The Mother Ship

My dearest friend Cortney has been worried about me lately. I don't know how she has the time to worry, given that she moved to Maryland to put plunger hats on monkeys. All the same, she flew me out last weekend to show me around her humid new home.
That's her. Isn't she cute?

True to my endeavor, I kept all of my cooking to one burner over the weekend. Of course, all I really made was a frypan of spicy chicken, corn, and green beans for Cortney after work. Yes, I wore a housewife apron. No, you can't see.

On Sunday the 23rd we stormed DC proper for a tour of the Smithsonian American Museum, which was beautiful and interesting but lacked the power of the Air and Space Museum. Or so I thought...

As we rounded the exit of the science and general geekery exhibit, we saw it. The Mother Ship!
THAT, my freaky darlings, is Julia Child's kitchen. I had no idea that the exhibit even existed, nor did Cortney. We looked through in a haze of delight at recipes, old Child quotes espousing the glory of wine, and video clips of her shows.

I left with the feeling that my skin was getting stretched from all of the inspired ideas bouncing in my head. Be warned, I feel some overly ambitious recipes coming on in the near future. If this has left me with any impressions, it is this: great cuisine must start somewhere. A simple housewife's kitchen or a studio apartment, it doesn't matter where it starts. But start it must, and with the right idea and enough ingenuity great things are possible.
I also learned that I need some more tools. :)

Thanks, Cortney.

In the Details

Some days even I am in no mood to cook; a recent Saturday morning was one of those days. I always feel bad being lazy on a Saturday; Ben has the time to wait for a big breakfast, and the Farmers Market is a weekly muse. A Saturday without cooking is a surrendered opportunity to be inspired.

I woke up this morning in a mild but stubborn funk. I felt stuck in a lack of energy, but my inner snob balked at the idea of “just throwing something together.” Obviously neither side of the coin was going to make me happy; oh, what to do. When Ben suggested sandwiches I felt like it was the rock bottom of careless cooking. I eventually surrendered and dragged my tired ass to the store.

Just moving around the store was enough to make me really think about putting effort into lunch, but I still had my misgivings. The snobby voices in my head always told me that sandwiches were too common. Common, then, is inevitably boring. Boring cannot be redeemed. Any attempt to improve on the old standby design would feel like reinventing the wheel. Still, with enough energy I am delusional enough to think that I can at least revolutionize the wheel. I can revolutionize the sandwich, people. If bistros in Sonoma can make them chic, there is hope for me yet.

Simple details stack up. First, I skipped the sliced bread (my apologies to the greatest of inventions) and instead chose a sourdough loaf. The sourdough was a fantastic choice for its texture and DIY slice thickness, and was cheaper than most of its pre-sliced peers.

Next, I let Ben’s German blood run wild in choosing a nice cheese from the specialty foods section of the store. I love virtually all types of cheese, but I get bored with the classic standbys after a while. Ben, meanwhile, is a cheese snob stuck in a food novice’s body. I was busy considering a salad mix when he trotted up to me, half excited and half confused, and blurted, “what’s Havarti? Can we get it?” This is a half step up from choosing cheese on a dare. Nevertheless, we got it and ended up loving it. Havarti is a mild and creamy cheese that is great supporting cast in a sandwich.

The condiments nearly did me in. I don’t eat mustard, and mayonnaise is boring, but a dry sandwich is worse. This was no “Sophie’s Choice” moment, but it wasn’t far from it. I drifted back to the specialty foods while thinking back on the better sandwiches in my life. After at least ten minutes of cursing myself for not keeping more exhaustive mental notes on the subject, I spotted pre-made pesto next to the paper-thin slices of proscuitto. This was my answer, and it was a perfect one. I am a pesto addict. If there were a pesto-flavored ice cream, you could probably get me to eat it. I threw it in the basket and thought not only of lunch, but of future dishes that could use a huge helping of pesto. Like I said, I can find a use for it in virtually any dish. I also grabbed a small shaker of garlic salt to make some extremely poor quality aioli (2 tbsp mayonnaise, ½ tsp garlic salt, stir and mash together furiously and spread on sandwich).

In the end, my sandwiches were still sandwiches. They were made of bread, meat, and condiments. They were not revolutionary, but they were delicious enough to feel like an accomplishment and simple enough to complete without much effort. The tiny effort that I did put into it, though, made the difference for me.

