High Heels in the Kitchen

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2010-03-21T14:32:00.007-05:00

Hello, and thank you for stopping by. I've still got my heels, and I still love my kitchen, but I've moved here. Come check out my new blog.

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From Prunes to Parsnips, a Palate Awakened

2010-01-28T16:56:00.000-06:00

Prunes

When I was growing up, I had a lengthy list of dislikes based primarily on the idea of a food rather than the actual taste. I did not take into consideration the variety of methods for preparing an ingredient, and declared something awful after just one bad experience—and very often, no experience at all.

I had harbored a loathing for green beans since at the age of seven I sampled one at my uncle’s annual pool party. It was brownish green, cold, and rubbery after sitting on a platter under a beach umbrella all day. I gagged, spit it out, and never touched green beans again—until last year. Last Thanksgiving, I decided to try a simple recipe for green beans sautéed with salt, pepper, and garlic. And to my great surprise, green beans weren’t the rubbery bits I had recalled with horror for more than twenty years. They were bright green and had a little crunch to them. What a revelation! It led me to wonder: What other foods have I always “hated” without due cause? What surprises does the grocery store hold for my emerging palate?

Most of my revelations have been about vegetables: carrots are all right after all and broccoli is divine. And there are hitherto unimagined varieties of lettuce. I had always thought salad was resigned to wilted bits of leaf and chunks of bitter tomato. But the leafy varieties! The textures that can be incorporated with walnuts, pears, dried cranberries, seeds, red—or green or yellow—peppers! Even the humble, earthy beet lends a distinctive character to a bowl of what I had previously considered mere roughage.

With my mind newly opened to the wonders of the culinary world, it was time to give prunes another try.

Owing to an embarrassing childhood ailment, I was forced—once a morning for months—to down a full glass of prune juice. My grandmother challenged me to prune juice races, which she always let me win. I still remember the bitter, cloying syrup and its awful aftertaste and I vowed, once I had weathered my ailment, never to let a prune or its foul juice touch my lips again.

I broke my vow last month. I was making a recipe for non-fat gingerbread that called for prune purée in place of butter, so I bought a full tub of prunes. When I opened the lid, the prunes glistened in a moist heap and smelled sickly sweet, just the way I remembered their juice. As I puréed the shining, sticky fruit, I became curious. Would prunes live up to my most distressing gastronomic memory? I unglued one from the mound, and bit into it.

In what was perhaps the most shocking moment in my life, I enjoyed the prune. With finality, that one taste devastated the entire foundation on which I had based my appetites. If I liked prunes, what wouldn’t I like?

Parsnips

I don’t like parsnips. I am pleased to discover this fact because after the prunes, I realized with equal measures pride and dismay that I might just like eating anything and everything. Where once I couldn’t think of a vegetable I liked, now I couldn’t imagine a food I didn’t like. Until Monday, when I made parsnip soup.

I had tried parsnips roasted and crisped and whipped, and they had left me unimpressed. I thought I just hadn’t yet discovered the ideal method for preparing them. Soup seemed like a logical progression in my parsnip experiment, so I found a lovely seasonal soup recipe that paired the parsnips with potato, celery, salt, pepper, and paprika—a combination that sounds creamy, sweet and a little spicy. I made eight servings, so I would have enough soup to keep me warm for nearly two weeks in my chilly cubicle.

I tasted the soup while it simmered on the stove and added more seasoning. And a little more. And more salt. And a dash or two of extra paprika. And a few more pinches of salt, until the soup was as good as it was likely to get. I thought it might improve by resting overnight in the fridge. So with hope and good intentions, I divided the soup into eight Tupperware bowls and put it to sleep.

When I heated my lunch in the office microwave the next day, a pungent, bitter scent filled the kitchen and clung to me as I headed down the hall back to my cube, which immediately filled with the aroma. I hadn’t even removed the lid.

The soup was sickeningly bittersweet. I liberally added Parmesan and crackers. The cheese helped to mask the bitterness and make the soup barely edible. The crackers added texture to the otherwise watery mixture, but they didn’t stay crispy for long, and drowned in the mess. I nearly cried when I emptied seven Tupperware bowls into the sink that night.

I say never again to parsnip soup.

A Pat on the Back

2010-01-18T08:22:00.000-06:00

“Did you have a relaxing weekend?” J asked on Monday.

“I did! At least, I tried to relax, but I ended up baking bread all day on Sunday.” I replied, arranging slices of challah next to the office kitchen sink.

“That sounds relaxing. Wasn’t it?” she asked.

“Not really.” I sighed. “I must have done something wrong, because the dough was so runny that it spread across the counter and started dripping on the floor.” A motherly sort of person, J would sympathize with my culinary crises.

“Maybe I used the wrong flour.” I pondered.

“Is there a wrong flour?” she asked. I didn’t know. The recipe calls for “strong white flour,” but I have five different types of flour, and I wasn’t sure which was the strongest.

I chose bread flour, since I was making bread. But perhaps I should have used all-purpose. Then again, maybe my kitchen scale is defective.

Or maybe I shouldn't have used my hand-held electric mixer to mix the ingredients. Mrs. Beeton instructs us to “Rub in the butter or margarine. Beat the eggs into the yeast mixture and stir in the flour mixture. Mix to a soft dough.” As I mixed and beat the ingredients, the flour clumped into pebbles and the runny dough splashed the cabinets. It was at this point that I began to panic.

I gave up the mixer and began squishing flour clumps with my hands. This was truly a labor of love. I mixed and mixed and mixed with my hands, the mixer, a spoon—but the liquid never transformed into “a soft dough.” I don’t know why I thought it would be a good idea to turn it out onto a floured surface. But I did. And that’s when the dough made a run for it across the counter.

“Did you start over again?” J asked. I paused. I had never considered that option. I finish what I start. That’s how I ended up with a C+ in Latin my freshman year of college. If only I had dropped that class when my professor said, “I know you’re trying very hard, but I don’t think this language is for you.” But it never occurred to me to give up.

So, approaching hysteria on Sunday afternoon, I tore F from his book and made him cup his hands around the quickly spreading dough as I added handful after handful of flour, kneading and patting the dough, scooping flour until I had added a good cup and a half to the mix, moaning all the while, My challah! My challah!

“I probably should have started over,” I answered J, “But I just added more flour until the dough held together.”

When the dough had finally risen for the second time, I divided it into two equal portions and rolled them into strands for braiding.

The dough was still so soft that the strands melted into each other as I wove them together. I added a few more heaps of flour until the strands rested against each other without melding. I carefully transferred the loaf to a baking pan and brushed with egg. I let it rest for 30 minutes before baking.

“But the bread turned out OK in the end?” J asked.

“Yes." I replied sheepishly, "It’s actually pretty good.”

To my great surprise, the bread turned out beautifully, after all.

“So you saved it! That’s impressive.” J squeezed my shoulder and I smiled self-consciously.

“Did you pat yourself on the back?” J asked.

“Um… no.” I replied.

“You should pat yourself on the back more often.” J said as she took a slice of challah and ambled back to her desk.

As J turned away, I remembered something another J—Julia Child—once said, “The measure of achievement is not winning awards. It's doing something that you appreciate, something you believe is worthwhile. I think of my strawberry soufflé. I did that at least twenty-eight times before I finally conquered it.”

Feeling just a little bit silly, I quickly patted myself on the back and smiled.

I’ve got twenty-seven loaves to go!

Challah

From Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Baking

Fat for greasing
800g / 1 ¾lb strong white flour
10ml / 2tsp sugar
25g / 1oz butter or margarine
2 eggs
Flour for kneading
Beaten egg for glazing

Grease 2 baking sheets. Sift about 75g / 3oz of the four and all the sugar into a large bowl. Measure 400ml / 14fl oz lukewarm water. Blend the fresh yeast into the water or stir in the dried yeast. Pour the yeast liquid into the flour and sugar and beat well. Leave the bowl in a warm place for 20 minutes.

Sift the remaining flour and the salt into a bowl. Rub in the butter or margarine. Beat the eggs into the yeast mixture and stir in the flour mixture. Mix to a soft dough. Turn on to a lightly floured surface and knead for about 6 minutes or until the dough is smooth and no longer sticky. Return to the bowl and cover with cling film. Leave in a warm place until the dough has doubled in volume—this will take up to 2 hours, or longer.

Knead the dough again until firm. Cut into 2 equal portions. Cut one of these into 2 equal pieces and roll these into long strands 30-35 cm / 12-14 inches in length. Arrange the 2 strands in a cross on a flat surface. Take the 2 opposite ends of the bottom strand and cross them over the top strand in the center. Repeat this, using the other strand. Cross each strand alternately, building up the plait vertically, until all the dough is used up. Gather the short ends together and pinch firmly. Lay the challah on its side and place on the prepared baking sheet. Brush with beaten egg. Repeat, using the second portion. Cover with lightly oiled polythene. Leave in a warm place for about 30 minutes or until the dough has doubled in volume. Set the oven at 220 degrees C / 425 degrees F / gas 7.

Bake for 35-40 minutes, until the loaves are golden brown and sound hollow when tapped on the bottom.

Makes two 1 ¾ lb loaves.

A Good Woman

2010-01-14T18:19:00.000-06:00

F has to work late tonight. While I will miss him, I am also excited to have the house to myself. I shall sit on the couch with a bottle of wine and watch a girlie movie with a kitty on each thigh. And I shall make myself something for dinner that F does not enjoy.

And then I will make something that F does enjoy, so he can come home from work to a nice snack. I shall make him cupcakes. From a box. With icing from a tub.

When F and I first started dating, Moist Deluxe Duncan Hines Classic Yellow Cake Cupcakes were the extent of my baking expertise. I wooed him with cupcakes. I seduced him with Betty Crocker Whipped Chocolate Frosting. He would leave my little Hyde Park apartment with a cupcake in each hand--and he always came back for more.

A Good Man

2010-01-11T08:20:00.000-06:00

I haven't written in awhile because I've been in Scranton, PA, renowned for The Office and not much else. More to come on that. In short, I saw my best friend become an Elder of the church and spent a glorious few days at home with my parents. When I finally got back to Chicago on a chilly June night, homesick and smelling like airplane, F greeted me from the kitchen where he was making me dinner.
Salmon with White Wine Mustard Sauce and asparagus:I've got a good man, indeed.

A Disastrous Feast of Figs

2010-01-03T16:44:00.000-06:00

Last night I made a disgusting dessert. It sounded good, it had good ingredients, but something went terribly wrong in the execution.

The figs at the grocery store had intrigued me for weeks. Although fresh figs are no longer in season, the dried figs resting side-by-side in a snug little wheel promised to impart the essence of a warm, spiced Middle-Eastern desert breeze to my cold Chicago apartment. So, in what might have been an ill-advised decision, I made an entirely fig-themed dinner.

The Chicken with Balsamic-Fig Sauce was fine. I tried to convince myself throughout the meal that I didn’t mind—and even appreciated—the gritty texture of the fig seeds in the sauce. But on the whole, I found this recipe a little strange and unappetizing.

And for dessert—Spiced Figs in Red Wine. I chopped three dried figs in half and dumped them in a saucepan with a cup of red wine, 1/2 teaspoon of vanilla extract, a dash of cinnamon, a sprig of rosemary, a spring of thyme, three peppercorns, 2 tablespoons of lemon juice, 1 tablespoon of honey, and 1/3 cup sugar and brought the mixture to a boil. I left it to simmer for 35 minutes, as directed. It smelled wonderful—much like I would imagine the inside of a desert caravan would smell as it trundled across the desert on a hot night.

I will pause here to say that Cooking Light should in no way be held responsible for the utter failure of this dessert. I assume all responsibility for the recipe’s disastrous consequences because I made two very silly mistakes: Cooking Light tells us to let the spiced fig syrup cool and then chill for an hour. I thought this dessert might be nice warm—and I didn’t want to wait for my dessert. So when the 35 minutes were up, I strained the solids and filled two ramekins with vanilla frozen yogurt. Then I poured the steaming wine mixture over the yogurt and placed three chunks of fig on top of each.

Upon further reflection, I should have let the syrup cool. And I should have followed the instructions to scoop the yogurt over the syrup, instead of pouring the syrup over the yogurt. Before I even reached the living room to present this dish to F, the frozen yogurt had melted into a lukewarm, pinkish soup garnished with half-submerged fig chunks. The figs, balancing between the hot liquid and the cold yogurt, had hardened. My glorious, Middle-Eastern desert dessert was overwhelmingly winy, spicy, and gritty—and barely edible.

F politely declared himself full after two bites. But I had made this elegant, delectable dessert and by God, I was going to finish it.

And I ate it all.

MIA

2009-12-28T09:30:00.000-06:00

MIA image courtesy of grorg.org/blorg/mia/

I have to apologize for being MIA. F always teases that when I become interested in something (like food, for instance), I devote my every waking hour to it, to the exclusion of everything else.

This is true.

I have been writing a Big Project (BF) for the last few months, and I am committed to finishing it, no matter what else suffers. I may forget to eat, my marriage may fail, I may lose my job, and worst of all, I may forget to post on High Heels. But by God, I will finish BF!

BF has nothing to do with food, so I can't really share much about it here. But I can say that much of my time has been dominated by writing. I write at lunch. I write on the bus. I write while walking down the sidewalk. I write at the gym. I write while sauteeing chicken. I've taken a few workshops, I went to a conference, I've been reading related books and magazines, I've been applying to contests and requesting grants.

I think F is correct in saying that I commit to things.

But don't worry. I'm around.

"Fine" Dining

2009-11-15T14:54:00.000-06:00

When you make a meal for your spouse, you expect him to savor it with gratitude and exclamations of delight.

Once I finish a dish and have arranged the parts on the plate in a pleasing display, I bring it steaming from the kitchen and place it gently on the cushion in F’s lap (yes, we eat on the couch). I expect him to begin eating immediately while his dinner is still hot and at its best. I join him on the couch and await his praise. He eats quickly. I wait, chewing very slowly to make my dinner last at least a quarter of the time it took to prepare.

Finally, I prompt him with practiced nonchalance,

“Is it ok?”

“It’s fine.” He says.

F is spoiled by home-cooked meals now. When we began dating, he dined every week on ramen noodles and frozen chicken patties. He grew up on meat and potatoes and had never had Chinese food or Mexican food or rice—or a bagel—until college. Until he met me, he had never tasted lamb, lobster, duck, pork tenderloin, tofu, salmon, quinoa, turnips, tiramisu, parsnips, cilantro, pesto, cumin, cucumbers, or a wealth of other culinary delights. Nor had I cooked them. My cooking had been limited to one or two chicken dishes and a failed French fry experiment. I’m still learning—which is why my recipes still sometimes fail miserably.

On our walk home the other night, O and I commiserated about the fact that men do not understand why we get upset when our cooking fails. “It’s just food,” F says when my sauce doesn’t thicken, while I hover over the pan, tears thinning already watery and smoking tomatoes. And they don’t understand why we get upset when, in response to the tentative question, “How’s your dinner?” they reply, “It’s fine.”

“Fine” is not the word we’re after. If we spend an hour chopping onions and peeling carrots, skinning fish and stirring sauce, we want our work to be considered “Fabulous,” or “Better than my steak at Morton’s” or “an exquisite blend of flavors and textures.” Not “fine.”

One recent rainy Sunday, I tried to make F a stack of divine pancakes. I always use the same recipe from my favorite cookbook, The Best of Cooking Light 1999. Apparently 1999 was a good year for Cooking Light, because absolutely every single recipe I’ve ever made from this cookbook has been perfect, and the recipe for Buttermilk Oatmeal Pancakes is no exception. But I get bored with perfection, so I cheated on Cooking Light with Gourmet, who recently highlighted this recipe:

Bridge Creek Heavenly Hots
(fifty to sixty dollar-size pancakes)

From The Breakfast Book by Marion Cunningham

These are the lightest sour cream silver-dollar-size hotcakes I’ve ever had—they seem to hover over the plate. They are heavenly and certainly should be served hot.

4 eggs
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 cup cake flour
2 cups sour cream
3 tablespoons sugar

1. Put the eggs in a mixing bowl and stir until well blended. Add the salt, baking soda, flour, sour cream, and sugar, and mix well. All of this can be done in a blender, if you prefer.

2. Heat a griddle or frying pan until it is good and hot, film with grease, and drop small spoonfuls of batter onto the griddle—just enough to spread to an approximately 2 1/2-inch round. When a few bubbles appear on top of the pancakes, turn them over and cook briefly.

In an effort to make these slightly healthier, and because I have a mistaken confidence in my ability to adapt recipes, I used fat-free sour cream and egg whites. I’m convinced this must have been the problem with my hotcakes, which were certainly not heavenly. Nor did they hover over the plate.

Instead, the batter leaked across the pan and burned immediately. I turned down the heat, added some flour to the mix, and tried again. The pancakes refused to bubble and the bottom scorched. I added a little more flour. By this time, my mix was lumpy and my pan was coated with burned batter.

I swore and dumped the rest of the mix into the garbage, startling F, who should be used to this by now.

“What’s wrong?” he cried, thinking I had burned myself, so uncharacteristic was my profanity.

“I burned your hotcakes!” I wailed in despair.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “It’s just food.” This was the wrong thing to say.

“It’s NOT just food!” I sobbed. “It’s your breakfast. I was trying to make you a nice breakfast from The Breakfast Book. It’s supposed to be simple and delicious. You were supposed to have a nice breakfast!”

“I’ll still have a nice breakfast,” he said. “Just make the other pancakes.” I was immediately filled with loathing for my beloved The Best of Cooking Light 1999.

“I can’t now.” I said, fully aware of how petulant I sounded, “I used up all the eggs.”

“Well let’s have oatmeal.” He suggested.

“Fine. That’s all I can really make right, anyway.” I huffed, and turned back to the stove.

Granted, I make a mean bowl of oatmeal, so my agony over the hotcakes soon abated. But the complete failure of my adapted recipe still rankles. I’m gathering the courage to try those hotcakes again—this time with full-fat sour cream and whole eggs.

And I’ll have F to comfort me if they burn again. Poor F still just doesn’t understand why I get so upset. It may sound silly, but cooking is more than just making food. It’s creating something. And after a long day in my cubicle, marketing things that other people create, I savor my hour in the kitchen when I get to make something for myself—and for F.

