Restaurant Bathrooms and Parenting
I was having lunch with my family in a very nice restaurant on the North Shore of Lake Pontchartrain the other day. The dining room was packed and everyone was dressed in their Easter finest.
Halfway through the appetizer course, my six-year old son came walking out of the bathroom fastening his belt and zipping up his pants.
Typically, walking through a formal restaurant’s dining room with one’s pants unzipped would be written off as a slight breach of etiquette and chalked up to a first grader’s eagerness to leave the restroom and return to the table, but for one minor detail— he hates to wear underwear.
The not-wearing-underwear dilemma has caused a few problems in his six short years— a trip to the principal’s office in kindergarten after bragging to the third graders that he was “going commando,” and a few notes from his teacher— but to date, no breach of decorum has been quite as severe as walking through the La Provence dining room letting it all hang out.
And when I say “all,” I mean ALL. He flashed a good portion of the dining room. He returned to the table and continued to eat as if nothing unusual or out of the ordinary had occurred.
Welcome to my world.
In my short, yet eventful, parenting career, The Easter Flashing Incident is second only to The Mexican Restaurant Fiasco in terms of noteworthiness and impact.
During my son’s terrible twos (which seemed to last all the way into his frightful fours), we were dining in a local Mexican restaurant. On this particular evening he was feeling fearless and independent and asked if he could go to the bathroom on his own. The restaurant was safe and the bathroom was not located near an exit, so the proud father in me replied, “Why that’s a big step, son. Of course you can go to the bathroom on your own.” His mother frowned but, on this occasion, dad’s rule won the day.
After several minutes my son hadn’t returned. My wife began to worry but I assured her that everything was fine. After several more minutes she told me to go check on him, but I told her to hold firm, this was a big step for him. After several more minutes I gave in and excused myself to go find out what had happened.
The restroom was located on the far side of the restaurant adjacent to the main dining room. While walking I noticed people seated in booths and tables staring at me and chuckling. As I got closer to the restroom people were looking at me and laughing out loud. I wondered what could have happened in the five short minutes my son had been in the restroom to incite this reaction. As I drew even closer to the bathroom I could hear his voice. I let out a sigh of relief. He was O.K.
As I turned the corner, I saw my son, his reddened face peeking out of the bathroom door, his pants to his knees, screaming loudly into the dining room, “Will somebody wipe me?”
My brief relief turned to shock.
Understandably, the answer to his request— which had been shouted over and over and over and over, for the last three minutes— had been “NO.” Each petition for assistance had elicited more laughter and anxiousness from the restaurant’s customers. I did the dirty work and the two of us snuck out of the side door.
Today’s lesson: If you have a son, escort him to the bathroom until he graduates from high school.
Keep me in your prayers. I need all of the help I can get.
Crab Claws Geautreaux
2 TBL olive oil
1 1/2 Tbl garlic, minced
1 tsp kosher salt
1/4 cup white wine
1/2 cup chicken broth
1 cup Wishbone Italian Dressing
2lbs fresh blue-crab fingers
1 tsp Creole Seasoning
1/2 tsp fresh ground black pepper
1/4 cup unsalted butter, cut into small cubes
2 Tbl fresh parsley, chopped
Place the olive oil in a very large, heavy duty sauté pan over low-medium heat. Place the garlic and salt in the heated oil and cook for 2-3 minutes, stir constantly to prevent burning. Add the white wine, chicken broth and Italian dressing and bring it to a simmer. Add the crab claws and cook 4-5 minutes more, just until the crab is hot.
Add the butter and parsley and gently stir until the butter is completely incorporated. Serve immediately.
Yield: 8-10 servings
Monday, March 31, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Spring Break 2008 Part II
I just finished the second half of a spring break sandwich that started in the South Louisiana swamps of Cajun country and ended in the French Quarter of New Orleans.
My wife, son, daughter, and I had fun during the first leg of the vacation, but the trip to New Orleans might be my best visit to the city in 46 years.
The cottage at The Soniat House provided the perfect home base to make quick jaunts into the city with the kids in tow. The weather was perfect and we were able to keep the French doors that led into the private courtyard open during the entire visit. It was certainly a departure from the hot and stifling summer’s we have spent walking and dining below sea level in the French Quarter.
The Soniat House is perfect. It feels like New Orleans ought to feel. No other hotel in the city provides as much authenticity and service while, at the same time, exceeding their guest’s expectations at every turn. And it’s all done in a very low-key and understated manner. I can only think of one other hotel in the country that I have enjoyed more than The Soniat House.
The culinary leg of this New Orleans weekend can be split into three chapters:
Chapter One: The Cajun Master— During the previous weekend we spent three days in Cajun country, but never once ate anything that came close to the dinner we enjoyed at K-Paul’s Louisiana Kitchen on our first night in New Orleans.
Paul Prudhomme is the master of rich and complex stocks, and as all cooks know, ground zero for superior cooking is in the quality of the stock. No one makes better stocks, period. The sauces and soups that are served from the K-Paul’s kitchens are unmatched in their depth of flavor.
Make no mistake; Paul Prudhomme is still the master. He might not be as visible as he was in the early 1980s, but he is still the man.
Chapter Two: Oyster Heaven— For the last several years I have answered the what-would-your-last meal-be question with the answer, “My grandmother’s leg of lamb.” I haven’t changed that answer, but I have modified the meal after this weekend. I would still request my grandmother’s leg of lamb, but I would have Drago’s charbroiled oysters as a last-meal appetizer.
For 20 years friends and acquaintances have urged me to visit Drago’s in Metairie. It has been on my culinary to-do list for a long time, but I never found myself in the suburbs during recent visits.
One year ago Drago’s opened at the Hilton Riverside. We stopped by the restaurant after an Audubon Aquarium of the Americas and adjoining IMAX Theatre visit. I ordered a dozen charbroiled oysters. They were devoured in a matter of minutes. I ordered another half dozen and soon they, too, were gone. I ordered another half dozen and could have kept going if my kids hadn’t gotten bored watching me make a pig out of myself.
Drago’s invented the charbroiled oyster and they do it better than anyone. The oysters are placed on the grill, doused with pepper and garlic-spiked butter, then topped with a mixture of parmesan and romano cheese, and doused with the butter again. The flames of the grill rise up and surround the oysters every time the butter is applied. The shells become charred and the oysters, smoky. Simple. Flavorful. Excellent.
Charbroiled oysters from Drago’s are my favorite seafood dish. Period. End of discussion.
Chapter Three: North Shore Authenticity— Last year Chef John Besh bought his former mentor’s— Chris Kerageorgiou— North Shore mainstay, La Provence. It was the perfect place to spend Easter lunch. Windsor Court Grill Room veteran chef, Rene Bajeaux is manning the stoves and overseeing the kitchen garden and hog and chicken-raising operation out back.
Besh is the leader of the locally grown movement in Louisiana and, along with Restaurant August, La Provence is reaping the results. It takes a lot of time and effort to forge relationships with local farmers and ranchers. It takes even more time and effort to raise hogs and chickens on your own. Luckily for us, La Provence believes in making that extra effort.
If you don’t have the time and resources to travel to France at the moment, don’t worry. Head down Highway 190 in Lacombe, Louisiana the next time you’re within 90 miles of the area and you’ll get to experience the flavors and ambiance without the jetlag.
We drove home with renewed spirits and full stomachs, dreaming of charbroiled oysters and spring lamb. A few miles across the state line, I noticed my wife thumbing through her pocket calendar. I can’t be sure, but I’ll bet she was beginning to schedule our next Louisiana culinary adventure. I can only hope.
Grilled Leg of Lamb with Raspberry Mint Sauce
1/2 cup Roasted Garlic Puree
1/4 cup Olive Oil
1 Tbl Fresh Rosemary, chopped
1/4 cup Fresh Mint, chopped
2 Tbl Sherry Vinegar
1 Boneless Leg of Lamb, 3- 31/2 pounds, butterflied
1 Tbl Black Pepper, freshly ground
2 Tbl Kosher Salt
Place the garlic, oil, rosemary, mint and vinegar in a mixing bowl. Blend together using a wire whisk.
Trim any excess fat and sinew from the lamb. Lay the lamb on a flat surface, and spread half of the garlic mixture over one the surface. Roll the lamb tightly into a cylinder. Tie the lamb with butcher’s twine so that it maintains the cylinder shape. Rub the outside of the lamb with the remaining garlic mixture, and sprinkle the surface with the salt and pepper. Allow the lamb to sit at room temperature 30-40 minutes before grilling.
Prepare the grill. Sear the lamb for 15-20 minutes over medium direct heat, turning every 3-4 minutes. Once the lamb has browned on all sides, continue cooking over medium indirect heat until the lamb has reached desired doneness, approximately one hour and fifteen minutes for medium rare. Remove the lamb from the grill and let rest 15 minutes before carving. Cut away the twine. Using a carving knife, cut lamb against the grain into 1/4-inch thick slices.
Serve with Raspberry Mint Sauce.
Raspberry Mint Sauce
3 Tbl Olive oil
2 Tbl Shallot, minced
1 cup Raspberries
1/ 2 cup Sugar
1 cup Red wine
1 1/ 2 cups Veal demi glace
3 Tbl Cold Unsalted Butter, cut into small cubes
1/2 tsp Kosher Salt
1 Tbl fresh Mint, chopped
In a saucepan over medium heat, combine raspberries, sugar, and red wine and simmer until most of the liquid is gone. Purée mixture and pass through a fine mesh strainer.
Return the strained mixture to a small sauce pot and add the demi glace. Bring the mixture to a simmer. Add the butter cubes while whisking briskly. Stir until all of the butter is incorporated. Remove the sauce from the heat and add salt and mint. Store in a warm place until needed.
I just finished the second half of a spring break sandwich that started in the South Louisiana swamps of Cajun country and ended in the French Quarter of New Orleans.
My wife, son, daughter, and I had fun during the first leg of the vacation, but the trip to New Orleans might be my best visit to the city in 46 years.
The cottage at The Soniat House provided the perfect home base to make quick jaunts into the city with the kids in tow. The weather was perfect and we were able to keep the French doors that led into the private courtyard open during the entire visit. It was certainly a departure from the hot and stifling summer’s we have spent walking and dining below sea level in the French Quarter.
The Soniat House is perfect. It feels like New Orleans ought to feel. No other hotel in the city provides as much authenticity and service while, at the same time, exceeding their guest’s expectations at every turn. And it’s all done in a very low-key and understated manner. I can only think of one other hotel in the country that I have enjoyed more than The Soniat House.
The culinary leg of this New Orleans weekend can be split into three chapters:
Chapter One: The Cajun Master— During the previous weekend we spent three days in Cajun country, but never once ate anything that came close to the dinner we enjoyed at K-Paul’s Louisiana Kitchen on our first night in New Orleans.
Paul Prudhomme is the master of rich and complex stocks, and as all cooks know, ground zero for superior cooking is in the quality of the stock. No one makes better stocks, period. The sauces and soups that are served from the K-Paul’s kitchens are unmatched in their depth of flavor.
Make no mistake; Paul Prudhomme is still the master. He might not be as visible as he was in the early 1980s, but he is still the man.
Chapter Two: Oyster Heaven— For the last several years I have answered the what-would-your-last meal-be question with the answer, “My grandmother’s leg of lamb.” I haven’t changed that answer, but I have modified the meal after this weekend. I would still request my grandmother’s leg of lamb, but I would have Drago’s charbroiled oysters as a last-meal appetizer.
For 20 years friends and acquaintances have urged me to visit Drago’s in Metairie. It has been on my culinary to-do list for a long time, but I never found myself in the suburbs during recent visits.
One year ago Drago’s opened at the Hilton Riverside. We stopped by the restaurant after an Audubon Aquarium of the Americas and adjoining IMAX Theatre visit. I ordered a dozen charbroiled oysters. They were devoured in a matter of minutes. I ordered another half dozen and soon they, too, were gone. I ordered another half dozen and could have kept going if my kids hadn’t gotten bored watching me make a pig out of myself.
Drago’s invented the charbroiled oyster and they do it better than anyone. The oysters are placed on the grill, doused with pepper and garlic-spiked butter, then topped with a mixture of parmesan and romano cheese, and doused with the butter again. The flames of the grill rise up and surround the oysters every time the butter is applied. The shells become charred and the oysters, smoky. Simple. Flavorful. Excellent.
Charbroiled oysters from Drago’s are my favorite seafood dish. Period. End of discussion.
Chapter Three: North Shore Authenticity— Last year Chef John Besh bought his former mentor’s— Chris Kerageorgiou— North Shore mainstay, La Provence. It was the perfect place to spend Easter lunch. Windsor Court Grill Room veteran chef, Rene Bajeaux is manning the stoves and overseeing the kitchen garden and hog and chicken-raising operation out back.
Besh is the leader of the locally grown movement in Louisiana and, along with Restaurant August, La Provence is reaping the results. It takes a lot of time and effort to forge relationships with local farmers and ranchers. It takes even more time and effort to raise hogs and chickens on your own. Luckily for us, La Provence believes in making that extra effort.
If you don’t have the time and resources to travel to France at the moment, don’t worry. Head down Highway 190 in Lacombe, Louisiana the next time you’re within 90 miles of the area and you’ll get to experience the flavors and ambiance without the jetlag.
We drove home with renewed spirits and full stomachs, dreaming of charbroiled oysters and spring lamb. A few miles across the state line, I noticed my wife thumbing through her pocket calendar. I can’t be sure, but I’ll bet she was beginning to schedule our next Louisiana culinary adventure. I can only hope.
Grilled Leg of Lamb with Raspberry Mint Sauce
1/2 cup Roasted Garlic Puree
1/4 cup Olive Oil
1 Tbl Fresh Rosemary, chopped
1/4 cup Fresh Mint, chopped
2 Tbl Sherry Vinegar
1 Boneless Leg of Lamb, 3- 31/2 pounds, butterflied
1 Tbl Black Pepper, freshly ground
2 Tbl Kosher Salt
Place the garlic, oil, rosemary, mint and vinegar in a mixing bowl. Blend together using a wire whisk.
Trim any excess fat and sinew from the lamb. Lay the lamb on a flat surface, and spread half of the garlic mixture over one the surface. Roll the lamb tightly into a cylinder. Tie the lamb with butcher’s twine so that it maintains the cylinder shape. Rub the outside of the lamb with the remaining garlic mixture, and sprinkle the surface with the salt and pepper. Allow the lamb to sit at room temperature 30-40 minutes before grilling.
Prepare the grill. Sear the lamb for 15-20 minutes over medium direct heat, turning every 3-4 minutes. Once the lamb has browned on all sides, continue cooking over medium indirect heat until the lamb has reached desired doneness, approximately one hour and fifteen minutes for medium rare. Remove the lamb from the grill and let rest 15 minutes before carving. Cut away the twine. Using a carving knife, cut lamb against the grain into 1/4-inch thick slices.
Serve with Raspberry Mint Sauce.
Raspberry Mint Sauce
3 Tbl Olive oil
2 Tbl Shallot, minced
1 cup Raspberries
1/ 2 cup Sugar
1 cup Red wine
1 1/ 2 cups Veal demi glace
3 Tbl Cold Unsalted Butter, cut into small cubes
1/2 tsp Kosher Salt
1 Tbl fresh Mint, chopped
In a saucepan over medium heat, combine raspberries, sugar, and red wine and simmer until most of the liquid is gone. Purée mixture and pass through a fine mesh strainer.
Return the strained mixture to a small sauce pot and add the demi glace. Bring the mixture to a simmer. Add the butter cubes while whisking briskly. Stir until all of the butter is incorporated. Remove the sauce from the heat and add salt and mint. Store in a warm place until needed.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Spring Break 2008
The conversation went something like this: “Billy and his parents are going snow skiing during spring break,” said my son.
“Susie’s family is going to the beach,” said my daughter. “Where are we going, again?”
“To Breaux Bridge, Louisiana,” I replied.
So began Spring Break 2008, the year my family chose to split from the pack and try something different.
“Not only Breaux Bridge,” I continued, “but we’re going to St. Martinsville, New Iberia, Butte LaRose, and Avery Island, too.”
“Avery Island! Do they have beaches there?” said my daughter.
“No honey, that’s where they make Tabasco sauce.” She looked at me as if I had just offered to take her to see the World’s Largest Ball of Twine.
I called my friend Liz, a native of New Iberia, my friend, Bill a well-traveled food lover, and my friend John, a New Orleans chef who has spent thousands of hours and hundreds of meals in Cajun country. Armed with the information they gave me, I packed my wife, son, and daughter in the family truckster and headed south.
This was to be the first leg of a sandwiched spring break trip that would begin in Cajun country with crawfish, alligators, and Zydeco two-stepping; and end in New Orleans with the aquarium, the zoo, beignets, and Easter service at St. Louis Cathedral.
Going against everything in my typical vacation-planning nature, we had no itinerary, no plan, and no mission, just hotel reservations in Lafayette.
First stop: an airboat ride through the swamp. As a kid, I watched the television show Gentle Ben that starred Ron Howard’s little brother and the guy who played McLeod. It was about a boy and his pet bear in the Florida Everglades. My friends liked they bear. I liked the dad’s airboat.
I always wanted to ride in an airboat. My children had never heard of one. They loved it. We saw alligators and cypress trees, and old Cajun men fishing, and cypress trees, and egrets, and more cypress trees. It was a blast.
That evening we ate at Randol’s restaurant in Lafayette. I was looking for a Zydeco dance hall. Going against everything in my restaurant-hopping nature, at least on this occasion, food would be secondary to music. Randol’s fit the bill perfectly; the food was forgettable— save the wonderfully rich and spicy crawfish bisque made with a roux darker than the Atchafalaya swamp at midnight— the service was poor, but the music was exceptional.
My six-year old son became a dancing machine. Who knew? We couldn’t keep him off of the dance floor. When his mother tired of dancing, he dragged his reluctant 10-year old sister out onto the floor. When she became unwilling, he begged me. The band was great. I danced with my wife, I danced with my daughter, and I awkwardly walked around the dance floor with my son.
I have never been a fan of Zydeco music. That changed forever one Saturday night in Lafayette Louisiana in a dance hall with my wife and two children.
When polling the aforementioned Cajun country experts, they all had several enthusiastic restaurant recommendations. The one restaurant they all had in common was Café Des Amis in Breaux Bridge.
Café Des Ami’s website listed a Zydeco breakfast. Armed with a new appreciation of Zydeco music, and a passion for breakfast, we made a Sunday morning reservation. Unfortunately the Zydeco breakfast at Café Des Amis is only held on Saturday mornings.
The breakfast started with Oreille de Couchon, which is basically a huge beignet in the shape of a pig’s ear. It was good but not as good as beignets shaped like beignets. The kids loved it. We also ate Couche Couche, a Cajun cereal made from corn meal with milk and syrup, but the highlight of the meal was Eggs Begnaud which consisted of a split, open-faced biscuit topped with crawfish au gratin and two fried eggs. This dish, alone, was worth the trip.
The trip ended with a tour of the Tabasco factory and lunch at Victor’s Cafeteria in New Iberia, home of a mighty fine stuffed pepper and some of the best fried shrimp my kids have ever eaten.
Next Week: Dispatches from the Crescent City
Tasso and Smoked Cheddar Cheesecake
Crust
2 cup Japanese breadcrumbs
1 cup parmesan cheese
1 Tbl Fresh thyme
1 Tbl parsley
1 /2 cup melted butter
1 tsp. black pepper
Preheat oven to 275
Combine all ingredients.
Press into a 9-10 inch spring-form pan, covering the bottom completely and bringing the crust 1 1 /2 inches up the sides. Bake crust five minutes and allow to cool.
Filling
1 Tbl butter
1 1 /2 cup tasso, diced
1 /2 cup onion, minced
1 TBSP garlic, minced
1 /2 pound cream cheese, softened.
