Who's Shroomin' Who?

Man, it's been a busy kitchen chez Cookiecrumb this month. And I have a feeling it's not going to let up for a while. (Though I did just learn there's a knish shop not far from where I live. I said to Cranky, "Let's eat pick-up food for a while.")
So there I was standing over not one, but two steaming kettles. One held the turkey stock, and the other was a pot of vegetable broth, 100% local, made entirely from odds and ends that otherwise wouldn't have been eaten: celery tops, carrot tops, leek tops, like that. The broth tasted good but it needed the depth of a mushroom or two, and I had a paper bag of local mushrooms in the fridge.
Uh-oh. They were on the brink of stickiness, but still fragrant and plump, and perfectly fine for the stock.
I wasn't about to add the entire sack, but the rest of the mushrooms needed immediate attention.
All right. I turned on the oven as low as it would go (which, in the case of my fancy-fangled electric convection model, is 170°F) and laid the destemmed, cleaned mushrooms on a baking rack in a roasting pan.
It worked! They dried out instead of getting cooked. I started them cap-side up until the skin felt smooth and dry, and then I flipped them gill-side up so they'd really dehydrate. (It's essential to remove the stems, which are dense and watery.)
It took quite a few hours. I turned off the oven at bedtime and left them in there, and then by about midday the next day without any additional heat, they were totally dry (the goal is "brittle").
The smell is utterly deep and meaty.
I can't wait to rehydrate one and taste it!

Quiverin' Seasonal Love

We finally broke down the turkey carcass the other day, carving off more meat than I'll be able to deal with in the near future. Freezers, bless their hearts.
Best of all, though, I finally got around to cooking the turkey carcass (with its inevitably still-attached meat chunks, however minuscule) in a large pot of water with the usual suspects: celery, carrot and onion. C'est tout. Oh, well, the salt we had applied to the turkey skin before roasting also found its way into the pot. All right, a bay leaf and a handful of herbs. That's all. Simplicity.
But. Oh.
I cooked it well into the night, finding enough time at the end to strain the stock and let it cool before refrigerating it in quart-size containers.
Today we'll put the containers into zipped freezer bags, and into the freezer awaiting — oh, you know. Whatever. Turkey whatever. Soupy whatever.
The magic is when you use bones. And you simmer for a while.
The whole house smelled as if we were boiling Thanksgiving. (And apart from turkey gravy, that is exactly why we do a turkey once a year. To have tubs of frozen Thanksgiving stock.)
Here it is, just before going into the freezer. All gelatinous and quivery.
Like a spoonful of captured autumn.

D'oh!

Homemade breadcrumbs are the best. They sure beat those cardboard cans of sawdust from the megamart.
You can make them in the blender from fresh or stale bread — sometimes only fresh (or day-old) will do. And you'll know you're using a nice bread to make them from. Grind them to whatever size suits your needs, from hearty pebbles to delicate specks.
Obviously you can spread them over a casserole (macaroni and cheese!) and place dots of butter here and there before baking.
You can also toast them in a little pan with some butter (stir occasionally and watch for burning) in the oven, and then sprinkle them lightly over something.
Certainly they are good for coating foods you plan to pan fry.
Best of all, they're free, if you've got spare bread.
I don't claim to have been making my own breadcrumbs my whole life, but I've been doing it for at least a decade now. You'd think I'd have learned something about the procedure in all that time, but no. It was always

Tear up bread into chunks.
Put into blender, a small batch at a time.
Pulse, and watch in frustration as the bread pulverizes into different-sized particles.
Sigh. Dump crumbs into a bowl and pick out the large chunks, which go back into the blender. Pick, pick, pickety pick. Bozo.
Leave finer crumbs in the bowl.
Repeat.

You're laughing now. I know. I have no idea why it didn't occur to me to separate the crumbs in a saner, more efficient way.
The other day, though, I just sort of automatically picked up my sieve with the perfect-sized holes, and shook the crumbs through it, into a waiting bowl. Whatever was too big to pass through got reblendered. Easy. Unfrustrating. Fast.
The only bad thing about it was how stupid I felt about being stupid for so long.
What kitchen-efficiency discoveries have you made? Do they involve gadgets? Techniques? Were they so obvious you wanted to smack your forehead with a mackerel once you figured them out?

Square Meals

This is almost more embarrassing than a peek inside my freezer, or a look at my spattered kitchen.
This is a photo chronicle of what I ate for the past week, a come-clean exercise proposed by Sam at Becks & Posh.
I already flunked by not following the rules: I was supposed to record all the liquids too, so for the record they were tea, juice, water and wine, in interchangeable quantities and levels of appropriateness. Oh, and milk in the tea. That's a liquid. Honey too?
Sam found us participants a fun new Flickr Toy to create photo collages, and I decided to restrict my mosaic to 5 x 5. Yes, I ate (and photographed) more than 25 things last week, but so many of them were duplicates, like yogurt in the morning or leftover turkey soup or turkey sandwiches. Buttered toast. Green beans.
For that reason, I think it would be a ghastly bore to list daily menus. Each entry, except Thanksgiving Day, would be pretty similar. There were one or two really interesting food items (those eggs, for instance!), but I'll be writing about them later.
Overall, I'm happy to see that it's been a pretty healthy diet.
I had been afraid, going into this project, that I'd have nothing to report but bastard meals of wine and gummy bears. In fact, though, owing to all the great food items on the premises this week, that happened only once, and I actually had to stage it to get the picture.

