shoot first. eat later.

There are few things which make a cold, wet, and miserably dreary day tolerable:

Snuggling (duh), Netflix (and snuggling), and making homemade soup.

Finding myself alone and without internet this past New Year’s Eve limited my options to snuggling with Mr. Kitty or making soup.

Oh, God. Saying this out loud vindicates my theory of being a closeted widowed cat-lady. 

Sigh.

Full disclosure, I also utilized my stew time to try and complete the entire Lord of the Rings extended edition in one sitting.  

Good vegetarian gravy. What has become of me? 

Well, judge me not by the content of my goings on, but by the ingredients of my soup. For it was a proverbial mouth explosion of flavor.

 Vegetarian French Onion Soup

• 6-8 white onions (but really, you can never have enough)
• A smidge of sugar
• A smidge of salt
• 3 tbsp margarine
• 4 cups of water
• 4 cups veggie broth
• 1 tbsp (or so) flour for thickening purposes
• A sprig of thyme (I used 2 because I can never have enough thyme. Nyuck nyuck nyuck)
• 1 bottle of wine, divided (1/4 cup for cooking, the remainder for drinking, duh)
• Old/dried up bread
• Fancy cheese (I prefer Muenster)

Pull out your biggest pot, medium heat it up, and let your butter melt all over the bottom.  Slice up the gagillion pounds of onions into slim but generous lengths.  Add your onions and toss in the salt and sugar. Put a cover on those babies and cook for 10 minutes.

Here’s where Lord of the Rings comes into play: Caramelizing onions is a tedious and lengthy process, requiring the frequent stir to avoid burning.  So sit back, but not too far, pop in a VHS, and for the next 90 minutes, monitor your pot and stir every so often.

When the onions start to brown, add a spoonful of water every 5 minutes you get up t stir, and mind the crusty goodness that will cultivate the bottom of your pot. Continue this ritual for the next 30 minutes. 

When the onions get as brown as my epidermis during the summer (which is very), stir in your flour.  Add water, veggie broth, and thyme, and bring to a boil.

Reduce heat and simmer for 20 minutes.  Add the 1/4 cup of white wine you haven’t already downed, and let it stew for another 10 minutes.  

In these 10 minutes, set your oven to broil and chop up your dusty old bread into bite-sized cubes.

I put my soup into pretty little oven-friendly ramekins because I’m adorable.  Add crusty cubes. Cover the tops with cheese. Place your savory cups of glory on a baking sheet and broil for about 10 minutes, until the cheese is as golden as Bea Arthur.

Remove, ingest, and lose your mind over what just happened in your kitchen.

A recent New Year’s Eve found me alone but for the company of about 20,000 pounds of white onions.  

Naturally, on a quest I ventured, challenging myself to make my first vegetarian French onion soup while simultaneously completing the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy. Extended edition.

One pot to rule them all.  For the time will soon come when onions will shape the fortunes of all.  My precious, precious soup.

Brace yourselves: vegetarian French onion soup is coming.

Bread, wine and chocolate. Also potatoes. Of the sweet variety, preferably.  These are the foodations foundations upon which my uncomfortably chilly winter’s nights are made.

And so it came to be, on a recent teeth-chattering eve, whilst under my mountain of blankets in the glow of my not-smart phone, I came to know the prix fixe Sunday Supper option at Cafe Rustica.

Sweet potato soup, pasta, bread pudding, wine? Check, check, check please. 

I don’t consider myself a high-maintenance lady, but a lady I am, and wined and dined I will be!  Forsooth! 

Cafe Rustica 
414 East Main Street
Richmond, Virginia 

I’d like to take a moment to thank the first masochistic genius who looked at their virginal nosh and thought, “You know what would make this better? Tearing out its innards, scraping it hollow, and stuffing it with a cacophony of flavor.”

I imagine the way most of America feels about bacon is the same way I feel about stuffing. Any food can be made better by filling it with greatness.  If it can be hollowed, it can be stuffed, and while the mushroom isn’t the most adventurous vestibule to fill, it’s a crowd-pleasing classic that is perfect for hoarding for yourself holiday parties. 

Making one’s own stuffing can seem daunting as the greatest challenge lays within identifying the ingredients in our favorite filler food.  But rest easy and consider this, anxious reader: Casseroles, stews, smorgasbords, Velveeta— these are all familiar comfort staples comprised of occult (but delicious) ingredients. 

We all remember the questionable tupperware in the back of our parent’s freezer whose contents, shrouded by layers of spore-like frost, mysteriously grew on a weekly basis.  Yet when its reservoirs were emptied each month like a uterus mourning another childless cycle, we didn’t question the ingredients in our steamy bowl. It smelled wonderful, tasted better, and warmed us to the marrow.

Ah, to be young. 

The beauty of a stuffing is that it can be made from a plethora of ingredients that can be finely chopped and melded together. These are ingredients I used, but get creative to make it your own! Keep it fun, keep it fresh, and you can’t go wrong. Don’t be afraid, grab my hand and a bottle glass of wine, and dive in! 

