You wouldn't ordinarily go to a newspaper's letters to the editor column if you were looking for a multimedia work of art, but one showed up this morning in The New York Times. From the headline – "In the Old Balducci's, a Hollywood Sighting" – to the writer's signature – Michael Tilson Thomas – the presentation was distinguished. It was a unique story, with provenance, sentiment, surprise, erudition, humor, whimsy, affection, correct writing, and stunningly illustrated – yes, a letter to the editor with an illustration – and, for complete enjoyment, requesting of the reader a degree of cultural awareness.
Balducci's was a Manhattan gourmet food shop, founded by an Italian immigrant in 1946, expanding from a single shop into a chain. Last week, its corporate owners (since 1999) shut down Balducci's Manhattan locations. Michael Tilson Thomas was one of thousands of New Yorkers, in New York and around the world, who read the news "with regret." At the end of the letter, Thomas is identified as the music director of the San Francisco Symphony and artistic director of the New World Symphony.
In his letter, Thomas recalled a Christmas Eve morning in the 1980s when he went to Balducci's for some Christmas dinner fixings. It was early, before opening time, "but if you were there a few minutes early and they knew you, there was never any problem." In the deserted store, Thomas saw a woman, in fur coat and hat and oversized sunglasses. Thomas artfully describes how he recognized her – Greta Garbo – and honored her space when she recognized his recognition. She resumed her conversation with a Balducci's meat man.
Then, Thomas wrote, "At a certain moment, she turned toward me and said, 'It must be a fine old bird to make strong soup for a sick friend – at least five pounds!' " She got her chicken, paid, and left the store. When he got home, Thomas said he called his parents and told them he had had "an ultimate Jewish show business experience! I saw Garbo buy a chicken!" And then, with understatement and class, Thomas simply signed off: "I'll always be grateful to Balducci's for fresh food and lasting memories."
Above the letter and below the headline was the illustration, by Louise Fili and Jessica Hische: a caricature of Garbo, in an art nouveau style, one eye and famously arched brow, and a brush of hair, and in cursive script these words: "I vant to buy a chicken." Perfect. You can see it, with the entire letter, here.
It blew me away. Maybe I am overeager in a search for signs that newspapers should not, cannot, be abandoned. The new argument says don't worry about newspapers, it's not newspapers, but journalism, that must be preserved. Of course that is correct. The true battle for the future of the democracy is to move journalism online at as high a professional level as it has enjoyed in newspapers. But what about the future of casually turning a page and, in the midst of the journalism, discovering a short letter that has been recognized as a work of art, and presented in that way? You cannot link to discoveries, of art or anything else unique.
And the complete enjoyment of this art depended not on anything new or searchable, but on the individual reader's awareness that Greta Garbo was sensitive about her space, and she knew her chickens. It does in fact take a fine old bird – at least five pounds – to make a strong soup. I am beginning to think it's that reader awareness that I am really going to miss, after newspapers are gone. I wonder if that has become part of the editors' thinking, at least those who treated us to this art, in The New York Times.
Showing posts with label Food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Food. Show all posts
April 05, 2009
Sonic boom
Tomorrow is a big day in the San Diego area. A Sonic is opening in Santee, which is an eastern suburb of San Diego.
Better an eastern suburb than El Centro, which before tomorrow has been the closest Sonic to us. There's another one in Anaheim, roughly 100 miles north. It reminds me of the days back in Abilene when we had to drive 100 miles for a six-pack of beer. Then 60. Then 40. Then, finally, two, when the famous hamlet of Impact was incorporated inside the city limits of Abilene, for the sole purpose of selling booze.
The Santee Sonic is like the Impact of San Diego, for those who are addicted to Sonic's line of drive-in goodies. It is a true drive-in, too, window service from carhops wearing roller skates, just like in "American Graffiti."
I am not particularly excited by Sonic's arrival, though there were years in the 1970s when I felt that way about Whataburger, which at that time sold the best hamburger on the planet. But it didn't sell them west of Texas, until outlets opened in Phoenix, then Yuma. That was tantalizingly close, but still over a range of low mountains, down to the desert, and then an hour's drive across the desert to Yuma. I never made the trip. I found a reasonable substitute, in a Burger King Whopper, no mayo, no catsup, extra mustard. But Whoppers are flame broiled, you know, instead of off the griddle, like the Whataburger, so my yearning was real.
Sonic is not a bad joint, for a drive-in. They are second- or third-generation, following on the cruiser joints that started it all in the late 1940s and early '50s, when boys, girls, cars, drivers licenses and hamburgers converged to satisfy the various appetites of late summer evenings when gas was 15 cents a gallon. The Abilene original was the Dairy Delight, then came Mack's, and much later a Sonic appeared, after – for me – cars and cruising and girls in bobbysox had dropped off the appetite list, gas was $1.50 a gallon, and the Sonic hamburger standing alone wasn't really worth it.
Steak fingers, though, are another matter. I will cruise this Santee Sonic at some point, and check out the menu, and if I find steak fingers on it, with cream gravy, fries, and Texas Toast, I will pull into a space and press the call button. If they still have call buttons. It won't be the same, if the drive-ins of today use some GPS technology to know you've pulled in. Bad enough imagining hip-hop booming from 400-watt speakers two cars over. I wonder if Whataburger execs will be watching the Santee Sonic experiment. Maybe, baby. Well, that'll be the day.
Better an eastern suburb than El Centro, which before tomorrow has been the closest Sonic to us. There's another one in Anaheim, roughly 100 miles north. It reminds me of the days back in Abilene when we had to drive 100 miles for a six-pack of beer. Then 60. Then 40. Then, finally, two, when the famous hamlet of Impact was incorporated inside the city limits of Abilene, for the sole purpose of selling booze.
The Santee Sonic is like the Impact of San Diego, for those who are addicted to Sonic's line of drive-in goodies. It is a true drive-in, too, window service from carhops wearing roller skates, just like in "American Graffiti."
I am not particularly excited by Sonic's arrival, though there were years in the 1970s when I felt that way about Whataburger, which at that time sold the best hamburger on the planet. But it didn't sell them west of Texas, until outlets opened in Phoenix, then Yuma. That was tantalizingly close, but still over a range of low mountains, down to the desert, and then an hour's drive across the desert to Yuma. I never made the trip. I found a reasonable substitute, in a Burger King Whopper, no mayo, no catsup, extra mustard. But Whoppers are flame broiled, you know, instead of off the griddle, like the Whataburger, so my yearning was real.
Sonic is not a bad joint, for a drive-in. They are second- or third-generation, following on the cruiser joints that started it all in the late 1940s and early '50s, when boys, girls, cars, drivers licenses and hamburgers converged to satisfy the various appetites of late summer evenings when gas was 15 cents a gallon. The Abilene original was the Dairy Delight, then came Mack's, and much later a Sonic appeared, after – for me – cars and cruising and girls in bobbysox had dropped off the appetite list, gas was $1.50 a gallon, and the Sonic hamburger standing alone wasn't really worth it.
