The World’s Best Smoked Tuna Dip
WATERCOLOR, Fla.— Twenty years ago, before I opened my first restaurant, I lived in the Florida Panhandle and worked as a waiter. I was single, the money was good, and I had the stress level of a turtle.
In my Florida days I awoke around 10 a.m., traveled across the street to the beach, walked a mile or so along the shore’s edge to June’s Dunes restaurant, ate breakfast, messed around in the sand and water most of the afternoon, showered, went to work, got off work around 10 p.m., showered, enjoyed the nightlife, fell into bed around 2 a.m., woke up at 10 a.m., lather, rinse, repeat…
These days, I wake at 5 a.m., exercise, have breakfast with the kids, work, eat lunch, work, have supper with the kids, spend time with the kids, and fall into the bed. Occasionally, around this time of year, I have been known to fall into bed before the sun has completely set. Even on vacation I wake up early, this is why I currently have the stress level of a gnat.
Even on a bad day I wouldn’t trade my current life for my past life, though it would be nice to toggle the stress level down a few notches.
In those days I worked at Harbor Docks, a restaurant with humble beginnings as a small, oyster bar/beer joint in 1979. By the time I joined the staff, the restaurant had an eight-year track record of success and had grown into one of the busiest restaurants and hottest nightspots in the area.
I ran into Harbor Docks owner, Charles Morgan, at Watercolor today. I hadn’t seen him in two decades. In the years since I left his restaurants we both have opened and closed several concepts, luckily opening more than we have closed. “There aren’t many of us (independent restaurateurs) around anymore,” he said. He is right.
In my hometown, and down here in the Destin area, the restaurant business is becoming increasingly corporate. This is not an anti-chain restaurant rant, I occasionally visit chain restaurants with my children. The problem is that the restaurants located off of the interstate ramp in Mississippi are the same as the ones located immediately off of the interstate in Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey. They tell you nothing about that community’s character.
It is becoming increasingly difficult for independent restaurants to thrive in today’s corporate culture. Once a charming fishing village filled with locally owned and operated seafood houses— most by ship’s captains or men who claimed to be ships captains— Destin has seen the same influx of chain restaurants as the rest of the country.
Harbor Docks is full of character and local characters. Every time I am in the area, I try to eat at Harbor Docks as many times as my schedule allows. Now opened for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I return for the food, to see old friends, and to relive those stress-free days, if even for a moment. My wife— who didn’t know me back then— likes to visit Harbor Docks for the smoked tuna dip. She likes my cooking, but she like Harbor Docks smoked tuna dip, more.
The smoked tuna dip at Harbor docks is, by far, the best in the area. Actually, it’s the best I have ever tasted. Over the years I have taken a few stabs at recreating a Harbor Dock’s version, but always come up short. After several failed attempts, and facing a cookbook deadline, I finally worked up a recipe for smoked crab dip, which is excellent, though my wife still prefers Harbor Docks smoked tuna dip.
There are several places in the Panhandle that serve smoked tuna dip. Bud and Alley’s restaurant at Seaside, serves a good version, though theirs relies more on mayonnaise. All of the seafood retailers serve a version of a smoked fish dip, though none come anywhere close to Harbor Docks.
While dining at Harbor Docks, we always eat a serving or two and then purchase several portions to take with us.
There are three reasons why Harbor Docks smoked tuna dip reigns supreme:
1.) Harbor Docks owns their own seafood market. It’s located next door. When the tuna hits the docks, it’s filleted, then smoked, and then immediately made into a dip.
2.) The smoked tuna dip is made fresh, from scratch, every morning.
3.) The recipe, like all good recipes, is simple and uncomplicated with minimal ingredients.
I called Charles to see if he would allow me to publish his recipe for smoked tuna dip. Without hesitation, he rattled off the ingredients. He has no idea how happy he has made my wife. Now I wonder if my former boss could do anything about this gnat-like stress level.
My Version of Harbor Docks Smoked Yellowfin Tuna Dip
1 lb Smoked Yellowfin tuna loin, minced
1 tsp Creole Seasoning
1 tsp Black Pepper
1 cup Hellman's Mayonnaise
Mix together and store refrigerated for up to five days.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Monday, June 11, 2007
The Camellia Grill
On a hot August day in 1989, I took a young, beautiful, and adventurous 22-year old girl to New Orleans for our first, out-of-town date.
We spent time in the French Quarter and then drove down Canal Street to admire the houses and their architecture. We were at the testing phase of the date to see whether tastes and interests were similar and/or compatible.
At the end of St. Charles Avenue at the river bend sat The Camellia Grill, the last of a breed— the classic American diner— an icon of a bygone era in the restaurant business, but one that was still going strong in New Orleans. Uptown locals and tourists sat side by side on one of the 28 stools in the small, sparsely decorated room and watched two cooks, four waiters— in white, pressed, jackets— and a few busboys serve some of the best diner food to be found anywhere.
My date ordered and ate a chili-cheese omelet— Make that a “yes” in the compatible column. I told myself then and there, “I’m gonna marry that girl,” and I did.
It’s not the most romantic beginning in the history of love affairs, but probably appropriate for me nonetheless. My wife and I have returned to The Camellia Grill many times since that hot August day.
The Camellia Grill was another Hurricane Katrina casualty until April 20th of this year. Over the last 18 months we have traveled to New Orleans many times, each time driving by the diner to check the status of the operation. Each time it was closed.
Someone left a pad of Post-it notes and a pen outside the restaurant. The front door, windows, and walls of the exterior were covered with various handwritten come-back-soon notes from those lamenting the loss of the neighborhood dining institution.
Almost 20 years after I took my future wife on that fateful date, I took my daughter to New Orleans to celebrate her 10th birthday. Over the years she has heard The Camellia Grill-chili-cheese omelet story a dozen times. When I asked where she wanted to eat lunch, The Camellia Grill was her first, and only, choice.
I have a feeling that— like the Civil War and World War II— all future events will be evaluated and remembered as “before” or “after” Hurricane Katrina in this part of the country. Given that, not much has changed at The Camellia Grill since the pre-Katrina days. The walls are mostly bare and are still painted an unusual shade of pink. The artwork is still the same except for the addition of a framed collage of recovered Post-it notes in the shape of a camellia. Linen napkins are still in use. The place seems cleaner. They now accept credit cards, and the hours of operation have been paired down, but they still serve the exact menu right down to the chili-cheese omelet.
Like the pre-Katrina days, there was a line of people on the sidewalk waiting to be seated. The wait for a stool lasted about 20 minutes. My daughter ordered a chili-cheese omelet “like momma did,” an order of fries, and a sweet tea. I nixed the sweet tea and told her about The Camellia Grill’s chocolate freeze with ice cream.
Some say that the official drink of New Orleans is the Pat O’Brien’s Hurricane, others the Sazerac. I hereby tender my vote for the chocolate freeze with ice cream at the Camellia Grill. A chocolate freeze is a combination of vanilla ice cream, milk, chocolate syrup, simple syrup, and ice, blended and served ice cold. It’s a chocolate shake on steroids, and it’s delicious, always has been, always will be.
They still grill a mean burger and they still cook pecan pie in a pool of butter right on the flat-top griddle. The service wasn’t quite what it used to be, but it wasn’t bad. One can’t expect to lose service veterans of 20-plus years and expect the same results.
It was a day of firsts: My daughter’s first chili-cheese omelet, her first chocolate freeze with ice cream, and the first day of her 10th year of life.
As we sat in The Camellia Grill celebrating the occasion of my daughter’s first decade on the planet; I couldn’t help but think back to that first date in August. If you would have asked me then to write a script of how I wanted my life to turn out, I would have been ashamed to ask for the embarrassment of riches that is my wife, children, and family life. I had no idea what life had in store for me. I am truly a lucky man. Welcome back, Camellia Grill.
Lemon Pie
6 Tbl Cornstarch
1 1 /2 cups Sugar
Zest and juice from 3 lemons
4 Egg yolks (whites reserved for the meringue)
2 cups Water, boiling
1 Pie crust, pre-baked
Combine the first four ingredients and beat together. Continue to stir and add the boiling water. Place mixture in a non-reactive saucepot and cook over low-medium heat until mixture thickens. Pour into the baked pie shell and set aside.
Meringue
4 Egg whites
6 Tbl Sugar
1 /2 tsp Cream of tartar
Beat the egg whites with an electric mixer. When they start to increase in volume, add the sugar and cream of tartar. Continue to beat until soft peaks form. Spread over the pie and bake at 350 degrees until golden, about 8-10 minutes. Allow pie to cool completely before serving. Yield: eight
On a hot August day in 1989, I took a young, beautiful, and adventurous 22-year old girl to New Orleans for our first, out-of-town date.
We spent time in the French Quarter and then drove down Canal Street to admire the houses and their architecture. We were at the testing phase of the date to see whether tastes and interests were similar and/or compatible.
At the end of St. Charles Avenue at the river bend sat The Camellia Grill, the last of a breed— the classic American diner— an icon of a bygone era in the restaurant business, but one that was still going strong in New Orleans. Uptown locals and tourists sat side by side on one of the 28 stools in the small, sparsely decorated room and watched two cooks, four waiters— in white, pressed, jackets— and a few busboys serve some of the best diner food to be found anywhere.My date ordered and ate a chili-cheese omelet— Make that a “yes” in the compatible column. I told myself then and there, “I’m gonna marry that girl,” and I did.
It’s not the most romantic beginning in the history of love affairs, but probably appropriate for me nonetheless. My wife and I have returned to The Camellia Grill many times since that hot August day.
The Camellia Grill was another Hurricane Katrina casualty until April 20th of this year. Over the last 18 months we have traveled to New Orleans many times, each time driving by the diner to check the status of the operation. Each time it was closed.
Someone left a pad of Post-it notes and a pen outside the restaurant. The front door, windows, and walls of the exterior were covered with various handwritten come-back-soon notes from those lamenting the loss of the neighborhood dining institution.Almost 20 years after I took my future wife on that fateful date, I took my daughter to New Orleans to celebrate her 10th birthday. Over the years she has heard The Camellia Grill-chili-cheese omelet story a dozen times. When I asked where she wanted to eat lunch, The Camellia Grill was her first, and only, choice.
I have a feeling that— like the Civil War and World War II— all future events will be evaluated and remembered as “before” or “after” Hurricane Katrina in this part of the country. Given that, not much has changed at The Camellia Grill since the pre-Katrina days. The walls are mostly bare and are still painted an unusual shade of pink. The artwork is still the same except for the addition of a framed collage of recovered Post-it notes in the shape of a camellia. Linen napkins are still in use. The place seems cleaner. They now accept credit cards, and the hours of operation have been paired down, but they still serve the exact menu right down to the chili-cheese omelet.
Like the pre-Katrina days, there was a line of people on the sidewalk waiting to be seated. The wait for a stool lasted about 20 minutes. My daughter ordered a chili-cheese omelet “like momma did,” an order of fries, and a sweet tea. I nixed the sweet tea and told her about The Camellia Grill’s chocolate freeze with ice cream.
Some say that the official drink of New Orleans is the Pat O’Brien’s Hurricane, others the Sazerac. I hereby tender my vote for the chocolate freeze with ice cream at the Camellia Grill. A chocolate freeze is a combination of vanilla ice cream, milk, chocolate syrup, simple syrup, and ice, blended and served ice cold. It’s a chocolate shake on steroids, and it’s delicious, always has been, always will be.They still grill a mean burger and they still cook pecan pie in a pool of butter right on the flat-top griddle. The service wasn’t quite what it used to be, but it wasn’t bad. One can’t expect to lose service veterans of 20-plus years and expect the same results.
It was a day of firsts: My daughter’s first chili-cheese omelet, her first chocolate freeze with ice cream, and the first day of her 10th year of life.
As we sat in The Camellia Grill celebrating the occasion of my daughter’s first decade on the planet; I couldn’t help but think back to that first date in August. If you would have asked me then to write a script of how I wanted my life to turn out, I would have been ashamed to ask for the embarrassment of riches that is my wife, children, and family life. I had no idea what life had in store for me. I am truly a lucky man. Welcome back, Camellia Grill.
Lemon Pie
6 Tbl Cornstarch
1 1 /2 cups Sugar
Zest and juice from 3 lemons
4 Egg yolks (whites reserved for the meringue)
2 cups Water, boiling
1 Pie crust, pre-baked
Combine the first four ingredients and beat together. Continue to stir and add the boiling water. Place mixture in a non-reactive saucepot and cook over low-medium heat until mixture thickens. Pour into the baked pie shell and set aside.
Meringue
4 Egg whites
6 Tbl Sugar
1 /2 tsp Cream of tartar
Beat the egg whites with an electric mixer. When they start to increase in volume, add the sugar and cream of tartar. Continue to beat until soft peaks form. Spread over the pie and bake at 350 degrees until golden, about 8-10 minutes. Allow pie to cool completely before serving. Yield: eight
Monday, June 04, 2007
Luke
My daughter turned ten-years old last week.
To celebrate her decade on the planet she asked to be taken to New Orleans to eat breakfast, lunch, and shop (not necessarily in that order).
The moment she mentioned breakfast I knew exactly where to take her. Chef John Besh has opened yet another restaurant— Luke. Actually it’s “Luke” with two of those uber dots over the “u” but I don’t know how to make those show up on my computer. So for this column’s sake, it’s just plain Luke.
Besh— the busiest man in the restaurant business— fresh off of his James Beard award winning year as “Best Chef Southeast,” owns and operates restaurant August, one of the South’s most acclaimed restaurants. He also owns and operates the Besh Steak in the Harrah’s Casino in New Orleans, and recently purchased the North Shore stalwart— La Provence— from the late Chef Chris Kerageorgiou. Now Besh has opened Luke at the newly renovated Hilton New Orleans on St. Charles between Canal and Poydras Streets where he is serving breakfast, lunch, dinner, room service, and banquets.
Hilton just finished an $11 million spruce up of the Hotel Monaco. The original building was a Masonic Temple in the mid 1920s and was the second high rise structure in the Central Business District. The space that restaurant Luke occupies, most recently housed one of Chef Susan Spicer’s offspring restaurants— Cobalt.
Besh quietly opened Luke in mid April. It has been on my to-do list for three weeks. I was glad my daughter helped make the choice for me.
Luke is a brasserie and the atmosphere is mostly authentic, though it looks slightly rushed, as if the design team was working quickly to meet a deadline. Daily newspapers are casually draped over brass rails throughout the dining room. The new floor and ceiling add to the authentic “feel” of a well-established restaurant this country’s most European city, but the bar is newly constructed and not nearly as ornate as one would expect in a dining room of the target era to which Luke aspires. Luke’s decorator would have done better purchasing an authentic antique bar at auction (and more comfortable chairs).
Being new, Luke hasn’t earned the worn look of most restaurants of the same caliber in and around the French Quarter. However, what Luke lacks in atmosphere, it more than makes up in food. Based on my visit, and after only one month of business, Luke might be serving the best breakfast in the city.
My entrée consisted of two perfectly poached eggs with shrimp, andouille sausage, and tomato gravy over biscuits. I ordered a rasher of Allan Benton’s bacon to accompany my entrée, and became instantly grateful that I live 90 miles away from a restaurant that serves breakfast of that caliber.
Actually, my gratitude was two-fold in that I felt fortunate to be within driving distance, but also grateful that the distance precludes me from eating breakfast at Luke every day (I might). My waistline and cholesterol level couldn’t take a daily dose of food that good, though I would die trying.
The andouille is made by Jacob’s World Famous Andouille and Sausage on Airline Highway in La Place (www.cajunsausage.com ) and might be the finest example of that sausage variety available. I have eaten Jacob’s andouille on several occasions, but never at breakfast. It tastes great always. It tastes better at breakfast.
My wife ordered an omelet made with Benton’s bacon, spinach, and wild mushrooms and cleaned her plate. My son ordered pancakes with a side of bacon, and halfway through the meal proclaimed, “Daddy, this bacon’s the bomb!” In six-year old speak, that means it’s really good.
The birthday girl ordered the Southern Breakfast with two organic eggs, scrambled, smoked ham, grits, and a biscuit. She cleaned her plate.
When the summer schedules become more manageable, I plan to make a few culinary road trips just to eat breakfast and drive back home. Breakfast at Luke is that good.
Though breakfast is excellent, lunch is Luke’s busiest day part, and one might want to make reservations a few days ahead of time. August was already serving the best dinner in New Orleans. Now Luke is offering the best breakfast. Not an easy feat in one of the nation’s top food cities.
This most recent addition to the Besh restaurant empire is notable to me because breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. Luke will most certainly be around for many years to come.
Next week: The birthday lunch at the newly reopened Camellia Grill.
Grillades and Grits
2 lbs Veal top round cut into two-inch strips
2 tsp Kosher salt
1 Tbl Black pepper, fresh ground
1 /2 cup Bacon grease (or canola oil)
3 /4 cup Flour
3 /4 cup Onion, diced
1 /4 cup Shallot, minced
1 /2 cup Celery, diced
1 tsp Garlic, minced
3 /4 cup Green bell pepper, diced
1 /2 tsp Dried thyme
3 cups Chicken broth, hot
1 cup Tomatoes, peeled, large dice
1 /2 cup Red wine
2 tsp Hot Sauce
1 Bay leaf
1 tsp. Salt
Place one to two tablespoons of the bacon grease in a large heavy skillet and place on high heat. Season meat with one teaspoon of the fresh ground pepper and the kosher salt. Place the meat in hot skillet. Once browned, remove meat from the skillet.
Place the remainder of the bacon grease into skillet. Once melted, lower heat and slowly stir in flour. Cook three to four minutes. Add onion, shallot, celery, peppers, thyme and garlic. Continue to cook roux mixture for four to five minutes. Using a wire whip stir in the hot chicken broth, red wine, bay leaf and tomatoes and bring to a simmer.
Add veal back to the mixture and cook over a very low heat for two to three hours, stirring occasionally. When meat is tender stir in hot sauce, the remaining black pepper and salt.
