I wanted to post this quickly before I forget and all the strawberries that are now very ripe start to turn and, poof, it becomes raspberry season -- not that there is anything wrong with raspberries, of course; in fact, they too will figure in the next paragraph.
Recipe (In Narrative Form): Most Excellent If Slightly Boojy Salad
The other day I made a Most Excellent If Slightly Boojy Salad consisting of adorable, tiny, local strawberries, some crumbled goat cheese, and some candied pecans over a mix of arugula and spinach. The dressing is one of my best inventions yet, made with three parts olive oil to one part balsamic vinegar and one part raspberry preserves. I whisk everything together, add some fresh basil and salt to the concoction, let it sit for a couple hours to soak up the basil flavor, and then strain the whole thing to get rid of the solids. I also whisk in a couple teaspoons of water at the end to thin it out; I've never been fond of viscous vinaigrettes.
This salad is a lot more Martha Stewart-esque than the dishes I usually make, but it's nice for a change. If you too choose to make it, you could substitute feta cheese or candied walnuts (or a non-candied nut, if you prefer). The dressing also could be made with a different kind of preserves or another herb -- mint would be good. And although this salad may reek of privilege, you can use sparingly the more expensive ingredients, like goat cheese and candied pecans. If you want you can sprinkle the cheese finely and coarsely grind just a couple tablespoons of the nuts in a blender or food processor. This way, the flavors are still well-represented but plenty of leftover ingredients remain.
I wish I had taken a picture of Most Excellent Salad in all her beauty and refinement! Just picture for yourself a salad that might be on the cover of Martha Stewart Living, next to headlines about peonies and chiffon cake and the like.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Friday, June 5, 2009
Losing Streak
This ain't my week. The week before was pretty bad, too. And the week before that I had the consumption, or maybe just some terrible cold, and spent most of my time watching either The Real Housewives of New Jersey (the beastliness of those women is captivating!) or various PBS cooking shows on the WETA Create channel (TRHONJ's equally captivating polar opposite). Three weeks later, the hacking cough and general yuckiness still linger on, but at least my 10-hour-a-day TV habit has been cured.
All this time as an invalid, I still never lost my appetite. But despite watching so much Lidia, Julia, Jacques, and that smug but still likeable Chris Kimball and his mad scientist brigade, I've been in a cooking slump (with one exception, which I'll get to in a few paragraphs). Not that I haven't been inspired -- a few nights ago, for example, I decided on a whim to make corn tortillas. Rather, it's the talent and foresight that seem to be missing. Now, I don't own a tortilla press, and had never before considered buying one. That evening, though, plucky resourcefulness was all I thought I needed to get by.
To make corn tortillas, you just make a dough out of 1 part masa harina (similar to corn meal, and available at most grocery stores), three-quarter parts water, and a teaspoon or so of salt. Then you form the dough into smaller balls which you then flatten with a tortilla press. If you don't have a tortilla press, you resort to dangerous and bizarre techniques, such as setting the dough ball on a plastic-wrapped wooden cutting board and thwacking it as hard as you can with a cast-iron pan. The dough never gets flat enough, a hand bone possibly shatters, and the wooden cutting board most certainly shatters. Then your roommate suggests you use a rolling pin, and you marvel at your own stupidity. But, you discover, corn tortilla dough is too brittle for a rolling pin to be very helpful, and you wish you had thought to buy a $15 tortilla press on your last trip to Target or, better yet, made something more sensible to eat, like a sandwich.
But you forge ahead with a crazy look in your eyes. You are also very hungry at this point. So you heat the same cast iron pan you were earlier using as a weapon. The pan gets extremely hot, and the smoke alarm goes off, but you casually wave at it with a piece of your broken cutting board until it stops. You return to your first pancake-thick corn tortilla, which is frying away over a dry, excessive heat for about 30 seconds on each side. You remove it, take a small bite, and think to yourself, "Not bad, if you like your tortillas the consistency of matzoh."
You then fill your tortilla -- which, you are amazed to discover, actually bends -- with the pinto beans that have been sitting on the stove all this time. You think to yourself, "When it comes to legumes, I got mad skillz yo, these pinto beans gonna be the icing on this particle board, I mean tortilla." But, horrors! you take a bite and almost spit it out! You can't understand what went wrong. You had simmered the beans over low-medium heat for a couple hours. You had doused them in delicious spices and herbs like cumin, cayenne, bay leaf, and oregano. You added plenty of salt at the end. And still they taste terrible. You have no reasonable explanation, so you think to yourself again, for maybe the 15th time in three weeks, "Today just ain't my day."
In fact, the past three weeks have been so bad that you desperately search your recent memory for a silver lining, and stop on some delicious sauteed collard greens inspired by your favorite new cookbook, Vegan Soul Kitchen. The thought of this cookbook and its charming author, Bryant Terry, makes you so happy that you open it and turn to its first recipe (the only one you have yet to try), "Citrus Collards with Raisins Redux." You may be in a slump, but at least your arsenal now contains this dish, which has completely changed how you cook collards, and which you will keep going back to again and again.
