No One's Fool

Holiday Tamales

2009-11-21T09:02:00.000-08:00

So many tamales to make, so little time. On Saturday we hosted our annual Tamale Fiesta. Starting early in the week, we shopped for our ingredients, prepared many of the fillings and strategized how best to coordinate the production of so many deliciously wrapped packages. Setting aside the time to be together and work cooperatively towards a common goal is a rare occurrence for me these days. So when the work was over and we all sat around a table piled high with five different types of tamales, big heaping bowls of Arroz & black beans and home brewed beer, it all seemed such a blessing.

I won’t go into detail about recipes. I will say I’ve never attempted such a variety at one time. We made the usual pork with red chile-California, chuck roast with chile-ancho, duck with sour cherries, green chile and cheese and for dessert, chocolate ginger tamales.

Using two steamers and a pressure cooker helped a lot to get it all ready at the same time. Otherwise I’m pretty sure we’d have been eating at midnight.

Rellenos

2009-11-14T02:49:00.000-08:00

Chile Rellenos is one of those dishes I can always go back to if I need a burst of flavor on a cold night. The recipe here is based on Zarela's Poblanos Rellenos. Thanks Zarela!

Buy a dozen or so fresh, large poblano chiles. Wash them thoroughly and pat dry. Roast the chiles on the stove top or under a broiler. I've roasted them on a barbeque when space is tight in the kitchen. Place the roasted chiles in a closed container to let them steam. When cool, peel off the skin and set aside.

Filling:

Into a large skillet melt 3/4 stick of butter. Add a medium onion and two garlic cloves, chopped and and cook down for about three minutes. Add 1/2 cup each of chopped dried peaches, apricots, prunes and pimiento stuffed green olives (the ones in the jar). Stir and cook for another three or four minutes. Add the following ground spices: 1 1/2 teaspoons cumin, 1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon, 1/4 teaspoon cloves. I grind this in a coffee mill. Finally add about 2 cups of cooked, shredded chicken and stir together until everything is cooked through. Salt to taste

Sauce:

In a large saucepan heat 1 1/2 cups heavy cream until reduced to about a cup. Roast 8 large garlic cloves, 1 onion and four tomatoes under the broiler until they are all charred and softened. Leave the skin on the garlic tomato and onions. After the vegetables cool, peel them and place in a blender. Puree together. Add the cream and return to the saucepan to simmer for about 10 minutes. Salt to taste.

Assembly:

Cut a small slit in the chiles and remove seeds. Stuff all the Poblanos with the chicken mixture and place in a buttered baking pan. Bake for about 15 minutes in a hot oven. Serve with the sauce.

Be a cook

2009-02-13T18:34:00.000-08:00

Time seems to have disappeared. How did I manage to cart the daughters from here to Canadia during hockey season, bake cakes, skim coat cracking plaster walls and maintain a running schedule for all those years? And now, I can hardly make it from the subway to my door at night without pining for the big bed as soon as I arrive home.

It’s getting so I can hardly put two carrots together for dinner any more. Granted, the weekends still provide opportunity for slow roasted short ribs for Rosa’s enchiladas and I can still furnish sweet, moist, chocolaty cake for far away college girls. Yet, the weeknight dinner scramble never seems to work itself out without real planning and craftiness.

Take two packages of chicken thighs. Liberally rub the meat with good olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Place thighs in a shallow baking dish and bake at 375 until almost done. At the same time the chicken goes in, place two or three sweet potatoes in the oven. When the chicken is just about cooked, broil it to crisp up the skin to provide crackle. Serve with the sweet potatoes and a fresh green salad.

Take one pound of spaghetti and drop into lots of salted boiling water. Meantime, in a large skillet sauté one onion, two or three par boiled and sliced beets, some garlic and red pepper flakes. When the vegetables begin to wilt and steam, add a cup of stock and cook uncovered until the stock reduces and the sauce turns a bright pink. Turn off the heat and add two or three teaspoons of butter to finish. Serve over the spaghetti.

Finally, cook like a bastard all weekend so your freezer is full of sauces, roasts, stews and reheatable dishes. Turn on the oven, insert pot and drink beer until ready.

When the family arrives expecting a meal, you’re a hero. Everybody wins.

New Beer Fermenting

2008-11-10T13:04:00.000-08:00

Having tasted home brew, I started making beer recently. With every intention to just try one kit, I'm now hopelessly falling head over heels with the process. This is my third batch - a Pale Haus Ale. There's magic to it. It's alive. I wanted to just post a picture but it's way more interesting to watch the fermentation happening live. As I get deeper into the craft I'm learning way more than I ever wanted to know about hydrolics, physics and plumbing. I've even made a bottle or two of very drinkable India Pale Ale. With any luck, I'll live long enough to gain a certain proficiency at this so I can move on to making my own scotch.

Comfort Food

2008-10-21T16:22:00.000-07:00

How could so much time have gone by? I’m two years older, I have a daughter about to graduate college and the world’s economy is on its ear. Alas….

We carry on.
Too assuage my anxiety about the world’s condition, I cook. I sauté, I bake, I broil and ferment.
In addition to savory’s, I prepare sweets, salty types and braced beer. It all contributes to a better frame of mind and a safe place.
Why do I keep mason jars on the counter filled with sourdough starter? Why do I maintain a 5 gallon bucket of India Pale Ale conditioning in the basement?
It’s to combat the uncertainty. It’s to shout out to the Jim Cramers of the world, “You aren’t the Boss of me!!!!!
But I digress.
Preparing food settles the soul and mends the heartbreak.
Here’s to food and the people who prepare it!

Defending your food

2008-04-12T06:31:00.000-07:00

Michael Pollan is a journalist who teaches at Berkeley. His recent work, In Defense of Food, An Eater’s Manifesto, takes a fresh approach in addressing American eating and what he calls nutritionalism. Basically Mr. Pollan breaks it down to this: eat food, not too much, mostly plants.

No secret I like food. What I learned in Defense is that I like the right food, that is, food without process, food that’s out of a vegetable bin, not out of a box. By eating less of the boxed types of food product, Mr. Pollan says, we can eat better. Eating processed food leads to loss of health and weight gain.

He does not suggest a strictly vegetarian diet, and I liked that; instead he suggests, as Thomas Jefferson did, that we treat meat as a condiment rather than a main course.

All good sound advice, if you ask me.

Let’s eat just food, not a whole lot and maybe eat more leaves than flesh.

And cake, so long as it’s good cake, just a small slice and not too sweet.

Holy Bakeoff

2008-03-24T15:27:00.000-07:00

Big, fat baking weekend. Don’t know what got to me…maybe the failed golden butter cake. I pulled up my boxers, laced on my oven mitt and stormed into the kitchen for three holy days and dusted the shit out of the house with flour.

Friday was Banana Tea Bread from the Times Cookbook to regain my form.

In the afternoon, I hooked a wad of sweet, egg dough and made hot cross buns.

Saturday, as long as I was still lousy with Fleishman’s yeast I made Cinnamon buns.

While enough to make most people tear up just smelling them – I actually got to eat them. They’re good for about three minutes, of course, then they start to go south. With a shot in the microwave though, they resurrect just fine and well, you know.

I know... way too much time on my hands? Saturday I'm scrambling together a Red Velvet Cake for another lucky birthday girl.

Lost my touch

2008-03-20T16:01:00.000-07:00

How do you forget to add baking powder to a cake!?! Gawd, where has my Mo-Jo gone? I've plunged to the depths of bakery. Mija is 21 years old. You'd think I'd be able to manage a simple Golden Butter Cake with an eyes-closed-butter-cream....

I suspected something fishy when I opened the oven to check after 20 minutes and the cakes deflated like bad tires. While a normal cake is something like three inches high, these came out measured in centimeters.

All is lost...

better

2007-08-04T14:06:00.000-07:00

Atul Gawande ends his most recent book, “better, A surgeon’s Notes on Performance”, with five suggestions for becoming a “Positive Deviant.”

1. Ask unscripted questions;
2. Don’t Complain;
3. Count things (i.e., keep statistics);
4. Write; and
5. Change.

Although offered as a guide for practicing physicians, I thought this list could be expanded for other professions, well, for anybody, really.

6. Read books;
7. Cook food for yourself and others;
8. Exercise;
9. Engage in some creative activity;
10. Listen to children;

Reading is a gift. And there are so many good books available. Reading exercises your imagination. With so many personal responsibilities, worries and political madness around us, reading allows a welcome retreat. Reading lets you keep learning. No one learns anything from watching American Idol. But read a book and you’ll learn what the author knows and maybe find out something new about yourself.

Cooking, and especially cooking for others, provides multi-level, deep satisfaction. I’ve covered this before but can’t stress enough the benefits.

Exercise converts into health. Exercise reduces stress, produces endorphins, burns fat and increases strength, just to name the generally accepted results.

Creating can include almost any activity. Make something, build an object, render an image, start with nothing – add yourself and your effort to end with something, enhance your home – level your house and build a new one or just paint the inside of all the closets, sew, knit, sing, play an instrument, participate in community theatre, do stand-up on open mic night, visit your local arts supply store and just wander the isles until you land on an object that catches your attention and buy it, take a class, learn to blow glass, learn how to make jewelry, collect penguins, garden, you get the idea.

Finally, hear what your children and other children are trying to tell you. They have lots of interesting ideas. Open up to the possibility that they can teach you how to live a fuller, less oppressed life. Then act more like a child.

Yucatan

2007-04-10T11:41:00.000-07:00

I had the good fortune to spend the past week on the Yucatan peninsula. I could go on and on about the very gracious people we met, the splendid atmosphere of the Caribbean coast of Mexico and my fundamental connection with the culture. But I should concentrate on the food.

I live in one of the richest and most diverse restaurant centers of the known universe. In New York I can sample food from just about every culture. So why is it that no one in New York has yet succeeded in truly capturing the flavors of Mexico? I can replicate a few dishes at home with help from smuggled spices and chiles but I have not encountered anything that approaches the richness and depth of the food I’ve tasted in Mexico.

Certainly, you could argue that any meal would be better if you were to eat at an outdoor table under a market umbrella surrounded by the Caribean sea. But if that meal also included the freshest pescadillos (fish tacos), cerveza Sol, savory squash and arroz, then something transformative occurs. The textures of the food meld so well with the spice. The flavor of the cold beer matches the food so perfectly. We found just such a small outdoor restaurant at Punta del Sur on the southern most point of Isla Mujeres. And while the food was truly remarkable, the setting took our breath away.

Closer to Cancun, we found more refined tastes. One night for dinner we ate Sopa Tortilla with such astounding aroma and flavor that I may never experience its match. For our second courses we had Pescado de Dia which that day was a plate of right-from-the-sea grouper nestled in a rich sauce of spice and queso blanco and another dish with anchiote rich braised pork wrapped in banana leaf. All this bounty served with fresh, softly pliable corn tortillas and pico de gallo. For desert, a remarkable Mexican chocolate ice cream and tres leches cake. Oh, and a nice crisp Chilean white wine as a clear background note.

Could be the tacos de pollo and ceviche was the best thing we ate; or maybe it was the tamales at breakfast one morning… I won’t turn it into a contest, I’ll just let all those regional flavors set in my memory until I return.

Red Velvet Cake

2007-03-28T09:10:00.000-07:00

I made an awful cake over the weekend. Using an untested Times recipe, I blundered through the process and produced one of the worst tasting cakes in the history of cakedom.

While I generally work with butter as a shortening in my cakes, this one asked for Canola oil. In addition to baking powder, this recipe needed vinegar. Let’s not talk about the $9.00 worth of red food coloring…..

Somehow, the cake came out tasting slightly of fish.

Did I have some residue in the oven from the stuffed fillet of sole we made the other night? Was the canola oil rancid? Does red food coloring come from the sea? Did someone lay a trout across the cake pan just before I poured the batter? I don’t know.

The frosting recipe seemed to work and I reluctantly applied it to the cake even though I suspected something was off after they came out of the oven. If I were a better baker I would have trashed the first cakes and remade them. I was pressed for time. I had to prepare a birthday party and I just couldn’t spare the extra hour.

So how can I move forward from disaster? Everyone was very nice about the cake but no one had seconds. The cake looked pretty, funny aftertaste though.

I’ll try it again with butter maybe or with a different food color.

It’s a setback…….

Peanutbutter and Jelly

2007-01-09T12:30:00.000-08:00

Really, how hard can it be to make a decent peanut butter and jelly sandwich? You’d think the recipe involved manufacturing a chasseur sauce for cryin’ out loud.

OK, this is a rant so if you have crybaby, girly-man, casper milk-toast ears, stop reading.

After driving my kid through three states over two days to play at four ice rinks I was all but done. We tried to avoid the variety of road food generally available – McDonald’s, Burger King, Dunken Donuts, etc. – so our meals were scarce but better than the crap along the road. After the last game, we shuffled over to the local ice rink snack bar and looked for something to get us through the remaining 50 miles or so left before we could collapse into our warm hockey-free homes. Mijihita ordered a few Gatorades, her teammate weenied-out and got fries. Still deciding, I looked up and saw a sign that represented to me what this country stands for – “Peanut Butter & Jelly Sandwich $2.10.” Longing for home, I ordered the PB & J and waited.

Before I go on I just want to say a few things about God. He eats Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches. He eats them every day. The Bible says very little about this but as best as I can tell, God created the Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich somewhere between the time when he let the earth bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed and the fruit trees and when he created the great whales. And it was good.

The beauty of the PB&J is that it’s so simple to gracefully execute one. With just a few ingredients and a dull knife, a standard poodle can make one. And this is the rant – assuming the nincompoop behind the counter at the ice rink actually had something other than squid ink in his brain-pan, how could he have fucked up such an easy task? The sandwich arrived – after about 15 minutes I might add – no really – it took him this long- and it was disappointing in every way imaginable. One half of the sandwich was made with stale bread, the other semi-fresh. The peanut butter seemed to have an after taste of onion. (Did the little bastard put the condiment spreader used for the burgers on my sandwich!?!). I could not identify what type of jelly he used. It was so sparsely spread that it may as well have been excluded altogether. Did I take it back and demand to see the Manager? I’m frequently a crank, but I choose my battles and this one didn’t deserve it. Besides, the little dim wit, future laborer behind the counter was by then furiously text messaging someone while the queue backed up all the way to the blue line.

Here’s the rule – if God had intended peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to be made at and sold from ice rink snack bars, he would have required it pursuant to one of the ten commandments or something. It’s not there. I looked again just this morning. If you want a PB&J, make it yourself and don’t make the same mistake I did.

Peanut Butter and Jelly (jam) sandwich

1 Loaf fresh, sliced white bread (e.g., Wonder Bread)
1 Jar “Crunchy” peanut butter at room temperature
1 Jar Smuckers Strawberry Jam

Open the loaf of bread and take two slices from the middle of the loaf. Keep them together so the seams match up when you spread the jam and peanut butter. Now open the two slices like you’re opening a book and lay them on a suitable, clean, flat surface. Using a clean butter knife, spread a generous amount of crunchy peanut butter evenly over the surface of the right hand slice. Without cleaning the knife, dip into the jam jar and remove enough jam to cover the left hand side slice of bread. (Portions are incredibly personal so I will not suggest recommended amounts). Using as much skill as required, join the two slices together again so the seams match and the jam oozes slightly. With a clean sharp knife, slice the sandwich diagonally in half.

