Straight from the Vine(yard) pt. 1

Maybe not straight from the vineyard. I have found that it’s best to write about an event immediately following said event, for things, they do get muddled in the ether after days or weeks of swimming.

There was a trip to be had this summer, and it was to the East Coast. Typically, me and the lady, we spend a week or so out in New England with family. With this year being a milestone birthday for her mother, we were invited to spend a week with them on scenic Martha’s Vineyard. While we’ve spent some time in Connecticut, and while I’ve done my time in New York City, I’ve never made it to Cape Cod, Martha’s Vineyard, or the upper coast of New England. Most of my time was spent on the sunny, sandy, unspoiled beaches of Rehobeth and Fenwick Island, Delaware. Unfortunately, according to sources from back East where we used to go, they no longer resemble the quiet beachfront communities of my youth.

You’re lucky to get a towel down anywhere within sight of the water.

Now, Martha’s Vineyard, always a tourist destination, had a couple of things going for it. First, we went in late June. It’s not quite high season yet, but we were starting to feel it. Second, instead of staying down-island in the bustling towns of Vineyard Haven or Oak Bluffs, we were far removed, situated in the up-island community of Aquinnah.

It's pretty far away from everything

As I said, I’d never been there before, and there was only so much time to take in all the sights and flavors of the island, so after our flight landed and we had a lovely drink on the porch, we headed out for dinner at Lola’s, a beachfront restaurant with live music, dancing, and large portions of Southern food and drink. Late into the evening, we ate, drank, and were merry, alongside a birthday portion of key-lime pie and a dance from the elderly owner that involved a sparkler and a party hat in the shape of a cake.

The next morning, I wondered what we could do to top the previous evening’s activity of mirth and mayhem. For most things, life on the island takes a more subdued tone, and after some coffee and granola, we were off to visit the Chilmark Farmer’s Market.

Tucked back behind the Chilmark town hall, in a grass and gravel parking lot, are two rows of EZ up tent stalls arched over the backs of pickup trucks laden with local greens, potatoes, coolers of grass-fed milk, meats, and handmade brooms fashioned out of sorghum switches.

The second picture is where I picked up most of the things that we were going to make for dinner. All Island grown, all tucked away in buckets and as deep green as the clear sky was blue. We picked up the following:

Yellow Mustard Greens

Wild Ramps (upon further inspection, they were winter garlics, but still great looking)

Sugar Snap Peas

Red Potatoes (red on the inside and out, organic)

Pea Shoots

Edible Flowers (Nasturtium)

Scapes/Garlic Spears

Mint

Chives

Here’s a helpful tip from me to you if you’re scouting out which farmers to buy stuff from for the most authentic meal: Look for the people manning the stands who have the dirtiest fingernails, or the ones that look the weariest. They’ll smile, because it’s their job and their business to sell you on the product, but they will also be the most knowledgeable of their wares, and chances are, they’re the ones who are digging in the fields for your dinner. Appreciate, acknowledge, and respect their hard work. 

I’ve met so many farmers/bakers/small artisans over the years who work tirelessly during growing season to bring things to the market, anywhere from potatoes to groundcherries, apple fritters, scones, and even homegrown peanuts in the shell. Many of them have been up the night before harvesting, checking and double checking their product, or baking, all so you can enjoy a meal that makes you feel like you’re doing something to support hardworking farmers and local businesses. Give them the respect they have so rightfully earned, and buy as much of their stuff as you can so they can go home and take a nap.

With those in basket, we went on to Menemsha, the tiny fishing village on the remote Northwest shore. My mother, calling during the week, passed along a story to me of her youth.

Suddenly I was struck by the place, only because I have been there before–but I was an INFANT sleeping between my young parents and keeping them warm. They always said I was like a little warm stove. Even though I have no idea where we were, I loved seeing the photos of that place.

In the years since she’s been there, I doubt much has changed. Generally left untouched by the ravages of time and tourism, Menemsha remains a two-lane town, with a small wharf of fishing boats, two fish markets, and a general store. Here are a few pictures.

Main Street

Bait shop/Gas Station

Menemsha Wharf

The best thing about these pictures is that they’re all taken within 50 feet of one another. This town is tiny, and it doesn’t care who knows. What it does need is someone to go into one of their two fish markets and sniff around for some grub for dinner. How fortuitious, then, that we happened upon Menemsha Fish Market. We walked in, saw the lobster tanks (home of Lobsterzilla), and got a few local oysters on the half-shell. I’ll walk the line of defending the West Coast Quilcene oysters straight out of the bay that morning until my last breaths, but these were perfect- Small oysters that tasted of cool seawater and didn’t need a thing to make them taste good.

One great thing that they do is their lobster relief program. They have a handful of females, which for ten dollars, you can purchase and release with a notched tail, allowing them to spawn and lay untouched by the local fishermen. So, you know…we did that.

The swimmer fins are all light and feathery, much like females of any species.

a "V" cut is notched into the tail, alerting lobstermen that this lady is spoken for.

After taking her out to the pier, we have carefully removed the rubber bands of bondage from her claws.

This is what a successful release looks like. Lobster for everyone for YEARS TO COME!

So we left our lady lobster friend under the pier, scuttling off for darker, safer waters. Back inside, We were plied with Lobster rolls and bisque, which we enjoyed on the pots behind the fish market. We wandered back in for a third time, and purchased a hunk of smoked bluefish, and a jawdroppingly gorgeous piece of Striped Bass.

It's a perfect piece of fish.

Armed to the gunwales with fresh produce and fish, we returned to the house, where we embarked on a magical dinner expedition. The kitchen was aflurry with the chip-chip-chopping of knives. I took some of the fresh chives and a bit of soft cheese (easily procured Laughing Cow Garlic and Herb), and mixed it with the flaked bluefish. The Madre had made some infused oil using fresh dill from her garden, so we drizzled some of that on top, and served it with some water crackers and whole grain kavli toasts for an appetizer.

Part Two…Electric Boogaloo…coming soon.

 

Eating Healthy on a Budget

If you work at a Grocery store, or if you shop at one, you know how difficult it can be to find healthy options for your family at affordable prices. All the time, you hear about how places like Whole Foods are referred to as “Whole Paycheck”, (a daily occurrence for me), but in reality, it’s not that way at all.
Yes, the prices may seem somewhat exorbitant on one scale, being that you can get some products, exactly the same, for much cheaper at the local Kroger or Safeway. However, it still pales to how much we spend when we eat our lunches out.
I’m guilty of it, too. During the lunch period, I’ll wander over to Panera, get myself a half sandwich and cup of soup, and usually something to drink. A regular lunch, if only because I don’t want to be taken by too many choices in the grocery store. I want something off a menu that I don’t have to think about, and that I can order, eat, relax with, and be back to work with a decent amount of nourishment in 30 minutes or less.
The total price of a lunch? About 10 to 11 dollars, depending on the size of drink I’d like and whether I want my sandwich toasted.
Breaking it down, though, there are certain questions that begin to mount. The cup of soup is 12 ounces. I have half a sandwich. And even with a small drink, soda, iced tea, whatever it may be, the price of that drink is $1.85. Why so expensive for so little food?
Now, flip it over to Whole Foods, where the prices are allegedly high and there’s allegedly an attitude that comes with the meal. I can get a big salad for $5. I can get a whole sandwich, roast beef, cheddar, lettuce, tomato, trimmings, etc. for $4. Either that, or a 16 ounce soup full of goodness for $4. I can get a soda for 69 cents. Total price of a meal? Under ten dollars. It’ll probably fill me up. When I have the patience, that’s what I do.
When I don’t, though, it’s off to Panera I go. It’s the American way.

***

Let’s look at some of the ways that supermarkets are designed to assist your shopping experience. First, in almost any store you visit, the eye catching display as you walk in the door is Produce. It sets the tone of freshness throughout the store. Stop and look at things that are on sale. You can usually find at least one fruit or vegetable staple that is of reasonable price, and when you do, you should put it in your cart. This may be because the store has a good supplier in Mexico, or it may also be that they’re running a sale on something fresh, local, and in season. We eat with our eyes, but we needn’t forget to smell certain foods.
Tomatoes should smell like tomatoes. Basil should smell fresh and green. You should be able to get a whiff of orange oil if you lightly zest it with your thumb.
If you’re on a budget, and you are able to afford the Roma tomatoes that are hard and bland, don’t worry. Take them home, toss them with a little oil, salt and pepper, and roast them at 300 degrees until they turn to mush and their flavors bloom.
Next, look for the private label brands. Many stores have private label brands that are contracted through well-reputed companies at a lower markup. What this means is that good economic practices can work, by giving a wider audience to a company such as a Stonyfield Organic, or simply just by promoting the private label brand itself, getting the store’s name out more. Every time you open your fridge, there’s Safeway Organic Milk. There’s President’s Choice pickles. If you slapped the regular label on them, you’d end up paying a buck more for Vlasic and Horizon products. Private Label isn’t bad.
Third, the bulk section. More stores have a bulk section, where you can scoop granola, get almonds and raisins, and even pick up some treats for the kids. Bulk items are less expensive because they have a much lower packaging cost, among other factors. You can stack a pallet 8 high with 50# bags of rice, and if you buy either a whole bag, or merely a few scoops, you’re only using a fraction of the materials it takes to pack a canister of Planters’ peanuts with the foil inside and the razor sharp rim of death.
Last, buy what you know, but check the labels. If you know a Campbell’s soup is good, but you see another one on sale for half the price, try it. Try it once. You might not like it, and if you don’t, you have that knowledge moving forward, but you also have equal sustenance in your belly from your one less than flavorful interim meal. It’s not so bad. Now you know. You saved a buck and you fed yourself for a meal. This checking the labels thing? Try to use it for good things. You can’t taste the difference between a $4 can of Organic free range garbanzo beans and a $.99 can of store brand. Not after you add your garlic, cheese, salt, herbs, or anything else people put with it. Don’t sit in the aisles, poring over the labels on two competing brands of pizza, looking for the one with higher fiber. That’s not what healthy eating is about.

