What to Drink on Thanksgiving.

I recently met a man from planet gorgeous. One of those otherworldly creatures who seems to have an unfairly low body fat percentage, criminally chiseled features, and twinkly blue eyes that could probably get him out of jail. He also happens to be incredibly nice, friendly, and pretty smart. So it was a bit of a shock to me when Mr. Way Too Perfect seemed to be flirting with me the other night out. In fact, it was so outside of the realm of possibility in my mind that it didn’t occur to me until after I hugged him goodbye (his words, “well, give me a squeeze”) that what had occurred that night was, in fact, some expression of interest on his part. I’m still flabbergasted. You see, I’m not ugly. I’m a solid B+, in a world without grade inflation. I’m not the definition of “cute”, but I could be used as a further example for people who were having a hard time understanding inherent nuances of the word’s meaning. I come from a planet populated by the lumpen proletariat, and I’m fine with it. The prospect of his attraction was so far outside the realm of possibility in my mind that I just didn’t notice.

I will now admit to you what I did notice, an admission that I’m sure will make any thinking woman categorize me as a hopeless idiot deserving of my failure to get laid. I noticed the beer. While spending time with Mr. Tall and Outdoorsy, I had a few excellent, really incredible beers. An outstanding Double Mountain Viennese and a Caldera Dry Hopped Orange. The Viennese was smooth and slightly sweet, and the orange smelled like a Christmas tree and tasted like wild herbs. And, as usually happens with excellent, herbaceous beers, I thought, “Man, this would be good with turkey!” I am hopeless.

Beer isn’t any more American than wine – like a lot of alcohol, beer seems to have been invented by notoriously alcoholic European monks - but somehow beer just seems more ‘mmirican, in a flag-sticker-on-a-ford-truck way. The Pilgrims had beer on the Mayflower, fer chissakes. American beer manufacturers have made beer their own, with brewmasters across the nation honing a plethora of unique and complex beverages. All in all turkey with all the accessories and beer are both ultimately American but also pretty darn ‘mmerican.

You can go in two directions with your beer choices: herbaceous or sweet and smooth. Any herbaceous beer will act as a counterpoint to the richness of the gravy and bring out the wonderful herbs used good stuffing (and yes, in my book Pepperidge Farm is good stuffing). Ask your local beer geek for something “hoppy,” even if that makes you feel like you are shopping for an Easter bunny. A sweet and smooth beer will accentuate the butteriness in your mashed potatoes and the richness of your turkey. Ask your beer man for something medium dark and smooth, he won't think you are coming onto him.

If you want more specific recommendations, I offer the following, highly personal list of good thanksgiving beers:

Herbaceous:

1. Craftsman Brewing Company’s Triple White Sage: This is the first beer that ever made me think of Thanksgivings and is, in a word, amazing. Unlike other “infused” beers, the Craftsman Brewers use a light hand with their herbs and actually add the herb listed, in this case California White Mountain Sage, instead of some predistilled “essence”. The beer is light, clean, and has white sage, which is less aggressive and more complex than regular cooking sage. Watch out, though, this is a higher alcohol beer.
2. Caldera Brewing Company’s Dry Hop Orange: A beer good enough to make a girl on a dry run not notice the man from Planet Gorgeous. Hate me, love the beer. Citrus and cypress notes and a tangy quality that will cut right through that last bite of gravy, clearing your palette for that next mouthful of sweet potatoes.

As for smooth and sweet beers, well, I haven't investigated as much, but I've got a six-pack of Celebration Ale in my fridge and I'm going to give it a try.

Something other than Turkey.

November is a great month for cooking. The harvest vegetables spill from the shelves, birds and game are at their fattest, and all of us are hungry – the urge to fatten up is not confined to squirrels and dear. November’s high notes read like an advertisement for Cabaret, the musical: Apples! Pears! Butternut Squash! And, now appearing on the cover every single food magazine you can think of, the star of our show, Turkey!

But, that big fat turkey is a diva, and her hips are too wide to let any other players on the stage. Invisible in the glare of all that glistening bird flesh is seafood. November is the absolute best time for a whole plethora of little ocean critters that taste incredible with little or no work. Well, we’ve all seen Deadliest Catch by now, so lets revise that to say: little or no work for you! Mussels, oysters, scallops, and the king of all west coast seafoods: Dungeness Crab, are all waiting for you to notice, taste and rejoice.

