Perhaps because everything went smoothly, perhaps because I’d done something like this before, I forgot to write to you, dear reader. But don’t worry, I probably spared you a boring story. It would be more exciting if I were writing this from a hospital bed, recovering from third degree burns after a cauldron full of hot oil exploded in every direction after I put a rare cut of exotic meat, covered in searing hot, eye-watering chiles and spices took me to the floor, fully engulfed in flames. But I’m not. I’m just a man with an empty wok, walking the indifferent streets cold and windy. I realized recently that everything is completely meaningless, and I haven’t quite felt the same since.
Interestingly, this horrific picture was something quite lovely. I know it looks like someone dropped their doggy bag in a oil slicked drain, but it is actually pork belly simmering a marvelous stew of garlic, ginger, soy, and a new to me ingredient: Mushroom Soy Sauce. Have I not written of this elixir already? It is wonderous. Thicker and more umami than regular soy sauce, it’s also quite smoky, which makes the Chinese pork belly taste like, you know, bacon.
I braised that pork for four hours, worth every second. I have another whole pork belly in my freezer, am gonna make this again for guests.
Last week’s full moon, shortly before it eclipsed, seen over Mission Street. That’s the name of a song, appearing shortly: Moon over Mission Street. OH, the skies are playing tricks with us these days, so many changes, nothing to stop them.
Ginger, apple, upside down cake. Good, yes, good. Not enough ginger. maybe not enough spice in general. Lots of Molasses, maybe a little too molassesy. Still, good. I’m restless. I need a bigger project, maybe something with a little failure or at least risk involved. Spring is almost here, I’m ready.
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?
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.
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.
Come on now kids, up at at ’em, a brand new summer just begun, just for you and me. Feeling relaxed, feeling renewed, feeling inspired, dreams are pursued. Let me take a little time and tell you a few things I’ve either learned or re-learned in the last two weeks kitchen-wise speaking, just in time for summer:
Chop your onions, chop your herbs.
Clean them well and chop with care. The shape, the size and the moisture of the herbs can change a dish, and ultimately, your life. It says a lot about one, really. Don’t use herb processing as an expression for your dormant rage, wildly hacking them to a pulp. Herbs lose their flavor this way and taste like grass clippings. Save your rage for mowing the lawn. Rinse and dry your parsley and cilantro thoroughly, and again, as soon as you get them safely home. Rinse, and I like to take them outside and shake vigorously and let em sit out for a bit. This time of year, everything is parsley and basil, tarragon and savory. How much spring onion is too much spring onion scattered on a dish? Has anyone ever discovered the answer to this question? This is the best time of year for fresh garlic too.
2. Little tomatoes are here.
Find a new way to dress them. Getting a salad dressing right really makes me feel like a man in a way few other things do, and my new favorite right is Miso dressing. Mirin, neutral oil, miso paste, sesame oil, soy sauce, sesame seeds, white pepper. Oh and yes, a little pinch of sugar. I was recently complimented on my salad dressings, and I was surprised how deeply I was moved by the words. I spent several minutes in silence.
3. Straighten up and fry right.
It’s the details in our work that can make a huge difference. This is my new thinking about deep frying. For thousands of years and across many different cultures and for many different reasons, grandmothers have been feeding their loved ones fried foods, like the salt and pepper chicken wings pictured above.
It is widely known now that deep frying is a unhealthy way of eating., which doesn’t sit well in the stomach with the notion that grandma’s cooking ways were best. Why did grandma do this? She hate us? Did she have a choice? Was there a way of frying that minimized the health downsides? Do yummy things just kill us quicker and that’s all there is to it? And what isn’t killing us, ultimately? Is it twisted logic to remind that more people have been killed across time from drinking water than from Nana’s Fritto Misto?
As far as I can tell, and this is not an academic paper, the fear of deep-fried foods corresponds with their presence in our every day lives vis-a-vis fast food and its numerous kissing cousins. Cheaper oils cooked at lower temps tossed in salt but never dried and tightened up caused many to lose their daddies earlier to early morning driveway heart attacks. So, naturally, bad. Cooking the materials at a higher temperature keeps the food from absorbing the oil, and drying on paper towels or some such thing after words removes any oil from the surface.
I toasted my spice mix, which is a personal variation of Kenji Lopez-Alt’s from The Wok cookbook. You can look that up yourself, but I’ll tell you I increase the amount of Sichuan pepper and cloves, and that’s basically my variation. I toasted them with the other ingredients (look it up) in a dry wok and carefully, so no one went running into the streets with burning eyes, you had to be there. Good times!
The temperature of the oil is paramount, and keeping the oil at the ideal temp is not something you can’t pay attention to. You can, you must. Don’t crowd the pan, cook a minute or two longer than you think you should. The food should be a dark golden brown. Then, dry it off with paper towels completely thoroughly. It tastes so good and has no grease on the outside, it’s dry and light crisp and salty spicy.
