06 June 09
Everything Cast Iron
Pressed and Roasted Cornish Game Hen
I’ve been mulling over how and when to write about something that is consuming all of my free brain time and almost all of my non-work time. (And by work here, I mean day job work.) And I’ve been alternating between being freaked out by it and being jump up and down, butterflies in my stomach with the giddy, excited. It’s something that I’ve dreamt about doing, and thought about it, and joked about it, and now I’m really doing it.
I’m writing a cookbook. I have a book deal. I’m going to be a published author. And maybe it will all sink in if I figure out how to say it in a way that doesn’t sound like I’m bragging. Cause that’s not how I feel. I feel intimidated. I feel like this book would be the book on the subject that any number of people buy or are given and it’s intimidating and scary to feel like I have to know enough to provide them with all the knowledge they need to cook using cast iron. Cause that is the focus of the book. 300+ recipes on what to cook using cast iron cookware.
I’m giddy, ecstatic, overwhelmed, and I should be writing recipes instead of blogging. Because I still have more than 3/4 of the book to write. And I know that this is the perfect cookbook for me to write. If anyone has read many of my columns at Gapers Block called One Good Meal, you’ll probably know that I write about a lot of cast iron cooking. I love, love, love it. I adore it. And I honestly don’t use much of anything else. I have my stockpot, a 1-quart saucepan, a 2-quart saucepan and 4 cast-iron skillets and a cast iron dutch-oven that I use on a regular basis. There are a few other pans in the cabinet, but I rarely use them.
When Andrew was still in school his mother purchased him a set of stainless cookware that came with a stockpot, 2 saucepans, a sautee skillet, and a deeper skillety thing. The stockpot and saucepans are beat up, dinged, scratched, stained, and look like they’ve been used everyday for the past 13-14 years. The skillets? They’re shiny and sit in the back of the cupboard. I’ve used each of them once. But I dont’ like them. They seem finicky to me, hard to use. They require me to use too much oil and food sticks to them. I don’t like the weight, or lack of weight, I don’t like the handles. In other words, I don’t like them because they aren’t cast iron.
A few months ago now, we were making dinner and Andrew pulled one of these skillets out of the cupboard and put it on the stove. I gently moved it to the side and started to warm up the cast iron skillets (that never actually get put away). Since he was actually doing the cooking that night, he gave me a stern look, pushed the cast iron skillet aside and put his shiny skillet back on the burner. “Why don’t you ever use these? They’re good skillets! We should use them more often.” I shrugged and changed the subject. But he’s right. They’re perfectly good skillets. And I’m sure they have many uses and would create tasty food. Andrew has used them to create tasty food. But, you know what? I probably won’t use them. I don’t need to.
A week or so after we had this conversation and I was actually giving some thought to trying to use a different skillet, I got an email asking me if I would consider writing a proposal for a cookbook about cooking with cast-iron cookware. The acquisitions editor answered my pile of questions, guided me gently, and I wrote something that obviously must have been satisfactory. Because I now have, in a very thin file-folder labeled “book contract” a book contract. It’s been signed by the right people, it spells out what I have to provide and how I have to provide it. And one of these days the fact that I’m writing a cookbook will sink in. Until then, I think I’ll be fluctuating between freaking out, giddy.
Oh my gawd! I have so much cooking and writing to do. So much! And everything I eat for the next several weeks will be put into a cookbook. A cookbook! With a cover, and a dedication page, and an index! And it will have my name on the cover. Oh my gawd!
So I’m sorry if I sound like a broken record to the people I’m grateful enough to know in person. And if you have any family tested recipes, questions about care, or confusion related to cast-iron cooking, send them my way. I think I’m going to need all the help I can get to pull this off.
