local winter verde

We've been broke (looking down at belt and tightening one more notch) so now is where we really start paying more attention to the shopping bills and start combing the cupboards for meals. Happy that we put up a lot of stuff this past summer, most particularly in September, it is time for the freezer and pantry to shine. We've been enjoying endless english muffins slathered in jam, but we need to dig deeper into dinners. I had porky goodness on the brain. A roast put in the freezer way-back-when, for occasion just such as this came to mind. Mmmmm, chile verde. Local ingredients, our hard work at food preservation, and craving for succulent pork shoulder in a mouth watering green sauce all came together. It was a Dark Days Challenge inspired: Winter preser-verde dinner.

Pork shoulder and meat stock from the freezer. Tomatillo sauce from one of those crazy canning sessions. More from the pantry in the form of whole wheat flour and homemade salt (not much left these days, might be time to make some again) are ready for dredging the meat before frying it in olive oil and ploppin' in the crock. I just love cooking like this. Defrost, powder, brown, braise. I can handle that. When the weather is cold and damp, nothing says loving like braised pork shoulder.

(sluuuuuurrrp!) Lookin' good!
Green, chunky, seedy. That's pretty darn verde to me. It was now time to work on the rest of the meal as this stewed for a few hours and shrank in volume. Not really due to evaporation but as a few pieces of pork are sampled throughout the process. Who can deny this delight in such braising events? Not me. Nope, and an unh-uh. Can't do..........

And the final result?

Mmmmmmm!
Yeeeooowww!
Hooooo-hooooo-hoooooo-hooooooooo!!!!!!!!


It felt so primal and good to enjoy this feast. Hot, local, porky and all. I enjoyed the feeling so much I had seconds. Which, come to think of it is more like thirds or fourths after all the tasting during the cooking. Mmmmmm, here's to no self-control in the kitchen around braised meat!

And wait, I can't forget to give credit a bit here. This verde sauce was lacking in heat compared to another batch I made. In subsequent leftover helpings I gave it punch by adding a few crumby pickled peppers (that you don't even want to know what I had to do to get my hands on a jar of) to the dollop of local sour cream. The first bite and right there it went over the top.......off into that: I will remember how this tastes right now and forever, vowing to recreate it with future frustration and never quite get there kind of dishes. Those ones are tricky. Could have been the moon cycle, the humidity and day of the week that all conspired. For sure, the peppers kicked ass. Well, I won't forget to mention the produce and local bounty, but still, for this one, it all came together soooooo well......(licking last bit of sauce off fingers as I finish typing this..........)

curing bacon

We have a lot of stickers around here. Stuck to just about anything it can seem sometimes, while others, like these, oh-so-deliberately placed. A nice little dancing diorama constructed on the edge of the art and craft table. (You know what they say about idle little hands.) But this little scene makes me think of how just four and a half short years ago I never ever thought it possible for one person to have a wardrobe that is nearly completely pink. Tutus have been in. Pink of course. Worn at the very least every third day, at some point, but typically daily. Lots of pink swirly prancing about, that I now accept completely as part of my daily life. A part of it reminds me of life in the Castro when I was in college. But, like wow, talk about a whole 'nother post.

Anyway, this past holiday season brought many viewings of the Nutcracker. Combining the tutus and all with a date to the SF Ballet production, we now have a self-proclaimed ballerina. Well not just one, as apparently the girls in our family are. Since the wee one tends to stand on his toes when he is upright, I've been joking and calling him a ballerino. Girlie monkey informed me that he couldn't be because he was a boy.
"Oh, really?" I asked.
"Yeah, mommy and me have the ballerina gene.........but I don't think you do daddy."
"Well, you have me there kid, I'm not much of a dancer."
"Yeah with those BIG feet!" she chuckles.
"Uh, right. So, I guess because mommy has the gene and you came out of her, then you must have gotten it from her!"
"Yeah!" squeeled at about 100db, which during the final second went inaudible, likely on into the dog whistle range.
"Well, maybe since your brother came out of mommy too, then he could have the ballerina gene?"
I was just dying to hear her response.
"Yeah, maybe," she sighs.
"Yeah, maybe?"
"Yeah.............but I don't think so. Because he just kind of hops around and doesn't really dance. I'm pretty sure he got that gene from you."
For four, that's a good grasp on genetics. But this isn't about genes, its about that dancing and prancing about that accompanies little ballerinas. So when I say I heard a loud crashing sound coming from the monkey's room last week you'll know the background.

