Sunday, December 8, 2013

Cooking for a Rock Star

It’s very important no one know I have gotten a cold, which is why I am blogging about it.  And my guts are churning because I have ten tons of Dayquil in my system in order to prop myself up.
You see, I have to cook dinner for Amanda Palmer and 50 other house guests who will all be occupying my living room in three days. There is no wussing out. There is no backing down. There is only go.


I’m trying to pre-prep and freeze most of the food ahead of time because there is no way I am going to be able to make everything that same day and live. I have, as per usual, made everything way too complicated.

Pretty much this entire recipe I am doing today is ripped from the Vegan Soul Kitchen, except that I forgot to buy thyme. But, you know, basil is green, too so it should be all good.

https://www.facebook.com/vegan.soul.kitchen

Cooking on cough medication is not unlike cooking while drinking alcohol. Though there is a more floaty feeling and everything seems to remind me of square balloons particularly when I have my eyes closed. Go ahead. Try it! And this works even better with Nyquil while you are trying to masturbate.  You end up fantasizing all your lovers are square and balloon shaped which may either be a good thing or a bad thing depending on who you are and what you are into.

I don’t even know who I am or what I am doing. Should I be cooking? Should I ever be cooking is really the question most of you are probably asking.

Today we are making a rockin’ BBQ sauce. It will be boiled and frozen to kill any viral or bacterial contents which may currently be spewing from my being while I pray to the gods of all that is sickness that I will be healthy tomorrow.

You do know that many of the people that prepare your foods in restaurants are sick, right? There is no paid sick time for line cooks. And I hate to break it to you, but most of your waiters are either drunk or on acid.

Maybe acid is passé these days. I had a friend who was a server and he told me that he always took a little bit of mushrooms before going on shift each night to make the evening “sparkle” a little.

Normally this worked well, until one time he munched on too many while harvesting them from his basement. You know, pick a few, eat one - pick a few, eat one.  After so many, he became paranoid that every car that went by his house was a cop car and he went for his gun.

Anyways, when making bbq sauce for 50 people and a Rock Star, it is important to make a lot. Like – a lot a lot. Like enough to fill up a large rice cooker. And this is really quite a lot when you see it in front of you.

And do you have any idea how slow tamari sauce is when it pours out of the bottle and you are praying that it will make up four cups to throw into the giant pot you have in front of you?


Oh fuck this. I’m going to bed.



Sunday, November 24, 2013

How to Cook Marinara Sauce Like an Asshole.

My husband had stolen the other wooden spoon, most of the pre-chopped onions, and the tomato paste for his meaty meat sauce. I was forced to deal with the dregs to help the vegetarians have a consummate meal. No pre-chopped onions and only jars of Safeway sauce. By god, it was like cooking in the paleo age.

But I did have wine. Thank goodness that I had wine. I decided to make a reduction of one cup red wine and one-cup balsamic vinegar. I wasn’t sure what this would actually do for the sauce but I had seen a fair amount of assholes brag about the quantity of wine and vinegars they had reduced. So, in order to compete, I had decided it would be best if I tried to be like one of these assholes.

I reduced the mess to a syrupy blackness that resembled Hershey’s chocolate sauce. 



I remember reading that some people had difficulty reducing balsamic and wine, which I think is confusing. I’m not a physicist, but I think if you boil pretty much any liquid long enough it will reduce, simply because at least part of it will be converted into a gas. My only guess is that, after 10 minutes, it didn’t seem that much smaller to them than when they started and then they got frustrated. In order to be a real gourmet asshole, you cannot get frustrated with your reduction. It’s the patience that gets you the asshole points.

And so that is why instead of dicing the garlic and putting in directly into the oil to sauté, this time I decided to roast the garlic first. Of yes! I was going to be that kind of asshole.

Garlic roasting, wine thingy reduced… what else can I do?

Well since I had to chop the onions myself,  I decided the best option would be to roast fennel seeds in olive oil until they popped and then add the diced onions to the oil.  You heard me right. I took the opportunity to roast those mutherfuckin’ seeds until  they were a light toasty brown and the whole kitchen smelled like Italian sausage but without the penis substitute.

I hit a snafu in my assholeishness. I was dealing with amateur kitchen ingredients. Very little Parmesan, (which was only bought to top some of the meat pasta) and no fresh  herbs.

GASP! you say?

 You heard me right. I was forced to use the goddamned dried Italian mix! And you know there ain’t no Italian alive in all of Italy who cooks with that.  It just doesn’t happen.

Shhhh!

They don’t.

Shhhhhh!

I don’t care what your mother does,.

Shh!

Dd.

Sssss!

SHHhhhhhh!