Steak fingers, though, are another matter. I will cruise this Santee Sonic at some point, and check out the menu, and if I find steak fingers on it, with cream gravy, fries, and Texas Toast, I will pull into a space and press the call button. If they still have call buttons. It won't be the same, if the drive-ins of today use some GPS technology to know you've pulled in. Bad enough imagining hip-hop booming from 400-watt speakers two cars over. I wonder if Whataburger execs will be watching the Santee Sonic experiment. Maybe, baby. Well, that'll be the day.
February 15, 2009
Cobbler fails to inspire global reaction
First of all, you can't put peaches, bing cherries, Trader Joe's whole grain artisanal loaf, butter, cinnamon, and peach schnapps together and somehow manage to screw it up.
At the same time, some original recipes take a little work. In my second attempt at Cobbler Jubilee, for example, I plan to drain the heavy syrup off the bing cherries. This first version came out too wet.
Here's how it went. I got a Rosemary Sourdough loaf and the whole grain loaf at Trader Joe's. I cut the bottom crust off the sourdough and cubed enough to pack into a single layer in the bottom of a lightly buttered three-quart Corningware casserole. As you recall, the goal was to create a peach cobbler with a dumpling-like bottom crust. Having achieved that by baking Dinty Moore Beef Stew on top of take-home sourdough from the Fish Market, I reasoned the same result might be possible with peaches.
I mixed together a 29-ounce can of sliced cling peaches in heavy syrup and a 13-ounce can of bing cherries in heavy syrup (this is the syrup I will omit next time). I added a teaspoon of cinnamon and a couple tablespoons of peach schnapps. My original vision called for Grand Marnier, until I saw the price of Grand Marnier. From the liquor department I walked to the meat cases and saw for the price of one bottle of Grand Marnier, I could buy 12 pounds of hamburger. I knew we had triple sec at home and decided that would work. Then I the liquor cabinet, behind the triple sec, I spotted a bottle of peach schnapps. I have no idea how we came into possession of a bottle peach schnapps, but for a Cobbler Jubilee experiment it was serendipitous, and free.
I poured the fruit mixture into the casserole, instantly wondering if I should have put in a second layer of sourdough. There was a reason, incidentally, for using rosemary sourdough; same reason I added the bing cherries. It would give the cobbler a Tuscan influence. Then when a guest said the cherries gave it a Tuscan influence, I could nod and refer to, also, a hint of rosemary. Guests might also surmise that the name, "Cobbler Jubilee" derived from the bing cherries, which star in the classic dessert, Cherries Jubilee.
The whole grain loaf was dense, slightly sweet, and with a nuttiness provided by the whole grains. I cubed enough to cover the top generously, swirled the cubes in melted butter, and spread them over the top, pressing them down gently into the fruit. I baked it at 350 for 45 minutes.
It smelled great, but it came out too wet. Even after cooling, the bottom crust was soggy, and there was some standing juice. I like my cereal soggy, but not my bottom crust, which had been saturated beyond the desired dumplingness. I tasted the crust while it was still warm, and it was definitely soggy. Our friend Janie, who is a fellow Southerner, dropped in just at that time, and I sent some home with her to share with Roland. That was day before yesterday, and I have not heard from them, so it's not likely they thought it was the best thing they had ever eaten.
I refrigerated it, and yesterday morning heated up a bowlful for breakfast. Not bad. Less syrup next time, and I am toying with the idea of the whole grain on both the top and bottom.
At the same time, some original recipes take a little work. In my second attempt at Cobbler Jubilee, for example, I plan to drain the heavy syrup off the bing cherries. This first version came out too wet.
Here's how it went. I got a Rosemary Sourdough loaf and the whole grain loaf at Trader Joe's. I cut the bottom crust off the sourdough and cubed enough to pack into a single layer in the bottom of a lightly buttered three-quart Corningware casserole. As you recall, the goal was to create a peach cobbler with a dumpling-like bottom crust. Having achieved that by baking Dinty Moore Beef Stew on top of take-home sourdough from the Fish Market, I reasoned the same result might be possible with peaches.
I mixed together a 29-ounce can of sliced cling peaches in heavy syrup and a 13-ounce can of bing cherries in heavy syrup (this is the syrup I will omit next time). I added a teaspoon of cinnamon and a couple tablespoons of peach schnapps. My original vision called for Grand Marnier, until I saw the price of Grand Marnier. From the liquor department I walked to the meat cases and saw for the price of one bottle of Grand Marnier, I could buy 12 pounds of hamburger. I knew we had triple sec at home and decided that would work. Then I the liquor cabinet, behind the triple sec, I spotted a bottle of peach schnapps. I have no idea how we came into possession of a bottle peach schnapps, but for a Cobbler Jubilee experiment it was serendipitous, and free.
I poured the fruit mixture into the casserole, instantly wondering if I should have put in a second layer of sourdough. There was a reason, incidentally, for using rosemary sourdough; same reason I added the bing cherries. It would give the cobbler a Tuscan influence. Then when a guest said the cherries gave it a Tuscan influence, I could nod and refer to, also, a hint of rosemary. Guests might also surmise that the name, "Cobbler Jubilee" derived from the bing cherries, which star in the classic dessert, Cherries Jubilee.
The whole grain loaf was dense, slightly sweet, and with a nuttiness provided by the whole grains. I cubed enough to cover the top generously, swirled the cubes in melted butter, and spread them over the top, pressing them down gently into the fruit. I baked it at 350 for 45 minutes.
It smelled great, but it came out too wet. Even after cooling, the bottom crust was soggy, and there was some standing juice. I like my cereal soggy, but not my bottom crust, which had been saturated beyond the desired dumplingness. I tasted the crust while it was still warm, and it was definitely soggy. Our friend Janie, who is a fellow Southerner, dropped in just at that time, and I sent some home with her to share with Roland. That was day before yesterday, and I have not heard from them, so it's not likely they thought it was the best thing they had ever eaten.
I refrigerated it, and yesterday morning heated up a bowlful for breakfast. Not bad. Less syrup next time, and I am toying with the idea of the whole grain on both the top and bottom.
February 11, 2009
A Michael Grant here, a Michael Grant there
I am hearing from people who think I am the Michael Grant who wrote “Gone,” a popular novel published last summer. Actually I am not that Michael Grant, or the Michael Grant who is a deceased English scholar, a New York crime writer, a heavyweight boxer, a 12th-century baron, a character in the “Manhunt” video game, an Arizona television personality, a Washington Redskins cornerback, or a hockey player.
I do pop up third, among 381,000 results, if you Google “Michael Grant.” That is mainly because I have posted a mess of blogs in the last four years, and every blog I write, when it encounters a search spider in the byways and barrooms of the Web, influences that spider to identify with me. I am the Michael Grant whose Google results tagline reads, “Life is infinitely interesting, as long as you are interested in life.” (Hint to the other 380,997 MGs out there: if you want to move up on the list, write a blog.)
I am the Michael Grant who, among other works, wrote “Michael Grant’s Cookbook.”