Enjoy with a large glass of cold milk.

Home for the Holidays

2006-12-28T13:19:00.000-08:00

How can I describe the pleasure of having all my girls home for the holidays? What else would I do but cook for them?

Starting on Saturday with chocolate chip and Swedish “S” cookies we moved quickly to dinner and a roast filet of beef with potatoes served with a fresh green salad, kale in Parmigiano and pear tatin and French custard ice cream.

Did I mention I received an industrial quality, Italian ice cream freezer for Christmas? Can I possibly overstate the new world opened up to me and all my expanding friends? In the past we’ve used cheap, freeze-the-bowl, then get crappy ice cream makers. Discouraged by the results – a combination of icy, crusty and unappealing slurp – I had abandoned the ice cream dream. With the new machine, right out of the gate I made the best ice cream I’ve ever tasted. Using the same recipe of basically cream, milk, sugar, egg yolks and vanilla bean, I made a smooth, creamy, satiny batch of pure vanilla frozen custard. The machine arrived with an extensive collection of recipes. I’m so looking forward to caramel, fresh peach, peppermint and green tea. I’ll also try sorbets, gelatos and anything else freezable.

Anyway, back to the girls. On Sunday I started the tamales and finished them Tuesday. I didn’t go overboard and just made two types – Green chile and cheese and carnitas con chile Colorado. I maxed out at about five dozen so we’ve very few left over. Sorry.

I can’t keep my girls home. But I can always get them to come back. Now, how am I going to send Hija ice cream at college?

Pear Raspberry Tartlets

2006-11-13T09:14:00.000-08:00

My oldest daughter has played ice hockey for most of her life. Hija has committed herself to double weekly practices and weekend games during the winters, and most summers, since she was very little. My daughter defined herself, to a great extent, as a hockey player. Really, given the amount of time spent preparing for, traveling to and recovering from games and practices made it natural for her to assume this position in her world. When she prepared for college, one of her major considerations was whether the school had a hockey team. Last year she was the only non-recruit walk-on at her school’s team. She made the team with basic hard work and commitment. Her friends played hockey, her little sister played hockey, her highest achievements could be traced to hockey – you get the idea - hockey is important to Hija.

Somehow, hockey also grew in importance to me. Hija and Mihijita are my children from a prior relationship. When their mother and I split up, the girls, who were very young, stayed with their mom. For some time after the breakup, in addition to all the other turmoil, I worried about the survival of my relationship with my kids. We struggled along for a while, visiting on weekends, going to the zoo and park, etc., until they stumbled into this world of elbow pads, constantly diminishing rolls of sticky black tape and mouth guards. Because I had a car and because I saw an opportunity to spend more time with the girls, I gradually moved into the role of hockey booster. Their mom has never actively supported their hockey pursuits and left that part of their lives in my hands. This has been a mixed blessing. I have sacrificed a lot to support Hija and Mihijita in following their dreams. Their mom has not. Their mom enjoyed the benefit of long winter weekends at home while we drove through snow storms towards Oswego in February for tournaments. However, what I received for my troubles so outweighs the relatively small investment of my time and energy. What I received back was fatherhood.

I came to define myself as a hockey parent. Having never played the game, I enjoyed learning about creases, cycling the puck and the difficulty of identifying the two-line pass. I also enjoyed the ancillary glory that occasionally came my way when my daughters experienced a particularly hard win or when they gained individual recognition for some exceptional hockey accomplishment. All that stuff got all over me and I was able to experience a wonderful pride in my kids. I am so proud of these two.

So where are the pear tarts? What’s this all about?

Last week, Mihija wrote me a short E-mail to say she had decided to quit the hockey team. She also wrote she was not ready to talk about it.

She met with the coach, she’s not on the roster, she’ll be home for the holidays this year instead of traveling to Toronto for a tournament.

And she doesn’t want to talk about it. This is such a tremendous choice my daughter has made. I cannot imagine how difficult it must have been for her to essentially retire from the sport at this level. I’m also having difficulty coping with her having made the decision without talking to me. At the same time, I understand how tightly wound all our emotions are around ice hockey and our relationship. I know in time, we’ll talk about it. Now it’s too soon. When I barely touched on the subject last Friday during a call she teared up and we quickly moved on.

But it’s a big deal. I’m going to completely support her decision. I need to talk to her about it though.

The Pastry
Into the bowl of a food processor, add one cup all-purpose flour, one tablespoon of sugar and a dash of salt. Add one stick of cold, cold butter cut into small cubes. Pulse until the mixture resembles course pebbles. Slowly add up to ¼ cup heavy cream and pulse until to starts to gather together. Form the pastry into a disk, wrap it in cellophane and throw it into the ice box while you cut up your pears.

The Filling
Peel, core and slice a few ripe pears. When the pastry has cooled, take it out of the fridge, roll it out to about 1/8 – 9/64 of an inch and cut out circles large enough to line several small tartlet pans. Fill the tarts with the sliced pears. Sprinkle a few raspberries over the tarts. Then, chop some toasted walnuts and sprinkle those over the top of the tarts. Finally, sprinkly sugar over the top to taste and bake in a moderate oven until the pastry is golden brown and the juices from the fruit start to pool. Serve with vanilla ice cream.

Hockey Heartbreak

2006-11-05T05:55:00.000-08:00

The Hardest Part About Watching Your Kid Take a Pounding From an Exponentially Superior Team.

1. You love your kid so very much that seeing her suffer the consequences of the mismatch makes you question your judgment of letting her play goalie in the first place.
2. You drove six hours to get to the tournament. When it’s over, you’ll drive six hours home.
3. The hotel costs $200. Gas, food and related expenses will add up to another $150. You’ve completely ignored a $4,000 consulting assignment to be here.
4. You can’t help fantasizing about the awful lives that lay ahead for the players on the other team, imagining them suffering when their hockey careers end while your daughter thrives because she has more going for her than hockey alone.
5. You feel guilty for thinking bad thoughts about someone else’s child merely because she scored a goal while your kid was between the pipes.
6. Fighting the urge to spend $30,000 a year to enroll your kid into an elite prep school hockey program just so she could be on the other side of the 8 to 0 loss.
7. Getting over it. While your kid put the loss behind her within minutes of the final buzzer, you can’t seem to stop wringing your hands and gnashing your teeth long after the fact.

Just in case anyone out there is considering letting their kid play ice hockey.

Blades

2006-10-30T08:15:00.000-08:00

No, not Ruben Blades, although I’ve used his recipe for black beans for years now, I’m talking knife blades, specifically, kitchen knives. Walk into most kitchens and you’ll find cheap, flubbery, casper-milk-toast, Betty Crocker cutting utensils. Open a drawer to look for a strop or a water stone to fix the problem and you might as well be looking for Jimmy Hoffa. Even if you find something to hone the blades, chances are the knives are crap anyway.

People don’t care for their knives for the most part because they have bad foundation materials. Occasionally, I’ll go to someone’s kitchen and, way in the back of a drawer, I’ll come across an old, rusty, steel blade with a butter knife edge. I live for these times, sad to say. With just about 15 minutes on a sharpener and then a wet stone, I can make something like that slice a garlic clove into papery thin whisps ready for sizzling olive oil.

Good knives cost more than bad knives but they last longer so why not invest a little now for something that will last you all your life.

I cook with knives I’ve collected over the years. And while I don’t take care of them as I should, if one loses its edge due to misuse (my 7 year old cutting play dough on the sidewalk for example) all I have to do is pay the slightest attention to the edge with a sharpening stone and I’m back in business.

Sharp knives are safer than dull knives. That’s a fact, Jack. A dull, wandering blade, although dull, can still slice your finger open if it slips off your tomato. Sharp knives cut where you point them. They’re also faster.

Here’s what I have in the drawer: (i) a very nasty looking cleaver for god knows what; I’ve honestly never used the thing; (ii) several paring knives that I use any time I step into the kitchen it seems; (iii) two good chef’s knives, 8” and 10”; I tend to favor the 8” because of the weight; (iv) two very elegant Japanese knives – one paring, one boning – that I once used to shave with to win a bet. I keep the Japanese knives in the back, frankly, because I’m possessive and also they cost more than usual.

Don’t buy knives for people you like. It’s bad luck. Should anyone ever buy you a knife, give them a quarter and explain the curse to them. I once knew a man who accepted a pocket knife as a present and his house burned to the ground, his wife left him for another woman, there was a lunar eclipse, his dog bit him and a tree fell on his new Cadillac Escalade. OK, his dog didn’t bite him but some of it could have been true. Bottom line is, pay for your own knives.

Field Trip

2006-10-17T10:44:00.000-07:00

While I wouldn’t normally walk around in shoes covered with oyster shells and beer, I made an exception this past weekend at the Wellfleet Oyster Fest in Cape Cod. My first visit to this festival rewarded me with an avalanche of fresh, glistening, cold, Wellfleet oysters and an unending supply of Buzzard Bay beer, live entertainment and crowds of brothers and sisters of the half shell.

This year, there was no rain, just cloudless, blue skies and fresh ocean breezes blowing over the festival. I watched a man shuck 24 oysters in 2 minutes, 3 seconds (before penalties – don’t ask); I saw dogs dressed as lobsters; and I was not surprised to have seen at least one baby dressed as an oyster.

And then there was the food. It goes without saying that the oysters in the half shell never ran out. But we also ate oyster stew, fried oysters, lobster rolls, Jamaican chicken, kettle corn, Italian pastries, hot apple cider and more. Mostly, though, we ate fresh-shucked oysters.

The going price was $12 a dozen and we made no excuses for downing plate after plate. First we tasted just the oysters, right from the shell, their salty-sweet liquor surrounding those plump morsels of ocean’s bounty. Then we squeezed just a flash of fresh lemon juice across the plate for a sweet, sour, briny combination of pleasure. Finally, we ate them with tangy, spicy cocktail sauce, washing down every other slurp with a gulp of Buzzards Bay’s excellent pilsner, lager or ale.

I’ve enjoyed oysters in the quiet of the night with Champaign. I had always thought that nothing could top that. I was wrong. Without a doubt, oysters taste just as good in the open air, surrounded by 20,000 of your closest friends, spilling beer on your shoes while dancing to live music.

Apples

2006-09-26T09:04:00.000-07:00

There are hundreds of varieties of apples; from hardy Adanacs to Xavier de Bavays. While my preferences run more towards Cortlands and Macoun’s, I can also understand the appeal of a crisp Granny Smiths or luscious Golden Delicious. I bake with dessert apples – McIntosh, Cortland or Gala. Generally I eat an apple for lunch. If I can find them, I’ll eat Fuji’s, Red Delicious, Granny Smiths or Jonathans.

Out-of-season apples sometimes lose flavor and crispness, but I push through until the fall when apples are at their peak. Here in the Northeast, we can drive out to the country and pick apples. Many farms carnavalize the whole process so the kids have more to do than watch their parents fight each other over ladders and picking poles. The farms often run cider mills that produce glorious, un-pasteurized cider.

Apple Crisp
Thanks to Steph Jaworski

Topping:

1/2 cup (70 grams) all purpose flour
1/4 cup (50 grams) granulated white sugar
1/4 cup (55 grams) light brown sugar
3/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon fresh or ground nutmeg
1/8 teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons (84 grams) unsalted butter, cut into pieces
1/3 cup (30 grams) old-fashioned rolled oats
1/4 cup (30 grams) chopped walnuts or pecans

Filling:

2 1/2 pounds (1.2 kg) or 6 cups peeled and sliced Granny Smith Apples or other firm, tart-tasting apple
1 cup fresh blackberries or raspberries (optional)
Zest of 1 lemon (optional)
1/4 cup (55 grams) light brown sugar

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F (190 degrees C) and place rack in the center of the oven. Butter or spray with a cooking spray, a 9 inch (23 cm) deep dish pie plate or an 8 x 8 x 2 inch (20 x 20 x 5 cm) baking dish. Set aside.
For Topping: Place all the topping ingredients (flour, sugars, spices, butter, oats and nuts) in a food processor and process until the mixture is crumbly (looks like coarse meal) and there are no large pieces of butter visible. (This can also be done with two knives or your fingertips.) Set aside while you prepare the filling.
For Filling: Peel, core, and slice the apples into 1/4 inch (.7 cm) thick pieces. Place in a large bowl, along with the berries and lemon zest (if using), and add the brown sugar. Gently combine and then transfer to your prepared baking dish. Spread the topping evenly over the apples.
Bake for approximately 35-45 minutes or until the topping is golden brown. Remove from oven and place on a wire rack to cool for about 30 minutes before serving.
Serve with softly whipped cream or vanilla ice cream. Refrigerate leftovers and reheat before serving.

2006-09-11T06:34:00.000-07:00

More Cake

2006-08-29T08:46:00.000-07:00

G turned seven this week. To celebrate, I made butter cream in 90+ degree weather and pulled it off. New candy thermometer seemed to fix the blubbery frosting issues. Who knew a difference of a few degrees can break down the consistency of the stuff...

Mother in Law can't say enough good things about me.

Now, if only I could convert this into some form of employment.

Zarela's

2006-08-15T14:59:00.000-07:00

Our six year old was away at Grandma’s (capital G) for the week so we went to dinner on Saturday at Zarela’s in the city. Now I’ve been cooking from her book for about a million years and for some reason never made it to her restaurant until Saturday. What a wonderful meal. Notwithstanding the frozen margaritas and shots of cuervo gold, I was in a rational frame of mind and can report with some clarity that her restaurant is seriously representative when it comes to Mexican food.

We started with Chilequillas and a fresh salad with orange slices and moved on to a barbacoa of lamb that sang to us. I hogged most of the rellenos con chile de arbol. As a side dish we shared cauliflower prepared with a wonderful sauce.

E said my sauce was better but we both agreed that the rellenos were probably the best we’d ever eaten.

And it’s not just because we had the night to ourselves, lots of tequila, no kids and no curfew.

Ribs

2006-08-11T12:44:00.000-07:00

Although it’s way too hot now to be doing this in the city, I offer up this rib-riff/rib-rant to the meat eaters out there.

On the island where the cool ocean breezes waft through the kitchen windows, no one gives a second thought to leaving the oven on for three hours while dinner slowly comes to full maturity. I know, I know – what decent American would prepare ribs in so mechanical and modern a method. Well, I would because while on vacation my intent is to stay on the beach near the ocean as much as possible and away from hot burners, smokers, pits and ovens. No easier method of preparation is so form fitting for ribs than a long, slow, low roast in the oven with a quick finish at the end on the grill. The end product so perfectly slips from the bones with barely a tug and the tender, juicy meat flavored with little more than salt and pepper just melts in the mouth.

Some cooks suggest boiling ribs before grilling, or slow grilling them over indirect heat after complicated rubs and seasonings. I’ve tried these recipes and haven’t achieved the success that results from the following:

Find some pork ribs. Use really expensive hand-cut butcher ribs. Buy Cosco cheap ribs. Slaughter the pig in the fall and use those ribs. Drive down to Ralphs and take them right out of the meat case. The point is – just get some nice, fresh, standard issue pork, baby-back ribs – at least four or five racks. (You’ll wish you had made seven or eight, trust me).

