I came, I saw, I cooked eggplant

So I've been absent for a few days of blogging. I could blame school work, which would be the usual suspect. However, this has not been the case. I've been cooking more eggplants than you could beat with a stick. I stopped counting at 18 purple globes of bitter doom. And tonight was my final play. If I didn't get it tonight, I fully intended to relegate Eggplant to the "mystery bin", an imaginary bin where I place foods that I just cannot cook to an edible condition. And truthfully, I tried every cooking method known to modern mankind. I baked, fried, steamed (which was a horrid disaster), grilled, and burned a multitude of eggplant.

Tonight, in desperation, I turned to roasting. And all I can say is "BOOYAH BABY I GOT IT!" After consulting with my family and gleaning a few tricks from Grandma Rose's arsenal of eggplant cookery, I finally cooked my first eggplant properly. And it was so very simple, I felt like a dumbass for not getting it like this sooner.

To put it in perspective, the closest I had come thus far to edible eggplant involved skinning, slicing, purging, soaking, breading, frying, and broiling. The end result tasted like a mass of cheese with red sauce with a bitter-eggplant filler. Bitter eggplant tastes a lot like an ashtray in seltzer water. The point is that even after trying all kinds of steps to make eggplant taste like, well, NOT eggplant, tonight was so much better. All I did was:

1. cut an eggplant lengthwise (a critical difference, I'd previously been slicing them into rounds)

2. score the flesh with a knife and salt everything well to purge for 45 mins.

3. Toss them on a parchment paper lined baking sheet and bake for an hour or so in a roasty-toasty oven.

4. toss on cheese and some herbs (fresh thyme) and reap the benefits.

So simple, so easy, and it was really good. Very bright and perky, slightly smokey, a little oily, but pleasantly so, and the texture was soft, but it held together quite well.
I served it with another Italian classic. Spaghetti Carbonara. I went with this one becasue carbonara is basically a culinary trump card. It's unsmoked bacon (pancetta or procuitto), egg, some cream, cheese and copius amounts of black pepper. It can make literally ANYTHING taste good.

In making the carbonara, I was fortunate in that I could not find any unsmoked bacon anywhere, so I went with a top quality smoked variety. And boy did I hit pay dirt from that little faux pas. It turns out that the smokey flavor of the bacon melds beautifully with the bite of the eggplant, and the creamy, savory sauce tied the meal together beautifully. Fresh thyme and basil added right at the end imparted a fresh and clean aroma.

I am so pleased with this eggplant experiment, and now that I have a solid way of cooking them (at least the globe variety), I am actually looking forward to things like poor man's caviar, iraqi eggplant and lamb stew, and maybe another go at the eggplant marquis dish , eggplant parmesan.

For now though, I think I'll find something to cook that is a little less ... purple.

Until next time, I bid you all Good Eating.

Purple Haze

Strolling around Valu-Mart the other night while pondering what to cook and consume in ravenous fashion, I came across a big bin sitting in the middle of the produce section. It had about 20 people around it and they were all scrambling to get at whatever goodies were inside. Just like one can often choose a good restaurant based on how busy it, I figured whatever was in the box must be culinary gold based on the crowd around it.

I love being a big fat bald white guy sometimes. It works out especially well when everyone around me is 5-foot-nothing and timid. One authoritative "Excuse me, please." and the crowd parts ways. Like Moses and the Red Sea baby.

What I found in the bin were some perfectly ripe eggplants. And they were three for a dollar. I haven't bought anything for that kind of price since 1992. So my hand was forced. I grabbed three exra-terrestrial looking orbs and headed for the cash register. Eggplant. It's a vegetable. How hard can it be?

Turns out, eggplant is a pain in the ass and then some. I knew you had to purge it with salt for a little while, but to make those things edible requires a certain technique, and last night, I was totally out of my league.

I did learn this:

You cannot slice off a 3/4 inch chunk of eggplant, salt it for a half hour, bread it and then fry it and have something palatable. There is no amount of olive oil or even butter that could have saved my eggplant from a purple and parmesan coated grave. I think that it may be arguable that when Jimmy Hendrix was singing about "Purple Haze", he may have just had a really bad eggplant trip, man.

The end result was so bitter, I could swear it was almost weapons grade. My mouth was actually sore for hours afterward. I've had eggplant before so I can't say I am allergic to it, but tonight I am once again defeated by my kitchen. Defeated and fascinated. How could one thing be so unpalatable in one form, and delicious in it's cooked form, AND have a nice long and relatively difficult means of prep required to make it?

I have not given up on this purple Barney the Dinosaur egg-sack yet though. I'll be back tomorrow, armed with a font of knowledge on how to really, REALLY turn this purple bitter bomb into a purple masterpiece worth singing about.

Italian fungal fowl

Wow last week was hellacious. I'm now in school 7 days a week, pulling an easy 12-16 hour day. So the question last night was "what's good, easy, tasty, and fast? A bit of mental wrestling and I decided to try a take on a classic. Chicken Marsala and linguine, quite possibly the best combination of chicken and mushrooms yet devised.

