I’ll say one thing about my wife. She’s the epitome of consistency. I don’t know how she does it, except that maybe she’s also honest — to a fault.
If you have ever read about the sauerbraten incident, this story belongs in the same chapter. This time, however, I was on the receiving end of some brutal honesty.
It was some time in 1995 or 1996. I decided to make homemade Chinese-style eggrolls. I’d made them many times to very positive reviews. These were nothing special as far as ingredients — just the standard cabbage, carrots, garlic, sprouts, bamboo shoots and water chestnuts — along with baby shrimp and some roasted pork.
But the production is something akin to making homemade tamales. You have to prepare the various filling ingredients; combine them (or not); get your beaten eggs and wrappers ready; heat your oil; and rock and roll. Like tamales, homemade eggrolls are not a make-them-for-one-meal thing. It’s a project.
On second thought, the ingredients are special. Why? Because the ingredients in my Chinese-style eggrolls are allowed to stand out, versus the black pepper or ginger-flavored versions you find in your grocer’s freezer, or at your local Chinese buffet. Oh, I use ginger and other spices in my recipe, but my Chinese-style eggrolls are so good that you don’t even need dipping sauce. Unless you ask my wife.
I’d been chopping and mixing, rolling and frying for at least a few hours when Catherine walked through the front door. Sitting on the edge of the counter was a baking pan with dozens of golden eggrolls stacked in a pyramid. Most of them would be cooled and placed in the freezer to enjoy later. But the prettiest Chinese-style eggroll — which I’d already set aside — would go to the love of my life.
“Looks like you’ve been making eggrolls,” she said.
“Just about all day,” I replied. “And these are so worth it. They are the best eggrolls you’ll ever eat.”
So, I dropped her eggroll back into the wok for a few seconds, then set it to drain and cool slightly. I’d also made her some homemade duck sauce using apricot preserves, cilantro, soy sauce and toasted sesame oil. She didn’t need the dipping sauce, but I wanted to make my point as a cook.
She dipped her eggroll in the sauce and took a bite.
“Well? What do you think?”
“Mmm,” she said, chewing. “Good.”
Her ‘good’ wasn’t the sound of ‘Wow!’ good. It was more the tone you hear when that person has doubts — just this side of being a question, instead of a statement. I was insulted and devastated.
“Good? Is that all? It’s just good?” I asked.
And then she said the one thing that no guy ever wants to hear — no matter what the woman is talking about.
“Yours aren’t the best I’ve ever had, but they are good eggrolls.”
“Damnit, Catherine! You have to be kidding, or your tastebuds have some major growing up to do. What are the best eggrolls you’ve ever had?”
“I don’t know Adam,” she replied. “Don’t be so be so insulted. These are good. OK?”
As my rage grew, I grabbed the large pan of eggrolls and shoved them into the trash. I then gave her my dirtiest look, and stormed from the kitchen. Much of the discussion that immediately followed is not fit for print. Besides, I came up on the losing end of that little talk — and my eggrolls were gone.
There are a few lessons to be learned from this story. Fortunately, we learned them. For me, it was accepting that someone else might not consider my eggrolls to be the best. I say, to hell with them.
My wife’s lesson: You might have to lie to Adam about his food, else he could waste $50 in ingredients acting like a spoiled child.
I had planned to unveil my recipe for the best eggrolls ever, but it turned out to be a salad weekend. No, I’m not actively trying to improve my health. It was just that temperatures were in the 90s and I was swinging a sledgehammer for a few hours. Furthermore, construction continued on our soon-to-be new kitchen, and there was nary a place to work. The salad below was inspired by a similar bowl of greens I had at Copeland’s (Louisiana) a few years ago. It is only salad that I’ve ever ordered as a meal. My version uses my own Louis Dressing concoction, which is not too different from the original.
Shrimp & Avocado Salad
w/ Crab Croutons
Is it salad? Or a meal? This protein-loaded plate of goodness sends you away from the table satisfied, but not overstuffed. The inspiration for this came from the only restaurant salad I’ve ever ordered as a meal.
6-8 cups – Romaine (or other) lettuce, torn
1 small – Purple onion, sliced
1 can – Large pitted Black Olives, sliced
2 – Avocados, sliced or chunked
15-20 – Grape or Cherry Tomatoes
1 lb. – Boiled or Poached Shrimp, peeled and deveined*
8 oz. – Crab meat, picked
1 egg – beaten, seasoned with black pepper to taste
1 cup – Panko crumbs, ground fine
Vegetable oil, for frying
Southwestern-style Louis Dressing
The Croutons
Preheat oil to 360-375F. Mix the egg and the crabmeat well. Place mixture in a strainer so that excess egg is removed. Sprinkle Panko crumbs over mixture and toss with your fingers, separating the crab pieces. Fry for about 1 minute — just long enough to achieve golden brown color. Remove from oil, place on paper plate and set aside while you are assembling salads.
Assemble the Salads
In a large separate bowl, toss greens with about 1/4 cup Southwestern-style Louis Dressing. Place equal amounts of coated greens into 5-6 wide bowls.
Toss shrimp in bowl used to toss greens, adding a little extra dressing, if necessary.
To each bowl of greens, add avocados, onion, tomatoes, black olives and shrimp, as desired. Top with crab croutons.
* The May edition of Southern Living Magazine offers a how-to for poached shrimp. If you don’t have access to the magazine, it basically involves bringing seasoned water to a boil, turning off and removing from heat, adding raw shrimp and covering for five minutes. Once all shrimp is pink, drain and place in ice water.
Southwestern-style Louis Dressing
1 1/2 cups – Mayonnaise
1/4 cup – Mild salsa
3 Tablespoons – Green onions, minced (include some green tops)
1/2 – Fresh jalapeno pepper, minced
1 Tablespoon – Lemon juice
1 teaspoon – Worcestershire sauce
1 teaspoon – Louisiana-style hot pepper sauce
Combine ingredients in a blender. Mixture should be smooth. Can be kept in refrigerator for 2-3 days, covered.
Like this:
I had a season press pass to Veterans Stadium and a passion for baseball. This weekend, the Braves would be bringing their Hall of Fame pitching staff to face off against the fledgling Phillies.
It would be a weekend of noshing on clam strip poboys, fish & chips and freshly made beer at the Sam Adams Brewpub on Sansom Street; a cheese steak and some obligatory rudeness at the world-famous Pat’s; and baseball. Lots of it.
There was only one problem.
I’d already told my wife I’d go with her to her mom’s for the weekend. Furthermore, it was her first Mother’s Day with our middle child, who’d been born a couple of months earlier.
Bad decision
The weekend was the 11th and 12th of May in 1996. I thought about my options for about 30 seconds and made my decision.
“Hey Bill. I’ll be going,” I said excitedly that Friday morning at the radio station. “Who’s driving?”
“Your wife is OK with it?” he said.
“I haven’t told her yet, but she’ll be fine. Am I driving? Or are you?”
Bill decided to drive. Our friend Johnny would be going with us. Bill is a longtime radio news director. Johnny is a chiropractor who is also an aspiring professional comedian. This would be fun.
But I couldn’t just ignore the need to let my wife know what was going on.
“Catherine. We need to talk for a sec,” I said. “I’ve decided that I’m going to let you and your mom and the kids have a weekend to yourselves. You deserve it.”
“What?” she answered? “Oh, Adam. We want you there.”
“I know, but I make your mom nervous.”
“No you don’t,” she said. “I don’t know why you think that.”
“Well, I think I do,” I responded. “Besides, she’s not my mom. Why don’t you just let me give you this?”
