FOOD ON THE FOOD

Reason #10 Not To Read My Blog: Fry-o-laters

I love fry-o-laters.  And I feel no shame.

During my stint in culinary school (or, as my husband likes to call it, “Wife School”), I discovered the joys of frying.  My instructors, who were hoping more to instill in us the virtues of poaching, braising, and pan-searing, were understandably disappointed. 

While I like a good braise as much as the next person, you can’t beat the fry-o-later for efficiency of yumminess.  Insert imperfect food into hot oil bath, wait mere moments, and…voilà.  Perfect food. 

I always considered the deep-fryer to be the most prestigious station in the school’s stainless steel teaching kitchen, so I wondered why I never had any competition in my favorite corner.  I didn’t care.  More for me.

But as soon as I lifted up the fry basket and christened those gilded little morsels with a bit of salt, a light shone down on all the class, a choir of voices sang out, and the exodus began.  Mixers were left running.  Pans smoking.  Dishwashing nozzles spraying.  The balance of power had suddenly shifted, and I, the one who scrambled the eggs in her gougère on her first day, had become the unlikely hero. 

At least for the 30 seconds it took for everyone to devour the booty and return, just a little bit disheveled, to their precious aspic. 

Some sources will tell you that peanut oil is the best for frying because it has the highest smoke point of the more common cooking oils.  Which means that if you hit the restroom while the oil is heating up, as recommended in the instructions, you have a good six minutes before peanut oil becomes engulfed in flames and dark plumes of smoke.  Compare that to the scant four minutes preceding a canola oil-induced conflagration.

My advice: just use canola oil.  It tastes better, it’s cheaper, healthier, and you don’t have to worry about the allergy thing.  Just go Number 2 before you start frying.

Flower Power

I found the funniest button on my camera the other day.  It has a picture of a flower on it.  How handy, I thought, a built-in water-sprayer for indoor plants. 

Turns out that’s not what it’s for.  My husband casually suggested that I might want to use it.  For what, I asked, you know how much I enjoy torturing our houseplants (I could water you, but instead I’ll accumulate 14 cups of water next to my bed, and then dump them all down the sink).  That’s when he explained to me the wonders of the Canon PowerShot A80’s “macro feature.”

Apparently, this very special macro feature allows one to focus in on close-range objects, such as the aforementioned flower or, as a hugely hypothetical example, a cookie.  Silly me, I thought that was included in the automatic part of auto-focus.  I’m sure all of you amateur-but-clearly-gifted photographers out there already knew that.  Thanks for nothing.

So not only does my aging camera have severely delayed reflexes when asked to capture any specific moment (not a big deal for still life, but kind of an issue when photographing kids), but it’s also extremely far-sighted and requires extra help to locate its bifocals.  Fantastic.  The artistic eight ball I’m behind grows wider.

But, do you know what was under my tree on Christmas morning?  A Canon PowerShot SD700 IS Digital Elph. 

Cute.  Small.  Uh-oh, is that a flower button I see?  Okay, but that viewfinder screen thingy is TWICE the size of the one on my old camera (I’m getting a little far-sighted myself).  Not only that, but when I snap a picture, it captures the exact moment I was going for… a split-second before it even happens.  Talk about elphin magic.  SD700, you rock!

Could this spell the end of butt-ugly pictures on this site?  No guarantees, but this is what my Christmas torte looked like a split-second before I took a bite out of it.

It's a Christmas miracle.

(Visit Fancy Toast for the recipe for Jamie Oliver’s “everything but the kitchen sink” torte.  I’ll give you a hint: orange zest, nuts, chocolate, apricots, ricotta, poppy seeds, cayenne, capers.  Except minus the cayenne and capers, so it doesn’t taste like crap.) 

Holiday Fudge

...um...packing.

It's what's for dessert.

Christmas Pork

If you’re anything like me, you have no idea what you’re cooking for any one of the myriad holidays one might celebrate in the upcoming weeks in such a diverse nation as our own.  Unlike you, though, I’m here to help. 

Last Christmas, I dazzled even myself with a Southern-style spread featuring bourbon-laced ham with spicy tangerine chutney, buttermilk spoon bread, and collard greens.  Dessert?  I think it was more ham.  I’m not sure I’ll be able to top it this year, but I’ll be damned if I won’t try (same guests equals can't make the same meal twice). 

