I feel my sub-conscious absorbing the ways of the wok. Velveting is a wonderful thing, and I wonder how I can use it to tenderize other things. I toss the chicken breast slivers in a mixture of soy sauce, sugar, fish sauce, ginger, garlic, and potato starch. Now, I have learned of the subtle and horribly disappointing differences between cornstarch and arrowroot (please read some post from the distant past). But I have had No such feelings for potatostarch. Could it be the starchiest starch in town, with everything you need for perfect velveting and battering? I will use potato starch going forward indefinitely, and if I do change starches, I’ll let you know. We’ve got too much in the trust bank for me to keep that from you!!
Mission and 18th, awaiting an “atmospheric river”. Another day, another curry. This noon: a chicken breast, potato starch, salt, fish sauce, red bell pepper, garlic, ginger, a Japanese curry blend, lime juice, eggplant, green beans, sugar, coconut milk.
Now, perhaps I was a little big for my britches that my last stir-fry had gone so well. And although the ingredients were the right ones, the proportions were not quite right. Also, a slight controversy around the coconut milk involved opening a second can. Pro tip-coconut milk separates naturally in a can. You’re supposed to blend it up. If it smells nice and tastes nice, it’s good. Lesson learned.
It tasted good, but it didn’t really come together the way I wanted it to. What was it? Well, I decided to leave it on the stove top and reheat it for dinner. It tastes much better. It just needed to mellow and come together. And I thought, that’s it, that ‘s what we all need-we all need to mellow and come together. That’s how the wonderful curry could community can happen! If community can happen, why not curry it in a gentle blend of spices? Now I know what you’re not thinking, you’re not thinking, BEN!!!! Why did you put Japanese curry in coconut milk like a Thai curry. I don’t know why I did that, but I did. It really is a Japanese curry, the coconut milk having lost its distinctive delicacy, meaning I can’t taste it at all. Anyway, it’s good, everything’s fine, and I’m not special. I don’t have a picture of today’s curry, but I do have a picture of last week’s pizza:
Now she’s a real beauty. My done-in-a-jiffy-crust, smothered in olive oil, blanketed with fresh pizza sauce, bespeckled with mushrooms, bell pepper, broccoli, and Genoa salame, the whole being suffocated in snowy hills of cheese. And it’s a good thing we like pizza around here because I was gifted this:
That’s a big bag of flour! That’s a lotta pizza! What’s your favorite kind?
In these strange and surreal, hold-your-breath, is this really happening, hellshit nightmare of bleak mid-winter, let’s pretend that we are not horribly distracted and exhausted by the realities of the world fresh in 2025. Some enthusiasms may need to be manufactured. Now, I will tell you, I’ve made some lovely things since last I wrote, but nothing of note. Until the other day.
Little dramas like this, I can handle. While at a friend’s for dinner recently, we all went down a YouTube hole of beef. Steaks, chucks, marbled, butchered, cuts of all kinds and shapes and preparations. Bloody aprons, sinew, fat, and bones flying through the air. It was wonderful. I don’t know, it put us in the mood for beef. And for me, far preferable than steak, is stew, or today, pot roast.
Now there are two types of beef stew I may get a hankerin’ for, when I get a hankerin’ for beef stew. The first is the French daube type, usually made with wine and thickened with Beurre Manie, or Old Fashioned All American Beef Stew, made with Beef, water, salt, carrots, potatoes, and that’s it. OK, maybe a little more fancy. Green Peas. Pearl Onions. And Parsnips.
Parsnips! Think of them as white, sweet carrots with a slight anise sort of flavor. You can do so many fun things with these little guys. They make good “fries”, soup, purees, and are great roasted with their friends, the carrot, turnip, and potato.
Parsnips! I exclaimed as we strolled through Whole Foods on that Tuesday mid-morning. “Parsnips are essential. Nature’s candy.” I said. “Really? Who is going to notice parsnips, and then appreciate them after noticing?” Well. We did find parsnips. They were tiny, withered, wobbly and miserable. I wondered if we happened upon a pod of partially decayed alien babies. I grabbed a giant handful, and threw them into the basket. There is no way I am making a beef stew this week without these little horrors. And what a cool funky taste that goes so well with beef, especially beefy beef. I love a good Beefy piece of beef. I cook that baby low and slow. Low and slow, for say, 5 hours, at 300F. I know it sounds nuts, but I think you can’t go wrong with low and slow. That is! if you love your beef absolutely fork tender beyond beyond. When you pull the lid off the pot, we beheld the beef undulating like jello, that’s just how tender it was. The knife slid effortlessly through the meat, which melted away in tender slices.
