There You Have It

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Sat, 11 Apr 2009 16:35:00 +0000

Stuffed Haddock

2 tbs butter
3 tbs flour
1/2 cup white wine
1 1/2 cups milk
1 cup shredded gouda cheese
1/4 tsp white pepper, 1/4 tsp kosher salt

Melt the butter in a heavy saucepan, add in the flour and whisk for five+ minutes, cooking the flour. this is your roux, and the basis for a huge variety of sauces.
Combine the wine and milk in a 2-cup measuring cup and nuke it twice, one minute each, until it's hot. Add the hot milk/wine to the butter/flour all at once and whisk it for five+ minutes until it thickens. Add the salt and pepper.
Add the cheese in several batches, whisking until it's all blended. Cover the pot and put it on a super-low burner. This is sauce mornay, or a cheese sauce made from a roux.

1 - 1 1/3 lb lobster, cooked(Market Basket will do this for you)
1/2 lb sea scallops(the big ones)
2 lbs haddock(or any other inexpensive white fish) skinned(Market Basket will do this for you too)
1 12-oz jar of marinated artichoke hearts, drained and chopped. Use only about 2/3 of this.
1 tbs butter
2 tbs olive oil
4-5 garlic cloves, sliced thinly
1/3 cup white wine

Take all the meat out of the lobster, tail, knuckles, and claws, and cut it up into inch or half-inch bits.
Cut the scallops up into little pieces as well, not minced, chopped, set aside.
Melt the butter in a non-stick pan until the foam subsides, add the garlic and cook until fragrant(pinch of salt and pepper right now is good), add the wine and cook it down by half. Now add the scallops and cook them, stirring and mixing with the butter, garlic and wine, for just a few minutes, not cooked all the way through. Mix this into a bowl with the lobster and artichoke hearts.

Butter a small, shallow baking dish. shorter than the length of the fish fillets. cut the fillets to fit two layers.
Put down the first layer of fillets, cover with half of the lobster/artichoke/scallop mixture, and cover that with half a cup of the cheese sauce. Use your judgement: cover it, don't drown it.
Put down the second layer of fillets, cover with the rest of the lobster/artichoke/scallop mixture, and cover that with about a cup of the cheese sauce. again, cover it, don't drown it.
Sprinkle a third of a cup of breadcrumbs over this and put it in a 350F oven for about 30+ minutes. Lightly browned, maybe a few bubbles, but not to many; don't want to overcook the fish!

Serve it with rice or new potatoes.

I tossed the new potatoes(very small ones, quartered) with olive oil, salt, pepper and paprika and roasted them for an hour+ at 350F

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Tue, 30 Dec 2008 19:47:00 +0000

Has Israel Gone Too Far?

Israel will have gone too far when we see them attack without provocation. Hamas is like the two-year old or teenager for whom the first "No" was not loud enough. Prior responses have obviously been inadequate, because Hamas continues to fire rockets into Israel; the attackers are not deterred. Israel's response should escalate until the pain of her response is greater than the pain of Hamas' perceived injustice.

The occupation of Palestine by Israel is unjust. It is obvious that controlling forces in Israel do not want real peace, for whatever reason, because they are blind to the fact that they create their own enemy, and they alone can solve their problems. How many times has "peace" been brokered? By how many different international actors? Sadat was murdered by his own people, as was Begin. No Arab state has, or will, accept that Israel is a legitimate sovereign, due the respect and rights of any global actor.

According to Benny Morris, writing on the Op-Ed Page for the New York Times, the Palestinians have only to wait it out. Public opinion in the West is shifting against Israel, as memories of the Holocaust fade and more criticize Israel's occupation of Palestine; Iran continues progress towards nuclear weapons; Hezbollah has a large arsenal of rockets, as does Hamas; Gaza continues to be a fertile bed of radical, anti-Israeli recruits; and Arab Israelis, by virtue of mere birth rate, will outnumber Jewish Israelis within thirty years. So either attacks from without or demographics from within will stage the end game for the State of Israel.

But you do not pick a fight with the biggest kid in the schoolyard. Alone. Hamas will never win this fight. Maybe they're expecting some of the other kids to join in, but right now, they don't have the resources; they might have thousands of rockets, but it's going to take more than rockets to achieve their goals. They don't have the manpower, and their opponent is backed into a corner. How many divisions do they have? How many tanks? How many aircraft? More importantly, which Arab nation is gathering a "coalition of the willing" to come fight for Hamas?

This is the real question. One important fact that Mr. Morris overlooks is that Hezbollah is mostly Shi'a, as is Iran, and that Hamas is mostly Sunni. Gaza is Sunni, and so is Egypt. The current civil war in Iraq is between these two branches of Islam, and they are not known for conciliation and cooperation. Hezbollah and Iran might be content to let Israel do their job for them, to mortally wound the predominantly Sunni Hamas, wait for the U.S. to exit Iraq, join with the Shi'a majority in that country, and sweep in to take the prize.

Surrender. Unilaterally disarm. Renounce the extremists whose only employment, whose only justification is conflict for conflict's sake(ask them about their post-victory plans). Recognize Israel. Palestine will never see real peace otherwise, and she will sacrifice generations of her children to violence and despair. Imagine the opportunities for commerce, for education, for health care that are waiting for a durable peace. Worse, imagine Israel facing the choice between defeat, and all that that would entail, and pushing the button.

Jeffrey Goldberg has a few words on this very issue in the New York Times

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 02:03:00 +0000

How Not to Use Your Chainsaw

I've asked a friend to remind me to tell him this story, and that offhanded reference brought those memories back so clearly that if I write them out here, I may be able to capture that event clearly. One thing I've found about writing is that, if you're not a regular, disciplined practitioner, and I'm not regular, at the desk anyway, or disciplined, in most ways, you have to write when you're struck. I'm sure that with discipline, like a daily jog or brushing your teeth or checking your email--when was the last time you got a handwritten letter?--I'd be in "the zone" as soon as I sat down to write. Well, I'm looking forward to that day. Except that Time is a finite resource, so that no matter how jealously I husband it, there are others who need it as much as I do.

So two years ago, before I had my own chainsaw, not that I would have tried to do this on my own anyway, I had my friend, John Schwechheimer, who is Brother to the Lady Anita, come over to help me take down a tree. He's had experience with this, owns a couple of chainsaws, and has a pickup truck with a plastic liner. That last factoid is relevant, because in return for John's expertise, equipment, and labor, he was going to cart away the wood and the bed of his truck, with the plastic liner, would be ideal for that, and the bed of that truck has seen some wood, and stone, and oil, but more on that later. John is always on the lookout for wood. He will see a pile on the side of the road, drive home, drop off his lovely daughter Alice, and return to pick up the wood. Now that I have a pickup truck, with an eight-foot bed and a spray-in liner, I'm always on the lookout for wood too, and I keep a pair of work gloves in my truck for just that purpose.

This tree is in the middle of my back yard, on the right-hand side, if you're standing on the porch, and it's got a few raggedy limbs, mostly dead, but a few alive, and I'm convinced that the next strong breeze is going to knock it over. Knock it right into the neighbor's fence, or his shed, or anything my homeowner's insurance won't cover. The tree is about thirty feet tall; tall enough to be a challenge, but not so tall that I should have called a professional tree service. Add to this the fact that my next door neighbor, Lou, a guy that's seventy-five and can out-work you and me both without breaking a sweat, has professional tree experience. I saw Lou drop a seventy-foot pine into his yard, which is the size of a postage stamp. Tie a rope, cut off the top, drop the top to the ground. Move down the tree and repeat the process. Imagine a circle around you, with you as the center, a ten-foot radius, and you now have some idea of the space that Lou dropped his tree down into. Just amazing, but remember, it's not Lou that's helping me, it's John.

We put a cable from the stout end of one of the major branches of this tree to the trailer hitch on John's truck and pull John's truck forward, to put some tension on the line. We want the branch to fall where we want it to. There's a fair amount of tension on this steel cable, and not only is the branch bent, but so is the tree. I lean a ladder against the tree, right at the base of the branch we intend to cut. John goes up the ladder with the chainsaw, pulls the rope and the chainsaw starts. Now, I'm holding the ladder, John is directly above me, and the saw is about four feet above my head. As he begins to cut, the sawdust is falling directly onto my face and into my eyes. I have my glasses on, so that helps, but not much. Remember the tension in the line, the one tied to the branch and John's truck? As John is cutting the branch, that tension overcomes the shear strength of the branch and it breaks with a sound like a Cherry Bomb.

The branch breaks, knocks the chainsaw out of John's hands, knocks him off the ladder, and hits me in the head, right before the chainsaw blade lands on the underside of my right forearm. Years ago, before some idiot used a chainsaw to scratch his head and successfully sued the chainsaw company for damages, chainsaws continued to run, even after you took you hand off the trigger. If that was the case today, it would have taken me twice as long to write this as it has, and all my friends would be calling me "Lefty." Now chainsaws for home use have all kinds of safety features, and the one that I like best is that the chain stops as soon as you release the grip. But, if you work at it, and really try, you can still injure yourself with a chainsaw, as I have proved.

I look down at my arm, and I see two parallel cuts, and they look a lot like the cuts in Arnold Schwarzenegger's arm when he played The Terminator in the movie by the same name. When he's up in a hotel room with an X-acto knife making repairs to himself on the fly, as it were. So I wiggle my fingers, just like he does, and they all work! Yea! The blade of the saw had only peeled back the skin, like a gas-powered vegetable peeler, and had missed any of the important stuff, like muscles and tendons. John was fine, the branch was down, it hadn't really hit me that hard, and we started back to work. John had expressed some concern about my arm, because he is my friend, and he is a caring kind of guy, so we went into the kitchen, grabbed a kitchen towel and a roll of duct tape, that's right, duct tape, and we proved, right then and there, that redneck culture, right down to redneck First Aid, is alive and well all over this great nation of ours.

