Recently, I was approached by an area freelance writer who had come upon my blog. He was interested in doing a story about me, Kellie, and our 101/1001 lists. We met over coffee so I could tell him my story, and later in the day he talked to my ladyfriend over Skype all the way from Germany.
Our story ran in the South Charlotte News section of the Charlotte Observer’s Sunday edition. I’ve gotta say, It feels pretty good to see my name in print. It means a lot, too, to be able to share it with Kellie. I’m so glad we decided to tackle this project together.
You can read the online version of the article here. I’m very thankful that Mr. Solender approached me to learn more about our lists. His interest has reignited my enthusiasm regarding each item, and I am really looking forward to knocking out even more things in the weeks to come.
Stay tuned.
I had a bike when I was young. It was purple and pink with white tires. When I outgrew that one, I had a dusty pink bike with a banana seat. Eventually I was tall enough to use my mother’s black and red road bike.
I’m not sure what bike I was riding when I took a nasty spill down a hill that left me with a six-inch scar on my leg and a broken wrist. I spent most of a middle-school summer in a purple cast that spanned from my knuckles to my armpit. I remember the handlebars were all bent from me flying over them, but I couldn’t tell you which bike it was.
After that, I took a break from riding.
When I moved to North Carolina, my parents lived in a quiet subdivision in Union County. Within days of moving in, I asked my parents what they did with their bikes. This seemed like the perfect neighborhood to go cruising in! I was crushed when my mother told me so nonchalantly that they sold their pair of bikes nearly a year before I’d asked about them. Bummer!
I spent some time on Craigslist and visiting local thrift stores for a nice-looking and affordable bike. I didn’t find one, and once school picked up, I wasn’t as concerned about getting one anymore. The streets of Charlotte can be pretty scary for a cyclist, so I forgot about wanting to ride while I concentrated on my studies.
After graduating, I joined a gym near my new job. They had a spinning studio, and I was eager to give it a try. My first class left me incredibly sore (especially in the kooka region), but I really enjoyed the dynamic and started going to class two to four days each week. When I was unemployed, sometimes I’d go as many as six times a week.
Spinning as much as I did made me really miss riding outside. It’s been years! Putting “buy a bike” on my list seemed like a great way to finally get around to riding again.
But then, I got a bike! I was given a bike! As a present! I was given a bike as a Christmas present! From my boyfriend! My boyfriend Colin gave me a bike for Christmas!
It’s a Schwinn. It’s cream colored and has a black leather seat and the handles are squishy and there’s a spring-loaded rack on the back to hold my purse and it’s got gears and tires and a kickstand and little reflective panels for night riding and I look really cute on it.
What to do in this situation? I have a bike, which is awesome. But my list requires that I “buy a bike.”
This would require some negotation.
Colin’s first answer was something along the lines of “It’s yours! You don’t owe me anything for it.” But that doesn’t work for me.
“See, my list says ‘BUY’ a bike. ‘Buy.’ I have to buy it. And now I have one, and I don’t need another one.”
I told him that he would have to make up his mind what I would owe him for my shiny and pretty bike. I also told him that whatever my payment was would have to be family-friendly, since it will end up on my blog. After many days of deliberation, I finally got a text from him.
Colin Powers: How about $1 and a really good back rub. Sent at 12:21 PM
I can swing that, no sweat.
(Note to any current and future employers: Please do not consider this an accurate representation of my design skill level. 
Thank you. )
I left this cute little envelope on his desk, and that bike became mine. Not that it wasn’t before. But now it really was.
Colin even got me a cyclocomputer as a cherry on top. It’s a little device that lets me know how far I’ve gone and clocks my speed, just like a spinning bike at the gym. What a guy.
I’ve been on a few short rides around our apartment complex, and even managed a sidewalk ride up to Chipotle. I’m holding off on longer trips until I can get my brains wrapped up in a cute helmet. Hopefully one that matches my sweet ride.
Number 20: Buy a bike. Check.
Polenta is relatively new on my radar. The first time I’d seen it was at a Brazilian Steakhouse in Charlotte. It was diced up, fried, and topped with delicate shreds of Parmesan cheese to be served as a hors d’oeuvre while you wait for the gauchos to come around and send you into a nasty case of the meatsweats.
