."

1:21 pm: "Shopping update: clothing and electronics are where it's at. Bank account is screaming "NO!" Luckily, laziness preventing me from trying on clothes anyway. But what's to stop me from buying headphones? Stay tuned."

1:32 pm: "Update: leaving Target. Man in front of me at register bought 4 packs of some sort of trading cards, nothing else. Man was in late 30's at least. Had beard. Cards totaled over $20. In parking lot, went down wrong aisle. Didn't realize until after half way down. Had to turn around and go down correct aisle. Reached car. Target employee decides now would be a great time to try to wrestle free the errant cart left directly in front of my car. Awkward. Done with shopping, but not enough time killed. Must figure out next move. Stay tuned."

1:53 pm: "Update: decided to find food. Didn't know where, but knew lots of food places along main rd. Kept driving. Saw nothing. Came to McDonalds. Decided drive through > walk in. Plus fries. Debated parking and eating so as to prolong time away from appt. Lady gave me unsweetened tea instead of sweetened tea. Must go back to apartment for sugar."

2:03 pm: "Update: Ate all fries in car. Am sad. Could have been saltier. Madeline's car not in driveway. Praise be unto the Lord. Can now enter safely."

2:11 pm: "Update: Was wrong. Don't know why car was not in driveway, but both still here. Not snuggling, but living room looks like tornado aftermath. Guinea pigs running rampant."

2:20 pm: "Also accidentally ate bacon...not sure what happens now..."

Yup...

Well, that was today's Target adventure. I hope you enjoyed my narration. Target is only so exciting. Please wish me luck in dealing with this unpleasant boyfriend situation. I promise to keep you posted (I lied, I probably won't).

Thanks for reading!

~Felicia

You Know You're Italian When...

The title of today's post pretty much sums up what you're about to read. In lieu of an actual story, I'm going to give you a comprehensive list of, for lack of a better term, "things" (I hate that word), that point to the fact that you are, at least a small percentage, Italian. I truly do wonder if some of the items on this list are specific to my family in particular, so if you are Italian, and you see something on this list that you can in no way relate to, please leave me a comment saying, "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about regarding..." I can then use your comment as further proof that my whole family is simply insane. So, without further adieu, you know you are Italian when...

1. You were the chubby kid in elementary and/or high school.
2. You have family living in or around New York or New Jersey.
3. You frequently have to explain to guests and friends that your family isn't always yelling at one another, that's just the volume at which they talk.
4. Elderly relatives are genuinely appalled and concerned if they see you as being "too skinny."
5. You have no idea who your actual relatives are because you've been calling everyone aunt/uncle since childhood. 
6. Distant relatives and extended family greet you with a lightning-fast double-cheek kiss before wrapping you into the tightest hug you've ever experienced while weepily repeating the phrase "he/she's SO BEAUTIFUL!!!" to your parents. 
7. You know your relatives are dead serious when they tell you they expect you to marry someone who is at least 50% Italian.
8. You gain a significant amount of weight after any extended family gathering/reunion. 
9. If you bring someone over for dinner and they do not at least OFFER to help clean up after the meal, this is the kiss of death in your parents' eyes. If they DO offer to clean up, their offer will not be accepted, but they will be loved forever by your mother. If this person is of the opposite gender, you will be encouraged to marry this person.
10. You have to explain to people that no, you are not, in fact, connected to the mob in any way.
11. You are probably, somehow, distantly connected to the mob (kidding...sort of...).
12. Your friends typically have no idea what calzone, sfogliadelle, cannoli, biscotti, etc. are, but if they do, it's some kind of bastardized American version. 
13. Your friends enjoy the bastardized American version of these foods.
14. Finding good pizza...it's a problem, as any member of your family will tell you in great detail.
15. After introducing new friends or boy/girlfriends to your family (assuming your family actually LIKES them), you must later explain to them why they were hugged, kissed, and/or handed a wad of money upon leaving your house. 
16. Hair, everywhere! Lots of it! Dark, thick hair! On everything!
17. Friends treat eating over at your house like attending some sort of grand feast.
18. Friends assume the way you feed house guests is the way you eat every night...it isn't.
19. Having pasta isn't special because it happens so often and is usually the meal you make when you're too lazy/pressed for time to make something else. This is why you would never order pasta at a restaurant.
20. Your mother is constantly talking about you to everyone.
21. Your grandmother is constantly talking about you to everyone.
22. Your grandmother knows everything you're doing at all times, no matter how insignificant, because your mom is constantly talking to her about you. 
23. The pictures! Oh God, the pictures! Of everything! All the time!
24. You hate going out to eat with your family because all they do is complain, loudly, for anyone and everyone to hear. As a result, you are constantly apologizing to your waitstaff and casting them sympathetic glances.
25. You can't get through one holiday or family gathering without the conversation turning extremely morbid. Death and dying is a regular conversation topic.
26. Any friend of the opposite gender is assumed to be your love interest.
27. If you do have a love interest, the first question asked is, "Is he/she Italian?"
28. Vegans and Vegetarians completely bewilder your family.
29. Your nose...it's probably larger than the average nose.
30. You have/had more than one freezer in your house at one time.
31. You're usually the one hosting the party/gathering.
32. You're punctual...no one else is...ever...at all.
33. Your family calls it "gravy," not "marinara sauce" or "tomato sauce."
34. It's "pocketbook," not "purse."
35. No matter how much you've eaten, they WILL continue to feed you.
36. You don't refuse seconds, EVER. It's an insult to your relatives.
37. You have a temper...yes, yes you do. Don't even try to deny it.
38. Most likely, you were not the sporty child, you were the band/choir/art geek. 

