Bad Home Cooking

Mommy's little helper: Basil Daiquiris

Not a day after I'd made a complete mess of my pesto attempt, I found this recipe and forwarded it onto my momterage. Kelli immediately emailed me back with the promise of concocting this for the next concert in the park. "I have another basket-full of basil," she wrote. "We'll have this ready for Wednesday."

In the charming Southern Californian town where I live, the municipal band has free concerts in the park every Wednesday night. Everybody goes. And I mean everybody. And their kids. It's a community love fest, with little tots running free, grade-school kids chasing each other over the green, middle school kids huddled in tight circles checking each other out, high school kids nervously flirting...and us grown ups dining al fresco and surreptitiously drinking behind the family picnic baskets. Alcohol is not allowed in the public park, but everybody drinks anyway. We're just better at hiding it than the teens.

These basil daiquiris weren't the clear green I'd hoped they'd be, but that's because Kelli used purple and green basil, which is an admirable use of resources. Nor did we have clever cocktail glasses or twists of lime to tart them up. Kelli and Christy smuggled them over in two soup containers hidden in a little red Radio Flyer wagon. And we drank them out of plain plastic cups. When officious sorts came around, we simply hid the cups underneath the wagon. Such is the subversiveness of moms.

But no matter. Even out of a brown paper bag, basil daiquiris are delicious. Sweet, refreshing, easy on the tastebuds...and delivering an easy, delightful rum buzz that sneaks up on you before you know it. A huge hit, soon consumed. Everybody remarked on the sweet, unusual taste...and came back for more. A giant hat's off to Jessie Bluejay, the San Francisco writer who sent her url about this cocktail to Slashfood, where I picked it up. 

Here's her recipe:

A handful of basil (20-30 leaves or so)
juice from two limes
6 Tablespoons of sugar syrup (see below for instructions)
Copious amounts of white rum (at least a cup)
Splash of water

Make your own syrup. It's a 1:1 ratio of sugar to water. Boil your water, add sugar, stir, and when the sugar dissolves, voila! syrup. Put the basil leaves and the lime juice in a shaker and muddle it up (note: I let Kelli the expert do all of this, so I can't really say what muddle means. Use your imagination.) Add the sugar syrup, the rum, the water, and a handful of ice. Shake it like the 5.4 quake here on Tuesday and pour it over ice. Consume.

Kelli and I are going to perfect this cocktail on Friday. Make it green. Use proper cocktail stems. And twists of lime. Everyone's invited. Come on down!

Pesto...Chango!

I didn't even know what pesto was until I was at least 25. I doubt my mother knows what pesto is to this day. That's the kind of kitchen I was brought up in: processed food from start to finish.

But I am trying to make up for lost time. Eventually I will learn how to dice an onion neatly. One day I will know how to make an aioli sauce that won't burn through people's stomachs. And some day soon I will figure out how to make my own pesto.

But probably not today.

Last week my cooking coach, Kelli, arrived at my door with her two children and a basket of freshly-picked basil from her garden. "I'm just showing up at people's houses asking if they can use any of this," she grinned, sounding like the green fairy. She shoved three great handfuls of green and purple basil at me. "Here," she said. "Make some fresh pesto."

My kitchen filled with earthy pungeance. "Pesto. So you grind this us with pine nuts and some kind of cheese and olive oil, right?" The best cooks I knew made their own pesto. It was a sign of savvy. A proof of skill. I had never even considered attempting it myself.

"Actually I make it without cheese or pine nuts, and it comes out just as good," she said. "Just make a paste out of six garlic cloves, add a little oil, then pack your food processor tight with the basil and chop it up."

"It's that easy?"

"It's that easy."

I wasted no time. I fished out the blender I hoped would substitute for a food processor and washed and chopped the basil as best I could. I peeled six cloves of garlic and threw them in with a dollop of olive oil. By happy coincidence they blended into a paste. Feeling optimistic, I then packed the rest of the basil leaves into the blender.

Nothing. What was ground and pasty on the bottom stayed on the bottom. What was leafy and grean (or purple) stayed on top, un-pureed. Typical. I couldn't bear to throw away all that fresh basil. Clearly I would need a plan B.

I had just thrown out my old mini food processor a few days before, in a fit of home organization, because it was found to have been cracked. Again, typical.

So I scraped everything out into a big Tupperware container and put it in the fridge, resolved to just buy myself another mini food processor later that day. Two days later, my kids fobbed off on Audge for three hours, I got my chance and ran to Target, only to find they didn't have the brand I wanted.