Like Toys in My Mouth

I couldn't resist JohnG's description of a rosé wine on his blog, Quaffability. John likes to taste and write about inexpensive wines, mostly found at Trader Joe's.

The nose is all strawberry candy and cherry popsicles with just a hint of spice. In the mouth, it’s tasty but ever so slightly sweet and a little too fruity for my taste.

I won't go into details today why I'm bringing this up, but I just want to say I think I've found the right wine to pair with gummy bears.
Excuse me, now, I need to find a dentist.

This Is My Butcher

This is Bryan.
Actually, I shop at more than one butcher, depending on my needs. Oh, and then there are the bacon-sausage-salami craftsmen (and women).
But this guy, Bryan, takes care of me.
Last year I asked him if it would be possible to order some sardines (since he doesn't regularly stock them). Oh, dear, he said. Your minimum order would have to be five pounds.
Then he brightened and said perhaps he could talk with some of his other customers who might want to share. Sure enough, he called us at home a couple of days later and said to come and get the sardines. (And they were good.)
Shortly before Thanksgiving, Cranky asked Bryan if he would have any aged rib roasts for Christmas. Bryan disappeared briefly into the back and returned lugging almost a whole side of beef — ageing under watchful eyes. But he suggested that we wait a week or so before ordering our roast; he didn't want anything to get misplaced in the Thanksgiving rush. I love that kind of service.
Now, this must be a bit of a difficult week for butchers. Everybody is oppressed by leftover turkey and not in the mood to buy food.
But this morning I received the best e-mail from Bryan. It said that he'd lucked into some super-fresh — and rare — blue fin tuna. (Most of the catch is exported to Japan.) He said he bought it right at the wharf this morning! That's fresh.
And that's thoughtful.
Good business, too.
Bryan didn't want this opportunity to slip by, so he sent out a message to everyone on his list.
This story has a funny ending, because I didn't actually buy any tuna.
But I just wanted to brag about my butcher. And fishmonger. His chickens are unbelievably tasty too, and...

Ack! Bread Shortage!

This happens every year. The stores are stripped bare of bread on the day after Thanksgiving.
I guess the bakers don't bake on the holiday or the day after (and who can blame them; what a tough life). It couldn't just be that shoppers already snapped it all up this morning for today's leftover turkey sandwiches — no, they're at the malls, whining for Wii and pleading for PlayStation 3.
It almost always slips my mind, so I don't lay in a supply of loaves the Wednesday before. And by Friday: No bread.
Well, we did manage to find some this morning, but I suspect it's a two-day-old hunk. And that will be fine, toasted, though nothing beats a criterial turkey sandwich on fresh white bread.
Anyway, the silver lining is that this loaf is a Country French Sourdough baked by Craig Ponsford up at Sonoma's Artisan Bakery. I trust Craig. He knows a thing or two about bread.
Now, if only I could muster up an appetite. Give me a few more minutes.
Update: The bread was fresh. Craig, you clever thing. Delicious.

Look, Ma: No Cans

The green bean casserole. Ugh. A staple of American holiday feasts as far back as I can remember.
For all I know, it was invented by a team of marketing specialists who wanted consumers to buy canned and frozen junk. A can of cream of mushroom soup. A can of fried onions. And a package of frozen green beans (unless you opted for the canned).
It sort of disappeared from the culinary landscape for a while, but it was reintroduced fifteen or so years ago. It started showing up in the Sunday newspaper coupon pages.
And it rang an old Pavlovian bell for me.
I wanted it.
So, one Thanksgiving, back in the '90s, my parents came to visit. Along with the usual cornball traditional offerings, I served this wacky NASA 20th Century superfood.
One word: Sodium.
It was a salt casserole. I couldn't eat it. (There was one diner at our table who liked it just fine, and that was lucky for him. He got more.)
This year, I finally decided to wrestle the salt casserole to the mat. I made my own, from scratch. And it's all local: the mushrooms, the fried onions, the beans, the herbs. It's really tasty.
Take that, ya corporate goons.

We Are the Champ, My Friends

I can't even talk about food around Cranky without him suddenly craving whatever I just described.
There is very little hypothetical food chat at our house, because if something sounds good, Cranky is out the door, buying ingredients.
And since I cruise the blogs, that often means we're replicating one another's menus.
I'm guilty of it myself.
I went to Bristol, England, for yesterday's lunch. I happened to be reading Sam's mum's blog, Ms Cellania, in which she blogged about and photographed a great dish of champ, the humble Irish meal of potatoes, leeks and "lashings of melted butter" (to borrow Sam's mum's memorable phrase).
I loved her rough-hewn approach: no need to mindlessly beat the potatoes into velvety smoothness (I like lumpy mashed potatoes).
Utter simplicity. Comforting. Delicious.

