Something Wicked This Way Comes*

Happy Boo Day!
I've been meaning to make this dish for a while, and there couldn't be a better time than today.
Spaghetti with squash sauce. UGH! Frightening, eh?
No, I've seen it here and there on the Internet, and I'm game enough to try. Even Cranky was not paralyzed with fear.
Of course, it being Halloween, I had to use black pasta. Nice. In a scary way.
I was on my own for the sauce, not bothering to look up anybody else's recipe. Dangerous? Nah.
The ingredients were squash chunks, a couple of halved tomatoes, and a handful of unpeeled garlic cloves. Roast all with a bit of olive oil for an hour. Let cool, then scoop the squash off its skin. Ditto the tomatoes. Peel the garlic. All this goes into the food mill instead of a blender, so you still have some fiber and texture. Mill it directly into a small saucepan, and from there, you are free to add tons of butter (recommended), salt, a pinch of ground red chili, and a little or a lot of soy sauce. Monitor the saltiness here. Warm the sauce to your liking. Eerie.
Plate, top with parmesan shavings, and scatter parsley.
One wants to be modest, but hoo-ee, baby. This was a drop-dead success. Eek!
And it wasn't strange! Strange.
Why would squash on pasta be so comforting, so familiar? OH! Right. We've all eaten ravioli stuffed with pureed squash, drowned in brown butter and sprinkled with sage leaves. So this is really similar, but a little different with all that garlic.
A little garlic will do you good tonight.

*#movies in my pants

Banh Mi for Mi

Cool thing to do with leftover roasted pork belly. Slicy, meaty, salad* in a sandwich.
I know there are people well-versed in the Vietnamese culinary canon. I am not one of them. But I wanted some of that brown "barbecue" sauce some banh mi joints smear on the bread, so I made up one of my own. I am programed to love my own creations; it's my default position. Even so, I will just as boldly tell you when something has gone horribly wrong.
This went horribly right, and if you want to tell me what a piece of ill-informed, colonialistic, yuppie trash I am, leave a comment. If you want to know what was in the delicious brown goo, it was oyster sauce with a little agave syrup and some rice vinegar.

*Carrot, cucumber, jalapeno and cilantro.

Who's a Vegetarian?

Oh, come on. There are a lot of vegetables on this plate, including a couple of cloves of unpeeled garlic, roasted along with everything else. I'm going to roast garlic cloves every time the oven is on; what a great mouthful.
OK, yes, there is a little bit of meat. Pork. Pork belly, to be specific, which means there is a little bit of fat, too.
A few weeks ago I had bought a couple of pork bellies to cure for bacon. As time went on, the desire kind of waned. Cranky got nervous about those unused animal slabs, and pushed for a resolution. Throw them away or, or.
Wait! Didn't we just watch Jamie Oliver roasting a thwack of meat the other day? And wouldn't that technique work here? We Googled pork belly, and Jamie Oliver's roasting technique was the first hit. Bingo.
It was dead simple. Put some veg in the roasting pan, and top them with the scored meat. Cook, cook, cook. (Basically, ignore.) Come back when your kitchen smells wicked, and dinner is ready. Crisp, juicy, smoky (had to air out the house).
Lucky I'm not 100% vegetarian.

It Rained

Some of these tomatoes might have had a chance at ripening, but it rained.
You can't leave tomatoes out there when it rains; I learned that the hard way last year. They split and go bad. So sad.
So when the weather turned nasty, Cranky stripped the vines of everything. Not a very big harvest, because that's the way things went this season. We'll eat the eatiest ones, and roast and freeze the rest.
We also thank Cranky for this photograph. I think if I were to one day vaporize, he could take over this blog and you'd never know the difference.

I Do Still Hate Him So

Nothing to say, much. Found this cool T-shirt here.

