Special occasions are meant to be just that: special. So when your husband, who has the audacity to schedule his birthday the same week as Easter (you know, the very Easter in which you pretty much cooked and cleaned for four straight days), asks that you celebrate his birthday by "making a nice dinner," it takes every ounce of self-control to smile sweetly and say "I'd be happy to." A nice dinner, fortunately, doesn't mean you have to kill yourself. If I can't make dinner reservations for his birthday, I'll do the next best thing: I'll make dinner very, very easy.
My real strategy is to do what I can to elicit some assistance from the birthday boy himself. This will not be an easy feat, although my husband is a man of many talents. He can, for example, pick a wine to pair with both both roasted chicken and salmon (pinot noir, in case you're wondering). An avid Red Sox fan, he can tell you the score at the end of each inning of every game of the 1986 World Series and who played what position (although, I would highly advise against any mention of Game 6 and He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named at First Base). He's also a mean painter and can paint all day with nary a drop on the floor or his clothes. Notwithstanding these skills, cooking, alas, is not among them.
Grilling, however, is not cooking. In the suburban male lexicon, grilling has its own exalted place. Just like getting out the power saw and taking down bushes and trees is not yard work, grilling is not cooking. It is a task that men relish because it channels their inner cave-man. An open fire upon which they place slabs of raw meat lets them hearken back to the days when they ran around in nothing but animal skins killing mastodons. Good times, good times. Of course, ever in touch with my inner cave-woman, all I had to do was put on a tight, low-cut shirt, lean in and breathlessly suggest that "we" (snicker) grill some steaks. No surprise there when he simply nodded vapidly and concurred.
Main course? Check.
And because "we" are now grilling steaks, one side dish is already preordained--baked potatoes. Next to steak (which hubby will cook) baked potatoes are the easiest thing in the world to make. Scrub a couple of potatoes. Wrap in foil. Pierce a few times with a fork. Toss into a 375 degree oven for about an hour. Serve with sour cream, butter, and chives if you have to be fancy about it.
Side Dish? Check.
Salad--OK we might have to exert a little energy here, because the best thing to pair with steak and potatoes is a good chopped salad finished with blue cheese dressing. Toss together the following--bite-sized romaine lettuce, diced tomatoes, cucumbers, green peppers, crumbled bacon, finely chopped scallions or chives, and thinly sliced mushrooms. Toss with blue cheese dressing, which you make as follows--blend together: 1/3 cup light or fat free sour cream (believe it or not, but fat free sour cream is not only edible, but it tastes halfway decent; when mixed with a strong stinky cheese like a blue cheese, you won't notice that it's not the high-testosterone stuff), 1/2 cup light mayonnaise, 1/3 cup crumbled blue cheese, one clove of garlic, 1/4 cup olive oil, salt and pepper to taste.
Salad? Check.
Vegetables. We had asparagus for Easter, but they're amazing this time of year, they pair beautifully with steak, and they're frightfully easy to make, so let's do it again. Of course, my arm is still stiff from making the hollandaise sauce, so instead we'll roast them with Parmesan. Wash asparagus and trim off the course ends. Place in a roasting pan and toss with 1 Tbsp olive oil. Cover the middle third generously with thin slices of good Parmesan-reggiano cheese. Roast for 20 minutes at 375 degrees.
Vegetables? Check.
And since we have out our slab of Parmesan cheese, we might as well make an easy appetizer. Grate about 1/2 cup Parmesan into a shallow bowl of about 1/2 cup olive oil. You can now dip a really good crusty fresh bread into the olive oil, but--oh shoot, but we don't have any bread. HEY HONEY--can you do me a FAVOR? (More snickering).
Appetizer? Check.
What a bizarre coincidence. The only item left on our menu is dessert and hubby just happens to be on his way to a really good bakery buying that crusty bread. Have him purchase one Boston Cream Pie because, you know, he loves his Red Sox.
Dessert? Check.
Nice, easy, birthday dinner? Check.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
Easter Lamb
Easter is my husband's holiday. He just loves it. He loves that the dogwood are out and the daffodils are up. He loves jelly beans, and will actually eat them--even the black ones. He loves that the days are warm and long and once again he can sit outside and stare mindlessly into the woods from our porch. He loves that he gets to enjoy a great meal and didn't have to buy anyone a present. And this year, more than any other, he loves that after 46 days of Lent, in which he OMG--gave up WINE, he can once again imbibe. The pressure is on to make it a special day.