In the cookbook is the recipe for peach cobbler that I was blogging about recently. I don’t care which other MG you talk to, none of them will know as much about bottom crust as I do, even though it is only theoretical knowledge. I write about it very warmly, in the cookbook, but I never can get it to come out right, which is to say like a dumpling. Jessie, on the other hand, brought over peach cobbler for dinner the other night. She said she made it from my recipe, and it had a terrific, doughy, bottom crust. Can you see the unfairness here? I heated up the last of it for breakfast yesterday morning, poured a little half-and-half over, and it was like I was back at my grandmother’s table again.
I promised the visitors who have made me No. 3 on the Google returns an experiment with peach cobbler that uses high-quality sourdough to achieve the desirable dumplingness on the bottom. I discovered by accident that Dinty Moore Beef Stew poured over inch-thick slices of sourdough in Corningware and then baked at 325 for 30 minutes produces a terrific dumpling effect. It should work with peach cobbler, but I need to try it first. I haven’t yet, because we have all been glued to the bread-and-water news about the economy. My old cookbook was based on recipes my grandmother used to “stretch things” during and after the Great Depression; wading through the present doom and gloom, it occurs to me to revise the book and publish it as “Stimulus Cooking.”
Of course a recipe, even in experimental form, is only a starting place. Lately I have developed a vision of sourdough on the bottom, a mix of syrupy peaches and bing cherries with a dollop of Grand Marnier inside, and on the top, cubed whole wheat artisan bread I get at Trader Joe’s, swirled in butter, and the whole thing baked at 350 for 25 minutes. I would call it Cobbler Jubilee. Then I might become in the public consciousness “the Michael Grant who invented Cobbler Jubilee.” Or maybe not. I swear, however, I am going to try it this weekend, which is supposed to be rainy and cozy.
I do pop up third, among 381,000 results, if you Google “Michael Grant.” That is mainly because I have posted a mess of blogs in the last four years, and every blog I write, when it encounters a search spider in the byways and barrooms of the Web, influences that spider to identify with me. I am the Michael Grant whose Google results tagline reads, “Life is infinitely interesting, as long as you are interested in life.” (Hint to the other 380,997 MGs out there: if you want to move up on the list, write a blog.)
I am the Michael Grant who, among other works, wrote “Michael Grant’s Cookbook.”
In the cookbook is the recipe for peach cobbler that I was blogging about recently. I don’t care which other MG you talk to, none of them will know as much about bottom crust as I do, even though it is only theoretical knowledge. I write about it very warmly, in the cookbook, but I never can get it to come out right, which is to say like a dumpling. Jessie, on the other hand, brought over peach cobbler for dinner the other night. She said she made it from my recipe, and it had a terrific, doughy, bottom crust. Can you see the unfairness here? I heated up the last of it for breakfast yesterday morning, poured a little half-and-half over, and it was like I was back at my grandmother’s table again.
I promised the visitors who have made me No. 3 on the Google returns an experiment with peach cobbler that uses high-quality sourdough to achieve the desirable dumplingness on the bottom. I discovered by accident that Dinty Moore Beef Stew poured over inch-thick slices of sourdough in Corningware and then baked at 325 for 30 minutes produces a terrific dumpling effect. It should work with peach cobbler, but I need to try it first. I haven’t yet, because we have all been glued to the bread-and-water news about the economy. My old cookbook was based on recipes my grandmother used to “stretch things” during and after the Great Depression; wading through the present doom and gloom, it occurs to me to revise the book and publish it as “Stimulus Cooking.”
Of course a recipe, even in experimental form, is only a starting place. Lately I have developed a vision of sourdough on the bottom, a mix of syrupy peaches and bing cherries with a dollop of Grand Marnier inside, and on the top, cubed whole wheat artisan bread I get at Trader Joe’s, swirled in butter, and the whole thing baked at 350 for 25 minutes. I would call it Cobbler Jubilee. Then I might become in the public consciousness “the Michael Grant who invented Cobbler Jubilee.” Or maybe not. I swear, however, I am going to try it this weekend, which is supposed to be rainy and cozy.
January 31, 2009
Your tummy didn't growl, it oinked
Barack Obama is 180 pounds of front-page potential, but this week he is taking a back seat to four pounds (combined) of bacon and Italian pork sausage.
I don't think I have ever seen a subject get such a death grip on the "Most Emailed" title at The New York Times until this week, when on Wednesday, after it appeared in the Dining section, the "Bacon Explosion" rocketed to the top and stayed there for THREE DAYS. Obviously there are bar codes on human DNA, going back to the beginning when food was scarce and a bitch to obtain, that make us perk up our ears at the report of something new to eat that serves 10 and will sustain the caloric needs of those 10 for about a full year if their arteries don't turn to rebar in the first 24 hours.
I was conflicted. I wanted to make it immediately, but my stomach picked up the phone and called my brain and yelled, "I'm a stomach, not a grease trap!" I had to agree. The Times headline on the story – "Take Bacon. Add Sausage. Blog." – suggested the editors thought it was a publicity stunt to get Website hits, or the same kind of excess we regularly see on fashion runways.
Not that I was going to turn my back on a technique that weaves thick-sliced bacon into a tightly woven mat in which other meats are rolled up and barbecued for three hours. The original recipe calls for the bacon mat, and Italian sausage innards, with more bacon, rolled up inside. The creators frankly brag that when it is put on the table, it contains 5,000 calories and 500 grams of fat. Go look at it and tell me if your stomach doesn't pick up a bat and hide behind the door. Of course 40 years ago, my pal Ray and I would have split one, with fries, and some lemon icebox pie for a touch of sweet. But that was then. I envied the youth of No. 3 son Bill who, when I emailed him the recipe, replied, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" and emailed me back a recipe for a pudding made with jelly donuts "to wash it down with."
Then came temptation. Karen is out of town, and I am batching it for the Super Bowl. Then friends Janie and Roland called and invited me over for the game. I sort of dropped the hint that there was this new thing I could try, and in fairness, by then I had modified the recipe. When I make it, I will have the bacon mat, but inside, instead of Italian sausage and bacon, will be hamburger and sautéed onions. It could still turn out to be a gutbomb. Better the thing is introduced at home, with some chicken ready just in case. If it turns out the way I think it might, it will be dynamite on a hamburger bun.
This morning, the Bacon Explosion had slipped to No. 9, and as I take pen in hand, it has fallen to No. 13. Who knows how many Super Bowl parties it will turn up at tomorrow. I am looking for a reaction story in the media next week, or maybe a wave of emergency-room reports tomorrow night.
I don't think I have ever seen a subject get such a death grip on the "Most Emailed" title at The New York Times until this week, when on Wednesday, after it appeared in the Dining section, the "Bacon Explosion" rocketed to the top and stayed there for THREE DAYS. Obviously there are bar codes on human DNA, going back to the beginning when food was scarce and a bitch to obtain, that make us perk up our ears at the report of something new to eat that serves 10 and will sustain the caloric needs of those 10 for about a full year if their arteries don't turn to rebar in the first 24 hours.
I was conflicted. I wanted to make it immediately, but my stomach picked up the phone and called my brain and yelled, "I'm a stomach, not a grease trap!" I had to agree. The Times headline on the story – "Take Bacon. Add Sausage. Blog." – suggested the editors thought it was a publicity stunt to get Website hits, or the same kind of excess we regularly see on fashion runways.