It was supposedly "quiet time," which is anything but in her room, but outside of it in the rest of the place it can actually be nice. Not quite quiet, but tame for sure. So there I was in the kitchen when I heard a loud crash and resultant spill of toys, followed by a uuuhhhh, uuuUUUUUAAAAHHHHHH, UUAAHHHHH, AAAHHHHHHH!
AHHHH! AHHHAHHH!
D-D-DAAAAAAADDDEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!
Oh shit! Time to step away from the oven and sprint into the other room while simultaneously yanking the lil' one from his high chair and putting him on the floor where it is safer. The elder monkey makes it to me first and is pointing at her chin and whimpering, tears all down her face and wetting the floor.
"Oh sweetie, what happened? Did you smack your chin?"
"Uhhnnnhhh, huhhnnn. Muh-muh-my.........ch-ch-chin."
"Ohhhhh honey, let me see." She lets me check it out and there is a mark under it, but more importantly there is blood in her mouth. "Let me check out your teeth, are they okay" I get out, not waiting for an answer while starting to open her little mouth and have a look. Everything looks good in there. Oh wait, here it is, she punched a hole in her bottom lip when she went down on her face, despite what looks like her chin absorbing most of the blow.
"Looks like you smacked your chin pretty hard and bit your lip pretty good honey. What do you say lets go get your boo-boo bunny for that huh?"
"Yuh-yeah," said with the lips still trembling and the tears slowed down to a trickle.

I look in the fridge and don't see the bunny. I open up the freezer and start looking around. "Sweetie, I can't find the boo-boo bunny, maybe we'll have to give you some frozen peas or something to put on your chin," I say while moving items out of the way and digging around.
"Daddy, we could use that bacon for my chin. I think that would make it feel better."

Anybody fail to see the logic in that one? If so, sorry. Well, okay, here I'll try. My explanation would go something like: to my daughter, bacon can function like a security item, much like a blanket. When she is in pain, she wants security. When she is in pain and needs some icing to keep down the swelling on something, then frozen bacon it is. Sounds like the ultimate fix, mollifying the coolness and comfort needed in the situation with one fix. I'm proud of that kind of thinking in my off-spring.

After twenty minutes of holding it to her face and repeating in a four-year-old version of Homer's voice "mmmmmmm, bacon," I decided it was time to put the bacon on the inside of that chin for some more therapeutic uses. I fried it up. The monkey requested some, citing "oooooh, some nice crispy bacon will definitely make my chin feel better!" She ate about three pieces, making this disclaimer with each piece until I said we needed some to put into our dinner. We had some sweet pea linguine, dry jack and half-n-half just waiting for a cream sauce. I carmelized some onions in the bacon grease, then sauteed up our cauliflower and carrots in the mess thinking I'd hide them in the sauce and kids would love it. I tossed the remainder of our bacon in and hoped it was enough, thinking at the very least it would taste like it was in there whether we saw it or not.

We dished up and sat down.
"Eeeww! That's yuck!" was the response from the elder monkey. She has really been experimenting with this one, saying it even when she eats all of what she had such disgust for. H and I looked at each other and said in stereo cool, more for us then. The wee one seemed to like it just fine, especially the creamy bacony noodles. Elder monkey managed to eat some of the creamy cauliflower. We were all happy the bacon did it's job at being a healing agent. The curative power of bacon. Who knew.

The next morning I was cleaning up and the monkey requested that we have some bacon again. I picked her up to show her that there was no more in the pan, and that although she can smell bacon, it was just hardened fat.
"What's that?" she asked.
I looked at the greasy image and thought I saw something.
"That?" Looking at the forks crossing fat mold. "Oh, I think that's where the bacon fairy must have spent the night."
I pictured the little thing all snug in the grease for the night, and then prying her little self away to fly off in the morning.......

I guess no matter how much anyone tells you, there is no way to really get across how much your world will be changed by your children.

Especially when it yields such tasty dinner.

austral thoughts:

Ahhhhhh........

It's one of those California days where it's sunny and mild, right smack in the middle of winter. My thermometer says 67 in the backyard, all protected from wind and alive with hummingbirds. The pineapple sage is abloom. Rosemary too.

Still. There was frost on a few cars this morning and despite the afternoon highs, night has a chill. It's puny by comparison to other environs, but this my friends is winter for here. So, for yummy goods this time of year, well, I guess it's time for something preserved and winter-like. Sauces, jams, chutneys. Beer. But, beer is good in summer too, right? In fact, it's all good in summer.

Didn't you wish it was summer? You could be there you know. Now. Call this a blatant ploy to get you to read my friend Leena's blog. It is. But it's also really about asking you to go here, read about what she needs to complete a Masters in Gastronomy, and then do her the favor and take her survey. It is a matter of life and limb I'm afraid, and if you don't take the survey then pooh-pooh on you. Think: If the Wrangler only knew, he'd be over here breaking my knuckles or something else they probably do to folks in Chicago where Leena is from. Right now. Come on, doesn't the thought of cracked limbs scare you into action?

Wait, I'll one-up myself here and say that if you have not taken the survey, then don't even read any more of this post. Please, exit now. Either take the survey for your own health and the future health of your knuckles, or go home.