Recipe: Bryant Terry's Winning Collard Greens
Adapted and renamed from Vegan Soul Kitchen. Makes two gigantic side dish servings. Consider serving it over rice and beans for a very fast, filling, and healthy meal. Also, save the stems from the collards -- Bryant (we're on a first-name basis) also taught me this -- and cut them into one- or two-inch pieces and saute them separately in olive oil and lemon juice till they're just tender. He refers to these cooked stems as "collard confetti." I like to add them to garlicky white beans and tomatoes. People mistake them for asparagus and have no idea they are usually meant for compost!
1 bunch (about 1 lb) collard greens, stems removed
2 T olive oil
3 cloves garlic, minced
handful raisins
juice and zest of half an orange
salt and pepper to taste
Stack a few collard leaves at a time, roll them up, and slice them into strips about an inch wide (this is also known as julienne). Do this with all the collards. Meanwhile, heat the oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add the garlic and saute for two minutes. Then add the raisins and collards and saute for another three minutes, stirring to make sure all the collards get cooked. Add the orange juice and zest and cook for just 15 seconds and remove from the heat. Add salt and pepper to taste.
All this time as an invalid, I still never lost my appetite. But despite watching so much Lidia, Julia, Jacques, and that smug but still likeable Chris Kimball and his mad scientist brigade, I've been in a cooking slump (with one exception, which I'll get to in a few paragraphs). Not that I haven't been inspired -- a few nights ago, for example, I decided on a whim to make corn tortillas. Rather, it's the talent and foresight that seem to be missing. Now, I don't own a tortilla press, and had never before considered buying one. That evening, though, plucky resourcefulness was all I thought I needed to get by.
To make corn tortillas, you just make a dough out of 1 part masa harina (similar to corn meal, and available at most grocery stores), three-quarter parts water, and a teaspoon or so of salt. Then you form the dough into smaller balls which you then flatten with a tortilla press. If you don't have a tortilla press, you resort to dangerous and bizarre techniques, such as setting the dough ball on a plastic-wrapped wooden cutting board and thwacking it as hard as you can with a cast-iron pan. The dough never gets flat enough, a hand bone possibly shatters, and the wooden cutting board most certainly shatters. Then your roommate suggests you use a rolling pin, and you marvel at your own stupidity. But, you discover, corn tortilla dough is too brittle for a rolling pin to be very helpful, and you wish you had thought to buy a $15 tortilla press on your last trip to Target or, better yet, made something more sensible to eat, like a sandwich.
But you forge ahead with a crazy look in your eyes. You are also very hungry at this point. So you heat the same cast iron pan you were earlier using as a weapon. The pan gets extremely hot, and the smoke alarm goes off, but you casually wave at it with a piece of your broken cutting board until it stops. You return to your first pancake-thick corn tortilla, which is frying away over a dry, excessive heat for about 30 seconds on each side. You remove it, take a small bite, and think to yourself, "Not bad, if you like your tortillas the consistency of matzoh."
You then fill your tortilla -- which, you are amazed to discover, actually bends -- with the pinto beans that have been sitting on the stove all this time. You think to yourself, "When it comes to legumes, I got mad skillz yo, these pinto beans gonna be the icing on this particle board, I mean tortilla." But, horrors! you take a bite and almost spit it out! You can't understand what went wrong. You had simmered the beans over low-medium heat for a couple hours. You had doused them in delicious spices and herbs like cumin, cayenne, bay leaf, and oregano. You added plenty of salt at the end. And still they taste terrible. You have no reasonable explanation, so you think to yourself again, for maybe the 15th time in three weeks, "Today just ain't my day."
In fact, the past three weeks have been so bad that you desperately search your recent memory for a silver lining, and stop on some delicious sauteed collard greens inspired by your favorite new cookbook, Vegan Soul Kitchen. The thought of this cookbook and its charming author, Bryant Terry, makes you so happy that you open it and turn to its first recipe (the only one you have yet to try), "Citrus Collards with Raisins Redux." You may be in a slump, but at least your arsenal now contains this dish, which has completely changed how you cook collards, and which you will keep going back to again and again.
Recipe: Bryant Terry's Winning Collard Greens
Adapted and renamed from Vegan Soul Kitchen. Makes two gigantic side dish servings. Consider serving it over rice and beans for a very fast, filling, and healthy meal. Also, save the stems from the collards -- Bryant (we're on a first-name basis) also taught me this -- and cut them into one- or two-inch pieces and saute them separately in olive oil and lemon juice till they're just tender. He refers to these cooked stems as "collard confetti." I like to add them to garlicky white beans and tomatoes. People mistake them for asparagus and have no idea they are usually meant for compost!
