I'm not really a big bacon person, but I found a way to make it that I just love. Brown sugar bacon. I'll get into that in a minute. First, I have to say, I have historically been intimidated by bacon. It's mostly fat and often either chewy or crunchy. I'm just never sure how to approach it. I remember my mom making BLT sandwiches for lunch sometimes, and I'd have toast, tomatoes, and a little lettuce salad all separate, but not the bacon. The smokiness is just a bit much for me, so it's not even just the texture and the look. If something tastes like bacon, I'm usually not all that enthused.
(Apparently you can blanch bacon in boiling water for a few minutes and that will mellow out the flavor. But then you have boiled bacon, and come on, that's pretty darned unappealing.)
I'm coming around to bacon, although I tend to like it by itself, not lurking in dishes. Similarly to the way I feel about raisins, actually. I don't like to be surprised by them. I want to see them coming. I'm therefore okay with my bacon sitting next to my french toast, for example, but not buried in a salad, lurking behind the tomato.
The best bacon-by-itself I can think of we had at Darling Husband's Aunt Carol's house. They live in the fingerlakes and we spent a lovely weekend at their house this winter. For brunch on Sunday, they made wonderful bacon, thick cut and baked, which tasted phenomenal. They got it from a local man who makes it himself. I believe they actually bought a whole pig from him, and bacon is part of the package. It made me truly believe what those farm-raised people have always said, that meat from the grocery store doesn't have any real taste. It was enough to make me consider finding someone to go in with me on a pig. And then I forgot about it until just now, but still the point remains. It was some pretty rockin' bacon.
The key to bacon prep, in my opinion, is baking it. I saw this on the Food Network and it made so much sense to me. Everyone on Food Network seems to be doing it now, from Alton Brown to Paula Dean (and that's saying something). Frying bacon is time consuming and I always feel like I'm playing chicken with it, trying to figure out when to get it out of the pan. Too soon and it's laughing at me, all limp like a protester in the 60's being dragged off campus by the cops. Too late and it's brittle and dry, shattering under the fork like glass. Plus it seems to change after you take it from the pan, the tricky little buggers, so of course I can't judge it right. Besides that, the bacon releases so much fat! It spatters and generally freaks me out. I prefer to bake it.
You can bake flat on a cookie type sheet, but I like to drape it over a rack set on a rimmed cookie sheet which has been lined in foil, for easier clean-up. That way the rendered fat just drips down and away from the meat. I just pop the whole contraption into the oven until ruffly and right-looking, and amazingly those silly little strips turn out just right. Ha. Then I let the pan sit and cool down, so all I have to do is fold the foil in on itself to corral the congealed bacon grease. Some people probably save this. I'm sure my grandmother would. But I am not she and I haven't the foggiest what I would do with it, nor the fortitude to do it if I did, so I throw it away.
Still not a huge fan of the bacon flavor, though, although it has its uses. But for my money, you can't go wrong with Brown Sugar Bacon. I start with thick cut bacon, and put as many slices as I'm going to use into a large zip top bag, one by one so they don't stick to each other. Then I shake in some A-1 steak sauce, and mush the bag around a bit until each strip is coated. Next, I add brown sugar to the bag and really mush it around. The brown sugar melts a bit and clings to the strips of bacon. Lay each strip on the rack and bake until dark brown and yummy looking.
When I was pregnant, I thought we should make this every day and that it was a perfectly acceptable meal. Or side dish. Or desert. Or snack. Whatever. Fortunately for my heart, Darling husband didn't agree, and it had to actually fit into the meal. This greatly reduced its uses.
Now, I really only make it when we're making bacon cheese burgers. A strip or two of brown sugar bacon sitting on top of monterey jack, itself lovingly melted over avocado to hold it onto the burger... mmmmh. Heaven. And for the record, this is the only bacon cheeseburger that even remotely appeals to me. It's brown sugar or nothing, baby.
Burgers themselves could be an entirely separate post, and they will be someday, as I'll be submitting recipes to Sutter Home's Build A Better Burger competition. More to come. In the meantime, keep thinking springtime thoughts and eating springtime food and we might just get there one of these days.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Grits, pollenta, mush...you say po-tato, I say po-tahto
Question: is it unbearably low class to open a can of pop, take a few swigs, then pour rum directly into the can to make an instant cocktail? Yeah, I think so, too. But perhaps it's also ecologically friendly. I'm already going to recycle the can, so why dirty a glass and waste the water/add detergent guilt to wash it? Shouldn't Al Gore and Leonardo DiCaprio send me congratulatory emails? Plus, it's just quick and convenient. It's not lazy or trashy, it's thrifty and resourceful. Refreshingly unassuming, even. Until one's husband takes a sip of one's altered beverage and almost does a spit take of surprise, that is.
So my fresh ingredient dinner I had so been craving featured a lovely organic sweet baby greens salad with sea salt and cracked pepper croutons. Makes it sound posh, doesn't it? The rest of the meal just wasn't as fresh, because by the time dinner came around I had already enjoyed two meals beefed up (pardon the pun) with fruit and veg and no longer felt so vitamin-deprived. We made Spicy Shrimp with Cheesy Grits.