This is for scholarly reasons. I'm letting you know right now because time is at a premium. Leena needs your help right now. Your help and input concerning U.S. based food blogs and the effect they may or may not have on traditional U.S. print food journalism. If you are a U.S. resident and have any opinions and/or thoughts about this topic, go take the survey. If you don't, then just go take the survey. If you have not taken the survey yet, and you attempt to read beyond this point, you will explode. Totally and really. Explode, like KA-POW!!!! (Which, by the way, is like, waaaay more excruciating to go through if your knuckles have already been mangled)

If you reside outside the U.S, then, and only then are you exempt. Well kinda, but you still have to go persuade your friends in the U.S. to take the survey. Or you too will explode. Pretty please, with sugar on top? Y'all have through January 28th to pull it together and let her know what you think. Do it.

Well, now, I really hope you do explode, mangled-knuckles-and-all, if you have made it this far in this post without taking a moment for the survey.

Please?..............Take it!

And just in case you think that being a family member, friend, neighbor, or someone else who sees me regularly in real fleshy life makes you exempt from taking it, think: no more christmas cookies, beer or cider, or pretty much anything homemade from the Monkey Ranch for you! Until you have redeemed yourself, and convinced me that you did. (And yes, sorry to sound harsh but this includes you Mom.)

And now, for those who have found it in their heart to complete the survey (sorry, one more time for the lame-o's who haven't done it yet) this is for you:

Holy Crap! What do you do with eight pounds of rhubarb?

HELP!!!!!!!!!!

Seriously, this is a ton of the stuff. After the high winds and gnarly weather we had around here the week before last, it was getting on high time to go clear out some of the rhubarb that was quite beat up and torn looking. Turns out that most of the leaves were ripped rather well, but the stalks were just fine. Only a few were cracked. So I went out there and got all abusive and tore off most of the stalks that were anywhere past completely upright. I know from experience that the stuff will grow back in, and thick, in just a few weeks. With some tiny strawberries just showing their cute little selves again, it should only be another month or two until we can make my favorite strawberry crack sauce. Maybe I'll have to try a hand at canning some jam in March this year, but I suppose I'll have to check out the storage we have available first. Time for a garage check.

So there we were, out in the garage. Checking on the produce that needs using, preserved items that need consuming, plus some beer and cider that needs cellaring. I can do something about the produce, and some of the beer, in order to make room, but the rest of the hooch I'll have to put in a box and bury deep within the hardly-used-or-accessed back wall of our "garage." It should be nice and chilly in there, as we treat it as only storage and no one ever opens it with any regularity. Seems to me like it would be a nice place to "seasonally forget" about what alcoholic items are available for raiding. The kind that should "age" rather well that is, and need a form of intentional ignoring.

So, winter time and the living is easy. The garden is showing some promise of potatoes and a few onions at least. The blueberries I planted behind it all are not showing to be any worse for the wear of transplanting. The hops too. They're acting dormant right now, but with some new soil around them and tender loving care they just might produce a little crop this year also. The rhubarb, up front and center will flourish no matter what we do, or don't.



There you have it. A brief glimpse of life in oaktown in the middle of winter. Good eats, good drinks, even a little good gardening. Still, it's summertime somewhere else. Namely for the lower half of the planet. Go check it out, and if you're a US resident who has read all this and STILL NOT taken the survey.........well, I guess you're hopeless in the helping out department. You probably never comment here either, you just read and read and read and probably, every now and then think "this guy is such an ass!" But I'll never know if you don't write. So............

Go ahead, let me know. But more importantly, from now until the end of the day on January 27th, 2008, for US residents, GO TAKE THE SURVEY!!!!!!!!

I'll shut up now. But only if you've taken the survey. If not, I'll see you in your dreams..........

If you have, please let me know you did by leaving me a comment. Consider it a form of bragging to the Monkey Wrangler and whoever else might be crazy enough to be reading any of this. Please, please, please?

persimmon and corn soufflé; californio dreamin' part two

Jan. 12th, 1864
Dear Uncle Garner,

I find myself thinking of you again, as you are the relative that I confide my "new world" produce experiences with; this occasion I made a Kakee soufflé. A "what was that my dear?" you are probably mouthing as reading this. Well, that is right Uncle, a Kakee! It is really a form of a persimmon, somewhat like the ones encountered on my trip through the Ohio River valley, some twenty years or so ago, only this time much larger and easier to deal with if, if I may say so. Anyway, the manner in which these "simmons" (as some call them) came into my kitchen is that an Asian man in the neighborhood, hunched over and hardly able to see toward the horizon (from years of Railroad work I hear, not his current farming ventures) has taken it upon himself to introduce me to these bizarre orange fruits. Upon receiving them, I was in a quandry as to what to call them since he pressed a basket of them into my hand and then proceeded to sneeze. I promptly said "bless you" and placed the gift on the counter. He gave me a look of confusion and began saying over and over what he must have said when I thought he sneezed, with each repetition slower, making a point in pronouncing each syllable sharply: "Ha - Chee - Ya." Seeing my reaction, he quickly smiled, grabbed my hand and began squeezing it as though I were his child, then with a little shrug of his shoulder he spoke in a very reassuring tone and laughingly said "Ka - Kee." I smiled back and repeated: "Kakee!" I can't say why exactly, as both words sat wrong on my english speaking tongue, but I found I preferred Kakee.