And so I did. I just spent two solid days getting ready for Easter, and one cleaning up afterward. My hands are raw and sore from polishing, washing, ironing, paring, chopping, and cutting. For kicks and giggles I wore a pedometer; in one day I clocked in at just under 14,000 steps, which is about 5.0 miles, and I never left the house. I am tired--bone tired. My feet hurt so much that they literally awakened me from a dead sleep. I wish I knew what they were screaming, but I think I know anyway. My feet are telling me that I'm a stupid idiot. "Stupid, stupid idiot; next year, buy some Big Macs, Budweiser, and call it a day." Admittedly, my feet have a point.
Aah, but my heart. My heart is telling my feet to simply shut the hell up and remember the day: a day surrounded by my family and the dearest of friends--synonyms perhaps? My heart is remembering that every guest offered to help and contributed to the feast in some way. My heart will remember that my father, who's 79-year-old feet must be much more cantankerous than mine, followed me dutifully around the kitchen anxious to assist however he could. My heart will remember the 2002 vintage reserve champagne that friends brought for my husband to break his Lenten fast, and which he shared with me because, well--I'm his wife. My heart will remember beating the hollandaise until my arm hurt and being gratefully relieved when my oldest daughter took over, who was then in turn replaced at the beating ritual by my youngest daughter, only for my oldest to come back again and ask: "Really, Mom--is this worth it?" And as I watched my husband over her shoulder revelling in his Easter, my heart knew with absolutely certainty--Yes. It's worth it. Truly, utterly, and completely worth it.
Easter Lamb (Gourmet, April 1996, p. 146).
1. Blend the following in a blender to make a paste: 1/4 cup olive oil, blanched lemon zest, 1/4 cup rosemary leaves, 3 large cloves of garlic, 1/2 tsp salt. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Cut several small slits all over a 7 pound de-boned leg of lamb. Smear the paste all over the lamb, and rub the paste into the slits.
3. Remove the pith (white stuff between the fruit and skin) from two large lemons. Slice the lemon cross-wise, remove any seeds, and arrange the slices in the middle of a large roasting pan. Place lamb in the oven for 45 minutes.
4. Meanwhile cut and quarter about 5 pounds of potatoes. (The actual recipe calls for 2.5 lbs, but I've been making this dinner for 15 years, and that's just not enough.) Cover with one inch of water, bring to a boil, and cook the potatoes for 5 minutes. Drain and toss generously with olive oil (about 1/4 cup).
5. When the lamb comes out of the oven after 45 minutes, arrange the potatoes around the lamb and continue roasting for 55 more minutes.
6. Transfer lamb to a cutting board, and let it stand for 15 minutes.
7. Toss the potatoes in the pan juices, increase the oven temperature to 500 degrees, or set on "broil" and return the potatoes to the oven for about 5 to 10 minutes to get them slightly golden. Transfer potatoes to a serving bowl and toss with about 1/4 cup of freshly cut chives.
8. Slice lamb into servings. The ends will be well-done, and the middle will be rare to medium rare. Serve with potatoes, asparagus and hollandaise sauce on your best china because this is a very, very special day.
And so I did. I just spent two solid days getting ready for Easter, and one cleaning up afterward. My hands are raw and sore from polishing, washing, ironing, paring, chopping, and cutting. For kicks and giggles I wore a pedometer; in one day I clocked in at just under 14,000 steps, which is about 5.0 miles, and I never left the house. I am tired--bone tired. My feet hurt so much that they literally awakened me from a dead sleep. I wish I knew what they were screaming, but I think I know anyway. My feet are telling me that I'm a stupid idiot. "Stupid, stupid idiot; next year, buy some Big Macs, Budweiser, and call it a day." Admittedly, my feet have a point.
Aah, but my heart. My heart is telling my feet to simply shut the hell up and remember the day: a day surrounded by my family and the dearest of friends--synonyms perhaps? My heart is remembering that every guest offered to help and contributed to the feast in some way. My heart will remember that my father, who's 79-year-old feet must be much more cantankerous than mine, followed me dutifully around the kitchen anxious to assist however he could. My heart will remember the 2002 vintage reserve champagne that friends brought for my husband to break his Lenten fast, and which he shared with me because, well--I'm his wife. My heart will remember beating the hollandaise until my arm hurt and being gratefully relieved when my oldest daughter took over, who was then in turn replaced at the beating ritual by my youngest daughter, only for my oldest to come back again and ask: "Really, Mom--is this worth it?" And as I watched my husband over her shoulder revelling in his Easter, my heart knew with absolutely certainty--Yes. It's worth it. Truly, utterly, and completely worth it.
