Technique Tuesday: How to Separate Egg Yolks From the Whites

Lots of recipes like meringues, custards, or egg white omelets require you separate eggs for either the yolks or the whites. Some places will try to sell you a fancy gadget for this, but don't waste your money. Here's how to do it for free, where the only clean up is washing your hands.

Why You Shouldn't Crack an Egg on the Mixer While Blending & Other Wordlessness

Crunchy!

Unfortunate Fortune Cookies

Prior to filleting my finger, I had decided to try to make fortune cookies for a friend's birthday get together. I haven't got anything particularly pithy to say about it, and I've stalled long enough trying to come up with something clever. So, while I am out of the kitchen, I might as well get you caught up on some of the cooking-goings-on about the joint.

Our core group of friends is scattered all over the city. That may not seem like such a big deal until you realize that Houston has a circumference of over 100 miles. Observe:

Not true to scale because the map does not quite go wide enough North/South to capture the distance between the Hovel and Roy-mantha's, or far enough East to get the true location of Kail's joint.

We chat through Facebook from time to time, and OF COURSE they are all loyal readers so you might be able to guess who some of them are. Anyway, Facebook may bridge a gap, but it does not fill the void that is left when you miss the people who were your best man, your future baby's godparents, your matron of honor, your ambulance driver, and the group that will show up for a last minute birthday dinner when everyone else blows you off. Hence, we have monthly game night at a different house each month. February was Team Robinson's turn due to being proud new home owners, and having a birthday to celebrate. So, we all piled into our vehicles and made the trek.

I had known that I wanted to make fortune cookies for Mrs. Robinson's birthday for awhile, but I hadn't got any practice in so I had no idea how they would turn out. I Googled what appeared to be a basic recipe: Mostly egg whites, flour, vanilla, water, and a bit of almond extract. "No big deal," I thought. "I've got this."

I started out by making up a few fortunes and printing them, and cutting them to size.

My favorite fortune ever: "Man who stands on toilet is high on pot."

The dough (that I have seen in several YouTube videos) is supposed to be very thin and runny. My dough was very thick and coarse. I decided to slowly add more water until I achieved my desired consistency.

When the batter was runny enough to my liking, I made coaster-sized discs on a well greased cookie sheet and baked until that magical "just done" time in a 400 degree oven. Working quickly, you have to get a cookie off the pan, place the fortune in the middle and fold it in half. You have to work fast, in theory, because the cookies harden into little crisps that won't bend if they cool. So snap to it!

Ouch, hot tamale! Wait, wrong ethnic group. Ouch, hot Wonton!

The next part sounds a bit weird, but you then have to bend the cookie over the rim of a coffee cup and put in a muffin tin to cool and harden. Bending it over the rim of the cup makes it into the exact right shape. 

Well, most of my fortune cookies never got truly hard. They tasted okay, but they were more like thin, almondy sugar pancakes. I had to make up for this failure by at least making them prettier to look at. If people were busy oooing and awing over them, they wouldn't notice that tell-tale texture was completely missing slightly less than ideal. Besides, Mrs. Robinson loves that sort of thing (meaning cutesy stuff).

Being now that I am a Goddess of the Double Boiler, I decided to chocolate dip them and sprinkle with, well, sprinkles. Do I need to remind y'all how to do that? Okay, last time for you newbs:

1.) Never melt chocolate in a microwave! Always use a double boiler. (i.e. pot of boiling water with a bowl of chocolate snugly placed over it. Stir frequently and do not walk off or this may happen.

 Next, all you have to do is dip your cookie tips into the melty goodness and sprinkle with rainbow sprinkles.

Dip and Sprinkle!

Everyone at the party ended up liking them despite their unfortunate texture. I thought y'all might enjoy a self-portrait with the completed product. Enjoy and happy Sweets Sunday.

Andrea c.2011, the Chocolate Sprinkle Period.

The Time I Stole Eggs from Bobby Flay

Last weekend was a particularly busy week for Jon due to his company's semi-annual convention. Being the awesome spouse-like person that I am, I tagged along to get in the way and distract him from his duties as much as possible.

What I enjoy most about going to his conferences is the nice dinners that we are occasionally invited to. This time, we were invited to a place that served bone-in Filet Mignon. It was awesome. Afterwards, we went back to the hotel bar for a drink.

Just one...

Well, of course, I was dressed beautifully and made my man proud to sit with me while we were at dinner. The bar, however, always seems like a different story. Things usually end up going South fast when we drink with Jon's coworkers. Why? Because we can never get away with just one drink, and I can't hold my liquor.

Enter the Lemon Drop Martini.

I always imagine myself looking all glamorous and sophisticated as I sip my martinis, all dressed up in my fancy pants. (whoops, just typed panties...must still be fighting that hangover). In my mind, I look totally rad like this:


 However, I probably look a little more like this:



Squee!!!!!!

After two nights of closing down the hotel bar and enough lemon drops in my system to...well...piss a lot of lemonade, my nights got a little bizarre. While Jon was holding his liquor and snoozing next to me, I was overcome with the most realistically odd dream imaginable.

