Ever since I made ‘nduja back at the beginning of May I’ve been playing the waiting game while it fermented, cured and hung in my kitchen window, taunting me.

During that time my friends Larbo and Scott of This Little Piggy and The Sausage Debauchery (respectively) have been churning out all kinds of wondrous delights made with their versions of the piquant spread while I’ve been quietly biding my time.  In fact, Larbo’s probably been the most prolific, creating ‘nduja di bufala, ‘nduja pate and most recently an ‘nduja mortadella to make us all jealous and drooling.  Once I work through some of my own ‘nduja reserves I fully intend to build on his pate idea, but for now I’m holding those cards close to the chest.  Lest you think that Scott’s some sort of slouch, let me tip my hat to him for single-handedly starting up a mail order business to bring ‘nduja-making supplies (and other imported Italian goodies) to the masses.  As you can see, our combined aim is to completely blanket the planet in ‘nduja fever!

In an attempt to keep mine somewhat traditional, I’d let the ‘nduja hang for as close to the year I’d originally intended as I could possibly wait.  Some of it will surely see a 1 year anniversary since my first attempt was a double batch, leaving me with close to 6 kg of ‘nduja hanging around waiting for inconspicuous consumption and culinary inspiration to strike.

This very weekend was the first time since I stuffed the ‘nduja that I’d had an occasion to cut down a finished link and give a taste, and words cannot express how truly excited I was.

From the look of the casing, which was dried, brittle and shrivelled, I wasn’t expecting much, but once I sliced it open the hot Calabrian peppers immediately began their assault on my senses.  Prodding gently with my paring knife, I found the ‘nduja had indeed retained it’s semi-moist spreadability, and a tiny raw taste confirmed the assertively pleasant fire emanating from within.  10 minutes later I still wasn’t dead, so I ascertained that the folklore I’d been told about all of the salt and chilis warding off any chance of bacterial spoilage actually seemed to be true.

But, now that I had this wicked bounty to play with, what ever would I do with it?

For whatever strange reason, the first thing that popped into my mind was to make an ‘nduja burger.  I’ve heard tales of Larbo melting his into its own pasta sauce, or spreading it on the thin crust of a pizza, but I wanted to go somewhere a little bit different.  Given my extreme love of burger cuisine, I suppose it’s not much of a stretch.  In the future I’m thinking something with eggs might be fun, but as to what shape that might eventually take, I’m not quite sure yet.  So, for now a burger my ‘nduja would be.

To 8 ounces of organic grass-fed ground beef I added several heaping tablespoons of ‘nduja, erring slightly on the side of caution (just in case).

Next, I put on some disposable plastic gloves (recalling how burnt my palms had been the last time I mixed the moist Calabrian chillies by hand) and gently coaxed the spread and ground into a beefy suspension.  After heating a skillet to absolute blazing, I quickly seared both sides of the patties to a perfectly browned and crispy crust.  7 minutes in a 250* oven (occupied by the ever-melting lard project) was all it took to cook the burger the rest of the way to edible (because I wasn’t taking any chances on this one yet and shied away from my usual medium rare).

The finished burger got some love in the form of a homemade Red Fife infused burger bun I’d whipped up the other day, plus a side of my delicious gherkin pickles.

The first bite sung with the subtly increasing ‘nduja heat, and I commented to the Everyman that next time I’d probably be a little more generous with the ‘nduja.  By the end of the burger I felt my assessment was still correct, but the problem with ‘nduja is that the more you have it, the more you want it, so I doubt I’d ever truly have “enough” anyway.

At the very least, after my inaugural experiment with this incomparable spread, I’m looking forward to many other flights of fancy.  As soon as spot prawn season comes around (though to be honest I have no idea when that is) I’ll definitely be attempting something similar to Grant’s smoked spot prawn and ‘nduja dish that I enjoyed so much.  Yum!

Until next time…

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself purchasing Michael Ruhlman‘s Ratio application from the iPhone App Store.

It’s a bit of a dirty little secret that I’ve become addicted to food and cooking apps, and I have the Epicurious, Jamie’s 20 Minute Meals, and Nat Decants apps to prove it, and now Ratio as well.

Now, I may have a fair amount of respect for the Charcuterie book (moreso for its co-author than for Ruhlman himself) but the more I see him on TV (typically on No Reservations) and with that whole “are we too stupid to cook” thing he blundered last week, the more I’ve started to view him as a pompous, self-aggrandizing ass.

But, I had bought the app for the inherent practicality of it, so I still intended to test it out.

The first thing I wanted to make was pasta, because it’s simple, tasty and elemental.  For my run through I chose to use the suggested variation and made a yolk only pasta instead, with some doppio zero flour.  Once I had the disk of dough chilling in the fridge, the question became one of what to serve with it.

