The Storm Trooper vs. Leilani Hana Ai Ali Alooie

Alright. Let’s take a brief vacation from my vacation to check in on what’s happening in my kitchen. Honestly, since returning from Europe I have hardly been in the kitchen at all. So I decided to change all that this week. Since this past Sunday I have cooked almost every meal I have consumed (except for Uncle Dougertons' birthday dinner at Lukshon last night (amazing!)).

I’m not sure exactly what has kept me from the kitchen. I have been decidedly distracted. A lot has been going on since my return. I guess shifts in work things and car stuff mostly. Actually, almost all of it has been car stuff.

I’ve known my busted-ass Jeep, the Storm Trooper, was at the end of its days for some time. It’s been falling apart piece by piece, day by day. It had become almost comical. I would even drive around for thirty minutes, looking for street parking, to avoid the disgusted expressions of the valets at restaurants.

And then, about a month and a half ago, on my way up the hill headed home, it happened. The Storm Trooper basically caught on fire. With my hands white knuckled, gripping the steering wheel, and my teeth grinding down to nubs, I just made it home. I parked it on the street, rather than my driveway, as I knew that was its last voyage. I might as well get it positioned to be towed away, forever.

R.I.P. Storm Trooper. You were very good to me.

I rented a car while I shopped for what was to become, my new, sweet ride. It didn’t take long. I knew what I wanted, for the most part. In fact it was the first car I looked at in person. It seemed perfect. I bought it. Straight up. Cash money.

Meet my guide, Leilani Hana Ai Ali Alooie.

The first thing I did as I drove away from the girl that sold it to me was put Leilani Hana Ai Ali Alooie on the dashboard. Maggie brought her back from Hawaii months ago and I had been waiting, excitedly, to put her in her permanent spot – at the helm of my new car. The second thing that I noticed as I drove away was the thermometer all the way up to the H. I panicked and pulled over immediately.

Note she also sold me the car with 1/4 tank of gas.

I’m not going to bore you with the details of all that has occurred in this department of the new car over the past month and a half, but it has been a nightmare. Even the boys at the dealership can’t figure it out. Hell, no one can figure it out.

For now, it seems fine, but I am nervous driving my new car. I have some animosity towards my new car. At least Leilani Hana Ai Ali Alooie makes me happy.

And so, since this all came on the heels of an expensive vacation and this has been tremendously expensive as well, I have retreated to the kitchen. I made an incredible sweet corn and chorizo chowder garnished with a crumble of goat cheese and a fried cilantro leaf (let me know if you want the recipe), and grilled swordfish steaks topped with a lima-bean-and-herb butter. But the most exciting thing, surprisingly, was a chicken dish. Michael Motorcycle not only cleaned his plate (making him closer to the Mayorship of The Clean Plate Club), but told me it maybe was the best dish I had prepared for him to date. I don’t think Maggie ate any, but her boyfriend housed a portion and was impressed. Most importantly, I loved it. And it was astonishingly easy! The chicken was served alongside a watermelon, feta, heirloom tomato, red onion, dandelion greens salad and blanched white asparagus with a drizzle of truffle oil and champagne vinegar, topped with celery leaves. Maggie did go bananas for the asparagus, actually.

Sweet Corn and Chorizo Chowder

I think it has been smart to return to the kitchen. I feel more in control of my time and money. I will re-address the new car stuff next week. It pretty much seems stable if I don’t turn on the air conditioning. Or go up steep hills. Which is fun as I reside in sunny Southern California, it's July. And I live on a big hill.

 Chicken Breasts with Anchovy-Basil Pan Sauce

Serves 4

4 bone-in, skin-on chicken breast halves
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
1 red onion, thinly sliced
4 large anchovy fillets, minced
1/4 teaspoon chopped chile de arbol
1/4 cup dry white wine
1/2 cup slivered basil
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon cold unsalted butter 

Preheat the oven to 400°. Season the chicken breasts with salt and black pepper. In a large ovenproof skillet, heat the olive oil. Add the chicken breasts, skin side down, and cook over moderately high heat until they are richly browned, about 3-5 minutes. Turn the chicken breasts and transfer the skillet to the oven. Roast for about 20 minutes, until just cooked through. Transfer the chicken to warmed plates.
 

