The Time Is Right For Bacon and Egg Salad Sandwiches.

We are not a sandwich family.

While there’s no denying the convenience of eating right out of one’s hand (all hail the Earl of Sandwich), and while I do love me some Subway (ham and swiss on wheat with lettuce, banana peppers, black olives, pickles and mustard), I don’t know that I’ve ever  -- ever, ever, ever, -- set out to make a sandwich just for myself.  In fact, as I look over the 100+ recipes in Feminine Wiles, there’s only one sandwich recipe – for tuna salad (which is very, very good, but I'd just as soon eat with a fork).

The kids, I suspect, feel the same way about sandwiches.  Yes, I pack their lunches every day, but unless I insist on variety, it’s always the same:  peanut butter.  Not peanut butter and jelly (the classic).  Not peanut butter and banana (a Southern treat).  Not peanut butter and honey (my brother’s childhood favorite).  Not peanut butter and bacon (although knowing their fondness for bacon, that one’s a mystery). 

Just peanut butter.

However, knowing Son and Darling Daughter as I do, I’m betting many of those peanut butter sandwiches, lovingly made before they board the bus at 7:30 a.m., never make it past anyone’s lips.  At least not Son’s and Darling Daughter’s.  I know they’re not sandwich-eaters.  Likewise, I know what else is tucked in those lunch bags.  Fruit.  Oreos.  Pringles.  The occasional snack bag of M&Ms.  I’m just saying.

On Easter, though, I can’t help but think of sandwiches.  Egg salad sandwiches.  Which, as noted, go against everything I believe in. 

  

My mom’s husband insists that, if pimento cheese sandwiches and egg salad sandwiches (on white bread) were not served at your wedding reception, you are not, in fact, really married.  And before you even ask, yes -- both were on my wedding buffet 25 years ago.  Look, I’m not saying it’s guaranteed.  But it couldn’t hurt.

Still, I don’t like cold hard-boiled eggs – and have a particular suspicion for those that are garishly colored and retrieved during a “hunt.”  I can't abide the texture of boiled egg whites – there’s something decidedly “un-foodlike” about them.  I don’t trust mayonnaise, and in most cases, distrust people who do.  And didn't I mention?  I’m not a sandwich kind of girl.

But it’s Easter.  So I’m eating egg salad.  Carefully.

My own recipe -- very little mayonnaise, a little zip of whole grain mustard or horseradish, very finely chopped whites, fresh dill while I've got it, and just to mix it up -- bacon -- because as everybody knows, bacon makes everything better.  (Bacon Bloody Mary, anyone?)

And yes, if I ever re-married, you can bet there would be egg salad sandwiches.  Or, at least, egg salad on crackers.

Happy Easter, folks!

Bacon and Egg Salad Sandwiches

6 eggs

3-4 tablespoons mayonnaise

1 teaspoon (or more) whole grain Dijon mustard

¼ teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon fresh dill, minced (optional)

3 strips bacon, fried until very crisp and chopped fine

fresh ground black pepper (lots)

Cook eggs.  Put eggs in pot and cover with cold water.  Bring to a boil.  Once boiling, reduce heat to a simmer and cook for five minutes.  Then, turn off heat, put lid on pot, and let rest for five additional minutes.  Drain and fill pan with cool water.  When eggs are somewhat cool, remove from pan and peel.  Cut peeled eggs in half and remove yolks to a medium-sized mixing bowl.  Finely chop egg whites.  Set aside.  Using a fork, mash the egg yolks, gradually stirring in mayonnaise, one tablespoon at a time.  Consistency should be very smooth.  Stir in salt, pepper, dill and bacon.  Finally, stir in egg whites.  Serve, chilled on toasted wheat bread or crackers, garnishing with additional dill and bacon, if desired.

Today Is All About Me. Or Really, Smoked Salmon Hash

I’m not pregnant.

I know.  No one’s stopping the presses.  I’m 47 and unmarried.  Hoop,  Dee.  Do.  Still, I am reminded of my fetus-free status every time I grocery shop, because I’m always drawn to those temptingly empty front-of-the-lot parking spots, only to be warded off by signs reading:  Reserved For Expectant Mothers.

