And So It Begins...

Winters' fury has finally given way to spring.

A couple of days ago I went out back to sweep off the deck and noticed my chives had bounced back from our miserable winter.  The were sprouting through ugly leftover autumn leaves and dead weeds I had neglected to remove during last years garden clean-up. They were beautiful wisps in the gentle breeze. The beginning.

At brunch yesterday, while sipping bloody marys and mimosas, I mentioned my chive discovery to a dear friend. As it turned out, her garden chives were also sprouting. Had we been comic book characters at that moment, thought bubbles would have drifted over our heads whispering, "It might be time to plant our herbs and tomatoes!".  We share a wonderful comaraderie when it comes to growing herbs and tomatoes. In fact, our friendship actually began over  basil...or the lack of basil. We've been growing, sharing, and eating our harvests since that day.

Late last night she posted " twitpic.com/4bn86e - Spring!! Seeds are in the cold box. #Caprese! ".

 I was totally inspired. 

Baby steps. 

Today I started with herbs;  parsley, dill, thyme, oregano, and basil.  The seeds were so tiny when planted, they fell into the peat and disappeared. 

It's hard to believe they'll grow into anything.  It's not hard to anticipate the utter joy they'll bring down the road when they grace caprese salads, garnish soups, or become bouquet garnis for long braised dishes.  Last summer, I even deep-fried them into herbal stained-glass crackling finishes for buttered fresh corn. 

Herbs are the kitchen garden workhorses. 

I'm happy I finally planted mine

and thankful for the inspiration from our garden faerie princess.

So, it begins and  now we wait.   

Good things come to those who do.

Where There's Smoke...

Fire.  The ultimate cooking weapon.  The moment I spotted  flanken cut beef short ribs at the latino supermarket the other day, I knew I would grill Kalbi or Galbi (Korean beef short ribs)  over open flames. I've always wanted to cook kalbi at home, but have never run across flanken cut short ribs until my recent trek through Super Marcado Aguascalientes market.   Unlike traditional English cut short ribs, flanken cut ribs are sliced across the bone into very thin strips, allowing a very quick cooking time.

The night before I  grilled  the ribs, I marinated them in a combination of 1 1/2 cup soy sauce, 3/4 cups white sugar, 1/2 cup  honey 1/4 cup sesame oil, 5 pressed garlic cloves, 1/2 cup grated onion, a splash of rice wine vinegar, and  1/2 cup of sprite.  Typically, a grated asian pear or kiwi is added.  I didn't have either, so I used sprite for acidic sweetness. Easy.

The following night, before lighting the coals, I sliced a few scallions for garnish, plucked a handful of broccoli florets from a head of broccoli, and pulled leftover asian carryout sticky rice from the freezer to thaw.

That little effort left plenty of time for basketball bracket building along with a few glasses of wine. 

Michael usually starts the fires when we grill.  He knows what he's doing when it comes to flaming things, but I insisted on starting the coals.  Against his advice to use only 1/2 bag of charcoal, I dumped the entire bag into grill before igniting it into a raging inferno.

We had fire.  Thankfully, we still have our house.

While I waited the for the flames to burn down into glowing coals,  I sauteed the broccoli florets in olive oil until they were gently cooked  and re-heated the leftover rice.

After carefully placing the short ribs on the grill, I cooked them quickly for 3 minutes on each side and pulled them off to rest.

It was quick. Boom. Finished.

I think kalbi is traditionally plated with the long strips of grilled meat lying flat, but I chose to wrap the rib strips around the rice, forming meat bowls. I nestled the broccoli florets next to the ribs, sprinkled the beef bowls with scallions, and filled ramekins with ponzu sauce for dipping.

The combination of honey, sugar, and soy sauce caramelized the ribs into savory sweet beef candy.

