Cooking up a storm

It looks a bit sparse on that big plate, 
and the bok choy looks a bit pitiful,
but the chicken was really good.
Perhaps I need to improve my food stylist skills.

It’s the weekend, and as usual I’ve spent much of it cooking. Along the way I’ve learned a couple of things. Besides, I’ve enjoyed it.

Friday night, I fixed cottage pie—the English version of shepherd’s pie. If you make it with lamb, it’s shepherd’s pie; with beef, cottage pie. We had cottage, though as I made it I regretted that I hadn’t thought to get lamb. It’s about time for some more lamb in our diet, perhaps Julia Child’s recipe for spring lamb stew. But until I get to that, cottage pie makes a good, one-dish meal. It’s one of Christian’s favorites, and I always cook with at last one thought of him in mind. Jordan sweetly mashed the potatoes for me, though I cooked and peeled them. Somehow having her do that made the meal less of a chore.

Tonight I was more ambitious and followed recipes for sauteed baby bok choy and bourbon chicken—it turns out Christian had several bottles of bourbon stashed in my closet. I refrained from using the good stuff, though it was only a quarter cup. That recipe had a little bit of everything in it—ketchup, apple cider (I used white wine). Honey, soy, bourbon, chicken broth—no wonder it was flavorful. There was part though that was an ordeal: cubing the chicken thighs, even though they were boneless and skinless. I put them out to defrost, hoping to catch them in a semi-frozen state when they would be easier to cut up. First time I tried, they were still frozen too hard; then I let them go too long, and they were defrosted. And the lesson of the day: my knives really needed sharpening. I’ve known that for some time, hated to add one more thing to the list I ask the kids to do for me. You ask why I don’t do it myself—I have an electric knife sharpener but  simply cannot bear the sound. So tonight, after dinner, Christian left with the sharpener and several of my knives.

Other than that, the bourbon chicken was fairly easy to do if you remember mise en place—prepping all ingredients and equipment before you begin. The list of ingredients in the sauce for the chicken was fairly daunting—unless you took it item by item and had it ready before you cooked the chicken. Similarly the bok choy recipe called for two separate mixtures. So I did all that and carefully considered what pans I would use. As it turned out I used a pan for the bok choy, transferred that to a slightly smaller pan, washed the first one, and did the chicken in it. But the real saving grace was having all those little dishes of oil and garlic and complex sauce ready before I began.

None of us were too enthusiastic about bok choy even before I served it. Although it was billed as baby bok choy, I suspect it was larger than that. Christian doesn’t like cooked greens, though the stems were crisp and good, and he remarked he liked the taste. Jordan and I were lukewarm. So the recipe went into the round file, and the remains into the compost.

The chicken was another matter—it was not only hard to cut up but hard to cook. You tossed it with cornstarch, but that turned it into one gluey mess making it hard to follow directions that said cook in a single layer. I persevered but none of it browned like the recipe promised, and I ended up deglazing the pan with a bit of uncalled for white wine to get up all those good, browned bits. Perhaps my pan is not as non-stick as I like to think. But I removed the chicken, heated the sauce and cooked it until thickened, added back the chicken, It was to be served over rice, but neither Jordan nor I care for the rice, so Christian brought his own. We garnished it with green onions and declared it a semi-Asian success.

So what I learned was the importance of mise en place. But the other thing was a certain pride in myself. It’s hard to admit, but I live in a semi-assisted living arrangement. There are things I can no longer do for myself and have to ask for help with. But when I do one of those little things, I feel so triumphant. Tonight, it was figuring out how to get lids off two resistant things—the chicken bouillon where I used my mom’s hot water trick, and the bourbon where I used a rubber jar “thing” to twist the top off the bourbon. Somewhere in my not-so-colorful life, I have torn both my rotator cuffs and, of course, never had the surgery because I know it is brutal. So both my reach and my grasp are compromised, But tonight I figured hacks to get me by things that normally would have required help and that made me inordinately proud. I will add that the mechanical jar opener I recently ordered was worthless.

Tomorrow the Burtons will go to have dinner with Christian’s father. Sunday nights are always a bit hard for me, because for so many years that was family night, and I fed anywhere from fifteen to twenty. I always think Sunday dinner should be something special, so now when I’m alone I splurge. Tomorrow it will be baked scallops in lemon butter and probably a few spears of asparagus with cheese sauce. And, oh yes, a glass of wine!

