In which she sees pink

Shamefully my writing has withered on the vine of no inspiration with little done to resuscitate breath or form. My time has been spent in part, patiently waiting in mock scholarly fashion upon the odd laboratory set up in the recesses of my kitchen cupboard where lacto-fermentation experiments age to near perfection. In unison it would seem, I too slung slow in quiet invisible reverie, imitating the very manner of my closeted minuscular cohorts. After all who needs the fuss of too many singular ingredients chopped and cooked just so, added to the synchronization of each moving part into one harmonic whole? I’ve got kraut with pow, zip, and swing; and I don’t mind saying that it has become my “go to” accessory which enlivens and occasionally even rectifies just about every food scenario.

But months of crunching upon lactic acid soaked veggies has created a now gnawing need for an opulent, richly marbled counterpart, something perhaps- like a fatty pink patty. As it is a rare occasion when I purchase beef and though devilishly armed with my beloved Foreman Grill, something quite extraordinary must stroll my way in order to be steered in that direction. Something perhaps like a bejeweled burger richly anointed.

The first iteration of this beef motif showed up with the same friend who brought me the B-52’s and LOTR. Armed with sliced butter pickles and cheese, we formed hunks of ground chuck into lumpy softballs and wiggled our thumbs into the sides, meat doughnuts asking to be filled. Coins of pickles and wads of Kraft American were obligingly stuffed into their hidden caves. Pan fried and no nonsensically slapped onto a bun, this was a true gustatory revelation eaten in hungry silence. Years later I would upgrade to a slightly more refined version of the“secret” burger now containing a royal cache of blue cheese and chopped onion. However as delicious as it was, I couldn’t help feeling led astray by the name. The tell tale crumbles of Blue which should have hollered out “Ahoy!” instead melted down into an invisible nonexistent whimper, a mere whiff of eau d’bleu.

So rightfully pleased I was to discover this third and most charmed version in a recent Saveur perusal. In this Swede inspired dream, cubes of pickled beets make merry with chopped pickles, onions, and even chunks of dairy rich butter. Being ever so efficiently designed, the pickled bits and creamy counterparts are simply mixed into the venison/beef/reindeer rather than stuffed and sealed. Served in my mind on rye bread with a hearty back slap of stout mustard and blue cheese, this burger brings the best of all worlds seen and in between. To boot, the red cabbage kraut I have been nurturing these past months would make a most welcomed mouthwatering and visual partner.

In other terms this burger represents at least one of my favorite flavor profiles, the one that might wear a handmade fisherman sweater, smoke a pipe, and shout out, “Ahoy”. But then there is that confusing pink coloration which makes one fear the meat is far too rare, all the while flaunting a somewhat feminine lilt of allspice. In deep consideration of this little bit of heaven lovingly seared in butter with a barely sweet tender center; perhaps pink holds more complexity than previously assumed. No one liner relegated to bubble gum and soda fountain drinks, this intersection between red and white just might be where intensity and gentleness play. And that is absolutely worth writing about.

*Thank you to everyone who continues to read in spite of my travels to faraway places...

Biff à la Lindström: adapted from Saveur issue no. 117, serves 4
Ingredient:
1 lb. ground beef
½ C bread crumbs
5 tbsp. chopped pickled beets
2 tbsp. pickled beet juice
3 tbsp. chopped pickles
2 tbsp. dark beer
1 tsp. salt
½ tsp black pepper
2 eggs beaten
1 clove garlic chopped
½ onion, finely chopped
2 tbsp. butter diced
2 tbsp. parsley chopped

Directions: Combine all ingredients in a bowl until just mixed. Divide mixture into 8 patties, one inch thick. Heat butter in a nonstick pan over medium heat. Cook half of the burgers, approximately 5 minutes each side until browned. Repeat with remaining burgers. Enjoy with coarse mustard, blue cheese, rye bread, and kraut.

Where's the Beef?

