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.

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.

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.

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.

Bacon Wrapped Turkey With Pear Gravy and Family Love!

It's nine AM and I am at my mother's house. I realize that I have to start working on the food and I am terrifyingly sober. Terrifying,  because I'm at my mom's house and I'm trying to cook despite her.

You see, it is my job to save the turkey from my mother. She wants to help, she really does. But there is a reason that during my entire childhood my mother either took us to Chinese restaurants on T day or bought the pre-made packaged meal from the market in a box. I really don't want to start drinking now,  but I am afraid. I think that I may have to bite the bullet and be brave. This turkey is not going to cook itself and we really can't afford to let my mother do it.

I'm working from this recipe. Obviously I will be deviating from it since I am naturally deviant:

http://www.chow.com/recipes/11130-bacon-wrapped-turkey-with-pear-cider-gravy

I've started washing the turkey and I am still terrifyingly sober.

My mother helpfully lets me know that the red side of the tap is hot water and blue side is cold. In addition, she reminds me that I should not leave the giblets in.

My mother points at the oven and says, "What is this?"

 Thinking she is pointing at the turkey I say, "Um, .... it is a turkey."

 But she is pointing at the temperature of the oven. It's a preheating oven. "You want it at 450?"

"Yes. It's preheating, mom. I'm going to turn it down later."

"Well, okay. But we don't want the turkey turning out dry like last time."

 Then she goes off on how dry it was for a little while.

Last time I made an orange-ginger-candy-glazed turkey. The bird caramelized to that perfect color you only ever see on TV.  The candy coating sealed in the juices to make the bird taste amazing in spite of it being, you know, ... a turkey.

My mother has mentioned how dry the turkey was last time approximately five times since we arrived yesterday.

My husband helpfully says that he did not think the turkey was dry. Actually he thought that it was delicious! No no, my mother says. The turkey was, in fact, dry.

As she goes on for another ten minutes, my husband pours a hefty amount of Kahluha in my coffee while my mother is not looking. This is a really good thing because I didn't want to go to jail for murdering my mother today.

To be fair she wasn't telling me it was my fault. Somehow the terrible turkey was all the fault of a broken meat thermometer. And yes, last time the thermometer WAS broken.

And my turkey was still fucking perfect.

The last time my mother tried to make a turkey she burnt the entire thing. She blamed it on the mountain oven and differing altitudes in the mountains. I am sure that had an effect. However, the skin was blackened. And when I say blackened, I do not mean with a delicious cajon peppery coating.

My mother is trying to find other things to do in the kitchen while I am doing the bird. I know she is trying to bond, but it is a small kitchen and I generally like cooking by myself. It's too hard to work around other people and it just takes too long to explain to other people what I am doing to have them help efficiently.  And even with the Kahluha I am still too sober.

 Mostly my mother has been looking for items to put in the oven while I have been preheating it. I am just about to put the turkey in.

I've put the salt and pepper on the bird. I've stuck celery stalks around the bird and chopped up two onions. Some of this gets put in the bird. Some gets put around the bird. I think I was supposed to chop the celery up but I didn't. My sister wants to use the one and only cutting board that my mother has in the house so she attempts to put all of the items I have already cut in a tiny cereal bowl even though I tell her she can just throw them on the actual turkey that is right next to her. She says by way of explanation "I don't approve of cooking turkey."

I guess, at this point,  I am glad that I didn't tie up the turkey legs together.

I was thinking I should put in an obligatory comment about the rubber gloves and some sort of sexual behavior - specifically fisting. because you know,  that's what you do with rubber gloves. But I don't really have any bread stuffing for the turkey this year.


Turkey goes in for 30 minutes at 400 and then out for basting. There wasn't much juice to baste with which really seemed a shame. As a result,  I added some chicken broth and a healthy dose of pear cider. This stroke of genius was fortunate since my Kahluha was long gone. Plus it was now 11am which is a more acceptable time of day on Thanksgiving to get toasted. I made sure to get a two large bottles of hard cider so that I could plan for it to be my drinking buddy for the day.

Turkey goes back in. Oven is down to 350.

