Some of you may know that my parents, who have been married for 30 years, are very much in love and consequently enjoy each other's company enough to go on little spontaneous trips together. A few weeks ago, they went on a camping trip and offered for me to join them, which left me with two options: spend two of the few remaining warm days of the year on a beautiful lake in the pristine countryside for free, or watch incarnations of Law & Order for endless judgement-free hours in my underwear. I chose the latter, and only God can judge me for it.
This did pose a most singular problem for me, which was what to do for food. Some of you may also know that my mother is the best cook in the known universe, which...Jesus, I have parents who are alive and in love, who love and respect me to the highest, and who spoil me with amazing, healthy cooking. It's like they were actively conspiring to make me a shitty writer. Good thing I make bad choices and carry a hidden trove of insecurities, or I'd be fucked. It's not like I'm good at anything else.
Buckle up, guys. This is gonna be a weird one.
With a hunger beginning to rumble in my belly, I decided that it was time to do some cooking. We have been hosting a great bush of basil this entire summer, which I promised myself in the spring I would turn into more pesto than previous years. I only did it once, and it was the day that I cooked the recipe you're about to read, which took place after almost the entire plant had died and become shitty. But that still beats my record of zero pestos made from last year, so my honor remains intact as far as pesto-related promises are concerned.
I then made the ambitious decision to mix that pesto with mushrooms and ground turkey to ladle on top of pasta, because I apparently needed the reminder as to why I am not a culinary go-getter.
So...here's that, I guess.
This did pose a most singular problem for me, which was what to do for food. Some of you may also know that my mother is the best cook in the known universe, which...Jesus, I have parents who are alive and in love, who love and respect me to the highest, and who spoil me with amazing, healthy cooking. It's like they were actively conspiring to make me a shitty writer. Good thing I make bad choices and carry a hidden trove of insecurities, or I'd be fucked. It's not like I'm good at anything else.
Buckle up, guys. This is gonna be a weird one.
With a hunger beginning to rumble in my belly, I decided that it was time to do some cooking. We have been hosting a great bush of basil this entire summer, which I promised myself in the spring I would turn into more pesto than previous years. I only did it once, and it was the day that I cooked the recipe you're about to read, which took place after almost the entire plant had died and become shitty. But that still beats my record of zero pestos made from last year, so my honor remains intact as far as pesto-related promises are concerned.
I then made the ambitious decision to mix that pesto with mushrooms and ground turkey to ladle on top of pasta, because I apparently needed the reminder as to why I am not a culinary go-getter.
So...here's that, I guess.
Mushroom & Turkey Pesto Linguini
Already, this ingredient list seems daunting. I see now in hindsight why so much went wrong.
All right, well, first make the pesto. "It's the easiest thing in the world!" your pretentious cooking friends might say. Granted, it is easy as hell as far as recipes go. It's one of those sauces that will impress your guests with the least amount of effort, with the added bonus of giving everyone the fanciest foul breath you could offer.
First, go buy some basil. This is advice that I should have followed, because the basil my mom grew was in pretty rough shape. Apparently, an owner of a basil plant is supposed to manage their plant with regular and vigilant pruning to keep it from flowering, at which point it will produce no more tasty leaves. Or something. This, of course, never happened in my house, because we are not farmers, so I began my basil hunt by ripping off flowers and trying to pick the leaves that were still super green. There were about four leaves fitting those standards, so I just grabbed anything that wasn't yet crunchy and dead.
I picked four cups of basil because that's what the first online recipe I clicked on told me to do. An unpleasant smell arose from my bowl of herb, and I suspected that it might be the stems that I'd ended up with in my act of half-assed leaf plucking. After spending some time lovingly (read: still half-assedly) cutting off stems, I realized that it was not the stems, but the less-than-green leaves. They don't smell very good.
- some amount of basil
- ?oz of garlic
- more than zero parts extra virgin olive oil
- at least a few walnuts
- less than a ton of Parmesan cheese
- a box of linguini
- between 1 and 1 containers of mushrooms
- a container of ground turkey
Already, this ingredient list seems daunting. I see now in hindsight why so much went wrong.
All right, well, first make the pesto. "It's the easiest thing in the world!" your pretentious cooking friends might say. Granted, it is easy as hell as far as recipes go. It's one of those sauces that will impress your guests with the least amount of effort, with the added bonus of giving everyone the fanciest foul breath you could offer.
