Brined

Let me start by saying, it was a strange Thanksgiving. Last weekend we were all set - we planned to be off to Maria's for a (as always) wonderful Puerto Rican/Traditional Thanksgiving meal - and as is the usual state of affairs around here, everyone got sick. At the last minute, all plans were scrapped, and we were on our own. No biggie, we've done harder things than this, so we bolt out on Wednesday and get a turkey, a ham, the fixins for a lasagna, some yams, rolls, etc... Grocery receipt still warm from the register, Sara is passed out on the couch in a flu induced coma, and I'm left to ponder the meal. For some reason I think to myself, lets make this turkey as if I was a grandmother.
So I brine it. Pot of water, some salt, some brown sugar, some bay, a few other things within reach - and I slowly submerge the bird... down she goes into the brine, down she goes into the basement refrigerator, down my throat goes some cough medicine, a few motrin, an actifed, and down I go onto the floor.
Flash forward twenty four hours, and the bird makes a quick appearance upstairs again before she is dusted with a little adobo and tossed into the oven. As far as the bird goes, thats it. Really. Didn't do a spot of work... and let me tell you, I don't care if you deep fried your turkey this year... smoked it, cooked it in wine, marinated it for three weeks or cooked it in an antique clay pot underground - my turkey was better. I don't know why, but the brine worked some sort of magic. It came out to the table looking pretty ordinary, and looked a little better than average when I sliced into it... then I took a bite... suddenly I could focus only on the turkey, and everything else around it seemed to blur and shudder as if I was looking through a fisheye lens, or I was Frodo and I had for the first time slipped onto my finger the one true turkey. One turkey to rule them all, one turkey to find them, and one turkey to bring them all and in the darkness bind them, in the land of Mordor where the shadows lie.
Sorry about that. Really though, it was pretty damn good. Juicy... So for the first Thanksgiving in my life, I was thankful for the turkey.

The Aukberg Test

Make a list, load the car, go to the kitchen...
It's a two mile or so drive to work, and the whole way I think about timing. When it goes in the oven or on the stove, when it comes off. What the plate looks like... what the sauce should look like... when it goes on...
Unload the car, check the list, chop chop chop...
I had a gig on Saturday - pretty simple thing really, dinner for six. Seeing as though I make about 1500 meals a week, no biggie. The only difference is, these six people could mean some real money for me, since the hostess wants a personal chef and wants to see what I can do... so by the time I leave the kitchen and load the car again, I'm ready, but sweating a little.
I arrive about 90 minutes early and unload the car again... unpack... and start the required small talk... what a lovely kitchen... oh, you interned in some restaurants in Belgium, how wonderful... yes, I always bring my own knives... two kids... ooh, a plate warmer, cool...
don't let me keep you from your guests...
now it's my kitchen...
shoo...
Last two guests arrive, and things start rolling. Cold plates from the fridge, a little ring mold, and in a minute I have six perfect little columns of wasabi cucumber salad. Next six little flatbreads balanced off center like diving boards are gently propped up with a dollop of caviar, and the smoked salmon rolled up with wasabi mousse comes out of the freezer. Quick little slices make pinwheels that defrost on my fingertips, and gently perch on the flatbreads like wee Greg Louganis' (Lougani?) waiting to attempt their inward two and a half onto a pool of freshly scissored chives.
Chargers come off the table, amuse-bouche goes on, and I'm starting to jog...
Some extra cream in the soup to bring it off boil, little pepper - and mumbles from the dining room. Forks clink, mumble mumble, and I sneak in to pull the plates. Bowls out of the warmer, quicklikerabbit I ladle the butternut squash, leek & chipotle out and wipe the rims... basil chiffonade and red peppercorns mounds float on the side (a bit like Greg Louganis after he hit his head I think... not funny, must focus) ... bowls on saucers, and they go out, and now I'm runnng.
mumble mumble...
In case you were wondering when the fun part comes, here it is.. ten ounces of soup per person, and an extra ten minutes of wine and conversation, and I need an entree. Sea bass comes off the ice - and already I have a hiccup - every strip of fish I cut has an odd line of bones right down the center that should have been taken out already. Quick mental note - must yell at fish guy. Loudly. No tweezers or time, I cut the center out of each steak and now instead of six nice pieces of fish I have twelve cute little pieces, and all of my plating ideas are out the window. Oil, chorizo and bay leaves in one pan, cranberry cilantro polenta in another, and asparagus with herb chimichurri in a third. Bass on top of the chorizo, flip asparagus, flip polenta, flip fish, polenta onto a sheet and into the oven, flip asparagus, fish pan into the broiler.
Breathe.
mumble, mumble...
Plates out of the warmer, extra piece of polenta I was clever enough to make directly from the oven to my mouth, and I move on. Actually, I stop for a minute and think "holy shit... thats pretty good" and then I move on. Polenta goes down, TWO cute little fishies stacked on top, a drizzle of chorizo oil, some fried bay leaves and a little basil, my mouth is watering, some chorizo to hold up the stack, and the kitchen smells like Christmas time at my grandmother's house in Portugal. Actually, I don't have a Portuguese grandmother. One day, I do plan to befriend an old Portuguese woman though... spoons clatter... chevre goes down next to the fish, asparagus on top, a few raspberries nestled on the asparagus, bowls come off, plates go on.
Sidebar - apparently, it is perfectly acceptable to spend $100,000 on your kitchen, and only have twelve nice forks.
so I wash some forks...
A little time now, so I throw some english cucumbers on the mandoline to make long thin strips, and stand them on edge on each salad plate in circles to make little walls - tuck the salad greens inside and let some puff out of the top so the plate looks like Huggy Bear wearing a cucumber headband. Some anjou pear on the side, a little Maytag, a pear vinaigrette squirt, and I'm good.
Plates come off, salad and freshly washed forks go on.
mumble mumble...
Back in the kitchen I roll crepes with poppyseed cooked in sugar and orange rind, then roll some with strawberries and mascarpone, and toss them all in the oven. Chocolate sauce and little drops of butterscotch on the plate, crepes out of the oven, stacked like lincoln logs, little strawberry fans on the side, plates come off, plates go on, and I'm done.
breathe...
The kitchen is clean by the time their plates need to be cleared, and Rosa has out her calendar and a red pen to mark down all of the dates she wants me to come back. To seal the deal, because she is stuffed and a little drunk, she pays twice what I asked, and I'm in the car listening to Anna Nalick and smelling the chorizo on my apron before the oven has even cooled down.
Sunday afternoon rolls around, and I'm watching Sam race his rubber iguana down the slides at the park. My finger starts bleeding again from some random dinner injury, my arms are covered with spatter burns, and still, for a minute I can't imagine life being better. Maybe if I had a Portuguese grandmother... or some more of that polenta...