1 /2 pound smoked cheddar cheese, finely grated
3 eggs + 2 yolks
1 /4 cup sour cream
1 /2 tsp salt
1 tsp creole seasoning
1 /4 tsp black pepper
1 /4 tsp cayenne pepper
1 Tbl Worcestershire Sauce
1 /2 cup chopped green onions
2 Tbl finely chopped red bell peppers
In a medium sized sauté pan, melt butter and cook tasso, onions and garlic for 3-4 minutes. Allow to cool.
While tasso mixture is cooling, beat the cheeses together until soft in a mixing bowl. Add eggs, one at a time allowing them to incorporate. Add remaining ingredients, and cooled tasso mixture.
Pour filling into par-baked crust and bake45-60 minutes.
Let cheesecake cool completely before cutting. Dip a clean knife into hot water to cut, wiping knife clean, and re-dipping into water after every slice.
Can be made two days in advance. Remove from refrigerator 1-2 hours before serving.
Serves: 10-12
The conversation went something like this: “Billy and his parents are going snow skiing during spring break,” said my son.
“Susie’s family is going to the beach,” said my daughter. “Where are we going, again?”
“To Breaux Bridge, Louisiana,” I replied.
So began Spring Break 2008, the year my family chose to split from the pack and try something different.
“Not only Breaux Bridge,” I continued, “but we’re going to St. Martinsville, New Iberia, Butte LaRose, and Avery Island, too.”
“Avery Island! Do they have beaches there?” said my daughter.
“No honey, that’s where they make Tabasco sauce.” She looked at me as if I had just offered to take her to see the World’s Largest Ball of Twine.
I called my friend Liz, a native of New Iberia, my friend, Bill a well-traveled food lover, and my friend John, a New Orleans chef who has spent thousands of hours and hundreds of meals in Cajun country. Armed with the information they gave me, I packed my wife, son, and daughter in the family truckster and headed south.
This was to be the first leg of a sandwiched spring break trip that would begin in Cajun country with crawfish, alligators, and Zydeco two-stepping; and end in New Orleans with the aquarium, the zoo, beignets, and Easter service at St. Louis Cathedral.
Going against everything in my typical vacation-planning nature, we had no itinerary, no plan, and no mission, just hotel reservations in Lafayette.
First stop: an airboat ride through the swamp. As a kid, I watched the television show Gentle Ben that starred Ron Howard’s little brother and the guy who played McLeod. It was about a boy and his pet bear in the Florida Everglades. My friends liked they bear. I liked the dad’s airboat.
I always wanted to ride in an airboat. My children had never heard of one. They loved it. We saw alligators and cypress trees, and old Cajun men fishing, and cypress trees, and egrets, and more cypress trees. It was a blast.
That evening we ate at Randol’s restaurant in Lafayette. I was looking for a Zydeco dance hall. Going against everything in my restaurant-hopping nature, at least on this occasion, food would be secondary to music. Randol’s fit the bill perfectly; the food was forgettable— save the wonderfully rich and spicy crawfish bisque made with a roux darker than the Atchafalaya swamp at midnight— the service was poor, but the music was exceptional.
My six-year old son became a dancing machine. Who knew? We couldn’t keep him off of the dance floor. When his mother tired of dancing, he dragged his reluctant 10-year old sister out onto the floor. When she became unwilling, he begged me. The band was great. I danced with my wife, I danced with my daughter, and I awkwardly walked around the dance floor with my son.
I have never been a fan of Zydeco music. That changed forever one Saturday night in Lafayette Louisiana in a dance hall with my wife and two children.
When polling the aforementioned Cajun country experts, they all had several enthusiastic restaurant recommendations. The one restaurant they all had in common was Café Des Amis in Breaux Bridge.
Café Des Ami’s website listed a Zydeco breakfast. Armed with a new appreciation of Zydeco music, and a passion for breakfast, we made a Sunday morning reservation. Unfortunately the Zydeco breakfast at Café Des Amis is only held on Saturday mornings.
The breakfast started with Oreille de Couchon, which is basically a huge beignet in the shape of a pig’s ear. It was good but not as good as beignets shaped like beignets. The kids loved it. We also ate Couche Couche, a Cajun cereal made from corn meal with milk and syrup, but the highlight of the meal was Eggs Begnaud which consisted of a split, open-faced biscuit topped with crawfish au gratin and two fried eggs. This dish, alone, was worth the trip.
The trip ended with a tour of the Tabasco factory and lunch at Victor’s Cafeteria in New Iberia, home of a mighty fine stuffed pepper and some of the best fried shrimp my kids have ever eaten.
Next Week: Dispatches from the Crescent City
Tasso and Smoked Cheddar Cheesecake
Crust
2 cup Japanese breadcrumbs
1 cup parmesan cheese
1 Tbl Fresh thyme
1 Tbl parsley
1 /2 cup melted butter
1 tsp. black pepper
Preheat oven to 275
Combine all ingredients.
Press into a 9-10 inch spring-form pan, covering the bottom completely and bringing the crust 1 1 /2 inches up the sides. Bake crust five minutes and allow to cool.
Filling
1 Tbl butter
1 1 /2 cup tasso, diced
1 /2 cup onion, minced
1 TBSP garlic, minced
1 /2 pound cream cheese, softened.
1 /2 pound smoked cheddar cheese, finely grated
3 eggs + 2 yolks
1 /4 cup sour cream
1 /2 tsp salt
1 tsp creole seasoning
1 /4 tsp black pepper
1 /4 tsp cayenne pepper
1 Tbl Worcestershire Sauce
1 /2 cup chopped green onions
2 Tbl finely chopped red bell peppers
In a medium sized sauté pan, melt butter and cook tasso, onions and garlic for 3-4 minutes. Allow to cool.
While tasso mixture is cooling, beat the cheeses together until soft in a mixing bowl. Add eggs, one at a time allowing them to incorporate. Add remaining ingredients, and cooled tasso mixture.
Pour filling into par-baked crust and bake45-60 minutes.
Let cheesecake cool completely before cutting. Dip a clean knife into hot water to cut, wiping knife clean, and re-dipping into water after every slice.
Can be made two days in advance. Remove from refrigerator 1-2 hours before serving.
Serves: 10-12
Monday, March 10, 2008
48-Hour Food Journal
I recently travelled to New York for a business meeting. I ate way too much. The following is my 48-hour food journal
Wednesday
8:20 p.m.: Checked into the Soniat House hotel in the French Quarter the evening before an early-morning flight to New York. I now have a new favorite hotel in New Orleans— great courtyard, great rooms, high ceilings, and a balcony overlooking Chartres St.
8:30 p.m.: Dinner at Stella restaurant across the street from the Soniat House. I have been trying to eat here for several years. Possibly the best gnocchi and risotto dishes I have eaten this decade. Subtle. The restaurant’s cuisine is probably classified as new American or continental fine dining, but a strong Japanese influence runs through most of the menu. The Pan-Roasted Pacific Walu with Hot Buttered Popcorn Crust, Louisiana Crawfish and Local Corn Maque Choux were a highlight.
Thursday
7:35 a.m.: JetBlue flight to JFK uneventful. Satellite TV in every seat, I love this airline.
11:35 a.m.: Landed at JFK, took a cab straight to my 1 p.m. business meeting at Landmarc restaurant in the Time Warner building. Surprised to learn that the person I flew to New York to meet— and the Editor-in -Chief of the magazine— is originally from Natchez. This might be the first business meal where I was more concerned about the conversation than the food. I had ham and gruyere on grilled country bread— good but not memorable.
6:25 p.m.: Hors d’ oeuvres on the top floor of the Hearst Building with more magazine types. Great view and excellent food from expatriated Carolinians, Matt and Ted Lee, of The Lee Brothers Cookbook and Peanut Catalogue fame. Even 46 floors in the air, it tastes like home.
11:30 p.m.: Post-theatre dinner at Blue Ribbon in SoHo. This, too, has been on my need-to-visit list for a few years. There’s a great raw bar here, but I opted for the Hanger Steak with wild mushrooms because I never get to eat that cut of beef back home. Hanger steak is extremely flavorful. It’s often called “butcher steak” because it’s the cut that the old-line butchers saved for themselves.
1:30 a.m.: Slept hard at the Gramercy Park Hotel, Ian Schrager’s newest concept hotel. The lobby smells like a wood-burning fireplace 24 hours a day. The wife loves it. I have a new favorite hotel in New York.
Friday
9:45 a.m.: Breakfast at Balthazar in SoHo. I made a promise to myself that on this trip I was only going to eat in restaurants in which I hadn’t visited. I broke that promise on the first morning in the city. I usually eat at Balthazar for late-night, post-theatre meals. A lot of the city’s chefs hang out there after their shifts are over. Breakfast in this place is great. The bustle feels more like “New York” than any other place I visit in town. The Scrambled Eggs in Puff Pastry with Wild Mushrooms and Asparagus are almost worth the three-hour flight, alone.
1:30 p.m.: Lunch at The Modern. Check another one off of the To-Do List. Danny Meyer is the most talented restaurateur in the country. I have eaten at all of his restaurants except this one. The Modern is located on the first floor of the Museum of Modern Art and the food’s presentation is as artful as the works hanging in the galleries above. The Chilled Maine Lobster Salad with Soy Sprouts and Button Mushrooms in a Lobster Vinaigrette was a highlight, as was the Chorizo-Crusted Chatham Cod with White Coco Bean Puree and Harissa Oil. Long live Mr. Meyer.
10:45 p.m.: Post-theatre dinner at Nobu 57 with my agent and other assorted New Yorkers. Nobu Matsuhisa is the ninja master of sushi. The original New York restaurant, Nobu, is a tough ticket, but Nobu 57 is an easily made reservation, and the food is just as good. Again, I broke my vow of not visiting a restaurant I had previously visited. What can I say? I’m a creature of habit, and a lover of great food. Nobu is tops. The Yellowtail Sashimi with Jalapeño is a signature dish and not to be missed. The miso-glazed fish craze started here. The surprise hit of the dinner— though slightly out of place on a Japanese menu— were the crab and ceviche miniature tacos.
1:30 a.m.: Called the front desk and requested a 5 a.m. wake-up call. Slept hard with a full belly and a renewed soul. Bring on the diet.
Black Eyed Pea Cakes with Roasted Red Pepper Aioli
1 Tbl bacon grease, or canola oil
1 /4 cup red pepper, finely diced
1 /4 cup red onion, finely diced
1 /2 cup green onion, thinly sliced
1 /2 tsp garlic, minced
2 tsp. cumin
1 /4 tsp creole seasoning
1 /2 tsp salt.
3 cups black-eyed peas, cooked
3 /4 cup Japanese bread crumbs
2 eggs
1 /4 cup olive oil
1 /4 cup Sour Cream
1 /4 cup roasted red peppers, Small diced
Melt the bacon grease over medium heat and cook onions, red pepper, garlic and seasonings for four to five minutes. Remove from the heat.
Place two cups of black-eyed peas with eggs into a food processor, and puree until smooth.
Remove from processor and place processed peas in a mixing bowl. n a separate bowl. Add vegetables, bread crumbs and remaining cup of whole peas, stirring gently. Firmly form the mixture into one-ounce cakes and refrigerate for one hour.
Preheat oven to 300 degrees.
In a large nonstick sauté pan, heat one to two tablespoons of olive oil over medium-high heat. Gently place the cakes into hot pan, and brown on both sides. Add more oil as needed.
Once all cakes are brown, place on a lightly oiled baking sheet, and bake 10 minutes.
Top each black-eyed pea cake with a small dollop of sour cream and a few pieces of diced roasted peppers.
Yield 20
I recently travelled to New York for a business meeting. I ate way too much. The following is my 48-hour food journal
Wednesday
8:20 p.m.: Checked into the Soniat House hotel in the French Quarter the evening before an early-morning flight to New York. I now have a new favorite hotel in New Orleans— great courtyard, great rooms, high ceilings, and a balcony overlooking Chartres St.
8:30 p.m.: Dinner at Stella restaurant across the street from the Soniat House. I have been trying to eat here for several years. Possibly the best gnocchi and risotto dishes I have eaten this decade. Subtle. The restaurant’s cuisine is probably classified as new American or continental fine dining, but a strong Japanese influence runs through most of the menu. The Pan-Roasted Pacific Walu with Hot Buttered Popcorn Crust, Louisiana Crawfish and Local Corn Maque Choux were a highlight.
Thursday
7:35 a.m.: JetBlue flight to JFK uneventful. Satellite TV in every seat, I love this airline.
11:35 a.m.: Landed at JFK, took a cab straight to my 1 p.m. business meeting at Landmarc restaurant in the Time Warner building. Surprised to learn that the person I flew to New York to meet— and the Editor-in -Chief of the magazine— is originally from Natchez. This might be the first business meal where I was more concerned about the conversation than the food. I had ham and gruyere on grilled country bread— good but not memorable.
6:25 p.m.: Hors d’ oeuvres on the top floor of the Hearst Building with more magazine types. Great view and excellent food from expatriated Carolinians, Matt and Ted Lee, of The Lee Brothers Cookbook and Peanut Catalogue fame. Even 46 floors in the air, it tastes like home.
11:30 p.m.: Post-theatre dinner at Blue Ribbon in SoHo. This, too, has been on my need-to-visit list for a few years. There’s a great raw bar here, but I opted for the Hanger Steak with wild mushrooms because I never get to eat that cut of beef back home. Hanger steak is extremely flavorful. It’s often called “butcher steak” because it’s the cut that the old-line butchers saved for themselves.
1:30 a.m.: Slept hard at the Gramercy Park Hotel, Ian Schrager’s newest concept hotel. The lobby smells like a wood-burning fireplace 24 hours a day. The wife loves it. I have a new favorite hotel in New York.
Friday
9:45 a.m.: Breakfast at Balthazar in SoHo. I made a promise to myself that on this trip I was only going to eat in restaurants in which I hadn’t visited. I broke that promise on the first morning in the city. I usually eat at Balthazar for late-night, post-theatre meals. A lot of the city’s chefs hang out there after their shifts are over. Breakfast in this place is great. The bustle feels more like “New York” than any other place I visit in town. The Scrambled Eggs in Puff Pastry with Wild Mushrooms and Asparagus are almost worth the three-hour flight, alone.
1:30 p.m.: Lunch at The Modern. Check another one off of the To-Do List. Danny Meyer is the most talented restaurateur in the country. I have eaten at all of his restaurants except this one. The Modern is located on the first floor of the Museum of Modern Art and the food’s presentation is as artful as the works hanging in the galleries above. The Chilled Maine Lobster Salad with Soy Sprouts and Button Mushrooms in a Lobster Vinaigrette was a highlight, as was the Chorizo-Crusted Chatham Cod with White Coco Bean Puree and Harissa Oil. Long live Mr. Meyer.
10:45 p.m.: Post-theatre dinner at Nobu 57 with my agent and other assorted New Yorkers. Nobu Matsuhisa is the ninja master of sushi. The original New York restaurant, Nobu, is a tough ticket, but Nobu 57 is an easily made reservation, and the food is just as good. Again, I broke my vow of not visiting a restaurant I had previously visited. What can I say? I’m a creature of habit, and a lover of great food. Nobu is tops. The Yellowtail Sashimi with Jalapeño is a signature dish and not to be missed. The miso-glazed fish craze started here. The surprise hit of the dinner— though slightly out of place on a Japanese menu— were the crab and ceviche miniature tacos.
1:30 a.m.: Called the front desk and requested a 5 a.m. wake-up call. Slept hard with a full belly and a renewed soul. Bring on the diet.
Black Eyed Pea Cakes with Roasted Red Pepper Aioli
1 Tbl bacon grease, or canola oil
1 /4 cup red pepper, finely diced
1 /4 cup red onion, finely diced
1 /2 cup green onion, thinly sliced
1 /2 tsp garlic, minced
2 tsp. cumin
1 /4 tsp creole seasoning
1 /2 tsp salt.
3 cups black-eyed peas, cooked
3 /4 cup Japanese bread crumbs
2 eggs
1 /4 cup olive oil
1 /4 cup Sour Cream
1 /4 cup roasted red peppers, Small diced
Melt the bacon grease over medium heat and cook onions, red pepper, garlic and seasonings for four to five minutes. Remove from the heat.
Place two cups of black-eyed peas with eggs into a food processor, and puree until smooth.
Remove from processor and place processed peas in a mixing bowl. n a separate bowl. Add vegetables, bread crumbs and remaining cup of whole peas, stirring gently. Firmly form the mixture into one-ounce cakes and refrigerate for one hour.
Preheat oven to 300 degrees.
In a large nonstick sauté pan, heat one to two tablespoons of olive oil over medium-high heat. Gently place the cakes into hot pan, and brown on both sides. Add more oil as needed.
Once all cakes are brown, place on a lightly oiled baking sheet, and bake 10 minutes.
Top each black-eyed pea cake with a small dollop of sour cream and a few pieces of diced roasted peppers.
Yield 20
Monday, February 25, 2008
Fasting
I have a friend who is fasting during Lent.
I’m not talking about a not-eating-meat-on-Friday fast, or an I’m-gonna-give-up-red-wine-for-40-days-but-still-drink-white-wine fast. No, he’s doing an honest-to-goodness, Mahatma Gandhi-type fast— nothing but water.
Fasting is a method of religious observance, penitence, and purification which is practiced in several religious faiths. I am of the protestant persuasion, so I will focus mostly on protestant fasting.
Fasting was an option for the early Christians, and later became a requirement. In the early church the typical fast lasted 40 hours. It was later changed to 40 days. The 40-day fast in the early Christian church allowed one meal per day. My friend is not allowing himself even one meal. He is on a nothing-but-water fast for the entire 40 days.
As I write he is in the 20th day of the fast and seems to be doing well. He’s walking and talking and appears to be in a good mood. He studied the process well in advance of beginning the fast; he prepared in the days leading up to the fast, and he is under the observance of several physicians during the fast.
I am a fascinated by the entire fasting process. I have never fasted. I have trouble fasting between breakfast and lunch. To my knowledge, I don’t think I’ve ever gone an entire day without eating something. Even during the worst stomach virus I’ve ever experienced, I probably ate a few crackers.
I am humbled by my friend’s dedication. Whereas my lifestyle borders on being gluttonous, he is taking this time to look inward for a long, rigid period of self reflection.
I am a Methodist. John Wesley, the founder of Methodism fasted once a week, but I don’t remember hearing anything about fasting while growing up in my church. It was probably more selective hearing on my part than anything, but fasting always seemed to be something that was done by other faiths and denominations.
My church was all about food. We had a casserole-laden covered-dish supper every Wednesday night, doughnuts before Sunday School, cookies and candy during Sunday School, chicken salad sandwiches, peanut butter crackers, and green punch during Vacation Bible School, and we planned huge lunches after the main service on Sundays. For me, church and food were synonymous. No one ever spoke of fasting, and if they did, I was probably too busy eating to listen.
In his sermon last Sunday, my preacher suggested that we skip one or more meals each week and taking the money that would have been spent on that meal and give it to the Global Aids Fund http://umglobalaidsfund.org .
Christian fasting suggests that the faster not bringing attention to himself, but I don’t know any other way to encourage others to give to the Global Aids Fund without saying that I’m going to give this skipping-a-meal fasting thing a shot, and I hope others will, too.
Every five seconds someone, somewhere in the world, dies of a disease of poverty. Every 10 seconds someone dies of AIDS. In several sub-Saharan African countries, as much as 40% of the entire population— men, women, and children— is infected with the virus. Even if we could provide medicine to everyone involved they don’t have enough food to take the medicine. Give to the Global Aids Fund, today, whether you skip a meal or not.
At first, I thought my friend was crazy taking on a 40-day fast. In the end, maybe it was the inspiration I needed to get off of my duff and do something.
