FOOD ON THE FOOD

Ridiculously Good Fried Chicken

I hope everyone’s hungry for some Saint Paddy’s Day fried chicken!

Okay, you got me. We’re not really having fried chicken tonight—we’re having Irish boiled dinner, just as Husband’s Irish ancestors intended. But I have a big backlog of posts and none of them has an Irish theme, so fried chicken it is! We’re very loose with the schedule around here. You can still drink your green beer, though, so pipe down.

This recipe is based on my Southern grandmother’s version of fried chicken, with a few twists to make it my own. While you can deep-fry the chicken pieces until shatteringly crisp in a Fry-o-later or Dutch oven full of oil, I tend to use her shallow pan-frying technique instead, which uses far less oil. It still yields a crispy product, though I don’t fully understand how. It seems like covering the pan to finish the cooking would trap steam and make the coating soggy, but somehow it still stays plenty crisp. Huzzah! The kids love it.

Use a great-tasting, local-farm-raised chicken if you can for the best flavor. Then there's no need to brine the chicken ahead of time. Mashed potatoes and braised collard greens complete the meal. (See? I snuck some green in at the very end!)


Southern Fried Chicken  

My grandmother dipped the chicken pieces in beaten egg, but I like to use buttermilk. Or, if we’re out of buttermilk like we were last week, I thin some yogurt with milk. The spices are all to taste. Use what you like. I never make it the same way twice.

1 medium whole chicken, cut up, or 2-3 lbs. of your favorite parts, bone in, skin on
1/2 cup buttermilk (I use Kate’s)
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 tsp. dried thyme
1/2 tsp. paprika
1/2 tsp. kosher salt
1/4 tsp. dried sage
1/4 tsp. black pepper
Dash of cayenne
1/4 cup vegetable oil

Rinse and dry the chicken parts, and sprinkle them with a little salt and pepper. Pour the buttermilk into a small bowl. In a medium shallow dish, combine the flour and all the seasonings. You can either use this bowl to bread the chicken pieces, or you can toss the mixture into a clean brown paper bag. I usually do the latter so I can shake them around. Two at a time, dip the chicken parts into the buttermilk and then dip them in the flour, moving the pieces around until they’re fully coated. Shake off the excess flour, then set them on a large plate until ready to fry.

In a large cast iron or other heavy bottomed frying pan, heat the oil until shimmery hot, but not smoking. Make sure the pan has a lid nearby, or borrow one from another similarly sized pan. Fry the chicken in two batches, about 4-5 minutes per side, until golden. Return all the chicken to the pan in one layer if possible, or stacked if necessary. Cover and reduce the heat to low. Cook for about 15 more minutes until cooked through to the bone. Transfer the chicken to a plate lined with paper towels and season with salt. Serve immediately. If there are leftovers, and there probably won’t be, don't heat them up in the microwave—use the oven or toaster oven instead to maintain the crispness.

*I’m not much of a gravy girl, but if you want gravy, here’s what my grandmother used to do. Pour off all but 1 Tbsp. of the oil from the pan. Over medium heat, whisk in 1 Tbsp. of any leftover flour mixture (or 1 Tbsp. new flour) and cook it for a minute. Then whisk in about half a can of evaporated milk (NOT condensed milk), whisking constantly to scrape up the brown bits and simmering until it reaches the desired consistency. (You could also use 1/2 cup regular milk—it'll just take longer to cook down to the right consistency, maybe 5-10 minutes). Season with salt and pepper, and any other seasonings you enjoy.

Chicken Pot Pie

Hey, everyone, it's March 14th, which means it's Pi Day! Enjoy your allotted 3.14 pieces of pie. The great thing about a non-repeating number that never ends is that you can always have a tiny bit more pie, mathematically speaking, so enjoy the loophole while you can!

In honor of the day, I have a pie recipe for you. That's two in one week if you count the chocolate tart. The inspiration for this chicken potpie came from Joanne Chang's new cookbook, Flour, Too. If you don't know who Joanne Chang is, then you must not be from Boston because if you were, you would know her bakery and you would know it well. It's paradise. Especially when you're walking from the ICA in the fricking freezing cold with the horrible, horrible wind. The whole place just swaddles you with warmth and butter.

