Whisk: In Home Cooking Classes

 Tip for enjoying this post: skip to paragraph three.

One of my friends, Tammi*and I like to dream up businesses together. We exchange ideas and strategies and use words like 'overhead' and 'target audience'. She then likes to take those ideas and turn them into cash cows and set up retirement funds and travel internationally. Me? I prefer to take those ideas and start a blog.  A blog which, as I write this, is now up to six followers, two of whom are anonymous, which means they're famous celebrities, and by celebrities I mean screenplay writers who are watching to see how this whole thing unfolds so they can then write a movie about me.

Tammi's "I have an LLC, what do you do?" face

Anyway, from the beginning, Tammi was very encouraging about my idea for a blog, but I still wanted to hear what other people thought. At first I made the mistake of casually slipping, "I might be starting a blog" into conversations when it was still light outside and no one had been drinking. If you yourself are considering writing a blog, don't do this. It's tantamount to telling them you're starting a raw food diet, and you're having them over for dinner next week for some raw cashew milk and chia seeds. This is because they think if you start a blog they're going to have to actually read said blog, and when they see you, you're going to quiz them about your latest post. Even though this is totally true, you don't want that to be the first thing they think about when you're mentioning this idea. Instead, wait until they are fairly liquored up (and if your friends are like mine, this means exactly eight ounces of wine) and have been talking about men for awhile. It doesn't matter if they are lamenting men's existence or celebrating it, as either way everyone's bonding. This is the point at which you should toss out your blog idea. They'll inevitably tell you they LOVE it, it's AMAZING, they CAN'T WAIT to read it, and have you thought about including how to cut onions without crying? And it was during one such exchange a couple weeks ago, that I managed to convince my friend, Katie Cavanaugh, to teach me how to cook something amazing.

Katie looking cute and repping our Hokies

Katie owns Whisk, a personal chef service in Arlington, Va. She does everything from cooking classes to private events. I consider myself a pretty good cook, so my first thought was to tag along while she taught someone else (and by someone else I mean Jenny, who famously requested help scrambling an egg our senior year of college) how to cook. Unfortunately, Jenny was busy**, so we decided Katie would teach me how to make an impressive meal for two. Normally Katie comes to your house and either cooks with you or for you, but since I'm currently living in a hotel (more on that sometime soon), I went to her. When I got to her apartment, she had everything laid out for me. 

Hungry yet?

She explained that we were going to start with a toasted baguette and Cannellini beans followed by Sea bass over ratatouille, then she poured me a glass of Riesling.

As we began chopping, I was amazed by all the tips and tricks she was teaching me. From showing me the difference between a Santoku and a Sashimi knife to how to slice a Poblano pepper to easily remove the ribs and seeds to how to use a cookie cooling rack to toast bread, I was picking up some valuable information. She was quick to customize the lesson to fit my cooking level, which she determined to be high intermediate*** meaning I could get to the dessert round on Chopped.  A few minutes later, the prep work was out of the way. She started by heating some olive oil in a stainless steel pan. Next she tossed in minced shallots and Rosemary, followed by the drained and rinsed Cannellini beans and salt and pepper.  The shallots' aroma filled the kitchen, and Katie popped a handful of baguette slices in the oven.  Less than five minutes later, she plated the appetizer:

This picture hardly does them justice. Mmmm.

The end result was simply delicious, and I was surprised five ingredients could taste so sophisticated. 

On to the ratatouille! We (meaning she, as I mostly watched/drank wine/demanded she make me more bean toasts, woman!) began by lightly toasting fresh corn, which we then removed and set aside. Next we add chopped onions, zucchini, squash and tomato paste to the pan. A few minutes later came cherry tomatoes and Poblano peppers. Finally we added a large can of crushed tomatoes and the toasted corn. All the while, Katie explained why we did things this way or pointed out how this smelled or how this should look. She then turned the heat down and let the ratatouille thicken. 

As the ratatouille bubbled along, Katie unwrapped pinkish white Sea bass filets and laid them skin side up in a hot pan lined with olive oil. They popped and sizzled delightedly. 

After a couple of minutes, she turned the filets and then moved the pan to a preheated oven. Around 7 minutes later she pulled the fish, took its temperature and declared it done, nestled it in a bed of ratatouille, added some fresh basil, topped off my wine and met me at the table, where she found me, napkin in my lap and clutching my knife and fork caveman-style.