I called the Lady Anita and asked her if she would stop by the CVS and pick up some 4X4 gauze pads and medical tape, and the Lady Anita, who does not respond well to any injury, no matter how minor, immediately suspects that something has gone wrong. "What did you do now?!?" she asks. "Nothing," I replied. "Did you cut yourself?" "You don't want to know." This was the wrong thing to say if I wanted to allay her fears and shorten the conversation, as she goes on about how she doesn't respond well to injuries and if there's blood she doesn't want to see it and so forth. I had the presence of mind not to tell her that my arm was now wrapped in one of her dish towels. I ended the call by telling her to drive safely and that I had to get back to work.

John and I felled the rest of the tree without incident, unless you count putting a log through the rear window of his truck as we were loading the wood, but no one was injured there. That was the second time that I did that to his truck, and in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, the insurance coverage is such that you don't have to pay for damage to your windows, so he wasn't upset at all. He had a bed full of wood, I opened up a big piece of yard for gardening, and eliminated the risk of some random damage from a dead tree. And learned a big lesson. I now have my own chainsaw, my own truck, and know that the fall can be dictated by the cut and how the wind is blowing. John is still my good friend, even more so now that we've shared this adventure, and I'm looking forward to having him help Lou and I take down a couple more trees this coming March.

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Sat, 13 Dec 2008 01:20:00 +0000

Christmas Memory

I'll stop with the auto industry bailout rant. For now.

I had the good fortune yesterday to catch up with an old friend from the neighborhood. His mother, my mom, Ann Balmos, MaryLee Wallace, and Janie Towner were like a collective "Mother", watching over me, encouraging me, and supporting me in my early years, right up through college. The conversations I had with this fellow, and seeing that he favors his Mother so strongly, brought all sorts of memories to the surface. They're like the rich, fragrant bubbles in a stew as it simmers, bringing up all the complementary flavors into your nose, just like they do from the rim of the spoon, right before it favors your mouth with a big bite.

Jimmy is with me right now. He's snuggled under my fleece, making little clucking and chirping noises as I type.

This particular memory, that I'll share with you now, is of my Father making eggnog every Christmas. This was a point of pride with him, and it wasn't until just a few years ago that I learned that the recipe came out of Irma Rombauer and Marion Rombauer Becker's "Joy of Cooking", an essential reference source for every kitchen, and not from an oral family tradition, he guarded it so jealously.

Just an old ceramic bowl, brown, I don't know where it is now, even though I went through the house in Phoenix pretty thoroughly after he passed, that was filled and covered and put out on the screen porch. I remember that it was colder, more consistently, back in those days. And the snow seemed deeper back then, although we've had a couple of winters up here that have seen record snow. Like when we had 106" back in '96. But the screen porch was cold enough, though not so cold as to present a risk of freezing the nog.

He would start with a dozen eggs. Of course, it was made from scratch. Anybody that tells you that there are no stupid questions is wrong. There are two: "is this made from scratch?" and "did you tie that bow tie yourself?" Those are two stupid questions. I'm at the doctor the other day, for some damn medical thing or another, and this guy, a smart guy, the guy that excised my supraclavicular tumor last New Year's Eve, looks me in the eye, and says, "is that a real bowtie?" C'mon Doctor. And I'm trusting this guy with sharp things inside my neck?!?!? So Dad separates the eggs, yolk from white. The yolks go into the ceramic bowl, and the whites go into a two-cup Pyrex measuring cup. Gotta be glass, gotta be Pyrex. The yolks get whipped, by hand, with a balloon whisk, until they lighten up. Now "light" is a matter of your own judgment. Just how tired is your arm? Do a little more and that'll be fine. If you're using an electric mixer, and I have, then it's light like sunshine, or the color of a Peep, those little marshmallow things you find behind the couch, with a light dander of fuzz, about three weeks after Easter.

Now whip in two cups of dark rum. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and foil and put it in the fridge. If you have a screen porch that will be cold, consistently, but not too cold, then put it out there. Pour a glass of wine and put "The Sound of Music" on an endless loop. I can't put my finger on it, but that movie, one of my Top Five, sounds like Christmas to me. Suffice to say that my Sainted Paternal Grandmother, Frances Treischmann Blakney, was born and raised in Alsace, on the border of France and Germany. She couldn't sing a note, and certainly was not the daughter of Prussian nobility, but those landscapes drew her like a moth to flame.

Fast forward to the next evening. Whip in a pound of confectioners' sugar, put it back in the fridge or out on the porch. Next night: add two cups of bourbon. Dad liked to use Jim Beam, and he'd buy it by the half gallon so that there was plenty to keep the ice afloat in his lead crystal Waterford tumbler. Truth be told, I'm drinking out of that very same tumbler right now! Only, I have a few fingers of the Water of Life, a fine single malt, as Glenn prefers malted barley rather than corn mash as the basis for his spirits.

Fourth night: add another two cups of either the dark rum, or the bourbon. Also add two quarts of heavy cream. This can be just plain heavy cream, or whipping cream; at this point, it really doesn't matter. Whip it all together. You won't need the electric mixer, because you're not really whipping it, just mixing it thoroughly. Please don't whine. This is not a tonic for your heart. But, then again, you're not drinking it every day. It is not heart-healthy and it is not supposed to be. If you are in such a state that you can't have a small glass or two of eggnog at Christmas, you have my every sympathy. I had cancer and I was able to enjoy this. It's not Russian Roulette, which I understand is enjoying a Renaissance, it's not a rock of Crack, it's not a dose of Meth (however we consume that stuff these days), and it's not radioactive waste. It's eggs and cream and sugar and alcohol; all things created by God for us to enjoy. If you are an alcoholic, and I do know some, skip this post. I know that even after decades of sobriety, there's no such thing as "just one."

Fifth night, no pun intended. Add a cup of some fruit brandy. I've experimented with several and I recommend peach or apricot, anything else is too bitter and will spoil the creamy smooth sweetness of the nog. Back on the porch.

Sixth night.

Seventh day. Just like God. Whip the everloving sh*t out of the whites. Not a hard peak, but a solid, firm peak. If you have a copper bowl, the volume will astound you. I don't really understand the chemistry behind this, but the copper and the egg white come together like old teammates in the Red Zone. An eighth of a teaspoon of Cream of Tartar will make those peaks if you're having trouble, although on a cold, dry Winter's day, this should not be a problem. Also, chill the mixing bowl in the freezer for twenty minutes. You may use an electric mixer. Unless you are used to strenuous, long-term whipping, with perfect form, doing this manually will not give you the results you're looking for. And start the mixer on high immediately. Something about instantaneous violence really resonates with egg whites.

Now a cooking lesson: Fold the whites into the nog. Fold, don't whip. Use a spatula. Take a spatula full of whipped egg whites and place it gently on top of the nog. Grip the bowl with your left hand(assuming you're right-handed; reverse if otherwise), now dip the spatula into the nog, scraping down the opposite wall(the side of the bowl opposite you) and drawing it along the bottom of the bowl and up and out towards you. Turn the bowl a half turn, counter-clockwise, and repeat. Push the flat of the spatula down through the nog and up and out on the near wall. Be gentle. You've taken all that time to put all that air into the whites and you'd like to keep it there. Fold several times until the whites are, well, folded into the nog. There will be big blobs of whipped white; do not fold in all of these blobs as they lend a certain authenticity to your final product, nay, creation, and will, in short time, absorb nog all by themselves.

Get a ladle. Do not let some well-meaning, but disastrously ignorant, guest use the ladle to try to "smooth out" the nog. You serve it, with pride. Some nice mugs, with Santa or reindeer or elves, or lead crystal Waterford, are perfect. If a guest feels that Santa is, pagan, or a celebration of ancient Teutonic folklore, then they may not have any eggnog. Sprinkle some ground nutmeg on top and enjoy.

Get serious: DO NOT DRIVE. DO NOT OPERATE HEAVY MACHINERY. DO NOT FLY AN AIRPLANE, DO NOT PERFORM MEDICAL PROCEDURES. One glass of this, heavenly as it is, is pretty much pure booze. Remember that it took us a week to make it? What do you think the sugar is doing with the rum and bourbon and brandy during that week? Conspiring to turn you into a drooling retard faster than you can say: "Bert and Ernie." I'm very serious. This is a powerful alcoholic beverage whose sweetness effectively masks the taste of alcohol that usually tips you off to the fact that you're drinking. Be careful. Kids can have a little. Mature Americans can have a little, but remember that your ability to process alcohol is a function of your body weight and metabolism.

I always had some. Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. It was great. Just a sip now takes me right back.

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 15:50:00 +0000

New-Car Dealerships by State as of January 1, 2008

Alabama 345

Alaska 38

Arizona 256

Arkansas 267

California 1594

Colorado 284

Connecticut 320

Delaware 65

D.C. 1

Florida 948

Georgia 603

Hawaii 66

Idaho 123

Illinois 934

Indiana 521

Iowa 369

Kansas 258

Kentucky 298

Louisiana 337

Maine 144

Maryland 358

Massachusetts 478

Michigan 759

Minnesota 438

Mississippi 242

Missouri 494

Montana 132

Nebraska 213

Nevada 118

New Hampshire 169

New Jersey 574

New Mexico 140

New York 1112

North Carolina 692

North Dakota 96

Ohio 958

Oklahoma 299

Oregon 274

Pennsylvania 1161

Rhode Island 63

South Carolina 326

South Dakota 117

Tennessee 420

Texas 1346

Utah 153

Vermont 97

Virginia 551

Washington 383

West Virginia 169

Wisconsin 597

Wyoming 70

Total U.S. 20,770

Source: NADA Industry Analysis Division

The NADA also reports sales in 2007 of $693 Billion, and 1,114,500 Americans employed with a total payroll of $54 Billion.

I'm still working on this.

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 17:13:00 +0000

ATT Redux

Look at the breakup of ATT back in '84. Seven Baby Bells started to compete regionally, and several companies competed for long-distance service. The comparison breaks down then, because the lines, or means of production, were owned by competing companies. However, since the Big Three own the bulk of the factories, the solution might be to sell off those plants to entrepreneurs, using government-guaranteed loans. I hire some designers, or some engineers, raise some equity, take down some debt from the Federal Government, and I make some cars. Or I buy the license and make retro Mustangs, or Bugs, or '55 Chevy's with big fins. Or I make a cheap, durable, plain vanilla pickup.