I pulled this potpie filling straight from the book (actually, it's chef Cory Johnson's recipe). But I already had some of my own pie dough in the fridge, so I used that instead of the cookbook version. It's a dough I've been playing around with that has cornmeal and buttermilk. The other difference is that I only had enough dough for the top crust, so I didn't bother with the bottom crust. The crisp, flaky top is the best part anyway. Plus then I didn't have to do any blind-baking (score!). If you want the full Flour recipe, well, you'll have to buy the book. But if you're willing to slum it with the likes of me, here's what I did. It's still pretty awesome.

 

Chicken Potpie    

If you just want a regular pie crust, no funny buttermilk-cornmeal business, just omit the cornmeal and sub in icy cold water for the buttermilk.

Crust
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 cup fine cornmeal
1/2 tablespoon granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into 6 pieces
3 to 5 tablespoons buttermilk

Filling
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 medium onion, cut into 1/2-inch pieces
1 large carrot, peeled and thinly sliced
1 celery stalk, thinly sliced
1 small russet potato, unpeeled and cut into 1/2-inch pieces
1 pound boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cut into 1-inch pieces
5 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1-1/2 cups chicken stock
1 cup frozen peas
2 teaspoons chopped fresh thyme
1-1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons heavy cream

For the crust, add the flour, cornmeal, sugar, and salt to the bowl of a food processor and pulse to combine. Add the butter pieces and pulse in 1-second beats until you have chunks of butter the size of peas, 8 to 10 pulses. Add 3 tablespoons of buttermilk through the feed tube, and pulse until the dough starts to clump. If it doesn't clump after 12 pulses, add a little more buttermilk, pulsing the motor after each addition, until the mixture clumps together. (You can also cut the butter into the dry ingredients with an electric mixer, a pastry blender, or your fingers. Add the buttermilk in increments, fluffing with a fork, until the dough holds together when pressed.) Dump the dough onto the counter and form it into a ball. Flatten it into a disk about 3/4-inch thick and wrap it in plastic wrap. Let the dough rest in the refrigerator for 30 minutes.

For the filling, heat the butter in a large saucepan over medium-high heat until it foams. Add the onion and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, stirring occasionally, until it softens a bit. Add the carrot, celery, and potato and sauté, stirring, for 4 to 5 minutes until the vegetables start to soften. Add the chicken and continue to cook for another 2 to 3 minutes, stirring, until the chicken pieces start to turn opaque. Stir in the flour, mixing to coat all of the meat and vegetables, and cook 2 to 3 minutes longer. By this time, the filling will start to look a bit sludgy and a brown film should be forming on the bottom of the pan. Add the stock and bring to a simmer. Add the peas, thyme, salt, pepper, and cream and stir well. Simmer, scrapping up the browned bits clinging to the bottom of the pan, for about 5 minutes or until the filling thickens. Remove from the heat and spoon into a 9-inch pie plate or other similarly sized casserole dish.

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Roll out the dough on a well-floured surface into a circle about 1/4-inch thick and at least 10 inches in diameter. With a bench scraper or spatula, flip one side of the dough over the top of the rolling pin, gently loosening the dough if it sticks to the counter, until it is fully draped over the pin. Center the dough over the filling and unfurl. Gently tuck the edges of the dough down into the gap between the filling and the sides of the plate to enclose. Crimp the edges decoratively if you want or leave as is. Cut a few steam vents into the dough with a paring knife. Place the pie on a baking sheet to catch any overflow. Bake for 30 to 45 minutes on the top rack of the oven until the crust is golden brown and the filling is bubbly. Remove from the oven and let sit for 15 minutes before serving. Pie will keep for several days covered in the fridge. To reheat, I actually lift off the crust and heat it on a pan in the toaster oven and heat the filling separately in the microwave. Then I reassemble. That way, the crust is nice and crisp instead of soggy.