Shrimp and Grits is one of those recipes where no matter what you put in it, you can hardly go wrong, but everyone will tell you that you did. It's a southern dish, which I believe is particularly known in Charleston, South Carolina. Travelers will have different memories of it, some of which will be accurate and some will not, but will argue vehemently that the version they had didn't have parsley in it so yours is inauthentic sludge. People will trot out genealogy charts to show that their second cousin married a man whose sister once lived in Charleston, and she made it with white grits, not yellow, and she should know. So there.
(This phenomenon, of course, isn't unique to this dish. People get weirdly self-righteous when it comes to certain recipes. Chili, for example.)
I don't pretend that our version is authentic anything. For one thing, I've only ever had shrimp and grits at TGI Friday's here in Erie, which gives me zero authority... particularly since I actually only had a taste of Darling Husband's plate. We were originally going to share--I got dish A, he got the shrimp and grits, and we would split both--but when his came he no longer was interested much in sharing. As consolation, we came home and tried to remake it a few days later. That was several months ago, so our memories were even fuzzier.
Our shrimp and grits started with grits, of course. Grits, polenta, mush... it's all basically the same, which is cornmeal. We put water and milk in a pan with a little pat of butter, brought to a boil, added the cornmeal and cooked until it was thick and didn't taste like crunchy dried corn. We added a bunch of cheddar, salt and pepper, and a splash of buttermilk (still trying to use it up!) to keep it from hardening into cement.
In a large skillet, I browned some andouille I had cut into coins, then removed from the pan. In the renderings I cooked several large cloves of garlic, chopped, about half of an onion, also chopped, and three hungarian peppers, sliced into rings. We let it all soften and the flavors married nicely, particularly after the addition of some hot sauce. Pushing the veggies to the sides of the pan, we slid the shrimp in and let them start to get pink and happy. The andouille was next to join the party and everything was stirred together to come to temperature. We only added a touch of salt and pepper, since the andouille had so much flavor. Come to think of it, I'm not sure I added any pepper. It didn't need it. We tasted the shrimp mixture, and it was grand.
Have you ever had one of those times, however, where your dish is finished but you just keep playing with it anyway? You start throwing extra stuff in somewhat willy-nilly, not because the dish truly needs it but because you can't quite stop yourself? I had put in jarred piquillo peppers and talked my husband into a little cream for the sauce before he stopped me and took away my wooden spoon.
We served the shrimp mixture over the grits and my oh my, it was good. A bit spicy, but with different kinds of spice, and great flavor all over it. The grits were lose but not runny, thick but not gluey. It may or may not have been anything like what you'd get in the south, but here in PA it was yummy.
Is that the key? The further away from the epicenter you are, the less anyone can call you out? If you served me something and told me it was authentic Aboriginal stew just like they make in Australia, I'd take your word for it. On the other hand, I'm an hour and a half away from the Anchor Bar in Buffalo, NY. I know what a wing is and isn't supposed to look and taste like. Don't you dare put a breading on your chicken wing and call it buffalo! (Gina and Pat Neely, as well as Bobby Flay who should know better...)
But I'm 12 hours and 17 minutes (722 miles by Google Maps) away from Charleston and I say I made shrimp and grits and I do declare them to have been tasty.
Dessert will be featured in a guest blog, as Darling Husband used his dried cherries, fresh ginger and chestnut puree to make--well, I'll let him tell you. It was awesome, though.
So my fresh ingredient dinner I had so been craving featured a lovely organic sweet baby greens salad with sea salt and cracked pepper croutons. Makes it sound posh, doesn't it? The rest of the meal just wasn't as fresh, because by the time dinner came around I had already enjoyed two meals beefed up (pardon the pun) with fruit and veg and no longer felt so vitamin-deprived. We made Spicy Shrimp with Cheesy Grits.
Shrimp and Grits is one of those recipes where no matter what you put in it, you can hardly go wrong, but everyone will tell you that you did. It's a southern dish, which I believe is particularly known in Charleston, South Carolina. Travelers will have different memories of it, some of which will be accurate and some will not, but will argue vehemently that the version they had didn't have parsley in it so yours is inauthentic sludge. People will trot out genealogy charts to show that their second cousin married a man whose sister once lived in Charleston, and she made it with white grits, not yellow, and she should know. So there.
(This phenomenon, of course, isn't unique to this dish. People get weirdly self-righteous when it comes to certain recipes. Chili, for example.)
I don't pretend that our version is authentic anything. For one thing, I've only ever had shrimp and grits at TGI Friday's here in Erie, which gives me zero authority... particularly since I actually only had a taste of Darling Husband's plate. We were originally going to share--I got dish A, he got the shrimp and grits, and we would split both--but when his came he no longer was interested much in sharing. As consolation, we came home and tried to remake it a few days later. That was several months ago, so our memories were even fuzzier.
