Last night at the Lloyd J. Reynolds Memorial Shoestring Theater, we were dishing up chili and lactose-free cornbread when suddenly the film became unexpectedly sinister -- who knew writer's block could be so macabre? In any case, Barton Fink is worth watching, and this chili worth eating.
The evening before it's supposed to rain, run up to Otto's (or the German sausage joint nearest you) and nurse a franciscan hefe as you peruse the glass cases. Select two pounds of ground beef and the last ham hock, which is the last, the butcher tells you, "Because we've been doing so much elk lately." Allow yourself a little sigh for last year this time when you, too, were "doing so much elk." At home, rinse & soak a pound of kidney beans.
About noon on the rainy day you've selected for chili, pour off the bean-soaking water, put the beans in a great big stock pot, and cover with fresh cold water. Simmer them till soft, and then add the ham hock and some canned tomatoes (don't even try buying fresh tomatoes in chili season). The salt from the hock will toughen the bean skins if you add it too early. Coarsely chop a head of garlic and throw that in, too, along with a fistful of chopped dried chilis or chili powder. I like using a lot of mild chilis to lay down the foundational savor, adjusting the heat with the spicier ones later on. Word of Caution #1: Spiciness increases with time. Word of Caution #2: Do not change your diva cup for several hours after chopping chilis. No matter how hard you scrub your hands, that capsaicin will linger on your fingers.
A couple of hours before suppertime, caramelize three onions till pleasantly golden in olive oil. Add some chopped jalapenos, if you like. Splash in some Egri bikaver or other robust red wine, let it cook off, then splash in some more, etc.... Add the onions to the bean pot and check to see if the ham hock is fall-apart tender. If it is, pull it out and let it cool a bit before removing the bone, chopping the meat, and returning it to the soup.
In the now-empty onion skillet, brown the ground beef well, and add that to the chili. Swizzle in some molasses, and do some taste-testing. How's the salty-sweet balance? Probably more molasses will be wanted. The acids and mellows? Tomato paste will help thicken and add acid; so will wine vinegar, and the pork should have contributed plenty of mellow fat. Add some more garlic, this time thinly slivered. Turn off the heat and let it steep some more while you make the cornbread.
Serve with cornbread, sour cream, cheese, and chopped raw onions.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Friday, November 23, 2007
Thanksgiving 3.0
It rated a perfect 3.0 on the butter scale. Pound and a quarter for three pie crusts. Pound for the stuffing. Quarter pound for basting. Quarter pound between the gravy and the beet sauce that got drizzled all over the kale. The balance for the mashed sweet potatoes, which, unfortunately, were so delicious* we didn't eat ANY pie till today. Ludicrous, I know, but with that much butter in a crust, it can survive even overnight refrigeration quite gracefully. And the day rated an even 3.0 for trips to the rosemary bush down the street, a 3.0 for liters of mulled wine, and a 3.0 for Members-of-the-Household-Working-on-Their-Theses-on-Thanksgiving-of-all-Days.
*Steam the sweet potatoes till quite tender. Whisk in the whipped cream left over from the morning's waffles, lots of salt and pepper, one trip's worth finely minced rosemary, a moderate amount of curry powder, slightly more molasses than you intended, and a stick of butter (and maybe just a bit of that ghee that got a little bit accidentally-deliciously caramelized).
*Steam the sweet potatoes till quite tender. Whisk in the whipped cream left over from the morning's waffles, lots of salt and pepper, one trip's worth finely minced rosemary, a moderate amount of curry powder, slightly more molasses than you intended, and a stick of butter (and maybe just a bit of that ghee that got a little bit accidentally-deliciously caramelized).
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Chicken Noodle Soup from Scratch
This is a Little-Red-Hen, chicken-scratch kind of recipe.
In the morning, put a couple of pounds of chicken feet along with any miscellaneous saved bones in a large stock pot, cover with water, and bring to a simmer. Add some peppercorns, cover, and simmer all day long while you gad about in toy stores and gourmet grocers, and other places you have no business being (except to buy glow-in-the-dark stars and that grey sea salt you've been jonesing for).
When you tire of the blustery wind and people who say, "Oh, does he like yummy yummy cheeses? Does he? Oh yes, daddy's little soldier loves yummy yummy cheeses. He'll have a good palate when he's a big boy," come back home and drain the stock through a colander. Reserve half of it for later use (I freeze it) and put the rest back to simmer with several tablespoons of that fancy-ass sea salt. Then make the noodles.