Easter Lamb (Gourmet, April 1996, p. 146).
1. Blend the following in a blender to make a paste: 1/4 cup olive oil, blanched lemon zest, 1/4 cup rosemary leaves, 3 large cloves of garlic, 1/2 tsp salt. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Cut several small slits all over a 7 pound de-boned leg of lamb. Smear the paste all over the lamb, and rub the paste into the slits.
3. Remove the pith (white stuff between the fruit and skin) from two large lemons. Slice the lemon cross-wise, remove any seeds, and arrange the slices in the middle of a large roasting pan. Place lamb in the oven for 45 minutes.
4. Meanwhile cut and quarter about 5 pounds of potatoes. (The actual recipe calls for 2.5 lbs, but I've been making this dinner for 15 years, and that's just not enough.) Cover with one inch of water, bring to a boil, and cook the potatoes for 5 minutes. Drain and toss generously with olive oil (about 1/4 cup).
5. When the lamb comes out of the oven after 45 minutes, arrange the potatoes around the lamb and continue roasting for 55 more minutes.
6. Transfer lamb to a cutting board, and let it stand for 15 minutes.
7. Toss the potatoes in the pan juices, increase the oven temperature to 500 degrees, or set on "broil" and return the potatoes to the oven for about 5 to 10 minutes to get them slightly golden. Transfer potatoes to a serving bowl and toss with about 1/4 cup of freshly cut chives.
8. Slice lamb into servings. The ends will be well-done, and the middle will be rare to medium rare. Serve with potatoes, asparagus and hollandaise sauce on your best china because this is a very, very special day.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Chicken Fajitas
I went camping this week. The thing is, I'm almost 47 years old and I've never really camped before. There was a weekend in my 20s when I went "car camping" with a friend of mine, but his idea of camping was to spend as many hours as possible in the car, so that when we got to the camp site all we had to do was pull together and ultimately eat the gourmet meals he had already prepped ahead of time. I'm also not really sure you can count a Saturday overnight at a Girl Scout campsite where everything is essentially done for you, and when you wake up Sunday morning, you high tail it home for a shower and a blow-dry. This time I went whole hog. Four days. Tents. At the beach. With 3 kids, and no husband.
It wasn't exactly like Deliverance. "Facilities" were in walking distance and each campsite had an electrical plug and running cold water. Friends of mine who've been, you know, lost in the Appalachian wilderness or stuck on a raft in the Grand Canyon will likely sniff disdainfully at the prospect of such amenities, but in my world this was hard core. Until this week, "roughing it" meant shopping at Walmart. From my perspective, any time you are picking bugs and leaves out of your pancake batter in the morning, it's a big deal. And I went voluntarily. What's up with that?
I think I know. You learn a lot staring at a campfire that you had to make by yourself. There is something large that is looming on the horizon of my consciousness. It's base and fundamental and a little frightening: I'm having a mid-life crisis. That giant clock that is ticking down the minutes to my ultimate demise is reminding me that there's a whole lot of living I've been conveniently ignoring, and there's no time like the present to start ordering more off of life's menu. Fortunately, instead of trading in the minivan for a red convertible and tossing aside my dear devoted husband (no camper, he) for a young Norwegian named "Sven", I just decided to go camping. It may not be a destructive mid-life crisis, but it's a mid-life crisis just the same.
Of course, when you're camping, there's no time to really ruminate for long on the inevitability or imminence of death. There are tents to pitch and campfires to start, and of course (because this really is a cooking blog) meals to prepare. It is all hard, hard, work. Camping is about putting yourself in an environment where even the simplest tasks require disproportionate effort. And since the sleep that you eked out in your shoebox-sized tent was interrupted either by screeching critters or a child's left elbow dug into your right kidney, you are completely and utterly exhausted. Fortunately, I had the good sense to camp with a cadre of friends and neighbors for whom camping is not merely something to survive, but rather, something that they actually enjoy. Go figure. My night to cook was shared with four other families who happily pitched in to feed our tribe of 9 adults and 13 kids. Oddly, when you surround yourself with people who are helpful, happy, and cheerful, you find yourself becoming--helpful, happy and cheerful. Even camping. Could it be that life isn't so much about chalking up disparate experiences, but instead finding the right people with whom to share them?
Chicken Fajitas* (because something about camping screams "Tex-Mex").