Comment [7]
13 August 08
Anthony Bourdain and the duck fat fries
Last Friday I left from getting a rocking cool haircut (thanks, Reverend Billy!) and realized I was hungry. I had a lot of food at home and decided that instead of continuing on downtown to use a gift card and exchange a cd, I would just go home, eat, and then venture to a mall to use my gift card instead. On my way driving home, I missed my street and ended up on California. The traffic was horrible and I could feel one of those “I’m so hungry I’m getting grumpy” moods come on. And then I saw Hot Doug’s. Yeah the line was around the corner, yeah I would probably eat sooner if I just went home and made food than I would if I ate out, and no, I didn’t need to be spending money on food. But, there were duck fat fries, and it had been a year since I’d had them, and, and And, well, I bet you know I got in line. I waited in line for almost an hour and was looking forward to trying The New Chicago Dog. I placed my order and was delighted to get a seat at the bar in the corner by the windows so I would have great light for taking the pictures for writing about at Gapers Block. I set up my shot, took it, had a sip of my Mr. Pibb, and took a bite of my long-awaited hot dog, sausage sandwich, encased meat. I liked the first bite, so I took another. And just as a piece of paneer (Indian cheese made from fresh milk) fell in my lap, a young woman tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I would mind surrenduring my seat.
“We’re doing a filming here soon, and we’d like to use this corner. I feel bad asking you, and I’d be happy to pay for your lunch. Do you mind? You could just move over about two seats, or I’ll help you move to a larger table.”
Since I am generally an accommodating person, I didn’t really mind moving. So as I started to move my belongings, I asked her who she was filming with.
“It’s a Travel Channel show called No Reservations. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“Oh, of course. I love that show. But Mr. Bourdain isn’t really here is he?”
“Yeah. He’s waiting in line.”
“What? Seriously? I mean, really? Here? In Chicago? I, uh, I, uh, I kinda have a crush on him. I mean, everyone I know has a crush on him.”
She looked mildly puzzled, “Really?”
And then its kind of a blur because I remember thinking a whole lot of “Oh My God!” and “Tony’s going to sit right beside me. I’m so glad I just got my hair done. I wonder what he’s going to order. I wonder if he’ll eat the duck fat fries. Will he drink Coke? Oh My God!”
I honestly think the only thing that saved me from hyperventilating was that the assistant said “You may end up in a background shot.” Knowing that my googly fan-girl face would get totally blocked and could ruin his shot kept me in check.
And then he walked behind me, his elbow just lightly brushing my shoulder (he’s pretty tall) and I did my best to focus on my fries and pretend to read my book. And he sat down, and he arranged his tray and the food on his tray.
“Tony, can you hold on a minute. We’re getting the other camera set up.”
“I’m so f**king hungry.”
And without thinking, I turned to him and said “It’s not fair that they make you wait to eat.”
“I know.”
“Okay, Tony. When you’re ready.”
Tony talked to himself, he ate his Chicago Hot Dog and his Foie Gras Dog and some of his duck fat fries, he finished his soda, he posed for the cameras while eating. He wiped his lips on napkins. He seemed to enjoy his food.
“Tony, can you pick up a few more fries? You don’t have to eat them.”
And with that, the filming seemed finished. And, well, I talked to him again. And at the end of what can hardly be called a conversation, I asked to take his picture. He agreed, and I took a shot that was out of focus and another shot that was delightfully in focus. And he smiled, nodded, and then he left the restaurant (probably to go smoke) and I swooned and chatted with one of the women working with him. She thanked me for being such a good sport.
I remember watching A Cook’s Tour on The Food Network years ago. I liked where he went, I liked his guests, I liked the food he ate. But he seemed so angry and bitter. And then when No Reservations came out, I began reading more that he wrote and what was written about him and came to realize some of the frustrations he had when working with The Food Network. And Naz and Jen swore it was a great show, so I turned to Tivo and decided I’d watch and see what I thought. And, he still seemed cynical and snide and a bit snarky. But my opinion of him changed while I was watching an episode he filmed in Asia. I can’t remember the country or the episode. Tony and his crew were invited to eat with a family and it seemed like it was a slightly unexpected invitiation, and they definitely seemed like an offense would be considered if the invitation was refused. But the family obviously had modest means. But Tony sat on the floor, talking with his tour friend, and talking through the cooking steps of the matriarch as she prepared food over an open fire. He seemed doubtful that the contents of a large pot would be tasty. But as soon as the chef handed him a small bowl and bowed to him, he smiled at her genuinely, took the bowl, did a head nod in return. He ate a bite and he seemed genuinely to be happy with the bowl’s contents, and he smiled. As soon as he smiled the woman and other family members both on and off camera began to laugh and cheer and bowls, plates, dishes were passed and jovial laughter were joined by Anthony’s voiceover talking about how grateful he was for their hospitality and saying how food made from experience and love will always trump food made in a corporate kitchen.