Remember- the more packaging something has, the less incentive it has to stay fresh. Simple packaging generally equals better food. If you can see the food without picking it up, or if you know that the food doesn’t have five layers of protective packaging or an airpuffed bag surrounding it, it might be a little better for you than a Kraft Macaroni and cheese. Case in point- the Macaroni. It’s alright. It can touch the cardboard, and it’s fine. However, the ‘cheese’? It’s in the airtight, foil lined, childproof pouch. We can easily see or hear the macaroni as it shuffles around in the box when we shake it. What we can’t do is even imagine what is in the Neon pouch of doom. That’s why I stay away from the box macaroni dinners. Colors like that don’t occur in nature.
You know what color does occur in nature? Green. If you have something green with dinner, you’re already on your way to better health. You can get a whole bag of spring mix, herbs, bitter greens, spinach, etc. for 2 bucks at my store. You can’t even get an egg mcmuffin for that, can you?
Buy some apples. Buy some bananas. If they go brown, make banana bread. Freeze them. Make morning smoothies with frozen fruit and orange juice. Find ways to utilize all the fresh food you get. It’s your money. Make healthy and sound choices for your dollar.
As a side question, when did coupons become such a bad thing? Look for the coupons. Clip ‘em if you got ‘em. Stock up on nonperishables when they go on sale. We have such a love for things like Groupon and Livingsocial, always scouting out things that are marketed to look like they are a great deal (some of them are!), but why not take that approach with your food? It’s a great deal in Atlanta to get a Facial and salt scrubbed body peel for 50% off today, but it seems too much to want to get 20% off of your groceries by clipping coupons or simply figuring out what is the best value for your dollar. Get your Preferred rewards card. Pick up the coupon booklet when you first walk in the store. You won’t be taken by impulse buys, most of the time. As long as you keep your head on right, and shop with purpose, you’ll be able to shop smart.

Shop S-Mart.

***

One last thing- Most people shop in terms of total dollar amounts. What many fail to realize is that packaging is perceived value. It may cost $4.99 for one container of shredded parmesan cheese, but it will cost $3.00 for a hunk of parmesan of equal or greater weight. It is increasingly popular (and I don’t know if it is mandated yet) to put unit cost on the shelf tags by the products. Next time you’re in the store, check out Unit prices, and see which items, not necessarily by sheer dollar amount alone, will give you the lowest price per ounce.

 

Looks and Tastes like New Jersey

Remember Iain? Of course you do. Well, this week, I made a pizza for his blog project. I know Wisconsin would be the easiest pie for me to tackle, but according to those who live up there, stuff just isn’t ready. I still have to wait a little bit for ramps, asparagus, berries of all kinds. It’s okay. I just didn’t want to make a turnip pizza.

anyway, I thought about what pizza I’d really like to make. With Iain’s completion of Pennsylvania, I decided to do a little companion puzzle piece. A little bit of Googling pointed me to New Jersey’s favorite foods.

Maybe I’m one of the only people to realize this, or maybe I just remembered because Zach Braff wouldn’t shut up about New Jersey for a few years and probably mentioned it, but New Jersey is the nation’s leading supplier of eggplant. Also known as the Garden State, New Jersey is the birthplace of the Tomato Pie, with Trenton staking the earliest claim to the recipe.

Tomato pie is a pizza with the toppings in reverse. Crust-Cheese-Topping-Sauce. It ends up looking like a stuffed pizza. The tricky part for this pizza is that the Trenton style of tomato pie is thin crust. There’s no place to hide the sauce. Just goes right on top with no retaining wall on the sides.

***

I needed things. I knew I had, in the fridge, my basil pesto from last week. That was going to be the base. Brushed on as a thin layer directly between the crust and cheese layer, it was my way of saying to New Jersey that even though people may only remember them for being dirty and giving the world the idea that only greasy, fried Italian things come from the shore, that underneath it all, there’s a tiny patch of green that I know is there, and it makes everything alright.

I picked up the following- Provolone (mozzarella uses the same curd as what becomes provolone. Plus, sliced thin, it’s easy enough to place in an even layer on the pizza), tomatoes for sauce, onions, garlic, and baby eggplant. I thought about getting a large one, but these were about the size of a juice glass, and we only had to have enough for one pizza. Also, parmesan cheese for sprinkling.

Conspicuously cut to not show a label, but I really made the Pesto. Really.

So, I came home to my standby pizza dough rising in the oven. I sliced the eggplant into 1/2″ thick rounds, breaded them in parmesan breadcrumbs and egg, and fried them. Setting them aside, I made the sauce. Onion and garlic, sweat in olive oil for five minutes. I added some leftover capers from a few nights before, and a can of seasoned tomatoes, just because it doesn’t have to be great. Just sauce.

Sauce cooked down, reduced until it was pretty chunky with little excess liquid. That’s when I hit it with the immersion blender. After blending, it thickened and reduced pretty quickly. Instead of a runny sauce, I had one that I could dollop onto a pizza. The consistency was great, and the sauce was not going to run anywhere.

I rolled the crust out, and pinched my way to a vaguely jellybean-shaped crust. I took all the pesto and spread it across the crust, layered the provolone, and put the eggplant parm on top. Two small eggplant yielded about 16 small slices, which fit the pie perfectly all the way down from Hackensack to Cape May.

Adding the sauce, I used the eggplant as a natural barrier for spills, and it seemed to work out fine. By the time it was sauced, the makeshift marinara had thickened up to a paste.  It worked so well. With a flourish of grated cheese, it went in the oven for 25 minutes at 425.

It turned out perfectly. As it was in the oven, I got a call from my lady friend, who said that she was bringing guests over, and she hoped that there was enough food. I looked at the pizza, which while filling seemed deceptively small in surface area, and immediately grabbed the other dough ball in the fridge. The oven was still on, so I didn’t have to worry about anything but making enough food to feed everyone.

Pizza number two, the other one, was what I had in the fridge. Orange peppers, capers, kalamata olives, a little sauce, feta, more provolone, roasted garlic. Into the oven it went, and I was happy when it came out and everyone was able to enjoy more than a couple slices of pizza.

I enjoyed both pizzas, but the Jersey Pizza held a special place in my heart. I did it to help out a friend, to feed my household, and to utilize the fresh bounty of a state not normally associated with freshness. Here’s my pizza. I hope you enjoy looking at it as much as I enjoyed making and eating it.

New Jersey-Now available in Pizza!

Don’t forget to check out the 50 State Pizza Project at: http://www.the-muffin-man.com

You’ll be very happy you did.

 

How to Cut an Onion

I’m the first one to talk about going to the market, eating locally and finding the products that are in season, but here’s a thing that many of you suffering through heat waves may not have picked up on: It’s cold in Seattle. While everyone else is posting their facebook statuses of “Another 100 degree day here in (name of your city), it’s 70-75 degrees here at best on most days.

Our summer began on July 5th. We had a heat wave of low 90s for about a week, and then, the temperature dropped down to the 60s and 70s once again. The sweatshirts that I put away for the summer came back out of the steamer trunk, and I was forced to shiver my way through brisk Seattle mornings in order to make it down to the market, where I braved the winds of Elliott Bay whilst digging my hands in and out of frigid fish ice for hours on end.

I sit here now on a morning where the mercury has barely broken 65 degrees, my chilly toes tucked under my knees as I sit in front of the computer. This weather confuses me.

How can there be so much bounty during the summer months without the weather in town to back up all the wonderful things that you can do with these products? This should be the time of year when we make salads, eat fresh berries, or savor the sweet, refreshing crispness of an apple or peach. Instead, I sit, bundled on top of the down comforter that still has yet to come off the bed for fear of another cold night in the Pacific Northwest.

Last week at the Market, I stopped at Alm Hill Gardens, a little farmstand from Everson, Washington. Everson is located in an idyllic setting, a tiny pocket of Washington State just over the border from Canada, where I’ve been told magical things happen in the garden. Alm Hill is always the first farm to have tulips before the spring, and during the summer, they have weird looking yet familiar vegetables to fill a fridge. That corner of the United States is where an abundance of seeds and bulbs are harvested for Home and Garden stores across the country, and it stays green almost year round. When it’s snowy, the valley looks like Switzerland. In the Spring, the acres upon acres of tulips evoke a Holland or Belgium. With Summer comes an even deeper appreciation for all things verdant, as the fields burst with berries, green garlics, and variegated greens of all varieties.