And the discussion went on for a while — without mention of Steve Avery or Greg Maddux, or of quaffing fresh ale. But, she eventually figured out something was up.
Game day
First pitch was scheduled for 7:05 p.m. Veterans Stadium was about 50 minutes from our home on the Jersey Shore, but we’d need a few hours for our pregame activities.
Interestingly, Catherine postponed her departure time to her mom’s. I finally fessed up.
“Look, Catherine, this is not about baseball,” I said. “I just wanted you to have some alone time with your mom.”
“Fine,” she said. “Then I’ll leave the kids with you and go have some alone time with my mom.”
“No, Catherine. It’s Mother’s Day. You can’t do that to the kids.”
Yes. It was a pathetic effort on my part, and she saw right through it. I think she felt sorry for me though, because she gave me her blessing — or at least acquiesced.
Striking out
After a slightly embarrassing moment in the presence of my two friends (whom I warned not to get out of the car and come to my door), we headed west. Along the way, they poked fun at me for the verbal lashing I’d just suffered. These two friends, by the way, were single at the time.
As we approached the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, we saw darkness on the horizon. The clouds were almost purple, and there was no light on the horizon. We couldn’t have been in Philadelphia more than three minutes before the bottom dropped out of the sky.
Baseball would not happen for us that night. My wife, I’d find out years later, was nestled comfortably in her mom’s living room at the time, watching the Weather Channel and cheering.
The following morning, I was awakened by a telephone call. Greg Maddux would be facing Mike Grace, and Bill would be driving again. The hometown hero upped his record to 6-0 that day by shutting out Maddux and the Braves. Furthermore, he pitched a complete game under a sunny sky. It was a baseball-lover’s dream game, and one of the best pitching performances I’ve ever witnessed in person.
Though I thought long and hard about how I would justify my behavior that weekend, my wife made sure that I never had to. I think she saw me as the little boy, with herself being grown-up. She knew she wouldn’t get the answer she wanted, so she didn’t ask any questions. She knew I’d try to turn the tables, so she didn’t engage me in a conversation about the matter. She also knew that my conscience was a very guilty one, so she let me be, to determine my own culpability.
Of all the lessons I learned that May — and I learned plenty — I also realized that I’m a really lucky guy, and that my children are blessed beyond measure.
Oh, and I’ve yet to plan another Mother’s Day baseball outing.
If it were Mother’s Day 1996, I know my wife would probably want something like Chicken Piccata or her mom’s Spaghetti with Meatballs & Italian Sausage. Her palate nowadays also includes a spot for Tex-Mex. I’m not sure whether we’ll be eating tostadas this Mother’s Day, but they are on our menu at least twice monthly. My version differs slightly from the over-sized nachos I grew up on — tortillas, warmed with beans and cheese, then topped with salsa — as you get temperature variations in every bite. These also attempt to grab almost every tastebud.
Tostadas
Unlike nachos, the cheese is not melted on tostadas. For people who like variations of temperature and consistency in every bite, this is a top 10 dish.
6 – Corn tortillas, fried crisp (store-bought is fine)
1 can – Refried black beans or pinto beans
1/2 cup – Enchilada sauce (canned is fine, so long as you use Hatch brand)
Shredded lettuce
Chopped tomato
Black olives
Chopped or sliced avocado
Cilantro leaves
Red Wine vinegar (optional)
Shredded cheese (Queso quesadilla; Monterrey Jack; Mild Cheddar)
Sour cream
Your favorite salsa
Combine enchilada sauce and refried beans, then warm through. Using a spatula, spread bean mixture onto six tortilla shells (or more, if you choose to use a smaller amount of beans on each one). Place on baking sheet and into 350F oven for 5 minutes.
Top warmed tostadas with shredded lettuce, then douse with red wine vinegar (optional). Add your favorite toppings and enjoy (with plenty of napkins).
Like this:
The event that I dreaded most was nearing.
Unlike some funerals, weddings or birthday parties, I would not be able draw a pass with a believable excuse. She already knew me too well. Besides, it’s a rite of courtship that no one can avoid without long-term consequences.
I would be meeting her family on their turf.
Those who know me well — and there are very few — are aware that I slip into a state of anxiety at gatherings of strangers. I’d like to say that it’s my shyness, except … I’m the opposite of shy. For whatever reason, I become frustrated at the conversations that are going on around me, and I shut down. Oh, I still smile and greet people, but my mind is on getting away. It’s a feeling similar to the one you might have experienced during the first class of your first day of 4th grade.
This time, however, the leopard was going to have to change his spots. If only for one evening.
We pulled the car up to her mom’s house around 5 o’clock that early summer evening in 1994. I was worried about making a good impression, but I was even more concerned that these people — all originally from New York — were going to fit the southern stereotype that they are all rude. Catherine kept telling me not to worry. Then she issued a warning.
“My brother is probably going to ask you for money,” she said, as we were parking in the street in front of her mom’s home in the quaint retirement community. “Don’t. He’ll never pay you back.”
“He doesn’t even know me,” I responded. “Really? You think he’ll ask me for money?”
“He hits everyone up,” she said. “He owes all of us. Just don’t give him any. Tell him you’re broke.”
And so, we made our way up the wheelchair ramp to the front door and Catherine let us in.
“Is Mommy in the kitchen?” she asked her sister, as she whisked me past.
“You still call your mom ‘Mommy’?” I whispered.
But before she could answer, her mom approached us from the kitchen. She had an entourage. I remember drawing a blank at that point, forgetting every response that I’d rehearsed.
“Well, hello,” her mom said to me with a smile, offering her hand. “Welcome to New Jersey. I’m Lillian.”
“Hi Lillian. I’m Adam. Glad to be here. Dinner smells great.”
“I don’t know how they do gravy in Texas, but I hope you like mine,” she responded.
Gravy? I thought we were having her mom’s spaghetti and meatballs. I’m sure that’s what Catherine told me. I remembered having asked whether there would be chunks of bell pepper, onion and mushrooms, and I clearly recall Catherine telling me that her mom didn’t make a sauce like that.
“If it tastes half as good as it smells, I’m going to have a new favorite food,” I said.
Her mom politely made her way back to the kitchen and Catherine began introducing me to the audience of people who watched my very first interaction with the matriarch of the family. I met in-laws, cousins, a sister and the brother whom I was warned about. These could not be New Jersey people, because I was dating the only person in the state who was mild-mannered and polite.
But I was dead wrong.
I was never made to feel more welcomed in any situation. It wasn’t overboard, but genuine. They pulled a chapter from Flattery 101 and asked me all kinds of questions about myself — How do you like working in radio? Are you a Cowboys or Oilers fan? Do you miss Texas yet? I ate it up.
Before I knew it, we were sharing our life stories with one another. I deviated from my plan (to be non-confrontational) only once. The brother mentioned that the New Jersey humidity would be brutal on me. He’d obviously never spent any time in east Texas, where breathing steam between June and September — in mid-90 degree temperatures — is a way of life. I think he overlooked my comment though.
And the gravy? Let’s just say there was a slight language barrier. Lillian’s gravy consisted of crushed tomatoes, garlic, basil, hot Italian sausage and melt-in-your mouth meatballs. To this day, that is one of my favorite meals ever.
PostScript
As she often has during our 18 years together, Catherine’s prediction (about the loan) came to fruition.
I remember walking outside after dinner to check out the shrubs in Lillian’s flower beds, and her brother appeared.
“Hey Brother,” he said, taking a drag from a cigarette. “What’d you think of dinner?”
“Oh, it was great. I’m stuffed.”
“I hate to ask you this, but could you loan me a five-spot?” he asked. “I don’t have any money on me and I need a pack of smokes.”
