A variant of potage ambassadeur, this is an easy, cheap dish that tastes way better than it should. This dish is sort of unseasonal right now here in Florida, but I've included a chilled option, which I almost like better than the original. I'm a sucker for cold soups, though.
4 oz split peas
1.5 cups chicken broth
1 onion, chopped
1 carrot, chopped
2 slices bacon
OPTIONAL
.5 cup heavy cream
2 tbsp chopped mint
Croutons or toasts
In the cooking chamber of your pressure cooker or your friendly medium-sized pot, saute the bacon until crisp. Remove and reserve. Sweat the onion and carrot in the bacon grease, then add the chicken broth, scraping the bottom of the pan to loosen caramelized baconness. Add the peas. Crumble the cooked bacon back into the pot, then lid and cook on high pressure for thirty minutes. If using a pot, lid tightly and cook on low for an hour, watching the fluid level carefully (the pressure cooker does not allow any moisture to escape, so it uses less water than the stovetop version). The peas should have decompiled and formed a thick porridge. This is your hot split pea soup.
In the summertime, I highly advise pureeing the finished soup, chilling, and finishing it with a bit of heavy cream stirred in and a handful of chopped mint. Top with croutons or toasts or crusty bread product of your choice. You'll be glad you did.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Ocala Walkabout Thanksgiving 2008
Many years ago, as a child, I saw a black bear overlooking a picnic site. It was one of my very first bear sightings. I wanted to hide in the car but such cowardice immediately met with paternal scorn. I left the car and observed as safely as I could from inside a bush. It didn't seem to be heading towards me. It seemed to be having some sort of internal argument. The bear went a few steps down towards picnickers, then stopped, tossed its head, returned to the woods. It repeated this for some time. You could almost hear that bear thinking, agonized between the rewards of picnics and the repercussions of tangling with rangers. Hot dogs and Star Crunch are almost as good as getting tranked and hauled across the state isn't.
I do almost exactly the same thing every time I head out to the woods. I used to ascribe my pre-hike pussyfooting to simple alcoholism. No longer. It's more complicated than that, with a more subtle expression of emotions than the simple lust for getting bombed. Subtle emotions involving running water and cushions to sleep on. After doing my hiking shopping I must have cruised past the same fleabag motel five or six times. It sure is late, I said to myself. And there's a Taco Bell. But you have dinner in your food bag, I replied, and it's not like you can't hike at dusk. For God's sake you can put up your tent in pitch black, you know the thing better than you know your own scrotum. The latter voice won with it's ol' 'but you walked to Maine' argument, the same way it wins arguments about going to the gym or getting out of bed in the morning.
I drove into the Ocala National Forest and got my car settled in at Juniper Springs for ten dollars a night, then packed and headed north on the Florida Scenic Trail, exactly opposite the direction I planned to travel the next morning. The reason for this little sidetrip was the general hunting season, in which the Thanksgiving holiday is regarded as the opening bash. Hunting is prohibited in the Juniper Prairie wilderness, but to get into the wilderness you have to leg a mile or so north on the trail from the Juniper Springs entrance. Back in the day I'd hiked farther to get to an AT shelter, so it was no big deal going a mile the wrong way to find a place to sleep. I found a nice campsite just inside the no-fire zone and was chewing and reading inside my faithful tent by dark. Hopefully this year in Ocala would go better than it did last year, a hot, hung-over slog that ended when my food bag was stolen at Hopkin's Prairie, possibly by the enigmatic Rainbow People, whom we'll hear more of later.
Waking up I went south, zapped my cell phone at Juniper, zapped my gut with some microwave food objects at same, and bore down the trail. Using the verb bore here is a bit of a laugh when you see how much mileage you're covering according to the signs in the national forest, which apparently thinks you're barely managing a leisurely stroll. On a memorable hike through this stretch in 1999, my friends Byron and Michelle were similarly perplexed by the apparently random numbers on various signposts. We were all going a little crazy, literally jogging down the trail for hours to see a sign telling us we'd come three miles, which was patent horsepucky, as that mileage would have been covered in half an hour at our pace. We ascribed this problem to the mysterious stations on the map marked "horizontal control". Agents of Horizontal Control included the indefatigueable deerflies tormenting us. Besides drawing blood, we determined that the deerfly were also agents of Horizontal Control and were responsible for manipulating the fabric of space and time. It was hilarious at the time, but then to this date I am amazed at what passes for hilarious to hikers. The adjective "delirious" is all sorts of applicable here.
Years later, I asked a ranger about the horizontal control stations. "Horizontal what?", she asked. I pointed them out on my map. "I have no idea," she said "That's peculiar". Perhaps our theory from 1999 was the correct one. The ranger did give me a phone number of local trail enthusiasts Jan Trail, who give rides to FTA (Florida Trail Association) members, which was fantastic. A lot of the trauma of last year was caused by my inability to find a shuttle back to my car and being subsequently bilked out of eighty bucks for a cab ride.
So I hotfooted it for eight hours, coming- according to the signage- nine fricking miles. Which is preposterous, but they were a good "nine" miles. I like the southern part of the Ocala National Forest a lot better than the northern part, even though it's less pristine. The trail is better maintained, for one. Then there are places where the land goes up and comes down again, a thing I hear are called "hills" by outsiders. There are clear spring-fed ponds, open pine forests, and tunnels through palmetto scrub. I was nearly run over by deer and I saw a dozen little piglets snurfling around on the edges of Geary Pond, ridiculously adorable. Large, smart mammals to have such big litters; I'm not entirely sure how pigs aren't yet running the world. On the down side, this was the free-fire zone, and I was completely dependent on my orange-blaze t-shirt to keep me from experiencing high-speed exploratory surgery at the hands of some half-drunk fatty up from Orlando proving to his Fox News Friends how Republican he is. It probably wouldn't happen far from a road. Most hunters don't walk anywhere, but most hunters don't bring home any fresh meat, either.
Did I mention that most hunters don't walk anywhere? In some places, there were so many two-stroke engines the national forest sounded like a beach popular with jet-skiers. No actual hunting taking place, but a great deal of driving around and shooting. To be the devil's advocate for a moment, I did run into a couple of actual hunters and had a pretty good time talking to them. We seemed to be wired a lot more similarly. I think the difference is between outdoor/non-outdoor people rather than being between hikers/hunters.
Returning to the straight linear narrative, yes, there were a few miles of ATV hell, but the stretch down to Farles Prairie was pleasant. Ran out of water the last two hours and however many miles, then came into the picnic area at Farles. I made a beeline to the water device, cranked out two liters of water and drank almost all of it in one chug. Then I sat down. I had shade, a water source, was moving along pretty well, and had a great book- more on that later- and an afternoon with some real nap possibilities. Deliciously exhausted. This loitering thing is really what hiking is all about.
There was a pleasant little old lady coming out of a Mad Max looking conversion van, coming over in my direction. She looked concerned. I felt great, but I suppose I must have looked pretty ragged. I had a blowdown come down on top of me about three miles previous, so I was a tad bloody from gouges in my legs and head. Clothes torn from same, and there's the normal hiker state of being stinky, dehydrated and tired. So what I thought looked like "cheefully worn out" might look like "terminal collapse" to other people. I remembered looking at my AT pictures from on the trail, and marvelling at how incredibly dirty and tired I looked, even though I remember being ridiculously happy at the time. I got up and was ready to be very polite.
"Hi there. You walkin' the trail?"
"Just from Juniper to wherever in the forest. As far as I can get"
We talked a bit more, about whether or not the water should be treated, whether the site had a spot for me, how safe the forest is. Turned out the little old lady was the Farles camp hostess. The inevitable warning about the Rainbow People came up, and I had to ask:
"I've been hearing about these Rainbow People for the better part of a decade . . what's the deal with them? Are they real?"
She looks a bit horrified. "You don't want to go looking for them," she says.
"No, no, I don't. I was just wondering if they're some sort of urban myth."
"No, they're very bad people. Last year . ." and then enter the murders, rapes, and other sundry crimes of the Rainbow People. Oh boy, here we go again. I've gotten the same stories from every single local since 1995.
I've always taken tales of the Rainbow People with a grain of salt. On the one hand, they're basically freegan hippies, a type I don't generally identify with or like . . much. On the other hand, having known and loved a lot of freegan hippies, I know how cosmically unlikely it is that a roving band of them would go on a rape and murder spree. They just don't have the motivation. Before last year, I've always felt the following scenarios to be far more likely than the Rainbow Rape Holocaust so dramatically spoken of by the Ocala locals:
1) crazy repressed little local girls go out to the forest people to get crazy, high, and drunk, find themselves in flagro delecto with person(s) they would rather not be with, and run into town with lurid tales of molestation at the hands of hairy, unwashed 60s leftovers. Just the thing to get the AM talk radio folks riled, who, in case you couldn't guess, are all armed.
2) crazy repressed little local boys bring girl out to the forest, get her trashed, violate her while she's blacked out, and return to town with vile tales of violent, horny hippies and Democrats. The story matches the consensus reality much better than confronting the possibility that Bubba McSumbitch, high school football hero, is a scheming rapacious f*#$head. Result, see 1), above.
3) crazy little local boys go out into the forest and kill bunches of hikers, return to town with tales of gun-addled hippies mowing down outdoorsmen. This was actually the defense used by some loser kid from Ocala who got nabbed for plugging hikers with an AK-47. "They were comin' straight for me!"
So as she's finishing up with the Rainbow stories I'm beginning to wonder if maybe some genuine criminals are using Rainbow events as cover for other activities. After all, I did have my food bag stolen in the supposedly Rainbow-infested Hopkins Prairie campsite last year, the epitome of uncoolness for a traveller on foot in the wilderness. For God's sake, I can walk two thousand miles up the eastern seaboard and never have a single item missing, yet I can't go ten miles in Ocala without having my food stolen? It made me question, deeply, the state that bore and raised me.
So the jury is out in my book on the Rainbow People and the locals. I do know that *someone* stole my damn food in the middle of a multi-day hiking trip, but I also know the locals, though nice, creep me the hell out, and I've yet to meet a single one of these elusive Rainbow people.
"We've pretty much gotten them out of the southern part of the forest now," said the sweet old lady, "Now we've got ATVers, lots of family people, people that believe in family." Her eyes harden as she takes in my hairy face and stinky body. I nod and try to look very conservative, very stern. She seems reassured. "Good people. We'll go after 'em in the north next year".
I noted to myself, also, that it's impossible to get a place at a campsite in the southern "family" part of the forest. The good family people book everything, even when they're not actually there, and they arrest everyone else, as the sweet old lady was happy to tell me.
I realized that staying too close to Farles campsite would be risky, besides being a violation of the law far too close to where the law drives around. Now, I could always say to a ranger, "hey, you said you had campsites on the phone, and then there were none (because you gave all the reservations to your peckerwood relatives), and I'm on foot, and I've got to sleep somewhere". I'd prefer not to do this, obviously, but I kept rehearsing the sentence in my mind, knowing that it would not come out nearly so well when woken in my tent by big flashlights at 3 AM. I passed the blue blaze to Buck Lake, which I remember as being beautiful in 1999 but was warned against approaching this time. The sweet old lady at Farles had told me a private family event had reserved the entire campground, and that they weren't too keen on hikers. I took the bypass trail around the lake and pushed on. There were two or three ponds between me and the highway, and it turned out that Dora Pond had a great campsite. Sign saying lake named in memory of a Dora. Thank you Dora. It was actually one of the prettiest ponds in the forest. Tent up, stove going, shoes off. Still had 4 liters of water from Farles. Zatarain's Jambalaya and then to bed with my book and to sleep. One thing I got from long distance hiking is the ability to fall asleep almost immediately in a tent. It used to be a lot harder. Now . . home. I'm home. The thought fills my eyes with stinging, silent tears. And then I'm asleep.
Of course, in a real home you are not usually woken up by a giant deer crashing through strings holding the walls up. "SCRAM," I say. The deer snorts and hangs around. Maybe he associates backpackers with safety. This is a terrible behavior to encourage among Ocala deer, because eventually it will get hikers even more shot at than they are already. Eventually he tires of my screaming and yelling. "Huff!", he says, then jumps over the brush towards the next pond over. I start falling asleep again and dream of big dogs. Except I'm not dreaming; there is a big old hound nosing at my bug screen, like he wants in. Hey human, he's saying, I'm done chasing these damn deer. It's cold. Let me in. No, I say. "Go home!" More negotiation. Eventually he wanders off. I hope that poor hound found his way home. I finished Cormac McCarthy's The Road so there nothing left to do but doze til morning.
Speaking of which, what the hell? I go through this tome of misery and I don't ever find out what happened to the goddamn planet? Also, all life is wiped out? How did this miss the humans? It also apparently missed the bacteria, since cans swell when they go bad, and you can still get botulism. A large exchange of nukes would do some of what is described in the book, but would also render a lot of surface water deadly poison, which is not the case in The Road: the characters regularly drink the water and walk unprotected in burned zones without ill effect. Another possibility is some unknown future weapon that shuts down photosynthesis, but in that case the gas exchange in the atmosphere would rapidly change to one that could not support humans. Yep, lots of things could have happened, and guess what? Keep wondering, sucker, because you never get to find out. Also, why in the heck did the characters ever leave the bunker? I turned their decision every which way I could and couldn't come up with any reason except that the novel was called "The Road", not "Huddled in a Survivalist's Cave". The ending is also hilariously pat. You can almost hear his editor telling him to please give a book a not-entirely-depressing ending for once in his life, because this happy ending reads like it was written on pain of torture. So much for the bad. McCarthy does have the most beautiful, poetic prose voice I've ever had the pleasure of reading- I mean *ever* reading- and the language is mixed with a leisurely grim wisdom that couldstand on its own.
The next morning I crossed 19 after dodging past a couple of pretty lakes with houses, then into the pine scrub, then out into the open pine woods I remembered so fondly from ten years ago. Those open woods are very unique, hilly, with almost prairie-like line of sight through the sparse sand pines. I rolled into the Alexander Creek drainage and thicker foliage, then into the visitor center of Alexander Springs and then a call to Jan Trail. I didn't feel like walking in the coming storm, so it was time to go home.
Jan and her friend were the opposite of the taxi ride from last year. We talked AT, Florida Trail, various hiking get-togethers. Sometimes I forget that other people like doing this stuff, so it's always wonderful when I connect with other crazy people that hate cars and houses. I got lots of brochures and am now a happy card carrying member of several hiking organizations, which I suppose I should have been years ago. It made me think of Thanksgiving 2009, and where in Ocala I'd find myself then . .
I do almost exactly the same thing every time I head out to the woods. I used to ascribe my pre-hike pussyfooting to simple alcoholism. No longer. It's more complicated than that, with a more subtle expression of emotions than the simple lust for getting bombed. Subtle emotions involving running water and cushions to sleep on. After doing my hiking shopping I must have cruised past the same fleabag motel five or six times. It sure is late, I said to myself. And there's a Taco Bell. But you have dinner in your food bag, I replied, and it's not like you can't hike at dusk. For God's sake you can put up your tent in pitch black, you know the thing better than you know your own scrotum. The latter voice won with it's ol' 'but you walked to Maine' argument, the same way it wins arguments about going to the gym or getting out of bed in the morning.
I drove into the Ocala National Forest and got my car settled in at Juniper Springs for ten dollars a night, then packed and headed north on the Florida Scenic Trail, exactly opposite the direction I planned to travel the next morning. The reason for this little sidetrip was the general hunting season, in which the Thanksgiving holiday is regarded as the opening bash. Hunting is prohibited in the Juniper Prairie wilderness, but to get into the wilderness you have to leg a mile or so north on the trail from the Juniper Springs entrance. Back in the day I'd hiked farther to get to an AT shelter, so it was no big deal going a mile the wrong way to find a place to sleep. I found a nice campsite just inside the no-fire zone and was chewing and reading inside my faithful tent by dark. Hopefully this year in Ocala would go better than it did last year, a hot, hung-over slog that ended when my food bag was stolen at Hopkin's Prairie, possibly by the enigmatic Rainbow People, whom we'll hear more of later.
Waking up I went south, zapped my cell phone at Juniper, zapped my gut with some microwave food objects at same, and bore down the trail. Using the verb bore here is a bit of a laugh when you see how much mileage you're covering according to the signs in the national forest, which apparently thinks you're barely managing a leisurely stroll. On a memorable hike through this stretch in 1999, my friends Byron and Michelle were similarly perplexed by the apparently random numbers on various signposts. We were all going a little crazy, literally jogging down the trail for hours to see a sign telling us we'd come three miles, which was patent horsepucky, as that mileage would have been covered in half an hour at our pace. We ascribed this problem to the mysterious stations on the map marked "horizontal control". Agents of Horizontal Control included the indefatigueable deerflies tormenting us. Besides drawing blood, we determined that the deerfly were also agents of Horizontal Control and were responsible for manipulating the fabric of space and time. It was hilarious at the time, but then to this date I am amazed at what passes for hilarious to hikers. The adjective "delirious" is all sorts of applicable here.
Years later, I asked a ranger about the horizontal control stations. "Horizontal what?", she asked. I pointed them out on my map. "I have no idea," she said "That's peculiar". Perhaps our theory from 1999 was the correct one. The ranger did give me a phone number of local trail enthusiasts Jan Trail, who give rides to FTA (Florida Trail Association) members, which was fantastic. A lot of the trauma of last year was caused by my inability to find a shuttle back to my car and being subsequently bilked out of eighty bucks for a cab ride.
So I hotfooted it for eight hours, coming- according to the signage- nine fricking miles. Which is preposterous, but they were a good "nine" miles. I like the southern part of the Ocala National Forest a lot better than the northern part, even though it's less pristine. The trail is better maintained, for one. Then there are places where the land goes up and comes down again, a thing I hear are called "hills" by outsiders. There are clear spring-fed ponds, open pine forests, and tunnels through palmetto scrub. I was nearly run over by deer and I saw a dozen little piglets snurfling around on the edges of Geary Pond, ridiculously adorable. Large, smart mammals to have such big litters; I'm not entirely sure how pigs aren't yet running the world. On the down side, this was the free-fire zone, and I was completely dependent on my orange-blaze t-shirt to keep me from experiencing high-speed exploratory surgery at the hands of some half-drunk fatty up from Orlando proving to his Fox News Friends how Republican he is. It probably wouldn't happen far from a road. Most hunters don't walk anywhere, but most hunters don't bring home any fresh meat, either.
Did I mention that most hunters don't walk anywhere? In some places, there were so many two-stroke engines the national forest sounded like a beach popular with jet-skiers. No actual hunting taking place, but a great deal of driving around and shooting. To be the devil's advocate for a moment, I did run into a couple of actual hunters and had a pretty good time talking to them. We seemed to be wired a lot more similarly. I think the difference is between outdoor/non-outdoor people rather than being between hikers/hunters.