Aside from the company of a pint or two of frosty brew, one of my favorite kitchen past times is pan-frying chicken. Why? Because you transform a piece of pale and floppy meat into a golden, brown and crispy piece of deliciousness.

I wanted something that would cook fast, and while chicken isn't exactly a slow-cooking dish, I didn't want to take the time to cut and pound a chicken breast into a milanese style cutlet. So while it cost me a little more than I would normally spend on chicken, I splurged and went with boneless, skinless thighs.

I wanted to pack in the flavor for this one, so some nice crimini mushrooms, plenty of garlic, a little onion, and of course marsala wine and some hearty chicken stock.

I'd love to have an artful and eloquent description of how this dish comes together, but it literally is a simple process of dredging some chicken in seasoned flour, browning it, cooking up some garlic, onion, and mushrooms, tossing in some wine and stock, and then finishing the chicken in the sauce. Simple, easy, and served over some linguine, it is one of the most easy and fast comfort foods that you can whip up in under about 20 minutes and some change.

The sauce makes itself as it reduces, thoroughly infused with the flavor of marsala wine, crimini mushrooms, butter and chickeny goodness. The chicken comes out so moist and tender, with a crispy crust that manages to remain so, even as it becomes saturated with the sauce.

This dish helps take the edge off a bit from nearly 24 hours a day of schooling. I cannot wait for this semester of rush-rush-rush to be over so I can really take some time and play in my kitchen.

Another round for Saint Pat's Day!

Ok, admit it, you like Saint Patrick's day. Not only is it an excuse to get drunk and refer to your inebriated condition as "pissed" (with a terrible Irish accent hopefully), but it's a reason to eat super-yummy foods that you normally wouldn't eat on a normal day of sobriety.

So in addition to my beloved gut-bomb of corned beef and cabbage, I salute all the Irish lads and lasses everywhere (even those of you who are only Irish for a day) with a split-pea soup. Not JUST a split pea soup, but a split peas soup with a cream finish served in a baked potato shell, topped with chive, monterey jack cheese, and one of the culinary Saints, bacon.

This dish is the result of a pleasant mistake. I had originally aimed for a twice-baked potato with soup on the side. However when I went to make my potato filling, I ended up with more of a hodge-podge of lumpy sour cream, heavy cream, butter, intermingled with chunky potato bits. Let's just say that it was something not even a blind-drunk and starving leprechaun would eat. But the Luck of the Irish must have been on my side, because in the midst of my kitchen-craft dismay, I realized that I had a hollow baked potato skin just sitting on the counter...Sitting on the counter next to a simmering bowl of split pea soup. It was a light-bulb above the head moment.

I finished the soup and ladled it into the potato bowl, tossing in a few stray chunks of good potato for kicks, and then put a healthy dose of monterey jack cheese on the top. A few minutes in a hot oven turned the shredded cheese into a melded batch of lucky goodness. A little chive on one side, and a healthy stack of bacon on the other, and I had myself an Irish bowl of hot and thick melty goodness. I don't know if Split Peas are Irish, but they're green, so for the next 24 hours, that makes them Irish. Plus I'm betting everyone will be too drunk to call me on it! (and hopefully they will also forget that "Melty" is not a word.)

Visuals aside, this soup boasts a sublime simplicity. A dish truly borne of the salt of the earth, and the toil of hard working farmers.It's tough to get more humble than potatoes and peas. The potato skin was crispy and firm, and did not get soggy from the soup. The earthiness of the split peas compliments the potato beautifully, and is given a velvet-like body from the cream finish and a bit of butter. The seasonings, like the dish itself are simple; a little bacon for smokiness, some celery, carrot and onion, a dash of garlic powder, 1 bay leaf, and some salt and pepper. Crisped potato skins make for a great batch of croutons for sopping up what your spoon doesn't get. All the ingredients here married into a dish of gastronomic elegance that belies the most humble of origins. Just peas and potatoes out for a pint or ten with a few well-seasoned friends. Makes me want another round just writing about it.

453 lucky recipes to go!

Better than a pot o'gold, and twice as lucky.

I'm Irish. Of course, nobody ever believes me when I say that, because I'm normally boasting about my Italian heritage, and I usually claim Irish heritage on St. Patrick's Day (along with the rest of the entire population of the universe for some reason).
Truth is I'm a Hybrid. The running joke is that the main advantage I have being half Italian/Irish is that I can go to the pub and get $hit-faced drunk and still be sober enough to drive home and beat my wife! A rather unfair stereotype really, since I am neither married, nor do I drink and drive (you can spill your beer that way!).

But one thing I do love, and I really do L-O-V-E it, is my family's traditional dinner on St. Patrick's Day. You already know what I'm referencing don't you? Yeahhhh you do. I speak of course of the only dish that personifies Irish fare, that miraculous combination of .... ..... Oysters and Yogurt Sauce! Don't start throwing things yet, I just wanted to see if you were paying attention. No, my belowed corned beef and cabbage is the only fare I desire when the only holiday "greener" than Earth Day rolls around.