After a brief interlude during which I sat in front of the fire wracking my brain, I recalled the bags of oxtails I had loafing around in the freezer.

In a brief moment of inspiration, I decided to braise them in red wine and mirepoix for 5 hours, until all of the tail vertebrae fell right out.

Once I had them braised, I retired for the evening to contemplate the best companions for such a gelatinous cut.

The next day I began hunting through the fridge for vegetable cohorts.  Cauliflower and oxtail just didn’t have a great ring to it, and I wanted something vibrant that would visually pop in the dish.

Once I dug into the veggie drawer, the kale jumped out as the ideal compliment.  Sautéed with a bit of olive oil and chili flakes, it reduced down to nothing.  After cooling it a little, I roughly chopped the greens and tossed them back into the pan.

Next, it came time to settle on a pasta shape.  Initially I’d wanted to make ravioli with my brand spankin’ new cutter (I caved and bought a plain one rather than that Jamie Oliver branded set because I didn’t need to spend an extra $35 just for his “name’).  But, once I realized exactly how small the cutter actually was and how long it would take me to make all of them, cutting the dough into coins seemed a much better idea.

After I rolled out the dough with my (also) new stainless rolling pin, I cut 50-odd fluted rounds from the dough, then flitted back to preparing the sauce.

Fishing a few chunks of oxtail out of the jellied tupperware block it had formed overnight, I roughly chopped it too, then added the shreds to the waiting kale pan.  Once the heat hit the oxtail, the meat loosened up into a silky, sticky mess.  A few spoons of creme fraiche and some white wine mustard were all it took to coerce the ingredients into a rich sauce.

5 minutes later when the water was at a rolling boil, I flipped the coins in as quickly as I could, and a little under 3 minutes after that, they were precisely al dente.  Tossed in the waiting sauce, the dish formed a simple but elegant weeknight meal.

As we enjoyed the soft and juicy decadence of the oxtail against the crisp bites of the kale, the Everyman asked me where I’d bought the pasta dough.  Being as clued out as he is to what’s going on in the kitchen, he’d never realized that I’d made it all from scratch.  I’m not sure if that makes it a compliment or insult to Michael Ruhlman’s pasta ratio, but overall the dish was pretty damn good, if I do say so myself.

Until next time…

Several months ago when I purchased a quarter of a grass fed cow, a rather large and unwieldy package stamped simply with the word tongue found its way into my freezer.

And for months, I couldn’t fathom exactly what I should do with it.

I’d had tongue on several occasions in the past, including at The Black Hoof in the form of a thinly sliced sandwich (among other things), but I’d never felt the need to tackle this offal matter at home.

But then one day, I felt like making these, figuring that instead of the pork cheeks, I’d substitute in the tongue.  Not knowing too much about tongue, I assumed that the results would be similar since tongue is a rather fatty, gelatinous cut.

So, before I left for work one day, I tossed the requisite ingredients into my handy dandy slow cooker alongside the tongue, and went on my way.

Unfortunately, sometimes my ignorance of certain ingredients leads to some rather unpleasant situations.

Arriving home, nothing seemed amiss, and I was actually greeted with a pleasant, meaty aroma as I crossed the threshold.

Once I got into the kitchen and fished the tongue out of the braising liquid though, I had a nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right.  What had at first seemed like an intoxicatingly elemental scent jumped quickly into barnyard territory (and beyond) once I got the thing up close.  But, I bravely soldiered on, refusing to admit that I had no idea what I was doing.

The sensible course of action was to peel the massive tongue and shred the meat within, so I grabbed hold of the greasy, nubbly tongue with a turkey lifter and pulled.  As the membrane slid away, the intensely strong odor hit me square in the face.  At this point I felt something close to revulsion (I think it’s the idea of consuming an organ that’s so closely entwined with the act of eating but also still looks like a tongue that’s the problem).

I held on to my big girl panties and grabbed a meaty shred for a bite.  Yup, there was that revulsion I mentioned.  I couldn’t even manage to keep the tongue down and had to spit the remains into the sink.  The texture was greasy, yet stringy, and the smell coming off of it was like the stinkiest farm I’d ever had the misfortune of going to.  Not offal, just awful.

For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what on earth I’d done wrong.  So, (as I often do when things don’t turn out like I expected) I went to the internet in search of answers.  It didn’t take me long to ascertain that my first mistake was not soaking the tongue in clean water for several hours to remove any lingering blood or unwanted aromas.  Curses!

There was no way to salvage the damage I’d done, so after feeding a few nibbles to my curious cats, I disposed of the spent tongue and quickly took the contents of the bag out to our garbage bin.  In the brief time that the peeled tongue sat on the cutting board, the scent had managed to permeate throughout the entire house.