That's uh...well, that's about all I can think of for the time being, but there you have it. 38 ways to tell if there's even the tiniest bit of Italian blood running through your veins. Please feel free to comment and tell me anything I might have left out! I'ma go feed my chubby, big-nosed, dark-haired self now. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed today's post! There may even be a part 2 at some point in the not-so-distant future :)

~Felicia

Adventures in Cooking: The Best Rolled Sugar Cookies

For those of you that have seen my "Cake of Shame" chapter of Adventures in Cooking, you know there are some aspects of baking that I am simply not capable of. Like cake. Not even from a box mix...Ehem, BUT, in other areas of baking, I am completely competent, even to the point of awesomeness. I am, of course, referring to my sugar cookies. Any of my close friends and family know that my sugar cookies are pretty amazing, so now, dear ones, I am going to share all of my secrets with you, so that you too may be able to achieve greatness (although, just reading the entire process will probably exhaust you and you will still rely on me to provide you with cookies anyway). So, without further adieu, I present you with all the secrets of the universe.

Baking sugar cookies has been a holiday tradition in my family ever since I was a little girl. My mom would make the dough and roll it out, and my brother and I would pretend to help by occasionally punching out some shapes with the cookie cutters. Then my mom would bake them. After they cooled, she would make the frostings in all different colors, sit my brother and I down with a bunch of decorating supplies, and we would go at it. Since my brother is six years older than me, it didn't take long for him to grow out of this tradition, so I was soon doing the decorating by myself. My mom decided that the whole process was just too much to go through when I was the only one doing the decorating, so she decided to put an end to our tradition. I did not agree. I decided that I was going to make and decorate the cookies by myself. Needless to say, it didn't go so well for me.

My mom used the same cookie recipe every year from a Christmas magazine from the late 80's with torn, yellowed pages and the scribbles of my then-toddler brother. I found the magazine and followed the recipe exactly (or so I thought). The batter called for margarine, which, I am not a huge fan of, but I used it anyway. I must not have used enough flour, because the dough was SO sticky, that every time I attempted to scrape down the sides of the bowl, more and more dough would cling to the spatula instead of releasing. I made the mistake of plunging my hands into the dough in order to help un-stick the spatula, which only resulted in hands COVERED with sticky dough that WOULD NOT COME OFF!!! It was like the original version of "The Blob," only with more screaming and crying. After dousing it in what I estimate to be at least another three cups of flour, I finally got the dough off of my hands and it started to resemble an actual cookie. When I baked them, however, the cookies came out of the oven very thin, crispy, and covered in tiny indents. I know what you're thinking, "I thought you said you were GOOD at this, unlike cake." Patience my friend, I'm getting there.

Even though, after that year, I swore to myself I'd never attempt making sugar cookies again, I broke my vow and decided to play with the recipe a little bit. I'm not sure what I did differently the second time around, but the cookies certainly came better than they had the first time. Because of the amount of work, however, I still told my mom, "Please, if I ever say to you again that I'm going to make sugar cookies, hit me over the head with a skillet. PLEASE." While she didn't go for the skillet idea, she agreed with me that she would try to stop me the next time I decided to make cookies. She lied.

I made cookies several more times after that, mostly around Halloween when I had my annual Halloween party. I still hadn't perfected the recipe, but people still really seemed to enjoy them. I went between using royal frosting and store bought tub frosting, depending on how ambitious I was feeling, but neither of them really did the job well. Also, the fact that I was still using margarine in the batter made the cookies so much harder to work with, and, as a result, made the rolling process take much longer than it should have. I decided that I needed to look for a recipe that used butter instead of margarine. I did a quick internet search, and found a great recipe on Allrecipes.com, courtesy of Jill Saunders, which is the recipe I still use to this day. I always AT LEAST double it, because so many people want to be on the receiving end of these cookies, it's not even funny:

1 1/2 cups unsalted butter
2 cups sugar (I use 1 cup Truvia baking blend instead; there's enough sugar in the frosting)
4 eggs
1 tsp vanilla extract
5 cups all-purpose flour
2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt

(*Side note* I honestly think this recipe uses a little bit too much flour, so feel free to cut it back to more like 4 1/2 cups if you, like me, have a hard time getting the flour to fully incorporate )

