So. Much. Puppy. And pork!

Because we are good, red-blooded Americans, so we barbecue on Labor Day.

Oh yes, we do.

The puppies didn’t help at all.

There was also Mexican street corn, with chipotle mayo and chile powder and cotija.

Oh yes, there was.

Fin.

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Fresh from the fryer and freshly dipped. Maple is my favorite. Like a French toast donut!

Vacation Day 1: Off to a starchy, greasy, sugary rousing start!

There is also flora.

And fauna. I prefer the fauna, because it’s cuter and attracts fewer bees.

Tomorrow, Day 2: A lot less starch, a lot more pork butt.

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I am so ready to be on vacation. So painfully ready.

Unfortunately, there’s currently a category 4 hurricane bearing down on my vacationing grounds, the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Listen up, Earl: I take a vacation once a year. If you fuck this up for me, I will come for you. I’ll bust you right back down to Tropical Disturbance. Try me.

On this vacation, which WILL HAPPEN unless the entire Outer Banks washes into the sea, I will take many satisfying naps on the beach and will consume copious amounts of barbeque, hush puppies and coconut cream milkshakes. In the evenings, I will sit on the porch with successive vodka tonics until I am fully soused and enter Total Beach Relaxation Mode. Also, did I mention the barbeque?

You can see why I’m so excited.

Alas, none of that happens until this weekend at the earliest, so the grind continues until then.

Tonight, the grind consisted of lamb meatballs with potato puree from David Leite’s The New Portuguese Table. I first picked up the book and was lured into buying it by a recipe for beef turnovers, but I knew I’d be in lazy ass pre-vacation mode tonight and would not want to fool with dough, so meatballs it was.

These particular meatballs had an interesting flavor profile; on one hand, the warmth of cinnamon and cumin and on the other, the brightness of orange and cilantro. Tied all together with a mess of garlic, ginger and some paprika, it made for a pretty little green-flecked meatball.

I fried them up in some olive oil, then built the pan sauce: onions, garlic, some more cumin and cinnamon, flour for Thickening Power, a splash of white wine and some beef stock. I let it cook down until it coated the back of a spoon, then returned the meatballs to the pan to heat through.

Did I mention that I’m also going to read many, many books? An important part of any vacation is going to the bookstore and spending more money than you ought on books that will be summarily devoured. Any recommendations? I will read the holy hell out of them. In between naps.

With the meatballs done, I turned to the potato puree. There’s nothing especially significant about it, nor did it seem especially Portuguese; it’s only calling card was the lavish, somewhat excessive amount of butter – one stick per pound of potatoes. I riced the cooked potatoes and whisked all the butter in, followed by whole milk, until the puree “flowed like lava.”

Which does nothing but remind me of making macarons. Rather, failing to make macarons, since my batter typically fails to “flow like magma” as directed.

I propose a moratorium on volcano-related cooking instructions. Unless someone comes up with a precise set of measurements for determining lava and magma-level viscosity, I’m ignoring that part of a given recipe’s directions. I suggest you all do the same; it’s the only way to put an end to this.

Anyway, with the potato puree and meatball finally complete and all magically warm at the same time (thank you, warming drawer; like I could have made that happen by myself), it was dinnertime.

Dinner? She was underwhelming.

First, the positive: who doesn’t like a meatball? And potatoes with that quantity of fat whisked in are bound to taste good.

Then, the negative: these meatballs just didn’t make sense to me. The flavor profile just felt off; the spices clashed and the orange was out of place. The meatball / potato puree combo was also somewhat perplexing. The livelier flavors in the meat seemed at odds with the richness of the potato; they fought rather than enhanced one another.

I’ll still be making the beef turnovers, because they sound damn good, but I’ll pass on these meatballs in the future.

And with that, I am one meal closer to vacation.

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Last Week: LeahRedux served oxidized tuna to Rick Moonen and Eric Ripert and packed her knives. Luckily, she didn’t serve it to the ball park fans because no one ordered it.

10:02: Kevin wasn’t always sure he would make it this far. Neither was I.

10:03: Wait, The Dropper was married before? So he’s fooled two women? Scary. Was the first one mail-order as well?

