BingoFest

11 March 2024

They are milestones, little ones, between Christmas and Easter. There are a number of them. Two of them are national days MLK, and President’s Day. Two of them are saint’s days that have become part of our secular culture, Valentine’s Day and St. Patty’s. Two of them are strictly cultural-The Super Bowl and the Oscars. It can be hard to know which ones really deserve your attention. The Super Bowl has a long had a reputation for being a big food day. I once read a “study” that the Super Bowl is the 2nd most food planned day of the year after Thanksgiving. Whether that is true or not, the Super Bowl is known for foods like buffalo wings, nachos, and pizza, so no need for the good silver.

I’ve never been able to bring myself to cook a large quantity of chicken wings, I get so worried wondering what happened to the rest of the little guy. Wing eating sessions are one of the only opportunities you get to see the real carnivore in so many of us homo sapiens. Wrists and sleeves covered in the blue cheese and flaming orange hot sauce while otherwise decorous friends nearly choke on grisly skin and exposed knob knuckles of bone. I must confess, I do love them. Then nibble a celery stick.

I usually love to do corned beef for St. Patrick’s Day, but this is not to be. The reason is simple-my fridge was full to bursting with food, there was no room for a big piece of brisket. Nevermind. Let it be. What has been done, has been done. What has not been done, has not been done. Of course, I will make soda bread, and have a full head of cabbage somewhere in there too.

Call me what you will, but if you meatheads can go nuts for football, I can go nuts for the Oscars, and nuts I must go. I have always loved the awards and watched them since I was old enough to operate a remote control. Many people say that they represent the worst our country has to offer. Beautiful entitled rich people congratulate themselves on their history-changing performances in an orgy of glamor, waste, and opulence, all the while looking down and finger-wagging at the unwashed masses who are warming their hands around the barrel fire. In fact, it should be celebrated for just this reason. It is the most over-the-top, in-your-face, no-holds-barred, winner-take-all, we’re-number-one evening. It couldn’t be more American if it featured a car crash.

This year, my Oscars offering was as humble as the ceremony itself. An evening of level-headed and eclectic choices for awards. Speeches brief and uncontroversial. Inoffensive dad jokes. No one was attacked or brutalized, it was kind a boring. I made one of my favorite party dishes-an old Julia Child warhorse she called Granny’s Tatoes for a Crowd, which makes it a pan in the ass to find in the index as it is not listed under Potatoes, tatoes, or Grandma, you have to get her just right. Thumbs down, Julia. What ever happened to Pommes Gratin au Grand Mere or something fincy fancy like that? It’s all good, I didn’t have to look for the recipe, it’s in my heart, I think literally. Anyway, it clogs your arteries with a rich bechamel sauce enriched with Dijon and garlic, giving it a zip and a zing. Covered in feather-light minced ham, and you got yourself a dinner. Asparagus, and rolls and this-

Now don’t worry, this was the pre-cleaned up version, I dusted away some of the crumble graham cracker crust around this creamy and splendid dark chocolate cheesecake. It was so lovely and delicious, my friends congratulated me with this magnificent centerpiece, salvaged as it was from the indifference of the city’s streets:

Hmmm, it says so much.

But, what?

5 February Monday

   In these lean days of rainy mid-winter, I open the freezer. What treasure from the past will become my dinner tonight? What a great thing, what an act of love that past me has bestowed on present me! First, a container of split-pea soup with thick red shreds of ham that I made probably in July when it’s really cold here. Then, minestrone from the summer with seasonal veggies and the wonderful chicken stock. When reheated, they are as fresh and scrumptious as they day they were made. Next, a pantry raid.

