On a desert island

So I have just finished making flat chicken and green noodles for the boy, who is home from college. I just love flat chicken, which is just chicken breasts pounded thin, coated in seasoned bread crumbs and fried in lemon juice, oil and a little butter. I also love green noodles, which are just thin spaghetti noodles tossed with pesto and Parmesan cheese.

But it got me to thinking about that old chestnut of a question: If you could have just one thing on a desert island, what would it be? I cannot choose one thing but I think it is entirely appropriate to pick one item from the four major food groups, at least as we see them here in the South. So here goes.

Vegetables: Macaroni and cheese. Yes, macaroni and cheese is a vegetable in the South. If you doubt this, just look at any menu at a Meat and Three and you will see macaroni and cheese listed every time.

Meat (or as every TV chef now refers to it, protein): Pig. Of course. What other animal provides you with so many different tastes? Bacon. Ham. Pulled pork. Ribs. Fatback. Yes, fatback. That may take this category into my next major food group.

Grease: This is a major food group in the South. Noah learned the answer to this question at an early age: What makes everything taste better? Grease. If I were on a desert island I could probably scare up a fish or two but what would I do with it? If I had grease, there would be no question. And since I have my pig already, I would have bacon grease and fatback.

Dairy: Butter. Does that count as dairy or grease? I’m a little confused on that one. I do not understand people who buy margarine. I just don’t get it. I think I have even converted Bunny on this question. My mother-in-law loves the Parkay squeeze bottle, but I have been over to her house enough lately that I have started sneaking butter into her icebox. This trip, I actually found a box of butter I did not put there. Good girl. But I digress.

So I have my mac and cheese, pork, grease and butter. I think that about covers it. If I ever end up on Survivor, I will be the only contestant to actually gain weight. I think I will go online right now and apply. Does wine count as the one luxury item every player gets to bring? Gosh, I hope so.

Happy anniversary

To me. Happy anniversary to me and Mark, of course.

We have no photos of our wedding. There is no wedding dress to look at as I lament the fact that I can’t fit into it anymore. And there were no guests who I can reminisce with about the glory of that special day.

Here is how we got married 21 years ago. We lived in Reno. We were returning library books at the downtown library, after which we planned to go to Sears to buy a lawnmower. I had been searching for a ring and there was one jewelry store I had not visited. In a matter of minutes, I found the ring that I still proudly wear today. “We can put it in the safety deposit box until we decide whether to have the wedding here or in Charlotte,” I told Mark. He said: “We can get the marriage license today, too, because it’s good for a year.” You can see where this is going, can’t you?

So we get the license and then we decide to go have a drink, a gin and tonic if I remember (which I do). It is about 11 in the morning, which is not too early for a drink in Reno. That’s why I love the place so much. They even serve martini samples in grocery stores. My kind of town.

The clerk’s office is right now the street. So I, in my Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt and shorts, and Mark, in similar attire, stroll down there. “Can I help you?”the clerk asks. “Yes, we think you can.” About 10 minutes later we were married. We then adjourned to Louie’s Basque Corner for lunch (I had pork chops). I flashed the ring at the waitress and told her we had just gotten married. She was unimpressed. Reno is a town that sees many marriages, most ill-conceived. I am sure she did not give us much chance for survival.

And then we went to Sears and bought a lawnmower. The entire day, wedding and all, cost us $149. In fact, it cost us more to buy the lawnmower than it did to get hitched. This, of course, appeals to my thrifty nature. When my sister got married a few years later, I remember that the price tag was $10,000. Ten thousand smackers. Back then, that was a hefty down payment on a new home.

In the last 21 years I have progressed in my Southern cooking. In 1990, I could not fry chicken, make cornbread or assemble a proper tomato sandwich. I had not perfected homemade pimento cheese, had never heard of hot chicken salad or learned that if you did not have greens, black-eyed peas and some form of pork on New Year’s Day that you were doomed for the year. I know all that now. It’s in my blood and I am passing those traditions down to my son.