Returning to the straight linear narrative, yes, there were a few miles of ATV hell, but the stretch down to Farles Prairie was pleasant. Ran out of water the last two hours and however many miles, then came into the picnic area at Farles. I made a beeline to the water device, cranked out two liters of water and drank almost all of it in one chug. Then I sat down. I had shade, a water source, was moving along pretty well, and had a great book- more on that later- and an afternoon with some real nap possibilities. Deliciously exhausted. This loitering thing is really what hiking is all about.
There was a pleasant little old lady coming out of a Mad Max looking conversion van, coming over in my direction. She looked concerned. I felt great, but I suppose I must have looked pretty ragged. I had a blowdown come down on top of me about three miles previous, so I was a tad bloody from gouges in my legs and head. Clothes torn from same, and there's the normal hiker state of being stinky, dehydrated and tired. So what I thought looked like "cheefully worn out" might look like "terminal collapse" to other people. I remembered looking at my AT pictures from on the trail, and marvelling at how incredibly dirty and tired I looked, even though I remember being ridiculously happy at the time. I got up and was ready to be very polite.
"Hi there. You walkin' the trail?"
"Just from Juniper to wherever in the forest. As far as I can get"
We talked a bit more, about whether or not the water should be treated, whether the site had a spot for me, how safe the forest is. Turned out the little old lady was the Farles camp hostess. The inevitable warning about the Rainbow People came up, and I had to ask:
"I've been hearing about these Rainbow People for the better part of a decade . . what's the deal with them? Are they real?"
She looks a bit horrified. "You don't want to go looking for them," she says.
"No, no, I don't. I was just wondering if they're some sort of urban myth."
"No, they're very bad people. Last year . ." and then enter the murders, rapes, and other sundry crimes of the Rainbow People. Oh boy, here we go again. I've gotten the same stories from every single local since 1995.
I've always taken tales of the Rainbow People with a grain of salt. On the one hand, they're basically freegan hippies, a type I don't generally identify with or like . . much. On the other hand, having known and loved a lot of freegan hippies, I know how cosmically unlikely it is that a roving band of them would go on a rape and murder spree. They just don't have the motivation. Before last year, I've always felt the following scenarios to be far more likely than the Rainbow Rape Holocaust so dramatically spoken of by the Ocala locals:
1) crazy repressed little local girls go out to the forest people to get crazy, high, and drunk, find themselves in flagro delecto with person(s) they would rather not be with, and run into town with lurid tales of molestation at the hands of hairy, unwashed 60s leftovers. Just the thing to get the AM talk radio folks riled, who, in case you couldn't guess, are all armed.
2) crazy repressed little local boys bring girl out to the forest, get her trashed, violate her while she's blacked out, and return to town with vile tales of violent, horny hippies and Democrats. The story matches the consensus reality much better than confronting the possibility that Bubba McSumbitch, high school football hero, is a scheming rapacious f*#$head. Result, see 1), above.
3) crazy little local boys go out into the forest and kill bunches of hikers, return to town with tales of gun-addled hippies mowing down outdoorsmen. This was actually the defense used by some loser kid from Ocala who got nabbed for plugging hikers with an AK-47. "They were comin' straight for me!"
So as she's finishing up with the Rainbow stories I'm beginning to wonder if maybe some genuine criminals are using Rainbow events as cover for other activities. After all, I did have my food bag stolen in the supposedly Rainbow-infested Hopkins Prairie campsite last year, the epitome of uncoolness for a traveller on foot in the wilderness. For God's sake, I can walk two thousand miles up the eastern seaboard and never have a single item missing, yet I can't go ten miles in Ocala without having my food stolen? It made me question, deeply, the state that bore and raised me.
So the jury is out in my book on the Rainbow People and the locals. I do know that *someone* stole my damn food in the middle of a multi-day hiking trip, but I also know the locals, though nice, creep me the hell out, and I've yet to meet a single one of these elusive Rainbow people.
"We've pretty much gotten them out of the southern part of the forest now," said the sweet old lady, "Now we've got ATVers, lots of family people, people that believe in family." Her eyes harden as she takes in my hairy face and stinky body. I nod and try to look very conservative, very stern. She seems reassured. "Good people. We'll go after 'em in the north next year".
I noted to myself, also, that it's impossible to get a place at a campsite in the southern "family" part of the forest. The good family people book everything, even when they're not actually there, and they arrest everyone else, as the sweet old lady was happy to tell me.
I realized that staying too close to Farles campsite would be risky, besides being a violation of the law far too close to where the law drives around. Now, I could always say to a ranger, "hey, you said you had campsites on the phone, and then there were none (because you gave all the reservations to your peckerwood relatives), and I'm on foot, and I've got to sleep somewhere". I'd prefer not to do this, obviously, but I kept rehearsing the sentence in my mind, knowing that it would not come out nearly so well when woken in my tent by big flashlights at 3 AM. I passed the blue blaze to Buck Lake, which I remember as being beautiful in 1999 but was warned against approaching this time. The sweet old lady at Farles had told me a private family event had reserved the entire campground, and that they weren't too keen on hikers. I took the bypass trail around the lake and pushed on. There were two or three ponds between me and the highway, and it turned out that Dora Pond had a great campsite. Sign saying lake named in memory of a Dora. Thank you Dora. It was actually one of the prettiest ponds in the forest. Tent up, stove going, shoes off. Still had 4 liters of water from Farles. Zatarain's Jambalaya and then to bed with my book and to sleep. One thing I got from long distance hiking is the ability to fall asleep almost immediately in a tent. It used to be a lot harder. Now . . home. I'm home. The thought fills my eyes with stinging, silent tears. And then I'm asleep.
Of course, in a real home you are not usually woken up by a giant deer crashing through strings holding the walls up. "SCRAM," I say. The deer snorts and hangs around. Maybe he associates backpackers with safety. This is a terrible behavior to encourage among Ocala deer, because eventually it will get hikers even more shot at than they are already. Eventually he tires of my screaming and yelling. "Huff!", he says, then jumps over the brush towards the next pond over. I start falling asleep again and dream of big dogs. Except I'm not dreaming; there is a big old hound nosing at my bug screen, like he wants in. Hey human, he's saying, I'm done chasing these damn deer. It's cold. Let me in. No, I say. "Go home!" More negotiation. Eventually he wanders off. I hope that poor hound found his way home. I finished Cormac McCarthy's The Road so there nothing left to do but doze til morning.
Speaking of which, what the hell? I go through this tome of misery and I don't ever find out what happened to the goddamn planet? Also, all life is wiped out? How did this miss the humans? It also apparently missed the bacteria, since cans swell when they go bad, and you can still get botulism. A large exchange of nukes would do some of what is described in the book, but would also render a lot of surface water deadly poison, which is not the case in The Road: the characters regularly drink the water and walk unprotected in burned zones without ill effect. Another possibility is some unknown future weapon that shuts down photosynthesis, but in that case the gas exchange in the atmosphere would rapidly change to one that could not support humans. Yep, lots of things could have happened, and guess what? Keep wondering, sucker, because you never get to find out. Also, why in the heck did the characters ever leave the bunker? I turned their decision every which way I could and couldn't come up with any reason except that the novel was called "The Road", not "Huddled in a Survivalist's Cave". The ending is also hilariously pat. You can almost hear his editor telling him to please give a book a not-entirely-depressing ending for once in his life, because this happy ending reads like it was written on pain of torture. So much for the bad. McCarthy does have the most beautiful, poetic prose voice I've ever had the pleasure of reading- I mean *ever* reading- and the language is mixed with a leisurely grim wisdom that couldstand on its own.
The next morning I crossed 19 after dodging past a couple of pretty lakes with houses, then into the pine scrub, then out into the open pine woods I remembered so fondly from ten years ago. Those open woods are very unique, hilly, with almost prairie-like line of sight through the sparse sand pines. I rolled into the Alexander Creek drainage and thicker foliage, then into the visitor center of Alexander Springs and then a call to Jan Trail. I didn't feel like walking in the coming storm, so it was time to go home.
Jan and her friend were the opposite of the taxi ride from last year. We talked AT, Florida Trail, various hiking get-togethers. Sometimes I forget that other people like doing this stuff, so it's always wonderful when I connect with other crazy people that hate cars and houses. I got lots of brochures and am now a happy card carrying member of several hiking organizations, which I suppose I should have been years ago. It made me think of Thanksgiving 2009, and where in Ocala I'd find myself then . .
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Pasta Greco
Conversations about barbecue side dishes- indeed, all "classic" American side dishes- can be troublesome and often violent. I've heard vicious exchanges over mayonnaise versus Miracle Whip (sp?), yellow versus brown mustard in potato salad, and just about anything in tuna salad other than the tuna itself. Potato salad was a perch I dare not tread. So with my pasta salad I abandoned classic for flavors I knew and loved well. Greek pasta salad it is!
The trouble was, I knew what happened from bitter experience when I pre-prepped greek salad. The salt in the feta/olives/anchovies drew out the moisture from the veggies and turned my salad into a cold soup course. I resolved that this would not happen this time. Taking a queue from traditional sauerkraut preparation, I pre-salted the veggies and set them in a colander to draw out excess moisture. As a by-product, this process also:
1) produced a delicious flavorful liquid that I (currently) have no use for
2) enhanced the color of the vegetables
3) lengthened the salad's shelf life. This stuff was quite edible after a week in the fridge.
1 cucumber, seeded and sliced
4 Roma tomatoes, seeded and sliced
1 yellow bell pepper, sliced
1 carrot, sliced
4 tbsp kosher salt
8 oz sheep milk feta, cubed
1 bunch green onions, chopped on the bias
4 whopping tablespoons pepperoncini rings or banana pepper rings. I can't get enough of these things, so add to taste.
A couple of handfuls pitted Kalamata olives
2 tsp black pepper
2 tsp dried oregano
2 tsp minced fresh garlic
Splash red wine vinegar
Extra virgin olive oil
3 cups rotini or penne or some such handy pasta
To slice the first four ingredients, I seriously endorse using the slicer attachment on your food processor. That thing is darn handy.
Toss the first five ingredients together, then put in a colander set over a bowl. Wrap and put in fridge for a few hours. Fluids from the veggies will drip down into the bowl, so try and lay this contraption flat. Every hour or so turn the veggies around to re-distribute the salt and drain the bowl if needed. The orange fluid that collects in the bowl is awfully salty but really tasty; I have yet to figure out a use for it. Perhaps make it into a condiment? This must be akin to how soy sauce was invented. Perhaps I've inadvertently invented Philoculture's Salad Sauce.
As serving time draws near, set a gallon of water to boil. Put pasta in and cook as desired. Drain and refresh with cold water to stop the cooking process.
Combine the remaining ingredients in the serving bowl
Get your salted veggies from the fridge and scoop them into the serving bowl with your hands, squeezing each handful as you go to get any free liquid out. Add the pasta, then toss to combine. Chill until serving.
The trouble was, I knew what happened from bitter experience when I pre-prepped greek salad. The salt in the feta/olives/anchovies drew out the moisture from the veggies and turned my salad into a cold soup course. I resolved that this would not happen this time. Taking a queue from traditional sauerkraut preparation, I pre-salted the veggies and set them in a colander to draw out excess moisture. As a by-product, this process also:
1) produced a delicious flavorful liquid that I (currently) have no use for
2) enhanced the color of the vegetables
3) lengthened the salad's shelf life. This stuff was quite edible after a week in the fridge.
1 cucumber, seeded and sliced
4 Roma tomatoes, seeded and sliced
1 yellow bell pepper, sliced
1 carrot, sliced
4 tbsp kosher salt
8 oz sheep milk feta, cubed
1 bunch green onions, chopped on the bias
4 whopping tablespoons pepperoncini rings or banana pepper rings. I can't get enough of these things, so add to taste.
A couple of handfuls pitted Kalamata olives
2 tsp black pepper
2 tsp dried oregano
2 tsp minced fresh garlic
Splash red wine vinegar
Extra virgin olive oil
3 cups rotini or penne or some such handy pasta
To slice the first four ingredients, I seriously endorse using the slicer attachment on your food processor. That thing is darn handy.
Toss the first five ingredients together, then put in a colander set over a bowl. Wrap and put in fridge for a few hours. Fluids from the veggies will drip down into the bowl, so try and lay this contraption flat. Every hour or so turn the veggies around to re-distribute the salt and drain the bowl if needed. The orange fluid that collects in the bowl is awfully salty but really tasty; I have yet to figure out a use for it. Perhaps make it into a condiment? This must be akin to how soy sauce was invented. Perhaps I've inadvertently invented Philoculture's Salad Sauce.
As serving time draws near, set a gallon of water to boil. Put pasta in and cook as desired. Drain and refresh with cold water to stop the cooking process.
Combine the remaining ingredients in the serving bowl
Get your salted veggies from the fridge and scoop them into the serving bowl with your hands, squeezing each handful as you go to get any free liquid out. Add the pasta, then toss to combine. Chill until serving.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Tartiflette
I had read about this potato-cheese-bacon type dish and decided to try it and and see if it was as good as it sounded. Unfortunately, I could not find the recipe from America's Test Kitchen that I wanted to try. I was forced to rely on my culinary savvy and managed to come up with a passable tartiflette. When I do this dish again I will try a pastry crust on the bottom, as I think that might sop of some of the grease- I thought the gratin was a little on the heavy side.
12 oz camembert
2 onions, sliced
2 Idaho potatoes, sliced into rounds 1/8" thick.
10 oz bacon
8 oz sour cream
Salt and pepper
Fry the bacon until crisp. Chop it up coarse
Fry potato slices in the bacon fat over medium-high heat until light brown on both sides, reserve.
Fry the onion slices over medium heat until blondeish-brown, seasoning with salt and pepper as you go. Some darker spots are OK, black is not. Combine with sour cream, reserve.
Slice the camembert wheel in half the long way, so that you have two camembert rounds with a rind on top and cheese on the bottom. Slice the rounds so that they will evenly cover the top of the casserole.
Start building your casserole: lay down a layer of potato, a layer of sour cream/onion mixture, a layer of bacon, repeat. I was able to get two and a half layers out of it, but mileage may vary.
Finish the casserole by covering the top with the camembert slices, rind side up. This will allow the camembert to get obscenely gooey and wander south into the potato/onion/bacon stuff below. The rind will also toast nicely.
Put in a 350 degree oven until bubbly. Turn on the broiler, and put casserole under hot broiler until cheese is lightly browned.
As with most casseroles, tartiflette is better if you let it rest outside the oven for a half hour or so. You certainly don't need to, though.
12 oz camembert
2 onions, sliced
2 Idaho potatoes, sliced into rounds 1/8" thick.
10 oz bacon
8 oz sour cream
Salt and pepper
Fry the bacon until crisp. Chop it up coarse
Fry potato slices in the bacon fat over medium-high heat until light brown on both sides, reserve.
Fry the onion slices over medium heat until blondeish-brown, seasoning with salt and pepper as you go. Some darker spots are OK, black is not. Combine with sour cream, reserve.
Slice the camembert wheel in half the long way, so that you have two camembert rounds with a rind on top and cheese on the bottom. Slice the rounds so that they will evenly cover the top of the casserole.
Start building your casserole: lay down a layer of potato, a layer of sour cream/onion mixture, a layer of bacon, repeat. I was able to get two and a half layers out of it, but mileage may vary.
Finish the casserole by covering the top with the camembert slices, rind side up. This will allow the camembert to get obscenely gooey and wander south into the potato/onion/bacon stuff below. The rind will also toast nicely.
Put in a 350 degree oven until bubbly. Turn on the broiler, and put casserole under hot broiler until cheese is lightly browned.
As with most casseroles, tartiflette is better if you let it rest outside the oven for a half hour or so. You certainly don't need to, though.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Ribs of the Proletariat
You know what I'd like? I'd like to see some support for people that are debt-free and work hard at staying employed at their fartsucking day jobs. Yes, we exist, and Merciful Buddha on a Harley do we get pissed when we see that laws are apparently only written for the irresponsible or massively fraudulent. Ooh, if I lose my job the government will pay my mortgage for six months! What if I do not have a schlocky fake mortgage and have instead been saving real money, You Authoritarian Clods? You better start worrying about keeping those people fed while you pay for their suburban scatshacks because eventually their credit cards won't work and you can't skylift Big Macs without having the USMC pilots eat them all. Trust me, I know. You could skylift pigs, I suppose, and even Special Forces Marines would pause before devouring a feisty and very much alive pack of swine, unless they were Muslim Marines, which is probably illegal or at least severely hazed at the Marines Murder Mansion or wherever it is they learn how to kill people.
To this end, I raise up the Ribs of the Proletariat. Not to aid in the hazing or the murdering. That would be just wrong. This is to help feed America with the pork to be dropped from military helicopters. It's like a Berlin Airlift for suburbia, but with less Nazis and more rustic antics!
This recipe could feed America probably all at once, because when I make ribs there's only one quantity to make and that's Too Much. It's the perfect balm for a nation huddled around 60" LCD screens watching American Idol on stolen A/C power. Enough with the proselytizing, I know why you came here, all five of you:
Mix up 1 cup packed dark brown sugar, 6 tbsp kosher salt, 2 tbsp chili powder, 2 tbsp onion powder, 2 tbsp paprika, 1 tsp each of cayenne, and maybe 1 tsp of some thyme, sage, or other resiny spice- just make sure it's nicely powdered. No whole leaves. Whole leaves will char and we'll have enough of a problem with that during cooking.
Go to Sam's club and get one of those packages of spareribs. 3 slabs to a pack. That's a lot of ribs but I am feeding a lot of people. Smear the rub you just mixed up all over those ribs, then wrap them VERY WELL in saran wrap and put in a deep tray. The salt and the sugar will draw some of the moisture out of the meat and exchange it with flavored moisture, but that means porky liquids will be sloshing around, and that means you want some sort of wide bucket-like device to catch anything that escapes the saran wrap. Put in the fridge overnight.
On the morning of the big day, soak a bag of wood chunks in a big bucket right near your smoker. Don't use mesquite, as it is overly bitter (in my opinion) when used for long smoking projects like this.
4.5 hours before scheduled eating time, get the charcoal ready for indirect heat. I use a drum smoker, so I make the fire to one side. Rack up your ribs in a rib rack, making sure there is adequate space between the ribs. DO NOT USE ALL THE RACKS. They are too close together. Instead, space the ribs out to every other slot in the rib rack.
Put some wood chunks on the charcoal, put the ribs on the side of the smoker where the fire isn't, and close the lid. Open all the vents and let the temperature come to 225. Close the vents. Now, for the next four hours, make sure this temp stays between 200 and 225. It's harder than it sounds. Add wood chunks at appropriate times, approximately every 30 minutes.
4 hours at these temperature will cook these ribs. Longer is always better. When you're satisfied, pull the rib rack into your kitchen and hack the slabs into two-rib sections. Serve with bottled BBQ sauce, because some people like the stuff.
Feeds a bunch.
