Boston Fudge Cake

I am a baseball widow.  From the first week of April to, God willing, the first week of October, my husband is glued to the Boston Red Sox.  Some years it's worse, and the Sox make the playoffs.  Then I smile dutifully, grit my teeth, and wait for November.  This week has been particularly difficult.  This is the one glorious week that all three of my children are away.  The oldest two are at sleep-over camp; the youngest is at "Camp Grammie" because, well, I simply begged my mother-in-law to give me 6 days alone with my husband.  I should have checked the MLB schedule first.

Sunday night the Sox played the Yankees.  Yes, yes, the same Yankees that have won 27 World Series--something like 22 of them at the expense of the Red Sox.  Of course, the 2004 ALCS made up for all that, and indeed, I was worried there with all the hoopla that year that we would conceive a 4th child.  Talk about the curse of the Bambino.   Who knew when I planned this special romantic week that the Yankees and the Sox would be tied for first place and that the first two games of this 3-game series would be evenly split such that Sunday's night's game would be a match to determine 1st place at this critical juncture in August?

Surely, however, such a match up was no contest for a little (and I mean a little) black lace and fish-net hose.  Silly me.  I knew that my number was up when I sidled up next to my husband in my most seductive fashion fully expecting to "distract" him from the game only to discover that Boston's Dustin Pedroia had just been thrown out trying to steal 2nd base.  Talk about a mood kill.  Instead of "Oh Baby" I got "JESUS CHRIST ON A CRUTCH." Not to worry--five days of romance still left.  Except that Monday and Tuesday the Sox play the Twins. 

The 1918 Red Sox and the start of the 86-year championship drought.

My mother-in-law can relate.  She mournfully shakes her head and shares with me that when the Sox have a night game, my father-in-law rolls in like clock work at 7:00 p.m.  It is apparently just enough time for him to give her a quick peck on the cheek, fill up a plate of food, and  settle into a Lazy Boy recliner for the 7:10 first pitch.  Her father was the same, except that he didn't have a T.V., and instead he cozied up to the radio fully expecting that her mother would deliver a small tumbler of Jameson's at the        7th  inning stretch. 

I guess I'm supposed to take comfort in the fact that this is a genetic and generational malady.  My mother-in-law knows better.  She takes comfort in chocolate cake.  It's a chocolate cake handed down from generation to generation of one Red Sox widow to the next.  This was the chocolate cake that they made when Babe Ruth was traded to the Yankees.  This was the cake that celebrated Carlton Fisk's 1975 arm-waving homer and mourned Bill Buckner's first base flub in 1986.  For me, this is the chocolate cake to eat when the Red Sox are in a pennant race.  I mean, if you can't have your man, at least you can always have chocolate cake.

Boston Fudge Cake
By Mary Kelly---a Boston Irish baseball widow, just like the rest of us, God rest her soul.
1.  Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Cream together 1/3 cup butter and 1 cup of sugar.

2.  Beat 2 eggs.  Don't use an electric beater; beat them by hand.  The cake will apparently come out lighter, and besides, all that noise from the mixer will interrupt the game.

3.  Add 2 squares of melted unsweetened chocolate to the eggs, and add to the butter/sugar mixture.

4.  In a separate bowl, blend together 3/4 cup milk, 1 cup of flour, 2 level tsp of baking powder, and 1 tsp. of vanilla.  Don't worry about the dishes you will have to clean.  The game's on and you have plenty of time.
  
5.  Slowly blend together with the butter/sugar/egg mixture.

6.  Bake in an 8--9" square pan in an oven preheated to 350 degrees for about 30 minutes.

 7.  For the frosting:  Mix together 1 and 1/2 cups confectioner's sugar, 1 tbsp butter, 1 and 1/2 squares of melted unsweetened chocolate.  Slowly add evaporated milk to moisten the mixture and get it thick and frosting-like.    Spread on the cooled, but still slightly warm cake, and think about November.

