Chicken in a Pot

I love chicken soup of all kinds, matzoh balls lying heavy in a pool of hot chicken broth with a sprinkling of mandel (kosher-style oyster crackers), noodle soup, with puffy homemade egg noodles, and pho chicken soup, slurping up the toothsome noodles and dipping your spoon into the slightly piquant, garlicy broth. And now, I even liked poached chicken, ladled into bowls, with loads of fresh springtime veggies, a smattering of beans (lima and fava), and served with a sinus- cleansing fresh horseradish sauce.

Now I know that many of you might be saying to yourself, "Poached chicken? I remember poached chicken like my grandma used to make, coated in a thick, rubbery layer of opaque chicken skin, and the vegetables stewed to oblivion." That description can be true, but there is a remedy to each poaching dilemma. Adding the vegetables in a proper cooking order, according to cooking time, prevents you from getting a mushy pile of grey vegetables. The vegetable choices that you make are key. Rather than the ordinary mire poix of veggies, opt for the less traditional but equally delicious, fennel, turnip, and radish in addition to potatoes, spring onion, and carrot. And the skin-- well, what can be said about the skin; it's a necessary evil. It protects the meat's succulence, and imparts a lot of flavor to the stock, but will have to be peeled off before consuming the chicken. If you're squeamish about doing this, as I am, just get your spouse or friend to do it for you. Problem solved!

This poached chicken recipe, is actually inspired by Jamie Oliver's recipe for Spring Poached Chicken in his latest book Jamie's Dinners. As the daffodils are pushing their way through the soil, and the sun is peaking out from behind the clouds one day, and hidden by storm clouds the next, this dish is the perfect celebration of spring and all its follies. It celebrates the season with its fresh selection of produce, and is warm and homey. The broth that is produced by the poaching liquid is actually quite flavorful, as the entire chicken is poached whole within it. And the horseradish sauce, made from freshly grated horseradish and creme fraiche (although you could use sour cream or yoghurt, if you can't find the latter) offers a much welcomed pungency, to this settling meal. If Spring Poached Chicken sounds like a wonderful weekend treat to you, find the recipe on the Daily Specials page.

What's a Jew to do on Easter?

Well, go to 99 Ranch, that's what. Easter is a strange holiday; it's not quite as all-consuming as Christmas, but I was surprised at just how many places were closed. On Christmas I join the rest of the Jewish masses and usually go to a movie and then settle in for a lovely Chinese meal. Aaahh, the Christmas tradition of the non-believers. But what to do on the day of Christ's resurrection? Once again I joined the legions of Asian Americans and ventured up to Richmond and into the Pacific East Mall which contains the 99 Ranch.

For those of you living outside of the west coast, 99 Ranch is a supermarket, but not just any supermarket-- the Asian foods supermarket. This isn't some tiny, whole-in-the-wall, Asian grocery, with a handful of fresh vegetables, a few bottles of bizarre (to the American palate) condiments, and packets of prepared soups complete with dried noodles. No, 99 Ranch is the size of your average American supermarket, but catering to all Asian nationalities and their own culinary delicacies, Indonesian, Thai, Chinese, Japanese, etc. Entire aisles of rice, jasmine, basmati, glutinous; a large produce section with the average apples, oranges, and bananas; plus every kind of Asian green waiting to be brought home and wilted in a wok; the tea section is vast, from green, to blacks, to white, all lined up for the tasting. And then there is the fish and meat department. Quail, partridge, and black cornish game hen, every cut of the pig imaginable, from tenderloin to tripe, and cuttlefish, live prawns, and catfish heads awaiting their fate in a cauldron-size stock pots to be stewed with colorful vegetables from the produce section.

I didn't really need anything from the market, however this did not stop me from browsing, and selecting a few choice items. A package of Panko Bread Crumbs, more crumb-y, and less pulverized than the American variety, these will be a crisp addition to pork cutlets or chicken tenderloins. Sachets of Almond Paste to be mixed with warm water or milk and enjoyed as one would a cup of tea. Peanuts stewed not roasted in Soy Sauce, Sugar, and Salt, it's interesting to see another culture's take on a traditional snack food. And by far my favorite, a habitual food for me from 99 Ranch, frozen, Steamed Buns. BBQ Pork, Chinese Broccoli, and Plain, these buns are the perfect snack, savory fillings nestled inside mellifluous, white dough.

