Glamorous Camping Food OR The Day The Husband Debearded Mussels

You who know me know also that I do all the cooking in our household. That, in fact, I am even a tad nuts on the subject of not letting anyone else cook in my kitchen. This quirk led me to hardly notice that the Dear Husband’s main function around mealtime was to greatly admire and enjoy whatever was on his plate. And then, of course, doing the dishes after the eating was done.

But I did always have a slightly uneasy feeling that this was not a well-balanced state of affairs. After all, we’ve now been together as a couple for about a quarter of a century. That’s a lot of meals. I had a blast preparing them. But…but what would the Dear Husband do when I wasn’t around to prepare?

The answer over the last twenty-five years: Cheese and salsa sandwiches, with raw carrots on the side.

I did worry a little bit about his being apart from me and subsisting on his inevitable cheese and etc. So the other night when I hauled myself home from a day in town, and unpacked the groceries, to my delight, I found him watching intently.

“What are you cooking tonight?”

“Mussels. For some reason they were marked down. But I had a chat with the butcher, and we couldn’t figure out why—they’re all alive.”

“Do they have to be alive?”

“Oh yeah.”

“How can you tell?”

“If they shut up when you squeeze them. If they’re shut already (but if they don’t open when you cook them, those ones are dead, too). If they’re not cracked.”

“Okay. So what I want to know is: could they be cooked in one pot? Like if I went camping?”

I looked at him in astonishment. Was my Dear Husband actually asking me to teach him to cook mussels on a CAMPFIRE? Oh my. I breathed in and tried not to look as astonished as I felt. Or as proud. If this was what was happening, I felt my success as a wife was complete.

“Are you…are you asking me to teach you to cook things you could do while you’re camping?”

“Well. Yeah. I get kind of tired of cheese sandwiches.”

Oh. Oh. YES! (Silent high five between my spirit and myself.)

Hold back the enthusiasm, Tod. Go easy here. You don’t want to scare him.

“You know, I think that’s a great idea. If you were in a place where they had mussels on sale, they’re a great camp dinner choice. They’re easy, they’re inexpensive, they’re delicious, and you don’t even need a fork to eat them.”

“I don’t?”

“You use the shells. I’ll show you when we sit down with the finished product. But first…”

First. Here’s how to cook mussels in one pot, on the stove or…over a campfire.

Buy your mussels. About a pound is good for one hungry camper. Make sure the store has punched holes in the cellophane if the mussels are wrapped. You don’t want them smothering to death before it’s their time.

Now. Back at the campsite. If it’s easy, fill a bowl with some water and salt. Add the mussels to soak. You can use the bowl to eat them out of later. If it’s not easy, it’s not going to kill you this once to eat mussels that haven’t been rinsed off.

Chop some garlic, and some kind of onion (shallot, white, red, scallion), any kind you like. Add to the pot, in a puddle of some kind of fat (butter, oil, bacon fat, your choice). Cook on low heat until soft. If you have any spices with you that you like, you can add those now. Chile powder is a good camping spice. Smoked paprika. I like to add curry powder myself. Just a small shake is good. Or a sprinkling of thyme is nice.

If you don’t have any fat, no worries. Move on to the next instruction, and add all the above ingredients to the liquid. It will be marginally less toothsome, but this is camping, for God’s sake.

If you DO have fat, cook the above a bit more till slushy. Now add a quarter cup (I mean a quarter cup of whatever you’re drinking out of; no need to get pedantic here) of some kind of liquid. Beer. Wine. Tomato juice. Veggie broth. V-8. Clam juice. Whatever you have on hand. Cook for a moment more.

While that is happening, debeard your mussels. This is simple. Drain the mussels. Then just pull the beard off them and toss the cleaned mussels into the pot. If you can, turn the heat up a bit, but no worries if you’re only on one kind of heat.

Cover the pot. Shake it from time to time to help the shellfish cook evenly. If you have any parsley or cilantro on you, now is the time to chop.

Open the lid cautiously. Are the mussels all open? (If almost all are WIDE open, but one or two aren’t, discard the unopened ones without eating. But be careful—sometimes a mussel is more stubborn than its fellows, and those tend to be the most delicious of all.) IF they are, take the pot off the heat, scatter the parsley if you have it, pour them into your bowl, and have at it, preferably with a bit of bread or tortilla to mop up the juice.

If you don’t have bread or a tortilla, just lift the bowl and drink the juice down straight. After all, if you can’t behave like that when you’re camping, what’s the point of camping at all?

And—as I showed the Dear Husband at dinner that night—you can use the shells themselves as little tongs to pull the mussels out of their shells, conveying them mouthward.

Really. Mussels are ideal camping food. And I never would have known if he hadn’t thought of it. Which is why we’re a great team. Now I have to plot what to teach him next…scrambled eggs with smoked salmon is what I’m thinking, hhhhhmmmmm…







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The Blessing of Roast Chicken.

It’s the time of year for counting one’s blessings, and I have been having a great time with that. Unsurprisingly, an awful lot of my blessings have to do with food. Creamed spinach. Persimmons. Green peas and butter. Salad with walnuts and blue cheese. Oysters…I could go on.

And of all the blessings that make it worthwhile being a human born into this body of limitations and inevitable suffering mixed with joy, one of the greatest is Roast Chicken.

My roast chicken.

My roast chicken is simply the best, having been honed to perfection over years of tinkering. Tinkering and then eating. So you can trust me on this one.

I used to think Nigel Slater’s was the best. Simple. You just slathered a load of butter on a good organic bird, salt and pepper, maybe shove a garlic clove or two into the cavity, then roast it at 400 degrees until done, still a tiny bit rose colored at the joints, and gilded brown all over.

That’s a pretty good recipe, to tell the truth.

But then I discovered BRINE.

The brined roast chicken. If you are into roast chicken (and I think we know by now I’m into them, yes?), this is the recipe for you.

Here’s how:

First…and most important…the bird. It should be organic, and the best quality you can get. No, really, I’m not kidding. I cannot emphasize this enough. This is not just so you don’t have to push out of your imagination the torture some poor Arkansas bred creature went through to get broasted at Costco with so much paprika and cayenne that you can’t taste the fact that the bird itself is, well, tasteless. This is not just for hippie idealistic reasons (although, momentary commercial interlude, THE HIPPIES WERE RIGHT, okay? live with it). This is because most nonorganic birds have by now been so badly treated by techniques of mass production that they have just about no flavor. If we are going to eat meat, we need to understand that the higher morality is the higher practicality. In this as in so many other things.