L_ walked into one of those new fangled gourmet delis, the kind which catered to the citified folk down South. Surveying her prospects, a tantalizing display of handsome specimens perched behind the meat counter, she decided upon a singular two by three inch heft of prime filet mignon, paid and walked out. And in the secluded den of her workplace moments later, our heroine slunk down to the ground sweet relief close at hand. She unthinkingly threw open the papered package and devoured the uncooked form in whole wolfish gulps. Sated and miraculously restored, she turned to resume her life.

As she reported the story to me later alternating between cracks of laughter and the hushed tones of thoughtful revelation, I confess to feeling my own blend of awe and repulsion. In an instant, my own meat eating ways were grilled and sliced open as I considered my restrained “don’ts” next to her lusty “I do’s”. It seems that I have misplaced my meat and hardly even noticed. Rarely do I sink my teeth into a side of beef instead favoring thigh of poultry, the swine-y embrace of the other white meat, even a chomp on occasional tinned fish. I unapologetically lunch on lentils and dine on tofu. But privy to one primal moment, one orgiastic how do y’do to the animal within and my placid little world has been torn asunder unleashing forgotten memories with an abandoned lost friend: the charred sweet garlicky blossoms of bulgogi tucked into lettuce leaf, the butter suede slubs of carpaccio anointed with fragrant olive oil, lemon and pungent capers, and most primal of all, the seared heart of a gushing rib eye steak freckled with a crush of black peppers. Making up for lo these last years—indubitably I have meat on my mind.

I am starting to think that red meat is the nexus of it all, the building block of bones, muscle, and nerve. Iron rich, blooming sanguine red, it must increase one’s mettle, shore up inner might. Ruby rose, brick-- flaming, crimson, rust, and vermilion wine. These are the shades of life which build, rise and powerfully ignite. And they have been the antipode to my slowing movements, the needs of a body abating, disintegrating, and for a moment stilled. For the unbearably long span of a few years my diet ebbed and shadowed the dictates of an ingenious invisible whole. In silent communication, movements reined into a micro world within while calories, flavors, and textures dulled mute to a slow. I seemed to shed my earthly palace becoming only breath or light as feather thought. And in this long night both the coarse and bestial untamed remained respectful, staying far- way beyond sight.

Gradual moment to moment till now as stagnant repose recedes, my vegetal self falters giving way to gangly limbs, fangs, and accompanying small snout. The interiority of my corporeal territory stuffed with beans, rice and other such light-weight fluff growls for ballast against gravity, food for fight or flight. The beef of my body is building. My shanks are strengthening but still tender, my bottom round roast marbled, medium rare, at least a mouthful. Far from sated but restored, I turn to resume my life-- allowing a trail of beef patties found, to lead the way.

Rickshaw’s Thai Beef Salad serves 4: adapted from Chef Andreas Heaphy’s creation.
Essentially I wanted something light to break my meat-fast. Not only is the meat flavorful but it is grilled quickly leaving it tender. The medley of cool crunchy vegetables pairs delightfully with the spice and zing of the dressing.

Beef Marinade:
1 Tblsp grapeseed oil
1 Tblsp garlic minced
3 Tblsp fish sauce
2 Tblsp brown sugar
3 chili de arbol crumbled
1 pound flank steak

Salad:
¼ Cup mint minced
¼ Cup cilantro minced
¼ Cup Thai basil minced
¼ Cup shallots minced
½ Cup carrots grated
½ Cup sugar snap peas slivered
½ Cup green peppers sliced
½ Cup cherry tomatoes halved
½ Cup English cucumber diced
1 head butter lettuce

Dressing:
½ Cup lime juice
½ Cup fish sauce
1 ½ Tblsp sugar

Garnish:
½ Cup chopped roasted salted peanuts
Cilantro and Mint sprigs

Directions: Combine ingredients for the dressing and set aside. Combine ingredients for marinade and pour over meat allowing flavors to develop about 2-4 hours. When ready grill meat until desired doneness, slice thin. Arrange lettuce leaves on a plate. Toss dressing over the rest of the salad ingredients and heap over the lettuce. Arrange meat on top garnishing with chopped peanuts, cilantro and mint.

