Ready, Set, Go.

2013.
Here it is.
I’m ready.

I stopped making New Year’s resolutions a long time ago. I don’t make too many finite rules for myself, in general. I hate fooling myself or disappointing myself. Making decrees that seem unrealistic for the long term and then breaking those rules as a result is, I think, an unhealthy practice. There are, however, broad, general, obtuse sorts of things I’d like to see more or less of at the start of each year.

I’d like to get more exercise (but I really hate exercise).
I’d like to want to exercise more.
I’d like to drink more water, and perhaps a skosh less wine.
I’d like to read and write more.
I’d like to see more movies in theaters.
I’d like to push myself more in the kitchen.
I’d like to travel more.
I’d like to see myself save some money.
I’d like to stay in better touch with friends and family that I don’t get to see often/ever.
I’d like that to mean that I will send cards and write letters.
I’d like to be calmer and more flowy, in general.

Most of these things seem reasonable enough. The exercise one is questionable. So is the wine one. And the calm and flowy. We’ll see.

One of the things Fred and I have been doing in the kitchen lately is play sort of a Chopped game with our approach to dinner. I’ll pick three to five seemingly disparate items (usually things in the refrigerator that need to get used for fear of waste) and putting together a complete meal with them. One night it was duck breast, savoy cabbage, rice leftover from Chinese food delivery and sausage. Fred made seared duck breast over a fried rice with sausage and cabbage that was extraordinary.

Another time the items were salmon, coconut milk, scallions, avocado and parsley. We marinated the salmon in coconut milk, pan roasted it and topped it with a avocado-parsley cream. It’s fun, challenging and ensures very little goes into the trash bin/compost that we don’t have.

Last night the items were a leek, a potato, buttermilk, sour cream and some fennel from the garden. All of the items save for the fennel were on the brink of getting tossed. As I looked over the items for my challenge it was so very obvious. Soup. Plus, I could finally get a chance to use my Christmas present from Fred; my new Vitamix blender (!). He had used it the night before making the parsley-avocado cream, but I had not messed with it, yet. Perfecto.

As I tossed the chopped leek into the melted butter, the idea fully came together; I was going to make a buttermilk vichyssoise with fennel. When I got to the part where I dumped everything into the blender - hot - I was scared and excited. It did not explode hot liquid all over me and it even managed to fully blend the fennel fronds. In less than thirty seconds I had a silky smooth, velvety, perfectly pureed, beautiful, perky bright green soup.

I’ve said it many times here, but soup really is my favorite thing to make. It can be as comforting, elegant, rustic, hearty, simple, complex, delicate, chunky, smooth, hot, cold, big or little as you want it to be. It goes with every meal and every season. And the garnish is always so fun to decide. It’s like that hat or scarf that just makes the outfit.

This soup, a vichyssoise, is kind of all of those things: simple yet complex, delicate yet hearty, elegant yet rustic. It can even be served hot or cold. This soup calls for any manner of garnishes. Chives , creme fraiche, a simple buttery crouton, or maybe you want to really dress it up - with a sliver of smoked salmon and a small dollop of caviar. Now that really makes the outfit.

I guess with my new kitchen toy I am accomplishing at least one of the things I’d like to see more of in 2013 - I am pushing myself more in the kitchen already. If this soup didn’t go so perfectly with any number of white wines I might be able to start accomplishing another one of the things on that list...