Our shrimp and grits started with grits, of course. Grits, polenta, mush... it's all basically the same, which is cornmeal. We put water and milk in a pan with a little pat of butter, brought to a boil, added the cornmeal and cooked until it was thick and didn't taste like crunchy dried corn. We added a bunch of cheddar, salt and pepper, and a splash of buttermilk (still trying to use it up!) to keep it from hardening into cement.
In a large skillet, I browned some andouille I had cut into coins, then removed from the pan. In the renderings I cooked several large cloves of garlic, chopped, about half of an onion, also chopped, and three hungarian peppers, sliced into rings. We let it all soften and the flavors married nicely, particularly after the addition of some hot sauce. Pushing the veggies to the sides of the pan, we slid the shrimp in and let them start to get pink and happy. The andouille was next to join the party and everything was stirred together to come to temperature. We only added a touch of salt and pepper, since the andouille had so much flavor. Come to think of it, I'm not sure I added any pepper. It didn't need it. We tasted the shrimp mixture, and it was grand.
Have you ever had one of those times, however, where your dish is finished but you just keep playing with it anyway? You start throwing extra stuff in somewhat willy-nilly, not because the dish truly needs it but because you can't quite stop yourself? I had put in jarred piquillo peppers and talked my husband into a little cream for the sauce before he stopped me and took away my wooden spoon.
We served the shrimp mixture over the grits and my oh my, it was good. A bit spicy, but with different kinds of spice, and great flavor all over it. The grits were lose but not runny, thick but not gluey. It may or may not have been anything like what you'd get in the south, but here in PA it was yummy.
Is that the key? The further away from the epicenter you are, the less anyone can call you out? If you served me something and told me it was authentic Aboriginal stew just like they make in Australia, I'd take your word for it. On the other hand, I'm an hour and a half away from the Anchor Bar in Buffalo, NY. I know what a wing is and isn't supposed to look and taste like. Don't you dare put a breading on your chicken wing and call it buffalo! (Gina and Pat Neely, as well as Bobby Flay who should know better...)
But I'm 12 hours and 17 minutes (722 miles by Google Maps) away from Charleston and I say I made shrimp and grits and I do declare them to have been tasty.
Dessert will be featured in a guest blog, as Darling Husband used his dried cherries, fresh ginger and chestnut puree to make--well, I'll let him tell you. It was awesome, though.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Gestalt and the zen of potage
I can't wait for dinner tomorrow night.
Why, you ask? What are we making? Cornish game hen? Escargot? Sundried pesto chicken roulade? Well, that's a good question. I have no idea what we're making.
What I do know is I have a real hankering for a home cooked meal. Fish tacos was my last one. Sunday night I had a migraine and couldn't even keep down water, so dinner was right out of the question. (It was hard enough feeding my precious daughter her bananas.) Darling Husband made do with Taco Bell in between taking care of me and our little girl. What a miserable time. Monday night was a mish mash evening, and my solo dinner consisted of a bowl of lovely potage my sister made and a yogurt parfait from Wegman's. Technically, I guess this counts as home cooked, but I didn't home cook it.
Tonight I had a drawing class through the art museum, so we got take-out wings from Odis 21, a bar that reputably has the best wings in Erie. Numerous wing places say this, but I presume Odis 21 has some sort of wing competition win to back it up. I don't know if they're the very best in town, but they were pretty good and the flavors were interesting and bold. We got hot honey, buffalo mesquite, and hot blue cheese. We were both too stuffed to do more than sample the hot honey, having finished off the other two (which, frankly, we were too stuffed to do, too, but they just tasted so good...). I feel like I won't be hungry again for a long long time, but when I do eat, it had better have fresh veggies or fruit in it.
My sister's potage, I should mention, was homey, warm, comforting and just right. It's a soup made with leeks, potato and carrots. It's something my mom makes, and I've never actually paid too much attention to what goes in it. I seem to recall celery in my mom's, and now that I'm writing it, I think my sister might have put something else in, too. But the point is, you combine the veggies with water and you have soup, but then you puree it all together and you get this wonderful, velvety bowl of goodness. A little pat of butter, or perhaps a dollop of sour cream, or just some good sea salt and freshly ground pepper finish it off nicely.
I am not a big soup fan (although I'm coming around) but I've always loved this soup. Mom made it when we were sick, but also as a first course for dinner parties. It's versatile, which is just one of the things to love about it. It's a good thing to have on hand, because it's just as good heated up as it was when you made it... in fact, it's not bad cold, either. It's also one of those awesome dishes that are so much more than the sum of its parts. (It's all very Gestalt). I also love that my sister refers to it as potage. Which it is, but coming from her, it sounds even better. There's just something about the way she says it that lets you know she put a lot of love into it, and nostalgia, too. There's a tenderness to her voice. Anyway, she and I each had a bowl with just a pinch of fleur de sel. My daughter had a (much smaller) bowl with no seasoning. We were lucky that my sister forgot to salt and pepper the pot of soup itself, so my little one could share in the meal.