By the time I came home with the appropriate mini processor, the garlic paste had congealed around the leaves, so I tried tossing the whole mess together, like a salad, to spread it about. Maybe I should add more garlic, I wondered? But then the pesto might be too garlicky, and you know how squeamish I am about seasonings

Instead I stuffed the processor full of leaves, locked the lid and hoped for the best. I pressed the button and poured a little olive oil into the top because I'd seen people do this before. Presto! Chango!

Grainy green glop. And a kitchen that looked as if a bush had exploded within.

Dolloped over pasta for dinner later, it didn't taste like much, other than green. The girl didn't care for it. The boy wouldn't touch it. Again, I was left to consume my dish on principal.

OK. So pesto isn't that easy. There's a reason it's a showcase for skills. When I get those skills, I'll let you know. Meanwhile, I'm prepared to try again and repeat as necessary until I get it right. I think this will be my next cooking class. Kelli? Got any more basil?

How not to cut a birthday cake

There they sat, three kitchen muses, lounging on my couch and watching me with mirth in their eyes.

I glowered back at them. "Come on," I said. "You can't be serious. Of everyone in this room, and I'm counting the children, I am the least capable of cutting this birthday cake."

"But you're the birthday mom," said Audge. "You have to cut the cake. It's the law."

I looked around the room. "Lynne? Surely you'd like to cut the cake for me. Consider it a teachable moment."

Lynne shook her head slowly and smiled. "Nope."

"Joey?"

"I really think you should do it."

"Luke?!" I stared at the father of my children, who stood in the back, enjoying this mightily. "Back me up here, for God's sake..."

"Sorry. But I'll take pictures.."

So in the end, dear readers, thus abandoned by those who know better, there was nothing for me to do but dive in and hope for the best.

The ice-cream cake was a tidy little strawberry number from Baskin-Robbins (you think I'd make a cake for my kid's eighth birthday? I ain't Pru, you know..). I felt I was ahead of the game by remembering to take it out of the freezer 15 minutes before cutting it, and by having in my possession a cake-cutter once owned by my step-mother Barbara, who could cut a cake to make Martha jealous.

And I assumed that at least one of my skilled Mom-posse would step up to the plate and do the dirty work for me.

I was left to my own devices. Probably for the best there are no photos of the hack-job remains of the cake

At least kids don't care what form their cake comes in, as long as all the bits are there. Plus a good amount of frosting. And I don't think Barbara would mind too much that I bent her cake-cutter beyond repair making the first cut. She and Julia Childs are having a great laugh at my expense, I can feel it.

Tortilla soup -- the improv way

Talk about a hot date. Kelli arrived Saturday night bearing two bags of groceries and a six-pack of Mexican beer. "We're making tortilla soup," she told me.

I tried to make tortilla soup once. About three or four years ago. And the results were not pretty. I pulled a recipe off the internet, and all went well until I added the sour cream and the whole concoction curdled in front of my eyes. I ate a small bowl on principal and threw the rest away.

But I love tortilla soup. It was my favored dish at Picante up in Berkeley, years ago, where we'd eat at least once a week; the nits, then very small, feasting on beans and rice, Luke tucking into some giant wet burrito, while I hunched over chunks of avocado and tortilla strips in a spanky broth, twirling long strings of savory queso around my spoon. Ahh, bliss. Can I be blamed for trying to make it on my own?

This time, however, there would be no recipe. "I've read a bunch of them, and I've decided to just break out on my own," said Kelli. "With these sorts of things it's not so much the recipe as the process, anyway." All I could do was nod, snap open a cervezas and throw myself on her superior know-how and confidence.

Which is not to say I didn't try to participate. But it was an alarmingly complicated task, to my neophyte eyes. It took more than an hour to prepare, even using my home-made chicken stock. I tried chopping a big-ass onion using the three cut method Kelli had demonstrated at our last meeting, only to make a mockery of it and slice into my palm for my efforts. I didn't have pepper. I ran out of salt. I'd drank the last of the white wine we might have used for deglazing the frying pan. After a while, I stepped back and watched Kelli work.

If I suck as a sous chef, there is no doubt I'm a tremendous cheerleader. I don't think I closed my mouth for my constant oohs and aahs and general praise of her talents. Truly, there is much to learn just by watching a cook prepare a meal in your own kitchen.

Here's her "recipe:"

8 chicken thighs
Vegetable oil

Brown chicken and transfer to pan to finish in the oven

1 "big ass" onion, chopped or diced
6 cloves garlic
2 guajillo chiles
beer, wine, or tequila (note to self: Everyone needs a bottle of Patron in their pantry. Buy some soon.)
6 cups chicken stock
3 chipotle chilies in adobo
4 T tomato paste or small can puree

Sautee onion, deglaze with alcohol, add chopped garlic and guajillo chili.
Cook for a few more minutes, add stock.  Whisk in paste, add chipotles,
simmer.