After buying our goodies, my husband and I strolled around the mall. All of the restaurants were packed full of people; families slurping up their pho noodle soups; we checked out the Japanese paper goods store, and wondered when it was that Snoopy became as popular as Hello Kitty, and looked at all of the gilded altars for sale in the Thai shop. Then as we were leaving the Pacific East Mall my husband stopped by a photo booth and took advantage of a special feature.

It's a Muffin, No it's a Cupcake!

So which is it? There seems to be a very fine line between the two. I've been reading a lot of cupcake/muffin recipes lately due to the latest Is My Blog Burning event with the theme of cupcake and muffin recipes, and I honestly can't decide what it is that differentiates a modern-day muffin from a cupcake, and vice versa.

Is it the frosting? It could be, but if I make a chocolate cake, and bake it in tiny cupcake cups, and then I omit the addition of delectable frosting (although I'm not sure why anyone would do that), do I have a muffin instead? I'm going to have to say no. But what about the ubiquitous chocolate chip muffin, or better yet the chocolate-chocolate chip muffin. These muffins are entirely sweet, made with a mainstay of the dessert cupboard-- chocolate chips, so what is it about this breakfast treat that makes them indeed a breakfast treat, and not simply an after dinner addendum? Maybe it's the addition of buttermilk. But not every morning muffin has buttermilk listed as an ingredient. Perhaps it's the addition of some type of fruit that makes is a breakfast addition. But then there is the Poppyseed Muffin, no fruit there.

Feeling very much like I was preparing for Speech and Debate class in 7th grade, I resorted to The Oxford English Dictionary (OED), that veritable tome of all things English, and I offer you this: The OED doesn't even offer a complete definition for the word cupcake, but favors the hyphenated: cup-cake. It defines this word as batter: "baked in a small open container or from ingredients measured in cupfuls." Not really helpful. What sort of batter, any sweeteners, frosting? Not a mention. I turn the 1280 pages forward and try for the definition of muffin: "Originally a cake of any of various kinds of (esp. sweet) bread. Now a flat circular spongy cake of bread, often eaten toasted and buttered." Also not really helpful; this appears to be the definition of an English Muffin.

Still unsatisfied I resorted to the trusty The Oxford Companion to Food (thank you Nishka) to see what Alan Davidson had to say about the matter. (I know that by my two reference books of choice it may seem that I am quite the anglophile, I assure you that I am not, but the English do know their reference books.) Davidson has not even a hyphen between this otherwise contracted word, it is simply written as-- cup cake. He states that a cup cake is "the name given in Britain and generally the USA to any small cake baked in a cup-shaped mould or in a paper baking cup." No mention of a muffin also being baked in this same mould. Then he goes on to tell us about Elizabeth Ellicot Lea's baking of a rather large pound cake in 1845, when the term cup cake was used to describe the units of measurement. Sheesh, now I am thoroughly lost. A pound cake? Correct me if I am wrong, but pound cakes do not even have frosting, a glaze maybe, but usually not frosting. Besides the historical reference, it seems to me that pound cakes have very little to do with cupcakes. If we take The Oxford Companion to Food's definition, a cup cake, is anything baked in a cupcake pan.

On to the muffins, yet furthering the conundrum. After a rather lengthy definition of the English Muffin being very popular 19th century snack, synonymous with crumpets and pikelets, Davidson addresses the American muffin more directly as a "generally small, squat, round cake which may be yeast leavened, although baking powder is used in many recipes. It is usually sweetened with a little sugar. These muffins may be plain, but are often flavored with fruit, nuts, or savoury ingredients...American muffins, still extremely popular, are oven baked in muffin pans, or cups and are served primarily for breakfast or as an accompaniments to dinner." Please, Davidson does so much back-talking in this definition: they're sweet, no savory; plain, no adorned; you eat them for breakfast...and dinner. It's becoming clear that even he is unsure what makes a muffin. If we had a plain muffin as is said in this definition, what's to say it would not simply be an unfrosted, vanilla cupcake?

