Jujube

Perfection, Thy Name is Schwa

Quail Egg Ravi-OH-MY-GOD-li
Originally uploaded by mere.mortal.

A little background: Schwa (as in the upside down e, the "unstressed" syllable you learned about in phonics) is the 26-seat, BYOB restaurant of Michael Carlson, one of Food and Wine Magazine's "Best New Chefs" of 2006. This restaurant serves the highest caliber food I've had in a long time, without all of the pomp and b.s. you get in more traditional fine dining digs. There is no waitstaff. Not a bowing maitre d' in sight. The chefs and kitchen crew (in our case, sous chef Nathan Klingbail) serve diners. And what a meal they serve.

We chose the three-course tasting menu, for time and budgetary reasons, and opened three bottles: A Duval Leroy NV Brut Champagne, a 2005 Domaine Dauvisset Chablis "Sechet", and a 2005 Kooyong Massale Pinot Noir--an excellent mix of extremely food-friendly and delicious quaff.

To start, a beet amuse bouche: a perfectly-carved beet 'truffle' rolled in cocoa, accompanied by a shot of beet juice topped with a white chocolate foam. I admit this was my least-favorite item of the evening (and I love beets), but washed down with Champagne, how bad could it be?

A salad of white anchovies, shaved green apple, celery root and manchego cheese followed. A most divine blend of pungent, but not overpowering salt-y, fishy anchovy goodness and tart, crisp apple, all mellowed by the celery root and manchego.

What came next was the kind of dish that makes you whisper in deference after you eat it. Quail egg ravioli poached in brown butter and sprinkled with parmigiano reggiano. Encased inside this plump, flower of a ravioli, the sunny yolk of a quail egg. We were instructed to pop the whole 'oli in our mouths, lest we lose some of the yolk-y liquid gold inside. The experience was pure food pornography--a blissful explosion of rich, creamy yolk mingling with browned butter and bits of sharp cheese shavings in the mouth. Because there was not one, but TWO raviolis, you have the thrill and surprise of downing the first, followed closely by the giddy realization that there's another one waiting.

As if the ravioli itself weren't enough, it was also a gift from the chef. It wasn't part of the three-course menu, but it landed our table nevertheless.

The main dish, slivers of perfectly tender, juicy Berkshire pork tenderloin with chestnuts and sauerkraut, was so good, I barely shared with Chris, who ordered the sturgeon cooked en sous vide with prosciutto.

By the time dessert rolled around, I would've eaten chocolate-covered cardboard and been happy as a clam, but we were treated to a duo of deliciousness: a round of chocolate brownie with pumpkin seeds and, I think, a pumpkin foam, and dates rolled in fleur de sel (which gave it a pretzel-y flavor) and a lump of turmeric ice cream. A fascinating flavor--probably not something I could eat a whole tub of, but odd-ly yummy.

I'm calling today to see if I can score another reservation some time in early Spring after the menu changes. I think we'll go with the 9-course. (Sigh) Life is good.

[quail egg ravioli]
[schwa]

Beauty and the Feast: The UglyRipe Tomato

You say toe-MAY-toe, I say yum.
Originally uploaded by mere.mortal.

If you ever experienced one of those painful "awkward" stages growing up (like the kind where you're mistaken for the opposite sex...thanks for the bowl, er, "pixie" cut, Mom), the story of the UglyRipe tomato should resonate.

The USDA announced yesterday that this Florida-grown heirloom tomato, known for it's crinkly, puckered appearance, will be allowed to cross state lines. Why, you ask, would the great state of Florida (now well-known for its history of sound judgment and decision-making prowess in matters political) not want to share this delicious fruit (and it is a fruit) with the rest of the country? Not out of culinary greed. Out of sheer, Botox-ed, spray-tanned and siliconed vanity.

