In Which I Nearly Lose My Mind

I fell in love with a new puppy last week.
I never met her in person; just saw her photo and description on the Marin Humane Society's adoption website.
Oh, I knew she was the girl for me. And she was the girl for Bartlett, too, I was almost certain.
Bartlett would love a companion. And I come from long years of raising a pair of pooches at the same time.
But I'd never had a dog as difficult to raise as Bartlett. She's almost 18 months now, and only just now so much more mellow. Was I ready for a new baby (five months old) this soon?
I kind of didn't think so, not yet. Also, it's a terrible time of year for housebreaking a doggie. So I let it go. I didn't jump.
I was probably too late already. So it goes.
Cranky was so, so gentle and understanding. It would be OK, he said, if I was really sure it would be OK.
And I wasn't sure.
In a couple of days, the pretty girl was adopted by somebody else. I knew it would happen. Fine.
But I mourned. I grieved. I was really surprised by my emotions. I'm not suffering, but this is interesting.
So maybe in a few more months. I'll renew my insider connection at the pound, and find out when litters of puppies are expected to meet the public, and I'll be first in line.
This doggie who went to somebody else's forever home? Her name was Miracle.
Sigh.
I'd probably have changed it to Miracle Whip. (Not!)

In Which I Lose All Credibility

What's the best part of a pulled-pork sandwich?
Right. The coleslaw.
You thought I was going to say the pork, but you can have pork any way, any time. When do you get coleslaw on a sandwich?
We are still crazy-in-love with the fake pink salad dressing I've been making. It's even better now... I'm adding a trace of garlic powder. Wow.
We are also crazy about cabbage. We eat it any way, any time. So I thought I'd like a little coleslaw made with the fake pink salad dressing. And I did like it. But.
It just popped into my mind so easily; it was not a tortured result of actually, uh, thinking. Gasp!
Coleslaw sandwich. Cold crunch meets the comfort of puffy carbs.
It was good. I wouldn't expect you to try it.
But I can tell you the roll had a divine, suede-like crust. You found yourself tugging at it with your teeth as you ate.
And you said to yourself, "Pulled-bread sandwich. Not bad."

Better Than a Lump of Coal

Of course I ate it.
I understand this chocolate bar was introduced in England to appeal to manly men. Seems all the confections for sale before this macho lump was invented were too pink, fluffy and princessy. They'd never try those. They'd try this!
Marketing. Don't you hate feeling manipulated?
So, did I eat it because it was forbidden to females? I am a bit transgressive by nature. But. Nah. It was just a treat in my Christmas stocking. And I shared it with Cranky, the man. (I'm too much of a chocolate snob to have enjoyed it, though. It's Not For This Girl!)
Seems Cranky found the English Candy section at our local "gourmet" store. He also got me an English Kit Kat bar, and I hate Kit Kat bars. I loved the English Kit Kat! What ho!
Must do more explorinating.
Pip pip!

Oh, I Could Tell You About Procrastination*

I've been urging myself, all this cold and rainy winter, to finally braise the lamb shank (and there's another one left to cook, in the freezer).
So what do we get but a string of the most lovely, sunny days (thank you, La Niña). Oddly, it thawed me out of my torpor, and we got a couple of pots a'simmerin' on the stovetop last week. Beans in one pot, lamb in the other.
I'm kinda sassy about not using a recipe for braised shanks. I know how it goes. But this time I wanted to break with one of the stalwarts of my method. I didn't want to use tomatoes.
It's so sunny out! It's like spring! I wanted springy, lamby flavors, and that meant lemon and herbs. (You can't see a lot of herbs because I put most of them in an infusion ball, in with the lamb liquid.)
Cranky set about mincing the most beautiful mirepoix I have ever seen; Gordon Ramsay would not shove this plate into his chest.
I browned the shank in a little oil. Really good brown, this time, because it's one of my new favorite flavors. Removed it just in time for the onion-carrot-celery pile (Cranky is fast) flavored with a length of minced green garlic. (Spring!) Salt, stir, soften.
Lamb back in the pot, then unceremonious dumpages of beer, about midway up the hunk of meat. Pepper. Lemon rind and juice (the tree is fruitful).
Then, lid on and wait.
At last (after a few hours), we pulled the meat off the bones and fat, and stirred the lamby shreds back in with the juice.
Without the tomatoes, the sauce was a little thin, but we loved how it moistened the tender beans on the plate. And with the lemon, I wouldn't have wanted the sweet flavor of summer's vines anyway.
I call it a dish worthy of a spring Taurus. Except I might be an Aries now. Still... spring.
I know. Winter will be back.