This week, they had the chard and green garlic, some translucent yellow onions, and few hundred pints of berries for sale. With the cold snap that we’ve been experiencing off and on in the mornings, the berries must be incredibly sweet and sugary, but we’ve had at it with the berries for the past couple of weeks, taking advantage of fresh fruit while it is warm. The only thing that looks appealing in addition to the staples that I picked up were the bags of second run berries. “Perfect for Jaming [sic]“, they read. Although it’s cold, even I know that it isn’t jam season just yet. I chose the chard and green garlics. (Yeah, they’re garlic spears, but these were not quite as straight-stalked as the others, still falling in curlicue tendrils out of their twist tie bouquet).

With chard and garlic in the backpack, I trudged my way to the bus stop, and made the ride up the hill to the home. I made sure to catch the bus that let me off right outside my house, because I didn’t want to walk the four extra blocks from the 49 bus in the cold. As it happens on many nights, I came home hungry, and put the backpack on the counter, sweeping the cutting board out from the drawer in one smooth motion.

Down below the cutting board was the pan. Next motion, out with the pan and onto the stove. As the right hand closed the door to the cupboard, it drew up to the burner, flicking it on to medium.

Right hand switches to panhandle. Left hand switches to Olive Oil. Right hand rotates the pan slowly as left hand gives two swirls around the pan. Right hand puts pan back on the burner.

Now bend down to get an onion, the most dangerous of mincing vegetables. I say it is the most dangerous of mincing vegetables for a few reasons.

1) Tiny pieces. You need to cut them into tiny pieces. This, for many people, is a daunting task. They cut the onion in half and then butcher it with the slow method of cutting that nobody, not even Vince of Slap-Chop fame, would be proud of. The easiest way to do it, and the way that yields lovely little dices, is to cut the top and the root off, slice it once vertically, and then slice them 3/4 of the way, both vertically from top to root, and horizontally. You’re left with what looks to be the beginning of those Onion flowers that they serve you at your local neighborhood ChiliAppleFriday’s, but, you know, a little more reserved and portion controlled than that. Then, with your finger in the old standby claw method (where the danger comes from), you slice the attached matchstick looking pieces into dice. Is there a correlation between dicing and a six sided die?

Sidebar: As I am writing this paragraph, I can’t stop thinking about that onion thing. I’ve never had one. Is it just like a giant, beer battered onion ring? It’s one of those creations that simultaneously fascinates and disgusts me. I call this feeling disgastination. Just for a moment, if we will, let us take a look at the marvel that is the Onion flower.

2) The tears. If you manage to cut an onion and remain in full force, digitally speaking, there are still the chemical repercussions of your onion reaction to deal with. Everyone will tell you that they have a way to combat these tears. Here is a short list of ways that I’ve heard will help, but in truth, do not.

1. Wear Goggles- This does not work because it is dumb.
2. Hold Matchsticks, matchheads out, in the corners of your mouth- This was allegedly started because people believed that the phosphorus in match heads, when inhaled in small doses, would counteract the vapor coming off the onion. If you breathed in through your mouth, you’d get the match scent. In through the nose, the matches were below your nasal passages, so they would go up your nose. I don’t know what they were talking about, but according to the hit show “Breaking Bad”, Phosphorus is found in the striking surface of the matchbox. Also, that show teaches us not to do drugs, I think. So just to recap- Match theory-Busted. And don’t do drugs.
3. Buy diced onions- You are lazy.
4. Rinse the onion before chopping- Where does your flavor go? Are you going to dip  your flavorless dish in the garbage disposal to sop up the flavor you lost? No? Okay. So don’t do that, either.
5. Leave the skin on before you chop it- As a barrier to all the vapors getting up to you and clogging your head with salty tears of defeat? No. Do you like bits of onion skin in your onion? They burn in the pan and make your dinner look rustic. Don’t do that.

There’s no way I’ve found that really works, unless you get a fresh onion. Get one that hasn’t been deadheaded. That’d be one that doesn’t have the papery skin on the outside. For some reason, they seem less pungent and less aromatic that way. I haven’t seen them out here, but if you go to a farmstand and they have the really shiny onions, get those if you really want to make an attempt to not cry while you’re cutting onions.

So now, I’ve chopped the onion, and it’s in the pan. Slice a couple of cloves of garlic. Toss those in as well.

From my bag, I pull out a bunch of chard, slicing the stems and rough chopping the leaves. With the green garlics, I discard the rough stem ends, and whittle the pieces into 3/4 inch bits. Those go in the pan. So do the bits of chard.

Salt, pepper. Another splash of oil. A secret blend of herbs and spices known to the world as the amazing packet known as Saizon Goya. Let the chard leaves wilt.

Out of the freezer comes the packet of Morningstar fake meat crumbles. They’re actually quite delicious, and the only thing that I’ve found that mimics the texture of ground beef and gives enough body to stand up to the fixins already in the pan. Now, a note about this.

I understand that many of you have known about my philosophy on food, and on food substitutes from the vegetarian diet. 99% of the time, I can see using meat in a dish. However, if you know more about me than that, you might also know that I’m not a huge fan of red meat. I don’t usually go to a restaurant and order a steak. It will be fish, pork (although it’s hard to find a pork in a restaurant that is as succulent as they make it out to be, to pork’s sad discredit), or some kind of other interesting meat. Red meat in general has never left me feeling satisfied after eating it. It has only left me feeling bad. It’s heavy, doesn’t have the most pleasing flavor to me, and with all the things that people are doing with other meats these days, it’s fast approaching chicken as the meat that is the most boring one for me to work with. With that in mind, for something like the dish I’m describing, (which is tacos in case you have not yet guessed), these vegetarian crumbles fit the bill, and I like them, so there.

So then, those go in the pan, along with a fresh diced tomato, and then we let it all sit for a few minutes to bring the fully cooked crumbles up to temperature so that the dish as a whole will be delicious and filling while warm and satisfying on a not so warm night.

We get some cheese out, grate it, bring our friend Paul Newman’s salsa to the table, and then we enjoy some delicious tacos. The best thing about tacos is that you can put anything in there. Unless, like the Andyman so skillfully does, you strive for authenticity, there is little worry that you need to adhere to someone’s great grandmother’s recipe. It’s a pan full of flavors that go well together, and it tastes good. Today’s burritos, tortas, tacos, etc. do not taste like they came straight from Michoacan. When they do, it’s amazing. When they don’t, it’s your own creation, and it’s stuff in a shell of corn that tastes good. At our house, we call it tacos. It’s a good blend of something summery and something that will keep my toes, still cold, at least above the freezing point.

If I’m working hard all day, I  don’t have the time to sit by the stove and make a rich, layered molé. What I do have time for is to shop for all of the ingredients that make up groovy flavor profiles that I can be proud of as a home cook, home cookin’ meals like I do. The tortilla is the canvas. I merely paint.

Halibut Cheeks, Escabeche, Squash Blossoms, and Oven Roasted Tomatoes

 

Just Like Riding a (Pasta) Bike

It’s frigid and gross outside, and I don’t want to go to the store. I’ve managed to do one load of laundry, poorly, and it’s in the wash for a second time because I didn’t load it with enough water.

I don’t want to go outside. It has been raining for the last few days, and just going out to the mailbox depresses me. What can I do to occupy my time? Looking in the fridge, there’s a little bit of food. I made a nice tomato sauce a few days ago. There’s still plenty of cheese. I think that there’s an egg or two. Capers are in the cupboard, and I have a few nice sardines and some breadcrumbs. I think tonight will be a pasta night.

***

Back in school, making pasta was a regular thing. There would be a couple of dishes on the daily menu that were beef, maybe a chicken, a fish or two, a nice green salad, and a few sides. There was almost always a pasta dish. Our instructor, being from New York, and one of the most Italian-American individuals I’ve ever had the pleasure to work with, most often insisted that we learn how to make pasta ourselves, so that we were better able to assert ourselves in the kitchen when it came time to forge our creative path. With little more than salt, flour, and egg, we were able to create and stretch the canvas for limitless possibilities to expand our culinary horizons.

With each week, we went over different recipes that were indicative of the regions of Italy. There was a cream sauce in the north served alongside the bread of the week, a cracker-like grissini, a Bolognese, a thick, meat sauce that filled you up and could have been served alongside a boeuf bourgignon as a main course, and a lightly dressed Southern style with lemon, oregano, breadcrumbs, and golden raisins. Through our weekly endeavors, we learned about how the sauce for a carbonara, when whisked properly, blended the fat from rendered bacon with a lightly coddled egg to create a proper emulsion when finished with a flourish of cheese. We learned that Agnolotti, Tortellini, and Ravioli were all different regional takes on the same basic structure. Agnolotti al Plin, or Agnolotti with a Pinch, was in reference to not only the shape of the pasta, a filled pillow with a crimped edge, but was also a sly nod to their inventor, who had a fondness for pinching the pillowy bottoms of his female kitchen staff as they prepared the dish. They can be made with a meat, cheese, or vegetable filling, but from region to region, depending on what herbs, spices, or proteins were available, the recipe as well as the shape will differ.

Since I have a bunch of different items in the fridge, I think I’m going to do a mishmash of all the different regions with my pasta. Capers and sardines are decent bedfellows, and you could even throw a tomato in there for flavor, as they all come from the same region, but since there’s basil, onion, and garlic in the sauce, that makes it a little tricky to adhere to strict regional laws of cuisine.

