21 Club ~ The Secret Sauce

We had a power seat in the corner.  The ceiling was crowded by toy mobiles.  Corporate memorabilia, I am told.  Well then I pretend to admire them.

To our left was a Dutch family.  We welcomed them to New York City and they happily spoke of their travels and the good fortune of seeing an old friend,  André Rieu, perform up north.

They said he was internationally acclaimed as the world's greatest musician, and they simply loved the fact that he was their André, a friend and neighbor raised in the same village.  I didn't know who he was.  But I welcomed their enthusiasm.  My dining companion was a mind-numbing bore.

He had a Roman numeral III to his name and I was yawning Roman numeral ZZZ's.  Blah, blah, blah was what he said most of the time.

The food came with a waiter who looked like the butler from Sunset Boulevard.  The fare was alright, usual suspects for a legend.  But the sauce!  It came with the hamburger and took my breath away.  I dipped everything into it - the fries, the bread, even the decorative vegetables.  I was dada for it.

It was a strange pink.  Not a pretty shade - unless you called it cardamom rose or something like that.  And it had such a delicious sharpness to it.  The waiter asked how everything was.  Perfunctorily so.

I had to ask.  What was in the sauce?  No, no.  Don't tell me.  It's ketchup and something wasabi.  It's ketchup and horseradish!  Yes,  it's ketchup and horseradish!  I was completely bonkers.  Very undignified.  But it worked.

The snobby waiter glared at me and sneered with a low Austrian accent, "No. It. Is. Not.  That is ketchup and Colman's mustard."  And then he walked away.

Candy from a baby.  So easily given, it would have to be shared:

Heinz  +  Colman's  =  The 21 Hamburger Sauce.

There you have it, my condiment fanatico.  Grace Kelly and Jimmy Stewart have nothing on you now. Whether you're a desperate socialite who prey on invalids or just a sick pup watching the lives of others, you too, can bring home '21'.  Make the sauce and order in.  That, and a bottle of Montrachet for two might be a very good way to slip into the new year.

 Happy 2014!   ~e

Heirloom Holiday

It's the season to grace one's home and hearth with an heirloom dessert.    Having secured a place in old Americana, the heirloom dessert returns as a very novel, stylish thing to do for the holidays. With their new cookbook (Beekman 1802 Heirloom Dessert), the fabulous Beekman Boys have made it de rigeur for self-proclaimed epicureans.  

Three words come to mind:  Tradition.  Patina.  Family-lore. 

Does it mean the same thing to others, I'd wondered.  I ask a random stranger seated next to me on the Metro-North.  His name is Dale.  His interests include firearms, carburetors, and watching explosions on the internet.  He could have had an heirloom per se, if his mother hadn't sold her Chevy Nova in the 70's.

"Dale, what comes to mind when you hear the term, heirloom dessert?"

"A fruitcake my mother-in-law made that's been sitting in the attic for 4 years now."  He seems to say this with more disgust at the thought of his late mother-in-law than the fruitcake taking permanent residence in his attic.

Brent Ridge and Josh Kilmer-Purcell signing cookbooks at Williams-Sonoma, E.59th

I'm thinking of Katie's Hickory Nut Cake from Vincent Minnelli's Meet Me in St. Louis.  Setting is 1904 World's Fair.  Papa Lonnie (Alonzo) tells the clan they will leave the center of the universe to move to New York City.  The  Smith family protests.  And then wise old Katie brings out her legendary Hickory Nut Cake.

Lonnie says it's as light as a feather as only Katie could make it.  And Katie credits the stove that could not be had in New York tenements.   So the family's heirloom cake made in a heritage stove kept the family from leaving St. Louis, as a geriatric Tootie would tell her grandchildren someday.

It's amazing.  For years I'd watch Judy Garland trolley, twirl, and pout in this MGM wonder and only one thing would leave a lasting impression.  This elusive, feathery cake made in antique coal stoves.  I could have easily made it an obsession.

Margaret O'Brien as Tootie and Judy Garland as Esther doing the Cake Walk in Meet Me in St. Louis

Because it seemed complex.  As I saw it, one needed to grow up in that home, inherit the coal stove, and live by hickory nut trees.  And this didn't cover the part of making that cake through the years to acquire an heirloom sheen.  Yes, yes, I will meet you at the goddamn fair if you would just bring me a sliver of Katie's cake. 

