The F Word

The husband is a devout food Catholic. Meaning, he rarely attends church outside of significant holidays but is unwaveringly committed to the practice of meatless Fridays. I'm constantly awe-struck by his acts of self-sacrifice.

So, in honor of this tireless dedication, I decided to bone up on my fish cooking skills. Since we bought 400 lbs of orange roughy at Costco last month, what better time than now (a week before Easter)? Better late than never.

A writer and cook I admire, Emily Nunn, recently started a blog, Cook the Wolf. In it, she details her love of fish and the simple preparation it needs to reach peak fishliciousness. The following is simple, unintimidating instruction for fish prep, according to Emily:

My standard dish is a fish en (faux) papillote. It is nothing new, but it is something quite good.

I preheat the oven to 400. Take a filet of salmon or roughy or whitefish (If I'm alone, I eat a big piece: 10 ounces or so, with nothing on the side), place it crosswise on a foot-long sheet of tinfoil, top it with some thinly sliced mushrooms, some chopped tomato, chopped parsley, a few fresh herbs if I remember them (basil is always nice; tarragon), a bit of crushed garlic. Splash of white wine, splash of cream (optional), tablespoon of butter in pieces, salt and freshly ground pepper. Another good combo is thinly sliced seeded cucumber, thin onion, white pepper, some cream. Herbs if you like, but a sparing amount.

I bring the two ends together at the top and roll it tightly together, then down the sides, to make a roomy envelope that will serve as a steam room for the fish. Place on a sheet pan and cook it according to how thick the fish is, in this case about 25-30 minutes. You should try to wait as long as possible before you check it for readiness (fish flakes at the thickest part when it's done), because you'll lose good steam once you open it, but don't wait too long because overcooked fish seems more expensive than perfectly cooked fish.
I like this dish because it ends up being almost like a stew, which I tip from the foil packet into a big bowl and gobble down with a spoon.

Easy, right? One would think. I chose the first option (tomatoes, mushrooms, garlic, tarragon, cream and wine). It looked so lovely nestled in the foil before I added my finishing touch - a splash of white....F$#@! (I think I said fishsticks. Or not..)

*MegPasz Tip: Always read the wine label to ensure it's not RED before buying
*Additional MegPasz Tip: Try not to drink all the reserve bottles of white wine in your house while watching The Real Housewives of New York.

No Cholesterol, No Deal

Not in an effort to branch out from my cooking success, but merely to try something that might actually bring me success, it was time for me to bake. Baking is something I've never embraced because everything that surrounds it doesn't seem to suit me. It's sweet, smells good and is executed with great precision. It's somehow associated with organized cabinets and clean floors. And mildewless bathtubs. The women on the Food Network that bake always wear dresses that match the curtains that match the color of their spatulas. It just freaks me out.

I decided to face my fears, dig through a very dusty cabinet and retrieve (unwrap) the new standing mixer we got for the wedding. It's quite large and commanding, with all its parts. It just stared at me from beneath the cellophane, as if angry I've suffocated it for so long and daring me to ask it to perform well. I rose to the task. And then discovered the recipe I chose didn't need it. So...back it went.

I stumbled upon a recipe for Carrot Oatmeal Cookies on one of my favorite food blogs, 101 Cookbooks. The thought of it inspired me - smells of carrot cake and warm oatmeal filling our microscopic kitchen, me in a pink apron that matches our pink, well, beige blinds. Nevermind.

One minor detail that went unnoticed was that this recipe was, actually, vegan. No eggs, no butter, nothing derived from something that walked, moo'd or chirped. I immediately knew two things. They would likely be quite healthy and the husband would definitely hate them. But, the hopeful new wife in me proceeded, staring through the oven window for the 11 minutes and 59 seconds they cooked.

When the timer buzzed, I took them out, gave them a good look and the insecurity washed over me. I thought if I arranged them in a visually appealing way, he might like them. Presentation is everything, right? Right?


Answer: "No"

What can I say? He's a butt (er) guy.