I find this new fruit most delectable and very sweet, but with a pudding like consistency that is much too soft for me for wanting to eat out of hand as one would an apple. Maybe making a true pudding with it would be splendid? I had been wanting sweets of late, but my last sack of sugar has been empty for months. Luckily, some relations returning from an area drained by el rio de los reyes had recently given us several jars of honey. I have put this on my corn meal pudding lately, and even spooned it onto toasted pieces of wheat bread. But when I received the Kakee and found I wouldn't be eating much of them uncooked, I thought of combining them with the honey to make a pudding of sorts. With this thought in mind I immediately spoke with my neighbor, a Mrs. DuBois, who seems to have quite the mastery in her own kitchen. She informed me that she had no idea what this "slimey orange pulp in a skin" was, but in a pinch I could at the very least make a soufflé. She then explained how it involves separating eggs and treating the respective parts with the utmost care and attention, yielding divine results both sweet or savory she assures me. The texture of it she described as something we know to be a bread pudding. I was intrigued and made up my mind to try my hand at one. Thus was born the persimmon and cornmeal soufflé.........

now, back to today, or more realistically, two days ago:

So there I was. Staring in the freezer at two cups of frozen orange pulp labeled Hachiya. We had a lot of eggs, a jar of honey on the counter and I was feeling adventurous. I did a search for "persimmon soufflé" and was disappointed with the results. I figured, sheee-iiiit, as a food blogger, I can do something about this. Post a little something, label it accordingly and in the near future, if enough traffic comes my way you will soon be able to use this search phrase and come directly here. Consider it a form of direct action that involves no regard for demographic and whether this recipe is fit for the masses to read on paper. I said to myself: "Self, I will run an experiment. Can little 'ol Monkey Wrangler, use all local ingredients (within 200 miles for this experiment), make a yummy dessert AND have immediate effect on the internet search for persimmon soufflé?" The answer, we shall find out is up to you, the reader.

I had some fun last year about this time, using the voice of a deceased relative, who 140+ years ago lived here as a Californio. It was fun to imagine myself in their shoes with trying to make sense of the "local" ingredients and having to make do in order to feed the family. With the ingredients I chose for this post, I soon realized that this was another great candidate for a similar experiment. All local ingredients, likely available in this part of California mid last century, and made by hand. So here goes nothing.

Have you ever made a soufflé?

They are really much easier than they sound. If you are at all familiar with what an egg can do for you in the kitchen then there really ain't too much mystery about them. Another way to say that is that if you understand the physics and chemistry involved with eggs, this should be easy peasy. I started the whole thing off by taking out my eggs and setting them on the counter to get to room temperature. I gathered up the whole grain products, tasted a spoonful of the honey for calibration purposes, and put my Hachiya pulp in a pot to cook just a touch and then press through a sieve. With everything assembled, I separated the eggs, turned on the oven, and prepped my dish for the fluff.

After much arm breaking whisking, rue making, pudding flop-plopping and the like the experiment was closer to reality. With the fluff carefully placed in the dish and its stiff paper collar in place, I loaded it into the 400 degree oven and hoped for the best. This was a first for many ingredients in a soufflé here at the monkey ranch: sweetened with honey; whole grain wheat and corn used; and pectin thickened persimmon pulp. This was most certainly uncharted territory, that was maybe, just maybe, soon to be charted. Searchable that is.



It worked, it worked!

Well, it wasn't the lightest, fluffiest cloud of egg ever, but considering it was a heavy recipe to begin with, I was most pleased with the results. If you consider yourself a whole grain lover, this is just the thing for you. If you don't, you'd probably think someone just handed you a scoop of bread pudding that must have had some corn bread and graham flour in it.

Well, thank you dear readers for getting through this post. If you are feeling adventurous and really like persimmons, give this a try some time.........

californio kaki n' corn soufflé:

2 cups persimmon pulp
4 large eggs
1/2 c honey
1/2 c cornmeal
1/3 c butter
2 T whole wheat flour
pinch of salt

remove eggs from the fridge at least one hour before doing anything. put the pulp in a pan and cook over medium heat until it plops. remove and press through a sieve into a small bowl. separate the eggs. heat the butter in two quart pot and add the butter, whisking it over medium heat until it bubbles and begins to brown slightly. add the pulp and the cornmeal and stir most vigorously. temper the egg yolks in and cook for another few minutes until a light boil is achieved. set aside and cool to near room temperature. while this is cooling, preheat the oven to 'round fer-hunnerd degrees. prepare your soufflé-appropriate dish and beat the egg whites to a medium peak. casually fold the egg whites into the now tepid persimmon and cornmeal pudding of sorts until almost completely combined. gently and of course still quite casually, guide this mixture into the dish and put into the oven. try not to giggle the oven too much when you first peek at the thing at around 15 minutes into the cooking. somewhere around 20-25 minutes in, the desired brownness will occur and the middle won't be all wiggly-jiggly. remove from the oven and try some before giving to anyone else.........