Take these broken wings and learn to fly.
4. Make the most of everything while we may.
I’d cooked a chicken and saved the carcass. I wrapped it in plastic, popped it in the fridge, and promptly forgot about it. When I noticed it was there too many days later, it was horribly useless, like an ancient rotting barn of dry grey planks you see from the highway. There’s no saving you baby!
So when I made my weekly chicken several days ago, I didn’t wait. I put it in the stock pot while my guests were still here! Next, I came into a glut of fresh summer basil that was clearly not going to survive the night. So, I made several jars of fresh pesto. Last night, dinnertime arrives, the wolves are gathering in the tummy. I heat some of the stock and I swirl in several tablespoons of pesto. This dish is profoundly delicious, maybe one of the most wonderful things I ever tasted.
It was the summer solstice. Windy cold grey in the outside. I took a warm bath, drank a large bowl of this deeply satisfying soup, and decided to pop on a movie. My app recommended in its featured classics, Don’t Look Now, starring Julie Christie and Donald Sutherland, who died yesterday. It is one of the most creepy strange movies I’ve ever seen, and I think for the time being at least, I won’t be able to eat pesto without thinking about this film. Most of the film takes place in Venice, so it was fitting that I had something Italianate on the tongue.
A really nifty cake from a really nifty gal called Grandma Rose, who had a cafe in Portland Oregon in the 60s-80s I guess, and she put out a couple of cookbooks that are real dandies. I made the Fresh Plum Sour Cream Cake with Streusel topping, which was more desserty than breakfasty type-a coffee cakey type-a thingy. It was served with a thick whip of creme fraiche. The only word that I could describe that wonderful consistency of creme fraiche is clabber. Clabber clabber clabber it’s the sound of the cream and sour cream slippity slopping around the bowl until it comes together in a noble emulsion of strength, gentility, extravagance, and humility all at once. This lightly tart cream on top of the sturdy cake, tart fruit, and toasted cinnamon caramel streusel made for real good eating. OK kids, stay cool out there, and remember, if you get hungry, eat something.
Let me tell you kids, it’s another scorcher by the bay. There is a pleasant breeze off the coast and the sun is at her blazing best. The sky is so perfectly cloudless I think I can see into deep space. It is a good time to be and do the simple. It is Wednesday, my special day to feel like a French woman, to saunter around the farmers market and be dismayed that the peaches are not quite ripe or the tomatoes have no scent.
This week has been a parade of yummy foods and happy meals. Fresh strawberry banana smoothies, baked chicken swaddled in cream and tangy mustard, fresh cherry tomato dressing, crisp salad greens, risotto. Rice in fact, a few times. Asparagus, height of season. All sorts of lemony things.
I must tell you I have always hated the word smoothie. It is a horrible word for a wonderful food stuff. Smoothie is a word that, to me, describes a con artist, or some young man that courts rich elderly widows.
Ha! I just looked it up. In British English a smoothie refers to a person who is polite and persuasive. Also, that He’s A Smoothie was the name of some kind of award-winning Canadian horse. In other words, it doesn’t uniquely describe a food, and these nifty not-just-for-breakfast drinks deserve one!
What could we call a smoothie instead? Something two syllables does seem appropriate. One syllable is too short, too sharp for the silken texture of the thing, like Slump or Grunt or Oat or Loaf- another horrible word. Too many syllables make it seem less serious, portmanteau that are almost as bad as smoothie. Fruigurtwhirlly. Yogwhispies. Fruipwhirls is OK. Yogswhirls? That’s better. Or just Yogu or Guyog or Gooyug. Go You! You Go, Gurl!! I guess smoothie is OK. I doubt even if I came up with a good name that anyone would start using it. I would need like, at least several million more subscribers and faithful readers to coin a new term, no?
Another classic from another time: James Beard’s amazing recipe for chicken breast baked with mushrooms, parsley, and dijon mustard. A naughty splash of cream, a little lemon juice at the end, and you got yourself one tasty dish there. Add some fluffy “dirty rice”. I put that in quotes cause it is really only partially dirtied.
Dirty rice, as it is called in Cajun cooking, is rice that is cooked in various organ meats and vegetables and of course, stock, and don’t forget the hot sauce! My dirty rice was meant to accompany a highly and singularly flavored dish with Dijon Mustard, and I didn’t want anything to interfere with that taste. In fact, in my original source material (The New James Beard 1981) the author specifically wrote that the chicken should be served with only plain boiled rice. Thing was, I already had a couple o’cups of chicken stock with some giblets I intended to make a gravy with a few nights before. The gravy never got made, in a story too boring to even mention. So, it was dirty in just that one way, like Uncle Gary.
