It Really Is Better With Butter

For those of you who read these updates frequently, I apologize for the "slack" in this week's production schedule. The end of the first Module is near and exams are looming closer and closer!

However, last night in class, we made Chicken with a Roasted Red Pepper Sauce. Let me tell you... It Didn't Suck. (Email me for the recipe) The starting ingredient to saute the chicken... butter... for the Broccoli Almondine... butter... for the Mac and cheese... butter. The starting ingredient is always butter. Julia Child would agree that the First Commandment should be "USE BUTTER". Julia Child LIVED by butter. God I loved that woman. What is it about butter that is just, well, like "buttah"?

When I was growing up, my Mother tried to be healthy by using margarine. Our morning toast was spread with what is now known to be made from, among other things, plastic. Of course, my mother referred to it as butter. My Grandfather gave me my first taste of real butter on a bagel when I was five. (He also served me a cup of coffee to go with it. He reasoned that his having loaded it up with milk and sugar made it safe for a five year old. Reader Beware : This is the recipe to make an already annoying and talkative five year old even more annoying.) There were two life altering lessons I learned that morning; 1. Butter should be in a stick form, not a plastic tub 2. Butter is proof that God exists.

That first bite of real butter was the beginning of a love affair. A simple toasted onion bagel was now transformed into something sensuous. A piece of toasted raisin bread with butter... sinful. And really, are there correct words to describe the beauty of a well toasted English Muffin with it's nooks and crannies thoughtfully holding mini pools of melted butter. I'm "farklemt" just at the thought.

I have to eat a warm baguette with butter privately due to the face I make when chewing. Jack says it looks like I'm either going to cry, or, um, well, you get the idea. Truthfully, when it's really warm and the butter is just melting, I'm close to doing both. ;-)

Don't even get me started on clarified butter. I'm not sure who the genius was that created it, but a monument should be erected for such an achievement. When I hear clarified butter, the first thing I think of is lobster. Sweet and succulent morsels of white and red meat dipped in warm, clarified butter. Farklemt again. (I'm a bad Jew. Not only do I love the pig, but lobster dripping with butter. My dear friend Pam takes the meat from the tiny legs and places them in the clarified butter while enjoying the rest of her lobster. When she's done with the rest, there's a little pile of the most sweet, buttery bits you could ever imagine. It's amazing. However, don't try and touch hers, she'll stab you in the eye for it. Crap. Now I want lobster.)

So, when making cookies, use butter. When making eggs, use butter. When looking for something to put on the outside of a roasting turkey, use butter. (Better yet, for this use Truffle Butter) When it seems like something is missing... USE BUTTER. Julia was no fool. If you're not going to use butter, don't bother.

Boning Your First Chicken

Last night was Culinary Skills Class. So far, this is my personal favorite. It's here that we're taught stock production, knife skills and as of last night, the proper technique used to saute and how to fabricate a chicken. Fabricating does not mean lying to the chicken: "You don't look bad without your head little chicken, I promise, nobody would even notice!". Fabricating means to cut it into smaller parts.

Like many others, I have always left the "butchering" of a chicken to the professionals, namely, the butchers at the grocery store who then nicely and neatly package it for me. In my new world, I am that professional, or I am on my way to becoming one! Our Chef Instructor for this class is my favorite. He's from Jersey (not sure what exit) and is truly hysterical. Step by step he taught us how to take a whole bird and make it several parts. I will spare you the step by step instructions we learned, though anyone interested should shoot me a comment and I'll fill you in. It was surprisingly easy.

I did discover the main reason I have avoided butchering my own bird. It's the first step - "Reach into the birds cavity and remove the giblets". First of all let's review the first half of that sentence shall we? "REACH INTO THE BIRDS CAVITY". In a word, EW. A cavity is a nice way of saying "hole". With a chicken this is not quite as disgusting but let me tell you, when Thanksgiving comes around and you're dealing with a 30lb turkey, it's a completely different situation. Year after year I always have this shameful and dirty feeling that I'm committing some horrible act of bestiality when I do this. (Don't even get me started about how I feel when adding stuffing to the bird and the recipe instructs one to "Completely fill the cavity"). And then there's the second part "Remove the giblets". I don't know where "giblets" originated from but it's pretty damn accurate. Usually, the giblets include, the heart, the gizzard, the neck and the liver of the animal. And yet, another Ew. (I feel terrible for the poor bastard who has to remove these items from the bird in the first place, package them and then stuff them back in. I mean really? Do we know that the little frozen package stuffed in there REALLY belonged to this specific bird?! And what about the birds that don't have them? Did they not have them in real life?! Or is there someone with a double dose of dirty bits now able to make double the amount of gravy?) Anyway, to get back to my point: "Reaching into the birds cavity and remove the giblets" is just a nice way of saying, "Fist your chicken and yank out it's vitals". No matter how you say it, it's gross.