1 bunch (about 1 lb) collard greens, stems removed
2 T olive oil
3 cloves garlic, minced
handful raisins
juice and zest of half an orange
salt and pepper to taste
Stack a few collard leaves at a time, roll them up, and slice them into strips about an inch wide (this is also known as julienne). Do this with all the collards. Meanwhile, heat the oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add the garlic and saute for two minutes. Then add the raisins and collards and saute for another three minutes, stirring to make sure all the collards get cooked. Add the orange juice and zest and cook for just 15 seconds and remove from the heat. Add salt and pepper to taste.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Ruth Reichl, Mothers, French Canadian Baked Beans: A Love Story
Tomorrow night (Thursday, May 7, at 7pm), Gourmet editor-in-chief Ruth Reichl will be at Politics & Prose to discuss her latest book, Not Becoming My Mother. I'm planning to go, but I don't think I will ever read the book. For now at least, it's available only in hardcover, and the Economical Epicurean would never waste her money that way. And, besides, Not Becoming My Mother is -- surprise -- about Ruth Reichl's mother and, frankly, I'm sick and tired of Ruth Reichl's mother. Within the past few months, I've read two other Reichl memoirs, Tender at the Bone (loved it) and Garlic and Sapphires (liked it). Both of these memoirs center around Reichl's life's work -- cooking and eating. The former is about her years as a burgeoning home cook and then chef, and the latter is about her experience as the New York Times restaurant critic. Both books are engaging page-turners, filled with mouth-watering recipes and a heaping side of angst. (I think I liked Garlic and Sapphires less because I just couldn't sympathize with all the angst that apparently went with getting paid to write about four-star meals for America's most prestigious newspaper. I felt only jealousy, sometimes to the point of rage.)
Another thing these books have in common is a fixation on Reichl's literally and figuratively toxic mother. As "The Queen of Mold," she provides some great material for Reichl's more humorous pages, but for the most part she is a huge source of conflict in her daughter's otherwise enviable life. I really don't need to read any more about this difficult woman, especially since probably most of the books I read involve the tenuousness of mother-daughter relationships as a major theme. Enough, already! But I still can't get enough of Ruth Reichl, so I will go see her anyway. And I hope -- and fully expect -- that her stories of reconciliation and forgiveness are peppered throughout with stories about food, as those stories are what Reichl does best.
That reminds me of baked beans, which I used to think were disgusting. I promise, there is a proper segue on its way. As I discussed in my last post, we celebrated my friend and roommate Mike Sanders' birthday this past weekend with a barbecue. He smoked a brisket, and I made the side dishes, all traditional barbecue fare like cole slaw, macaroni and cheese, potato salad, biscuits, and baked beans. Best supporting role went to the baked beans, hands down. I had loosely followed the recipe for Maple Baked Beans from the Gourmet Cookbook, whose editor is...Ruth Reichl. (There! Segue as promised, though maybe not so proper as I had hoped it would be.)
These beans are incredibly delicious and incredibly easy, despite some lengthy hands-off cooking time. I did a bit of research on the French Canadian origins of this dish, known in Quebec as feves au lard. According to Ken Albala's Beans: A History (yes, I am a dork with a capital D), the Quebecois started making this dish, or at least writing down the recipe, in the 19th century, and would follow almost exactly the directions that now appear in the Gourmet cookbook:
Soak navy beans or Great Northern beans in water overnight. Drain and rinse. Boil covered with 2 inches of water and simmer until the beans are somewhat tender. Place in a bean pot with the cooking liquid, maple syrup, mustard, thyme, a hunk of salt pork and a chopped onion. Bake for about six hours at a low temperature. Add a little more syrup and serve.
For my version, I omitted the salt pork so the dish could be enjoyed by vegetarians and omnivories alike. Because I feared this omission might be detrimental to the depth of flavor, I added a couple teaspoons of chili powder to smoken things up. Due to time constraints, I cooked the beans for a shorter period of time -- and at higher heat, to compensate -- than the Gourmet version calls for. To keep costs down, I also used less maple syrup, and I'm glad I did -- I think following the original recipe exactly would have produced some excessively sweet legumes.
Even though baked beans are a side dish, they have great main course potential. They can be served over rice or barley or a baked potato. In the last hour or so of cooking, you could add some chopped bitter greens, like kale, collards, or mustard greens, for a boost of nutrients and an interesting twist of flavor. You could even eat them in a tortilla or pita, maybe with a sprinkling of cheese. Any way you eat them, you will be thankful for the Quebecois for coming up with the recipe, Ruth Reichl for including it in her cookbook, and Ruth Reichl's mom -- however horrifying she may have been -- for bringing this great epicurean into the world.
Recipe: Feves au Lard, or Maple Baked Beans
Adapted from the Gourmet Cookbook. Serves 12-15 as a side dish. If you're cooking this for just yourself, halve the recipe. You will have no trouble finishing it over the course of a couple days. Maple syrup aside, it costs pittance to make.
1 (16 oz.) bag of dried navy beans
1 medium onion, finely chopped
3 t salt
1 t pepper
2 T chili powder
2/3 C real maple syrup
1 t dijon mustard (the original recipe calls for dry mustard -- use whichever you have or prefer)
6 C water
Soak the beans overnight. Drain, and put them in a Dutch oven. Heat oven to 350 degrees. Stir into beans the onion, salt, pepper, chili powder, maple syrup, and mustard. Add the water to the beans. Bring to a boil on the stove, then cover and bake for an hour and a half, stirring occasionally. Remove cover and bake for another hour or until liquid is mostly absorbed.