Okay, now you have your bird. Take a brief moment to mourn the days when it would come stuffed with its own neck, giblets and liver, all of which come in very handy in the Good Eating Stakes. But never mind. We’ll get a good chicken broth out of the bones at the end, which is one of the advantages of roasting your own good chicken. (This is impossible with a supermarket rotisserie chicken. Take my word for it.)

Now you brine the bird. This may seem like a lot of hoopla, but there are times when hoopla adds so much to your quality of life that it cannot be avoided. This is one of those times.

Say you have a bird that’s about three to five pounds, the usual size you find in the market. For a good brine, it should soak about three hours. You can do more if you like a brine-ier bird (which I do). Not more than six hours, though—too salty at that point. (And if I say it’s too salty, believe me…)

Here’s how you make the divine brine:


1 ½ cups of salt (just table is fine) with

1 ½ cups of sugar (here, if anywhere, is the proper use for white) in

A gallon of water (or as much as it will take to cover the bird)

Crush into the liquid a handful of BAY LEAVES (as many or as few as you can spare)

Squash a head or two (two is better) of garlic and add the cloves, even with the skin still clinging to them as all we want is the flavor, you’re not going to eat them (this is a very important step, it adds a dimension to the chicken that is way out)

Now submerge your bird. Refrigerate. From time to time, turn the bird over in the brine. Don’t fuss about this—just when you think of it is fine. And if you don’t think of it, that’s fine, too.

An hour and a half or so before you want to eat the bird, preheat the oven to 400 degrees. If you want, do what I do: plan to cook the bird in a ridged cast iron pan, in which case, put the pan in the preheating oven to preheat itself.

While all this is going on, drain the bird (garlic cloves and bay leaves can go happily on the compost), dry it off with paper towels, inside and out. If you’re not going to use the cast iron option, put the bird breast down on a rack in a roasting pan.

When the oven is hot (and so is your ridged cast iron pan, if you’re with me on this one), add the bird breast side down. It’s going to take about an hour to cook, but I like to leave it upside down for the first twenty minutes.

After twenty minutes, turn it right side up. NO NEED TO BASTE! Really! I’m not kidding! The brine does something magic to the chicken so you don’t have to bother.

Roast for about forty more minutes, though I would check it at thirty. If you have an instant read thermometer (and really, you should, really you SHOULD), the dark meat joint, where the thigh attaches to the bird, should read a little under 180 degrees when it’s done to my idea of perfection. You’ll have your own ideas, of course.

Take the bird out, let it sit (under a tent of foil if you must, but I usually just leave it out so the crispy skin stays that way) for five or ten or fifteen minutes. Then carve.

Then eat. Then oooh. Then aaahhh.

And if you’ve roasted a few carrots, perhaps even a few potatoes, in the same oven, have them on the side. By the way, I generally serve my portion on top of shredded lettuce, with a little wedge of lemon for possible squeezing.

This is truly the Greatest Roast Chicken in the world. And here’s the other advantage it has over those Costco rotisserie chickens: as you eat, throw the bones into a pot with a scrubbed carrot, a bit of celery and parsley if you have them, a couple of garlic cloves, a bay leaf, and a peppercorn or two. Cover with water. Bring to a boil and simmer. As you eat the chicken, add the bones to the soup. Or save all the bones in a bag in the freezer and make the soup later. Either way, simmer everything together until it smells beautifully like chicken broth (at least an hour, but more won’t hurt), and then cool, drain, use or freeze. Don’t believe anyone who tells you that brined birds can’t make good broth. I don’t know where they got that idea. From some unsalted galaxy far far away, no doubt.

Happy eating. And a happy, happy, happy new year to all. Safety, warmth, creativity, and good food for all.


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In Praise of the Tomato.

The Tomato is a wonderful thing.

Few foodstuffs are more wonderful. There are unlimited vistas to meals as you, the Cook, contemplate the beautiful round vegetable. (Okay, yes, I know, it’s technically a fruit. So sue me.) It goes with just about anything around, with the small exception of sugar. (Which is why I refuse to call it a fruit.) And even that—high falutin’ chefs have been known to make tomato desserts, but we just have to avert our eyes and courteously pretend we haven’t noticed. The noble Tomato has charms enough without being tarted up and led down the garden path of sweets.

Now I want to praise then noble Tomato.

Let me count the ways in which it can be (and is) prepared. Ah, tomatoes! They are wonderful raw: sliced thinly, scattered with herbs (marjoram, thyme, or torn basil…yum), perhaps a bit of sweet raw garlic, shallots, green onions…or sliced onions, white, yellow, red, or purple, lain on top…and then a little salt, preferably the flaky stuff. Sometimes a good grind of black pepper. And then the final anointing, depending on the sweetness or lack thereof of the basic tomato: olive oil alone. Olive oil followed by a squeeze of lemon or lime over the whole lot. Olive oil followed by a shaking of any one of a number of delicious vinegars. Or, if the tomatoes absolutely seem to demand it—and listen to them, as you get to know them, you will get to understand their needs—just a spoonful or two of sweet balsamic vinegar whooshed atop. Leave the tomatoes to marinate in that last. Spoon the vinegar over them from time to time as you wander past the platter. And then…enjoy.

Chop them up this way, add to them some chopped cucumber, a little minced hot pepper, some sliced sweet onion and mashed garlic, a bunch of minced herbs, and a little water or tomato juice to taste…and there it is, like Spanish magic, GAZPACHO.

As for the cooked tomato. I would scarcely have the room here or the time to list all the ways. You’ll have your favorites. Pasta sauce, of course, but in how many delicious variations! With garlic sautéed and then removed from olive oil before adding the tomatoes…and these last can be raw or canned. Canned tomatoes are probably one of mankind’s most profound inventions. They certainly have provided more definite happiness for humankind than just about anything else with the exception of indoor plumbing and modern dentistry. Canned tomatoes make me purr in the winter months. I make sauces, as above. Add a red pepper pod from time to time. Raw garlic chopped and added at the last moment. Anchovies melted into a mix of butter and olive oil before they’re added. This reminds me…raw tomatoes are great mixed at the last minute with a melting of said anchovies, chopped garlic, minced capers, chopped green onion and olives into said olive oil and butter. Add to linguine, toss with handfuls of green herbs. Parsley is nice. Parsley, come to think of it, is always nice with tomatoes.

But wait, I got off the subject of cooked tomatoes: Tomato/Onion/Garlic/Greens/Potato hash! Tomato sauce heated with whole eggs poached atop. Tomatoes and chilies cooked down to a sauce to top fried tortillas and a fried egg. A little cheese never hurts this one. Stuffed tomatoes!

Tomato soup!

And then, the stews and soups that hang their heads with pallid shame without their friend the tomato. But add them and wonder. Beef stew! Mushroom stew! Vegetable soup! Ratatouille!

Roasted vegetables!

Which brings me to the single most useful tomato recipe I have to offer. So useful, in fact, and so cherished in my own home, that it has featured in BOTH “Jam Today” cookbooks. Because I know some of the more informed, tomato-wise, of you are out there making mournful tsk-tsk noises, and wondering why I’m bringing all of this up, all of this about the Wonder of the Tomato, just right at the painful moment for tomato lovers everywhere when the beautiful, perfectly ripe, marvelously flavorful tomato of the summer/fall season is just about to disappear from gardens and markets everywhere. Leaving…what? The relatively pallid, some would even say hockey-puckesque hothouse tomatoes, or those transported from such far away climes that necessity dictated their being picked about a half a century too early for proper flavor.

But wait! There is hope (there is always hope). Because what you need now is a good recipe for OVEN DRIED ORGANIC ROMA TOMATOES.

(I should have mentioned that ‘organic’ thing sooner. Believe me, the kind of pesticides you find soaked all the way through your average store-bought tomato are nothing you want anywhere near the bodies of yourself or your loved ones. Not to mention near the bodies of the poor overworked souls who had to stoop to pick them, breathing in all those horrible fumes. I think the less we encourage the growth of nonorganic tomatoes, the better for everyone.)

Back to the recipe. I find you can get rather well priced organic Roma tomatoes, imported probably from Mexico, even in the depth of winter. All that’s needed to relieve them of their miserable cottony, untomatoey taste is a good long bout in a very slow oven. You want them cooked to the point where they are flexible, not dried out, but without any liquid remaining to go moldy on you later. Then they are extraordinarily sweet, and last an amazing amount of time in a covered bowl in your refrigerator, ready to be taken out and used in any number of ways: in salads, in soups, in stews, or even just mashed up and spread on a good slice of bread.

This is how:

Take as many Roma tomatoes as you want and split in half, leaving them connected a bit in the middle. Cover as many cookie sheets as you need to hold the tomatoes involved, and as your oven can stand, with foil. Put tomatoes on foil. Sprinkle with salt—coarse is my favorite here. Now you can either spoon a little olive oil over each one, or leave them plain. The first way makes a more unctuous dried tomato (you’ll probably never go back), but the real advantage is the olive oil helps them last longer in the refrigerator. However, if you’re dieting, or you want to use them right away and don’t want the oil, for whatever strategic reason, no worries, just leave it off.

Now put them the tomatoes the oven at a very low temperature, 200 or 250 degrees. You can leave them like that all night. In fact, all night is a very good amount of time. You’ll wake to the smell of deep red tomato (yes, it’s true, you can smell the color, at least I always think I can). Of course, they don’t NEED to be in all night, just a good four to eight hours…so for the latter amount of time, the lower oven temperature of course. Once they’re done to your liking (remember: flexible, chewy, not dried out and crackly), take them out, pile them in a bowl, cover, put in your refrigerator, and feel happy, once again, to have a supply laid-in of tomato goodness.

Then silently thank the tomato and the force that made it.

The Wonder of the Tomato. Whoever invented the tomato certainly knew one or two things about the joy of everyday life.




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There’s No Place Like Home.

I firmly believe that everyone has a home, a place where they feel they belong—and if they don’t have such a place, they should, they need one. Where I feel at home won’t be the same as where you do, nor should it. Just think how crowded if we all felt the same way! Having a home that you know and love is just about the best thing a human being can earn, after a partner and a family and some kind of work that brings out the best in you.

So when I count my blessings, I start (after my partner and my family and my work that I find absorbing day after day) with my home. I’ve lived in many different places over the years, many different countries, many different towns, many different kinds of places…but home has stayed the same for a good long part of my life. And that is the Pacific Northwest, or as some of us fondly refer to it, Cascadia.

When I came home this time, after years of commuting back and forth hundreds of miles to an undeniably lovely and hospitable spot whose only defect was that it wasn’t home, I felt as if my feet were more firmly on the ground than they’d been in years. I could breathe again. I could hear stories of new possibilities in the wind through the trees. (That last is no hyperbole by the way, just simple fact. Try it, next time you find yourself alone in a wood.) I set out, delighted, to reconnect with my neighbors. And to connect with neighbors I had yet to meet.

One of these connections which I delightedly made was with the food editor of our local newspaper, the Medford Mail Tribune. I’d idly read her posts on and off from far away, and thought with a touch of homesickness, of how she was foraging in my home markets. I noticed when she foraged, she found similar opportunities to the ones I would have seized upon myself. Her recipes, in short, showed we had a lot in common.

This had happened a few times before. When Gourmet magazine was still going, I used to clip a recipe or two out of every issue. One day I noticed that every single recipe I clipped—every single one—was by the same food editor. So I sent her a copy of Jam Today, and now, you know, we are very good friends. We meet up every time I’m in New York, and indulge together in a mutual love of garlic laden Chinese food. We never stop talking the whole time. Mostly about food. But about a lot of other, related, things as well. Because the people I have the most in common with know that food is just one of the ways, albeit one of the most important ways, that we have of expressing the fact that we are human. And that we are human together.

Remembering this, I sent the food editor of the Mail Tribune a copy of Jam Today Too. And sure enough, it turns out we do have shared food values—and maybe even more. For example, take frittata. Anyone who knows me, knows I love a good egg dish. They’re all over the Jam Today series, all over. And honestly, I thought I knew every single egg dish there was on offer. But here, today (June 22), in this blog post by Sarah Lemon (and if that isn’t a great name for a food editor, I don’t know what is), is an egg dish I have not only never heard of but am dying to try. How often does that happen, I ask you.

Mashed potatoes, herbs, and eggs. ‘Fresh Herb Kuku’ it’s called. Yes, indeed, I am going to make this one pronto. And if I’m going to gild the lily (which I suspect I am), I may add a bowl of garlic mayonnaise, aka aioli, to the table to be dipped into at will and used to anoint said frittata. I think that would be very nice indeed. And then maybe I’ll use a trick I discovered about how to easily make a salad on the side. I’ve mentioned this in both the Jam Todays, I think. First you make your garlic mayonnaise in a food processor, then scrape it out into a bowl. But wait! There’s still lots of the unctuous stuff clinging to the sides of the processor bowl, not to mention the blades. Don’t worry, there will be no waste (and there probably wouldn’t be if you have someone in house who wants to lick the bowl, either…but that is a slightly more dangerous option, those food processor blades being sharp as they are).

What I used to religiously do was add chunks of cabbage to the bowl, and then process. It turned out there was just enough aioli clinging to the sides to mix with the cabbage to make a fresh tasting salad for the side of whatever else I had going.

Then the other night, I made an aioli to go with a Spanish style rice dish. But no cabbage in sight—it had all gone into a tuna salad the night before. I was just going to make a green salad, when, looking in the vegetable drawer, I had a mild brain wave. Why not make this salad with carrots? So I peeled some, chunked them up, threw them in, and processed.

It tasted fine, but it looked a little pallid. I wanted something green in there. That was when I remembered I had a huge bag of sorrel, which grows like a weed in the Indigo Ray’s garden, and which no one around here but Indigo and I ever pick (can’t imagine why, it makes fantastic lemony tasting soup). So I threw some of that in and pulsed. Beautiful orange and green flecked salad resulted. And the taste! My! Lemony and garlicky and sweet and fresh all at once.

I highly recommend it. In fact, I would recommend you seek out some sorrel to make just this dish. And if there’s anything I think it would go superbly well beside, well, it would have to be the Fresh Herb Kuku that Sarah Lemon so wonderfully revealed to me today.

It’s good to be home. Yes, indeed.





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My Chicken Soup That Cures.

It happens. I got a cold and it just kept going, forcing me to cough and hack and wake up in the morning wondering if I could even remember what it was like to get up without feeling like I was choking. This went on for months, sometimes fading back, but then coming slamming in every time there was a little stress…or, face it, even a lot of stress. Because that’s the recipe for a cold that lasts for months: a vicious little virus meeting up with me at a particularly rocky part of the road forward.

Did I let it get me down? Well, maybe some days. Other days, though, I picked myself up and scolded myself, arguing that I’m supposed to be a glass is half full sort of a person, which, really, is the only kind of person to be these days, when the glass is constantly under threat.

No, I was determined not to let it get me down, not even in the FIFTH month of the foul thing, not even when the ‘regular’ doctors prescribed antibiotics which did just about nothing except mess with my usually stellar digestion.

What did I do instead? I did what a more tuned-in doctor sympathetically suggested, of course (thank you, Dr. Deborah Gordon). I took vitamins. I tried to get more sleep. I treated myself a little more gently than usual. Tried to, anyway.

And I made, for myself, at Dr. Deborah’s request, an enormous vat of deeply golden, steaming, unctuous CHICKEN SOUP.

Here’s how. (With some missteps at the beginning.)

Of course the first step, and misstep in my case, is: buy your chicken. This is very important, the way you choose your chicken. Stressed as I was, and not really thinking the way I might have been had I felt calmer and more at home in a body that wasn’t spending all its off time hacking and sniffling, I probably wouldn’t have been fooled by the label ‘Simple Truth farm fresh Chicken’, which is the kind of name corporations give things when they WANT to fool you into thinking they, and their products, are your Friend. I hate that. I absolutely hate that they want me to think they are my Friend.

Let me tell you, that chicken was not made in a friendly way. Either to me or the chicken.

I roasted it, and immediately saw my error, cursing my stupidity as I watched water flow out of it and pool at the bottom of the roasting pan. This is the added evil of the nonorganic chicken. Of course the Original Sin of said nonorganic bird is how the poor little lorn thing was treated in the first place, while it was alive (if we can call it that). Add to that the disgusting habit factory farms have of pumping chicken corpses full of liquid to make them look plumper, more appealing to the poor harried, stupidly unthinking shopper.

It made crummy soup, too, that bird. Didn’t even start to touch the underlying misery from which the months long sniffles sprang.

I cursed myself. My own fault. How can you cure yourself by adding mightily to the misery of another being? Of course you can’t.

Now you vegetarians among you are thinking to yourselves (or saying, depending on how outraged and/or smug you are feeling), why don’t you just make some vegetable broth, for Goddess sake? But vegetable broth does not have the same magic powers as chicken soup. Vegetable broth is the earnest, scrubbed, healthful, athletic student whose skin always glowed and who always helped the teacher put away the equipment after gym class.

But a good chicken soup, deep and fulfilling, is like the older kid who babysat you when you were sick, and laughed at your jokes, letting you have sip of her beer, who listened to your childish prattle and shared just enough funny stories to make you feel good, and not like you weren’t adult enough to join in the conversation. The kind of person who made you feel better just being there.

I trust that’s clear? It was chicken soup I needed, NOT vegetable broth. I like vegetable broth. But this was serious. I’d been sick since September, and here it was March.

So then I got serious.

I made real chicken soup.

And yes, it made me feel better. It made me feel a lot better.

Here was how:

First I bought my chicken. This time I did not mess around, but picked out a good, plump, organic free range bird. The hell with the price. Whatever that chicken cost was a lot less than months of antibiotics and cough syrup made with codeine.

Then I roasted it. Yes, that’s right. This is not a mistake with your real, organic, well treated bird. You can eat all the meat at a separate meal. BUT…and this is an important BUT…you must SAVE THE BONES. And any uneaten scrap. And, of course, the neck and the heart and the giblets, too.

In fact, start with the neck and the heart and the giblets too. Add them to a pot with a scrubbed organic carrot, a scraped organic stalk of celery, a handful of washed unpeeled organic garlic cloves, a sprig or two of organic parsley, a washed organic onion cut in half. Do you like thyme? I do. If so, add a sprig or two of that.

Cover with water, bring to a boil, skim the scum (feed that to the dog), turn it down to a murmur and let it go till after your bird is roasted.

Eat your roasted bird (some day I’ll share my recipe for this; a brined bird is my favorite right now). As you have bones in front of you instead of meat, toss said bones into the pot.

If you’re going to eat leftover chicken for a few days, as I do in my house where the husband is a vegetarian, put the pot in the refrigerator. As you have cold chicken for breakfast or lunch (highly recommended), toss the bones into the pot.

When the carcass is stripped, put all the bones in the pot. Put it back on the stove. Bring it back to a boil, repeat skimming, simmer for an hour or so, however long you want until it smells golden and like it might do something for a cold. Yes. It should be smelling pretty darn good, if you are a chicken soup aficionado, by this time.

Strain it. Feed the veggies, the heart, the gizzard, and any meat left clinging to the neck, imbued with chicken goodness, to the dog. Just watching how happy the dog is made should help toward curing the endless cold. Throw the bones away, or compost them if possible.

Now you should be left with a pot of golden, deep smelling goodness. Thank the chicken. Thank the people who raised and killed the chicken.

Now set about making your soup.

You can do this a number of ways.

You can

–boil the broth, add a touch of soy sauce and a hit of sesame oil, stir in an egg or two, top with chopped scallions, and breathe in the goodness of a real Eggdrop Soup

–add vegetables at will, chopped carrot and celery and mushroom, a bit more onion, finish off with a dollop of butter, and drink, in bed, from a wide mouthed pitcher

–add cooked noodles, or cooked rice, let them soak up some chicken goodness, and spoon at will.

Or you can do it my favorite way.

Onion and Garlic Chicken Soup that Cures

Take as many organic onions as you like. Slice thinly. Sweat in butter as long as you like, letting them get deep brown without burning.

Mince as much garlic as you think you need to frighten your cold back to wherever it came from.

Add them both to the simmering broth. Salt to taste.

Meld together until it smells the way you want it to smell in order to comfort you and make you sleep peacefully for the first time in weeks without having to dose your poor body with cough syrup.

Add it to a DEEP BOWL. This should be a pretty bowl, one that has always been a comfort in times of need. Add a little pepper from a pepper mill.

Sit there, inhaling the scent of the garlic and the onions and the chicken broth. The total should be far greater than the parts separately.

Spoon it up. Drink deep. Inhale the steam as you do (very important). Feel it soak into every one of your up-till-now sickly pores. Feel the health of it restoring you to balance and calm.

Sleep well. Get over that damn cold. And face the inevitable stresses of life with renewed joie de vivre.

Thank the chicken. (Thank Dr. Deborah.) And make a silent note to yourself never to buy anything labeled ‘Simple Truth’ ever again, never ever ever, in this life or in any lives you may have to come.

Postscript: Since writing this, I have made the acquaintance of the wonderful Conner Middelmann-Whitney, who wrote the anti-cancer diet cookbook Zest for Life. The book is terrific. Delicious recipes and Good For You without being smugly pious, as so many of these books are. If you’re looking for some great new ways to deal with ingredients like turmeric, mackerel, sardines, and veggies of all kinds, Conner’s book is for you. I read it straight through myself, and immediately tried her way of cooking spinach. AND IT WAS MUCH BETTER THAN MY OWN. Thanks, Conner.

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I Love Tripe (especially Menudo).

As some of you may know, my freezer is the sly receptacle of all sorts of foods that have caught my attention in one way or the other, waiting for the happy day when I can meld them into something I hope will be delicious. So when I got home to the winter Oregon woods, and took a happy inventory, there they were, these two packages that spoke to me immediately: a carefully wrapped package of pigs feet, which my dear friend Cindy had saved from being tossed out after a barbeque, on the principle that I would enjoy doing something or other with them, and…a package of tripe.

Now what is tripe? This was the first thing my friend Teri said when I enthusiastically told her about my plans for a Boxing Day soup fest, to which she and Cindy, and their respective spouses, were bidden.

Tripe, I explained to her, is the lining of a cow’s stomach. Now that does not sound in the least appetizing, and indeed, Teri’s expression showed she did not consider it in the least appetizing…quite the contrary. I tried then to explain that tripe is a bit of the cow that cooks up with a velvety, unctuous consistency, quite desirable (and honored) for hangover cure purposes. This was where Menudo comes in, I said. Menudo, the Mexican hangover cure par excellence, being what I planned on turning this package and the pigs feet into as one of the options for our soup dinner, for I had also discovered, in the cupboard, another valued ingredient: a hoarded can of hominy—so I told Teri.

She still looked doubtful. Don’t worry, I reassured her. I’m making a huge pot of vegetarian split pea soup as well.

But it was the Menudo that had my heart. I mean, I love split pea soup, but it was the tripe and pigs feet and hominy that grabbed my attention when I was spending happy hours cooking in my Oregon Christmas kitchen.

The thing about tripe, as about so many other wonderfully worthwhile things, is that it needs patience. Patience and flavor. The broth that you make from it is key to the end of Deliciousness. I had a big bunch of organic cilantro, for example, and usually the stems go into the dogs’ stodge. Not this time, though. This time I cut them off, twined them around with string to hold them together in a nice neat cilantro log, and used them in the soup. I love stuff like that. It’s what makes cooking the pleasure that it is for me. And it was a pleasure to make that soup.

So here is what I did to make Menudo for Boxing Day, for a group of people wary of tripe.

For the broth:

A pound of tripe
Two roasted pigs feet
A dried chile pepper (I used two, which most people would regard as excessive. Use your own judgment)
A head of garlic
An onion, cut in half and stuck with a couple of cloves
The stems from a bunch of cilantro, washed and tied together
A teaspoon of dried oregano
A half teaspoon of crushed coriander seed

I put all of these into a big soup pot, and covered with water. Brought to a boil, skimmed the scum off the top, and then put it on to simmer on the upper shelf of our woodstove, which kept it at a nice murmur while the stove heated our house. Left it there all Christmas day, then let it cool off and popped it in the refrigerator for the final additions.

The next day, for the soup:

I strained the broth, discarding everything but the tripe and the pigs feet. Cut the tripe into little squares, about one inch; shredded what meat there was from the pigs feet and threw away the bones.

Added the broth, the tripe, and the pigs feet meat into a cleaned out soup pot. And then added:

One drained can of hominy
Salt to taste

I set this at a simmer for about an hour on the woodstove. Let it cool again. And then, before the guests arrived, put it back on to heat, while I chopped the fixings to be put out in small bowls so that people could choose for themselves what to add to their own personal Menudo.

Fixings for Menudo:

Thinly sliced chile pepper
Chunked limes for squeezing
Chopped fresh cilantro
Sliced scallions
Dried oregano

The Menudo smelled heavenly. Really, I thought I would be the only one who ate it, so I made a lot of split pea soup, but then everyone but the Vegetarian Husband wanted a spoonful ‘just to see what it tastes like’, and then everyone but the Vegetarian Husband had a happy bowl of the stuff.

Even more happily, though, there was one serving left the next morning—this morning—when I woke up with a craving for it all over again. There was a covered plate of what was left of the fixings, and there was that ample serving in a pot. I heated the latter up, covered it with what I wanted of the former, and sighed with pleasure as I ate.

For if there is one thing better than Menudo, it is day old Menudo, when the unctuousness of the former melds into the luxury velvety richness of the latter. And this is the final prize for the canny cook, that leftover, final bowl.

I love tripe. And I especially love Menudo. Surely I’ve made that plain?

May you love what you eat as much as I loved my breakfast this morning. And remember: in love, as in all else, it’s very important to be brave! Be brave about what you eat, as about all else in life! May we all be brave!

And may we all have a very Happy New Year indeed.


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The Night I (Almost) Poisoned One of My Best Friends.

If it’s true (and I do believe it) that you can only find out what your parameters really are by pushing the envelope, then it’s also all too true that while you’re pushing that envelope, you’re inevitably going to push it too far. Alas. I certainly do, in cooking and in everything else as well. How else am I going to learn if I don’t push it a little…a trifle…too far. I mean, I ask you.

I have to admit, I pushed it a little bit too far last night, making dinner for my dear friend Teri. Now, my dear friend Teri is just about the most wonderful dinner guest you can imagine. The most tolerant. The most non-judgmental. So when I called her this morning, and said, “Oh my god, to think I almost poisoned one of my dearest friends,” she just laughed and said, “I was just thinking about how we had such a good time—neither of us is EVER going to forget last night’s dinner.”

Now that is true. I don’t know how you can forget a dinner that you cough all the way through from the fumes of the dried habanero pepper that somehow got thoughtlessly pounded in with the garlic and cumin seeds and cilantro and black pepper and salt and lemon juice and olive oil, and then used to coat a couple of sirloin tips with the idea of making some gringoesque version of Carne Asada. No, really. You can’t forget it.

Sigh. I won’t forget it. Because that’s what I did. And let me tell you, those fumes from that pounded habanero dried pepper are intense. It was a good thing we had killed a bottle of rosé before dinner; that just made us laugh harder, and made my increasingly intense apologies (the more we coughed, the more I apologized) funny rather than as annoying as they would have been had we both been completely stone cold sober.

Although here’s the thing. I mean, here’s the important thing. It still would have been funny, and fun, and part of our history, even if Teri and I had the same dinner last spring, when she and I experimented with drinking soda water mixed with various flavored vinegars as an aperitif rather than wine—just for the change.

(And delightfully refreshing it is, too, as a drink—our prairie foremothers knew this, and used to serve vinegar shrubs on their front porches in the dog days of summer. Just put a little vinegar in a tall glass, fill with soda water, ice if you like it, stir and sip. The type of vinegar is your call, though my personal favorite is raspberry, closely followed by the alluringly exotic taste of Chinese black vinegar. The Dear Husband likes cider vinegar. Teri likes coconut. It’s all a matter of taste, as in everything else in life.)

That was a nice change, drinking those shrubs. This is what I believe about excess: sometimes you like excess. Sometimes you like moderation. Sometimes you like abstemiousness. It’s up to you to figure out when those times are and act accordingly.

Anyway, last night, we were both into excess, since a period of virtue had made that the most festive way forward. And it was great. Well, it was all great except for that little bêtise of mine involving the dried habanero pepper.

Now, you want to be careful with any kind of habaneros. These chilies rank so high on the scoville unit chile heat ratings that they are probably off the chart. The best way to use the whole, undried variety, in fact, is just to pierce a couple of holes in one, add it to the stew, and then take it out and throw it away before serving the food. Trust me, you’ll taste the spice, but you won’t get scoville’ed out of your seat that way.

So if I hadn’t been so thoughtless—which I think was a symptom of the general ‘let’s celebrate the end of summer’ abandon both Teri and I were feeling—I would never ever ever have pounded a dried habanero in my mortar along with the other marinade ingredients for my carne asada. Because when you heat that dried habanero, the fumes are near deadly. They engage all the senses, and make you cough like a consumptive fiend. No, this is what I would have done instead:

For Nondeadly Carne Asada:

Take some sirloin tips. Pound the following, in whatever proportion you like, or blend in a blender:

Some cumin seeds
Some chile powder
Some dried Mexican oregano
Some garlic cloves
Some green onion
Some fresh cilantro
Some salt
Some peppercorns

Squeeze in as much lemon as you like. Then add enough olive oil to make a nice slooshy marinade, add to the sirloin tips, massage the marinade into the beef, let sit for at least an hour, or overnight if you like.

Then barbeque, or do what I did (but WITHOUT the dried habanero) and sear on a really hot cast iron skillet. While that’s happening, slice a couple of onions and toss them with the remaining marinade. When the steak is done to your liking, take it out and let it rest a few moments while you toss the coated onions on high heat in the same skillet. Serve sliced, topped with the onions, and with the accouterments of your choice. Guacamole is nice. Or just sliced avocado with lime juice squeezed on top. A tomato/ cucumber/ onion/ cilantro salad is good, too. Heated tortillas are nice, and you can wrap the steak and salads in one and make a very satisfying taco.

Just skip the dried habanero. And—very important—no matter what you do, remember that who you do it with is the most important point to the meal. What you want is a friend, family member, or loved one, who will answer your apology for any culinary mistakes thusly:

“PS my memory of dinner is a happy one. We laughed so much while we were coughing, and it was still delicious!”

Thanks, Teri. I had a great time myself.




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Creamed Spinach (for Lanny).

Do you know creamed spinach? It is, in my opinion, one of the dishes given to us by the gods to make our lives more than usually glad. I even loved it when it came out of those horrid little plastic packets that ’60’s moms dropped in boiling water before snipping open and decanting. I loved it when you could get it by the bowlful in a little restaurant in downtown San Francisco: a perfect lunch. I have loved it in every incarnation I have ever eaten it in steakhouse restaurants specializing in the stuff as being the only side that didn’t overly gild the beef lily. I even loved it through my many experiments with overly fussy recipes: bechamel, garlic, white wine and all.

But really, as so often proves to be the case, simplest is best. Simplest, unadorned, classic, one skillet creamed spinach. Easy. Quick. Adorable. Liable to draw loud bouts of applause at the dinner table. Delicious and good for you.

This is how:

A big armload of fresh spinach (more than you think you’ll need, it cooks down incredibly like all greens)
Shallots, minced
Wondra flour (or plain flour, but Wondra mixes better)
Salt & pepper


Take your large bag, or part of a large bag, of preferably organic spinach. Dump in a colander. Wash thoroughly—fresh spinach has a tendency toward clinging dirt, a sign of its serious organic intent. Drain but don’t shake off all the extra water still clinging to the leaves.

Heat a large skillet on medium low (or big pot, or whatever you have, as long as it’s big enough to hold the spinach before it cooks down). Add a chunk of butter. Say one or two tablespoons.

Mince one or two shallots, however many you like. Add to the butter. Push around until they start to sizzle and soften. Don’t brown them (although if you do, don’t panic, they’ll still taste fine as long as they’re not burned).

Add a tablespoon or so of Wondra or plain flour.

Watch carefully now, so the flour and the shallots don’t burn. Stir around so a paste forms and cook it a bit.

If you’ve used plain flour, turn the heat way down and cook it an extra few minutes to get the floury taste out. Wondra mixes more quickly, so you don’t need this step.

When a paste has formed and is starting to turn golden, prepare to act quickly.

Turn the heat up under the pan to about medium high. When the contents of the pan start to sizzle attractively, dump in the spinach with the water still clinging to its leaves. This is important. It’s this water hitting the hot pan and creating steam as it evaporates that is going to cook your spinach quickly, so it maintains its lovely fresh spinachy taste.

Turn the spinach over and over in the shallot butter as it cooks. Tongs are very useful for this. Watch the fresh spinach shrink and turn into cooked spinach.

Squeeze some lemon over, as much as you like. Hear it sizzle? It’s cooking the spinach too, as well as adding flavor.

Add a little salt. A little fresh ground pepper.

Now stand over the pan with your carton of cream. Add a little. Stir till it amalgamates with the butter and flour. Add a little more. Stir again. Add as much as you want, and cook down till it looks creamy and good.

Grate some fresh nutmeg atop. A grate or two (I usually do three). You won’t taste it later, but it’ll make a difference.

Turn off the heat. Give it a final stir.

And serve.


I made this on Easter to go with a lovely bit of lamb for my brother John, and he immediately asked how it was done—it tasted so much of our childhood festivals. Then I served it up last night to my friend Lanny (there was spinach left in the fridge from the Easter binge on the weekend) to go with a mushroom and garlic frittata, and SHE said it reminded her of eating in a German restaurant when she was a child, and how did I make it? So it seemed important to get it down. It’s so simple and good, and it does tend to remind those of us of a certain age of a happy childhood. Even when the childhood in question wasn’t really particularly happy. It was, though, I maintain, whenever we ate creamed spinach.

Creamed spinach to the fore! Onward!

(And don’t forget leftover creamed spinach is a very handy thing to have, if you can ever manage to have some. Folded into a French-style omelet it is, I still maintain, food for the gods and goddesses in your life. Put some sauteed mushrooms atop, and sit back to bask in the admiration of those you love.)





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Kentucky Curry or Talking Food Over with Friends.

One of my favorite games is the ‘what’s in your refrigerator?’ game. What I like to do (in fact, I get so enthusiastic in this game that I end up tripping all over myself in my eagerness to play) is get on the phone with a friend or two, find out what they’ve got in their kitchen, talk about what they feel like eating, and then construct a menu out of those elements.

It’s especially fun, I have to admit, when the person whose kitchen is at issue insists there is NOTHING in that kitchen with which to make a meal. I once came up with six different possibilities for dinner in such a kitchen, but of course, Jennifer and Jeff, the couple who owned the kitchen, had totally forgotten all that late autumn chard they still had in their garden, and the bowl of purple potatoes on the sideboard. Not to mention the eggs.

Recently, I played this with my friends Margaret Hultz and Marie Davis, who, I must admit, are no slouches in the kitchen stocking/cooking department. I mean, when they told me what they had in their refrigerator, and the cupboards surrounding that refrigerator, I was overwhelmed by an embarrassment of riches, as it were. And they knew it, too. In fact, I realized that they were just being kind, letting me play with their kitchen like that. They had contributed to EAP’s Indiegogo campaign (as if their writing wasn’t enough!) and asked for that  phone call game as their perk. I think they were just being friendly. They didn’t need me at all. Still it was fun to play.

And their kitchen, in the South, was filled with typically American 21st Century ingredients, as well as all the bounty one expects from a southern household that keeps a garden. So, I mean, this was such a no-brainer, I had to make it more difficult for myself. I cudgeled my brain as to how to do this as Margaret chanted, “And then there are the vegetables we froze from the garden, there’s green beans, and okra, oh, and tomatoes, I almost forgot that, and…”

“Wait, wait, wait!” I wailed. “Isn’t there something you have in there that you don’t know what to do with? Something I can really (figuratively) sink my teeth into?”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Well,” Marie said finally. “There’s that coconut milk.”

“I don’t know what she was thinking, buying that coconut milk,” said Margaret.

“It is just sitting there,” Marie admitted.

“Hah!” I said. “HAH! Eureka!” Then I said cautiously, “Wait a minute, in all that list you gave me, you never mentioned garlic or onions.”

“Oh,” Margaret scoffed, “Of course we have THOSE.”

“We ALWAYS have those,”  Marie said.

True cooks. That is their mark. So for two true cooks, who let me play with their kitchen that day, I made the recipe below, from ingredients they found in their refrigerator:

Kentucky Curry (atop Tabouli Salad)

For two you need:

A chopped or sliced onion
A bit of minced fresh chile pepper or a pod of dried
Frozen vegetables from the garden: green beans, okra, tomatoes
Whole peeled garlic cloves
Coconut milk
A bit of olive oil
A bit of minced fresh ginger
Curry powder
Chopped fresh mint from the Southern winter garden


Kale/parsley/romaine salad
Lemon juice

In a big skillet, fry the chopped onion till soft. Add a bit of minced fresh chile pepper or a crushed dried chile pod. Add the minced ginger and about a teaspoon of curry powder. Salt. Taste to see if you want more curry powder, and if you do, then add a little more. Fry till it all smells heavenly of curry and ginger. Then add as many frozen green beans and okra as you think both of you can eat, with a few over for lunch leftovers the next day. Coat well in the curry oil, then add the whole garlic cloves and one or two or three frozen tomatoes, chopped. Cook it all till the veggies are defrosted and the tomato has started to disintegrate. Then add enough coconut milk to make a nice sauce, as much as you like. Cook till the whole begins to amalgamate in a deliriously delicious smelling way.

In the meantime, prepare the tabouli. Mix with as much chopped kale/parsley/romaine salad as you like. Squirt it with lemon juice to taste.

To serve: Spoon the Kentucky Curry atop the tabouli, sprinkle with chopped fresh mint from the garden.

I suspect even more that Margaret and Marie were humoring me with this, in fact, I know it, because I found out later what they had for dinner later that night was reheated pot roast with corn bread and salad and a nice Beaujolais. But I still maintain Kentucky Curry is a cheerful dish to cook in the depths of any winter, and I know for sure that the recipe has already given me a lot of satisfaction: as so often happens in cookery, much of the pleasure in any dish comes from the plotting of it and the thought of it and the enjoyment of the discussion together.

Thanks for that, Margaret and Marie!

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Flood Soup.

It was a king-sized disaster for way too many, but for us, a small one, at least above the anxiety we felt when Alex got caught at home in the biggest flood in Boulder’s history, and I was caught on the way there, unable to make the last 100 miles because of road closures and detours. We had a flooded crawl space, but that put us in among the lucky ones. We didn’t lose our home, or even any rugs, and we were both safe.

I managed to get home in the break between storms–amazing how the roads clear suddenly, and then, when the rain comes again, clog and close just as fast. But I did get home. Tired and spacey after driving 1300 miles with my little dog, but happy to be there, happy to see my loved ones, happy to be home…since home is defined as where your loved ones reside. The Dear Husband had really thoughtfully gone out and bought some grocery store sushi rolls for lunch, so I wouldn’t have to think about feeding us. And he suggested we go out to dinner down the street at the local pub, which invitation I accepted gratefully. Dinner, hearing stories about how our waitstaff had to watch, helpless, as the water roared down the street in front of the restaurant–“right down to where most of us live”–sympathetic ear, back home,  and then an exhausted tumble into bed.

Next morning, I looked blankly into the refrigerator. Well, there was almost nothing there. “What have you been living on for the last six weeks?” I asked, though, amused, I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

“Oh, you know. The usual. Cheese and salsa sandwiches and granola and bananas for breakfast.”

Ah. Thought so. I laughed and started to make a grocery list.

Then it started to rain. Again. Hard. Continuously. You could almost feel the collective anxiety of the county begin to rise. For the moment, it was foolish to think of going outside on the unstable roads, with the sheets of water pouring down. But life goes on, people need to be fed. We were hungry. I’d bought a jar of pickled okra on my way home, and we had some of that, with Alex’s cheese and Triscuits he’d been living on. That was lunch. But what were we going to do for dinner? I considered my possible courses of action.

And then, of course, I did what I always do in these circumstances. I rooted around to see what we had. And I made something out of that.

Here was what we had:

1 old, wrinkled turnip (but turnips can keep a long time, as long as you shave the wrinkles off, they’re always good in soup…)

1 almost equally wrinkled potato, with sprouts (see above comment about turnips)

A half a bag of baby carrots (obviously bought as a salad course for the Dear Husband’s cheese sandwich meals)

One wilted celery heart (obviously left from a bunch bought as a … see above)

A half a bottle of spicy tomato juice

A can of beets


I don’t know what that says to you, but what it says to me is soup. Especially on a cold, rainy, potentially dangerous day. Soup. Definitely soup.

So this is what I did:

I peeled the old turnip deeply, until the bit left was white. Then I sliced it thinly, and cross cut the slices until they were minced.

Did the same with the potato. This is an excellent thing to know: sprouting potatoes are fine as long as you cut away all the sprouts and green areas. What’s left is a great addition to soup.

Cut the brown bits off the celery heart and sliced what was left.

Chopped the baby carrots.

Sauteed them in olive oil. Added a little dried thyme and some salt. Wilted them.

Added the juice drained from the beet can. Added some spicy tomato juice.

Added a little juice from the pickled okra jar.

Cooked on low heat until…

All the veggies were tender.

Then I sliced the sliced beets again, and then cut up the slices.

Added them, and rinsed out the beet can with water, added that.


Added a little more spicy tomato juice.

Turned the soup off and waited till dinner…


Then the rain died down, and the water that was knocking at our back door gave up and sank back into the river that was running through our back yard.

To celebrate, we sat in front of the fire, he with a beer, me with a glass of wine.

We toasted the end in sight of the flood. We toasted luck to all those who had lost so much that day. We toasted each other being safe.

Then we sat down and ate our soup.

And the Dear Husband looked down at his empty bowl contemplatively, and said, “I’m glad you’re home. I was starting to get tired of cheese sandwiches and carrots after all.”


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