Should you be inspired into action by this menu that I totally want to make again, keep in mind that the 10-minutes-per-pound estimate for heating a spiral ham has been known to be wildly off (at least in the uncategorized time zone that is my kitchen).  Build in an extra hour or two.  Just tell your guests to drink more eggnog, and under no circumstances should you heed your engineer husband’s advice to “just nuke it, goddamnit.”)

It was well worth the proverbial wait.

MENU:

Ham with Bourbon, Molasses, and Pecan Glaze

Tangerine Chutney (normally, when a recipe calls for segmenting 9 tangerines, I promptly rip it into a million pieces and set fire to them.  However, I would segment 9,000 tangerines if it meant I could eat this everyday for the rest of my life.  Using a good jalapeño jelly is imperative.  Olde Nourse Farm makes a great hot pepper jelly that is perfect for this.)

Buttermilk Spoon Bread

Braised Collard Greens

2 lbs. collard greens, washed, stemmed, roughly chopped
3 Tbsp. olive oil or bacon fat
3 garlic cloves, sliced
¼ tsp. hot red pepper flakes
½ cup chicken stock

Boil collards in a large pot of salted water until just tender, about 7 minutes.  Drain and rinse in cold water until cool.  Squeeze out excess water and set aside.

In a large sauté pan over medium heat, add oil, garlic, and pepper flakes.  Heat one minute until sizzling.  Add collards and stir to coat.  Add stock, cover, and cook over medium-high heat until collards are tender and liquid has been absorbed, about 5 minutes.  Season with salt and pepper.

Source: Bruce Aidells and Nancy Oakes by way of Bon Appétit (except for the collards, which were adapted from The Best Recipe by your favorite food blogger.  No, not Orangette.  Second favorite?).

Happy Holidays!

Conversations with a 4-Year-Old

Here are some recent snippets of conversation with a particular four-year old:

Me: Time for potty.

Him: Okay.  I’m just going to hold my candy cane.

Me: On the potty?  I don’t think so.

Him: No, I’m not going to throw it in the potty, I’m just going to hold it.

As if a potential peppermint floater was the unacceptable part of candy canes anywhere near a toilet.

***

At lunch, I deposited a bunch of grapes I had just washed onto his plate next to his carrot sticks, cheese, and half a peanut butter sandwich.

Me: Here you go.

Him: But…but…I can’t eat those things now.  Everything is grape-wet.

Where did he learn to hyphenate like that?  When Food on the Food spins off a sister wine blog, I shall dub it Grape-Wet.  Which just about sums up my knowledge of the subject.

Reason #9 Not To Read My Blog: Perfection

The other day, I was reading one of the more respectable food blogs and the blogger mentioned that she very rarely ever has to throw away anything that she cooks.  You read that right, she has a near-perfect record of kitchen successes.

After giving my computer monitor a rousing standing ovation, I started to reflect on my own record in the kitchen.  Somehow, my numbers weren’t looking quite as good, by comparison.  And I came to the conclusion that she is the inverse of me.  Or I am the inverse of her.  Whatever.  The point is that for every success she enjoys, I endure a miserable failure.  And if she should happen to fail, well, isn’t it about time that I finally succeeded? 

Such is my relationship with INVERSE ME.

Not that it’s a competition or anything, but let’s face it, it really is.  And so upon hearing of her latest particularly good cookie batch that she just whipped up without a recipe, I had to remember the last time I made cookies.  Actually, it was the time before last because those ginger cookies I made over the weekend were awesome, and I hope whatever she was making came out like crap. 

Anyway, I was trying to duplicate an old family recipe for lemon cookies that had the amounts of lemon oil and baker’s ammonia in U.S. cents circa 1940 instead of the usual spoon or cup measurements.  It also didn’t include the amount of flour.  And while I made a pretty good estimate of the first two ingredients utilizing my trusty slide rule, my heavy-handed approach to adding the flour resulted in something more like elastic pizza dough, only disturbingly more lemony.

My flops are legendary in my household, each with a shelf life far longer than all of my triumphs combined.  Like the time I poured coffee grounds into my ganache instead of instant coffee crystals (why aren’t they dissolving?).  My recipe for upside-down chicken (self-explanatory).  And my personal favorite, when I shucked a whole bucket full of oysters with a brand new paring knife, bending the blade and almost severing my arm, and it wasn’t nearly as funny as I thought it would be.