There are advantages to working seafood into your fall menu. While some – oysters, scallops – can be a bit pricey, a lot of fall seafood is the cheapest thing at the fish counter. Mussels, clams, and calamari regularly sell for less than five dollars per pound. Fresh, in-season Dungeness crab can sell for as little as seven. As seafood is best with very little done to it, it can be a relief from the more intensive roasting, braising, stewing and buttering (oh, the intensive, intensive buttering) that come with other fall foods.

So, let’s start with the easiest thing first:

Mussels with Herb Butter

Total cooking time: 10 minutes, including the time it takes you to open a bottle of white. Serves 2-3, or more, if you make more.

You will need two bottles of a nice, crisp, cold white. Any kind you like will do, as long as it isn’t at all sweet. Put a little less than half a bottle in a big wide pot with a lid, Almost any pot will do: stock pot, a saucier, anything that will hold a lot of mussels and keep the juicy wine steam in. Pour the rest of the open bottle into the wine glasses of your thirsty companions. If you don’t have enough wine for everyone, open the second bottle. That’s why it’s there.

Add either 2 cloves of crushed, minced garlic, or about 3 tablespoons minced shallot* to the wine, with big pinch of salt (1/8 tsp plus) and few grinds of black pepper. Turn the heat to high and bring the wine mix to a boil.

While your wine heats up, clean some mussels (a dozen per person, plus a few extra). Pinch any “beard” – the tiny little hair-like tentacles that come out the side – between your thumb and a paring knife and pull/twist them out. While you are there, scrape off any grit with the knife, or not. You can always just leave it at the bottom of the saucepan.

When the wine boils, or after it boils for a minute, put the mussels in and put on the lid. Wait until it comes to a boil again. While you wait, chop up three tablespoons of an herb, any herb. Marjoram or Basil, of you chose garlic, tarragon or chervil if you chose shallot. Get ready either two to four tablespoons of butter or a quarter cup of cream. After you chop the herbs and cut off a chunk of butter, stir the mussels. Are they mostly open? Push any closed ones to the bottom and put the lid back on. The mussels should cook for no more than 6 minutes total. Take off the lid after another minute, drop in the herbs and butter/cream, stir again until the butter is melted. Divide into bowls, giving everyone some of the liquid. Serve with big slices of crusty bread, a few mixed greens, and the rest of the wine. Yum.

Italian Seafood Stew (serves 4 to six)

This dish is incredibly sneaky. It’s too easy, and it’s done in a half an hour, but it seems complicated (and it will probably seem so in the writing) to your guests. Don’t be intimidated. The short version of this recipe is simply: sauté seafood in tasty Italian sausage drippings, boil some wine in the juice, combine and be happy. It involves opening a can, and chopping a bit of herbs and garlic, but that’s about it.

First, get your ingredients ready; You’ll need about a pound of calamari – ask for more tubes than tentacles, people get squeamish about tentacles. Just think about the word “tentacles” and you’ll understand why. Cut the tubes into rings, about half an inch wide. You’ll also need a pound of raw shrimp, without heads (heads just make them rot). Mince a few cloves of garlic.

If the sausage is in casings, get rid of the casings. If it isn’t, wonderful. Heat one tablespoon olive oil in a wide pan (a saucier or a large sauté pan will work), and when it begins to smell warm and olive-y, add the sausage. Stir and break up the sausage, every once in a while. Don’t hurry. Don’t fuss. Let it brown and get cooked.

When the sausage is a just a little browned up, add the chopped garlic. Pretty much right afterwards, put in the prepared calamari. When the sizzle comes back to the pan (the calamari, all at once, will cool it down), the calamari will let off some liquid. Pay it no mind. Look at the calamari themselves. As soon as they turn opaque or curl up, remove each bit with a pair of tongs to a big bowl. As soon as the calamari have cooked, turn the shrimp into the pan. The shrimp may need to be turned once or twice, but as soon as they turn pink/opaque and begin to curl up, pick them out and place them into the large bowl, too.

Once the shrimp are removed, add 2 cups dry white wine, one or two cans cannelini beans (drained and rinsed), a bit of chopped marjoram or oregano and some salt and pepper to the pan. Bring it to a boil, and let it bubble for a minute or two, stir it to bring up any browned bits from the bottom of the pan. When the mixture has thickened a little, pour it into the bowl with the calamari and shrimp. If you feel like you need more vegetables, add a few big handfuls of spinach into the mix and stir them until wilted. Drizzle the entirety with a good bit of tasty olive oil, and serve with either some simply buttered pasta or a lot of crusty Italian bread.

The Magical Animal

As is the case with almost everyone in my generation, and in the generation following mine (if you consider Gen X and Gen Y to be two separate entities), I have a favorite quote from The Simpsons. Mine's not a quote, exactly, but a passage. A wise and important passage that speaks to the truths of the universe in a way that only a yellow dude with a serious overbite can.

It's in the Lisa-Goes-Vegetarian episode. Lisa is trying to explain that she's not going to eat meat to Homer. Homer asks, in essence, "You're going to go without bacon?! without pork chops?! without ham?!" To which Lisa replies, "Daa-ad, those all come from the same animal!" Homer stares at her incredulously, throws his hands into the air and says, "Yeah, right, Lisa. Some Maaagical Animal."

Mmmmmm, pork. Much has been written about pork's magical qualities. Bacon is almost universally the most tempting meat to vegetarians, "the gateway meat," as it is now commonly known. Pulled pork shoulder, along with pork ribs (not babyback, please) are some of the most discussed pieces of meat in the world. The subject of intense slow-cooking bar-b-que battles across the South, and the prime battleground of longstanding rivalries.

Pork is also frankly creepy. Pig skin is highly akin to human flesh, and a pigs jaw and bone structure are close enough to human that, in what *must* be a very scientific decision, they use a pig jaw whenever they do an experiment that would involve human teeth on Mythbusters. Pigs also have a reputation for intelligence, more than dogs, supposedly. Oh, and pigs sweat, like we do. Given all this, and the fact that pigs are omnivores, one has to wonder if eating pigs isn't just a little bit like being a cannibal. Could it be that we also taste that good? If so, I don't wanna know.

I'm going to shake off that last thought (brrrr!) and declare, you lucky person, that Now Is The Time For Pork! There are three reasons for this happy thought:

1) Pigs are omnivores, and they eat things we refuse to. (There's a very successful pig farm near the Las Vegas strip that feeds its pigs only hotel leftovers) Pigs need much less acreage than cows. They are a wonderful way to process human wastes into useful, nutritious, tasty tasty meat.
2) Figs

It's fig time, and figs love pork. Pork loves figs. Figs are a deep, complex fruit that bring out the natural sweetness in pork without competing with or masking its rich, meaty qualities. But figs have flaws. They kinda look like nut-sacks, for one, and they can be a little much, on their own. A little too mushy, a little too monochromaticly flavored, and too large for one bite. Pork solves all these problems. The salt and chew of pork distracts your mouth from the mush of the fig, and brings out the nuance in their flavor. Add a little red wine or some nuts (not that kind) and you're golden.

So, without further ado, I present Pork and Figs, a marriage made in heaven. Or in the mind of Homer Simpson, you choose.

Bacon Wrapped Figs with Walnuts or Pecans.

This is one of the easiest fancy-ass party appetizers you can make. If you are having cocktails, and you want to impress a certain appetizing guest, offer him/her one of these fig-bites and you'll, at the very least, get a quick preview of their o-face.

Start with a pint or two of figs, depending on your number of guests. Cut all of the figs in half, if they are small, or in quarters if they are large. Then open a package of bacon. Cut about a dozen slices in half, crosswise, so you have two shorter lengths. Your prep-work is done.

To assemble your little fig-bacon wraps, simply wrap a piece of fig and a walnut or pecan half in a half-strip of bacon, and place, seam side down, on a baking sheet. Repeat until all of your figs are wrapped. Turn the oven on to 375-400. About 15 minutes before you want to offer your guests bacon ecstasy, put the baking sheet in the oven. Cook until the bacon is crispy, take out of the oven and remove to a platter with something green on it (for the pretty). Make sure to warn your guests/loved ones that the wraps are hot, because they may pounce before the figs have had a chance to become slightly less than molten.


Fig and Goat Cheese Stuffed Pork Chops with Red Wine Sauce.

There are four main ingredients for this recipe: pork chops, dried mission figs, red wine, and goat cheese, and they are all listed in the title. Start with the red wine and figs. Very roughly chop about a cup of dried figs, leaving two or three whole ones. Put the figs in a pot with enough red wine to cover by at least an inch. Put the pot over medium high heat, and while the figs come to a simmer look around your kitchen for anything else that will make them tasty. Some chopped thyme/dried thyme. A shallot, cut in half. Perhaps a quarter of an onion or a few crushed garlic cloves. (put in either the shallot, the onion or the garlic, not all three). Maybe a bit of parsley. A cup of chicken stock. Definitely toss in a few peppercorns and a little salt.

Simmer the fig concoction until the figs are soft and tasty looking, if they look like they are running out of liquid before they are soft, add more wine or chicken stock, or even water. You want to end up with a lot of plump fig parts in a thick, syrupy liquid that almost, but doesn't cover the figs. Set them aside to cool.

Cut a pocket in four pork chops. To do this, poke a paring knife in the fat-covered side of the chop and sweep its tip through the chop, creating a big pocket with a small hole. Open your package of goat cheese, mix it with a little chopped thyme if you want, or don't.

Stuff the pocket of each chop with alternating bits of goat cheese and figs (leave the fig liquid behind). You'll use about half the figs. This will be a messy operation. Don't worry about it. Just wipe off the chops when you're done. Salt and pepper the outside of the chops and let them rest for a minute.

Meanwhile heat the oven to 375. In a large, oven-safe saute pan, heat a little oil on high. When the oil is about to smoke, put all of the chops into it. Brown the chops thoroughly (don't move them around very much) on one side, flip over and finish cooking in the oven (about 10 minutes). Remove from oven and serve, perhaps with some mashed potatoes or celery root, drizzling the remaining figs and red wine over everything.

Chamillionaire is an Heirloom Tomato.

Late July cooking is like the hip hop hit of the summer. You know how it happens, somehow, every summer? From Will Smith’s “Summertime” to Chamillionaire’s “Ridin’ Dirty”, every summer has a hip hop hit. The soundtrack of a million suburban teenage memories. The impetus for unpremeditated and often ill-advised ass shaking from coast to coast.

What’s the upside of the summer hip hop hit? It’s simple, it’s straightforward, and it’s really, really good. What’s the drawback to the summer hip hop hit? You can not stand to hear it one more time by about July 17th. It’s not going away, there is usually no mid-season replacement. Radio DJs want vacations, too, and they programmed that song to repeat 500 times a day until they get up off the poolside chaise sometime in late August. The summer hip hop hit is here to stay, so you have to figure out something to do with it until it rains and you, once again, feel O.K. about listening to Belle and Sebastian.

Now replace the words ‘Summer Hip Hop Hit’ in the above paragraph with ‘Tomato Mozzarella Salad’, or ‘Grilled Zuchinni’, or even ‘Hamburger’. Summer is full of simple, straightforward, damn tasty food. Food that makes people get up off their be-hinds and stand around the grill waiting for whatever’s coming next. The problem is that summer food is simple, and, apparently, around forever. The local heirloom tomatoes haven’t even hit the market, and I’m already over it. There are going to be Red Peppers, Eggplants, and Cucumbers coming out of our ears from now until late September, so we need to figure out something to do that isn't tired.

As with the summer hip-hop hit, the answer, my friends, lies in the remix. So let’s break out our inner LCD Soundsystem, and tap that round tomato-ass for some fresh beats, before it’s too late and everybody is off the floor:

Rethinking Caprese:

One of the simpler methods for remixing a song is just to throw out some large component of the beat and replace it entirely. So why not get rid of that tomato? (Don’t worry, it’s not gone for good) Fresh Mozz. is rich yet light, and a perfect pallete for enriching and accentuating the more complex flavors of other foods. In this case, Grilled Sunburst Squash.

Sunburst Squash are medium sized, yellow with bits of green and look like flowers that filled in with vegetable-y goodness. They’re lovely, but they are zuchinni-like, in that they can use a little bit of charring and high heat to prevent them from becoming an undistinguished pile of steamy vegetable mush. Put a few strong grill marks on ‘em, however, and they are wonderful peppery little hot slices of yum. Also, sliced cross-wise, they make perfect rounds for layering with mozzarella, and isn’t that nice?

Grilled Sunburst Squash Caprese
One Squash per person.
One Brocconcini (medium sized mozzarella ball) per person
A few Branches of Basil
Tasty Olive Oil
Tasty Balsamic Vinegar
Some basic red wine vinegar.
Salt, Pepper, fingers, maybe some garlic.

(If your balsamic is cheap and harsh and untasty, you can simmer it with some black pepper and honey until it is tasty, but that’s a fussy thing to do, and you don’t have to. Just don’t be heavy-handed with the bad stuff)

Slice the squash into rounds, throwing out the nubbins from the tip and tail. Toss with a tablespoon or two of olive oil, a couple of torn up basil leaves, a few big pinches of salt, pepper, a small splash of red wine vinegar, and, if you feel like it, a little chopped garlic. Rub it all around so every slice gets some contact with the oil, and so the salt isn’t just hanging out in one spot.

Heat up your grill or grill pan or even broiler so it’s hot. Give it time. You want sizzle-on-contact.

Walk away from your heating grill et al. and slice the mozzarella into rounds. Set aside. Pluck the leaves off the Basil. Set aside. Take a sip of wine/beer/Shlitz/whatever. Set aside.

Now that your grill is very, very hot, toss on the squash. Give each slice a little space on the grill, so it doesn’t get steamed by its neighbor. Grill for about 4 minutes on one side and two on the other, or until there are some nice fat dark char marks on both sides, but the slice isn’t disintegrating into the grill or becoming charcoal.

Remove the squash to a platter, layer with slices of mozzarella and leaves of basil. Be pretty about it, if you want to be. Run over the layered dish a few times with a thin stream of olive oil, and maybe once with Balsamic, sprinkle with a small pinch of salt and a little grind of fresh pepper. Serve.

The heat of the grilled squash may melt the cheese a little, but who doesn’t like melted mozzarella?

Note: If the dish sits for too long the mozzarella will start to “weep” a bit of liquid. If you are making it for a crowd, or can’t serve it piping hot, just let the grilled squash cool to room temperature before you layer and dress it.

Later this week: Some things to do with those tomatoes . . .

Introduction

To get things started, let's be clear. This blog isn't about sex. Sex might come up - it always does - but the main focus of this blog is food, drink, conversation, and other happy fulfillments of the five senses.

Now that's out of the way, let me introduce myself. I'm a chef in Portland, Oregon. I spend five nights a week cooking dinner for a small clientele of generally happy customers at a postage-stamp sized restaurant in the suburbs. I spend almost all the rest of my time on those five days trying to think of ways to make those few people even happier, so that they'll tell their friends about their dinner and I'll have more people to make happy. On days six and seven I try not to think about the restaurant at all, and just try to make myself happy. Of course, this inevitably leads to cooking, which leads me back to the restaurant, but, Hey!, I have my job for a reason.

I wasn't always a chef. I spent my twenties in a misguided quest to practice law. Many years, applications, moves, tests, exams, briefs, and court appearances later I found myself about to turn thirty, practicing law in Los Angeles at a small firm where no one, including myself, noticed that I had no passion for my work. Well, almost no one. No one but my assistant, Dusty, but seeing as this blog isn't about sex, we won't be discussing him right now.

Women freak out about turning thirty. I'm not going to deny it. Clocks tick, skin deflates and begins to wrinkle, your ex boyfriends start dating women who are the age you were when they weren't your ex boyfriend. I definitely freaked out. I was in Los Angeles, the land of eternal youth. I wasn't thin. I wasn't prepared for surgical tampering. And I was surrounded by a city full of people who thought the point of going out to dinner was to be seen while not actually eating.

So I left. I quit my job, gave notice on my beautiful, spacious, centrally located apartment, stuffed everything into my car and left. I figured Portland was the only city left on the West Coast where one could afford to live while making no money. So I came here and I got a job in which I sliced a lot of onions. Then I got fired, because onion slicing, while good for the knife skills, doesn’t prepare you at all to cook dinner. Then I picked myself up and kept doing it – although, in the meantime I still got my license to practice law in Oregon, just in case, y’know?

Now I cook. And I love to cook. And I think cooking is easy, and sexy, and fun. Cooking seduces women. Cooking impresses your relatives. Cooking gives people one of the few excuses left these days to sit still and practice the art of conversation. Cooking and eating indulge one of the senses, taste, while titillating all of the others. Cooking, eating and drinking are sensual experiences that are easy to come by and, by sheer luck, need to happen every day. And I'm all about it. How food tastes, how it feels in your mouth, how it tempts you with smell, how it teases you with color, how you feel afterwards. I dig it, and I think there's no reason you shouldn't or can't love food as much as I do (or, at least, just a little bit), so why not share?

That's why I'm here. There will be stories. There will be recipes, but they won't have precise measurements, because precision makes me and you tense, and is completely irrelevant unless you're some nuevo Spanish chef who wants to make sea urchin foam. And you're not, are you? Most of all, there will just be a lot of food.

Welcome.