On Grits and Grillades

So, a couple of weeks after my last post, I got a job.

A time-consuming job that, right before it started, expanded. I found myself teaching 3 courses instead of 2, in addition to doing all the things I was doing before. I got busy. Then I got sick. Really sick. But now I'm better, and of course, I'm back to cooking interesting foods again, rather than quicky casseroles (which are good, but not inspiring).

One of those recent meals came up totally by accident. I grabbed a hunk of pork loin out of the freezer to thaw for stir fry. When I began to cut into it, I noticed it was the reddest, fattiest pork loin I'd ever seen. Turns out, it was leftover chili beef that John hadn't labeled and had wrapped just as he had the pork loin. Let this be a freezer labeling lesson to us all.

I didn't think the chili meat would be tender enough for a quick stir fry, but we had a huge thing of grits, and we had some aromatics and some beef stock (leftover from chili too). Aha! Grits and Grillades! Let it never be said that when given the correct set of circumstances (not ill, not overwhelmed by duties), I can't show ingenuity.

For Grillades (Oven)
1/2 pound beef or pork, sliced thin
1/2 white onion, sliced medium thickness
a handful of baby carrots (or sliced carrots)
2 cloves garlic, roughly chopped
1/2 bell pepper, coarsely chopped
2 tsp salt
Pepper to taste
1 T smoked paprika
cayenne to taste
1/2 T cinnamon
1/2 cup beef stock (or water, or wine, or any liquid that seems tasty)

Preheat oven to 375.

In a Dutch oven, or oven safe pot, heat a 1/2 T of oil until warm. Salt the meat and and brown gently (don't cook through). Add the onion, then add the paprika. Cook until the onion just begins to soften, then add the carrots and garlic and the rest of the spices. Cook for a few more minutes until the onions begin to brown, then add the peppers (add them last so they hold their shape better). Add the stock and deglaze the pan. Place in the oven for 20-25 minutes while you make the grits.

Grillades (Crock Pot)
Same ingredients.

Create a rub for the meat with the spices and work it in well. Create a layer of carrots in the crock pot. Then add the onions, then the meat. Top the meat with the garlic and peppers. Add the liquid and cook on low until the meat is tender.

For Grits
1/2 cup grits
2 cups water
salt
pepper to taste

(if you want to be really decadent, stir in just a little cream after cooking)
Bring the water to a Boil. Add the grits and a little salt. Return to the boil, stirring constantly. Turn heat to low, cover and simmer, stirring occasionally, until the grits are creamy.

Spoon into bowls, top with grillades and eat!

On $13 Chickens

When is a thirteen dollar chicken worth it?

And no, that's not a 13 dollar monstrosity of a hen. It was a fine little 3.25 pound lady, cleaned, without necks or giblets (sadly - I make tasty stock from those parts) from the farmers' market, specifically Eco Friendly Foods. I've written plenty about the importance of buying humanely raised meats, and of purchasing food raised locally, and of buying from the farmers' market, so I won't repeat myself. Nonetheless, the decision to buy a $13 bird for two people for no particular special occasion wasn't an easy one.

Having recently had a come to Jesus meeting of the worst kind with our finances (involving some credit card sticker shock, followed by budget entering sticker shock, followed by unforeseen expenses sticker shock, followed by... well, you get the picture), we've put the kibosh on eating out, with a couple of exceptions, to be done cheaply (like when we go to Baltimore this Friday to see Pirates of Penzance in which a dear friend performs), and we've decided to scale back our grocery purchases.

You see, in the past few months, the vast majority of our monthly money after rent and student loan payments had gone toward stuffing our faces, both in and outside the home. So, while we don't exactly have to go the Extreme Frugality route, things need to be reined in. Tightly.

For one, rather than choosing whatever suited our whim each evening, we've returned to our old habit of meal planning. And we've made what we dub a "Nom Book" - a list of the restaurants and meals we really want to try, old favorites excluded for the moment. In a sense, we're saving toward those things, making it easier to forego a second glass of wine at Happy Hour (not that I've been to too many lately, but booze is not a part of our terrible spending habits as I budget it separately - that's right, we have separate eating out and drinking out categories in our budget - and it's a tiny portion of the money we spend), or to eat leftovers rather than grab a piece of chicken at the deli near work.

But a big part of the problem has to do with making the best of what we buy as well, which is where the dilemma over the $13 dollar chicken came in. I knew it would taste good (and, oh, did it ever), but would it be worth it, when we could probably get twice the chicken, at least in thighs, at Whole Foods? We decided to gamble on it, and I planned out 3 meals with the chicken: roast chicken, veggies and corn; chicken and mushroom lasagna; and stuffed patty pan squash. I figured that by that point, all the meat would be gone, and I would boil the bones for broth. Given that chicken broth costs any where from 7 - 15 cents an ounce (at the Giant, via Peapod, probably more for organic, Kitchen Basics, or at Whole Foods), I figured I could at least break even on the chicken.

I began by brining the chicken. I knew it would taste a little more meaty, having been pastured, but I guessed that the meat might be drier from a lack of fat. So I brought some water, salt, brown sugar and lemon juice to a simmer, and when it cooled, I sat my chicken down in it for a few hours. Then, I dried her off, and rubbed her meat (under the skin) with a combination of salt, pepper, lemon rind, parsley, dill, and basil. There was enough leftover to rub into her skin too. I roasted her at 375 until done (I lost track of time, and our thermometers both crapped out on us during this process, so, I was afraid she might have been a little over done, but she wasn't at all).

We ate the drumsticks and a little of the thigh meat that night with some vegetables. The meat was rich, buttery, melt in your mouth chicken - probably the best I've ever cooked at home. This wasn't due to brine, although I'm sure that helped - it was what I had read about: a "chickenier" chicken. I liked it.