Mom got this weird turkey injector. It's like a giant hypo you might see in a 1930's Buster Keaton film. I have no idea why anyone would usefully use it. I mean, I've already shoved butter under the skin before I started to cook the damn thing.

Oh.

I didn't tell you that part?

Well, I guess I already assumed you would know to shove about a stick of butter under the skin of any chicken or turkey you choose to cook. Some turkeys require two sticks of butter.

But back to the hypo. I find that it is not very useful, but it *is* kind of fun to take the drippings and inject them straight into the turkey to watch it expand before your eyes and then the little hole explodes like the tiny steamy geysers from Yellowstone Park!

I check to see that the rest of the ingredients are supposed to wait for the gravy. To me,  that doesn't make sense since gravy is made from the drippings. I decide to add everything to the drippings now. C'mon America! Shouldn't the turkey have the benefit of all that cider and fresh herbs before being roasted? Plus. I need to refresh my cider glass now.

At this time the turkey has about three cups of broth below it, three cups of cider, a spring of thyme and a two sprigs of sage stuffed into the cavity of the bird. A few more are neatly arranged around the sides.

I decide that the syringe is mostly useful for squirting stuff in the far back of the turkey cavity at high speeds. This way I can watch the juice flow explosively past the neck out the other side.

My mother tries to helpfully tell me that in order to use her meat thermometer I must first take it out of the plastic sheath. I tell her that that is great news since I thought that the thermometer went into meat items with the plastic sheath on and then later you took it off so you could use the metal bits to test vegan items. This way the two parts remained separate.

It takes a few minutes before she comes back dryly with; "I know I have raised a smarter girl than that."

Turkey goes back in for another 45 minutes.

My mother, having noticed I was grumpy with her even though I didn't say anything specifically has begun to withdraw and sulk, thus indicating it is all my fault.

Of course I feel guilty.

I use my instant happier to send me to my happy place. I listen to it twice: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OFzXaFbxDcM

This helps immeasurably. Also the family goes for a walk which I cannot go on since I have to baste the turkey. My husband stays behind. Yay!

Turkey comes out and pears go in it. The internal temperature is a little higher than I want it to be at this point. It's approx. 155 to 160 depending on where I stick the thermometer. I wanted it to be 120. But onward we must go. Anyway, if it actually *is* dry this year I won't be pissy when my mom talks about it the next time.

The pears go all around the turkey after being cored and split in half,  though not necessarily in that order.

Then the two pound bacon weave goes on top. Normally one would put one pound of bacon on the turkey. Andrew Conway showed me that this is entirely unaesthetic. I should put two pounds on so I can get a lovely basket design. Plus I can wrap the legs up like so:

While waiting for the turkey to cook, now is a good time to watch an inspiring video like this :

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VcJ5LxG4CRE&feature=youtu.be&t=9m47s#!


Turkey comes out again. Family is back from their walk. Sister makes obligatory comment about the fact that she does not appreciate the use of both turkey and pigs. Pigs are her favorite animal. Both turkeys and pigs are forced to die cruel cruel deaths in part by being forced to gain so much weight that their knees get crushed.

I manage to refill my wine glass another time.

In 45 minutes the turkey comes out for the final time. My sister does not skip a beat in making another remark about the death of animals which I have chosen to consume. Her fixation on animal cruelty is ironic due to many uncomfortable and horrifying stories of my childhood which I will not refer to here due to this being a jovial  and jolly recipe site where people come to relax, to laugh, and to toss back a few.

Ha ha ha ha.


 45 minutes later, the temperature of the turkey is still not quite 165 degrees. It's really close. And since I don't feel like feeding another amusing round of "last time the turkey was dry!" I left it out.

I suck up most of the liquids under the turkey and squirt them in a large sauce pan. I also throw in four pears and  then mash the hell out of them along with some fresh sage and thyme. I put a little bit aside and whip that up with flour in small amounts until I got about a half cup of paste. Then I added this back to your main gravy, I threw in a little milk and  I stirred vigorously.

That was it. That's the turkey. Thank you for tuning in! I hope you liked it.

Next Thanksgiving I plan to present "Rack of Pheasant Brined with Thyme and Thorazine and then Broiled with a Light Citrus Seroquel Glaze."