“Sure,” I said. “No biggie.”
Catherine was wrong about one thing. The very next day, her brother tracked me down and settled the loan. Through all these years, his credit with me remains perfect.
This was, perhaps, one of the most difficult recipes for me to document. Like most experienced cooks, there is no recipe to be found. But this is pretty much on the money, as far as my taste buds are concerned. One advance note as you are making your shopping list, the hot Italian sausage adds little, if any heat to this sauce. It adds considerably more flavor, however, than its sweet counterpart.
Lillian’s Spaghetti with Meatballs & Italian Sausage Links
This dish might seem like a mid-winter classic, but it also works great in a slow cooker, which keeps the kitchen heat down in the summer. Just brown your sausages and sauté your garlic in a different pan; and add sausages back to the sauce about an hour before you plan to serve.
The Sauce
2 – 28 oz. cans Crushed tomatoes w/ puree**
1 – 12 oz. can Tomato paste
4 – Garlic cloves, minced
1 lb. – Hot Italian Sausage
2 Tablespoons – Extra Virgin Olive Oil
2 Tablespoons – Dried Basil
2 teaspoons – Dried Oregano
**Muir Glen Crushed Tomatoes with Basil is far and away the best canned crushed tomatoes on the American market.
In a large Dutch oven, heat the olive oil to medium. Add sausage links and brown on both sides. Remove browned sausages and set aside momentarily. Add garlic to hot oil and cook until golden, about 2-3 minutes, stirring regularly.
Add crushed tomatoes, paste, basil, oregano and two 28 oz. cans of water. Combine. Place sausage links in sauce, cover and simmer on low for 4-6 hours. You’ll prepare the meatballs about three hours before you plan to serve this dish.
The Meatballs
2 lbs. — Ground beef (leanest you can get — we use 97/3)
2 – Large eggs
1 cup – Dried Italian breadcrumbs
1/2 cup – Sauce, cooled
1/2 cup – Parmesan cheese
1 Tablespoon – Dried Basil
2 – Garlic cloves, minced
Combine all ingredients in a large bowl, adding breadcrumbs as necessary (meat should be moist, but should not stick to your fingers).
Remove sausage links from sauce. Set aside.
Being careful not to over-handle the meatball mixture (rolling too much makes for a rubbery meatball), form meat into golf ball-sized balls. Drop each one gently into simmering sauce. If you must stir sauce to make room for more meatballs, use a spatula and be very gentle.
Once all meatballs are in the sauce, prop the lid on the Dutch oven so that some steam can escape. This will help the sauce reduce as it needs to. Do not stir the meatballs during cooking. They are very soft and will very easily break up. Besides, it’s not necessary, so long as your heat is very low.
During the last 30 minutes of cooking, add Italian sausages back to sauce, making sure each link is submerged. You may also add some additional basil, if desired.
Serve with pasta, hot bread and a green salad, if desired. This serves 6-8 people.
I grew up on a spaghetti mix from a box. It included a spice packet, some dried spaghetti and a packet of Parmesan. All you had to add was tomato paste, water and meat (if you chose). Kraft still sells the Italian style variety. The company long ago quit offering American Style, which I preferred (it had nary a chunk of anything). Needless to say, I believe we were somewhat deprived. But, for some odd reason, I still occasionally replicate that cheap meal. I call my version Weeknight Spaghetti. It’s hardly comparable to my mother in-law’s version … not even in the same league. But it offers me comfort.
Adam’s Weeknight Spaghetti
This is an old magazine advertisement, circa 1960s. But it’s the same stuff I was raised on.
1 – 12 oz. can tomato paste
3 Tablespoons – Garlic powder
2 Tablespoons – Dried Oregano
2 Tablespoons – Dried Basil
1 Tablespoon – Black Pepper
1 Tablespoon – Salt
1 lb. – Ground beef, cooked and drained
-or-
1 lb. – Kielbasa, sliced, browned and drained
Optional: Canned mushrooms, drained; diced bell pepper; a pinch of dried red pepper flakes
Mix all ingredients. Add enough water (about 24 ounces) to make mixture look soupy. Turn heat to medium and simmer until reduced slightly.
Serve over hot pasta with garlic toast (margarine and garlic powder on white bread slices), if desired.
Feeds 4-5 people.
Like this:
It’s funny how our own words – or actions – can come back to taunt us.
When I was a child, I refused to eat salsa or Monterrey Jack cheese on homemade tacos. I preferred ketchup and … Velveeta chunks. My staples were Minute Rice, canned spinach and Quarter Pounders with cheese. I refused anything with onions or peppers, and thought very highly of packaged cherry fried pies. And yes, I found myself wishing for the all-new Chicken McNuggets during Sunday dinners of my father’s homemade fried chicken.
As a child I also envisioned an easy adult life. After all, I would start where my parents left off. And my children? They’d be well-mannered, straight ‘A’ students whose palates would be mature by the time they had all their teeth.
Enter real life.
I can recount food preferences with my youngest daughter, who would choose a package of ramen noodles over slow cooked chicken stew any day of the week. (She would still choose Subway over anything I could make for her.) Our oldest daughter would only eat anything that tasted like (or rhymed with) spaghetti and meatballs. Then there is our son, who refused to touch a pork roast or pork loin, but would want us to race to McDonald’s every time the McRib made its annual appearance.
Thankfully, everyone has minded their manners and has been liked by their peers and adults. The grades? Eh … Not exactly what I predicted some 30 years ago, but our two youngest children still have the ball in their court, which is what’s really important in the whole scheme of things.
I thought the days of Kraft Mac & Cheese, Cub Scouts, and saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ were things of the past. Alas, I was wrong … again.
Just this past weekend, I pleaded with our four-year-old grandson to eat a homemade calzone — a calzone that was made with loving hands, using only real ingredients, and baked just for him. But he would have none of it, according to him, because he doesn’t like real cheese, fresh basil or a yeasty crust.
The boy instead asked me to microwave him a 99¢ box of frozen pizza bites.
I expect that it won’t be the last time this little boy will prefer noshing on the sponsor products of Yo Gabba Gabba and Power Rangers, opposed to something homemade and truly good. In fact, if history is any indication, it’ll happen a lot over the next several years that he is in our care.
On April 26, we officially became parents again. It was on this day that my wife and I entered the 307th District Court of Texas with our grandson and were named by the judge as his permanent conservators. Though we’ve raised him almost since the beginning of his young life, everything is now official.
Our expectations mocked us again. This time, however, the stakes are much higher than an elevated palate or the ability to act refined in public. Our oldest daughter has been battling a drug problem for almost 10 years, and though we are saddened by her path, our efforts and attention are now on an innocent little boy whom we love with all our hearts.
Maybe I should introduce him to alphabet soup. Or crow. Then again, maybe I’ll just make more calzones.
I have a confession. I started making calzones out of frustration. I’d placed too many bunched up pizza crusts onto a heated stone, and was tired of spilling cheese and sauce all over the oven. I eventually honed those skills, but there’s still something fun about eating a large pocket of cheese, pulled straight from the oven. Some day, I’m hopeful that the four-year-old grandson will request these instead of frozen pizza bites.
Calzones
Preheat oven to 500F. If you are using a baking stone (best method), allow oven to preheat for one hour. Otherwise, use an ungreased baking sheet.
If you use meat in your calzone, cook and drain it first. Also, use turkey pepperoni. It tastes just about the same as its traditional counterpart, but is far less greasy.
You’ll need one batch of my homemade pizza dough.
