FoodFash

Adventure Begins in the Kitchen

Comforty Goodness

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My mom’s infamously easy tuna noodle casserole was, hands down, a top five most frequently requested meal of my childhood – lucky her!  I carried the recipe in my ‘first time living alone’ box of tricks when I left for college.  And I continued to whip it up until gluten-free ruled my life.  The recipe was nixed from memory upon reading the ingredients of every cream of mushroom soup can I could find.

Although I rarely eat gluten-free at restaurants since finding out I’m not officially intolerant, I steer clear of bringing glutenous groceries home.  In my opinion, gluten in the average American diet is beyond excessive and not as necessary as your handy dandy food pyramid makes it seem.
Off my soap box, back to the meal…

Every few trips to the market, I head to the gluten-free aisle to grab a bag of brown rice pasta. Most of the items on that aisle, though gluten-free, tend to be super processed and hokey, so I grab what I need and go.  This time…  I noticed a gluten-free cream of mushroom soup and my most memorable cozy, comfort meal came to mind.

Mom’s Recipe – Altered (2 servings)
2-1/2 oz. of Albacore Tuna in Water, Drained if Canned
1/2 Cup of Parmesan Cheese, Freshly Grated
Boil noodles per package instructions.  Mix noodles, soup, and tuna together and pour into an oven safe bowl (I used a pie plate).  Sprinkle with cheese and bake at 400 degrees for 5 minutes.

Big Taste, Small Plate

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Whether you’re up to date with my blog posts out of interest or pure boredom, it’s a known fact that I’m attempting a less rigid restaurant lifestyle.  Needless to say, attending a restaurant by myself and ordering three unknowns is big deal for this girl.

I’m also a firm believer in “meant to be” moments, especially if the moment takes a turn towards spectacular.  And tonight was just that.  If one of the thirteen friends I had asked to join me for dinner tonight accepted, I wouldn’t have sat at the bar.  If the gift certificate I received hadn’t expired, I would have ordered a safe seared tuna entree.  Since neither of my intentions took place, I awkwardly hopped up to the bar alone, requested a menu, and thoroughly examined.

What’s a girl to do when she wants everything and nothing at the same time?  Order a bunch of stuff.  It turns out that Restaurant BT is just the place to order a bunch of stuff.  And not just any ol’ stuff – perfectly presented and prepared plates.  The bar menu is extensive and contains surprisingly affordable fare.  My dinner? Crab & Asparagus Soup, Tuna Pouch, Tuna Tai Chanh, and House Cured Salmon on Herb Toast.  Cashing out for only $12 may also make BT the hottest deal in town.

Productivity, Interrupted.

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Returning from vacation with a cold and list of mandatory work functions created a chore-filled Saturday.  I tossed on some sweats, made oatmeal and hot tea, and opened every window in the house.  It was chilly, but I was heated with motivation –  I was on it.

I was cruising through my list like a girl on a mission, multi-tasking the fun amongst the unfun.  Laundry, dishes, and a side of sweet tunes.  And then… a curve ball to my productive day – a text.

It’s impossible to turn down an outdoor drink when spring weather is impatiently peeking at you in February.  So we marched to Wine Exchange, decided to make it a bottle kind of day, and ordered the ahi tuna.  I prefer my tuna with wasabi and soy, but surprisingly, the carmelized onions stole my vote for best supporting side.

Eggstraordinary

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A few years ago, he brought over a slab of raw tuna, sliced off a chunk, and said “taste this”.  Oh my goodness, no.  For some reason, eating raw meat that bypassed a restaurant was unfathomable.  After careful convincing that it was indeed more fresh than anything I’ve experienced, I ate it.  Chewing was barely a necessity, it melted, I loved it.  Trust was earned.

So when he offered to bring me eggs produced by his urban yard birds, I accepted without hesitation.  I’m able to pinpoint obvious differences between these eggs and retail eggs: smaller, harder shell, the green one.  Wow, I totally missed my CSI calling.  But other than these subtle differences, are these eggs the same?  Absolutely not.

I go through phases in which I eat eggs for breakfast daily.  The breakfast means nothing to me, it’s breakfast.  But this morning as I ate my eggs, sunny side up on sprouted wheat toast, I smiled.  I know how my eggs came to be.  I know the yard.  I know the farmer.  I was a part of the exchange between the farmer and the consumer and there’s something innately cool about being a part of a process in which you’re able skip the man.