Seems the humble UglyRipe wasn't sexy enough to satisfy the Florida Tomato Committee's rules regulating the shape and uniformity of tomatoes shipped out of state during the 'mater season. Apparently, it's okay to be a mealy, taste-less shell of a tomato as long as it's pretty on the outside. Clearly, a disfigured and delicious tomato is a threat to the flawless and bland. The hollow promise of flavor from those hideous freaks of nature is the epitomy of false advertising.

Fortunately, good taste prevailed, and these sumptuously flawed tomatoes will now be available to non-Floridians for the not-cheap price of about $3/pound. Unfortunately, the distributor, the Procacci Brothers of Philadelphia, is branding the variety "Santa Sweets". Why not Ugly Sweets? Or Sweet-n-Ugly?

Regardless of the name, the message is the same: for we, the many, who suffered crooked teeth, frizzy hair, gangly limbs, acne, flat chests and other pubescent atrocities (and perhaps carried them into adulthood), take heart: It's whats on the inside that counts.

Pigs Go Postal

Pigs Go Postal
Originally uploaded by mere.mortal.

To celebrate the Chinese Year of the Pig, the country is releasing this scratch-n-sniff-n-lick stamp that smells and tastes like sweet and sour pork. Brilliant.

I hope the USPS is taking notes. I'd like a creme caramel scented/flavored stamp, or maybe dewberry jelly.

[Year of the Pig]
[Stamp]
[sweet and sour pork]

I hate silicone mitts.

Winter glove for Lobster Boy
Originally uploaded by mere.mortal.

I have nothing personal against people who love silicone mitts. But after using these hand-retarding, ridiculous mitts while cooking at a friend's house last weekend, and reading a story about the greatness of silicone potholders in the NYTimes today, I feel a dissenting voice needs to be heard on the subject.

They're uncomfortable and awkward, for starters. Unlike heavy-duty wool or cloth potholders, which allow for some dexterity and maneuvering, these mitts offer about as much mobility as tin cans on your hands. And let's go here for a second: sure, you can hold a 300-degree pan right out of the oven in your hands for 10 minutes and not feel the burn...but why would you want to?

I'm not some culinary Luddite who gets wistful about ye olden days of wood-burning stoves and ice boxes. I like kitchen gizmos as much as anyone. But what's wrong with the thick, grease-stained, scorched potholders we grew up with? Yeah, you might get burned here and there, but kitchen wounds are part of the fun of cooking--it's a badge of honor, like the grass skid burns on a soccer player. Ask a chef to show you his worst burn, and you'll see the pride on his face when he rolls up his sleeve and recounts exactly when it happened, the restaurant he was cooking in, and the flaming-hot food he was pulling out of the oven. Then ask him, 'What do you think about these silicone Lobster Boy mitts?'

I ate cake for breakfast

Apple cake: Breakfast of Champions
Originally uploaded by mere.mortal.

I didn't eat the whole piece that's missing in this picture, but I did eat a nice wedge of it. I thought about pouring half-and-half over the slice, but I realized too late that my jug of half-and-half expired two weeks ago.

My mom showed me how to make this cake last year during her visit to Chicago. She also showed me how to re-cane the busted-out seats of my curved-back cane chairs, and how to make pate and bread (it was a project-filled visit). The recipe is attributed to a "Miss Estelle" in the family cookbook that my sister Kelley put together. I probably knew Miss Estelle at some point in my childhood, and I'm fairly sure she's from or somehow connected to the family via Mansura (the speck of a town in Louisiana where my mom grew up, and where several aunts and uncles still live).

The thing about this cake is, it's delicious. The ingredients come together in a way that makes the cake kind of caramelize on the outside, but the inside stays moist and apple-y. Most cakes don't really impress me. They're either too dry, or boring, or the frosting is so sweet it hurts your teeth. This cake is perfect.

I thought about posting the recipe, but while making the cake it occurred to me that if this writing thing doesn't pan out for me in the long-run, I might just start an apple cake business. Thanks, Miss Estelle. Wherever you are.