Not that I was going to turn my back on a technique that weaves thick-sliced bacon into a tightly woven mat in which other meats are rolled up and barbecued for three hours. The original recipe calls for the bacon mat, and Italian sausage innards, with more bacon, rolled up inside. The creators frankly brag that when it is put on the table, it contains 5,000 calories and 500 grams of fat. Go look at it and tell me if your stomach doesn't pick up a bat and hide behind the door. Of course 40 years ago, my pal Ray and I would have split one, with fries, and some lemon icebox pie for a touch of sweet. But that was then. I envied the youth of No. 3 son Bill who, when I emailed him the recipe, replied, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" and emailed me back a recipe for a pudding made with jelly donuts "to wash it down with."
Then came temptation. Karen is out of town, and I am batching it for the Super Bowl. Then friends Janie and Roland called and invited me over for the game. I sort of dropped the hint that there was this new thing I could try, and in fairness, by then I had modified the recipe. When I make it, I will have the bacon mat, but inside, instead of Italian sausage and bacon, will be hamburger and sautéed onions. It could still turn out to be a gutbomb. Better the thing is introduced at home, with some chicken ready just in case. If it turns out the way I think it might, it will be dynamite on a hamburger bun.
This morning, the Bacon Explosion had slipped to No. 9, and as I take pen in hand, it has fallen to No. 13. Who knows how many Super Bowl parties it will turn up at tomorrow. I am looking for a reaction story in the media next week, or maybe a wave of emergency-room reports tomorrow night.
January 29, 2009
Swallowing my pride for Velveeta
What else can I do? I will remain a champion of Velveeta cheese, as I have been for half a century, even though I now know I am not a preferred customer in the eyes of Velveeta’s marketers.
For this Sunday’s Super Bowl, Kraft Foods, makers of Velveeta, targeted women ages 25-50 in an email “Velveeta game-day party” campaign. More than 15,000 women responded, and 2,500 were chosen to receive a party pack featuring a 32-ounce bar of Velveeta, some chili con queso makings, and some lesser stuff including something called Ritz toasted chips, which, under the Constitution, people have every right to dip into chili con queso if they want to. Karen didn’t get the email. She is, um, not in the age range. Too bad. Velveeta is the star of her very spicy con queso, which is the best ever made. I eat it with a spoon.
I really don’t resent Velveeta’s chosen women, even though I was making green enchiladas with Velveeta before they were born. In fact, some of them must be all right. One of them, Angilyn Mathews, told The Wall Street Journal she uses Velveeta in her chimichangas. “It’s really easy,” she said. “You just roll up chicken, salsa and Velveeta in a flour tortilla and deep fry it.” You go, Angilyn! That is something I plan to try even before the Super Bowl.
To show I have no hard feelings, I will share with you the world’s best green enchilada recipe, that I got from an Abilene friend, Hugh Beck, some 35 years ago. He let me use the recipe in my cookbook, “Michael Grant’s Cookbook,” and this is how I wrote about him in the book:
“Some Texans are more Texan than others. Hugh Beck was one of these. Hugh ran a construction company in Abilene. I never saw him in anything but khakis and boots and a beat-up straw hat, and he had that peculiar squint of Texans who work outside with one eye always on the weather.
“And he was an eternal optimist. The sun never stopped shining on Hugh Beck, even on the bleak February afternoon that he shared with me the secret of his optimism. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘If it is cold outside, and the sleet blew in and froze your wash on the line, and the kids need braces, and the car needs tires, and they think it’s your dog killing the chickens, and the gutter fell down, and you’ve got a dollar and a dime in the bank, and barely an inch of Scotch in the bottle, don’t kill yourself. Make green enchiladas. You will feel better again real soon.’”
And he was right. Maybe I better send this recipe to Barack Obama. In the context of Velveeta’s Super Bowl party, the green enchiladas are meant for Monday, to make it easier for fans of the losing team, particularly if it’s Pittsburgh, who will take it real hard. Hugh would like that.
1 pound lean hamburger
½ tsp. cumin
Salt and pepper
4 tbsp. butter
3 tbsp. flour
2 cups milk
½ pound Velveeta (none other), cubed
2 4-ounce cans chopped green chiles
½ tsp. salt
1 large onion, chopped fine
2 cups grated Cheddar cheese
Corn tortillas
Season hamburger with cumin, salt and pepper and brown in a skillet. Drain the fat. In a large saucepan, melt the butter and stir in the flour, cooking over medium-high heat just until the flour begins to brown. Add the milk and stir constantly until the sauce thickens. Add the Velveeta, chiles and salt and heat, stirring, over low heat until the cheese melts. Soften the tortillas one-by-one in a little hot oil in a skillet. Fill each tortilla lightly with hamburger, onion and grated cheese and roll. Place the enchiladas close together in a baking dish. Sprinkle any excess onion and cheese over. Pour the sauce over and bake at 350 for 25 minutes.
For this Sunday’s Super Bowl, Kraft Foods, makers of Velveeta, targeted women ages 25-50 in an email “Velveeta game-day party” campaign. More than 15,000 women responded, and 2,500 were chosen to receive a party pack featuring a 32-ounce bar of Velveeta, some chili con queso makings, and some lesser stuff including something called Ritz toasted chips, which, under the Constitution, people have every right to dip into chili con queso if they want to. Karen didn’t get the email. She is, um, not in the age range. Too bad. Velveeta is the star of her very spicy con queso, which is the best ever made. I eat it with a spoon.
I really don’t resent Velveeta’s chosen women, even though I was making green enchiladas with Velveeta before they were born. In fact, some of them must be all right. One of them, Angilyn Mathews, told The Wall Street Journal she uses Velveeta in her chimichangas. “It’s really easy,” she said. “You just roll up chicken, salsa and Velveeta in a flour tortilla and deep fry it.” You go, Angilyn! That is something I plan to try even before the Super Bowl.
To show I have no hard feelings, I will share with you the world’s best green enchilada recipe, that I got from an Abilene friend, Hugh Beck, some 35 years ago. He let me use the recipe in my cookbook, “Michael Grant’s Cookbook,” and this is how I wrote about him in the book:
“Some Texans are more Texan than others. Hugh Beck was one of these. Hugh ran a construction company in Abilene. I never saw him in anything but khakis and boots and a beat-up straw hat, and he had that peculiar squint of Texans who work outside with one eye always on the weather.
“And he was an eternal optimist. The sun never stopped shining on Hugh Beck, even on the bleak February afternoon that he shared with me the secret of his optimism. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘If it is cold outside, and the sleet blew in and froze your wash on the line, and the kids need braces, and the car needs tires, and they think it’s your dog killing the chickens, and the gutter fell down, and you’ve got a dollar and a dime in the bank, and barely an inch of Scotch in the bottle, don’t kill yourself. Make green enchiladas. You will feel better again real soon.’”
And he was right. Maybe I better send this recipe to Barack Obama. In the context of Velveeta’s Super Bowl party, the green enchiladas are meant for Monday, to make it easier for fans of the losing team, particularly if it’s Pittsburgh, who will take it real hard. Hugh would like that.
