Christmas has become more about things that we need rather than things we want around here (at least for the adults – for the kids, it remains a wonderland of gadgets and toys to help keep them from driving their parents crazy). I knew that I needed some new pots and pans to replace an old set of T-Fal cookware that we’ve had forever; the coating was beginning to flake off, probably because we threw them into the dishwasher instead of hand washing them like responsible people would. So, for Christmas, I asked my family to supply me with two new nonstick Emerilware pans. Since there are fewer things I hate in the world than trying to chop cilantro (seriously! It won’t stay still long enough for me to get it completely chopped!), I also asked for a sturdy food processor.

My husband has never been the type to just get you what you asked for. It always has to be upgraded. Case in point: when we bought my Honda Pilot, I went in determined to get the low end version, no bells and whistles. I didn’t want to pay for heated leather seats since I live in TEXAS, and just the thought of heated leather seats turns me into a puddle for eleven out of twelve months of the year. I made two mistakes during that trip: 1) we took our son with us, so I was distracted by a two year old who really, really hated that car dealership even though we brought a portable movie player and a sack full of snacks to try to appease him, and 2) I was 6 months pregnant with my second, and generally worn down by the process of growing an entirely new person. My husband, sensing my weakness, managed not only to upgrade to a nicer model, but to also convince me that we needed a DVD player AND HEATED BLACK LEATHER SEATS in the Pilot. We rolled off that lot eleventy hours later with my head swirling in the exact car that I swore we wouldn’t have, thanks to Captain Upgrade. He’s very sneaky about it, in that you almost don’t realize what just happened until everything is said and done, and he’s sitting next to you looking all smug. And you can’t argue because he just got you something super nice, but you want to argue about it.

All of that is explanation for why he ended up stocking out my kitchen like I’m Martha Stewart for Christmas. First, he started with a cherry red KitchenAid Stand Mixer:Then we moved on to the food processor:And instead of just the two saucepans and the saute pan I originally asked for, he bought an entirely new set of nonstick cookware, along with two extra pans that he picked up along the way:There were also smaller gadgets, like a new microplane for the ginger that I love to cook with, tiny whisks for eggs (courtesy of his mother, since my husband seems to think that tiny whisks are the dumbest thing on the planet), pasta measuring rings, and on and on. My cooking skills are thankfully gathering steam so that I can actually make use of all of this, but holy MOLY it feels intimidating to open cabinets and see all of it.

I suppose that this means that I’m going to have to get more creative with my meal plans to make use of it all. Pinterest has been a wealth of inspiration this holiday season with new recipes, and since I hate cookbooks (more on that later), I’ve spent the past few nights curled up in the corner of the couch with my iPad, pinning recipes and transferring them to my Pepperplate app for future use. Luckily, the kids are getting used to wacky recipes and they don’t complain too much, as long as I throw in a Taco Night or spaghetti in there once a week.

So, cookbooks: it always seems that when I’m looking at a cookbook in a bookstore, I happen to only open it to the pages that have the good recipes. Once I buy it and get it home, I discover that 95% of the book is filled with recipes (or author anecdotes, which aren’t recipes and just take up space that could be dedicated to recipes) that I would never in a million years try out. There are only one or two recipe books that I’ve gotten that I make use of (The America’s Test Kitchen Healthy Family Cookbook is one I do use and love); the rest sit on a shelf forgotten due to the sheer volume of wasted space in them. I don’t buy them anymore, relying instead on the Internet to provide me with new recipes to try for free. Some are hits and some are a big, giant miss, but I think I’d have the same luck with the traditional cookbook gathering method, too. With the Pepperplate app, I’m kinda building my own cookbook of things that I know are winners, without the author’s romantic prose about the beauty of leeks thrown in to make me gag.

Now that the holidays are over and I’ve got some time before school starts back up again (only four more semesters to go, which is exciting and exhausting at the same time), I’m turning my attention to making use of all of these awesome gifts I received before I have to jump back in with both feet at the end of January. Once that starts, the kids will probably be getting Taco Night more often than I care to admit.

I am in no way a cook, as I’ve stated before, but I’m starting to build a set of recipes that work for my family and for our lifestyle (meaning, fast, furious, and as healthy as we can make it within reason). So I’m trying out new recipes in an effort to continue expanding my abilities – and to hopefully keep the kids and the husband from getting too bored with my go-to meals.