So happy anniversary to me. I made a good marriage. We may not be rich in the conventional way, but we eat well, laugh a lot and still love each other with a passion. I think it’s working out pretty well so far.

Cubans

Not the people of Cuba, although I am very fond of them. The sandwich. The sandwich that many of you have never heard of. Such a pity.

If you grew up in Tampa, as I did, you could barely get down a commercial street block without encountering a Cuban sandwich. There is some debate over whether the Cuban originated in Cuba or was the result of the immigrant population that took root in South Florida, particularly Ybor City in Tampa, in the early 1900s. Considering that one of the integral ingredients in a Cuban is Swiss cheese, I’ll wager the latter.

A Cuban should be made with Cuban bread, which is a long loaf with a palm frond baked into the top of it. You take the frond off before you make the sandwich, of course, but that’s what marks the authentic bread. Then it’s ham, roast pork, Swiss cheese, dill pickles and mustard. I have also seen the application of mayonnaise, which I wholeheartedly support. The absolute key to the greatness of this sandwich is that the bread is buttered on the outside and pressed until it is gloriously crispy.

The reason I bring all this up is that I had a Cuban today from the Publix. You know of my devotion to Publix, not the least of which is that they stock authentic Cuban sandwiches in Brentwood, Tennessee. This is because they are a Lakeland-based grocery chain in Florida, near Tampa, and they completely understand the importance of a Cuban sandwich.

Before Publix came to Middle Tennessee, I had to bring them back from visits to Tampa. I will never forget the first time I brought Cubans back and Mark stuck one in the microwave before I could stop him. I started to cry. There was no way to revive the bread.

So, how do you make a Cuban? First, if you have a Publix just go there and get one. You can’t do better. If you are without Publix, find the best French baguette you can. Slice it and fill it with thinly sliced ham, thinly sliced pork tenderloin (you can also buy that at Publix), a couple slices of Swiss cheese, dill pickles and yellow mustard. Butter the tops of the baguette and press. I must say by far the cheapest and most effective press is a bacon press from Lodge wrapped in heavy duty foil for easy clean-up.

I’m going to leave you with another recipe, also from Publix, for a Cuban sandwich casserole. It has most of the components of a Cuban and is really delicious.

By the way, back to my fondness of the Cuban people. This is a heartfelt sentiment. My first boyfriend was of Cuban descent. Gabriel Perez. He took me to my first prom. All you girls know that’s all I need to say about that. Many of my childhood food memories are wrapped up in Cuba. Black beans and rice at the Columbia restaurant in Ybor City. Ropa Vieja at a cafeteria-style restaurant in Tampa with fried plantains on the side.  Many, many of my high school classmates and dearest friends are of Cuban descent. So much more interesting than my entirely and boring English ancestry. Where are the mojitos, English people? Where?

Korean-style pork

This is so fabulous. We’re having a snow day. Tennesseans, at least the ones in Middle Tennessee, don’t do snow well. Actually, come to think of it, we do snow very well. We stay inside. We eat a lot. Maybe have a few cocktails. That’s much better than mucking about outside, freezing and slipping all over the place. Much better.

So because we are “stuck” in our houses and cannot do anything remotely productive, we noodle around. This morning I have written my Christmas letter (I always do this after Christmas so I don’t get stressed about it), accompanied by a cup of coffee laced with Bushmill’s. I have taken several snow pictures from the comfort of my own home. I have checked out the traffic cameras from various Southern states that also got snow to see how pathetic the rest of my brethren are doing. I have not had the slightest notion to get out of my jammies yet.

I know. I know. When is she getting to the Korean-style pork, you are all wondering. One of my greatest achievements as a cook is figuring out what to do with the knobby end of a pork tenderloin.  You know that part. If you don’t cut it off before you cook the tenderloin, it’s the piece nobody wants. It’s just ugly. However, if you cut it off and freeze it, at some point you will accumulate enough knobby ends to make Korean-style pork.