Let cool a little and puree in blender or processor.  Strain in fine mesh,
china cap or cheesecloth for a silky soup base.

Meanwhile, back at the cutting board, prepare the condiments:

cilantro
roasted pasilla peppers
green onions
limes
avocados
diced tomato
tortilla strips (cut fresh tortillas into strips, season, coat with olive oil, then roast until brown and crispy)
sour cream (Lucerne brand is delicious, like Mexican crema)
feta, goat or queso blanco (we didn't use cheese, but please feel free. I'll be over later to sample.)

Although I hardly helped, I did learn a great deal. I learned, for example, that you can roast peppers right n top of the stove burner, and that if you put them in a paper bag while still hot, their skins will pull right off. I learned that you NEVER wash a pepper, or you wash away the flavor (that from the very mouth of the great Diane Kennedy, who Kelli worked for in her first ever catering job as a 19-year-old). I learned that you actually can deglaze a pan with beer, and it will still smell yummy. I learned that I really should pop for a food processor.

Also this: Peppers scare me. Both the handling and eating of.

No matter. The broth, while certainly kicky, was also rich and deep; "flavors on top of flavors," Kelli said. And when you added condiments of your choice, chunks of avocado, tortilla strips, lime juice, cilantro, or a dollop of sour cream with a few roasted, chopped peppers on top, it all went down smoothly, leaving you with a sense of profound warmth and well-being. Indeed, after my first bowl, all I could muster was a moan and a whimpered "This tastes like restaurant food!"

I knew I'd never be able to recreate this on my own. But then Kelli left me with a large portion for the week's lunches and a bucket of leftover roast chicken. And she promised she'd be available via phone to walk me through it should I want to attempt it again.

I'm only sorry that, in true BHC fashion, I've misplaced my digital camera, so there is no photographic evidence that this soup actually exists. You'll just have to take my word for it. Or show up and try some yourself while there's still some leftovers.

Chicken stock for beginners

Somewhere I got it into my little pea brain that the dividing line between a real cook and a pretend cook is the ability to make your own stock.

Long ago, when I first bought Mark Bittman's 'How to Cook Everything" and became more interested in cooking, I noted with delight that stocks are allegedly not hard to make. Of course, I never got around to finding this out for myself.

Fast forward to now. Kelli came over for her second session as my cooking coach, and announced, "Today, we're making stock."

Michael Ruhlman, the chef/writer I worship from afar, in his new book, "The Elements of Cooking," says this about stock: "In the creation of good food, no preparation comes close to matching the power of fresh stock. It's called le fond, "the foundation," in the French kitchen for a reason....ultimately, well-made stock is the ingredient that definitively separates home cooking from the cooking of a professional."

Gulp.

Kelli isn't concerned. "Pish," she says, when I inform her that chicken stock is serious business, and probably not for the likes of me. "Everything is better with homemade chicken stock," she says. "And even you can make it. There are just a few rules." She has brought with her two packs of chicken wings, carrots, celery, an onion and fresh sprigs of thyme and rosemary.

Then she introduces me to the Trinity. Diced celery, carrots and onion. The mirepoix. And she shows me how to dice them, overwhelming me with a wave of information regarding different cuts and knives and when to use what when and which where. Like a good teacher, she then hands me the knife and asks me to repeat what she did, and I do my best, hunched over, tongue between teeth, like a second-grader trying to solve a fourth grade math fact. She shows me how to hold my fingers on the produce, knuckles against the knife edge, that will best prevent my slicing off any fingertips.

I was not as quick nor as neat as she was, but at least I still have all 10 tips on my person, which in my view suggests basic success. My next victory was finding a stock pot big enough to hold everything, deep in the corner of my pantry.

We sauteed the vegetables in a little too much canola oil (she said I wouldn't need a measuring spoon), added the chicken and herbs, and covered with cold water. She explained the term "season expertly," to me, but since I didn't have any peppercorns my expertise is limited. She added a few cloves of garlic.

As she worked, she offered additional tips: Always put your fat into a heated pan. Use the parts of the chicken that move the most (like wings) when making stocks. Cover with cold water. Do NOT let it ever come to a rolling boil. Simmer for two hours or more, until your whole house is infused with the aroma of chicken soup. Strain, then strain again, then divide into containers and freeze.

Since she worked for years in a hotel kitchen as a saucier, she gave me a quick symposium on basic sauces, nothing of which I retain. The very word "sauce" frightens me. But I vow to revisit the topic down the road, when I am less timid in the ways of cuisine.