Slump Day

I took my ten-year-old daughter to see Taylor Swift in concert last night.  It's sort of a weird experience to  feel pure delight in watching your daughter revel in what is clearly a pre-teen blast at the same time as feeling decidedly OLD.  If the average age at this concert was 18, then it was skewed by the likes of me.  Nor did it help to realize that the icon on the stage was born 4 years after I graduated from college.  I suppose I should take some comfort that if Ms. Swift follows the typical trajectory of the young and famous, when she's my age she'll be on her 4th husband and her 5th trip to rehab.  But I'm not so sure.  Given the 20,000 screaming 6th-grade girls that filled last night's arena, it seems that the true hallmark of success is to be able to belt out a pop hit in a size 4 body while you flip back your blond curly tresses.  I fall decidedly short of that standard.  Indeed, even my daughter shook her head in disdain at my efforts to rock with the rest of the crowd.  She kindly advised that not only was I embarrasing her, but more importantly, I was embarrassing myself.  Ouch.

It didn't help when I woke up this morning to find that once again, inexplicably, I had significantly aged overnight.  It seems to happen about 3 or 4 times a year, although recently I've noticed that it is occurring with increasing frequency.  It's the damnest thing.  You go to bed with one face and body and the next day you wake up with someone else's--and it's not Taylor Swift's. No.  It's someone with a few more wrinkles, a slacker jawline, and someone who has mysterious dark spots that simply can't be written off anymore as "freckles."  Sigh.  And perhaps the worst thing when I am feeling fat, lumpy, and uninspired, is that I cook the same way.  It's a day to make stuffed peppers.   They've been around FOREVER--sort of like me.

Stuffed Peppers

1.  Take one pound of ground beef and toss into it the following:  2 handfuls of rice, about a 1/4 cup of parmesan cheese, about 2 Tbs of parsley flakes, and one egg.  Don't bothering measuring--as I've come to realize at this point in life, in the end, it doesn't really matter.   Mix well. 

2.  Slice the heads off 5 large bell peppers--about 1/2 inch from the top.  Cut out the seedy innards of the pepper.

3.  Stuff each pepper about 3/4 full with the meat mixture.  Don't overstuff them; they expand when cooking and will burst open if you do so.  Place the heads back on each pepper to sort of seal the pepper.

4.    Stand the peppers in a saucepan that will just fit them.  It's ok to squish them in a little; if they move around too much all the stuffing falls out, which as I think about it, is pretty much the same principle as exercise. 

5.  Pour two 27-oz cans of tomato puree around the peppers and set the pan over a medium-low heat to bring to a slow simmer.  The puree should come up to just below the tops of the peppers.

6.  In a separate pan, saute until transculent 1/2 of one onion, and then gently stir into the puree surrounding the peppers.

7.  Go ahead and toss in two cloves of garlic; it's in the refrigerator anyway.

8.  If there is any leftover meat mixture, form it into small meatballs (about the size of a quarter) and drop them into the puree.

9.  Continue to simmer, and after about 30 minutes check the consistency of the sauce.  If it's horribly runny, add a can of tomatoe paste.

10.  Serve each pepper over a generous helping of white rice and smother it with the sauce.  Pour yourself a large glass of wine and think about how you know you're old when you actually LOVE stuffed peppers instead of feeding them to the dog like when you were a kid.

Potatoes Parmentier

French food intimidates me.  Notwithstanding a few rare forays into Julia Child's repertoire, it makes me nervous.  Really. Truth told, I'm loathe to make anything that I can't pronounce.  I grew up in Texas where French is simply useless.   Let's face it, it's pretty stupid to learn how to speak French--what with several million Spanish speakers just over the border.  Even in highschool, where most Americans get some smattering of a foreign language, that cute guy in Chemistry spoke Spanish, so I never learned how to speak French.  For years I thought that oui was pronounced "OY"--a sure sign that one of Israel's Twelve Tribes had actually migrated from France.  The thought of practically having to take a Berlitz course at the same time that I'm cooking is simply overwhelming.   I've wandered instead over to Italian cuisine where no one really expects you to properly pronounce the food, and even if they do, you can reasonably fake it by moving your hands around alot and adding and a to most-a what you-a say-a.  (And yes, I fully recognize the political incorrectness of that last sentence, but I'm Italian, so I can run with the stereotype).  I just figured that if it's too difficult to say, then it's way too difficult to make.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I discovered potatoes parmentier.   It's no accident that they are named after Antoine Parmentier, an 18th century French chemist, who convinced the snooty French that the potato was worthy of entry into their haute cuisine.  Apparently, in order to get the reluctant French to try the dirty little tuber, a recipe had to be devised that didn't require a full day of effort in the kitchen.  He succeeded. Potatoes parmentier are incredibly easy to make--even if I still can't pronounce them.

