Well, We Made It

Right in time for the last day of the year.
I know, it's just a number. There are lots of other numbers and lots of other ways of looking at them.
But there is no good way to look at this number.

2006. Nothing To See. Move On, Folks.

Obligatory Year-End Roundup

Tributes to all those famous dead people.
Favorite meals.
Best 10 list.
Things I did that are so cool, you'd kill yourself if you knew, because you'll never... Eh.
Great movies I saw.
All-time bozo political screwups.
Cutest puppy pictures.
Britney scandals, and then some.
Oh, yeah. Lindsay Lohan.
Cloned meat.

Meh.

Thereby Hangs a Tale, Or a Thug

I'm opposed to the death penalty. Just to clear that up.
Anyhoo.
We've got a big old dead guy in the news, and Wonkette, as usual, is being irreverent.
I'm sorry. The guy's dead. But sometimes "irreverent" is just right.
So Wonk says:

"Anyway, commenter dimestorefool wins our comment of the day award:

'James Brown, Jerry Ford and now Saddam — why do the great entertainers always die in threes?' "

Salaam, Saddam — the hardest working dictator in showbiz.

Survival Larder

I found myself on a Web site I've never visited before, by way of megnut.
The theme of the post was to list 10 items (give or take) that you need to have in your kitchen to make good food.
Well, in my kitchen the items would vary seasonally, and based on my whims. Oh, all right, I realize this roundup is for all-the-time items. Preserveable items, or items available year round. Fallbacks. Must-haves.
All right. What could I not do without — provided I was allowed to buy all the other fruit and meat and vegetables I wanted?
I came up with this list. I'll bet a dollar I would probably alter the list tomorrow, but right now it works for me.
You'll notice there's no pasta on my list. I do believe pasta is a kitchen staple, but it sort of fell off my list when I started eating a local diet. I have boxes and bags and packages of dried pasta in my pantry to eat up, and one of these days, I will.
I'm flexible. (Because I'm not always entirely local when it comes to flavorings, like soy sauce and spices.)

Cheese
Onions/Garlic
Cream/Milk
Tomatoes (frozen if not in season)
Mushrooms
Herbs & Spices
Dried Beans
Soy Sauce/Salt
Lemons/Vinegar
Rice/Nuts
Oil/Butter
Honey

Ha, ha. This is fun. I can't wait to see what I'll think up tomorrow. I know I doubled up a bunch of items, but you might be able to talk me into picking just the one or the other... Maybe.
What would you choose? Feel free to swipe this meme-theme for your own blog.

Gath'ring Winter Fuel

I don't think I talked about Christmas dinner.
We scaled it back to its merest essence this year: roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Not even a shred of Brussels sprouts. No figgy pudding. Nary a glass of egg nog.
The whole point, after all, is — OK, two points: 1) Beef fat (for the Yorkie); and 2) Meat for sandwiches, later.
Which is not to say the roast beef, hot from the oven, wasn't fabboo. But the pud — well, this old girl's aging digestive system is very close to closing the books on that tradition. Urp.
The beauty, though, was in today's lunch; made with fresh, local sourdough bread; smeared with an illegal mixture of mayo, sour cream and horseradish; topped with moist, pink slices of prime rib; lightly showered with a pinch of salt (confession: I'm not super crazy about black pepper); and enhanced with the sweetest, tenderest leaves of baby Romaine lettuce.
O, bless us, every one!

Cute Loot

Ohgod, I wish I had two heads so I could wear both of these hats at the same time.
I suppose I could wear the blue one to the farmers market, and the green one to political demonstrations.
These are Cranky's idea of a great stocking stuffer, but he's already trying to steal them back for himself.
Hm. Between the two of us, we do have two heads.

Merry, Merry!

Panettone (Genovese-style, not baked in a flower pot), seasonal fruit, and bonus cake plate. Bought during a frenzy of Chris-sploitation shopping. Couldn't resist.
I know somebody who would really, really like this cake plate.
Do you know who you are?

Oh Joy, Oh Joy

Santa Claus
is comin'
to town!













Have a
wonderful
Christmas...
or just a really
fabulous Monday.