*one of these days

The Weeder Ran Away with the Trowel.

How do you lose a gardening tool? A useful, necessary gardening tool?
As a kitchen analogy, I remember a few years ago noticing that our collection of stainless flatware (service for eight) was missing a few forks. How could that happen?
Cranky had a theory. A good one. He speculated that the forks had been spirited into the trash, accidentally and at different times, by having been mingled with the used artichoke leaves. It made sense. We always ended up with what literally looks like a gallon of leaves in a big stainless bowl at the end of a meal. They just got dumped unceremoniously into the trash (this was before we were composting). Nobody would notice the tiny glint of metal, hiding in the foliage, sliding into the garbage bag.
I choose to stick to that explanation, because anything else I can come up with is too exotic, too mentally ill, too embarrassing.
And that's how I decided to explain the missing weeding tool. It wasn't fancy. Even had a few rust spots. But it worked, all the time, and we weren't inclined to toss it.
It must have "tossed itself" into the yard waste barrel, all tangled up in dandelions. When I weed, I take a big plastic bucket with me and move it from place to place, collecting the detritus. At the end of my weeding session, I incautiously (I guess) toss the contents into the barrel. Bye-bye, tool.
Well, it's perfect weather for weeding. Now. Today. Wet ground and clear, sunny skies. I needed a weeder. Cranky bought two. ("One's a backup," he suggested helpfully. "Hell no," I said. "We're doing tandem work, my dear.")
So, you see these tools? With the beautifully enameled red shaft, such a color? And the hippie Renaissance Faire dye work on the wood handles? Don't want to lose these.
I do wish I hadn't lost the really strong, butch, green-handled trowel, though. It probably went out in the barrel too. We got a replacement, but it's just not the same.
Cranky thinks he might be able to find one with a multi-dyed handle.

Old and in the Kitchen

Any day now I expect a visit from Elder Services. If there is any such department in my area.
They will come and crowbar my door open, and find me frantically crocheting a rainbow afghan, already too large for the couch, and still going.
They will find parakeets in cages, begging for clean water and seed, because I have forgotten to feed them.
They will find stacks of real newspapers. Real newspapers, with current dates. Because old people still read them. And forget to throw them out.
They will find old-fashioned food. Retro food, bless my old heart, but it looks... old. And when the eater is old, how can you tell that she's actually eating ironically? (A word I hate, but you will get my meaning.)
I'm just having fun, but Elder Services wonders whether I'd like a nice, modern tofu shake.
No, thanks. I'm having a salad with "French" dressing, the shocking orange glop with a shocking, throat-burning flavor. Poured from a bottle.
Of course I'm not! I hate bottled dressings. I tried to make an orange dressing with mayo, ketchup, buttermilk, and a little paprika and turmeric. I could not get a deep, saturated result. Fine, say I. (Old people talk this way.)
Here's a wonderful salad of lettuce, radishes and cherry tomatoes (from California), topped with what turned out to be a mild and lovely sauce.
So not old, I want it again, already.
Now, what is this FaceTube all the kids are talking about?

Houston, We Have a Staublem

You may already know of my weakness for 1) small dishes, and 2) Staub cookware.
Honest, I didn't buy these dishes for myself. They were a Christmas present for Cranky. He's into it, too.
These pretty enameled cast-iron dishes hold a cup. A cup! Of food. They are sold without lids, so it is tempting to heap your food a little before it goes into the oven, and heap we did.
The best part of the day's culinary adventure was that Cranky prepared and assembled our Chicken Divan. Easy-peasy, right?
Wait! Cranky had never made a Béchamel sauce before, much less a Mornay.
Bless his heart. I gave him cursory directions, but he went slightly off course.
He added some flour to the melted butter, and kept waiting for it to thicken. (It wasn't enough flour in the first place, and flour doesn't thicken until it gets its greedy little molecules on something liquid.) Well, we got that straightened out.
Then it was time to whisk in some milk. He did fine, though he held a belief that he had to stir very fast. Sauce was blooping out all over the stove.
All on his own, he decided a grating of nutmeg would be nice, and it was very nice, indeed.
Finally, the grated Gruyère went into the sauce, and it was quite successful.
Cranky was pleased!
He took more liberties. He decided to mix the cooked broccoli and chicken pieces together in the sauce, and then slam them onto the toast planks in the bottom of the oval dishes. Easier, if less "haute."
Bake till brown and bubbly, and then you may just wilt in the solace of your meal.
Yes, that is a little brown dog in the upper right. She got close, but no see-gar.