Line as many shallow baking pans as necessary to accommodate the racks in one layer with aluminium foil. Yes, that’s right aluminium. Javier Lowera taught me to roast meat and this is how he pronounced it. Lay out the racks in the lined pans and sprinkle both sides generously with kosher salt and fresh cracked pepper. Cover the lined pans with another sheet of aluminium foil to seal the pans. (This creates a sealed environment for the roasting and preserves the flavors and moisture of the ribs). Be sure the foil seals tight around the sides of the pans.

Start a slow 300 degree oven – no hotter- and slide the pans into the oven and walk away.
If there is a beach nearby – get as close to the ocean as possible without getting wet and with a shovel and several small children, sculpt a sand figure in the shape of a ten foot rotund, reclining nude woman to the shock of all present. Two and a half to three hours later, walk back to the house and turn off the oven. Walk away again and start some other kind of mischief.

One hour later, remove the ribs from the cool oven, take the ribs out of the pans, drain off the fat, recycle the aluminium and store the ribs in the ice box until dinner time. When it’s time to eat, slather the ribs in your favorite bar-b-que sauce and grill them over direct heat until they start to char – not too long or you’ll ruin all the work you’ve not done all day.

Serve the ribs with lots of paper towels and cold beer. Again – you’re a hero to all who eat your food.

Me and the Goddess

2006-07-10T09:24:00.000-07:00

…well, a domestic goddess.

Last week I headed to Broadway Panhandler in the city to pick up some cake rounds and baking supplies. I arrived just as the store was opening and had the place to myself for the most part. As I was chatting with the clerk (Mrs. Soto was on vacation), I noticed an attractive, dark haired woman near the entrance. She looked familiar but I just couldn’t quite recognize her. Then in a flash, I realized who it was. I confirmed my suspicions with the clerk who acknowledged the woman was there for a TV shoot.

For years I have admired the writing of Nigella Lawson. She wrote for the Times of London and now for the NY Times. She also has a few books out and appears on a television program called, “Nigella Bites.” I have confessed to my wife my attraction to this woman and to anyone else who will listen as well. She is the second most perfect woman in creation.

Although I did not embarrass myself, I may have gushed a little when I introduced myself to her and started talking about one of her recipes. She seemed genuinely pleased to know my thoughts and she was gracefully charming.

I am a lucky man.

Open Letter To Rose Levy Beranbaum

2006-06-18T17:26:00.000-07:00

Rose,

You have guided me for longer than I care to reveal. Your recipes have inspired me to create birthday celebrations at an unreasonable scale. I have made baskets out of spun sugar, I have molded tempered chocolate into cake coverings, I have erected a wedding cake after just six months and twenty practice cakes. You have taught me that nobody really likes to eat fondant although it's pretty to look at. Rose, Rose, Rose.

I've made classic buttercream, neo-classic buttercream and four types of mousselines. They all spread and taste incredible. (Given the amount of butter, really, how bad can they really taste even if you were to screw up?) So, Rose, why can't I get my buttercream to pipe better?

Why do my roses turn out less than perfect?

I can make a rose out of chocolate paste that actually looks like a rose. But when I try to create a simple rose, or any other flower for that matter, from any of your buttercream recipes, they droop, fade, fall and lose shape?

The only tips you have for butter creams in your book involve what to do if your frosting curdles or cracks. Rose, my buttercreames never, never curdle. Rose, a monkey can make a buttercream without it curdling so long as you let the candy thermometer hit 238.

I'm waiting, Rose.

I'm not making another cake until you let me know what to do.

Thanks.

Dinner out

2006-06-15T12:34:00.000-07:00

I braved a cocktail celebration in the city last night. One of the prospective employer firms (two interviews so far) invited me to their fifteenth anniversary party at a midtown restaurant/bar. I found it strange they haven’t mentioned anything about hiring me - - yet still wanted me at their party. I decided it was better to be there than risk someone saying later, hey, where was that guy we’ve been talking to about working here? I also hedged my bet and arranged to meet my best friend for dinner afterwards.

I arrived a little late so everything was in full swing. Young ladies in wee black dresses greeted us at the door and their little sisters handed us glasses of wine before we even set foot into the main room. Once inside, the place was packed with a cartoon full of fat, drink-thirsty wall-street guys wrestling at the bar. Out of the two hundred or so people at the event, I recognized exactly two – the CEO and the Operations head. The CEO, even if he was sober, wouldn’t have recognized me if I had French-kissed him. The Operations Head may have remembered me but he seemed very busy working the crowd. And while I’m certain the horses duvers were swell, I just didn’t have an appetite. I chatted up a few traders, finished my wine and left. Too bad, so sad, Buh bye.

Better times ahead as I made my way back to Brooklyn for dinner. Met the Professor at a lovely restaurant on 5th Avenue where we slowed down to take in the peaty aroma of a few glasses of nice 12 year old imported. Grilled sardines and a rare steak followed and then we walked down the street to a small outdoor café to have dessert, espresso, an aperitif and good Davidoff cigars.

Really took the edge off the whole career-search, gotta-find-a-job dramatics. All the same, if I land a few more consulting clients, maybe I can trash can the 9-5 idea and work for myself.

$64 Peppers

2006-04-17T14:58:00.000-07:00

Having decided to make meatloaf for dinner, I stopped by Dean and Deluca in Chelsea for the fixings. I needed some cookware anyway so I thought I'd kill two birds.

D & D is a terrific place to shop with a well stocked produce area, fresh fish and exceptional breads. I made my way through the store, gathered the meat, herbs, bread and vegetables; had them weighed and price marked and eventually landed in checkout.

I didn't have my glasses so when the cashier motioned for me to sign the computer credit card screen, I gave it my best shot and stuffed the receipt into my grocery bag.

I jumped back on the subway and headed home.

Arriving at the house, I set the bags down in the kitchen and started putting away the food. I set the onions, peppers and herbs out on the counter until I was ready to make dinner.

That afternoon as I was beginning the prep something caught my eye. It was the price marked on the plastic bag of peppers. The tag clearly said $64. This was two, domestic, standard-meatloaf orangish bell peppers. I asked the babysitter to confirm the tag. She rolled her eyes and walked off laughing.

Could I have paid $64 for two peppers? No.

Did I?

I looked for the receipt. It was stuffed into the trash bin with the garbage. I had to know. I headed outside and carefully went through my own trash like an identity thief looking for gold. There, coffee stained and wet, was the receipt marked clearly $123 for a few groceries including two $64 peppers.

It was too late to head back into the city to grovel. But the next morning, I had to make my way to D & D to chat with the manager, who, of course, saw the error, issued me a credit, gave me the peppers and cautioned me against shopping without my reading glasses.

Maple Glazed Meatloaf

1 lb ground veal
1 lb ground round
1 lb groung pork
3/4 lb pancetta
1 cup chopped onion
3 cloves chopped garlic
1/4 cup milk
1/4 cup sour cream
2 large eggs
1 tsp dry mustard
2 tsp salt
3/4 tsp dried thyme
1 tsp whatsthisheresauce
1/2 tsp ground pepper
dash cholula hot sauce (You can substitute another but, what are you crazy?)
1/2 cup crushed saltines
1/3 cup chopped parsley
1/4 cup maple syrup
2 tbs dijon mustard

Preheat oven to 375. Saute 1/4 of the pancetta until brown and transfer to paper towels. Add the onion and garlic to the pan and saute that until it's soft. In a medium bowl, whisk together the milk, sour cream, eggs, dry mustard, salt, thyme, whatsthishere, ground pepper and cholula.

In a huge bowl, combine the meat, cooked pancetta, onion/garlic mix, parsley, cracker crumbs and the wet stuff. Lightly combine it with your hands. Don't over-do it or your meatloaf will be too dense. Form it into a loaf on a rimmed cookie sheet. Arrange the rest of the pancetta over the loaf to more or less cover it.

In a small bown mix the maple syrup with the dijon. Spread this over the loaf and slide the beast into the oven for about 1 1/4 hours. Baste it every now and then with the juice. Don't over cook it.

Serve it with mashed potatoes and southern greens.

You may also add chopped bell pepper to the mix but it's sometimes an expensive proposition so be forewarned.

Slinging with the Pros

2006-03-28T10:14:00.000-08:00

I have not posted in a while. My normal routine has changed and that seems to have contributed the most to the lull in my writing. Be that as it may, I press on.

I was fortunate enough to have spent the past week skiing in Utah with 17 of my closest friends and family members. This was a welcome break from hockey, home renovation and career issues. We flew in to Salt Lake by way of Jet Blue and van pooled it to the house near the slopes. And while I could write exclusively about the powder, the time outside and the serious aches I experienced each night I should stay on point. The most interesting aspect of our house rental was the inclusion of a chef. Along with fresh towels, daily maid service and shuttle service to and from the lifts, we also enjoyed the services of an incredibly talented cook.

Pete has lived and skied in this small community for over 15 years. He was sous chef at a small restaurant for 11 years before he was lured away to cook for visiting skiers. To give you an idea of the quality of his work, our first night, we enjoyed an amuse buche of stuffed piquant peppers resting on pureed spiced cauliflower; dressed baby greens; a main course of roast tenderloin, roasted potatoes and fresh sautéed zucchini; and a dessert of chocolate espresso torte. Along with the food, we drank superbly matched wines and curiously, some of the best fresh brewed coffee I’ve ever tasted.

Each morning we awoke to a comparably prepared hearty breakfast before heading out to ski. This went on for seven days.

Predictably, for the first few days, I hovered on the other side of the kitchen counter talking with and watching Pete work. He was very generous with himself and seemed sincerely interested in what I had to say. He also found out that I cooked and before long I was invited to prepare a course. After some discussion, I opted for my chile rellenos. The next afternoon, I stopped skiing early and headed to the house to cook. Although I should have been intimidated cooking along side a pro, Pete was anything but scary and we seemed to work pretty well together. I exercised all the appropriate courtesy: I asked what knives were off limits (the new one he had just purchased that week), which broiler he would be using that evening and generally, I kept a close eye out for him so as not to get in his way. The rellenos took about four hours to prepare including a roast vegetable sauce as an accompaniment. I cleaned up after myself and even did some scullery for Pete to make his work go a little faster. The rellenos were a hit, Pete had only good things to say about working with me (he admitted later that he was skeptical at first and a little worried but that I had won him over) and I had the pleasure of finding out I can clank the pots and pans with the upper class knives.

Later in the week Pete asked me to make dessert and I prepared a free-form apple tarte. This time he watched and said he was going to use the recipe for future guests – I’m pretty sure that made me blush. (Huge blusher, I’m afraid).

All in all, it was a remarkable week.

Beans

2006-01-31T06:41:00.000-08:00

I am humbled by the quality of food writing spread out over the Internet, print media and in bookstores. I can’t seem to get through a day without reading a well thought out article on stock pots, a scathing restaurant review or a clever recipe for nut bread.

I don’t consider myself a “foodie”, what ever that is. I enjoy the basic human activity of preparing food and then eating it. I also like the experience of not having to prepare my food and getting to eat any way, say, for example, when I go out and someone else prepares my food. I do not believe the elemental nature of this process should be elevated to the alter of worship nor completely taken for granted least we lose the pleasure of the experience.

Over the weekend, E bought a Food and Wine magazine. Reading through the thick mass I was again reminded first, that I’m glad we don’t have a subscription anymore – there are way, way too many advertisements wrapped around each substantive article, and second that there are others out there who share this fascination with preparing meals. Reading an article about a simple white bean soup made me want to run out right then and get a bag of canelli’s to soak overnight.

I suppose for some people, reading about beans is as pleasurable as having a root canal. But, of course, you’ve stopped reading by now and are presently scrolling about looking for whatever peaks your interest – maybe that long sought after website about vintage HAM Radio equipment (www.antiquewireless.org/amqsoparty.htm). Yes, it’s all out there for us.

Well, I suppose all this really doesn't add up to more than a hill of beans.

2006-01-25T13:05:00.000-08:00

Mihija will have grown another year this week. And since I bake cakes for my daughters’ birthdays, I have to start gathering chocolate tonight. Trouble is, she is now attending school four hours away. I thought about driving the cake up to her and then heading back but wisely sought and agreed to advice from someone much saner.

The resolution is to bake a filled torte with a chocolate glaze, freeze it overnight and then ship it off UPS expedited delivery. It’s a risk, but even if she receives a splunched cake, she’ll still recognize the spirit behind it and share it with her roommates anyway.

I miss my first-born and won’t see her on her birthday for the first time in 20 years. I hope the cake serves as a suitable facsimile representation that lets her know I'm thinking about her. She’s not expecting it, I’m sure, so at the very least I will be able to surprise her.

Truffles

2006-01-17T08:36:00.000-08:00

Our good neighbor Samuel recently returned from Paris where he maintains a second home. We chatted briefly, caught up with the local news and tentatively planned a dinner. Then, as an afterthought, Samuel told me to wait a second while he went into his house. He returned with a huge box of truffles from La Maison du Chocolat. “Here, I brought this back for you guys,” he said.

Samuel is a worldly, artistic, gifted and generous individual. I’m not just saying that because he gave us the truffles. Once, we invited him to dinner and he showed up with two bottles of Chateau Lafitte Rothschild – “I had these down in the basement and I’m not sure they’re any good,” he said. If you’ve never had the experience of drinking this altitude of bordeaux with steaks and pommes frites….. well – it didn’t need any breathing, ok?

Samuel once had a gallery showing in Chile. During his visit, he so impressed a local baron/politico/cartel head with his related charitable work– we really never understood the story or relationship – that Samuel now has a house and several acres of land on the coast of Chile. So between trips down to Chile or flights to Paris, we don’t get to see a lot of Sam.

This is one of those extraordinary individuals nestled among us normal folk. If you saw him walking down the street you’d probably never register the memory. In any event, we’re fortunate to have his acquaintance.

Chocolate Truffles

• 1/2 cup heavy cream
• 2 Tablespoons unsalted butter
• 1 teaspoon light corn syrup
• 8 oz. chopped, semi-sweet chocolate + 6 oz. for dipping
• 1/2 cup Dutch-process cocoa powder, sifted

Method:

In a saucepan over moderate flame, heat the cream, butter and corn syrup until it comes to a full boil. Turn it off before you burn it. Ass 8 oz. of the chocolate and swirl it together. Let the chocolate melt in without stirring the pot. After about 5 minutes, whisk carefully to combine the chocolate with the other ingredients. Pour it into a bowl and throw it into the ice box to cool. Stir it every once and a while. It will take about an hour to cool off enough to make the truffles. Don’t let it get too hard or your family will make terrible comments about you behind your back.

When ready, pull the bowl out of the fridge and form your truffles with any instrument you have that will cause truffle shapes. I use an old Mepps trout lure and a toy airplane fuselage. When done, you should have a silpat lined baking pan covered with little one inch chocolate balls. Back into the fridge.

