Dreaming

Some people dream of social justice, others of world peace. I dream of the perfect corned beef hash. And what a better morning to dream of it, than the day after everyone has corned and boiled their beef.

There used to be in Pasadena, years ago, Rose City Diner on Fair Oaks, before its incarnation as Ruby's, then La Huasteca, then another empty restaurant. It was an old-style diner that served corned beef and hash. Like another favorite, the Grinder on PCH, the hash was made of steamy hot potatoes tender on the inside and crisp on the outside; sauteed onions, and slices of corned beef. All this topped with two eggs of your choice. I always ordered poached, since that's something I've never been able to master. (Joy of Cooking tells you to add vinegar to the boiling water, drop in the eggs and swirl gently; I think I'm pretty good, but not that good). Alas, time and tastes change, and that diner no longer exists. And yet I insist on ordering this dish, hope triumphing over experience. The last place I tried was in Eagle Rock, Pat and Lorraine's, where they filmed the best scene of Reservoir Dogs, the opening, which ends in argument about under-tipping the waitress. In other words, a place of dreams.

The waitress brought my melamine plate of breakfast, along with toast to sop up the yolk. Sigh. Someone had opened a can of the stuff, heated it on the griddle, and plated it. That can is one half step up from dog food. I fought the urge to under tip.

I guess I'm gonna have to attempt it myself. Mebbe even tomorrow. If that doesn't work out, I'll shoot for plan b: the perfect Reuben sandwich. Any food dreams of your own?

Comfort Foods

All right, I will now admit to a sense of malaise and uneasiness. I have been in denial, covering my ears and singing tra la la, turning off the radio, the internet, the tv, but some how the news has wormed its way in. From local, state, national to the world, we're, um, skewered.

There are sites that can tell you how to plant your victory garden, how to compost your unemployment check stubs and which soup kitchens have a Michelin star--to compliment those we now offer a completely person, partial list of ways to cheer ourselves up, if only for a meal, if only for a moment.


1) Ice cream. Even with an overcast sky there are few days ice cream can't enliven. From mocha almond fudge, to a missing favorite, English toffee, sweet and creamy childhood goodness.
Sodas and toppings optional.

2) Chocolate chip oatmeal cookies, fresh from the oven. Just thinking about them conjures up aromatic memories.

3) Soup. Broccoli soup, split pea, albondigas, matzo ball.

4) Hot chocolate

5) Pudding. Chocolate, butterscotch, and something I discovered in Connecticut delis: Grape nuts pudding. Don't knock it til you've tried it! Top 'em all with whipped cream or half and half for an extra treat.


6) Crusty bread and wonderful cheese


If I were really brave I'd start creating menus to go with this posting, in the meantime I'll be gobbling up sweet treats, and playing chain factor. And if that doesn't help, there's always this.

What kind of goodies are you reaching for during this stormy economic weather?

La Paloma

We're staying in Mexico all week long, it seems. Here in sunny Southern California the worst of cold weather has finished--and now it's time to prepare ourselves to loll in lounge chairs; reach for the sun block, and a great paper back.

When I visited Mexico City I found that women rarely drank. Is this sexism, or wisdom? I dunno. When I asked our server what las damas drank, I was offered a paloma, and that became my drink of choice.

You will need:

A tall glass that will hold lots of ice

Diet or full strength grapefruit soda
Lime
Tequila

Slice the lime in half, run the cut side along the rim of your tall glass. Swirl in a small plate of salt.
Squeeze the lime into the glass. Add a shot of tequila. Fill with ice cubes. Pour in your grapefruit soda, and stir gently once or twice to distribute the alcohol.

Sip.
Can you feel it? I can. I've just changed time zones, climates, and cultures.

Which drinks transport you?

Little Bites

Half the fun of sitting down with a glass of wine or cocktail are the small nibbles you arrange to go with your drink. Tired of baby carrots and Chinese rice crackers? Here are a few of my favorites:

• dates split then filled with cambozola cheese, topped with a dry roasted, unsalted almond
• dried figs topped with a dash of goat cheese, garnished with half a toasted pecan
• pesto spread on baguette slices
• Gorgonzola cheese mashed with butter, garnished with a few snips of basil and a sprinkling of pine nuts. Use as a spread.

Hmm, sounds like I'm hooked on nuts and cheese. Before our elaborate meal of Oaxacan mole negro we had a very simple platter of nibbles:

• sliced beets topped with chunks of salt (we had baked the beets, wrapped in tinfoil, for 2 hours-350 degrees-they turned out sweet and smoky, and we just rubbed the skins off before slicing)
• peeled orange slices
• trimmed radishes
• julienned jicama
• a handful of the Spanish peanuts we needed for the mole.

It was colorful, flavorful, and allowed us to keep our appetite for the main event.

What are your favorite nibbles?

And there, gentle reader, was my original end to the post. Since I try to write these a few days in advance I reread it a few times, happy and fairly proud of it and the image of myself that feels fun to project: dress me up I'm sophisticated, dress me down I'm down to earth.

But the psyche has other plans.

Inwardly, a couple of voices made polite coughs. When I ignored them they raised their voices. As I continued to avoid their catcalls they picked up their tin cups and started banging them against the bars, the windows, the walls, the railings. This is what they said:

Voice 1 "Frickin' beets and oranges?!? Are you out of your frickin' mind? Give me 3 ounces of Jack Daniels on the rocks pdq and a pound of dry roasted cashews. Or a pound of pistachios. Screw the frou frou cheese!"

Voice 2 "Just give me a real Coke, a 39 oz bag of nacho cheese doritos, a tub of sour cream and go away. "

Voice 3 "Could someone smuggle in a cigarette? Please, please, pretty please? Just one, I swear to God..."

Yeah, as I alluded to in my very first post, sometimes the conflict is fully embodied within the chef. Or, as Walt Whitman put it, "I contain multitudes."

Oaxacan mole negro

Behold the culmination of 4 shops, twenty-something ingredients, thirty fried then soaked chiles, four different purees and hours of hanging out with my equally crazy friend, Lisa. Whew!


My favorite parts:

• Stemming and tearing the 4 different kinds of chiles open, (mulattos, guajillos, pasillas and one chipotle) shaking out the seeds, and toasting them until black. Yes, completely black, hence the name of the sauce.
• Frying the dried chiles in oil, watching them expand and color. I'd never done this before. It was like entertainment and exercise: you stand as far back as possible to avoid spattering oil while watching the chiles transform.
  
• Taking a much needed oyster and white wine break on her patio, at this point, to fortify ourselves for the next step: the blending of the four separate purees.

At last, after the blending, the simmering, the adding of chicken, the further simmering, the meal was ready. We ladled it over Mexican white rice, a serving of black beans on the side.

For dessert strawberry-garnished flan. I promise to hunt down the recipe.

Was it worth it? If I had done this alone, absolutely not. But isn't that the essence of some cuisines (Mexican, Italian, etc) the communal activity of labor-intense preparations? In other words, a reason to gather, and celebrate, cook and dine. Of course it was worth it!

For those who need directions, it's the Rick Bayless version. Four pages worth. If you try it, lemme know!

Bate, bate, chocolate

(Rhymes with latte, latte, cho co latte). Outside of the bedroom what's the best way to cut the chill of a cold evening? Cocktails don't really do it, spiced hot red wine never seems to have caught on on this continent. People debate the restorative qualities of green tea vs. black, et cetera, et cetera. (Fear not! Not on this blog!) I, however, prefer a blend of the old world with the new.

Mexican hot chocolate

Per serving you will need:

2 wedges Ibarra Mexican chocolate
3/4 cup of milk.

In a heavy sauce pan on low heat slowly melt the chocolate wedges. When it is a soft lump of sugary chocolate, add the milk. Heat until scalded. Don't worry if there are flecks or lumps of chocolate hanging around. When scalded, carefully pour the mixture into your blender. Hold tight to the lid; push frappe.

Pour into a mug of your choice. Garnish with a stick of cinnamon. Inhale its dreamy aromatics while you sip and savor fireside, if possible. Perfect with a serving of flan

How do you stay warm on a cold night?

What are you hiding?

I recently did an inventory of my refrigerator, in an attempt to clear space or consolidate jars. There are members of the family who sincerely believe to leave a container of cream cheese, or sour cream or mayonnaise, with nothing but a quarter of a teaspoon of its original contents, is an act of kindness towards a hungry fellow family member. I disagree.

There are, of course, the odd ingredients, that jar of cornichons someone insisted on buying; the sweet pickled onions for someone else's Gibsons, the glass jars of home-rendered animal fat (I'm sure that sounds disgusting to those who don't do it, let's, however, move on). And then there are the ingredients that I really don't want in the refrigerator at all, but by some kind of family devotion I don't throw them out. Like, ajvar. There, I said it. An eastern European concoction of red peppers and perhaps some tomatoes and a dash of spice. Bleck. In fact, I resent its mere presence.

What's hiding in your fridge? And, no, I don't mean the containers turning putrid colors with the seasons. What have you secreted away, comestibly speaking, that is? Don't tell anyone, but I have a serving of chocolate pudding, cunningly hidden behind the container of basil.

Parsnip Passages

Behold the humble parsnip: a savory carrot, a sweet root vegetable, tasting of the garden and the earth and not quite to everyone's taste. I love them.

I'm not sure who first introduced me to the fact that you could peel then sliver them into chicken soup for a sweet pungency that permeates the kitchen, but that was my first encounter. Then, via their City restaurant these ladies introduced me to parsnip chips (gosh, how 80s is that?) which were such a marvel that my husband and I tried them at home. Instead of a mandoline we used a wide potato peeler to make sure we had paper thin strips of parsnips and then deep-fried them, turning them into a marvel of a chip. Lastly, the English may have once gotten a bad rap for their food, but their Sunday dinner is a dream of roast, and to accompany it, besides the horseradish you simply must have roast potatoes. Or even, roast parsnips.

Peel one pound of parsnips. Cut into wedges 3 inches long, halving or quartering the thickest parts. Blanch in boiling water for five minutes. Drain them, then drop them into a pyrex or other oven-friendly roasting pan. Pour 2-4 tablespoons of vegetable oil over them, and stir gently, making sure all bits of the pale root veg have a slight coating of oil. Place them in your preheated 425 degree oven and roast for 30-40 minutes, until well-browned turning once or twice to make sure it has a satisfyingly crispy exterior. Serve with anything you darn well please.