Xmas and The X PART 2

Then Came the Rigatoni with French Peas, Housemade Ricotta and Double Smoked Bacon

&

Sin Settled In

Luckily,

I had many Angels and Friends to Help Me Through The Wages of Sinful Feasting

Salted Caramel Peanut Gelato, Bourbon and Some Other Gelato

served on a Cold Marble Slab

Everyone Favored the Bourbon Flavor.

Is it wrong to Tell YOU there were also Ricotta Fritters with Blackberry Sauce, Pumpkin Cheescake and Chocolate Panna Cotta amdist a few sundaes and cafe affogato's?

Just a few.

The Holidays are Here!!! Enjoy!!!

I will.

xoxoxox

My roast chicken...myself

I love roasted chicken.  For awhile I might have actually been addicted to it.  I have memories of sneaking over to the market and buying one of the already prepared birds at lunchtime and then snacking on it throughout the day.  One day a co-worker caught me...brown paper bag hidden under my desk and before i could hide it she said, "Do you really have an entire roast chicken at your desk!"
Guilty.
I also remember eating roasted chicken in the grocery store parking lot, but really that falls more under the heading of lust.
I do NOT have a roast chicken addiction...I will never admit it.  It has been forever since I overindulged in it and will only occasionally buy one for dinner when I just don't feel like cooking.
I must tell you that I have recently fallen even madly in love with Nigella Lawson, well MORE in love.  She is a passionate, curvaceous British TV cook who might just be the only other person in the world who shares such a passionate, if not slightly obscene lust for food as I do.
I am presently working me through her amazing, funny, informative cookbook, "How to Eat" and at times it does tend to nod it's head in the direction of food porn.  I'm not complaining and neither should you.  I recently read the passage about how to make a roasted chicken aloud to my sister who turned and asked me if it was porn.  I was titillated enough to embark on this journey if not for my own hedonistic needs then for my families hungry bellies.  I have no problem having scape goats to use as decoys for my culinary adventures.
At first, when I bought the bird my house was not in the mood for roast chicken and the poor baby sat for two days awaiting it's transformation.  I had bought shallots, garlic, lemon, tarragon and onions and red potatoes; all sat patiently waiting and greeted me each morning practically calling out in expectation.  I also read and re-read and read again the almost sinisterly simple recipe.  Surely I had missed something...
I did only buy 6 shallots when the recipe actually asked for 22 but I had the number six lodged in my brain and was sure this was the correct number, but being that Nigella does very little that isn't grand and abundant it was my bad.
So the day finally came when I was going to do the deed and I admit I read the recipe yet again.  I started the chicken at 4pm anointing with oil and sea salt and half of a juicy lemon went up the butt along with a bouillon cube.  I remember staring at it thinking; "this is so little seasoning, can this be right?"  I added an extra tablespoon of olive oil to the pan as I was instructed in the anticipation of making a chicken jus when the done.  I set a timer (something I have gotten in the habit of doing, it actually makes things MUCH easier) and went and watched a violently gross episode of Fringe while folding the weeks laundry.
About an hour in I went and tossed the shallots (unpeeled) and the cloves of two heads of garlic (again unpeeled) and whops I realized I had forgotten the tarragon so in that went as well.  Tarragon is a lovely herb, I have memories of eating a fragrant lamb and pea stew that my great aunt made every year and loving the flavor of the tarragon that she used to flavor it.  I need to cook more with it and was thrilled to be able to use the entire package in this dish.
I also had chopped up the potatoes and threw in a diced green pepper I had hanging about and half a white onion, added some olive oil, salt and pepper gave them a good shake in a sealed container an into the oven they went to meet their maker.  I did look at the chicken and was again unsure if it was going to turn out as I was hoping but I've learned with cooking there always tends to be a moment of doubt that one must push through.
This is similar I find to writing my first paragraph of the day, or making the first crepe.  It never quite turns out, but you end up pushing through it and eating it anyways.
So I closed the door and about half an hour later my house did indeed smell amazing.  Lemony, and full of tarragon.  Things could be worse.  As I watched someones brain leak out of their ears on tv I wondered if I would be able to pull off the jus, I am not the best at gravy.  I have been known to throw it down the sink and opt for the bottle of Heinz brown...I was hoping tonight would not turn out this way.
When there was about thirty minutes left of cooking time I went and threw some asparagus in a pan with some oil and a little sea salt and pepper and also squirted the other half of the lemon into the chicken pan and a little butter (well smart balance) but honestly you can't tell the difference.  The chicken had transformed I noticed it was golden brown and the smell of the shallots, garlic and the roasted potatoes was divine.  I was not going to mess up the gravy.
Finally when the timer on my microwave sounded and the episode of Fringe had ended I went and pulled the chicken from it's cozy home and was thrilled at how wonderful everything looked.  The skin of the chicken was so crisp it was almost like glass.  I let it rest for about 10 minutes and transferred it so I could work on the jus.  I put the roasting pan on the stove; added some white wine, a cup of hot water that I had dissolved another bouillon cube in, grabbed a wooden spoon and said a prayer.
Well, the jus thickened perfectly, not a gravy, but more a chickeny jus that tasted delicious.  The chicken was cooked to a turn; perfection!  Juicy, flavorful and practically falling off the bone.  Being that I cook for three and they can be picky, I was anxious but when my guy said "you can make this again,"  I knew I had hit it out of the park.
Dear Nigella, much love to you my dear, you are the queen of roasted chicken.
love,
an ever devoted roast chicken addict