Thai Coconut Soup with More Expensive Wine plus an Open Letter to Martha Stewart.

Today I went for a St. Supery Fume Blanc to start off with. I thought it would be good to push the edge of the cheap wine rut I had been stuck in for a while. Actually, it tasted a bit like  Boone's Farm, but without all the sugar and costing more than three dollars. Also, it tasted good. You know what I mean. The taste of all those pears, cherries and apples but without the urge to light it all on fire from the bottle while pouring it over a six pack of Hostess Twinkies.

 Expensive wine is like that.

With Thai Coconut Soup it is important to remember that any vegetable can be thrown into this thing. Thai people are not as strict on the proper veggie mix as Caucasian people who write Thai recipe books like to pretend that they are.

Since we are going for authenticity I am going for whatever is in my fridge that might spoil. I have corn on the cob which I will cut off the cob, red bell peppers, portobello mushrooms, purple cabbage, small potatoes, spring onions, and broccoli. It's all going in.

Now I *did* go to the store. When I bought the wine, I also bought a few things one might really want to have to have on hand just in case you want to make this actually work out for you. These included; coconut milk, fresh cilantro,  serrano chili peppers, basil leaves, garlic, limes, and a soup base.

I tried to buy lemon grass and kaffir lime leaves but the local Pac 'n Save is only hip enough to carry $15 wine on a discount. That's about it. To make up for the lack of the necessary items I bought a concentrate Thai green curry paste.

It'll do, pig. It'll do.

 I mean, really, if you were actually going to go all authentic on it's ass you'd have started with a ham bone and you didn't, did you?

I didn't think so.

Anyway, I already own powdered galangal. You can use regular ginger but that shit is not the same thing at all. Not to say that ginger is not awesome. It is. It really is! But it is just not the same thing.

 And you, Martha? You didn't even tell them to include ANY ginger what-so-ever? What the hell kind of soup are you making?

I think middle America can handle a little ginger. I know that you've been in jail and you want to protect others from the kinds of things that you've seen. You know, I once caught a galangal by the tail and tried to extract the pungent spice from its scent glands. I can say in all honesty that it wasn't pretty. Have you ever expressed an ass of a wild dog with razor sharp canines? Well neither have I. But ginger is pretty safe even if it causes you some PTSD episodes. Leave in the ginger, for god's sake. Breathe and repeat this affirmation with me! "Just because it smells similar doesn't mean it's going to bite you on the cooter."

 BTW,  I know I told you all to be creative, but what the fuck is up with an english cucumber as a garnish on a goddamn Thai soup? Really, Martha? And Fuck You with your lemons! This isn't Goddamn British Codfish.  And, you didn't even say to add ANY peppers.... ? At all? The curry paste isn't going to carry itself, you know.

Now, it is up to you to tweek your recipe. You could put chicken in there or pork or cow or tofu or peanuts. Today I am not doing any of that. But YOU could. It's just that kind of soup. I encourage you to go crazy with it. Just be careful.

But first, the garlic.

You really must use fuckloads of garlic. I enjoy the use of a garlic press. Some say this is not necessary. Some say that this is cheating. To those people I say; Fuck you! And for those of you who want me to tell them exactly what a "fuckload" is, I say;   Here at "Many Much Cookings of Greatness," we don't infantalize our readers like those lackeys over at say..... Martha Stewert's blog do.

 Just sayin'.

After you press the garlic in the pan, you should chop up some onions. I am using spring onions. You can use whatever the hell onions you want.

I *do* have sesame oil on hand. It's way better than that crap Martha Stewert told you to fry up onions in and it's really cheap so long as you just go to an any regular asian market instead of Whole "Ooops! I-Fucked-Ur-Rent- Budget-Up-So-Now-You-Have-to-Eat-At-Soup-Kitchens-For-The-Rest-Of-The-Month!" Market.


You will want to gut and chop your serrano chili peppers while wearing gloves unless you like hella seeds in your soup and you want your ass ring to burn like fire at regular intervals in the day. You should know by now about the gloves and that no amount of Vaseline will take the burning away until you've cried enough salty salty tears over your hands.