Build a little cinder cone from 1.5 c. white whole-wheat flour on a clean countertop. Put 3 eggs in the crater and a pinch of salt and beat the eggs gently, incorporating some of the flour until it's too thick to stir. Knead till glossy-smooth, shape into ball, and hide under a bowl.
Chop two onions and whatever veggies are on hand (carrots, parsnips, cauliflower, celery, etc...). Add them to the simmering stock according to their respective cooking times and throw in something green, like thyme, and maybe a couple dashes of curry.
Uncover the dough. Cut it in half and shape into two balls. On a lightly floured surface, press one ball into a circle and roll from the center out till it's less than an eighth of an inch thick. Cut into half-inch strips. Gently stretch each noodle lengthwise before hanging it to dry (I find this easier than rolling the whole dough super-thin, and makes noodles of more even thickness). The noodles certainly don't need to dry all the way -- throw them into the soup pot as soon as you've shaped them all and the veggies are done. Go ahead and make noodles out of the other dough-ball, to use tomorrow or next week (those should dry all the way, hanging over a chair or a wooden spoon handle), but don't forget about the noodles in the pot. They should swell significantly but stay chewy.
This made enough for three people. If more people want some, garnish each dish with chicken feet and feathers. That'll teach 'em to freeload from the Little Red Hen.
In the morning, put a couple of pounds of chicken feet along with any miscellaneous saved bones in a large stock pot, cover with water, and bring to a simmer. Add some peppercorns, cover, and simmer all day long while you gad about in toy stores and gourmet grocers, and other places you have no business being (except to buy glow-in-the-dark stars and that grey sea salt you've been jonesing for).
When you tire of the blustery wind and people who say, "Oh, does he like yummy yummy cheeses? Does he? Oh yes, daddy's little soldier loves yummy yummy cheeses. He'll have a good palate when he's a big boy," come back home and drain the stock through a colander. Reserve half of it for later use (I freeze it) and put the rest back to simmer with several tablespoons of that fancy-ass sea salt. Then make the noodles.
Build a little cinder cone from 1.5 c. white whole-wheat flour on a clean countertop. Put 3 eggs in the crater and a pinch of salt and beat the eggs gently, incorporating some of the flour until it's too thick to stir. Knead till glossy-smooth, shape into ball, and hide under a bowl.
Chop two onions and whatever veggies are on hand (carrots, parsnips, cauliflower, celery, etc...). Add them to the simmering stock according to their respective cooking times and throw in something green, like thyme, and maybe a couple dashes of curry.
Uncover the dough. Cut it in half and shape into two balls. On a lightly floured surface, press one ball into a circle and roll from the center out till it's less than an eighth of an inch thick. Cut into half-inch strips. Gently stretch each noodle lengthwise before hanging it to dry (I find this easier than rolling the whole dough super-thin, and makes noodles of more even thickness). The noodles certainly don't need to dry all the way -- throw them into the soup pot as soon as you've shaped them all and the veggies are done. Go ahead and make noodles out of the other dough-ball, to use tomorrow or next week (those should dry all the way, hanging over a chair or a wooden spoon handle), but don't forget about the noodles in the pot. They should swell significantly but stay chewy.
This made enough for three people. If more people want some, garnish each dish with chicken feet and feathers. That'll teach 'em to freeload from the Little Red Hen.
Gizzards 'n' Sprouts
Once each autumn a great scouring wind swoops down and rips off the last of the leaves. On that day I find it particularly difficult to control the urge to cackle and steal small children. I distracted myself today by fixing a wickedly delicious witch's luncheon: maple-glazed chicken gizzards and brussels sprouts. Supper, of course, will be soup in a cauldron, with chicken feet bubbling out.
Wash ¼ lb. chicken gizzards and cut into bite-size chunks. Sprinkle with salt. Peal the outer leaves from 8 brussels sprouts and cut in half. Core and dice one crisp, tart apple (like the dusty-red cameos everybody's been overlooking at the store).
