• So proud

    I’m so proud of myself! I made those ribs, and they far exceeded my expectations and fully met my hopes. I’m pumped.

    I was pretty convinced I would ruin them, you know. I’m not so confident around large chunks of meat (they tend to go all tough on me), so my success was extra sweet. I may even have crowed about it a little.

    Now that I look back on it, the ribs weren’t at all hard to make. It only felt difficult because I had no idea what I was doing. I did, however, have sense enough to pick a recipe from Julie’s blog. That woman has a knack for churning out high-quality and high-quantity food on a daily basis, and she writes about it in such a way that you feel like you can do it too.

    I tried, that day, to crank out the food a la Julie, but even with my mother’s help, I struggled. We were on our feet for hours. My mother grated, chopped, pitted, topped, sliced, minced, peeled, and mashed till her eyelids sagged and her shoulders slumped. And then she washed dishes till her eyes crossed.

    I cooked, gave orders, cooked more, and gave more orders. Mom thinks I could have a restaurant, but even with kitchen staff to boss around, I’m convinced I never could.

    Along with the meat, we fixed two different salads (both good, but no swoonage happened), skillet cornbread (swoonage happened), oven-roasted asparagus, and Sour Cream Ice Cream with Three Reds Fruit Crumble (copious amounts of swoonage ensued). We were prepping dishes for other meals, too, plus I had done a bunch of cooking already that morning. But even though I was bone-weary, when I got up the following morning, I headed straight out to the kitchen to make a cake (which you’ll hear about later).

    Perhaps I need an intervention?

    So, reflecting my current state of no-holds-barred cooking, I’m going to pile on the recipes. There will be a barrage of food-related posts (okay, perhaps only two or four, maybe five), so I suggest you just go ahead and surrender now. Or else clear out.

    First, the ribs.


    Mr. Handsome wrestled them from cooler to fridge that evening, and the next morning I made a dry rub mix.


    After rubbing them good with the mix (I took the “rub” part very seriously)…


    I cut them in half again so that the once gargantuan slab of meat was now in four, more reasonable pieces.


    I let them sit at room temp for a couple hours before popping them back into the fridge for another six hours. Mid-afternoon I plunked them onto two trays, tightly covered them with foil, and baked them for nearly three hours. Then out to the grill (very low heat) they went, where I repeatedly brushed them with sauce and turned them, in between times closing the lid.

    Niecelet lovin’ on the meat

    The end results were flavorful, not terribly fatty (I discarded a couple cups of grease after the baking), and fall-off-the-bone tender. Yee-haw!


    Barbecued Pork Ribs
    Adapted from Julie’s blog, Dinner with Julie

    1 rack of ribs (as in, a whole-honkin’ half of a pig, about 9 pounds), cut into quarters
    2 tablespoons smoked paprika (or plain)
    1 tablespoon chili powder
    1 tablespoon ground cumin
    1 tablespoon salt
    1 tablespoon brown sugar
    2 teaspoons black pepper
    1 teaspoon dried oregano
    2-3 cups sweet barbecue sauce

    Six to twenty-four hours before cooking time, mix together the dry rub spices (everything but the sauce) and rub it on both sides of the ribs. There may be a little leftover which you can either save or toss. (I tossed.) Let the ribs sit at room temperature for an hour or two before covering tightly with plastic wrap (I wrapped them up in individually and then piled them into one pan) and transferring them to the refrigerator to “marinate” till you are ready to cook them.

    Place the ribs, meat side up, in two trays that have sides and cover them tightly with foil. Bake at 300 degrees for 2 ½ hours. (Warning: they don’t smell that great while baking—not at all how you hope they will taste—but stay calm, they will be delicious.)

    Using tongs, remove the ribs from the pans (be cautious when pulling the trays out of the oven because they are sloshy-full of hot, bubbling fat) and transfer them to a couple plates. Brush them all over with barbecue sauce and put them on the grill. Grill on very low heat, lid closed, for thirty minutes, turning and basting every ten minutes.

    And that’s it!


    About one year ago: Rhubarb Tea and Rhubarb Tart

  • The ways we play

    I not only expect my children to be perfectly well-behaved, keep their nails trimmed and not pick their noses, I also expect them to kowtow to me five times a day.


    Okay, so not really. They did this all on their own. They’re really into mother worship. It’s the cool thing in this house.


    Okay, so that’s not true either.


    They were just messing around, doing their thing which consists of pulling out the off-limits dresses, sneaking the boots from my closet, digging through Miss Beccaboo’s makeup collection, and patching it all together with some dress-up clothes.


    The Queen Motif has been central to their imaginative play. Probably because I treat them like slaves.


    Don’t over-analyze this, okay? Thanks.

    In other news, I think I’m way over my head.


    I got the brilliant idea to make ribs this weekend. I’ve never made ribs before (not counting short ribs) but how hard could it be, right?

    Well, turns out ribs are a little trickier than I thought. After clicking my way around the web, I lost a good deal of my cocky I-can-do-anything attitude, but still, I called the meat shop and got prices, gasped a little, steeled my resolve, and planned a trip to town. These ribs were no longer a take-it-or-leave-it idea, they were essential. I had to learn how to do ribs. My mental and emotional stability depended upon it. End of story.

    Except that it wasn’t. At the butcher shop I asked for a whole rack of ribs. “Do you want them cut in half, or the whole rack?”