Source: Filling adapted from Flour, Too by Joanne Chang

Local Ingredients:
Chicken: Chestnut Farm, Hardwick, MA
Carrots: Waltham Fields Community Farm, Waltham, MA
Butter: Cabot, Cabot, VT
Buttermilk: Kate's, Old Orchard Beach, ME
Cream: High Lawn Farm, Lee, MA

Chicken Piccata

Don't worry, I'm not blogging about anything disgusting today. Let's try to get back on track with a recipe for a change.

Recently, I've been craving standard Italian chicken dishes. You know the ones: chicken piccata, chicken marsala, chicken cacciatore. You can find them on the menus of throwback Italian restaurants from the ubiquitous Olive Garden to more localized institutions like the Chateau in Waltham.

My cousin dropped me off an amazing book last month called Italy: The Country and Its Cuisine. That's mainly what I was reading in bed when I was sick. It's a giant, heavy 500-page hardcover cookbook filled with photographs of the food and landscape of Italy. It's pretty spectacular. No wonder I was starving half to death.

As soon as I was up and about, I was determined to make chicken piccata, a personal favorite of mine. I sliced the chicken breasts in half the flat way, dredged them in flour, browned them, and then smothered them in a pan sauce of lemon juice, capers, parsley, and butter. YUM! Next up was chicken marsala. (Sorry, kids, we're having chicken all week!) Same deal with the chicken cutlets: slice, flour, brown, remove. Then I sautéed up some shallots and mushrooms, deglazed with marsala wine, and maybe sprinkled a little marjoram on top. Yes, I did lick the pan the sauce was in clean. What of it?

The chicken cacciatore was something new for me. I don't think I've ever made it before. That may change since I learned that cacciatore means "hunter-style," so basically this stew is what the Italian hunters made on their campgrounds with whatever they had on hand. Think browned pieces of rabbit or fowl plus vegetables, tomatoes, wild mushrooms, herbs, and wine. I imagine the Italians carry bottles of wine with them everywhere they go, especially on hunting trips. If they don't, please don't spoil this image for me. The image of a dark-skinned Italian with a bottle of wine under one arm, truffles in his pocket, and a partridge slung over his shoulder. Yeah. The next time I go mushroom-hunting, you can bet I'll be making this, though my recent version relied on regular white buttons. I didn't want to tempt the Vomit Gods so soon.

I'm moving these three chicken dishes into the dinnertime rotation. They're classic for a reason.

Chicken Piccata

There are lots of variations on this theme that use garlic, shallots, and white wine. Experiment and find your favorite. This is ours.

2-3 boneless chicken breasts, skin removed
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
4-5 Tbsps. olive oil
3/4 cup chicken stock
1/3 cup fresh lemon juice (from 1-2 lemons)
1/4 cup capers
2 Tbsp. Italian flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped
2 Tbsp. unsalted butter

Wash and dry the chicken breasts in cold water. Take each breast and butterfly it, meaning hold the knife parallel to the cutting board and slice along its width. I cut all the way through to make two thinner pieces of meat, but feel free to keep the breast intact if you like bigger portions, opening up the two sides which are now held together by a meaty hinge.

Season breasts with salt and pepper, and dredge with flour. Shake off excess.

Heat 3 Tbsp. olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. In two batches, cook the chicken breasts until brown, about 3 minutes. Flip and cook until the other side is brown, 2-3 minutes. Remove to a plate. Add more oil to the pan as needed for the second batch.

To the empty pan, add the stock, lemon juice, and capers. Bring to a boil, scraping up the browned bits stuck to the bottom of the pan. Add the chicken breasts and their juices to the pan and simmer uncovered on low until sauce has reduced and chicken is heated through, 4-5 minutes. Remove chicken and whisk butter and parsley into sauce. Serve chicken over pasta and spoon sauce over the top.

Curried Chicken Salad

One of my lasting memories of Nonni is of her standing at the kitchen counter after a roast chicken dinner and pulling every last shred of meat off the bones.  The chicken would then find its way into soup or whatever else she pleased.

Her depression-era tactics have served me well.  On these warmer days, I like to use the scavenged meat in a quick curried chicken salad.  If I'm diligent, I can get enough meat for 2 to 4 sandwiches before I freeze the stripped carcass for soup stock.  That's three separate and substantial meals from a single chicken, if anyone is keeping count.  Nonni would approve.