The moral of the story here?  Do a bit of research before you try to cook something strange and new.  Had I done so, I probably wouldn’t have had to throw out my only grass fed tongue.

Will I try to make it again?  Probably not.  I think I’ll leave the tongue hijinx to Grant.  He knows what he’s doing a little better than I do, anyway.

Until next time…

Day by day, it’s getting colder and colder, and becoming more and more apparent that summer is long gone.  With that shift in seasons, we spend a little less time cooking outside on the grill, and a little more time indoors baking, braising and stewing, etc.

One of the indicators that typically signals the arrival of fall for me is my willingness to spend time making homemade stock.  Such a steamy, sweaty endeavour would be out of the question during the dog days of summer, but in the fall when days are brisker and nights hold a chill, warming the air with rich, meaty scents sounds like a wonderful, reflective idea.  It also happens to appeal to my waste-not-want-not mentality.  Each time I make stock, I continually marvel at the amount of flavour you can extract from little more than kitchen scraps.  And with such a small amount of effort, you can improve just about every dish you add it to.  Bored of rice?  Simmer it in stock.  Making mashed potatoes?  Boil those in stock first, too.  Deglazing pan juices?  Stock can do that.  In just about any cooking application where you would use water or wine, stock makes a flavourful stand-in.

But, before we get to the meat of the matter, a few “suggestions” about making stock that will make life a little easier.

1) Be organic – I try to buy as much organic food as possible, mostly because I think it tastes better, but also because it’s better for me and the environment.  I usually try not to preach to others about why they should too, because I understand that some things about food are very personal matters.  In this case I’m breaking my rule, though.  If at all possible, try to use organic food to make your stock.  With something as simple and elemental as boiled bones and veg, imperfections easily come through, so starting with the best product possible will automatically put you ahead.

2) Save, save, save – If you roasted a chicken, save that cleaned carcass in a ziploc bag in the freezer.  Once you’ve amassed a few, you’ll be well on your way to a flavourful stock.  And don’t hesitate to add vegetable trimmings to the bag either, as long as they’re cleaned first.  Carrot peels, onion skins and celery leaves all make great additions to a stock base.

3) Roast – Yes, you can make stock without roasting the veg or bones first, but why would you want to?  Roasting is a really easy way to add another layer of flavour, and only takes about an hour (most of which is inactive, anyway).  Plus, it imparts a richer hue to the finished stock.

4) Season lightly – It makes sense not to season stock too heavily, especially at the beginning.  Stock is a liquid that reduces over several hours, so what might have tasted perfectly seasoned at first, will probably taste overly salty 3 hours later.  Leaving stock as a blank canvas also leaves you with more options once it comes time to use it, allowing you to season to taste then.

By keeping those rules in mind, it’s really quite easy to make stock.  I’ll leave you with my foolproof method, which has been adapted over the years from The Joy Of Cooking and Food Matters.  Once it’s finished, you can use it immediately, keep some in the fridge, or do as I do, and freeze it into manageable portions (in my case, silicone muffin liners) for ease of use later.  Enjoy!

Foodie’s Roasted Chicken Or Beef Stock

4-5.5 lbs of meaty beef or chicken bones

1 chopped skin-on onion, or equivalent trimmings (about 1 c.)

1-2 chopped carrots, or equivalent trimmings (about 1 c.)

2 chopped celery stalks, or equivalent trimmings (about 1 c.)

cheesecloth and kitchen twine for bouquet garni

small bunch of parsley stems

6-8 sprigs of fresh thyme, or 1 tsp dried

1 bay leaf

2-3 celery leaves (optional if using in the trimmings already)

10 peppercorns

16 c. cold water

Preheat oven to 425*.  In a large roasting pan, distribute meaty bones and veggie trimmings or roughly chopped vegetables and roast for an hour to hour and a half, shaking pan occasionally to evenly brown contents.  Once roasted, remove roasted bones and vegetables to an extra large heavy-bottomed pot with a slotted spoon.  Pour 2 of the 16 cups of water into the empty roasting pan and using a wooden spoon scrape any roasted brown bits up with the water.  Pour roasting water into the stock pot, and top bones and vegetables with 14 more cups of cold water, or enough to cover.  Assemble the bouquet garni by folding a small square of cheesecloth in half and filling with parsley, thyme, bay, celery leaves and peppercorns; tied closed.  Toss bouquet garni into stockpot, submerging under water.  Bring stock to a boil, then reduce heat and cover slightly, simmering on very low heat for 3-4 hours.  While simmering, occasionally skim foamy scum from the top of the pot with a slotted spoon.  Once finished, carefully strain bones and vegetables out of the stock and transfer stock to a clean bowl or pot.  If desired, reduce further to intensify the flavours, about an hour, or leave as-is and store.

