Cookbooks and I don’t always get along.
Recipes tend to be written in a clear, precise, and specific sort of fashion. They have to be; they’re trying to get you to recreate a rather specific chemical combination in a way that won’t make you throw up or hurl the book across the room. The book has no way of knowing what you know how to do, so it breaks things down as clearly as it can. Children can follow a recipe, and often do.
…I should not be allowed to cook around children.
Today, I went looking for this thing, which my family always called “spinach pie” but which the Internet insists is actually a “frittata.” I’m pretty sure a frittata is a Rattata inside a bag of Fritos, but the Internet insists that’s a “walking taco.” Okay.
Anyway, here is how to make this thing.
First, get the things to put in the thing. You’re going to need a shitton of eggs, an amount of shredded cheese that exceeds your RDI of food for the next six weeks, and more spinach than you have ever seen in one place in your entire life including that time your third-grade class took that field trip to the spinach farm. Also a bit of flour, salt, pepper, and way more melted butter than your mom actually let you use back in the day.
Seriously, get like half a fucking cup of melted butter. Like, one-eighth of a pound of butter. IT’S A LOT OF BUTTER.
I like to start by wilting the spinach, mostly because it makes me feel powerful. TAKE THAT, SPINACH. WE CAN DO THIS ALL DAY, SPINACH. ARE YOU CERTAIN YOU DON’T WANT TO TELL ME THE LOCATION OF YOUR SECRET LASER, SPINACH?
The recipe I borrowed from the Internet to make this thing told me to use ten ounces of fresh spinach. For the record, ten ounces of fresh spinach cooks down to a dime-sized portion of cooked spinach. What the hell, recipe. I wanted a spinach pie, not an egg pie that saw a leaf that one time.
Put in more spinach. More spinach. MORE. You thought you bought a family-sized bag of spinach? HA HA YOU DID, BUT ONLY BECAUSE YOU HAVE NO FAMILY. YOU WILL DIE FRIENDLESS AND ALONE SURROUNDED BY SPINACH. Make enough spinach to make this thing as green as you want it to be. I made mine “sixteen cups of fresh spinach or about a teaspoon and a half of cooked spinach” green.
Did you preheat the oven yet? Of course you didn’t. Turn the oven on so it can start contemplating the meaning of life. It likes to do this at about 350F (176.6666666666666666666666666666C).
Put your UNBELIEVABLE QUANTITY OF BUTTER into the pan you’re going to use to bake this thing. People more civilized than I am use a pie plate. I used this a square doobie, which is a real legitimate cooking term. Ask for the square doobie aisle during your next trip to Bed, Bath and Beyond. I promise they’ll know exactly what you’re talking about.
Put the pan with butter on the stovetop. Your goal: to melt the butter without making the pan too hot to touch. HA HA THIS GOAL IS IMPOSSIBLE. Melt the butter. Do not burn the butter. You need that butter.
Time to deal with things that aren’t spinach! Crack some eggs into a bowl. I like to start with four eggs and then add several dozen more eggs, until I get up to about ten eggs. (I’m bad at maths.) Muddle these eggs with a fork or other egg-muddling device.
Add cheese. Add more cheese. You want this thing to be the consistency of eggs with cheese in them, but not the consistency of cheese with not enough egg in it. You also want it to fill the pan you are going to use to bake it in, whatever that means. If you need to put in some flour to make the consistency right, do it. Just keep it under half a cup. We aren’t here for the filler.
When your Bowl of Spinach and your Bowl of Things That Aren’t Spinach have about the same amount of stuff in them, put the spinach into the not-spinach. Stir it around. Does it look like a good ratio of green things to Things That Will Block Your Arteries? No? Fix it.
Now, pour the melted butter into the egg-cheese-spinach-some-flour-I-guess bowl of tasty glop you just made. You just greased your pan AND melted your butter in one slick move. Way to go, Julia Child.
Put some salt in there, I guess. Or pepper. Or both. I’m not your mom.
Now put it in the oven and bake the fuckloving shit out of it. Bake the shitloving fuck out of it. No, don’t bake it that much. Half an hour is plenty.
While you wait, open the bag of cookies you made over the weekend. Shove an entire cookie in your mouth like a heathen before you remember that you actually have milk in the fridge. Pour yourself a glass of milk. Shove another entire cookie in your mouth. If you had dignity you would have followed a real recipe.
Write this post while you wait for the timer to go “ding.” The “ding” means “this is still way too hot to eat, but you’re going to put it in your face anyway, you heathen.” Burn your face. Tell the Internet.
Yay, you made the thing!
I cook better when I have coffee. Help me out by buying me one.