This year I invited some friends over to share in this wonderful bounty. And also marking another first for me, I made corned beef. I don't mean I went to the store and bought a corned beef and cooked it, nooooo. I mean I MADE corned beef, from scratch. Turns out it was one of the best culinary decisions I've ever made. I went to the butcher and ordered up a USDA Choice flat-cut brisket. I thought I would have to make-out with a leprechaun or lick the blarney stone to figure out how the secrets of transforming a humble and stringy brisket into a real corned beef. Turns out all it took was some salt, water, brown sugar, cloves, allspice, black peppercorns, bay leaf, and mustard seeds, and about a week in brining time. Just in case my efforts yielded a moldy, musty chunk of gross meat, I also did buy a corned beef from the store. This was an ideal time to test storebought vs. homemade.

The hardest part of making corned beef is making the brine and then waiting, and waiting, and more waiting. The internet research I did said to let my meat brine for 10 days, but I only had a week. So everyday I checked on my meaty prize in the fridge, adding icepacks to keep it nice and chilly, and giving the ziplock bags I was using for the brining a little poke or flip. Brining corned beef is like having a really lazy pet guinea pig, you have to bother it every now and then just to see if it's stil alive.

When cooking time finally came, my friends arrived and I kept them entertained with beer and netflix. I simmered the meat for about 3 hours, and then braised some new potatoes and fresh cabbage wedges in the cooking liquid.

For saucing, I put together two concoctions. I stayed away from a gravy because I figured any kind of reduction sauce would have more in common with a salt lick than a sauce. So for some creaminess and bit, I made a horseradish sauce. Literally it was equal parts of whisked mayo, sour cream, and prepared horseradish. It doesn't get much eaiser than that. The same went for my hone mustard and citrus sauce. Equal parts tangerine juice (strained), honey, and dijon mustard. That's IT.

To go with the Lord's "Bountious Goodness" (as pops would say when he says grace), I wanted some bread, but not store-bought! So I whipped up what must be one of the most simple breads on the face of this earth. Irish Soda Bread. It's basically a giant leavened "Wheat Thin-esque" cracker. Nothing but Wheat and All Purpose flour, salt, baking soda, and buttermilk. What I appreciate about it is that not only is it a dish that could preach humility to a fussy croissant, but I don't think there is any bread invented by mankind that goes better with corned beef, cabbage, and potatoes.

After the initial "Ooooh's and Ahhh's" and soaking up the adoration of my friends, the room fell silent as we all devoured both the storebought and homemade corned beef. Not being a leftover stingy-man, I sent away all but two small cuts of corned beef with my friends, all of whom were more than happy to take some home. In my estimation, that is the sign of a truly excellent dining experience. There is no bigger compliment a chef can receive than to hear only the sounds of the dish being devoured, except for the possible exception of people wanting seconds (even if it's a to-go order).

The meat was so incredibly tender, it literally nearly dissolved in your mouth. With each chewing motion, succulent juices were released from the fibers and sent every tastebud into overdrive. The spice of the meat, the tenderness of the cabbage (without being mushy) along with the fork-tender potatoes simply makes for an orchestra of flavor that could make a classical composer jealous. And both of the sauces tied all the flavors together so nicely. This dish is one that I think easily rivals that of Christmas Ham and Prime Rib. Dare I even say it? Yes I think I shall. Corned beef even stands on par with the ultimate holiday food, the Thanksgiving feast. ESPECIALLY this home-brined one.

Truthfully, I was left in awe at the quality of the homemade corned beef. So much so that I do not think I'll buy a florescent bag'o'beef from the store again. What was so different? Well, I could go into some steep analysis of all the differences, but this is just a blog, not a culinary science university. Suffice it to say that one of the corned beef roasts contained sodium chloride, sodium erythorbate, and sodium nitrite; along with a dubiously positioned "flavorings" label at the very end of the ingredients list. The other corned beef contained salt, brown sugar, cinnamon, peppercorns, mustard seeds, cloves, bay leaf, and allspice, and a touch of patience.

I will surmise that it is simply the quality and freshness of the ingredients that speak for themselves when you home brine your own corned beef. And while a REAL homemade corned beef dinner may not drive an Irishman to drink, or an Italian to domestic violence, one could say that it's "So good, make you wanna slap yo' mama!"

Oh and one more thing....the bigger the roast you brine, the more LEFTOVERS you'll have. So break out the brine and and the brisket, I've got more seriously yummy foods to concoct in the next few days.

454 recipes to go (count'em: homemade corned beef, corned beef dinner, braised cabbage, braised potatoes, sour-cream horseradish sauce,honey-mustard-tangerine sauce, and Irish soda bread)

Never Cry Pork Chop

I know. I know, believe me. You're about as sick and tired of pork chops as I am. Hell I don't even like pork chops, but my red-blooded American male ego just cannot let the cooking of any beast beat me. So chop after chop has been chopped, trimmed, stuffed seared and cooked to any number degrees of almost perfection. So far, the closest I've gotten is my tangerine sauced and stuffed chops. Until tonight.

Tonight, I declare "almost victory". Why almost? Because I was honestly anticipating a less than perfect result, and lo and behold, it came out perfect. Only I had no side dish, no sauce, no bread, nothing. So pictures and my final claim of confuto victoria will have to wait, though I am posting some pictures that do illustrate the differences in what cooking method and time can do.