What you want to do is let the pork thaw about halfway until you can thinly slice it. Then you marinate it in a yummy sauce and fry it at a high temperature with a little oil in the skillet. It’s super easy and super good served over rice with some roasted broccoli.  And the reason I decided to write about Korean-style pork on a snow day is that I happened to have everything on hand to make it.

You can, of course make this with regular pork tenderloin.

O.K., time for a Bloody Mary.

Korean-style pork

1/2 pound pork tenderloin scraps

2 tablespoons brown sugar

2 tablespoons soy sauce

1 teaspoon Thai red curry paste

1 teaspoon dark sesame oil

1 large garlic clove, sliced

Cut tenderloin into thin sliced. Combine the rest of the ingredients in a bowl and add the pork. Marinate in the refrigerator for one hour. Heat a little oil in a skillet over medium high heat. Add the pork, with the garlic, and sauté until the pork is nicely browned.

 

 

 

Martin’s BBQ

This just says it all. The smoker inside Martin’s BBQ in Nolensville. It is open on one side of the dining room so that, if you wish, you can just immerse yourself in a cloud of sweet smelling smoke. I am in love.

I resist BBQ restaurants. I used to love them, but once I started judging competition BBQ it was impossible to go back to commercially produced ‘que. I am a snob in that regard and I freely admit it. But I now have to reconsider.

Patrick Martin, a former bonds trader, opened his first restaurant a few years ago. I began to hear the buzz. Then Martin opened a bigger restaurant. More buzz. Then he got invited to cook at the Big Apple BBQ Block Party, a not inconsequential achievement. But what really got my attention was when I realized he was hanging with the Southern Foodways Alliance.  He made the pilgrimage to Oxford for cow’s head tacos this year. I decide I need to take a twenty minute ride to Nolensville.

Worth it.

To set the benchmark,  I order a pulled pork sandwich. The basic building block for any BBQ joint. It is moist and succulent and smoke-laced. And it comes on a soft bun that has been kissed with butter and grilled. Noah who is my lunch companion, notes that I put a lot of stock in bread that comes with a sandwich. I do. Bad bread can ruin a good sandwich and there’s no excuse for that. I am mildly surprised that the sandwich comes sauced. Most do not. But then I pause and realize that the sandwich is sauced because that’s the way Patrick Martin wants you to eat it. And he is right.

Noah gets the brisket taco. He swoons. Noah has picked up the fine art of food appreciation and swooning is definitely part of the package. There is a sort of tomato jam on the taco that I will have to investigate further when I return to Martin’s. And that just might be next week. If you read about Patrick Martin you will find out that he is one of a dying breed of whole-hog cooks. He learned the art from an old stick burner and he will pass his knowledge down to others to keep the tradition alive. I appreciate that dedication. As I said, I am in love.

Howard tackles sausage balls

My friend Howard Lewis undertook the ambitious task of making sausage balls this past weekend. Howard is the travel agent to the stars in Beverly Hills, but of course he never talks about his clients. Howard is the embodiment of discretion in all things. He is also earnestly embracing Southern culture, of which sausage balls is a major player. I would venture to say that nobody in Beverly Hills has ever heard of a sausage ball. What a pity.

Howard relates to me that he journeys to the super market, no doubt in his jaunty bow tie and button down shirt, to acquire the exotic bulk sausage (Jimmy Dean, but that’s O.K.), grated sharp Cheddar cheese and Bisquick. He finds the first two ingredients, but the Bisquick eludes him. He asks for assistance and is told the Bisquick is in the pancake batter section.

And when he locates it, he discovers it is gluten free! That is the only kind of Bisquick this store carries. Where is the regular Bisquick that all of America loves? Apparently, all of America except Beverly Hills. So Howard takes his gluten free Bisquick home and proceeds to make sausage balls.