1 — Egg, beaten (add a teaspoon of cold water while beating)
15 oz container — Ricotta cheese
2 lbs. — Shredded Mozzarella, provolone (or other good melting cheese)
Fresh Basil leaves
Kosher salt
Marinara, for dipping
Optional: Turkey pepperoni; Italian sausage (cooked and sliced); roasted, grilled or breaded eggplant; mushrooms; anything else your heart desires.
Divide dough into 5-6 oz. portions. On a floured surface, roll into a disc, with a thickness similar to that of a pie crust. Spread 1/4 cup Ricotta on one half of the disc; top with handful of shredded cheese, a torn basil leaf and any other desired fillings. Fold crust over and crimp, using a pinching motion. Brush lightly with beaten egg and sprinkle with Kosher salt.
Bake at 500F for about 10 minutes, until crust is golden brown.
Makes about 6 large calzones.
Like this:
Confession No. 38 — Can someone tell me why?
When I was a young child, the series ‘Tell Me Why’ lined a section of our home bookshelves. Each dictionary-sized volume contained a slew of answers to questions such as ‘Why do spiders weave webs?’ or ‘Why do leaves change colors?’ They were interesting reads, indeed.
Now, I have a few questions of my own.
- Why is putting your elbows on the table considered to be rude?
- Why don’t all (public) bathroom doors have a push exit?
- Why would anyone choose to eat Sixlets?
- Why can’t I find those neat square ice cubes like you see in all the liquor advertisements?
- Why do recipes still call for sifted flour?
- I’m not a fan of flavored cola, but why has Coca Cola ignored the most popular worldwide flavor – chocolate?
- Why don’t McDonald’s, Burger King or Wendy’s offer hot dogs as a menu item?
- Speaking of fast food mysteries, why should I have to request ketchup with my to-go order?
- Why is it acceptable to respond “um hum” or “no problem” when I say “thank you,” when it’s socially unacceptable to put my elbows on the table?
- Why would I want to use oleo (whatever the hell it is)? And why do I only see it referenced in church and quilting club cookbooks?
- Why can’t someone invent a garbage disposal that can chop up potato peels?
- So long as we’re on the subject of potatoes, why is it that I’ve eaten potato salad that sat for hours on my kitchen counter, but I haven’t died yet?
This is the first recipe my wife and I have ever developed together. It all began when she said she wanted a ‘bright’ tasting chicken. So, we put our heads together and experimented with an orange juice and cilantro marinade infused with some onion and garlic. It was OK, but not ‘bright’ enough. Cilantro flavor was also non-existent. So I thought it might be a good idea to use orange juice concentrate and up the amount of cilantro … The chicken was really ‘too bright’ and the cilantro flavor was still obscured. We went back and forth until we came up with enough to brighten the chicken, but not overpower it. As it turned out, we’d been making a mountain out of a mole hill. The best marinade also turned out to be the simplest. The rub/sprinkle was much easier, as we were looking for something that would contrast nicely with the flavor of the meat. The beauty of this recipe is that it’s really more of a technique. I prefer the four elements — somewhat sweet, slightly spicy, tangy … and bright — but you might want to omit the cayenne pepper altogether, or add more salt. You might choose a darker brown sugar, or use a molasses-based basting sauce (just remember to change the name to Sticky Yum Yum Ribs.) As for the cilantro, use it as a garnish, because the flavor components overpower the flavor that this herb contributes to the marinade. Why we decided to call this dish by such a quirky name, I’ll never know. But it will forever be known as Crunchy Yum Yum at our table.
Crunchy Yum Yum Ribs (or Chicken)
If you don't want to wait until tomorrow, prepare Crunchy Yum Yum Ribs, as the flavors penetrate pork much more quickly than chicken. This dish goes well with cole slaw and sweet corn on the cob. As you can see, all I had was some frozen yellow squash from the 2011 summer garden.
4-5 lbs. – Pork ribs (Baby back/loin or St. Louis)
-or-
4-5 lbs. – Chicken
The Marinade
64 oz. – Orange & Pineapple Juice
Juice from 2 fresh limes
5 cloves – Garlic, minced
1 medium – Onion, diced
3 TB – Freshly ground black pepper
The Rub/Sprinkle
1/2 cup – Light brown sugar, packed
1/4 cup – Kosher salt
1 tsp – Ground cayenne pepper
Prepare the meat
Ribs: Remove membrane from back of rib slab; cut into individual pieces.
Chicken: Cut into individual pieces, leaving skin intact.
Marinate it
Combine all ingredients in marinade, place in large glass or plastic container. Add meat. The ribs should marinate for at least 4-6 hours, whereas the chicken really needs to soak overnight.
Cook it
Warm grill to medium for ribs or medium-low for chicken. In the meantime, mix the rub/sprinkle ingredients. (If you have an old spice shaker, now is the time to break it out and fill it with this concoction.)
Grill ribs (discarding marinade) about 5-7 minutes on meaty side, then turn. Chicken needs about 8-9 minutes before turning. (Large split breasts might take a little longer.) Grill another 5-7 minutes (ribs) or 8-9 minutes after turning. Using your meat thermometer, experience or whatever method you use to determine that pork/chicken are just 1-2 minutes away from being cooked through, sprinkle the rub generously over the meaty side of the pork ribs, or evenly but generously over the top side of chicken. Allow to grill for about a minute and flip the pieces. Sprinkle the remaining brown sugar mixture on the bottom sides of the meat and allow to cook for another minute, or so.
Enjoy!
Provide plenty of napkins. This serves a family of five normal eaters, with a few leftovers. Tastes great with sweet corn on the cob and cole slaw.
Like this:
As the work on my kitchen remodel enters its third week, dusty hair and splintered fingers have become the norm. Surprises, including the live wire that has no apparent power source, pop up every day. The surprise that really sent me reeling, though, reared its head this past week.
My dad is only human.
I’m a realist, and it shows every day in my life. I take out the trash regularly, for example, because I know that my son will forget, or oversleep. I hide my Lemonheads and jellybeans. I always discourage us from packing sandwiches for road trips, since we’ll inevitably stop along an unfamiliar highway for food that’s ‘world famous’ or ‘voted best.’ And, I don’t try to change people’s opinions nearly as often these days. Those efforts are, after all, almost always fruitless.
But, for most of my almost-42 years, I’ve managed to ignore reality when it comes to Dad.
Becoming a man of marvel
My father was born in a very small north Texas town to impoverished parents. His whole family picked cotton alongside other poor families on a regular basis. Much of their food was grown on their own plot, or harvested from the air or woods. The cupboard and closets typically were bare.
Dad during, his senior year of high school, knew that his number would come up. So, instead of chasing other dreams, he made regular appearances at the draft board. He went to Vietnam in the early 1960s as a member of the First Infantry Division, then returned after his tour and became a machinist. His skill and work ethic helped him to ensure that history would not repeat itself.
I grew up in a brick home with a built-in pool. The inside temperature was a constant 72 degrees, and the water always flowed from the faucet.
Along the way, he became my man of steel.
As a young child, I was a slow and uncoordinated. A klutz. I was usually picked last for the kickball team, and was probably the only person in my T-ball league to strike out. It was my father who helped me with the two most important ‘wins’ of my childhood.
I experienced my first real victory at age seven. I was a Cub Scout, and the organization was holding its biggest event: the Pinewood Derby. Dad asked me what shape of car I wanted, then he made me draw it, as if I were an architect. Once he cut the wedge from the block of pine, he showed me how to sand and paint. The car was metallic green with a yellow racing stripe. Dad’s skilfulness was required to install the wheels using the tiny polished nails.
There was no denying that the gold medal on my blue uniform was my proudest accomplishment — even more than the rank badges. Winning felt very nice to a young boy who had a wall full of yellow and green ‘participation’ ribbons.
