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’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.

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.

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.

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.

It’s such a decadent dessert, with the thick and creamy custard hiding out under the carmelized sugar shell. You can add berries or infuse citrus and honey to make it more exciting; you can leave it basic and enjoy the simple velvety texture. I order creme brulee almost every time it makes its way onto a restaurant dessert menu. The best part is that crème brulee is an inherently gluten-free dish. It’s not deep-fried and there’s never a crust to worry about, so I know it’s always safe for me to enjoy. Sometimes you can find a creme brulee in its own edible chocolate cup. I’m pretty sure that’s what heaven tastes like.

My favorite part is the very first tap to break the shell. I prefer a thick, crunchy shell on top, and find myself saddened if I can break the surface with my first strike. A wimpy shell is the easiest way to have a disappointing crème brulee.

Really, they’re a pretty simple concoction. Eggs, cream, and sugar. It’s the delicate nature of the dessert that led me to put this item on my list. I wanted to learn how to make the perfect crème brulee in my own kitchen.

I dug out my set of ramekins from the back of the cupboard and got myself ready. I put all of my ingredients out on the counter in preparation.

(Don’t ask me why I tried to make honey-vanilla crème brulee. I have a strong dislike for honey.)

I mixed up the half and half with they honey and a few drops of vanilla on the stove, then removed it from the heat.

I whisked in the eggs, and ran the whole mixture through a sieve to make sure all I had was creamy, and not gooey or with a chunk hiding out under the surface.

After that, I divided the custard amongst my ramekins… and put the rest in a loaf pan, being that this recipe made more servings than I was prepared for.

Into the oven they went, after being loaded into a Pyrex pan with a bath of boiling water. They cooked while Colin and I ate our dinner, and when we had finished eating I took them out of the oven and relocated them to the fridge to set for at least two hours.

Impatiently, I checked on them after ninety minutes to see if they were ready yet. When I found that they weren’t, I changed my disappointment into excitement at the thought of having crème brulee for breakfast!

In the morning, I pulled one of my cute little ramekins out of the fridge. The top of the custard was sunken and wrinkly. I don’t think it’s supposed to do that.

I thought I would test its consistency.

It’s definitely not supposed to do that.

Welp.

This trial didn’t work out. There are a handful of variables that may have contributed to its failure. My ratio of liquids may have been slightly off. I may not have cooked the half and half/honey mixture long enough to begin with. The water in my boiling bath ay not have been hot enough. And maybe I didn’t cook the ramekins for long enough. Whatever the reason, I’m going to switch out the half and half for heavy cream on my next grocery trip and find a recipe that sounds a bit more to my liking (read: doesn’t have honey in it).

While I am bummed that I didn’t get to create a shiny sugar shell with my fancy new butane torch, I’m looking forward to my next attempt at making my favorite dessert. I just have to hope this next time, it comes out right.

Number 44: Make a successful crème brulee. Nope. Not this time.

To be continued.

When I was in grade school, I asked for a baby doll toy, because I felt like that was something I was supposed to want at that age. I didn’t play with her very much. I was far more interested in playing her lullabies with my electric keyboard.

I knew from a young age that I didn’t want to have kids. The prospect of parenthood has never intrigued me. I don’t like the idea of what will happen to my body, and I don’t want to sign up for the twenty-year commitment that having a baby creates.

Yeah, maybe it’s selfish. I’m okay with that.

The one thing that did interest me – fascinate me, even – is the belly. I think there is no human more beautiful than a trim lady with a big old baby bump. I relate well with Fabienne from Pulp Fiction.

My mother is fine with the fact that she won’t be having any more grandbabies. I’m glad she supports me in my child-free lifestyle. I can’t speak on her behalf, but I’m pretty sure we were both interested to see what I would look like with a big belly. I’m really glad she was able to come with me and play along for this adventure.

