In Kevin Costner's movie, 'Field of Dreams,' his character of an Iowa corn farmer, Ray, is haunted by a voice telling him "If you build it, he will come."
The 'it' we come to learn is a baseball field and the 'he' turns out to be his deceased father, a former NY Yankees catcher from whom he was estranged; never having reconciled before his father's death.
The baseball field he builds to the disbelief of family and fellow farmers becomes, one night, the home field for baseball greats like Shoeless Joe Jackson, Mel Ott and eventually, a kid named Moonlight Graham. Problem is: no one sees the players but Ray.
That is until, his young daughter sees the men one night, shares her daddy's vision and puts her voice to his dreams...
Siobhan was being her usual fussy, 'I need a drink of water'-self one night at bedtime. As I tucked her in for the umpteenth time, I asked her what she'd like for breakfast the next morning. Almost five years old, she still hangs on to the last vestiges of an endearing lisp, asking,
"Dad, what are thosth white thingsth that we put butter and jam on?"
"Oh, you mean 'biscuits'?" I asked.
"YESTH, Daddy! I want bisth-kitsth in the morning-time!"
I told her that she would have a warm biscuit in the morning, but, she had to go to sleep first.
She flopped over immediately and was not to be heard from until 6:30 the next morning.
If only Life were that easy EVERY night!
The next morning, I grab some biscuit mix, add water and roll out a 1" layer of luvin.' A single egg yolk with 2 Tbs of water are mixed and brushed on the top of each biscuit before entering a 400 degree oven. We are a jam-friendly family, so, the top shelf of the fridge usually maintains 3-5 jars of assorted jams and jellies, all home made, some from our kitchen, and others from friends. I see them as snap-shots of a growing season; an instant in time that you can actually taste.
Three jars are grabbed along with the butter and placed on the table. I like the butter to soften a bit for the kids to spread.
Bodies begin to drag through the house, bookbags and lunch boxes are filled. As the biscuits are pulled from the oven, a noticable hastening in steps occurs towards the kitchen table.
"We-eh-eh-ell," I chide them, "seems there IS life at 7 o'clock in the morning!"
...my dad wasn't much of a cook, but, I vividly recall his biscuits on a Sunday morning which he rolled out on an over-floured, wooden cutting board. He would whistle, crack jokes for a captive audience and usually ended up with flour half-way up his forearms. The perfectly powdered cylinders, punched out with a drinking glass were soon to be golden gems worthy of any zealous labors. They baked in the enameled, cast iron Wedgewood of 1920s vintage with four gas burners and two for wood.
Mom's home made apricot jam was nothing short of brilliant. The skins were strained out during the processing, leaving a perfectly bound mixture of fruit, sugar and pectin that spread like buttercream frosting. It achieved divinity when melded with a slab of salted butter pooling in the center of Dad's biscuits...
Brendan is the first to pull apart his biscuit, guiding his head over the plate and inhaling the healing vapors of baked buttermilk dough.
"Ahhh...this is SO flippin' sweet," he whispers.
Our Chinese exchange student slides into his chair and finding the natural separation, splits his biscuit in two, covering it in butter and cranberry jelly. It took him a few tries, but, he learned that a knife on a warm biscuit is like using a wrecking ball to open a door. It'll get the job done, but, the collateral damage is heartbreaking. Sherds of biscuit debris do not a happy cook make.
Bonnie-Belle has assumed her seat at the table next to Qing-Shi (ching-shuh); she is bouncing in her chair, she is so excited.
"Daddy, do mine, do MINE!" she pleads.
I crack her warm biscuit open and lay it on her plate. She asks for butter, then says, 'pleeese-uh' as I slice a curl for each half. Siobhan grins at me while rubbing the butter into one half, challenging me to correct her use of fingers on food.
"Look at the thh-steam, daddy," she instructs me, "it's-th melting the butter!"
The wonder of heat transfer and other displays of physics are thankfully never lost on kids.
Bonnie proceeds to pass on any jam, insisting she just likes butter. Good wee lass.
She takes a bite, leaving crumbs on her upper lip, and sets the half back on her plate.
"How's your biscuit, babygirl?" I ask. Siobhan follows with her cheeky grin,
"Dad, thith ith Heaven!"
There we have another generation of true believers, kids able to see the beauty in a morsel of food that costs a nickel to make. With us is a Chinese kid, who will never forget sitting down with his American family, eating baked dough with sweet, cooked fruit and butter.
Here lives a girl who hasn't yet seen 'Field of Dreams', but, is building her 'Table of Memories' one simple meal at a time.
Take care, God bless and remember:
"Food, Faith, Family and Friends,
the Best Things in Life aren't Things."
chef bq.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Friday, April 13, 2012
Flirtation in Aisle 5
'Cooking with love' is not only the goal of every cook, but, the phrase refers also to the process of 'getting there.' The journey we find ourselves on is really like a love affair; we begin with an attraction, develope a familiarity which, we pray, blossoms into a romance.
But, before we get to a head-over-heels, eyes rolling back in your head, swooning affair, we need to do a little flirting.
"O.K., chef...where the HELL are you going with this?!"
Grocery shopping. Go grocery shopping.
Pop culture says the market is a great place for pick-ups, but, I'm not talking about suburban Cougars.
Nay, the sweet hook-up is with animal protein, bright vegetables and succulent fruit. Wine is for consumption, not bait, on this kind of hunt.
Walk into your local market and see what catches your eye; listen to the Siren calls, tempting you from the seafood case. Allow yourself the seductions of the produce section. Mosey on over to the meat cases.
Who will you take home tonight...?
Yeah, those sausages are perfectly lined up and plump as the fingers on a third-baseman's glove, but, I'm feelin' those chops right next to you. What's not to love about a grilled, thick-cut pork loin chop with a sprinkling of seasonings and grill marks scored into juicy flesh? Tempting yes, but, I need to see what else is available...ooh, freshly ground pork and beef! I could make a killer meatloaf with eggs, breadcrumbs and a smattering of diced remnant veggies at the bottom of my crisper section. It's kind of nice out, though, and meatloaf is more of a 'hunker-down' dish...I need to grill something...