Mrs. Lampkin’s Methodist Punch
1 48-ounce can pineapple juice
1 package lime Jell-O
3 cups sugar
1 cup lemon juice, freshly squeezed
1 small bottle almond extract
Mix all in gallon container and fill with water to make one gallon.
I have a friend who is fasting during Lent.
I’m not talking about a not-eating-meat-on-Friday fast, or an I’m-gonna-give-up-red-wine-for-40-days-but-still-drink-white-wine fast. No, he’s doing an honest-to-goodness, Mahatma Gandhi-type fast— nothing but water.
Fasting is a method of religious observance, penitence, and purification which is practiced in several religious faiths. I am of the protestant persuasion, so I will focus mostly on protestant fasting.
Fasting was an option for the early Christians, and later became a requirement. In the early church the typical fast lasted 40 hours. It was later changed to 40 days. The 40-day fast in the early Christian church allowed one meal per day. My friend is not allowing himself even one meal. He is on a nothing-but-water fast for the entire 40 days.
As I write he is in the 20th day of the fast and seems to be doing well. He’s walking and talking and appears to be in a good mood. He studied the process well in advance of beginning the fast; he prepared in the days leading up to the fast, and he is under the observance of several physicians during the fast.
I am a fascinated by the entire fasting process. I have never fasted. I have trouble fasting between breakfast and lunch. To my knowledge, I don’t think I’ve ever gone an entire day without eating something. Even during the worst stomach virus I’ve ever experienced, I probably ate a few crackers.
I am humbled by my friend’s dedication. Whereas my lifestyle borders on being gluttonous, he is taking this time to look inward for a long, rigid period of self reflection.
I am a Methodist. John Wesley, the founder of Methodism fasted once a week, but I don’t remember hearing anything about fasting while growing up in my church. It was probably more selective hearing on my part than anything, but fasting always seemed to be something that was done by other faiths and denominations.
My church was all about food. We had a casserole-laden covered-dish supper every Wednesday night, doughnuts before Sunday School, cookies and candy during Sunday School, chicken salad sandwiches, peanut butter crackers, and green punch during Vacation Bible School, and we planned huge lunches after the main service on Sundays. For me, church and food were synonymous. No one ever spoke of fasting, and if they did, I was probably too busy eating to listen.
In his sermon last Sunday, my preacher suggested that we skip one or more meals each week and taking the money that would have been spent on that meal and give it to the Global Aids Fund http://umglobalaidsfund.org .
Christian fasting suggests that the faster not bringing attention to himself, but I don’t know any other way to encourage others to give to the Global Aids Fund without saying that I’m going to give this skipping-a-meal fasting thing a shot, and I hope others will, too.
Every five seconds someone, somewhere in the world, dies of a disease of poverty. Every 10 seconds someone dies of AIDS. In several sub-Saharan African countries, as much as 40% of the entire population— men, women, and children— is infected with the virus. Even if we could provide medicine to everyone involved they don’t have enough food to take the medicine. Give to the Global Aids Fund, today, whether you skip a meal or not.
At first, I thought my friend was crazy taking on a 40-day fast. In the end, maybe it was the inspiration I needed to get off of my duff and do something.
Mrs. Lampkin’s Methodist Punch
1 48-ounce can pineapple juice
1 package lime Jell-O
3 cups sugar
1 cup lemon juice, freshly squeezed
1 small bottle almond extract
Mix all in gallon container and fill with water to make one gallon.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Las Vegas
LAS VEGAS— I am in a suite in the Venetian Hotel high above the Las Vegas Strip. I don’t gamble, I don’t drink, and I have trouble staying up until midnight. I am not in this city for most of the reasons that people come to this over-electrified desert locale. I am here for one reason: The Beatles.
Anyone who knows me knows that I am a Beatles fanatic and a devout disciple in the tabernacle of John, Paul, George, and Ringo. I could spend the next several weeks discussing the reasons why I am such a dutiful fan to a collection of rock musicians who stopped performing almost 40 years ago, but this a “mostly food” column, so I’ll stick to mostly food.
At Christmas last year my wife gave me tickets to see Cirque Du Soleil’s production of “The Beatles Love.” I loved it. This year, I brought a few friends here to see the show. They too, loved it.
A word of advice: If you are ever within 120 miles of Las Vegas, make plans to see “The Beatles Love” at the Mirage hotel. It is truly a spiritual experience.
This city that was once full of grind joints and cheap buffets has grown into a world-class restaurant destination. All of the nation’s top chefs have restaurants here: Jean-Georges Vongerichten, Alain Ducasse, Nobu Matsuhia, Charlie Palmer, Charlie Trotter, Bobby Flay, Wolfgang Puck, Emeril, Joel Robuchon, Mario Batali, Bradley Ogden, and the lead dog of the culinary world— Thomas Keller.
Keller opened the Las Vegas rendition of his Yountville, CA-based French bistro, Bouchon, in the Venetian Hotel in 2004. When I am in a major restaurant city, I try to make the best of my time and visit as many new restaurant concepts as time allows. There are always exceptions and favorites. I rarely visit Chicago without eating at least one steak at Gene and Georgetti’s, and every trip to New York includes a late-night visit to Balthazar.
When in Vegas, I can’t get away from Bouchon. It draws me in like a Pommes-Frites fueled tractor beam. I had an excellent dinner there last night and a wonderful breakfast this morning. I need to be doing culinary research in other restaurants, but can’t seem to pull away.
Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. It always has been. A perfect breakfast doesn’t have to include complicated and overwrought dishes using rare ingredients and complex preparations— to my thinking, the simpler the better.
I once ate breakfast with Julia Child at a culinary event in Aspen. Over orange juice, eggs, and wheat toast, we discussed the simplicity and beauty of a perfectly scrambled egg. I always wished that I could have sat in Julia Child’s kitchen and eaten perfectly scrambled eggs prepared by her hands.
Thomas Keller is a true culinary artisan. He has risen to a level where, even the best in his profession, are humbled by his creativity and technique. He is the man. He is at the top of his game. He has only a few peers, and as luck would have it— he serves breakfast here.
Having Thomas Keller cook your breakfast would be akin to sitting in while Mozart performed a private piano concerto, having Hemingway give a personal reading of “A Farewell to Arms,” or hanging out with John, Paul, George, and Ringo during the Abbey Road recording sessions of “I Am the Walrus.” Masters at work.
Most likely, Thomas Keller wasn’t in the kitchen cooking my breakfast this morning. He is probably in Manhattan or the Napa Valley. But a boy can dream, can’t he? The scrambled eggs were underdone just enough to make Julia proud. The pastries were worthy of any Paris patisserie, and the atmosphere and company were spot on.
When it comes to food, I can’t let what happens in Vegas, stay in Vegas. We enjoyed music by the 20th Century rock-and-roll masters at night, and breakfast by the culinary master the next morning.
I am the Egg Man, goo goo ga joob!
Julia’s Perfect Scrambled Eggs
3 Eggs, large
2 tsp Half & Half
1 Tbl Butter
Salt and pepper to taste.
Crack eggs in a small bowl and stir well with a fork until the yolks and whites have just incorporated. Do not stir too vigorously or air will be added to the eggs. Add cream to eggs and stir well.
In a non-stick skillet over moderately low heat, melt the butter and tilt the pan to coat the entire surface. Add the egg mixture to the skillet. Using a rubber spatula slowly scrape the bottom of the skillet until the eggs begin to coagulate. Continue to carefully stir the eggs until they are “just done”. The eggs should be almost fully cooked and custard-like (Julia Child calls them “custardy lumps”) yet have a slightly wet and shiny sheen to them.
Remove eggs from the skillet immediately and transfer to a plate (the eggs will continue to cook slightly for the next 30-45 seconds so it imperative to remove them just before they are done). Add salt and pepper to taste.
LAS VEGAS— I am in a suite in the Venetian Hotel high above the Las Vegas Strip. I don’t gamble, I don’t drink, and I have trouble staying up until midnight. I am not in this city for most of the reasons that people come to this over-electrified desert locale. I am here for one reason: The Beatles.
Anyone who knows me knows that I am a Beatles fanatic and a devout disciple in the tabernacle of John, Paul, George, and Ringo. I could spend the next several weeks discussing the reasons why I am such a dutiful fan to a collection of rock musicians who stopped performing almost 40 years ago, but this a “mostly food” column, so I’ll stick to mostly food.
At Christmas last year my wife gave me tickets to see Cirque Du Soleil’s production of “The Beatles Love.” I loved it. This year, I brought a few friends here to see the show. They too, loved it.
A word of advice: If you are ever within 120 miles of Las Vegas, make plans to see “The Beatles Love” at the Mirage hotel. It is truly a spiritual experience.
This city that was once full of grind joints and cheap buffets has grown into a world-class restaurant destination. All of the nation’s top chefs have restaurants here: Jean-Georges Vongerichten, Alain Ducasse, Nobu Matsuhia, Charlie Palmer, Charlie Trotter, Bobby Flay, Wolfgang Puck, Emeril, Joel Robuchon, Mario Batali, Bradley Ogden, and the lead dog of the culinary world— Thomas Keller.
Keller opened the Las Vegas rendition of his Yountville, CA-based French bistro, Bouchon, in the Venetian Hotel in 2004. When I am in a major restaurant city, I try to make the best of my time and visit as many new restaurant concepts as time allows. There are always exceptions and favorites. I rarely visit Chicago without eating at least one steak at Gene and Georgetti’s, and every trip to New York includes a late-night visit to Balthazar.
When in Vegas, I can’t get away from Bouchon. It draws me in like a Pommes-Frites fueled tractor beam. I had an excellent dinner there last night and a wonderful breakfast this morning. I need to be doing culinary research in other restaurants, but can’t seem to pull away.
Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. It always has been. A perfect breakfast doesn’t have to include complicated and overwrought dishes using rare ingredients and complex preparations— to my thinking, the simpler the better.
I once ate breakfast with Julia Child at a culinary event in Aspen. Over orange juice, eggs, and wheat toast, we discussed the simplicity and beauty of a perfectly scrambled egg. I always wished that I could have sat in Julia Child’s kitchen and eaten perfectly scrambled eggs prepared by her hands.
Thomas Keller is a true culinary artisan. He has risen to a level where, even the best in his profession, are humbled by his creativity and technique. He is the man. He is at the top of his game. He has only a few peers, and as luck would have it— he serves breakfast here.
Having Thomas Keller cook your breakfast would be akin to sitting in while Mozart performed a private piano concerto, having Hemingway give a personal reading of “A Farewell to Arms,” or hanging out with John, Paul, George, and Ringo during the Abbey Road recording sessions of “I Am the Walrus.” Masters at work.
Most likely, Thomas Keller wasn’t in the kitchen cooking my breakfast this morning. He is probably in Manhattan or the Napa Valley. But a boy can dream, can’t he? The scrambled eggs were underdone just enough to make Julia proud. The pastries were worthy of any Paris patisserie, and the atmosphere and company were spot on.
When it comes to food, I can’t let what happens in Vegas, stay in Vegas. We enjoyed music by the 20th Century rock-and-roll masters at night, and breakfast by the culinary master the next morning.
I am the Egg Man, goo goo ga joob!
Julia’s Perfect Scrambled Eggs
3 Eggs, large
2 tsp Half & Half
1 Tbl Butter
Salt and pepper to taste.
Crack eggs in a small bowl and stir well with a fork until the yolks and whites have just incorporated. Do not stir too vigorously or air will be added to the eggs. Add cream to eggs and stir well.
In a non-stick skillet over moderately low heat, melt the butter and tilt the pan to coat the entire surface. Add the egg mixture to the skillet. Using a rubber spatula slowly scrape the bottom of the skillet until the eggs begin to coagulate. Continue to carefully stir the eggs until they are “just done”. The eggs should be almost fully cooked and custard-like (Julia Child calls them “custardy lumps”) yet have a slightly wet and shiny sheen to them.
Remove eggs from the skillet immediately and transfer to a plate (the eggs will continue to cook slightly for the next 30-45 seconds so it imperative to remove them just before they are done). Add salt and pepper to taste.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Deer Sausage
I am not a deer hunter, yet I have a freezer full of deer sausage.
A few weeks ago I wrote a column about the so-called Obese Bill (HB 282). In it I offered several pieces of alternative legislation to the Mississippi House of Representatives bill that proposes to ban fat people from eating in restaurants.
In my haste to meet an editor’s deadline, I forgot an alternative bill that should placed in the hopper with the rest: The Deer Sausage Law.
The Deer Sausage Law, HB 282G states: Licensed Mississippi deer hunters, or any of their relatives or assigns, are not allowed to give away any deer meat to anyone, ever, period.
I have a theory: I believe that most people don’t like to eat deer meat. Proof: I have a freezer full of deer sausage and I’m not a deer hunter. People shoot deer because they like to shoot deer. I’m OK with that. I have no objection to people shooting animals for food or for sport.
That said, the point still remains, deer meat is not good. If deer sausage was good— if it tasted like a filet mignon or a ribeye steak, or a hamburger, even— deer hunters would hoard it in their own freezers. Even if deer sausage tasted like pork sausage they wouldn’t be trying to pawn it off on me.
My deer-hunting friends— and I have many— purchase secondary freezers to store the deer sausage that accumulates each deer season. Most of them empty these freezers at the beginning of deer season, throwing out all of the leftover deer sausage from the previous hunting season (read: 90%), and prepare to fill it with a new batch of deer sausage that, again, won’t be eaten.
As I write, I have just thought of an amendment to HB 282G: All of the leftover deer sausage from the previous deer season must be donated to the state penal system. You say you want to crack down on crime? Make inmates eat deer sausage in our state prisons. The crime rate will drop immediately.
I like steak. My friends never try to fill my freezer with steak. Therefore, I also propose a statewide cow-hunting season. During cow-hunting season, my friends who like to shoot things can go out and hunt a few steer. Then they can bring all of the ribeyes, strips, prime ribs, and even hamburger that won’t fit into their freezers to me. I will welcome them with open arms, and a baked potato.
Cow hunting will save money, too. No one would need camouflage or long-distance rifles. Tree stands will be rendered useless, high-powered scopes won’t be needed, and there’ll be no need to soak one’s clothes in urine. Just park the truck by the side of a field, walk out into the field. Shoot a cow. Presto! Roast beef for everyone!
And what about pig season? Pork sausage tastes a lot better than deer sausage. I would love to see one of my hunting friends arrive at my front door with a few slabs of ribs and bacon after a successful week hunting at the deer, oops make that, pig camp. I’ll even purchase a supplemental deep freeze for that hunting season.
Chicken season might be a good idea, too. We can release the chickens from all of the state’s chicken houses and let them assimilate into the wild. The countryside will smell a lot better and you’ll never get stuck behind one of those big chicken-hauling trucks, ever again.
The problem of wildlife walking out in front of your car won’t be so bad during chicken season. A full-sized deer can total an automobile. What harm can be done by a rooster?
My friend Marshall Ramsey says that being on the Natchez Trace after dark is like driving through a petting zoo at night. Actually it might be fun to drive down the Trace at night while chickens are crossing the road. We could implement a statewide points system: 10 points for a Bantam Rooster, 15 points for a Rhode Island Red, and for a Black Breasted Red Cubalaya, 25 points and a new upright freezer.
Question: Why did the chicken cross the road?
Answer: Because everyone was sick of deer sausage.
Three-Meat Meatloaf
1 pound Ground beef
1/2 pound Ground venison (or deer sausage)
1/2 pound Ground Pork
1 Tbl Bacon grease (or canola oil)
1 cup Onion, minced
3 /4 cup Celery, minced
3 /4 cup Bell pepper, minced
1 tsp Garlic, minced
1 /8 tsp Thyme, dry
1 /4 tsp Oregano, dry
2 tsp Steak Seasoning
1 Tbl Salt
1 cup Milk
1 /2 cup Ketchup
1 Tbl Worcestershire sauce
3 Eggs
1 1/2 cup Unseasoned Course Bread crumbs
Preheat oven to 325 degrees.
Heat the bacon grease in a large skillet over medium heat. Sauté the vegetables with salt and dry herbs until tender. Allow to cool.
Combine milk, eggs, Worcestershire and ketchup and mix well. Place ground beef, venison, pork, cooled vegetables and egg mixture into a large mixing bowl. Using your hands, squish the meatloaf until you have mixed everything together and all is well incorporated. Fold in the breadcrumbs last.
Shape the meat mixture into the form of a loaf on a baking sheet. Bake 40 minutes.
After 40 minutes of cooking, use a pastry brush and brush the glaze over the entire meatloaf. Return to the oven and bake for 20 more minutes. Again, remove the meatloaf and brush another layer of the glaze over it. Return it once again to the oven and bake for 20 more minutes. Brush one final layer of the glaze on the meatloaf and cook for 10 more minutes. Remove the meatloaf and allow it to rest 15 minutes before serving.
Yield: 8-10 servings
Tomato Glaze
Ingredients:
1 tsp. Bacon fat
1 Tbl. Garlic, minced
1 Tbl. Onion, minced
1 tsp salt
1/2 tsp dry basil
1/4 tsp fresh ground black pepper
3 Tbl Brown sugar
2Tbl Tomato paste
1/2 cup Chicken Broth
2 Tbl. Yellow mustard
1 Tbl. Worcestershire Sauce
1 cup Ketchup
Heat the bacon fat in a small skillet over a low heat. Cook the onions, garlic and salt for 2-3 minutes. Add the basil, black pepper and brown sugar cook for 3-4 minutes. Stir constantly tp prevent the sugar from burning. Stir in remaining ingredients and simmer for 5-6 minutes, stirring occasionally.
I am not a deer hunter, yet I have a freezer full of deer sausage.
A few weeks ago I wrote a column about the so-called Obese Bill (HB 282). In it I offered several pieces of alternative legislation to the Mississippi House of Representatives bill that proposes to ban fat people from eating in restaurants.
In my haste to meet an editor’s deadline, I forgot an alternative bill that should placed in the hopper with the rest: The Deer Sausage Law.
The Deer Sausage Law, HB 282G states: Licensed Mississippi deer hunters, or any of their relatives or assigns, are not allowed to give away any deer meat to anyone, ever, period.
I have a theory: I believe that most people don’t like to eat deer meat. Proof: I have a freezer full of deer sausage and I’m not a deer hunter. People shoot deer because they like to shoot deer. I’m OK with that. I have no objection to people shooting animals for food or for sport.
That said, the point still remains, deer meat is not good. If deer sausage was good— if it tasted like a filet mignon or a ribeye steak, or a hamburger, even— deer hunters would hoard it in their own freezers. Even if deer sausage tasted like pork sausage they wouldn’t be trying to pawn it off on me.
My deer-hunting friends— and I have many— purchase secondary freezers to store the deer sausage that accumulates each deer season. Most of them empty these freezers at the beginning of deer season, throwing out all of the leftover deer sausage from the previous hunting season (read: 90%), and prepare to fill it with a new batch of deer sausage that, again, won’t be eaten.
As I write, I have just thought of an amendment to HB 282G: All of the leftover deer sausage from the previous deer season must be donated to the state penal system. You say you want to crack down on crime? Make inmates eat deer sausage in our state prisons. The crime rate will drop immediately.
I like steak. My friends never try to fill my freezer with steak. Therefore, I also propose a statewide cow-hunting season. During cow-hunting season, my friends who like to shoot things can go out and hunt a few steer. Then they can bring all of the ribeyes, strips, prime ribs, and even hamburger that won’t fit into their freezers to me. I will welcome them with open arms, and a baked potato.
Cow hunting will save money, too. No one would need camouflage or long-distance rifles. Tree stands will be rendered useless, high-powered scopes won’t be needed, and there’ll be no need to soak one’s clothes in urine. Just park the truck by the side of a field, walk out into the field. Shoot a cow. Presto! Roast beef for everyone!
And what about pig season? Pork sausage tastes a lot better than deer sausage. I would love to see one of my hunting friends arrive at my front door with a few slabs of ribs and bacon after a successful week hunting at the deer, oops make that, pig camp. I’ll even purchase a supplemental deep freeze for that hunting season.
