Chicken Marbella

On November 22, friends joined us for dinner. These friends have three children so our combined families require food for 8 people. I thought I'd try Sheila Lukins' famous recipe Chicken Marbella.

Essentially, it's chicken pieces braised in white wine, olive oil, herbs, garlic (as in a head of pureed garlic), prunes, capers, and olives. Very tasty but because the prunes and olives are whole people who don't like such things can just pick them out.

I went to Whole Foods for my chicken because it's nearby and I figured I could get a better product. Remember, please that this shopping excursion occurred on the Sunday before Thanksgiving. A high-traffic time for groceries, you'd think. Lots of people. Wanting food. Because that's what groceries do. (sell food).

But you'd have thought, based on the level of readiness at WF, that it was a Tuesday in February.

What was in the butcher's case? NOTHING. Photo below. Not that the case is empty. As in: empty.

There's more. When I asked for chicken pieces, I went round and round with the butcher about it. How much? He had no advice to offer. Thighs and breasts? No opinion. Finally, I just told him how many I wanted and he popped into the back area.

He emerged with two plastic-wrapped parcels (the kind that regular groceries put into the meat section) which he pulled open. They had been frozen. He then weighed out the pieces I wanted and wrapped them loosely in paper (loosely wrapping chicken is the best way because then the juices leak out onto other foods, flavoring them).

While I watched him do this, I read the orange sticker below:

So true. So, so true.

Then I went looking for the other items on my list. Each and every aisle was blocked. Every aisle.

Above, a dolley with boxes. Below,  stacked crates and a cart full of broken-down boxes.

Boxes. More Boxes. Just laying on the floor.

Was anyone unloading them? No. Was this because the staff were quite busy with customers? No. they were, mostly, standing around the checkouts and customer-service desk, chatting.

I was...not amused. But I had chicken! And prunes (more prunes than anyone would ever need but they sold only one size and at that point my mood had turned sorta sour so I didn't think I should go anywhere else).

I made the chicken. It was good. I followed the recipe almost exactly (bought the wrong olives at WF so I had to use a slightly different olive) and the one thing I'd say is that another 20 minutes in the oven wouldn't be amiss. Otherwise, delicious.

Me, checking the dish by giving it the evil squinty eye. If it fails to flinch you know it's done.

Recipe.

Oops.

1. We moved a lot of kitchen tools to Long Beach. I sent my old, no-handle pyrex there.
2. I bought new, handle-y pyrex!
3. I loved my new, handle-y pyrex and used it all the time.
4. Last night, for example.
5. But remember those stories about pyrex exploding sometimes? Like, when it heated or cooled too fast?
6. Yep. Those are true.


But the pork tenderloin was delicious. So...

Ermagerd

Wednesday, I received a generous gift. Pounds and pounds of jam, dried tomatoes, freshly baked bread (as in, still yeasty and warm), zucchini/chocolate brownies, pickles, and a big jar of fresh tomato sauce (chock full of veggies).

Tonight, inspired by this bounty, I made the lasagna you see above. Layers of sauteed beef and pork, caramelized onions, ricotta with fresh basil mixed in, locally-made fresh mozzarella, Caputo's lasagna noodles (whole sheets! You just thaw them and lay them in the pan.).

It was excellent. There's just nothing like homemade.

Fingers

The night we arrived in Boston (on our way to Maine), our hotel had some kind of restaurant crisis. They offered only a sad, sad buffet.

[Please note that I think this "crisis" and the "only for tonight" explanation is a lie. When we returned to the hotel last night we ran into a family who had just been told the same story - note same night of the week - and were trying to find a way to feed their 3 grumpy kids. But back to us:]

We fled across the parking lot to Floramo's. I described it before: this is red-checked tablecloth Italian (plus BBQ!) (and seafood!) without the need for those silly table cloths.

But here's what I wanted to say about it today: check out that pour.

Flying across the country (through JFK, not my favorite airport) tries one's nerves. It does. One needs a little something to help one to relax so one does not respond badly to yet another complaint about the lack of Legos, climate, food, drink, darkness, absence of a pool, need for the bathroom...

We ordered whisky. I had to go look at the bar to pick one because our waitress was adorably ignorant. But out it came and what a lovely sight. Here in Utah whisky in a restaurant would look like a slightly moist glass. You'd think, "Huh. I think they rinsed it with whisky."

Not in Boston. Two solid fingers. Welcome to the northeast - a place I loved when I lived there and still love today. Bugs and all.

Harvest

Above, Larry being Larry. In other words, checking his phone at dinner. Probably linking to stuff on Facebook. He does that.
 

But where were we? At Harvest, of course. On our first "dine out" night (translation: DON'T EAT THE FISH!) (Actually, the AP likes to give the food service people a break twice during the reading. They don't make dinner and we all go out to eat.) we visited Proof on Main again. I tried moonshine. It was great (tasted like butter) (the definition of "great")(I am using a lot of parentheses tonight).

On our second "dine out" night we took the downtown trolley to Harvest, a farm-to-table restaurant in the NuLu neighborhood. It's cute - Louisville's own teensy little Brooklyn.

The cocktail above? A Kentucky Champagne. Ale 8 (nectar of the Gods) plus bourbon plus a twist. Quite tasty! Before that Larry and I revisited our affectionate regard for Eagle Rare bourbon.

If you happen to be in Louisville, Harvest is pretty good. The meat platter (all kinds of BBQ-ish stuff), the fried chicken, the steak. It's all good. The grits are weird. Don't order those. Also, if you sit at the crazy table made of a slice of tree, watch your drink. The table isn't flat so your cocktail might just...slide right off into your lap.

Didn't happen to me, of course. But only because a nimble-fingered waitress dipped her knees as she passed and caught the darn thing. 

Oh, Louisville. Really?

 Cake.

And pie.

 And cake.

And ice cream.

These are the kinds of things the AP reading forces upon me. This, after a meal at Four Pegs. And by meal, I mean a burger with cheese and flash-fried edamame (mmm...chili oil) and fried green tomatoes. Also, beer.

The kid said, "How about some pie and ice cream?" and who can say no to a precocious child just entering his second decade of life? Who?

So we went to a place named Homemade Pie and Ice Cream. Because truth in advertising. As they say in Kentucky, "I ain't gone lie" it was awesome. I didn't know what to do. But you know - keep calm and all that. I had some ice cream.

And then I stumbled home in a bilious fog, feeling (as I told Larry) that I was eight months pregnant with a burger baby.

Back to That Again

Iain grew half an inch or so in the last 3 months. And eating? Oh, he's eating.

Today, for breakfast, he ate a bowl of oatmeal and drank a glass of milk.

That was at 845 or so. At 11 he began to demand lunch. I made it for him at 1115 after about ten requests. What did he eat?

• a piece of toast with a tablespoon of butter
• a fried egg
• a bowl with half a banana and a half cup of grapes in it
• a bowl of corn chips
• a bowl of salsa (like a third to half a cup)
• a bowl of sour cream (probably half a cup)
• a wedge of my quesadilla (containing cheese and chicken) 
• two Oreos
• a large glass of milk

It is now 1210. At 430 we depart for a friend's house for a BBQ. I hope she's ready. 

Whee!

Just booked a week in Maine this summer. So excited to be back in the Land of Lobstah.

Tony, We Love You

Above, Tony and Iain checking out a half-frozen creek in Capital Reef National Park. There were several tracks across it, so they spent a minute or two speculating about wildlife.

Anyway.

The thing is, I never actually made decent baked potatoes. Ever.

Recipes say, "Heat the oven. Poke the potatoes. Bake for an hour. Voila!"*

No. This is a lie.

But Tony...he knows things. So he said, "Oh, you microwave them for 14 minutes, then bake them at 375 for an hour." Really?

Yes. Really. They're good. Really good. I've made them thrice. Every time: really good. And now Iain says "You make good potatoes, mom." We've decided to call them Tony's Potatoes.

We miss you, guys.




*Please note for the record that I even tried the recipe offered by Alton Brown. Nothing worked for me. Nothing.

The End

We made a gingerbread house while the Boys were here. It featured two houses, four little gingerbread people, and a Christmas tree. Iain insisted that there be a "girl house" and a "boy house." Gingerbread people admire the Shakers, apparently.

My lady ginger people sported candy pearls. Their house had a fully-decorated roof, too.

Iain, on the other hand, decorated his gingerdudes with M&Ms and Skittles, made his snowman into a cyclops, and gave his house a minimalist roof and a candycane mustache.

From above you can see that the two houses have a peppermint walkway to link them. Like you would. And a nice jellybelly border in case you want to stray into the garden. Also, on either side of the entrance there are rounded flower patches. The front of the property is fenced with gumballs and candy canes. The photos don't show it (human error) but there are snowdrifts of marshmallows along the back of the houses, too.

[And a jam jar inside the girls' house because Mommy can't remember to take out the supports before she puts on the roof.]

Next: when kindergartners attack.

Iain grabbed the meat tenderizer Miriam gave us (first used in gingerbread demolition last year) and went to town.

Bam! Bye-bye, boys' house.

He really enjoyed breaking it into small pieces.

And then it was all over. I remembered, too late, the fact that picking candy bits out of the wet, cold, wintery grass is a pain in the butt.

Goodbye, pretty gingerbread house. See you again next year.

More Capital Reef - and Granola

Charles and Iain, walking through a riverbed. My favorite kinds of hikes: flat and shady. Add some pretty rocks and I'm sold. So Capital Reef wins all my happy awards.

Of course, we chose to stroll through an area behind the ranger station. Check back with me in June when I've slogged up the hot, shiny bits on a warmer day. I might not be quite so enthusiastic.

Today is overcast. Grey, cold, moist and generally not what Utahns like in weather. So I'm making granola.

Partly, it's the weather. Partly, it's the huge bag of rolled oats left in my pantry from a cooking experiment gone wrong several months ago. When you have too many rolled oats the best thing to do is make some granola. Breakfast: covered. Pantry: bulging a bit less. House: smells nice.

So that's the task. I mixed two recipes today, one from this blog and one from Use Real Butter. The basic formula goes like this:

• 6 cups rolled oats
• 1/2 to 3/4 cups fat (I used a stick of butter and a little oil today)
• 1/2 to 3/4 cups sweet (I used maple syrup and honey today, in the same proportions as the butter and oil above- 1/2 cup of the first, 1/4 cup of the second)
• Some nuts and stuff (I had almonds in the freezer, plus half a cup of old peanuts plus some leftover Brazil nuts and weird seeds (flax? Pepitas? I dunno) in a bag of trail mix. Just toss it in. Who cares?)
• Some dried fruit for later. I have dried cranberries and a tiny bit of other stuff from that trail mix. I'm not sure what it is, but I'm sure it will be fine.

So you mix all the stuff except the fruit, spread it on a sheet pan (with a silpat if you value your time and don't want to scrub for the next week), and bake it at a little less than 350 (I'm using 315 this time because my old recipe says 300 and Jen says 350) for 30 minutes.

Wham. Done. Granola for brekkie this week. 

Wedding Cake For KP and Laurie

We had a dinner planned with KP and Laurie last Friday night. Nothing especially fancy - just a glass of wine and some pot roast.

But then. A federal judge decided to act before the holiday began. He did. We needed, as a consequence, cake.

So cake. Plus an orange buttercream. Plus raspberry jam on top for color and tang. Plus some candy pearls I had in the cabinet.

I'm not much of a cake decorator, but it was festive. And we wanted so much to celebrate.

Yurm

We had ham. But for Mother: cornish game hens. I roasted them with orange peels, zaatar, thyme and butter.

We also had the usual suspects: mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, carrots, dressing, green beans...and, of course, spanikopita. Because the Greeks know what's good. I'm not Greek, but I recognize genius when I see it.

Mmm...with one big fork for me. Me!

Kitchen in Full Swing

There's apple sauce (from apples grown on a tree in the backyard of two former students) in the slow cooker, ginger syrup reducing on the stove, and wild rice absorbing water in the rice cooker.

Tonight's menu:

Drinks: ginger lemon soda (for the preggies), ginger orange bourbon cocktails for the rest

Apps: pistachios, locally-produced bresaola, parmesan crisps

Mains: grilled flank steak, wild rice and kale gratin (from Smitten Awesomeness), roasted tomatoes with garlic, herbs and breadcrumbs, honey-mustard carrots, and asparagus. Nate is bringing bread.

Dessert: ice cream with salted caramel sauce, chocolate fudge, strawberries and almonds (it's like a buffet. I'm tired of cake. Please call a doctor.)

After lunch I'll slice the onions, chop the kale, measure out the bread crumbs and peel the carrots. Then a haircut. Then we start cooking for reals.

Oh.

Some things only work in some places.

Years ago I spent a week or so reading letters at the Houghton Library at Harvard. Aside from their security procedures ("Strip into this locker. Now turn slowly while we inspect you for stolen documents. Don't act innocent! We know you've got some 19th-century bit of parchment in there!"), the trip was a great success. I found lots of fun things, determined the absolute worst handwriting in the US (George William Curtis), and used the OED to look up the word "Nasty" (quite old, as it turns out).

One night, my mother's best friend Mary Ellen served steamed chicken breast with broccoli. It was totally plain because you were supposed to dip the meat and veg into a simple sauce made of oil, soy, garlic and ginger with green onion floating on the top. Utterly delicious.

I went home. I found the recipe. I attempted the dish. Repeatedly. No dice. At my house it was terrible.

Soooo....remember those gnocchi?

I made some tonight. This time I used the kind of potato he recommends.

But you know the thing about Salt Lake vs. DC? Humidity. In Miriam's house the dough came together. In Miriam's house the pillows cooked up into little cushions of love.

In my kitchen I got crumbly flour. I added a bit of water, eventually. Still not good. I added an egg yolk (after consulting some Foodgawker recipes). Finally: dough that looked about right. But when cooked? Nasty, y'all. Not at all good.

I'll try again, but I suspect that this is like Mary Ellen's dish. It'll work in DC. Here I'm out of luck.

Learning and Growing

I learned to make gnocchi. Miriam taught me. Also, this guy.

Basically, it's a 3-2-1 ratio. Three parts cooked, chilled floury potato (so Idaho, the kind you make baked potatoes from). Two parts flour. One part parmesan cheese. Mix.

Then you add yum: salt, pepper, nutmeg.

Then you roll it out ("like Play-Do!" said Iain), cut it into pieces and boil it. Easy peasy.

Fabio (see above) fries his in a pan with olive oil and chili flakes. I think I'd rather toss mine with brown butter and sage. But whatever.

THE POINT is that I'll be making gnocchi tomorrow. Yurm.

Another holiday gift

A couple of years ago, I needed new pot holders. Charles gave me two new ones for Christmas that year. One was your basic potholder. The other had stripes made of silicon. In theory, it would protect my hands from heat even better than the padded material in a traditional pot holder.

It was a great success. The only problem was that I used the silicon pot holder all the time. To the exclusion of almost anything else, I reached for it.

As a result it wore out pretty quickly. You can see the burned spots and holes above. This year, Charles bought two new pot holders. Both have the stripes.

I've been baking like mad, of course. Gooey Cinnamon Cake yesterday, Blueberry Cornmeal Cake today. Who knows what tomorrow might bring?

Palmiers

Two weeks ago I attempted a cookie made from puff pastry. They're twirly swirls of sugar and butter called palmiers.

Fail. Total fail.

This week I found a new recipe on Foodgawker. I had to keep the link open for the entire week before I found time to play with a new batch of puff pastry but...

Success! Beautiful, soft, cinnamon goodness.

You can find the recipe (more of a description) here.

Long story short:
Get a box of puff pastry. I used Pepperidge Farm. Thaw it in the fridge. Lose your patience with that and put it on the counter for 2 hours.

While it's thawing, pour about 2 cups of sugar in a bowl and mix it with cinnamon. You'll have lots of leftover sugar but you need a lot to do this. The leftovers can be used to make cinnamon toast so don't complain.

When the pastry is soft and pliable, pour some sugar on your countertop and lay the piece of pastry (unfolded if it was folded) on top. Pour more sugar over the top and basically pat/rub it in. Try to avoid finger licking.

Once it's covered (I like to flip it over once so I can press more sugar in because the act of pressing sugar into dough is therapeutic enough it ought to cost $300/hr), start rolling in the sides. The idea is to roll the sides like a cigar, starting from the outer edge and rolling toward the center. Roll each of the sides so that you end up with two long rolls that meet in the middle. Think of a twirly mustache. Like that. Ish. Now wrap it in plastic wrap and put it back in the freezer. (THIS IS A VERY IMPORTANT STEP DO NOT SKIP IT)

After half an hour (or a week or whatever), preheat the oven to 425F. Slice your roll into cookies about one third of an inch thick. Lay them on a cookie sheet with a Silpat, about 2 inches apart. Bake for 12 minutes.

The recipe I found calls for coarse sugar and a tiny bit of salt sprinkled on top. I didn't do this but next time I will. My cookies were great, but that extra sugar crunch would have been divine.

Cool them on the cookie sheet for a couple of minutes, then transfer to a rack.

I know from my previous experience that these store really well. Good for lunchboxes. My box of puff pastry contained two folded sheets. I prepared both, but only baked one (perfect on a single cookie sheet). So I have another roll frozen for later use. Whee!

I guess that story wasn't so short. Anyway, check out the original blog. I'll be reading for more recipes.

The Never Ending Journey

Ah, coffee. You were the highlight of my day.

My mother and I departed Salt Lake this morning at 10:18. Oh, wait. No we didn't! We departed at 12:20, two hours late. Thanks, United.

We missed our lunch date with our cousins (disappointing) but trekked up to Emporio Rulli anyway. Having risen at 630 (after a nice wakeup at 2am, 4am, and 6am - Iain!) and breakfasted at 7, we needed a little something to keep us from biting Californians.

But we ought to have known that our morning of delay, frostbite (small airplane plus cotton socks- ZOMG), and frustration (101N? Ha! Try 101S to 380 to 280 to endless traffic in SF) bode ill for a service experience. We happened to visit Rulli on a day when they were breaking in two new employees. So it took ten minutes just to order, then we waited endlessly for our coffee and sandwiches, then we found that Mother's turkey sandwich had morphed into a ham sandwich.

I might have stalked into the cafe and proclaimed, "My mother's Jewish, this ain't gon' fly!"

Ahem.

Anyway, while we waited the couple of women next to us got up, kissy-faced, bade one another goodbye and separated. So when two men walked up and said, "Is this table open?" I said, "Yes!" Then one woman came back. Oops. She was a complete...person who rides a broom. "What made you think I was gone? What kind of person just takes a table? Where's my stuff?"

Sandwiches consumed. Coffee swallowed. Let's get the heck out of here. Which way? How about this way? Nope. How about that way? Nope. Ten minutes up a crazy, windy, tree-lined road with ABSOLUTELY NO PLACE TO TURN AROUND? Sure. Great. Let's do it again.

Finally on the 101, we spent three hours in traffic. Every time we thought it was over it popped up again. Let me tell you about the 7 exits for Novato.

At last. AT LAST, we reached exit 523 - California Highway 128. Yay! Mendocino!

No. No. No.

68 miles on a windy, two-lane road lined with: construction, redwoods, boulders.

We finally arrived, achy and punch-drunk, at 815 Pacific time. Our B&B is utterly adorable. We're watching TV, drinking water in wine glasses (it's wine country, y'all), and eating the cookies we bought at Emporio Rulli. Thank god for those cookies, because there won't be any supper tonight.

help. me.

Tomatoes! Actual Food This Time

At the end of last week I received a little bag of heirloom tomatoes. They are the bounty of someone's overflowing garden.

And what should appear on Foodgawker? Roasted, caramelized tomatoes in a cast-iron pan.

Sign me up. And while you're at it, sign me up for this cutey-patootie blog, too.

Check it out. Easiest recipe in the world, excellent results.

NOTE: She says she boiled the juice on the cooktop to reduce it. In my case, that was unnecessary. The pan came out of the oven with the juice already the consistency of pomegranate syrup. Depending on the liquid content of your heirlooms, this will vary. Be prepared.