...well, helll-oooo, Salmon! Three steps down the meat case is the seafood display with a short guy in white lab coat, bouncing around like a boxer before round one. He's hawking Spring Chinook with the skill of a carnival barker selling tickets to see the Fat Lady.
"Line caught, never frozen, RIGHT here!" he calls while arranging shaved ice with a scoop around the green plastic grass border. We make eye contact and he sees I've taken the bait. It's 'Fish-On!' for him...
"Hey, buddy, lookin' for some nice salmon tonight. Well, lemme tell ya, this was caught just off Lincoln City and couldn't be any fresher. Ya like ta grill? Well, this'll grill up real nice, all ya gotta do is..." he continues for minutes while I ponder whole fish or filet, checking eyes and gills for fresh, bright colors. No slime, it's not river fish from the reservation, that's for sure.
"...you could marinate it in teriyaki, like I like to do or just..." he went on, sensing he hadn't landed me yet.
I interrupt him and go for a four pound side with the darkest color and flesh unseparated. Sometimes during handling, the guys will bend the sides (name for an entire half of a fish cut from gills to tailfin) causing the meat to segment and split open. Not aesthetically pleasing.
"Pin bones out?" he offers.
"Nah, thanks anyway." I like to pull my own teeny pinbones out; wouldn't want a hurried salesman to blemish this gem with his version of 'Operation.'
He places her on the scale, gets a weight, wraps her tightly in freezer paper, prints out the price sticker and gently places it on the center of the filet. His manner has changed, like he just delivered a baby, there is a wave of serenity washing over him. He rubs the price sticker for an extra half-second, as if saying goodbye to an old flame.
"There you go," he softly intones, "have a nice dinner" and gently slides my filet across the stainless counter.
She's a beaut, I think to myself. The family will be very impressed with my 'date.' Dress her up for dinner with a light dusting of seasoning blend to bring out a blush and spritz her with a few sqeezes of fresh lime to give her some POP!
We head for the checkout counter, her cool flesh securely tucked under my forearm. I smile at the clerk and ask her to handle my gal gently; she's a delicate flower. We stroll towards the front and as the automatic doors slide open, I begin to croon a Nat King Cole hit:
"...arm-in-arm over meadow and farm, walking my baby back home..."
Take care, God bless and remember:
"Food, Faith, Family and Friends,
the Best Things in Life aren't Things!"
chefbq.
Pop culture says the market is a great place for pick-ups, but, I'm not talking about suburban Cougars.
Nay, the sweet hook-up is with animal protein, bright vegetables and succulent fruit. Wine is for consumption, not bait, on this kind of hunt.
Walk into your local market and see what catches your eye; listen to the Siren calls, tempting you from the seafood case. Allow yourself the seductions of the produce section. Mosey on over to the meat cases.
Who will you take home tonight...?
Yeah, those sausages are perfectly lined up and plump as the fingers on a third-baseman's glove, but, I'm feelin' those chops right next to you. What's not to love about a grilled, thick-cut pork loin chop with a sprinkling of seasonings and grill marks scored into juicy flesh? Tempting yes, but, I need to see what else is available...ooh, freshly ground pork and beef! I could make a killer meatloaf with eggs, breadcrumbs and a smattering of diced remnant veggies at the bottom of my crisper section. It's kind of nice out, though, and meatloaf is more of a 'hunker-down' dish...I need to grill something...
...well, helll-oooo, Salmon! Three steps down the meat case is the seafood display with a short guy in white lab coat, bouncing around like a boxer before round one. He's hawking Spring Chinook with the skill of a carnival barker selling tickets to see the Fat Lady.
"Line caught, never frozen, RIGHT here!" he calls while arranging shaved ice with a scoop around the green plastic grass border. We make eye contact and he sees I've taken the bait. It's 'Fish-On!' for him...
"Hey, buddy, lookin' for some nice salmon tonight. Well, lemme tell ya, this was caught just off Lincoln City and couldn't be any fresher. Ya like ta grill? Well, this'll grill up real nice, all ya gotta do is..." he continues for minutes while I ponder whole fish or filet, checking eyes and gills for fresh, bright colors. No slime, it's not river fish from the reservation, that's for sure.
"...you could marinate it in teriyaki, like I like to do or just..." he went on, sensing he hadn't landed me yet.
I interrupt him and go for a four pound side with the darkest color and flesh unseparated. Sometimes during handling, the guys will bend the sides (name for an entire half of a fish cut from gills to tailfin) causing the meat to segment and split open. Not aesthetically pleasing.
"Pin bones out?" he offers.
"Nah, thanks anyway." I like to pull my own teeny pinbones out; wouldn't want a hurried salesman to blemish this gem with his version of 'Operation.'
He places her on the scale, gets a weight, wraps her tightly in freezer paper, prints out the price sticker and gently places it on the center of the filet. His manner has changed, like he just delivered a baby, there is a wave of serenity washing over him. He rubs the price sticker for an extra half-second, as if saying goodbye to an old flame.
"There you go," he softly intones, "have a nice dinner" and gently slides my filet across the stainless counter.
She's a beaut, I think to myself. The family will be very impressed with my 'date.' Dress her up for dinner with a light dusting of seasoning blend to bring out a blush and spritz her with a few sqeezes of fresh lime to give her some POP!
We head for the checkout counter, her cool flesh securely tucked under my forearm. I smile at the clerk and ask her to handle my gal gently; she's a delicate flower. We stroll towards the front and as the automatic doors slide open, I begin to croon a Nat King Cole hit:
"...arm-in-arm over meadow and farm, walking my baby back home..."
Take care, God bless and remember:
"Food, Faith, Family and Friends,
the Best Things in Life aren't Things!"
chefbq.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Passion in the Pan; It's Always the First Time!
I love to cook.