I served this with a greek-style pasta salad, but hey, that sounds like another post.
To this end, I raise up the Ribs of the Proletariat. Not to aid in the hazing or the murdering. That would be just wrong. This is to help feed America with the pork to be dropped from military helicopters. It's like a Berlin Airlift for suburbia, but with less Nazis and more rustic antics!
This recipe could feed America probably all at once, because when I make ribs there's only one quantity to make and that's Too Much. It's the perfect balm for a nation huddled around 60" LCD screens watching American Idol on stolen A/C power. Enough with the proselytizing, I know why you came here, all five of you:
Mix up 1 cup packed dark brown sugar, 6 tbsp kosher salt, 2 tbsp chili powder, 2 tbsp onion powder, 2 tbsp paprika, 1 tsp each of cayenne, and maybe 1 tsp of some thyme, sage, or other resiny spice- just make sure it's nicely powdered. No whole leaves. Whole leaves will char and we'll have enough of a problem with that during cooking.
Go to Sam's club and get one of those packages of spareribs. 3 slabs to a pack. That's a lot of ribs but I am feeding a lot of people. Smear the rub you just mixed up all over those ribs, then wrap them VERY WELL in saran wrap and put in a deep tray. The salt and the sugar will draw some of the moisture out of the meat and exchange it with flavored moisture, but that means porky liquids will be sloshing around, and that means you want some sort of wide bucket-like device to catch anything that escapes the saran wrap. Put in the fridge overnight.
On the morning of the big day, soak a bag of wood chunks in a big bucket right near your smoker. Don't use mesquite, as it is overly bitter (in my opinion) when used for long smoking projects like this.
4.5 hours before scheduled eating time, get the charcoal ready for indirect heat. I use a drum smoker, so I make the fire to one side. Rack up your ribs in a rib rack, making sure there is adequate space between the ribs. DO NOT USE ALL THE RACKS. They are too close together. Instead, space the ribs out to every other slot in the rib rack.
Put some wood chunks on the charcoal, put the ribs on the side of the smoker where the fire isn't, and close the lid. Open all the vents and let the temperature come to 225. Close the vents. Now, for the next four hours, make sure this temp stays between 200 and 225. It's harder than it sounds. Add wood chunks at appropriate times, approximately every 30 minutes.
4 hours at these temperature will cook these ribs. Longer is always better. When you're satisfied, pull the rib rack into your kitchen and hack the slabs into two-rib sections. Serve with bottled BBQ sauce, because some people like the stuff.
Feeds a bunch.
I served this with a greek-style pasta salad, but hey, that sounds like another post.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Double Mega Cheesy Steak and Bean
The core component of the world's most addictive fast foods is slurry. It is the stuff that you think about when you are about to drive into the Super Burger Taco Fryer Thunder drive-through. The delicate sauce on the bottom of the burger bun, a slurry of mayonnaise and meat juice. The substance in Taco Bell products- mysterious red sauce and chopped onion intermixing with melted cheese and bean stuff- again, gushy, delicious slurry. Even the sandwich chains exploit this marvelous substance: think about the mush formed in a Subway sandwich by the oil, vinegar, and vegetable/pickle juices, or, way better, Firehouse Subs, with their slurry of piquant sauces and discharge from fatty cooked meats.
Most comfort foods are thick liquids of some kind, but since fast foods are hastily assembled the fast food slurry is almost always composed of ingredients that have just met each other. Compare this with a thick tasty slow food like potage ambassadeur, where the bacon and the peas have been dating for several years before they even began the long, slow simmer of marriage. Fast food slurries are anonymous drunk sex in a club bathroom by comparison. Still, they're both tasty thickened liquids- why does the fast food version incite such wanton lust?
I hypothesize that the big draw to the fast food slurry is a roguish human attraction to opportunity. Journey back in time for a moment. A prehistoric fast food item is basically what you would have gotten if you nipped a bit of food from every person in the tribe into a big starch object. Nuki's Antelope Surprise, Nurg's Green Thing, King Cuchacho's Lemur Cheese, it all goes into the flatbread. Like modern fast food, you would cram it down your gullet, although not because you were late for work but because if he were found with the ill-gotten breakfast there's a better than even chance you would be killed and eaten. It gives the dollar menu a whole new significance.
Anyway, the fast food slurry- i.e., a thick liquid resulting from the liquids of many already prepared and/or cooked ingredients- is something easily replicated in the home. Last night I sought to come up with a Taco Bell-like slurry item and had what I thought was a reasonable success. It went something like this . .
Meat
12 oz steak
Badia Brand Fajita Seasoning. This is one of the best prepackaged spice mixes in existence.
Beans
6 oz dry black beans
1 onion, chopped
1 tblsp chopped garlic
4 tblsp fresh salsa, or some tomato product
1 tblsp chicken soup base
1 tsp rosemary
1 tsp paprika
2 bay leaves
2 tblsp Olive oil
2.25 cups water
ALTERNATE BEANS
1 can black beans
ASSEMBLY
6 oz cheddar cheese, shredded
2 large flour torillas
Canola oil
Liberally dust your steak with fajita seasoning. I used a 3/4" thick strip steak for this, so take note- if you use a different cut it will affect the cooking time.
In the pot of your pressure cooker, fry the onions and garlic in olive oil until soft.Add everything else, set on high pressure for 30 minutes, natural pressure release. Drain extra liquid. Fish out the bay leaves. Yes, the beans are not super soft. They will provide a little texture contrast to our beef and cheese slurry. ALTERNATIVELY, open a can of black beans.
When the coals are ready, cook the steak 3-4 minutes per side on high heat, until rare or medium rare. Try to go rare, because there is more heat coming up for this hunk o flesh.
Put some canola oil in a pan and put on a burner on medium heat.
Slice your meat into strips 1/4 inch thick. Go for bite size pieces, so pulling out a strip doesn't decompile the burrito.
Heat your tortilla 30 seconds in the microware to soften. Lay down the tortilla. Put down half the shredded cheese, then half the sliced steak, then cover with beans. Not too much, you can always have leftover beans. Fold up the ends of the tortilla over the filling, then roll tight, one side over, then the other side over. Put it in the hot pan seam side down (the last side you folded), then fry until brown and crisp on the bottom. Flip carefully and do the same with the other side. Put a plate over it, hand on the plate, flip pan and plate, and you've got a nicely toasted and plated burrito, seam side down. I do this flip trick with frittatas a lot.
Repeat the last paragraph with the other tortilla.
What happens inside this containment unit is the beans drop some moisture to the not-entirely-cooked meats, which then drop grease and liquid into the cheese, which melts with these two liquids, providing us with our faux-fast-food slurry food product.
Consume very quickly before anyone sees you.
Most comfort foods are thick liquids of some kind, but since fast foods are hastily assembled the fast food slurry is almost always composed of ingredients that have just met each other. Compare this with a thick tasty slow food like potage ambassadeur, where the bacon and the peas have been dating for several years before they even began the long, slow simmer of marriage. Fast food slurries are anonymous drunk sex in a club bathroom by comparison. Still, they're both tasty thickened liquids- why does the fast food version incite such wanton lust?
I hypothesize that the big draw to the fast food slurry is a roguish human attraction to opportunity. Journey back in time for a moment. A prehistoric fast food item is basically what you would have gotten if you nipped a bit of food from every person in the tribe into a big starch object. Nuki's Antelope Surprise, Nurg's Green Thing, King Cuchacho's Lemur Cheese, it all goes into the flatbread. Like modern fast food, you would cram it down your gullet, although not because you were late for work but because if he were found with the ill-gotten breakfast there's a better than even chance you would be killed and eaten. It gives the dollar menu a whole new significance.
Anyway, the fast food slurry- i.e., a thick liquid resulting from the liquids of many already prepared and/or cooked ingredients- is something easily replicated in the home. Last night I sought to come up with a Taco Bell-like slurry item and had what I thought was a reasonable success. It went something like this . .
Meat
12 oz steak
Badia Brand Fajita Seasoning. This is one of the best prepackaged spice mixes in existence.
Beans
6 oz dry black beans
1 onion, chopped
1 tblsp chopped garlic
4 tblsp fresh salsa, or some tomato product
1 tblsp chicken soup base
1 tsp rosemary
1 tsp paprika
2 bay leaves
2 tblsp Olive oil
2.25 cups water
ALTERNATE BEANS
1 can black beans
ASSEMBLY
6 oz cheddar cheese, shredded
2 large flour torillas
Canola oil
Liberally dust your steak with fajita seasoning. I used a 3/4" thick strip steak for this, so take note- if you use a different cut it will affect the cooking time.
In the pot of your pressure cooker, fry the onions and garlic in olive oil until soft.Add everything else, set on high pressure for 30 minutes, natural pressure release. Drain extra liquid. Fish out the bay leaves. Yes, the beans are not super soft. They will provide a little texture contrast to our beef and cheese slurry. ALTERNATIVELY, open a can of black beans.
When the coals are ready, cook the steak 3-4 minutes per side on high heat, until rare or medium rare. Try to go rare, because there is more heat coming up for this hunk o flesh.
Put some canola oil in a pan and put on a burner on medium heat.
Slice your meat into strips 1/4 inch thick. Go for bite size pieces, so pulling out a strip doesn't decompile the burrito.
Heat your tortilla 30 seconds in the microware to soften. Lay down the tortilla. Put down half the shredded cheese, then half the sliced steak, then cover with beans. Not too much, you can always have leftover beans. Fold up the ends of the tortilla over the filling, then roll tight, one side over, then the other side over. Put it in the hot pan seam side down (the last side you folded), then fry until brown and crisp on the bottom. Flip carefully and do the same with the other side. Put a plate over it, hand on the plate, flip pan and plate, and you've got a nicely toasted and plated burrito, seam side down. I do this flip trick with frittatas a lot.
Repeat the last paragraph with the other tortilla.
What happens inside this containment unit is the beans drop some moisture to the not-entirely-cooked meats, which then drop grease and liquid into the cheese, which melts with these two liquids, providing us with our faux-fast-food slurry food product.
Consume very quickly before anyone sees you.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Kim Il Delicious
I've always been curious about Korean food, but the Florida backwoods offer a perhaps unsurprisingly limited number of Korean dining establishments. With access to some Asian food markets, though, it's not a problem, and we decided to entertain with a sort-of-Korean menu:
Dahk galbi: Korean marinated grilled chicken
Bibim Naengmyun: A cold buckwheat noodle thing
Pajeon: Scallion pancakes, also a Chinese staple, purchased from the market because I only have two hands
Ojinguh Moochim: Seasoned dried squid
Spring rolls: not really Korean, but I like them, see note for pajeon above. These had mushrooms and cabbage and were really tasty.
Kimchi
Brown rice
What did I really like from this spread? Well, I like kimchi, the naengmyun was pretty tasty, and the ojinguh moochim was really, really tasty, especially with the rice. It was all pretty good, actually, new and strange. If I did it again I'd use less pickle in the naengmyun and I'd make more ojinguh moochim. Oh, and I'd get actual Korean naengmyun instead of soba noodles.
Korean food seems to be made up of a lot of tiny little dishes. It's the way Koreans eat things, apparently, an array called banchan, usually served with cooked white rice. It uses lots and lots of tiny little bowls. I bought a stack of paper bowls and plates so I didn't use every dish in the house in the process of serving. Unless you want your spouse to murder you in your sleep, I recommend you do the same.
I had some chicken quarters sitting in the freezer in individual freezer bags. Two days prior to the meal, I took each bag and added 2 tblsp ginger, 2 tblsp garlic, a handful chopped scallions, .5 cup soy sauce, .25 cup rice vinegar, 1 tblsp sesame oil, 1 tblsp red pepper flakes. The resulting bags of chicken and liquid had most of the air squeezed out of them, then were sealed and put in a bowl in the bottom of the fridge to await the big day.
One day prior, I seeded and sliced 1 cucumber and peeled and sliced 1 fist-sized daikon radish. Mix up 1.5 cups vinegar with .5 cups water, then add 3 tblsp salt and 3 tblsp sugar. Put veggies in vinegar mixture and put in fridge. These impromptu pickles will appear later in our bibim naengmyun
The rice recipe for korean brown rice I got from the internet had me cook the rice almost into risotto. I thought it looked gooey and sticky, but my wife loved it. 1 cup of rice went into the pressure cooker with 3.25 cups water, a tiny bit of sesame oil, a glurp of peanut oil, and a teaspoon of salt. High pressure ten minutes, natural pressure release, then fry for ten minutes.
Started the fire for the chicken, then came back in and did the bibim naengmyun.
Boil a . . er, damn non-english packaging . . about 10 oz of soba noodles for 2-3 minutes. Drain. Yes, they're still chewy, that's OK. Thoroughly cool noodles in running water, then add yangnyum (sauce): 2 tbsp gochujang (Korean chili paste), 2 tbsp sugar, 2 tsp sesame oil, 1 tsp minced garlic, 1/2 tsp soy sauce. Toss toss toss toss. Top with the pickled cucumbers and daikon you set to marinating last night, then halve four handy hard boiled eggs (what, you don't keep hard-boiled eggs handy?), put those on top artistically. Scatter some white and black sesame seeds over the top of this, and that's your bibim naengmyun, or the gringo version of it anyway. Put it out on the table. It's very pretty and quite good. The buckwheat noodle is surprisingly filling.
Make up some Korean dipping/flavoring stuff. Something besides the chili. Stir up 5 parts soy sauce,1 part sesame oil, 2 parts rice vinegar, 1 part sesame seeds, 2 parts honey, 1 part chopped scallion. Mix mix mix, put it out on the table.
Take your approximately 4-6 oz bag of "Jane-Jane Dried Prepared Squid" and put in a bowl of water. It looks sort of like shredded jerky and has the same texture. The taste is, well, imagine sweetened chewy fish. It's good. Let it rehydrate a little bit, then take it out of the water, squeeze it once or twice, then give it a quick toast in a tablespoon of oil in a hot pan. Mince. Put in a bowl, add 1 tblsp mayo, 1 tblsp gochujang, 1 tsp garlic. Top with sesame, chill until serving, then out on the table.
The coals are probably ready for the chicken. Go put the chicken on for 12 minutes, flip, 12 more minutes, then bring it back in, by which time you'll probably have everything else ready.
Fry up your scallion pancakes, one at a time, and deep fry your spring rolls. If the rolls are frozen when they're fried, chances are they're still cold inside- wrap with foil and put in a 250 degree oven until serving time. Cut the pancakes into wedges. These scallion things were pretty bland, but I didn't make them, so I could only be so apologetic. Put them out in their little disposable serving vessels. I hope you've got your dining table extended because otherwise you're going to be running out of room.
Put out the kimchi, maybe a little bowl of gochujang for people that are true masochists, and make sure nothing's left in the fridge. I'm pretty sure there's some forgotten banchan in there that I forgot about, but one of the great things about Korean is that it's not stealthy food. It'll make itself known in short order, like a really good cheese. Another great thing about Korean food is that it's really fun. Jal meokkesseumnida!
Dahk galbi: Korean marinated grilled chicken
Bibim Naengmyun: A cold buckwheat noodle thing
Pajeon: Scallion pancakes, also a Chinese staple, purchased from the market because I only have two hands
Ojinguh Moochim: Seasoned dried squid
Spring rolls: not really Korean, but I like them, see note for pajeon above. These had mushrooms and cabbage and were really tasty.
Kimchi
Brown rice
What did I really like from this spread? Well, I like kimchi, the naengmyun was pretty tasty, and the ojinguh moochim was really, really tasty, especially with the rice. It was all pretty good, actually, new and strange. If I did it again I'd use less pickle in the naengmyun and I'd make more ojinguh moochim. Oh, and I'd get actual Korean naengmyun instead of soba noodles.
Korean food seems to be made up of a lot of tiny little dishes. It's the way Koreans eat things, apparently, an array called banchan, usually served with cooked white rice. It uses lots and lots of tiny little bowls. I bought a stack of paper bowls and plates so I didn't use every dish in the house in the process of serving. Unless you want your spouse to murder you in your sleep, I recommend you do the same.
I had some chicken quarters sitting in the freezer in individual freezer bags. Two days prior to the meal, I took each bag and added 2 tblsp ginger, 2 tblsp garlic, a handful chopped scallions, .5 cup soy sauce, .25 cup rice vinegar, 1 tblsp sesame oil, 1 tblsp red pepper flakes. The resulting bags of chicken and liquid had most of the air squeezed out of them, then were sealed and put in a bowl in the bottom of the fridge to await the big day.
One day prior, I seeded and sliced 1 cucumber and peeled and sliced 1 fist-sized daikon radish. Mix up 1.5 cups vinegar with .5 cups water, then add 3 tblsp salt and 3 tblsp sugar. Put veggies in vinegar mixture and put in fridge. These impromptu pickles will appear later in our bibim naengmyun
The rice recipe for korean brown rice I got from the internet had me cook the rice almost into risotto. I thought it looked gooey and sticky, but my wife loved it. 1 cup of rice went into the pressure cooker with 3.25 cups water, a tiny bit of sesame oil, a glurp of peanut oil, and a teaspoon of salt. High pressure ten minutes, natural pressure release, then fry for ten minutes.
Started the fire for the chicken, then came back in and did the bibim naengmyun.
Boil a . . er, damn non-english packaging . . about 10 oz of soba noodles for 2-3 minutes. Drain. Yes, they're still chewy, that's OK. Thoroughly cool noodles in running water, then add yangnyum (sauce): 2 tbsp gochujang (Korean chili paste), 2 tbsp sugar, 2 tsp sesame oil, 1 tsp minced garlic, 1/2 tsp soy sauce. Toss toss toss toss. Top with the pickled cucumbers and daikon you set to marinating last night, then halve four handy hard boiled eggs (what, you don't keep hard-boiled eggs handy?), put those on top artistically. Scatter some white and black sesame seeds over the top of this, and that's your bibim naengmyun, or the gringo version of it anyway. Put it out on the table. It's very pretty and quite good. The buckwheat noodle is surprisingly filling.
Make up some Korean dipping/flavoring stuff. Something besides the chili. Stir up 5 parts soy sauce,1 part sesame oil, 2 parts rice vinegar, 1 part sesame seeds, 2 parts honey, 1 part chopped scallion. Mix mix mix, put it out on the table.
Take your approximately 4-6 oz bag of "Jane-Jane Dried Prepared Squid" and put in a bowl of water. It looks sort of like shredded jerky and has the same texture. The taste is, well, imagine sweetened chewy fish. It's good. Let it rehydrate a little bit, then take it out of the water, squeeze it once or twice, then give it a quick toast in a tablespoon of oil in a hot pan. Mince. Put in a bowl, add 1 tblsp mayo, 1 tblsp gochujang, 1 tsp garlic. Top with sesame, chill until serving, then out on the table.
The coals are probably ready for the chicken. Go put the chicken on for 12 minutes, flip, 12 more minutes, then bring it back in, by which time you'll probably have everything else ready.