Prepare garlic cheese grits during the last 30 minutes of cooking. Spoon grits onto a serving dish and top with grillades. Yield: eight servings
My daughter turned ten-years old last week.
To celebrate her decade on the planet she asked to be taken to New Orleans to eat breakfast, lunch, and shop (not necessarily in that order).
The moment she mentioned breakfast I knew exactly where to take her. Chef John Besh has opened yet another restaurant— Luke. Actually it’s “Luke” with two of those uber dots over the “u” but I don’t know how to make those show up on my computer. So for this column’s sake, it’s just plain Luke.
Besh— the busiest man in the restaurant business— fresh off of his James Beard award winning year as “Best Chef Southeast,” owns and operates restaurant August, one of the South’s most acclaimed restaurants. He also owns and operates the Besh Steak in the Harrah’s Casino in New Orleans, and recently purchased the North Shore stalwart— La Provence— from the late Chef Chris Kerageorgiou. Now Besh has opened Luke at the newly renovated Hilton New Orleans on St. Charles between Canal and Poydras Streets where he is serving breakfast, lunch, dinner, room service, and banquets.
Hilton just finished an $11 million spruce up of the Hotel Monaco. The original building was a Masonic Temple in the mid 1920s and was the second high rise structure in the Central Business District. The space that restaurant Luke occupies, most recently housed one of Chef Susan Spicer’s offspring restaurants— Cobalt.
Besh quietly opened Luke in mid April. It has been on my to-do list for three weeks. I was glad my daughter helped make the choice for me.
Luke is a brasserie and the atmosphere is mostly authentic, though it looks slightly rushed, as if the design team was working quickly to meet a deadline. Daily newspapers are casually draped over brass rails throughout the dining room. The new floor and ceiling add to the authentic “feel” of a well-established restaurant this country’s most European city, but the bar is newly constructed and not nearly as ornate as one would expect in a dining room of the target era to which Luke aspires. Luke’s decorator would have done better purchasing an authentic antique bar at auction (and more comfortable chairs).
Being new, Luke hasn’t earned the worn look of most restaurants of the same caliber in and around the French Quarter. However, what Luke lacks in atmosphere, it more than makes up in food. Based on my visit, and after only one month of business, Luke might be serving the best breakfast in the city.
My entrée consisted of two perfectly poached eggs with shrimp, andouille sausage, and tomato gravy over biscuits. I ordered a rasher of Allan Benton’s bacon to accompany my entrée, and became instantly grateful that I live 90 miles away from a restaurant that serves breakfast of that caliber.
Actually, my gratitude was two-fold in that I felt fortunate to be within driving distance, but also grateful that the distance precludes me from eating breakfast at Luke every day (I might). My waistline and cholesterol level couldn’t take a daily dose of food that good, though I would die trying.
The andouille is made by Jacob’s World Famous Andouille and Sausage on Airline Highway in La Place (www.cajunsausage.com ) and might be the finest example of that sausage variety available. I have eaten Jacob’s andouille on several occasions, but never at breakfast. It tastes great always. It tastes better at breakfast.
My wife ordered an omelet made with Benton’s bacon, spinach, and wild mushrooms and cleaned her plate. My son ordered pancakes with a side of bacon, and halfway through the meal proclaimed, “Daddy, this bacon’s the bomb!” In six-year old speak, that means it’s really good.
The birthday girl ordered the Southern Breakfast with two organic eggs, scrambled, smoked ham, grits, and a biscuit. She cleaned her plate.
When the summer schedules become more manageable, I plan to make a few culinary road trips just to eat breakfast and drive back home. Breakfast at Luke is that good.
Though breakfast is excellent, lunch is Luke’s busiest day part, and one might want to make reservations a few days ahead of time. August was already serving the best dinner in New Orleans. Now Luke is offering the best breakfast. Not an easy feat in one of the nation’s top food cities.
This most recent addition to the Besh restaurant empire is notable to me because breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. Luke will most certainly be around for many years to come.
Next week: The birthday lunch at the newly reopened Camellia Grill.
Grillades and Grits
2 lbs Veal top round cut into two-inch strips
2 tsp Kosher salt
1 Tbl Black pepper, fresh ground
1 /2 cup Bacon grease (or canola oil)
3 /4 cup Flour
3 /4 cup Onion, diced
1 /4 cup Shallot, minced
1 /2 cup Celery, diced
1 tsp Garlic, minced
3 /4 cup Green bell pepper, diced
1 /2 tsp Dried thyme
3 cups Chicken broth, hot
1 cup Tomatoes, peeled, large dice
1 /2 cup Red wine
2 tsp Hot Sauce
1 Bay leaf
1 tsp. Salt
Place one to two tablespoons of the bacon grease in a large heavy skillet and place on high heat. Season meat with one teaspoon of the fresh ground pepper and the kosher salt. Place the meat in hot skillet. Once browned, remove meat from the skillet.
Place the remainder of the bacon grease into skillet. Once melted, lower heat and slowly stir in flour. Cook three to four minutes. Add onion, shallot, celery, peppers, thyme and garlic. Continue to cook roux mixture for four to five minutes. Using a wire whip stir in the hot chicken broth, red wine, bay leaf and tomatoes and bring to a simmer.
Add veal back to the mixture and cook over a very low heat for two to three hours, stirring occasionally. When meat is tender stir in hot sauce, the remaining black pepper and salt.
Prepare garlic cheese grits during the last 30 minutes of cooking. Spoon grits onto a serving dish and top with grillades. Yield: eight servings
Monday, May 28, 2007
Top Secret Ceviche
ISLA MUJERES, MEXICO— The next time I gripe about the summer heat in Mississippi, I will try to remember Mexico at noon, in May.
Business took me to the Yucatan Peninsula, and the Easternmost point of Mexico, an island on the Caribbean Sea— Isla Mujeres. The island is surrounded by clear, turquoise water with— what one person described as— 200-foot vertical visibility. The North beach of the island is where the Corona commercials are filmed and it is easy to understand why the locale was such a good fit for the beach-oriented beer company.
Two nights at a small, eight-room, Zen-like hotel, wasn’t enough to slow my system down to island speed, but the restaurant inside Casa de los Suenos served a ceviche good enough to warrant— if not a move to the island— several visits per year.
The dish was well-known on the island. When we told the taxi driver where we were staying, he said, “try their ceviche.” The hotel’s clerk talked about the ceviche, the man who showed us to our room and gave us a tour of the property told us about the ceviche, and a British couple that we met in town told us about the hotel’s ceviche. All recommendations were unsolicited.
While dining in the restaurant that evening, I did what I always do and asked the server what he recommended. It was no surprise when his response was, “our ceviche is the best.” When that many people recommend a dish, there are two directions the meal can go: It can live up to its pre-billing, or it can be a total letdown.
I am glad to report that the Casa de los Suenos ceviche exceeded its advance billing.
The hotel’s restaurant—The Alhambra— belied its name. “Alhambra” in Spanish means fortress. The restaurant Alhambra at Casa de los Suenos was anything but. Located under a high-pitched thatched roof, open on three sides with salt-air breezes blowing off of the Bay of Mujeres and the sun setting over Cancun in the distance, the restaurant— like the hotel— was serene and peaceful.
Ceviche is a cold, marinated, seafood salad that is cooked without heat using citrus. The citric acid in the fruit denatures the proteins in the seafood which cooks, or pickles, the dish. The mixture only marinates for 30 minutes and is a perfect meal in hot weather, typically served with some type of chip or bread.
The ceviche at Casa de los Suenos was indeed the best I have ever eaten— by a long shot.
I asked the waiter what made it so good and he replied that it was “just a hint of freshly squeezed orange juice.” I tasted lime, cilantro, and onion, but no orange.
The next day while talking to one of the hotel employees he said that it was key limes that made the ceviche stand out from all of the others. Yet another employee talked of a touch of imported olive oil.
The recipe was said to be a “hotel secret” But for a “secret” there were a whole lot of people offering their opinions. My guess is that it’s a slight combination of all of the above.
When I asked the hotel manager for the actual recipe he returned a few hours later with a small piece of hotel stationery. On it— typed and centered— were the words: “Ceviche Wayak, fresh fish, shrimp, avocado, onion, tomatoe (sic, the Quayle spelling), cucumber, olive, lemon, pepper, and salt.” There were no measurements or procedures, just ingredients. Olive oil, Key limes, orange juice, and cilantro were nowhere to be found.
I don’t speak Spanish, so my request might have been lost in translation. If I had to guess I would probably say that there is no recipe. The chef, or chefs, there were two different chefs on two different nights, probably eyeballs the mixture. The ceviche of the first night was slightly better than the ceviche of the second night. Though the second night’s version was still better than any I have eaten.
Many chefs give out recipes freely; others guard them with great secrecy. I used to be of the latter variety, but it’s hard to be in the cookbook-writing business and not give away recipes.
When I return home, I will begin experimenting with a new ceviche recipe using the Alhambra’s version as inspiration. Once completed, I know it will be one that I will prepare all summer and for many summers to come. Now if I could just figure out a way to recreate those salt-air
breezes.
ISLA MUJERES, MEXICO— The next time I gripe about the summer heat in Mississippi, I will try to remember Mexico at noon, in May.
Business took me to the Yucatan Peninsula, and the Easternmost point of Mexico, an island on the Caribbean Sea— Isla Mujeres. The island is surrounded by clear, turquoise water with— what one person described as— 200-foot vertical visibility. The North beach of the island is where the Corona commercials are filmed and it is easy to understand why the locale was such a good fit for the beach-oriented beer company.
Two nights at a small, eight-room, Zen-like hotel, wasn’t enough to slow my system down to island speed, but the restaurant inside Casa de los Suenos served a ceviche good enough to warrant— if not a move to the island— several visits per year.The dish was well-known on the island. When we told the taxi driver where we were staying, he said, “try their ceviche.” The hotel’s clerk talked about the ceviche, the man who showed us to our room and gave us a tour of the property told us about the ceviche, and a British couple that we met in town told us about the hotel’s ceviche. All recommendations were unsolicited.
While dining in the restaurant that evening, I did what I always do and asked the server what he recommended. It was no surprise when his response was, “our ceviche is the best.” When that many people recommend a dish, there are two directions the meal can go: It can live up to its pre-billing, or it can be a total letdown.
I am glad to report that the Casa de los Suenos ceviche exceeded its advance billing.The hotel’s restaurant—The Alhambra— belied its name. “Alhambra” in Spanish means fortress. The restaurant Alhambra at Casa de los Suenos was anything but. Located under a high-pitched thatched roof, open on three sides with salt-air breezes blowing off of the Bay of Mujeres and the sun setting over Cancun in the distance, the restaurant— like the hotel— was serene and peaceful.
Ceviche is a cold, marinated, seafood salad that is cooked without heat using citrus. The citric acid in the fruit denatures the proteins in the seafood which cooks, or pickles, the dish. The mixture only marinates for 30 minutes and is a perfect meal in hot weather, typically served with some type of chip or bread.
The ceviche at Casa de los Suenos was indeed the best I have ever eaten— by a long shot.I asked the waiter what made it so good and he replied that it was “just a hint of freshly squeezed orange juice.” I tasted lime, cilantro, and onion, but no orange.
The next day while talking to one of the hotel employees he said that it was key limes that made the ceviche stand out from all of the others. Yet another employee talked of a touch of imported olive oil.
The recipe was said to be a “hotel secret” But for a “secret” there were a whole lot of people offering their opinions. My guess is that it’s a slight combination of all of the above.
When I asked the hotel manager for the actual recipe he returned a few hours later with a small piece of hotel stationery. On it— typed and centered— were the words: “Ceviche Wayak, fresh fish, shrimp, avocado, onion, tomatoe (sic, the Quayle spelling), cucumber, olive, lemon, pepper, and salt.” There were no measurements or procedures, just ingredients. Olive oil, Key limes, orange juice, and cilantro were nowhere to be found.I don’t speak Spanish, so my request might have been lost in translation. If I had to guess I would probably say that there is no recipe. The chef, or chefs, there were two different chefs on two different nights, probably eyeballs the mixture. The ceviche of the first night was slightly better than the ceviche of the second night. Though the second night’s version was still better than any I have eaten.
Many chefs give out recipes freely; others guard them with great secrecy. I used to be of the latter variety, but it’s hard to be in the cookbook-writing business and not give away recipes.
When I return home, I will begin experimenting with a new ceviche recipe using the Alhambra’s version as inspiration. Once completed, I know it will be one that I will prepare all summer and for many summers to come. Now if I could just figure out a way to recreate those salt-air
breezes. Monday, May 21, 2007
The Great Soft-Shell Crab Crisis of 2007
News travels fast, but incorrect news travels even faster.
Five weeks ago I wrote a column that opened with this sentence: “Soft-shell crab season is here. Halleluiah, amen, and pass the Remoulade sauce!” That was a true statement— at the time. By the time the column was published there were no soft shells to be found. Anywhere.
The season’s first two shipments of fresh soft shell crabs had arrived, and— as I usually do around this time of year— I wrote passionately of my love for the saltwater delicacy.
Typically once the season starts, we ride the soft-shell wave all the way through the fall. This year the season ended almost as soon as it began.
I knew that I might be in trouble when I walked through the dining room of our Hattiesburg restaurant during lunch on the day that the first newspaper published the column. A man called me over to his table. He had read the morning newspaper and had driven the 90 miles from Jackson to Hattiesburg to eat crab. Unfortunately, there were no crabs to be found. Even more unfortunate— he works for the U.S. Attorney’s office. Lucky for me, he was sympathetic to my dilemma. I took his business card and told him that I would call as soon as we received more crabs.
By the time all of the out-of-town newspapers had run the column, other faraway customers had made the soft-shell crab pilgrimage to their local restaurants to find the cupboards bare there, too.
Linda Nance, Chef de Cuisine at the Purple Parrot Café began hearing from her seafood suppliers, “Robert wrote this article, and all of a sudden everyone wanted soft shells. Customers are coming in to restaurants all across the state, in Louisiana, and Mobile, too. But we don’t have any crabs.”
Another supplier commented, “Ever since Robert wrote that column, they (soft shell crabs) have fallen off of the face of the earth. It’s the worst we’ve seen in 30 years. He put a curse on them”
Still another supplier credited me with jinxing the entire soft-shell crab industry by writing the column. Today, when I called him to check progress of the crab season, he said, “I’m glad you’re writing another article. Maybe the jinx will work in reverse and the crabs will start coming in.”
In my 26 years in the restaurant business, I have never seen such a bad year for soft shell crabs. I have also never seen such irate customers. Soft shell crabs bring out passion in diners. My managers have been hearing from enraged customers for five weeks. They receive several phone calls and a few uncomfortable dining-room visits every day.
The season started like all others. The crabs trickled in a few at a time, and then we got two large shipments, I wrote the column, then nothing. A select few ate crab while I ate crow.
There are several reasons for the lack of soft-shell crab production this season. First and foremost, about one-third of the crabbers haven’t returned to business after Hurricane Katrina. There are other reasons— the cold snap that passed through a few weeks back, followed by bad weather, then high winds. When it’s cold and windy crabs go into hiding. Now shrimp season has begun and many crabbers pull their traps out of the water so the shrimp trolls don’t tear them up.
If you’re eating soft-shells right now, odds are they’re frozen. The East coast season starts in a few weeks. But it’s a sad day when we look to Maryland for soft-shell crabs. The East coast blue crabs are dredged ours are caught in traps. We release all crabs that are 5 1/2 inches and under. Our crabs are bigger, too. Maryland’s large is a Louisiana medium.
Our restaurant sells approximately 150 soft-shell crabs per week from April through October. Last week we received three dozen soft shells from our suppliers. They were the first we have seen in a month. We sold them all in a matter of hours.
We’ve had such a slow start, maybe the season will run later this year. Late or not, you’re going to have to find out about soft shells on your own. I’m not saying another word (except to my newfound friend in the U.S. Attorney’s office).
News travels fast, but incorrect news travels even faster.
Five weeks ago I wrote a column that opened with this sentence: “Soft-shell crab season is here. Halleluiah, amen, and pass the Remoulade sauce!” That was a true statement— at the time. By the time the column was published there were no soft shells to be found. Anywhere.
The season’s first two shipments of fresh soft shell crabs had arrived, and— as I usually do around this time of year— I wrote passionately of my love for the saltwater delicacy.
Typically once the season starts, we ride the soft-shell wave all the way through the fall. This year the season ended almost as soon as it began.
I knew that I might be in trouble when I walked through the dining room of our Hattiesburg restaurant during lunch on the day that the first newspaper published the column. A man called me over to his table. He had read the morning newspaper and had driven the 90 miles from Jackson to Hattiesburg to eat crab. Unfortunately, there were no crabs to be found. Even more unfortunate— he works for the U.S. Attorney’s office. Lucky for me, he was sympathetic to my dilemma. I took his business card and told him that I would call as soon as we received more crabs.
By the time all of the out-of-town newspapers had run the column, other faraway customers had made the soft-shell crab pilgrimage to their local restaurants to find the cupboards bare there, too.
Linda Nance, Chef de Cuisine at the Purple Parrot Café began hearing from her seafood suppliers, “Robert wrote this article, and all of a sudden everyone wanted soft shells. Customers are coming in to restaurants all across the state, in Louisiana, and Mobile, too. But we don’t have any crabs.”
Another supplier commented, “Ever since Robert wrote that column, they (soft shell crabs) have fallen off of the face of the earth. It’s the worst we’ve seen in 30 years. He put a curse on them”
Still another supplier credited me with jinxing the entire soft-shell crab industry by writing the column. Today, when I called him to check progress of the crab season, he said, “I’m glad you’re writing another article. Maybe the jinx will work in reverse and the crabs will start coming in.”
In my 26 years in the restaurant business, I have never seen such a bad year for soft shell crabs. I have also never seen such irate customers. Soft shell crabs bring out passion in diners. My managers have been hearing from enraged customers for five weeks. They receive several phone calls and a few uncomfortable dining-room visits every day.The season started like all others. The crabs trickled in a few at a time, and then we got two large shipments, I wrote the column, then nothing. A select few ate crab while I ate crow.