I love being in a kitchen, any kitchen. There's a 'buzz' that comes from familiar environs. The smells, sounds and tasks all run about the same wherever you go: scents of garlic warming in a pan, rhythmic tapping of a blade on a cutting board and requests for miracles in minutes...
...love it!
I love being in a kitchen, any kitchen. There's a 'buzz' that comes from familiar environs. The smells, sounds and tasks all run about the same wherever you go: scents of garlic warming in a pan, rhythmic tapping of a blade on a cutting board and requests for miracles in minutes...
...love it!
There is a sense that something is being created; a classic dish revisited, a comforting soup simmering, or a perfectly formed loaf of bread taking shape. We may have prepared the same recipe a thousand times, but, each batch is a little different, unique.
Special.
According to a former Yankees catcher, "It's deja-vu all over again!"
According to a former Yankees catcher, "It's deja-vu all over again!"
Who can forget the piercing aroma of dough rising in a warm spot of the kitchen or the golden tan of a well-tended bake? How can anyone remain unfazed while diced onions and celery slowly simmer in a stockpot, waiting for stage-two in a stewing process?
The thrill of a new pair of pants, a crisp shirt, of cushy shoes, heck, even the smell of a new car wears off after a while, but, good cooking, now, there's something that never loses it's draw.
Have you ever walked past a pan of, oh, let's say, breakfast sausage and said,
'Ya know, that really doesn't hit me right now."? Maybe if you were sick.
"No, I'll think I'll pass on that chicken gravy made from the pan juices...it just looks kinda yucky. There's bits in it. I mean, you didn't even use a mix!" Right-Oh, genius...real gravy does have bits, those are from the scrapings of your roasting pan. The French call them 'les sucs', the 'sweet bits.' All those wonderful carbohydrates turning to simple sugars, then, getting caramelized into savory brilliance!
These are the 'One-percenters' of gravy hierarchy that transform good to excellent.
We had Thanksgiving at my work, providing a traditional turkey dinner for our senior residents and their families. As I diced up the livers, hearts and gizzard of the birds, my lead cook asked, "So, that's for the giblet gravy? You're gonna cook that and put it in the gravy?"
"Yessiree, Ritchie" I affirmed, "and once these little bits of deliciousness are saute'd, I'll blast them in the food processor to make them smaller for our peeps to enjoy. Plus, it will add a texture to our gravy, like mixing in a pate'..." My guy has been cooking for years in hospitals and isn't used to certain real cooking techniques.
"Well, this I gotta see," he huffed and walked away.
I love making gravy and have done so a thousand times. Each time is a little different, but, all are fulfillling. It's a simple preparation using antiquated methods that is still valid today.
Eventually, dinner was ready and we began to load up the buffet tables.
Ritchie had a small bowl with some of his stuffing in it, covered with the turkey giblet gravy he eyed suspiciously earlier.
"Th-th-this is a-MAZ-ing, Brian," he stammered. Ritchie stutters when he gets excited about a topic, like a really good episode of Jeopardy! or Wheel of Fortune.
"Oh, you have REALLY outdone yourself on this...the residents are going to just LOVE it!" he continued, "Is this something you just made up or is this from a family recipe? I just gotta know how you did this!"
We reviewed the process of using a stock made from turkey bones, scrapings of the roasting pans, saute'ing onions, celery and turkey giblets, blasting big pieces into bits using a food processor and thickening our sauce with a roux; a paste of wet-sand texture made of melted butter and flour.
"That's all? Just those things and it tastes THIS good?!" he asked, "Yeah, but, that's gonna take a lot of time; there's labor involved. Can't we just open a can?"
"Then, you're not gonna have THIS!" I chided, reaching for his bowl of stuffing and gravy.
"Nuh-nuh-nuh," he said, putting up an arm to shield my attack,
"I'll make the stuffing and let YOU make the gravy. I'm good at this and you're good at that!"
Deal.
Good things from the kitchen don't have to be overly-wrought or have a laundry list of ingredients. Sometimes it's just five things that are needed, sometimes even less. Often, the '1%' of greatness is right in front of us, we just need to recognize it and embrace it.
Keep the Passion in your pans!
Take care, God bless and remember:
"Food, Faith, Family and Friends,
the Best Things in Life Aren't Things!"
Chef bq.
These are the 'One-percenters' of gravy hierarchy that transform good to excellent.
We had Thanksgiving at my work, providing a traditional turkey dinner for our senior residents and their families. As I diced up the livers, hearts and gizzard of the birds, my lead cook asked, "So, that's for the giblet gravy? You're gonna cook that and put it in the gravy?"
"Yessiree, Ritchie" I affirmed, "and once these little bits of deliciousness are saute'd, I'll blast them in the food processor to make them smaller for our peeps to enjoy. Plus, it will add a texture to our gravy, like mixing in a pate'..." My guy has been cooking for years in hospitals and isn't used to certain real cooking techniques.
"Well, this I gotta see," he huffed and walked away.
I love making gravy and have done so a thousand times. Each time is a little different, but, all are fulfillling. It's a simple preparation using antiquated methods that is still valid today.
Eventually, dinner was ready and we began to load up the buffet tables.
Ritchie had a small bowl with some of his stuffing in it, covered with the turkey giblet gravy he eyed suspiciously earlier.
"Th-th-this is a-MAZ-ing, Brian," he stammered. Ritchie stutters when he gets excited about a topic, like a really good episode of Jeopardy! or Wheel of Fortune.
"Oh, you have REALLY outdone yourself on this...the residents are going to just LOVE it!" he continued, "Is this something you just made up or is this from a family recipe? I just gotta know how you did this!"
We reviewed the process of using a stock made from turkey bones, scrapings of the roasting pans, saute'ing onions, celery and turkey giblets, blasting big pieces into bits using a food processor and thickening our sauce with a roux; a paste of wet-sand texture made of melted butter and flour.
"That's all? Just those things and it tastes THIS good?!" he asked, "Yeah, but, that's gonna take a lot of time; there's labor involved. Can't we just open a can?"