Mama Shum and I were having a girl’s day in South Charlotte. We did a little bit of shopping and shared a light lunch. Mostly, we were enjoying the beautiful and unseasonably warm January day. I didn’t even notice that we had walked past a maternity store, since they are so far off my radar. My mother saw it, though, and we made a quick detour to Belly Elan. I found an employee and asked her if I could try on a belly, and quickly caught her up on the concept of my 101/1001 blog. She happily grabbed me a belly, a dress to try on with it, and an available fitting room and let me go to it.

At first? Disaster. The belly was very round and the dress draped poorly over it, showing the edges. It was super awkward, and for a moment, I was super disappointed.

I figured out, though, that I could put the belly on under my camisole, to smooth it out. What a world of difference! I almost look like a prego! Except for the boobs. That bit is a bit incongruous.

I put the dress back on, and with the extra layer, it draped beautifully over my big belly. I was so in love with my silhouette! All round and cute and chubby!

I wasn’t really sure how to maneuver with my new belly, so I drew upon pregnancy poses I’d seen from others on Facebook and blogs. It felt highly unnatural, but I was digging it. And I really liked the dress.

I was hoping to get some better photos, some full-length ones, but there was a demonstration going on, so I didn’t want to leave my little fitting room and be that weird girl prancing around in a foam belly. I would have been prancing, too.

The belly didn’t weigh anything. I didn’t feel any different having it on, but I looked like a whole different person. I know this is something a crazy girl would say, but I kind of want to get one to wear at my leisure. Totally unfair that other enhancements are socially acceptable – like hair extensions and padded bras – but I’d be a total creep to wear a belly just for fun. Maybe just on weekends. Around the house. In a cute dress and kitten heels. Not weird.

Not weird.

So, now, not only can I cross another item off of my list, but now my imagination can be put to rest as it comes to how I’d look with a baby in my belly. Super-frickin’-cute. That’s how I’d look.

Number 70: Try on a pregnant belly. Check.

Here’s an excerpt:

A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 4,400 times in 2011. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

When my gastroenterologist told me that all of my symptoms pointed to Celiac disease, I cried. To be diagnosed with an autoimmune disease is pretty heavy stuff. I mourned the loss of wheat products for a few days.

After some time, though, I was thankful for my diagnosis. I realized that it was going to provide me with relief. After (at least) thirteen years of feeling junky all the time, I had an answer. I had a way to fix the way I had been feeling.

I chose to embrace my diagnosis. I reached out to area restaurants and urged them to develop a gluten-free menu. I began following scores of Celiac and Gluten-Free accounts on Twitter, not to mention a handful of Gluten-free recipe blogs. One of the Twitter pages I followed had a handle called @CureCeliac. It was The University Of Chicago Celiac Disease Center, and they tweeted some very helpful information. In late August, the account mentioned that if any followers had been recently diagnosed with Celiac disease through a biopsy, they were welcome to get in touch and provided a phone number. I called and left my name and address with a helpful woman over the phone, and was told to look out for a care package from the University. I figured I’d be getting a manila envelope in the mail with a few recipes and a cheat sheet for gluten-free living.

Instead, I got this:

It was delivered by UPS in a giant box that made me pause and wonder if I had recently ordered something from Amazon… nope. When I slit open the tape on the cardboard box and lifted this giant basket out, I was incredibly surprised. I untied the regal ribbon and began taking things out of the cellophane package.

Look at all this great stuff! It was like Christmas!

I felt so thankful to receive all of these wonderful items. This package alone likely saved me close to $100 on groceries. Gluten-free foods are notoriously expensive and sometimes even hard to come by. It felt great to have a pantry full of treats to enjoy while I was still learning the ropes of my new diet and lifestyle.

When I first chose this item to be on my 101/1001 list, I figured I’d be giving to a local charity that benefitted women’s health, or gay rights, or supporting the arts. I didn’t see Celiac disease in my future (even though it was actually part of my reality). When I came back around to revisit my charity options, I knew that I had to give to the University of Chicago Celiac Disease Center. I feels great to know that there is an organization that takes it upon themselves to support and educate people with Celiac Disease, all while searching for a cure. I’m thankful for the Center, so I decided to give my $100 donation to the wonderful people there.

