Date Night Gourmet – CHICKEN PAPRIKASH WITH NOKEDLI

Peter and I have decided we’re going to have a ‘gourmet’ night once a week. Now this doesn’t mean we’re trying to cook our way through Bon Appétit or anything snobby like that, but I did discover something about my husband that I didn’t know.

Peter and I were talking about cooking Hungarian Paprika chicken for dinner, and we went looking for the recipe in our recipe cupboard.

Do any of you have a cupboard, or a drawer, or a folder where you put all your recipes? The ones you tear from magazines or the newspaper – with those good intentions of trying them out some day?

Yes, ours is a cupboard. And in this cupboard is a blue binder. In this binder are about 200 pages of college-ruled notebook paper. On on this notepaper, front and back, painstakingly printed in efficient handwriting are recipes. Recipes for all kinds of meals, from all sort of places. Recipes that are alphabetized and cross-indexed and organized.

How had I been married to this guy for all these years and have never opened that binder? How did I not know that he’d gone through the trouble of collecting all these recipes?

Truthfully, this binder makes my Philly Cream Cheese box top recipes look rather pathetic.

When I asked Peter about the binder, he didn’t think it was such a big deal – but I did. He’d written all these recipes down after collecting them. He’d done it when he lived in Vancouver more than 20 years ago. He’d prepared a few recipes housed in this binder, but most were still untested.

And that’s when we decided. Time to test some recipes. And after we test them, we’ll share them with you.

Maybe you’d like to cook with your favourite person or people. The best part – besides the so-far-so-good gastrointestinal pleasure, is that Peter and I are having fun.

We’re not spending the money going out to eat. We’re buying more whole foods and such, which is better eating for all involved, and we’re connecting as only best friends can. With music, laughter and a shared passion for yummy food.

Below is the recipe for Hungarian Paprika Chicken. Try it and let us know how you like it!

Our recipe was prepared while we sipped red wine and listened to a Beatles retrospective on Chez 106. In the news that day was the guy on the plane with the bomb in his underwear.

That’s as snobby as we get.

CHICKEN PAPRIKASH WITH NOKEDLI (Worth every minute it took to make it – triple yummm score.)

Ingredients Needed (chicken):

• 6 whole chicken breasts
• 4 Tbsp butter
• 16 small white onions
• 1 cup chopped onions
• 1 Tbsp Hungarian Paprika
• 8 small carrots
• 2 cans (10.75 oz) chicken broth
• salt
• 1/3 cup flour
• 1/2 cup dry white wine
• 2 cups sour cream
• parsley

Ingredients Needed (nokedli):

• 2 3/4 cups flour
• 3 eggs
• 2 tbsp butter
• 1 cup water

1. Wash chicken; dry on paper towels. Cut each breast in half. brown chicken, 1/2 at a time in 2 tbsp butter in large skillet with tight-fitting cover. turning to brown well. Takes about 20 minutes in all. With tongs, lift out chicken as it browns.
2. Add 2 tbsp butter in same skillet, add whole and chopped onions with 1 Tbsp paprika until lightly browned. Cut carrots diagonally in 1 1/2” pieces. Add carrots to onions, sauté for 2 minutes, stir in undiluted chicken broth and 2 Tsp salt.
3. Arrange chicken in skillet in single layer, bring to boil. Reduce heat and simmer covered for 45 minutes.
4. Once chicken is tender, remove from skillet and place on a platter, keeping it covered and warm in a 300 degrees oven while you make the Nokedli and gravy.
5. PREPARE NOKEDLI: In a large bowl – combine 2 3/4 cups flour, eggs, 1 tsp salt and 1 cup water. Beat with a spoon until smooth.
6. Boil 2 quarts of water with 2 teaspoons of salt (for boiling of Nokedli).
7. Using a moistened spatula, spread dough over the surface. Holding the spatula over the water, use a table knife to scrape off small portions of the dough into the boiling water. Cook 1 – 4 at a time until firm. When they are finished they rise to the top. Use a slotted spoon to remove. Keep them warm and add a small amount of butter. Repeat this process until you have all Nokedli (dumplings, really) made.
8. GRAVY: In a small bowl mix remaining flour with wine until smooth. Add to skillet, stir all liquid together while bringing to a boil. Reduce heat, simmer 2 minutes
9. Slowly add sour cream, heat gently for 1 minute.
10. Remove platter of chicken from oven.  Add Nokedli and pour gravy over all to taste. Add parsley for garnish. Bring extra gravy to the table. Serves 6.
11. You don’t want to know the nutritional contents. Really.

Rollercoaster Lovin'

Dear Readers: This column was published just after Nuria's departure back to Spain. Am I little behind in posting much? Or did I already post this one? Ugh! Getting old blows.