There are 112 assembly, powertrain, and stamping plants in America, according to figures provided by Ford, GM, and Chrysler in their proposals to Congress, and 20,770 dealers(NADA figures, as of 1.1.08), selling, year-to-date 2008, some 12 Million units. Certainly there are more than enough people to work in those factories, maybe we accept the inefficiency of smaller scale production if it means more jobs. Do we need 20,770 dealers? Does it make sense to provide service at the same place you provide product? Instead of 415 dealers per state(on average), there are 50, or less. And the service is provided by branches that only provide service, and maybe some aftermarket product. So you, entrepreneur that you are, own a couple of sales offices and a network of service bays. Just like the guy that owns 20 gas stations, or 20 McDonald's.

Take some risks, make/sell some cars. Those market niches still exist: pickups, SUV's, sedans, minivans, muscle cars, etc. So you have a design advantage, or an efficiency advantage, or you're churning out ZipCars, or rental fleets buy your sedans.

The bailout is only justified if we decide that it's in the National Interest to have inefficient producers to keep workers employed; it's positively Soviet. Even the term, "Car Czar" is Russian. Let's do all the central planning in Washington, or better yet, outsource it to Beijing; they're already configured for central control. Hopefully, if it all works right, after a few years, they can just make one, really, really big car, for a billion $'s! As long as they meet their production quota.

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Thu, 27 Nov 2008 01:18:00 +0000

Some good news.

Irwin Kellner of MarketWatch (part of the Wall Street Journal Digital Network) here, reports that the drop in gasoline prices at the pump has put some $200Billion into our pockets. Not my pockets, otherwise I'd be buying one of those cool new Mac laptops... But anyway, this money, that we didn't spend getting from place to place, plus the stimulus check from the government, has raised our collective buying power by 4% over the past four months. This is good news, especially headed into the holiday buying season. (I hate to say that, since this season should really celebrate family and friends, not to mention it's religious events, but retailers are a big part of GDP and the fourth quarter is critical to their profitability, even their survival.)

Now it's only $75 to fill the 34-gallon tank of my Chevrolet Silverado, instead of $150. Not that those dollars are being spent somewhere else, like the mall or online or at Santa's workshop. It's going into savings. And therein lies the problem: all of that money Congress approved under, TARP, here, is going to the banks and not coming out the other side in loans to small businesses to buy new equipment, open new markets, and build inventories in anticipation of selling more stuff. It's going to into their capital accounts, where it doesn't do anyone, except them, any good. None of it, yet, is affecting the mortgages of homes in imminent danger of foreclosure. The government should be using that money to buy bad debt and empty houses, like Mr. Paulson originally proposed.

Remove the threat of the debt (that rhymes nicely, doesn't it?), and now the banks know what to reserve for, rather than a big unknown. They have a known level of risk that they can accurately reflect by holding an appropriate level of reserves. Create positive absorption (that's a genuine technical real estate finance term) in the residential housing market and you catch the falling prices. The South Florida Business Journal, here, reports that sales of condos and single-family homes are up significantly. Yes, prices are down, but folks are saying: "I've always wanted to have a home in _____, and at this price, I'm going to buy." There is cash out there, and there is demand, and at some price, that becomes transactions. Falling supply in the face of constant demand becomes a price floor.

Back to my original point: have patience. All of that money is going to have an effect, but it takes time to work it's way through the economy.

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Sat, 18 Oct 2008 01:25:00 +0000

A Conversation with Glenn, Pete, and John

It all started here.

I apologize for the time, some time from now, that this link expires. Mr. Beck is as technologically backward as he is politically retarded.

Glenn:
We've had two years to vett Obama, if there was anything of substance, anything real, conservative outlets like the Wall Street Journal, the Chicago Tribune, and Fox News would have found it. Look at how they stuck with John Edwards until he came clean. "conservatives" like Beck don't have the intellectual discipline to compare programs and argue on the merits. It's all character assasination and it's one of the reasons that the best the Repubican Party has to offer is John McCain.

I'm happy to tell you that your boy is going down on November 4th.

And another thing: Joe the Plumber is another ill-considered, spur-of-the-moment choice like Palin. Chosen not for what value she might add to a McCain Administration, but for how she can be used to attack Obama. Joe is not a licensed plumber, owes the state of Ohio $1200 in back taxes, and, I guarantee, does not make more than $250,000 a year. Again, act, then think, that's McCain. If this is the way that McCain makes decisions, he is not the right man for the job.

Your Loving Brother,

Glenn

Pete:
Again, the righteously impartial mainstream media (who have already elected Obama for us unwashed masses) spent more time finding dirt on Joe The Plumber than they ever spent investigating Bill Ayers. Maybe you can help understand how my life will be better in a socialist state. I apologize for being so unenlightened.

Pete

Glenn:

1) It's not the media that selected Joe, it was McCain. Anything you bring up in open court is fair game for either side. The media found both Wright and Ayers; Obama had never mentioned either of them in his campaign until he was confronted with a question.

2) It's hard to believe that the party of Karl Rove does not have a staff of researchers working on Obama and his friends and media-savvy professionals ready to get the best press for the worst dirt. Again, if it were there, we'd have heard it by now.

3) a-Bush used his eight years, six of which were with a Republican majority in the Congress, to create the largest government, and concommitant deficit, in U. S. History; b-is government ownership of financial assets Socialism? Ask Hank Paulson. It's not Obama's nor Pelosi's nor Reid's plan to own the means of production. Your life will be better when we are not the largest debtor nation on the planet and when we are making investments in education, infrastructure, and health care.

4) I heard a conservative talk show host declare yesterday that Obama's father was 47% Arab, in response to a caller's compaint that the crowd at a McCain rally called Obama an Arab. How do you determine someone's ethnicity to a precise percentage? This is Third Reich stuff. These are the same people that beat Sikhs(a Hindu sect) in the streets after 9/11 because they were wearing turbans. McCain calls on Obama to repudiate Lewis? He needs to clean his own house!

A CFP question: as the value of a 401K declines, at what point does it make sense to stop contributing? Take into account the tax benefit of investing pre-tax dollars and reducing taxable income versus investing in financial assets that continue to lose value. 10 Points.

Again, you got the brains, but Mom taught me how to argue...

Pete:
Put another way................in 24 hours our media can give Joe the Plumber a full rectal exam but after 2 years they still can't tell us who Barak Obama is. Hey, lets share some of the wealth around!

OK Senator Government, I guess a little extra redistribution at the hands of a liberal supermajority is long overdue. While we're at it lets implement more windfall profits tax for "Big Oil & Big Drug," require carbon credits for every fart and register a few more felons to vote and seal the deal. I guess next up will be the Fairness Doctrine to quell any dissention.

So much of what the government does it does so well.....we want the government even more involved in our lives!

Free healthcare for everyone!

Hell-of-a-job, Brownie!

Glenn:

I guess your next move is a gated compound in Idaho. Be sure to stockpile plenty of butts, booze, and coffee, but no gold: it will absorb the radiation! You and Maggie will look cute in matching camo...

The government is already involved in your life. Don't you manage Defense contracts?

Healthcare is only for those who can pay cash out of pocket? Only for those in an employer-paid program? What about Joe The Plumber? Who pays the hospital bills for independent contractors? For small businesses? Who's going to pay Kathy's salary? You should be the Cindy Sheehan of government-supported health care.

I think you'd better call Tom Davis(your congressman) and make sure that he's got all the money and help he needs to fight off his Democratic challenger. Many "Conservatives" think that the political process ends with a rant to a talk show host; it ends in the polling booth.

P.S. you need better sound bites. Try reading.

Pete:
That's right, it all ends in the polling booth. And just think................when you're pulling your lever........................

I'm pulling the other one!

Glenn:

Maybe...Have you converted as many people as I have? How many "Dear Neighbor" cards did you send out? Are you driving voters to the polls? Did you give your candidate any money? I can pull a hundred levers to your one. Kathy, Andrew and Robin are all registered, right? How are they voting?

Think about it: do you really want nothing to happen in the next four years? Imagine a Congress controlled by Democrats and a Republican in the White House...Can we afford to waste four years? And McCain isn't exactly Reagan. Don't mistake McCain's anger for a compelling personality.

Don't give up yet, we still have time for an "October Surprise."

GB

John:
Dear Pete and Glenn, I think John McCain was brilliant when he brought up Joe the Plumber. First of all, much of the focus is on Joe the Plumber now, not Mr. Obama. Second, this story illustrates the Republican charge that Democrats Tax and Spend. In this case it draws attention to the Tax part and shows a real danger for middle class Americans in having their taxes raised. Democrats claim to represent middle America and here is a real life example of taxes being raised on a middle American. People are afraid now of losing their money and this story of Joe the Plumber also having his taxes raised represents a real fear for many people. More taxes = less money in hand. This is a significant concern for many people.

Also, as far as research on Mr. Obama, I don't think the Republicans have used all the tools that they have. Do you think they might have saved the best for last? I do. A lot of the people that have made up their mind have all ready voted. The undecided people are listening to and watching what happens as we close on election day. The big guns will come out soon in the last flourish of spending campaign funds.

By the way, Mr. Obama is very liberal, way more liberal than Hillary Clinton. I am still glad that he is running instead of her and if he wins; our country will have matured into electing a President who is "black" and whos' middle name is Hussein and that would be amazing.

Oh, I found a scorpion in the shower the other day as I was getting ready to turn the water on. Unsettling but not as unsettling as looking down and having a scorpion resting on a bare part of your foot.

John

Pete:
John, in case you didn't know, Glenn was dropped on his head as a child. He wears a helmet now whenever he goes outside....and a drool bib. I'm sorry I had to tell you at a time like this but its best you know. It helps to better understand him when he goes off in liberal la la land. I know you join me in wishing him all the best.