Melt the rest of the chocolate in the microwave until it’s just workable. Let it cool enough so that you don’t require a trip to the ER when you dip your pudgy little fingers into the mosh.

You’ll need to use some skill to now dunk each truffle into the chocolate then roll it around in the cocoa powder before returning it to the baking sheet. Let me know if you figure out how to do this without getting more chocolate onto your hands than onto the food.

When you’re done, place the baking sheet in the ice box until the heroes are set.

Sneak discretely after family goes to sleep.

Not Cheese

2006-01-12T11:31:00.000-08:00

With so many different places to eat well in the city, why would someone return to the same place more than once? I suppose one answer would be that we are habitual and we seek familiarity. Another reason might be because of a particular restaurant’s consistent quality. For whatever reason, we returned again last night to Artisanal for a hearty bistro meal. Manchego will by now be perking up because, as all cheese heads know, Artisanal is one of the premier fromageries in New York.

From the time we walked into the place until we left, the reek of ripe, ripening and aged cheese swathed us in its warm clammy embrace. The room is huge with tables on top of one another and with a noise level slightly louder than the No. 4 subway station at Grand Central. In the back is the famous cheese cave where the frommage oompa lumpas coddle their rinds. Music may have been playing in the background but I never heard it. The service was curt but respectful and our meal was neither too rushed nor excessively slow.

Our party of four sat in a central location but sadly, cannot report any celebrity sightings. Given the short distance between tables, however we were, unfortunately, able to listen in on all of the other conversations taking place around us. But that’s just the set up. Why do we go out? To eat of course.

We started with a very nice (cheap, oh so cheap) bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand, then another, etc. and tasty Gougers served hot in a paper cone. Next we shared appetizers of sausage, rabbit and foie gras, quince paste, figs and lightly dressed greens. Fresh baked bread from Rachael’s and premium rocket-your-HTML-level butter accompanied the whole shebang.

For our entrées we had, going clockwise from the left, cassoulet, monkfish, braised duck and again cassoulet; all were delicious. We topped off the meal with mint tea and the table shared a tarte tatin with cheddar cheese crust.

Manchego now goes back to the beginning and searches for the cheese course, which, perhaps, has been inadvertently edited out.

Alas, we passed on the cheese. With the exception of the Gougers and the cheese in the pastry crust – we ate no cheese. We had no fondue, no Selles sur Cher, Artisanal, not even a small cabecou feuille.

In truth, the bistro portions overwhelmed us and by meal’s end we didn’t have the heart to select and then eat more. So shoot me why don’t cha?

New York now has so many good quality imported, local and hand-made cheeses that the city is lousy with the stuff. There was a time when you could only get your Velveta in either slices or in great yellow bricks. Now, on any Saturday morning at the local green market, we find smiling craftsmen from upstate who offer wonderful, leaf-wrapped, oozing, stinky globs of cheesy pudding. Even our local every-day supplier has a store that we can literally see from our front stoop. Her selection of cheeses is remarkably overwhelming and plentiful.

Notwithstanding the cheese pass, we had a brilliant meal.

Champurrado rating: 2 tamales

Scotch

2006-01-05T09:10:00.000-08:00

Nothing brings quite the same pleasure as a crystal highball glass partially filled with good scotch. If the glass is resting on a 100-year old, dimly lit wooden bar and backed by a tall glass of cool water, this particular pleasure can brighten the darkest of days. I can’t remember when I first learned of my compatibility with scotch. I try to forget all the unsuccessful early experiments. Some are wine drinkers, some beer, still others bourbon, it’s just my peculiar preference I suppose.

Writers characterize the taste of scotch as smoky or peaty. Depending on the region of origin, the taste runs anywhere from highland deep, smooth and rich to talisker shrill and piercing. (Some would disagree due to personal reasons but for my money, you can take talisker and fuel your zippo with it, truth be told). With its reassuring amber glow and sublime aroma, a glass of good scotch elevates the senses while simultaneously lowering defenses. Life resumes after just one long, slow appreciative sip.

I am not a scotch guzzler. I drink scotch infrequently and usually stop after one glass. To overindulge drinking scotch is to flirt with destroying the intimate relationship it offers. I enjoy savoring the experience a good scotch provides and would hate to lose that through abuse.

I have no particular preference for scotch, save my real dislike for talisker. So long as the product is well made, I will drink single malts, blends and also mutants. Michel Couvreur produces a blend of 54 different malts that’s very tasty. That this scotch is produced in the Burgundy region of France doesn’t bother me although for some it may cause a raised eyebrow. Macallan is an excellent choice for its reliably subtle explosion of aroma in the glass, wonderful feel in the mouth and warm glow as it finds it way down the gullet.

Tonight I’m meeting a friend for dinner in the city. I look forward to catching up with all the news, sharing a laugh and thoroughly enjoying a pre dinner dram of something golden from the Isle of Islay.

Happy New Year

2005-12-30T13:14:00.000-08:00

Here’s to thoughtful, home-prepared savory dishes, warm desserts nestled in pools of chocolate sauce, fresh vegetables and greens and most of all, a bountiful new year.

Merry Christmas

2005-12-23T10:20:00.000-08:00

Twas the night before Christmas and all through la casa
Not a creature was stirring; !Caramba! ?Que pasa?
Los ninos were all tucked away in their camas,
Some in vestidos, and some in pajamas,
While Mama worked late in her little cocina,
El Viejo was down at the corner cantina.
The stockings were hanging con mucho cuidado,
In hopes that St. Nicholas would feel obligado,
To bring all the children, both buenos and malos,
A nice batch of dulces and other regalos.
Outside in the yard there arose such a grito
That I jumped to my feet like a frightened cabrito.
I ran to my window and looked out afuera,
And who in the world do you think that it era?
St. Nick in a sleigh and big red sombrero
Came dashing along like a crazy bombero!
And pulling his sleigh, instead of venados
Were eight little burros, approaching volados.
I watched as they came, and this quaint little hombre
Was shouting and whistling and calling by nombre:
"!Ay, Pancho! !Ay, Pepe! !Ay, Cuca! !Ay, Beto!
!Ay, Chato! !Ay, Chopo! !Ay, Maruca y Nieto!
Then standing up tall with his hand on his pecho,
He flew to the top of our very own techo.
With his round little belly like a bowl of jalea,
He struggled to squeeze down our old chimenea.
Then, huffing and puffing, at last in our sala,
With soot smeared all over his read suit de gala,
He filled all the stockings with lovely regalos.
He turned like a flash and was gone like viento,
And I heard him exclaim--and this is verdad--
"Merry Christmas to all! !Feliz Navidad!

Mexican Chocolate Pots

2005-12-22T05:58:00.000-08:00

Given the winter solstice you have to consider chocolate pots. Made with Mexican chocolate, these warming tubs of goo bring all things good into sharp focus and banish to the background anything horrible and awful.

This is necessary for New Yorkers right now because we’re once again suffering the consequences of a transit strike. Most everyone takes trains and busses to work here. Rarely would someone in the city use his car to get from home to say, work or from home to the theatre, or to a restaurant. There are a fair number of taxis cruising the streets but to move efficiently in NYC, you must take the subway.

Normally, I travel from Brooklyn each working day into the city by subway, and then walk over to the World Trade Center site where I catch another train (the PATH) under the Hudson River to Jersey City where I work. This gets me from door to door in roughly 50 minutes. Map quest says the distance is a little less than 7 miles.

The first day of the strike I worked from home hoping the two sides would resolve their differences quickly. Unfortunately, the news reports offered no sign of a breakthrough in the negotiations so I needed to make alternative plans. Driving through the city to get to Jersey would have been unthinkable – the traffic on the roads was turning ugly. I didn’t even want to car pool because that would still put me on the road.

I bought a bike – nothing elaborate – just your standard Pee Wee Herman model commuter bicycle. I sold my last bike after I stopped competing in triathlons sometime in the early 90’s. Gawd, was it that long ago? Anyway, once I worked out the routes and restrictions I actually made the trip from door to door this morning in a little under 45 minutes. Granted, the timing of this strike could not be worse. The wind chill yesterday when I left the house was about 15 degrees. The Brooklyn Bridge is packed during the morning and evening commuter hours so that part of the trip requires walking. The rest was a piece of cake – err, or pudding.

Method

3 cups milk
1/3 cup light brown sugar (packed)
2 cinnamon sticks, cracked
9 large egg yolks
1/3 cup granulated sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 pound plus 2 ounces melted Mexican chocolate
Lightly sweetened whipped cream and ground cinnamon, for serving

In a medium saucepan, combine the milk, brown sugar and cinnamon sticks and bring just to a boil. Remove from the heat, then cover the saucepan and let the milk infuse for 20 minutes. Then, in a large bowl, whisk the egg yolks with the granulated sugar and vanilla until pale. Whisk in the melted chocolate until smooth and glossy, the mixture will be quite thick. Remove the cinnamon sticks from the warm milk and discard. Gradually add the milk to the chocolate, whisking constantly, until smooth and creamy. Strain the custard through a fine sieve and refrigerate until well chilled, at least 4 hours or overnight.

Preheat the oven to 300°. Place a kitchen towel in the bottom of a large roasting pan. Arrange ten 4-ounce ramekins or espresso cups in the roasting pan. Stir the chocolate custard until smooth, and then divide it among the ramekins. Pour enough hot water into the roasting pan to reach halfway up the sides of the ramekins.

Cover the roasting pan with foil and bake the custards for 35 to 40 minutes, or until just set around the edges but still slightly jiggly in the centers. Carefully remove the ramekins from the water bath and let cool to room temperature. Refrigerate until chilled. Garnish each pot de crème with a small dollop of whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon.

Christmas Cookies

2005-12-19T08:43:00.000-08:00

You’re either a Christmas peanut butter and chocolate person or you’re not. Among the Christmas cookies, tea cakes, dulces and sweet breads I make at this time of year are these easy-to-construct …what…things that will make all your friends and family forgive some of your shortcomings - even if only for a few minutes.

Chocolate Peanut Butter Squares

Combine in a large bowl of an electric mixer ½ cup firmly packed brown sugar, ¾ lb. confectioner’s sugar, 4 tbs. butter (softened) and 16 oz. creamy peanut butter. Beat at low speed to incorporate. Meantime, melt 1 lb. of good quality chocolate with a tablespoon of butter in the microwave until tempered. Set the chocolate aside to cool a little.

Into an un-greased 15” x 9” x 1 ½” sheet pan dump the peanut butter/sugar mixture. Using a rolling pin, distribute the mixture into the pan until it is flat and evenly distributed. There should be about a ½ “ or so between the top of the rolled out mixture and the lip of the pan. Pour the melted chocolate on top of the mixture and spread evenly to cover.

Refrigerate for a little while to barely set the chocolate (It must not get too hard or you will never, ever, ever be able to cut the pan full into squares). Using a sharp knife, cut into 2” squares. Place the pan back in the icebox so they can set completely before carefully levering them out with a tongue depressor or other specially made veterinarian tool.

Rachael's Site

2005-12-15T05:58:00.000-08:00

I’ll tout another weblog this morning. Rachael’s Fresh Approach Cooking (http://freshcatering.blogspot.com/) is a very tightly written, professional looking food and cooking site. Rachael has a seemingly endless capacity to come up with well though out recipes, ideas, pictures and more. Last night I used her recipe for gingerbread with cranberry poached pears as the basis for a simpler dessert for E and Stumpy.

Stumps had a blast helping me mix up the cake. The smell of pears poaching in orange zest and cinnamon and the gingerbread baking in the oven filled the house. E's been working so hard lately. I timed dinner so that after beating her way into and out of the subway and walking home through the cold last night she caught a waft of the gingerbread as she came through the door. Who's better than me?

Thanks Rachael.

Baked Stripped Bass

2005-12-14T06:53:00.000-08:00

Wild stripped bass (Roccus saxatilis) is an abundant, coastal fish common to our area. “It is a delicate, fine, fat, fast fish, having a bone in his head which contains a saucerfull of marrow sweet and good, pleasant to the pallat and wholesome to the stomach . . .” as published in Woods, New England Prospect in 1634. If I cannot catch a striper myself I can usually find one or two at our local fishmonger who saves them for good customers.

The Method

Into the cavity of a five or six pound cleaned and scaled whole stripped bass stuff a bunch of fresh herbs. Use Thyme, tarragon, fennel or even parsley after sprinkling in a fair amount of kosher salt and fresh ground pepper. Place the fish on a large buttered baking pan. Over the fish pour four or five ounces of melted butter. Bake in a moderate oven until the flesh flakes when you poke a fork into it.

Serve with rice pilaf, baby carrots braised in butter and brown sugar and a fresh mesclun greens salad.

The History

Tony the Barber taught me about stripped bass. As strange as it seems to see these words in writing, I have been going to the same barber for half my life. Twenty-five years ago, after a particularly bad experience at the local barber school (times were not always so flush), I wandered into the barbershop next door. With no appointment and no referral I had to first make my way past the suspicions of the three, scissor-wielding Sicilians. After appropriate introductions and assurances that I was from the neighborhood, one of them agreed to take me.

I count few people as close friends. Tony the barber is one. When he was a young man, Tony emigrated from Italy. Raised in a small fishing village near Mt. Etna, he carries with him a love for the sea and fishing. I have yet to have a haircut when Tony does not tell me about either his latest catch, his plans for a fishing trip, a recipe for fish or a tale about a spectacular battle between him and…a fish.

And as any useless man would attest, one’s relationship with his barber is important. For a time when I was searching for some perceived truth I saw a therapist. His office was close to Tony’s barbershop and some mornings, after therapy, I would go to Tony’s for a haircut. About nine months into the therapy I came to the realization that the source of the truth I was chasing was just as likely to be gleaned from a Sicilian with a barber’s license hanging near the chair than from the guy with an M.D. hanging among the fine art in his office. Besides, I always looked better when I left Tony’s.

Ibarra

2005-12-09T06:32:00.000-08:00

We’re experiencing a substantial snow event this morning and I can’t help but think about making hot chocolate. Please don’t confuse hot chocolate with that chemically sweet, powder based instant mildew in those red and white envelopes. Typically made with hot water from an unwashed cistern, the resultant brew is more akin to brake fluid.

I make hot chocolate in batches. I make it for four or five children and adults at a time. My hot chocolate is based on the chocolate drink developed by the Mayans, the Aztecs, and the gods responsible for originally passing down the idea to my Mexican forbearers. Mexican hot chocolate is made with Ibarra chocolate. Ibarra is chunk chocolate mixed with almonds and sugar. The blocks must first be pulverized before blending with hot scalded milk. After steeping for just long enough to soften the chocolate, the whole batch is whirred in a blender until a light froth develops and the aroma of the chocolate and almonds begins to fill the kitchen. The hot chocolate is served in large wide cups with nothing more than maybe a slice of pan dulce.

Lemon Curd

2005-12-07T07:11:00.000-08:00

To speak of this substance is to identify with all that is good in the world. Although lemon curd is simply a reduction of fresh lemon juice, zest, eggs, sugar and butter, the resultant lip pouting mass rises to a high holy place among all the lesser items that find their way into ones mouth. Lemon curd is a reason to fall in love, it’s a way to create life, lemon curd, if properly administered, I’m confident would halt the spread of war, end suffering, heal the sick and cure malaise. Eaten directly out of the jar late at night eases one gently to sleep. Discretely slipping a spoon slowly down into the golden depths of the jar when no one else is around, with the lights low and the house quiet might possibly be my favorite indulgence.