You can’t frame a pancake and hang it on the wall. You can’t put a loaf of bread on stage and expect an audience to applaud. And you can’t display a fish fillet on a pedestal for all of eternity. Food is fleeting. It only looks pretty for so long. You eat it, and it’s gone. And if you don’t eat it, it rots.

A meal is created just the once for a specific person to enjoy, whether that person is a customer in a restaurant, a son or daughter, or a husband. Cooking is an expression of creativity and of love. It’s more than food, and it should be more than “fine.”

Cubicle Lunch: Leftover Fish

2009-11-03T11:59:00.000-06:00

Image courtesy of redfishemergingmarkets.com

Today, I'm the annoying girl who brings fish for lunch.
I hate that girl.

The fish is left over from last night's experimental dinner. To truly understand and appreciate this experiment, you must know that F loves Cheez-Its and barely tolerates fish.

I thought that by crusting a cod fillet in his favorite snack, I could trick F into changing his mind. I crushed a bunch of Cheez-Its, coated the fillet, and baked. Sounded like a flawless plan.

It didn't work too well, honestly—which is why there are leftovers for my lunch.

Becoming More Like Julia

2009-10-20T12:49:00.000-05:00

Julia Child dedicated Mastering the Art of French Cooking to "the servantless American cook who can be unconcerned on occasion with budgets, waistlines, time schedules, children's meals, the parent-chauffeur-den-mother syndrome or anything else which might interfere with the enjoyment of producing something wonderful to eat."

This is the woman I want to be.

Unfortunately, I’m not sure there is such a woman. I’m not sure there is a woman alive who can put aside all of these concerns at one time and simply enjoy the act of eating.

On the rare occasion, we can splurge on a feast without counting our pennies. On the rare occasion, the stars align and we have the time to enjoy a long meal with friends. On the rare occasion, children will eat what is presented to them without complaint.

But I wonder if there’s ever an occasion when a woman can disregard her waistline and dive into a chocolate soufflé without a trace of guilt.

I will admit I don’t know much about children or the parent-chauffeur-den-mother syndrome, but I can say that I wish I could be more like Julia and liberally pour cream into my soups, blend whole sticks of butter into my cookies, and beat dozens of eggs into my cakes without worrying that they will later convert into jiggly bits.

I began to cook because I had gained ten pounds. I had gained ten pounds from blithely enjoying my food in large portions and forgoing physical activity. This was not a rational decision, mind you, but an accidental, creeping phenomenon caused by a cubicle job and a long drive to and from work. In short, ten hours a day of sitting in a small space, grazing on Starbucks and snacks from the vending machine, coming home to large portions of noodles and meat. I didn’t notice the ten extra pounds I was lugging around until I visited the doctor for a yearly checkup, and the fact that it had arrived silently and stealthily filled me with horror and shame. How had I let this happen, I lamented.

I panicked. I joined the gym and Weight Watchers. I read articles about nutrients and took classes in spinning, boot camp, yoga, and weight lifting. I turned down any and all desserts, except for Weight Watchers ice cream. I gave up pizza, pasta, and French bread and turned to apples, oatmeal, and Splenda. When F came home with a steaming, crusty loaf of bread, I heated up one of my frozen wheat rolls and ate it slowly, savoring its spongy texture and cardboard tang. It was almost bread, but not quite.

I lost the weight pretty quickly, and was in better shape than I’d ever been. After all, Weight Watchers is about learning to eat right. I learned about portion sizes, I decided to give vegetables a try, and I was getting exercise. But I wasn’t happy. I counted my points and worried constantly.

I wasn’t happy because I no longer enjoyed eating. Food had become the enemy and the act of eating was accompanied by fear. When you fear something you must do at least three times a day to stay alive, it makes for a pretty miserable existence.

Cooking made me brave. When cooking for myself, I can control portion sizes and ingredients, while making dinners that I actually enjoy. I can make my own wheat rolls that actually taste like bread. I can grill my own marinated chicken that is tender and flavorful. I can make cakes and brownies that taste like dessert. I found that I when I enjoy cooking a meal, I enjoy eating it, too.

Slowly, as I learned to love cooking and to appreciate food, I started to reintroduce the dishes I loved into my menu, and to find new foods to love. I started to eat French bread again, and now I also love oatmeal. I reintroduced pasta, and have now discovered quinoa. I found that I really like vegetables and love fruits. And I realized that I can have a full-fat feast once in awhile, and it tastes all the better because I don’t do it every day.

Julia had the right idea. Life is too short to regulate our food while closely monitoring the fluctuating girth of our thighs. Life is too short to allow a fear of food to “interfere with the enjoyment of producing something wonderful to eat."

But I still think about my waistline. Even while enjoying a fancy dessert or a Pig Dinner, I can’t help but consider how many points I’m packing away. And that’s pretty sad. I wonder if there exists a woman who is able to snuff out these fears and completely give in to the simple enjoyment of food. Are we capable of turning off that little niggling voice in the back of our skulls that says, “That may taste good now, but you’ll be sorry later”?

I like to think so. I like to think that Julia Child was just one such woman.

And I want to be another. Here’s to becoming more like Julia.

Gotta Love the Pig

2009-09-02T07:56:00.010-05:00

Somehow, F and I have acquired reputations as pig lovers. I don’t know how this happened.

Maybe it was this.

Or this.

Or this.

Or it could be this:

Or this:

Or this:There’s no denying we love the pork. Tenderloin, bacon, belly, butt. Hocks, snout, shoulder, skin. It’s all good.

Which is why when I saw an ad for a "Pig Gig" at Heritage Prairie Farm in upstate Illinois, we invited our friends L and J to come along and sped off in the little yellow jeep.

The menu:

The spread:The pork enthusiasts (F, me, L, J):
F's favorite part:
And the best part of all...

We discovered there is at least one person who loves pigs more than we do:

Scary Dinners From the Deep

2009-08-15T08:01:00.000-05:00

Up next in scary dinners from the deep...

Soft shell crabs!

One of our favorite dishes is the Soft Shell Crab at New Tokyo on Broadway, which is deeply fried and delicious. These little crustaceans were just hanging out at Treasure Island the other day and, on a whim, F and I decided to give it a shot. How hard could it be, we figured. Turns out it's not hard at all. A little salt and pepper, a little flour, then a quick sizzle in some butter.We took our crabs out to the back patio, which seems to be the setting for our stranger experiments with sea creatures. They were crisp and salty and surprisingly rich. When I broke into the back of mine, however, I unearthed a pocket of grainy green ooze. I figured that our fish man missed something when he cleaned our crabs, and that this mysterious slime was probably some undigested crab food. Although I knew it likely wasn't poisonous, it put me off my dinner just a little. I guess I'm not really as adventurous as I'd like to think.

I definitely recommend this recipe--just make sure your crabs are clean!

Sauteed Soft Shell Crabs
From Cooking Light, April 2003

Yield
4 servings (serving size: 1 crab)

Ingredients

4 (3 1/2-ounce) soft-shell crabs, cleaned

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1/4 cup all-purpose flour

1 tablespoon butter

Preparation

Sprinkle each crab with salt and pepper. Place flour in a shallow bowl. Dredge each crab in flour, turning to coat; shake off excess flour.

Melt butter in a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Add crabs to pan, top sides down; cook 3 minutes. Turn crabs over; cook an additional 2 minutes.

Like a Crabby Old Woman

2009-07-19T16:46:00.009-05:00

When we were little, B and I danced in the living room for our babysitter, flourishing hairbrushes and belting out "Material Girl" and "Like a Virgin" with abandon.

Many years have passed since we were that unselfconscious.

B arrived from New York City late Thursday night with two colleagues from the Jewish hipster magazine where she is associate editor. They're here in Chicago until tomorrow, ostensibly to cover Pitchfork and drum up some magazine subscribers.

She arrived on my doorstep wearing a denim jumper with suspenders, high-heeled suede boots, and a plaid blouse, and assured me she is at the height of a bizarre fashion the kids are calling "hobo-chic." Perhaps embarrassed that at the early hour of 11pm, I was wearing a matronly robe and my husband's slippers, B paused a moment before flinging her arms around me. Then she pointed to her shoulder, which bore a freshly peeling tattoo of her initials in Sanford font.

In one of our rare moments together in the last few days, my formerly shy and nerdy sister clicked through the angst-filled photos of her 987 Facebook friends to point out who among them she has dated in the last month: a bartender, a photographer, a journalist, and a documentary maker. For my belated-birthday gift, she brought me earrings made of bullet casings.

Although B's visit is technically "a business trip," I was looking forward to a weekend of getting to know this strange, tattooed person and finding my little sister again behind her navy nail polish and loops of gold chains.

This has not happened.

First, her colleague D found himself unexpectedly homeless for the weekend, so he ended up on our floor. Then, "for the sake of journalism" B had to attend random all-night parties with Pitchfork band members, so she has left the house early each morning and returned home around 2am, by which time F and I, fuddy-duddies that we are, have already been asleep for approximately five hours.

Since Thursday, our apartment has been overrun with suitcases, bedding, and boxes of magazines. I could not help feeling put-out and put-upon as I handed over my house keys and told B to have a good time at the second late-night party in two days. Our robust, OCD cat Barry kept me up all weekend because he doesn't like when strangers invade his living-room, and I spent yesterday in the waiting room of Marvin's auto repair while the car's electrical grid was re-wired--only to have it die again at 9:30 (half an hour past my bedtime!), just as I squeezed between two mac trucks in Pitchfork's VIP parking section.

As I waited for B and her colleagues, a man toting a cart of kegs yelled at me for parking the defunct jeep in front of his mac truck. So, running on little sleep and a lot of stress, I wallowed in self-pity and looked forward to this evening, when I would have the apartment to myself.

B and F will be at Pitchfork until 10 tonight. So far, I rented two movies, bought a parsley plant, visited the grocery store, and put in a load of laundry. Now begins the relaxation. I exchanged one of F's punk CDs for Like a Virgin and whipped up some banana bread.
Note my new parsley plant and the requisite whiskey bottle among my banana bread clutter.

After such a hectic weekend--before the start of an even more hectic week--I thought I would be relieved to have the apartment to myself for a little while. But as the apartment throbs to the first unmistakable beats of "Material Girl," I can't help wishing B were here so we could dance together in our pajamas, once more with abandon.

At least she'll have some banana bread to take with her on the plane.

Mom’s Banana Bread
From Cooking Light, November 1996

Yield
4 loaves, 4 servings per loaf (serving size: 1 slice)

Ingredients
* 1 cup sugar
* 1/4 cup light butter, softened
* 1 2/3 cups mashed ripe banana (about 3 bananas)
* 1/4 cup skim milk
* 1/4 cup low-fat sour cream
* 2 large egg whites
* 2 cups all-purpose flour
* 1 teaspoon baking soda
* 1/2 teaspoon salt
* Cooking spray

Preparation

Preheat oven to 350°.

Combine sugar and butter in a bowl; beat at medium speed of a mixer until well-blended. Add banana, milk, sour cream, and egg whites; beat well, and set aside.

Combine flour, baking soda, and salt; stir well. Add dry ingredients to creamed mixture, beating until blended.

Spoon batter into 4 (5 x 2 1/2-inch) miniature loaf pans coated with cooking spray. Bake at 350° for 45 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Let cool in pans 10 minutes on a wire rack; remove from pans. Let cool completely on wire racks.

Note: To make one 9-inch loaf, spoon batter into a 9 x 5-inch loaf pan coated with cooking spray; bake at 350º for 1 hour and 10 minutes. Yield: 1 loaf, 20 servings (serving size: 1 slice).

Quiz in the Kitchen

2009-07-08T09:29:00.005-05:00

Weird head image courtesy of University of Michigan School of Public Health.

Ganache. Ceviche. Panna cotta.

If you watch cooking shows such as Bravo's "Top Chef" and "Top Chef Masters," you've probably heard these and other 50-cent food words tossed around like croutons in a summer salad. But--hands off the keyboard!--do you know what they mean without looking them up?

Liar.

Oh, you might know a few on this list. But unless you work in a restaurant, you'll probably be stumped by the rest.

See how many of these food words you can correctly match with their definitions.

--James A. Fussell, McClatchy/Tribune News

Hey James, you've got to try a lot harder to stump High Heels in the Kitchen! I got 24 out of 25 correct (I guess I know less about raw meat than I thought I did...)

Beat that!

Click here to see if you can do better.

Fish and Flowers

2009-07-02T22:07:00.002-05:00

This is my first time making whole fish. As advised by various fish-focused websites, I looked for trout with unclouded eyes and shiny scales. These two were bright and glistening, which I found mildly intimidating. I'm used to fillets without skin or eyes--or teeth.

Although these trout did have eyes and teeth, they came all clean and gutted so it wasn't nearly as traumatic as it could have been. When the fish man handed my trout packet over the counter, however, I admit that I did have to fight the urge to gag. I could feel the fish body through the butcher paper, and the packet flopped with a rubbery heft.

Worse than the flopping was the tingle under my fingertips as I massaged gritty rosemary mixture into its moist scales.
He watched me as I rubbed.
But after a mere eight minutes on the grill pan (on which you can see he got a little ragged), we had ourselves some flaky, tender trout with a side of roasted potatoes and asparagus. It tasted much better than it looks. F and I partook of our delectable dinner on the back patio, which we really ought to use more often.

A special thank you to S, who gave us the beautiful glass-blown wine glasses in celebration of our nuptials. We toasted S, each other, and our trout. Then F ate the eyeballs.
Since I can't end bear to end this post with a photo of trout eyes, I'll wrap this up instead with some lovely nature photos of our back patio:

Recipe for Grilled Trout with Rosemary and Garlic
From Cooking Light

This simple presentation is a go-to summer recipe that allows the flavor of the fish to shine. If you like, substitute thyme for rosemary.

Yield

4 servings (serving size: 1 trout)

Ingredients

1 tablespoon chopped fresh rosemary
1 tablespoon minced garlic
1 teaspoon olive oil
1/2 teaspoon salt
4 (8-ounce) dressed whole trout
4 (6-inch) rosemary sprigs
Cooking spray

Preparation

1. Prepare grill to medium-high heat.

2. Combine first 4 ingredients in a small bowl.

3. Cut 3 diagonal slits on each side of fish; rub rosemary mixture evenly over fish. Place 1 rosemary sprig in cavity of each fish. Place the fish on grill rack coated with cooking spray; grill 4 minutes on each side or until fish flakes easily when tested with a fork or until desired degree of doneness.

The Saddest Lunch Ever

2009-06-24T12:16:00.005-05:00

Image courtesy of Walmart.com.

It's sad when the only thing left in your kitchen to bring for your cubicle lunch is a single stick of Frigo Cheese Heads Light String Cheese.

I think I need to go grocery shopping.

Drink, Don't Drool

2009-06-24T09:22:00.008-05:00

Drool bib (complete with glaring grammatical error) courtesy of clothing.cafepress.com/.../373140574.

"How many glasses of wine did you have last night?" My dad asked when I called with the details of my open mic triumph.

"Just one before reading my essay. Then I had one waiting for me when I got back to the table," I said. He laughed.

"That was a good idea. A lot of performers have a drink to help them relax before going up on stage. Even Barbra Streisand has to take benzodiazepine for stage fright. When's the audition?" he asked, referring to my audition for 2nd Story--the reason I had subjected myself to the nerve-wracking open mic night in the first place.

"Tuesday at 7:30."

"You'll do great," he said. "They already like your story. The audition is just to make sure you're not some weird, enormous person who drools."

"Yeah, I guess so," I replied.

"Just do your best," he said. "And don't drool."

From this conversation, I mined two important pearls of wisdom: drink and don't drool. Ever a Daddy's Girl, I tried my best to follow his advice. The drooling part was easy. I have never been a drooler. Check!

The drinking was a little more difficult. F and I were meeting after work at Story Studio, a writing center tucked away on the second floor of a renovated factory building in Irving Park. We planned to hang out there until my audition, which was conveniently located in the room next door.

F and I recently became Story Studio members, which includes discounts on writing classes and unlimited access to the writing center's comfy lounge. So we have been going at least once a week to sit on the couch and write. There's no TV, no Internet access, no snacks or cats to distract us from our Important Work. We bring the bare minimum: sandwich fixins and bottled water.

It's probably not cool to bring alcohol to the writing center. But I didn't care. My father had prescribed a glass of wine. And Sunday's open mic experience was so successful that I thought it most prudent to recreate the essentials. I wore the same outfit. I arranged my hair the same way. And I bought some wine.

I felt very classy waiting in line at the 7-Eleven after work with my $2.49 mini bottle of Pinot Grigio. Behind me stood an obese man from whose unbuttoned shirt his massive, grimy stomach protruded. He didn't smell very nice, and he repeated in a guttural whine, "Someone stole my cigarette rollers! Someone stole my cigarette rollers!" I paid, stowed my wine in my lunch box with the turkey, dinner rolls, and bottled water, and stepped out into the 95-degree heat of downtown Chicago.

I was sweating before I even reached the L stop, where I shoved into a train car that was at least ten degrees hotter than the sidewalk. Wedged against the doors of the train in the sweltering heat, I clutched in one hand a horrifically heavy bag filled with my laptop, two books, a notebook, my executive planner, and God knows what else--and in the other hand, my lunch box filled with cheap wine and Butterball deli meat.

An inauspicious start.

But once I got to Story Studio and set up my laptop on the couch in the cool lounge with F, I started to feel much better. I sneaked sips of wine from the brown paper bag hidden in my lunch box, and felt almost relaxed. Almost.

Although I wasn't nearly as sickeningly anxious as I had been before the open mic, I was still nervous.

I shouldn't have been. The audition went smoothly. Sitting on a comfortable, overstuffed couch with two attentive girls, I read the essay even better than I had on Sunday. They laughed, they nodded, they made the appropriate listening noises. And when I finished, they clapped.

Then they asked questions. After countless interviews for countless jobs, I consider myself a pro at fielding questions like, "What is your greatest strength?" and "Why do you want to work here?" and "What is your proudest accomplishment?"