They were sticky, gooey, and fabulous finger food.  We had forks for the rice and broccoli, but they were covered in kalbi goo.  We were covered in kalbi goo. I had sauce on my neck and elbows. It was everywhere.... and totally worth it. Although relegated to wallflower status at our sticky beef party, the broccoli florets were perfectly cooked and provided a refreashing respite from the beefy insanity.

I can't wait to make kalbi again.

I won't be lighting the fire for the grill. 

Taco Night

Pizza night, soup night, pasta night, and taco night.  We all know the routine of weeknight meals.

Taco night used to be on our regular weeknight meal rotation.  I imagine we replaced it with our weekend lunches at Jalapenos Mexican restaurant.  Because of work and other obligations, we haven't been to Jalapenos for a few weeks, which has caused major taco cravings for both of us.  Last night, we brought taco night back to quell those cravings.  There was a slight problem.  Because of Lent, I couldn't eat fried taco shells.  The answer? Taqueria style soft corn tortilla tacos, which I adore.

Yesterday, after work, I stopped by Super Marcado Aguascalientes to pick up a few things for taco night.  I needed soft corn tortillas, queso fresco, and crema. That was it. 

The latino supermarket was mind boggling. 

Starting in the produce section, I was surprized to find fresh garbanzo beans, fresh espazote, and prickly pears tucked in and around husked/unhusked tomatillos, chayote, tiny limes, nepallitos, habas (broad beans), huge jalapenos, serranos, poblanos, and anaheim chilis.  They were gorgeous.  I walked away with garbanzo beans, prickly pears, and jalapenos stashed in my basket.

After passing tubs of dried yellow and purple corn kernels, I meandered past an array of tortilla presses.  I've purchased two there and have broken both of them.  That's why I was buying corn tortillas and not making them...two broken presses. 

I reached the extensivly stocked meat counter and was quite taken with what I thought were cooked pig's ears.  Buche, it turned out after questioning, were cooked pig's stomachs, which differ  slightly from the honeycombed cow's stomach called tripe.  They looked tasty.  I was tempted to buy one for our tacos, but knew it might have stretched Michael's bounds of culinary maiden's patience.  I nixed the buche.

I was mesmerized by the selection of meats.  Chicken feet were haphazardly piled around livers and chicken breasts.  Stacks of porterhouse steaks were shrink-wrapped and nestled beside flanken cuts of short ribs.  I couldn't pass on the rarely seen flanken cut short ribs.  I bought a pound of them. They were very inexpensive.

The head-on shrimp, tucked between cooked peeled shrimp and headless uncooked shrimp, were beautiful.  They glistened.  I wanted them, but resisted.

I was so transfixed by the meat selection, I tripped over a wooden pallet supporting what appeared to be 10,000 packages of corn tortillas.  Bingo. I pulled myself to my feet while leaving my dignity on the floor, and dropped a small bag of corn tortillas into my basket. 

As I made my way to the check-out counter, I stopped by the small dairy cooler and grabbed a container of crema along with a package of queso fresco.

With a few spontaneous additions, I ended up with everything I entered the market to buy; crema, corn tortillas, and queso fresco. 

Michael cooked the meat filling for our tacos. I minced a purple onion to marinate in fresh lime juice, diced a tomato, crumbled the fresco, and roughly chopped fresh cilantro for toppings.  Nice.  I intended to make a salad with the tart purple fleshed prickly pears, but snacked on them as I prepared the taco toppings. Oops.  My bad.  They were gorgeous, tart, crunchy, and fabulous.

Dinner was a cinch.  I warmed the thin-cut corn tortillas in a cast iron skillet to make them pliable.  After double stacking them taqueria style, I topped them with the seasoned meat,  crumbled fresco cheese, crema,  lime marinaded onions, diced tomatoes, and cilantro.

The soft corn tortillas exploded with corn flavor, adding an extra layer of flavor to the spicy meat, pungent fresco cheese, piquant lime-pickled purple onions, mild creamy crema, and fresh cilantro.

A simple taco night.