Hopefully it looks something like this. If not, all I can say is that maybe you should try a real tried and true recipe from a professional! Although I doubt they would make this version, let alone publish something about it, for fear of losing some readers and thus money.

Still, I couldn't find a persimmon soufflé recipe and did something about it. Or so I think, let me know.

Later 'taters! Catch you soon!

santa, chicken bones, fairies and magic

It was christmas eve night at about 9:30pm. We were on the bridge back home enjoying light traffic and happy children despite the late hour and occasion. After a brief moment of silence the elder monkey blurts out: "I see a white sleigh in the sky!"
"You do? Where honey?"
"Over there by the hills daddy!"
"Just above them right there hon?" I pointed to a plane, low in the sky heading southward, making sure to sound convincing and enthusiastic, "Is it the one with the blinking light right there?"
"YEAH!!! IT"S SANTA DADDY!!!!!!!"
"WOOOOWWWOWOW!!!!! That is soooo coool sweetie!"
"YEAHHHHH! SANTA!" she squeels.
"Wow. Santa must have a flashing safety light on the back of his sleigh just like mommy and daddy's bikes huh? You're eyesight is much better than mine but I can sure see the flashing light real well."
"Yeah, Santa has a flashing light on his sleigh so all the airplanes flying around don't hit crash into him. He's being real safe."
"Wow honey, not everyone sees Santa on his sleigh on christmas eve night!"
"Yeah, but I did!"

I've always wondered how old St. Nick gets around safely in such dense air traffic. Thanks to my knowledgeable and eagle-eyed daughter, I now know.

I was working on printing up a list of beer bottles available at a new bar here in oaktown. It specializes in belgain brews and features a few nice 'Merican ones as well. Have you heard of The Trappist? Like, damn, this place is cool. And, it has incredibly high alcohol belgian ales that encourage one to ride their bike rather than drive. I call that a step in the right direction.

In order to do a little homework before going and getting some exercise, I wanted to study-up on what's available, but my printer was acting all funky and paper was getting jammed. After trying three times with no success I finally pulled open the cover to have a thorough look. Nothing out of the ordinary except some tweaked and torn paper shreds. I cleared these and then slammed the cover shut in the prescribed fashion. Out popped a small object about 1/2 inch long and stick like, but with rounded edges and made out of some very light material. Oh crap I thought. Great, some tiny little tab of plastic snapped off and the printer is forever maimed. But the piece wasn't plastic. Or from the printer. It was one of those small chicken bones that always winds up being chomped on while enjoying chicken stewed in a chile verde. Apparently "someone" was not fond of having the bone in their possesion and it mysteriously ended up stuck under the edge of the printer. It reminded me of that maneuver where as a child you take the gum from your mouth and scrape it from your hand onto whatever edge your little fingers find under the folding chair at a family picnic. Only, I don't think anyone was sitting on top the printer while eating chicken verde. In a folding chair. That I know of that is.

But after my discovery, maybe I should look at it again and scan for gum too.

Once, riding the bike over to the farmers' market, the monkey spotted these and said "Look daddy! Christmas puppies!" I almost wrecked the bike laughing so hard.

I was reminded of this the other day, when we dropped H off at work and on the way home saw one of those electrical transformer boxes in Emeryville that are painted with stencil art. There are dozens of them, black shapes on yellow backgrounds. The one we saw was the typical profile view of a person (like the kind used in most crosswalk signs years ago) only this one had wings.
"Hey check out that art work over there; that person has wings!"
"Yeah I think it must be a fairy daddy!"
"You think?" I asked with a twinge of doubt, feeling myself slipping into playing the contrarian.
"Yes, a girl fairy."
"Really? How can you tell?"
"Because it has wings."
"You mean boy fairies don't have wings?"
"No."
"Not at all?"
"Well, they have one tiny little one, but it just flaps around in the breeze is all."
"Oh." I thought about it for a while then asked: "Sounds like it's better to be a girl fairy."
"Yeah, girl fairies are a lot better."

It really is a blessing to be in the presence of a set of eyes that don't have the same filters in place.

Why such big chairs? Well, it's kinda like around here when things happen or a new skill is demonstrated without any clear explanation of how exactly. It usually ends in "It must be magic daddy!"

Like this morning. Not sitting on such a large chair mind you, but unexpected indeed. I was making a dough when the elder monkey asked "Do you hear that Nutcracker music daddy? In the livingroom?"
"No. Do you?"
""Mmm hmmm," she says with a funny smile and then prances off. A few minutes later I walk in and discover that the Nutcracker is coming through the stereo and is about halfway through the performance.
"How did this come on?" I ask.
"I don't know." Said with a little shrug and smile.
"You mean it was just on when you came in here?"
"Yep!" Then she starts twirling around doing her best to be on her tippie toes.
"You sure you didn't turn it on sweetie?"
"Really I didn't daddy. I just used my magic!"