1 pound lean hamburger
½ tsp. cumin
Salt and pepper
4 tbsp. butter
3 tbsp. flour
2 cups milk
½ pound Velveeta (none other), cubed
2 4-ounce cans chopped green chiles
½ tsp. salt
1 large onion, chopped fine
2 cups grated Cheddar cheese
Corn tortillas
Season hamburger with cumin, salt and pepper and brown in a skillet. Drain the fat. In a large saucepan, melt the butter and stir in the flour, cooking over medium-high heat just until the flour begins to brown. Add the milk and stir constantly until the sauce thickens. Add the Velveeta, chiles and salt and heat, stirring, over low heat until the cheese melts. Soften the tortillas one-by-one in a little hot oil in a skillet. Fill each tortilla lightly with hamburger, onion and grated cheese and roll. Place the enchiladas close together in a baking dish. Sprinkle any excess onion and cheese over. Pour the sauce over and bake at 350 for 25 minutes.
January 23, 2009
A peachy (maybe) cobbler idea
During the holidays we were at a party where the talk turned to peach cobbler. At the first mention of the words, "Peach Cobbler," you can instantly spot the Southerners in the crowd. Their cheeks turn rosy, their teeth show, and their eyes take on more intense values of blue, brown, green, or in my case, hazel.
One by one, the Westerners, Northerners and Easterners peel away from this Southern core, because they realize they have heard enough about peach cobbler when it is apparent the Southern core is just getting started.
It is an amazing thing. Over the years, I have noticed that, wherever I travel, domestic or overseas, when I mention to a local that I am from San Diego, that local will immediately say, "Oh, I've got a sister in Chula Vista!" Chula Vista is a principal city in the San Diego metropolitan area, and I have often thought I should stand on a street corner there and announce in a strong voice, "I have been to Italy!" and see how many women stop, and turn, and say, "I have kinfolks there!"
Likewise in a circle of the peach cobbler-savvy, every person's mother, or grandmother, in the group makes, or made, the best peach cobbler on the planet. Including my grandmother Susie. Her secret was the bottom crust, only it was not a crust so much as it was a peachy, steamy, savory-sweet dumpling. I have tried and tried, and every time, my bottom crust gets brown on the bottom and thus becomes as ordinary as pie crust. I brag about Susie's bottom crust, to the extent that soon most of the core has peeled away, save for an exceptionally polite Southerner or two who don't want to see me standing alone, naked as an artichoke heart, gushing to no one about a dumpling bottom crust.
Then last night I made a discovery. I lunched yesterday with Jon Standefer, my old Texas pal, at The Fish Market on the bay in San Diego. When we were finished, there were three slices of sourdough bread left, thick and slightly toasted at the edges. I asked Oscar, the oyster bar chef, to put them in a bag to take home.
Last night I put the slices in the bottom of a baking dish and spooned in a middle-sized can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew. The weather had turned sprinkly and I was aiming for something simple and hearty. I heated it for half an hour in a 325 toaster oven. The result was excellent. I fished to the bottom and cut off a bite of bread, now soft and steamy and sauced, and not only did it hit the spot, it reminded me of a dumpling. A very good dumpling, in fact. Dumplings are not all that hard to make, but if simple and hearty is your aim, why not use thick-sliced sourdough instead?
Then, just now, as I was sitting down to write this, I asked myself: What if you made peach cobbler with thick sourdough slices for the bottom crust? If I had a Webcam, you would see that my cheeks have become rosy, my teeth are showing, and my eyes are a roaring hazel. Don't try this at home until I have experimented; it may not work with peaches. But it damn sure does with Dinty Moore Beef Stew. Try it sometime. Just be sure the sourdough is an inch thick and has a good bite, not that cottony supermarket stuff. Trader Joe's has good sourdough, and a great whole-grain, maple-y, wheat loaf. Hey . . . .
One by one, the Westerners, Northerners and Easterners peel away from this Southern core, because they realize they have heard enough about peach cobbler when it is apparent the Southern core is just getting started.
It is an amazing thing. Over the years, I have noticed that, wherever I travel, domestic or overseas, when I mention to a local that I am from San Diego, that local will immediately say, "Oh, I've got a sister in Chula Vista!" Chula Vista is a principal city in the San Diego metropolitan area, and I have often thought I should stand on a street corner there and announce in a strong voice, "I have been to Italy!" and see how many women stop, and turn, and say, "I have kinfolks there!"
Likewise in a circle of the peach cobbler-savvy, every person's mother, or grandmother, in the group makes, or made, the best peach cobbler on the planet. Including my grandmother Susie. Her secret was the bottom crust, only it was not a crust so much as it was a peachy, steamy, savory-sweet dumpling. I have tried and tried, and every time, my bottom crust gets brown on the bottom and thus becomes as ordinary as pie crust. I brag about Susie's bottom crust, to the extent that soon most of the core has peeled away, save for an exceptionally polite Southerner or two who don't want to see me standing alone, naked as an artichoke heart, gushing to no one about a dumpling bottom crust.
Then last night I made a discovery. I lunched yesterday with Jon Standefer, my old Texas pal, at The Fish Market on the bay in San Diego. When we were finished, there were three slices of sourdough bread left, thick and slightly toasted at the edges. I asked Oscar, the oyster bar chef, to put them in a bag to take home.
Last night I put the slices in the bottom of a baking dish and spooned in a middle-sized can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew. The weather had turned sprinkly and I was aiming for something simple and hearty. I heated it for half an hour in a 325 toaster oven. The result was excellent. I fished to the bottom and cut off a bite of bread, now soft and steamy and sauced, and not only did it hit the spot, it reminded me of a dumpling. A very good dumpling, in fact. Dumplings are not all that hard to make, but if simple and hearty is your aim, why not use thick-sliced sourdough instead?
Then, just now, as I was sitting down to write this, I asked myself: What if you made peach cobbler with thick sourdough slices for the bottom crust? If I had a Webcam, you would see that my cheeks have become rosy, my teeth are showing, and my eyes are a roaring hazel. Don't try this at home until I have experimented; it may not work with peaches. But it damn sure does with Dinty Moore Beef Stew. Try it sometime. Just be sure the sourdough is an inch thick and has a good bite, not that cottony supermarket stuff. Trader Joe's has good sourdough, and a great whole-grain, maple-y, wheat loaf. Hey . . . .
December 26, 2008
Black-eyed peas for New Year's
You can research the reason why Southerners eat black-eyed peas on New Year's Day for good luck, and you can find some engaging, interesting symbolism, such as, "the peas swell when they are cooking, just as your luck will swell in the New Year."
As a Southerner, I wouldn't doubt that for a minute, even if it does not exactly make my eyes mist over. But if that is a little more symbolism than you can chew, and you prefer a more realistic connection between the solicitation and the result, listen to this, which is a true statement: When black-eyes acquired their New Year's Day reputation for luck, it was because the Southern people had grown their own black-eyes, in the warm gardens and fields of summer, and then "put them up," or what city folks call "canning," in quart-sized Mason jars.