The next day I chopped the breast meat into cubes, layered it with a very slight amount of tomato sauce, noodles, cheese, herbs, and the first two steps of a duxelles (very finely chopped mushrooms with the liquid squeezed out - save the liquid and add it to broth or water to cook rice in, delicious). It was a fine lasagna; the breast meat was delicious and moist, and held the flavors of the roast and worked beautifully with the other ingredients. It gave us a dinner and three lunches.

Faced with the still astonishing amount of meat on the chicken, I decided to add a fourth meal - a vegetable pot pie with chicken (there wasn't enough for stuffed squash and a pot pie with chicken as the star). For the squash, I chopped about a 1/4 cup of chicken, added the diced tops of the squash, riced cooked with red pepper flakes and cumin, herbs, and parmesan cheese. The filled patty pans were salted and peppered and drizzled with olive oil, and baked. They were delicious, and served with roasted broccoli, were incredibly satisfying. We had two squash, and each got dinner and lunch. The pot pie was made of broccoli, celery, onion, 1/2 cup of chicken, frozen lima beans, and plenty of herbs. I warmed these in a sauce pan, then coated them with flour, which I browned. Then I spooned in some fresh made stock (more on that in a second) and made a thick sauce. I poured it all into a pie pan, topped with biscuit dough, and baked until the biscuits were dark brown on top. It was a huge success - and has been dinner and lunch for 2, with one lunch (mine!) for tomorrow.

So, just in terms of meals served, that chicken cost about 81 cents a meal for 16 meals. Not a terrible deal. But when you add in that I boiled the bones for approximately 2 quarts of stock (currently in my freezer), the chicken becomes an even better buy (especially because the stock is so good, and has no added stuff in it). At 32 ounces, the least expensive store bought broth would cost $22.40, more than my chicken cost in the first place.

Sometimes, I guess, an expensive chicken is worth it. I was okay with a couple of meals have less meat in them, but even if I hadn't been, the chicken still would have ended up being a huge bargain. It can be difficult to make those decisions - buying a 13 dollar chicken when you know you need to budget more carefully can feel self-indulgent - but looking at things from the point of view of the whole changes the view - this chicken produced more for me, cost less, made less trash, caused less pollution, and underwent less pain than I could reasonably argue that 3.25 pounds of inexpensive chicken thighs might have. I got what I paid for.

On Pictures

I've been cooking a lot lately, but the grant writing whirl has kept me from posting. I've taken lots of pictures, so here's a mini post with lots of photos:

(Excuse how horrid they are - I am still learning the camera, and I'm too lazy to really "fix" any of them with photoshop right now.)

Photos of antipasti from the party we had to celebrate the limoncello:


Mozzarella balls from Whole Foods - sweet and nutty


Olives with mustard seed


Pepperocini


Fromage Fort - not Italian, but close enough - it's a mix of hunks of leftover cheeses with white wine, garlic, salt and pepper. This one is mostly goat and bleu cheese, with some dry vermouth. It got good reviews.


Crackers and Sopressata

So, I didn't make any of my antipasti, except the fromage fort, but they were all so very pretty (despite my shoddy camera work), I wanted to share.

Here's the cake I made as a late birthday surprise for John:








It's a yellow cake with lemon curd filling and buttercream icing, as he had requested some weeks before his birthday, and which wasn't able to get done before this party. The cake and icing and curd were all very easy to make, but the day was so warm and humid that they did not want to stay together. I called my mother, very upset that, despite the fact that I can make a layer cake, have done so before, and did everything in my power short of using a dowel to keep this one together, including digging a trough for the curd, it would not stay together. She calmed me down, and reminded me that everything looks fine once it's cut - and sure enough, an hour in the fridge later, the cake cut beautifully, and the guests would have been none the wiser had I not entertained them with the saga.

We actually made two batches of the first round of limoncello, one large batch that steeped with the simple syrup in the freezer, and a very small batch that steeped with the simple syrup outside of the freezer. The small batch was much smoother and thinner than the first, and a little more drinkable, but the colors were wildly different:


Small batch steeped with sugar on the left, original on the right


I also made some new recipes recently. One was this recipe for chicken schnitzel from the NYTimes. I made the salad they suggest, too, and have been making herby salads ever since. I steamed some asparagus along the side:












Finally, a picture of our dinner tonight, made by John, from scratch. He has a favorite pizza dough recipe, and he sliced some mushrooms and some Japanese eggplants (fresh from the farmer's market) very thin. He salted the eggplant for a little while before cooking, then loaded the dough with the mushrooms, the eggplant and sliced garlic atop tomato sauce and mozzarella. It was delicious - the picture does not do it justice.

On Limoncello

It's the stuff that Danny DeVito was still drunk on when he visited the view. He also makes the stuff himself:

Thick and yellow, sweet and lemony, strong and flammable, the stuff is great, in small doses, and pretty easy to make. John has a skill for it.

After Memorial Day, he sat on the floor, grated 20 lemons and an orange into an canister and then poured in a bottle of Everclear on top. We let it steep for 2 weeks, until the yellow was stripped off of the zest and the lemony smell coming off the alcohol burned our noses a little. No worries; the burn is alleviated by the addition of plenty of simple syrup. Here, the recipes differ (John mostly followed this one from Serious Eats, but minus the flavored vodka) - some suggest bottling (which we did, in old liquor and wine bottles - ecofriendly!) and freezing, and some suggest letting it steep a bit longer. So, we poured a little into a mason jar (yep) and let it go for a while. We've not tried that yet.



Cool limoncello in a cordial is just the thing. A small little shot, just for sipping - we advised people at a dinner party we held in honor of the limoncello to NOT shoot it - goes a long way. While John can handle a couple of cordials worth, I take so long to drink and it's so strong that I can only really drink one in a sitting.