Another thing these books have in common is a fixation on Reichl's literally and figuratively toxic mother. As "The Queen of Mold," she provides some great material for Reichl's more humorous pages, but for the most part she is a huge source of conflict in her daughter's otherwise enviable life. I really don't need to read any more about this difficult woman, especially since probably most of the books I read involve the tenuousness of mother-daughter relationships as a major theme. Enough, already! But I still can't get enough of Ruth Reichl, so I will go see her anyway. And I hope -- and fully expect -- that her stories of reconciliation and forgiveness are peppered throughout with stories about food, as those stories are what Reichl does best.
That reminds me of baked beans, which I used to think were disgusting. I promise, there is a proper segue on its way. As I discussed in my last post, we celebrated my friend and roommate Mike Sanders' birthday this past weekend with a barbecue. He smoked a brisket, and I made the side dishes, all traditional barbecue fare like cole slaw, macaroni and cheese, potato salad, biscuits, and baked beans. Best supporting role went to the baked beans, hands down. I had loosely followed the recipe for Maple Baked Beans from the Gourmet Cookbook, whose editor is...Ruth Reichl. (There! Segue as promised, though maybe not so proper as I had hoped it would be.)
These beans are incredibly delicious and incredibly easy, despite some lengthy hands-off cooking time. I did a bit of research on the French Canadian origins of this dish, known in Quebec as feves au lard. According to Ken Albala's Beans: A History (yes, I am a dork with a capital D), the Quebecois started making this dish, or at least writing down the recipe, in the 19th century, and would follow almost exactly the directions that now appear in the Gourmet cookbook:
Soak navy beans or Great Northern beans in water overnight. Drain and rinse. Boil covered with 2 inches of water and simmer until the beans are somewhat tender. Place in a bean pot with the cooking liquid, maple syrup, mustard, thyme, a hunk of salt pork and a chopped onion. Bake for about six hours at a low temperature. Add a little more syrup and serve.
For my version, I omitted the salt pork so the dish could be enjoyed by vegetarians and omnivories alike. Because I feared this omission might be detrimental to the depth of flavor, I added a couple teaspoons of chili powder to smoken things up. Due to time constraints, I cooked the beans for a shorter period of time -- and at higher heat, to compensate -- than the Gourmet version calls for. To keep costs down, I also used less maple syrup, and I'm glad I did -- I think following the original recipe exactly would have produced some excessively sweet legumes.
Even though baked beans are a side dish, they have great main course potential. They can be served over rice or barley or a baked potato. In the last hour or so of cooking, you could add some chopped bitter greens, like kale, collards, or mustard greens, for a boost of nutrients and an interesting twist of flavor. You could even eat them in a tortilla or pita, maybe with a sprinkling of cheese. Any way you eat them, you will be thankful for the Quebecois for coming up with the recipe, Ruth Reichl for including it in her cookbook, and Ruth Reichl's mom -- however horrifying she may have been -- for bringing this great epicurean into the world.
Recipe: Feves au Lard, or Maple Baked Beans
Adapted from the Gourmet Cookbook. Serves 12-15 as a side dish. If you're cooking this for just yourself, halve the recipe. You will have no trouble finishing it over the course of a couple days. Maple syrup aside, it costs pittance to make.
1 (16 oz.) bag of dried navy beans
1 medium onion, finely chopped
3 t salt
1 t pepper
2 T chili powder
2/3 C real maple syrup
1 t dijon mustard (the original recipe calls for dry mustard -- use whichever you have or prefer)
6 C water
Soak the beans overnight. Drain, and put them in a Dutch oven. Heat oven to 350 degrees. Stir into beans the onion, salt, pepper, chili powder, maple syrup, and mustard. Add the water to the beans. Bring to a boil on the stove, then cover and bake for an hour and a half, stirring occasionally. Remove cover and bake for another hour or until liquid is mostly absorbed.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Mint Juleps
The Kentbury Kompound will be hosting yet another outdoor (weather-permitting) fete this Saturday, and though it is principally a celebration of roommate Mike Sanders' birthday, it happens to coincide with the Kentucky Derby. No burgoo or hot browns for us -- we'll be enjoying brisket courtesy of Sanders' fancy new smoker instead -- but I'm planning to give Derby Day a nod with some refreshing mint juleps. I've been combing the internets for a good recipe and I'm happy to find that, unlike most things in life, mint juleps come pretty standard.
Recipe: Mint Juleps
Can serve as many people as necessary, depending on how much simple syrup you make and how much bourbon you have -- just keep in mind that each drink gets one tablespoon of the simple syrup, and 16 tablespoons equal a cup. If you make a simple syrup using one cup of sugar and one cup of water (obviously, the sugar dissolves in the water, so you don't end up with a full two cups of syrup), you should have enough for maybe 20 or so servings.
You make a simple syrup by boiling equal parts sugar and water together for five minutes. Then you stir in some mint leaves (for extra mintiness, grind them in with a wooden spoon) and refrigerate the simple syrup overnight. Before serving, fill each glass with ice, two shots of bourbon (we happen to have some Maker's Mark, but there are definitely cheaper ones out there), and one tablespoon of the minted simple syrup, and stir together. Garnish with extra mint leaves.
