A Shiksa on a Mission

Balaboosta (n.)(bah-lah-b00-sta) A Yiddish term meaning the perfect housewife
I'm a shiksa on a mission...
It may not be perfection but it's the journey that counts

Sunday, February 27, 2011

Mean Mr. Mustard



When I was a kid, I liked hot dogs like most kids but mine had to be plain. I didn't like ketchup. I didn't like mustard. I could barely look at relish. And let's not pretend that a girl like that will even consider sauerkraut. Oh, and I liked my hot dogs to be made at the local Der Wienerschnitzel. Right. High class all the way. So not only did I want to eat hot dogs with just a bun, I wanted my mom to buy them like that and never to make them at home. It was never the same when she made them. I'd like to apologize to my mom. Oops. My bad.

Not too much has changed except I don't really eat hot dogs. When I do, they're plain. I've never been a big condiment person with the exception to the rule being french fries with ketchup. But now that I'm older, I'm mellowing on my fervent food stubbornness. I'm softening in my advancing years. I have realized that I like mustard just not the scary yellow kind and not usually on any sort of barbecued and bunned meat. I've also realized that I like things that are homemade because the picky eater in me and the control freak in me can join forces. It's a winning combination that means I don't have to put celery in anything because you are not the boss of me.

When the newest issue of Sunset magazine showed up, there was an article on mustard and how to make them. I decided to give it a try. My mustard. My choice.

And it was wonderful. . . .I made the Hot and Tangy Mustard (basically a Dijon but not from France) to put on the Grilled Chicken Dijon. And I'm glad I did. I love this mustard of mine. It tasted good and was easy and had me singing Beatles songs. That's quite a compliment for a mere condiment.

I made the Grilled Chicken Dijon for dinner last night with plain white steamed rice, a salad and some grilled pineapple. I was a little nervous about serving the kids and I kept dodging their questions about what was on it. I told them it had 'seasoning' on it and then ordered them to clean hands or set tables. I guess I shouldn't have been so worried. They tried it and they actually liked it. The plain white rice, on the other hand, was hailed as a marvel of modern cooking. They couldn't get enough of the rice. They loved it. It's what they want all of the time. It's what makes life worth living.

I think that's got to be some kind of karma, mom.

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