• Buttermilk Vichyssoise with Fennel
• 
  
• Serves 6
• 
  

Ingredients

• 
  
• 3 tablespoons unsalted butter
• 1 leek, white and light-green parts only, halved lengthwise then thinly sliced into half-moons, washed well and drained
• 1 large white potato, cut into 1-inch pieces
• 3 1/2 cups chicken stock
• 1 cup chopped fennel bulb & fronds
• Coarse salt and freshly ground white pepper
• 2 cups buttermilk
• 1/2 cup creme fraiche
• Smoked salmon and caviar (for garnish)

Directions

Melt butter in a stockpot over medium-low heat. 
Add leek, and cook, covered, until tender, about 15 minutes.
Add potatoes and stock. Bring to a boil; simmer until potatoes are tender, about 20 minutes. Stir in fennel and cook for about 5-7 more minutes.
Working in batches, puree soup in a blender until smooth. Transfer pureed soup to a large bowl. 
Season with salt and white pepper. Stir in sour cream and buttermilk just before serving. Adjust seasoning as needed. 
If necessary, thin the soup with a bit more chicken stock or water to achieve desired consistency. 
Garnish with a sliver of smoked salmon and a tiny drop of caviar.
May be served hot or cold. 


Printable recipe.


One year ago: Cheebo
Two years ago: Vinegar-Braised Chicken with Garlic & Celery Leaves
Three years ago: Carrot Soup with Ginger & Cumin
FIVE years ago: Dominick's

Leftovers

Christmas has come and gone. The gifts have been thought out, purchased, wrapped, received, unwrapped and put away. The guests have come and gone. What remains, however, is a lot of leftovers. Fred and I have done all sorts of things imaginable with all of the leftovers in the fridge - the most creative being a shepherd pie of sorts. We took the leftover prime rib, chopped it up with some carrots, celery and red wine and turned it into a boeuf bourguignon. Then we took the scraps leftover from the domino potatoes, boiled them and made a mash. We put the remains of the winter greens gratin in the mash and stirred it all together. Then we put the bourguignon in a casserole, topped it with the mash and baked it. That was dinner one night. And a snack the next day. The funny thing is that now we have that leftover in the fridge.


I feel like Sisyphus, but my rock is leftover food. Actually, my rock is the ham. We weren’t entirely certain we would have enough food to feed our seven, possibly eight, guests for Christmas dinner (a thought, that in hindsight, was absurd) so we asked Fred’s mom’s boyfriend to bring a ham (he had offered). Needless to say, the ham never even saw the dinner table on Christmas as we had an over abundance of food.


So I sent everyone home with some ham that night. And the next day there were ham sandwiches. And some ham biscuits the day after that. We even had ham and eggs for breakfast the next morning.


But even yesterday, when I opened the fridge, the ham was still there. And a lot of it. I wanted to get the hock to make ham and beans, but there was still so much ham left to use. So, I did what I often do in these situations; I called Mom. You see, my mom makes a killer ham salad.


My mom is also moving back to Virginia in less than two weeks. So right now, any excuse to see, or talk to her is welcomed. In fact, lately, we’ve been talking about five or six times a day. Yesterday it was about ham salad. She told me her recipe and her technique, and while Fred watched football in the den, I took every last shred of meat on that ham, got two chefs knives, and went cray cray on some ham salad. My mom told me Uncle Dougerton especially loves her ham salad, so I delivered some to him today. I also took some to my girls at Lindy & Grundy, since they love anything my mom makes.


Today is New Year’s Eve, and I’m sitting on the sofa, writing this, completely swaddled in the blanket my mom knitted me for this Christmas. She has been working on it for well over a year and it shows. It’s huge. It’s like twenty feet long huge. It’s bright and colorful and filled with different textures and shapes. I know it will be in my life forever. My kids and grandkids will love this blanket. I look at the blanket and I know she touched, and thought about, and poured love into every thread, every millimeter of it. Did she know what she was giving me right before she is moving away? My favorite leftover of them all. An heirloom.


And this recipe for ham salad.

Kathy's Deviled Ham Salad

Ingredients:
2 cups ham, really finely chopped
1/4 cup sweet onion, finely diced
1/4 cup celery, finely diced
1 large dill pickle, diced
3 tablespoons mayo
1 teaspoon dijon mustard
Dash of sherry vinegar
Salt and black pepper to taste


Directions:
Mix all the ingredients together until blended but not too smooth as you want a bit of texture. Taste and adjust any seasoning or add more mayonnaise if you like. A little drizzle of pickle juice is excellent as well.