The wheel of Ixion rolls on.

It's Digit-licious!

WARNING: The following blog is not meant for the weak stomached.

Well, it's happened again. It happens every few years, something goes awry in the fast food industry. E-coli from hamburgers, mad cow disease, or in this case, a little, bitty finger finds it way into a bubbling vat 'o chili.

Can you imagine the horror!?! You're in a rush, you've stopped at a fast food restaurant, trying to order something remotely healthy you get the chili. It seems innocuous enough, a little tomato, a few kidney beans, and a bit of ground beef. But don't you see, that's where you have gone wrong. The dreaded ground beef. It's not that I have anything against ground beef per se, but from a fast food restaurant? There is just too much that can go wrong. Whether it be at the slaughter house (!), the processing plant, or the tray laden, wrapper full, utensil-less restaurant, there are just too many places something could fall in, or in this case fall off, into your large vat of meat products.

I'm sorry, but I have to go for it. This mishap brings new meaning to the words "finger food." I'm a big texture girl, I don't like bits of fat, grisly portions, or what I call, "knuckly bits," in my meat; they can ruin a meal for me. Can you imagine the knuckly bits this poor, unwitting woman in San Jose endured as she sat down to dinner Tuesday evening?

What is almost more disturbing than the finger itself is this quote from the paper: "Since all of the workers at the restaurant were in possession 'of all 10 of their fingers,' health inspectors assume the finger likely entered the food chain as a result of the manufacturing process, according to county Environmental Resources Director Ben Gale." Was anybody ever under the impression that someone at Wendy's had lost their finger and didn't know it? You know that someone, somewhere, is thinking, "Hey! That's my finger!" Talk about your 15 minutes of fame. And, logic dictates that if no one noticed their finger being lobbed off, perhaps there's more than just a digit suspended in the vat.

Perhaps I am being too naive. Whether you are dining at a four-star restaurant, or a greasy-spoon diner your meat could be coming from virtually anywhere. I guess that explains the infiltration of the often costly, but ultimately more settling, organic meat products. We can't guarantee that these products are better for you, but I do feel a bit safer buying them. Now I'm not going to get all Alice Waters on you. Of course it's your decision what type of meat products you buy, or even if you decide to eat meat at all, but the next time you're at the grocery store, or you pull up at your local fast food restaurant, I bet you will think of the woman, pulling a chili covered fingertip from her lips.

The Best Thing to Happen to a Foster's Freeze

There is a little restaurant not too far from where I live, if you're driving too fast you could drive right by it. In fact it's sort of a dive, paint peeling from the walls, some lightbulbs burned out from the "stained glass" fixtures above the tables, and the banquettes sticky from over-use. But all of these transgressions can be forgotten once you have tasted this restaurants specialty-- The Tandoori Chicken Sandwich.

A new amalgamation of the Western world, coupled with traditional Indian ingredients Tandoori Chicken USA is a truly bizarre, yet absolutely wonderful place to eat. So just what is the famed Tandoori Chicken Sandwich? Slices of warm tandoori chicken breast, pure (no knuckly bits here) and slightly piquant, nestled amongst crisp lettuce leaves, with a smattering of cooling mint sauce, all wrapped in naan, lending a pleasing charred flavor to this delightful chicken sandwich. The perfect match of east meets west. I usually am not the hugest fan of fusion cuisine, but to the chefs at Tandoori Chicken USA I say, "Bring it on!"

In homage to what it once was, a Foster's Freeze, Tandoori Chicken does serve the traditional American fast food fare, burgers, and fries, but despite the bottles of ketchup lying about, I have never actually seen someone order these. But that is what makes dining at this restaurant so weird and wonderful; it is the fact that I could get a side order of fries with my Tandoori Chicken Sandwich that is so...egalitarian.

After ten years in El Sobrante, a small unincorporated town north of Berkeley, Tandoori Chicken has opened another outpost in Concord. Let me tell you, this place looks positively civilized. With carpet on the floor, chairs replacing banquettes, and neon signs of the chicken cooking in its very own glowing tandoori oven, it may be cleaner, brighter, more gentrified, but the Tandoori Chicken in El Sobrante is the place for me. I like my Tandoori Chicken Sandwiches with a little slice of Americana please.