First, you're going to want to soften the butter just enough so that it will yield slightly to gently pressure. Don't liquify it. It's best to leave all of the ingredients out of the fridge for about an hour so that they are at room temperature before you mix them. Honestly though, this batter is very forgiving. Don't worry if the butter's stage of softness isn't perfect. Once the butter is softened, beat it together with the sugar/sugar substitute in an electric mixer until the mixture is smooth and creamy. Next, beat in the eggs, one at a time, waiting until each egg is fully incorporated until adding the next egg. After the eggs are fully incorporated, add the vanilla. Mix your dry ingredients (flour, salt, and baking powder) in a separate bowl. Once they are fully combined, slowly beat them into your wet mixture. You'll know you're doing everything right if your mixer groans, sputters, and begs for mercy. You may even smell defeat. This is a sign that everything is mixing just perfectly. Once all of your ingredients have been mixed, cover and chill the dough for at least one hour before rolling the batter. This allows the butter to harden up and makes the dough easier to work with. I usually just make the dough the night before and put it in the fridge overnight.

Once the dough has chilled for at least an hour, you can start rolling it out. Depending on whether I double or triple the recipe, I usually work with about 1/4th of the dough at a time. You're going to need a large, flat surface to work on. 

Dust your flat surface lightly with an even layer of flour. Take out 1/4th of your dough and leave the rest in the fridge so that it stays cool while you work. Just a warning, the dough is going to be ROCK SOLID. You will probably need a large metal spoon to scoop it out. Don't freak out! That's how it's supposed to be! It will soften as you work with it. Take the dough you removed from the refrigerator and place it on your floured surface. You're going to want to smoosh it down a bit with your hands to make it easier to roll out. Once you've smooshed it a bit, dust the top of it lightly with a little bit of flour, run some flour over your rolling pin as well, and roll the dough out into a 1/4th to 1/2 inch-thick circle. This is a work out, just warning you, since, at this stage, the dough is still pretty hard. It's not sticky at all though, which is fabulous. 

Once you roll it out, you can start cutting out shapes with whatever cookie cutters you want. I like to use larger cookie cutters because the cookies really don't spread much, if at all, but you can use whatever you have on hand. Place your cut-outs onto non-stick cookie sheets. You're not supposed to grease them, but, what I do is, I spray a piece of paper towel with a little bit of Pam and just rub it on the cookie sheets. This keeps the cookies from sticking, but doesn't make them spread out any more than they should. You're going to have a lot of dough scraps after you've cut out all of your shapes. Usually, what I do is, I re-roll the scrap pieces one more time, and whatever scraps I have left after the second roll, I stick back into the refrigerator. When I've repeated the rolling-out process with the other 3/4ths of batter still in the refrigerator, I take the scraps left over from every second-roll, smoosh them together, and do one final roll. I know, that's a lot of rolling, but hey, lots of rolling means lots of cookies!

Once you've filled up your trays (you're going to need to do this in rounds), bake them at 400 degrees for 6-8 minutes, or until the edges of each cookie are just ever-so-lightly browned. You have to really watch them because they tend to burn easily. When the cookies are done, transfer them to metal cooling racks with a spatula and let them cool completely before you decorate them. I know all of this sounds like a lot, but it's really the easiest part of the entire process. It goes pretty fast because the dough isn't sticky and they don't take long to bake. A doubled recipe only takes me about one and a half hours to roll and bake, but, then again, I'm an old pro at this (*Sidenote* My last doubled recipe made exactly 150 cookies, but the yield depends completely on how thick you roll out the dough and how big your cookie cutters are).

                        

 

 Now for the fun part. Decorating! I highly suggest you grab at least one other person to do this with you because the time will go by much faster and you'll have a lot more fun. I always shanghai my best friend Brittany into doing it with me. She doesn't mind. Even if she did, she still gets to take home a bunch of the cookies, so it's worth it. Plus, she's an art major, so, bonus for me! I don't trust a lot of other people to decorate with me, but her, she is a pro.  The first thing you need is a piping bag. You can make your own out of a ziplock bag and a coupler set, which you can buy at pretty much any grocery store. All it is is a small, plastic tube-like piece, a metal tip, and a plastic screw that fastens around the outside of the bag and holds the coupler in place. First, cut off a small piece from the corner of one end of a medium-sized ziplock bag. Place your metal tip on top of the coupler, and shove both through the corner hole of your bag. Then, screw the coupler ring around the coupler on the outside of the bag to hold the coupler and tip in place. Voila! Pastry bag! Now that you have your bag made, fill it with either home-made frosting, or, if you're me, store-bought tub frosting (my favorite is Betty Crocker whipped vanilla, chocolate, or buttercream). You can either leave the frosting as-is, or mix it with some kind of food coloring in order to make it befitting to the theme of your cookies. Once you've filled your piping bag with frosting, squeeze a thin outline around the edges of each cookie, like so:

I like to use different colors for each cookie, if appropriate. Once you outline all of your cookies, you're going to fill them with royal icing. To make royal icing, you're going to mix powdered sugar, milk, and a couple of drops of some kind of flavoring (I usually use vanilla, but you could also use lemon, mint, etc) and any desired food coloring in a small bowl until the mixture is relatively thin, but not runny. I can't really give you a recipe for this, you just have to do it to texture (it's kind of a honey-like texture). Once you've mixed the icing, spoon a small amount into the center of each cookie. It will spread out slowly to cover the entire surface area of the cookie until it hits the outline of thicker frosting, but you can help it into crevices with your spoon. Use as much as you need, but don't let it flow over the outline of thicker frosting.