Curried Chicken Salad

If you don't like raisins, you can substitute chopped grapes, but I'm partial to the raisin version. 

2 cups cooked chicken, chopped
1/2 onion, finely chopped
Handful or two of raisins
1/2 cup mayo
1 Tbsp. dijon mustard
1 Tbsp. curry powder (or more)
Salt and pepper

In a medium bowl, combine chicken, onion, and raisins.  Make a well in the ingredients and stir together mayo, mustard, curry powder, and plenty of salt and pepper.  Mix everything together well.  Heap into your favorite sandwich configuration.

Masala Fried Chicken

So, what do you think?  Is it time for another chicken recipe?  I think it’s time for another chicken recipe.

I know you liked the last one I did: lemon balsamic chicken.  Saveur did, too.  But that was a while ago, so here’s another chicken dish from that same cookbook, American Masala.  It’s fried chicken, but with an Indian twist.  Take your basic Southern fried chicken recipe and replace the basil, thyme, and sage (or whatever herbs you use) with coriander, turmeric, and garam masala.  This is a good example of how just a sprinkling of a few well-chosen spices can change the character of a dish entirely.  The rest of the technique is exactly the same.

I get the most succulent chickens from Chestnut Farms out in Hardwick, MA.  They don’t need any sort of brine to be tender and juicy, but I’m including the brine recipe anyway.  It’s simple enough and certainly doesn’t hurt anything.  Serve your fried chicken with aloo gobi (Indian cauliflower and potatoes) and garlicky greens, and you’ve got yourself a great meal.

 

Masala Fried Chicken

The cinnamon notes in garam masala seem to appeal to children, so if you want to entice your kids to eat chicken on the bone, this is a good contender.  Just ease up on the cayenne a bit if they’re not used to spice.

Brine
3 cups buttermilk
¼ kosher salt
2 Tbsp. sugar
1½ tsp. garam masala
1 tsp. ground coriander
1 tsp. ground peppercorns
½ tsp. ground ginger
½ tsp. paprika
¼ tsp. cayenne pepper

Batter and Fry
1 chicken (4 lbs.), cut into 8 serving pieces, or 2-3 lbs. of drumsticks, thighs, wings
Canola oil, for frying
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tsp. ground coriander
2 tsp. garam masala
2 tsp. ground peppercorns
1 tsp. turmeric
½ tsp. kosher salt
¼ tsp. cayenne pepper

For the brine, mix buttermilk with the eight spices in a large bowl.  Add the chicken and turn to coat.  Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight, or as many hours as you can spare.

Heat an inch of canola oil in a large, heavy-bottomed skillet over medium-high heat.  In a pie plate, whisk together the flour and remaining spices.  Add the brined chicken and turn to coat.  If you’re not brining, you can dip the chicken pieces in a little buttermilk or egg, even yogurt, before coating with flour.  Let the chicken pieces rest in the flour while the oil finishes heating to 375°F.  That’s the secret to a crunchy, flaky crust—gluten.  Shake off any excess flour then fry in batches until browned 5-8 minutes.  Don’t crowd the pan or the oil temperature will drop and the batter will absorb too much oil.  In short, you’ll be disappointed.  Turn the chicken over and fry until browned on the other side, 5-8 minutes.  Transfer chicken to paper towels to drain.  Enjoy.

Source: Adapted from American Masala by Suvir Saran and Raquel Pelzel.

Tortilla Soup for Optimum Marital Health

This recipe for tortilla soup is courtesy of my BFF who really ought to start her own competing food blog since I’m always stealing her recipes.  It’s a good use for any post-Thanksgiving turkey stock you might have on hand.  You did make turkey stock, right?  Right?  If not, please deposit your unwanted turkey carcasses in my mailbox.