And then came the strike-a-match game.
I remained in Cub Scouts until it was time to move up with the older kids in Boy Scouts. Boys and their families are often encouraged to visit several troops before deciding on a home. We found our home with Troop 620, and I’m not so sure that a game between the dads didn’t help cinch my decision.
For all of the fathers of visiting Cub Scouts, the troop leaders set several cut logs on their ends. Each log had a small hole drilled into the top surface in which a wooden match was placed. The dads were each given an axe and the objective of being the first man to strike the match with the blade.
The Scoutmaster shouted ‘Go!’ and the dads started swinging. Boys cheered and people laughed as the men swiped axe blades repeatedly at the tiny red tips. My dad stood over his log, axe in hand, and studied. It might have been 45 seconds into the contest when he took a slow, calculated swipe.
Fire.
I had never been as proud as I was at that moment. Even now, that tiny window ranks among my most magnificent memories. That’s how Dad has always been. Determined. Combine Dad’s skills with his unwavering determination, natural humility and a lifelong desire to help others, and you have someone who should be wearing a big ‘S’ on his shirt.
But Dad, this past week, reminded me that he — like everyone else — is only a mere mortal.
Showing a human side
Coming straight from his work at a machine shop, Dad brought his tools to my home to install some new switches and outlets for our new kitchen. Just as it has always been, Dad instructed me to hold something, shine a flashlight on a certain area or run back-and-forth to throw electric breaker switches. I obliged him.
A couple of hours into the project, we had no more progressed than when we started. Despite that the house is more than 40 years old and plenty of people have spliced this, and connected that — creating a what seemed like New York City-sized roadmap of wires — Dad bowed his head.
“Adam, I don’t want you to laugh at me,” he said. “My memory is not what it used to be, and neither are my skills at trying to figure things out. Plus, I just realized that I installed an outlet backwards.”
That he cried ‘uncle’ on any project of that type was difficult for me. But seeing him … defeated … broke my heart.
A more experienced electrician has since spent hours and hours following live and dead wires throughout my walls and attic. I even heard him cuss in frustration on Sunday, because a supposed hot wire was suddenly no longer hot — despite that a current flowed throughout the home. Though we are paying by the hour, the younger man’s frustration was music to me.
As time has gone by, Dad has lost some of the patience and dexterity that made him a mechanical mastermind. Beneath that little bit of rust, though, is still a man of steel. And I couldn’t be prouder.
Cooking without a kitchen is not convenient, but it’s possible. This past week, I broke out the Dutch oven for a throw-together chicken and rice dish, which I invented on the fly. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve used the technique, and it showed in the finished product. Earlier this week, I opted to go with what I know: the grill. Other than the dish in the photo — served to my bride — we all ate on paper plates.
Chipotle Lime Marinade
The Chipotle Lime marinated shrimp is an excellent topper for a simple salad of Romaine, avocado, roasted grape tomatoes and jicama. I had one more Meyer Lemon remaining from this past season, so I made a quick vinaigrette. Otherwise, I might consider omitting the avocado chunks and using them to make a cool creamy dressing to better balance the spice of the shrimp.
Juice of 1 key lime
2 — canned Chipotle peppers, chopped fine
2 TB — Adobo sauce from can
2 TB — chopped fresh cilantro
2 TB — honey
2 cloves — garlic, chopped
Pinch of Kosher salt, if desired
Mix all ingredients. This is enough to marinate one pound of shrimp or chicken for grilling. Marinate for at least one hour for deeper flavor.
Discard remaining marinade.
Like this:
Confession No. 36 — Eating out ain’t what it used to be
To my knowledge, it begins with us 40-somethings — it being the ability to remember when going to a restaurant was a treat.
Eating out was probably more of a rarity for the older generations, especially people of color who weren’t allowed in many public places. For the younger generations, going out to eat seems as commonplace as wireless Internet, satellite radio and file sharing. And I’m not so sure that the routine is entirely the result of lazy parenting.
Fact is, the restaurant scene is not what it was in the 1970s.
How do I know this? About two weeks ago, I gutted our kitchen right down to the studs and original insulation. At some point, we’ll be eating food that was rinsed in a new sink, sliced on granite counter tops and cooked on the six gas burners or built-in griddle of our new range. Leftovers will be reheated in our new built-in microwave, or in an oven that has options of cooking with steam or by convection. Until then, though, we’re stuck with a Coleman stove, the trusty Weber Q and a lopsided Crock Pot.
And restaurants.
Want to know how I choose to remember sit-down restaurants from back in the day? Just watch the diner robbery scene in ‘Pulp Fiction,’ or the famous chicken salad sandwich scene from ‘Five Easy Pieces.’ Notice the tan-colored soft vinyl wrap-around seats and wall-attached Formica tabletops. The servers chewed gum and called everyone ‘honey’ or ‘darling.’
We had salt, pepper and sugar; ketchup in glass bottles; and ashtrays. The food was never heated in a microwave oven, because microwaves didn’t exist, or weren’t in full production. Because your food had to be cooked in a deep fryer or on a griddle, it might take as long as 30 minutes to arrive at your table. When faced with such delays as a child, I remember the blame always going toward the chicken my sister would order. It apparently took much longer to cook than burgers or enchiladas.
Though I lived through the transition to today’s methods — even embracing much of it — the past couple of weeks have had me longing for the anticipation that I once experienced when Dad told me before school that the family would be going out to dinner that night.
Since we began the remodel a couple of weeks ago, we’ve ordered out our breakfast, lunch and dinner no fewer than 20 times, and each meal is tasting more and more like the last. On top of that, I’ve had to put on too many fake smiles in such a short time frame. Just Saturday, I had to get coy with the fine folks at Sonic, because my diet limeade had no cranberry flavoring.
What bothers me more than anything, though, is that my children are numb to all of this.
From the time they could point and chew, we were ordering Happy Meals. On countless occasions, we’ve gone through three (different) drive-thru windows because someone wanted a turkey sandwich, while someone else wanted Carl’s Jr. At least our pizza was warmest, since we usually pick up (our) order on the way home. Our children know the menus of Texas Roadhouse, Cheddar’s, Applebee’s, IHOP and other sit-downs.
It’s a damn shame, too, because there is no anticipation in their eyes when they are told we are going out to dinner. Furthermore, I’m not so sure that my offspring can tell the difference between the margarine found at most baked potato bars and the sweet cream butter that is used exclusively at home. I also seriously doubt that my burger — made with freshly ground sirloin or brisket, then seared on a cast-iron grate — can stand up to the mystery meat with brown lettuce assembled by teens at many national chains. Not in my children’s eyes, anyway.
Eating out should be a treat. Not necessarily because the food is better, but because the whole family is sitting at a table and being served by someone else. And, for one night, no one has the dish detail. Or, because the whole family is traveling. Ever noticed how good an Egg McMuffin tastes when you’re driving to a fun destination?
For several reasons — laziness notwithstanding — we’ve created a monster. It started long before I started yanking out old paneling and replacing it with new drywall. It seems there is only one real solution. It’s time to go old school … the way of our parents.
Along with the new kitchen will be a resolution that most meals are served on (real) plates with (real) flatware. The ice in our drinks will have a crescent moon shape, because they’ll come from our freezer. The food will be made and served by loving hands, and perhaps some little helping hands, and we’ll clear our plates when all is said and done.
There’ll still be restaurant fare, on occasion. But, hopefully just enough to bring us what we’ve been missing for so long.
Though I could probably make this dish in the great outdoors in a Dutch oven or on a Coleman Stove, the one pictured below was prepared in a climate controlled kitchen, several months before I ripped the place apart.