I’m sure INVERSE ME has all kinds of coffee– and crepe–related tricks up her sleeve.  I’m sure all of her limbs are firmly attached.  Which is good because I need a role model.  But I can’t offer that kind of perfection.  What I can provide is a kind of comradery of failure with the occasional bright glimmer of hope.  A lesson in character-building that you can walk away from and think, “Hey, I can do better than that!”

In other words, if a moron like me can cook, so can you.

One Good Cookie

I love spice cookies, especially around the holidays.  I’ve made a bunch of different variations over the years, but this recipe for ginger cookies kicks the crap out of any of them.  Make these cookies.  Make them.

Recipe for Frosted Ginger Cookies.

Thanks to Carolyn for getting me hooked. Two out of two husbands were pissed that their wives shared with the neighbors.

Letter to Dunkin' Donuts

This is not a doughnut.  It's a number.  The number of doughnuts you should ever eat from Dunkin' Donuts.

Dear Dunkin' Donuts:

Why do your doughnuts suck so badly?

It wasn’t always this way.  I can distinctly remember, as a young girl in the 1980s, when my parents would bring my sister and me for a doughnut after church just a stone’s throw from your flagship Quincy store.  It was the high point of my week (the doughnut, not church).  Despite the threat of burning in the fiery bowels of hell, I would spend the entire sermon lusting after the tasty fried ring of dough that would soon be mine, and agonizing over the ever-looming dilemma: Boston Krème v. Chocolate Honey-Dipped. 

They each had their charms: sweet, gooey cream in a heavenly pillow of dough topped with finger-licking chocolate frosting, or cakey chocolate dough with a hint of spice (Cardamom?  What was that flavor?) fried until crispy on the outside and enrobed in the sweetest, most divine coating ever to grace a nook or a cranny.  And nooks and crannies there were in abundance, thereby vastly increasing the amount of surface area to which the glaze could adhere.

After silently debating the pros and cons of each throughout Communion, and double-checking my work while offering each other the sign of peace, I had my answer.  Chocolate Honey-Dipped, all the way.  By the time I held it in my trembling hands, and took a bite, I was sure there must be a god.  My prayers had been answered.

But, somewhere between 1985 and 2006, something went terribly, terribly wrong.  These days, when I turn to my favorite doughnuts for comfort, someone posing as a purveyor of fine pastries hands me something that looks like a greasy sponge.  And it tastes like one, too. 

Where are all the nooks and crannies?  What happened to the glaze?  Why do they look so small and unnaturally round.  Frankly, it feels like a slap in the face.

What happened?  Did the secret recipe die with the “Time to Make the Donuts” guy?  Really, you should have written it down.  Or was the technique too expensive to maintain during your quest for total doughnut market domination?  Perhaps, you were trying to keep up with trends or changing tastes?  Whatever the reason, I’ve got news for you, what you have come up with is NOT GOOD.  Perhaps, you haven’t noticed the complete lack of doughnut-dunking going on.

Here’s my advice.  Spend some time in a quality doughnut shop.  No, not Honey Dew -- they stink, too.  I was going to say Verna’s in Cambridge, but word is you finally succeeded in running them out of business.  Thanks. 

Might I recommend the Hole-in-One in Eastham or The Hole in Orleans.  Get comfortable and remind yourself of what a good chocolate honey-dipped doughnut really tastes like.  Better yet, try their sour cream glazed doughnuts.  It may take some effort not to soil yourself -- don't worry, this is normal.  Take copious notes, and then, without infringing on anyone’s intellectual property, please make some improvements.  After all, do you really want to encourage people to taint those delicious cups of Joe with substandard doughnuts?  One can’t live on coffee alone.

I’m sure you don’t have a lot of time to answer sincere letters like this one, what with all the early-morning baking that goes on and the rigorous coursework over at Dunkin’ Donuts University.  Still, I would be curious to know the time line and specifics of the decision-making that brought your once-exalted donuts to such a spectacular low. 

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Sincerely,

Tammy Donroe

P.S.  Your other baked goods aren’t so hot, either, but they don’t feature quite so prominently in your name.

P.P.S.  I told my dad you’d call him and explain why I’m agnostic. 

Holiday Bake Sale

Have we started our holiday baking, yet?

Not me.  I’ll get around to it, I swear.  In the meantime, here’s how I'll tide myself over. 