Actually, I didn't wear gloves.

And I kept all the seeds in unlike all you pussies.

Now here is where the sesame oil comes in. Put that shit in the pan. I don't know how much,  just put it in there. You want enough to saute some crap. I think you can handle eye-balling that amount? You know how to saute, right? Ok! Do that thing that that thing entails! You Go! I believe in you!

By now you will be done with the chopping and the saute-ing. It is time to fill a large pot with water and cause it to boil!

YEEE-Haww! Beers, Steers, and Queers!
(shhh... do a little dance here.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HyGp98Xoq9g&feature=related

Once it boils, put your entire can of coconut milk in along with the juice of three or four limes. Put a teaspoon in of galangal, or not. Put in enough soup mix for the water, and then add a healthy few flings of the green curry paste. Add your saute'd stuff in and then realise! "Oh NO! I forgot the soy sauce!" So add that, too. Put all liquidy boil-ey things into the larger pot with all the chopped and waiting veggies. Add more water until the pot is kinda full and then add half the cilantro you bought.

Now it's full!

Put a lid on it and set it to low/medium. Add another lime. Add some more galangal, but only if you can stand the pain. Also, throw in a glass of the wine. It's like christening a boat!

But please! Without the broken glass!

You did refrain from throwing glass in there, didn't you?

Oh Shit! There is no time! The basil! Put the basil in! Now Now Now!

 That......... was close!

Martha, why did you tell them to just add basil as a simply a garnish? Are you afraid of basil, too?

You know that it has none of the agitated spiciness of galangal, right? I've worked with people from the prison system. I know that it does funny things to people. Are you becoming one of those folks that believes cornstarch and catsup are enough?

It's not enough, Martha.

 Just because cornstarch causes things to  have the consistency of cum does not mean that it automatically contains protien! You have to listen to me and hold my hand.

Just try to say this with me: "Items that might not go into pruno are still worth cooking with. Items that might not go into pruno are still worth cooking with!"

 Please! We can work through this together.  I'm a professional. Just trust me enough to take this dried galangal. I swear it won't bite.

Pickled Watermelon Rinds

Pickled watermelon rinds are a bitch. They are  precisely the kind of bitch that orders sulfite free wine when you go out to eat and then insists on ordering veal because she is an animal rights activist and she wants to only eat the old sheep. But she's got a great rack and she's nice to show around so you go on a date with her only when you've forgotten why you couldn't stand her in the first place.

 I mean, it's not that they are particularly hard to make.  It's just that they are tedious as all mother fucking hell.

But it's a Southern delicacy, so whatayagonnado?

To start to make these things you need a watermelon. A big fat one is better than some little topiary round anemic thing  engineered to have no seeds. A big fat old fashioned watermelon is going to have the most rind on it and that is what you are after. The rind. Think of it like an Oakland butt.

First things first, scoop out all that red stuff in the middle. You don't need to scrape the edges bare. A little red looks nice when left on the rind. You can set the fruit aside for whatever other awesome thing you want to do with it. Jello-shots? Watermelon margaritas? fruit pops? I don't know. You can figure that out.

Now starts the bitch of the process. You have to cut all that green off the rind in order to render it fit for eating. This takes a really really long time and it helps if you have a friend to help you because if you don't it's going to suck for you.

I'll wait until you are done. Don't worry. I'm just going to start working on this painting over here.

Okay! I've finished my portrait of Mike in the traditional Dutch Masters style! Are you done yet? No? A little more time?

I'm back from my getting my hair cut and colored and I love my new pedicure!  You are done, yes? Hooray! Let's celebrate by going to the next step. You are going to take all that shit and soak it in water overnight! Yay!

The next day you are going to make a brine for these things. You will need to procure a giant pot and put in as much water as it looks like will cover what you have there. You'll then add in a lot of sugar. Would you say a cup and a half? I didn't measure. I  just put in the whole rest of the sugar bag I had since I've had it around for a bit. but then it wasn't sweet enough so I had to put in some sugar cubes I had lying around.  You will need to throw in a small handful of cloves and around three cinnamon sticks. Also some salt. I put in a little vanilla extract, some brine water left over from brining my jackfruit last night and a handful of  dried cherries, just because they looked festive. Of yeah, and a little tamarind paste because I bought it and I think it sounds really cool. You don't have to do any of this, though. You do want your water sweet/salty and tasting like Christmas without the brandy ( I know, I know) and as much salt as your Gramma Mildred's mouth.

