The Days of Our Pies

I had a “Buddha Bowl” at a friend’s house the other night. I had never heard of them before, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. A dish piled high with veggies, grains and greens? What’s not to love?

So I tried something similar at home, roasting a pile of kale, sweet potatoes, broccoli, and other tasty veggies. I piled the veggies into bowls and topped them with spiced chickpeas and a nice tahini sauce. It was seriously delicious folks; restaurant quality if I do say so myself.

I set the bowls down in front of the family. My hubby, a meat and taters kind of guy, asked why I gave him a bowl-ful of “side dishes.”

To be fair, I’ve had some spectacular cooking fails. I do enjoy experimenting with new recipes, but know when to admit defeat. Fish sauce and I apparently do not get along well.

At Thanksgiving, alongside the turkey, I served a mouthwatering dish of roasted Brussels sprouts, seasoned with salt and pepper and bacon bits. My teen son, Mr. Hyperbole — before one sprout passed his lips — said they tasted like cow poop on dog poop.

I have a list of things I’m not “supposed” to use in my cooking: cottage cheese, mushrooms, chunky tomatoes (sauce is fine), olives. Needless to say, I don’t really follow the “rules.” I’m unable to really; how does one cook stroganoff or chicken tetrazzini without mushrooms, or lasagna without cottage cheese?

And celery. Yes, the least offensive vegetable in existence is a pariah in my home. (I do manage to sneak it in here and there though.)

Don’t get me started on the Great Pie Debate. (And cake. Cake has been added to this argument.) The hubby and daughter (along with probably nearly the entire population of everyone) enjoy ice cream on cake or some warm pie right out the oven, right?

I don’t.

I don’t have much a sweet tooth, but enjoy a bowl of ice cream now and then. And a nice, comforting slice of warm apple pie right. But together? Gross. I know I’m in the minority, and I’m (not) sorry, but ice cream and pie don’t go together. My pickiest-eater-on-earth son agrees with me. It’s literally the only food-related thing we agree on.

I may, perhaps, be a slight food snob. Not in the way that I like wagyu beef or caviar, or require the crusts to be sliced from my bread.

Or pâté. Really, have you ever seen a food with those little accents in its name that wasn’t elitist?

But I do like farmers’ market produce, organic stuff, and weird things like raw milk and offal. Oh, and grass-fed and free-range meat. Why buy a turkey for $0.99/lb when you can take out a second mortgage for one?

My kids accuse me of being a hippie for several reasons, food cited as their main evidence. There are various mason jars of what my family calls “colonies” fermenting around the kitchen. Kefir grains, sourdough starter, kombucha, sometimes sauerkraut and yogurt. My bacteria colonies may or may not have names. OK they do; the sourdough’s name is Billy Bob Dough. (The teen boy made it up, I swear.)

The solution to all of this drama? We’re going to Dairy Queen for baskets of fried chicken strips and fries. Yum!

Please share your food eccentricities below in the comments! My family (except me; I’m totally the normal one) can’t be the only weird-o’s, right?