Miwok Soup

All credit to Cranky. He dreamed up this recipe; I simply executed it and named it.
It was such a local, seasonal natural: Dungeness crab and chanterelle mushrooms, in a vegetable broth. It got me to thinking what the native population in my corner of the world might have concocted, centuries ago.
If you want to try: Heat the vegetable broth (mine was homemade, unseasoned but very complex) in a saucepan; add salt to taste. In a separate skillet, gently sauté cut-up, cleaned chanterelles (be generous) in just a little butter with a pinch of salt. Add some thinly sliced scallions (I used one for two servings), but reserve a few slices for garnish. Now add some cooked rice to the skillet, in about the same proportions as the mushrooms. When the broth is hot, add picked-over crabmeat (in the same proportions as the rice and the mushrooms) to the skillet; warm it through.
Place a mound of the crab-vegetable mixture in each bowl, and ladle warm broth over. Decorate with sliced scallions.
This is really nice to eat, because at first, the broth has not taken on the flavors of the scallions and crab... But as you eat, it begins to.

Mac Daddy

Yoo-hoo.
::tap-tap-tap::
Is this thing on?
Anybody out there?
If you're not all over the river and through the woods, holed up at your relatives' house or squirreled away at some divine, snowy resort, you are invited to play with your food.
Next year.
Right now it's full-tilt holiday dining: rich, rare, fabulous foods.
But as soon as the last crystal goblet is cleared away, the serving platters stored for the season, the "real" cloth napkins washed and folded, you're going to want to take it easy.
So take it easy with me and Kevin.
Over at Seriously Good, Kev is throwing down the gauntlet. Mac 'n' Cheese. Have it your way, but have it. And post about it on Jan. 5.
It's not a contest. It's a lifestyle choice.

Mood Attitude

Shortest day of the year, and I'm feeling fine!
I'll let you in on my secret: As we skid into Winter Solstice, I keep telling myself that the shortest day of the year is the beginning of longer days.
Tomorrow will be a longer day. Ahhh.
Happy Winter.
Enjoy the return of light.

Happy Happy Joy Joy

Cranky’s all finished with his Christmas shopping, but this book wasn't on my list (and you can’t always trust Santa to be resourceful on Christmas Eve) — so I bought it for myself.
It was enthusiastically recommended by Michael Ruhlman on his blog, for one thing. Ruhlman is a maverick cook, a brash poet who can give Anthony Bourdain what for and get away with it… and the fact that he is good-looking had nothing at all to do with my falling under his spell.
No, it was just that I loved the idea of a book about Michel Richard’s clever techniques for the home cook. Like using Saran wrap to coax food into tube shapes — something I’d already done, with Jacques Pepin’s recipe for pork sausage – but in ever expanding possibilities: Spuddies, anybuddy? They’re sorta like Tater Tots. Cute. Doable.
Oh, and that recipe employs another technique I learned from “Happy in the Kitchen,” using gelatin to bind food, and then allowing the heat of cooking to melt it away.
Wait, one more technique from the Spuddies recipe: Whirling raw potatoes in the food processor with water, to create chunks instead of goo. (You drain them afterward.)
Anyway, probably too much information to digest here in a single post (and there's much more to talk about; it's not all fun tricks — there are serious recipes I want to attempt*), but I’m really excited about the book.
Imagine my chagrin, though, when I went to the bookstore and discovered it’s a “coffee-table book” — big and heavy, almost too big for the average kitchen counter, and filled with super photographs.
With a forward by Thomas Keller (whose French Laundry Cookbook still dazzles me, but I’ve never tried a single recipe from it — although I was tempted by those beautiful potato crisps with the chive spikes inside... Ah, who cares, I've got Spuddies).
I wavered for a moment.
Then I discovered this cartoon-y self portrait and Richard's autograph on the title page.
I had to have it.

*OK: Scrambled scallops. Onion pasta. Spinach "brownies." Fake caviar. Fun fun fun.

Holiday Fusion

I'm borrowing Hanukkah.
I don't celebrate Jewish holidays religiously, but I do appropriate their food traditions. Religiously.
So today, on the fifth night of Hanukkah, I made latkes.
Potato pancakes, tinged with onion and fried in copious amounts of oil.
My goyish version is to use less oil and to lighten the potato batter with a pinch of baking powder. No matzo meal, but I did use some flour, and, of course, eggs.
Oh, and I play "old fashioned": I grate the potatoes and onions by hand, rather than using a food processor. I like the rustic texture.
I did break further with tradition by introducing a "modern" condiment... Instead of applesauce, I made persimmon sauce. I know. "Unacceptable." But, oh — oy — so yummy. With a smoodge of sour cream.
OK. Tomorrow back to the shikse candy canes and gingerbread. (Not!)