I Am the Turkey, Goo Goo G' Joob

I'm taking a picture of everything I eat this week, on Sam's urging over at Becks & Posh. It's only Day 2, and I'm already embarrassing myself.
No, not with a meal of gummy bears and wine, as I threatened Sam I'd probably end up doing (and I may still).
In fact, I think just knowing I would be chronicling every morsel has made my diet a bit healthier. I'm being sure to have a bite for breakfast, even if it's only a few spoonfuls of yogurt while I lie in bed with the sudoku puzzle.
I'm also scheduling the main meal for midday, partly because the light is better for photography, and partly because it's nice to have a simple supper without all the fuss.
So I made a big pot of soup for suppers this week.
And therein lies the embarrassment. It's turkey soup.
Leftover turkey, from last year. Made with leftover turkey broth.
We were doing a little freezer-spelunking (which makes sense, because after Thanksgiving, we'll no doubt be cramming the freezer with more leftovers, and we'll need the space). I won't go into details, but there were the basic ingredients for an easy, nourishing soup. Add some barley and fresh vegetables, and voilà.
We Are Eating Thanksgiving Leftovers Right Before Thanksgiving.
Go ahead. Laugh.
Today Cranky picked up the heirloom turkey we'll be roasting on Thursday. It was kinda expensive, as it turns out.
"No problem," I said to Cranky. "It'll last a whole year."

Fall in a Ball Jar

I am so pleased with the looks of this. Just so pleased.
It's nothing more than a jar of seasonal vegetables covered with a very simple brine of vinegar and salt and water. The flavor will come from the vegetables themselves, as well as the two cloves of garlic, some slices of hot chile peppers and a couple of bay leaves.
But the beauty comes from Cranky's inspired shopping. I had planned to just use some prosaic carrots from the crisper drawer, but he spotted these miniature beauties in shades of autumn at the market. It was also his idea to use green and orange cauliflowers, and he searched hard to find a purple one, too. As I look at the assembled gems, though, I think it's just as well he didn't find one.
OK, what else? Cut-up green beans and a few wedges of white onion.
Layer vegetables into the jar, adding garlic and bay leaves and chile slices here and there. Pour not-quite-hot brine mixture (you dissolve the salt in near-simmering water and then add vinegar) over the vegetables. This step is meant to just blanch the vegetables to a tender-crunch). Let cool to room temperature, and then refrigerate for — I don't know, a week? I'm going to be tasting it daily, though, to determine whether the chiles need to be removed. Oh, and I wouldn't be surprised if some of it ends up in the Thanksgiving relish tray in a few days.

North Beach North

Yay, flu shots. All taken care of.
We rewarded ourselves with a meal on the deck of one of San Rafael's beloved, salt-cured joints on the "harbor." We really only went because the weather was nice. We had not been following closely the fact that the restaurant had yet again changed ownership. It used to be called somebody-or-other's Pier 15 (forgot the name), and then it became Art's Pier 15. The second to most recent owner decided to go for just Pier 15, and that's what the current owners are calling the place.
I wouldn't bother you with all this history, but the fact is, Pier 15 just got acquired by a bit of history. The new owners have deep roots in the local Italian restaurant scene, especially San Francisco's North Beach scene.
The current chef learned to cook at his parents' restaurant, Mama's. So he's good with breakfasts.
He makes his own hollandaise sauce; says so right on the menu — which confirms my belief that the previous kitchens all used canned glop. He knows where to procure a simply amazing Canadian bacon that's so rich with smoke... is food in Canada this good?
And so, yeah, that adds up to a darn good plate of Eggs Benedict.
Only in this case, I think it would be an honor to call it Eggs Dante Benedetti.

Seasonally Inappropriate BAT

I was going through my posts from November of last year, and was startled to find I'm repeating myself.
No, not about turkey gravy (that may still be coming, however).
About tomatoes.
I can't explain it, but we still have fresh tomatoes in the house. For more than a month the vendors at the market have been saying "this is the last week," but they keep coming.
So what did I do a year ago that I'm repeating now? Well, not exactly repeating; there was a creative departure this year. But basically: BLT.
This time, though, there was no lettuce, so Cranky improvised with another green vegetal item. Hence, the bacon-avocado-tomato sandwich.
The bacon was from Fatted Calf, my first taste of this stuff. Great smoke, but a little too salty. Cooks up really evenly to that crisp-chewy state without any wet, rubbery bits or shattering, burnt parts.
I got in close for this picture, but I was a little too excited, and I wobbled the camera. Couldn't shoot it over; evidence had been devoured.

