That One Time I Pretended I was a Food Blogger

Sweet Balsamic Vinaigrette Veggie Stir-Fry

     Yesterday, I experimented with this dish, and my taste buds deemed it a roaring success. The best part about this meal is that as long as you have sweet balsamic vinaigrette and like sweet balsamic vinaigrette, you're pretty much set. You can use any veggies you have lying around the house in this stir fry, which makes it a super easy and convenient lunch or dinner. The biggest time commitment is with chopping the veggies, but once they're in the pan, you've got a delicious and nutritious meal in about five minutes. 

      And did I mention that you can use whatever is lying around the house because all the veggies will take on the delicious taste of the dressing? The veggies that I used in my stir fry were: mushrooms, spinach, carrots, kale, peas, broccoli, asparagus, and roma tomatoes. (The last one is technically a fruit, but they just had to join in on the fun.) So this is a great way to pack all your veggies into one simple and delicious meal. 



       I eyeballed the amount of vinaigrette I poured into the pan, about two tablespoons.  However, you don't have to worry about using too much because the magically perfect amount just sticks onto every veggie, adding just the right splash of flavor. The leftover vinaigrette just slides right off, staying in the pan.



                                         I did a happy food dance the entire time I was eating. 
      

       Because they're are so many variables with this dish, I don't have a specific recipe for anyone to follow if they are interested in making their own. But I think that's kind of the beauty of it, right? "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled veggies yearning to break free" from the refrigerator. Seriously, you could throw everything but the kitchen sink into this pan, and it will come out tasting like sweet balsamic vinaigrette and acting like a super food. 

      The one recommendation I will make for this dish is for the brand of balsamic vinaigrette. The brand I used was Chef Tim's Sweet Balsamic Vinaigrette, and it is probably the most delicious balsamic vinaigrette I have ever tasted. However, I do believe that this stir fry will work with regular balsamic vinaigrette, if that is more your dressing style. 

      To sum this dish up: it's quick, it's healthy, it's vegan, and it's freaking yummy. Enjoy responsibly. 

#servergirlstruggz -- I Should Come with a Warning Label

July 13, 2012

     This time, I saw it coming. Somewhere between complimenting my waitressing skills and asking what high school I had gone to, I realized that he was flirting with me. The poor soul-- he had no idea what he would not be getting himself into. I probably should have taken the moment when he asked how long I had taken dance class (the context of how we reached this topic will take too long to explain) to have said something like: 

"Woah there, slugger. You're taking an unnecessary interest in my life, and I've got to stop you right there. Trust me, it's for the best. I'm just passing through, and I'm the emotional equivalent of Lindsay Lohan. I don't want a boyfriend or a hook-up, and you don't want any part of this. I know I seem like I have my shit together, but don't you think that I'm working at ten p.m. on a Friday night for a reason? I'm not with anyone, and, at the moment, I'm not trying to be with anyone. Sorry, for my overly friendly confusion, but I really was just trying to be a good waitress and make conversation. Honestly, I'm flattered, but I'm doing you a huge favor." 

     Of course, if I had said all that, I wouldn't have had time to ask if they wanted their drinks refilled.

     So that's why I will not call the second guy who has ever given me his number via check. This one, an obviously more confident lad, simply wrote "Call me" above his seven digits of delusion. He seemed nice and was mildly attractive, but I'm just not looking right now. I know that I'd be too much for him to handle if I was functioning normally, so there's no way he'd last more than a week with the basket case edition. I'm doing us both a solid with my silent rejection. 

      Of course, these incidents have got me thinking. It might not be a bad idea to make an addition to my name tag. Writing"Not Available for Dating Purposes" under "Lindsay" might just be the quick fix I need to help eliminate confusion. Then again, "Damaged Goods" is shorter and more accurate. Either of these imaginary addendums would dissuade unwanted suitors, leaving me more time to star as the female (and only) lead of the Lifetime movie that strangely resembles my life. 

