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.
May 29, 2009
Archives: Jan. 10, 1990 - an illuminating moon
Life is totally complicated, and trying to understand it takes a lot of work. At unexpected moments during that work, you might be looking at something and suddenly everything will "line up." This is a story, published Thursday, Jan. 10, 1990, about one of those moments that, for me, arrived on the evening of Jan. 8.
Looking at the moon Tuesday night, I felt a sudden awareness of betrayal. Oh, the moon was innocent, pretty as ever in its full phase and unusually high in the sky for the 8 p.m. hour. It seemed to be in the company of a star or bright planet that had appeared to keep its relative position (a finger’s width to the south) since nightfall. They might have been two different stars, of course, but that would not be the romantic notion.
Through the years, I put a lot of stock in that moon to do my romancing for me. Most people have. For reasons of their own – and every human on the planet comes as a complete set of reasons of his or her own – people don’t trust themselves to get the job done.
A few people admit that, but it takes enormous courage. You confess your fears – be yourself in other words – and take your chances. Most people won’t go that far. They don’t want to take a chance; they want to get the girl. So even if they could, they won’t present themselves directly. They send what lovers have in common: the moon, the stars, the sky, the sun, the clouds, rain, the ocean, music, champagne, roses and Baby Ruths. It seems very romantic, but romance with the moon as intermediary is mostly an exercise in managing fear.
It would be funny if it weren’t also sad. Those who were doing their first romancing in the 1950s will remember the late, great Tommy Edwards, singing “Please Mr. Sun.” It sounded romantic at the time, but here was a man scared out of his mind. He begged brooks, wind, raindrops, rainbows and moonbeams, among others, to do his romancing for him, with Mr. Sun watching to see they all did. Some of us did Tommy one better. We took all his stuff, and the song, and sent it along as our personal John Alden. It’s amazing, the binding power we give to simple songs. I doubt that my high school girlfriend and I will ever speak again, but neither of us is likely to hear (I am blushing now) “Susie Darlin’” without feeling emotion for days and nights of long ago.
Chris Isaak, singing in the late 1980s, more or less put his finger on it: “Strange, what desire makes foolish people do.” It makes them bay at the moon for one thing. That night, head thrown back, face turned up to the moon, I was a person very much in the baying position. It was the same position foolish people everywhere assume, beaming the most heartfelt romantic thoughts at the moon as if it were a satellite that would bounce them back, across miles and darkness, into the heart of the intended, who would hear, and stop eating, or wake up, or push herself out of the arms of another man, who had naturally brought roses and champagne.
I turned around and looked at my shadow on the driveway and laughed. Then I stared at the moon again and for the first time saw it simply staring back, powerless to commune with anyone but me. I was the betrayer. And the betrayed was time, amounting to years and decades, time on both sides, lost to foolishness, left for fools to measure, in remembered melodies and spent corks and crumbled petals, by the forgiving light of the moon.
For the moment I was angry. But it was a beautiful night, clear and warm and unexacting. The moon moved on, just out of Orion’s reach. I stayed out awhile, wondering how beauty is shared, among fearless lovers.
The next morning I went out to start the car to take my son to school. It was 6:15, and the moon was just setting, in the north-northwest, in the same place the sun would set if it were June, near the solstice. The moon was as gold as a setting sun, and puddled the same way at the horizon. I watched it until it was gone, thinking how romantic it was, or maybe just very personal, that the moon should set at the dawn of this particular day.
Looking at the moon Tuesday night, I felt a sudden awareness of betrayal. Oh, the moon was innocent, pretty as ever in its full phase and unusually high in the sky for the 8 p.m. hour. It seemed to be in the company of a star or bright planet that had appeared to keep its relative position (a finger’s width to the south) since nightfall. They might have been two different stars, of course, but that would not be the romantic notion.
Through the years, I put a lot of stock in that moon to do my romancing for me. Most people have. For reasons of their own – and every human on the planet comes as a complete set of reasons of his or her own – people don’t trust themselves to get the job done.