There are several reasons for the lack of soft-shell crab production this season. First and foremost, about one-third of the crabbers haven’t returned to business after Hurricane Katrina. There are other reasons— the cold snap that passed through a few weeks back, followed by bad weather, then high winds. When it’s cold and windy crabs go into hiding. Now shrimp season has begun and many crabbers pull their traps out of the water so the shrimp trolls don’t tear them up.
If you’re eating soft-shells right now, odds are they’re frozen. The East coast season starts in a few weeks. But it’s a sad day when we look to Maryland for soft-shell crabs. The East coast blue crabs are dredged ours are caught in traps. We release all crabs that are 5 1/2 inches and under. Our crabs are bigger, too. Maryland’s large is a Louisiana medium.
Our restaurant sells approximately 150 soft-shell crabs per week from April through October. Last week we received three dozen soft shells from our suppliers. They were the first we have seen in a month. We sold them all in a matter of hours.
We’ve had such a slow start, maybe the season will run later this year. Late or not, you’re going to have to find out about soft shells on your own. I’m not saying another word (except to my newfound friend in the U.S. Attorney’s office).
..
Fried Soft Shell Crab
6 Soft shell crabs, cleaned
2 cups Milk
2 Eggs
1 Tbl. Dried tarragon
4 Tbl. Cayenne and Garlic Hot Sauce
2 Tbl. Creole Seasoning
3 cups Seasoned flour
Combine milk, eggs, tarragon, Cayenne and Garlic Sauce, Creole Seasoning and mix well. Gently drop the crabs in the seasoned milk mixture and place all in the refrigerator and marinate for at least 6 hours.
When you are ready to cook the crabs, pour peanut oil to two inches deep in a skillet and bring to a temperature of 350 degrees. Take crabs out of the milk mixture one at a time and lightly dust them in the seasoned flour. Be careful to keep all of the legs attached and gently separate the legs that stick together.
Slowly glide the crab (shell side down) into the hot oil, being careful not to splash. Cook approximately 2 minutes and turn over for another minute. Remove the crabs and drain on paper towels.
Serve with Remoulade, tartar, or comeback sauce.
Yield: 6 servings
6 Soft shell crabs, cleaned
2 cups Milk
2 Eggs
1 Tbl. Dried tarragon
4 Tbl. Cayenne and Garlic Hot Sauce
2 Tbl. Creole Seasoning
3 cups Seasoned flour
Combine milk, eggs, tarragon, Cayenne and Garlic Sauce, Creole Seasoning and mix well. Gently drop the crabs in the seasoned milk mixture and place all in the refrigerator and marinate for at least 6 hours.
When you are ready to cook the crabs, pour peanut oil to two inches deep in a skillet and bring to a temperature of 350 degrees. Take crabs out of the milk mixture one at a time and lightly dust them in the seasoned flour. Be careful to keep all of the legs attached and gently separate the legs that stick together.
Slowly glide the crab (shell side down) into the hot oil, being careful not to splash. Cook approximately 2 minutes and turn over for another minute. Remove the crabs and drain on paper towels.
Serve with Remoulade, tartar, or comeback sauce.
Yield: 6 servings
Monday, May 14, 2007
Donuts and Age
I am in my 46th year. Some days I feel every minute of those four and a half decades, others I feel as I did in my teens. My wife would say that, maturity-wise, I am still in my teens… early teens.
I ate breakfast this past Saturday and felt older than I have ever felt before. Sadly, I have reached an age where I can’t eat donuts and feel good afterwards. It was 7:30 a.m. and I was instantly tired, listless, bloated, and ready for a nap. Et tu donut?
Donuts are the universal breakfast treat. Sure eggs and bacon might rule the roost, but donuts were the first hand-held, drive-through breakfast item out there. Long before egg-filled burritos, French toast sticks, and pancake sandwiches with the syrup built into the bread, there were donuts. They were simple and they were good.
I have a long and storied history with donuts. As a kid, I stopped by the donut shop on my way to school. My church always had donuts on Sunday morning, and at Sunday-night church, we ate the leftover donuts cold. While working at a radio station during high school, I finished my air shift at midnight and stopped by the donut shop for a couple of custard-filled donuts and a pint of milk. As a bachelor living in Destin, Fla., I often visited The Donut Hole in the wee hours of the morning— all this and a 32-inch waist, too.
When my daughter was born, I used to take her to the donut shop every Saturday morning to watch the men make the donuts. She loved it.
Recently, I have used the donut shop as a rare, surprise treat for the kids, as I occasionally stopped by on the way home from church or another activity. The first time I did it the kids went wild. “Donuts at 8:30 at night? Dad, you’re the best! Mom is gonna kill you!” Those surprises have become less common as the no-more-donuts-for-Robert realization has begun to sink in.
Granted, donuts might be one of the most unhealthy foods out there—bread, deep-fried in grease, and then topped with sugar and chocolate— but I used to have an iron constitution. I could eat anything and it didn’t affect me.
I used to be able to drink highly caffeinated beverages at bedtime and sleep all night, not anymore. Last year I learned that I can no longer enjoy a roller coaster ride. Somewhere in my late 30s, my thrill-ride equilibrium flew out the window. Today I have more hair on my back than I do on my head. And where did this hair in my ears come from?
I see old men hanging out in donut shops all of the time. Their mornings are filled with newspapers, gossip, cigarettes, gallons of coffee, and donuts. They have hair in their ears, too. How do they walk away from the donut shop not feeling poorly?
As a kid I could eat anything. I ate a lot and I ate often. When I reached my mid 30s, my metabolism took a nap— a long nap— and has yet to wake up.
I am past middle-aged. Some say that 60-years old is middle aged. Sure, it’s middle-aged if you are going to live to be 120. I figure I hit middle age around my 43rd birthday. I’ll take 86 years on the planet— men die young in my family.
I wonder if there are any other foods that I will have to stop eating. If so, I will gladly give up Brussels sprouts right now if I can have my once-a-month donut fix returned. I would give up cauliflower and kiwi for a few more years of roller coaster riding. Apricots for chocolate cake, that’s an easy trade. What if rib-eye steak starts making me feel poorly, or bacon? I don’t know if a life without bacon is worth the effort.
Before long I’ll be wearing goofy pajamas, reading the obituary column, and reeking of Bengay, while surviving on a steady diet of Cream of Wheat, and Ensure. But I’m not going down without a fight, so pass the donuts (and the Mylanta, and the aspirin).
Amaretto-Brulee Breakfast Bread
1 /3 cup Butter, melted
3 /4 cup Brown sugar
2 Tbl Honey
2 Tbl Pecans, chopped (optional)
2 Tbl Almonds, slivered and blanched (optional)
8 French bread croutons, cut into 1-inch thick rounds
4 Eggs
2 /3 cup Milk
1 /4 cup Heavy cream
1 /8 tsp Cinnamon
1 /8 tsp Nutmeg
1 Tbl Vanilla
1 Tbl Amaretto
French bread croutons should be cut out of a baguette-style French bread loaf. Slices should be one inch thick.
In a cast iron skillet, combine butter, brown sugar and honey over medium-high heat. Cook mixture, stirring constantly until bubbly and sugar has dissolved. Add nuts. Pour Brulee into the bottom of a round, two-quart Pyrex baking dish. Allow Brulee to cool slightly then top with the French bread croutons.
In a large mixing bowl whisk eggs, milk, heavy cream, cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla and Amaretto. Pour mixture evenly over the croutons. Using the tips of your fingers, press bread down gently to force custard into croutons without breaking. Cover dish with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Allow custard to come to room temperature one hour before baking. Bake uncovered until French bread is puffed and edges of croutons are golden brown, (approximately 40 minutes). Place a plate on top of the baking dish. Using dish towels or pot holders, invert dish onto a plate. Top with powdered sugar. Yield: four to six servings
I am in my 46th year. Some days I feel every minute of those four and a half decades, others I feel as I did in my teens. My wife would say that, maturity-wise, I am still in my teens… early teens.
I ate breakfast this past Saturday and felt older than I have ever felt before. Sadly, I have reached an age where I can’t eat donuts and feel good afterwards. It was 7:30 a.m. and I was instantly tired, listless, bloated, and ready for a nap. Et tu donut?
Donuts are the universal breakfast treat. Sure eggs and bacon might rule the roost, but donuts were the first hand-held, drive-through breakfast item out there. Long before egg-filled burritos, French toast sticks, and pancake sandwiches with the syrup built into the bread, there were donuts. They were simple and they were good.I have a long and storied history with donuts. As a kid, I stopped by the donut shop on my way to school. My church always had donuts on Sunday morning, and at Sunday-night church, we ate the leftover donuts cold. While working at a radio station during high school, I finished my air shift at midnight and stopped by the donut shop for a couple of custard-filled donuts and a pint of milk. As a bachelor living in Destin, Fla., I often visited The Donut Hole in the wee hours of the morning— all this and a 32-inch waist, too.
When my daughter was born, I used to take her to the donut shop every Saturday morning to watch the men make the donuts. She loved it.
Recently, I have used the donut shop as a rare, surprise treat for the kids, as I occasionally stopped by on the way home from church or another activity. The first time I did it the kids went wild. “Donuts at 8:30 at night? Dad, you’re the best! Mom is gonna kill you!” Those surprises have become less common as the no-more-donuts-for-Robert realization has begun to sink in.
Granted, donuts might be one of the most unhealthy foods out there—bread, deep-fried in grease, and then topped with sugar and chocolate— but I used to have an iron constitution. I could eat anything and it didn’t affect me.I used to be able to drink highly caffeinated beverages at bedtime and sleep all night, not anymore. Last year I learned that I can no longer enjoy a roller coaster ride. Somewhere in my late 30s, my thrill-ride equilibrium flew out the window. Today I have more hair on my back than I do on my head. And where did this hair in my ears come from?
I see old men hanging out in donut shops all of the time. Their mornings are filled with newspapers, gossip, cigarettes, gallons of coffee, and donuts. They have hair in their ears, too. How do they walk away from the donut shop not feeling poorly?
As a kid I could eat anything. I ate a lot and I ate often. When I reached my mid 30s, my metabolism took a nap— a long nap— and has yet to wake up.
I am past middle-aged. Some say that 60-years old is middle aged. Sure, it’s middle-aged if you are going to live to be 120. I figure I hit middle age around my 43rd birthday. I’ll take 86 years on the planet— men die young in my family.
I wonder if there are any other foods that I will have to stop eating. If so, I will gladly give up Brussels sprouts right now if I can have my once-a-month donut fix returned. I would give up cauliflower and kiwi for a few more years of roller coaster riding. Apricots for chocolate cake, that’s an easy trade. What if rib-eye steak starts making me feel poorly, or bacon? I don’t know if a life without bacon is worth the effort.Before long I’ll be wearing goofy pajamas, reading the obituary column, and reeking of Bengay, while surviving on a steady diet of Cream of Wheat, and Ensure. But I’m not going down without a fight, so pass the donuts (and the Mylanta, and the aspirin).
Amaretto-Brulee Breakfast Bread
1 /3 cup Butter, melted
3 /4 cup Brown sugar
2 Tbl Honey
2 Tbl Pecans, chopped (optional)
2 Tbl Almonds, slivered and blanched (optional)
8 French bread croutons, cut into 1-inch thick rounds
4 Eggs
2 /3 cup Milk
1 /4 cup Heavy cream
1 /8 tsp Cinnamon
1 /8 tsp Nutmeg
1 Tbl Vanilla
1 Tbl Amaretto
French bread croutons should be cut out of a baguette-style French bread loaf. Slices should be one inch thick.
In a cast iron skillet, combine butter, brown sugar and honey over medium-high heat. Cook mixture, stirring constantly until bubbly and sugar has dissolved. Add nuts. Pour Brulee into the bottom of a round, two-quart Pyrex baking dish. Allow Brulee to cool slightly then top with the French bread croutons.
In a large mixing bowl whisk eggs, milk, heavy cream, cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla and Amaretto. Pour mixture evenly over the croutons. Using the tips of your fingers, press bread down gently to force custard into croutons without breaking. Cover dish with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Allow custard to come to room temperature one hour before baking. Bake uncovered until French bread is puffed and edges of croutons are golden brown, (approximately 40 minutes). Place a plate on top of the baking dish. Using dish towels or pot holders, invert dish onto a plate. Top with powdered sugar. Yield: four to six servings
Monday, May 07, 2007
New Carpet
I purchased new carpeting for my son’s room last week.
You wouldn’t believe how badly a five-year old boy’s carpet can look and smell after a few short years. Stains and spots were scattered from the center of the room to its most remote corners. With some we knew the origin, others remained a mystery. Over the years we have steam cleaned the short-piled Berber several times but the spots and stains always returned in a matter of weeks.
My wife and I don’t allow eating outside of the kitchen, the dogs are housebroken, and there are no remaining roof leaks from Hurricane Katrina, but still there were spots and stains, and that smell.
One becomes accustomed to all manner of unpleasant odors when raising a boy, but this particular smell was above and beyond that of a normal kindergartener’s capabilities.
In the last few weeks the funk had grown so strong that we had to keep his door closed during the day. I have no idea how he slept in there with that rancid odor but it never seemed to bother him. He slept soundly and never once mentioned the stench. I chalked it up to being five-years old and unconcerned with matters that don’t involve robots, ninjas, SpongeBob, or eating.
Finally my wife reached her breaking point and called the flooring supplier to order new carpeting for both my son and daughter’s rooms (he spends time in there, too).
On the day the carpet was scheduled to be installed, my wife was frantically cleaning out closets, putting toys back in boxes, and throwing away useless junk and knickknacks. I was outside working on a project when she emerged from the back of the house holding a small, oval-shaped object at arms length. I watched through the windows as she inched her way through the den— slow and deliberate— as if she were carrying a small vile of nuclear waste. Her eyes were teary and squinted, her nose crinkled, as she gradually made her way outside.
I don’t know the exact shelf life of Easter eggs, but I am sure that five weeks is about four weeks, six and a half days too long.
Somewhere in the bowels of the boy’s room, among the toy trucks and baseballs, under the superhero costumes, and deep inside a basket in a back corner of the remote wasteland that is a five-year old’s domain was a lone, faded pastel Easter egg. It had a crack in it and I couldn’t tell if it was green from dye or exposure.
The smell was gone instantly; the stains were just stains after all. In the excitement that is a candy-laden Easter, the egg— a sole survivor of the day’s hunt— had made its way into an isolated hiding place where it lay in wait until it began to smell like, well… “The last one out is a rotten egg,” has never been a truer statement.
A few months ago I came across a photograph of my babysitter, Ned. She and I were hunting Easter eggs in my grandmother’s backyard. I looked to be about five-years old. After the recent egg incident I thought of Ned. She used to collect all of our eggs at the end of the day, peel, and eat them. She loved boiled eggs whether they were dyed or not.
I have never been a fan of boiled eggs. Maybe it was because I was always saving mine for Ned. It could be that, as a child, I might have smelled one after it sat at room temperature for several days.
My son loves his new carpet. He likes to wrestle on it. The other day he took me to his room, got down on his knees, rubbed his hand slowly over the carpet’s surface, and in an affected cartoon voice, looked up at me and said, “Feel the power of the plush.” Then he tackled me and put me into a headlock.
The wrestling is fun, but that lone, smelly egg cost me $3,000 in new carpeting. I miss Ned more and more everyday.
One day in the not too distant future the carpet won’t have to be steam cleaned every three months, and I guess that’s a good thing. But the house will be quiet, it will smell of inactivity, and no one will ask me to wrestle. In the end, the privilege of being a parent is worth every stain and smell, though you can be assured that next year I’ll be using plastic eggs at Easter.
..
..
The World’s Last Deviled Egg
I have to make a batch for the guests and a batch for my kids. They love them.
1 dozen Eggs, hard boiled, peeled and cut in half, lengthwise
2 tsp. White balsamic vinegar
1 /3 cup Mayonnaise
1 /4 cup Sour cream
1 TBL Pickle Relish
1 1 /2 tsp Salt
1 Tbl Creole Mustard
2 tsp Yellow mustard
1 /8 tsp White Pepper
1 /8 tsp Garlic, granulated
Paprika and fresh parsley to garnish (optional)
Remove the yolks from the hard cooked eggs and place in a mixing bowl. Add all ingredients and beat with an electric mixer until smooth. Use a pastry bag to fill the egg whites. Sprinkle with paprika fresh parsley.
Yield: 24
I purchased new carpeting for my son’s room last week.
You wouldn’t believe how badly a five-year old boy’s carpet can look and smell after a few short years. Stains and spots were scattered from the center of the room to its most remote corners. With some we knew the origin, others remained a mystery. Over the years we have steam cleaned the short-piled Berber several times but the spots and stains always returned in a matter of weeks.
My wife and I don’t allow eating outside of the kitchen, the dogs are housebroken, and there are no remaining roof leaks from Hurricane Katrina, but still there were spots and stains, and that smell.
One becomes accustomed to all manner of unpleasant odors when raising a boy, but this particular smell was above and beyond that of a normal kindergartener’s capabilities.
In the last few weeks the funk had grown so strong that we had to keep his door closed during the day. I have no idea how he slept in there with that rancid odor but it never seemed to bother him. He slept soundly and never once mentioned the stench. I chalked it up to being five-years old and unconcerned with matters that don’t involve robots, ninjas, SpongeBob, or eating.
Finally my wife reached her breaking point and called the flooring supplier to order new carpeting for both my son and daughter’s rooms (he spends time in there, too).
On the day the carpet was scheduled to be installed, my wife was frantically cleaning out closets, putting toys back in boxes, and throwing away useless junk and knickknacks. I was outside working on a project when she emerged from the back of the house holding a small, oval-shaped object at arms length. I watched through the windows as she inched her way through the den— slow and deliberate— as if she were carrying a small vile of nuclear waste. Her eyes were teary and squinted, her nose crinkled, as she gradually made her way outside.
I don’t know the exact shelf life of Easter eggs, but I am sure that five weeks is about four weeks, six and a half days too long.