Chicken season might be a good idea, too. We can release the chickens from all of the state’s chicken houses and let them assimilate into the wild. The countryside will smell a lot better and you’ll never get stuck behind one of those big chicken-hauling trucks, ever again.
The problem of wildlife walking out in front of your car won’t be so bad during chicken season. A full-sized deer can total an automobile. What harm can be done by a rooster?
My friend Marshall Ramsey says that being on the Natchez Trace after dark is like driving through a petting zoo at night. Actually it might be fun to drive down the Trace at night while chickens are crossing the road. We could implement a statewide points system: 10 points for a Bantam Rooster, 15 points for a Rhode Island Red, and for a Black Breasted Red Cubalaya, 25 points and a new upright freezer.
Question: Why did the chicken cross the road?
Answer: Because everyone was sick of deer sausage.
Three-Meat Meatloaf
1 pound Ground beef
1/2 pound Ground venison (or deer sausage)
1/2 pound Ground Pork
1 Tbl Bacon grease (or canola oil)
1 cup Onion, minced
3 /4 cup Celery, minced
3 /4 cup Bell pepper, minced
1 tsp Garlic, minced
1 /8 tsp Thyme, dry
1 /4 tsp Oregano, dry
2 tsp Steak Seasoning
1 Tbl Salt
1 cup Milk
1 /2 cup Ketchup
1 Tbl Worcestershire sauce
3 Eggs
1 1/2 cup Unseasoned Course Bread crumbs
Preheat oven to 325 degrees.
Heat the bacon grease in a large skillet over medium heat. Sauté the vegetables with salt and dry herbs until tender. Allow to cool.
Combine milk, eggs, Worcestershire and ketchup and mix well. Place ground beef, venison, pork, cooled vegetables and egg mixture into a large mixing bowl. Using your hands, squish the meatloaf until you have mixed everything together and all is well incorporated. Fold in the breadcrumbs last.
Shape the meat mixture into the form of a loaf on a baking sheet. Bake 40 minutes.
After 40 minutes of cooking, use a pastry brush and brush the glaze over the entire meatloaf. Return to the oven and bake for 20 more minutes. Again, remove the meatloaf and brush another layer of the glaze over it. Return it once again to the oven and bake for 20 more minutes. Brush one final layer of the glaze on the meatloaf and cook for 10 more minutes. Remove the meatloaf and allow it to rest 15 minutes before serving.
Yield: 8-10 servings
Tomato Glaze
Ingredients:
1 tsp. Bacon fat
1 Tbl. Garlic, minced
1 Tbl. Onion, minced
1 tsp salt
1/2 tsp dry basil
1/4 tsp fresh ground black pepper
3 Tbl Brown sugar
2Tbl Tomato paste
1/2 cup Chicken Broth
2 Tbl. Yellow mustard
1 Tbl. Worcestershire Sauce
1 cup Ketchup
Heat the bacon fat in a small skillet over a low heat. Cook the onions, garlic and salt for 2-3 minutes. Add the basil, black pepper and brown sugar cook for 3-4 minutes. Stir constantly tp prevent the sugar from burning. Stir in remaining ingredients and simmer for 5-6 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Monday, February 04, 2008
We the (Obese) People
My home state has made national headlines once again.
Three legislators in the Mississippi House of Representatives proposed a bill (HB 282) that would ban restaurants from serving obese people.
As a restaurateur and businessman, doing business in a state where more than 30% of the populace is obese, I am adamantly opposed to this law on many levels. As one who is considered by the government’s standards, obese, I am in opposition because I enjoy eating out, and eating out often (hence the obesity).
What are we restaurateurs to do? Keep a set of scales at the hostess stand and weigh each customer once they walk through the door? “Good evening, welcome to Bob’s House of Pork. Three for dinner? O.K., you two heifers come step on the scales, there’s no way you’re eating here tonight.”
If this bill passes, be assured that there will be restaurants which don’t weigh customers. All of the fat people (me included) will know where the non-weighing restaurants are located (probably all-you-can-eat buffets) giving them an unfair advantage in the marketplace. As a kid, I knew all of the places that didn’t check I.D.s, as an adult I’ll do the same, trading pitchers of cheap beer and grape-flavored malt liquor for catfish and hushpuppies.
If HB 282 passes, I would like to propose a few pieces of legislation of my own:
HB 282A: The Hunting Law. Many Mississippians are shot in hunting accidents every year. I propose that IQ tests be administered at all locations which distribute hunting licenses. If the applicant’s IQ is not 125 or above, they have no business walking around in the woods with a loaded shotgun. Talk about saving lives. HB 282A, my friends, will do just that.
HB 282B: The Driving Bill: HB 282B would require that all licensed Mississippi drivers retake the Mississippi drivers license exam every time they travel more than 10 highway miles in the passing lane without passing another automobile. Somewhere along the way, our local driving instructors quit teaching the section in the manual which covers how the passing lane is supposed to work. It ain’t hard, people: Once you pass someone, get back into the right-hand lane.
HB 282C: The National News Media Interview Law: This law would require a minimum of a sixth-grade education and a nominal grasp of the English language before anyone is allowed to speak to a reporter on national television. The state of Mississippi will also publish a list of approved adjectives and similes to be used in such interviews so our citizenry can come up with better descriptions than how the tornado sounded “like a freight train” or how “harshly” the alien’s probing methods were carried out once inside the UFO.
HB 282D: The Delta Heritage Law: HB 282D would require all citizens of the Mississippi Delta to limit their ancestral discussions to a minimum of 45 minutes per dining period. During the allotted time period, said genealogy buff may only go back four generations without receiving a warning citation. If subject traces his or her lineage all the way back to the Civil War during one meal period, a $75 fine shall be levied (Revolutionary War descendant discussions will result in mandatory jail time). This law also applies to relations’ choice of college, which sorority their grandmother joined, and which tract of land their family owned 150 years ago.
HB 282E; The Florence-Richland Bypass Law. This has nothing to do with the others, but while I am proposing laws, I would love to see the highway department build a bypass around Florence and Richland. I have nothing against these two communities, it’s just that it takes me 90 minutes to get to Jackson and 30 minutes of it is spent in the last five miles of the trip.
HB 282F: The Potato Salad Allocation. No more than four batches of potato salad will be allowed in any home during a funeral or wake. The bill would also place a quota on green bean casseroles (no more than three) at any single covered-dish supper.
Three cheers for good government, of the person (me), for the person (me), and by the person (me). Now pass the hushpuppies.
Hushpuppies
1 1 /2 cups Cornmeal
3/4 cup Flour
2 tsp Baking powder
1 /2 tsp Baking soda
1 Tbl Sugar
1 tsp Lawry’s seasoned salt
1 tsp Creole Seasoning
1 /4 cup Yellow onion, minced
1 /4 cup Green onion, minced
1 cup Buttermilk
2 Tbl Bacon grease, melted (or canola oil)
1 tsp Hot Sauce
2 Eggs, beaten well
Peanut oil for frying
In one bowl, combine cornmeal, flour, baking powder, baking soda, sugar, Lawry’s and Creole seasoning. In another, combine remaining ingredients. Gently fold the wet ingredients into the dry and mix until everything is combined. Do not over work batter.
Heat oil to 325 degrees in cast iron skillet. Shape batter into small round balls, and drop into oil. Fry until brown, seven to eight minutes. Remove, drain and serve. Yield: approximately 30
My home state has made national headlines once again.
Three legislators in the Mississippi House of Representatives proposed a bill (HB 282) that would ban restaurants from serving obese people.
As a restaurateur and businessman, doing business in a state where more than 30% of the populace is obese, I am adamantly opposed to this law on many levels. As one who is considered by the government’s standards, obese, I am in opposition because I enjoy eating out, and eating out often (hence the obesity).
What are we restaurateurs to do? Keep a set of scales at the hostess stand and weigh each customer once they walk through the door? “Good evening, welcome to Bob’s House of Pork. Three for dinner? O.K., you two heifers come step on the scales, there’s no way you’re eating here tonight.”
If this bill passes, be assured that there will be restaurants which don’t weigh customers. All of the fat people (me included) will know where the non-weighing restaurants are located (probably all-you-can-eat buffets) giving them an unfair advantage in the marketplace. As a kid, I knew all of the places that didn’t check I.D.s, as an adult I’ll do the same, trading pitchers of cheap beer and grape-flavored malt liquor for catfish and hushpuppies.
If HB 282 passes, I would like to propose a few pieces of legislation of my own:
HB 282A: The Hunting Law. Many Mississippians are shot in hunting accidents every year. I propose that IQ tests be administered at all locations which distribute hunting licenses. If the applicant’s IQ is not 125 or above, they have no business walking around in the woods with a loaded shotgun. Talk about saving lives. HB 282A, my friends, will do just that.
HB 282B: The Driving Bill: HB 282B would require that all licensed Mississippi drivers retake the Mississippi drivers license exam every time they travel more than 10 highway miles in the passing lane without passing another automobile. Somewhere along the way, our local driving instructors quit teaching the section in the manual which covers how the passing lane is supposed to work. It ain’t hard, people: Once you pass someone, get back into the right-hand lane.
HB 282C: The National News Media Interview Law: This law would require a minimum of a sixth-grade education and a nominal grasp of the English language before anyone is allowed to speak to a reporter on national television. The state of Mississippi will also publish a list of approved adjectives and similes to be used in such interviews so our citizenry can come up with better descriptions than how the tornado sounded “like a freight train” or how “harshly” the alien’s probing methods were carried out once inside the UFO.
HB 282D: The Delta Heritage Law: HB 282D would require all citizens of the Mississippi Delta to limit their ancestral discussions to a minimum of 45 minutes per dining period. During the allotted time period, said genealogy buff may only go back four generations without receiving a warning citation. If subject traces his or her lineage all the way back to the Civil War during one meal period, a $75 fine shall be levied (Revolutionary War descendant discussions will result in mandatory jail time). This law also applies to relations’ choice of college, which sorority their grandmother joined, and which tract of land their family owned 150 years ago.
HB 282E; The Florence-Richland Bypass Law. This has nothing to do with the others, but while I am proposing laws, I would love to see the highway department build a bypass around Florence and Richland. I have nothing against these two communities, it’s just that it takes me 90 minutes to get to Jackson and 30 minutes of it is spent in the last five miles of the trip.
HB 282F: The Potato Salad Allocation. No more than four batches of potato salad will be allowed in any home during a funeral or wake. The bill would also place a quota on green bean casseroles (no more than three) at any single covered-dish supper.
Three cheers for good government, of the person (me), for the person (me), and by the person (me). Now pass the hushpuppies.
Hushpuppies
1 1 /2 cups Cornmeal
3/4 cup Flour
2 tsp Baking powder
1 /2 tsp Baking soda
1 Tbl Sugar
1 tsp Lawry’s seasoned salt
1 tsp Creole Seasoning
1 /4 cup Yellow onion, minced
1 /4 cup Green onion, minced
1 cup Buttermilk
2 Tbl Bacon grease, melted (or canola oil)
1 tsp Hot Sauce
2 Eggs, beaten well
Peanut oil for frying
In one bowl, combine cornmeal, flour, baking powder, baking soda, sugar, Lawry’s and Creole seasoning. In another, combine remaining ingredients. Gently fold the wet ingredients into the dry and mix until everything is combined. Do not over work batter.
Heat oil to 325 degrees in cast iron skillet. Shape batter into small round balls, and drop into oil. Fry until brown, seven to eight minutes. Remove, drain and serve. Yield: approximately 30
SNOWMASS, CO.— I am on a father-son vacation with my six-year old.
My family usually travels in a pack of four. This trip, prior commitments kept my wife and daughter at home and placed the two men, on their own, in a ski resort. It is the first time that he and I have ever spent any quality time away from home— just the boys. I am a happy daddy.
I love and adore my wife and daughter, but there is something special about two guys traveling alone. Things are different. Even though we are staying in a ski-in ski-out Colorado condo, it has taken on the feel of a Mississippi backwoods deer camp. Certain rules don’t apply when the girls aren’t around.
The clothes we wore yesterday, even the clothes we wore four days ago, are doing just fine piled up in the corner of the den. We both know that later in the week, if we run out of clean clothes, we might have to dig into the dirty pile to find something to wear. The kitchen island serves as a perfect luggage rack to keep the duffle bag that holds all of our ski clothes and jeans so we don’t have to bend down while digging for something clean.
There seems to be an unusual amount of empty space around the bathroom sink, and the toilet paper never seems to run out. There are always plenty of towels and washcloths available, and for some strange reason we are on time everywhere we go— early even.
The condo’s refrigerator is stocked with all of the father-son essentials: Milk, orange juice, bottled water, and Coke Zero. In the pantry are two boxes of Cheerios, a wide variety of protein bars, bananas, and a box of Pop Tarts.
My son had never eaten a Pop Tart. If my wife had a clue that I was letting him eat a Pop Tart for breakfast she would fly out here and fill the pantry with yogurt, turkey sausage, and fiber-laden cereals with strange European and vegetarian-sounding names.
When two guys are on their own, eating ends up in a lower place on the activity pecking order. That is a strange sentence for me to type, because, when traveling, eating usually ends up at, or near, the top of the list.
We eat breakfast in the condo every morning, selecting from the aforementioned items. We eat lunch on the slopes, usually burgers, soups, or salads. We have eaten dinner, three nights out of six, at the restaurant located at our condominium.
This is new territory for me. Restaurants and food are usually a top priority when traveling. This trip it’s all about my son. He learned how to snow ski and on the final day and a half, we skied together. Who needs food when a father and son are bonding?
Actually, we are both starting to miss the girls, all of the Pop Tarts were eaten two days ago, the Cheerios are running low, and we are out of clean clothes.
My father died when I was six-years old. I had never been on a father-son vacation in my life, that is, until now.
I am skiing with my son. I am a happy daddy.
My family usually travels in a pack of four. This trip, prior commitments kept my wife and daughter at home and placed the two men, on their own, in a ski resort. It is the first time that he and I have ever spent any quality time away from home— just the boys. I am a happy daddy.
I love and adore my wife and daughter, but there is something special about two guys traveling alone. Things are different. Even though we are staying in a ski-in ski-out Colorado condo, it has taken on the feel of a Mississippi backwoods deer camp. Certain rules don’t apply when the girls aren’t around.
The clothes we wore yesterday, even the clothes we wore four days ago, are doing just fine piled up in the corner of the den. We both know that later in the week, if we run out of clean clothes, we might have to dig into the dirty pile to find something to wear. The kitchen island serves as a perfect luggage rack to keep the duffle bag that holds all of our ski clothes and jeans so we don’t have to bend down while digging for something clean.
There seems to be an unusual amount of empty space around the bathroom sink, and the toilet paper never seems to run out. There are always plenty of towels and washcloths available, and for some strange reason we are on time everywhere we go— early even.
The condo’s refrigerator is stocked with all of the father-son essentials: Milk, orange juice, bottled water, and Coke Zero. In the pantry are two boxes of Cheerios, a wide variety of protein bars, bananas, and a box of Pop Tarts.
My son had never eaten a Pop Tart. If my wife had a clue that I was letting him eat a Pop Tart for breakfast she would fly out here and fill the pantry with yogurt, turkey sausage, and fiber-laden cereals with strange European and vegetarian-sounding names.
When two guys are on their own, eating ends up in a lower place on the activity pecking order. That is a strange sentence for me to type, because, when traveling, eating usually ends up at, or near, the top of the list.
We eat breakfast in the condo every morning, selecting from the aforementioned items. We eat lunch on the slopes, usually burgers, soups, or salads. We have eaten dinner, three nights out of six, at the restaurant located at our condominium.
This is new territory for me. Restaurants and food are usually a top priority when traveling. This trip it’s all about my son. He learned how to snow ski and on the final day and a half, we skied together. Who needs food when a father and son are bonding?
Actually, we are both starting to miss the girls, all of the Pop Tarts were eaten two days ago, the Cheerios are running low, and we are out of clean clothes.
My father died when I was six-years old. I had never been on a father-son vacation in my life, that is, until now.
I am skiing with my son. I am a happy daddy.
Beefamato
A physician once ordered my 90-year old grandmother to drink Beefamato.
Beefamato is tomato juice with beef broth in it. Well, not “real” beef broth, the label states “dried beef broth.”
I am not sure why she was ordered to drink Beefamato. Maybe it contained an obscure vitamin she wasn’t receiving in her regular diet, or an additional protein needed to preserve her 90-year old muscles. One thing’s for certain— the doctor didn’t make her drink Beefamato because it would be another tasty beverage alternative to her already-flavorsome line-up of liquid-refreshment selections. Move over, Ensure, pass the Beefamato.
Beefamato is like North Dakota, you only go there if you have to. Tomato juice and beef do not belong side-by-side in a glass— on top of a mound of spaghetti, certainly, spread onto a pizza crust, maybe, but not in a glass with crushed ice and a cocktail napkin.
Mott’s manufactures Beefamato. They also make a product called Clamato. Yes. Clamato— tomato juice and dried clam broth. I would give half a week’s pay to have been a fly on the wall in that boardroom:
Suit #1: “You know guys, this Beefamato stuff isn’t selling too well.”
Suit #2: “Well, boss, its beef juice and tomato juice combined in a liquid. I tried to warn you.”
Suit #3: “I know what we can do. Let’s find an even-worse ingredient to add to tomato juice. The buying public will be so repulsed by the new beverage, that Beefamato will seem like sweet, cool, nectar in comparison.”
Suit #1: “Number three, that’s brilliant. I’m putting you in for a raise. Now, what foul, vile liquid can we add to our tomato juice? ”
Suit #2: “How about the gooey liquid that comes inside the potted meat can.”
Suit #1: “Not vile enough.”
Suit #3: “I’ve got it! How about clams! No. Wait. How about dried clam broth!”
Suit #1: “Perfect! Son, you’ll be running this company one day.”
According to my research, Clamato is a big deal in the Northeastern states. Coincidentally, that’s also where cranberries are grown.
Ocean Spray blends cranberries into several successful combinations. They bottle Cran-Grape juice, Cran-Apple juice, and even Cran-Tangerine, and Cran-Mango. Maybe the folks at Mott’s were jealous of the creative innovation occurring in the Ocean Spray test labs.
Suit #1: “I’m sick of those guys over at Ocean Spray. They get to have all of the fun. They’re going wild with cranberries over there. I want some new beverage combinations, and I want them asap!”
Suit #3: “I’ve got it, sir. How about Cran-Beef, and Cran-Clam?”
Suit #1: “Number three, you’re a genius!”
We’re not talking about adding cherry juice or vanilla syrup to Coca Cola, those combinations make sense. It’s clam juice.
It’s as if Mott’s— makers of a fine applesauce, by the way— thought of the most disparate flavor combinations available. What’s next? grape juice and dill pickle liquid: Grapickle, clam juice and orange juice: Clamorange, turkey gravy and clam juice: Clamurkey?
I found a news article on the internet that suggested that the new Clamato energy drink could also be used as an aphrodisiac. A sign of marketing desperation? Maybe.
Suit #2: “Boss, the Cran-Clam isn’t selling, either.”
Suit #1: “#$%@*&! I just knew that was our ticket into the beverage-blend big time!”
Suit #3: “What if we tell them that Cran-Clam is the next Viagra?”
Suit #1: “Brilliant, number three! Number two, why don’t you ever come up with ideas like that?”
I don’t drink tomato juice, but if I did, I would want my tomato juice to taste like tomatoes. Not pot roast, or mollusks, or cherries, just tomatoes.
Question: What is the one thought everyone has after taking a sip of Clamato?
Answer: Wow, I could’ve had a V8!
A physician once ordered my 90-year old grandmother to drink Beefamato.