A few people admit that, but it takes enormous courage. You confess your fears – be yourself in other words – and take your chances. Most people won’t go that far. They don’t want to take a chance; they want to get the girl. So even if they could, they won’t present themselves directly. They send what lovers have in common: the moon, the stars, the sky, the sun, the clouds, rain, the ocean, music, champagne, roses and Baby Ruths. It seems very romantic, but romance with the moon as intermediary is mostly an exercise in managing fear.
It would be funny if it weren’t also sad. Those who were doing their first romancing in the 1950s will remember the late, great Tommy Edwards, singing “Please Mr. Sun.” It sounded romantic at the time, but here was a man scared out of his mind. He begged brooks, wind, raindrops, rainbows and moonbeams, among others, to do his romancing for him, with Mr. Sun watching to see they all did. Some of us did Tommy one better. We took all his stuff, and the song, and sent it along as our personal John Alden. It’s amazing, the binding power we give to simple songs. I doubt that my high school girlfriend and I will ever speak again, but neither of us is likely to hear (I am blushing now) “Susie Darlin’” without feeling emotion for days and nights of long ago.
Chris Isaak, singing in the late 1980s, more or less put his finger on it: “Strange, what desire makes foolish people do.” It makes them bay at the moon for one thing. That night, head thrown back, face turned up to the moon, I was a person very much in the baying position. It was the same position foolish people everywhere assume, beaming the most heartfelt romantic thoughts at the moon as if it were a satellite that would bounce them back, across miles and darkness, into the heart of the intended, who would hear, and stop eating, or wake up, or push herself out of the arms of another man, who had naturally brought roses and champagne.
I turned around and looked at my shadow on the driveway and laughed. Then I stared at the moon again and for the first time saw it simply staring back, powerless to commune with anyone but me. I was the betrayer. And the betrayed was time, amounting to years and decades, time on both sides, lost to foolishness, left for fools to measure, in remembered melodies and spent corks and crumbled petals, by the forgiving light of the moon.
For the moment I was angry. But it was a beautiful night, clear and warm and unexacting. The moon moved on, just out of Orion’s reach. I stayed out awhile, wondering how beauty is shared, among fearless lovers.
The next morning I went out to start the car to take my son to school. It was 6:15, and the moon was just setting, in the north-northwest, in the same place the sun would set if it were June, near the solstice. The moon was as gold as a setting sun, and puddled the same way at the horizon. I watched it until it was gone, thinking how romantic it was, or maybe just very personal, that the moon should set at the dawn of this particular day.
May 28, 2009
Stretch/Seasonal recipe: Unique Tea
This week's recipe isn't so much a stretch recipe as it is a seasonal one, and it isn't a recipe so much as it is a technique.
It requires a bit of planning. Go to Costco as soon as possible and buy a big, huge gallon jar of olives; jalapeno-stuffed are preferred. Relocate the olives into smaller jars and store for future use. There should be enough for about four months' of martinis.
Wash the gallon jar and the lid until it is free of olive aroma; this may take a week. When it is ready, wait for a sunny, warm-to-hot day. About 10 a.m., fill the jar with water. Place in the water four Lipton tea bags with the tags and dipping strings lapped over the mouth of the jar. Put on the lid and tighten it into the closed position, securing the tags on the outside.
Carry the jar outside and place it so it will always be in direct sunlight. Leave it there two or three hours until the tea is a very warm brown. During this time, do enough work to develop a sweat, a thirst, and a degree of fatigue. Carry the jar of tea inside. Be careful; it will be very warm to sort of hot. Remove the lid and pull out the tea bags.
Get a quart-sized glass; a Mason jar is best. Squeeze into it half a lemon, then fill it with ice. With one smooth motion, pour the glass full of the hot tea, and as soon as it is full, start counting to five, not slowly, but with restraint. As soon as you reach five, drink all the tea. The first couple of mouthfuls will be almost cold, but then will arrive swirls of cold and warmth, like an ice-and-tea parfait.
When you have drunk it all, you will wish it wasn’t over. You won't want a second glass. This is an experience unique to specific conditions. Refrigerate the remaining tea immediately, before it gets cloudy, and drink in the usual way.
