I Am A Culinary Shit-Show

I am the queen of self-deprecation. Self titled, yes, but I know myself pretty well. I'll beat you to the punch if there is something that you can rank on me for. Bad haircut? I'll say that I'm just recovering from a Flock of Seagulls moment. Booger in my nose? I'll say I'm packing away some extra protein for later. Food on my shirt? Same deal, just prepping for a snack. By the way, it's kinda impossible to find a shirt in my repetoire that does NOT have some sort of food item on it. This is why I like black.









It goes back a long way, actually. I was told by my biology teacher during a dissection that surgery would probably not be my profession. I'm a jump-in and start cutting and let's see what the hell happens, kinda girl. I used to make sundaes at Ben and Jerry's (like a meth addict running the meth clinic folks, not a good idea) and my boss watched me make one once. I was a flurry of scoop, whipped cream and toppings. There was shit everywhere. Really. There wasn't a dry inch on that counter. But, a beautiful sundae it was! He pulled me aside later and said this:









"Jen. You're a friggin' hurricane out there."









It's true.









I've been on a culinary mission lately too. Mix together my mom-role, my desire to create new and fun gluten free dishes, and my mission to force vegetables down our collective gullets and you've got a recipe for one messy friggin' kitchen. We took the kids to Haymarket in Boston last week and I fell in love with the romance of it. Lush and ripe fruits, hearty, earthy vegetables and surly folks hawking their wares lulled me into an altered state. Sure! I want two big bunches of asparagus even though I can only choke down about two stalks at a go. YES! I want a bag of baby spinach that can feed 4 families with (and will get narsty and funky in 3 days). Absosmurfly I want 12 red onions that I'll toss in January when they're green and not so fun on a Greek salad. OF COURSE I want a carton of figs. Carton. Of figs. Like, from a newton, kind of fig.









I've never eaten a fig that wasn't part of a newton. Have you? I did think about it.









-I'll make something magnificent and fabulous and goat chees-ey. No. I had an experience milking goats years ago and I kinda want to vomit when I smell it. Hands. On Teets. Dirty Goats. You feel me.









-I'll make something with pancetta (an excuse to eat bacon and sound fancy). No. I am not Giada and I don't have cute boobs like her with cute shirts and a show on Food Network. I don't even know if I'm saying pancetta right.




-I'll delight the culinary palates of my household with my OWN version of a Fig Newton.




Yes, yes, that was it. I'll make my own fig newtons! Screw Keebler! Screw TollHouse!









For reals: this is how I think.









To even up the ante I decided I would go all tree-huggery and make it a gluten free fig newton! Jesus! I'm brilliant.









Well, this is what it looked like after the gloves came off (literally and figuratively). Please notice the child-size dough roller. Really. It's from a kid's play cooking kit. It's for 3 year olds. I don't think Giada has one of those.

Suffice to say that at one point, I may have said, "Fudge it!" (but I didn't say that). My 'dough' was not sticking to my cutting board and my gluten-free flour wasn't doing the trick. So there it then was, plopped together like a big ol' hurricane sundae.

For the record, I made some kick-ass fig muffins and cookies. And check my banging apple crisp!