Yield: About 3 cups. Keeps in the refrigerator for a few days.

Printable recipe.


One year ago: Domino potatoes
Two years ago: Linguine with pancetta mushroom cream sauce
Three years ago: 2009: The Year of the Food Truck

Lighting Up My Life.

I very recently went on a mini vacation to New Orleans. Fred and I were celebrating our one year anniversary. We had a really wonderful time - ate A LOT of food. I had fully intended to write and tell you all about it. I even started on the returning flight.

But then I returned home to some staggering and devastating news about someone very significant to me: Breeda had finally succumbed to a long battle with Cancer. And then Newtown happened. And then my trip really didn't seem relevant, interesting or important anymore.

And so I thought. I thought and I felt. And I cried. Mostly by myself, in my studio.

And here's the thing: I have decided that my trip to New Orleans is actually very relevant right now. New Orleans embodies and exudes a spirit that I have rarely seen anywhere else. Interestingly, here's the only paragraph I had written about my trip on the day I was returning home. Before everything.

As I fly away, over The Big Easy, to return to the City of Angels, I am choked up. I am. Although always, when I visit other cities I very seriously consider whether or not I want to live there, and this visit to New Orleans was no different. I don't think this is where I will necessarily land but there is a love, a friendliness, a kinship and a spirit that I am extremely sad to be flying away from. And I rarely feel this sense of freedom and community, this spirit, in my town. Not as a city. 

Love, spirit, kinship, friendliness. We need those things right now. I really need those things right now. 

In the cab on the way to the airport, on my last morning in New Orleans, I had an extremely chatty driver. I had nary a sip of my coffee and was not exactly in the mood for the banter at first. But then I started to really listen to what he was saying. First he told me about the ubiquitous Cajun-French phrase all Louisianans are familiar with that is literally translated as 'Let the good times roll": "Laissez les bons temps rouler". He talked about the strength and power of the spirit, the joie de vivre, that exists in New Orleans. He told me about his wife and their kids. He told me he has been married for forty years and is still madly in love with his wife. He told me that the very night before, the two of them sat on their front porch and shared a bottle of wine. He told me they uttered only a few words to one another as the sun set, sipping their wine. And he told me that, "although it wasn't anything fancy, mind you, that was one very special bottle of wine". He and his wife were both career school teachers, had retired but lost their pensions during this economic downturn. So, with the kids long grown up and moved away, to make ends meet, his wife picked up a real estate gig, and he started driving a cab. And he was so damned happy.

And while clutching my too-hot-to-drink coffee, under my hat and sunglasses, I cried a little. That same guy that wouldn't stop talking and caused my eyes to roll out of my head in exasperation, now seemed a sage. I never wanted that ride to end. 

I forgot about him until I started doing all of my feeling and thinking and crying about other things. I am so glad I remembered, though. Because yes, there is loss and tragedy and darkness. But there is also so much love, and comedy and light. So, so, so much love.

This is for my Breeda, my third parent, and one of the brightest lights to ever shine: thank you so much for everything you have given me throughout my life - from the 8X10 portraits, to Fictionary and The Infamous Rum Cake, to The Runes, to all of my wonderful boxes, to countless hours of giggles, for your beautiful, lasting friendship with my mother, and for your song. I'm not sure if I ever told you, but you light up my life, too. Laissez les bons temps rouler…

While I was making dinner last night, I became fixated on a pile of pomegranates that have been hanging around since Thanksgiving. I'm not a huge fan of pomegranates, but I didn't want them to go to waste. And then it hit me; pomegranates are supposed to have Cancer fighting properties and are a key element in the Greek myth about how we got our four seasons. Hades and Zeus make a deal; Fall and Winter for Spring and Summer. The pomegranate seemed life-giving and death-dealing. And to top it all off, we can look to the stars, in the story of Orion. Hera, the supreme goddess of women, wears neither a wreath nor a tiara, but clearly the calyx of the pomegranate that has become her serrated crown. What then could be a more perfect item to top our main course, seared duck legs. Though she'd probably pour it over chocolate rather than duck, Breeda would dig it.