The mustard pot and the spinal cord...

I have had two cans of sardines in my cupboard for sometime...I have no idea why but in what I thought was a moment of divine inspiration  I thought it would be great to throw a can on top of some freshly washed and seasoned baby greens (not a bad idea...right?)  I also had some leftover veggies from the night before that I thought would add a bit of extra something something to my greens...I was actually excited!  Hey didn't one of my favorite chefs Nigella Lawson make a dressing out of what was left in a Dijon mustard pot?  and didn't I just see that recipe in Better Homes and Gardens recently?  WAIT!
I should go back a bit...I did see the the mustard pot dressing recipe and I DID make it before and it was extremely delicious and being I had even less Dijon this time than that I figured it would be even better...
here is the RECIPE for the dressing!
Back to the sardines.   so the dressing was made in the said mustard pot with a flourish, a shake and even some amazing dark amber wildflower honey that I so love.  Dressing made, greens washed and slightly seasoned with a little lemon pepper and sea salt and voila there go the leftover veggies.  The broccoli was so hopeful.  Down goes a splash of the dressing and plop there goes the oily and extra yummy looking olive oil sardines...I was so excited...oh and wait how about a few triscuits just because...I need some crunch.  I made an ice water gathered my lunch and went to sit back down and write my sex advice column that had suddenly came so clear as to what it would be about...I forked up a delightful bite, fish, lettuce, veg and that lovely mustard pot dressing...and there it goes down the hatch.  It was good...I was happy and went about eating but suddenly, and not entirely like Ripley discovering her first alien...I saw what looked like a worm.  I dropped my fork...my god...what was it?  It was white, pearly almost in the mid-afternoon sunlight filtering through my blinds..it was definitely a worm, but wait...was it?
I pushed my fork against it, did it move or was I losing my mind?  I could no longer be sure as my imagination had already taken flight and I knew I would not be able to eat the rest of the salad regardless of what it was...I pressed the fork down on the offending organism only to have it virtually melt under the pressure.  Sure I may have squashed it as if it were not a measly worm but possibly a demon from hell...but how did it just fall apart?  I looked around half expecting to see Steven King or the Crypt Keeper leering at me over the sofa.
It was just then that I found a second one and upon closer inspection realized that the offending worms were actually the spinal cords of the sardines...this did NOT make it any less horrendous and it was at this moment of clarity that i rushed to the kitchen and dumped the entire plate of food into the trash.  I should have just had tuna.