Somewhere in the bowels of the boy’s room, among the toy trucks and baseballs, under the superhero costumes, and deep inside a basket in a back corner of the remote wasteland that is a five-year old’s domain was a lone, faded pastel Easter egg. It had a crack in it and I couldn’t tell if it was green from dye or exposure.
The smell was gone instantly; the stains were just stains after all. In the excitement that is a candy-laden Easter, the egg— a sole survivor of the day’s hunt— had made its way into an isolated hiding place where it lay in wait until it began to smell like, well… “The last one out is a rotten egg,” has never been a truer statement.
A few months ago I came across a photograph of my babysitter, Ned. She and I were hunting Easter eggs in my grandmother’s backyard. I looked to be about five-years old. After the recent egg incident I thought of Ned. She used to collect all of our eggs at the end of the day, peel, and eat them. She loved boiled eggs whether they were dyed or not.
I have never been a fan of boiled eggs. Maybe it was because I was always saving mine for Ned. It could be that, as a child, I might have smelled one after it sat at room temperature for several days.
My son loves his new carpet. He likes to wrestle on it. The other day he took me to his room, got down on his knees, rubbed his hand slowly over the carpet’s surface, and in an affected cartoon voice, looked up at me and said, “Feel the power of the plush.” Then he tackled me and put me into a headlock.
The wrestling is fun, but that lone, smelly egg cost me $3,000 in new carpeting. I miss Ned more and more everyday.
One day in the not too distant future the carpet won’t have to be steam cleaned every three months, and I guess that’s a good thing. But the house will be quiet, it will smell of inactivity, and no one will ask me to wrestle. In the end, the privilege of being a parent is worth every stain and smell, though you can be assured that next year I’ll be using plastic eggs at Easter.
..
..
The World’s Last Deviled Egg
I have to make a batch for the guests and a batch for my kids. They love them.
1 dozen Eggs, hard boiled, peeled and cut in half, lengthwise
2 tsp. White balsamic vinegar
1 /3 cup Mayonnaise
1 /4 cup Sour cream
1 TBL Pickle Relish
1 1 /2 tsp Salt
1 Tbl Creole Mustard
2 tsp Yellow mustard
1 /8 tsp White Pepper
1 /8 tsp Garlic, granulated
Paprika and fresh parsley to garnish (optional)
Remove the yolks from the hard cooked eggs and place in a mixing bowl. Add all ingredients and beat with an electric mixer until smooth. Use a pastry bag to fill the egg whites. Sprinkle with paprika fresh parsley.
Yield: 24
Monday, April 30, 2007
Beans, Beans, Good for Your Heart
(but not your arrest record… or your pedicure)
Last week I read a story in The Evening Standard that opened with the sentence: “Hugh Grant has been arrested after allegedly hurling a tub of baked beans at a photographer.”
O.K., I’ll bite. How can one read an opening line such as that and not continue?
The word “allegedly” is included in the sentence for The Evening Standard’s legal comfort. There is an accompanying photograph of Grant— the movie actor who starred in the quintessential chick flick Four Weddings and a Funeral— midway through his windup, a carry-out container of baked beans at the ready, seconds before they were "alledgedly" hurled at the photographer.
It struck me as odd that a stuffy Brit such as Grant would— not only have eaten baked beans but— enjoyed his serving of baked beans so much that he asked the restaurant for a doggie bag to bring home the half-eaten portion of tomato-and vinegar-spiked legumes.
This is how The Evening Standard reported the incident:
“The arrest followed a clash with the freelance paparazzi photographer outside Grant's Chelsea home on Tuesday morning.”
“Mr Whittaker said he had turned up to take pictures of the actor's former girlfriend Liz Hurley, who lives in the same street. When Grant, 46, arrived in his car he asked him to smile as he took his picture.”
“The film star allegedly snapped, swearing at Mr Whittaker, 43, and reportedly kicking him three or four times. Then, as Grant entered his house, he allegedly turned and threw a plastic container of baked beans at him.”
“Mr Whittaker told a tabloid newspaper: ‘I said Give us a smile please and he looked really angry. I walked backwards and he walked after me. He kicked me hard three or four times then kneed me in the groin.’”
I don’t have much sympathy for paparazzi types but getting knocked upside the head by a pint of beans and then kicked in the groin by a middle-aged actor is certainly demoralizing and humiliating.
The second photograph included in the article was of Grant attempting to kick the photographer. His foot is four inches off of the ground and nowhere near the groin. I’ll give Grant a pass on that count as he had no time to warm up and stretch before the bean-throwing, paparazzi-kicking exercise began.
Typically, I would spend the remaining column inches at my disposal on jokes that make fun of Grant, his movies, the blandness of British food, and beans in general. But as I was writing this, I remembered a humiliating baked-bean incident from my past.
During my college years, while waiting tables in one of those brass-and-fern style restaurants, I spilled and eight-ounce bouillon bowl of baked beans on a woman’s foot.
I had just arrived at her table and the serving tray was still in a position high above my head. The beans fell from a height approximately seven feet above the floor and landed upside down and squarely on her instep.
An eight-ounce bouillon bowl weighs over nine ounces. Filled with beans it probably approaches one pound. Pardon my physics, but a one-pound bowl, falling from a height of seven feet, traveling at a velocity of… Well, you get the picture. The beans fell fast and they fell hard. The woman let out a shrill shriek and then a series of low-pitched sobs and moans.
She was wearing sandals and I stood speechless as I watched the steaming hot beans ooze through her toes and onto the floor. I almost lost my job due to the leguminous pedicure but was saved by the woman’s graciousness. Her husband, on the other hand, gave me the evil eye. When I asked if I could bring his wife another side order of beans, he asked for a towel, the manager, and a baked potato instead.
It seems that baked beans are quickly becoming a weapon of the future. It won’t be too long before someone in this part of the country figures out how to kill a deer with them.
The photographer is lucky that Grant lives in London. Had the actor been a resident of Mississippi, he would have been coming home with a doggie bag full of fried chicken wings and tater logs— both of which would be more effective hurling weapons than baked beans.
In the end, justice was served last week as every man who has had to sit through Four Weddings and a Funeral, Notting Hill, Love Actually, Sense and Sensibility, and both Bridget Jones movies in theatres, again on HBO, and then on DVD, every Valentine’s Day, and every anniversary, exhaled a collective sigh of jubilant satisfaction. Karma can be a beautiful thing.
.
.
Cookout Baked Beans
1 lb Bacon, thick-sliced, diced
1 1 /2 cup Onion, diced
3 /4 cup Bell pepper, diced
1 tsp Barbeque Seasoning
1 cup Barbecue sauce
2 Tbl Honey
2 tsp Yellow mustard
1 Tbl Liquid Smoke
1 Tbl Worcestershire sauce
1 /2 cup Chicken Broth
2 large cans Bush’s Country Style Baked Beans, drained
Preheat oven to 325 degrees.
In a large saucepot render bacon. Add onion, bell pepper and BBQ seasoning. Cook five minutes. Add remaining ingredients and mix well. Place in a 2 1 /2-quart baking dish and cover with foil. Bake 45 minutes. Yield: ten servings
BBQ Seasoning
1 /3 cup Lawry’s Seasoned Salt
1 /3 cup Paprika
2 Tbl Onion Powder
2 Tbl Cayenne Pepper
1 Tbl White Pepper
5 tsp Garlic Powder
1 Tbl Black Pepper
1 Tbl Dry Mustard
1 tsp Oregano
1 tsp Thyme
Mix thoroughly. Yield: one cup
(but not your arrest record… or your pedicure)
Last week I read a story in The Evening Standard that opened with the sentence: “Hugh Grant has been arrested after allegedly hurling a tub of baked beans at a photographer.”
O.K., I’ll bite. How can one read an opening line such as that and not continue?
The word “allegedly” is included in the sentence for The Evening Standard’s legal comfort. There is an accompanying photograph of Grant— the movie actor who starred in the quintessential chick flick Four Weddings and a Funeral— midway through his windup, a carry-out container of baked beans at the ready, seconds before they were "alledgedly" hurled at the photographer.
It struck me as odd that a stuffy Brit such as Grant would— not only have eaten baked beans but— enjoyed his serving of baked beans so much that he asked the restaurant for a doggie bag to bring home the half-eaten portion of tomato-and vinegar-spiked legumes.
This is how The Evening Standard reported the incident:
“The arrest followed a clash with the freelance paparazzi photographer outside Grant's Chelsea home on Tuesday morning.”
“Mr Whittaker said he had turned up to take pictures of the actor's former girlfriend Liz Hurley, who lives in the same street. When Grant, 46, arrived in his car he asked him to smile as he took his picture.”
“The film star allegedly snapped, swearing at Mr Whittaker, 43, and reportedly kicking him three or four times. Then, as Grant entered his house, he allegedly turned and threw a plastic container of baked beans at him.”
“Mr Whittaker told a tabloid newspaper: ‘I said Give us a smile please and he looked really angry. I walked backwards and he walked after me. He kicked me hard three or four times then kneed me in the groin.’”
I don’t have much sympathy for paparazzi types but getting knocked upside the head by a pint of beans and then kicked in the groin by a middle-aged actor is certainly demoralizing and humiliating.
The second photograph included in the article was of Grant attempting to kick the photographer. His foot is four inches off of the ground and nowhere near the groin. I’ll give Grant a pass on that count as he had no time to warm up and stretch before the bean-throwing, paparazzi-kicking exercise began.
Typically, I would spend the remaining column inches at my disposal on jokes that make fun of Grant, his movies, the blandness of British food, and beans in general. But as I was writing this, I remembered a humiliating baked-bean incident from my past.
During my college years, while waiting tables in one of those brass-and-fern style restaurants, I spilled and eight-ounce bouillon bowl of baked beans on a woman’s foot.
I had just arrived at her table and the serving tray was still in a position high above my head. The beans fell from a height approximately seven feet above the floor and landed upside down and squarely on her instep.
An eight-ounce bouillon bowl weighs over nine ounces. Filled with beans it probably approaches one pound. Pardon my physics, but a one-pound bowl, falling from a height of seven feet, traveling at a velocity of… Well, you get the picture. The beans fell fast and they fell hard. The woman let out a shrill shriek and then a series of low-pitched sobs and moans.
She was wearing sandals and I stood speechless as I watched the steaming hot beans ooze through her toes and onto the floor. I almost lost my job due to the leguminous pedicure but was saved by the woman’s graciousness. Her husband, on the other hand, gave me the evil eye. When I asked if I could bring his wife another side order of beans, he asked for a towel, the manager, and a baked potato instead.
It seems that baked beans are quickly becoming a weapon of the future. It won’t be too long before someone in this part of the country figures out how to kill a deer with them.
The photographer is lucky that Grant lives in London. Had the actor been a resident of Mississippi, he would have been coming home with a doggie bag full of fried chicken wings and tater logs— both of which would be more effective hurling weapons than baked beans.
In the end, justice was served last week as every man who has had to sit through Four Weddings and a Funeral, Notting Hill, Love Actually, Sense and Sensibility, and both Bridget Jones movies in theatres, again on HBO, and then on DVD, every Valentine’s Day, and every anniversary, exhaled a collective sigh of jubilant satisfaction. Karma can be a beautiful thing.
.
.
Cookout Baked Beans
1 lb Bacon, thick-sliced, diced
1 1 /2 cup Onion, diced
3 /4 cup Bell pepper, diced
1 tsp Barbeque Seasoning
1 cup Barbecue sauce
2 Tbl Honey
2 tsp Yellow mustard
1 Tbl Liquid Smoke
1 Tbl Worcestershire sauce
1 /2 cup Chicken Broth
2 large cans Bush’s Country Style Baked Beans, drained
Preheat oven to 325 degrees.
In a large saucepot render bacon. Add onion, bell pepper and BBQ seasoning. Cook five minutes. Add remaining ingredients and mix well. Place in a 2 1 /2-quart baking dish and cover with foil. Bake 45 minutes. Yield: ten servings
BBQ Seasoning
1 /3 cup Lawry’s Seasoned Salt
1 /3 cup Paprika
2 Tbl Onion Powder
2 Tbl Cayenne Pepper
1 Tbl White Pepper
5 tsp Garlic Powder
1 Tbl Black Pepper
1 Tbl Dry Mustard
1 tsp Oregano
1 tsp Thyme
Mix thoroughly. Yield: one cup
Monday, April 23, 2007
Roll Out the Vertical Stripes
The diet is over.
On January 8th I began dieting in preparation of a photographer flying in from New York to shoot my next book. My goal was to lose 30 pounds in four months.
The time has come. The photographer is here. I hit just above 50% of my goal. I lost 16 pounds.
Looking back it might have been the visit to the cheesecake factory in the first week of my diet that led to a bad start. Though, if you have never toured a cheesecake factory, I suggest you do so immediately.
The Jubilations Cheesecake facility in Columbus, Miss. is a wonderful place to spend the better part of a morning. From the second I walked into the door and smelled the aroma of freshly baked cheesecakes in the air, I knew that the diet was in trouble. There is not much in this world that smells better than a cheesecake factory after one has been surviving on chicken breasts, broccoli, and oatmeal for an entire week.
It’s almost as if they piped in the aroma to tempt me.
Here’s a million-dollar idea: Someone should make an air freshener or candle that smells like a cheesecake manufacturing plant.
It could have been the 12-course meal at the French Laundry in Yountville, Calif. when I was in San Francisco in February. Or it could have been the new rib place I discovered later that month. Either way, I gave in to temptation more times than not.
Cookbook recipe testing is not conducive to dieting. I have developed, tested, and tasted over 200 new recipes for two new cookbooks over the course of the last three months. Some recipes had to be prepared again and again until we got them right. Some had to be prepared again and again because we got them right and we wanted second helpings.
I was on a roll for a few weeks, and then I hit a plateau. I have been stuck at this weight for the last two months.
More than likely it was the French Bakery that opened across the street from my office in my hometown of Hattiesburg, Miss. that did me in. It’s not the bakery’s fault. It’s my love of food mixed with my fondness for bread that keeps me going back. I can do without sweets, but freshly baked breads and pastries in the hands of an experienced French baker is a temptation that is too tough for me to resist.
Januz, the French/Polish baker, is said to love Polish techno music, and if one gets to the bakery before it opens, one might catch him dancing around the small shop with music blaring.
A friend of mine walked in the bakery early the other day and reported that Januz did, indeed, have Polish techno music blaring from the small stereo and was dancing with abandon throughout the store. I love that. That is exactly what I want in a baker: innate skill, a yeoman’s work-ethic, and a well-formed sense of rhythm.
I have yet to catch Januz dancing through the bakery, but I always look through the windows at 6 a.m. when I am on my way to the gym.
Maybe I should go across the street before I go to the gym and dance around the bakery while holding one of those custard-raisin croissant things to burn off a few calories. It would be the world’s first— and only— French-Polish Cardio-Bakery.
I never read the book “French Women Don’t Get Fat” but maybe the reason they don’t get fat is because they dance more than we do. I quit dancing around the time I stopped drinking. When I sobered up— almost 24 years ago— I realized that my dancing didn’t look quite as cool as I thought while I was drinking. Maybe I should start dancing again.
French women might not get fat, but Southern men sure do. So crank up the Polish techno music, and say, “cheese.”
Creamed Corn Cornbread
1 cup Flour, all-purpose, unbleached
1 cup Cornmeal
2 tsp. Baking powder
1 Tbl Salt
1 cup Creamed corn
1 Egg, large
3 /4 cup Milk
2 Tbl. Butter, unsalted and melted
Preheat oven to 425 degrees.
Grease an 8 x 8 or 9 x 9 inch baking pan with nonstick cooking spray. Sift flour, cornmeal, baking powder and salt into a large bowl. Stir mixture briefly.
Separately, whisk together creamed corn, egg, milk, honey and butter until honey is dissolved. Add wet ingredients to dry ingredients and stir until just combined. Do not over work batter.
Pour batter into pan and bake 20-26 minutes, or until golden. Yield: 9-12 pieces
Creamed Corn
8 ears Silverqueen corn, shucked and scraped to remove milk
2 cups Water
1 stick Butter
1 1 /2 tsp Salt
1 /2 tsp Pepper
2 Tbl Half and half
2 tsp Cornstarch
Break two of the shucked corncobs in half. Place in a small sauce pot with two cups of water. Simmer for 10 minutes to make a corn stock.
Melt butter in a medium sized skillet over a medium heat and add corn and 1 /2 cup of the corn stock, salt and pepper. Simmer over low heat 10 minutes. Dissolve cornstarch in the Half and Half and stir into the simmering corn mixture. Return to a simmer. Serve hot. Yield: six to eight servings
The diet is over.
On January 8th I began dieting in preparation of a photographer flying in from New York to shoot my next book. My goal was to lose 30 pounds in four months.
The time has come. The photographer is here. I hit just above 50% of my goal. I lost 16 pounds.
Looking back it might have been the visit to the cheesecake factory in the first week of my diet that led to a bad start. Though, if you have never toured a cheesecake factory, I suggest you do so immediately.
The Jubilations Cheesecake facility in Columbus, Miss. is a wonderful place to spend the better part of a morning. From the second I walked into the door and smelled the aroma of freshly baked cheesecakes in the air, I knew that the diet was in trouble. There is not much in this world that smells better than a cheesecake factory after one has been surviving on chicken breasts, broccoli, and oatmeal for an entire week.
It’s almost as if they piped in the aroma to tempt me.
Here’s a million-dollar idea: Someone should make an air freshener or candle that smells like a cheesecake manufacturing plant.
It could have been the 12-course meal at the French Laundry in Yountville, Calif. when I was in San Francisco in February. Or it could have been the new rib place I discovered later that month. Either way, I gave in to temptation more times than not.
Cookbook recipe testing is not conducive to dieting. I have developed, tested, and tasted over 200 new recipes for two new cookbooks over the course of the last three months. Some recipes had to be prepared again and again until we got them right. Some had to be prepared again and again because we got them right and we wanted second helpings.
I was on a roll for a few weeks, and then I hit a plateau. I have been stuck at this weight for the last two months.