This reduction was lovely poured over seared duck legs, but would be beautiful with turkey or pork as well. It would just as nicely work drizzled over an olive oil cake or some creamy vanilla ice cream. Go figure!

Pomegranate-Sherry Reduction

Serves 6

3 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 medium shallot, finely diced
1 tablespoon whole black peppercorns
1/2 cup cream sherry
3 cups home-made chicken stock
2 cups pomegranate juice 
2 tablespoons maple syrup
Salt and freshly ground pepper
1/2 cup pomegranate seeds

Melt the butter in a large saucepan over medium heat, and sweat the onion until tender, about 3 minutes. Add the peppercorns and cook another 3 minutes.

Add the sherryand cook, stirring, until most of it has evaporated. Add the stock, pomegranate juice, syrup, raise the heat to medium-high, and reduce slowly to a sauce consistency. The sauce will turn brownish red. Season, to taste, with salt and pepper. Remove from heat and add pomegranate seeds.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Cassoulet

Two years ago: Linguine with Pancetta Mushroom Cream Sauce

Three years ago: Aunt Babe's Mashed Potatoes

Thanks and Giving.

Thanksgiving has come and gone for 2012. This one was probably one of the best in my (not so great) memory. It wasn’t huge and crazy, and it wasn’t teeny tiny, but it maintained both social and intimate qualities, friends and family. I didn’t go too far overboard with the menu (some may argue that), but there was still enough for the all-important turkey sandwich fixins leftover. Most importantly, I was - and still am - quite cognisant of all that I am thankful for. During the toast, I looked over the room - the beautiful, beautiful room, filled with some of my favorite people in the world, filled with wonderful food and wine, our dogs, a fire in the fireplace - and tears welled up in my eyes. I was warm with love and happiness. And a calm that I rarely experience.

Of course there were minor dramas. Of course some people wouldn’t or couldn’t eat or drink certain things on the menu. Of course there was that frenetic energy in the kitchen right as all of the food was coming out to the table. Of course some people didn’t want to be seated next to certain guests and there was also that mysterious adjustment to the seating chart. Of course there was a monumental mess to clean up. 

Of course, of course, of course. 

But then there also were these moments: The moment Maggie showed up, before she began to decorate and turn the living room into a dining room - we both plopped down and took a breath to reflect on our previous Thanksgivings together and toast with a glass of sparkles. The moment Fred made me take just thirty seconds of time to dance with him in the hallway before we went to sit down at the table to eat. The moment I looked across the table, all decked out in my grandma Janie's ruby china, and felt so proud. The moment my mom was so into our game of charades that she was excitedly shrieking her guesses for both teams. The moment Nadia traded her five-inch black Gucci heels for my knitted socks and Crocs to go on an after dinner hike with the gang. The moment we all sat down in the den, after the meal, after charades and after the hike, to bask in the pleasure of a wonderful day and finish it off with Home For the Holidays and one more glass of lambrusco.

The turkey, the stuffing, the potatoes, the gravy, the pie - yes, they were present and delicious. But what I will remember about this Thanksgiving, what stands out from the turkey, the potatoes, the gravy and the pie, are those moments shared with those people. And that can never be duplicated. Not the moments.

And for that, for what we all gave one another, I am so very thankful.

*In addition to the very traditional menu we served this past Thanksgiving, there were a couple wild cards in there. A couple of dishes where I felt the urge to flex a bit. Usually this comes in the form of a soup. And though I heard a little hemming and hawing about this soup being on the menu, and how it would make everyone too full to truly appreciate the presumed star of the meal, the turkey, I made it anyway. As we all began to eat something pretty awesome happened: I immediately got three or four shouts from the other end of the table about how amazing the soup was. And the praise kept coming. Go figure.