Notice these serrano and monterey jack stuffed pork chops are looking a little on the dry side. I had thought that by taking the cooking lower and slower, the meat would become more tender. After all it works with pot roast just fine. But I had forgotten one key point; that Pork Loin center cut chops are very, very lean, and don't have lots of marbling or connective tissues, so low and slow really just won't cut it for this cut! And you can notice the difference in the meat. Notice that in these chops vs. the last ones, the meat does look drier.

No, fast and furious dry cooking is the way to go. Being short a bbq grill, I still thought they could be done in the oven. And once again I turn to the pouch principle.
Tonight I kept it simple. I did brine the chops (again), but this time there was no stuffing, no complications to get in the way. Just a coat of canola oil, some salt, and a little white wine and black pepper in a pouch.

Now I'm not one for spouting recipes, but after all I've been through I have to at least share how I finally got the method down for these chops. The world's perfect non-stuffed pork chop goes something like this:

Start with 1 to 1.5 inch thick center cut pork loin chops.
Brine it for 2 hours or so in the fridge.
Rinse and dry meat thoroughly, let it come to room temperature.
rub with canola oil lightly.
Sear in cast iron skillet until golden brown on both sides.
Move to pouch, add seasonings, close pouch and insert meat thermometer into chop.
Move pan and pouch to preheated 350 degree oven.
Cook until internal temp reaches 145. (I never go with times for pork, I go with temperature)
Remove pan from oven and let rest for 5 minutes (Temperature should easily reach the 150+ range.
Open pouch, grind on some fresh black pepper, and consume a perfectly juicy and tender pork chop.

If I weren't so tired of eating pork, I'd make another one. Don't worry, I will at some point because I'll need pictures to show that I really did cook a chop right and I'm not just making all this up!

Tomorrow is a special event for me. My first "friends challenge". I'll be having some friends over to sample my cooking, and since St. Patty's Day is just around the corner, I'll be serving...

PORK CHOPS (Just kidding, but I'll give ye' a shiny new shamrock if ye' can guess what fare I'll be serving this close to St. Patty's Day).

461 to go

Sweet chops ya' got there.

I was so glad to get back into my kitchen tonight. I had one of those crazy days where you're not sure if you had gone to work, or been in a prize-fight.
I picked up a three-pack of nice and fresh pork loin chops from the butcher, and we chatted it up a bit. I got some nice nuggets of knowledge from him on how to cook the center-cut loin chop. To sum it up, the gist was that they should either be "hot and fast" on a BBQ, or "low and slow", in the oven.

Not wanting to try and eat three 1" thick loin chops by myself for fear of literally becoming what I was eating, I went for just one. If I could get just one chop to anywhere near edible tonight, I'd be happy.

A brine in some apple cider vinegar, brown sugar, salt, black pepper, mustard and allspice would help keep the meat moist. I've really developed a keen respect for the power even just an hour soak in a brine does for a cut of meat, especially the leaner ones.

Once the brine was done, I didn't want to treat the chop like another steak. I wanted some flavor, but not a side dish, since tonight I was more concerned with applying the proper technique than how many accompaniments I could whip up.

Some mushrooms, citrus zest (tangerine), minced shallot, black pepper, salt and chopped fresh sage made a nice gremolata-esque basic stuffing. I left garlic out of this one, since I wanted some flavor, but not an overly pungent aroma.

Searing the pork chops was difficult to do without constantly checking the undersides for over-browning. It had barely been a day since I turned what could have been a perfectly serviceable chop into a construction brick. But I managed to just let the pan do its thing and I did get a nice sear this time. Things were starting to look up!

To go with a very safe method, I chose to bake the chop in a pouch rather than open in the oven. I Macguyver'd a cooking pouch out of some flimsy aluminum foil and tossed in a little white wine for some extra acidity and moisture for the meat, and tossed the neat little pouch into my 350 degree oven.

35 minutes later, the package was ready for serving. I know this because it spent 30 minutes in the oven, had a 5 minute rest, and my brand new oven thermometer was showing a temperature of 157 degrees. Not quite the government-recommended temperature of 160, but I like disobeying government, it makes me feel all American founding-fatherish.

While the chop was resting, I took the pan juices that had gathered in the pouch and combined it with some tangerine juice, honey, pepper and some allspice. A few minutes over high heat, and it reduces into a semi-viscous sauce. A quick pat of butter gave a nice sheen to the sauce, and then it was plating time!

The only real criticism I can give for this dish was that the meat did dry out just a very little bit. But I have an idea for getting around that next time, which I will share with you, well..next time I suppose. Beyond the mild dryness, the meat had a wonderful flavor of fresh citrus and sage and shallot. The mushrooms got a little lost in the flavor department, but their texture added a nice depth to the overall dish.
I was pleasantly surprised at how the tangerine zest in the savory stuffing melded with the sweetness of the tangerine juice and honey pan sauce. There was definitely some culinary yin-yang happening with that combination. Savory and sweet at the same time, united by the curious addition of an ever so slightly "off the beaten path" citrus choice and the fresh sage.