'Tis the Larder

It's almost Christmas and I'm not panicking.
I'm having the best time ever.
My packages were mailed a long time ago, and the rest of my local gift shopping is finished.
But I'm like a bride on her honeymoon. Everything is suddenly tinged with sex. I mean Christmas. I can't stop thinking about it. "Doing" it.
Which means I can't stop shopping.
Today we bought Bean Sprout a new sweater and booties. (Hey, it froze overnight here last night. He hated walking out in the frosty grass this morning, poor kid. Not sure if he'll like it much better with these ridiculous red footsies, but... Aw... He only weighs five pounds; I win.) I won't even talk about the Santa hat, small doggie size, on sale for one dollar.
Foodwise, we've been filling the Christmas larder with a riot of seasonal fun, easy-peasy style. And it suits my style to have nibblies on hand, rather than roasting and braising and baking and stewing.
No stewing. Yet. We're happy and taking it easy.
This here is a deliberately (!) abstract photo of the raclette we ate for supper the other day. Nothing more complicated than some thinly sliced (raclette) cheese melted on plates in the oven, served with boiled potatoes and pickled vegetables. So simple as long as you have the simple ingredients.
We also have in the refrigerator some duck rillettes (somebody else made 'em), and a huge hunk of white truffle butter (which solves the truffle problem). A bit of leftover baguette. Mm. All set.
Until we go pick up the rib roast Saturday (and something green to have with it).
But we'll need something to eat before we roast the roast on Christmas Day, so there will also be rice skillet bread (hey, wait, I am baking; I baked it last night), leftover stewed greens (okay, I lied about not stewing; we did that yesterday), pickled eggs (in the fridge), Dungeness crab and chanterelle soup (we're shopping for that Thursday), crab tacos with escabeche, panettone from Emporio Rulli, cheeses, persimmons, tangerines, latkes... and macaroni and cheese!
Really good macaroni and cheese.
With pepperoni.
(Start your engines, Kevin.)

Springtime in Winter, and Good for Me

You gotta try this.
I know, I already blogged about it, but it's coming out So Cute!
This is half a hard-cooked egg pickled for about a week in some brine swiped out of a jar of pickled red cabbage and radishes.
The egg picked up the most perfect lavender color, even though the cabbage and radishes are closer to magenta.
It's not a deeply pickled flavor; kinda mild, actually, but flavored nonetheless. Cranky would have liked more vinegar kick, but he'll get that from some of the other egg-pickle flavors we've got going.
The effect is like eating a deviled egg you didn't have to devil.
And the visuals?
Like Springtime in Winter.
Who needs that damn bunny?

For those of you concerned about a balanced meal, the egg was served as part of a tapas plate including fried padron peppers, seasoned toasted walnuts, some of those pickled radishes and cabbage, some pickled cauliflower, two kinds of semidry cheeses, yeah, that's it. Your choice of beverages.

Spreading Democ... I Mean Holiday Cheer

Stephen Crowley/The New York Times
The Three Unwise Men. One down, two to go.

Non-Artisan Politics

To make a long story short (which is another way of saying "Buckle your seatbelts; it's going to be a long story), I needed some pepperoni.
Cranky and I picked up a vacuum-packed lump of "uncured" (nitrite-free) pepperoni slices at Whole Foods yesterday, but the checkout person wouldn't let us buy it. The bag had lost its suck, and ballooned into puffiness. Not good. So she set it aside and we paid for our raw milk (ouch, muy expensivo; expiration date still OK, but that's another story).
But I still needed a little bit of pepperoni for an upcoming scheme.
So we ordered take-out pizza.
Have you seen the Round Table ads for their Artisan Pepperoni pizza? A completely idiotic mishmash of lowbrow-meets-pseudo equals "a good time was had by all."
What I'd like to know is Who or Where is the Artisan who created this industrially mass-produced heap of hooey?
Look. It's burned. The roasted tomatoes are burned, the pepperoni is burned, the disgusting, shriveled worms of basil are burned.
This is purely marketing hype — a meaningless appropriation of an upscale term ("artisan") that, once appropriated, then had to be spoofed by the commercials to sell it to the downscale public.
I will say the pizza tasted pretty good (salty, yes, but that was expected, and too much tomato sauce as usual), and the thin crust is not bad at all for a chain restaurant.
Which is to say it served its purpose:
We were fed, and I peeled off a couple of slices of pepperoni to save in the fridge, awaiting my artisanal ministrations. Bwaa-ha-ha-ha!