POSTSCRIPT FROM MANSURA
From Uncle Dick, husband of Aunt Laurie, sister of my mom: "Miss" Estelle had a worthless husband - as best as I recall it. He died before Laurie and I got out of the USAF (1971). She lived in an old, large house set well back from the street on Main St. She owned and ran a small grocery store on L'Eglise (Main St.) in Mansura, across from her home. Later on she married for the second time; from all outward appearances, a much happier marriage. She out-lived him as well. Laurie learned a bit of candy making from Estelle. As a matter of fact, Laurie's candy thermometer (the one she relies on most, that is - she has several) was a gift from Estelle.

[apple]
[apple cake]
[cake]

An Ode to the Toas-Tite

Still Life with Toas-Tite
Originally uploaded by mere.mortal.

Oh, cheese-filled flying bread saucer,
With your pinched outer seams
Holding back the tide of goo—
I love you.

The Toas-Tite “sandwich iron” is another relic from the early years. For a while, we only had one of these gizmos in a household of five kids, which means the earliest memory of the Toas-Tite I can dredge up involves me, the youngest of the five, patiently waiting turn after turn for the orange cheese-oozing disc to land on my plate. The cheese—industrial cheddar cut from a brick-like block—wasn’t the greatest. But drenched in dark, sticky Steen’s cane syrup, the cheesy Toas-Tite became my first taste of fusion food: sweet, salty, savory (and oily), all in one bite.

Beyond its kitschy appeal, the beauty of the Toas-Tite is in its flawless design. You can sing praises all you want about the George Foreman grill or some overpriced, stainless steel accented panini press, but the Toas-Tite outsmarts them all with one, simple feature: it crimps the circumference of the bread. So when you squeeze your bread and cheese (or the filling of your choice) between the two round, beveled plates, the perimeter of the bread is pinched shut, and the molten goodness inside cannot escape. Sheer. Genius. The browned concentric circles left behind are just an added, pretty bonus.

I searched for patent and trademark information about the Toas-Tite at the library today, but didn’t find anything. An Internet search turned up vague references to the Toas-Tite being of a late 40s/early 50s vintage. It was manufactured by Bar-B-Bun Inc. of Cincinnati, OH, according to this guy. And I’m using my best deductive reasoning to say that the sandwich’s unmistakable resemblance to a flying saucer was no coincidence, given the era’s claim to several key films in the sci-fi, aliens-from-outer-space genre (including the first motion picture release of The War of the Worlds in 1953). The more generic “pie iron” was probably around long before the Toas-Tite, and you can find brand new cast iron and aluminum pie irons everywhere. But only a Toas-Tite is a Toas-Tite.

I bought the pictured Toas-Tite for $3 at Maxwell Street about a month ago, and I’ve been experimenting with fillings ever since. My favorites so far:

Roast beef, blue cheese and horseradish mayo
Fig preserves and blue cheese or goat cheese
Ham and chive cheddar
Peanut butter and mayhaw jelly (thanks, McLures!)
Cinnamon-sugar and apple

I have yet to attempt an egg-based Toas-Tite, but there’s one I’m dreaming up: the French Toas-Tite. In this dream, the bread is soaked in a nutmeg-y egg batter and filled with mascarpone cheese. Who’s with me?

Show me a person who doesn’t love some incarnation of the grilled cheese sandwich, and I’ll show you I’ll show you someone with problems.—Me

The Global Grilled Cheese
Love isn’t the only international language. Here’s how they say “hot cheese (and sometimes meat) on bread” in:

Spain:bikini
France: croque monsieur
Italy: tost
Great Britain and Ireland: Toasty, Welsh rarebit
[toas-tite] [grilled cheese] [flying saucer]

For Love of Brussels Sprouts

Brussels sprout
Originally uploaded by mere.mortal.