More than likely it was the French Bakery that opened across the street from my office in my hometown of Hattiesburg, Miss. that did me in. It’s not the bakery’s fault. It’s my love of food mixed with my fondness for bread that keeps me going back. I can do without sweets, but freshly baked breads and pastries in the hands of an experienced French baker is a temptation that is too tough for me to resist.
Januz, the French/Polish baker, is said to love Polish techno music, and if one gets to the bakery before it opens, one might catch him dancing around the small shop with music blaring.
A friend of mine walked in the bakery early the other day and reported that Januz did, indeed, have Polish techno music blaring from the small stereo and was dancing with abandon throughout the store. I love that. That is exactly what I want in a baker: innate skill, a yeoman’s work-ethic, and a well-formed sense of rhythm.
I have yet to catch Januz dancing through the bakery, but I always look through the windows at 6 a.m. when I am on my way to the gym.
Maybe I should go across the street before I go to the gym and dance around the bakery while holding one of those custard-raisin croissant things to burn off a few calories. It would be the world’s first— and only— French-Polish Cardio-Bakery.
I never read the book “French Women Don’t Get Fat” but maybe the reason they don’t get fat is because they dance more than we do. I quit dancing around the time I stopped drinking. When I sobered up— almost 24 years ago— I realized that my dancing didn’t look quite as cool as I thought while I was drinking. Maybe I should start dancing again.
French women might not get fat, but Southern men sure do. So crank up the Polish techno music, and say, “cheese.”
Creamed Corn Cornbread
1 cup Flour, all-purpose, unbleached
1 cup Cornmeal
2 tsp. Baking powder
1 Tbl Salt
1 cup Creamed corn
1 Egg, large
3 /4 cup Milk
2 Tbl. Butter, unsalted and melted
Preheat oven to 425 degrees.
Grease an 8 x 8 or 9 x 9 inch baking pan with nonstick cooking spray. Sift flour, cornmeal, baking powder and salt into a large bowl. Stir mixture briefly.
Separately, whisk together creamed corn, egg, milk, honey and butter until honey is dissolved. Add wet ingredients to dry ingredients and stir until just combined. Do not over work batter.
Pour batter into pan and bake 20-26 minutes, or until golden. Yield: 9-12 pieces
Creamed Corn
8 ears Silverqueen corn, shucked and scraped to remove milk
2 cups Water
1 stick Butter
1 1 /2 tsp Salt
1 /2 tsp Pepper
2 Tbl Half and half
2 tsp Cornstarch
Break two of the shucked corncobs in half. Place in a small sauce pot with two cups of water. Simmer for 10 minutes to make a corn stock.
Melt butter in a medium sized skillet over a medium heat and add corn and 1 /2 cup of the corn stock, salt and pepper. Simmer over low heat 10 minutes. Dissolve cornstarch in the Half and Half and stir into the simmering corn mixture. Return to a simmer. Serve hot. Yield: six to eight servings
Monday, April 16, 2007
So You Want To Be A Rock and Roll Star
When I was six-years old I wanted to be Darren Stevens when I grew up. Not only was I attracted to the idea of being married to a smoking hot woman who could make problems disappear with a twitch of her nose, I liked the idea of working for an advertising agency. The pitching of an idea to a client seemed creative and appealing. I was also enamored with the concept of entertaining clients. I didn’t want to be a policeman, a fireman, or a cowboy. I wanted to be an advertising agency executive.
After my advertising phase I decided to become an astronaut. The United States had just landed on the moon. It was the ultimate adventure. By then, my crush had moved from Samantha Stevens on Bewitched to Barbara Eden on I Dream of Jeanie. Larry Hagman was an astronaut, and once again, the beautiful woman in his life could make problems disappear, this time with a nod of the head. I stayed in my space-traveling phase until I found out how astronauts have to use the bathroom in outer space. I also never developed a fondness for Tang.
The career ambition that took me into my pre-teen and early-teen years was rock star. I started playing the guitar and planned to be a member of Led Zeppelin or the Rolling Stones. I wasn’t sure how one got to that point, but I loved the music, and life on the road performing in front of thousands of screaming girls was extremely appealing.
As we all know I ended up in the food/food-writing business, though food is a major component of rock and roll. That’s right. Not booze, drugs, or women— food.
Occasionally I visit a website entitled the Smoking Gun www.thesmokinggun.com . In addition to celebrity mug shots (Glen Campbell and Nick Nolte, alone are worth the visit) it lists musician’s riders.
An artist’s rider is an attachment to a performance contract that lists specific sound and light requirements, but also specifies the specific food and beverage necessities of the performer.
Paul McCartney’s rider demands, “There will be no meat, or meat by-products allowed to be served in the dressing rooms, production offices, or areas within the ‘backstage area.’” He also specifies no leather furniture or furniture made from animal skins.
The artist formerly known as “the Artist” but once again known as Prince requires “Yogi cocoa tea” and “jasmine and lavender candles.”
The four members of Van Halen demand one-half case “regular local beer” in cans, one-half case premium beer, one pint Jack Daniels, one pint Absolut vodka, one 750 ml. bottle rum, two bottles of white wine, one bottle of red wine, one 750 ml. bottle of top-shelf tequila, Cointreau, Grand Mariner, and ingredients to prepare bloody marys. At this point I should note that Eddie Van Halen didn’t attend his induction ceremony to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame a few weeks ago. He was in rehab.
The band Aerosmith asks for “NO alcoholic beverages” backstage and specifies “no pressed meats.” Bon Jovi wants sushi after the show, Sting says that he is “adventurous enough to try local fare,” and Metallica’s catering needs are carefully detailed in three pages of a 24-page document.
Eminem wants turkey burgers, Kansas needs prune juice, and Willie Nelson likes free-range pork chops.
Clarence Clemmons, Bruce Springsteen’s longtime saxophone player, asks that a whole roasted chicken be delivered to his dressing room halfway through the performance and also demands Beluga caviar, while The Boss, Springsteen, requires nothing more than energy bars, green tea, soft drinks, and coffee.
Some artists ask for only green M&Ms while others require bottled water flown in from Europe.
Z.Z. Top asks for “a medium serving bowl of cocktail franks in special sauce (consult with production assistant for the recipe and preparation instructions).” Johnny Cash wanted an American flag “in full view of the audience” while performing.
At sixteen years old I realized that my rock-star career would never materialize into anything more than my being a garage-band wannabe. I made the decision that if I couldn’t be a rock star, I would write about the rock stars and set my sights to be a contributing writer for Rolling Stone. I haven’t written for Rolling Stone, yet. But I’ve got a few years left in me.
Robert (center with guitar) circa 1967. Move over Mick Jagger.
Virginia Ham & Pimento-Cheese Biscuits
I dare you to eat just twelve! It is rare that anyone ever has leftover pimento cheese, but if you do, these biscuits are a great way to finish it off.
2 cups self rising flour
1 Tbl sugar
2 Tbl unsalted butter- cut into small pieces and chilled
1 /4 cup homemade pimento cheese, crumbled
2 /3 cup buttermilk
2 TBL melted butter
Preheat oven to 375.
In a food processor combine flour and sugar and pulse to mix. Add butter and pimento cheese pieces pulsing until mixture resembles coarse bread crumbs. Transfer mixture to a large mixing bowl and make a well in the center. Pour buttermilk into the well and gently blend together the dough, being careful not to over mix.
Allow the dough to set for 10 minutes and then turn dough onto a floured surface.
Gently knead dough for one to two minutes. Roll out to 3 /4-inch thickness.
Cut 1 1 /2-inch circles from the dough and place them on an ungreased baking sheet. Brush the tops with the melted butter.
Bake 12-15 minutes.
Sautee 2-inch squares of country ham in butter until lightly caramelized.
Cut biscuits in half lengthwise and lay a small piece of Virginia ham in the center. Serve warm.
When I was six-years old I wanted to be Darren Stevens when I grew up. Not only was I attracted to the idea of being married to a smoking hot woman who could make problems disappear with a twitch of her nose, I liked the idea of working for an advertising agency. The pitching of an idea to a client seemed creative and appealing. I was also enamored with the concept of entertaining clients. I didn’t want to be a policeman, a fireman, or a cowboy. I wanted to be an advertising agency executive.
After my advertising phase I decided to become an astronaut. The United States had just landed on the moon. It was the ultimate adventure. By then, my crush had moved from Samantha Stevens on Bewitched to Barbara Eden on I Dream of Jeanie. Larry Hagman was an astronaut, and once again, the beautiful woman in his life could make problems disappear, this time with a nod of the head. I stayed in my space-traveling phase until I found out how astronauts have to use the bathroom in outer space. I also never developed a fondness for Tang.
The career ambition that took me into my pre-teen and early-teen years was rock star. I started playing the guitar and planned to be a member of Led Zeppelin or the Rolling Stones. I wasn’t sure how one got to that point, but I loved the music, and life on the road performing in front of thousands of screaming girls was extremely appealing.
As we all know I ended up in the food/food-writing business, though food is a major component of rock and roll. That’s right. Not booze, drugs, or women— food.
Occasionally I visit a website entitled the Smoking Gun www.thesmokinggun.com . In addition to celebrity mug shots (Glen Campbell and Nick Nolte, alone are worth the visit) it lists musician’s riders.
An artist’s rider is an attachment to a performance contract that lists specific sound and light requirements, but also specifies the specific food and beverage necessities of the performer.
Paul McCartney’s rider demands, “There will be no meat, or meat by-products allowed to be served in the dressing rooms, production offices, or areas within the ‘backstage area.’” He also specifies no leather furniture or furniture made from animal skins.
The artist formerly known as “the Artist” but once again known as Prince requires “Yogi cocoa tea” and “jasmine and lavender candles.”
The four members of Van Halen demand one-half case “regular local beer” in cans, one-half case premium beer, one pint Jack Daniels, one pint Absolut vodka, one 750 ml. bottle rum, two bottles of white wine, one bottle of red wine, one 750 ml. bottle of top-shelf tequila, Cointreau, Grand Mariner, and ingredients to prepare bloody marys. At this point I should note that Eddie Van Halen didn’t attend his induction ceremony to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame a few weeks ago. He was in rehab.
The band Aerosmith asks for “NO alcoholic beverages” backstage and specifies “no pressed meats.” Bon Jovi wants sushi after the show, Sting says that he is “adventurous enough to try local fare,” and Metallica’s catering needs are carefully detailed in three pages of a 24-page document.
Eminem wants turkey burgers, Kansas needs prune juice, and Willie Nelson likes free-range pork chops.
Clarence Clemmons, Bruce Springsteen’s longtime saxophone player, asks that a whole roasted chicken be delivered to his dressing room halfway through the performance and also demands Beluga caviar, while The Boss, Springsteen, requires nothing more than energy bars, green tea, soft drinks, and coffee.
Some artists ask for only green M&Ms while others require bottled water flown in from Europe.
Z.Z. Top asks for “a medium serving bowl of cocktail franks in special sauce (consult with production assistant for the recipe and preparation instructions).” Johnny Cash wanted an American flag “in full view of the audience” while performing.
At sixteen years old I realized that my rock-star career would never materialize into anything more than my being a garage-band wannabe. I made the decision that if I couldn’t be a rock star, I would write about the rock stars and set my sights to be a contributing writer for Rolling Stone. I haven’t written for Rolling Stone, yet. But I’ve got a few years left in me.
Robert (center with guitar) circa 1967. Move over Mick Jagger.
Virginia Ham & Pimento-Cheese Biscuits
I dare you to eat just twelve! It is rare that anyone ever has leftover pimento cheese, but if you do, these biscuits are a great way to finish it off.
2 cups self rising flour
1 Tbl sugar
2 Tbl unsalted butter- cut into small pieces and chilled
1 /4 cup homemade pimento cheese, crumbled
2 /3 cup buttermilk
2 TBL melted butter
Preheat oven to 375.
In a food processor combine flour and sugar and pulse to mix. Add butter and pimento cheese pieces pulsing until mixture resembles coarse bread crumbs. Transfer mixture to a large mixing bowl and make a well in the center. Pour buttermilk into the well and gently blend together the dough, being careful not to over mix.
Allow the dough to set for 10 minutes and then turn dough onto a floured surface.
Gently knead dough for one to two minutes. Roll out to 3 /4-inch thickness.
Cut 1 1 /2-inch circles from the dough and place them on an ungreased baking sheet. Brush the tops with the melted butter.
Bake 12-15 minutes.
Sautee 2-inch squares of country ham in butter until lightly caramelized.
Cut biscuits in half lengthwise and lay a small piece of Virginia ham in the center. Serve warm.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Soft-Shell Crab
Soft-shell crab season is here. Halleluiah, amen, and pass the Remoulade sauce!
Two weeks ago the first shipment of soft-shell crabs arrived— alive and kicking— to the back door of our restaurants. Since then we have received daily shipments and can’t buy enough to keep up with the demand.
There is a simple reason for soft-shell crab’s popularity— they taste great.
Soft-shell crabs are the single most popular feature item offered at the Purple Parrot Café and Crescent City Grill. Every year around this time we start receiving shipments of soft-shells and they sell out within hours.
Hurricane Katrina gave us a short soft-shell season last year. This year started a little slower than normal, but we expect the harvest to kick in any day now.
In the four years prior to Hurricane Katrina, we were able to purchase a steady supple of soft-shells from March through the middle of November.
A soft-shell crab is the same species as other blue crabs that can be found in the Gulf of Mexico, except that a soft-shell has been harvested just as it begins to molt.
Molting is the process by which the crab loses its hard shell and begins to form a new one. The crabs are held in specially designed holding tanks at a constant temperature of 75-80 degrees, and once the crab loses his hard, much smaller, outer shell, there is a two-hour window in which the crab is removed from the water before a new, harder, shell is formed. All crabs molt, some just get caught during the molt, and lucky for us, the ones that are caught end up on our plates.
Soft-shell crab facilities are usually family operations in which each member of the family takes a turn checking the tanks for newly molted crabs. The tanks are checked hourly even during the middle of the night. It takes a lot of hard work and dedication on the part of several individuals to get a soft-shell from the tank to the plate. But the end result is worth the effort.
Soft shell crabs are available in four sizes: whalers (5 1 /2 inches or larger from tip to tip), jumbos (5 – 51/2 inches), large (41/2 – 5 inches) and medium (4 – 41/2 inches).
Soft-shell crabs are an exception to the typical seafood rule— size DOES matter. The bigger the better and the whaler is the most sought after, most delectable, and most flavorsome of the bunch.
“Buster” crabs (3 – 4 inches) are not available in the Gulf anymore due to game and fish regulations prohibiting any crab smaller than four inches from being harvested. Atlantic states still harvest busters but if you’re eating one in this area, it has probably been frozen.
Deep frying is the cooking method of choice, and at our restaurants we always prepare our soft-shells with an extra helping of jumbo lump crabmeat on top or stuffed inside the crab.
As we head in to the warmer days of spring and summer we should pause and give thanks for God’s rich bounty from the Gulf and for the dedicated crabbers who monitor tanks around the clock so that we can eat a dish that is truly one of the best that the South has to offer.
CRAB-STUFFED SOFT SHELL CRAB
with Warm Shrimp-Boil Potato Salad and spiced pecans
Fried Soft Shell Crab
4 Softshell crabs, cleaned
2 cups Milk
2 Eggs
1 Tbl Tarragon, dried
4 Tbl Hot Sauce
2 Tbl Creole Seasoning
3 cups Seasoned Flour
Peanut oil, for frying
Heat 2 inches of peanut oil to 350 degrees in a heavy skillet or deep fryer.
Make the Creole Beurre Blanc and hold in a warm water bath.
Combine milk, eggs, tarragon, Hot Sauce, and Creole Seasoning. Mix well. Gently drop the crabs in the seasoned milk mixture and place all in the refrigerator and marinate for at least 6 hours.
Make the Crabmeat stuffing.
Remove crabs from the milk mixture one at a time and stuff equal parts of the Crabmeat Stuffing under the top shell of the crab.
Lightly dust the crabs in the seasoned flour. Be careful to keep all of the legs attached and separated keeping them from sticking together. Gently glide the crab (shell side down) into the hot oil, being careful not to splash. Cook approximately two minutes and turn over for another two minutes. Remove the crabs and drain on paper towels.
Spoon approximately one cup of the Warm Shrimp-Boil Potato Salad onto four plates. Place the cooked crab in the middle of the plate. Ladle two ounces of Creole Beurre Blanc over the crab and sprinkle Spiced Pecans over all.
Yield: Four servings
Crabmeat Stuffing
1 /3 cup Green bell pepper, small dice
1 /3cup Red bell pepper, small dice
2 Green onions, Sliced
2 Egg yolks
3 Tbl Mayonnaise
1 Tbl Creole mustard
1 Tbl Lemon juice
1 Tbl Worcestershire sauce
2 tsp Hot sauce
1 Tbl Creole seasoning
1 lb lump crabmeat
2 Tbl Japanese Breadcrumbs
Add first 10 ingredients and mix by hand
Gently fold in crabmeat. Add breadcrumbs
Seasoned Flour
3 cups all-purpose flour
4 Tbl Creole Seasoning
Mix flour and seasoning thoroughly.
Yield: 3 cups
Spiced Pecans
1 Tbl Unsalted butter
1 cup Pecans
1 tsp Black pepper, freshly ground
1 /8 tsp Cayenne pepper
1 /8 cup Sugar
1 tsp Kosher salt
Melt butter over a low heat in a large sauté pan.
Add nuts and stir continuously.
Add sugar and cook until caramelized.
Add salt and continue to stir.
Add Peppers and stir, then remove from heat.
Cool on a sheet pan before storing
Creole Beurre Blanc
1 /4 cup Shallot, minced
2 tsp Garlic, minced
1 /4 cup White wine
2 Tbl White vinegar
2 Tbl Heavy cream
2 tsp Creole mustard
1 /2 lb Unsalted butter
Kosher salt to taste
In a sauce pan, over medium high heat, reduce the shallot, garlic, white wine, and vinegar until all liquid has evaporated.
Add heavy cream and creole mustard, and reduce by half.