Limoncello isn't difficult to make, and there are tons of recipes out there (I have one in a Giada de Laurentiis cookbook that calls for lemon peels and vodka). There's a lot of fun in making your own digestive. While we don't have the space or the expertise of my friend Brian, who brews his own delicious beer and has for years, it's exciting to be able to whip up something so potent and tasty. It's a great summer activity and a perfect summer drink. And it's nice to have that - something that you enjoy, that's lighthearted and fun.

So long as no one's going on TV still drunk after leaving my house.

On Kristof and the Farmer's Market

Nicholas Kristof is one of my favorite journalists. I rarely miss his column and am often motivated by the things he says. Today's column is another hit.

Lettuce from the Garden, With Worms

An excerpt:
Over the years, though, I’ve become nostalgic for an occasional bug in my salad, for an apple that feels as if it were designed by God rather than by a committee.

I miss an outdoor space, mostly for the way that my basil and mint ran rampant and cheap last year, and all my cooking was spiced with chili peppers, but also for the huge bounty of cherry tomatoes that came over a 3 month period from one plant in a pot. Because I am lazy, I missed out on the chance for a community garden space this year, and all my attempts to sprout herbs in my apartment faded, because even a constant on grow lamp can't really make up for the lack of bright, direct sun. What's fantastic for dinner parties and gorgeous afternoons inside isn't so great for mint or basil.

So I return to the farmer's market, buying clumps of mint, cilantro and spring onions for three dollars a piece, splurging on a box of sweet cherries (eaten all in one sitting last night), gaping in awe at purple and yellow cauliflower, at tiny strawberries just bursting with sweetness, at fresh squash in all shapes, sizes, and colors (my favorites are the striped zucchini, their seafoam green streaked with forest, and the patty pan squash, only yellow and green right now, but the tender white ones are so sweet, and wonderful stuffed and roasted), and being unable to resist the new potatoes, red, white, purple, skins so tender, they flake off with the wipe of a finger.

I love a grocery store, because I love to look at the food, but I'll take a farmer's market for visual effect any day. Because these are not the usual foods, the "committee designed" ones. The cauliflower is yellow and purple, not white, because that's what color it is, not what color sells best. The strawberries, cherries and blueberries are small, because that's how they grow, not grown until huge because that's how they sell (well, I always try to buy the smallest in the store when they're not at the market - they're sweeter). The tomatoes are red-orange, and oddly shaped. Some of the cherry tomatoes are bright yellow. The butter is creamy and white, the eggs are all colors, brown, speckled, pristine white, the butcher sells fat back and pork belly, hard to find even at Whole Foods, the closest butcher to me. The scallions are purple before the greens begin, and the spring onions are sweet and fragrant and pink. The garlic scapes are curled around themselves, a tangle of soft spice. The food is uniformly not perfect - there are spots and rough patches. The cuts of meat are small - no giant ribeyes here. There are flowers, everywhere, and pots of tomatoes and herbs. At the risk of sounding cliche, it's a very real place.

I know the farmer's market does it's own branding of marketing and advertising. There are samples everywhere - 3 kinds of cherries to choose from, lots of homemade cheeses. There are the bigger sellers, like EcoFriendly, which gets lots of attention from writers, magazines, and restaurants in the area (of course, they took all our old egg cartons I'd been saving, so they're not too big!). There's the sense of things being somehow more natural (lots of "grass-fed" and "grown without pesticides" signs) and more healthy (although some information out there suggests that the less far food has to travel, and the fewer chemicals used in its growing, the more nutritionally dense it is), when it may be just a place to get variety. There's a sense of community, and crowd. People are nicer in line there than at Whole Foods or Safeway (although the Safeway checkers around here are so fantastic!). A lot of emphasis is placed on foods being grown by the sellers, or other products being produced locally. The markets near me also place emphasis on education, outreach, and gleaning. So, the way you feel authentic, like a regular do-gooder, when you shop at the farmer's market, even though you probably realize that doing so puts you in a definite position of privilege. But, its a privilege that at least doesn't rely on a middle man, or on "committee approved" packaging or creating.

Being at the farmer's market feels like being in my mom's garden, grabbing up butternut squash or peas before the rabbits do. Oh sure, it may be weirdly shaped, or it may have a little nibble taken out of it. But there's no substitute for the feeling, the hot little sun burnt gourd in your hand, imperfect and whole.

On Hamburgers

(Yeah yeah, I've not posted. There's reasons.)
I can't eat hamburgers out.

Or, more correctly, I won't eat hamburgers out. Part of this has to do with wanting to know where my meat comes from, but most of it has to do with a much more visceral reaction to the thought of possibly tainted ground meat, or ground meat that may have something un-beefy in it. This reaction was etched in my mind after a history of biting into one too many burgers to find a hunk of bone or gristle crunching between my teeth. The very memory makes me gag, and such experiences ended my burger love-affair.

Occasionally I can be tempted by a good turkey burger, like the one I had recently at Elmo's Diner in Durham, N.C., or a Five Guys meal, but for the most part, I have satiated a burger craving with Black Bean Burgers, which are a different thing, and not to be served on a bun, as they are big, and very filling. So, for a little while, I was really missing out on the whole burger bun all-American summer time grill experience.

Two things happened to change all that. One was very quick - John got a meat grinder for Christmas. It remained dormant until the second thing happened - John reread the Cook's Illustrated hamburger recipe. These two things combined perfectly when, about two weeks ago, we both began craving hamburgers.

A pack of shortribs and a pound of sirloin later (we ended up using about 6 ounces short rib to 8 ounces sirloin), we were in the kitchen. But, because this was John's equipment and John's recipe, it was John's show. I busied myself making fries (frozen oven fries), slicing onion and cheese, and chopping lettuce, while he prepped the equipment.