    “The whole rack,” I said confidently.

    Soon a beefy man came forth from the back room where buzz saws whined and knives thunked, bearing high my (hold the load!) massive rack of ribs. I gulped and watched wordlessly as the man wrangled them up onto the scales to weigh them. Slowly it dawned on me that they would fill my entire oven. Come to think of it, I didn’t even have a baking pan large enough to hold them!

    “Um, could you maybe cut them in half after all?” I asked timidly, my previous bluster squashed flat under all that pork.

    Now the cut-in-half ribs are sitting in the cooler out on the porch. I didn’t realize I would need to clear out half of my refrigerator to make space for some barrel-chested pig.

    My plan (unless one of you convinces me otherwise) is to coat the ribs with a dry rub mix, bake them at 300 degrees for two-and-a-half hours and then finish them off on the grill. I’m keeping my fingers crossed. (Lots of other yummies are in the works: this morning’s shopping cart held seasoned rice vinegar, serrano chilis, tomatillos, avocados, limes, cabbages, tomatoes, lemon curd, and sour cream. When I got home I called my mom to tell her to stop eating now.)

    The pork isn’t the only new thing I’m trying these days. I’m taking on another endeavor, one that I am most excited about (and non food related). I’ll give you three guess (if you already know, please hold your tongue).

    About one year ago: Asparagus, Goat Cheese, and Lemon Pasta and De Butchery, in which we chop the heads off our chickens and put them in the freezer, and The Tip of the Strawberry Iceberg.

  • We love you, Wayne

    After living nearly ten years with a brain tumor, my friend’s husband Wayne is nearing the end of his life.

    On Monday I told the kids that Wayne will soon die, maybe tomorrow, maybe in two weeks, maybe in a month. “You were aware that it was getting close, right?” I asked, trying to gauge their level of understanding.

    Yo-Yo said, “Oh yeah, we know all about it. I wish I could make myself big and make him all better.”

    Miss Beccaboo chimed in, “I hope he dies in his sleep. And I hope he dies when I’m asleep and when I wake up no one tells me.”

    On Tuesday morning I asked the kids if they’d like to go see Wayne. The girls both said yes. Yo-Yo said no.

    “Do you want to take him anything?” I asked.

    “Let’s make him a cake,” Miss Beccaboo said. “And we could write ‘We love you, Wayne’ on the top of it.”

    “That’s a nice idea,” I said. “But he’s not eating anything, you know. Mostly just some applesauce when he takes his pills.”

    “Then how about we make him an applesauce cake!” Sweetsie said.

    “Well now, that’s a thought,” I laughed. “But he couldn’t eat that either. But you know what? Let’s make him a cake anyhow. Even if he can’t eat it, I bet he’ll still like it. And the rest of the family would enjoy it.” And then I put my head down on the table and sobbed, worn out from the previous night’s crying jag, raw from the horribleness of it all. (This is what I do now, cry at the least provocation. I cry on the phone, while I’m hanging up the laundry, while I’m driving. My eyes are sore, I have trouble concentrating, and I snap at my kids. I crave sleep, but even when I get it, I feel tired, all muddly and distractable.)

    So I blew my nose, hugged Sweetsie who was watching me warily, her eyes rimmed with tears. And then I made a cake. Or, rather, chocolate chip peanut butter brownies spread with chocolate ganache, our love scrawled across the top in peanut butter frosting. I made the whole thing, for the most part, but the kids hovered and tasted and admired. It was a joint-enough effort for me.


    Wayne was sleeping when we got to their house, but then he woke up and Shannon wheeled him out into the room. The Baby Nickel, the only child present at the time, stared and grinned, grinned and stared. Shannon said, “Say hi to Wayne,” but Nickel just grinned away. Wayne poked him as he rolled on by.

    Sweetsie came into the room then and as she tip-toed by his chair, Wayne stuck out his good arm and attempted to tickle her. (It’s his signature move, teasing, tickling, and rough-housing the kids.) She giggled and, suddenly shy, crawled onto my lap. “Go get the cake and show it to him,” I urged. And she did, approaching him slowly, the cake extended in front of her. Wayne took it from her, read it, and passed it back. I told him the story about Sweetsie’s applesauce cake suggestion. He looked at me, expressionless (the brain tumor has squelched his affect), but he heard—his eyes told me so.

    When it came time to leave, Miss Beccaboo walked by his chair and Wayne snagged her, hugging her to him.

    Or so I’m told. I was out on the back deck trying to convince Yo-Yo to come in and say goodbye to Wayne. Yo-Yo refused, and once safely in the van he burst into tears. I didn’t blame him, really.

    This afternoon I got an email from Shannon saying that Wayne ate some of the cake. In fact, he loved it so much that she had to take the plate away from him so he wouldn’t get too much in his mouth at one time and choke. He kept grabbing for it though, she said. The sneaky guy.

    I hollered from my desk, “Hey kids! Guess what! Wayne ate some of your cake and he loved it!”

    They came running, eyes wide, incredulous smiles lighting their faces. “He ate it? Really?”

    The Baby Nickel asked excitedly, “Wayne’s not going to be dead now?”

    My heart seized. I said, matter-of-factly, but gently, “No, honey, he’s still going to die. But he liked our cake. Isn’t that neat?”

    About one year ago: Aunt Valerie’s Blueberry Bars