Set the skillet over moderately high heat and add the red onion; cook until softened, about 3 minutes. Stir in the minced anchovies and chile de arbol. Add the white wine and boil for 1 minute, scraping up any browned bits from the bottom of the pan. Add 1/3 cup of water and boil until the liquid is reduced to 3 tablespoons, about 1 minute. Remove the skillet from the heat and stir in the basil and lemon juice. Swirl in the butter and season the pan sauce with salt and pepper.
 

Pour the anchovy-basil pan sauce over the roasted chicken breasts, spooning the red onion all around, and serve right away.
 

The Birdcage

Yes. I know. I know.  It has been too long. But I am back now. Things have been very lively in my world. Paz was in town for ten (10) days and she only just left. Don’t worry, you’ll be hearing all about that soon enough as there is much to share. But first I would be remiss if I didn’t share a story with you of an evening that took place right before Paz’s arrival.

As long as I’ve lived in my canyon, when I go on hikes and walks and such, I’ve noticed this enormous, old, antique birdcage next to some trashcans behind a house. I’ve always coveted this birdcage. I told Maggie as much.

And so we debated.

I figured if it was literally sitting next to a trash can, untouched for years, no one would really miss it. Right? It wasn’t officially wrong or steal-y. It was perfectly fine. Right?

And so we plotted.

Well, I guess we didn’t really plot – we decided to bust up there one night after dinner when it was dark. That was the long and short of it.

So one particular night, after an especially delicious dinner at home with Maggie and Michael Motorcycle during clean-up, MM and I heard a definitive, “Alright, let’s do this” from behind. We whirled around to see Maggie in full-on burgle gear: all black with black paint under her eyes. She was rocking her “menacing” pose. At that moment I think I peed my pants a little bit.

So Maggie, Michael Motorcycle and I all piled into my car and headed up the hill. Laughing hysterically. In the world’s loudest car. In the world’s quietest canyon. At about midnight.

Did I mention we neglected to plot?

We drive up past the house. We make a u-turn and go back down to idle in front of the house. Michael was on getaway driver duty, Maggie was going to hold up the back gate of my car (it doesn’t stay up by itself) and I was to be the birdcage grabber. It was my mission so, of course, I was to take the biggest risk. Why we didn’t park farther away from the house and walk up, stealth-like, I don’t know. Perhaps the lack of plotting?

Anyway, I jump out and after nearly wiping out en route to the trash can area in my Crocs (stupid choice, but I had just been cooking) and arrive face to face with The Birdcage. Now I am a tall woman and this thing was taller than me. The birdcage is massive and cumbersome and worst of all, heavy. And right when I get almost to the car I realize that the base of it had rotted away and that the top and bottom were not attached. The reason I noticed this is that the top fell, with a bang-crash-extreme cacophony, to the street. I'm talking loud. This is also right about when I notice a person a dozen or so yards away, standing in the street. But, I was unyielding. We had come this far, right?

So, while laughing even harder, next to the world’s loudest car, in the world’s quietest canyon, with a neighbor standing right up the street, I started to cram the birdcage into the back of my car. It’s so big it doesn’t fit. “Just ram it in and leave the back open! It’ll be fine! Let’s just GO!”

At this point I should, perhaps, add that wine may have been involved.

And so, while laughing even harder, in the world’s loudest car, in the world’s quietest canyon, after about five years of coveting, I have my birdcage. It really brings the garden together. Michael Motorcycle is going to put an upside down tomato plant inside – or so he says.