You know what? After blogging, I don't crave home made food so much. I realize I had it yesterday. I'm still going to look forward to cooking, although right now some potage sounds pretty darn good to me. I wonder if my sister has any left overs...
Why, you ask? What are we making? Cornish game hen? Escargot? Sundried pesto chicken roulade? Well, that's a good question. I have no idea what we're making.
What I do know is I have a real hankering for a home cooked meal. Fish tacos was my last one. Sunday night I had a migraine and couldn't even keep down water, so dinner was right out of the question. (It was hard enough feeding my precious daughter her bananas.) Darling Husband made do with Taco Bell in between taking care of me and our little girl. What a miserable time. Monday night was a mish mash evening, and my solo dinner consisted of a bowl of lovely potage my sister made and a yogurt parfait from Wegman's. Technically, I guess this counts as home cooked, but I didn't home cook it.
Tonight I had a drawing class through the art museum, so we got take-out wings from Odis 21, a bar that reputably has the best wings in Erie. Numerous wing places say this, but I presume Odis 21 has some sort of wing competition win to back it up. I don't know if they're the very best in town, but they were pretty good and the flavors were interesting and bold. We got hot honey, buffalo mesquite, and hot blue cheese. We were both too stuffed to do more than sample the hot honey, having finished off the other two (which, frankly, we were too stuffed to do, too, but they just tasted so good...). I feel like I won't be hungry again for a long long time, but when I do eat, it had better have fresh veggies or fruit in it.
My sister's potage, I should mention, was homey, warm, comforting and just right. It's a soup made with leeks, potato and carrots. It's something my mom makes, and I've never actually paid too much attention to what goes in it. I seem to recall celery in my mom's, and now that I'm writing it, I think my sister might have put something else in, too. But the point is, you combine the veggies with water and you have soup, but then you puree it all together and you get this wonderful, velvety bowl of goodness. A little pat of butter, or perhaps a dollop of sour cream, or just some good sea salt and freshly ground pepper finish it off nicely.
I am not a big soup fan (although I'm coming around) but I've always loved this soup. Mom made it when we were sick, but also as a first course for dinner parties. It's versatile, which is just one of the things to love about it. It's a good thing to have on hand, because it's just as good heated up as it was when you made it... in fact, it's not bad cold, either. It's also one of those awesome dishes that are so much more than the sum of its parts. (It's all very Gestalt). I also love that my sister refers to it as potage. Which it is, but coming from her, it sounds even better. There's just something about the way she says it that lets you know she put a lot of love into it, and nostalgia, too. There's a tenderness to her voice. Anyway, she and I each had a bowl with just a pinch of fleur de sel. My daughter had a (much smaller) bowl with no seasoning. We were lucky that my sister forgot to salt and pepper the pot of soup itself, so my little one could share in the meal.
You know what? After blogging, I don't crave home made food so much. I realize I had it yesterday. I'm still going to look forward to cooking, although right now some potage sounds pretty darn good to me. I wonder if my sister has any left overs...
Monday, April 6, 2009
Here, fishy fishy fishy
I work for a crisis agency, and one of the parts of my job is to occasionally take a shift as the on-call person for our hotline. This used to involve carrying a pager, until recently when our answering service informed us we were the last people using such devices and made us switch to cell phones. The long and short of this is on occasion, for a 12 hour block of time, I must remain sober and accessible, in town and ready to talk on the phone or, as the case may be, respond to a hospital or other such place. Whatever I do during this time, therefore, is with the understanding that I may have to drop what I'm doing and leave for hours at a time. In other words, I can't call and order pizza, because I may not be there when it arrives. Nor should I pop a quiche in the oven. Of course, sometimes the phone never rings, and so I get paid only for my accessibility. Over the years I've tended to relish the things I can get "paid" to do, like watch a movie and sleep in, or go to the zoo, or various other marital pursuits.
Saturday night, I got paid to eat fish tacos and make a "chopped" type desert, cuddle my daughter and play on the floor with her, and fall asleep watching tv. Not a bad job, I have to say.
Fish tacos sound strange, but it's a west coast thing that has caught on in the past few years. If you're not familiar, please erase from your mind any reference to the El Paso packet of taco seasoning. There's a time and a place, but it is not with fish tacos.
We made ours with catfish that we soaked in buttermilk, both to cut down on the fishiness of the catfish and to use up the buttermilk we had in our fridge. (I mean, what the hell else are we going to do with buttermilk?) We then coated it in cornmeal seasoned with salt, pepper and cayenne and let it get good and crispy in a pan with some oil. A smear of homemade guacamole, a few diced tomatoes and onion, and some fresh chopped parsley and cilantro finished the taco, served in a tortilla, of course.