And that’s when I began viewing his snark and cynicism differently. It’s not his goal to push snobby cuisine, its his goal to get recognition of how food affects a culture, the people who share it, and the people who prepare it. In his world, the lowly dishwasher from Mexico who lacks a green card is just as important to food culture as a grandmother who has made the same rice pilaf for 50 years as an Iron Chef. And once I made that realization, I went from being a viewer of his show, to being a fan of him and the outlook that he’s spreading.
I love food. I don’t spend as much time experimenting with dishes as I wish I did, my knife skills still suck, and I have never made a quiche. But I like food and I firmly believe that making food for people is a great way to show people that you love them. And, you know what, I think Tony does, too. And, the experience of seeing him sit at one of my favorite places in Chicago and enjoy a basic Chicago-style hot dog, that is unpretentious and scorned by many foodies, just as much as he enjoyed a sausage made from duck with a foie gras topping really made my head swim. Ingredients created with care and attention are important, but food made by people who care is equally important. And a lowly Chicago hot dog with its neon-green relish and yellow mustard is no less tasty, if made knowingly, than a handmade duck sausage.
And, I think, its the knowingly part that drives him on, looking for more experiences, people, and dishes. It’s the respect and understanding and true awe that he expresses to a soba noodle maker who has spent all of his adult life making one type of noodle over and over, and will spend the rest of his life making that same noodle. Because its the care, the desire for perfection, the drive to be proud of what you create, the need to see that details are captured correctly that seems to attract him. And me to him, apparently.
Thank you, Tony. For your patience at Hot Doug’s while I and many others snapped pictures of you while you ate. For your ability to understand the underlying political issues of food and how they affect the culture and the people who contain them. And for showing me places and adventures around the world that I’ll likely never get to experience myself. And thank you for occasionally closing your eyes when you eat. I know exactly how that feels. When I see you do it, I get sympathy twitches in my esophagus. Oh, and that little eyebrow tick you get on occasion when something is really good? Yeah, I get that, too.
14 March 08
Oooh! Cooking school at home
About a year ago, I bought a lifetime membership to Rouxbe, an online instructional cooking video site. I made their cookies and a few sauces and other dishes, but I’ve found myself liking their “drill-downs” or video snippets where they show off techniques and trickes. To my delight, I got an email a while ago saying that they’d team up with a culinary school to start offering an online cooking school and it would be free to anyone with their Premium membership. And since that is what I have, I get to go to cooking school for free, in my own kitchen, using my tools, at my pace. I’m very excited about this. It’s due to start in June. I’ll keep you posted as to how it goes.
Comment [1]
15 January 08
Alinea
Dear Mr. Achatz,
You have 23 chances to make me cry. No pressure or anything, but thought I should warn you.
Thanks,
Cinnamon “The Cryer” Cooper
08 February 07
Jasmine IngenuiTEA
I really, really like tea. I don’t drink enough of it. I’d read once that drinking tea causes people to get kidney stones, and since both of my parents were prone, and since I hate pain and going to the doctor I cut back on drinking tea for a long time. Then I found out that by cutting sugar out of the tea and drinking a variety of teas cut out the kidney problem.
So when Amy gave me a gift certificate for some tea, and when I came across the IngenuiTEA, I fell in love. Loose leaf teas are fabulous, but the method I had for making them at work was messy and a pain and I just didn’t like it but I hadn’t seen anything I wanted to replace it with. But this device is great. I put in my tea, add water to the type, let it sit for the time that is listed on the tea tins. And then, to get the tea into my mug, all I do is sit it on top and the water runs out, through the plastic filter and into my mug. I can then dump the tea leaves out, or I can keep it in for another cuppa later, maybe with a pinch of something else added.
See I can easily blend flavors to make new teas. Jasmine with a pinch of earl grey for the second pot is delish! If you want to get more info, see a video demo of how it works, or maybe even buy your own, go to Adagio.com.