The whole show works best if everything is cold. The meat was carefully cubed (the grind does better with smaller cubes) and chilled. The grinder and a clean metal bowl were placed in the freezer to chill, as well. Finally, the grinder attached to the mixer and the bowl placed underneath to catch the meat, John began to gently push the meat through the grinder (I put the buns in the toaster and got the condiments out of the fridge).


Meat coming out of the grinder.


Ground Meat

Having decided that we wanted thicker burgers than the recipe suggested, we decided to hold them together with egg. We based this on the recipe's claim that meat handled too much would get tough (makes sense - what else doesn't get tough when it's played with too much?) - we didn't want to mash the meat together too densely, so we added an egg as a binder. Subsequent experiments would show that midsized burgers with no egg held together as well as big burgers with egg - that is to say, they're fantastic, but crumbly!

John seared the burgers, leaving a juicy, rare center, a feat not often attempted, by me at least, in restaurant burgers. Piled on a bun with ketchup, mustard, some white onion, a little romaine and some good cheddar, this was a premier burger. Juice dribbled down chins and between fingers. Bits of crumbled meat fell onto plates, and were promptly picked up and popped into mouths. Beefy and rich, this burger didn't last long enough for a photo. But at only 8 bucks a pop (with grass fed beef from Whole Foods), I will probably have a chance to try again. Besides, at the same cost as a restaurant burger I won't be able to finish (damn memory), it is worth it to have a hamburger returned to my world of culinary possibility.

On Pie (particularly Chocolate Pecan Pie)

One of the things I like about cooking is the sense of connectedness it gives to my life. In fiction, we find all the little parts fitting together in the plot leading to some larger denouement, all the little puzzle pieces joining up with the corner piece and the audience saying, "Oh, wow" or "I totally saw it coming." Life doesn't quite fit so well together, so when I can, I like to draw the connections between things out to myself, so that I have a little map of sorts to remember and to follow.

So the chocolate pecan pie begins with my grandmother, whose pecan pies I rarely ate because for a long time I did not care for nuts in baked goods (I know, I was a silly thing). But she always turned up the pecans on top of her pies to face upwards, so it looked cohesive and pretty. I've always done that with my pies.

The next step, of course, is Karo syrup. I used the recipe on the label and have no idea how to make pecan pie without it, although there's definitely a part of me that feels somehow that using the Karo is betraying some sort of no corn syrup ideal.

Probably the next most important step is Nabil, for whom I started making pecan pies in the first place. He really likes them, and after a month of worrying about him during his first Ramadan with me, I made him one for Eid. As long as I lived in Boston, I continued the tradition (as he continued the tradition of going for a long run after not eating since 5 in the morning). I can't make pecan pie without thinking of him.

Pie crust is an essential step here. For a long time, I relied on my mom's crust recipe, and only switched when a much more fattening version appeared in the Cook's Illustrated one month. My pie crust is often a subject of marvel to my husband's family - it is one of the ways in which I have made myself indispensable to them. Its not that I have any special gift with it, its that I actually take the time to make it.

The next piece in the chocolate pecan pie puzzle is the first such pie I had, at Union Street Public House that I shared with Louise, Sarah, and Rachel. It was the first night I met Rachel, whom I adore, and the pie was great too. Plus, the pecans were chopped, which helped with the runniness that so often plagues pecan pies.

Finally, the inspiration for trying this pie recipe was Samia, another new friend, who mentioned her love for it over Bar-b-que last Saturday. She and her boyfriend came over to dye eggs, a first for Samia, last night, and I made the pie for her (and the rest of us) to enjoy. A new pie muse is always fun.

Really, all I did was melt two ounces of bittersweet chocolate (any sweeter and the sugar in the pie would make it just too much) and stir it in with the pie filling. I chopped the pecans to stop the runniness, which worked well, and I topped the pie with whole pecans, like my grandmother used to. I thought of all these things, these little pieces of plot as I made the pie, and of the little trails they make through my life. Cooking's like a constant scrapbook, or a kind of journaling, the most faithful kind I do. Maybe that's why I like to do it, and like to do it well. It's not just about feeding myself - its a much more complex kind of nourishment.

On Remembering

I found out today, via a strange and complicated series of events, that someone I cared a great deal about, but had lost touch with, died in December 2007. He was 30 when he died. His name was Jeremy.

My memories of Jeremy aren't really of food - I think he was a vegetarian, and I'm pretty sure I teased him about that, and many other facets of his hippy personality. We had quite a few drinks quite often, usually whiskey, possibly gin. He was a PhD student while I was an undergrad, and he let me substitute for his poetry classes once. He encouraged my poetry, and would sneakily let me help cull the bad poems out of the submissions to the journal he worked on, though I suspect he rechecked my cull pile because our tastes were different.

We really cared for each other, and fell out of touch when we both moved, which is the story of my life, that and procrastination. Hearing of his death reminded me that this is it - the only life I'm guaranteed, and I need to do something with it.

The friend I lost in October also died young and tragically. Cynthia was the kind of woman who did everything - she volunteered, she mentored, she played an instrument, she was a devoted yoga student, she was an amazing baker, she was great at her job, and she was active in her church. I'm also certain I'm missing something. She did, and did well. Its that doing that I want to take away from these people, who left the world a little less full. I've got somethings to say, about food, about poetry, about reproductive rights, about education, about justice for women. I want these memories to remind me to actually say it.

No food this time, just thoughts. Just grief.

On Potatoes and Poetry

So, by now, you all probably know how I feel about the potato. I translated parts of this post into a poem. I thought I'd share, brave little soul that I am.