I realized last night, however, that I am not at all a pro at answering questions like, "What's the craziest thing that's ever happened to you?" Which is what one of the girls asked, leaning toward me with an engaging smile like a best girlfriend craving gossip.

I will freely admit that at times--most times, really--I tend to think too much. Immediately, my overheated brain crowded with all the possible implications of this seemingly casual question:

Does she mean the craziest thing I've DONE? or The craziest thing that has ever happened TO me? What does she mean by "crazy"? Does she mean "strange and unexpected" or "wild and kinky" or just "insane"?

Besides the fact that I'm not really the wild-and-crazy type, my mind instantly cleared of any and all fascinating tidbits to share about myself. I won't tell you what I finally came up with. Anything you imagine is sure to be crazier than what I actually said.

Other than the fact that I'm not interesting on demand, I think the audition went splendidly. I did the best I possibly could. I breathed. I talked. I laughed. I was confident and personable.

And my dad will be proud because I did not drool.

Baby Got Balls

2009-06-22T07:00:00.003-05:00

I worried it would be humiliating. I worried my throat would close up, or I would pass out, or burp into the mic.

I am not a good public speaker. The last time I read my writing out loud—in a short story class a few months ago—I couldn't breathe. I gasped through my two pages of handwritten scrawl, sounding like I was on the verge of tears. When I finished reading, the teacher comforted me.

The first and only time I sang in public was even worse. I thought that if I took the private singing lessons offered in high school, I might get over my fear of public speaking and become a more confident, sparkly person. Although I couldn't breathe—much less sing—in front of the teacher for the first week, I warmed up to her and was belting out folk songs by the end of our time together.

And then she said, "So what will you sing at the recital?" Um. I hadn't known there would be a recital. Had I known I would end my private tutorial with public singing, I surely would not have signed up for this. But once I’ve committed to something, I don’t quit. I couldn't back out. And I only knew one song: "I Have Twelve Oxen."

I got up on stage in an old church in front of the entire school chorus and their parents, and I sang a twelve-verse song about cows. For your edification I have found the lyrics:

I have twelve oxen, they be fair and white,
And they go a-grazing down by the dyke.
With hey! with how! with hey!
Sawest not you mine oxen, you little pretty boy?

It doesn’t even rhyme. And the other verses are just as bad. There’s one for each color of cow. I sang in a high, warbling, gaspy voice, and when I finished, my teacher comforted me.

Last night, for reasons I will soon explain, I voluntarily signed up to read a personal essay in front of a microphone in front of a room full of strangers. In the middle of my essay is a rap song. Not only was I planning to read in public, but I was going to rap—two nightmares rolled into one ten-minute performance.

What does an open mic have to do with food, you may well ask. Not much, if truth be told. Except that the essay I read aloud to strangers last night was adapted from my blog post "The Worst Meal of My Life." I reworked this post into a personal narrative that I submitted to 2^ndStory, a Chicago writing group composed of thirty writers who perform personal narratives in bars around the city. There's an application and audition process, and if you're accepted into the group, you meet three or four times a month to workshop, rehearse, and perform in public. It's intense and difficult to get into. I thought that if I could get into this group, the workshops might make me a better writer, and the performances might turn me into a more confident, sparkly person.

Long story short, I submitted my essay to 2^nd Story and they called me in for an audition. Which is tomorrow. Which is why I decided to try out my essay on an audience first. Auditions are scary. But an open mic is scarier. If I can get through an open mic, I reasoned, the audition will be a piece of cake.

So last night F accompanied me to Story Club at Uncommon Ground, a coffee shop/restaurant/wine bar. We were ushered into the back room, all brick with funky art on the walls, cozy tables for two, and window seats with pillows. Another door led to an outdoor patio. If I hadn’t felt like throwing up, I would have really appreciated the ambiance.

We were an hour early, so we ordered drinks. I tried to pace myself, but downed the first glass of wine while sneaking wide-eyed peeks at the mic. No podium. No chair. Just a microphone standing naked against the brick wall in front of an entire room full of tables. At the moment, the tables were empty.

As 8:00 rolled around, the tables began to fill up. And I began to panic.

“Why am I doing this again?” I squeaked to F.

“Because you’re great,” he said, patting my hand.

“But what if I embarrass you? Will you still love me if I stink?”

“Absolutely. But you won’t stink. You’ll be great, babe!” he said. “Don’t forget to breathe.

“OK,” I said, hyperventilating.

The organizer of the event, D, came over to introduce herself and handed me a clipboard to sign in. I was the first and only name on the list.

“I’m so glad you came!” she said. “You can go first.”

Then, suddenly, it was 8:30. D took the mic.

“Welcome to the first-ever Story Club. Tonight we have three featured storytellers, and one guest writer. So let’s get started with our guest writer L, who will be reading her story ‘Baby Got Stock.’”

Without further ado, I wobbled to my feet and strode with assumed confidence to the front of the room. There was a stool tucked back against the wall, and I dragged it into the center of the makeshift stage. D helped me lower the microphone a full foot then sat down at a nearby table. I was alone.

I heard myself say, very loudly into the microphone, “Wow. I didn’t know I’d be the only guest writer...” A few people tittered, and I began to read.

I wasn’t nervous! My hands didn’t shake, my heart didn’t race, I didn’t sound like I was on the verge of hysterics. I actually sounded pretty good. And people were laughing in all the right places. Like a baby bird testing the air with its wings, I lifted my eyes from the page and directed them out into the audience. I was reading without looking! I turned my head a little to sweep the room with my confident gaze. I imagined this is what flying feels like.

“Hey, this isn’t so bad! I kind of like this!” I thought as I made eye contact with various audience members, all looking up at me, all listening intently to what I had to say. It was exhilarating to have the floor to myself for a full ten minutes. I don’t talk all that much, in real life. So it was a novel experience.

And then I came to the part I had been dreading. The part of the essay that—if I could pull off—would be really funny, and if I couldn’t, would just be humiliating. I rapped. To the tune of “Baby Got Back.” About stock.

The crowd didn’t quite get it. They were slightly older than the intended audience, so perhaps they didn’t know the song and thought I was just crazy. But there were a few nervous laughs, and I just kept on trucking.

The time seemed to speed by, and before I knew it, I had come to the end. I had done it! I wasn’t humiliated. My throat didn’t close up, I didn’t pass out, and I didn’t burp into the mic. The crowd clapped and cheered, and I sat down to F’s huge grin. I hadn’t embarrassed my husband, after all.

I tried to listen attentively to the three “featured storytellers” who followed me, but I was too full of adrenaline to make sense of the words. I’m sure they were great, but I couldn’t tell you what their stories were about.

As we were leaving, an older gentleman stopped by our table to share his own story about cooking in college:

“My roommate was going to make us his mother’s famous meatloaf. He talked about it all day, and we were all really excited. When I went into the kitchen that afternoon to see what he was up to, I found him heating up a frying pan. Then he plopped in two big scoops of mayonnaise. It started smoking and running all over the pan, and I took a look at the recipe. ‘Um, Bob,’ I said, ‘You were supposed to use margarine.’”

Then a guy at the next table leaned across the aisle,

“That was fiction, right?” he asked. “You didn’t really eat that stock, did you?”

“Oh yes,” I said.

“Ugh! What a great description.” He said, and smiled.

When I got home, I treated myself to a cupcake. After the open mic, reading my story to a handful of people tomorrow night should be much easier. I’m looking forward to it, whether I get into 2^nd Story or not. And if you catch me now, while I’m still feeling triumphant, I may even sing you a few verses of “I Have Twelve Oxen.”

An Act of Bravery, or Public Humiliation

2009-06-21T22:15:00.005-05:00

Microphone image courtesy of http://dylanbrody.com/blogs/?page_id=15

Tonight I rapped in front of strangers.

And I LIKED it!

I'll let that sink in. Check back tomorrow for the whole story.

Ahead of the Curve

2009-06-04T09:55:00.006-05:00

Image of asparagus with fried farm egg courtesy of The New York Times.

Mado was just reviewed in The New York Times! I'm officially ahead of the curve.

After enjoying one of the best meals of my life at Mado with my supper club in March, I took F for dinner last month, and he finally understood what I had been raving about. He has been talking about his hanger steak ever since, and chose to celebrate his 30th birthday there last night.

Our good friends and fellow Top Chef devotees joined us for dinner. A group of talented cooks and shrewd epicures, they were smitten with the buttery pate, somehow spicy and reminiscent of Christmas; the asparagus with fried farm egg; the crisp trout that tasted like camp fire; the Gorgonzola polenta; the wood-smoked chicken that fell off the bone—the list goes on and on. We each ordered a different dish, and tried them all.

Our friend J, especially, knows food. He sends me articles about how to make homemade pasta sauce and what to do with ramps. He bakes the best scones I've ever tasted and knows everything about kitchen knives. As our waiter cleared the last plate from our table, J asked, "Can I work here?" Our genial waiter (who, in answer to our questions about the menu, earnestly mapped the cuts of pork on his own body) took J's question in jest.

But J was absolutely serious about donning an apron and heading back to the kitchen. And in that moment, I knew the dinner was a success.

In her extremely positive review, Monica Davey of The New York Times captures the mood of Mado perfectly: "On a cold, rainy spring evening, Mado offered escape without effort, the smell of a wood grill... a momentary journey to some quiet farm while still sitting in the city’s chaos."

After my third visit to Mado, I can safely say it's my favorite restaurant. I can't wait to go back.

The Bristle, the Gristle, and the Snout: Cochon 555

2009-05-25T08:33:00.020-05:00

The long-awaited evening had arrived. F had bought a new outfit and I was wearing makeup. We were giddy with excitement on our way to Chicago's classiest hotel, The Drake, "where the Magnificent Mile begins." Since the roaring '20s, The Drake has hosted the Royal Family, heads of state, dignitaries, and movie stars, so F and I felt very swanky as we rode the 151 bus down the Gold Coast to take our places on this hallowed list of luminaries.

No, we were not guests at a wedding, a gala, or an inauguration. We were on our way to something better: Cochon 555, a celebration of all things pig. Five chefs from among the finest restaurants in the city were selected to compete for the acclaimed title "Prince of Porc" on Sunday, May 24. Each chef would receive a ten-pound pig and create five unique dishes for a discriminating group of 200 guests and judges. The crowd would vote, and at the end of the evening, one chef would be crowned.

I was on my way to this glamorous event thanks to a contest hosted by Foodbuzz.com. Foodbuzz provided my ticket, and F bought another so we could to enjoy Cochon 555 the way any pork-centric evening is meant to be enjoyed: as a romantic night on the town.

Upon entering the elegant Drake Room at The Drake, F and I were greeted by this grotesque, smiling head right out of The Lord of the Flies.

[Caution: if graphic images of a deceased pig will bother you, please proceed no further.]

With a quiet, uncanny calm, this little cochon oversaw the competition, a corporeal reminder of where the chefs' fancy gastronomic delights had originated. He would soon help to demonstrate proper butchering technique. More on that later.
The crowd approached the cochon like a postmodern art exhibit. We circled him warily, intrigued despite ourselves. His skin was waxy and starting to cave where organs had been removed. The poor pig in his inelegant spread-eagled repose seemed all the more avant-garde when considered in the context of his surroundings:
Under the crystal chandeliers and gilt-paneled rafters, guests of all shapes, sizes, and manner of dress clustered around tiny tables scattered throughout the room. The chef tables were arranged around the room's perimeter and the idea was to buzz from table to table, sampling dishes from each chef, then cast your vote for the best chef in the ballot box in the center of the room. In the interest of space, only highlights ensue:

The chefs:
Stephen Dunne of Paramount Room/VOLO
Graham Elliot Bowles of Graham Elliot
Sam Burman of Bluprint
Chris Pandel of The Bristol
Patrick Sheerin of The Signature Room at the 95th.

Our favorite dishes, in no particular order:
Pork belly sandwich with mustard and pickle
Brain polenta with fried ramps (ramps! ramps!)
Pate-filled donut
Bacon-infused Maker's Mark
And my favorite dish of the night: pork-belly sandwich on a PIE-CRUST bun!

Stephen Dunne of Paramount Room / VOLO offered pork-filled tamales and a savory pork broth:
F's favorite pork-belly sandwich was created by Sam Burman of Bluprint, who also offered a stick of bacon topped with a tuft of cotton candy standing upright in a box of brown sugar (see the bottom-left corner below).
We must also acknowledge Sam Burman for his bacon-infused Maker's Mark. F and I may have visited Chef Burman's booth more than once...
As the chefs cleared their tables and the judges deliberated, F and I wandered through the room, lost and bewildered now that the food was gone. But then, on Sam Burman's table, we spotted a row of tender, juicy ribs that we had not yet sampled. I hastened over, only to be informed by Chef Burman's assistants that the ribs were reserved for the judges. What could I do? I considered snatching a rib and running for it, but I was wearing high heels. So I smiled politely and turned away.

An aproned assistant trotted after me a mere moment later. "The chef wants to talk to you," he said. Confused, I returned to the table, where Chef Burman handed me a plate of ribs, grinned, and hurried off.

"Grrr," said F. "You're every chef's dream: you're pretty and you love pork." He glared in Mr. Burman's general direction. "I wish I hadn't voted for him," he grumbled.

But he ate the ribs anyway.

Despite the fact that Mr. Burman gave me a special pork rib, he was not my favorite chef of the evening. That hard-won title goes to Graham Elliot of Graham Elliot of the infamous pork-belly sandwich in a pie-crust bun.

As the judges conferred, Andy the Butcher of Lincoln Cafe in Mount Vernon, Iowa, demonstrated butchering techniques using our spread-eagled cochon, who had been waiting patiently at the front of the room all night. I will let these photos speak for themselves (now is the time to look away, if you're feeling queasy).

And voila! Within fifteen minutes, our sad-eyed cochon was reduced to a neat pile of pig parts, which were subsequently raffled off to the crowd.

We didn't win anything. At the time, in the throes of pig passion, intoxicated on bacon and pate, I was disappointed to have lost out on a piece of pig. But in the sober light of morning I have come to accept that my freezer is too small to hold even the smallest cut of a ten-pound porker.

When at last all of the cochon chunks had been raffled away, the chefs took the stage to discover who would be crowned the “Prince of Porc."
From left to right: Stephen Dunne of Paramount Room/VOLO, Graham Elliot Bowles of Graham Elliot, Sam Burman of Bluprint, Chris Pandel of The Bristol, and Patrick Sheerin of The Signature Room at the 95th.

And the winner is... Graham Elliot! Since my vote was instrumental in his victory, I think it's only fair that Graham Elliot should send me his recipe for pork-belly sandwich in a pie-crust bun. Chef Elliot, I will accept a blog comment, an e-mail, or a recipe card by mail.

While clicking through Graham Elliot's fabulous website, I discovered just one more reason to love the chef who introduced me to the pie-crust bun. His website features a risotto with red apple skin paint, aged cheddar, pabst glazed pearl onions, granny smith apples, crispy prosciutto AND CHEEZ-ITS! If the "prince of porc" can make an elegant dish with Cheez-Its, I am completely justified in my Cheez-It-crusted cod experiment. Thank you, Chef Elliot.

I will have to try and make this risotto at home, since we certainly could never eat at Graham Elliot. We picked up a menu, took one look, and set it back down with a sigh of regret. Ah well, I enjoyed my once-in-a-lifetime taste of pig perfection while it lasted.

And on that note, I would like to take a moment to formally thank Foodbuzz.com for giving me the opportunity to eat an entire pig at the Drake. This was an unforgettable night on the town.

I'm a Winner: Another Pig Dinner!

2009-05-15T16:26:00.006-05:00

I just won a free ticket to this event through Foodbuzz.com!

COCHON 555 - Chicago
“5 Pigs, 5 Chefs, 5 Winemakers”

WHAT: A group of top Chicago chefs will each prepare a heritage breed hog from head to toe for this competition. Cochon 555 is the only national chef competition promoting heritage pigs and breed diversity. Guests and professional judges will determine a winner based on creative, classic preparation and overall best flavor. The winner will be crowned the “Prince of Porc”. In addition, five family-owned wineries will showcase their wines.

WHO: Taste Network presents
Patrick Sheerin, The Signature Room at the 95th
Chris Pandel, The Bristol
Graham Elliot Bowles, Graham Elliot Restaurant
Sam Burman, Bluprint
Stephen Dunne, VOLO / Paramount Room

Wineries: Chase Cellars, Vision Cellars, Van Duzer Vineyards, Patz & Hall and August West

WHEN: Sunday, May 24th, 5:00 p.m.

Chef & Judges VIP Reception 3:30 p.m. photo opportunity

WHERE: The Drake Hotel -140 East Walton Place, Chicago

WHY: To raise awareness for Farms for City Kids, a unique educational program combining classroom study with first-hand farming experience for urban kids.

Cochon 555 began in Atlanta and is national in scope. Other upcoming cities include Washington D.C. and San Francisco. Chefs and judges from each city are selected by Taste Network to participate in the event. www.amusecochon.com

Taste Network is a Georgia-based company delivering experiential services to the artisan wine and cheese industries. The company’s mission is to provide cultured events and education focused around artisan wine, cheese and cuisine to its clients and the public at large. www.tastenetwork.org

Ramps! Ramps!

2009-05-14T05:11:00.003-05:00

This week's CSA shipment arrived yesterday in its forbidding gray crate. This huge, horrible plastic monstrosity will squat in our tiny apartment until next Wednesday when, for a brief morning, it will wait like a stocky raincloud on our front steps for the CSA delivery man who will toss it into his truck and leave its twin, belly full of produce, in its place.

What was inside the belly of this particular crate? 1 green pepper, bunch of oregano, radish sprouts, 3 yellow onions, 2 zucchini, rhubarb, cherry tomatoes, 3 bananas, 2 lemons, AND MORE RAMPS!

What on earth will I do with more ramps? I still have three ramps left over from last week. I tried to use them, I really did. I made ramp biscuits and a ramp omelet. Both were perfectly lovely, but I'm afraid I have discovered that I'm not the biggest fan of ramps (except for their delightful name, which I have been startling F by randomly shouting in the voice of little Danny Torrance from The Shining: "Ramps! Ramps!")