Amassing Mass, Sumo Stew

If I were transported to another time and place, no doubt I’d be poised above some treacherously fanged animal with glinting spear in hand, courage in my belly and the iron-rich taste of meat on my mind. This week I have been on a hunt- the hot pursuit of fat, the energy filled calorie, and the ripe marrow of flesh. I have been hard at work with Jack, my steely eyed Slavic trainer (physical therapist) who silently pushes me to the next arduous level of rehabilitation. My essence has dwindled down like the rapidly burning wax of a candle and this depletion has necessitated the need to refuel ad infinitum. My down time is now filled with vivid images of crimson red steaks, piles of glossy doughnuts plucked from a roiling vat of fat and buckets of strawberry milkshake. Triumphant horns from the theme song of Rocky and the fleshy slaps of Rocky Balboa punching inert sides of beef provide a lively backdrop of testosterone and adrenaline to fuel my work and recovery.

In between fortifying my food with flax seed oil, drinking cups of cocoa capped with cream and consuming an obscene number of omelets, I cannot help to marvel at the power and girth of my expanding appetite. I am stalking prey.

Following the path of hunger requires the same skills as a hunter: lithe agile instincts, rapt attention, patience and stillness and a fluid mind able to read the tracks. While one part of me expends energy out, beats my chest and lets out guttural groans of exertion, another part bends inward listening to the quiet of my microcosmic world. My fluctuating appetite coincides with the needs of my corporeal mass and this mass wants to stretch, expand and soar.

Another part of this truth is that my body has been in hibernation, a slow peaceful sleep and is just a touch recalcitrant and stiff. I feel as though I must woo the mitochondria of my cells and massage the fibers of my muscles to encourage them to be fruitful and multiply. I need some help to keep me nourished and motivated. What I need is a food that imbues me with primeval power and symbolic meaning. I need Chanko-nabe or Sumo Stew.

Buta Chanko-nabe Miso Aji adapted from Nov 2002 issue of Saveur
Serves 4 or 1 Sumo wrestler

Chanko-nabe is a filling and nutritious throw-it-down in a pot meal famous for fattening up wrestlers. While the ingredients themselves are not particularly caloric, it is how they eat that packs on the weight. These athletes exercise strenuously without breakfast and then eat a large lunch followed by a long nap and then a large dinner. Avoid this routine if massive weight gain is not desired.

Ingredients:
4 dried shrimp
3” piece of kombu
Grated knob of ginger
4 dried shitake mushroom
1lb. thinly sliced pork belly
3 Tbs. Sake
2 Tbs. Mirin
6 Tbs. Brown Rice Miso
10 C cold water
1 carrot peeled and sliced into diagonal chips
1 small daikon radish, peeled, halved lengthwise and cut into ½” slices
1 medium onion, halved and cut into slices
4 green onions cut into 2” pieces
10 oz. firm tofu cut into 2” chunks
¼ head of napa cabbage cut into 2” pieces
4 cups steamed Japanese short grain rice or 1 lb cooked udon noodles
2 eggs lightly beaten

Directions: Bring water to a boil in a medium sized pot and add shrimp, kombu, mushrooms and ginger. Reduce heat to a simmer and add sake, mirin and pork belly. Cook until pork is tender, 15-25 minutes and reserve meat. Add carrots, daikon and onion and cook until tender. At this point pull out the mushrooms, de-stem them and slice the caps. Add the sliced Shitakes back in. Next add the green onion, tofu and cabbage and cook until tender. Pull out about 1 cup of broth to make a slurry with the miso. Pour the mixture back into the soup. Lightly pour in the egg and stir. Ladle the hot pot into medium sized bowls full of rice or udon. Eat strenuously then nap.

Make Mine Pork

This New Year is making a quiet entrance with a low full moon that hangs in the night black sky. I am relieved to finally retreat into the emptiness of days, in the hollow cheek of the year and allow myself to sit free and clear after a bustling season of stimulation and plenty. While I intended to steer the course forward from day one with boundless enthusiasm and ironclad resolve to tackle the oncoming months, I nodded asleep before midnight- a sure tell sign of the slow easy pace to come.