Nice Monster

So often the scariest part of starting a big project is not knowing where to begin. You start with hesitation, which turns into frustration, boils into doubt, hardens into crack-resistant fear, and before you know it you feel like a failure when the first step hasn’t even been taken. In a big kitchen I am a king; in this tiny space, I am lost.

I am fortunate enough to have Ben’s help, who is actually no help at all. If I ask him what he wants for dinner I can expect a look of pure fear on his face, as if I asked him to perform some simple open heart surgery on me. The Clark family has created the pickiest son to never have preferences. Sometimes I wonder if Ben is right in his frightened expression; maybe I have taken on too much with this project.

We had lunch last week at Ron’s Island Grill in Eugene because I was too overwhelmed (yet again) to cook. Between bites of salty teriyaki I moaned to Ben about how helpless I felt in his kitchen. I begged for help. With each complaint Ben looked a little more uncomfortable. Finally he said, “I know absolutely nothing about the kitchen. Really, I only go in there to get water or pull some fruit from the fridge. It’s scary in there to someone who knows nothing; the toaster oven might as well have big sharp teeth.”

I made him repeat that last line to me about half a dozen times. It was so refreshing to hear my fear repeated back to me, and this was coming from the man who had lived with this kitchen for four years. I have been cooking since I was nine years old, and yet a hot plate and toaster oven are getting the best of me. I saw myself reflected in Ben, and I looked silly as all hell.

The next day I went to Michael’s craft store on a mission: to paint monster teeth on the toaster oven. Ben’s comment about an oven with teeth had been so endearing that I had to create it. It would be a constant reminder, to both me and Ben, of how silly our fear of the kitchen was. Believe me, it was great to see the look on the sales associate’s face when I asked for paint that could withstand high temperatures.

Operation: Nice Monster has teeth but is still in the works, mostly because I have to leave the oven sideways and turned on to dry the paint. In honor of my college English professor’s band, Nice Monster, I named the oven Lenny (the band’s mascot). I will add shading, blood, and possibly a tongue at some point when I figure out a good way to lay thick, even coats of the paint on (it likes to gloss and clump at the same time). I may also fashion eyes for Lenny at some point a la the recent Geico commercials. Photos of Lenny’s growth will be added to this post from time to time.

The best way to conquer fear, apparently, is to paint on it.

Pain (Irlandais) au Chocolat

I am moved by Oregon’s oddly cold weather to resume fall activities, such as baking, creating rich pasta sauces, crocheting, and wearing sweaters. I know on some level that this cool weather is only a brief pause, like nature’s apology for leaving the proverbial oven on. However, my spoiled California instincts see the overcast and tell me that the summer is over. Inspiration is rarely logical.

Giving in to the domestic temptations of fall is not without risks. On the one hand, I should take this welcome respite for what it is: relief from cooking in a sweltering studio apartment with one window and no air conditioning. On the other hand, the marine layer could break at any moment and I would be trapped by broiling heat on both fronts. The risk is only exacerbated when coupled with the size of the toaster oven, making most standard baking near to impossible. Any recipe I take on will likely need to be divided down to Lilliputian proportions to be done right in this kitchen.

A good cake recipe seemed like the best idea, weather be damned, and could probably be modified to make some delicious cupcakes. A Chocolate Stout Cake recipe came highly recommended by my vibrant Irish relatives as a rich, creamy, subtly sweet cake. I have made the recipe several times for special occasions; it produces a three-layer masterpiece that stays moist forever and is enjoyed by people who do not even like dessert. It made sense to make such a crowd-pleaser as my first toaster oven baking attempt. With back episodes of “Mad Men” on at full volume for inspiration, I halved the required ingredients, sent Ben out for provisions, marveled at the fact that my kitchen-phobic sweetheart had a cupcake tin, and hoped for the best.

The batter smelled wonderful as they baked, but something seemed off when I licked the spoon. It didn’t taste sweet enough. The entire purpose of this recipe is to create a more savory cake, but this seemed too unsweetened. Perhaps my math was off as I attempted to halve the ingredients and watch Jon Hamm at the same time (no small feat). Perhaps it was the ingredients themselves.

