It's always fun to see a kid you have known since grade school get kissed full on the lips by Paula Deen on national television, and knowing he deserved it.
I am speaking about Tom Perini, of Abilene and Buffalo Gap, Texas. I have a black and white photo from the summer of 1955, showing a contingent of Abilene boys sitting on a diving board at Camp Rio Vista, Texas, down by Kerrville. Tom Perini and I are in the photo. I was 13, he was 12.
Tom has been in the cooking and restaurant business for 30-odd years. He is the proprietor of the Perini Ranch Steakhouse in Buffalo Gap, author of "Texas Cowboy Cooking," and a caterer of Texas-style barbecue whose business has taken him nation-wide. On the morning of 9/11, Tom and his crew were setting up on the White House lawn to do barbecue for the President and members of Congress later in the day. After what happened that day, Tom said it took him two harrowing weeks to get him, his crew and his equipment back to Abilene. It is an interesting story.
But not as interesting, this morning, anyway, as getting smacked a good one by Paula Deen. I wasn't expecting it; you can call it true serendipity. I was channel surfing Thursday night and got in right at the top of the hour for Paula Deen's one-hour tour of places offering signature versions of southern barbecue. She went to Tennessee, Kentucky, Georgia, Alabama and Texas, looking for just the right places to represent the particular style of barbecue for which each locale is noted.
In Texas, she said, it was brisket. There are probably 20,000 places in Texas she could have chosen to get her point across that nobody does brisket barbecue like Texans. Who did she choose? Tom Perini. God, I was proud. He came on-screen, wearing his familiar blue long-sleeved shirt and straw cowboy hat and I felt like Pavarotti's brother, sitting in the audience at the Met. He showed her the raw brisket, showed her how to season it, and put it in a portable pit cooker. Twenty hours later (10 seconds, in television time), he took out the brisket, sliced off a piece, and handed it to Paula. She ate it, moved in on Tom, and kissed him FULL ON THE LIPS.
The other experts on the show gave Paula that first bite, and they only got hugs or pats in return. Tom got the full Paula. I would like to say it was his personality, and he has a great personality. But Southerners and barbecue are like dogs and food. I don't care how affectionate the dog may appear, with him it is food first and people second. With Southerners, it is barbecue first and personality second. Tom earned his kiss the hard way, making perhaps the best case ever for Texas brisket as the king of barbecue.
The Food Network Website says the show is scheduled to air again at 6 p.m. Sunday, May 31. Tom's cookbook is available at amazon.com. There is one recipe in there, Jessica's Favorite Green Chile Hominy, on page 148, that is worth the price of the book. If you gave Paula a bite of that, you probably couldn't show the reaction on TV.
Showing posts with label Cooking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cooking. Show all posts
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.
December 22, 2008
Ho ho ho for hominy
I want to share with you a recipe that is different and a good last-minute one for the holidays. It goes with everything from turkey to barbecue, it is quick and easy to make, cheap, and sticks to your ribs without too big a caloric hit. Everywhere I take it, including a party we went to last night, people love it.
I wish it was my recipe. But it's not. It is "Jessica's Favorite Green Chile Hominy Casserole," from Tom Perini's cookbook, "Texas Cowboy Cooking," available at the Perini Ranch Steakhouse website. Tom and I were high school classmates in Abilene, and he is now nationally famous for his "Cowboy Cooking" catering business.
I just call it "Hominy Casserole." This is the recipe in the cookbook, with a couple of local wrinkles thrown in (all recipes are only a starting place for what you do with it). It serves 10 ordinary people, and six who have had Hominy Casserole before.
1 cup chopped onion
four 15-ounce cans hominy (two yellow, two white)
½ cup hominy liquid
1 tablespoon liquid from a jar of pickled jalapenos
1/4 pound cheddar cheese, grated
10 slices bacon
1 cup diced green chiles (such as Ortega)
Fry the bacon until crisp and drain on paper towels.
In a little of the bacon fat, sauté the onion until soft.
Drain the hominy, saving half a cup of liquid. Dump the hominy in with the onions and heat, stirring regularly, until the hominy is heated through.
Add the hominy liquid and the jalapeno liquid. Stir over medium heat to reduce the liquids. Add the cheese and stir until it melts. Add the green chiles. Crumble the crisp bacon into the mix. Stir until blended.
