Shame and Sacrilege

Time. It would be really nice if I had some. About mid-August, the forces of chaos and entropy which are always drifting around me, even on a good day, began slowly gaining in power. Fall semester was fast approaching. There were all manner of school supplies to obtain: pens, paper, ridiculously expensive textbooks. I even broke down and bought a cell phone. I hate cell phones. Then there were last minute scheduling corrections, a series of devastating nervous breakdowns, working as many hours as possible to get extra money, and running here and there and everywhere to ensure that I was totally prepared. Then classes began, and before I knew it I was being buffeted by hurricane-force winds of pure crazy. Now it was sprinting back and forth to classrooms, spending seven hours compiling and organizing notes for a single history lecture, and staying up until two in the morning to study for what turned out to be the easiest quiz of all time. And of course, thanks to the sadists in the biology department of my university, I had to be up at 6:30 a.m. the very next day just so I could arrive in time to take said quiz. Then there are labs to go to, graduate seminars to attend, etc., etc., etc. Surprisingly enough, all of this is actually kind of fun, especially the part when I get into a panic about work and then realize, 'Oh right, I have grant money! Fuck work!' Even so, I think I must be really stressed out, because I screwed up the rice!

To most people, rice is something that only occasionally shows up on the dinner table, but in my universe it has a very special significance. It is rare for me to step into my kitchen without lovingly removing my rice pot from the cupboard. Be it the simplest bowl of plain steamed rice, a subtly spiced pilau, or an extravagant Pakistani biryani, rice is something that is ubiquitous to nearly every meal I prepare. It's always been this way, from the very beginning, and as a result, the idea has been firmly drilled into my mind that rice equals life. To me, that tiny humble grain is something sacred, its preparation a spiritual act. I regard it with almost the same reverence and adoration I would afford a minor deity. To ruin even the smallest quantity of this precious substance carries with it a feeling of extreme embarrassment and the sense that I have committed an unforgivable sin.

My strange devotion began with a little orange book that I pulled from a bargain bin at Borders about a dozen years ago. Its title is 'Curries Without Worries', and it is the very first cookbook I ever purchased, the one I learned to cook from. As you can imagine, it was a somewhat intimidating introduction to the culinary arts. True, it didn't assume its user to be a master chef, and its text was written in a fairly straightforward way, easy enough to allow even the most inexperienced person to stumble through the recipes with some degree of success. But indian food! The ingredients lists seemed a mile long. They demanded exotic ingredients I had never heard of and had no idea how to obtain. This was in the days before I knew anything of groceries dedicated exclusively to these sorts of things, so I spent hours driving to every supermarket in the city raiding the spice aisles and searching in vain for asafoetida and whole cardamom pods. The author of the book even wanted me to make my own cheese! It was mind-boggling. With so many daunting tasks to accomplish and my confidence level in the kitchen still low, I decided that making any sort of flatbread to accompany my dinner just wasn't going to happen. So I made rice. It was the one thing I knew I could do. Yes . . . no problem . . . rice.

I then moved on to asian cuisine . . . more rice. Persian food . . . more rice. Moroccan food . . . should've been couscous, just more rice. Starting to see a pattern here? It gets pretty extreme. Even when I lived alone in a tiny apartment with only my own mouth to feed, I seldom had less than forty pounds of rice in my home at any given time. My fiance must have thought I was nuts when he first laid eyes on my pantry. There were gallon jars of sticky rice, huge burlap bags of basmati, jasmine rice, short grain pilaf rice, short grain risotto rice, brown rice, red rice, black rice! I'm not even counting the pressed rice flakes, the rice flour, the rice noodles in various sizes, the rice crispies cereal, and so on! It was everywhere! Still is, actually.

Of all the dishes I've prepared from this cherished food, my favorite by far is called nasi lemak, aka malaysian coconut rice. There's not much to it really. You take two cups of jasmine rice and wash it in about four changes of water. Then you drain it, throw in three stems of lemongrass tied into knots, a two inch piece of ginger which has been peeled and bruised, and a teaspoon of salt. When you have all that, add about one and a half cups of water and a cup of coconut milk. This is where it gets a bit tricky, and where I went wrong. Every bag of rice is slightly different, even if they're the same brand. What this means is that your rice may require a slightly different amount of liquid than what the recipe calls for. Experiment and adjust as needed until it turns out right. Believe me, it's worth it. Once all of the above is in your pot, bring it to a boil while stirring, allow it to boil for about fifteen seconds, cover with a lid, and turn the heat to the lowest setting. Let it sit over low heat for fifteen minutes, then remove the pot from the heat and let it rest for ten additional minutes. Do not remove the lid during this time! When you're done, if all goes well, what you will end up with is just exquisite. Oh, and don't try this in a rice cooker because the coconut milk can cause problems.

