Fruity Chicken Stew
A perfect dish to make on a windy, stormy day in January…the temperature having climbed to the mid-50’s – it’s balmy, wet, and wild outside. A hearty stew but with fruity flavors to remind that spring is not far away…even when it’s easily three months away.
Hunks of peeled ginger add heat and flavor when cooked along with the onions, carrots, and many cloves of garlic – the hunks can be removed at any point. Squeezes of lemon for scent, orange juice for de-glazing, and slices of plantains…one happy-fruity family. And a roasted hacked-apart chicken cooks better than a whole one for this stew as it creates more browned bits in the pan for making broth. Yum!
cooking carrots, onions, and garlic...
with plantains...
with broth...
with chicken!
Stuffed Quahogs
“The ocean’s in my kitchen!”
Nothing smells more like ocean-in-my-kitchen quite like the smell of steaming clams. If ocean mist were hot, this is what it would smell like! Steamed littlenecks usually make me think of butter, white wine, and linguine. But today was made for stuffing quahogs.
I think the reason I like littlenecks in butter and with pasta is that simple steamed clams are just too…anatomical for me to handle. Quahogs are a little anatomy lesson in every shell! – they’re bigger than littlenecks, so you can easily feel the hard parts, soft parts, brainy-looking parts, eeek! However, visually they are shapely and beautiful, and plump after steaming. A one- or two-pulse go-round in a mini-processor helps to avoid having to handle their wobbly selves in the chopping by hand…but avoid pulsing to a uniform texture. Wrapped in foil for baking or freezing, they make a fun ocean-y nosh.
Apple sausage stuffing with sage and sherry – this stuffing is the bomb! Two kinds of apple, carmelized onions, good quality sausage, lots of black pepper, sage and sherry…and no celery.
Slice open and flatten each half-a-pork-loin
In pan, cover one half with stuffing
Lay other half on top and hold together with magical rubber bands made for cooking
Brown on each side in new cast iron Dutch oven
Baked with lots of sherry
A fun thing to do with salmon...I thought of having this on egg noodles and then saw fettucine nests in the store – cute pre-wound nests of what is probably better quality pasta than an egg noodle. Each nest looks like a big fork-full of spaghetti…which reminded me of my grandfather, who in his day could wind a huge plate of spaghetti around just six fork-fulls…it was impressive.
It’s 6am in the morning, the snow is lightly falling, and I’ve convinced myself that warm New England clam chowder at this hour is perfect. With cream, butter, protein, and potatoes…it contains many typical breakfast ingredients. Fresh from the local sea-cliff Lobster Pound…it’s not as though I’m heating a can of Snow’s. It’s cold out there and I need something warm before heading to Sullivan Tire and Auto for an oil change that will become a main belt, two filters, and 257 dollars later. Worth every penny.
I took a long nap today. It’s funny…at age 45, when you take a nap and share that fact with others of similar age or older, they remark on how wonderful and luxurious it is to take a nap. So good for you! Still it means if you’re in your 20’s, and take a long nap, you’re a lazy shit who’s sleeping your life away.
Beautiful pastrami catches my eye and plucks at my heart strings. I spotted it from across the aisle in a local store, yummy lean strips ladled into a big bowl, eyeballing me…I couldn’t resist. I wasn’t even looking for it. And I don’t know what it is about good salami but it will seduce me just the same…thin velvety slices... I’m uncontrollably attracted to quality Italian cold cuts. And thoughts of good olive oil, vinegar, cheese, olives, a few spicy fried peppers or jalapeños - not those things called “hots” in New England which are just “seeds with a little chili paste”. I don’t widely admit my love for good bologna, much like I don’t widely admit my love for “early” Barry Manilow. And I dispute that a (good) slice of bologna is just a hammered-out hot dog. If I find myself in a sub-sandwich shop faced with several choices, it won’t matter what kind of unique concoction they offer, because I’m compelled by a force beyond my control to order the Italian mixed sub. I can read, and even contemplate, “chicken cordon bleu sub” but I stand powerless and what comes out of my mouth, every time, is the Italian mixed sub.
