smitten kitchen

As it turns out, I’m a sucker for a good meatball. It’s a funny thing because ground meat has rarely done it for me; I’m certain I’m the lone American who doesn’t get in a frenzy over hamburgers or meatloaf. But something happens when you mix otherwise dull ground meats up with softened bread, herbs, seasonings and bits of extra ingredients, oof — I will swat your fork away to get at them first.

I’ve found some good ones over the years, such as the only ones you should ever serve with your spaghetti and these guys, which, if you have not already, you should not wait until next summer to try, not to mention the ones I sneak into sliders and soup. But as I hadn’t tried these before, my meatball recipe collection — and possibly even my life — was woefully deficient.

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Meet my new favorite party trick.

In dusting off a woefully-neglected group of recipes on my “Cook This” list, subcategory “Cheese” I came upon a curious confection known as a cheese straw. Despite making a note to try them, cheese straws were new to me, but seeing as they involve cheddar, butter, salt and red pepper flakes, I couldn’t imagine them being anything less than awesome.

What I didn’t realize was that, in a ridiculously simple process that took no more than one hour from prep to snacking, what I’d really baked were a cheesy poofs/cheez doodle hybrid! And that my life may now be complete.

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Apparently, making marshmallows at home isn’t as “normal” as I would have thought, but then again, I am the last person one should be using a yardstick of kitchen normality, or not as long as I am pickling grapes or making wedding cakes with a mini-oven and a single, eensy counter.

Of course, it doesn’t mean that my brand of crazy will match yours, however. I mean, someone actually asked if was going to make my own phyllo next. Are they mad? I hate working with phyllo. Who invented this stuff? It’s fragile and fussy and requires a ludicrous amount of manual labor, and then it leaves papery flakes of pastry everywhere, but mostly on this abdomen shelf I’m growing (sorry, kid. One day you’ll be more than just a crumb catcher! Just not today.)

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Wow, people, just wow. I expected a few baby squish, cow country and dishwasher-crazed compatriots out there to squeal with excitement when we shared our news but nothing, nothing like this. You are the nicest group of readers a girl could ever hope for and you make it so much fun to share bits of our lives, and tiny kitchen, with you. Thank you.

So when you tell people you done got knocked up, the first question they ask is when are you due (September 22nd, but that’s the fourth date we’ve been given so I don’t get too attached to it), followed by how are you feeling (pretty darn good, thank you, but I think I need another nap) and then whether it’s a boy or a girl (think we’ll leave it as a surprise), if you have morning sickness (um, no, not a lick, please don’t hate me) and then if you’re craving anything weird, like pickles and ice cream.

The problem is, my cravings of pickles and ice cream are what health insurance companies call a preexisting condition, as in, nice try but we’re unimpressed. Heck, we’ve told more than one person that we’re moving to the East Village just to be closer to The Pickle Guys, and the smart ones knew that we weren’t joking. (Other food-related reasons: proximity to pirogis, two farmers markets, one Trader Joes, my friend Molly, who makes killer dry-rubbed ribs and quite possibly the best homemade doughnut I’ve ever had at Back Forty on Avenue B. It’s evil, I tell you.)

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My husband and I have different packing personalities. First, I need a clean apartment, you know, before I wreck sections of it at a time. Then I need to go through every single thing we own before any of it gets packed and determine whether it should stay or does it need to go. I cannot stand the thought of moving, well, useless baggage to a new and supposedly clean slate of an apartment. Then each box has to have a separate topic; if desk stuff gets in with book stuff, I get itchy and start pacing the floor. How does Alex pack? Oh, he puts stuff in boxes until everything’s packed. I probably don’t need to tell you who is better at getting the job done.

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