Seafood Risotto
Roasted asparagus is the perfect complement to seafood risotto. So too would be sautéed spinach or roasted Brussels sprouts.
4 cups – Chicken stock
1 cup plus 1/2 cup – Dry white wine
1/2 pound – Mussels, scrubbed and bearded
1/2 pound – medium or large shrimp, peeled and deveined
1/2 pound – sea scallops
6 Tablespoons – unsalted butter
2 cloves – garlic, minced
1/3 cup – Onion, finely chopped
2 cups – Arborio rice, or medium-grain white rice
¼ cup – Parmesan cheesed, freshly grated
Salt and freshly ground pepper, as desired
Flat Italian Parsley leaves, chopped, for garnish
Heat one cup of wine and stock in large saucepan to boiling. Add mussels* and cook (covered) until mussels open, about 3-4 minutes. Drain cooked mussels, reserving the liquid. Set mussels aside.
In a large saucepan, heat 2 Tablespoons of the butter over medium heat. Add onion and saute until translucent, about 3-4 minutes. Add rice. Stir for about two minutes, until rice begins to lose its translucency. Add garlic and about two cups of the reserved stock. Simmer, stirring regularly, until most of the liquid is absorbed. Repeat with a cup at a time until rice is al dente and creamy, about 20 minutes. Add 1/2 cup wine and scallops, stirring for about two minutes. Add shrimp and stir mixture for another 2-3 minutes, until shrimp is pink. Remove from heat, add Parmesan cheese and combine. Top with mussels and cover for about 3 minutes. (The steam will rewarm the mussels.)
Transfer to serving bowls or platters and garnish with parsley. Season as desired.
Makes 5 servings.
* – Mussels happened to be what we had on hand when I developed the final version of this recipe. We’ve also used clams. This dish would also be outstanding with tender calamari or chunks of lobster.
Like this:
The fast food drive-thru window seems to be an anomaly when it comes to civility.
Anyone who has ever stopped the car at a speaker/menu, handed a wad of bills through a sliding window and was handed a sack or two of food has experienced the lack of decorum. And I’m not only referring to the kid who takes the orders.
All too often, the sharpness comes from within the vehicle — and we all know what we risk when pulling a Russell Crowe with the drive-thru attendant. But what is considered to be rude? That’s a question that has come up a lot lately in my circles.
Attendant: “Welcome to Sonic. I’ll take your order as soon as you’re ready.”
My wife: “I’d like a [pregnant pause] footlong coney with cheese …. and—”
Me: “Catherine. They already come with cheese. I just want cheese and mustard.”
Wife to attendant: “Add mustard to that … Also, I’d like a large Frito Pie— “
Me: “Damnit! You didn’t tell her that I don’t want chili on the hot dog.”
Wife to attendant: “Can you leave the chili off the hot dog?”
Attendant: “So you just want cheese and mustard?”
Wife to me: “Is that right?”
Me: “For the sixth time, yes. This is getting frustrating.”
Wife: “I’m getting frustrated with you too, Adam! Why do you always have to special order?”
Attendant: “Ma’am? Can I get you anything else today?”
Wife to attendant: “Yes. Give me a second.”
And, over the next 10 minutes, we managed to complete the order by adding an ice cream of some sort, an order of mozzarella sticks and a couple of drinks. Amazingly, my Frito Pie had chili (instead of mustard).
Now, in my opinion, I was rude to my wife — who was rude to the attendant. Before you all come to my wife’s rescue, please know where I am coming from. Here’s how I ordered last week at a local drive-thru.
Attendant: “Welcome to McDonald’s. May I take your order?”
Me: “Good afternoon. I’d like a fish sandwich, but I’d like mayonnaise instead or tartar sauce.”
Her: “OK, Sir. Would you like a double fish sandwich?”
Me: “That sounds very tempting, but I would prefer a Quarter Pounder with Cheese and an order of fries.”
Her: “What size fries?”
Me: “Regular size is perfect.”
Her: “OK. Is the order on the screen correct?”
Me: “It is perfect.”
And so she gave me my total and I pulled around to the first window and paid. I also struck up a conversation with her as to how much chatter at the drive-thru is considered too much. She was a good sport, and an excellent ambassador for the multimillion dollar restaurant chain. As a side note: I know. I over-ordered. Also, I went to McDonald’s for more than just coffee. Shame on me.
So you might ask what the major differences are in our ordering styles. And, does it really matter? Well, despite that my lovely bride was ill-prepared at the Sonic and offered no greeting or thanks, our order just happened to be correct. On the other hand, I found myself back at the office scraping tartar sauce from my fish sandwich. Based on this evidence, we are fairly certain that order accuracy and politeness don’t necessarily go hand in hand.
My wife and her supporters will tell you that the drive-thru is intended to be quick service, and not the place for small talk. The McDonald’s on U.S. 80 in Longview, Texas disproves the whole ‘quick service’ theory every day when they ask every other drive-thru customer to pull forward and wait. And wait. And wait some more — until you realize that you’ve been forgotten about. Still, I hold strongly my belief that a little conversation can go a long way to ensuring that your fish sandwich contains nothing more than fish, bread and tartar sauce.
When is rudeness acceptable?
There are a handful of situations when rudeness from the customer is justified. My wife and I experienced one of those situations on Saturday evening.
We had placed a pizza order for pick-up, and were told that it would be ready in 20 minutes. We showed up in about 25 minutes at the drive-thru, paid and began to wait. Looking through the window, we noticed several staff members joking, laughing and playing grab-ass. This went on for about 10 minutes.
Enough already.
My wife tapped on the window. No one responded. So, she honked her horn.
Attendant: “Yes Ma’am?”
Wife with a New Jersey attitude: “You told us the pizzas would be ready in 20 minutes. It’s been more than 30 minutes and it looks like you all are in there just screwing around!”
Attendant: “One moment, Ma’am.”
And so the unshaven heavyset young man with the untucked T-shirt reached around the corner and grabbed two lukewarm pizzas and handed them out the window. He wished us a sweet-talking version of a good evening. By the way, during the ordering process, I was put on hold for about two minutes. I ended up hanging up and calling back. She said she had to reboot her computer. That should have been my queue to just go to Whataburger.
My own drive-thru transgressions
I still remember working the Kentucky Fried Chicken drive-thru as a 15-year-old. My main instructions were to correct customers when they asked for ‘McNuggets,’ and to ask them whether Pepsi was OK (instead of the Coke they asked for). Otherwise, I just had to push the appropriate button on the register and help pack the order.
Other than being slow and too conversational with customers, the only other reason I was rebuked by the boss was when I was busted in the men’s bathroom stall eating an original thigh and a biscuit. I thought it was great sneakiness on my part. I’d never counted on the manager coming in and hearing me lick my fingers, or see me trying to sneak out with an empty chicken box.
I regularly made snide remarks and rolled my eyes at unnecessarily rude customers, but my greatest fast food employee sin involved getting even with a rude woman placing a drive-thru order. She apparently didn’t realize that I could hear every word she said to her passenger about me. No. I didn’t break that rule with her order. I simply left the lid from a pint of gravy. She was back in 15 minutes, insisting that we pay to clean the upholstery on her Cutlass Supreme.
Thank goodness I’ve evolved. Too bad, though, that paybacks are hell.
I told my daughter, as she sampled this soup, that this would be her generation’s Chinese food. While I don’t believe Americanized Chinese takeout is going anywhere, Thai restaurants are popping up everywhere. I am particularly fond of the use of bright flavors, such as lime and Kaffir Lime in otherwise hearty recipes. It’s as if they were made for winter or summer, unlike most other soups. The following is my own concoction, based on what I like most about Thai food.