Oh, and that night’s dinner was a beauty: we went to Lindy Grundy on their opening day and bought a Frenched rack of lamb and some of Erika’s special pork kimchi sausage. We grilled. We served the lamb over mint-infused jasmine rice with a minted English pea puree and roasted brussels sprouts. I have actually shared this particular recipe before but with much less ado. It’s a beautiful, fresh and simple recipe and one that really showcases a truly gorgeous piece of meat.

What, you thought I'd show you a picture of the birdcage? No way! You might could send me up the river!

 *P.S. Picture of Maggie in "full-on burgle gear" may be provided upon request.

 (I hope I don’t have to go on The Lam)

 Lamb Chops with Cumin, Cardamom and Lime

Ingredients:

12-16 cloves of garlic
1 tsp cumin
1 tbsp fresh cardamom
1/3 cup FRESH lime juice
1 tbsp salt
2 tsp pepper
1/2 cup olive oil
16 rib or Frenched lamb chops

 

Directions:

In the food processor, drop garlic, add cumin, cardamom, lime juice, salt, pepper and oil.  Pour into a large bag or container to marinate (a coupla hours or up to 2 days). 

On the grill is a must, and with a medium flame they'll be done in about 4 minutes per side.  Perhaps a bit more but rarer is better.

Your Hand in Mine

fickle |ˈfikəl|

adjective

changing frequently, esp. as regards one's loyalties, interests, or affection : Web patrons are a notoriously fickle lot, bouncing from one site to another on a whim | the weather is forever fickle.

DERIVATIVES

fickleness noun

fickly |ˈfik(ə)lē| adverb

ORIGIN Old English ficol [deceitful] .

I’ve always known I’m fickle.

persnickety |pərˈsnikətē|

adjective informal

placing too much emphasis on trivial or minor details; fussy : persnickety gardeners | she's very persnickety about her food.

• requiring a particularly precise or careful approach : it's hard to find a film more persnickety and difficult to use than black-and-white infrared.

ORIGIN early 19th cent. (originally Scots): of unknown origin.

I’m also aware that I can be tremendously persnickety.

At times either of these attributes could be considered cute, quirky or even endearing. But as I get older I would say that, more often than not, these qualities are irritating, unnerving and not so attractive. Especially if you’re a food, restaurant or boy I can’t decide if I want or not, or might want, or maybe I won’t want - at any given moment.

Doug knows all too well that prior to dining out – or even last Friday when deciding on a happy hour spot – there is a whole process involved. This process usually begins anywhere from a few hours to a few days before said event.

I just want the choice to be the perfect choice. I want everything to be just right. I don’t want to wish I were anywhere else. Or with anyone else.

I guess I have control issues. And I’m kind of OCD.

Hey, I’ve never claimed to be a walk in the park, you know?

Anyway, there’s all sorts of good stuff, too. But it’s not what I’m thinking about right now.

I’m thinking more about how I can relax. Without pharmaceuticals, mind you. I need to learn how to go with the flow, float with the tide. I need to fucking chill out. I can’t control everything and it doesn’t make any sense to try anyway. It’s exhausting for me and, I imagine, for the people around me. Maybe this is why I’ve been so tired lately.

During these moments I usually I turn to soup. But today I thought I’d give myself more of a challenge. I needed to get a lot more involved in something. I decided to bake. So, earlier, as I was listening to one of my favorite songs, and one that has been in constant rotation of late, Your Hand in Mine by Explosions in the Sky, and reading through some of my favorite blogs, I stumbled upon a particularly tempting recipe from One Perfect Bite. A recipe for Bouchon Bakery’s Nutter Butter Cookies.

I made a scant few modifications here and there, but I’m pretty excited. I baked!

I guess I can grow and change. 