The guests assembled at the table. The dish of rich, sumptuous meat, surrounded by the noble sentry of vegetables, and enrobed in hearty jus was set forth to oohs and ahhs. The plates were passed, the cutlery clicking, and the wine glasses clanking. The knife tapping against the plate while the drink is slurped. Someone, swallowing, clearing the throat, made a HMM sound and asked, “Is there cinnamon in this?” I could have giggled with delight. “No,” I said. “But you have detected the magic ingredient.”
Parsnips! Parsnips! Everyone shouted in unison, and we all had a jolly laugh, raised a toast to the parsnip, grabbed the hands of the people next to us, and danced around the table till we all fell to the floor in a heap of rags!
Well, it didn’t really happen that way. I said “Oh, that’s parsnips” and everyone said “Oh.”
“Parsnips are good, you don’t always get them in things. They’re nice.”
The pie is finished. The cheese ball is mellowing next to the mashed potatoes, also nestling in for the long night. Next, green bean casserole, then stuffing, before finishing the day with prepping the turkey, whatever that will be and I haven’t decided yet. More on that earlier. Sticks of butter used so far: 1. Containers of cream:1. Packets of cream cheese: 3 and counting. Cream cheese must be the most used ingredient in the Thanksgiving meal, no shit. I never buy cream cheese, and yet around the holidays I buy probably 10 lbs of the stuff and it goes into everything. Cheese ball, obviously, sauerkraut balls, the pumpkin raisin tart, and whatever else. What do you think would happen if we ran out of cream cheese? Let’s not even contemplate it. Don’t mention it at the dinner table.
The tart is resting in the oven, hoping to avoid the great holiday crack. You know what this is if you bake, when a pumpkin pie splits open in the middle with a huge, eye-shaped, canyon. The other great fear is the undercooked bottom. That’s the worst thing ever. The oven temperature was right, the custard is just set, the oven is now off, and the oven door is slightly open, which should slow the cooling and thus the chances of the piequake. No piequake. Somehow, it always happens to me. Everyone says, “that’s OK cause it still tastes good!” and yes, i understand that, but still and all, I want people to look at my pie and say, “wow so smooth and peaceful looking, no scars!”. OK, time will tell. I will take photo of it in thirty minutes or so.
Yes, there’s our lovely tart. OK, it’s going on 9PM now, what have I got left in me tonight? Hmmm…..I may be done. But that’s OK, because the turkey is all thawed out and I can get to it first thing. I’m not serving it till 6:30PM so, we good. I’m gonna go with that great method from last year, bone the leg and thigh wrap em’ in butter and sage and keep the breast on the bone and roast it separately. This will cut the cooking time in half, and the breast needs to go in first.
Tally: Eggs used 3, Sticks of butter: 2, Packets of cream cheese: 4, Sticks of celery: 6, Carrots: 6, Onions: 3 .
Perhaps I’m feeling a little sentimental, perhaps I need a little Christmas, right this very minute. Tomorrow, Macy’s Department store celebrates 100 years of the grand Parade down 5th Ave on Thanksgiving. Macy’s is closing its flagship store in San Francisco. So, this will be the last year of this:
OK, friends, I’m tired. Tomorrow morning early, I finish the food. Then, I sweep and clean, and I hope hope hope that I have time for a long morning walk and a nice hot bath before the guests come over. Yes, that’s a tall order, but we must set our sights high.
The wind doth howl, and the rain doth blow, our first atmospheric river of the season. I’ve had a few off dishes lately. Things that should have worked but didn’t. More mushy rice. Why can I not get this right on a consistent basis? I know exactly what I am doing, but something goes amiss. It’s like if it’s even slightly off, good-bye. To make matter worse, I tried to make fried rice with. Double disappointment!!
A cornbread that went South. Now, this one is a real mystery. The only reasonable explanation is that oven thermometer has gone all goofy-da-kattywompus. The cornbread was burned to a crisp in under twenty minutes. It would have been tasty. OK, let it go, Benji. Breathe deeply. These things happen.
These little things are so annoying. Like potatoes cooking unevenly. Has this happened to you? The potatoes are about the same size and type, they are all cooking at the same rate (or so it would seem to the naked eye), yet some potatoes make be more chunky than others. And are these just excuses for my carelessness? Slow inhale. Slow exhale.