Freshly boiled green beans, frantically tossed in black pepper and butter and lemon juice and a very interesting Cyprian lemon zest sea salt type thing make for a lovely salad. If Beethoven says “only the pure of heart can make a soup” then I’d assert that only the truly nervous can make a salad. It inspired me to write this poem:
I’ll tell you what June means to me,
She means green beans.
I means to tell you what me June,
this afternoon.
Again, the ole Forty-Nine bus whisked me off to civic center. Today, pretty standard fare. Fresh young golden potatoes, big fat leeks, perfect for the soup. Beautiful, tight heads of broccoli for a beef stir fry. Two enormous heads of Romaine, spring onions, garlic, and the amazing cherry tomatoes i found last time. I didn’t get any strawberries, I didn’t want to tempt fate with the bus on this particularly hot day. You know what heat does to strawberries? With people, it’s even worse! And another thing-the Civic Center Farmer’s Market is in the middle of an open area with absolutely no trees. Even at 8:30 in the morning when I was there it was full sun exposure. Merciless.
My Apartment has basically a north- south orientation, with the rest of my building to the east and the building next door to the west. This means that I get interesting slivers of sunlight both in my parlor (morning) and kitchen (afternoon) but that everything in-between is in permanent twilight or gets no sun at all, like my hallway. It’s nice to lie down on the floor there on really hot day like today.
Oh the heavenly scent of leeks cooking in butter! Is there anything better? I feel another poem coming on:
Amidst the fevered foodie freaks,
and even grander gourmet geeks,
Some Italians, many Greeks
humble peasants, fancy sheiks,
could expound for weeks and weeks
about undying love of leeks.
So, if your heart is feeling weak,
and your figure’s less than sleek,
and the prospect’s pretty bleak,
and your life-style needs a tweak.
Here’s the answer that you seek:
I suggest you eat a leek.
The first recipe in Mastering the Art of French cooking is for Leek and Potato Soup, or as the French call it, Potage Parmentier. Dear Julia explained that this dish is everything wonderful about French cuisine. Very few, simple ingredients cooked carefully to velvet emulsion with butter. It is so delicious that is surprises people when they ask what’s in it. Leeks, potatoes, water, butter, salt, pepper.
Here are some fun leek facts you can share with your family and friends. You could even make a fun leek trivia.
What do the French call leeks, informally? Because leeks grow plentifully in damp soil and swamps, it was called asperges du pauvre, asparagus of the poor.
Where does the word leek come from? It is an old English word that originally meant garlic.
What is the only vegetable that has a major city named for it? The leek.
What city is it? Chicago, an Algonquin word meaning striped onion or wild leek, which once grew in the enormous swamp on which the city is built.
Enough. Play the game, eat the soup, have a good time.
Author Rachel Simon writes “Happiness, I have grasped, is a destination, like strawberry fields.” Thus I find myself on the trusty Forty-Nine bus rolling towards our noble Civic Center, home of the San Francisco Public Library, and on Wednesdays, the Heart of the City Farmer’s Market. There’s an added treat: the Friends of the Public Library sale tables they set out once a week. I dropped my book into the return minidumpster looking thing, looked at the sale tables, and made my way to the market.
I like to walk around, amble really if I’m honest and look at the various fresh produce and etc. very carefully and deliberately. I love showing people that I am not in a hurry. My tote sack over my right shoulder, I accept a slice of fresh nectarine, a shiny red cherry, I nibble each and nod thoughtfully and approvingly, the way I imagine a French woman might. That’s it friends, going to the farmer’s market allows me to pretend to be a French woman who knows a lot about vegetables. Sophisticated.
Small and squeaky purple onions, check. Crisp heads of baby lettuce, bingo. Plump and pleasant first of season cherry tomatoes, you bet. Then, at the mouth of the market where the sidewalk meets the street, a vendor tent with one item and one item only. There, in large flats, glistening in the spring sunlight, a chorus of large, ruby red and picture perfect strawberries, their heads pointing toward the celestial conductor awaiting the cue to open in song. Like a bunch of Audry 2s from Little Shop of Horrors, they seem to be calling out to me, beckoning me forth. I imagine I’d have to open a vein or at least a capillary to feed these little guys, keep them ruby red, but no. The vendor was calling out to me, fruit in hand. I tasted the fruit. Perfection.
It was a little later in the afternoon, when farmers start to worry they will have to take some produce back to the farm (which they don’t want to do), so bargains are struck. One flat? $5. Three flats? 10. I was offered six flats for $15. So, I took my huge flimsy cardboard box of delicate strawberries back onto the Forty-Nine filled now with screaming teenagers, and got them home, an achievement on its own.
Another achievement- A new fridge is in place. An old fridge has been retired. It took a minute, but all is well and right and good. Then, I got ill. So, I convalesce. Chicken noodle soup.
New fridge interior. Exciting, I know. Regard the strawberries, bottom right.