Beefamato is tomato juice with beef broth in it. Well, not “real” beef broth, the label states “dried beef broth.”
I am not sure why she was ordered to drink Beefamato. Maybe it contained an obscure vitamin she wasn’t receiving in her regular diet, or an additional protein needed to preserve her 90-year old muscles. One thing’s for certain— the doctor didn’t make her drink Beefamato because it would be another tasty beverage alternative to her already-flavorsome line-up of liquid-refreshment selections. Move over, Ensure, pass the Beefamato.
Beefamato is like North Dakota, you only go there if you have to. Tomato juice and beef do not belong side-by-side in a glass— on top of a mound of spaghetti, certainly, spread onto a pizza crust, maybe, but not in a glass with crushed ice and a cocktail napkin.
Mott’s manufactures Beefamato. They also make a product called Clamato. Yes. Clamato— tomato juice and dried clam broth. I would give half a week’s pay to have been a fly on the wall in that boardroom:
Suit #1: “You know guys, this Beefamato stuff isn’t selling too well.”
Suit #2: “Well, boss, its beef juice and tomato juice combined in a liquid. I tried to warn you.”
Suit #3: “I know what we can do. Let’s find an even-worse ingredient to add to tomato juice. The buying public will be so repulsed by the new beverage, that Beefamato will seem like sweet, cool, nectar in comparison.”
Suit #1: “Number three, that’s brilliant. I’m putting you in for a raise. Now, what foul, vile liquid can we add to our tomato juice? ”
Suit #2: “How about the gooey liquid that comes inside the potted meat can.”
Suit #1: “Not vile enough.”
Suit #3: “I’ve got it! How about clams! No. Wait. How about dried clam broth!”
Suit #1: “Perfect! Son, you’ll be running this company one day.”
According to my research, Clamato is a big deal in the Northeastern states. Coincidentally, that’s also where cranberries are grown.
Ocean Spray blends cranberries into several successful combinations. They bottle Cran-Grape juice, Cran-Apple juice, and even Cran-Tangerine, and Cran-Mango. Maybe the folks at Mott’s were jealous of the creative innovation occurring in the Ocean Spray test labs.
Suit #1: “I’m sick of those guys over at Ocean Spray. They get to have all of the fun. They’re going wild with cranberries over there. I want some new beverage combinations, and I want them asap!”
Suit #3: “I’ve got it, sir. How about Cran-Beef, and Cran-Clam?”
Suit #1: “Number three, you’re a genius!”
We’re not talking about adding cherry juice or vanilla syrup to Coca Cola, those combinations make sense. It’s clam juice.
It’s as if Mott’s— makers of a fine applesauce, by the way— thought of the most disparate flavor combinations available. What’s next? grape juice and dill pickle liquid: Grapickle, clam juice and orange juice: Clamorange, turkey gravy and clam juice: Clamurkey?
I found a news article on the internet that suggested that the new Clamato energy drink could also be used as an aphrodisiac. A sign of marketing desperation? Maybe.
Suit #2: “Boss, the Cran-Clam isn’t selling, either.”
Suit #1: “#$%@*&! I just knew that was our ticket into the beverage-blend big time!”
Suit #3: “What if we tell them that Cran-Clam is the next Viagra?”
Suit #1: “Brilliant, number three! Number two, why don’t you ever come up with ideas like that?”
I don’t drink tomato juice, but if I did, I would want my tomato juice to taste like tomatoes. Not pot roast, or mollusks, or cherries, just tomatoes.
Question: What is the one thought everyone has after taking a sip of Clamato?
Answer: Wow, I could’ve had a V8!
Breakfast
Recently I realized that I can look back over the course of my life and track my age by what I was eating for breakfast.
Some people associate songs with certain periods of their lives (I do that, too), but these days I tend to lean more towards food, especially breakfast food.
When I was a small child I ate kid’s cereal for breakfast. Anything with a ton of sugar and a toy in the box was good enough for me. I lived at home and watched Captain Kangaroo and the Three Stooges every morning.
When we were out of kid’s cereal, I ate my mom’s Corn Flakes. At first glance, they would seem to be the healthier alternative, except that I dumped loads of sugar on them. Left to my preparation, Corn Flakes were ten times as sugar-laden as Fruit Loops.
At the end of a substitute Corn Flakes breakfast, all that was left in the bottom of the bowl was a one-inch layer of white sludge. I, of course, was bouncing off of the walls on a sugar high that wouldn’t wear off until noon. I have a feeling that my elementary school teachers did everything within their means to make sure that the St.John household never ran out of Fruit Loops or Count Chocula.
In junior high school I was into sweet rolls and Pop Tarts, still sugary but quick. By the time I reached high school and had purchased my first automobile, I got into the habit of stopping by the doughnut shop on my way to school.
In my college years I rarely ate breakfast, either because I was not feeling up-to-snuff in the morning, or had yet to roll out of the bed before noon. Due to the fact that I couldn’t wake up before midday, my first attempt at a college career ended abruptly when the university I was attending informed me that they no longer needed my services.
I went through a phase in my 20s where I ate lunch food for breakfast. A local fast food joint prepared hamburgers as early as 7a.m. I lived rent-free in a garage apartment behind my grandmother’s house and rarely cooked anything, especially early in the morning.
At 26-years old I opened my first restaurant. I was working 90-hours per week and pulling early morning shifts in the restaurant. I had a 32-inch waist and more energy than a rabid hummingbird. I lived on cinnamon rolls and drive-thru fast-food in the mornings.
Over the next several years my breakfast eating grew worse and my waist grew exponentially. As I look back to the early days of my breakfast career, it seems that I made one bad choice after another. I spent 40 years eating junk in the morning. It’s strange because breakfast is my favorite meal.
These days I eat oatmeal with protein powder and Splenda if I am home. When I eat breakfast out, I usually eat a bagel, scrambled eggs, or a croissant.
Breakfast is said to be the most important meal of the day. Yet people claim to be too busy to eat breakfast. We keep inventing gadgets to make life easier— cell phones, computerized vacuum cleaners, and heated toilet seats— yet we allege that we are busier than ever.
Maybe we are spending too much time trying to figure out how to operate all of the time-saving gadgets in our lives and not taking time to sit down and share a meal together.
My great-grandmother ate one scrambled egg, two pieces of bacon, and a slice of toast every morning. She lived to be 100-years old. I had a grandmother who ate toast and fresh fruit every morning. She lived to be 96-years old.
Less Stress + More Breakfast = Long Life. Neither of those ladies gave a hoot about time-saving technology. My grandmother once asked me, while pointing to a multi-colored Wurlitzer juke box in the corner of a nursing home public space, “Robert, is that one of those new computers I keep hearing about?”
Maybe it’s time we slowed down and enjoyed breakfast. Put the cell phone in a drawer, unplug the toilet seat, and pass the orange juice.
I spent four decades eating sugar-laden junk in the morning. Maybe it’s time I grew up. Then again, maybe I’ve got just a few more cinnamon roll-mornings left in me.
Breakfast Casserole
1 lb Spicy breakfast sausage
3 /4 cup Onion, diced
1 /4 cup Green bell pepper, sliced
1 /4 cup Red bell pepper, sliced
1 tsp Garlic
1 tsp Creole Seasoning
1 tsp Cayenne pepper
10 Eggs, beaten
1 cup Half and Half
1 tsp Dry mustard
6 pieces White bread, crusts removed
6 pieces Wheat bread, crusts removed
1 /4 cup Soft butter
1 cup Sharp cheddar, shredded
1 cup Monterey jack cheese, shredded
1 tsp. Hot Sauce
Preheat oven to 325 degrees.
Brown sausage in a large skillet and drain most of the fat. Add vegetables, garlic and seasoning and cook five minutes. Set aside.
Mix together eggs, half and half, and dry mustard in a mixing bowl. Using the softened butter, butter both sides of each slice of bread. Cut the bread into small cubes. Fold the bread, cheeses and sausage mixture into the eggs. Mix well and place in a buttered two-quart baking dish.
Bake for 40-50 minutes. Allow to rest for 15 minutes before serving. Yield: eight servings
Recently I realized that I can look back over the course of my life and track my age by what I was eating for breakfast.
Some people associate songs with certain periods of their lives (I do that, too), but these days I tend to lean more towards food, especially breakfast food.
When I was a small child I ate kid’s cereal for breakfast. Anything with a ton of sugar and a toy in the box was good enough for me. I lived at home and watched Captain Kangaroo and the Three Stooges every morning.
When we were out of kid’s cereal, I ate my mom’s Corn Flakes. At first glance, they would seem to be the healthier alternative, except that I dumped loads of sugar on them. Left to my preparation, Corn Flakes were ten times as sugar-laden as Fruit Loops.
At the end of a substitute Corn Flakes breakfast, all that was left in the bottom of the bowl was a one-inch layer of white sludge. I, of course, was bouncing off of the walls on a sugar high that wouldn’t wear off until noon. I have a feeling that my elementary school teachers did everything within their means to make sure that the St.John household never ran out of Fruit Loops or Count Chocula.
In junior high school I was into sweet rolls and Pop Tarts, still sugary but quick. By the time I reached high school and had purchased my first automobile, I got into the habit of stopping by the doughnut shop on my way to school.
In my college years I rarely ate breakfast, either because I was not feeling up-to-snuff in the morning, or had yet to roll out of the bed before noon. Due to the fact that I couldn’t wake up before midday, my first attempt at a college career ended abruptly when the university I was attending informed me that they no longer needed my services.
I went through a phase in my 20s where I ate lunch food for breakfast. A local fast food joint prepared hamburgers as early as 7a.m. I lived rent-free in a garage apartment behind my grandmother’s house and rarely cooked anything, especially early in the morning.
At 26-years old I opened my first restaurant. I was working 90-hours per week and pulling early morning shifts in the restaurant. I had a 32-inch waist and more energy than a rabid hummingbird. I lived on cinnamon rolls and drive-thru fast-food in the mornings.
Over the next several years my breakfast eating grew worse and my waist grew exponentially. As I look back to the early days of my breakfast career, it seems that I made one bad choice after another. I spent 40 years eating junk in the morning. It’s strange because breakfast is my favorite meal.
These days I eat oatmeal with protein powder and Splenda if I am home. When I eat breakfast out, I usually eat a bagel, scrambled eggs, or a croissant.
Breakfast is said to be the most important meal of the day. Yet people claim to be too busy to eat breakfast. We keep inventing gadgets to make life easier— cell phones, computerized vacuum cleaners, and heated toilet seats— yet we allege that we are busier than ever.
Maybe we are spending too much time trying to figure out how to operate all of the time-saving gadgets in our lives and not taking time to sit down and share a meal together.
My great-grandmother ate one scrambled egg, two pieces of bacon, and a slice of toast every morning. She lived to be 100-years old. I had a grandmother who ate toast and fresh fruit every morning. She lived to be 96-years old.
Less Stress + More Breakfast = Long Life. Neither of those ladies gave a hoot about time-saving technology. My grandmother once asked me, while pointing to a multi-colored Wurlitzer juke box in the corner of a nursing home public space, “Robert, is that one of those new computers I keep hearing about?”
Maybe it’s time we slowed down and enjoyed breakfast. Put the cell phone in a drawer, unplug the toilet seat, and pass the orange juice.
I spent four decades eating sugar-laden junk in the morning. Maybe it’s time I grew up. Then again, maybe I’ve got just a few more cinnamon roll-mornings left in me.
Breakfast Casserole
1 lb Spicy breakfast sausage
3 /4 cup Onion, diced
1 /4 cup Green bell pepper, sliced
1 /4 cup Red bell pepper, sliced
1 tsp Garlic
1 tsp Creole Seasoning
1 tsp Cayenne pepper
10 Eggs, beaten
1 cup Half and Half
1 tsp Dry mustard
6 pieces White bread, crusts removed
6 pieces Wheat bread, crusts removed
1 /4 cup Soft butter
1 cup Sharp cheddar, shredded
1 cup Monterey jack cheese, shredded
1 tsp. Hot Sauce
Preheat oven to 325 degrees.
Brown sausage in a large skillet and drain most of the fat. Add vegetables, garlic and seasoning and cook five minutes. Set aside.
Mix together eggs, half and half, and dry mustard in a mixing bowl. Using the softened butter, butter both sides of each slice of bread. Cut the bread into small cubes. Fold the bread, cheeses and sausage mixture into the eggs. Mix well and place in a buttered two-quart baking dish.
Bake for 40-50 minutes. Allow to rest for 15 minutes before serving. Yield: eight servings
All You Can Eat
“Buffet Bans Fat People” was the headline I came across while surfing the Internet. O.K., I’ll bite.
According to a story on Breitbart.com a man in Houma, La was charged double for making too many trips to the buffet line. Ricky Labit, a 265-pound offshore worker, said he had been frequenting the Manchuria Restaurant in Houma for several months when, on his most recent visit, a waitress charged him double for taking too many trips to the buffet. The waitress told him, “Y’all fat, and y’all eat too much!”
The story is filled with all manner of juicy quotes such as Labit responding, “I ain’t that fat, I only weigh 277.”
Labit might have one of those wavy carnival midway mirrors in his bathroom because the waitress said he looked as if he had a “baby in the belly.”
Have you looked around an all-you-can-eat buffet, lately? They’re everywhere. You can’t throw a rock without hitting one in South Mississippi. If they start banning fat people, they’ll lose 75% of their business, including me.
“All-you-can-eat” was invented for fat people. I am chief among the sinners. Skinny people aren’t interested in eating all of the food that they can cram into their gut. That’s why they’re skinny. They want healthy food, and small amounts of it. There are a few skinny people at the all-you-can-eat buffet, but they’re usually sitting with a group of people wearing XXL shirts who talked them out of eating a salad at another restaurant.
Again, I am chief among the sinners. I weigh 247. I wear XXL shirts, and I feel like Ricky Labit— I ain’t that fat (at least not too fat to go back for seconds, or thirds).
The name itself, “all-you-can-eat” is a challenge. “I’ll show them just how much I can eat,” I think to myself. It’s a psychological thing. I want to win. I want to beat the system. I always think that I can eat more than the amount I paid. It’s the buffet-owners hook. Keep bringing it out, I’ll show you how many hushpuppies I can swallow in one sitting.
There is a mood that permeates through approximately 20% of all-you-can-eat buffet customers. One can see it in their eyes. It’s in my eyes when I eat at an all-you-can-eat buffet. It’s a look of panic. It’s the frenzied fear that the kitchen might run out of food so I need to pile my plate so high that I can’t easily walk back to the table without spilling half of the food that I was worried was going to be gone in the first place.
Last Spring my publisher sent a photographer from New York to photograph food for my new grilling cookbook. He was interested in the dining customs of our neck of the woods so I took him to a few of my favorite local "joints."
While looking at the menu in a fried catfish restaurant I noticed him staring at the menu and speaking softly— to no one in particular— “All you can eat, all you can eat." The diminutive New Yorker looked up and asked, "You mean they'll keep bringing me food as long as I sit here?"
"Yep," I said. "But they're not too worried about you." He ate mostly cole slaw that night, further proving my point that skinny people eat too much green stuff. That goes double for skinny New Yorkers.
When I was in high school I worked for a man who weighed over 500 pounds. At the time, my hometown of Hattiesburg, Miss. had one restaurant which served all-you-can-eat catfish.
The second Thursday of every month, my boss would take us to the all-you-can-eat catfish restaurant. After the first few months, I started to notice the look of dread on the faces of the servers as we walked through the doors of the restaurant. My boss was a bottomless pit and could keep eating until he got bored. As long as the servers brought more catfish, he could keep eating it. He didn’t look as if he had a baby in the belly; he was carrying an entire litter.
That look of dread was probably the same one that was displayed by the waitress in Houma. Bottom line: If you’re going to offer all-you-can-eat, you have to deliver on that promise (or challenge). Otherwise, skinny 247-pound people like me are going to be offended.
A sign in the Houma restaurant reads: “Food is for eating, not toys for your child.” A handwritten addition is added to the bottom of the sign “Or 20% added.” It looks as though the fat tax they’ve been warning us about for years is finally here. Quick, pass the hushpuppies.
Hushpuppies
1 1 /2 cups Cornmeal
3/4 cup Flour
2 tsp Baking powder
1 /2 tsp Baking soda
1 Tbl Sugar
1 tsp Lawry’s seasoned salt
1 tsp Creole Seasoning (recipe page XX)
1 /4 cup Yellow onion, minced
1 /4 cup Green onion, minced
1 cup Buttermilk
2 Tbl Bacon grease, melted (or canola oil)
1 tsp Hot Sauce
2 Eggs, beaten well
Peanut oil for frying
In one bowl, combine cornmeal, flour, baking powder, baking soda, sugar, Lawry’s and Creole seasoning. In another, combine remaining ingredients. Gently fold the wet ingredients into the dry and mix until everything is combined. Do not over work batter.
Heat oil to 325 degrees in cast iron skillet. Shape batter into small round balls, and drop into oil. Fry until brown, seven to eight minutes. Remove, drain and serve. Yield: approximately 30
“Buffet Bans Fat People” was the headline I came across while surfing the Internet. O.K., I’ll bite.
According to a story on Breitbart.com a man in Houma, La was charged double for making too many trips to the buffet line. Ricky Labit, a 265-pound offshore worker, said he had been frequenting the Manchuria Restaurant in Houma for several months when, on his most recent visit, a waitress charged him double for taking too many trips to the buffet. The waitress told him, “Y’all fat, and y’all eat too much!”
The story is filled with all manner of juicy quotes such as Labit responding, “I ain’t that fat, I only weigh 277.”
Labit might have one of those wavy carnival midway mirrors in his bathroom because the waitress said he looked as if he had a “baby in the belly.”
Have you looked around an all-you-can-eat buffet, lately? They’re everywhere. You can’t throw a rock without hitting one in South Mississippi. If they start banning fat people, they’ll lose 75% of their business, including me.
“All-you-can-eat” was invented for fat people. I am chief among the sinners. Skinny people aren’t interested in eating all of the food that they can cram into their gut. That’s why they’re skinny. They want healthy food, and small amounts of it. There are a few skinny people at the all-you-can-eat buffet, but they’re usually sitting with a group of people wearing XXL shirts who talked them out of eating a salad at another restaurant.
Again, I am chief among the sinners. I weigh 247. I wear XXL shirts, and I feel like Ricky Labit— I ain’t that fat (at least not too fat to go back for seconds, or thirds).
The name itself, “all-you-can-eat” is a challenge. “I’ll show them just how much I can eat,” I think to myself. It’s a psychological thing. I want to win. I want to beat the system. I always think that I can eat more than the amount I paid. It’s the buffet-owners hook. Keep bringing it out, I’ll show you how many hushpuppies I can swallow in one sitting.
There is a mood that permeates through approximately 20% of all-you-can-eat buffet customers. One can see it in their eyes. It’s in my eyes when I eat at an all-you-can-eat buffet. It’s a look of panic. It’s the frenzied fear that the kitchen might run out of food so I need to pile my plate so high that I can’t easily walk back to the table without spilling half of the food that I was worried was going to be gone in the first place.
Last Spring my publisher sent a photographer from New York to photograph food for my new grilling cookbook. He was interested in the dining customs of our neck of the woods so I took him to a few of my favorite local "joints."
While looking at the menu in a fried catfish restaurant I noticed him staring at the menu and speaking softly— to no one in particular— “All you can eat, all you can eat." The diminutive New Yorker looked up and asked, "You mean they'll keep bringing me food as long as I sit here?"
"Yep," I said. "But they're not too worried about you." He ate mostly cole slaw that night, further proving my point that skinny people eat too much green stuff. That goes double for skinny New Yorkers.
When I was in high school I worked for a man who weighed over 500 pounds. At the time, my hometown of Hattiesburg, Miss. had one restaurant which served all-you-can-eat catfish.