Like every other kid, I hated Brussels sprouts. It was one of those vegetables (along with Lima beans) my parents served with a threat: “You have to finish eating them before you can leave the table.” In case you’re not familiar with this phrase, picture a kid sitting alone at a table in a darkened kitchen staring down a plate of cold Brussels sprouts.

I could usually choke down a serving, with much fanfare and pinching of the nose. Unfortunately for my sister Meredith, whose gag reflexes and picky eating habits were legendary in our family, getting those six sprouts down wasn’t so easy. I’m sure I did my fair share of solo-time at the table, but 9 out of 10 times, it was Meredith in the company of some limp, cold vegetable or other.

Last Winter, I took the bold step of ordering lemon-pepper Brussels sprouts at Feed, a Chicago restaurant that puts a hipster, fresh spin on the Boston Market rotisserie chicken concept. The chicken is always good, but it’s the daily special of “fancy-pants” sides like roasted parsnips that make the meal.

I expected a serving of whole sprouts, but they were diced into green and white confetti. They were pan-grilled, with just enough tasty little bits of browned edges. And they were delicious. Crisp-tender, with an earthy tartness, and not even remotely like the sulphur-y, texturally-challenged orbs of unpleasantness I remember from my vegetable-hating days.

Now, I make it a point to order Brussels sprouts anytime they’re on the menu. I’ve even cooked them a few times. Most recently, I had a bowl of roasted, halved Brussels sprouts and potatoes in a balsamic glaze at Terragusto, an Italian BYO restaurant.

I’ve also learned a few interesting things about these shrunken cabbages, which I’d like to share.

Things I Now Know About Brussels Sprouts

* You can spell it “Brussel” or “Brussels” (but I like it with the “s”)
* Brussels sprouts grow on stalks.
* Overcooking releases the stinky sulphur compounds that make them smell and taste funky.
* Somebody holds the Guiness Book of World Record for “speed eating” 44 sprouts in one minute.
* There are two ways I like Brussels sprouts prepared, and boiling is not one of them.

Roasted: After cutting the stem-y, white part of the sprout, slice it in half lengthwise. Toss with olive oil and salt/pepper, then roast at 450 degrees for 15 minutes. Sprinkle with a good, aged balsamic vinegar and roast for another 10 to 15 minutes until tender and browned around the edges.

Pan-Grilled: Cut the stem, halve the sprout and slice crosswise into small ribbons. Toss with olive oil and salt/pepper. Cook in a skillet over high heat until the edges start to brown slightly. Remove from heat and drizzle with fresh lemon juice.
[brussels] [brussels sprouts] [brussel sprout] [vegetable]

Behold, the Sausage Stuffer.

Enterprise Sausage Stuffer (before)
Originally uploaded by mere.mortal.

Mission: To restore a rust-crusted Enterprise Sausage Stuffer and Lard Press

Background: This sausage stuffer is an icon of the family sausage-making parties that took place in the cold room at my Uncle Ed’s farm in Mansura, Louisiana. I was too young (and too busy tearing ass around the farm’s back pasture with my cousin Molly) to participate in these sausage-fests, but I was re-introduced to the tradition about five years ago during a trip home. Uncle Ed, a man made of equal parts of codger-ly gruff and stellar kindness, agreed to show my sisters and me the basics of making sausage, and we cranked out about 50 pounds. After another lesson this past summer during the Cochon de Lait (a festival celebrating the goodness that is slow-roasted, suckling pig, but that’s a different porky story for another time), I became borderline obsessed with finding one of these stuffers and hosting a sausage-making party of my own.

I made a mental vow to spend $50 or less on a diamond-in-the-rust stuffer, but the search wasn’t easy. Brand new versions from Chop-Rite II (the company that owns the original Enterprise design) cost about $450. Older versions on eBay fetch over $200. And these prices don’t include shipping the 70-lb. cast-iron beast. The extreme end of the search had me standing outside of an antique store near Appleton, Wisconsin, speaking by cell phone to the proprietor, who happened to be in Chicago for his son’s wedding. He had such a stuffer, and the price was almost right. But the store was closed, and I wouldn’t be in the area long.