All of this should simmer a bit. I'm letting mine simmer while I cut and gut the jalapenos. Traditional recipes do not call for chili peppers in the mix, but what the hell. I ask you, is anything truly not improved through the addition of chili peppers?

Remember! Always wear gloves when putting your fingers in new or unusual orifices! It's just good sense.

I'm going with a half now / half later approach. Half the sliced jalapenos go in with the pickling water and half are saved in vinegar in the fridge for tomorrow. And, yes! You are going to need to do another overnight process!

With jalapenos added and then water all cooled, Take your rinds, clear off the water and then dump them in this new mixture to soak overnight. You'll go to sleep excited to know that you have more day of work waiting for you tomorrow.

This next day, you are sure to have a bad hangover from drinking so much while trying to get these damn watermelon rinds finished, but like a champion you get back on that horse girl! You fix yourself a bloody mary and you keep on running because stamina is what it is all about, Sugar!

And speaking of sugar, I sure hope that you kept some on hand since we need that for round three.
You are going to take those rinds and dump out all that lovely brine mix down the bathtub drain since the rest of your kitchen is absolutely destroyed from your other cooking endeavors and you can't possibly fit that collander in the sink anymore. Just repeat after me, dishes are for husbands and husbands will clean all those dishes on their day off tomorrow.

So, you will need to rinse all the brine on those watermelon bits off using your detachable shower head. No. I 'm not making a euphemism when I say "watermelon" and "brine." Haven't you been following along on this recipe already? Now pay attention!  You fill the pot with just enough water to cover those bits. Then you put the whole thing on the stove again and bring it to a boil. This is going to boil for ten minutes before you .... guess what! Ha! No, bitch, you are not done. Put down that victory flag! You are going to pour all that out water again and rinse those little fuckers off one more time.

Okay, breathe. You are really near the finish line again. Did you refresh your Bloody Mary? Good.
Put the rinds all back in the pot. Slice into pretty little wheels two large oranges and four lemons. Some recipes call for more cinnamon and cloves. I say, ditch that. I mean, unless you really WANT to be reminded of the forced tortures of family bonding that are the holidays during your summer.  No, we are adding the jalapenos, plus three cups of sugar... except that I forgot to buy more sugar so I used two cups of brown sugar and a cup of agave. It should be okay. It's all sugar. Then you add one cup of apply cider vinegar and one cup of lilly white vinegar to mix all up with that molasses. You need just enough water to cover the whole mess in fluid and then it time to boil those little bastards all over again.   They are going to take a lot longer to boil with all that damn sugar in there, but you should be too inebriated to care at this point. You should also make sure that you are too inebriated to start questioning yourself as to what the point of this whole long and torturous exercise. Torture your liver, not your mind. Studies show that livers bounce back faster from abuse.

Once this mix has boiled for fifteen minutes or so, you are now done. Really done. As in "Hallelujah! Oh my gawd I thought that would never end and now I am done!" done. Don't celebrate too quickly by eating a rind or you will cause a blister to form on your lower lip and just your lower lip will look like Kim Bassinger's. Just relax and enjoy your booze marathon while your little babies cool.

You can proceed canning them now. I mean, that is if you are some sort of goddamn masochist, you can. And I don't mean the fun kind, either. I mean the kind that delights in using their tongue as a sort of button hook when fastening their Master's Victorian boots. I don't have patience for that kind of shit. Me, I just fed a few to my friend  to make sure they were not poisonous and then I froze the rest to take up to Queen Acres. They turned out awesome. Just like when I turned out that fine little sulfite free lovin' mamma onto San Pablo and she started bringing some real cash back for me. Now *that* was a can worth the investment.

*if serving them  fresh, serve as is. If serving them later,  toss the citrus and rinse the melon slices several times in cold water or they will be cloyingly sweet.