The Disappearing Plate Trick

I should call this the "disappearing meal trick," because that's how good our Rabbit Red Beans and Rice was.
Cranky is mostly responsible for the dish, made from sauteed slices of Devil's Gulch rabbit sausage plus red beans from Full Belly Farms. There is no recipe, because he was really improvising. For instance, we had no bell peppers, but he added a small amount of green tomatoes scavenged from the freezer, toward the end of cooking. I tinkered slightly with the salt level, but I'm proudest of my addition of ground red chile powder, made from peppers I grew last summer.
Yes, my contribution to the overall project was admittedly skimpy, so Cranky won art-directing honors again. He wanted the picture shot from overhead. And he preferred the white plate, which, I warned him, would disappear.






(My version)

You Getting Any Ripe Tomatoes Yet?

It's only May, fergodsake.
When we bought our tomato seedlings last month from the kindly Marin Master Gardeners, they warned me not to plant them until this month. Fine. Wait until the weather is cooperating.
But was I expecting edible 'maters this soon? Scary.
OK. I'm mad and I eat, but some of you aren't hearing my mad rants often enough.
Here's what I read in this morning's New York Times:
"Soaring Fuel Prices Take a Withering Toll on Truckers." Some guy in Georgia is contemplating selling off his fleet of trucks (if he even can) because the cost of diesel is too high for him to run a business.
"With Migrant Workers in Short Supply, a Farmer Looks to Machines." This fellow in New York cut down 25 acres of cherry trees because he couldn't depend on finding laborers to get them harvested. (You have to click and go see the picture. Shudder.)
"Contractors Are Kept Busy Maintaining Abandoned Homes." A team of men visits vacant, foreclosed-on houses in Florida to tweak them into some semblance of non-meth-lab, hopefully desirable condition.
These three stories are all being played out all over America! They ran in one national paper on the same day.
And that's just creepy. Because it makes me feel really bad about harvesting ripe tomatoes in my backyard already.
I mean, sure, I ate 'em. Good!
But. Global Warning.
Thanks, Bush.
(Yeah, well... I blame him for everything. He got his wish: Arma-geddit-on.)

Is It Pretty? No. Is It Good? Yes.

Another example of the most comforting dishes being the worst to photograph.
Oh, I tried. Intact, in the dish. Scooped out, on plates. Many angles of light. Close up; out far.
Homely!
But. Exactly.
This is homely food.
It's Deborah Madison's recipe for savory bread pudding from Local Flavors, made with the ultimate spring ingredients of morels, asparagus and green garlic. Well, of course, plus bread, eggs, milk, shallots and Gruyere cheese. Oh, and butter. Pepper. Salt.
Marjoram. Parsley.
We've used Madison's technique a zillion times, but this is the first time we've ever followed her ingredients list exactly.
Verdict?
I am a dumb, dumb bunny.
Madison is a genius.
I have loved every one of the riffs I've ever done on her bread pudding, but this one was Da Bomb.
Please, follow Deborah Madison's recipes to a T the first time you try them. She's that good.
Then you can experiment.
I have to wonder what it's like in Madison's kitchen when she's working up recipes. Does she just KNOW what to do, or does she fool around a million times until it's perfect?
I'm guessing she just knows.

Uncool

Remember "meat martinis"? An appetizer of steak tartare served in a cocktail glass.
I think there were lots of other unusual snacks served in martini glasses, back in the '90s. But now... so uncool.
I even read a snark recently about the dumb old tradition on a blog somewhere. Can't remember, but boy, am I embarrassed. You know, because... Well, look at the picture.
Uncool.
Anyway, it was a pseudo-ceviche of smoked salmon, tossed with diced watermelon, seasoned with lime, shallot, cilantro and (homegrown!) chile powder. Really tasty, even if it evoked a tired old something or other.
Why does food go out of style?

Is This Chicken Flipping Me the Bird?

Our beloved, local meat and eggs ranch, Marin Sun Farms, has only been selling chickens for a couple of years. I think I might have bought one of the very first ones that came to market, and I remember it being a very tender bird. Too tender, almost.
It wasn't until I was enjoying a much undeserved feast of Anita and Cameron's fried chicken this past Sunday that I learned Marin Sun Farms uses water processing on its chickens, resulting in... possibly... soggy... flesh.
Oh! The fried chicken was so, SO not soggy. It was a version of Michael Procopio's double-battered fried chicky, all seasoned up with salt and pepper and onion and buttermilk. Crispy, tasty, substantial. And I say undeserved, because Cranky and I invited our pals to join us for a picnic, and then we "let" them bring the food. Hah! (Their cake was really good, too.) I mean, jeez, talk about "Stone Soup."
Now, honestly, Cranky and I did provide a few snacks, and a pretty good time was had by all, up there in the pastorally cow-manure-and-Canada-goose-poop-scented grounds of Marin French Cheese Company (where they've been plying their trade since 1865!).
But I'm glad to have learned this about Marin Sun Farm's chicken. Because a couple of days ago, we roasted one, stuffed with a pierced lemon off our tree, as well as a tangled handful of backyard herbs, onion tops, and more herbs.
For years I have stuffed a lemon inside chickens for roasting. Well! Just the other day I read some wise blogger's observation that a juicy ol' lemon is likely to disrupt the moisture balance inside your bird, especially if it tends toward juicy already.
Jeez. And I thought I knew what I was doing in the kitchen.
Which is why this chicken is flipping me the bird.
But I got revenge.
After we dined on the soft meat, we simmered up a pot of fabulous chicken stock, seasoned with all those delicious herbs that were stuffed inside the bird.
We took the lemon out first.