Moreover, and don’t tell anyone this, I used a Rex Goliath Merlot in the sauce. A (gasp!) French (double gasp!!) blended wine flavored drink made in (triple gasp!!!) California! It’s definitely not my favorite, but it’s palatable, affordable, and it was the closest bottle I could reach when I was making the sauce.  If I can gulp down a glass while the sauce is simmering, it’s fine and dandy for me as a usable wine.

Anyhow, the sauce? It’s taken care of. Just a quick reheat, maybe a bit of a reduction, and it’ll be ready to serve with the pasta.

Ah yes, the pasta. Down at the market, there’s a nice pasta stand called Pappardelle’s. If you’ve ever been down there, you’ve probably heard them in your periphery as you walk by, trying to sell you on their product by offering the all-too-unfortunately-concocted mess they call “chocolate pasta”. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I usually like it if they lead with their strength.

They’ve got a lot of awesome pastas there. Flavors abound, from a Lemon Trenette to a Basil and Parsley Mafaldine, to Harissa linguine, and a Red Onion Pappardelle, those really wide noodles that I just find fantastic for enjoying every last morsel of sauce.

The one thing that bothers me about it is that they charge $10/lb for it. For flour and water and a few dry spices. Maybe for the Saffron or the Portabella Pasta, I could see charging a premium, but this always got me thinking if I could make my own at home.

I knew I could, what with the years of pasta making experience I had already been so quick to forget. How hard could it be? I’d seen Molto Mario enough to figure out that you needed to make a well, put some eggs down in the center, and whisk it all together for a few minutes, roll it out, and, MIRACLE OF MIRACLES! You would look down and there would be pasta.

Easy.

So a while back, I had received some farm fresh eggs from a local vendor at the market. Six of em. Some brown, some green, all of them exciting. I went to the Italian store up the way to get some 00 flour, just like Mario Batali used. I didn’t have a rolling pin, but I wasn’t about to get one. I had all these empty wine bottles lying around that had worked just as well for me over the years.

Got them home and found a recipe online. Simple enough. 2 cups of flour and four egg yolks. Started off with two cups of 00 on the board, made the little well in the center, and separated the yolks, one by one, into the well. I whisked them together, breaking them up and incorporating a little bit of flour at a time. The directions told me that it would start coming together, and when it did, to knead it for about 15 minutes until it became elastic.

My dough was flaky, like a bad pie crust. I turned it out onto the board, and started kneading, hoping that it would come together.

Five minutes went by. Ten minutes. My arms started to burn. Fifteen minutes. I took a break. My abs hurt. It was like doing an exercise on a CPR dummy that wasn’t responding. Somewhere, my instructor was laughing. The dough was not stretchy, nor was it elastic. It was a rock. The instructions said to cover it with Saran Wrap and place it in the fridge for twenty minutes. I really didn’t think that it was going to help.

It didn’t. Twenty minutes later, it was harder than before I put it in. There was only one thing I knew about how this pasta would turn out. I knew the sound it would make when it hit the bottom of the garbage can.

Thud.

Crap. Those nice eggs, too. Didn’t cost me anything, but it was a waste of beautiful product. I ended up using the dried pasta we had in the cupboard, and it seemed to turn out alright. Sadly, it wasn’t the fresh dinner I’d hoped for.

***

The next time I made fresh noodles, I wanted to get it right. I used the Mario Batali recipe. 3 3/4 c. of flour, 5 whole eggs. Ah. Whole eggs. I’d run into the problem earlier with my mayonnaise, where I used the whole egg instead of the yolk, yielding a broken, sloppy mess on my hands. Alright. Problem number one was solved.

I got to mixing, doing the well-method, and luckily, I only had to knead it for two to three minutes, according to the recipe. Fantastic. Wrapped it in plastic, let it sit on the counter for twenty minutes at room temperature, and it was ready to go.

Already, I could see that the texture was like what the first recipe said it should have been. You could pull it with your finger like a dough hook, and it would snap and spring back when it reached its breaking point. Much better.

I cut off a small hunk, and floured the board. I rolled it out as thin as I could, taking great pains to keep it well floured so as not to stick. When I simply could not roll it any more, I took my sort of thin sheet, rolled it up, and sliced it, tagliatelle-style.

When you roll up a pasta, and you don’t get the cut just right, as it unfurls, it becomes a zigzag of curiousity that really never quite resembles what you see in the pictures. Still, it was better. It was edible, and I was able to put it in a boiling pot of water and serve it with all the zest of a semi proud home cook.

***

I saw all those fancy pasta machines at the Italian Market. They were about $150. I don’t have that kind of scratch laying around. What could I do?

I forgot about making my own fresh pasta for a couple of weeks, until I picked up a copy of The Stranger, and saw that, right by my bus stop, at Ross Dress for Less, in the housewares section, they had pasta machines for $20!

20 bucks? Joy of Joys! I did a little dance, and then I drank a little water, for what I had, I had to get and put it in the pasta machine, and I had to do it soon.

After work one night, I went in, and I got that pasta machine. For twenty dollars, it was the best investment. I brought it home, used my Mario Batali recipe for pasta, and cranked it out. I cranked out all kinds of pastas. Thin sheets for lasagna, thinner sheets for wild mushroom and leek tortellini, and all manner of thin fettuccine for dinners on cold nights such as this.

What it came down to, though, was this: How was I going to ensure that my fresh pasta would make it from the pasta machine to the pot without sticking? Sure, there was a lot of flour on the board, but I always had a clothes drying rack or something similar on which to hang the pasta to dry before cooking it. What to do?

I learned something important that day, in addition to the restated fact that necessity is the mother of all invention. If I want to make a fresh pasta, I can do it myself, but with an extra pair of hands in the kitchen, a better sense of satisfaction comes about with the end product. More than that, sometimes an answer to your query is right in front of you. As we were cranking the noodles out one evening, we needed a spot to hang the noodles. I usually plopped them in a pile, shook them loose from one another, and threw them in the pot, hoping that they would turn out delicious if not only somewhat edible. My better half, the one who somehow got the looks and the brains in our relationship equation, ran into the other room, and came back with the answer. It was so simple, and I was and continue to be impressed by her novel solution to my problem.

Could it be that it was all so simple?

***

So, tonight, it is Pasta. The stars are aligned. The MOON IS IN THE SEVENTH HOUSE! JUPITER IS ALIGNED WITH PLUTO!

Tonight’s dinner will be like a big cable knit sweater that someone keeps knitting, and knitting, and knitting. *

*Except that instead of yarn, it will be a long string of pasta. Um…Yeah.

 

My Beef with Bill the Butcher

ETA: Please pass this on if you read it, agree with it, or think that other people need to hear it. Retweet it, repost it, put it on facebook or link to your own blog. I just got a little passionate, NETWORK style about this article.  I appreciate the time, and thanks for stopping by.

I picked up a copy of the Stranger the other day. If you’re not from around here, the Stranger is Seattle’s weekly, similar to the Village Voice, Chicago Reader, etc. featuring the advice columns of Dan Savage. That’s how you know it.  Anyhow, front page news had the headline “Mystery Meat- How Organic is Bill the Butcher?”

Ooh. An intriguing expose.

I read through the article, (linked at the bottom of this post), and had an immediate response. I’ve worked in some level of the chain of supply for meat for about fifteen years, ranging from being the guy who checks in the locally produced lamb to the guy who sells you your bacalao. I’ve gone through meat cutting classes, and have a decent grasp on what makes a good cut of meat. Certainly, through my tenure in the industry, I know what it means to be a decent purveyor of quality product at prices that reflect what kind of meat it is that you’re getting. Online classes to discuss the quality, source, and importance of sustainability of fish were always at my disposal. So what’s my beef with the beef?

In the article, a few things stood out.

(T)here’s one thing Von Schneidau and Owens won’t share, and that’s the names of the putatively organic ranches that supply the shops.

Bill the Butcher’s marketing and in-store signage explicitly state “Certified Organic and Natural Beef, Lamb, Veal, Goat, Cheese, Fish, Chicken, Pork, Game” (its website says “only locally sourced and ethically raised meat”). When asked, butchers at two locations said, “Everything in the case is organic.

And the most damning of all condemnations, a response in the article from one of their own purveyors of chicken:

The chicken farm is the one source that Bill the Butcher is forthcoming about: Dog Mountain Farm in Carnation. David Krepky, co-owner of Dog Mountain, says, “Yeah, I told them not to use the word ‘scavenger,’ because they’re not.” The chickens are kept in an indoor/outdoor pen and given feed to supplement whatever bugs and grass they find in the outdoor part.

Dog Mountain Farm’s chickens are highly regarded, sustainably and humanely raised heirloom chickens. But Bill the Butcher’s butchers also claimed that the Dog Mountain Farm chickens were certified organic. “No,” says Krepky, “they’re not organic. The organic feed comes from Canada, and it’s like twice as expensive.” Are they certified natural? “Nope,” says Krepky, “neither. They’re just good chickens.

How is this fair to people who want to sell ethically raised meat? It’s not. It is misleading by the person who you are supposed to trust to keep your family healthy. When you go to get a haircut, you trust the barber to make you look good. When you go to the bookstore, you trust the recommendations of who is selling you the book. Buying your food should not be like buying a car. Why should you have to do the research on where your food comes from? It should be there in black and white. If it is organic, prove it. Show me. Tell me where it comes from, what it eats, how it’s raised. If you’re charging premium prices for a supposedly premium product, I expect you to be able to tell me what kind of grass your grass fed beef is pastured on.

