Food and Food History A la Carte
Tomorrow – the 24th of January- is perhaps my favourite food holiday of the year.
Peanut Butter Day!
Yep, a whole day devoted to just peanut butter! I’m seeing parades with beige banners, complete with majorettes tossing their batons whilst smiling through clenched jaws because their teeth are stuck together with the ol’ pb, and Peter Pan scarfing contests. The works. Continue reading “Nuts to That! A Celebration of Peanut Butter”
Every year, on January 19th, the United States of America celebrates Popcorn Day. And short of Thanksgiving (last Thursday in November), Apple Pie Day (May 13th), Root Beer Float Day (August 6th) or Peanut Butter And Jelly Day (April 2nd), I can think of no other food holiday that is as quintessentially American.
No movie or baseball game is complete without it. According to the good folks at Encyclopedia Popcornica, Americans consume 16 billion quarts of popped popcorn every year, equaling 52 quarts per person. A quart a week for each of us, then.
Popcorn is so ingrained (ahem) in American culture, that we not only eat it at ball games and the movies, we eat loads of it at home, and – like the Balkans, who must have got the idea from us – we use it to decorate Christmas trees.
We even briefly used it as packing material. American films are often derided by foreign critics as “popcorn entertainment.” Popcorn even played a major role in the development of that other great American invention, the microwave oven. Continue reading “It’s Popcorn Day! Celebrating Our Favourite Banged Grain”
There are three things that are inevitable in my life: Death, taxes, and that at some point in my day, I will reach for a lemon. Actually, perhaps four things, as it’s also inevitable that at some point in their blogging life every food blogger must write a post extolling the virtues of the lemon. And here I am, to do just that.
There’s an old saw that goes “If Life gives you lemons, put nine in a bowl.” I’d have a better use for every one of those lemons. Lemons are so absolutely essential to how I cook and how I live in my kitchen. It’s not that I want all my food to taste lemony, but rather that they’re so dang useful. They’re the cornerstone of my cooking. I never don’t have at least one lemon to hand, even if it is a scraggy quartered thing lurking in the nether recesses of my fridge.
In fact, once when taking part in a radio program about matters foodie, I was asked “What food item do you always have in your kitchen?”, and instead of answering something appropriately glamorous like “Pink Himalayan Sea Salt” or “Truffle Infused Honey”, I heard myself say “A dried up quarter of a lemon in my fridge. Inevitably.” Continue reading “The Inevitable Lemon”
A couple of weeks ago, I was brought up short by a moment of hubris.
What happened was this: A very dear friend, who has known me as well as my family since college and with whom I, in fact, used to live, came to stay the night. On her last visit we had sampled a local Vietnamese place so this time we’d be eating in. Thence came my moment of hubris. Secure in the knowledge that my culinary prowess would thrill her whatever I made, I asked “What would you like me to cook?”
Never do this. You’re hosting a dinner, not taking requests at the cocktail lounge out by the airport.
Don’t put people on the spot (unless they’re family, in which they’ll likely demand a given dish before you’ve even asked). Guests somehow never say “Oh I’m sure whatever you make will be divine!”, thus freeing you up to make the fiendishly impressive Middle Eastern feast you’d been planning. Instead, they will ask for precisely the dish you just cooked last week and can now barely bear the thought of. Or worse, they’ll say what my guest said: “Oooh! How about you make your lasagna?”
My lasagna? What could she be thinking? I don’t have a lasagna! I’ve never made a lasagna in my life. And that’s what brought me up short: I HAD NEVER MADE A LASAGNA IN MY LIFE. Continue reading “The Tale of The Lonely Lasagna”
It started a few weeks, back, under the cover of night. I’d been aching to try it for a while, but it seemed so difficult and dangerous that I was nervous about an actual attempt. I’d read about it of course, and even seen a few videos on one of those specialty YouTube channels. They made it look so easy, but still I was afraid I’d wind up with a mangled corpse and a kitchen saturated with blood.
Finally I plucked up the courage to try my hand.
I waited until I knew there would be no witnesses to catch me should I fail. I brought my victim home, put on my apron and sharpened my largest, heaviest knife. Then, with a drink to steady my nerves, I sneaked up behind my victim, and set to work.
The relief and pride as the job was done were immense. And later, as I gazed down at my victim lying spread-eagled before me and sampled the juicy morsels of tender flesh, I knew I would do it again. And again and again. This was not some dark adventure to try only when the moon was full or when I could hold out no longer against my dark desires. This would happen regularly, perhaps once a week if I was lucky and could find people to share my new compulsion – and if my freezer could hold the rising tide of body parts. I had become a man obsessed.
Yes. Spatchcocking chicken had changed me forever.
You may have heard of Spatchocking as “butterflying,” but that’s far too pretty a term for what this process involves.
Spatchcocking – not to be confused with Spatchcock, which is a culled immature rooster, or Spitchcock, which has to do with eels- is when the backbone of a chicken is removed and the chicken is flattened out, ready for grilling or roasting. The term is apparently an Irish word, which is another culinary reason to thank them, along with flavored potato chips and chocolate milk. It’s been around since at least the 18th century, though it’s such a brilliant way to prepare a chicken for cooking that I’d be surprised if nobody had thought of it sooner. Spatchcocking has regained popularity for a while now, mostly because it’s perfect for the barbecue.
Flattening a whole chicken like that allows you to grill it in one piece, like it’s one big piece of meat. And who doesn’t go berserk for a big piece of meat?
Now that’s all well and good, but why lose my mind over it? Continue reading “Spatchcocking Psycho”