CSCA Holiday Bake Sale: On Sunday, December 17 from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m., the Cambridge School of Culinary Arts hosts its annual bake sale to benefit Share our Strength, a non-profit dedicated to ending childhood hunger throughout the country.  Stock up on sweets for a good cause, and participate in the raffle and silent auction, including gift certificates to area restaurants and autographed cookbooks from local celebrity chefs.  Cambridge School of Culinary Arts, 2020 Mass. Ave., Cambridge, 617-354-2020.

Reason #8 Not To Read My Blog: Guinness

Guinness doesn’t rock my world.

And here, I fear, is where the lynching begins. 

When I first started writing about food in Boston five years ago, I had to take an oath stating I would never admit my lukewarm feelings toward Guinness.  The same went for Jasper White’s Summer Shack. 

During that time, I’ve had to make many excuses for my beverage choices.

Why isn’t there a Guinness in your hand?  Because I’m pregnant.  What about now? Now, I’m nursing.  You can still hold the Guinness?  But, my arthritis.  At least gaze lovingly at the Guinness? The sun, the blinding sun.

Now that I have my own blog, I can write whatever the hell I want.  And the truth of the matter is that, to me, Guinness tastes like a Slim Jim milkshake.  A really good Slim Jim milkshake, perhaps, but I’m not a big fan of Slim Jims.  Or, really, any meat in my milk.

Although I’m quite fond of the Irish, I can’t let a little thing like marriage cloud my judgment.  Now, Boddingtons is a beer I can stand behind.  I like a quality ale.  And I wouldn’t turn down anything from Belgium, either.  But, unless you plan on cooking that Guinness into a shepherd’s pie, à la O’Connors in Worcester, don’t waste it on me.  Drink up, and then report back and tell me if you didn’t find it just a little bit Slim Jimish.

Ana Sortun’s New Book: Spice

Okay, poultry week is officially over.  It’s time to move on to more serious business.

Last Wednesday, I went to a cookbook signing and demonstration by Ana Sortun (James Beard Award-winning chef of Oleana in Cambridge) at the CSCA.  Her book, Spice: Flavors of the Eastern Mediterranean, is a fascinating introduction to the herbs, spices, and cooking techniques of Turkey and its Middle Eastern neighbors.

What’s unusual about this cookbook is that the recipes are arranged by spice rather than by course.  She introduces you to three spices in the same general flavor family, like Aleppo, Urfa, and paprika (all chiles), and provides recipes that use those spices.  That way, if you’re fresh out of Aleppo and have to buy a whole container just for a couple of teaspoons, you don’t have to look far to use up the rest.  Assuming you like it.  And you will. 

Many of the spices covered are fairly common (cumin, oregano, nutmeg), but the way in which she uses them is not.  Fried haloumi cheese with pear and spiced dates; roasted beets with toasted orange aioli and pine nuts; squash kibbeh with brown butter and spiced feta.  I have one word.  Yum.

Other spices she showcases are still shrouded in a bit of mystery in this part of the world.  Take her recipe for chicken lamejun with roasted peaches, pistachio, and sumac.  If you’re starting to feel itchy all over, it’s not the same sumac.  This one is made from the berries of one of the non-poisonous varieties.  It’s subtle and lemony, without the pesky rash.

She brought in samples of sumac to taste, as well as za’atar (a wild herb that reminded me of marjoram) and fenugreek leaves (maple syrup in a surprising leaf form).  Sortun predicts that za’atar will be the next big thing in spice, with traces of it showing up on plates by Daniel Boulud and Jean-Georges Vongerichten.  There have also been murmurs that Frito-Lay is hard at work on their next ad campaign for Doritos with a Hint of Za’atar (how can we make this Arabic word seem less threatening?  I know, it rhymes with guitar!). 

To stock your spice cabinet, Sortun recommends Sevan Bakery in Watertown and Christina’s Spice Shop in Cambridge.  I would also add the Syrian Grocery in the South End.  But outside the city, you can’t beat mail order: www.kalustyans.com.

So, here’s what you’ve been waiting for: a sneak peek.  This recipe for whipped feta with sweet and hot peppers is tried and true (she gave it to me years ago for another story and, since then, I’ve made it approximately 453 times).  It features in the cookbook, except smoked paprika has been substituted for smoked black pepper because it’s easier to find.  I’m keeping the original, though, because I couldn’t make it any other way.