I may or may not do pork chops again tomorrow. But based on how this dish came out, I am well on my way to a full recovery of the pork-chop blues.

For now, that's 1 more recipe down, 462 to go.

The other white meat?

Pork, the other white meat. Or so the saying goes. It should be more like "the other amazingly huge pain in the ass to cook in the kitchen when you think you know what you're doing and screw it up to the point where not only do you not cook it right, you don't even get to choke it down for dinner" meat. Ok so maybe that would be a bit long of a tag-line for the commercials.

Today I'm just frustrated. Once again everything went wrong, and what's got me so mad is that I don't know what I did to make everything go so poorly.

I had planned on once again knocking out two recipes with one stone. I picked up some very nice double-thick (1") pork chops from the store. Since pork has a talent for going very well in both sweet and savory dishes, I wanted to do one sweet pork chop and one savory. I wanted to be able to show the different outcomes of broiled vs. baked. Not so f*#&(@' much tonight.

I did everything that I would normally do for a nice juicy steak. Season, sear, and place in oven to come to temperature. Well the searing turned out to be blackening, and the oven thermometer I was going to use to get a perfect cooking temperature read went schitzophrenic on me and had some kind of meltdown, despite it "supposedly" being able to handle oven temperatures. So long story short, no thermometer means no pork chops.

Well, ok so today was a stumble. But now I'm mad. I'll eat pork chops every day for breakfast, brunch, lunch, snack, dinner, late night snack and midnight refrigerator raids if I have to.....and I don't even really LIKE pork chops.

Grrr. Ok, ok. Take a deep breath....count to 10....think of clouds and fluffy puppies and such.

So. Tomorrow I'll be spending plenty of time researching what it is I did wrong, how I can correct it. And I'll also buy a thermometer that doesn't have a psycho meltdown in a 300 degree oven. Now where's that bag of Cheetos I saw laying around earlier, It's beer and junk food time.

still four-hundred-sixty something to go.

The cookie man cometh

Getting out of class this early is a rare treat for my class. Feeling in a somewhat celebratory mood, my mind stretched for things to cook, but only one thing kept coming up repeatedly. Cookies. But what kind? Not the usual "Oatmeal raisin, chocolate chip. or sugar" dilema. I was thinking more along the lines of texture. There's crunchy, puffy, cake-like, chewey, crumbly, tender; the list goes on.

I could think of only one expert to consult on this matter. A quick google search found me the undisputed master of cookiedom on earth. What's that you say?
Julia Child? Noooo. Alton Brown? Guess again. That's right, my expert was none other than that boggle eyed, big blue walking shag carpet, Sesame Street's own Mr. Cookie Monster. In a stroke of genius pulled straight from Snow White, I consulted the image of his blueness on my screen and chanted to my computer;

"LCD screen on my desk, which yummy cookie should I make next?"

The image of cookie monster just sat there on my screen, motionless. And that's it... nothing else. Oh well, it works in the cartoons. Wondering a bit about my sanity, I banished the visage of cookie monster back to the realm of cyberspace. I needed something to listen to while I started cooking. Looking through my library, I settled on Star Wars. It's got everything I need. Luke and Darth and Leia, Obi-wan, and who could forget Han solo and... Chewbacca...or was it Chewie? Chewey?...no.. CHEWY!! I had my answer for my cookie selection dilema. Chewy-chocolate-chip it would be.

I wish I could tell you I had some amazingly secret chocolate-chip recipe, but I don't. Like pretty much every cook in America, my basic cookie formulation is based on the Constitution of Cookiedom, the "Tollhouse" recipe. But I do know enough about baking now to do a little tinkering.

It's really amazing what a little bit of ingredient-play can do in the world of baking. I went with bread flour for machines for the high protein content. I chose the darkest brown sugar I could find for the molasses, and I refrigerated the dough for a solid 3 hours before I even looked at the oven. It all gets pretty technical and food science-ish for a blog like this, so I'll spare you the long explanation. But for what must be the best "how to cookie" tutorial I've ever seen, lookup the "Good Eats" with Alton Brown episode "Three Chips for Sister Marsha. It's really fascinating science!

Enough with the technical stuff. Not being too much of a fan of semi-sweet chocolate chips, I went with milk-chocolate. For the dark chocolatey-ness, I had plans of my own for this batch of goodness.

Some parchment paper, a #50 disher, a baking sheet, and 15 minutes in a 375 degree oven yielded me some very nice cookies. However I wasn't done yet. I needed the "dark side" of chocolate to come through. For this, I turned to the life-blood basis of all chocolateering, ganache. The internet says there are 3,150,000 recipes for ganache in cyberspace. Looking through several of them, I became a bit irritated because for all the neat variations I came across (ranging from plain, to low-fat, raspberry, hazelnut, and the list goes on for volumes), ganache is really just two ingredients. Cream and chocolate.