"Then, you're not gonna have THIS!" I chided, reaching for his bowl of stuffing and gravy.
"Nuh-nuh-nuh," he said, putting up an arm to shield my attack,
"I'll make the stuffing and let YOU make the gravy. I'm good at this and you're good at that!"
Deal.
Good things from the kitchen don't have to be overly-wrought or have a laundry list of ingredients. Sometimes it's just five things that are needed, sometimes even less. Often, the '1%' of greatness is right in front of us, we just need to recognize it and embrace it.
Keep the Passion in your pans!
Take care, God bless and remember:
"Food, Faith, Family and Friends,
the Best Things in Life Aren't Things!"
Chef bq.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Outdoor Cooking Ain't Always 'Bout the Q!
I love my Weber grill and am passionate about my smoker. Cooking on the deck, at the park or in a school parking lot usually finds me in front of a fire with licking flames or belching sweet, aromatic smoke.
My head has been turned to a new love, however, and the stable of cooking apparatus has just increased by one. Sounds a little weird coming from me, but, just hear me out on this one...
BBQ has a little competition.
We took a trip up to Seattle over spring break and landed in Pike's Market one afternoon. After the requisite viewing of salmon throwing, sitting on the bronze pig and eating mounds of Dunginess Crab Cocktails out of 3 oz. plastic portion cups, we headed to The Final Stop. Mom wanted to go the Spanish Table, some mediterranean version of Sur La Table with olive oil and smoked paprika.
"Big deal," I said, "we can get that crap in Portland. It's not that hard to find anymore. Come on, let's beat the traffic down I-5..." Lisa would have none of it.
"No, we're ALL going to walk down and you boys can stand outside and smoke your cigars. Siobhan and I will do some shopping, " she informed us with the pleasant smile of a veteran tour guide. This wasn't her first rodeo; she knew how to handle a disinterested group.
"Aren't there any cute girls over there at that "Free Egypt" rally?" Pat and Liam made note and began to scour the crowd, comparing and contrasting Seattle protesters with the Portland variety.
Mission Accomplished Mom.
We stepped into the store and sure enough, there was the wall of olive oil, Barefoot Contessa books, Giada de Laurentis books (that girl should be selling a tooth whitener or something!), and ceramic jars with wooden spoons made by some kinda Earth-friendly, sustainable, third world co-op. It was even staffed by an anemic looking guy with glasses that could be pleading for donations every three months on PBS. You know the type, probably drives a Prius with bike and kayak rack. Anyway...
Lisa was off to a corner in the front of the building and called me over to look at Paella pans.
"Neat, what are we going to do with that?" I said, looking at my imaginary wrist watch. "They're too thin and we would need to build a fire for that thing. It'd be Hell to control..."
"No, honey, they have burners right over there, " she pointed out.
Then, what to my wandering eyes should appear...? A double ring, concentric burner; it was enameled with a tri-pod stand and air adjustment system that ran on Propane! A huge pan could rest and cook comfortably on this stunning piece of simple engineering (insert angelic heralding here). It was like a wok burner, only flat. And it was brilliant!
The demure owner crept up and asked if we needed assistance. Questions were asked and answered; Lisa and I smiled and nodded our heads as he spoke. Our minds were already preparing summer dishes and we fancied ourselves entertaining guests with our newest piece of outdoor gadgetry.
"Um, the guys want to know when we're leaving," Brendan interjected, "Hey are you gonna buy that pan?" "Way-way-wait a minute," he said, waving his hands like we were making a bad approach for a carrier landing, "That's $200 for a pan and burner! Do you want that or do we really need that?"
The heretofore tepid salesman turned his head to our 7th grade lifestyle coach and said,
"Take a walk, kid!"
We bought it and spent most of the drive home creating dishes and scenarios for using it for any meal or occasion. I even passed up the suggested stop at Cabela's to look at guns. Yeah, that's an impact piece.
The following weekend, we called some willing culinary Guinea pigs to join us for the inaugural cookout.
After turning three or four screws on the stand for assembly and hooking up the propane, the burner was ready for primary ignition.
As the pan began to heat up, oil was added to lightly coat the bottom. An array of pre-seasoned meat and fish lay before me like a palette before a canvas. There was a perfect sequence to obtain, as with any dish, to achieve optimal flavor and texture. This would be determined and followed, allowing for careful observation and minor tweaking.
First the chicken was browned in the oil; the skin crisping nicely. Then the sausage was added; we used a Portugese style linguisa. Once sufficiently browned, we dumped in the chopped onions, celery and sweet pepps. Now, it was beginning to take shape! When the onions were cooked to a transparent color, we added one quart of arborio rice. Any decent rice could be substituted; just steer clear of any generic, par-boiled product. It would be a crime in most countries to use an inferior (see Uncle Ben's) rice. I'm just sayin'...
The whole shootin' match was stirred with a metal spatula to evenly distribute the ingredients. Two quarts of liquid were poured into the pan and stirred once again. Water is fine, but, a chicken stock is better...like a Chevy vs. a Cadillac. Go Caddy on this baby. Smoked paprika and the defining herb, saffron, were added last as the pan was brought to a boil. Heat was reduced at this time to a slow simmer.
I know arborio rice is done when I dig just under the surface and taste a grain or two. Each kernal will double in size and go from flat white in color to an opaque hue of yellow with the bleeding of the saffron. Just before the rice is done, arrange your seafood on top, it will cook gently and not get hard like some fish flavored cracker.
And the aroma? Aye Dios mio!
Throughout the cooking process, family and guests came by to check on the proceedings.
"Now, what's that?"
"How do you know when it's done?"
"What's that amazing smell?!"
"Dude, I mean, Dad, this smells flippin' awesome!" (Liam).
And finally the flavor.
As we scooped up each persons portion, we finished with a little garnish of fresh herb; in this case chopped basil and thyme from our garden.
It was a spiritual experience.