Potato

Humble, on the counter top,
waiting for the scrub,
the knife, the boil, the oven.
A little hero, ready to sacrifice,
to take what the world
throws at it:
salt, cheese, butter, rosemary,
and on a bad day, gravy.
Ready to rescue us from
hangovers, colds, and the cruelest
of moods, the potato presents
itself, in the vegetable bowl,
a little friend, ready to spend
the night because we are lonely,
to let us stay over on a
rainy morning, to pour us a drink
and watch some bad television.
The potato does not expect
our repentance for lying
about the Visa bill, for letting
the ivy die, for not washing
the gym clothes.
The potato is forgiveness for being
human, and for much lesser
sins, dug up,
dusted off, and given to us.

On March

March is here. And in decided contrast to a lot of February, which had its shockingly warm days, it has decided to dawn cold and harsh. March has given up sunlight for Lent.

In honor of March, a poem that thematically would have been more appropriate in February, but actually never fit then.

February

Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It's his
way of telling whether or not I'm dead.
If I'm not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
he'll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
declaring war. It's all about sex and territory,
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here
should snip a few testicles. If we wise
hominids were sensible, we'd do that too,
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it's love that does us in. Over and over
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You're the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.

~Margaret Atwood, from the book Morning in the Burned House

On Mio, continued

A meal so memorable, it requires multiple posts!

(A quick word about the sourcing - Mio buys from Eco Friendly Foods a local distributer who sources from small farms in the Shenandoah Valley, including Polyface, which figures highly in Omnivore's Dilemma)

After a pleasant break, we received a seafood course - sauteed skate wing atop tiny wild mushrooms, and tender hunks of golden garlic in a brown butter sauce. It was the least impressive dish of the meal, which is a terrible thing to say, because it was just pitch perfect - a simple portion, a simple sauce, a simple preparation - very good indeed. Definitely something I would have ordered off of the menu and been very satisfied with, but it didn't push me the way the other dishes did.

The next course was a return to form, mixing sweet, bitter, heat and savory in perfect balance on the plate. A crisp, rare slice of duck sat atop a parsnip puree, a mole sauce, and grilled radicchio. Normally, I balk at radicchio, finding it just a bit too bitter (I don't care for hoppy beers either - the bitterness overwhelms my mouth and I can't taste anything else), but the carmelized grill marks toned down the bitterness, as did the sweetness of the duck and the spice of the mole. At first, I thought the parsnip had no role to play, as it was nearly bland, but when it began to mix with the other ingredients, its sweetness and earthiness came out and provided a great foundation for the duck.

Last came dessert, which I enjoyed with a glass of cava, and John enjoyed with coffee. Two desserts were served, a rich and thick chocolate mousse with salted caramel ice cream topped with chopped pistachios, and a subtly fruity panna cotta topped with candied fruit and nuts and tropical foam. The mousse was, of course, excellent. It played into the salted caramel trend while still providing a sure-to-please hit of dark chocolate. As much as it pains me to say this (I feel disloyal to chocolate, as if it were an old friend), the panna cotta was the best. I generally look with suspicion upon the lasting remnants of the micro-gastronomy fad, foams especially. Something about their texture reminds me of scum on a pond, and meat foams especially turn me off - they seem to remove the food so far from what it is. However, this foam was not a ploy - it hid the candied fruit, and its airy texture and rich flavor contrasted with the cool, thick, and subtle panna cotta beneath it. We left most of the mousse in the bowl after working through the ice cream, but savored the last scrapings of the panna cotta.

Already, this meal, an indulgence on all levels, has gone down as one of those we repeat to each other, reciting the ingredients and flavors like a long love poem.

On Mio

Every once in a while, you have a meal that you know, from the moment you walk in to the restaurant, you will remember. My husband and I have had a few of those meals in our lifetime, and we always recall them in quiet moments together. "Mmmmm...," one of us will say. "Remember those oysters/that lamb/that pork belly/those kidneys/that steak." And the other will respond with a emphatic, "Oh, yes," continuing to rave about the brine, the tenderness, the flavor, the surprise or the sear. We do this for meals we make together, John predominately recalling baked goods I've made. He'll put his hand on his stomach, look at me with great love and say, "Remember that king cake? Mmmmmm... King cake." Unfortunately, King Cake comes but once a year, and that's not until tomorrow.

The day before Thanksgiving, Friday the thirteenth, we had such a meal. We went to Mio, a cozy spot very near to us where we've been before. Our first trip to Mio was set up as a suprise to me, because on their bar menu, they have an upscale version of chips, cheese, and gravy. He had me dress up on a random weekday, and walked me the short walk to the restaurant. Outside, he pointed to the menu, and I did a happy sort of squeal. The dish was fantastic - lovely portions and flavors, with homemade cheese curds, very light gravy, and fresh fries. We, as we so often do, talked ourselves into staying that night, and had a housemade charcuterie plate, some delicious seared calamari stuffed with potatoes and salami, and some samples of the meatball dinner being served in the loft portion of the restaurant. I was the first to sample a wine they had just received, a grenache, called Bitch, appropriately, and we had a lovely rapport with the bartender and the owner, Manuel, who spoke to us at length while we ate.

Our second trip, we took it easy, just ordering the sweetbreads and a plate of chicken liver pate and pork rillet. We loved everything about the place - the philosophy of it, the decor, the friendly staff - and we knew that if we had the money, we'd have a standing reservation there. So, we decided to save up our Mio desire, and have a blowout for Valentine's day, a holiday we usually barely celebrate, maybe some wine, gifts we pick up around the house, a reminder to be romantic. Once there on Friday night, we embarked on yet another of those meals, both choosing the tasting menu.

We love tasting menus. While we like a good prix fixe menu, we both love the idea of handing your meal over to the person in the position to know what is best in the kitchen that day - the chef. We rarely have the opportunity to partake of a tasting menu, due to budget constraints, but there was little question of whether we would order the menu that night.