Reduced stock makes about 48-60 stock muffin cubes (12-15 c. worth).

Foodie’s Roasted Veggie Stock

4 chopped carrots, or equivalent trimmings (about 2 c.)

2 chopped skin-on medium onions, or equivalent trimmings (about 2 c.)

2 chopped skin-on potatoes, or equivalent trimmings (about 2 c.)

4 chopped celery stalks, or equivalent trimmings (about 2 c.)

3-4 cloves garlic, smashed

cheesecloth and kitchen twine for bouquet garni

small bunch of parsley stems

6-8 sprigs of fresh thyme, or 1 tsp dried

1 bay leaf

2-3 celery leaves (optional if using in the trimmings already)

10 peppercorns

12 c. cold water

Preheat oven to 425*.  In a large roasting pan, distribute veggie trimmings or roughly chopped vegetables and garlic and roast for an hour to hour and a half, shaking pan occasionally to evenly brown contents.  Once roasted, remove roasted vegetables to an extra large heavy-bottomed pot with a slotted spoon.  Pour 2 of the 12 cups of water into the empty roasting pan and using a wooden spoon scrape any roasted brown bits up with the water.  Pour roasting water into the stock pot, and top vegetables with 10 more cups of cold water, or enough to cover.  Assemble the bouquet garni by folding a small square of cheesecloth in half and filling with parsley, thyme, bay, celery leaves and peppercorns; tied closed.  Toss bouquet garni into stockpot, submerging under water.  Bring stock to a boil, then reduce heat and cover slightly, simmering on very low heat for 3-4 hours.  While simmering, occasionally skim foamy scum from the top of the pot with a slotted spoon.  Once finished, carefully strain vegetables out of the stock and transfer stock to a clean bowl or pot.  If desired, reduce further to intensify the flavours, about an hour, or leave as-is and store.

Reduced stock makes about 32-40 stock muffin cubes (8-10 c. worth).

Until next time…

I’ll be the first to admit that my family does have some rather odd traditions.

For instance, when my sister and I each left the proverbial nest, we’d invariably guilt my mom (a now-retired professional chef) into making our favourite Trinidadian delicacies whenever she’d pop by for a visit, which in my case meant the labour-intensive but delicious dhalpouri roti.  Or on my dad’s side of the family, there’s a yearly Kris Kringle exchange that is more like ultimate gift fighting, with the intent being to steal as many gifts from the people who want them as possible.

Of course, this is nothing in comparison to the Everyman’s family’s tradition of celebrating Festivus “feats of strength” more often than I care to remember.

But, there are no traditions that hold stronger in my family than the yearly batch of Perreault mincemeat, earmarked for Christmas pies. For those of you not in the know, mincemeat is a sweet ground fruit pie filling that’s usually comprised of a mixture of raisins, minced peels, apples, etc and cooked down until thick and syrupy.  As a foodstuff it’s full of various components that I can’t individually stand, but somehow, when you put them together, it just seems to work.

My grandmother, Antoinette Perreault, prepared her homemade mincemeat filling for close to 50 years, always making mammoth batches in the early fall and then fermenting them for a few months before packaging it up to be shipped across the country to her dozen far-flung children.  Because of this, when I was a child it wasn’t considered Christmas until grandma’s batch of mincemeat arrived in the mail and my had dad picked up a few Tenderflake crusts from the grocery store.

But, times have changed.  Grandma lives in an old folks home now, and no longer has the capacity to produce anything on such a grand scale.  As for me, I’ve all but outgrown my taste for mincemeat, but my father hasn’t, so every year without fail, I whip up a batch to send to him at Christmas, for nostalgia’s sake.

Honestly, I really didn’t think our mincemeat was all that different from the way anyone else made mincemeat, until the day an old coworker of mine enquired about the contents of the package I was taking to the post office to ship to my dad.  In something akin to the Friends episode where Rachel accidentally combines trifle and shepherd’s pie recipes, I went through the list of ingredients and she seemed intrigued.  Until I got to the meat.  Yes, meat.  Not just suet either, but actual boiled, minced beef.  At which point my friend started retching and backing away from my desk rather quickly.  Which was around the time that I realized that perhaps our version of mincemeat wasn’t quite so normal after all.  Since then, I’ve often wondered whether our recipe was somehow mistakenly combined with one for tortiere, but my dad insists that this is a traditional method somewhere.