It all started out normal enough: I was in my kitchen cooking...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...this recipe that was going to be a masterpiece. After looking through the cookbook, I casually walked over to the fridge to get a few ingredients. To my horror, I had no milk, eggs, or butter. I start having a panic attack and dash around the apartment as if the place is burning down. Alas, there is none of these products any where! I glance over to my skillet and the concoction is boiling! Boiling without the necessary staple ingredients! It will be ruined!

I dash out my door, across the landing, up the stairs, and start banging on my neighbor's door. My neighbor ends up being this lady who interviewed me for a job over a year ago (in real life). Not at all phased about why this Ph.D. is living in the same ghetto hovel as me, I begin begging her for all the ingredients I need. She made it very clear (in real life and in my dream) that she didn't really like me. Then, she proceeds to berate me, deny me all said perishables, and slam the door in my face. I weep.

*Weep, weep.*

Then, I just happen to notice a really nice set of stairs leading up to a penthouse suite. "When did my apartment get a penthouse suite?" I think to myself. I am slightly awed and scared at the same time. The steps are so clean and brilliant white.

(Was this a metaphor for heaven? Not sure.)

I felt compelled to climb these stairs in my desperate search for perishables. I slowly crawl on my hands and knees up the flight of stairs to the penthouse. I get to the front door, but I can't bring myself to knock. Then I notice the door is imperceptibly ajar... 

I give the door a tiny push and see a beautiful apartment loft filled with all kinds of luxury furnishings. The floor is gleaming marble. Panoramic windows flood the room with brilliant sunlight. Then, in the distance, I notice a man watching TV on a white couch. His back is to me, but I know who he is ...



Iron Chef Bobby Flay

"Holy Fish-sticks!" I think to myself. "I live two floors below freakin' BOBBY FLAY!" I admire his gleaming, white chef outfit from the floor where I am still hunkered like a scared mouse. He does not notice my presence. I can't bring myself to knock on the door and ask Bobby Flay for the things I need. I feel very small and ashamed...like I'm in a place I don't belong.

I think to myself, "If I ask Bobby Flay to borrow eggs, milk, and butter, he will think I am the most inept cook ever! What will he think of me not having these staples in the house!? STAPLES I TELL YOU!! He will be totally disgusted with me and will refuse to grill in my presence." I feel tears coming to my eyes.

*An idea forms in my brain...the room darkens...a chill fills the air...*

I must steal from Bobby Flay.

My logic is this: If he never knows I took these things, there is still a chance that we can still be best friends.

I see it all playing out in my head like this:

Perhaps we run into each other on the staircase and I can be all casual like, "Oh hey, aren't you that Bobby Flay guy?"

And he would be like "Oh yea, I am. Are you a fan of Iron Chef America?"

Then, I would be all nonchalant like "Oh, well, I watch it every now and then..."

And he would be like, "Well that's cool. Maybe we could grill together sometime."

And then I would be like, "Sounds like it might be fun. I'll bring an apron."

Then, when he turns to head up to his apartment, I squee like a teenage girl.

Time to get serious: I must preserve the future BFF-ness potential of me and Bobby Flay.

I notice a gourmet kitchen staged to the left of the front entry. The only problem is that the kitchen is in direct line of the living area where Bobby Flay is watching TV. Any false move and I would be discovered.

I scamper on my hands and knees across the cold floor in a bold dash to the kitchen.

*Scamper, Scamper*

I dive behind the kitchen's center island as if I am stealing homeplate just before Bobby Flay turns his head away from the television. He must of heard me. I chastise myself. I must be quieter. He returns to watching his program.

I stealthily tip-toe my way to his refrigerator and open the door.



Bobby Flay owns a Stainless Steel Frigidaire Gallery 25.8 Cu. Ft.
 French Door Refrigerator with Thru-the-Door Ice and Water.



I carefully collect the eggs and milk. I peer around the door. He is still tuned into the TV...

Quietly, I close the refrigerator and start my escape when I realize I have forgotten the butter. I break out into a sweat. I glance over my shoulder towards the TV...the coast is clear. I reopen the fridge door and notice the butter is all the way in the back on the top shelf. I MUST get the butter. I move the eggs and milk to one arm and stand on my tip toes to reach for the butter. Just then, the egg carton opens and a couple eggs go tumbling towards the ground.

*Splat, Splat*

The jig is up. I see Bobby Flay rise from the couch all slow-motion style like a giant in "Jack and the Beanstalk".  He starts coming right at me. I snatch the butter from the shelf and make a dash for the front door. Screaming like a mad woman, I run all the way down the stairs, across the landing, and back to my apartment.

I slam my door and lock it behind me. Bobby Flay is coming for me and he is not happy. I dump all the stolen perishables into a pot. All evidence must be destroyed. I try to whip up an omelet. Perhaps if I invite him in for an omelet, he will forget how angry he is about me stealing his food. Everyone likes an omelet, right? RIGHT!?!

*There is a knocking at my door*

I startle.

I look around panicked!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's the hotel maid...

Jon looks over at me. He says I look frazzled. "What's wrong?" he asks...