Ben followed my shopping list to the letter, with three minor judgment calls that I feel vastly affected the outcome of the cupcakes. First, he chose light sour cream instead of standard sour cream. I am all for making decadent recipes healthy, but cake is hardly the place to start cutting calories. Second, he brought home salted rather than unsalted butter. I did enough calculations to make a chemistry professor proud so I knew how much salt to take out of the recipe while breaking even on the recipe’s requirements. I don’t know whether it was the stoichiometry equations or the hot plate that shot me back to memories of college laboratory science, but either way I am pretty sure that my reminiscing made me get the calculations wrong.

Finally, and I think most importantly, Ben brought home Guinness Extra Stout instead of the standard variety. He thought this would end up being a bold move on the part of the recipe, giving it an extra kick, and I completely agreed. As I drank the remains of the beer while the first batch of cupcakes baked, though, I got the distinct impression that the Extra Stout would be too yeasty for this cake. I also suggest that if you try this recipe, indulge in the best quality cocoa powder you can afford. Our local supermarket only had one brand to offer us, so we did not have the luxury of choice, but I am curious to see how the flavor would have turned out if I had used Ghiradelli or Scharffen Berger. It will take a few more rounds of this experiment to determine the biggest problem with the batter, but I have strong feelings that the altered ingredients are to blame.

Just as I suspected, the finished cupcakes were good but definitely leave something to be desired. They tasted less like cupcakes, and as a result of the taste and texture seemed a good deal more like chocolate bread. My taste testers all had polite comments for the cupcakes, which may be proof that I need a more critical set of laboratory rats. I fully intend to repeat this experiment as soon as the weather brings a longer cool streak, but when I do I will tweak one ingredient at a time, rather than three.

A Cave Girl and Her Tools

Before I could cook anything, I had to know how the "kitchen" tools would limit me. I realize that my environment will make any recipe a challenge, but there are some which are impossible without special tools. Most of my high-grade equipment stayed behind in California due to space restrictions; I brought only my five-piece Calphalon cookware set that my mother gave me, plus some dishes and silverware. I am down to the basics.

Ben's cave of a kitchen was woefully under equipped, but he had a bit of gear to nicely supplement mine. All of his equipment came from encouraging family members and one particularly fruitful divorce*, but it had done him hardly any good. The greater part of his cave kitchen had gone to waste as he is fatally allergic to any kitchen activity.

Aside from basic utensils and flatware, my available tools are listed here. My gear is in italics, and Ben's gear is in standard type. New additions to our inventory will be added in bold type as we get it, along with the date

One Euro-Pro toaster oven
One Toastmaster Buffet Range hot plate
One General Electric hand mixer with two sets of whisks
One Calphalon 1 qt. saucepot
One Calphalon 2 qt. saucepot
One Bialetti 2 qt. saucepot
One Calphalon 3 qt. saucepan
One Calphalon 6 qt. saucepot
One Cookmate 7 qt. saucepot
Two Syscoware 7-inch non-stick frying pan
One Calphalon 10-inch non-stick frying pan
One Chefmate 10” non-stick frying pan
One non-stick muffin tin, made for six muffins
Two Ikea Drälla cutting boards
One 6” x 9” x 1.5” non-stick baking dish
One 6” x 9” non-stick baking tray
One set Oneida measuring cups and spoons
One four-piece Ikea Hake knife set
One Oxo spatula
One Good Cook cheese grater (Added 2 August 2009)
One Oxo meat pounder (added 14 August 2009)
One Cuisinart dual blender/food processor (added 25 December 2009)
One 8-quart Crock Pot (added 28 February 2010)
One Chefmate electric skillet (added 28 February 2010)

*Special thanks to Tiffany Sarasin VanderZanden for being a such a good sport when Ben unceremoniously dumped her in May 2005. Thanks for the kitchen gear!

Spartan Lab: CREPES

Cooking breakfast for Ben on weekdays always sounds like a good idea until he shakes me awake at 5:45. I have taken to making strong, bitter Irish tea the night before, so all Ben needs to do is pour me a cup and head to the shower. I am rarely creative when groggy, so Ben can always expect some form of eggs with sausage and bell peppers. He has a choice of omelets, breakfast burritos, English muffin sandwiches, and little else from Monday to Thursday (his office provides red fruit goo pastries for free on Fridays).