1. Prepare the marinade in the comfort of your kitchen. No need to get crazy here.
2. Blend together the following in a food processor: 1 cup vegetable oil, 1/2 cup soy sauce, 1/2 cup coarsely chopped onion, 2-3 small jalapenos, seeded, 1 Tbs seasoned salt, 1 Tbs black pepper, 1 Tbs chili powder, 1 tsp each: basil, cumin, thyme and oregano, 5-6 cloves of garlic, 1-2 Tbs cilantro.
3. Pour it into a really good zip lock back because you don't want this stuff leaking. Add 8-10 chicken breasts. I used two bags.
4. Grill. Slice. Serve with all the fixings that your friends contributed: tortilla wraps, guacamole, pico de gallo, shredded cheddar cheese, sour cream, grilled peppers, and Spanish rice.
5. Take your fully loaded paper plate and park yourself in front of a campfire. Think long and hard about how camping, like life, is made so much better and richer when it is shared with good and generous people. I guarantee you--it will get you through any mid-life crisis.
* Courtesy of my friend Laurie, who got the recipe from her friend Julia, who probably got it from her sister-in-law Katie, who might have gotten it from her college room mate, Susan, who probably copied it right out of a published cookbook, but who, other than copyright attorneys, really keeps track of these things?
It wasn't exactly like Deliverance. "Facilities" were in walking distance and each campsite had an electrical plug and running cold water. Friends of mine who've been, you know, lost in the Appalachian wilderness or stuck on a raft in the Grand Canyon will likely sniff disdainfully at the prospect of such amenities, but in my world this was hard core. Until this week, "roughing it" meant shopping at Walmart. From my perspective, any time you are picking bugs and leaves out of your pancake batter in the morning, it's a big deal. And I went voluntarily. What's up with that?
I think I know. You learn a lot staring at a campfire that you had to make by yourself. There is something large that is looming on the horizon of my consciousness. It's base and fundamental and a little frightening: I'm having a mid-life crisis. That giant clock that is ticking down the minutes to my ultimate demise is reminding me that there's a whole lot of living I've been conveniently ignoring, and there's no time like the present to start ordering more off of life's menu. Fortunately, instead of trading in the minivan for a red convertible and tossing aside my dear devoted husband (no camper, he) for a young Norwegian named "Sven", I just decided to go camping. It may not be a destructive mid-life crisis, but it's a mid-life crisis just the same.
 |
| Our accommodations. No turn-down service. |
Chicken Fajitas* (because something about camping screams "Tex-Mex").
1. Prepare the marinade in the comfort of your kitchen. No need to get crazy here.
2. Blend together the following in a food processor: 1 cup vegetable oil, 1/2 cup soy sauce, 1/2 cup coarsely chopped onion, 2-3 small jalapenos, seeded, 1 Tbs seasoned salt, 1 Tbs black pepper, 1 Tbs chili powder, 1 tsp each: basil, cumin, thyme and oregano, 5-6 cloves of garlic, 1-2 Tbs cilantro.
3. Pour it into a really good zip lock back because you don't want this stuff leaking. Add 8-10 chicken breasts. I used two bags.
4. Grill. Slice. Serve with all the fixings that your friends contributed: tortilla wraps, guacamole, pico de gallo, shredded cheddar cheese, sour cream, grilled peppers, and Spanish rice.
5. Take your fully loaded paper plate and park yourself in front of a campfire. Think long and hard about how camping, like life, is made so much better and richer when it is shared with good and generous people. I guarantee you--it will get you through any mid-life crisis.
* Courtesy of my friend Laurie, who got the recipe from her friend Julia, who probably got it from her sister-in-law Katie, who might have gotten it from her college room mate, Susan, who probably copied it right out of a published cookbook, but who, other than copyright attorneys, really keeps track of these things?
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Broccoli and Cheetos
So I'm sitting at my local "Hair Cuttery" waiting for my daughter to get her annual shearing (and I fully recognize that is this a most unlikely start to a cooking blog), when I do what every good suburban mom does: I pick up People magazine to kill the time. Of course, I'm too much of an East Coast elitist to ever purchase or subscribe to People magazine, but gost darn it, I'll arm wrestle for it if I'm at the orthodontist, dentist, or doctor's office. I mean, how else will I catch up with Brad and Angie and their brood?
The beauty of People is that you don't have to read it cover-to-cover. You can just sort of let it fall open and read whatever fate has in store for you. The weekly insert of Parade works the same way. And so it was that I happened upon a recipe for broccoli and, um, Cheetos. At first my stomach lurched, and then I rolled my eyes (in that East Coast elitist sort of way) and disdainfully turned the page. But then I stopped. For God's sake, I'm writing a COOKING blog. This could be good. I mean even if it's dreadful, I can have a field day trashing it, and if it tastes good, I can eat elitist crow. At a minimum, my children will love me for bringing such exalted junk food as Cheetos into the house. I can already see delight in their eyes as they suck their orange-coated fingers. So I'm going to do it. I'm going to make this god-awful recipe and violate the one sacred principal of cooking which is to simply not make anything that either is, or sounds, utterly disgusting.