Comments [2]
04 December 06
Food makes me cry
This weekend, amidst that craziness that was craft-fair weekend, Andrew and I made it to a friend’s house for dinner. They made an absolutely delightful, delicious, and heavenly pozole rojo. Imagine a stew made with shredded pork or beef with hominy and I don’t even know what else.
I knew we were in for a delicious dinner when we showed up and there was a smell that knocked my boots off as soon as the door opened. I honestly thought my stomach was going to climb up my throat and sit at the table by itself, it smelled so good. Our friend credited the heavenly taste on her new red LeCreuset dutch oven. I think its because she is phenomenal in the kitchen.
And I do mean phenomenal. I started to cry. Just thinking about that first taste, I’m welling up again.
It’s this crazy thing that food does to me. Every once in a while I’ll take a bite of something and it will be so perfect, so exactly perfect, that I’ll well up and cry a bit. And this wonderful friend made me cry with her dinner. As I sat there waving at my face with my hands, she and her husband looked aghast. “Is it too hot?” “Oh! It’s too spicy?” Andrew just smirked and said, “No. She’s just crying.”
And I was, because the food was SOOO good.
Let me recount for you the other times that dishes have made me cry. In a rough chronological order:
1997: February: I’m eating sushi with an old friend and Andrew at a restaraunt on the north side of Columbus, OH. It is the first time I’ve had sushi. My friend has me eat wasabi. And I cried. But then, later on, I’m handed my first piece of tuna. I look at it squeamishly but then eat it and OH MY WORD! Tears of joy, not pain, this time.
1999: Spring: Andrew, Brandon, and I are eating at a sushi restaraunt in the burbs. Kompaii is the name. (Andrew could give you directions.) The sushi is on little plates on a moat. You just remove the plates of what you want and eat it. Your server tallies up your plates to get your totals. Brandon has this thing where he loves the idea of salmon. He loves how it looks. But he rarely can choke it down. So he picked up a plate of salmon pieces. Andrew and I roll our eyes at each other knowing one of us would finish it. (We rolled our eyes at each other a lot that year.) But we don’t. Instead, Brandon throws his head back, makes a growling sound, and begins to slap the counter. I’m convinced he’s choking. But he’s not. He’s pulling a Harry Met Sally over the salmon. He grabs the next two plates, unable to speak, and makes Andrew and I eat them. Not sure if he’s dying and taking us with him, we do it. And it had the consistency of butter and I swear! I swear I could taste kelp, brine, lemon, and even notes of cream. I have never had a more complex bite of fish in my entire life and don’t know if I will again. I start to cry and Brandon looks at me nodding emphatically and saying “YES!”
1999: June: Andrew, Brandon, and I head to New Orleans for a three day vacation via Amtrak (not recommended). The trip is wonderful, for the most part, but we’re kinda broke and food in the French Quarter is expensive. I really, really, really, really wanted to go to NOLA. I knew it was pricey, but I’d been saving up. I knew it would be cheaper for lunch so on our last full day I beg, whine, cry, kick, and scream and convince Andrew and Brandon to go with me. Brandon is understandably balking at the price. Andrew is tired and doubts it will be worth and fears I’ll be disappointed and my trip will be ruined. I convince them to let me pay for lunch (Brandon begins to pout saying it isn’t fair, that he didn’t mean for me to pay, and he really would be happy with a muffaletta instead). Andrew is done arguing and is just hoping it doesn’t suck. We each order an appetizer and are mostly silent while we roll our eyes at each other. But then one bite into each of our appetizers and we all stop, mouths agape, eyes wide and begin pointing at our food and smiling and our entire dispostions changed. I was crying, Brandon thought my crawfish pie was too spicy, Andrew was too busy eating his food to notice, and I swore I would never be that happy again. It was phenomenal!
