Store Brand Oreos and Cheap Cabernet

So we're watching Anthony Bourdain--he's in Spain and we're salivating. Never watch Anthony Bourdain without something to drink or eat. I go crack a bottle of cheap California Cab and root around for something to eat late on a Monday night; I find an open package of Target brand Oreo type cookies. My girls swear that these are not as good as the "real" ones, but I beg to differ. Maybe it's the wine, maybe it's the exotic food preparations on the television, but these "oreos" are just a bit more chocolaty, just a bit creamier, and even a little less than perfect in how they're shmushed together and a little more crumbly; they are less shortening and more flavor. And the Cabernet loves them. Two modest offerings from the pantry, the right mood, lover at my side, Bourdain's wisecracking New York patois, and they meld into a perfect snack.

Like a lot of memorable eating experiences, my modest cookies and red wine have less to do with any great culinary finesse, and more to do with an attitude that this is this. The good life is here and now, to share and savor with whatever and whomever is near.

Uncle Mortimer the Tang

At a very early age (and even now) when I heard voices, sounds, or sound effects, I usually felt compelled to try to imitate or mimic them. As it were, the sound of the Road Runner was particularly memorable and challenging; MEEP-MEEP, followed by that springy sound effect--you know, MEEP-MEEP-pa-TANG....

So young Bean could often be found wandering about, sputtering cartoon voices and sound effects, a Tourette's-like cavalcade of happy sounds... MEEP-MEEP-fffffffffssshhhhhhwooooop-pa-TANG! tang! TANG!.
Well it wasn't long before my brothers picked up on the "tang" suffix, adding it to various words and phrases--such-and-such-the-tang. One such concoction was the regular ice cream truck driver, known, creepily I now think, as "Uncle Marty"; Uncle Marty quickly evolved into Uncle Morty, which wasn't far from Uncle Mortimer. Well, Uncle Mortimer was OK, but he really needed a bit more, after all, we weren't shortening things at that point. So Uncle Mortimer became Uncle Mortimer the Tang.

EPILOGUE: ironically, in spite of all my linguistic twists and silly mimicry, I still couldn't bring myself to say the name of the ice cream treat which came in a paper cone and had a gum ball at the bottom. I remember walking up to Uncle Mortimer the Tang and asking him for that particular item, knowing full well what it was called! I just couldn't say it...




(You can google it if you want. I'm still not going to say it.)

Spaghetti Aglio e' Olio for lunch

The simplest of all pasta traditions, but also very easy to fuck up badly. Here's the lowdown on that simple yet elusive preparation:

Pasta
Olive Oil
Garlic
Red pepper flakes
(that's it!)

You already know how to cook pasta, right? Don't make me tell you to add salt to the water or make sure it's boiling before you drop it in, and if you rinse it I'm gonna break your neck. Anyone heard of Al Dente? No? If you overcook it I'll send Al down to break your neck, too!

Now, get yourself a big ol' pan and some good extra virgin olive oil ("extra virgin", that was me in high school).

Chop up a bunch of garlic (at least a half dozen cloves--don't make me come down there!)
NO, you cannot use garlic powder, paste, or that damn garlic press... Get out your big knife and make a scene!

Put the pan on some heat, put oil in the pan (half a cup, more or less--it's good for you, so shut up and pour!)

Go ahead and throw the garlic in the pan--here's the thing--we're not browning it, we just want to get it translucent and slightly sizzling. As soon as you hear a sizzle, TURN THE DAMN HEAT OFF!! Then, toss in a pinch or three of red pepper flakes. The residual heat will continue to develop the the garlic and pepper flavor. If you brown it, it will go bitter on you.

Drain the pasta when it's ready, and immediately toss in the pan with the oil. Throw it in a bowl and eat it, then continue to eat out of the pan until it's gone.

Serve with slightly chilled leftover red wine from previous night--preferably in a rocks glass or ceramic mug. Chase it with an apple or pear and you have the perfect lunch.

Grist for the Food Mill

... not the food processor.
Which is where the roasted tomatoes, garlic, and onion need to go--the food mill, that is. Food processors do a wonderful job of turning everything into a puree--problem is, you may not want everything pureed. In this case, after developing the sweet and fruity flavors of the tomatoes by roasting, I wanted to separate out the skin and seeds, which only contribute bitterness to the final sauce. The food mill takes extra work, but the subtleties in flavor are worth it. We call it food "preparation" because there is a process, a finesse, which takes it from raw ingredients to a meal. It may be a simple process, but with a purpose and intent; grist for the mill--but choose the right mill for the job.

Fatty Butt (part II)

...so the beauty of a cut like this is all of the marbled fat which flavors it. You can keep your lean-ass chops, in fact, you may as well eat tofu! If you're gonna die from meat, make it fatty.

After eight hours of slow roasting, the rosemary and garlic infused meat was falling off the bone. A quick sauce was deglazed and reduced from the sugary-spicy drippings, and all was right with the world. A potato gratin, rich with Pecorino Romano, cream, and parsely, and a salad of grape tomatoes and cucumbers rounded fatty out. Carmenere/Cab was a good choice to brace the richness.

Fatty Butt

... or shoulder, or something. It's a sleeper of a cut, just a fatty, bone-in pork shoulder butt; cheap as hell, but with the promise of an unforgettable night. This fella started out early this morning, poked and stabbed, and studded with slivers of garlic and sprigs of rosemary. Then we rolled him in a rub of brown sugar, sea salt, cayenne, and black pepper, and let him catch his breath for an hour or two. Next, into the oven at about 225.
Slowly. Slow. slow.



He needs a good eight hours, really.


More later

Manwich, it's more than a...

..."sounds like you're eating human" says the oldest. "Why is it called 'Manwich'?" they want to know...

Missus explains that it's from a time when housewives were told that the way to keep their men was to make them big, fattening, simple meals. Sandwich?? heck, dear, here's a MANWICH!

I piped in, "Sounds more like it has '70's gay disco overtones...".









I swear to you--both girls started laughing...