It requires a bit of planning. Go to Costco as soon as possible and buy a big, huge gallon jar of olives; jalapeno-stuffed are preferred. Relocate the olives into smaller jars and store for future use. There should be enough for about four months' of martinis.
Wash the gallon jar and the lid until it is free of olive aroma; this may take a week. When it is ready, wait for a sunny, warm-to-hot day. About 10 a.m., fill the jar with water. Place in the water four Lipton tea bags with the tags and dipping strings lapped over the mouth of the jar. Put on the lid and tighten it into the closed position, securing the tags on the outside.
Carry the jar outside and place it so it will always be in direct sunlight. Leave it there two or three hours until the tea is a very warm brown. During this time, do enough work to develop a sweat, a thirst, and a degree of fatigue. Carry the jar of tea inside. Be careful; it will be very warm to sort of hot. Remove the lid and pull out the tea bags.
Get a quart-sized glass; a Mason jar is best. Squeeze into it half a lemon, then fill it with ice. With one smooth motion, pour the glass full of the hot tea, and as soon as it is full, start counting to five, not slowly, but with restraint. As soon as you reach five, drink all the tea. The first couple of mouthfuls will be almost cold, but then will arrive swirls of cold and warmth, like an ice-and-tea parfait.
When you have drunk it all, you will wish it wasn’t over. You won't want a second glass. This is an experience unique to specific conditions. Refrigerate the remaining tea immediately, before it gets cloudy, and drink in the usual way.
May 27, 2009
One last ride in the Fiat
I get all warm and fuzzy, thinking Fiat may come back to America. I bought a brand new Fiat Spyder in 1970 for $3,600 and drove it for more than 20 years. It was a great car. Just how great was provided by comparing it to my prior car, a 1967 Chevy Chevelle 396 SuperSport. When I parked the Chevelle at the dealers and drove away in the Fiat, with the top down, I experienced a feeling with which I was not familiar. I could feel the street. When I turned a corner, I felt I could turn it at speeds that would have sent the Chevelle tumbling tires over hardtop into the woods or the fronts of department stores.
Let me tell you a story. There was a time when I smoked and drank. I still drink, but I don't smoke, and I no longer drink behind the wheel. That was not the case one Sunday afternoon when my former wife, the mother of my children, and I went for a spin in the new Fiat around Lake Abilene. I had a Winston in one hand, a scotch in the other. We were going about 50. It was hard to go less than 50 in a 1970 Fiat Spyder. A squirrel darted across the road. I steered left, then right, but coming back right, I oversteered, as encumbered as I was.
The Fiat went into a slide. Not a skid. A slide. The rear end broke free and led us into a circular slide, maybe twice in a circle, and then we stopped, in a cloud of dust and possibly a sprinkle of J&B. I would like to say I didn't spill a drop, but I don't remember. I do know that if I didn't spill any, I would credit the car. It spun flat as a turntable and then stopped and sat as if nothing had happened. It was my first awareness of a car that could forgive a driver.
I loved that car. It was green, tan top, black naugahyde upholstery, bucket seats, wood dash, a tachometer(!!), a five-speed manual transmission, and a four-cylinder engine which was all the power the car needed. The Fiat did more with four cylinders than the Chevelle did with eight, though I have to say that digging the Chevelle away from a stoplight was pretty exciting. But I had had a clue. I proceeded directly from OCS graduation, orders to Europe in my pocket, to the Norman, Okla., dealer where I bought the Chevelle – it was a beautiful metallic blue – and then had it shipped to Germany, where I spent two years swaying out of the way of the Porches and the BMWs on the autobahn. In that company, the beautiful muscle car was a bathtub.