The yellow, saffron-scented rice, browns and reds of chicken and sausage, pink and juicy shrimp, green peppers and a chiffonade of basil combined to produce a masterpiece.
Lisa and I just sat there and looked at it.
Could a dish taste as good as it looks, we wondered?
One bite told us:
Absolutely!
Our thanks to the Iberians for sharing this brilliant, outdoor, communal dish.
We will use our new Paella pan and burner throughout the summer.
Now, the Gypsy Kings?
You can have them back...
Take care, God bless and remember:
"Food, Faith, Family and Friends,
the Best Things in Life Aren't Things!"
Chef bq.
My head has been turned to a new love, however, and the stable of cooking apparatus has just increased by one. Sounds a little weird coming from me, but, just hear me out on this one...
BBQ has a little competition.
We took a trip up to Seattle over spring break and landed in Pike's Market one afternoon. After the requisite viewing of salmon throwing, sitting on the bronze pig and eating mounds of Dunginess Crab Cocktails out of 3 oz. plastic portion cups, we headed to The Final Stop. Mom wanted to go the Spanish Table, some mediterranean version of Sur La Table with olive oil and smoked paprika.
"Big deal," I said, "we can get that crap in Portland. It's not that hard to find anymore. Come on, let's beat the traffic down I-5..." Lisa would have none of it.
"No, we're ALL going to walk down and you boys can stand outside and smoke your cigars. Siobhan and I will do some shopping, " she informed us with the pleasant smile of a veteran tour guide. This wasn't her first rodeo; she knew how to handle a disinterested group.
"Aren't there any cute girls over there at that "Free Egypt" rally?" Pat and Liam made note and began to scour the crowd, comparing and contrasting Seattle protesters with the Portland variety.
Mission Accomplished Mom.
We stepped into the store and sure enough, there was the wall of olive oil, Barefoot Contessa books, Giada de Laurentis books (that girl should be selling a tooth whitener or something!), and ceramic jars with wooden spoons made by some kinda Earth-friendly, sustainable, third world co-op. It was even staffed by an anemic looking guy with glasses that could be pleading for donations every three months on PBS. You know the type, probably drives a Prius with bike and kayak rack. Anyway...
Lisa was off to a corner in the front of the building and called me over to look at Paella pans.
"Neat, what are we going to do with that?" I said, looking at my imaginary wrist watch. "They're too thin and we would need to build a fire for that thing. It'd be Hell to control..."
"No, honey, they have burners right over there, " she pointed out.
Then, what to my wandering eyes should appear...? A double ring, concentric burner; it was enameled with a tri-pod stand and air adjustment system that ran on Propane! A huge pan could rest and cook comfortably on this stunning piece of simple engineering (insert angelic heralding here). It was like a wok burner, only flat. And it was brilliant!
The demure owner crept up and asked if we needed assistance. Questions were asked and answered; Lisa and I smiled and nodded our heads as he spoke. Our minds were already preparing summer dishes and we fancied ourselves entertaining guests with our newest piece of outdoor gadgetry.
"Um, the guys want to know when we're leaving," Brendan interjected, "Hey are you gonna buy that pan?" "Way-way-wait a minute," he said, waving his hands like we were making a bad approach for a carrier landing, "That's $200 for a pan and burner! Do you want that or do we really need that?"
The heretofore tepid salesman turned his head to our 7th grade lifestyle coach and said,
"Take a walk, kid!"
We bought it and spent most of the drive home creating dishes and scenarios for using it for any meal or occasion. I even passed up the suggested stop at Cabela's to look at guns. Yeah, that's an impact piece.
The following weekend, we called some willing culinary Guinea pigs to join us for the inaugural cookout.
After turning three or four screws on the stand for assembly and hooking up the propane, the burner was ready for primary ignition.
As the pan began to heat up, oil was added to lightly coat the bottom. An array of pre-seasoned meat and fish lay before me like a palette before a canvas. There was a perfect sequence to obtain, as with any dish, to achieve optimal flavor and texture. This would be determined and followed, allowing for careful observation and minor tweaking.
First the chicken was browned in the oil; the skin crisping nicely. Then the sausage was added; we used a Portugese style linguisa. Once sufficiently browned, we dumped in the chopped onions, celery and sweet pepps. Now, it was beginning to take shape! When the onions were cooked to a transparent color, we added one quart of arborio rice. Any decent rice could be substituted; just steer clear of any generic, par-boiled product. It would be a crime in most countries to use an inferior (see Uncle Ben's) rice. I'm just sayin'...
The whole shootin' match was stirred with a metal spatula to evenly distribute the ingredients. Two quarts of liquid were poured into the pan and stirred once again. Water is fine, but, a chicken stock is better...like a Chevy vs. a Cadillac. Go Caddy on this baby. Smoked paprika and the defining herb, saffron, were added last as the pan was brought to a boil. Heat was reduced at this time to a slow simmer.
I know arborio rice is done when I dig just under the surface and taste a grain or two. Each kernal will double in size and go from flat white in color to an opaque hue of yellow with the bleeding of the saffron. Just before the rice is done, arrange your seafood on top, it will cook gently and not get hard like some fish flavored cracker.
And the aroma? Aye Dios mio!
Throughout the cooking process, family and guests came by to check on the proceedings.
"Now, what's that?"
"How do you know when it's done?"
"What's that amazing smell?!"
"Dude, I mean, Dad, this smells flippin' awesome!" (Liam).
And finally the flavor.
As we scooped up each persons portion, we finished with a little garnish of fresh herb; in this case chopped basil and thyme from our garden.
It was a spiritual experience.
The yellow, saffron-scented rice, browns and reds of chicken and sausage, pink and juicy shrimp, green peppers and a chiffonade of basil combined to produce a masterpiece.
Lisa and I just sat there and looked at it.
Could a dish taste as good as it looks, we wondered?
One bite told us:
Absolutely!
Our thanks to the Iberians for sharing this brilliant, outdoor, communal dish.
We will use our new Paella pan and burner throughout the summer.