Like the appetizer, I was anticipating goodness, but I got greatness. As she promised, the fish was buttery, and the ratatouille complex. It was filling without being heavy. As we ate, Katie told me how I could turn the leftover Cannellini beans into white bean hummus and the ratatouille into vegetable soup or pasta sauce, and I told her about this really great app I'm going to invent.

The end. 

P.s. Exact recipe coming soon!

Want Katie to cook for you or with you? It'd make for a great date, girls' night in or introduction to cooking for your kids. Her company, Whisk is based in Arlington, and you can follow her on twitter: @whiskkitchen 


 

*This is obviously not her name. It's really Tammy.
**Avoiding us like the plague
***She never actually said anything to this effect, but I'm really good at reading people.

Just the Tip.

I love coloring in coloring books, and if I weren't convinced it would freak people out to see an adult whipping out a coloring book, I would totally carry one around. Plus, I'm SUPER good at it. I distinctly remember once recruiting another first grader with remedial coloring skills to join me in the cafeteria for some quick coloring tips. At that moment I knew I was ahead of the curve on CB art.

A short list of my coloring book no-nos:

• The use of any marker: thin or fat tip, primary or bold colors, and don't even get me started on Crayola marker wannabes.
• The use of non-parallel shading lines. Take your chaos someplace else, people.
• Blatant disregard for coloring in the lines. If you don't want to respect the lines, buy a sketchbook.
• Unrealistic color choices, e.g., pink grass, blue giraffes.

You can thank Instagram for this photo's size

And while coloring books, footie pajamas, nightlights and ants on a log must be retired around the time you  start wearing a bra, my identity as a gifted artist stuck with me.

Recently, painting and wine classes started cropping up around D.C., and I figured they would be a great way to showcase my artistic skills and satisfy my desire to color in a way that wasn't creepy. Thus, a few weeks ago, six girlfriends and I showed up to Merlot's Masterpiece to paint Edward Hopper's 1929 Railroad Sunset.

The studio was one medium-sized room dotted with individual workstations. Each station included an easel, a canvas, a paper plate serving as a painter's pallet, a cup of water and three brushes.  Relieved to see their wine selection extended beyond Merlot (I just watched Sideways again) I filled my plastic cup with wine, tied on a white apron and manned my station. 

The instructor then began the class, which was our cue to start chatting amongst ourselves. From time to time we also tried to persuade someone in the back of the room to get us more wine or stopped to ask, "Wait--how'd she do that?"  Soon I was painting merrily along and thinking to myself that this beats the pants off a bar HH when I glanced over at my neighbor, Alysa's canvas. That little pirate had NOT been following the instructions. Why, she was merely interpreting Hopper's work, and her canvas was all creative and unique. No matter, I quietly whispered to myself. I am a coloring genius. I could close my eyes and paint left-handed and still paint circles around these losers  my friends. 

After getting down the background, foreground and clouds, it was time to paint the railroad crossing post and station/lookout tower/outhouse. I selected the thinnest of my three brushes and tried to paint a narrow vertical stripe representing the post.  It seemed a bit thick. I then attempted to paint one of the diagonal lines on the post. Again, kinda fatty. I looked out of the corner of my eye at Alysa's canvas. Her post was a thin whisper of a line. 

I hurriedly rose from my chair anxious to evaluate the competition. Not only did they have skinny posts, they weren't taking this nearly as seriously as they should. Returning to my station, I began planning a post-painting respect for the arts lecture. Clutching my brush, I made an attempt at the tower. I might as well have used my thumb. Grrrr! My eyes narrowing to slits, I glared again in Alysa's direction, and it was then I realized that she, and everyone else, had paintbrushes that were at least fourth the size of mine! My skinny brush was more like their medium brush! I wasn't bad at painting, oh no, I was dealt a crappy solo cup of brushes! Relieved, I turned to my canvas, exhaled deeply and for the first time appreciated my own Railroad Sunset. I happily rejoined the group, painting, yaking and boozing.

From far away, mine almost looks the same as everyone else's.

First of all, I'm aware that denouement (and because I know I'll hear about the use of that word from my friends later: the story's ending) tumbled out rather quickly following the climax, and you, the reader, would have preferred a slower deceleration. What can I say? I'm totally wiped. 

I'm also pretty sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere. Something about the hand you're dealt or lemons to lemonade, but it's almost 1 am, and one should never unravel metaphors this late at night. Suffice to say, everyone really enjoyed themselves, and we all walked away with holiday presents for our grandparents, save Erin, who rushed home to hang her work of art in her bedroom, in the same proud way a four-year-old tacks a mangled piece of construction paper festooned with pipe-cleaners to the fridge. 