I have been distracted as well: my brother Ryan is getting married on Saturday to a wonderful woman. I catered her surprise birthday party in June and Ben played photographer, after which we drove until 3:30 am to get back to Eugene. I planned to do tropical fruit crepes with a vanilla rum sauce for dessert until I realized that I had never made crepes before. I had no idea how much finesse they required, so I chickened out and chose cookies with ice cream and the aforementioned rum sauce (which was extraordinary, by the by).
It goes without saying that I would do anything for my brother. You can imagine my disappointment, then, that my layoff left us with too little money to afford the trip down. With a sadly free weekend and Ryan in every thought, I took Saturday to experiment with crepe recipes. I chose a simple dough recipe (omitting the jam) and made a variety of fruit fillings to test my skill. If all went well, I could make them for Ben as a departure from yet more eggs.

Even in my Spartan kitchen I was able to whip up some fantastic crepes. The dough is easily assembled and only needs two minutes at medium heat to complete, making it a simple dish. It is also a versatile enough dough to accommodate many different fillings. Omit the two tablespoons of sugar for more savory fillings, such as meat and cheese. Add one teaspoon of vanilla extract and the taste is even more delicate for stronger, more acidic fruits. Either dough can keep overnight for future use as a delightful breakfast.

Our banana blueberry crepes (1/3 cup blueberries and ½ banana, mashed together with a fork in a bowl) were creamy, comforting, and had a slight bite from the blueberries. The pineapple required some slight grilling, per the tropical crepe recipe, and played well against the sweet, strong rum sauce. The shining star, though, was the raspberry peach crepe (1/3 cup raspberries mashed with ½ sliced yellow or red peach). The flavor is luscious against the soft vanilla crepes, and the colors look like a sunset in Maui. Ben is thrilled to have the remainder of the crepe batter made for him this week.

On a side note, my most heartfelt congratulations go to my brother and his adorable new bride. They can expect a prince’s ransom in crepes as soon as I visit them in California.

Girl meets Hot Plate

My passion for good food is life long. Some of my earliest photos are in the kitchen with my mother. She has always been an excellent cook, and still dreams of giving up law to run her own bakery or catering business. I learned most of what I know of cooking from watching her bring Seville and Tuscany to our table. Even if we had no money I could always count on something delicious to eat. Frugality, she said, was no excuse to abandon good taste.

The rest I learned from my father, who owned a small organic farm north of Napa Valley’s gourmet splendor. He taught me large and involved recipes from scratch, always eager to instruct. Because of them I developed a love of cooking for others, and extravagantly so. A door was always open and a plate was always set for anyone hungry or lonely. Love in my family is expressed in the kitchen.

I fell in love seven years ago in the usual way: in a grocery store. I was eighteen, new to Oregon. Ben was a lifelong Oregonian on the way to a geek party. I introduced myself and he all but hid under the grocery cart. We became friends anyway, and tried a relationship only after I had moved back to California. Like the car accident that forced my return, our long distance relationship crashed and burned.

We reconnected in late 2008, and by June of 2009 I was preparing to move to Oregon. Both Ben and I had unrealistic expectations about the move: I would find a job in days, we would move out of Ben’s studio apartment after my first paycheck, and I would recreate Napa in my gourmet kitchen night after night.

Life, however, is rough around the edges. I was laid off from a job after a month, and I had a harder time making friends than I ever had before. We had no chance of moving this summer, even if I found a new job immediately. We were stuck for an indefinite time in a studio apartment with one window and no air conditioning. Ben’s bachelor “kitchen “was equipped with just a hot plate and a toaster oven. California, despite all of its economic problems, seemed like paradise lost.

With no job, no friends, and no creative outlet, I began to lose hope. My mother could hear my voice grow bleaker and bleaker with every phone call. One day I told her about how much I hated the kitchen, and how no good food could ever come of it. Suddenly, the tone of her voice changed. “I think it can,” she said. “I think if anyone can figure out how to make gourmet meals with a hot plate, you can. I heard that Ina Garten (the host of Barefoot Contessa on Food Network) had only a hot plate on her honeymoon in Europe, and it made her into the cook she is today. This is an opportunity to be resourceful. Make this a fun challenge, not a destructive one.”

So I did. I took stock of my “kitchen”, said a quick prayer, and The Hot Plate Gourmet was born.

Thanks, Mom.