School Lunch

I don't know how I got the idea of school lunches in my head.
Maybe it's because, a few days ago, I wrote about casseroles. Tuna casserole, tortilla casserole, that kind of stuff. And of course, the topic of macaroni and cheese came up in comments.
In fact, Kevin of Seriously Good and I are going to co-blog about macaroni and cheese in the near future. He thinks he's going to whip the pants off me — don't worry, I'm wearing leggings underneath — but I've got a couple of tricks up my sleeve (and I'm keeping my shirt on).
One of my tricks, I may as well reveal now, is not to make a whole cafeteria-size pan of the stuff. I've done that in the past simply to have leftovers on hand, but I'm a big girl now and I'm thinking small.
That's probably when memories of queasy school food started bubbling up in my brain, complete with that stifling, indescribable aroma. (What was it? It smelled overheated, shaggy-brown and deplorable, that's all I know. A mixture of everything bad, including Jell-O.)
So, for me, school lunch recollections:

•An ice cream scooper blob of mashed potatoes, drenched with windowpane-transparent cornstarch "gravy" dotted with cooked hamburger pellets. (And that was one of the better meals of the week, even though it resembled smallpox on a spud.)

•Canned spinach. Looked and smelled like cow diarrhea. I assure you, I don't know what it tasted like.

•"Pizza." Even the cafeteria ladies knew this was utterly fake, and put quotation marks around it. It was a huge sheet pan of thick, pallid, puffy dough — slick with moisture and not fully cooked. Smeared with the bitterest of canned tomato paste and showered with (I'm just guessing) grated "government cheese."

•Fried chicken (probably breaded and baked; this was in the days when cooking was actually done on school premises, by the way). I made the rookie mistake of pointing to the plumpest piece in the pan, which was placed on my plate with a pair of tongs and — oh no, did she just laugh at me? Yeah. It was a chicken back: all deceptively bulgy and rounded, but completely hollow on the inside. Just ribs. No meat.

My best school lunch memory, though, is actually school dinner, and it was at college. I was a guest student at Dartmouth for a couple of quarters, and one night everybody in the dining room was surprised with fresh, whole trout. Rumors flew through Thayer Hall that a wealthy, outdoorsy alum had donated crates of it. Whatever. It was pretty good, nicely breaded and fried.
We were responsible for bussing our trays, but it was easy: there was a conveyor belt that ran around the perimeter of the dining hall, leading into the dishwashing area. Just place your tray and watch it bobble its way around the room, where it would eventually disappear into a hole and... holy smoke! Students had begun to spear the trout heads onto forks or knives propped up in their drinking glasses! The entire room was surrounded by a bouncing, chugging army of trout heads, lurching straight for those sweet, unsuspecting cafeteria ladies!
Ah, school memories. I remember that. But I don't remember the fundamental theorem of calculus.