Oh, but I forgot the remoulade! My Darling Husband suggested it, which I thought was very brave of him. I combined light mayo (about half a cup) with the juice of most of a lime, along with a healthy pinch of salt, a few cranks of pepper, a few dashes of cayenne and about 1/4 tsp each finely minced cilantro and parsley. It was tangy and creamy and the perfect accompaniment. We both enjoyed it. :o)
We had felt the hankering of a Chopped sort of challenge, but it was my turn and, being that I was on-call, it seemed ill advised. As a sort of compromise, we settled on a Chopped desert. Darling Husband presented me with steel cut oats, guava paste and creme fraiche.
I'm not big on making deserts. As I think I've mentioned, I don't actually enjoy baking. I'm not adverse to eating desert, mind you, but I'm well aware of my limitations. I was pleased that he was so gentle on me in choosing my ingredients.
I started off by making oatmeal, as I didn't know what else to do. I followed the directions, combining 3 cups of water with 1 cup of oats, bring to a boil with a pinch of salt, reduce to a simmer and cook for 40 minutes. Then I microplaned in some brown sugar, as mine had clumped beyond salvage, and some tamari glazed almonds. I also chopped some of the almonds and added them in for crunch. I stirred in an egg yolk and about a cup or maybe more of flour. I spread this gluey mixture in the bottom of a pan, approximately 1/3 inch deep and baked until crusty on top, with a tanned appearance.
The guava paste was much more solid than I expected, almost rubbery. It resembled canned cranberry sauce that had somehow gelled much more than it should have. I cut it with a knife, and found it to be very sticky. I hacked off a wedge, chopped it and tried to melt it in a small sauce pan. I only succeeded in sizzling it. Apparently, there's not enough liquid in it to melt. I added some water and that helped, but I ended up using a stick blender to puree it.
When the oatmeal cookie/cake had cooled, I used cookie cutters to cut some out and arrange on a plate, which I topped with vanilla ice cream. I smeared the guava around the plate and topped with chopped tamari almonds. The creme fraiche I whipped and added, unaltered, to the side of the plate. Mmmmmmh. The oatmeal was chewy and not too sweet, but hearty and good. The almonds gave a nice crunch and also a tartness to add dimension. The guava was rather sweet, but also tart, too. All and all, a nice balance with the ice cream.
I've chosen three ingredients for Darling Husband to use to make desert. Dried cherries, fresh ginger and chestnut puree. I really don't know what I would do with them, but I'm looking forward to what he'll come up with!
Oh, and my phone never did ring Saturday night. That's good for me, and I like to think that it was good for our community, too, that no one needed me that night.
Saturday night, I got paid to eat fish tacos and make a "chopped" type desert, cuddle my daughter and play on the floor with her, and fall asleep watching tv. Not a bad job, I have to say.
Fish tacos sound strange, but it's a west coast thing that has caught on in the past few years. If you're not familiar, please erase from your mind any reference to the El Paso packet of taco seasoning. There's a time and a place, but it is not with fish tacos.
We made ours with catfish that we soaked in buttermilk, both to cut down on the fishiness of the catfish and to use up the buttermilk we had in our fridge. (I mean, what the hell else are we going to do with buttermilk?) We then coated it in cornmeal seasoned with salt, pepper and cayenne and let it get good and crispy in a pan with some oil. A smear of homemade guacamole, a few diced tomatoes and onion, and some fresh chopped parsley and cilantro finished the taco, served in a tortilla, of course.
Oh, but I forgot the remoulade! My Darling Husband suggested it, which I thought was very brave of him. I combined light mayo (about half a cup) with the juice of most of a lime, along with a healthy pinch of salt, a few cranks of pepper, a few dashes of cayenne and about 1/4 tsp each finely minced cilantro and parsley. It was tangy and creamy and the perfect accompaniment. We both enjoyed it. :o)
We had felt the hankering of a Chopped sort of challenge, but it was my turn and, being that I was on-call, it seemed ill advised. As a sort of compromise, we settled on a Chopped desert. Darling Husband presented me with steel cut oats, guava paste and creme fraiche.
I'm not big on making deserts. As I think I've mentioned, I don't actually enjoy baking. I'm not adverse to eating desert, mind you, but I'm well aware of my limitations. I was pleased that he was so gentle on me in choosing my ingredients.
I started off by making oatmeal, as I didn't know what else to do. I followed the directions, combining 3 cups of water with 1 cup of oats, bring to a boil with a pinch of salt, reduce to a simmer and cook for 40 minutes. Then I microplaned in some brown sugar, as mine had clumped beyond salvage, and some tamari glazed almonds. I also chopped some of the almonds and added them in for crunch. I stirred in an egg yolk and about a cup or maybe more of flour. I spread this gluey mixture in the bottom of a pan, approximately 1/3 inch deep and baked until crusty on top, with a tanned appearance.
The guava paste was much more solid than I expected, almost rubbery. It resembled canned cranberry sauce that had somehow gelled much more than it should have. I cut it with a knife, and found it to be very sticky. I hacked off a wedge, chopped it and tried to melt it in a small sauce pan. I only succeeded in sizzling it. Apparently, there's not enough liquid in it to melt. I added some water and that helped, but I ended up using a stick blender to puree it.