I only make small batches of lemon curd so as to avoid the real possibility of foregoing all other food in lieu of this blessed, smooth, sweet and tart fusion. Served over pound cake or ladled aside fresh scones, lemon curd brings to sharp focus all of the other flavors hidden within the accompanied foods. As a filling for tarts, lemon bars and cup cakes, there is no better substitute.

Make crepes; roll a few around a dollop or two of lemon curd and serve on a warmed plate with a sprinkle of powdered sugar and a spoonful of crème fresh. Arrange berries around the perimeter of the plate and you will be a hero to all who eat it.

Grassie de Canard

2005-12-02T12:07:00.000-08:00

Truth be told, I roast a lot of ducks just so I can have a ready supply of duck fat on hand. This dense, flavorful fat lends depth and character to anything it touches. I use it to make the best fried potatoes in the greater western hemisphere. Duck fat is a key ingredient in making confit, will explode the flavor of caramelized onions and heighten the taste of most other fried vegetables.

Roasting a duck is just about the same as roasting chicken from a practical standpoint. The differences of course lie in the results. Duck does not taste like chicken. It does not exactly cook like chicken either. Because ducks have so much fat (I suppose from all that swimming and diving) they tend to splatter a bit more. But with the mess also comes the resultant treasure – duck fat. I cook at least two ducks at a time to guarantee enough duck for dinner and enough duck fat for a week of mad monounsaturated fat, throw all caution to the wind, cooking.

And while the little bastards roast away in the oven, I sauté the excess duck fat and skin along with the livers for a cook’s treat. The skin turns to cracklin’s, the livers plump up and take in the rendered fat. Served on a couple of slices of baguette with a glass of Nuit Saint George, this makes an exceptional amuse bouche.

If E is close by, she gets a taste, otherwise … well, you get the picture.

Hire This Cook

2005-11-30T11:36:00.000-08:00

In Wednesday’s Times, Elizabeth Maker writes about super star chefs who make house calls at a whopping $1,000 per person. I don’t want to tread on capitalism or anything but really, can the quality of their pork chops charcutiere really be that much better than mine?

I’m sure Thomas Keller and Daniel Boulud are crazy good cooks. Having eaten in Mr. Boulud’s place once, I can attest to the high level of art he practices. And if he’s looking to make dinner in Brooklyn some night, I have a working range for him. But to spend upwards of several thousand dollars for these rock stars and their posse’s to fry onions in my kitchen for my friends is just wrong.

Again, I’m not trying to criticize the apparent foolishness associated with the way some folks handle currency…. OK, I am. What idiot would be such a cook-groupie to pay the fortunes these guys charge!?!

Is it worth it? Maybe the answer lives somewhere in the conversation about having it and spending it. What to some is a fortune, to others is but a few cents. Or maybe it’s simple economic theory of supply and demand. Although I’m tempted to link this with the masses of starving children around the world that would be way too easy and frankly, a little far off base.

I think the reason I’m ranting has more to do with domestic wealth disparity anyway. Maybe I can work it out if I limit the scope to that.

Many of us cooked, entertained and ate a little too much last week. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. But the pleasure derived from the preparation and consumption with family of a pretty stock turkeystuffingpotatosquashsaladpie meal was enhanced by the fact that it didn’t cost a whole lot. This, notwithstanding the $90 of cheese we bought. I would not have experienced the same pleasure had I hired Pierre and his primly outfitted toadies to do my work.

It should be obvious that I prefer doing things myself. The joke around our house is that if I could have gotten my hands on the right tools, I would have cut the diamond I bought for E’s engagement ring. I stop short when it comes to surgery or any electrical work on the other side of the breaker box. Anything else is fair game – maybe that’s how I came to be so familiar with food preparation and plaster work. Sure, I will allow others to do things for me so long as I’m sedated and tied up.

But back to overpriced cooks. The real issue for me might be the abundance of disposable capital here in our small fraction of the world. Reading the Times might give the impression that there is something rational about this form of insane spending. It is not rational. It’s too much. Economically, because of our good fortune, some of us have the wherewithal to blow wads of cash on not only 3-star chefs but also industrial size SUV’s, palatial mansions, exotic vacation adventures and, getting very personal, on really good cheese.

Under our abundance driven society, people have the right to charge what ever the market can stand for their products and services. And people will pay, or so it seems, anything for the products and services if they are marketed as rare or unique. Maybe we have Mr. Ponzi to thank or more realistically, P.T. Barnum.

Please contact me to discuss pricing and terms and conditions for making tamales at your house.

Cafe Praia da Vitoria

2005-11-22T12:29:00.000-08:00

After college I worked briefly in the Azores as a shipwright for a Dutch national (mad man) who was building the largest Piver designed, ketch-rigged trimaran in the world. I used to spend my time after work in an old café in downtown Praia da Vitoria. For a few escudos I could buy a big café com lait and basically sit there all afternoon sketching the farmers and fishermen who wandered in after their workday.

The proprietor was a very quiet, stern older man who pulled glass after glass of café for the men with the minimum amount of movement behind the bar.

Although the cabinets lining the walls of the café were stocked with beautiful full bottles of porto, I can’t seem to recall anyone beside myself ever asking to drink it.

I’m sure it’s all changed now.

Why do I cook?

2005-11-15T08:48:00.000-08:00

Why do I cook? Why do I prefer baking desserts to savory food preparation? How come I believe the world would be a better place if everyone had the wherewithal to just gather to prepare a meal together?

In crisis, I cook. In uncertainty, I bake. To reconcile, I make dinner for my former adversary. To celebrate, I assemble cake. When mourning, I make stock, slowly simmering out the last bits of flavor from bones and vegetables. When I’m angry I roast meat and fry onions. To console I don’t cook; I simply make myself available to the consolee to go to a bar together to drink scotch.

To repay debt, I remit tamales. To entertain my children, I bake cookies, squeeze juice from limes, carve pumpkins, melt chocolate, peel apples (one apple – one strip of peel), mash potatoes, make gingerbread houses, griddle pancakes in the shapes of states, cook perfect over-easy eggs and eggs in a hat.

In homage to John Carroll Lynch’s character, Norm, in the movie Fargo who says to his pregnant wife, Marge, (Francis McDormand) as she is about to go out in the cold, “Ya gotta eat, Margie” then wakes up to prepare breakfast for her. For me, preparing meals for someone is a basic expression of affection. Most times I cook for others because I like them, because I want to comfort them, because I want to impress, seduce, surprise, amaze, shock or simply please them.

I don’t always cook with good intentions. I know I can make someone feel guilty by cooking for them. I am sometimes competitive with my cooking. My friend Patricia is just gifted. For my birthday she prepared banana splits with three kinds of homemade ice cream and scratch fruit syrups and purees. I got her back on her forty-fifth birthday when I made her a chocolate cake in the shape of a 45 record player. (I cast the 45’s in different colors of tinted white chocolate). Somehow the end result seems to nullify any less honorable intentions. After all, in the end there is food to eat.

By cooking, I announce myself, I demonstrate my existence – I cook, therefore I am maybe. But really, what better way to call attention to myself than preparing something good to eat?

Chocolate Torte

2005-11-08T06:22:00.000-08:00

About 25 years ago, Anthony the Baker taught me about chocolate torte. I had never made cake without flour and was surprised at how sumptuous this type of dessert could be. I made Anthony’s cake many times over the years for special gatherings and celebrations - just your standard Ooh Ahh chocolate torte.

Then, on a lazy Sunday morning with the Times spread out all over the living room, while paging through the magazine, I came across this:

This was Anthony’s cake in drag. This was a chocolate torte with aspirations to direct. I made it that afternoon, then again for a friend’s birthday soon after. After I tasted it I realized just how grand a torte could be. This dessert might possibly be the first food item to be installed into the permanent collection of Museum of Modern Art.

It’s not easy to make. The steps take some calculations and you must be confident throughout the process. You must never serve the cake without either the chocolate leaves or fresh whipped cream.

When I first started seeing E, she was close to her birthday. We stayed out in the Hamptons with her oldest friends during that weekend. I prepared and served this for dessert the night of her birthday. The next day, her best friend predicted that either we would be married or she would have to take out a restraining order because I was a stalker. It’s only cake – right?

Chocolate, Walnut and Raspberry Torte

(I’m not going to convert this – go to www.megaconverter.com/mega2/ to transpose)

11 oz semi sweet or bittersweet chocolate
17 tbs unsalted butter
2/3 cups sugar (use super fine)
3 large eggs
1 tsp vanilla
1 cup ground walnuts (toast them first)
¼ cup fine bread crumbs or cake crumbs (I know cake crumbs?!?)
2 tbs dark rum
¼ cup raspberry jam
½ cup sliced almonds (toast them)

Preheat the oven to 375. Butter an 8-inch round cake pan and line the bottom and sides with parchment. Now lightly butter the parchment. For the glaze: Melt 8 tbs of butter with 7 oz of the chocolate in the microwave or double boiler. Set this aside. Melt the rest of the chocolate in a separate container and set it aside. In a mixing bowl, cream the rest of the butter with the sugar. Add the eggs one at a time. Add the melted chocolate (not the chocolate butter mixture) and the ground walnuts and crumbs. Pour the mix into the prepared cake pan and bake about 30 minutes just until it springs back to the touch.

Cool, unmold, sprinkle with rum and refrigerate for about 30 minutes. Spread the raspberry jam on top of the cake and refrigerate for another 10 minutes. Spread half the chocolate glaze over the top and sides of the cake and back into the icebox for 10 minutes. Spread the rest of the glaze over the cake and arrange the sliced almonds decoratively around the perimeter of the cake. Back into the icebox.

Chocolate Leaves

3 oz of the very best dark chocolate you can find
20 rose leaves, lemon leaves washed, rinsed and dried.

Melt the chocolate and use an artist’s brush to apply the melted chocolate to one surface of each leaf. After each leaf is coated, place it in the icebox until the chocolate is hard enough to hold its shape as you carefully peel away the leaf. You will have to experiment with the thickness of the chocolate application, the temperature of the chocolate and the time in the fridge. When you have as many as you can sanely make, refrigerate them until serving time.

One hour before showtime, remove cake from icebox and allow to come to room temperature. To serve, arrange fresh raspberries and whipped cream to make it look like the picture. Use a cricket bat to fend off potential stalkers.

Dia de Los Muertos

2005-11-01T06:47:00.000-08:00

November 1st is All Saints Day. November 2nd is Dia de los Muertos. On these two days, Mexicans celebrate, well, death. Back in the Aztec days, pre-conquistadores, the indigent Mexican people honored their ancestors’ deaths during the later part of the year. The celebration has survived notwithstanding the Catholic Church and the Spanish invaders.

Food plays a big role in the celebrations. During the holiday, Mexicans assemble shrines to the dead in their homes. The shrines contain skulls, skeletons, photos of the deceased, candy and other edible offerings. In rural Mexico some families spend the day at the cemetery visiting the graves of long gone relatives. They decorate the site with marigolds and celebrate by eating and drinking.

Families might bring the favorite foods of the honored dead. Depending on the region, this could be tamales, mole, pasole, certainly tequila or mescal and pan de muerto – a rich, sweet egg bread.

To western sensibilities the tradition may seem odd. In fact, by recognizing and even celebrating death, it lessens the fear and mystery surrounding the ultimate ends we all face. Tonight, we’ll assemble our shrine to our lost loved ones and toast them with some of their favorite foods and maybe a sip of Cuervo.

Oysters

2005-10-28T09:50:00.000-07:00

You have to commit your most valuable asset in order to truly enjoy oysters; you must set aside your time. You can’t rush eating oysters. The time leading up to, during and then afterwards should be anticipated, savored then relished. You need to slow down to appreciate the experience.

When I think of oysters, I think of platters of plump, fresh, cold, glistening morsels resting in half shells on cracked ice with lemon, mignonette sauce and maybe some Tabasco.

You can certainly cook oysters, if you want. In fact one of my most memorable meals was in South Carolina at an outdoor restaurant near the water. The women sat at one picnic bench, the men at another as washbasin after washbasin of steaming oysters made their way to our plates. Washed down with ice-cold pitchers of beer the oysters were excellent. But separating the men and women and eating on picnic tables out in the open isn’t the ideal way to eat oysters.

When I think of eating oysters I think of cold weather, nighttime and candles. This is when oysters are at their peak. For me, eating oysters is intimate, it’s cause for quiet voices, laughter and shared secrets. You shouldn’t eat oysters alone.

Once, we received an invitation to celebrate a very cold New Year’s Eve at a friend’s house. I brought three-dozen oysters, a shucking knife and a block of ice. At one point after a few glasses of Champaign I started shucking and arranging the oysters on platters of chipped ice. We had exhausted all available counter and refrigerator space so I took advantage of the freezing weather and carried the finished plates outside to a table on the deck. Distracted by some very good music and slow dancing, I lost track of the oysters. When I remembered and brought them inside they were just this side of frosted. We let them set for a few minutes and to this day, they are still the best I’ve eaten.

In the city we go to Blue Ribbon, a downtown restaurant and raw bar with a consistent, exceptional selection. Their offerings usually include bluepoints, Malpeques and Wellfleets. They fly in Olympias from the Northwest and sometimes exotics. Every once and a while we’re fortunate enough to set aside an evening in deep fall or winter to spend a long night at Blue Ribbon, eating oysters, drinking vodka martinis or montrachet and reacquainting ourselves with our hearts.

Pie for Schaumi

2005-10-26T06:23:00.000-07:00

As requested, I’ve jotted down the pie recipe with as much detail as I can for Schaumi. This is a pumpkin pie but you can use the pastry for just about any custard. If you remove the sugar the pastry is great for egg based savory pies like onion tart or quiche. This is a modified Stars Desserts recipe to give credit where credit is due.

Pastry (enough for two pie shells)

2 Tbs (25 gms) Sugar
3 cups (300gms) All purpose flour
¼ tsp (1.75 gms) Salt
12 oz (340 gms) Unsalted cold butter cut into small cubes
3 tbs (45 ml) Ice Water

Process dry ingredients in a food processor for a few pulses. Add the cold butter cubes a few at a time and pulse until all the butter is added and the mix resembles small peas. Add the ice water slowly while the machine is running just until the pastry comes together and whirrs around the bowl in one piece. You don’t have to add all the water and you may have to add more. You can also do this by hand without a food processor by using your fingers to squeeze the butter into the dry ingredients. Plop the pastry onto a work surface and, with the heel of your hand, give it a few hard kneads. Divide dough in two and wrap in plastic or in a zip lock and place in the icebox until you’re ready to roll out your pastry.

Roll pastry to about 1/8 inch thickness. Place pastry into pie pan and create exaggerated fluted edges (because of the high butter content, the flutes will lose shape unless they’re really big). Line shell with parchment or foil and fill with pie weights (dry beans). Bake at 350 for 15 minutes or until the bottom starts to firm up. Remove paper/foil and weights and continue to bake for another 15 minutes at a reduced 325. Pie shell is now ready to be filled and finished.