Nutter Butter Cookies

Makes 8 ginormous cookies

Ingredients:

Cookie Dough:

1 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
2 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 pound (2 sticks) butter, at room temperature
1/3 cup creamy peanut butter, preferably Skippy
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup firmly packed light brown sugar
1 large egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
4 tablespoons coarsely chopped peanuts
1-1/4 cups quick-cooking oats

Cookie Filling:
8 tablespoons butter, at room temperature
1/2 cup creamy peanut butter
1 ½ cups confectioners’ sugar

Directions:

1) Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

2) To make cookie dough: In a bowl, sift together flour, baking powder and baking soda; set aside. Using an electric mixer, cream together butter and peanut butter. Add sugars and beat at medium speed for 3-4 minutes, scraping down bowl twice. At low speed, add egg and vanilla. Add flour mixture and stir until well mixed, frequently scraping down bowl. Add peanuts (if using) and oats, and mix well. Using an ice cream scoop 2 inches in diameter or an extremely heaping tablespoon, place balls of dough on parchment-lined baking sheets at least three inches apart. Bake until cookies have spread and turned very light golden brown, about 10-14 minutes. Remove from oven and set aside to cool and firm up, 5 to 10 minutes. Transfer to a rack to cool completely before filling.

3) To make filling: Using an electric mixer, cream together butter, peanut butter and confectioners’ sugar until very smooth.

4) To assemble cookies: Spread a thin layer (about 1/8 inch) on underside of a cookie. Sandwich with another cookie. Repeat.

 

Sliding Doors

I am at a new intersection presently. The landscape is changing. And soon I need to either turn right or I need to turn left. It’s hard when I’ve been going straight for so long.

This makes me think of the concept of Alternate History. Alternate History is a genre of fiction that was identified in the early 1950s that involves cross-time travel between alternate histories or psychic awareness of the existence of "our" universe by the people in another; or ordinary voyaging uptime (into the past) or downtime (into the future) that results in history splitting into two or more time-lines. Or, to put it simply, What If?

Remember Sliding Doors? I love that movie. I actually own it on DVD (but let’s not run around telling everyone that).

So, here I am. Left or right? I can’t keep going straight forever or I’ll run myself right into the ocean. I’ll float away. Last night I tried so hard to turn left. I really did. But I couldn’t. And, I fear, as a result that particular road may be too far behind me now to be able to reverse all the way back to. I should probably turn right, anyway. Hell, I know I should turn right.

Suddenly I realize the idiocy in Rush’s lyric, "If you choose not to decide you still have made a choice." Oh, Geddy, I still love you.

What if I just turn on my signal and imply I’m turning right? Does that mean I still have to turn? I wish there was a Sliding Doors-type of thing that I could watch in this trajectory. I would really like to see how both roads look. Where they lead.

But clearly that’s not an option.

In an oddly symbiotic fashion, I cannot commit to what on earth I want to make for dinner tonight. Michael Motorcycle is coming over and I don’t have a clue whether to go the route of tilapia or pork tenderloin. These options are as different as right or left and, now, at 6pm I, as yet, don’t have a clue.

So, I guess, for now,  I’ll keep going straight and make a soup. This is a beautiful and complex soup filled with the beauties Mr. Motorcycle and I picked up at the farmers’ market this past Sunday morning: parsnips, heirloom carrots, baby potatoes, garlic, an onion, raw cream, and bacon. 

As for which way I'll turn, in addition to the tilapia vs. pork tenderloin mystery - I'lll keep you posted. 

Until then, maybe I'll watch Back to the Future.

Creamy Roasted Parsnip-Carrot Soup with Crispy Bacon and Potatoes

Serves 6-8

Ingredients

3 tablespoons butter
1 medium onion, chopped
1 cup chopped heirloom carrots
1 bay leaf
1 teaspoon grated garlic
10 cups chicken stock
3 pounds parsnips, peeled and diced
1/4 to 1/2 cup raw cream
6 ounces raw bacon, chopped
1/2 pound baby, new potatoes, quartered, boiled in chicken stock and divided
Salt and pepper

 

Directions

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.  Scatter the parsnips and carrots on a baking sheet with olive oil, salt and pepper. Roast until semi-tender, approximately 15-20 minutes.