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Wed, 01 Oct 2008 13:16:00 +0000

Tighter Credit Only Adds to Auto Industry’s Troubles

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/01/business/01auto.html?partner=permalink&exprod=permalink

First, think about all the people employed by the companies that assemble cars, the companies that make the parts that go into those cars, like brakes and seats and dashboards, the people employed by the advertising companies that create the ads to market those cars, the people that are employed by the media outlets that buy those ads, the salespeople and mechanics that work in the car dealerships, and all the people that work in the places where those people buy groceries, beer, clothes and TV's, and say: "goodbye."

Just like housing employs many people we don't think about when we look at a house, who are now unemployed, the automobile industry is more than just Ford and your local dealer. For every car not sold, a huge web of companies, which employ ourselves and our neighbors, is affected.

Second, please pass this along to everyone who says that the financial crisis is "manufactured" or that the risk of recession is not real.

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 21:05:00 +0000

Sorry. Working on Chapter Two right now. I was diagnosed with Hodgkins Lymphoma last December and began chemotherapy in February of this year. The cancer is gone and I had my last treatment in mid-July; the side effects are finally wearing off. Thanks for bearing with me.

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 01:18:00 +0000

No, you won't.

Chapter One

The luncheonette was long and narrow, with beige vinyl booths down the right side, the upholstery beaten and worn from the assault of a hundred thousand large rear ends, their spread widened by the daily application of biscuits and gravy. Fifteen stools faced the counter on the left, their vinyl just as aged, and the counter itself, while clean, was scarred by various scratches, dents, and cigarette burns. Immediately to the left of the one door, there were four small tables, each with two chairs, stark in the light from the single piece of plate glass that presented the diner to the street, like an exhibit in a zoo. By day, a transparent green shade could be pulled down, now only halfway, to protect those tables and the depressingly fewer and fewer patrons from the glare of the Sun, since the front of the diner faced West. The shade had done little to prevent the tables, the chairs, and the floor from becoming bleached and split.

Since a handful of fast-food boxes had popped up down the street, on the other side of the Post Office and the two banks that served town, Life had ebbed from this place and now the Sun was taking its share. At night, a blue neon sign buzzed “Just Like Home” in the center of the front window. Anyone seated at one of those tables, bathing in that indifferent light, looked like a cadaver. Fresh from one of those refrigerated lockers with the thick, shiny steel door and stainless tray that rolled out about six feet, as if they had suddenly reanimated to come chew slowly on some greasy brisket or sip some thin chicken soup.

At four-thirty in the morning, the neon was off; only the long strips of fluorescent light that ran the length of the diner remained on, and they made the pooling blood look like black oil, shiny and viscous.

“Whatta we got, Chip?”

“Ten out front, Bic, four in the locker, and one poor bastard in the john.”

“Jesus Christ! Why do they have to kill every last one of them these days? Why can't they just lock 'em all in the back office after they grab the take and be done with it?”

Detective Dixie Bic was fifty, twenty-three years on the force after a brief stint in the Merchant Marine. He enjoyed being a cop, he enjoyed the pay, vacation and seniority of his rank as Lieutenant, and he enjoyed even more the freedom and challenge of being a detective. He was an avid reader of detective novels and murder mysteries; he followed murder cases in other parts of the country; and he was a diligent student of human behavior. Dixie tended to be trusting and naïve, but compensated by asking lots and lots of very detailed questions, many of them more than once, until only the most devoted pathological liar could maintain a consistent story. Suspects often made the mistake of thinking that Bic was stupid when he couldn't see the logic of their lies. He was very observant, almost to the level of an Autistic, or an Obsessive Compulsive, and was able to write down and recall even the smallest details of a crime scene.

Bic was six feet, four inches tall, about two hundred and twenty pounds, bald, and scarred about the face from the jagged end of a beer bottle. Hey, he didn't know that she had a boyfriend; Hell, he didn't even speak the language. Some shithole in Port Elizabeth, S.A. almost became his last port of call. He could easily weigh about twenty or thirty pounds more, and look like an ad for the donut and coffee diet, but he managed to run a couple miles every other day, and lifted in the weight room at the police station on the other days. He wasn't handsome even in a rugged way, but he had a friendly way about him that kept a half-dozen good friends close.

“We figure it was two guys, shotguns,” said the Sergeant. Sergeant Charlie Parker was also fifty, had also been on the force twenty-three years, and seemed to everyone on the force that he had been a Sergeant since he had reached puberty. A face like a pile of rubble, lumpy, with a thick beard in a constant state of stubble, Parker had a thick head of curly black hair, which, when combined with eyes that really did look like blue sapphires under eighty-degree Caribbean water, made fending off random attacks by beautiful women a problem ever since he had been that pubescent Sergeant. Fortunately, his body was the rest of that pile of rubble. Somewhere between five and six feet tall, depending, he had thick arms and legs and was almost supernaturally powerful. Parker could take down the plate-clad door of any crack den with ease; nicknames like 'Hulk' and 'Dozer' came to mind, but had never stuck. Bic called him 'Chip'.

Charles Wentworth Parker had excelled in four years of Latin in high school, winning an academic award at Graduation, and had been an English Major in college. He had read the classics, Homer, Shakespeare, Dickens, Hemingway. He loved being a cop. He loved being on the force, part of the fraternal order of police; he loved wearing the uniform, the web belt, cuffs, keys, and his pride and joy, his Heckler & Koch HK45. This handgun, really developed for tactical military applications, used .45 Caliber ACP(Automatic Colt Pistol) rounds, which mirrored Parker's natural gifts in their stopping power. He made a hobby of marksman and quick-draw competitions and his home was filled with trophies. He was nationally ranked; H&K paid him to carry their weapon.

“So, Chip, how much did they get?” asked Bic.

“Nothing. Register's full, none of the stiffs have been touched, and there's no safe in the back.” Parker, in spite of his coarse description and perfunctory tone, cared deeply about these crime victims. He was a devout man, and he held all life sacred. He was categorically opposed to the Death Penalty, even for the men and women he had met over the course of the years and the horrific crimes they had committed on their parents, spouses, and children.

“Look at this place,” he continued. “Four and a quarter for soup and a sandwich: this place is lucky to make payroll at the end of the week. It's got to be something else.”

“Fifteen people shotgunned at point-blank. What is this place?” Bic asked. “Crack? Gambling? Gangs? A coven of witches?”

“I don't think that witches would let themselves be shot in the back of the head in a meat locker...” replied Parker. He would be, however, happy to tie them to a stake and burn them in the town square on market days.

As far as Bic was concerned, no crime couldn't be solved. Everything had a connection. Nobody kills somebody else without a reason. Sure, there were crazies, but they were either onesey-twoseys, or crowded places and automatic weapons. On a distracted tangent, he asked himself: if the crazies always shot themselves in the end, or committed 'death-by-cop', why hadn't he ever seen a suicide bomber? Like they have in the Middle East? God, it would really suck to be a cop in Jerusalem or Tel Aviv. Not only did you have to deal with the everyday shit: armed robbery; domestic violence; and simple murder; but then some asshole walks into a pizza joint, and BLAMMO! takes out fifty or sixty people.

True, the suicide bombers didn't get to see all those people die, as they died along with them. Maybe the crazies in America wanted to see the people run, hear them scream and beg, maybe even take a final count of their victims before they followed them into the Great Beyond. Plus, there were those people that they had set out to kill that morning, the people that had taunted them—for real or just in their imagination—into the act of revenge. And there were always those cases of mistaken identity: Oops! Sorry! Thought you were somebody else... But even those could be explained. He shrugged

“When do we think this all happened?” he asked.

A Medical Examiner that he hadn't noticed before looked up at him from one of the bodies.

“I didn't check anybody in the locker, figuring that the refrigeration would throw off the timing, but judging by the liver temperature of this one, I'd say about Midnight,” he replied.

“Why don't you check every one, just for laughs, and let me know if you find anybody outside the curve,” Bic told him.

“What do you see here, Chip?” Bic asked.

“Fifteen dead people, and lots and lots of blood,” said Parker.

Parker could be a wise guy, and Bic loved him for that. It took the edge off the scene and made it seem like two guys watching a ball game. It was scary, dangerous work and seeing what one person could do to another could make you tense, jumpy even. It could hone a nicely rounded human perspective into a fine, sharp edge; an edge that some days you weren't too sure what side you were on. But in twenty-three years on the job, Bic had never fired his weapon in the line of duty. Neither had Parker. They had both been punched, knifed, and even shot, which hurt like Hell, they didn't mind telling you, thank you very much for asking. They had even drawn their weapons, but had never fired a single round. Weird. Bic felt a little like a pussy for it, something he would admit freely if asked.

But hey, fuck it. He'd match his jacket with anybody: it was filled with letters of commendation, citations for bravery, and steady promotions. He had made thousands of arrests and had the respect of his peers and the Brass, rhymes with pain-in-the-ass. He was no Golden Boy, no Wunderkind. He liked where he was, the freedom he had, and the lack of any real responsibility. He kept his mouth shut, and his nose clean, and did his job. No management headaches. Sure, on a case like this one, and this was not his first multiple-victim, headline-quality case, there was going to be some heavy, heavy heat. He was, in fact, surprised that his Captain, who was a bona-fide ass-kissing, butt-licking, sperm-burping, rank-racing jackass, was not there already.

“Who found it?” Bic asked Parker.

“The bread guy.”

“The what?”

“The guy that delivers the bread to the store, Bic.” “See, during the night, elves bake the bread, the bread guys take it to all the little shops in the land, and the cooks make it into sandwiches and French Toast and croûtons and meatballs.'

“Meatballs?” Bic had that 'lights out' look on his face.

“Ask me later,” replied Parker. He always enjoyed needling Bic. And Bic always made it so easy by pitching him these softballs.

“Kiss my ass, Chip. Where is he?” Bic asked. “I'm going to see if I can get the recipe for this little meat pie from him. Have a couple of your guys start knocking on doors and asking some questions”, Bic ordered. “Somebody had to have heard at least one of these fifteen shots, maybe some shouting before, or some screaming after,” Bic said.