Nuria has only been gone a week, back to her home in Galicia, Spain. Peter and I still miss her like we've only just said our tearful goodbyes.

Really, it was only three weeks. How attached could we be?

Nuria phoned when she arrived home safely, seeming to have forgotten English. Apparently lack of sleep has that effect on the brain. I can barely speak English at the best of times, so I will always be impressed with our 17-year-old-four-language-speaking wonder.

I’m glad I don't have my own children, because any of them leaving would kill me outright.

Anyway, come back with me to Brockport, New York, after the soccer tournament . . . remember, Terry now has a GPS, so the cornfields no longer frighten us, and my Google Maps reading skills no longer frighten Peter.

Sunday afternoon, several of us in the group were on our way to Darien Lake theme park (a former Six Flags resort). Thanks to the GPS and Superkathy’s sense of direction from an actual map, the cornfields didn’t swallow us as Darien Lake rose out of the trees right smack in the middle of nowhere.

Peter and I have never ridden a roller coaster together (I know!). Even though Peter didn’t see the romantic implications as much as we tender-hearted women-folk, I was ready to cross roller-coaster-screaming-as-a-couple off my things-to-before-the-‘til-death-do-us-part-thing list.

You see, I love the coasters. LOVE them.

The weather was fully clouded over and a constant threat of rain. We didn’t care. The lines at the park were short, and it was still as humid as the deepest of rainforests. Oh, and the mosquitoes must know that Lanark County residents have sweeter blood, because there wasn’t ONE bug in all of that park.

I’m pretty sure that our tough-16-year-old-year-old-soccer-chicks were a little surprised (and hopefully suitably impressed) when after we all giggled right through the turnstile in our excitement to get to the first ride, I was asked if I’d ever been on a roller coaster before.

Pulleeeeze.

I gave them my most superior look and informed them that there wasn’t a roller coaster in California that hadn’t seen my backside on its seat or my hands up in the air (up until about 7 years ago, anyway).

But when they pointed to the ride where your feet dangled AND you turned upside down, I knew I was out of my realm of experience. So I started giggling like a little girl again.

Nuria pointed to another ‘ride’ that wasn’t much more than a steel cage bouncing about a hundred feet between the sky and the ground hanging by two giant rubber bands. If it hadn’t cost extra, I would’ve done it. That’s my only excuse. Really.

Ahem.

The foot-dangly ride called the Mind Eraser was the coolest. But ladies, don’t wear your earrings. I was seriously afraid that my ceratoid and jugular arteries were in peril as the backs of my earrings stabbed my neck repeatedly.

Oh, and that piercing, high-pitched shriek that you hear is not the ride coming apart, it’s your own scream, or that of your husband.

We tackled all the other rides with a fierce bravado. And roller coasters are just as thrilling as I remember, especially when you have your guy (or girl) next to you for a quick kiss or a hand-holding-scream.

The water slides were just as much fun, but I have a feeling all these mysterious bruises came from screaming down fibreglass tubes at 40 miles per hour. Might have to wear a protective bubble suit next time.

Check out all the exciting photos when you log into your Facebook account and add me as a friend.

Lost In Love With Soccer? Nope, Just Lost Somewhere In New York

Theoretical itinerary (as they always are):

· Friday, 1:00 p.m. sharp: Pick up Nuria from afternoon classes with car loaded, gassed and ready to hit the road for Batavia, New York to rendezvous with soccer team at hotel for weekend tournament in Brockport

· 3:30 p.m.: Stop for bite at The Cracker Barrel. If not hungry, proceed to next Cracker Barrel. Continue along Cracker Barrel path until hungry.

· 6:00 p.m. Wait in lobby of hotel until rest of team arrives and checks in.

· 7:00 p.m.: Light supper with team

· 9:00 p.m.: Lights out for. . .

· Saturday, 6:30 a.m. wakeup call.

· 7:45 a.m.: Leave hotel for first tournament game at 9:15 a.m.

Actual Itinerary:

· Friday, 1:00 p.m.: Go pick up Nuria from classes and let her buckle up her confused soul into the car sans Peter. Jet to the gas station to fuel up, jet to Timmy's to get those iced caps we can't seem to live without.

Run back into the house to finish packing while vital articles of clothing are still tumbling damply in the dryer.

Peter has gone to the hospital to check on his dad (he's 99 now, and has a fever too often to let him out of the hospital. He is in good spirits and doing well. Will update you when I know more. I am going to visit him tomorrow. Peter has been going every day.)

Peter comes home, double checks the double checking while I try to remember everything I am forgetting (ironic, ain't it?).

3:30 p.m. Hit the road.

· 5:00 p.m.: Delayed at border offices for documentation for our Spanish senorita.

· 5:45 p.m.: Finally in the U.S.A.