Right.  Look I’ve got nothing against expectant moms.  Been there.  Done that.  Got the rear-end-revealing hospital gown to prove it.  Even then, though, I found it silly to save a space for a capable, healthy prego, no matter how much weight she'd gained or how tired she was.  Why not give it to the truly needy mom – the one who hasn't slept more than two consecutive hours in the past 28 weeks, who's toting an infant, a car seat, a diaper bag, and in most cases, an extra 20 pounds, an older toddler and a nasty case of post-natal hemorrhoids?

So you can imagine the guilty thrill I felt today upon visiting our new neighborhood grocery store, Bloom.  As usual, I was lured to an invitingly vacant space at the front of the lot.  But not as usual, there was a sign at the head of the space reading:  20 Minute Parking for Quick Shoppers.

That, my friends, is me to a “t.”  I scarcely touched the brakes before flipping the old Honda Pilot into the space.  Shop quickly and get primo parking?  Clearly, this is an all-about-me kind of day.

Well.  Kind of.

Earlier today, Darling Daughter headed off to spend a beach weekend with friends.  However, despite near constant nagging and reminders and pecking on my part, she managed to leave her Easter dress behind.  As she explained, “I would’ve spent more time packing, but you didn’t have the laundry done.” 

See?  It all comes down to me.

Then, at lunch today, Son grilled a couple of burgers and said, “I didn’t ask whether you wanted one, because I didn’t want to tempt you.” 

Other moms might have their feelings hurt, but not me.  As Son subsequently said, he was only thinking of me.

Right.  I’ll tell you what would really make this an all-about-me day:  If Josie-the-rescue-dog ceased dining on “tootsie rolls” from the cat litter box.  Nasty.  Just thinking about her “snacking habits” makes it so no one wants to be around her.  However, if her habits changed so she was dining on her own "ahem" and I didn’t have to spend so much time donning plastic bags as gloves, hunched over in the backyard, all the better.

Whatever.  I’m already plotting revenge.  Because if indeed, today is going to be all about me, then dinner will be one of my very favorites, Smoked Salmon Hash.

(Sigh.  All-about-me day is over.  Son unpredictably pronounced the hash to be “very good.”  But I still got the last smile.  Son had no idea he was eating a recipe that includes capers, which he hates.  Ha!  Back to me.)

Smoked Salmon Hash

Serves two

20-ounce package of refrigerated hashbrowns with onions, prepared according to package directions

4 ounces sliced smoked salmon, cut in thin strips

1 tablespoon whole-grain Dijon mustard

3 tablespoons horseradish
2 tablespoons capers

3 tablespoons sour cream (plus additional for garnish)

1 teaspoon lemon juice

3 tablespoons minced fresh chives, divided

In a small bowl, stir together all ingredients except hashbrowns, reserving 2 tablespoons of chives for garnish.  Stir salmon mixture into freshly prepared hashbrowns in large skillet.  Heat through.  Serve, garnishing with chives and additional sour cream.

Thirteen Years Later, I'm Still All In

I’m no martyr.

Yes, I know plenty of new moms who, before their little baloney loaf was even wiped down and weighed, were willing pack their bags, swaddle up that baby, install the newborn carseat and all but drive themselves home. 

Not me.   When Darling Daughter was born, due to some medical complications, I was given the option of staying an extra night or two at Presbyterian Hospital.  Thank you, Jesus.  No need to ask twice.  No need to wait for the umbilical cord to be snipped.  My answer was unequivocal:  Sign me up.

That was exactly 13 years ago.  Today is my girl’s birthday.  Which means I am now, officially, mom to two teenagers.  And before you ask, it doesn't make a difference whether I’m up to the task, because there’s no turning back.  I’m in.  All in.

I knew it from the beginning.