Peacefully I awoke to a gentle memory, an ancient hunger for succulent sweet pork cutlet atop a bowl of perfectly steamed rice. This vision appeared from nowhere, from the zero of the year but has planted itself too plainly for me to ignore. In the not so distant past at least three lives ago, I privately acknowledged katsudon as my all time favorite home style meal. It is the kind of casual food that skillfully soothes subtle, shapeless and ravenous hungers into a manageable hue, which at that tender age was no small feat.

Katsudon arrives as steaming welcome in an earthen bowl. The pork cutlet breaded, deep fried and sliced is relaxed upon a bed of rice looking much like a small animal curled into itself. Just prior to dishing, over an ecstatic fire, the pig is soused in sweet-savory liquor bubbling with tender scallion greens and a delicate web of egg. It purrs in utter contentment and I hum alongside in happy union. The bowl is rustic balance in gentleness and strength.

Yet when I think of it further, this rice bowl became ritualized response to an unformed question angling somewhere below: a search, a wandering, and one possible end to a roving constant eye. After scooping the last glistening grains of pork infused rice and pushing the bowl back in a fluid crescendo towards completion, I found myself solid and awake in the darkened hush of a ryokan-style room in J-town. Hours of my life were spent roaming the cardboard box shops huddled together in silent complicity while the yet-named layers of my being clamored to be known through the mysterious kinks and draws of attention. Chubby mochi, the tinkling tear drops of chimes, musty plumes of incense, space aged rice cookers, kaleidoscopic obis, “Got Rice?” tee shirts and impeccably crafted tansu organized themselves into a crazy new language which eventually—magically, deciphered the whole of me. Fresh out of school, the pages of my life were wide open and in dark solitary spaces I was born.

While I’ve traveled so many miles from then to now, I sit once again with a smooth empty bowl cradled comfortably between my two hands. This container when empty asks to be filled. In the silent waiting and tasting, the remembrance of my many homes and the rush to discover new selves, I begin the year.


LIVE THE QUESTION KATSUDON serves 4: Adapted from About.com section on Japanese Food
Ingredients:
4 boneless pork chops
½ tsp salt
¼ tsp black pepper
¼ C flour
1 egg
½ C panko bread crumbs
Grapeseed oil

4 C steamed rice
1 onion sliced
2 bunches of scallions chopped into 2” pieces
2 cups chicken stock
5 Tbsp tamari
2 Tbsp mirin
4 eggs

Directions: For the tonkatsu, dredge the pork in the salt, pepper and flour mixture. Dip the cutlets in a beaten egg and press into the panko crumbs. Take a nice heavy pan and after heating to medium hot, place a generous amount of oil in it (usually this is deep fried). Pan fry the pork until golden on each side and cooked in the center. Slice the pork cutlet and set aside. Put the stock, tamari and mirin in a pan on medium heat. Add slivered onions and scallions, cooking until tender. Add the tonkatsu pieces and heat for a few minutes. Beat the eggs in a bowl and pour over the meat and onions. Turn the heat to low and cover for about a minute. Spoon hot steaming rice in a deep bowl and cover with tonkatsu pieces and sauce with the onions and egg.

Singing on the Bones

For some time I have wanted to write about Gertrude a real inspiration to me in my life but there wasn’t the appropriate place for her within this food blog. But in this past week of trick and treating spirits, feasting with the dead, and hobnobbing with goblins, I have discovered a rather small entry point. Halloween, All Soul’s Day and The Day of the Dead are festivals born from the mid point between the autumnal equinox and Winter solstice. The celebrations honor all “endings” within the great life cycle, which is appropriate since nothing ever dies but simply is later reborn. Having narrowly escaped from her foil covered plastic tomb and snatched from the very hands of death by a benevolent third party, Gertrude’s newly padded figure is testament to that very poetic concept.