The point is, I loved it. I had only heard of polenta before this, and wasn’t even sure what it was or how one would eat it.
After that experience, I trotted myself to a nearby Trader Joe’s and bought a tube of ready-made polenta. I sliced it up into cute little sticks, added some Parmesan, and baked them until they were crispy.
Yes.
I used the rest of the tube up by cutting it into rounds and pan-frying it with some salted butter. This became one of my favorite snacks, and even made a great breakfast with a soft-boiled egg on top.
I kept spending $1.99 a tube for the pre-made stuff, even though I never enjoyed the sensation of peeling the plastic tubing away while the gelatinous corn mixture remained.
I started branching out and using polenta for other things. I’d mix it up with some chicken broth and top it with some garlicky shrimp for dinner. For a weekend lunch, I’d add a tiny bit of milk and press it into a springform pan for a pizza crust. It proved to be messy but delicious.
I didn’t really have a good reason for not making myself, other than ignorance and perhaps a twinge of a lazy nature.
After awhile (and a few more tubes) I bought some organic corn grits from Bob’s Red Mill. Then I let it sit in my cupboard for roughly three months. But, THEN, after my recent successes with sushi and crème brulee, I knew I had it in me to whip up a wicked batch of polenta.
Turns out, it’s beyond easy. Corn grits, water, salt, and Parmesan. Really, the last two ingredients aren’t even necessary. They just spruce it up a bit.
You can use broth or milk or cream in place of water, but I was about to add a whole bunch of extra flavor, so I wasn’t too concerned.
Bring the mixture to a slow, bubbly boil. It’ll get steamy.
It helps to have coral pink fingernails. I’m pretty sure about this.
Then you just stir it. Almost constantly. For about thirty minutes. But seriously, that’s the hardest part.
With a touch of Parmesan, I was good to go.
I used a spatula to transfer the gooey corn mixture into a springform pan and smoothed it out all nice-like.
Tah-dah. Pizza crust.
I tossed on some mozzarella, some cheddar, a bit of baked chicken and a few slices of bacon before drizzling the whole darn thing with a homemade batch of vinegary barbecue sauce.
Into the oven it went, and when it came out 25 minutes later, I had a deep-dish barbecue chicken pizza with a polenta crust. Oh yes, I did.
It didn’t look like much, but I bet you would have liked to trade places with me while I ate it. With a fork. Because it was so gooey and awesome.
After my successful polenta-making, I still have more than a pound of corn grits in my cupboard. Now that I know it’s this easy, I’m eager to put polenta into a handful more recipes.
Number 100: Make my own polenta. Check.
Last time, on “Sarah Makes Crème Brulee“…
I wasn’t about to be beat down by my prior failure to make crème brulee. I cleaned up the gooey mess, took a breather, made some sushi, and got back on the horse.
The proverbial horse. Mama Shum got me a horseback riding certificate for my birthday, but I haven’t used it yet.
The last time I tried to make my favorite dessert, I searched around for a recipe that fit the ingredients I already had in the house. It turned out to be a silly idea, and it didn’t work out.
This time, I found a recipe that looked doable, and bought the necessary ingredients. This is, generally, the smart way to go about making a dish you’ve never made (successfully) before.
SPOILER ALERT: It worked out so much better this time.
I got together my simple ingredients and hoped for the best.
I brought the cream and sugar to a riveting simmer.
And then — watch out — I whisked up the eggs and vanilla so that I could slowly incorporate my bubbly cream mixture.
My life is so exciting I can hardly STAND IT.
I made just enough for two little treats, because throwing away 4 ramekins worth (and the bit that I baked in a loaf pan) last time was unfortunate and wasteful.
Into the oven they went, while I tried not to check in on them every thirty seconds.
I put on my patient face and entertained myself elsewhere until they had finished baking. Into the fridge they went, and I put on my patient face once again.
They probably could have used a bit more time to chill, but my patient face was getting tired and I really wanted to try out my butane torch.
