Chronicles of a Stomach Grumble

Something To Snack On

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Tue, 17 Jul 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Most of you have probably seen this already. In case you haven't, or in case you need a reminder of why summer is amazing and why beaches are the best and why family time can sometimes be really, really rewarding -- I give you Jack Gardner's retirement plan.

This is Retirement. from McSwayze Film. on Vimeo.

We'll be back out there next week to check on how his commercial fishing license is treating him. Fish on!

The Business of Giving Asparagus the Business

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Thu, 24 May 2012 15:00:00 +0000

Don’t tell me you’re tired of asparagus already. If you’re anything like me, you gobble up these harbingers of spring with extreme prejudice. They’ve been sauce gribiched, sliced into ribbons, pureed into soup — we really gave asparagus the business this season.

Asparagus for snacks, dominoes for fun.

However, due to my Sidekick and my excitement over spring produce, we still had some kicking around in the crisper. It makes me sad and guilty to see lovely, tender veggies shrivel up in the fridge, so I turned to my favorite method of prolonging their lives: pickling.

Asparagus, Pickled. from McSwayze Film. on Vimeo.

I'll confess to having gone on a bit of a pickling rampage these last few weeks. Currently in the brine, we've got these lovely asparagus, as well as a few late-season ramps and a batch of rice vinegar pickled kale. I know. It's an experiment. I'll report back. Happy pickling!

A Return to Deviling that Shit

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Tue, 15 May 2012 15:00:00 +0000

Sometimes life changes in really big ways. For us, this time, it's been a really great change, but change messes with blogging consistency regardless of how exciting it is. Which is where I've been.

Pickles in the Middle "Optional"

But I, like you, feel backyard barbecue season coming on regardless of life's curve-balls, so I'm here to bring us all back down to earth with some deviled egg talk.

Deviled eggs are classic repeat offenders at summer parties. They are easy to make, the ingredients for them are regularly on hand for most people. They generally tend to please a crowd. But they can get boring, right? Mustard and vinegar can only take us so far.

Just by tossing a bit of soft butter and some fresh herbs into these, they feel a little more special, a little brighter and a little more deserving of our affections. They also include one of my favorite ingredients, and sudden darling of food nerds everywhere, celery leaves.

See you in the backyard!

Savory Eggs
Cut three hard-boiled eggs in halves lengthwise; remove yolks and force through a sieve. Blend with three tablespoons of creamed butter and one and one-half tablespoons of Savory Herbs cut fine, using fresh thyme, rosemary, chives, parsley and celery leaves. Fill the whites and spread of the top of each a thin layer of mayonnaise.* Decorate the surface with sections of black olives.

* Yeah. I didn't do this. Let me tell you why: it looks fucking gross.

All the Mushroom Secrets

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 15:31:00 +0000

Because good things always come in threes, let's round things out with a third video in a row. From the guy who brought you Plum Jam, please enjoy Mushroom Foraging with Nik Westacott.

Foraging and cooking Wild Mushrooms from www.carlpendle.com on Vimeo.

You just try to tell me you don't want to eat mushrooms out of a frying pan in the woods with Nik Westacott. I want to do that AND bring a bottle of ale and ask Nik to tell me everything he has ever known.

I'm dead now. This Carl Pendle guy has really got my number.

You Serve Your Mother That Cocktail?

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 15:00:00 +0000

Sometimes, you want to do something elaborate and show-stopping with your cocktails. Sometimes you want to flame an orange peel, measure three different kinds of bitters with an eye dropper and squeeze kumquats one-by-one over hand-chipped ice.

Mother in Law Cocktail. from Rebecca Orchant on Vimeo.

And sometimes, you just want to pour something strong out of a big, manly bottle and drink it. Fast. Which is why we're presenting you today with the Mother In Law cocktail.

This cocktail is spirit-forward, robust* and earthier than what you're used to drinking. It's like pouring a leather couch and a smoking jacket into a glass rinsed with a hard day's work.

Listen, before I sound like too much of a Portlandia episode, let's just say that having a burly, batched cocktail like this one around will make you happy. It will make you feel happy when you are too lazy to measure things. It will make you happy when you realize you can either stir this and strain it into a chilled glass, or pour it over a big old rock. It will make you happy when, say, maybe your mother in law is around and she has a lot of things to say to you. I am privileged enough to have mothers-in-law who do not drive me to drink too much.** You might not be, in which case you can come over and I will pour you one of these.

* Yes! Hello! This just means strong!
** Just kidding, everything makes me drink! Didn't you notice? Drink, drink, drink.

Mother In Law Cocktail
adapted from Vintage Spirits and Forgotten Cocktails by Ted Haigh (AKA Dr. Cocktail)
This takes a bit of planning in the procuring of ingredients, but once it's mixed, you have a well-balanced, complex cocktail batched and ready for you to cry on its shoulder.

2.5 tsp Peychaud's bitters
2.5 tsp Angostura bitters
2.5 tsp Torani Amer
1.5 oz Maraschino liqueur
1.5 oz simple syrup
1.5 oz orange Curaçao (we used Grand Marnier)
Bourbon to fill the remainder of a quart container

Mix all ingredients in a quart decanter. Cover tightly. Apply 3oz, as needed, either stirred with ice and strained, or over a large ice cube in an Old Fashioned glass. Yes, seriously, that is it.

The Jam

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Fri, 13 Apr 2012 15:00:00 +0000

This is relevant to all my interests. Except fountain pens. Fuck fountain pens.*

Plum Jam from www.carlpendle.com on Vimeo.

In case you were not aware, two things are happening this weekend: 1) my birthday and 2) New York gets twenty degrees warmer. I am pretty excited about both of these things, and the video above sort of encapsulates all of those feelings. Hope everyone has a great weekend shoving their faces full of things.

* Just kidding, Marcy!