   OK, pantry raided. The above paragraph was written weeks ago, in the before time. See, since I’ve been back from my NYC trip, life has been lifeing, sometimes against my plans. The past makes the present indeed. In the first weeks of 2024, several teacher, mentor, and inspiration figures in my life died. They were long-lived, had done their work, carried their bales, and earned their rest. It is the good and natural movement. When someone from the past that I have not talked to for many years dies, I suddenly find myself recalling memories I hadn’t remembered having. It’s like the freezer of my mind. I open it up, and there they are, the encouraging words from long ago, ready to be thawed out at just the moment I need them, ready to be comforted and fed. It is sad and wonderful and all the things that are what life are. Who would you be without your people that made you who you are? Who would you be? You and I are the collection of the little bits of them that stuck to us, to our personalities and made us a little more ourselves. Like sesame seeds stick to bagels.

From the pantry-salt, yeast, flour, sesame seeds. Then

In addition to the death going around, atmospheric rivers. The atmospheric river Styx, if you will. Rain, rain, pouring down. What then to do but bake? Or, in the case of bagels, boiled then baked. Certainly wonderful, a great texture. Dense and chewy inside, light and crisp on the outside. And so easy, too easy. I would dare say the best bagel I’ve had on the West Coast. When it wasn’t raining, it was this:

Golden Gate Park on a late Monday morning, mid-winter. Between deluge and torrent.

  Life is good, and I am told, short, though my life so far has been well paced if I say so. Keep a’cooking, keep a’goin, and thanks thanks thanks to the good ole world for the funny people, and don’t forget to tell their jokes.

29 November Wednesday

I’ve often thought that if I ever became a film or tv director or playwright or novelist or something that requires you to create titles to things, I would try to come up with titles that may be stories in themselves but have nothing whatsoever to do with the story behind it. Now, with novels, you sort of expect to the title to not really tell you anything about the story, that’s part of what intrigues us. For instance, Gone with the Wind really has little to do with weather, and The Sun also Rises is not about advances in astronomy. But with movies you kinda expect a film called Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure wouldn’t be a documentary meditation on old-world beekeeping nuns in Minnesota. I’ll start with this blog post. It’s not about biscuits, and who Barney and Boo may be is anyone’s guess. But I bet it piqued your interest. What is this post about?

Christmas baking. It’s that time again. I will confess something to you: Baking Christmas cookies is not a thing I like to do by myself. You need kids to put sprinkles on things, spill milk on things, flour flying through the air, the hot oven taking tray after tray, dad eating them with abandon still steaming hot, the sweet, avuncular croon of Burl Ives crackling forth from the ole’ Victrola. Too sentimental!!

In my sunny San Francisco bachelor pad, I will explore the cold, stony North in my seasonal offerings. I am going to work with sweet yeast doughs in fruit dribbling braids, brushed with egg wash and baked to a shiny brown. I will make the complex design for Swedish Saffron Buns for St. Lucy’s Day. This is a curious Yuletide celebration in Sweden, when young girls serve things to people while also doubling as human candle stands. I don’t mean to say curious, but I do think young people would feel very different about Christmas here in the US if they were forced to have their heads weighed down with flaming wreaths, hot wax dripping onto their eyelids, carrying heavy trays of dainty sweets, eaten by the elders right in front of them. Good thing their eyes are singed shut!

Yes, I did this.

27 November Monday

There it is. The scene from a few days ago. The dinner was a success but we knew that it would be.

That Julia Child. I cursed her name a few times while prepping this poor animal, but in the end, I and the art of fine cooking prevailed, and we all agreed that this is the best way to prepare turkey legs. Remove the thigh bone, roll up the meat, wrap the skin around the exposed meat, then truss it all up, and bang you got yourself the miracle pictured above. I should mention that before suture took place I seasoned the now boneless meat with salt, pepper, and a few fresh sage leaves. It was absolutely wonderful. This is not just meat for Thanksgiving, it is a special occasion of all sorts sort of thing. I may make it again for my birthday or something fine like that.

Thar she blows, a roasted pumpkin soup in the pumpkin. It was OK, though didn’t hold a candle to Julia’s bird. Here is one thing: because the turkey has been cut up, and partially boned it takes a lot less time to cook and consequently finished before the soup even went in. We had one little taste of turkey, and it was over. We wanted the potatoes, the green bean casserole, the cranberries, the everything else. The gravy. Large boats full of it.