The House of Humble

The day started as one of those "together" sort of days. I had a specific plan for dinner and all needed ingredients on hand. Since I've made this dish quite successfully before, dinner would be a piece of cake. I walked home from work with a slight skip in my step...knowing the man and I would be basking in the satisfaction of our full bellies in less than 2 hours.

Perhaps the husband's recent display of confidence at our cooking class was contagious, but I was quickly humbled. All I know is that I attempted to make pork chops solely from my own sweet memories of success, and not from the recipe HANGING ON OUR REFRIGERATOR FROM LAST TIME. It would have been far too much to glance at the piece of paper hanging 2 centimeters from my face. Why? Why do that when I can draw from my own inherent, God-given sense of flavor balance and proportion?

The recipe suggests browning the pork on either side for about 3 minutes,then add 1/2 cup of water and cover to steam the meat slowly. I skipped the second part. Below, I'll share the conversation that occurred between my cocky self, my humble self and...the husband.

Cocky self: I am SO all over this. I scoff at those small timers that use recipes.
Cocky self: I should just let this cook and go run around the block. Twice.
Husband: Hey, aren't you going to cover it like last time?
(Meat is now redefining the word "browned")
Humble self: (unpublishable expletives followed by tears of frustration)

As he always does, he ate it anyway. As I always do, I spent the entire dinner explaining to him how awesome it's going to be next time. I was so consumed with this particular explaining session, however, that I left my beloved (empty) Mario Batali cast iron pan on the piping hot burner with my favorite spatula sticking to it.


As the house filled with humble, black smoke, I turned the burner off, mourned my favorite spatula, and reached for what we really had for dinner.


My confidence "chipping" away, I filled my belly with store-bought salsa and retired to bed. But not before I recited my mantra to bring about success and remove obstacles. "Ommmmm....peace in thy self, kindness to others, ravioli in a can."

On Substance

The husband and I took a sharp pin and popped out of our very thick bubble this past weekend to visit my oldest friends in Indianapolis. As city dwellers, we have become accustomed to the compact, noisy, chaotic environment we exist in and sometimes feel alien when stepping out of it. The first task was to actually drive there. An automobile. I haven’t legitimately driven in about 3 years, due to factors including lack of need, pride in a clean driving record (solely due to not driving) and blatant laziness. But, for my oldest friends, I’ll do anything.

The reason for the visit was to see the children of two of my friends – one born early last year and one just three weeks ago. Most of my friends were married in their early 20’s and have long since conquered turning the oven on before cooking a meal in it. They paint baseboards on Saturdays vs. argue about who serves the best 10am Bloody Mary’s, they own lawnmowers, and they have dining room tables instead of TV trays.

Perhaps I am far too aware of my current status as a city dweller with the counter space of one of those plastic kitchens belonging to my 5-year-old niece, but I noticed a lot about my friends’ surroundings. Years of marriage, vs. a wedding registry, will get you towels for every bathroom in the house, not just, well, 8 towels. They have so many vases. They pull from their mental recipe bank, instead of scanning cookbooks. They have not only can-openers, but jar openers.

As we sat down for dinner at the sprawling table, the fond memories, inappropriate humor and non-stop laughter began. It was the same ol' crew - some of us parents, some with clean baseboards, some with dreams of bigger countertops. In the end, all grown-ups - embracing our new challenges and backed by our substantial, lifelong friendship.

Even though I knew that the next day, the husband and I would climb into a car that wasn’t ours and drive (recklessly) back to the bubble we love, it was great to stretch out for a while. And steal some jar openers.

Why are French people thin?

We attended our second cooking class last night at The Wooden Spoon. This one was called "French Classics" - the menu comprised of Coq au Vin with Riesling, roasted brussel sprouts with bacon, warm goat cheese salad and profiteroles with chocolate sauce. Think you'd be thin after that? Neither am I. And neither is the husband, after the chef offered only him the second helping of profiteroles while prefacing it with, "You seem like the one with the big appetitite."

I immediately noticed something different from our first cooking class. The husband had acquired this heightened level of cooking class confidence. Our friends attended with us to celebrate both of our birthdays. That husband, a cooking class virgin, likely wanted to be anywhere else but put on a happy face (and an apron).