Conversations with Flynn About Cheese

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Wed, 11 Apr 2012 15:11:00 +0000

10:29 AMSarah: christ, i'm hungry

me: I just ate a whole grapefruit at my desk and it feels like it just made a grapefruit-sized hole.

Sarah: i had granola for breakfast which is really only useful for like an hour

me: Totally. That shit is like rocket fuel for my metabolism. I need to eat a planet one hour later.

10:34 AM Sarah: also did not help that i spent like an hour looking at cheese on the internet last night

me: I have been digging for food videos all day, so also guilty.

10:35 AM Sarah: after i ordered i was like "oh NO. i could have gotten a LOAF OF CHEDDAR"

me: Ha ha ha!

via Wisconsin Cheese Mart

10:36 AM Sarah: mark my words, if i ever get paid more than $500 for a piece of writing, the first thing i am doing is ordering a loaf of cheese

10:37 AM me: <3

10:38 AM Sarah: i mean look at it https://www.wisconsincheesemart.com/item/cheddar-12-year-half-loaf-Kpr/

me: 12 years???

I want it!

Sarah: it's basically the pappy van winkle of cheddar cheeses

10:40 AM me: This website is making me feel feelings.

10:41 AM They smoke string cheese??? You come from a magical place.

Sarah: i am also having regrets about not ordering that. smoked string cheese is radical

i gave myself a budget

haha

10:42 AM me: This website's existence has just increased the amount of cheese I'm having mailed to me by 100%.

10:43 AM Let me ask you a serious question: is growing up in Wisconsin as saturated by cheese curds as I imagine it to be?

10:44 AM Because no one has ever heard of a cheese curd in New Mexico, and I only got them when we went to our lake house in upstate NY.

Sarah: i have no idea what anyone else's life was like, but i ate cheese curds, colby slices, and baby swiss at dinner every night

and if you are in my mom's house for more than five minutes there's a plate of cheese and sausage out.

me: YOU COME FROM A MAGICAL PLACE.

Sarah: i didn't know they DIDN'T exist elsewhere until i moved

and was like "OH"

10:45 AM same with kringle, which barely even exists outside of one region of the state

me: When we got to Ticonderoga, the first thing my mom and I would do was go to the grocery store and buy every bag of cheese curds we could find. Sometimes they didn't have them and I would be like, "SUMMER VACATION IS RUINED."

Until you said the word "kringle" to me, I'd never even considered it.

10:46 AM Sarah: we only really do a few things that are special but we do them very well

10:47 AM me: Probably if anyone else has a birthday where they force people to bring them goodies from their home state, they should make friends with someone from Lake Geneva.

You're going to have to be friends with so many people!

10:49 AM Sarah: hahah

me: Wait, why haven't I ever eaten Juustoleipa?

10:50 AM Sarah: i never have either actually

10:51 AM me: When we make $500, we should probably fix that. Any kind of cheese that asks you to make it hot and melty before you eat it is my kind of cheese.

Sarah: correct

now i have cheese ordering remorse

10:52 AM me: Don't worry. I'm going to birthday treat myself to a bunch of fucking cheese and you are invited. Like, after we recover from Saturday.

Sarah: also if you want to hide all of the cheese you get on friday and have me try to find some of the stuff they occasionally import at murrays, i wont tell a soul

10:53 AM mostly because i would really like to see you eat three pounds of cheese curds.

me: No, stop it. You've just given me the key to the Wisconsin cheese Pandora's Box. I can't start hoarding yet.

I mean... we've met, right?

Sarah: exactly

10:54 AM i feel like i have to abandon lunch of vegetables now and eat a cheese sandwich immediately

me: YEAH!

(I am eating leftover baked ziti for lunch, which is the only reason I'm not panicking.)

For Those About to Ham Ball, We Salute You.

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Thu, 29 Mar 2012 15:34:00 +0000

I'm relatively certain that there are things this blog conveys to you about me.

I'm about eating.
I'm about drinking.
I'm about talking about those things, often during actually doing them.
If you come to my house, I will feed you snacks.
One other thing I'd like to specifically convey: sometimes those snacks will be weird.

Let's talk about Ham Balls.

Among you, there are a few I can trust to roll with the punches. If say, I'd like to make you eat tomato jelly, I know there are a few of you who will be up for it. If say, we decide to meet once monthly to eat nachos and appreciate jazz, I know that you're willing to trust me to take you down a road less-traveled. Dearest Nacho and Jazz Appreciation Club, you seemed like the ones to feed Ham Balls to.

There is a sandwich my Sidekick recently discovered at the shit-hole we love, pictured above. Larry's P.X. is a Cape Cod dive that is a must-stop for us anytime we're out there. The sandwich in question: chopped ham and pickle. My Sidekick, rather bravely, ordered this once without really knowing what to expect. Well, I mean, I guess we should have known - it's ham and pickles ground up together and bound with mayo. The result is, somewhat unexpectedly, greater than the sum of its parts. Everyone: I didn't know this was going to happen, but the Ham Balls were the bite-sized, on-a-stick version of our new favorite sandwich.

They look ridiculous. I will give you that. Disconcertingly pink, studded with capers, like some unholy elementary school art project that you are supposed to eat. I mean, I think I'll get an "amen" from all involved when I say we polished off the whole plate. Weird on, weirdos!

Ham Balls
Take equal amounts of chopped, cold boiled ham and sifted, hard-cooked egg yolks and work into a stiff paste with a little mayonnaise dressing. Season highly with salt and pepper and form into balls an inch in diameter. Stud these balls with a few capers, which have been well drained and insert serving picks.

The Season for Canapés

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 15:30:00 +0000

Last night, after a particularly frustrating and discouraging day (even the chronically excited among us have them), my Sidekick whisked me away to Henry Public for a "Let's Celebrate Learning Things from Failure by Eating All of the Things" kind of a meal. He brought out the big guns out for this meal, "Bone marrow?" he asked. "Oysters?"