Thai Style Beef Noodle Soup
This might just be the perfect soup for a mild winter — or the hottest summer — thanks to the bright lime flavor and some slight pepper heat.
The Beef
1 lb – top round, sirloin or flat-iron steak
1/8 cup – honey
1/8 cup – ketchup
1/2 cup – dark soy sauce
2 Tablespoons – Chili garlic paste
Combine honey, ketchup, soy sauce and chili garlic paste. Cover meat and marinade for at least 1-2 hours. (Marinade longer for deeper flavor, up to 18-24 hours.)
The Stock
3 quarts – Beef stock
1 – large onion, quartered
5 – garlic cloves, cut into chunks
6 – Kaffir Lime leaves, torn
1 teaspoon – ground coriander seed
1 teaspoon – red pepper flakes
Juice of two small limes, plus grated rind of one small lime
Ginger Root (about the size of a half-dollar, and at least 1/2 inch thick), quartered
Stems from a cilantro bunch (break off below the tie)
Combine all ingredients in a large stockpot. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to a simmer. Cook about an hour, until the stock has reduced slightly. Add lime juice and grated rind. Allow stock to sit for about 10-15 minutes. Strain through a wire mesh sieve. Rewarm.
Grill beef until medium, about three minutes per side. Remove from grill and let rest for about 10 minutes. While beef is resting, stir fry the vegetables.
The Vegetables
8 oz. – Fresh mushrooms, quartered
8 oz – Fresh mung sprouts
2 cloves – Garlic, chopped
Cilantro leaves
Green Onions
In two tablespoons vegetable oil, stir fry mushrooms, sprouts and garlic until vegetables are crisp tender, about five minutes. Set aside.
Cook rice noodles per the package instructions. Place servings in bowls. Slice beef thinly, and place portions in each bowl atop rice noodles. Add serving of stir-fried vegetables. Top with hot stock. Garnish with fresh cilantro leaves and sliced green onions. Add more chili garlic paste, if desired.
Serves 6-8.
Like this:
Confession No. 34 — Moral quandary got you down? Lie about it!
Where I come from, lying is a sin only most of the time.
You can never lie to your parents, pastor, teacher or Scoutmaster. You are, however, allowed to stretch the truth when it comes to complimenting someone – especially a woman. In the South, we call those ‘white lies.’ ‘White lies’ work quite well when complimenting someone’s hair, clothing or blackberry cobbler – so long as you don’t get caught up in the web you’re weaving.
I was first busted in a ‘white lie’ by none other than my wife, a Jersey girl who was unacquainted with Southern customs.
The sauerbraten incident
It was some time in 1995, and we newlyweds were getting into the groove of going to Sunday dinner with her family. Though the meal and the company were always comfortable, I was elated to learn that my mother in-law this time would be preparing a legit festgelage — complete with kartoffelpuffer (potato pancakes), rotkohl (red cabbage) and sauerbraten, a traditional Deutschland-style beef roast. I’m a German, through and through. But I’d never had the main dish prior to that meal.
Whether it’s something reasonably simple – like eggplant parmesan – or painstakingly time-consuming – like sauerbraten – my wife’s mother is a cook. Period. Knowing her, she probably learned how to make an authentic sauerbraten from a German neighbor or family member. Instead of trying to make adjustments through the years (like most of us do), her efforts go into buying the best beef shoulder roast, and using exact measurements of allspice, gingerbread crumbs, red wine, and so on. The result is always a thing of beauty. And it’s absolutely delicious — if you like sauerbraten.
I learned – during the first bite – that sauerbraten is not my tasche.
But, like any southern gentleman who is taught that lies told when complimenting someone don’t count against you, I chewed and swallowed, then took another bite.
‘Wow,’ I told my mother in-law as she looked my way for a reaction. ‘This is really delicious sauerbraten. It’s really rich.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘I marinated it for three days.’
‘I can tell,’ I said. ‘I can really taste the allspice. Nice.’
My new wife smiled. I could tell she was proud of her mom. She might have even been considering learning to make the dish, like her mother had done for her father. But, the conversation we had a couple of months later probably streichened those thoughts.
‘I have a surprise for you,’ my wife said. ‘You’re going to love it.’
‘Really? Are we going to Papaya Dog and to a Yankees game?’
‘No, silly,’ she responded. ‘My mom is making sauerbraten again, just for you!’
I was in trouble. I couldn’t fake it twice. Besides, I’d just worked up a hankering for some cheap New York City hot dogs.
‘Look, Catherine … I don’t really like sauerbraten. So, please tell your mom I’m sick, or something.’
‘What? Are you kidding me?’
‘No. It’s just tha—’
‘I can’t believe you!’ she shouted, cutting me off. ‘Mom works on this dish for days? You tell her how great it is? Now, all-of-a-sudden you don’t like sauerbraten? Do you lie just for the hell of it, Adam?’
‘I wasn’t lying,’ I said, in a feeble attempt to escape her wrath. ‘Your mom’s sauerbraten is fantastic … for sauerbraten.’
As the verbal beat-down continued, I learned that ‘white lies’ in New Jersey are apparently just lies, and that the proper thing to do is to just flat-out tell someone you don’t like something. So, we went to Mom’s for a wonderful German dinner.
‘Let me tell you, Lillian, this sauerbraten is even better than the last one,’ I said. ‘I really want to learn how to make this dish.’
Even as my wife shot me various looks of disgust, I continued to pour it on. And eat more sauerbraten. I think she became an honorary Southern woman soon following that incident. And it’s not just because her hair became bigger, and lipstick much brighter. Her palate has also seems to have dramatically changed.
Just about every dish that I’ve made and served since then has been her absolute favorite … ever.
Mardi Gras in my part of the country is just part of life. Some people take it very seriously, and plan for months ahead their jaunt to New Orleans, while others (like myself) prefer to partake in the food and spirits from the comfort of our homes — or at least at a local themed fundraiser (and there are many). There is no wrong way to make gumbo, in my opinion, unless you omit okra. Though gumbo has roots all over the world, okra is the true namesake for this thickened soup. According to various horticultural historians, okra arrived in North America on slave ships from West Africa, where the pod was known as ki ngombo or quingombo. The other ingredients really depend on whether you are making the Cajun or Creole version, but any purist will also tell you that filé is also necessary to call it ‘gumbo.’ My recipe combines the dark roux, seafood and spice of the Cajun version; and the savory tomatoes and other vegetables of the Creole dish.
This gumbo has all the traditional vegetables, but they are strained to produce a smoother broth. With this dish, you can fool people who don't think they like Louisiana-style cooking. And that's no 'white lie.'
Louisiana Gumbo
2 – Tablespoons butter
3 cloves – garlic, minced
1 medium – onion, chopped
3 – celery stalks, chopped
1 lb. – okra, chopped
½ cup – butter
½ cup – all-purpose flour
2 quarts – chicken or vegetable stock
1 Tablespoon – sugar
1 – 16 oz. can chopped tomatoes, with liquid
1 Tablespoon – fresh parsley, chopped
1 sprig – fresh thyme
2 bay leaves
½ teaspoon – ground cayenne pepper
1 teaspoon – ground black pepper
½ teaspoon – Louisiana-style hot pepper sauce
⅛ cup – Worcestershire sauce
Juice from ½ lemon
Filé powder*
2 lbs. – Raw seafood (peeled & deveined shrimp; scallops; flaked crab; oysters; clams; lobster chunks; etc.)