My husband, however, was disappointed in the inefficiencies of the cooking class "assistant," who generally cleans dishes during the class but also has "wine opener" in her job description, and proceeded to try to pry the cork out himself with a knife. He could also be found noticing a fellow student chopping and scooping up herbs with improper tools and bringing it to her attention. I married a complete stranger. Or, perhaps just a cooking class convert.

The food was incredibly heavy, in that really satisfying way. Heavy cream merged with cognac and wine is not a sauce you can dance all night after, but who needs to dance when you can stuff yourself sick? It was glorious. I think I'll try to make it one Sunday when I'm feeling half as confident as my husband was last night. Or, maybe I'll just let him make it.

Musings of March

I was born the day after St. Patrick's Day. My dad two weeks before, my mom and her sister a week before, my Godmother days before. In our Irish family, March meant repeated celebration, weekend after weekend, until we all turned, you guessed it...green.

It was no regular occasion approached with mediocrity, but a colorful, outrageous, competition of the obnoxious as we all tried to yell and sing louder than the next. I come from a long line of baton twirlers - my mother possessing the highest level of innate talent.This circus-like activity, coupled with 2 (not 1, but 2) juke boxes in the basement growing up, brings my March memories to an indescribable level.

As I peek (over the cliff) into my 31st year, I'm part little girl in a plastic green hat twirling in the basement, part angst-filled teenager rolling my eyes at the ridiculous characters I'm related to, part 20-something, gassed up on Guinness and once again thinking they were entertaining, and part 31-year old married lady with a whole new life ahead. In the end, all of me approaches March as any legitimate Irishman would. With jovial, hopeful excitement sprinkled in melancholy.

Perhaps from one Irishman to another, or perhaps from one not-so-talented cook to another, I'll share a REAL corned beef recipe with you from one of my favorite blogs, Foodmomiac.

Here's to March memories (and my 29th, er, 31st birthday).
Slainte!

Piggin' Out

I am now intimately acquainted with the other white meat. I know just what it needs - a tender touch here, a little rub there, a moisturizing oil bath before I turn up the HEAT.

I've always been afraid of pork. I attempted it once when the husband was pre-husband and ended up serving him a brick (correction, a breaded brick) on a plate. He ate it slowly and struggled to swallow it while mentally scanning his schedule to determine when dental work could be done. Following that experience, I decided some mountains just can't be climbed.

However, recently I started following a blogger from Martha Stewart's "Dinner Tonight" blog on Twitter. Despite the fact that Martha is the most intimidating woman on the planet who would gauge her own eyes out just to save herself from the disappointment if she ever visited my kitchen, I still attempt to be best friends with her food blogger. A question here, a "Wow, that sounds YUMMY!" there. It's pathetic and disgusting behavior, and I'm more than positive Martha's blogger makes fun of me over her own dinner at night.

My best friend, Martha's blogger, recently posted a fantastic pork recipe that changed me forever. I put it in front of the husband and he was happier than a pig in s**t.

Should you desire to pig out, yourself, I present Lemon Parsley Pork Chops.

The Meat and Potatoes

I am many things that straddle the line of regular, but at the core I am truly, in the most traditional, milk every night with dinner sense....Midwestern. I believe that kids should play outside instead of watch tv, potatoes are a legitimate serving of vegetables and Marshall Fields was a high-end department store. I experienced travel as a child in a yellow station wagon with one of those seats in the back that allows you to move forward while being reminded of where you've been.

And, no matter if my family was speaking to one another, financially strapped, or prying us out of our teenage angst and blaring music, we tried our best to sit down for a meal. Together.

I made a big, fat rib-eye last night for the husband. I had no idea how to do it, it was slightly overcooked, and the final, wounded product had 55 cuts in it due to excessive "checking" but he loved it. It felt like one of the first real meals we've had together because it was simple, nourishing and just...Midwestern.

Years from now, I think I'll remember that meal, just as I remember the steaks my parents served us growing up. The difference is, I never knew how many cuts they put in it before it reached our table,or what a luxury it was sometimes just to have it. Now I know.

Happy 60th birthday, Dad.