Bic walked over to where Bread Guy was sitting, one of the tables in the front. The guy looked like shit. His uniform as a jumpsuit, a dork flag from the getgo, unless you were wielding a bloody chainsaw, or a shotgun...blue, with yellow trim and the company logo on the breast pocket. Bread Guy had puked liberally down the front, so unless this was his first time, Bic was pretty sure that bread was all that the guy had delivered tonight. Add to that Bic's assessment that the guy was all of five-six or seven, maybe a hundred and thirty pounds; he was expecting to deliver a few crispy loaves to a sandwich shop, not body bags to a war zone.

Right behind Bread Guy, on the floor, her back to the wall, pieces of her coating that wall, her eyes open wide in pain and disbelief, sat the remains of what had once been an attractive young woman. She was nicely dressed, or had been, in white cotton slacks which displayed her long legs and shapely hips to their best advantage, not enough for today, though, a red and white ribbed cotton top and a ball cap, her hair pulled back through the sizing strap. No matter how beautiful you had been in life, man or woman, movie star or corn-fed Midwestern cutie, you were now ugly in every way. You had voided yourself, so you were stained, and it stunk. Your eyes had lost their color and sparkle; no more dimples, no more smiles, no matter how white your teeth were. And dead flesh has a way of sagging after the loss of the animating tension of life, so if you had perky breasts, they were now flat. Right down to the implants if you had them. And this young woman had a tear in the center of her chest, surrounded by a faint gray ring, which just ruined the whole look of her resort wear.

A red stripe, just a little bigger than the hole in her new top tracked her slide down the wall of the shop, probably right after being blasted out of that chair, maybe even as she was trying to stand up to beg for her life, then slamming against the wall, the room growing dark fast as the voices faded to an infinite distance.

“Hey buddy,” Bic felt genuine sympathy for Bread Guy

“Hey buddy,” he tried again. “I know it looks like Hell. These people aren't afraid anymore, they don't feel anything, they can't hear us, and they don't hate you. Is that coffee OK?” Bic could relate to anybody anytime, anywhere. It was a gift. He might be bored, he might be irritated, but when he was on, he was in the Zone.

“The eyes, they're all open.” Bread Guy's coffee cup rattled the saucer as he shook. “What are they looking at?” he asked.

“I've heard it's a light. A very bright, very calm, and very comforting white light,” said Bic. “Now, when did you get here?” he asked.

“I always deliver at four AM”

“And what did you see?” Nice and easy. Open him up slowly.

“Her. And him. And them. And...” Bread Guy was headed for the edge.

Shit. “Just take it easy buddy. Look over here. Look at me. Drink some coffee. How about a little shot in that coffee? A little fine Scotch?” Bic was always prepared; better to be looking at it than looking for it.

“No. My boss'll kill me if he finds me drinking on the job.”

“Look, pal, I think the Boss would be having a few drinks himself if he had seen what you've seen. Now tell what you saw when you drove up. From the beginning.”

There you have it. more to come

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Fri, 09 May 2008 21:23:00 +0000

Summertime Blues(1)

The new can is heavy, right out of the cooler it’s very cold and sweating, and the snap-top makes that sweet sound, that sound that cuts right through the thick air and into the neighbor across the busy street. The beer is light and foamy, the bubbles scratching an itch all the way down, filling in all those dry cracks, replenishing, refilling, it’s mostly water anyway. No stout on this afternoon; an American light, most likely Budweiser, and Budweiser Light at that. There’s a reason beer tastes so good when it’s so hot: the air, already heavy with moisture, conspires to suck every drop out of you too, and an icy, carbonated brew is just the vehicle to do the job.

Nearby there’s a black metal cylinder. More of a torpedo shape: rounded on the bottom and top. Standing about four feet tall, a rich, fragrant smoke is coming out of the series of holes cut into the lid. Early this morning, while it was cool and the birds were feeding at their posts and before the neighbors yanked the pull starts on their lawnmowers and chainsaws, he was up. Tenderly washing the meat, St. Louis style ribs, hand-selected from many after a trip that saw three butchers in three separate towns, he carefully rubbed every bone and sinew to get rid of the stink of the store. Each rack is carefully bathed in apple cider vinegar, distilled from the apples of a friend’s Vermont farm, and set out on a metal tray. Years of practice have perfected the combination of onion, and garlic powders, brown sugar, salt, and hand-ground pepper; he’s an alchemist. This is now rubbed into the meat, the fibers parting slightly, the liquid in the meat and the cider readily drinking in the flavors. It will stand and wait for him to light the fire.

He hauls a worn burlap sack out of the back of his pickup truck. This is charcoal he made himself; burning clean, seasoned hardwoods of ash and oak and maple and cherry and then dousing the flames at just the right time. Too late and all you have is ash; too early and the virgin wood will make the temperature hard to control. He has dried chips of mesquite and cherry for smoking. These are soaking in a firebucket nearby. Again, the right touch doesn’t come easily; it’s won only after many years and many mistakes. Any jackass can turn on a propane jet and ruin good meat over a flame, real barbeque is an art form with a complexity rivaling any Eastern mysticism.

The fire is started and he heaps more charcoal on the coals. In the center is a pan to catch the juices or there will be flames. Heat is good, and even a controlled flame has its uses, but a conflagration is a hazard and will waste his hard work. Using an old pair of work gloves, he positions the first steel grate and lays three racks of ribs in a circle down onto it. Six inches above that, he places another grate and another three racks of ribs lay down for their long, smoky rest. These will be cooking from eight in the morning until guests arrive at five in the afternoon. Several times during the day, he will add more charcoal, and shift the bottom grate to the top and vice versa. Near the end of the day, he will put a few very small chips of cherry and mesquite on the fire, creating a hot, flavored smoke.

There you have it. For now.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Sun, 16 Sep 2007 02:49:00 +0000

Cocktail Party DeBrief

65 guests, 4 apps, 2 servers, 1 sou-chef, and 1 very happy client! Chicken Vegetable Tapenade, Tenderloin on toast points, Lobster Rolles, and Seasonal Vegetable Ratatouille. What can I say? I'm obsessed with vegetables.

The Chicken was marinated in tequila and lime juice(something you've seen before on these pages), and grilled. The corn was parboiled, then rubbed with butter, lime juice, and chili powder, then grilled. The green tomatoes were raw, as were the red peppers. Finished off with Cilantro and Lime Juice. I had to process a cup or two with Olive Oil to make a paste to bind it together. Then rolled it in a wrap; next time I'm going to do a bite-size dumpling. The slices of roll were messy, and guests turned off after one or two.

The Tenderloin was Cover-Of-Gourmet perfect. I know it's bragging, but it was cooked, but still red; tender and moist and full of that wonderful beef flavor. I finished it off with Wasabi Creme Fraiche. The toast points were unnecessary: next time, we'll do it like Sushi. I forgot to cut off the silver skin, but we cut it off before serving. A little Salt and Pepper and into the oven at 350 for about 45 minutes until the internal temperature reached 130, then out to rest. And rest overnight it did.

The Lady Anita shelled 27 lobsters; a total of 32 pounds, which yielded about 10 pounds of lobster meat. A very little mayo, chopped Green Onions and Chopper Parseley out of my garden and the juice of one Lemon. Split, butter, and toast the 3-inch finger rolls from Henry's add a small piece of Red Lettuce, and about 2 ounces of lobster. Heaven on Toast! Now I know why lobster rolls are $15 and up at anywhere you go.

More vegetables in Filo cups. People love those filo cups warm and fresh out of the oven, filled with whatever. In this case it was a Ratatouille of local vegetables; processed and minced it did not present very well, but with a tiny cube of Mozarella on top, it tasted pretty good and went down in one bite. Maybe I could do this in Cherry Tomatoes, but then, how many cherry tomatoes can one person eat?

Think about putting Chocolate Mousse in a pastry bag, putting a Raspberry in a tiny White Chocolate cup, then filling that cup with Mousse. Imagine biting into that cup of Mousse and finding a suprise Raspberry! That would be a nice end to the evening...

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Tue, 28 Aug 2007 13:39:00 +0000

Promises, Promises...

Sorry I've left you in the dark! No, I haven't been away, or in County, or curled up on the floor in a foetal position. Just a little lazy and enjoying the Summer. That doesn't mean I haven't been cooking! I've got a great Chocolate Mousse recipie coming, along with more Pork, a Roasted Corn Chutney, and an hors d'oeuvre that I'm going to be trying for the first time. I've got a cocktail party coming up in the middle of September that I need to start practicing for. So, again, I apologize. More to come soon!

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Sat, 21 Jul 2007 11:30:00 +0000

Really Simple Chicken Soup

Chicken soup has been around as long as chickens have been afraid of boiling water. There are almost infinite iterations. Cliche perhaps, but since chickens are indigenous to every continent, and their juicy flesh, both light and dark, is such an excellent platform for the local selection of spices, the idea that the essence of a chicken, gently drawn by a simmer, could be flavored by herbs and complemented by vegetables has lit the culinary consciousness of Hmong hillsman and Jewish mother alike.

The recipe is simple: boil a chicken, cook some vegetables in the liquid, and add the meat. Don't be afraid. Your house will take on a gauzy, roseate hue, reminiscient of the Cleaver's, of sandlot baseball, Dwight Eisenhower, and the five cent cigar. In short, regardless of your political predeliction, sexual orientation, or cognitive ability, you will be wrapped in the fragrant bosom of your happiest memory.

Opa(Grandfather)Ludwig Schwechheimer was a native Deutch, an Air Force veteran, and a Master Carpenter. And he knew his chicken. Rather, he knew that a gentle simmer, like the thousand tiny fingers urging her to let go, would give him a rich, flavorful broth in which to cook his onions, carrots and celery. He knew that he wanted the very best for his family, so don't go cheap with some big-box, generic, private label bird, get a name brand like Perdue or Bell & Evans. You will know the difference.

In a large, non-reactive pot; I'm sorry, but at this point, I have to urge you to throw out all of your Aluminum cookware. Aluminum is great for a restaurant, with a large commercial burner that gets up to 80,000 BTU in five seconds flat, and you need to cook that whatever RIGHT NOW and get it plated and out on the customer's table RIGHT NOW. But at home, you don't have that pressure. You're cooking for the people you love, and while you need big heat fast, you want it to be even and controlled. Trust me: if you are a professional chef or line cook, then you can handle heat that would make your face melt and produce a dish that could grace the cover of Gourmet Magazine. The rest of us: Buy Iron. Buy Steel. Enjoy the process of making a really nice dish without the worry of self-immolation.

