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Gais. SRSLY. I shouldn’t be able to make stuff like this.  Look away, it’s pornographic! This is butternut shrimp scampi with rosemary linguini and nearly-garden peas. Parmigiano-Reggiano wisps atop for extra slut points. This shouldn’t have occurred in my brain. It’s too advanced. Hold me! If I do anything like this ever again, I’ll have to learn to cook for more than just me. And that’s just terrifying. We’ve already established that Jacques Pepin is a boss. And his pimp, Julia Child, kept her pimp-hand strong by letting us all know that, “a well roasted chicken is the sign of a really fine cook.” The problem, however, is that I’m notorious for completely messing up every roast chicken I attempt. Always overcooked, always bland. Always horrifying.  GBD Not this time. Seriously, this is a huge, momentous occasion here. A roast chicken is incredibly difficult to pull off. It’s one of the few things that even having quality ingredients can’t fix. Sadly, roasting chicken is all about technique. And when I say technique, I really mean to say forget all that nonsense your Better Homes and Gardens cookbook told you about minutes per pound and doneness temperature.  Lies! Lies and slander! The only way to not screw this up, is to monitor temperature constantly. Then not freak out when you realize that you have to remove it from the oven (or other roasting apparatus) earlier than the FDA recommended 165F. Rebel against my government? How dare I! The idea of 165F is that, at said temperature, death to bacteria is nearly instant. The side effect is that, 165F has the horrible side effect of ensuring dry, terrible poultry. And if you wait till 165F to remove your food from the oven, it can and will overcook due to carryover before you can get it to the table. If we do some research, we find that bacteria death begins at a much more reasonable 135F. It takes longer, but they’ll die. Thus, a more civilized plan is to find a chickenmonger whom is trustworthy, and cook it accordingly. That is, take the bird to 145F, tent, and allow carryover to do it’s dirty work. But it didn’t hit instant death temperature you say? Not to worry. Tenting with foil and resting for a half hour or more will keep considerable heat going for a long amount of time. The chicken you see above sat tented for 45 minutes before I carved, and it still burned my fingers anytime I got near the flesh. This implies the internals of that chicken sat at well above beginning death temperature for at least 30 minutes, easily killing off any bacteria that may have been clinging. Thus, insanely moist bird, insanely safe to eat.  That’s a breast that would make Janet Jackson proud. I know you want that. Quite seriously, all I did was salt the outside of the bird, cram onion and lemon into the cavity, and roast till my probe thermometer beeped at 145F. Rest for 30-45 minutes and carve. That’s it. And yes, somehow, I’m still alive. I will admit that I did get this bird from Jonas Raber Quality Poultry (through my Fresh Fork Market CSA), and was well raised and dispatched. Armed with some solid information and science, we certainly can get cocky about our chicken roasting. And I suggest you do; nothing tastes better than success. EDIT: Several readers have mentioned that I neglected to share the roasting temperature. The chicken entered the oven at 400F for 10 minutes to crisp the skin, then dialed back to 350F until the thermometer beeped. I’ve heard other strategies that involve doing the inverse of this: start at a lower temperature and then turn up the heat at the last few minutes. A reasonable idea, but I suspect poultry thermal management would be more difficult. Hey, you! Yes, you! What’s that you’re drinking there? Does it simultaneously taste like fine, malted barley and smoked ham? If yes, then I like the cut of your jib. If no, then I must ask, why the hell not? Surely there can be no more gentlemanly a combination than a fine scotch and a fine smoke? And for those who feel so inclined, there is the possibility to combine the two into a single tasting experience. With, say, Bowmore 12 Year. That’s right—I sense your thoughts. “Why, I do enjoy chasing a bite of delectable Westphalian Räucherschinken on thick-sliced rye with a bracing dose of a fine single malt scotch.” That’s what you’re thinking if you’ve done it before. And if you haven’t, then (unless you are insane), I will assume that you are thinking “why, I surely would enjoy chasing a bite of delectable Westphalian Räucherschinken on thick-sliced rye with a bracing dose of a fine single malt scotch.” I bring this up because this is a peated malt, which means that it has a flavor somewhat reminiscent of smoked meat added to more normal scotch, aka amazing. You see, drinking a glass of Bowmore is pretty much like drinking a glass of awesome. Just smelling it makes you want to put on your best Sean Connery voice and march around your home shouting its name at the cat (which will surely appreciate what’s going on even if it doesn’t act like it). In fact, why don’t you give us a hand, Sir Sean?  Who, me? Well alright then, Bowmore!
Now, to keep you further entertained while you work on your Scottish brogue, here are some fun facts!