Broccoli & Cheetos (reprinted here without any permission whatsoever from People magazine, April 4, 2011, p. 118, from a recipe by a New York City chef . A New York chef? I'm eating elitist crow already. I would have bet money that this dish was developed by someone named Bobbie Sue or Bubba).
1. Heat the following in a 2-qt saucepan until reduced by half: 2 cups heavy cream, 2 Tbsp minced garlic, 2 Tbsp minced shallots, 6 whole black peppercorns, and one bay leaf. (Puh-lease. Two cups heavy cream? What a gimme. Even dog biscuits would taste good floating in two cups of heavy cream.)
2. Add in 1 and 1/2 cups of grated aged Gouda and 1/2 cup of grated Parmesan cheese. (Oh yeah, and add gobs of cheese while you're at it.) Set aside and keep warm. (Because if this stuff gets cold, it will congeal into a brick).
3. Add 1 and 1/4 lbs of fresh broccoli florets to a large pot of salted boiling water, cook until al dente--about 3 minutes. Transfer immediately to a bowl of cold water, and pat dry.
4. Heat 3 Tbs of olive oil over medium-high heat. Add 1 tsp crushed red pepper flakes and 1 Tbs fresh garlic and cook until fragrant--about 1 minute.
5. Add broccoli florets; stir often until lightly browned; about 6 minutes. (Actually, steps 3, 4, and 5, by themselves, look quite promising).
6. Spoon cheese sauce among 6 warm serving bowls; top with broccoli, and sprinkle with "a generous sprinkling of crushed Cheetos." (Now here's a dilemma--puffed or crunchy? I could probably write an entire blog on that question alone, but I'll try them both.) Serve immediately (because if you don't the Cheetos will become a soggy mess of orange neon).
So. The moment of truth. What did it taste like?
It tasted exactly like it came from the pages of a magazine dedicated to the excesses of American culture. (Uh-oh; I sense an elitist tirade about to erupt). Just like the Superbowl halftime show with its aging rockers, fireworks, F-16 flyovers, and dancing nymphs sporting low cut glow-in-the-dark costumes, it was simply too much. Too much cream and too much cheese topped off with too much fake crunch. Broccoli and Cheetos is schlock on steroids--or saturated fat, as it were.
Given that it's 80% pure fat topped with a processed, high sodium, corn product, it should taste freaking AMAZING. It should be so good that when you die you'll want to come back to life as a Cheeto. But instead, it's just excessive for the sake of being excessive--like one of those 48 ounce steaks you can only get in Texas. I'm no ascetic. I love life's guilty pleasures. Godiva truffles? It's heaven wrapped in tinfoil. A 2007 Cass Viognier? I'll drink the bottle. Triple cream brie--on a spoon? (I never said binges were pretty). Sold. Broccoli with Cheetos? No way. It's doing to your body what People magazine is doing to your mind and for no good reason. Try it at your own risk. Or better yet, just eat it at the Hair Cuttery.
The beauty of People is that you don't have to read it cover-to-cover. You can just sort of let it fall open and read whatever fate has in store for you. The weekly insert of Parade works the same way. And so it was that I happened upon a recipe for broccoli and, um, Cheetos. At first my stomach lurched, and then I rolled my eyes (in that East Coast elitist sort of way) and disdainfully turned the page. But then I stopped. For God's sake, I'm writing a COOKING blog. This could be good. I mean even if it's dreadful, I can have a field day trashing it, and if it tastes good, I can eat elitist crow. At a minimum, my children will love me for bringing such exalted junk food as Cheetos into the house. I can already see delight in their eyes as they suck their orange-coated fingers. So I'm going to do it. I'm going to make this god-awful recipe and violate the one sacred principal of cooking which is to simply not make anything that either is, or sounds, utterly disgusting.
Broccoli & Cheetos (reprinted here without any permission whatsoever from People magazine, April 4, 2011, p. 118, from a recipe by a New York City chef . A New York chef? I'm eating elitist crow already. I would have bet money that this dish was developed by someone named Bobbie Sue or Bubba).