When the oatmeal cookie/cake had cooled, I used cookie cutters to cut some out and arrange on a plate, which I topped with vanilla ice cream. I smeared the guava around the plate and topped with chopped tamari almonds. The creme fraiche I whipped and added, unaltered, to the side of the plate. Mmmmmmh. The oatmeal was chewy and not too sweet, but hearty and good. The almonds gave a nice crunch and also a tartness to add dimension. The guava was rather sweet, but also tart, too. All and all, a nice balance with the ice cream.
I've chosen three ingredients for Darling Husband to use to make desert. Dried cherries, fresh ginger and chestnut puree. I really don't know what I would do with them, but I'm looking forward to what he'll come up with!
Oh, and my phone never did ring Saturday night. That's good for me, and I like to think that it was good for our community, too, that no one needed me that night.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
The taste of creme fraiche
A short post tonight, as we are all pretty tired... the kind of happy tired you get at the end of a long, productive but restful day.
I opened up a container of creme fraiche while fixing dinner and was happy, because we had found creme fraiche at Wegman's. They don't always carry it. I was pleased in the abstract, but then I dipped my finger in to taste.
Suddenly, it's as if I was catapulted back almost nine months.
After we brought our daughter home from the hospital, one of the things my mother brought to us was a pre-made meal of chicken breasts, green beans and creme fraiche. It was July, and very hot. Cooking was so far down on the priority list, I really wasn't sure I'd cook again--or, at least, not until my daughter was old enough to sit down and read a book while I did. I won't try to explain my state of mind, except to say that I, myself, forgot just what it was like until tonight.
The taste of that creme fraiche on the hot July night was a balm to my soul. It was the taste of good food, not complicated, but fresh and with quality ingredients. It was the taste of my mom taking care of me in one of the ways she does best. I remember being surprised at the tang and creaminess of the creme fraiche at the time, and how perfectly it complimented the chicken.
Tonight may have been a chilly, damp April night, but for all I noticed, it may as well have been 95 degrees. Thanks, mom.
I opened up a container of creme fraiche while fixing dinner and was happy, because we had found creme fraiche at Wegman's. They don't always carry it. I was pleased in the abstract, but then I dipped my finger in to taste.
Suddenly, it's as if I was catapulted back almost nine months.
After we brought our daughter home from the hospital, one of the things my mother brought to us was a pre-made meal of chicken breasts, green beans and creme fraiche. It was July, and very hot. Cooking was so far down on the priority list, I really wasn't sure I'd cook again--or, at least, not until my daughter was old enough to sit down and read a book while I did. I won't try to explain my state of mind, except to say that I, myself, forgot just what it was like until tonight.
The taste of that creme fraiche on the hot July night was a balm to my soul. It was the taste of good food, not complicated, but fresh and with quality ingredients. It was the taste of my mom taking care of me in one of the ways she does best. I remember being surprised at the tang and creaminess of the creme fraiche at the time, and how perfectly it complimented the chicken.
Tonight may have been a chilly, damp April night, but for all I noticed, it may as well have been 95 degrees. Thanks, mom.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Plantain a Go-Go, a quick meal
Preparing plantains is not hard, but it does take a teeny bit of know-how.
First, choosing your plantain: If your plantain looks like a perfect banana, let it sit a week. Forget about it. When you finally remember, you'll see this yucky black and blemished skin and say to yourself, "Damn, there's 99 cents down the drain." Ah, but this is the perfect moment! The trick to plantains is to use them only when they look just about ready to be composted. Before that, they're tasteless and overly starchy. After that, well, it's hard to scrape off the coffee grounds and potato peels.
Prepping: Peeling them isn't like peeling a banana. You'll need to chop off the hard ends and then score the peel down the length in a few places. An unripe plantain will be a bear to peel, with the peel itself sticking to the flesh of the plantain like, well, like unripe plantain. A ripe one will roll out of its skin much the way a banana can.
There are many ways to use a plantain, but here's how we like them. It's a variation on a Latin dish, but we only fry them once (more in a minute).
Cooking: Cut the plantains into 1 1/2 to 2 inch slices Using a flat bottomed bowl or other similar utensil, apply even downward pressure to squash the plantain slice. Don't mash it completely onto the cutting board, but get them good and flat. (there is a sort of hinge that does this specifically, but who really needs it unless you're making this all the time? Besides, squishing is fun!)
Bring equal parts canola and olive oil to hot temperature in a skillet. You don't need a ton, just enough to come half way up your squished plantains. (FYI, the traditional latin dish fries the plantains once in their sliced form, then squishes, then fries a second time in squashed form.) Fry to a lovely brown crisp, flip and allow to color on the other side; drain on a paper towel. Salt immediately with kosher or sea salt. Yummmmmm.
We served them with roasted asparagus and carrots, baked at 375 for 20 minutes or so with a drizzle of olive oil and a few shakes of citrus basil rub. You could just as easily use salt and pepper, but I happen to have this on hand.
