Anymore I simply cannot cook without grabbing my camera. It's been this way for some time now. The sight of patterns and bumps and glug-glugs in food entrances me and I need to capture the visuals before they disappear into a dish and are never witnessed again. These are shots from Wednesday night's cooking.
This is the third year I've blogged about our library holiday party, as well as the third year I've written about the Jbo Progressive Dinner; such a year for threes! The party snuck up on me this year. The people who organized it chose to have it early, on December 6, ostensibly so that the student workers were here and could get their grub on. Or so I imagine. The date arrived way too early for me, because I'm slammed with personal and professional commitments that make doing anything extra a major drag.
After an hour at the grocery store, because, really, I love grocery shopping, and I invariably end up with way more in my cart than I went for, I came home and cooked from 7 p.m. until 11 p.m. Anymore, trips to the grocery store are fun-filled because I run into Doug Burgess, a history professor at ETSU who also lives in the same neighborhood as my parents-in-law. Last week Doug and I almost bumped carts several times at Food City. This week, we rolled by each other like two buggies in the night at Kroger. Then, there were at least two other folks from the university that I recognized at Kroger as well, but don't know personally.
I mention Doug for two reasons. First, I love being connected to the university and my community to the extent that I run into people I know on a regular basis. Call it the small city effect. And second, the reason Doug is always at the grocery store is that he cooks. He compiled "Doug's So You're Over Forty, Can't Cook, and Can't Get a Date Cookbook," but what he's really known for is the hot sauce he bottles and offers to faculty, staff, and students across campus. I've not tried it, but I should. Ian collects hot sauce every chance he gets, and we have gallons of it, an abundance, and so adding another mason jar to the collection is overkill.
Last night I spent four hours cooking. I loved it, but am still wiped out this afternoon. I started with Nigella's Guinness Chocolate Cake. Once that was in the oven I sliced my squash and set them to cook on the range. Then I turned to my salad. I had ideas for three or four things to make and bring, but it's not until I'm in the kitchen and I gauge my ingredients and my stamina that I decide what to make.
Originally I'd planned on bleu cheese straws, chocolate cake, and Manchego cheese and walnut stuffed dates. And maybe a Vidalia onion and goat cheese pie. But there were no Vidalia onions at the grocery store. I bought a bag of sweet onions, but I'm sure they're not the same. Also contemplated a cardamom-buttermilk pie, but only had one pie crust left in the fridge and forgot to pick up another set of those pillsbury rolled up pie crusts that are almost as good as scratch.
But since I don't have a food processor (Santa, are you reading?), I quickly ruled out the bleu cheese straws. I had picked up a couple packages of Ramen at the store because I still have cabbage left from the first batch of salad/slaw I made and was ready to try a second batch. This time it came out more how I wanted it to. The difference was a lot more Ramen noodles and the rice vinegar and peanut oil substitution. Plus, I added ground ginger and one of the roast chicken flavor packets from the noodles. And then there were grated carrots. Its taste is much improved. I made notes of the changes I made to the recipe and shall share those later, along with the original recipe. Also chopped the cabbage instead of grating it, and like the latter texture much better.
Seems like the thing that took the most time was the dates. I had that stuffed date at the Jbo Progressive Dinner and its simplicity amazed me. Luckily I found Mancheno cheese at the grocery. I was also worried about dates. The first ones I ever ate were this summer, or maybe last summer when Kellie brought home a bunch from the Middle East. Yum. I love dates. Who knew!?
But Dole sells dates in re-sealable bags in the fruit/raisin section. And walnut-availability is no biggie. I sliced the cheese into tiny bits and sliced open the dates (they were pitted), and tucked cheese and walnut inside. Easy peasy! So good, too. Surely this is a dish that people rave about. I foisted one on Ian this morning. He got home around 4 a.m., peered inside the fridge and thought the dates were something chocolate. What a disappointment for him. Then he asked me about them later this morning. I told him what it was and brought him one to eat even though he said he hates dates.
The trouble was the cake. Normally I use my larger springform pan, but I tried following Nigella's instructions to use the 9 inch pan instead of the 10 inch. Mistake! There was overflow and a muffin top. And after cooling it a good hour or so, I popped the springform latch, and a lot of the cake came away with the tin. Sad, sad cake. I frosted it anyway and thought I'd keep it at home for me and Ian. But really, we cannot consume an entire cake alone. So I brought it, bugs and all, to work for the party. It may look very homemade, which could be a good thing next to all the store-bought desserts, but one thing I know for sure is that it rocks.
Oh, and then I decided after making the squash casserole that I wouldn't bring it. Heating dishes and keeping the refrigerated is always tricky at the library. And so I wanted to bring things that didn't need either. The top of my squash casserole was rather dark. It looked unpleasant. I didn't want to share it. Then, too, I changed the recipe a bit to incorporate a medium-sized sweet onion (of the not-the-Vidalia-kind) and was afraid the taste might be too oniony. Eighty percent of the time I'll share a new dish with folks without tasting it myself because I'm confident that it's good. This squash casserole I am still unsure about. Might warm it up for dinner and see how it is.
As for all the other goodies at the holiday party, man, there was too much stuff. I tried corn pudding, beef stroganoff, hot german potato salad, sausage balls, deviled eggs, ratatouille, what else? Oh, there was way too much food. Sadly, I was forced to take a break because I worked the reference desk from 12-1. Had to eat quickly, then assume my position. But, that allows for a good hour's break for my food to settle and process and then I'll have room to sample desserts.
Last year there was some talk about compiling our recipes. One of my co-workers asked me to take on the job, but I didn't follow up. So this year, I think I'm following up. It's a shame not to have all those divine recipes at one's fingertips. Come next year, I may be compiling an in-house cookbook.
In a previous post I mentioned how I dread replacing appliances. That was the case with my hand mixer, too. I inherited an avocado-colored hand mixer from my mother when I moved out on my own in college. I had it until a year or two ago.
Granted, the occasions that called it out from the drawer were rare. Most mixing is done with the Kitchen Aid my mom gave me for Christmas the first year Ian and I were married. That was, and still is, my favorite kitchen appliance. And then other mixing is usually split between my Braun hand blender or the regular old blender that most of us grew up with.
Somehow mixing butter and garlic in with the mashed potatoes is easier with a hand mixer, though often as not I grab my old-timey potato masher first. Potato mashers don't work on whipping cream. That's just a guess. I've not tried. But I'm too lazy to whip cream by hand.
Eventually that dear old avocado-colored hand mixer died. Mid-mix. It struggled, emitted a dainty cough, and then died. I overwhelmed it's twenty-to-thirty year old motor with cookie dough, as I recall. Cookie dough is usually best left to the KA stand mixer, but I had not cleaned its bowl or mixer. The more utensils I dirty while cooking, the better I like it. Our arrangement is that Ian does most dishes and runs the dishwasher. I return clean dishes and utensils to their homes. And also do the majority of the cooking, lest you think this division of labor unfair to Ian.
While looking at toaster ovens we came across the hand mixers. I wanted to wait on purchasing one, after all, I've held off for almost a year on this already, but Ian pointed out there were only two pink ones on the shelf.
That's right. He said pink. And now, I'm the semi-proud owner of a pink hand mixer. Pink is way down on the list of colors I like. But its purchase supports breast cancer research. And it's different. It won't match the deep red walls of my kitchen, but it doesn't have to, since it'll be relegated to an over-full drawer.
Upon seeing the mixer out of the box Ian's main complaint was that its beaters are so fine. Not much lickable surface, not much batter will cling to those anorexic tines. And that means he'll lose out on batter.
My main complaint is it's digital control. Long gone are the days of controlling speed by moving my thumb up or down a notch. With that old button, I could take the mixer from zero to whip in no time flat in one smooth motion. But the digital control means I'll have to bump the speed up seven times with my finger to get from zero to whip. Progress is a bitch. And, it's regressive.
For months now, getting the broiler to work on my wall oven is tricky. One night last week I decided on breakfast for supper. I fried my eggs, over-easy. I buttered my toast, put the slices on a cooking sheet, and opened the oven door. No heat. No light. No nothing. I over-cooked my eggs. And by the time I made toast in the skillet, they were cold. Not the most successful breakfast ever.
Fiddling with the thermostat resulted in more frustration on my part. Mostly the broiler doesn't work for Ian. He grumps about the problem, I walk over, flip the dial around a few times and the broiler works.
Not this time. My wall oven hates me. I love it though. It's original to the house. Think 1962 or 1963 24 inch stainless steel Fridgidaire wall oven. Nothing digital on it. Nothing fancy about it. I've baked, broiled, and roasted with it for almost ten years now.
Like all foodies, I melt at the sight of double wall ovens and viking ranges and perfectly constructed cabinets. But that is not my reality. My kitchen takes me back to the sixties each time I step inside one of it's doorways. And I wasn't born until 1971.
Ian and I went in search of a replacement part. FYI, the model number is: RBE-G94-1-CH. The thermostat is part number 5307522594. After all the visits to appliance shops and phone calls to appliance parts dealers in the Tri-Cities area we were told that the part isn't made anymore. But we knew that. We hoped that a used appliance dealer might have a circa 1960 Fridgidaire wall oven buried under a few Maytags, or something.
Neither of us want a new wall oven. I'm very curmudgeonly about my kitchen. If it isn't broken, I see no reason to buy something shinier and newer because it's available. And because that shows how upwardly mobile we are, or how much we wish to impress people with our cash outlay on stainless, high-end appliances.
Last night we looked at toaster ovens. We've wanted one for a while. We found one we like. We may buy it eventually. But spending less than $200 for a fabulous stainless toaster oven beats the pants off buying a completely new wall oven. Honestly, I LOATHE digital controls and displays. None of the new wall ovens do a thing for me. And we cannot afford another debt for a $1K to $2K wall oven. And our space is minimal, twenty four inches wide. Replacing the cabinets is completely out of the question. Practicing kitchen triage is so painful and filled with misgivings.
Eventually I'd love to redo our kitchen. Sure, I'd like to fill it with high-end appliances because I'll actually use them; they won't be just for show. I don't want to spend $500 on an okay-for-now oven that I may want to replace with something else down the road.
The worst part was visiting an appliance store and seeing all the fabulous kitchens on display. They reminded me of cooking show sets: Fabulous, immense, and tricked out to the max. At least we got estimates on how much a new ventilation hood costs. It works okay, but it's also circa 1962. One of its fans falters frequently.
I haven't spent much time with A Love Affair with Southern Cooking: Recipes and Collections (2007) despite having a copy for weeks now. I browsed it as I ate cereal a few mornings ago and my fingers stopped on the page about persimmon pudding. Just so happens that I bought a persimmon a few days prior without any concrete plans for it. Anderson's persimmon pudding looked good, but I needed an entire cup of persimmon pulp.
Ian returned from the grocery store with several more persimmons in tow. His persimmon identification wasn't the greatest, so he asked the woman working in produce to corroborate the fruit's identity. She said what he held in his hand was not a persimmon. Soon they drew another produce worker into the conversation and she confirmed that Ian's selections were persimmons.
What appealed to me about the persimmon pudding was the information Anderson included about the fruit's endangered status. All around the south, farmland and orchards are gobbled up in the name of progress and development of McMansions for those people who simply cannot live in high-density, historic neighborhoods. Anderson only wrote about development and cited it as the reason for the scarcity of persimmons. Ahem, of wild persimmons. There are plenty of domesticated persimmons, but like most things, those in the wild have better flavor and more character than those industrially produced.
Growing up in a border state, as Tennessee is referred to since it's along the northern edge of the Mason-Dixon border, I never ate persimmons. Anderson's section on pulping the persimmon didn't help me since mine was unwild. She suggests rinsing the fruit, removing the stem and leaves, and pushing it through a strainer to free the fruit of it's skin.
Didn't work for me. I sliced the skin away and cut the insides into small pieces. I tasted one. Ew. Not that great. Kind of sweet followed by a painful bitterness on my tongue that caused me to spit persimmon pulp into my trash can.
Pounding my potato masher into the persimmon pieces didn't result in a mashed consistency, so i turned to my Braun handblender and mushed it that way. The other ingredients were butter, milk, flour, eggs, baking soda, cinnamon, and cloves.
I substituted several different sized ramekins for the 1 quart casserole dish Anderson called for in her instructions and placed them inside a water bath inside a larger casserole dish. It was my first water bath. I've never made cheesecake in that manner. It seemed too complex, so I avoided those kinds of cheesecakes. However, in this instance, it was not so bad, not traumatic a bit.
Ian was surprised that the persimmon pudding had to bake for an hour. I read. He played a game on his hand-held gaming device. About a minute before the timer went off (it's portable and was next to me, and not in the kitchen), I returned to the kitchen, turned off the oven, and pulled out my casserole dish.
A small amount of batter ran over the edge of the ramekins, so the water bath water was murky and clotted. But that was no trouble. Extracting each ramekin was dicey. I didn't want to wet my oven mitt. Ian wandered into the kitchen. I found a spoon, and we both took bites.
It was like gingerbread lite. Like too subtle for our palates. Where was the persimmon flavor? We were disappointed. But, other pudding possibilities came to mind immediately. Apples. Ian wanted apple pudding. I leaned toward pear. Who knows what we'll try? But at least we have a new baking technique to list in our skills section.
As for the Anderson book, I can't wait to read it's other sections. In the introduction she wrote that southern cooks emphasize sweets. Likewise, her book is heavy in the sweets/desserts. And that's quite all right with me.
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.
Despite my last bad experience in the world of cupcakes, I saw this cupcake carrying case at Awesome! and had to have it. One of the reasons I didn't share my last batch of cupcakes with anyone was because I had to split them into two or three plastic storage pieces and maybe you could say that looking at them in those containers depressed me and I couldn't bring myself to remove them from the house looking so boring and unloved. No doubt, I'll not have that problem with this lovely carrier that I ordered tried to order from Crate & Barrel, except their website is all mucked up. Maybe I'll try later, or just call the 1-800 number to order the old-fashioned way.
Friday I made a roast. Ian went to work around 9 pm, so I pulled it from the oven a bit early and sliced a few bits of meat off for him. Also gave him some organic yellow potatoes, turnips, carrots, garlic, and onions.
I combined two different recipes, of sorts. The meat was a bottom round roast, or some such. I can't recall. It lingered in the freezer a bit too long and was tough to eat, but I'd rather eat tough meat of my own making than out. I rarely use a recipe like I'm supposed to. I check the list of ingredients and then throw them in as I see fit. Now, if I'm baking, or making something ethnic that I have no experience with, I follow recipes exactly.
First I rubbed the roast with salt and let that soak in a few minutes. Then I thew the meat into a pan for it to brown. Ian cut the carrots, onion, and turnip. We used four or five long carrots, half a turnip and half a yellow onion. I threw in four or five garlic cloves. Salted and peppered it a bit. Poured half a box of organic chicken stock in the bottom along with half a bottle of red wine. Only it was too sweet.
It was Bully Hill Love My Goat. How can you not buy wine that features a goat on it's label. I know so little about wine, that I totally judge it by it's label. Also got some Red Truck wine a while, also because I liked the truck on its label. I also judge books by their covers, too. And then there was Worcestershire sauce. And a bit of fresh thyme that I clipped from my flower box. Always gratifying to use something I grew myself.
Oh yeah, Ian bought a meat thermometer, probably at the evil mega-store where I don't shop, so we could cook the roast to a medium 160 degrees. Meat was great, but the veggies were undercooked. Crisp, like.
And, it made for great leftovers. Am thinking, am wondering, whether the broth is too strong to recycle into a soupy-stew-like concoction.
I have a problem. Maybe it's not a problem. I carry my camera everywhere. There is so much loveliness in the world and I feel compelled to capture and preserve and possibly share it. This is especially true when it comes to food. When I'm shopping at the grocery, I pull out my camera. When I make something in the kitchen, it takes longer than normal because I must capture the way the light plays on the vinegar in the glass measuring cup.
All of that to segue into a few things I shot at Fresh Market last weekend. I tried to be nonchalant about it, but several of the stock boys gave me a second look to see what I was up to. I try to shoot from the hip, and not have the camera near my face, that way I meet some self-imposed guidelines of surreptitiousness.
First it was the individual cupcake holder, and now here's a banana holder.
It keeps your banana safe from bruising and opens with a hinge mechanism. I'm more interested in the lock.
Actually, I like how popgadget phrased it: "Keep the monkeys away with banana guard."
It's appearance is rather vulgar. Only a brave person would carry this in her lunchbox. Or purse.