On New Year's Day, they opened a couple of these jars, heated up the black-eyes, put them on the table, took a mouthful, and in that instant knew without doubt that in the whole year to come they could not possibly do better, or feel even half as good as they did at that moment, even if a plane flew over and dropped a million dollars on the porch. A year is a long time, and if you want luck throughout, you need to aim high on Day One. And that's where the tradition came from. People who have had put-up black-eyes realize this.
Having put-up black-eyes in the urban age is pretty much a case of knowing the right people. Before his death, Cliff Sims and I were high school classmates and then lifelong pals, and when we were pals, he married Carolyn Meredith, whose parents were farmers near Roscoe, Texas. When I would see Cliff and Carolyn, she would load me up with all the quarts I could talk her out of to take back to California. Believe me, those peas were a standard most of us will never realize on New Year's Day.
So we do the next-best thing. What follows is a recipe that works with either fresh or dried black-eyes. The tradition is popular enough to cause Southern California grocers to stock fresh black-eyes in the week before New Year's, and they come out fine, but I think dried are even better. They taste more like country.
1 lb. dried black-eyes
8 slices bacon, diced
1 medium onion, chopped
salt and pepper
Rinse the black-eyes and soak 4 hours in plenty of water to cover.
In a bean pot or dutch oven, put the bacon with water barely to cover. Over medium-high heat, let the water reduce and boil away just until the bacon starts to fry.
Stir in the onion, liberally season with salt and pepper, and cook until softened. During this time, a dark sheen will start to form on the bottom of the pot. This sheen is flavor gold. You actually are scorching things a little. But not too much. When the sheen is a nice mahogany, pour in half a cup of black coffee, or water. Turn heat to medium-low and scrape the bottom of the pot to help the sheen dissolve into the liquid. In high-tone places, this is called "deglazing the pot."
Drain the black-eyes and pour into the pot (If you use fresh, just rinse and dump them in the pot) with just enough water to reach the top of the peas. Turn heat to low, cover, and simmer until the black-eyes are soft, but not mushy. Start checking at an hour.
On New Year's we are going to have our black-eyes with roasted country-style pork ribs, drunken tomatoes, and good bread. Black-eyes freeze nicely, so don't be shy about making a lot. With luck, you can always have too little, but you can never have too much.
As a Southerner, I wouldn't doubt that for a minute, even if it does not exactly make my eyes mist over. But if that is a little more symbolism than you can chew, and you prefer a more realistic connection between the solicitation and the result, listen to this, which is a true statement: When black-eyes acquired their New Year's Day reputation for luck, it was because the Southern people had grown their own black-eyes, in the warm gardens and fields of summer, and then "put them up," or what city folks call "canning," in quart-sized Mason jars.
On New Year's Day, they opened a couple of these jars, heated up the black-eyes, put them on the table, took a mouthful, and in that instant knew without doubt that in the whole year to come they could not possibly do better, or feel even half as good as they did at that moment, even if a plane flew over and dropped a million dollars on the porch. A year is a long time, and if you want luck throughout, you need to aim high on Day One. And that's where the tradition came from. People who have had put-up black-eyes realize this.
Having put-up black-eyes in the urban age is pretty much a case of knowing the right people. Before his death, Cliff Sims and I were high school classmates and then lifelong pals, and when we were pals, he married Carolyn Meredith, whose parents were farmers near Roscoe, Texas. When I would see Cliff and Carolyn, she would load me up with all the quarts I could talk her out of to take back to California. Believe me, those peas were a standard most of us will never realize on New Year's Day.
So we do the next-best thing. What follows is a recipe that works with either fresh or dried black-eyes. The tradition is popular enough to cause Southern California grocers to stock fresh black-eyes in the week before New Year's, and they come out fine, but I think dried are even better. They taste more like country.
1 lb. dried black-eyes
8 slices bacon, diced
1 medium onion, chopped
salt and pepper
Rinse the black-eyes and soak 4 hours in plenty of water to cover.
In a bean pot or dutch oven, put the bacon with water barely to cover. Over medium-high heat, let the water reduce and boil away just until the bacon starts to fry.
Stir in the onion, liberally season with salt and pepper, and cook until softened. During this time, a dark sheen will start to form on the bottom of the pot. This sheen is flavor gold. You actually are scorching things a little. But not too much. When the sheen is a nice mahogany, pour in half a cup of black coffee, or water. Turn heat to medium-low and scrape the bottom of the pot to help the sheen dissolve into the liquid. In high-tone places, this is called "deglazing the pot."
Drain the black-eyes and pour into the pot (If you use fresh, just rinse and dump them in the pot) with just enough water to reach the top of the peas. Turn heat to low, cover, and simmer until the black-eyes are soft, but not mushy. Start checking at an hour.
On New Year's we are going to have our black-eyes with roasted country-style pork ribs, drunken tomatoes, and good bread. Black-eyes freeze nicely, so don't be shy about making a lot. With luck, you can always have too little, but you can never have too much.
February 27, 2007
40-Clove Beef This Time
I always run into the theory of diminishing details when I try to remember how I cooked something.
A couple of weeks ago, Karen made “40-Clove Chicken.” It was very good, and my roots told me that “40-Clove Beef” would be even better. I went to Price Club and got a couple of big old chuck roasts, onions and garlic.
At home, I made it. It was very good. Karen remarked how good it was, the first night we had it. While I was making it, I thought I should write down the details. The technique, so to speak. But I didn’t, for the very good reason that I believed I wouldn’t forget. It was not a complicated technique, and it would be easy to visualize in the future.
Two weeks later, there is one more container of it left in the freezer. I want to make it again, but I am running into the theory of diminishing details. When you are cooking something new, particularly something simple, you think you should write it down, but you don’t because it’s so easy. Tomorrow, you could do it again exactly the same way. But then tomorrow becomes a couple days, then a week, then two weeks.
And now I can’t remember: did I use flour? I think I did, but I remember at about that same time I watched Ina Garten cook Boeuf Bourguignon, and I think she used flour. Maybe she did, and I didn’t. Maybe this time I will use flour. Maybe not. I guess “40-Clove Beef” will just come out different this time. That should be the title of my next cookbook: “Different the Next Time.” And the recipes will all have "This Time" in the title, like "40-Clove Beef This Time." A recipe is just a starting place anyway.
A couple of weeks ago, Karen made “40-Clove Chicken.” It was very good, and my roots told me that “40-Clove Beef” would be even better. I went to Price Club and got a couple of big old chuck roasts, onions and garlic.
At home, I made it. It was very good. Karen remarked how good it was, the first night we had it. While I was making it, I thought I should write down the details. The technique, so to speak. But I didn’t, for the very good reason that I believed I wouldn’t forget. It was not a complicated technique, and it would be easy to visualize in the future.
Two weeks later, there is one more container of it left in the freezer. I want to make it again, but I am running into the theory of diminishing details. When you are cooking something new, particularly something simple, you think you should write it down, but you don’t because it’s so easy. Tomorrow, you could do it again exactly the same way. But then tomorrow becomes a couple days, then a week, then two weeks.
And now I can’t remember: did I use flour? I think I did, but I remember at about that same time I watched Ina Garten cook Boeuf Bourguignon, and I think she used flour. Maybe she did, and I didn’t. Maybe this time I will use flour. Maybe not. I guess “40-Clove Beef” will just come out different this time. That should be the title of my next cookbook: “Different the Next Time.” And the recipes will all have "This Time" in the title, like "40-Clove Beef This Time." A recipe is just a starting place anyway.