"No," I said, "radishes, please."

I tend to forget about radishes in the wintertime. Their particular snap and crunch slips away from my memory until I reach the point of the season where I only want to eat things I can consume straight out of the refrigerator, icy cold. Henry Public employs my absolute favorite preparation for radishes: cold, halved, served with soft, sweet butter and big flakes of salt. Yesterday, for some reason, a smear of butter on an astringently spicy radish half (along with a cocktail that widened my eyes) was exactly what I needed to start it all over again today. And now, as usual when the days lengthen and the beers get colder, radishes are all I want.

Springtime is (YEAH) officially upon us, which means it's time for more radishes, more canapés and more rooftop parties. It is in that spirit that we are talking about Radish Canapés today. If you don't have a rooftop party for these, let's invent one!

Radish Canapés

Sauté or toast finger-shaped cuts of bread and spread them with some savory paste, or with highly-seasoned cream cheese*.

Prepare small radishes by scoring them lengthwise with a lemon scorer or with a fluted knife; or, not having either of these, cut out narrow strips with a plain sharp knife. Then cut the radishes crosswise into this slices and arrange them on the canapés, overlapping one another with a tiny parsley leaf in the center.

* In my case: salt, pepper, dill and lemon zest.

Bringing a Community Together

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Fri, 16 Mar 2012 20:09:00 +0000

Well, DC Central Kitchen just made me feel feelings. The opening shots will make you hungry. The rest will give you goosebumps.

Healthy Corners from DC Central Kitchen on Vimeo.

Food deserts. We hear about them often. We hardly ever see them. We certainly never think that they could be plunked down in the middle of some of the most metropolitan cities in America.

There are a few amazing things about this video: 1) It's gorgeous. 2) It highlights a community helping itself in a powerful, practical and simple way to profound effect. 3) Not nearly enough people have watched it. Please help me spread what DC Central Kitchen and Healthy Corners are doing like wildfire.

Avocado Musses Easily

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 15:25:00 +0000

Last week marked a year of recipes from A Book of Hors d'Oeuvre. I have come to terms with the fact that this project is going to take much longer than I expected. Sometimes life gets in the way. Sometimes, no matter where you look, you can't find a tiny mold in the shape of a fish to stuff with aspic and parts. Sometimes, you just don't want to eat any more toast points.

Which is what makes today's recipe really special: it requires no molds, no toast and very little effort. The ingredients are not particularly exotic. And that's what I really want to talk to you about today. Avocados.

Upon first inspection of this recipe me and everyone else who saw it went: "That's not a recipe." It's just a couple of chunked up avocados with some lime juice. It's given me pause since I made it. Preparing avocados in this way is obviously perfect. There is a reason this is a classic combination.

I especially love the part of the recipe which insists you handle your avocado with care, as they "muss easily." Well, doesn't everyone know that? Oh, duh, you lucky little jerk who has access to every kind of ingredient under the sun, when this book was written, avocados were crazy exotic. Avocados originated in central Mexico, near Puebla. Anthony Bourdain has gone on at great length about the best cooks he's ever seen all coming from Puebla. It is a magical place capable of producing quietly ground-breaking cooks and fruit that tastes like butter. Avocado cubes are a great reason to appreciate the overwhelming bounty of ingredients we can get, especially here in New York City.

This recipe really made me stop, take a deep breath and prepare to enjoy another year of searching for a tiny fish mold.

Avocado Cubes
Cut an avocado in halves, remove stone, cut each half in two, then peel and cut the flesh into cubes to make a mouthful. Avocado musses easily, so that it must be handled very carefully. Marinate the cubes in the a dressing of lime juice, salt and white pepper. Chill well, drain and skewer.

Consider the Kumquat

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Tue, 06 Mar 2012 15:57:00 +0000

How great is citrus season, you guys? I love that it comes right at the tail end of winter, when we never want to see a potato, beet or apple again.

Can we have a moment of Real Talk about kumquats? They are freaks. I used to love to eat them whole when I was little, because I am weird and love sour things. My Sidekick will occasionally soak them in bourbon or rye for the tartest Manhattan or Old Fashioned you've ever had. But really, what else is there to do with these little weirdos? They do not yield enough juice to be useful. The spelling of their name is ridiculous. Turns out, good ol' Lucy G. Allen's got a trick up her sleeve.

Behold, the Stuffed Kumquat. This is a bit of a revelation, really. We all know how much I like stuffing cheese into other things, but everyone gets tired of deviled eggs at every single party. Why hadn't we all considered the kumquat? The highly edible peel becomes an aromatic, citrusy boat for anything you'd like to pipe inside.

Because we are still cooking from A Book of Hors d'Oeuvre, these are (duh) stuffed with "highly spiced cream cheese." In this iteration of that familiar directive, I went with sage, rosemary and thyme. My thinking, aside from clearly having a thing for Simon and Garfunkel, was to make each bite a little reminder of all the Christmas flavors we love, just before we get to say goodbye to winter for a full year.

Once you slice the kumquats lengthwise, the pith and flesh pull out quite easily. You'd do well to soak them in some bourbon or rye for the aforementioned Manhattan or Old Fashioned. I mean, serving that alongside the stuffed peels seems like just about the cutest fucking thing you could ever do. Give these lovable weirdos a try while they're still around!

Stuffed Kumquats
Wash the kumquats well, wipe and cut in halves. Remove centers, which consist of tough pith and seeds, and fill with well-seasoned cream cheese.

Here We Are Again

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 18:41:00 +0000

I definitely thought that with this winter being milder, I would complain less. So far, that's been (just go with me on this) mostly true. However, at the end of February, as always, I am itching for spring again. To put it mildly: this really didn't help.

Made by Hand / No 3 The Beekeeper from Made by Hand on Vimeo.