Today, a joyful soup for the rainy season that has just begun. Sweet Italian sausage. Hot Italian sausage. Red wine, tomatoes, duck stock, garbanzo beans, onion, celery, carrot, four cheese tortellini. An old family favorite. Delicious. It pairs well with this old flick by Doris Day and James Garner. It’s amusing, and boy, is she terrific. They don’t make hairdos like that anymore.
Soup, when other voices die. It’s wild, the wind hitting the side of the building and all the attendant creaking and cracking and rattling of windows.
Having been asked earlier about peelers, I have developed the following treatise. I’ll call it The Spirit of the Peeler. The peeler is in my case a Trinity three peels in one, one in three. They are stuck together through the magnetic power of magnets. One is smooth, one is serrated, one is a shredder. The smooth one is used for things that are easy to peel like potatoes, broccoli, apples. The serrated one is for tender things like tomatoes, peaches, grapes. blueberries. Just kidding. Have you ever tried to peel a blueberry? The shredder is wonderful for getting bite sized tidbits for salad, garnish, or stir-fry. Shredded carrots. Just right. It’s actually super handy because your guests with think you’ve got mad knife skills when you don’t.
It can be a lot of fun to peel things. But be sure that the peeled is comfortable with the peel feel. All we have is feelins, feelins about peelins. These feelings require verse.
I like to peel apples, sure.
I like to peel pears.
The half-peel cucumber’s allure.
and shave the peaches’ hairs.
The shy bell pepper removes her gown
and celery is freed.
The kiwi is no longer brown,
but green and full of seed.
Asparagus so delicate
you may chop off her leg
And no matter dear how deft with that
you cannot peel an egg.
I peel and peel with all my might
I peel until I’m sore
I peel the fruit and veg all night
and then I peel some more.
Ribbons of peel fly through space
Ribbons of peel fill the air.
Ribbons of peel all over the place
Fruit and Veg peel everywhere!!
St. Joseph Art Society, Howard Street, San Francisco
A building in the Mid-Market neighborhood in SF with every single light on. I can only imagine they are doing this on purpose for some reason. Like public art, or some political statement. Unless it’s the same person forgetting to turn off every light in every room they walk in to.
And that’s it kids. Doris and James have been reunited, and the two little girls too! Aw, what a flick. What a night. What a life.
Ok, Ok, we may all be a little stressed, and I find, when stressed, the taste buds are the first to go. I crave salt, sweets, fat, whatever, when I’m a little stressed only because I can’t taste more subtle flavors. When the stress lifts, so too the embargo on flavor. That’s what may have happened this week with my poor Persimmon pudding. They looked and smelled so wonderful, the persimmons giving gently to my tender yet unrelenting hand. The sweet amber jelly gave forth, lightly floral and sweet and Pacific and everything. It went into the pudding. Cinnamon, butter, lemon juice, zest, and the usual binders and leavening agents. It was almost burned and boring and had no flavor in particular whatsoever. It was sad, because the persimmons promised so much, yet fell short of the goal. Unlike the apples and cranberries that went into tonight’s crisp, a crisp worth remembering, and savoring for years, no decades, or centuries to come.
Fresh cranberry apple crisp with cinnamon, nutmeg, oats, flour, butter, salt, sugar, brown sugar, vanilla and toasted almonds. Good times! What an exceptional little Fall trifle!
And, there’s a chicken soup on the stove, the night is chilly and the wind, well, it’s not strong, but it’s menacing.
There’s a special moment in the cooking: I am in the living room, with say, an Agatha Christie mystery about to pop on the screen, and my nostrils get a tingle of the thing that’s a’cookin. I have learned, in almost all circumstances, when I smell the food cooking in the living room, it’s almost ready. That was true in the case of this pizza.
It started with a full to bursting flat of cherry tomatoes, all shapes, sizes and colors, from ruby red to deep purple to pale green. They were gonna rot right there in front of me if I didn’t act fast. Just like that Poirot!
I’ve always imagined that if I ever had to say, spend a weekend where Jessica Fletcher or Hercules Poirot were some how involved, I’d stay the hell away from them. These two are way too observant for their own good, like it’s their responsibility to know everyone’s relationship before the murder takes place! Has anyone been privy to more murders than these two? Miss Marple? At any rate, October is on the wane and the tomatoes aren’t gonna improve with the passage of time. At least, not in this form.