Recipe, Schmecipe

I was saying to Cranky today that ever since I've had this blog, I don't use my cookbooks quite as much.
I'm one of those people who think it's kind of unimaginative to write about a recipe somebody else dreamed up, that I replicated, and photographed, and I ate it, and it worked (or it didn't), and that's my story, where's my gold star?
I mean, I WILL do that. I'm not a total snob. I've blogged about my success with Jacque Pepin's homemade pork sausage recipe, and that's because it so amazed me to even be able to do this at home, I wanted to share it with the rest of you. I've bragged about Deborah Madison's uncanny recipe-writing skills, something I know because I've followed them carefully despite my initial apprehensions (she's a genius; trust her, and then once you've done that, take it from there — trust me).
But blogging publicly seems to make me want to be a little bit more original than just following Recipe 101 — to take chances, to blaze trails.
Within reason.
Look, I only know what I know because of what I've learned so far, and a lot of that has been book-learning.
Or newspaper food-section recipe learning.
Case in point: A roasted cauliflower recipe I saved from the New York Times a few years ago. Here's the learning curve: It was the first roasted cauliflower I had ever tasted, and it was good. No, really good. But the recipe was needlessly complicated. It produced "overage," if you will; too much garlic-infused olive oil, which we were told to "save for another use." Also: many, very messy, steps, including a blender, an oven and a stovetop. Yeesh.
However, from that recipe I learned about flavors. The sexy, burny flavor of roasted cauliflower. The sultry blend of olives, lemon, garlic and capers in oil. The — oh, hey, maybe that's it. Yeah, that's all. Enough.
So here's today's sleek spin on a byzantine recipe, "cookiecrumb-style."
I cut up my beautiful green cauliflower into florets (saving about 1/3 of the head for another fun project; more later). I sauteed these succulent chunks in (cue the religious music) Bacon Fat from Fatted Calf Bacon! It just happened to be in the pan, left over from yesterday (and anybody with half a brain can tell you cauliflower is almost meat). This grease had all the salt I needed; none extra added.
Saute until brown corners happen. This is where the flavor is. But it won't be done yet.
Now: Smash a big, fat clove of garlic. Add it to the pan with a bay leaf and a fresh lemon leaf. Drizzle — nay, glug — a demi-bath of white wine over this. Apply lid to pan and frizzle until the florets are to your tender-crunchy liking.
With me so far? Yes. Take a slotted spoon and remove the cauliflower to a bowl (and put the lid over the bowl). Throw away the two leaves, but save the garlic. In the pan, you will now add chopped (pitted, duh) kalamata olives in the quantity of your preference and chopped capers, also ITQOYP. Oh, plus a moderately intelligent portion of olive oil. Your call. And chop up the garlic and add it, too.
OK: Sizzle, fast. The cauliflower is threatening to cool off!
Happy? Yep. So dish the florets on serving plates and spoon the magic over.
Photograph. Eat.
Brag.

Bowl of Green

I've been growing a pot of sorrel on the patio, at the suggestion of a reader who wished to spare me the agony of eating wild, foraged sourgrass. It's indestructable; in fact it's the only plant I've had any luck with this year.
It has survived a drastic heat wave, heavy rainfall, and just overall neglect.
In fact, I've neglected to sample its tangy leaves until just yesterday (not counting the time I layered a couple of raw leaves on a cold chicken sandwich — yum).
But I probably wouldn't have gotten around to using it if I hadn't been smacked with the munchies after reading another blogger's ode to watercress soup.
I sent Cranky out to score a bag. (Of watercress!) What he came back with really turned me on; it was a tangle of Star Route Farms' ancho cress — very green, very peppery, very wide leaves (as the name "ancho" suggests). But it was only half a bag, and I was jonesing for more.
That's when I turned to the pot on the patio. (Flowerpot!) There was enough homegrown (sorrel!) to add to the pot. (Soup pot!)
The resulting soup had a wonderfully confusing flavor: the expected sour zip from the sorrel, and a slightly diminished peppery pop from the cress (I think the cream calmed it down). The sorrel, as I had been warned, turns khaki when it's cooked, and I felt I was tasting the flavor of "khaki," even.
But the cress stays bright green.
Zoink! What a beautiful bowl of soup.

Think Locally, Shop Lazily

I'm participating in the 100-Mile Thanksgiving, details of which I will not bore you with — just yet.
But like most people, I'm excited about the coming food celebration, and I've been planning and replanning my menu for weeks.
There are certain items that simply aren't grown within 100 miles of my home, and I'm gamely doing without them. Sugar? Feh. I'll use honey. Black pepper? Who needs it when I've got a local source for habanero flakes.
For my turkey stuffing I can either bake my own whole wheat bread with local flour or find an alternative to bread. Still haven't made a final decision there.
But one item I bravely decided to forgo was celery for the stuffing. I don't think I've eaten a stick of celery since the first Eat Local Challenge last year.
Because I stupidly decided celery wasn't locally grown. I have no idea why. For more than a year now, I just haven't been wearing my celery spectacles.
Until today when Cranky and I were picnicking on cheese and salami and olives at a little table in the sun next to the Wednesday farmers market in Corte Madera. We were just lazily sitting there, not even shopping since the house is full of food. But we were watching the shoppers (and that will make a fun post someday). The strawberries were flying out of the market, even in late November, but the "I can't cook" Marin crowd was pretty much ignoring the verdant, lush pile of greens.
"Look, Cranky," I said. "Nobody knows what to do with kale or dandelion or — ohmygod, is that celery that guy just picked up?"
It was. And it was local.
And it's going in the stuffing.
Maybe into a Bloody Mary, too; we'll see.