OK. Back to the non-reactive pot. Take all the paper-wrapped Neck, Heart, and Gizzard stuff out of the cavity and put it in the bottom of the pot. Put the chicken in the pot and cover it with water by at least two inches. Bring it to a smooth rolling boil; not a violent, lid-shaking boil, but a gentle, steady boil. Cook it for about a half an hour. Test for doneness by wiggling a leg; to be really sure, cut into a joint and look at the flesh.

Take the Chicken and the other solids out of the water. Strain out any bits that you can't fish out and SAVE THE COOKING LIQUID. We call it the boiling water. Put a whole onion, a few Celery ribs, and a few Carrots in the liquid and bring it to a gentle simmer. Cook this until the vegetables are tender.

Clean the meat off the Chicken. This is one of the few carcasses that you can toss, because the flavor has already been simmered out of it. Shred the Chicken flesh and set it aside to put back into the stock in a few minutes. Cover it with foil or plastic wrap to protect it from children, cats, germs, whatever.

Season the stock, and this is using all dried spices: 1 teaspoon of Basil, 1 teaspoon of Thyme, 1 teaspoon of Parsley, half a teaspoon of Black Pepper, and half a teaspoon of Salt. Now, add two Chicken Boullion cubes. Ironically, dried cubes and packets of Beef and Chicken broth don't have any Monosodium Glutamate; canned broth does. Still, read the label and buy appropriately. If you have stock already made, I guess you can add that, but remember that Opa Schwechheimer never did... If you have access to fresh herbs, then add three or four Basil leaves, two sprigs of Thyme, a quarter cup of chopped Parsley, and the rest as I've said.

Add the shredded Chicken and simmer for twenty minutes or so, then add a whole Egg. Stir it up and break it apart. The cook on fighting ships of the Royal Navy in the latter half of the 18th Century would use ground eggshells to thicken soups and stocks. You can put the shell in the compost pile. Now add a quarter teaspoon of ground Nutmeg. When it's all nice an hot, add a cup of Egg Noodles and let them cook until soft.

Serve this now. You can freeze some of it for later if you like. The flavor is rich, the stock is thick, but quite pliant, and the whole thing is filling. Miracle cures have been reported, the lame have walked, the blind have seen, and the runny, stuffy noses have slept peacefully the whole night through. Your reputation as a healer will travel far and wide. Supplicants will camp on your lawn.

I tried to find an appetizing picture of a chicken, but couldn't, so I thought you'd like to meet one of my childhood friends.

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Tue, 17 Jul 2007 01:11:00 +0000

Asian Noodle Confessions

I'm sure that you've had people ask you: "Do you eat like this all the time?" You and I both know that the answer is "No". The day after a big dinner, or coming home late from work, or just the need to feed with little or no effort, has driven me to leftovers, pasta-butter-garlic, frozen fried chicken, and, in my most desperate moments, going out to eat. We'll revisit this aversion to dining out another time, but leave it at this for now: we can always do it better, faster, and cheaper at home. I know that we all cherish those personal comfort food secrets, all the more delicious for the slight tang of shame in going commercial, or freeze-dried, or 950mg Sodium factory food portions.

So I'm bringing my lunch to work most days. But on the days after any kind of barbequed steak, chicken, or pork, I just pack a small slab of meat and my favorite Asian noodle mix. The kind you buy a dozen at a time for a dollar, with the mostly-salt spices in a foil packet. My personal favorite is "Thai Kitchen Rice Noodle Bowl" At the high end of the market at $2US Lemongrass and Chili is what I normally buy, even though they have other flavors. These are rice noodles, in just the right amount, the spice packet is the most consistent--not too dependent on salt, and not over-flavored.

Two cups of water, their oil, greens and flavor packet, my hunk of meat, sliced thin, five minutes of microwaves, and I'm the envy of the lunchroom. Yes, I could bring my own chopped green onions(scallions), my own spiced oil, so easy to infuse with just any spice you could think of(fresh only), and a salt, pepper dash, but that would be work, and that's what I want to avoid. I put my stuff in last, and nuke the mix for another 30 seconds, and let it sit for the noodles to soak up the broth. Nice and hot, no cash outlay(in an office where $8US is average, not to mention the wait) and no food hangover!

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Thu, 12 Jul 2007 12:54:00 +0000

Meatballs

Few things are more pedestrian and have wider appeal than the lowly meatball. There are as many recipes as there are cooks on the planet, and vary by region, enthnicity, and local content. Yet a juicy, flavorful meatball, in a nice, simple tomato sauce, is one of the comfort foods that make us feel secure and loved. The aroma, texture, and flavor are all very powerful memory triggers, and even if you come close, you will transport your guests to another plane. The added bonus is their nutritional value in protein.

If you don't have an herb garden within a few steps of your kitchen door, you need to sit down and have a long, serious talk with yourself. Just the basics: Basil, Rosemary, Thyme, Oregano, Sage, and Parsley. This is a very small space and all of these can be had for short money in the early Spring at your local garden center. They are low maintenance and ask only for lots of Sun and daily water. I have several Rosemary plants, since I use it so often, and it's relatively slow-growing, whereas I only have a single Basil plant. Only the Thyme and Oregano will survive the New England Winter, properly covered, and the others I just pull with a shrug and replant the following Spring.

This recipe is written for these fresh herbs:

1 Tbs minced Rosemary
1 Tbs chopped Oregano
2 Tbs loosely packed chopped broadleaf Italian Parsley
1 Tbs chopped Basil
1 Tbs minced Garlic (again with the stuff out of the jar--it's already a little cooked, fresh can be too sharp)
1 Tsp Kosher Salt
1 Tsp fresh ground Pepper
1/2 Cup Whole Milk Ricotta
1 Lb 85% Lean Ground Beef
1/3 Cup Whole Milk
1/3 Cup breadcrumbs

Mash this all together in a large bowl using the flat of a wooden spoon. The only reason I don't use my hands is that I don't want to add the warmth of my hands to the mix and possibly change the chemistry of the dairy. You can add more milk if you think the mix is too dry.

I do use my hands to form the meatballs. About the size of a golfball, maybe a little bit bigger, and put them into the sauce. You'll end up with about 25, I really don't know; next time I make them I'll count. There are as many ways to cook them as there are recipes, but I prefer to have them cook in the sauce, covered, and I think that they retain more moisture that way. They also keep a uniform spherical shape, which is nice if you're as obsessed with small details as I am. And they cook until they are done; be careful how you stir the sauce early on, because you don't want to break up the meatballs. They change color, and become firm to the touch. Take one out, cut it in half on the block and see that it's cooked all the way through. Taste it. Hot, juicy, and full of flavor!

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Mon, 09 Jul 2007 20:18:00 +0000

Easy Pork Glaze

This is a quick and easy glaze that I used for a three-pound pork loin on the grill:

2 Tbs grainy 'Country' mustard
2 Tbs Mayonnaise
1 Tbs minced garlic, the kind from a jar, not fresh
1 Tbs kosher salt
1 Tbs sweet relish
1 Tsp hot sauce; any kind, could be Tabasco

Apply the glaze to the fatty rind and let it sit while you prepare the fire. Roast the pork indirectly on your grill, with a pair of alumninum pans below the meat to catch the drippings. Baste it with 1/3rd cup of red wine mixed with 2 Tbs olive oil. Cook the meat to an internal temperature of 145Degrees F. Very nice. You might want to score the fat before you apply the glaze.

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Tue, 03 Jul 2007 17:35:00 +0000

The Chef's Dream Dinner Story

A week ago this Saturday past, I performed and delivered a meal which may well be the acme of my nascent catering career. DinnersByGlenn has been auctioned off several times to raise money for schools and churches, and commands now just under $1000US for a service to eight participants. Included are appetizers, mains, sides, and dessert; occasionally thrown in are breads, salads, soups. The meal is planned with an interview at the home of the hostess, the ingredients are acquired beforehand, in fact, much is prepared several days in advance. Cooking, serving, and cleaning are all provided, and the kitchen is left clean; sometimes cleaner than it was found.

These are friends. This makes it doubly harrowing, and I don't use that word lightly, and you know that I have many, many words from which to choose. Strangers, it's not so bad. But with friends, it has to be perfect. Nothing under- or over-done; no sauces separated; plating must be perfect; timing perfect; each dish must be the best that they have ever had of that food. It all comes out on time, Glenn hovering in the background, listening for that sweet sound of silence, jaws working, tongues tasting, throats reluctantly swallowing, forks eager for more, and plates clean. Not that you have to eat it all because there are children starving in North Korea, but because it was so good that you were compelled to finish.

Not everyone likes Tapenade. Especially made in the classic way: olives, anchovies, capers, mustard, garlic, cognac. An intensely flavorful paste, made two days before, a light sheen of olive oil resting on its surface, it really takes a mature palate to appreciate each flavor muscling its way among the others. This was balanced by a light orange pepper salsa, served in filo cups. Cups, I get at the supermarket, the salsa is an orange or two run through the processor with peppers, green onions, cilantro, and a little sesame oil. Very light; refreshing. But the star of our pre-prandial show was the lobster guacamole. A single lobster, on sale no less, boiled after a quick cranial stab, chilled, minced by hand, and mixed with a guacamole already graced with lightly sauteed shallots and Key Lime juice. Probably 745 calories per dip, but the look of pure sensual satisfaction on the the gowns was reminiscient of other satisfactions. The chips were pita slices, a drop of olive oil and a few grains of sel de mer, baked.