                        

 Once the cookies are frosted and iced, you can go ahead and add whatever other decorations you want, but you have to work relatively quickly because the royal icing will harden. Congratulations! You made it through all of that! I probably haven't convinced any of you to go out and try this for yourself, but I assure you, the results are worth it, and whoever I share these with is always super appreciative. I always get a lot of compliments on these cookies, and they're great for practicing your creativity and artistic ability. Especially around Christmas and Halloween. For example:

      

So, you are now armed with the knowledge you need to bake these cookies for yourself. Just a reminder, this is not a quick process, and you WILL get messy, but if you follow my guidelines and work with one or several close friends, you'll have a lot of fun. You'll also be able to show of your superior baking abilities wherever you bring them and be showered with compliments. Go you! Like I said, knowledge of the universe my friends. Now go forth and bake!

~Felicia

Adventures in Food: Indian Food

Well, I can already see that this blog is going to be difficult to keep up. I promised another installment in the "Adventures in Food" series a long time ago, so I am finally going to make good on that promise.  This next chapter details my first ever experience eating with Indian cuisine. Alright, here we go...

So, about a month or so ago, my friend Becca and I were on our way to go shopping (I think...I can't even remember that far back), and we happened to pass an Indian restaurant called "Torch of India." It stood on one corner of an intersection, and, at the time, directly to the right of Becca's car. The light at the intersection was red, so we came to a stop right beside the restaurant. Becca happened to look over and saw a sign in the window advertising "live belly-dancing Friday and Saturday evenings." For some reason that I cannot explain other than the fact that Becca is extremely strange (I say this with love), the concept of seeing a live belly-dancer just overjoyed my dear friend, and she, very enthusiastically, announced "WE HAVE TO GO!!!" I looked over at the sign and shrank back in utter horror. "WHY!?!" I asked, panic-stricken. I never really got a clear answer to this question. Once Becca gets an idea into her head, there is really no talking her out of it. She will either keep pleading with you until your ears bleed, or, she will thunder-hip you into random objects until you relent (this was my entire high school experience folks, only instead of objects, she thunder-hipped me into other people...). At the time of sign-spottage, I believe Becca's announcement was said jokingly (really only half-jokingly), but as the evening went on, the subject kept coming up. I finally admitted that I'd never had Indian food, and would like to try it, so we made plans (while we were eating Pho, by the way) to check it out the following evening. After the conception of these plans, Becca (again, jokingly) texted her boyfriend that we were going to go belly-dancing the following day, to which he pretty much freaked the crap out. I had the following text message conversation with him later that afternoon, reassuring him that we would not actually be participating in dancing of any sort (this is the abridged version):

Him: What's this belly dancing about!!!
Me: We passed an Indian restaurant with a sign in the window advertising live belly-dancing, so your girlfriend could not be swayed against going to see this. She says it will be our next cultural experience.
Him: Ok...you guys aren't participating, right?
Me: Bwahahahahahhahaha! NO! Never in a million years! Even if we wanted to, I really don't think they encourage audience participation. Pretty sure it would be frowned upon. I predict we'll eat, and then watch about 2 minutes of dancing before it gets uncomfortable and we leave.
Him: Sounds like a BB impulse to me. Suggest something else and perhaps she'll lose interest. Or just tickle her side, you'll get your way.

I didn't even attempt that last suggestion. I know what dirty retaliatory tricks she's capable of. So we went. I didn't argue. I was in it for the food.

After we got there and were seated, I noticed the only other table occupied was the one directly behind us, and the occupants were employees on their break. It was a beautiful little restaurant full of Indian-themed decor with television sets in the corner playing what appeared to be Indian soap operas. The smell in the restaurant was heavenly, so we had high hopes for the food (the reviews were all four stars and above). The menu was also MUCH easier to understand than the one at Pho Vietnam (see previous Adventures in Food chapter for that story). We ordered shortly after we were seated, and were promptly brought our drinks and an appetizer (seen below)












The plate held two super-thin, crispy, tortilla-like objects, and the tray held three different dipping sauces. The two of us broke apart the objects and tried each of the three sauces. They were like nothing I'd ever tasted before. I don't even know how to describe the flavors. They were all good! I can say that for sure! One of them was like, a savory, tangy mango spread, one sort of tasted like calamata olives, and the green one was a little bit like salsa verde. Basically, we devoured this in no time flat. It was awesome.