They don’t even do that:

When asked which ranch a flank steak came from and what the cow ate, the young butcher at the Woodinville store replied, “Well, it’s not like I can ask this steak where it came from, you know. But I can tell you that everything here is local and organic.”

Come on. This is appalling to me. How on earth can you possibly employ someone who is as inept at their job as this? Where on earth is this an accepted practice, to be mediocre about the product that you sell? Yes, you can tell us where the steak came from. What you cannot do is exactly what you just did. You cannot say that this piece of meat is organic.

You can say it’s all natural. You can say it’s “beyond organic”, whatever that means. You can even say it’s organically raised or fed, but you cannot say that it is fully organic. The pastures, the grain, the conditions of the soil, the proximity to contaminated sources of clean, untainted drinking water? All of these have bearing on whether or not you can truthfully sell something as what you purport it to be.

On to the fish- there is no way that you can certify a fish organic in the United States. Such a classification does not exist, adhering to the rules set forth by Fish and Game, NOAA, USDA, etc. Show me which pond, which lake, which river you’ve certified organic, and then drink out of it to prove to me that it is fully safe. The closest we can get to Organic fish certified to United States standards is to have an accompanying seal of approval from the Marine Stewardship Council, an independent third party organization who does testing to ensure that a wild caught fish is harvested in an ecologically sustainable manner, one that is least detrimental to the environment (dragging, minimal bycatch, etc.), and a method and cap for the season that is not counterproductive to the continued flourishing and cyclical repopulation of the species. Even though it’s also designed as a marketing ploy with the extra added cache of being able to put it on your product and jack up the prices, they do their research.

Bill the Butcher?

According to Owens and Von Schneidau, some of the meat is USDA certified organic and some is certified natural—a certification monitored by ranchers themselves, not the USDA. Then some is what Von Schneidau calls “beyond organic”—certified as neither, but “grass-fed and sustainably ranched” and personally checked. Von Schneidau says, “My specs to [the ranchers] are ‘x, y, z,’ and we get as close to that as we can to call it ‘Bill the Butcher.’”

The thing is, this in itself is utter noise and PR nonsense, designed to put the customer at ease. Still, they go into no depth as to what X, Y, and Z actually happen to be. When I sell a fish, my X is that the fish must be purple, the Y is that it should have sharp pointy teeth, and the Z is that it should taste vaguely of the sea. It’s a crazy sounding analogy, but it’s my prerogative how I’m going to use it to sell my product. If those were my criteria, would you really want to buy a fish from me?

Neither would I.

***

There are so many things that I want to say about this, so many wrongs that need to be righted. Their staff needs training, badly. They need to be more honest with their customers relating to how they are marketing their product. Right now, all they’re marketing is themselves as a high end butcher for a high end clientele. That is their niche. Having worked that angle on a larger scale, I can tell you that their business is relying on the fact that the pseudo-educated consumer will ask a bunch of regurgitated questions that they’re supposed to ask but have not the wherewithal to fully comprehend the answers to. I’ve been guilty of misleading customers before, sometimes based on what I’ve been told to tell them, but also because I know that they won’t have the patience to check it out on their own. Shopping at one of these places and assuming that you’re getting the best quality food should be a right. People treat it as a privilege accompanied by whatever luxury car they’re driving. It doesn’t matter so much to them that the food quality is paramount. You take home a piece of 40 dollar per pound cherry leaf wrapped bleu cheese, your dinner guests are going to know that you take your food seriously, but it will never get past the superficial level of the Ooohs and Aaahs that your cheese plate receives as you serve it alongside your bottle of trendy Croatian reserve Tempranillo style wine drink.

People see the price tag, they see the words organic, and they go crazy for it. It’s an Adult Pokemon Syndrome. It’s de rigeur. Those who can afford to shop organic do, but many of those who don’t have a strong desire to feed their family something healthy, and see an organic roaster as a small indulgence. Small home cooks who like doing something special every once in a while, they’ll purchase a bison steak, or farm fresh eggs, but not on a daily basis. There is a small, yet passionate and everexpanding group of conscientious consumers who are just as inquisitive as I about the transparency in their food supply. Jill Lightner, a Seattle food writer, is one of them. She writes:

“It’s what a consumer should expect. It’s impossible to tell whether a label means something without a consumer devoting an absurd amount of time… This is exactly why transparency in sourcing is the only thing that matters. If you know the ranch, you can visit the ranch, see the animals, and ask questions. If you don’t know the ranch, you’re relying on a marketing department.”

By this point in time, if you know me and my food buying, cooking, and eating habits, you know this: I try to purchase locally sourced ingredients. I try to use fresh produce, organic when I can. When I can’t find locally sourced stuff, I try to purchase from a locally owned small business at the market. I can’t always afford the nice vine-on tomatoes, so I get the conventional romas. I can’t always afford to get a 6 dollar dozen of cage free brown eggs at the creamery, so I’ll save that small indulgence for when I want to make a great fresh pasta or a delicious omelet. Eating fresh food should be a right. I want to know where my food comes from. I shouldn’t have to ask you.

***

So what do I do? How do I resolve this problem that I’m having with this guy’s meat? I don’t usually buy it, so there’s no harm in saying that I won’t shop there. So I’ve got that going for me. Still, I need to take the initiative and find a new place to feed my curiousity and quench the seething fire that lives inside my belly that wants to cook all of Bill the Butcher’s steaks to a crisp.

Prior to the publication of this article, I was speaking with a coworker, and he asked me if I’d been to the new butcher up on Capitol Hill. He’s one who gets equally excited about food. There’s usually something delicious cooking at his house, whether it’s simply a good dinner, or something thoroughly out of the ordinary, such as veal sweetbreads and grilled tuna collars.

“Which one?” I asked him?
“Just a little place up off of Pike Street.”

I thought about it for a second, and then gave it not a second thought until yesterday. I yelped for a Capitol Hill Butcher, and came up with Rain Shadow Meat Company on Melrose. Brand Spanking new, I recall that their butcher was also showcased in last week’s Stranger Chow Bio (linked at the bottom), and he went by the Butcherly name of Russ Flint.

What a great way to introduce yourself to the world. “Russ Flint-Butcher”. Such a great title for your meat guy.

We don’t eat meat much over here. That’s not to say that it’s taboo. I’ve been encouraged to buy more meat to satisfy whatever carnivorous urges I may have, but I cook what I know we both will eat, so a lot of times, that’s either fish or vegetables. I do feel healthier eating like this, and I think that it’s wise to vary your diet, so with that in mind, I took a stroll over to the Melrose building, just a block from our old place.

It was a beautiful day, and I thought to myself as I walked over, “This is what I should be doing with my time off, all the time. What better way to spend an afternoon?”

I spent about fifteen minutes walking down the sunny side of the street to soak up the nice bits of sunshine that we have going for us here in Seattle. These times have been few and far between, but it just happened that it was ideal for my little sojourn down the hill.

I got there about three P.M., across the street from Bauhaus coffeeshop, and there, where used to sit an empty warehouse, was a huge one story, gutted space with sliding windows on the front to promote an open air atmosphere.  As I walked in, the space was nearly vacant. There was a large open court in the center, flanked on the right by a butcherblock cheese shop, The Calf and Kid, and on the left by a 15 foot case of meat. There was Rain Shadow.

Two guys were busy with an old school hand crank sausage press, linking up country style breakfast sausage for the case.  I was acknowledged over the counter, and let them keep on linking while I checked over the wares.

It’s a spartan case, maybe four or five small porterhouse/t-bones, a little ground lamb, some gorgeous pork chops, and a fryer/roaster or two. And the hangar. Three six to eight oz. hangar steaks, perfectly trimmed, on their own individual pieces of butcher paper.  On the other side, the breakfast sausage, some lamb crepinette in caul fat, house made duck confit, slab bacon, farm fresh eggs, poussin, a larger game hen, smoked hocks, everything you could want, just in small quantities. And on top of the counter, huge soft pretzels. Very tempting.

I took the hangar. Every item had a label that said what farm it came from. They utilized the duck that they weren’t going to sell. They ground their own meat for sausage, and spiced and stuffed it right there. I walked around the corner, and this was exactly what I was hoping for.

There was a window into the meat cooler. You want transparency? You want an honest butcher? How about these guys? Every piece of meat was on display, complete with the name of the farm stamped right on the package. There were hanging pork bellies being cured for pancetta, a standing rib roast on a meat hook, and a grinder with the grinder log hanging on a hook in plain sight. Awesome.

I don’t remember where my hangar steak came from, but I do remember that it had a name. At least, the farm did. Painted Something, Thundering Hooves? I was just happy to know that I could see that I was getting what I wanted out of my butcher. And it wasn’t even that expensive. I paid $3.80 for a hearty hangar steak, and across the way at Calf and Kid, they were no less accommodating. I walked over, and the ladies were talking about roommates and boys, according to one. “That’s alright, keep on doing what you’re doing. I’ll flag you down,” I responded.

I like shopping at my leisure, and being honest and full in my explanations. In order to prove I’m serious, I like to ask about a couple of things in the case, but before I could, one of the women came over and passed me a patty paper with a spreadable cheese on it.

“Try it. It’s a great burrata. Just done up a few days ago, so it’s not quite ripe yet, but it’d go great with apples.”