You have to understand the profound transformation Howard is going through. This is a man who wouldn’t eat bacon for years and just ordered a case of it from Benton’s. This is a man who writes a blog called Appetite for Excess, but who almost needs to make an appointment with a therapist after eating a sausage biscuit.

Perhaps, I am being too hard on Howard. After Terrell’s funeral, he ate an entire Southern breakfast at the Cracker Barrel and didn’t seem at all bothered by that.

But I digress. Howard e-mails me after his sausage ball making foray. He is distraught that all the Bisquick was not absorbed by the sausage. I briefly consider if gluten free Bisquick could react differently to sausage. Perhaps sausage actively repels gluten free Bisquick. I make a note to put a box of real Bisquick in the mail to Howard. I don’t want to lose any momentum here as Howard discovers the joy of pork fat.

At the end of the day all that matters, though, is that Howard was happy. He loved the sausage balls. They’re supposed to be the size of walnuts, but he got carried away and made some of them the size of golf balls. Perhaps that is why he had to take a nap at his desk after polishing off the leftovers this morning.

Next, Howard, we will tackle the quintessential Southern holiday treat, artichoke dip. It involves mayonnaise. Lots of it. I’ll be putting some Duke’s in that care package, too. Brace yourself.

Illicit lard trafficking

I am so sorry that I have been away from here for a few days, but I have been very busy initiating the illegal transport of lard across state lines.

I was forever asking Terrell about lard, assuming that he had a few blocks stashed away on top of his stove. But he’d just tell me to buy it at the supermarket, which I was not about to do. You just do not know where those pigs have been that supermarket lard comes from.

I have a fantasy of frying chicken in lard. And, of late, it’s become an obsession. So I was in Atlanta a few weeks ago at the Peachtree Road Farmer’s Market. And I happen upon a sausage stand. I am not going to tell you the name, and you will understand why in a moment. I pose the question: “Do you have lard?” And the proprietor answers that he does not but that he might be able to ship me some. I become extremely excited and upon arriving home start to plan for my beautiful lard-laden fried chicken.

I begin a correspondence with my lard purveyor and he informs me that shipping will be a little tricky because officially he’s not supposed to send anything over state lines. But he is willing. I place my order. I wait expectantly for days. No lard.

I sense my lard provider is getting cold feet and I am right. And, actually, he is right because it definitely is not worth losing your food license because of some deranged woman in Tennessee who has designs on your lard. By the way, I would like to say here that for those of you who think lard is bad for you, it is not. Well, not that bad. Butter is worse for you than lard, and I eat at least a stick of butter a day and am none the worse for wear because of it. Plus my skin glows.

But I digress. You know how God has a plan for you? God has a plan for me to get my lard. I get a call from a friend of mine who will be passing through Atlanta in a few weeks. He knows of my lust for lard and he is willing to pick up an order for me. I briefly ponder whether it is also illegal to transport lard across state lines when purchased by a third party. I decide not to pursue the question so I don’t spook my new lard carrier. He will then hand off my lard to a third party at an undisclosed location who is willing to then deliver the lard to me.

Is all this subterfuge worth the trouble? I will report back to you, but I think it is. I have either dabbled or completely immersed myself in everything Southern. I can fry. I can make pie crust. I know my way around a pan of macaroni and cheese. I have the battle scars and burns to prove that I have embraced cast iron.

And now lard. The last frontier.

Pork belly

I am feeling a little embarrassed. It has taken me a very long time to eat pork belly and to figure out what it really is. So here’s the story.

I am at the Peachtree Road Farmers Market in Atlanta Saturday morning. I happen upon Kevin Ouzts, the owner and executive chef of The Spotted Trotter, a charcuterie.  You know I’m all about the sausage. He offers me some fried hog jowl. It is sumptuous and makes me want to take home some of his other products, particularly the sorghum cured pork belly. I have become almost nauseous over the number of times I’ve heard fancy chefs talk about pork belly and I wanted to finally try it. I don’t know how to cook it. I ask the nice lady helping Kevin and she asks if I’ve ever fried bacon. Well, of course, she doesn’t know me. I am practically  made of bacon.