To Lose to Toulouse

After reading Sam's post about Toulouse sausages recently, I immediately had to attempt a reasonable facsimile of her recipe. I altered my version a bit (who doesn't?) and I didn't use a key ingredient of hers: Fatted Calf sausage.
My local independent grocery store has an in-house butcher, and they make their own sausages, including a garlicky "French." Close enough.
It was truly delicious. I was thrilled, and chauvinistically pleased that I might not always have to make the early-morning trek to the Fellini-esque Ferry Plaza Farmers Market to get the FC version.
But for whatever reason, this past Saturday Cranky jumped up out of bed at 6 a.m. and left me sleeping, while he flew over the bridge to visit the fine folks at Fatted Calf. He got there a little too early, but dropped a valuable code name (rhymes with "jiggles"), and was told to return in a few minutes to pick up his booty.
Among his loot were a few links of the vaunted Toulouse sausages, fresh and fragrant.
So. For scientific and gastronomic purposes, Cranky decided to drop by our local market to get a couple of their French sausages.
Oh dear. They were frozen. The nice guy at the meat counter cracked a couple against a hard surface to separate them, and off he went.
OK. We fried them up last night. Oh, but wait; first the smell test: Whoops. The frozen ones smelled a little refrigeratory. The FC ones smelled beautiful. Both had comparable garlic components.
Then, once cooked: Uh-oh. I am so sorry to report. My local bodega flunked. Their sausages tasted of dead meat. I hate to gross you out with that language, but that is exactly why I have never been a huge fan of consuming vast quantities of meat. It smells and tastes dead.
The Fatted Calf sausage tasted — well, it would be creepy to say "alive" — it tasted "animal-y." Yeah, that's it.
Most meat most Americans have ever consumed probably tastes dead, and they don't really know it; they don't have any point of reference.
I should say that my local butcher might have a better product before it gets frozen; in fact, the first ones we ate tasted good and they were fresh. But I don't think they'd stack up to Fatted Calf.
Well, damn. So now I'm ruined.
That's OK. Cranky would be more than happy to make that early-morning run again while I snooze.

Ah, Shoot

Couldn't nail this photo yesterday after several attempts. I was shooting outdoors in the afternoon, and it just kept getting darker and darker. I didn't want to sit on the damp patio concrete, so I set up my shot on a stool, but even then I had to crouch and hunch over, and it was miserable.
I need a studio.
So I tried again today, after my usual cruise through the blogs.
Whoa. Over at Lucullian Delights, Ilva beat me to it by posting her stunning pix of romanesco cauliflower — today, Italy time.
Ilva is a fantastic photographer, so I can't really be envious, just admiring. Even she admits that these little buggers are hard to capture.
My cauliflower here is not one of those wacky, fractally things, however. It seems simply to be a green (which is not to say unripe) cauliflower, nothing more — although it's the first one I've ever seen.
I didn't even think to ask the farmer what it was called. But I wouldn't have trusted his answer anyway. He said that the romanesco cauliflower (which he was also selling) is a hybrid, crossed with asparagus. Asparagus! I guess he figured that's where those funny, pointy peaks come from (go look at Ilva's pictures).
But he's wrong.
Doesn't it make you wonder what other kind of hooey those farmers are feeding us dumb city folk?
Nah, I like what they feed us.

Non-Food Weekend

Funny tummy the past few days; Cranky too. Don't know why.
I'm also really annoyed with myself for a couple of photographic failures this afternoon. My excuse is I'm still not feeling excellent, but the truth is I think I just don't hold my camera still enough.
Sigh. Back to mastering that monstrous tripod.
The days grow shorter and darker and I grow frustrated. I'm determined to master it.
(I know, Biggles. Lights. I'm on it.)
So here's a picture of something I enjoyed a few days ago. Perfect, hot, fresh, house-made french fries. Didn't want a drop of ketchup on 'em.
Wait. You don't think that's why my tummy...
Nah.

Fig Bling

I can't seem to stop cooking up new recipes for fig chutney.
When I wrote about my fig-onion-fennel seed chutney last month, I got a few comments from Alison of McQuade's Celtic Chutneys. Basically, she dared me to keep stirring up the stuff as long as I could find figs in the market.
Alison, I took your advice.
Yesterday I made a version I plan on serving for my 100-mile Thanksgiving dinner instead of cranberries, with all local ingredients. That's in the fridge now.
But today I cut loose a little and used exotic, imported spices (thanks, spice trade — and to think the world has been embellishing food with exotic, imported spices since ancient times; what will they think of next?).
Even so, I only used two imported spices. The rest of the flavoring was local.
So may I present Fig-Cinnamon-Lemon chutney with habanero, salt and a pinch of ginger. Oh yes, and bay leaves; can't do without my fresh bay leaves.
My tiny Meyer lemon tree pooped out again this year, but not before it birthed a dozen petite lemonlets that failed to grow large and juicy, but did develop pretty yellow rinds. So I pared the rinds of three of them and chopped it not-quite-fine. Stewed it with honey, bay leaves, a splash of rose wine, and one actual lemon tree leaf. I stewed the peeled, halved lemon bodies too, but pulled them and the leaves out at the end. Sprinkled this with a restrained dash of cinnamon (enough to suggest "something," but not enough to regret) and ginger, plus a decent pinch of salt. And a pinch of habanero powder. Ooh!
Then, in went the cut-up figs for about 45 minutes of softening and candying. (No onion this time.)
It's slightly Christmas-y, probably because of the cinnamon. I wonder if it will still be in the fridge by Christmas.