I tried it. She was right. It would. I had some pickled ramps at home (remember those?) and I’d read an article about a recipe utilizing them with a ricotta mint crostini with a little fresh olive oil. Simple, seasonal, delicious.

I asked her about the ricotta, and she instantly went over to give it the sniff/taste test. It was getting down towards the bottom of the container, and she said she’d been tasting stinky cheeses all day, so she might not be the best judge of the cheese’s body.

“It’s on the last day. You still want it? Here, try some. See if you can use it.”

She passed it over to me, and it tasted great. It was a sheep’s milk ricotta from Black Sheep dairy, one with a very low salt, and it tasted so much more creamy than any other store bought stuff.

“Yeah, I’ll be using it tonight.”

“Just give me three bucks. I’ll get you a nice scoop.”

What? Really? I’ve done that at the fish shop, giving the friends and family a little nod, but she was so forthcoming with her honesty that it was equally as refreshing as that one bite of cheese.

Nice. Got the steak. Got the cheese.

I wandered to the back corner, where there was Marigold and Mint. It was just a tiny shop, with some alliums, a few bedding tomatoes, and a stem case. I had heard the proprietor call out to the meat stand earlier.

“Russ, if you have anyone who wants fresh vegetables, I just brought some in from the farm.”

Score.

I checked it out. She had three flats, one of multicolored radishes, another with flowering broccoli rabe, and the third with stark white baby japanese turnips.

I asked her a little bit about where they come from.

“Oh, these are from my family farm, Oxbow Farm in the Snoqualmie Valley. I was a bit late this morning because I was digging them up. It’s all organic. I think I’m going to go $3.25 a bunch.  You can be my first customer for fresh produce.”

Yes, I sure can. And I was.

I asked how the turnips were.

“They’re pretty sweet. You can just sautee them or roast them, but don’t cut them in half. They tend to dry out pretty quickly if you do. These are the first of the season, so they’ll get a little bit more flavor in a couple weeks, but these are still really mild.”

In total, I left with one steak, four fresh eggs for an omelet, a scoop of ricotta, and a bunch of beautiful turnips. What a dinner I would make. I spent my walk back pondering what I’d do with my turnips.

I had some shallot at home, and some balsamic, and some honey. I sauteed them for a few minutes until they were almost tender but still firm, and then added a splash of balsamic and a drizzle of honey. I tossed them around for a minute or two, and let them rest and absorb a little bit of flavor.

Next, into the pan with the steak. I marinated it in some balsamic, sliced garlic, some olive oil, salt and pepper, and fresh thyme for about an hour. Once again, just a quick sear in the pan was all it took. About two to three minutes a side and five minutes of rest later, I sliced into it, and it was a perfect rare, still cool on the inside. Any steak, I’ll try to go Medium Rare, but with a hangar, a great rare sear is perfect.

With the ricotta, I added a little salt and pepper, some olive oil, and fresh chopped mint. I put it on top of some baguette slices, and topped each one with a pickled ramp. It was a satisfying local meal.

With it, I had a Columbia Valley Sauvignon Blanc, and a glass of homemade ginger ale with a sprig of that fresh mint. On a day like yesterday, nothing proved a more satisfying way to end the day.

***

So where does that leave me? First, away from Bill the Butcher. I don’t necessarily have a problem with people and stores that sell random cuts of meat, as that’s what we’ve all grown up on. There is a sticking point, though, when I find out that I’ve been lied to by the people I trust. I hate hucksters, snake oil salesmen, and anyone who promotes their business as above their consumer, gauging their knowledge over that of their customer, and realizing that there’s a buck to be made. That rooster doesn’t crow in my backyard. How many times will someone have to call them on their lies before they fix what is inherently wrong with their prematurely implemented system of business as usual?

With Rain Shadow, Calf and Kid, and Marigold and Mint, these guys are doing all they can to make their small businesses thrive, and for what it is worth to you, for your health, for your mind, and for the sake of your community, go shop there. Make someone’s efforts in selling quality, honest product worth their time. They’re there not out of fitting the mold of every other shop. You can tell that there’s a passion, and a real personal investment in addition to all the hype of a marketing ploy such as the one presented by Bill The Butcher.

As the Paul Shaffer Orchestra once said (sang), ”Know know know know know know know know your cuts of meat.”

Baby Japanese Turnips

Seared Hangar Steak with Balsamic Honey Glazed Turnips

Ricotta and Mint Crostini with Pickled Ramps

The Offending Article:

http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/mystery-meat/Content?oid=4040872

The Butcher Who Saved My Dinner:

http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/chow-bio/Content?oid=4040855

Rain Shadow Meats:

http://www.rainshadowmeats.com/

Calf and Kid’s Blog:

http://calfandkid.blogspot.com/

Marigold and Mint:

http://www.marigoldandmint.com/

 

Pickles-Riding the Wave

Yes, like everyone else, I’m falling under the spell of pickles. Ah, pickles- the latest fashion food to hit New York, one that rolls across the country like a vinegared wave of deliciousness that is salty like the sea, while when conditions are just right, can loft a surfboard made of cucumbers with a tiny beach bum made of garlic to a pedestal of freshness while we anxious eaters on the shore wring our napkins in anticipation of that perfect ride that culminates in throwing our arms around the well-seasoned rider, and getting a sloppy taste of a job well done right in the kisser.

Wow. That metaphor took a turn for the long-winded.

Moving on, I love pickles. I love pickles any time of day or night, and in any way. I love them on burgers, in a salad, with a beer, with delicious meats, and straight out of the jar. They add a snappy bit of pep to any spring or summer dish, and balance out a heavy meal with a pleasant bit of zest. Pickles are good for you, too. As someone who has never, and most likely will never subscribe to the Kombucha craze, pickles are the way of getting the health benefits of vinegar without having to fight through the “acquired taste” that people defend Kombucha of having. It is my own personal opinion that people fight through the taste and grow to an understandable level of palate acceptance in order to glean the homeopathic benefits of whatever it is that Kombucha has to offer. Knowing only marginal information about Kombucha, I make this claim knowing that it is factually inaccurate, but no amount of gentle prodding will get me to change my mind and try it. Why? Because food and drinks are supposed to taste good. You are supposed to enjoy your food. Savor it.

People will strive to acquire a great pickle. Friends have sent New York Half-Sours across the country longing for a taste of home. Japanese friends of mine have pickled everything from radishes to watermelon rinds. When I was younger, I read an article about the proprietor of a local hamburger joint who called the local newspaper in to publish a huge announcement. It turns out that after years of searching, our eccentric Burgermeister had found the greatest pickle to accompany his burgers, and he wanted a triumphant moment in the sun to tell the world that his dish was complete. He wanted to bask in the glory, and, yes, relish it.

Relish, you say? Why, what better to way to enjoy a food? You do know that there’s pickles in that there relish? (Seriously, there are.) Here is a list of things that I’ve pickled over the last few months:

Carrots
Beets
Escabeche (carrots, onions, jalapenos)
Cucumbers (baby English, Persian, Regular)
Garlic
and most recently,my own personal favorite- Ramps

Yes, Ramps. Wild garlic sprouts that appear only a few weeks out of the year. With the seasonal foods, (asparagus, ramps, morels, fiddleheads, berries of various derivations), I abuse my position as a Public Market employee to purchase as much of these as possible, and come up with every possible recipe for these items in the short window of availability that they give. In the last few weeks I’ve replaced garlic in all my recipes with ramps, putting them in risotto, making ravioli, tossing them with a coleslaw, flash searing the greens with morels and a hell of a lot of butter, wrapping halibut in the leaves, and a few other things that slip my mind, but recently, when I made my way through the Sunday crowd to my normal vegetable spot, I realized that I had become too overzealous with my spring culinary endeavour.

“You want ramps today?”

I had become that guy. Ramp Man. In the grand scheme of things, there are far worse things to be called than Ramp Man, but to have even the sight of me associated with one specific item, I had a market flashback back to my childhood, when I saw a customer of mine from the bakery on the street, and she called me out across the way as “Scone Boy”.

It’s a form of gentle ribbing, and I wanted to scream at them ‘I’m so much more than these ramps! Look at all the stuff that I’m creating! I’m not Scone Boy anymore!” It wouldn’t have done any good. Until the garlic spears came in, I’d be known as Ramp-Man. I could not be bothered to buy any until the moniker had all but washed away. I got a pear.

I went back to work, and a few hours later, a vendor walked by with two cases of vegetables. I craned my neck to see what was inside as they approached the counter.

“Can you send these to my folks in Leavenworth?”

“Sure.” I said. “What’s in the box?”

“Ramps.”

Crap. There were fifty bunches in total. Our vendor friend, it turns out, had grown up in Germany, where ramps were considered quite a treat. Now, as their parents had retired to the middle of Washington State, they were starting to have the craving for them, and had contacted the market to get some delivered. Being the dutiful market employee that I am, and wishing to help despite trying ever so (not that) hard to distance myself from the intoxicating plant, I agreed to help grant their parents their Springtime wish.

“Thank you so much. I can’t believe you know what to do with these. They’re so good, right? Do you want a few bunches to take home?”

How could I say no?