Behold, the Buffet

The delightful, little gnome says: Welcome to Adrienne and Brian's Wedding Party!

So last weekend's party was a success, and I was so busy mingling, and passing around Caprese Salad Bites, that I didn't have time to think about all of the gross faux pas that could have been occurring at the buffet table.

The hit of the event, food wise, were several types of Phyllo Triangles. I made two types with savory filling from The Silver Palate Cookbook, a Spanikoppita (spinach and feta cheese), and a Prosciutto and Ricotta. Despite being labor intensive to make, with the flag-folding of hundreds of phyllo rectangles into diminutive phyllo triangles, they were the perfect hors d'oeuvres to make for an open house, because they are equally good hot or at room temperature.

The sweet triangles I made on a whim. I filled these triangles with sweetened ricotta cheese (never a bad thing); while one triangle was filled with lemon flavored ricotta and adorned with freshly grated nutmeg, the other triangles were filled with mellifluous ricotta flavored with a rich cocoa. Light, and crisp, these were an ideal addition for a Saturday afternoon fête. I made both types of phyllo triangles because they could be made weeks ahead and frozen. This isn't something I usually do, freezing rather scares me; no one wants something they bake to come out tasting like a freezing cold Kenmore Classic. But they froze beautifully, and simply needed to be brushed with butter and popped in the oven on the day of the party.

It's funny, although the food was very well received (an anti-pasto buffet), I didn't get to enjoy it thoroughly. Maybe it was the nature of the buffet, or perhaps it was my inability to split my time appropriately between the kitchen and our company, but to tell the truth, I think it was like eating through osmosis for me. Whenever I throw a dinner party, or have people over, I love the preparing. The chopping, the seasoning, the sauteing, but by the time we are ready to eat, it is as if I already have. I will graze, taste things here and there, take a sip, or nibble, but I can't actually tuck in. I swear, it's a good thing I don't actually work in the restaurant industry, or I would probably waste away.

Life Sucks, Here Have a Frittata

What do you do when you get some bad news, when life just doesn't seem to be going your way, you're feeling under the weather? Usually I don't do much of anything. Perhaps I will take in a mindless, feel-good movie. One that makes me think, no one's love life is just so perfect. I'll eat movie theater popcorn for dinner, wiping my greasy fingerprints on piles of crisp, yet diaphanous paper napkins. If nothing looks appealing at the cineplex, maybe I'll rent a John Hughes, '80's era movie, one that makes me long for that old high school chum that never really existed. Call it wallowing, call it self-pity, it usually works for me.

This week my husband and I received some disappointing news (really it was my husband's news, but disappointing for me by proxy). I'm not sure if it was the nature of the news, or perhaps just where I am in my life, but this time I was driven away from the cineplex and straight into the warmth and nurturance of the kitchen. Now we didn't have much in the form of ingredients, despite leftovers from wedding fete this past weekend (more on that in upcoming blogs). But never one to let something as paltry as ingredients stop me from cooking when needed, I resorted to an old standby, something settling and soothing to untie my stomach-- a frittata.

A little egg, some cheese, whatever vegetables happen to be lying about, and in a matter of minutes you have an ultimately satisfying, and a little bit gourmet (depending on ingredients), complete meal. I wasn't actually hungry, although it was dinner time, so the frittata proved to be the perfect match for me to make as it is equally good hot as it is at room temperature. This frittata was a take on a recipe I found on the BBC Food website, very simple yet satisfying, with a touch of much-needed spring. With some frozen peas, a touch of fresh chopped mint, and some lovely Gruyere cheese left over from the party, a delightful egg dish was made in about one half hour.

And I must say, although the frittata itself was a comforting meal, it was the being in the kitchen that sort of did the trick for me. There was something soothing about the soundtrack of pots being bashed around, getting my aggressions out with a mortar and pestle rather than throwing myself down in a jag of screaming and crying, and having the oven on, the heat tenderly washing away the tumult of the day. Being in the kitchen just did it for me. Who knows, maybe I'll have to save the John Hughes movies for when I am feeling nostalgic for the past, and the experience of eating movie theater popcorn for my main evening meal as simply a gluttonous treat.