Fry up your scallion pancakes, one at a time, and deep fry your spring rolls. If the rolls are frozen when they're fried, chances are they're still cold inside- wrap with foil and put in a 250 degree oven until serving time. Cut the pancakes into wedges. These scallion things were pretty bland, but I didn't make them, so I could only be so apologetic. Put them out in their little disposable serving vessels. I hope you've got your dining table extended because otherwise you're going to be running out of room.
Put out the kimchi, maybe a little bowl of gochujang for people that are true masochists, and make sure nothing's left in the fridge. I'm pretty sure there's some forgotten banchan in there that I forgot about, but one of the great things about Korean is that it's not stealthy food. It'll make itself known in short order, like a really good cheese. Another great thing about Korean food is that it's really fun. Jal meokkesseumnida!
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Bean of Darkness
Black beans are not just full of nutrition, they are great chow for the New Depression. Also, they're delicious. This recipe is a sort of train wreck of Cuban black bean soup and Brazilian Feijoada- I took my favorite parts from both.
1 lb black turtle beans
12 oz bacon
12 oz chorizo or equivalent sausage product
12 oz of assorted meat scraps: chicken parts, ham bits, abandoned toddlers, etc.
2 onions, chopped
2 green bell peppers, chopped
4 Roma tomatoes, chopped
6 cloves garlic, or more
3 bay leaves
1 tbsp red wine vinegar
6 cups chicken stock, what the hell, use bouillon, there's a depression on.
1) In the cooking chamber of your pressure cooker or in your dutch oven, fry the bacon until you have a good bit of cooking fat. Remove the bacon and reserve.
2) Working in batches if necessary, brown all the other meats in the fat, working in order from most flavorful to least flavorful. Remove as you go, reserve. Note that you really don't need anything other than the bacon, and you could probably substitute even the bacon with a quarter cup of olive oil without screwing up the recipe. It's hard for me to say this, but the beans will cook up fine without pork fat.
3) Fry the onions and green peppers in the meat fat until softened, then add the garlic, fry until aromatic. Add the tomatoes and fry until the liquid has evaporated and you are left with basically aromatic-flavored animal fat.
4) Add the black beans, chicken stock or bouillon, vinegar, bay leaves, and reserved bacon. Stir. Lightly place remainder of meats on top. Lid the pressure cooker and put on high pressure for an hour. If using a dutch oven, lid the vessel and put in a 350 degree oven for anywhere from 3 to 6 hours.
5) Unlid, remove the meats. Stir the beans and check seasoning. Freshen up the liquid with some more vinegar if necessary. Serve with the meats, a good hot sauce, some raw chopped onions, and a little sour cream. It's pretty fantastic on yellow rice, as well.
1 lb black turtle beans
12 oz bacon
12 oz chorizo or equivalent sausage product
12 oz of assorted meat scraps: chicken parts, ham bits, abandoned toddlers, etc.
2 onions, chopped
2 green bell peppers, chopped
4 Roma tomatoes, chopped
6 cloves garlic, or more
3 bay leaves
1 tbsp red wine vinegar
6 cups chicken stock, what the hell, use bouillon, there's a depression on.
1) In the cooking chamber of your pressure cooker or in your dutch oven, fry the bacon until you have a good bit of cooking fat. Remove the bacon and reserve.
2) Working in batches if necessary, brown all the other meats in the fat, working in order from most flavorful to least flavorful. Remove as you go, reserve. Note that you really don't need anything other than the bacon, and you could probably substitute even the bacon with a quarter cup of olive oil without screwing up the recipe. It's hard for me to say this, but the beans will cook up fine without pork fat.
3) Fry the onions and green peppers in the meat fat until softened, then add the garlic, fry until aromatic. Add the tomatoes and fry until the liquid has evaporated and you are left with basically aromatic-flavored animal fat.
4) Add the black beans, chicken stock or bouillon, vinegar, bay leaves, and reserved bacon. Stir. Lightly place remainder of meats on top. Lid the pressure cooker and put on high pressure for an hour. If using a dutch oven, lid the vessel and put in a 350 degree oven for anywhere from 3 to 6 hours.
5) Unlid, remove the meats. Stir the beans and check seasoning. Freshen up the liquid with some more vinegar if necessary. Serve with the meats, a good hot sauce, some raw chopped onions, and a little sour cream. It's pretty fantastic on yellow rice, as well.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Oven Fry Salvation
The Sunday afternoon tour de frigo yielded some randomness: a potato, eight ounces of sliced crimini mushrooms (a.k.a. "baby bellas"), a handful of parsley, some bacon, and some chicken leg quarters I'd set in a souvlaki marinade (lemon juice, olive oil, onion powder, garlic, oregano, black pepper, chicken bouillon) a couple of days ago. The bacon was rendered, the fungi fried in the resulting fat and rejoined with the cooked bacon and some chopper parsley. The chicken went on the grill, fifteen minutes per side. The potato was the testbed for a new recipe of oven fry.
I had never actually made a successful oven fry. I used to get either cinders or limp, greasy wedges that went in the trash. Imagine my glee at getting these things sort of right. The key to this recipe seems to be the pre-cooking of the potatoes and the fine coat of corn starch they get before heading into a hot oven. Hats off to America's Test Kitchen for the recipe.
16 oz russet potatoes, cut into wedges. The wedges I used were 1/16 slices- basically, half a potato, half the halves, half the quarters, then half the eighths.
5 tblsp canola or vegetable oil
4 cloves garlic, minced
2 tblsp corn starch
1 tsp black pepper
1.5 tsp salt
1 tsp garlic powder
1) Preheat oven to 475. In big bowl, microwave the garlic in the oil for a minute or two.
2) Spoon 3-4 tablespoons of the garlic oil into a rimmed baking sheet. Roll the oil around the baking sheet until it is coated with the garlic oil.
3) Add potatoes to garlic and oil in the bowl, toss to coat potatoes. Cover in saran wrap, microwave 2-3 minutes, toss potatoes again, microwave 2-3 more minutes. The edges of the wedges should be just opaque.
4) America's Test Kitchen expects you to magically separate the garlic from the potatoes, as the garlic will burn in the oven. I'm not sure how I could have done that exactly. I just spooned the potatoes out of the garlic and oil then wiped the remaining garlic and oil out of the bowl with paper towels. I got most of it, I suppose.
5) Mix corn starch, pepper, salt, and garlic powder. Gently toss hot potatoes with this mixture until the potatoes are well coated.
6) Lay the potatoes down on the baking sheet in a single layer, put in oven. Cook for 12 minutes, then flip the potatoes, then cook for 12 more. Watch them after ten minutes. America's Test Kitchen said to cook them for fifteen minutes per side, but if I did that they'd have burnt. I did 12 minutes on one side and 11 minutes on the other. And yes, any garlic remaining on the potatoes did turn black. I think next time I'll just use the garlic powder. Still, deep brown, intensely crispy oven spuds.
I had never actually made a successful oven fry. I used to get either cinders or limp, greasy wedges that went in the trash. Imagine my glee at getting these things sort of right. The key to this recipe seems to be the pre-cooking of the potatoes and the fine coat of corn starch they get before heading into a hot oven. Hats off to America's Test Kitchen for the recipe.
16 oz russet potatoes, cut into wedges. The wedges I used were 1/16 slices- basically, half a potato, half the halves, half the quarters, then half the eighths.
5 tblsp canola or vegetable oil
4 cloves garlic, minced
2 tblsp corn starch
1 tsp black pepper
1.5 tsp salt
1 tsp garlic powder
1) Preheat oven to 475. In big bowl, microwave the garlic in the oil for a minute or two.
2) Spoon 3-4 tablespoons of the garlic oil into a rimmed baking sheet. Roll the oil around the baking sheet until it is coated with the garlic oil.
3) Add potatoes to garlic and oil in the bowl, toss to coat potatoes. Cover in saran wrap, microwave 2-3 minutes, toss potatoes again, microwave 2-3 more minutes. The edges of the wedges should be just opaque.
4) America's Test Kitchen expects you to magically separate the garlic from the potatoes, as the garlic will burn in the oven. I'm not sure how I could have done that exactly. I just spooned the potatoes out of the garlic and oil then wiped the remaining garlic and oil out of the bowl with paper towels. I got most of it, I suppose.
5) Mix corn starch, pepper, salt, and garlic powder. Gently toss hot potatoes with this mixture until the potatoes are well coated.
6) Lay the potatoes down on the baking sheet in a single layer, put in oven. Cook for 12 minutes, then flip the potatoes, then cook for 12 more. Watch them after ten minutes. America's Test Kitchen said to cook them for fifteen minutes per side, but if I did that they'd have burnt. I did 12 minutes on one side and 11 minutes on the other. And yes, any garlic remaining on the potatoes did turn black. I think next time I'll just use the garlic powder. Still, deep brown, intensely crispy oven spuds.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Slumdog Salmon
Curried Salmon with Dhal
I knew I wanted to get rid of that last piece of salmon in the freezer, but I also knew I didn't have all the ingredients for the poached salmon recipe as it was written. Hmm.
For some reason I also had dhal on the brain. Now "dhal" means "split" in Sanskrit, and refers to any dried pulse that has been split in preparation or as consequence of drying. So dhal can be anything from chick pears to limas. In our household dhal generally means a 2-1 mix of masroor dhal (red lentils) to chana dhal (yellow split peas), with various seasonings. You're also supposed to add two raw green chilis, but not everyone can have the intestinal fortitude of those on the subcontinent and besides I thought too much heat would clobber the salmon. Two green chilis is a lot for two cups of anything.
So what ties together the Frenchy fish poaching fetish and the subcontinent savor? The answer is butter. Both cuisines literally drink the stuff. In this case, there is butter in the finishing sauce for the poaching liquid and butter added to the dhal just before serving. With some adjustments to the poaching recipe, the poached fish dish can be safely wed to the dhal.
In a convenients-sized pot, put 1/2 cup masroor dhal, 1/4 cup chana dhal, 1 tsp garlic, 1 tsp ginger, 1.5 tsp tumeric, and 2 tsp chicken soup base with 2 cups water. Bring to a boil, then park it on low heat and lid with convenient lid-like device. Everyone makes fun of me for using plates as lids, but truthfully they form a tighter seal than most lids that come with the cookware, and they double as serving vessels later, which goes along with my "less dishes=more fun" school of cookery.
Eyeball your salmon and figure out how many slices of onion you'll need to hold them off the surface of your frypan. What you're trying to do is create an elevated bed for the salmon to lay on so it's not sitting in poaching liquid. Arrange the oniony salmon bed in the frypan, then add enough white wine (I used cheap pinot, which was so acid I did not need to add lemon) to come halfway up the sides of the sliced onions. To the liquid add 1/2 tsp garam masala (plain jane supermarket curry powder is fine here), 2 chopped scallions, 2 chopped baby carrots (they were handy), and 1 chopped stalk of celery. Make sure the poaching liquid does not come near the tops of the onion. Your onion bed should be safely above the surface of the liquid.
Bring the poaching liquid to boil on high heat, then bring to low, place salmon skin-side down on the onions, ensuring the fish is above the liquid, and tightly cover the poaching vessel. Leave it for 10 minutes, enough time for me to make a confession.
I confess that I botched the poaching on the first pass. I was using processed Wal Mart salmon filets, which have no skin or much of anything else really. Sad skinny little suckers. Eleven minutes was far too long for such a fish, and the salmon was overdone. Thick, nice skin-on filets should take approximately 10 minutes, but for Wally World salmon or otherwise scrawny specimens next time I'll tune that down to about five minutes or less. In any case cook until the sides of the filet are opaque but the center is still translucent, and an instant-read thermometer reads 125 degrees when inserted in the thickest part of the fish. Using a spatula, remove the fish and onions to a plate and tent with foil.
Crank the heat up to medium-high and reduce the cooking liquid until it is almost dry, sort of a wet paste. Reduce the heat to medium or so and add 1 tblsp butter, swirling the butter until incorporated with the paste. Test the sauce and adjust flavorings, if necessary. If the wine you used isn't ridiculously tart like my bargain pinot was, add a splash of lemon juice for acidity. Something I might add to the sauce when I make this dish again is a little dollop of plain yogurt, I just think it'd be tasty with the salmon.
Check your dhal for doneness, then swirl in a tablespoon or two of butter and a few teaspoons of chopped cilantro or parsley. Discard onions, plate salmon topped with sauce and surround with dhal.
Dot the plate here and there with mint chutney, if you have any handy, or whatever Indian condiment you might have on hand. Speaking for me personally, I'm sort of addicted to the mysterious Swad "Punjabi mixed pickle". What is in there? It's a mystery. I honestly can't identify any of the objects in there, which as far as I'm concerned adds to the flavor. You never taste anything so hard as when you don't know what it is.
I knew I wanted to get rid of that last piece of salmon in the freezer, but I also knew I didn't have all the ingredients for the poached salmon recipe as it was written. Hmm.
For some reason I also had dhal on the brain. Now "dhal" means "split" in Sanskrit, and refers to any dried pulse that has been split in preparation or as consequence of drying. So dhal can be anything from chick pears to limas. In our household dhal generally means a 2-1 mix of masroor dhal (red lentils) to chana dhal (yellow split peas), with various seasonings. You're also supposed to add two raw green chilis, but not everyone can have the intestinal fortitude of those on the subcontinent and besides I thought too much heat would clobber the salmon. Two green chilis is a lot for two cups of anything.
So what ties together the Frenchy fish poaching fetish and the subcontinent savor? The answer is butter. Both cuisines literally drink the stuff. In this case, there is butter in the finishing sauce for the poaching liquid and butter added to the dhal just before serving. With some adjustments to the poaching recipe, the poached fish dish can be safely wed to the dhal.
In a convenients-sized pot, put 1/2 cup masroor dhal, 1/4 cup chana dhal, 1 tsp garlic, 1 tsp ginger, 1.5 tsp tumeric, and 2 tsp chicken soup base with 2 cups water. Bring to a boil, then park it on low heat and lid with convenient lid-like device. Everyone makes fun of me for using plates as lids, but truthfully they form a tighter seal than most lids that come with the cookware, and they double as serving vessels later, which goes along with my "less dishes=more fun" school of cookery.
Eyeball your salmon and figure out how many slices of onion you'll need to hold them off the surface of your frypan. What you're trying to do is create an elevated bed for the salmon to lay on so it's not sitting in poaching liquid. Arrange the oniony salmon bed in the frypan, then add enough white wine (I used cheap pinot, which was so acid I did not need to add lemon) to come halfway up the sides of the sliced onions. To the liquid add 1/2 tsp garam masala (plain jane supermarket curry powder is fine here), 2 chopped scallions, 2 chopped baby carrots (they were handy), and 1 chopped stalk of celery. Make sure the poaching liquid does not come near the tops of the onion. Your onion bed should be safely above the surface of the liquid.
Bring the poaching liquid to boil on high heat, then bring to low, place salmon skin-side down on the onions, ensuring the fish is above the liquid, and tightly cover the poaching vessel. Leave it for 10 minutes, enough time for me to make a confession.
I confess that I botched the poaching on the first pass. I was using processed Wal Mart salmon filets, which have no skin or much of anything else really. Sad skinny little suckers. Eleven minutes was far too long for such a fish, and the salmon was overdone. Thick, nice skin-on filets should take approximately 10 minutes, but for Wally World salmon or otherwise scrawny specimens next time I'll tune that down to about five minutes or less. In any case cook until the sides of the filet are opaque but the center is still translucent, and an instant-read thermometer reads 125 degrees when inserted in the thickest part of the fish. Using a spatula, remove the fish and onions to a plate and tent with foil.
Crank the heat up to medium-high and reduce the cooking liquid until it is almost dry, sort of a wet paste. Reduce the heat to medium or so and add 1 tblsp butter, swirling the butter until incorporated with the paste. Test the sauce and adjust flavorings, if necessary. If the wine you used isn't ridiculously tart like my bargain pinot was, add a splash of lemon juice for acidity. Something I might add to the sauce when I make this dish again is a little dollop of plain yogurt, I just think it'd be tasty with the salmon.
Check your dhal for doneness, then swirl in a tablespoon or two of butter and a few teaspoons of chopped cilantro or parsley. Discard onions, plate salmon topped with sauce and surround with dhal.
Dot the plate here and there with mint chutney, if you have any handy, or whatever Indian condiment you might have on hand. Speaking for me personally, I'm sort of addicted to the mysterious Swad "Punjabi mixed pickle". What is in there? It's a mystery. I honestly can't identify any of the objects in there, which as far as I'm concerned adds to the flavor. You never taste anything so hard as when you don't know what it is.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Why Did the Chicken Salad Cross the Border?
Some days it's hard to get food requests out of people. After a bit of pondering and poking at the supplies, we finally had something. "How about some sort of southwest chicken salad?" Oh yeah, I could do that. I love chicken salad and I love mexican- why can't the two get together and have kids? It'd be like a burrito at a Jewish Delicatessen. "Oy vai- ai-ai-ai-ai!"
Dissassemble one baked chicken into a big non-reactive bowl. Store-bought rotisserie chicken works for this too.
Chop up an onion, a big handful of cilantro, 2 seeded chipotles. Toss in the bowl.
Grab a can of black beans, drain, put beans in bowl with 1/3 cup olive oil and 1/3 cup lime juice. I like sour things, so you might want less lime.
Core and cube 2 avocados, put in bowl, toss so that the acid in the lime covers the avocado or else they'll turn all brown and nasty.
Chop up a little bag of Fritos and toss in the bowl.
Salt to taste. Serve with lettuce of your choice. It would also be good in wraps or in some savory corn cake type object, like sopes.
Dissassemble one baked chicken into a big non-reactive bowl. Store-bought rotisserie chicken works for this too.
Chop up an onion, a big handful of cilantro, 2 seeded chipotles. Toss in the bowl.
Grab a can of black beans, drain, put beans in bowl with 1/3 cup olive oil and 1/3 cup lime juice. I like sour things, so you might want less lime.
Core and cube 2 avocados, put in bowl, toss so that the acid in the lime covers the avocado or else they'll turn all brown and nasty.
Chop up a little bag of Fritos and toss in the bowl.
Salt to taste. Serve with lettuce of your choice. It would also be good in wraps or in some savory corn cake type object, like sopes.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Curry from Story
A long time ago, my wife-then-girlfriend Monica asked if I knew of a green curry that had lima beans in it. She had eaten such a curry during a trip to Washington DC and loved it immensely. I was stumped. I knew that the Thais make a green curry. The color in a green curry- the Thai one, anyway- comes from cilantro, sometimes basil, and raw green chiles, making it arguably the hottest of the thai curries, at least the coconut-based ones. The Thais, though, generally do not have legume based-curries. The Indian curries do, but search as I may I could not find a green Indian curry. What if I made a Thai green curry based on lima beans? I shuttled various ingredients around and made a green curry with cashews and basil, centered around the lima beans and around raw red bell peppers added at the last moment. "How is it?" I asked. "It's good," Monica reported. "It's nothing like what I had in D.C., but it's good". Since the lima bean curry has become an institution in our household.