However, last night, I conquered this. I didn't shudder, gag or look away. I knew there was no way I could say to the Chef "Uh, excuse me Chef, can someone please fist my bird for me?", so I did the only thing I could do: let my subconscious take over. As I began to violate my chicken's cavity, the oddest thing happened. I started to giggle. In my head, I heard the chicken talking me through it. "Go slow, gentle.. gentle... there, right there. That's the spot. yeah, thats it! Now gently, pull it out... no no.. slow... slow... and there it is". Now the voice was that of a chicken from the Muppet Show which made it absolutely hysterical. I had that same cartoon voice in my head as I went through and hacked up the rest of the bird. Suddenly, I was not only relaxed, but having a grand old time.

If I can find a funny voice of a cartoon turkey, Thanksgiving should be hoot!!!!!!

Cookies

I love cookies. In fact, I think a job well done or an especially good deed merits a cookie. "OH! Good Job! You Get A Cookie!". It just fits. Have you ever said "You want a cookie" in front of a dog? If you have, then you know, that what follows is a tsunami of sheer, unbridled and uncontrollable excitement. When I was a kid, we had a poodle named Alfie. If you mentioned the word cookie or even spelled it out, this dog couldn't move fast enough to get up and race you to the kitchen. With legs to excited to actually work together, this crazy mutt would run into doors, walls, corners or slow children to get to his treat. Nothing was going to keep Alfie from what was apparently his life force. If you said cheese in front of him, he'd stretch, get up and wag his tale. It sort of reminded me of Dom DeLuise in "History of the World, Part 1" saying "Nice. Not thrilling, but nice". No, it was only the word cookie that elicited true excitement.

Now, I may be a slut for bacon, but let it be known that I will come running through a kitchen at top speed, braving a freshly washed/waxed floor surrounded by counter tops with sharp edges the minute I know there is a promise of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. I do not know what it is about a warm fresh cookie that makes me so happy. Not only that... it makes a person crave milk! What other food actually makes you crave another food?! Sure, some food goes together. Peanut butter and jelly. Bacon and eggs. Pork Chops and Applesauce. I have never in my life eaten a piece of bacon and thought "Hmmm, an egg would be so good with this". Even the most lactose intolerant person I know will endure hours of cramping and potty time for the opportunity to dip a warm cookie into a glass of cold milk. People I know who hate milk and cringe even at the thought of it say "A glass of milk would go really well with this" when they have a Tollhouse in hand.

After reflecting on this, I've realized something about myself. If I had to pick a last meal knowing that I couldn't get my first choice (a perfectly cooked rare N.Y. Strip topped with fois gras, surrounded by fresh truffles and boursin mashed potatoes), I would die happy having had a plate of crispy bacon followed by warm cookies and ice cold milk.

Tonight, our class in culinary skills walks away from the stock pot and makes friend with a saute pan. Chicken with basil and garlic. I'm sure there will be something to report!

Papa Loves Pig

Monday night at school, we were fortunate enough to partake in the yummy offerings of the 3rd Semester Student's Hawaiian Luau. The menu was lovely, however, one item jumped right out at me and I almost cried... Kahlua Pig. I know, I know. I'm not even sure if there was Kahlua in it, it didn't matter. It was pig. What is it about this curly tailed porcine that makes me want to renounce my Jewish faith, all of my material possessions and devote the rest of my life to the worship of bacon?!?!?