• 18 or so mushrooms, decapped  
• 1 large onion, chopped and caramelized 
• a cup or so of bread crumbs
• 3/4 cup or so of fresh parmesan cheese
• a smidge more parmesan cheese for topping
• a drizzling of olive oil
• 1 egg yolk for binding (optional, but encouraged)
  
  Finely chop:
• stems of your decapitated ‘shrooms 
• 3 or more peppers of the red, orange, and yellow variety (green pepper scares me, as it is too dominating for my palette)
• 2 or so cloves of fresh garlic
• handful of fresh parsley
• handful of fresh basil, crisped for a minute in a frying pan
  
  Preheat oven to 350. While caramelizing onions, chop ingredients and mix in a large bowl.  Admire the colors of the wind your creation until the onions are softened, then add them along with the parmesan, bread crumbs, and egg yolk to your bowl.  Place mushroom caps in a baking pan and drizzle with olive oil.  Using your hand or spoon or whatever tool will effectively stuff the mushrooms instead of your mouth, fill each cap, then top with parmesan.
  
  Bake for 15-20 minutes while finishing off your vat glass of wine and congratulate yourself on being the master of your stuffing anxiety.  
  
  Yay, you!
  
  

Here’s my Christmas present to y’all:

An exclusive, behind-the-scenes peek at the glamorous toiling of a food blogger. 

Note the subtle smattering of foodstuffs on her sweatpants!

The precarious balancing of poise, picture, and platter!

Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good shot!

Yes, I’ve been on holiday, but I couldn’t keep these little guys to myself. Is this not the most beautiful, fleshy fungus you’ve ever laid eyes on? 

To mushroom be the glory.
 

Leaven yourselves.. Sub Rosa Bakery has opened. 

—(Formal post to follow) 

hypeischeap:

rule of food I live by: if there is ever a menu option with mushroom or sweet potato, I will always order it. no contest.

so.. what do you do when the two soup du jour options are Hungarian mushroom or sweet potato bisque?

order both, duh.

listen to this girl. she knows what she’s talking about. 

I blame last week’s super full moon for the plethora of randomness which transgressed over the last few weeks.  Seventy-degree December nights, more days at the doctor than not, and the unlocking of the first of my many existential achievements.

The air, sticky with moisture and making my skin reminiscent of a glazed pastry, must have been what prompted me to try my luck to finally eat at WPA. Thrice I have visited in vain, arriving after locked doors or the selling out of the floury majesties, taking only pictures and leaving only footprints tears hopes for better luck next time.

Thankfully, my best friend and worst enemy Fortune felt so inclined to be in my favor this blessed afternoon, and I got to wrap my chapstick-addicted lips around the pastaieries I’ve been taunted by via their Facebook page. 

In memoriam of three unyielding visits past, I treated myself to a trinity of victuals: the stickiest of sticky buns, my first canele, and a steamy cup of caffeine to wash it all down.

As clever as I am my tag line “Shoot First, Eat Later” may be, it truly is a challenge to complete my opus of shots before I adulterate my dish with the first bite. 

To date, this sticky bun, this treacly temptress of a tartlet, proved to be the most formidable of all my food subjects to resist. If it weren’t for my addition of the canele to my order, you, my beloved reader, may have never laid eyes on its glory.

Concerning the bakery’s limited hours, CHPN noted after my last visit, “[My] waistline is still in peril… hours will expand once things settle.” 

Paging Steven Hawking—Have we yet the capability to transcend time and space so I can lose myself in the doughy spiral of sweetness again?

Stop licking your screen and go buy one. Or two. Then hustle down the street and drop one by.

WPA Bakery
2707 East Marshall Street
Richmond, VA 

In the midst of a black hole of end-of-year/semester insanity, I managed to transcend space and time to finally sample the wares of my new neighbor…

Brace yourselves— sticky buns are coming.  

Albeit ironic, I was determined to use Thanksgiving as a brief respite from my old ball-and-chain the kitchen.  In vain, I tried to justify my decision by surveying my mother’s kitchen inventory to find she was not at all equipped to meet my culinary needs.  

Alas, I couldn’t, in good conscience, show up empty-handed on National Eating Day. So on the eve of Thanksgiving, to the farmer’s market Farm Fresh I ventured, in search of my favorite seasonal gourd.

Working in a kitchen that is not stocked with even the lowest tier of my cooking-hierarchy needs (sharp knives, peeler, onion, fresh garlic) causes enough frustration for me to abandon ship and renounce my faith in olive oil.

After unsuccessfully trying to peel the butternut squash with a WWII-era peeler, I threw my hands up and threatened to throw away the whole thing. There is much comfort to be had in getting lost in your craft, and when one is faced with such adversity, there’s just no point in trying to move on.

Thanksgivingfully, before I completely gave up the ghost, my mom jumped in to save the day, using her brute left-handed strength to peel the bejeezus out of my squash. 

Finally able to move on, my as-yet to be determined concoction sprang from my hands like Athena from her father’s head.

Speaking of childbirth, this masterpiece is dedicated to my mama.
For never not saving the day. 