Why all this fuss over a silly cake from a movie?

I had an heirloom complex.  I felt I was raised by wolves.   My grandmother was a nomad.  The only worldly thing she passed onto her daughter was a couple of hundred-dollar bills.  As she stood by her deathbed, my grandmother rasped, "Look into my left coat pocket.  There's some money."  And then she was gone.

My mother, who never had a moment of nostalgia in her life (which I suspect made for an extraordinary happy-go-lucky nature), spent it all in a matter of days.  My father tends to be very nostalgic - almost maudlin at times.  He was the one who had to plant every fruit and vegetable he had grown up with as a boy.

Myself - I fear romanticizing the past beyond reasonable perspective.  So I treat sentimentality as if it were a criterion in the DSM manual.  What's more, our family did not do desserts, except for the occasional fruit from one of the trees tended by my sentimental father.

In the winter, it was cut-up persimmons from our yard.  I used to tease my parents that persimmons were old people's fruit. 

 these were picked earlier in the month and are ripening in a warm, sunny room

Persimmons didn't seem to have an edge to their personality -- they were just soft and sweet.  As a child, I loved tart, sour, juicy, and crisp:  berries, apples, kiwis, and oranges.

Then one cold day, the Fuyu Fairy must have whispered into my ear.  I cut one of our persimmons at its cross-section into ½ - inch slices.  How pretty.  Then I added a little cinnamon on top.  Well, I took a bite and never tasted a more luxurious fruit.  My palate had changed. Our family had an heirloom dessert all this time, and I didn't know it.  Who knows, I might just be inspired to create a persimmon dessert recipe of my own.

Today, I present one of our persimmons as if it were a rare diamond.  "Listen, this fruit tastes like velvet and bears heirloom seeds.  If you don't want to plant a persimmon tree, then save these seeds to pass onto your children."

This is the gift of heirloom desserts, even if it's just fruit.  They tell stories, define families, and provide some sense of continuity in a place that is vicarious and fleeting as this touch-and-go world.

    I think my autographed copy will become an heirloom in itself.  

                           Happy Thanksgiving! ~ e                                                                                                

                                                                                                                                                                                                

The Story of Cheesecake

Miss Cheesecake had turned zaftig since her reign in 1929.  She looked up Health Coach Maria Marlowe for a consultation.

"Look, I've been everyone's favorite on the dessert carts, the late-night diners, the old-fashioned delis.  Being the pin-up girl of desserts has cost me my looks, my figure, and my whole outlook on life.  I wish I could be --"

"You're a bombshell, Cheesecake.  I'm going to give you your bombshell blueprint.  Meet me tomorrow at 2pm on East 59th and Lex, at Williams - Sonoma."

"I'd rather meet you at Hamburger Heaven."  But of course Cheesecake knew she had to keep her appointment.

Health Coach Maria Marlowe

At exactly 2pm, Health Coach and Natural Food Chef, Maria Marlowe gently re-modeled Cheesecake.  She took away her graham crackers, the sour cream, the sugar, butter, and flour.  When she threw out her cream cheese, her client had a fit.

"What are you doing to me?!  I am not Cheesecake, Miss New York 1929, without cream cheese.  Are you nuts?"

"Funny you say that, because I'm going to bathe you in cashew milk."

Maria poured soaked cashews in Vitamix Pro 750, along with lemon juice, coconut nectar, cold-pressed coconut oil, vanilla, and water.

Cheesecake screamed and felt as if the Centrifuge of Terror would never end. 

"Cheesecake, you need a foundation in life.  Do you know what makes for a good foundation?", Maria yelled above the motor's noise.

Mercy.  Just have some mercy.  "I have no foundation.  You know as well as I do that we desserts are just tarts and temptations.  What foundation?!"

"Brains, Cheesecake.  You need a good brain.  Walnuts are great for brains and I'm going to make the best crust out of walnuts."

She threw in some walnuts and dried dates back into the Centrifuge of Terror.

Walnuts look like brains Maria pointed out.  Right, Cheesecake thought.  There's the left hemisphere and the right hemisphere.  She was beginning to become more lucid. 

organic cold-pressed coconut oil

She was also shedding off all of her excess weight.  Cheesecake learned that cold-pressed coconut oil was a good fat.  It helped to de-tox.  Another reason why she felt so clean and healthy.