CSI Petaluma

Petaluma, for those of you outside Northern California, is a historic chicken town. Hens and eggs. Coops for miles.
Well, that's all changing, bit by bit, as farmers go out of business and decaying henhouses get knocked down for developments.
But I do still get my eggs from Petaluma (and Santa Rosa, and Marin County too). Those places aren't the scene of the crime, though.
The scene of the crime is my refrigerator. It's a victimless crime, but it bears investigation.
See all those jars of evidence?
Perfectly hard-cooked eggs (Cranky is a master), brining in various liquids. We've been experimenting.
That purple one on the left is new. It's a couple of eggs bathing in the liquid from a jar of homemade red cabbage/radish pickles. The color is so intense, the eggs are already tinted after just a couple of hours.
The bright yellow ones are floating around in a blend of brines swiped from various jars in the fridge: pepperoncini, dill pickles, a little jalapeño juice — with added garlic.
On the right is one of my favorite discoveries, a repeat of an appetizer Cranky and I carted to a party last night (and it seemed to meet with general approval): eggs in leftover kalamata juice. You know all those jars of olives you go through, and then when the olives are gone, you just throw out the juice? Don't! It makes the most tasty, tan, tender eggs. This one is an immediate classic in the Crankycrumb household. (We'll see whether the addition this time of a clove of garlic is thumbs up or down.)
Finally, in the rear to the left, Bloody Mary eggs. Yep. The "brine" is a super-seasoned cocktail made with tomato sauce instead of juice, and an overabundance of accents (Tabasco, Worcestershire, lemon, pepper, salt, celery salt) as well as a ridiculous "splash" (read: tsunami) of vodka. My only disappointment is that the tomatoes seem to toughen the eggwhites... Other than that, they're a little like portable brunch. Hoochy mama.
All these colored eggs (should I put them in a Solstice Basket?) will brew for at least four days, and up to a week.
And you know what? I haven't even begun to try all the pickled egg ideas this experiment has set loose in my brain.

A Steaming Bowl of Rebuke Soup

I think the mainstream media is finally starting to whisper out loud about the Preznit's mental status. A New York Times editorial actually used the word "capacity" in discussing whether W. would be able to accept any of the recommendations of the Iraq Study Group. Oh, maybe they'd technically be able to slither out of intending any connotations of "mental" capacity in the language they chose, but that's surely the message I got.
The guy's koo-koo.
A group of foreign policy experts, including the family consigliere (aka the guy who put Bush in the Oval Office, Jimmy Boy Baker), met with Bush the other day to discuss the ISG findings, and boy, doesn't that sound like an intervention? You know: "He's exhausted; he doesn't know what he's doing. Let's confront him with some reality, some truths. Maybe he'll see the light."
That sucker was served up a steaming bowl of Rebuke Soup.
And he didn't take even a teeny taste.
Oh god. Two more years.

Rebuke Soup
2 cups bitter tears
1 bunch sour grapes
1 crow
Pinch ashes
Hefty dose pride

Cut and run grapes through food processor.
Chop crow "stay-the-coursely."
Spread ashes and pride democratically over improvised edible device.
Stir in bitter tears and heat forever.
Refuse to ingest, digest or get.

Serves: You Right

Are You Talkin' to Bánh Mì?

I described this sandwich to Cranky the other day as a "salad sandwich." It was made from excellent barbecued pork, marinated daikon, carrots, cucumber and cilantro. And a tiny smear of something mayonnaisey. On a shatteringly crisp, tender roll.
Well. According to Wikipedia, the bánh mì is, in fact, a Vietnamese translation of the French "salad sandwich." (Remember those pan bagnats on the beach in Nice?)
Upon reading more about this delicious snack, I realized I've only scratched the surface. I don't think I've ever tried one that wasn't made from barbecued pork, but there are so many other combos to try: chicken, egg, even vegetarian.
So I've got some 'splorin' to do.
But I was so, so happy with my sandwich the other day. Cranky picked it up on a whim on his way home from a trip to The City (which is a pretentious way Bay Areans describe San Francisco). The shop was called Them Ky, on Ellis Street, if you're local and so inclined.
I declare it the Best Sandwich Ever.
Oh. And it was only $2.50.
Unheard of.

Monkeys and Typewriters

Lordy, do we write. We love to write. We love food, certainly, but we do love to write. And not always about food.
Here's a mash-up short story, an ad hoc pastiche from recent food blogs, set to shuffle play — and what a story it tells. Or does it?
(Note to my blog pals. You wouldn't be included here if I didn't adore reading you. Thanks for writing my post today. Blog on.)