Potatoes Parmentier

1. Peel and dice into small 1/4 inch cubes about 20 small potatoes. 

2. Melt a stick of butter in a large saute pan.  (This is a FRENCH dish; of course there's butter.  In fact, while you're at it, get in the mood and pour yourself a glass of bordeaux).

3. Saute the potatoes until they are tender and slightly golden.

4.  Season to taste with salt and pepper.

5. Finish with about 2 Tbsp of chopped fresh parsley.

6. Don't embarrass yourself by calling them pototoes par-men-tee-ER.  Hold your held high while you simultaneously look down your nose, and repeat after me: potatoes par-men-ti-EH.

The Hangover, California Style

I recently vacationed in California.  You know, CALIFORNIA--the place that invented healthy, unprocessed, whole wheat, high fiber, preservative-free, artificial flavoring- and coloring-free, organic food.   In short, either the food without any flavor or the food that tastes weird.  Food is sacred to Californians--so much so that my innocent attempt to get a Diet Coke at a high end resort and spa was greeted with such derision and contempt that, really, you would have thought I had asked for a cigarette.

I suppose a little background is in order.  I had just completed a marathon-and-a half over two days, and although I walked it instead of ran it, I like to think it was similarly exhausting.  I mean despite the fact that those Kenyan runners can punch out 26 miles in something like 2 hours, walking it took about 9, and hell, that's a long time to be on your feet.  After two days of such efforts, my friends and I did what everyone does after such a major accomplishment--we partied.  It turns out, that when you have pushed yourself to your physical limits, your body--at least at the cellular level, is primed to exponentially absorb everything you put into it.  That's why real athletes drink things like water, Gatorade, and possibly IV fluids after an event.  Wine, it turns out, was pretty much the wrong choice, and it resulted the next day in a one-eyed,will-everyone- please-whisper sort of hangover like no other.  Not to worry--the only thing on the agenda was to stumble into the Napa Valley to meet a girlfriend for rest and relaxation at a local spa.  (Although it is fairly sobering-no pun intended-to find yourself in Napa with a hangover before you've even set foot in a single winery). 

Because this was, you know, CALIFORNIA, this wasn't your every day Red Door spa with overstuffed Queen Anne chairs apolstered in chintz.  Think slabs of gray slate at right angles punctuated with "water features."  Very minimalist.  Indeed, without the earth-toned throw pillows it could have doubled as a gulag.  Fortunately, at least everyone spoke in a whisper.  Even, it turns out, the shi-shi waiter who advised that this particular spa didn't offer Diet Coke because it's derived from HFCS (that's high-fructose corn syrup to the riff-raff, and yes, I embarrassed myself by asking).  He then proceeded to explain to me how their ultra-pure diet cola was made, but because of my raging head-ache all I heard was "Blah, blah, blah, "Brazil," blah blah blah blah "natural," and blah blah blah "plant extract."  It's also apparently much much much better for you than the poison that is Diet Coke.  Funny, he also offered me a glass of wine, which for obvious reasons, I declined.  I made a mental note, however, that for all of its purported ills, Diet Coke had never left me feeling the way that wine did right then.

Nonetheless, when that magical elixir passed my lips, my hangover all but dissipated.  I felt as though my body, mind, and spirit had been transfused with a purety like no other as this natural Brazilian plant extract rounded up and put to pasture the toxins that roamed through my body.  HAH.  All lies. What a crock.  It tasted just like a diet RC cola; you know--not bad, but not nearly as good as a Diet Coke.  So, in honor of that delightful concoction in the red and silver can, I offer you the following hangover cure, unless that is, you have the misfortune, like me, to tie one on in California:

Diet Coke

1.  Ask your loving husband to open the can for you, because you know, all that fizzing is loud.

2.  Same with the ice.  Place it in the glass gently, and it's perfectly acceptable to rub a cube over your eyes or across your temples.  Pour. 

