This post is long overdue. Most people who know me well are familiar with my aversion to American Cheese Singles. For the rest of you, I write in the hopes of dissuading you from further American cheese consumption.
The package reads CHEESE FOOD, not CHEESE, because it isn't really cheese--it's cheese-like (or cheese-ish). Like I said to a lady at work last week, cheese is to cheese food as dog is to dog food. Makes you wonder right there, doesn't it? Would cheese even eat this stuff? My ladyfriend said that her reluctance to eat American cheese is that it is nearly the same consistency as the plastic that wraps it. Therefore, I ask, where does the cheese end and the plastic begin? It's damp, clingy, tears easily, resembles a sort of flexible plaster. It is an unnatural yellow. I find it fascinating that it may not be legally sold as cheese, but as a cheese product.
People here in the States melt it, fling it on burgers, eat it plain from the plastic wrap. They might, given a little prodding, use it as poster adhesive or a devil-be-damned bandaid. I have bought it for guest children, the kind of kids who only eat chicken nuggets from the frozen foods section, and once the children went home, got rid of this cheese imposter, and flung it into the deep well of the outdoor trash, where it could rest in peace.
Somehow, this stuff is worse on eggs than on meats--not sure why that is--and I have more than once staunchly returned burgers and breakfast biscuits with the complaint that I absolutely specified no cheese, and yet here it was, an insulting yellow on what was already an artificially and overly-manipulated protein product. Enough is enough, I say. With so many fabulous cheeses out there, why do we persist with this one?
My kids have inherited my distaste for American cheese, which we have all extended to another amazingly artificial American food product, Cheese Whiz. Can't eat that either, but I have to credit it for its appearance in my favorite line from Loser, a song by Beck: Get crazy with the Cheese Whiz! Apparently Beck also has the 411 on this cheese--as getting crazy with it would be all that you could do.
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Dining with Children: The Qdoba Experience
Once a week, I treat my kids to a meal out with just mommy. Their favorite restaurant is Qdoba, one of those fast-fresh Mexican joints. Ideally, we stand in line and tell a server what to pile on our tortilla bowl as we watch over the counter and scoot sideways to the cash register. While the food there is always decent, and I can feed the three of us for about 20 dollars, it's not convenient to eat there with kids. I am sure that the kind managers of Qdoba would argue with me that it is a kid-friendly place, and they certainly mean it to be. But this whole style of ordering, which is found at other places, such as Subway, Moe's, and Chipotle, is not conducive to peaceful and easy meal-engaging for anyone who totes in line a tyke or two. To clarify exactly why, here is what often takes place when my kids and I visit Qdoba:
Me: Allright, kids. While we wait, take a look at the menu and decide what you'd like. And no, you may not have Coke.
Tiny: Chips and wocamowee!
Chicken Little: Ummmmmmmm. Ummmmmmmmm.
Tiny: Chips and wocamowee! Mom? Mom. Mom! Chips and wocamowee, please.
Me (turning to CL): You need to decide. (turning to server when it's our time to order) I'll have the Mexican gumbo with black beans and salsa please.
CL: Ummmmm. Ummmmmm. I'll have the... ummmm.
Tiny Man starts walking back and forth behind the line of people being served, running his hand along the tile of the wall that divides the line from the dining room. He then quickly progresses to running back and forth.
Me: (ignoring daughter who has had ten minutes to make a decision): The little man over here will have the chips and woca...I mean guacamole. (to Tiny) Cut it out. Either stay beside me or go choose a table and wait.
CL: I'll have the regular nachos and a bowl of Mexican gumbo and a side of...
Me: No. We talked about this before we came in. That's too much food for you. Stick with the kid's nachos.
CL: But I am always hungry afterward!
Me: Then just pick one thing and one side.
Tiny has scampered off to find a table and I hear him calling (Mom? Mom. Mom!). Meanwhile, the server is doing her best to be patient. People are piling up behind me. At this point, Tiny may have come back from the table and is asking for a brownie, as there is always a bowl of saran-wrapped ones on the counter. Whoever puts those there should be shot.
Tiny: Mom? Mom! Can I have a brownie? Mom? Mom!
Me: No. Go sit down. (turning to CL) This year, sweetheart.
CL: Ok, then I'll have the regular nachos with a side of...
Me: Oh, no. What did I just say? That's too much food. (server heaves a sigh)
CL: Ooookkkaay. I'll have the kids' nachos with a side of Mexican gumbo.
Me: Tiny? Tiny. Come back here. (watching server pile way too much on the kid nachos as CL asks for every condiment there is.) Wait, no, stop. That's too much food. We have just had this conversation. No. No more. Grown ups shouldn't even eat that much.
CL: (to server) I'll have a coke, please.
ME: No, no she won't. We are all having unsweet tea. Holy God, that's a huge plate of nachos for kids. Chicken Little!
At this point, there is the gathering of food, paying for everything, getting the empty cups that the kids and I will have to fill ourselves, and then trying to figure out how to get it all to the table. If the restaurant isn't slammed, the very nice and patient server earns a wealth of gratitude prayers from me by offering to help. And then there's the pouring of tea and making sure that my daughter doesn't fill her cup with Sprite on the sly. When I arrive at the table, I have to tell the kids to quit arguing over who has more tea in whose cup while I wander back to get forks, spoons, and napkins.
By the time I sit down to eat, I am exhausted, my son's face is happily spattered with guac, my daughter is hunched over her food, and I begin the second set of parental badgerings, the ones that appear whether we eat at home or out.
"Sweetheart, sit up. Thank you. Chew with your mouth closed. Baby doll, look at your mother. Sit up straight. Like this. Honey, bring your food to you, not you to your food. Elbows off the table, Tiny.Wipe your face, Little Man. Elbows. Hey! Elbows! Don't grab your sister's food. No, you may not have his chips-- you have plenty. Oh, no thank you, Bunnykins. Mommy doesn't want to share and get your cold. Focus on your meal. Cut that out. Leave that alone. Chew with your mouth closed. Seriously, sweetheart, at twelve you should know how to chew with your mouth closed, and it's wearing me out to tell you this at least two meals a day every day each year. Holy God. Tiny. Dude. Eat. Cut that out..."
I know you read this and think to yourself that surely there are ways to prep the kids for this experience... or maybe, as I sometimes do, that birth control is a beautiful thing. We do prepare before going to Qdoba, but sometimes, even that fails to prevent mayheim, especially because my son feeds off activity, and if the place is crowded and loud, he becomes incredibly... all over the place.
I honestly prefer to pay extra for a true sit-down meal, but I tend to save those for really special days. So, one Sunday not so long ago, the kids and I had brunch at a delightful place where college girls took our order from us at the table and charmed the kids with Shirley Temples, coloring pages, and toys. I sipped a Mimosa and sent the kids to play with paper airplanes between the restaurant's patio and a neighboring garden. I had a perfect view of them from the open windows of the enclosed patio where I sat. When our meal was delivered, complete with more waitresses fawning over the children, the kids sat up and ate with good manners. We told silly stories and relaxed as plates came and went, drinks were adjusted, and so forth. There was one brief episode where my son complained because he wanted his sister's toy. I nipped this quickly in the bud, distracted him with the crafting of a paper plane, and life went smoothly forward.
The bill? About 48 dollars for three of us. Worth every cent. I strolled away from there as mellow as a mom can be on a Sunday afternoon with two short-stacks in hand. I wish we could do that every week.
Me: Allright, kids. While we wait, take a look at the menu and decide what you'd like. And no, you may not have Coke.
Tiny: Chips and wocamowee!
Chicken Little: Ummmmmmmm. Ummmmmmmmm.
Tiny: Chips and wocamowee! Mom? Mom. Mom! Chips and wocamowee, please.
Me (turning to CL): You need to decide. (turning to server when it's our time to order) I'll have the Mexican gumbo with black beans and salsa please.
CL: Ummmmm. Ummmmmm. I'll have the... ummmm.
Tiny Man starts walking back and forth behind the line of people being served, running his hand along the tile of the wall that divides the line from the dining room. He then quickly progresses to running back and forth.
Me: (ignoring daughter who has had ten minutes to make a decision): The little man over here will have the chips and woca...I mean guacamole. (to Tiny) Cut it out. Either stay beside me or go choose a table and wait.
CL: I'll have the regular nachos and a bowl of Mexican gumbo and a side of...
Me: No. We talked about this before we came in. That's too much food for you. Stick with the kid's nachos.
CL: But I am always hungry afterward!
Me: Then just pick one thing and one side.
Tiny has scampered off to find a table and I hear him calling (Mom? Mom. Mom!). Meanwhile, the server is doing her best to be patient. People are piling up behind me. At this point, Tiny may have come back from the table and is asking for a brownie, as there is always a bowl of saran-wrapped ones on the counter. Whoever puts those there should be shot.
Tiny: Mom? Mom! Can I have a brownie? Mom? Mom!
Me: No. Go sit down. (turning to CL) This year, sweetheart.
CL: Ok, then I'll have the regular nachos with a side of...
Me: Oh, no. What did I just say? That's too much food. (server heaves a sigh)
CL: Ooookkkaay. I'll have the kids' nachos with a side of Mexican gumbo.
Me: Tiny? Tiny. Come back here. (watching server pile way too much on the kid nachos as CL asks for every condiment there is.) Wait, no, stop. That's too much food. We have just had this conversation. No. No more. Grown ups shouldn't even eat that much.
CL: (to server) I'll have a coke, please.
ME: No, no she won't. We are all having unsweet tea. Holy God, that's a huge plate of nachos for kids. Chicken Little!