I’ve been keeping a close eye on Gertrude for about a year now. I was bequeathed this African violet when my then-attendant decided to make the long trek back to Arizona. Though seen as a friendly gesture, I did not want the added responsibility of maintaining another life form other than my own. On the large scope, this plant required very little maintenance. Nonetheless, in the short span of two years, there had already been three prior plant casualties. Still weighing on my mind, I was hardly anxious to accrue another. In a different time and place I loved my narrow crooked garden overrun with calla lilies and climbing roses, spires of foxglove and chatty nasturtiums poking at a well established rosemary bush. My small little garden merry with lobelia, salvia and monkey flower was a riot of color and palpable life and every day I tinkered in it. I gardened the way that I cooked-- with little formality and lots of poking and plying. When I moved here, I wasn’t quite sure how to transmit that kind of methodology to another person. Plant rearing became foreign and clinical, mechanical and then non-existent. With the picture of yellow withered leaves indelibly imprinted upon my mind, I reluctantly took the violet in. It became Gertrude in an attempt to bond with her, forge a connection that might giver her a better chance for survival. When she came to me she already looked slightly anemic and wan. I even suspected that a cat might have sat upon her as her leaves were pressed flat and a few stray feline hairs straggled behind. And then the horrible familiar pattern began again, she’d dry up and get over watered- each cycle losing more leaves and more will. Over a long seven month period Gertrude shriveled down to a mere nub of herself attired with a few reluctant leaves. In a last ditch effort the violet was resuscitated with roomier pot and dark rich soil. Shell shocked at first, in a kind of plant coma, there was no discernible change for five weeks. Growth eventually came, sluggish initially and then with such vim and vigor it was hard to recognize the plant that I once knew. A survivor, Gertrude now radiates such life force. She has a bounty of thick succulent jade leaves the size of small lily pads and there are five flower spikes full of nodding buds. Throughout the day I look and marvel at her transformation, her triumphant resurrection. This house plant demonstrates how essential our many environments are to us. We are touched throughout the day by spheres of influence and those imprints have such power to nourish or deny.

This plant, this model of robust sunny health is now my mentor on such matters. In a brief consultation a few days ago and after a quick question and answer session, I surmised that I have not been properly nourishing myself as weeks have turned barren and cold. I’ve been “in de pekel zitten” and brining myself from the inside-out. Also while I’ve been talking up a good story about warm hearty soups and fruitcakes aging in hospitable baths of liquor, I have been surviving on vittles far less agreeable. I quickly concluded that I want to dine on boeuf bourguignon—and then just as quickly decided that the requisite two bottles of good burgundy might be a touch too immoderate for me. I dreamed of how luxurious it would be to eat satisfying chunks of meat softly simmered in wine and herbs and a melting array of vegetables. Encouraged on by dancing skeletons and their cries to “put some meat on them bones” I compromised and decided upon a good beef stew. It went something like this:

Two handfuls of 1” cubed Chuck
Approximately ¼ cup of flour for dredging
Salt and Pepper
Oil
Chopped onion and garlic
¼ cup of precooked bacon pieces
1 cup of red wine
1 glug of brandy
One small can of whole tomatoes
About 2 tablespoons of tomato paste
A Tablespoon of brown sugar
About 6 cups of beef stock
Chopped 1/2 red pepper
Two Diced celery stalk
2 handfuls of trimmed and halved green beans
3 small zucchini chopped
1 ½ cup of grated carrots
A mess of shitake, de-stemmed and torn
A sprig of fresh oregano

Directions: Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix meat, flour, salt and pepper in a bowl until thoroughly coated. Place oil in a dutch oven on medium high heat and add meat pieces browning a few minutes on both sides. Remove meat and put back in bowl. Add a bit more oil and cook onions and garlic until lightly colored, introduce cooked bacon. I tried to include the amounts that I really used, but of course use what you like. Then deglaze with the wine and brandy, scraping up the browned and burnt bits on the bottom. Add the paste, tomatoes, stock and sugar. I added back the meat and all of the veggies, closed the lid and popped it into the oven for about 2 hours. I served this over sweet potato fries and with some limited edition Thomas’s cranberry toast with butter. Gertrude approved.