1. Heat the following in a 2-qt saucepan until reduced by half: 2 cups heavy cream, 2 Tbsp minced garlic, 2 Tbsp minced shallots, 6 whole black peppercorns, and one bay leaf. (Puh-lease. Two cups heavy cream? What a gimme. Even dog biscuits would taste good floating in two cups of heavy cream.)
2. Add in 1 and 1/2 cups of grated aged Gouda and 1/2 cup of grated Parmesan cheese. (Oh yeah, and add gobs of cheese while you're at it.) Set aside and keep warm. (Because if this stuff gets cold, it will congeal into a brick).
3. Add 1 and 1/4 lbs of fresh broccoli florets to a large pot of salted boiling water, cook until al dente--about 3 minutes. Transfer immediately to a bowl of cold water, and pat dry.
4. Heat 3 Tbs of olive oil over medium-high heat. Add 1 tsp crushed red pepper flakes and 1 Tbs fresh garlic and cook until fragrant--about 1 minute.
5. Add broccoli florets; stir often until lightly browned; about 6 minutes. (Actually, steps 3, 4, and 5, by themselves, look quite promising).
6. Spoon cheese sauce among 6 warm serving bowls; top with broccoli, and sprinkle with "a generous sprinkling of crushed Cheetos." (Now here's a dilemma--puffed or crunchy? I could probably write an entire blog on that question alone, but I'll try them both.) Serve immediately (because if you don't the Cheetos will become a soggy mess of orange neon).
So. The moment of truth. What did it taste like?
It tasted exactly like it came from the pages of a magazine dedicated to the excesses of American culture. (Uh-oh; I sense an elitist tirade about to erupt). Just like the Superbowl halftime show with its aging rockers, fireworks, F-16 flyovers, and dancing nymphs sporting low cut glow-in-the-dark costumes, it was simply too much. Too much cream and too much cheese topped off with too much fake crunch. Broccoli and Cheetos is schlock on steroids--or saturated fat, as it were.
Given that it's 80% pure fat topped with a processed, high sodium, corn product, it should taste freaking AMAZING. It should be so good that when you die you'll want to come back to life as a Cheeto. But instead, it's just excessive for the sake of being excessive--like one of those 48 ounce steaks you can only get in Texas. I'm no ascetic. I love life's guilty pleasures. Godiva truffles? It's heaven wrapped in tinfoil. A 2007 Cass Viognier? I'll drink the bottle. Triple cream brie--on a spoon? (I never said binges were pretty). Sold. Broccoli with Cheetos? No way. It's doing to your body what People magazine is doing to your mind and for no good reason. Try it at your own risk. Or better yet, just eat it at the Hair Cuttery.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Space
I am worried.
My children just cleaned the kitchen--
without me asking them. Perhaps it's a sign of the
apocalypse. "The Rapture" is apparently only 6 weeks away, and they must be making amends in preparation for the second coming.
Before this fox-hole conversion, a request to clean the kitchen was grounds for civil unrest. Even the mere thought of having to empty the dishwasher could prompt protests that would rival those of the Mid-East. But today. Today my children have cleaned the kitchen, and as best I can tell there isn't a failed test or an incomplete homework assignment lurking in a backpack. All my crystal is in tact. In short, there is simply no basis, reason, or rationale for the pristine kitchen that awaited me when I got home from work.
It's a mystery, but some mysteries in life should simply be enjoyed rather than analyzed. This is one of them because a clean kitchen is pure joy. It the proverbial tabula rasa that launches the creative spirit. I don't necessarily believe in big kitchens, although there are some that I do secretly covet. One of my friends, for example, has this ultra-uber-Viking-applianced kitchen that features an amazing ping pong table-sized granite island. You could slaughter a cow on that island and still have room on the side for your guests to sit and nibble from a cheese platter. It's simply wonderful. But in the end all you really need is some clear uncluttered space. Even Julia Child, whose kitchen was famously cluttered with all the pots and knives literally hanging from every square inch of space on the walls, had a butcher block that was nothing but butcher block.
Making a space of one's own should really be the first step in every recipe. Make yourself some space to cook. Make it a space where you will happily stand for hours--a place to recharge. Make it a space where you can rest a glass of wine and crank up your radio. Make sure it's a space where you can be surrounded by those you love. Forget about the Rapture. Make your kitchen a space where you can celebrate life's everyday mysteries--where against all odds and years of bad experience an Irish soda bread rises into golden perfection, and where petulant children will one day suddenly reveal themselves to be people who will clean the kitchen without being asked.