QUICKFIRE: Dana Cowin looks severe even while smiling. Challenge: Create a dish to pair with wine.

10:04: Padma’s stylist has apparently mugged an Eton schoolboy.

10:06: Kevin is braising a pork belly…in an hour. Good luck with the pressure cooker, my friend. Ed is still feeding off the excitement of his back-to-back wins; his face is trying but failing to smile.

10:08: I know that whenever I screw up pork belly, my go-to is quail; the flavor profiles are so similar.

10:10: Kevin and Kelly end up on the bottom, he for his quail and her for a blue cheese emulsion; The Dropper and Tiffany are on top.

10:11: Commercials. There are no words for how much I hate the Sienna family. I hope in the next installment, they find that their faux-neighbors have keyed expletives into the car.

10:14: Quickfire winner: The Dropper. Dang. Though truth be told, I’d like to see Kevin get the boot over The Dropper.

10:15: The finale will be in Singapore. It makes The Dropper tingly, or maybe that’s the crabs.

10:17: The people in the control room at NASA seem to use the same shitty Dell computers we use at work. They’ve chosen the scientist with the most frightening possible teeth to present to the cheftestants.

ELIMINATION: Cook a meal fit for an astronaut. Winner gets their food shot into space. So does the loser, but in a bad way.

10:18: Do you REALLY care what Buzz Aldrin thinks about your food? Has this been a long-time dream?

Restrictions: Not too much sugar, no big chunks, spicy = good.

10:22: Commercials. Who needs good coffee? Just use CoffeeMate! It’s made of almost-real ingredients!

10:24: Mussels? Freeze dried? In space? Sounds great!

10:26: Tiffany is cooking from her soul. Unfortunately, no one’s soul is pure enough to turn freeze-dried mussels into something palatable.

We’re getting quite a lot of Tom during this roundabout. According to Tom, only Middle Eastern astronauts would enjoy Middle Eastern food. According to the face he makes, braised short ribs are the most laughable idea ever. Did he not hear about the mussels?

10:28: Tiffany’s mussels are dead. It’s a blessing in disguise, I tell you!

10:29: Kevin talks about his dead mom. Harbinger?

10:30: Winner of the challenge gets a special prize that’s parked outside. It better be a spaceship, or I’m going to be really disappointed.

It’s a Toyota. And not a Space Toyota.

10:32: Kelly opines that someone will have outcook her to send her home. She’s really starting to understand the mechanics of a competition.

The executive chef of the building where they’re cooking is the Frenchest French chef who ever Frenched.

10:33: Anthony Bourdain is there, so prepare for some carefully planned bon mots.

10:34: You can’t have too much extraneous liquid in space. There’s a joke in there somewhere, but I’m not finding it.

10:36: Buzz Aldrin: “I still have my spoon from Apollo 11.” And that’s the closest he’s actually coming to talking about food.

10:38: You know, I’m sure Buzz Aldrin is a frightenly intelligent man, but they’re making him sound doddering.

Brian: “Is Bourdain not using any canned lines, or is he saving them up?” I think we all know the answer to that: saving. You know he can’t help himself.

10:41: Commercials. I have to assume that the point of the Quaker Oats commercial is not to lull me to sleep. Or maybe it is, it’s quite effective.

10:44: Pointless interlude. Many platitudes about wanting to win.

10:46: More commercials. Jackie Warner will yell the pounds off of you.

10:48: JUDGE’S TABLE. Bourdain is still quiet. Is he going to explore at the end and come out with a non sequitur string of one-liners?

Angelo made love to the short ribs. Ripert? NOT AMUSED.

10:49: The Dropper points out that judging is all subjective at this point. Unlike the rest of the season, when they use a detailed algorithm.

This episode is the episode of people stating the obvious.

10:52: Unpeeled peppers really get Tom’s panties in a bunch.

10:56: Winner: The Dropper makes it a back to back. He wins the non-Space Car, and his food is going into space. “It’s too much to process as a human.”

10:57: Everyone else, you did good too. Except you Tiffany. Pack ‘em up.

Both the winner and loser thank Jeebus under their breath, but Jeebus is too busy helping professional sports teams to pay attention.

NEXT WEEK: Ed is a whole new level of sweaty.

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I am emotionally drained. (Not by this dinner, though.)

Before I get into that, let me offer salutations for the students visiting from the University of Central Arkansas. Welcome! I hope your parents don’t find out that they’re paying good money for you to take a class and read this crap.

So, my delicate emotional state, being the lilting rose that I am. Last night, I had a very hard conversation with a good friend. On one hand, the outside observer would say that it did not go well; on the other, it went about as well as could be expected. There was yelling and crying and a great raising of dander and storming and it was generally unpleasant and awkward for everyone involved, and I’m not sure if Friend even really heard what we were trying to tell her.

I could go into more detail, but I won’t, to spite you.

Actually, it’s because I am actually a halfway decent person, and Friend did not sign up to have me air out all her business so you can get all up in her grill about it. I’m going to stop while I’m ahead and simply say: I needed some non-taxing, comforting food tonight. So, pan-seared catfish with poblano rajas cream sauce.

I guess this is kind of cheating, because I did sorta post about it once before, back when the blog sucked ass and none of you were here. But since none of you were here, it’s new to you!

I’m realizing that a double-edged food blogging sword is infinite variety pitted against familiarity. That is, every Thursday is something different. Every Tuesday is something different. Mondays and Fridays are takeout/go out, and Wednesday is a big bowl of Special K because that’s what I’m reduced to when Brian isn’t around for dinner. Weekends, all bets are off and we’re often eating at friends’ or families’ homes. So every week is exciting and different, but that means that for the past nearly three years, I’ve barely repeated a dish.

Cry me a river for my extreme first-world problem, won’t you?

Anyway, this dish used to be a dinnertime staple before I became a blogging gadfly. It only requires a handful of ingredients and a single pan, but the payoff is huge.

I roasted some poblanos; while they sat and steamed their little skins off, I chopped an onion and garlic. Catfish was seared and removed to a warming drawer, onions and garlic were sauteed and roasted chopped poblano was added along with some heavy cream, dried thyme and Mexican oregano.

Note to students: in your technological writing, you’ll want to use the passive voice a lot less than I do.

See, I’m value-added!

Once the cream cooks down a bit, that’s it. Plate up your fish, heap the poblano mixture on top and dribble some cream around. You’re done, and you’re welcome.

Normally, Brian is in charge of this meal and would throw together a blackening spice mix for the catfish but I was going it alone this time, so I just seasoned it with salt, pepper and a pinch of cayenne. (Plus, now I can use the blackening spice mix to milk a whole ‘nother post out of this dish!)

Poblanos aren’t really spicy, they just have a rich, smoky flavor that pairs astonishingly well with dairy; the cream heightens the flavor and brings out a vegetal sweetness in the peppers. Catfish stands up well to the creamy sauce, and the onions add another layer of sweetness that’s a great foil to the deep flavor of the chiles. The thyme and oregano add an herbal note (duh) that helps lighten the dish.

All in all, this might be in my top 10 favorite things to eat. And that’s saying something, because I fricking love eating.

Now, I will sigh the Sigh of Contentment, and wait for my emotional equilibrium to return.

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And you’re not afraid to spend money to show it.

That’s why you need this cutting board.

You know you do. You can’t fool me.

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Chocolate Babka
adapted from The Modern Baker
makes 2 loaves

Dough:
1 1/4 c. whole milk
2 packets yeast
8 tbsp. + 2 tbsp. melted butter
6 egg yolks
1/2 c. sugar
1 tsp. vanilla
1/2 tsp. salt
4 c. AP flour

Filling:
8 oz. dark chocolate
3/4 tsp. cinnamon
1 tbsp. cocoa
1/2 c. sugar

Make the Dough: Heat the milk to 110 degrees. Put it in the bowl of your handy-dandy stand mixer and whisk in the yeast, followed by 8 tbsp. of the butter, the eggs, sugar, vanilla and salt.

Stir in 2 cups of the flour with a wooden spoon, then put the bowl into the mixer fitted with a paddle attachment. Working on low speed, mix in the remaining 2 cups of flour 1/2 a cup at a time. When all the flour is incorporated, mix on low for 2 minutes. Let the dough rest for 10 minutes, then mix for another 2.