Pumpkin Filling

3 Eggs lightly beaten
½ cup (108 gms) Light brown sugar
½ cup (125 ml) Maple syrup
1 ½ cups (350 ml) Heavy Cream
1 ½ cups (350 ml) Pumpkin puree
1 tbs (30ml) Dark rum
pinch Salt
1 tsp (14 gms) Cinnamon
¾ tsp Fresh grated ginger

Mix all of the ingredients together and pour into pre-baked pastry shells. Bake at 350 for about 30 minutes or until set. Allow to cool and serve with fresh whipped cream.

Salad Rant Correspondence

2005-10-25T11:25:00.000-07:00

Every workday I buy a take-out salad from the same local restaurant, an affiliate of a national restaurant organization based in Chicago. I recently expressed my dissatisfaction to a customer service rep, who to protect her good name, I've named "K". Following is our exchange:

To: XXX Restaurant Customer Service
Subject: Talk To Us Email
Store Name: Jersey City
Store State: NJ
Subject: Rant

Comments:

Listen, I'm pretty sure you are a robot artificial intelligence unit affixed to the website to placate irate customers but, hell, here goes anyway. I am probably responsible for almost $2,200 in annual revenue for this store over the past two years or so. I buy an XXX Restaurant Salad every working day, rain or shine. The combination of ingredients in the salad seems to meet my lunch needs. Notwithstanding the ridiculous price you charge, most of the time I'm happy to pay it.... until recently. Your lettuce sucks. Yes, it's brown, sometimes gooey, tasteless and not at all appetizing. When combined with the other ingredients the greens stick out like, well, like brown gooey, tasteless lettuce. If you purport to serve fresh salads, then by all means, make sure the lettuce is fresh, otherwise, you must remove the word "fresh" from the salad sign and replace it with the word "Wretched." I've brought this up with the manager du jour, Mike. Not sure if he will last any longer than the previous manager with whom I discussed this matter. However, I can't come back if 8 out of 10 salads contain bad ingredients. Today I walked out, went next door to YYY Restaurant and had a very nice cup of chicken soup. Maybe they want my $2,200 this year.

Suggestions-Ideas:

1. I know you guys are not the French Laundry, but come on, either use fresh product in your salads or close the doors. 2. Train the staff to recognize when something should not be offered to the public for consumption. 3. While I hope this is not the case, supervise your store managers not to intentionally put out old or stale food with the view towards improving the bottom line. As you can see, it dis-improved the bottom line here. 4. Act like my spending time to write this matters.
Ok to contact me: yes
First Name: Champurrado
Last Name: Venganza
Email Address:XXXX@XXXX.net
Send Me Info: no

From: K
Sent: Thursday 10/13/2005 1:44 PM
To: Champurrado
Subject: Rant

Champurrado,

First and foremost I would like to apologize for your recent experiences at my Jersey City location. I am the Regional Manager for this location and would like to thank you for making me aware of this issue. It is my, as well as the companies expectation that all of our products be of only the highest quality. Our guests satisfaction is our top priority and I am extremely concerned to hear that your salads have contained an inferior and unappealing product. I have already discussed this issue with Mike the General Manager and have communicated my standards on product quality which should NEVER be sacrificed for any reason, least of all to save a buck. I will be personally monitoring the quality of the product in this store very closely. If you have any further issues with product quality or service please feel free to contact me directly so that I may remedy the issue as quickly as possible. If you will email me your mailing address I would like to send you a few coupons so that you may get the Signature salad you so enjoy, made with only the freshest ingredients, on me. Again, I apologize and thank you so much for making me aware of this situation.

Sincerely,

K

KGD
District Manager NY/NJ
XXX Restaurant Inc.

From: Champurrado
Sent: Thursday 10/13/2005 2:20 PM
To: K
Subject: Rant

K:

OK, deal. You send the coupons and I'll have my cousin Elvira take the curse off Mike. I'm no expert on running your organization but the food businesses in which I have been involved have thrived in part because one of the basic tenets of service we followed was that new food is better food. Give a guy yesterday's liverwurst and he'll go next door to Moe’s. I'm troubled how you will personally monitor the freshness of the garden greens from way out there in WhiteSoxlandia. Will you utilize real time video feed from your desk? Rely on periodic reports from Mike? Here's an idea, I can consult with the organization as an impartial second set of eyes. Every time I catch a ratty piece of frieze in the mesclun or a blubbery, rubbery swipe of what used to be radicchio in the bowl, I report in. My rates are reasonable, I can bill out at about $320 an hour.

Let me know what you think and I'll send the standard retainer.

C

From: K
Sent: Thursday 10/13/2005 5:11 PM
To: Champurrado
Subject: Rant

Dear C:

Although my work address is in Deerfield, I am a proud New York (Yankeeland) resident and am frequently in all of my locations. In my visits to this store in the past I have always been pleased with the product quality. However, as you know "when the cat is away, the mice will play". That is why I always appreciate when guests take the time to let me know how their experience went, as I cannot be in 6 stores at the same time. I do appreciate your offer, but you would make me obsolete, and to be honest I really like my job. I look forward to running in to you in Jersey City sometime very soon. Thanks again.

K

From: Champurrado
Sent: Friday 10/14/2005 9:12 AM
To: K
Subject: Rant

Dear K:

While I can accept a little bit of brown on the edges of my mache, I cannot eat in a restaurant that allows cats and mice. Please let me know when the rodent problem has been resolved. I would never do anything to make your position at XXX Restaurant extinct.

I have also received an E-mail from a Heather from your organization asking personal questions. Is she with your staff?

C

From: K
Sent: Friday 10/14/2005 10:46 A
To: K
Subject: Rant

Dear C:

I can honestly say that I have never enjoyed corresponding with a guest nearly as much as I have with you. Never lose your sense of humor, it's great! Heather does indeed work with us although she is based out of Deerfield. I hope she has also been helpful. (That's assuming that you have found that I have been helpful, which I hope you have) I am not sure what kind of questions she has asked but I am sure it is just to build a more complete picture of who our frequent customers are and what they are looking for from us. If there is anything in particular that you found intrusive or confusing, please let me know so I can pass that information along. Thanks

Kirsten

From: Champurrado
Sent: Tue 10/25/2005 12:44 PM
To: K
Subject:Haiku

My lettuce is brown
The green of signature lost
Promises not kept

From: K
Sent: Tue 10/25/2005 12:47 PM
To: Champurrado
Subject: A Haiku

The call has been made
No more brown lettuce for you
Bad product was tossed

Pumpkins

2005-10-24T06:33:00.000-07:00

Sugar pumpkin (Cucurbita pepo) serves as a foundation to most of the fall lineup at our house. Outside of the obvious pumpkin pie [recipe to follow] sugar pumpkins can be used for most courses before dessert right up to appetizers. Be sure to seek out the smaller sugar pumpkin varieties rather than larger field pumpkins which can be too stringy for good puree. Pumpkin makes great soup for cold evenings. Make pan dulce empanadas or pumpkin squares as treats. Pumpkin can be used anywhere you might use other varieties of squash as a side dish for fall roasts or winter stews. For that matter you can cube pumpkin and add it to stews. Pumpkin bread is also ridiculously simple to make and falsely impress your friends. Canned pumpkin is fine in a pinch but the processing seems to impart an off taste to the puree. It’s just so easy to prepare your own pumpkin puree.

Pumpkin Puree

Take a bunch of sugar pumpkins and one or two small but able children and spread newspaper out on a wide table. Put good music on the stereo and locate appropriate hats. Preheat the oven to moderate and halve the pumpkins with the largest knife in the house. Do not let the children play with the knives. After splitting each pumpkin, give the children spoons and show them how to remove the seeds. Reserve seeds. Now, either (i) just flip the halves over on a buttered baking sheet and roast them until soft or (ii) first peel the skins, quarter them and bake in a wide, shallow baking pan half filled with water and covered with foil until soft. I can’t say one method results in any better or worse puree – pick one and go with it. Spread the seeds evenly on a flat baking sheet and salt liberally. Roast the seeds along with the pumpkin until the seeds start to give off a full toasted aroma. Don’t burn them. Let seeds cool while pumpkin is baking then instruct children on eating pumpkin seeds and spitting shells.

After the pumpkins are baked sufficiently, let them cool until you can handle them. If you opted for method (i), them peel the halves and place the flesh in a big bowl. The quarters from method (ii) can just go straight into the bowl. Have the children mash the pumpkin into a puree with a potato masher or other tool (large garden spade is excellent if you’re making more than 100 pounds of puree). Place the mashed puree into a large caldron suspended over a bowl and place the whole shebang into the icebox overnight so the excess moisture can drain out of the puree.

When it’s drained, store the puree in zip lock bags in the freezer until you need it.

Pumpkin Pie

All you have to do is spit to find a pie recipe. Go find one and use it as a starting point only. Ignore recipe ingredients that include “sweetened condensed milk.” It is Satan’s breast milk. If you see cans of this in your grocery store, very carefully remove as many as possible and move them to the pet food section behind the large bags of dry dog food. Substitute heavy cream and a little more sugar.

Use your favorite pastry shell recipe and pre-bake the shells just enough to stand up to the filling. For the filling, substitute fresh grated ginger for the dry stuff and stay away from anything labeled “pumpkin pie seasoning.” If this is overwhelming, and you cannot locate a pie recipe, let me know and I’ll take you by the hand and Helen Keller you through the process.

Rangers Tonight

2005-10-17T12:41:00.000-07:00

The NHL season is again under way and I’m lucky enough to have NY Rangers tickets for tonight’s game against the Panthers. The Rangers are sitting in first place in the Atlantic Division. Hope springs eternal. To make matters even better, my oldest daughter is visiting during a break from college and will be able to join her sister and me for the game at Madison Square Garden. I’m a very fortunate dad.

Although College girl has been away for only a few months, she already shows signs of influence and change. The dry land training for the hockey team, the rugby games and the weight training have changed my stick into a very compact Miss Universe. She insists we “check out the guns”, as she flexes her arms for us. I suppose it’s good to be fast as well as strong on the ice when she starts playing against the better-fed players in her league. She also conducts herself with newfound poise – must be the dorm food. She’s visiting until Tuesday then it’s back to school for the run until pre-Xmas finals. I’m very happy she’s adapting so well.

Daughter Two is recovering faster than expected from last week’s knee surgery and insists she’s good to go for goalie practice this week. I think we ought to wait a little. Short story: Daughter Two has been an enthusiastic Rangers fan since an early age. At one of the first games she attended, we arrived early to watch pre-game skate. Gretzky was playing with the Blue Shirts at the time and he was almost done with warm ups. We had just arranged ourselves in our seats as Gretzky flipped a puck into the stands, over the outstretched arms of the gorillas in front of us and right under my seat. I blocked the gorillas as Daughter Two scrambled under the seat for the puck. How can I convey the joy of seeing my 6 year old clutching that puck with two hands…..

I have to ask her tonight if she still has it.

But Is it Food?

2005-10-12T06:47:00.000-07:00

I’m distressed at the lengths food manufacturers will go to create product. The concept of “food manufacturer” and the reference to food as “product” in itself is troubling. I have a problem reconciling industrial food production with the way I cook. I worry that you can buy raw dough in your grocer’s dairy section that will bake up as smiling Halloween Jack O’lantern cookies. A large conglomerate recently developed an oven-ready turkey that has been brined, seasoned and packaged in a plastic baking bag; all you need do is shove it into a preheated oven and hello Butterball.

Oscar Meyer makes lunchables for kids’ lunch bags that contain over-processed meat, cheese and crackers. Quaker Oats manufactures single-serving containers of artificially flavored, sweetened, microwave ready, oatmeal. Take a walk down the aisles of your supermarket and look at the volume of absurd packages of snacks, cookies, mixes and goofy MRE’s.

I admit to occasionally buying pre-packaged spinach or rotisserie chicken and canned sauce when I can’t take the time to poach chicken or grind chiles for enchiladas. Otherwise, I prepare fresh. My chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin cookies cost a fraction of those prepackaged lumps. They taste better too. One single-serving oatmeal cup costs $1 at my local quickie mart. A 42oz. container of oatmeal will yield 30 servings at a cost of about 8 cents per. While I admire the crumb and texture of certain Dunkin Hines cake mixes I’m bothered by the fact that the way the company achieved that result was through very technical chemical processing. Unfortunately, by now there are millions of civilians who believe Dunkin Hines canned frosting is butter cream. Every once and a while I run into one of these people at a birthday party and when they taste my mousseline, their eyes light up.

It’s just all so artificial, dishonest and disposable. Have we arrived at this point because our parents failed to pass along certain skills? Is it because we spend too much time and energy chasing imposed concepts of wealth, success and prestige that we’ve lost sight of the real value of sustenance? Why on earth would anyone choose Baco-bits over freshly prepared, crumbled, crispy bacon?

Some of the finest minds in the country spend their talents chasing the next Keeblers snack. They do this because huge corporations pay them ungodly amounts of money. These food scientists don’t seek cures for diseases or pursue innovative procedures to better the lives we lead. Rather they exhaust themselves creating tortilla chips that taste like cheese puffs with fewer calories. Instead of spending 90 seconds preparing quesadillas using fresh tortillas and a little shredded cheese, people seem happy to burst open a nitrogen filled cellophane bag of replicant engineered tortilla product.

Don't lose sight of the value of preparing fresh meals for someone you care about or for yourself.

Tamales

2005-10-05T12:22:00.000-07:00

The process is time consuming, the clean-up is awful, every tupperwear seems to be missing a lid and I'm just too lazy to go to the tortilleria for fresh masa. Let 'em eat Maseca! Day three and I'm ready to soak my hojas and fill them with little gifts from heaven. My 6 year old has been waiting for a week to start spreading masa all over herself and make her own surprise tamales. I let her invent flavors. She'll probably go with her standard chicken nuggets version as well as a few sweet tamales no one will ever try again. (Although it sounded good at the time, Tootsie Roll tamales are not going in my steamer this year)

But the end result makes up for all the work. Tonight we eat tamales.

Chile

2005-10-03T12:41:00.000-07:00

Inspired by yesterday’s Brooklyn Botanical Garden Chile Festival, I’ve taken down the molcajete and will grind chiles for tamales this week. Rather than load up, I’ll make just a small batch for bribes and to repay past favors. I have many debts.

Theory of Picture Hanging

2005-09-26T13:39:00.000-07:00

Some time ago we bought a run-down brownstone townhouse in a nice Brooklyn neighborhood. Constructed in 1895, the house has suffered bouts of neglect and limited maintenance. Miraculously, almost all of the plaster detail has remained intact as has the original woodwork including the staircases, doors, windows and moldings. All but one room has been stripped of the parquet flooring. Four of the six fireplace mantles have Victorian wooden escutcheons and the other two are carved bluestone. Good bones throughout.