Having never made it before, I decided on a fairly common ratio it seems of 12 oz chocolate (I went with 2 parts dark and 1 part milk chocolate), to one cup of heavy cream. I added a splash of vanilla extract just to deepen the flavor a little. I also added the barest, tiniest pinch of Cayenne powder, just for a little extra kick in helping the chocolate stay locked on those taste buds. I know, hot pepper and chocolate is insane to do, but if you do it right, people will not feel any heat at all, they'll just know that "something" is in there. Beyond that, there's not much to it really, though it is fun to watch a saucepan with cream and chocolate turn from an incompatible "mass of ugly", into a silken-smooth curtain of chocolate essence. Not much of a recipe, but I think I love this variation. And since everyone else on the internet has a recipe for Ganache, now I do too! Wow, this whole thing is getting long-winded tonight. On to the results and then a nap is in order!

Using a very, VERY well-rinsed plastic mustard-squirter container, I piped on some hot ganache onto my newly born cookies. A healthy dollop of some Ice-cream finished out my dessert-for-dinner plate and led me do taste-bud nirvana. Warm cookies pressed against ice-cream, mingled with the still-hot ganache creates a galactic empire of flavor in your mouth that just cannot be described with justice in a humble food blog. But I will say that adding the hot Ganache straight to the cookies before serving them made for one cookie dessert that was truly "Out of this world". Somehow, I think that both Chewbacca and The Cookie Monster would approve. Can't wait for tomorrow and another day in the kitchen.

463 to go!

Goodbye Joe, me gotta go, me-oh my-oh.

...Me gotta go pole the pirogue down the bayou.

Sorry, but I just can't make this dish without having this classic Hank Williams song come to mind. I don't even know what a pirogue (pronounced "Pee-rogue") is; but I know that of all the dishes in all the world, Jambalaya is one of my absolute favorites.

Unfortunately most times I have it, it's a mass of mushy rice with some hot pepper and an occasional shrimp or piece of sausage that comes up. Well not tonight. Tonight I went with my own version of this dish. The trouble is, I'm in Southern California, which is not known for a steady supply of crawfish and artisan andouille sausages.

A speedy conversation in my broken Spanish and the butcher's broken English yielded me some very nice Longaniza sausage in it's natural casing. I'm normally dubious about buying sausages that are very red in color, mostly because I don't like eating a giant wad of sodium nitrites. But this got its color from a mass of chiles and spices, not chemicals, so I went for it.

For the seasonings, I wanted to have something that would bring a certain "tex-mex" flair, but that would not destroy the core qualities of this classic Louisiana fare.
With the change in sausage, I kept it basic. Switching out the cayenne for chile de arbol, which would lower the peppery burn slightly, and one seeded and diced jalapeno, with the membrane removed. That would give a nice fruitiness in addition to the heat.
Beyond that, some black pepper, a bit of salt, bay leaf, and coriander rounded out the spice brigade. Of course, it wouldn't be Jambalaya without the "Trinity", a mixture of green bell pepper, onion, and celery. And just for an added bit of pungeoncy, I had to toss in a clove or three of stinky roses (garlic).

Wana know why shrimp are so expensive? because they are a pain in the ass to prepare! All the legs, and shells and "the vein", makes for a kitchen battle of epic proportions to the unprepared. Now I'll still do it for big important events, but when it's just me? No way, Jose. EZ-peel shrimp are the way to go for me. Already deveined, with the shells left intact. Thank you to the seafood mongers for saving me an hour of time.

What I think I like most about Jambalaya is that it is a literal "melting pot". You have a few core ingredients, but after that, you can toss in anything you want and the dish will still come out nice, and without much of a change (if any) in cooking time!

So for me, sausage, chicken thighs, and shrimp came together with the other aromatics , chicken stock and some Basmati rice. With about 30 minutes of slow-simmering in my blue-enameled dutch oven, the mixture was ready.

Now it's a common myth that "cajun" cuisine is synonymous blackened everything and mouth-searingly hot peppers. But I think that "spicy" is often associated with the heat of capsicum and the other flavors get left out of the equation when that term is used. This dish was certainly very spicy. The heat was definately there, and at just the right level for me. That level being the point where I wonder if I'm going to start crying, but am able to avoid doing so, barely. But what I really loved about it was that even though the dish was "hot", every bit of it was readily identifiable. I could feel the tingle of black pepper, followed by the slow-burn of the arbol, and then caught the subdued fruitiness of the jalapeno. Yet for all its heat, the dish was not overpowered for me because all the other seasonings came through, thanks to the soft sweetness imparted by the trinity, the laurel qualities of the bay, and earthiness of coriander. And carrying all that flavor in every single grain was the long-grain basmati rice. Little flavor bombs, each one exploding with the flavor of my bayou and painted desert infused bowl of hearty goodness. This is why I love cajun and creole cuisine. It's more than just a set of recipes, it's the art of combining anything you like into a simmered dish of joy that everyone can love.

465 to go

Osso Buco, Osso Good

I wandered through the grocery store aisle with no idea of what to cook. So I decided I would stroll through the new spring produce and shop until I found something that caught my eye. It didn't take long. I spied some fresh Rapini, kind of a cross between broccoli and a thistle.
"There's one down, what next?" I muttered to myself. Some parsley made its way into the basket, as did some garlic, onion, celery, lemons, an orange or two, and carrots.