Hooked on Pot

Clay pot.
OMG, what a great invention, and what a great intervention in the lazy kitchen chez nous where sometimes supper is canned sardines on saltines. Which is yummy or I wouldn't eat it, but it's not cuisine.
This clay pot has taught us one basic technique, with the possibility of ingredient exchange. We haven't ventured much further than tofu, mushrooms, garlic, and something green, though, because it's perfect. Once we used some diced tomatoes; they disappeared. Carrots are fine, but didn't really jangle my periphery. Next time we're using broccoli florets, and I think it will be good.
Anyway. It's so funny to think you are having Asian fast food, when you have been instructed to soak the pot for 24 hours before you start cooking. And you will be having rice, however long that takes. But it is really fast, once you have all the mise in place. Cranky even keeps the pot on near-perma-soak, just in case. (But we agree a couple of hours in the water is probably fine.)
Looking forward to lunch.

This Is the Last, I Promise

Wow, we had to open a new jar of mayonnaise. The garden tomatoes and cucumbers are in a final, fatal rush to the finish line, and who are we to interfere with their predetermined deaths?
We applied palliative care, in fact. Fresh, chewy bread, a crack of pepper and a little salt. That mayo.
The star today, a little surprisingly, was the cucumber. The 'maters have been red, ripe and reliable (once that gloom-infected summer ended), but not knockouts in the taste department.
The cucumber (called a General Lee, I believe) was so delicious, it had to be peeled. The peels are thick, a little spiny, and spinning with deep green flavor. Good for the compost pile. The tender bright slices were delirious with moist, garden nuance. Gonna grow these from now on.
OK, is it time for fall food yet? I got some ideas.

Aaaannnd. If you care. The dog, the driver and the dope (that would be me) survived the 10-hour ordeal yesterday. Flying colors. Only one poop in my parents' hallway, and I didn't do it.

Hold Still, Hold Still... {Flap}

Bartlett is going on her very first road trip Friday. It's a day trip, three hours down and three hours back. Which is a lot of driving.
She does well in the car; just moans for a few blocks and then falls asleep in her crate. That's when we drive to the mall or something. But this is new.
This morning we were mentally packing the car, and realized we're bringing nothing for ourselves. There will be a hostess gift of lovely local baked goods; that'll take up almost no space at all.
The rest of the load is doggie stuff. Her dishes, her food, some emergency water for the road, her crate, her leash, her playpen and the layer of towels we line it with in case there's ever an accident (there isn't, but...). The playpen collapses for travel, thank goodness, because it's roomy enough for a toddler.
We only plan to be at our destination for a short while, but we're bringing everything since it's her first trip and we don't know how she'll behave.
She likes new people, no problem. The problem is she likes them too much. "Oh, new person! Wag, wag, wag. Kiss, kiss, kiss. I don't know you but I love you forever! Hug, scratch, pat. Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle."
And then I'm thinking "Six hours in the car for this puppy? Who thought this up?"

Simple Is Yummier

I don't have much of a sweet tooth, but I can certainly appreciate a nice dessert.
But for me, "nice" means not too gloppy, too sugary, too fatty.
Dessert making is art, no doubt about it. Shatteringly flaky crusts, dribbling rivers of syrup and butter, and all those flavor tweaks. Vanilla. Cinnamon. Like that.
Try as I might, though, it's just not for me.
I know, there's also inelegant dessert making: poor-quality chocolate, too much orange zest, stale nuts. Not talking about that (and not eating it, either).
The upshot, I guess, is that I don't make desserts using recipes. I'll fake a little compote of cherries, almonds, yogurt. Naive, and yum.
Today I faked a little "crostini" of green gage prunes, dried from our plum tree, with a smear of Nicasio Valley Cheese Company soft cow's milk Foggy Morning, smooshed over slices of sweet baguette.
You got your fruit, your dairy, your bakery.
No butter, no powdered sugar, no piping bag.
With a simple, pure, honest combination of ingredients like this, you are tasting real flavors. The prunes are excruciatingly good (but I wouldn't stop you from buying a different kind). The cheese is ethereal, with just the right hint of salt to tickle the sweet, chocolatey prunes. The baguette was basically there to hold it up, but it made for nice chewing.
I wish this wonderful, sane dessert for you.
Oh, hell, I should confess. I ate this dessert for lunch.

Plating

I used to make a living as an artist. First, a technical illustrator, then an advertising "imagist" (I joke, people), then an illuminator of children's books, mostly textbooks.
Let's just say I really sucked, and I fired myself after too many years. I still have a few pieces of my own art I like, but in general, I sucked.
I do have a certain design sense I'm proud of, so I thought I'd be OK at plating food.
And yet? I sucked.
I know this, because Cranky is the other food plater in our house. He's really good.
Cranky has a loose, Matisse style when strewing the edibles on the crockery. It's never messy, like a Kandinsky. He makes everything count, and nothing is lost in the strew.
I, on the other hand, tend to arrange morsels as if I were reinventing the sunflower. Everything radiating from the center, and too much concentric. Gah. I cannot loosen up.
I have taught Cranky a hugeload of tasting and cooking strategy. You'd think he'd give me a few lessons on plateology. But no, he remains the genius, the idiot savant, the master. He doesn't want me to learn.
This was the last slice of our cold chicken terrine, served on a plate of eye-pleasingly, opulently, adorably scattered greens and reds and whites.
Cranky did it.
It looks simple, but I would have done it completely dumb.

Dietary Drift

Mayonnaise season has come to an end.
We actually used up an entire jar of blue-lid mayonnaise this year. I can't remember eating that many tomato sandwiches. Maybe there was a lot of salad dressing chez nous.
This photo shows what I believe is the last summer sandwich of the season. Tomatoes from the dying vines, that mayo, and leaves of sorrel from the pot on the patio.
Sorrel! Bright, crisp, tangy.
I have a lot of favorite herbs growing out there, and this one's really up there. We have a few remaining leaves, and they're scheduled for a weed pie, my pal Mouse's weekly supper of greens baked in pastry. I have no idea how she makes her dish, so I'll just be making something up. Parsley, some kale, garlic, sliced potatoes, feta cheese. And that sorrel.
Maybe later I'll talk to you about my rather recent, seismic lurch toward vegetarianism. It's not a 100% deal, at all. But I have just decided I don't like eating meat.
Never really did.
Still, a little bacon would have been good on that sandwich.

I'll Tell You What Bugs Me

It was Cranky's turn to cook, and he wanted to make use of the wonderful beans and rice we had left over in the fridge.
Almost too easy: A couple of pasilla peppers, with bombbay doors cut into them. Scoop in the beans and rice. Top with cheese (he used two kinds).
Throw a splash of water in the bottom of a casserole just small enough to hold the peppers, and put a lid on. (Well, the stuffed peppers are already inside, right? Jeez, people.)
Bake for about 45 minutes. It's done when the peppers are soft.
OMG, the floral flavors in my mouth! I couldn't decide if it came from the peppers or the cheese or the filling.
Oh, wait. Could it have come from that damn little bedbug down there at the blossom end?
Look. You can see it. Click the piccy.
I really think I ate it.

I Am Not Usually This Fancy

Okay. This is the most fantastic thing I have ever eaten, and it was easy as pie. No. Pie is not this easy.
A few months ago I decided to roast a chicken in a plastic roasting bag, because my friend Angel Mouse recommended it. Would you roast chicken in a plastic bag? No! Only if your friend Angel Mouse recommended it. So I did.
Then she told me the secret weapon. Save the juices and fat in the bag. When the chicken is cool enough, peel off the skin and dig out the bones. You know, shreddy.
Dump ALL this (sans bones and skin, and if you used a spoonful of flour in your plastic bag, get a spoon and remove that too) into a little terrine dish (oh, lord, it was difficult to guess the right size) and refrigerate.
You doubt me right about now. But I'm serious. Only salt went onto the chicken. Goozle and grease went into the little dish, coating the chicken shreds. If it's a really good free-range chicken (and ours was a small one) it's gonna taste so good.
I pressed it down with a smaller dish and some weights. I can't tell you what. OK, cans of beer.
Chill this mess, and tomorrow, blend a little chopped tarragon with mayonnaise. You can also pepper up some Dijon mustard, but you'd probably prefer the mayo.
We ate little chunks of the terrine on sliced baguette. I kinda avoid baguettes, but this was perfect.
Bonus: There are leftovers.