Food for Thought

Dancin’ our way to Mother’s Day

One of life’s greater pleasures comes when you cook with someone, prepare a meal with someone who is competent, crafty and clever in the kitchen. With someone whose company you enjoy and whose cooking you appreciate.

On the other hand, one of life’s great pains is to try to cook a meal in concert with someone who is a klutz in the kitchen. Culinary hell is a frozen dinner and someone in your way.

Unless you are one of those souls who has a trophy kitchen, the process of cooking with another is akin to a ballet. And you don’t want to try to execute a ballet in a closet, with an elephant.

In most cases, a ballet it is: Few of us have those trophy kitchens — the massive French or Italian restaurant stoves (or their less decorative American cousins) that run about $12,000; the double or triple ovens; the acres of highly polished granite countertops; the three sinks, the two refrigerators.

Ironically, those who do have the trophy kitchens, don’t always make maximum use of the luxury, if they use it at all. I’ve read several articles lately that indicate many, if not the majority of trophy kitchen owners, rarely perform in their culinary amphitheaters. Many of them can’t cook. The kitchen, for them, is a showpiece, a canvas on which is painted a portrait of vanity and excess, there for all to admire and envy.

Of note here, however, is the fact a capable cook does not require big-league toys; some of the best food is prepared with the aid of minimal technology.

But, when cooking with others, with maximum or minimum technology, space is a concern. The dance is complex and compact — as is the planning of the menu. That’s where competence comes into play. It’s difficult enough for two or three people to prepare a meal. That difficulty is compounded when they need to be on the alert for collisions and conflicts.

When things work well, though, the experience is marvelous. Just as eating is best done with others, and as cooking for others is the essence of the experience, cooking with others is something to be relished.

So, its Friday and Mother’s Day is right around the corner. An occasion for cooking with another.

Time to whip up something for Mom. Not my Mom, mind you. She would appreciate it, I’m sure, but she’s dead.

Rather, for Kathy … mother of my daughters. Try as I might each year, my reminder that Kathy is not my mother (if you recall, my mother is dead) and, therefore, the task of providing Kathy with a Mother’s Day treat rests with the kids, is met with another, weightier reminder: It’s Mother’s Day and Kathy expects something in the way of a special meal, and guess who needs to be involved?

So, it’s left to me and my youngest, Ivy, who is here in Siberia With a View. Aurora Borealis is in Austin, Texas. A phone call to Mom suffices. No need for Aurora to crank up a burner or hack some flesh.

“What do you want?,” I ask Kathy.

“Oh, anything,” replies the bride.

This comment is the equivalent of a minefield, isn’t it? Everything seems so tranquil and green out there, but right below the surface …

“Are you sure? Anything?”

“Yes. Well, anything but lamb. You know I won’t eat lamb. And beef. I don’t want beef. Oh, and pork. I’m not wild about pork. But, you know, make whatever you want. I’m not particular.”

Hmmm.

“It seems that ‘anything’ means poultry, doesn’t it?”

“I’m not real fond of turkey.”

“Aha. Chicken it is, then.”

“Or seafood.”

How could I forget seafood? That’s just the ticket. I’ll hustle out to the garage and mend my nets, then get the boat ready. Seafood here in Siberia With a View. Ah, yes.

Eternal optimist that I am, I cruise to the market and shuffle to the back of the store. Who knows, something might have fallen off the truck while it was still relatively viable.

Believe it or not, I find that something: as in fish. As in “fresh” cod fillets. The flesh is not gray. No odd-looking liquid runs from beneath the fillets when the package is tilted. The expiration date on the pack indicates I have one more day before “fresh” is no longer “fresh.”

The way I figure it, these thin slabs were part of a live, swimming being some time within the last week.

That’s pretty darned good for Siberia With a View.

So, cod it will be.

Roasted cod.

With some kinda nifty nap.

Seafood.

I tell Ivy.

“Oh, geez, what are you thinking? This is a disaster waiting to happen. An expensive disaster waiting to happen. I bet you paid a huge amount of money for that junk. Do you know what cod is really worth?”

She continues on, but you get the drift.

“So what else do you think we should make,” I ask.

“I don’t know; I’ve lost my edge, now that you’ve told me about the cod. In fact, I’ve lost my will to live.”

“Roasted cod, Provencal. Sear the seasoned cod, pop it in a 425 oven and roast until done.”

“I can smell it now.”

“A sauce made of olive oil, halved cherry tomatoes, a few anchovies, shallot, garlic, white wine, parsley, herbes de Provence, chopped oil-cured black olives, chopped capers, a smidge of clam juice — all shined up right at the end with a gob or three of butter.”

“I’ll have a bowl of the sauce, please. Hold the cod.”

“What are you gong to make?”

“A bee line to the front door.”

“What are you going to make?”

“I’ve got a bucket of week-old cottage cheese in the fridge. So, whatever we can do with that — it seems right in line with your cod idea. I mean, after all, man, you’ve taught me my whole life to avoid the fresh fish case at the market, and now this? What on earth are you thinking? Furthermore, I don’t believe cod is seafood. It’s sea meat, at best, and I can’t imagine it can be anything but awful if you buy it here.”

“What are you going to make?”

“How about some roasted fingerling potatoes. And a vegetable of some kind. And a big salad, plenty of goodies. For those of us who will refuse to eat the cod. As in me and Mom.”

“I think we should do a take on a classic Caesar salad. I’m going to have anchovies on hand, why not use them? I know your Mom won’t go within a hundred yards of an anchovy, but I’ll hide the can under a napkin and we’ll sneak them into the food. She’ll never know.

“Do anchovies go with cottage cheese?”

So, there we have it: roasted cod Provencal, roasted fingerling potatoes, green peas, a monster salad with a Caesar dressing. I have a bottle of high-end white in the basement. For dessert, something simple: something with strawberries.

The Caesar dressing is easy and there are suitable variations for those who are worried about the slight risk of contracting salmonella from the use of a raw egg in the traditional blend. One can buy pasteurized eggs; one can slightly cook the egg. One can omit the egg, losing the silkiness and some of the emulsion of the standard, but retaining the flavor of the dressing.

We opt for an eggless model. After all, who wants to be banging on the bathroom door and shouting “Honey, did you enjoy your Mother’s Day dinner?”

The basics of a decent, modified Caesar dressing? Anchovy, Worcestershire sauce, lemon juice, garlic, pepper, Parmesan cheese, olive oil. Sometimes, a bit of Dijon mustard.

For our purposes, a large clove of garlic is minced and put into the blender along with two anchovy fillets, drained, a pinch of salt, a tablespoon or so of Dijon, a couple tablespoons of fresh lemon juice and a dash or two of Worscestershire. The mess is pulverized, then a half cup or so of olive oil is drizzled in a bit at a time with the blender running. When it comes time to dress the salad, rinsed and perfectly dry hearts of romaine are torn into pieces and showered with shaved Parmesan. The dressing is added and the salad is tossed.

Homemade croutons, anyone?

Well, sure, if you like them. Same with some freshly made lardons, made with bacon.

The fish really doesn’t smell that bad, really. The spuds come out of the oven all golden brown and creamy. The salad is crunchy and tart.

No one has to spend hours in the bathroom.

All in all, Ivy and I have a great time in the kitchen and the food is fine.

Except …

“Do I taste anchovies?”

Ah, well, the dance goes on.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

What's Cookin?

Food for Thought

Foreign language, with a purpose

By Karl Isberg

“Do you know how to say ‘I’m having chest pains,’ in Italian?”

“Well, now that you ask … no, I don’t believe I do. But, I’ll bet you do. Right?”

“Yep.”

Kathy and I are sitting in the front room, gazing out the windows at the trees, polishing off a couple simple sandwiches made with bread “baked in the style of Puglia.” Or so says the promo on the brightly-colored bread package. Appropriate, then, that the topic of conversation should turn to Italy and the Italian language.

“We need to go back to Italy, soon.”

“Yeah, that would be nice. Once the U.S. switches to the Euro.”

“I’ve been revisiting my Italian phrase books and dictionaries. I’m pretty confident I can tell folks there that various body parts are totally out of whack. I am absolutely confident I can relay the info in French, Spanish and, probably, German. If anyone still spoke Latin, I’d be pretty comfy with that as well.”

“That’s nice. But, at the same time, a true shame … the fate of Latin, and all.”

“It’s a good thing to be able to communicate these things at our ages. For example, I can tell a doctor my foot hurts, in Italian.”

“Good.”

“And that my neck hurts.”

“That’s nice.”

“Or, that I am bleeding from a head wound.”

“OK, but I think they could probably come to that conclusion themselves.”

“Perhaps, but what about joint pain? Huh? What about your problem with gout when you overdo it. And you tend to overdo it a lot, you know. One needs to be prepared.”

Many people consult foreign language phrase books to learn how to ask a waiter for more water, or how to request directions to restrooms or local attractions. Not Kathy. She is more or less fluent in four languages (not counting Latin) and it seems that, when learning a new one, she now works from a foundation of phrases relating to various medical maladies.

This makes a certain amount of sense: One would not want to travel without being able to accurately relay the sad story of the breakdown of the body — that treacherous meat boat that frequently founders, then ultimately sinks with us on board.

If you go to foreign climes, forget about learning the proper language for ordering wine or demanding to see an embassy official in case of false arrest. If you can’t tell a medico about a nodule or a suspected cartilage tear, you are ill-prepared for travel.

“I’ve learned how to say ‘I think my gastrointestinal tract is not functioning correctly,’ and how to ask ‘Should this be oozing?’”

“Those will come in handy.”

“Listen to this: The phrase sounds so lovely but, really, I am describing a lesion on the buttocks. Italian is such a beautiful language.”

“Well, you never know when you’ll endure one of those lesion episodes, do you? Better safe, than sorry.”

I realize there are several body breakdowns that could inhibit my travels abroad, so Kathy’s pursuit could be helpful.

Gout aside, I might need to tell a foreign doc that my prostate is the size of a cantaloupe. Or, I might have to seek treatment for a tendon in the shoulder I trashed while lifting heavy objects and putting them back down again. Then, there’s that hip problem, those pesky allergies and high blood pressure. Lose my blood pressure meds on a trip and I could be headed to a blowout; the bio-lid might flip off if there is no way to discuss the dilemma with a physician and pharmacist.

And, there’s the ever-growing problem of general confusion — a familiar problem if you are an aging idiot like me. For example, I went to the grocery store recently, primed with a swell idea about a meal I wanted to prepare.

Only, I forgot what it was.

I still can’t remember.

I entered the store, picked up my snazzy little red plastic basket and promptly came undone. Oh, I knew where all the sections of the market were — it’s not like I had a major ischemic event and suddenly found myself in Pierre, South Dakota, circa 1956. Produce was to the right at the front, just where it should be, flesh was still at the back of the store. I knew where to find the staples: butter and cheese were rear, left; pasta was on a shelf straight ahead. Olive oil was in an aisle to the right, as were herbs and spices.

I knew where to find everything. I just forgot what to find.

Not surprising, since I now regularly forget the names of folks I have known for years. I go to a distant room in the house to get something and forget what it is on my way there.

And then there’s my kids … you know, what’s their names. They’re females, I remember that.

I’m breaking down on all levels, and it’s distressing.

I’m like a chipmunk in a coffee can.

Well, I fought off my frustration at the store; I improvised and came up with a meal, despite my poor memory. I bought a slab of bulk hot Italian sausage, a package of linguine, a jar of capers, a white onion, garlic, some pitted black, oil-cured olives and a bunch of parsley. I had lemon, butter, Parmesan, frozen green peas and chicken broth at home. I put together a nice pasta dish with these ingredients. Paired it with mess o’ dressed greens and some cherry tomatoes and I was home free.

But, not without anxiety.

And no amount of a lovely red blend from Languedoc could erase my anxiety.

I’ve come to a heavy realization: I am feeble, and I need to start writing out lists to take to the market.

This will require something I rarely engage in: planning.

I’ll need to reckon the ingredients when I think of a meal (on those occasions when I don’t rely on what simply presents itself as I wander through the store). I will tuck the list in my pocket and take the list with me to the store.

Then, all I’ll need to do is remember I have a list.

I decide to practice.

I engage my favorite “let’s find a recipe” technique — the perfect method for someone, like me, with a ferocious case of ADD.

I grab a large cookbook and I throw it spineward to the floor. I get down on my hands and knees and I read the recipe on the page of the open book. If it is something feasible, considering the somewhat limited selection of ingredients here in Siberia With a View, that’s what I will cook. If not, I hurl the book again.

I go to my library of cookbooks and reach to the shelf, making sure I don’t look at the selections in front of me. Chance must fuel the entire process.

I pull out my copy of a delightful book by Jacques Pepin and Julia Child: “Julia and Jacques: Cooking at Home,” (Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. 1999).

I toss the book to the floor and it opens to a page with a recipe for salmon en papillote, by Julia Child. I read the suggested ingredients, then consider variations. I write out a list of ingredients. I put the list in my pocket. I go to the store. It takes me a while, but I finally remember the list.

I am somewhat disappointed with the recipe chance provides me, since I rarely cook en papillote, a method that effectively joins baking and steaming and involves encasing the foods in a parchment paper or foil package.

This particular recipe puts the seasoned, skinless salmon fillet in a pack with a special tomato garnish, minced shallots, butter and parsley.

I make a snap decision: I locate two, half-pound salmon fillets at the store. I will skin them then put each in a pack with a mix of butter, tomato, a teeny bit of white wine, capers, parsley, a teeny bit of lemon juice, minced shallots, and julienned carrot and zucchini. When I say “teeny,” I mean very little — as in just enough to get the taste. The fish will exude enough liquid to combine with a tablespoon or so of butter to make a mighty fine sauce.

I have parchment to make the packets, but I prefer foil. It is easier to seal the edges, folding them over triple and pressing them tight.

I preheat the oven to 425.

I grease two large pieces of foil, maybe 20 by 20. I season the room-temperature fillets with salt and pepper and put each on its own sheet of foil. I throw on a bunch of minced shallot and some barely chopped parsley, several rinsed and chopped capers, some julienned zucchini and carrot, some chopped tomato, (seeded and squeezed as dry as possible) and I plop bits of butter, a tablespoon or so, on top of the pile. I fold the foil over and I seal the packs tightly. On to a baking sheet the packs go and into the oven for about 12 minutes.

I’ve already whipped up a pot of couscous with chicken broth as the liquid (try Israeli couscous — it takes longer but it is better than the common “instant” stuff). I toss some green peas into the couscous and, when all is warm, I mix in a handful of grated Parmesan and a load of butter.

The packs are put on a plate and opened by tearing the top open with a fork. Most of the sauce in a pack is poured on to a pile of couscous. The rest is dripped on to the fillet and veggies once they’ve been removed from the packs and plated. There’s a bit of extra cheese available, as well as lemon wedges, just in case.

Lots of things cook well en papillote — fish and chickenwise. There’s a lot of room for creativity in the method.

If you can remember to use it now and then.

Does anyone know how to say “My brain is leaking” in Italian?

Thursday, May 8, 2008

What's Cookin?

Food for Thought

No virus, please, there’s pasta to make

It’s Thursday evening.

Time to get to the computer and write next week’s column.

I flip through some Internet sites to gain inspiration, none of them having much to do with food.

I cruise a site dedicated to troubleshooting procedures for in-house vacuum systems. We have such a system at our house and, since it’s been on the blink for a month or so, Kathy is getting a bit testy. She is, after all, allergic to everything. And everything is piling up on floors and shelves like sediments on an ancient seabed. If I don’t get the vacuum working soon, the sediments will turn to stone. There’s a flow chart on the Web site but I can’t figure out all those questions and arrows, so I move on.

There are several really cool sites dedicated to butterfly identification and, should I ever accidentally stray outdoors, the info could come in handy. I take notes.

I edge up on the topic of food when I apprise myself of up-to-date feeding methods used by Kobe beef ranchers. Oh, those wacky Wagyu. A slab of prime is worth a bout of gout.

I veer to a site that convinces full-figured people, like me, that we are every bit as physically attractive as near-anorexic runway models, and I feel a whole lot better about myself.

For a sec.

Just before it hits me.

I’m like a kid whose trike is stuck on the railway tracks when Old No. 5 roars around the curve behind him at a blinding speed. By the time I realize what’s happening, it’s on me. No contest.

Only it’s not Old No. 5 that runs me down — it’s a virus.

I’ll take the locomotive any day.

In fifteen minutes time, I am reduced from a chubby guy full of newly fertilized self-confidence to a blubbering mess, forehead on the desk, slumped in front of a laptop tuned to an Internet site featuring naughty moms.

It’s not often, thankfully, we’re given the gift of a disorder this vivid, this instructive.

It’s a gift because such nasty occurrences serve to hurl us to the basement of the human dwelling, to bedrock reality. A malady like this reminds us (or should remind us) of our frailty, the delicacy of our corporeal being, our susceptibility to organisms much tougher than we. Organisms that will survive nuclear war, an assault by modern medicine, global warming, even George W. Bush and Dick Cheney.

Viruses.

And this particular brute can be a contender at the Viral Olympics. Granted, it won’t win the gold medal as long as Ebola, Marburg and AIDS are flitting about, but it is a sure contender in any speed event.

Again, it takes no longer than 15 minutes for my somatic situation to turn on a dime: I begin to run a fever, my head starts to ache, I sweat and — my, isn’t this amusing? — I am chilled at the same time. I get dizzy; my digestive system does a sharp right turn and heads at lightning speed toward Troubleville.

It is but another 15 minutes before I am in bed, curled in the fetal position beneath eight blankets, shivering uncontrollably, wondering when the contents of my stomach will make an appearance on the scene. I am moaning (though Kathy is off at a meeting and my moans bring no response), my muscles and joints ache; it feels as if my bones are breaking.

It’s at times like these we turn to fundamental things. Some people seek the safe harbor of prayer. Some call out to their mommies. Others try in their increasingly weak states to reach telephones and dial 911.

Me, I wonder just how long this nasty situation is going to persist.

I have pasta to make.

Making this stuff requires energy. You can’t do it if you’re in the ICU.

Eating the pasta, moreover, requires a somewhat stable digestive system. Plus, since I want to make it for others to enjoy, I can’t risk passing this more than merely pesky invader off on anyone else.

To distract myself as I shiver, moan and ponder my mortality, I review my pasta options.

First: fresh or dry.

Fresh noodles differ from most of their dry cousins in ways other than the fact one is dry and the other not. First, is the addition of egg; second, the type of flour used. In the case of dry pastas, a hard wheat flour is generally part of the mix, paired with water to create the dough. In the case of the eggy pastas, the flour is finer, softer.

I’m making egg pasta.

Second choice: shape.

I’m goin’ wide. And flat. Like the wide beauties used in Tuscany and Emilia-Romagna to shoulder the burden of hefty, meaty-good loads.

There’s a bunch of wide pasta styles, some well known, some obscure, some, no doubt, known only to a particular family in a tiny town located out in the sticks, the pasta bearing the name of a long-gone relative who fought with Garibaldi’s army.

Among the more familiar styles, there’s fettucini, about a quarter-inch wide and its sturdier brother, fettuce. There’s the lesser version of a lasagna noodle, lasagnette.

You’ve got your tagliatelle, your maltagliati (crudely fashioned triangles) and there’s the short, flat sagnarelli.

But, for me, the choice is pappardelle — a thick egg noodle cut a half-inch or more wide.

This is real pasta, folks. If you are like me and you relish the pasta as much, or more, than a sauce — if you like the toothiness, taste and mouthfeel of this wondrous, simple food — pappardelle is a cinch to please.

Well, not exactly a cinch since, as I noted above, making the fresh pasta is labor-intensive. You could exhaust yourself in its production and collapse before you relish the fruits of your mighty efforts.

Especially if you are playing host to a virus.

The ingredients: flour (for this application, all-purpose flour is just fine), eggs, olive oil, water, salt.

The amount of each ingredient varies, of course, with the number of diners to be fed and with a particular cook’s favorite recipe. Go to the books or the Web to get amounts once you have decided how many people you’ll invite to dinner.

Made your choice? Here’s where the energy expenditure amps up, if you intend to do this the traditional way — by hand. If you do, it might not hurt to undergo a week’s regimen of human growth hormone injections prior to producing a batch of pappardelle.

Or, in the absence of access to a corrupt physician or “athletic trainer,” you might purchase a pasta machine.

Mound the flour on a clean, flat surface, or in a large, shallow bowl. Make a broad well in the center of the mound. Sprinkle the flour with the salt. Put the eggs, oil and water into the well and, using a fork, draw the flour from the sides of the mound into the liquid, a little at a time, and quickly, until it is incorporated and you have a sticky dough. Knead the dough for a while, until it is uniform and elastic. Flour the kneading surface only enough to make sure the dough does not stick. You want to avoid incorporating too much additional flour into the dough. Roll the dough into a ball, flatten slightly, encase in plastic wrap and let it rest for an hour or so.

The rolling process, by machine or by hand, is essentially the same. Cut the ball into four or five parts then flatten and square up each hunk. The size, if you are using a machine, should be adjusted in accord with the width of the rollers on the machine.

Roll out a slab in a fairly thick sheet, fold the sheet in thirds, roll out again. Repeat. Three or four times. Have a lightly floured sheet of parchment handy on the surface at the back of the machine, on which the pasta can land — like a runway.

Then, begin to roll each sheet into a progressively thinner sheet, running it through the machine at increasingly smaller dial settings, until the desired thickness is reached. Pappardelle, the way I like it, is relatively thick. Cut each finished sheet in half and place the halves on a floured surface.

Take each sheet of dough, flour the surface lightly and roll into a cylinder. Cut the noodles from the cylinder (half to three-quarters inch wide) and fluff them out. Shake them around with a teensy bit of flour and let them sit until they dry just a bit.

To cook the pappardelle, bring a big pot of salted water to a boil. Drop in the noodles and cook them at a gentle boil for just a few minutes, as little as three to four minutes. It is all too easy to overcook this fresh product, so be careful. Drain and serve immediately with the sauce of choice — anything from a simple garlic butter and oil, anchovy, green peas and chopped parsley up to a full-race ragu Bolognese — all beefy, porky and tossed with the pasta. And cheese.

Try as I might, shivering, bones breaking, I cannot sustain the vision of the bowl of pappardelle I will consume. I cannot force myself to zero in on the cooking method, on the shower of freshly-grated Parmigiano-Reggiano that floats down to meet the surface of the steaming, hearty goodies.

There is something terribly wrong in downtown Karl.

Something unspeakable is about to happen. And it has nothing to do with naughty moms.

How does that go, again? A nine, followed by two ones?

Thursday, May 1, 2008

What's Cookin?

Thursday, April 24, 2008

What's Cookin?