First, I made a tomato, basil pie with goat cheese in a cormealish crust in a cast iron skillet. OK, very good. Then, a giant pot of cherry tomato sauce, which I simmered down and simmered down until it was smooth, creamy, and oh so tangy; it was such an amazingly alive sauce with incredible intense tomato flavor. It made me wince and pucker, a little pinch of sugar calmed it down. Then it came into its own and tasted great on pasta with a fresh scandal of cheese.
On the bargain table at the farmer’s market: gypsy peppers. The time of the gypsy pepper is come! I love these little guys, and I got a big bag of ’em for only one whole American dollar! Like the tomatoes, they are small and pigmentaly varied. Earlier, I stuffed and baked many of them, a wonderful thing to do to a pepper. Cream cheese, toasted pumpkin seeds, a little smoked paprika, salt. They were real, they were yummy. The remainder were chopped, mixed with the darling sauce, and scatter swept across the surface of this pizza dough.
I was hoping to tell you that it was the best pizza dough I’ve ever made, but that would be a little fib. I have made better ones. Better tasting ones, but maybe not better texture and whatever they call it, dough feel. It is representative of many of the doughs that I’ve made over the years and you know he knows, right? Hercules? He knows you’re lying lady, he knows you’re lying. He saw you talking to the recently violently deceased elderly gal out by the horse stalls, and he saw you yell at her about your gambling debt and, oh, I’m sorry, I’m writing this with the damn show on. This blog is about food, and by golly, I’m sticking to it. Nothing can stop me now. I’ll stick to my dough from now on. OK, so the dough was representative meaning that I used bread flour, used as little as possible to keep the dough tender and lightly spongy, I only kneaded it very briefly (but thoroughly, goofy!!), and made sure there was plenty of olive oil in the pan. Now I’ll admit, this dough maybe a little stickier than you’d like, or at least tackier than normal, but stick to this method, and you’ll be making pizzas worth stickin around for, kiddo! When I poured it out of the bowl after the first rise, it rolled away from me in thousands of little spider string tendrils holding onto the side of the bowl. Our little yeast brothers and sisters, trying to climb up the side and escape with dough on their back, tethering them. For a brief moment, they believe that they can attain freedom from being an indentured leavener. They struggle up the side of the bowl in the futile first rise. We punch them down mightily. They try again. We cook and eat them. Their ultimate defeat is our glory in the bakery. Thank you, yeast, for your sacrifice.
It rose beautifully, it was filled with wonderful air pockets, it was fun to play around with. It spread easily, It baked beautifully, crisp all along the bottom, I had reduced the sauce down, so it wasn’t liquidy, and I put just the right blend of Parmesan, Mozzarella, and some interesting other kind of cheese like Gruyere. Gruyere adjacent. It baked till I smelled it, walked into the kitchen and OOOHHH, I know he did it, he was the one with access to the blow dart the whole time. He hated the old lady, he hated her. And rightly so, she threatened to spill the beans on, you know what? I’m sorry. I feel at this point you must be worthy of an apology. I will admit, that this blog is important, and my attention is divided. That’s Christie’s fault, really isn’t it?
OK, back to reality. All is great and grand and good. I enhanced the sauce with fennel, oregano, garlic, the usual.
It’s almost Halloween, and that means it’s time to think about Thanksgiving and what fun adventures we may pursue. At present, I have a duck, two entire racks of St. Louis-style ribs, and chicken bones for stock in the freezer. They’re gonna have to make room for our Tom Turkey!! Wow, is it time? Yes, it’s time. The holidays. Holidays.
Oh, and that ended up being the wrong murderer, and now they’re talking to someone else, who is going to turn out to be the right murderer or knows the right murderer. Shoot, I’m sorry gang, they gonna do a big reveal, I need to put down the pen.
Alright now, the show’s over. The dentist did it. Of course, the dentist. Any ole whodidlywoo, some in the community have been clammering for Turducken, which is an interesting idea, as I already have the duck. I think that’s in part what caused the clammering. I have already boned several turkeys in my time, I’m sure a duck and a chicken can’t be that much harder, right? Yeah?
Oh my good god. That looks challenging on many levels. I wonder if I am psychologically prepared to take on a project like this. Indeed, if I am emotionally mature enough for the patience and respect these dead birds deserve. It’s a lot of raw meat, animal bones, sharp knives flying around everywhere. I’d like to add that this is a stock image of a Turducken chosen from a panoply of images. I looked at many before I chose this one. I do not urge you to do the same. I have to looked at too many. I am desensitized.