Mmmmm, bacon. I love bacon. I really, really, love bacon. I like it on a cheeseburger, with macaroni and cheese, on a BLT, in quiche, on a turkey club, crumbled in pasta, wrapped around a hunk of cow, paired with eggs or simply by itself, fried to a nice crispy brown. There are few aromas that make my mouth water. And even fewer that just the memory of can make me drool like a rabid dog. Bacon, is that food for me. If it shows up somewhere unexpected on a menu, I screech like five year old, do the hokey pokey and turn myself around. Now, if a menu says thick slab bacon, I'm pretty much the equivalent of a well paid tramp on my back for the evening. Not pretty I know, but there it is. If you need a favor from me, tempt me with bacon. Promise me endless supplies of smoked, fresh bacon and I will be your devoted slave for eternity.

It isn't limited to just bacon. In our house, a well crisped portion of pork cracklin' has been known to cause riots. And teasing someone with this tasty treat can result in permanent damage with little to no regret and absolutely without any sympathy. About a year ago we bought a porketta for my Mother-In-Law, we roasted it in her convection oven and then, Jack, his parents and I circled it for hours like vultures around roadkill. There was no need for a plate, we merely ripped pieces of pig off and ate it standing. STANDING. We had already eaten our meal! We were more than full! BUT THERE WAS PIG! Then, as though the four of us were all one living being, we went together peacefully into a gluttonous pork coma. Now, while there were moments of guilt, quick glances containing shame as grease was wiped from our chins and lips, a bond was forged. We were tied together by crispy yet juicy pig. This succulent piece of pork flesh had solidified the bond of our family.

There is one cut of pig that doesn't get as much love with our family... the dreaded spiral ham. Some of you are sure to protest this as you recall your favorite Easter dinner. However, an experience this Easter with a "boneless spiral ham" which more resembled a grey-ish mini loaf of Canadian bacon has ended any chance of ham ending up on our holiday table ever again.

However, if the grey mass offered at Easter had been sprinkled with bacon, it may very well have ended up a success!

Chiffon Pie - Why Not Taffeta?

So, this week brought two very interesting culinary experiences to me, the first was Strawberry Chiffon Pie. Now, I recently made a strawberry rhubarb pie that while not a pleasant looking success, it was delish. Chiffon pie, unlike a cream pie, is made with gelatin and egg whites. It's fluffy, with volume and structure which can look very impressive. The pictures of these pies are gorgeous which were inspiring me to look for ways to incorporate them into future menu's. And then it happened. During the demo we were provided by our Chef, all pleasant thoughts of Chiffon went out the window. When the gelatin is added to cold water, it coagulates. Not my favorite word, but, in this case, very apporpriate. We watched the glop start to form. I'm hesitant to admit that I found this part kind of fun. Anyway, once it starts to coagulate, you then need to stir it to disolve it over warm water for the proper texture which you can then add directly to your filling base. Once added and incorporated, the filling is left to sit. This is where I lost the love. The Chef warned us, that if left unattended, the texture will turn "SNOT" like. I can barely use the word SNOT and not throw up in my mouth a little bit. The very thought of a food resembling that disgusting substance to me is, without question, unacceptable. Back to the demo - after several minutes of controlled gagging followed by regaining my composure, I told my baking partner that she was more than welcome to the pie she and I would be making that evening. It is safe to say that I will not be serving a Chiffon pie in the near future.

The second culinary treasure I got to make was during our practical exam. (It's here we are tested on actually producing a product we've learned about so far in our studies). We have been studying stock and soup production. So, our Chef for this class allowed us to pick our product out of a hat and I drew Cheddar Leek Soup. Not a difficult recipe. I like cheddar cheese, I like leeks and I like soup. I did not however like how it looked when the cheese melted within the soup. There is something very, very wrong about the way the fat of the cheese looks when it melts into the soup. More disturbing is that the choice of liquid used to enhance the creaminess of the soup is half-and-half. If I closed my eyes and listened carefully, I could hear the tiny voices of my arteries screaming in protest!! Once I drained the soup, I had to taste it for seasoning. It was surprisingly thin once strained. Which I found disturbing. There was a cheesey taste and an onion taste, and yet it was thin. I plated my soup in a warm bowl and garnished it with freshly made garlic croutons and chopped parsley, then served it to the Chef. The flavor was apparently right and I was warned that I may have taken too long in the straining process which could cause a grainy consistency. Ewww. Grainy, cheesey soup. Howeve, the Chef indicated I did well so I'm expecting high marks. Regardless of the grade I've received, I learned something incredibly valuable to me... cheese stays on my burger or on a cheese board. It doesn't belong in my soup!