It was too dark to take a photo when I first made the soup (I rely heavily on natural light to compensate for my failings as a photographer).  Instead, I fried some extra tortilla strips and set them aside in a little plastic baggie for the next day when I would be recreating the whole experience.  Don’t eat them, I told Husband.  I won’t have time to fry more.  I have a very narrow 8-hour window of daylight in which to work.  Please, for the love of God, don’t mess with them.  Then we went through the usual spousal push and pull involved with trying to verify whether or not the request was heard and would be honored.  In the end, though, he agreed.

Cut to the next day.  I heat up my soup and get ready to apply the appropriate garnishes.  Sour cream?  Check.  Shredded cheese?  Check.  Avocado?  Check.  Tortilla strips?  Che…wait a minute.  Where the hell are they?  They’re not on the counter.  I yell up to Husband.  He insists they’re on the counter, but they’re not.  They’re just not.  I check all the cabinets.  Nothing.

After several maneuvers not unlike trying to dislodge a mule from his favorite resting spot, I manage to get Husband downstairs to confirm that, indeed, there were no tortilla strips on the counter.  Or anywhere.  And now I’m starting to get mad because the sun is poised to do a swan dive into the deep, dark night, and did we not have a whole conversation about this?  I have pretty low standards for photographic composition, but I think tortilla soup should at the very least include some visible tortillas.  And he’s mad because I’m making such a big deal about chips.  Which is clearly not the point at all.

Me: FIND ME THE STRIPS.

Him: They’re not here.  I put them here and they’re not here.  I’m sorry.

Me: THE STRIPS!!!

Him: I put them right here.  It’s not my fault.

Me: STRRRRRRIIIIIIIPS. 

It went back and forth like this for a while.  Voices were raised, several levels of maturity were disproven, in what was shaping up to be one of our worst fights ever.  So this is it, I thought.  The straw that breaks the camel’s back.  Tortilla chips. 

Until…

Him: Oh…oh, wait.  (fixes gaze up over my head)  Now I remember where I put them…

He reaches up on top of one of the blades of the motionless ceiling fan and produces my bag of chips.

Him: I forgot.  I was going to play a trick on you, but I forgot…

Then he ran up the stairs as fast as I’ve ever seen him move. 

The sad thing is, after all that, I couldn’t even get mad about it.  Well, I was a little mad.  The kind of mad where you alternate between sighing and laughing and shaking your head.  His punishment?  You’re looking at it.

 

Tortilla Soup for Optimum Marital Health

Cheaper than counseling and just as ineffective.

¼ cup vegetable oil
4 6-inch corn tortillas, halved and cut into strips

8 6-inch corn tortillas, cut into bite-sized pieces
1 medium onion, chopped
6 garlic cloves, minced
½ cup cilantro, chopped
1 15-oz. can diced tomatoes in juice
6 cups chicken or turkey broth
1 Tbsp. ground cumin
2 tsp. chili powder
2 bay leaves
4 skinless chicken breast halves
¼ tsp. cayenne pepper
2 cups sharp cheddar cheese, shredded
2 avocados, pitted & diced
Sour cream

Heat oil in small skillet. Add tortilla strips in batches, frying until golden.  Drain on paper towels.  Salt well and set aside.

Pour frying oil into large, heavy pot over high heat.  Add tortilla pieces (not the ones you just fried, the other ones), onion, garlic, and cilantro, and sauté about 3 minutes.  Stir in tomatoes with juices, and bring to a boil.  Add broth, cumin, chili powder, and bay leaves.  Return to boil.  Add chicken and cayenne pepper, and reduce heat.  Simmer until chicken is cooked through, about 15 minutes. (I didn’t actually add any chicken here; my homemade broth already contained some shredded chicken.  Not a lot, but enough.)  Remove soup from heat.  Using slotted spoon, remove bay leaves.  Transfer chicken to a plate, and let cool.  Shred chicken and return to soup.  Ladle into bowls.  Top with cheese, avocado, dollop of sour cream, and FRIED TORTILLA STRIPS.

Cookbook Friday: Tortiere

                   

This is my grandmother, Dora [Barbaresi] Donroe, at my wedding in 2000.  She hates this picture because she thinks it makes her look old.  But, I love it because this is mostly how I’ve always known her.  She forgets that I wasn’t around when she was young, stick thin, and flawlessly beautiful.  As much as I love the old pictures, I barely recognize her. 