It didn't take very long for our main dishes to come to the table. I ordered mango chicken curry, and Becca ordered tilapia curry. Our meal also came with a dish of basmatti rice and some naan bread. Everything came in its own little dish, so we could help ourselves to however much we wanted. I should also mentioned that each dish could be prepared three ways, mild, medium, or hot, and we each went with medium. I love spicy food, but I had heard that Indian food can be pretty potent, so I erred on the side of caution. And boy was I glad I did. The food was A-M-A-Z-I-N-G, but it was also so hot, we were both sweating. I personally enjoy it when my food is this spicy, but I could tell Becca was struggling. She was using her naan to cool off her mouth between bites, whereas I, on the other hand, was dipping mine into the sauce and eating it just like that, regardless of the burn. It was so freaking good!!! I finished all of my food, but Becca admitted defeat, and chose to have the rest of hers packaged up so she could take it home.

After we finished our food, we asked the waiter when the belly-dancing was supposed to start, and he told us that the dancer was due to arrive in about fifteen minutes. We decided to sit and wait, even though it was a little bit awkward, since we had already eaten and paid for our food, and the restaurant had started filling up, I suppose, in anticipation for the "show." While we were waiting, a man sat down at the table right next to us, which was extremely close to ours by the way, on Becca's side of the table, but, at the time, I wasn't paying much attention to him. Another man joined him a little while later, and sat on the same side of the table as me. The dancer arrived shortly afterwards and began her "show" (you'll notice I'm now using "finger quotes." You will find out why in a moment). Now, I don't know if this was racist of me in some way, but I expected the dancer to be, well, I don't know, actually Indian? I don't think that was unreasonable assumption. But she wasn't. She was a tiny, very young Caucasian girl with extremely long hair, like, down to her calves. She was dressed in what I assume was traditional belly-dancing garb, and she wore heavy makeup. She wasn't gorgeous, but she wasn't bad looking either. She just seemed so young, and...white. She started dancing, which, I found to be INCREDIBLY awkward for several reasons. 1.) It was a very small restaurant. There was no stage or any designated dance floor area, so she danced in the aisles between tables, which were fairly narrow. Patrons and waitstaff actually had to gingerly scooch around or in front of her in order to get past her. 2.) She was dancing very close to our table. 3.) As my chair was positioned so that my back was to her, I had to turn around in my seat to watch her. Doing so forced me to also position my chair in such a way that I was directly facing the guy in the seat next to me, who kept looking over and smiling every time I turned around (I should mention these guys were at least in their forties, and I am...well, MUCH younger! They were also creepy). Finally, 4.) She really wasn't very good at all. I wouldn't describe what she was doing as "belly-dancing" so much as just wiggling around. There wasn't really even much belly action going on. I know this, because her midriff was completely exposed (as I'm sure is necessary when belly-dancing) and practically so close to me, I could touch it...not that I would, because that would be extremely weird, awkward, and uncomfortable for both of us. But the guys next to us sure wanted to! They kept making lewd comments generated towards the dancer, who was also MUCH younger than them, and doing other...not so appropriate motions and such with...other areas of their bodies. You get where I'm headed with this? Cool. So I won't go on. Becca and I were so uncomfortable and weirded out (yet also, grossly amused) that we resorted to texting each other our thoughts and comments so as not to be overheard by Dimples and Big Chin (our nicknames for the two forty-year-old pervs next to us). The following is an abridged and censored transcript of that conversation:

Becca: The guys next to us are soooo freaking creepy! They told each other they are here to see her (meaning the dancer). Freaks!
Me: I can't not laugh when I look at her (again, the dancer), and whenever I try, the dude next to me turns and stares at me!
Becca: Well, the guy next to me has a big chin. I want to go and stick a coin in it.
Me: You are making it very hard for me not to laugh.
Becca: Now we can text mean things about the possibly gay murderers next to us. They are showing each other porn on their phones! The one next to you said, "you knoowww I like that."
Me: What makes you say gay if they're here for the belly-dancer? But murderers definitely.
Becca: Maybe bisexual. I could get up and start belly-dancing now for big-chin.
Me: Be my guest. I only hope you can compete with the women on their phones. Big chin just wants to dance!
Becca: I'm so grossed out by Big Chin! I can't even tell you. He even wears those shoes with the toes!
Me: Time to go.

Needless to say, shortly after that, we left...and got frozen yogurt...WHAT?

To sum up the whole experience, the food was fantastic (possibly my new favorite thing ever), the restaurant was lovely, the prices were reasonable, and the staff were incredibly nice and funny. I would absolutely go back.

The belly-dancing? Never again. Just...no.

The following day, I received a text message from Becca. The following conversation ensued:

Becca: I am pooping Indian fire, Felicia. It burns coming out just as much as it did going in.
Me: Wow, nice visual, thanks. I'm perfectly fine! You must have a sensitive stomach. Next time (if there is a next time) get mild! Btw, you left your leftovers at my house.
Becca: Good, burn them.