2004: Winter: Andrew and I decide to go to Katsu, a traditional sushi restaraunt in Chicago. Very traditionally Japanese. We see a dish of sea cucumbers marinated in orange oil and I don’t even remember what else and decide to order it. The server tries to talk us out of it saying it is a very traditional dish that Americans usually don’t like. We get it anyway. As the dish is carried to our table, the sushi chef/owner puts his knife on the counter, crosses his arms and watches us timidly take a piece of meat from the bowl. We smile at each other, put it in our mouths. The server stands near the chef and looks worriedly from him to us. Andrew says “This is really good” and then notices that I have tears in my eyes. I begin waving my hands in my face to dry the tears because of course I wore mascara. The chef looks angry, the server comes up to us. “Is it not to your liking, miss?” I reply, “Oh no! NO. Its delicious. I’m crying because it is so delicious.” He nods, bows and walks to the chef. Mutters something to him and walks away. I look the chef in the eye, he smiles slyly on one side of his face, his chest puffs up and he bows with his hands folded. I close my eyes and bow my head in return.
2004: Christmas Eve: Andrew and I are unable to make it to Ohio for Christmas Eve because the weather is so bad. We decide to pop into Tanoshii on N. Clark St. for a sushi dinner instead. Sushi Mike greets us and makes us a few rolls. They’re phenomenal, as always, and we decide to get one last roll. Mike slices and arranges in a ring on top of each other: white tuna, paper-thin tomato, avocado, and thin slices of very fresh white onion. He drizzles this sauce that I know has grapeseed, rosemary, pickled garlic and 4000 other flavors that are phenomenal. I roll one of each into a pile and place them into my mouth with chopsticks. The flavor explosion is so freaking fantastic that I’m unable to talk and I have a tear running down each cheek. Andrew is bouncing up and down, nodding vigorously and agreeing with me. Mike comes back our way and asks how we are. He sees the tears on my face and looks worried and maybe a little angry. I honestly can’t speak. I just can’t. I’m still chewing and savoring and I can’t say anything. Andrew says “She cries sometimes when she eats really good food.” He looks very skeptical and says “That’s ridiculous. Seriously, if you don’t like it that’s okay.” I blurt out “This is the best thing I’ve ever, ever eaten. I never will eat anything better.” Mike looks sheepish and awkward and walks away not sure what to say. He comes back later and says “Really, its okay?” I told him that I could count the number of times that food has made me cry on one hand. He looks a little surprised, a little pleased. He repeated the experience a year later when he gave us lobster sashimi that was out of this world. He waited for me to react and when I got misty, he smiled nodded and even gave his other chef a high five. Sushi Mike and Emeril Lagasse are the only people who have made me cry twice.
Then,
2006: December: Emily’s Pozole Rojo caused the same reaction. I swear she should start her own underground restaraunt. It would be great. I wish I had the leftovers.
Comments [2]
01 June 06
$5 Sundays
This is a great idea for a food blog. Essentially the goal is to to make a meal for two people that costs less than $5. Great idea, with recipes, and the cost of each ingredient is broken down.
I may have to go culling for recipes for One Good Meal.
24 May 06
Kalbi
Eating Korean bbq is wonderful. Especially when the man weildng the tongs and explaining to you what to do happens to be your favorite sushi chef. However we ate tons of beef (raw* and cooked), cleared almost all of the little plates of kim chi (which I think is Korean for very tasty), and still had room for the birthday cupcakes someone brought.
But we walked home, hoping that the steady pressure in our gut would subside, but it didn’t. I woke up several times with weird dreams and an odd uncomfortable feeling in my gut. It’s decreased a bit, but its still there. It’s not pain, more just a feeling that I’m full, even when my stomach is growling.
So to counteract the several pounds of beef that I think I consumed last night, I had a veggie sandwich for lunch and a salmon salad sandwich for dinner. My coat still smells like beef smoke and I have no desire to eat meet for a long, long time. And I’m afraid that if I sweat, I’m going to smell like pickled zucchini, or marinated mung beans, or dried seaweed salad. But all of these things don’t take away from the fact that it was worth it to go there. It was a wonderful dinner and I’m delighted at the prospect of doing it again sometime.
*The raw beef: Apparently there is a small muscle in the neck of the cow that is very tender. This muscle was chopped very fine and tossed with sesame oil, scallion, garlic (lots of garlic), sesame seeds, sugar, salt, and I think a little chile paste. It was so tasty, so fresh, and so rich that I was glad we split it among several people. But after having this experience after eating a raw beef dish with Brandy at Ethiopian Diamond, I have to admit that there is something about eating raw beef that gives me vivid and odd dreams and keeps me from sleeping deeply.