I knew her in the later stages, still fiercely independent with a wicked sense of humor, but capable of more love than I thought humanly possible.  She has a favorite skin cream, which she uses liberally, that kept those wrinkles at bay for as long as nature would allow.  But, I wouldn’t trade in a single one of those wrinkles because there’s a story behind each one.  (Although, now that I’m getting of an age, maybe I should find out what brand it is.)  (So, then, I guess it is actually possible to miss your own point.)

Growing up, Nonni got me hooked on crossword puzzles, Alfred Hitchcock, and seven-layer cookies.  We’d spend hours wordlessly working on nine-million-piece jigsaw puzzles.  She had a weakness for scratch tickets.  I had a weakness for chocolate.  We worked out an arrangement.  If you were sleeping over and she heard you cough, she’d crank the heat up to 85° until you woke up thinking you were dying in the Sahara.  Then, when you finally cooled off and fell back asleep, she’d be up banging pots and pans at 5 a.m.

If you piss her off, you hear about it.  If you make her happy, you hear about that, too.  She isn’t perfect.  And you wouldn’t want her to be.  This is starting to sound like a eulogy.  Fear not, she’s alive and well.  But, why wait for a funeral? 

Here, have some chicken.

Tortiere

Unrelated, as far as I know, to the French-Canadian meat pie by the same name, this Italian peasant dish is equally hearty.  Serve with plenty of Italian bread to mop up the juices.

¼ cup olive oil
1 onion, sliced thinly
1 medium package boneless chicken breasts, cut into thirds
2-3 potatoes, cut into medium cubes
3 cups Nonni’s homemade tomato sauce
1 15-oz. can peas (you can substitute frozen peas, but they won’t taste murky enough)
Salt and pepper

Preheat oven to 300°F.  Pour oil onto the bottom of a 9x11-inch baking dish.  Add onions, then arrange chicken breasts on top and potatoes around them.  Sprinkle salt and pepper, and add just enough tomato sauce to cover the chicken.  Bake uncovered until chicken is cooked through and potatoes are tender, maybe 2 hours (depends on how big your chicken and potato pieces are).  Then, take the can of peas, water and all, and throw them in the pan as soon as it comes out.  Let sit a few minutes to warm the peas. 

Dora [Barbaresi] Donroe
New Haven, Connecticut
1918 -

And that's the end of the Italian Cookbook Friday, folks.  (If you missed the beginning, it starts here.)

Cookbook Friday: Chicken Potacchio

               

This is a photo of Lydia [Belbusti] Barbaresi (on the right) with her sister Rose [Belbusti] Bernabucci in New Haven, CT in the 1940s.  Lydia was my great grandmother and Nonni’s mother.  The sisters were heading back to Italy for a wedding, and it was, I believe, the first time they had been back since emigrating in 1910.  This is the only picture I have of Lydia smiling.  She always looked very serious, like here and here (of course, if I had that many kids, I wouldn't be smiling, either).

Today, I’m sharing her recipe for Chicken Potacchio, pronounced “po-TAH-key” in their Marchigiano dialect.  You have no idea what I had to go through to get this recipe.  First of all, I didn’t even know it existed.  I had already interrogated Nonni multiple times to make sure I had all of the family recipes written down, when this chicken dish suddenly appeared on the table.  I had never seen it before in my life.

Once I tasted it, I knew I had to include it in the cookbook.  It was mop-up-all-the-juices scrumptious.  Lydia had taught Nonni how to make it, of course, and Nonni made it for her kids growing up, but not so much after that.  In fact, she had forgotten about it entirely. 

Nonni gave me the run-down, but my first attempt to duplicate it was lackluster, with the chicken cooking way before the potatoes were done.  Turns out, there weren’t even supposed to be potatoes in the recipe (you may recall this conversation). 

So, I nixed the potatoes, made it again, and it still wasn’t up to snuff.  More phone calls.  We played this game of culinary Marco Polo for quite some time.  With each conversation, a new ingredient or technique was discovered.  Peeled garlic cloves turned into unpeeled garlic cloves.  Uncovered pots suddenly had covers.  Preheated ovens were abandoned for the stovetop.