Pork Products and the Month of March

Why is it that the month of March has the worst produce? I live in California, the land of citrus trees, and the central valley, where row upon row of produce sprouts from the fertile soils, (sometimes with the help of genetic engineering). So why is it then, this month, with it's cherry blossoms blooming, tulips pushing their way through hardened earth, and the first glimpse of bare arms flailing about in short-sleeved shirts, has the lousiest fruits and vegetables of the entire year.

It's about this time of year that even the citrus fruit looks as if it has seen its better day. I say "goodbye" to the last vestiges of winter mandarins, as they seem to rot even before I can bring them home and tuck them into the fruit basket sitting on my cluttered kitchen counter. The strawberries aren't quite ripe, as their pale shoulders offer a stark contrast to the bruised tip of the fruit. And I simply won't pay five dollars a pound for stony nectarines, their skin not even tinged with that lovely peachy pink from Chile.

And so I must resort to my old wintertime standbys, alas sweet succotash of summer, with your corn, sweet niblets of flavor, I must only dream of you for a few more months. To make myself feel better, I spice up the usual standards of winter just a little bit. What better way to spice something up, than a little pork product? And could there be a more bourgie pork product than the salty, the wonderful, pancetta? Cut into lardons, crisply fried, then set free to do their culinary magic on your vegetable of choice. In my case, brussel sprouts.

I know that for some this little cruciferous vegetable is not a favorite. And to these people I say, you have not eaten the brussel sprout prepared in its many incarnations; and you should really give this innocuous, cabbage-like vegetable a try again. There are many more ways to eat this side dish than boiled or steamed. For those squeamish about the brussel sprout, those who break into a sweat from the mere mention of the sulfuric vegetable, give them a try julienned. Slivered into tiny morsels of palatable greenery and sauteed with a bit of shallot, the vegetable turns into a mellow, tender, bit of spring (even if the dish is eaten in the dead of winter). Or how about roasted whole, with a bit of onion and olive oil, everything sulfuric about this veggie gets roasted out, and what you are left with is an intense, hearty adornment to any entree. But if you would like to give Brussel Sprouts with Pancetta a shot, check the Daily Specials page.

An Amendment...

The buffet table-- a place where the concept of sharing is brought to brazen, and at times terrifying levels. Depending on your guests, the layout of the designated table, and just how many diners you are trying to accommodate, the buffet table can become an obstacle course of spilled food, diners with dirty cuffs dragging them through the delicacies set out before them, and so many germs you want to yell out, "Where is the damn sneeze guard?"

Needless to say, we (my husband and I) are planning a rather large (50 or so people) open house for this coming weekend, buffet included (!), as a sort of wedding reception for ourselves. (My word, that was a lot of parentheses for one sentence.) Although I am a good sharer when given the option of choosing my sharing mate, I am not the greatest at sharing with large groups of people. I cannot help but think of how many times my fellow diners have washed their hands, and how well, who is slightly sick, and whom just has allergies, and then there is the dreaded DOUBLE DIP!

We have a very good family friend, she is a a contemporary of my parents, and I have known her since my childhood. She is a very good cook; not only can she follow a recipe well, but she also knows what is needed to bring the food up to higher, more sumptuous level. However, I do not enjoy dining at her house. Her kitchen is a disaster, dishes piled high on every surface, splotches of week-old sauce decorating the splash guard behind the stove, and old tasting spoons left about, continually used and then reused. And to top it all off, she's a lick-er. Numerous times I have watched as she licks dressing off of her fingers, then uses those same unwashed fingers to plate a salad, gingerly laying garnish about with those same hands. I don't care how tantalizing the dressing you are making is, you simply cannot surround your fingers in your own saliva, then expect other to partake of the same liquid!

Back to the buffet, my mother and I are doing most of the cooking, so we can guarantee the clean nature of the food, but can we really control how the food is handled once it leaves the kitchen and goes to the buffet table? I guess I will have to gear up not to think about the food once it has left my hands. I will just enjoy my guests, the beauty of the day, and refrain from shrieking, "Jim, don't you dare think of dipping that asparagus spear back into the dish of aoli!"