It feels good to know that because of my donation, someone else who has been recently diagnosed with Celiac disease will know that they are in good hands; part of a special community where we’re all looking out for one another. And maybe, if we’re lucky, I’ll see a cure for Celiac in my lifetime.

Number 75: Donate $100 to a charity I care about. Check.

I also wanted to mention #myfavoritecause, an initiative being run by Jeff Elder. He is donating $20 to 20 causes recommended to him by his Twitter followers, and was generous enough to include a donation to The University of Chicago Celiac Disease Center. Thanks, Jeff, for helping to make a difference!

Most of what I have learned in the kitchen has come from my father, who taught himself nearly everything he knows. This year, he and I have done a fair amount of cooking together, most notably Thanksgiving and our Christmas Eve dinner. He has been incredibly supportive since my Celiac diagnosis and is learning new ways to make many of my favorite foods so that they will be safe for me to eat.

Sometimes, I do these experiments on my own. For Thanksgiving, I wanted to bake a gluten-free pie. This in itself is a bit daunting, but couple that with the fact that I’ve never baked a pie before! I’m not sure that I would know how the dough was supposed to look or feel, being that I haven’t done it for myself. Gluten-free baking is an exercise in patience, faith, and thinking on your toes. Why I chose to tackle this in the midst of a giant holiday was beyond me, but I did it!

Fun fact: gluten-free baking is all about weights and ratios. A typical recipe might ask for two cups of wheat flour, but you can’t just sub in another flour in the same increment! Not in cups, at least! Successful gluten-free baking typically requires a flour mix that  might contain soy flour, millet flour, oat flour, quinoa flour, almond flour, garbanzo flour, fava bean flour, tapioca starch, and the list goes on! And then, there’s the tricky grey area known as xanthan gum. I won’t even go there. The point is that everything is measured by weight. Soy flour, for example, is a very dense and heavy flour, and could make a cake flop if used on its own. Add in some tapioca starch or some corn flour, though, and it will lighten up! Ratios and weight. Here concludes your gluten-free lesson of the day.

I found an intriguing recipe for Cheddar-Crusted Apple Pie and set out to create it. I began by weighing out my flours.

Then, you know, I mixed stuff up. For the crust. [If I ever become a food blogger, this post is going to come back to haunt me. I can just feel it.]

I grated up a whole bunch of cheddar to incorporate into the dough.

Once it had become one, I wrapped it up in plastic and let it rest in the fridge while I started putting together the pie guts.

Next step was to peel, core, and slice the apples. I used a mixture of Granny Smith and Braeburn apples.

Here’s the delicious part; mixing up my freshly sliced apples with sugar and lemon juice.

When my dough was ready, I halved it and rolled it out to make top and bottom crusts. The dark nature of the crust is from me using buckwheat flour in my flour mix. Just a little, though, because buckwheat can be overpowering and can create very dry baked goods.

Then, layer everything together! I did my best to keep the crust from looking too boring. I love how you can just barely see little flecks of yellow cheddar in the dough!

I was terrified of my pie bubbling and cracking, so I added some small vents. Nothing too fancy.

Into the oven it went! I was so nervous. I left the light on and checked it every few minutes to make sure it was baking safely.

Far from perfect, here is my finished result! I got a few cracks in the crust, and one edge broke off in transit, but all in all, I’m calling this a success. It’s a pie, isn’t it?!

After letting the pie cool, I wrapped it in foil and gingerly transported it to my parents’ house. We enjoyed a massive Thanksgiving dinner and over the entire course of the day, there was only one thing on the table that was not safe for me to eat. Gluten-free Shumsgiving!

When it all came down to it, though, I never even tasted my pie! There were so many other dessert choices, and I had already tired of the idea of apples after slicing them paper thin that morning. I heard it was decent, though! I’ll likely substitute the buckwheat flour for another the next ime I make a pie, but at least I have this one under my belt! I’m a pie-maker, or something!

Number 27: Bake a pie. Check.