Charming, but single

Note: Two posts today! After this, go read about my latest bridesmaid debacle.

I am renewing my call for single men with season football tickets. If y’all would have tasted the food I cooked for my Championship Viewing Party, you would gladly trade both your love and a ticket.

Olive Cheese Bread and Pan Friend Onion Dip. Both were phenomenal. I made a change or two to each – I added a (very) healthy dose of Tony Chachere’s original seasoning blend to my onions in the dip in the place of the other spices and also used sweet Vidalia onions instead of plain yellow. The spiciness and hint of sweetness in the onions balanced out the creaminess of the dip very well. That said, I’d sub in more sour cream in place of some of the mayonnaise because I found it to be a bit mayo-heavy. With the olive bread, the only things I changed were using mozzarella instead of Monterrey Jack cheese because that’s what the store had. Also, my French bread was a bit soft, so I hollowed out the halves, leaving about a half-inch of bread in the crusts. I filled in the hollowed portion to improve the filling-to-bread ratio.

The best part? I finally successfully caramelized onions for the dip. And as I scooped the soft, brown, spicy sweet onions into a bowl and went to scrub out the pan, I realized that I had a pan primed for perfection and I needed to sear something, anything in this pan. Luckily, I’d seen a reasonably priced piece of sirloin at the store and planned on cooking it this week. So I melted butter and dropped in the lightly seasoned steak. I seared each side, removed the meat to let it rest, deglazed the pan with beer and tossed in a small can of sliced mushrooms. (I was out of fresh.)

Oh man, was it awesome. And as I ate one small piece of rare meat swimming in browned butter mushroom gravy, I thought, “I resolve to cook like this for men within the first three dates. Because the guys I like would just LOVE this meal.” Other bonus: I have two dinners and one lunch because steak is a lot richer than this reformed vegetarian remembers.

So there you have it. Single men with football tickets: I will cook for you.

Also, my beloved Tigers went to the ‘ship and they showed everyone how it is done. Just another of many fond memories that waken in our hearts a tender glow. Today, and everyday, it is great to be an LSU Tiger.

(But seriously, I only have nine months to date my way into next season’s tickets.)

Saturday evening, after seeing “Juno” with my girlfriends, I decided to pick up a few things for dinner and head in for a quiet night of watching Season Three of The Office. My ankle still hurts and I’m heading out on Thursday for a whirlwind wedding weekend, so a bit of relaxation was in order. I stopped by a new gourmet market to browse and wait for food-related inspiration.

I was rolling through the aisles aimlessly, trying to decide what to cook. And this led me to a logical place – the meat counter. You see, I’ve been working hard in my post-vegetarian months to build dinners around meat instead of adding it in at the last minute.

So I’m looking at different cuts of meats – incidentally, I went with chicken breast and later made the world’s worst chicken. I’d meant to make a nice Parmesan crusted chicken breast, but oh did I crash and burn and end up with a lumpy mess. But, of course, I didn’t know that that this point.

What I did know at this point was that, gee golly, I was about to have an encounter of the uncomfortable kind. Because as I looked up from the applewood smoked pepper bacon, I spied a familiar face. One I’d only seen once in person but studied extensively via MySpace before coming to the conclusion that, yes, I was cuter than she is.

It was The Nurse’s Girlfriend, in all of her not me glory.

Whereas I looked put together – a rose-colored sweater with a cowl neck, wide-legged trouser jeans, flats, with my hair pulled back and simple makeup with glossy lips – she was not only wearing what I assume was an oversized men’s polo-style red plaid shirt and, horror of horrors, a SKORT.

Now, I know it is impolite to mock your ex’s current fling, especially when she was unfortunate enough to bear his spawn recently, but I really don’t care, because this isn’t actually about her right now. Girlfriend was wearing a denim skort. A pair of denim shorts with a faux skirt flap in the front. The definition of frumpy. And I should have just giggled and went about on my merry little way, happily not saddled with a child by a soulless liar. But at that moment, my New Year’s Resolution to find the blessings in my daily life fell from my mind and all I could think was, “He dumped me for someone who wears a skort.”

My maniacal fashion judgment gave way to the realization that she probably wasn’t alone. And I was right – The Nurse and Their Child were right behind her.

And, yep, I was there in my cute outfit, but hopelessly alone with a package of chicken breast and two baking potatoes. As I peered at him holding his baby and perusing the aisles, the blood drained from my face and I fumbled in my purse for my phone and called Southern Belle.

