That’s the extent of my Spanish (along with “Donda esta la biblioteca?” and “Yo no soy marinero, soy capitan”).  And I’m pretty sure something about it is wrong. I have enough problems with English.

And I was right about being wrong. Thanks, astute commenter Melissa!

Anyway, I counted my chickens, and I think they all hatched but some of ‘em are runty. The new anti-crazie medication is working, but has knocked me flat on my ass three days counting. So here’s to another Special Edition Friday Night Smackdown – see y’alls later.

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Instead, I bring you the opportunity to take advantage as I pay it forward. My winnings can become your winnings by way of your actions.

(By the way, you get an extra entry for correctly identifying the inspiration of that last sentence. Email me your answer so’s you don’t give it away.)

Anyway, I was the lucky winner of a giveaway over at Zen Can Cook: despite the fact that the dish I entered in his “Feed Me” giveaway blatantly insulted his people (“That’s right, 50 cloves.  TAKE THAT, FRENCH PEOPLE.  Here in the gold ol’ U.S of A, the dial goes up to 50.”), I was awarded two Jamie Oliver cookbooks.

As it turns out, I already own one of the books I just won, Cook with Jamie: My Guide to Making You a Better Cook. My mind is like a steel trap, where “steel trap” is code for “sieve,” although in my defense, it is a very shiny, well-made sieve. I told Stephane I would happily cede the book to whomever it was who finished a distant (I assume) second to me, but he insisted on sending it to me anyway.

I own so many books at this point that I’ve actually started building furniture out them, so there’s no reason not to pass on my abundance to you. You want this book, because it helps you make things like this, and that? Is a thing you want to eat.

SO: Zen just wanted you to feed him. I want more: I want you to comfort me. Link me to your most comforting dish – or, if you’re altruistic, to someone else’s comforting dish. One entry per person unless you (1) ID the quote above (shoot me an email) or (2) retweet/post on Facebook/post on your blog and let me know.

Open until August 15th. Do it to it – I need comfort, and I can only eat so much mac and cheese.

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2. Hobo Monday remains on in the style of Donkey Kong.  It’s next week.  Get you chickpeas ready.

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Hi there, it’s me, Heather of Gild the (Voodoo)lily, helpin’ a sister out (yes, I am totally linking my own blog because Michelle asked us to say who we were in the post and I love hyperlinking I FUCKING LOVE IT). Being knocked up really isn’t that different than going through the trials of new Krazy Medz™, I suppose. I mean, I guess it’s a little like finding one that works, and it might even work for a few weeks (the cooing! oh, the joyful cooing).

But then pretty soon you’re crying at your desk because you watched the Japanese trailer of My Neighbor Totoro and the little girls look so happy even though their mom is sick, in the hospital in the city, and they wait at the bus stop for their dad and the forest is so pretty, but the tadpoles are so tiny and you cry, okay? You just fucking do. Then you have to buck up real quick before someone sees you, because even though you know they wouldn’t say anything to your face (not in your condition), they are totally thinking it.

See? Exactly the same. Except that I get to skip having periods for a year or so.

Okay, I guess there are differences. For example, whereas Krazy Medz™ may remove any joy you derive from things like cooking and eating, being in the pudding club means cooking and eating just make you want to puke. And Krazy Medz™ do not usually result in a writhing, vernix-smeared larva clamping at your teat for sustenance, unless you are a paranoid schizophrenic. However, the Kwakiutl people of British Columbia bury girls’ placentas to give the girl skill in digging clams, and expose boys’ placentas to ravens to encourage future prophetic visions. And that is exactly the same as Krazy Medz™.

So there you have it. Michelle and I, we’re sisters in the trenches. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a half pound of black licorice Jelly Bellys that ain’t gonna eat themselves.

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It’s good to be back, albeit under difficult circumstances. A few of Michelle’s blogger-type friends are going to fill in for her for a bit while she gets the training wheels back on her psyche enjoys some much-needed RnR. We all wish her the best, and you should too; only somebody certifiable in great need would give someone like me the keys to her blog more than once twice.

In these tumultuous times, I do hope we can all take some inspiration from Michelle, who suffers in private, calling on friends to fill in while she copes. Unlike the less-educated, unfunny, much more offensive nutjobs who now represent and energize the tattered shreds of the GOP, Michelle has wisely opted to lie low for a bit. Are you reading this, Glenn Beck? Bill-O? Rush, baby? Please learn from her example and henceforth have your psychotic breaks in the privacy of your undisclosed bondage dungeons, m’kay?

