Potlikkery

giving gifts of food. or not.

An improper feeling of confidence filled me and made me decide to bake gifts of food for several people with whom I work this year.  One night last week I spent an hour grocery shopping and another four in the kitchen pulling things together.

 

The first item I tried were Benne Bits, a recipe that James Villas included in The Glory of Southern Cooking (2007). They're a snacky sesame and cayenne thing. I didn't have a small round cookie cutter, but I pulled out a miniature holiday cookie cutter set I bought on a whim a few years ago. These Benne Bits were in the form of a tree.

 

Next I worked on another item from Villas' cookbook: Orange Cocktail Pecans. I've never made any spiced nuts, but they seem like an easy thing. With this recipe you melt a stick of butter in a large saucepan, add orange zest and Cointreau or Grand Marnier. I had Cointreau on hand. Once everything melts, you toss the pecans with the sauce, then transfer it to a baking sheet and bake for 30 minutes at 300.

When I tasted them straight out of the oven I was disappointed. Angry, really, because pecans don't come cheap and I used up my "special" supply that I order each autumn from a lady with whom I work. Normally I parcel those out a few times over the span of the year in my pecan pies, but I went for broke on this.

But really, it was the Sandra Lee Semi-Homemade recipe that threw my cooking into a tailspin. I've always been skeptical of her products, but saw her make the white chocolate and macadamia bark on her show and liked the combination so well that I wanted to give it a try. The thing about Sandra Lee is that she takes so many shortcuts that her approach fails to lend the meditative and careful qualities to cooking that I seek. And if you've watched her show, many of her products are shoddy and haphazardly put together. They're not anything I'd want to give to anybody. However, despite her style not being for me, I think she appeals to others who don't have the amount of time, or the same feeling about the process as I do.

 

Microwaving the semi-sweet morsels sounded like a shortcut I didn't want to take, but I did. And it turned out horribly. My morsels overcooked and turned into something akin to fudge. Out came my double boiler, but that was after another trip to the grocery store for more semi-sweet morsels.

I discounted her instructions to use a "fine" white chocolate because c'mon, this is semi-homemade, not Barefoot Contessa. Like there's a difference between white chocolate? Oh, there is. My Nestle white chocolate chips never melted to the state where I could "drizzle" it over top of the chocolate base on my wax paper-protected cookie sheet. Said cookie sheet remains in the freezer until I find time to get better white chocolate and finish that up.

Somewhere amongst all the holiday baking articles in various cooking magazines I encountered a pistachio nougat thing that I wanted to make. Couldn't recall where, so I went to the foot network, searched, and found Mario Batali's recipe for Torroncini.

I thought this went well. I used my candy thermometer for the first time. But the nougat never set up, or hardened, so I have no clue why this failed so miserably. I tossed it into the trash the next day.

This year's food as gifts did not work well. I'm still up for making Villas' bleu cheese straws though. And even though I think the pecans weren't orange tasting enough, Ian cannot keep his mitts out of the container. He doesn't know why I don't like them, he said. He thinks they're great. I may set them out on Christmas eve for company. And I'm still working on the menu for that. Oh what fun!

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.

finding foody balance

Ina Garten is one of my favorite celebrity chefs. Every recipe I've tried from her books comes out marvelously.

In a NYT article that questions her nonchalance about expanding her ventures in the same manner as her friend and mentor, Martha, she says:

“There is a balance between having a life and having a business,” she said during a recent day spent at her home and in her offices.

So the interesting thing I learned is that there may be hope for me yet. Garten is one of the slew of food personalities who has accomplished a great deal of success without having run a kitchen or been a chef.

She got her start selling comfort food, and suggests that you stick to those dishes when having the boss over for dinner.  The success of her first cookbook was largely in part to it's "lush photography."

Really fascinating article. It goes on to describe her three-book deal and how the industry norm these days is for a celebrity chef to crank out a cookbook per year. Seems like lots of hard work thinking up new recipes and testing them.

