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Deep. Fried. Chicken. There are no sweeter words than these when used together. (I. Love. You. is a close second, though.) Fried chicken is my all-time favorite comfort food. Not favorite food, mind you, that would be a hamburger -- Dad's hamburger to be more specific.
Growing up, fried chicken was a weekly staple. I can't say that Mom's fried chicken is the best I've ever had, but it certainly formed the basis of my comfort craving. Mom's chicken never had the skin left on, and the skillet-fried chicken's crust wasn't particularly crunchy the way the best fried chicken's crust is. I'm quite certain that's because there was no skin, and only one layer of coating.
I've had two ethereal experiences with fried chicken that have left indelible marks on my psyche. Twice, I've eaten fried chicken where I swear I heard angels sing. The first was in the town of Crested Butte in Colorado. The restaurant (pictured) is called The Slogar, an old restaurant with even older cast-iron skillets. Their chicken isn't deep fried, per se, but it is fried in oil deep enough to almost qualify as deep frying.
The second experience happened just last Sunday at a new restaurant in Phoenix, NOCA. Sunday Simple Sundays at NOCA feature three-course prix fixe menus, with a rotating menu. Last Sunday happened to be fried chicken night. Deep. Fried. Chicken. And I heard the angels sing. Glory, hallelujah! It's simultaneously fortunate and unfortunate that NOCA's fried chicken isn't available on the regular menu every day -- fortunate because I can't afford the calories on a weekly basis, unfortunate because I want that fried chicken every week.
I never make fried chicken at home for two reasons: the aforementioned macabre caloric count and the mess. Making fried chicken is a slovenly bothersome proposition. Inevitably, flour gets all over the kitchen, copious amounts of oil splatters everywhere, and then what to do will all that left over oil? Convert it to biodiesel? I don't have a Mercedes Benz anyway. No, it's much better to eat fried chicken in someone else's kitchen, especially if that kitchen happens to be in an old Victorian house in the middle of the Rockies, or in the tres chic, new restaurant on Camelback Road.
Perhaps I do have a fetish with pears...this is the second pear post I've written this year. (See French Butter Pears from September).
I really think my infliction is not a pear fetish, but a "new ingredient" fetish. As I'm strolling (or whizzing if I'm in a hurry) through the grocery aisles, my built-in food curiosity radar goes off whenever I'm within a foot or two of some new thing.
Ripping through Trader Joe's last week, gathering supplies for a cooking class, I spotted a four-pack of pale yellow orbs. They sorta looked like Asian pears I've seen hundreds of times, but these were smaller. And the color was definitely different. Asian pears have more tannish, luminescent skin.
The label said "Japanese 'Twentieth Century' Pears, grown in Oregon" (pictured on the right; the pear on the left is my all-time favorite comice pear, also known as the Christmas pear -- the sweetest, juciest pear known to man, or at least to me if not all of mankind.)
Of course I bought the JTC pears, took them home, and cut into one. Actually, I didn't, but my husband did. He said it wasn't particularly sweet, so I left them on the counter a few days, thinking they just needed to ripen a bit. After a few days, they were marginally softer than when I brought them home, but still very firm. Nonetheless, I decided to try one. I cut it up and tasted a chunk. It was barely sweet, and extremely crunchy -- kind of like jicama, that Mexican white root vegetable, that's crunchy from all the fiber it contains, and a bit juicy from all the water it contains, but not very flavorful.
I don't judge restaurants after just one visit, but I've noticed that I do judge pretty much everything else after one experience, and my first experience with JTC has satisfied my curiosity about the mysterious new pear, but I can't say that it has convinced me it's worthy of peardom.
Whoever took this picture needs to take a class on self-portraits. I'm only sharing this awful picture of me because it relates to the coolest and most effective kitchen toy I've found in years... and I did find this a couple years ago, but now Onion Goggles are all the rage.
I snapped this picture for my younger brother. We were separated by a 1,000 miles, each in our own respective kitchen, making cornbread dressing for the holidays. It takes A LOT of chopped onions to make our Mom's dressing, and I had just purchased this snazzy eye ware. He didn't believe me so I emailed him a picture.
He, of course, just threw his onions in the food processor to avoid shedding tears, but I like to use my knife and can't stand all the onion-eye crying -- so I was giddy with joy to have my new glasses and show them off. You can get a pair, too, at most kitchen stores. I just saw an ad for them on Chef Tools website (www.cheftools.com)...and now they even come in pink or white in addition to green.
I took them to the cooking classes I taught last week, and everyone exclaimed outrageous envy over my 2008 fashion statement of the year --after they stopped laughing, which produced a few tears, but not from me. My eyes were dry, thanks to the too-cool onion goggles.
Perhaps you are wondering why I'm not showing an image of the meal I'm about to describe?
Here's why: a.) the said meal was made when the lighting wasn't good, and b.) said meal did not make a pretty picture regardless of the lighting... and therefore would not do justice to the wonderfulness of it all.
So, instead, here's a picture of the eggs I used to make said eggs-cellent meal. For those of you that won't cook without a recipe, please try, or at least enjoy this prose because the actual recipe posted below is just an approximation... not a bonafide, tested recipe suitable for publication, say, in a cookbook or magazine.
It's a guide...a mere suggestion for you as you whip up your own, late-night, eggcentric delish dish.
A little background: I had extra eggs and multi-grain bread (already cubed and dried for a savory bread pudding that, turns out, I didn't need) on hand ...Since I didn't need the extra dried bread cubes, I bagged them and put them in the fridge thinking, surely I'd come up for a better use for them than File 13. Turns out, I did, and here is the not-so-accurate recipe for a lovely egg dish, quasi-reminiscent of a Mexican chilaquiles, that I adore.
Make your own substitutions as you see fit...
Gwen's Eggs-cellent Adventure
Makes enough for 1 hungry girl
1 tablespoon butter (or olive oil if you prefer)
1/2 to 1 cup cubed, toasted bread (multi-grain or other...your call)
2 large eggs
1/4 cup (or a little less) jarred salsa (your favorite) or other condiment of your choice)
1/4 cup grated (or shredded) cheddar cheese (or other cheese of your choice)
Heat the butter or oil in a small skillet (8-inch works, so does 9-inch--if you make this in a 10-inch, I'd double the recipe, just my professional opinion) over medium to medium-high heat.
When hot, toss in bread cubes and leave alone! At least until they brown on one side -- about a full minute and a half, depending upon how high you turned up the heat -- and then toss to brown on other sides.
When cubes are brown enough for you (and the more brown the better as far as I am concerned, so live on the edge a little and brown those babies!) ... crack in the 2 eggs but don't stir for at least 30 seconds. (Yes, I said crack the eggs right into the pan and don't stir... seriously...)
Then, (as the edges of the eggs start to turn white, as egg whites will do, even though the yolks sit high and mighty and completely, sun-yellow!) gently start to stir for a couple seconds... you'll get the hang of it... stir again in 30 to 45 seconds, and as the eggs start to actually get done (think moist scrambled eggs), pour in your salsa or condiment of choice.... and just cook long enough to warm up the salsa or condiment...about 30-45 seconds more. Turn off the heat but leave in pan.
While the eggs are still in the pan, top with cheese... let it sit a couple minutes while you find your plate, fork and napkin... and then slide it all onto your plate. Eat slowly so you won't be tempted to jump up and make one more batch.
"Do you have any cardamom? Not ground but the whole pods," my friend asks as we're walking our dogs. I run through a mental picture of my spice cabinet, and land on the little bottle of green cardamom I bought a while back at Penzeys Spice Company.
"Yes, I do," I say, "but they're green, not black." She looks at me with a blank stare. My friend is not a prolific cook or baker, and she is constantly amazed at my tools, gadgets, and well-stocked pantry. "What's the difference, she says?"
And I couldn't answer her question, so I went hunting for the answer. Found it in the Field Guide to Herbs & Spices by Aliza Green. (Disclosure: I've met Aliza, and she's quite well known in the professional culinary circle as the field guide queen. She's also written guides on meat, seafood, and produce.)
Turns out that both green and black cardamom are used extensively in Indian cooking (think chai tea flavor as an example). Cardamom is also used in African, Middle Eastern and to a lesser degree, Chinese and Scandinavian cooking.
The green is more delicate in aroma and flavor than the black pods and black cardamom has a unique, smoky aroma and flavor as well. Green cardamom is also about three times as expensive as black cardamom, which would explain why I have green instead of black in my pantry. I tend to buy expensive things when it comes to the kitchen, thinking that it's better. Sometimes I'm right, other times not so much.
About an hour after our dog walk, I'm rummaging around in my pantry looking for the green cardamom pods when the phone rings. It's my friend and she tells me that she just returned from the grocery store and found black cardamom pods...on sale...half price, even. Instead of $14, she spent $7. If you knew how frugal my friend was, you'd laugh. She would NEVER spend that much money on a jar of spice. But she is determined to make these "Swedish Toasts" (Skorpa) that she describes as similar to biscotti, but thinner.
Now that she has her own cardamom, I'm not sure I'll get a sample of her Swedish treat, but I'm hoping that just the effort of looking for it, and reassuring her that using the black pods instead of the green pods won't cause any kitchen disasters, will be enough to encourage her to share. It is the sharing season, after all.
Going to a holiday party and looking for a dip to take? If you have a leftover can of pumpkin puree from Thanksgiving, here's a simple recipe worth opening the can for.
A 15 oz. can contains almost 1-3/4 cups of pumpkin, so you'll have about 1-1/4 cups of pumpkin left over. Most quick bread recipes call for 1 cup of pumpkin, so plan on making a bread, too.
Serve this barely sweet dip with toast points or crackers, or use it as a spread on turkey sandwiches.
Cranberry Pumpkin Walnut Spread
Makes 2 cups
8 oz. cream cheese
1 cup dried cranberries, plus a tablespoon for garnish
3/4 cup toasted walnut or pecan pieces
1/2 cup pumpkin puree
3/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon ground cloves
1/8 teaspoon ground nutmeg
Pinch salt
Break the cream cheese up into chunks and drop into a food processor. Sprinkle with the cranberries and nuts. Spoon in the pumpkin puree and sprinkle with the spices and salt. Pulse until almost smooth, stopping to scrape the sides of the bowl down once. Transfer to a bowl and garnish with extra cranberries.
NOTE: You can make this 1 or 2 days in advance. Just cover and refrigerate. Let the dip sit at room temperature about 30 minutes before you plan to serve to soften just a bit.
Cornbread is nothing more than a quick bread. And in some parts of the South, it's just as sweet, which was a shock to me the first time I tasted my husband's cornbread after we first married (when he did all the cooking because I didn't know how.)
He opened a box of Jiffy and whipped up a pan of cornbread that is more accurately corn "cake." After almost 20 years of marriage, I still can't bring myself to call what I make for him cornbread. And in fact, the best cornbread he thinks I make still comes from a box.
The cornbread I grew up on didn't have a grain of sugar in it. It was mealy, a bit dry, and in my Mom's hands, the basis of the best cornbread dressing ever. She never measured a thing, yet every time her cornbread came out the same way it did the hundred times before.
I've tried taking Mom's basic cornbread recipe and adding sugar to it. It doesn't quite work. I've tried more eggs, less eggs. I can't seem to replicate the texture and taste of box cornbread when I make it from scratch.
So I've finally resolved that the box wins. And, you know what? It's a heck of of lot easier opening a box than making it from scratch.
Who does a postmortem after Thanksgiving? Apparently, we do. There we were with notepad in hand, surveying the Thanksgiving buffet line. "Next year, we need half as many sweet potatoes," I said, looking at the less than half empty 9 X 13 dish of sweet potatoes, still covered with caramel brown marshmallows.
"And let's not forget to put the cranberry relish out BEFORE the meal, instead of after the meal," Steve snickered. Touche! We both looked at the mounds of food before us. We planned on 20 people, and cooked for 50. As people were gearing up to leave, my sister-in-law loaded up bags and bags of leftovers, and still had a mountain of food for her own refrigerator.
We gave thumbs up to the dry brining technique we read about in Bon Appetit Magazine, based on an article by Rick Rodgers, a phenomenal cooking teacher and author of dozens of cookbooks. This guy really knows his stuff. It's so easy and less messy than submerging your bird in a bucket of liquid salt brine. I even think it makes for less salty drippings, key if you use the drippings as the basis for gravy.
But then there was Mom's cornbread dressing. We're still not there yet, and what we wouldn't give to have her back to show us how to do it. We're close (although it was a little green from two bottles of sage) but we're just not there yet.
So we have written notes - a postmordem - from this year that will make next year even better. Now if we can just remember to review them.
Tom is taking up a fair amount of space in the fridge. He is the biggest turkey I've ever seen, and my brother informs me we are cooking him on Thursday. I wonder if we really should get started today. How long does it take to cook a 21-pound turkey?
I don't have years of experience cooking turkeys. Mom cooked all our turkeys up until four years ago, and our first Thanksgiving without her was painful in more ways than one. We dried out the turkey, we made glue instead of cornbread dressing, and we generally made a mess of the dinner.
Since turkey duties now fall to my younger brother and me, we've been experimenting. We held a competition one year. We each had a 12 pound turkey. I brined mine, Steve did not. I won. But Steve really won because my gravy was too salty to eat. His was perfect.
Last year, we roasted a beautiful bird to bronze bliss and decorated the platter with oranges and sage bundles. We roasted two extra breasts to eat, using the whole turkey as our centerpiece. We never had to carve the golden boy because we had plenty of turkey breast, plus a ham, and an untold number of side dishes for our 35 guests. Steve tells me he put the bird in the extra fridge and promplty forgot about it, eventually tossing it a few weeks later. Not a very happy ending for that Tom.
So here we are, looking at this monstrous fowl, and wondering what's to become of him. We're thinking we'll try the salting technique in the November issue of Bon Appetit. Mainly because we don't have a bucket big enough to do a full brine. We realize we're treading on thin ice because we don't have extra turkey waiting in the wings if we screw this up. And that is part of the fun. That, and being together on Thanksgiving, cooking, laughing, sharing. Creating a story for next year. Happy Thanksgiving.
Not that there's anything wrong with cranberry sauce in a can (it will grace our Thanksgiving table as it always has), but sometimes you want something a little more fancy. I normally make an orange infused cranberry sauce but this year, I'm taking inspiration from the garden.
This rosemary scented cranberry sauce is tart and lemony, too, from the addition of a little lemon zest. A splash of gin never hurt anyone either, and it picks up on the pine notes from the rosemary. Give it a try.
(istock photo - Liza McCorkle)
Rosemary Scented Cranberry Sauce
Makes 3 cups
1 (12-ounce) package of fresh or frozen cranberries
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup ruby Port wine (inexpensive is OK)
2 (4-inch) whole sprigs of fresh rosemary
Zest of 1 large lemon
1 tablespoon gin (optional)
1/3 cup dried cranberries or dried cherries
Pinch ground cloves
Pinch freshly ground nutmeg
Pinch salt
1. Stir cranberries, sugar, Port and rosemary springs in a heave saucepan and place over medium-high heat. Bring to a boil.
2. Reduce heat and simmer until thickened, about 10 minutes. Stir in lemon zest and gin. Simmer another 5 minutes or so and remove from heat.
3. Stir in cranberries, cloves, nutmeg and salt. Chill until ready to serve. Keeps 1 week, covered, in fridge.
Everyone needs a laugh now and then -- especially in these grim, gloomy times. If you sign up, Zagat sends a weekly email out with restaurant openings and other news. If you scroll to the bottom of the email, they post a quote called "Outtake of the Week" gleaned, I'm sure from the Zagat surveys.
Some are downright hilarious, including the one I read this week: "Only the flies on our table enjoyed the meal." It helps to understand how Zagat guides are put together. Some people think the ratings are done by professional restaurant critics.
It's really foodies who rate the restaurants. Some are professionals but most are not -- they are just food lovers or what I think of as restaurant groupies. For each restaurant listed for rating, the person rating gives a number for food, decor and service, along with a cost of one dinner with one drink plus a tip.
There is also space for comments, and I'm guessing the tickling tidbits published as "Outtakes" come from those comments. Sometimes they are zingers -- like this one: "Take a look at the staff on the way in -- that's the last you'll see of them."
Here's a link to the "Outtakes" page of the Zagat website. Go to the home page if you want to sign up for the weekly newsletter yourself.
It's no secret that Mexican food is my favorite cuisine. I like gourmet Mex, Tex-Mex, and everything in between. I even tend to judge a Mexican restaurant first on it's salsa offerings.
El Chubasco in Park City, Utah gets high marks for its salsa bar. Sitting smack dab in the middle of the dining room of this cheap eats (one of the very few inexpensive restaurants in Park City that isn't a chain) is a salsa bar, featuring more than 15 different salsas, all made from scratch.
Each salsa is labeled with chiles to indicate the heat level, with one chile for mild and four chiles for set-your-pants-on-fire hot. Most are in the three chile range, and those were spicy enough for this gringo.
I felt like a kid in a candy store on my first visit, sampling nine of the 15 or so salsas. On subsequent trips, I showed only slightly more restraint by taking just four or five. My favorite was the arbol, a smoky roasted tomato and chile de arbol (a skinny - usually dried - chile similar to cayenne) salsa, but I also loved the fresh, pico de gallo, studded with enough fresh, minced serranos to wake up any slacker taste bud.
Pico de gallo is really a simple salsa to make. It's best to make it in late summer, when tomatoes are at their peak, but I make it all year, substituting Roma tomatoes for regular ones. It's a great accompaniment to grilled or baked fish.
Pico de Gallo
Makes 2 cups
1/2 of a large, white onion, finely chopped
2 pounds tomatoes, seeded and finely chopped
2-3 jalapenos or serranos, minced (remove seeds for less heat)
1/4 cup chopped cilantro
Juice of 1/2 or 1 lime (to your tastes)
Salt and pepper
Toss all ingredients together and let rest 10 to 30 minutes before serving. Keeps 3 days, covered in the refrigerator.
Who knew that a raw pumpkin could be so appealing? I returned home from an evening meeting earlier this week, only to discover that my darling little grasshopper slayer decided that she needed a piece of pumpkin, sans pie.
Chloe was perched on top of "her" chair when we returned and when she saw me turn on the light, look at the desecrated pumpkin on the dining room table, she crouched and pinned her ears back. Skylar, on the other hand, leaned up against the bar and looked at me, saying with those adorable brown, button eyes, "It wasn't me, Mom, she did it."
Chloe has separation anxiety issues and every time we leave the house, she finds some mischief to amuse herself until we return, even though she's confined to the family/kitchen room. Animal experts would suggest that I put her little hinny in a crate while we're gone. I know I probably should, but then Skylar would be uncrated and what kind of trauma would that cause? Anyone have any advice?
Chloe was subdued the rest of the evening, probably with a tummy ache, but otherwise she was fine. The next day, I talked with my friend Eileen, who owns See Spot Shop, and after she stopped laughing, she told me that pumpkin is not harmful to dogs, and that Chloe likely just got an extra dose of antioxidants. It wasn't like I was going to make a pie with the darn pumpkin anyway... it's best to use the small, sugar pumpkins for pie.
I just put the pumpkin there to remind me that it was fall, and Thanksgiving is coming. Sometimes it's hard to remember that when the temperature is 80 degrees outside. And Chloe was quick to remind me that even fall has a short season.
Did I catch your attention? An article in last weekend's USA Weekend insert in my newspaper caught my attention with " A Lighter Thanksgiving: only 682 total calories."
This just after I sent a text message to my brother about a luscious sounding pasta, cauliflower and cheese gratin recipe I'd seen in Bon Appetit magazine, that I was certain should be on our "new dish" Thanksgiving list.
My text said something about replacing the pasta with more cauliflower and using less cream, cheese and butter for a "lighter" version. (I blogged about Steve earlier this year after he dropped 25 pounds just by eating turkey bacon ... and running 4 miles every day for months, but I digress).
He immediately texted back, and I quote, "Girlfriend, Thanksgiving is NOT about the calories." Now that's a reason to be thankful. We'll have a normal, traditional Thanksgiving -- no obsessing about the amount of food and fat. After all, what other national holiday do we have that is all about food, nothing but food?
I don't mean to sound snippy about Pam Anderson's Thanksgiving-Lite meal -- she's lost 45 pounds (and wrote a successful cookbook about it). Her article says that a typical Thanksgiving meal is more than 1,200 calories, so her lighter meal may be an inspiration to people who need to watch their intake on this and every other day (and don't we all). Seriously, I had just offered to "lighten" an new dish in honor of my brother's "lighter" self.
But for me (and clearly this trait runs in the family), Thanksgiving is the opposite of restraint and moderation. I can be moderate and mindful for 364 days. But on day 332 this year, I'm going to indulge. I might have seconds. I might have six desserts. I might regret it all on day 333 but on Thanksgiving, I'll eat like it was the last Thanksgiving -- or the first. I imagine that the first Thanksgiving was a cornucopia of foods and both sides did the polite thing, sampling a little bit of what everyone brought to the table.
At the end of the day, I may very well wish that I'd followed Anderson's Thanksgiving plan. But until then, I'll be planning, shopping, cooking and stuffing my way to satiated bliss.
No doubt about it. Tea is a hot trend right now. Of course, since tea has been brewed for thousands of years, calling it a trend may seem silly. But take a look at the tea shelf in any grocery store these days, and you'll see what I mean.
There is a tea for virtually every situation. Need calmness? There's a tea for you. Want to detox? Yup, got that, too. Want a weird combination tea? Like green tea with chocolate and orange? Found it. Maybe you just want to pamper yourself? You're in luck. There's a gazillion options for that one.
I bought one of those "lifestyle" teas recently, sucked in by the pretty package and description. It's called dream spirit by a company called Herbescent and here's what it promises: "A fragrant mystical tea, made of floral botanicals to guide you into peaceful relaxation and surreal meditations."
Doesn't that just melt the tenseness away? There is only one problem. When you pop open the lid, it smells like potpourri. I mean, it smells lovely, but it smells like a bunch of dried flowers. I steeped the tea anyway, even though it was hard to get past the perennial scent.
The tea tastes exactly like it smells. It isn't tea. It's aromatherapy! The ingredient list includes lavender, rose petals, chamomile blossoms, hibiscus flowers and chrysanthemum petals. Now, I know chamomile and hibiscus are used quite often in tea. But I gotta tell you that in tandem with the rest of the flower garden, they don't make the best drinking tea.
Here's what I can say. Even though the dream spirit flavor isn't my cup of tea, this company does make a wide variety of other teas -- normal-ish ones, too -- so I'm going to give them another shot. Because I like their packaging. And I love tea. And most of all, because I'm certain that they can do better than this bouquet of tea.
Last weekend, there was a coupon in my Sunday paper for a new soup from Campbell's under their V8 brand. I drink V8 juice (finally switch to the low sodium version, which was painful, but I have a little trick...I douse it with a sprinkling of cayenne powder).
But I digress... this post is about the new V8 soups. I bought three -- southwestern corn, golden butternut squash and tomato herb. They also make a garden broccoli and sweet red pepper.
I completely adore the southwestern corn. The corn soup is thick, creamy and has a nice kick of heat. I topped it with some leftover popcorn and it really helped "pop" the corn flavor.
The tomato herb is also yummy. It, too, could use a little doctoring, and I found that a sprinkling of grated Parmesan really brought out the sweetness of the thick, red tomato base.
The butternut squash wasn't as good. It tasted strange to me, so I looked at the ingredient list, and figured out the problem. Potatoes are the third ingredient in the squash soup, so it waters down the taste of the squash. Too bad, because butternut squash soup can be absolutely divine. I have a recipe for butternut squash soup in my cookbook, The Great Ranch Cookbook, with apples and chipotle. It is divine, but takes a bit of work.
It's not nearly as easy as opening a carton of the V8 butternut squash soup, although figuring out how to open the V8 boxes is a bit of challenge. The boxes are small (16 oz.) and the nutritional content varies by soup, but 1 serving of the corn soup (8 oz) is 150 calories and 3 grams of fat, while the tomato soup is 90 calories and 0 fat grams for a cup.
The only downside is the amount of sodium, which also varies by soup (between 590 and 750 milligrams -- 25% to 31% of the recommended daily allowance.) But you can find lots of other soups, even some made by Campbell's, with as much as 890 mg and some as low as 60 mg (their low sodium cream of mushroom soup). The RDA is 2,400 mg. So the V8 soups are not outrageously laden with sodium.
I love soup, and soup season is upon us (some more than others...we're still in the 80's temperature range although nights and mornings are cooling off...finally). While I'd love to say that I have time to make a fresh batch of soup every week, I don't. So I'll keep a couple of these V8 soups in my pantry for those nights when nothing sounds better than a steaming bowl of soup.
I'm standing in front of my favorite wine section (rose) at my favorite wine store, deciding if I want to stick with the tried and true -- and easy (screw caps), when a perky, young saleswoman asks if I need help.
I say I'm fine and continue studying the choices, which at this particular store are prolific compared to other stores. They must have at least 20 different rose wines. Only specialty stores really delve deep into the rose wines... even though everyone is writing about the virtues of a good rose. Go figure.
I guess I was lingering a bit too long, because before long, perky girl comes back and says "do you want to try a really funky, fabulous rose?" How can you say no to that pitch? Of course I want to try a really funky, fabulous rose. So she leads me to another aisle, featuring South African wines and picks up a bottle of Mulderbosch rose, 2007.
"And it's only 10 bucks!" she gushes, as she proceeds to tell me that she featured it at tasting the week before and everyone loved the wine, picking up on the whole South African terrior. OK, I bite. "What's the whole South African terrior," I say.
"It's kinda earthy, musty, you know, funky," she says, using her hands, arms and body in a back and forth swaying motion to drive home the point. Uh huh, I say. So I bought it. Now I'm sipping it and trying to pick up on the earthy, musty, you know, funky thing.
I'm getting the funky part. It's tangy, almost sour, like grapefruit, with a very dry finish. After a sip or two my mouth wants to pucker. I don't taste the traditional strawberry or cherry notes common in many roses. It's not bad, but it doesn't quite stack up to my fav five I wrote about in a post a few months ago.
Still, it's lively and goes great with the goat cheese and olive tapenade snack I whipped up to eat along with it. "Funky" is an appropriate descriptor. And, it's only 10 bucks.
Never would I have expected to have such lovely French bistro food in the land of pineapples and papayas, but that's exactly what I found at Du Vin, in downtown Honolulu.
I almost missed the chance, too. When I travel, I like to eat local, what the locals eat, and most often, that's the regional cuisine of the area.
But what do local foodies do when they've had their fill of their own cuisine? They explore other global flavors. Our host foodies wanted to take us to Du Vin. I protested because I wanted to eat something more Hawaiian, not Parisian, for goodness sakes.
When we found ourselves downtown one evening, we strolled by the little French brasserie, a narrow, dark space on Bethel Street. Past the dark lounge, way in the back is an open courtyard, even more narrow than the main room, with tables snuggled closely together. There is no way you'd know you were in Hawaii sitting in this Provencal garden. French patio chairs and tables, potted plants, antique wall hangings, and a mosaic tiled floor more than mask the Pacific Island location --they transport you to the narrow streets of Nice.
The food tastes as French as the decor looks French. We slurp a roasted tomato basil soup and devour moules & frites (pictured) -- with the most plump, tender mussels swimming in a garlicky wine broth, and lots of crusty French bread, soaking up the flavorful broth. We have a piece of Hawaiian fish (amber jack tuna to be specific) that's seared to a golden brown and bathed in an olive butter sauce, and sitting atop haricots blancs (white beans) and frisee. And finish with banana and chocolate crepes (the bananas are local)... Mon dieu! It was exquisite. And I'm really glad that I didn't miss it, even if French cafes are not de rigueur in aloha land.
Omasake means something like "trust the chef" or "put yourself in the chef's hands." Either way, you give permission to the sushi chef to whip up something special for you.
Recently, we dined at Nobu in Waikiki, Hawaii. Sitting at the gleaming sushi bar, I recognized only a handful of the slabs of fish chilling in the case, so we decide we would "trust the chef."
In return for $60, we were presented with a long narrow board of nigiri, about 10 different pieces of fish and seafood artfully drapped over an oval mound of sushi rice. We had the usual salmon, yellowtail and big eye tunas, and halibut.
We also tasted squid, octopus, scallops, shrimp, king crab and a fish called "kiss." That wasn't the name, but it's pronounced like kiss, and it tasted like a mackarel -- strong. The last one was an eel, I think. All of it was fresh, clean, and remarkable.
We were going to order one omasake each, but our sushi chef thought that one would be plenty for both of us, especially considering that we had already tasted a couple other dishes. He was right, but what amazed me is that he thought we should start with one and see if that was enough, instead of strapping us with two (and an additional $60). Our server didn't bat an eye when we ordered two. It was the chef that showed some restraint and guidance.
Perhaps omasake does mean "trust the chef."
I had heard that monkfish liver was the "foie gras of the sea." If you don't like foie gras, you can just stop reading now, because you'll have no appreciation for what I'm about to tell you.
We're in Hawaii, me for a culinary conference, him for his usual business. Carrie & Jay live here. She works with him and Jay is kind of like a client, I guess, but a cool one. Anyway, C & J are locals so they wanted to take us to someplace unique for dinner, somewhere not splattered all over the tourist map.
We end up at the most charming and hip izyaka (a Japanese drinking establishment with a heavy emphasis on food -- think Spanish tapas bar, without the Spain-part). It's called Sushi Izyaka Gaku and it is too darling for words.
The lighting is low, the chefs behind the sushi bar are dressed in traditional, bright yellow, black and red garb (they're Master Sushi Chefs, by the way) and contemporary jazz is playing in the background...or was until the evening waned and then downtempo techno lounge music kicked in as the crowd turned noticably younger.
But back to the food. C & J are adventurous sports, and so are we. So we put ourselves in the hands of our server. He looks like a kid from the Midwest, but he speaks fluent Japanese, so off and on throughout the night, he counsels us on a dish to see if it's to our liking, and then turns and shouts something inaudible in Japanese to the chefs (it's not a big place, he probably didn't have to shout but it seems everyone shouts in these izyakas.)
We start with lovely nori wrapped King crab and cucumbers. Delish. Next we have a small slab of meltingly tender butterfish, the thin strip of skin crisped over an open fire. Divine. Next is a hamachi collar -- also seared over an open flame. A collar is the jawbone of the fish, and is prized for the rich, dark meat tucked away in cartilage.
Next came the monkfish liver. Three salmon colored disks floating in a citrusy, ponzu sauce with microscopic slices of green scallion. The disk was chilled but three seconds in my mouth it started to melt into a creamy pool of fish liver.
That doesn't sound as good as it was. It's hard to describe, but if you love foie gras AND you love strong fishes (salmon, mackerel, etc.) then you would love monkfish liver. I'm not a monkfish lover...I don't like the texture of monkfish. But I am now a monkfish liver lover. Sublime.
These were just our appetizers, something for the Asahi and Shochu to wash down. I don't have enough space here to finish the meal description so I'll save that for another post. I just wanted to tell you about the monkfish liver, you know, in case you wanted to run out and get some.
Simmer sauces are the equivalent of a lifeline. Need to get dinner on the table quick? Open a jar of simmer sauce and add a protein, some veggies and call it dinner. I keep frozen shrimp in the freezer because it thaws quickly and cooks even quicker. I do the same with frozen vegetables.
I've tried two simmer sauces recently that I would buy again. Trader Joe's Simmer Sauces come in several flavors, and the Korma Simmer Sauce is a kicky blend of tomatoes, a touch of cream, almond butter and spices, including cayenne and cinnamon.
The jar says the serving size is 1/3 a cup but that's too stingy. A half cup is doable, I can easily polish off half the jar myself. If I stuck to the 1/3 cup, it would only be 110 calories and 7 grams of fat, but with my more realistic portion, it's more like 160 calories and 10 grams of fat -- still reasonable when paired with a lean meat or fish and vegetables.
I also like Seeds of Change simmer sauces, specifically the Jalfrezi flavor. The label says it's medium-hot but I'm not sure who was determining that. It's not hot at all. It too is tomato based and contains onions, red bell peppers, a touch of coconut milk and spices like cumin, ginger, and cardamom. It's exotic tasting, and I paired it with shrimp, green beans and ladled it over fragrant, basmati rice.
I think next time I'm shopping, I grab a few more and keep them in the pantry for those nights I just don't feel like putting a lot of effort into dinner.
I couldn't get past the reservation screen unless I entered my "title." Not my professional title, but my status/gender title. I was booking a hotel room on-line and the page was insisting on knowing whether I preferred to be addressed as Ms., Mrs., or Mr. There wasn't an option for "none of your business" and there was no way to get past the screen without choosing one.
I'd just filled out tons of personal information -- my mailing address, my credit card number, my bed size preference (king, even if Jeff isn't traveling with me -- I need thrashing space). Was it because my name, Gwen, could be either male or female? Or do they also refuse passage to Elizabeth and John Paul?
I found it amusing. Will it help them when I arrive to check in? Surely they have more confidence in their front desk than that. Or maybe they don't want their staff to make an on-the-spot decision about whether I am female or male. Remember Pat from Saturday Night Live? Did we ever discern if Pat was a guy or girl?
These days, we can't assume jack (or is it jill?), especially when it comes to names -- of people, of politics, of dishes -- anything really. I just ran across a dish with a name that has nothing to do with the dish. And chefs, like celebrities, are taking liberties. Gwyneth named her daughter Apple. Chefs are calling things crudo (raw fish) that are not raw and/or not fish. Everything is fair game.
So really, it's no wonder that this hotel needs to know my gender and my preferred salutation. They want to make sure they get it right.
While the government is contemplating adding more regulations to the financial industry, maybe they should consider adding regulations to the labeling of chocolate. Couldn't they slip in a chocolate rule, kind of like they slip in earmarks to save the wooden arrow makers?
It's no wonder everyone is confused about semisweet and bittersweet chocolate. Or the new "dark" milk chocolates on the market. Real chocolate is composed of two main ingredients: the cocoa mass (called chocolate liquor) and cocoa butter. Both are by products of the cacao bean.
I saw an ad recently for Ghirardelli baking chips. It was the picture of the dark chocolate cookies studded with even more chocolate that caught my eye. Ghirardelli makes a semisweet chocolate chip that doesn't specify the percentage cacao, and a baking chip that is labeled 60%.
So I am curious about how much chocolate liquor is really in the semisweet chocolate. The Chocolate Manufacturer's Association says that semisweet generally contains 35% to 45% and bittersweet contains at least 50%. Milk chocolate can contain as much as 56% chocolate liquor. And, products labeled "dark chocolate" can contain as little as 15% chocolate liquor and up to 12% milk solids. Huh? If it has milk solids, isn't it milk chocolate? Apparently not.
I really shouldn't knock something until I've tried it, but I'm going to anyway. Hey, it's my blog and you don't have to read it. Maybe I'm just a little sensitized after spending days pouring through some new books on eating local, gardening and the slow food movement (of which I am a member) for an article I'm working on.
Cruising through the coupons in the paper this weekend, I stopped on a page with a couple new products from Tyson, the largest processor and marketer of chicken in the country...maybe the world.
The one that caught my eye (and made me spew coffee all over the paper) is something called "any'tizers." And within the "any'tizers" product line, is a product called "Homestyle Chicken Fries."
I'm not kidding. The box of chicken fries shows a picture of what looks like breaded French fries, but instead of potatoes, it's processed chicken meat. Seriously? One serving (seven "fries") is 230 calories, 11 grams of fat, and 25% of your daily sodium intake. But hey, it's 13 grams of protein, or 26% of the recommended daily allowance. That makes me feel better.
Now, if you own Tyson stock (TSN) then good for you. They recently beat their numbers and Jim Cramer of Mad Money is in love with Tyson right now. Making money is good. Probably better for you than eating chicken fries. So, you might want to think about buying the stock, but your health would be better off by picking up a roasted chicken (Tyson still wins either way).
You gotta love instant access these days. Or curse it. My husband is on the road, and he, as he's prone to do, sends me a text message about where he's eating. Today he's having BBQ in Austin, TX and it...I'm quoting...."ROCKS!"
Now, he knows I'm off to lunch today at a place that doesn't "rock." How fair is that? Actually, I'm happy that he is a) having a rocking lunch, and b) loves me enough to send me a text about it with the website link so I can fully appreciate the experience he's having.
I would much rather be in Texas at the moment with him, barbecue slathered on my chin, but at least I can visualize him eating my state food...(however, instead of brisket or ribs, he probably ordered something silly like chicken or turkey... he's healthy that way. Me? Not so much.)
For anyone in Texas at the moment, he's at Ironworks BBQ. He's the only one in the joint with a plate of chicken and side of salad.
Did you know that you can pair wine with chocolate? Sure, certain full bodied red wines and dark chocolate are great palate partners, but there are other combos that are just as harmonious. If you're in the Phoenix area on Sunday, October 19, you can learn how to pair different wines with complementary chocolates, and support a great cause at the same time.
The Phoenix Chapter of Les Dames d'Escoffier, (I'm a member) is holding a fundraiser to benefit the Phoenix Downtown Public Market. Wine, Women & Chocolate promises to be a fun but educational event and includes a comparative chocolate tasting lead by Donna Nordin, a renowned chocolate expert from Tucson and a wine and chocolate pairing featuring Chatham's Fine Chocolate truffles. But that's not all.
The event is also a launch party for the Les Dames d'Escoffier's brand new, national cookbook, Cooking with Les Dames d'Escoffier, which features recipes from some of the most famous women culinary leaders like Julia Child, Alice Waters, and Florence Fabricant. Two local women also have recipes in the book, including culinary maven Barbara Pool Fenzl, who will be autographing the the book at the event.
Tickets are $75 and include a copy of the cookbook. The event is Sunday, October 19 from 3 to 5:30 p.m., at Fairytale Brownies. To reserve a space, mail a check for $75 to LDEI at 15029 N. Thompson Peak Pkwy, Suite B-111 #466, Scottsdale, AZ 85260, or call Janis Normoyle at (602) 740-8767.
Seriously, how difficult can it be? I'm on the hunt for a new coffee machine. Our Krups coffee/esspresso machine is 16 years old, and has been telling us for a while now that she's tired. Three years ago, we stayed in a bed and breakfast in Creede, Colorado and fell in love with the Saeco machine the proprietress had.
I searched for one when we returned home, but was overwhelmed at all the choices, so I did what any rational person would do. I quit searching, and basically ignored the issue. About a year ago, our little Krups started acting up again, so I went on the hunt again.
Jeff's buddy Bob, a coffee connoisseur, told us about his favorite brand. Once again I was overwhelmed so, I pushed the thought out of my mind and coaxed the Krups back into service. (A little cleaning with water and vinegar does wonders.)
Now the Krups is doing something I don't think I can fix -- or ignore. It's burning our coffee. On purpose, I think. So, I'm hunting again. And I'm overwhelmed again. Capresso, Miele, DeLonghi, Bosch, La Marzocco... what's a girl to do?
The problem with soda pops is that they are too sugary sweet, even the diet ones. So imagine my delight when I read about a new kind of soda, called Dry Soda.
Made by a Seattle company, Dry Soda is a refreshing alternative to sickly sweet sodas. It's sexy, with barely a whisper of sweetness from pure cane sugar and each 12 oz. bottle only contains 50 calories.
So far I've tried the Lemongrass flavor and the Rhubarb flavor. Next on my list are the Kumquat and Lavender flavors. I was surprised at how little sweet flavor there was, and the sodas aren't too bubbly, just enough to be refreshing.
The Rhubarb is, um, an acquired taste, but I totally fell in love with the Lemongrass. It's delicately flavored with a subtle undertone of the unique flavor of lemongrass -- not quite lemon, not quite lime, but somewhere in between.
I've heard that Dry Soda is on the verge of releasing two new flavors -- Vanilla Bean and, get this -- Juniper Berry (oh, Gin lovers rejoice!)
I found Dry Soda in 4 packs at Whole Foods. I wish they would package a variety pack, though, so you could get one of each flavor. But at least you only buy 4 at a time, so if you don't like a flavor (eh hm, Rhubarb), you don't have a whole pantry full of them.
The Dry Soda website has recipes for each flavor, and I think I'll take my other three Rhubarb flavors and make Rhubarb Mojitos out of them. Everything goes with rum, right?
Food and politics are a recipe for indigestion, but I have to mix them just for a minute. I am a flag-waving, card-carrying independent, and usually, I keep my political opinions to myself, but today, I feel compelled to say something.
I'm not sure our elected officials are in touch with reality. I interviewed a woman yesterday for a story. She owns a small food business. She had just received a letter from her bank announcing that her line of credit was frozen. Kaput.
She needs that credit to make it through the holiday season -- a significant majority of her annual revenue is generated between October and December. And now, she may not be able to hire the seasonal employees she needs, rent the extra commercial kitchen space she needs, and, and, and. And, she's never defaulted on a single payment in the past and only carries debt when she needs to.
It's frustrating to hear the media spew comments from "the general public" who feel that the current credit crisis is a wall street/rich person's problem. It's impacting everyone, some are just lucky enough not to feel it right this moment. But it will eventually touch everyone.
I hope the people in Washington wake up and smell the coffee. Soon.
When was the last time you encountered a finger bowl at a restaurant? You know what I'm talking about, right?
A finger bowl is a tiny little bowl, filled with water, for the purpose of rinsing your fingers between courses, especially if said courses involve eating with your hands.
Many cultures still eat with their hands (I'm thinking of Ethiopian and Moroccan off the top of my head). I have never eaten at a restaurant that delivered finger bowls to the table, although I've read about them.
We dined at an Asian restaurant recently, and the first thing brought to the table, after the menus, was a bamboo cradle holding a steamy, hot towel. I thought for a moment I was in business class on my way to Europe.
Apparently, it isn't uncommon to receive a hot towel before the meal in many Japanese restaurants, but it was the first time I ever encountered it and I think I kind of like it.
Memory can just happen -- and then you are at the mercy of how your brain is wired -- or you can work to remember. People ask me how I can pick out certain flavors in dishes. They think I'm a supertaster.
I'm not a supertaster, and in fact, people who are supertasters are at a disadvantage because their taste buds are too sensitive to discern certain flavors. Fault how many taste buds they have on their tongue compared to a normal tongue. (Are you a supertaster?)
The reason I can pick nutmeg out of a white sauce is because I have built a nutmeg flavor profile in my brain. I have tasted nutmeg -- all by itself and in combination with other ingredients -- hundreds of times.
I can tell if something needs salt because I've tasted thousands of dishes with and without salt. It's not rocket science. It's really pretty simple. You put things in your mouth and think about them.
My husband will never build a flavor bank in his brain, not because he can't, he can -- anyone can. He won't because he doesn't like to taste a dish's components individually or in stages as the dish comes together. He only wants to eat the finished product.
I'm the opposite. I want to taste each individual ingredient, and taste them again as each one is added to a dish. That is the definition of a curious cook.
There they sit on the window sill, wondering what's to become of them. The middle one is leaning toward the left, as if straining to hear the other one.
They are French Butter pears, and I found them at Whole Foods Market. The sticker says they're from California. Since I'm in Utah at the moment, they didn't have to travel too far, although much further than the peaches I bought yesterday at the farmers market that traveled only 60 miles.
A little research tells me that this pear is also known as Beurre Hardy and is a relative of the Anjou (which isn't my favorite -- that would be Comice). This heritage variety was used almost exclusively for canning up until several years ago, since it doesn't travel well when even the slightest bit ripe. But farmers markets and specialty grocery stores are stocking the French Butter pear when it's grown nearby.
I'm waiting for them to ripen. Pears are one of a handful of fruits that ripen off the tree (bananas, peaches and plums are others), so it's only a matter of days before the flesh around the stem begins to give a little under pressure. By then, I'll be able to detect a delicate, pear fragrance from the bottom end. For now, the butter pears are window dressing. In a few days, they'll be sugary sand in my mouth. Hurry.
I love the shoulder seasons -- the transitional time between one season and the next. In terms of traveling, it's when hotels and restaurants discount their rates because traffic is slower.
In the food world, it means you can combine the last of one season's gifts with the next season's emerging bounty.
That's why you see a bowl of steaming oatmeal (what, you don't see the steam?) topped with juicy, ripe, end of season peaches and plump blackberries. The toasted walnuts and oatmeal belong to the fall.
I like instant oatmeal because it only it takes an instant instead of minutes to make. Instant oatmeal is whole oats that have been cut finer to cook quicker. Although I'm splitting hairs here: it doesn't take much time to cook either.
Nutritionally, they are the same. Where things get off kilter is buying the flavored instant oatmeal packages, (like my favorite, maple & brown sugar) because these flavored ones have added sugar, salt, and other natural and not so natural additives.
If you buy plain old-fashioned oats, or plain quick cooking oats, there is no difference in nutritional content. (Before you dietitians jump on me, telling me that whole oats are in fact better than chopped-up whole oats because by definition they take longer to digest, I say: prove it.)
But I'm getting off point here. My point is that this is a wonderful time to mix summer with fall ingredients, and get the best of both seasons.
They'll eat anything, these two. Even if it makes them sick. I'm amazed at what they'll put in their mouths. A rotting apple core on the side of the road. A discarded Q-Tip (eeewwwh!) And grasshoppers--fresh grasshoppers.
I guess the grasshopper delicacy shouldn't surprise me. And for Chloe (on the right), it was an acquired taste. She first discovered grasshoppers when one jumped in front of her and her hunting instinct took over. She caught the little sucker and immediately spit it out when it kicked in her mouth.
The next time she caught one, she twitched when the grasshopper kicked, but she didn't immediately spit it out. But eventually she did and then she just wanted to play with it, coaxing it with her nose to get it to jump again. And after a few more catches, she finally decided that the best use of her booty was not to spit it out. So she ate it...crunch, crunch, crunch.
It doesn't surprise me because arthropods are eaten by humans in many areas of the world, although usually not raw. I have a book in my library called Unmentionable Cuisine, that describes how to prepare grasshoppers (and locusts and other various insects).
One of the chefs I met while working on The Great Ranch Cookbook, handed me a copy of Unmentionable Cuisine while she prepared dinner for her guests one night. As she slowly cut asparagus on the bias, she said that she traveled everywhere with that book. In the summer, she cooked at a high end fishing lodge in Montana. In the winter, she moved to the southern hemisphere, cooking in fishing camps in New Zealand or in the Yucatan. "You never know what kind of food sources you'll find in some remote camps, so this book comes in handy," she said.
One thing the book did for me was to open my eyes -- and mind -- to the fact that one man's disdain is another man's delicacy. I still don't think I approve of Chloe's new favorite snack, but I can't fault her for trying new things.
I've turned into a cookie monster since we've been in the high country. At sea level, I could pass up a cookie in a heart beat (unless said cookie is one of Eugenia's French macarons). I don't even think about cookies at altitudes less than 2,000 feet.
It started with just one simple cookie out of the Whole Foods bakery case called outrageous fruit and nut cookie. It was. Outrageous.
Next, we stumbled upon a charming little bakery. Their case is filled with all kinds of specialty cookies ($1.25 each) as well as regular (and regular sized, not monster size) cookies like chocolate chip, peanut butter, oatmeal raisin and molasses for a reasonable $.50...the same cost of a local newspaper, and much more satisfying.
My favorite is the heart shaped molasses cookie, one edge seductively dipped in vanilla icing, precariously holding a toasted pistachio. Actually, it's two cookies sandwiched together with a spiced cream filling -- double decadence. AND ONLY $1.25 EACH! Who can resist that? Not me.
My first nacho was a simple little thing. Just a triangle tortilla chip (probably Doritos), covered with a square of cheddar cheese, topped with a pickled jalapeno slice from a jar, and broiled until the cheese was just melted.
That's how my Dad made them back in the late '60's as a game day snack, and so that, to me, is a nacho. I was in college before I learned that ordering nachos in a restaurant meant something entirely different: a plate piled high with chips, covered with chili or pinto beans, topped with grated cheese and then melted under a broiler. The whole plate was then topped with diced tomatoes, sliced jalapenos (sometimes fresh, sometimes pickled) and perhaps a blob of sour cream and/or guacamole.
Nachos dropped off my radar screen sometime after college but made a blip about four years ago. My brother's girlfriend at the time was a nacho mama, and once again, I was introduced to the nacho of my childhood, only this time, a fresh jalapeno replaced the pickled one. I was hooked again.
I order nachos frequently now, and recently, I think I may have tasted some of the best ones yet. A little barbecue joint in a little mountain town in the west offers up tri-tip nachos. What's so special about these nachos? It could be the charred bits of medium-rare tri-tip steak, or the house made barbecue beans, or the perfect balance between all the ingredients (including enough cheese to reach all the chips, not just the ones on top).
If I'm going to make them at home, though, I'm going to go for simplicity -- just the chip, the cheese and the fresh jalapeno slice (hey, it's worth a little trouble). Nachos really are the perfect football-watching snack. If you have to watch football (and apparently I do in this household) then you might as well have a warm, spicy treat to make it a little more pleasant... (go Cowboys!)
I can live without dessert, but I don't want to. It's a bad habit to fall into--having dessert after every meal. I had broken the habit for a while, but it's back. I'm blaming my job (reviewing restaurants) for the return of the sweet curse, but the reality is that I simply love to end a meal with a sweet bite.
Speaking of bites, why don't more restaurants offer dessert samplers? With some desserts reaching the price of a small entree, who wants to commit that much to an unknown? What if you shell out $10 to $12 bucks and the dessert sucks?
A couple nights ago, we were dining at a locally owned steakhouse. It was a lovely meal -- perfectly dressed Caesar salad spears, perfectly cooked filet (although it didn't have much flavor on its own, the chef topped it with a kicky corn and chipotle relish), garlicky mashed potatoes, and then the dessert tray arrives.
I crack up at those trays, laden with fake or "preserved" versions of the real thing. And steakhouses are notorious for whipping up huge, sugar bombs -- dark chocolate cake, ice cream pies, monster bread puddings.
But this local steakhouse smartly put together a sampler -- a taste of three of their most popular desserts -- bread pudding with butterscotch rum sauce, creme brulee, and Mississippi mud pie. The trio arrived in a long, rectangular tray, with the desserts in three ramekins.
There was plenty of each for two to share. None of the desserts were spectacular, but it was fun to sample three and not feel like we invested all our eggs in one basket. I wish more restaurants would go to the trouble (and it is a little more trouble) to package up dessert samplers.
I have nothing against imitation crab (sometimes called krab or surimi) but sushi made with real crab just plain tastes better. It just plain costs more, too. I recently read a story about the nutritional difference between the two, and crab clearly trumps krab.
Both crab and krab are low in fat, therefore neither is a good source of the prized Omega-3 fatty acids found in other seafood, but real crab has more protein, more potassium, and less sodium than imitation crab. That's all fine and good, but for me, taste trumps nutrition and that's why I'll pick crab over krab any day of the week.
Deep. Fried. Chicken. There are no sweeter words than these when used together. (I. Love. You. is a close second, though.) Fried chicken is my all-time favorite comfort food. Not favorite food, mind you, that would be a hamburger -- Dad's hamburger to be more specific.
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