Forest Street Kitchen

I am up to my keyster in local politics at the moment, and my life is a merry, madcap whirlwind of meetings, press releases, phone calls, phone calls, e-mails and e-mails. I am sort of cooking, but nothing I would be proud to share with anyone in this forum. Also (and I am whispering) we are eating a lot of pizza, grilled things and Thai restaurant food until this is over. Which may be never.

Here’s all of the food-related news I can come up with:

1. The preserved lemons were a bust. I think there was too much lemon juice in the preserving liquid, which rendered all of those beautiful lemons mushy. I am trying to salvage any parts that I can.
2. I had Oysters Rockefeller for lunch yesterday, and I am in love, although I may have to walk 50 miles to burn off the four I consumed. (I licked the shells. No, really).
3. I have discovered that eggs fried in a little truffle butter are the most elegant meal in the world (except for Oysters Rockefeller)
4. I think my farmer’s market opens this weekend.

There are lots of good reasons to have children. They make it possible to carry on the the family line, they are adorable and cuddly when small, their little hands reach into tight spots when you lose things, and they provide a good excuse to watch “High School Musical” and buy Captain Crunch. An urge to prepare and consume a variety of interesting foods, however, is most definitely not a reason to have children. No sir. If that is an important goal for you (and its not too late) I say get a parakeet, hang out with your nieces and nephews or become a Big Brother, but do not acquire children who live in your actual home and eat your actual food.

With very few exceptions, children like food to be the same, all the time. They go through cycles, including “I only eat peanut butter, baby carrots and animal crackers,” will occasionally blossom into a new phase, such as “oh, and I really like those Thai spicy noodles,” only to dash your hopes when you make those very noodles again, saying “I don’t like those noodles any more, I just liked them that one time, I think. Do we have any baby carrots?” They are fickle creatures, those children, and I believe that they have some sort of secret manual (well, for the ones old enough to read) that directs them to tell you that they “love, love, love” something and want it in their lunch, on their toast and served at their birthday dinner, wait until you have purchased a gross of whatever it is, and then decide that they don’t like it any more.  This has happened to me with pickles, ham, frosted animal crackers, grapes with seeds, grapes without seeds, and homemade cookies of various kinds. I only have one child at home these days, but I can also warn you that for each child you harbor in your home, there will be an entirely separate set of forbidden foods, temporary infatuations and constants. If you are very lucky, there is some overlapping of the circles, and you may have two, maybe three meals you can prepare and serve to the entire family sans complaints.

Of all the things these children do, the most troubling to me as a cook is the fact that nothing can ever change. If you made a stir-fry using green peppers, and the child liked it, it is fatal to decide to use red peppers the next time “to add a little color.” The child will be suspicious, and will ask “what are the red things?” When you explain that those are red bell peppers, which are really pretty much the same as green bell peppers only, well, red, the child will say “but I liked it the way it was before.” If you are served spaghetti with cheese from a green canister when you are guests in someone’s home, your child may say (politely, in your ear) “but we don’t eat that kind of cheese. I like the kind we have at home.” Heaven forfend that you attempt to “jazz up” macaroni and cheese with smoked cheese, put chicken in the curry instead of beef, or cut the carrots in cubes instead of “coins” in chicken noodle soup. They like each dish as it appears in their iconic memory, and there is orthodoxy involved that cannot flippantly be dismissed by a parent with some cardamom and a recipe burning a hole in his pocket.

Of course, the goal is to get children to branch out and try new things, and I do that as often as possible. With age has come greater willingness to try things, and this has been true with both of my children. It is a slow, painstaking process, though; not unlike taming a wild animal. There are many “no thank you bites,” many bowls of cereal in lieu of the proffered ratatouille, and sometimes there are delightful moments when something clicks and you see the door open a tiny bit. My advice to you is to cherish those moments, be patient, and don’t get carried away. The fact that a child will eat and enjoy a bite of gyro in a restaurant on Thursday does not mean that you should plan a Greek meal for Saturday. You’re in this for the long haul, and there’s plenty of time to try a lamb kebab or a little moussaka in a month or so.