So according to that logic, from now on, all posting about food that contains a recipe will include an attempt to quantify the amount of "magic" that was used.

Call it a new years resolution of sorts.

Didn't think I was gonna get around to posting again, so sorry to sound repetitious but........

Happy New Year Everybody!

christmas tree seeds

We were down in Reedley for a pre-christmas visit and fruit gathering. My father in law asked if I could help him with getting up on a ladder and cutting down a pesky limb on one of the pines "down near the end." We dragged the ladder down to the southwest corner, past the last apricot on the right, and looked between where a handfull of pistachio trees blend into some pomegranates. We spotted our victim and discussed it's doom; deciding where to make the cut and set the ladder in place. I climbed up and found a comfortable branch to hold steady with, envisioning one hand gripping tight while sawing with the other. Then up came the saw, followed by lots of nice satisfying rasping noises, made possible by the blade having been recently sharpened.

Our limb safely on the ground and no longer encroaching on orchard space, my FIL started to gather a few pine cones that had fallen. He handed me one of them and pointed out that a few were loaded with nuts.
"Ah nuts! Cool! Hey, this isn't a pinyon pine, like the ones you gave us before.......a few years back." I remember cracking some and realizing that the nuts were going rancid with age because I took forever in using them and failed to refrigerate them properly.
"Well, this is an eye-tell-yen stone pine, but I didn't plant it. It just came up on its own. In fact all the stone pines around must've come from the first one we got years ago."
Wait a second, did he just say stone pine?
"Are there more cones laying around?" My heart started racing with dreams of local pine nuts. We quickly gathered all that we could find with open scales and exposed nuts, then got to pretending like we were squirrels, dismantling cones and stockpiling the bounty.
"Yeah, that first one was one of those live christmas trees that we got one of the first years here."
"Oh, the one leaning over near the house?" I asked.
"Right, but the birds have been busy spreading it around since I guess" he says with a chuckle.

Thank you birds. It's nice to benefit from your scattering ways. It looked like we had a bunch and I was eager to see what they tasted like. Out in the yard, this would require a few rocks, but then you mash the H - E - double hockey sticks out of them. We would have to wait until we got into the house and used a much more sophisticated tool. Such as channel locks. You can set them so that when the handles are fully squeezed together, the ends aren't touching. This allows you to crack the shell without completely mangling the inside, although at least a quarter still get a nice dent. Simple technology, but hey, I'm a simple monkey.

Inside the house my FIL got to cracking a few and quickly discovered that the majority were empty or shriveled. It was quickly becoming quite disconcerting. He came up with a simple solution. "Maybe if we put them in water, the empty ones will float and we can harvest the sinkers." Frickin' brilliant! I thought, I hope I'm half as sharp as this man is when I'm eighty two! With a little over fifty now on the counter drying after their bath, I began thinking of how best to use this hard earned bounty. Uh, hard earned gift...........um, okay, no euphemisms, how about tiny little bit.

Well, it looked bigger in small hands at least. And next to all them pretty pairs of fairy wings they looked like a divine treat from the heavens. Which considering that they were dropped by birds, and perhaps even while in flight, I was really liking the analogy. The real working amount had still yet to be revealed. With pliers in hand, I set about pinching the crap out of my fingers while shooting small bits of nutty shrapnel about the kitchen. In fact, yesterday, a full five days after performing the task, I found a shelly chunk in my large fry pan that hangs from our ceiling rack.

So there you have it. 53 more or less intact pine nuts, free from their shell and ready for a recipe. My first thought was pesto. But have you seen any fresh basil in my yard lately? That would be no. With the first turn of weather even thinking about winter, and the first night in the upper thirties it quickly becomes that dried stick looking stuff next to the tomatoes. I have some pesto still socked away in the freezer though, so this meager ration was going into the next choice: cookies.

Biscotti to be exact. The ones on the left, pictured above the neapolitans are the anise cookies I've eaten my whole life, but I like to tinker and make vegan varieties. So I used some pistachios, lemon zest, a touch of corn meal, a few finely chopped shards of chocolate, and all 53 pine nuts and did just that. The end result was nice, but needs work. Next time I'm cutting down on the flax and adding more corn meal. Maybe even ditching the chocolate, or limiting it to a thin coating on one side. Then, they might be considered part of the holiday cookie lineup.

Of course, someone has to eat the experiments. I find they go down nicely with a steaming hot cup of joe. At least three or four at a time, I hear. I also hear those pine nuts spoil real fast, so you gotta make sure and eat them while they're fresh. Then enjoying such freshness you'd just have to think about ways to make the harvest of nuts bigger in the future.

Then again maybe I should just sit back, have a second cup, a few more biscotti and not think at all. Let nature run its course, and let the birds do all the work. With some luck, in just twenty or thirty years more time, I'll be making that pesto.


Happy Holidays Folks!
Oh, and while I'm at it I'll say Happy New Year too!
Peace.

naan too soon

Naan experiment 1: Garlic Chevre with Sesame Seeds.