Food and Sex

I finally got it!
A passion came over me!
It happened as I throttled a bunch of kale into submission, as I wrestled a still unidentifiable mass of crimson hued greens into a pile (rough chop my ass) this was war!  The garlic (I used pre chopped.  Boo hiss, boo hiss)  hit the well oiled pan with an angry hiss as if  the Foodie Gods were channeling their disappointment through fragrant cloves.  Like I said this was not a moment to be worrying about redemption.  I turned away from the hissing and covered the angry outcry with a pile of greens torn asunder by knife and hand.  That silenced the nervy chorus.
Cooking is alchemy.  Magic.  Therapy.
I have made greens (dandelion, collard, spinach, chard, kale) many times.  I love them, my loved ones love them and frankly they are a breeze to make.  The same recipe applies to most.  Heat some olive oil, throw in some garlic heat until the garlic is golden toss in the greens with some salt and red pepper (add the red pepper as much as you can stand and possibly more) cook until wilted, stems tender (when I’m really in Love I pull the leaves from the stems) they always turn out fabulous and are magnificently delicious.
By the time the kale was wilted I had wisely eaten a multi grain bagel with peanut butter and wild honey (please eat natural peanut butter) oh and if someone can come up with a way to stir natural peanut butter without making a mess I’ll marry you, or do things your significant other won’t to show my undying admiration and Wild Honey, do I need to say more?  I’m sure I will dedicate and entire blog to honey in the future.
But I digress…
This vegetable passion ala mania…Passion, mania, potato, patato it may all be the same thing was brought on by tree cleaning, limited parking and a full driveway.  I was so irritated by the time I got into my house that I decided the to cook ALL the vegetables that arrived this week in my CSA box.  I believe saying a “passion overcame me” is better then admitting I may have slightly dipped into the aforementioned mania.  You decide.
However, it was during the frenzied chopping, wilting, eating, sauteing, and complete absorption in my task that I realized what I would blog about.  People have said write about what you know.  I know about food and sex.  I’m sorry to be blunt but its the truth.  I have worked in both fields often times simultaneously for over 15 years.  I loved both and often admit that my two deadly sins are indeed gluttony and lust.  An idea was born over organic greens.
I didn’t stop there.
As my mood lightened I reached for two small but plump aubergines, a long and slightly obscene zucchini and a tender little bok choy just for fun.  Stop me!  But why?  Someone, a fellow hedonist, once said “nothing succeeds like excess,”  words to live…and die by my friends!  Why stop with the greens?  I had the means to make fabulous fried aubergine, a quick rinse of the pan, a slight amateurish chop of the bok choy made quick delicious work of my singular friend.  At that moment I was visited by my loved who stood watching as I feverishly flicked the bok choy around the pan…I think I may have asked…
“What do I do with the zucchini?”
Reply:  Fry it
And why not?
Why the hell not?  I was going to fry the aubergines and hell whats good for the nightshade is good for the squash…and so I began.
Let me just say that when someone fries something for you…please love them.  No seriously, love the hell out of them.  It is NO easy task.  Next to chopping beets (don’t get me started on beets) it is a messy, tedious, dangerous thing…not unlike walking the plank.  Instead of watery depths its scalding oil that awaits.
Here’s how I do it, how my Grandmother did it and strike me now if every time the first piece of aubergine or chicken hits the oil that I am not suddenly transported back through time to Nancy’s Italian Kitchen.  Here’s where the magic comes in.  It is not uncommon to time travel while you cook.
I slice the aubergines and zucchini super thin (this works with chicken) Pour flour in a zip lock back drop whatever doomed food item you wish into the flour (yes season the flour I use salt and Italian Seasoning or whatever strikes my fancy; lemon pepper, cayenne, some weird spices brought back from a Turkish spice market, whatever)
Shake it.  Love it.  Live it.
Scramble a couple of eggs…I season them to, why not?  Salt and pepper. Dump the floury contents into a container (preferably with a lid) with egg and again shake, shake, shake
Look you can totally use a bowl and two plates but a passion is a passion and I allowed it to direct me to the ziplock bags and believe me this was a wiser and quicker decision.  After the eggs dump the golden coated goodness into the breadcrumbs, do another quick sake and then make way for the oil bath.  Gently (now is not the time to dump or begin to question your motives) one by one place the coated goodies into the hot oil and watch the alchemy happen.  What started as one thing quickly turns to another without much help from you.
I like everything crispy…almost burnt.  Make a big decision here and weigh the pros and cons of golden brown or coming over to the dark side.  This is a matter of taste.
With no surprise my lover returns just as the first batch is coming out of its magical bath (feigning the return of some household item) I only nod and say something cruel like…”you cant leave until you taste one”
Yes its hot.  Its almost sadistic to make someone eat scalding hot fried zucchini but I allow for some quick breathing (a half hearted attempt to cool what is close to hell fire down)
“It needs a little more salt”
I reply with a glorious sprinkling of the white stuff over the still sizzling plate of veggies and hand another piece over and smile when they say “perfect.”
A wise man, (my Father) once said when commenting on my career choices, “You picked two good fields to work in.  People will always need to eat, and they will always need to have sex (he used a different word, but dropping an F bomb in my first blog seems slightly crass.)
He was right.