But, the recipe still wasn’t right.

I was about to give up, drive down to New Haven myself, and videotape the whole production, but I decided to make a last-ditch attempt from afar.  When I called, Nonni’s sister-in-law Regina was there.  Regina had also learned how to make the dish from Lydia.  When Regina heard what Nonni was telling me, she interjected her own instructions, which (surprise, surprise) were completely different.  Suddenly, there’s salt pork instead of oil and red wine vinegar instead of white. 

Nonni, who’s pushing ninety, laughingly shouts: “She’s always been jealous of me...My shape...Now, she’s trying to take away my chicken.”

Ultimately, there was consensus on the technique.  Even some of the ingredients!  I tried the recipe again, and guess what?  It was perfect.  Finally.

I haven’t asked much of you, dear readers, but somebody, somewhere, please make this.  It may be the most over-researched recipe in the whole world, but so very well worth it.

 

Chicken Potacchio

This is Lydia’s original version.  Nonni makes it a bit differently with a few tablespoons of oil instead of the salt pork, and the same amount of white vinegar instead of the red wine vinegar.  Serve this with Italian bread to soak up the sauce.  For the garlic, squeeze it out of its skin and eat it whole or spread it on bread.

2 oz. salt pork, cut into a small dice
2 lb. boneless chicken breasts, cut into two or three pieces
1 head garlic, separated into cloves with skin still on (DON’T YOU DARE PEEL THEM)
½ cup red wine vinegar
½ cup water
1 Tbsp. dried rosemary leaves
Salt and pepper

In a large skillet (with lid) over medium-high heat, fry salt pork (uncovered) until it starts to turn golden and there’s a thin layer of fat rendered at the bottom of the pan.  Season the chicken pieces and add them to the pan with the salt pork along with the unpeeled garlic cloves.  Don’t cover the pan (I’ll tell you when, okay, just hold your horses).  Brown the chicken on both sides, taking care not to let the garlic burn.  You can do this in two batches, if necessary.

With the chicken in the pan nice and brown, add the vinegar and water, and sprinkle the rosemary on top.  Cover the pan (yes, now) and reduce the heat to a gentle simmer.  Cook until chicken is done and sauce has reduced and thickened, 20-30 minutes.  Season with salt and pepper. 

Lydia [Belbusti] Barbaresi
New Haven, Connecticut (by way of Castelvecchio, Le Marche, Italy)
1883 - 1974

Chicken Potacchio, Swiss chard sautéed with pine nuts and raisins, and one very marked-up manuscript.

Next: Making Pasta

     (Previously: Italian Bread)

Cookbook Friday: Chicken Soup

Or when your cable Internet goes down, Saturday (thanks, RCN).

Dora Barbaresi (my grandmother), on the right, around 1941, with her father, George, and older sister, Eva Blasi.

It’s hard to believe that Nonni (Dora) is younger in this picture than I am now, but I guess the camera doesn’t lie.  Is this the same woman who, in my recent memory, would feign a heart attack when the cops pulled her over for speeding?  Sure is.

She’d be in her early twenties here.  She spoke English and Italian fluently, although her parents got by speaking hardly any English.  New Haven was very Italian back then and her father was a member of the Marchigiano Club.  No ladies were allowed, and you peed into a trough right there at the bar.  Ah, the good old days.

Like the rest of her sisters, Dora couldn’t finish high school because she needed to help support the family.  All of the girls were smart, but their mother insisted that they go to work as soon as the law said they could.  Rumor has it that on more than one occasion, Dora fought to keep what she had worked so hard to earn in the dress shop. 

Several of her sisters, like Eva, were already married and starting families.  World War II was heating up, and Dora’s boyfriend, Freddie (whom she would later marry), was considering enlisting in the Army. 

Around this time, Dora’s sister, Anne, a platinum blonde, was sitting in the audience of the Miss New Haven beauty pageant when the judges pulled her onstage with the other contestants.  Their father, usually a mild-mannered man, was horrified.  “You’re beautiful,” he would say to his girls, “but you’re not supposed to brag.  You’re supposed to be quiet.  Act like a lady.”  But they made Anne go up, and she won.