My children just cleaned the kitchen--
without me asking them. Perhaps it's a sign of the
 |
| You know it's official when it's written on a bus |
Before this fox-hole conversion, a request to clean the kitchen was grounds for civil unrest. Even the mere thought of having to empty the dishwasher could prompt protests that would rival those of the Mid-East. But today. Today my children have cleaned the kitchen, and as best I can tell there isn't a failed test or an incomplete homework assignment lurking in a backpack. All my crystal is in tact. In short, there is simply no basis, reason, or rationale for the pristine kitchen that awaited me when I got home from work.
 |
| Julia's Clutter |
Making a space of one's own should really be the first step in every recipe. Make yourself some space to cook. Make it a space where you will happily stand for hours--a place to recharge. Make it a space where you can rest a glass of wine and crank up your radio. Make sure it's a space where you can be surrounded by those you love. Forget about the Rapture. Make your kitchen a space where you can celebrate life's everyday mysteries--where against all odds and years of bad experience an Irish soda bread rises into golden perfection, and where petulant children will one day suddenly reveal themselves to be people who will clean the kitchen without being asked.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
The Frittata
I hate throwing food away. I've been known to let food ferment in the back of the refrigerator for weeks because somehow it seems like less of a sin to throw something away once it has mold on it. What kind of a twisted person thinks that leftovers are too old to eat, but not old enough to throw away? Easy--a person raised by parents who survived the Great Depression. I'm not being facetious. I grew up routinely observing my father get out a container for 2 tablespoons of leftover mashed potatoes and then dutifully make a potato pancake the next day--a very small potato pancake, but a potato pancake nonetheless. As he likes to remind me, when his family slaughtered a hog on the North Carolina farm where he grew up, "they ate everything but the squeal." Yum.
So I've learned to save food. One leftover Italian sausage? Stick it in a baggie and pop it in the 'fridge. One-quarter cup sauted red peppers? I've got a container for that somewhere, even if there's no way on earth I'll ever find the matching lid. A two-inch cube of cheddar cheese that managed to escape last Friday night's happy hour? Save it, save it, save it. A good creative cook will know how to use it. Like the mythical phoenix rising from the ashes, it's a wondrous thing when a whole new dish is born from the detritus of leftovers. And of course, one of my favorites is the frittata.
You have to love the frittata. It's such a sneaky way to show off in the kitchen. It's really nothing more than an omelette, but unlike an omelette, which actually takes some skill to make, any bozo can throw together a frittata. So--get ready to clean out your refrigerator and let's crack some eggs.
The Frittata:
1. Figure out what you've got in your refrigerator. If you can't remember exactly when it went into the refrigerator, it goes in the trash. Same rule if you you actually do remember when it went into the refrigerator and the thought makes you involuntarily gasp.
2. Beat together about 10-12 eggs for about 5-6 servings. Get out a 10-12 inch cast iron pan--or any pan that you can comfortably move from the burner to the oven. Oil it well with olive oil. Pre-heat your oven to 350 degrees.
3. In a separate pan saute one small-to-medium sized onion. I don't know why that is, but I've never made a frittata without onion.
4. Pull together your leftovers. You'll want about 2 1/2--3 cups of "stuff, " (not counting the onion) of which one cup should be cheese (unless it's a really pungent cheese, like goat cheese, and then I'd hold it back to about 1/2 cup). Think about the kinds of things that you might typically put in that boring old omelette or that otherwise complement each other:
* swiss cheese, ham, peppers, onions, mushrooms; or
* ground beef, taco seasoning, black beans, monteray-jack cheese, peppers; or
* buffalo mozarella cheese, vine-ripened tomatoes, basil; or
* fresh baby spinach, goat cheese, artichokes, and sun-dried tomatoes; or
* roasted potatoes, cheddar cheese, finely chopped cooked bacon
5. The only rule is to not be disgusting. Avoid ingredients that have a lot of moisture because you'll never get your eggs to properly set. If you completely fail and inadvertently make something totally inedible, you're probably only out a dozen eggs; after two more days you would have thrown out the other stuff anyway. See Step 1.
6. Take your well-oiled pan and place it over medium to high heat to get it hot. Add the well-beaten eggs and let them set for about one minute.
7. Start sprinkling in your stuff making sure that it is well-distributed over the pan: onions, veggies, diced meat, cheese etc. DO NOT STIR unless you simply want to have scrambled eggs for dinner instead. Turn down the heat to low.
8. Wait for the mixture to really set. I wish I could tell you exactly how long that is. It all depends on the ingredients you have used, how high your heat, and how big your pan. Generally, you know that the eggs have "set" when, although they are still a bit runny, they don't slosh over the side of the pan if you jostle the pan a little bit back and forth.