A welcome and refreshing change from pumpkin pie, though we all love that too, don’t we? A wonderful, light vanilla custard topped with pureed raspberries and cranberries. Tangy and only lightly sweet. Not cloying or heavy at all. Just perfect.

That’s it, really. Pretty standard stuff, all well done. I had a weekend staying with friends, eating more turkey, telling stories, and laughing my ass off.

The view from my guest bedroom window. I tend to sleep in when I’m at other peoples houses. I have no chores to tend to so have no incentive to get up early. That’s it. I’m grateful for so much in life. We went to a plant shop in Berkeley and among the little buds, this:

A beautiful fall day in California, no doubt about it. Finally, the weekend winds down. A much needed rest. My dreams will guide my next steps. A tree? Decoration? Party? Cookies? What?

21 November Tuesday

Wow, I’m really hungry. What do I want to eat? The horrible days before Thanksgiving. A turkey that’s taking up so much space in the fridge there is room for little else. You may have seen that brief post with the pumpkin cheesecake, which is still good and waning in the fridge. This stuff has got to go if I’m gonna get a move on with that Thanksgiving dinner. No room in the freezer, no room in the fridge. That’s a problem.

See, before ya have fun and get to cookin all them yummy foods, you need to clean and clear out, and get everything ready, and go get the food. It’s the crappy part. NO, I will be of good cheer.

But here’s the exciting part. A kitchen full of treasures. I’ve decided to do a few different things this year. We’re gonna start with pumpkin. Pumpkin soup, served in the pumpkin. I have a rich and wonderful chicken/vegetable broth that will go beautifully in the pumpkin, a nice, light starter. Then, for dessert, I am going to do a Cranberry and Raspberry tart. To get our pumpkin spice fix, sweet potato casserole. Then the usual, turkeystuffinggravymashedpotatoescranberrysauce. It really is just one dish.

12 November Sunday

Above, an interesting and unusual pie, a big surprise frankly. That is Pumpkin Cheesecake Pie, a recipe from Erin McDowell, queen of pastry. A cookie crust holds the cream cheese custard extended with pumpkin puree. There is no spice of any kind. It is a cheesecake that tastes like pumpkin and it is really quite very good.

Now my thoughts turn to Thanksgiving.

8 November Wednesday

It gave me pause to learn that pumpkin spice season is over. First, we had to invent pumpkin spice season, then we had to make it end. It seems odd that the very famous coffee-drink chain has declared the season over and now, it is Christmas season. Meaning, apparently, a lot of mint, a flavor I do not associate with Christmas. OK, maybe one thing, Peppermint bark. How odd, I mean I think that pumpkin spice season would last at least, at least, to Thanksgiving, you know, when we actually eat the pumpkin pie. In many households where the dish is popular, pumpkin pie will be served on Christmas Day. Though, I think after New Year we give it a rest.

The craving for pumpkin spice is a real one, and getting the right balance of nutmeg, cinnamon, mace, clove, and varyingly, dry ginger, star anise, cardamom can be a tricky one. In fact, I theorize that this contributes the enduring popularity pumpkin pie. Some folks like it very nutmeggy, almost soapy, which I think must have been popular in the 1940s. The 1980s were cinnamon city baby, and now, perhaps ginger leaning, something tangier. You see? It changes with the taste of the times. I don’t know, I’m making this all up.

There it is, dear friends, a story in three pictures, I need say not one word more. Now, I don’t like to talk about plans BEFORE I do them, but it leaves me with little else to write about today. The things I don’t like to write about are called ideas, many of which do not become experiences, but hopefully a few of these will.

First, I did my annual outing with Roy Andreis de Groot’s Foods of the Seasons cookbook, made a menu that included roasted Canada goose, a dish I remember as “Moorish Couscous Mountain”, and all sorts of other crap. Of course, the book is back on the shelf. Although, I am fascinated with the idea of cooking a goose for one of these holidays coming up. I just looked at the holiday menu at Gus’s and looked at the order form for geese. We’ll see.