Cheesecake became very quiet.  She turned to Maria.  "Did you always eat like this?"

Maria confessed that before she found her blueprint, she ate Pizza Hut and Entenmann's.

Cheesecake smirked - she hadn't seen Pizza Hut or an Entenmann's since she ran away from suburbia at 16.

"Don't be such a city snob, Cheesecake.  I am not done with you yet."

Maria pulled out a springform pan.  She smoothed out the paste of walnuts and dates onto the bottom.

Walnut&Dates Crust

Then Maria poured the creamy cashew emulsion into the springform pan.  And instead of putting her in the oven, she put Miss Cheesecake in the freezer for a little Arctic Ice Spa treatment. 

    

Batter

The result: a trimmer, nutritionally dense, guilt-free, gluten-free, dairy-free dish with brains.  She wasn't just a pin-up girl anymore.  In the wake of her transformation, Miss Cheesecake became a Paragon of True Beauty.

The End

        

                                             Cheesecake

                     Recipe courtesy of Maria Marlowe, www.bombshellblueprint.com

Paragon of True Beauty

      

Crust Ingredients:
1 1/2 cups walnuts
1/2 cup dates
Pinch of salt
1/4 cup of dried, unsweetened shredded coconut

Filling Ingredients:
2  1/2 cups raw cashews, soaked in water overnight
3/4 cup lemon juice
1/2 cup liquid coconut nectar
3/4 cup coconut oil
1 Tablespoon vanilla extract
Water - as needed to blend



Instructions:
1.  For the crust, whiz walnuts in high-speed blender to powder.  Then add dates salt and process until combined.  Mixture should stay together when squeezed in your hand.

2.  Line the bottom of a 6-inch cheesecake pan with shredded coconut and then press in walnut mixture.

3.  For filling - drain cashews.  Then throw in blender on high for roughly 2 minutes or until completely smooth.  Add water, if the nuts had not been soaked well or blender is lacking in power.  Take care as not to add more water than necessary (just enough to create the creamy texture).

4.  Pour mixture on top of crust.

5.  Place in freezer for at least an hour.

6.  Store in refrigerator for up to 3 days.

It's All Alimentary, Part 1: Gluten-Free Socca

For those amber waves of grain, there is a winnowing of sorts.  America, the Beautiful is sifting through its cereals.  Amaranth is good.  Barley, not so much.  Quinoa is in, rye is out.  Wheat fields are being looked upon in a pernicious hue as people take more note of Celiac's and gluten sensitivities. 

Is gluten intolerance actually climbing or are we just getting better at diagnosing and disseminating information? Is hybridized wheat to blame?  One can mull and stew on this phenom endlessly.   Epidemiology is better left to the WHO*  to figure out the WHY's.

But the HOW of cooking gluten-free was a personal quest for a a food editor of Bon Appétit.  Kristine Kidd discovered she had celiac disease and decided to change her lifestyle.

She shook a fistful of bread sticks and swore, "As God is my witness, I'll never eat gluten again!"

No, that part never happened, but as food editors have standards, she did vow to always eat well.  Hence, her new cookbook:  Weeknight Gluten Free.

And who could breathe life to a cookbook better than the chefs at Williams-Sonoma on E. 59th.  Ms. Ivana Giuntoli took the helm in the lesson while Ms. Wendy James took note of additional dietary restrictions the guests had.  This could be a chef's nightmare.  Gluten-free, dairy-free,  sodium-free, sugar-free - all reasons for a chef to walk over to a guest and suggest he/she dine at the Mayo Clinic.  Attitudes have changed.

Of course I was skeptical.  How fabulous will this meal be?  Manager Garrett Williams laid out yet again, an impressive tablescape - unusual red coxcomb flowers and a gray-linen runner so the event was visually inviting.   But how was one to break bread with another sans the bread?  How would conversation begin?  Given the subject matter, wouldn't a question lead to disclosures on personal health issues? 

It turned out that everyone was open on matters of digestion.  There was a remarkable man who shared his journey from diagnosis and beyond.  The gentleman was working full-time in a business environment and committed to never putting a gluten product in his mouth.  When there was nothing to eat, he drank water to stave off hunger.  He has become a more resourceful person through this ordeal.  And 3 years into changing his diet, his clinical outcomes improved dramatically.  Compliance is key.