For now, the ramps are banished to the freezer, where they will remain until I figure out what to do with them. Anyone want some ramps? If you provide postage and refrigerated crate, I'll send them to you.

The Worst Meal of My Life

2009-05-13T12:52:00.011-05:00

Every supper can’t be gourmet. Every dish can’t come out just right. And every so often, we find ourselves presented with a meal so revolting, so nauseating, so horrifically memorable that it stays with us for the rest of our lives—like a foul aftertaste that won’t rinse away. I still recall with dismay a neighbor’s damp tuna casserole I was too polite to turn down. I haven’t eaten tuna casserole since.

When faced with a truly ghastly dish like tuna casserole, I remember with an involuntary shudder a description of a meal so repulsive it scarred me as much as if I had eaten it myself. If you’ve read Yorkshire veterinarian James Herriot’s memoir All Things Bright and Beautiful, you will undoubtedly recall the moment when James—who had a “pathological loathing of fat”—was offered a tea-time snack by one of his favorite farmers:

…my toes curled into a tight ball as I found two huge slices of pure white fat lying on my plate…I knew beyond all doubt that there was no way I could eat what lay in front of me. Maybe I could have managed a tiny piece if it had been hot and fried crisp, but cold, boiled and clammy…never. And there was an enormous quantity; two slices about six inches by four and at least half an inch thick with the golden border of crumbs down one side. The thing was impossible.

Mrs. Horner sat down opposite me. She was wearing a flowered mob cap over her white hair and for a moment she reached out, bent her head to one side and turned the dish with the slab of bacon a little to the left to show it off better. Then she turned to me and smiled. It was a kind, proud smile.

…I took a deep breath, seized knife and fork and made a bold incision in one of the slices, but as I began to transport the greasy white segment to my mouth I began to shudder and my hand stayed frozen in space.

In spite of his roiling stomach, James ate every last lump of that bacon—and “never knowingly ate fat again.”

Adam was my Mrs. Horner, so to speak. I shared an apartment with Adam and our friends Mark and Felix during our senior year of college and after a few months of take-out pizza and mooching off of our friends’ dining hall cards, we figured it was about time we learned how to cook.

Felix was already an accomplished chef. I often awoke on Saturdays to find him in the kitchen in his pajamas making crepes. Mark and I had no cooking experience, so we stuck with variations on chicken. But Adam was adventurous. His shopping strategy was to buy whatever looked interesting—or was on sale—even if he didn’t know what it was.

“Hey LNE, should I get borscht?” he called me one afternoon. “I’m at the grocery store and there’s a big jar for 99 cents.”

“Um, sure Adam.” I said. If I had known what borscht was, I would have talked him out of it. For those of you who don’t know, borscht is a bright red Eastern European soup made primarily from pure, undiluted, dirt-flavored beetroot juice.

That evening, Adam set the table with a bowl for each of us. We watched with mounting apprehension as he poured borscht into our bowls straight from the jar. It streamed, pinkish-purple, into our green salad bowls and the color contrast turned the juice to a dull brown. As we stared down into the murky depths, Adam expounded with pride on our authentic Ashkenazi repast.

I discovered many years later that borscht can be quite nice with the addition of ingredients—like vegetables, sour cream, meat, salt, and pepper. It can be served cold or hot, and the hot-style Ukrainian and Russian borscht is a delicious hearty stew often served with thick brown bread. But Adam’s borscht had no such ingredients. It tasted like fresh, dark dirt. It was thin and watery and gritty all at the same time—and cold. And there was no bread.

But that wasn’t the worst meal of my life.

To make kitchen clean-up more fun, Adam encouraged spontaneous rapping. On any given weeknight, you’d enter our apartment to find four dorky Jews in a tiny kitchen, rhyming in fits and starts about chicken or girls or Hegel.

Adam's penchant for improv carried into his cooking; he claimed that recipes were for the unimaginative. One night after dinner he collected the chicken bones from our plates, bits of skin and meat clinging between the ribs. Rapping to the tune of “Big Stompin’ in My Air Force Ones,” Adam filled a pot with water and threw in the bones.

“Boilin’ some bones for some tasty stock,
This is one dinner you won’t want to hock.”

The bones floated grotesquely in the boiling water, bits of tattered gristle and fat swirling in their wake as they made their rounds in the churning water, bobbing, spinning, dunking in the current.

“Adding some kale,
’cuz it was on sale” he beat-boxed.

He tossed in whole leaves of kale, which spread over the water’s surface like the wings of a drowned bat. He dumped in rough-hewn chunks of onion, a palmful of salt, thick slabs of carrot and half a head of cabbage.

“This stock’s gonna simmer,
For tomorrow night’s dinna’.” He rapped, stirring blissfully.

Most people consider stock the basis for a soup. But to Adam, it was a complete meal. With glee, he checked on his simmering stock throughout the night and the next morning and afternoon, updating us on the progress of our impending supper.

I thought I could escape. I had an evening sculpture class and I planned to grab dinner at the dining hall during a break. But when I told Adam that I would be leaving for class soon, he insisted that I fill up on a good meal first.

“It’s ready just in time.” He exclaimed, and set a lone place at the head of the table with the biggest bowl we had—a giant mixing bowl—and filled it to the brim with stock. He sat down across from me with his economics book to keep me company—and hostage.

I stared into my mixing bowl with horror that I hoped didn’t show on my face. Adam had fished out the chicken breast carcasses, but the smaller rib bones had softened and detached and now swirled on the oily surface, butting up against my spoon. Bits of gristle and congealed chicken fat bobbed among the shreds of soggy kale in the broth beaded with grease. The carrot had all but disintegrated into sodden chunks, imbuing the mess with a delicate orange hue. It smelled like rotten cabbage.

Under Adam’s benevolent gaze, I lifted the spoon and held my breath, using every one of my facial muscles to keep my lips from twisting into a grimace of agony as I took the first bite. My throat closed with that rush of heat that starts behind the tongue signaling the first faint tug of nausea. I forced myself to swallow and scooped up another spoonful.

The broth was the easy part. I tipped the spoon straight down my throat so the oily water touched as little of my tongue as possible as it made its descent. But the leaves of kale and chunks of onion were too big. There was no way around it—I had to chew. The sharp, bitter onion had a grainy crunch and the greasy strips of kale stuck in my throat.

I ate the entire bowlful.

When all that remained were the bits of chicken bone and gristle, Adam saw me to the door. Full and queasy, I thanked him very much for dinner. He smiled, like Mrs. Horner, a kind, proud smile.

After six hours of sculpting scrawny naked men with yellow toenails—which did nothing to settle my stomach—I came home to find my three roommates clearing the table of Chinese take-out cartons and fortune cookie wrappers.

“Hey!” I cried, “What happened to the soup?” Mark and Felix exchanged a look and hurried to the kitchen. Adam handed me a fortune cookie and laughed sheepishly.

“It was disgusting.” He said, and put his arm around my shoulders, “I can’t believe you ate the whole bowl.”

It took me a few years to get over my fear of stock. I’ve considered making it a few times, but have been thwarted by the memory of what can go wrong. I finally mustered the courage last fall and attempted to make stock with the Thanksgiving turkey carcass, and ended up with a pot full of solidified fat. But at least I didn’t feed it to anyone.

I will admit, however, that there have been times when I have made disastrous meals, and my loved ones have eaten them anyway. That’s just what you do when a beloved friend—whether a little old farmer, a gentle roomie, or a newlywed new to cooking—cooks something special just for you.

Adam’s Stock
Serves 4

Ingredients:
30 cups water, divided
4 chicken breast carcasses
1 bunch of kale, un-chopped
1 onion, quartered
1 carrot, sliced
½ head cabbage
¼ cup salt

Bring 6 cups of water to boil
Add next 6 ingredients (through salt)
Boil for 10 minutes, then reduce heat to low simmer
Allow to simmer for at least 24 hours, adding water as necessary

Work Birthday Party

2009-05-11T09:50:00.002-05:00

Photo courtesy of CubicleThinkTank.com

Today is my birthday, and I know that there was a secret work party planned for 9:30. Since it's a breakfast party, I sacrificed my daily morning oatmeal in anticipation of a bagel or a donut.

It's now 9:50 and no one has come to get me. Do you think they forgot about me and are eating my donuts? Oh, the perils of birthdays at work.

A Kitchen of One's Own

2009-05-11T05:35:00.011-05:00

Image courtesy of Jade 629.

F and the boys went to Star Trek Friday night, and I eagerly anticipated having the apartment all to myself. I love these infrequent nights alone because I can rent a movie F would have no interest in watching (recent picks: Shall We Dance?, The Jane Austen Book Club, and Monsoon Wedding) and make a dinner F would hate, using ingredients he despises, like mushrooms, cheese, and cauliflower (not necessarily together).

I did not have any of those ingredients, but I did have a bushel of ramps left over from our CSA box. Since I did not want to waste one moment of my glorious night at the grocery store with the produce guys, I decided to make myself dinner using ramps and anything else I already had at home.

A search for ramp recipes online led to the discovery that they are most often used in omelets and soups. Ramp soup did not appeal to me, but an omelet was the perfect dish. We had received a whole carton of farm-fresh eggs in our box, and I hadn' t used any of them yet. We also had a lot of grape tomatoes left over from last night's dinner. And so, I devised a Ramp and Roasted Grape Tomato Omelet. I was very proud to have come up with this recipe all by myself. I wonder if this is how Julia Child felt when she mastered Mousse de Foies de Volaille.

Ramp and Roasted Grape Tomato Omelet

Ingredients:
1 tsp butter
1 egg, 2 egg whites (beaten together)
1/8 cup thinly sliced trimmed ramp bulbs and slender stems plus 1/2 cup thinly sliced green tops
½ cup grape tomatoes (roasted):
* Preheat oven to 425
* Place tomatoes in pan and season with salt and pepper
* Drizzle with olive oil and toss
* Roast until the smallest tomatoes begin to pop, about 15 minutes

Melt butter in cast iron skillet over medium heat. Add ramp bulbs and stems to skillet; sauté 3 minutes.

Add green tops and sauté until ramps are soft, about 9 minutes.

Transfer ramps to a bowl and mix in roasted tomatoes.

Add eggs to skillet over medium heat; sprinkle with salt and pepper. Heat until eggs are almost set (about 2 minutes). Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Fold in ramp and tomato mixture.

Serves 1

It's a little on the messy side, but tasted pretty nice! I think some cheese would have gone a long way with this one, but I didn't have any.

Saturday Farmers Market

2009-05-09T11:37:00.000-05:00

Some photos of the Farmers Market on Saturday morning:
Tents at the end of the street.Chef demonstration.
The asparagus man was very confused when he asked, "Do you like asparagus?" and I replied, "Oh yes, it's beautiful!" My purchases: a big basil plant and a tub of dried pears. Barry and the basil.

Iron Chef

2009-05-07T21:00:00.006-05:00

The challenge:
Use dandelion greens, ramps, and grape tomatoes in one meal.Rinsing the dandelion greens, to be sauteed with olive oil, garlic, red pepper flakes, and sea salt.

Ramps! Which turned into...Ramp-Buttermilk Biscuits with Cracked CorianderAnd the grape tomatoes for the sauce that accompanies the parmesan chicken paillards:A mere two hours later, and viola!Parmesan Chicken Paillards with Cherry Tomato Sauce
Sauteed Dandelion Greens
Ramp and Buttermilk Biscuits with Cracked Coriander

Flirtation in Aisle 6

2009-05-07T09:54:00.009-05:00

Photo courtesy of The Daily Green.

"Hello!" a frantically waving be-aproned man calls to me from across the piles of tomatoes in Aisle 6.

"Hello." I wave back, smiling in embarrassment as old women turn to look at me with disdain.

"There you are, my pretty friend." Alfredo says, tenderly scooping the bunch of bananas from my shopping basket. "We were wondering when you'd come. He was missing you." he gestures to Marcus, his fellow produce man, who winks at me.

"No, he was the one." Marcus points at Alfredo. "He was asking about you all day. And here you are! How is your boyfriend today?" he asks.

"Oh, just fine." I reply, not sure how to slip into the conversation that F is, in fact, my husband. F hates the produce guys.

"Where is your boyfriend?" Alfredo asks.

"He's at home."

"Sleeping?" Alfredo asks hopefully. He always asks if F is sleeping, or watching television, or playing video games, while I am diligently shopping for our dinner.

"No," I reply, "He's working."

"Oh, working." Alfredo is disappointed. "That's OK, then." He perks up, having thought of a new challenge, "He should make you dinner tonight."

"I agree! I'll tell him you said so." I reply, retrieving my forgotten bananas from the scale.

"I would cook for you." Marcus says, his eyes twinkling.

"You can't cook." Alfredo says.

"Neither can you."

"But I'd learn... for you." Alfredo gazes into my eyes.

"The produce guys were asking about you again." I tell F when I get home.

"Grrr... I hate the produce guys." F shouts, glaring at the grocery bags.

To save my marriage, I realized I must find a new way to obtain my produce. So I started looking into CSAs (Community Supported Agriculture). In my research, I discovered that most CSAs send a box of produce once a week at a fixed seasonal rate of approximately $500. If you'd like meat, you can sign up for a weekly meat box for an additional $400. If you're hankering for fruit, you can buy a fruit box. You get the idea. It's great for families who can use up all of the veggies, steaks, and apples, but not so convenient for young couples who don't eat for four, and haven't yet figured out a good system for canning and freezing leftovers.

Most of the friends I asked about their CSAs said that they found it difficult to use up their shipments. My friend M also warned that the contents of the boxes are limited to the crops grown on each farm. While this is a good thing because you are getting the freshest seasonal vegetables while helping to sustain local agriculture, there were times when M received a box full of potatoes and little else.

She eventually switched to Irv and Shelly's Fresh Picks which is different than most CSAs because it supplies products from a range of local farms, giving you a wider variety to choose from. And the payment system is flexible, so you can order shipments from week to week, instead of paying the fixed rate. That way, if you go on vacation for a week, you won't have a box of spoiled veggies waiting on your doorstep.

But what really appeals to me about Irv and Shelly's is that you can purchase a small produce box stuffed with seasonal surprises, and then supplement your box 'o' greens with other things, like baked goods, meat, and any other seasonal fruits or vegetables. You can, for instance, include a single apple, instead of purchasing a whole box of fruit.

So what did we get in our first "Fresh Picks" crate yesterday?

Our fridge is now stocked with eggs, asparagus, ramps, dandelion greens, broccoli, and grape tomatoes. I supplemented with strawberries, 2 navel oranges, and some tempeh, which I've never had but have been wanting to try. We grilled the asparagus last night to accompany some cornmeal-crusted catfish, and the broccoli and grape tomatoes will be easy enough to use up. But dandelion greens and ramps!? I didn't even know what these leafy wonders were until I looked at the list included in the box.

I'm delighted by this challenge. Even F is thrilled.

"This is the best thing we've done in a long time!" he exclaimed last night, holding aloft a fluffy bunch of dandelion leaves. "And you didn't get any of this from the produce guys. We need to do this every week." he smiled wickedly.

While eating one of my CSA navel oranges for breakfast, I have devised this evening's menu around ramps and dandelions.

Behold The Thursday Night Menu:

Parmesan Chicken Paillards with Cherry Tomato Sauce
Sauteed Dandelion Greens
Ramp and Buttermilk Biscuits with Cracked Coriander

Check back later for photos!

The Rite of Spring

2009-05-06T08:19:00.014-05:00

Every year I count down the days to May 6 when white tents and produce trucks appear across the street, heralding what—to me—means the first day of spring: the Green City Market.

On Wednesdays and Saturdays until the end of October, the Green City Market takes up residence in the park next to the farm at the Lincoln Park Zoo. The city skyline rises majestically in the distance, while farm animals graze and cluck behind a white picket fence next door. It's a strange and wonderful mix of Midwestern charms.

Saturdays feature live music and chef demonstrations, and dogs and children scamper underfoot. Wednesday mornings are calmer, populated by retirees and young mothers with strollers. On these quiet mornings, I like to walk to work by way of the market, browsing the stalls and picking up cubicle snacks.

I was at the market promptly at 7am when it opened this morning. Even this early in the season, the stalls were full of flowers and fruits, vegetables and baked goods, salsa samples and crepes. I sampled all of my favorite salsas and crackers, petted a few puppies, greeted the farm chickens, tasted some Wisconsin cheese, and admired all of the flowers I cannot buy on account of a certain fat, greedy cat.

I bought a basket of Gala apples, feeling very country chic as I carried them around the market (the chicness vanished as soon as I squatted in the dirt to take photos of the produce).
More on Saturday!

Soup of the Week

2009-05-01T08:08:00.008-05:00

This is my new favorite soup:

Creamy Carrot Soup
From the March issue of Cooking Light
4 servings (serving size: 1 1/2 cups)

Ingredients:

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
1 3/4 cups chopped Vidalia or other sweet onion
2 pounds carrots, cut into 1/2-inch pieces
1 teaspoon fine sea salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Dash of ground ginger
2 cups water
2 cups fat-free, less-sodium chicken broth
2 tablespoons heavy cream, divided

1. Heat oil in a large Dutch oven over medium heat. Add onion and carrots to pan; cook 10 minutes, stirring frequently. Stir in salt, pepper, and ginger.

2. Add 2 cups water and broth to pan; bring to a boil. Cover, reduce heat, and simmer 25 minutes or until carrots are tender. Remove from heat; cool. 3. Place half of carrot mixture and 1 tablespoon cream in a food processor or blender; process 20 seconds or until smooth. Pour pureed mixture into a large bowl. Repeat procedure with remaining carrot mixture and 1 tablespoon cream. Return mixture to pan; cook over medium heat until thoroughly heated.

And here it is! I wish I had a sprig of parsley or mint to finish it off, since the jaunty little herb really makes the photo on the Cooking Light website. I promise it tastes far better than it looks below! As we have already established, the whole point of having soup for lunch is for an excuse to eat a big chunk of bread. So I spent Sunday making Buttermilk-Oat Rolls. These taste strangely like croissants—a good thing.
All in all, a far more satisfying (and colorful) cubicle meal than a Lean Cuisine.

A Very Special Pig

2009-04-28T12:00:00.004-05:00

Really big pig image courtesy of Jonny Hunter of UFC.

