You know what part of human interaction has been irrevocably changed by technology?

Yeah, I know, everything. So let’s apply some selection criteria. Let’s filter by:

• things relevant to me, today

Oh, okay. That’s the only filter. Which leaves us with: picking up ladies.

No, I am not picking up ladies. However, as a (some would say arguable) lady, this impacts me. Back in the day, if, in the course of daily events, you happened to run across an eager young gentleman, it would end one of three ways:

1. Both parties would accept the inherent transience of life and that the crossing of paths does not always MEAN something, and part ways with a friendly “see you around,” knowing full well that you won’t
2. Both parties feel some sort of connection, and mutually agree to exchange personal information, sort of like a less destructive car accident
3. One party is in camp #1 on this list and the other is in camp #2, in which case party #1 would just give a fake number and scenario 1 plays out and everyone lives happily ever after.

You know what? You can’t do that anymore! You can’t give a fake number, and you know why? Because the other person will CALL IT. Right in front of you! And then you’re just kind of standing there with your phone not ringing, like, oh, the signal must be bad in the middle of this wide open street. I guess I can assume that this is not news to most people. I haven’t dated in years, and I’m not dating now, but these kinds of things still come up every so often. Let me tell you what about my morning, in chronological order:

5:00 AM: drag my butt out of bed for Body Pump. Feel strongly, as soon as I stand up, that I should get back into bed.

5:02 AM: Realize that I feel that way every morning, so ignore it.

5:35 AM: After brushing teeth, wolfing down a Larabar, and getting dressed, leave for the gym.

5:45 AM: Approach gym garage to find it blocked by orange cones and a sign that the gym and garage are closed until 6 AM for power company work.

5:46 – 5:49 AM: Curse.

5:50 AM: Decide since I’m up, I’m going to find street parking and hope that class is still on. Head toward the garage entrance on foot.

5:52 AM: Cross paths with a young gentleman also seeking entry to the gym.

Him: “Is the gym closed?”

Me: “It says it opens at 6 so I’m just gonna walk down and see.”

Him: “Oh, I’ll go with you!”

5:54 AM: It belatedly occurs to me that I am walking into a powerless, unlit, deserted garage with a strange man. Continue walking.

5:55 – 6:05 AM: Meander through the garage and stairwells, finally finding the gym doors plastered with signs that they’re not opening until 6:30, contrary to what the orange cone outside the garage said (never believe an orange cone). Continue making amiable small talk with strange man on the walk back out, in hopes it reduces my chances of being made into a lampshade.

6:06 AM: Exit garage. Attempt polite departure (“well, take care! See you at the gym sometime!”).

Young man : “You said you had a bike!” (this came up on our garage walk) “We should ride sometime! Why don’t you give me your number?”

Me: “Yep! WE love riding on the river trail! You’d be welcome to come ride with US!”

Him: ……ooooooookay. Yeah! (decides he’s into it, I guess) Let me get your number.

Me: Gives him the wrong area code because I’m a big jerk and also it’s barely 6 AM and I haven’t thought this through.

Him: Dials number.

Me: Oh, crap.

Me: “Oh! I must’ve given you the wrong area code! So sorry. Let’s try again.”

6:10 AM: FINALLY we part ways, with the agreement that he, I, and my boyfriend will all ride bicycles together sometime.

How does one avoid this awkwardness?

Okay, yes, I know the real answer is “by being a normal person and just being like, ‘later, dude,’” but anything you have ever and will ever read here falls under the umbrella disclaimer that I have a pathological inability to do anything the easy way, on the grounds that it is funnier when things are convoluted and difficult.

And once again, I come to the sunset of a blog post and have to say, “oh…am I supposed to be talking about food?” I don’t even have a way to tie this in. How do I do that? “Men are like meatballs”…”Awkward social interactions are like spaghetti”…yeah, no. This segue is almost as graceful as the way I handle men trying to pick me up.

Vegetarian meatballs are tough to find. When you see them premade, they’re usually packed full of soy protein isolate. Yay. These were the first homemade ones I’ve done that not only held together, but almost perfectly replicated the flavor and texture of legit meatballs. I’ve even made meatball subs with them and they hold up beautifully, even after a good long simmer in marinara sauce.  These are absolutely a favorite in my kitchen and I can’t recommend them enough if you need comfort food, are having a carb craving, or are looking for a creative way to win a meatball cookoff.