The above recipe is my interpretation of one from a book by James Oseland entitled 'Cradle of Flavor'. Pick up a copy if you can because it's a wonderful introduction to the cuisine of Indonesia, Malaysia, and Singapore. I highly recommend it.

Well, my rice may have been undercooked, but my singaporean cabbage turned out great! Tune in next time for more on that.

The Offal Truth

Shortly after writing my last post I came to a disappointing realization. I was not, as I had previously thought, a contender for the title of gastronomic daredevil extraordinaire. Sure, I had cooked some seriously ballsy meals in my time, but up to that point I'd never actually prepared an organ. I had eaten my share of them and had rustled up a few things that could certainly fall under the heading of offal, but never once a kidney, or sweetbreads, or brains. I was such a pussy! Why?!

Oh, right. Liver.

In my experience, there is no such thing as so-so liver. When prepared by a skilled chef it is absolutely divine, an ambrosia of the gods kind of good. However, at the other end of the spectrum it can end up utterly abysmal. Imagine, if you will, some black stygian underworld where the souls of murderers, child molesters, and anyone who's ever carried a chihuahua in a handbag are punished for their transgressions by being endlessly force-fed ineptly-cooked bites of this insidious meat. Lucifer himself couldn't devise a more harrowing torment. Really, it can be that bad, hence my hesitation.

Still, I didn't need to be quite so paranoid about the whole liver thing. When all else fails, takeout is always a viable option, and besides, it wasn't as though I hadn't had my share of disastrous culinary mishaps. One fateful night, in a vain attempt to make cilantro chutney I even managed to open a portal to hell in my blender. There's no other explanation for what was in there when I was done. And my first try at polenta? Well, that ended in the creation of a level five stovetop abomination. It started spitting blobs of scalding hot goo two feet into the air for goodness sake! Now that's something to be avoided. In comparison, liver should be a snap.

So I decided to go for it. In order to maximize my chances of success I chose to make not one, not two, but three different recipes for liver. Surely one of them would be edible.

Let us begin with liver venture number one. For my first organ meat endeavor I selected an egyptian formula for the preparation of lamb's liver. It was simple, just fry everything up with a bit of garlic, cumin, and cayenne. Nothing could be easier. It was quick, elegant, and completely impossible. After spending half a day driving around in an oppressive heat, I discovered that there isn't a single butcher in these parts that stocks lamb's liver. It was a no-go.

Not to fear though, I had two more chances. For the second, a veal liver cooked with fresh figs, onions, the juice and zest of a lemon, and a teaspoon of fennel seed. It was a breeze to make, and everything went according to plan right up until the end. I sauteed my onions, added the liver, etc. So far, so good. Then, as I was about to pull it off the heat, it happened. The meat began to sweat blood at an alarming rate. What should I do? Was this supposed to happen? I was concerned about overcooking, but I was more concerned about the fact that it was bleeding. So, I gave it a few more minutes and hoped for the best.

The best is very definitely NOT what I had. It was slightly overcooked as I had feared it would be, and as of this evening, I now consider the combination of lemon and liver to be the very worst idea ever conceived in all of human history. Venture number two? Failure.

Finally, I made an indian chicken liver curry. Eventually everything in my kitchen gets transformed into curry. It's inevitable, like death. Anyway, I cut up my livers, threaded them onto skewers, and marinated them in yogurt. In the meantime, I chopped up some onion, ginger, a whole head of garlic, and celery, an ingredient I had up to this point never seen in a curry paste, and I make a lot of curry. Just call me Lister. I cooked all of this up with some spices and ghee, and took a gander at what I had ended up with.

Was it good? Of course it was good, it was curry! Although, I would advise anyone tempted to try this to forget the skewers. It turns out liver is really slippery, and if you braise it as long as the instructions say to it sort of disintegrates just a bit. This results less in food on a stick than food with sticks in it, but otherwise . . . SUCCESS!! HUZZAH!!

Who's a pussy now?

Courage

Remember what it was like to be young? In our youth everything is eminently fascinating, especially things we're not supposed to know about. Who among us hasn't thumbed through their dad's Playboy, made a fake ID, or stolen the keys to someone's liquor cabinet? Skipping class to smoke a cigarette, anyone? I myself have been guilty of dabbling in the forbidden from time to time. Unlike others, though, I eschewed the usual teenage vices. Instead I sought out something even more dark and illicit. When no parental figures were in sight, I would snag my father's copy of The Golden Bough.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with James Frazer's exhaustive work, The Golden Bough is a collection of superstitions, arcane practices, and the occult. Within its pages are accounts of witches and harvest gods, sex totems and rain charms, tribal rituals, cannibalism, mythology, and magic. (Soooo much cooler than beer.) Oddly, it was this youthful fascination with mysticism that kept me from missing out on my first real experience with organ meat, but more on that in a moment.