Al Fresco in November

We had the dog with us, out for a walk in our increasingly pleasant burg. He's really enjoying leash time, and when he gets tired (he's little!) he can just jump into the bag and hitch a ride.
But look! Outdoor tables at the local Chinese restaurant? And surprisingly tolerable mid-fall temperatures? No-brainer. And they even served us a couple of Tsingtaos out there.
The food was middling, but the service was phenomenal.
It probably didn't hurt that we were in the company of the world's cutest dog.
When Cranky asked one of our servers (I think we had three people waiting on us) if we could have a glass of plain water, no ice, he happily dashed back inside... and returned with water in a little rice bowl plus a tiny dish of diced barbecued pork.
I don't care if the meals are mediocre, I'm definitely going back.
I just wish the weather would hold, because Bean Sprout wants to go back too.

Cheesed Off

Last week we bought a chunk of Cowgirl Creamery Red Hawk cheese at the Point Reyes Station farmers market, from a vendor who also sells cheese by another company. I've never talked to her about it, but I'm assuming she's a middleman, not directly related to Cowgirl Creamery.
Her prices are fair; she offers sample bites; she's friendly when she's not otherwise distracted.
But oof. She sold me a stinker.
Was it her fault? I'm not sure it was, although as a vendor of foods, she ought to be a little vigilant about the quality of the products she puts out.
Cowgirl Creamery offers their wonderful cheeses in whole balls or halves, and I usually get the half. It is wrapped and labeled, but there is never a date on the label.
This cheese was simply too old. The red tinge on the rind had migrated all the way over the cut surface, and the whole thing was smoodging around in a smelly, wet bath of putrefaction. I couldn't throw it away fast enough. (Cranky and I were sitting at a picnic table in the vicinity of other people; so embarrassing. Who did that?)
This isn't the only time I've had a problem with the age of a Cowgirl Creamery cheese. I once tried to buy a Red Hawk at their store in the Ferry Plaza mall, but it felt way too firm to be enjoyable any time soon. I asked a salesperson about it, and she said if I would come back in an hour, another delivery of cheeses would have arrived and I could select a riper cheese then. That sounded odd, but I went back in an hour, and sure enough, there was a batch of riper Red Hawks. How could she have known that? And why weren't the riper cheeses in the store earlier than the less ripe ones? Again, no dates on the labels.
I am a huge fan of Cowgirl Creamery. I have supported them since their early days when they weren't, frankly, all that skillful at cheesemaking. I've enjoyed their development and diversification, and I will probably continue to patronize them.
But please. How about a little quality control?

Madame!

I'm happy and I eat.
Today I'm eating champagne.

How Are We Doing?

Looking good.
In other news, I decided today to join the 100-mile Thanksgiving Challenge. It's no challenge, really, here in food-rich Northern California. The only traditional item I'll be doing without is cranberries, and I never liked them anyway. We ordered our local turkey this morning and worked up a menu over celebratory drinks right after we voted.
I mean, I don't think we're celebrating too early.
I think we did it. It's still early in California, but polls are closing in eastern states.
I'm watching. And hoping.

Do Your Civic Duty

"San Francisco values" is being used as a scare-tactic rallying cry for Republicans to turn out and vote against Democrats tomorrow. The boogeyman — woman, really — is Nancy Pelosi, who will ascend to Speaker of the House if Democrats gain a majority in Congress (and they will). Pelosi represents San Francisco, so therefore, the reasoning goes, she is vile and decadent just like the rest of San Franciscans and must be thwarted.
Who comes up with this tripe? (I know. Rove.)
My friend Stephanie Salter, who used to live in San Francisco and now writes for the Tribune-Star in Terre Haute, Indiana, takes on this claptrap in a Sept. 19 column.
The column is one of several looks at the "San Francisco values" issue rounded up by Suzanne Herel for her NWZCHIK blog.
I think you already know my position.