Moments out of the fridge, I already knew these were fellas going to have a better fate than their cousins before them, all drippy and sad.
From here on out is uncharted territory in my brulee-making. I didn’t get to dust or torch last time.
I pulled out my fancy organic sugar and generously covered the top of my cute little confections.
Then, I played with fire, as was evidently encouraged by Papa Shum when he got me my little orange torch for Christmas.
Chyeah, I’ll mix stripes and houndstooth.
I patiently let the torch work its little fiery magic to melt the sugar.
After a few minutes, I was greeted by these little beauties:
I triumphantly took them into the living room with a pair of spoons and handed Colin his own little dish.
We hesitantly tapped at the shells and I instantly felt gratified. I had created a thick, glassy shell on my crème brulees, just like I hoped I would. If you haven’t had the pleasure of enjoying a crème brulee, I can tell you that a wimpy shell can be a major disappointment.
In fact, the shell may have been almost too thick, if there can be such a thing. Once I plunged my spoon into the custard, the whole shell lifted up in one piece from being so solid.
I count this as a personal victory.
For a few silent moments, we enjoyed our individual desserts, and I smiled widely the whole time.
After close to three hours of prep/cooking/cooling, it took us only five minutes to demolish the little cuties.
I gave myself a moment to feel like a culinary genius, and then I began trying to decide what my next creation would be.
Number 44: Make a successful crème brulee. Check. Only took me two tries. Like a bawse.
This is my friend, Tim Dobbins.
Tim and I have been friends for nearly four years, now. These days, now that we both have big-kid jobs, we don’t see each other as much as we did when we were in school. Whenever we need to catch up on one another’s lives, we do it over sushi. The only thing different about this time was that we didn’t meet up at a restaurant. We met in my kitchen!
I’ve been a sushi fiend for about half of my young life. I remember having to buy it at specialty groceries back home because there weren’t many ethnic restaurants in my neck of the woods. Moving to Charlotte — a city filled with sushi — was a magical development for me.
I don’t have many friends that don’t like sushi. There’s probably a very simple reason for that.
I’ve watched chefs roll up some tasty maki. It never seemed to be something I couldn’t handle myself. When my glorious Kellie-lady got hitched, she gave me a sushi kit as a bridesmaid’s gift. I just never got around to using it. Enter 101/1001!
While Tim was on his way over, I fired up my brand new rice cooker, which until now had only prepared oatmeal. The weekend prior, I took a trip to our local international grocery with Papa Shum and loaded up on the sushi essentials. Tim came bearing fresh tuna and avocados, and we got down to business.
I felt like I kind of knew what I was doing after watching a series of videos online. I’ve got my sticky rice and my bamboo mat, and I’m ready to roll! See what I did there?
I had set up a little bowl with warm water and vinegar to dip my hands in to keep the rice from sticking to me, and made a nice little slate on my bamboo mat.
I politely invited some seaweed, cucumber, carrots, avocado, and crab meat to join the party.
And then, check it out, I rolled it up.
A few passes with a super sharp knife, and I had successfully created a California roll, ready for consumption.
You know, I’m not too bad at this. Must have been all those videos I watched.
We continued our sushi party by putting together a spicy tuna roll.
Pretty simple stuff. I diced up the tuna and mixed it in with some homemade mayo and Sriracha, then laid it out with some more fresh cucumber.
Good golly.
We gave the spicy tuna roll a bit of a spin and made another one, substituting the cucumber for some avocado.
It doesn’t get much better than that; at least not as it comes to simple sushi rolls.
Full disclosure: I kind of felt like a bawse.
Which, inevitably, led to pushing my luck.
In the meantime, Tim took some pictures of the dog.
Our third roll didn’t turn out so great, but it looked pretty fancy for a couple of first-timers.
Shrimp and cucumber, topped with avocado.
Turns out that the topping part required more skill than I possessed at the time, but it leaves something for me to shoot for!
All in all, it was a pretty high-quality day. I got in some time with a good friend, we ate handsomely, and we made a total mess of my little kitchen.
I found bits of rice scattered around my kitchen for several days following.
I call that a success.
Number 47: Make my own sushi. Check. I totally did it.
