I thought that with enough careful planning, I could figure out how to keep up my posting schedule and maintain my life, i.e., nap. As it turns out, no matter how well you plan, the day remains but 24 hours long, which is proving to be a problem, and sometimes I would like to do something other than nap, like walk the dogs or read a book or take a different kind of nap (e.g., couch vs. bed vs. comfy chair).

So: the Smackdown remains. Awesome Shit remains. Once Top Chef starts up again, liveblogging remains. But other nights, Tight Ass Tuesday included, are going to become sometime-features instead of regulars, because I’m not in a position to turn the blog into my life. Unfortunately. Or fortunately, depending on how you look at things.

Tonight I ordered in and I’m watching American Idol and IT IS AWESOME.

Because who doesn’t love a classy ‘stache?

Especially one that can constantly grace your table, genteeling dispensing salt or pepper at your whim.

Who says I only have love for overpriced ceramics? Let us bestow our love on overpriced wooden objects as well! Although really, this is like the objet d’art of salt and pepper shakers.

And I want it.

I am left uninspired. And hungry.

Thus, I will share with you what Brian said after eating this vegan “Shepherdess” pie from the Veganomicon, a dish for which I had really high hopes: “I wish that I could throw this up so it wouldn’t be in my body any more.” Then he realized that if he threw it up he might have to taste it again on the way back up, so he changed his mind.

I think he was being a little hyperbolic, especially when he started making the fake upchuck noises. I mean, really.

I’ve happily eaten fake meat products in the past, during my stint as a vegetarian, so it seemed like tempeh in mushroom gravy topped with mashed potatoes had real potential. I’d never worked directly with tempeh, but am a ridiculous sucker for anything involving the word “gravy,” so this seemed like a good idea. Let the record show, however, that Brian thought this was a terrible idea to begin with and I forged ahead with this dish over his strenuous objections. Because I don’t care about what my loved ones think.

I’m not going to deny that the tempeh, a soy-based food product that stands in for the meat in this vegan version of Shepherd’s pie, had a decidedly strange texture. Kind of like a nut. A chewy nut. A chewy nut that tastes like brown rice. I crumbled it into a pan from the compressed block in which it comes, added some water and tamari – to add umami, I assume – and let it cook down.

I’m not going to get all down on the tempeh, because I’m sure it’s good in some applications and because last time I came down on tofu I incurred the wrath of the post-punk vegans. It’s not that I mind incurring wrath, I just don’t like to repeat the same trick twice. Let the post-punk vegans have their rest.

I emptied the tempeh pan so I could saute the onion and garlic, then added the tempeh back along with mushrooms, thyme and coriander. If I had my druthers, I would have sauteed the mushrooms separately as well so they’d take on some color, but this was a Smackdown so I don’t have my druthers.

Some peas and corn later, I hit the pan with some veggie broth and flour to create a gravy. I’m not going to lie; things smelled pretty good at this point, and I still had hopes that things would turn out for the best (Brian was off-board as soon as he saw the tempeh).

In the meantime, I boiled up some yukon golds and mashed them with soy milk and grapeseed oil. Yum!

I spread the tempeh and mushroom mixture in the bottom of a casserole, spread the potatoes over the top and into the oven it went.

I gotta say, this is fucking hard to write. I’m tired, I’m worried that my apartment is about to flood, and this wasn’t good. It just wasn’t. It looked like shepherd’s pie, and it did smell decent, but the texture of the tempeh was a barrier we couldn’t surmount.

If this had been an all-veggie dish, with more mushrooms and maybe some carrots instead of the tempeh, I think it would have been worlds better. There’s something to be said for the whole stop-trying-to-imitate-meat thing.

That being said, Brian still ate his portion and polished off what I couldn’t finish of mine, and this was definitely not as bad as the moussaka we tried from the same book. However, he did make me promise that we would never, ever cook anything out of this book again. I was going to promise with my fingers crossed behind my back because I’m still secretly convinced that there’s some good to be found in this book, but I did it because I’m not that much of an ass to my loved ones. And he did do all the dishes.

And now, the tempeh needs to make an exit, so let’s all cross our fingers that the toilets are flushable, shall we?

I apologize for this sub-par post. It reflects the meal it describes.

Fear not; for tonight the vegan “Shepardess Pie” is going to get what’s coming to it.

Like that’s not enough, I’ve got this demon banshee of a headache.

Yes, that is chocolate milk and no, I am not five years old. If you ever have the chance to avail yourself of Ronnybrook Farms chocolate milk, you should grab that opportunity.

AND I have heartburn. Which I just typed as heartworm, which, thankfully, I do not have.

Yargh.

Coming Thursday: Veganism!

Are they vases? Tiny pitchers? Miniature cruets? What’s with the dots? I don’t know, but they’re ceramic and cute and they cost too much, and we all know what that means.

We are sharply divided over this dinner chez TNS.

We haven’t been so divided since two weeks ago, when I discovered FOR THE FIRST TIME that Brian does not like gummy cola bottles. WHAT? AND I MARRIED YOU? It’s been eight years, for god’s sake.