1 lb – andouille sausage, cut into ½ inch pieces
Melt (2 TB) butter in large skillet over medium heat. Cook garlic, onions, celery and okra until crisp tender, and browning around edges. Set aside.
The Roux
In a large stock pot over medium-high heat, melt ( ½ cup) butter. Add flour. Stir constantly.
When the roux is a rich, dark brown (milk-to-dark chocolate), add reserved vegetables and stir. Add stock and tomatoes. Stir well. Add dry seasonings: parsley, bay leaves, cayenne pepper, black pepper and thyme. Bring to a boil; reduce heat; and simmer for about 1 ½ hours, stirring occasionally.
Through a wire mesh sieve (into a large pan), strain vegetables. Pour stock back into large stock pot. Add andouille sausage, Worcestershire sauce, hot sauce and lemon juice. Simmer for about an hour, stirring and skimming occasionally. Stock will thicken slightly. (If it thickens too much for your liking, add more stock and turn heat down slightly.) Add seafood. Simmer for another 10-15 minutes. Sprinkle with file powder and serve with rice. Garnish with fresh parsley or scallions, if desired. Allow guests to salt their own gumbo. This recipe makes about 8-10 servings.
*Filé (pronounced fee-lay) powder is the ground leaves of the sassafras tree, and is available in grocery stores across the South. It has a very light tea-like flavor and thickens the soup slightly. It should always be added after cooking.
Like this:
Confession No. 33 — Knowing when to steer clear is a good thing
I think we all have a ‘steer clear’ list. Mine is fairly simple.
- Size 15 women in Size 4 (leopard print) stretch pants
- Other people’s potato salad
- Businesses that use the Jesus Fish logo (I’ll explain later.)
- Turkey hot dogs
- All women, other than my wife
There’s one more: Restaurants in the Yellow Pages that use the ‘voted best’ slogan.
I’m traveling this week and, as I usually do, I’ll be eating at local haunts and reviewing them on Yelp. I do this for weary travelers like myself, who don’t want to put their culinary trust in the local Yellow Pages or newspaper advertising departments … Or worse — in the hands of sneaky restaurant managers who like to stuff ballot boxes.
Take a moment and open your local telephone directory to the ‘restaurants’ section. Look at the larger advertisements. Do you see any phrase such as ‘Voted Best Fajitas,’ ‘People’s Choice: Best Barbecue?’ How about ‘Famous Italian,’ or ‘Chosen Best?’ Now ask yourself: What are the odds that the fajitas at Mi Sombrero came in on a Sysco truck? What about Adam’s Rib? Do their pork ribs really fall off the bone any quicker than Big Pappy’s? And famous? Are they really talking about Don Sarducci’s Pizza Buffet in Sri Lanka?
In my town, there is a particular hot dog joint that has won the newspaper’s ‘Reader’s Choice’ award for at least a dozen years. Even though I’m a semi-regular customer, and the place is pretty good, it’s also the only place in town to get a hot dog, unless you go the snack bar at Target. Look at Papa Murphy’s. Zagat has once again ranked the largest U.S. take-and-bake chain as the best in its category. Really? Versus what? (I’ll bet that if your local newspaper is looking to drum up advertising sales, your local Papa Murphy’s has won some sort of local ‘voter’s choice’ honor.) It’s a little more difficult to determine which barbecue joint’s ribs taste more like hickory smoke than Liquid Smoke; or whether the kid in the kitchen at the ‘best fajitas’ place realizes that he should only re-warm the meat, versus re-cooking it. Here are a few tips:
- If the place has a buffet, skip it (the whole restaurant).
- If you have to ask why, go to Web MD and look up salmonella, E. coli or Listeria.
- Any barbecue joint worth its dry rub has a working smoker on the premises.
- If the hotel desk guy lists any national chain in his top three list of local dives, ignore everything he says.
- The more neon at a Tex-Mex joint, the less desirable the food. (I don’t know why. It’s just true.)
- To the contrary when it comes to hot dogs or cheesesteaks. The more neon, the better.
- If the pizza parlor has murals of New York City and/or Italian soccer, it’s probably a good bet. If the Italian soccer mural also includes Italy World Cup title years, it’s almost a guarantee of good Italian.
- If the pizza parlor’s murals include a red roof, a domino or the words ‘passionate about pizza,’ shame on you for ever going into the place.
- If you have to special order unsweetened ice tea, you’ll not want to skip the restaurant’s banana pudding. It’s probably some of the best you’ll ever have. Try the field peas and chicken fried steak too. You won’t be disappointed.
- If you happen to be vacationing in Bangkok, and one of the locals tells you about the best fried chicken he’s ever eaten — in Cleveland — the place deserves your patronage, at least once.
Follow my lead next time you travel, and you might not have to take those tiny green pills every time you return the bathroom key to the gas station cashier. You might also do well to avoid women in way-undersized leopard prints.
There are few places that, in my opinion, make a really good stuffed poblano pepper (aka chile relleno). It could be that many restaurants these days have gone the way of the pizza: the more meat, the better. A smoky chile with a slightly sweet tang and a meaty consistency should only be filled with a non-overpowering melting cheese, then battered lightly. Though it’s not necessary, a simple sauce of softened New Mexico chiles, or another mild pepper, provides a nice contrast.
Chile Rellenos
6 – Fresh Poblano chiles, charred and peeled
½ lb. – Shredded melting cheese (Queso fresco, queso quesadilla, Monterrey Jack)
1 cup – Plain Panko bread crumbs
All-purpose flour, for dredging
2-3 – Large eggs, beaten
Corn or vegetable oil, for frying
Salsa verde or New Mexican Red Chile Sauce
Chile Rellenos are traditionally cooked in a light, airy batter. While that is a delicious method, Panko provides more contrast in consistency — and seems to absorb less oil.
Char the Chiles
Place poblano chiles on medium-low heat grill, or on a baking sheet in a 450ºF oven. Listen for popping sounds, after about 5 minutes (on the grill), or about 10 minutes (oven). Turn the peppers so that all sides are charred. Once black and blistered on all sides, place chiles in a large bowl and cover with plastic wrap. This allows them to steam and makes for easy peeling.
Prepare sauce
You don’t want an overpowering sauce with these. I prefer a simple mild red chile sauce, or a good salsa verde. Some people prefer a simple tomato/onion/green chile sauce made in the blender and warmed. It’s really your call.
Prepare the chiles
Run the chiles under cool water, and peel the charred skin. Make a lengthwise slice in each chile so that you can reach in remove seeds. This will also be how you stuff your pepper.
Stuff each chile with shredded cheese. Feel free to overdo it, because the cheese will melt. Place peppers on a baking sheet and freeze, for about 30 minutes, or so. (The freezing is an optional step, but makes preparation so much easier, with minimal profanity required.)
Dredge each chile in flour, shaking off excess. Place back on baking sheet and into freezer.
Prepare to cook
Beat the eggs. Heat the oil to medium-medium high (depending on your range), so that a pinch of flour begins to fry and create bubbles as soon as you drop it in. Place Panko crumbs in a large bowl or gallon-size plastic bag. Warm your sauce.
Almost ready to ring the dinner bell
By now, your flour-dredged, stuffed poblanos are ready to fry. Dip each one in beaten eggs, then roll in Panko crumbs, pressing lightly. Fry until golden on each side. Treat these gently with the tongs. The breading doesn’t have a lot of ‘glue’.
Plate and serve
It’s your dish, but I would strongly recommend plating the chile rellenos atop whatever sauce you choose. Why? For starters, you shouldn’t conceal your accomplishment. Secondly, liquid turns crispy to soggy.
This recipe is sufficient to serve 4-6 people, with a side of Mexican rice and sliced avocados.