The second Thursday of every month, my boss would take us to the all-you-can-eat catfish restaurant. After the first few months, I started to notice the look of dread on the faces of the servers as we walked through the doors of the restaurant. My boss was a bottomless pit and could keep eating until he got bored. As long as the servers brought more catfish, he could keep eating it. He didn’t look as if he had a baby in the belly; he was carrying an entire litter.
That look of dread was probably the same one that was displayed by the waitress in Houma. Bottom line: If you’re going to offer all-you-can-eat, you have to deliver on that promise (or challenge). Otherwise, skinny 247-pound people like me are going to be offended.
A sign in the Houma restaurant reads: “Food is for eating, not toys for your child.” A handwritten addition is added to the bottom of the sign “Or 20% added.” It looks as though the fat tax they’ve been warning us about for years is finally here. Quick, pass the hushpuppies.
Hushpuppies
1 1 /2 cups Cornmeal
3/4 cup Flour
2 tsp Baking powder
1 /2 tsp Baking soda
1 Tbl Sugar
1 tsp Lawry’s seasoned salt
1 tsp Creole Seasoning (recipe page XX)
1 /4 cup Yellow onion, minced
1 /4 cup Green onion, minced
1 cup Buttermilk
2 Tbl Bacon grease, melted (or canola oil)
1 tsp Hot Sauce
2 Eggs, beaten well
Peanut oil for frying
In one bowl, combine cornmeal, flour, baking powder, baking soda, sugar, Lawry’s and Creole seasoning. In another, combine remaining ingredients. Gently fold the wet ingredients into the dry and mix until everything is combined. Do not over work batter.
Heat oil to 325 degrees in cast iron skillet. Shape batter into small round balls, and drop into oil. Fry until brown, seven to eight minutes. Remove, drain and serve. Yield: approximately 30
New Years Hopes and Wishes 2008
In keeping with my annual tradition of not committing to anything that might make me change my eating habits, once again, I will not make New Year’s resolutions. Instead, I submit my annual list of culinary hopes and wishes for 2008. Some old, some new, all heartfelt:
1. I hope to finally be able to recreate my grandmother’s leg of lamb.
2. I hope to eat a minimum of one around-the-dinner-table, home-cooked, family meal each day with my wife and two children.
3. I wish more restaurants would serve fresh, hand-cut French fries.
4. I hope that sometime during the year, someone will deliver a homemade chicken pot pie to my house (this actually worked two years ago… I’m keeping my fingers crossed this time).
5. I hope that someone finds a health benefit in eating freshly baked croissants and bagels every morning.
6. I wish that I could still eat donuts and not feel badly afterwards.
7. No head cheese.
8. I hope that every father will take his daughter out to eat in a fine-dining restaurant at least once in the coming year.
9. I wish more restaurants would focus on preparing unusual and flavorful salads.
10. And when they do, I hope that they don’t drown the salads in too much dressing.
11. I wish more barbeque restaurants would smoke their meats in real wood-burning pits instead of using propane.
12. I hope everyone gets to attend at least one covered-dish supper in 2008.
13. I wish positive cash flows on all restaurateurs.
14. I wish multiple bushels of sweet corn for everyone.
15. Two words… Black Grouper.
16. One word: Ceviche.
17. Four words: Second helpings of each.
18. I wish restaurants would place more focus on service and less on atmosphere.
19. I hope Mississippi has a record-breaking shrimp season in 2008.
20. No pates or terrines, ever again.
21. To my friends, gallons of corn and crab bisque, to my enemies— fruitcake, mincemeat pies, and potted meat.
22. I still wish multiple messes of greens for everyone, be they turnip, mustard, or collard.
23. May your chocolate cake be moist and your banana pudding be close at hand.
24. No aspic or congealed salads.
25. I hope to eat home-cooked fried chicken at least once-a-week in 2008.
26. I hope that when I am eating my once-a-week fried chicken, it is accompanied by English peas in a nest of homemade mashed potatoes.
27. Don’t forget the biscuits.
28. It is my New Year’s wish that all “gourmets” and “foodies” drop the pretention and begin to see the beauty and perfection in an expertly made chicken pot pie (friends and family please see wish # 4).
29. I still wish someone would bring back the Marathon candy bar.
30. May you eat boatloads of jumbo lump crabmeat and never once find a shell.
31. I hope that the drought in Georgia doesn’t affect this year’s peach crop.
32. If it does, I hope Chilton County, Alabama has a record-breaking peach year.
33. I still hope that short-order food counters and drugstore soda fountains make a comeback.
34. I wish a minimum of 12 fried oyster po-boys for everyone in 2008 (and plenty of hot sauce on all of them).
35. I hope customers will solidly support the independent restaurants and culinary entrepreneurs in their communities.
36. I hope that every local soup kitchen sees their contribution levels increase by a minimum of 25% in 2008.
37. I wish more non-restaurant businesses would be as focused on customer service as those in the restaurant industry.
38. I hope that everyone eats well, whether at home or in a restaurant, and goes back for seconds, thirds even. Remember— doggie bags are for quitters.
39. Warning: Shameless Plug Alert— I hope that everyone who purchased my Southern Seasons cookbook will purchase my new cookbook New South Grilling, in stores this April.
40. I hope everyone gets plenty of the Five F’s in 2008: faith, family, friends, food and fun.
41. I hope we all do everything we can to see that no one in this country ever goes hungry.
Chicken Pot Pie
1 /2cup Butter
1 /2 cup Flour
1 /2 cup Carrots, diced
1 /2 cup Onion, diced
1 /2 cup Celery, diced
1 /2 cup Butter beans, cooked
1 /4 tsp Thyme, ground
2 tsp. Salt
1 1 /2 tsp Black pepper
2 1 /2 cups Chicken broth, hot
1 1 /2 cup Chicken, cooked, diced
2 Pie crusts
Preheat oven to 325 degrees.
Heat butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Add flour to make a blonde roux. Cook four to five minutes. Reduce heat to low. Add vegetables and continue to cook five to seven minutes. Add thyme, salt and pepper. Slowly stir in hot chicken broth. Simmer 10 minutes stirring often to prevent sticking.
Add diced chicken and remove from the heat. Allow filling to cool in the refrigerator for 30 minutes.
Roll out the piecrusts. Place one on the bottom of a 9-inch pie pan. Fill with the chicken mixture. Top with the remaining piecrust and crimp edges to seal. Using a paring knife cut six slits into the crust so the pie can vent. Brush with egg wash.
Bake one hour. Allow to rest 15 minutes before cutting and serving. Yield: 8 servings
In keeping with my annual tradition of not committing to anything that might make me change my eating habits, once again, I will not make New Year’s resolutions. Instead, I submit my annual list of culinary hopes and wishes for 2008. Some old, some new, all heartfelt:
1. I hope to finally be able to recreate my grandmother’s leg of lamb.
2. I hope to eat a minimum of one around-the-dinner-table, home-cooked, family meal each day with my wife and two children.
3. I wish more restaurants would serve fresh, hand-cut French fries.
4. I hope that sometime during the year, someone will deliver a homemade chicken pot pie to my house (this actually worked two years ago… I’m keeping my fingers crossed this time).
5. I hope that someone finds a health benefit in eating freshly baked croissants and bagels every morning.
6. I wish that I could still eat donuts and not feel badly afterwards.
7. No head cheese.
8. I hope that every father will take his daughter out to eat in a fine-dining restaurant at least once in the coming year.
9. I wish more restaurants would focus on preparing unusual and flavorful salads.
10. And when they do, I hope that they don’t drown the salads in too much dressing.
11. I wish more barbeque restaurants would smoke their meats in real wood-burning pits instead of using propane.
12. I hope everyone gets to attend at least one covered-dish supper in 2008.
13. I wish positive cash flows on all restaurateurs.
14. I wish multiple bushels of sweet corn for everyone.
15. Two words… Black Grouper.
16. One word: Ceviche.
17. Four words: Second helpings of each.
18. I wish restaurants would place more focus on service and less on atmosphere.
19. I hope Mississippi has a record-breaking shrimp season in 2008.
20. No pates or terrines, ever again.
21. To my friends, gallons of corn and crab bisque, to my enemies— fruitcake, mincemeat pies, and potted meat.
22. I still wish multiple messes of greens for everyone, be they turnip, mustard, or collard.
23. May your chocolate cake be moist and your banana pudding be close at hand.
24. No aspic or congealed salads.
25. I hope to eat home-cooked fried chicken at least once-a-week in 2008.
26. I hope that when I am eating my once-a-week fried chicken, it is accompanied by English peas in a nest of homemade mashed potatoes.
27. Don’t forget the biscuits.
28. It is my New Year’s wish that all “gourmets” and “foodies” drop the pretention and begin to see the beauty and perfection in an expertly made chicken pot pie (friends and family please see wish # 4).
29. I still wish someone would bring back the Marathon candy bar.
30. May you eat boatloads of jumbo lump crabmeat and never once find a shell.
31. I hope that the drought in Georgia doesn’t affect this year’s peach crop.
32. If it does, I hope Chilton County, Alabama has a record-breaking peach year.
33. I still hope that short-order food counters and drugstore soda fountains make a comeback.
34. I wish a minimum of 12 fried oyster po-boys for everyone in 2008 (and plenty of hot sauce on all of them).
35. I hope customers will solidly support the independent restaurants and culinary entrepreneurs in their communities.
36. I hope that every local soup kitchen sees their contribution levels increase by a minimum of 25% in 2008.
37. I wish more non-restaurant businesses would be as focused on customer service as those in the restaurant industry.
38. I hope that everyone eats well, whether at home or in a restaurant, and goes back for seconds, thirds even. Remember— doggie bags are for quitters.
39. Warning: Shameless Plug Alert— I hope that everyone who purchased my Southern Seasons cookbook will purchase my new cookbook New South Grilling, in stores this April.
40. I hope everyone gets plenty of the Five F’s in 2008: faith, family, friends, food and fun.
41. I hope we all do everything we can to see that no one in this country ever goes hungry.
Chicken Pot Pie
1 /2cup Butter
1 /2 cup Flour
1 /2 cup Carrots, diced
1 /2 cup Onion, diced
1 /2 cup Celery, diced
1 /2 cup Butter beans, cooked
1 /4 tsp Thyme, ground
2 tsp. Salt
1 1 /2 tsp Black pepper
2 1 /2 cups Chicken broth, hot
1 1 /2 cup Chicken, cooked, diced
2 Pie crusts
Preheat oven to 325 degrees.
Heat butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Add flour to make a blonde roux. Cook four to five minutes. Reduce heat to low. Add vegetables and continue to cook five to seven minutes. Add thyme, salt and pepper. Slowly stir in hot chicken broth. Simmer 10 minutes stirring often to prevent sticking.
Add diced chicken and remove from the heat. Allow filling to cool in the refrigerator for 30 minutes.
Roll out the piecrusts. Place one on the bottom of a 9-inch pie pan. Fill with the chicken mixture. Top with the remaining piecrust and crimp edges to seal. Using a paring knife cut six slits into the crust so the pie can vent. Brush with egg wash.
Bake one hour. Allow to rest 15 minutes before cutting and serving. Yield: 8 servings
Monday, December 17, 2007
Christmas Morning Excitement
Christmas morning excitement is an emotion unmatched by any other.
Adult excitement pales in comparison to the holiday-exhilaration recipe of two-parts anticipation, mixed with one part delight, a dab of enchantment, and a pinch of joy that is experienced every Christmas Eve until our pre-teen years sweep the thrills away.
The excitement reaches its fever pitch just before sleep. Lying in bed— blankets and sheets pulled to the chin— listening to every bump and creak in the attic and on the roof. Occasionally daring to get out of the bed to run across the room and peek through the curtains to see if reindeer might have landed in the front yard.
I miss that thrill. Granted, it is a materialistic feeling at its core, and pales in comparison to the adult excitement of babies being born and offspring accomplishments, but it is a memory that is too strong to be denied. It is a singular emotion that is unlike any other we experience for the rest of our lives.
The anticipation begins at dusk on Christmas Eve. Children realize that the greatest kid-day of the year has almost arrived. It’s the day they have been waiting for since December 26th of the previous year. It’s the one day that is unlike any other— the day when children all over the world wake up and open gifts that have magically appeared from nowhere. It happens on only one morning and it is the crux of kiddom.
As Christmas Eve night progresses, kids realize that they are only hours away from waking up to the frenzy of flying wrapping paper, shiny toys, and colorful presents. Excitement mixes with exhaustion and anticipation— it’s almost time.
What a great concept. Waking up to stuff. New stuff. Stuff you have been dreaming about for months. Everyone is happy. What a great feeling.
Remember that Christmas morning feeling this holiday season. Remember the excitement and the elation. Let’s do what we can to revive that feeling in ourselves and in our neighbors throughout the year. Most of all let’s pass it on.
Some children won’t wake up to flying paper and shiny toys. For them, it’s not about colorful presents and new stuff. It’s about survival and getting by on a daily basis.
This holiday season make sure that the joy you experienced happens for everyone.
The man who learns how to put Christmas morning excitement into pill form will be a rich man, indeed. Meanwhile, many of us have the power to make it happen for the under-resourced children in our communities. This Christmas Eve, let’s pull the sheets to our chin knowing that we did everything we could to create Christmas-morning memories and excitement for everyone.
Cookies for Santa
1 stick Butter
1/ 3 cup Light brown sugar
1 tsp. Vanilla
1/ 8 tsp. Salt
1 1 /4 cups Flour
1 /2 cup Pecans, finely chopped
Preheat oven to 325 degrees.
Using an electric mixer, cream the butter and sugar on slowest speed until light and fluffy. Add the vanilla and salt. Add flour making sure not to over mix. Fold in pecans by hand. Form dough into 1 1 /2 inch diameter balls and place on baking sheet lined with parchment paper. Using the palm of your hand, flatten the dough until it is about 1 /4 inch thick. Bake 15-18 minutes, just until cookies begin to brown. Yield: 16-20 cookies
Christmas morning excitement is an emotion unmatched by any other.
Adult excitement pales in comparison to the holiday-exhilaration recipe of two-parts anticipation, mixed with one part delight, a dab of enchantment, and a pinch of joy that is experienced every Christmas Eve until our pre-teen years sweep the thrills away.
The excitement reaches its fever pitch just before sleep. Lying in bed— blankets and sheets pulled to the chin— listening to every bump and creak in the attic and on the roof. Occasionally daring to get out of the bed to run across the room and peek through the curtains to see if reindeer might have landed in the front yard.
I miss that thrill. Granted, it is a materialistic feeling at its core, and pales in comparison to the adult excitement of babies being born and offspring accomplishments, but it is a memory that is too strong to be denied. It is a singular emotion that is unlike any other we experience for the rest of our lives.
The anticipation begins at dusk on Christmas Eve. Children realize that the greatest kid-day of the year has almost arrived. It’s the day they have been waiting for since December 26th of the previous year. It’s the one day that is unlike any other— the day when children all over the world wake up and open gifts that have magically appeared from nowhere. It happens on only one morning and it is the crux of kiddom.
As Christmas Eve night progresses, kids realize that they are only hours away from waking up to the frenzy of flying wrapping paper, shiny toys, and colorful presents. Excitement mixes with exhaustion and anticipation— it’s almost time.
What a great concept. Waking up to stuff. New stuff. Stuff you have been dreaming about for months. Everyone is happy. What a great feeling.
Remember that Christmas morning feeling this holiday season. Remember the excitement and the elation. Let’s do what we can to revive that feeling in ourselves and in our neighbors throughout the year. Most of all let’s pass it on.
Some children won’t wake up to flying paper and shiny toys. For them, it’s not about colorful presents and new stuff. It’s about survival and getting by on a daily basis.
This holiday season make sure that the joy you experienced happens for everyone.
The man who learns how to put Christmas morning excitement into pill form will be a rich man, indeed. Meanwhile, many of us have the power to make it happen for the under-resourced children in our communities. This Christmas Eve, let’s pull the sheets to our chin knowing that we did everything we could to create Christmas-morning memories and excitement for everyone.
Cookies for Santa
1 stick Butter
1/ 3 cup Light brown sugar
1 tsp. Vanilla
1/ 8 tsp. Salt
1 1 /4 cups Flour
1 /2 cup Pecans, finely chopped
Preheat oven to 325 degrees.
Using an electric mixer, cream the butter and sugar on slowest speed until light and fluffy. Add the vanilla and salt. Add flour making sure not to over mix. Fold in pecans by hand. Form dough into 1 1 /2 inch diameter balls and place on baking sheet lined with parchment paper. Using the palm of your hand, flatten the dough until it is about 1 /4 inch thick. Bake 15-18 minutes, just until cookies begin to brown. Yield: 16-20 cookies
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
A Fruitful Day Off
For 46 years I have been blessed with excess energy.
I seem to have been born with enough vitality and drive for two people. Though lately, I have been feeling my age.
Sunday I experienced my first “true” day off in six weeks. I planned to stay in bed most of the afternoon and treat myself to a full day of football for the first time since September.
My wife had to take my son to a birthday party and my daughter needed to stay home to work on a school project. Around 1:30 p.m. my daughter came into my bedroom wanting to know what we were having for lunch. I asked her what she would like, and she couldn’t decide.
As an offhand remark, I said, “Why don’t you go into the kitchen and make us a sandwich,” and turned my attention back to the football game.
When on tour or giving a speech, the most frequent question I am asked is, “Who does the cooking in your home?”
The answer is always the same, “My wife cooks for the family, and I cook for company.” It’s not written in stone. The roles reverse on occasion. If my wife decides to sleep late, I am happy to make a “Daddy Breakfast” for the children, or if she’s putting on makeup before the movie, I don’t mind throwing together a chicken casserole and salad. She, too, makes great lasagna, spaghetti, and pasta shells for company.
For the most part, we stick to our roles. Mom cooks for the family. Dad cooks for company and away from home. The children just eat.
Before long my 10-year old daughter came walking into the bedroom holding a tray. She was beaming. I know all of her expressions. This was one that I hadn’t seen before. It was an ear-to-ear smile filled with satisfaction and achievement.
On the tray was a triple-decker peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Fritos, and a glass of milk.
I have eaten thousands of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in my life. In my first six years on the planet, they were almost all I ate, exclusively. I have eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwiches prepared by my mother, by both of my grandmothers, by my babysitters, by my wife, by friends, and by my own hands. I have taken them to school in lunchboxes. I have eaten them at church and on picnics, I have eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in my formal dining room and I have eaten them in sparsely decorated bachelor apartments. I can truly say that I have never eaten one that I have enjoyed as much as the one prepared and served by my daughter at 1:47 p.m. on December 9, 2007.
An hour later, she came back in the room with a plate of freshly baked oatmeal cookies and another glass of milk.
“Thank you, precious.”
“You’re welcome, daddy.”
The cynical reader might say, “What’s the big deal? It was a sandwich and a plate of Fritos.” That is correct, but it was so much more.
It was a small act of independence born in original thought. The look on her face signaled a sort of self-sufficient culinary rite of passage. She has now reached an age where she can go into the kitchen and prepare food, and she is happy about it.
In the last 20 years, I have eaten at some of this country’s finest restaurants. I don’t know if any of those meals can match the sheer joy I experienced having a Sunday afternoon lunch in bed, prepared by my daughter.
The smile on my daughter’s face was one that I will never forget. It was a look of delight, independence, and accomplishment all at once, and one that could only be surpassed— at that moment— by the look of pride on the face of her father.
Now when I am asked, “Who does the cooking in your home?” I will have to change my answer. My wife cooks for the family. I cook for company, and my daughter cooks for special occasions.
Miniature Smoked Tenderloin Sandwiches with Three Spreads
2 Tbl Bacon Grease, melted
1 Tbl Steak Seasoning
1/2 tsp Black Pepper, freshly ground
2 pound Beef Tenderloin, trimmed and cleaned
24 dinner rolls, varied styles and flavors, cut in half crosswise
5-6 cups wood chips
Soak the wood chips for 2-3 hours and drain well. Prepare grill or smoker to cook at 275 degrees.