The amuse-bouche came out first, just after our bottle of El Primavera tempranillo was opened. Tempranillo is one of my favorite wines, as it can be so easy that it complements a wide ranging meal, as this one, or so heavily taste of tobacco that it can only truly be enjoyed with a good cigar in fresh air.

The amuse-bouche was an oyster, topped with California caviar and a bit of onion relish, seated on just the right amount of brine. A small, bright little mouthful, a sensuous start, a reminder of the erotic elements of food before the full on feast began.

And a feast it was - the first course was creamy house made mozzarella, topped with crispy bacon and chunks of braised chestnuts atop a chestnut puree. Sweet and rich and salty, with the chestnuts and the nutty mozzarella bringing out each others high notes, this I could have relished many times over. It was followed far too quickly by a radical change in pace: egg ravioli over blood sausage. The change in pace was a little thrilling - here was a chef obviously interested in pushing a willing palate, but it was also a less of a jump than it seemed. I'm certain that the blood sausage was house made, as most sausages and charcuterie are at Mio - they do most of their own butchering, and the egg ravioli was such a display of skill (I'm still bending my head around how it must have been accomplished - I supposed a good sturdy ravioli could have an egg gently cracked into it, be sealed, and then poached. But the timing was spectacular - the yolk was perfectly runny). Also, the dish showed a great understanding of balance. Just as the chestnuts and the mozzarella had melded together, the yolk running from the ravioli, despite what one would think, tempered the richness and saltiness of the blood sausage. It was not a dish I would have ordered from a menu before, but it would be in the top choices now.

Following that came, again too quickly, a dish I would never have ordered. I find white chocolate cloying and too sweet, so when the bowl full of white chocolate risotto topped with crisp sweetbreads came out, I initially balked. One bite, though, and I was a believer - rather than sweet, the risotto tasted almost cheddary, and the exterior of the sweetbreads gave way to a creaminess that matched the risotto. Only problem: the dishes had been coming out one after another, and there was nearly a full serving (real serving, not restaurant serving) of risotto. We were perilously close to full with 3 courses left. We asked the server to slow it down a tad, and the kitchen responded beautifully.

(This is a bit long, I'll save the rest for tomorrow - I'm making myself hungry!)

On Brinner

Breakfast for dinner tonight. I'm making oeufs, and John is making a new waffle recipe.

It's been a food centric, and a little hectic, weekend: Instructions to a friend on how to make a cake Thursday, homemade pizza Friday, friends over for dinner Saturday, Food Writing class at CulinAerie this afternoon, fixing the broken handmixer this evening (but not permanently - I see a replacement in my future). The upcoming days will be busy (job applications and possible interviews) and food-centric (Mardi Gras!) as well. Nothing says, "Chill with a hot meal" like brinner.

John always makes breakfast. I never skip it, but I usually have cold cereal, or a grapefruit, or at most, a little oatmeal. Whenever breakfast is made in the morning in our house, it's John that's in the kitchen, spooning precise amounts of batter into the waffle iron, trying to flip the pancakes or turn the eggs, grating cheese for omelets, or sliding a pan of bacon into the oven. While I will make muffins, or banana bread the night before, he loves to wake up, and brew coffee for himself and tea for me, and start the meal.

I would write something mushy about complementary skills and true love, but really, my waffles are ready, and I'd rather eat the results of those skills and that love than write about them any day.

On Valentine's Day

So, despite a rocky past, I have to say, my mother-in-law has always been a good gift giver, but today, she has outdone herself, and may have won some clemency. Upon my return from the gym, as I was stepping into the shower, the telltale door knock followed by "wham" of a package hitting the floor sounded through the apartment. I robed up, and after being certain no one was in the hall, I retrieved a Dean and Deluca package full of cheese - a Carmody Cheese, a blue, a triple cream goat and a cheddar wheel.

A great gift, a thoughtful gift, and one that fits in the Valentine's day tradition of great food without going overboard on the chocolate.

Nice.

On a Winter Lull

So, between the week in LA (ahhh, a break from real winter), and the week before it busy with volunteer stuff, I haven't had much time to be thinking any truly deep food thoughts. Here's a run-down of the light - n- fluffy things I have been doing:

* Making my gallbladder scream for mercy with peanut butter stuffed French toast at Potholder Cafe in Long Beach, CA. Seriously, wow.

* Pondering how to make the above mentioned delicacy at home. Think it should be easy, Good peanut butter spread between two pieces of good stale bread and soaked quickly in a fast custard. Should work nicely, when I'm up to try to murder myself with goodness again.

*Re-reading Omnivore's Dilemma and pondering ways to re-commit myself to better food.

*Making a recipe I ripped out of the year-old Gourmet magazine someone had left in the gym of my apartment. Its called "Sweet Dough" and its a very lightly sweet bread. Turned out very successfully - a possible candidate for French toast, even.

*Making old school quick fix meals that I used to make all the time in grad school, and pondering the great memories that come with - coming home from a day of teaching to a steaming pot of beans. Hell's Belle and Picky Man coming over (and the house feeling oddly empty when they didn't). Nabil teaching me how to properly pit an olive.

*Reading Eat This Not That Supermarket Survival Guide, and marveling at how clearly and easily the authors put information that can be very hard to discern even for the most extraordinarily anal label readers (like me). The book was a gift from my mother in law, who noticed how my husband and I obsessed over her copy, which was about fast food, over the Christmas holidays. The books illustrations do a great job of making disgusting food look awful.