Source: In Jennie’s Kitchen

Hi there team! It’s been a hot minute. Life has once again unfortunately interfered with my ability to post recipes on the internet. Womp womp. I’m trying to get back on track, but stuff is legit crazy right now. And in the midst of the crazy, I’m trying to dig out of the social black hole I tend to create when life gets nuts and make the time to see my friends and hug them and their babies and husbands and dogs and tell them I love them. So recipes might slow down a little bit while my ship rights itself. Cool? Cool.

So while I’m here, let’s do a joke.

Q: Is your refrigerator running?

A: Yes, it is now, but for several days it was not, and I lost like a trillion dollars worth of food and everything smelled just awful and getting a new fridge was a total pain in the tookus because they kept giving me delivery windows like 6-8 PM on Saturday night, like HELLO? I’m extremely popular? But now the new one is here and I am very embroiled in the first world problem of not having enough door shelf space for my sixteen different varieties of mustard.

Um. I don’t think I got that punchline right.

Oh, also, for the record, when I refer to stuff being crazy we are NOT talking about a broken fridge. I know I’m a part-time half-assed food blogger but I promise I have a little more perspective than that. Actually, the broken fridge was probably a serendipitous opportunity to get rid of a lot of stuff that should’ve been tossed months ago. I am a bit capricious about dates on food, to say the least, and it would not be uncommon on a weekend afternoon to find Nor and I deadlocked in a best of 101 rock-paper-scissors match over whether a can of tahini that’s been open for six months needs to get thrown away or not.*

Some other serendipitous stuff that resulted from the broken fridge was being able to give away leftover cream cheese frosting to a friend’s daughter (it’s her favorite), rather than stick it in the fridge, still in the piping bag, under the pretense that I am going to make whoopie pies and fill them with it.** Also, I got assigned dessert for Mother’s Day dinner which meant I needed room temperature butter anyway.

I LOVED these blondies. I found them on Foodgawker with a search for “pistachio,” which is one of my mom’s favorite foods. They looked incredibly simple to make, but different enough to be worthy of a special occasion – and they lived up to that initial impression. The spice blend is distinct and rich without being overpowering, and the hearty bites of pistachio and chocolate sprinkled throughout both adds texture and mellows the spice. A+, would celebrate with again.

*IT’S LIKE PEANUT BUTTER. IT DOESN’T GO BAD.

**I never make whoopie pies.

Source: Simmer and Shoot

Lately I’ve been seeing recipes for Bang Bang Chicken and Bang Bang Shrimp popping up all over Foodgawker and Tastespotting. I guess the shrimp is originally an appetizer from Bonefish restaurant, which I’ve never had, and I’m not sure where the chicken came from. All I know is when I see anything with a crispy panko coating and a spicy-sweet dipping sauce, I need to immediately either eat it or vegetarianize it. I am a firm believer in the notion that anything breaded, faux-fried, and dipped in something spicy or creamy will be good. It could be an old shoe. Coat it in panko and I’m good.

This was no exception. The tofu took the coating and breading perfectly, and crisped up to a lovely texture in a hot oven. Dipped in a sweet chili and sriracha mayonnaise…man. Doesn’t matter a bit that it’s not chicken or shrimp, or that it’s not actually fried. And depending on your mood, this can be a starter, like it is in the restaurant, or a perfectly hearty main dish. Or both, like it is for me – whenever I make this, I can’t stop eating it. Luckily, since it’s tofu, and it’s baked, that’s not such a bad thing. Or at least it could be worse.

I hope all of you have a wonderful weekend – I have a good one planned. Some working out, some time with good friends, and Mother’s Day festivities on Sunday. Moms, I hope you get some peace and quiet if that’s what you asked requested for Mother’s Day – I know that would be first on my list.*

*one of like a zillion reasons I’m not a mom

Source: Vegetarianized and adapted from Jo Cooks

There are days that I really, genuinely like people. And then there are days I have to fly.

There’s something about flying that just seems to bring out the worst in people. Something about the cramped noisiness of airports followed by the stress of being 35,000 feet above the ground in a giant inescapable cylinder with far too many people…can you tell I don’t love flying? I don’t consider myself to be an irrational person, but airplanes defy my (extremely limited) understanding of the laws of physics, and every little bump sees me clutching my armrests and wondering exactly what my breaking point is before I spring up screaming “I AIN’T GOIN’ DOWN LIKE THIS!” and storming the drink cart.