Still feeling somewhat of a tomato hangover, I passed the bins of vine-ripened red deliciousness with hardly a glance. So it was on to meats. I've had my full of chicken for now, and wanted a cut I've never tried before. Passing the butcher's counter at a mozy, I saw some very juicy-looking shanks, and they looked very fresh indeed.

I made my choice. Rapini, and Osso Buco with a nice citrus, herb and garlic mix. People get all impressed when you say you're making "Osso Buco with Gremolata." It sounds so much more exotic and "chefy" than saying "I'm doin' lemon-herb pot roast." But I think food is as much about ideas and the imagination of the diner as it is about the food itself, and the former statement summons images of fancy little Italian eateries in some small village. Ok, enough waxing philosophical, let's get back to the food!

For a hearty beef shank cut like this, there is only one cooking vessel I could think of using. The great cast iron dutch oven.And for both the Greens and the Meat, the only technique that I wanted was the marvelous process of braising.

Just in the searing of the Osso Buco, I knew I was in for a treat. I let it cook with the aromatics in the oven, covered, for about 4 hours. The aroma of fresh thyme permeated every square inch of my place, and with any luck into several other apartments as well.

The Rapini, or Broccoli Rabe as it's also called; was tender, crisp and has a flavor that suits it look. Not quite broccoli, not quite thistle, and a great blend of the two. My favorite aromatic of all for such a vegetable is easily minced garlic. So that's what I braised the Rapini in, a mixture of olive oil, white wine, garlic, a bit of lemon and a splash of chicken stock just to keep things from burning.

There are some dishes that just take a tremendous effort to actually put on a plate instead of diving fork-first into them right off the stove. This was one of those dishes. After the photos I took for the blog, I didn't even get the power button on the camera pressed before I was enjoying gastronomic ecstasy. The crisp but unoppressive bitterness of the Broccoli Rabe made a perfect balance with the sheer sweetness of the Osso Buco. And the simple gremolata of citrus, garlic, and parsley brought forth such a bright and palate-cleansing quality that every bite bore a semblance to a zen-like state in and of itself. Bitter, sweet, juicy, lip-smacking heaviness on the tongue, and then the bright and cleansing rise of citrus and parsley. For this dish, there was no sauce required whatsoever.

And just to think that I had no idea what I was going to cook that night makes it all the more satisfying of a journey. It easily rivaled filet mignon in sheer flavor and enjoyment. I am becoming more and more convinced that you can literally slow-braise just about anything, and wind up with a dish that really satisfies. I should do this blind-supermarket wandering more often.

466 adventures to go!

Tomatos, Soup, and Tomato Soup!

Some combinations are timeless. Laurel and Hardy, popcorn and movie theaters, beer and football (or for me, beer and pretty much ANYTHING), and of course, the soup and sandwich. Come to think of it, the soup and sandwich combo is universal in scope. Pretty much anywhere you go in this world, there is a soup and sandwich combo that can be associated with your location. Po'boys and Gumbo in Louisiana; Cheese-steaks and Chowder in the northeast; Cubanos and Black bean soup in South Florida; and of course the Godfather of all soup/sandwich combinations, the immortal classic tomato and Grilled Cheese.

Today I wanted to test my skills a bit in this ethereal combination of culinary zen.
Not wanting to be merely traditional, I opted to stray ever so slightly from the beaten path and for the soup I chose a roasted red pepper and tomato-basil soup with a cream finish. The sandwich was to be a chicken salad sandwich with handmade-by-whisk-and-elbow power garlic and extra virgin olive oil aioli, with baby rasish sprouts, and basil.

A little strange you say? Why not go with grilled cheese? I dunno, I felt like chicken salad tonight I guess. And hey, most people who know me would probably say that I've always been a little "off" anyways. Call me a non-conformist.

I got started after a long day in class. It was about 7:00 pm when my knife clove in twain the first tomato. I used cherry and regular old "garden variety" globe tomatoes tonight. I went all out too, seeding every last one.
I loved roasting the pepper, mostly because I'm a guy, and pepper-roasting means I get to light stuff on fire with impunity.

A little sweat of some minced garlic and onion on the stove and everything went in the soup pot. A splash of white wine, basil and pepper is usually always welcome in anything I'd eat. My concoction simmered away in last bit of comsomme I had leftover from my chicken-stock experiment. 20 minutes later and the soup was ready. A shot of cream, some fresh basil for garnish, and I had a pretty little dish! But this was only 1/3 of the equation...One third, you say? Yup. Here's why.

Chicken salad sandwiches could usually be named "mayo and chicken" sandwiches. I didn't want to do mayo, I didn't have any mayo. But I did have eggs, oil, acid, salt and a whisk. So I decided I'd try my hand, wrist, and forearm at the fine art of making aioli. Aioli is just mayo made with extra virgin olive oil and garlic, pretty much Italian Mayo you could say. Lemme tell ya' make homemade aioli once, you'll never want storebought stuff again. And if you choose to make it by hand-whisking, you'll invest in a food processor or electric whisk! By the time I was done whisking (about 15 minutes in total), my forearms were revolting against me, and my kitchen had fine droplets of aioli, oil, eggs, and whatnot all over the walls. But I got it done nonetheless.