My Fiat was the last of the Spyder boy cars. Its hood was a flat, smooth line. In 1971, the design changed. There were twin humps on the hood, that year and the years thereafter, and they became recognized as the girl Fiats. As we entered the 1990s together, I believed the boy Fiat may have acquired antique value, and I hung onto it longer than I should have. It is commonly known that "FIAT" stands for "Fix It Again Tony." I never had a problem with that, until the car aged. Its pretty wood dash cracked and the door handles snapped, but more fundamentally, the parts to keep the four-cylinder running smoothly began to disappear. It was the last car I actually tuned myself, changing plugs and points and adjusting the timing.
Then the tuneup kits started to disappear, as Fiat's presence diminished in the U.S. Fiat mechanics became as precious as restorers of Renaissance paintings. The last straw was a cracked distributor cap. I managed to find one, but the Spyder was becoming more trouble, and more expense, than it was worth. I sold it in 1993 for $1,600. I still had the last cracked distributor cap until a couple of years ago, when it managed to get thrown away. Today I looked at the Fiat Website for the Spyder, but all the models look like lumps of birthday cake icing. My Fiat was a car for a time and a place. I wonder if it survives.
Let me tell you a story. There was a time when I smoked and drank. I still drink, but I don't smoke, and I no longer drink behind the wheel. That was not the case one Sunday afternoon when my former wife, the mother of my children, and I went for a spin in the new Fiat around Lake Abilene. I had a Winston in one hand, a scotch in the other. We were going about 50. It was hard to go less than 50 in a 1970 Fiat Spyder. A squirrel darted across the road. I steered left, then right, but coming back right, I oversteered, as encumbered as I was.
The Fiat went into a slide. Not a skid. A slide. The rear end broke free and led us into a circular slide, maybe twice in a circle, and then we stopped, in a cloud of dust and possibly a sprinkle of J&B. I would like to say I didn't spill a drop, but I don't remember. I do know that if I didn't spill any, I would credit the car. It spun flat as a turntable and then stopped and sat as if nothing had happened. It was my first awareness of a car that could forgive a driver.
I loved that car. It was green, tan top, black naugahyde upholstery, bucket seats, wood dash, a tachometer(!!), a five-speed manual transmission, and a four-cylinder engine which was all the power the car needed. The Fiat did more with four cylinders than the Chevelle did with eight, though I have to say that digging the Chevelle away from a stoplight was pretty exciting. But I had had a clue. I proceeded directly from OCS graduation, orders to Europe in my pocket, to the Norman, Okla., dealer where I bought the Chevelle – it was a beautiful metallic blue – and then had it shipped to Germany, where I spent two years swaying out of the way of the Porches and the BMWs on the autobahn. In that company, the beautiful muscle car was a bathtub.
My Fiat was the last of the Spyder boy cars. Its hood was a flat, smooth line. In 1971, the design changed. There were twin humps on the hood, that year and the years thereafter, and they became recognized as the girl Fiats. As we entered the 1990s together, I believed the boy Fiat may have acquired antique value, and I hung onto it longer than I should have. It is commonly known that "FIAT" stands for "Fix It Again Tony." I never had a problem with that, until the car aged. Its pretty wood dash cracked and the door handles snapped, but more fundamentally, the parts to keep the four-cylinder running smoothly began to disappear. It was the last car I actually tuned myself, changing plugs and points and adjusting the timing.
Then the tuneup kits started to disappear, as Fiat's presence diminished in the U.S. Fiat mechanics became as precious as restorers of Renaissance paintings. The last straw was a cracked distributor cap. I managed to find one, but the Spyder was becoming more trouble, and more expense, than it was worth. I sold it in 1993 for $1,600. I still had the last cracked distributor cap until a couple of years ago, when it managed to get thrown away. Today I looked at the Fiat Website for the Spyder, but all the models look like lumps of birthday cake icing. My Fiat was a car for a time and a place. I wonder if it survives.
May 26, 2009
Carnitas in our past, pot liquor in our future
Following up on last Thursday's Braised Pork Shoulder blog, it is turning out to be one of the all-time best Stretch Cooking recipes. The pork shoulder in the bag from CostCo turned out to be two six-pound hunks, individually wrapped. We were feeding eight people, so I only used one hunk. I cut the other one into entrée-sized hunks and they are now waiting in the freezer for future recipes, one of which will be "Carnitas Houston Style," that I found (and linked to) at Lisa Fain's "Homesick Texan" site.