Grown-up Noodle Soup

I won't divulge the name of the restaurant I follow on Twitter. It's where I got the idea for this dish, but I'm certain my version looks or tastes nothing like what the chef was hinting at.
Toasted pasta cooked in stock. I had to have it, no matter how it turned out.
Simplicity. We knocked down a chicken carcass and gently simmered it for two hours with onion, carrot, celery... The chicken itself was very herby, so we backed off there. But make sure it's as salty as you like, because this is food!
Next, I grabbed a few coiled nests of fideo (really, capellini), and tucked them in a plastic bag. Went medieval on them with a rolling pin. Cranky was cowering somewhere else.
These broken bits of noodle went into a dry skillet over somewhat aggressive heat, and I stirred them until I had a crazy quilt of earth tones.
Dump the toasted noodles on a plate and add a little olive oil to the hot pan. Toss in a couple of sliced cloves of garlic and get them a bit golden.
And then? And then? Duh. Cook the noodles and garlic in the strained chicken stock. Until you like them. Flavor with clever flicks of hot smoked paprika; not too much but you want to kind of notice it.
This was almost baby food, it was so edible and reassuring. But it was stinky with garlic and sticky with gelatin; very adult.
We're totally going to have this again. Although maybe I'll sample the restaurant's version and find where I went right, and where I could go righter. I suspect there were crustaceans involved. Maybe bivalves.

Ghost Dog

You know how a dog gets out of a bath and shakes off all the water?
This dog just shook off all the color!
She wasn't bathing; she smells so good, she's never had a bath.
No, she was killing her yard toy. That little blue item in the corner of her mouth. It's not a kill-toy; those are usually stuffed animals. This is a hard plastic ring that we throw or roll for exercising her. She loves it.
Loves it enough to kill it. Joyfully. And for a dog, I guess that's fine.
What is this dark-brown puppy doing in a tan coat? How does that work? Can I shake my head real hard and go platinum?
Trying. Trying.
Ow, my neck.

Memory Food

I often say I don't cook from recipes, but there are a few favorites in our repertoire that require me to dig out a book.
They're not complicated. I should just give them a good study and commit them to memory.
But there's always that "He said what?" factor that requires me to double check the print.
In the case of Paul Prudhomme, it's that wacky mixture of dried spices. Gotta be dried, people. That's the way.
Cranky and I have been making his Red Beans (and rice) for nearly three decades, and I still use the book.
The first time, we misread something, and had to strain out the ham hock (still on the bone) from the gooey beans. Won't make that mistake again.
Cranky made this latest batch all on his own, and I'll bet he could walk into the kitchen tomorrow and do it again, solo and without a recipe. The time has come.
Even so, there is room for a little improvisation. We have long used poblano peppers instead of green bell peppers in this dish. Bell peppers are fine; they melt into unrecognizability. But I just don't like them.
Well. This time, the poblanos were packing heat. A lot! So Cranky short-changed the amount of cayenne called for and left out the Tabasco altogether. Good move.
The miracle (and why we faithfully consult the book, probably) is the flavor that results. Where did that little vinegary tickle come from? Why is it so beautifully thick without a roux? How come I always feel like I'm tasting Asian flavors?
I should tell you that we are shopping for a small bookshelf to nestle in the last available corner of the kitchen. I need more room for my cookbooks (and I do keep acquiring them).
Nothing wrong with a good cookbook for memory food, if you haven't memorized the recipe.

Comfort Food

The middle of January. A very cold, slightly rainy day.
We venture into Sausalito to put a little sparkle on Big Boy's B-Day, though I am reluctant. I want to stay home in front of the fire.
But it's Cranky's day, and he has an idea.
Sushi Ran, the fabled restaurant you can't get into and the staff treats you rudely if you do get in.
Still, the reputation of the chef and his ingredients prevails, luring us into giving it a try.
We get a seat. The hostess is charming!
Tables begin to fill up, and yet our waiter is a gem. With a sense of humor.
I'm trying to be grumpy here, people! But they won't let me.
Appetizer is a dream. Miso soup is lovely.
Then, this bowl of chirashizushi, with twinkling, bright dabs of sea life. (Barely dead, trust me.)
How could raw scallops and a dismembered shrimp head be comforting? Beats me, but I always crave sushi most in cold weather. Each bite is so pure, so new, it is indeed a comfort.
I can't explain it, but I inhaled this dish (in a ladylike way). It's often hard for me to clean my plate, but these morsels kept sliding down. The rice was easy to get at because of the pretty presentation in an extra-large bowl.
Eat, eat, eat.
Happy.

