Special Orders Don't Upset Us

We were sitting around, trying to get up the gumption to make lunch.
Unfortunately, I had woken up thinking of hamburgers.
Worse, the local free weekly paper had a review of our little mini-burger shed, Weezy's. It's just a couple of blocks away from our house, and it's tiny, so take-out is the order of the day.
You should know that today is Birthday Month Eve. So I have it my way, on just about anything, for the next 32 days.
I won't be a ninny, but I did get my burgers.
They are small, so I got two. One plain, to jazz up any way I wanted with the excellent condiment bar offerings. The other, called White Trash... just a Little Mac, really. But good. Good meat, nicely cooked. Goofy pink sauce. Stringy iceberg shreds, and melted real cheese.
And the french fries are superb. Get half white potato and half sweet potato. Dip them in garlic sauce and kiss kissing goodbye.
Smooch!

Memory Soup

A long time ago, way back before David was married to Iman, Cranky and I visited Emmett Watson's Oyster Bar in Seattle, a great little joint tucked away almost secretly across the street from the Public Market.
Emmett Watson was a Seattle columnist, and this intrigued Cranky.
As for me, I was intrigued by my salmon "chowder." (I honestly don't remember what it was called; it's not on the menu as far as I can tell, and yes, the place is still in business.)
In those, our early days of kitchen adventure, we thought we could re-create the chowder at home, and did so, several times. We were always pleased with our results, even though we just used bottled clam juice.
I haven't made that soup in a long time, so I don't even remember what all went into it. Criterially, though, it was a nice fish stock with sliced onions and sliced small potatoes, and a hunk of salmon. Maybe something green; can't recall.
This version was made with a light lobster stock, heightened a bit with salt, paprika, white pepper and fennel seeds. While the stock is hot, on the stove, cook the potatoes and onions to your liking. In the stock, if you like. (We added some peas at the last minute.) Pull them out and strew in soup bowls, and then cook the salmon in the hot stock. It should only take a minute a side, at most. Top the vegetables with the salmon, and spoon stock all around. It can be as chock-a-block as you wish, but I err on the side of ethereal.
Serve.
Easy. If memory serves.

National Pretzel Day. Today.

Do you eat a pound and a half of pretzels a year? You don't? Then you're not average.
I'm not average either, although I did enjoy a small handful of gluten-free pretzels just yesterday, with some cream of asparagus soup.
I like salt, but not mouthfuls of it. It's hard to eat salty snacks without overdoing the sodium chloride, so I avoid them for the most part. I will binge on kettle potato chips (unflavored, thank you) once in a while. Love them. But that's my salty limit, and I spend the rest of the month atoning. I like corn chips, too, but we make our own at home from fresh tortillas, baked and unsalted. Good with guacamole.
Pretzels, though. Eh. Now and then.
Happy Day.
(Oh, that dude? He's the founder of Walkenbach's Pretzels. Can't really find him online, but the picture was from Google Images.)
AND. Just last night I watched an Iron Chef where one of the dishes was pretzel spaetzle. Mit bier, not to drink, but as part of the liquid ingredients. Ach.

Settling into a Rut

I've made this asparagus soup twice in a row. It came out different each time, both times winners.
The super secret ingredient has been the fresh sorrel leaves from the plant growing in a pot on the patio. Without adding any sour cream (or any dairy at all, aside from that pat of butter), this soup blended up into a mildly tart, creamy puree, thinned with homemade vegetable stock. You could have sworn Cowgirl Creamery was doing a dance in there, but no. Flavorings were green garlic, some dill weed and a shake of ground coriander. Salt and white pepper.
So simple. So damn good.
Honestly, we would have cried while we were eating the soup, but we were too busy slurping and squealing. Buncha pigs in that sty.
I'll do this again; there are still asparagus and sorrel to be had for a while longer. Nice rut.

