This meal actually took place before this wretched heat wave, which should be self-evident since it involved using the stove for more than 90 seconds. Our meals lately have been quick and minimally heated, and I’m not even taking pictures because it’s all I can do to remember to keep breathing. Funny how after last summer’s desperate railing against the incessant rain has begotten this desperate pleading for the heat to be broken by some…
cookblog Posts
John called me a few weeks ago and said “Do you want a whole artisanal Tennessee ham?” “Sure,” I said, on account of I’m not a complete idiot. “Why and how?” The band’s publicist, it turns out, during or after Bonnaroo, had been driving around and stopped at some joint in Gallatin for lunch. The ham sandwich–smoky, fatty, and piled high for $6–was one of the best he’d tasted. So he talked to the proprietor,…
We were in Vermont for the weekend, enjoying some absolutely perfect weather. Some swimming, a little (unsuccessful) fishing, and general relaxation were the totality of the agenda. And eating. That too. I brought a cooler full of garden, and we worked our way through it over the course of our stay. To begin, a glorious treat in the form of our first zucchini flowers stuffed with local smoked gouda, dredged in local eggs and whole…
I was out of town, so this link is a few days late. The new issue of Chronogram came out on the first, and in it is my profile of a Benedictine monk who makes extraordinary vinegars. I’ve been messing around with them a great deal in the kitchen, and they are a joy to use and to eat. photo by the not-at-all sour Jennifer May
The garden expansion is not 100% done yet, but it’s close enough to photograph. All of the light-colored beds (along the back and right sides) are new, and the metal fence posts show where I expanded outwards in two directions. There’s a new 4×12′ bed hidden behind the hydrangea in the near right corner, bringing the total to 20 beds (Milo gets a 3×6′ spot for himself, to plant, weed, and tend on his own). Another one (4×9′) is planted to scorzonera and salsify, which John wanted since he has no garden and they’re not easily found in stores. The others I’ve begun to seed with various things, though for most of them I’m going to wait until the end of July so all the brassicas don’t bolt.
I taught a class on meat-curing here on Saturday (we covered gravlax, guanciale, lardo, bresaola, duck prosciutto, and then had a tasting of everything, plus some bacon). It was well-attended, and I think people enjoyed it and took away some useful knowledge. And hoo boy is there a lot of salty meat in the fridge. I gave the curing salmon to some Boston friends to take home with them, but come dinner time there was an alarming lack of actual food ready to eat. So I took the big beef eye round (16″ or so) and cut 6″ off. This did two things: it meant that I could fit the remainder in a much smaller pyrex loaf pan to finish curing, and it gave me a pre-seasoned hunk o’ beef with which to make a quick and wondrous meal. The cure was salt, a bit of raw sugar, rosemary, garlic, thyme, juniper berries, and smoked paprika.
John’s birthday party was Friday, and it was to be an all-finger food potluck. I didn’t have a ton of time to plan or shop, so I made do with things around the house, centering on two forms of duck from the freezer. I defrosted a moulard breast and two pieces of foie gras–both local–and went outside to pick currants. The pink and white currant bushes I planted last fall have taken off, loving their new environs and fruiting prolifically. I got just shy of two pounds of fruit from them both, doing a not very thorough job so there will be more to enjoy in the coming days.
I was at an extraordinary wine dinner recently, and in chatting with the very expert guests I sort of stumbled on an interesting consensus: almost everyone I talked to about the subject agreed that a well-made rosé was as good a choice as any to match with a wide variety of foods, especially in the warm weather we’re enjoying. One professional specifically told me that at a recent tasting of big-name juice, he returned to a simple rosé as one of his favorite wines of the night, refilling his glass with it rather than some over-hyped behemoth. Everyone nodded knowingly when I said that summer is my time to save some wine money by buying cases of affordable pink, keeping precious powder dry for bigger cold-weather reds to match with rich stews and braises later on. When it comes to the most basic ratio of pleasure per dollar, good rosé is about as rewarding as wine gets. So here’s a little primer for the novices among you.
I’m referring to the style I like best (and just about only): bone-dry and lightly colored, and almost invariably from the South of France. I’ll use Provence as shorthand, but that can be extended into several neighboring regions; what matters to me is the style and the irresistibly tasty garrigue (wild herbs) that perfectly balances the fruit and acidity in a well-made example. If you’re not familiar with it, or have only ever had white Zinfandel (oh, the horror. Seriously, end-of-Apocalypse-Now HORROR) then this post is for you.
I haven’t really been feeling the cooking urge lately. I’m just too busy outside making space for and planting food to be bothered to make very much of it. That will change, though; we have a couple of potlucks coming up, and I’m teaching a class on meat-curing on Saturday, and as the garden gets up to full speed there will be much that needs freezing or otherwise eating. But for now, I’m getting busy with the shovel and such, and then looking around sort of bewildered when I come in at the end of the day, as if dinner is something that I haven’t really considered at all. Because I haven’t.
I haven’t been hitting the blog with due dilligence of late, I know. First, I had an article due, but now it’s done. Second, I have been outside. A lot. The garden expansion is coming up on finished, and will result in a big increase in bed space. That post should be up next week. In related news, I have a major farmer’s tan, only with flip-flop lines on top of my feet. It’s been seriously hot. Now after last summer I am just about the last person you’ll find who will go on record complaining about this, the most perfect spring ever. But the raging heat has fucked up my salads in a big way. “How?” You may ask–and well you may–and here I am, helpfully, to share with you a heartbreaking tale of the ravages of climate change. (I’m not as fat as Al Gore, so you should listen to me).