August 21, 2006
The barbecue technique
I have received a request for directions in preparing Texas barbecue.
You start with a whole brisket, “in the bag,” as they say. You need one that is 8-10 pounds, with a decent slab of fat on it. The fat does the basting, and if you get a brisket that is too lean, it will be dry. Take the brisket out of the bag and sprinkle it liberally with salt and fresh-ground pepper.
My cooker is a 22-inch Weber. I can actually do two briskets on it, if you are feeding that many. Pile a fire of about 30 charcoal briquets (I use Kingsford Mesquite) against one side of the fire grate. On the fire, place two or three chunks of lump mesquite charcoal. You can also use soaked wood chips – oak, mesquite, what have you. On the grate opposite the fire, place a drip pan – I use a big, rectangular aluminum baking pan – lined with foil. Open the bottom vents all the way.
Start no later than 7 a.m. Place the brisket over the drip pan, and place the cooker cover so the vent is over the meat. This vent should be open no more than halfway. Every 45 minutes to an hour, flip the brisket, and add seven or so briquets and a couple more chunks of mesquite charcoal, or more wood chips. You want a fairly slow fire. If you can rest your fingertips on the grill behind the brisket for two or three seconds, that is about right. Use paper towels to turn the meat.
Continue this way all day long. About 7 p.m., feed the fire one last time and let it die out overnight. In the morning, wrap the cooled brisket loosely in foil. Empty the drippings into a saucepan. Put a little water and vinegar in the drip pan and heat it carefully on the stove to loosen up burned-on drippings and add these to the saucepan. Place the saucepan in the freezer until the fat hardens on top. Remove the fat, carefully warm the drippings, and strain them into a separate saucepan. Add a small bottle of ordinary barbecue sauce (I use KC Masterpiece) and heat through to blend drippings and sauce. Add fresh-ground black pepper to taste, a splash more vinegar, and a tablespoon or so of oregano.
When you’re ready to eat, trim the excess fat off the brisket and slice it across the grain into long, thin slices. Place the slices on foil for easy handling and reheat in the Weber. Warm the sauce and serve it on the side.
Use the same fire technique for baby back ribs. Sprinkle three or four racks of ribs with salt, pepper, celery salt, garlic powder, paprika and oregano. Tend them hourly just as you do with brisket, but the ribs only take three or four hours.
You start with a whole brisket, “in the bag,” as they say. You need one that is 8-10 pounds, with a decent slab of fat on it. The fat does the basting, and if you get a brisket that is too lean, it will be dry. Take the brisket out of the bag and sprinkle it liberally with salt and fresh-ground pepper.
My cooker is a 22-inch Weber. I can actually do two briskets on it, if you are feeding that many. Pile a fire of about 30 charcoal briquets (I use Kingsford Mesquite) against one side of the fire grate. On the fire, place two or three chunks of lump mesquite charcoal. You can also use soaked wood chips – oak, mesquite, what have you. On the grate opposite the fire, place a drip pan – I use a big, rectangular aluminum baking pan – lined with foil. Open the bottom vents all the way.
Start no later than 7 a.m. Place the brisket over the drip pan, and place the cooker cover so the vent is over the meat. This vent should be open no more than halfway. Every 45 minutes to an hour, flip the brisket, and add seven or so briquets and a couple more chunks of mesquite charcoal, or more wood chips. You want a fairly slow fire. If you can rest your fingertips on the grill behind the brisket for two or three seconds, that is about right. Use paper towels to turn the meat.
Continue this way all day long. About 7 p.m., feed the fire one last time and let it die out overnight. In the morning, wrap the cooled brisket loosely in foil. Empty the drippings into a saucepan. Put a little water and vinegar in the drip pan and heat it carefully on the stove to loosen up burned-on drippings and add these to the saucepan. Place the saucepan in the freezer until the fat hardens on top. Remove the fat, carefully warm the drippings, and strain them into a separate saucepan. Add a small bottle of ordinary barbecue sauce (I use KC Masterpiece) and heat through to blend drippings and sauce. Add fresh-ground black pepper to taste, a splash more vinegar, and a tablespoon or so of oregano.
When you’re ready to eat, trim the excess fat off the brisket and slice it across the grain into long, thin slices. Place the slices on foil for easy handling and reheat in the Weber. Warm the sauce and serve it on the side.
Use the same fire technique for baby back ribs. Sprinkle three or four racks of ribs with salt, pepper, celery salt, garlic powder, paprika and oregano. Tend them hourly just as you do with brisket, but the ribs only take three or four hours.
August 05, 2006
Eggs Bob
We actually had a sunrise this morning. I pay so much attention to sunrises because we can see the entire sunrise horizon from Alta Mira, all 47 degrees of it, from the summer solstice in June to the winter solstice in December. From the glider, we can tell where we are on the calendar by the place where the sun comes up.
This morning, I want to introduce “Eggs Bob.” No doubt there are other recipes similar to this one, and that predate it by years or hundreds of years, but Eggs Bob is, I am sure, unique in its origin.
“Bob” is Bob Cluck, whom I have known since grade school, in Abilene, Texas, in the 1950s. He and Marilyn, who are looking at either their 41st or 42nd anniversary, were in California sightseeing along Big Sur last week, and they drove down to San Diego to see us. Bob is an interesting man (just ask Marilyn), with an inquiring turn of mind. We always have the most interesting conversations. One evening we were talking about what we might have for breakfast.
“What do you think would happen,” Bob said, in his paced, deliberate style, “if you took a Ziploc bag, put the eggs in it, with onion, cheese, whatever you wanted, and just put the bag in boiling water?”
You see what I mean by unique origin. There were only a couple of things that kept me from saying, “Let’s try it and see.” The first was getting the eggs, onion, cheese, etc., out of the bag when they were done. The second was what the hot water might do to the bag plastic, in terms of a bad effect on the food, in the time it took the water to cook the eggs. Actually, I would have liked to see the results of my first reservation, getting the eggs out of the bag. It was the second reservation that stopped me. I am leery of plastic polymers, and how they might get into food via a boiled Ziploc bag, and, if a human ate it, if cancer might just pop straight up out of his skin before he could take a bite of toast.
I announced both of these to Bob, who nodded thoughtfully and agreed to my suggestion that we try a modified version of his idea.
Thus, “Eggs Bob.” For individual servings, you need Pyrex custard cups. Grease the cups with a little olive oil on a paper towel. In the bottom, sprinkle onions, peppers, tomatoes, salsa, chopped leftover meats or shrimp, whatever you like. On top of that, break two eggs. Sprinkle on some cheese, if you like.
Fill a skillet three-quarters full of water and bring it to a high simmer, not quite a boil. There is a technical term for this, “bain marie” or something, but just use a skillet three-quarters full of water. When the water simmers, carefully place the custard cups into the water (tongs are useful for this), that should come up not quite to the lip of the cups. Place a lid (glass, if you have it) on the skillet and let the eggs cook. This takes awhile, maybe 10 minutes. The whites firm up and the yolks sort of cloud over.