At last, I stumbled on this rust heap at an antique store in Ottawa, Illinois.

The owner, a big, jowl-y man in bigger overalls, seemed more amused than shocked when I asked if he had any Enterprise sausage stuffers hiding on one of the four floors. “I got two. What do you need it for? A paperweight?” he responded, eyeing me with a look that said ‘This girl doesn’t eat real sausage, much less make it.’

We never did find the first stuffer, but the second one was a steal at $29.50 One giddy phone call to my mom later—to describe the condition of the cast iron and make sure it passed inspection—I forked over the cash and lugged this brute home.

Cleaning and restoring: First, I begged a handy, industrial-tool-owning friend to take it home and sandblast it for me. He declined. Then, I spent a while researching quick, easy ways to restore this stuffer to its former glory. For the record, there are no quick, easy ways to remove 20 years of rust from a cast iron sausage stuffer.

Thanks to the Wagner & Griswold Society (named for two brands of highly-prized antique cast iron) forum, I discovered one absolutely terrifying way to get the job done, which I considered for two seconds until I saw the words “pure hydrogen” and “extremely flammable” in the directions. The process, called Rust Reduction Electrolysis, involves a 12-volt battery charger, jumper cables, PVC pipe and a vat of electrolyte solution, which is another way of saying “death by electrocution” in my lexicon. I finally settled on the method I suspected from the beginning: a time-consuming, filthy bout with power tools and steel wool.

Next, I completely disassembled the stuffer. On the wise advice of the super-Virgo in the house, I drew a simple diagram showing where every bolt, screw, nut and whatsit came from so I could reassemble it without too much guesswork.

Using a combination of cup and wheel wire brush heads on a cordless drill, a Dremel fitted with teeny wire brushes and a bag of super-fine steel wool, I set to this stuffer like a woman possessed. I inhaled lots of cast iron dust, had vicious hand cramps, and it took about three weekends, but I got the job done. The stunning, gunmetal shine underneath all of that rust was worth it.

Before reassembling the stuffer, I thought about how to season it so that I would never, ever have to worry about de-rusting on that scale again. I briefly considered a DIY enameling project, but decided on a simpler, classic method of seasoning: boil and oil. I dropped each piece (except the hand crank, which has a wooden handle on it) into a big pot of boiling water for a few minutes to remove any remaining rust or cast iron dust and ancient sludge (particularly on the rack screw), then popped those pieces into a 450-degree oven to dry completely. Once out of the oven and cool enough to handle (but still hot), I swabbed everything down with a vegetable oil-soaked paper towel (or Q-tips in the nooks and crannies), and popped each piece back in the oven for 20 minutes.

After all of the seasoned bits and parts cooled, I reassembled this glorious contraption (quite easily, thanks to the diagram). I’m still marveling at how fluid and smooth the cogs and rack screw turn. Behold, the sausage stuffer.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Uncle Ed died on September 18, 2006. It was a sudden, devastating loss that still feels too surreal to accept. This blog entry, my first, is written with heavy heart, but in loving memory of Edward Coco.

[sausage]
[sausage stuffer]
[Enterprise]
[cast iron]

Enterprise Sausage Stuffer (Before)

Enterprise Sausage Stuffer (before)
Originally uploaded by mere.mortal.

This is a top view "before" photo of the stuffer. (Until I figure out how to post multiple pics in one entry, this method will have to do.)

Enterprise Sausage Stuffer (After)

Enterprise Sausage Stuffer (after)
Originally uploaded by mere.mortal.

How proud can one be of a fully restored cast iron sausage stuffer? It is a bit ridiculous, but who's gonna be laughing when this thing is cranking out pounds and pounds of delicious encased meat?