Melt the butter in a 6-quart stock pot over medium-high heat. Add the onion. Season with salt and pepper. Saute until the onion is soft, about 4 minutes. Add parsnips, carrots, half of the potatoes, bay leaf and garlic.

Add the stock and bring the mixture to a boil. Reduce the heat to medium and simmer, uncovered, until everything is very soft, about 1 hour. Remove soup from heat and allow to cool a little. Discard bay leaf.

Using an immersion blender, carefully puree soup until smooth. Stir in cream. Season with salt and pepper.

In a small saute pan, over medium heat, render bacon until crispy. Remove the bacon and drain on paper towels. Sautee the remaining potatoes in bacon fat until crispy and brown, about 3 to 4 minutes. Transfer potatoes to paper towel lined plate when done. Season with salt.

To serve, ladle the soup into serving bowls. Garnish with the crispy potatoes and bacon. 

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Son of a Gun - It's Rated ARGH! (Insert pirate hook here)

I really wanted to steer away from the restaurants for a while and get back to the recipes/stories/metaphors tangled up in my world. But, I was fortunate enough to hit up Son of a Gun on only their second night open and I was on a date doing it. And so, all the news that’s fit to print, right?

I spent almost all of last week and the last weekend in super nesting mode. I think I went out one night. But I wasn’t really cooking anything too exciting either. I actually wasn’t feeling great. But I told myself, and Mr. Michael Motorcycle (named!), that I would definitely be ready to go out for a nice dinner Monday night. I was bandying about the idea of hitting Salt’s Cure or Animal. Then I ended up having lunch with Jill, that very day, at Salt’s Cure (I can’t help it!), and then I remembered, Animal?!, Hells bells! Son of a Gun opened just last night!

And there you go.

It’s been long awaited, but those two, super cute chefs behind Animal, Jon Shook and Vinny Dotolo done did it. And I so love that they opened on Oscar night. Their newest, Son of a Gun, occupying the old Cynthia’s space on Third Street, is seafood-centric, with a head-to-toe nautical themed interior. There are 55 seats, half of which – the leather banquets -  are open for reservations and the other half – a long, communal table, running down the middle of the room, are reserved for walk-ins. We marched right up to the bar, however. We sat next to the goldfish.

I tried to wait for the perfect moment, but I’ve never been good at patience or timing – so, Mr. Motorcycle had to hear my pirate joke before he even got a glass of wine down. I think he was humoring me, as he did, in fact, laugh. But let’s face it, I am the worst joke deliverer ever. And my jokes are stuck in 5^th grade. So, points for the boy...

Okay.

So we each ordered a glass of 2008 Erbaluce, La Torrazza, Carema ($13), against the better judgement of our server. She was right and Mr. Motorcycle noticed it immediately: While being a very drinkable wine, this does not have enough snap to hang with the oceanic fare we had selected. This fare was the Smoked Mahi Fish Dip, Celery, Radish, Crackers ($9), and the Fluke, Raita, Oro Blanco, Pineapple, Mint ($15). These two dishes were fun to have side by side as one was very pedestrian in concept and one was tremendously refined. The mahi dip was fresh and crisp and served along side buttery Ritz-esque crackers. I felt like I was sitting on the pier. The fluke was delicate and complex. This dish took one’s palate on a bit of a trajectory from soft and supple, to rich and creamy, to citrusy and and, bam!, a bit of heat. I felt like I was on the, um, very fancy pier?

Side note: I love that their plates are Heath.

At this point we decided to commit to a bottle of 2007 Bourgogne Aligoté, Domaine Rollin ($38). We tasted it and it seemed a bit more befitting for the evening.

Next up was the Alligator Schnitzel, Heart of Palm, Orange ($13) and the dish I was the very most excited about: Linguine and Clams, Uni Aglio-Olio, Breadcrumbs ($16). Here things take a slight twist. But only very.

The schnitzel was fun, but not anything exceptional, nor something the caliber I expect to see from these boys. I’m thinking maybe the breading could use a little something? It was simply, not very interesting. And I want my alligator to be interesting!