Use one of the remaining tablespoons of butter to coat the inside of a bowl. Scrape the dough (it will be sticky) into the buttered bowl. Toss it over to get it covered in butter, then cover with plastic wrap and chill for 1 1/2 hours.

Make the filling: Put all the ingredients into the FoPro and whiz until finely chopped.

Form the dough: Plop the risen dough onto a floured board. Press it out into a rectangle that’s approximately 12×16 inches. Scatter the filling evenly over the dough, the roll the dough up into a log. Cut the log in half.

Prep the loaf pans: Use the remaining tablespoon of butter to grease 2 loaf pans. Line the bottoms with parchment, and grease that.

Put the dough into the loaf pans, cover with a kitchen towel and let rise another 1 1/2 hours.

Preheat the oven to 350. Bake the loaves for 45-50 minutes. Let cool in the pans for a few minutes, then de-pan and let cool on a cooling rack.

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I’ve learned my lesson when it comes to tofu.

That is, I only like it when it’s deep fried and covered in kung pao sauce. The rest of the time, I can leave it be, especially when it tries to make an appearance in my mac and cheese. So when I decided to pick a recipe from the Moosewood Restaurant New Classics cookbook, I set a no-tofu rule. No tofu masquerading as cheese, no silken tofu masquerading as yogurt, no blended tofu masquerading as cream. Just good ol’, non-tofu vegetarian food.

Note to angry vegans: I do not begrudge you your tofu. Also, why are you still hanging around? Haven’t you learned your lesson? My readers, they are not kind to the tofu, and I don’t stand in the way of the hate train.

I also wanted something quick, because I need to go to bed early tonight so I can get up as the ass crack of dawn tomorrow morning. And vegetarian + quick and easy can only add up to one thing: beans. Or, in this case, black eyed peas in the form of Indian skillet beans.

This was a double win, because both Brian and I had been craving Indian food last night, but the only Indian joint we could find on delivery.com was called something like “Horn OK Happy Indian” and the chicken tikka masala was $13 a serving, which is highway robbery for takeout Indian. Indian food should not cost more than $6.95, and should come in buffet form. Unlimited samosas for everyone!

I started sauteeing some onion, garlic and ginger while I got the spices together; a blend of cayenne, cinnamon, cardamom, coriander and cumin. I also drained a can of black eyed peas and rinsed off the nasty can juice.

The spices and peas went into the skillet along with some tamarind concentrate and water.

Tamarind concentrate is some dark and viscous goo that clings obstinately to whatever utensil/countertop/human skin it touches. It’s like the devil’s semen. But damn it if as soon as the tamarind hit the heat, the smell emanating from the pan immediately began to read as Indian and my mouth immediately began to water.

I added a tomato just-plucked from my garden and, when the beans and tomato had simmered for a few minutes, some baby spinach.

Speaking of my garden, which is apropos of nothing here, I am currently experiencing Critical Chile Mass. Habanero, cayenne, jalapeno and something questionable called an “inferno.” I would appreciate your leaving me any good recipes that will use up a shit ton of chiles. Brian would prefer something pickled. Hup to.

While the spinach finished wilting down, I threw together a quick raita – yogurt, cucumber, mint and a little cumin.

Real yogurt that, at one point, came from a cow. Not a soybean. Just specifying.

I heaped the peas and spinach into my bowl, added a dollop of raita and sat down to the best Indian food a $0.79 can of black eyed peas can buy. This is my kind of vegetarian. It was hearty, satisfying and well-spiced. The raita was a welcome foil to the cayenne’s kick.

Admittedly, this is kind of a cheap shot for a Smackdown, because I could have very easily made something very similar without a recipe. So, you know, discount me if you will; I can take it.

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(The previews were remarkably unhelpful, so I can’t provide any actual information here.)

Last Week: Tiffany swept the challenges. Angelo made Julia Child cry. Leon Panetta was the mack daddy. Alex got the hell off our television screens.

10:02: Ed is stealing Tiffany’s clothes. The infatuation moves to a new, disturbing level. He wants to inhabit her.

As a child, The Dropper literally prayed to an altar of top chefs, kinda like I pray to Paula Deen and the altar of best dishes. He’s more of a nutjob than even I thought.

10:04: Rick Moonen! And he’s not talking to us.

QUICKFIRE. Create a dish based on a food idiom, like “Big Cheese” or “Hide the Salami.” Winner gets their own frozen meal. It’s like Ratatouille come to life! But in a bad way.

10:06: LeahRedux: annoying talentless hack, or dark horse? I think we all know the answer to that. Angelo doesn’t.

10:07: Is The Dropper using a SnackMaster? If so, AWESOME.

10:09: Padma’s stylist is hitting the bottle again this week.

Rick Moonen is one poker faced judge. I kinda miss yell-y Moonen.

10:10: The botton: Kelly’s chicken didn’t sing. LeahRedux’s mac and cheese was a sledgehammer to the gut.

Whiny LeahRedux doing a purposely whiny voice makes me want to jam a spoon into my ear. Brian: “Is she always that irritating? Is that her thing?”

The top: Moonen wanted to lick Kevin’s plate, and that is not a euphemism. Ed’s plate was well thought out.

10:11: Winner: Ed. He’s so thrilled, he nearly makes a facial expression.

10:14: Commercials. Do people think the Siena mom is cute, or does everyone want to sock her one, and possibly put her kids into foster care?

Half the time we get commercials for terrible rom-coms, and then we get The Expendables? Does not compute.

10:16: ELIMINATION. Serve fancy pants concession stand food at the baseball stadium, working as a single team.

How can we have a cohesive team without the Alpha Beast? Surely, there is no way.

10:18: Whole Foods. The Dropper is talking to the sesame oil. The sesame oil is non-responsive. Even condiments are creeped out by Angelo.

10:19: Seeing sausage in such quantity makes me never want to eat sausage again, and if you know me you know how momentous that is.

10:21: Ed is now talking to himself as well. And is running around like a headless chicken. Shades of Angelo, which is unfortunate. One is enough.

Ed: “If I need three of these for 150 people…that’s 550!” Sure it is.

LeahRedux is getting WAY to much screen time. I don’t trust it.

10:22: Brian: “Is there anyone likable this season?”

Indeed, Brian, Indeed.

10:25: Commercials. The Housewives of New Jersey disgust me, until they start literally beating up on Andy Cohen. That, I can get behind.

10:27: <banging head against wall> They never thought about a system for taking a fulfilling orders. <banging head against wall>

10:28: Ed tries to make a joke. No one notices.

Baseball players are tall. And dumpy looking.

10:29: “This is like watching a monkey make sweet simian love to a football.” (via @JeffHouck) I’m not sure what that means or how it applies, but I like it.

10:31: Shockingly, baseball fans are not into tuna tartare.

10:33: One of the baseball players: “It’s like a caterpillar exploded in my mouth.” And from his tone, I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

10:34: Serving gray tuna to Moonen and Ripert? Should be an automatic fail, then we could end the episode and all get to bed early.

10:37: “Why would you come to a ballgame and order chicken?” Maybe because the alternative is rotting tuna? Though really, I think the ballpark rule is “Order the fried thing in the shape of a stick or a ball.”

10:40: Commercials. Brian has decided that Ed should be called “Sweaty Fritter.” Which is better than the spy name he gave himself, even if I can’t get totally behind it.

10:42: Pointless interlude. The Dropper chats with his mail order bride. They’ve only met a few times. It’s useful, because then she rarely runs into his boyfriend leaving the house at 4am.

10:43: It’s impossible to see Eli and NOT make a joke about him mom. Who I’m sure is a lovely woman, but still.

10:45: Everyone gets called in the judge’s table. I harbor the irrational hope that they’ll all be dismissed and we can start over with a better season.

10:46: Commence bus-throwing-under.

10:47: Tiffany: “If there’s no juice coming out, I’m not really enjoying it.” That’s what she said! Literally!

10:48: The top: Ed, who is praised for being “tidy.” Tiffany, whose dish wasn’t tidy but tasted good. Winner: Ed! He sweeps the day.

He wins a trip to Australia. This is the second time in 24 hours he nearly makes an expression. He’s going to be sore tomorrow.

10:50: Kelly respected the crab, so we know she’ll be sticking around.

Did no one think to take the chicken OFF THE SKEWER before trying to eat it? Is it really stab yourself in the gums or nothing?

10:53: Ripert was offended by the color of the tuna. Tartaring the day before: DISRESPECT.

10:55: Commercials. “You flew last minute, on points…and Chevy Chase was in first class?”

10:57: Kelly, you didn’t suck nearly as badly as everyone else. Amanda, you tried to kill us with tuna. Kevin, soggy fries never won anyone Top Chef. Angelo, you own a sandwich shop, but fucked up a sandwich.

10:58: Amanda, pack your knives.

Huzzah!

Next Week: Buzz Aldrin. Outer space cooking.

Night all!

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My herb garden must be tamed.

Who knew lemon balm could grow so big? Or lemon verbena so tall? Between the two lemony bullies and the weeds the size of trees that I haven’t bothered to pull out (they certainly haven’t affected the lemon balm), sunlight to those herbs that are not upright of habit is all but choked off. That’s why I had to mercilessly mow down the lemon verbena tonight for some striped bass with lemon verbena-macadamia pesto.

The lemon balm, I didn’t touch. It’s large enough to be dangerous, and I don’t trust it. Who knows what lurks within its depths?

Well, giant bumblebees, for one, which is quite enough to keep me from investigating any further. We’re lucky I forced myself to get close enough to the herbs to snag the verbena, or dinner would have been utterly lacking in condiment.

Macadamias completed the pesto dyad.* Fish naturally pairs up with butter and lemon, so why wouldn’t it pair well with a pesto made of lemony herbs and buttery nuts? It only makes sense. That was the premise from which this meal proceeded.

It also provided a convenient excuse to splurge on macadamia nuts (which, in this photo, look very much like tiny potatoes). And to munch on said nuts while making dinner.

*No cheese, because fish with cheese squicks me out, crustaceans exempted. It’s like my own personal rule of kashrut.

Here’s the thing: my original butter + lemon premise only works if the lemony herb in question actually tastes lemony. Which lemon verbena, as it turns out, does not when pulverized; the bright, sharp lemon scent given off by the leaves transforms after being FoProed into something decidedly herbaceous but remarkably sweet.

So I bolstered it with lemon zest and juice, because it was crying out for some punch. Damn lemon verbena and its damn misleading scent. What kind of fucked up asshole of a plant reeks of lemon but refuses to taste like it? I CALL SHENANIGANS.

See if I ever plant YOU again, lemon verbena. I bet the lemon balm could KICK YOUR ASS.

It all ended up tasting good in the end, so I’ll stop excoriating the verbena. It knows how I feel.

I had some truly loverly pieces of local wild striped bass that I seasoned simply with salt and pepper and cooked off quickly in a hot pan. Brian, who is known as a lover of A Nice Piece of Fish (said with old Brooklyn man accent) had been waiting for this meal like a kid on Christmas.

Not that he knows what Christmas is like, because he’s Jewish and they don’t get Christmas because they killed Jesus. For other Jews who may be reading, Christmas is when Santa comes down from heaven and gives new bicycles to the good Christian children so they can ride in circles around their non-Christian classmates and gloat.

But let us not allow theological inquiry, however intriguing it may be, to stand in the way of dinner.

Lemony pesto on fish is a winner – the citrus and herb are bracing against the sweet, succulent fish – and the macadamia nuts are so wonderfully fatty that Brian asked if there was butter in the pesto. We both scarfed our dinners in record time, and I didn’t even remember to be mad at the lemon verbena.

This is the fourth killer pesto in a row – spinach and walnut, basic basil, cilantro and now lemon verbena – and I decree that all greens shall henceforth be consumed only in pesto form.

Lemon Verbena Pesto
2 c. lightly packed lemon verbena
1/2 c. macadamia nuts
2 tbsp. lemon juice
1 tsp. lemon zest
1/4 c. olive oil
s+p to taste

Whiz the verbena, macadamia nuts and lemon juice/zest in the FoPro until finely minced. With the FoPro running, slowly add the olive oil until you get a thick paste. Taste, and adjust the seasoning; you’ll likely need salt.

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