tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24061558882522222272011-11-02T18:51:11.874-07:00Spork Out Loud is a tribute to my favorite multi-use utensil, as well as a repository for musings, recipes, and stories from my kitchen. If a spork could talk, what would it say? What stories would sporks tell in the cutlery drawer?Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.comBlogger221100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-20835534525271883112011-01-29T17:51:00.000-08:002011-01-29T17:51:09.300-08:00

I realized recently that it's been a while since I've posted anything here. I also realize that very sentence (or one similar) is the beginning of many blog posts. Then they launch into an apologetic tone, counting the reasons why they've been too busy, too uninspired, too preoccupied, to blog. This is not one of those posts, I promise. This post is to tell you why I stopped caring about blogging

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-61748193704887991522010-11-09T16:42:00.000-08:002010-11-09T16:42:12.275-08:00

Once when I was working as a personal chef I prepared a dish of buckwheat soba noodles for one of my clients. This client had a flair for the dramatic, often declaring that something I had cooked for her was "THE BEST THING I HAVE EVER EATEN!!!" (Wow, I guess I was constantly outdoing myself!) However, when she didn't like something, I was also subject to hear about it in such glowing terms. In

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-14325780464685333642010-11-01T18:24:00.000-07:002010-11-02T09:09:02.113-07:00

My mom passed away when I was 9, leaving my dad with the task of keeping a household and raising a daughter on his own. Now, to give you an idea of the gravity of the situation, my dad was a product of a generation where a man's role was definitely not in the kitchen. My dad was a six-foot-plus cowboy-hat-and-boots-wearing man's man. His only encounters with the culinary arts prior to my mother's

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-19114929034815906662010-10-20T12:19:00.000-07:002010-10-20T14:22:19.739-07:00

During my Freshman orientation at the University of Rochester, I received a poster titled "U Know UR a Real UR Student When..." (casual University communications were annoyingly frought with "UR" puns, and this was back in the days before text-speak!) It listed a hundred or so items that someone felt each student should experience in their four years at the school: "Go traying down the hill

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-10103581464407807432010-10-10T20:51:00.000-07:002010-11-09T08:51:58.728-08:00

If my Twitter complaints about cyclists and dogs hasn't done it already, this admission will certainly revoke me of my Seattle citizenship: I loathe my CSA. Harsh words, I know, but I pledged to be honest here.  (For those of you who aren't familiar with the term, CSA, or Community-Supported or Community-Shared Agriculture, is also known as "subscription farming." You buy a subscription from a

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-7700456100391072792010-10-06T09:30:00.000-07:002010-10-06T12:24:49.886-07:00

Pancakes topped with ho-made fruit compote.  Not the most photogenic meal, but darn tasty! I've got a hankering for pancakes.  There was a time I thought I'd never feel that way again... My junior year of college I took an “alternative spring break” in Boston, volunteering with City Year, an organization aimed at getting young people involved in community service.  There was a pretty big

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-35765994250652029772010-08-28T14:15:00.000-07:002010-10-20T13:52:13.246-07:00

See? It's on the way to the Market Theater. After two curmudgeonly reviews in a row (for Coastal Kitchen and the Dahlia Lounge), I feel the need to backtrack a little and share with you my thoughts on last month's visit to Il Bistro in Pike Place Market.  It didn't hit my radar until my happy-hour-happy friend mentioned it as one of his favorite spots some time back.  So where is it?  If you're

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-28317641504161217192010-08-28T13:18:00.000-07:002010-08-29T19:53:53.198-07:00

A friend approached me a while back and asked, "You'll know - what does it mean to 'jump the shark'?"  I have noticed this little chestnut being bandied around a lot lately myself, and was happy to share with her not only the meaning but also the origin, which I witnessed at a tender young age. The phrase refers to a scene from the TV series Happy Days, where Fonzie, on vacation with the

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-31095213061569270152010-07-23T09:48:00.000-07:002010-08-28T13:21:24.523-07:00

I left you last time waxing poetic about my plans to return home for my 20-year high school reunion. The trip is over and digested now, and I thought I would share with you a few things I learned along the way. While it was a good experience overall, it is not one that bears repeating. Here are some of my [cynical] observations (Dakotans, don't take it too personally): If my intuition says that

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-67974364655100019782010-07-02T16:10:00.000-07:002010-08-28T13:22:27.145-07:00

Self-portrait: Strawberry Shortcake with White Chocolate Mousse My 20 year high school reunion is next week.  I'm going, which seems slightly ridiculous to me.  When I left high school I looked back over my shoulder one last time, flipped everyone the bird and sped off into the sunset, great things ahead of me, never to return.  I lost contact with all but one of my best friends, more or less

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-47528660907122540752010-06-15T09:46:00.000-07:002010-06-15T09:52:24.751-07:00

While I have always had a way with words, numbers do not come easily to me.  Generally someone to pick up new concepts quickly, I remember being very confused in Mr. van Bruggen's seventh grade math class over the basics of algebra.  (I was also frustrated that I was in his class with the commoners while my more numerically talented friends were taking class with the eighth graders.)  The chalk