I have been working on a few things lately. It’s not always like me to experiment with making my sauces, but recently I’ve been toying with some dry herbs and the millions of spices I have. First, umami, baby, umami. I made a sauce with soy, light soy, fresh ginger, garlic, chili flake, black bean paste for chicken and bell peppers. Chinese Five-Spice butter for pork chops? Bingo bongo. Last night, I made a sauce with tons of mushrooms and toasted onions, tomato paste, browned the butter before smothering the pile of coiled egg pasta in the rich reddish brown sauce and the first snow fall of winter Parmesan. On Top of Spaghetti indeed.

I’ve come into two bunches of asparagus out of season from Mexico. It doesn’t look great, it doesn’t taste great, but it is food none-the-less, which means soup. Leek and asparagus soup, milk and hot stock, salt and pepper. I’ve come around. When I was a kid, soup was generally hearty with chunks of vegetable and or meat in broth. Later, I really enjoyed completely pureed, thinner soups that are eaten as a first course in French food. Now I’m coming around to the idea of a mostly pureed soup with soft small morsels of the article upon which the soup is based. A carrot soup would, for instance, have small bits of carrot, whereas my asparagus soup will have morsels of asparagus. So, that’s a change in my soup universe.

The soup is bubbling on the stovetop. OK, here is the recipe I came up with: I am playing more with toasting the butter before throwing in the finely diced onion and shallot, then chopped asparagus, two russet potatoes, a package of frozen peas, two teaspoons of marjoram, and half a teaspoon of smoked paprika, salt and pepper. I took an immersion blender to it but left many of the peas either whole or knicked. It was yummy, it really was. The beurre noisette is key. OK, dishes are done, the house is settling. I’m ready for bed.

23 September Saturday

Change is good, sometimes. Long story short, my hot water heater said goodbye in a flood of tears, and I got a new kitchen floor out of it. Regard:

Before. Yes, the floor is filthy. It’s impossible to clean because the harder you scrub, the easier the tiles pop up from the floor. Bye bye, old floor.

Voila. New floor, new life. Now, of course I wouldn’t have mentioned any of this you dearies if it had been say, the bathroom tile or a new paint job for the bedroom. I told you about this because this is where the magic happens. Meaning the food. The food happens in the kitchen.

This gave me a new opportunity to imagine how I use the kitchen space, which I have done, and may write about some other time but not now because it’s boring to me. The point is, it’s better, and the salt and pepper are still right by my hand. The ice cream maker I use twice a year? It’s gone on a higher shelf.

I had the best of intentions once again. I was gonna invite people over, have a last Rose of summer dinner party, I won’t share the menu cause it will only stir regret in my heart. Well, it wasn’t my fault, it took longer for the fellas to lay the new flooring than first imagined. So, I ended up making something easy: homemade pizza.

Now, this is my favorite way to make pizza. Homemade pizza dough is so incredibly simple it’s amazing that kits and frozen doughs even exist. 1.5 cups warm water, 2 tsps active dry yeast, 1 tsp. salt, 3tbs olive oil. Proof the yeast in water, add the other stuff, then enough flour till it holds all together, probably 4 cups or so. I knead it several minutes right in the mixing bowl. The thing to remember is, the less flour you use, the crisper the crust will be. The other thing to remember is to keep the dough covered in oil the entire time, including when you shape the dough in the pan. This will also make the crust crisp, and all the way under by the way, not just at the edge and the center gets soggy, each piece is solid and crisp. The oil on top of the dough makes it possible to handle more sauce and toppings.