Saturday's braised "carnitas" turned out to be fall-apart tender and (everyone said) delicious. I made one change to the recipe as I was cooking it. I bought a big bunch of cilantro for garnish, so I rinsed the whole bunch well, then cut off the stems below the rubber band and scattered these with the green pepper strips over the top of the pork. I wondered if the stems would lend their unique grassy pungency to the meat, and they did. I will never throw away cilantro stems again.
In the whole eight-quart pot, with six pounds of pork, a couple of onions, 10 garlic cloves, and the pepper strips and cilantro stems, there was only one cup of liquid at the beginning: the cup of leftover coffee I used to deglaze the pot. After three hours of simmering, enough pot liquor had evolved to almost cover the meat. There was at least two quarts. This liquid came from the pepper strips, the cilantro, and the pork itself. I took out all but one chunk of pork and broke it (or rather it fell apart in my hands) into serving pieces for the carnitas. Left in the pot was the one chunk, plus other smaller pieces that had fallen off during the simmering.
I put the whole pot in the refrigerator and next morning skimmed off a surprisingly thin layer of fat that had hardened on top. What was left was about two quarts of pork-studded, dark, savory, jellied stock that I froze in two batches with visions of some near-future stretch recipe involving potatoes, mushrooms, cabbage, zucchini, tortillas, or I don't know what.
One caveat. The stock is still a bit fatty, which is not necessarily a bad thing, if you are Texan. But next time I will go for a purer stock. Next time, I will strain the pot liquor, place it in a large saucepan, and refrigerate that. It will make for a much easier and more complete skim. The strained-out pork and vegetables I will have for breakfast the next day, migas-style. Let's see, for $17.46 for the meat, so far we have fed eight people at a party, have two quarts of stock in the freezer, had pork migas for breakfast, and we have six pounds of shoulder in the freezer, a couple of pounds of which are destined for Carnitas, Houston Style. What will I do with the other four pounds? Gives me something other than the economy to think about.
Saturday's braised "carnitas" turned out to be fall-apart tender and (everyone said) delicious. I made one change to the recipe as I was cooking it. I bought a big bunch of cilantro for garnish, so I rinsed the whole bunch well, then cut off the stems below the rubber band and scattered these with the green pepper strips over the top of the pork. I wondered if the stems would lend their unique grassy pungency to the meat, and they did. I will never throw away cilantro stems again.
In the whole eight-quart pot, with six pounds of pork, a couple of onions, 10 garlic cloves, and the pepper strips and cilantro stems, there was only one cup of liquid at the beginning: the cup of leftover coffee I used to deglaze the pot. After three hours of simmering, enough pot liquor had evolved to almost cover the meat. There was at least two quarts. This liquid came from the pepper strips, the cilantro, and the pork itself. I took out all but one chunk of pork and broke it (or rather it fell apart in my hands) into serving pieces for the carnitas. Left in the pot was the one chunk, plus other smaller pieces that had fallen off during the simmering.
I put the whole pot in the refrigerator and next morning skimmed off a surprisingly thin layer of fat that had hardened on top. What was left was about two quarts of pork-studded, dark, savory, jellied stock that I froze in two batches with visions of some near-future stretch recipe involving potatoes, mushrooms, cabbage, zucchini, tortillas, or I don't know what.
One caveat. The stock is still a bit fatty, which is not necessarily a bad thing, if you are Texan. But next time I will go for a purer stock. Next time, I will strain the pot liquor, place it in a large saucepan, and refrigerate that. It will make for a much easier and more complete skim. The strained-out pork and vegetables I will have for breakfast the next day, migas-style. Let's see, for $17.46 for the meat, so far we have fed eight people at a party, have two quarts of stock in the freezer, had pork migas for breakfast, and we have six pounds of shoulder in the freezer, a couple of pounds of which are destined for Carnitas, Houston Style. What will I do with the other four pounds? Gives me something other than the economy to think about.
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