All across America the ding of the microwave has just sounded the completion of a Lean Cuisine. We scarf it right out of the plastic tray in front of our computers, barely tasting the flash-frozen peas and dry chicken. But that’s OK, because in this fast-paced, pre-packaged world, food is just fuel to keep the machine running.

Eating is a solitary, harried event; it is seldom the basis for a leisurely expanse of time with friends and loved ones. It’s the rare family that eats a home-cooked meal together every night at the kitchen table with the television turned off. And it’s even less common for a group of families and friends to cook and eat together, turning a meal into an evening-long event for which good food is integral to the enjoyment of good company.

The Underground Food Collective (UFC) does this every night. Composed of a group of friends and families (including little ones and babes-in-arms), the UFC cooks and eats every meal together on a farm in Madison, Wisconsin. This group—composed of professional chefs, experienced home cooks, and farmers—has started a catering company featuring Pre-Industrial Pig Dinners throughout the country, bringing people together under one roof to enjoy a full meal composed of one very special pig.

So on the very day the swine flu was announced F and I braved death and attended Chicago’s first Pre-Industrial Pig Dinner.

We drove through a torrential downpour to West Town and found the nondescript apartment building belonging to a certain James. As we sloshed up the steps bearing wine and umbrellas, I noted the drab hallway and the worn carpet, leery of what we would find beyond the battered front door. But I needn’t have worried. Upon entering, I beheld the most gorgeous apartment I have ever seen in Chicago—including some of the half-million-dollar brownstones that F and I have toured as “Mr. and Mrs. Leonard Smith, attorneys and prospective home-owners.”

We found ourselves in the midst of a bustling throng of chefs, farmers, and waiters, whirling through a professional kitchen with an island that stretched as far as the eye could see. The kitchen was every home-cook’s dream: stainless steel shelving, hanging pot racks, acres of cabinets, and gleaming pots and pans.

Awe-struck and awkward, F and I dodged chefs carrying chopping boards and pig parts, and shuffled to the side of the room. A waiter greeted us, “Two this evening?” and led us to the back of the spacious brick front room to a table set for six. We were among the first to arrive, and by the number of tables scattered through the room, James looked to be expecting around 60 people.

We took our seats against the far wall in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows lined with flower boxes and surveyed the room. Long pine tables were set with mismatched china and flickering candles. There was a stone fireplace to the left, and a canoe hung from the ceiling to the right. The bookcase behind me held Ulysses, a Spanish dictionary, and a smattering of philosophers. Carved wooden ducks perched on various ledges and rested on shelves that held more candles, pieces of driftwood and a set of antlers. A colonial iron chandelier with still more flickering candles hung above the next table. As the thunderstorm raged outside, F and I relaxed in James’s warm, rustic apartment, anticipating our pig.

The meal was very good. Not extraordinary, but definitely very good. I’m sure that you could find a gourmet porcine meal of finer quality at one of the many lauded restaurants throughout the Windy City, but F and I had not signed up for a restaurant experience. What made this evening special was the expectation of a long, leisurely meal among new friends. The family-style courses were paced throughout three and a half hours, so we had plenty of time to digest and get to know our dining companions.

Lisa and Chuck were a few years older than us and at first I found them aloof and a little intimidating. She wore a gray turtleneck sweater and pearl earrings and was well put-together with a sophisticated style that I have never quite been able to master. He was a little rumpled with square-framed glasses and wayward hair. But as the night progressed and we shared plate after plate of pig and glass after glass of wine, we found that Lisa was endearingly silly and Chuck was a rumpled intellect. The other places at our table were occupied in time by Kurt and Rory, both startlingly beautiful college students from Madison. He wore stonewashed jeans and a cowboy-chic button-down shirt; his blond hair fell to his shoulders over the starched collar. She dressed simply in a black tee-shirt, her only adornment a small silver cross. She had a perfect, tiny face with big, earnest eyes. They looked like they had just arrived from a JCrew photo shoot set in Wyoming. As with Chuck and Lisa, my first impressions faded as the evening progressed and Kurt and Rory stepped off the JCrew page. Kurt had a disarming, puppy-like tendency toward long-windedness unhampered by a lisp, and Rory was quick with a shy smile revealing petite, childlike teeth. Kurt was the beer distributor for the event and described in lengthy detail the process of brewing mead on his tiny stove top.

The six of us ate a lot of pig—the seven-course dinner included bacon, pork belly, pulled pork, pork fat, pork broth, pork sausages, and other bits and pieces of swine (plus dessert, which was not pig). Among our favorites: pulled pork with golden raisins and white radishes, pork sausage and micro-greens, white beans in pork broth, and my new weakness—fried pork fat with toasted black walnuts. This dish was crispy and strangely sweet, almost like candied orange peel. It was utterly surprising and delicious, and I could have eaten a heaping plate of fat, against my better judgment. Luckily, the family-style plate was small and I limited myself to a sensible portion. The dishes were augmented with products from local suppliers: Red Hen baguettes, fresh Wisconsin goat cheese, and Kurt's lemongrass beer. Unfortunately, the menu was taped to the far wall and written on brown paper, so without my glasses, I couldn’t decipher the finer points of what I was eating. I will be sure to print the menu below, if the UFC posts it online. In the meantime, here are some visual highlights:

Those are all of my photos. I’m getting braver, but I’m still a little shy about taking pictures—especially when it means making my dining companions wait while I snap photos of the food. But when the UFC posts their pictures online, I’ll add more below.

After three and a half hours of pig plates and scintillating conversation with our new friends, F and I were reluctant to leave James’s beautiful apartment. As we gathered our coats and opened our umbrellas, I wondered why we considered getting together with nice people to eat good food a “Special Event.” The concept is pretty simple, really, and it would be simple to put into practice in our every-day lives, if we were so inclined. But are we inclined?

When I posed these questions to F on the way home, he replied with a pithy flash of wisdom,

“Eating is private.”

And it’s true. In many European countries, mealtime is a celebration of togetherness, of letting go of the day’s frustrations, and of enjoying the company of friends and neighbors over food and wine. But here in America, creating and eating a meal is often just another task to cross off our busy schedules. We eat in private—at our desks, on the couch, at the counter—without real enjoyment. Without company.

I will admit that I am a private person. When reading about the UFC’s collective meals, my first thought was that you’d have to really love these people to eat your every meal with them. While I long for more dinners with my friends and family, I wouldn’t want to make them nightly events. I would miss my dinners alone on the couch with F. It’s difficult, but it must be possible to find a fulfilling balance between privacy and community.

The UFC has a good thing going here and, while I definitely think the evening was worth the price, I can recreate the same experience in my own apartment for free. I may not have access to a fresh hog, but I do have my own collective of friends and family to celebrate with from time to time.

Our Saturday Plans Include Red Wattles

2009-04-22T18:10:00.005-05:00

F and I will be venturing out on the town once again this Saturday night. Stay tuned for a post featuring Red Wattles!

For more info about the Underground Food Collective, CLICK HERE.

Check out reviews of pig dinners served earlier this winter in Madison, WI and New York, NY. The NY Times Bittman Blog, Slow Food USA, and Gourmet Magazine covered the delicious -- and sold-out -- UFC dinners served last month in New York. For links to articles and photos: CLICK HERE

The Onion covered the Nov. 14 dinner in Madison, WI: CLICK HERE

Passeaster Challah French Toast

2009-04-13T05:28:00.007-05:00

Photo courtesy of http://winsomeaunt.blogspot.com/

As a non-religious Jew, I celebrate the fun holidays of every faith. Passover is lovely because there’s a plate of tasty symbolic foods like shankbone, and we get drink a lot of wine while reciting the plagues in a booming voice (“BOILS! FROGS! PESTILENCE!”). Then an angel visits our dining room late at night to drink the leftover wine. And Easter is joyous because we color eggs and wait for a giant bunny to hide things in the house while we’re asleep. I wonder why so many holidays feature nocturnal visitors?

Last week featured both Easter and Passover and, while I didn’t celebrate either one, I felt I ought to do something colorful and Jewish. Judging from the crowds that swarm our local breakfast nooks after the church bells ring, eating a delectable brunch seems to be the highlight of the Easter holiday. So I baked some challah for Passover and used the leftovers to make French toast for an Easter Sunday brunch.

Later that day, I made Scottish shortbread for a friend’s Easter party at which, like a bad Easter Jew, I ate a ham.For my Passeaster Challah French Toast, I adapted Smitten Kitchen's award-winning recipe for Boozy Baked French Toast.I didn't have the right type of booze to follow the recipe (I didn't think red wine French toast would really taste that great), so I used SK's vanilla extract suggestion instead. I chose to sprinkle my toast with hazelnuts, so I gave them a good toasting first. And I attempted to make the recipe slightly healthier by using skim milk in place of whole. And the finished (slightly blurry) product: This was very, very nice and custardy. I'll definitely make Passeaster Challah French Toast again soon. But next time, I think I'll use pecans—and booze.

The original recipe:
(Disclaimer: Smitten's photos put mine to shame. If you must compare, please do not judge High Heels too harshly!)

Boozy Baked French Toast
From Smitten Kitchen

1 loaf supermarket Challah bread in 1-inch slices, no need for the super-fancy stuff here
3 cups whole milk
3 eggs
3 tablespoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt

Your choice of flavorings: I use 3 tablespoons Bailey’s and 3 tablespoons Cointreau, but Frangelico (hazelnut), Chambord (raspberry), Creme de Cassis (black currant) Grand Marnier or just a teaspoon or two of vanilla or almond extract can do the trick. You can bump up a citrus flavor with a teaspoon of zest, add a half-cup of chopped nuts such as almond slivers or pecans between layers or on top or a similar amount of raisins or other dried fruits.

1. Generously grease a 9×13-inch baking dish with salted (my choice) or unsalted butter.
2. Arrange bread in two tightly-packed layers in the pan. I always cut one slice into smaller pieces to fill in gaps, especially when using braided Challah. If using a thinner-sliced bread, you might wish for more layers, though I find that over three, even baking can be difficult. If you are using any fillings of fruit or nuts, this is the time to get them between the layers or sprinkled atop.
3. Whisk milk, eggs, sugar, salt and booze or flavorings of your choice and pour over the bread. Sprinkle with cinnamon and sugar.
4. Wrap tightly with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight. The bread will absorb all of the milk custard while you sleep.
5. Bake at 425 for 30 minutes, or until puffed and golden. This will take longer if you have additional layers.
6. Cut into generous squares and serve with maple syrup, fresh fruit, powdered sugar or all of the above.

Serves 6 as main course.

Easter Recipe Found

2009-04-12T19:31:00.005-05:00

The more I thought about it, the more intrigued I became with Saveur's exquisitely messy Pavlova, and I very nearly created one to bring to the Easter party I attended this afternoon. But I ran out of time. Good thing, too, since I discovered just how easy it is to make delicious shortbread.

Scotch Shortbread
From Joy of Cooking by Irma S. Rombauer and Marion Rombauer Becker

Preheat oven to 325 degrees

Cream:
1 cup butter

Sift together:
2 cups sifted all-purpose flour
1/2 cup sifted confectioners' sugar
1/4 tsp salt

Blend the dry ingredients into the butter. Pat the stiff dough into an ungreased 9 x 9-inch pan and press edges down. Pierce with a fork through the dough every half-inch. Bake 25 to 30 minutes. Cut into squares while warm.

Makes about 20 squares

Inspired by the shortbread cake at Bistro 110, I sprinkled Morton Sea Salt over the top, which counterbalanced the full cup of butter in this recipe. These cookies were warm, crumbly, sweet, and slightly salty. I will be making them again—and not just for parties.

Easter Recipe Hunt

2009-04-10T15:50:00.004-05:00

I'm looking for the perfect dish to bring to a friend's Easter party on Sunday. Today's newsletter from Saveur is entitled "Exquisite Easter Brunch," so I was certain it would contain the perfect recipe. I clicked on the link for Pavlova, and this popped up.I don't know anything about Pavlova, but this is an exquisite mess.

High-Priced Food on Trial

2009-04-09T09:46:00.006-05:00

This is a fun article from the Chicago Tribune:

High-Priced Food on Trial

We have placed a handful of local dishes on trial for crimes of excess—and we asked their chefs to act as their defense. Court is in session! (And by the way—yes, we are acting as prosecution, and judge. But we are fair—no, seriously, we are.)

—Christopher Borrelli and Phil Vettel

Chocolate! Chocolate! Chocolate! Aack!

2009-04-01T15:51:00.004-05:00

In an episode of my new favorite show 30Rock, Tracy Jordan compares Liz Lemon to the Cathy cartoon above. This reference might not mean anything to you, but Cathy’s exclamation “Chocolate! Chocolate! Chocolate! Aack!” is probably universally understood by all women. And my sister B and I shouted the line all weekend in anticipation of our chocolate-making course at Delightful Pastries bakery in Jefferson Park’s Polish neighborhood. For two relatively health-conscious girls who are unable to resist sweets, a chocolate-making course is an occasion met with mingled excitement and apprehension. But on Sunday, we did not plan to resist the chocolate or to feel remorse for eating it.

In the midst of a snow storm, B and I entered the warm bakery that smelled of rising dough, sugar cookies and chocolate. On our way back to the kitchen, we stopped to admire rows upon rows of colorful pastries and truffles and fresh breads, feeling the snow melt away and the cold leaving our limbs. I am convinced that baking is one of the noblest professions there is. Nothing imparts as immediate a sense of well-being as a warm loaf of bread or cookies with bunny faces.

The kitchen was taken up by a long, wide table flanked by glass-fronted refrigerators filled with stacks of chilled dough. Utensils and cutting boards dangled from the walls and bowls and baking sheets and pots and pans were jammed this way and that into high shelves. Sixteen people crowded around the table and each of us had a baking sheet with two pastry shells and a sheaf of recipes. B and I took our places at the end of the table to watch our instructor Dobra plop truffles from a pastry bag onto a baking sheet with an expert flick of the wrist.

Dobra opened Delightful Pastries in 1998 with her mother Stasia. Dressed in a white chef’s apron with her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, Dobra is a tough-looking woman in her late 30s with large hands rough from mixing and lifting and kneading. She speaks with a gruff Polish accent, inflected with a dry sense of humor. Dobra led us into the back of the kitchen, past a giant mixer with giant attachments that put F’s pink mixer to shame and made me weak in the knees.

We crowded around a little furnace to watch Dobra mix chocolate into a battered pot. B and I stood on our tiptoes to see into the pot as she described the desired temperature and consistency of the chocolate-caramel sauce sputtering over the stove. The scent of hot caramel filled the back room and made me very hungry, even though we had just eaten lunch at the Irish pub down the street.

All memory of lunch evaporated as B and I were caught up in the flurry of tastings that followed. Caramel sauce, truffles, ganache, whipped cream, chocolate mousse, cream cookies, chocolates, caramels and pie crust—we tasted everything without a trace of guilt.

We also learned things. We didn’t so much create chocolate desserts as assemble them from the ingredients that Dobra had already prepared. This was fine with us. It was warm in the kitchen and snowing outside and B and I were content to whisper to each other and do anything that Dobra told us to do.

Dobra gave each pupil five chocolate truffles and we cheerfully dipped them in melted chocolate.

When they had dried, we coated them with cocoa powder and nuts. B and I split a nut-covered truffle, expecting the plastic spoon to bend as it cracked through the lump of chocolate. But the spoon crushed smoothly through the truffle, and we each took half. It was sweet but not too sweet, soft but not mushy. “Chocolate should be bitter,” Dobra said. “And chocolate should not be hard. You know chocolates that are tough when you bite them? That’s no good. Chocolate should be soft when you bite into it. It should be soft trickling down your throat so you think, Aaah, that’s a good truffle.”

Next, we assembled chocolate mousse pies. Dobra passed around a bowl of mousse and we scooped generous portions into our pie shells.

Then she passed out a bowl of heavy whipped cream to top the mousse. “Fancy people buy cakes,” she said. “Cakes can be fancy, but pies should not be fancy. A pie should be a mess. In the pie shell, you put good, simple fillings. Chocolate, apples, anything you want. Then whipped cream. You just put it all together and then it’s done. It goes out on the shelf just like this,” she held up a pie shell filled with a mound of mousse and cream, “And it’s just perfect.”

You can tell a lot about people from the way they decorate desserts. Once we had covered our mousse with cream, we decorated the tops of our pies. The woman next to me carefully painted chocolate into a tribal pattern of thick stripes along the rim and spread a dollop of chocolate in the center. The organizer of the event—K—sprinkled cocoa powder over his, then added nuts, then drizzled chocolate, then a dollop of mousse, followed by a chunk of bitter chocolate. His young daughter carefully arranged nuts over the top of her pie, piece by piece.

I drizzled chocolate over the top of mine, while K watched in amazement. “Look what you’re doing!” he crowed. “That’s great!” He whipped out his camera and snapped photos while I flicked chocolate across the top of the pie. He made me clear my baking sheet so the pie stood out against the white parchment paper, and took another photo. Everyone watched as my face turned red. My fussy nature was clearly written in my chocolate drizzle.

Next, we poured ganache into the smaller of the pie shells and learned how to cut caramel into squares (run the knife under hot water and dry off before cutting).

I could have stayed at Delightful Pastries all day. The kitchen was comfortable. The equipment was well-worn and well-loved, the counters cluttered with recipes and bits of chocolate, the refrigerators filled with cookies and dough and sheets of colored sugar. B and I lingered in the front of the bakery, reluctant to leave behind the warmth and the scent of sugar that clung to our clothes and hair.

Whether it was the sugar, the time with B, or the fact that the blizzard had finally stopped, I left Delightful Pastries feeling delighted. B took her truffles home to NYC and I sent most of the pies and chocolates to work with F on Monday. But we kept half of a chocolate cream pie for ourselves.

Vegetarian for a Day

2009-03-29T20:17:00.013-05:00

Green Zebra interior photo courtesy of Mariani's Virtual Gourmet.

