The Great Eggsperiment; or, one hundred million Mexicans can't be wrong

This was an experiment that began over Christmas break, but I've been dragging out the stages and trials because it was so darn interesting. And because I wanted to take more cool pictures.

How this experiment began was with five dozen eggs in December. Two of our roommates were heading out of town for Christmas break and they left the two of us, Julia Child and I, to care for/dispose of all of the leftover eggs. Why are we all buying separate eggs anyway? I'm not sure. We love eggs. And with the number of breakfasts I like to have with scrambled eggs and the frequency of fried rice days, it's never been a problem before. But when it's two of you and an empty apartment and five dozen leftover eggs, you have to get to work.

Julia Child ponders the existential properties of the egg.

So much time, so little to do...

Wait... strike that; reverse it.

We've been having more culinary adventures than we can handle of late. I'm working on two big posts for you, but meanwhile here is a handful of snapshots from recent moments of awesomeness.

The night French House Friend and I talked about what they do in France with pears in chocolate and made mischief of one kind and another:

Rock the Casbah

I was lucky enough to be born into a family that ate weird food. My family was unlucky enough to get a child who was the pickiest eater in the world. I wouldn't eat onions, I wouldn't eat mushrooms, I wouldn't eat peppers, okra was the most terrifying creature on the planet, I wouldn't eat ketchup or mayonnaise or mustard, I wouldn't eat peanut butter, I wouldn't eat anything spicy, I wouldn't eat fish, I wouldn't eat any sort of dressing or sauce - I made my mother wash the gravy off the meat.

One day she sat me down and told me "When you're an adult, you're going to like all of this. You're going to like spicy food, you're going to like fish. You're even going to like onions." I told her she was crazy. My mother, however, ends up being right about everything.

A Quick Recipe for Glory

今年もよろしくお願いいたします！

In Japan, the biggest holiday of the year is New Year's, or oshogatsu. It's the time of year when your family gathers home from all corners of the country (or the world... Hi Yuko! How are your parents?) and spends a week together. It's about tradition, it's about family, it's about love. It's about cold, slimy, sweet foods. And in that holiday spirit, this year I decided to make my own おせち料理 - the ancient Japanese sweet, slimy, cold tradition.

せち料理 (osechi ryōri) involves a lot of foods that we eat because they're puns. I only understood a couple of them, and I still haven't been able to figure out which characters they refer to, but it's okay because neither was the Japanese friend who came over. So even though we don't know why, we know that we eat black beans (kuromame) because mame also means "health" and kuro... I don't know. An old Japanese lady explained it to me once but I forgot. And we eat chestnuts (kuri) because kuri means "success" and we eat kelp (konbu) because konbu means "joy." And also because it's tradition, and a little bit of marketing.

Cakes of Epic Import

Then a songge of Cake was sung,
So that the mann’s warlike example would inspyre the warriors
Beseachyng on God for aid, they joined battle
Emilysch, who sangge very well,
Rode on a swift horse before the Duke
Syngging of Charlemagne and Roland and Oliver
and the knyghts who died at Ganache

Yes, dear compatriots, this is the epic story of two cakes whose glory and power in battle defied all challengers and brought honor and laud to their gallant Lords and their noble King for whom they pledged all. Many brave souls perished in the fray, but their song shall live on.

Communist Dinner

The scenario: ward dinner. Your assignment is to use your house's Sunday dinner budget to create a potluck item that will regale and satisfy members of the entire ward while still transmitting a little local ethnic charm. Not too much ethnic charm, mind you, because even though these are all ostensibly cosmopolitan language students, they still complain under their breath about the mugi cha the Japanese house made us drink last month. (I went to the mattresses for you, though, mugi cha. I'm your sole defender!)

The plot twist: Right as you get home from grocery shopping, having purchased the retailer's entire supply of ground pork for a massive project of epic Chinese proportions, the powers that be inform you that ward dinner has been canceled and you should just feed your own house. Your poor little vegetarian stomach with its lack of bromelain starts to weep as it eyes the ten pounds of styrofoam-packaged pork you just stuck in the fridge.