“Are you busy?”

“No, just painting my nails. What’s up?” she asked.

I told her I needed someone to distract me while I finished my shopping because I could not risk having to talk to the happy family.

And it turns out that I was going to need the distraction. Because they were everywhere – at the meat counter by the pork chops. In the deli section by the sliced cheeses and the prosciutto, comparing babies with another couple with an infant. At the seafood case by the scallops. In the produce section by the portabellas.

I was skillfully dodging him while carrying on my conversation and silently seething about how much I hated him for dumping me without bothering to give a reason and then occasionally dropping back into my life to flirt or suggest that we reunite for a night. And really hating myself the most for caring so much at this point and for letting him remain under my skin when I should have banished him like the poisonous rash that he is.

But as I went to replace a package of gnocchi on the pasta aisle, he was leading his brood down the same aisle and we ended up face-to-face. We made direct eye contact, he nodded and smiled to acknowledge me and I managed a weak smile and turned my cart around.

Later, as I walked to my car, I moped to Southern Belle.

“It isn’t him,” I said. “It is that he just dumped me for no reason, or at least if he had a reason he didn’t share it. And now he’s dating some woman who just doesn’t seem to be as fun as I am and he keeps popping up and making inappropriate comments to me and telling me how awful she is.”

“Yes, it would be easier if he were just gone.”

“Right. And, I’m sorry, she was wearing a skort.”

“Excuse me? His girlfriend was wearing a skort?” she asked.

“Yes, a skort. A denim skort. Like we wore in 1993. When we were 13.”

“Oh dear, I see why you’re upset,” Southern Belle said. “I don’t think there is any good reason to wear a denim skort out in public. Ever.”

“And this means I am officially the girl who got dumped for no reason so that her guy could go off and date a skort-wearer,” I said.

“The sad truth is, you’ll probably never know why he dumped you. And that’s crazy, but at least you’re not still with him,” Southern Belle said.

And she’s right. There isn’t always a tangible reason you can see for why a man dumps you. And that needs to be okay, because sometimes you’re the one the guy lusts after and the one who makes his heart pound.

And then other times you’re just not what he wants. And so, inexplicably, you get dumped for the girl in the denim skort.

I’m feeling a bit scatterbrained today. Deep in my soul I was sure it was Monday, so I was extra grumpy, only to realize that it was actually Wednesday and, thus, I should be happy for a short week.

But really, all I could think of today was nesting far away from the cold outside (anything less than 40 degrees is frigid to me) and what movie I should see with the ladies this weekend and how I couldn’t wait to be cooking up a storm this weekend in preparation for next Monday’s Big Game watching party. (We shall toast to our victory and feast triumphantly!) And cooking up a storm became a little more fun Chez Charming since I was blessed with gifts of KitchenAid knives and a Cuisinart mini food processor for Christmas. I have been anxiously looking for reasons to slice and chop and grind.

But, dear readers, I can’t pick just one recipe. So, I’ll share my ideas and you can share yours and together we can all decide which vegetarian (the hostess is veggie and I must be polite!) savory appetizer-style dish I should bring to the celebration.

First off, we have the Charming Standbys:

• Hot spinach and artichoke dip – I think I used to alter a Rachael Ray dip when I made this, but I’ve made it so many times that I just make it – one pack thawed frozen spinach, one can artichokes (in water) drained and chopped, a handful of minced garlic cloves, enough mayo to make it stir and a handful or two of cheese (usually mozzarella and Romano). Stir it all up, add spices of choice (I usually add dried Italian seasoning, Cajun spice, black pepper, paprika and maybe cumin if I’m feeling crazy.) and bake until everything melts. Open chips. Get ready to be worshipped.
• Stuffed mushrooms – Seriously, I couldn’t even write a recipie for these if you paid me to – I make a stuffing out of what I have on hand, like the cleaned mushroom stems, tomatoes, cheese, random seasoning, bread crumbs, olive oil, eggplant, squash. (Not all at once. Usually.)

Then we have the new, Internet-found recipes:

• Barefoot Contessa’s Sundried Tomato Dip
• Barefoot Contessa’s Pan Fried Onion Dip
• Olive Cheese Bread from The Pioneer Woman

So what should I cook, my dearies? Be nice and I’ll write all about the tarot card lady tomorrow, I promise!

At this moment, I am most thankful for my stretchy track pants and my scarf. Also, gravy.

