We wound up there for lunch yesterday because we ran out of Batampte mustard.
Rick has a teeny Batampte mustard addiction issue.
This unassuming little deli at Polk and Clay in San Francisco is our closest pusher. In fact, it’s one of the few places you can even find Batampte mustard in the whole Bay Area. It’s not terrifically convenient for us, but when the Batampte Beast hollers, you just ask “How much?”
It’s busy at Miller’s East Coast Deli at 1 p.m. on a Saturday, which notched the ambiance to be as close to a New York deli as I’ve found outside of Manhattan.
The biggest difference is that the staff don’t yell at you if you take longer than three seconds to place your order, and the customers all seem content to hang out if they have to wait a few minutes to get a seat.
It’s nice to get out and people watch once in a while.
There were some real characters on both sides of the counter.
I had no idea that “highway traffic cone” was a popular look, or even a possible one.
Time to order, but what to choose? They have every Jewish deli star on the cholesterol hit parade available. Eventually, we landed on a strategy: If you can’t believe a million bubbes about pastrami, what can you believe?
We ordered the pastrami.
The mustard in the refillable yellow plastic squeezy bottle at each table? Batampte, of course.
We also ordered the sweet and sour cabbage rolls.
And the potato latkes.
I stopped licking the plates when it became apparent I was embarrassing Rick.
We bought three jars of the mustard.
Don’t tell Rick, but I threw two of them out of the car on the way home. I can’t wait that long to have to go back.
In our house, not having home-made stock in the fridge is equivalent to running out of eggs or wine. It makes us nervous.
Yes, we keep commercially prepared stock in the cupboard, right next to the apocalypse-ready tins of tuna, canned green beans, and supply of emergency batteries. But as a matter of course, we run towards a “bistro” style kitchen: fresh food, minimally altered.
This isn’t as precious as it sounds.
The “fresh food” part generally means whatever you can pick up from a lap around the periphery of your average grocery store. The “minimally altered” phrase refers to a non-gooped up, labor-intensive or fussy approach to getting the fresh stuff cooked and onto the table.
This leaves plenty of time to actually enjoy the process of, say, making chicken stock.
I think of stock as roast chicken, re-gifted. And it takes about as much work and commitment as throwing in a few loads of laundry after dinner: a little prep work up-front, checking it at intervals to spend a moment or two on keeping things at the right temperature and moving forward, and a modest amount of clean up and putting stuff away when you’re done.
In fact, you can do both things at the same time and still get ‘er done between “Hi, I’m Ryan Seacrest, and THIS is American Idol,” and “… who will be the NEXT American Idol!”
Save the bones from the night before. (And yes, apparently it’s perfectly acceptable to use the bones off of people’s plate for the stock pot. It’s going to simmer for a couple of hours anyway… more than enough heat exposure to nuke any “other people’s cooties” that may have you worried.)
If you’re using freshly cooked chicken (and those $5 Friday deals from Safeway are a GREAT way to start!), remove the meat for sandwiches or tomorrow’s chicken soup and give the skin to the cat. For the stock, it’s all about dem bones, dem bones, dem… dry bones.
And onions. This photo makes me wonder why you never see a recipe call for “the juice of an onion.” Doesn’t it look like you should be able to squeeze it?
Carrots. A sturdy fat brown onion. Celery. Maybe a handful of parsley. If the Qwik-EE-Mart is out of carrots, check the gas station next door. This stuff isn’t hard to find, it’s cheap, and it’s available year round.
I already mentioned the parsley, but I just had to squeak in one more shot of it with those crazy blue flowers in the background. See them?
I love how unfussy the prep is. Chop, chop, chop… whack… whack… and you’re done.
Note the absence of fingers in the pile above. This is an important non-ingredient in chicken stock.
Add heat to what you wish was your Gramma’s favorite heavy bottom stock pot. What you’ll probably use is a medium weight pot that’s just a bit too small that you got as a wedding gift. If that’s the case, go buy a really great stock pot, then go become a Gramma so you can have a great stock pot to hand down to the next generation.
We don’t mess around with our goal-setting here, ya know.
Saute, stir, hum…. Hover, inhale, sip… call in your vote for the only one who can really sing…
… toss in, pour, sniff… relax your shoulder muscles, change wet jeans over to dryer…
… check, call ‘er done, strain… and start thinking about tomorrow night’s soup.
