During Thanksgiving, my lovely sister-in-law was inspired by my “from scratch” love and made her green bean casserole from scratch. It was so sweet of her to say I had anything to do with it. But she did ask me my trick to getting the beans to be soft. You toss the cut-up little buggers in olive oil and broil for about ten minutes until they sizzle and pop. That is it. This same things works for broccoli and cauliflower as well.
You can’t call yourself a real housewife without failing a few times at a casserole. It is part of the curriculum. Burnt, crunchy, cold in the middle, too salty on the top, bland throughout, greasy, and my least favorite: not enough for who is eating it. I always set out making casserole thinking it will be a simple, classic meal. And at the table, in its one dish, it gives off that impression, but when I walk back into the kitchen and see what went into making it; a pan for browning meat, a pan for the sauce, a pot for the [potatoes, rice, noodles], the oven still on, my cheese grater Kitchen-aide attachment stained orange with cheese curls adhering to all parts of it, the cutting boards green with broccoli or stained with raw meat juices, all the knives from the block dirty and within reach of little girl hands, and about twelve large spoons with differing degrees of sticky on all my surfaces, I realize I never make it easy on myself. Maybe it is the way I cook; with all four limbs and blinders on, in a total frenzy. Nothing I do in the kitchen ends up being easy. Easy is never a requirement for a meal in my kitchen.