So classic, so elegant, so surprisingly economical! I sure hope the weather's nice because I already have in mind the perfect dress to go with my mint julep, ridiculous as that may sound. But, more importantly: Happy Birthday, Sandy!
UPDATE: The party was a great time, and Sanders' brisket was delicious, and we all got a kick out of Derby-winning jockey Calvin Borel, but it turns out I don't even like mint juleps (even though I do like whiskey) and would advise against following my recipe. Sorry. Make mojitos instead!
Recipe: Mint Juleps
Can serve as many people as necessary, depending on how much simple syrup you make and how much bourbon you have -- just keep in mind that each drink gets one tablespoon of the simple syrup, and 16 tablespoons equal a cup. If you make a simple syrup using one cup of sugar and one cup of water (obviously, the sugar dissolves in the water, so you don't end up with a full two cups of syrup), you should have enough for maybe 20 or so servings.
You make a simple syrup by boiling equal parts sugar and water together for five minutes. Then you stir in some mint leaves (for extra mintiness, grind them in with a wooden spoon) and refrigerate the simple syrup overnight. Before serving, fill each glass with ice, two shots of bourbon (we happen to have some Maker's Mark, but there are definitely cheaper ones out there), and one tablespoon of the minted simple syrup, and stir together. Garnish with extra mint leaves.
So classic, so elegant, so surprisingly economical! I sure hope the weather's nice because I already have in mind the perfect dress to go with my mint julep, ridiculous as that may sound. But, more importantly: Happy Birthday, Sandy!
UPDATE: The party was a great time, and Sanders' brisket was delicious, and we all got a kick out of Derby-winning jockey Calvin Borel, but it turns out I don't even like mint juleps (even though I do like whiskey) and would advise against following my recipe. Sorry. Make mojitos instead!
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
A good book and a poached egg
As a hobbyist food writer, or an aspiring one, it goes with the job (or hob, short for hobby? No?) that I also read a lot about food. And in reading about food, I never cease to be amazed at how unsophisticated, how behind-the-times, and how uneducated I tend to be. The inexpensive thrill of cooking with goat meat, to illustrate. I thought I could be the first person to have something to say about it; self-satisfied and self-aggrandizing, I would post comments that linked back to my blog on a hundred other blogs, subsequently earn myself rank among the Orangettes and the Wednesday Chefs, and be known as that plucky young woman who pointed out to all Americans -- or at least all food-interested yuppies, eager for any new fad (I say this without a sneer, for I include myself among them) -- that while goat is eaten by something like 78 percent of the world, it has never occurred to about 78 percent of Americans that it's even edible. In rallying for this ruminant, I would singlehandedly turn chivo and cabrito into household names and boost the sales at ethnic markets nationwide.
Before I could even plan my next trip to Patel Brothers, on March 31 the New York Times broke (I say broke intentionally, as if it were Pulitzer-material investigative journalism) this story, "How I Learned to Love Goat Meat." It's over, I thought -- now I will have to extol the delicacy that is slow-roasted suburban squirrel, anything the established food bloggers haven't already thought of. Sure enough, Serious Eats and The Kitchn got their goat within hours. And it turns out that even the Times was behind the times -- New York magazine had already done a piece on goat meat about six months earlier.
It's the same thing with the late author Laurie Colwin and her wonderful 1988 essay collection, Home Cooking, which I'd never even heard of till I fortuitously picked up a copy at my high school's used book sale. I thought I had uncovered some lost artefact of the late 80s, but it turns out that Colwin has long been a favorite topic in the food blogosphere, despite that her untimely death in 1992, at age 48, occurred almost a decade before the word "blog" was even a part of the American lexicon. Colwin's work still gets a lot of press, and -- after devouring her first collection of food writing in just a few sittings, within the short span of a single lazy Sunday -- I understand why.
My plan for this particular Sunday was to spend it in solitude, but Home Cooking kept great company all day. It may have been less enjoyable were it not for the stick-to-your-ribs PB&C I ate while I read, since this is the type of the book that can make you painfully hungry. Luckily enough, I had the book in one hand, weird sandwich in the other. In fact, mid-bite of some crunchy cabbage and salty peanut butter sprinkled with red pepper flakes and raisins and sitting between two staling slices of wheat bread, I read this most fitting passage:
Dinner alone is one of life's pleasures. Certainly cooking for oneself reveals man at his weirdest. People lie when you ask them what they eat when they are alone. A salad, they tell you. But when you persist, they confess to peanut butter and bacon sandwiches deep fried and eaten with hot sauce, or spaghetti with butter and grape jam.
But this was just one among about a thousand favorite passages (in a book of fewer than 200 pages). There is no way I could ever do Colwin's beautiful, inspiring, spare, funny, and simultaneously self-righteous and self-deprecating writing any justice here. But, I will give a few tastes, as well as a recipe, in hopes that you, too, will read this book and love it as much as I (and the rest of the food blogosphere) do. Regretfully, I don't think I can lend my copy, as I want to always be able to use it for reference.