Mustards…why am I obsessed with them? Is it the fun-shaped jars or shiny labels – or just the excitement that each one will provide a newly discovered mustard-y punch or tang? I know this obsession is inherited from my mother – I too have a section on the top shelf of my fridge that must contain at least four different mustards at any given time. Spicy-brown, sweet, hot, and just yesterday, there it was…the most amazing classic yellow mustard. Raye’s Mustard, all natural, Down East Schooner (gotta love that line – there for no other reason than it sounds cool and looks good on the nautical label) – the jar is hexagonal…it’s ingenious, your hands just want to grab it. A sub-line reads, “A Classic American Yellow Mustard”. But what really makes me laugh is the first ingredient: Deep Well Water.
January 6 2010
What a simple thing it is to walk around the block. Even a three-sided block like the one where I live…it’s as easy as putting on your boots and jacket and heading out the door. How weird that for so long I’ve had this in my mind as a much greater chore. It is 29 degrees in Manomet, but direct sun can still manage to melt the snow in areas.
Snow crushed into a dirt road reminds me of sugary gingerbread dough and now I’m hungry for a holiday cookie. At the end of my road, at the edge of the woods, I love to look beyond the gate...thru the trees I can hear the ocean. Due to tricky New England storms, the stairs leading from the landing down to the beach have been removed until April. But that doesn’t keep people from heading as far as they can go to stare at the view or to walk on snowy sand.
Another “McMansion” is going up on the coast. Enormous and breathing down on its neighbor… One more, cozy cape house gobbled up by “the monolith”. And little abandoned and dilapidated #9 still clings to existence on its prime real estate of semi-oceanfront property - its owners obviously with the luxury of holding out for millions and millions of dollars. Yet I love to see that little house still there, staking its claim, and reminding me of a time when the landscape near an ocean respected the cliffs and sewage capacities. I guess between little dilapidated #9, and its McMansion neighbor…it is arguable which is the greater eyesore.
January 5 2010
I go to Piantedosi’s Butcher Shop (in N. Plymouth), faithfully, for fresh short ribs and just ask for “short ribs for four hungry people” – they know the amount for that. It’s ideal if the butcher can saw the ribs for you so all you need to do is separate them for browning and braising. I like to separate them in the classic blocks of one bone per segment. My magical pan (can go from stovetop to oven) can fit eight or so short ribs – they lose a lot of size over braising time. The key to braising short ribs is to braise, not too high of heat!, and to be patient. You add enough water to keep them braising over the cooking time so as to avoid frying the crap out of the short ribs with a thick layer of fat floating on top of charred browned goodness. For best results, after cooking the short ribs, de-fat the pan by cooling it to where the fat rises to the top and solidifies…then you can remove the fat much more easily and warm the short ribs for serving. You can de-fat overnight in the fridge, too. The short ribs will still be rich with the sauce that they’ve braised in for hours.
Braised, de-fatted, savory, rich short ribs melt in your mouth when cooked just right. Because they are so naturally rich they can take a lot of tart so things can be tried…like pomegranate molasses (tart heaven) and other similar tastes. They can also take a lot of dry spice, dry rubs, etc. Spice with respect to their richness and you have a fantastic meal; add to their richness and you’ll be up all night feeling woozy and regretful.
The ingredients that can be used to make sauce in which to braise short ribs can vary in a hundred ways! It’s amazing! Sweetness may be added using honey, molasses, quality fruit jams, fresh fruits, sweet dry spices, etc. Re: star anise: a hint of this spice (half-star for huge pan) adds a slight sweetness and smokiness – too much of this spice becomes nasty quickly; short ribs are very rich and you don’t want to over-sweeten or over-clove them! Acid/tart elements may include vinegar, lemon, wine, rum, pomegranate molasses, capers, etc. Orange juice makes good sugar-meets-tart. Also, heat-spice or dried spice may include dry mustard, hot sauces, dry rubs, etc.
A favorite one of mine:
Chopped onion and garlic with four big hunks of fresh ginger, sautéed with salt & pepper until nicely browned - remove onion/garlic/ginger from pan, set aside.
Add more olive oil and brown short ribs on as many sides as possible - don’t salt them at this point!, and don’t crowd the pan while browning (do them in batches); remove browned ribs from pan and set aside; de-fat pan.