First, go buy some basil. This is advice that I should have followed, because the basil my mom grew was in pretty rough shape. Apparently, an owner of a basil plant is supposed to manage their plant with regular and vigilant pruning to keep it from flowering, at which point it will produce no more tasty leaves. Or something. This, of course, never happened in my house, because we are not farmers, so I began my basil hunt by ripping off flowers and trying to pick the leaves that were still super green. There were about four leaves fitting those standards, so I just grabbed anything that wasn't yet crunchy and dead.
I picked four cups of basil because that's what the first online recipe I clicked on told me to do. An unpleasant smell arose from my bowl of herb, and I suspected that it might be the stems that I'd ended up with in my act of half-assed leaf plucking. After spending some time lovingly (read: still half-assedly) cutting off stems, I realized that it was not the stems, but the less-than-green leaves. They don't smell very good.
Pictured (from left to right): wonderful little odor of tastiness, and Eau de Butthole
Then add some garlic. One recipe said two cloves, another said three. I put in four because it's almost October, which as we all know is vampire season. So get your cloves of garlic and smash it with a hammer!! No really, get a hammer and Thor out on the garlic cloves. It gets off the skins really easily. Don't worry, I'm not smart enough to figure that out on my own. My mom taught me that.
It's also very therapeutic.
Most recipes said around 1/4 cup of pine nuts, which are expensive as all hell so I followed the cheaper recipe that called for walnuts, followed by a FAL (fuck-all lot) of parm cheese and a 1/2 cup of oil.
Don't be fooled by how Instagramable this looks. It is a quietly brewing shitshow.
If I can get a little off track for a moment, I'd like to note that the recipe called for extra virgin olive oil, and that's what it said on the bottle. But I'm not sure that I trust the label in regards to the virginity of this product.
That's the poise of a woman who knows a thing or two about love making. (Also of Venus. I'm not an idiot.)
If you're smart, you will have heeded my advice from my last recipe and bought yourself a Ninja blender. Hug your blender. Tell it how pretty it looks today. Do the little things that get swept under the rug in the whirlwind of everyday life.
If you've rented a porno, you've gone too far.
Once you have properly loved your Ninja blender, blend your ingredients and taste. I added a little more oil and some nuts and some cheese. If you're feeling risky, there is also the option of leaving in the squeegee you used to push the ingredients down from the sides in the blender when you whir it again. Those uppity squeegees were getting a little bold, anyway.
RIP
Once the pesto is blended and delicious (and free of dismembered squeegee parts), the fun really begins. Go find your wallet because you have no noodles, and without the delicious carbs of pasta there is no point of pesto. When you've done that, make sure you live kind of in the boonies, then drive a half hour to town to buy noodles, ground turkey, and mushrooms, because what a better place to remember that you lost your debit card a week ago than the parking lot of the store? You can be really creative, here. You can scream about how you want the world to be fucked in the eye with Satan's firey two-pronged dick, or maybe punch your steering wheel while you sincerely ask God to condemn everyone and everything to spend the rest of eternity in a pool full of Buffalo Bills who will turn their nipples and genital skin into Taylor Swift's album art. This is the real joy of cooking.
Drive home and get your very small amount of remaining cash, then go back to the store because you still have no food. If you want the recipe to be especially delicious, make sure that you lost your ID with your debit card and that you look under 30 (if you're me, under 21, according to most bouncers), because what adds that certain je ne sais quoi to this meal is the socially awkward rage you feel when you have to stand on your tippy-toes to peer over the signs in the liquor store window to make sure that the lady working is the one who won't ID you. This recipe relies on chance: if the lady is working, then go buy some $6 white wine, because that's all you can afford after buying food. If she is not, then I might suggest robbery. Otherwise, be sober, you pussy.
Drive home and get your very small amount of remaining cash, then go back to the store because you still have no food. If you want the recipe to be especially delicious, make sure that you lost your ID with your debit card and that you look under 30 (if you're me, under 21, according to most bouncers), because what adds that certain je ne sais quoi to this meal is the socially awkward rage you feel when you have to stand on your tippy-toes to peer over the signs in the liquor store window to make sure that the lady working is the one who won't ID you. This recipe relies on chance: if the lady is working, then go buy some $6 white wine, because that's all you can afford after buying food. If she is not, then I might suggest robbery. Otherwise, be sober, you pussy.
I know I promised in my last recipe to punish alcohol mentions with drinking. I knew what I was getting into.
A tip for that extra rage-zing for your pasta is to forget that the iPad your brother just gave you is in your lap when you get out of the car so that it lands on the pavement, putting a nice hairline crack across your screen like you tried to play Fruit Ninja with a real sword. I include this step to see if he is being honest when he says that blogs are gay and he doesn't read mine. He probably is.