Life Is Good

The endless winter is close to ending.
There will be one or two more rainy days Monday and Tuesday, and fingers crossed, that will be the last.
And, on the upside, LOOK.
I planted two artichoke plants in the front yard about three years ago. The first two years, I got nuttin'. In fact, they died off in the hot summer sun, only to resurrect, Phoenix-style, once the rain started again. So maybe I DO like rain.
This year, for the first time, there are small fist-sized (my small fist) buds right on top, one on each plant. And there are a couple of babies nestled in the leaves, ready for their shot at the big time.
I don't know how successful this crop will be. One 'choke looks like it wants to open already, so they're probably not getting any larger. But I am enormously happy!
Growing your own artichokes? That's better than corn. That's better than celeriac. It might not be better than sardines, but my sardine crop has been a bust.

Recipe for Another Bowl of Asian

I couldn't let the dumb pea shoots get me down.
I should have looked at recipes for how to cook them. But I didn't, and the pea shoots were vile.
Then again, just yesterday I told Cranky that perhaps one reason I'm not so frisky in the kitchen these days is because I'm always forcing myself to create new flavors, new combinations, without recipes. Which can be tiring. Even if they taste old and familiar; as long as I hadn't used a cookbook.
I would use a cookbook!
That sounded like the solution. I would raid my numerous cookbooks, even if only for outlines, and get productive again. Rest my tired brain and bring forth food.
Then.
This morning, before the sun came up, I started fantasizing about a white bean and pasta soup. Where would it go? What tastes, textures? By the time I got out of bed, the dream soup also had chopped Savoy cabbage and hacked shiitake mushrooms. All it would need is some vegetable broth, scallions, a dash of tamari and a dash of sesame oil.
Very mild, yet rich. Easy to eat, but filling. I should write this recipe down; I may want to consult it again.
But there was no recipe.

Ack, Gack

They're pretty, aren't they? Twisty, curly, like they came from a strange planet.
And the flavor is also out of this world, though I can identify it: Peas.
This was our first attempt to cook pea shoots. Blend them with some lovely oyster mushrooms in a skillet with a little grease and water. Toss. Cover until they become tender and serve over rice.
They didn't become tender!
The leaves got tender, but it was a throat-gagging experience to nibble them off the sharp sticks, I mean stems.
My only guess is that these pea shoots were too old, and shame on the farmer who sold them.
Unless I'm wrong. Ideas?

Wow, Almost Six Months Ago

In two days, Bartlett will have been with us a half a year.
She is bigger now: Up almost seven pounds from the day we brought her home, to exactly 10 pounds. Which probably means she'll continue to grow, because she's still a puppy. Her features have changed to a more mature look. Svelte, muscular, smooth. Really pretty.
But here in this homecoming photo, she is conked out in my lap at the age of eight weeks, with a short muzzle and cute floppy ears. Those have both lengthened. And her torso has elongated (we believe she is derived from sight-hound stock; think Whippet).
Behavior? Totally athletic. She can already jump up onto the bed. (She's been jumping off it for months.)
Obedience? Now and then. It's my biggest agony, and believe me, we work on her every day. Right now she is in the middle of a two-hour nap (a record) because she spent so much time outdoors this morning being good, and bad. Rewards with treats are a constant, but sometimes she'd rather just be naughty. No treat.
I think things will improve as she matures. Already we are seeing her learn to control herself. It will get better.
If she were a human baby, she'd still be in diapers, so I guess we're lucky. And no college tuition to save up for.
But even though young puppies are the cutest, I'm ready for Bartlett to grow up.
In my lap. (She still fits.)
She has the softest fur, ever.

Who Put the Dogs In?

Woof. Woof. Woof, woof.
I've been planning this meal for a long time. We had a small batch of socca batter left over. Not really enough for this job, even, but we forged ahead on faith and an empty stomach.
Two fragile "tortillas," tender yet crisp on the edges. One for him, one for me. Distinct flavor of "bread," even though the flour is made from garbanzo beans. Unbelievable. My new go-to bread.
The dogs were sizzled in a pan after the kimchi got fried. "Tortillas" were waiting in the oven (but probably should have just kept them under a towel to maximize moisture; even an overnight in the fridge would have been good).
Simple smoodge of mayo, very little. Application of kimchi. Laying on of the dogs. Stabbing with toothpick, because the wraps were just a little too smallish.
For dessert, iceberg wedge with impromptu pink dressing. Ketchup was an ingredient.
Like you had something better?