F and I are not vegetarians. As is evident in this blog, we like our meat. Most of our dinners consist of 1/3 pork or chicken or fish, 1/3 vegetables, and 1/3 grain, and it’s all I can do to sneak those vegetables into the equation. If it were completely up to me, I would cook a few vegetarian dishes a week. But when I make a ragout or an eggplant lasagna, F eats in silence and when prodded admits, “It’s good. But it would be better with meat.”

As described in the previous post, my sister B is essentially a vegetarian. When ordering a “design your own” sandwich, she will circle the entire vegetable section without prejudice. So when B came to visit, I embraced the opportunity to finally try a restaurant where I knew F would never willingly eat: the vegetarian Green Zebra. We made our reservations and invited F to join us, if he was so inclined. “There’s no meat at all?” he asked. Assured that there would, in fact, be no meat on the menu, F stocked up on a pulled-pork sandwich a few hours before dinner and agreed to accompany us “if only for the dessert.”

We arrived at Green Zebra in the midst of a raging downpour, complete with sleet and howling winds. The hostess led us to a table near the window, with a lovely view of the gray sky and rain-streaked street. The room was painted in muted greens and browns and dotted with pots of towering bamboo. We were in a little rainforest all our own.

The waiter provided a quick lesson on the menu. The dishes were relatively small and meant to be shared; he recommended three to four plates per person. The menu started with light, leafy dishes and soups and worked its way down to heaver plates of mushrooms, lentils, and creams. There were four distinct sections, and we decided to order one dish from each, forgoing the suggested three to four plates per person. To start, we ordered Honey Crisp Apples, Fresh Horseradish, Tarragon, Hazelnuts and both soups because we couldn’t decide between them: Thai Spiced Carrot Soup, Crispy Rice Noodles and Sweet Onion and Garlic Soup, Truffle Cream.

The carrot soup was a vivid orange with electric green foam. At once spicy and tangy, this was B’s favorite dish of the evening, while I was reluctant to share the onion and garlic soup. Its presentation was imaginative—if a little pretentious. The truffle cream arrived first, at the bottom of a white dish. Then the waiter poured the soup into the bowl from a cast-iron tea kettle. The cream spread throughout the soup, while a daub rose to the top, so you could garnish a spoon of soup with a hint of truffle. It was just the soup I wanted on such a damp, cold evening.

And F loved the apple dish. The plate was painted with a light streak of green horseradish, topped with a crispy stack of julienned apples and hazelnuts that appeared to have been lightly fried.

For the next course, we chose Foraged Mushroom Dumplings, Tofu, Thai Basil, Baby Bok Choy, Star Anise Broth and Olive Oil Confit Fingerlings, Dijon Mustard, Parmesan, Truffle, and a side dish of Spiced Edamame.

The edamame was salty and zesty and went very quickly. I could have done without the fingerlings, which were good, but pretty much just fancy potato wedges. B and I both liked the mushroom dumplings, which arrived in a star anise broth with plenty of green vegetables. The dumpling dough was chewy and slightly peppery, and made the dish.

For dessert, we ordered Cream Cheese Beignets, Carrot Cake Ice Cream, Ginger Snaps, Sugared Mandarin Peels and Chocolate Cake, Creme Fraiche Ice Cream, Salted Caramels, as well as the Lemon Pound Cake, Vanilla Gelato, Mandarin Slices from the "sweet bites" section.

The lemon pound cake was very good, but again, it tasted like pound cake should, without being particularly interesting.

But the other two desserts! The chocolate cake was heavy and soft and warm and the ice cream was flaky and sweet. It was accompanied by wrapped caramels that melted as you opened the wrappers. And the beignets! I took one bite and nearly leapt from my seat with joy. The soft, delicate beignet disintegrated as soon as it touched the tongue, leaving sugar crystals in its wake. The subtle cream cheese filling added a hint of tang. The carrot cake ice cream was creamy and tasted of cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice. It was a little heady for me, but B professed to love it.

We drove home in the rain, full and happy. I thoroughly enjoyed being vegetarian for a day—everything was so green and leafy. B seemed to love the entire Green Zebra experience and even F the meat-and-potatoes man liked this meal. I was nearly convinced that F and I could be vegetarians, if we could eat like this every day. I slept soundly, dreaming of truffles and bamboo—and woke up Sunday morning hankering for bacon.

A Shape for Cake

2009-03-27T12:06:00.005-05:00

When she was little, my little sister B used to say that her stomach had spaces shaped like certain foods. There were chicken and pasta and bread shapes—and plenty of cake shapes—but she would tell our mother that her stomach just doesn’t have a broccoli shape this evening but there is, however, a space shaped like ice cream.

Now, her stomach has shapes for broccoli and beans, carrots and celery, lettuce and leeks, and no shapes at all for cookies and cakes. What happened in there, I wonder.

B eats salad for every meal. She claims that she would be perfectly content to eat the same thing every day for the rest of her life, but I don’t quite believe it. On her birthday, B takes a look deep inside and finds her dessert shape. It’s there, just wedged in tight with all the vegetables, smooshed into a teeny fold of stomach lining. On her birthday, B allows the dessert shape to emerge. It unfurls into a glorious chocolate cake with chocolate icing shape, or a vanilla cupcake with buttercream frosting and sprinkles shape. And she enjoys every last moment of filling up that shape. But only on birthdays.

I usually feel pretty good about the way F and I eat. We make recipes from Cooking Light and eat lots of fresh produce, lean meats, fish, and whole grains. We are moderate in our portion sizes and generous with our vital nutrients. And then B comes to town. Compared to her usual cereal for dinner, my gourmet creations are monstrous mounds of fat, carbs, and calories.

B will be arriving from NYC tonight, and I am determined to rescue her dessert shape from its sad fold. At the same time, she will guide me through this new world of vegetables I have only recently discovered. On Saturday, we will dine at the vegetarian restaurant Green Zebra to fill up our vegetable shapes. And then, on Sunday, we’ll stuff our dessert shapes at a chocolate-making class.

If all goes well, by the end of the weekend all of our shapes will be satisfied.

Photo courtesy of www.myspace.com/trishw23

Bread of the Week

2009-03-23T12:03:00.001-05:00

Almond-Cranberry Corn Bread

Mad About Mado

2009-03-07T13:24:00.001-06:00

I met my supper club for dinner last night in Bucktown/Wicker Park at Mado, home of the fabled Rolled Pig’s Head from my previous post.

Although the restaurant is relatively new, husband-and-wife chef-owners, Robert and Allison Levitt, are already known around town for their daily seasonal menu of farm-fresh meats and produce.

Mado is an unassuming, even ugly brick building on an otherwise dreary side street populated with shuttered buildings and empty lots. Until recently, it was a pizza joint with bright orange walls and plastic furniture. The windows are still tagged with spray paint, but inside, the orange walls have been stripped to reveal warm brick. The dining room is intimate and unadorned, and the food is outstanding.

We were tucked into the back corner at a long rustic table for eight. Our group arrived slowly, so we opened a bottle of wine and chatted until the last member of our party had arrived. By that time, we were all ravenous. S suggested ordering family style and the rest of us heartily agreed. We started with two plates of the meats, featuring Country Pate, Rolled Pig's Head and Tuscan Chicken Liver Pate accompanied by Freshly Baked Sourdough, Grain Mustard, and Pickled Vegetables. The assorted meats arrived on antique, pig-shaped cutting boards.

As I mentioned in the previous post, I was excited about the Rolled Pig’s Head, but was possibly even more excited to be dining with a group of people who were just as enthusiastic about trying something new. For four hours, we talked about food, and less important subjects, like men. It was refreshing to dine with a group of girls who are as passionate about food as I am—most of them more passionate and more educated about the subject I have only recently come to love. When I said that I’m looking for a pasta machine, they each had suggestions about the best one on the market. They agree that a culinary tour of Chinatown or the Korean neighborhood would be an ideal way to spend an afternoon. And without blinking an eye, they ordered Rolled Pig’s Head and critiqued its taste and the merits of its texture.

When the meats arrived, I am ashamed to say that we spent a good amount of time debating which meat was which. We finally puzzled out that the soft, pillowy mound on one end was the Country Pate, the grayish meat in the middle must be the Tuscan Chicken Liver Pate, and the strips that looked like Prosciutto must be the Rolled Pig’s Head. Of them all, the Country Pate was the unanimous favorite—smooth and delicate and addictive.

We followed the pig with a selection of appetizers: Roasted Baby Carrots with Gorgonzola; Grilled Calamari Panzanella with Red Onion, Vinegar Peppers, and Capers; Confit Pork Kidneys, Grilled Bread, Hard Cooked Egg and Mustard (first photo below); and Fried Farm Egg Bruscetta with Truffle Butter (second photo below).Absolutely everything was wonderful. We raved over the crispy bruscetta oiled with truffle butter topped with a runny, salty fried egg. The carrots with gorgonzola were a surprising delight—and an aesthetic extravagance, with orange, yellow, and red carrots. I didn’t know that carrots came in yellow and red!

Next, we ordered two bowls of the home-made Rigatoni with Grilled Radicchio, Walnuts and Gorgonzola: Followed by: Rainbow Trout Stuffed with Braised Swiss Chard and Confit Pork Belly (Pictured below with Rosemary-Roasted Potatoes), Hanger Steak with Gorgonzola Polenta , and Casuela of Farm Egg, Braised Pork and White Beans. With sides: Rosemary-Roasted Potatoes (pictured above) and Creamy Polenta. It would be a daunting task to describe each of these marvelous dishes, so I won’t try. I will say, however, that I have never tasted polenta quite like this. The polenta I make at home tends to solidify as soon as it hits the plate, while this was rich and creamy and tangy. I could eat Mado’s polenta with every meal for the rest of my life.

And the desserts: Chocolate Cream Pie with Almond Cornmeal Crust, Caramel Biancomangiare with Crispy Chocolate and Coffee-Chili Syrup, and Migas Bark. The Migas Bark turned out to be chunky sheets of chocolate which, while certainly delicious, did not quite live up to the exotic promise of its name. The Chocolate Cream Pie was stunning, but the Caramel Biancomangiare was something special.

I will admit that I did not know what it was, so I did a little research and discovered that biancomangiare is a Sicilian-style almond custard with almond milk. It is believed that Sicily’s Arab conquerors and four centuries of Spanish domination inspired this distinctive dessert featured in the cookbooks of the Italian Renaissance and served in large troughs of snow at the banquets of the Medici court.

Shaped with a decorative mold, Mado’s biancomangiare was soft and light with a delicate caramel flavor. Tiny balls of chocolate graced the top and rolled down the sides, and the coffee-chili syrup pooled around the bottom. A single spoonful combining the soft biancomangiare with the crispy chocolate balls and the spicy syrup was startling and extraordinary.

Eight girls, 2 bottles of champagne, 7 bottles of wine (BYOB), 2 plates of assorted meats, 4 appetizers, 2 bowls of pasta, 3 entrees, 2 sides, 3 desserts, and 4 hours later, I headed home completely satisfied—and completely enamored with Mado.

(Mado photo courtesy of Menu Pages.)

An Offal Experience

2009-03-07T10:25:00.002-06:00

Last night, I ate pig’s head.

I ordered it willingly—and eagerly—after having read an article in this month’s issue of Food and Wine about facing your culinary fears. Lisa Abend describes her first time ordering this delicacy in Spain:

... the bartender in Cuenca set the plate before us and we beheld a huge pig mask—with holes where the eyes and snout used to be, and glistening pockets of fat beneath the cheeks... We wanted to eat it, or at least wanted to be able to say we had. Yet one tentative bite revealed grease, and gristle, and—ick—a few charred, bristly hairs. We each choked down a mouthful, then pushed the rest away.

This seems at once disgusting, delicious, and dangerous—a culinary experience straight out of Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern, which F and I watch with fascinated horror and a tinge of longing. How I wish I could get paid to travel the world for the purpose of eating—even if it does mean eating such delicacies as a rattlesnake’s still-beating heart. This is adventure. This is life!

Ms. Abend’s second experience with pig’s face, years later, is comparatively tame:

When it came time to order that night, it no longer occurred to me to feel squeamish. Face had become just one more thing to eat. And indeed, the pig face Dan and I ate that night at Atrio was delicious. The chef, Toño Pérez, had pressed it into a disk roughly the size and thickness of a chocolate chip cookie. Fried until it was golden brown and crunchy, it tasted deeply of Iberian pig. We called it “face bacon,” and laughed as we ate it.

Her second pig's face seems almost ordinary. Comparing it to something as familiar and delicious as a chocolate-chip cookie decidedly lowers it on Zimmern's bizarre foods scale. So, while dining on “face bacon” can still be considered an experience, it’s certainly not an adventure.

When I saw Rolled Pig’s Head on the menu at Mado last night, my enthusiasm may have frightened my dinner companions. I pictured Ms. Abend’s pig mask rolled into a tube, empty eye-sockets grotesquely stretched, snout jutting from one lumpy side, bristle and gristle texturing the horrible landscape. This was certain to be an unforgettable culinary adventure.

In a quick Google search for “rolled pig’s head,” among an alarming wealth of references to a man who rolled a severed pig’s head into a mosque in Auburn, Maine, I discovered the blog “Offal Good,” by Chef Chris Cosentino, Executive Chef of California’s Incanto. In a post called “Let Them Eat Pig’s Head” Chef Cosentino provides an illustrated step-by-step guide to making this dish, officially called Porchetta Di Testa. He instructs us to take an entire pig’s head and remove the bones, which results in the pig mask that Ms. Abend describes. I am certain Chef Cosentino would not mind if I pasted one of his marvelous photographs below, to better illustrate this gruesome sight.
We then season the pig’s head and marinate for two days in the fridge, after which we roll it up, tie it, and place it in a sous vide bag (fancy French for “vacuum-packed plastic bag”). Cook, then place into an ice bath and let it sit in the fridge for two days. After two days, cut away any stock and fat, and untie. Slice and serve.

My Rolled Pig’s Head arrived arranged on an antique, pig-shaped cutting board. It did not have eye-holes; nor did it resemble a chocolate chip cookie. I am not enough of a pork connoisseur to know what it should taste like, but I wanted it to taste distinctly like something, whether “Iberian pig” or bacon, and I wanted the “charred, bristly hairs.” Instead, it tasted like a very mild Prosciutto, with the same oily surface. I was strangely disappointed, but at least I can say that I ate the de-boned, marinated, and boiled head of a pig.

Next time, however, I want the full pig-head experience. I want the gristle, the bristle, and the snout.

My Kitchen Kitty

2009-03-02T10:31:00.001-06:00

This is Barry. He, too, loves to be in the kitchen.

Newlywed Fogies Out on the Town: Restaurant Week

2009-02-26T17:01:00.006-06:00

It’s Restaurant Week in Chicago. One hundred and thirty restaurants have come up with a $22 lunch menu and a $32 dinner menu, throwing wide their doors to the impoverished masses.

This was an opportunity that F and I could not resist. So in our effort to get out more and to explore Chicago’s culinary scene, we chose Bistro 110 for our gastronomic adventure. This decision was not made lightly.

First, I read the reviews for each and every restaurant on Yelp.com and dismissed any restaurants that had received fewer than three-and-a-half out of five stars. Then, I divided the remaining restaurants by cuisine. Our options included French, Italian, American, Steak (evidently a subset of American), Japanese, Vietnamese, Continental, Fusion, Latin, Mediterranean, and one gastro tavern.

Then I visited the website for each restaurant within a given cuisine and reviewed their Restaurant Week menus side-by-side. I whittled down each cuisine category to two restaurants and did away with a few categories all together—like the gastro tavern, The Gage, whose menu featured various foams and a “reconstructed root beer float.”

I narrowed our options to the following four: Bistro 110 (French), Naha (American), David Burke's Primehouse (Steak), and Tizi Melloul (Mediterranean) and printed out the menus for F to review. It was really very close, but we went with Bistro 110, mostly because of the duck and the snails.

The Dinner Menu:

Appetizers
French Onion Soup
Endive and Goat Cheese Salad
Escargots en Croute
Pizza de la Maison

Entrées
Wood-Roasted Half Chicken
Grilled Steak Frites 110
Duck a l’Orange

Dessert
La Fameuse Crème Brûlée du Bistro 110
Gateau Breton

Bistro 110 turned out to be a spacious restaurant tucked onto Pearson Street, off of Michigan Avenue. It stands next to the Ghirardelli chocolate shop in the small square next to the Watertower that has always thrilled me with its fairy lights and horse-drawn carriages. We were seated at a table along the side of the large dining room and were immediately set upon by two waiters and a busboy. We were greeted, our waters were filled, extra place settings were whisked away, and menus appeared before us.

F looked up in near panic, “This is the regular menu!” he whispered. It was, indeed, a full list of $15 appetizers and $30 entrees. When I asked for the Restaurant Week menu, we were presented with a simple 5 x 7 card, and while our waitress remained friendly, the flutter around us ceased. It seemed we were still part of the impoverished masses despite our elegant setting, but we didn’t mind. F ordered the Escargots en Croute and Grilled Steak Frites 110, while I ordered the French Onion Soup and Duck a l’Orange. In the meantime, our waitress presented us with the bread basket and a huge, whole roasted head of garlic, from which we scooped generous lumps, hardly making a dent.

The Escargots en Croute was OK. It was essentially a gigantic croissant, beneath which were hidden six slightly tough snails. The French Onion Soup was fantastic, but we had to break through a thick cheese seal to get to the soup. Both appetizers suffered from excess; too much pastry, too much butter, too much cheese. But F thoroughly enjoyed his steak and thin, crispy frites. My duck was tender and the sauce was tasty, but the sweet potatoes were the highlight of the dish—small, cubed, and lightly caramelized. Even F liked them, and he claims to hate sweet potatoes. So far, we rated our meal a 3 out of 5 stars. And then the dessert arrived.

F ordered the Gateau Breton and I ordered the La Fameuse Crème Brûlée du Bistro 110. The famous brûlée was a fine dessert, but the Gateau Breton! I have been dreaming of it ever since. It was a very simple, warm, crumbly shortbread cake dusted with sea salt and accompanied by an unnecessary but delicious scoop of vanilla bean ice-cream and a drizzle of caramel. This Gateau Breton was absolutely fantastic. F laughed as I returned again and again to his dessert, forsaking my poor crème brûlée. While as a whole the meal rates 3 out of 5 stars, this dessert was a 4.5 (I reserve the 5 for any dish that can rival a gorgeous dessert named “The Dieter’s Dilemma” at the now-extinct Brush Hill).