The rest of the sandwich flew together in a jimmy. Some sliced cherry tomatoes, sprouts, and basil, and two slices of honey-wheat bread tied everything together nicely.

The end result was sublime. The soup was light and somewhat airy, and had a nice bright acidity to it, but it was not overpowering. The roasted red pepper, garlic and basil added a nice multi-dimensional depth of flavor that melded well with the tomatoes and cream. The sandwich had a satisfying crisp texture thanks to the sprouts, and the celery and onion in the chicken salad gave it a delightful crunch. A wondrous combination with the tender chicken. The garlic aioli had a bright yet sweet "bite" to it, and was surprisingly light thanks in part to the extra virgin olive oil. But let me tell you this, the words "Whisk Vigorously" have taken on a whole new and calorie-burning meaning. The people who made this stuff before electricity must have had forearms that would make Popeye have inadequacy issues!

Overall, I am so satisfied with this dish, even though soup and sandwich is not exactly the most glamorous combination, I still feel a sense of pride in having done it all by scratch, and having it definately turn out to be some really yummy foods!
Can't wait for tomorrow!

468 recipes to go!

The "doctor" is in.

With my accursed cold beginning to fade, and my cough starting to subside, I planned on a grand reentry to my kitchen. Something simple, but with a "chef's touch". I won't tell you what it was, save that it was a spectacular "interpretation" of a classic soup/sandwich combo.

But my dreams of gastronomic grandeur were short lived. I spent most of the day napping, and cleaning my poor neglected apartment in-between lazy-sessions.

So when 7:30 rolled around, I was H-U-N-G-R-Y. You know the kind of hungry I'm talking about. Not the "Oh I'd really like some dinner" kind; nor the "Man I haven't eaten since lunch!" sort. No, after 3 days of good soup and cheap pizza I was the kind of hungry that could make a binging stoner blush. My stomach and brain were both threatening to go on strike unless I ate some yummy foods NOW!

So I was forced to do something quick, and easy. I had some leftover chicken from the chicken soup I had made the other day. My hand was forced. Spaghetti. Not just spaghetti, but spaghetti and CHICKEN red sauce. Yeeeeeeaaahhhhhhh.

For this one, I wanted it quick. 30 minutes or less. I would love to tell you that I whipped up a marinara sauce from scratch and simmered it slowly for an hour or so but that's not the case. No, it was "Doctor time". I normally save a premium jar of good sauce in my pantry (don't look shocked, we'll do more marinara from scratch later. Trust me, I'mma Italiano here). After all, I don't always make my chicken or beef stocks from scratch either, but store-bought will do in a pinch! And like my store-bought stock buying, with my jars of tomato sauce, I do have a few rules I follow:

1. I ALWAYS buy premium sauce in jars, never cans.
2. I buy marinara only. No extra-super-chunky; nix the garden herb and mushroom, just
plain ol' marinara works best. (after all, you may be adding other flavors later!)
3. When I buy from the store, I cook with white wine. Why? Because tomatoes contain
alcohol-soluble flavors, and just a splash of white wine will really help bring out
some of the flavors in the sauce that might have otherwise remained dormant.
4. Regardless of whatever "doctoring" I will be doing to the sauce, I add basil,
garlic and pecorino to my sauce. Sitting on the shelf sure doesn't
help things in the flavor department. Just these additions REALLY make a difference!


With my chicken and tomato sauce simmering away, my attention quickly turned to my spaghetti. I hastily brought a gallon or so of good water to a boil with some salt and oil. Then the pasta went into the hot-tub!

Ever wonder how to make sure you get 100% genuine foolproof "Al dente" pasta every single time? Forget the time and go with taste. Not just taste, but texture! It went like this:

With the pasta boiling away, I plucked one of the undulating strands from the pot after 6 minutes or so and tried it. It was like eating a hardened swizzle stick....Yuck.
So I tried another one in a couple minutes. Much better! still undercooked but wasn't "bad". I knew it was close because (here's the key) while it didn't taste like a swizzle stick, the spaghetti still stuck in the back of my teeth a little bit.
About a minute later, I made my final taste, and the texture was finally where I wanted it. A little "bite" was needed to get through the pasta, but it left my molars nice and clean. Now that's "Al Dente".

I strained the pasta and threw together a dish rather quickly, since my brain, stomach, and taste buds were now threatening revolt unless they all got something substantial. A last dash of parsley (I was out of fresh basil) and some cheese later, I was ready to dig in.

What I love about putting chicken in a sauce is that it is almost always just a tad sweeter than other meat sauces. Not like a bad pizza sauce, but there's a subtle nuance in the body and the flavor of the sauce that belies it's "Doctored up" nature. And when the chicken is cooked in the sauce, the sauce actually changes to a more reddish-orange color. Combined with a wonderful al dente pasta and simmered sauce, all but the most past-prime chicken will again become a mouth-wateringly tender and soft morsel of comfort food goodness.

Do you hear that? ... Me either. That is the sound of a stomach well satiated and not making a sound. No doubt that nap #5 is swiftly approaching. Until my return to self-perceived epicurious extravagance, I wish you all better health than I've had this past week, and I bid you all "Good Eating."

471 dishes to go.