Now as (our) luck would have it, I’ve been swamped with work lately, and thus have a bunch of unwritten posts on tap for my own, much less popular blog, so we’ll have a good time learning all about the myriad ways in which my dinner- popularity notwithstanding- tasted much, much better than your dinner.

Last week, I took a big hunk of local, grass-fed brisket out of the freezer and plunked it into a big tub of brine (salt, sugar, garlic, bay leaves, peppercorns, Chinese 5-spice, coriander, mustard seeds, and juniper berries (all the seeds were cracked first) and left it in the fridge for three days. Then, on Sunday, I fired up the smoker with our own apple wood and grape vines, crusted the slab o’ beef with a crushed black pepper-coriander mixture, and let it gently reach 150 degrees in the center. Then I brought it back into the kitchen and had my evil way with it.

Truth be told, it sat, only occasionally molested (read: twice a day) until this evening, when I finally got all the other parts together to make my original idea: a Reuben from scratch.*

*except the Swiss cheese. I don’t make cheese. Yet.

The half-rye sourdough was actually from the day before, and I don’t have pictures, because all my bread pretty much looks the same, and I did not realize when I baked it that I’d be spending all evening writing a certain someone else’s blog for her.

Next on the to-do list was mayonnaise. I make it pretty often, and I’ve figured out how to do it in a foolproof and exceedingly delicious way in the food processor. This batch was pretty normal, as they go: an egg yolk, canola oil, cider vinegar, salt, mustard, and a little white truffle oil for extra depth. Behold how stiff and quivering it got:

After a quick rinse-out, the fo-pro was ready to make ketchup. Something else I prefer to make myself- because it just tastes better, and also because it can be tinkered with to complement a specific dish. In this case, I’ve really been digging the pimentón (smoked Spanish paprika) lately for its astonishing depth of flavor and the instant barbecue aura it imparts to a wide variety of food. And since the pastrami was smoked, it seemed all logical and shit. So this ketchup was canned tomatoes, oil-cured dried tomatoes, roasted red pepper, maple syrup, balsamic vinegar, pimentón, and salt all blasted in the processor until thick and smooth.

Pre:

Post:

So mayonnaise “A” gets inserted into ketchup “B” and you’ve got yourself some motherfuckin’ DRESSING, is what I’m saying.**

**See? I told you. It’s in Revelations, people.

Now I also make my own sauerkraut and kimchi regularly, and this time around I had a batch of kraut ready for this unbelievably interesting and exciting event. It’s not the most photogenic of foods, so we’ll just move along. But so as not to deprive you, let’s have another gratuitous shot of my succulent, smoky meat, shall we?

So then it was assembly time. Since I’m not a complete yuppie dipshit tool, I don’t have a panini press, and I make do instead with a cast-iron skillet and two different pot lids. Not that kind of pot lid; what is this, the 70′s? Here is how it works:

You put the little lid on that there sandwich…

…and then the big lid presses it all down real nice. I just saved you like $200. You’re welcome.

Let’s talk about this sandwich. HOLY FUCKING SHITBALLS. With the fatty smokiness, and the melting, and the pickles, and the toasty crunch. My wife, who is an avowed Chicago carnivore, and not overly given to effusive praise of her husband, and LOVES herself a Reuben, rated this a perfect 10. I suddenly realized that the Reuben was invented so that we Jews (when we weren’t controlling international banking and the media, that is) could enjoy a ham and Swiss on rye. Prior to the recent invention of lamb bacon, this right here was as close as kosher ever got to pork. And MY GOD is it good. Besides the fact that making all these things yourself isn’t hard, and even that when you do they taste roughly one million times better than the store-bought versions, what made this sandwich truly superlative, and thus the perfect subject for a guest spot at TNS, was the smug sense of superiority that accompanied every shiny, grinning bite.

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I’m going to keep up the liveblogging because it makes me feel better to chronicle the doings of those crazier than I, but for the rest of the time I’m trying to line up some guest posters to keep you entertained for the next week or two so you don’t have to read about the number of nights we order in or I eat toast for dinner. Sit tight.

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To placate you, here is a pair of sleepy puppies, and that’s not a euphemism for my boobs like it usually is.

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