So, I ate them for lunch that day. They were awesome. And I felt just fine afterwards :)

~Felicia

Adventures in Cooking: The Cake of Shame

You may have noticed by now that this blog is going to be full of "adventures," of my own variety that is. This is going to be my first installment under the "Adventures in Cooking" category. I would like to start my telling you that I fancy myself to be a pretty decent cook/baker. I come from a large, Italian family full of amazing cooks and bakers, and though I may not yet be up to their grand standards, cooking and baking are in my blood. So is eating. It's a problem. Anyway, the point is, I am a fairly capable person when it comes to food-related matters.

On the other hand, everybody is allowed certain weaknesses. Mine happens to be cake. Not weakness in the sense that I can't resist eating a piece of cake, because I can (most of the time), but weakness in the sense that I cannot bake a cake to save my life. Cake is my achilles heel. This brings me to January 1, 2013: New Year's day. Also, coincidentally, my mother's birthday, and the conception of 'the cake of shame.'

The morning of New Year's day, my mother set off to run a few errands. As she turned the key in the ignition, she discovered the car to be unresponsive. The problem: dead battery. Frustratedly, my mother announced this discovery to my father, who is quite adept at fixing cars, and requested from me the temporary use of my car. I, of course, being the best daughter there is, relinquished my keys to my mother, and she went on her way. About twenty minutes later, our home phone rang. My dad answered it, made some frustrated grumbles, hung up, and immediately exited the house. I didn't think much of it at the time, until, that is, both of my parents returned home and informed me that my car too was now refusing to start (I know what you're thinking: What does this have to do with cake? Trust me, I'm getting there). 

Now, with both cars being dead and my mother still having errands to run, my father found himself suddenly quite occupied. He called me downstairs and we had the following conversation (this is the abridged version; my memory ain't what it used to be):

Dad: So, your car is dead, and mom's car is dead...

Me: (suspiciously) Uh huh...?

Dad: I still have to make mom a birthday cake...

Me: (still suspicious) Uh huh...?

Dad: I can't do both.

Me: ...okay...

Dad: I'm going to need you to make the cake

Me: (thinking, "yeah, I can do this. Box mix all the way!") Oh, sure thing!

Dad: I need you to make an Italian sponge cake (there is no box mix for this, and it is probably the most    disgustingly complicated cake ever involving the sifting of flour, grating of lemons, and whipping of eggs).

Me: (panicking slightly, knowing I suck at cake-making) Uh...okay...yeah, I mean, sure. No problem. Do we have a recipe for that?

Dad: We must someplace. 

Me: Okey dokey, noooo problem (said with much more conviction and enthusiasm than I felt)

So, with that, I set off to find the recipe for Italian sponge cake. I should have mentioned before, my dad is pretty much a professional baker. He used to work in a restaurant in New Jersey, and he still works in a food-related industry. This being said, my dad does not often use recipes. I think that secretly, Italians aren't allowed to because it somehow means they fail at life. The recipes that he DOES have are written in restaurant-code. The measurements for everything are in pounds and handfulls, not cups and teaspoons. And there are no directions for how to proceed once you've gathered your ingredients. Realizing that I was not going to be able to follow my father's recipe, I looked to the internet for guidance. 

I soon found a simple-looking recipe after searching for probably longer than I should have. I gathered my ingredients, and set off to work. Luckily, since the recipe was on my laptop, I had some handy-dandy entertainment while I baked. I would definitely need this, as the instructions informed me that I would need to beat 6 eggs with a hand-held electric mixer for 20 minutes straight, until they formed stiff peaks. Guys, I beg of you, never attempt to beat the egg yolks AND whites together if you want stiff peaks, It's not possible. Seriously. If you want peaks, get rid of the yolks. I did not know this, of course, so I proceeded to beat the crap out of those eggs for 30 whole minutes (Yes, the directions only said 20, but they obviously lied because I was not getting peaks) at the absolute highest setting, until I got very, very loose peaks, and I was almost positive my hand was about to break off. Even though the mixture only sort of doubled in size (as opposed to quadrupling, as the recipe stated it would) and did not, in fact, form any kind of peaks, I decided to go with it, because hey, what was the worst that could happen (plus, I could no longer feel my arm).

My father had told me to separate the batter into two 9-inch round pans, which, I don not feel should have been the case seeing as how there was barely enough batter to do this, but I forgot to compensate for the fact that I separated the batter when I set the oven timer. Consequently, the "cake" (I'm using quotes now because I cannot justifiably call this monstrosity a cake) spent a bit too much time in the oven. When I pulled it out, I knew it was looking a bit browner than it probably should have, but I thought it would be fine. After all, it smelled decent and looked at least a trifle edible. And if all else failed, we could just add a lot of frosting!

I was wrong.