After DD finally and quietly emerged, purple and blotchy with a cord around her neck, I basked – no, reveled – in those extra couple of nights in the hospital.  The laundry, cooking, cleaning and inevitable day-to-day responsibilities of parenthood and housekeeping – not to mention that supposedly essential bonding with Son -- could wait. Instead, I hunkered down in the hospital room with DD, whose sweet little foot was so tiny, it could fit in my mouth.  And it did.  (She hates that part of the story.)

The best part of those few days, far and away, was when the nurses would bring DD to me for feeding at night.  Although hospital policy encouraged newborns to stay with their moms during the day, babies were kept in the nursery at night.  The idea, I suppose, was to give recovering moms the chance for a few extra winks.

Right.

Around 10 or 11 at night, a nurse would retrieve DD from my arms, and, utterly exhausted – both from childbirth and the parade of friends and family wanting to know whether I’d finally decided on DD’s middle name -- I’d achieve REM sleep before the hospital door quietly shut behind them. 

For about 20 minutes.  Maybe 25.  The rest of the night, instead of falling deeper and deeper into sleep as the hospital halls grew quieter and quieter, I become more and more alert.

Newborns were returned to their moms during the night for feeding.  But instead of being carried down the hall, each newborn would be rolled in its own little cart.  Like room service.  Only you didn’t have to sign anything.  Or tip.  (I know.  Why be a neo-natal nurse if you don’t get to carry around those sweet-smelling squishy swaddled babies?)

Thing is, those little baby delivery carts had little squeaky wheels.  So instead of getting much needed sleep (which I fully intend to catch up on once the kids are in college), I’d lay in my remote-control operated hospital bed wondering, “Is that my baby?” every time a cart creaked down the hall.

All night.  

“Is that my baby?”

“Maybe that’s my baby.”

“That sure sounds like my baby.”

As if I’d recognize the sound of the squeaky wheels bearing my 9-pound (I know, right?) bundle of joy.  Thirteen years later, I still can’t think of anything as thrilling as hearing that cart roll toward my room, easing to a stop, just before the door cracked open, spilling light into the room and illuminating perfectly pink Darling Daughter.

In honor of DD’s thirteenth, the best recipe I could offer would be for Chocolate-Chocolate-Chocolate Cake.  Yes, I know I ran it this same time last year, but it’s her favorite.  (It was also one of my favorite posts ever, What I Want For My Daughter.)

And on her birthday, when she asks whether I’d mind making it – yet again – I can’t help but answer, Sign me up.

Chocolate Chocolate Chocolate Cake

Cake

3 cups flour

1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder

1 teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons baking soda

2 cups sugar

1 cup corn oil

2 cups cold water

1 tablespoon vanilla

1 1/2 cups chocolate chips

Frosting

1 1/4 sticks unsalted butter, room temperature

5 cups powdered sugar

8 tablespoons whole milk

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1 scant cup unsweetened cocoa powder

Make the cake.  Preheat oven to 350.  Butter and flour three 9-inch cake pans.  (This is a delicate cake, so be sure to prepare pans well.  If you have the patience, I’d strongly recommend preparing each pan and then, lining the bottom of each with a circle of wax paper, also buttered and floured.)  Sift first five ingredients into a large bowl.  Mix water, oil and vanilla in a separate, small bowl.  Make a "well" in dry ingredients, pour in wet ingredients and whisk well.  Scrape batter into prepared pans, dividing evening.  Sprinkle 1/2 cup chocolate chips over batter in each pan.

Bake 25 minutes, or until layers test done.  Cool in pans on racks for 15 minutes, then turn cakes out and allow to cool completely.  

Make frosting.  Beat butter in large bowl (an electric mixer is best) until fluffy.  Gradually beat in three cups of powdered sugar.  beat in six tablespoons milk and vanilla.  Add cocoa and remaining sugar, gradually.  Beat until blended and fluffy, using remaining two tablespoons of milk, if necessary.

Assemble cake, with layers chocolate-chip-side up and about 2/3 cup frosting spread between each layer.  Spread remaining frosting over sides and top of cake.  Tastes even better the next day -- for breakfast!