Rub the tenderloin with the melted bacon grease and sprinkle with steak seasoning.
Cook the tenderloin for 45-50 minutes, to an internal temperature of 130 degrees. Add more chips as needed to keep the smoke flowing.
Remove from heat and let tenderloin cool completely.
Horseradish Spread
1/4 cup Sour Cream
1/2 cup Mayonnaise
1/4 tsp Black Pepper, freshly ground
3 Tbl Prepared Horseradish
2 Tbl Red Onion, minced
1/4 tsp Garlic, minced
1 Tbl Chives, chopped
1 Tbl Parsley, chopped
1/2 tsp Salt
Combine all ingredients in a mixing bowl and store covered and refrigerated until ready to serve.
Chutney Mayo
1 Tbl Olive Oil
2 Tbl Yellow Onion, minced
1/4 tsp Salt
2 tsp Garlic, minced
1/2 tsp Curry Powder
2 Tbl Sherry
3/4 cup Mango Chutney
3/4 cup Mayonnaise
In a small sauté pan, heat olive oil over low heat. Place onion, garlic, salt and curry powder in the hot oil and cook one minute. Add the sherry and reduce. Remove from heat and cool completely. Once the cooked mixture is cooled, combine it with the remaining ingredients. Store covered and refrigerated until ready to serve.
Honey-Spiked Creole Mustard
1/2 cup Creole Mustard
1 Tbl Yellow Mustard
2 Tbl Sour Cream
1 Tbl Mayonnaise
1/4 cup Honey
1 tsp Prepared Horseradish
2 tsp Parsely, chopped
1 tsp Fresh Thyme Leaves, chopped
1/8 tsp Cayenne Pepper
1/2 tsp Lemon Juice
1/4 tsp Salt
Using a wire whisk, combine all ingredients. Store covered and refrigerated until ready to serve.
Slice 1/8-inch thin slices of the beef tenderloin and arrange on a serving tray. Serve the cut rolls and three sauces on the side and allow guests to build their own sandwich.
All of the sauces may be made three to four days in advance, and stored in the refrigerator until needed.
For 46 years I have been blessed with excess energy.
I seem to have been born with enough vitality and drive for two people. Though lately, I have been feeling my age.
Sunday I experienced my first “true” day off in six weeks. I planned to stay in bed most of the afternoon and treat myself to a full day of football for the first time since September.
My wife had to take my son to a birthday party and my daughter needed to stay home to work on a school project. Around 1:30 p.m. my daughter came into my bedroom wanting to know what we were having for lunch. I asked her what she would like, and she couldn’t decide.
As an offhand remark, I said, “Why don’t you go into the kitchen and make us a sandwich,” and turned my attention back to the football game.
When on tour or giving a speech, the most frequent question I am asked is, “Who does the cooking in your home?”
The answer is always the same, “My wife cooks for the family, and I cook for company.” It’s not written in stone. The roles reverse on occasion. If my wife decides to sleep late, I am happy to make a “Daddy Breakfast” for the children, or if she’s putting on makeup before the movie, I don’t mind throwing together a chicken casserole and salad. She, too, makes great lasagna, spaghetti, and pasta shells for company.
For the most part, we stick to our roles. Mom cooks for the family. Dad cooks for company and away from home. The children just eat.
Before long my 10-year old daughter came walking into the bedroom holding a tray. She was beaming. I know all of her expressions. This was one that I hadn’t seen before. It was an ear-to-ear smile filled with satisfaction and achievement.
On the tray was a triple-decker peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Fritos, and a glass of milk.
I have eaten thousands of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in my life. In my first six years on the planet, they were almost all I ate, exclusively. I have eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwiches prepared by my mother, by both of my grandmothers, by my babysitters, by my wife, by friends, and by my own hands. I have taken them to school in lunchboxes. I have eaten them at church and on picnics, I have eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in my formal dining room and I have eaten them in sparsely decorated bachelor apartments. I can truly say that I have never eaten one that I have enjoyed as much as the one prepared and served by my daughter at 1:47 p.m. on December 9, 2007.
An hour later, she came back in the room with a plate of freshly baked oatmeal cookies and another glass of milk.
“Thank you, precious.”
“You’re welcome, daddy.”
The cynical reader might say, “What’s the big deal? It was a sandwich and a plate of Fritos.” That is correct, but it was so much more.
It was a small act of independence born in original thought. The look on her face signaled a sort of self-sufficient culinary rite of passage. She has now reached an age where she can go into the kitchen and prepare food, and she is happy about it.
In the last 20 years, I have eaten at some of this country’s finest restaurants. I don’t know if any of those meals can match the sheer joy I experienced having a Sunday afternoon lunch in bed, prepared by my daughter.
The smile on my daughter’s face was one that I will never forget. It was a look of delight, independence, and accomplishment all at once, and one that could only be surpassed— at that moment— by the look of pride on the face of her father.
Now when I am asked, “Who does the cooking in your home?” I will have to change my answer. My wife cooks for the family. I cook for company, and my daughter cooks for special occasions.
Miniature Smoked Tenderloin Sandwiches with Three Spreads
2 Tbl Bacon Grease, melted
1 Tbl Steak Seasoning
1/2 tsp Black Pepper, freshly ground
2 pound Beef Tenderloin, trimmed and cleaned
24 dinner rolls, varied styles and flavors, cut in half crosswise
5-6 cups wood chips
Soak the wood chips for 2-3 hours and drain well. Prepare grill or smoker to cook at 275 degrees.
Rub the tenderloin with the melted bacon grease and sprinkle with steak seasoning.
Cook the tenderloin for 45-50 minutes, to an internal temperature of 130 degrees. Add more chips as needed to keep the smoke flowing.
Remove from heat and let tenderloin cool completely.
Horseradish Spread
1/4 cup Sour Cream
1/2 cup Mayonnaise
1/4 tsp Black Pepper, freshly ground
3 Tbl Prepared Horseradish
2 Tbl Red Onion, minced
1/4 tsp Garlic, minced
1 Tbl Chives, chopped
1 Tbl Parsley, chopped
1/2 tsp Salt
Combine all ingredients in a mixing bowl and store covered and refrigerated until ready to serve.
Chutney Mayo
1 Tbl Olive Oil
2 Tbl Yellow Onion, minced
1/4 tsp Salt
2 tsp Garlic, minced
1/2 tsp Curry Powder
2 Tbl Sherry
3/4 cup Mango Chutney
3/4 cup Mayonnaise
In a small sauté pan, heat olive oil over low heat. Place onion, garlic, salt and curry powder in the hot oil and cook one minute. Add the sherry and reduce. Remove from heat and cool completely. Once the cooked mixture is cooled, combine it with the remaining ingredients. Store covered and refrigerated until ready to serve.
Honey-Spiked Creole Mustard
1/2 cup Creole Mustard
1 Tbl Yellow Mustard
2 Tbl Sour Cream
1 Tbl Mayonnaise
1/4 cup Honey
1 tsp Prepared Horseradish
2 tsp Parsely, chopped
1 tsp Fresh Thyme Leaves, chopped
1/8 tsp Cayenne Pepper
1/2 tsp Lemon Juice
1/4 tsp Salt
Using a wire whisk, combine all ingredients. Store covered and refrigerated until ready to serve.
Slice 1/8-inch thin slices of the beef tenderloin and arrange on a serving tray. Serve the cut rolls and three sauces on the side and allow guests to build their own sandwich.
All of the sauces may be made three to four days in advance, and stored in the refrigerator until needed.
Monday, December 03, 2007
The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow
At a book signing on the Mississippi Gulf Coast last week, I was hit with a blinding jolt of reality.
I have been a victim of out-of-sight out-of-mind Katrina apathy. My hometown of Hattiesburg was hit hard. Yet we bounced back quickly.
At Pass Christian Books— a small, independent bookstore which used to overlook the Gulf of Mexico— business is not the same. As with most beachfront structures in Pass Christian— and all along the Gulf front in the post-Katrina world— only a slab of concrete remains.
Pass Christian Books has moved five miles north of the beach to Delisle, Miss. until the city’s infrastructure is restored.
I am a huge fan of the old-line seafood restaurants of the Mississippi Gulf Coast. I have fond memories of eating at Baricev’s, The Friendship House, McElroy’s, and the like. I have always encouraged support of the independent restaurants of the Coast.
One restaurant that I must have passed a thousand times, but never once visited was Annie’s at Henderson Point. As with most of the independent restaurants within a few blocks of the Gulf, Annie’s was a casualty of Katrina. They, too, moved to Delisle after the storm.
As Wyatt Waters and I signed books we ordered a cup of gumbo from the newly relocated Annie’s (now Café Annie located next door to the bookstore). The gumbo was rich, the roux was dark, and it had the distinct taste of a well-made crab stock in the foreground.
As I finished my gumbo, I felt an overwhelming pang of guilt for not visiting Annie’s in its original location.
Annie’s restaurant opened on Henderson Point in 1928. The family-run operation withstood three hurricanes, two fires, and everything that Mother Nature could throw at it until Katrina blew through the Coast in 2005.
Annie Lutz— who recently celebrated her 89th birthday—has been working in the restaurant since she was a little girl and still mans the cash register out front. Her niece, Jackie Jex, says that Annie’s been there “Since she was able to reach the counter.”
Annie lived her entire life in an apartment attached to the restaurant. It’s gone, too.
In addition to excellent seafood gumbo, Café Annie serves a full array of old-line Coast favorites such as Trout Amandine, broiled fish, and Italian-inspired seafood dishes which have been the mainstay of independent Gulf Coast restaurants for over a century. As Jex gave me an oral history of the restaurant while pointing to photographs on the walls, I lamented the fact that I would never again know the restaurant in its original state.
The day before the Coast book signing, I was at a book event in New Orleans. During a conversation with a New Orleans customer, Hurricane Katrina came up. As the conversation moved to national attention and national media coverage of the event in the months following the storm, the New Orleans woman apologized to me for all of the coverage that they received and offered an, “I’m sorry” saying Mississippians hadn’t received enough of the attention.
I told her that everything is O.K. We never wanted a lot of attention. We took care of ourselves, we took care of our neighbors, and our governor took care of the rest.
To a person, everyone who bought books at the Pass Christian book signing had lost all of their cookbooks— and their homes along with them— to the storm. No one complained. No one seemed resentful. They had gotten on with their daily lives and to the business of rebuilding the Coast. “It’s only stuff,” one woman commented.
It’s people like Scott Naugle at Pass Christian Books, Annie Lutz at Café Annie, and the customers of those, and many other, businesses who have rolled up their sleeves and are back fighting the good fight— the daily fight, the hard fight— and doing business in what remains of a storm-ravaged community.
At Café Annie, 80 years of Gulf Coast restaurant history have been reduced to a small wall of black and white 8 x 10 photographs. There are hundreds of businesses with similar stories all along the Gulf. Let’s throw apathy to the wind and keep them in sight, and in mind, during the holiday shopping season, and throughout the coming years.
Shrimp and Okra Gumbo
1 /2 cup Canola oil
3 /4 cup Flour
2 Tbl File powder
1 cup Onion, diced
1 /2 cup Celery, diced
1 /2 cup Bell pepper, diced
1 1 /2 cups Fresh okra, sliced
2 Tbl Garlic, minced
1 1 /2 lbs Shrimp, small
2 tsp Salt
1 1 /2 tsp Black pepper
2 tsp Creole Seasoning
1 tsp Thyme, dry
1 cup Tomatoes, diced, canned or fresh
2 quarts Shrimp stock
1 Tbl Hot Sauce
1 /4 tsp Cayenne pepper
2 cups cooked white rice
In a large skillet, combine oil, flour and file powder to form a roux. Cook over medium heat, stirring often until roux is very dark (be careful not to burn). Add
vegetables, garlic, spices and shrimp and continue to cook for five to seven minutes, stirring constantly to prevent burning. Meanwhile, bring shrimp stock and tomatoes to a boil. Slowly add roux mixture to boiling stock and mix well. Lower heat to a slow simmer, and cook 10 more minutes. Add hot sauce and cayenne pepper.
To serve, place 2-3 tablespoons of rice in a bowl then pour the hot gumbo over the rice.
Yield: 1 gallon
At a book signing on the Mississippi Gulf Coast last week, I was hit with a blinding jolt of reality.
I have been a victim of out-of-sight out-of-mind Katrina apathy. My hometown of Hattiesburg was hit hard. Yet we bounced back quickly.
At Pass Christian Books— a small, independent bookstore which used to overlook the Gulf of Mexico— business is not the same. As with most beachfront structures in Pass Christian— and all along the Gulf front in the post-Katrina world— only a slab of concrete remains.
Pass Christian Books has moved five miles north of the beach to Delisle, Miss. until the city’s infrastructure is restored.
I am a huge fan of the old-line seafood restaurants of the Mississippi Gulf Coast. I have fond memories of eating at Baricev’s, The Friendship House, McElroy’s, and the like. I have always encouraged support of the independent restaurants of the Coast.
One restaurant that I must have passed a thousand times, but never once visited was Annie’s at Henderson Point. As with most of the independent restaurants within a few blocks of the Gulf, Annie’s was a casualty of Katrina. They, too, moved to Delisle after the storm.
As Wyatt Waters and I signed books we ordered a cup of gumbo from the newly relocated Annie’s (now Café Annie located next door to the bookstore). The gumbo was rich, the roux was dark, and it had the distinct taste of a well-made crab stock in the foreground.
As I finished my gumbo, I felt an overwhelming pang of guilt for not visiting Annie’s in its original location.
Annie’s restaurant opened on Henderson Point in 1928. The family-run operation withstood three hurricanes, two fires, and everything that Mother Nature could throw at it until Katrina blew through the Coast in 2005.
Annie Lutz— who recently celebrated her 89th birthday—has been working in the restaurant since she was a little girl and still mans the cash register out front. Her niece, Jackie Jex, says that Annie’s been there “Since she was able to reach the counter.”
Annie lived her entire life in an apartment attached to the restaurant. It’s gone, too.
In addition to excellent seafood gumbo, Café Annie serves a full array of old-line Coast favorites such as Trout Amandine, broiled fish, and Italian-inspired seafood dishes which have been the mainstay of independent Gulf Coast restaurants for over a century. As Jex gave me an oral history of the restaurant while pointing to photographs on the walls, I lamented the fact that I would never again know the restaurant in its original state.
The day before the Coast book signing, I was at a book event in New Orleans. During a conversation with a New Orleans customer, Hurricane Katrina came up. As the conversation moved to national attention and national media coverage of the event in the months following the storm, the New Orleans woman apologized to me for all of the coverage that they received and offered an, “I’m sorry” saying Mississippians hadn’t received enough of the attention.
I told her that everything is O.K. We never wanted a lot of attention. We took care of ourselves, we took care of our neighbors, and our governor took care of the rest.
To a person, everyone who bought books at the Pass Christian book signing had lost all of their cookbooks— and their homes along with them— to the storm. No one complained. No one seemed resentful. They had gotten on with their daily lives and to the business of rebuilding the Coast. “It’s only stuff,” one woman commented.
It’s people like Scott Naugle at Pass Christian Books, Annie Lutz at Café Annie, and the customers of those, and many other, businesses who have rolled up their sleeves and are back fighting the good fight— the daily fight, the hard fight— and doing business in what remains of a storm-ravaged community.
At Café Annie, 80 years of Gulf Coast restaurant history have been reduced to a small wall of black and white 8 x 10 photographs. There are hundreds of businesses with similar stories all along the Gulf. Let’s throw apathy to the wind and keep them in sight, and in mind, during the holiday shopping season, and throughout the coming years.
Shrimp and Okra Gumbo
1 /2 cup Canola oil
3 /4 cup Flour
2 Tbl File powder
1 cup Onion, diced
1 /2 cup Celery, diced
1 /2 cup Bell pepper, diced
1 1 /2 cups Fresh okra, sliced
2 Tbl Garlic, minced
1 1 /2 lbs Shrimp, small
2 tsp Salt
1 1 /2 tsp Black pepper
2 tsp Creole Seasoning
1 tsp Thyme, dry
1 cup Tomatoes, diced, canned or fresh
2 quarts Shrimp stock
1 Tbl Hot Sauce
1 /4 tsp Cayenne pepper
2 cups cooked white rice
In a large skillet, combine oil, flour and file powder to form a roux. Cook over medium heat, stirring often until roux is very dark (be careful not to burn). Add
vegetables, garlic, spices and shrimp and continue to cook for five to seven minutes, stirring constantly to prevent burning. Meanwhile, bring shrimp stock and tomatoes to a boil. Slowly add roux mixture to boiling stock and mix well. Lower heat to a slow simmer, and cook 10 more minutes. Add hot sauce and cayenne pepper.
To serve, place 2-3 tablespoons of rice in a bowl then pour the hot gumbo over the rice.
Yield: 1 gallon
Bizarre Foods
Exactly one year ago today I was contacted by a producer of the Travel Channel television program “Bizarre Foods.” He said that they were going to be in the area and asked if I knew of anywhere in, or around, my hometown that served bizarre food.
I told him that my restaurants were out. The most bizarre thing they might find there is if someone orders the wrong wine to go with the Black Grouper with truffle and risotto.
I told them I knew of a place that served chitlins once a week, but the producer said that they already had “chitlins” covered.
I was suspicious at first, and after several phone calls I told the producer that I had spent a large portion of my writing career trying to bust all of the old-line Southern culinary stereotypes. I told him that we just don’t eat like they did on “The Beverly Hillbillies,” and I don’t want to be a part of any program that would perpetuate those stereotypes.
“No one around here eats raccoon or possum,” I said. “I can take you to Louisiana where they eat the swamp rat, nutria. Those people down there will eat anything.”
“No thanks, we’ve already got nutria covered.”
“But there’s no food around here that’s bizarre. I promise. We just don’t eat like that. However I do know a barbeque place in town called Leatha’s that is a true ‘rib joint’ all the way down to the beach towels for curtains on the windows. They don’t cook anything strange there, the ribs are world-class, but the atmosphere should make for great television.”
After several more phone calls from the producer. We decided that Leatha’s was the spot where my segment would be filmed. Bonnie and Carolyn, two of Leatha’s daughters, would open the restaurant on Sunday afternoon (a day that they were normally closed) and serve ribs and pulled pork.
At the time, the show wasn’t on the air yet. I made the producers send both of the pilot episodes to make sure that the show was going to be reverential to my friends at the barbeque joint and also paint Mississippi in the most positive light.
After viewing both episodes, I concluded that host, Andrew Zimmern— in addition to being able to put the most seemingly inedible food items in his mouth and eat them— was a very talented chef and was extremely deferential to the eating habits and culture of peoples all over the world.
“I’ll do it,” I said on a follow-up phone call with the producer. “But on the pilot episodes, Andrew was eating grubs, and worms, and smelly plants. You’re not going to find anything bizarre down here. Again, we just don’t eat like that.”
“Actually,” the producer said, “Bonnie is going to cook coon and possum for us. I thought you said that people don’t eat that stuff down there.”
“We don’t,” I stammered.
“The girls at Leatha’s beg to differ.”
“Listen,” I said. “Those ladies are friends of mine. I am not going to be a part of any program that would make fun of anyone in this area who eats coon or possum. Y’all better not ‘Borat’ us.” The producer assured me that the episode would treat the Southern backwoods culinary oddities with the respect that they had shown in other foreign cultures, and I assured them that I would be on camera, but in no way could I eat coon or possum.
I wasn’t taking a stand on principle, or making a statement that I wouldn’t perpetuate regional culinary stereotypes. I have a weak stomach. I didn’t want to get sick during the filming.
In the end, the producers and the host were polite and respectful. The show was one of their highest rated to date. Bonnie and Carolyn get comments all of the time about being on the Travel Channel. The only question I get is “Why did you look so green and nauseous?”