Of course, if you do not have, or plan to have children, this is all irrelevant and probably somewhat horrifying. Please don’t judge us; we’re doing the best we can. For every child you see ordering chicken strips in a chic French bistro, there is at least one parent writhing in silent agony and trying to figure out how to sell the kid on steak frites….

So we celebrated Cinco de Mayo today by eating Chicharrones de Pollo, which is actually, um, a specialty not of Mexico, but of Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic, but we did have Mexican rice, tortilla chips and guacamole. It was an unhealthy, but intensely delicious and soul-satisfying meal. (I had planned to make this last week, before I was felled by the plague, so it came in handy to have everything ready for a Latin American, if not actually Mexican meal). The recipe for the Chicharrones is from the September 2007 issue of “Gourmet,” and I pretty much followed it to the letter.

Chicharrones de Pollo

1. 1/4 cup amber or dark rum
2. 1/4 cup fresh lime juice
3. 1/4 cup soy sauce
4. 1 tablespoon sugar
5. 1 1/2 lb skinless, boneless chicken thighs, cut into 1 1/2 inch pieces (you could use breasts, but they are less flavorful)
6. 1/2 cup all-purpose flour
7. About 2 cups vegetable oil
8. 1/2 teaspoon paprika (I used hot)

-Mix rum, lime juice, soy sauce and sugar in a shallow bowl until sugar dissolves. Add chicken, stir to coat, and let marinate for 25 minutes at room temperature.

-While chicken is in the last 5 minutes of marinating, heat 1 inch oil in a deep, 12-inch heavy skillet over medium-high heat until it shimmers.

-Whisk flour, paprika and 1/2 teaspoon salt in a second shallow bowl. Drain chicken and pat dry. Dredge in flour, shaking off excess, then transfer to a plate.

-Fry chicken in three batches, turning occasionally, until deep golden brown and cooked through, 6-7 minutes per batch. Transfer to paper towels to drain.

We ate ours with LOTS of very hot, hot sauce.

Now there’s a catchy title!

First of all, I am actually well enough that I am cooking again, which makes me feel like a human being. Tonight I cooked something that I probably didn’t invent, in fact I’m quite sure I had a version of this (maybe using beef, instead of pork) lodged in my grey matter. It was good, the kid ate it, and its pretty flexible in terms of what you have in your house. Here it is:

Braciola di Maiale Coprire Completamente

1. 4 boneless pork chops, no more than one inch thick and trimmed of most fat
2. 2 tablespoons Olive Oil
3. 3 cloves garlic, smashed
4. 1-2 shallots, roughly chopped
5. Fresh Rosemary
6. Salt and Pepper
7. 1 jar purchased or homemade Marinara or other meatless sauce
8. Red wine

-In a large skillet, heat olive oil over medium-low heat. Add garlic and shallots and sautee for about 1 minute

-Add chops, raise heat to medium, and cook until brown on both sides, sprinkling with salt, pepper and Rosemary after the final turn

-Cover chops with sauce, bring to a bubble, reduce heat to low and cover. Simmer until tender, about 30 minutes.

-Remove lid and add about 1/2 cup wine, mixing with the sauce and scraping anything stuck to the bottom of the pan.

-Serve with pasta, polenta or risotto.

Okay; that’s the pork chop part. I know you are curious about the agoraphobia. I am frequently amused by the search terms used to find my blog, and I am always meaning to write them down and write a post about them. (These search terms include “Hmong Baskets,” “Exploding Rice,” “Skeevy Tramps” and “No-Cook Cooking”). Today, checking out my dashboard, I was amused to see that someone had found me using the search term “Pioneer Woman Agoraphobic.” Color me baffled. Although my blogroll includes “The Pioneer Woman Cooks,” I am pretty darned sure that I have never written word one about agoraphobia.

Tomorrow, I’ll be cooking for Cinco de Mayo, and if I find out where my kid put his hoard of AA batteries, I’ll even post a picture.

