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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.
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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