Delirious Promises

I don't know about you, but I read Food and Wine when I'm in the bathroom and I know I won't be in there long enough for the book I've stashed under the sink.  Let's be more honest.  I read Food and Wine when I've forgotten my phone and I have previously placed it courteously in the restroom as reading material for guests. Fine, Dr. Freud- we'll go a level deeper.  The magazines find their way onto the tank of the toilet when I am too proud to admit that my unread magazine stack in the bedroom has become embarrassingly large and my boyfriend insists that I need to start whittling down. It's not that I hoard, but between work and work and work and the occasional sleep, I don't have time to sift through to find the good stuff.  You know what else?  The whole thing becomes an unpleasant experience because, as much as I'd love to dream about ouzo-scented swordfish with a mint gremolata, I found myself yet again in the drive-thru at Wendy's, two hours after I was supposed to leave work.

Don't cry for me, Argentina or Will or Eliza or whatever your name may be.  I think I might finally get it.  Here, on my couch at 1:47 in the morning with my cat very sweetly and aggressively cuddling in that gravity-defying manner that cats do, it came to me.  I have been pinning my food life on wish fulfillment. If I can't make an impossibly expensive and hard-to-source meal, what good am I as a cook?  Have I given up on myself?  Yeah- probably.

I need to figure out a way to change that.  Maybe not tonight, when this witching hour is possessed by the ghost of my over-eager promises of delicious lemon bars for an event tomorrow (later today?) at the completely reasonable hour of 7:30 am. My sainted boyfriend has made the harried run to the grocery store that services the greater midnight populace and your friendly neighborhood meth head for ingredients that I never wrote down because I had fallen asleep yet again on the couch.  I know I don't need to tell you this, dear reader, because you too must be world-weary to be reading a three-post masterpiece of a cooking blog, well-hidden in the back corners of the internet.

Ever the poorly-advised optimist, though, I have big hopes for these lemon bars.  They're directly out of the indisputable tome "Cook's Illustrated Cookbook"- it's big, red, imposing, and features that still life of pears on the cover that everyone had to draw in high school art. You know, the one where your teacher found herself forced to comment "I don't think you understand what a shape is" upon seeing the scribbles that took you four hours of intense, sincere effort to complete.  So now, when I have promised quality as if promising my own hypothetical child could spin straw into gold, I don't truck with hastily Googled recipes.  Oh no- I pass off the work of true experts as my own and deal with the condemnation of my leftover Christian guilt later.  On the other side of that bridge, I'm also making the only bread creation I've actually cobbled together on my own.  Again, honesty- all bread starts out cobbled together and in the hopes that the yeast doesn't mutate and turn into a delicious albeit deadly B-movie monster.  I call it "A Bread Named Carl", partially because I assume I put as little effort into it as Carl would (you know what you did, Carl), and because I didn't think it was going to turn out.  As I pulled the little nubbins out of the oven to brush it with butter, I would frequently ask it, "What are you doing Carl? Carl!"  (You can see an exact replica of my Carl monologue here, because, like a true comedian, all my good bits are plagiarized.)  I'll have to post the recipes sometime soon for the rest of you hooligans to steal or try for yourselves.

Well, I must leave now- both because my ingredient courier has arrived bearing gifts, and I'm so tired that throwing up is also on the table.  And I've just been informed that my delivery boy has forgotten the most important part of any baking venture- "fucking butter".  We'll talk again soon, dear reader. I want this to be more of a thing- me talking at you in the hopes that one day, like The Secret, my universally sown seeds of food-related ramblings will come back to me in the form of digital friendship and my mother's indignation at me swearing in a public forum.

Can I tell you the sentence that became stuck in my head, the crucible that may just get me to start cooking and writing again? I'm going to tell you because, you know: friendship goals. I, like you, read Food and Wine, when I'm shitting.

Sorry, not sorry, mom.

Chorizo Tortas

On our first date, I asked my now boyfriend, "What's your favorite food?" He thought a moment and said "Sandwiches." I laughed, as this had really taken me off guard. Thus far, he had shown himself to be an intelligent and worldly gentleman and, being from Great Britain, I had honestly expected him to come back with something Indian in nature. But sandwiches? "What do you like about them," I pushed. "Is it that you enjoy the different layers and textures or has the starving student diet warped your tastebuds?" He laughed, leaned forward, and began a long explanation of the possibilities of sandwiches, the best places he had discovered, and the most important qualities defined by his complicated litmus system. Considering he thought that much about one type of food, I was suitably impressed enough to take him up on a second date.