Heat a large skillet and fry 2 slices bacon till crisp. Remove the bacon from the pan and let it drain while you cook up the other things. Brown the gizzards in the bacon fat, peppering well. Add the brussels sprouts and a quarter cup of water, cover, and let steam a bit. Remove the cover and let the liquid cook down. The sprouts will soak up that savory bacon fat on their cut sides. When the sprouts are just a bit too firm to eat, add the apple, another splash of water, and several tablespoons of maple syrup. Cover again, just to soften the apples a tad, and then uncover and let the liquid cook down to a syrup again. Spoon the sprouts 'n' gizzards into a dish, crumble the bacon overtop, and pour the pan juices over it all (said pan juices will accumulate in the bottom of your dish. You will want a slice of crusty bread for sopping).
This dish has marvelously assertive textures: the gizzards spring, the apples split, the sprouts crunch, and the bacon crackles. Whee-hee-hee, my pretty.
Wash ¼ lb. chicken gizzards and cut into bite-size chunks. Sprinkle with salt. Peal the outer leaves from 8 brussels sprouts and cut in half. Core and dice one crisp, tart apple (like the dusty-red cameos everybody's been overlooking at the store).
Heat a large skillet and fry 2 slices bacon till crisp. Remove the bacon from the pan and let it drain while you cook up the other things. Brown the gizzards in the bacon fat, peppering well. Add the brussels sprouts and a quarter cup of water, cover, and let steam a bit. Remove the cover and let the liquid cook down. The sprouts will soak up that savory bacon fat on their cut sides. When the sprouts are just a bit too firm to eat, add the apple, another splash of water, and several tablespoons of maple syrup. Cover again, just to soften the apples a tad, and then uncover and let the liquid cook down to a syrup again. Spoon the sprouts 'n' gizzards into a dish, crumble the bacon overtop, and pour the pan juices over it all (said pan juices will accumulate in the bottom of your dish. You will want a slice of crusty bread for sopping).
This dish has marvelously assertive textures: the gizzards spring, the apples split, the sprouts crunch, and the bacon crackles. Whee-hee-hee, my pretty.
Monday, November 12, 2007
How to Eat
With your fingers. Because it's silly to sit down with fine folk and share only the conversation -- when there are germs and elbow-space and enormous platters of wat to be scooped up with that spongy fermented injera.
Quite frankly, when LJ makes Ethiopian food, it's magic. And when there's a fire in the grate and cats and guitars, it's hard not to question our dependence on things like forks and job interviews.
In other news, the new house is great, and I'm taking advantage of its relative security to brew kombucha, make granola, and cultivate houseplants.
Quite frankly, when LJ makes Ethiopian food, it's magic. And when there's a fire in the grate and cats and guitars, it's hard not to question our dependence on things like forks and job interviews.
In other news, the new house is great, and I'm taking advantage of its relative security to brew kombucha, make granola, and cultivate houseplants.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Confessions of a Roast Garlic & Sweet Onion Jam Thief
Baby, there's no delectation like peculation. An inveterate fridge-snitch, I've encountered many a tasty leftover that doesn't belong to me. Some favorites:
LJ's coconut milk curry with the big juicy shrimp (I know, dear. I'm really sorry. You even hid it in the upstairs fridge at Canada House).
ALL's cashew butter (what it is it, 10 bucks for a wee bitty jar? Wicked, wicked me).
V. Cafe's marinated olives (five gallon pailfuls of juicy briny delight! By the end of the shift my apron pockets bulged with pits)(no, of course I didn't violate the health code).
A. Rose's garlic-onion jam (and you're so good at savoring your treats. I hang my head).
I can change; I swear from now on I'm a new person. I'll keep my kleptomaniacal lips off my housemates' possessions and make my own roast garlic and sweet onion jam.
For the exorcism of vampires, colds, and leftover biscuits:
Dice two and a half enormous sweet onions and throw them in a large stockpot with a long splash of olive oil. Confit them: simmer them gently forever, adding more fat and stirring if they brown & stick, while you roast the garlic and prepare the pectin. Alternatively, lay them out on an oiled baking sheet and roast them with the garlic.
Take three heads of garlic, maybe five if you have a cold, peel off the really loose papery stuff, and slice across the top so each clove has a little peep-hole. Place them in a skillet with a little bit of water and roast them at 400 till quite creamy inside. You may want to add more water or partially cover the dish.
I used Pomona's Universal Pectin because it doesn't require a mountain of sugar. It comes with directions. But you can probably get by without it if you just cook everything way down at the end.