At this point, there is the gathering of food, paying for everything, getting the empty cups that the kids and I will have to fill ourselves, and then trying to figure out how to get it all to the table. If the restaurant isn't slammed, the very nice and patient server earns a wealth of gratitude prayers from me by offering to help. And then there's the pouring of tea and making sure that my daughter doesn't fill her cup with Sprite on the sly. When I arrive at the table, I have to tell the kids to quit arguing over who has more tea in whose cup while I wander back to get forks, spoons, and napkins.
By the time I sit down to eat, I am exhausted, my son's face is happily spattered with guac, my daughter is hunched over her food, and I begin the second set of parental badgerings, the ones that appear whether we eat at home or out.
"Sweetheart, sit up. Thank you. Chew with your mouth closed. Baby doll, look at your mother. Sit up straight. Like this. Honey, bring your food to you, not you to your food. Elbows off the table, Tiny.Wipe your face, Little Man. Elbows. Hey! Elbows! Don't grab your sister's food. No, you may not have his chips-- you have plenty. Oh, no thank you, Bunnykins. Mommy doesn't want to share and get your cold. Focus on your meal. Cut that out. Leave that alone. Chew with your mouth closed. Seriously, sweetheart, at twelve you should know how to chew with your mouth closed, and it's wearing me out to tell you this at least two meals a day every day each year. Holy God. Tiny. Dude. Eat. Cut that out..."
I know you read this and think to yourself that surely there are ways to prep the kids for this experience... or maybe, as I sometimes do, that birth control is a beautiful thing. We do prepare before going to Qdoba, but sometimes, even that fails to prevent mayheim, especially because my son feeds off activity, and if the place is crowded and loud, he becomes incredibly... all over the place.
I honestly prefer to pay extra for a true sit-down meal, but I tend to save those for really special days. So, one Sunday not so long ago, the kids and I had brunch at a delightful place where college girls took our order from us at the table and charmed the kids with Shirley Temples, coloring pages, and toys. I sipped a Mimosa and sent the kids to play with paper airplanes between the restaurant's patio and a neighboring garden. I had a perfect view of them from the open windows of the enclosed patio where I sat. When our meal was delivered, complete with more waitresses fawning over the children, the kids sat up and ate with good manners. We told silly stories and relaxed as plates came and went, drinks were adjusted, and so forth. There was one brief episode where my son complained because he wanted his sister's toy. I nipped this quickly in the bud, distracted him with the crafting of a paper plane, and life went smoothly forward.
The bill? About 48 dollars for three of us. Worth every cent. I strolled away from there as mellow as a mom can be on a Sunday afternoon with two short-stacks in hand. I wish we could do that every week.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
How to Fall Off the Wagon
Yesterday's venue: two Krispy Kreme doughnuts, three chocolate chips cookies, lime tortilla chips, one margarita, one glass of wine, beef for both lunch and dinner, several mini-naps, and no work-out whatsoever.
Looking at climbing back on the wagon today, I am wondering how hard it's going to be to work off the doughnut I ate for breakfast again this morning. And I already need a nap. Damage done, maybe I can just worry about this tomorrow. I'll deliberate this carefully over another cup of coffee infused with half-n-half and sugar.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
The Mini-Foodies
When I became pregnant with my first child, I had already spent about four years in classroom settings watching what children ate and how they behaved. I promised that my kids would not be the ones with artificially-colored fake fruit snacks and last night's chicken nuggets in their lunch boxes. I was also troubled by how limited most children's diets were--mostly, items that came from boxes. And I wanted the kids to be able to eat what they were served without having an embarrassing break-down or time-consuming negotiation over the meal. My problem is that in my quest for the kids to eat well and eat a variety of foods, I created a monster. Sometimes, Mommy just wants a burger and fries. Sometimes, jusssst sometimes, I feel the urge to have a pack of pressed-together-chicken nuggets dipped in some fructose-based faux sauce. My children often disapprove of this openly.
"Your step-dad is picking up Taco Bell on the way home since I have had such a long day," I said last week.
"Well, I really don't like Taco Bell. It's not so good for me anyhow," complained my daughter. Snob! This makes feeding the kids during our monthly road trips is extremely tough. While I usually pack an in-car picnic meal with sandwiches, fruits, and veggies, the kids eventually get hungry again. On my last road trip with the kids, we had this conversation:
"We can stop here--here's a McDonald's. Are you hungry for a burger?"
"I don' wike McDonald's bu'gers. Is nasty," pipes up Tiny.
"What about fries?"
"No fwies either!!"
"Seriously? What would you like to eat?"
"Sushi!" state both children. Mind you sushi is a forty dollar meal for three people, and in truck stops and gas stations, sushi isn't a culinary mainstay anyhow. The prepared sushi at the grocery never tastes right to me, so I won't buy it for the road. Plus, these are kids. My kids. I make the rules. "Eat or starve," I'll say. "We have miles to go." Sometimes I can find a Subway or sandwiches from a gas station. I still laugh to myself when my daughter requests salad with a side of fruit at Wendy's, but I am so thankful that she wants this. To be honest, I personally prefer the number one combo with no cheese.
We have our moments--sometimes we have pizza. We enjoy Chinese food on Sunday nights--and God knows what is really in that stuff. My children's biggest weakness is soda, which they can only have once a week at best. And like most children, given total freedom, mine would choose cake for dinner. But when it comes to choosing an entree? Well, let me just quote my eleven year old: "Mom, I'll have the crabcakes with a side of pasta salad, please. And can I have a small garden salad with that?" I suppose I could have worse problems.
"Your step-dad is picking up Taco Bell on the way home since I have had such a long day," I said last week.
"Well, I really don't like Taco Bell. It's not so good for me anyhow," complained my daughter. Snob! This makes feeding the kids during our monthly road trips is extremely tough. While I usually pack an in-car picnic meal with sandwiches, fruits, and veggies, the kids eventually get hungry again. On my last road trip with the kids, we had this conversation:
"We can stop here--here's a McDonald's. Are you hungry for a burger?"
"I don' wike McDonald's bu'gers. Is nasty," pipes up Tiny.
"What about fries?"
"No fwies either!!"
"Seriously? What would you like to eat?"
"Sushi!" state both children. Mind you sushi is a forty dollar meal for three people, and in truck stops and gas stations, sushi isn't a culinary mainstay anyhow. The prepared sushi at the grocery never tastes right to me, so I won't buy it for the road. Plus, these are kids. My kids. I make the rules. "Eat or starve," I'll say. "We have miles to go." Sometimes I can find a Subway or sandwiches from a gas station. I still laugh to myself when my daughter requests salad with a side of fruit at Wendy's, but I am so thankful that she wants this. To be honest, I personally prefer the number one combo with no cheese.
We have our moments--sometimes we have pizza. We enjoy Chinese food on Sunday nights--and God knows what is really in that stuff. My children's biggest weakness is soda, which they can only have once a week at best. And like most children, given total freedom, mine would choose cake for dinner. But when it comes to choosing an entree? Well, let me just quote my eleven year old: "Mom, I'll have the crabcakes with a side of pasta salad, please. And can I have a small garden salad with that?" I suppose I could have worse problems.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
A Foodie's Review: Acacia mid-town
This week, my husband and I celebrated our second anniversary with a no-calorie-spared repast of extraordinary taste at Acacia mid-town. This is the kind of restaurant that insists you check with the hostess before you order appetizers from your seat at the bar, not that I appreciate that, but the service and quality gourmet more than made up for what was only a mild inconvenience. The ultra-urban eatery, with its modern, clean-lined furniture, and low-lighting, and its gliding, chic, twenty-something wait staff, proffers food that magically captures a range of tastes in each dish. When I wasn't stunned into silence, I talked to my food or about my food proclaiming its glory.
We started with small plates of goat cheese and then rabbit pate on soft, lightly toasted white bread. The pate was mild, mellow, and rich, especially accompanied by our not-so-buttery chardonnay. I silently begged the family pet rabbit for forgiveness between bites. The goat cheese was pleasant as well, its flavors constrasting nicely with the lightly oiled sprouts served alongside. (Note the goat got the better deal here, simply having to relinquish her milk as opposed to having her neck rung.) Our waiter recommended following this with white anchovies served on a bed of marinated cabbage and pine nuts. We also enjoyed flash-fried oysters that tasted of the nearby Chesapeake waters. But the pinnacle of our dining experience was the entree of all entrees: crabcakes.
Oh, be still my heart. Crabcakes, I adore thee. The waiter disclosed the magic five ingredients of Acacia's crabcakes: mustard seed, breadcrumbs, egg, lump crabmeat, Old Bay seasoning. I suspect, however, that some other mystery ingredient to these lovely, baked crabcakes must exist. They were creamy, mouth-melting, lightly seasoned, and have moved up my list to rival the heavenly crabcakes of Hemingway's in Florida (I keep meeting people who sigh with bliss when describing the crabcake recipe I once savored there as well.)
I think I was already inebriated from food consumption, but we pursued dessert anyway. Being completely unable to choose one, we enjoyed both the salted caramel coffee ice cream cup and panna cotta (topped with honey ice cream and served in a rhubarb syrup). And I cannot emphasize enough the absolute pleasure of sharing this meal with my favorite person. I wonder what he'd have done if I kissed the chef. I deliberated this briefly.
This beautiful meal, this wonderful, delightful, awe-inspiring food journey inspires new prayers on my part: Oh, I can't die before I wake, there's a final meal I must take. God bless foodies, everywhere.
We started with small plates of goat cheese and then rabbit pate on soft, lightly toasted white bread. The pate was mild, mellow, and rich, especially accompanied by our not-so-buttery chardonnay. I silently begged the family pet rabbit for forgiveness between bites. The goat cheese was pleasant as well, its flavors constrasting nicely with the lightly oiled sprouts served alongside. (Note the goat got the better deal here, simply having to relinquish her milk as opposed to having her neck rung.) Our waiter recommended following this with white anchovies served on a bed of marinated cabbage and pine nuts. We also enjoyed flash-fried oysters that tasted of the nearby Chesapeake waters. But the pinnacle of our dining experience was the entree of all entrees: crabcakes.