Caramelized Butternut Squash

• 2 medium butternut squash (squashes?)
• 1 large white onion
• Margarine
• Olive oil
• Fresh garlic, minced
• Honey
• Salt
• Pepper
• Brown sugar
• Paprika
• Chili powder

The astute reader will notice I did not specify measurements. This is the beauty of cooking versus baking. It’s less of a science and more of a flavor crusade. Just keep your skillet low and slow, add ingredients as you taste see fit, and you can’t go wrong.

Using a working peeler, roll the skin off your squash until the vibrant orange is glistening through.  Chop in half, scoop out the innards, then cut the phallus into 1-2 inch cubes. 

Heat up enough olive oil to cover the bottom of your cast iron skillet. If you don’t have a skillet and you know how to drive a car, stop what you’re doing, get in it and go buy one.

Once warmed, drop a few slices of margarine in.  When no one’s looking, plop a few more generous cubes in, as we’re looking to caramelize, not watch our weight. 

Chop up your onion and garlic and drop those in early on. Pour some sugar on me them (a hefty few pinches) to jumpstart the browning.

In a large bowl, toss the cubes in a swirl of honey, more than enough brown sugar, equal parts paprika and chili powder, a couple of shakes of pepper, and a few cranks of sea salt.

Schlep it all into the skillet (keeping it on low heat), and wait for the magic of caramelization to happen. 

Enjoy, and don’t be surprised when, going around the dinner table, your entire family lists you as for what they are most thankful. 

I am disgusted stretched to capacity proud of myself.

Happy Eating Day, y’all!

My brain has been at max capacity as of late, so it was no surprise when it waited until the eleventh hour to remind me of a dessert luncheon at work. The next day.

Thanks, Brain. Always looking out.

Having just used the remainder of my chocolate chips and peanut butter (hashtag bakerproblems), I was feeling destitute for a quick mix that would please the masses at the office.

Eyeing my molasses, I was reminded of harder times in my kitchen. In a similar predicament last holiday season, sans a multitude of baking staples (milk, eggs, butter), I was thrown into the creative world of vegan baking. Which, as it turns out, happens to be synonymous for “Help, I’m poor and have nothing in my fridge” baking.

Desperation begats innovation, and thus, the Spicy Ginger Molasses cookie was born. 

I get bored with recreating the same recipe time after time, so to make this would-be traditional batch a smidgy more intriguing, I tossed in a smattering of chili powder, and prayed to the Flour gods they wouldn’t taste like a Christmas taco.

Why I ever doubted my baking senses, I’m not sure.  But the end result was that of a Christmas miracle that kicks you in the back of the throat, sending you running for the soy eggnog.

• 2 cups of flour
• 1/2 cup of sugar
• 1/3 cup of molasses
• 2 Tbsp ground ginger
• 1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
• Chili powder to taste
• 1 tsp ground cloves
• 3/4 tsp salt
• 1/3 cup softened vegan spread
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• 1/4 cup water
• 1/2 tsp baking soda
• 2 tsp baking powder

Preheat oven to 375. Mix in all dry ingredients until blended into a wheat-colored mix. In a separate bowl, mix wet ingredients until blended into a sauce you would consider pouring over a scoop of cardamom vanilla bean ice cream.

Mmmmm. Artisanal ice cream.

While turning the dry mix with your favorite spatula, add wet ingredients, continuing to stir until every last clump of flour is pulled from the cold claws of your mixing bowl.

Feel free to sample your wares pre-bake time. With no uncooked ingredients, it’s perfectly reasonable safe to taste the majority a bit of the mix before it makes it to the oven.  

Roll into tablespooned balls and coat in sugar before placing on the baking sheet. Bake for 8-9 minutes. You may Eat freeze any unused dough. 

When I make these again (and I will, as some poor soul is always in need of a cookie) I may amend the recipe and roll in both sugar AND fresh ginger.

Whoa. Chili powder? Fresh ginger? Amended recipes!? It’s getting all sorts of crazy my kitchen. Time for this lady to take a brief Thanksgiving respite.  

Happy eating!

Believe it or not, working full time, being in grad school, moving zip codes, and metamorphosing one’s life can lead to the occasional gray hair. After my recent 20-inch shorn, my once-hidden salted locks now unabashedly wave to me with every trip to the water closet. 

So, when I am extended a lunch invitation to partake in my favorite kind of holistic healing, I scoot out of work and up the street faster than you can chant nom ohm. There aren’t many problems a midday pizza and adult beverage can’t solve. 

Aziza’s has been churning out delicious Lebanese dishes, deserts, and wood-fired pizza years, but being new to the neighborhood makes it new to me. 

I love a pizza that doesn’t hide behind a crust deeper than a beatnik reading Kerouac outside a Parisian cafe.  It maintains the integrity of the toppings, and also lessens the guilt of eating half a pie.

Science has proven: 1 slice of deep dish pizza> 2.3 slices of thin crust of proportional radial measurement. 

Divide by Buffalo Mozzerella.

Carry the onion. 

Aziza’s
2110 East Main Street
Richmond,  VA