Reduce heat to medium, and slowly incorporate the butter one to two tablespoons at a time, stirring constantly. Strain through a chinios, and hold warm. Salt to taste.
Warm Shrimp Boil Potato Salad
3 cups Red potatoes, diced
1 /2 lb Fresh shrimp, medium
1 /4 cup Celery, thinly shaved
1 /2 cup Fresh roasted corn, cut from the cob
1 cup Fresh asparagus, cut into one inch pieces blanched
1 /4 cup Red onion, finely diced
2 tsp Kosher Salt
1 tsp Black pepper, freshly ground
1 quart Water
1 Tbl Liquid crab Boil
Place the water and crab boil in a large saucepot and bring to a simmer. Place the shrimp in the simmering water and cook for 4-5 minutes. Use a slotted spoon and remove the shrimp from the simmering water, and set aside.
Place the potatoes in the simmering water and cook until the potatoes are fork tender, approx. 15 minutes.
Remove the potatoes and drain thoroughly. Place in a mixing bowl with shrimp, celery, corn, asparagus, onion, and salt. Gently toss with the vinaigrette. Serve warm.
Potato Salad Vinaigrette
1 Tbl Shallot, minced
2 tsp Creole mustard
1 /4 cup Sherry vinegar
1 tsp Parsley, chopped
1 tsp Fresh tarragon, chopped
1 tsp Kosher salt
1 /2 tsp Black pepper, freshly ground
3/ 4 cup Olive oil
Place all ingredients (except olive oil) in a mixing bowl and combine. Slowly drizzle olive oil while whisking vigorously. Yield: one cup
Soft-shell crab season is here. Halleluiah, amen, and pass the Remoulade sauce!
Two weeks ago the first shipment of soft-shell crabs arrived— alive and kicking— to the back door of our restaurants. Since then we have received daily shipments and can’t buy enough to keep up with the demand.
There is a simple reason for soft-shell crab’s popularity— they taste great.
Soft-shell crabs are the single most popular feature item offered at the Purple Parrot Café and Crescent City Grill. Every year around this time we start receiving shipments of soft-shells and they sell out within hours.
Hurricane Katrina gave us a short soft-shell season last year. This year started a little slower than normal, but we expect the harvest to kick in any day now.
In the four years prior to Hurricane Katrina, we were able to purchase a steady supple of soft-shells from March through the middle of November.
A soft-shell crab is the same species as other blue crabs that can be found in the Gulf of Mexico, except that a soft-shell has been harvested just as it begins to molt.
Molting is the process by which the crab loses its hard shell and begins to form a new one. The crabs are held in specially designed holding tanks at a constant temperature of 75-80 degrees, and once the crab loses his hard, much smaller, outer shell, there is a two-hour window in which the crab is removed from the water before a new, harder, shell is formed. All crabs molt, some just get caught during the molt, and lucky for us, the ones that are caught end up on our plates.
Soft-shell crab facilities are usually family operations in which each member of the family takes a turn checking the tanks for newly molted crabs. The tanks are checked hourly even during the middle of the night. It takes a lot of hard work and dedication on the part of several individuals to get a soft-shell from the tank to the plate. But the end result is worth the effort.
Soft shell crabs are available in four sizes: whalers (5 1 /2 inches or larger from tip to tip), jumbos (5 – 51/2 inches), large (41/2 – 5 inches) and medium (4 – 41/2 inches).
Soft-shell crabs are an exception to the typical seafood rule— size DOES matter. The bigger the better and the whaler is the most sought after, most delectable, and most flavorsome of the bunch.
“Buster” crabs (3 – 4 inches) are not available in the Gulf anymore due to game and fish regulations prohibiting any crab smaller than four inches from being harvested. Atlantic states still harvest busters but if you’re eating one in this area, it has probably been frozen.
Deep frying is the cooking method of choice, and at our restaurants we always prepare our soft-shells with an extra helping of jumbo lump crabmeat on top or stuffed inside the crab.
As we head in to the warmer days of spring and summer we should pause and give thanks for God’s rich bounty from the Gulf and for the dedicated crabbers who monitor tanks around the clock so that we can eat a dish that is truly one of the best that the South has to offer.
CRAB-STUFFED SOFT SHELL CRAB
with Warm Shrimp-Boil Potato Salad and spiced pecans
Fried Soft Shell Crab
4 Softshell crabs, cleaned
2 cups Milk
2 Eggs
1 Tbl Tarragon, dried
4 Tbl Hot Sauce
2 Tbl Creole Seasoning
3 cups Seasoned Flour
Peanut oil, for frying
Heat 2 inches of peanut oil to 350 degrees in a heavy skillet or deep fryer.
Make the Creole Beurre Blanc and hold in a warm water bath.
Combine milk, eggs, tarragon, Hot Sauce, and Creole Seasoning. Mix well. Gently drop the crabs in the seasoned milk mixture and place all in the refrigerator and marinate for at least 6 hours.
Make the Crabmeat stuffing.
Remove crabs from the milk mixture one at a time and stuff equal parts of the Crabmeat Stuffing under the top shell of the crab.
Lightly dust the crabs in the seasoned flour. Be careful to keep all of the legs attached and separated keeping them from sticking together. Gently glide the crab (shell side down) into the hot oil, being careful not to splash. Cook approximately two minutes and turn over for another two minutes. Remove the crabs and drain on paper towels.
Spoon approximately one cup of the Warm Shrimp-Boil Potato Salad onto four plates. Place the cooked crab in the middle of the plate. Ladle two ounces of Creole Beurre Blanc over the crab and sprinkle Spiced Pecans over all.
Yield: Four servings
Crabmeat Stuffing
1 /3 cup Green bell pepper, small dice
1 /3cup Red bell pepper, small dice
2 Green onions, Sliced
2 Egg yolks
3 Tbl Mayonnaise
1 Tbl Creole mustard
1 Tbl Lemon juice
1 Tbl Worcestershire sauce
2 tsp Hot sauce
1 Tbl Creole seasoning
1 lb lump crabmeat
2 Tbl Japanese Breadcrumbs
Add first 10 ingredients and mix by hand
Gently fold in crabmeat. Add breadcrumbs
Seasoned Flour
3 cups all-purpose flour
4 Tbl Creole Seasoning
Mix flour and seasoning thoroughly.
Yield: 3 cups
Spiced Pecans
1 Tbl Unsalted butter
1 cup Pecans
1 tsp Black pepper, freshly ground
1 /8 tsp Cayenne pepper
1 /8 cup Sugar
1 tsp Kosher salt
Melt butter over a low heat in a large sauté pan.
Add nuts and stir continuously.
Add sugar and cook until caramelized.
Add salt and continue to stir.
Add Peppers and stir, then remove from heat.
Cool on a sheet pan before storing
Creole Beurre Blanc
1 /4 cup Shallot, minced
2 tsp Garlic, minced
1 /4 cup White wine
2 Tbl White vinegar
2 Tbl Heavy cream
2 tsp Creole mustard
1 /2 lb Unsalted butter
Kosher salt to taste
In a sauce pan, over medium high heat, reduce the shallot, garlic, white wine, and vinegar until all liquid has evaporated.
Add heavy cream and creole mustard, and reduce by half.
Reduce heat to medium, and slowly incorporate the butter one to two tablespoons at a time, stirring constantly. Strain through a chinios, and hold warm. Salt to taste.
Warm Shrimp Boil Potato Salad
3 cups Red potatoes, diced
1 /2 lb Fresh shrimp, medium
1 /4 cup Celery, thinly shaved
1 /2 cup Fresh roasted corn, cut from the cob
1 cup Fresh asparagus, cut into one inch pieces blanched
1 /4 cup Red onion, finely diced
2 tsp Kosher Salt
1 tsp Black pepper, freshly ground
1 quart Water
1 Tbl Liquid crab Boil
Place the water and crab boil in a large saucepot and bring to a simmer. Place the shrimp in the simmering water and cook for 4-5 minutes. Use a slotted spoon and remove the shrimp from the simmering water, and set aside.
Place the potatoes in the simmering water and cook until the potatoes are fork tender, approx. 15 minutes.
Remove the potatoes and drain thoroughly. Place in a mixing bowl with shrimp, celery, corn, asparagus, onion, and salt. Gently toss with the vinaigrette. Serve warm.
Potato Salad Vinaigrette
1 Tbl Shallot, minced
2 tsp Creole mustard
1 /4 cup Sherry vinegar
1 tsp Parsley, chopped
1 tsp Fresh tarragon, chopped
1 tsp Kosher salt
1 /2 tsp Black pepper, freshly ground
3/ 4 cup Olive oil
Place all ingredients (except olive oil) in a mixing bowl and combine. Slowly drizzle olive oil while whisking vigorously. Yield: one cup
Monday, April 02, 2007
Bake Sales
Many of our childhood school activities fall by the wayside as we grow older.
Today I don’t play tetherball or box hockey. I haven’t roller skated in years. I don’t think I’ve played an all-out game of dodge ball since the Carter administration, and I haven’t played tackle football since I was in my early twenties, though I’d love the opportunity to go back out there and tear a few of my tendons, pull some muscles, and break a few of my bones.
Some activities I miss, others, not so much. If I never attend another pep rally, or work on an algebraic equation, I’ll be O.K.
One school activity that played a fairly important role in my youth is: the bake sale. Nowadays, I never happen upon a bake sale and I am a lesser man for it.
I loved a bake sale. It seemed like there were two or three a week in my school. The thing that made bake sales in my junior high and high school so memorable were the mothers who baked the product. I grew up in a neighborhood filled with excellent and dedicated cooks. They baked well and they baked often
The bake sales of my youth were held in the hallways of my school. They were mostly low-key affairs. All one needed was a card table, poster board, magic markers, a shoebox for the money, and the store was open. The table was always filled with homemade sweets of all types.
Caramel apples were available but they tended to stick to braces and headgears. Cakes and pies were not popular bake sale items as one needed a fork and plate to eat them and most bake-sale foods needed to be eaten on-the-run between classes. The Rice Krispie treat was the most popular item at my school’s bake sales and they were always the first to sell out. Brownies were a close second, cookies came in third, but nothing ever surpassed the goshamighty Rice Krispie treat.
I was on the road last week, returning home late from a speaking engagement, and stopped in a convenience store to load up on caffeine and a snack. I didn’t want a candy bar, chips, or a microwave sandwich, and I’m not quite dedicated enough to eat a protein bar, granola, or mixed nuts. As I browsed the aisle, there it was— the zenith of the high-school bake sale— a Rice Krispie treat. I didn’t know they packaged them for sale in stores.
I read the nutritional information on the back of the package and was surprised to learn that it was relatively low in saturated fat, cholesterol, and sugar. Who knew we were eating fairly healthy at bake sales in the 1970s?
I bought one.
As I drove home, the Rice Krispie treat took me back to the days at my school. One bite and I was instantly dusting erasers, sharpening pencils, and nervously waiting outside the principal’s office.
We need more bake sales in our adult lives. We tend to gravitate towards black-tie galas, draw-downs, and wine tastings; but I would gladly trade them all for a rickety card table loaded with sweets.
If I were holding a bake sale today, I would sell nothing but Rice Krispie treats and sweet potato brownies. The sweet potato brownie recipe was in my most recent cookbook. It was one of the most popular recipes in the book.
A famous New Orleans restaurateur once said, "Do you know why kids love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches? It's because peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are good." Ditto Rice Krispie treats.
Four guys who never met a bake sale they didn't like.
Stan, Chris, Robert, and Forrest-- well-fed members of the Class of 1979, Beeson Academy. Home of the world's greatest bake sales
Sweet Potato Brownies
If you don’t like sweet potatoes, don’t worry, you’ll love these. If you don’t like brownies, have no fear, you’ll love these. If you like sweet potatoes and brownies… get ready for an amazing treat!
1 /2 pound butter
2 cups sugar
1 1 /2 cups flour
1 tsp Salt
4 eggs
2 tsp Vanilla
2 cups potatoes, grated
1 cups pecans, toasted
Preheat oven to 350.
In an electric mixer, cream together butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add remaining ingredients in order, stirring after each is added.
Pour into a buttered and floured 9x12 inch baking sheet.
Bake for 30-40 minutes.
Allow brownies to cool completely before cutting.
Glaze
2 Tbl butter
1 /4 cup orange juice
1 tsp cinnamon
1 cup confectioner’s sugar
Melt butter and add remaining ingredients. Let cool. Glaze brownies after they have been cut.
Many of our childhood school activities fall by the wayside as we grow older.
Today I don’t play tetherball or box hockey. I haven’t roller skated in years. I don’t think I’ve played an all-out game of dodge ball since the Carter administration, and I haven’t played tackle football since I was in my early twenties, though I’d love the opportunity to go back out there and tear a few of my tendons, pull some muscles, and break a few of my bones.
Some activities I miss, others, not so much. If I never attend another pep rally, or work on an algebraic equation, I’ll be O.K.
One school activity that played a fairly important role in my youth is: the bake sale. Nowadays, I never happen upon a bake sale and I am a lesser man for it.
I loved a bake sale. It seemed like there were two or three a week in my school. The thing that made bake sales in my junior high and high school so memorable were the mothers who baked the product. I grew up in a neighborhood filled with excellent and dedicated cooks. They baked well and they baked often
The bake sales of my youth were held in the hallways of my school. They were mostly low-key affairs. All one needed was a card table, poster board, magic markers, a shoebox for the money, and the store was open. The table was always filled with homemade sweets of all types.
Caramel apples were available but they tended to stick to braces and headgears. Cakes and pies were not popular bake sale items as one needed a fork and plate to eat them and most bake-sale foods needed to be eaten on-the-run between classes. The Rice Krispie treat was the most popular item at my school’s bake sales and they were always the first to sell out. Brownies were a close second, cookies came in third, but nothing ever surpassed the goshamighty Rice Krispie treat.
I was on the road last week, returning home late from a speaking engagement, and stopped in a convenience store to load up on caffeine and a snack. I didn’t want a candy bar, chips, or a microwave sandwich, and I’m not quite dedicated enough to eat a protein bar, granola, or mixed nuts. As I browsed the aisle, there it was— the zenith of the high-school bake sale— a Rice Krispie treat. I didn’t know they packaged them for sale in stores.
I read the nutritional information on the back of the package and was surprised to learn that it was relatively low in saturated fat, cholesterol, and sugar. Who knew we were eating fairly healthy at bake sales in the 1970s?
I bought one.
As I drove home, the Rice Krispie treat took me back to the days at my school. One bite and I was instantly dusting erasers, sharpening pencils, and nervously waiting outside the principal’s office.
We need more bake sales in our adult lives. We tend to gravitate towards black-tie galas, draw-downs, and wine tastings; but I would gladly trade them all for a rickety card table loaded with sweets.
If I were holding a bake sale today, I would sell nothing but Rice Krispie treats and sweet potato brownies. The sweet potato brownie recipe was in my most recent cookbook. It was one of the most popular recipes in the book.
A famous New Orleans restaurateur once said, "Do you know why kids love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches? It's because peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are good." Ditto Rice Krispie treats.
Four guys who never met a bake sale they didn't like.
Stan, Chris, Robert, and Forrest-- well-fed members of the Class of 1979, Beeson Academy. Home of the world's greatest bake sales
Sweet Potato Brownies
If you don’t like sweet potatoes, don’t worry, you’ll love these. If you don’t like brownies, have no fear, you’ll love these. If you like sweet potatoes and brownies… get ready for an amazing treat!
1 /2 pound butter
2 cups sugar
1 1 /2 cups flour
1 tsp Salt
4 eggs
2 tsp Vanilla
2 cups potatoes, grated
1 cups pecans, toasted
Preheat oven to 350.
In an electric mixer, cream together butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add remaining ingredients in order, stirring after each is added.
Pour into a buttered and floured 9x12 inch baking sheet.
Bake for 30-40 minutes.
Allow brownies to cool completely before cutting.
Glaze
2 Tbl butter
1 /4 cup orange juice
1 tsp cinnamon
1 cup confectioner’s sugar
Melt butter and add remaining ingredients. Let cool. Glaze brownies after they have been cut.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Viral Victuals
I’ve got a virus.
My particular virus is not influenza, a common cold, or a computer virus. I don’t have chickenpox, mumps, Ebola, or rabies.
There are many viruses with exotic and interesting names such as: cereal yellow dwarf virus, Leaky virus, and Four Corners hantavirus. There are virus named after plants and vegetables such as: squash mosaic virus, tobacco virus, tomato bushy stunt virus, and rice dwarf virus. There are also viruses named after animals such as: squirrel monkey retrovirus, Swiss mouse virus, European elk papillomavirus, wooley monkey sarcoma virus, Turkeypox, camelpox, sealpox, and Gay elephant tycomabanucleoid virus. I don’t have any of those either.
Yesterday I read an Associated Press story with a headline that stated: “Obesity linked to virus, new experiments suggest.” It appears that I have contracted the fat virus and that is the reason that I do all of my shopping in the big and tall section.
I’ve been trying to lose 30 pounds since January. At the moment I’m 15 pounds lighter than I was on New Year’s Day, but a few weeks ago I hit a plateau and the scales aren’t budging. I must have contracted a bad case of this fat virus while I was on Spring Break.
Whew! At least it’s a virus. I though all of those barbeque ribs and late-night refrigerator raids were to blame for my flabby midsection.
When I told a doctor friend of mine that I thought I had come down with the fat virus, he asked if the article mentioned a vaccine. “I don’t think so. But if there were a vaccine, where would I get one?” I asked. He then told me that vaccines are small doses of the actual virus that one is trying to defend against. So I asked him if loading up on gravy-cheese fries, cornbread, and jelly doughnuts would help kick start the vaccination process and assist in my fight against the fat virus. He didn’t have an answer.
Then it hit me— maybe I can battle the fat virus with an antibiotic.
As everyone knows, antibiotics are made from mold. It just so happens that mold comes from bread. I love bread. Around the time I started my diet, a new French bakery opened across the street from my office. At the time, I thought that might make dieting harder as they have many beautiful and tasty pastries. Now that I know about this fat virus and its dangers, I am going to do my best to find an antibiotic. I think I’ll start my search for a fat cure in the C’est La Vie Bakery’s pastry case.