No.


So, I sent my husband out for more supplies. In specific, fresh rosemary. And yes, this is the stuff that you can pick out of your neighbor's yard most anywhere on the planet, except for the neighborhood that I live in. 

In the meantime, I had a quarter cup left of nutritional yeast flakes that were soon to go bad on me. At least I think they were. Do those damn things ever really go bad? And when they go bad, do they take a baseball bat to all that is dairy? Best not to leave it to chance. I threw that in the pasta for vegan cheesy goodness.

And since there was a little tiny plastic cup of chili flakes, which came from something, but I have no idea what, I threw that in too.

Garlic was roasted now, but too hot to peel. And I have the patience of a cooking asshole, but not  the patience of a GREAT cooking asshole. I know my limits.

 I put the roasted garlic in the freezer.

Magic! Ten minutes later I could actually squeeze the contents out and mash them up so I it would blend into the sauce for that taste of  smoky garlicky goodness.  And then  I notice the whole pot is getting a paste-like consistency, which means…..

Hurrah!

It is time for another wine bottle to be opened! And since the sauce became super thick in the short hour or so it has been bubbling, I really had to throw a third if it in the sauce along with the rest of the chili flakes and a reasonable bunch of salt. I think the reduced balsamic actually acted like sugar and sweetened the sauce a little too much.


Note to all asshole gourmands. Instead of saying you added sugar to your marinara, tell them you reduced an entire vat  of balsamic – some size that you think might  be worthy of Liberace’s kitchen. Remember, size does matter. Like most men, you don’t have to tell the truth.


Saturday, August 24, 2013

Broccoli Chowder (or When You Have No Food to Cook In Your House And No Money to Buy Any Plus You Are Too Lazy To Leave The House)


This is not my proudest recipe. You may want to try it. You may not.

What to cook when you have barely any shit that constitutes food stuffs in your house and you have cancelled your debit card because you thought it was lost  while you were on a road trip but then you found it in between the seat and the hump box of your car and therefore are in a current state of having no money.

No cash, you say?  Why don't you just go inside the bank and withdraw cash like people used to in the 1970's? Why don't you use your credit card that you keep for emergencies and flight milages?  That would be really really great if I actually wanted to leave the house at all today. So, for those of you who are poor or have no money on hand, or so rarely used that aforementioned credit card that it actually was cancelled by the bank two years ago, or if you are just a reclusive weirdo (No judging, here. We folks at Cookings of Many Much Greatness are a loving and accepting community of feelz) than this is the recipe for you.

 I ended up with a spicy yet citrus-y broccoli chowder of sorts, which was actually was quite tasty. 

If there were an Olympics for making food out of a random/ nearby and nearly expired cupboard items, I might actually win something from someone.

I was going to make pasta, but there were no onions in the house, there were no kidney beans, and worst of all there was no red wine! I was going to have to attempt this culinary adventure .....

sober.

Shit.

Noodles and jar sauce is just kind of yucky. I think you understand. I’ve done it. We’ve all done it. It’s not really food unless you are doing time in the pen and you are trying to be creative about mixing your ramen noodles with a tomato like paste so that you don't have to go to the chow line and eat those mystery meat nuggets for the 40th day in a row.


The one ingredient that I did have on hand was crap loads of broccoli.  I mean, really, .... lots and lots of broccoli. I have no idea why. I think they multiplied themselves in the dark like little mice do in the walls when you are forced to sleep in one of those government group living situations.

I had about four tablespoons of olive oil left in the jar and only four and a half cloves of garlic. I wanted to use onions, but there were none. Who would’ve guessed that the lack of chopped onions could bring a tear to the eye as easily as a chopped one?

According to one chowder recipe I looked up I should use thyme, which was awesome since I had some amazing  French thyme!  And then I realized that, apparently, I had already used the last of that up. Oh.

Because I was in need of  some kind of spice, I *did*  find three old jalapeno peppers that were wrinkling in the back of the vegetable crisper and I gutted one of them with all the care and suspicion one might utilize in prepping a fish caught in the wild wilderness of the San Francisco bay. I then chopped it and then threw the other two away. I minced the garlic with a garlic press, I dumped all the olive oil I had in the pan with a little crushed pepper and some sage. Sage ought to be just as good as thyme, right? I mean, they *are* both green in an army sort of way.

After sautéing the items on the back burner (because I could not get the front one to light anymore and I was too lazy to get matches) I added some flour and stirred, then added more flour, and stirred – and continued to do this until it was as thick as a monkey's spunk. You don’t want to leave the pan alone at this point. It’s kind of the same as when you are breaking in a wild pony. If you let her sit too long, she get’s bitter and will never let you properly ride her. If you aren’t hands-on enough, she will develop all kinds of  behavioral crusts and clumps and she will be entirely un-serviceable and then the only thing you can do is sit it somewhere on a patch of grass and walk away. 

