cold

While I slept, the world became cold again. There were bits of frost on the roof this morning. While I was away, my kitchen became cold again. It is spotless and clean. Another new blank canvas.

A bit of winter in the middle of spring does nothing but remind me. It reminds me that I physically need the sunshine and the warm days.

If it remains cold, where will the peaches and the grapefruit come from? Summer I need you. Please do not stay away too long.

Summer, I need you for so many reasons. I need to know that there will be a reprieve from daily life and work. I need to know that there will days spent in flip flops and no remorse. I need you for the sandy beach bags and sweaty upper lip.

Summer, I need you for the tomatoes and the vidalia onions. Summer, I need you for the sweet drippy watermelon and the juicy cherries. I need you for the okra and their slimy insides. I need you for the blackberries and the stained tips of my fingers.

Summer, I need you. Please do not stay away too long.

basic luxury

When I woke up, I didn't know that it would be a perfect day.

I rolled out of bed after sleeping in a bit. My room was still dark and I was well-rested. There was hot coffee already in the pot ready for me. I soaked it all up.

It was a little bit gloomy and a little bit cloudy outside. But it was good.

We drove to the edge of the city, all the way to the coast. Malibu is literally on the edge of our nation, looking over the most breathtaking views and beaches. The Getty Villa, perched there on prime real estate, houses innumerable treasures. One of the treasures that impressed me the most were the gardens and the outdoor spaces. Sitting there on a bench, drinking in the California sun, imagining an Italian sun shining down so many years ago... it makes you think about living simply. Were the Romans and Greeks who pursued pleasure and enjoyed folly so wrong? I bet that I get more done in a day.

Leaving the palace on the hill, we carved out our path up the beach until we reached a much more humble destination. Malibu Seafood is not much more than a room and kitchen with a view. The surly staff will help you out with a pre-order by phone, but this is two things: a market, and a restaurant. You better get in line, and know what you want, and get out of the way. We found out that the pre-order is really the way to go when you are interested in oysters. Is a dozen for each of us enough? Three dozen it is. Oh, and do you shuck them? Oh, I see... oh, okay, well then we will buy a knife.

Oysters and I go way back. We are like "this" (fingers crossed) but I have to admit... I have never learned how to shuck one. I could be making this into more than it is, but I feel different now that I can harvest all the sweet juicy insides from the oyster shell myself. Sitting in an air-conditioned bar while someone else cracks open those little beauties is the ultimate luxury. Or is it?

Is having a relationship with your food essential? Or is not having one?

Is food just another check in the box? Sustenance is simply that - just something you need to keep going. Fuel for the fire. Is it easier for all of us to avoid that whole exchange? We all make time to eat. Who makes time to taste? Who makes time to breathe it in? Are there those who would prefer not to even if given the opportunity?

The dirt and grit collecting under my fingernails became a part of the process. The oyster knife is not too sharp, but one wrong turn and you have gouged yourself in the other hand. Searching on the back-end of the oyster is a little bit like feeling for a light switch in the dark. You are in the right vicinity, but you must feel along the walls to get there. The oyster knife became my key to the hidden treasure, still bathing in the moisture from the sea, and I just kept waiting for my turn to use it again.

The sore spots on my hands became a bit numb, but the salt soaked into my skin and made it tough. Resting in between to wipe the sweat and the beer from my upper lip, the shells kept piling up on the plastic tray. Occasionally borrowing from the paper boat full of lemon wedges, the day became a bit more perfect with every crack and slurp. Is it any coincidence that the noises one makes are so primal when eating these wild and raw food?

The day made me feel alive. Soaking up the experience, the sun, the salt and the taste made me feel connected to a deeper and more basic part of myself, and it certainly made me feel more connected to one of my favorite foods.

Lord knows... these are humble beginnings

There is a tradition in the making here. Upon the birth and arrival of new babies it is customary to bring gifts of food. Upon the arrival of new babies in my group of friends there is another subsequent arrival: The delivery of fried chicken.

When I think of my friends at home making their way through parenthood and domesticity, something makes me want to fly my comfort food flag. There are few foods as perfect and as happy as fried chicken. Let's be honest, I like to waive that flag quite often anyway. For me, fried chicken is the ultimate comfort, so naturally, I want to share my greatest contentment with those that I love.

Maybe my friends are just having babies for the chicken now... probably not.

It may be inappropriate, now that lent has also begun and we can all shed the wretched parts of ourselves this time of year. We are shedding the darkness this weekend too and we spring forward into the real beginning of warmer months and the growing season. But this calls for celebration! Fried chicken is absolutely on the top of my list of indulgences. Save the ice cream sundae. Leave the pies and cakes for someone who truly cares for them. Do I dare say it? Yes, it is better than chocolate.