It is ready to serve at this point. Or you can make it in advance and refrigerate it, even freeze it. This is what makes it so easy at holiday season. When you're ready to eat, you can sprinkle more cheese and bacon over the top, or not. (I only use ¼-pound of cheese, and the recipe calls for half a cup.) Bake it in a 325 oven for 15 minutes, or 40 minutes if it has been refrigerated.
Hominy Casserole is the kind of thing, if there are any leftovers, that you will wake up in the middle of the night and take out of the icebox and eat cold. In fact it is better to make sure you prepare a bigger batch than the people at your table can possibly eat, no matter how hard they try.
I wish it was my recipe. But it's not. It is "Jessica's Favorite Green Chile Hominy Casserole," from Tom Perini's cookbook, "Texas Cowboy Cooking," available at the Perini Ranch Steakhouse website. Tom and I were high school classmates in Abilene, and he is now nationally famous for his "Cowboy Cooking" catering business.
I just call it "Hominy Casserole." This is the recipe in the cookbook, with a couple of local wrinkles thrown in (all recipes are only a starting place for what you do with it). It serves 10 ordinary people, and six who have had Hominy Casserole before.
1 cup chopped onion
four 15-ounce cans hominy (two yellow, two white)
½ cup hominy liquid
1 tablespoon liquid from a jar of pickled jalapenos
1/4 pound cheddar cheese, grated
10 slices bacon
1 cup diced green chiles (such as Ortega)
Fry the bacon until crisp and drain on paper towels.
In a little of the bacon fat, sauté the onion until soft.
Drain the hominy, saving half a cup of liquid. Dump the hominy in with the onions and heat, stirring regularly, until the hominy is heated through.
Add the hominy liquid and the jalapeno liquid. Stir over medium heat to reduce the liquids. Add the cheese and stir until it melts. Add the green chiles. Crumble the crisp bacon into the mix. Stir until blended.
It is ready to serve at this point. Or you can make it in advance and refrigerate it, even freeze it. This is what makes it so easy at holiday season. When you're ready to eat, you can sprinkle more cheese and bacon over the top, or not. (I only use ¼-pound of cheese, and the recipe calls for half a cup.) Bake it in a 325 oven for 15 minutes, or 40 minutes if it has been refrigerated.
Hominy Casserole is the kind of thing, if there are any leftovers, that you will wake up in the middle of the night and take out of the icebox and eat cold. In fact it is better to make sure you prepare a bigger batch than the people at your table can possibly eat, no matter how hard they try.
November 24, 2008
Humanity girds anew against dry turkey
I posted this blog a year ago, but here it is almost Thanksgiving Dinner again, so I thought I would post it now, for those who might need the information. Also in the last year, I have figured out how to "Label" blogs, which is to say I can get it to work 75 percent of the time, so I will label this one "Cooking," for future easy reference.
Best Turkey: Shot, and Smoked
For the 26th straight Thanksgiving Day, the findings of the Kettner Blvd. College of Turkey Surgeons and Airport Relocation Committee remain unchanged.The surest way to have a moist, flavorful turkey for Thanksgiving is to shoot it and smoke it.
If you are new to the debate, the KBCTSARC was created to research answers to two dilemmas of our time:Is there a way to make turkey moist?Where should San Diego locate its new airport?The first issue is universal, or at least as widespread as those regions on the planet where turkey is cooked and served.
The second issue is local. I was born in Texas, where you can put an airport almost anywhere, but since 1972 I have lived in San Diego, California. Sometime in the 1930s, San Diegans started talking about the need to relocate their airport from Lindbergh Field to some better location.
Three-quarters of a century later, that question is still in the hands of a committee (not the KBCTSARC) which meets regularly to discuss potential locations as disparate as the Imperial Desert (a two-hour drive) and the Pacific Ocean (airport built on piers or pontoons).
The KBCTSARC, meanwhile, goes about its business casually, a pace consistent with our motto: “Not likely to happen in our lifetimes.” Our current airport relocation advice is: leave it where it is.
Regarding the turkey, a fresh bird (not frozen, or previously frozen) is best, about 18 pounds. You will need a large syringe, used originally by large-animal veterinarians but now a popular item in kitchenware stores and catalogues. And you will need a Weber kettle cooker, the 22-inch size, and a bag of charcoal briquets laced with mesquite. With the syringe, inject into the bird’s breasts and thighs a mixture of melted butter, chicken stock, and a couple tablespoons of sherry. In this mixture, saturate a clean dishcloth and place it over the bird.