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-87507830572516046812010-06-03T08:24:00.000-07:002010-06-03T10:40:28.632-07:00

Some of you may know that I used to contribute regularly to a Facebook app called Dinner Time, where users post photos and recipes from recent meals. I have archived many of these posts and would like to slowly migrate them to this forum, in a series I will call "The Best of Dinner Time". Last night I made Sesame Noodles, which I first wrote about last year. Enjoy! After I graduated from

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-21478458055631731322010-06-01T16:57:00.000-07:002010-06-01T16:57:14.978-07:00

I suppose when you are attending a function called a "potluck" you should take it at face value; what's out on the spread is, indeed, a matter of luck.  Actually, potlucks are fraught with potential pitfalls; besides the actual quality of the food, there is food safety, menu composition, and logistics to consider. We attended plenty of potlucks when I was a kid.  These were mostly church affairs

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-5415600115616582292010-05-26T10:21:00.000-07:002010-05-26T11:31:40.482-07:00

We had dinner last night with The Clean Plate Club. A while back, some friends suggested we get together monthly for a meal at one of Seattle's many restaurants, focusing on places we've never visited, places we'd like our fellow diners to try, and some of the fine dining venues around the city. Knowing this event was coming, I actually started writing this post in advance with some backstory

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-12717705056916378522010-05-25T09:23:00.000-07:002010-05-25T09:30:31.874-07:00

I'm still thinking about last Friday night's dinner. Apparently, I'm not the only one; my friend Rochelle, who was our guest along with her husband Scott (don't you think it's easier when everyone has the same name?), even blogged about it. I feel honored to have gotten a shout-out in a blog with nearly triple-digit followers. But back to dinner. I was thinking about what a great menu I planned

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-46127100992627735122010-05-20T17:15:00.000-07:002010-05-25T07:47:45.048-07:00

I am breaking one of my cardinal rules - twice - this week! They say you should never prepare a recipe the first time for guests, and whoever "they" are, I usually follow their advice. However, we are having friends for dinner tomorrow and I am making not one, but two, previously untested dishes: Coffee Braised Short Ribs with Ancho Chile (which does come with a glowing recommendation from a

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-63993720969943249742010-05-06T08:14:00.000-07:002010-05-20T17:18:17.904-07:00

When I told the guys at Sosio’s that I was looking for rhubarb because I wanted to make a pie, Mike asked if I wanted strawberries to go with it.  “Strawberries?!?” I repeated, as if he had just suggested I put Cool Whip on my ho-made pie, “Strawberries are for sissies!  I want rhubarb, and JUST rhubarb!” My dad’s elderly aunt Rose used to make all manner of rhubarb goodies for us.  Rhubarb pies

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-21741954643801312832010-05-05T10:17:00.000-07:002010-05-05T18:44:49.604-07:00

As you may already know, I am a self-employed professional crafter; I make soap and sell it at Pike Place Market in Seattle, Washington.  With 10 million visitors a year, the market is a crossroads of America.  But as diverse as our customers are, we mostly see (and hear) the same things over and over again. One of THE worst things a person can ever say to someone selling an item they have

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-23710637747438526342010-04-28T17:28:00.000-07:002010-04-28T17:28:37.149-07:00

Last night I cooked bison* burgers for dinner, for the first time ever.  That may seem strange coming from a woman whose hometown is the site of the world's largest concrete buffalo, but it is true.  Each fall during my youth I humiliated myself in the Buffalo Days Parade, either riding a "float" (by which I mean sitting on hay bales in the back of a pickup) with my 4-H club or school orchestra (

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-24729044116864803032010-04-27T21:03:00.000-07:002010-04-28T16:41:07.031-07:00

When I was a college student (and beyond), I took on a few house sitting jobs.  Nothing long-term, just a week or two here or there when someone was going to be out of town.  Since I always seemed to have more roommates than my need for personal space preferred, it was nice to have a place to myself, even for a short time.  Getting paid a little to walk the dog, lounge around watching cable tv,

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-40255260367730298262010-04-22T14:07:00.000-07:002010-04-22T15:58:40.141-07:00

When I was growing up on the prairie, I belonged to a 4-H club.  For you city slickers who might be reading this, 4-H is an organization that teaches (mostly rural) youth the fine art of domestic life.  Projects focus on homemaking skills such as cooking and sewing, as well as gardening and raising livestock - all the necessary expertise for rural housewives and militia members alike.  The name "

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2406155888252222227.post-12456238350909160322010-04-21T14:46:00.000-07:002010-04-21T17:49:46.121-07:00

A few weeks ago my neighborhood sustainable butcher shop, The Swinery, (I'm trying not to sound like a self-righteous douche there, pardon me if a little bit slipped out) announced the inception of its recipe club.  Each Tuesday they plan to put a particular cut of meat on sale and offer a recipe to try with it, with the promise that the recipe testers report about it on Facebook, Twitter, or

Becky Boutchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13720526593903490945noreply@blogger.com2