Now, the Gypsy Kings?
You can have them back...
Take care, God bless and remember:
"Food, Faith, Family and Friends,
the Best Things in Life Aren't Things!"
Chef bq.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Soda Bread and Cod Liver Oil
"God save us and protect us!" was a favorite phrase of my dear Irish grandmother. She had alot of things that have become touch stones for my siblings and I. One was her soda bread.
My first thoughts of soda bread find me at her chrome trimmed, Formica kitchen table on Prospect St. in Watsonville, CA, my hometown. Her Bakelite radio was tuned into KOMY-1240 where she could get local news, farm reports and weather. On-Air talent, Vic Rue, would sometimes read articlles from area newspapers or tell stories that made my grandmother snicker through her nose.
Grandma was old school, even in the 60s. She was born on a farm in Ardboe, County Tyrone, Northern Ireland in '18 and 90' as she would say. Her family lived in a one-room, thatched roofed cottage and worked as sharecroppers or tenant farmers on the larger property owned by non-Catholics. Cars hadn't been invented yet, nor had man learned to fly. Queen Victoria ruled over all of Ireland which would not see independence for another 30 years!
Although she emigrated to America at 16 years of age, she never lost her brogue nor the great pride of her Gaelic heritage.
Most weekends she would call down to our house and ask for a boy to help her with a few things. I loved spending time with her, so, would often volunteer.
After digging a few 'preities' and pulling some weeds, she'd call me in for a break. Her stories of the 'olden days' would captivate me as I sat there having a slice of soda bread with butter and a glass of milk.
I would be at a loss to think of a more genuine soul than this simple farm girl who shuffled about her kitchen in clothing that reflected the styling of 'Aunt Bea' from the Andy Griffith show. She had the clompy, black lace-up, thick healed shoes, leg wraps and support hose that made her legs look like those of a Dough Boy from WWI.
Nobody's grandma was like her.
She would retrieve her dishes from a sideboard and china cabinet. Each glass was there and stacks of differing plates neatly filled the lower shelf. She moved deliberately with each piece of dining ware and set them in front of you. A slight ridge in the center of the floor betrayed a faint sqeal as she walked over it.
This could take minutes; there was no wisking about closing doors with the bump of a hip or giving the knee to a drawer. No, each cabinet door creaked and every drawer screeched as she slowly opened and closed them. A cuckoo clock made the only other noise in the house, keeping a soft, yet, noticeable beat.
She was the real deal, the genuine article, broke-the-mold material.
"Darlin', woudjuz like a some marmelade on your bread?" she'd ask as you took a first bite of her carraway and current studded loaf. She kept her bread on a cake stand with a thin dish towel over it to keep from going stale too soon. I got up to get the marmelade from the fridge and there it was on the door with it's label secured by an 'elastic' as Grandma called it. We call them rubber bands.
It was her brown medicine bottle of 'Cod Liver Oil.' I grabbed the marmelade and quickly closed the door before she got a notion to do some 'healin'.
"Darlin', bring me the Cod Liver Oil and let's have a spoonful!" she enthusiastically called to me.
She would say it with certainty, like it was being dispensed to a farm animal and it was de-worming season.
Before you could say 'Art Linkletter', she deployed this spoon that must have come from the Army. She loaded up a dose, tilted your head and pinched your nose as she administered what was to become decades later, beneficial Omega-3, fatty acids.
It was disgusting.
The spoon rattled every tooth in my head as I instinctively bit down while she quickly drew it out of my mouth. Sometimes, I'd cry, especially if I fought it and blew some back into my sinuses.
Not fun; like somebody made you snort anchovies for some God-awful reason.
Anyhoo, the soda bread became even more tantalizing as a cleanser of the olfactory after the assault leveled by a loved one. When it was warmed, the butter would melt and fill the air pockets in the loaf. Marmelade had that sweet/acidity thing going on that I have come to treasure. I quickly forgave her country doctoring and focused on the reward of her homebaked treat. Her smiling eyes through thick glasses, her gentle and easy laugh, her simply expressed hospitality are as vivid today as 40 years ago.
There we would sit, this old lady from Ireland and her weed-pulling, potato digging grandson, sharing some soda bread with a whack of butter and chasing it with a glass of milk and a 'cuppa tay.'
Her soda bread lives on today; I'd just as soon keep the Cod Liver Oil as a memory.
Granny Quinn's Soda Bread (as dictated by her daughter, Sr. Anne Christine)
3C flour
1/2C Sugar
2t baking powder
1t baking soda
1t salt
1 1/2C raisins
2 eggs
2C buttermilk
2T oil
2T carraway seed
Method:
Sift dry ingredients and add raisins.
Combine eggs, buttermilk, oil and carraway. Add to dry and mix on low speed till a pancake batter consistency has been reached.
Pour into loaf pan (paper lined or sprayed/floured) and bake at 350 for approximately 1 hour (or until center of loaf springs back when gently touched).
Cool for 10 minutes and remove gently. If you use paper, like me, it lifts out without any hassle.
Serve warm with a generous knob of salted butter!
(**Note: I use about half the raisins and carraway seeds, but, suit your own taste.)
This loaf is super easy, everyone loves it and it maintains those cultural ties to Ireland on St. Paddy's day.
Take care, God bless and remember:
"Food, Faith, Family and Friends,
the Best Things in Life Aren't Things!"
Chefbq.
My first thoughts of soda bread find me at her chrome trimmed, Formica kitchen table on Prospect St. in Watsonville, CA, my hometown. Her Bakelite radio was tuned into KOMY-1240 where she could get local news, farm reports and weather. On-Air talent, Vic Rue, would sometimes read articlles from area newspapers or tell stories that made my grandmother snicker through her nose.
Grandma was old school, even in the 60s. She was born on a farm in Ardboe, County Tyrone, Northern Ireland in '18 and 90' as she would say. Her family lived in a one-room, thatched roofed cottage and worked as sharecroppers or tenant farmers on the larger property owned by non-Catholics. Cars hadn't been invented yet, nor had man learned to fly. Queen Victoria ruled over all of Ireland which would not see independence for another 30 years!