Since then, I’ve made the mincemeat many times.  And in general, it’s pretty much the Everyman’s least favourite time of year.  Every year I say I’m going to start a little earlier, but it seems that my preparation has gotten consecutively later over the last 5 or so years.  It’s always a combination of disgusting tasks (boiling ground beef) and hard manual labour (grinding dried fruits and candied peels).  For the most part, I’ve typically soldiered on using the aforementioned food mill, but this year it occurred to me that the meat grinding attachment on my stand mixer would be just the ticket.  5 minutes into the process, I was mentally kicking myself for not thinking of this sooner, but hindsight, as they say, is 20/20.

After making short work of the grinding process, the melange of meats and fruits were combined in a heavy-bottomed pot with some sugar, vinegar and spices, and the long, slow simmer began.  After what felt like an eternity, the mincemeat came together and formed that slightly gelatinous paste that is the mark of a well made batch.  Removed from the heat, it is scooped into reusable containers (depending on your shipping method, either glass canners or tupperware tubs are fine options).  It ferments and settles in the back of the fridge for a few months, then come Christmastime, it’ll be spooned into pie shells or tart forms for a sweet and savoury taste of home.  Enjoy!

Grandmere Perreault’s Famous Mincemeat Pie Filling

1 c. boiled minced beef

0.5 c. suet (beef fat)

1 c. sugar

4 c. apples, chopped (about 5 to 7)

2 c. raisins

1 c. minced candied peels

0.5 tsp salt

1 tbsp allspice

1 tbsp cinnamon

0.33 c. vinegar

0.66 c. water

Boil beef in a small pot of water until cooked through, remove from liquid and set aside.  Run all fruit and meat through a food mill or meat grinder until a mostly smooth consistency is achieved (2 passes of the mill vs 1 for the grinder).  Combine all ingredients in a heavy-bottomed pot and cook over low heat, stirring occasionally to prevent scorching.  Continue to cook until mixture becomes thick and jammy.  Remove from heat and put in sterilized sealers if canning, or reusable plastic containers if not.  Refrigerate and allow to ripen for 6 to 8 weeks.  May be frozen after ripening until ready to use.

Makes enough to fill 2 pies.  Best served in a full lard crust.

Until next time…

Earlier this year, the Everyman and I had a mostly forgettable dinner at Noce during Winterlicious.  At the time I thought it was quite a shame, because I’d heard nothing but good things about the restaurant prior to our visit.

The one bright spot in our meal was a creamy polenta dish with a sausage ragu that the Everyman literally inhaled.  The other night while trying to come up with something appealing to make for dinner, that particular dish came to mind.  It had a richness of flavour to it that was wholly comforting in its simplicity, like being wrapped in a warm, fluffy blanket on a cold winter day.

Comfort foods are usually creamy, somewhat fatty, protein-laden dishes, and while I enjoy all of those elements, I have been trying to make a shift toward slightly healthier, less meat-centric dishes lately.  With that caveat, I intended to create a dish that had all the impact of its comfort food counterpart, but lighter and exhibiting a refined elegance.  I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I was confident that I could pull it off.

First I started a pot of chicken broth and milk to boil.

Once bubbling, I added the cornmeal, reduced the heat to medium and set in for a good, long stir.

In the meantime, I retrieved the remnants of a pound of ground beef that had been used to make hamburgers for dinner the previous evening, and mixed in some leftover roasted garlic pesto.  The meat was then shaped into a dozen polpettini (tiny meatballs).

Browned off in a skillet with a drizzle of olive oil, they were set to rest while I continued the polenta twirl.  After what seemed like an inordinate amount of stirring, the coarsely ground meal suddenly soaked up all of the liquid and magically transformed into a velvety smooth paste.  A quick swirl of ricotta, salt and pepper completed the dish.  Surprisingly, the whole thing came together in less than half an hour, much quicker than I had expected.  And the result?  A perfectly homey, satisfying meal, that was relatively healthy and easy to make.  Score!

Foodie’s Polenta And Polpettini

8 oz ground beef

1 tbsp pesto

0.5 tbsp olive oil

1 c. chicken broth

1 c. milk

0.5 c. cornmeal

2 tbsp ricotta cheese

In a medium saucepan bring the broth and milk to a boil.  Once rolling, add the cornmeal, reduce heat to a simmer and stir constantly.  Mix ground beef with pesto and form into 12 loosely formed meatballs.  Heat olive oil over medium high heat in a skillet and fry the polpettini in batches until browned.  Continue stirring cornmeal until all liquid is absorbed, and polenta is creamy.  Remove from heat, add ricotta cheese and season with salt and pepper.  Serve immediately.

Makes 2-4 servings.

Until next time…

The Everyman and I had company over for dinner on the weekend, which necessitated an early morning jaunt to the farmer’s market to procure the appropriate supplies.