Kelli left me with a clove of mashed garlic on the back of my chef's knife and a quick explanation on how to make my own garlic bread (mix with soft butter, spread on crusty toast then finish in the oven. I later make this for my kids, adding a bit of mozzarella cheese on top, to spectacular accolades, and a near fistfight over who got to eat the last piece).

I simmered the stock for more than two hours, then strained it into my second largest pot. Alas, I then found I didn't have nearly enough containers with lids to hold all of the liquid gold, and so, in fine BHC tradition, I had to half-ass it and use what I could, including old Chinese take-out soup containers. 

I have chicken and rice soup on the stove as I write this (and now that I think about it, I'd better go check it...), featuring my own home-made chicken stock. Is this the beginning of a new era for me...or a new level of hell to explore?

Stay tuned. Next week we venture to the Santa Monica Farmer's Market.

zucchini inspiration

Inspiration has been in short supply lately. This morning I found some, growing green in the dirt.

As part of a magazine assignment, I asked my friend Kelli, former caterer and all-around big idea gal, to be my "cooking" coach. She agreed to come over once a week and teach me some basics; some knife skills, some recipe ideas, some notion of what to keep in my pantry. She promised that when she was done with me I'd no longer open my refrigerator in despair, but would come to view it as a box full of potential meals. I choose to believe her, even though I really don't.

This morning she called me early as planned. "You up for starting at the very beginning?" she asked. I was, I said. "Good. Then I'm taking you to the garden."

As we drove across town to the community garden, Kelli told me that she liked to start in the place where food and inspiration meet. She wants to help me set up my own kitchen garden in the planter outside my living room window. When I told her that my gardening skills, like my cooking ability, were all talk and C-list action, she smiled. "When you walk among success, you become successful."

Ah, grasshopper. Already I was in a better mood.

The 25-year-old community gardens are spread over several acres, tucked away in a corner bordered on one side by a park and on the other by the freeway. The spring bounty is just beginning to bust out, pumpkin and zucchini plants are creeping into the pathways, runner beans are starting the twirling climb up their trellises, tomato plants are getting frothy. Flowers bloom everywhere, despite the June gloom. If you tell yourself that the freeway din is actually the sound of a mighty river, it's darn near paradise.

We walk the site and Kelli talks, explaining how to cook Swiss chard, how to make teas using lemon verbena and chamomile, how certain squash likes to be up off the ground. She asks every fellow gardener we meet what they feed their tomatoes, as she's not happy with the development of her own. By the time we run into her friend Lesley, I am delirious with the smell of earth and the potential of produce. I am making noises about getting on the waiting list for a plot myself. My own bit of garden. So what if I find myself awash in bushels of zucchini come next summer.

As if reading my mind, Lesley offers up this recipe:

Cut a medium-sized zucchini, a medium-sized summer squash, or any other sort of squash you happen to have, into largish chunks.
Coat them with two tablespoons of olive oil.
Coat them with a bit of marinara or tomato sauce "anything you have left over from pasta night," she says. Don't put too much in, just a coating.
Mix in a cup or so of mozzarella cheese.
Add some pasta seasonings

Bake all this at 450 degrees for about 45 minutes. She swore by its deliciousness. Then she handed me a decent-sized zucchini just cut from her garden, along with a summer squash, and a funny looking white squash I don't have the name for. "You want some basil too?" she asked, cutting me a bundle. Kelli nodded approvingly. "That will go great on top," she says.

I came home with the aforementioned squash, fresh basil and dill, fresh broccoli, a handful of chard, a cup of blackberries and a head of cabbage the size of a bowling ball. Visions of my week's menu tripped through my head: artichoke frittata, chard sauteed with garlic, blackberry tarts, maybe. Tonight, however, I aimed to make the zucchini bake.

I did, to shockingly good results, made even better with fresh shredded basil on top. It made the house smell like a home. The drama-tween ate an entire bowl (although a plate of soft vegetables is still too much to ask of the boy, cheesy or not). I was left feeling recharged, re-inspired. A focus was emerging for my long, boring summer. It's the potential of abundance.

Can you taste it? Stay tuned.

Red, red wine...

This just in: In a New York Times report today, researchers are saying that red wine may slow the aging process. The study is based on dosing mice with resveratrol, an ingredient found in some red wines (Merlot? Please say it's merlot!).

True, the scientists dosed mice with the equivalent of 35 bottles of red wine a day, but given the other resveratrol-like compounds that may also be beneficial, and taking into account a mouse's higher metabolic rate, a mere four, five-ounce glasses of wine “starts getting close” to the amount of resveratrol they found effective, according to the report.