We bought the place with fair notice of the amount of work required to meet code as well as meet our own standards. Soon after we moved in, the renovations began. Using contractors for the garden level apartment rental and the heavier roofing, plumbing and electrical work we handled everything else ourselves; everything from joist to joist and wall stud to wall stud. We’ve mastered flooring, tiling, skim coating, cabinetry, finish carpentry and refinishing.

I’ve discovered along the way that I curse almost as much while working on the house as I do when I bake. (My wife thinks I have renovation triggered tourette syndrome – I deny this.) I also discovered the Theory of Picture Hanging (“TPH”). TPH holds that for each picture you hang on a plaster wall, there is an incalculable number of linearly connected consequences resulting in unforeseeable theretofore-unexposed issues.

Basis for the Theory:

1. Select the wall where the picture will hang.
2. Select the smallest fastener that will handle the weight of the picture.
3. Using the lightest hammer in the toolbox, gently tap the fastener into the wall.
4. Step away from the wall and watch helplessly as a hairline crack snakes its way from the site of the fastener all the way up to the crown molding at the vertex of the wall and ceiling.
5. Curse.
6. Remove fastener.
7. Begin crack repair.
a. Using a small tool, open the crack slightly to create a suitable “key” to accept the repair material – in this case 90-minute setting joint compound.
b. As you delicately excavate the hairline crack, a 4’ by 4’ sheet of plaster releases from the lath and crashes down onto the floor.
c. Curse.
d. Examine now exposed lath and discover behind it a long abandoned vent stack that has been wicking moisture from the roof down to the site behind the lath for forty years resulting in loose plaster.
e. Begin lath removal and vent stack repair.
i. Using a small pry bar, slowly, carefully remove each piece of lath from the framing studs.
ii. Expose vent stack and notice that building directly abutting your house has used the vent stack area in your common wall to run their live, non-armored electrical conduit.
iii. Confirm that conduit is live by licking thumb and forefinger of right hand and touching conduit.
iv. Curse.
8. Contact building department to file a formal complaint against bastard neighbor.
9. Address bastard neighbor’s concerns about building department shutting off his electricity by laughing into telephone receiver.
10. After bastard neighbor discovers the only way to have building department turn his power back on is to correct violation, neighbor arrives at door with 12-year-old bottle of single malt.
11. Good neighbor’s contractor allowed access to electrical problem for repair.
12. Contractor is not a skilled cursor, uses only one language.
13. Contractor finishes work, good neighbor’s power restored, work resumes on crack.
a. Water leak appears to have originated at junction of vent stack and roof.
b. Go up to roof and wiggle vent stack to test flashing.
c. Flashing disconnects from vent stack exposing a hole in roof two feet in diameter.
d. Curse.
e. After almost two weeks of cloudless skies, a thunderstorm arrives from the east.
f. Rain falls for three days straight.
g. Plastic sheeting prevents most but not all the water from dripping down the vent stack through the walls.
h. Call roofer to eliminate vent stack and repair roof.
14. Roofer provides reasonable estimate for vent stack repair and warns that entire roof must be replaced otherwise he may have to call building department to report dangerous roof condition.
15. Replace roof.
16. Resume repair of crack.
a. Reaffix lath.
b. Apply wallboard over lath.
c. Skim coat wallboard level with existing wall.
d. Feather sand wall flat.
17. Paint repair to match wall
18. Decide picture would look better in my office.

Tarte Tatin

2005-09-21T07:07:00.000-07:00

Making cakes take time, lots of time. Anyone who has tried to bring a mousseline together for a weekday dinner knows about this. I also curse a lot when I make cakes. I recognize this as a shortcoming but my theory is it may serve to keep me focused. Yes, I know, bad around the children, however it could help them to become passionate about cooking. It’s the best rationalization I can come up with on short notice.

As the weather starts to cool and baking doesn’t seem to be such an insane idea I start thinking about tartes; big, overflowing, juicy fruit tartes and berry tartes dripping with sweet sticky flavor. Tartes are incredibly easy to make and so with little time and practically no cursing I can prep and have ready for desert a very presentable finish to a weekday dinner. I can make this freeform tarte tatin and have it ready for the oven in about a half hour after I get home from work. If my wife has had a particularly bad day at the office I can make her all weepy by pulling it out of the oven just as she arrives home. Bad day forgotten, I’m a hero.

Pastry

Cut a cold stick of butter (227 gms) into small pieces. In a medium bowl add 1 cup of flour (227 gms) and a dash of salt and stir to mix. Add the butter pieces to the flour and squish the butter into the flour mixture until the butter is all incorporated. Use your fingers. Add just enough cold cream to bring the pastry together – about a quarter cup (60ml). Mash the pastry hard with the heel of your hand a few times on a work surface to finish it. Wrap it in plastic and throw it in the icebox until you’re ready to roll.

Filling

Peel, core and cut into quarters about three or four gala, macintosh, fuji (in a bind) or granny smith (if desperate) apples. Then cut the quarters into thin slices. Put the sliced apples in a bowl and sprinkle them with a little lemon juice.

Remove pastry from the fridge and roll it out into a large oval about 1/8 inch thick. Arrange the apple slices artfully in the middle. Bring the edges up and around the apples to form an edge. Brush beaten egg on the exposed pastry. Sprinkle a good deal of sugar on the apples and pastry. Bake the tarte on parchment paper on a baking sheet at 425 until the crust is crisp and golden, the apples bubbling and the aroma starts to make you crazy. Serve it warm with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

Go ahead, make someone cry tonight.

Cricket News

2005-09-16T12:57:00.000-07:00

In an effort to keep american cricket enthusiasts up to date on important news, I'v included a few items of interest.

Australia still leads England in the rankings with Australia starting a four day match this weekend against Pakistan.

Good Luck to the Baggy Green.

On another shameful note, in response to shocking allegations concerning his behavior while in Mumbai, Muttiah Muralitharan had this to say:

"I have been compelled to make a public statement following wholly inaccurate and defamatory speculation of me by certain sections of the Indian media during the past few days.

These media reports have insinuated my possible involvement in a gambling and match-fixing controversy with which I have no connection. These allegations are shocking and totally baseless.

I have traveled to Mumbai on a few occasions in recent years for official award ceremonies and to attend to family business matters. On one occasion, I met actor Aditya Pancholi who invited me to dinner. Afterwards, we visited Deepa Bar for approximately one hour before I returned to my hotel.

Contrary to media speculation, I have never been introduced to and nor do I have any links whatsoever with a woman called Tarannum Khan, who was apparently a dancer in the Deepa Bar. In addition, this was also the only occasion in my life that I visited this particular bar.

Reports appearing in recent media reports of my close alliance with this bar or the dancer are therefore total fabrications. I have been associated with a match-fixing controversy on the basis that I innocently patronised a bar a few years ago, which I believe is grossly unfair.

These reports appear to be made in express malice and also seem to have the ulterior motive of holding me out to public ridicule and contempt.

Representing Sri Lanka as a cricketer is a truly great honour.

We believe you Muttiah!

Book Review

2005-09-15T08:34:00.000-07:00

Orhan Pamuk’s recent novel, Snow, will cradle you along on a snowy journey of unbearable annoyance. In fact, reading the book should put most people to sleep faster than Lunesta.

The story takes place in modern time. A Turkish poet living in Frankfurt travels back to his home village of Kars with the intention of (i) writing poems, (ii) finding god, (iii) solving the mystery of why the veiled girls are all committing suicide and (iv) getting laid. It snows while he’s in Kars. He drinks Raiki in tea houses. He writes poems. He dies.

I’m sure some readers might be intrigued reading a novel about political/religious/social conflict and clashes between the secularist and fundamentalist. Some people need the particular stimulus offered by this type of material. Then again, some people don’t.

The book has a pretty gold seal on the cover announcing it as a New York Times Book Review Best Book of The Year. I’m now convinced that graft and corruption is as prevalent in publishing as it is in American politics. I’m also pretty sure the only reason this lump made it onto the list is because of the timely Moslem extremist characters and subject matter.

I gave it my best shot. I read almost three quarters of the book before realizing it wasn’t going anywhere. In spite of my curse of having to finish what I start, I retired the book to the shelf unfinished. I can no longer punish myself by reading awful books to the end, watching banal movies until the credits roll and attending tortuous plays until the final curtain. I know when to jump and I’m not going to waste quality time with bad writing when there are so many good authors out there.

This is truly an abusive book.

Viva Mexico - Viva la independencia

2005-09-15T06:04:00.000-07:00

Here’s a salute to Father Hidalgo and his brave efforts back in 1810 to unite the people of Dolores to start the revolution that ultimately lead to Mexico’s independence from Spain.

Today marks the anniversary of Mexico’s declaration of independence and tomorrow we celebrate the hard won victory over Spain.

Why Not Get A Dog?

2005-09-13T10:54:00.000-07:00

We live in a big, old rambling house, within two blocks of one of the largest parks in the city. At least one child resides with us all the time. We have looked after other people’s dogs for short periods without any major disasters. Someone is always home except for vacations. The abundant availability of books, training and veterinary services in our neighborhood would make the transition from dogless to dogged very easy.

Many families have dogs. They don’t seem to object to the obligations associated with their care, feeding, walking, neurosis, etc. If anything, I am a dog person. I pet strange dogs on the street. I’ve changed the diapers of a meat-eating 2-year-old children – how hard can it be to pick up after a dog?

We have cold winters. Dogs still need to walk even when I may not. I can think of a hundred other reasons why not to get a dog.

But, why not get a dog?

That Awful Day

2005-09-09T08:45:00.000-07:00

Four years later and the site of the World Trade Center is still just a vast excavation. Looking across from Church Street where the tourists gather every afternoon to take digital pictures of the emptiness, I still feel the sadness I experienced that morning when I first saw the billows of black smoke and orange bursts of flame erupting in such impossible quantities from so high up in the air from the burst windows and gashes in the sides of the buildings.

That morning, I followed a set routine of commuting to the office. I live in Brooklyn and work in Jersey City, just across the Hudson River from downtown New York City. Normally from door to door the ride used to take 50 minutes. I bought coffee at the muffin shop, walked to the subway, rode to my stop at Rector Street and stopped at the Bank of New York Branch on Broadway and Wall Street. I remember walking up Broadway after making the deposit and seeing the armored black SUV parked at the top of Wall Street and thinking, too bad security at the Exchange has to be so tight.

I continued walking up Broadway then cut across Liberty Park to the southeast entrance to the World Trade Center to catch a PATH train. The lower area of the WTC used to contain a large shopping mall. To get to the PATH Station in lowest level of the complex I walked through the lower mall, past the newsstands, NY transit hubs, GAP, Banana Republic, J Crew, flower vendors and then down an escalator. I had no idea what was happening above me.

I remember that I did not have to wait for a train that morning. I walked down to my platform, boarded my train and started reading New Yorker, unaware that a madman was at that time flying a loaded airplane into the side of the building above me. The ride to Jersey is very short – maybe 7 or 8 minutes.

When I walked out of the station in Jersey City everyone was pointing back across the river towards the city. My first thought at seeing the tremendous smoke and flames was that many people had died instantly and that many more would be burned. I also thought that this was a terrible accident involving pilot error or mechanical problems. During WWII a plane had flown into the Empire State Building on a foggy night. I thought this would be a huge cleanup project, maybe part of one of the towers would be closed for repairs, maybe the trains would run differently.

I went up to our offices on the 36th floor and gathered with a group of traders in a room overlooking the New York Harbor and downtown Manhattan. From there we could look directly across the river at the smoke and flames pouring out of the North Tower. Again, we thought it was just a terrible airplane crash. Then we saw the second plane make a sweeping turn around our building and then smash into the South Tower. We all looked at the TV tuned to CNN because we did not believe what we had seen.

I tried to call my wife to tell her I was OK but couldn’t reach her, I called my parents in California and they were already awake and watching everything unfold on TV. The markets announced a delayed open so we made arrangements for contingencies in case we had to move. Our building did not at first call for an evacuation but many people already had their bags and briefcases and were heading home. I shuttled between the room overlooking the towers and the trading room.

All of the Ferries had moved to the middle of the Hudson rather than dock at World Financial. They all sat in a row as if awaiting instructions. When the South Tower fell we gasped or screamed. As the dust and debris cloud enveloped all of lower Manhattan, the ferries moved as one away from the shore and made their way to the Jersey side. I saw grown men - gristly old traders - crying streams of tears, secretaries with their hands over their mouths, some people just shell shocked at the sight of only one of the towers standing. My assistant Carol whose brother worked in WTC was panicked. CNN was also reporting the crash at the Pentagon and speculating about more missing planes. After the first tower fell, our building announced an evacuation. I stayed with a few of the senior officers to close down our markets and secure the floor.

Thinking I was cut off from home, I made arrangements to stay with a coworker, Anthony. Anthony is a big guy who used to play football for Miami. At this point I was unsure whether the country was now at war. If we were at war, I thought it best to stay very close to Anthony for the rest of the morning. We made it downstairs and watched from the garage as the second tower fell. One of the VP’s at our firm lived close by so we arranged to meet at his house. There was so much confusion. While we drove, I remember listening to the radio announcers talking about F-18’s chasing airliners up the Potomac River in WDC, and unconfirmed reports of planes heading to the Capital and the Sears Tower in Chicago and the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. The police had closed roads near the office leading to the tunnels. Anthony spent more than an hour to make a trip that would normally take about 12 minutes.

We arrived at Steve’s house and made plans for safeguarding the business and the staff. We still had so little information to rely on. All we really knew then was that this was certainly a coordinated intentional act. I tried to leave messages with people to contact my wife. The cell phone service had abruptly stopped when the towers collapsed.

I just wanted to be home with my family at this point. Although Anthony graciously offered me a place to stay, I really needed to get to Brooklyn. One of the drivers at Steve’s house lived in Crown Heights and said if I was willing, he would see about making the trip to Brooklyn. After almost eight hours on the road, past many roadblocks, diversions and traffic jams we got to within a few miles of my house. I walked the rest of the way and will always remember the welcoming sight of my family sitting on the stoop as I walked down the block. I was never so glad to be home.

Even in Brooklyn we could smell the smoldering fires at the WTC. Every now and then pieces of paper from the site would drift down. It was an awful day.

New York closed for about a week after 9/11. We stayed very close to home, cooked, watched way too much TV and tried to stay in contact with our friends and relatives. The neighborhood bookstore turned into the local depot for news, relief efforts and support. At some point, a call went out for crowbars, socks and cigarettes for the guys working down at the site. We hauled all our crowbars out of the basement, emptied our sock drawers and even threw a carton of Marlboros into the pickup truck outside the bookstore hoping somehow these things would save a life, support a rescue worker or at the very least save a smoker from a nicotine crave.

Eventually, they let us back into Manhattan, got the subways running again and after a very long time even restarted PATH service from the World Trade Center site. I still make the same commute. Although now, when I walk through the bare bones construction shell inside the World Trade Center foundation I think about that day and all the lost lives drifting around like so many particles of magic dust.

It doesn’t really seem like four years ago…

Brooklyn Superhero Supply Co.

2005-08-31T07:22:00.000-07:00

Recently, while eating out at a neighborhood place, we noticed a new storefront down the street. The main sign said “Brooklyn Superhero Supply Co.” Another sign advertised, “Capes, masks and shrinking gas. If we don't have it, a superhero doesn't need it. Ask inside! We can custom-order alter egos." The sign advertising Antimatter was particularly curious.