***

Fast forward to that night. I’ve loaded up my bag with all sorts of vegetables. We’re going to make a fresh pasta with some zucchini and pattypan squash, maybe throwing some fresh garbanzos in there. I don’t want to do ramps again. I really don’t. (Yes, yes I do.) There are four bunches in my backpack, and I can smell them through the zipper. Normally on the bus, I worry about the offending smell of my fishy sweatshirt, but ramps, as with truffles or durian, are one of those foods that have the unmistakeable aroma that drown out every other smell within a twenty foot radius. Thank God it wasn’t a durian.

What am I going to do with them?

I get home, check out what’s happening in my cupboards, make the pasta Mario Batali style (mound of flour, crack eggs until it looks like enough, stir, knead), and let it rest. I go to Google. I know ramps go well with pasta, and that Mario Batali has a great recipe for it (He did a good looking presentation at one of his restaurants for EarthDay with a ramp inspired pasta), but I want to do something different.

I read an article a couple weeks ago about Gramercy Tavern in New York, and the lengths they go to for great pickles.
I had nodded and bobbed my head in approval as I scrolled the article initially, and remembered something that Michael Anthony, their chef, had said:

“Ever since I’ve been here, we’ve made a couple simple vinegar pickles,” he said. “The last few years we’ve pickled an astounding number of ramps.

I went back and read it once more. I figured I didn’t have the time or money to invest in the Japanese nukazuke pots and accoutrements for the fermented überpickeln prevalent in kaiseki cuisine. Someday. What i did notice about the article was that he name-checked the number one name in pickles:

“We’re not trying to challenge Dave Chang for the best pickle plate in New York,” Anthony told me as we nibbled through more than a dozen pickles in the kitchen at Gramercy. “We’re trying to figure out how many cool pickles we can make, exploring how to introduce acidity to dishes in new ways. And finding discreet ways — and maybe not even all that discreet ways — to add them into dishes.”

Dave Chang. Dave Chang of Momofuku fame- the tiny restaurant in NYC that only served twelve people at a time, but left them with a fantastic experience? The same Dave Chang who actually put (and trademarked) cereal milk on his menu?

I’m getting his pickles.

There they are. The pickled ramps. The recipe is so simple- Trimmed ramps, salt, sugar, water, rice vinegar, seven spice powder? I’ve got this. Everything goes into the pot except the ramps. I throw some whole garlic cloves in there, and crank it up to a boil.

I wash, rinse, and dry my mason jars, the ones that I always have on hand for pickling, and put the trimmed ramps with about an inch of leaf at the end into the jar. I made the mistake of loading the jars too full with beets once before, and as a result, they stayed crispy and didn’t get quite so pickled. However, with the ramps, they’re quite wiltable, so I don’t mind too much if I overfill. I know they’ll get pickled somehow, even if I have to shake it like a paint can to get all that briney goodness to infuse itself into the tender stalks.

Wow. Four bunches of ramps (about 8 oz. of vegetable), fit in one jar. And there’s still room for the brine. It’s going to be spicy and good.

As a side note, when I first started jarring things, I wanted to start with a ginger peach butter. I called my mom to ask how to do it, as we’d always pickled stuff when I was younger, and like a boy, I never paid attention. We had row upon row, stack upon stack of beans, piccalilly, tomatoes, and corn relish in our basement pantry.

She told me over the phone, in no uncertain terms, that canning was dangerous unless you had the proper tools available for the job. It was a festering breeding ground for botulism and worse. She made me swear that I was going to do it the right way, and not wanting to have my stomach pumped over Peach Butter, I agreed.

I didn’t have a canning pot, but I used a regular one. Other than that, (Mom, if you’re reading, pay close attention to the next few words) I did it by the book. Wash, rinse, sanitize, sterilize, dry, can, rest, pray that it all turns out right. After three to four hours of work, I got four jars of peach butter. Yippee.

From that, I realized I probably wasn’t going to steambath any more peach butter or jarred vegetables. All that canning nonsense and noise is too much work. Here’s the big thing I learned about pickling that day: Pickles don’t have to be that complicated. When I pickle stuff now, I just want to eat it over the next couple of weeks. I don’t care if it can sit on my shelf, unopened and unrefrigerated for a year. That is the ultimate in efficient storage, but it certainly isn’t convenient when you’re boiling your hands in a steam bath trying to pick the last jar out of your spaghetti sauce pot without fear of it shattering because your mom has instilled the Midwestern fear of God in you.

If you’re going to eat pickles, or make your own pickles, it’s far more simple than that. You need a base (vegetable of your choice), a preservative (vinegar works great), and a way to hold them. The hot water canner is not the only way. As I said, I use a mason jar. Or, if I’m not feeling it, tupperware. If they’re just grab and go pickles that you’ll eat in a week, there’s no need for long term preservation. The combination of refrigerator chill and old timey vinegar, killing anything that would want to hurt your stomach, makes for a perfect foil for food spoilage.

***

Now, I’m sitting at home, wondering what to do in a month when my pickled ramps are at their full potency. It’s going to be picnic season soon, and I might just take them up to the beach on the shores of Puget Sound and enjoy them on a crisp summer day, watching the windsurfers sail on by.

Peter Meehan’s Article on Gramercy Pickles: http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/04/15/grass-fed-relishing-gramercys-pickles/

 

Taking Stock

Open up your fridge and look in the crisper drawer. There’s probably a bunch of garbage in there. On a recent weekday, I found the following: Half a bunch of languid celery, a bag of dried out baby carrots, two unused halves of onions, a bunch of dried thyme, and a bunch of beet greens.

When it comes down to it, your refrigerator is a reflection of your best intentions, and rather than throw things away, I was encouraged, as the Europeans are, to make a court bouillon.

To properly utilize all the ingredients that you may think you have little use for, the easiest way to maximize your productivity in the kitchen is to use what you have and preserve it. Cucumbers become pickles. Sugar, water, and lemon juice/zest become a granita to eat for a refreshing treat. All of the stuff in my fridge was about to become a flavorful stock.

Open your freezer. What do you see? Boxes with labels and ingredient lists a mile long. That’s not how it should be. If you’re ever encouraged by the great things you can find at the farmer’s market or at the grocery store- those peppers that shine and hold flecks of water, and the zebra striped tomatoes that could make a salad taste so delicious, BUY THEM. Use what you can. Save the carrot tops, the mushroom stems, the little bits of pepper and the nubby ends of onions and leeks.

These vegetables clearly won’t make it through the weekend. What can I do to extend the life of the produce to best suit my needs? Like a good game of chess, using all your faculties as a culinarily minded being, knowing that you have access to a freezer for preservation (assuming you can get rid of that box of fish sticks that, even with the best of intentions, you know you shouldn’t eat), think ahead. 99% of the people I know have access to running water and a stove. Let’s take stock of what we have, and make stock.

Take your medium saucepan.  Turn the heat on to a low-medium. Swirl it with a little olive or canola oil- whatever you have will be just fine. Remember all the vegetable bits you have? Separate them into soft, hard, and leafy bits. Onions and carrots are hard, peppers and celery are softer, and carrot tops are your leafy components. Got it? Great. Start Choppin’.

Onions and the orange part of carrots first. Just rough chop them into medium chunks. Sure, the more surface area you have, the more flavor you’ll end up with, but it’s not rocket science. This is going to be soup. Got a couple cloves of garlic? Good. Slice them thin (No need to juice them-Slicing yields a milder garlic flavor throughout). All chopped? Great. Put them in the pot. They should sizzle a little bit, but not too much. Give them a stir and coat them with the oil. Let them go for a couple of minutes, until they sweat out some of their water content and become glossy/translucent/whatever you want to call it.

Next, the softer items. These require less time to cook, so you can leave them in bigger pieces. Just a quick rough chop and into the pot. Little stir, leave them be for a few minutes on the low medium heat.

Last, the leafy bits. Celery tops, carrot tops? Got a little fennel frond? Some of those hard stemmed herbs? Chop the leafy bits up fine, and for the fresh thyme, just throw the stems in there for something to make your kitchen smell nice.

Throw them all in the pot and let them sweat until you smell the thyme start to aromatically bloom. Is it smelling nice? Great. Throw a little salt and pepper on there, seasoned just like you would a big tub of popcorn, and stir it all together. Let it go for a minute or two.

What you have in your pot right now should look just like what I’m thinking of in my head right now- a giant pile of sloppy vegetable bits. What you want to do now is get some water and cover the vegetables with it. Get them wet. You want to add enough water to cover the vegetable matter, and then enough so if you looked at it from the side, halfway up would be vegetables, and an equivalent amount of water would be covering it.

This is the hard part. Are we ready? Just let it go. Let it simmer. Let it get up to the point where it has just a few bubbles. If it looks kind of scummy, skim it. It’s not bad for you, but you’ll be proud if you can make it out with a relatively clear stock. The two ways that you end up with a cloudy stock are by having the liquid set on too high of a heat, or if there are a bunch of bits of vegetable detritus floating around in it for too long. Impress the friends with a lovely clear soup base. Keep it clear.

Just check on it every five to ten minutes. Skim a little off the top if it’s foamy, turn down the heat if it’s bubbling too much. After about 30 minutes, turn the heat off. Strain the vegetables out. They’ve had all their still valid nutrients extracted, and they have you to thank for extending their life to have a little bit of meaning. Pack up the liquid in a Ziploc in your freezer. One sandwich bag full of the stock is a good base for a soup for two. Take it out of the baggie when you’re ready to use it, and put it in a saucepan on medium heat until it’s thawed. Then, add a bit of broccoli, some cream or milk, and some cheddar cheese. Taste it. Adjust the seasoning of Salt and Pepper if you need to, and then puree the whole thing. It’s an easy dinner, utilizing all the ingredients that you thought you’d have to throw out.