These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz

#LINVASION - Day 1

July 5, 2012
    
       Forget Area 51, Wisconsin might just be America's best kept secret. (But actually.) I recently visited the land of cheese and...the plot of Bridesmaids over the Fourth of July weekend for a long overdue reunion with my best friend, Miss Z Kuester. (Once again, I will shamelessly plug her blog here.)
       Her beautiful self greeted me at the Milwaukee airport, and the weirdest part of the pick-up was that we both realized that we had never been in a car with each other before. "I didn't know you knew how to drive a stick," I blurted after my initial scream of happiness. She did, and quickly. We made it to Stoughton, the location of her lake house in an hour. (This was about half the time it was supposed to take.) Because it was Thursday, we had brunch at this cute sandwich shop. Lately, our brunch dates had been forced to the dining amenities of our respective kitchens and computers. The face to face meal was a nice change of pace and a return to (our warped sense of) normalcy.
      Then, we were off to the lake house. Z gave me an abbreviated tour since I had virtually been there already and had diligently read my lake house guide. (This was a 4,000 word guide Z wrote and sent to me the day before my arrival. It was jam packed with useful information, some of which I actually remembered.) After the tour, we changed into bathing suits and got our thirsty selves some "orange juice," which we poured into some festive coconut cups. We spent the afternoon floating and lounging in the lake, intermittently on a float and her family's boat. As always, we real talked about everything, utilizing the LindZ dictionary. (I just thought of that name for it. Z doesn't even know I've called it that yet. And if she doesn't like it, then we're not going to call it that because it is pretty cheesy. At any rate, the hardcover edition will be coming out in the next year, but we might have an online version available soon...? I'm probably making promises I can't keep with that statement but we'll see.) We talked about wide receiving, greying out, and being America's Next Top Sadbag. Of course, all of this means nothing unless you're us, which, thankfully, we were.
      Eventually, we went inside and watched Tommy Boy whilst eating peanut butter sandwiches and drinking "fruit smoothies." As early evening approached, so did Z's gentleman caller and his family on his boat. As a family of professional wake boarders, they were going out on the lake to practice and invited us to tag along. (Did I really care about their wake boarding skills? No. Did I care about my girl's night going well? Yes. It's called being altruistic.) At any rate, we watched a few family members wake board in turn and then were dropped back off at the dock to Z's house. By this time, it was now "Grapejuice Night." We took two big containers of Welch's to the back of Z's boat. Promptly, we sat down on the wooden part, dangled our feet in the water, and began sipping. Of course, with "Grapejuice Night" came girl talk. I'm not at liberty to say what was said during girl talk, but if you think that you could have been a topic, then you probably were.
      By nine-thirty, Z's brother and his best friend, Beast, were home from their concert. After they grabbed two sodas and Z's man friend extricated himself from his family, we all began playing a rousing game of nickels. Nickels was a fun game because it involved bouncing a nickel into a film canister while another person attempted the same action. The two nickels went from person to person around the table and if one person bounced his nickel in before the person on his right, then that person had to take a sip of his drink. The nickel and film canister then moved on to the person on the sipper's right. There were more rules, but if you really want to know how to play this game, you can just look up the rules of Quarters, which is similar but not appropriate for underage children like myself and my best friend.
      Then, Z and her gentleman caller went down to the dock to get his boat so we could all go to the sandbar. The other boys and I eventually followed suit, then waited on the dock for them to come back. (I think they took a little bit longer than was actually necessary, but no one seemed to really notice or mind.) By this time, I was extremely exhausted so I fell asleep on the boat almost immediately.
     Everything that happened after this point, I was filled in on later by the charming and awake Z. Apparently, we drove over to the sandbar and randomly came across these other guys in a boat. Everyone hung out and had a really good time except for the loser sleeping in the boat aka ME. (This is what I get for waking up at three a.m. to drive to Philadelphia so that I would be in Milwaukee by eleven a.m. This is what I sacrifice for love.) Once back at the dock, Z apparently woke up a very agreeable Lindsay and got her into the house and into bed. Z even gave her her own pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt to wear that night. Beast took similarly good care of Z's brother, Matt, and then the two of them made late night/early morning sandwiches in the kitchen before crashing on the two couches in the basement.
      The next morning I woke up around nine, and the fun began again...