When the garlic is nicely browned, squeeze the cloves into the onion pot and mash everything with the potato masher. Add 1/4 c. cider vinegar, the juice of one lemon, 3 tablespoons of salt, a lot of pepper, 1/4 c. brown sugar, some molasses for good measure, and 2 tsp. calcium water if you're working with Pomona. Bring it all to a boil.
Mix the pectin (2 tsp) with 1/2 c. honey and add to the onion mixture. Stir vigorously and return to a boil. Boil for a minute and pull of the heat. Pack into sterile jars & do the whole canning thing, or just put it in a quart jar or two and keep it in the fridge.
As a concentrated source of the sweet-savory-sour culinary triumvirate, this jam makes a great gift for the flavor-shy. Tell them to use it as a glaze, marinade, sandwich spread, and soup.
LJ's coconut milk curry with the big juicy shrimp (I know, dear. I'm really sorry. You even hid it in the upstairs fridge at Canada House).
ALL's cashew butter (what it is it, 10 bucks for a wee bitty jar? Wicked, wicked me).
V. Cafe's marinated olives (five gallon pailfuls of juicy briny delight! By the end of the shift my apron pockets bulged with pits)(no, of course I didn't violate the health code).
A. Rose's garlic-onion jam (and you're so good at savoring your treats. I hang my head).
I can change; I swear from now on I'm a new person. I'll keep my kleptomaniacal lips off my housemates' possessions and make my own roast garlic and sweet onion jam.
For the exorcism of vampires, colds, and leftover biscuits:
Dice two and a half enormous sweet onions and throw them in a large stockpot with a long splash of olive oil. Confit them: simmer them gently forever, adding more fat and stirring if they brown & stick, while you roast the garlic and prepare the pectin. Alternatively, lay them out on an oiled baking sheet and roast them with the garlic.
Take three heads of garlic, maybe five if you have a cold, peel off the really loose papery stuff, and slice across the top so each clove has a little peep-hole. Place them in a skillet with a little bit of water and roast them at 400 till quite creamy inside. You may want to add more water or partially cover the dish.
I used Pomona's Universal Pectin because it doesn't require a mountain of sugar. It comes with directions. But you can probably get by without it if you just cook everything way down at the end.
When the garlic is nicely browned, squeeze the cloves into the onion pot and mash everything with the potato masher. Add 1/4 c. cider vinegar, the juice of one lemon, 3 tablespoons of salt, a lot of pepper, 1/4 c. brown sugar, some molasses for good measure, and 2 tsp. calcium water if you're working with Pomona. Bring it all to a boil.
Mix the pectin (2 tsp) with 1/2 c. honey and add to the onion mixture. Stir vigorously and return to a boil. Boil for a minute and pull of the heat. Pack into sterile jars & do the whole canning thing, or just put it in a quart jar or two and keep it in the fridge.
As a concentrated source of the sweet-savory-sour culinary triumvirate, this jam makes a great gift for the flavor-shy. Tell them to use it as a glaze, marinade, sandwich spread, and soup.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Chicken Potpie
Chicken potpie occupies a spectrum of pastried poultry ranging from a thick stew with rich dumplings to an honest-to-goodness two-crust chicken pie. Mine, directly descended from my mother's, lands somewhere in the middle: a creamed chicken casserole with biscuits baked on top.
To somewhat maintain their individuality, I like to prepare the ingredients separately. I roasted two well-salted, skins-on chicken quarters at 400 till they'd rendered some fat, then added two chopped onions and a generous splash of chicken stock. I let the chicken brown while I chopped cauliflower, green beans, parsnips, carrots, and potatoes (something like two quarts of each). The potatoes I seasoned and roasted alongside the chicken, but only for 20-30 minutes to keep them from getting bitter. I steamed the other vegetables till just tender -- this meant the carrots had to be chopped much finer than everything else.
When the chicken was fall-apart tender, I pulled it out and let it cool till I could comfortably pick the meat from the bones. I made a roux by adding half a cup of flour to 4 tablespoons sizzling butter, and stirring it about till the flour was all saturated. I added a quart of chicken stock and whisked it all till thick and bubbly -- but not too thick (it ought to be pourable, not gloppable). With the potatoes roasted, the veggies steamed, the chicken pulled, and the gravy thick, I was read to "make biscuit".