I take my package of pork belly and head to Brentwood. When I get home I proudly display it to Mark and he says, “What are you doing with a package of streak o’ lean?” And it finally dawns on me. The pork belly that various chefs have been adding to their trendy menus is just streak o’ lean! It’s not even fancy!

For those of you who don’t know, streak o’ lean is just a piece of pork off the belly that has a thin layer of meat between too goodly layers of fat. Most Southern cooks use it to season beans. I do not want to take anything away from the chefs who are braising it and infusing it with all manner of good things. But I took the advice of that nice young lady in Atlanta and I sliced it like bacon and fried it.

Oh, my goodness. It was like bacon on steroids. The fat was deliciously crisp and chewy at the same time and the lean meat just melted in my mouth. You could definitely taste the sweet undertones of the sorghum. I am now officially in love with this stuff, whatever you want to call it.

I also want to say that Kevin Ouzts is a genius and I am contemplating moving to Atlanta and setting up housekeeping in the parking lot of the Peachtree Road Farmers Market so I can be up and at it bright and early Saturday mornings to be first in line at The Spotted Trotters stand.

Whipped potatoes with cilantro pesto

Jealousy is such an ugly emotion. Ugly, ugly, ugly. Especially when it is displayed by me.

Friday night the boys and I go over to our friends Kim and Lori’s house. Kim is also a big-time cook and she and I are making supper. I have not seen Kim’s house since she did a giant remodel, tearing out a wall between her old kitchen and the garage and making a brand new kitchen. I know I am going to be impressed…and jealous. Very jealous.

My kitchen is humble. I like to pretend I live in France because my kitchen is about as big as the average kitchen in Paris. I arrive at Kim’s and there it is. A big honking brand new kitchen with everything. She has two sinks, one with a fancy pot filler. She has custom cabinets and deep, deep drawers for her thousands of high quality pots and pans. Her Le Creuset enamel pots look brand new (my one pot is 25 years old and chipped – am I whining yet?).

And then we get to the crushing blow. The stove. I look like I’m smiling here, but it is a facade masking my intense jealousy over this stove. It is an industrial restaurant stove, a six burner. Gas, naturally. Two ovens. Convection. I am green with envy but I do not display it. However, I actually bring the one kitchen tool that Kim does not have. It is a ricer for the whipped potatoes with cilantro pesto. She marvels at it. Says she’s always wanted one. She has the $6,000 stove. I have the $14.99 ricer. I take what solace I can.

The meal is a great success. Kim makes Bobby Flay’s pork chops with a soy and honey glaze. Here’s the recipe. She grills them on her medium Big Green Egg. I have a large one. Ha! Oh, that’s petty, too, isn’t it.

The chops were very tasty. Very tasty, indeed. But the hit of the supper were those whipped potatoes with cilantro pesto.

They are also from a Bobby Flay recipe. I just love Bobby Flay. He’s such a creative guy and his recipes, unlike my former boyfriend, Thomas Keller, are easy to follow. Maybe I’ll make Bobby Flay my new boyfriend. He makes his whipped potatoes with butter and milk and cream. Yes!

So the evening was a smashing success. Great food and great conversation with two of my favorite gal pals. We’re getting ready to leave. I gather up my cookbooks and head for the ricer. “Uh, could I keep it for a few days?” Kim asks. Of course, I respond with a faint whiff of superiority.

Bobby Flay’s Whipped Potatoes with Cilantro Pesto Serves: 4 Fold, don’t mix, the pesto into the potatoes. You want to marble the potatoes with ribbons of the vibrant green pesto. Cilantro Pesto 1 cup tightly packed fresh cilantro leaves 1/4 cup tightly packed parsley leaves 1 garlic clove, coarsely chopped 2 tablespoons pine nuts 1/2 cup olive oil 1/4 cup grated parmesan cheese Salt and freshly ground pepper Combine cilantro, parsley, garlic and pine nuts in a food processor and process until smooth. With the motor running, slowly add the oil until emulsified. Add the cheese and salt and pepper and pulse a few times until combined. Mashed Potatoes 3 pounds baking potatoes, such as Idaho or Russet, peeled and cut into quarters 1 stick unsalted butter, at room temperature 1 cup heavy cream 1 cup milk Salt and freshly ground pepper 1. Place potatoes in a large pot and cover with cold water by 2-inches. Add 1 tablespoon of salt and bring the potatoes to a boil over high heat and cook until soft, 25-30 minutes. Drain well and return them to the pot on the stove over low heat. 2. Combine the butter and milk in a small saucepan and bring to a simmer over low heat. Add the butter and hot milk/cream mixture to the potatoes and mash until smooth. Fold the cilantro pesto into the mashed potatoes and season with salt and pepper.

BBQ season and Mama Dean

It is BBQ season again, bless the Lord. About ten years ago, I got invited to my first competition BBQ contest by my friend, Arlie Bragg. I had never heard of a BBQ contest but I liked BBQ so I went. There were all these people of every age and size wearing little silver name tags. They all seemed to know each other. When we sat down to judge, a nice man explained the rules. Rules? Yes, rules.

After the rule explaining, the eating commenced. Everything I tasted was utterly fantastic – chicken, ribs, pork butt and brisket. I ate liberally. When would I ever get to have this again? Who were these people and how often did they come to Nashville? That afternoon, I probably ate two and a half pounds of meat. I was on protein overload and didn’t touch anything but vegetables for the next three weeks.

Well, I figured out who all those people were with the silver name tags. They were members of the Kansas City Barbecue Society, which now sanctions contests from coast to coast. I joined. I got certified as a judge and got my own silver name tag. I progressed to becoming a master judge, of which I’m quite proud. I learned that it is a “tasting” contest not an “eating” contest. I consume more moderate amounts now.

The boxes are things of beauty. Just look at this brisket? Isn’t it sumptuous? Can you see why I just salivate at the beginning of BBQ season? Judging is serious business because competing is serious business and you give the cooks respect by carefully considering each entry. Some judges are called “super judges” because they get a little too serious and nitpick at every little thing. And I’ll say it here: The best reason to judge a competition contest is that you will never eat better. I am a little piggy and I’m not afraid to admit it.

Now, the part about that first contest and everybody seeming to know each other. Well, that’s because they did. As in many social organizations, the members become friends. That’s how I hooked up with my boyfriend, Terrell (who turned 75 the other day – Happy Birthday, boyfriend!). I count many of my BBQ buddies as close friends, including my Chicks in Charge teammates Linda and Roxanne Gould and Mary Ann Francis.

And that friendship brings me to Mama Dean. Her real name was Ada, but everyone called her Mama Dean. She was married to Tony Stone, an icon in the BBQ community who has been both president of KCBS and a contest organizer and cook. Mama Dean loved everybody. You hear that about a lot of people, particularly in the South. But Mama Dean really did love everybody. Hugs were mandatory. Good cheer was required. Loving concern was spread around liberally. She and Tony hosted a big party in their home before the start of his contest in Cookeville in September. I could never go because of work. Now I regret that.

Mama Dean passed on Saturday. We all are heartbroken for Tony and his family. Her funeral was today and I’ll bet it was the best damn attended funeral in the state of Tennessee. Had Mama Dean been there, she would have been presiding over the funeral food for which all Southern women are legendary.

My first contest of the year is this Saturday in Winchester, Tennessee. Mama Dean had hoped to be there, Linda tells me. We would have done this year what we’ve done every year for as long as I can remember. Mama Dean sitting outside the judging area, visiting with old friends and making new ones. She never knew a stranger. I’ll miss her.