In light of last week’s Associated Press story about a woman being arrested for eating monkey meat in New York, I think the South’s culinary reputation is still in tact.
Exactly one year ago today I was contacted by a producer of the Travel Channel television program “Bizarre Foods.” He said that they were going to be in the area and asked if I knew of anywhere in, or around, my hometown that served bizarre food.
I told him that my restaurants were out. The most bizarre thing they might find there is if someone orders the wrong wine to go with the Black Grouper with truffle and risotto.
I told them I knew of a place that served chitlins once a week, but the producer said that they already had “chitlins” covered.
I was suspicious at first, and after several phone calls I told the producer that I had spent a large portion of my writing career trying to bust all of the old-line Southern culinary stereotypes. I told him that we just don’t eat like they did on “The Beverly Hillbillies,” and I don’t want to be a part of any program that would perpetuate those stereotypes.
“No one around here eats raccoon or possum,” I said. “I can take you to Louisiana where they eat the swamp rat, nutria. Those people down there will eat anything.”
“No thanks, we’ve already got nutria covered.”
“But there’s no food around here that’s bizarre. I promise. We just don’t eat like that. However I do know a barbeque place in town called Leatha’s that is a true ‘rib joint’ all the way down to the beach towels for curtains on the windows. They don’t cook anything strange there, the ribs are world-class, but the atmosphere should make for great television.”
After several more phone calls from the producer. We decided that Leatha’s was the spot where my segment would be filmed. Bonnie and Carolyn, two of Leatha’s daughters, would open the restaurant on Sunday afternoon (a day that they were normally closed) and serve ribs and pulled pork.
At the time, the show wasn’t on the air yet. I made the producers send both of the pilot episodes to make sure that the show was going to be reverential to my friends at the barbeque joint and also paint Mississippi in the most positive light.
After viewing both episodes, I concluded that host, Andrew Zimmern— in addition to being able to put the most seemingly inedible food items in his mouth and eat them— was a very talented chef and was extremely deferential to the eating habits and culture of peoples all over the world.
“I’ll do it,” I said on a follow-up phone call with the producer. “But on the pilot episodes, Andrew was eating grubs, and worms, and smelly plants. You’re not going to find anything bizarre down here. Again, we just don’t eat like that.”
“Actually,” the producer said, “Bonnie is going to cook coon and possum for us. I thought you said that people don’t eat that stuff down there.”
“We don’t,” I stammered.
“The girls at Leatha’s beg to differ.”
“Listen,” I said. “Those ladies are friends of mine. I am not going to be a part of any program that would make fun of anyone in this area who eats coon or possum. Y’all better not ‘Borat’ us.” The producer assured me that the episode would treat the Southern backwoods culinary oddities with the respect that they had shown in other foreign cultures, and I assured them that I would be on camera, but in no way could I eat coon or possum.
I wasn’t taking a stand on principle, or making a statement that I wouldn’t perpetuate regional culinary stereotypes. I have a weak stomach. I didn’t want to get sick during the filming.
In the end, the producers and the host were polite and respectful. The show was one of their highest rated to date. Bonnie and Carolyn get comments all of the time about being on the Travel Channel. The only question I get is “Why did you look so green and nauseous?”
In light of last week’s Associated Press story about a woman being arrested for eating monkey meat in New York, I think the South’s culinary reputation is still in tact.
Monday, November 12, 2007
The Morning Beverage Minority
I do not drink coffee.
I wish that I drank coffee. I would love to be referred to as a coffee drinker. “There goes Robert,” they would say. “He’s a coffee drinker.”
I think it would be cool to sit in a coffee shop and sip some type of mocha concoction and read the New York Times. On occasion I would order an exotic frappe-something-or-other. At Christmas I would order the Holiday Blend, at Valentine’s the White-Chocolate Blend, and on Millard Fillmore’s birthday, I would order the Millard Blend— a Fillmorchino.
Maybe I would order a “tall coffee” even though “tall” is the smallest size. In my mind’s eye, I see myself saying, “I would like a TALL mocha-frappe something.” And I look cool saying it.
“Grande” is a medium-sized coffee. Saying “grande” is not as hip as saying “tall.” It seems that a word such as “grande” should refer to the largest size available. Not so. “Venti” is the largest sized coffee available.
Venti sounds like a foreign car, not a beverage size. If I was a coffee drinker, and I drank a lot of coffee, I would not order a venti or a grande. I would order a tall and go back for refills, often.
On second thought, if I was a coffee drinker, I don’t think I would want my coffee to be mocha’ed or frappe’d or Millard’ed. I wouldn’t want any flavoring in my coffee. No caramel or vanilla or pumpkin— just coffee-flavored coffee.
If I were not in a coffee shop, I would order black coffee. There is something manly about ordering a “black coffee.” No sugar, no cream, no foamy stuff, just a cup of three-hours-old, sitting-on-the-hot-plate, hot-as-a-McDonald’s-lawsuit, sitting-next-to-the-microwave-at-the-convenience-store, pours-like-maple-syrup black coffee.
I want to be that guy— the black-coffee-drinking guy— the one who holds a small (or tall) non-eco friendly, un-biodegradable Styrofoam cup of bitter, burn-your-tongue-while-it-warms-your-buns black coffee.
I am not that guy. I drink Coke Zero. Coke Zero is not as manly as a cup of black coffee, though the can is black. I like that. I used to drink a lot of Diet Coke. The Diet Coke can is silver. Silver is not as manly as black.
I drink from a black can. I drink it cold. No cream, no sugar, just Coke Zero, black, straight out of the can. I am not hip or cool.
In our society, non-coffee drinkers are discriminated against. I am a member of the morning-beverage minority. It’s true. It’s brutal, and it’s not fair. The next time you attend a breakfast meeting, check out the beverage offerings— black coffee, decaffeinated coffee (both stored in very cool space-age designed air pots), and a pitcher of ice water. No soft drinks. Ever.
Try asking for a soft drink at the average morning business meeting and then watch the all-out scramble to find a beverage. After 20 frantic minutes, they’ll return to the table with a leftover Tab that has been sitting in the back of the break room fridge from the days when cigarettes were still being advertised on television.
Most coffee shops don’t even sell soft drinks. They offer crazy mango-papaya concoctions, and over-priced water, but no soft drinks. The baristas look down their noses at any poor slob who would not drink coffee.
Coffee servers even get cool names: Baristas. Who serves the members of the morning-beverage minority? Soda jerks.
I want to be a coffee drinker when I grow up. I want to sit in the coffee shop and drink a steaming tall cup of un-mocha’ed, non-frappe’d, black coffee. Until then, I’ll be a card-carrying member of the morning-beverage minority.
Purple Parrot Pumpkin Cheesecake
2 pounds cream cheese, room temperature
1 cup Brown sugar
Pinch salt
5 eggs
4 egg yolks
3 /4 cup Pumpkin Puree
2 tsp vanilla extract
2 tsp Pumpkin Spice
Preheat the oven to 275 degrees
Place softened cream cheese in large mixing bowl and beat using paddle attachment on medium speed until VERY smooth. Scrape sides and beat again to ensure there are no lumps.
Add brown sugar and mix well. Add in eggs and yolks a few at a time, allowing them to incorporate well before adding more.
Place the mixer on slow speed and add pumpkin puree, vanilla extract, and pumpkin spice. As soon as the pumpkin is incorporated, stop mixing
Pour the batter into a cheesecake crust (recipe listed below) and bake for 1-1 1 /2 hours. The cheesecake should jiggle slightly when tapped. Remove and let cool on a wire rack. Refrigerate overnight before serving.
To cut cheesecake, run a thin knife under hot water before cutting each slice.
Cheesecake Crust
1 1 /2 cups graham cracker crumbs
3 /4 cup melted butter
1 /2 cup sugar
Combine crumbs and sugar and mix by hand Add butter in stages, mixing well before each addition.
Evenly distribute the crust in a nine-inch spring form pan, pressing it firmly on the bottom of the pan, and building crust up two inches on the sides of the pan.
Pour in the cheesecake batter and bake for 1-1 1 /2 hours. The cheesecakes should jiggle slightly when tapped.
Remove and cool refrigerate overnight before serving.
To cut, run a thin knife under hot water before cutting each slice.
I do not drink coffee.
I wish that I drank coffee. I would love to be referred to as a coffee drinker. “There goes Robert,” they would say. “He’s a coffee drinker.”
I think it would be cool to sit in a coffee shop and sip some type of mocha concoction and read the New York Times. On occasion I would order an exotic frappe-something-or-other. At Christmas I would order the Holiday Blend, at Valentine’s the White-Chocolate Blend, and on Millard Fillmore’s birthday, I would order the Millard Blend— a Fillmorchino.Maybe I would order a “tall coffee” even though “tall” is the smallest size. In my mind’s eye, I see myself saying, “I would like a TALL mocha-frappe something.” And I look cool saying it.
“Grande” is a medium-sized coffee. Saying “grande” is not as hip as saying “tall.” It seems that a word such as “grande” should refer to the largest size available. Not so. “Venti” is the largest sized coffee available.
Venti sounds like a foreign car, not a beverage size. If I was a coffee drinker, and I drank a lot of coffee, I would not order a venti or a grande. I would order a tall and go back for refills, often.
On second thought, if I was a coffee drinker, I don’t think I would want my coffee to be mocha’ed or frappe’d or Millard’ed. I wouldn’t want any flavoring in my coffee. No caramel or vanilla or pumpkin— just coffee-flavored coffee.
If I were not in a coffee shop, I would order black coffee. There is something manly about ordering a “black coffee.” No sugar, no cream, no foamy stuff, just a cup of three-hours-old, sitting-on-the-hot-plate, hot-as-a-McDonald’s-lawsuit, sitting-next-to-the-microwave-at-the-convenience-store, pours-like-maple-syrup black coffee.
I want to be that guy— the black-coffee-drinking guy— the one who holds a small (or tall) non-eco friendly, un-biodegradable Styrofoam cup of bitter, burn-your-tongue-while-it-warms-your-buns black coffee.
I am not that guy. I drink Coke Zero. Coke Zero is not as manly as a cup of black coffee, though the can is black. I like that. I used to drink a lot of Diet Coke. The Diet Coke can is silver. Silver is not as manly as black.I drink from a black can. I drink it cold. No cream, no sugar, just Coke Zero, black, straight out of the can. I am not hip or cool.
In our society, non-coffee drinkers are discriminated against. I am a member of the morning-beverage minority. It’s true. It’s brutal, and it’s not fair. The next time you attend a breakfast meeting, check out the beverage offerings— black coffee, decaffeinated coffee (both stored in very cool space-age designed air pots), and a pitcher of ice water. No soft drinks. Ever.
Try asking for a soft drink at the average morning business meeting and then watch the all-out scramble to find a beverage. After 20 frantic minutes, they’ll return to the table with a leftover Tab that has been sitting in the back of the break room fridge from the days when cigarettes were still being advertised on television.Most coffee shops don’t even sell soft drinks. They offer crazy mango-papaya concoctions, and over-priced water, but no soft drinks. The baristas look down their noses at any poor slob who would not drink coffee.
Coffee servers even get cool names: Baristas. Who serves the members of the morning-beverage minority? Soda jerks.
I want to be a coffee drinker when I grow up. I want to sit in the coffee shop and drink a steaming tall cup of un-mocha’ed, non-frappe’d, black coffee. Until then, I’ll be a card-carrying member of the morning-beverage minority.
Purple Parrot Pumpkin Cheesecake
2 pounds cream cheese, room temperature
1 cup Brown sugar
Pinch salt
5 eggs
4 egg yolks
3 /4 cup Pumpkin Puree
2 tsp vanilla extract
2 tsp Pumpkin Spice
Preheat the oven to 275 degrees
Place softened cream cheese in large mixing bowl and beat using paddle attachment on medium speed until VERY smooth. Scrape sides and beat again to ensure there are no lumps.
Add brown sugar and mix well. Add in eggs and yolks a few at a time, allowing them to incorporate well before adding more.
Place the mixer on slow speed and add pumpkin puree, vanilla extract, and pumpkin spice. As soon as the pumpkin is incorporated, stop mixing
Pour the batter into a cheesecake crust (recipe listed below) and bake for 1-1 1 /2 hours. The cheesecake should jiggle slightly when tapped. Remove and let cool on a wire rack. Refrigerate overnight before serving.
To cut cheesecake, run a thin knife under hot water before cutting each slice.
Cheesecake Crust
1 1 /2 cups graham cracker crumbs
3 /4 cup melted butter
1 /2 cup sugar
Combine crumbs and sugar and mix by hand Add butter in stages, mixing well before each addition.
Evenly distribute the crust in a nine-inch spring form pan, pressing it firmly on the bottom of the pan, and building crust up two inches on the sides of the pan.
Pour in the cheesecake batter and bake for 1-1 1 /2 hours. The cheesecakes should jiggle slightly when tapped.
Remove and cool refrigerate overnight before serving.
To cut, run a thin knife under hot water before cutting each slice.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Food Fight!
There is a cafe near an outlet mall in Alabama where the employees of the restaurant throw yeast rolls at the customers. They don’t do this in a fit of anger, or in an inspired moment of college hi-jinks, but they throw hot bread at paying customers on purpose.
A town in Spain hosts a food fight every year in which hundreds of citizens throw tomatoes at each other. They throw tomatoes at an annual festival in Columbia, South America, too. Italy is home to a festival where people throw oranges at one another.
My father-in-law— a man with the maturity level of your average eighth grader— once threw a roll at me in a backwoods catfish house. He missed and hit a large pulpwooder at a neighboring table. We both escaped to tell the tale, but barely.
In the cafeteria scene of the 1978 movie Animal House, John Belushi pops up from behind a table and yells, “Food fight!” Chaos ensues. That was my first exposure to the phenomenon of thrown food.
There is a cafe near an outlet mall in Alabama where the employees of the restaurant throw yeast rolls at the customers. They don’t do this in a fit of anger, or in an inspired moment of college hi-jinks, but they throw hot bread at paying customers on purpose. 
A town in Spain hosts a food fight every year in which hundreds of citizens throw tomatoes at each other. They throw tomatoes at an annual festival in Columbia, South America, too. Italy is home to a festival where people throw oranges at one another.My father-in-law— a man with the maturity level of your average eighth grader— once threw a roll at me in a backwoods catfish house. He missed and hit a large pulpwooder at a neighboring table. We both escaped to tell the tale, but barely.
My wife cooked a clean-the-cooler dinner last night. A clean-the-cooler dinner is a meal where one gets all of the old, passed-over, and mish-mashed food items out of the refrigerator and freezer, and cooks them in one meal. It should be done approximately four times each year. Unfortunately, it only happens once a decade in my house.
My wife is a packrat when it comes to food and spices. Shelf lives and expiration dates mean nothing to her. I constantly throw away all manner of out-dated food in our cabinets.
Last night, there were two tins of leftover dinner rolls in the freezer. I am not exactly sure how old the rolls were, but they had probably been hiding behind the chopped spinach since Bill Clinton’s first term.
She served two tins of the Clinton-era rolls for dinner. “These rolls taste funny,” my son said.
“What’s up with the rolls, Mom?” said my daughter.
I made a joke and my daughter acted like she was going to throw her roll at me. I, in turn, actually threw one at her. My son howled. My daughter threw a roll at him. He threw one back at her. My son ran into the kitchen and grabbed the entire cookie sheet of rolls.
A full-scale food fight ensued. It was The Three Stooges on steroids. The breakfast room looked like an out-of-control episode of Jerry Springer.
It was a blast. The look on my kid’s faces was sheer joy. It was one that said— I can’t believe they are letting me do this. It soon changed to— I can’t believe daddy’s actually doing this with us.
My wife is a packrat when it comes to food and spices. Shelf lives and expiration dates mean nothing to her. I constantly throw away all manner of out-dated food in our cabinets.
Last night, there were two tins of leftover dinner rolls in the freezer. I am not exactly sure how old the rolls were, but they had probably been hiding behind the chopped spinach since Bill Clinton’s first term.
She served two tins of the Clinton-era rolls for dinner. “These rolls taste funny,” my son said.
“What’s up with the rolls, Mom?” said my daughter.
I made a joke and my daughter acted like she was going to throw her roll at me. I, in turn, actually threw one at her. My son howled. My daughter threw a roll at him. He threw one back at her. My son ran into the kitchen and grabbed the entire cookie sheet of rolls.
A full-scale food fight ensued. It was The Three Stooges on steroids. The breakfast room looked like an out-of-control episode of Jerry Springer.It was a blast. The look on my kid’s faces was sheer joy. It was one that said— I can’t believe they are letting me do this. It soon changed to— I can’t believe daddy’s actually doing this with us.
My wife sat unaffected and watched as the six-year old, the 10-year old, and the 46-year old acting like a six-year old pelted each other with rolls. There was bread everywhere. There were crumbs everywhere. There was laughter everywhere.
Typically, I advocate the use of proper manners in this column. I was taught good manners at an early age. My mother and grandmother kept Emily Post’s Etiquette book next to the family bible. When I was growing up, nothing was done without consulting Mrs. Post. Though every once in a while it is liberating and exhilarating to throw decorum to the wind, especially while throwing rolls at your dining companion.
I am not endorsing the act of throwing food. As a restaurant owner, I am grateful that food never flies in any of our dining rooms. If you decide to throw caution to the wind and heave a roll at your dining companion, it should be done in the confines of your family home (or in one of my competitor’s restaurants).
I am, however, letting you know that some of the deepest belly laughs I’ve enjoyed recently came from a stale-roll war between my children and me. Maybe it’s healthy to act like a child every once in a while, no matter what Emily Post says.
Sunday Dinner Rolls
Butter, melted
1 package Active, dry yeast
2 Tbl Water, warm (105-115 degrees)
5 cups Flour, self-rising
1 /4 cup Sugar
1 /2 tsp Baking soda
1 cup Shortening
2 cups Buttermilk
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
Grease baking pan with melted butter. Dissolve yeast in warm water. Set aside. In mixing bowl, combine flour, sugar and baking soda. With pastry cutter or fork, cut in shortening until mixture resembles course meal. Combine buttermilk and yeast water.
Gradually add liquids to flour mixture, stirring with fork until flour is moistened. Turn dough onto lightly floured surface and roll out 1 /2 inch thick. Cut with 2-inch biscuit cutter, dipping cutter into flour between cuts. Press cutter straight down without twisting for straight-sided, evenly shaped rolls. Place close together in prepared pan. Cover with damp cloth and let rise one hour (dough will not double in size).
Bake for 15-20 minutes or until brown. Brush tops with melted butter while hot. Yield: 30-40 rolls
I am, however, letting you know that some of the deepest belly laughs I’ve enjoyed recently came from a stale-roll war between my children and me. Maybe it’s healthy to act like a child every once in a while, no matter what Emily Post says.
Sunday Dinner Rolls
Butter, melted
1 package Active, dry yeast
2 Tbl Water, warm (105-115 degrees)
5 cups Flour, self-rising
1 /4 cup Sugar
1 /2 tsp Baking soda
1 cup Shortening
2 cups Buttermilk
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
Grease baking pan with melted butter. Dissolve yeast in warm water. Set aside. In mixing bowl, combine flour, sugar and baking soda. With pastry cutter or fork, cut in shortening until mixture resembles course meal. Combine buttermilk and yeast water.
Gradually add liquids to flour mixture, stirring with fork until flour is moistened. Turn dough onto lightly floured surface and roll out 1 /2 inch thick. Cut with 2-inch biscuit cutter, dipping cutter into flour between cuts. Press cutter straight down without twisting for straight-sided, evenly shaped rolls. Place close together in prepared pan. Cover with damp cloth and let rise one hour (dough will not double in size).
Bake for 15-20 minutes or until brown. Brush tops with melted butter while hot. Yield: 30-40 rolls
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