On Fried Chicken:
As everyone knows, there is only one way to fry chicken correctly. Unfortunately, most people think their method is best, but most people are wrong. Mine is the only right way, and on this subject I feel most evangelical.
On Not Being a Picky Eater:
I will never eat fish eyeballs, and I do not want to taste anything commonly kept as a house pet, but otherwise I am a cinch to feed. My only allergy is a slight one to caviar, making me a cheap date. Furthermore, I am never on a diet regime I cannot be talked out of.
On Vegetarians:
Like Protestants, they come in a number of denominations. Lactovegetarians will eat dairy, eggs and usually fish, but some lactovegetarians will not eat fish. Vegans will not eat dairy products or eggs or fish. And some people say they are vegetarians when they mean they do not eat red meat, leading you to realize that for some people chicken is a vegetable.
On Dinner Parties:
It is a fact of life that people give dinner parties, and when they invite you, you have to turn around and invite them back. Often they retaliate by inviting you again, and you must then extend another invitation. Back and forth you go, like Ping-Pong balls, and what you end up with is called social life.
Colwin could write about anything, and I would keep coming back for seconds and thirds (I'm eager to begin reading her novels; her day job was fiction writer, and she wrote about food for fun), but I feel especially lucky to be acquainted with such an enjoyable writer who is also a champion of cheap cooking. Colwin spends many a page analyzing and reinventing frugal classics such as chicken salad, potato salad, lentil soup, chili, and frittatas. One recipe I felt I must include and adapt for this blog comes from the book's second essay, "The Low-Tech Person's Batterie de Cuisine," and can be made by someone who owns "nothing but one knife and one pot."
Recipe: Sauteed Vegetables and Poached Egg in One Pot
Paraphrased from Laurie Colwin's Home Cooking (1988). Serves 1.
Some vegetables - Colwin suggests "a little green zucchini, a little yellow one, a few snow peas, a small sliced onion," but for springtime I might try asparagus, green beans, broccoli, some kind of bitter green, or whatever else is lying around in the crisper
Some butter and minced garlic
Black pepper
One or two eggs, "depending on how hungry you are"
Saute the vegetables in butter and minced garlic, partially covered, till soft. Remove the cover, grind on some black pepper, push the vegetables to the sides of the pot, and melt a bit more butter. Break in the egg(s) and cover till cooked.
Colwin concludes the recipe thusly: "If you are civilized, you can arrange the vegetables on a plate and put the egg on top. If you are not, you can eat it right out of the pot. If you want some grated cheese, you can scrape it with your knife."
Before I could even plan my next trip to Patel Brothers, on March 31 the New York Times broke (I say broke intentionally, as if it were Pulitzer-material investigative journalism) this story, "How I Learned to Love Goat Meat." It's over, I thought -- now I will have to extol the delicacy that is slow-roasted suburban squirrel, anything the established food bloggers haven't already thought of. Sure enough, Serious Eats and The Kitchn got their goat within hours. And it turns out that even the Times was behind the times -- New York magazine had already done a piece on goat meat about six months earlier.
It's the same thing with the late author Laurie Colwin and her wonderful 1988 essay collection, Home Cooking, which I'd never even heard of till I fortuitously picked up a copy at my high school's used book sale. I thought I had uncovered some lost artefact of the late 80s, but it turns out that Colwin has long been a favorite topic in the food blogosphere, despite that her untimely death in 1992, at age 48, occurred almost a decade before the word "blog" was even a part of the American lexicon. Colwin's work still gets a lot of press, and -- after devouring her first collection of food writing in just a few sittings, within the short span of a single lazy Sunday -- I understand why.
My plan for this particular Sunday was to spend it in solitude, but Home Cooking kept great company all day. It may have been less enjoyable were it not for the stick-to-your-ribs PB&C I ate while I read, since this is the type of the book that can make you painfully hungry. Luckily enough, I had the book in one hand, weird sandwich in the other. In fact, mid-bite of some crunchy cabbage and salty peanut butter sprinkled with red pepper flakes and raisins and sitting between two staling slices of wheat bread, I read this most fitting passage:
Dinner alone is one of life's pleasures. Certainly cooking for oneself reveals man at his weirdest. People lie when you ask them what they eat when they are alone. A salad, they tell you. But when you persist, they confess to peanut butter and bacon sandwiches deep fried and eaten with hot sauce, or spaghetti with butter and grape jam.
But this was just one among about a thousand favorite passages (in a book of fewer than 200 pages). There is no way I could ever do Colwin's beautiful, inspiring, spare, funny, and simultaneously self-righteous and self-deprecating writing any justice here. But, I will give a few tastes, as well as a recipe, in hopes that you, too, will read this book and love it as much as I (and the rest of the food blogosphere) do. Regretfully, I don't think I can lend my copy, as I want to always be able to use it for reference.
On Fried Chicken:
As everyone knows, there is only one way to fry chicken correctly. Unfortunately, most people think their method is best, but most people are wrong. Mine is the only right way, and on this subject I feel most evangelical.