On my kitchen counter there are three heavily pregnant persimmons. I have taken them to limit of ripeness, and we are all on borrowed time. At some point near to this one, the tired and stretched skin of the of fruit will give, and it will sigh forth a gush of orange red sweet and sticky innards that will ooze across the counter and dribble onto the floor, discovered in the morning by my right sock and consequent foot while the rest of me is trying to make coffee. If that doesn’t happen, I’ll be making persimmon pudding to go with that coffee!
Waiter, there’s a duck in my freezer. Yes, friends, fall finally arrived in the City by the Bay, or at least in my rent controlled kitchen. A large pot of minestrone to start the week, chock full of all the vegetables that wanted to simmer together. Wait, no. Go back.
First, a trip to Colorado, where the world looks like this:
Now, I know you’re probably hopin’ for a ripping yarn about how I bagged me one a them reindeer and ate all the juicy meat. Well, I didn’t. But I did eat a lot of meat. That happens in Colorado. My aunt made a wonderful and sustaining soup co-starring cauliflower, which I forget how much I enjoy. I made sure to toss a head into my minestrone.
Incidentally, did you know that the word minestrone comes from a Latin root, “to serve forth, or that which is served”, the same root as our English words administrate and all its cousins. Ain’t that something?
OK, back to San Francisco and a punishing heat wave. Having promised to prepare a German-style pot roast with potatoes and sauerkraut for an Oktoberfest of sorts, I woke at 5 in the morning to prepare the food before it reached a hellacious 92 degrees F in my home. Despite the unseasonal weather and more inappropriate menu, the food was consumed with almost primordial abandon, sweating beasts tearing singed flesh with the same canine teeth as our ancestors. Not exactly the same, but you know what I’m saying. About evolution, and how close we are to cavemen. At any rate, the temperature eventually fell and fall finally arrived.
I throw myself into my life’s passion: watching B Horror movies on a channel chillingly called Watch Movies! while I sort of pay attention to a very ambitious cooking project. Now, I have seen some bad movies in my day, kids, but few are as abjectly horrible as 1959’s Alligator People. This movie is so poorly made, complete with rubber alligators and B-role of old nature movies, it’s a scream. It’s also filled with despicable people that you really enjoy watching become alligator shit. I almost didn’t have the bandwidth to focus on my project:
Egg noodle dough, for egg noodles. I am trying my hand at Ravioli, something I’ve done several times over the years with mixed results. I pull out the ole Kitchen Aid Pasta rolling attachment and set to my work. Everything was going fine, honest, till I decided to brush of some of excess flour off the top of attachment with a couple of paper towels, accidentally hit the on switch which immediately pulls the too-thick paper towels into the pasta roller, instantly destroying the mechanism on the pasta attachment. So, no more pasta attachment. I was a little angry and a little bummed, with too much pumpkin goat cheese filling and not enough homemade pasta. But as the late, great, Dr. Morgan Forden-Felder once said “too much ham makes the blood salty.” And he’s right, that’s why there’s no ham in the sauce. I improvised.
I had some ready-to-put-in-the-oven lasagna sheets. I grabbed a loaf pan, opened a can of tomatoes, mushed em up with a little salt, and poured a little bit in the bottom of the pan. Next, a noodle. Then, a heaping helping of pumpkin filling, and a scandalous full fist of grated Pecorino-Romano cheese. Repeat, repeat, repeat, till all the stuff is gone. Then get one of them baseball sized mozzarella balls, crush it in your thick strong hands, and cover that baby with all the white strings. Bake for an hour. Parsley, fresh basil. Eat.
A salad too. I came up with this one on my own. Arugula. Pomegranate. Fuyu persimmons. Granny Smith apple. pumpkin seeds. Champagne vinaigrette.
Now, what about that duck? Another fun fact- the word duck, meaning to hide or seek cover came first, to describe the activity that was required to shoot the animal out of the sky. They (whoever they may be) decided to call the bird duck, cause that’s what they do when they kill it. Ain’t that something too? They probably weren’t shooting them with guns. It was probably a rock in a sling shot or an arrow or something from the olden times.