The better of me

For my lovely sister, who doesn't sugarcoat things... my day...
Actually, nothing much to report. No overwhelming problems, no kid injuries, no addictions, no arguments. Splinters though, you know what I mean? Little things pick away at you.
Well, this is a depressing post already. I'll finish later. At the moment, life has gotten the better of me.

We are not a codfish.

No one ever finished college and said "one day, I would like to be an ordinary guy". My kids never got up and said they would like to have a boring day, Satchmo never looked up at me with his big goofy dog head and looked like he might not want any food, and the germ that Lily brought home last week didn't evolve with only minor discomfort in mind. A tricky one, she was, made me feel crappy - then better - waited until I left the house - and then crappy again. Tuesday night I didn't sleep, went to work on Wednesday & felt like crap. Thursday I went to work (also crappy) came home, passed out, went back to work, crappiness continued.
By Monday, I had lost all hope and decided to stay home. Without the drive or ambition to go the quarter mile to Blockbuster, I spent the day surfing. Ocean's Twelve, Scream, Hittin' It, 50 First Dates, Love Actually, Catwoman, National Treasure, Hudson Hawk and Fried Green Tomatoes to begin with, and snippets of dozens of others. I've discovered, it seems, that I can't sit still. Hate being home sick with nothing to do. I watch something for a minute because I'm too tired to get off the couch, get bored with it, and move on. Flip, flip, flip, flip, flip...
... and then... my mind bends just a bit to keep from going completely mad... and finds... a project.
A project. A sick project... I can remain horizontal, keep my brain mobile. Lines, I think, movie lines - thats the stuff. I'll be a movie nerd for the day. What I would like to do is find my own Ezekiel 25:17 (...I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger...) or "you had me with hello". I find that in the kitchen Nicholas Cage's "bring me the big knife" comes in handy unless someone thinks your serious, and Ron Burgundy's "You pooped in the refrigerator? And you ate the whole wheel of cheese?" rarely can be squeezed into conversation. "You talkin to me?" is overused and as cliche as "Rosebud"... too many Spicoli quotes might make people wonder, and twenty or so movies later, I'm stuck
on the couch
again.
The game is lost, until tonight. We do our usual routine - get everyone changed, read a few books, and let Sam watch tv for 15 minutes before he goes to bed. Tonight though, Sara puts on Mary Poppins and I'm captivated. For a few minutes I'm 5 years old again, every line is golden, and I'm in love. Every glance superior, every comeback snappy, and practically perfect in every way. Unfortunately, the boy can't stay up forever, so I wait patiently for one last line... and it comes, words to live by... "Close your mouth, please, Michael, we are not a codfish"... and finally, I am satisfied.

Buttercream mosquitos

How can someone so small be so annoying? Seriously, this woman I work with is about 4'10'' and is as annoying as a six foot tall mosquito. Really, it's amazing - she walks into the room and the air becomes tannic... and not in an intimidating sort of way... she doesn't have any real control over my job and I don't feel threatened by her in any way... I almost look forward to seeing her because I have this overwhelming urge to argue. I crave confrontation with her so much I feel like crouching in a dark corner outside of her office, biding my time, waiting as patiently as a trapdoor spider or a cakeless fat guy the day before his coworker Margie's 38th birthday party when he knows that Frank is picking up the cake at Clawson's Bakery and everyone knows that Clawson's is the best because they have those little blue icing flowers like every other bakery but they make theirs from real buttercream and god knows real buttercream goes down like mother's milk especially when you volunteer to clean up after and can sit in the break room, just you and the cake's cardboard underbelly with all of the little buttercream flower scraps clinging seductively to it's edge.
What was I - ah yes, annoying. The point being, she is annoying.
Dammit. I lost my story. Just keep thinking about cake.