It’s best if the yolks stay a bit runny at the end. Otherwise you’ve just got a boiled egg. When I took ours out (with tongs and a hot pad), the center of the cup was still slightly jiggly. I served the cups on a plate, with bacon, toast and preserves (Texans love preserves). Dump the eggs or eat them from the cup, your choice. Marilyn and Bob chose the cup, I dumped mine.
They were pretty good. I would have liked my yolks runnier, but I don’t think you can achieve that and still get the whites properly done. I have had them once again, with a bit of chopped shrimp in the bottom, and of course there will be endless variations. I plan to serve Eggs Bob regularly for company, so I can tell the story of where they came from.
This morning, I want to introduce “Eggs Bob.” No doubt there are other recipes similar to this one, and that predate it by years or hundreds of years, but Eggs Bob is, I am sure, unique in its origin.
“Bob” is Bob Cluck, whom I have known since grade school, in Abilene, Texas, in the 1950s. He and Marilyn, who are looking at either their 41st or 42nd anniversary, were in California sightseeing along Big Sur last week, and they drove down to San Diego to see us. Bob is an interesting man (just ask Marilyn), with an inquiring turn of mind. We always have the most interesting conversations. One evening we were talking about what we might have for breakfast.
“What do you think would happen,” Bob said, in his paced, deliberate style, “if you took a Ziploc bag, put the eggs in it, with onion, cheese, whatever you wanted, and just put the bag in boiling water?”
You see what I mean by unique origin. There were only a couple of things that kept me from saying, “Let’s try it and see.” The first was getting the eggs, onion, cheese, etc., out of the bag when they were done. The second was what the hot water might do to the bag plastic, in terms of a bad effect on the food, in the time it took the water to cook the eggs. Actually, I would have liked to see the results of my first reservation, getting the eggs out of the bag. It was the second reservation that stopped me. I am leery of plastic polymers, and how they might get into food via a boiled Ziploc bag, and, if a human ate it, if cancer might just pop straight up out of his skin before he could take a bite of toast.
I announced both of these to Bob, who nodded thoughtfully and agreed to my suggestion that we try a modified version of his idea.
Thus, “Eggs Bob.” For individual servings, you need Pyrex custard cups. Grease the cups with a little olive oil on a paper towel. In the bottom, sprinkle onions, peppers, tomatoes, salsa, chopped leftover meats or shrimp, whatever you like. On top of that, break two eggs. Sprinkle on some cheese, if you like.
Fill a skillet three-quarters full of water and bring it to a high simmer, not quite a boil. There is a technical term for this, “bain marie” or something, but just use a skillet three-quarters full of water. When the water simmers, carefully place the custard cups into the water (tongs are useful for this), that should come up not quite to the lip of the cups. Place a lid (glass, if you have it) on the skillet and let the eggs cook. This takes awhile, maybe 10 minutes. The whites firm up and the yolks sort of cloud over.
It’s best if the yolks stay a bit runny at the end. Otherwise you’ve just got a boiled egg. When I took ours out (with tongs and a hot pad), the center of the cup was still slightly jiggly. I served the cups on a plate, with bacon, toast and preserves (Texans love preserves). Dump the eggs or eat them from the cup, your choice. Marilyn and Bob chose the cup, I dumped mine.
They were pretty good. I would have liked my yolks runnier, but I don’t think you can achieve that and still get the whites properly done. I have had them once again, with a bit of chopped shrimp in the bottom, and of course there will be endless variations. I plan to serve Eggs Bob regularly for company, so I can tell the story of where they came from.
October 07, 2005
Riding out an egg slump
You never can remember exactly how it begins.
You go into the kitchen to make breakfast. Two eggs, basted; bacon; toast; coffee. You fry the bacon, and crack the eggs into the skillet, and one of the yolks breaks.
So it begins. You don’t think about it until the next day, when it happens again. Then it happens a third time. You start to look over your shoulder. They say you’ve had it when you start looking over your shoulder.
The technique is to tap the egg firmly on the skillet rim to make a clean, straight crack. Then in one smooth motion you part the shell and drop the egg into the skillet. It is a pure expression of confidence.
Suddenly you can’t get a clean crack. You have no feel. You become tentative. The result is a tentative, spidery crack with jagged edges that snag the yolk. With the third failurem you know you are in a slump.
You try everything. You change your grip. You straighten your wrist and cock your elbow. You straighten your elbow and cock your wrist. You shorten your backswing. You change your stance. You stand back from the skillet and up close to it. You practice when you can, but a man can only eat so much egg foo yung.
The aggravating thing, when you are in a slump, is that you never break both yolks. How is it that a person can break one yolk every time for a week? A good breakfast, half-ruined. There aren’t many greater disappointments.
The slump will end. All slumps do. You even know how it will end. You will go into the kitchen one morning and go two-for-two, and that will be the end of it, as if it never happened. You’ve been in other slumps. You know that you just have to ride them out. A slump is always in the back of your mind, but you can’t dwell on it. Your self-esteem can rot entirely and suddenly you can’t even chop an onion.
You have to think positively. You have to think of things that you can do.
Every morning you shave your face and all of your neck without a nick. You can tie your shoes in the dark. You can parallel park. You can type 60 words a minute. At a ballgame, you can shell peanuts and hold a beer between your legs and not spill anything. You can fold burritos so the filling will not leak. This slump is doomed.
You go into the kitchen to make breakfast. Two eggs, basted; bacon; toast; coffee. You fry the bacon, and crack the eggs into the skillet, and one of the yolks breaks.
So it begins. You don’t think about it until the next day, when it happens again. Then it happens a third time. You start to look over your shoulder. They say you’ve had it when you start looking over your shoulder.
The technique is to tap the egg firmly on the skillet rim to make a clean, straight crack. Then in one smooth motion you part the shell and drop the egg into the skillet. It is a pure expression of confidence.
Suddenly you can’t get a clean crack. You have no feel. You become tentative. The result is a tentative, spidery crack with jagged edges that snag the yolk. With the third failurem you know you are in a slump.
You try everything. You change your grip. You straighten your wrist and cock your elbow. You straighten your elbow and cock your wrist. You shorten your backswing. You change your stance. You stand back from the skillet and up close to it. You practice when you can, but a man can only eat so much egg foo yung.
The aggravating thing, when you are in a slump, is that you never break both yolks. How is it that a person can break one yolk every time for a week? A good breakfast, half-ruined. There aren’t many greater disappointments.
The slump will end. All slumps do. You even know how it will end. You will go into the kitchen one morning and go two-for-two, and that will be the end of it, as if it never happened. You’ve been in other slumps. You know that you just have to ride them out. A slump is always in the back of your mind, but you can’t dwell on it. Your self-esteem can rot entirely and suddenly you can’t even chop an onion.
You have to think positively. You have to think of things that you can do.
Every morning you shave your face and all of your neck without a nick. You can tie your shoes in the dark. You can parallel park. You can type 60 words a minute. At a ballgame, you can shell peanuts and hold a beer between your legs and not spill anything. You can fold burritos so the filling will not leak. This slump is doomed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)