Monday is my work from home sorta day, I reply to emails, review dates and meetings and plans for the week, do chores, make sure money gets shuffled around to where it’s supposed to go, and the other thrilling minutiae of self-sufficiency. When days are slow and it’s dishes and vacuuming and laundry, I’ll put on a “stupid” movie channel as my grandfather would’ve called it, and let it play away. My favorite at the moment is COMET, featuring sci-fi, thrillers and horror, many of the B variety. And tonight’s prime-time flick is a new one to me. The Roger Corman(RIP) produced, Harvey Korman starring (in two roles), 1986 masterpiece, Munchies. It is a riff, a take, a what do you call it? Rip off of Gremlins, except it’s much funnier and deliberately goofy. It gets bad reviews everywhere, and they are undeserved, this is a funny movie and a terrific picture, in a trashy, silly rip-off, low-brow sort of way. The puppets are hilariously cheap looking, the budget constraints painfully obvious.
Now, why am I sharing this movie news on my little food nibble bloggy woggy? I don’t honestly know, it was the only big thing that happened in my life today. Didn’t Don Delillo write that there used to be a thing called taste? Andy Warhol changed all that. Now there is camp, there is kitsch. It became ok to love things done in poor taste, things so bad they are good. I didn’t put quotes around it because it’s not an exact quote. I’m not even sure that it is Delillo, but I’m pretty sure. I don’t have time to go hunting around for it. Also, please don’t get hung up on the Andy Warhol part, it doesn’t matter for my purposes that we identify the person that did this, it is important to acknowledge that it has happened. This wider acceptance of stuff that we all know isn’t good (movies and tv lend themselves well to this acceptance) is a new and fun thing. It brings people with bad taste together without shame. This is true also in the world of food and drink.
I speak not of nostalgia. Neither speak I of reconstructed or deconstructed versions of dishes. Or real fancy versions of typically pedestrian victuals, I’m talking about genuine trash foods. Like, I had a friend that made a dish every Christmas that was intended to look like his kittycat had made lots of poopies in a pan of that mini gravel crap that gets all over the house of anyone that has a cat. I think it’s like little fudge clumps in crumbled-up oreos or something horrible like that. That’s an extreme example. Another example is serving carnival food at dinner parties.
High spring fog moves in over our peninsula. Anyway, here comes another one. I’m talking about really fancy $$$ gala dinner parties for private donors, special friends of private donors dinner parties, and private friend diners of donor dinners. A cotton candy machine. Donuts and waffles fried on demand. Hush puppies. Corn dogs. Yes, yes, the ole corn dog, she was barking up my pant leg the other day, but I shook her. A friend’s birthday request for deep fried goodies went awry when I fell asleep, a putrid and peaceless sleep indeed. I awoke twenty minutes before guests arrived having prepared exactly nothing. I’m glad I didn’t turn the oil on before I snoozed. I guess I don’t really care right now. I was happy. Guests were happy. Hot dogs (Hebrew National) on grilled bleach-white buns, simmered onions, hot sauerkraut, and mustard. Magnificence on a bun.
I’m sorry I called it trash food, it isn’t. Cotton Candy is trash food, my buddy’s kitty litter snack is trash. Is it? Does that make it bad? This Harvey Korman movie is bad, but I’d recommend it to anyone. In fact, I am recommending it to everyone. I hope they see this. Munchies, the little monsters that eat and prank and maybe even kill their way through Southern California desert towns.
Night descends on the quiet city. Let’s contemplate potato salad together. I remember the first time I ate potato salad. It was made by my grandmother or perhaps someone else, but it was definitely someone, and it was cold and quite mayonnaise-y, with thick chunks of celery in it. I remember a friend making a large bowl of her “special” potato salad for a picnic in high school. I don’t remember what was special about it except that it didn’t smell great, it doubled as an ash tray when no other was at hand, her constantly shedding cat loved hopping on and off the kitchen counter, and I always gave it a miss. Potato salads show up everywhere- a dish that seems to cross class lines, which doesn’t happen that often. Here’s what I did with mine:
With large, solid hands (mine), I peeled and plunged cubed Russets into water where they simmered in foamy, starchy, scum water until texture achieval. I poured off all the water and immediately showered the freshly texturally achieved morsels in a plague rain of apple cider vinegar and salt. Celery, yes. Onion, yes. Scallion, to be sure. Yella mustard, is the pope Catholic? Garlic, does a bear shit in the woods? Black Pepper, who’s buried in Grant’s tomb? Hard-boiled egg all chopped up. Paprika, sure. Parsley. Put it in the fridge, get it nice and chilly. I didn’t do this the other evening. We enjoyed the salad at room temperature. Which wasn’t as good.
A streusel and cherry pie cheesecake straight from the freezer, no baking required did the trick with dessert. All is right and well and good.
BingoFest 