Return onion/garlic/ginger to pan, bring up to temp, add one-half piece of star anise (optional, and add only a half-piece to a large pan!), remove ginger hunks, add tomato paste, healthy glugs of Gosling’s rum, some water for thinning (but not too thin), a bit of molasses, some balsamic, etc. Add short ribs and coat in sauce. Cover pan with lid; bake in oven (325-350 degrees, or lower, depending on your oven) for a few hours, turning ribs in sauce along the way. Drizzle with pomegranate molasses. Remove the star anise after the first hour; remove bones as they slide out over cooking time. Taste as you braise and adjust at will.
For best results, de-fat this dish by cooling (or refrigerating) then lift fat off – warm for serving. I added a few dollops of my homemade Kalamata tapenade to the de-fatted short ribs while warming for serving – can also be served alongside – it’s yummy. Serve short ribs along with anything!...as a meat dish with veggies and starch, or shredded with warmed tortillas, or use for burritos, or serve with couscous, dirty rice…there are endless possibilities.
It is so quiet and glowy outside at 5:30am on this January 4th morning in Manomet. Dollops of snow, like egg whites, lay across the tops of bushes and it is dark as can be out there. I get invigorated by the feeling that I’m the only one awake at this time – at least, that’s what I like to pretend is the case. But a few cars meander up the side streets of my little neighborhood at that hour, slowly making their way to Rt. 3A, headed north to Boston. I’m not headed to the commuter rail this morning – a change in pace from the past several years of doing just that. Today I will work on reinventing myself. I like that phrase, but I think I’m really just unburying myself from the corporate rubble and mainstream commute. And hoping to break out of the norm, maybe even embrace a 24-hour clock for living, sleeping, and working. I’ll get severance for a few months, unemployment (another thing to do today!), and I want volunteer gigs in order to get that feeling I need so desperately of being valued where I work. But if I had it my way – truly – I would grow hydro cukes and tomatoes, “can” them, and sell them locally. And write about it. I would tie-dye silk and make scarves, curtains, and whatever else that calls for hand-dyed silk crepe de chine. I would write about my former egocentric Ph.D-riddled office. But first, like with most mornings, I feel compelled to cook something today that matches a seasonal urge and that motivates me. It has to be wintery, it has to be savory, and it has to take a while…perhaps braised short ribs. For true motivation in the way of writing and organization, there must be onions and garlic sautéing in the background – and since it is winter in New England, something scrumptious needs to cook for hours today. My kitchen and living room are one space and my computer has recently joined in - I am prepped for optimal multi-tasking in the areas of cooking, conjuring, creating, and crafting.
December 18 2009
“I thought of something interesting yesterday…”…my father spoke…he looked sad and depleted. His comment broke the silence while we sat in “the barn” – the heated shelter across from what used to be the garage. The sentence came out of his mouth with a hint of realization, which seemed impossible to my sister and me, so soon after the fire. She and I had just returned from the Windowbox café, the little breakfast nook in my father’s rural neighborhood – the waitress had greeted us with a sympathetic look and a “How’re your Dad and Sam doing?”, along with some free desserts to bring back with us. The local newspaper lay in their front window…our father’s home on the cover, completely engulfed in flames. Above the photo the caption read, “A total loss”. It could be a photo any one of us may’ve seen a dozen times before in a newspaper – but this time, it’s of a home in our family. It was just…surreal. From this time forward we’ll join those families who’ve added the phrase, “the fire”, to their timeline – forever adding to the family’s vocabulary: “that was before The Fire”, and “that was lost in The Fire”. It was frigid weather today though we managed to rescue some large framed photos out of what’s left of a blackened basement hallway...we headed back to the barn to warm up.