A routtine meal.

An adventure.

Trouble

Trouble...

Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble,

Trouble been doggin' my soul since the day I

was born.

       -Ray Lamontagne

This past week was an emotional roller coaster, complete with very high highs and pretty low lows.  The success of two huge events within days of each other was rewarding, uplifting, and exhilarating. The highs were short lived with the solemn crash of Ash Wednesday, trouble,  Lent, and lack of deep-fried food. The week finally ended with meatless Friday. Sack cloth.  Heavy boots. Nope.  I wasn't going to settle for a salad or a vegetable plate or a poached egg perched atop toasted brioche.  I wanted needed comfort, warmth, and luxury.  Something to warm the heart and soothe the soul.

Trouble sometimes dogs me in the kitchen.  I have burned countless things while enjoying wine in the parlor with Michael.  Trust me on that one. Sometimes, I'll cook with little trouble and effort.  There are times when I'll  go to a lot of trouble and effort when cooking.  It usually depends on inspiration. Last week, trouble was dogging me like a dark shadow.  I decided to embrace it and cook something  full throttle, hard core, and rewardingly troublesome.

Scratch-made lobster bisque fit the ticket perfectly.

I can't kill a live lobster.  Period.  The notion of tossing it head first into boiling water and watching it flail about until it dies doesn't do it for me.  Nor does the kinder thought of placing it in the freezer to fall asleep before dropping it into the hot death bath.  I was taught to place the tip of a large chef knife between the eyes and plunge it through the head, severing the spinal cord.  I did it once.... in front of a classroom.  It wasn't pleasant.  I haven't killed a live lobster since that very day. 

Thankfully, the kind man behind the seafood counter dispatched a lovely lobster for me, bagged it, and sent me on my merry way. Although cooked, plenty of lobster flavor can still be extracted from the shells for a good lobster stock for bisque.

Working over a dutch oven to catch any dripping juices, I carefully removed the lobster meat from the tail, claws, and joints.  After cracking the body into pieces, I dropped the pieces into the dutch oven with the other shells.

I swirled a few tablespoons of olive oil into the pot, cranked the flame to medium high and sauteed the shells for 2 minutes before adding chopped celery, sliced carrots, diced onions, a quartered roma, smashed garlic, 2 bay leaves, salt, and pepper.

When the vegetables were nicely caramelized, I dropped 2 heaping tablespoons of tomato paste into the pot, stirring  it to incorporate it with the sizzling oil,  shells and vegetables.  I wanted to almost brown the tomato paste for a deeper concentrated flavor.  After the tomato paste browned while enveloping the soft vegetables,I deglazed the pot with 3/4 cups of dry sherry and let it reduce by half before adding 2 cups of clam juice.  I brought the stock a boil, reduced it to a simmer, and let it bubble away for 45 minutes.                            

I used a double straining method for a cleaner stock.  After removing the stock from the heat, I emptied the shells and spent vegetables into a colander over a large bowl, pressing on everything to release as much flavored stock as possible.

After discarding the solids, I poured the strained stock through a fine meshed chinois to remove the final impurites, leaving behind a gorgeous lobster bisque base.

I wiped out the dutch oven, returned the bisque base to the pot, and added 4 cups of heavy cream.  Most bisque recipes require rice or roux as a thickening agent. Didn't want them or need them. With a long simmer, the heavy cream reduced and thickened beautifully.

When it was time to eat, I dropped the reserved lobster meat into the simmering bisque to warm through before ladling it into our oven-warmed soup bowls. Floating bright red claw meat, specks of parsley, and curled orange zest were final garnishes.  Mama June's pimento cheese finger sandwiches were perfect soppers.

All of the effort yielded two small lovely bowls of lobster bisque.  It was so rich, we couldn't have eaten any more than that.  Although packed with creamy lobster flavor, it was velvety soft and light. Juicy sweet lobster pieces floated throughout the bisque suspended by cream, providing occasional subtle briny bursts of sweet meat.  Perfumed undertones of sherry infused the bisque with additional layers of fortified sweetness.   It was perfect.