Last evening, I sat on our couch, next to the Chef, with tears rolling down my cheeks. I looked up at him, honestly moved and unable to convey it fully with words, and said, "You made me pizza."¹
  Look, I’m grateful, but I’m not that grateful. Hockey, schmockey! Where’s my catnip? Where’s my gourmet meal? And while I’m at it: Hey, cat stuck under the radiator? What the heck are you thinking? Just plant your butt on the floor vent like I do.²
  The question I have been getting the most these days, after "How are you?", is "Where are you?".³
  Well, I used to like the nog, but when Bezzie said "It's like drinking cold spiced phlegm," I may have changed my mind! Can I booze up the cocoa??⁴
  So, the state I find myself in got me looking for hangover cures. Now, there seem to be a couple of different schools of thought on this. The first one calls for more booze and the second for the refuge that only the pharmaceutical industry can give you.⁵
  But, as surely as every cloud has a silver lining, I'm afraid every unseasonable sunny day has its ring around the collar, its withering Dorian Gray portrait, its really scary-looking guy holding a corncob.⁶
  Years ago a good friend Murdock observed that Ed is like the rock in the center of the river, solid and unchanging. Himself is like the water, moving effortlessly through life, one with the universe. I however, was the guy in the kayak, upside down, broken oars, banging into every rock and branch on my way down.⁷
  For as long as I can remember, my tonsils have been the barometer of my internal weather system. My mother repeatedly dragged my younger self to the doctor's office sporting tonsils the size of grapefruits, usually accompanied by a fever and a raging sore throat. Miraculously, my tonsils were never removed, and all these years later, I've grown rather fond of them.⁸
  Things seem to be progressing nicely, so I remove the wrapper and find that, no, actually the chicken is still pretty much frozen solid. Think, Tammy, think. How about a deep-tissue massage so the heat can really penetrate? A little to the left. Up a bit. Right there. Ahhhh.⁹
  Good food, good company and a bowl of rose water and petals that continued to perfume our home for another two days.¹⁰

¹Romantic
²Sarcastic
³Realistic
⁴Hysteric(al)
⁵Aww, Puppy
⁶Moronic
⁷Totally Smoked
⁸Oh, Baby
⁹Outrageous NKOTB
¹⁰Dreamy Dreamer

Gluten-Free by 2050

I've been enjoying some particularly lovely, rainless December days recently.
But, as surely as every cloud has a silver lining, I'm afraid every unseasonable sunny day has its ring around the collar, its withering Dorian Gray portrait, its really scary-looking guy holding a corncob.
A new "blog" at the New York Times (I don't believe it's ever really a true blog if your boss makes you write it) has a brief today on the effects of creeping climate change: The U.S. wheat crop is doomed.
In another 40 years or so, the "belly" of America's wheat crop will have shifted to Canada due to global warming.
That's a big loss.
It's likely that the soybean and corn crops will be similarly affected, but let me be a little unpatriotic and say "buh-bye" to them. And take that scary-looking mook, too, eh?

Cassoulet = Cool, Casserole = Uncool?

Can it be true there's now a generation of eaters who haven't enjoyed homemade casseroles? You know, those one-pot wonders: something meaty, something starchy, something goopy to hold it all together, and probably some cheese and/or breadcrumbs sprinkled over the top as it bakes to bubbling yumminess.
Classic example — tuna noodle casserole. You've never had one of those?
Well, I didn't make a tuna noodle casserole myself until about 22 years ago, although I dutifully devoured my share of my mother's version of them, as a child.
They just sort of fell out of favor. OK, they fell out of fashion.
They got uncool when we budding foodies learned about more exotic, more refined, more (yeah) expensive preparations and ingredients.
Then a fun thing happened. "Irony."
Martinis. Frank Sinatra. Retro was neat-o. And buddy, if you had a hip bone (not necessarily a hipbone) in your body at all, your dedication to irony would have to take you as deep as you dared go.
To casseroles.
In 1984 Jane and Michael Stern published the ultimate retro recipe book, Square Meals. (It's still in print, a revised paperback with a much-less groovy cover now — boo.) This book features not one, but four tuna casseroles. Just to give you an idea where they're at.
How liberating it was to make such stupidly easy food and feel edgy about it! Tuna casseroles — and regrets — I've had a few.
I'm a little off canned tuna these days, so I've had to look elsewhere for my ring-a-ding-ding one-dish dandies.
Lurch forward to the early 90s. My local paper published a cornball recipe for using Thanksgiving leftovers: Turkey Tortilla Casserole. It was the height of goofiness, made from corn tortillas, shredded turkey, green peppers, onions, grated cheese, sour cream, and canned mushroom soup.
I had to have it.
And now I do, once a year, although I've learned to skip the can of sodium and make up my own bechamel with added mushrooms.
But it doesn't use up all the leftover turkey.
So this year I tried yet another retro casserole. It was inspired by the current issue of Saveur, which has a whole story on casseroles — told from the perspective of how horribly un-chic they are, but that their time to shine must come again. The inspiration was Chicken Divan (broccoli, turkey instead of chicken, something goopy, cheese), and when I say I was "inspired by" the recipe, I mean I just went into the kitchen and threw things together. I used flavors I wanted (a little Dijon mustard in the bechamel instead of sherry and nutmeg). Substituted dry Jack for the parmigiano-reggiano. Left out the almonds (?) altogether.
And it came out great.
Really, if you don't have casseroles in your kitchen repertoire, you're missing out.
You don't need a recipe for a casserole if you know what it's supposed to be. If you have a basic understanding of how to get there.
If you have a casserole dish to bake it in.
I still have my Corning Ware dish with the blue flowers. Not even Saveur managed to scrounge up one of those icons for their photo spread.
And if you must know, I got the Corning Ware as a gift for starting a bank account. Back when banks gave gifts.
It's that old.