Fortunately, Frazer was kind enough to include a section on the folklore of food. Here you will find descriptions of yam-eating ceremonies, tales of Aztec priests consuming images of the god Huitzilopochtli made of dough, seeds, and the blood of children, and many other highly bizarre narratives.

Some of the more interesting tidbits are stories about eating certain animals, or parts thereof, in order to gain their qualities. For example, in some cultures it is believed that to eat a deer is to procure swiftness and wisdom. There are animals that make you clumsy, animals that make you timid, and animals that bestow all manner of attributes, both good and bad. The people of Darfur even believe that you can enlarge your soul by eating an animal's liver (incidentally, they also forbid women from eating it as, according to them, women have no souls).

The acquisition of courage is the really nifty one, though. The Miris of northern India suggest consuming tiger's flesh to secure bravery. The Chinese, on the other hand, believe courage to be located in the gall-bladder, presumably any gall-bladder will do. The Italones of the Philippines are so keen on getting courage that they are actually willing to drink the blood of their enemies and eat their entrails and the backs of their heads raw. Another tribe from the Philippines devours people's brains for this purpose, and the Zulus believe that 'by eating the centre of the forehead and the eyebrow of an enemy they acquire the power of looking steadfastly at a foe'. There are many ways of getting it, most of them pretty grisly, but one of the most common courage-attaining tactics is to ingest a heart.

With all of that in mind, we now return to the real story for today.

It started off as a fairly typical evening in my seventeenth year. I would once again be dining with my neighbors, Sid and Judi, as was my usual habit at the time. The food in my home tended to be of somewhat inferior quality (after awhile even my dad took to calling it toxic waste) so I avoided eating there as much as possible.

In contrast, Sid and Judi always had a wonderful spread of delicious rustic fare, and we're not talking supermarket here. There were fresh vegetables from the garden they tended and meat from animals they had raised themselves (with help now and again from yours truly). In short, damn good eats.

This meal was a special treat. Thanks to Judi's skill with a shotgun, I was informed that Bambi would be making an appearance as the featured entree. Again, fairly typical . . . except that it wasn't. I approached the table that night expecting a platter of venison steaks or deer burgers. Nope. What confronted me instead was a large pottery bowl containing the creature's grey and glistening heart, not really the best thing to whet my appetite.

At this point, though, I wasn't too concerned. Everyone present was aware of my somewhat vegetarian proclivities (don't worry, it was only a phase) so I had my out. I'd turned down meat many times before in this house, and I knew no one would be bothered if I took a pass on the offal. So I sat down to dinner, loaded up on the veggies, and when the offending bit of flesh came around to me I just quickly passed it to Sid and started poking at some lima beans, expecting it to continue on its journey to the other side of the table, there to trouble me no more.

However, just as I was about to start eating, I noticed that Sid was still looking at me. Now, Sid is very clever, and he knows me all too well. I turned to face him in time to hear, 'Are you sure you don't want any of this?' But just as I was about to politely decline the offer, Sid spoke again . . .

'It's stag's heart, you know. It's magical.'

Aww, crap! Crap, crap, crap!

Now, I was trapped. I surely didn't want to eat it, but who says no to magical meat, I ask you? After experiencing a fearful little shudder, I slapped a bit on my plate and gave it a try. What, did you think I'd lose out on a chance at being imbued with awesome woodland powers? Think again. The best part is, in addition to any great spiritual benefits that I may have received, god damn if it wasn't delicious. My gratitude to Sid.

So, the next time you're faced with a plate of liver and onions, don't run for the door. Just remember the people of Darfur and dig in because, who knows, you may be missing out on more than protein.

He's One of Them!

Yes, that's right everyone, it seems my baby brother is one of those bizarre goat cheese loving freaks. I must say, I didn't believe it at first. Can this be true? How could I not have known? He always seemed like the most normal and well-adjusted of all my siblings. Although, I guess no one in my family can really be said to be normal or well-adjusted, but he's as close as it gets among the crazy circus side show that is my genetic line. So, I'm sure you can understand my alarm when after reading my previous post, he actually had the audacity to request the recipe!

Even then, I told myself he had to be mistaken. Perhaps he only thought that he had tried goat cheese. Maybe, just maybe, it was another cheese entirely. So I invited him over, and told him that if he came to fetch it, not only would he have the recipe, he would have the remainder of the cheese as well. When he arrived, I would implement my diabolical plan. If he wanted this most horrifying cheese as he claimed, he would have to taste it first, and then I would have him! He would be unable to hide his disgust, and his terrible hatred of goat cheese would be revealed for all to see!! (Insert evil laughter here.)