You can make thin, free form crusts right on the baking stone. You can make it in normal round pans for a typical, thinnish crust pan pizza. Or, you can do what I did, enough dough for two pizzas into one large baking tray. What is it about square pieces of pizza that I love so much more than triangles? Actually, triangles are OK if they are thin and you can fold them a la New York style. This slightly thicker crust is sturdy and so so good, adorned with the supreme pair of pizza toppings. Now I’m not taking about pepperoni and sausage, it’s definitely not pineapple and ham, and it is most certainly absolutely not chicken and barbeque sauce. It is green pepper and mushrooms. I’ve been thinking lately that green bell pepper may be my favorite vegetable. I love them cooked in all forms stuffed, diced, stir-fried, boiled, roasted. Back to our pizza, suffocating beneath an avalanche of mozzarella and mozzarella bufala. Fresh basil. Salt and pepper. Simply delicious. Here’s the picture again:

In the meantime, fall has arrived, and boy can you feel it in the air here in San Francisco. As I type this, I have college football on. Boy, you’ve changed, Benji. I want pumpkin pie. And apple pie. And plum cake. And Chili. And roasted chicken with mashed potatoes. Brussels Sprouts. Shellfish. Persimmon pudding. Cinnamon and cloves. Nutmeg and mace. Is it getting through to you too?

Good-bye, old hot water heater. Many was the time you scalded me. I loved you nonetheless.

13 September Wednesday

It was a beautiful day for a game, ladies and gentlemen. The Giants took the Guardians somethin to somethin in so many innings. There were a couple of homers toward the end, it was pretty slow to that point.

Going to a sports stadium must be a very different experience than when my Granpda was a strapping young lad. I wonder if he was allowed back in the stadium if he left for a minute. I wonder if he went through a metal detector, was told he was not allowed to bring a bag in the stadium and that he had to pay for a locker and get his bag at the end. I wonder what he’d think of a small beer for $15 or a hot dog for $15. Mostly, I wonder what he’d think of the idea that families can’t bring their own food and drink in for a picnic. We bought the tickets! How offensive, really. I had a beautiful little baguette which I scarfed down before I got in the so-called security line. You must buy a ticket to be held captive by the corporations that bilk the customer out of so much ranting and raving and ya da ya da ya da and it ain’t what it used to be and in my day they played on real grass and all that jazz.

How lovely it must have been, to catch a fly ball in your left hand while munching a soft, homemade tuna salad sandwich from your right hand. That must have been lovely. I imagine other scenarios. What about a seventh inning stretch activity that involves shooting hot omelets out of a t-shirt gun into the crowd to catch with their mouths? What about an accompanying biscuit gun? What about strapping a tankard of bisque to the top of your head with a long straw that allows to enjoy your soup without a bowl or spoon? Why isn’t there a patisserie cart or dim sum? These are great ball park foods. Who isn’t tired of giant, salty pretzels? What if they had locally made, small business food carts inside? Now, we’re cookin!

On to other things-

Eggplant Parmesan, one of my favs.

I have noticed that the some of the foods I most love are things that my mother would eat when we were kids. The first time I ordered Eggplant Parm, I distinctly remember thinking “my mom loves this dish” and it was time for me to try it. A grown up.

It can be difficult to get just right, partly because a lot of people don’t get excited when you mention eggplant, so it kinda has to be a win. The eggplant can be too thick, the crust gets soggy and runs into the sauce. I thought to myself I’d never try to make it because there is a restaurant near by, (shout out to Emmy’s Spaghetti Shack!) that makes a perfect, perfect eggplant parm. Well, I got some eggplant of my own and decided to have a go.

This is where I really have learned to use the wok- for frying. It is the ideal vessel, it holds the heat well, there is a lot of space at the top so there is no grease splatter or etc. Simple pimple. Sliced and salted eggplant, get rid of the yuck. Peel it too. Dip in flour then beaten egg then bread crumbs and drop it in oil 350F, when it looks done, it is. Crisp and savory on the outside, soft and mellow on the inside.

Homemade tomato sauce, onion, carrot, celery, garlic, tomatoes, salt, pepper.

Smother in cheese. Cook till the cheese and tomato look like geysers of lava bursting forth from the surface of the earth. How this happens, I will never care, I just need it to continue: The eggplant slices remain crisp and sturdy with the bubbling sauce and molten cheese on top. A little buttered pasta on the side? Home run!