Well, compliance didn't appear to be a problem when the chefs brought out the gluten-free chili, cookies, and socca.  The soft socca dish with its particular toppings sent me straight to socca heaven.  If I could compare it to anything, it was like a pizza.  It's really an inadequate comparison as it is light years ahead of pizza.  Even a person with no gluten issues would be delighted by this dish.

The texture of soft socca is similar to that of an uttapam (an Indian flatbread) and a pita - without the tough chewiness of a pita.  Uttapam is made of lentil flour; socca is made of garbanzo bean flour.  And a soft socca is elementary in building delicious socca "pizzas".

So as much as I'd like to jump to the dish that made my heart skip, one must learn to make a basic socca.  I know, boring.  But it is no different from having to learn Bach fugues before one can compose like Pachelbel.  


                           Soft Socca
Recipe from Weeknight Gluten Free, by Kristine Kidd



 You will Need:

1 3/4  cups of garbanzo bean flour (use Bob's Red Mill Gluten-free Garbanzo and Fava Flour)
Olive oil
1 1/2 teaspoons of minced fresh rosemary
Kosher salt
Freshly ground pepper
2 cups of water

                                                           Instructions:

 1.  In a bowl, combine the water and flour with 1 1/2  tablespoons of oil, the rosemary, 3/4 teaspoon of salt, with a generous amount of pepper.

2.  Whisk until smooth.

3.  Pre-heat the oven to 325〫  F.

4.  Line 2 large baking sheets with parchment paper and brush with oil.

5.  Lightly brush a medium-sized frying pan with oil and warm over a stove until very hot.

6.  Add a fourth of the batter and swirl to coat the pan.

7.  Cook until air bubbles appear on top and the bottom is brown (2 minutes).

8.  Using a silicone spatula, turn the socca over and cook until spotted brown on the other bottome (1 minute or so).

9.  Slide onto the parchment.  Repeat 3 more times until there are 4 rounds in total.

10.  Bake in the oven for 5 minutes.  Now you have socca to add your toppings.

Summer's harvest has begun.  Stroll to the farmer's market for ideas on building your socca masterpiece. ~e

*  WHO:  World Health Organization

 
 






                                           

 

Mon Petit Chou

"It calms me down right away, the quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there...  If I could find a real-life place that made me feel like Tiffany's then I'd buy some furniture and give the cat a name."

                                                                                   - Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany's

As Tiffany is to Holly Golightly, Willams-Sonoma is to me.  When the mean reds rear their ugly little heads, off I go to the venerable house of cookware.  Nothing is more soothing than seeing order in its merchandise and civility in its salespeople.

So wasn't I thrilled to be invited to attend a cooking class at the E. 59th St. location.  And it was to feature a new cookbook -- Paris to Provence.  How could I say no.  Bien sûr,  save me a seat, s'il vous plaît.  Simply j'adore the idea. Just j'adore it.

Lesson plan was laid out on a chalkboard. Curious page numbers were written next to the items to be covered.  They were recipe pages from the recently published cookbook (our textbook for the class).  I marveled at the touch of academia in a retail setting.

The smell of puff pastry shells straight from the oven floated like sirens to weary sailors. They would be led to an island.  Yes, it was just a kitchen island, but a banquet table was placed before it - a lovely summerscape of sunflowers, lemons, and linen.

Seated to my left was a pretty, soft-spoken research veterinarian.  I asked her what brought her to such an event.  She smiled and said a friend of hers suggested it.  The friend thought she was a terrible cook.  Is it just her or do you hear it from other friends?  She confessed, "It's pretty unanimous."  Her ability to accept criticism so well amazed me.

When I think of French cooking lessons in France, I imagine very critical, ruthless professors depicted in movies from Sabrina (original) and Julie and Julia.  Would I have survived Le Cordon Bleu, in 1912, 1954, or even now?  Would I have a meltdown and scream, non Monsieur, you are mad! I cannot crack zee egg in zee way you want me to.  I prefer zee guillotine! 