*Speaking of disgusting food looking awful, several hat tips go around the web as over the course of 2 days nearly every blog I read has linked to This is Why You're Fat, a photographic depiction of some of the most awful food ever. Personal favorites include (in the order they appear on the website - direct links don't seem to be possible): 12 Bird True Love Roast (which falls in the same category as Turducken and Bacon Explosion for me - meat stuffed with me, just gross sounding); The Double Bacon Hamburger Fatty Melt, which uses grilled cheese sandwiches as buns; The Hamdog, just for the name; Spaghetti Meatball on a stick, the picture of which is absolutely vil;, The Meat Ship; Gregory's 120 ounce Steak, topped with apparently superfluous mushrooms; the Bacon donut, which seems doubly wasteful; Happy Meal Pizza, of which there's a before and after baking shot; and the Hot Beef Sundae, which gets points both for the name, and for the cherry on top of it.

There's also a list of things on the site, which, embarrassingly, I would actually eat. In the spirit of full disclosure, they are: Frito Pie (I mean, how could you not); King Cake (duh again - I actually make king cake); Waffle Couch (chips cheese and gravy with waffle fries); Apple Pie topped with Cheddar Cheese; Snickers pie; French Fry Encased Hot Dog on a Stick (Basically a corn dog, with potato coating instead. Yum); Deep Fried Mars bar; and I'll readily admit that I would do my best on the Giant Breakfast burrito, although I'd probably have to give up before I reached the full 7 pounds.

Best thing on the site, by far: The Snack Stadium, which I may attempt to recreate one day.

*I've been loving the latest NYTimes Foodie blog, Proof, for a well rounded, multifaceted view of booze. If you read it, like most websites, and most NYTimes articles, ignore the sanctimonious commenters.

*I've developed a love for the Manhattan, which my husband makes with perfection. A great winter substitute for the Mint Julep.

On Mint Juleps

This is not the first time, nor will it be the last, that I say that the only thing worse than January is February. But at least February is shorter, and we can look forward to March, when things will become universally muddy and flowers will begin to appear: a whole different kind of thing to hate.

The problem with most Januaries is that they're a less exciting continuation of December. See, November begins to bring the dark, grey tidings of winter, but soothes us with Thanksgiving. December offers the Holly Jollies as a peace offering. January has MLK day (and Inauguration Day this year), but we generally don't offer each other copious amounts of food and gifts on MLK day. Sometimes, we just feel sad. January offers little appeasement for its dreary drudgery. In December, we get egg nog, champagne, and (at least in my house) bourbon milk punch. January brings us little need for specialty beverages.

Unlike summer. For many people, summer means cold beer, iced tea, or, if commercials are to be believed, big pictures of Sunny D. For me, summer is all about the Mint Julep.

I do not have a silver cup. Nor have I ever attended the Kentucky Derby. Nor do I wear hoop skirts or live on a plantation (despite what I once told an incredibly ignorant man in Corsica). But I do love bourbon, and keep a steady supply on hand.

While I have made my own mint juleps, I prefer it to be made by John, my husband, because it is one of his many skills that far surpasses my own. He carefully measures the Makers (our bourbon of choice for drinks that are mostly bourbon - if we're mixing, we go for a less expensive brand), makes sure the ice is properly crushed, and makes the simple syrup himself. I grew the mint, which given the ample space it had on our porch at the time, ran rampant and lush. (We'll see how it does in the apartment here).

It goes something like this:
Fill the rocks glass with crushed ice. Pour in 1 part simple syrup to 2 parts bourbon. Stir vigorously until a frost forms on the outside of the glass. The frost is essential, for reasons I'll go into later. Top with a sprig of mint.

We would gather on the couch with the kitties, each with a julep in hand, and watch DVDs or play games. At the time, we were both working pretty demanding jobs, and the heat of the Mississippi summer was, well, the heat of a Mississippi summer. The juleps would slide down, sweet with the sharp bourbon underneath, and the silky scent of the mint mingling with it all. The world would erase, and we would settle in.

Drinking them made the day better, made the horrible papers easier to grade, the arrogant students humorous, and the poorly argued cases bearable. But they're pretty distinctly a summer drink.

Now, as the January mundanes spread over me, I long for June, for a overgrown mint plant, and an open bottle of Makers. Something to lift the spirits, something that reminds us that winter is merely a part of the cycle, not the end of it, that spring is coming, and beyond that, summer.

On Sandwiches

Can a sandwich do any good?

I asked this question to myself, last night, as I stood, hands covered in flimsy plastic gloves, arranging bread, bologna, and cheese into my share of 1,000 sandwiches in a church kitchen. Probably about 15 of us stood over metal trays, and with assembly-line like efficiency, created bologna and cheese sandwiches over jokes, small talk, and in the case of the foursome at my tray, awkward silences brought on by one man's cranky pants. We were making sandwiches for Martha's Table, an organization, that through several different channels, including the mobile soup kitchen McKenna's wagon, tries to meet the needs of the hungry in the DC area, and for Foundry United Methodist's Walk-In Mission that helps people to obtain identification, a lunch, and clothing should they need it. All of this is done under the umbrella of the Community Mission at Foundry.

I have long maintained that food makes us part of a larger community, and that preparing food for others connects you to people in a very intimate way. Why should that change if you are preparing an elaborate pasta dish for a gathering of friends in celebration or bologna sandwiches for people who you may see everyday, but may not notice or know?

I am reminded, by the name of Martha's Table (I have no idea if this story is the basis for the name, but I am reminded nonetheless), of the Biblical story of sisters Mary and Martha, who are visited by Jesus. Mary sits at Jesus's feet, listening to him teach. Martha works in the kitchen, preparing a hospitable table for her guest. Martha becomes upset that Mary does not help, and Jesus scolds her, but not for preparing food. He scolds her for her anger at not being helped. Both women are engaging in worthwhile pursuits. I grew up feeling that Martha got some poor shakes, because I am a Martha (in the sense of this story, not in the A Handmaid's Tale sense). The greatest joy for me lies in hospitality. The best way for me to access faith is through action: words are beautiful, and moving, but actions speak very clearly. In fact, I often have made the mistake of defining myself by the number of actions I undertake, until, like Martha, I emerged stressed, upset, and distant from the initial reason behind the action. But, if I truly believe that action is important, then even small actions, even the making of a few dozen sandwiches, matter immensely.