Oh, be still my heart. Crabcakes, I adore thee. The waiter disclosed the magic five ingredients of Acacia's crabcakes: mustard seed, breadcrumbs, egg, lump crabmeat, Old Bay seasoning. I suspect, however, that some other mystery ingredient to these lovely, baked crabcakes must exist. They were creamy, mouth-melting, lightly seasoned, and have moved up my list to rival the heavenly crabcakes of Hemingway's in Florida (I keep meeting people who sigh with bliss when describing the crabcake recipe I once savored there as well.)
I think I was already inebriated from food consumption, but we pursued dessert anyway. Being completely unable to choose one, we enjoyed both the salted caramel coffee ice cream cup and panna cotta (topped with honey ice cream and served in a rhubarb syrup). And I cannot emphasize enough the absolute pleasure of sharing this meal with my favorite person. I wonder what he'd have done if I kissed the chef. I deliberated this briefly.
This beautiful meal, this wonderful, delightful, awe-inspiring food journey inspires new prayers on my part: Oh, I can't die before I wake, there's a final meal I must take. God bless foodies, everywhere.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Lolita Eats
No one forgets his or her first. I know what you're thinking. Leaning over the stove last night, breathing the perfume of sauteed portabella mushrooms and onion, I reflected on my first portabella. This, as my friend at The Extended Table wrote recently, is food porn.
I was twelve years old when I had my first raw oyster. On a Sunday after mass at St. Louis Cathedral, my parents (yes, they endorsed this shameless and risky act of consumption) took my sister and I to the The Sazerac at the Roosevelt Hotel for brunch. The first oyster was a tentative step into a new experience: slick, salty flesh ladled on a saltine and heaped with tangy cocktail sauce. There I sat primly in my Sunday best with a plate full of glistening oysters, their half-shells bedded in a veritable snow drift of rock salt, my senses saturated with the sweet, silky, wet explosion that is the finest delicacy of the Gulf. I remember asking myself, should I be doing this.
As much as I reluctantly admit this, my first husband and I relished quite a few tasty firsts in those young, newlywed, and exploratory years. On a wild hair, he and I visited a Mediterranean grocery that had opened near our home in Memphis. It was there that I was introduced to a salty and strangely satisfying spread: taramosalata, Greek-style caviar. Taramosalata is pink and grainy, nearly a gelled version of sea-water made for pita bread or crackers. It is as tactile to the mouth as the fingers. I have a really hard time controlling myself when we have it--the rest of my family deems this as kinky taste and relegates the jar's contents to me exclusively.
My current husband adores comfort foods and Carolina stand-bys, such as the livermush he tantalized me with when we first went to North Carolina together. Livermush is cubed, grey, gritty, and some kind of composted-meat concoction. On first appearance, livermush seems ordinary, bland, routine--even off-putting, but it's an entirely multi-sensory palette-experience; its warm, livery, wet-sand quality contrasts nicely with the crust of the outside when heavily sauteed. Some slice it up for sandwiches cold. I prefer it lightly fried and served with eggs.
There have been other trists I recall well: scungilli, calamari, hog's head cheese, rabbit (now there's a story for another blog), beef tongue (just feed it to me, but don't ask me to look at it), sushi, and more. Much of this no longer excites people, but exotic is a relative concept. I grew up eating turtle soup, the mere mention of which shocked a good Yankee friend of mine into fitful questions about why I might eat a pet. Who knew turtle soup with sherry could be such... perversion?
I still lust for new firsts. I haven't yet savored squirrel. I still wish for a taste of Kobe beef or maybe even buffalo butter (buffalo bone marrow). I yearn for one of those truffles that some poor French pig has been forced to snuffle out of the ground. Fried bacon (you heard that right) and fried twinkies are also on my bucket list of foods to savor. There are endless opportunities for firsts in the world of a foodie, and thankfully, I have a dedicated companion to share these moments with, but I can tell you that nothing--nothing--will ever come close to that strangely controlled explosion of the first raw oyster, that thin-lipped wet flesh slipping into my adolescent mouth.
Lolita eats.
I was twelve years old when I had my first raw oyster. On a Sunday after mass at St. Louis Cathedral, my parents (yes, they endorsed this shameless and risky act of consumption) took my sister and I to the The Sazerac at the Roosevelt Hotel for brunch. The first oyster was a tentative step into a new experience: slick, salty flesh ladled on a saltine and heaped with tangy cocktail sauce. There I sat primly in my Sunday best with a plate full of glistening oysters, their half-shells bedded in a veritable snow drift of rock salt, my senses saturated with the sweet, silky, wet explosion that is the finest delicacy of the Gulf. I remember asking myself, should I be doing this.
As much as I reluctantly admit this, my first husband and I relished quite a few tasty firsts in those young, newlywed, and exploratory years. On a wild hair, he and I visited a Mediterranean grocery that had opened near our home in Memphis. It was there that I was introduced to a salty and strangely satisfying spread: taramosalata, Greek-style caviar. Taramosalata is pink and grainy, nearly a gelled version of sea-water made for pita bread or crackers. It is as tactile to the mouth as the fingers. I have a really hard time controlling myself when we have it--the rest of my family deems this as kinky taste and relegates the jar's contents to me exclusively.
My current husband adores comfort foods and Carolina stand-bys, such as the livermush he tantalized me with when we first went to North Carolina together. Livermush is cubed, grey, gritty, and some kind of composted-meat concoction. On first appearance, livermush seems ordinary, bland, routine--even off-putting, but it's an entirely multi-sensory palette-experience; its warm, livery, wet-sand quality contrasts nicely with the crust of the outside when heavily sauteed. Some slice it up for sandwiches cold. I prefer it lightly fried and served with eggs.
There have been other trists I recall well: scungilli, calamari, hog's head cheese, rabbit (now there's a story for another blog), beef tongue (just feed it to me, but don't ask me to look at it), sushi, and more. Much of this no longer excites people, but exotic is a relative concept. I grew up eating turtle soup, the mere mention of which shocked a good Yankee friend of mine into fitful questions about why I might eat a pet. Who knew turtle soup with sherry could be such... perversion?
I still lust for new firsts. I haven't yet savored squirrel. I still wish for a taste of Kobe beef or maybe even buffalo butter (buffalo bone marrow). I yearn for one of those truffles that some poor French pig has been forced to snuffle out of the ground. Fried bacon (you heard that right) and fried twinkies are also on my bucket list of foods to savor. There are endless opportunities for firsts in the world of a foodie, and thankfully, I have a dedicated companion to share these moments with, but I can tell you that nothing--nothing--will ever come close to that strangely controlled explosion of the first raw oyster, that thin-lipped wet flesh slipping into my adolescent mouth.
Lolita eats.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Yes, Crabcake, This is About You
Last week, my husband needed a colonoscopy. For those of you who don't know what this procedure entails, imagine drinking a gallon of laxative, spending an entire night running back and forth from the chair to the toilet, fasting for nearly a full day, and then having someone shove a camera up your bum while filling you with gas to expand your lower colon. It ain't quite comfy, and most people usually go home to rest post-procedure in order to fully recover from both the anesthesia and the pole up the pooper. Doctor's orders (once you get yelled at for all the things you have been eating that you shouldn't eat anymore) include refueling your body's system with gentle foods: pancakes, mashed potatoes, a sandwich maybe.
Of course, my husband does not consider himself to be most people. And why would he? As the nurse told me while he was in recovery, "The intelligent ones are the worst. They reason themselves into everything they shouldn't have." My beloved came out of anesthesia craving crabcakes.
"Where can we eat around here?" He first asked, as though we don't actually live within three miles of the hospital. And then he wanted to know, "Where can I get the best crabcakes?"
I thought I had him convinced that a pancake house would be a fair compromise considering the fact that we had been advised to go straight home where all the flatulence in the world could be released in relative privacy, and he would also, should he stick to a bland diet on the first day post-poop shoot exam, avoid abdominal pains. At the pancake house, he fidgeted and looked at me with sad eyes. For a moment, I thought he was about to spout some kind of deep and sincere reflection about how thankful he was that I was there, that he was glad the exam went well, that he loved me enough to cooperate with doctor's orders for life... something. Instead, he made it clear that he was in no way happy about the late breakfast idea, he promised he would be held accountable for any abdominal pain he might receive, and could I please map a route to the best crabcakes in town.
And so I drove us. Not only did he order his crabcake but fried calamari as well. At least I talked him out of the beer he wanted. I was agitated to say the least.
Sitting across from him as he thanked me for caving to his stubbornness, I told him I no longer wished to hear that his youngest daughter and I were bullheaded for our wish (and ability, I might add) to complete tasks completely independently of his help. I said that the next time he started feeding me that line, I would call him Crabcake to drive the point home.
I have gotten to call him that at least twice this weekend... heh.
Of course, my husband does not consider himself to be most people. And why would he? As the nurse told me while he was in recovery, "The intelligent ones are the worst. They reason themselves into everything they shouldn't have." My beloved came out of anesthesia craving crabcakes.
"Where can we eat around here?" He first asked, as though we don't actually live within three miles of the hospital. And then he wanted to know, "Where can I get the best crabcakes?"
I thought I had him convinced that a pancake house would be a fair compromise considering the fact that we had been advised to go straight home where all the flatulence in the world could be released in relative privacy, and he would also, should he stick to a bland diet on the first day post-poop shoot exam, avoid abdominal pains. At the pancake house, he fidgeted and looked at me with sad eyes. For a moment, I thought he was about to spout some kind of deep and sincere reflection about how thankful he was that I was there, that he was glad the exam went well, that he loved me enough to cooperate with doctor's orders for life... something. Instead, he made it clear that he was in no way happy about the late breakfast idea, he promised he would be held accountable for any abdominal pain he might receive, and could I please map a route to the best crabcakes in town.