Can I confess?

Confession is good for the soul or so Brenda Leigh says on The Closer…and being connected to that show through my lover’s career I MUST and certainly DO agree…so I will confess…I’m an addict.
I’m addicted to butternut squash.
Who knows when the addiction actually started…an addict forgets everything except the current fix, the anticipation, the desperate attempts at procuring the substance that makes their eyes roll back into their addled heads.  Perhaps it’s genetic.  Both my parents love it, my father even eats turnip…:( which I’ve never been a fan of but every Thanksgiving there it was and he was inevitably the ONLY one who ate it.  But next to that bowl of blah was the gorgeous butternut squash, the orange color practically knocking the turnip on its head in sheer color alone.
This makes me think of the upcoming movie Burlesque…if there is anyone out there who does NOT think Cher will knock Xtina off the table please reexamine your rhinestones and break out a copy of Dark Lady and think again.  I’m not saying Xtina IS a turnip…but…
Addicts often jump around, lose their train of thought and even use distraction techniques to sway one from looking at the real problem.
I just ate a bowl of butternut squash for breakfast. I am actually considering another helping.  I will resist if only to continue writing in sheer honor of self discipline and control.
I got two medium size squash in my CSA box last week and they sat staring out of my fridge for about a week before I could even consider cooking them.  Believe me there is nothing more I would rather do then stay home and roast vegetables all day but alas they sat and I let other menial things like LIFE get in the way.  That’s not to say that I did not look up recipes, how-to’s, and videos all week in anticipation of finally doing the deed.
Because I did.
There were videos on how to cut them, roast them, bake them, peel them and all were helpful as I am the type of cook that no matter how many times I do something I always feel the need to make sure I am doing it correctly, especially when it comes to cutting an odd shaped vegetable like butternut squash.
You cannot even begin to know how long it took me to actually break down and cut and prepare the huge, white pattypan squashes that haunted my CSA boxes all last summer.  I swear the squash actually stalked me! But that’s another story.
It was in the middle of a rather hectic day when I decided to roast the squash and whipped the dish together in a matter of seconds, I’m still not entirely sure a magic wand was not employed.
I split the squash with what I call my “Fatal Attraction” knife because every time I pick it up I am reminded of the final scene where Glenn Close is standing behind Anne Archer in the bathroom mirror.
I did NOT act out the scene with the doomed cucurbita moschata’s resting just next to the sink faucet.  But I did split them right down the middle and in a wild not entirely un-Glenn Close manner split them again so there were 8 wedges of squash when the massacre was over.  I’m not a fan of scooping out the guts of a squash.  I hate the smell of the inside of a pumpkin and even more the scraping sound of spoon against shell but us writer types are sensitive to that kind of thing and it has come up more then once in my writing.