Needless to say, my carefully placed trap had a far different outcome. He said it tasted a bit like parmesan. For God's sake, parmesan!?! Really!?! It appears that in addition to a number of other highly unpleasant traits, mutated taste buds also run in my family. Oh, my dear brother, you poor cursed bastard, know that you are truly an abomination and an affront to all that is good and holy in this world. May Christ have mercy on your soul.

That said, here's how you make the salad:

Take thee the demon cheese that has been given you and cut it carefully into four equal slices. Take thee also a small number of chopped hazelnuts, about one quarter of a cup, and toast them lightly in a dry skillet. Press these nuts onto all sides of the cheese, set aside, then preheat thy broiler. Whilst thy broiler is preheating, whisk in a bowl two teaspoons of balsamic vinegar and some salt. When this salt has been dissolved, add thee then some freshly ground pepper and three tablespoons of finest extra-virgin olive oil. Toss with approximately four cups of torn mixed lettuces. Place thy cheese then upon a baking sheet and carefully broil without burning thy nuts until all begins to melt, just a bit. Serve thee immediately a bit of salad and a round of cheese on each of four plates, or all upon one plate if thou hast no dinner guests, and pray that thy sins may be absolved.

(In case anyone is interested, the preceding is a modification of a recipe from Backroad Bistros, Farmhouse Fare by Jane Sigal.)

A New-Found Nemesis

Grilled goat cheese salad. It sounded absolutely lovely, little rounds of goat cheese crusted with hazelnuts and lightly toasted under my broiler, served with mixed greens and balsamic vinaigrette. . . mmm, who wouldn't love that? Apparently me, for one. I was well aware that some people have an aversion to goat cheese, but a lot of people also have an aversion to squid tentacles and blood sausage. I've conquered those, no problem. For a girl whose eating habits sometimes rival those of Andrew Zimmern, goat cheese seemed like a fairly innocuous thing to experiment with. Not only was I not the least bit nervous, I was practically bouncing through the supermarket the other day, so very excited to be trying something new.

My excitement quickly dissipated when I took that first taste. I had sliced the cheese into neat rounds and decided to pop just the teensiest piece into my mouth. Mmm, that's actually pretty darn good! Or so I thought. After a delay of about two or three seconds it hit me, and I mean really hit me! Something so foul, so appalling, I knew immediately, after years of seeking out the most disturbing of eats, that I had finally met my match. Of all things, goat cheese!

About now I'm sure you're wondering, what exactly is my dilemma? I mean, if I don't like it then I don't have to eat it right? Oh, if only it were that simple! I have a rule, you see, and that rule is that even if I violently dislike something, I must keep trying to eat it until I learn to appreciate it. You'll see me at the Sizzler salad bar loading up on fried okra, desperate to overcome my abhorrence of mucilage (still yuck), or cooking many other things I'm not fond of again and again (and again and again and again if necessary). I do this because I am absolutely and utterly convinced that each and every food has a key, an ingredient which so perfectly compliments it that all of the many good and wonderful things about this previously unsavory morsel are instantly revealed in astonishing clarity. With beets it's sour cream, with saffron it's roast lamb, and for peanuts it is coconut milk. Each of these is a food which I have in the past despised and now love immensely. In fact, for the first twenty years of my life peanuts were my arch-enemy. If it wasn't for an intense bout of temporary insanity and a truly morbid obsession with a recipe for grilled chicken with thai peanut sauce I would never have known that peanuts are in fact my very favorite food. Weird, huh?

You'll find a lot of weird here, and if you choose to proceed, I must warn you, I'm not a foodie (or foodsnob, whatever). If you put an heirloom tomato in front of me I'll eat it and gladly, but I don't spend my time wandering the local farmer's market searching for the perfect Green Zebra. Instead I roam the ethnic markets looking for the odd and the obscure, something I've never seen or tasted before. What I'm all about is plumbing the depths of human food culture, spanning millennia and the globe to find all that is unique and beautiful about this strange phenomenon that is cooking. From the delectable to the downright disgusting, it's all right here, and I've probably already eaten it.

Now, about that goat cheese . . . If anyone out there has any suggestions as to how I might unlock its special tastiness, I'd love to know. I would ask my dear friend Jeannie, she loves the stuff, but Jeannie was raised on goat's milk. That's childhood indoctrination, and at thirty years of age I fear it's just a little too late for that with me. So if anyone can think of anything, anything at all, please, help me!

(Also, if anyone knows of any way to stop my fiance from coming into the kitchen while I'm cooking, washing his hands, and afterwards drying them on my behind, those suggestions would also be much appreciated.)