As we fought over the last crumb of the Gateau Breton, F and I pondered whether we had ever had a restaurant meal we would rate the nearly unattainable 5 out of 5 stars. Between us, F and I came up with only a very few. Here is my list:

Brush Hill

Once a year, my parents would take my sister and me to Brush Hill for a special dinner. Brush Hill was a restored 18th century post-and-beam barn at the top of a hill in Vermont. I remember the drive up the hill along a winding path through the woods. I remember the dining room with only three tables and a gently roaring fire in the 12-foot-long brick fireplace. I remember ordering perfect, tender, pink lamb chops with mint essence, garlic, and grilled leeks. I remember that the kitchen was directly through an oak door near the fireplace, and the chef would come out to talk with my parents. I remember walking up the creaking stairs to the restroom on the second floor, past two bedrooms furnished with antiques. I remember that at the time, my sister and I were in the habit of rating bathrooms from 1 to 5, and we gave Brush Hill the highest honor. And I remember the reason we came back again and again to this restaurant at the top of a hill deep the woods of Vermont: The Dieter’s Dilemma, a puff pastry shell filled with French vanilla ice cream, topped with chocolate-rum sauce. It was quite simply the best dessert I have ever had, and probably will ever have. Brush Hill is long closed, but the memory of that dessert remains forever imprinted on my taste buds, never to be outdone.

Dot’s

F and I were married at my parents’ house in Connecticut. For our honeymoon, we drove up the East Coast and spent a few days in Vermont, where we had the best breakfast of our lives at Dot’s in Wilmington. Dot’s is not much to look at from the outside—or the inside, for that matter. It’s a small building next to the river that runs through town. The back end of the restaurant hangs over the river. It’s dizzying but also exhilarating to think that were the restaurant to slip into the churning waters, Dot’s homemade bread would be the last thing you’d ever taste. And that would be just fine. My oatmeal and bananas were satisfying on the chilly October morning and F’s eggs and bacon were perfectly prepared. But Dot’s homemade wheat bread is the best bread I have ever tasted. I can’t do it justice with words, so I won’t try to describe it. You will just have to go to Dot’s for yourself.

Mercat a la Planxa

Our Chicago friends took us out for dinner at Mercat a la Planxa to celebrate our engagement. While the atmosphere is a little too trendy for me (Dot’s is really more my style), being with good friends on the eve of my wedding and tasting exotic and delicious dishes that arrived one after another in a dizzying array, made this dining experience one of the best of my life. Our friend E had eaten at Mercat many times with her colleagues and knew the waiter, who was exuberant and generous with suggestions, portion sizes, and little treats from the chef. It was a feast of Bacon-Wrapped Dates Stuffed with Almonds, Garlic Shrimp, Spicy Potatoes with Spicy Paprika Aioli, a selection of cheeses, and the truly wonderful and surprising Langotsa y Vainilla, or Butter Poached Lobster, Roasted Garlic Flan, Basil & Vanilla. And then our friends ordered F a glass of 25-year-old Pappy Van Winkle bourbon. It tasted like a barrel; like pitch and oak and knotted rope. It was unbelievably good, and everyone at our table held the glass to their noses, unwilling to pass it on. I wish I could have kept that glass.

Those are my top three restaurant experiences to date. What are your 5-star restaurant moments?

Oscar Spread

2009-02-22T21:11:00.002-06:00

Milk-Chocolate Tart with Pretzel Crust
Roasted Tomatillo-Mango Salsa
Feta Baked Hummus

The Oscar Tart

2009-02-22T17:13:00.002-06:00

Snow Day!

2009-02-21T21:00:00.004-06:00

Grownups don’t get snow days. Work must go on, whether we have to dig out our cars and drive twenty miles through a blizzard or wait for the bus to finally arrive, packed full of sick, wet commuters dripping germs and snot.

So while we once prayed for snowstorms because they meant sleeping in and snow forts, we now dread them—perhaps most of all in Chicago, where it was recently -18 degrees before wind chill.

Today in Chicago, we are under severe storm watch for a storm that was supposed to blow in yesterday. The blizzard was going to begin at 6pm last night and last until 11am today. Six o’clock came and went and the sky was still clear when I went to bed last night. This morning, the news amended that the severe storm would now be arriving closer to noon.

It’s noon now, and we await the storm. Luckily, it’s Saturday, so there’s nowhere to go, no need for high heels in the slush, no need for a humid bus ride, no need to do anything but enjoy a snow day at home with the kitties. Gleefully anticipating the worst, F and I have stocked up on provisions. We have stacks of books to read and Netflix to watch. We are ready for a snow day. And I am ready for a day of cooking.

While we are awaiting the snowstorm that may or may not arrive, F and I are spending a pleasant Saturday at the “kitchen” table. Our kitchen and living room are divided by a low counter, so our large table near the front windows doubles as a kitchen table, a dining room table, a computer table, and any other sort of table we might need. Right now, F is drawing and I am putting the finishing touches on my Oscar night menu.

We have invited a group of friends over to our little apartment tomorrow night to watch the awards. We are providing the snacks and the piece de resistance is a Milk-Chocolate Tart with Pretzel Crust from this month’s issue of Food & Wine. The introduction to the recipe reads: This dessert from pastry chef Colleen Grapes at the Harrison in Manhattan, a tribute to the chocolate-covered pretzel, hits just the right salty-sweet note. Grapes mixes crushed pretzels with flour, butter, sugar, and egg to make a crunchy crust, pours in a luxurious milk-chocolate filling, then sprinkles on more crushed pretzels as a garnish.

This is one of those decadent, delightful desserts that I couldn’t (or shouldn’t) make during the week for just F and me. Having guests over is the perfect excuse to make something really rich and indulgent, enjoy a single piece, and send the leftovers home with friends.

The Ingredients:
CRUST
1 stick unsalted butter, softened
1 ¼ cups coarsely crushed think pretzels (3 ½ ounces)
¾ cup confectioner’s sugar
½ cup all-purpose flour
1 large egg
2 ounces bittersweet chocolate, melted
FILLING
1 ½ cups heavy cream
¾ pound milk chocolate, chopped
Maldon sea salt, crushed pretzels, and crème fraîche, for serving.The only ingredient I did not get was the crème fraîche, since I plan to slice the tart into smaller pieces for our party guests to nibble on as the night progresses.

1:00pm
Forecast: clear skies

First, the crust. As we do not yet own the bubble-gum pink standing electric mixer, I used our food processor with the blade, which seemed to work just fine. I mixed the butter, ¾ cup of the pretzels, and the confectioner’s sugar until creamy, then added the flour and egg. Once combined, I added the rest of the pretzels, making sure to leave some pretzel pieces intact. Then I flattened the dough between two sheets of plastic wrap and chilled in the fridge for 30 minutes.

2:00pm
Forecast: partly cloudy, no snow

I preheated the oven to 350 degrees as a rolled out the dough between the sheets of plastic wrap to a 12-inch round. I peeled off the top layer of plastic wrap and inverted the dough into (what I thought was) a 10-inch tart pan (more on this later). I pressed the dough into the fluted corners and trimmed the overhanging dough. Then into the fridge again for another 30 minutes.

3:00pm
Forecast: partly cloudy, no snow

As I do not have pie weights, I lined the bottom of the crust with parchment paper and filled with rice. I baked the crust for 20 minutes, and then removed the parchment paper and rice, covered the edges with tin foil so that they wouldn’t burn, and baked for 10 more minutes. Then let the crust cool completely.3:30pm
Forecast: gray sky, no snow

I melted the bittersweet chocolate and brushed it over the bottom and up the side of the crust, then back into the fridge for 10 minutes.

I brought 1 ½ cups of heavy cream to a simmer, turned off the heat, poured in ¾ pound of milk chocolate, and let it rest for 10 minutes. Then stirred with a whisk, poured into a bowl, and let it cool for one hour at room temperature.5:00pm
Forecast: getting dark, flurries

Then poured the chocolate into the crust and slid it back into the fridge, where it will rest until just before the party, when I will sprinkle the top with pretzel bits and sea salt.

I realized about halfway through this process that my tart pan is too small. I was so excited to actually own a tart pan that I put it to use with wild abandon, even though it is likely, upon reflection, approximately 2 inches smaller than the 10 inches the recipe calls for. Oh well. My tart may have more crust than chocolate, but I don’t think anyone will know how far I have strayed from Food & Wine’s recommended tart size—except that half of our party guests read this blog, so they will find out, and they will judge, as they are all gourmands and better cooks than I.

8:00pm
Forecast: Dark, cold, but no snow

There are worse things than having a cup of leftover milk chocolate. This evening for dessert, I made F a vanilla ice cream and milk chocolate crepe, drizzled with milk chocolate sauce.

Tomorrow will bring further party preparations, an Oscar party, and a photo of the finished tart…and maybe our winter storm.

Valentine to a Schlub

2009-02-13T12:51:00.003-06:00

“I sound like such a schlub!” F said, upon reading Sundays in the Kitchen. “All I do is sit around and eat Cheez-Its while you buzz around the kitchen making all these great dishes.” I assured F that I had intended only to make fun of my own inability to relax on Sundays and in no way meant to imply that he was schlub-like.

“Oh, I know,” he said. “I’m glad you’re doing this blog. I just know your parents are reading it, and I hope they don’t think I’m lazy and terrible.”

I acknowledge that this is a valid concern for a new husband. Looking back through my posts, I realize that while I have not intentionally misrepresented F, I have not given him the credit he deserves in his support of my recent passion for cooking—or what he calls my “new phase.” F often teases me about the fact that when I become interested in something, I devote most of my waking life to its practice instead of enjoying it as a hobby like a normal person. There have been many such “phases,” and I am certain that they cannot all be easy for F to endure.

F is my biggest champion. He reads my every blog post and even comments. He has always been entirely supportive of whatever new, life-changing obsession I have discovered. He was ready to drop everything and start a business with me when I decided to open a coffeeshop-bookstore in Hyde Park. (I later came to believe that since I have no money and we are in the midst of a recession, this plan is best shelved for now.) He bought a bike with me and even agreed to a 40-mile recreational ride with a group of middle-aged strangers when I became a bicycling enthusiast last summer. And he’s supportive now, as I’m becoming increasingly obsessed with cooking.

He encourages my venture into the culinary arts, but he does not share the interest. Which makes him all the more wonderful for reading my blog, trying new foods when he’d rather have pizza, listening to me babble about recipes, and holding the grocery basket when I take forever wandering down every aisle in the store. He even gave me Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking for Christmas.

He recently visited three grocery stores in a single afternoon in search of cardamom because I needed 1/8 of a teaspoon for a spice cake and he wanted my recipe to come out just right. He has made late-night runs for eggs and driven across town to find just the right size ramekin for a soufflé. And he does the dishes—even when I use all of our pots and pans to make a single meal. F is in no way a schlub.

He even puts up with my subtle attempts to interest him in cooking. Upon request, he mixes sauces and spice rubs and sometimes chops the garlic, and I have been gently insinuating for the last few months that he might like to take a cooking class with me. I have taken a few classes now at Kendall College, which are great in no small part because I get to wear a chef’s apron and paper hat in a huge, gleaming professional kitchen. I think that if F were appropriately garbed and surrounded by meat and knives, bubbling mixes and strange smells, he might just join me in what I’m quickly realizing is more than just a phase.

So on the pretense of Valentine’s Day, I signed us up for a pizza-making and wine-tasting class for couples at Frasca Pizzeria and Wine Bar in Roscoe Village and I didn’t tell him where we were going. F loves pizza and often bemoans the fact that we no longer order it every week as we once did (before I realized I had gained ten pounds). I thought the promise of pizza would be an understated and effective nudge in the direction of the culinary arts. Last night, as we walked into Frasca, F still had no idea what we were doing there.

The hostess led us to the back of the dining room where a row of rustic tables faced a wood-burning oven and a prop table with a bubble-gum pink standing mixer. We joined a few other early couples at the tables, which were set with wine glasses, informational sheets about the tasting wines, and the pizza recipe. F’s eyes lit up.

“Are we making pizza?” he asked.

“Yes, and tasting wine, too!” I said.

“Pizza and wine. I like this!” he exclaimed. I was relieved—and excited. I too love pizza. We can no longer order it once a week because I tend to eat most of it.

Our long table held a wide range of pupils. There were four other young couples, a mother and daughter, and an older couple in fancy dress who took photos as the chef/co-owner of Frasca introduced himself and explained the recipe step-by-step as he poured ingredients into the mixer. When he mentioned that Frasca’s distinctive crust is made with beer instead of water, I whispered to F, “If we make this at home, you can choose the beer.” The chef suggested a hoppy beer microbrew, and F scribbled hoppy beer microbrew on his recipe.

He continued to take notes on the temperature of the ingredients, where to get the right flour, the best way to grease the pizza pan, and the ratio between the quantity of yeast and the thickness of the crust. As though holding my breath at a deer's timid approach, I tried not to watch him make notes and nod in agreement with the chef. I pretended not to notice his intense joy in receiving a little plate with his own personal ball of dough and topping options. He smiled and chatted as he stretched the ball into a disc and carefully spread sauce over the top. He was deliberate in his pepperoni placement and liberal with his cheese. And when he handed his plate to the chef for baking, he said he couldn’t wait to eat the pizza he had made with his bare hands.

“This is great!” he said. “We should do this at home. We can have everyone over and give them each a dough ball and toppings and we can make our own pizzas for dinner.”

“Absolutely,” I replied.

“We should make pizza every month,” said F.

While our pizzas baked in the oven, we sipped our wine, comfortable and warm in our booth as the servers bustled around us with plates of pasta and desserts. When the hot, crusty, bubbling pizza was finally set down in front of him, F inhaled deeply and gave me a big smile—a smile shared by all of our dining companions. It’s amazing how pizza and wine can impart such a profound sense of well-being and unbridled joy. I was happier and cozier in our little booth next to my husband, with my pizza hot from the brick oven, sampling lovely wine, than I had been for weeks. I was totally, completely relaxed, and I thought nothing could make me happier than I was at that moment.

And then F gestured to the bubble-gum pink standing mixer on the table before us and said, “So, where can we get one of those?”

Frasca's Drunken Pizza Dough
1 cup beer
3/4 cup water
3 1/2 cup “oo” flour (King Arthur or better)
1 tsp salt
1 cup AP flour
1 tsp sugar
2 tsp yeast

Dough Preparation

1. Add first 4 ingredients to mixing bowl
2. Next add in flour, sugar, and yeast
3. On the lowest speed mix for about 1 minute and 30 seconds
4. Turn off mixer and allow the dough to rest for approximately 30 seconds
5. Mix at speed 2 for 45 seconds
6. Remove dough from mixing bowl, fold in sides 2 to 3 times to create a smooth other skin
7. Place newly formed dough ball into a greased mixing bowl for proofing
8. Cover tightly with plastic wrap and place in a warm (85-100 degree area) with a damp towel over the bowl
9. Check dough after 1 ½ hours. Dough should dimple but not stick
10. Portion dough into 6-oz balls
11. Place dough balls into refrigerator for 1 to 2 hours and cover until ready to use.

Cooking Directions
1. Preheat oven to highest setting with pizza stone in the oven
2. Slide pizza onto stone and cook until crust is golden and cheese is melted
3. Cut, eat, and enjoy!

Newlywed Fogies Out on the Town

2009-02-06T15:34:00.002-06:00

F and I have old-people tendencies. Our idea of an ideal evening is eating a home-cooked dinner on the couch and watching Lost. We sit side-by-side under a comforter. Our roly-poly black cat, Barry, sits on F’s lap, and our six-pound gray cat, Pickle, curls up tightly on the back of the couch above my left shoulder. It’s very domestic.

“Honey, I hate to say this, but you’re starting to sound like an old woman,” my mother said last week, when I informed her that F and I had been invited to see a play on Friday night, but that I would really rather go home, have dinner, and get to bed early. She was right. It’s not normal for twenty-something newlyweds in America’s second greatest city to want to stay home on a Friday night. It is time for us to get out and enjoy ourselves—even if we have to force ourselves to go to restaurants and movie theaters and see other people.

In the spirit of change, F met me on the corner as I got off the train last night after work. We had decided to start small and go out for dinner and a movie in our neighborhood, Old Town, and I came up with a short list of the best low- to mid-priced restaurants within ten minutes of our house. Luckily, we live in a popular neighborhood with thriving nightlife and a plethora of boutiques and restaurants. Just within that ten-minute radius, we had our choice of Italian, French, American, New-American, Japanese, Japanese Fusion, Bar/Pub, Diner, Fast-Food, Chinese, Lebanese, and Greek.

We settled on sushi. Last night, we went to Kamehachi, which the Yelp reviewers gave four of out five stars—and for good reason. Kamehachi, which means “eight turtles” in Japanese, has five locations in Chicago and was founded in Old Town in 1967 (although the original building was located down the street). Little did we know that we were eating in Chicago’s first sushi bar.

F is relatively new to sushi, but he’s enthusiastic. I have loved Japanese food ever since I spent a month in Japan when I was seventeen, but I do not pretend to know anything more than the basics of Japanese food. With our rudimentary knowledge of Japanese cuisine and our eagerness to try the exotic and extraordinary, we ordered:

edamame
Boiled soybeans in the pod

F especially loves edamame, which he calls “Japanese French fries.” They are actually a lot like healthy French fries; in Japan, edamame is a popular, salty snack eaten with beer.

hiyashi wakame
Assorted seaweed marinated in a red pepper and sesame dressing

This was beautiful. Centered on a white plate was a delicate bundle of four or five types of seaweed, each with its own distinct texture and shade of green. There were diaphanous, emerald ribbons that crunched. There were deep green seaweed noodles that slid through the chopsticks. There were vibrant, crimped strands that coiled out of the artfully arranged pile. The sesame oil dressing added a nutty flavor to the salty ocean taste of the seaweed. I have never tasted anything like it.

sashimi moriawase
Chef's artistic presentation of today's freshest sashimi assortment (filets of seafood), served with miso soup and rice

We figured that we would trust the chef to choose the most delectable fish of the day, and we were glad we did. Our pristine white plate held two small samples of seven different fish: octopus, shrimp, tuna, salmon, eel, and two white-gray filets that we couldn’t name. My favorite was the briny, chewy octopus, while F declared the tuna his favorite. We agreed that the two unidentifiable white-gray filets were extraordinarily fishy, which is not a bad thing in itself, but was just a little too strong for us.