· 7:00 p.m.: Stop at Cracker Barrel (at last). Send text message back to Cousin Amy in California to tell her our location. Am not allowed to print what her reply was. It wouldn’t be polite (okay, she said YOU SUCK) Lovingly ate biscuit with butter and honey in her honour. Also ordered the hash-brown casserole without the casserole in her honour. Was told it was too late to order breakfast.

· 9:45 p.m.: Wait in lobby for most of the team

· 11:50 p.m.: Lights out for 6:30 wake up call. It isn’t going to be pretty.

Saturday morning was too early for all us. We all piled into vehicles, Peter and Google maps to guide the caravan through the back roads of Batavia and the surrounding area to the tournament.

If only the roads had signs. If only State University New York (SUNY) was built somewhere inside a city boundary. If only one of the five to eight vehicles had GPS, I may have nothing to write about (and if you believe that. . .).

But the fates had deigned to make our seemingly simple, 30-minute-route of lefts and rights into a surreal adventure of almost an hour of wandering through a vast landscape of unmarked roads, creepy wagons full of stuffed animals and several stops on the side of the road to conference about what direction we should really be traveling.

Without a good cup of coffee and my required 8.5 hours of sleep, I’m sure Nuria stifled more than a healthy amount of nervous giggles as Peter and I discussed what Google maps really had printed on that paper. I’d read it and he’d ask if I was sure. So I’d make him read it. Probably not the best thing to do when he’s driving.

When we ended up on the correct road quite by mistake, Kathy, her van full of orange-clad teenage girls, decided to take the lead. We’d failed in our role of follow-the-leader and it was time for us to let someone else play. Google was failing us, miserably. And Kathy had a map. A real map that somehow made unmarked roads as discernable as the yellow brick road covered in neon-high-gloss paint.

So almost an hour into our 30-minute drive we made it to the tournament.

Peter opted out of being the pace car for the return trip.

Saturday afternoon, another parent, Terry, went and purchased a GPS.

Guess he doesn’t want that to happen again. Front yards with giant wagons full of stuffed-animals would scare anyone into a GPS.

Male Refrigerator Blindness. . . It's a Real Thing.

It’s a real affliction. Just ask Peter. He can’t see anything in our refrigerator.

Him: “Babe, do we have any more Miracle Whip?”

Me: “It’s on the shelf in the fridge.”

Him: “Which shelf?”

Me: “One of them.”

Sounds of shelf shuffling and jars clinking ensues.

Him: “I think we’re out.”

Me: Get up from whatever I am doing to go to the refrigerator and deftly move one or two jars to reveal the Miracle Whip (what’s so miraculous about it, anyway?).

Him: “Oh, I didn’t see it.”

Me: “Ya think?”

Can someone explain male refrigerator blindness for me? Anyone? Can a MALE explain it for me?

Then there’s closet blindness, that encompasses anyplace where clothes might be. Socks, shirts, shoes. . . doesn’t matter. The phenomena continues.

Now, anyone that reads my words should know that I absolutely adore my husband. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I am convinced that I am in the middle of my happily-ever-after. I wouldn’t trade him for anything in the world. I would die for this man.

Why do I tell you this? Well, Peter already told me I’m not allowed to write about this, not allowed to tease him in print. I love you honey. . . deal with it. Besides, even though it is a bizarre disease you have, it just makes you that much more adorable.

So ladies, do you think it might help if we labelled everything in the refrigerator?

Oh wait, my bad. Everything in the fridge is pretty much labelled already, isn’t it? You know, the sticker that says ‘Miracle Whip’, or ‘Heinz’ or ‘Maple Syrup’?

I’m working on a solution – you never know, I could be a millionaire from my idea, but I might need some help fleshing out the details. I am sure there are some women out there that would be happy to be on my invention committee, right?

So here’s what I’m thinking:

Get the dog that already lives in your house. He (or she) knows where the refrigerator is, in fact, your pet has probably spent more hours stalking that fridge than you’ve spent taking things out or putting things in.

The family dog knows the fridge like James Bond’s Q knows his gadgets.

If we could teach our animals to talk, the problem would be solved. But, since that won’t work (that I know of), why can’t we just give our pets (the animals, not the men) a little positive reinforcement, so when a small instance of blindness hits, maybe our pets can be trained to give a little (painless) nip or nudge in the right direction?

What do you think? It will certainly help with the having to stop what you’re doing to go show the men in your house where you keep the eggs, don’t-cha think?

Of course, if we go this route, we’ll have to start keeping the dog cookies in the fridge too.

And of course, that won’t work, because when the dog shows Peter where the Miracle Whip is, he’ll have to reward the dog.

And Lord knows, he won’t be able to find the dog cookies in the fridge either.

 

PS- Since the publishing of this column, I've had to point out where the peppercorns were, where the cream hides in the fridge and where a movie was that he wanted. Yes, all were in their normal spots.