1. The Bowmore distillery is located on the shores of Loch Indaal.  Oh, fuck this Cold War shit. Baldwin! Shet a course for the Isle of Islay! 2. It is considered one of the oldest distilleries in all of Scotland.  I already told you: in 1779 I will be getting drunk in Shcotland, not flouncing around France or America or wherever. Now don’t ashk me to come with you again or I’ll cut you for sherious. 3. Bowmore 12 Year’s extra smokey flavor comes from peat fires being used to dry the malted barley.  Do you know what elsh peat can do? Presherve human remains. Now get me a shcotch before I tosh you in a bog! 4. The excess heat from the distillery is channeled over to heat a nearby public swimming pool.  Remember that aweshome shwimming pool shene in “Thunderball?” After filming it I invited the sharksh over to my plashe for drinksh and we all deshided not to show up in that piece of shit “Live and Let Die.” 5. In September of 2007 a bottle of Bowmore 1850 was sold for £29,400.  I think I have a new plan, Cage. We poishon the terrorishts, take the money ourshelves, and buy two, maybe three bottles of shcotch with it, okay?
And yes, the thing about peat preserving people in bogs is totally true. To learn more, just click here. But be advised: you may find that a nice, soothing scotch helps to calm your nerves after viewing some of the stuff that shows up in there! When you start with quality ingredients, it’s shocking how little is necessary to make something incredible. This heirloom tomato, for example:
This requires salt and a mouth in which to stuff it. That is all. And yes, my favorite bamboo cutting block has huge gouges in it. I only use it for vegetables and bread. Big whoop, wanna fight about it? But, there is another way. Yet again, it’s a triumph of simplicity. Heirloom tomato and avocado salad. It looks like this:
This is 2 small avocados and 1 small heirloom tomato tossed with the juice of half a lime, salt, pepper and a few sprigs of cilantro. It required 5 minutes of real, actual effort, then 30 minutes of hanging out. No magic, just stir, plate and…well, don’t even bother with dirtying another plate for you will eat the entire thing. Meddling is for Scooby-Doo, not prime produce. I’ve received a whole lot of shit over the last few weeks regarding my attitude toward zucchini; vile, squelchy, vindictive zucchini what tries to hide itself wherever I choose to eat. Enough I say! Stop hiding it places! Enough with it always! Let us be honest with each other: zucchini itself has absolutely no flavor. It is but a husk: a failed life form. It yearns to become more than itself, yet cannot. Alas, in its most triumphant of sizzles, it hardly browns; nay it falters, then vindictively leeches biblical amounts of water into one’s primavera. Prove me wrong, I dare ye fellow eHos. The zucchini, as a species of vegetation has nothing to bring to, well…anything that can be considered cuisine. We keep trying: use it to replace noodles in lasagne, or hide it in places we assume no one will find it. “But, you’ll never notice it!” Nay nay, it’s not an ingredient, it’s a goddamned flavor black hole. If flavor passes too close to its event horizon, said flavor becomes but a lost memory. Don’t let others suffer as we have. I’ve got a new obsession. And it’s kinda like big butts in some of the more obscure dialects. But I cannot lie. In fact, it’s called Lucky Peach (Momofuku if you nasty), and it’s contents are collected by the wonderful bunch over there at McSweeney’s and a few other guests. It occurs quarterly and looks a little like this:
Why am I obsessed with this tabloid? Well, I’ll let you be the judge.
I’ve really yet to dig my nails deep into it’s spine, but my initial scans thus far shows it to be essentially food pornography for the literarily inclined. Tender. Moist. Golden brown and delicious. I expect there will be more to say about other issues once I’m finished thoroughly enjoying their respective contents. Yeah. That’s it.
As much as I enjoy grocery shopping, said task properly executed is an endeavour that must be undertaken with great patience. It is a task that cannot be accomplished in an hour by any craft that we here possess.  It’s black gates are guarded by more than just the Salvation Army bell ringer. There is evil there that does not sleep. In fact, I’m fairly sure it’s evil causes the glut of mushy produce and low-quality animal slices that adorn its shelves. In my constant research of new places and ways of which to fill my gaping maw, I stumbled quite luckily upon a new way of procuring foodstuffs. The CSA: community supported agriculture. The concept is simple: an industrious smattering of people who are passionate about supporting local farms and businesses sell “shares” of the goods able to be procured from the farms which would ordinarily be difficult or impossible for an individual to buy on one’s own. They pack it into bags, and send it out to a grateful public. Again, stressing all local. Here in Cleveland, one of the more well established CSAs is Fresh Fork Market, from where I chose to this year partake. There’s a whole bunch around, but this one seemed well established, had a healthy following, and delivered close to home (and eventually to my workplace!). When week one arrived, I received a bag containing this:  It’s an extravaganza! Because I’m a glutton, and thoroughly enjoy preparing food nearly every day, I chose the Large Omnivore bag. Which provided me with everything I wanted and more. I mean, seriously. Look at this stuff. In particular, the strawberries nearly made me soil myself with joy (yes, Ohio strawberries are absolutely that good), and the chicken, oh, the chicken. It had color. Flavor. Texture. Unfortunately no giblets…but oh, the crispy skin… The real joy here is that, I’m getting all this amazing stuff delivered to me, for 41 bucks a week. First off, that’s 10 (or more) bucks less than I spend per week in any given supermarket. For food that is of spectacular quality and freshness. With the added bonus of, if I ever want to know more about where my food came from, I just ask the guy on the delivery truck. Friends, it is that good. And then it got better. Today was week number two.  