As a matter of fact, as I write this I am eating a custard-raisin filled pastry from C’est La Vie and I feel better already.
The fat-virus study was conducted at the University of Wisconsin which proves that when it’s snowing up North, those people truly have nothing to do. It seems that they could have spent some of their snowed-in time coming up with a name for the fat virus.
My home state, Mississippi, is statistically the fattest state in the nation. Who better to name the virus?
Here are my suggestions for fat virus names: Double Chinfluenza, Dimpled Thigh Disease, Chunky Gut Syndrome, Chronic Lap-Over Flabbyitis, NASCAR Barley Bug, Mississippi Blubber Flu, or Pudgypox.
So it turns out that I am fat-virus positive. It could be worse; I could have come down with that yellow dwarf stuff.
Robert burning calories and searching for a cure for Double Chinitis
Park City, Utah, March '07
Chocolate Pie
1 cup plus 2 Tbl. Sugar
3 /4 cups Heavy cream
3 /4 cups Buttermilk
3 1 /2 Tbl Cornstarch
Pinch Salt
4 Egg yolks, reserve whites for meringue
3 ounces Semisweet chocolate, high quality
1 Tbl Butter
3 /4 tsp Vanilla
1 Pie Crust, baked (recipe below)
In a small saucepan combine the sugar, heavy cream, buttermilk, cornstarch and salt and whisk until smooth. Place over medium-high heat, and bring to a boil, whisking from time to time, allowing the sugar and cornstarch to dissolve and the mixture to thicken (about five minutes). Continue cooking at a low boil for an additional five minutes, whisking constantly.
In a mixing bowl, beat egg yolks lightly. Pour 1 /2 cup of the hot mixture into the egg yolks and whisk thoroughly. Pour the egg yolk mixture into the saucepan and whisk over the heat until thoroughly combined (about 30 seconds).
Pour mixture into a mixing bowl, and whisk in the chocolate, butter and vanilla. Continue whisking until thoroughly combined (mixture will be very thick). Pour the chocolate batter into the prepared pie crust. Prepare the meringue and spread over the pie and bake at 350 until golden, about 8-10 minutes. Allow pie to cool completely before serving (refrigerate at least four hours). Yield: eight slices
Meringue:
4 Egg whites
6 TBSP Sugar
1 /2 tsp Cream of tartar
Beat the egg whites with an electric mixer. When they start to increase in volume, add in the sugar and cream of tartar. Continue to beat until stiff peaks form.
Pie Crust
2 cups Flour
1 cup Shortening
1 /4 tsp Salt
1 Egg
1 /3 cup Milk
Blend the first three ingredients together with a pastry cutter or a fork. Beat egg and milk together. Slowly add egg/milk mixture to flour mixture, one tablespoon at a time until pie dough becomes moist and forms a ball. Divide into half and shape into a ball. Wrap and refrigerate one hour before rolling. Roll out on a floured surface. Yield: Two crusts
To roll out dough: Remove dough disk from refrigerator. If stiff and very cold, let stand until dough is cool but malleable.
Using a floured rolling pin, roll dough disk on a lightly floured surface from the center out in each direction, forming a 12 inch circle. To transfer dough, carefully roll it around the rolling pin, lift and unroll dough, centering it in an ungreased nine-inch pie plate.
I’ve got a virus.
My particular virus is not influenza, a common cold, or a computer virus. I don’t have chickenpox, mumps, Ebola, or rabies.
There are many viruses with exotic and interesting names such as: cereal yellow dwarf virus, Leaky virus, and Four Corners hantavirus. There are virus named after plants and vegetables such as: squash mosaic virus, tobacco virus, tomato bushy stunt virus, and rice dwarf virus. There are also viruses named after animals such as: squirrel monkey retrovirus, Swiss mouse virus, European elk papillomavirus, wooley monkey sarcoma virus, Turkeypox, camelpox, sealpox, and Gay elephant tycomabanucleoid virus. I don’t have any of those either.
Yesterday I read an Associated Press story with a headline that stated: “Obesity linked to virus, new experiments suggest.” It appears that I have contracted the fat virus and that is the reason that I do all of my shopping in the big and tall section.
I’ve been trying to lose 30 pounds since January. At the moment I’m 15 pounds lighter than I was on New Year’s Day, but a few weeks ago I hit a plateau and the scales aren’t budging. I must have contracted a bad case of this fat virus while I was on Spring Break.
Whew! At least it’s a virus. I though all of those barbeque ribs and late-night refrigerator raids were to blame for my flabby midsection.
When I told a doctor friend of mine that I thought I had come down with the fat virus, he asked if the article mentioned a vaccine. “I don’t think so. But if there were a vaccine, where would I get one?” I asked. He then told me that vaccines are small doses of the actual virus that one is trying to defend against. So I asked him if loading up on gravy-cheese fries, cornbread, and jelly doughnuts would help kick start the vaccination process and assist in my fight against the fat virus. He didn’t have an answer.
Then it hit me— maybe I can battle the fat virus with an antibiotic.
As everyone knows, antibiotics are made from mold. It just so happens that mold comes from bread. I love bread. Around the time I started my diet, a new French bakery opened across the street from my office. At the time, I thought that might make dieting harder as they have many beautiful and tasty pastries. Now that I know about this fat virus and its dangers, I am going to do my best to find an antibiotic. I think I’ll start my search for a fat cure in the C’est La Vie Bakery’s pastry case.
As a matter of fact, as I write this I am eating a custard-raisin filled pastry from C’est La Vie and I feel better already.
The fat-virus study was conducted at the University of Wisconsin which proves that when it’s snowing up North, those people truly have nothing to do. It seems that they could have spent some of their snowed-in time coming up with a name for the fat virus.
My home state, Mississippi, is statistically the fattest state in the nation. Who better to name the virus?
Here are my suggestions for fat virus names: Double Chinfluenza, Dimpled Thigh Disease, Chunky Gut Syndrome, Chronic Lap-Over Flabbyitis, NASCAR Barley Bug, Mississippi Blubber Flu, or Pudgypox.
So it turns out that I am fat-virus positive. It could be worse; I could have come down with that yellow dwarf stuff.
Robert burning calories and searching for a cure for Double Chinitis
Park City, Utah, March '07
Chocolate Pie
1 cup plus 2 Tbl. Sugar
3 /4 cups Heavy cream
3 /4 cups Buttermilk
3 1 /2 Tbl Cornstarch
Pinch Salt
4 Egg yolks, reserve whites for meringue
3 ounces Semisweet chocolate, high quality
1 Tbl Butter
3 /4 tsp Vanilla
1 Pie Crust, baked (recipe below)
In a small saucepan combine the sugar, heavy cream, buttermilk, cornstarch and salt and whisk until smooth. Place over medium-high heat, and bring to a boil, whisking from time to time, allowing the sugar and cornstarch to dissolve and the mixture to thicken (about five minutes). Continue cooking at a low boil for an additional five minutes, whisking constantly.
In a mixing bowl, beat egg yolks lightly. Pour 1 /2 cup of the hot mixture into the egg yolks and whisk thoroughly. Pour the egg yolk mixture into the saucepan and whisk over the heat until thoroughly combined (about 30 seconds).
Pour mixture into a mixing bowl, and whisk in the chocolate, butter and vanilla. Continue whisking until thoroughly combined (mixture will be very thick). Pour the chocolate batter into the prepared pie crust. Prepare the meringue and spread over the pie and bake at 350 until golden, about 8-10 minutes. Allow pie to cool completely before serving (refrigerate at least four hours). Yield: eight slices
Meringue:
4 Egg whites
6 TBSP Sugar
1 /2 tsp Cream of tartar
Beat the egg whites with an electric mixer. When they start to increase in volume, add in the sugar and cream of tartar. Continue to beat until stiff peaks form.
Pie Crust
2 cups Flour
1 cup Shortening
1 /4 tsp Salt
1 Egg
1 /3 cup Milk
Blend the first three ingredients together with a pastry cutter or a fork. Beat egg and milk together. Slowly add egg/milk mixture to flour mixture, one tablespoon at a time until pie dough becomes moist and forms a ball. Divide into half and shape into a ball. Wrap and refrigerate one hour before rolling. Roll out on a floured surface. Yield: Two crusts
To roll out dough: Remove dough disk from refrigerator. If stiff and very cold, let stand until dough is cool but malleable.
Using a floured rolling pin, roll dough disk on a lightly floured surface from the center out in each direction, forming a 12 inch circle. To transfer dough, carefully roll it around the rolling pin, lift and unroll dough, centering it in an ungreased nine-inch pie plate.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Blessed Fish and My Grandmother’s Lamb
We are smack dab in the middle of the Lenten Season and Easter is only a few weeks away.
This time of year always brings memories of my grandmother’s dining room. Easters used to be elaborate occasions in my family— new church clothes, hidden candy tucked away in pastel-colored plastic eggs, the annual family photograph, china, crystal, silver, and leg of lamb.
My grandmother worked in food as an artist might work in acrylics or egg tempera. The Easter leg of lamb was her masterpiece.
Unlike lamb chops, leg of lamb should never be cooked to medium rare or medium. It is a tougher cut and benefits from the longer cooking time as the tissue tends to break down and make the meat tenderer. My grandmother always made a simple gravy with the drippings from the roasting pan to accompany the lamb and served mint jelly on the side. It was a meal fit for a king, or possibly a Pope.
A few weeks ago the president of the Kentucky Fried Chicken chain of restaurants wrote a letter to the Pontiff asking him to bless their new fish sandwich.
KFC’s Fish Snacker Sandwich consists of a fried Alaskan Pollack filet with tartar sauce on a sesame seed bun. The Associated Press reprinted a portion of the press release that described the sandwich as, “ideal for American Catholics who want to observe Lenten season traditions while still leading their busy, modern lifestyles.”
I am a Methodist. Granted, I don’t know much about Catholicism, but if the Pope blesses a fast-food fish sandwich, I think I could probably get a deferred blessing for my grandmother’s leg of lamb. It was certainly as close to heaven on a plate as any food I have ever tasted. Her mashed potatoes were better than KFC’s and no one at her dinner table had to use a spork. As for the eleven secret herbs and spices, my grandmother used only salt and pepper to season her lamb— no secrets, there.
KFC can have Fridays for their fish sandwich. Give me Sundays for my grandmother’s leg of lamb.
So if the Catholics get a fish sandwich and we Methodists get leg of lamb, where does that leave the Baptists? What food would my Baptist friends submit to the leader of the Southern Baptist Convention for an official blessing? The Presbyterians? The Lutherans?
In my most recent cookbook, Deep South Parties, I offered several recipes for punch, each broken out by denomination. The Methodist, Baptist, and Presbyterian punches were harmless, though tasty, offerings. The Catholic punch was made stronger with the addition of wine, and the Episcopalian punch— a recipe that came from one of my uncle’s church members (he’s an Episcopal rector)— requires a designated driver.
As of this writing, I couldn’t find a news story that reported a response from the Pope. If the Vatican does indeed officially bless the fish sandwich, I would look for the culinary floodgates to open and requests for Big Mac and Whopper blessings to come pouring in immediately.
In the meantime, I’m going to be roasting a leg of lamb on Easter Sunday— blessed or not.
Ned and me in my grandmother's backyard, Easter '65
Leg of Lamb with Raspberry Mint Chutney
Preheat oven to 375
1 Leg of Lamb, bone in, about 6-7 pounds
12 cloves fresh garlic
1/4 cup olive oil
1 Tbl fresh chopped rosemary
1 Tbl fresh chopped thyme
3 Tbl kosher salt
1 Tbl fresh ground black pepper
Using a paring knife, cut 12 small pockets, spread out in the lamb leg.
Insert one clove of garlic into each pocket.
Rub the leg with the olive oil, the rub the herbs, salt and pepper over the leg.
Place the lamb in a large roasting pan, and place it in the preheated oven.
Roast for 30 minutes, then reduce the heat to 325 and continue to bake for 1 hour and 30 minutes to achieve a medium- medium well temperature. If using a thermometer, it should register 155 degrees.
Remove from the oven and allow the lamb to rest for 10 minutes. The temperature of the lamb will rise a few degrees while resting. Slice thinly around the bone and serve.
Raspberry Mint Chutney
1 Tbl olive oil
1 /2 cup shallots, minced
1 Tbl garlic, minced
1 Tbl fresh ginger, minced fine
2 tsp curry powder
1 /4 tsp black pepper, freshly ground
1 /2 cup sherry
3 cups raspberries, fresh or frozen
1 cinnamon stick
2 cups chicken broth
1 bay leaf
1 cup mint jelly
1 tsp cornstarch
2 tsp water
1 /2 tsp balsamic vinegar
1 Tbl fresh mint, chopped
In a small sauce pot, heat olive oil over medium-high heat and cook shallots 3-4 minutes. Stir in garlic, ginger and seasonings, and cook 3-4 more minutes, stirring often. Do not let garlic brown. Deglaze with sherry and reduce by half.
Stir in 2 cups of the raspberries, chicken broth and bay leaf and simmer 15-20 minutes, until reduced by half. Stir in mint jelly and cook three minutes more, stirring constantly. Dissolve the cornstarch with the 2 teaspoons of water and stir it into the simmering sauce. Allow the sauce to thicken then remove from the heat and strain. Stir in the vinegar, fresh mint and remaining cup of raspberries.
Serve at room temperature.
We are smack dab in the middle of the Lenten Season and Easter is only a few weeks away.
This time of year always brings memories of my grandmother’s dining room. Easters used to be elaborate occasions in my family— new church clothes, hidden candy tucked away in pastel-colored plastic eggs, the annual family photograph, china, crystal, silver, and leg of lamb.
My grandmother worked in food as an artist might work in acrylics or egg tempera. The Easter leg of lamb was her masterpiece.
Unlike lamb chops, leg of lamb should never be cooked to medium rare or medium. It is a tougher cut and benefits from the longer cooking time as the tissue tends to break down and make the meat tenderer. My grandmother always made a simple gravy with the drippings from the roasting pan to accompany the lamb and served mint jelly on the side. It was a meal fit for a king, or possibly a Pope.
A few weeks ago the president of the Kentucky Fried Chicken chain of restaurants wrote a letter to the Pontiff asking him to bless their new fish sandwich.
KFC’s Fish Snacker Sandwich consists of a fried Alaskan Pollack filet with tartar sauce on a sesame seed bun. The Associated Press reprinted a portion of the press release that described the sandwich as, “ideal for American Catholics who want to observe Lenten season traditions while still leading their busy, modern lifestyles.”
I am a Methodist. Granted, I don’t know much about Catholicism, but if the Pope blesses a fast-food fish sandwich, I think I could probably get a deferred blessing for my grandmother’s leg of lamb. It was certainly as close to heaven on a plate as any food I have ever tasted. Her mashed potatoes were better than KFC’s and no one at her dinner table had to use a spork. As for the eleven secret herbs and spices, my grandmother used only salt and pepper to season her lamb— no secrets, there.
KFC can have Fridays for their fish sandwich. Give me Sundays for my grandmother’s leg of lamb.
So if the Catholics get a fish sandwich and we Methodists get leg of lamb, where does that leave the Baptists? What food would my Baptist friends submit to the leader of the Southern Baptist Convention for an official blessing? The Presbyterians? The Lutherans?
In my most recent cookbook, Deep South Parties, I offered several recipes for punch, each broken out by denomination. The Methodist, Baptist, and Presbyterian punches were harmless, though tasty, offerings. The Catholic punch was made stronger with the addition of wine, and the Episcopalian punch— a recipe that came from one of my uncle’s church members (he’s an Episcopal rector)— requires a designated driver.
As of this writing, I couldn’t find a news story that reported a response from the Pope. If the Vatican does indeed officially bless the fish sandwich, I would look for the culinary floodgates to open and requests for Big Mac and Whopper blessings to come pouring in immediately.
In the meantime, I’m going to be roasting a leg of lamb on Easter Sunday— blessed or not.
Ned and me in my grandmother's backyard, Easter '65
Leg of Lamb with Raspberry Mint Chutney
Preheat oven to 375
1 Leg of Lamb, bone in, about 6-7 pounds
12 cloves fresh garlic
1/4 cup olive oil
1 Tbl fresh chopped rosemary
1 Tbl fresh chopped thyme
3 Tbl kosher salt
1 Tbl fresh ground black pepper
Using a paring knife, cut 12 small pockets, spread out in the lamb leg.
Insert one clove of garlic into each pocket.
Rub the leg with the olive oil, the rub the herbs, salt and pepper over the leg.
Place the lamb in a large roasting pan, and place it in the preheated oven.
Roast for 30 minutes, then reduce the heat to 325 and continue to bake for 1 hour and 30 minutes to achieve a medium- medium well temperature. If using a thermometer, it should register 155 degrees.
Remove from the oven and allow the lamb to rest for 10 minutes. The temperature of the lamb will rise a few degrees while resting. Slice thinly around the bone and serve.
Raspberry Mint Chutney
1 Tbl olive oil
1 /2 cup shallots, minced
1 Tbl garlic, minced
1 Tbl fresh ginger, minced fine
2 tsp curry powder
1 /4 tsp black pepper, freshly ground
1 /2 cup sherry
3 cups raspberries, fresh or frozen
1 cinnamon stick
2 cups chicken broth
1 bay leaf
1 cup mint jelly
1 tsp cornstarch
2 tsp water
1 /2 tsp balsamic vinegar
1 Tbl fresh mint, chopped
In a small sauce pot, heat olive oil over medium-high heat and cook shallots 3-4 minutes. Stir in garlic, ginger and seasonings, and cook 3-4 more minutes, stirring often. Do not let garlic brown. Deglaze with sherry and reduce by half.
Stir in 2 cups of the raspberries, chicken broth and bay leaf and simmer 15-20 minutes, until reduced by half. Stir in mint jelly and cook three minutes more, stirring constantly. Dissolve the cornstarch with the 2 teaspoons of water and stir it into the simmering sauce. Allow the sauce to thicken then remove from the heat and strain. Stir in the vinegar, fresh mint and remaining cup of raspberries.
