Tastes Like Chicken

I'm a blight on the pristine face of Southern Hospitality.  No really.  It's true.

This past weekend, while meal planning on Pinterest, I came across this delicious looking recipe for chicken noodle soup.  It's Paula Deen's.  I like Paula.  I admire all that she's accomplished and the few recipes I've had enough butter to try to make were very enjoyable.  I don't even mind the whole spokesperson for Type 2 Diabetes thing.  It's not exactly like she claimed to be a nutritionist.  And I don't think Ms. Deen (no offense ma'am) glamorizes the disease.  How glamorous can an overweight woman in her 60s with large gray hair be?  Fabulous, yes.  Glamorous, hardly.  She writes cookbooks and hosts cooking shows.  And I don't think many people would deny that bacon does make everything better.

Ok, back to the chicken soup.  It calls for a whole chicken, a "roaster".  I've never purchased a whole chicken and could only find a "fryer."  I sure hope that's good enough.  The bird is supposed to be cut into pieces and cooked in onions and herbs to make homemade stock for the base of the soup.  I'm not unaware of the things that make me squeamish, so I had Jonathan hack the poor thing up last night.  I thought that would be good enough.  Through a well-practiced series of maneuvers with tongs, ladles, and kitchen shears I've developed over the years, I'd never actually have to touch the raw chicken.  Check.  My little buddy has now been stewed in herbs and all I have to do is pick it clean once it cools.

I start in on the process feeling pretty proud of myself for what I am about to accomplish.  Homemade Chicken Noodle Soup.  The realization that my husband's coworkers will be jealous of his lunch swell my ego.  But only a minute into the process, the "squish" noises, goopy/stretchy boiled skin, and crunching of bones band together to chip away at my confidence, I lose it.  Completely.  There is lots of gagging and even a stupid little dance.  (You know, the one you do when a spider crawls across the bathroom floor.)  I'm sweating.  Not because the task is physically taxing, but because I am that. freaked. out.  I finish the job and wash the horrible greasy mess off my hands.

The soup is currently on the stove top.  It smells amazing but I am not sure I can eat it.  Even if it is the best chicken noodle soup recipe on the face of this earth, I will not be picking a chicken clean to make it again.  Southern women will just have to kick me out of the club if that's what it takes.

Happiness is a Cupcake

Well, not really - but it's certainly unmistakable evidence.  Especially around my house.

About four or five months ago, I took an interest in cooking.  I've always had an interest in food.  Cooking?  Not so much.  Thankfully, I am blessed with Jonathan, who is not only an amazing cook and master of the grill, but he enjoys it. He gets Cooks Illustrated magazine.  It is full of really neat tips and reviews of kitchen tools and ingredients.  But it also happens to be incredibly boring.  I mean, there are no glossy photos of the delicious treats the magazine writes about - just black and white sketches.  And it gets way too scientific for my taste.  But my husband, being an engineer (and nerd), gets really excited when a new issue is in the mailbox.

Now back to my cooking.  I don't really know what happened.  I think it was a combination of several things.  When Dane began to be able to eat "real" food and enjoyed a few of the things I had forced myself to cook, it felt great.  I felt necessary, appreciated, and even a little honored.  Maybe that's how new mothers who are able to breastfeed feel.  (After a torturous 16 days producing a mere 5mL of breastmilk PER DAY, I gave up.  I was devastated.  More on that in another post.)  I knew that by cooking, I was doing something super important for my family, for my child whose brain is rapidly developing.  I began to enjoy planning what to cook and feed the guys and take pride in the whole process.

Then came Pinterest.  There is a daily deluge of deliciousness awaiting me upon login.  (Ahhhh, sorry I got all cheesy, Pinterest brings out the best and worst in me.)  Seriously, Pinterest is food porn.  And because the majority of the pinners I follow are mothers of young children, the recipes are simple and healthful, not to mention beautiful.  Of course there are plenty of muffin-top-inducing sweet treats.  And when I have time and energy to cook those, it's a sure sign that I am feeling my best.  My best pal Jamie got me hooked on Pinterest.  She pestered me for a couple of weeks before I joined.  I have no idea what was keeping me.  If you don't like bandwagons or fancy yourself a "go against the flow" kind of girl, get over yourself and join.  You'll thank me.

Oh, and there's that last component of why I started cooking:  I was finally happy.  For the first time in years, everything seems lined up perfectly.  I'm madly in love with my husband, I'm not in fertility treatments anymore, Dane is well, and I enjoy my job.  No man drama, no egg retrievals, and no more infant reflux.

So yes, in my house, happiness is indeed a cupcake.