Okay, back to food. It's time to cook the pasta. If you're anything like me, you grabbed the box of linguini that was for whatever reason very weakly secured shut, so it spills everywhere once you take it out of the grocery bag.
Okay, back to food. It's time to cook the pasta. If you're anything like me, you grabbed the box of linguini that was for whatever reason very weakly secured shut, so it spills everywhere once you take it out of the grocery bag.
The Universe: "JOHANNA FOR THE LOVE OF SHIT PLEASE STOP COOKING!"
Cook the pasta. I don't care how. If you'd like to go with the traditional method, soak it in boiling water until it's soft. But for all I care, you can put it in a litter box and let it your cat treat it for a week or two.
While the pasta becomes al dente-licious (for those of your foregoing the cat treatment), mix the ground turkey, the mushrooms, and your smelly pesto sauce in a bowl together. If it looks right, it should look like vomit; as my mom always says, "The best foods look like vomit." No, really. She says that. Think she's wrong? Look at chili.
Again, if you're like me, you have no eye for portion sizes, so instead of trying to estimate how much you'll actually eat, you just mix all of it and dump it into pan, only to realize that the pan you chose is way too small to fit all of your food, of which there is hilariously too much of.
While the pasta becomes al dente-licious (for those of your foregoing the cat treatment), mix the ground turkey, the mushrooms, and your smelly pesto sauce in a bowl together. If it looks right, it should look like vomit; as my mom always says, "The best foods look like vomit." No, really. She says that. Think she's wrong? Look at chili.
Again, if you're like me, you have no eye for portion sizes, so instead of trying to estimate how much you'll actually eat, you just mix all of it and dump it into pan, only to realize that the pan you chose is way too small to fit all of your food, of which there is hilariously too much of.
I can't do portions.
Look at the leftover mixture and decide that it's too little to just put in the fridge for another day, so grab a bigger pan and dump everything in it because at this point who gives a fuck.
No, really, I can't do portions.
You can't see what color the meat is because it's coated in pesto, so get nice and nervous here about your life choices. Cook until you aren't afraid of salmonella, which is never. So instead, drink more wine until you don't care anymore.
Really, feelings just get in the way.
Remember that you're cooking pasta and freak out that you've overcooked it, maybe cursing at God because cursing at yourself is admitting too much about your personal faults. Drain the pasta, then put it in a bowl with butter, because mmmmmm butter. Then pour your hopefully non-toxic pesto concoction on top and mix all that shit up. Add salt and pepper, or whatever. I don't care.
At this point, you are probably wondering why you're still angry and full of resentment towards your meal. Let me guess--you're still wearing pants, or some movement-constricting high-waisted skirt. If you are, get rid of that shit immediately. You will feel instantly better.
At this point, you are probably wondering why you're still angry and full of resentment towards your meal. Let me guess--you're still wearing pants, or some movement-constricting high-waisted skirt. If you are, get rid of that shit immediately. You will feel instantly better.
Pictured: what is really next to Godliness
Despite the fact that there is already cheese in the pesto, make sure to sprinkle your serving with even more cheese before eating. If it seems redundant, or perhaps unhealthy, just remember what Hannah Hart once said: "All food that involves cheese is just an excuse to eat cheese." So wise.
The pros of your meal barely outweigh the cons you accrued while trying to make it, so at this point, you're probably feeling pretty down on yourself, which is not a feeling you want to have while you're standing in your kitchen alone and semi-drunk in your underwear. Cheer up with a photo shoot with your cat.
The pros of your meal barely outweigh the cons you accrued while trying to make it, so at this point, you're probably feeling pretty down on yourself, which is not a feeling you want to have while you're standing in your kitchen alone and semi-drunk in your underwear. Cheer up with a photo shoot with your cat.
I wonder what they're looking at? So thought provoking.
If that doesn't ease the pain, drink more wine and play with all the Photo Booth options on your newly damaged iPad. Do this until your outsides match your insides. Post results to the Internet because you are a product of your selfie-fueled generation.
Nailed it.
This meal is coupled well with a marathon of Law & Order: SVU, the ones with Elliott and Olivia in the cast because otherwise what's the point? Eat and watch your show until you feel pain in both your stomach and your eyes, and then turn off the TV and spend the rest of the night being super paranoid because you watched too much SVU while you were home alone.
The last step in this recipe is to wait a few weeks until you're emotionally recovered from your overly ambitious cooking endeavor, then drink half a bottle of champagne and write about your experience. That is the Johanna way.
The last step in this recipe is to wait a few weeks until you're emotionally recovered from your overly ambitious cooking endeavor, then drink half a bottle of champagne and write about your experience. That is the Johanna way.
RSS Feed