My countertop runneth over! I mean seriously, they have a story behind the black beans! Berkshire pork chorizo! …Zucc…actually the zucchini can go fornicate itself with an iron pole, but other than that… That. Delivered every week. For less money than shopping in the supermarket. Truth be told, these same prices can be had at proper farmers markets in probably every city around the country. But if you can get it delivered, plus want to challenge yourself with oddities such as kohlrabi, there’s nothing that’s going to be more fun in the kitchen. You’ll be eating what’s in season and what’s good right now. Find a CSA near you, or make friends with your local farmers. You get quality foods and support the local economy. It pays off in every possible way. Buckle on your party pants men–and I do mean MEN, because boys are not allowed–this train is leaving the station at a speed most human minds cannot even begin to comprehend. White Dog #1 in not your standard whiskey. It is not even your standard booze. It is an apotheosis of moonshine, a fusion of corn and alcohol suitable only for the most enlightened degenerates. So let me give you the quick and dirty explanation, because that’s how drinking this will leave you feeling. That and good. White whiskey is what you get after the distillation process but before the aging process. That means it’s had no time to do things like settle, mellow out, develop complex flavors, colors and aromas or generally turn into a beverage suitable for normal human consumption. It’s pretty much proto-whiskey. It is to whiskey what crude is to gasoline. And if you’re averse to strong drink, are the sensitive sort, or are even just an average person (which—let’s face it—really amounts to nothing more than a sweet tea swilling, limp-wristed, yellow-bellied bootlick in this context) it is not for you. In fact, if any of the things in the previous sentence can be used by anyone to describe anything about you in any way, you should probably stop reading this article right now and just go home, sit in the corner and weep while bemoaning the undeniable curse of spinelessness that is part of your genetic lineage, you sniveling invertebrate. If, on the other hand, you are the sort who administers tongue lashings to others by the simple virtue of opening your mouth, can grate cheese not only with your abs but your beard as well, and would let another man kick you in the groin just so you could laugh at his sissy wailing after he breaks his ankle on your cast-iron testicles, then please, I invite you to read further. So, I hear a lot of you asking how you check to make sure that your Weicheier have become cojones cojonudos and you’re ready for the next phase? Silly foolsluts—you don’t! If you’ve got the bronze orbs required for this beverage, you’re already well aware of it. So either pour yourself a glass or piss off!  You. Tonight. As we have previously discussed, Jaques Pepin is a boss in the kitchen. Henry Phillips is not Jaques Pepin. But Henry’s Kitchen may just be the ultimate cooking show of our time. He manages to cover every single element that seems to be mandatory in turn-of-the-millenium food programming from the irrelevant anecdotes to the nonsensical musical montages to the cheesy VH1-esque “tips” that pop up in the corners of the screen to compliment his narration. It’s like his brain is a giant blender and he managed to pour every douchey Travel Channel, Food Network and Public Access TV host into it, reduce them all to their most primal, elementary particles and then vomit it all out again in the form of a riveting milkshake of despair that takes less than 5 minutes to consume. I love it. There’s an awful lot of talk about food additives, flavorings, colorants, and thangs that are added to foods, beverages and whatnot. I’m shocked. Oh, sorry. I forgot to add the sarcasm tags around my sarchasm (ha!). There’s a lot of things added to processed foods that we totally don’t need anymore. Preservatives aren’t needed when we can just stuff the item in the freezer. Red Number 5 is just gross. The evil continues. I’m not sure what we’re gaining by pumping our foodstuffs full of unnecessary anything. Tasty things taste good already. That being said, I hear a lot about this “high fructose corn syrup” (which for brevity I shall now call “HFCS“) these days. I hear how it’s destroying us all. And it is. But why? Well, let’s first get down to basics. HFCS is a combination of water and the sugars glucose and fructose. Fructose being the sugars that are in our friends, fruits such as apples, beets, oranges, kumquats, what have you. Glucose being the sugar we produce through natural digestion so we can fuel our cells. It’s completely innocuous. Except it’s sugar. And it’s in goddamned everything. Seriously, read your labels. Why, oh why, does my peanut butter require HFCS? And, there’s no need for it in my jar of of marinara, as the whole point of tomato sauce is to have some acidity. Frankly, I have no beef with HFCS. At all. There’s nothing wrong with it. The problem is that we overuse it. If anything needs a thicker texture, throw some HFCS at it. Needs some sweetness? Fucking HFCS. Want it to live on a shelf for a thousand years? HFCS! What the fuck are we doing adding so much sugar to everything? There’s no reason. If it needs more sweetness, let me add it, KTHXBAI. But I digress. HFCS is sugar. It causes obesity as much as a can of throwback Pepsi does. Let’s not blame the product for something that we need to control ourselves. Yes, it’s in everything, but no one made you eat that snacky cake. Let’s all make some better decisions. Sure, it’s tough to avoid, but the label will set you free. Or, even better, think outside the box. |
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