So let us be grateful for our American French cooking instructors  ~  Ivana Giuntoli and John Ochse.  The harmony they worked in was noteworthy.  I was to later find that this was the first time they had taught a class together.  It was calming, engaging, and enjoyable.  Even when one unwittingly took another one's Gruyère, there was no awkward who-stole-my-French cheese moment.  They laughed it off as Jacque Pepin would.  Seamless.

It helped that there was a good deal of attention to their mise en place.   A delightful phrase, mise en place, was explained as an integral way to prepare for the cooking.  It is the process of measuring out the ingredients, arranging them, as well as pre-heating the ovens, and so forth.  One's mise en place can be the very thing that determines if the cooking will be enjoyable or misérable.  

Effortlessly, we glided from savory puff pastry, to Pistou a la Provençal (imagine French minestrone), back to another savory pastry dish.  And what would be a French dinner without crêpes.  We are told that the famous Crêpe Suzette was named after a girl dining with the Prince of Wales in 1896 at a Monte Carlo restaurant.  

There is little question that the dish was made purely by accident as the chef himself made an account of it in his autobiography.  It was an accident waiting to happen anyway.  If one is handling a pan with Grand Marnier over a hot stove, some of the liqueur will jump into the fire, creating a fantastic flame.  Add an ability to quickly recover and improvise with showmanship, and voila! ~ Crêpe Suzette is born.  

However, there is a gray area on the namesake.  1896 was during the Belle Époque.  So it is plausible to think Suzette was a courtesan.  Some stories say she was a mistress, some note her merely a child -- perhaps a daughter of the Prince (future King Edward VII).  I'll take the latter because the real flame in his life was Alice Keppel.  

It does make one wonder.  If Alice had dined with him on that particular night at Café de Paris, the dish would've been named Crêpe Keppel.  So lesson to be learned:  never decline a dinner invitation from your sweetheart - it could change history.  

And speaking of sweethearts, a term of endearment used by the French is brought to light.  "Mon petit chou" is often lost in translation and thought to mean "my little cabbage".  But there is another "chou" which refers to a type of pastry.  As far as affection is concerned, that is the only chou that fits. 

But I demur.  "My little cabbage" sounds adorable.  Terms of endearment are endearing because they sound so silly.  So what if Americans run around tweeting and texting, "my little cauliflower", "my little brussel sprout" ?  Where is the harm?

Ready to shrug off the distinction between chou this and chou that, I bite into my first savory puff pastry, the gougère, and I gasp.  Oo la la.  It is like a cloud of yumminess I cannot explain.  The unbearable lightness of chou.  

Because I can see myself trying very hard to resist eating them all.  I cannot get enough of chou, you, mon petit chou!  I changed my mind.  Calling someone "my little cabbage" is no way to treat a person so exquisite, so rare... so divine as the chou of all choux.  

For your next cocktail party, try serving gougère and look for the reactions in your guests' faces.  You chou'd try it at least once.

Gougère 

Recipe from Paris to Provence, by Ethel Brennan and Sara Remington 

You will need: 

1 cup of water

6 tablespoons of unsalted butter

4 large eggs

11/2  cups of grated Gruyère 

1 cup of all-purpose flour

1 tablespoon of water, lightly beaten with 1 egg

1 teaspoon of salt

1/2  teaspoon of pepper

Instructions:

1.  Preheat oven to 425°F.

2.  Combine 1 cup of water, the butter, salt, pepper and stir in medium heat until the mixture comes to a boil.

3.  Add the cup of flour and mix with a wooden spoon into the sauce until a paste forms.

4.  Remove from heat and make a well in the center.  

5.  Crack an egg and incorporate into the mixture.  Repeat with the other eggs.

6.  Blend in 1 cup of Gruyère until the mixture is smooth.  Reserve the half cup.

7.  Line two baking sheets with parchment paper or nonstick mats.

8.  Dip a spoon in a glass of cold water and scoop a generous teaspoonful.

9.  Push each dollop onto the baking sheet with fingertips.  Repeat, dipping the spoon in the glass of cold water in between scoops.