 

Chicken Soup

This simple soup goes hand in hand with two of the family’s favorite pasta recipes coming up.  Nonni isn’t big on amounts, as she just uses what she has around the house, but this recipe will get you where you want to be.  She cuts her whole chicken in half because her pot isn’t big enough to accommodate a whole one.  She freezes the other for later use.

1 whole chicken (3-4 lb.), cut in half
2 cloves, pressed into chicken (not garlic cloves, actual spice cloves)
2 small onions, peeled and halved
2 ribs celery, cut into large pieces
2 carrots, cut into large pieces
Small can (14.5 oz.) of stewed tomatoes
Salt and pepper

Add all ingredients to a large pot and cover with water by two inches.  Bring to a boil, then cover, lower heat, and simmer for 1 hour.  Strain soup and set aside.  Reserve carrots and chicken (remove the cloves).  Cut carrots into chunks and pull off shreds of chicken meat with a fork to add to soup.  Season with salt and pepper.  Serve with cappellettis or passatellis, or freeze. 

Dora [Barbaresi] Donroe
New Haven, Connecticut
1918 -

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Of Chickens and Morons

I used to think that the people who swarm to the grocery store at the first mention of snow were morons.  Can’t you live without your Ho Ho’s for a mere 24 hours?  Don’t you have a few cans of tuna fish somewhere? 

But I was wrong.  There is a worse kind of moron.  The sort of moron that knows we’re running low on milk, bread, feminine products, etc. a week before the snow is set to hit, and, still, no trips to the grocery store are made.  And when that special brand of New England slush starts falling from the sky, fusing itself to every possible surface, and then freezing solid so you’re encased in your own personal life-sized snow globe prison, well by then I’m too much of a wuss to fishtail my way to the moron store to stock up on all the moronic products that, apparently, only morons don’t have.

So, that’s how I found myself with nothing even remotely delicious in the house, trying to concoct dinner from the slim pickings I had in the pantry.  Rice.  Coconut milk.  Pumpkin pie filling.  Except that I can’t touch the pumpkin pie filling or an irate engineer will spontaneously crash through the ceiling with a ridiculous but fierce display of Kung Fu-ish flailing.  You can’t mess with the man’s pumpkin pie ingredients.

The refrigerator was completely empty.  We had finished off the condiments during our afternoon snack.  In the freezer, there were all kinds of mysterious things, but all I could immediately recognize were: 1) a lone freezer-burned chicken breast, and 2) a million kinds of stock.  So, what can you make with rice, coconut milk, chicken, and how about duck stock? 

Chicken Mulligatawny

1 Tbsp. canola oil
1 yellow onion, diced
2 stalks celery, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
1½ Sambhar curry powder
½ tsp. ground cumin
½ tsp. ground coriander
½ tsp. ground ginger
6 cups homemade yummy poultry stock of your choice
½ cup basmati rice
1 large chicken breast, cut into bite-sized pieces
1 cup coconut milk
1 Tbsp. lemon juice
¼ tsp. salt
¼ tsp. pepper
3 Tbsp. toasted, sliced almonds, optional

Heat oil in a large pot over medium-high heat.  Add onion, celery, and garlic, and cook, stirring often, until softened, about 5 minutes.  Add curry powder, cumin, coriander, and ginger, and cook a minute or two.  Add the stock and rice.  Bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer, and cook uncovered for 12 minutes.

Add chicken, return to a simmer, and cook until chicken is done and rice is tender, about 8-10 minutes more.  Stir in coconut milk and return to a simmer.  Remove from heat, and stir in lemon juice, salt, and pepper.  Garnish with almonds, unless you’re a moron.

Source: Adapted from Eating Well.  The original recipe called for 2 diced Granny Smith apples, but the moron didn’t have any apples.  Plus, she wasn’t so sure about apples in her Mulligatawny.  So, instead, she decided to use full-fat coconut milk in place of the “lite” coconut milk originally listed in the recipe, and just call it even.