It is at the top of the list when it is soaked in buttermilk and goodness. Sprinkle in some sort of secret recipe - everyone has one - and shake in a good ol' paper bag full of flour and other spices. It is at the top of the list when it is crispy and cracklin hot on the outside and the perfect temperature on the inside. This might come as a surprise, but it is not at the top of my list when my hands feel heavy with grease after feasting upon it. We are not talking KFC here, this is another category of food. We are talking about a pristine white chicken breast on the inside of a perfect shell of texture and taste. There is oil present, but not greasy greasy grease. Behold the blank canvas before you... the perfect white paper towel to soak up all the oil that you might shed and leave behind.

It may be inappropriate to weave religion into my discussion of fried chicken. But here I go anyway. Did I lose you? If not, welcome back to the adventure that you can take over and over again.

The landscape of your kitchen may take new shape. This is normal. Do not be alarmed. There is an assembly line that will make itself known. Go with it. Leave the sophisticated equipment behind.

There many denominations among fried chicken followers. There are those who dabble. There are fancy recipes out there. There are the briners. There are the oven-roasted "fried" fans. There are the cornmeal enthusiasts. There are the double-dippers. There are those who prefer it hot out of the fryer. There are those who like it cold out of the fridge. There are those who do not like it at all. This blog entry is not meant to be an ecumenical meeting of these camps. This is just one follower's opinion.


Through time, practice, patience, and experience, I have learned these things:

• Begin with quality ingredients - in life, and in work, and especially in frying chicken.
• Pay attention to the road map and the warning signs. Trust your senses and your taste. Learn from mistakes and remedy them.
• Don't blow your top. Let your thermometer hover around a constant temperature.
• Love what you are doing. Project your joy into the product you create. It tastes better that way.
• Clean up as you go, but don't fret.
• Always turn the music up. Loud.
• Get your hands dirty.

If you actually want to use my recipe instead of making up your own, here it is:

Prepare your marinade in a jug or pitcher so it can be poured into giant gallon size ziploc bags.

Mix about a gallon (plus) of real buttermilk, (about a cup) of Dijon mustard, a few tablespoons of onion powder, salt, dry mustard, cayenne (use sparingly!), freshly ground pepper, and my secret ingredient - mild curry. The curry should also be used sparingly... but it provides an earthy flavor. No one should be able to guess that it is in there.

Situate your chicken pieces in their respective bags and pour in the goodness. Turn bag to coat chicken evenly. Refrigerate overnight or up to 24 hours.

When preparing to fry, put all the battering elements into a brown paper bag. Add about 1 tablespoon of baking powder in for every 3 cups of flour (this makes for crispier chicken). Again, add the quality ingredients - I grind fresh pepper directly into the flour until I can see the specks evenly disseminated. Use your best judgment on the salt and don't overdo it. The coating mixture can also be spiced up with to taste. The key here is not just the first pass at the coating... there must be a period of rest and then a second trip into the buttermilk marinade and then the last baptism by flour. The longer you let the chicken pieces rest in between the better your chances are of an even and crispy exterior.

I use 100% peanut oil because of the higher tolerance for heat. Any and all containers are acceptable, as long as they are deep enough, but I use my favorite cast-iron braising dish. It stretches across two burners for maximum heat and is deep enough to fry 4-5 pieces at a time.

Heat oil over medium-high heat to 350°F. Use a thermometer to be sure.

Use your best judgement on timing here. Once you throw your first batch in readjust heat to 300-325 degrees. Smaller pieces like wings and drumsticks may only need 7-9 minutes, while big thighs and breasts could take as long as 20.

Don't forget to let it cool. Enjoy.

starters. and sides. part 2.

I want to be a foodie when I grow up.

Tartare. Simple.

There is something terribly simple about regular good quality tasty tartare. There is something terribly complicated about the recipe I am about to expound upon.

Any monkey can make a tartare. Let's examine the process: Finely chop raw meat or fish, add any array of seasonings, spices, and perhaps a bit of oil. There are a thousand different varieties of steak, tuna, salmon tartares, and although there are plenty of good and bad, let's not dwell on that too much here.

What I want to spend some time on here is something along the lines of salmon (and tuna) tartare served in cornets with creme fraiche. The degree of simplicity of the filling of these tiny little savory cones is obvious... the cornets themselves demand quite a bit of your attention. Let's be honest. This is not for the casual evening at home. If you are serving something that requires it own special tray for proper appearance, chances are you need a special occasion.

I would never have been inspired to try this if it hadn't been for my travels. I would never have tried this if it weren't for the perfect gift of The French Laundry cookbook I received for Christmas. I would never have been able to accomplish this if it weren't for my resourceful friend and her catering-company-owning boyfriend who had just the right tray and cone-shaped cups. And I would like to thank the academy... oh, ahem.