On Not Being a Picky Eater:
I will never eat fish eyeballs, and I do not want to taste anything commonly kept as a house pet, but otherwise I am a cinch to feed. My only allergy is a slight one to caviar, making me a cheap date. Furthermore, I am never on a diet regime I cannot be talked out of.
On Vegetarians:
Like Protestants, they come in a number of denominations. Lactovegetarians will eat dairy, eggs and usually fish, but some lactovegetarians will not eat fish. Vegans will not eat dairy products or eggs or fish. And some people say they are vegetarians when they mean they do not eat red meat, leading you to realize that for some people chicken is a vegetable.
On Dinner Parties:
It is a fact of life that people give dinner parties, and when they invite you, you have to turn around and invite them back. Often they retaliate by inviting you again, and you must then extend another invitation. Back and forth you go, like Ping-Pong balls, and what you end up with is called social life.
Colwin could write about anything, and I would keep coming back for seconds and thirds (I'm eager to begin reading her novels; her day job was fiction writer, and she wrote about food for fun), but I feel especially lucky to be acquainted with such an enjoyable writer who is also a champion of cheap cooking. Colwin spends many a page analyzing and reinventing frugal classics such as chicken salad, potato salad, lentil soup, chili, and frittatas. One recipe I felt I must include and adapt for this blog comes from the book's second essay, "The Low-Tech Person's Batterie de Cuisine," and can be made by someone who owns "nothing but one knife and one pot."
Recipe: Sauteed Vegetables and Poached Egg in One Pot
Paraphrased from Laurie Colwin's Home Cooking (1988). Serves 1.
Some vegetables - Colwin suggests "a little green zucchini, a little yellow one, a few snow peas, a small sliced onion," but for springtime I might try asparagus, green beans, broccoli, some kind of bitter green, or whatever else is lying around in the crisper
Some butter and minced garlic
Black pepper
One or two eggs, "depending on how hungry you are"
Saute the vegetables in butter and minced garlic, partially covered, till soft. Remove the cover, grind on some black pepper, push the vegetables to the sides of the pot, and melt a bit more butter. Break in the egg(s) and cover till cooked.
Colwin concludes the recipe thusly: "If you are civilized, you can arrange the vegetables on a plate and put the egg on top. If you are not, you can eat it right out of the pot. If you want some grated cheese, you can scrape it with your knife."
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Homo Erectus in the Kitchen
My affliction with epicureanism, no matter well how it satiates my ever-growing gut, sometimes leaves me feeling rather empty, in the metaphorical sense. It's just food! We all have to eat, I remind myself, and most people in the world don't (or can't afford to) get so precious about it. If you do treat cooking as an art, you probably have too much time and money on your hands. Shouldn't I be spending my time and money doing loftier things? Like...I don't even know, that's how shallow I am. Alright, then shouldn't I be spending my time and money doing things that need to be done, like taking my car to get new brake pads? It has needed them for at least two months. Not very economical of me to wait till the brakes potentially need to be replaced altogether.
Today's Science Times had an encouraging interview of primatologist and anthropologist Richard Wrangham, who argues -- very effectively according to this writer with no science background -- that cooking was the key to our evolution from apes to humans. I'm terrible at paraphrasing, but it's a fascinating argument, and one that certainly goes against the raw food movement: our height and brain size are the products of a healthy diet made possible only when foods are cooked. Makes pretty good sense to me, but perhaps I am just biased.
But, to return to my original predicament, can I start to think of cooking as "lofty" because the apes don't do it, because it just may be the thing that makes me a human!?! Indeed, pursuits such as music and art are considered lofty. True, sometimes monkeys make art, like if the zookeeper gives them an open can of paint or something, but the humanly desire to "Create!" does not seem to be there. On the other hand, another thing that separates us from our fellow primates is that we can stand up straight and this, to me, despite whatever literal interpretations you want to make, is not lofty, nor does it make feel particularly special.
Certainly, something that cooking gave us a lot more of, in addition to perhaps size, brains, and longevity, is free time. (Dr. Wrangham's chimpanzees "spend most of their day foraging and chewing extremely fibrous foods," some of which they'll "masticate for a full hour.") For me, cooking -- or spending more time cooking than one has to in order to survive -- is probably nothing more than an enjoyable way to use up some time and give the ol' palate a kick. If nothing else, it definitely beats gnawing on the same fibrous plant till my teeth hurt.
Today's Science Times had an encouraging interview of primatologist and anthropologist Richard Wrangham, who argues -- very effectively according to this writer with no science background -- that cooking was the key to our evolution from apes to humans. I'm terrible at paraphrasing, but it's a fascinating argument, and one that certainly goes against the raw food movement: our height and brain size are the products of a healthy diet made possible only when foods are cooked. Makes pretty good sense to me, but perhaps I am just biased.