Build small, 20-briquet fires on either side of the fire grate. Close the kettle and lid vents halfway. Place the bird, unstuffed, in the center of the grille, to create indirect-heat cooking. Moisten the cloth every 45 minutes and tend the fires, adding a few briquets each time. Remove the cloth the last hour of cooking and inject the bird again. Cooking time should be about four hours. When a thigh wiggles freely, he is done. When he is finished, he will come out with a deep mahogany glaze.
But he won’t taste “barbecued.” He will have a smoky essence, but he will be all turkey. Turkey is like hamburger; it remains turkey no matter what you do to it. Thus the usual accompaniments are correct. Roast a big pan of dressing, with oysters and walnuts in it. Make a mess of giblet gravy, and sprinkle a quarter-cup of leftover coffee on the giblets as they are sautéing. Make a big pan of oven-roasted (350 degrees) vegetables: new potatoes, onions, carrots, red and green bell peppers, broccoli stalks, all chunked and tossed with a little olive oil, salt and pepper. When these are starting to get tender, add the broccoli florets and plenty of crimini mushrooms and let it go another 15 minutes.
Have fresh white bread and a full jar of mayonnaise ready for the turkey sandwiches on Friday. Always the best part of Thanksgiving dinner.
Best Turkey: Shot, and Smoked
For the 26th straight Thanksgiving Day, the findings of the Kettner Blvd. College of Turkey Surgeons and Airport Relocation Committee remain unchanged.The surest way to have a moist, flavorful turkey for Thanksgiving is to shoot it and smoke it.
If you are new to the debate, the KBCTSARC was created to research answers to two dilemmas of our time:Is there a way to make turkey moist?Where should San Diego locate its new airport?The first issue is universal, or at least as widespread as those regions on the planet where turkey is cooked and served.
The second issue is local. I was born in Texas, where you can put an airport almost anywhere, but since 1972 I have lived in San Diego, California. Sometime in the 1930s, San Diegans started talking about the need to relocate their airport from Lindbergh Field to some better location.
Three-quarters of a century later, that question is still in the hands of a committee (not the KBCTSARC) which meets regularly to discuss potential locations as disparate as the Imperial Desert (a two-hour drive) and the Pacific Ocean (airport built on piers or pontoons).
The KBCTSARC, meanwhile, goes about its business casually, a pace consistent with our motto: “Not likely to happen in our lifetimes.” Our current airport relocation advice is: leave it where it is.
Regarding the turkey, a fresh bird (not frozen, or previously frozen) is best, about 18 pounds. You will need a large syringe, used originally by large-animal veterinarians but now a popular item in kitchenware stores and catalogues. And you will need a Weber kettle cooker, the 22-inch size, and a bag of charcoal briquets laced with mesquite. With the syringe, inject into the bird’s breasts and thighs a mixture of melted butter, chicken stock, and a couple tablespoons of sherry. In this mixture, saturate a clean dishcloth and place it over the bird.
Build small, 20-briquet fires on either side of the fire grate. Close the kettle and lid vents halfway. Place the bird, unstuffed, in the center of the grille, to create indirect-heat cooking. Moisten the cloth every 45 minutes and tend the fires, adding a few briquets each time. Remove the cloth the last hour of cooking and inject the bird again. Cooking time should be about four hours. When a thigh wiggles freely, he is done. When he is finished, he will come out with a deep mahogany glaze.
But he won’t taste “barbecued.” He will have a smoky essence, but he will be all turkey. Turkey is like hamburger; it remains turkey no matter what you do to it. Thus the usual accompaniments are correct. Roast a big pan of dressing, with oysters and walnuts in it. Make a mess of giblet gravy, and sprinkle a quarter-cup of leftover coffee on the giblets as they are sautéing. Make a big pan of oven-roasted (350 degrees) vegetables: new potatoes, onions, carrots, red and green bell peppers, broccoli stalks, all chunked and tossed with a little olive oil, salt and pepper. When these are starting to get tender, add the broccoli florets and plenty of crimini mushrooms and let it go another 15 minutes.
Have fresh white bread and a full jar of mayonnaise ready for the turkey sandwiches on Friday. Always the best part of Thanksgiving dinner.
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