Whipped Feta with Sweet and Hot Peppers

3 red bell peppers, roasted*, peeled and seeded
2 cups French sheep’s milk feta
1 tsp. Aleppo chiles
½ cup olive oil
1 tsp. lemon juice
1 tsp. Urfa chiles
½ tsp. smoked black pepper

In a food processor, puree the roasted peppers and add the rest of the ingredients until it’s smooth and creamy. Pour into a bowl and chill for at least a half hour.  Sprinkle with more Aleppo and Urfa chiles.  Serve with cucumber or pita.

*To roast the red peppers, preheat the oven to 400˚F.  On baking pan, roast the peppers for about 8 minutes or until they collapse.  Put them in a bowl covered with plastic and let steam for 5 minutes.  Peel off the skin.  You can also cook the peppers over the flame of your gas burner.  Char on each side, about 3-4 minutes.  Let steam in bowl for 5 minutes and then peel.  Alternatively, you can set fire to them in your backyard.  When the flames subside, they’re done.)

Source: Ana Sortun (except for the backyard bonfire part.  That was me).  Used with permission.

Breaking News: The Certified Organic Chicken Broth Debate Rages

In keeping with this blog’s recent poultry theme, I feel a responsibility to bring you coverage of the week’s other important chicken-related story.  It all started with a box labeled “Certified Organic Chicken Broth.” 

If a little voice is chuckling inside your head, then you might appreciate the original post on the matter by Heather Armstrong of dooce.com.  Basically, she argues, the whole idea of organic chicken broth is ridiculous.  “Do you really expect me to believe that [the organic free range part] can be transferred to the water?” she writes. 

“The idea of organic free range chickens isn’t necessarily funny,” Armstrong later explains, “but when you put that label on a box of chicken broth, there is an incongruity there that is a little absurd.  As if the broth water itself was out grazing feed next to the barn.”

I kind of get where she’s coming from.  After the point at which a carcass has been stripped of its usable flesh, plunged into a pot of boiling water, and rendered into liquid form, does its organic designation really matter?  And if it does, would it be okay, then, to market free-range chicken bouillon cubes, where the chicken broth has been dehydrated into a powder, mixed with certified organic MSG, and pressed into cube form? 

Somehow, these things seem a few too many steps removed from the chicken’s organic upbringing to merit full credit.  Partial credit, at best.  Or, maybe, it’s just the thought that counts.

Of course, most rational people believe that chickens (and all livestock, for that matter) deserve humane living conditions as a matter of course, a point so blatantly obvious as to be easily glossed over (which Armstrong did).  And so the writer, no stranger to hate mail, was bombarded with complaints accusing her of being unsympathetic to the plight of the chickens and organic farming in general. 

But, I had another bone to pick with her, and so I fired off an angry letter of my own.  It went a little something like this:

Dear Heather,

Somehow, I think you have lost sight of the BIG PICTURE!!!

Yes, the chicken in the broth of which you speak may be certified organic, but what of the water?  IS THE WATER ORGANIC?

What’s the point of going to all the time and expense of raising organic chickens for organic broth if you fuck it all up with non-organic water?  Sure, you boil it.  That, perhaps, may get rid of some impurities.  But what kind of conditions has that broth water endured P.C. (pre-chicken)?  Has that water ever been confined unwillingly?  Has it spent any time at all in a toilet bowl?  Sure, it may have been sanitized by the city, but was it a “certified organic” chemical treatment plant?  And, more importantly, were the chemicals harsh in their treatment of the water?

Not to mention what happens once the broth has been stripped of its organic, free-range packaging.  Have we considered the psychological abuse waged on the broth by the certified organic chicken broth buyer, who, despite his/her liberal stance on farming, glares viciously at the pot’s contents, cursing it up and down for its lethargic boiling properties?  This is degrading to the self-esteem of all broth water, organic or not.

I find it laughable in the face of this debate that no one has stood up for the welfare of our most valuable natural resource.  So, grow up, Heather.  I trust next time you’ll leave the chickens alone.

Name withheld    (okay, it's Tammy)

P.S. I heart H2O.

Reason #7 Not To Read My Blog: Meat

In case there was any doubt after my previous post:

7.    I’m not giving up meat, either.

Why?  Three reasons. 

1. Most obviously, it’s delicious.  2. Because I suspect that’s what these pointy teeth I found in my mouth are for.  At least, that’s what I’ve taken away from the 600 dinosaur books I’ve read to my kids that distinguish between the gentle and magnificent plant-eaters and the fearsome, wretched meat-eaters.  (Still not convinced of the category to which we belong?  I refer you to CNN.) 3. Most importantly, see Reason 1.