10.  Brush the top of each mound with a little of the eggwash and sprinkle with the reserve Gruyère.

11.  Bake for 10 minutes, then reduce to 350°F.

12.  Bake for another 15 minutes until the choux pastry turns golden brown and crunchy.

13. Pierce the gougères with a wooden skewer (to vent) and turn off the oven.

14.  Leave them in for 10 minutes and serve warm or at room temperature.

  Happy Bastille Day! ~e

Sinner Sinner, Chicken Dinner

This is a nod to FL Fowler, if such an author exists.  Because Fifty Shades of Chicken had me cracking up one cold winter's day.  And, it led me to read a bit of the original.  I was to never read Fifty Shades of Grey.  No literary merit, I clucked.  Past winter, women in the workplace were spreading it around like it was Luther's Bible in the Holy Roman Empire. 

I'll skip this trilogy I'd tell the ladies.  My fifty cents on fifty things:  I don't need to pour over several hundred pages to know what I know.  It's about Novice and Master;  Cat & Mouse;  Dumb & Dumber.  I get it.  I'm sure it's about some control-freak and all his pervy, sordid ways.  Squalor is okay, it's the unimaginative that brings out my ornery temper.  I ended my diatribe.   

Well, it was a grey February and I paid a visit to my neighborhood bookstore.  And there it was, the parody cookbook.  Fifty Shades of Chicken.  Fifty ways to cleave your lover.  The cover was genius.  A chicken tied up.  I could relate.

Thanksgivings, I make a Contingency Bird.  It is some type of fowl prepared in case the first plan falls through.  The past year was a Cornish hen.  I had nothing to tie the hen with, so I made do with a pair of black, thin shoelaces (never used).  At the end, it looked like a dish for an S & M theme party.  It was weird, it was great.  And I suspect it went to Milano, my neighbor's greyhound.

To laugh at a parody, one must of course, know the original very well.  Aye yey, I will have to read Grey after all.  I stood in the bookstore, opened up both Chicken and Grey and started to compare notes.  It was hilarious.  I was snickering at the self-effacing Chicken and the self-effacing Grey girl.  I looked at the jacket of Grey to see how it was catalogued and it read Erotica.

Erotica?  Noooo.  Fifty Shades of Grey is hardly arousing in that manner.  The publisher must have had a boozy lunch.  It was better filed under Comedy.

Flipping between pages of Chicken and Grey, I was enjoying myself way too much for a bookstore.  I felt a pair of eyes from my 5 o'clock.  It was an older gentleman.  I felt a bit of unease one has when spotted in the Adult section of a video store.   (Gosh, kids today who stream Netflix for Dora or Diego will never know that feeling).

Accustomed to looking peculiar, I flashed a smile at 5 O' Clock, "My mother told me never to truss an old bird."  Good riddance.

The recipe names in Chicken alone are funny.  But they are really good recipes.  Suffice it to say, chicken dinners have now moved on from wholesome Americana to exotic Erotica.

I remember having lunch at a diner in Burbank years ago with a cousin.  She came to the States in her teens and quickly became an expert illustrator for children's animation features.  Spielberg had approached her to see if she would work for his then newly formed animation company.

She was regaling me with how she chose between Disney and this new thing called Dreamworks based on flow conditions of freeway traffic.  Life can be very simple for citizens of Los Angeles.

The waitress came to take our orders.  As English was very much her second language, my cousin ordered "Finger Chicken".  The waitress, in her impertinence, hissed, "It's Chicken Fingers!"

"Whatever it's called, just bring it over."  I had to smile, because it was so her to never suffer fools. That, and chicken fingers - when you think about it - makes less sense as chickens have no fingers.

As a tribute to EL Fowler and all former ESL students who are forever changing our dynamic vernacular, I give you  # 51.

FINGERED CHICKEN 

"Turn off your Samsung Galaxy, Chef.  The only things digital I care for are fingerlings and nothing else will do. "

"Why Miss Hen, aren't we demanding."

 

You will need:

1 three pound chicken

2 teaspoons of Himalayan salt

1 teaspoon of freshly ground black pepper

2 tablespoons of soft organic butter, unsalted

3 teaspoons of grated garlic 

2 tablespoons of olive oil
5 fingerling potatoes

2 tablespoons of fresh rosemary, thyme, and parsley, snipped into tiny bits

1 long piece of twine

Instructions:

1.  Cut up the fingerling potatoes into cubes.

2.  Rub olive oil over the fingerlings cubes.

3.  Sauté in a pan and add olive oil along the way to prevent burning.

4.  When the potatoes are still a bit hard to the bite, turn off range.

5.  Cover potato cubes with butter, salt, and some of the herbs.

6.  Rub the chicken, cavity and all, with the butter.

7.  Rub the chicken, cavity and all, with salt, pepper, and rest of the snipped herbs.

8.  Pack the herbed fingerlings into the cavity - as much as possible.

9.  Truss tightly and refrigerate overnight.

10.  Preheat oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit.  Place a rack in roasting pan and rest chicken on top.