Listen, guys, I am a curmudgeon. I love to be all "UGH, here's my sustainably-grown, artisanally-roasted Brooklyn joke," as much as the next guy. Because I live there. And while I love it, I do find a lot of it to be kind of insufferable sometimes. But, if you can watch this and not feel the tiniest bit proud of this woman, her commitment to something that definitely seemed crazy not too long ago, and her desire to share it with people, I don't know man. Maybe you're even more of a grump than I am.

That said, watch all of Made by Hand's videos. They are crazy delightful.

The Way Marcella Told You to Make It

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 16:00:00 +0000

I remember cotton candy. I remember one of my little hands in my mother's milk-soft hand and the other in my father's leathery baseball mitt hand. I remember white overalls with paint splotches on them. Wearing pig-tails that fell into ringlets. I remember running toward something, the zoo or State Fair, a spectacle larger than my brand new brain could understand. I remember being swung back and forth by my arms through the air, and my parents being really excited to show me something. But most of all, I remember cotton candy.

Seriously. These are your ingredients.

This is one of my first memories. And one of my favorites. I have no idea how old I was. Maybe three? It stuck with me. I totally abandon all culinary principles in favor of cotton candy every time. There is a picture of this moment somewhere. **(Update: Not just somewhere, after the jump! Thanks, mom!)** Even if it were lost, it's been permanently burned into my cortex.

Circa May 1987. Jealous??

As a kid, my lunches were always a point of spectacle. Last night's chicken Marengo, with all its mushrooms, olives and white wine, perfuming an area generally occupied by the smell of rectangles of cafeteria pizza. Another day might be California rolls, or a stir-fry of bok choy, water chestnuts, baby corn and bamboo shoots. Things my classmates cringed at and I craved. Other parents used to ask mine, "how do you get her to eat these things?" I never recall their answer.

I remember drinking V8. Putting it in the freezer to get it extra cold. Then sitting, eyes closed, trying to identify the flavor of each vegetable at a time. Could I taste the watercress? I thought I could. I was probably seven or eight. There is a good chance that I'd never had watercress before. But I was pretty sure I could taste it somewhere there between the celery and the beets.

What makes some of us this way? Is it chemical? I was lucky enough to be fed by two parents who were both amazing cooks in their own right: my father was the grill-master and wise sage of grilled cheese, my mother kept notebooks full of her own recipes and taught me the ways of butter and deglazing with wine every damned time you can. I thank them at every single opportunity for teaching me to like good food, but some of the blame for my food obsession has to be placed on me. Otherwise, there would be no explanation for you brave souls who suffered countless tuna noodle casseroles and frozen bags of cubed mixed vegetables, emerging from the other side as beautiful, ravenous phoenixes with such good taste.

Guys, I know you're out there. How did we do this to ourselves?

Sometimes, my memories of food from childhood are so vivid, I worry that I've maybe stopped creating food memories. In case you feel the same way, I'd like to share something with you that will snap you right out of it. I will now recall, until the end of time, the evening during my twenty-seventh year in which I stood, leaning over a pan of tomato sauce, face so close I was at serious risk for tomato and butter burns, inhaling obsessively. A LOT of people have talked about this tomato sauce. In fact, I am pretty late to the party. But, if someone as obsessive as I am could miss it, maybe you have too. And that just wouldn't be fair, you beautiful, ravenous phoenixes.

Tomato Sauce with Onion and Butter
Adapted from Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking, by Marcella Hazan

A brief tirade from someone quite invested in this recipe: Do not muck about with this the first time. The second time, throw in some garlic, a bit of oregano, whatever you want. I certainly did. Be aware, however, that you will always return to this starting point. And no matter what you do to it, it will never taste better than the way Marcella told you to make it. Eat this simply with some spaghetti or papardelle, maybe a BIT of Parmesan over the top.

1 28oz. can whole, peeled, plum tomatoes, chopped, with their juices
5 Tbsp. unsalted butter
1 medium yellow onion, peeled and cut in half
Salt, to taste

Combine the tomatoes, their juices, the butter, and the onion halves in a cold, medium saucepan. Add a pinch or two of salt. Place over medium heat and bring to a simmer. Knock the heat down a bit and cook, uncovered, at a very slow but steady simmer, for about 45 minutes, or until droplets of fat float free from the tomato. Stir occasionally, mashing any large pieces of tomato with the back of a wooden spoon. Taste and salt as needed.

Discard the onion before tossing the sauce with pasta. (By discard, I mean for the purposes of this sauce. SAVE IT. Put it on some bread with fresh mozzarella and just try not to pass out, I dare you.)

Easy, Lovely, Strange

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 16:00:00 +0000

When you love someone, sometimes you do things for them that you don't totally understand.

My Sidekick turned thirty this January and one morning a few days before, I woke up and baked. This is not really normal behavior for me. But, the dude loves corn muffins the way most people love their pets, so I decided to take one for the team.

The truth is, these muffins never would have happened without Court Street Grocers and their delightful array of weird, regional food nerdery. For those of you unacquainted, Court Street Grocers is partially exactly what it sounds like, a specialty food market and sandwich shop on Court Street in Brooklyn. But, really, there's something else that makes it way more special. It just so happens to house the most specific, regionally famous goods imaginable. Durkee sauce. Vernor's ginger ale. Heinz Cream of Tomato Soup. Chinese black vinegar. Jarred Brunswick Stew. Double Cola. And so many precious and strange things between them. Including Brinser's Best corn meal, which made the birthday muffins my Sidekick was so pleased to wake up to.

The muffins that the recipe on the back of this adorably strange bag of corn meal (IT'S ROASTED) produced were moist and tender on the inside, a little crunchy on the outside, not too sweet, and really - well - roasty. They were also easy enough that someone like me could knock them out of the park before coffee, which is really saying something.

So, big thanks to Court Street Grocers for bringing these babies into our lives. I can't wait to see what the next weird thing I bring home will produce. Also, we should probably talk about you guys getting some salsa from New Mexico?