It all started innocently enough. A simple potluck invite and mention of a theme and next thing you know I've volunteered to do naan. That means it was time for a naan experiment, but, the recipes I had in my mind, to try all together somehow at once, called for yogurt and I hadn't any on hand. Or in my fridge. As usual, I had to make do with what was available. I figure garlic naan is good, so some gifted garlic chevre went in with some milk, to go along with the active starter as the liquid component for my dough. My typical ratio of 1/4 whole wheat would be used. The few recipes I read spoke of kneading the dough for longer than five minutes so I assumed that they were after gluten development. I went ahead and pounded away for a while, then set it to rise in the oven.

After an initial floof, I put our pizza stone in the oven and cranked it up to blistering hot. Out comes the rolling pin and begins the thumping and squishing the dough until I work out the thickness I should start with. After the first pinch-ballup-squashandroll maneuver, I slapped the bread on the hot stone and stood back to avoid singing my eyebrows. Looking away I noticed our phone had a message. I pinched-balledup-squishedaround-andflattened the next one and then pulled the tester from the oven. I tore a bit off, shoved it in my mouth and shuffled over and hit play on the phone, hearing a disturbing message that was something to the effect of my cousin Rohan being due any minute. Though I didn't expect him to eat any of the milky-cheesy naan, I full well expected him to scrutinize me in how it was prepared. I began to get nervous. I could hear his first line: "please tell me you're making calzones," or maybe "don't tell me you're making naan!" I then imagined the tirade he would undoubtably launch into when he found out about my yogurt substitution and involuntarily gave a small shudder.

With the first rolled too thin, it fluffed nearly all the way resulting in a pita and was rather dry and thin compared to what I was envisioning. I abandoned my plan for immediate success (like, duh) and pulled out a few hot dogs to nosh on with the sample pieces I'd have to eat. I thought about the rack positioning I had arranged and decided to move the pizza stone to the top for the next round in order to try crisping the naan some. I worked on rolling out a few more, a touch thicker this time, hoping for a more doughy middle and lightly browned top given the new configuration. I got out a little butter and clarified it really quick, brushed the top and sprinkled on some sesame seeds. In went the next round.

With what looked like the best so far in the oven, Ro opens the door without a knock and invites himself in, grabs a beer from the fridge and in a quick maneuver cracks the top with his teeth and spits the cap out. He then pauses to tilt the bottle in my direction and give me a wink and nod, all in a highly practised manner before taking his first swig.
With a raised eyebrow I get: "Smells nice D. But what is that........some type of bread with like, what, goat cheese or something?.......plus some garlic?"
""Yes Ro, I'm making bread." I tried for the distraction move. "Are you well? Is the beer satisfying"
"Bloody well, thank you. And the stout is nice. Much too cold, my clueless American family member, but tasty indeed. Too bad it won't warm up appreciably before I'm through with it." Then lifting his nose and giving the air a prolonged sniff, "Wait, that smells familiar. Are you attempting a naan of sorts my dear cousin?"
"Well......." I didn't know how truthful to be, fearing the scorn and judgement I knew was imminent. I decided to tread lightly and thought that if I said something highlighting it having all this cheese in it, that it might trigger the vegan preferences he sometimes displays, resulting in him leaving it to me. "Yeah, cheesy garlic goaty cheese bread" I blurted.
Instead of the response I'm hoping for he lets out a: "Sounds great!" followed by a brief belly rub and "mmmmmm, goaty cheese bread!"
"So this sounds good to you my vegan cousin?"
"Oh yeah!"

We sampled the next round, me having a sense of accomplishment with my results and my cheery cousin polishing off his beer and moving on to his next without even a nod. I remembered the hot dogs I had boiled earlier and went to reach for one when I sensed scrutiny from behind.
"Are you gonna eat that?"
"No. Simply chew it up and spit it at you, why do you ask?"
"Because it would make a great bagel dog."
"Ro, that's brilliant!" Then I thought about it. "Wait, you want one too?"
"Absoposilutely."
"Does this mean you're taking another carnivorous detour from the veggie highway?"
"Maybe. I just know that right now, this dough would make for one great bagel dog wrapper, and coupled with them fine all veggie hot dogs and a chance to relive a childhood memory while enjoying a warm beery tummy, well, then, how do you Yanks say it, shit damn pardner, sign me up!"
"They are most certainly NOT vegan there Ro."
"But the package said Prather Ranch right?"
"Yeah. And.....?"
"Let us sit and eat. Then I shall explain," he says, reaching for another beer.

So, my wannabe vegan cousin and I sat and enjoyed some bagel dogs. They were way better than anything either one of us had as youths. These were uncured organic free range beef, lovingly wrapped with sourdough garlicky goaty bread and served with a (couple) nice dark beer(s).