I’ve already got the Christmas menu pretty much planned. The soup for that one will be an oyster stew, but this chestnut soup would be just perfect for your Christmas dinner.

Chestnut, Celery & Apple Soup with Sage Oil

Makes 6 to 8 servings

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1 medium onion, peeled, trimmed and thinly sliced

1 shallot, peeled, trimmed and thinly sliced

3 small McIntosh apples, peeled, cored and cut into 1/2-inch cubes

4 celery stalks, chopped

1 bay leaf

1 sprig thyme

Pinch of freshly grated nutmeg

Salt and freshly ground white pepper

3/4 pound peeled fresh chestnuts (from about 1 1/4 pounds chestnuts in the shell) or dry-packed bottled or vacuum-sealed peeled chestnuts

2 quarts chicken stock 

1/2 cup heavy cream

2 tablespoons of cream sherry

8-12 fried sage leaves

2-4 tablespoons sage oil

Heat the oil in a stockpot or large casserole over medium heat.  Add the onion, shallot, apples, celery, bay leaf, thyme, nutmeg and salt and pepper to taste and cook, stirring occasionally, for about 10 minutes, or until the onions and leeks are soft but not colored.  Add the chestnuts and chicken stock and bring to the boil.  Lower the heat to a simmer and cook, skimming the surface regularly, for 35 to 40 minutes, or until the chestnuts can be mashed easily with a fork.  Add the heavy cream and sherry and simmer for 5 to 10 minutes more, then remove from the heat and discard the bay leaf and thyme.

Puree the soup until smooth using a blender or a food processor, and working in batches if necessary, then pass it through a fine-mesh strainer.  You should have about 2 quarts soup.  If you have more, or if you think the soup is too thin -- it should have the consistency of a veloute or light cream soup - simmer it over medium heat until slightly thickened.  Taste and, if necessary, adjust the seasoning.  (The soup can be cooled completely and stored in a covered container in the refrigerator for 3 to 4 days or frozen for up to one month.  Bring the soup to a boil before serving.)

Serve topped with a couple of fried sage leaves and a drizzle of sage oil.

Printable recipe.

One year ago: Divinia's Tea Sandwiches

Two years ago: Sausage over Creamy Lentils

Three years ago: Bouchon Beverly Hills

This Bud’s For You.

I talk about my family a lot here. Mostly my mom and dad, but also Aunt Babe and my paternal grandparents, Janie and Paw Shaffner. And, of course, Breeda (family by proxy). Although it’s been almost five years since I’ve seen any of the Shaffner posse, and about ten years since I’ve been able to go back to spend Christmas with them, we keep in touch to a degree via social media and updates from my dad. And though we all differ greatly spiritually, politically and socially (and socio-politically) we all love each other and I miss them terribly. Especially around the holidays.

I know. I sound like a broken record since I say that every year. Around the holidays.

Let’s see here, I can tell you that my Uncle Doug and his wife, Aunt Janice, have both had some health issues, but they seem to be on the up and up now. Cousin Carey is very happily married, been doing some travelling and tattooing himself. His sister, my cousin Lisa, sometimes has some pink in her hair and  is very exercisey and in shape (damn her). Aunt Babe moved in with her daughter Noel in Alexandria. Scott and Dolly and their kids live pretty close to Richmond and Scott just visited with my dad today. My dad tells me they are simply amazing parents. Uncle Pat and Aunt Trish always seem strong. Pat, as always, is the big brother, oldest of the sibs and essentially patriarch of the Shaffner clan. His daughters, Kim and Missy are both happily married with kids and great jobs and much success.

But what, or rather on whom, I want to focus today is Uncle Joe. Uncle Joe and Aunt Connie. Aunt Connie is my dad’s sister, and if you followed the paragraph above you can pretty much put together this particular cluster of Shaffners. You see, Uncle Joe passed away rather unexpectedly a couple of days ago. And with this news, I am left a little bewildered and, of course, quite sad.