3.  Drink slowly to minimize all facial muscle movement.

4.  Promise your God, if you believe in god, that you will never, ever, drink that much wine again.

Pate de Canard en Croute--The Trilogy; Part III: So Very Tired

So here we are.  We have one duck that has been deboned, stuffed, stitched up, and then braised in a stick of hot butter.  We're about three and a half hours into this, and we aren't done.  We aren't even close.  The next step was for me, the killer: making pastry.  It looks simple enough--flour, a couple of eggs, water, and of course, because this is Julia Child's recipe, butter.

All to do now is knead it into a dough.  Piece of cake.  I dig in and start to knead.  And knead.  And knead.  It refuses to come together, so I add a little more water.  And knead some more.  And knead some more.  Pretty soon my upper body hurts like I've been lifting free weights all day.  Who knew you could burn so many calories making a dish that is obscenely caloric?  Perhaps I've resolved the French Paradox.


Ultimately, I simply give up.  I've been kneading for what seems like hours and all I have succeeded in doing is coating every surface of my kitchen with a fine dust of flour.  Since the place looks like a construction zone anyway, I bring out the power tools:

Voila!  Now we're getting somewhere.

Now I have a dough that I can actually roll out into a large sheet, and wrap it around my fine featherless friend.  Actually, I make two sheets.  I place the duck on one sheet and lay the other on top of the duck and cinch the two sheets together with some egg whites, pinching, and shamanic prayers.  It works.  It works well enough that I am now confident enough to get all Martha Stewart and decorate the contraption with fun and festive hearts. 

The worst is over.  Now it's simply time to stick duckie in the oven.  Don't forget to vent the top--or all your work may simply explodicate in the oven, which is never pretty.


Bye-bye Birdie.

  After roasting for 2 and half hours at 350 degrees, here's how duckie looks:

Even Julia would be proud.

But because this is the recipe from hell, we're still not done.  Remember that step where we sewed up our duckie friend?  Those were not edible sutures.  So.  Gently cut the pastry just below the part where you cinched it together, and gently remove the entire top half of the crust taking care not to break it to smithereens.  Gently set it aside, and delve into the cavity of the crust and cut out all the strings and stitches.  The only hard part is making sure that you get them all; once identified and cut, they pull out fairly easily.  (But for liability purposes, you may want to duly warn your guests of the inherent risks of this dish).  Next, gently put the top crust back on, and begin slicing.  Each serving (can you believe we're FINALLY ready to serve?) will be a cross-section of crust,duck stuffed with pate, and more crust.



Duck with braised celery root and scalloped potatoes

And because you haven't already worked hard enough, pair your masterpiece with some worthy side dishes, and schlep out your best china, silverware, and crystal.  This is an event to remember so make it as memorable as possible because trust me, you will never, ever, do this again. 



Pate de Canard en Croute--the Trilogy; Part II--Stuffed Duck

So here is where we left off:

                                                                          



Cognac, Truffles, and Port, oh my!

One poor flattened duck.  Time to plumb him up again, but like every step in this interminable recipe, this won't be easy.  Step one.  Marinate him overnight in some port, cognac, and truffles.   Yes--truffles, rhymes with "ruffles," but whereas Ruffles are cheap deep fat fried potato parts that can be found in every grocery store in most of the developed world, "truffles" are an incredibly expensive and exceedingly rare mushroom.  They're expensive because little old Frenchmen have to scour the Alsatian forests for years before they can ever find them, and when they do, they keep the knowledge of their location sacrosanct for generations.  I think that World War I was actually started by a Frenchmen who discovered a German stealing his truffles--or perhaps it was the other way around, but either way, a truffle is not something to be trifled with, and you need them for this recipe. 