Corn Pone and Muffins
3/4 cup Brinser's Best Corn Meal
3/4 cup flour
1/2 cup sugar
1 1/2 level tsp. baking powder
3/4 cup milk
1/4 butter or other shortening, melted
1 egg

Mix all together and bake in 8" square pan or in muffin tins at 350 degrees for 25 - 30 minutes. The dry ingredients may be mixed and kept in an air-tight container until needed. Then just add the liquid ingredients and bake.

Happy Valentine's Day, Screw-Up!

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 15:00:00 +0000

Look. Sometimes we screw up. Sometimes we wake up in the morning and our devoted and thoughtful partners present us with cards or gifts for holidays which we've forgotten about. Did you do that today? I'm here to help.

I'm sure you feel badly enough already, but we're all pretty disappointed in you. Here is an hors d'oeuvre so quick, so simple, so cheap and so god damned adorable, it will get you out of any Valentine's Day failure.

Is this a showstopper, flavor-wise? No. Upon testing, my Sidekick and I both agreed it could really benefit from the addition of - you guessed it - cheese. I mean, a quick smear of goat cheese between the bread and the pepper would really make this something special. Experiment at will.

I am prone neither to making cute little holiday-themed snacks, nor to making a big deal out of this particular holiday. Which isn't to say that I don't like it. I really, really do. But, my Sidekick and I will be ordering pizza and drinking champagne at home this evening, not primping ourselves up for a four-star dinner in a restaurant packed with hundreds of other people ogling each other. I'm sorry to be a bit of a jerk about this, but I treat this day the same way I treat New Year's Eve: a great time to stay home and eat something fancy, while avoiding the throngs of amateurs throwing up in the street. (Anyone who has ever thrown up in the street on Valentine's Day, please write in. Your story deserves to be shared.)

So, screw-up, here is what I recommend. Leave work half an hour early. Stop into the nearest cooking/baking/food-preparing shop. Get yourself a heart-shaped cookie cutter, the few ingredients this canapé requires, and set to melting your love's heart just a bit, after fucking up so monumentally this morning. And, I mean, making them a cocktail probably wouldn't hurt either? Happy Valentine's Day, dears!

Valentine Canapés (Hot)

Cut slices of bread into heart shapes and with the same cutter stamp out hearts from slices of pimiento, first drying them well. Saute both bread and pimiento in butter or olive oil, lay the pimientos on the bread and sprinkle with salt, pepper and finely minced parsley.

The Enormity of Their Flat Brain

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 21:55:00 +0000

In case this day has lasted hours and hours for anyone else, in the video below you can watch Werner Herzog talk about how stupid chickens are.

Werner Herzog on Chickens from Tom Streithorst on Vimeo.

"By the way, it's very easy to hypnotize a chicken," is so amazing that it has turned my brains to soup.

(via Bon Appetit)

What Else Do You Have to Do?

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 16:30:00 +0000

Oh, guys. You know for certain that I am enjoying this oddly temperate winter. Although I am sure it means we are all going to actually be cooked by the sun sometime soon, I love it. However, even I’ll fess up and say that there are benefits to cold weather. For one, it’s nice to be able to have the oven on for hours without melting into a puddle.

I recently gave in and caved on a real, live, paper subscription to Bon Appétit. After the demise of Gourmet, I sort of forgot how nice it is to hold an actual paper magazine in my hands and flip through it on a Sunday morning. I can see my Sidekick’s brow furrow every time I stack another one in the corner with the others, but if it keeps resulting in tender, rich, decidedly anti-artery side dishes like this potato galette, I think he’ll put up with it.

This calls for duck fat and caraway seeds. I was out of both, so used bacon fat and thyme instead. I’m pretty certain that any combination of fat and aromatic spice will make you swoon just as much as this one did. This is somewhat arduous to layer and fussy in preparation. Tossing the potatoes with the melted fat seems like a lot, while you’re doing it. I can promise you, it’s worth it. And it’s winter, what else do you have to do?

Duck Fat-Potato Galette with Caraway and Sweet Onions
from Bon Appetit's December 2011 issue

4 Tbsp. (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, melted, divided, plus more for pan
1/2 tsp. caraway seeds*
2 Tbsp. rendered duck or bacon fat, melted**
1 tsp. (or more) kosher salt
1/2 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
2 lb. medium Yukon Gold potatoes, unpeeled, cut into 1/8"-thick slices with a mandoline or V-slicer
1 small sweet onion (such as Maui), very thinly sliced

Special Equipment: The outer ring from a 9"-diameter springform pan

Arrange a rack in middle of oven; preheat to 425 degrees. Brush a foil or parchment lined baking sheet with butter; set springform ring on top.

Toast caraway in a small skillet over medium heat until fragrant, about 1 minute. Let cool. Place in a resealable plastic bag; crush with a rolling pin or bottom of a skillet. Place in a large bowl. Add duck fat, 2 Tbsp. butter, 1 tsp. salt, and pepper. Add potatoes; toss to coat.

Arrange 1/4 of potatoes in an even layer inside ring on baking sheet, overlapping as needed. Toss onion in a large bowl with 1 Tbsp. melted butter. Arrange 1/3 of onion over potatoes. Carefully remove ring.

Bake until potatoes are tender, about 45 minutes. Brush with 1 Tbsp. butter. Bake until edges of potatoes are deep golden and top is crisp, 5-10 minutes longer.

Run a thin spatula under galette to loosen from foil. Slide onto a platter. Season with salt, if desired.

*I was out of caraway seeds, so substituted thyme for an aromatic. If you use thyme, you can skip the toasting step.
** I used bacon fat because we always, always have a surplus.

For the One-Hundredth Time

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 15:52:00 +0000

Today marks 100 posts on Chronicles of a Stomach Grumble. If you are saying to yourself, "wow, you've had this for a long time and should really have more than 100 posts," you are right. But here we are.