More after the party...

Share and Share Alike

Sharing is a wonderful thing; my mother taught me how to do it quite nicely. I love to share desserts in particular. You have just finished a delightful meal out, you're pleasantly satiated, but could use a little something sweet. Not an entire dessert course mind you, just a nibble. When could there be a more ideal time to share? But not everyone shares well. If you make the wrong decision, you could turn an ordinarily convivial dining experience into a catastrophic nightmare.

There is a fine line to be found in the art of sharing. It requires trial and error, many a meal leaving you either too full, or still wanting more, in order to find your own ideal sharing mate. Take for instance my sister, she is an ideal mate for me, we often want to share (an invaluable desire), and we want to share the same things. She might be such an ideal candidate because of a lesson learned from her own dining dilemma with a friend we'll call Jake. They each had finished their own entrees, and when dessert came around they decided to split the creme brulee. When the custard arrived, both parties dug in, but while conversation drew to a lull (Jake not being the most interesting of individuals), my sister noticed that Jake was creating a divide in the brulee. Not simply a divide, a what will be forever known as-- a wall of creme brulee. Jake, never wanting to blur the lines of platonic friendship, created a wall of cream, that remained untouched not wanting to contaminate the vessel of dessert with his salivary spoon. To this I say, as kind of a gesture, puh-leese! How anal-retentive can we be? Not a good sharer.

As fair and too clearly demarcated a sharing incident as Jake's was, I have a friend who does not share-- she hogs. A slice of cheesecake will arrive at the table from which we are both supposed to partake. My friend will descend on the slice, ravenous, like a hawk preys upon some innocent rodent, scurrying about in a field. In a matter of moments, the entire morsel of cake is devoured, garnish of whipped topping licked clean, and I have only eaten two bites. Speed is an extremely important element to sharing. It just won't work if a scarf-er is paired with a savor-er.

So let me plead with all of the parents with young children out there; we're all told how it is important to share with our neighbors, but please, you simply must also show your children the nuances of sharing. Not to be anal, there should be a sort of laissez-faire attitude to sharing. The speed, pace yourself-- too fast, and the child will end up with a stomach ache and a gluttonous reputation, too slow-- and the child will end up with nothing at all. Sometimes even the smallest of life's details can end up leaving lasting scars.

Polenta, the Bourgie's Gruel

It's cheap, it's delicious and versatile; it's the bourgie's ideal food. Who would have ever thought something so simple, a little dried cornmeal and the liquid of your choice would make such a wholly complete and satisfying food? Now I'm not speaking of the polenta that you buy, already prepared, molded into a plastic tube, and preserved on your grocer's shelf. That polenta is neither delicious nor particularly versatile. So you can slice it, and do what with those slices? No, I'm speaking of the polenta that is cooked on the stovetop, then dished onto a plate, the perfect maize nest on which to find some scrumptious piece of braised meat.

But this soothing side dish need not simply be relegated only to the dinner table. Try it made with one half milk, one half water. The polenta becomes a pale yellow, and even creamier in texture, due to the addition of milk. With a dollop of butter, and a drizzle of pure maple syrup, what could be a lovelier porridge on a cold Sunday morning? The salty neutrality of the polenta, along with the subtle sweetness of the syrup-- a perfect combination.

Perhaps you want your polenta to have a bit more flavor, but remember this is an accent dish not the main event. In these instances, instead of water, I opt for chicken stock. With a sprinkling of freshly chopped sage added towards the end of the cooking process, the stock gives the polenta just enough intensity to stand up to even the most hearty meat entrees.

Maybe you have not had the best luck in making polenta on your own at home. As with many other simple-tasting dishes, the most subtle differences make the greatest deal. The easiest, most fool-proof method I have found is to make polenta a bit like you would make risotto. The general ratio is one part cornmeal, to four parts liquid. This is of course just an estimate; depending on climate or altitude the ratio could be slightly different. For a complete recipe on how to make polenta go to the Daily Special's section.