A simple pork roast, six and one half pounds, marinated in tequila and more Key Lime juice. A simple crust of toasted herbs: Garlic, Rosemary, and hand-mortared black pepper. Their flavors intensified in a seasoned iron skillet, and applied to the roast, all over. Indirectly grilled over natural charcoal, NEVER chemical briquets, and basted with a hand-made vegetable broth. Timing is critical, but Experience is the steady hand that ensures all the players take the stage at once; internal temperature pulls the cut from the flames, and resting brings it to its mark on cue. NEVER cut the meat, ANY meat before it's rested its due time. No matter what the client, your lover, or drunk Cousin Enid says. Tell them you'd be happy to cut their meat right now if they don't leave your kitchen.

A simple rice, Arborio, brought to perfect al dente resistance by the slow, careful addition of liquid. In this case, the juice of a dozen cucumbers, lovingly reduced by the beautiful Lady Anita, slaving in the scullery throughout the previous night, and heated in a beaten copper pot right alongside the rice. Keep the cooking liquid hot, or you will screw up the cooking time for the rice. Add, stir, add, stir, add and stir; this is a labor-intensive process that cannot be ignored for even a second, although it is possible to take the pot off the heat and let the rice sit for a minute, as it continues to absorb liquid. And at the right time, the last cup has been added, and a generous handful of roasted red peppers, diced, is added, and the pot is covered. A cold tablespoon of water, or maybe some more Key Lime juice, brings the process to a halt. The complete recipe is here.

Every meal has to have a protein, a vegetable, and a starch. Thank you, Mom. I like vegetables. I like lots of different kinds of vegetables steamed, sauteed, roasted, grilled, raw, but rarely boiled. However, a part of this dish involves a boiled vegetable. During my interview with the hostess, she reveals that she really doesn't like onions or peppers or zucchini or squash, or much of anything that's available right now. She does however, like artichokes and tomatoes, and fortunately for me, artichokes are big and fat in the stores right now, so I went out and bought four and some of those vine-ripened tomatoes. Two nights before the dinner, I boiled the artichokes. That is to say, I trimmed off their stem, cut off their tops, a little balsamic vinegar and salt, and water up to about their middle, then on the stove, covered. The water was a nice rolling boil, not a violent, cover-shaking boil, for about a half an hour. Pierced with a knife, the bottom should be firm, but yielding; but not too yielding, because there was more cooking to do. Then I bathed them in cold water to stop this cooking, rested them upside down on a plate, and popped them into the fridge.

Now the dish. I stripped off all the leaves and choke, and cubed them, about an inch or so. Chopped the tomatoes likewise, with all the water and seeds. If you don't like the seeds, you can just pick them out when you chop the tomatoes, but I know they have flavor in them. Then I minced two shallots. I love shallots. I love everything about shallots. Butter and wine and shallots and heat gives you a wonderful classic sauce that adapts to meat or fish or vegetables. Please use a wine that you would enjoy dringing right out of the bottle. So now the foam is off the butter, and the wine is hot and the little shallot pieces are soft; I throw in the cubed artichoke hearts and heat them through. And they absorb the beautiful sauce, and they will soon finish cooking so that they are now al dente like the rice. A little salt and pepper. Did I mention that the hostess has Basil in her garden? A few leaves, crushed in your fingers, added along with the diced tomatoes. When it's all hot and fragrant, and it is extremely fragrant, take it off and squeeze a half a lemon into the pan. Now cover it and put it on a cold burner, or take it off the stove.

Are you following me? Is it confusing to switch from past to present tense? I'm trying to tell you a story and give you the recipe at the same time. Of course, not the exact recipe, but close enough.

OK. We have a protein, the beautiful pork; a starch, the light, yet flavorful rice; and a vegetable, the tomato-artichoke compote. But wait! There's more! I scored(now I'm aging myself) some excellent salmon filets, again, on sale, and have enough so that everyone can have about six ounces. But only if they cower and beg like the unworthy curs they are! Behold! The Tongs of Doom! Just kidding. Remember the cucumber essence that the lovely Anita extracted to use for the rice? We still have some of that left. Again with the butter, wine and shallots: let the foam subside, add the shallots until soft, add the wine to a boil, and now add a few cups of the cucumber liquid. It should still be warm from cooking the rice. I laid the filets in the pan, skin side up, and cooked them until the flesh turned right up the the edge of the skin. Now they're cooked, and hot all the way through, but not overdone, and I lifted them gently out of the pan with a couple of spatulas and put them on a broiler pan. A very light drizzle of honey, back and forth on the skin, and they're ready for the broiler. Broil them until the skin chars; even people that don't like fish will be eating this skin. And the skin is very, very nutritious!

So, we're ready to plate! Shoo everyone out of the kitchen, except for a single helper, and design the plate. These plates were oval: so I have a couple of slices of pork on one end, with some drippings; a spoonful of rice and a spoonful of tomato-artichoke side by side in the middle; and a generous piece of salmon on the other end, with a nice dollop of herbed creme fraiche next to it. I herbed the creme fraiche with the same mix of herbs that I had toasted and crusted the pork roast with, but light, just a hint. Now serve and watch them enjoy. Wouldn't you know? They want me to join them at the table! Now the last thing I want to do after cooking is to eat, but, as I said, these are friends, and they are serving a nice Pinot. So I take a bite of the tomato-artichoke compote; even I'm impressed. The pork needs to come out at 145Degrees and rest up to 150; the rice is perfect, I can even taste the roasted peppers; and the salmon is hot, tasty, and juicy. And the table is silent. These people can't eat enough of this fast enough. Nobody's stuffed, but certainly sated, and the client is happy.

We had Creme Brulee for dessert. This is a very simple dish: eggs, sugar, cream. But, because I can rarely leave well enough alone, I made a little syrup to go in it. Strawberries are in season right now. So I buy a pint, wash and hull them, and boil them down in a heavy pan with some Apple Cider Vinegar and a little Cinnamon. I press this through a sieve and cook it some more, then pass it through a cheesecloth to get out all the particles and let it cool. Right before the custard goes into the oven for baking, I put a tablespoon of this syrup in the center of each ramekin and swirl it with a stick. Each dish now has a little red star in the middle of it. Very cute. Bake til set, chill overnight, etc. At the dinner, I cover each with some Turbinado Sugar, and apply my little torch. Did I just say little torch? This thing is a toy; I need one of those real Butane torches you see plumbers using, because it took me five minutes for each dish. Dad always says: "The right tool for the right job." Next time. And each dish gets a little spoonful of Creme Fraiche that has had some chocolate added to it. They've all had Creme Brulee in restaurants, but the crust on this is perfect, and they've got a little blob of creamy chocolate stuff on top. And, Suprise! a spicy strawberry part inside! They're transported. Again, even I am impressed.

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Wed, 29 Nov 2006 00:10:00 +0000

Cucumber Risotto with Yellow Peppers and Cilantro

Risotto is one of the easiest dishes to prepare, yet it continues to intimidate most amateur cooks. The essence of risotto is in the cooking liquid and whatever tidbits you might choose to put in it at the end of the cooking. The rice itself has a very delicate and subtle flavor, and the grains readily absorb the flavors in the liquid. There are several different brands of Arborio rice available, and nowadays, you can find all of them at your local supermarket. You may have to go to one of the high-end 'organic' markets to track down a more exotic rice, but in the end, you are cooking it slowly, adding liquid only as it is absorbed.

You can use almost anything to cook the rice: water, chicken stock, beef stock, vegetable stock, fish stock, lobster stock, even a fruit 'stock' for a dessert risotto. I've put raw shrimp in at the end, using the heat of the rice to cook it; I've used beef stock to cook the rice, then added wasabi powder in at the end, spread it out on parchment paper to a half-inch thickness, cooled it in the fridge overnight, then fried it in peanut oil and served it with grilled steaks. I always use white wine, in amounts from a third of a cup to a whole cup, and here again, Chardonnay will give you a different result than Pinot Grigio. This is where matching flavors becomes very important; you don't want to overpower your main dish with a heavy risotto. Unlike some guests at a dinner I prepared who complained that the rice was too bland; I sneered at them. Philistines!

I was doing a dinner for a hostess who was concerned about calories and heavy dishes that would leave her guests feeling bloated, and so I suggested a vegetable risotto to go with a poached salmon filet. Here is that risotto:

3 yellow bell peppers (remember that as bell peppers ripen, their flavors will intensify...green is least ripe, red is most ripe)
12 large cucumbers
2 tablespoons of minced shallots(chopped up very fine, like grains of rice)
1 3/4 cups Arborio rice
1 cup of white wine
2 tablespoons of unsalted butter
3/4 cup of chopped cilantro

Turn on your broiler and put the peppers on a rack in your oven, turning them with tongs until they are charred and blistered all over. Put them in a paper bag and let them cool until you can safely handle them. Slip the skin off: it should come off quite easily. Seed the peppers and dice them, about the size of your pinky fingernail.

Peel the cucumbers and chop them into one inch chunks. Put them into your food processor or grinder until they are a smooth puree. Force this through a fine mesh strainer into a large measuring cup. Press hard and get as much juice out as you can. Pour the juice into a large saucepan and heat it just below a boil. You want the liquid to be hot as you add it so that it doesn't slow down the cooking rate of the rice.

In a large, heavy saucepan, melt the butter over medium-high heat and saute the shallots until they are tender, about 5 minutes, tops. Do Not let the butter brown! Add a pinch of ground white pepper. Add the rice and stir it all around until the rice is covered with the butter and the shallots are mixed in. Martha (Stewart) says that the rice will sound like glass as you stir it.

Now add the wine and cook at medium heat until most of the wine is absorbed. Play with the heat so that the rice cooks at an adequate rate, but not so fast that you're rushed. This would be a good time to pour yourself a glass of that very same wine and enjoy it as you prepare the risotto. Relax. Stir until the pass of your spoon leaves a dry swath through the rice.

Now begin to to add the heated cucumber juice, about a half a cup at a time. Stir until most of the liquid is absorbed, then add more. Be prepared to spend about a half an hour doing this. This much rice will absorb almost six cups of liquid. Relax. Take a sip of wine. Compliment your guests on their attire. Continue to stir. Do Not stop stirring, and Do Not leave the rice unattended! If the rice burns, you will be beaten and then pulled apart by large Celtic draft horses and your body parts will be scattered among the tank farms in Revere.

