Romance is in the air, I can feel it in my bones. My chocolate-covered chicken bones. It all started last week when I had houseguests on the way and nary a homemade confection to nestle upon their pillows during turndown service. One half of the visiting couple is particularly stringent about his food being unprocessed, thus something from (chicken) scratch was in order.

I thought about chocolate-covered strawberries, but after a day of travel, when I hit the pillow, I’m looking for a little more excitement. I opened the refrigerator to gain inspiration, and the package of chicken feet I had slated for stock sat front and center. I contemplated the diaphanous digits, and suddenly one of them curled inward, beckoning me to come hither.

As any logician would do at that moment, I came up with what you see here: chocolate-covered chipotle chicken feet. This classic dish walks the line of tradition and modernism with the sure feet of a ballerina. Or it would if it was alive. My timing couldn’t be better, since this is a natural play-it-safe choice for Valentine’s Day dessert. Imagine gazing deeply into your lover’s eyes, while both of you suck hungrily on sinew, gristle, and chocolate. There is no greater aphrodisiac.

These chicken feet double as nipple pasties, lest you be inclined to greet your sweetheart with a tantalizing tongueful of edible lingerie. And if you’re planning to pop the question anytime soon, know that popping champagne is so last year compared to popping chocolate-drenched knuckles into your mouths to celebrate.

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I have been under a significant amount of pressure the past year, mostly as a result of taking on the responsibilities of building a house without a general contractor or architect. Am I crazy for doing so (and for a myriad of other reasons)? Yes. Does that make me a prime candidate to write about my latest culinary obsession, which effectively takes the pressure off of me and contains it all within an eight quart metal pot? Also yes.

photo credit: America's Test Kitchen

I used to braise short ribs over a 72 hour period, low and slow using my handy dandy immersion circulator. But sometimes a Carhardt-clad gal wants to come home to a melty piece of tender beef after a long day spent mounting toilets and sweeping up sheetrock, even if she hasn’t planned for such an occasion three days previous. And that’s where the pressure cooker comes in to save dinner.

I never would have thought it possible to tenderize ribs in under an hour using anything besides a tractor wheel, but now that I’ve drank the pressure cooker Koolaid, I am an unwavering convert. In fact, it’s getting to be a little bit of a problem.

I continually toss random things into the pressure cooker like it’s a magic witch’s cauldron and they keep coming out cooked perfectly. We’re talking chicken feet, cow tails (yes cow, not ox), and rabbit carcasses here, which could either mean that I’m making all sorts of delicious stock or that I’m a bona fide spell-spinning witch, you be the judge. Either way, my black cat is steering ve-e-ery clear of me these days, even though there’s no way his chubby self would ever fit inside the pressure cooker. Not that I’ve thought about putting him in there. Yes I have I haven’t, I swear. Read more

I switched headgear a few months ago from a feathered fascinator to general contractor’s hard hat, and since then I haven’t had nearly as much time in the kitchen as I would like. And no, this isn’t some twisted chef’s hat version of YMCA, although if you keep reading, things do get kinky.

As you either know or can imagine, building a house is full of interesting challenges, and in the case of our current remodel, we’re less than halfway done. I wish I could give you a glimpse into the progress, but well-built concrete support walls in the crawl space or metal plates on the ceiling that will eventually house hydronic heating tubes don’t exactly make for riveting reading or viewing.

The point is, housemaking, unlike babymaking, is hard work. And I don’t know about you, but after a long day spent digging a hole in the yard as big as four graves so that we can bury a propane tank the size of a baby whale in it, I’m in great need of a cocktail three cocktails. Read more