Is it the quickest meal I've ever made? Of course not. But it comes in well under 30 minutes, and packs a lot of flavor. The shrimp are sweet from the natural sweetness of the shellfish, and spicy and bright, too. The splenda in them only offsets the sourness of the lime, but doesn't make it actually sweet. The asparagus are crispy and soft all at once, and melt in your mouth. The plantains are crunchy on the outside, soft inside, with a banana sweetness but also a starchy backbone. Try one of these components, or the whole meal, the next time you are wandering the produce aisle and get inspired.
First, choosing your plantain: If your plantain looks like a perfect banana, let it sit a week. Forget about it. When you finally remember, you'll see this yucky black and blemished skin and say to yourself, "Damn, there's 99 cents down the drain." Ah, but this is the perfect moment! The trick to plantains is to use them only when they look just about ready to be composted. Before that, they're tasteless and overly starchy. After that, well, it's hard to scrape off the coffee grounds and potato peels.
Prepping: Peeling them isn't like peeling a banana. You'll need to chop off the hard ends and then score the peel down the length in a few places. An unripe plantain will be a bear to peel, with the peel itself sticking to the flesh of the plantain like, well, like unripe plantain. A ripe one will roll out of its skin much the way a banana can.
There are many ways to use a plantain, but here's how we like them. It's a variation on a Latin dish, but we only fry them once (more in a minute).
Cooking: Cut the plantains into 1 1/2 to 2 inch slices Using a flat bottomed bowl or other similar utensil, apply even downward pressure to squash the plantain slice. Don't mash it completely onto the cutting board, but get them good and flat. (there is a sort of hinge that does this specifically, but who really needs it unless you're making this all the time? Besides, squishing is fun!)
Bring equal parts canola and olive oil to hot temperature in a skillet. You don't need a ton, just enough to come half way up your squished plantains. (FYI, the traditional latin dish fries the plantains once in their sliced form, then squishes, then fries a second time in squashed form.) Fry to a lovely brown crisp, flip and allow to color on the other side; drain on a paper towel. Salt immediately with kosher or sea salt. Yummmmmm.
We served them with roasted asparagus and carrots, baked at 375 for 20 minutes or so with a drizzle of olive oil and a few shakes of citrus basil rub. You could just as easily use salt and pepper, but I happen to have this on hand.
For protein we made Sizzle Shrimp, one of my favorite quick night meals. Since I was spending more time on the plantains, it was an easy way to make the meal still get to the table in a little amount of time. Put about 2 Tbsp sambol olek in a large skillet and fry in about a teaspoon of olive oil until fragrant and yummy, about a minute. Add the fresh juice of about half a lime. Quickly arrange a pound of shelled, raw shrimp in the pan, making sure the shrimp do not overlap. When the pink color comes half way up the shrimp, flip them over and immediately add a healthy few grinds of black pepper and about a teaspoon of splenda. One could use sugar, but would probably want to add it in differently so that it dissolved. Toss the shrimp in the pan, coating with the oil and sauce, and add the rest of the lime juice. Serve immediately, making sure not to overcook the shrimp. You might want to have crusty bread to sop up the sauce.
Too spicy? Try reducing the sambol olek and increasing the lime. You could also put a splash of white wine or even stock to flesh out the sauce a bit.
Is it the quickest meal I've ever made? Of course not. But it comes in well under 30 minutes, and packs a lot of flavor. The shrimp are sweet from the natural sweetness of the shellfish, and spicy and bright, too. The splenda in them only offsets the sourness of the lime, but doesn't make it actually sweet. The asparagus are crispy and soft all at once, and melt in your mouth. The plantains are crunchy on the outside, soft inside, with a banana sweetness but also a starchy backbone. Try one of these components, or the whole meal, the next time you are wandering the produce aisle and get inspired.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
What's that smell?
I heard the greatest story on NPR today, one that I had to tell a number of people because it tickled my fancy and brought happiness to my world. The link to the story is here, but I'll sum it up for you. This Harvard scientist was researching the way ants communicate through chemical signals, and found that when an ant dies, the other ants ignore it until two days after it's dead. At this time, the ant carcass gives off a certain scent. The very next ant who happens by grabs the corpse and takes it to the ant graveyard, throwing it on the other dead ants. He spent ages testing out various chemicals (the essence of rotting fish, feces and sweat, to name a few) until he discovered what the chemical was. Well, in the wacky world of academia, the next logical step is to see if you can screw with some ants. First, he made dummy ants, sprayed them with this stuff, and watched the ants react as if it were a real corpse. Then the fun started. He sprayed a live ant with the chemical. The very next ant to happen by grabbed the struggling (and, presumably, baffled) ant, hauled it to the graveyard, and threw it in. You can picture it, can't you? "Hey! Hey! I'm not dead! Tiffany, wait! It's me, Beth! Heeeeeyyyyy! Ewwwwww!" The poor ant cleaned herself off as best as she could, returned to the colony, and was promptly picked up by another ant and carted back off to the graveyard. It took her about an hour to clean herself off well enough to be accepted as alive and not some strange zombie ant.
