Salad Monday Turned Antipasto Salad Wednesday

Some weeks, despite best intentions / goals / resolutions / shoulda-woulda-coulda’s, Salad Monday slips through the cracks. Last week, it was altogether canceled. The startling number of doggy bags in our fridge made it clear that Salad Monday would have to make way for Leftovers Night(!). This week threatened to bring more of the same. After being lavished with a delicious meal at our friends’ place on Monday, our routine salad night was postponed until Wednesday. But, Salad Wednesday is better than no salad night at all, no?

But, before I go acting all virtuous about Salad Wednesday, I should probably disclose a rather incriminating fact: this salad involved salami. And smoked mozzarella. It was basically an excuse to eat an antipasto platter for dinner.

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Smoky Baked Mac

That tangle of gooey, cheesy, smoky baked macaroni that you see there just might be my husband’s favorite thing about me. It allows me to wield an influence over him that, frankly, borders on unfair. He practically swoons when I offer to make if for him. And, I say “for him,” intentionally. While I like pasta as much as the next gal, I don’t have the weak-kneed reaction to oozy baked mac that so many others (Kevin clearly included) do. So, I typically make this for him when I’m going to be out of town or just out for the night.

I mean, the whole absence makes the heart grow fonder thing is great and all. But when mere absence alone won’t do, I can always rest assured that a saran-wrapped dish of ready-to-be-baked-off mac in the fridge will do the trick.

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Mini Turkey Meatloaves

It’s my belief that, by and large, people of my generation don’t really do meatloaf. It’s not that we have anything against eating our meat in less-than-natural shapes. Many of the proteins of our childhoods came in a shaped fashion: nuggets (as in the “Mc” kind) and sticks (fish), for example. And while I may have outgrown these shapes, I still enjoy meatballs and all manner of burger patties.

But the loaf? Not so much. This comes as a great shock and disappointment to my parents, who eagerly anticipate very regular meatloaf nights—a tradition they hatched pretty much the instant both my sister and I moved out of the house. While my parents’ love of the loaf form, along with the comfort food craze a few years back, make it clear that a segment of the population adores meatloaf, I’ve just had a hard time getting all that excited about it.

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Enchiladas: Step-by-Step

I’m afraid I’ve been putting the cart before the proverbial horse. I’ve been going on and on about the peripheral elements of our Friday night fiesta: the drinks, the side dish and the dessert. Okay, I’m not sure that the margaritas and key lime bars qualify as peripheral, but still. All this time, the elephant in the room (while we’re using figures of speech) is the enchiladas that anchored our fiesta feast.

You can add these to the growing list of recipes on this site that involve a too-fun-for-words assembly line (see: pot stickers, lasagna, calzones …). The elements of the assembly line in this case of enchiladas are (1) a sauce (here, I used a roasted tomatillo sauce, spiked with peppers, onions, garlic and spices); (2) tortillas (I opted for corn, over flour); (3) a filling (the tomatillo sauce appeared here, too, but a thickened version of it that enveloped shredded chicken and spinach); and (4) cheese (crumbled queso fresco, here, but I’m sure that shredded Monterey Jack or white cheddar would have been delicious as well). Once you’ve got the assembly line, er, assembled, the rest is a breeze.

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Just Don’t Call Them Key Lime Squares

After growing up in Minnesota and traveling only so far as Chicago for college, I didn’t expect that my early undergrad days would involve a language barrier. But barely hours into the orientation backpacking trip, I was informed that I said the words “bag” and “boat” wrong. I can only imagine the hilarity that would’ve ensued had I busted out a “yah, sure” or an innocent “you betcha.”

Many of my other speech idiosyncrasies, according to my new fellow collegians, involved food. Not only did I pronounce several words “wrong” (e.g. bagel), but I also had downright hysterical words for some foods. For instance, the “casserole” is a foreign term in my homeland, where we make hot dishes (which involve at least two cans of cream of mushroom soup per 9×13 inch pan). And then I really had my new friends in stitches when I told them about the great Minnesota treat: bars.

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