All–in-all, it’s just not pretty. Keep your hand on the wheel, stirring that pot regularly. Then, and only then, can you proceed to give her some cream.

But I didn’t have cream. I only had milk. So that is what I used to loosen that thick flour. And then I loosened it more with more milk, and then some water I had put in my Better than Bouillon jar in order to utilize the remaining flavor scraps stuck to the sides. But it wasn't enough. I needed more bouillon, and I didn’t have any more, so I added some of the champagne I was drinking ( I forgot to mention that I found some leftover 4 buck Trader Joe's champers, didn't I?) which did not do anything for the flavor at all.

 And so I tried a little powdered mustard, which did help but did not erase the bland bitter flavour of that cheap booze which should only really be subjected to orange juice before being imbibed. But then I remembers that Braggs proudly proclaims that it makes a great tasting broth! YAY! Well, shit. I ain’t got no other options, so in it went along with the last remaining ½ cup of parmesan cheese I had in the fridge. This did it quite well, but it still wasn’t enough.

 And that was when I remembered that we had super crappy beer in the fridge. Super crappy beer is only good for two things. Drinking in the desert sun at high noon or using as a soup base. I figured that I well fell into the latter of those two catagories and put about half that beer in with the food. The other half is still looking at me with it’s sad cheap beer eyes that say “Are you really going to pour me down the drain just because you aren’t in the desert and it isn't noon?” 

The natural accompaniment to both cheap beer and chowder is, … lemons!

Thank goodness  I have one withered old lime that has been living atop the fridge  for the last month! Because of it's age the skin had gone yellow which means it counts as a lemon.

So, that went in along with some basil and marjoram because, you know, what the hell. At least I have it. And then I put on about two heads of chopped broccoli, which will leave me exactly one head and a bunch of kale left to figure out what the hell to do with tomorrow.

I realize, after boiling a little on medium, that I need more cheesey flavor. This is a problem since I no longer have any more cheese. But I do have nutritional yeast flakes, the cheese of the straight edge community! It has all the flavor of cheese but it’s more like a super hero person/icon, instead. And with a little more Braggs to top it off, it was just perfectly zingy and salty and fresh and spicy- like a 1945 sailor you might meet on the docks of San Pedro who just got his first swallow tattoo, but might not have totally realized that he is gay yet.  Maybe with age it will mellow perfectly.


Sunday, February 10, 2013

King Cakes, Mardi Gras, Sphincters, and Death.

So, baking. Not cooking, but baking. This is not going to be pretty. If you choose to follow this recipe and hope to come to some conclusive and edible results, may god - whatever the god of your choosing is - have mercy on your soul.

Baking is much more science-y than cooking. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
But cooking allows for my ADD nature.

Baking, well......
Baking requires temperatures and mixing of precice measurements and frothings and tools with strange names such as "pastry hook." I mean, really? What the hell did people do before Cuisinarts? Hire pirates to help them in the kitchen? That just doesn't seem very realistic. After all, they are known for their pie thieving.

  Mmm. Tuna pie! 


Maybe this is why, in the 1950's, if you wanted a desert, you would most likely be presented with something like this:




So, for this damn King's Cake you need five egg yolks. My husband told me that we reallyreallyreally had more than five at home. So we didn't buy any at the store. But then, of course,  when we got home there were just four. Naturally, I suggested he steal one from our neighbors who are out of town for the week. We will replace it before they get back, not to worry. This is why they gave us keys, after all.  I poked him with a sharp stick while I said all of this to drive the earnestness of my need home and to force him into the debased state of stealing from the very people who we love and who trust us with their house keys.  He sheepishly left and brought back an egg. When he returned, he was sweating a little. Also, he said that the egg was actually dated to be thrown out three weeks ago.

In the spirit of baking science (Science!)






Mike looked up three ways to tell if an egg is still good. Something about it floating or sinking. Something about a sloshing sound, and something about a flat yolk. It passed all of these so I went ahead and used the egg.  I'm making this for a non-profit agency. That's akin to saying it is for orphaned children, right?

I will put aside my judgement of my neighbors terribly old eggs and why they didn't just buy new ones for the moment.

So, the recipe.  I have to mix these five egg yolks with one and a half stick of butter and a cup of milk. And it all has to be sort of warm but not really hot because we have to throw in two packets of yeast in the mix. Yeast, the drama queen of all food items.

