In an attempt to work on my nonexistent wife skills, I’ve been making an effort to try at least one new recipe every week. If my friends would ever be willing to come to Germantown, they could get in on this action. But who wants to come to Germantown, right? At least we’re getting a Firehouse Subs soon…
Anyway, this past week I made white pizza lasagna.
What it’s supposed to look like:
The recipe is from How Sweet It Is, and I’m debating whether I can call it my favorite food blog or not. I really love Spoon Fork Bacon, but the author of How Sweet It Is is from Pittsburgh, so I think I’ll give her the edge.
What I find with most of the How Sweet recipes is that the ingredients are not cheap. The How Sweet baklava recipe basically bankrupts me every time I decide to make it–which is a lot because people are really impressed by it.
So anyway. The recipe called for four pints of grape tomatoes. In case you didn’t know, that’s about $12-15 worth of tomatoes. I don’t even like tomatoes. Are you kidding me with this one? I bought three and called it a day.
I’ll admit these suckers are pretty good when you roast them. Still, when I was eating the lasagna, I found myself eating around them a bit. Then I punched myself in the face and reminded myself I paid $12 for them. Next time I make this recipe, I’ll only use two pints of grape tomatoes.
Next up, I think I put at least $20 worth of cheese into this mother. Mascarpone, provolone, mozzarella, fontina… I’m officially the worst lactose intolerant person ever.
The final product was SO good but so greasy. Definitely don’t skimp on the fresh basil if you make this. And maybe double the recommended amount of garlic–but hey, I do that for almost every recipe.
A few other things I wanted to tell you:
I fell in my heels the other day. This absolutely never happens, I’m a goddamn champion in heels. To be honest, I think it was karma for parking like a jerk:
Speaking of my smart, I found an excerpt from a book called “You Opened Your Legs Before I Opened My Heart” that I want to share:
That is some fine literature right there. “You know your ass is too fat for a smart car.” The title of the book is pretty genius, too. If I wrote a book, I’d call it “You’re Not Fat; You’re American.”
One last thing. So you know how sometimes when you’re driving, you car flirt with people in the cars beside you obviously, because you’re driving, it never lasts more than a block? I think I’m going to make a poster board that says “I think you’re hot.” on one side and has my phone number on the other side and show it to guys at red lights. Or on 270. I might die perfecting the art of car flirting, but at least my life will have been worthwhile advancing this otherwise struggling form of pick up.
Ok I lied. One last other thing:
Last month, the anchor of my right dermal came partially out of my skin when it got caught on my shorts. Ryan Janes pushed it back in for me, but then it ended up sinking below the surface of my skin while I was in Virginia Beach. In one of the most painful three minutes of my life, I had to have it dug out of my back and removed entirely. I was instructed to wait two months to let the hole heal, then get it redone.
In the mean time, I was looking pretty lopsided with only one dermal. I hadn’t entirely decided that I was willing to get the other one redone anyway. I’ve had my fair share of tattoos and piercings, but getting my back pierced was definitely the most unpleasant body modification I’ve had.
So when my left dermal also slipped under the surface of my skin, I had it removed as well, even though the piercer told me she could “save it.” She said that she’s only ever seen that happen twice before, so it was pretty strange that it happened to both of mine. Anyway, I’m kind of glad to be done with it, and I think maybe I’m getting a little too old for this stuff.