Fungi for a Fun Guy and a Fun Gal

The brochure came in the mail.
The title of the class was "All About Mushrooms."
I quickly read through the class description (which, alas, was to be held in the classroom, not in the field), but it was all a blur.
I only knew I wanted to take the class.
It was offered by the Point Reyes National Seashore Association as part of their 30-year-old Field Seminars program. It was a four-hour session with a slide show, discussion, and mushroom tasting! Oh. I was there.
And I was there, along with a surprisingly cooperative Cranky. Cranky was captivated, in fact. The four hours flew by and we learned So Much.
Not, I admit, enough to go out into the woods and forage for my own fungi. That would be like taking flying school for half a day and then hopping behind the joystick of a Cessna. Besides, I also learned it's a highly competitive hobby — job, for some — and that I'd probably never get out of bed in time to find any good specimens, even if I did learn to recognize them. (The competitive hunters get there first. Bingo, early bird, Easter egg! Not a hobby for the slugabed.)
So what — it was a compelling, intelligent, humorous and tasty experience.
If you ever get a chance to study with Charmoon Richardson (check his Web site), our erudite and witty instructor, go for it. He's full of instantly absorbable information, and he's involved with the Northern California food community. (He procures mushrooms for restaurants! He worked with MFK Fisher! He makes his own salt, dammit!)
He explained his "apple-orange-banana" theory of mushroom recognition — that is, you know when you're looking at a banana, compared with an apple or an orange. You just know. Well, there are certain mushroom varieties in Northern California (the black trumpet is one) that don't resemble any other mushroom in the region. So if you spot one in a tanoak forest, and it looks like a black trumpet — it is!
But this class wasn't a mushroom identification class. We also learned about medicinal uses of fungi, the beautiful natural dyes that can be extracted from fungi (edible or not), ecological repercussions of foresting and sudden oak death, and we even learned several cooking tips (e.g., sometimes grilling is better than sauteing, for texture reasons).
The edible sample we tasted, though, was sauteed. It was Oregon chanterelles (they're not in season in Northern California yet, but goshdarnit, now I KNOW those were chanterelles growing in my yard at my previous house, and I never harvested a single one), cooked with Marsala-caramelized red onions. I took a quick, shaky picture of it, and I apologize for the blurs.
I didn't know this before: Chanterelles are never farmed. They can't be farmed. So every chanterelle you see in a store or on a menu was foraged by some heroic, happy hunter who can tell the good ones from the poisonous ones.
Not that terrible accidents haven't happened before. It's accumulated knowledge and experience that will make for safe mushroom collecting. I'll leave it to the experts.
I don't want to rip off Charmoon's lecture — besides his delivery is much smoother than mine — but I will steal his best line. (Come to think of it, I bet he's not the only person who's ever said it.)

"You can eat any mushroom once."

Saltier Than Moi?

I met a guy at an event today who knows a thing or two about foraging. He's rather a specialist, and I'll tell you about his main passion tomorrow.
But today, as he was salting a dandy creation he had just stirred up on a hotplate in the classroom, he waved his little jar of salt at us admiring students.
The little unlabeled jar reminded me of my own little jar of home-evaporated salt for some reason, except his salt was whiter, chunkier, more beautiful.
And he said, "Anyone a salt fan?"
Cranky and I shot up our hands. We must have 16 different types of salt in our designated salt pantry, including our own.
"Try this fleur de sel," said the teacher. I made it myself."
We squealed. I try not to squeal much, but there you have it.
"We make our own, too!" said Cranky, though ours is not technically fleur de sel — it's boiled ocean.
Even so, I basked in perceived mutual admiration. Foodie to foodie, saltie to saltie. Brownie points. Salted caramel points!
Until he began to describe where he gets his raw materials. From natural salt basins on the Sonoma Coast. He scoops handfuls of wet, concentrated, clean salt crystals from wave-filled indentations on the rocky cliffs, lets it dry out briefly on a hot rock, and then takes it home to bake in the sun for a few weeks.
Showoff. Know it all. Smarty pants.
(Did I actually say just the other day my feelings aren't that easily crushed? Pshaw.)
Well. That's fine. That's why we were paying him to teach us. He's the pro.
But dammit, the subject of the seminar was entirely something else, and here he's all Mr. Salt, too.
Pride: scuffed, nothing terminal. I'll be OK.
Bonus: He told us where the salt basins are, and I'm going. Soon.
Even if it begins to rain and I can't bake it in the sun, Cranky said, "Just dry it out in the oven and don't tell."