Since then, sandwiches have become a staple of our diet. The panini press (more like my mom's hand-me-down George Foreman grill doubling as a panini press) has perhaps become one of the most used gadgets in our lives, the creation of a grilled cheese sandwich has been honed to an art, and if one of us needs to impress the other, we do so, sandwich in hand. After moving in together, I wanted our first meal to be something special. This recipe was the culmination of that effort. When his eyes rolled up into his head and he called our roommates over to share without hesitation, I knew that I was really on to something.

And so it has become that perhaps the dish I make most often is this absolutely amazing Chorizo Torta.  It's simple, flavorful, and with two sources of carbs on one sandwich positively sinful for all you calorie counters and Atkins aficionados out there. It's a favorite of many of my students and I'm sure it will soon be one of yours as well.

(Pictures coming soon. Until then, here's a picture of a kitten.)

Chorizo Tortas- Serves 4

INGREDIENTS:

2 medium potatoes, boiled, peeled and cubed.

Salt

1 tbsp canola or vegetable oil

1 pound Mexican chorizo, casings removed

4 4-inch long crusty bread rolls (I prefer French bread, but any will do)

1/8 small head red cabbage, very thinly sliced (about 1 cup)

1 tbsp apple cider vinegar

½ cup crumbled queso fresco (or, if you’re in a pickle, some slices of sharp cheddar are also delicious)

1 avocado

Juice of one lime

1 jalapeno, thinly sliced (if you’re really daring, don’t seed it first!)

A few springs of cilantro

Directions:

1. In a lidded container, mix the cabbage with the vinegar and let sit.
2. Heat the oil in a large skillet over medium heat.  Add the chorizo and cook, stirring and breaking it up with a spoon, until it’s cooked through and slightly browned.  Add the chunks of potato and gently mix them with the chorizo.  Season with salt to taste.
3. Split the rolls lengthwise and toast until golden brown, if you’d like.  Pile on the chorizo and potato mixture.  
4. Divide the cheese, jalepeno, avocado, and cabbage among the sandwiches.  Give each a squeeze of lime and add the top of the roll.  Serve right away.  If you want to make this into a Mexican “au jus”, serve with a bowl of tomatillo (green) salsa, and be sure to double dip!

Brave New Kitchen

Last week, I looked at my first kitchen for the last time.  Our little rented apartment was as "first" as you could get: a one-bedroom defined by less than 450 sq. feet, a significant mildew problem, water main breaks you could count on at least once a month, and, of course, the eccentric neighbors that were less eccentric ala the strangely habited hermits we've all lived by, but more along the lines of stabby, misanthropic maniacs.  But, even after cooking professionally for most of my short adult life, this small kitchen was the first kitchen that was MINE.  No matter that it had one counter-top, a two-burner stove, an oven that refused to be closer than fifty degrees to your desired temperature, and a fridge that I could easily lean on, even at my short stature. It was where I started teaching others how to cook, where I developed recipes for my professional courses, and the place I truly learned how to improvise (something I had never had any instincts to do).  

All that said and done, when I closed the door for the final time, I was happy.  Nostalgia can only hide the horrors of a place for so long.  When we finally arrived to our new home that evening, and unpacked the car for the final time, I surveyed my brave new kitchen with appreciation.  Never had a full size stove been so appealing, even if it was covered in kitchen gadgets and stacked pans still in need of a permanent home.  The sight of a dishwasher almost made me, and my reluctant dishwasher but enthusiastic "guinea pig" boyfriend, cry.  Not one, but FOUR counter-tops hidden under boxes were simply dazzling to behold.   

While the first place may have been mine, simply looking at it made me depressed.  I tried to cook at least once a week, but even then, microwaved food and take-out became more appealing than breaking out a pan.  Even one meal's worth of dishes made the place nearly impossible to navigate. Cooking has long been my active release from the heaviness of the world.  When I was no longer afforded that luxury, my heart and mind suffered.  Simply put, I was tired. I was lost. 

However, during this same time, I began to teach at a local culinary boutique.  It energized me.  It reminded me why I fell in love with cooking to begin with.  Combined with my other great love, teaching, it was a vacation every couple of weeks to prep with my boyfriend's help and to serve a roomful of eager faces.  When the boutique closed down unexpectedly within a day of us moving to our new place, I took it as a sign that I should finally do what I've been asked and pleaded with to do for a long time- start a cooking blog. 

If you're here in March 2014, you've probably received a special invitation from me because you were one of my students or a friend that has encouraged me along the way.  To you, I have to say thank you.  All of you, in one way or another, have made me at least think I'm capable of running a blog.  If you're here later, welcome; you're joining the ranks of some pretty awesome people! 

Enough with the backstory.  Whaddya say we go make something yummy?