One of the wonderful things about my retirement/reclusive/golden years life is that I eat very well. I hope you do too.

A happy foodie weekend—and a cuckoo clock

 

My new birdsong cuckoo clock

I have a new cuckoo clock! Forestalling any comments on the appropriateness of such a clock in my cottage, I hasten to tell you this one is different. It could say “Cuckoo!” but instead Christian set it to a bird song. On the hour, a little blue bird emerges and trills it song—I am not knowledgeable enough about birds to tell you what bird it is, but it is cheerful and, to my delight, not too loud (it doesn’t wake me at night). It has a repertoire of twelve birds’ songs, but the instructions are in German, so we may not change it often. Thanks to son Jamie for this cheerful addition to the cottage. I’m really enjoying it.

As my weekends often are, this one was devoted to food—but rather to writing about it almost more than preparing it. I keep finding recipes that fit into my cookbook featuring my mom’s cooking or my updates on it. I have now, I think, gone through most of the old files I have, but I also keep remembering things she fixed. Like salmon croquettes—I had written that she rarely cooked fish, claimed she didn’t know how. And then I remembered the croquettes, only because Jordan and I had my version (salmon patties) for supper Friday night. And today I remembered but haven’t written up that in that era of jellied foods, Mom had a fish-shaped mold and made a jellied salmon appetizer. Not sure I have—or want—the recipe, but it deserves a mention.

Jordan and I have seen a lot of each other this weekend and enjoyed it, at least I did. Friday nights Christan often has a late happy hour with a good friend, so it was just the two of us. I made extra patties in case he showed up hungry, but I’m not sure he would have eaten the salmon at all. He once told me his mom made them and described them as like hockey pucks (she liked all meats very well done). I do remember once he said he’d try mine, and he liked them, but he hasn’t seemed anxious to try again.

Fresh salmon was on sale at Central Market, so I ordered—what turned out to be a huge piece for Saturday supper for the three of us (Jacob never has weekend meals at home—ah, to be seventeen again!). At the last minute, Christan was invited to the rodeo. Saturday morning he was most apologetic about the last-minute change and then began to tell me how it was really good for his business, etc. I told him he didn’t have to rationalize, and he laughed. Jordan still wanted salmon but we discovered the pound and a half was big enough we could cut off portions for ourselves and still freeze the rest for a meal another time. Christian has promised to grill it. Last night I roasted it with a garlic/anchovy/butter sauce. Good, but one of those recipes I can’t follow exactly because it calls for starting the dish in a skillet and finishing it by putting the skillet in the oven. When you only have a toaster oven, that’s not possible. Still, it was good, and I enjoyed the tiny bit I saved for lunch today.

Tonight though was the big deal. Christan a couple of weeks ago requested carnitas, one of his favorite meals. I can’t tell you where I got the recipe, although some years ago I had an editor who taught me to cube a pork butt and cook it in simmering water until the water is all evaporated and the cubed meat crisps and browns in the fat. Then I found a recipe which adds spice to the water—orange peel, chopped onion and garlic, salt, bay leaves, oregano, cloves, and a cinnamon stick. The trouble is the water rarely evaporates in the time the recipe suggests, and I always worry that we’ll be sitting around until ten waiting for dinner. My prep time was lengthened because the boneless, cubed meat I ordered—wasn’t. I’d say at least ten percent was on the bone and hard to deal with, and instead of the one-inch cubes I requested, I got three- and four-inch pieces. I am honestly not a complainer, but I feel a call to Central Market coming on tomorrow.

Tonight I calculated two hours for it to cook—forty-five minutes longer than the recipe said. We ate at 7:30 which was only half an hour past my target time. We serve the meat with guacamole, sour cream, shredded Monterrey Jack, chopped cilantro, diced red onion and, of course, tortillas. For all my worry, it was really good tonight—full of flavor and very tender. It’s a lot of work and worry but worth it. I promised to do it again in six months.

So here we go into another week. Zenaida, who cleans the cottage, hasn’t been here since before Christmas, her schedule upset by holidays and weather, so Sophie and I are grateful she will be here in the morning, even though she’s coming at the awful hour of seven-thirty. And I have company coming for supper—I’ll need my nap.

May each of you have a blessed week. In Fort Worth, it will be sunny and in the sixties. We will be lulled into thinking winter is gone, but I am sure it is not. At least we can enjoy the good weather.

 

 

Weird weekend

 

Jordan and Christian at the Cattleman's Ball in Dalls

Weird. No other term for it. The Burtons have had major social engagements, and after a busy week, I have had none. So I’ve been sort of isolated out here in my cottage. Good thing I have Sophie to talk to, though she’s sometimes puzzled. In truth, I don’t mind the isolation. All week I felt pushed and rushed by deadlines—the neighborhood newsletter, the lessons for the online writing class I’m taking, blogs, etc. Now, momentarily, I’m caught up and can look ahead to some of the things that aren’t quite so pressing.

Highlight of my week: the launch of The Most Land, the Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas. With the kind permission of some administrators, I’ve posted an announcement on several web pages, plus my own, and have so far gotten close to 300 hits. Color me happy. I welcome any chance to talk about the content with anyone.

Tonight’s dinner was good—another one where I learned a lesson. It was a salmon bowl, adapted from a New York Times recipe. I think it will be the subject of next week’s post on the “Gourmet on a Hot Plate” blog, so watch for it on Thursday. The adaptations a tiny kitchen requires have been much on my mind lately, along with some lessons learned.

Salmon bowl

Last night’s dinner was a comedy of errors. Sometimes I get a notion in my head and there’s no talking me out of it—until I do that myself. Having posted the recipe for Sloppy Joe on Thursday, I decided yesterday I would make a batch for myself, even if no one else wants it. No problem, because Jordan was picking up groceries at Central Market, and I ordered a lb. of hamburger. Only when I unpacked the groceries, there was no hamburger. I called, they were sorry, did I want to come pick it up? No, I didn’t—at this point I have neither car nor driver’s license, and Jordan and Christian were busily putting on outrageous costumes for Monster Mash. I joked, asking the curbside person I was talking to what I should eat for supper. She talked to her manager, and they agreed to deliver it between six and seven. I was prepared to write a huge shout-out of gratitude for their outstanding service.

Meanwhile, I had begged the quarter cup of red wine that goes in my recipe from Christian but forgot to get the ketchup which had migrated into the house. Texted Jacob, who said he’d be home soon. His idea of soon is not mine, but he did eventually appear with the ketchup. And I had all the ingredients laid out, the seasonings in the wine, the beans (yes, pinto beans) rinsed and ready.

But by 7:45 the hamburger meat had not arrived. I was suddenly, instantly ravenous and didn’t care a fig about Sloppy Joe. I ate a ham sandwich on a slider bun.  Then I looked at a text. Despite clear directions about the back house and an open gate, the delivery person had merely dropped it on the front porch. Jacob was still home and retrieved it for me—and that’s how I came to make Sloppy Joe at nine o’clock last night. Not my usual hour for cooking, but it sure was good for lunch today. And I had to bother Jacob one more time for an icebox dish to store it in. I’m sure he went out just to get away from my requests.

If I want to give a shot-out to Central Market for service (delivery person aside), I want to send a big raspberry to the USPS. We’ve heard for a long time that trump put DeJoy in charge to de-stabilize the service, make it bankrupt, and privatize it. (Why do Republicans want to privatize everything? Look at how well that worked with the Texas energy grid!). Back to the postal service, I ordered stamps at the beginning of the month and have never gotten them. Today I got mail from the USPS. My first thought was better late than never, but how did they fit stamps into that #11 business envelope? It was not stamps but a letter informing me that I had been specially chosen to fill out a questionnaire about my recent transaction with the post office. You can bet I gave them a blistering answer. My understanding is that Biden cannot replace DeJoy without board approval, and he’s waiting for the term of some trump appointees to run out. The trump effect will continue to haunt us in a myriad of small ways for decades.

And there, that’s it, my rant. Unless you want me to start in on anti-vaxxers, Steve Bannon and the congressional members compliant in the insurrection, the paring down of Biden’s Build Back Better plan instead of going bold, and the apparent backing away from redoing trump’s enormous and foolish tax cut for the rich. Other than all those things, life is hunky-dory, and I’m a happy camper. Hope you are too.