Anyway, if the weather stays this good, I will thaw our little friend, roast her up Chinese style (complete with pouring boiling water over the raw skin to get it to blister and release fat), and service it forth (administrate it, if you will) with scallions sliced on the bias, Hoisin sauce, and those cute little fluffy white pancakes. I remember this amazing dish from the Chinese restaurants in Queensway, London. Call me what you will, I still think London has some of the best Chinese restaurants anywhere, and I should know. I’m from Ohio.
First, the best hot cocoa perhaps in the universe. 4 cups of milk. Heat and steep one whole dried Ancho chili, six cinnamon sticks for a half hour or so. Oh, and about half a cup of sugar. Then, I melt two entire dark chocolate bars into the mix and whisk in some heavy cream. It is so dreamy delicious, slightly spicy and richly chocolatey (duh). You know what it is? It’s honest, and I know that because I’m watching the SF Mayoral candidate debates and listening to these acidic blubber bags pontificate on our fair city’s woes, this elixir is the soothing balm, bringing me back to center. Geez, if this dude says “downtown” one more time.
The view from above. A short flourish, an extemporization. A casual bagatelle at the tale end of summer. A full head of lettuce, leaves separated, cleaned, dried, and fanned out on a large platter. A base for a variety of fillings. On the far left, the empty dish will soon hold Beef Bulgogi. Clockwise from there, Coronation Chicken, Tuscan White Bean and Tuna Salad, Caprese Salad.
I wasn’t “in the mood” for salad. I wanted to do something different with the beautiful, big, broad leaves. Lettuce wraps, though I think we should call them something else. I read someone call them lettuce sandwiches. Horrible! Sandwiches involve slices of bread, period. Wraps generally involve a flat and flexible bread like tortillas, pita, or lavash, the thin bread described as “Caucasian” often used in making shwarmas. So, when you make a finger food whose delivery system is lettuce, be it endive, be it Romaine, be it whatever we oughta call them………..we oughta call ’em,……….call ’em…………..leaves, cups. What about Green Nymphs?
Green Nymphs have been around for at least 10,000 years, originating in Southeast Asia. The most popular ones in Asia generally feature a rich, spicy, meat dish. A lot of Thai dishes like larb, or Vietnamese Imperial Rolls are typically served with slivered carrot, cucumber, spring onion, and cilantro, the rich meat item all in a large lettuce leaf, and down the hatch! I chose the popular South Korean dish, Bulgogi. Bulgogi literally means fire meat, and describes an ancient dish of at least originally grilled marinated thinly sliced beef. I had flank steak. Sidebar, is there a better cut for stir-frys, and things of this nature? Cutting across the grain, the meat is so sweetly tender. It has been sopped for hours in a scandalous concoction of tons of juicy ginger, creamy garlic, sesame seeds, roasted sesame oil, rice wine vinegar, sugar, black pepper, and an almost revolting amount of soy sauce. Almost, but not quite. Once the beef has taken on this flavor, I toss the whole kit and kaboodle into the searing hot wok. Sizzle and serve.
Two cookie people, after an unfortunate encounter with a steamroller. A platter of biscochitos. They are actually the official cookie of the state of New Mexico, one of only two states with such a thing as an official cookie. I’m not going to tell you what the other state is. Look it up, poindexter. What I will tell you about Biscochitos is that they allegedly date back to the Battle of the Puebla in 1862, a battle that is recalled on the holiday Cinco de Mayo. These cookies are usually served then and Christmas. What about these cookies made me happy? Well, first they include my homemade candied orange peel, which I made in February. It sparkles away in these cookies, rich with anise seed and cinnamon. They are typically served with Coffee, I chose to have mine with the rich spicy cocoa I mentioned at the start. Dark chocolate, orange peel, cinnamon, chili, anise, butter, cream. Perfect on a cold windy night like this. Yes, my friends, the world has moved, the weather is unsettled, the skies have turned, and the winds of change are swirling all around.
First, it is 6 months to the day to Christmas, and that’s not too early to begin thinking about what we may like to do. In fact, I should really start the pudding today if I intend to serve on Christmas Day. Well, a day or two won’t hurt. Will it?
What is your first memory of Pho? I think I remember mine. I say think because it seems that Pho exploded, metaphorically, on the scene, whatever that is, world wide at around the same time. Or, I encountered it twice in a short period of time in two different cities. The first Pho I remember eating was in London. I was with a couple of friends on a rainy evening, we’d spent a few long hours at the public house, we were hungry. London must be the best city in the world for late night dining. So many streets, so many choices. Have I had Pho? What? Pho? Oh, we must go you will love it. It’s noodle soup!