I don’t know how you people up north do it – I am freezing my charming ass off and it’s maybe 30 degrees. But my hair is wonderfully smooth and straight. Something about the water and lack of humidity made it not frizz, which is a rare occurrence. If it weren’t so abysmally frigid, I’d stay here for the hair and the gorgeous leaves, all pumpkin-colored, gold-hued and kissed with tinges of maroon. Where I’m from leaves just turn brown and fall off because it stays hot for too long – the night before we left I was still wearing my flip flops.

This morning was a lot of making it work, cooking wise. A cornbread dressing recipe improvised, mashed potatoes added at the last minute and two different pecan pies – one with the pecans halved and another with the pecans chopped, as the two sides of my family diverge on this detail. To me it’s the sweetness of the syrup, not the size of the nut, that makes the pie.

After dinner we were cleaning and I was tasked with removing the remaining turkey from the bones. I was elbow deep in turkey, pulling large chunks off for sandwiches so the bones could be boiled for stock when my newly vegetarian brother walked into the kitchen.

“Did you ever think that the turkey had a name?” he asked, clearly offended.

“Yeah, it did have a name – Dinner.”

Happy Thanksgiving.

*So I missed a day of NaBloPoMo. I was traveling and they don’t have Internet on the highway. Poor planning on my part.

I’ve been in maternal, homemaker mode for quite some time. At least, that’s the only explanation for how I’ve been acting. Doting over babies, sighing over little kids, heart leaping over wee Halloween costumes and cooking nonstop – double batches of my favorite spinach side dish are already frozen, waiting for Thanksgiving, right next to three loaves of pumpkin bread dotted with chocolate chips, made with pumpkin puree leftover from a glorious pan of pumpkin bread pudding (inspired by Smitten Kitchen, suggested new tagline: “I read Gourmet so you don’t have to.”).

On Saturday as I was browsing with Southern Belle, I came across a tiny black and pink plaid dress with a sparkly bow, suitable for baby’s first(ish) Christmas. As I ran the material between my fingers, I let out a dejected breath.

“This is the kind of thing I want to just buy and pack away for another day,” I said, placing the hanger back on the rack.

Southern Belle examined a metallic baby sweater dress and nodded, offering that she knew people who did that.

“Do you know someone you could buy it for?” she suggested.

I thought to myself that of course I couldn’t pack away baby clothes for another day – what would people think if they knew I was harboring booties and receiving blankets and rattles?

“No, I don’t know anyone with a little baby girl. Plus, I don’t need to buy a baby dress.”

“No?”

“Because then I’d be That Woman,” I said forcefully. “The one hoard baby clothes and packs them away for a rainy day when she is nowhere near having a baby. Not in a million years do I want to be her.”

And all of that lead me to wonder – is That Woman really that bad? It isn’t wrong to want something with all of your heart as long as you’re realistic about it. I’m always so worried about scaring guys off by saying I see children in my future or being seen as desperate or that one day I’ll die in a tragic high heel-related accident and when they come to clean out my apartment, they’ll say, “Look at this drawer full of baby stuff, right here next to all of this unfolded laundry and this pile of unopened mail in the room next to that messy kitchen with a refrigerator full of half-eaten takeout in boxes and a few stray beers. What a sad, sad lonely woman.”

I’m not sad and I’m not lonely and, well, I do really want kids. I used to declare that I wouldn’t even think about kids until later, when it was practical, when it wouldn’t interfere with my career, after I’d been to Italy and Thailand, when the world was less scary. And I wouldn’t manhunt with kids in mind.

And it isn’t practical now, as I have a few details yet to be filled in. And, yes, the world is still pretty big and far from perfect. But, damn it all, I like children and I’m here to tell you that actually having them is probably much less glamorous than I think it is when I’m making faces at a baby in the grocery store, but I don’t care.

So I’ll be That Woman. That Woman who tears up watching “Martian Child” and gets a lump in her throat over tiny baby shoes. I’ll be that woman who is looking for someone who also loves and wants kids, because, well, I’m never going to be happy with anyone who feels otherwise. And I realize that I have time and that some of this longing is caused by hormones with a splash of nerves about my impending 28th birthday, The Bride’s forthcoming nuptials, College Roommate’s future engagement, my brother’s to-be-set wedding date, next year’s 10 year high school reunion and far too many hours spent browsing wedding photos of casual acquaintances and classmates on Facebook.

But, no, I didn’t buy the dress. I mean, I don’t want to be That Woman today.

Give me at least another year to find the perfect storage system.