Perfect and comforting for a meatless Friday.

Was it a lot of trouble?  Hell, yeah.  It was supposed to be.

That's what made it worthy and worthwhile.



Meat

Ok. So, here's the deal.  It's Lent and I've given up deep fried food for 40 days, which is laughable because I fry anything and everything.  We'll see how I work my way around that tiny roadblock in my quest for culinary happiness.  On top of that, Fridays are meatless during Lent, so I've decided that  Thursdays will be meat-filled Thursdays in preparation for meatl-less Fridays.

Last night, I had one huge boneless porkchop.  After butterflying it and thinly pounding it, I stuffed it with sauteed apples, onions, toasted almonds, and buttered breadcrumbs.  I closed the stuffed porkchop, cut in half, and re-shaped the two halves into rounded stuffed pork bundles. Adding pork onto pork, I wrapped the bundles with parsley-lined bacon strips, securing them with wooden skewers.

After seasoning the chops with salt, pepper, and minced fresh rosemary, I satueed them in a smoking hot oiled cast iron skillet until they were browned with a caramelized well-seasoned herbal crust. I removed the chops to a casserole dish and deglazed the skillet with apple brandy, apple cider vinegar, and chicken stock.  Once the pan sauce reduced by half, I poured it over the stuffed crusty porkchops, covered the dish, and baked it a 350 degree oven  for an hour.

While the chops braised, I split two yellow squash in half and sliced four slits into each bulbous end of the squash halves, creating squash fans.  I cut a roma tomato in half, sliced it lengthwise, slid the tomato slices into the squash slits, seasoned them with lemon pepper, and placed them in the oven to bake alongside  the stuffed porkchops.

All that effort deserved a wine break. I obliged.  After an hour or so, give or take 30 minutes, ( I lost track of time), I plated the tomato/squash fans and carefully nestled the  smothered stuffed porkchops beside them. After dousing the chops with the remaining pan sauce, I topped them with alfala sprouts, toasted almonds, and thinly sliced Granny Smith apples.

They were fork tender, moist, and succulent. The meat fell apart in a luxurious way, disintegrating into the luscious sauce. Although the stuffing was lost in the onslaught, the parslied bacon added salty grassy crispness while the sprouts offered petite bursts of watery freshness. 

The tomato/squash fans didn't stand a chance against the saucy spoonable melting porkchops. They were a fine garnish and something to be admired before pushing out of the way to get to the the good stuff.

 

Afterall, it was meat-filled Thursday.

Battle Scars

I've cooked my butt off at work lately.  It's been really hard and very fun.  Hard fun.  The kind of fun you earn with battle scars.  I haven't cooked anything at home in quite some time.  Michael has literally brought home the bacon every night for us. He's been sweet and incredibly thoughtful about what we eat when I'm not cooking, catering to my picky whims and desires; pizza with black olives, onions, and green bell peppers; carryout boxes from Parkette Drive-In filled with fried chicken livers, crispy onion rings, and sweet cream pepper gravy; barbecued spare ribs, fried corn, and garden salads with blue cheese dressing.

This past weekend marked an annual Mardi Gras Fundraiser.  We cooked a lot of food for tons of people.  Months of planning, organizing, and menu preperation went into one glorious night of fun.  Battle scars.

Here's the rub. Was it possible to make food on that scale look good and taste great?  I thought so.  I knew so. 15 gallons of creole sauce for pulled beef creole looked like crap when poured into buckets, but with proper garnishment and carefull placement on a buffet table, it was a thing of beauty. Attention to detail.  It takes mental toughness to remember the details when the final push comes to feed 450 people.