Splash of oil
8 garlic cloves
Thumb-sized knob of ginger
Juice of 1 lime
1/4 cup white wine
1 tblsp fish sauce
1 can coconut milk
.25-.5 can green curry
4 oz cashew halves
12 oz baby green lima beans
1 red bell pepper, chopped
Bunch basil leaves, chopped
Bunch cilantro leaves, chopped
Jasmine rice
A word about canned curry paste. I have no idea what the name of the brand is that I usually buy, but it has a tiny picture of a slightly forbidding looking oriental matron on the label. If you buy this brand and make it according to the directions on the can you will die. Well, maybe not die, but you will have a hard time eating the stuff unless you're from the same hell-planet that Madame Heat comes from. Half a can is the maximum for me, and most will probably be comfortable with .25 of a can for this recipe.
Get your jasmine rice going according to the package directions.
Heat the splash of oil in a wok until almost smoking. Saute the garlic and ginger until fragrant. Add the wine, lime juice, and fish sauce. Cook until reduced to the consistency of thick porridge. Crank the heat down to medium. Add the coconut milk, then dissolve the curry paste into the hot mixture. Reduce this until it is very thick. Add limas and allow to thaw if frozen, or to heat through if not. Add bell pepper and let it soften just a bit. Before serving, kill the heat and stir in the cilantro, basil, and cashews.
Serve with the jasmine rice.
Splash of oil
8 garlic cloves
Thumb-sized knob of ginger
Juice of 1 lime
1/4 cup white wine
1 tblsp fish sauce
1 can coconut milk
.25-.5 can green curry
4 oz cashew halves
12 oz baby green lima beans
1 red bell pepper, chopped
Bunch basil leaves, chopped
Bunch cilantro leaves, chopped
Jasmine rice
A word about canned curry paste. I have no idea what the name of the brand is that I usually buy, but it has a tiny picture of a slightly forbidding looking oriental matron on the label. If you buy this brand and make it according to the directions on the can you will die. Well, maybe not die, but you will have a hard time eating the stuff unless you're from the same hell-planet that Madame Heat comes from. Half a can is the maximum for me, and most will probably be comfortable with .25 of a can for this recipe.
Get your jasmine rice going according to the package directions.
Heat the splash of oil in a wok until almost smoking. Saute the garlic and ginger until fragrant. Add the wine, lime juice, and fish sauce. Cook until reduced to the consistency of thick porridge. Crank the heat down to medium. Add the coconut milk, then dissolve the curry paste into the hot mixture. Reduce this until it is very thick. Add limas and allow to thaw if frozen, or to heat through if not. Add bell pepper and let it soften just a bit. Before serving, kill the heat and stir in the cilantro, basil, and cashews.
Serve with the jasmine rice.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Hot Purple Sandwiches
One of our regular dinner guests is lactose-intolerant and does not eat red meat or pork. A lot of cooks I've known would resent this, but then again, a lot of technical folks I know also resent being challenged and/or working.
The said guest is now also trying to cut down on the amount of meat, period. A fresh challenge!
I just couldn't make myself do another Thai curry, so, well, my mind wandered. How about eggplant and roasted bell peppers? My wife hates grilled eggplant, so that means frying. This was starting to sound like a really good sandwich, but it needs a creamy component, which I intended to supply via melted manchego and softened creamed garlic. Baguette could serve double duty: sliced on the bias and broiled with olive oil and bruscetta for appetizer; sliced lengthwise and lightly toasted for serving with the sandwich stack ingredients. For the side dish I couldn't get my mind off the roasted broccoli I made from America's Test Kitchen:
http://www.slashfood.com/2008/12/13/americas-test-kitchens-method-for-roasted-broccoli/
I made this brocc a couple of days ago with zero expectations. It turned out to be the best single method of broccoli preparation I've seen. The vegetable does not actually need any seasoning with this method- the natural browning of the veg, with the salt and lemon, provides more than enough depth of flavor.
Anyway, eggplant sandwiches:
Put two big handfuls of whole garlic cloves in a pan with some oil or butter, put on low heat. Every time it looks like it's getting too brown, put in some white wine, stir, deglaze, let simmer again. Eventually the garlic will have the consistency of boiled potatoes and have a nutty, slightly sweet flavor. I imagined smashing them into a creamy spread but they looked so pretty that I served them as they were.
Grab a red bell pepper. Run the tip of your knife around the stem, then make a longitudinal cut all the way around. Split the sides, pull out the seed core, clean the insides of any hanging seeds or white rib matter. Halve the sides so you have quarters. Put on an oiled baking sheed cut side down and roast in a 350 degree oven until very soft.
Peel one medium-sized eggplant and slice 1/2" thick. You'll only be using slices wide enough to fit the width of your baguette. Too wide is A-OK. Salt both sides of the eggplant slices with coarse salt, put in bowl. The salt is going to draw off a lot of moisture, you'll be surprised by the amount that accumulates.
Slice the baguette lengthwise, then, using the heel of your hand, flatten the baguette. Cut it into pieces long enough to serve as rolls for the eggplant slices.
Slice some manchego cheese into some pieces that will melt well on your eggplant patties.
Prepare the fry prep line: one plate of flour, one bowl of beaten egg, one plate of bread crumbs. Dry the eggplant with paper towls, then flour-egg-breadcrumb the lot. Reserve on an elevated rack or on paper towels.
In a nice heavy pan, heat some olive oil on medium until shimmering. Fry the eggplant until golden brown on both sides. When frying the second side, put down the manchego so it gets just a little melty, barely translucent.
Toast your flattened baguette slices.
Plating: put down two slices toasted bread. On one side, stack roasted bell pepper and some fresh basil leaves. On the other side, put an eggplant/manchego patty. Put roasted broccoli in the middle, top with softened garlic cloves.
Considerations:
>>Chevre might be better on this than manchego. If you use chevre, don't try melting it on top of the eggplant or it'll turn into a runny mess. Apply it to the eggplant at plating time.
>>I didn't measure anything here because franky I didn't have a recipe. Sorry about that. If you have extra fried eggplant slices, freeze them for later or - I love this- smother in caper butter and serve as another appetizer with lemon slices.
The said guest is now also trying to cut down on the amount of meat, period. A fresh challenge!
I just couldn't make myself do another Thai curry, so, well, my mind wandered. How about eggplant and roasted bell peppers? My wife hates grilled eggplant, so that means frying. This was starting to sound like a really good sandwich, but it needs a creamy component, which I intended to supply via melted manchego and softened creamed garlic. Baguette could serve double duty: sliced on the bias and broiled with olive oil and bruscetta for appetizer; sliced lengthwise and lightly toasted for serving with the sandwich stack ingredients. For the side dish I couldn't get my mind off the roasted broccoli I made from America's Test Kitchen:
http://www.slashfood.com/2008/12/13/americas-test-kitchens-method-for-roasted-broccoli/
I made this brocc a couple of days ago with zero expectations. It turned out to be the best single method of broccoli preparation I've seen. The vegetable does not actually need any seasoning with this method- the natural browning of the veg, with the salt and lemon, provides more than enough depth of flavor.
Anyway, eggplant sandwiches:
Put two big handfuls of whole garlic cloves in a pan with some oil or butter, put on low heat. Every time it looks like it's getting too brown, put in some white wine, stir, deglaze, let simmer again. Eventually the garlic will have the consistency of boiled potatoes and have a nutty, slightly sweet flavor. I imagined smashing them into a creamy spread but they looked so pretty that I served them as they were.
Grab a red bell pepper. Run the tip of your knife around the stem, then make a longitudinal cut all the way around. Split the sides, pull out the seed core, clean the insides of any hanging seeds or white rib matter. Halve the sides so you have quarters. Put on an oiled baking sheed cut side down and roast in a 350 degree oven until very soft.
Peel one medium-sized eggplant and slice 1/2" thick. You'll only be using slices wide enough to fit the width of your baguette. Too wide is A-OK. Salt both sides of the eggplant slices with coarse salt, put in bowl. The salt is going to draw off a lot of moisture, you'll be surprised by the amount that accumulates.
Slice the baguette lengthwise, then, using the heel of your hand, flatten the baguette. Cut it into pieces long enough to serve as rolls for the eggplant slices.
Slice some manchego cheese into some pieces that will melt well on your eggplant patties.
Prepare the fry prep line: one plate of flour, one bowl of beaten egg, one plate of bread crumbs. Dry the eggplant with paper towls, then flour-egg-breadcrumb the lot. Reserve on an elevated rack or on paper towels.
In a nice heavy pan, heat some olive oil on medium until shimmering. Fry the eggplant until golden brown on both sides. When frying the second side, put down the manchego so it gets just a little melty, barely translucent.
Toast your flattened baguette slices.
Plating: put down two slices toasted bread. On one side, stack roasted bell pepper and some fresh basil leaves. On the other side, put an eggplant/manchego patty. Put roasted broccoli in the middle, top with softened garlic cloves.
Considerations:
>>Chevre might be better on this than manchego. If you use chevre, don't try melting it on top of the eggplant or it'll turn into a runny mess. Apply it to the eggplant at plating time.
>>I didn't measure anything here because franky I didn't have a recipe. Sorry about that. If you have extra fried eggplant slices, freeze them for later or - I love this- smother in caper butter and serve as another appetizer with lemon slices.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The Fishy Fishy Taste
Sort Of Anchoiade
The recipe for today is not one that everyone will be happy with. It might make some people run to the bathroom, just reading about it. For me, though, it's a pretty magical thing.
I'm fond of strong flavors. I like subtlety, yes, and well-thought out combinations. Chilled pea soup with mint. Vichysoisse with toasted leeks. Bernaise. These are fine things and I love cooking and eating them. Speaking for myself, though, I prefer the nuclear options, and anchoiade is one of them.
Chop 1 can anchovies with 5 cloves garlic, put in tiny bowl. Add 1 tsp lemon juice, 1 teaspoon red chili flakes, and enough extra-virgin olive oil to form into a paste. Mix it up. Let sit.
Cut half a thin banguette into slices approximately .25-.5" thick. Brush both sides with olive oil, then put on foil-lined baking sheet and broil until toasted. Turn the bread slices and repeat with the other side. Keep an eye on them because toasty brown turns to char very fast under a hot broiler.
Put .5 tsp anchovy mixture on each baguette slice. Use more anchovy mixture per slice depending on the design tolerances of your guests' taste buds.
To provide some relief, alternate this with another topping like bruschetta, chevre, or pseudorissa.
The recipe for today is not one that everyone will be happy with. It might make some people run to the bathroom, just reading about it. For me, though, it's a pretty magical thing.
I'm fond of strong flavors. I like subtlety, yes, and well-thought out combinations. Chilled pea soup with mint. Vichysoisse with toasted leeks. Bernaise. These are fine things and I love cooking and eating them. Speaking for myself, though, I prefer the nuclear options, and anchoiade is one of them.
Chop 1 can anchovies with 5 cloves garlic, put in tiny bowl. Add 1 tsp lemon juice, 1 teaspoon red chili flakes, and enough extra-virgin olive oil to form into a paste. Mix it up. Let sit.
Cut half a thin banguette into slices approximately .25-.5" thick. Brush both sides with olive oil, then put on foil-lined baking sheet and broil until toasted. Turn the bread slices and repeat with the other side. Keep an eye on them because toasty brown turns to char very fast under a hot broiler.
Put .5 tsp anchovy mixture on each baguette slice. Use more anchovy mixture per slice depending on the design tolerances of your guests' taste buds.
To provide some relief, alternate this with another topping like bruschetta, chevre, or pseudorissa.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Pseudorissa
For a middle-Eastern themed dinner, with hummus, tsatsiki, smoked lamb, and baklava, I served something I called harissa which ultimately turned out to be nothing like harissa at all. Why did I call it that? The planners of the event (or someone close to them) asked for something involving roasted bell peppers, and after an internet search of "recipe red bell peppers roasted middle eastern", I got a recipe for something called red bell pepper harissa. Unfortunately for my middle eastern street cred, real harissa is made from roasted chiles and is beyond spicy. It's not something you eat by itself. I had no idea at the time how far off base I was, but though mild, my pseudorissa turned out quite good. In the words of Ian Tattersall, "Goodness, you've taken harissa and made it into something almost civilized". The pseudorissa has since become incredibly popular, and makes a regular appearance when I'm entertaining. It has the side benefit of being dirt simple.
4 red bell peppers
1 medium egggplant
1 tbls red pepper flakes
1 lemon
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
A few squirts liquid smoke
A teensy bit of paprika
Extra extra virgin olive oil for lube
1 tbls salt
I'm not going to give a big lecture on picking out product here. Just one sentence: pick out only mid-size eggplants with green stems and taut skins.
Line two baking sheets with foil and generously lube with some extra virgin olive oil.
Cut a circle around the stems of the red bell peppers, then slice in half. Knock out the seed cores and any seeds sticking to the insides. Pull out the white ribs. Place the red bell pepper halves, cut side down, on one of the lined baking sheets.
Peel and slice the eggplant into 1/2" slices. Arrange on other baking sheet. If there's too much for one baking sheet, fit them in with the red bell peppers as best as you can.
Put both sheets in a 350 degree oven until the peppers are soft and the eggplant is shrunken and somewhat caramelized. If the peppers have a lot of char on them, pull the skins off, then put the roasted flesh in the bowl of a largish food processor. The eggplant will probably stick to the foil- gently scrape the eggplant into the bowl of the food processor. Add red pepper flakes, juice of 1 lemon, salt, squirts liquid smoke, and whir until smooth.
Pour out the puree into a bowl and add 1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil. Stir until incorporated. We don't brutalize extra virgin olive oil in the food processor because the whirring sharp metal turns it bitter. Add a teensy bit of paprika if it's too orange- you'll need to do that if the red bell peppers weren't ripe enough. Chill the resulting concoction overnight. Remove, taste, and correct seasoning. It probably isn't salty enough. Salty flavors are muted when chilled.
Serve with the usual middle eastern suspects: falafel, pita, hummus, etc. It's not bad as a bruschetta topping, either.
4 red bell peppers
1 medium egggplant
1 tbls red pepper flakes
1 lemon
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
A few squirts liquid smoke
A teensy bit of paprika
Extra extra virgin olive oil for lube
1 tbls salt
I'm not going to give a big lecture on picking out product here. Just one sentence: pick out only mid-size eggplants with green stems and taut skins.
Line two baking sheets with foil and generously lube with some extra virgin olive oil.
Cut a circle around the stems of the red bell peppers, then slice in half. Knock out the seed cores and any seeds sticking to the insides. Pull out the white ribs. Place the red bell pepper halves, cut side down, on one of the lined baking sheets.
Peel and slice the eggplant into 1/2" slices. Arrange on other baking sheet. If there's too much for one baking sheet, fit them in with the red bell peppers as best as you can.
Put both sheets in a 350 degree oven until the peppers are soft and the eggplant is shrunken and somewhat caramelized. If the peppers have a lot of char on them, pull the skins off, then put the roasted flesh in the bowl of a largish food processor. The eggplant will probably stick to the foil- gently scrape the eggplant into the bowl of the food processor. Add red pepper flakes, juice of 1 lemon, salt, squirts liquid smoke, and whir until smooth.
Pour out the puree into a bowl and add 1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil. Stir until incorporated. We don't brutalize extra virgin olive oil in the food processor because the whirring sharp metal turns it bitter. Add a teensy bit of paprika if it's too orange- you'll need to do that if the red bell peppers weren't ripe enough. Chill the resulting concoction overnight. Remove, taste, and correct seasoning. It probably isn't salty enough. Salty flavors are muted when chilled.
Serve with the usual middle eastern suspects: falafel, pita, hummus, etc. It's not bad as a bruschetta topping, either.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Provisioning the Lone Male: Opa!
Continuing to provision the lone male, but this time greek style. I didn't feed myself pita, but went all out on the tsatsiki. Fats are not automatically metabolized into fat tissue when you eat them before sleeping. I remember some meathead telling me, "Carbs and protein in the morning, protein and fats in the evening". Now if only I could get ahold of some of them steroids!
Chicken Souvlaki
3 tablespoons (or more) lemon juice
1 teaspoon dried oregano
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon garlic power
1 teaspoon black pepper
1 teaspoon salt or chicken bouillon
Chicken breast
tsatsiki sauce, chopped feta, tomatoes, onions, pita
Put everything but the chicken in a zip-lock bag and smoosh it around to mix thoroughly. Put in chicken, get as much air out of the bag as you can, then smoosh around to make sure the marinade has good contact with the meat. Let sit for at least an hour, optimally overnight. Grill or broil. Preferably grill. Eat.
If you're being fancy, serve with tsatsiki sauce, chopped feta cheese, tomatoes, onions, and good pita.
Tsatsiki Sauce
Cucumber
16 oz sour cream
2-4 cloves garlic, mashed (I use a garlic press)
¼ cup olive oil
Salt and pepper (about a teaspoon each)
In a perfect universe we’d use Turkish or Greek style plain yogurt instead of sour cream. Greek yogurt is basically plain yogurt with a lot of the moisture pressed out of it, but since you’d have to drive to, I don’t know, Kazakhstan to get some, we’ll use sour cream instead, which works fine.
Chop the cucumber into a couple of chunks. In food processor, whir cuke chunks until pureed. Drain cucumber mush in fine wire sieve or strainer, or use kitchen towels. Try and get as much water out of it as you can. Put strained cuke with the rest of ingredients in big bowl and mix until smooth. You can eat it now, but it gets better after a few hours in the fridge. Actually, it just continues to get better and better in the fridge.
This stuff can be eaten with just about anything from steak to falafel. It’s also a surprisingly good dip for potato chips.
Chicken Souvlaki
3 tablespoons (or more) lemon juice
1 teaspoon dried oregano
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon garlic power
1 teaspoon black pepper
1 teaspoon salt or chicken bouillon
Chicken breast
tsatsiki sauce, chopped feta, tomatoes, onions, pita
Put everything but the chicken in a zip-lock bag and smoosh it around to mix thoroughly. Put in chicken, get as much air out of the bag as you can, then smoosh around to make sure the marinade has good contact with the meat. Let sit for at least an hour, optimally overnight. Grill or broil. Preferably grill. Eat.
If you're being fancy, serve with tsatsiki sauce, chopped feta cheese, tomatoes, onions, and good pita.
Tsatsiki Sauce
Cucumber
16 oz sour cream
2-4 cloves garlic, mashed (I use a garlic press)
¼ cup olive oil
Salt and pepper (about a teaspoon each)
In a perfect universe we’d use Turkish or Greek style plain yogurt instead of sour cream. Greek yogurt is basically plain yogurt with a lot of the moisture pressed out of it, but since you’d have to drive to, I don’t know, Kazakhstan to get some, we’ll use sour cream instead, which works fine.