Although she emigrated to America at 16 years of age, she never lost her brogue nor the great pride of her Gaelic heritage.
Most weekends she would call down to our house and ask for a boy to help her with a few things. I loved spending time with her, so, would often volunteer.
After digging a few 'preities' and pulling some weeds, she'd call me in for a break. Her stories of the 'olden days' would captivate me as I sat there having a slice of soda bread with butter and a glass of milk.
I would be at a loss to think of a more genuine soul than this simple farm girl who shuffled about her kitchen in clothing that reflected the styling of 'Aunt Bea' from the Andy Griffith show. She had the clompy, black lace-up, thick healed shoes, leg wraps and support hose that made her legs look like those of a Dough Boy from WWI.
Nobody's grandma was like her.
She would retrieve her dishes from a sideboard and china cabinet. Each glass was there and stacks of differing plates neatly filled the lower shelf. She moved deliberately with each piece of dining ware and set them in front of you. A slight ridge in the center of the floor betrayed a faint sqeal as she walked over it.
This could take minutes; there was no wisking about closing doors with the bump of a hip or giving the knee to a drawer. No, each cabinet door creaked and every drawer screeched as she slowly opened and closed them. A cuckoo clock made the only other noise in the house, keeping a soft, yet, noticeable beat.
She was the real deal, the genuine article, broke-the-mold material.
"Darlin', woudjuz like a some marmelade on your bread?" she'd ask as you took a first bite of her carraway and current studded loaf. She kept her bread on a cake stand with a thin dish towel over it to keep from going stale too soon. I got up to get the marmelade from the fridge and there it was on the door with it's label secured by an 'elastic' as Grandma called it. We call them rubber bands.
It was her brown medicine bottle of 'Cod Liver Oil.' I grabbed the marmelade and quickly closed the door before she got a notion to do some 'healin'.
"Darlin', bring me the Cod Liver Oil and let's have a spoonful!" she enthusiastically called to me.
She would say it with certainty, like it was being dispensed to a farm animal and it was de-worming season.
Before you could say 'Art Linkletter', she deployed this spoon that must have come from the Army. She loaded up a dose, tilted your head and pinched your nose as she administered what was to become decades later, beneficial Omega-3, fatty acids.
It was disgusting.
The spoon rattled every tooth in my head as I instinctively bit down while she quickly drew it out of my mouth. Sometimes, I'd cry, especially if I fought it and blew some back into my sinuses.
Not fun; like somebody made you snort anchovies for some God-awful reason.
Anyhoo, the soda bread became even more tantalizing as a cleanser of the olfactory after the assault leveled by a loved one. When it was warmed, the butter would melt and fill the air pockets in the loaf. Marmelade had that sweet/acidity thing going on that I have come to treasure. I quickly forgave her country doctoring and focused on the reward of her homebaked treat. Her smiling eyes through thick glasses, her gentle and easy laugh, her simply expressed hospitality are as vivid today as 40 years ago.
There we would sit, this old lady from Ireland and her weed-pulling, potato digging grandson, sharing some soda bread with a whack of butter and chasing it with a glass of milk and a 'cuppa tay.'
Her soda bread lives on today; I'd just as soon keep the Cod Liver Oil as a memory.
Granny Quinn's Soda Bread (as dictated by her daughter, Sr. Anne Christine)
3C flour
1/2C Sugar
2t baking powder
1t baking soda
1t salt
1 1/2C raisins
2 eggs
2C buttermilk
2T oil
2T carraway seed
Method:
Sift dry ingredients and add raisins.
Combine eggs, buttermilk, oil and carraway. Add to dry and mix on low speed till a pancake batter consistency has been reached.
Pour into loaf pan (paper lined or sprayed/floured) and bake at 350 for approximately 1 hour (or until center of loaf springs back when gently touched).
Cool for 10 minutes and remove gently. If you use paper, like me, it lifts out without any hassle.
Serve warm with a generous knob of salted butter!
(**Note: I use about half the raisins and carraway seeds, but, suit your own taste.)
This loaf is super easy, everyone loves it and it maintains those cultural ties to Ireland on St. Paddy's day.
Take care, God bless and remember:
"Food, Faith, Family and Friends,
the Best Things in Life Aren't Things!"
Chefbq.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Thanksgiving? Stick to Yer Guns!
'Don't Mess with Texas!' read the successful bumper sticker campaign to clean up litter in the Lone Star state.
Same goes for traditions around the Holidays. Ya start messing with things around the Holidays and someone's gonna get Western on ya; a little bit of justice meted out by an angry mob.
So, when Lisa had a conversation earlier this week with her kitchen staff and one mentioned her reluctance to attend a family get-together, all had their guesses as to why.
'Are they bad cooks?'
'Still having issues with his mom?'
'Do they have a dog that buries his muzzle where it doesn't belong, 'cuz I HATE that!?'
'No, my sister-in-law decided she was going to put cumin in the mashed potatoes, fer gosh sakes!'
'Huh?!'
'What the...?!'
'Get OUT!'
"Yeah, she decided she wanted to do something a little different and she's been on this 'I-just-discovered-a-new-spice' kick. There's cumin everywhere!"
Well, discovery is good, the mom's agreed, but, you just can't change something for the sake of change. Sure, the girls like their hair style and color to fluctuate, and that new diet plan of eating only green leafy veggies on 'T-days', but, certain portions of our lives are not going to evolve.
They are set in stone. They are Holiday traditions.
Like Mom's grape Jello salad ring with grapes and walnuts. Mayonnaise anyone?
Or pie with a crust on top, or green bean casserole.
Could you imagine green bean casserole made without Durkee's French Fried Onions from the can?! Yeaaaa-NOT!
Tonight's Chocolate Mousse has been replaced by Carob flavored Yogurt.
Yay! None of the fat and zero grams of Fun!