11.  Roast 30 minutes on each side.  Drizzle olive oil throughout roast as needed.

12.  Continue to roast up to an additional 30 minutes until the chicken is fully cooked.

Here comes summer.  Baste yourself with SPF 30 and don't forget to turn over   ~e

A Fish Named Sushi

A young woman was encouraging a hefty-sized man on how to lose weight.  She said she was starting to eliminate meat from her diet.  I always listen to these announcements with amusement and a little cynicism as I have no particular stand on diet anymore.  I'm no longer a die-hard vegan, not a die-hard macro, micro, or even paleo.

Though the paleolithic system has its appeal... I always wondered if a diet of berries, twigs, and wild game would morph me into Raquel Welch from "One Million Years B.C."  But each time, I know scanty animal fabrics are not my thing.  And the only consistently primal act in my bag of antics is calling my mother when I'm upset.  So again I nix the idea and reset focus on the new vegetarian in town.

She was going to eliminate everything that had moved.  What about milk, eggs, and cheese?  She really didn't get caught up with the details.  She didn't have any ethical issues.  She said, "I am giving myself permission right now not to eat any flesh foods."  A new mantra kicked into my self-talk -- "I am giving myself permission..."  It was quite liberating.

Like I was giving myself permission to read a neighbor's Post just once.  The issues were piling up and I wanted to see what Cindy Adams had to dish about that day.  Her column made sure not to miss out on the horse-burger scandal.  She reminded that horse-meat was such Good Eats in other places that she was once shown a heaping plate of equine delight as the honorary guest.  Most likely, her neigh to that tray was made with with the utmost tact.  But true to form, she told her readers, "Thanks but no thanks to eating Seabiscuit's cousin."

Indeed the horse-meat at the UK Burger King was a double-decker.  First, the obvious mislabeling factor.  No more jingles about the "all beef patty, special sauce, lettuce, cheese", lest the sauce is also put to question. 

Secondly -- and more the reason -- we confer great personality and a certain mystique to the horse.  To name a few , there was Trojan, Black Beauty, Mr. Ed, Seabiscuit, and following in his hoof-steps -- Secretariat.  Now that horse really lived.  He had a brilliant career.  He had heart.  We worried about that heart. Was he taking Atenolol?  We concerned ourselves with how he spent his days in retirement.  Enough apples and green pastures?  He had a book, a movie, and royalties... Jeez, he was more self-actualized than many women in his hay-day.  Working housewives were wondering why their glass ceiling was lower than the roofs on some of Secretariat's barns.

But for the others -- the cow, the chicken, the pig, and the fish -- it seems they can never exist in the realm of Maslow's Heirarchy as the horse.  Heck, they can't even fully escape the food pyramids.  And the one that is highly encouraged for consumption is the fish because it's touted as the best anti-inflammatory flesh food (look at the Eskimos, experts say), replete with protein, omegas, minerals, and vitamins D and B12.  It's easier to digest.  It satiates without stuffing.

So unless a fish was recognized for accomplishing something exceptional, like synchronized swimming for instance, we find it hard to confer a nobleness of spirit, let alone, unique personalities.  Not until an ambitious fish comes along and makes a name for himself, people will still order a halibut just for the halibut.

Thus, a fish must do something grand.  Be the best geek-fish and win a Nobel Prize in Science for figuring out how to clean the world's aquatic.  Only then comes veritable joy to all other fishes in the deep blue sea.

Or perhaps it may be in the Arts.  There may very well be an actress-fish who hears the call of Esther Williams.  Her little gills pump a bit faster with every thought of becoming the next sensation in aqua-musicals.  First come the water shows, then Hollywood, and ultimately, her very own swimwear.  She loses weight.  She gets her face done.  She signs on with Starkist Talents.  And before she heads to each audition, her pygmalion agent would holler, "Tell 'em Charlie sent ya!"

It's March, still bleary, but spring that clock fwd & have a Happy National Nutrition Month! ~e