When I was a poor student, and living in Boston in a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood, I was fascinated by some of the offerings in the meat department of my local grocery, which include pig trotters and tripe. I had no intention of buying, cooking or eating such things; I was just intrigued by the fact that somebody clearly did. I figured that their children grew up happily eating trotters and tripe. I imagined them, around the table, calmly accepting an animal’s foot for dinner in the same way that I might have welcomed, say, pot roast or macaroni and cheese. I can write off that phase of insular thinking as the result of being very young, very white, and very suburban.

As an adult foodie, I am constantly reading about, or watching the consumption of foods that I am not sure I, personally, could consume. The difference is that now I feel as if I should want to at least have a “no thank you bite,” because otherwise how can I claim to be a real food person?

I have branched out into oysters, I finally tried gfelte fish this year, and I am game to try escargot, but that doesn’t take me far enough out of my safety zone. There are articles about the virtuosity with which various famous chefs prepare offal, and I wonder if I would be able to eat a lavender-scented lamb kidney bundled with some potato and tied up with a scallion. I also watch Alton Brown eat fried calf-brain sandwiches (apparently, a big thing in Indiana), and Anthony Bourdain eating intestines, head cheese, eyeballs, testicles and penises. Would I, could I, on a dare? Would I, could I, eat balls, rare?

I would not, could not on a bet. I would not, could not, dry or wet. I do not like them, foodie press, I do not like that offal mess.

So, that leaves me as probably what I really am: a narrow-minded, provincial, faux foodie person who might try the newest thing in cheese or hunt for the elusive mangosteen, but will not eat animals tip-to-tail. (It is very fashionable, just now, to consume tip-to-tail, and I genuinely see the argument against wasting significant amounts of an animal slaughtered to be eaten). Many chefs who I admire greatly would scoff at this pronouncement, and Anthony Bourdain would likely write me off as yet another uninteresting and uninterested American seeking nothing more challenging than the nearest Applebee’s. So I ask myself this: if I were actually given the opportunity to eat in Iceland with Anthony, or to have Thomas Keller prepare kidneys for me at The French Laundry, would I demur? Could I look such an icon in the eye and say “no thanks; I’ll just have the grilled cheese?”

I like to think that I would try. I really, really do. We may never know, but for now I am going to tell you that I want to do the right thing, even if its squishy and gross.

I have to say that it is exceedingly difficult to write a post on a food blog during a time when I, personally, am unable to consume any food other than jello, Saltines and endless bottles of water.

I was sick on Tuesday, with one of those stomach viruses that is a “24 hour bug” if you are a child, but often proves to be more of a “72 hour bug” if you are not a child. I watched my actual child bounce back at the end of his 24 hours of languishing on the couch, and reasoned that I should do the same when my time was up. This was a grave miscalculation, and mistakes were made, including a bowl of Thai noodles. I am now back to where I found myself on Tuesday.

I am not the least bit nauseated. I can read magazines or books about food, and watch TV shows about food now; I just can’t eat any. The Revenge of the Thai Noodles is too fresh in my mind. This makes me very sad, and grumpy, and actually quite hungry. There is no one to make me Jello, and my husband bought me little plastic cups of Sugar-Free Jello that have (if this is possible) less than no flavor. They are entertaining to play with, in a mindless sort of way, but they are not food.

He claims that they do not sell such things in full-sugar form. It is ironic that this is the one time of my life when I could afford to eat 20 servings of jello with real, live sugar (its not like I’m getting calories from anywhere else), and I am stuck with my sugar-free, flavor-free cups of nothing.

As for the crackers, I do love a well-turned Saltine, and it is true that one only truly appreciates their simple perfection when forced to eat them without cheese, peanut butter, or tomato soup. (Hmmmmm… tomato soup….). They are crisp, flaky, salty, and pleasantly filling if they are the only food consumed in a 24 hour period. I hope that I will continue to appreciate their intrinsic value after I am back to eating food again, and keeping Saltines around mainly to perfect my soup.

I am whining, I am pathetic, and if you came here in search of a recipe or even a glimpse at my highly refined wit and legendary modesty, I apologize. I’ll be back, and you can bet I’ll be cooking and eating. For now, I will watch Lidia Bastianich cook something molto delicioso while I lie on the couch like Camille, hoping that someone will love me enough to find me some jello with some damned sugar in it. (Lime is my favorite).

[I have not been missing because I was on the beach in Rio; we have all had stomach flu. As Shakespeare wrote: "Something there is in rotovirus that hath the power to blight the keenest appetite."]

Mr. Annie recently forwarded me this very interesting article by Sarah Dickerson about the fact that, while many Americans are suffering from economic woes, and facing hard choices in the grocery store, most food media are focusing on luxury ingredients unaffordable to most readers. Dickerson points out that there are, historically and currently, many resources for home cooks to cook and eat well on a budget, and that perhaps it would be better for our pocketbooks and the environment if we made some effort in that direction. In closing, she writes that:

“The time seems right for a mainstream voice (better yet, voices) to marry the pleasures of the table with the reality of a reduced budget, perhaps by using what we’ve learned from the food revolution. Michael Pollan has already made a big splash this year by recommending that people shy away from packaged products and eat less meat-two steps that are not only a grassroots vote for a new kind of food system but that will help save money. It’s possible, after all, to economize without reverting to a freezer full of Tex-Mex lasagna (one of those “mock-ethnic dishes that American dieticians love,” as Jeffrey Steingarten puts it). A new home economics could harness seasonal ingredients and real ethnic flavors; it could weave a lusty appreciation of food with a sober appreciation of the grocery dollar.”

I am not ashamed to tell you that our food budget is tight, and that the reason we eat relatively well is that I know how to cook. I buy what’s on sale, I make at least one non-meat meal a week (more, in summer), I know how to make tough protein come out silky, and bland protein more flavorful. I buy very little that is processed or “convenient” not just because it is unhealthy (I love me some Cheetos) but because it is far more expensive to buy potatoes that are cooked and packaged than it is to cook them myself, and they taste better. I can get much better cheese in block form, and it tastes better grated fresh. I cut up my own pineapples and save a couple of bucks. I can, and sometimes do, bone my own chickens, and I always make my own stock. Lest you should think I am idle, and have nothing better to do than swan around the kitchen boning chickens and singing camp songs, I can assure you that is not the case; it takes planning and thought.

I know that people are busy, and that some folks just don’t like to cook, but if you’re eating out often these days, or buying lots of easy-prep, prepared foods, think of what you could do with the money you saved if you just (really) cooked once or twice more a week. I’m thinking of beach vacations, theater in Manhattan…much better stuff than a pre-cooked pot roast and some Ore-Ida frozen potatoes. (Or my all-time favorite: Sandra Lee’s “Buche de Noel which begins with buying a pound cake and cutting it up). You can also use the money you save to buy the “unattainable” ingredients in recipes and make yourself potatoes with truffle shavings, or wallow in Saffron.

Read what Dickerson writes, think about your own consumption and budget, and maybe you can make a plan that saves you cash, helps the environment and still lets you feed yourself comfortably and well.

I used to post a weekly menu every week, sometimes adding menus or comments about what I was cooking. After a while (particularly as I entered the fresh produce-free winter slump) I decided that no ones’ world would be rocked by the revelation that my family was having chili mac on Tuesday or lemon chicken on Friday. So I stopped, and there was barely a ripple.

Last week, at a party, I spoke with a young friend of mine who is newly married and has an avid and charming curiosity about the world in general, and cooking in particular. She asked me why I had stopped writing those weekly menus, and said that she “just liked to know what other people were eating.” Being fairly nosy myself (I look into windows when I am walking the dogs at night to admire bookshelves and shake my head at bad paint choices) I fully understand this. I am therefore restoring the weekly menu feature, starting today.

Saturday

Braised Chicken Breasts with White Wine Sauce; Risotto with Asparagus

I don’t really have recipes for either of these; I sautee chicken breasts in olive oil for about 15 minutes (turning every 5 minutes), then I de-glaze the pan with white wine, return the chicken to the pan, season with salt, pepper and maybe some Tarragon, and add enough chicken stock to cover most of the chicken. I then reduce the heat under the chicken to medium-low and let it cook while I make the risotto (usually like this), about 30 minutes tops. I serve the chicken with the risotto and some pan sauce poured over the top. If I’m feeling thin, I add a little cream to the sauce before serving.

Sunday

Broccoli Cheddar Potatoes and Green Salad

This is simple as can be. Bake big russet potatoes, steam some broccoli, make a cheese sauce (white sauce with shredded sharp cheddar), mix the broccoli into the sauce and serve over baked potatoes. Extra shredded cheese or bacon are lovely flourishes, and leftover ham goes nicely into the mix, although I like to serve this as a vegetarian dinner.

Monday

Chicharrones de Pollo, Green Beans and Rice

I have never made chicharrones before, but I found a recipe in the September 2007 issue of “Gourmet” that has been calling to me. It isn’t on “Gourmet’s” website, but I did find it here. I may play with a little saffron action in the rice, and will serve the green beans steamed with a little lemon, butter and good salt.

Tuesday

Pan-Fried Pierogies and Scalloped Apples

Busy day; frozen pierogies. I’ll just sautee them in a pan with some onions, slice and sautee some apples with some butter, brown sugar and cinnamon, and call it good.

Wednesday

Braised Pork Chops with Rosemary; Ditalini with butter and Parmesan and Green Salad

The braised pork chops are prepared much like the braised chicken from Sunday, except that I use Rosemary, and lots of it. I also usually sautee a little garlic in the pan and remove it before starting the pork.

Thursday

Scrambled Eggs with Chorizo and Tortillas (Migas) and Fruit Salad

I have made my own version of Migas many times, but this recipe was in the same issue of “Gourmet” as the Chicharrones de Pollo, and looked pretty fabulous.

Friday

Grilled Burgers, Potato Chips and Fruit

Hey, its a free country. Don’t judge me.

P.S. Is it wrong that I am totally freaked out by the fact that every time the spell-checker finds the word “sautee,” it offers me “suttee” as an alternative?

(In case you have been following this contest to fill a bowl I was recently awarded, this will not interest you in the least). If you are following, or were actually sufficiently courageous to enter, here are the results:

Robert had me at “[t]he cold will make the cool wings sweat and trickle moisture down both the inside and the outside as everything kinda hovers in the base.”

I was intrigued by the trifles, ceeelce’s melons, Diana’s limoncello sorbet, the jello shot the edible flowers…you are all incredibly creative people,

but

Robert wins. If you would be so kind, Robert, as to send me street address in the next week or so, something edible from Michigan will be on its way to you soon.

Lunch hurts, lunch scars,
Lunch wounds, and marks,
Any heart, not tough,
Or strong, enough
To take a lot of pain,
Take a lot of pain
Lunch is like a cloud
Holds a lot of rain
Lunch hurts, ooh ooh lunch hurts

Im young, I know,
But even so
I know a thing, or two
I learned, from you
I really learned a lot,
Really learned a lot
Lunch is like a flame
It burns you when its hot
Lunch hurts, ooh ooh lunch hurts

Some fools think of happiness
Blissfulness, togetherness
Some fools fool themselves I guess
They’re not foolin me

I know it isn’t true,
I know it isn’t true
Lunch is just a lie,
Made to make you blue
Lunch hurts, ooh,ooh lunch hurts
Ooh,ooh lunch hurts

I know it isn’t true,
I know it isn’t true
Lunch is just a lie,
Made to make you blue
Lunch hurts, ooh ooh lunch hurts
Ooh ooh lunch hurts
Ooh ooh…

(Sorry, Nazareth).

When I was a kid, we went home for lunch (not an option for me, a deprived latchkey orphan), we had hot lunch, or we had cold lunch. Hot lunch generally involved exotic foods never seen in the home, such as Hungarian Goulash and City Chicken. There was also a small carton of milk with silver pull-off tabs that read “homo,” much to our collective amusement. Cold lunch, for me, was packed by my father who favored Deviled Ham sandwiches or peanut butter, and felt that removing crusts was likely to cause us to lose all sense of morals and responsibility.

I have now been the packer of lunches for six (long) years. Sam did not historically favor hot lunch because it was both repellent and skimpy; a “serving” of carrot sticks was three baby carrots, and there were chicken nuggets that resembled nothing so much as tiny brown sponges for scrubbing miniature pots and pans. Ketchup was rationed to prevent abuse. More recently, the schools have moved to Healthy Lunches which are, in general, even more inedible than the unhealthy version. They tend to involve turkey hot dogs and pizza with wheat crust. If I were a better person, Sam would embrace these opportunities to load up on low-fat protein and fiber, but I am not, and he hates them.

If I were a better person, I would also be more enthused about packing cold lunch. Part of the problem is the high standard set by other mothers who are clearly reading Martha Stewart publications when they should be shopping or drinking. “Ted’s mom takes all the grapes off the stem and washes them and packs them in paper towels inside the plastic bag.” “Matt always gets Lunchables.” “Alan’s mom packs the meat and the bread separately and gives him those little packages of mayo and mustard so he can make his sandwich fresh and it doesn’t get mushy.” Bully for them.

There is also the issue of peanut allergies which, while real and somewhat terrifying, impose severe limitations on what can be packed in a lunch bag. Peanut butter is out, baked goods with peanut butter are out, peanuts are obviously verboten, and its also necessary to scan labels to be sure that cookies, crackers and other unhealthy starch snackage is not manufactured in a place where there even are peanuts. Since a peanut butter sandwich is the easiest thing to throw together when one has, hypothetically, neglected to construct a lunch until five minutes before its time to head off to school, the allergy situation is a blow to Bad Moms everywhere.

Last week, I bought ham, bread, juice boxes, Cheez-Its, pickles, baby carrots and bananas. I though a ham sandwich with three fruit-vegetable servings and some crackers was a pretty good lunch. When I was feeling benevolent, I would throw in the chocolate mints I got with my lunch bill the day before, or a pack of gum. I meticulously packed the bread, ham and mustard separately, and froze the juice bag to keep the sandwich from growing lethal bacteria that would cause my only child to drop dead during Computer Lab. For five golden days, it worked.

This past Monday, I flaunted the fates and packed the lunch so beloved the previous week. When I asked how lunch was on the way home, there was a long silence. “Well, that ham isn’t really my favorite.” (It was the same ham). “The pickles were weird, too. I traded them for Kellan’s Powerade.” So. The ham was no good, the pickles were trashed, and I had nothing else to put in sandwiches besides peanut butter. (See Peanut Butter, above).

I found myself, at 10:00 on consecutive nights, frantically hunting through refrigerator and cupboards for things that would taste good to Sam and not result in the relinquishment of my parental rights to Child Protective Services. Was that apple too old? If it turned brown, would he just throw it away? Do oyster crackers count as a food? If I used Tahini in a sandwich instead of peanut butter would it still kill the kids with allergies? Its made with sesame seeds; is that like a nut? So I’m on the Internet checking out whether Tahini triggers anaphylaxis in people with nut allergies, and I have packed a bag with Chiclets, a bag of crushed oyster crackers from soup lunch at a restaurant, two juice bags, a suspect apple and a chunk of Parmesan cheese. I give up, in despair. He won’t eat the damned Tahini, anyway.

The next day after school, he told me it was “the best lunch ever.” Wednesday and Thursday I continued to make what I came to think of as Pioneer lunches (because I was foraging) and included things like hard boiled eggs, leftover barbecued chicken in a tortilla, and a colorful assortment of Nerds and Mike & Ikes in lieu of fruit. Today I gave up, and his father took him something from McDonald’s.

I will work all of this out right around the time he gets his drivers’ license and a part-time job, and leaves school for lunch every day to take some undeserving but cute blond clarinetist type to Arby’s. Until then, I try to assuage the pain lunch has brought into my once idyllic life.