"I have to be hot! ... Oww! That's too hot! I'm dying!!! I need it to be dark! I want it to be quiet! Stop stomping. I swear! If you take my beauty towel off to check on me ONE MORE TIME I am going to collapse! It will be all your f'ing fault, you bitch!"

Yeast is like Lady Gaga. But more like when Lady Gaga was actually Madonna.




I think we all know, though, if Lady Gaga were actually Madonna more crimes would be solved.


Okay. Egg yolks, sugar, lemon zest, nutmeg, 4 1/2 cups flour, milk, butter, salt, and the goddamn yeast. It's all in there. It's all mixed to a pasty pasty dough which I mauled with my bare hands.

And I threw a teaspoon of vanilla in there. Oh yeah, I did. It wasn't in the recipe, but I just did it anyway.

And (pssst) this is why all of my baking fails. I just can't deal with chemistry. I have to fuck up the balance one way or another.

So now the dough is rising in a quiet sanctuary of a red Target plastic mixing bowl in an oven where the environment is as controlled and quiet and close to a recording studio as anything in my kitchen. It's supposed to double. I was supposed to make it into a ball and put oil on it, but that wasn't in my contract and she isn't going to pay me overtime. Plus, I hate it when she calls me Alejandro.

I make this filling from cream cheese and one cup confectioners sugar, lemon juice - and just for fucks sake I throw in pecans. I know, I know. The cake and I are going to hell. I'm just asking for it. I can't help it really that the recipe said nothing about pecans. But they were all staring at me in the baking aisle promising me a really good time for two dollars! Tell me you wouldn't do the same?

While the cake is rising, I also make the icing from three cups of confectioners sugar, lemon juice, and some milk. Also, vanilla. I put some more vanilla in there, so sue me. I did it. I don't care. I don't feel guilty.

Someone told me I can't put a baby in the cake anymore. They stopped doing that because of the choking hazzard. So, okay. But what the fuck am I going to do with this small child I brought home from the Pac  n' Save, now? Can anyone tell me that?

Shit.

Can't people just eat around the baby? Do you have to protect people from everything? This is why people need to just slow the fuck down and chew their food.

Instead of a baby I will use a small uncooked bean.

I guess I can still use the small child to sew shirts once I figure out how to thread the bottom bobbin on my sewing machine.

You know, in the olden days, the person who got the baby, or the bean, or whatever the fuck they were using when they were not worried about being sued to death like they are these days, you know what happened to that person?

Yeah yeah yeah..... he was crowned king and all. Such an honor! Such a blessing!

You know what happened at the end of the week when they were all sick of his kingly narcissistic ass?

They took him out back of the cornfields and slit his throat!

 Except, instead of cornfields, they had wheat fields. And instead of slitting his throat they had.....

No. Just kidding. They still slit his throat.

It was for the gods! It was important. That was why he was King of the Bean. You don't want to be responsible for the failure of all the crops and the starvation of thousands, do you? If you don't kill the King of the Bean, that's just what will happen and it will be all on your head.

You think all those bog men just got hung and drowned on their own?
Please, honey! It takes a village.




But now we can't put babies in the cakes and we can't take people out into the cornfields when they bug us too much after a week.

*Sigh*

Mardi Gras sure has changed.

So the dough rose and I made it into a ring and I stuffed the middle with the nut/cheese filling. But there is a HELL of a lot more filling left than what I can put in the ring! Even after I make one ring and one extra brioche type thingy on the side. This is not a good sign. I believe I may have screwed up again. There is nothing to do at this point but forge ahead and continue baking.


Extra filling ->


Brioche ring -->


I set everything aside to rise for 45 minutes.

45 minutes it still hasn't risen. It's bitching about being cold. I didn't put it back into the oven space.
This time, it's in the oven and I will check again in 30 minutes.

Okay, this time it rose. I put milk on it, as per the instructions, but this seemed to make the dough fall just a little. I have no idea what that means. However, once in the 350' oven, I'm supposed to check back on this thing in 30 minutes. I will do this.

After 30 minutes I began to smell a burning smell.  I checked the cake and discovered it was quite dark on the bottom. As a result, I had to perform an ancient ritual of my people using a sacred serrated hunting knife wherein I scrape the darkness away from the bottom of the cake. This darkness represents the bitterness of winter. I must keep scraping in order to perceive the incoming sweetness of the sunlight of spring.

Once done I poured the icing all over the cakes. It was drippy and not at all spreadable -



I put the requisite tri-colored spinkles on from my Safeway multi-pack festive sprinkle collection!

And the result looked something like this:


Not entirely a disaster. They might not even make me eat the bean this year. Though it did look a bit like an overly festive sphincter. Not that sphincters are a bad thing.