Step Two.  Mix together 3/4 lb each of lean veal, pork, and pork fat. That's right sports fan--3/4  of a pound of  pure unadulterated, no preservatives added pork fat.  You should see the butchers at Wegman's go into a huddle as they ponder the mystery of the crazy chick in front of the counter who's not only asking for a pound of pork fat but who's also apparently willing to pay for it.  Even though they practically pulled it out of the trash, they still managed to charge me two bucks for it.

Empty Duck

So here we go.  Kind of like plumping up those furry little critters at Build-a-Bear workshop, we're going to stuff a duck.  Pull your marinating, but as yet empty duck, out of the refrigerator.  Lay him out. 





Step Three.   Take the mixture of veal, pork, and pork fat and mound it into the duck shell.  (I was going to say "duck carcass", but that's so unappetizing).  At this point it looks like a giant elongated meatball sitting on top of the duck.

Step Four.  For those of you (like me) that hated home economics because of the sewing part, this next step might well send you over the edge.  Take a giant coat needle, thread it with kitchen string and without tearing the duck's tender outer skin, stitch the whole thing up.    


The Eye of the Needle

   Important tip:  make sure that the tip of your needle is really sharp, or you will simply shred the duck's skin, and for this recipe to be successful, the duck and pate have to be fully encapsulated in the duck skin.  I obtained a needle that had been dutifully sharpened on a whet stone.  (Again, see this blog "Getting Started in the Kitchen"; Feb. 2011).  It worked like a charm.





Frankenduck

Step Five.  Our poor non-feathered friend has now suffered the indignations of being deboned, marinated, chilled, and stitched.  Now it's time to crisp up his skin.   Stuff him into a pan, heat him up, and turn every few minutes.  And be not mistaken, that's pure molten butter he's bathing in.


We're not done yet, but we're close.  Because this is a trilogy (and you thought Star Wars would never end), next installment we wrap him in homemade dough, bake, and dare I say it?  Eat him.  Stay tuned.

Pate de Canard en Croute--the Trilogy. Part I; Deboning a Duck

Pate de canard en croute is the signature dish of Julia Child.  In the movie Julie and Julia, you know where Julie Powell (the Amy Adams character) blogs her way through the entirety of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, it's the entre that she brings out at the end of the film to prove that she is one mean cook.  It's a recipe that takes up a 20 pages, including cross-references to other recipes, and took me about 8 hours to make.  I couldn't do the entire book--all I could manage was this one recipe and it pretty much kicked my butt.  That's why Julie Powell gets a full length feature movie starring Meryl Streep and Amy Adams and I get this blog.  Nonetheless, I did take the time to chronicle my pate de canard en croute with pictures, and I'll share it with you here. (My apologies in advance to my Facebook friends who will clearly recognize this series of postings as cheap re-runs.  I should add, however, that there is new material--sort of like buying a DVD of a movie that you've already seen because it's the "director's cut" version.)

Debone the Duck

Step One.  Get yourself some good knives because you are going to debone a duck.  (Cheap plug--see my first blog entry "Getting Started in the Kitchen" for a primer on getting a good knife).

Step Two.  Take the plastic off the duck and start cutting.  Make sure you start at the top of the backbone.  If you start at the belly, you're toast and you might as well just go buy another duck, and sheesh, they're expensive little buggers.



First Cut


Step Three.  You're still cutting.  Julia Child states that deboning your first duck will take about 45 minutes, but it's a well-known fact that she loved her gin.  I only got about half-way after 45 minutes.  It's a slow process wherein you keep your really sharp knife next to the carcass bone.  Just keep repeating--let the bone be my guide.  Sort of like Yoda telling Luke Skywalker to follow the Force.  Follow the bone.  Follow the bone.  But it takes time.  It took me just about 2 hours the first (and only) time to debone a duck.


 


45 minutes in and still cutting

 

Sort of looks like you backed over it with a truck.



Of course, when you are all done, you have a deflated duck and a bowl full of bones, which if you add 2 quarts of water and a mire poix, you will have a lovely duck soup.

Whew.  OK then.  Your kitchen now looks like you've been entertaining Freddy Krueger most of the day.  Clean the place up and come back for Part II--Stuffed Duck.