Unseasonal Frippery

Just because.
Just because smoked salmon popped into my head again the other day.
Just because miniature socca "blini" are so easy to make, and so good to eat. I love 'em.
Just because there was already sour cream and red onion in the fridge.
Nothing fancy, really.
But. Fancy.

On Flavor

The other day, when I posted about slow-cooked pork shoulder, a bunch of commenters offered their ideas for jacking up the taste of the meat as it cooks: dry rubs, mostly, as well as citrus and barbecue sauce. They all sounded great.
So why was my pork cooked in such a simple brew? Water, salt and pepper, bay leaves, onion, garlic, orange rind. Nice, but not a kick in the teeth.
I kind of don't want a kick in the teeth, y'know? I'm not afraid of spices; I eat tostadas with hot salsa a couple of times a week. I love my spice drawer, and always try to use its contents when appropriate. Dressings, soups, gravies, you name it. That picture above is some home-ground, homegrown ají colorado chiles, hot and nice. It does get used.
But here we were with this pristine pork, humanely raised and slaughtered, tasty as the devil all on its own. Did I want to paper over its natural flavor with coffee, cocoa, vinegar, chiles, etc.?
Frankly, I didn't.
I have said before that the first Eat Local Challenge five years ago was like boot camp for my taste buds. Everything got clean, aligned, prioritized. Good food tastes good, period. No need for shock tactics.
And you might say that as a result, my cooking is bland. Oh, gosh. Perhaps it is.
But it tastes good. To me. Really good.
I wonder if you would even like it.
Today we're going to slop some of the pork-cooking liquid over a batch of black beans and white rice (Moros y Cristianos).
I think it will be flavorful enough.
What's your take on jazzing up flavors? Yea? Nay? Some?
Yeah, I know.
Me, too.

Porky Pig

The house is ALIVE with the smell of dead pig meat. No, really. The aroma is heavenly, so that piggie is in a good place. I'm OK with that.
The story here is that I finally resorted to using my old Crock Pot, a genuine relic from the '70s in a shade of harvest gold. We only use it for beans around here, but Zoomie and Biggles had been having success slow-cooking wads of muscle. I had to try.
Still, I was dubious. That bone-in pork shoulder (or "butt") sat, vacuum sealed, in the freezer for months. I couldn't get my mojo working.
Until this damn winter of a spring drove me to craving soft, stringy meat, warm from its bath and fragrant with aromatics.
I cooked it on high for a few hours (I don't know how many, four or five), until it was fally-aparty. It takes a while. If you stick a fork in it and feel any resistance or tightness, it ain't done. The truth is, I don't think you can even overcook meat in a Crock Pot.
But we happened to stop it at the right instant. One little trimming of pork that had been cut off so the rest would fit was immediately dispatched to our mouths. I didn't feel guilty at all, even though I had grand plans for making arepas and coleslaw. Later on.
The meat rested in its hot liquid for a few more hours, still "cooking" but not overcooking, and soon we craved another bite. Arepas be damned. We wanted bites of this incredible pork as god intended, straight from the Crock Pot. Mmm. Little meltings of fat that almost tasted like butter. Tender shreds of meat, flavored with bay leaves, onions, garlic, orange rind, salt and pepper. Soft, juicy. What could be better?
Nothing! This is the best job I've ever done with a hunk of meat. Ever. Well, I've finally got the Christmas roast beef down to a science, but that's only once a year (and it's still subject to goof-ups). I cannot cook a chicken, this is known. Fish, bacon, steaks, fine. But it's the hunks that throw me.
Until now. I can't wait to do this again.