For those of you that have made it this far, I would highly recommend this activity generally and Merlot's Masterpiece specifically. When else do you get to drink wine in solo cups, knock out some Christmas shopping and swirl globs of paint together on paper plates all at the same time?

Just Add Butter.

What do the Tooth Fairy, Y2K, Prince Charming, Dr. Phil's wisdom and my future modeling career all have in common? I once believed in them despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary (see supporting photographic proof below). Of course, so did a lot of you (save my modeling career, which I'm quite confident I alone saw as a real possibility), so stop judging.




My "I'm so playful--look how my hat points one way and my hips another--I live by my own rules" pose.



And, if you're one of those people that protested to the inclusion of Prince Charming in my list because you found your Prince Charming, I'm happy for you in the way I'm happy for people that don't have to watch what they eat. And since I support you, I encourage you to talk about him on your blog. As for me and my blog, P.C. is going to continue to fall in the same category as magic carpets and small dogs that are easy to potty train. Furthermore, I reserve the right to start believing in him again whenever I feel like it, but doing so now feels as futile as believing that tomorrow I'm going to wake up leggy and with good hand-eye coordination. 

I mention my past beliefs only to help you better understand why, when my beloved Uncle Rusty told me that in order to catch crabs with chicken legs you must first boil the chicken in water laced with butter and garlic, I actually believed him.  

Here's what happened: a couple of weeks ago, I went down to Ocean Isle Beach, North Carolina, a beach my family and I go to at least once a year. This time, my best childhood friend, Hunter*, and I had a few days to ourselves before my Uncle, Aunt Sandy and Granny joined us. After a couple of days on the beach, Hunter and I were ready for some excitement, and I had just the right adventure in mind. 

Awhile back, Rusty and Sandy had taken me to the end of the island for my first crabbing experience. Knee deep in grassy water we would hurl chicken legs attached by a hook to a spool of string out into the water. We would slowly pull in the string, dragging the chicken along the sandy bottom. More often than not, as we brought the leg to the surface of the water, a medium-sized blue crab would be clamped onto a hunk of meat, so intent on its prize, it wouldn't notice the predator inches away. By thrusting a large net into the water and underneath the crab, we managed to bring home over thirty crabs, which we promptly steamed and made into three tiny shell-filled crab cakes. Despite the amount of work for such little bounty, I loved every second of that day, and I was eager to share the experience with Hunter. My memory being a bit hazy, I called Uncle Rusty, who was more than happy to help. 

Steaming crabs many moons ago

His preparatory instructions were simple enough: buy chicken legs, boil in water, butter and garlic and hook them to crabbing rigs. Pack a bucket for the crabs you catch, bring some beers and a net, and you're good to go. I judged this sage advice, and thus, Hunter and I quickly went to work. I even posted a picture of our first batch of bait on instagram, as further proof that I am outdoorsy and good at survival stuff. 

What's wrong with this picture?

Within an hour, Hunter and I were back in the same brackish water hunting down supper. There, we greeted fellow crabbers and fishermen, and feeling as though we were among equals, it wasn't long until we were sharing our family crab catching secret with them. Looking back, they all regarded us as one regards a small child who claims to be able to talk to monsters or to have invented a time travel machine, but at the time, Hunter and I were too proud of ourselves to notice their mocking expressions. After about four tosses out into the water, each chicken leg was picked clean by fish or missing entirely, and we were catching no crabs.  

Undeterred, we rushed home, cooked nine more chicken legs, this time adding even more garlic and butter. Sadly, our tweaked recipe seemed to make no difference, and in less than a half hour, we were down fifteen chicken legs and had managed to catch one blue crab large enough to keep**. 

At this point, I must provide some background on Uncle Rusty. This is a man who has spent his entire life instigating arguments, playing pranks and telling outright lies to children and the elderly. I learned this firsthand when between my sophomore and junior year of college, I spent a summer living with him and Sandy. Part of my living there required me to do various chores around the house, which, under Sandy's watch, rarely amounted to more than unloading the dishwasher. Rusty, however, had other plans in mind. 