I was listening to this while driving. I started laughing so hard I nearly missed the road to my sister's house.
I was reflecting on this story while I was making dinner tonight, and I had a revelation. Bear with me as I ponderously explain.
When I was pregnant, I would occasionally get a whiff of fishiness from my food. Now, I'm talking about not-at-all-containing-fish, haven't-cooked-fish-all-week sort of food... and not necessarily strong, but just a touch. Enough to make me turn up my nose. Sometimes I couldn't finish the dish, sometimes I just had to take a few deep breaths and then could go back to eating. I'm pretty sure Darling Husband thought I was pretty insane, asking him to please smell the grilled cheese and see if it smelled fishy to him. Because it never did.
I haven't really given it much thought outside of that. Until tonight, when I started thinking about smells in general. I often find I get the strangest smells when I'm doing making a roux, for example. (I should explain that a roux is made by melting butter, oil or another fat in a pan, adding in flour and cooking them together. The raw flour taste cooks out quickly. This is the basis for creamy white sauces like bechamel, too. When doing a white sauce, you leave the roux really rather blonde. When making gumbo, you're aiming for more of a coffee, nut brown color. The flavor this adds is indescribable.) At first, it just smells like butter. Then, after a few minutes, there's a distinct banana smell. It's truly strange. After a while, there's a strong popcorn aroma to the roux. This, too, is just a phase. Then it just smells like awesome roux, particularly when you throw in onions and oh, I'm getting off topic.
Once when I mentioned the banana phase of roux making to Darling Husband, he (who has a degree in chemical engineering) explained that the "banana" smell is a chemical that bananas release. It's the same thing they use to ripen fruit, which is why if you put a banana in a brown paper bag with some peaches or whatever, they will ripen faster. Somewhere in the building of the roux, then, this chemical compound must form.
Cooking is, after all, an elaborate chemistry experiment.
Back to the ants. And dinner. So I'm frying up plantains tonight, and I get that old, familiar wisp of fishiness. Suddenly it all clicks. I'm not crazy, I just smell well! There must be a chemical that, to me, smells of fish. And it must be present in the cooking process of some foods. When I was pregnant, I was very sensitive to smells, and so it makes sense that I would smell them more strongly then. Ah-HAH!
I have a super sniffer!
Tonight the fishiness passed quickly, and the plantains were fantastic. I'll blog about them later, because I have quite a lot to say on the proper selection and preparation of plantains. But for now, gentle readers, I bid you adieu and bonne nuit. May your worlds smell sweet.
I was listening to this while driving. I started laughing so hard I nearly missed the road to my sister's house.
I was reflecting on this story while I was making dinner tonight, and I had a revelation. Bear with me as I ponderously explain.
When I was pregnant, I would occasionally get a whiff of fishiness from my food. Now, I'm talking about not-at-all-containing-fish, haven't-cooked-fish-all-week sort of food... and not necessarily strong, but just a touch. Enough to make me turn up my nose. Sometimes I couldn't finish the dish, sometimes I just had to take a few deep breaths and then could go back to eating. I'm pretty sure Darling Husband thought I was pretty insane, asking him to please smell the grilled cheese and see if it smelled fishy to him. Because it never did.
I haven't really given it much thought outside of that. Until tonight, when I started thinking about smells in general. I often find I get the strangest smells when I'm doing making a roux, for example. (I should explain that a roux is made by melting butter, oil or another fat in a pan, adding in flour and cooking them together. The raw flour taste cooks out quickly. This is the basis for creamy white sauces like bechamel, too. When doing a white sauce, you leave the roux really rather blonde. When making gumbo, you're aiming for more of a coffee, nut brown color. The flavor this adds is indescribable.) At first, it just smells like butter. Then, after a few minutes, there's a distinct banana smell. It's truly strange. After a while, there's a strong popcorn aroma to the roux. This, too, is just a phase. Then it just smells like awesome roux, particularly when you throw in onions and oh, I'm getting off topic.
Once when I mentioned the banana phase of roux making to Darling Husband, he (who has a degree in chemical engineering) explained that the "banana" smell is a chemical that bananas release. It's the same thing they use to ripen fruit, which is why if you put a banana in a brown paper bag with some peaches or whatever, they will ripen faster. Somewhere in the building of the roux, then, this chemical compound must form.
Cooking is, after all, an elaborate chemistry experiment.
Back to the ants. And dinner. So I'm frying up plantains tonight, and I get that old, familiar wisp of fishiness. Suddenly it all clicks. I'm not crazy, I just smell well! There must be a chemical that, to me, smells of fish. And it must be present in the cooking process of some foods. When I was pregnant, I was very sensitive to smells, and so it makes sense that I would smell them more strongly then. Ah-HAH!
I have a super sniffer!
Tonight the fishiness passed quickly, and the plantains were fantastic. I'll blog about them later, because I have quite a lot to say on the proper selection and preparation of plantains. But for now, gentle readers, I bid you adieu and bonne nuit. May your worlds smell sweet.
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