Last night, I cranked through this Mongolian Beef recipe. I was surprised by how many of the ingredients were already in my house; I have cornstarch! And soy sauce! And fresh ginger root! What the crap? After my normal trip to the store on Sunday, I grabbed the rest of the list and we were ready to go. I set some rice to steam for the rest of the family, chopped up some broccoli for myself, and then got to work on the beef.

Tip 1: get the tenderized flank steak, if you can find it. I don’t know if it’s just my inexperience with all of this or what, but it seemed like it was easier to chew than previous flank steaks I’ve tried in the past.

Tip 2: you don’t need as much cornstarch as you think you do. Seriously. Trust me on this, and stick to the 1/4 cup that is listed in the recipe. It looks like a wimpy when you put in in a bowl, all sad and small down there, but it’s got some CRAZY coverage abilities. Also, it will stick to anything you touch – your cabinets, your pants, your cat.

It turned out great, with both of the kids actually eating it without complaint. That’s a sure sign that this one is going in my recipe binder.

I have historically been a horrible, horrible cook. No, seriously. Have you ever managed to serve burned, yet still raw chicken? I have. My husband could regale you with multiple dinners that ended in a quick trip to McDonalds, because whatever the mess was that I made on the stove was not salvageable by any means. I could manage spaghetti or one of those boxed pasta dishes, but anything too far outside of that realm was absolutely beyond my control. Mike suffered in silence, manfully eating what he could and offering to cook as much as he could get away with.

Then we had kids, and for a while we fell into a routine of just cramming whatever was quick into our stomachs. It wasn’t the most nutritious plan, given that most of it was processed and full of fats; it may have tasted good, but that’s no indication of health benefits (see: McDonald’s apple pies). I decided that I better start fixing this food thing pronto, because I don’t want my kids to grow up with the unhealthy association that I have with food. I don’t want them to abhor vegetables, long for cakes and cookies, and to completely ignore what they were putting in their bodies in favor of convenience and cravings. So I started cooking. Lo and behold, after a few predictable disasters, I managed to start making things that a) weren’t burned, b) seasoned properly with something besides an overload of salt, and c) were actually healthy. I felt good about putting these dishes on the table and serving my family.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that the idyllic Donna Reed fantasy I had played out: me, perfectly coiffed and manicured, descending upon the kitchen table like an angel of pot roast amid the wide eyed anticipation of my hungry and appreciative family. I’d lovingly spoon out steamed asparagus, cut into perfect bite sized pieces for the children who would immediately grasp the intensity of my love for them by just gazing at their bountiful, healthy plates of food. While eating, everyone gazes at me adoringly, praising my prowess in the kitchen while I assure them that it wasn’t any effort at all. Instead, it goes more like this: the kids invade the house, demanding to know what is for dinner. I’m standing at the stove cooking whatever it is that I have planned, and before I can get the words out to explain what I’m making, one (or both) of the kids immediately yells about how DISGUSTING that is, regardless of whether they have actually ever eaten it or not. I start making plates for them, chopping vegetables and meat with the understanding that my oldest will fight the entire meal because there is a hint of green vegetable on his plate, and my youngest will be doing the same, except she has a deep seated resentment of meat. I call everyone to the table, having to actually retrieve my husband from his office where he hides when he gets home – apparently, being in front of a computer all day at work doesn’t provide him with enough time in front of a computer – and we eventually get everyone to the table and get settled down to the fine art of convincing each of the kids to at least TRY everything on their plates before I finally give up and remind them that THIS is dinner, and you won’t get anything else if you don’t eat it. This threat doesn’t affect them at all, since they both leave a majority of their dinners behind.

With that in mind, knowing that they aren’t going to like anything that I make anyway, I’ve started trying to cook things that interest me as opposed to trying to please the hateration that lives in my house. For Mother’s Day, Mike got me an Indian slow cooker cookbook that looks pretty promising, and from that I picked out Chicken Tikka Masala as my first attempt. I think, in hindsight, I should have started out smaller, preferably something that did not have 29 ingredients.

I’m not kidding. 29 ingredients including cardamom pods that required a mortar and pestle to crush. Not being an alchemist, I used the backside of a spoon and my cutting board.

It was…okay. Not spectacular, not earth shattering, but probably not something I’d make again – we have an awesome Indian food place nearby that makes an amazing Tikka Masala, so I think I’ll let them keep doing that while I try something a little less complex. Maybe the lentils (I love lentils!) or one of the vegetable dishes. But I don’t count this as a failure by any stretch of the imagination, because when I look at the effort I put forth compared to what I was doing last year, this is such a vast improvement that even something that turned out “meh” is a small victory.

And, I would like to point out, not one piece of that chicken was raw.