#servergirlstruggz -- The League of Extraordinarily Soaked Gentlemen

July 10, 2012
    
      This could have been a good story. This could have been a rousing tale of fondness and friendship. This could have been a retelling of a triumph. Instead, it's just another one of those time I spilled a drink on someone reports. (For the previous one: go here.)
      Of all the patios in all the world, these three gents walked onto mine. I was thrilled when I saw these old men sitting at one of my tables because I love getting nostalgic for things I was never a part of. (Prohibition, the two World Wars, and Russian Communism are my jam, only because I wasn't there.) At any rate, I really like serving old people because they usually tip me well. Often, we get along swimmingly because they can tell that I'm an old soul too. At any rate, I bounced up to these fellows' table and took their order. All they wanted were two beers and a black and tan, bless their aging hearts. Don't we all love old men who still know how to have a good time?
        After grabbing their drinks from the bar, I walked across the entire restaurant, opened the glass door, and proceeded to their table, all without incident. Then, I handed the first gentleman his pint of Samuel Adams Summer Ale. It stuck the landing. Next, I safely delivered the pint of black and tan. All of a sudden, the tray, now unbalanced, tipped slightly. I lacked the forearm strength to match it. Before I knew it, half of the stein of Newcastle had soaked my tray, and the man innocently sitting closest to it. Luckily, I was able to right the glass before the entire thing spilled, but the damage had already been done. The poor guy was soaked, and I was left gasping. I apologized immediately to the man, who now spelled like a frat house. (This brought on a wave of nostalgia for things I actually have witnessed.) I also apologized to the other man whose drink had been the sacrificial lamb to the god of female arm strength. I told the former that I would a lot of napkins and the latter another beer. He told me just to fill up the one I already had, which I did while scrambling for napkins. My manager was working behind the bar, and when I explained the situation he accompanied me outside to their table. Unlike previous tables who shall not be mentioned, these gentlemen did not ask for a discount or anything. Of course, my manager comped their beers for them anyway, which was the right thing to do. (Snaps for my manager's integrity.) Still, the guys weren't even mad. They laughed it off, said they'd been through much worse, and basically let me off scot free.
      I wasn't expecting a tip from these gentlemen, and I did not receive one. I have never been more fine with a withheld tip in my entire life. Even though it was just an honest mistake, I know that I didn't deserve one. However, worse than my lack of tip is the knowledge that I ruined something beautiful between us. I know we could have had a real connection-- if not for that sopping wet one. Oh well, as with all the guys in my life, I keep this mentality: if it doesn't work with this one, then on to the next. I'm sure that there will be more elderly gentlemen in my future, and, if I'm lucky, they'll drink scotch.

These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz

#servergirlstruggz -- The Illiterate's Guide to Eating

July 8, 2012

Step 1: Don't read the menu. Don't even look at the pictures. Ignore the giant laminated piece of paper that has been given specifically to you for this purpose.

Step 2: Order a random item with an interesting sounding name. Only now should you look at the menu. Ask for the items that distinguish your item from any other item (in the world) to be removed.

Step 3: When your innocent server brings you your ill-conceived meal, feel shock and horror at the appearance of cheese on your item. Swear that the cheese-- this foreign, unwanted object-- was not listed under the item's description. (It was.)

Step 4: Look at your companion's meal and decide, on the spot, that this is what you truly wanted all along. Ask if your server can get you that instead. Don't worry, you're not inconveniencing her at all.

Step 5: When she brings you back your new meal, be thankful but not overly so. This happens all day every day, and it was the least she could do. It's not like she had anything else to do anyway.