A Birthday Canapé

At two different restaurants, two days in a row, we were served plates of pretty food garnished by slices of radish.
I don't know if it was because the radishes were sliced earlier and held (in water, I'd guess, because they certainly weren't dry), but at both restaurants the radishes (two varieties) had curled themselves up into wee saucers.
Well, you know me. I like to play with my food.
So today at restaurant #2 I created a little snickersnack that's so pretty, it'd be a knockout on small plates at a cocktail party.
I'm not wild about salmon roe; the pop in the mouth of gooey ocean is fun but creepy. And a little fishy. But for my impromptu appetizer, the eggs were nice, actually. I could stand them. I liked them!
Perhaps the crisp, sharp snap of the radish is the perfect foil. Maybe the tiny drops of shoyu I added (after I took this picture) helped. Odds are, just knowing how gawgeous this tidbit is made it delicious.
It's cuuuute!
I'm kind of wishing I'd waved the sushi chef over and offered it to him. He might not have been amuse-bouched, though.
I ate half, and Birthday Boy ate half. Yeah.

Need. Bright. Green.

Oh, this? It's just a bowl of leftovers.
Leftovers straight from New Year's Day, dumped in a pot with some saved bean water (that stuff is gold) and a little "real" water, with a little smidge of cream cheese melted into it. No extra seasonings necessary; the leftovers were spicy and tasty.
I don't expect you to make this, so I'm glossing over the details. You're welcome.
But I just must comment on the topping of cilantro leaves.
First, we really needed greens (even though the soup had added chopped cabbage; yum, but no color).
Second, Cranky has been watching how Jamie Oliver applies leaves on top of his dishes, so seemingly insouciantly. But!
Look: He pinches the leaves, hovers his hand over the top midpoint of the food, and releases so that there's a pile, a tent, a peak. Rather than a limp lie-down.
The photograph agrees with me that this is cool. Look at the shadow on the far side of the bowl.
Yay, Cranky. And happy birthday.

Playing With My Head

Why have I been sent this hat in a little padded envelope?
Twice?
The best part is the pair of reusable little padded envelopes, because Would You Be Caught Dead wearing this?
It would be like wearing a hat that says NPR. Or Harvard (says my husband, who owns one, and has been reproached).
Too bad. It's a well-made cap, it fits me, and it looks good on.
Yes, I suscribe to the magazine. I'm nearly a charter subscriber, me 'n' Saveur go back so far. Was this a gift for that reason? Two gifts?
Thanks, I guess.
I'm gonna go put on my job-killing God Bless Farmers hat.
That's OK, isn't it?

More Leftovers

The other day a reader said she was putting leftover beef stroganoff with a bunch of other flavors (including Sriracha, so you know it was good) into a tortilla and wrapping the whole mess up.
Tortillas. They are such a neat folding packet of carbs to stash other goodies in.
We had leftover Juan Saltando, our Latin-seasoned spoof on Hoppin' John. Mm! That would make a tasty burrito. Mix together the beans, rice, spicy greens and chorizo, toss in some chunks of cotija cheese (we subbed feta)... But. Maybe no tortillas... Or.
There was a pair of fresh poblano chiles in the crisper. We would make chiles rellenos, hold the greasy fried batter, and roast them in the oven until the peppers softened.
Poblanos: Nature's own tortillas.
(Verdict — good, even with no Sriracha. Those poblanos were harboring quite a picante secret of their own, capsaicin.)

Why God Invented Leftovers

That Christmas roast has given and given and given. And still, there's a decent hunk of it, all pink and perfect, waiting in the freezer for another tour of duty.
Today's beef stroganoff was so good, Cranky and I think we'll execute a redeployment of it.
It's so simple, we always cook it without a recipe. Today Cranky added a splash of sherry for That Seventies Feeling™. What a nice flavor; has it really gone out of style?
Mumble, mumble, slivered onions, sliced mushrooms (including some chanterelles), saute, add red wine and sherry, last stir in your beef strips and some sour cream. Serve over egg noodles. Mumble, mumble.
I remember the year my mom pulled all of the beef strips from the beef stroganoff I had prepared, and refused to eat them. I think she was giving me a hard time.
But nothing can diminish the pleasure of this meal.

Happy 2011

We've been waltzing Hoppin' John around the globe for a couple of years now.
Deconstructing it, actually. Just toying with the fundamental ingredients.
Beans? Yep (but not black-eyed). Rice? Sure. Cured pork? We'll go with a little homemade chorizo this time. Folding money (greens)? Oh, indeed, all seasoned up with cumin, chiles and garlic.
I hope my tinkering will still afford me good luck.
It was a plate of damn fine tasty. We're calling it Juan Saltando.