We ducked in to a lively, well lit open floor restaurant, with large glass topped round tables and tanks filled with little fish. We were enthusiastically seated and handed heavy, plastic matted menus. There is only one thing to get here for sure, I am told. Beef Pho. There was a lazy Susan on the center of the table, which had dishes of mung beans, Thai basil, lime wedges, and hot peppers. I ordered the soup. Thinly sliced beef, broth, spring onion, and the additions from the Susan. Heavenly beyond description, yet I must describe it. Could there be any place in San Francisco that serves such a dish?
It turned out there were many places. Some of the were great. Some of them were meh. I’ve never had a truly awful one, but. But……
Last week, my whole family came for a visit. One night, we decided to have a chicken version of Pho. I got home from a day of pounding tunes on the piano, arms full of chicken backs and tootsies for the broth. Next, oven roasted onions and ginger fingers, two cinnamon sticks, six star anise, ten cardamom pods, a small palm full of black peppercorns, salt. Simmer and simmer and simmer, but not as long as you’d think. Maybe two hours, three, allowing the house to fill with the nourishing scent. Tenderly chop some chicken bits and Gai Lon, which I describe as a mostly spinach like green, with a little nod to broccoli or broccolini. Strain the stock, throw in the bits, stir for about twenty minutes and spoon over some cooked rice noodles with lots of broth in there. Get that broth in there! Lots of crunchy mung beans, the lime juice. Oh, the wonderful tastes and textures.
Now, when I eat Pho, I make it at home.
A little note: This morning, I finished off the Pho. There were no more noodles, a few greens, and a few little bits of now dried out chicken. I ate the greens and few bits of chicken. Then, I strained it again into a large coffee mug. I drank deep into that mug of the most healthy and healing substance on this whole earth, brothers and sisters etc. Drink deep at dawn, and you will be rewarded with a most pleasant morning.
Sounds like the title of a great comedy of manners, from the early 1930’s say. The son of a wealthy railroad magnate falls for a girl from the other side of the tracks. He manages to hide this fact from his folks until a festive society breakfast when she orders her eggs in a way not recommended at finishing school. Gasps are heard, pearls are clutched. Hilarity and mis-identities happen until the last five minutes of the film when suddenly and for no other reason a man in a pith hat appears and announces that our gal is actually a direct descendant of the House of Hanover, she’s worth billions and the problem is over.
But the problems are just beginning. After the reels are back in the can, Mr. and Mrs. will share a lifetime of awkward breakfast orders. Now since the permissive 60s, people can order their eggs any style, without shame. So, I can ask this question without hesitation, How do you like your eggs?
Most people who make eggs at home scramble them. Many take the position that if you destroy the yolks on purpose, it will save the heartbreak of watching them break on accident later. For some reason, I am very picky about the quality of scrambled eggs. First, they must be a uniform pale yellow. If you can see the lines of white and yolk separately, it means the preparer is weak and apathetic. If the eggs are overcooked and bounce on the plate, the preparer is worrisome and apathetic at the same time. If some of the eggs are overcooked and some of them are raw, the preparer is not interested in cooking and is trying to teach you you’re not worth it. You are worth it, and all of the above can hit the road. We can learn a lot of subtly annoying things about our partners, families, and friends by the way they screw up their eggs. Paradoxically, scrambled eggs are easy to goof up in the cooking, whereas another technique that is regarded as “difficult” is actually hard to get wrong. I am talking about poaching.
I have even been to diners here in the city of San Francisco where they will not allow you to order poached eggs because the cook doesn’t make them. Is that nuts? There are all sorts of gadgets and tools meant to help you poach easier which I don’t understand because making poached eggs is one of the easiest things to do. In addition, it is the most healthy way to eat eggs as there is no added fat in the cooking process. Hard boiled eggs I don’t consider eggs in a way, not like you know, breakfast eggs.
Too much, much too much in fact, is made of egg poaching technique. It’s simple. A pan of simmering water, a slotted spoon, an egg. Crack the egg into the slotted spoon to get rid of the excess water, tip the spoon into the simmering water about three minutes, then remove.
There are two poached eggs cooked exactly as I described, peppered with pepper atop a glistening mound of polenta. It’s funny, the line of polenta between the eggs looks like a little nose. If this were on a menu, I’d called it Martian’s bowl.
BingoFest 