Step 6: Get out. Please. Just get out. To make this direction more understandable for the literally impaired: GTFO.

That is all.

These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz

#servergirlstruggz -- The Case of the Missing Quesadillas

July 1, 2012      

     I was innocently walking over to my first table of the afternoon shift when it happened. The elderly woman I was serving had witnessed a sudden disappearance. The chicken quesadillas had been ruthlessly snatched from our menu, and she wanted to enact justice on those responsible. However, I persuaded her that the best revenge was living well. Thus, I committed myself to helping her create a chicken quesadilla alternative by customizing a barbecue chicken wrap to show the fiends that she had not given up.
       The order was, to say the least, complicated. With our heads bent over a menu, we conspired to make the chicken hot, take out the ranch dressing, put the barbecue sauce on the side, and add avocado, blackbeans, and sour cream as dips on the side. By the end of it, the traditional barbecue wrap had been transformed into a cylinder shaped quesadilla. Sure, it was not piping hot, and the cheddar cheese could have been melted a little bit more, but she was happy.
       Unfortunately, the case of the missing quesadillas still has not been solved. They remain absent from our menu, probably chewed up and spit out in an alleyway somewhere. I highly doubt that corporate is going to hire a private investigator to find them. Still, if I, personally, can fill the void in my guests' lives and provide some closure, then I guess I've done my job right.

These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz

#servergirlstruggz -- All the Single Ladies

June 29, 2012    

      Thanks to Channing Tatum and Matthew McConaughey, the estrogen and the liquor were flowing tonight at the restaurant. Strategically located next to the larger of two local movie theaters, our burger and fries emporium is always flooded with people when a new movie comes out. Tonight, with the launching of Magic Mike, Ted, and Spider Man, was no exception. The amount of tingling ovaries that strolled through our doors between the hours of six and ten tonight, biding their time before they could really be satisfied, was enough to...make me wish I could throw back a cocktail and join them. Believe it or not, I actually had fun at my job tonight. One table in particular was filled with eight women who put the vice in service. (That was a really lame joke, but better than putting holla in the alcohol, which was the only other thing I could think of.)
     These ladies came in with the intention of getting fed and getting tipsy, and I was more than happy to help them. Besides getting my tables laid, I also do my best to get them drunk. I just have a really hard time saying no to someone who looks so happy with a straw between her lips and a garnish between her fingers. One woman in particular started the night off with two double Captain Morgans and Diet Cokes. Her drink was so well received that at least half of the table ended ordering one each for themselves. She had about three or four (or five, but the last one I made sure was a single), and by the third one, she had already welcomed me as just another gal pal. Another woman, who arrived late, ordered nothing but drinks. She told me that she was going to meet her husband in a little while and needed to be prepared. I incorrectly guessed that his name was Channing Tatum, but she didn't mind enlightening me that her true love was Matthew McConaughey. After taking her order and being shone the light, I said, "Yup, we never meet the boys sober," showing that I was a kindred spirit. The ladies and I spent the hour and a half leading up to their eight o' clock movie joking around the table and charging up the bill. Of course, serving eight women, I hopped from end to end like a crazy person, offering drink refills and taking orders until my fingers were numb. Still, I was happy to do it all because I genuinely liked these biddies. They seemed like the kind of women that, if I'm still single by age forty (which you all better pray doesn't happen or else I will be #bitter), I would love to accompany on a girls' night.
      By the end of their meal, something happened that has never happened to me before in my serving career and probably will never happen again. I received a round of applause from these lovely ladies, which meant more to me than any tip ever will. ("They liked me; they really liked me.") Of course, my tip wasn't too shabby either. Although separating a $150 check eight different ways was no simple task, the added tips from each person made the extra concentration and effort worth it. I have never really wanted to thank a table before, but I'm grateful that these ladies ended up in my section. So I guess my life isn't always filled with #servergirlstruggz; sometimes, there are #servergirlsuccesses.

These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz