Monday, August 25. 2008
From a non server to other non servers
When Erik and I hatched the plan to cook through out the state at different wineries, I failed to realize that I had to serve people their meal.
Over the summer I have learned the intricacies of existing on the other side of the apron. Here's how the last dinner went.
20 people are seated. 7 of them, all women, belong to the same party. All 7 women are under the impression that they are the super special center of the universe.
Course One:
Caprese Salad with Farmer's Market Greens andFeta
A member of the super fabulous 7 reads the menu and asks where the feta is on the salad. We decided against the feta and I tell her so. Not to be deterred from her feta, she leaves her chair, prances up to me and asks for a side of feta in a practiced child voice. As if saying something in a high pitch will make her less demanding. I tell her we don't have any feta, we left it behind. She pouts and wants salt and pepper.
Who knew feta, or lack there of would inspire so much distain?
Each course is paired with a wine. At the end of course one, another of the fab 7 (or was it 8?) asks for more wine. I tell her that the next course is coming and she'll get another taste of wine at that point. She and her friends are incredulous.
Somehow, I need these women to chill out without dropping muscle relaxant in their water or bopping them in the head with a seal club.
Course Two:
Zucchini Fritters with Babaganouj.
I ask the girls how they are enjoying things. They sneer, say things are fine and then return to their conversation about wanting to go to Honduras. As if Honduras has feta.
I did nearly knock them in the head and make them move their glasses when I land the fritters. Eye rolling ensued.
Other members of the table are perfectly delightful. I have a nice conversation with a couple of women at the end of the table who are genuinely delightful. One of whom is the pastry chef at Crow and Betty in Seattle.
Course Three:
Steak with Corn Succotash and Farro
As we are plating up, a question about plating comes up. A normal, easy question becomes more difficult with the fact that the Valkyrie of the Banal are squirming behind me. I've officially become the bitch waitress and I embrace the role with all of my soul.
While cleaning and doing dishes in the back, Erik comes and finds me and gives me a glass of SB.
Things get better after that.
Course Four:
Fruit Crostada
I don't care anymore. One of the pouting women (Gorgons have more charm) asks what the dessert is. I tell her. She corrects me, it's not peach, it's nectarine.
I still don't know what her question was.
The meal ended. Erik gave a beautiful speech. I cleaned up. We left.
In the end, I think I will either have to get much better at serving people food or people are going to have to wear helmets at the table.
Over the summer I have learned the intricacies of existing on the other side of the apron. Here's how the last dinner went.
20 people are seated. 7 of them, all women, belong to the same party. All 7 women are under the impression that they are the super special center of the universe.
Course One:
Caprese Salad with Farmer's Market Greens and
A member of the super fabulous 7 reads the menu and asks where the feta is on the salad. We decided against the feta and I tell her so. Not to be deterred from her feta, she leaves her chair, prances up to me and asks for a side of feta in a practiced child voice. As if saying something in a high pitch will make her less demanding. I tell her we don't have any feta, we left it behind. She pouts and wants salt and pepper.
Who knew feta, or lack there of would inspire so much distain?
Each course is paired with a wine. At the end of course one, another of the fab 7 (or was it 8?) asks for more wine. I tell her that the next course is coming and she'll get another taste of wine at that point. She and her friends are incredulous.
Somehow, I need these women to chill out without dropping muscle relaxant in their water or bopping them in the head with a seal club.
Course Two:
Zucchini Fritters with Babaganouj.
I ask the girls how they are enjoying things. They sneer, say things are fine and then return to their conversation about wanting to go to Honduras. As if Honduras has feta.
I did nearly knock them in the head and make them move their glasses when I land the fritters. Eye rolling ensued.
Other members of the table are perfectly delightful. I have a nice conversation with a couple of women at the end of the table who are genuinely delightful. One of whom is the pastry chef at Crow and Betty in Seattle.
Course Three:
Steak with Corn Succotash and Farro
As we are plating up, a question about plating comes up. A normal, easy question becomes more difficult with the fact that the Valkyrie of the Banal are squirming behind me. I've officially become the bitch waitress and I embrace the role with all of my soul.
While cleaning and doing dishes in the back, Erik comes and finds me and gives me a glass of SB.
Things get better after that.
Course Four:
Fruit Crostada
I don't care anymore. One of the pouting women (Gorgons have more charm) asks what the dessert is. I tell her. She corrects me, it's not peach, it's nectarine.
I still don't know what her question was.
The meal ended. Erik gave a beautiful speech. I cleaned up. We left.
In the end, I think I will either have to get much better at serving people food or people are going to have to wear helmets at the table.
Saturday, April 19. 2008
Smoked Artichokes and Jalapeno Dubliner Cheddar Cheese Sauce
or
The Bigger the Artichoke the more the Smoke
The local thriftway had a sale on these HUMUNGUS artichokes. Two bucks a piece. If you look at the photo you can see that the grapefruit next to the artichoke looks like lemon sized. The artichoke was nearly as large as my head. To be honest, its size was a little obscene.
We brought a couple home and Erik put them on the stove to steam. Then we did some gardening.
At a certain point I asked him if he smelled smoke.
Indeed.
The Le Creuset pot is nearly destroyed, there are element marks melted into its bottom a lesser pan would have imploded. The artichokes were topped with black char that flaked lightly as smoke wisped from their core.
One of my main complaints about artichokes is the fact that you really have to strain the mothers. Each leaf acts like a cup for the water. With Erik’s method, one really doesn’t have to worry about it– the water has been burned right out. The cost of a smoked artichoke is prohibitive. They may have been two dollars a piece but the loss of a $200.00 Le Creuset is pretty expensive.
This is how they tasted: GOOD! Smoked artichokes are great. I’m thinking of trying to barbecue them.
Serve burned things with fat and spice and you really have a good thing going.
Jalapeno Dubliner Cheddar Cheese Sauce Cheese Sauce
1 cup grated cheddar cheese (we used Dubliner because we have a ton of it at the moment)
1 minced jalapeno
1 tsp cornstarch
Cheap and Cheerful wine
Toss the cheddar and the cornstarch.
Melt on medium heat in a non blackened Le Creuset pot.
Add Jalapeno.
Add wine to get everything loosened up.
Serve with smoked artichoke wash down.
Sunday, November 18. 2007
The great debacle.
Measure. I knew that at some time I would have learn my lesson.
Falafel taught me.
I was excited to use up some curly parsley (it has practically been banned from the refrigerator) using the falafel recipe R sent to me. Rare is it that we have all of the ingredients for falafel in the house.
Erik had just come home from a weekend in Napa as I was putting the thing together. We were chatting away and I forgot about measuring the baking soda. The oil was hot. The tahini was made. Life was good.
The first ball of falafel landed in the oil and floated like a champ. It looked up at me, smiled and floated apart.
Frantic, I put in two or three more falafel balls. They too bounced up from the hot oil, waved a grand hello and disintegrated.
DUCKS ON FIRE!
Well, maybe making them into falafel croutons would be cute. I pulled the pieces out and drained them.
I took a bite.
If a frown had a taste, over-baking sodaed falafel mix would be it.
Erik tasted the frown.
Sadness loomed.
Defeat leaned against the threshold of the door and cocked his head.
No!
To neutralize the baking soda I added vinegar. I made a new ball of falafel.
The oil scowled and smoked and popped.
The little lump crumpled immediately into a dark, unhappy ball of evil.
Defeat stepped lightly into the kitchen.
I grabbed the vinegar again. I went toward the refrigerator to retrieve an egg.
Adrianne, it’s over, Erik said, grabbing my arm and looking me in the eye.
I can revive it. I know I can.
Adrianne, it’s dead.
No!
Defeat walked past us.
I looked down at the stove and the near flaming oil.
No. No, please, they’re too young. They were too full of promise, please. I can help them.
Defeat turned off the stove top.
Life hasn’t been the same since.
Falafel taught me.
I was excited to use up some curly parsley (it has practically been banned from the refrigerator) using the falafel recipe R sent to me. Rare is it that we have all of the ingredients for falafel in the house.
Erik had just come home from a weekend in Napa as I was putting the thing together. We were chatting away and I forgot about measuring the baking soda. The oil was hot. The tahini was made. Life was good.
The first ball of falafel landed in the oil and floated like a champ. It looked up at me, smiled and floated apart.
Frantic, I put in two or three more falafel balls. They too bounced up from the hot oil, waved a grand hello and disintegrated.
DUCKS ON FIRE!
Well, maybe making them into falafel croutons would be cute. I pulled the pieces out and drained them.
I took a bite.
If a frown had a taste, over-baking sodaed falafel mix would be it.
Erik tasted the frown.
Sadness loomed.
Defeat leaned against the threshold of the door and cocked his head.
No!
To neutralize the baking soda I added vinegar. I made a new ball of falafel.
The oil scowled and smoked and popped.
The little lump crumpled immediately into a dark, unhappy ball of evil.
Defeat stepped lightly into the kitchen.
I grabbed the vinegar again. I went toward the refrigerator to retrieve an egg.
Adrianne, it’s over, Erik said, grabbing my arm and looking me in the eye.
I can revive it. I know I can.
Adrianne, it’s dead.
No!
Defeat walked past us.
I looked down at the stove and the near flaming oil.
No. No, please, they’re too young. They were too full of promise, please. I can help them.
Defeat turned off the stove top.
Life hasn’t been the same since.
Thursday, October 25. 2007
How to Make Fear
Hot sauce. Part two.
The recipe:
30 habaneros
6 green tomatoes (rough chop)
½ onion (chopped)
1 ½ cup cider vinegar
1 tbsp. salt
1 tsp. black pepper
Sautée onion and green tomatoes with salt and black pepper.
In the food processor, add habaneros and turn the puppy on.
Add sautéed onions and tomatoes (still hot).
Add vinegar.
RUN.
The sautéed onion and tomatoes will heat the vinegar and create a capsicum acid steam that will fill the room and make you flee.
When steam has cleared, mix ingredients. Strain the mixture in a fine mesh strainer. Pour liquid into bottles. Be sure to do this (much to the future bafflement of your mate) on the oven. Place the lid to the food processor on the stovetop as well.
Then, because you want to be super smart, clean up using a sponge. Be sure not to wear gloves.
Later, cook dinner. The heat from the stove will release capsicum into the air, making your mate cough and leave the room bewildered.
DO NOT engage in amorous or even affectionate activities for 12-24 hours after making this sauce.
The recipe:
30 habaneros
6 green tomatoes (rough chop)
½ onion (chopped)
1 ½ cup cider vinegar
1 tbsp. salt
1 tsp. black pepper
Sautée onion and green tomatoes with salt and black pepper.
In the food processor, add habaneros and turn the puppy on.
Add sautéed onions and tomatoes (still hot).
Add vinegar.
RUN.
The sautéed onion and tomatoes will heat the vinegar and create a capsicum acid steam that will fill the room and make you flee.
When steam has cleared, mix ingredients. Strain the mixture in a fine mesh strainer. Pour liquid into bottles. Be sure to do this (much to the future bafflement of your mate) on the oven. Place the lid to the food processor on the stovetop as well.
Then, because you want to be super smart, clean up using a sponge. Be sure not to wear gloves.
Later, cook dinner. The heat from the stove will release capsicum into the air, making your mate cough and leave the room bewildered.
DO NOT engage in amorous or even affectionate activities for 12-24 hours after making this sauce.
Saturday, October 13. 2007
How to Make Hell (habanero pepper sauce)
The other day at the Magnolia farmer’s market, we picked up some dangerously pretty red habaneros. Fresh peppers are the culinary equivalent of a three-week-old puppy–once you pick one up, it is impossible to put it down. I picked up a dozen and made hot sauce.
Here is the conversation that took place after Erik took a taste of the concoction:
Erik: You are a devil woman.
Me: What do you think?
Erik: How do we use this?
Me: Carefully and on our enemies.
Here is the recipe:
(Get a pair of latex gloves to handle the habaneros– otherwise you must refrain from touching the soft tissue of loved ones, yourself or your animals for 24 hours)
One dozen habaneros
A quarter cup of onion, diced
Two large cloves of garlic, smashed
One svelte carrot
Juice of two limes
A half-cup of white vinegar
Sauté the onion and garlic in a little oil, add carrot and a quarter cup of water. Add salt. Cover and let carrot cook until soft.
In a mixer (Chef Cannella wants to use the blender next time) mince habaneros. Add water and lime and let sit. Do not taste.
Add carrot, onion and garlic and mix.
Let sit for three hours.
Strain with fine mesh strainer and bottle.
Add a tablespoon of pulp.
Preserve the pulp in a separate jar.
Refrigerate.
Wear gloves and do not allow those with heart problems near the kitchen.
Get a piece of cheese, an ice cube and a bit of bread.
Taste sauce.
Use cheese to distribute the Capsicum.
Use the bread to sop up the fat.
Use the ice to diminish the blisters.
Here is the conversation that took place after Erik took a taste of the concoction:
Erik: You are a devil woman.
Me: What do you think?
Erik: How do we use this?
Me: Carefully and on our enemies.
Here is the recipe:
(Get a pair of latex gloves to handle the habaneros– otherwise you must refrain from touching the soft tissue of loved ones, yourself or your animals for 24 hours)
One dozen habaneros
A quarter cup of onion, diced
Two large cloves of garlic, smashed
One svelte carrot
Juice of two limes
A half-cup of white vinegar
Sauté the onion and garlic in a little oil, add carrot and a quarter cup of water. Add salt. Cover and let carrot cook until soft.
In a mixer (Chef Cannella wants to use the blender next time) mince habaneros. Add water and lime and let sit. Do not taste.
Add carrot, onion and garlic and mix.
Let sit for three hours.
Strain with fine mesh strainer and bottle.
Add a tablespoon of pulp.
Preserve the pulp in a separate jar.
Refrigerate.
Wear gloves and do not allow those with heart problems near the kitchen.
Get a piece of cheese, an ice cube and a bit of bread.
Taste sauce.
Use cheese to distribute the Capsicum.
Use the bread to sop up the fat.
Use the ice to diminish the blisters.