I am fascinated by the act of reading fruits and vegetables for consumption.  I find something slightly erotic about pushing ones thumps through the pulpy depths of a papaya to remove the shining black seeds, the splitting of a peach, the wet thwack of a knife cutting through the tender flesh of a melon, even coring an apple has some sort of satisfaction to be had and is there anything sexier then the pomegranate?  I have NO doubt that it was this fruit and not the apple that was used by that serpent in the garden…who wouldn’t be tempted?
The squash is ready and I have wisely gathered my weapons of choice.  Cinnamon, nutmeg, butter are all ready and at the willing.  I spray a little cooking spray on the bottom of a heavy stoneware casserole dish and lay the 8 pieces next to one another and then it begins…
I believe you can tell if someone is a good lover by the way they eat.  I guess this could also be said to be true by the way one cooks.  I begin by rubbing each piece of squash generously with butter (Ok I admit I use a butter spread…Smart Balance.. but who can really afford to douse everything with butter? And frankly I like the taste.) I add an extra dab of spread to the shallow bowl part of the wedge just in case it needs extra love which it most certainly does!  I then pop open the cinnamon and sprinkle each piece with just enough to make the tender orange flesh take on an slightly mulatto appearance and then add the nutmeg with a gentle hand, a smidge on each just to cut through the sweet complex smoke of cinnamon.
Then I add the final ingredient…brown sugar.  Why not?  I know that when it melts and combines with the buttery spread, the cinnamon and nutmeg it is going to make an almost caramel like syrup that I will do everything except bath in and that is NOT completely out of the question either.  So on it goes..do this to taste.  I have faith in your abilities as kitchen alchemists to distinguish how sweet you like things and honestly I’m not sure you could really add too little or too much because you could certainly add more later if needed.
So the darlings are ready to meet the fiery depths of hell and being a completely unfair junky I commit the squash to hellfire with little more then a nod and a wink.  I bake them for about 20-25 minutes with a tent of foil over them at about 400 degrees (preheat your oven) and if at 20 minutes they are not fork tender leave them a little longer (cit side up please!)
I have thoughts of grandeur (oh I’ll make a soup, I’ll make ravioli) But the addict in me knows better.  I’ll eat them just as they are and scrape the candied goodness off the bottom of the dish with the edge of a spoon and douse the already sweet tender flesh with even more buttery sweet g.
The squash came out amazing, succulent, yummy, great, you fill in the appropriate adjective.  I barely wait until they are cool (if Im being honest I didnt wait but a minute) and I scoop the tender flesh from the now almost paper thin skin and did I add more butter?  Yes!  Did I scrape the aforementioned sweet caramel cinnamon scented goodies off the bottom of the dish and spoon it over the squash?  YES!
I admit it I have a problem.
And isn’t admitting your addictions half the battle?
Vitamin C, Fiber, Magnesium and Vitamin A are all inside so why not eat a bowl for breakfast? Lunch? Snack?