The pasta was good. It was cooked beautifully and I loved the addition of the breadcrumbs for the texture. I really did like this dish but, If you can believe it, it was a skosh too salty for me. Translation: really salty.

We finished up with the Fried Chicken Sandwich, Spicy B&B Pickle Slaw, Rooster Aioli ($11), on the behest of our super great bartender. This sandwich was excellent! Perhaps one of the best chicken sammies I've had to date, actually. I wish we ordered it earlier so we could have inhaled it, but we were pretty full at this point. Mr. Motorcycle took it home to have for lunch the next day.

I like this place. A lot. I will like it more as wrinkles get unwrinkled, but mostly when it gets all warm and sunshiney out. You know, when we want to be on that pier. Eating awesome seafood in an awesome spot. And they're open late!

Oh, and hey guys, I really want a soup on the menu.

Clash of the Titans

Sometimes I don’t know if I like having crushes – or the whole dating universe. I mean, it’s great to have someone to play with, but it’s also jarring to begin sweating all the stupid girly shit when you were doing just fine before, on your own.

Something is overwhelmingly disturbing about having one’s confidence shaken to the point of paralysis as the result of not getting a phone call (or, more often than not these days, a text) about a plan that was vague at best, anyway. A plan you didn’t even really know if you wanted to be a part of anyway.

Suddenly one’s skin and emotions are all gossamery and stuff.

But then, it’s also really important to try to remember that this is supposed to be the funnest part, the neatest part. The totally not boring part.

But then, of course, the inevitable big battle begins: ego and jealousy always jump in and try to wreak havoc on the butterflies and giggles parade.

It must be worth it because we all return for it, over and over again. Hell, we hunger for it. We pay good money to see God-awful movies and wildly successful TV shows (that became God-awful movies) about it.

Funny thing: I have been doling out dating “advice” to my friends a lot lately, it seems. But I just realized, as it’s been so long since I’ve been on more than a couple dates with any one person that said advice is infinitely easier said than done.

I guess this is the part where I tell you that my first date, about which I shared some neurosis with you very recently, went really well. I had a lot of fun. And I didn’t expect to. And yes, there has since been a second (and maybe a third!) date. Also fun.

So this brings us to the now – the time when I have to work really hard – wait for it – to enjoy everything. Oxymoronic, no?

And so, as I reflect on these thoughts, and try to recall and feel the fun sillies from the weekend, and try not to project on how many ways either he or I or the universe could possibly make it all dissolve into thin air, I, as usual, found my zen in my kitchen. Making soup.

This is a beautiful and delicate soup. It’s one I had a lot growing up in Richmond. There was (and still is) a little Greek spot called Athens Tavern that served it. That was the only place I ever had it until somewhat recently. It’s like chicken and noodles, but it somehow manages to be a lot more complex and bold while simultaneously being delicate and diaphanous upon hitting the tongue. These supposed elemental mismatches end up making perfect sense - they just are - not unlike the ego versus butterfly battle. The clash of the Titans.

I also gave a certain someone a big bowl of this soup to have for lunch at work today…

Avgolemono Soup

6-8 servings

2 quarts strong chicken stock (preferably home-made)

1 cup chopped up chicken pieces (preferably from the meat of the chicken used for the stock)

½ cup raw orzo

4 eggs

Juice of 4 Meyer lemons

Kosher salt and fresh cracked black pepper

Bring stock to a boil and add the orzo. Cook until orzo is tender, about twenty minutes. Add chicken.

Remove the stock from the heat. Just before serving, beat the eggs until they are light and frothy. Slowly beat in the lemon juice and dilute the mixture with two cups of the hot soup, beating constantly until well mixed.

Add the diluted egg-lemon mixture to the rest of the soup, beating constantly. Bring almost to the boiling point, but do not boil or the soup will curdle.

Salt and pepper to taste.

Serve immediately.

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