I have the utmost respect for vegetarians, both for their principles and the sheer amount of will power they possess (they also REALLY know how to cook vegetables).  At the same time, I hold the animal kingdom in high regard.  Conservation and sustainable living are important, to be sure.  Nevertheless, a day is not a day in the Donroe household unless an animal product has been consumed. 

I have concocted many ways to deal with this hypocrisy:

First, I have learned how to fish.  In this way, I am responsible for the capture, killing, and cookery of said fish, and the full range of consequences that go with it.  My sister, the vegetarian, championed this idea.  How does it feel to kill your own food?  Not great.  But the tears of guilt I may shed while filleting said fish are soon replaced by tears of joy at the realization of just how sweet and delicious hour-old striped bass can be if properly grilled and topped with a delicate tomato and basil salsa.  It’s a trade-off.  Like life.  That said, I’m a pretty terrible fisherman.

Second, though I’m not sure I have the stomach for hunting, I do try to make my meat as mouth-wateringly scrumptious as possible.  For the animal's sake. 

Third, I do my best to keep waste to a minimum.  Leftover meat scraps go into sandwiches.  Bones go into soups and stock.  Hot dogs and sausages are consumed with glee because, really, what else were they going to do with those kidneys.  Plus, they’re delicious. 

Especially DePasquale’s hot Italian sausages in Newton.  Mmmmm. 

Bird by Bird

You know the holiday season is approaching when I’m bent over the sink trying to pry a bag full of giblets out of a mostly still-frozen chicken.  Or turkey.  Or duck.  I can’t seem to remember to defrost my birds.  This happens every year at least once.

Nobody else seems to have this problem because, really, how hard is it to remove your poultry from the freezer the night before?  Or better yet, buy it fresh in the vicinity of when you want to cook it.  What can I say, I’m not that organized. 

One thing I've learned: don’t bother with the microwave, unless you'd like one steamy, overcooked drumstick with your frozen giblets.  The best way to defrost a bird in a hurry is to place its shrink-wrapped frozenness into a bowl of warm water and let it sit, adding more warm water every so often.  Water conducts heat faster than air, so you can defrost a meaty carcass in maybe a quarter of the time it takes to thaw it in the fridge or even on the counter.  Two hours, if you’re lucky. 

Two hours?  I don’t have that kind of time.

On goes the faucet full-blast at its most blistering temperature.  That’s more like it.  It’s like a day at the spa for one lucky dead bird, he who gave his life for theoretical deliciousness.  A little soak here, a little soak there.  A bit too warm, you say?  Don’t be a wuss.

Things seem to be progressing nicely, so I remove the wrapper and find that, no, actually the chicken is still pretty much frozen solid.  Think, Tammy, think.  How about a deep-tissue massage so the heat can really penetrate?  A little to the left.  Up a bit.  Right there.  Ahhhh.

By now, I’m experiencing that stinging sensation in my fingers that happens when you go from too cold to too hot too quickly.  My engineer husband has also arrived on the scene to provide me with “helpful suggestions.”  Things like “why didn’t you take the chicken out of the freezer last night?”  Well, maybe if you could have torn yourself away from World of Warcraft for five minutes, we could have had a full-blown poultry discussion.

Everything is under control.  Get out.

Suddenly, a day at the spa turns into a sort of reverse water boarding.  If I just concentrate on defrosting the inside of the chicken, I figure, I can get the giblets out and just add extra time in the oven for the rest.  I focus the faucet squarely on the chicken’s crotch.  Not enough.  I attempt to help things along by prying the giblet bag away from the cavity to make more room for the scalding water to work its magic.  But the already defrosted section of the bag disintegrates in my hand and I’m left to pull out slimy organ pieces, one at a time.  Was that a gizzard?  A partial spleen? 

Most of the bag is still rock-solid and fused within its bony cage.  More hot water.  More uncomfortable jabbing in a chicken’s nether regions.  Twenty minutes later, the bag is out and I have one defeated and disrespected chicken on my hands. 

This time I’ll learn my lesson, I swear.  Until next year.

Calling All Cauliflower

I’ve seen lots of interesting cauliflower recipes lately.  Mostly side dishes, but ones with backbone.  Here are my picks:

Sauteed Cauliflower with Olives and Capers courtesy of CookieCrumb.

Roasted Cauliflower with Mustard-Lemon Butter from Anna Pump of Loaves and Fishes (Bon Appetit).