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The Lament of the Turkey

All presidential pardons aside…I am not a fan of carcasses lingering in my Frigidaire.  Thanksgiving has gone the way of the gobbler and yet I still had the turkey carcass staring back at me.  So let me tell you a few handy dandy things you can do with ALL the leftover turkey you may have…and any other bones you have in your fridge…not limited to your exes.
The first thing I do is make something I found in an issue of Martha Stewart Living years ago.  If you hate her get over it.  Her recipes have never let me down and there are certain issues (mostly Thanksgiving and Christmas) that are as dear to me, if not more, than certain family members.  One Thanksgiving issue saw me through a 30+ person sit down that ended with me pouring a homemade stock down the sink by accident…At that point I closed the beloved tome and half screamed to a nearby Lesbian to go to the market and buy a jar of Heinz Brown and lets move on…
So the recipe is quite lovely and delicious, I believe it is called “Leftover Pie,” and actually quite ingenious and something not only family but friends and co-workers insist I make every year…so I do.
Butter a pie plate, casserole dish, what have you and layer in your leftover stuffing which will serve as a crust to your pie.  Then add some turkey, break out that carcass and get ripping folks, treat it like someone you hate and we’ll all get through this together.
Once you have the turkey down, add whatever veggies you may have leftover.  This year consisted of brussels sprouts and corn.  I don’t really want to write this but…leave the butternut squash puree out, but you already know that.
I then top this with left over gravy and then as a top to your pie add mashed potatoes.  I know you have a ton left over and they may possibly haunt you as much as that turkey carcass so here’s your chance to take control…add til your little hearts content.
Pop that baby in the oven and let it go until you see the gravy bubbling.  You can even toss it under the broiler for a few to crisp up the topping.  When its done, slam the left over cranberry sauce down on the table and get to work.
It’s a big delicious job…please be careful.
Oh did you make a ham as well?  You did?  Me to!  The ham bone is still in the fridge, you’ve made ham and eggs, you’ve made ham sandwiches, you’ve done it all…I hear you.  This does not include the ham casserole you made or the scalloped ham and potatoes either…I’m gonna share with you a secret…time to make split pea soup with that ham bone.
Don’t panic, it’s so easy it’s almost painful.  But like most things it’s worth the pain…so here is a link to a simple and possibly flawless pea soup:
http://www.food.com/recipe/split-pea-soup-best-pea-soup-ever-83287
So wonderful topped with croutons, sour cream or my favorite a little sherry…I am a split pea fan and may people aren’t…too bad for them.
Ok…Ham bone is gone, but that turkey is still there…Time for pot pie…excuse me while I drool. Pot pie be the most perfect food. In fact I’m often saying that if I fall unconscious, please for goodness sake, feed me potpie! Skip the mouth to mouth. here’s my favorite recipe, again so easy and delicious:
http://www.food.com/recipe/turkey-pot-pie-45070
I’m often told to make two pies as one is never enough…I have yet to indulge these demands. You however, may make as many as your hungry brood demands.
Dark meat needs love to: While making any of these dishes feel free to break off a turkey leg throw it on some foil and bake it. Let it get crispy and lovely and gosh darn it your even closer to being completely done with the turkey!
So here it is the final decree, the lament, the requiem of the turkey: Turkey Noodle Soup!
I have a confession: I’m terrified of making soup, stuffing and pie crust. Let me explain; stuffing is relatively simple but people are so attached to it that it practically begs disappointment. It’s the holy grail of T-Day and if you mess it up Hell will yawn before you. Luckily I have to mess it up but do I still occasionally here, “the stuffing is good, but do you remember the time you added dried apricots?
Soup is whole other ballgame. It is alchemy. I know alchemists and I know they would all agree that soup is alchemy. No, it’s not a sorcerer’s stone, but it might as well be. All these raw materials commune to create something else, the fundamental of alchemy is this, at least in my overly simplified explanation.
Again, I have yet to make a terrible soup. This year in particular I have made a spicy carrot and harissa soup, a vichyssoise that was delightful, a borscht to die for and the above mentioned split pea soup that is just back of the spoon licking good.
So why fear the brew? I have no idea to be honest, yes its the alchemy of it, but I’m also always worried it will be somehow flavorless. However, the more I do it, the more you get the idea that really there is no distinct way to ruin soup…
But I digress…
Turkey noodle soup to the rescue. People, this is in fact the best way to send the bird to bed. Granted, a scented, yummy bed but bed just the same, as I write this my house is filling with the aroma of turkey soup, my stock bubbles and I am already imagining the crusty bread that I will certainly eat with a big bowl of the stuff.
>Here’s the recipe I use:
http://www.cooks.com/rec/view/0,1639,146162-253193,00.html
So there you have it. It’s done it’s over, alls well that ends well, as a famous poet once said, “let be be finale of seem,” and I bid you farewell, my soup is calling.