Basic Chicken Stock
Chicken bones
Brown or yellow onion, peeled and coarsely chopped
Carrots, peeled and coarsely chopped
Celery, washed and coarsely chopped
Italian parsley
Bay leaves (2-3)
Back peppercorns (5-6)
Olive Oil
Fresh water
Some folks like to add the raw vegetables to an already simmering pot of chicken bones. We prefer to start with chopped onion sauteed in olive oil in the bottom of a stock pot, adding the carrot and celery to the pot once the onion begins to color. A modest finger-pinch of Kosher salt helps the veggies release their moisture so they can begin to caramelize.
When the mirepoix looks softened up and translucenty, pour about a cup of whatever wine you’re drinking into the pot and stir with a wooden spoon to release the brown bits at the bottom. Add the bones and fill the pot with enough fresh cool water to cover. Add the parsley, bay leaves and peppercorns and gently simmer for about two hours.
Remove stock pot from heat and let cool a bit. The final step is to remove and discard everything but the finished stock. Our way is to fish out all the big pieces with tongs and then pour the rest through a strainer into an 8-cup Pyrex pitcher. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate until ready to do something lovely with your homemade elixir.
A bowl of steaming beef stew can be one of the most profound expressions of “I love you” some people will ever receive, or give. And how that meal is served can mean the difference between communicating “Here’s your damn dinner,” and “You make my knees weak, and I’ll look after you as best I can for the rest of my life.”
But even if that doesn’t motivate you to spend a few bucks and take a little time in setting aside a delightful corner for delicious peace and sustenance, here’s a little secret that might get you there.
People wouldn’t be so fat if they dressed their table better.
This core tenant from the excellent book French Women Don’t Get Fat appeals to both my artistic soul that desires to be saturated with Beauty and my artistic backside that desires to fit into my favorite Not Your Daughter’s Jeans.
Her theory in a peanut shell: my spirit craves a baseline of aesthetic pleasure.
By creating an intentional focus on the pleasures available on the peripheral leading to the moment of swallowing a forkful of mashed potato, I can expand the sensual experience and satisfaction to the point of almost being full before I bend my elbow for that first bite.
What a gift! I now give myself an extra ten minutes at the market to find a cheese we’ve never tried before or choose a perfect field-ripened tomato. We hover over that pot of simmering fragrant bouillon, and imagine the one herb that will make this particular chicken soup unique and delightful, never before created, anywhere. I light some candles and savor the moment the wick catches. Sometimes I’ll remember to pick a new CD, or choose a new angle for the napkin, or place the bread so it catches the light and glows.
I don’t remember to be this intentional every time, but when I do, the meal becomes a thing of Beauty.
And if the idea has appeal but seems a bit over the top for you, here’s an easier approach: turn off the TV.
BTW, this plate is a brilliant “portion control” aid: it’s the size of a regular dinner plate, but since a substantial portion of the surface area is decorative, it all but screams “Put the food on the white part, Chef!” Also, research shows that a higher color contrast between plate and the food served creates the perception that you’re eating more than you actually are, which in the case of bubbly cheesy lasagna is a good thing for those trying to keep their waistlines in check.
Preferences in flatware are extremely personal, so while this particular design—a pattern that balances between classic and contemporary—appeals to us, you may find others that suit your fancy better. Regardless of the style specifics, make sure to have flatware that feels great in your hand and your mouth. No calories there!
Tip: shifting to something even just a little heavier than you’re accustomed to will bring an awareness and intentionality to every bite.
Repeat after me and then write on the chalk board 100 times: “I will not use paper towels as napkins ever again.”
Here’s the math: paper towels used as napkins are thrown out after the meal. Ergo: eat too fast… make a mess on your face… wipe with a disposable item that gets chucked after dinner. NO PENALTY.
Cloth napkins have to be washed, dried, folded, and put away, and no one wants to do that more than they have to. Ergo: use cloth napkins, but slow down the meal so every forkful is placed purposefully in your pie hole… make a point of not splashing sauces around the corners of your mouth… give your stomach time to catch up to the program… feel full, happy and satisfied sooner, and eat less.
Tip: Using cool unmatched napkin rings that are person specific can extend the frequency of laundering over several meals. You don’t want to use someone else’s napkin—ick!—but no one minds using their own over again for a meal or two.
Interestingly, the same study mentioned above also found that minimizing the color contrast between the serving plates and the tablecloth or placemat helps dial back servings by as much as 10%. Maybe this is why fine restaurants choose white plates against white tablecloths: the combination together gives the best shot at creating the illusion that a smaller portion looks bigger than when served against other color combinations, leaving the customer sated without feeling stuffed.
Not going to quote any research here, but I can positively, absolutely guarantee that not only do I look better in candlelight, but so does anything that goes on the plates.
The opulent glow, mechanism, and elegance of this table accessory just makes you feel rich. And while we categorically do NOT believe it’s true that “you can’t be too rich or too thin,” there is something psychologically elevating about surrounding oneself, especially at the table, with items that quietly speak the message, “You have enough. You don’t need ‘more.'”
In this case though, there’s no excuse. The silken chicken stock Rick had made last weekend had a serious “lump in my throat” potential right out of the fridge.
Have I mentioned sometimes his soup makes me cry?
We had egg noodles in the cupboard, but a cold Thursday night in March in Teton Valley occasionally calls for homemade everything.
I had never tried to make egg noodles before. Beginners make mistakes, like halving a recipe calling for 5 eggs. What does half an egg look like, and how do you pull off the math in real time?
I still don’t know, but I ended up thinking that I had added too much egg, so I added more flour to compensate, then too much water too late in the game to compensate for the too much flour… The sum total was a stiff little blob and not at all what the recipe described as “a soft dough.”
I left it to sit quietly on the counter for an hour to think about whether or not it might have a change in attitude.
Miracles do happen.
I played with the dough for a full 15 minutes in celebration of the humble egg noodle.
Time to do the final roll out and get down to business.
One of the wonderful things about handmade anything is how okay it is if things turn out a little uneven.
Like life. I love my handmade life.
I also love Rick’s hands, and the part they play in my handmade life.
He’s a hands-on kinda guy. He loves to grab salt out of the bowl and toss it around like Jacques Peppin.
I’m also very fond of his forearms, especially when they are involved in moving pots around on a stove or holding his guitar.
Fragrant stock, tender chicken grilled the day before, and my lumpy lovely little noodles…
I wish we could add a scratch ‘n sniff widget to this blog.
I’d invite you to touch the noodle soup with the inside of your mouth and let the aroma of peace and healing and sanctuary waft up in to your grateful mind and crawl in to your unconscious to keep you company as you sleep.
Until then, how about we just give you the recipe for the egg noodles and let you see for yourself?
Mix together in a large bowl 2 cups of all-purpose flour and 1 teaspoon of salt.
Make a well in the center of the flour. Lightly beat together and pour into the well 1 large egg and 4 large egg yolks.
Beat the eggs with a fork, drawing in some flour as you do until they are slightly thickened. Using the fingertips of one hand, gradually incorporate the flour and blend everything into a smooth, not too stiff dough, adding as needed 1 to 2 tablespoons of water. This part gets you into a sticky gooey mess very quickly, so brace yourself. Just hang in there and keep mushing the goo around until it starts to form a ball. I got the last of the dough out of my index finger knuckle well before bedtime, so no worries.
Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead about 5 minutes to form a “soft dough.” HA! Don’t get stuck on the “how soft is soft?” dilemma. It will get over itself. Add more flour if necessary to keep it from sticking.
Give it a “time out” on the counter, covered in plastic wrap, for 30-60 minutes.
Divide the dough in four pieces and roll each piece out into a lovely, thin, soft circle. Play with the dough for as long as makes you happy. Cut it into noodles as wide as suits your fancy. Throw into boiling salted water/stock/stew/whatever until they’re tender and fabulous.
“… Ever since my early twenties when I smoked my first good cigar, I have felt that if there were no other reason to believe in God, Havana leaf would suffice. I’ve had similar epiphanies while biting into a ripe peach, a just-ready piece of Crenshaw melon or a great ear of corn.”
I love sitting on the stoop to shuck it, the glow and random coloring of the peaches and cream nuggets, and the crack of the fresh kernels exploding in my mouth. I love that eating it makes me feel like I’m 8-years old again, running up the dock at the cottage in my favorite yellow flip-flops. I love the universal agreement on the typewriter attack strategy. And I love that it forces me to floss.
Apparently, I’m not the only one who’s fond of it.
Margaret Visser, an anthropologist of everyday life and author of one of our favorite books on food, writes “American Indians, in their many different languages, always spoke of corn as ‘Our Mother,’ ‘Our Life,’ and ‘She Who Sustains Us.'”
We always speak of corn as “Get out here while it’s hot!”
Good gravy, what I wouldn’t give for one of these puppies right now.
Instant August.
Served with a side of grilled chicken and chilled Pinot Grigio, well now, that’s why God made the south porch. And butter and salt. And napkins.
Hurry, Summer!
Corn On the Cob
Allow 1 to 3 ears per person, depending on appetites. If cooking for Rick, think “4 with a slight chance of leftovers.”
Remove the husks and silk from farm-fresh corn. Drop them one a time into a large pot of rapidly boiling water.
Cover and cook until hot and tender, 2 to 8 minutes depending on maturity. (This refers to how fresh the corn is, not whether or not you holler “Nanny nanny boo boo!” as you drop them in the water.) The fresher the corn, the less cooking time it needs.
Remove from the water with tongs. Serve with Kosher salt, cracked black pepper and butter, and get on it while it’s hot!
When we started prepping lunch on Sunday and noticed that the deli-style horseradish in the fridge was six months beyond its “Best by” date, we had a situation. Do we pause the Olympics and make a run to the market, or settle for the underwhelming flavor of cocktail sauce straight from the bottle?
Neither alternative was all that palatable, yet we needed a quick solution worthy of the magnificent chilled prawns we had already plated. There are few things worse than magnificent lukewarm prawns in crappy sauce.
A survey of the spice cabinet revealed a neglected can of powdered wasabi.
Wasabi is that surprisingly green Japanese horshradish that’s so innocent looking, it has been known to fool first-time sushi snackers into sucking back a huge wallop in one mouth full. If you haven’t tried the experience, give it a shot: your sinuses will never be the same, and you’ll sing like Celine Dion in full belt-er-out mode.
And hmm… here’s that can of Old Bay seasoning keeping the wasabi company in the back of the bus. Come forth into the daylight, quothe Rick, and be counted!
I love it when Rick quothes with authority in the kitchen. Sometimes what happens next is so spectacular it makes me cry.
He stirred about a tablespoon of each powder into a half cup or so of Heinz Original.
I didn’t cry.
But between the chopped Romas with feta and good olive oil, fresh bread, decent bottle of Cotes du Rhone, and the zingy, original flavor of Rick’s Kicker Cocktail Sauce, I did get a lovely lump in my throat.
My thinking model on this is as follows: fresh, refrigerated peppers are crunchy, bursting with moisture, pretty, and perfectly fine the way they are without mucking them up.
But I love Rick, and Rick loves roasted vegetables and had a new stuffed pepper recipe he wanted to try.
Plus, he promised to make some delicious bread doodads as a side dish in case I hated the peppers.
I also don’t like cooked chard…
… but Rick cooked the chard in his pretty copper chard-cooking pan…
… and performed amazing chard-flipping maneuvers that were delightful to photograph.
Plus, Rick always cooks with a glass of wine at hand, and if I’ll keep him company in the kitchen with my camera, he always pours a glass for me.
Soon the smell in the kitchen made my mouth water. (And no, I wasn’t drooling from the wine. That was later.)
Add a lightly-floured gift from the ocean, pan-sauteed in butter and oil…
… throw on some nice table linens and a little Diana Krall, open the door to let the fresh air in…
Mmmm… Fresh. Fresh. Fresh.
Is it just me, or does that fork look like you could just hop on the top of it, slide down into the parsley, and coast on into spring?
At least I left the pattern on the plate.
And Rick got the satisfaction of a delicious meal and watching me moan and bang the table over roasted peppers and chard.
3 bell peppers: red and yellow
1 small onion, finely diced
2-3 garlic cloves, smashed and chopped
2 Roma tomatoes, seeded and chopped
1 egg
2 cups breadcrumbs
1/2 cup grated Parmesan
1 cup grated Mozzarella
Chopped basil
Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Preheat the oven to 325
Cut the peppers in half (from stem) and remove the seeds and veins
Rub the peppers inside and out with EVOO and place on a baking tray
Saute the onions and garlic until golden
Remove from heat, let cool for a bit, then blend in the breadcrumbs, tomato, egg, cheeses, basil, maybe a little water
Season to taste (salt and pepper for sure, but experiment with a little crushed red pepper, oregano or such)
Stuff the peppers loosely with the mixture and bake for about 45 minutes — when they become beautiful, serve ’em up
