Osso Bucco

Veal Shank

 If you don't like the idea of killing baby cows, then go ahead and X out of this post now.  This is not a posting for vegetarians or politically correct carnivores.  This is osso bucco--a stew made from veal shanks, or dead baby cow.  Try to forget images of soulful brown eyes and plaintive bleating on the way to the slaughter.  The folks from PETA would hate this recipe, but then, they don't know how good it tastes.  In Italian, osso bucco literally means bone with a hole in it, but it could just as easily mean "how did I live this long and never experience this?" The shank is a donut-shaped bone from the calf's lower leg; it is surrounded by tender succulent meat, at least that's how it gets when you slow cook it for hours in wine, sherry, and broth.  Inside the donut hole rests an amazing dollop of bone marrow, which--once you forget that it's bone marrow tastes like the little piece of heaven that it is.

Osso Bucco is the one dish that once prompted my husband to eat a full dinner twice.  As I recall, he had come back from some evening gathering, and I asked in my ubiquitously-wifey manner:

"How was your meeting?"

"They served osso bucco."

"But you already ate dinner."

"But it was osso bucco."

"Oh my God, you had TWO dinners!" [read: you gluttonous pig].

Says husband, nodding in shared disbelief, "But it was osso bucco."

When I thought about it--he was right.  Osso bucco is worth it.  Just don't think about the baby cows.

Osso Bucco
 By Todd English

1.     Lightly dust four large veal shanks with a mixture of salt, pepper, and flour.  TIP:  If you pat the shanks dry with a clean towel first they will brown better.  Moisture on any meat thwarts this browning process.

2.     In a large dutch over or saute pot, heat approximately two Tbs of olive oil on medium high heat.  Add the veal shanks and cook until they are golden brown--about 5 minutes on one side and two minutes on the other.  Set the shanks aside.

3.  Add one cup of chopped raw bacon to the pan, and cook until it begins to render its fat--about 2 minutes.  Add 6 cloves of thinly sliced garlic.

4.    Dice the following: 1 sweet Mayan or Vidalia onion, 2 large peeled carrots, 3 celery stalks , 2 leeks (white part only), 2 cups shitake mushrooms,.  Add it to mixture.

5.  Add 2 Tbs fresh rosemary, 1 tsp fennel seeds, and 1/2 tsp pepper flakes.  Stir to thoroughly mix.

6.  Return the shanks to the pan and add 3/4 cup dry white wine and  1/2 cup dry Sherry.  Cook 5 minutes.

7.  Add 4 cups of low sodium chicken broth, the zest of one orange.  Bring to a low simmer.

8.  Roast at 425 degrees for 2 hours.

9.  Transfer the shanks to a plate and return the pan to medium high heat.  Add 2 Tbs Dijon mustard and simmer for 10 minutes.  Return the shanks to th pan and cook until heated through; garnish with fresh parsley.

10.  Serve with hot polenta, a full bodied cabernet, and good friends who have no compunction about dining on cute little farm animals.

Soup for the Soul

Life isn't fair.  I learned this in college when I stayed up all night studying for an exam and got a "B" while my room mate spent the same night at a bar with her boyfriend and got an "A", but I've had it easy.  That life isn't fair is harder to reconcile when a colleague retires from a lifetime of work and within 6 months his wife is dead from a rare brain tumor.  Or when an innocent child struggles with a debilitating illness.  Or when clean living yields breast cancer and leaves in it's wake a motherless family.   It simply, fundamentally, isn't fair.   Life rewards and punishes with a whim and caprice that is breathtaking in its randomness.  And God, if there is a god, doesn't seem to give a rat's ass.  I have a hard time with that. 

I envy those who can cling to their faith in the face of adversity.  I wish that I could turn to prayer to find comfort and solace and know that at the end of the day it all makes sense and that it will all be alright.  I can not.  At the end of the day, after all of the prayers, rosaries, or novenas, I'm left only with the realization that life is not fair and that there's not a damn thing that I can do about it.  Except for one thing.  I can cook.  If I can't make things better, and God appears to choose not to, then at least I can cook.  I make soup or sauce or supper and try to make sure that when people I know suffer they don't do so alone and they don't do so hungry.   Life may be nasty, brutish, and short, but it need not be unkind.

Soup

1.  Gently saute in olive oil a finely diced mire poix, i.e. a fine dice of one medium-sized onion, about 3 large carrots, and 2 celery stalks.  Saute over low heat until just tender--about 10 minutes.

2.  Add approximately 6 cups of water.

3.  Add 1 lb of washed lentils, and one hammock or ham bone for lentil soup; OR

4.  Add l lb of dried peas and one hammock or ham bone for split pea soup; OR

5.  Add a chicken carcass for chicken soup; OR

6.  Add cabbage, tomatoes, spinach, and green beans for vegetable soup; OR

7.  Substitute beef broth for the water and add beets and cabbage for borscht.

8.  The possibilities are endless--much like the endless ways that life isn't fair.

9.  Simmer on the lowest possible heat for about an hour and half.  Season with salt and pepper.

10.  Cool;  remove any bones; leave the meat.

11.  Pour it into a Tupperware container and take it to someone who needs it.  And if they are really hurting, don't give a second thought to whether you get your container back.