When my mother got home, she found the cake of shame cooling on top of the oven. I explained to her my earlier mishaps, but expressed my beliefs that all would be well in the end. My mother, not believing me for a second, walked over to the oven and lifted the cakes out of their pans. Upon flipping them over, we saw that the bottoms of both cakes were completely black. Oh, and they were rock solid.  Mmm, delish. I thought maybe the cakes could still be salvaged (I was desperate at this point), and suggested cutting off the bottoms (even though the cakes were each approximately one inch thick to begin with). My mom, calmly, but with laughter in her eyes, broke the news to me that their would be no saving these cakes. They would have to be baked over again. Guys, this was at least 4 hours of my life down the drain. Naturally, not wanting to admit total failure, I enthusiastically announced, "well, I bet they still taste good!" I cut off a small chunk of "cake," took a bite, and started chewing...and chewing...and chewing. Yet no matter how much I masticated, the cake was still there, not getting any weaker. Well, at least I had managed to make exactly what the directions said it would be: a sponge! Must have forgotten the cake part. My mom, amused by my endless chewing, decided to try it out herself. She took a bite and chewed...and chewed...and chewed...We both began laughing at this point. My mom asked, "does it ever go away?" I don't know the answer to this for sure, but my educated guess is no. 

After determining the cake to be inedible, we found a new recipe, and I stood back and handed my mother ingredients as she prepared her own birthday cake. I watched with rapt attention as my mother tried to instruct me on how to properly prepare cake. I simply turned to her and said, "Mom, trust me, I am not going to attempt this ever again in my life. There's no point wasting your breath."

Later that afternoon, cake #2 (the edible one) was finished, and ready for decorating (which we both left for my father to complete). I walked over to "cake" #1 with one last hope that something could still be done, but at this point, it had cooled enough to erase any illusion that it would ever have been edible. You could pick the whole thing up with two fingers without it even bending in half or denting under the pressure of your fingertips. It was practically unbreakable as well, stretching only if puled forcefully apart at each end. Fortunately for my mother, cake #2 turned out well enough to actually be passable as a decent dessert (especially after my father layered it with fresh whipped cream and lemon curd), so all was not lost. 

And guys, I have got to tell you, my dog and my brother's bird both LOVED my "cake."

 

("cake" #1 on the left, cake #2- the edible one, on the right)

~Felicia

Adventures in Food; Chapter 1: Vietnamese

Recently, my good friend Becca and I have decided that we need to expand our palette and embark on new, food-related cultural experiences. Our first adventure began when I received a Facebook message from Becca, imploring me to try the Vietnamese dish, pho. Pho, pronounced "fuhh"(which I still cannot bring myself to say without feeling racist-don't ask me why) is a type of soup traditionally prepared with a beef broth, beef chunks (personally, I don't eat beef, but I was assured that there would be other meat choices), rice noodles, cilantro, and lime,  among other ingredients. I thought it an odd coincidence that she should suddenly be so interested in trying pho, because I too had recently been hearing friends of mine singing its praises. Taking all of this into consideration, I readily agreed to join her in this endeavor, and with that, our adventures in food began.

It was a few weeks (or months...) before we actually made good on our plans to go out for a pho dinner. We had inquired amongst all of our pho-eating friends regarding which restaurant would give us the tastiest, most authentic pho experience, and the common denominator in most of these conversations was a local restaurant called Pho Vietnam. Simple and straight to the point. We were sold. We set out to the restaurant, which, from my house, was only about 10 minutes away. Our directions led us into a fairly sketchy (as sketchy as suburbia really gets I suppose) shopping complex containing mostly discount stores. We weren't sure we were in the right place, until we saw the unmistakable "Pho Vietnam" sign nestled into one corner of the complex.

Upon entering, Becca and I stood awkwardly in the doorway for a minute or so before a waitress, from across the room, yelled "TWO?" at us. Becca, taken aback a little bit responded, "uh, yes, two." "Follow me!" commanded the waitress. The two of us exchanged glances, but quickly moved to follow the waitress to a booth in the back of the small restaurant. As we sat down, the waitress placed a menu in front of each of us, and then walked away. We both glanced at each other once again, and then bent to study our menus. It was then we realized we were completely out of our element. I looked around to find that we were the only non-Vietnamese patrons in the restaurant. The menu itself was about 75% Vietnamese, with a short description in English below each menu item. The menu was also 98% beef. As I struggled to find a menu item with no cow byproducts, Becca perused the beefy list. Each menu item listed the same kind of meat (it was beef, in case you hadn't already figured it out), yet each type of pho contained meat from a different section of the animal. I kid you not when I say that there were at least 20 different choices. Luckily for us, I happen to have a smartphone, so for the next 5 or so minutes, we tried to locate a diagram of a cow on my phone, so that Becca could choose her meal accordingly. After locating said diagram, we agreed that the brisket sounded like the safest choice, so Becca ordered the pho with brisket, and I went for the vegetarian option (as it was the only one on the menu not containing beef). After the waitress took our orders, we studied the items on table in front of us. There was a fork for each of us, which we couldn't really tell if it had been used by the previous occupants of our booth or was actually for us (which would be odd, considering we ordered soup), so we decided to leave the forks alone. There was also one dispenser full of soup spoons and one for chop sticks. We decided that these would be our weapons of choice for this meal, so we armed ourselves and prepared to go to battle. A few minutes after we ordered, the waitress brought this dish to our table (see picture below):