Chop the cucumber into a couple of chunks. In food processor, whir cuke chunks until pureed. Drain cucumber mush in fine wire sieve or strainer, or use kitchen towels. Try and get as much water out of it as you can. Put strained cuke with the rest of ingredients in big bowl and mix until smooth. You can eat it now, but it gets better after a few hours in the fridge. Actually, it just continues to get better and better in the fridge.
This stuff can be eaten with just about anything from steak to falafel. It’s also a surprisingly good dip for potato chips.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Cheddar at Kursk
This fondue started as an attempt on my part to break up the monotony of fondue. That's Fondue Neuchatel, the traditional mixture of swiss, gruyere, and kirsch that makes up the vast majority of fondue I cook and serve to others in my never-ending battle to make everyone around me obese. Now, let's get this straight, I love the Neuchatel formula, I think it's pretty much perfect, but for this occasion- Byron's birthday- I thought I should highlight his Southern heritage and make fondue more a la Americaine. Besides, his wife Carine's French and I honestly felt a little unsure of myself cooking the traditional Swiss mixture. I decided to go with a cheddar-beer fondue. A little bit of searching and I found the right proportions for a cheddar-stout mixture. Recipe in hand, I dropped by a convenient gourmet store on my way to Byron's house- European Gourmet, actually, off Brandon Blvd.
After selecting some choice weisswurst and some really tasty little dried sausages, I moved on to the cheddar. They had a seven-year old reserve Irish cheddar, of which I grabbed a pound. The English clerk/butcher/proprietress bobbed about in a wonderful blonde blur of Englishness. I actually could smell the moment she sank her knife into the grim white block. She did wonder what the hell I was using a pound of the stuff for.
"I'm making cheddar-stout fondue, actually"
"Have you the stout?"
"Er, no. Do you have Guinness?"
She snorted a little bit, as I had just asked for a Steel Reserve. Apparently, I was in for a stern correction.
After a brief bustle across the store, she offered me a clay vessel covered in cruel-looking Cyrillic lettering. Heavy steel clamps held a rubber stopper against its unadorned neck, as if in containment of radiation or djinn. Whoever made this thing had not seen fit to put a single word of English on any part of it. This was what a bottle of beer looked like in Mordor.
"Why doncha try this one, love?"
"What the hell is it?", I asked.
"Oh, it's beer. It's very nice. Imperial Stout."
I was beginning to suffer from what is commonly called consumption overload, stunned by all the wonderful things that were going in my big box. I didn't really examine the decision to take ownership of the dire stout. Certainly it must be nice, coming from the nice English lady, I thought dazedly. As I left the premises they offered to grill me some sausages. I've selectively deleted from my memory exactly how much money I spent in there that day.
At my friend's house I started assembling the fondue. The group in the dining room could talk to me over the counter, and I could join in the conversation. I always liked those counter things between kitchen and dining room for exactly this reason. I cut some cheddar, sampled it. "Dear God in heaven," I said to no one in particular. It was overwhelming. The stuff had more cheddar flavor in it than the combined yearly output of all Cheetos plants in North America. Somewhere Chester Cheetah was tapping a vein in anticipation. I hoped that the apple juice concentrate would mute some of that, or else it would just be too much. Somewhat tentatively, I opened the stout and poured out the amount needed for the fondue. In the glass the black liquid appeared completely opaque.
"Is that Worcestershire sauce?", Steve asked.
"Er. No. It's supposedly beer," I said, looking dubious. I held it up to a powerful track light. It became no less opaque. "It's from Russia," I tried to explain. I'm no great beer fan but I decided to try a taste. Urk. There's a reason I don't like beer. I handed it off to Steve, who is a genuine aficionado.
"Malt, " he said. "Chocolate. Something berry like. Complex. Mnh. Very dark."
"Dark as Stalin's soul. Does anyone have a laser pointer?" I wanted to check just how opaque it was, or if the light beam bent in its presence, which did not seem out of the question.
"What's it called?"
"I have no earthly clue" I passed him the bottle. Steve cackled. For all we knew, that bottle of stout was unique. Perhaps it was. Perhaps we had released Stalin's soul, liquified, bottled by Kruschev, as it were, to be delivered into our cheesy pot. I put my ear to the simmering mixture to see if I could hear show trials.
The final product was a desperate land war in the middle of Asia, a trenchline five thousand miles long. "It's like the Eastern Front in my mouth", I remember saying. The stout and the cheddar were just barely at violent, genocidal stalemate, broken only by hints of flavor from the substance dipped into it. Even the spicy dried sausages submerged themselves in this epic conflict. They were even Hungarian sausages, which made the metaphor a bit eerie. We all agreed that it was delicious, but had quite enough after a half dozen bites.
I've replaced the dipping substances in this recipe with the ones I liked the best. It was originally served with dried sausage, black bread, cauliflower, and apples.
Cheddar-Stout Fondue
lots of cauliflower florets
lots of broccolli florets
1 pound very good cheddar, aged at least 3 years, shredded. A food processor's shedder attachment is fondue's best friend.
2 1/2 tablespoons all purpose flour
3/4 cup good dark stout
6 tablespoons frozen apple juice concentrate, thawed
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
1 green onion, sliced on the bias
Prepare veggies by boiling/steaming/roasting etc.
Toss shredded cheese with flour in large bowl. Heat stout, juice, and mustard until steaming. Gradually add cheese mixture, stirring constantly, until cheese is melted and the flour has thickened the mixture. Scatter green onions on surface of cheese to break up that brown color. Put pot on hot pad in the middle of the table. Dip veg in cheese and eat.
After selecting some choice weisswurst and some really tasty little dried sausages, I moved on to the cheddar. They had a seven-year old reserve Irish cheddar, of which I grabbed a pound. The English clerk/butcher/proprietress bobbed about in a wonderful blonde blur of Englishness. I actually could smell the moment she sank her knife into the grim white block. She did wonder what the hell I was using a pound of the stuff for.
"I'm making cheddar-stout fondue, actually"
"Have you the stout?"
"Er, no. Do you have Guinness?"
She snorted a little bit, as I had just asked for a Steel Reserve. Apparently, I was in for a stern correction.
After a brief bustle across the store, she offered me a clay vessel covered in cruel-looking Cyrillic lettering. Heavy steel clamps held a rubber stopper against its unadorned neck, as if in containment of radiation or djinn. Whoever made this thing had not seen fit to put a single word of English on any part of it. This was what a bottle of beer looked like in Mordor.
"Why doncha try this one, love?"
"What the hell is it?", I asked.
"Oh, it's beer. It's very nice. Imperial Stout."
I was beginning to suffer from what is commonly called consumption overload, stunned by all the wonderful things that were going in my big box. I didn't really examine the decision to take ownership of the dire stout. Certainly it must be nice, coming from the nice English lady, I thought dazedly. As I left the premises they offered to grill me some sausages. I've selectively deleted from my memory exactly how much money I spent in there that day.
At my friend's house I started assembling the fondue. The group in the dining room could talk to me over the counter, and I could join in the conversation. I always liked those counter things between kitchen and dining room for exactly this reason. I cut some cheddar, sampled it. "Dear God in heaven," I said to no one in particular. It was overwhelming. The stuff had more cheddar flavor in it than the combined yearly output of all Cheetos plants in North America. Somewhere Chester Cheetah was tapping a vein in anticipation. I hoped that the apple juice concentrate would mute some of that, or else it would just be too much. Somewhat tentatively, I opened the stout and poured out the amount needed for the fondue. In the glass the black liquid appeared completely opaque.
"Is that Worcestershire sauce?", Steve asked.
"Er. No. It's supposedly beer," I said, looking dubious. I held it up to a powerful track light. It became no less opaque. "It's from Russia," I tried to explain. I'm no great beer fan but I decided to try a taste. Urk. There's a reason I don't like beer. I handed it off to Steve, who is a genuine aficionado.
"Malt, " he said. "Chocolate. Something berry like. Complex. Mnh. Very dark."
"Dark as Stalin's soul. Does anyone have a laser pointer?" I wanted to check just how opaque it was, or if the light beam bent in its presence, which did not seem out of the question.
"What's it called?"
"I have no earthly clue" I passed him the bottle. Steve cackled. For all we knew, that bottle of stout was unique. Perhaps it was. Perhaps we had released Stalin's soul, liquified, bottled by Kruschev, as it were, to be delivered into our cheesy pot. I put my ear to the simmering mixture to see if I could hear show trials.
The final product was a desperate land war in the middle of Asia, a trenchline five thousand miles long. "It's like the Eastern Front in my mouth", I remember saying. The stout and the cheddar were just barely at violent, genocidal stalemate, broken only by hints of flavor from the substance dipped into it. Even the spicy dried sausages submerged themselves in this epic conflict. They were even Hungarian sausages, which made the metaphor a bit eerie. We all agreed that it was delicious, but had quite enough after a half dozen bites.
I've replaced the dipping substances in this recipe with the ones I liked the best. It was originally served with dried sausage, black bread, cauliflower, and apples.
Cheddar-Stout Fondue
lots of cauliflower florets
lots of broccolli florets
1 pound very good cheddar, aged at least 3 years, shredded. A food processor's shedder attachment is fondue's best friend.
2 1/2 tablespoons all purpose flour
3/4 cup good dark stout
6 tablespoons frozen apple juice concentrate, thawed
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
1 green onion, sliced on the bias
Prepare veggies by boiling/steaming/roasting etc.
Toss shredded cheese with flour in large bowl. Heat stout, juice, and mustard until steaming. Gradually add cheese mixture, stirring constantly, until cheese is melted and the flour has thickened the mixture. Scatter green onions on surface of cheese to break up that brown color. Put pot on hot pad in the middle of the table. Dip veg in cheese and eat.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Provisioning the Lone Male: Lentil Pots
The wife is out for a week and it is time to cook. It's always time to cook, though, because I have chosen the role of cook in our household, but when the wife is not around the rules of the kitchen change significantly. This is primarily because the sink can only hold so many dirty dishes. It's a common design flaw of modern kitchens. Also, cooking for myself, I don't particularly care how balanced the dish is, whether it looks nice, or if I made it already this week. All that fru-fru goes right out the window. It has to taste OK, go together without too much thought, and by-and-large go by a few simple rules:
1) Will it make me a fat bastard? More to the point, will it make me more of a fat bastard than I already am? Since I lift big metal things recreationally, I should take in approximately 1.5 grams of protein per pound of body weight per day. I'll aim for seventy grams per meal. The meal should also avoid crap carbs like potatoes and rice, and crap fats like shortening and margarine. It shouldn't have too much of either fats or carbs, no matter how high-quality, and preferably not too much of both at the same time. A lot of both at the same time is also known as a biscuit, or as I fondly call them, obesity tablets.
2) Can it be prepared and eaten using one item of cookware? Preferably a piece of cookware that is also simple to eat out of? This is to avoid covering every horizontal surface with dirty dishes that have to be maniacally cleaned in the last two hours before said wife's return. In the heat of the moment, I had once considered renting a pressure washer for this, but I know that if I did, the temptation would be too great to turn its formidable nozzle on every other soiled surface in the house: toilets, bathtub, litterbox, linens, etc. The results would take some explaining, a lot of flowers, possibly a lawyer and body armor.
3) Does it cost more than gas? I spend about five bucks a day on my commute, so that rules might not go for people that, say, bike.
Once you say "no" to all these questions, one of the perfect foods left is lentils. Fast cooking, tasty, macronutrients evenly split between protein, fiber, and carbs, there's nothing they can't do. We won't be seeing a lot of that today. Sorry to be such a tease. If you want to see saged lentil burgers on homemade brioche with chiles and chevre, you'll have to wait a bit. It's a good dish but it's not what we're after right now. For today, if you want to see cheap and easy lentil pots, you're set.
Sausage and Lentil Pot
½ package Jenny-O turkey breakfast sausage, diced.
½ cup lentils
1 onion, chopped
1 can chopped tomatoes
1 tsp sage
1 tsp cumin
1 cup broth, bouillon, or other seasoned liquid
1 tablespoon olive oil
A word about the turkey sausage. Jenny-O turkey sausage comes in tubes from Wal-mart for something like a buck fifty a pound. It’s easier to dice it while frozen. Wal-Mart has a random selection of ground turkey products that are usually pretty good, including this "italian flavor ground turkey product" that's pretty good and is a buck a pound. Strangely, the "italian flavor ground turkey product" is incredibly fiery- I mean thai hot- while the "mexican flavor ground turkey product" is fairly mild (and also tasy and, like its italian cousin, also a buck a pount, but totally unsuited to this recipe).
Brown the sausage in the olive oil until brown. Add onions, cook until translucent. Add everything else. Cover tightly, cook on low heat for an hour. Eat out of pot while reading Garth Ennis' Preacher.
Chicken and Lentil Pot
½ cup lentils
1 onion, chopped
1 chicken breast or chicken parts (approximately 14 oz)
1 tablespoon garam masala or other curry powder
1 carrot, chopped
1 cup cauliflower, chopped. Frozen is OK
2 cloves garlic, chopped
1 cup broth, bouillon, or other seasoned liquid
1 tablespoon ghee or butter
Melt ghee in pot. Brown chicken in butter. It's OK if it's frozen. You just want the flavors from the browning, and the chicken will cook through while the lentils are cooking. Add onions and carrots, cook until onions are translucent. Add everything else. Cover and cook on low heat for 1 hour. Eat out of pot over Grant Morrison's Invisibles.
1) Will it make me a fat bastard? More to the point, will it make me more of a fat bastard than I already am? Since I lift big metal things recreationally, I should take in approximately 1.5 grams of protein per pound of body weight per day. I'll aim for seventy grams per meal. The meal should also avoid crap carbs like potatoes and rice, and crap fats like shortening and margarine. It shouldn't have too much of either fats or carbs, no matter how high-quality, and preferably not too much of both at the same time. A lot of both at the same time is also known as a biscuit, or as I fondly call them, obesity tablets.
2) Can it be prepared and eaten using one item of cookware? Preferably a piece of cookware that is also simple to eat out of? This is to avoid covering every horizontal surface with dirty dishes that have to be maniacally cleaned in the last two hours before said wife's return. In the heat of the moment, I had once considered renting a pressure washer for this, but I know that if I did, the temptation would be too great to turn its formidable nozzle on every other soiled surface in the house: toilets, bathtub, litterbox, linens, etc. The results would take some explaining, a lot of flowers, possibly a lawyer and body armor.
3) Does it cost more than gas? I spend about five bucks a day on my commute, so that rules might not go for people that, say, bike.
Once you say "no" to all these questions, one of the perfect foods left is lentils. Fast cooking, tasty, macronutrients evenly split between protein, fiber, and carbs, there's nothing they can't do. We won't be seeing a lot of that today. Sorry to be such a tease. If you want to see saged lentil burgers on homemade brioche with chiles and chevre, you'll have to wait a bit. It's a good dish but it's not what we're after right now. For today, if you want to see cheap and easy lentil pots, you're set.
Sausage and Lentil Pot
½ package Jenny-O turkey breakfast sausage, diced.
½ cup lentils
1 onion, chopped
1 can chopped tomatoes
1 tsp sage
1 tsp cumin
1 cup broth, bouillon, or other seasoned liquid
1 tablespoon olive oil
A word about the turkey sausage. Jenny-O turkey sausage comes in tubes from Wal-mart for something like a buck fifty a pound. It’s easier to dice it while frozen. Wal-Mart has a random selection of ground turkey products that are usually pretty good, including this "italian flavor ground turkey product" that's pretty good and is a buck a pound. Strangely, the "italian flavor ground turkey product" is incredibly fiery- I mean thai hot- while the "mexican flavor ground turkey product" is fairly mild (and also tasy and, like its italian cousin, also a buck a pount, but totally unsuited to this recipe).
Brown the sausage in the olive oil until brown. Add onions, cook until translucent. Add everything else. Cover tightly, cook on low heat for an hour. Eat out of pot while reading Garth Ennis' Preacher.
Chicken and Lentil Pot
½ cup lentils
1 onion, chopped
1 chicken breast or chicken parts (approximately 14 oz)
1 tablespoon garam masala or other curry powder
1 carrot, chopped
1 cup cauliflower, chopped. Frozen is OK
2 cloves garlic, chopped
1 cup broth, bouillon, or other seasoned liquid
1 tablespoon ghee or butter
Melt ghee in pot. Brown chicken in butter. It's OK if it's frozen. You just want the flavors from the browning, and the chicken will cook through while the lentils are cooking. Add onions and carrots, cook until onions are translucent. Add everything else. Cover and cook on low heat for 1 hour. Eat out of pot over Grant Morrison's Invisibles.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Fashionable Beef
As is commonly pointed out, 'a la mode' means "fashionable". What is not pointed out is, fashionable where? Sometimes an archaic 'a la mode' recipe will add a place name and a date, so you get a recipe that, when translated, is something like "Chicken that was really fashionable around 1832 in Amiens, you know, just in case you were interested".
Boeuf a la mode, aka French Pot Roast, is one of these animals, but is such a ubiquity that absolutely no French chef- no matter how megalomaniacal- can lay definitive claim to this particular marriage of beef and wine. The first time some guy called this particular pot roast 'a la mode' was around 1732, but this dish probably predates that date by a little bit. Not by too much, though, as pots and stoves were pretty rare things before the late Renaissance.
I call my boeuf a la mode "pot roast", because that's what it is, although I call it by its frenchy name when discussing with relatives and especially gramma. Households can be defensive about their signature pot roast. Telling a family member you are making pot roast is analagous to approaching the main heavy in a kung-fu movie and saying his kicking style looks pretty gay. If you say you're making Fashionable Beef, it makes it sort of funny and non-competitive, which is what food should be all about, like Aikido.
The recipe is an amalgamation of pressure cooker techniques, the recipe from Cook's Illustrated, and bits I've picked up from Alton Brown's Good Eats program. As a side note, Cook's Illustrated Best of 2008 is an incredible resource of cooking knowledge. Some parts- some very, very, small parts- should be discarded by the careful chef, such as peppering meat before browning (I've learned through experience that pepper burns too much at high heat), but by and large there is a lot of good information in there.
3-4 lb bone-in chuck roast. Try and find a chuck roast called "seven bone roast", if you can. The bone in it is shaped like a seven, hence the name.
1 onion, chopped
1 stalk celery, chopped
1 carrot, chopped
4 cloves garlic, coarsely chopped
Handful each of thyme, parsley, and a stick of rosemary
3 slices bacon
1.5 cups Malbec or Shiraz
1 8 oz package mushrooms, sliced (I was very lazy and got the pre-washed, pre-sliced ones)
1 tbls vinegar of your choice (I like balsamic)
1 tbls butter
1 tbls flour
Kosher salt
Black pepper
How much do you like fat? Figure out how much you want to cut from the roast and trim away. When you're done with your trimming, sprinkle the roast on all sides with some coarse-grained kosher salt. Let the meat sit at room temperature for an hour.