Have a loaf of bread that’s really hard? It’s still great for dipping. Slice it, brush the sides with olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Put them in the oven at 400 degrees for ten minutes while your soup is cooking. You just made croutons that taste great and go well with your soup. Best part is, you’re not being wasteful.

***

Look in your trash can. What do you see? In terms of foodstuffs, there are two primary items that are in your trash can right now. I’m pretty sure I don’t need to look to see what they are.  You’ve got packaging- Frozen pizza boxes, empty yogurt cups, beer cans, milk cartons, etc., and old food that you never got around to eating. Working with the old food before it goes moldy is key to cutting down the waste, both organically related to what you’re putting back in the landfill, and economically. The money that you throw away instead of putting back into your freezer is stuff that you could funnel away for a lazy Sunday afternoon at the park, buying iced creams and corns on the cobs from that weird guy. Bruised apples can make applesauce. Buy a porkchop or a pull a bratwurst out of the freezer, and have a great, quick meal with it. Think twice before you give up on your food. If you can make something healthy and nutritious, and or delicious, it’s a sure sign that it hasn’t given up on you.

 

Mulligan Soup or Stew

It’s another lovely day off in Seattle. The sun is somewhat shining over the mountains out my window and there’s the faint buzz of seaplanes landing on Lake Union. I’ve taken it upon myself to write more, and with this blog, a bit more of what goes into the dinners I create can be shared with those who want to know.

First off, it needs to be said that in no way am I one who will go the healthy road completely by choice. Butter’s just too good. Cheese is delicious. However, going through school, it was always stated that one needed a bit of something green on the plate to go along with your starches and your steak. Growing up in the Midwest, you got a lot of the meat and potatoes, but I was fortunate enough to have the mother who made it her personal charge to prepare home cooked meals from scratch on a nightly basis.

Set the table by 5:45. Food on the table, and we eat. Always a vegetable, always something prepared with thought and a fair amount of health to it. When you have only one mouth to feed, it is easy to let the conventions of healthy eating go by the wayside, but when you’re charged with making sure that your children grow up healthy and strong, the staples of milk, whole grains, fresh fruit and vegetables, and healthy meat products should always weigh on your mind.

I was fortunate. In conversations with others about food and food for thought, it often comes out that not many people had the experience of a sit down meal with their family five or even three times a week. The term soccermom became prevalent, and grab-n-go injected itself into the American vernacular with a pervasive grunt. Food was an afterthought. We didn’t have the opportunity to take time, relax, go over the day’s events, and relish the company of others over a delicious meal. It was the prepackaged, over the counter dosing of Modern American snack food turned meal replacement that got our families out of the loop on keeping themselves healthy.

The invention of the Food Network came along, and people started praising the likes of Rachael Ray, Alton Brown, Emeril, etc. etc. While there’s a great place in my heart of hearts for how the network turned people on to cooking, the people I’ve looked up to in terms of breaking barriers for me are Alice Waters, Jamie Oliver, Mario Batali, Julia Child, Eric Ripert, and a tiny frenchman by the name of Jacques whom I met in his basement cafe in Menton, France on a late night in 2002.

We were staying in a small hotel on a Cooking School trip along the coast in the Mediterranean, about five miles from Monaco and steps from the Italian border. I’d never know when I was going to experience this type of food and living again, so I resolved to say yes to everything. Upon getting to the town, after a detour-ridden trip through the Alps which involved snowcovered switchbacks, abandoned ski villages, and a whole lot of housemade cognac, we pulled into Menton at 9:30 at night. We asked the concierge, Bob, where we should eat. The town was all but closed, and he directed us to a small bistro where they served a steak frites which resembled horse lung and wet shoelaces for 5€, but for the next night, he gave us reservations at a hole in the wall run by a madman.

Here’s the pitch: The restaurant is run by one man who happens to be the owner, the chef, and the waiter. He serves ten customers a night, and he serves them what he wants. He speaks no English.

Perfect.

There are four of us who make it, and we trudge up graded back streets, through covered stairwells interlaced between highwalled sandy buildings where someone’s got to live, but in the foreign darkness, remain silent and mysterious. We settle upon an unmarked door, and walk in. We’re at the top of a landing, and we walk down a rickety staircase to the sublevel where we come across a room maybe 15′ by 15′. Two tables, one set for four and ready for us. There are a couple of pans clattering through a kitchen door, a short burst of what I can interpret with my six months of 7th grade french to be expletives, and, after about a minute of silence, a small round head pops out, beckons us to sit, and we do.

He speaks no English. My French is on par with Brad Pitt’s Italian in Inglourious Basterds, or would be with a little formal training. Through a series of wild gestures, I interpret that on the menu tonight is a Pocketwatch lamb foot, duck chest with moonshine (pantomime of drinking from a jug), prawns with moonshine (once again, from the jug), and a word I can understand, Cassoulet. After a few minutes of back and forth and feverish awkwardness, I manage to convince him that anything he brings us will be great.

He brings slices of cauliflower frittata. He brings a small, simple flatbread. He brings a tiny dish of olives and pickled garlic. He kisses the ladies on the cheek, turns up the music on his cd changer. Inferring that we were American, he hand selects Michael Bolton to serenade us through the night.

He brings out a roseflower and orange blossom aperitif that he has made himself. He fills the white wine. He sings to himself when he’s in the kitchen. And around the table, we talk. It’s fellowship, fun for us, and it’s the total experience as we take tiny bites of our appetizers.

The courses come out, and they are simple art: A lamb shank, blanched white bone from being in the crockpot overnight, and a slow drizzle of demiglace. Four Head-on prawns in a pool of whiskey sauce with a sprinkle of fresh parsley. We’ve gone to the shore at Nice that morning and hauled in the nets with fishermen at 5:30 A.M., and they looked and tasted as fresh as we imagined our catch to have been. A frenched breast of Magret Duck with a crisscross pattern seared into that thick layer of fat that crisps up so nicely. The plate is so white underneath the deep brown of the charred checkerboard. And the cassoulet. A crock of white bean porridge with pork shoulder, a confit of duck leg, and a sausage that I’ve seen at the market that morning alongside the fresh mackerel.

Dessert is satisfying and simple. There is a trio of Melon sorbet, a Chocolate Mousse, tiny chocolate ice creams with palmier, and a tarte tatin, something that’s become a mainstay when I want a good dessert- Three ingredients: Apples, sugar, and pie crust.

He brings it out, and sets the tart in front of me, gesturing with the outstretched palm to wait just a moment. He disappears into the kitchen and brings back a tiny copper saucepan that has a faint flame kissing the rim. Feigning fright, he teeters around for a moment with the flaming pot before leaning over between me and the young woman next to me, kissing her on the cheek, holding the pot six inches in front of my face while pouring flaming calvados onto the tart itself. He returns and dresses it with a dollop of whipped cream, fills our glasses with cognac, and gives the table a sly wink as he disappears back into the kitchen. We eat while he washes dishes and sings to himself.

After we finish, we sit with our espressos knowing that we’ve had a defining meal. Looking back on it, it never seemed to be anything too much more than a few ingredients tossed together. Nothing flashy, nothing spectacular, but just well prepared food made memorable. We manage to get a little bit of history out of our host and chef that night, and he says that he had worked in Paris at Michelin starred restaurants, but after a while, he couldn’t stand to answer to anyone but himself for his success, failure, and ultimately, destiny. He just wants to do what he loves, and do it his way.

***

That’s what I hope this blog can be about. Simple food made memorable. Fresh ingredients, nothing flashy, and it’ll be done my way. Recipes be damned. Cooking should be about experimentation, and curiousity, not precise measurements and timestamps on a roast. The food is ready when it’s ready. If it needs more of something, give it more. It’s all about the taste and adjustment to making something that you find ultimately fulfilling. For me, this is what I’m after. Something fulfilling and worthwhile that I can share with not only those around me who choose to dine and enjoy the food and accompanying friendship that I have to provide over a meal at our coffeetable, but those acquaintances and friends of mine who dare to try something like this on their own. It can be easier than you think. Just be aware that it’s not always about the food.  Three ingredients make a mean dessert, and anyone can do it. With each little success that I have in the kitchen, at least I can say I did it my way.

I’ll tell you what kind of stuff I put in the food, and if you like it, do it. If you want to use something else, use something else. Ask, and don’t be afraid that you can’t do it. If someone like Jamie Oliver can break down healthy food to the point where he can, in five days’ time, teach 1000 people how to cook a stirfry, I hope that I can at least get one person to try a creation of their own.  That’s the one thing that I try to impress on customers who come by my shop every day. They can cook. We discuss what kind of vegetables are in their bag, I recommend a fish to go along with it and how to prepare it, tell them that it’s going to work, and then tell them to come back and let me know how it turns out. That’s the beginning of a relationship with food that I want to have, and one that I want others to share. It’s easy, it’s hopefully somewhat healthy, and I’ll always try to have something green on the plate.

A little bit of this, a little bit of that. You know, Mulligan Stew.