Fainting Spell

I've had the privilege both of being an editor, and of being edited.
Being edited is hard, because it means somebody else gets to fool around with your prose.
A common remark at newspapers is that you should try to get your copy edited by two people. The first one changes what you wrote, and the second one changes it back.
Then there's copy editing. Now, that's something any writer really shouldn't scoff at, but these days it seems like copy editors are mere 12-year-olds with no actual world knowledge and little inclination to ever open a dictionary.
I worked as a copy editor at a big paper for a while, and the rest of the crew laughed at me for always having an open dictionary on my desk. Their thinking seemed to be "The buck stops with me. If I don't know what that word means or how it should be spelled, then why the hell would any of our readers know?"
That's too bad. When I had my own copy edited, I always told the guys "Make me look good!" And sometimes they saved my ass.
Other times, no. Spell-check was their friend on a rushed late shift, but it was seldom my friend. We all know that a computer can't tell whether you meant "to," "too" or "two."
So, just for the heck of it (and I hope I don't make any enemies today), here are some of the words I've seen misspelled on food blogs.
Palate. It's in your mouth. It is not spelled "palette," which is an artist's paint board. It is also not spelled "pallet," which is a wooden cargo platform. You don't want those things in your mouth.
Pore (as in "pore over a book"). It is not spelled "pour," which seems a lot foodier, but how (or what), exactly, would you pour over a book? Syrup?
Caesar (as in salad). I know, it just looks wrong, but "Ceasar" is wronger.
Shiitake. Ubiquitous mushroom of Japanese origin, now part of the American food landscape — but we haven't yet earned the right to drop that second "i." Not "shitake." Also not "shittake."
Spaghetti. You may think that "h" is useless, but Italians know what it's there for.
Mascarpone. Yummy, melty, slippery, creamy cheese of Italian origin — you knew that. But did you know it's not "marscapone"?
Artisanal. Pooty, trendy word used to describe food made by hand. I think one of the reasons it's misspelled as "artisinal" so much is that it's usually mispronounced with the accent on the second syllable. But no lessons on pronunciation today. Besides, the adjective is more commonly being shorted to "artisan" nowadays, which works just fine for me.
I'm gonna stop now. Feel free to contribute any funny spellings you've seen.
By the way, there's a whole other category or two of food misspellings: Menu writing, and produce stand signs. Cute as can be. My brother told me yesterday about the "Mandrain Chicken" on his cafeteria's offerings. And how many times have we seen "avacados" for sale at roadside vendors?
(Actually, I have a theory about that "avacado" spelling. I think they do that to seem bumpkinly adorable. I said to my brother, "It's like calling your moving company something sweet like 'Starving Students' when it's actually run by thugs." He said, "Why not just call it 'Two Guys What Will Move Youse' ?")
OK. Moving along.

Makin' Up Stuff

I think about food all the time, even when I'm not hungry. I mentally combine flavors and textures. I dream up techniques for ingredients that I've never heard of before.
Cranky calls me a food theoretician; I somehow see myself as the deaf Beethoven, who could still "hear" music in his head and compose scores without ever listening to the actual music being played.
OK, maybe I went way over the top on that one. I'm certainly no Beethoven, of the piano or of the stove. But I'm confident about dreaming up meals in my mind well before I get into the kitchen.
Even so, when I come up with some heretofore unknown recipe or other, I invariably do a Google search to see if such a thing already exists, or is even possible.
And when I find a similar recipe to the thing I've cooked up mentally, I always experience two feelings: 1) Surprise. (Hey, some other nut likes this idea too!) and 2) Relief. (OMG, maybe it really will work if somebody else has done it!)
It's funny, though. I'm never really disappointed that I'm not the only person on the planet who conceived of my brilliant, unique twist. No, my feelings aren't that easily crushed. As a matter of fact, I'm not even really surprised that I'm not the only person to think something up. (So scratch #1 above.)
I'm not talking about molecular gastronomy, by the way. No chemicals and foams and tortured replicant food in my kitchen.
Naw. Just simple stuff, like... Well. Yesterday I used part of a stunningly beautiful black cabbage for a dish of lentils and sausage. The cabbage is very sturdy (which is not to say tough) and has a robust vegetal aroma of cruciferous popcorn gym shoes. (No, trust me. You want this in your mouth.)
And so I got to thinking. Has anybody ever made sauteed cabbage patties? Like potato pancakes, right, but formed with pre-cooked shredded cabbage, a little grated onion, some flour and egg to hold it together, like that. Salt and pepper, perhaps a dash of baking powder for lightness. Fry it up. Mm.
So I Googled. This is what I got.
It's not actually a recipe per se, but it's a total confirmation of what I was trying to come up with. It made me happy.

November Comfort Food

Yeah, I stole today's meal off Sam's blog. You ever do that? Usually it takes a little longer than a few hours to get around to replicating (correction: paying homage to) somebody else's idea.
A couple of months ago I got a comment from the owner of now-disappeared blog Oaktown Farm, who wondered what to do with her surplus of apples and squash. I suggested a tart, with leeks and sage and goat cheese. Not long afterward, on the same day in fact, she came back to comment that the tart had been very good indeed. Wow. She had actually dashed to the kitchen to try out my little idea.
So, today Sam posted about her beautiful lentil-sausage supper that she has been leaving in the kitchen for the most excellent Fred to dine on while she gallivants.
As I commented on her post: "kitchen quandary solved." Or words to that effect.
I sent Cranky up to the local bodega, which happens to have its very own in-house butcher. It wasn't Fatted Calf, but this proud and humble place does make its own French sausages (along with other types). Garlicky, juicy, really delicious and a local enterprise to boot.
Meanwhile I was banging around in the kitchen hacking up a black cabbage from the Point Reyes Station farmers market, which I sauteed with carrots and onions. Boiled some lentils in a separate pot with bay leaf and a splash of wine. (That both pots were salted goes without saying, so I didn't just say that.) Tossed the sausages into first one pot, and then the other. I don't know why. Indecision.
Finally, when I deemed it all cooked to eatiness, I mixed the vegetables and sausage in with the lentils. Wait. It needed a tiny dose of cider vinegar. OK, done.
The colors! It would have made a perfect Halloween meal. Anyway.
Oh, man. Such good eating.
What a great welcome to November, and thanks for the nudge, Sam.