And my family's favorite:

Indian Cauliflower and Potatoes (Aloo Gobi)

2-3 medium potatoes
1 medium cauliflower
4 Tbsp. canola oil
1 onion, chopped
1 tsp. cumin seeds
1½ tsp. ground cumin
½ tsp. ground coriander
¼ tsp. ground turmeric
¼ tsp. cayenne pepper
1 tsp. salt
Black pepper to taste

Boil the potatoes in their jackets until fully cooked.  Let cool in refrigerator until ready to use.   Break up cauliflower into florets about 1½-inches wide.  Soak florets in bowl of water for 30 minutes.  Drain.

Peel potatoes and cut into ¾-inch dice.  In a large, non-stick frying pan, heat oil over medium heat.  Add onion and fry until translucent, about 4-5 minutes.  Add cumin seeds and stir for about a minute.  Add cauliflower and stir until it starts to brown in spots, about 5 minutes.  Cover, turn heat to low, and simmer until cauliflower is almost done, but still has a bit of crispness (about 10-12 minutes).  Add diced potatoes and the rest of the spices.  Stir gently.  Cook uncovered over low heat until potatoes are heated through, about 5 minutes more.

Source: Adapted from Madhur Jaffrey’s Illustrated Indian Cookery

Reason #6 Not To Read My Blog: Carbs

Still here?  Don't worry, I've got a million of them...

6.    I’m not giving up carbs for anything, no way, no how.

I’d rather keep the extra ten pounds and be happy about it.  After all, when global warming causes the entire balance of the earth to shift, drastic climate change forces mass migration, and we’re left to forage for dandelion greens and pate of possum to survive, won’t you wish you had filled up on bread?  I know I’ll be pleasantly full of “ I-told-you-so.”

I love starch.  I love pasta, potatoes, rice, bread, cookies, cakes, churros, blinis, the spray-on stuff that makes your collar nice and stiff.  Mmmmm. 

Short of a grain blight, the only way I might be forced to forgo my beloved pancakes is the dreaded celiac sprue.  And bless my mother’s heart, if she gave me that gene, I’ll never forgive her.  Pass the syrup.

The Fireplace, Brookline

This has been on my list for a while, even as rumors flew that it was slipping.  My husband and I were looking for a cozy place to celebrate my birthday (which happened two months ago), and what better way to spend a balmy, 60-degree December night than at a spot called The Fireplace.

Luckily, we were seated nowhere near the fireplace.  It’s right by the bar, though I almost missed it because I was too busy trying to figure out where the hostess station was.  Here by the door?  Up there?  Come on, Tammy, think outside the box. 

Instead, we were led to the elevated dining room with a view of the open kitchen.  No wild innovations going on in there, but I gather that’s not the point.  Most of the dishes have some tie-in to tradition whether it’s a classic New England recipe with a few clever updates, or a modern creation meant to showcase local produce and regional cheeses. 

Some high points: a festive cranberry-ginger martini; an heirloom beet salad with walnuts, gorgonzola, and figs (though the beets didn’t really need all of those trimmings to shine); Grandma Gertie’s stuffing; perfectly-seared scallops (the orange-honey sauce was a bit weak, but who needs sauce); and butterscotch bread pudding with rum-drunken raisins. 

The service was fine: just the right blend of “there when you want them, not there when you don’t.”  The ambiance was warm and minimalist, and the food comforting.  You can get more (better) for your money elsewhere around the city.  Still, as long as you don’t expect fireworks, the Fireplace is pleasant, and you’ll likely make it home before the babysitter gets into your liquor cabinet. 

The Fireplace, 1634 Beacon St., Brookline, MA, 617-975-1900
http://www.fireplacerest.com/

Wife v. YouTube (A Fight You Can't Win)

The other day while my husband was on his computer, I heard laughter coming from within the dung heap he calls his office.  Hmmm, I thought hopefully, I wonder if he’s reading my blog?

No.  He was watching this.

Shortly thereafter came a series of raspy guffaws, the unstoppable, bladder-weakening kind he normally reserves for Mystery Science Theater 3000 or the mention of "pork" in any context.   Okay, maybe now he’s reading my blog?

Nope.  He was watching this.

This went on for a while.

(20 minutes later)

Me: Did you read my blog?

Him: No, I didn’t have time.

Interesting.  For that, I shall deduct 100 points from last night’s Scrabble score and…there.  I win.