Full, satisfied, and feeling very young and carefree indeed, F and I decided we had enjoyed our city enough for one night, and postponed the movie for another evening. We stopped at Treasure Island on the way home for Cheez-Its and ice cream, and retired to our couch to have dessert under a blanket with our kitties. It was a perfect evening.

Operation AFB Drop

2009-02-04T18:08:00.000-06:00

9:10am

I have successfully made the drop. But this adventure was not without suspense:

By some marvelous stroke of fortune, I did make it out of the house at 8:15 this morning. This entailed leaving the gym a little earlier than usual, hurrying through my ablutions, and taking the “other” bus to work.

I had to take the “other” bus because I discovered that my camera was out of batteries, which added an unanticipated trip to Walgreens to The Plan. I had a few options:

Option 1: I would normally take the 36 bus, which drops me closest to Dunkin’ Donuts. But if I took the 36 and went to DD, I would have to walk a block past my work to get to Walgreens, and then double back. Not a good option.

Option 2: I could take the 22 bus, which drops me right on the corner at Walgreens. Across the street is another Dunkin’ Donuts, but this particular DD serves burnt coffee. I was willing to make the sacrifice, but as I approached the bus stop, a packed 22 raced past the six or seven people who were already waiting at the stop.

Option 3: I crossed the park to the bus stop in front of the zoo. At this stop, I have my choice of the 151 or the 156. The 151 takes a glamorous route down Michigan Avenue, but drops me off three blocks from work, and nowhere near a Walgreens.

Option 4: The 156 was the perfect choice: it drops me off right at a corner with yet another Dunkin’ Donuts (this one has good coffee, but it’s a whole 4 cents more expensive than the other two DD down the street). When walking to work from this DD, I pass the Walgreens. Perfect.

(And F says I overthink things.)

After Dunkin’ Donuts and Walgreens, I snuck in the back entrance at work and made it up the elevator without encountering any of my co-workers. According to plan, I photocopied the Amish Friendship Bread (AFB) instructions and attached them to the dough bags. Before I even changed into my high heels, I scuttled into the kitchen, hurriedly set up my dough bags, and arranged the AFB on a serving basket.Just as I had stepped away from the bread and was gathering the dishcloth and tinfoil I had used to transport the goods, an intern appeared. She looked at the bread then looked at me. I said hello, perhaps a little too enthusiastically for 9am, and bolted out the door. I didn’t even have the chance to take a photo. That part would have to wait.

I did my morning work routine—changed into heels, stopped in the rest room to fix my windblown hair, turned on my computer, and signed into my e-mail. Only then did I stuff my camera into my pocket, grab my coffee and oatmeal, and head to the kitchen. No one was there! And someone (the intern?) had already taken a chunk of bread.I took some photos and, relieved, made my breakfast. Now I’m sitting back at my desk, eager to know if my bread is being nibbled. I will check back every few hours and document the state of the AFB with photos. Although I do not anticipate anyone taking my four bags of starter dough, the bread is great and it looks nice, too. I anticipate that it will be gone by the end of the day.

9:58am

It has moved! My dough and loaf are now atop the microwave, where first I discovered the AFB approximately ten days ago. One of my dough bags is gone, and the loaf is 2/3 eaten! Hurrah!
This may be the final photo of the day, since the bread is nearly gone and the dough bags obviously don’t make for captivating photography.

10:15am

Only crumbs remain. This concludes the Amish Friendship Bread series.

Day 10: The Goo Becomes a Loaf

2009-02-04T15:59:00.000-06:00

5:30pm

Today is the day! It’s time to bake the Amish Friendship Bread (AFB). I just got home from work and I’m ready to go.

While the oven preheats to 350 degrees:

Pour the entire contents of the bag into a (non-metal) bowl, then add 1 ½ cups flour, 1 ½ cups sugar, and 1 ⅓ cups milk and mix well (using a non-metal utensil). I belatedly realized that this recipe should tell you to mix the flour and sugar together then gradually add to the batter, alternating with the milk. In my eagerness to be done with this project, however, I dumped everything into the bowl at once, which resulted in some very clumpy dough.

I measured four separate clumpy dough batters of 1 cup each into 4 one-gallon freezer bags. These are new AFB starters, which I may present to my friends if I choose to share.When mixing the following ingredients into the remaining dough, I did remember to combine the dry ingredients in one bowl and the wet ingredients in another bowl, and then alternate adding the wet and dry ingredients to the batter.Wet mix: 3 eggs, ½ cup milk, ½ tsp. vanilla, 1 cup oil (1 whole cup! I’m definitely giving this bread away to work people)

Dry mix: 1 cup sugar, 2 tsp. cinnamon, 1 ½ tsp. baking powder, ½ tsp. salt, 2 cups flour, 3 small instant vanilla pudding packets

Mix well.I used one 9” x 5” loaf pan and one 8” x 4” loaf pan. I poured the large loaf first, then added chocolate chips to the remaining batter and filled the small loaf pan. I sprinkled the tops of both with cinnamon and sugar.6:00pm

Into the oven for an hour.

7:00pmBehold, the bread. F had a piece of the chocolate chip loaf for dessert, and gave it rave reviews. I also snuck a few crumbs (which probably added up to a generous piece), and I agree that it really is delicious. It had better be, with all that sugar and a full cup of oil! Although this is called Amish Friendship Bread, let’s not fool ourselves: it’s cake.

Since I do not need two loaves of cake, or four bags of cake dough, I will bring the four bags and the large, plain loaf to work tomorrow. I am hoping that the finished and delicious AFB loaf will help to make the goo bags more desirable to my co-workers. But my decision to share with my colleagues poses some logistical difficulties. I must anonymously set up my AFB display in the work kitchen, and photographically document its popularity (or lack thereof) throughout the day. But how will I carry out the AFD drop without being seen?

The Plan:
8:15am Leave the house
8:20am Catch the bus (assuming it’s on time)
8:35am Get off the bus downtown
8:40am Dunkin' Donuts for coffee
8:45am Get to work
8:47am Remove coat and hat
8:48am Make photocopies of AFB instructions
8:50am Write start date on instructions and attach instructions to each of the dough bags
8:55am Enter kitchen. Close both doors so no one can sneak up on me.
8:56am Arrange AFB on counter with dough bags
8:58am Take photos
9:00am Be back at my desk and nonchalant by start of day

Of course, the execution of this plan depends on a number of factors: whether I can really leave the house at 8:15 (no matter how hard I try to leave early, I always end up leaving at exactly 8:36 every morning), the timeliness of the bus, the length of the line at Dunkin' Donuts, the duration of the wait for the elevator at work, and, most importantly, the number of co-workers I must avoid on the way to the kitchen.

Now it is time to get some rest. I have a big day tomorrow.

Quickfire in My Kitchen

2009-02-03T13:00:00.000-06:00

I eat oatmeal every day—sometimes twice a day! It is quite possibly one of my favorite foods. I also watch Top Chef every Wednesday. So imagine my excitement when I saw this advertisement:

DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO be a top chef?

Enter the Quaker® Oats viewer quickfire challenge to find out.

You could be flown to New York where you’ll compete against other Top Chef fans. The winner will have the chance to attend a future Top Chef episode. For a chance to win, submit an original recipe featuring Quaker® Oats.

Read the Official Rules for contest entry.

And so we embark on a new series: Quickfire in My Kitchen, in which I document my experiments using Quaker® Oats in various non-oatmeal related recipes. The contest deadline is February 27, so I have a little over four weeks to see what I can come up with.

This is going to be fun!

Day 9: Amish Friendship Bread

2009-02-02T15:59:00.000-06:00

This Week's Menu, Courtesy of Stanley's

2009-02-02T15:45:00.000-06:00

From the gorgeous Stanley’s spread artistically arranged in the photo to the left, I bring you this week’s menu:

Saturday (and leftovers for Sunday): Stir-Fry (no recipe, just chop up some vegetables, chicken, and shrimp, and stir fry with garlic and soy sauce)

Sunday Soup Day (good for ten lunches): Roasted-Vegetable Soup

Monday: Gruyère, Arugula, and Prosciutto-Stuffed Chicken Breasts with Caramelized Shallot Sauce

Tuesday: Jack Quesadillas with Cranberry Salsa

Wednesday: Crepes with Ratatouille

Thursday: Garlic-and-Herb Oven-Fried Halibut

Friday: Wasabi and Panko-Crusted Pork with Gingered Soy Sauce

Grocery Shopping, Redefined

2009-02-01T16:21:00.000-06:00

Past: McQuades
I didn’t always love grocery shopping. There is a big difference between shopping for yourself and accompanying other people while they shop.

I hated grocery shopping at McQuades with my mother. I spent countless hours standing in the magazine section admiring pictures of Leonardo DiCaprio in Tiger Beat magazine, while my mother pushed her grocery cart down aisle after aisle after aisle. I preferred the magazines to lagging behind my mother while the cart squeaked down an aisle of canned goods—especially when I had no interest whatsoever in cooking, or eating the majority of the things we brought home.

Present: Treasure Island

But now that I have a kitchen of my own, and someone to cook for, grocery shopping has become a high point in my day. After work, I ride the train four stops, walk two blocks past my gym, a movie theater, and Second City, and say hello to the Streetwise man on my way inside Treasure Island. Yes, my grocery store has a fabulous name—and wall art (see photo to the left). The first time I entered a Treasure Island, I was disappointed to learn that it was merely a grocery store, but I have come to realize that it truly does hold treasures—especially when I’m peckish after work. Treasure Island has free samples. I know where each sample is placed, even the samples that are hidden in corners and on shelves. As I blithely swing my basket through the store, I snack on French bread, jam, pretzels, orange slices, salsa and chips—and sometimes, if I’m very lucky, baked goods!

I always spend about fifteen minutes longer in the grocery store than I really need to, wandering the aisles and pondering my options. Although I would never buy $12 cereals or $25 gourmet cheeses, I still like to look at them. It is probably my biggest indulgence that I never leave without buying something totally superfluous based solely on an immediate craving. Dates. Marmalade. Tropical dried fruit mix. Hazelnuts. When I look at my bank statement at the end of each month, Treasure Island accounts for nearly all of my spending.

Future: Stanley's and Beyond
When F and I recently opened a joint bank account, we looked into how best to streamline our grocery shopping. Treasure Island is by no means the most expensive grocery store in Chicago, but it’s certainly not the cheapest. It’s down the street and it has free samples, but those facts alone do not make it the best option for the majority of our shopping.

I did a little research on grocery stores, and found that Stanley’s is hands-down the best place in the city for produce. I had passed Stanley’s twice a day for two years when I drove to the suburbs for my previous job. I recall sitting in traffic staring at its hideous sign and thinking that it looks like a dive market I would only enter in desperation. But it turns out that Stanley’s of the hideous sign is a glorious Mecca of produce. And it’s CHEAP!

The first time F and I visited Stanley’s, we went a little crazy and bought an entire cart of fruits and vegetables. I had a lot of fun looking for recipes to use up the exotic things we bought, and we did fairly well using it all, too. We only had to throw away some lettuce and a few potatoes. The next week, in an effort to use everything we bought, I chose four recipes in advance and shopped for specific ingredients.

For our Stanley’s trip on Saturday, I boldly planned a menu for the next seven days. We bought accordingly, and our total bill came to $27. Now, keep in mind that we will still need to visit Treasure Island for our meat and cereal and nonperishables, but I am so excited that we brought home an entire week’s worth of produce for under $30!

The next step in our grocery revolution is to visit some of the other local Chicago markets for our meat. As much as I love Treasure Island, and have come to know each and every produce man, butcher, and stock boy, I realize that I must sacrifice my daily grocery stop for cheaper, more streamlined, and ultimately more fulfilling approach to grocery shopping.

And so I say farewell to Treasure Island.

…right after I stop by on my way home tonight for a turkey breast and some free samples…

Day 8: Amish Friendship Bread

2009-02-01T15:58:00.000-06:00

Giada in My Kitchen

2009-02-01T00:07:00.000-06:00

This evening, as F and I were watching the Food Network and enjoying our dinner of delicious Chicken Français, which took me a good hour and a half in the kitchen, Giada De Laurentiis appeared before us in a little red dress. She flipped her hair as she ladled meat onto a generous pile of pasta in a recipe that was most certainly not from Cooking Light.

F said, "I wish Giada would come over here and cook for me." As soon as the words left his mouth, he looked down at his dinner and mumbled, "Oops."

Day 7: Amish Friendship Bread

2009-01-31T15:40:00.000-06:00

Upon reflection, the Amish Friendship Bread series is pretty dull. But since we only have three days left, we will see this dough become a loaf and be done with it.

Day 6: Amish Friendship Bread

2009-01-30T15:37:00.000-06:00

The Promised Photo: Day 5, Amish Friendship Bread

2009-01-29T16:00:00.000-06:00

Yellow!

Day 5: Amish Friendship Bread

2009-01-29T15:24:00.000-06:00

My camera is on the fritz today, so I will post a photo of Day 5 as soon as humanly possible. In the meantime, rest assured that our dough looks exactly the same today as it did yesterday. But if you can guess the color of the placemat in the impending photo, I'll send you a cookie.

Day 4: Amish Friendship Bread

2009-01-28T08:21:00.000-06:00

Although it is technically Day 4 of the recipe, this is only my second day with this bread because it sat neglected on the counter in my work kitchen for the first few days of its life. So we will skip the "Mush the bag" directions specific to Days 2 and 3, and go straight to "Mush the bag" on Day 4.

This morning, the dough looks much the same as it did yesterday morning. The only difference is the color of the placemat it is resting on.

Stay tuned to see what changes tomorrow bring (and the color of the placemat I decide to use).

Amish Friendship Bread

2009-01-27T13:25:00.000-06:00

There is a disgusting bag of goop in the work kitchen this morning. It’s runny and leaking out of its plastic bag onto the microwave upon which it has been placed by an anonymous co-worker. A post-it attached to the bag reads: “For the taking,” accompanied by a sheet of the following typewritten instructions:

Amish Friendship Bread Starter Mix
Do not use any type of metal bowl or spoon.
Do not refrigerate; will slow yeast reaction.
If air gets into bag, let it out; also, vent gas produced occasionally. It is normal for batter to rise, bubble and ferment.

Day 1 (Jan 25)-Do nothing; this is the day you receive the batter.
Day 2-Mush the bag.
Day 3-Mush the bag.
Day 4-Mush the bag.
Day 5-Mush the bag.
Day 6-Add to the bag: 1 cup flour, 1 cup sugar, 1 cup milk. Mix well.
Day 7-Mush the bag.
Day 8-Mush the bag.
Day 9-Mush the bag.
Day 10-

Pour the entire contents of the bag into a bowl.
Add 1-1/2 cups flour, 1-1/2 cups sugar, 1-1/3 cups milk. Mix well.
Measure out four separate batters of 1 cup each into 4 one-gallon freezer bags. Keep one starter bag for yourself (if you want) and give the other 3 away, along with this recipe. Date the bags with Day 1 date so they can keep track.
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees
To the remaining batter in the bowl, add:

3 eggs
1 cup oil
½ cup milk
1 cup sugar
2 tsp. cinnamon
½ tsp. vanilla
1-1/2 tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. salt
2 cups flour
1 large (5-6 oz.) or 2 small instant vanilla pudding mix (or whatever flavor you like, i.e. banana, etc.)
Any nuts, raisins, chips, etc. that you like, or leave plain.

Grease 2 loaf pans; pour batter evenly into pans. Sprinkle with sugar, if you like. Bake for 1 hour or until done with toothpick test.

There is a handwritten note at the bottom: “This is very yummy bread. Dessert-like!”

Since Day 1 was January 25, the dough must have been up for grabs since Sunday. No one else was going to take it, so in the interest of this blog, I swooped in. I wrapped the bag in paper towels—both to quell the leak and to hide the fact that I was taking it—and hid it in my desk drawer.

When I get my Amish Friendship Bread home this evening, I will mush it, as directed. For the next week, I will document this scary sack of goo and see what comes out of the oven at the end. I’m hoping for some yummy, dessert-like bread.

Today’s discovery is just part of a fascinating ongoing phenomenon called Work Kitchen Leftovers. A whole cultural study could be centered around the foodstuffs people bring from home to pawn off (usually anonymously) on their co-workers. There are the obvious holiday leftovers: Halloween candy, Christmas cookies and Thanksgiving pies donated by the Weight Watchers crowd. There are the leftovers from department lunch meetings: soggy sandwiches, wilting lettuce, slimy pasta salad and, less often, cookies (usually broken but no less desirable).

The most common kitchen offerings are failed baking experiments. I will admit that I have, on occasion, snuck doughy pumpkin bread and dry brownies, artfully arranged in a basket, into the kitchen and watched to see how quickly they were eaten. No matter how bad they are, cookies and brownies go very quickly. Pizza, even cold with congealing cheese, is gone in a flash. But I have found that bread is never popular.

There was a lumpy loaf of “Sweet Bread” last week that most definitely was not sweet. It sat around the kitchen for most of the day, but was gone by 3 when lunch was long over and people were bored and peckish for something—anything—to snack on. One Monday morning was brightened by a vast display of homemade cookies and muffins. All of the cookies disappeared by the end of the morning, but one container of muffins sat on the counter all day until someone took pity on them and threw them away. The honesty of their labeling probably had something to do with this; a note on the container read, “Healthy muffins. Sorry—they taste healthy.” I tried these, and they were truly terrible. It’s unfortunate that for this person, “healthy” meant hard, grainy, and strangely metallic. I think they were supposed to be bran muffins, but I couldn’t be sure.

I just hope the person who baked those muffins is not the originator of my Amish Friendship Bread, because when this recipe is finally over, I know exactly where I will be leaving my three extra starter bags of goo. I wonder who will be brave—or foolish—enough to take them home.