Berry, Berry Good to Me

Wheat berries.
If you're of a certain age, wheat berries are rife, rank, ridiculed with period placement.
Wheat berries: sprouted, to make hippie bread.
And frankly, that's all I can remember about wheat berries back then. Hippie bread. Way back then.
But, no thanks. Frankly, I never even made sprouted wheat bread. Back then.
Today, wheat berries are best consumed in a most loving, loved state, the way I do, most mornings.
I soak the wheat berries overnight, with a pinch of salt, and then cook them gently in the slow cooker for a few hours the next morning.
Some days the wheat berries are consumed as breakfast: covered with cut-up fruit, a dab of yogurt, a swizzle of honey. Mm. That will keep you content (digestively, for a long time) at least until lunchtime.
Other days, we use the cooked wheat berries as a sort of rough cous cous. Decorated with feta cheese, sliced cukes, herbs, chopped tomatoes, seasonings (oil, vinegar... you can see where this is going).
I love wheat berries.
Thank you, Full Belly Farm.

Onion Bouquet

Double entendre intended: When I walk near the onion patch, the sweet, snarky smell of the onions wafts up from the dirt, and the beautiful white flowering tops on long stalks are so pretty, I almost want to get married again.
Cranky, would you marry me if I was holding an onion bouquet?
If not, just hold out a little while longer; the orange tree is almost in bloom. Much nicer aroma, and such pretty blossoms.

Hell Eve

This is yesterday evening's sunset.
Considering that the weather forecasters were predicting the Hottest Day Ever for today, I thought I'd grab a picture of the Beginning of the End.
Except End Times didn't come. Sure, it's hot outside now (mid-90s, and that's warm for May), but it's manageable. We even had lunch outdoors, on the patio under the shade of the canopy (my favorite place for al fresco dining). A little breeze picks up now and then. We're hydrating with flavored waters (more on that later). The meal was light, cool and fresh.
Nothing about today seems nearly as hellish as last night's sunset.
Ooh, but last night... I think I even saw the devil last night!
Click on the pic, and look down at the lower right...
Aw. That's just a sliver of my across-the-street neighbor's TV.
Isn't it?

I'm Cranky and I Eat

Yeah, I should change the name of this blog.
Cranky has been doing all the cooking lately, even if some of the food we're enjoying hasn't exactly been cooked.
This morning he served little bowls of yogurt cheese with sliced strawberries, sprinkled with balsamic vinegar and a crack of black pepper.
That just made us hungry for lunch, though, so now he's in the kitchen faking his way through some ma po tofu. I love that guy. I sit here noodling on the keyboard, and he's in the kitchen noodling with a sharp knife. (A lot better than knifing with a sharp noodle; believe me, I've tried.)
All his culinary contributions have gone to his head. Now he's art directing the food pictures I take. Where I would ordinarily get in real close and abstract-y, depth of field problems and all, he'd prefer to see representational photos of his dishes. You know, normal focus. Recognizable items. The old fart. But I play along. Pull back, get the long shot. (I've offered to let him take the pictures himself, but so far, I'm Still Mad and I Take the Pictures. His way, sometimes.)
The other day Cranky whipped up a faux salade Niçoise. Keeping in mind that tomatoes aren't in season yet, and that asparagus will be gone from the markets in a couple of weeks, he created a charming and unbelievably tasty version... his way.

PS: I took a bunch of pictures. Here's the one I would have published, but, see, Cranky is in charge. Hm. Maybe he does have better taste than I do.

Thank God the Primaries Are Over

They're NOT??
Nrrrghh... rrnnngh... arrrrggnnhhh.
Must remain calm.
Nice, soothing dish of strawberries and yogurt.
Cancel newspaper subscriptions.
Weed garden, yes.
Sanity trickles back.

Haiku! (Gesundheit.)

Spell Check, You Crazy Bastard!

You've seen this New Yorker cartoon, right?
Well, doesn't matter anyway.
The point is, if you don't know what you're doing, you probably shouldn't be doing it.
Some dear heart typed up the promotional copy on this discount postcard we received in the mail. When he or she ran the prose through the non-Italian-speaking spell checker, things got a little bit confussily. But our dear heart didn't know, and pressed "OK" on the re-spell button.
Ah.
I'm just being fussy.