And so I drove us. Not only did he order his crabcake but fried calamari as well. At least I talked him out of the beer he wanted. I was agitated to say the least.
Sitting across from him as he thanked me for caving to his stubbornness, I told him I no longer wished to hear that his youngest daughter and I were bullheaded for our wish (and ability, I might add) to complete tasks completely independently of his help. I said that the next time he started feeding me that line, I would call him Crabcake to drive the point home.
I have gotten to call him that at least twice this weekend... heh.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Tiny and the Great Lunch Debate
This morning at my son’s school, the cafeteria ladies asked me if I had been packing my child’s lunch. I told them that I have been, but Tiny has learned how to work the system. This week, Tiny racked up a five dollar debt with the cafeteria. A couple of weeks prior, it was four dollars. Doesn’t sound like a lot, does it? But, each lunch is two dollars plus the value of one solid lie that he spins when he doesn’t want to eat my food. Dealing with the lie is frustrating enough. The wasting of food is a second problem. Worst of all, however, is trying to figure out what he will eat. He isn’t consistent.
Once when my husband unpacked a box of mandarin orange cups from the grocery, my son exclaimed his love of “owanges”. He ate them a few times and then went on strike.
“I don’t wike dis.”
When we purchased a large box of granola bars, he ate one, decided he did not like them, and then two weeks later began to raid the box on his own. This week?
“I don’t wike dis.”
At school, he eats grapes. He will not eat grapes from home. At school, he will deny the very leftovers or sandwiches he will eat at home. I think my son just likes to walk through the cafeteria line and make choices. I think he just likes to make me crazy.
At home, life is simple and choices are limited: you can eat or starve. Take last night, for example. Tiny pushed his plate back and announced that he could not eat his dinner. I put the plate on the counter and told him there was an awful lot of untouched food, so therefore, should hunger return, I would reheat his plate.
Minutes later:
“I’m hungwy. I would wike a ganilla bar.”
“You cannot have a granola bar. If you are hungry, you can finish your burrito and rice from dinner.”
“I’m not hungwy,” he decided. Figuring two could play this game, he went on active hunger strike and later headed to bed having touched nary a grain of rice on his plate. I still cannot figure out how and when his love of granola bars returned. This morning, in hopes of packing a good lunch that would sustain the little fella’s tummy and please his palate, I asked him what kind of lunch he would like. He decided on a cheese sandwich and some fruit. Packing his lunch, I knew exactly what would happen: eventually he will return to me with a mashed up half-eaten cheese sandwich and make a certain comment about it: “I don’t wike dis.”
Wish me luck.
Once when my husband unpacked a box of mandarin orange cups from the grocery, my son exclaimed his love of “owanges”. He ate them a few times and then went on strike.
“I don’t wike dis.”
When we purchased a large box of granola bars, he ate one, decided he did not like them, and then two weeks later began to raid the box on his own. This week?
“I don’t wike dis.”
At school, he eats grapes. He will not eat grapes from home. At school, he will deny the very leftovers or sandwiches he will eat at home. I think my son just likes to walk through the cafeteria line and make choices. I think he just likes to make me crazy.
At home, life is simple and choices are limited: you can eat or starve. Take last night, for example. Tiny pushed his plate back and announced that he could not eat his dinner. I put the plate on the counter and told him there was an awful lot of untouched food, so therefore, should hunger return, I would reheat his plate.
Minutes later:
“I’m hungwy. I would wike a ganilla bar.”
“You cannot have a granola bar. If you are hungry, you can finish your burrito and rice from dinner.”
“I’m not hungwy,” he decided. Figuring two could play this game, he went on active hunger strike and later headed to bed having touched nary a grain of rice on his plate. I still cannot figure out how and when his love of granola bars returned. This morning, in hopes of packing a good lunch that would sustain the little fella’s tummy and please his palate, I asked him what kind of lunch he would like. He decided on a cheese sandwich and some fruit. Packing his lunch, I knew exactly what would happen: eventually he will return to me with a mashed up half-eaten cheese sandwich and make a certain comment about it: “I don’t wike dis.”
Wish me luck.
Monday, March 28, 2011
The Great Saltine Truce of 2011
Recently, my husband was bothered that I did not have Saltines in the pantry. I told him to use the Ritz crackers we had, and when those were gone, I would restock on Monday (I had already made the second trip of the week and had $18 of grocery budget left before pay period, but did not say so). This was not an okay answer. Apparently, in certain circles, Ritz are relegated to cheese and other tasteful canapé-associated items. Saltines are for soups, he insisted, and having soup with the wrong cracker was some kind of taboo. Ultimately, I decided that arguing about crackers would cost us more emotionally than the $2.50 to buy them and the $1 of gas it cost to go round trip from the house.
Later, I found myself musing about crackers. Growing up, Ritz crackers were too expensive for us to buy—having them was an absolute treat. We had Saltines, which as a result, I despised for years, and still only purchase with reluctance. Saltines have fallen on that list of food items that I associate with other pantry-stretchers my mother employed during our leanest years. This food had nutritional value, but having had to resort to it so often, I employ these items as seldom as possible: tuna casserole, cube steak, canned mixed vegetables, canned vegetables in general, and American cheese—those being just some of what I can remember. In college, canned tuna, macaroni and cheese, and ramen noodle soup became food budget fillers in the dorm. After graduation, I could not eat either of the former two items for years. I still won’t eat ramen noodle soup. I have not touched American cheese in years; its plastic consistency and texture is repulsive.
When I told my father about my husband’s rationale for crackers he responded humorously with an email from which I have copied the following:
Crackers. Oyster crackers are for soup; Saltines are utility outfielders; Ritz crackers are basically conveyances for solids and near liquids, and Waverly are upper middle class but with the same function. Kaveli crackers are truly upper class conveyances of delicate solids. Rice crackers are sought by Veggans and health advocates. The most ambitious use of a saltine was one by *Jimmy Faulkner: bacon wrapped cracker run in a microwave. Crackers, glorious crackers.
I suppose we should all be allowed our favorites. I won’t buy Hunt’s ketchup, for example; it’s too acidic. Nor will I purchase Hellman’s sandwich dressing (it ain’t mayo, baby). I prefer applesauce that does not have additional sugar or high fructose corn syrup. I enjoy hot tea produced by Twinings or the other “hot tea specialty” brands, as Lipton’s black tea brews better for cold-consumption. Most readers here know how I feel about coffee, but when out or in the homes of friends, I’ll still drink weak or generic coffee simply for the warmth, the comfort, the ritual, and the social engagement it seems to foster.
I’ll take peace over particulars any day.
*Note on the Jimmy Faulkner comment—Jimmy, the nephew of the famed William Faulkner, once made this bacon concoction for my parents claiming all the while that this was a special treat. My father recalled that the soggy cracker and bacon mess was awful. I told him that it was “redneck dumplings”.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Familiar
A day in New Orleans includes the following routine: lounging over coffee while discussing what to eat for lunch, and at lunch discussing where to dine later. What I haven’t mentioned is that while indulging in those meals or on the way to the next one, I cannot walk ten steps there without running into a friend or relative. New Orleans isn’t a city, it’s a river town--the banks that hug the bend of land and water being much like our snug connection with each other.
Friday morning, my father and I had a coffee date at Still Perkin’. Located uptown at the edge of Lafayette Cemetery and a block from the famed Commander’s Palace, Still Perkin’ attracts mostly locals. Dad and I rolled in chatting, and there standing with a small group of people, not moments after I just wondered aloud who we might bump into, was a woman whose child I used to babysit and who used to teach at my high school. In fact, she is running for some kind of political office and works for the mayor now. After coffee, we headed into the lobby that Still Perkin’ shares with a half dozen independently owned businesses. I entered a store managed by a distant, distant relative who, as it turned out, keeps in solid touch with my uncles. If you are seeking anonymity, New Orleans is not the place to be.
Meanwhile, my husband was introducing a paper at his conference and shaking hands with colleagues. He ran into friends of my parents. These friends live out of state. Seeing as how a joyful reunion was in order, we all paraded to Palace Café on Canal Street for lunch between conference sessions. My sister, who also lives out of state and whose work and travel commitments nearby had been cancelled on short notice, also had managed to grace us with her presence that day. A wonderful waiter doted on the seven of us. Something he said sparked my curiosity and I started gently probing for his background. The waiter once had owned two big restaurants in Denver, where my husband happened to have been a customer in those years there.
At one point, the waiter, telling us his incredible story about his return to New Orleans after years of entrepreneurship and a life-changing heart attack, stepped back and threw his hands up in the air and exclaimed, “I love life!” This is the New Orleans I love—the social engagement over plates of steaming gourmet, the vigorous exchange of commonality and affection, the joyful celebration of life.
Sitting here this morning, quietly nursing the lingering and frustrating effects of illness, I wish I were back at Still Perkin’--at a table boasting café au lait and brioche, with seats cradling my family. Views from broad windows there include the long alternately blanched and shadowed wall of the cemetery, the elegant decay of aging Mediterranean-inspired French cottages, and a stray tourist or two wandering. I often miss the comfort of being somewhere so elegant and familiar, where I was entirely known from childhood and welcomed, a place where so-and-so “went to schoo’ wit’ ya mama”. Maybe those days will come again.
Friday morning, my father and I had a coffee date at Still Perkin’. Located uptown at the edge of Lafayette Cemetery and a block from the famed Commander’s Palace, Still Perkin’ attracts mostly locals. Dad and I rolled in chatting, and there standing with a small group of people, not moments after I just wondered aloud who we might bump into, was a woman whose child I used to babysit and who used to teach at my high school. In fact, she is running for some kind of political office and works for the mayor now. After coffee, we headed into the lobby that Still Perkin’ shares with a half dozen independently owned businesses. I entered a store managed by a distant, distant relative who, as it turned out, keeps in solid touch with my uncles. If you are seeking anonymity, New Orleans is not the place to be.
Meanwhile, my husband was introducing a paper at his conference and shaking hands with colleagues. He ran into friends of my parents. These friends live out of state. Seeing as how a joyful reunion was in order, we all paraded to Palace Café on Canal Street for lunch between conference sessions. My sister, who also lives out of state and whose work and travel commitments nearby had been cancelled on short notice, also had managed to grace us with her presence that day. A wonderful waiter doted on the seven of us. Something he said sparked my curiosity and I started gently probing for his background. The waiter once had owned two big restaurants in Denver, where my husband happened to have been a customer in those years there.
At one point, the waiter, telling us his incredible story about his return to New Orleans after years of entrepreneurship and a life-changing heart attack, stepped back and threw his hands up in the air and exclaimed, “I love life!” This is the New Orleans I love—the social engagement over plates of steaming gourmet, the vigorous exchange of commonality and affection, the joyful celebration of life.
Sitting here this morning, quietly nursing the lingering and frustrating effects of illness, I wish I were back at Still Perkin’--at a table boasting café au lait and brioche, with seats cradling my family. Views from broad windows there include the long alternately blanched and shadowed wall of the cemetery, the elegant decay of aging Mediterranean-inspired French cottages, and a stray tourist or two wandering. I often miss the comfort of being somewhere so elegant and familiar, where I was entirely known from childhood and welcomed, a place where so-and-so “went to schoo’ wit’ ya mama”. Maybe those days will come again.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Mortal Dining Sins: Tooting My Own Horn and The Potato Temptress
For a change of pace, I offer you this light post today. Part of me still can't believe I allowed myself to publish this...
Over Christmas break, my family found a wonderful little Creole/Cajun joint in the town where we had gathered for the holidays. How excited we were to find this place served Gambino’s bread and the familiar recipes of home! Over the years, I have often visited restaurants that brag of New Orleans cooking only to find that the cook is still a little unschooled in the details that should make the dish authentic. This restaurant, however, managed by a gentleman from the Mississippi Gulf Coast, made us and our tummies feel right at home.
Listed on the menu were red beans and rice, a favorite. “We de-gas our beans!” boasted the menu. I raised an eyebrow and summoned the waitress who readily confessed the restaurant’s method. Two of us volunteered to be test subjects. Some days later in my own kitchen, with the memory of that wonderful meal and having been living proof of a gas-free aftermath, I wrapped an apron about my waist, and employed the restaurant’s secret weapon: a potato.
After soaking two pounds of beans overnight, I eased the full pot onto the stove and fired up a burner. When the water reached a full rollicking boil, in went the sliced hunks of the potato, and eventually the holy trinity (bell pepper, onion, celery), sausage, and seasonings. I mashed a few cups of beans in the pot for the right texture and cooked the beans down until the flavors mingled pleasantly. That evening, as the beans cooled, I retrieved the cooked potato chunks and put them aside.
I confess that I am a fallen Catholic, as so many of us New Orleanians are. Unable to resist the temptation of the well-seasoned and soft potato, I succumbed to its sinful deliciousness. Unfortunately, every sin has a consequence, and I spent the evening apologizing to family. Lesson learned: when employing this de-gas tactic, DO NOT EAT THE POTATO. The potato will show no mercy.
Interestingly enough, a friend from across the country just sent me an article about the oil spill in the Gulf. Apparently, methane-eating bacteria have cleaned up the methane deposit that threatened the waters. Now, just where could I find some of that for the next red bean emergency?
Over Christmas break, my family found a wonderful little Creole/Cajun joint in the town where we had gathered for the holidays. How excited we were to find this place served Gambino’s bread and the familiar recipes of home! Over the years, I have often visited restaurants that brag of New Orleans cooking only to find that the cook is still a little unschooled in the details that should make the dish authentic. This restaurant, however, managed by a gentleman from the Mississippi Gulf Coast, made us and our tummies feel right at home.
Listed on the menu were red beans and rice, a favorite. “We de-gas our beans!” boasted the menu. I raised an eyebrow and summoned the waitress who readily confessed the restaurant’s method. Two of us volunteered to be test subjects. Some days later in my own kitchen, with the memory of that wonderful meal and having been living proof of a gas-free aftermath, I wrapped an apron about my waist, and employed the restaurant’s secret weapon: a potato.
After soaking two pounds of beans overnight, I eased the full pot onto the stove and fired up a burner. When the water reached a full rollicking boil, in went the sliced hunks of the potato, and eventually the holy trinity (bell pepper, onion, celery), sausage, and seasonings. I mashed a few cups of beans in the pot for the right texture and cooked the beans down until the flavors mingled pleasantly. That evening, as the beans cooled, I retrieved the cooked potato chunks and put them aside.
I confess that I am a fallen Catholic, as so many of us New Orleanians are. Unable to resist the temptation of the well-seasoned and soft potato, I succumbed to its sinful deliciousness. Unfortunately, every sin has a consequence, and I spent the evening apologizing to family. Lesson learned: when employing this de-gas tactic, DO NOT EAT THE POTATO. The potato will show no mercy.
Interestingly enough, a friend from across the country just sent me an article about the oil spill in the Gulf. Apparently, methane-eating bacteria have cleaned up the methane deposit that threatened the waters. Now, just where could I find some of that for the next red bean emergency?
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
No Pink Tomatoes Here
Any good New Orleanian judges a restaurant on the quality of the bread served there. Our bread is distinctive: a thin, crisp crusted French bread with a dough center so light as to be ethereal in taste and texture. Across the country, other bakeries have bragged about their replication of French bread. They are misled. New Orleans bread, baked in brick ovens, and risen against a certain degree of humidity, is exceptional and unique.
Having left the city of my youth, I have since adapted other rules to restaurants. Last night, my husband and I discussed this over a very nice meal at a local wine café. While the recipe for the meal itself was wonderful, I was disappointed over the quality of the fruit cup, and I began to muse about the melon and cantaloupe in my bowl.
Restaurants often offer a fruit cup and the medley in the bowl is almost always the same. Cantaloupe and honey dew serves as the foundation for this side dish. You might be lucky enough to get a strawberry in there, maybe a few blueberries. Considering all the fruit available, why do we always have to have melon? I wouldn’t complain if it was actually tasty. Someone who orders the produce for commercial kitchens is failing to do a routine taste test. In all my years of restaurant fruit cups, I have seldom had any melon that tastes the way it is supposed to taste. Most of the time, it is bland. It is a pointless fruit, served as a filler, and makes the hunt for the magic slice of strawberry more urgent than necessary. Why? I have only had one restaurant-offered honey dew that was exceptional. The sweetness and smooth flavor was indescribable. Surely, this melon was picked and served at the height of its own natural ripeness. Since then, I have ordered fruit cups in hopes of experiencing this sublime tasting again. I should have known better last night: it’s October. I suppose it is best to hunt for wonderful melon at the local farmers’ markets and street stands during season.
Serving bad tomatoes is another restaurant sin. If a pink tomato arrives with the meal, the complete taste experience only slides downhill. No wonder many people hate tomatoes. Garden fresh maters are explosive, tangy, and rich. They have a firmness and depth that is like nothing else in the produce department. A good tomato tastes, well, like the color red (as opposed to the washed out, bleachy green of an under ripe, poorly chosen melon). The average tomato served at the average restaurant has the lure of cardboard and little aroma.
If it isn’t good, it should not be served. There are wonderful places to eat that have served their produce right out of the garden that grows behind the restaurant, but for those places that really don’t have the space, the time, money, or the philosophy to support that, the produce should at least be sampled, sliced, tasted, and tested before routinely ordering it from a supplier. And regular taste tests should be run across the week.
All right, now that I have gotten that diatribe out of my system, it’s time to make my own lunch here at Café Catiche… a sandwich of leftover roasted pork loin with a diced vegetable and Creole mustard marinade, homemade pumpkin bread (with fresh pumpkin puree that I made myself), and maybe there is one last plump, sliceable sandwich-challenging tomato in the drawer. Mmm!
Having left the city of my youth, I have since adapted other rules to restaurants. Last night, my husband and I discussed this over a very nice meal at a local wine café. While the recipe for the meal itself was wonderful, I was disappointed over the quality of the fruit cup, and I began to muse about the melon and cantaloupe in my bowl.
Restaurants often offer a fruit cup and the medley in the bowl is almost always the same. Cantaloupe and honey dew serves as the foundation for this side dish. You might be lucky enough to get a strawberry in there, maybe a few blueberries. Considering all the fruit available, why do we always have to have melon? I wouldn’t complain if it was actually tasty. Someone who orders the produce for commercial kitchens is failing to do a routine taste test. In all my years of restaurant fruit cups, I have seldom had any melon that tastes the way it is supposed to taste. Most of the time, it is bland. It is a pointless fruit, served as a filler, and makes the hunt for the magic slice of strawberry more urgent than necessary. Why? I have only had one restaurant-offered honey dew that was exceptional. The sweetness and smooth flavor was indescribable. Surely, this melon was picked and served at the height of its own natural ripeness. Since then, I have ordered fruit cups in hopes of experiencing this sublime tasting again. I should have known better last night: it’s October. I suppose it is best to hunt for wonderful melon at the local farmers’ markets and street stands during season.
Serving bad tomatoes is another restaurant sin. If a pink tomato arrives with the meal, the complete taste experience only slides downhill. No wonder many people hate tomatoes. Garden fresh maters are explosive, tangy, and rich. They have a firmness and depth that is like nothing else in the produce department. A good tomato tastes, well, like the color red (as opposed to the washed out, bleachy green of an under ripe, poorly chosen melon). The average tomato served at the average restaurant has the lure of cardboard and little aroma.
If it isn’t good, it should not be served. There are wonderful places to eat that have served their produce right out of the garden that grows behind the restaurant, but for those places that really don’t have the space, the time, money, or the philosophy to support that, the produce should at least be sampled, sliced, tasted, and tested before routinely ordering it from a supplier. And regular taste tests should be run across the week.
All right, now that I have gotten that diatribe out of my system, it’s time to make my own lunch here at Café Catiche… a sandwich of leftover roasted pork loin with a diced vegetable and Creole mustard marinade, homemade pumpkin bread (with fresh pumpkin puree that I made myself), and maybe there is one last plump, sliceable sandwich-challenging tomato in the drawer. Mmm!
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Bad Ideas: Granny Belle's Three Way Sandwiches
“Well, that was just wrong,” I thought to myself as I put the sandwich down. Still, I tried again—another bite, then another.
Don’t do this. Don’t even do this under supervision.
Do not layer peanut butter, anchovy paste, and pimento cheese between slices of bread. This will confuse your palette, lead you to take a few more bites to try to decode the taste buzz, and finally to discard the remnants due to fear of screwing up your stomach for the rest of the night. I don’t think these ingredients really go together. Say what you will, but the recipe for Granny Belle’s Three Way Sandwiches was just…
Eh. No.
Don’t do this. Don’t even do this under supervision.
Do not layer peanut butter, anchovy paste, and pimento cheese between slices of bread. This will confuse your palette, lead you to take a few more bites to try to decode the taste buzz, and finally to discard the remnants due to fear of screwing up your stomach for the rest of the night. I don’t think these ingredients really go together. Say what you will, but the recipe for Granny Belle’s Three Way Sandwiches was just…
Eh. No.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
How to Skin a Cat
I once had a retired neighbor in the Midwest who liked to fish in his newfound spare time. He had found a good hole in some kind of state park bayou, would while away there for hours, and periodically come home with more than he and his wife could eat. One afternoon, I happened to be tooling around outside when he called me over, asked if I would take the extra fish off his hands, and then proceeded to pass me a plastic grocery bag. Who was I to say no?
At home, I opened the bag and peered in. Gaping and staring back at me were three live catfish. I did what any good southern girl does when she is out of her native habitat and needs advice. I called Daddy and took orders.
“Well,” he said, “you’ll need a good place to clean them. And you need a fence post or something.”
“They’re still breathing!” I exclaimed. I eat dead things without fail—all kinds of dead things, including but not limited to cows, chickens, rabbits, goat, lamb, and even turtle—but I don’t kill things. That’s a man’s job.
“Oh, well then, go get a hammer,” he said.
So I manned up, laid newspaper and one sorry fish on the counter, and clubbed it. One of its eyes shot out across the room. I was a little stunned, but refrained from the “Ew, gross!” dance I could have done. I offered up a silent prayer for forgiveness and ended the suffering of his friends next.
“Find the biggest nail you have and pound it pretty deep into a sturdy post in the yard. You’ll need a good knife to cut around the head and pliers to pull the skin off.” I cut off the fish’s sharp spines, lodged the head of the fish securely on the nail, and followed the rest of the directions. I returned to the kitchen proud and dancing about with three naked and ready-to-gut fish.
That night I was suddenly sorry to live so far away in this largely landlocked environment of woods and corn fields, but I least I could partake in the glory of home food, a plate of cornmeal-fried fish with a side of greens and fried green tomatoes. I never did find that eyeball, though.
At home, I opened the bag and peered in. Gaping and staring back at me were three live catfish. I did what any good southern girl does when she is out of her native habitat and needs advice. I called Daddy and took orders.
“Well,” he said, “you’ll need a good place to clean them. And you need a fence post or something.”
“They’re still breathing!” I exclaimed. I eat dead things without fail—all kinds of dead things, including but not limited to cows, chickens, rabbits, goat, lamb, and even turtle—but I don’t kill things. That’s a man’s job.
“Oh, well then, go get a hammer,” he said.
So I manned up, laid newspaper and one sorry fish on the counter, and clubbed it. One of its eyes shot out across the room. I was a little stunned, but refrained from the “Ew, gross!” dance I could have done. I offered up a silent prayer for forgiveness and ended the suffering of his friends next.
“Find the biggest nail you have and pound it pretty deep into a sturdy post in the yard. You’ll need a good knife to cut around the head and pliers to pull the skin off.” I cut off the fish’s sharp spines, lodged the head of the fish securely on the nail, and followed the rest of the directions. I returned to the kitchen proud and dancing about with three naked and ready-to-gut fish.
That night I was suddenly sorry to live so far away in this largely landlocked environment of woods and corn fields, but I least I could partake in the glory of home food, a plate of cornmeal-fried fish with a side of greens and fried green tomatoes. I never did find that eyeball, though.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Let me tell you what we ate...
New Orleans probably added a few pounds to my frame this past week and it was well worth the indulgence. I love food. I love it better in good company. Fortunately this past week, I was able to share my favorite dishes and some new ones with two of my favorite people, my parents, but with every bite I was dying to call my chief favorite foodie, my husband, and exclaim, “You should be eating this.” In fact, I think I did a time or two. My mother still laughs about the time my father called her at 2 AM from a business trip across the country. In those days, we had no cell phones. Unobtrusive texting was not an option.
“Are you all right?” she asked with sleep in her eyes.
“You would not believe what I ate for dinner,” he said. And so it goes.
In New Orleans, we revel not just in what we eat, but how we eat, when we eat, where we eat, and with whom we eat. When we are enjoying one meal, we are planning the next. Last year, at a snowball stand (shaved ice to you yanks out there), two young women were discussing their evening. They were half-way through generous cups of snowballs when I overheard this classic:
“What do you want to do after this?” asked one girl.
“Let’s go get dinner.” As we say down there, for true. Yes, normal people eat dessert after dinner. Then, there’s us. This conversation is not uncommon. Two visits ago, I dawdled over morning coffee with my dad and planned lunch. At lunch, we planned coffee. At coffee, we planned dinner. After dinner, we discussed all our meals and the quality of the coffee over more coffee. No wonder I come home so bloated.
Last night, Jay the Piper, who blogs over at The Extended Table, zapped me online demanding a list of what I ate. Are you ready for this? Oysters Bienville, fried oyster po boys, boiled crawfish, rabbit gumbo, smoked chicken gumbo, ahi tuna, assorted pates, roasted pork tenderloin, creamed spinach, petit fillet, fried green tomatoes, almond croissants, chocolate Florentines, quality goat cheese, brie, camembert, and one cinnamon roll. Oh, I forgot to add the bread, the butter, onion straws, and wine to that. And coffee, of course.
While each meal warrants its own blog, let’s just say that the most impressionable oyster came from Houston’s on St. Charles. Flash fried in a light breading and served over a creamy spinach base, I could still taste the gulf waters in its feathery folds. It was light and full bodied at the same time. The onion straws from Charley’s on Dryades were particularly noteworthy—as was the entire evening that went with it, another story for another blog. The crawfish were perfectly spiced and boiled over in River Ridge at a different eatery named Charlie’s, a restaurant purchased as a measure to preserve the neighborhood (God bless you, New Orleans). And I hit Still Perkin’ for a granita just in time to have another outstanding social experience.
The greatest thing about all of this is the sharing. A table full of New Orleanians, especially those of us with whom we claim favorite, is beautiful and gracious. We split entrees, dole out portions, exclaim over tastes, share nibbles, share opinions on those nibbles, admire exquisitely arranged food, and relax in the comfort of full tummies and gentle people. Talk is intimate. Surface chatter disappears really before the first glass of wine is poured. Coffee is an excuse to lounge about the table long after the waiter and his curious little table crumber have disappeared. But because it is New Orleans, maybe he does not disappear for long. The waiter comes back, with friends who you discover you knew through school or lived near or scarier yet, are related. Conversation renews in the perfume of marjoram, thyme, wine, and chocolate that seems to linger after the plates are gone. The table linens soften underhand and light begins to shift outside, or maybe the sky is already dark. After all, two hours have passed since the waiter first slid a cup of gumbo under your nose. We clatter onto the sidewalk, exchange goodbyes for the tenth time, and leave… craving coffee or tea or a nap… and missing already the lovely company with whom the meal was shared. Or, like me, picking up the phone to call whoever was supposed to be there and could not come.
“Baby, you would not believe what I just ate.”
“Are you all right?” she asked with sleep in her eyes.
“You would not believe what I ate for dinner,” he said. And so it goes.
In New Orleans, we revel not just in what we eat, but how we eat, when we eat, where we eat, and with whom we eat. When we are enjoying one meal, we are planning the next. Last year, at a snowball stand (shaved ice to you yanks out there), two young women were discussing their evening. They were half-way through generous cups of snowballs when I overheard this classic:
“What do you want to do after this?” asked one girl.
“Let’s go get dinner.” As we say down there, for true. Yes, normal people eat dessert after dinner. Then, there’s us. This conversation is not uncommon. Two visits ago, I dawdled over morning coffee with my dad and planned lunch. At lunch, we planned coffee. At coffee, we planned dinner. After dinner, we discussed all our meals and the quality of the coffee over more coffee. No wonder I come home so bloated.
Last night, Jay the Piper, who blogs over at The Extended Table, zapped me online demanding a list of what I ate. Are you ready for this? Oysters Bienville, fried oyster po boys, boiled crawfish, rabbit gumbo, smoked chicken gumbo, ahi tuna, assorted pates, roasted pork tenderloin, creamed spinach, petit fillet, fried green tomatoes, almond croissants, chocolate Florentines, quality goat cheese, brie, camembert, and one cinnamon roll. Oh, I forgot to add the bread, the butter, onion straws, and wine to that. And coffee, of course.
While each meal warrants its own blog, let’s just say that the most impressionable oyster came from Houston’s on St. Charles. Flash fried in a light breading and served over a creamy spinach base, I could still taste the gulf waters in its feathery folds. It was light and full bodied at the same time. The onion straws from Charley’s on Dryades were particularly noteworthy—as was the entire evening that went with it, another story for another blog. The crawfish were perfectly spiced and boiled over in River Ridge at a different eatery named Charlie’s, a restaurant purchased as a measure to preserve the neighborhood (God bless you, New Orleans). And I hit Still Perkin’ for a granita just in time to have another outstanding social experience.
The greatest thing about all of this is the sharing. A table full of New Orleanians, especially those of us with whom we claim favorite, is beautiful and gracious. We split entrees, dole out portions, exclaim over tastes, share nibbles, share opinions on those nibbles, admire exquisitely arranged food, and relax in the comfort of full tummies and gentle people. Talk is intimate. Surface chatter disappears really before the first glass of wine is poured. Coffee is an excuse to lounge about the table long after the waiter and his curious little table crumber have disappeared. But because it is New Orleans, maybe he does not disappear for long. The waiter comes back, with friends who you discover you knew through school or lived near or scarier yet, are related. Conversation renews in the perfume of marjoram, thyme, wine, and chocolate that seems to linger after the plates are gone. The table linens soften underhand and light begins to shift outside, or maybe the sky is already dark. After all, two hours have passed since the waiter first slid a cup of gumbo under your nose. We clatter onto the sidewalk, exchange goodbyes for the tenth time, and leave… craving coffee or tea or a nap… and missing already the lovely company with whom the meal was shared. Or, like me, picking up the phone to call whoever was supposed to be there and could not come.
“Baby, you would not believe what I just ate.”
Monday, March 22, 2010
Sweets, Meats, and Eats
I had the most incredible burger a couple of weeks ago in Georgia. Quality beef mingled with ground chorizo sausage and a layer of egg over-easy between a toasted bun, mayo, lettuce, and garden tomato. It was an award-winning taste bud-popping highly notable experience. The salt, the tender beef, the slick texture of running, rich yolk—a foodgasmic experience.
I love food. Really. I just loooove good food. I love the entire five-sense stimulating encounter, the mélange of the tasting with socializing, and, as any mother would, the dependence on paid help to prepare, serve, and clean the dishes. There are many places where I have enjoyed meals both fancy and earth-grounding, so to speak. Here are some of the ones most prominent in memory:
Fried chicken from a Texaco in Hazlehurst, MS… ordered in desperation, tasted cautiously, then inhaled in high appreciation for the fried chicken that only a southern mama could cook to perfection. I used to stop here years ago while passing through a portion of country. Does only the South have outstanding kitchens in their rural gas stations? I have had perfectly peel-able and succulent crawfish from a Baton Rouge gas station as well, and tenderly cornmeal fried oyster po boys from another fill-up stop near Delacroix Island, Louisiana.
The richest, meatiest, chunkiest crab cakes, aside from my Aunt Irma’s, have to originate from the upscale kitchen of Hemingway’s, a restaurant attached to the Hyatt Grand Cypress Hotel in Orlando, Florida. Once, at a business dinner in the Midwest, I met a young man who was talking about his father’s culinary-inspired travels. He said his dad just had been praising the most incredible crab cakes from a trip down south. At the same time, we named the same restaurant. There is no such thing as coincidence.
Lavender and honey ice cream, produced lovingly and presented with pride, can be ordered on occasion from Gertrude’s in Colorado Springs, Colorado. I once savored this extraordinary blend of unusual flavors after an elegant meal in Gertrude’s renovated bungalow. I have never had such creamy and perfumed ice cream since.
Luz del Sol, the best cake I have ever had, is available on a random basis at Kuba Kuba in Richmond, Virginia’s Fan neighborhood. Imagine a sweet coffee-soaked flan layer over a yellow cake. The liqueur trickles down into the bready fluff and pools on the plate. Even flan-haters love this cake. It’s like crack; eat it once, and never stop craving it again. And one does not just desire the taste-- the texture, the journey from pudding smooth to delicately grained and heavily soaked cake. I can't stand myself as I write this.
Oh, there’s so much more—there was a duck and white cheese pizza I once had from a restaurant that is now closed in Colorado and there was a lovely ahi-tuna dish from a biker bar/upscale diner in Indiana that is also now closed. I have had succulent roast duckling from a pub somewhere in England. And the best Vietnamese meal? I enjoyed it in Paris.
I’m not going to tidy up this blog with a neatly written paragraph closing the food list. Instead, I would be most delighted to continue it with a list of your best meals discovered both at restaurants and at home. After all, someone’s home cooking often inspires the opening of a great eatery. I see Jay the Piper has been shoving beer cans up chicken bums, by the way. Rock on, Jay! Hope you had a good porter with that meal.
I love food. Really. I just loooove good food. I love the entire five-sense stimulating encounter, the mélange of the tasting with socializing, and, as any mother would, the dependence on paid help to prepare, serve, and clean the dishes. There are many places where I have enjoyed meals both fancy and earth-grounding, so to speak. Here are some of the ones most prominent in memory:
Fried chicken from a Texaco in Hazlehurst, MS… ordered in desperation, tasted cautiously, then inhaled in high appreciation for the fried chicken that only a southern mama could cook to perfection. I used to stop here years ago while passing through a portion of country. Does only the South have outstanding kitchens in their rural gas stations? I have had perfectly peel-able and succulent crawfish from a Baton Rouge gas station as well, and tenderly cornmeal fried oyster po boys from another fill-up stop near Delacroix Island, Louisiana.
The richest, meatiest, chunkiest crab cakes, aside from my Aunt Irma’s, have to originate from the upscale kitchen of Hemingway’s, a restaurant attached to the Hyatt Grand Cypress Hotel in Orlando, Florida. Once, at a business dinner in the Midwest, I met a young man who was talking about his father’s culinary-inspired travels. He said his dad just had been praising the most incredible crab cakes from a trip down south. At the same time, we named the same restaurant. There is no such thing as coincidence.
Lavender and honey ice cream, produced lovingly and presented with pride, can be ordered on occasion from Gertrude’s in Colorado Springs, Colorado. I once savored this extraordinary blend of unusual flavors after an elegant meal in Gertrude’s renovated bungalow. I have never had such creamy and perfumed ice cream since.
Luz del Sol, the best cake I have ever had, is available on a random basis at Kuba Kuba in Richmond, Virginia’s Fan neighborhood. Imagine a sweet coffee-soaked flan layer over a yellow cake. The liqueur trickles down into the bready fluff and pools on the plate. Even flan-haters love this cake. It’s like crack; eat it once, and never stop craving it again. And one does not just desire the taste-- the texture, the journey from pudding smooth to delicately grained and heavily soaked cake. I can't stand myself as I write this.
Oh, there’s so much more—there was a duck and white cheese pizza I once had from a restaurant that is now closed in Colorado and there was a lovely ahi-tuna dish from a biker bar/upscale diner in Indiana that is also now closed. I have had succulent roast duckling from a pub somewhere in England. And the best Vietnamese meal? I enjoyed it in Paris.
I’m not going to tidy up this blog with a neatly written paragraph closing the food list. Instead, I would be most delighted to continue it with a list of your best meals discovered both at restaurants and at home. After all, someone’s home cooking often inspires the opening of a great eatery. I see Jay the Piper has been shoving beer cans up chicken bums, by the way. Rock on, Jay! Hope you had a good porter with that meal.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Articulate Eggs
Each time we buy a new carton of eggs, I write my husband a message—one word per egg. It cracks him up—no pun intended—and is a little gesture of affection. Recently I wrote: The way you stare at us makes us nervous. Besides this group of eggs were tidbits of previously cracked and emptied shells. Last week I wrote: Do you think white makes us look fat? And on another carton: Oh my God! Which one of us will be the next to die? Two weeks ago there was something about how he was eggsactly the right person for me, which inspired a few egg-themed jokes and comments when he posted it to Facebook. This sure has put playing with one’s food on a whole new level.
I can’t look at eggs at the grocery without wondering which pack will better suit the length of the message I plan to write—12 or 18 eggs. And if I were to get the brown eggs, would that lead to a whole series of statements about representing minorities? I usually get cage-free vegetarian fed hens' eggs. Maybe I should play on this, too. “We endorse soy and meat-alternative choices,” they might read one day, “so put the chicks down.”
The eggs one buys are actually unfertilized products. They are chicken-wannabes stopped tragically mid-cycle. They are peepless wonders of perfection to me. I love their smooth ovals and have spent time photographing both whole eggs for the beauty of the light caressing rounded surfaces and cracked shells for their qualities of translucence. It is an examination of simple things, simple wonders. Yes, there is certainly a simple joy to opening a fresh carton of eggs and finding, as my husband did this week, two perfect rows of animated faces drawn on waiting eggs. I hope the chickens understand and forgive us both.
I can’t look at eggs at the grocery without wondering which pack will better suit the length of the message I plan to write—12 or 18 eggs. And if I were to get the brown eggs, would that lead to a whole series of statements about representing minorities? I usually get cage-free vegetarian fed hens' eggs. Maybe I should play on this, too. “We endorse soy and meat-alternative choices,” they might read one day, “so put the chicks down.”
The eggs one buys are actually unfertilized products. They are chicken-wannabes stopped tragically mid-cycle. They are peepless wonders of perfection to me. I love their smooth ovals and have spent time photographing both whole eggs for the beauty of the light caressing rounded surfaces and cracked shells for their qualities of translucence. It is an examination of simple things, simple wonders. Yes, there is certainly a simple joy to opening a fresh carton of eggs and finding, as my husband did this week, two perfect rows of animated faces drawn on waiting eggs. I hope the chickens understand and forgive us both.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Gumbo the Way God Intended
I love food. I love food the way some chaw smackin' trailer shackin' men love Nascar. I had the most amazing burger this weekend... will have to write about it sometime and made some serious observations about quality fries, but in the meantime, here is something I wrote for a step-daughter this Christmas:
Recipe: Gumbo the Way God Intended
I don’t order Creole or Cajun food outside of Louisiana that much. People have such misconceptions about what it should look like, taste like, and professional chefs think creative license gives them the right to kill it. Any coon ass worth his salt knows that good gumbo is an art only for the patience of browning roux and allowing food to mellow in the pot. Certain ingredients, however, give it the right texture and consistency. Okra, celery, and oysters are essential for the recipe I prefer. Picky eaters can go straight to hell and stay there if they cannot scoot the okra quietly to the side of their plates. And if someone asks you to pass the salt and pepper, you have my sworn permission to shoot them. Tabasco and gumbo filé powder is the only suitable additive post-serving. For crying out loud!
Anyway, here is my Uncle Joe’s recipe, but I tweaked just a few things. What you should know about Joe was his capacity for love. He was my father’s paternal uncle and had served in World War II where he met my Aunt Marty, an Army nurse. Having no money, the two married in a simple ceremony in Germany during the war. Joe gave Marty a promise for a ring—a nail bent in a circle—that she wore or carried until he was able to give her a traditional band. Their daughter Beverly told us that when Marty died, Joe having passed some years prior, she assumed the duty of dividing Marty’s belongings. In the jewelry box was the original ring—the nail Joe had salvaged from some European ruin somewhere. Beverly often has said that the two had an incredibly passionate relationship forged by the bonds of war, and they were in love even through death. Joe embraced life just as fervently as his marriage and loved all of us so much that he wanted to leave us a gift to hand down for generations. He wrote us a cookbook and I still have mine through every state I have lived in. The pages are grease spattered and crinkled. I often copy the recipes and send them to friends when they want “genuine” recipes from true natives of South Louisiana. This book is one of my most treasured possessions and still bears with it the letter he wrote me when he sent it. I extend this same love to you, and the same hope for love in your own relationships.
Anyway, this is gumbo the way God intended—full of good intentions, fragrant, delicately seasoned, but sure-tasting, belly warming, and conversation engaging.
Ingredients
1/3 cup vegetable oil or a half stick of butter
1/3 cup flour
1 cup green onions
1 cup chopped white onion
½ cup celery
1 tbs. minced garlic
½ cups chopped bell pepper
1 can okra (do not drain can) or a half bag frozen okra (if you dig okra, add more)
2 cups peeled, deveined, and raw shrimp (you can buy it in a bag already done up this way, but I prefer to peel it myself and meditate on the long line of cooks I come from, plus I boil the shells in some water and use it for shrimp broth in this recipe. My Aunt Kay just rinses the shrimp bag and later pours that in the pot, but that is cheating. We are slow in Louisiana for a reason—you cannot rush a good thing.)
Jar fresh oysters plus broth
Small jar crab claw meat (do not use faux)
1 tspn. Worcestershire sauce
½ tspn. salt
½ tspn. pepper
1 tspn. thyme
3-4 whole bay leaves
Tabasco
1-2 tspn gumbo filé powder (ground sassafras leaves) which you can find in the soul food or ethnic section of the grocery—my cousin Mark says that grocers should just call it the Coon Ass Shelf and be done
Box of instant rice
Steps
1. Heat your burner to medium and pour your oil in the bottom of a good four quart pot. Let it get good and hot before you add the flour. This is called a ROUX. You are going to stand over this for around ten minutes, so be patient. Stir slowly with a wood spoon, pause, and stir again. Watch it brown. Stir. You want a nice dark brown and this takes a while to achieve but it is key. You want it almost as brown as shoe leather. No white, no beige. Your finished product will reflect this deep color, so consider that as you deliberate when to stop browning by moving on to your next step. As we would say in Louisiana, listen to your belle-mére. Trust me on this.
2. Add the chopped vegetables and cook for at least another five minutes. Let the vegetables change color and soften a bit.
3. Add the shrimp and crab. Let cook a few minutes or so. Stir frequently.
4. Add 1 quart of water (or shrimp broth) and seasonings. Let cook a few minutes. Stir, stir, stir.
5. Add the okra and the oysters. Add all the seasonings and Worcestershire. Stir. Let cook five or more minutes.
6. Add more hot water to achieve the consistency you desire. Cook on low, covered with a lid for about twenty minutes.
7. Right at the end of this, check the taste. Add Tabasco and the filé. You can go heavy on that sassafras and won’t hurt a thing.
8. Cook rice according to box directions.
9. Serve a nice bowl of gumbo with a small scoop of rice in the center of each bowl.
White wine is really, really nice with this. Get good crusty bread, too.
Recipe: Gumbo the Way God Intended
I don’t order Creole or Cajun food outside of Louisiana that much. People have such misconceptions about what it should look like, taste like, and professional chefs think creative license gives them the right to kill it. Any coon ass worth his salt knows that good gumbo is an art only for the patience of browning roux and allowing food to mellow in the pot. Certain ingredients, however, give it the right texture and consistency. Okra, celery, and oysters are essential for the recipe I prefer. Picky eaters can go straight to hell and stay there if they cannot scoot the okra quietly to the side of their plates. And if someone asks you to pass the salt and pepper, you have my sworn permission to shoot them. Tabasco and gumbo filé powder is the only suitable additive post-serving. For crying out loud!
Anyway, here is my Uncle Joe’s recipe, but I tweaked just a few things. What you should know about Joe was his capacity for love. He was my father’s paternal uncle and had served in World War II where he met my Aunt Marty, an Army nurse. Having no money, the two married in a simple ceremony in Germany during the war. Joe gave Marty a promise for a ring—a nail bent in a circle—that she wore or carried until he was able to give her a traditional band. Their daughter Beverly told us that when Marty died, Joe having passed some years prior, she assumed the duty of dividing Marty’s belongings. In the jewelry box was the original ring—the nail Joe had salvaged from some European ruin somewhere. Beverly often has said that the two had an incredibly passionate relationship forged by the bonds of war, and they were in love even through death. Joe embraced life just as fervently as his marriage and loved all of us so much that he wanted to leave us a gift to hand down for generations. He wrote us a cookbook and I still have mine through every state I have lived in. The pages are grease spattered and crinkled. I often copy the recipes and send them to friends when they want “genuine” recipes from true natives of South Louisiana. This book is one of my most treasured possessions and still bears with it the letter he wrote me when he sent it. I extend this same love to you, and the same hope for love in your own relationships.
Anyway, this is gumbo the way God intended—full of good intentions, fragrant, delicately seasoned, but sure-tasting, belly warming, and conversation engaging.
Ingredients
1/3 cup vegetable oil or a half stick of butter
1/3 cup flour
1 cup green onions
1 cup chopped white onion
½ cup celery
1 tbs. minced garlic
½ cups chopped bell pepper
1 can okra (do not drain can) or a half bag frozen okra (if you dig okra, add more)
2 cups peeled, deveined, and raw shrimp (you can buy it in a bag already done up this way, but I prefer to peel it myself and meditate on the long line of cooks I come from, plus I boil the shells in some water and use it for shrimp broth in this recipe. My Aunt Kay just rinses the shrimp bag and later pours that in the pot, but that is cheating. We are slow in Louisiana for a reason—you cannot rush a good thing.)
Jar fresh oysters plus broth
Small jar crab claw meat (do not use faux)
1 tspn. Worcestershire sauce
½ tspn. salt
½ tspn. pepper
1 tspn. thyme
3-4 whole bay leaves
Tabasco
1-2 tspn gumbo filé powder (ground sassafras leaves) which you can find in the soul food or ethnic section of the grocery—my cousin Mark says that grocers should just call it the Coon Ass Shelf and be done
Box of instant rice
Steps
1. Heat your burner to medium and pour your oil in the bottom of a good four quart pot. Let it get good and hot before you add the flour. This is called a ROUX. You are going to stand over this for around ten minutes, so be patient. Stir slowly with a wood spoon, pause, and stir again. Watch it brown. Stir. You want a nice dark brown and this takes a while to achieve but it is key. You want it almost as brown as shoe leather. No white, no beige. Your finished product will reflect this deep color, so consider that as you deliberate when to stop browning by moving on to your next step. As we would say in Louisiana, listen to your belle-mére. Trust me on this.
2. Add the chopped vegetables and cook for at least another five minutes. Let the vegetables change color and soften a bit.
3. Add the shrimp and crab. Let cook a few minutes or so. Stir frequently.
4. Add 1 quart of water (or shrimp broth) and seasonings. Let cook a few minutes. Stir, stir, stir.
5. Add the okra and the oysters. Add all the seasonings and Worcestershire. Stir. Let cook five or more minutes.
6. Add more hot water to achieve the consistency you desire. Cook on low, covered with a lid for about twenty minutes.
7. Right at the end of this, check the taste. Add Tabasco and the filé. You can go heavy on that sassafras and won’t hurt a thing.
8. Cook rice according to box directions.
9. Serve a nice bowl of gumbo with a small scoop of rice in the center of each bowl.
White wine is really, really nice with this. Get good crusty bread, too.
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