9. If you want, now you can get fancy. Depending on your recipe, make a decorative pattern on the top of the frittata with one of your ingredients: a sliced tomato, sauted mushrooms, strips of yellow squash or zuccini, or slices of cheese. Open your heart to your creative spririt. And yes, I'm fully aware that it's a little pathetic that this is how a middle-aged mom in suburbia lets loose and gets crazy; but there it is.
10. Finish cooking your frittata in the oven. For this step you want the eggs to be cooked through, which will probably take about 15-20 minutes, again depending on the ingredients you've used and the size of your pan. Slice into pie-shaped wedges, and serve hot or at room temperature.
So there you have it. The frittata. Fri-ta-ta. So chic! So European! So damn easy. And you made it with leftovers.
So I've learned to save food. One leftover Italian sausage? Stick it in a baggie and pop it in the 'fridge. One-quarter cup sauted red peppers? I've got a container for that somewhere, even if there's no way on earth I'll ever find the matching lid. A two-inch cube of cheddar cheese that managed to escape last Friday night's happy hour? Save it, save it, save it. A good creative cook will know how to use it. Like the mythical phoenix rising from the ashes, it's a wondrous thing when a whole new dish is born from the detritus of leftovers. And of course, one of my favorites is the frittata.
You have to love the frittata. It's such a sneaky way to show off in the kitchen. It's really nothing more than an omelette, but unlike an omelette, which actually takes some skill to make, any bozo can throw together a frittata. So--get ready to clean out your refrigerator and let's crack some eggs.
The Frittata:
1. Figure out what you've got in your refrigerator. If you can't remember exactly when it went into the refrigerator, it goes in the trash. Same rule if you you actually do remember when it went into the refrigerator and the thought makes you involuntarily gasp.
2. Beat together about 10-12 eggs for about 5-6 servings. Get out a 10-12 inch cast iron pan--or any pan that you can comfortably move from the burner to the oven. Oil it well with olive oil. Pre-heat your oven to 350 degrees.
3. In a separate pan saute one small-to-medium sized onion. I don't know why that is, but I've never made a frittata without onion.
4. Pull together your leftovers. You'll want about 2 1/2--3 cups of "stuff, " (not counting the onion) of which one cup should be cheese (unless it's a really pungent cheese, like goat cheese, and then I'd hold it back to about 1/2 cup). Think about the kinds of things that you might typically put in that boring old omelette or that otherwise complement each other:
* swiss cheese, ham, peppers, onions, mushrooms; or
* ground beef, taco seasoning, black beans, monteray-jack cheese, peppers; or
* buffalo mozarella cheese, vine-ripened tomatoes, basil; or
* fresh baby spinach, goat cheese, artichokes, and sun-dried tomatoes; or
* roasted potatoes, cheddar cheese, finely chopped cooked bacon
5. The only rule is to not be disgusting. Avoid ingredients that have a lot of moisture because you'll never get your eggs to properly set. If you completely fail and inadvertently make something totally inedible, you're probably only out a dozen eggs; after two more days you would have thrown out the other stuff anyway. See Step 1.
6. Take your well-oiled pan and place it over medium to high heat to get it hot. Add the well-beaten eggs and let them set for about one minute.
7. Start sprinkling in your stuff making sure that it is well-distributed over the pan: onions, veggies, diced meat, cheese etc. DO NOT STIR unless you simply want to have scrambled eggs for dinner instead. Turn down the heat to low.
8. Wait for the mixture to really set. I wish I could tell you exactly how long that is. It all depends on the ingredients you have used, how high your heat, and how big your pan. Generally, you know that the eggs have "set" when, although they are still a bit runny, they don't slosh over the side of the pan if you jostle the pan a little bit back and forth.
9. If you want, now you can get fancy. Depending on your recipe, make a decorative pattern on the top of the frittata with one of your ingredients: a sliced tomato, sauted mushrooms, strips of yellow squash or zuccini, or slices of cheese. Open your heart to your creative spririt. And yes, I'm fully aware that it's a little pathetic that this is how a middle-aged mom in suburbia lets loose and gets crazy; but there it is.
10. Finish cooking your frittata in the oven. For this step you want the eggs to be cooked through, which will probably take about 15-20 minutes, again depending on the ingredients you've used and the size of your pan. Slice into pie-shaped wedges, and serve hot or at room temperature.
So there you have it. The frittata. Fri-ta-ta. So chic! So European! So damn easy. And you made it with leftovers.
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