Yuck.
And none of the memories, too. Food, family, and creating memories are what the Holidays bring out in us. Traditions make us slow down and think about the past. Funny, even marginal cooking can be stomached when wrapped in a tradition. Why do you think Fruit Cake has survived all these years?!
In this era of instant information, be a gatekeeper to slow stories and simmered sauces. Make your family sit together to talk, laugh and reminisce. Tell a part of family history that no one has heard before. Hold dessert till all have finished eating and the plates have been cleared, scraped, rinsed and stacked by the kids. THEN, they can have dessert.
Oh, and don't let someone's girlfriend bring a vegetable dish; no one will like it and her stock with the family will go south. It'll probably have cumin in it...
Easy Pan Gravy
- take a stick of butter, melt it in a 4 qt. saucepot then add 1 cup of flour to make a paste; set aside.
- Remove turkey from roasting pan and set on cutting board.
- Take roasting pan with all bits and juices, and add 2 cups water.
- Scrape the pan with a metal spatula or slotted spoon to get every bit of baked on brown stuff off. Place into saucepot with butter/flour paste.
- Add one cup of cold milk to saucepot and place on medium heat, stirring occasionally to maintain a silky consistency. Bring to a boil for two minutes to cook the flour and reduce to a simmer till service.
- Adjust salt and pepper to taste. Whisk in a lump of butter if you like ( a BIG lump!). Add milk if too thick.
Have a blessed Thanksgiving and remember:
"Food, Faith, Family and Friends.
The Best Things in Life Aren't Things!"
Chef bq.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Lazy Susan, Smart Cook
Do you have one of those friends that you say to yourself,
"Ya know, we need to get together more often!"?
Something always seems to come up, especially when children are involved, which precludes planned events.
Our friend, Dana, aka DB, called recently and said,
"You guys need to come out and have a glass of wine."
It had been a while since Lisa and I saw 'Date Night' on our last date night, so, we leapt at the opportunity to be with other adults.
We drove south to the Charbonneau area of Wilsonville. I love the drive because when I cross the Willamette river there at the Boone Bridge, I feel I'm officially in 'the country.' Hand-painted signs for produce, cider and Freedom dot barbed-wire fences while my eyes always strain for the open door of a barn, providing a peek at an old pickup that needs me.
A series of right-angle turns puts us out on a gravel road with a wheatfield on one side and a filbert orchard on the other. Just past the pastured llamas, we arrive at Dana's house tucked between several Doug Firs. DB meets us before we hit the door with hugs and smootches all around.
Her slobbering dog, Dave Berry, greets us with, well, slobber.
"Come in, come in...it's sooo great to have you guys out here!" Dana always makes you feel like you're the only person on the planet, she is so warm and gracious.
"Let's get some wine opened... or would you like something else?" She gets us set on bevvies as we start talking about kids. Hers are off on adventures and so are ours. Reminds me of the fashion bumper stickers of years ago, but, ours would say..."Boston-Vietnam-Corvallis."
"I hope you guys are OK with kind of a light, grazing dinner," our hostess pleaded, "It's just so hot out, I thought we'd just keep it light."
Perfect idea.
We sat at the the kitchen table and took the Lazy Susan for a spin. It was all there: Fruit, Veggies, Cheeses, Cured Meat, killer Bread and Balsamic/Olive Oil for dipping.
'Boy-likey,' I'm thinking.
I learned long ago that when 'foodies' are together, the gloves come off regarding standard decorum. If you like blanched green beans, don't feel required to a limit of three. If gorgonzola is your gig, cut off a slab. Need a turn or two of fresh cracked black pepper? Twist and shout!
Eating with gusto is like writing with adjectives; it embellishes and heightens the sensory experience.
"Is this OK for you guys...?" Dana asked, "I mean I could get some more stuff out..."
I shot her the Look through the eyebrows and Lisa concurred,
"This couldn't be better! It's light with a variety of colors and textures, salty/tangy/sweet. It's perfect!"
"Here's to good friends," someone said as we clinked glasses.
We talked some more and finally hit our limits. Then my phone rang, it was our eldest.
"Siobhan is still crying. She hasn't stopped since you left. She's like crazy-crying now."
Lisa instructed Patrick to load her up and take the 20 minute drive out to The Country.
Profuse apologies to our hostess were dismissed with a "That's what kids do."
Patrick and Bonnie arrived in time to have dessert. What gathering would be complete without a spill, too! It took all of 3 minutes for Siobhan to find a beverage and tip it over.
"Oops, Mom...this spilled. It gots spilled on the floor. Come here kitty, lick it up," our daughter called to the cat, Mr. Betty. Years ago, Dana's kids thought the stray was a girl, named it, then upon a vet visit found evidence to the contrary. That's kind of a microcosm of good parenting skills: ya get lemons, make lemonaid. Everything can either get fixed or adapted, hence, the 'Mr.'
Good cooking skills sometimes require little cooking, just common sense.
Dana showed us a wonderful meal full of variety, flavor and color. Nutritionally, it was a smash hit as well; plenty of dietary fiber (veggies), calcium (soft cheeses), vitamin C (fruit), iron (meat) and grains (bread). It touched all the bases.
I believe they call that a home run.
This was so good, we did the same thing the following week at home with our kids.
We sat on the back deck one evening, busted out the hummous, raw veggies, meats, cheeses and great bread. Our kids LOVED it! It was all finger food, we ate at a more leisure pace and spent more time together talking.
Time together at the table. It sounds so simple and insignificant, yet, even our children would agree it is some of the best times in our lives.
So, get out there to Costco, Whole Foods, Trader Joe's or whatever and build a deli-meal of finger foods. Set a budget, first. It can get a little out of hand when you start piling on the cheeses.
Our thanks to an inspirational foodie friend, Dana Berry--Great Ideas!
Luv ya, mean it!
Take care, God bless and remember:
"Food, Faith, Family and Friends,
the Best Things in Life Aren't Things!"
Chef bq.
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