Okay. Maybe flying just brings out the worst in me. But I do feel like flying exposes the lowest common denominator within each of us. If you feel like you remain a decent human being while flying, have no fear! I’m going to help you. Based on my extensive experience with air travel, I’ve written a handy instruction manual to help you make everyone else’s flying experience (and maybe even yours!) as miserable as possible. It’s easy! Just follow these steps.

How to Be an A-hole at 35,000 Feet (and below):

1. Do NOT, under ANY circumstances, turn off your phone, Kindle, or iPad when the flight attendants tell you to. That text you’re working on is far more important than FAA regulations, and if you don’t hit “like” on your buddy’s Facebook status before takeoff, you just know you’re going to hear about it when you touch down. And a Kindle isn’t really electronic, is it? It’s books. BOOKS, man.
2. If your bag doesn’t fit in the overhead bin, continue trying to cram it in there. The space will increase in direct proportion to the volume of your grunts. When it still doesn’t fit at the crazy diagonal angle that was your last-ditch effort, just leave it. Someone else will take care of it.
3. Bring your tuna salad sub onboard. You don’t want your fellow passengers to miss out on the gustatory delights that await you.
4. Be horrible to parents. They are pinching their babies and forcing them to cry just to annoy you. The nerve! Act like you are in a chapel, a library, the Holocaust Museum, or somewhere else where silence would be a reasonable expectation. Sigh theatrically with every whimper. Turn around and give your best hairy eyeball, making sure to break eye contact quickly if the parent happens to look up at you.
5. Recline! You know how uncomfortable airplane seats are. We all do. Thank God we can recline them three inches, thus making them exactly like our favorite armchair at home. As soon as the chime dings, get your finger on that button and don’t even mess around. Launch, no, hurtle yourself backwards. Do NOT check if the person behind you has a laptop out. That will just ruin the fun, and besides, don’t you want to witness the first-ever instance of seppuku by laptop?
6. Be ready to deboard. And I mean ready. Upon landing, we all know that everyone can get off the plane at the exact same time (that’s the laws of physics again). Be sure to stand up immediately when the seatbelt sign goes off. Glare impatiently at the people sitting in your row if they haven’t yet attempted a game of human bowling with the 150 people in front of them. Also, leave as much garbage as possible in your seat even though the crew came around with trash bags 14367 times. Gotta keep ‘em on their toes, right?

There you have it – if you don’t travel much, or if you do but you’ve been acting like a normal person for some reason while doing so, I hope this helps. Many people follow it very closely – which is why the only thing that cures my traveling woes is a big bowl of ice cream. Homemade? All the better. I’ve found that store-bought ice cream, even the really good brands, just don’t hold a candle to homemade. There’s something just so eye-rollingly amazing about homemade ice cream – I don’t know if it’s creamier, or richer. I can’t put my finger on it. But the ice cream I make in the ice cream maker has the same quality as the ice cream we used to hand-churn at summer camp – it’s just uniquely homemade. And maybe, after traveling, the “home” part is the key.

Source: Adapted from the vanilla recipe that came with my ice cream maker

Up until a few weeks ago, I only knew about three kinds of ramps:

1. The ones that take me on and off the highway
2. The ones people use to enter and exit buildings
3. The ones you skateboard on.

How could I have gone thirty-two years without any knowledge of or experience with the other kind of ramp, the one that’s far more interesting and appealing to me than any of those listed above? I don’t live under a rock. I don’t hibernate in spring.  I’m the person my friends come to when they see some obscure food on Chopped and want to know what it is and how to use it. HOW HAD I NOT HEARD OF RAMPS?! How had I missed out on this in-season-only wild onion topped with beautiful greens and bursting with sharp, fragrant garlic flavor?

I’ll never know the answer to that. I just have to move forward and make the most of the time I have left with them. Which is about two weeks a year for the rest of my life. Ramps are in season for the briefest of moments, so you have to grab them while you can. I was lucky to come across a whole table full of them at the farmer’s market last weekend, so I grabbed a few bunches for a homemade Sunday night pizza. And oh, what a pizza this was. It’s so utterly simple that I was skeptical about how flavorful it would be, but I was so wrong – it’s the simplicity that makes it so wonderful. A homemade crust, a thin layer of pureed tomatoes, and coins of mozzarella topped with sautéed ramp bulbs and greens and sprinkled with a light coating of romano cheese – this is most decidedly not your Pizza Hut stuffed crust cheesetastical cheese lovers supreme deluxe delight. It’s so much better. Grab some ramps wherever you can find them, while you can find them. It may make the other 50 weeks of the year pale in comparison, but it’s totally worth it.

Source: Adapted from Smitten Kitchen