But, to return to my original predicament, can I start to think of cooking as "lofty" because the apes don't do it, because it just may be the thing that makes me a human!?! Indeed, pursuits such as music and art are considered lofty. True, sometimes monkeys make art, like if the zookeeper gives them an open can of paint or something, but the humanly desire to "Create!" does not seem to be there. On the other hand, another thing that separates us from our fellow primates is that we can stand up straight and this, to me, despite whatever literal interpretations you want to make, is not lofty, nor does it make feel particularly special.
Certainly, something that cooking gave us a lot more of, in addition to perhaps size, brains, and longevity, is free time. (Dr. Wrangham's chimpanzees "spend most of their day foraging and chewing extremely fibrous foods," some of which they'll "masticate for a full hour.") For me, cooking -- or spending more time cooking than one has to in order to survive -- is probably nothing more than an enjoyable way to use up some time and give the ol' palate a kick. If nothing else, it definitely beats gnawing on the same fibrous plant till my teeth hurt.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Family Jewels
Last night I enjoyed a picture-perfect barbecue at the home of my cousin Kate and her husband, Seth, joined by Kate's sister Liza and Liza's boyfriend, Avi. I brought along as my date a six-pack of Dogfish Head Raison D'Etre, whose brute strength left me still weak in the knees this morning. Heh. A good date, indeed.
The weather was perfect, the conversation lively, the fire pit roaring, and the food excellent. As an added bonus, I learned two important lessons from Kate and Seth's wonderful, casual, al fresco dinner:
1) Boiled potatoes with nothing but salt and pepper on them are underrated and delicious -- and a frugal eater's dream.
2) Grilled chicken need not be dry, if you follow this important step: boil it first! Kate learned this brilliant bit from her mom, my Aunt Mary. No need to boil it very long, maybe 5 or 10 minutes. This way, the chicken is already parcooked and doesn't desiccate away on the open flame.
That reminds me, I have another gem to offer, courtesy of Aunt Mary: her amazing broccoli salad, which I mentioned in my last post and served at Easter. It's been a popular fixture at the past three or four holiday functions, I think. I dare you to find a better way to eat broccoli.
Recipe: Aunt Mary's Broccoli Salad
Adapted from Richmond's Ukrop's Deli via a 1980s Washington Post recipe, which does not seem to be available on their archives. Makes 6-8 servings.
For the salad:
1.5 - 2 C finely chopped broccoli florets and/or stalks
2-3 finely chopped celery ribs
1/2 C finely chopped onion
1/2 C golden raisins [Mary's note: dark is fine]
7 strips bacon, cooked and crumbled [DEO note: omit the bacon if you want to make a vegetarian version]
6-8 large, well-shaped lettuce leaves for serving [DEO note: Mary doesn't serve the salad in lettuce leaves, and it is just fine that way.]
For the dressing:
1/2 - 2/3 C reduced calorie mayonnaise [DEO note: use full-fat mayo if that's what you already have]
1/4 C sugar
1.5 T cider vinegar
1/2 - 1 t seasoning salt
1/8 - 1/4 t freshly ground pepper
Combine all the salad ingredients, except for the bacon, in a medium-sized bowl. Combine all the dressing ingredients and spoon over the salad; stir and cover. Chill 4-8 hours before serving. Top with the bacon. Serve on lettuce leaves (optional).
The weather was perfect, the conversation lively, the fire pit roaring, and the food excellent. As an added bonus, I learned two important lessons from Kate and Seth's wonderful, casual, al fresco dinner:
1) Boiled potatoes with nothing but salt and pepper on them are underrated and delicious -- and a frugal eater's dream.
2) Grilled chicken need not be dry, if you follow this important step: boil it first! Kate learned this brilliant bit from her mom, my Aunt Mary. No need to boil it very long, maybe 5 or 10 minutes. This way, the chicken is already parcooked and doesn't desiccate away on the open flame.
That reminds me, I have another gem to offer, courtesy of Aunt Mary: her amazing broccoli salad, which I mentioned in my last post and served at Easter. It's been a popular fixture at the past three or four holiday functions, I think. I dare you to find a better way to eat broccoli.
Recipe: Aunt Mary's Broccoli Salad
Adapted from Richmond's Ukrop's Deli via a 1980s Washington Post recipe, which does not seem to be available on their archives. Makes 6-8 servings.
For the salad:
1.5 - 2 C finely chopped broccoli florets and/or stalks
2-3 finely chopped celery ribs
1/2 C finely chopped onion
1/2 C golden raisins [Mary's note: dark is fine]
7 strips bacon, cooked and crumbled [DEO note: omit the bacon if you want to make a vegetarian version]
6-8 large, well-shaped lettuce leaves for serving [DEO note: Mary doesn't serve the salad in lettuce leaves, and it is just fine that way.]
For the dressing:
1/2 - 2/3 C reduced calorie mayonnaise [DEO note: use full-fat mayo if that's what you already have]
1/4 C sugar
1.5 T cider vinegar
1/2 - 1 t seasoning salt
1/8 - 1/4 t freshly ground pepper
Combine all the salad ingredients, except for the bacon, in a medium-sized bowl. Combine all the dressing ingredients and spoon over the salad; stir and cover. Chill 4-8 hours before serving. Top with the bacon. Serve on lettuce leaves (optional).
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