The rice will develop a nice cream and eventually, the grains will be al dente, which means that they will provide only token resistance to the pressure of your teeth. They should not be mushy. Do Not let the rice dry out. Take the pot off the heat before all the final liquid is aborbed; it will continue to cook of its own volition while you plate the rest of the meal. Add a teaspoon of kosher salt. Add in the diced yellow peppers and stir to mix them. Add the cilantro and fold it in gently. You now have a delicate green risotto, with yellow dice and dark green flakes; beautiful!

You are now ready to serve. Relax. Take another sip of wine. Your guests will be mystified that a dish so light can bear such a complex constellation of flavors.

This recipe is not my own. I owe thanks to Michael Romano, whom I've never met, who was gracious enough to share this marvel in the 2001 edition of "Chefs of The Times", published by The New York Times, and edited by Michalene Busico.

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Tue, 21 Nov 2006 13:44:00 +0000

Simple Turkey Stock for Gravy

When you finally open up the bird at zero-dark-thirty on Thursday morning to get him in the oven, and you pull out those conveniently paper-wrapped organs from his 'cavity', take a minute to make yourself a rich stock that will be the basis of your gravy at mealtime. This could not be easier, and is one of those things that real chefs do that amateurs like us classify as 'secrets'. It's very healthful, and you have total control over the fat and sodium content.

Put a four-quart pot on the back burner, fill it with water (mostly full, within two inches of the top, enough to cover the stuff that you're about to put in there), and turn the heat on low. Unwrap all the organs, neck, etc, and put them in the water. Add a bay leaf. Add a half-dozen peppercorns. I know you have some onion ends, paper and all, and some celery butts lying around, left over from making your stuffing. Trim the final hard end off the celery butts and put a few big slices of celery heart into the pot, along with the onion ends. Bring this up to a simmer and let it ride. This should just barely bubble all morning. Do not boil this! We are coaxing the flavors out of the organs. Do not add salt! Trust me, it's salty already, and you can add salt to the gravy right before you put it on the table.

While the turkey is resting, take out all the solids and give them to the dog (not the neck, as it's got small bones in it, and you'll spend your Thanksgiving at the Emergency Room at Angell Memorial in Boston, instead of on your couch in Rowley), but save the liver. Strain the liquid through a paper towel into a two or four-cup measuring cup. Yes, we all wish that we had bolts of cheesecloth lying around, but if you think I'm going to the supermarket on Thanksgiving morning for anything other than a portable defibrillator for Aunt Barbara, or another carton of Pall Malls for Uncle Bob, you're wrong. Now, mince the liver and set it aside. Spoon a few tablespoons of grease out of the roasting pan and throw it out. Put two tablespoons of flour into a small cup and add a little of the stock, stir this into a paste with a fork. With the roasting pan over a low heat, add the flour paste to pan drippings and heat it until it bubbles, swirling it all around the bottom of the pan. A big tablespoon of butter would be nice right now. Don't brown this, but make sure that it actually cooks, so that you remove that raw flour taste. You have just made a roux, the basis for a multitude of fancy sauces and stocks. It's OK if you brown it, just don't burn it.

Put a cup of stock into the roasting pan, along with the minced liver and heat it through, swirling it all over the bottom of the pan, scraping up any loose bits of whatever. Take a look at it. Take a look at your guests. Is the gravy thick? Is it thin? Is there enough? Feel free to add stock until there's enough gravy for everybody and it's not as thin as water. How much is enough? Two cups should take care of a dozen guests. You can always add a little white wine, but heat it through to take out the alcohol. You can always add another tablespoon of flour, but be careful, because you haven't cooked that through, and you don't want the guests to taste the flour. If you like, pour this off into a small saucepan to keep it hot. Finish it with another tablespoon of butter, salt and pepper to taste. Real gravy, real easy.

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Fri, 17 Nov 2006 15:08:00 +0000

Chicken Tapenade

This is an hour, start to serve, and is based on my standard browned chicken then baked recipe. You might want to start some rice when you put the chicken in the oven, or put a pot of water on to boil for pasta.

1 1/2 lbs boneless breast of chicken
3 tbs butter(unsalted. I always use unsalted butter, that way I can control the amount of salt in the recipe)
1 large Shallot, minced (chopped up very fine)
1/2 cup dry white wine
1 cup prepared tapenade (you can find this at any supermarket, probably near ketchup or relish, it's chopped olives in oil with garlic and spices. It's pretty easy to make yourself; I'll post that recipe soon)
1 cup shredded cheese (cheddar would be good for this, but blue cheese or gorgonzola would be a nice variation)
1 28-oz can crushed tomatoes
3 tbs Dijon mustard

Preheat the oven to 350Degrees
Pepper and very lightly salt the chicken. Go easy on the salt as the tapenade is salty itself. I always use kosher salt: it's got great texture and will give you a salty flavor with less sodium than regular table salt.
Heat the Butter in a medium-high skillet until the foam subsides
Add the shallot and cook until tender, 3-5 minutes
Add the wine and reduce by half, probably about 7 minutes or so
Add the chicken and brown on both sides. Don't crowd the skillet, do this in batches if you have to. Don't overcook
Remove the chicken to a glass baking dish in one layer. Use two dishes if you have to.
Splash another 1/4 cup or so of wine into the skillet, just enough to loosen any browned bits of shallot and chicken.
Put the tomatoes in the skillet and heat through.
Add the mustard to the tomato mixture and mix thoroughly. Heat through.
Spread the tapenade over each piece of chicken until you've used up all the tapenade.
Spread the cheese over each piece of chicken until you've used up all the cheese.
Now very carefully pour the heated tomato/mustard mixture over the chicken, don't disturb the tapenade/cheese topping.
Bake this in the oven for about 30 minutes. The mixture will be bubbling.

Serve with rice or pasta.

This will taste great and may even leave you some for lunch the next day!

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Wed, 15 Nov 2006 13:47:00 +0000

Beef Stew:

2 lbs chuck roast, cut into 1-inch cubes
cup of flour
1 tablespoon kosher salt
1 tablespoon ground pepper
3 tbls olive oil

one medium onion, chopped (pieces the size of your thumbnail).
8 garlic cloves, three of them very finely minced (wicked small pieces)
four potatoes, ‘Yukon Gold’, cubed (about the size of a Hershey’s Kiss)
four carrots, peeled, halved, and sliced ½ inch
four celery ribs, sliced ½ inch
two cups beef stock (get the organic stuff at the supermarket)

mix the flour, salt and pepper well in a large bowl, put the cubed beef in and mix to coat all of the cubes.
Heat the oil in a stewpot, medium high.
Pull the cubes up out of the flour mixture, shake off the excess, and put them in the hot oil.
Cooking in small batches, brown the beef on all sides in the oil. A batch should loosely cover the bottom of the pot…Add a little more oil each time if necessary.
Pull the cubes out and put them on a plate.

Take the pot off the heat and let it cool a little bit. Pour in 1/3 cup of dry red wine. Put it back on the heat, about medium, and as it boils, use a wooden spoon to scrape up the brown stuff on the bottom of the pot. This is the good stuff (you are ‘deglazing’ the pan). Now add the minced garlic to the good stuff and cook it until you can smell it. Now add the chopped onion, mix it all around, turn down the heat to low, cover the pot and cook it for ten minutes or so. Stir and watch that it doesn’t burn.

Now add the beef and all the juices, two cups of stock, a bay leaf, a few celery leaves, a tablespoon of dried basil, cover and simmer on low heat (this means just boiling, not a vigorous boil, ‘Simmer’ is truly onomatopoeic in this case) for at least an hour and a half.

After an hour and a half (you have just ‘braised’ this meat, it should be nice and tender) add the potatoes, celery, and carrots and cook until the vegetables are tender, probably another half hour. Add more of the beef stock if you need it. The flour and the starch in the potatoes will thicken the stew, but the liquid should come up to, but not completely cover, the vegetables.

Serve in a bowl over a piece of white bread.

There you have it.

noreply@blogger.com (Glenn Blakney) — Wed, 15 Nov 2006 02:53:00 +0000

Chicken Mozzarella

If you're stuck for something easy to cook for dinner, try this:

1 1/2 lbs boneless chicken breasts
six cloves of garlic, minced(chopped up real fine)
3 tbs butter
1/3rd cup of dry white wine
fresh mozzarella cheese(like school paste)
1 bunch fresh basil
1 28-oz can crushed tomatoes
1/3rd cup breadcrumbs
1/3rd cup grated parmesan cheese
one small yellow onion, chopped(thumbnail-size pieces)
one green pepper, chopped
1 box of cooked pasta, or a cup of rice, cooked.

Heat the oven to 350F

Slice the chicken through the middle(carefully) so that each boob(sorry about that) is the same size and shape, but half as thick.

Heat 2 tablespoons of the butter in a medium-hot heavy skillet--I like All-Clad--and wait until the foam subsides.

Now add the garlic and cook for 3 minutes. Just until it gets fragrant. Maybe four minutes, just don't brown it.

Add the wine and cook it down by half; should take about 7 minutes.

Put three boobs in the skillet. Don't overcrowd in an attempt to speed things up, you'll lose the heat. Brown on both sides, but don't cook through!

Put the cooked(half-cooked) chicken in a glass baking dish big enough to hold all the chicken in one layer.

Put a half-inch slice of mozzarella on each piece, top that with a basil leaf, some breadcrumbs and parmesan cheese.

Put the onion and the pepper in the skillet along with the last tablespoon of butter and a splash of wine. Deglaze the pan. This means that the liquid from all these things(lots of water in vegetables...)will soften the browned bits of garlic and chicken and become a very flavorful sauce.

Add the crushed tomatoes and heat through. Pour all over the chicken and cook it in the oven for about 15-20 minutes. Don't overcook! Sit down. Have a glass of wine. Gaze longingly at your loved one. Quiz your children on the formulae for the volume and surface area of solids.

Serve with rice or pasta. Garnish with a basil floret or a few artfully arranged leaves.

This is really easy. Don't let all those ingredients throw you! It will take about 40 minutes, tastes fabulous, yield lunch for tomorrow, and the kids will eat it too.

There you have it.