Serve at room temperature.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Spring Break Diary
Day One: Saturday
4:30a.m.— I wake up early for a 9:30a.m. flight out of Jackson. Last night I told my wife we needed to leave the house no later than 6:30 a.m. I organize luggage, locate airline tickets, and condo confirmation numbers. The rest of my family sleeps peacefully.
6:23 a.m.— My wife is putting on make-up. Her hair is still wet. Did I mention that the Jackson airport checks no one in within 30 minutes of his or her departure time? My nine-year old daughter is still asleep. For some reason, my five-year old son slept under his desk last night. The 6:30a.m. departure is not going to happen. I guess there is something that can be said for consistency.
6:52 a.m.— The St.John Scramble officially commences (as it does every time we try to get to an airport on time). No matter what time the flight, or what time I tell my wife we need to leave, we are 45 minutes late. Being a master of the St.John Scramble, I had the foresight to tell my wife that we needed to leave at 6:30 a.m. when we actually didn’t need to leave until 7:00 a.m. Wisdom comes with age.
7:24 a.m.— My wife refuses to get in the car unless we drive through Starbucks. I agree because I am the man of the house and I always call the shots.
7:29 a.m.— My wife forgot her ring at the house. We turn around. The kids are eating Starbucks pound cake for breakfast— mega doses of sugar. My son will be bouncing off of the car windows for the next 90 miles to the airport.
7:33 a.m.— We’re on the road. Our flight leaves at 9:30 a.m. I consider calling my travel agent to check on later flights. My son is loudly singing jingles from cheesy commercials. My daughter is staring out of the car window. My wife is still unconcerned. I wonder how my son knows every word to the Forrest General Hospital television commercial.
8:47 a.m.— Tires squeal as we pull up to the curbside check-in at the airport. Sky Caps scatter as I wildly throw suitcases and duffle bags out of the car in a practice with which I have become all too familiar, and all too good.
8:58 a.m.— We check in 90 seconds under the wire and the four of us run through the airport like O.J. in a car-rental commercial. My daughter asks, “Who’s O.J.?”
9:02 a.m.— My son loses his shoes in the security line. I learn that our fight’s departure has been moved up 15 minutes. We make it. Unbelievable. I still haven’t eaten breakfast.
10:17 a.m.— On a small commuter jet, my son stands up, points, and yells out, “Momma, that man has a huge head!”
11:56 a.m.— After a mostly uneventful flight— one with no foodservice— we have a $92.78 meal at a so-called Tex-Mex café in the Dallas airport. The “house specialty” tortilla soup was nothing more than canned chicken noodle soup with the addition of limes, jalepenos, and Tostitos. My son spills his soft drink on his sister.
1:05 p.m.— Just before boarding the flight to Salt Lake City, I notice that we have seats 17B, 17C, 17D, and 17E. I say a heart-felt, silent prayer for the passenger who holds the ticket to seat 17A.
2:07p.m. — At 35,000 feet, somewhere over West Texas, my wife notifies me that she left all of the ski school vouchers, lift tickets, and all other vital vacation stuff “in the box on the dresser, in the den.” The den is still in Mississippi the last time I checked. The man in 17A is nice and skinny— a ray of hope
2:48 p.m.— Mr. 17A appears to have gastro-intestinal issues. My daughter says, “Daddy, that man is making bad air.”
5:15p.m. — We check into the condo. The brochure advertised a “hot tub” in the unit. It looks more like a “hot bucket.” My fourth grader might be able to fit inside.
6:49 p.m.— Sitting in my favorite sushi restaurant in the world— The Flying Sumo in Park City, Utah— eating Luxury Shrimp, Money Rolls, Utah Rolls, Samurai Rolls, Tuna Nachos, and Funky Rolls. The atmosphere is cool, the music is good, the food is great, and no one is making bad air. I’m watching my children eat food that I wouldn’t eat until I was in my thirties. Sleep will come soon. Tomorrow we’ll ski. All is forgotten. Life is good.
Yellowfin Tuna Tartar with Avocado Relish
The ingredients must be fresh. Do not substitute. You won’t be sorry. A true crowd pleaser with a lot of “Wow” appeal.
1 /4 cup minced green onion
1 tsp fresh minced ginger
2 Tbl chopped cilantro
2 Tbl toasted sesame seeds
1 Tbl sesame oil
1 tsp fish sauce
1 /2 tsp hot sauce
2 Tbl soy sauce
1 tsp honey
1 tsp sherry
1 tsp rice vinegar
2 Tbl cottonseed oil
1 /2 pound fresh Yellowfin tuna, small dice
Combine all ingredients except for Yellowfin tuna and blend well. Diced tuna should be added to sesame seed mixture just before serving.
Avocado Relish
1 Tbl fresh lime juice
1 tsp cottonseed oil (or canola oil)
1 tsp sesame seed oil
1 /4 tsp garlic, minced
1 TBSP red onion, finely diced
1 tsp fresh chopped parley
2 tsp red bell pepper, small diced
1 medium sized ripe avocado
1 /4 tsp Salt
1 /8 tsp Cayenne pepper
Combine first seven ingredients and blend well. Quickly fold the avocado. If making in advance, place the seed in the relish and press plastic wrap directly on to the relish, sealing it off from any air exposure. Refrigerate.
5 sheets fresh egg roll wrappers to make wonton crackers
Using a cookie cutter, cut 2 1 /2-inch circles into the center of egg roll wrappers. Fry according to the package directions.
To serve, place 1 1 /2 tsp of the tartar mixture and 1 tsp avocado relish on the wonton crackers.
Yield: 25-30
Day One: Saturday
4:30a.m.— I wake up early for a 9:30a.m. flight out of Jackson. Last night I told my wife we needed to leave the house no later than 6:30 a.m. I organize luggage, locate airline tickets, and condo confirmation numbers. The rest of my family sleeps peacefully.
6:23 a.m.— My wife is putting on make-up. Her hair is still wet. Did I mention that the Jackson airport checks no one in within 30 minutes of his or her departure time? My nine-year old daughter is still asleep. For some reason, my five-year old son slept under his desk last night. The 6:30a.m. departure is not going to happen. I guess there is something that can be said for consistency.
6:52 a.m.— The St.John Scramble officially commences (as it does every time we try to get to an airport on time). No matter what time the flight, or what time I tell my wife we need to leave, we are 45 minutes late. Being a master of the St.John Scramble, I had the foresight to tell my wife that we needed to leave at 6:30 a.m. when we actually didn’t need to leave until 7:00 a.m. Wisdom comes with age.
7:24 a.m.— My wife refuses to get in the car unless we drive through Starbucks. I agree because I am the man of the house and I always call the shots.
7:29 a.m.— My wife forgot her ring at the house. We turn around. The kids are eating Starbucks pound cake for breakfast— mega doses of sugar. My son will be bouncing off of the car windows for the next 90 miles to the airport.
7:33 a.m.— We’re on the road. Our flight leaves at 9:30 a.m. I consider calling my travel agent to check on later flights. My son is loudly singing jingles from cheesy commercials. My daughter is staring out of the car window. My wife is still unconcerned. I wonder how my son knows every word to the Forrest General Hospital television commercial.
8:47 a.m.— Tires squeal as we pull up to the curbside check-in at the airport. Sky Caps scatter as I wildly throw suitcases and duffle bags out of the car in a practice with which I have become all too familiar, and all too good.
8:58 a.m.— We check in 90 seconds under the wire and the four of us run through the airport like O.J. in a car-rental commercial. My daughter asks, “Who’s O.J.?”
9:02 a.m.— My son loses his shoes in the security line. I learn that our fight’s departure has been moved up 15 minutes. We make it. Unbelievable. I still haven’t eaten breakfast.
10:17 a.m.— On a small commuter jet, my son stands up, points, and yells out, “Momma, that man has a huge head!”
11:56 a.m.— After a mostly uneventful flight— one with no foodservice— we have a $92.78 meal at a so-called Tex-Mex café in the Dallas airport. The “house specialty” tortilla soup was nothing more than canned chicken noodle soup with the addition of limes, jalepenos, and Tostitos. My son spills his soft drink on his sister.
1:05 p.m.— Just before boarding the flight to Salt Lake City, I notice that we have seats 17B, 17C, 17D, and 17E. I say a heart-felt, silent prayer for the passenger who holds the ticket to seat 17A.
2:07p.m. — At 35,000 feet, somewhere over West Texas, my wife notifies me that she left all of the ski school vouchers, lift tickets, and all other vital vacation stuff “in the box on the dresser, in the den.” The den is still in Mississippi the last time I checked. The man in 17A is nice and skinny— a ray of hope
2:48 p.m.— Mr. 17A appears to have gastro-intestinal issues. My daughter says, “Daddy, that man is making bad air.”
5:15p.m. — We check into the condo. The brochure advertised a “hot tub” in the unit. It looks more like a “hot bucket.” My fourth grader might be able to fit inside.
6:49 p.m.— Sitting in my favorite sushi restaurant in the world— The Flying Sumo in Park City, Utah— eating Luxury Shrimp, Money Rolls, Utah Rolls, Samurai Rolls, Tuna Nachos, and Funky Rolls. The atmosphere is cool, the music is good, the food is great, and no one is making bad air. I’m watching my children eat food that I wouldn’t eat until I was in my thirties. Sleep will come soon. Tomorrow we’ll ski. All is forgotten. Life is good.
Yellowfin Tuna Tartar with Avocado Relish
The ingredients must be fresh. Do not substitute. You won’t be sorry. A true crowd pleaser with a lot of “Wow” appeal.
1 /4 cup minced green onion
1 tsp fresh minced ginger
2 Tbl chopped cilantro
2 Tbl toasted sesame seeds
1 Tbl sesame oil
1 tsp fish sauce
1 /2 tsp hot sauce
2 Tbl soy sauce
1 tsp honey
1 tsp sherry
1 tsp rice vinegar
2 Tbl cottonseed oil
1 /2 pound fresh Yellowfin tuna, small dice
Combine all ingredients except for Yellowfin tuna and blend well. Diced tuna should be added to sesame seed mixture just before serving.
Avocado Relish
1 Tbl fresh lime juice
1 tsp cottonseed oil (or canola oil)
1 tsp sesame seed oil
1 /4 tsp garlic, minced
1 TBSP red onion, finely diced
1 tsp fresh chopped parley
2 tsp red bell pepper, small diced
1 medium sized ripe avocado
1 /4 tsp Salt
1 /8 tsp Cayenne pepper
Combine first seven ingredients and blend well. Quickly fold the avocado. If making in advance, place the seed in the relish and press plastic wrap directly on to the relish, sealing it off from any air exposure. Refrigerate.
5 sheets fresh egg roll wrappers to make wonton crackers
Using a cookie cutter, cut 2 1 /2-inch circles into the center of egg roll wrappers. Fry according to the package directions.
To serve, place 1 1 /2 tsp of the tartar mixture and 1 tsp avocado relish on the wonton crackers.
Yield: 25-30
Monday, March 05, 2007
Pancakes and Passings
I buried my grandmother today. She was the only one I had left.
I was fortunate to have spent all of my childhood and a good part of my early adult years with both grandmothers, each playing a crucial role in my upbringing. My paternal grandmother passed away 17 years ago, my grandfather 25 years ago, my maternal grandmother, last week. She was 97-years old.
In their respective families, grandparents are usually known for a few specific deeds or character traits among their grandchildren. My grandfather was an avid outdoorsman, sportsman, and history buff. My paternal grandmother was a gracious Southern lady with impeccable manners and a knack for entertaining. The lady we buried today was full of spunk, devoted to her family, an excellent bridge and solitaire player, and the creator of the best pancakes on the planet.
Some cooks are more comfortable cooking specific items such as seafood; others excel at on a certain piece of equipment— a barbeque grill or cast iron skillet. Some cooks pride themselves on elaborate dinners; some are more comfortable with small, intimate lunches. For my grandmother, breakfast was her domain; the early morning kitchen was her kingdom, we were her subjects, a spatula was her scepter, and pancakes were the currency.
When dining at my grandmother’s home, no breakfast was complete without her pancakes. The supporting cast of breakfast items might change with each meal— sausage one morning, bacon the next, grits, or no grits— but there were always pancakes.
I am not sure what made her pancake recipe so much better than others, but it is better, much better. It might have been the amount of baking soda, or it could have been the baking powder, possibly a combination of the two with the addition of buttermilk. Most pancakes are dull, flavorless and too bread-like. Not hers. I am fortunate to have grown up in a home where out-of-the-box pancakes of the just-add-water variety were never served.
Whenever the family traveled she packed her pancake mix into Zip-Loc baggies and prepared them on site wherever we might be. Her pancakes were the constant in an ever-changing family structure.
I would bet three paychecks that my grandmother cooked more pancakes than any other homemaker of her era. A few years ago, as I was thinking back on so many shared breakfasts, it occurred to me that no one had ever cooked pancakes for my grandmother. All of my life, every time pancakes were served when she was around, it was she that did the cooking. At the time, she was living in an assisted living home. I invited her to my house for pancakes. This time I did the cooking. We sat with my wife and daughter and enjoyed one of the more memorable breakfasts I will ever have.
Today, my wife makes the pancakes in our family. She uses my grandmother’s recipe.
There are many options for those who want to leave a legacy to their family. It seems that food, or a particular food item, is a legacy of the utmost significance. Like money, it can be passed down to future generations, but unlike cash, the opportunities for creating lasting memories, are limitless. Sharing a meal with one’s family makes life richer. My grandmother made life richer for us all.
Muz’s Pancakes – The World’s Best
1 cup All Purpose Flour
2 tsp Baking Powder
1 tsp Baking Soda
1 /2 tsp Salt
1 Tbl Sugar
1 Egg
1 cup Buttermilk
1 /2 cup Melted Butter, divided
Mix dry ingredients thoroughly. Mix together the liquid ingredients— including 1 /4 cup of butter— and gently add to the dry ingredients, stirring until just incorporated. Do not overwork the batter.
Note: The batter is thick, it can be thinned with a small amount of water, milk, or a little more buttermilk if you prefer.
Cook pancakes on a lightly greased griddle. Pancakes should be turned only once. They are ready to be turned when bubbles form in the middle and the edges appear cooked. Once pancakes are turned, use a pastry brush to spread the additional 1 /4 cup of melted butter on top of the pancakes while the other side is cooking. This will keep you from having to spread cold butter on them, which will tear them. The pancakes will already be buttered once they reach the table. Top with real maple syrup.
I buried my grandmother today. She was the only one I had left.
I was fortunate to have spent all of my childhood and a good part of my early adult years with both grandmothers, each playing a crucial role in my upbringing. My paternal grandmother passed away 17 years ago, my grandfather 25 years ago, my maternal grandmother, last week. She was 97-years old.
In their respective families, grandparents are usually known for a few specific deeds or character traits among their grandchildren. My grandfather was an avid outdoorsman, sportsman, and history buff. My paternal grandmother was a gracious Southern lady with impeccable manners and a knack for entertaining. The lady we buried today was full of spunk, devoted to her family, an excellent bridge and solitaire player, and the creator of the best pancakes on the planet.
Some cooks are more comfortable cooking specific items such as seafood; others excel at on a certain piece of equipment— a barbeque grill or cast iron skillet. Some cooks pride themselves on elaborate dinners; some are more comfortable with small, intimate lunches. For my grandmother, breakfast was her domain; the early morning kitchen was her kingdom, we were her subjects, a spatula was her scepter, and pancakes were the currency.
When dining at my grandmother’s home, no breakfast was complete without her pancakes. The supporting cast of breakfast items might change with each meal— sausage one morning, bacon the next, grits, or no grits— but there were always pancakes.
I am not sure what made her pancake recipe so much better than others, but it is better, much better. It might have been the amount of baking soda, or it could have been the baking powder, possibly a combination of the two with the addition of buttermilk. Most pancakes are dull, flavorless and too bread-like. Not hers. I am fortunate to have grown up in a home where out-of-the-box pancakes of the just-add-water variety were never served.
Whenever the family traveled she packed her pancake mix into Zip-Loc baggies and prepared them on site wherever we might be. Her pancakes were the constant in an ever-changing family structure.
I would bet three paychecks that my grandmother cooked more pancakes than any other homemaker of her era. A few years ago, as I was thinking back on so many shared breakfasts, it occurred to me that no one had ever cooked pancakes for my grandmother. All of my life, every time pancakes were served when she was around, it was she that did the cooking. At the time, she was living in an assisted living home. I invited her to my house for pancakes. This time I did the cooking. We sat with my wife and daughter and enjoyed one of the more memorable breakfasts I will ever have.
Today, my wife makes the pancakes in our family. She uses my grandmother’s recipe.
There are many options for those who want to leave a legacy to their family. It seems that food, or a particular food item, is a legacy of the utmost significance. Like money, it can be passed down to future generations, but unlike cash, the opportunities for creating lasting memories, are limitless. Sharing a meal with one’s family makes life richer. My grandmother made life richer for us all.
Muz’s Pancakes – The World’s Best
1 cup All Purpose Flour
2 tsp Baking Powder
1 tsp Baking Soda
1 /2 tsp Salt
1 Tbl Sugar
1 Egg
1 cup Buttermilk
1 /2 cup Melted Butter, divided
Mix dry ingredients thoroughly. Mix together the liquid ingredients— including 1 /4 cup of butter— and gently add to the dry ingredients, stirring until just incorporated. Do not overwork the batter.
Note: The batter is thick, it can be thinned with a small amount of water, milk, or a little more buttermilk if you prefer.
Cook pancakes on a lightly greased griddle. Pancakes should be turned only once. They are ready to be turned when bubbles form in the middle and the edges appear cooked. Once pancakes are turned, use a pastry brush to spread the additional 1 /4 cup of melted butter on top of the pancakes while the other side is cooking. This will keep you from having to spread cold butter on them, which will tear them. The pancakes will already be buttered once they reach the table. Top with real maple syrup.
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