TRAVELING:
I am guest-blogging today at the Ruby Slippered Sisterhood, a blog run by the 2009 Golden Heart finalists. If you are going to RWA National, or attend conferences for another work-type endeavor, you can see my tips on what sort of bag to bring, and what you absoutely must pack. (A confession: I care naught for shoes, and would be happier if I could attend all functions in pajama pants and a t-shirt from the gap, but I will admit to a shocking weakness for totebags. With the amount of mental energy I use pondering the qualities of the perfect bag, I could probably come up with a way to colonize the freaking moon and eradicate global poverty.) Anyway, mille grazie to Elisa Beatty, and the rest of the Rubies, for inviting me over to play.
TACOS:
Shall we update on the Fish Taco Project? I have made fish tacos precisely ONCE this summer. And frankly, to call them fish tacos is an insult to fish, tacos, and compound nouns everywhere. The blame, I believe, can be equally divided between me and Bobby Flay. (Well, perhaps a little bit more on me, maybe. A smoodge more.)
I LIKE Bobby Flay. He is funny and easy on the eyes, and while I rarely watch cooking shows, because they just make me hungry when all I have in the house are Wasa crackers and hummus, I do enjoy watching Throwdown (even if it is a stupid name). He cares deeply about food, which is a fine quality in a person.
But the raison d'etre of fish tacos is the battered fish. Grilled fish -- no matter how beautifully grilled, no matter how perfectly spiced, no matter how fresh -- is not battered fish. And this recipe called for grilled fish.
It was at this point when I should have adjusted my expectations. I should have said, "Self? These are not fish tacos. They are tasty fish served in a tortilla, potentially delicious in their own right, but not a fish taco." First mistake.
My second mistake was a stupid, rookie, newbie error and I am ashamed to admit it. The first time you cook a dish, you always follow the recipe. After that, you can adjust for individual preferences and styles. But for the inaugaral run...follow the directions. So, if Bobby Flay says to grill the fish...grill the damn fish. Even if it's late. Even if you don't feel like grilling. Even if you haven't made any progress on your summer goal of learning how to grill, sweet-talk your husband into it. To do otherwise, particularly when you have a guest, is to invite disaster.
This is especially true if the guest is your mother-in-law (who ate two servings without complaint, an act of kindness on her part that will not soon be forgotten).
I have high hopes for the next attempt, though: Baja-Style Fish Tacos. Just between us, the author had me at "tequila-lime-chili marinade." I will let you know how it turns out.