Brown the bacon in the pot of the pressure cooker. I'm using the pressure cooker for this recipe, but if you have a dutch oven that will work fine too. Even a big oven proof pan will work, so long as you have a nice tight fitting lid, which you can make out of some aluminum foil. Or you can use one of those roasting bag things, which I although I haven't used, I do have a friend who is quite fond of them and uses them to good effect.
Once your bacon has rendered out most of its fat, remove it and reserve. Working in batches if necessary, brown the beef on all sides in the delicious bacon fat, about 2 minutes per side. Reserve the browned beef on a convenient plate.
Throw in the onion, celery, carrot, and garlic. Fry until the carrot is thinking about getting soft and the onions are translucent. Try not to let the garlic burn.
Dump in the wine, the reserved bacon, and herbage. Stir to remove the caramelization from the bottom of the pan. I always mean to tie the herbs in twine or kitchen cord before doing this but somehow never do. Don't fret if you don't, you can always fish out the woody bits later. But twine helps a lot, because then you can just pull out the bundle when you're done instead of picking at the sauce with a fork and cursing.
Add the reserved meat and any liquids that might have dripped out while it was sitting. Lid the vessel and set on high pressure for 45 minutes. Yes, that's a long time, but we're going for spoon tender here. If you're going with the dutch oven, lid the vessel and put in a 300 degree oven for 3 hours. Now, this temperature/time combination depends a lot on your oven and the vessel you're using. You could also simmer it on the stovetop, I suppose. When cooking is complete, pull the meat out as carefully as you can (it's going to want to come to bits), put on a platter and tent with foil. You know the meat is done when a probe can be inserted and removed from the meat with little or no resistance. Alternatively, get your finger around that little bone and see if it moves around easily inside the meat. Either way, if the answer is yes, your meat is cooked.
Time to contemplate the sauce liquid. Fish out the sorry remains of your herbage bundle. Put in the mushrooms and let it boil gently to cook the fungi and force them to release their liquid into the sauce. Taste the sauce. Ponder the sauce. Reach out with your feelings. This is a big part of the dish and it might need some tuning. In my case, I always over-salt things. I oversalted the roast when browning it, so the liquid was excessively salty, and this was even after the mushroom brigade made its entrance. Alright, no need to panic. Saltiness can be corrected with sweetness, to a certain extent. I added sugar teaspoon by teaspoon until the saltiness was negated, or at least translated into an oniony savor. The pressure cooker had taken the acid components right the hell out of the wine in the cooking liquid, so I added a tablespoon of balsamic vinegar to freshen it up a bit. Once the flavors were right, I let it continue to gently boil and concentrate its flavors while I worked on thickeners.
It's roux time. In a decent-sized saucepan (enough for the liquid), melt the butter over low-medium heat, add the flour, and fry the resulting paste until light yellow in color. Slowly ladle the liquid into the roux. The liquid should thicken almost immediately. Stir until it's got a nice, gravy-like consistency. Taste and correct seasoning, if necessary. Pour the thickened sauce over the meat on its platter. Now is also a nice time to scatter some chopped parsley on the whole kit and kaboodle. It looks nice and adds some green-y flavor.
Traditionally this dish is served with boiled egg noodles, but in our household mashed potatoes and peas are awfully popular.
Boeuf a la mode, aka French Pot Roast, is one of these animals, but is such a ubiquity that absolutely no French chef- no matter how megalomaniacal- can lay definitive claim to this particular marriage of beef and wine. The first time some guy called this particular pot roast 'a la mode' was around 1732, but this dish probably predates that date by a little bit. Not by too much, though, as pots and stoves were pretty rare things before the late Renaissance.
I call my boeuf a la mode "pot roast", because that's what it is, although I call it by its frenchy name when discussing with relatives and especially gramma. Households can be defensive about their signature pot roast. Telling a family member you are making pot roast is analagous to approaching the main heavy in a kung-fu movie and saying his kicking style looks pretty gay. If you say you're making Fashionable Beef, it makes it sort of funny and non-competitive, which is what food should be all about, like Aikido.
The recipe is an amalgamation of pressure cooker techniques, the recipe from Cook's Illustrated, and bits I've picked up from Alton Brown's Good Eats program. As a side note, Cook's Illustrated Best of 2008 is an incredible resource of cooking knowledge. Some parts- some very, very, small parts- should be discarded by the careful chef, such as peppering meat before browning (I've learned through experience that pepper burns too much at high heat), but by and large there is a lot of good information in there.
3-4 lb bone-in chuck roast. Try and find a chuck roast called "seven bone roast", if you can. The bone in it is shaped like a seven, hence the name.
1 onion, chopped
1 stalk celery, chopped
1 carrot, chopped
4 cloves garlic, coarsely chopped
Handful each of thyme, parsley, and a stick of rosemary
3 slices bacon
1.5 cups Malbec or Shiraz
1 8 oz package mushrooms, sliced (I was very lazy and got the pre-washed, pre-sliced ones)
1 tbls vinegar of your choice (I like balsamic)
1 tbls butter
1 tbls flour
Kosher salt
Black pepper
How much do you like fat? Figure out how much you want to cut from the roast and trim away. When you're done with your trimming, sprinkle the roast on all sides with some coarse-grained kosher salt. Let the meat sit at room temperature for an hour.
Brown the bacon in the pot of the pressure cooker. I'm using the pressure cooker for this recipe, but if you have a dutch oven that will work fine too. Even a big oven proof pan will work, so long as you have a nice tight fitting lid, which you can make out of some aluminum foil. Or you can use one of those roasting bag things, which I although I haven't used, I do have a friend who is quite fond of them and uses them to good effect.
Once your bacon has rendered out most of its fat, remove it and reserve. Working in batches if necessary, brown the beef on all sides in the delicious bacon fat, about 2 minutes per side. Reserve the browned beef on a convenient plate.
Throw in the onion, celery, carrot, and garlic. Fry until the carrot is thinking about getting soft and the onions are translucent. Try not to let the garlic burn.
Dump in the wine, the reserved bacon, and herbage. Stir to remove the caramelization from the bottom of the pan. I always mean to tie the herbs in twine or kitchen cord before doing this but somehow never do. Don't fret if you don't, you can always fish out the woody bits later. But twine helps a lot, because then you can just pull out the bundle when you're done instead of picking at the sauce with a fork and cursing.
Add the reserved meat and any liquids that might have dripped out while it was sitting. Lid the vessel and set on high pressure for 45 minutes. Yes, that's a long time, but we're going for spoon tender here. If you're going with the dutch oven, lid the vessel and put in a 300 degree oven for 3 hours. Now, this temperature/time combination depends a lot on your oven and the vessel you're using. You could also simmer it on the stovetop, I suppose. When cooking is complete, pull the meat out as carefully as you can (it's going to want to come to bits), put on a platter and tent with foil. You know the meat is done when a probe can be inserted and removed from the meat with little or no resistance. Alternatively, get your finger around that little bone and see if it moves around easily inside the meat. Either way, if the answer is yes, your meat is cooked.
Time to contemplate the sauce liquid. Fish out the sorry remains of your herbage bundle. Put in the mushrooms and let it boil gently to cook the fungi and force them to release their liquid into the sauce. Taste the sauce. Ponder the sauce. Reach out with your feelings. This is a big part of the dish and it might need some tuning. In my case, I always over-salt things. I oversalted the roast when browning it, so the liquid was excessively salty, and this was even after the mushroom brigade made its entrance. Alright, no need to panic. Saltiness can be corrected with sweetness, to a certain extent. I added sugar teaspoon by teaspoon until the saltiness was negated, or at least translated into an oniony savor. The pressure cooker had taken the acid components right the hell out of the wine in the cooking liquid, so I added a tablespoon of balsamic vinegar to freshen it up a bit. Once the flavors were right, I let it continue to gently boil and concentrate its flavors while I worked on thickeners.
It's roux time. In a decent-sized saucepan (enough for the liquid), melt the butter over low-medium heat, add the flour, and fry the resulting paste until light yellow in color. Slowly ladle the liquid into the roux. The liquid should thicken almost immediately. Stir until it's got a nice, gravy-like consistency. Taste and correct seasoning, if necessary. Pour the thickened sauce over the meat on its platter. Now is also a nice time to scatter some chopped parsley on the whole kit and kaboodle. It looks nice and adds some green-y flavor.
Traditionally this dish is served with boiled egg noodles, but in our household mashed potatoes and peas are awfully popular.
Love My Goat
Not too long ago, I entertained a group with a box of NY Strip steaks, a big bowl of salad, and some good baguette. We're not going to discuss grilling steaks here, because it's something much better cooks than I have addressed maybe a zillion times, and besides, a grilled NY Strip steak possibly has the highest gastronomic reward/work ratio of any food product and so should be made as often as possible. I mean, come on: apply coarse salt to both sides of a 1" strip steak, put 4" away from fire for 4-5 minutes per side, put on plate, eat. It's dirt simple but is one of the best things in the world. Compare this with something like ratatouille, which is a very good thing but is also three hours of your life spent frying vegetables. Anyway, meat. Mmm. The salad was a bit more interesting, but is so second nature that I forget it might not be second nature to other people.
It's rich enough to serve with the baguette by itself, but it also complements the steak nicely. The name for the recipe comes from a totally unrelated sweet red table wine that has a cartoon goat on the front of it, advising the shopper to "Love my goat". We're not sure why.
Goaty Love Salad
6 oz chevre (soft goat cheese)
1/4 cup balsamic vinegar
3/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
1/2 cup chopped walnuts
1 small red bell pepper, diced
1/2 yellow onion, sliced
1 teaspoon powdered chicken bouillon
1 teaspoon black pepper
A fairly large amount of prepared baby salad greens- you can get a big bin of the stuff at Sam's for five bucks or so. Maybe about 20 oz or so.
Combine the first 8 ingredients in the biggest salad bowl you have. Stir until it makes a tangy-smelling, thick brown mixture, with the chevre well-incorporated. Add the greens, and toss carefully. Mix the salad in with your hands. Those baby greens are way to delicate to go stirring with a big hard fork and spoon, and your hands can tell you more about the final texture of the dressed salad than a fork could.
You could add some bacon bits to this but it's not really necessary. If you do, though, omit the chicken bouillon, otherwise it's too salty, and I like salt.
It's rich enough to serve with the baguette by itself, but it also complements the steak nicely. The name for the recipe comes from a totally unrelated sweet red table wine that has a cartoon goat on the front of it, advising the shopper to "Love my goat". We're not sure why.
Goaty Love Salad
6 oz chevre (soft goat cheese)
1/4 cup balsamic vinegar
3/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
1/2 cup chopped walnuts
1 small red bell pepper, diced
1/2 yellow onion, sliced
1 teaspoon powdered chicken bouillon
1 teaspoon black pepper
A fairly large amount of prepared baby salad greens- you can get a big bin of the stuff at Sam's for five bucks or so. Maybe about 20 oz or so.
Combine the first 8 ingredients in the biggest salad bowl you have. Stir until it makes a tangy-smelling, thick brown mixture, with the chevre well-incorporated. Add the greens, and toss carefully. Mix the salad in with your hands. Those baby greens are way to delicate to go stirring with a big hard fork and spoon, and your hands can tell you more about the final texture of the dressed salad than a fork could.
You could add some bacon bits to this but it's not really necessary. If you do, though, omit the chicken bouillon, otherwise it's too salty, and I like salt.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Pad, Thai and Tempting
It took me a while to get my pad thai recipe down, largely because there is no such thing as a pad thai recipe. The reason why is a bit complicated, and it has to do with how the thai got into the pad.
Back in the beginning, the way I heard it, ethnic Thais did not even have noodles (aka pad), and continued to generally not have them until the late nineteenth century. That's about when a wave of ethnic Han refugees came flooding in from China, fleeing from something called the Taiping Rebellion, the biggest war you've never heard of. It's sort of off topic, but let's just say China had seventy million less mouths to feed at the end of it, some of whom were doubtless refugees bringing noodles to Thailand.
The Han Chinese have this gift of going to random foreign countries and managing to cook for local tastes while still using traditional Han ingredients. Witness General Tso's Chicken. The same thing happened in Thailand. Here's this poor Han refugee with his fistful of rice noodles, and before he opens up his first food stand – here's the part I really admire about the Han- he looks methodically around him at what all the weird jungle people around him are eating.
As far as he can tell it's mostly chili, limes, fermented fish, and whatever crustacean is clinging to the nets but is too small to sell. And some weird jungle fruit thing, and probably more chili because that seems to be the way these Thai people roll. Ingeniously and undoubtedly quite a bit imperfectly at first, our Han refugee seasons his noodles to match the local palate. It's a trial and error thing, but it's also a negotiation. The Chinese guy figures out how to deliver the classic Thai flavors, but the Thai people also get accustomed to things like rice noodles and cabbage pickle. Accustomed is the key word here. Pad Thai was not really a big thing, at least not until The Big Thing, that is, World War II.
Outside of the monasteries and hill country (where Chinese/Buddhist cultural influence predominated), noodle dishes do not get widespread reception until rice rationing in the lead up to the Japanese takeover. That preventative rationing was a pretty amazing thing in itself; the Thai have been gifted with some very cunning and slightly clairvoyant heads of state. Seeing that 1) Japan would soon be commandeering the economy, 2) rice noodles dramatically stretched out the rice needed per person per day compared to the natural product, and 3) starving your people is bad- which is not a foregone conclusion when talking about leadership during WW2- PM Phibunsongkhram pursued an aggressive and if possible pronounceable Pad Thai program. The government distributed leaflets and noodle cart starter kits, recipe books, print shops for the recipe books, workshops for grannies to make rice noodles, even subsidizing entrepreneurs willing to bring this bastard culinary child to the masses, and bring it they did. It's eaten in Thailand the same way Americans wolf down hamburgers today, and for perhaps the same reason is a hard culinary rabbit to catch. It's just not restaurant food. Still not following? Imagine a Japanese businessman walking up to you and asking for "the definitive hamburger recipe", and you've got an idea.
The version posted here is more Thai style than what I usually get in the restaurants here, much drier and fluffier, less heavy. I'm not bragging on this, because it's not always a good thing. Dinner guests expect pad thai to be a loot gooier, a lot more red, sweeter perhaps, and I'm not sure how to do that without unbalancing the flavors and breaking the dish. Since I just figured out how to make the damn thing I'm loathe to break it.
The only trick I'm still working on is getting the noodles done just right. Timing the rehydration of rice noodles is tricky, like when I was first learning how to work with phyllo. Yeah. That. Tricky. Bitch.
All things considered, Pad Thai is probably one of my favorite foods: sour, salty, spicy, fishy, with just enough sweet to not suffer third degree chili burn. This recipe makes two portions. It's important to cook only one or two portions at a time- otherwise the noodles don't get stir fried evenly and it turns to pad thai gloop. If you're feeding more people, cook no more than two portions at a time, which is not-so-coincidentally what the below recipe makes up.
¼ cup sugar
¼ cup Nam Pla (AKA Fish Sauce, which unfortunately is not vegetarian, but you can substitute light soy sauce. It changes the flavor pretty substantially, though. Be prepared for "sort of Pad Thai" on the palate. Of course, it's sort of going to taste that way anyway, because it's your pad thai and not your local thai restaurant's. So whatever.)
¼ cup Tamarind concentrate (Available from Oriental food stores, this stuff is basically ready to roll. Otherwise you have to do all kind of stuff with the blocks of tamarind stuff: soaking, straining, boiling, human sacrifice, etc.)
2 garlic cloves, chopped
1-3 tablespoons red chili flakes
8 oz rice noodles (available from your friendly neighborhood oriental market, or, hell, Wal-Mart has them now.)
8 oz tofu, cut into 1/2 " chunks
2 eggs, scrambled
2 cups bean sprouts or brocco-slaw(I like this one) or thinly sliced cabbage (I like a lot of crunch in the pad thai, and the more vegetables, the less carb-guilt)
4 green onions, chopped
6 tablespoons chopped peanuts
1 lime, cut up
Peanut oil
Mix up the first five ingredients. This is your basic pad thai sauce. Adjust flavors to your taste: fish sauce for salt, tamarind for sour/bitter, sugar for sweet, chili for fire. Keep in mind that sweet is hard to correct for later- you can always add sweet later, tableside even. Thai street vendors often have a big sugar shaker right there for you to sweeten your noodles.
Put rice stick noodles into hot tap water. Let them sit for ten minutes or until they have just become pliable. Don't let them sit until al dente or you will end up with pad thai stew. It's better for them to be too hard than for them to be too soft, because if they're too hard now you can let them sit in the wok longer later on. Once they're at the right consistency, drain and toss with oil.
Make sure everything is chopped, scrambled, sliced, soaked, and/or otherwise ready to rock. Pad thai happens fast once the food hits the wok because the wok is so damn hot. You'll be busy stirring once the food hits the pan, believe me.
Heat some oil in the wok until it's rocket hot. Put in the tofu, stir fry until it gets brown around the edges. Push the tofu up the sides of the wok, out of the way.
Add the egg in the center area you've just cleared of tofu, stir fry until the egg is good and scrambled.
Dump the noodles in the wok, followed by the sauce. Be quick with this because those eggs are going to scorch. In fact, depend on some scorching- from what I've heard, the scorch is actually an essential part of wok cooking. But not too much. Just enough. It's very Eastern. Dude.
Add more oil if you need to. Stir to mix everything up. Add bean sprouts/cabbage/vegetable crunchies. All this mass will drop the heat in the wok a bit so the noodles can soften without burning, if you took them out of the water too crunchy. Stir. If the noodles are still not quite done add some fluid or more sauce if you have it, keep stirring until the noodles get soft enough for you.
Throw in the peanuts and green onions, stir until mixed. Plate it up and serve with lime wedges. Eat.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Chupacabra Chipotle!
Chupacabra Chipotle
Chipotle Chicken Rollups
These crisp little numbers are spicy, smoky, beany and just about everything else that you could want in a quick Mexican fix. They are also rumored to cure hangovers. If they do not, they will make you happy to call in sick and lay in front of the TV watching Venture Brothers.
Ingredients:
2 chicken breasts
2 onions
4 cloves garlic
4 Chipotle chilis
1 can black beans
1 can diced tomatoes
1 tablespoon chicken bullion
Handful cilantro
4 big flour tortillas
8 oz cheddar cheese
A fair amount of olive oil
Sour cream
If you're like me and never plan anything, you probably only have frozen chicken breasts to work with. That's OK. Heat some oil in a giant skillet on medium heat and throw the frozen breasts in there. This way they can thaw enough for you to slice them, and you won't lose any chickeny flavors in the sink or in the microwave.
While the chicken negotiates with that heat, it's a good time to mince your onions and garlic.