Last Saturday night, 18 chafing dishes needed to be stocked, re-stocked, and re-stocked through-out the course of the evening. Every new dish was freshly garnished as it went out.  Not an easy task when hot  pans melted flesh and people wouldn't budge after polite,"Excuse, mes".  They wanted more without acquiescing their space to allow it.  Feed me. .

It was a hectic fun night in a gorgeous venue.  The food went out, looked great, and tasted fantastic. The guests were very happy and appreciative.  Drunk and appreciative.

Popcorn Shrimp with cocktail sauce

Cajun Fried Chicken with red pepper aoili

Crab Cakes with remoulade

Fresh Jalapeno Poppers

Jalapeno Stuffed- Bacon Wrapped Shrimp

Pulled Beef Creole

Jambalaya

Chicken & Andouille Gumbo

Spiced Jumbo Shrimp Salad

Tobasco Marinated Green Peppers & Cherry Tomatoes

Fried Okra

Corn Souffle

Bourbon Bread Pudding

Chocolate Covered Strawberries

Yup. 

I am now wearing a back brace and a knee brace.

Battle scars............ Lent.

                              Bring it.

Mushroom Conserva

I have a thing for mushrooms.  Big time.  I adore them.  It probably started with my mushroom hunting days with Frau Olga in Vienna, Austria when I was a young boy.  They're as beautiful to look upon as they are to eat.  I love their textures, colors, and flavors. That being said,  Michael simply tolerates them.  He'll eat them in dishes that require mushrooms, like Beef Stroganoff or puff pastry-encased Beef Wellington with duxelles.

I keep buying them for my solo dinner nights when I can eat whatever I want, which might explain the glut of mushrooms I had in the vegetable bin. What to do with the guttonous glut? Yesterday morning I was flipping through the gorgeous pages of Thomas Keller's gigantic Ad Hoc At Home cookbook and ran across a recipe for Mushroom Conserva.  Apparently, it's a  Basque method for preserving mushrooms in herb infused olive oil, reminiscent of a confit (if mushrooms had fat). Why preserve them? As a mushroom lover, preserving just seemed better than having them go black, limp, and slimy.

I adapted the recipe From Ad Hoc to accomodate the of amount  mushrooms I had on hand as well as the ingredients available.  With that in mind, it was a very straightforward method.

Keller's recipe suggested using shitake, morel, chanterelle, porcini, hen-of-the-woods, trumpet, and oyster mushrooms.  I had shitake, cremini, enoki, white button, and white beech mushrooms.  His recipe called for 2 pounds of mushrooms.  I had one pound. I replaced piment d' epelette (fruity Spanish ground pepper) with 1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper combined with 1/2 teaspoon Spanish paprika. Other than that,  I halved the recipe and followed it to a tee.

It couldn't have been  easier.

I cleaned the mushrooms with a damp cloth, removed woody stems, and sliced them into bite sized pieces.  Using a deep-fry thermometer to gauge temperature, I brought 1 cup of olive oil to 170 degrees in a heavy stock pot before dropping in  2 fresh thyme sprigs, 1 fresh rosemary sprig, and 2 bay leaves.  As the herbs absorbed the shimmering olive oil, I carefully  lowered the mushrooms into the herb-infused oil bath to poach for exactly 5 minutes, turning them several times.  After 5 minutes, I drizzled 1 1//2 tablespoons pomogranate-infused red wine vinegar (Keller used sherry vinegar) over the oil draped mushrooms before seasoning them with kosher salt and cracked black pepper.  I slid  the mushroom conserva from the heat and let it steep for 45 minutes.

Once cooled, I emptied the conserva onto a plate,  tasted it, and sealed it in a glass mason jar. It will keep for a month in the refrigerator.  Not bad for a neglected love languishing away in a forgotten vegetable bin. 

Keller called the preserved mushrooms "earthy and acidic". Yep. They were soft and tangy with subtle rosemary/thyme undertones, slippery and shiny like herbed mushroom  lip gloss.

They're preserved.

Conserva.

I can't wait to use them.