Beware of the Kitchen Gremlin

The Kitchen Gremlin is a mostly invisible and silent creature who's responsible for, in my opinion, 98% of all kitchen disasters. (The other 2% I believe is caused by alcohol, but that is a subject for another time). This creature, when having successfully demolished an important meal, is known to emit a small, high pitched snarky giggle that the dismayed cook swears they hear but then think it's a sound only in their head. I hate the Kitchen Gremlin.

While making pie this weekend during my quest for the perfect pie crust, the Gremlin screwed with my stove while my rhubarb filling was cooking. I was already struggling with my pie crust and not amused. (Home Chef's beware, the Gremlin lives on the energy from our "frustration" and can immediately sense when peak levels are reached.) My crust was yet another disaster looking exactly like it had in class last week which caused me swear quite creatively. It was the use of a four letter word that sounds like "duck" that must have brought the Gremlin in. For within minutes, I heard a bubbling sound coming from what had previously been a quiet sauce pan! My rhubarb filling was now on a medium flame which brought the liquid to a boil causing the rhubarb to almost fully break down. The room was now filled with several "Ducks" and another four letter word sounding like "Punts" (I had escalated in swearing creativity) as I tried to find ways to continue with my filling. (Special Note: Earlier I had to travel to four different markets to find fresh rhubarb. I bought all that they had which ended up being just enough for my pie. I had frustration around me already which the Gremlin had a field day with!) With careful seasoning and use of cornstarch, it seemed my filling was saved. It was now time to roll out the bottom crust.

I unwrapped my chilled dough, pressed it down from a ball to a disc, and armed with my rolling pin, prepared to make crust. I floured my counter and my pin and proceeded to smear play dough all over the friggin' place. Several more "Ducking Punts" were now in the kitchen. More giggling from the damn Gremlin. Determined to win in this battle, I tried adding water to the play dough which seemed to help. By hell or high water I was going to have a crust for my pie. And I did. I baked this shell and prayed for the best. I was semi rewarded with a golden crust that held it's shape and didn't fall apart during baking. So, I let the crust cool and I filled with the rhubarb filling and whisked it to the fridge to set. Overall, I had a somewhat loose pie, but the flavor was good. I however was determined to find out why I was crust challenged!!

I set out to make a new batch of crust, only this time, evaluating every possible factor that could contribute to my demise. Flour was weighed and sifted - nothing I could screw up here. Next step was my shortening. As I wiped my furrowed brow with the back of my hand I couldn't help but notice my hand was warm and thought, huh, I should open a window. DING DONG! Warm hands can melt butter!!!! For those of you who know me well, you know that I am ALWAYS WARM! My hands are always extremely warm and in the winter I'm wearing shorts around the house because I sweat like a meatloaf! That had to be it!! I needed much colder shortening and needed to have less hand/finger contact for cutting the butter into the flour. As I prepared to start cutting in the butter, I look for anything the Gremlin could use against me and saw I was safe. Oh it was so on. Working quickly, I alternated cutting in the shortening with my fingers then a pastry cutter. Success was in reach. If my calculations were right, I would be inches from a tasty crust AND turning the Gremlin out to the street! The dough obtained what appeared to be a picture perfect color and texture. I divided my crust into four portions and set it to chill in the fridge. I spent the next fifteen minutes searching for the Gremlin's hiding place. I wanted to hear the little bastard cry. I unwrapped a dough ball, floured my counter and rolling pin and was rewarded with a lovely crust, aching to be placed in a pie tin. And in it went, right into the oven. Fifteen minutes until victory was to be mine! I cleaned the kitchen happily, giddy with my impending success. The oven sounded that it was time reveal my treasure. And a golden treasure it was. I had made a yummy crust that looked, well, like crust.

The Gremlin, being a better sport than expected, allowed me to hear a slight cry of defeat as it left my kitchen. With the Ducks and the Punts quietly perched in the dark recesses of my kitchen, I proceeded to turn out a butterscotch pie, a sour cream and peach pie and a pecan pie. Tuesday night, I'm heading into double crust pies and making a pear and Gruyere pie, Apple pie and a lemon pie! The next time the Gremlin comes to visit, and I know he will, I'm sure he'll be prepared and seek revenge. But it won't happen when I'm making pie.