As soon as the chicken's thawed enough to slice without a table saw, take your somewhat-thawed chicken breasts and cube them, slicing lengthwise, then crosswise, until you have approximately .75" cubes. Sprinkle them with salt. Splash a little more oil into the pan if necessary, then put the cubed chicken in the pan, toss with the oil, cooking until lightly browned.
While the chicken cubes are a-brownin', it's a good time to seed the chipotles: slice those buggers lengthwise and scrape the seeds from their soft little insides with the back side of your knife. Once seeded, chop them fine and keep them handy. They're going in that pan soon enough. Cans of "chipotles con adobo" can be found in the Mexican section of your local megamart. You'll likely have some left over from this recipe, but that's OK because they keep pretty much forever once tupperwared and refridgerated. No microorganism is quite brave enough to set foot in there; any foolishly transgressing bacterium would be found beaten and drugged in the bed of a Tijuana prostitute with its kidneys missing.
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.
Remove the browned chicken from the pan and reserve; we'll be seeing it again in a moment. Put the pan back on the fire, hit it with oil as needed, then put in the onions and garlic, frying until translucent. A little brown on the garlic is OK, it's hard to cook onion and garlic together without the garlic taking on a bit more color than the onion.
Open up your can o' black beans and your can o' tomatoes, dump in the pan with the seeded chopped chipotles and the chicken bullion. No need to drain anything, the liquids from the canned beans and the 'maters will add a lot of flavor. If you like it hot, add some of the adobo sauce the chilis came canned in. Be careful. That stuff is pretty fiery but is full of chipotle smoky goodness.
All that liquid will loosen some of the caramellization you've got going on the bottom of the pan. Stir to dissolve this yummy stuff- fancy folks call it the "fond"- into the sauce. Cook this mess on medium until the fluid is cooked down and it has the consistency of, oh, baked beans or similar. Remove from heat.
Get your big ol' food processor ready. Dump in the bean/tomato/chipotle mixture, then add your handful of cilantro, then whir until the mixture is rendered into a creamy paste. Slice up the cheese into 1/4" slices.
To assemble: get two cookie sheets. Line them with foil, because who likes cleaning things? Splash both pans with oil. Slap- not too enthusiastically, unless you want to cover yourself in oil- a tortilla in the pan, and move it around so the bottom of the tortilla is coated in oil. Lay down 1/4 of the bean mixture across the middle of the tortilla, then a 1/4 of the chicken, a 1/4 of the cheese slices, and roll up as tight as you can without tearing the tortilla shell. Put it in the second pan. Repeat until you have four roll ups ready to bake. Wash your oily tortilla hands.
Put the roll ups in the oven for, oh, something like ten minutes, depending on your oven, where the rack is, what type of oil you're using, phase of the moon, etc. It's done when the roll-ups have spots of brown on top. This indicates that the top has crisped and the bottom is at a very hearty state of crunch. The cheesy bean stuff will have melted out of the fore and aft of each burrito, but with a little deft spatula work you can scrape up the spill and smear it over the top of the burrito before plating it up. Serve with a tub of sour cream. Eat. Fall asleep.
Chipotle Chicken Rollups
These crisp little numbers are spicy, smoky, beany and just about everything else that you could want in a quick Mexican fix. They are also rumored to cure hangovers. If they do not, they will make you happy to call in sick and lay in front of the TV watching Venture Brothers.
Ingredients:
2 chicken breasts
2 onions
4 cloves garlic
4 Chipotle chilis
1 can black beans
1 can diced tomatoes
1 tablespoon chicken bullion
Handful cilantro
4 big flour tortillas
8 oz cheddar cheese
A fair amount of olive oil
Sour cream
If you're like me and never plan anything, you probably only have frozen chicken breasts to work with. That's OK. Heat some oil in a giant skillet on medium heat and throw the frozen breasts in there. This way they can thaw enough for you to slice them, and you won't lose any chickeny flavors in the sink or in the microwave.
While the chicken negotiates with that heat, it's a good time to mince your onions and garlic.
As soon as the chicken's thawed enough to slice without a table saw, take your somewhat-thawed chicken breasts and cube them, slicing lengthwise, then crosswise, until you have approximately .75" cubes. Sprinkle them with salt. Splash a little more oil into the pan if necessary, then put the cubed chicken in the pan, toss with the oil, cooking until lightly browned.
While the chicken cubes are a-brownin', it's a good time to seed the chipotles: slice those buggers lengthwise and scrape the seeds from their soft little insides with the back side of your knife. Once seeded, chop them fine and keep them handy. They're going in that pan soon enough. Cans of "chipotles con adobo" can be found in the Mexican section of your local megamart. You'll likely have some left over from this recipe, but that's OK because they keep pretty much forever once tupperwared and refridgerated. No microorganism is quite brave enough to set foot in there; any foolishly transgressing bacterium would be found beaten and drugged in the bed of a Tijuana prostitute with its kidneys missing.
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.
Remove the browned chicken from the pan and reserve; we'll be seeing it again in a moment. Put the pan back on the fire, hit it with oil as needed, then put in the onions and garlic, frying until translucent. A little brown on the garlic is OK, it's hard to cook onion and garlic together without the garlic taking on a bit more color than the onion.
Open up your can o' black beans and your can o' tomatoes, dump in the pan with the seeded chopped chipotles and the chicken bullion. No need to drain anything, the liquids from the canned beans and the 'maters will add a lot of flavor. If you like it hot, add some of the adobo sauce the chilis came canned in. Be careful. That stuff is pretty fiery but is full of chipotle smoky goodness.
All that liquid will loosen some of the caramellization you've got going on the bottom of the pan. Stir to dissolve this yummy stuff- fancy folks call it the "fond"- into the sauce. Cook this mess on medium until the fluid is cooked down and it has the consistency of, oh, baked beans or similar. Remove from heat.
Get your big ol' food processor ready. Dump in the bean/tomato/chipotle mixture, then add your handful of cilantro, then whir until the mixture is rendered into a creamy paste. Slice up the cheese into 1/4" slices.
To assemble: get two cookie sheets. Line them with foil, because who likes cleaning things? Splash both pans with oil. Slap- not too enthusiastically, unless you want to cover yourself in oil- a tortilla in the pan, and move it around so the bottom of the tortilla is coated in oil. Lay down 1/4 of the bean mixture across the middle of the tortilla, then a 1/4 of the chicken, a 1/4 of the cheese slices, and roll up as tight as you can without tearing the tortilla shell. Put it in the second pan. Repeat until you have four roll ups ready to bake. Wash your oily tortilla hands.
Put the roll ups in the oven for, oh, something like ten minutes, depending on your oven, where the rack is, what type of oil you're using, phase of the moon, etc. It's done when the roll-ups have spots of brown on top. This indicates that the top has crisped and the bottom is at a very hearty state of crunch. The cheesy bean stuff will have melted out of the fore and aft of each burrito, but with a little deft spatula work you can scrape up the spill and smear it over the top of the burrito before plating it up. Serve with a tub of sour cream. Eat. Fall asleep.
Friday, January 02, 2009
Now I sing a song of pressure
So, pressure cookers. I haven't been this excited about a kitchen gadget since I discovered the food processor. Wonderful but hellishly tedious dishes, bon femme, are now minutes rather than hours away: feijoada, ropa vieja, cassoulet, pot au feu, braised shanks, coq au vin. Food that is maybe a little longish to cook becomes lightning quick, like jambalaya, lentils, and split peas. Here's the latest from the magical land of pressure:
Chicken Jambalaya
I make chicken jambalaya because shrimp makes my feet hurt from the gout. You can add shrimp to the pot for maybe a minute before serving and you'll have shrimp jambalaya, although I am now a marked man in bayou country just for saying that, hunted down by five thousand genetically perfected clones of Justin Wilson. "YOU'LL BURN IN HELL FOR MESSIN UP MY JAMBALAYA, BOY, I GAY-RUN-TEE"
Slice up a rib of celery, a bell pepper, an onion, a carrot, and four roma tomatoes. Fry 2-4 slices of bacon and 1/2 cup good pork breakfast sausage in the pressure cooker on its "brown" setting. Remove the bacon and sausage when it starts to get some color and/or when there's enough fat rendered out to cook with. Brown a chicken thigh in the pork fat on all sides, remove to a patter, then brown another chicken thigh in the pork fat, remove to a platter. Fry the celery, pepper, onion, and carrot in the pork/chicken grease until the onion is translucent and the carrot is just beginning to get tender. Add the tomatoes, Add a teaspoon of salt. Chop up 4 cloves garlic, add to the mess frying in the cooker. Season the frying mess with 1/2 teaspoon cayenne (to taste), a teaspoon of paprika, a teaspoon of thyme, a teaspoon of oregano. Add in 1 cup white rice, 1 cup chicken stock or bouillon, stir until boiling. Place reserved chicken on top, put the lid on the pressure cooker and cook on high pressure for 8 minutes. Remove pressure and eat.
Hoppin John
I wasn't going to post this but I've just had a bowl of it and it's so dicking good, which is a complete and utter surprise since I originally set out to make this as a way of humoring my mother.
The story was that Mom wanted her new years meal of "hoppin john"- i.e., black eye peas and hog jowls-, and I didn't want her to set her kitchen on fire. So I brought my pressure cooker and went to work, this time without a recipe, which always makes me a little nervous, especially with a new piece of cookware that may explode at any time. But lo and behold this stuff was mighty tasty.
Brown two slices bacon and 1/4 cup breakfast sausage in the pressure cooker on its "brown" setting. Slice up two carrots, an onion, a bell pepper, four roma tomatoes (sound familiar yet?), and four cloves garlic. Remove the pork meats, fry four chorizos in the pork grease. If they're good chorizos, make sure you puncture them before browning unless you want expoding sausages injecting hot grease and cayenne into your eyeballs. Once they're brown, reserve the chorizos with the other meats, then fry the carrots, onion, and bell pepper in the grease. As they get soft, add the tomatoes. Dump in 1 lb black eye peas, 6 cups water, the bacon and sausage, and stir. Make a well in this mess and insert the hog jowl. Cover and cook on high pressure 45 minutes. Dump the pressure and eat. I suppose it should be served with cornbread but I say: screw that.
Mighty tasty, of course, maybe it's just that anything involving legumes, pork grease, and cayenne is mighty tasty. Oh yes. Oh my poor arteries.
Chicken Jambalaya
I make chicken jambalaya because shrimp makes my feet hurt from the gout. You can add shrimp to the pot for maybe a minute before serving and you'll have shrimp jambalaya, although I am now a marked man in bayou country just for saying that, hunted down by five thousand genetically perfected clones of Justin Wilson. "YOU'LL BURN IN HELL FOR MESSIN UP MY JAMBALAYA, BOY, I GAY-RUN-TEE"
Slice up a rib of celery, a bell pepper, an onion, a carrot, and four roma tomatoes. Fry 2-4 slices of bacon and 1/2 cup good pork breakfast sausage in the pressure cooker on its "brown" setting. Remove the bacon and sausage when it starts to get some color and/or when there's enough fat rendered out to cook with. Brown a chicken thigh in the pork fat on all sides, remove to a patter, then brown another chicken thigh in the pork fat, remove to a platter. Fry the celery, pepper, onion, and carrot in the pork/chicken grease until the onion is translucent and the carrot is just beginning to get tender. Add the tomatoes, Add a teaspoon of salt. Chop up 4 cloves garlic, add to the mess frying in the cooker. Season the frying mess with 1/2 teaspoon cayenne (to taste), a teaspoon of paprika, a teaspoon of thyme, a teaspoon of oregano. Add in 1 cup white rice, 1 cup chicken stock or bouillon, stir until boiling. Place reserved chicken on top, put the lid on the pressure cooker and cook on high pressure for 8 minutes. Remove pressure and eat.
Hoppin John
I wasn't going to post this but I've just had a bowl of it and it's so dicking good, which is a complete and utter surprise since I originally set out to make this as a way of humoring my mother.
The story was that Mom wanted her new years meal of "hoppin john"- i.e., black eye peas and hog jowls-, and I didn't want her to set her kitchen on fire. So I brought my pressure cooker and went to work, this time without a recipe, which always makes me a little nervous, especially with a new piece of cookware that may explode at any time. But lo and behold this stuff was mighty tasty.
Brown two slices bacon and 1/4 cup breakfast sausage in the pressure cooker on its "brown" setting. Slice up two carrots, an onion, a bell pepper, four roma tomatoes (sound familiar yet?), and four cloves garlic. Remove the pork meats, fry four chorizos in the pork grease. If they're good chorizos, make sure you puncture them before browning unless you want expoding sausages injecting hot grease and cayenne into your eyeballs. Once they're brown, reserve the chorizos with the other meats, then fry the carrots, onion, and bell pepper in the grease. As they get soft, add the tomatoes. Dump in 1 lb black eye peas, 6 cups water, the bacon and sausage, and stir. Make a well in this mess and insert the hog jowl. Cover and cook on high pressure 45 minutes. Dump the pressure and eat. I suppose it should be served with cornbread but I say: screw that.
Mighty tasty, of course, maybe it's just that anything involving legumes, pork grease, and cayenne is mighty tasty. Oh yes. Oh my poor arteries.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Keep Your Damn Monkeys
Stop me if you've heard this one:
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Once upon a time in a village, a man appeared and announced to the villagers that he would buy monkeys for $10 each. The villagers seeing that there were many monkeys around, went out to the forest and started catching them. The man bought thousands at $10 and, as supply started to diminish, the villagers stopped their effort. He further announced that he would now buy monkeys at $20 each. This renewed the efforts of the villagers and they started catching monkeys again.
Soon the supply diminished even further and people started going back to their farms. The offer increased to $25 each and the supply of monkeys became so scarce it was an effort to even find a monkey, let alone catch it! The man now announced that he would buy monkeys at $50 each! However, since he had to go to the city on some business, his assistant would now buy on behalf of him.
In the absence of the man, the assistant told the villagers. “Look at all these monkeys in the big cage that the man has already collected. I will sell them to you at $35 and when the man returns from the city, you can sell them to him for $50 each.” The villagers rounded up with all their savings and bought all the monkeys.
Then they never saw the man nor his assistant again, and had only a great deal of monkeys.
##########################
OK, interesting story, but it sounds fishy. Using my less-than-stellar grasp of economics, I plugged in some numbers. In period 1, let's say the villagers grab 100 monkeys, because there are a lot of monkeys and are habituated to humans. The villagers get 1000 bucks in period 1. Period 2, the monkeys are more canny, and the villagers only grab 50, but due to the constriction in supply, they still net 1000 big ones. Things start turning south in period 3, because the price increases are not keeping pace with the reduction in supply- the villagers only net 500 for 20 monkeys. So far the village has 2500 bucks, which means they need to supply 3450 of their own money to buy back 170 monkeys at 35 bucks each. That is a lot of savings, especially for this village. That's where the smell of fish was coming from.
If this village thought that it was worth dropping everything to grab monkeys at 10 dollars each, things weren't so hot to begin with. Given a weekly monkey catch, the ten dollar monkey brings 5200 income per year. To make people stop subsistence economic activity (low return but safe), I'd say you have to double their income, so they were probably making yearly somewhere around 2500 before the arrival of the monkey merchants. How in the world did they save enough to make the payment on the $35 monkeys?
There's two answers here. One is that they've been saving for years and years- decades, or even centuries. This means the monkey merchants will have to make a big circle of the world every time they do their thing, or else the villagers will simply not be able to pay for the $35 monkeys. So in this case the monkeys are sold from saved money, i.e., money from the past.
The alternative is that the villagers go into debt to buy these monkeys, or buy them with money from the future, which, given the low level of native economy in this village, is a lot of future. This can go badly in a lot of ways, but saved money can go badly in a lot of ways too, and those ways are called inflation. No need to bring that up right now.
In any case, both of these options are totally acceptable- spending from the past and spending from the future- if there were any use for the monkeys. Big capitalizations are great, and they don't happen without savings or debt. They got us to the moon, built the internet, split the atom. But a big capitalization for monkeys? The tragedy of the entire scenario could be cured if buyers and sellers both asked the question, "why am I buying monkeys?".
##########################
Once upon a time in a village, a man appeared and announced to the villagers that he would buy monkeys for $10 each. The villagers seeing that there were many monkeys around, went out to the forest and started catching them. The man bought thousands at $10 and, as supply started to diminish, the villagers stopped their effort. He further announced that he would now buy monkeys at $20 each. This renewed the efforts of the villagers and they started catching monkeys again.
Soon the supply diminished even further and people started going back to their farms. The offer increased to $25 each and the supply of monkeys became so scarce it was an effort to even find a monkey, let alone catch it! The man now announced that he would buy monkeys at $50 each! However, since he had to go to the city on some business, his assistant would now buy on behalf of him.
In the absence of the man, the assistant told the villagers. “Look at all these monkeys in the big cage that the man has already collected. I will sell them to you at $35 and when the man returns from the city, you can sell them to him for $50 each.” The villagers rounded up with all their savings and bought all the monkeys.
Then they never saw the man nor his assistant again, and had only a great deal of monkeys.
##########################
OK, interesting story, but it sounds fishy. Using my less-than-stellar grasp of economics, I plugged in some numbers. In period 1, let's say the villagers grab 100 monkeys, because there are a lot of monkeys and are habituated to humans. The villagers get 1000 bucks in period 1. Period 2, the monkeys are more canny, and the villagers only grab 50, but due to the constriction in supply, they still net 1000 big ones. Things start turning south in period 3, because the price increases are not keeping pace with the reduction in supply- the villagers only net 500 for 20 monkeys. So far the village has 2500 bucks, which means they need to supply 3450 of their own money to buy back 170 monkeys at 35 bucks each. That is a lot of savings, especially for this village. That's where the smell of fish was coming from.
If this village thought that it was worth dropping everything to grab monkeys at 10 dollars each, things weren't so hot to begin with. Given a weekly monkey catch, the ten dollar monkey brings 5200 income per year. To make people stop subsistence economic activity (low return but safe), I'd say you have to double their income, so they were probably making yearly somewhere around 2500 before the arrival of the monkey merchants. How in the world did they save enough to make the payment on the $35 monkeys?
There's two answers here. One is that they've been saving for years and years- decades, or even centuries. This means the monkey merchants will have to make a big circle of the world every time they do their thing, or else the villagers will simply not be able to pay for the $35 monkeys. So in this case the monkeys are sold from saved money, i.e., money from the past.
The alternative is that the villagers go into debt to buy these monkeys, or buy them with money from the future, which, given the low level of native economy in this village, is a lot of future. This can go badly in a lot of ways, but saved money can go badly in a lot of ways too, and those ways are called inflation. No need to bring that up right now.
In any case, both of these options are totally acceptable- spending from the past and spending from the future- if there were any use for the monkeys. Big capitalizations are great, and they don't happen without savings or debt. They got us to the moon, built the internet, split the atom. But a big capitalization for monkeys? The tragedy of the entire scenario could be cured if buyers and sellers both asked the question, "why am I buying monkeys?".
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