Whilst there, I came across some dainty squash blossoms at my regular heirloom tomato stand and though I knew they’d be too “out there” for our guests, I couldn’t resist picking up a clamshell for myself, anyway.

I’ve eaten the blossoms in restaurants before, but never bothered to prepare them at home.  After staring at them in the fridge for a few days, I settled on what I considered would be a complimentary, yet homey stuffing.  A lot of people will tell you that squash blossoms should be stuffed with cheese, or dipped in batter and deep fried, but I say no.  Instead, I modified a stuffing recipe that I often use for peppers, to produce these tiny morsels of delectability.

First, you have to split open the flowers so that you have room to fit the stuffing inside.

Next, prepare a couple of bell peppers (chocolate and vanilla) for the stuffing overrun (I knew I should have bought 2 clamshells); pictured here with the secret umami-ful ingredient.

Then, the filling is stewed together in a saucepan until thickened and delicious.  Lastly, it’s stuffed into the pepper shells and blossom petals, and baked until warmed through and toasty.  Delish!

Foodie’s Squash Blossoms

2 bell peppers, halved (or another clamshell of squash blossoms)

1 clamshell of squash blossoms, gently rinsed

0.5 lbs ground beef

0.5 c. crushed tomatoes

0.25 c. bulgur

1 tbsp marash pepper, rehydrated

0.5 tbsp parsley

1 tsp porcini salt

parmagiano reggiano

In a medium saucepan, brown the ground beef until cooked through, about 5 minutes.  Add the crushed tomatoes and break up with the back of a wooden spoon.  Place the bulgur in a small bowl and add an equal amount of scalding tap water and the marash pepper, then cover with a towel, allowing to steep for 10 minutes.  Once the water has absorbed, add the bulgur mixture to the saucepan, stirring to combine.  Add the parsley, porcini salt and freshly grated parmagiano reggiano to taste, allowing to simmer for a minute to melt the cheese.  Preheat the oven to 350*.  While heating, stuff the blossoms with the ground beef and bulgur, and place in an oven-safe baking dish.  Stuff bell pepper halves with the remains of the filling (if you only have 1 clamshell of blossoms), then bake for 30 minutes.  Serve immediately.

Makes 4 servings.

Until next time…

Rather unsurprising to you I’m sure, but the Everyman and I both really love a good steak.

Despite the fact that we purchased a quarter cow earlier this year, I would comfortably estimate that we eat red meat once or twice a week, but probably eat steak only once a month.  Much to the Everyman’s chagrin, of course!

To be fair, the Everyman consumes steak much more regularly than I, as it’s his de facto higher-end equivalent to a BLT or club sandwich.  (For a long time after I first met him, he had this quirk about only ordering BLTs, club sandwiches or chicken fingers when we went out to new casual restaurants, or always ordered a steak when we went out to nicer ones.  He’s gotten better over the years and experiments much more often, but his thought process behind those choices has to do with the unlikelihood that the kitchen will screw up those kind of orders)

At any rate, thanks to that glorious quarter cow, we have a plethora of steak cuts lounging in our storage freezer (soon to be joined by my half hog, actually).  Through some amazing twist of fate, when our cow was delivered all of the meat was portioned into either a steak, a roast or ground, omitting the usual stewing cubes and flaccid stir-fry strips that would likely not get used around these parts, anyhow.  I’ve blown through half of the roasts already just by making beef jerky, and the ground gets used for weekly burger nights, meatballs and chilis, but the steaks have languished by and large.  It’s not that we don’t enjoy them; their grass-fed beefiness is exquisite.  It’s just that (to me, anyway) beef of this calibre seems to require more care, forethought even.  Sometimes when you get home after a long day at work, that just feels like too much effort.

Well, the other night steak seemed to be exactly what the doctor ordered, so I lit up the grill and started perusing the internest for recipes.  I came across this and was mildly intrigued, so I decided to give it a whirl.  I made a bunch of changes to the proportions, then slathered it on the steak and left it to marinate for twenty minutes.  In retrospect I’d probably leave this sitting longer next time (but you know what they say about hindsight).  A quick char on the grill and we were off to the races.  It was smoky, a little spicy (could use more heat next time) and just a little tangy. And with a tiny sprinkle of lime salt it was elevated to a completely new level. Methinks I just fell in love!

Foodie’s Steak Marinade (adapted from Epicurious)

1 chipotle pepper en adobo, plus 1-2 tablespoons reserved adobo sauce (depending on desired consistency)

1 bay leaf, crushed

0.5 tbsp paprika or pimenton

1 tsp cumin

Whiz contents together in a food processor until they form a slightly thickened paste.  Baste both sides (plus all fat) of 2 t-bone steaks (or your favourite cut of meat) with the paste and let sit for a minimum of an hour up to 6 hours.

Grill on medium high heat until desired doneness is reached.  Serve immediately.

Makes enough to marinate 2 large steaks.

Served with some crisp green beans, cherry tomato caprese salad, and a slice of my delicious rosemary filone, it made a thoroughly enjoyable, but not overly heavy summer meal.  We’ll definitely be having this again, and luckily we have such a stockpile of steaks on hand to do so whenever I please.

Until next time…

First, there was the tower of jerky (actually, it took 3 of those towers of cooling racks 4 racks deep to get through all of the jerky meat I marinated) and I’m still working on drying it all.  Before it gets dried it sort of looks like a giant tower of bacon, doesn’t it?

And the usual trifecta of perfectly crispy baguettes.

Then there was my next evolutionary step in learning to love the humble panna cotta.

Plus some infused simple syrup for a little cocktail mixology.

And a bit of fiddling about with a moussey-type pate.

So, as you can see I’ve been busy as a beaver.  There’s always lots going on in the Foodie/Everyman household.  I’ll be posting more detailed writeups on most of these projects throughout the week, so stay tuned.

Until next time…

Being the considerate, caring soul that I am, I noticed that the Everyman’s supply of jerky was dwindling yesterday.

The Everyman absolutely loves jerky, so every couple of months I spend a day making him an Everyman-sized batch that usually lasts for about 2 to 3 months.  It’s also a good way to use up all of the eye of round roasts we got in our split side of beef that I wouldn’t prepare otherwise (we’re not big pot roast-type people).  The first time I ever made jerky was after purchasing Charcuterie by Michael Ruhlman and Brian Polcyn about 3 or 4 years ago, while my father happened to be in town for a visit (and who subsequently thought I was insane).  But, back then I was doing it all by hand, which really is a lot of work and probably not worth it unless you’re fanatical about jerky.  When I finally decided to make guanciale this year, I impulsively bought a small countertop deli slicer, rationalizing that it would get plenty of use from all the charcuterie I planned to make.

Well, let’s just say I don’t have nearly enough opportunities to use the foodie equivalent of a circular saw; if only because the thing is so hard to clean that I dread pulling it out.  But, despite the hassle of clean up, it makes slicing half-frozen beef roasts a breeze, and it’s obviously a much easier method for maintaining uniform width.  I decided to go for the gusto and sliced up 2 whole roasts (one a round and one called a clod) which amounted to a triple batch of jerky, wet weight totalling almost 7 pounds.  Now that I’m getting a little more serious about homemade cured meats, I’ll probably use the slicer more often; I’ll just have to time my slicing so I do it all at once to minimize the cleaning headache.  Plus, now that we have the smoker, I can make smoked turkey that the Everyman can then shave on the slicer.

I use the jerky recipe from Charcuterie as a guide, but as with anything I like to make my own tweaks and modifications.  Firstly, I almost double the chipotle en adobo, because it’s a really striking flavor and there’s never enough of it.  Then I also add jalapeno flakes and a few small pinches of tomato powder.  I’ve occasionally added pimenton to the mix, but I find it tends to compete with the adobo rather than harmonizing beneficially.  A recipe, for your perusal;

Foodie’s Beefy Jerky (adapted from Charcuterie)

2.25 lbs eye of round roast, sliced 1/4 to 1/8 inch thick

0.66 c. chipotle en adobo, pureed

1.5 tbsp kosher salt

0.5 tbsp jalapeno flakes

1.75 tsp garlic powder

1.75 tsp onion powder

1.75 tsp tomato powder

Combine all ingredients except sliced beef in a bowl and stir until combined into a loose paste.  Toss paste with beef slices to coat and seal in a large, heavy duty ziploc bag.  Refrigerate overnight, turning meat every few hours.  After resting for 24 hours, massage plastic bag one more time to evenly distribute marinade liquid and preheat oven to the lowest possible setting.  If the oven cannot be set below 200*, leave the door slightly ajar for the duration of the cooking process (and open as many windows as possible to allow for proper ventilation).  Arrange beef slices on a wire rack above a sheet pan and dry in the oven anywhere from 8-20 hours, depending on oven temperature and thickness of meat.  You’ll know the jerky is ready when it’s slightly translucent, dark purple and extremely stiff.  Remove from oven and allow to cool.  Store in tightly sealed plastic bags almost indefinitely.

Makes approximately 1-1.5 lbs.

Because I’m making such a large batch this time, I may decide to prepare part of it in my fancy dancy electric smoker .  More than anything it depends on the weather we get for the rest of the weekend, and what other projects I have on my plate.  Any way you slice it, I’m sure the Everyman will find it delicious.

Until next time…

Super Bowl Sunday is no different… I can’t bear to sit through hours of sports on TV and I often end up getting frustrated with the Everyman for monopolizing the TV and subjecting me to so much boring, sexist crap.  I take issue with sports that involve women prancing around in skimpy outfits for the enjoyment of men.  I think it’s demeaning and awful regardless of the fact that women do it willingly, and in general encourages pandering to the lowest common denominator.  Objectifying women really just gets my blood boiling overall, because really, you don’t see men in g-strings prancing around at female sporting events to get the crowd going, so why is it ok to expect that of women?  Aside from that weird group of fat male cheerleaders that is… but that’s an entirely different scenario altogether.

Anyhow, the Stupid Bowl (as I call it) is just another eating holiday to me, and this year (like the last) I decided to make chili.  I don’t really enjoy chili all that much, but the Everyman does, and I do like hamming it up in the kitchen, so I do what I can.  This year I made a few modifications to an old favorite, a tequila lime chili.  Read on for the recipe and happy eating!

Foodie’s Tequila Lime Chili

1 lb ground beef

1-2 chorizo sausages, removed from casings

1 red onion, diced

4 cloves garlic, finely chopped

3 tbsp ancho chili powder

1-2 dried pasilla chilis, finely ground

1 tbsp cumin

3 c. chicken stock

3 oz tequila

1 can chopped tomatoes

1 tbsp chipotle in adobo

1 tbsp honey

2 c. soaked and drained dried black beans

1 c. cooked bulgur

2 tbsp fresh lime juice

Heat a large dutch oven until almost smoking and add the diced onions.  Cook until translucent and then add the ground beef and chorizo meat.  Cook until the meat is browned on all sides, breaking up chunks.  Add the garlic and saute until fragrant.  Add the cumin and chili powders and cook until toasted slightly.  Next add the chicken stock and tequila, and bring to a boil.  Allow the liquid to reduce slightly and then reduce heat to a simmer.  Add the tomatoes, chipotles, and honey and cook for 15 minutes.  Then add the black beans and bulgur, and cook covered for an additional 45 minutes.  Remove lid, stir in lime juice, and taste to adjust seasonings.

Serves 6 to 8.

Until next time…

I did not adopt a cow, although I should, because that would give me easy access to a cow whenever I wanted.  Instead, last night our first split side of beef was dropped off at the house.  It’s not quite a cow in the form I originally wished for, but this kind has its benefits too.

Firstly, it gives me access to a very high quality of meat at an affordable price.  Our organic grocer sources pasture-fed, organic and all-natural animals, and our particular cow was an all-natural beast.  With a hanging weight of 114 pounds, the net product was around 100 pounds of meat.  For those of you who have never purchased a split side of an animal before, 100 pounds is a pretty large quantity of meat volumetricly speaking.  Being that it is only the Everyman and I, hearty eaters though we may be, I fully expect this cow will last us through for the next 9 to 12 months.  100 pounds almost completely filled the 3 shelves of my 13+ cubic foot upright freezer.  As I was putting it all away last night, I was struck with an odd combination of mischievousness and gluttony.  I felt like I was preparing for a cold war or something.   Having grown up in a situation where I did not always have enough to get by, I often have a lingering desire to make sure I never go hungry again.  Part of that was what prompted me to purchase this cow in the first place.  Having it in the freezer downstairs makes me feel more comfortable in the fact that I know I will always have something to eat.

Secondly, I am passionate about supporting local farmers and purveyors who do their best to raise animals ethically and as naturally as possible.  There is too much factory farming going on worldwide, and I do not want to support that.  Not only are conventionally farmed animals not as good for you nutrient-wise, they also tend to come with residual hormones and antibiotics that have no business being in my body.  Buying a large animal helps ensure that farmers who take the time to do it right can continue what they’re doing and (hopefully) still make a profit doing it.

Lastly, it reinforces the nose-to-tail philosophy that I also believe in.  If you are going to kill an animal, you should give it enough respect to try and use as much of that product as possible, and not let anything go to waste.  This includes things like organs, feet, tails, and tongues.  Just because these things are not popular in the North American diet, does not give us the right to throw them away.  It does not honor the animal to pick and choose only the best cuts and leave all the rest.  And so, even though I have little experience with these things, I will now find a purpose for the tongue, bones and off cuts I received.  Even if they only get used for stocks and braises, I will make sure that they do not get thrown away, because that would not only be wasteful for me, but wasteful for the animal and farmer who raised it for me.

So, for the months ahead I will post an ongoing chronicle of my quest to use all that has been given to me.  It may be ugly, and some of it may be downright weird, but I invite you to read along and see what I manage to come up with.  Who knows, I may even inspire some of you to do the same.

Until next time…