Four glasses of wine? If I could work up to that, the effects on my cooking might be disastrous, but at least I'd regain my youthful spark. What d'ya all think? Worth a try?

The picture tells the story, don't it?

Back in the day, a friend in high school watched me make a mess of a simple skirt I was trying to make for the Renaissance Faire, and summed me up thusly: "For such a creative person, you're really bad at a lot of things, aren't you?"

I was. And I remain so. This applies to cooking. To gardening. Relationships, time management, car maintenance, project follow-through, hair care, personal finance, arts and crafts and photography.

I mention the latter because the ability to take a decent photo is a skill every food blogger should have.

Up until this weekend, I told myself that the food bloggers who are known for their photography, such as Deb at Smitten Kitchen, were enjoying the best part of the food blogging pie. Deb's blog is her showcase for her mad mad photog skills (there are times when licking the computer screen seem appropriate) and her extraordinary talents in the kitchen. She has fans in the thousands, and deservedly so.

I'm no photographer, and I can't really cook, but I can write about the disasters that befall me, and that, in my humble opinion, was my own little sliver of the pie, although admittedly the part that would otherwise end up in the trash.

But this weekend that changed. And I believe I'm going to have to do something about taking a better photo.

I had written about vegetable couscous for Slashfood, as part of its Memorial Day Weekend package. You remember, the Sure Thing? The delicious and lovely concoction that will make you a hit at any potluck you attend? Trouble is, I didn't have a photo, and when I went and pulled somebody else's photo off the internets I was told no. I got busy with other things until Saturday, when I remembered I was supposed to fix the post with another photo.

With no time to wrap my head around Creative Commons rules or rummage through Flickr, I thought the easiest remedy would be to make the dish myself, and take a picture.

I made the dish with no problem. But then it came time to photograph, and you can see what I came up with. A new low, indeed.
 







Not one of probably 30 shots came out decently enough to use. I had to skulk back to the internets and find an approximation that was OK'd for public use.

I think it's time I put a little thought into my future as a food blogger. Maybe it's time to get another, more able camera. (When and if I do, Jen at Oishi Eats has the perfect camera bag for me...purse whore that I am) Or barring that, perhaps I should tap friends who shoot, like Elfini, for example, for some tips on how best to capture my creations in pixels. After all, if I'm offering up mediocrity, the least I can do is make it look good.

Would you love me then?

Top five sexiest movies with food...

In my last post I listed some of my favorite books about food. It's only fitting that I list a few favorite movies about food. And in the interest of SEO (Search Engine Optimization, for those of you who don't work in the online world), I thought I'd go ahead and pimp my blog by including the word "sexiest" in the headline.

But then the best movies involving food by definition must acknowledge that food is a sensual experience. Right? Of course right. Allow me to present, then, my top five sexiest movies that involve food. And here's a spoiler: the list does NOT include the one with Kim Basinger and Mickey Rourke.

1.) Tampopo (1985) The scene with the egg yolk burned into my brain when I first saw it some 20 years ago, and I never forgot it. With the miracle of YouTube, you can watch it for yourself. And good luck trying to forget...

 

2.) Like Water for Chocolate (1992) Hard to choose which scene is most infused with pheromones in this one. But in the end, I choose this. Because this is a family blog, I omitted the next part, which involves the sister becoming so inflamed with desire that she runs outside, rips off her clothes and runs right into the arms (er, rather, onto the horse) of a dashing revolutionary. I have always wanted to taste quail with rose petal sauce after this. Just once.

 

3.) Eat, Drink, Man, Woman (1994) The opening scene, of a master chef preparing his family an elaborate dinner, is alone worth the cost of renting this film. The cliche "feast for the senses" truly applies here. The food here represents ties to family, and the relationship between father and daughter. Among my favorites.

 

4.) Tom Jones (1963) The original food-as-metaphor-for-sex scene. Finger lickin' good...

 

5.) Chef in Love (1996) Gotta love them Georgians (Stalin excepted). They know how to live. I can't find the trailer on YouTube, but you can watch it here.

Why isn't 91/2 Weeks on this list? Isn't that the quintessential sexy food scene? I say no. That's because Kim Basinger, with that mouth, could sit in the kitchen burping the alphabet and still look sexy. No need to waste a perfectly good basket of strawberries on such a contrived scene. Really, it was a cringy cliche the day it came out. Or maybe Micky Rourke just annoys me. Didn't he die recently?

But surely there are other worthy films I'm not recalling, nu? Hip me to some of your favorites.

FOOD!

Yeah yeah yeah. I'm working up a post for you. Be patient.

In the meantime, here's a little snack: