Potlikkery

batter up, dough girl

My favorite gift to give people, especially family members, is food. I still owe Tom, my father-in-law, a key lime pie for watching our dogs while we were in Florida last month. Actually, we brought him back something from the sunshine state, so I can forget the key lime pie.

Last week I made cookie dough batter after setting my butter out to warm to room temperature after two days. And somehow I didn't have the recipe. I looked through my "own" cookbook, but didn't see it immediately. I panicked. How would I figure out the recipe? It was printed on the back of the Reese's chips in the past. Then I took more time with my collection of recipes and found it, whew! These peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies call for ten whole ounces of peanut butter chips. That's the whole bag. And then there's the 2/3 cup of semi-sweet or milk-chocolate (your choice!) chips to counter all that peanutty goodness.

But I was too tired to bake the batter. Maybe doing things in steps is the best way to accomplish cooking goals. Thank heaven for wax paper. I could not live without it. I mostly use it to wrap sandwiches, and that isn't often at all. This time I used it to make a cookie dough log that I could pop into the fridge and then bake cookies whenever the whim hit me.

 

Unfortunately I have a weakness for cookie dough, or batter of any kind. Three days after I put the dough together my log diminished by half. I'd grab a chunk for breakfast, and then another for a snack, or even as part of my dinner. It was sinfully good. If I indulge in store-bought cookie dough, I lose my taste for it immediately. Not so the homemade stuff.

Wouldn't it be great in homemade ice cream, or gelato? I thought.

By the time I baked the cookies on Sunday the half log was a manageable amount of dough to work with. One and a quarter cookie sheets later and my baking was done. The yield was about two dozen cookies, give or take the four to six that Ian and I nibbled throughout the day. I finally removed the cookies from our home and left them in my parents' mailbox because they were for my dear step-father who gives me such wonderful (and free) medical care.

little bit of cuba

Cuban cuisine was on my list of things to eat while visiting southern Florida last month. But we didn't eat at Havana. It was on my list.

One day we grew hungry driving back from our climb up Jupiter Inlet Lighthouse. I told Ian we'd passed two or three Cuban restaurants on our drive up Federal Highway to Jupiter, so we'd pass them again coming "home." The first was closed; only opened for lunch. But the second was open. We were early, right at 5 p.m. for dinner. As we walked through the door Ian mentioned the Zagat rating sticker he saw from the outside.

Perhaps our whim was a good choice. Of course it was. The service was wonderful at El Colonial. As usual, we were ready for dinner by five o'clock. They served us Cuban bread with butter right away. Yum. Ian ordered the steak and eggs. The bite I had was good.

Sadly, I cannot recall what I ordered. I got plantains, rice, and beans with it, and all those items were hot and tasty. Ian and I recall I had fish. It may have been the Grouper Creole. And we ate so much that we didn't dare order dessert.

The decor is a little dated, sort of seventies diner, but very clean and crisp with only black, white and red colors accenting the interior space. The menu had lots of choices and making a decision was difficult for me. The atmosphere was homey and family run.

a charlie by any other name

Quite by accident, we ended up at the wrong restaurant on our vacation last month. Captain Charlie's Reef Grille was on my list of places to eat but somehow we ate at Charley's Crab instead. We'd been given recommendations by our timeshare person and those recommendations included directions. I saw Charlie's and assumed it was the place I had in mind despite the directions taking us south into Palm Beach instead of north to Juno Beach. But sometimes we headed in odd directions because you couldn't get from one place to another directly, if that makes sense.

Charlie's Crab did not disappoint. I loved the view. We sat next to the window and watched the Atlantic. And the cars drive by. Ian commented that he expected a lot more luxury vehicles passing by than what he saw. I concurred. We arrived early, right at 5 o'clock. The only other table seated held three people ranging in age from 80-90-something. Not good news at all.

My oysters on the half-shell were not the best I've had. Ian looked on in disgust as I funneled them into my mouth. He had a steak and potato. I ordered the roast duck special topped with cherries. Yum. I love duck. Yes, we were at the beach. I should have gotten seafood. Even though I can get seafood at home, finding duck on anyone's menu is rare. There were two legs. One was drier than the other. Can't recall, but I think the duck was served with mashed potatoes, or something. Several other tables were seated and by the time the party behind us ordered, the duck special was no more.

I must confess my love of skin. Surely it grosses people out, but that's the best part. And this duck skin was glazed and crunchy and pure heaven. When I was very choosy about what I ate, oh, some thirty-odd years ago, I always ate the skin off the chicken my mamaw served on Sunday. And maybe a nibble or two of the meat.

The key lime pie was excellent. Quite tart. Our waiter scored the pie's top and squeezed fresh lime over top. That's a trick new to me.  And actually, the service was delightful. Our server came around and scraped crumbs off the tablelinens. He topped off my glass with iced tea served from a bottle.

Another night we made it to Charlie's Reef Grille. The directions I got from google maps were dead wrong. We drove twenty or thirty miles past the restaurant. Finally, I called and the hostess told us to look for a certain building. They were in a strip mall just off the main road. Driving this great distance is no problem for us. Inevitably, when something goes wrong, as we expect, we take it in stride. Ian is fabulous about being patient. He doggedly drives as I call out street signs and navigation points.

We arrived and were seated shortly. A young man left bowls of coleslaw to the table. It was right good. Not enough mayo to suit me though. We ordered drinks and pored over the menu. There were regular seafood dinners and dozens of tapas selections. I picked three or four of those: Blackbean cake with spicy rock shrimp & cool fruit salsa; Little Neck Clams w chorizo, corn, capers, & tomatoes in a garlic broth; and the Tempura tuna medallions, rare, with wasabi cream and fruit. Ian chose jerked chicken. But then a waiter carried a whole fish by our table en route to another point in the restaurant. I asked our waitress what that was. She told me: Yellowtail Snapper.

The light was dim, so no photos. My fish was divine. I consumed entirely too much of it. It was served with black beans, rice, plantains, and fruit salsa. Whole fish with its head left on appeals to me on a primal level. And it it's grilled or fried, then all the better.

Perhaps it hearkens back to a pleasant childhood meal I had at the Widow Brown's.  There was no children's menu. I ordered the trout. They brought it out head on, eye staring up at me. The Widow Brown's ambiance surely had something else to do with that early memory. It was in the basement of the Parson's Table, a French cuisine restaurant in Jonesborough. The Widow Brown's floor was brick or stone. A fireplace took up almost an entire wall. The ceiling was low and huge beams crossed from wall to wall. Maybe there were apples served along with my trout. I cannot recall. But that is the moment that I liked whole fish better than fish sticks, though I'll still eat those, too, if they're any account.

The cobbler at Charlie's Reef Grills was scrumptious. Ian claims it as his favorite dessert while we vacationed. It was Pineapple, banana, mango, and coconut cobbler. The crust was more a crumble and saturated with butter in the best way. Best cobbler award hands down goes to Charlie's!

sharpen your knives

Over the weekend I read The Sharper Your Knife, the Less You Cry: Love, Laughter, and Tears at the World's Most Famous Cooking School (2007). I bought a copy Friday after the reading Kathleen Flinn gave at Malaprop's. There were several trips to bookstores that I almost bought a copy, but then I knew about the Malaprop's event and didn't want to buy from a bigboxbookstore when I can support my local, though out-of-state, bookstore with that purchase. One of the things I hate most of all is going to a book signing without having read the book. Also, I think it's wrong to bring a book you bought elsewhere to an author's book signing at a bookstore, though I've done that once before with Poisonwood Bible (1998) and it wasn't at a bookstore, but at a convention center, of sorts.

Flinn brought cheese and crackers to share with her audience. There were twenty or thirty of us, at least. For her first book signing in Seattle she made beef bourguignon for eighty. Her second stop on her book tour was in Portland, at Powell's. We heard all about that. One of the first things she asked her Asheville audience was how many were vegetarian or vegan. A few raised their hands. I felt the movement behind me, but didn't turn to see their numbers. In the interest of not offending those in her audience who don't eat meat or care to hear of its evisceration, Flinn refrained from reading sections from her book describing boning of meats. It's a shame she felt censored in that way.

Then, too, she was told that Malaprop's customers like to ask lots of questions, and so she didn't read so much because of that. However, she read from the prologue and another section as well. Flinn has a knack for accents. She imitated her British boss's phone call foretelling the loss of her job. And I think there were two Frenchpeople she imitated as well.

Flinn's is a story that combines two of my loves: France/Paris and food. How could I resist? Flinn details her early relationship with food and cooking, as well as her dream to attend Le Cordon Bleu. When she is terminated from her London job, her boyfriend tells her to put her belongings in storage, cash in her 401K, and pursue her dream in Paris. And he'll come along, too. Sounds like the best of everything: Your lifelong dream and love to boot.

This is sort of Top Chef meets Sabrina. There was a small bit of competition between Flinn and the other students for top spot in their class. Mostly, Flinn describes the delightful, sustaining relationships she made with students in her courses and the somewhat contentious, yet ultimately satisfying exchanges she has with her chefs. Occasionally she mentions one or two persons by name who hog ingredients, or take extra grapes or meat for themselves in case they screw up. Basically, those selfish actions screwed the other students out of having enough to make their one dish.

And, Flinn includes a recipe at the end of each chapter. Her writing is clear. Her descriptions are meaty, sensual. She was easy to root for when situations grew tense in the kitchen or she thought she bumbled her exams. Sometimes her oven didn't work. And once, she dropped a duck. Then, there was the language barrier; her years of French didn't prepare her for her immersion within the language at Le Cordon Bleu. Students have translators in the first two courses, but are on their own during Superior cuisine.

But then, back to her reading: She was delightful and charismatic and charmed all who heard her. Her eyes teared up once or twice as she described her relationship with Mike, her boyfriend from the book, whom she married. She answered at least eight or ten questions from the audience and from those we learned things that weren't in the book.

Like, her knife skills are the most important thing she gained at Le Cordon Bleu. And that the school is disappointed, or distressed maybe, because there are fewer and fewer Americans enrolling at the flagship school because the Euro is so much stronger than the dollar. A course at LCB ain't cheap. It's about $10K a course. And one takes three courses to earn a diploma: Basic Cuisine, Intermediate Cuisine, and Superior Cuisine ($30K doesn't include the cost of living in Paris). All her cuisine classes seemed interesting, yet every time Flinn mentioned patisserie, my eyes perked up wanting more.

Almost every memoir published about someone living in Paris, or France, for that matter, I find and read. French culture and society fascinate me. I want to wrap myself in it, like a bit of chocolate in bread. Yet, I don't love French cuisine. I don't seek it out, that is. When traveling to urban centers I go for Thai or Latin or Japanese cuisine. Surely it's the rich cream sauces that keep me away. Years ago the Parson's Table in Jonesborough served divine French cuisine. My family went there for special occasions, like my college graduation, or to celebrate my mother and my birthdays. But, it closed. Now there is no French food here.

Hmmm, I don't like souffle. And puff pastry doesn't do it for me. Oh, but croissant. Yum. And all that bread? Other interesting things from Flinn's book was when she learned that the government regulates when bakers take vacation. People need their bread. They cannot be inconvenienced by bakeries closed while bakers take vacations at the same time.

Something I had never read before, in all my reading of Paris and France, was the Frenchpeople's social obligation to one another. Certainly we have this idea of Parisians, especially, being horrible, snobbish folks, but they take care of each other. For instance, one time her taxi dropped Flinn outside her apartment in the rain with bags and bags of groceries and a stranger helped her carry her sacks up six or seven flights of stairs.

And Flinn mentions seeing a man in a wheelchair sitting at the top of the stairs to the Metro. There was no handicapped access ramp to the tunnel leading to the trains. Two young men came along and picked the man and his wheelchair up and carried him down the stairs, and into the tunnel so he could roll on to the Metro. It's part of French obligation to help one another in these ways. It was refreshing to read, not so much because I think ill of the French, but because so many other people feel that way. Those poor Frenchfolk are simply misunderstood.

One last thing that I liked about Flinn's book was her descriptions of Belleville, a Parisian working class neighborhood in which she lived for a short time. Belleville is one of the most international neighborhoods in Paris and is filled with immigrants. Seeing this "alternative" to all the fancy-schmancy arrondissements was a treat.

Okay, I cannot stop. There was something else I enjoyed about the book: Flinn's charity. Often she gave her practice dishes to homeless people because she and Mike craved more variety in their diet. For the most part, the homeless were grateful. Although one man fingered the fish she gave him and told her how she over-salted it, maybe?

Cross-posted from my reading/book blog, readingroom.

pizza avoidance

If you find yourself ever at Riviera Beach, Fla. avoid Portofino's. The empty tables should have alerted us. The day was warm, and the ceiling fans didn't make a dent in the heat. But I appreciated the reggae and thought it terrible that it was quickly turned off once a pair of elderly ladies sat across the dining room from us. Then the music was ucky drek. Like Celine Dion or some such. Our pizzas were soggy. Our French waiter was not so attentive. Ian never got a refill. So while the pizza looked good, it wasn't our favorite. Soggy, soggy crust. It was hot, though. That's something.

gelato shot

capitol food

U.S. Capitol viewed from U.S. Botanic Gardens, Capitol Grounds

Eating in DC is always a treat. To celebrate Columbus Day, I didn't eat anything Italian or Spanish. Really, the first food experience I had there was shopping at Safeway for goat cheese, crackers, fruit, cereal, milk, and other nibbly things.

Then the real fun started Saturday night when Anna and I talked about what to eat before our play. We stayed in Adams-Morgan and were a short stroll toward Eighteenth St., NW. Before we left, I searched Zagat online for hints on what to eat, but had little luck.

There was an article about a Peruvian cuisine, but I didn't see its address and we didn't count on anything. I had an old Rough Guide Lonely Planet guide to DC. Nineteen ninety-seven, in fact. It turns out that the restaurants that we considered we all Done. Over. Closed. Normally I research the options before visiting a city I don't know, but Fiona, my host, is a native and we figured we'd have her guidance weekend-long, except that she was in Maryland at a wedding.

Las Canteras

Anna and I decided to walk and stop somewhere that caught our eye. The first place we came to was Las Canteras, a Peruvian restaurant. We checked out the menu and decided to dine there. Lovely decor. Deep red walls, wooden floors, thick stable tables. They offered us a spot by the window, which I would have taken in an instant to people-watch, but we sat where we gravitated toward.

I ordered a Picasa sour, a drink specialty. I winced with my first taste. It burned. I know better than to use a soppy straw. At least I will next time. It's made with grape brandy, lime juice, egg whites, a dash of cinnamon and Angostura bitters. They brought bread, butter, and  spicy relish, but weren't communicative about what exactly it was. Soon the table next to us was filled with native-Spanish speaking folks.

Get yer hot boiled peanuts at Eastern Market!

Couldn't pass up the cebiche. Weird how it was spelled with a "b" instead of a "v." But it tasted the same. I got the mixto, which included whitefish, shrimp, squid, and mussels. Yum. Divine. Could have eaten plates and plates of that. Anna ordered a quinoa dish prepared in a manner reminiscent of tabbouleh and served in three smallish scoops. She offered me a bite. It was cold and savory all at once. I would order it again.

Didn't want anything heavy for dinner, as if anything on their menu was heavy! The quinoa (KEEN-wah) dish suited me fine, but it was called something else, like quinotta or quinottia; can't quite remember and I didn't write it down. Nor, did I pronounce it correctly. It was quinoa and mushrooms in a creamy sauce. Soothing and just enough. Actually, I didn't finish the dish. Not because it wasn't good, but because I imagined staggering my way through the city streets feeling as full as a tick and regretting my overeating.

Tunnicliffs Tavern

After browsing the stalls at Eastern Market we found a table at Tunnicliff's where we could escape the heat, eat, and allow Fiona to watch the Redskins game. She explained football strategy while I ate my salmon bagel with capers, cream cheese, and onion. Missed out on the bread pudding because we settled our bill and the waiter ignored us afterwards even though he spouted off the list of desserts to us.

guava straight from the tree, U.S. Botanic Gardens

Without bread pudding in my tummy, we drove to the U.S. Botanic Gardens and scored a parking place in front of its entrance. We oohed and aahed over several edible items like the coffee bean tree, guava tree bearing its fruit, a display of peppers that we didn't dare touch, and several herbs.

trailing thyme, U.S. Botanic Gardens

Sunday night we ate in the same block as Saturday at Iyoti, an Indian restaurant. Sag paneer is my favorite and I always order it. I'm too predictable. But I know what I like. When I order something else, I'm invariably deeply disappointed. And naan. We shared the fish cutlets which were yummy, but reminded me of salmon patties I ate as a child. And the Bhel puri was something else. It's described as a traditional Bombay savory with rice puffs and crisp noodles. Even after having the waiter explain it to us, we weren't sure what it would be. Delicious, of course, but more like a dry, sweet and spicy cereal.

Then Monday morning we walked around the Mall and ate at one of their cafeteria-type establishments. I had a glorious beet salad. Institutional food can be fabulous. Red beets, goat cheese, mandarin orange slices, fried onion chunks, and arugula.

Their dessert options were lovely as well, but nothing made me really want to part with a Lincoln-note.

chains can be nice enough

It's not often that I yearn to return to a chain. But Rosa Mexicano did that for me. The other thing to recommend it is that Ian browsed and actually read a few of the recipes from the eponymous cookbook. He was disappointed not to find the mole that he ate within its pages. But we both said "did you read the part about" instructions about not soaking black beans beforehand otherwise they come our gray and with their skins split?

Anyway, about the restaurant: Its atmosphere was lovely. This is one of the places the timeshare shiller recommended. Naturally, I was not going there. Yet, I'd seen its name appear once or twice on the Chow boards, so I at least recognized its name. Ian wanted Mexican while we were in the Palm Beach area. There was a Whole Foods a few storefronts down. Rosa Mexicano was huge inside: soaring ceilings and rafters, no less. Walls were painted a deep red. Lots of tapestry-like things hanging on the walls. Nice bathroom.

queso fundido

They had guacamole for two mixed table-side and I wanted it, but not to eat all alone. Ian doesn't do avocado.  And frankly, I figured I could make a meal of the guacamole alone. There were diners who ordered it, so we watched the mixing from afar. However, we did order the queso fundido (Melted Chihuahua cheese with crumbled chorizo sausage and rajas (slow-cooked Mexican peppers). It was fabulous. It filled me up. I eyed the ceviche, one of my all-time favorite dishes, but didn't indulge. We've been dieting so long that both of us fill up quickly. I so tried to save room for an entree. I could easily have made meals of the appetizers. And probably should have.

chile ancho relleno de verduras

Ian got enchiladitas de pollo (little enchiladas filled with pulled chicken, chorizo sausage and red beans, topped with Mole de Xico.). I ordered the chile ancho relleno de verduras (ancho chiles filled with sauteed spinach, wild mushrooms and goat cheese over roasted tomato chipotle sauce). Both were excellent. I barely finished my first chile because it was so spicy. I'm used to rellenos tasting more neutral. We got refried black beans and yellow rice with our dishes. Both were fabulous, and completely the reason why I ordered the cookbook. The rice is seasoned with mustard, believe it or not. Our server told us when we asked. The beans were glorious. Can't wait to replicate that recipe at home.  But I think we're having steak and potatoes after I come home from my accordion lesson tonight.

Pastel de queso

We finished with dessert, of course. I so wanted the Tres leches cake. Ian wanted the Pastel de queso. It was all apple and cinnamon flavored. We got that. Must say that apple and cinnamon is my least favorite flavor of anything, but I tried to be a good date and let Ian order something he'd like. Oh, no doubt he would have loved the Tres leches cake. Most of the time he prefers my menu selection to what he orders and gets stuck with.

All of this to say that I'd have gladly visited Rosa Mexicano while in DC this weekend. I ate Peruvian and Indian cuisines instead.

oh bring us a rice pudding

Of late pudding interests me. Especially bread pudding. It's my new favorite dessert since I had it a few Junes ago at the Court of Two Sisters of New Orleans. Haven't looked through the cookbook I bought there to review their bread pudding recipe. But surely, one day soon, I'll compare a few recipes and then make a batch of my own.

Last weekend there was a family reunion at the Eastman Recreation Center near Bays Mountain Park, and I was supposed to bring two dishes. I thought about potato salad and something else. Pecan pie is another standard potluck dish I bring. But in this case, that something else was rice pudding. Ended up running out of time and didn't bring a thing. And it wasn't missed because there was an abundance of dishes. Three or four kinds of potato salad and macaroni salad. Scalloped potatoes, cowboy beans, chili, green beans, all kinds of salads. I've forgotten half of what was available. Oh, deviled eggs; some better than others.

The best thing I ate was my Aunt Grace's banana pudding. I've got to get her recipe, but it's probably essentially the same as the one my Mamaw taught me.  And I couldn't pass up my childhood favorite, Dirt Cake/Pudding a.k.a. Oreo Pudding. Even though chocolate doesn't appeal to me so much, I had a bite or two for the little girl in me who still loves it. It's chocolate pudding, crumbled oreo cookies, and cool whip layered in a rectangular cake pan. Sometimes the fun cook adds gummy worms or other gummy insects to the top, along with a fake flower or two to enhance the dirt effect.

My scramble for possible potluck recipes got me thinking about rice pudding. I wanted to make a batch. Used a Nigella recipe. Can't recall which book it's from.

I recently bought a second copy of one of her books because my sister-in-law never returned my first copy that I lent her. And, I've ordered a new Nigella that's coming out soon, or already out. Heck, I can't keep up with all the new cookbooks. Ah, there it is. It's called Nigella Express: 130 Recipes for Good Food, Fast Food.

Essentially Nigella's rice pudding recipe calls for 4 tablespoons of arborio rice. Two tablespoons of very fine sugar; she called it something specific, which I don't have, can't find, but the caster sugar I used surely did the trick. That amount of sugar seemed like a lot, but in the end, it was not. Our pudding  was barely sweet.

What else? Several cups of milk. Or cream, if you've got it. I used skim milk. Two or four cups, I can't remember. Grated nutmeg on the top. Butter, too, three tablespoons.

Nigella didn't want to know whether we used raisins. Suppose she thinks its a sin to use them, but when rice pudding comes to mind, so do raisins studding its top. I used a tablespoon or so of golden raisins. Also added about as much crystallized ginger.

Oh, I also added two more tablespoons of rice because the amount she called for in her recipe barely covered the bottom of my dish. I don't think much of rice. Somehow my mind cannot wrap itself around the extent to which rice expands upon cooking. And, I ended up sopping some of the milk from my dish because there was no way I could transfer it from counter to oven without slopping milk in the floor.

Then it baked at 300 for two and a half hours. Ian questioned that amount of time. I assured him I was following a recipe.

As it cooked, it appeared awfully dry. I added my last bit of skim milk within its last hour. But that didn't create the creamy, oozy rice pudding stalking my imagination. You know, that ideal rice pudding, the kind you might see on a TV program?

Mine had a thick skin on top; which we like. Nigella wrote that some Brits don't care much for skin on their rice pudding. And it was rather dry. In appearance it reminded me of a casserole. Next time, I'll follow her instructions regarding amounts of rice and milk. But I may use cream instead to make it sinful. Or throw in a few white chocolate chunks. I was tempted to add coconut flakes, but did not.

As I told Ian, rice pudding is infinitely customizable. You can throw in anything you like to add flavor to the rice. Rice pudding experimentation, oh what fun!

beans and rice

We tried to recreate the awesome black beans and rice Ian ate in St. Augustine. I soaked my beans, but not overnight. Did that boil 'em for two minutes and let them soak another hour before cooking them trick. I cribbed from one of Nigella's recipes and added cumin and coriander to the pot. Some salt, pepper, and garlic salt, too.

But it wasn't enough. Our black beans were certainly bland. We ate 'em. I'm scouring black bean soup recipes while awaiting a new cook book to arrive: Rosa's New Mexican Table (2007). One of the restaurants we ate at in Palm Beach was Rosa Mexicano. Their black beans were awesome. Everything there was.

The rice was nice. Haven't used my rice cooker that much since I bought it a few months ago. But when I do, I'm always thrilled at how well the rice comes out. Actually used Jasmine rice to go with the black beans. Ian preferred it over brown rice. And the arborio rice I cooked a few days ago was awesome, too. I love that I set the machine up, leave the house for a few hours, and return home to find my rice waiting and warm for me.