is this a fashion blog or a cooking blog?

Somehow, again, something delicious (and other than pasta) was cooked in this apartment. And because of it, I'm insisting that the overall notion that I'm not domestic be un-notioned or whatever. Because this stuff was gooooood. 

It's called Pineapple Fried Rice, a Thai dish that my ole buddy, ole pal Noelle has ordered so many times that she decided to learn how to make it. I was her sous chef last night. So was her boyfriend, Desch. Shane was named VIP taste tester. Here's what came of our cooking extravaganza! 

Unlike the photos of my eggplant salad toasts, which were taken in terrible lighting, this meal was actually orange-ish in color. It matched my plates and bowls! I would tell you how to create such a marvelous meal, but the recipe is a page and a half long, and I don't want to take that extra step toward carpel tunnel for no reason. So email us (fthewoods@gmail.com) if you would like to recipe. Trust me, you want it. 

And as if that wasn't enough, we continued the gluttony by frying up some bananas and shoveling them into our mouths with ice cream & chocolate syrup.

It's better than a banana split. Because it's fried.

*And now, for something completely different.*

As you can see by our shiny and new pink badge to the left, we're about to dive into something wonderful, yet scary: The 30 for 30, dun dun dun. Read this post from Kendi's blog to figure out what the heck that is. And be prepared for February 1st, 'cause here we come, a dose a day.
-christen

[insert title here]

on him: urban outfitters flannel shirt, bullhead gray jeans, vans mt. edition seakers; on me: j.crew shirt, american apparel skirt, modcloth circle scarf, vintage belt, modcloth double buckle wedges

So, here's what happened. I thought we were looking kinda spiffy the other day, and we just happened to have our pal Lacy with us, so a light bulb lit up above my head and I said, "Hey! Since we only keep Lacy around to do us favors, we might as well put her to good use and stick her behind a camera," or something like that (or nothing like that). And because we weren't even doing anything cool, Shane's premonition of having nothing to write about surrounding these pictures ended up being quite accurate. Darny darn. Soooo, I guess all you have to gain from this post is warm fuzzies inside from looking at pictures of us being cute. No need to thank me. I live to please.

  

(These are a little blurry 'cause it was frrrigid out and we were all big bundles of shivers! We're all about equal opportunity for photos here; no place for hate)

-christen

oh my faijfi;emacijejfao

I need to tell you about this because it's awesome. Tonight, for the first night in maybe...my whole life...I cooked something other than pasta for dinner (successfully). Because, ya know, although I don't even have enough fingers and toes to count how many times I've told people I could eat pasta for every meal, some nights (like tonight) I realize that's just not true. Sorry for lying, those of you who I told. You're over it, I can tell.


So, look!

What we've got here is my own rendition of Smitten Kitchen's eggplant salad toasts:

   -Dice up 'dat eggplant, mix it with olive oil, a little salt, a lot of pepper, and roast those babies in a 425 degree oven for 20 minutes (I added black olives 'cause, why not?).

   -When the roasting stuff is done roasting, mix it with chopped onion, feta (and I added a little shredded mozz because I was short on feta...and by "short on feta" I mean I stole as much of it from my roommate's side of the fridge as possible without her noticing) and throw it all on some toasted baguette slices (or old hot dog buns. Don't judge.).

   -Finally, I drizzled it with a bit of peach vinegar, aka Vinegar of the Gods, because for some reason I don't own any other kind. I could seriously drink that stuff out of the bottle. No lie. 

   -Eat and die. (Because it's so good, not because it's so bad)

And that appetizing little blob to the right of this eggplant-y creation is The Pioneer Woman's crash hot potatoes.

   -Boil some baby potatoes in salt water.

   -Put them on a cookie sheet that's drizzled with oil and smash 'em. Since I don't have a smasher, I just used the bottom of a glass (worked like a charm). Sprinkle them with salt, pepper, and herb of choice (all I have is basil), and slide them into a 450 degree oven for 20-25 minutes or until crispy brown. 

   -Eat and die. (See above)

And YUM! They were scrumptious. Disclaimer: no, I'm not a vegetarian, despite what 99.9% of the world thinks. Vegetables are just less scary to cook (no face-in-toilet involved if something goes wrong). (That's never happened to me before, it's just an irrational fear) (a phobia, if you will) (see that? 4 parentheses in a row. BAM!)

I wanted to include a picture of me eating this meal as evidence that I was actually responsible for all this. It's a very strategic photo, as it doesn't show how flat my hair was today, it proves that my counter comes up to my chest, which is just too tall for any counter, AND it's a little in-your-face proof to the few friends whose names will renamed unmentioned (*cough*Tyler*cough*Shane*ahem, excuse me*) that I don't always stick my pinky out when I'm eating or drinking. Sometimes I stick my pointer out instead. So there.

-christen

for your thoughts.

You know how you're looking at me right now thinking, "Wow, what a large smattering of color in Christen's outfit today"? Well, I equipped this outfit with a trick. It's called the ha!-I'm-still-wearing-earth-tones maneuver. I pull it all the time. Ornery of me, I know. 

Today you get to see magic happen in 'the woods.' Sit back and imagine the voice of Susan (the British female [the one with a deep voice] setting on your GPS) narrating you through this marvelous stroke of good fortune.

One day, Christen felt something peculiar about her shoe, so she decided to take a closer look and see what ever could be causing this disarray. Curiously, she found nothing.

She carried on, shivering in the winter weather, and hoping nobody would take notice of her elephant ankles. But, oh! Christen realized her upper body was not in the frame!

modcloth dress, anthropologie hat, anthropologie belt, rustic roots* bracelet, j.crew tights, modcloth shoes

She bent down so that her face could be seen, crossing her fingers (metaphorically) that none would regard the hole she mended in the knee of her orange tights, with brown thread, but quickly found that the pose looked terribly cheesy. Something needed to be done!

'Ah, much better,' she thought to herself as she kicked one ankle behind the other. But still, such a bothersome feeling under her toes. She took another look, and...

Aha! Nothing but a silly old penny. The end.

We need to clear one thing up. This isn't actually how the story went. Really, I found the penny almost immediately, and then everything else happened. But if I were to reveal the cool part at the beginning, you wouldn't have been nearly as electrified. That I know for sure.

*This needs to be mentioned. Rustic Roots was an awesome little shop in my hometown near Pittsburgh, owned by an even more awesome chick named Merrit. The shop is no longer there, I may have shed a tear over it, let's not talk about it. -christen