Since the store had not yet opened for business we could not go inside to look around. During dinner we speculated about what exactly this place was and whether it served as some illegal front to some criminal enterprise. But the marketing seemed a little too extreme for a criminal enterprise and way too edgy to be anything mainstream. We toasted to its success, if for no other reason than it made us smile knowing we had a centrally located source of antimatter.

I put the place out of my mind until yesterday. I finished David Sedaris excellent short story anthology, Children Playing Before a Statue of Hercules and was reading Sarah Vowell’s epilogue. Mr. Sedaris, it turns out donates the proceeds of the book to 826NYC, a nonprofit organization dedicated to helping students, ages 6-18, develop their writing skills.

826NYC is housed in a storefront hidden behind a secret passage within Brooklyn Superhero Supply Co.

Mystery solved. What a great idea. Besides offering tutoring, 826NYC also offers free writing workshops, which cover a wide range of topics, including comic books, SAT essays, journals, short stories, and more. They host field trips and also offer in-class support for teachers.

We’ll be making donations to and buying all our secret identity kits from 826NYC from now on.

Cake

2005-08-29T10:44:00.000-07:00

As hesitant as I am about sharing personal information I feel compelled to write about this: I bake cakes – scratch cakes, big ol’ glossy, over-decorated, sweetly frosted and iced cakes. I make simple devil’s food chocolate diner counter cakes and extreme genoise with blood orange curd filled, seven layer cakes. I make a cake with Jack Daniels. I make banana bread that fills the house with such perfume that my teenagers will wake up on a Sunday morning before 8:00. On Christmas morning the house is filled with the aroma of fresh baked cinnamon sweet yeast rolls.

I bake cakes for my children for their birthdays each year. They try to pick intricate or difficult cakes to see to what extremes I will go to make them. One year Mihijita picked a Rose Levy Birnbaum cake that was covered in spun-sugar lacework. Another year Hija asked for one covered in chocolate roses. I buy them birthday presents of course but it’s the cakes they remember.

I have been commissioned to make theme cakes for friends’ parties and for relatives’ events. I once made a cake that looked like an old 45 record player complete with records cast from tempered bittersweet chocolate.

When we married, I baked our wedding cake – three tiers – fresh baby roses on top. During the 6 months leading up the wedding I made almost 40 test cakes in a 4 ‘ by 3’ kitchen. We invited friends over every weekend to taste test the recipes and take home cake. My cholesterol shot up 15 points.

I make my own rolled fondant.

Notwithstanding my schedule, or the demands of work or all the other intervening interruptions, I make time to make the cakes. The cabinets and drawers in my kitchen overflow with cake pans, molds, icing tips, pastry bags, scales, decorating stands, cake boxes and rounds, frosting knives, cake cutters and coloring gels. I use everything.

Cookbooks fill the baker’s rack in the kitchen. Most of the books cover baking and cake decorating. Mrs. Soto in the baking department of Broadway Pan Handler knows me by name.

I’m convinced my wife married me because early in our relationship, I made her an over-the-top chocolate raspberry torte for her birthday.

My youngest daughter had another birthday this week. I made her a golden butter/white chocolate cake with neo classic butter cream.

I really love that kid.

Thanks Gilbert

2005-08-19T07:47:00.000-07:00

During the summers while I was in college I worked for the US Forest Service as a GS-4 fire fighter. We worked along with the county and state guys (CDF) on local fires and with other USFS crews when they shipped us out of region. I spent time on a line crew before finally moving up to an engine. I was stationed on Engine 310 - Green Valley, Western Region, in the Angeles National Forest. Three of us lived at the station. The foreman, Gilbert, lived with his family in a small house and I lived in a trailer with another crewmember; I think his name was Tommy Thompson. Yes, I know, bad parents. Bygones. Tommy had the stereo so who was I to complain? We worked six days on, one day off. For the most part we spent long, hot days clearing brush, beating weeds, building cisterns and training. From time to time we fought fires.

By the way, if you ever get the opportunity to ride in a fire engine on the way to a fire with the sirens blaring, by all means take advantage. It is surely one of the most extraordinary experiences of my life. We drove a standard USFS green, International dual cab unit. We washed it daily. It was beautiful. Whenever a spotter sighted smoke or, in most cases dust clouds, we rushed for the engine, changed into Nomex and headed out towards the fire. Sometimes we arrived quickly and had first shot at the flames. Mostly, County units beat us and we set up the perimeter.

The first time I fought a fire with Engine 310, Gilbert saved my life. The fire started on a hillside and moved slowly up-slope towards the summit. We worked from below. A line crew cut a break between the burn and the grass and our crew followed with live hoses. Basically, our job was to try not to piss off the line guys and connect as many trunk lines as we could to the main line that snaked its way up the hill. If we were not spraying water we humped hose up the hill from the truck. The hose packs weighed about 40 lbs. The clamps, Elkarts and spanners added five or ten more. The hoses tended to burst so the battle was as much with the hoses as the fire. I was at the head of the line with an Elkart, sweeping water across a flare up. Gilbert stood behind me yelling instructions. Fires are amazingly loud. Most of the noise comes from the combustion of grass and brush. Add to that the crews yelling, engines pumping water, bulldozers cutting fire break and overhead aircraft making water drops and the sound is deafening. I was pretty far into the burn, couldn’t really see much because of the smoke and just kept sweeping the water across the base of the flame. I felt Gilbert let go of me and didn’t think anything of it. What I didn’t realize was that Gilbert had been yelling, “wind shift, wind shift” and, thinking I was right behind him, had headed down the slope. The flame had crept around the water spray and I was standing in a pocket of flame about to be “ate”. Gilbert saw I was in trouble, ran back up the slope, grabbed me by the belt and pulled me out. Once the light went on in my thick skull, I joined Victor running down to avoid the advancing fire. We laughed, he called me an idiot, but, really, he saved my life.

Gilbert, may he rest in peace, died in 1981, trapped by a fast moving brush fire near Elizabeth Lake trying to save his engine crew. Gilbert’s brother George also died with his helitack crew when their Jet Ranger crashed in the 1970 San Gabriel Canyon Fork fire. Bad luck. There’s a nice fallen firefighter's memorial in Sacramento with George and Gilbert’s names inscribed on it.

Thank you, Gilbert.

Apologies to Masaoka Shiki

2005-08-17T15:02:00.000-07:00

I.

Kraft macaroni

Autumn cheeses golden hue ---

Grace, please use your fork

II.

Two scoops in a cone

Her summer prayers are answered

Ice cream, sidewalk, tears

III.

Please just try a bite

The treat you long for awaits

No bites, all is lost

IV.

The whining must stop

You will eat the things we eat --

Failure, more fish sticks

V.

Bright red sippy-cup

Cooling winter grape Hi-C

Juice sprays out your nose

Christianist Rant

2005-08-15T08:26:00.000-07:00

I am dismayed by the disturbing amount of homophobic information on the Internet. A wonderful example is found on “Focus on Your Child dot com.” Among the more blatant examples are the pages dedicated to protecting your children from becoming homosexuals. In his particularly scary book Preventing Homosexuality: A Parent’s Guide, clinical psychologist Joseph Nicolosi, Ph.D., offers some guidelines to combat raising a homosexual child (e.g., Recognize that most homosexuals “were not explicitly [so] when they were children. More often, they displayed a ‘nonmasculinity’ that set them painfully apart from other boys: unathletic — somewhat passive, unaggressive and uninterested in rough-and-tumble play. A number of them had traits that could be considered gifts: bright, precocious, social and relational, and artistically talented.” Tip: Discern whether your boy struggles with feelings of “not belonging.” If he does, seek help.) .

What a bunch of crap. Excuse my outburst. Predictably, Dr. Nicholosi represents the Christianist right. Without starting a rant on the trouble with organized religion – yes, I lump them all together, Christianists, Jews, Moslems, Catholics, etc. – I find it really exasperating that the basis of so much of christianists faith is tied up in their righteous beliefs in how others should behave. All religions also seem to utilize fear as a tool to thwart independent thought, personal discovery and freedom.

This past weekend we attended a lovely party to celebrated my cousin’s ten-year anniversary of being in a committed relationship with his partner. They serve as a shining example of what a fulfilling, loving relationship can be. Among our extended family, they also represent one of the more successful and stable relationships. They’re also productive, wealthy, tax paying, democratic, outspoken, funny, voting Americans.

If my children are or turn out to be gay I will embrace and love them for their character, not for their choice of sexual orientation. If someone holds a different point of view, I will respect that view and will not try to impose my beliefs. But if you try to tell me I am wrong for what I think or in what I believe, you take away my choice. So far I have not found the ultimate arbitrator who can decide what is right and what is not. Until and unless that woman steps forward, we really should each decide for ourselves don't you think?

Travel Ice Hockey

2005-08-11T12:22:00.000-07:00

How can I best describe the colossal madness of youth travel ice hockey? How can I possibly convey to non-cult members the extreme level of depraved insanity we share?

The enterprise started out innocently enough. My then youngest child asked if she could attend an early morning ice hockey clinic in the park with her friend Christian. Having zero ability to ever say no to my children, (more on that later) I consented to the clinic. After a few phone calls I learned that all participants would be required to provide their own equipment.

Now for those with no notion of ice hockey you should know that it’s a game played on a frozen surface by twelve heavily padded, helmeted players wearing skates. Notwithstanding the fact that the clinic was for 7 year olds, there were no exceptions to the “provide their own equipment” rule. After a trip to the sporting goods store for the first in a long series of equipment purchases I was lighter by about $200. The clinic fees added another $50 or so.

Mihijita took to the ice immediately and I watched from the stands with her older sister; completely oblivious to what had just occurred. Over the course of that winter, she attended nine or ten early Saturday morning clinics. We rose before dawn, dressed in the dark and made our way to the outdoor rink sometimes in single digit temperatures. She was happy, so I was happy.

My oldest daughter was not so happy. Hija noticed her little sister getting lots of new stuff and receiving a fair amount of attention because of hockey. The following winter, Hija requested her own equipment and tuition for the clinic. Again, there is no no so Hija joined the clinic that year. I could have put an early end to the whole business and knowing what I know now, maybe it would have been for the best. Bygones, water under the Zamboni I suppose.

I should say at the outset I never played ice hockey. Growing up in Los Angeles, we didn’t spend a lot of time looking for pick-up pond hockey games after school. The smog would have prevented it even if the weather had allowed for such recreation. Everything I know about the sport I know because of my kids.

As they grew older, and worked up through the more advanced clinics, my kids developed their skills and moved along a predictable path (not that I would have predicted but – again, what did I know about hockey?) towards something called “travel hockey.” Travel hockey means playing for a team that plays games against other teams. The teams are scattered around the globe, hence the travel part. And while I’m sure there are teams in places like Minnesota and North Dakota where a kid can just walk down the block to their local rink and attend practices and ride on team buses to games – not so in New York City. Although New York has recreation leagues, the level of competition was not commensurate with my kids’ ambitions. OK, they developed into really, really good players.

At this point I should say something about the whole idea of girls playing ice hockey. My mom always told me I could be whatever I wanted to be. Whether that’s good advice or not, I’ve automatically relayed the information to my children. If Mihijita wanted to be an ice hockey player, she got to be an ice hockey player. Title IX of the Educational Amendments of 1972 also didn’t hurt. Girls did not play sports when I was growing up. Girls played with Barbie Dolls and helped mom in the kitchen. Today you are as likely to see girls playing soccer, hockey, lacrosse or even football as you are to see boys. This is a direct consequence of Title IX. Even-steven for everyone. Yet, there came a point during a recreation league game (this is primarily boys mind you) when Hija took a very hard check into the boards and did not get up on her own accord. After that we realized why girls only played ice hockey along with the boys only until they were about 14. At age 15 boys develop certain testosterone driven characteristics that prohibit their association with girls – on the rink or otherwise I might add.

I was not aware at that time that there were girls-only teams out there. After one of these co-ed rec-league games another parent (cult member) came to me to say someone was looking for the parents of Hija and Mihijita. I found the guy and discovered he’d been scouting my kids for a state tournament team – a really big deal in the hockey world – and needed my consent for them to play for the New York City Girl’s Team. I knew they were good, I just didn’t realize they were that good. They tried out for and made the team, played that summer for NYC and returned from the summer tournament looking for higher levels of competition.

By this point Mihijita had moved up to goalie. At the tournament Mihijita faced and turned away shots from at least one player who represented the USA on the Olympic Hockey Team at Salt Lake City. Their mom and I were in awe of our kids.

The closest suitable girls team was based at a rink that was at least an hour’s drive. The girls tried out for and made the team no sweat. I attended the parent orientation (indoctrination) meeting and learned what it means to be a hockey parent. They would attend at least two practices during the week and would play 2 to 4 games each weekend. No team transportation available. Be on time or lose a game.

I was in. I let them cut my palm and I joined my blood with that of the other parents in an oath to travel hockey. And for the past few years I have spent the winters and parts of each summer traveling around the eastern united states supporting my kids’ pursuits. I’ve survived snow storms in Philadelphia, hostile opposing parents in Buffalo, screaming coaches in Washington D.C. and the winds off the Great Lakes in Oswego. All this while my kids beat around a rubber puck at hundreds of ice rinks. My kids have played with and against former, present and future Olympians. They have been featured on TV and in newspapers. I’ve driven as much as 1,200 miles in a single weekend. I have eaten food that I would normally run away from. I have met some remarkable parents and some horribly misguided ones. It’s such a strange strange world.

A word here about the stress this type of activity puts on a marriage. M and H are my kids from a previous marriage. New and improved wife2 has shown incredible patience and support towards her step kids and undeserving husband. She has given up virtually most of her weekends with me during the season. She should be nominated for sainthood. Balancing the wellbeing of M and H with the wellbeing of the marriage has challenged us. Off-season is better but not all our hockey issues have been fully worked out. I worry that until M gets to college, we’ll hash these problems around endlessly. Good news - my kids are two of the top women’s ice hockey players in NYC – Bad news - my kids are two of the top women’s ice hockey players in NYC. Bottom line is it has taken a lot of work on our part to get to this point.

Now for the payoff - H will be playing in the NCAA this fall when she starts college. Three colleges offered her very generous financial aid packages to play for their teams. She had the luxury to choose among colleges she had selected to recruit her as well as the colleges that did not. Her younger sister will probably receive even more attention from colleges because of her size and goalie skills.

I am a very proud father. I am also pretty much ready to be committed but still, proud. The madness associated with this type of parental sacrifice is undeniable. Would I do it all over again? I can’t say. Have my kids benefited and grown closer to their father? Certainly. I never in a million years would have predicted this.

Back from the Island

2005-08-10T14:52:00.000-07:00

Each summer we vacation on a narrow island. This year we rented a house right on the beach. At night we could hear the waves crash as they rolled in and feel the ocean breezes as they blew across us as we slept. With little to do other than read, sleep, cook and run, I renewed my life subscription and reaquainted myself with ...well, myself. Here's to ocean breezes.