My sister and I sat in chairs with our father and wanted to give him some time to talk, or weep…or to tell us this story. From the barn we could view the burnt remains of the home he had built over the years almost entirely by his own hands – his passion-away-from-his-profession. The place where we would go to visit for the past two-and-a-half decades. Not even two days ago, he watched it smolder to where there are now only outlining frames standing here and there…cryptic little hints of what used to be a kitchen…or was it the bathroom? Incredibly, it was hard to distinguish in some areas... We waited for him to continue. He spoke slowly...hoping to get his words out clearly and without another breakdown. He looked crushed, and he had something he needed to share... He paused a few seconds to try and collect his emotions. “Back in 1987…(pause)…Sam and I were waiting to hear from this woman about adopting a baby. Sam had been speaking to a young woman in Kingston…age 19, unwed, looking for parents to adopt her baby...(his sentence trailed off). So she had spoken with the woman a few times…(pause)…and Sam was getting very excited… (Longer pause)… And then my mother died in July of 1987.” (Long pause)…but then my father’s voice lifted slightly to say, “but then Drea came along in October.” He sounded reflective and lighter in that sentence. “And I remembered…(pause)…that saying (quote)…‘when the Lord takes something away…he gives you something in return.’ (Pause.) My mother had died…but here was Andréa.” That lighter voice in him reappeared for another few seconds of reflection, then he lowered his head with thought and remembrance of what was outside.
He paused a few seconds, took a drag off his cigarette, rubbed his forehead, and squinted. He looked up at Gabrielle when he said, “What happened in Fresno…that was a gift. I look at that as a gift. When I think of all the possibilities that could’ve happened then…we were given a gift.” He was of course referring to Drea’s accident this past July and 30-day-stay in a trauma center with temporarily rented housing for The Core Five (Dad, Sam, Gabrielle, Jade, Nancy) - five months ago almost to the day of the devastating fire that had just destroyed his and Sam’s home; Drea had relocated again to CA in November…but this was the home where she’d grown up – and even when you’re 22 and have just moved across the country to your first real apartment and relationship, there is always your home back where you came from, where you were raised, where your parents still kept some of your things, and where there is always a bedroom for you. Now, a completely different picture.
My sister and I watched him intently as he spoke, and we squelched the urge to interject with anything so that he could keep his pace: “…“I learned a lot in Fresno”…and his voice trailed off as we remembered the preciousness of life, the things that truly matter, that cannot be replaced, the value of time spent. He paused some more, bowed his head a bit, and we could tell that something truly profound had struck him last night. Something he was going to tell us too. We waited silently... He is a Catholic man, and though I am not Catholic, I was appreciative that he was struggling to find a reason, or the lesson, in what had happened.
And he said, “I couldn’t understand…Why He would allow me to keep my daughter…but then take away my house?” And there it was – the question that had plagued us non-Catholics on behalf of this Catholic man. He looked down for another second, and said, “So then I thought to myself…(he looked up at us)…does the Lord work in reverse?” He then quickly bowed his head again and put one hand over his eyes. My sister and I sat frozen on those words. But then he motioned that he had a second part to share with us. I felt grateful that his faith had provided him a reason to seek a lesson in all of this, and that maybe he’d share something with us that would make this horrible pain go away. I looked at him, with water leaking out of his eyes, and waited for the answer to, “Does the Lord work in reverse?”
He took a very long pause and then said, “This house…(pause)…I built it over the years…I know every stick of wood in it… It’s my labor of love. But it’s a lot of work – I know that.” (I wondered how long we’d refer to the house in current terms.) (Longer pause.) He looked at us intently and he said, “I work to keep this house going.” (It’s something we’ve all known but never ever expected to hear my father say out loud. His love for working on his house yet the work it entailed – he looked sad to be admitting anything other than the love for it.) He looked down and paused. “But what if…I wasn’t meant to do that anymore? What if He knows…that as long as I have this house…that I would never retire? (Pause.) In other words, we were given a gift in Fresno…and what if this isn’t the Lord taking something away from me…but rather trying to teach me a lesson...to show me…a lesson I might not have learned, any other way. A better way, to spend that gift.” He looked down and said quietly, “...I don’t know”…and his voice trailed off again. Then he had that look again of trying to fend off another breakdown, his voiced cracked a bit, and he said, “I just wish He didn’t have to take my dog in order to teach me.” We all choked... For my Dad and Sam, they lost someone in the fire that day – they lost Maggie, the puppy they had adopted a few months prior. They had completely fallen in love with her. It’s a loss that rattles my Dad worse than the loss of the house and the stuff in it – and for a man who “knows every stick of wood in the place”, that’s saying a lot.
I called the Plymouth food pantry where I was supposed to have volunteered my time on Christmas Day, to have served dinner to the homeless people who stop by for a meal. But this year, the location would change for me - though the mission would remain the same - and I would be intimately connected to the people receiving the charity.