A sign of nerdy things to come.

To commemorate, I wanted to share a tweet of my dad's I stumbled across from 2006 (yes, my dad was on twitter before I knew how it worked). My dad never got to read this blog, but he definitely knew where I was headed all along. And, just in case anyone is wondering, I have the ingredients to make the above-mentioned soup in my fridge as we speak.

For those of you who would like a bit of further evidence as to why I am what I am:

This guy talks about coffee almost as much as computers. Which is a lot.


I cannot count the number of times I've said, "counting the minutes until lunch."

A recurring theme: love of food and hatred of yard work.

I've been talking a lot lately about how cool it is to have a record of this stuff hanging about on the internet. We talk a lot about how technology has changed our lives, often in unflattering ways. But, for me, because my dad was the biggest geek I've ever known (honorable mention, little brother), it means I always have a way to get his advice. And always know why I'm hungry for certain things. And always know why I can't stop using words like 'inexorable', 'watershed', and referring to things as 'great theater.'

So, to one of the best writers and the best eaters I've ever known: thanks, man. You really set me up with some lovable idiosyncrasies.

A New Year of Stuffing Cheese Into Other Things

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 17:24:00 +0000

Oh, hey guys. I started out the year so serious on you. So... let's probably talk about olives now?

Most of you probably do not think of olives as comfort food. Most of you probably did not devote the entirety of your teenaged, after-school snacking to piles of them. It just so happens that I do and I did.

Although the universe is trying to trick us into thinking it's going to be spring outside any time now, it isn't. We really are hunkering down for the longest bit of winter here, and it is for that reason that I am trying to dive head-long back into cooking a whole book of antiquated hors d'oeuvres. Remember this project? I haven't forgotten it. Those of you forced into eating these things every time you come to my apartment probably haven't forgotten it either. So, without further ado, more pastry bags and creamy cheese:

One of the things I've been enjoying most about cooking this book is the creative license it gives you when it tells you to stuff one of your favorite foods with "spiced cheese." In this case, I used goat, a soft crumbly chèvre, spiced with sherry vinegar and smoky pimentón. I stuffed this mixture into huge Castelvetranos - a gigantic, meaty, Sicilian olive - for maximum cheese-to-other-stuff ratio.

I brought these to a legitimately rocking New Year's Eve dance party. They were great finger food, easy to grab between songs and everyone knows you need to focus on your hydration and your salt levels when you sweat that much. This was a perfect recipe to both close out a year full of stuffing cheese into other things, and to begin a new year of certainly doing the same.

Olives Stuffed with Spiced Cheese
Select mammoth olives both green and black*, remove stones and stuff with spiced cheese. The easiest way to fill these is to use a bag and small tube to force the mixture into the olive.

*Yes, I cheated and only used green. I can't be made to obey rules!

Strain Your Damned Tomato Soup

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 14:13:00 +0000

We all reach a point where we think we know best. My guess is that every single one of us occasionally skims a recipe and thinks “I already know how to do that.” Usually, when I get here, I use the recipe for inspiration and go on my merry way, cooking as I would normally cook. This is both good and bad. Cooking with your own brain is one of the most important skills any cook can possess. You decide how much salt seems right. You decide how much oil you want to fry in. This makes us confident, makes us take risks and leads to delicious discoveries. But sometimes, you guys, you need to strain your damned tomato soup whether you want to or not. And sometimes, following recipe steps that seem finicky or unnecessary give you smooth, creamy tomato soup that makes you really happy.

This brings us to the recipe in question, from the America’s Family Recipes iPad app.

I have to confess to you all, I approached this set of recipes with a bit of a chip on my shoulder. This interactive cookbook contains recipes for classics that we all know and love: tomato soup, chicken and dumplings, creamed spinach. These are recipes that each family mythologizes. Someone always has the best one. When I decided to test this book, I wanted to be as true to it as possible. I did no editorializing, no extra garlic or butter (please take this time to note how hard that is for me), I completed these recipes to the letter. When it came time to strain the tomato soup above, I will admit that I rolled my eyes. I will admit that I almost did not do it. In the end, I did, and my cream of tomato soup was velvety and clean-tasting because of it.

To be fair, this book is marketed to a person and a cook who is decidedly different from me. The homey motifs, scalloped edges and other details that scream LOOK HOW FOLKSY WE ARE almost made me close this app without cooking anything from it. Initially, I thought this would probably be a great app for someone looking to really work on their basics. If you like to cook, and want to cook things that everyone knows and loves, but need some direction, this is a really great tool.

It also brought me back to my basics, however. Reminding me that sometimes I should just follow directions. It was careful direction-following that allowed me to make the most successful chicken and dumplings of my life from a recipe in this book. The dumplings (which are pretty much like baking, so made me characteristically nervous) came out fluffy and tender in the middle, not like solid rocks. I have no idea how baking powder and baking soda work, but DAMN, put them in your dumplings!

The layout is simple enough. A page for introduction, a page for ingredients, a page of instructions. I do wish there was a way to show the ingredients list and the steps of the recipe concurrently, as switching back and forth when your hands are covered in food is a bit irritating. But the steps are easy to follow, the recipe proportions all seem to be correct. In future updates, I do hope they’ll give you an estimated time for the full recipe from the get-go. Initially, I thought the list of recipes was a bit limited, but did notice that there are further recipe packs you can add on with an additional purchase. The bottom line: this is a $0.99 cookbook. You’d be hard-pressed to find that anywhere else.

This book also happens to do something that I love: it takes those gloopy, terrible casseroles that some of us have special feelings for from long ago and tells you how to make them with real food. Not condensed soups. Not flavor packets. That’s something that the home cooks of America could probably really benefit from.