And, Garten has plans for a new set, built inside a barn on south of her property  in the Hamptons.  And you wondered what this had to do with anything southern. There is is; had to wait for it.

local chain part of sweeps

Amy clued me about the 2007 HGTV Dream Home winner, a retired postmaster, lives in Johnson City. They presented Robert O'Neill, Sr. with the "check" for the dream house (at Lake Lure, NC) at Johnny Carino's.

Actually, when I mentioned this to Ian, he reminded me that we saw the huge RV with satellite mounted on its rooftop. Our two choices for dinner were Johnny Carino's or Texas Roadhouse. Once we neared their location (they are adjacent) I picked Texas Roadhouse, where I had an awesome bacon and mushroom burger.  We almost could have witnessed the whole shebang if I'd had a yen for pasta.

my first bagel

This morning was unlike others.  Okay, unlike other weekdays in which I wake up, clean up, eat up, and dash out the door to work.  Woke a few hours early, so I made a bagel and then finished reading my book in the living room. But before all that I peeked out the rear door and saw dawn on the horizon. Reading in the morning is my favorite thing to do. Wake up and read. What else could compare? Maybe eating a buttery blueberry bagel.

Pooling with butter, as you can see. While I gorged on bagel, my thoughts hearkened back to my very first bagel. It was in 1985, I think. At that time, bagels were only available in East Tennessee grocery stores in the frozen or refrigerated sections. Lenders, I believe they were. And I had a bagel because my friend Sarah's mother was Jewish (Gentile father). And they had bagels in their house.

Baptists (and other Protestants) didn't do bagels for breakfast or for any meal.

Sarah and I lived a few blocks away from each other and from our middle school junior high (when our city's public school system was organized much more soundly back in the days when dinosaurs gasped their last breath). We walked to her home after school to watch The Guiding Light, and to eat bagels with cream cheese. We didn't have good snacks at my house. She usually dragged out the discarded GL script that her relative, who worked one of the cameras, or in production, somehow, had sent her, and we pawed through it during commercials.

Many years passed for unfrozen bagels to hit East Tennessee. By the early 1990s we had at least one bagel sandwich place. And then there was another that set up shop in an abandoned Jiffy market, but it went out of business soon, too. Now we have those chain bakeries that sell bagels. And mine? Sara Lee from the grocery store. Nothing fancy for me. I like bagels though.

Another memory: The original bagel sandwich place was run by Christians. And they made all their workers make a profession of faith before they were hired. Only in the South. Only in East Tennessee, right? Well, there was a short-lived coffee shop downtown that had the same set up and it didn't last either. Maybe it's location. Maybe it's something else. But I'm not sayin... exactly.

That reminds me of frozen yoghurt. I read about it in Norma Klein's books in the early eighties, publication date, probably the seventies,  but it wasn't until the late eighties that we got a TCBY.

And that brings me to cupcakes. Everything come down to them. Will we ever get a cupcake shop? Seems doubtful. By the time someone here brings it to fruition, the trend/desire for cupcakes will be long long gone.

Living in a culinary wasteland; so sad. Such deprivation.

Did I mention the crushing culinary homogeneity of this pocket of East Tennessee? No more chain restaurants, please. Out of the Tri-Cities, we have more chains than Bristol or Kingsport because our city leaders had the foresight to pass liquor-by-the-drink in the late 1980s.

Sometime this month I'm supposed to make cupcakes for work in celebration of St. Patrick's Day. I bought a RVC mix in a box from Fresh Market. Am thinking about making those, but tinting the icing green. Maybe I have time to find St. Patty's Day cupcake liners.

memoir-inspired foodie series

Ruth Reichl gets her own HBO series. WWD reported the news about "a female newspaper writer with a glamorous beat and a complicated love life" and drew parallels between it and Sex in the City. HBO bought rights to two of Reichl's memoirs, Comfort Me With Apples and Garlic and Sapphires, plus, she's an executive producer on the show.