Iconic Breakfast, Detail

I'm still letting Cranky do a lot of the cooking, and he does love it.
I wince in my private, polite way, sometimes. But I never say anything out loud. Heck, if it were me cooking, any little flaws or failures would be on MY report card, and I'm grateful that Cranky only suggests, never complains.
So here's a perfect breakfast. Beautiful bacon. Sunny-side-up egg, a little on the jiggly side (eek). Hash brown taters, perfectly cooked, but needed much more grease.
Verdict? Clean Plate Club.
Next time I'm cooking.

I'm Cooking

I'm cooking! I've been letting Cranky cook for so long. Ennui. Fatigue. Lack of appetite.
He's done a stellar job; sometimes creating fantastic meals and sometimes just getting us fed. So thanks, Cranky. Now, move over.
A couple of days ago I forced myself to make a cream of asparagus/sorrel soup for lunch. I was so out of shape, my hair was sweating. But it came out really good, smooth and light (not sludgy), with great flavors. Wow. So I dibsed supper. Which was easy, because it was damp and gloomy. I had one jar left of my home-canned chili. Just pop, heat and eat. (That seal was super tight! Major pop.) Accompanied with steamed tortillas (coulda used a salad; I'm currently in love with iceberg).
Yesterday I found myself announcing to Cranky that we would be having curried cauliflower for lunch. I envisioned a pale gold, soupy, creamy sauce caressing the florets, kinda retro.
But I wasn't exactly sure how to get that, and I wasn't in the mood for recipe mongering. I had a jar of Madras Curry Paste, with Vietnamese titles on the front, the name of the company is Chinese, and by the way, it's manufactured in Southern California. It tastes terrific, but it's very hot. No way I was gonna use that entirely for my sauce. And I couldn't envision diluting it with cream or whatever, because not in the mood, yadda.
So I let the creamy bath idea go. I sauteed the florets with chopped green garlic in peanut oil until I got the desired brown spots here and there. Next, I dropped in two gooey spoonfuls of the curry paste, with a little salt. That got all stirred around (it tends to clump). Finally, and this turned out to be genius, I added a heap of fresh-made ricotta (I didn't make it), and swirled that through until the moisture cooked off. It resembled paneer!
Just a quick topping with cilantro leaves, and boy howdy, I had made a curried cauliflower dish beyond my India Palace Buffet expectations. It was new, nouveau (at least in my kitchen), and I cooked!

Delicious Nutritious Citrus

For the past several mornings now, we've been enjoying a breakfast of oranges fresh off the tree, still cold from the night. Pick as needed.
These fabulous oranges (They're either Cara Cara or Summer Navel; I must do research) peel, intact, away from the rind as you bite into a sliced section, so you get all the fiber and juice in your mouth and none of the pith. (Because who wants pith in their mouth?) They're not super-juicy, so you feel like you're getting a good, chewable bite. Filling, even.
Yesterday we embellished the plate with a small dish of local ricotta cheese. It was nice, in a Creamsicle way, but not necessary.
The oranges are the star. Don't need some pale, bland starlet stepping on lines.
Behold, an ocean of orange waves and orange bergs.

UPDATE: I believe the oranges are Summer Navels, as I originally suspected. Turns out Cara Caras have a pink flesh, and my babies are orange, like the name says.

Meat and Potatoes: Square Meal

We've been working on a huge ham from Prather Ranch. It tastes so good; really good cure and no smoky ashtray flavor. We've been using it to put in things and around things and... I just wanted a slice on its own. I guess I'm a square.
So that made for a pretty Sunday lunch, along with a fresh green salad (the mache was bitter, ech) and a mound of what we are calling Cannonshot. It is a hybrid of colcannon and clapshot.
Cranky used a hand masher, and the carrot stayed lumpy, which I think is springy looking. And, it didn't come out looking like Gerber's pureed baby aspirin.
Excuse me, I have to get back to the fireplace. Sigh.