Once on a viciously hot day, he called from work to tell me that I needed to move a heaping pile of firewood from one side of the yard to the other. Sadly, the wheelbarrow was missing, so I would need to do this by carrying them. With just a few hours until he would be home, I went to work, grabbing whatever firewood I could and half jogging from old pile to new. When I was nearing the halfway point, Sandy arrived, looking puzzled by my work. I explained his instructions, and she kindly pointed me to the wheelbarrow, which I realized Rusty must have known about the entire time. When he got home that evening, I had completed the project with just minutes to spare. 

Once inside, Sandy and I both questioned him on the wisdom of moving a pile of firewood a few yards, at which point his eyes started to twinkle, his mouth curled into a thin upturned line (picture the Grinch), and in a tone that barely concealed his glee he asked, "You...You didn't actually do that, did you?"  At that point he didn't need me to answer, as my expression, sullied clothes and sweatstache told him enough. He turned red faced, doubled over and burst into fits of laughter, shocked that anyone would be dumb enough to actually carry out such a chore.

To this day if you mention this story to him, a look of extreme pride and joy washes over his face as remembers just how hilarious he is. Over the years, I've seen this face more times that I care to recall, and it terrorizes me like Jack Nicholson's The Shining face. So, when he asked how the crabbing went, I told him I didn't think we added enough butter to the boiling water. His face flushed crimson, and I knew we had been duped.

*This may be her real name, a nickname or a completely fabricated name. My blog, my rules.

**North Carolina state law requires that you release any blue crabs that aren't at least five inches from point to point.

Hello world.

Hello world, it's me, Margaret. Well, Meg. Definitely not Margaret or Marge or Peg. I'm launching this blog to start a conversation about learning how to do different, challenging, rewarding, hilarious, humbling and even trivial things.

Why? Well, it's pretty simple. Life is just more fun when you're learning. And, there are some pretty interesting people out there doing things I'd like to know how to do. But before this turns into the blogging equivalent of a Mr. Roger's episode, I'm going to start at the beginning. Actually, it's really more like A beginning because THE beginning would likely include a five-year-old version of me playing school, and sporting a mullet closely resembling Davy Crockett's coonskin hat, and I'm saving that story and supporting photo collage to encourage people to read a future post on how to cut children's hair.

So, for today's purposes, the beginning starts with my cute little Formica nightstand I've had since I was a little girl. While it had held up well after 25+ years of abuse, it was starting to look shabby, as were my matching desk and dresser.  For awhile I considered buying new bedroom furniture, but a quick online browse revealed that furniture is expensive, like really expensive. I'm talking two designer purses and cute pumps or a weekend getaway expensive. So, I decided that what my furniture really needed was just a fresh coat of paint--not a trip to Goodwill.  I then remembered I don't know how to paint furniture, and it was back to the interwebs. There, I quickly came across a really great tutorial video on refinishing Formica furniture from Alchemy Fine Living. I took notes, rushed to a nearby home improvement store and in no time I was sanding away. A mere three hours later, my first small new thing was significantly improved.

Boring Before



Awesome After

 Truth be told, it had been awhile since I had tried to do something completely foreign. Sure, I tackle new projects at work frequently enough, but this wasn't work, this was fun. I found myself proudly displaying before and after photos to friends, coworkers and coworkers' friends. But it wasn't until I found myself calling to passersby in my office to, "Look! Look here! Wanna see something cool? I made this look like... this!" that I realized that 1) this is a really annoying way to get someone's attention and 2) this type of exploration and sense of accomplishment is what made being a kid so exhilarating.

You see, when you're young, each day is filled with new projects to tackle and ideas to wrangle, and when you're not busy figuring out how to write a cursive Q or build a model volcano, you're tied up telling anyone and everyone about this really amazing thing you just did. But, as we mature, these challenges and opportunities slowly taper off. We become more self-conscious and less inclined to try new things until we're doing so few new things, that we somehow think painting a piece of furniture now warrants an entire blog. We really shouldn't be too hard on ourselves on this last part. People blog about everything these days, so this couldn't be the absolute worst blog out there, right? Right? Anyway, the point is, we have a lot to learn from one another, and whether you're the teacher or the student, a novice or a pro, a natural or a lost cause, experiencing new, challenging things feels pretty good. 

So, I'm going to ask people to teach me how to do things, and then I'm going to write about how it goes. I'll be sure to include lots of pictures, tips and tricks and how-to information. Along the way, feel free to suggest things I should try or let me know if you or someone you know could teach me something new!

P.S. Check back: more information on exactly how I refinished my nightstand coming soon.