As Time Goes By

 


Camel Hump Mountain, Vermont

 I lived in Vermont the year before I got married.  My landlord and landlady were generous people straight from the pages of Vermont Country Living.  He sported an overgrown beard and plaid shirts and she traipsed around in fur-lined Birkenstocks and hand-dyed wool sweaters.  When I left to start my life anew in the South land, they gave me a simple contraption in which you can make home-made apple sauce, because to a Vermonter, store bought apple-sauce from Mott's is like Prego or Ragu to an Italian. 



Authentic Vermont Appe Sauce Maker

Every fall for the first 3 years we were married I pulled out the apple-sauce maker and dutifully made a few jars of fresh, unadulterated apple sauce.  I gathered my pre-school nieces and nephew around me and revelled in their delight as we smushed up apples and mixed them with sugar and cinnamon, and I dreamed about the day when I could make applesauce with my as-yet unborn children.  And then.  And then the children came.  All three of them.  One sleepless year after the other.   Three babies in 26 months; no twins.  There was no apple sauce.  There was only teething and dirty diapers and frustrated trips to lactation consultants that ended blissfully with trips to Costco to buy Enfamil.  


Halloween 2005

And before I knew it, fall was all about coordinating matching costumes and carving pumpkins and getting to know new teachers that made my children construct stupid dioramas out of cardboard that fell apart right as they walked onto the school bus.  And now fall is about shuttling kids to soccer and karate and having a teenager that I hardly know anymore because she won't talk to me.  And I have never made apple sauce with them.  Not once.  Ever.  Until now. 

I had always pictured that our apple-saucing would begin by bundling the children up with a picnic lunch and heading out to a far-flung orchard to pick our apples right off the tree.  We'd sing songs on the way out, frolic in the crisp autumn air, and then the children would sweetly fall asleep on the way home while I held my husband's hand in contented silence.  Yeah right.  When I mentioned an orchard the kids got a panicked look in their eyes and quickly retreated to avoid what they have come to call "Forced Family Fun."  My husband merely snorted something about too many bees and wanting to power wash the back deck.  Fine.  If we aren't going to have a day of Walton-family apple picking I'll buy the stupid apples at the grocery store, which I did.

Die, Infidel, Die!

Then I forced my children to gather around me for our First Annual Making of the Apple Sauce.  My youngest fled the kitchen screaming that the process of boiling apples and then smushing them into apple-sauce oblivion was "disgusting;"  my teenager crossed her arms, rolled her eyes and then sighed in utter boredom as she sauntered back upstairs to her lair of adolescent angst. Only my son stuck around.  He pretended that each boiled apple was the head of an enemy combatant to be tortured and pulverized in the vice grip of the death machine that is the apple sauce maker.   Nice.  Not exactly the Hallmark moment that I was going for.   So much for the Annual Making of the Apple Sauce.  This is one, I think, that got away from me. 


 Don't get me wrong.  I don't believe that my children will be scarred or emotionally crippled by the fact that annual apple sauce making is not one of our traditions.  Children, it turns out, are very forgiving.  It seems,  however, that time is less so. Missed opportunities are just that.  Missed.

Homemade Apple Sauce

1.     Spend way too much money on about one and a half pounds of locally grown apples.  Don't go crazy trying to figure out what kind to buy.  If you get apples that are too tart, you can just season them with more sugar.  I happen to like Gala.  You do want to avoid Red Delicious, however.  All they are is red.


2.     Dump the apples into a large saucepan with about two inches of water.  Boil the hell out them until they are soft and tender; about 5 minutes.  You will know they are ready because the skins will be cracked and the soft white flesh of the apples will be started to spill out.  My youngest wasn't all wrong--they do look disgusting.

3.    Drain off any excess water, cover, and while they cool, take your teenage daughter to the mall to buy a dress for her cousin's wedding because, NO--you can't wear jeans and one of Daddy's Red Sox t-shirts to a wedding.


4.    Get out the Apple Sauce Maker from the garage.  Clean the spider webs off of it.

5.    Dump the boiled apples into the apple sauce maker and pound and grind the pulp from the apples out through the colander-cone.  If you don't have an apple sauce maker, just make the apple sauce like you would mashed potatoes:   core and peel them; cut them into chunks, and then boil them until they are soft and tender and easily mashed with a potato masher.

