Bean and Fish Sandwich, Basically

White bean bruschetta. Who doesn't love that? Over the years I've learned to make the bean mash lighter (save your bean cooking water for a loosening dollop if you need it), maybe a little oilier with superb oil. This time it was seasoned with minuscule dustings of herbs and chile powder. A squeeze of lemon juice!
How could it be any nicer?
Well, I had an idea. A completely original idea, mine alone. Nobody would have thought of this.
I was going to place a strip of anchovy over the beans. I felt like I was inventing Barcelona!
We had bought some fantastic anchovies a few months ago at Whole Foods. They were sold in a little plastic butcher's tray, like fresh meat. They were vivid, kinda red, and firm. Best thing ever.
Turns out we couldn't finish all the little fishes, so Cranky preserved them in a small jar with a covering of olive oil, in the fridge.
They turned mushy. The magic was gone. The flavor was good, though... Or was it even a little stronger?
Cautiously, I only used a tiny strip, halved lengthwise, on my first bruschetta (untoasted bread). It was good, everything was good, but it was just too strong.
Next, I skipped the seafood entirely and enjoyed a simple bean sandwich, open faced. It was good, too, but I missed that oceanic smack in the mouth.
Third bruschetta, I smeared the beans on, and drizzled drops of anchovy-flavored oil from the jar. That was the winner. Don't throw away your anchovy oil.
Oh, yeah, so I Googled "white bean bruschetta with anchovies," and I got several hits. It is already invented. You can't invent any new food.

Rule: Never Skip the Slather

There was a little grilled teriyaki pork tenderloin left over.
I know. Left over? Those tenderloins are so small, I think Cranky and I devoured the first one we grilled, years ago, in a single sitting.
This one was a little more generous. And the teriyaki flavor was stupendous. (No bottled sauces, please; you can easily make your own.) We immediately thought of bánh mì sandwiches, and who'd have known, a decade or so ago, that a pair of old whities like us could make bánh mì at home?
We were liberated, in fact, because in my kitchen, it's my way. So, I did it my way. Well, Cranky's way, too. He doesn't care for daikon, so no daikon. We whipped up quick pickles of shaved cucumber and carrot. Pulled little tender lettuce leaves. Sliced the meat and plucked cilantro leaves.
We debated a light slather (is a slather ever light?) of mayonnaise mixed with a squirt of sriracha... and decided no, because of the tasty meat marinade.
In retrospect, I only wish I had gone for that slather.

The Food of Dreams

This Is why I love chicken stock.
We made an intensely deep, strong stock from the skin and bones of half a chicken. Little tiny pot. Handfuls of European aromatics. Water to cover, and then a long, slow simmer with the lid on, a bit ajar. It ended up being one pint of the most heavenly stuff. Almost brown. Super thick with bone goo. Serious flavor.
And then what did we use it for?
Rice-A-Roni. Homemade.
Some onion, some oil and butter, some rice, some broken pasta. A little salt and pepper (your stock should be salted, but not salty). Cook until you get brown spots on the pasta. Cranky was too excited about the experiment, and rushed that part.
Then pour in your chicken stock and put the lid on, over low heat, until it's done.
You could call it pilaf if it makes you feel stupid to call it Rice-A-Roni.
We call it Rice-A-Roni.

My Summer of Eggplant, and a Mini-Prep

I'm in love with eggplants.
At times, I have despised them because they made the inside of my mouth itchy. I think they just weren't cooked well enough.
There is no al dente eggplant!
We have two cooking techniques that work great. You can slice and lightly oil the stuff, and roast it the oven until it gets soft. That's nice if you already have the oven going. The other way is to hitch a ride on the grill when you are burning meat outdoors. Leave it whole, unpeeled, and stab a few fork holes in it. Let it go until you can easily slide a knife all the way through. If you take the meat off the grill, you can now put the lid on, and roasting will happen quickly.
We used the grill for this charming eggplant caviar. The recipe from the Silver Spoon is SO simple. It is like a gift to be informed by an authority that good food is simple. Sigh. A little salt and pepper, a gludge of olive oil and a squirt of lemon.
It was too hard to use a potato masher on, so I whirled it in my new mini-prep. That thing is magic! Easy to use, easy to clean, easy to lug around. My new favorite thing.
Oh, don't forget the buttered toast. The Silver Spoon said so.

Pretty, Though

Damn, I forgot to eat these.
That's the problem with having a front-yard garden, when I spend most of my time in the back.
There were three.
They would have been yummy.
Weepy, weepy.

Angel Pillow Fruit Meat Food

Everybody knows about prosciutto-wrapped melon. It's been an upscale appetizer forever.
I remember traveling in Italy in the '70s, my tragic supply of lire ever dwindling. I was afraid I could barely afford lunch, but I found a central, outdoor market. I bought a melon! I would cut it with my pocketknife. Next, I came across a guy selling prosciutto. I asked him in pretend Italian for a hundred grams, per favore, and he said "Which kind?" He rattled off at least four varieties, and it was all I could do to memorize the last one he said, and tell him, "Why, that one, of course." In pretend Italian.
So I had my lunch, for a bargain, and it was so fancy (to me, at least), I almost shouted something in pretend Italian.
"Questo pranzo!"
"Dove grazie?"
"Io sono happy!"
My little impromptu meal was good, but the truth is, one tends to wrap too long a ribbon of meat around the fruit. Prosciutto can be stringy, and gaggy. You have to chew it very well. And you've used up all your meat. Not so economical for a poor student, after all.
The present day to the rescue.
Cranky's solution was to cut small squares of prosciutto and place them atop slices of puffy, cloudlike, fresh mozzarella, which in turn sat atop little chunks of cantaloupe. Seriously, it elevates the dumb old cocktail party snack to heaven. I beg you to try this.
Molto sofisticato.

Little Pots of Nightshade

The first eggplant of the summer. Sadly, not grown by me. I didn't harvest a single aubergine last year, from two feeble plants. So we decided not to put in vegetables at all this summer; the seedlings we got at the nursery are dying, stunted, still in their little plastic pots. Time for the compost heap.
Who cares? We are carefree!
We wanted eggplant because we love it this time of year, and because of all the fresh mozzarella we keep buying.
Cranky suggested eggplant parmiggiana, and he wouldn't let me cook. Wouldn't let me help. Wouldn't let me in the kitchen. Damn, I have created a monster. My sole contribution was to suggest he take a look at the A16 cookbook, where he got some very basic and good ideas.
Somehow, Cranky came up with the notion of piling his little stacks into individual ramekins for baking and serving. I love little dishes!
The bonus was that, because Cranky topped his stacks with a slice of fresh tomato, the juice that ran off was collected and mingled with cheese juice and eggplant juice.
A perfect last slurp.
Why would you want your eggplant any other way?

Panini, Paisan

A little while ago, a blog friend of mine, Ilva, tweeted that she had plans to make mozzarella in carrozza. "Loads of them."
It was the "loads of them" that done me in. If Ilva liked it that much, it must be good.
But I didn't know what it was, so I Googled and got an eyeful. It's little sandwiches filled with mozzarella cheese, dunked in an egg bath, and fried in butter and oil.
I'm no fool. Mozzarella in Carrozza happened in my kitchen, presto. Oh, god, the aroma! The squidgy texture! And the flavor, a little pancakey because of the bath.
I'm also no Italian, so did I get it right? Let's just say damn, yes. We added some fresh herbs to the egg bath for a sumptuous savory kick. It was so good, I want loads of them.
If you try these, please use fresh mozzarella, the kind bobbing in the container of whey. It makes for a sinful softness that elevates the grilled cheese sandwich straight to the clouds.
As a bookend to my story, it turns out my pal Kudzu, who writes for the Pacific Sun under her real grown-up name, devoted a whole story this week to Italian sandwiches. With recipes. Sigh. It was the other slice of bread to my sandwich. Ilva on one side, Kudzu on the other, and me in the middle. And we all know each other!
Celeste, capito?
(Feel free to correct my Italian.)

Francophilia

Three-and-a-half-hour soup!
It was so worth it.
All through the lengthy beef stock extraction and the tiresome onion caramelizing, I thought, "What are we doing? It would be so much easier to just order French Onion Soup in a restaurant."
Yeah, but it wouldn't be as good. Sweet, deep, sweet, oniony. Sweet. That little dab of bread on top (it was a bâtard, which I will translate to that bastard, King Louis XVI), covered with chewy gruyère.
Honestly, you wouldn't want dessert.
Dessert would probably be "cake." No thanks, Marie.

Chicken Salad? Chicken Salad?

Who makes chicken salad anymore? Deliberately?
Well, blame it on the summery weather, but when Cranky suggested bringing home half a rotisseried chicken from the farmers market, I immediately wanted chicken salad.
Trust me, I'm not even sure if I've ever made chicken salad before.
But I got this idea. Chicken chunks with cucumber chunks. Couldn't get it out of my head.
Maybe a delicate application of mayonnaise? And some tarragon, for sure.
Please try this! If you ran a charming seaside cafe with nice food, your customers would not let you take this off the menu. It's that good.
Listen here, beady eyes: No vinegar, no mustard. There were little curls of mild onion, briefly soaked in water to make them more mild. Salt, yeah, sure.
I will tell you soon how much I want to buy a half chicken every week. Well, I will tell you why.

Summer on a Plate

Yeah, another stuffed pepper. A staple around here. But there was a special, secret ingredient mixed in with the cheese and black beans. Left-over Rice-A-Roni. I know! How divine. Ever so good.
OK, what I really wanted to talk about is the food in the little monkey dish (I love the monkey dishes!). It's a perfect summer salad made from corn, slightly cooked and stripped from the cob. Diced cantaloupe. Minced jalapeño. A little salt. That's it. Perfect. Not outstandingly amazing, but perfect.
Who needs tomatoes? (I jest, I jest.)

Change in Gardening Plans

I've been away for a few days, where I could eat nothing but industrially farmed food. It was OK for the most part, but the tomatoes on one salad tasted like a spoonful of fertilizer. I scraped them aside.
Not many other people seem to notice this, but when you've conditioned your taste buds by eating only local, organic, farmers market food, the "real" world tastes bad.
That shocked me, to realize I really am only eating local, organic, farmers market food. Almost exclusively, barring the occasional gummy bear or sack of Doritos. (Cheating with junk food once in a while is what life is all about.) The simple truth is, I only buy organic meat, cheese and produce at the farmers market. I haven't had a banana in over six years.
So here's the sad story. We decided not to plant vegetables this summer. We have a variety of reasons, some personal, some meteorological, and some fruitacious.
See the pears in the tree? We'll have a half ton of Bartletts and Comices by the end of next month.
We are still clearing the Summer Navels from the orange tree.
The plum tree is just squirting fruit.
The grapes. The grapes! If everything works out, we'll have bunches and bunches of wine grapes (not enough to make wine, though), probably all at the same time (I don't know when, exactly; this is new).
I'm going to enjoy my Summer of Fruit.
But I will still eat my vegetables. They will come from the farmers market. What a relief!

Independence From Pie

I don't have a sweet tooth, but that doesn't mean I don't like sweet things. I mainly mean I don't want bear claws for breakfast or pie for dessert. No thanks to the refined sugar, the flour and the fat.
Fruit gives me all the satisfaction I want.
Here comes Mrs. McNaggity: Please develop an interest in fruit. It does not need to be baked in a clafoutis. It does not need to be whirled in a blender as a sweetened smoothie.
Fruit is so good, it IS dessert. Well, you have to make sure the fruit you get is good. A peach with the mushy texture of rice and the flavor of Elmer's glue is a disaster, and you will blame it on "fruitness." You will avoid fruit. It is not the peach's fault; it is the peach farmer's fault, or more likely, the supermarket's fault. Try again. Find great suppliers, like at the farmers market.
We grow five kinds of fruit at my house, and we long ago gave up on trying to put them in baked goods just to use them up. Just eat them!
So this is my stealth entry into the pie maelstrom that's buzzing in the blogosphere this week. I don't want a wedge of pie, but a wedge of cheese is fine. With fruit.
(It's a toma, from Point Reyes, one of the myriad of new cheeses they recently introduced. A little tangy, a little stinky, softish... it was great.)
Happy red, white and blue!

The Cheese Doesn't Stand Alone

Summer. Ahhh.
Cranky calls it "mayonnaise season." I'm afraid it's also pesto season, or at least basil season, and I don't like basil.
For sure it's tomato season, even if these are a little early (hothouse-grown).
Lucky me, I just found out it's also cheese season.
I told you last week about the "Stilton" from Point Reyes Farmstead Cheese Company. All along, I'd only known the company for its "original blue."
Well, I kept a couple secrets from you.
Point Reyes is also making fresh mozzarella, creamy soft balls about the size of rubbery, plastic-wrapped mozz in grocery stores, but this is floating in whey and it tastes like a cloud. A delicate, lactic cloud. So fresh, it moos.
We made Caprese salad, hold the basil.
Silly. I wouldn't even give this a name. It's sliced cheese, sliced tomatoes, wonderful olive oil and salt and pepper. That just sounds like food. Normal.
I always slurp the oil/tomato/cheese slurry that results in the plate when the food is gone. It's a tonic.
(And, I have one more secret. Gosh, I hope they come back to the market tomorrow.)