What good can a sandwich do?

Someone will eat those sandwiches, and they may be the only nourishment that someone gets on that particular day. It is hard for us to conceive of hunger if we've not experienced it: right now, I've got a box of fruits and vegetables sitting on my counter that was delivered this morning. It is difficult for me to conceive of hunger. As I made those sandwiches, I tried to imagine being grateful for one. In a real way. In honesty, I might not have eaten one - I don't really like bologna. But I tried to picture a world in which I met McKenna's wagon, and accepted that sandwich as a person who needed it. I don't know that I did a very good job of picturing that, but I realized that the small cares we put into making the sandwiches (carefully centered cheese slices, turning the heels in in case someone would reject that part of the bread) would mean a lot to someone in a position to receive them.

I am incredibly fortunate. I have my fruit bowl overflowing with fruits no one has eaten. I have a fridge that needs to be cleaned out. I have two loaves of homemade banana bread sitting on my stove. I am lucky. I am also lucky that I am in a position to go out and make sandwiches on a Wednesday night so that someone else can eat.

On the Holidays

In my family, its not Christmas without sausage balls and bourbon balls. We also like cheese balls. Really, anything in a ball shape is great for us. Easy to pop in the mouth. Sausage balls are a combination of biscuit mix, cheese and spicy sausage that my mom pops in the oven on Christmas morning when its time to finally lure us out of bed (with the exception of my niece and nephew and my parents - I'll let the age jokes make themselves - we like to sleep in). Because the celebration this year was small, just John and I and my parents, she had apparently threatened not to make them. She'd had a hectic year, and hadn't even had time to wrap presents when we arrived on Christmas Eve. My father pouted his way into more sausage balls, and when told the story, I strongly seconded him. They're great breakfast food for a busy morning. They're made ahead and frozen, then popped in the oven. They reheat easily, and they're great grazing. Besides, I don't remember a Christmas without them. I can barely remember Christmases when I wouldn't yet eat them, silly thing that I was, but I can't conceive of going without them. I mean, what would we have eaten? More of the 3 loaves of various breads my mother had made? Surely not.

Even though this year I was suffering from some ailment that, according to the ER, "might be your gallbladder, but the ultrasound is clear," I insisted on participating in the sausage ball experience. We get a plate of them, warm them up (they've inevitably gone cold by the time we get downstairs), grab a mug of something hot, and curl up on the couch, waiting for the first person to break and insist on presents. That person is usually my mother. Christmas presents with my parents are always reasonable - there's no overkill - and so with only 4 of us, and with my presents to family being stuck somewhere in post office hell, the opening didn't take long. We snacked on sausage balls while waiting for lunch to heat.

The sausage balls are spicy and cheesy and a little greasy, kind of like a series of tiny bites of a really good breakfast sandwich. The bourbon balls are nuts, bourbon, cocoa and sugar (there may be a little flour in there). They too are made ahead, and left in the fridge to age (slowly get stronger tasting). The ongoing joke about the bourbon balls is that my parents, especially my mother, don't drink, but there is always a fifth of Jim Beam in the house for making bourbon balls. My mother would deny it, but once, during a particularly sleepless night, she called and asked if taking a shot would help her sleep. I advised her against it.

There are always a variety of cookies and deserts, and there's always chex mix, but bourbon balls are definitely a constant. They are an acquired taste (I once offered one to a 15 year old cousin and the face he made upon tasting the bourbon was priceless. It was a little test to see if he was drinking too much, and I guess he passed). They're also easy little sweets that unlike much Christmas candy don't make your teeth ache with sugar. Like sausage balls, the sharp nutty sweetness of bourbon balls marks the season.

One of my other favorite Christmas traditions that I have thus far managed to arrange my holidays so as not to miss is Day After Breakfast at my husband's aunt's home. For those of you not familiar with the joys of the breakfast casserole, I am very sorry. There are a series of casseroles every year, some constant and some changing. John's favorites include the breakfast enchiladas stuffed with ham, green onions, eggs and cheese and topped with enchilada sauce (duh), and the egg and sausage casserole. This year there was a new quiche (massive though it was) with red and green peppers that my mother in law raved about, and a steak and cheese casserole that the cousins strongly urged repeats on, but what these people don't know is that I've been at this a long time, and their casseroles are nothing compared to the hashbrown casserole the aunt makes. Oh heaven. You know how I feel about potatoes (if you're new here, you should read that entry, it's one of my favorites). But this is more: this is potatoes and cheese and other things that remain a mystery because refusing to give me the recipe is one way to be sure I come back to get my Christmas fix and therefore spend some holiday time with the family. I'm sure it's cream of something (chicken? celery?) soup, and some measurements of cheese that measure in pounds, but combined together, its truly fantastic. I usually take a cursory taste of one or two of the other casseroles spread out in front of us like some kind of test, or some kind of offering, but I really see no reason to divert my loyalties or appetites when I know what is going to make me feel happy and full. From my first invite to breakfast, I have raved loudly over this casserole, firmly planting it as my favorite in the aunt's mind. Through all those tense years, when no one was sure if they liked me, or if they were allowed to like me, when I knew that relaxing and being myself would be the worse thing I could do, that casserole stood as a beacon, a common ground. I could always be trusted to have a healthy appetite, and the aunt could always be trusted to feed me potatoes on the day after the most stressful day of the year.

This year she was sick, and we missed her. As we're all on great terms now, I felt very sad, but was touched when the casseroles were delivered by a friend, who said that the aunt had made a point of including and identifying the hashbrown casserole. "Don't forget that one," she had said. "That's Kate's favorite."