I'm particularly fond of crusty flaky layered cornmeal biscuits as the nicest counterpoint to the creamy filling. So I whisked together 2 cups white whole-wheat flour, 1.5 c. white flour, 1/2 c. cornmeal, 5 tsp. baking powder, and a tablespoon of salt. I grated 10 tablespoons of frozen butter, fluffed it about, made a well, and poured in a little more than 1.5 c. milk. With a few quick movements, I emptied the dough onto the counter, kneaded it with a half-dozen fold-turns, patted it into a round on a light sprinkling of cornmeal, and rolled it (from the center out) till half an inch thick. Mama cuts round biscuits. I like making rhombi (diamonds, slanty-squares, what-have-you), which tile nicely as in the picture and produce less scrap for re-rolling.
To finish it off: preheat the oven to 450 degrees, equally distribute the veggies and chicken between two #8 or 9 cast-iron skillets, pour over the creamy-gravy (which I did have to thin a bit with some milk) and top with biscuits. Bake for 15-20 minutes, or till crusty and golden. Serve one skilletful for supper and keep one back for leftovers. Counts as three good doses of religion.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Maple Parsnip Pie
How is it that the parsnip, so carrot-like -- though sweeter, spicier, and creamier -- has been left to languish like a wallflower while its orange-complected sister gads about in cakes with cream cheese frosting?
I decided last night, when the store was slow because everyone was out trick-or-treating, that I must find a partner for the poor neglected parsnip, and throw a debutante ball in a realm where the crisp carrot really can't compete: pie!
I halved six parsnips this morning and roasted them in a buttered dish with a little water till they were quite tender. I nibbled off their tails, which were pleasantly crispy, and threw about half the tops in the blender with some good rich milk. I tried to add as little liquid as possible, to see how concentrated I could get the parsnippy flavor without the blender protesting, and wound up with 2.5 cups of parsnip puree, 1 cup of which was milk. I put a spoonful of puree in two cups and added a tablespoon of honey to one, and a tablespoon of maple syrup to the other. I had already ruled out molasses because I wanted to preserve the ivory-cream color. It was good with honey, but maple syrup really understood the parsnip's clean earthy-woodsy bite. Honey, on the other hand, just couldn't parse parsnips' nip.
So to the blenderful of puree I added 3/4 c. maple syrup, two eggs, 1/4 c. sour cream, 1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon, 1/4 tsp. ground nutmeg, and 1/8 tsp. ground cloves. I blended it well, then let it sit while I made a 9" sweet shortbread crust to put it in. I baked the pie at 400 degrees Fahrenheit for 20 minutes, then reduced it to 350 until the custard had risen significantly around the edges but not so much in the middle.
Oh, damn it, I forgot to add vanilla! Perhaps I should top the pie with vanilla whipped cream. In any case, it's cooling now and I shall let you know how parsnips behave when they're all dolled up.
I decided last night, when the store was slow because everyone was out trick-or-treating, that I must find a partner for the poor neglected parsnip, and throw a debutante ball in a realm where the crisp carrot really can't compete: pie!
I halved six parsnips this morning and roasted them in a buttered dish with a little water till they were quite tender. I nibbled off their tails, which were pleasantly crispy, and threw about half the tops in the blender with some good rich milk. I tried to add as little liquid as possible, to see how concentrated I could get the parsnippy flavor without the blender protesting, and wound up with 2.5 cups of parsnip puree, 1 cup of which was milk. I put a spoonful of puree in two cups and added a tablespoon of honey to one, and a tablespoon of maple syrup to the other. I had already ruled out molasses because I wanted to preserve the ivory-cream color. It was good with honey, but maple syrup really understood the parsnip's clean earthy-woodsy bite. Honey, on the other hand, just couldn't parse parsnips' nip.
So to the blenderful of puree I added 3/4 c. maple syrup, two eggs, 1/4 c. sour cream, 1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon, 1/4 tsp. ground nutmeg, and 1/8 tsp. ground cloves. I blended it well, then let it sit while I made a 9" sweet shortbread crust to put it in. I baked the pie at 400 degrees Fahrenheit for 20 minutes, then reduced it to 350 until the custard had risen significantly around the edges but not so much in the middle.
Oh, damn it, I forgot to add vanilla! Perhaps I should top the pie with vanilla whipped cream. In any case, it's cooling now and I shall let you know how parsnips behave when they're all dolled up.
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