Happy (Belated) Birthday to Bean Sprout

Bean Sprout turned three last week.
It has been too much fun watching him mature. How does he do it?
I haven't taught him much more than "sit" and "wait" (that last command is unbelievably useful and could be a lifesaver, so teach your dog to wait). The rest he's figured out on his own.
For the first couple of years, he was Cranky's main man. Wouldn't have much to do with me, romantically (though I was the tolerated technician: vet visits, behavior classes, haircuts, etc.). Then suddenly, last summer, he fell in love with me (and why is there a Motels song in my head?). We snuggle, romp and kiss. He trusts me. He feels safe in my lap, flat on his back with his tenderest parts exposed to the mean, scary world. (Cover up, ya perv!) I don't know what caused the breakthrough, but it's most welcome. He learned it all by himself.
He has figured out when I'm about to turn off the computer. I, myself, have not figured out how he figured it out. Do I make special noises as I go through the key-tapping shut-down process? Is there a particular butt wiggle I make in my chair? I don't know. But he does. He jumps up, and we play.
He has also learned to be unbelievably, sickeningly, adorably cute when we're in the kitchen cooking. I have always tried to keep him from learning that people food is tasty, so he won't beg. I don't reward him for begging. But he has taught himself to be heartbreakingly, George-Cloonily cute, and sometimes that results in my taking a break from the cutting board to hand him a dog treat.
Oh, and about that cutting board? Bean Sprout has taught himself to snorf up all the little particles that seem to have fallen to the floor.
Good heavens, am I that messy?
Well, I consider it effective cute-behavior reinforcement.
Or maybe he's just giving me a hard time. Clever little bastard.

(Is November Over Yet?)

I didn't officially join — I'm not a joiner! — but I played along with all the bloggers who took an oath to write a "quality" post every day for the month of November. I might have squiggled out of my vow of "quality" a few times, but I did hit the "publish" button 30 times, so I made it.
So now am I hooked on daily posting?
No, I'm hooked on telling you about the bacon I nibbled on yesterday.
I'm not a bacon expert, and I don't play one on TV either. I'll just tell you that I had the opportunity to taste, side by side, two very nice, local, artisan bacons.
One was made by Black Sheep Farm in Occidental (no web site) and the other was from The Fatted Calf.
The Black Sheep bacon had a great up-front flavor profile: all the right sweet, salty and smoky notes. Fine.
The Fatted Calf: On. The. Other. Hand.
I did not go into this tasting intending to prefer my homies. In fact, last time Cranky cooked up some Fatted Calf bacon, he burned it a little, and I found it salty. (I was told that too-fast heat was the culprit by my bacon expert, who plays a bacon expert on his blog, Dr. Biggles of Meathenge.)
Anyway, this time Cranky eased up on the wattage, and the results were visually pleasing.
And in the mouth? This was a wonder: The flavors kept developing. They went from salt to smoke to rose-flavored meat, to sweet, to wine, to magic. It was psychedelic. It just kept coming.
I tasted — no, I experienced — my way though the bacon.
It was otherworldly.
And then I sprinkled the bacon — both types, crumbled up — on a very worldly baked potato.
A girl's gotta eat.