When Dad and I made our annual Christmas trek to Roanoke, we always, always stayed with Connie and Joe. Dad would stay in the front bedroom upstairs and I would sleep on the couch downstairs by the Christmas tree. Suffice it to say, this was torturous geography when I was a child; the temptation of all of the beautifully wrapped presents just begging to be opened. It was also torturous from ages 18-28 when I drank a little too much holiday fun times and the family assembled in the living room EARLY Christmas morning - way earlier than I was ready to start the holiday coffee and present opening. But it was the ritual. And ritual is very important to me (I’m not sure why).

There seemed to always be a cat or two around. Usually at least one of them was finicky or scared or mean or fragile or an escape artist or never came out from the basement. There was always a fire in the fireplace. Uncle Joe always had a can of Budweiser in his hand. Until the Christmas Eve dinner at Aunt Babe’s. Then it was wine. A big beef tenderloin (mouth-watering and delicious) was an annual tradition and the centerpiece of our Christmas Eve dinner, which Joe was responsible for after Aunt Babe tapered off her chef-sponsibilities. But even back when Aunt Babe bought it and cooked it everyone would laugh about how Joe would show up and immediately warn her not to cook it too long. He was also a gun toting, very far right wing, Republican. And he was my Uncle Joe. He was family.

It’s funny. When I was in high school I dyed my hair a lot and often pierced things. I especially loved going to Roanoke for Christmas for the expressions on my family’s faces. The shock value. In college, I considered myself a bit of an upstart, and I loooved to protest almost anything I could involving government. I was very easily the leftiest lefty of the Shaffners. And probably lots of other families as well. Again, I still think there was some satisfaction in the shock value of that, too. I almost looked for some extreme sentiment to spill out of Uncle Joe’s mouth so that I could heave a huge sigh and clomp out of the room. And though I still lean pretty far to the left, what I love about my family, and people, and hell, this country, is that we all get to have those opinions and we get to talk and laugh and argue about them. And who better to experience all of those things with, who has to stick by you through decades of change, hair dyes, piercings and political protests? Your family, that’s who.

I’ve been looking back at Connie’s online photo albums that she’s been archiving for years. There are tons of pictures of the entire family spanning as far back as my Great Grandparents. I was particularly drawn to the ones from the seventies, with Connie, Joe and my mom and dad and their hippie friends, everyone with long hair - so iconic, camping at The Fiddler’s Convention in 1972, in New England in 1973, and Okrakoke in 1974. They all look so rad. My mom laughed as she told me about one of these trips to Okrakoke where everything seemed to be going wrong. Dad stabbed through his hand with a knife while trying to shuck an oyster, Mom was pregnant and wasn't in the mood to have sand in her pants and big green flies feasting on her. Joe insisted on camping as planned. Ordinarily Joe would have emerged victorious, but not this time. Mom and dad checked into a hotel with Joe kicking and protesting all the way. But so very Joe. Such a contrarian. So badass.

Idiosyncratic, nuanced, difficult, compassionate, generous, kind, opinionated, honest, interested, interesting, intelligent, a great cook, camper, fisherman, smoker of meats (and cigars), true to himself and good to his family. Salt of the Earth. That’s what comes to mind when I think hard about Joe.

Normally I would wrap up this post with a recipe, or sometimes a restaurant review. This time I decided to drive out to an old hamburger stand, deep in the Valley; Bill's Hamburgers. It's been there, unchanged, with it's eight (8) stools, since 1965 (which is really old by LA standards), and run by 85 year-old Bill who is as salty as his burger. Bill, and his jokes-to-offend-and-enchant every race, creed, sex, and color, has been there since day one flipping his burgers - and on the very same griddle that is but a few years his junior. Joe would like this guy and this spot, for sure. So I grabbed Maggie and six pack of Budweiser (in the can) to sit on the side of the road, eat a burger and make a toast. 

This one's for you Uncle Joe.

One year ago: M.B. Post
Two years ago: Homemade Pasta
Three years ago: Griiled Cheese Night at Campanile