Cream of Tomato Soup

from America's Family Recipes: Best of Home Cooking

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

1 medium sweet onion, coarsely chopped

1 clove garlic, halved

1 (28oz) can whole, peeled, Italian plum tomatoes

2 cups chicken broth

1/2 cup water

1 teaspoon sugar

1 bay leaf

1/2 cup heavy cream, divided

salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

1 tablespoon freshly sliced chives

Melt butter in a saucepan over medium heat. Add the onion with a pinch of salt. Cook, stirring occasionally, for about 10 to 12 minutes until the onion is soft and golden. Add tomatoes (do not drain) to the saucepan and use a wooden spoon, or potato masher to break into large chunks. Add the garlic, sugar, bay leaf, chicken broth, and water; bring up to a simmer. Simmer for 30 minutes.

Remove from heat, and take out the bay leaf. Carefully puree the soup in small batches in a blender until very smooth*. Strain the soup back into the saucepan; place over medium-low heat, and bring back to a simmer. Add the cream, reserving 2 to 3 tablespoons for the garnish, and stir to combine. Season with salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste.

Place the remaining heavy cream in a small mixing bowl and whisk vigorously for 1 minute or until slightly thickened and frothy. Ladle the hot soup into bowls, and drizzle over some of the whipped cream.

Garnish with chives and serve immediately.

* I did take one liberty with this recipe. Instead of transferring to a traditional blender, I used my immersion blender in the same pot. This is what they were INVENTED for, people.

On Our Patients, Our Remedies and Our Failures

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 16:47:00 +0000

"INVALID COOKERY - In preparing food for an invalid, one should bear in mind that it is of the utmost importance that the appetite of the patient be tempted. Large quantities of food should never be served to an invalid. The most attractive dishes procurable should be used, and the linen should be immaculate. A fresh flower adds color and daintiness to the tray. Hot dishes should be served very hot and cold dishes thoroughly chilled. Never ask a patient what he would like for a meal but find out from the doctor what he may have; then surprise the invalid by serving something unexpected, nourishing and dainty." - The Wise Encyclopedia of Cookery, 1948

Last July, I had the unfortunate task of rushing my Sidekick to the ER with extreme pain from a herniated disc. After six hours, a few morphine shots, and many neighbors in various states of duress, a kind-looking volunteer with an apologetic eye made his way to us.

“Er, would you like dinner?”

He extended a white, cardboard take-out box to me, which I took gratefully. I didn’t know they fed you in the ER. It turns out, there is a reason that people don’t talk about it. A room-temperature carton of 2% milk, a plastic container of canned peaches and a tuna sandwich, the filling of which had turned the color of cement.

Correct me if I’m wrong; these people in the hospital, we’re trying to heal them, no?

I was convinced that this kind of thing was isolated to the desperate and frenetic confines of the Emergency Room and that things would be better when my Sidekick was eventually admitted for more tests and taken upstairs into his own room.

But when breakfast arrived the next morning, I knew things were worse than I could have imagined. One thing before we continue: I realize that the point of a hospital is not to feed you. And certainly not to feed you luxurious or gourmet meals. You go to a hospital for care, help and medicine. I am not trying to be glib. I wasn’t expecting it to be vacation. But I also wasn’t expecting it to be quite like this.

Western Egg-Bake with Homefries

Breakfast was a yellow, reconstituted egg brick with not-terrible looking homefries, a plastic container of Cheerios, the blackest, scariest coffee I’ve ever seen, non-dairy creamer, a carton of milk that had seen better days and a packet of Mrs. Dash.

If you look closely, you'll probably see a few planets sucked into this thing.

Breakfast, while not really edible, certainly didn’t worry me for the patients’ safety like the ER meal. I began to think that I was over-reacting, although the milk did look like it had been run over by a truck.

Oh, milk? Just throw that anywhere.

But then lunch came.

Beef Stew with Mashed Potatoes

Let's momentarily put aside the fact that this was the dead of summer and I honestly can not imagine anyone wanting to eat beef stew when it's ninety degrees out, much less anyone who is in a hospital. This is a pile of canned vegetables with some beef thrown in, instant mashed potatoes and the saddest parsley garnish I’ve ever seen. I mean, why are you garnishing this? Is someone eating this parsley as part of their meal? If the function of hospital food is to be totally utilitarian, why are you dropping an upended piece of curly parsley on the side of the plate as if you care? This is essentially soup that you couldn't even be bothered to put in a bowl.

Lunch was served with an oxidizing iceberg salad in a cup and a packet of Italian dressing, a major ingredient of which was high fructose corn syrup. Synthetic sugar. Soybean oil. Propylene glycol alginate. This is what we're asking our sickest people to eat on the road to their recovery.

Oh, and dessert. With lunch.

It claimed to be banana pudding. When I turned it upside-down with a look of exasperation on my face, it remained stoically in its container, its cratered surface a terrain never to be explored by my Sidekick on my watch.

I am an expert on neither the nuances of hospital funding nor on American medical food policy. I can tell however, even as a layperson on every side of this issue, that something has gone terribly wrong. I know that serving thousands of people with a kaleidoscope of ailments on a daily basis cannot be easy. But why can't we give them real food? Take the beef stew, for example: a good beef stew is one of the simplest, easiest things in the world. You brown meat, thicken with flour, throw in vegetables and stock and simmer basically forever. You can forget about it on the stove. What then emerges is, arguably, one of the most comforting things on the planet.

Maybe this is just how I'm wired. I'm a Jewish girl with two very good cooks for parents. To me, food is medicine. When something goes wrong, we always ask what we can bring you to eat. It seems like the most basic principle in the world to me: our bodies need fuel, when we are sick or hurt, that fuel needs to be of the highest grade.

I will cop to one thing: I can not report on the flavor of this food. Neither my Sidekick nor I tasted a single morsel. I made many journeys to neighboring areas for good meals for both he and I to eat. What about those with no one to run out for them? I can't imagine myself or someone I love being in that position. My heart truly goes out to those people. It's made me sick to my stomach ever since.