It shook me to my very core. In case all the yelling was not a clue, I FUCKING LOVE GUMMY COLA BOTTLES.

I don’t think we were quite as split on dinner tonight since he did clean his plate, whereas he would not deign to eat a single gummy cola bottle. NOT EVEN ONE.

Deep cleansing breath.

In any case, the source of the controversy was a slow-roasted salmon with fennel oil served with potatoes with white wine, thyme, shallots and olives from The Improvisational Cook, a book I highly recommend both for its recipes and its teacherliness. Which is not a word, but I’m going to assume you know what I mean.

I like that she doesn’t really bother to name her dishes. What is this? Salmon. What’s that stuff on top? Fennel oil. How were these potatoes cooked? With wine, thyme, shallots and olives. Do you want to know why? I’ll explain in a clear but concise manner. The end. I appreciate that.

Really, if anyone should have not been a fan of this meal it should have been me, since I can’t abide olives – love the flavor, hate the actual foodstuff – and don’t really have any love lost for fennel either, although my disdain is aimed mostly at the vegetal, non-seed variety.*

Still, I dutifully put the fennel oil together, toasting the seeds and adding some olive oil and lemon peel. The lemon peel immediately started to fry when it hit the hot oil and I stared at it like a pre-monolith chimp, as though there were no explanation for such a reaction, even though that’s typically what happens when you throw something into hot oil. Can I use the “It’s been a long day” trope to seem less like a moron? No? Didn’t think so.

It was worth a try.

*Exception: when it’s in bouillabaisse, because it undergoes some kind of magical transformation that renders it delicious.

While the oil infused I started on the potatoes, which would take longer than the fish to cook. And get this: I was just about to start peeling the potatoes when Brian got home, and he was all, “I’ll do it,” and I started doing it anyway, and he was all, “No! STOP! Let me do it!” and then he did. And then I forgot all about the gummy cola bottle thing because I have a man who willingly – almost gleefully – peels the potatoes, which I hate doing.

He’s really fast at it, too. If he were in the military, they’d bust him down to kitchen duty for the smallest infraction just because he can demolish a pile of potatoes like T-Rex the monster truck rolling over a row of 1974 Chevy Impalas. He’s that good.

I rinsed the potatoes as instructed, then layered them in a pan with the detested olives, a mess o’ shallots (technical term), some fresh thyme, salt and a pinch of sugar; I poured in the white wine and set the pan over heat. The wine was supposed to be dry but all I had in the house was a fruity Riesling. If you press me, though, I will deny three times before the cock crows that I used it. I used DRY WHITE WINE because I FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS.

As the potatoes simmered, I pulled out the salmon; it wasn’t time to start cooking it yet, but I wanted to admire it – it was wild Alaskan Sockeye, and would you look at the color? It was even purtier in person.

I trimmed off the skinny ends so the fish would cook evenly and tried to give the scraps to the dogs. I say “tried” because one of the dogs is a picky eater who has an aversion to anything with a sort-of slimy texture. They’re both picky, really – they don’t like to eat food off the floor and have to be directed to scraps that hit the ground via a toe tap before they will saunter over to investigate whether or not they would like to eat that particular thing and WHAT KIND OF DOGS ARE YOU – but one is especially fish-averse. He got it down eventually because the only other option was to give it to his fellow canine companion which WOULD NOT DO, but I don’t think he was happy about it.

When it was time, the fish went into a 275 degree oven so it could roast slowly and leech lots and lots of albumen and become gross-looking. The potatoes were uncovered and the wine cooked down to “glaze” the potatoes, insofar as you can glaze a potato with anything without having the potato just suck it right in.

I scraped away some of the albumen but much of it insisted on clinging to the fish and could not be dislodged without wrecking the filet, so there you go. Get over it. I heaped my plate with potatoes, included a few olives for photographic purposes only, nestled the fish on top and spooned some fennel oil over it. I added a small spring of thyme hoping to detract from the unsightly albumen with The Chive Effect. It didn’t work.

I thought this dinner was great; it was one of those dishes that when you get a little bit of everything on the fork, it just sings. The flavors of the salmon and potatoes had a kind of Mediterranian/Provençal vibe going on. The fennel actually accentuated the salmon flavor, and the slightly briny, slightly sweet potatoes (both from the wine and from the cooked-down shallots) were a great counterpart.

My potato-peeling, non-gummy-cola-bottle eating partner wasn’t so sure, and felt like the assertive fennel overpowered the flavor of the fish. As previously noted, however, the plate was cleaned, so the complaint was an insipid one. The potatoes were universally beloved.

I can’t think of a conclusion to go here, so, you know, g’night.

Poblano and mushroom quesadillas with pepper jack.

Does suck: me, today.

That’s why I’m only writing one sentence at a time.

And I didn’t even eat this dinner, but I hear it was good.

But hey: look at the benefits for you. No run-on sentences, endless parentheticals or pointless asides.

(Although I know you secretly miss them.)*

*Yes, you do.

Hopefully I’ll be back on my game Friday. This is what you get sometimes when your blogger is a Crazie.

Over and out.