There are entire websites devoted to the real-life applications of Thomas Keller's recipes. There is no reason to repeat the recipe here.

All I really want to say is that it is all worth it. The tips of my fingers will never be the same after this recipe, and neither will my tastebuds. The pure piece-by-piece tasting of this little perfect cone is just worth every bit of the swearing and sweating and folding the batter in front of the open oven door. This recipe reminds you of what Thomas Keller has built his restaurants upon, all that is so so refined, while still so comfortable.

There is something really indulgent about this recipe. This is not comfort food. This is fancy food. It doesn't make you feel the same as the afternoon spent chopping and mincing and the satisfying stew that results from your efforts. Instead, you feel that maybe... in spite of yourself... in spite of your insufficient experience, and low-brow cookware, you could be a foodie too.

PS - I have still not joined a gym.

PPS - "Tartare my boy!" (That was for you Dad.)

starters. and sides. part 1.

Can someone turn back the clock? I am still in the rough draft stage of my new year's resolutions.

To do list:

- Be on time for work
- Don't be a gossip
- Use more fresh ingredients
- Join a gym and use it
- Go on or schedule more "date nights"
- Recycle more
- Organize and streamline my house and my routine
- Save more $
- Pay more attention to my dog
- Blog more


Uh oh. So far I have only accumulated a HUGE pile of recycling in my garage that I fully intend to take to the drop-off site.

The truth is that I don't believe in all that anyway. Resolutions are just a chance for you to feel extra guilty about falling into your old bad habits. I hate January. January is just the month when everyone wants to catch up and be good to make themselves feel better. Everyone is on their high horse. Everyone is on their blackberry. Everyone wants something from you... a project, a check in the box, a just-checking-in-on-that... Everybodys talking at me... I can't here a word they're saying...

I hate January. The truth is, that January is not a feel good month. The sky grows dark early every evening. Extra pounds and soft muscles from the holidays and beyond cling to your body the same as always. The realization of the generosity you may have not been able to afford during Christmas greets you in the form of your bank statement. Everyone already feels guilty with the added concern of the ever-so-slowly slipping list of new resolutions. Admit failure, dammit.

I don't really believe in the good luck properties of black-eyed peas. (Although that doesn't mean I don't eat them every new year's day.) I'd like to believe that I have a chance to improve on myself every day. And I do, really.

Perhaps I should just stop complaining and hit the damn "publish" button more to fulfill the last action item on my list. But let's start from the beginning. There will be a few stops and starts here, since it has been a while. There will be room for all of it... but let's take a break in between. You can't eat all this at once anyway.

I never liked barbecue as a child. I never liked the way that people smothered it in sauce. I never liked the way that everything on the plate had to touch. I never liked the unfamiliar elements of these composed potato salads and cole slaw. I never liked it when people spelled it like "BBQ". That is not a word, by the way - that is a collection of consonants.

I never really appreciated barbecue as a child, and perhaps I never had the right kind. There is a barbecue awakening going on in Texas as of late. The Texas Monthly list of top barbecue joints in our great state was published in June of 2008. I know lots of devotees who have tried a many places on the list. I know that there are a lot of deserving establishments out there... but I also know that the judges never visited Hard Eight. I know that it is technically a chain, with shops open in Brady and Stephenville too, but the Coppell addition is well worth a visit. Don't let the office park vibe surrounding it fool you. The smell of the pit will beckon you in from the parking lot.

As any good barbecue place should, this one revolves around the meat. The format is casual, so when you get your turn, you pick out your favorites directly from the pit and pay for it by the weight. Some measurements are predetermined. You cannot get half of a rib-eye or a pork chop, for example, and really, why would you want to? At this point, I have had a bite of all the selections and by far, the best item on the smoker is the ribs. The thready texture of their well-cooked and smokey rib meat is delightfully seasoned and juicy. Be ready to get your hands dirty. The other highlights worth mentioning: A perfectly cooked and sliced at your request sirloin, a pork chop to be reckoned with, chopped beef to contend with the rest of them, and really moist and juicy chicken.

Don't forget the sides. The grilled corn off the grill is warm and comforting, but skip the butter bath when it is offered. Try the cornbread salad just to see if you like it - Hard Eight claims that it could be a complete meal in itself. The potato salad is a step ahead the familiar yellow-twinged kind that you found at every family picnic, is it fennel seed or mustard? You tell me. If you are a fan of vinegar slaw, which I am, skip their cole slaw. I do not enjoy a creamy slaw without any acid.

Why is it that barbecue demands acid on the palate? There is nothing like that taste. I fulfill this need with the crispy cookiecutter bulk bought pickles - the completely man-made processed product that I never feel guilty about indulging in.

The perfect ending to this endeavor is the velvety texture and fresh taste of the banana pudding. All the other desserts pale in comparison. Bon appetit!