Jersey Love

Two of our closest friends, Mike and Jill, recently left Chicago for New Jersey, Jill's home state. They left us with not only empty hearts, but empty stomachs. Because aside from the occasional game of Rummy (when by the way, Jill plays dirtier than..well, someone from Jersey) all we ever did together was eat. And drink. But first we would eat.

Not since Jill and Mike moved have we:

- Spent 26 minutes (each) determining which dish to order from the menu
- Argued over seating positions at the table, relative to dishes ordered, to ensure seamless rotation of plates for tasting
- Spend half of our future house payment on dinner and honestly believed it was worth it. And still do.

Though I've never really experienced it because we were too busy bolstering Chicago's economy solely on dinner tabs, Jill's an outstanding cook. From time to time, she'll send me subtle hints to help save my marriage including a subscription to Fine Cooking. Most recently, it was an email about how much she "misses" me with a sneaky little recipe attached. Not surprisingly, the adjective she chose to describe it was "easy."

Thanks, Jersey. We'll cook it up one night, play a little unethical Rummy, and toast to old friends.

Jersey Jill's Easy Chicken Cutlets with Porcini Sauce

Serves 4
Ingredients:
¾ cup dried porcini mushrooms
1 cup low-sodium chicken broth
¼ cup plus 1 tsp unbleached flour
4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts (pounded thin)
2 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon vegetable or olive oil
1 small shallot
¼ cup dry vermouth
1 teaspoon tomato paste
1 teaspoon soy sauce
½ teaspoon sugar
2 tablespoons cold unsalted butter
½ teaspoon minced fresh thyme
½ teaspoon lemon juice (optional – I left this out)
Salt and pepper

Method:
1.Rinse porcini mushrooms in large bowl of cold water, agitating them with the hands to release dirt and sand. Allow dirt to settle to bottom of bowl, then lift mushrooms from water and transfer to microwave-safe 2 cup measuring cup. Add chicken broth, submerging the mushrooms beneath the surface of liquid. Microwave on high power 1 minute, until broth is steaming. Let stand 10 minutes. Using tongs, gently lift mushrooms out of broth and transfer to cutting board, reserving broth. Chop mushrooms into ¾ inch pieces and transfer to medium bowl. Strain broth through fine-mesh strainer lined with large coffee filter into bowl with chopped mushrooms.

2.Combine ¼ cup flour, 1 teaspoon salt, and ½ teaspoon pepper in pie plate. Working one piece at a time, dredge chicken in flour, shaking gently to remove excess. Set aside on plate.

3.Heat 1 tablespoon oil in 12 inch skillet over medium-high heat until smoking. Lace 4 cutlets in skillet and cook without moving until browned, about 2 minutes. Flip cutlets and continue to cook until second sides are opaque, about a minute.

4.Add remaining teaspoon oil to now empty skillet and return pan to medium heat. Add shallot and cook, stirring often, until softened, about 30 seconds. Add remaining teaspoon flour and cook, whisking constantly, 30 seconds. Increase heat to medium high and whisk in vermouth, soaked porcini and their liquid, tomato paste, soy sauce, and sugar. Simmer until reduced to 1 cup, 3-5 minutes.

5.Transfer cutlets and any accumulated juices to skillet. Place in oven at 375 degrees for 15 minutes (or until done). Remove chicken from skillet (leave sauce in skillet)

6.Whisk butter, thyme, and lemon juice into sauce and season with salt and pepper. Spoon over chicken and serve.
The original recipe calls for the chicken to be cooked fully on the stove, but we thought this would dry it out, so we finished it in the oven and it was great!
Enjoy!
Jill

Dear Costco, I hate you. I love you.

Dear Costco,

You're evil. You're like that boy in high school with the leather jacket and bad tattoos who smoked when he was 13 and who my dad would rather cut his own leg off than see me date. Your shelves are lined with all of wine, fish, bicycles, books, underwear, nectarines and diamonds I could ever want. You taunt me with your low prices and subliminal messages, convincing me that buying 27 tubes of toothpaste is the only reasonable choice.

But I know the truth. I know you'll end me when I reach the checkout counter.

Dear Costco, I love you.
See you next winter when I'll need more toothpaste,
Meg