Each of us had a momentary panic when neither could figure out what we were supposed to do with these things. Each plate contained one lime wedge, one diced jalepeno pepper, sprouts, and a sprig of what we assumed to be basil. Our thought process went something like this: "Is it...is it some type of salad? Are we supposed to eat this as like, an appetizer?" Becca decided that we needed to consult our friend Iris, who, as Becca assured me, is a pho expert, and would definitely know how to proceed with the consumption of this plate. After the photo was taken and sent to Iris with a caption that read something to the effect of, "WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS!?!?" the waitress brought our giant bowls of pho to the table. We had no time to deal with our mystery salad/appetizer plate situation before we were expected to dive into the main course. We quickly found that the pho could not be consumed with a spoon until and only until all of the noodles had been eaten. As we went to work attacking the slippery rice noodles with our chop sticks, our text message to Iris was answered. "Uhh, guys, it's a garnish. You're supposed to add it to your soup..." OHHHHH! We totally got this. After squeezing the lime wedge, and adding the peppers (and for me, a generous dollop of Sriracha), we deciding that the sprouts were questionable at best, so we decided to leave them out and proceeded to eat our soup. We also didn't add the basil, but I think that was just because we didn't know for sure what it was at the time. After finishing all the noodles (the best part) and sipping as much broth as we could handle (that was too much liquid for any one person), we decided to call it a day. We sat there for about 10 minutes waiting for a waitress to come by and give us the check. No waitress appeared. We figured that A) either the restaurant had really bad service, or B) you had to pay at the register. Not really knowing how to proceed from here, we decided that observing another table before exiting our own would be the wisest decisions. We each picked a nearby table and creepily watched them eat their meals with the hopes that someone would soon finish and we could glean the information we needed regarding how to go about paying for our meals. As the table next to us finished eating, I made some guttural noises to get Becca's attention and made purposeful eye contact with her, before darting my eyes to the table next to us, and then back to her again. She caught my drift. We then knew what we had to do: pay at the register. Now, I know what you're thinking. Why couldn't one of us just go and ask a waitress while the other manned the table? Psh, silly you. That's much too simple and not nearly as covert. After paying for our dinners, we bid Pho Vietnam adieu, and went on our merry way, sloshing happily back to the car full of Pho and stories. 

Now guys, I have to tell you, despite our shaky start, this evening, in my opinion turned out to be a rousing success. The pho was indeed delicious, and we have since been back a second time because we simply couldn't stay away (although Becca did decide to opt for vegetarian the second time around as the beef was also questionable-told you). The frozen yogurt afterwards didn't hurt either...yes, we are THAT white. 

Thanks for joining me for this week's adventure, and I hope you will check out the next installment in the series: Indian food.

~Felicia

Hello People of the Internet

Why hello there! I assume you have either stumbled onto this page completely by accident, or because I begged you to check it out, but before you click off, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Felicia, and this is a blog dedicated to the strange things that happen in my life "When Boredom Meets Curiosity." For me, being bored is a dangerous thing, and it happens just about every weekend. Before you go judging me, let me to elaborate on what I mean by the word "bored."

Bored: (adj.) 1. A feeling of disinterest in just about everything around you. 2. Wanting to do things like watch TV or waste away the day on the internet, but being discouraged from doing so by an internal voice telling you to be productive. 3. Having nothing "productive" to do besides things you earnestly do not want to do (like cleaning and homework). 4. Easily resolved by getting out of the house, but as this would involve showering, getting dressed, putting on makeup, and, oh, actually leaving the house, this is not of interest to you. 5. After establishing that A.) You do not wish to do anything productive, and B.) Your conscience is hindering you from doing anything that is NOT productive, you sit and stare into space for the remainder of the day, thinking about what you could potentially do, until it is time for bed.

This is pretty much how I spend my weekends...Sad, I know, but hey, I'll take it while I still can. Working off of this definition, I find it hard to come up with things to do that are not exactly productive, yet still make me FEEL as though I'm being productive, like, say, oh, I don't know, starting a blog maybe? That, my friends (and random people of the internet) is how we all find ourselves here, today, right now.

Now that I have established the origins of this blog (although I think the blog title is pretty self-explanatory), Let me clue you in on what you can expect out of me in the not-so-distant future. For the most part, I just want to share with you random stories and events from my life with the hopes of 1) informing you a little bit about myself and the things that I find fun and interesting, 2) Improving my writing/storytelling abilities, and 3) making you laugh a little, because everyone needs a light-hearted distraction from the hassles of everyday life now and again.

All of this being said, I hope that you will read and enjoy my completely random, sometimes ranting tales of family, friends, food (mostly food), and adventure (think small-scale) soon to come on my new blog, "When Boredom Meets Curiosity."

~Felicia