The quotation that heads this post is from a recently inherited food encyclopedia from the late 1940s. Use of the word invalid notwithstanding, it has some pretty tender and elegant ideas about how we should treat the infirm. When my grandmother gave me this encyclopedia, she told me a story about a friend of hers whose mother had back surgery around the same time of its publishing: she had to be in a full-body cast in the hospital for nine months.

When my Sidekick subsequently returned to the hospital for surgery on his back, he was lucky enough to be discharged and home the very same day. Our medical technology has made incredible leaps in those sixty-odd years. The priority of feeding our patients, by comparison, seems to have taken a backseat. Or to have been thrown out the window of a moving car, much like the carton of milk served at breakfast.

Sometimes I think that maybe I'm a little too high on this particular soapbox. Then I remember dinner.

This is supposed to be grilled chicken, in case you were wondering.

This is Really Mac and Cheese

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 17:31:00 +0000

We haven't really talked about this yet.

This is what it should look like.

There are few reasons for this:

1) Tom Scocca has already written the definitive article on mac and cheese. This is it, you guys. There should be no further questions. If you haven't already read this, do not punch yourself in the face first, because after you've read it, you will feel like you've been punched in the face with the truth.

2) Because after you've read Tom's Fundamentalist Macaroni and Cheese you will see how stupid easy this is and never feel the need to say anything about it ever again. From that point forward, you will speak only through the power of your macaroni and cheese. Without fail, at any family gathering, this is what people request that I make. Not to overestimate myself, but I'm pretty competent in the kitchen - they basically want me to make something that I could train their dog to make. So clearly, truth bombs on the matter of mac and cheese still need to be dispersed.

I know that most people writing about food will obey the rules this week. We are not supposed to be talking about mac and cheese. We are supposed to be talking about juice cleanses and garlic broths. Anti-inflammatory, detoxifying goji berry and kombucha smoothies. (I'm sorry, that made me throw up too.)

Here at Chronicles of a Stomach Grumble, we say fuck you to all that. You're going to be so sick of that shit by next week. And frankly, if you don't know how to saute up some kale, you're probably not reading this thing. So eat your kale, drink your smoothies. And when your body inevitably shouts, "GIVE ME THE CHEESE BACK," read Tom's article and get to work.

Prepare yourself a stick with which to slap away your family's fingers.

Fundamentalist Macaroni and Cheese (with Rules Broken)
I know. You're like, "all that talk about following Tom's guidance to the letter and you're already screwing with it?" Have you people ever known me to be different? Make it Tom's way, like, five times. Then do whatever you want.

I was seriously tempted to not even include a recipe because I really just want you to read Tom's, but since recipes (and not me cursing all the time) are what half of you are here for, I guess we'll do one.

1lb elbow macaroni
At least 1lb cheddar, probably a little more
Some butter
Some milk
Salt
Cayenne pepper

Preheat your oven to 350. Boil water in a big pasta pot. Salt the water (seriously, I hope you know this already).

Grate all the cheese. You will second-guess how much cheese you are grating - then just keep going. Grate it all.

When your water is boiling, cook your elbows in it. PASTA elbows, not your arms, idiot. Take into account that you are basically going to keep cooking them for an hour in the oven, so undercook them just a little. To quote Tom, "Do not overcook it, just because you are making American food. Macaroni is half the dish here, and it should be treated with respect." Drain your pasta and throw some butter into the colander with it.

Throw some more butter into the pot and swirl it around so it coats the sides. Then put your pasta back in the same damned pot. Add your cheese gradually, saving some to put on the very top.

Okay, here is where I start acting like a petulant little brat: Put some other shit in it if you want! I've taken to tossing in a spoonful of mustard here and there. If there's creme fraiche in your fridge put some of that in there for creaminess. Here is the only improvement upon Tom's recipe that I can fully sponsor: put a tablespoon or so of cayenne pepper into the mix. Just do it. A little goes a long way, but just do it.

Cover the top with the remaining cheese. Sprinkle some coarse salt on there, a little more cayenne pepper and black pepper, if you want it. Then pour milk over the top. How much milk? You didn't even look at Tom's article, did you? Scocca:

"Pour a big slug of milk over the macaroni and the cheese. How much? Tip the pot from side to side. The milk should just peep into view, down there at the edge of the macaroni."

Okay? Dude, I know it's not a measurement. This is how you cook when you cook with your own brain and not someone else's. Just FIGURE OUT HOW MUCH. Dot this monster with butter and put the whole pot in the oven for about 45 minutes. When it's brown on top and you can't see any more milk when you tip it around, it's done. Let it sit for 10 minutes so no one sues you.

This is it, guys. This is really mac and cheese.

The Nerdist: Round One

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 15:48:00 +0000

A quick round-up of the things I nerded out over this week.

Brussels Sprouts and Grapes via Poor Man's Feast

Elissa Altman of Poor Man's Feast makes me drool over an unlikely combination and uses the word 'counterintuitive' to describe a recipe. <3

Joy Zhang gives us a hot toddy recipe I'm likely to repeat roughly twelve thousand times this winter on Honest Cooking.

Caroline at Whipped makes me feel tender, familial things for bananas while also making kind of a dark effing joke.

Food Republic supplies some bicep curls for your food-nerd brain on the Huffington Post.

Eatocracy makes us all aspire to be more like the Ginsburgs, both in the kitchen and in our relationships.

EAT

noreply@blogger.com (Shivery McPickles) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 16:58:00 +0000

If you can watch this and not:

a) get really hungry
b) kind of feel like we live during the most amazing time on the most amazing planet in the most amazing universe
c) really want to hug him when he gets surprised by the champagne

... then we probably don't hang out very often. If you feel a, b, c or some combination thereof and we also don't hang out very often, let's fix that and probably get something to eat.

EAT from Rick Mereki on Vimeo.

Now go eat lunch! Quickly, before you die of jealousy.