6.    Season with cinnamon and sugar.

Grilled Cheese

It's been a week of uninspired cooking.  That happens sometimes; I mean there's a reason that people buy Stoeffer's lasagna, although I never could figure out why they actually eat it.  My family has been surviving for the last few days on rotisserie chicken, leftovers, and grilled cheese sandwiches.  The grilled cheese sandwich, however, gets a bum rap.   It is highly underrated.  Pair it with a hearty soup and it's transformed into a fully satisfying meal.  But you have to get it right.  This isn't the dish to be fancy or high-falutin.'  Bring out the white bread, butter, and some honest-to goodness highly processed American cheese-bright orange.  I used to whole hog and get Velveeta, but when they moved it out of the refrigerated case and started selling it on a stand in the middle of the store, I got a little grossed out.  It's supposed to be cheese, afterall, but if it can survive for months in a vacuum-sealed sheet of tin-foil, then it's a pretty safe be that Velveeta isn't even food.

The key to a good grilled cheese sandwich is low heat.  Low heat is counter-intuitive because as the quintessential quick and easy food, you want it fast, which means you'll flip the heat to high, and then all is lost.  High heat toasts the bread before the cheese is melted, and half the experience of a good grilled cheese is letting all that molten cheese run out from between the bread slices so that you can later suck it off an index finger that you dragged across your plate.  But don't let you kids see you do that or they will peg you for the hypocrite that you are because you've been telling them since they were 18 months old not to lick their fingers.

  Soft, Delicious, Nutritous? I WONDER.

Now when I say "white bread" I don't mean "Wonder Bread."  Just like Velveeta isn't cheese, Wonder Bread isn't bread.  Wonder bread is white and that's pretty much where the similarity to bread breaks down.  Get a good Italian loaf and either buy it sliced or slice it yourself-thin, 1/4" slices.  If you want that cheese to melt you can't expect the heat to make the all day journey through a one inch slice of Texas toast.  Plus, to get any flavor from the cheese, you'd have to pile on multiple slices and then, getting it to melt-again becomes a challenge.  Nope.  You want thin slices of good Italian bread, into wich you place two-to-three slices of American cheese.  Cheddar works ok too, but then put the heat even lower because a good cheddar takes even longer to melt.  Butter the outside faces of the sandwich and then pop it all on a griddle or pan set to -that's right- LOW HEAT.

Ain't it good to know, you've got a friend

It's been a rough week.  Sleep and I have parted company.  I like Sleep.  I always thought Sleep and I got along just fine, but this week for some reason Sleep is pissed and he's staying away, and I've been staying awake.  It just sucks.   As I lie in bed each night, my body aches for Sleep.  I can't think of anything but Sleep, and I desperately want Sleep to come back.  But despite my best efforts to entice him back into my bed, he's ignoring me, and I'm up at 3 a.m. watching recorded episodes of Modern Family.  One of the first casualties has been both my cooking, and hence, this blog.  When you haven't slept, your body automatically prioritizes those things upon which to expend energy.  Breathing comes first, and it pretty much ends there.

This blog, fortunately, has been rescued by my dear friend, next-door neighbor,
published author (http://www.amazon.com/Jaguar-Sees-Lacquer-Box-ebook/dp/B004LB4Z0U)*, and fellow-blogger (http://annsannotations.blogspot.com/),  Ann Simon.  She will share with you a dessert dressed up as breakfast.  It sounds amazing, but my eye-lids are getting heavy, my body is getting warm, and I sense that perhaps Sleep is willing to reconcile, so I'm off to see if I can't talk him into some zzzzzzz's.

Strawberry Croissant French Toast
By Ann Simon

We all stand in awe of Cynthia's cooking, I think we can admit that.  At least, we all sit at her table with awe. 

When I first met Cynthia, she would spend an afternoon "relaxing," cooking red sauce or mouth watering eggplant parmesean.  I, of course, the devoted neighbor, did my part by tasting her endeavors and accepting invitations to family dinners.  Okay, they weren't always invitations as my husband has been known to yell across the fence, "Cynthia!  What are you making for dinner?"   

I don't mind cooking.  I am a decent cook.  However, you will NEVER find me relaxing in the kitchen.  My reaction to approaching the stove is akin to hearing the Star Trek claxon screaming "Avoid!  Avoid!"  On the other hand, I do love to eat. We are currently in the middle of ten days in Nova Scotia.  We eat sea food in the evenings and enjoy various B&B breakfasts in the mornings.  There's a modest amount of hiking that goes on in between, but, let's face it, that's pretty much an excuse to sit at table again.  Oh, yes, Richard, we've done our share of sampling Nova Scotia's wine as well.  One word for you, Jost. 

Yesterday, the English Country Garden B&B (Indian Brook, Nova Scotia) offered a breakfast dish well worth sitting down for.  It's probably even worth entering the kitchen to cook because it's not difficult to make while the results are spectacular.  It is:



Strawberry Croissant French Toast

Take one fat croissant and slice it lengthwise.
Smear cream cheese on the bottom slice and top with
fresh, sliced strawberries.
Dip the entire thing in egg mixture and fry like French Toast.
Serve with maple syrup.  (Use real maple syrup; don't waste the fake stuff on this.)

Sit with a cup of coffee or tea and eat while gazing on the mist rising from the inlet beyond the garden.

*  Jaguar Sees:  The Lacquer Box will soon be available for the Nook and I-Pad on Smashwords.