"Well D, these are the best vegan bagel dogs I've ever had the fortune of tasting."
"What the......there was nothing vegan about them!"
"Sure there was. You see, if the cows eat only grasses, then this is vegan beef."
"Uh-huh, and what, somehow you're not then actually eating the cow?!?"
"Exactly. If you make hot dogs from cows that are strict vegans, then the meat used is really only a form of concentrated vegetal-mass, especially if you grind it so thoroughly. Meaning that this meal is really 100% vegan!"
"Well, even in the fictitious world of your mind where beef is vegan, the hot dogs would be, but not the goat cheese dough."
"Hmmmm," then a few hmmphs followed by a sigh. "I suppose not the dough. What a shame. Maybe we should have another beer to help commemorate the perfect vegan bagel dog. That very nearly, almost was."
"How eloquently put Ro."
"Right!" Then with a wink and a nod "another stout for you my brother?" then seeing the look on my face " c'mon, they're really good, I know the brewer......."


Notes to self: Really tasty, but really springy dough that is hard to get the right thickness. Maybe I'll try a commercial yeast version and/or knead the dough less next time. Garlic sesame combo works nice. Putting pizza stone near the top can result in radiant heat from oven roof browning the highest portions of the naan (good thing, although if using an electric oven it would probably burn the crap out of it being so close to the heating element). Overall, a good learning experience that warrants at least another experiment.

kitchen noir

Dark, mysterious things have been happening in my kitchen. Like the case of the missing toast:

In the busy life I lead, I am often not able to fully ingest something before my attention is diverted away. In this case, I was about to sit down to a nice slice of toasted baguette when the wee one woke up from a morning nap. I ran upstairs to attend to him, and returned just a few moments later to find these remains. Hmmmmm, in black and white, to make it all the more mysterious......

Well now. If my breakfast is going to disappear I'll just have to do something about it. Sticking with the theme, I pulled out a boudin noir (my new favorite sausage) from the fridge and plopped it in a frying pan. I went to the remains of the baguette and discovered there was enough for a breakfast sandwich. So after frying the sausage, with the pan still blistering hot, in went two eggs. Slice the bread and pop it in the toaster. Spicey mustard in hand, the fixin's were coming together.

Now that is one good looking breakfast sandwich.

Wait.

What the hell? Black and white still? What the f*%@ is going on here?

Can't a guy enjoy his morning sandwich in peace AND color?

Well, it tasted great. Them folks over at the Fatted Calf really know a thing or two about charcuterie. Topped off with local eggs and handmade mustard on a sourdough baguette and I nearly fainted. I could eat this all the time for breakfast. And lunch. Okay, and dinner too, who am I kidding. But I'll still need something to wash it down with. Something black I suppose.

Like a homebrewed black death stout. Who cares if the picture is black and white or not, the beer is black. That's all that matters. Oh, and super yummy tasty. I guess that matters too. There is another gallon or two in the garage, that should in theory, peak in flavor somewhere near the winter solstice. Pffftt! Like it will last that long. (I've really gotta get to making another batch of that stuff, damn it's good!)

Then, with the holidays just around the corner and the prospect of cooking very large sized meals for lots of family and friends, you start looking at all the kitchen implements at your disposal and wonder: do I have a big enough pot to cook that 15-20 pound roast in? I rifle through the pots and pans in the kitchen and none look up for the task. Besides, it's hard to gauge how big such a roast would be in theory. Unless you have such an ample sized "roast" at your disposal.

Looks like an eight-gallon stock pot will work!

Thanks little buddy. Good thing 6 month olds are entertained by such simple things. Like being momentarily sequestered in a large pot while your father day-dreams of enormous quantities of chile verde............

And for the folks worried about child endangerment: calm down. I'm a professional Monkey Wrangler here. I've been on the job for four years and haven't killed anyone yet. There was no active flame under that pot, nor was there one for the previous couple of hours. And just so you know, he loved it. So much in fact that the elder monkey requested she try it out as well.

See you all later. On the dark side of things.

Got any kitchen noir to share?

wrangler in rose

{Note: Fatherhood is the most rewarding task I have undertaken in my life, and equally stressful, quite often at the same time. This post is a recollection of some events that produced such a state. But most importantly, my kids are well and I have survived to tell the tale..........and as with each tale of wandering near the brink, whether of sanity, health or reality, this tale portends of future occurences and long lasting consequences.}


Where am I?

Has it really been a fortnight of wranglin' around in a pastel ruled girlie land; a season of pinks, purples and myriad other shades, where rosie pink has infiltrated everything......



Two weekends ago it all started innocently enough with my desire to feed some farmers. The Ecology Center had their annual Feed the Farmers party and with purple sweet potatoes in the market it was time for that lavender beauty again. This is my favorite way to make cheesecake and the results are fantastic. The color of the finished product has folks wondering what's in it from across the room. When they find out it has sweet potato they usually raise an eyebrow in doubt. Then they try it, smile, and ask you once agin what's in it, because they simply can't fathom how your last statement of ingredient can yield such a tasty and royal colored treat. Or you get the "there's sweet potato in here?" questioning face, followed by the "but it's delicious!?" look of bewilderment. Try it sometime. You'll see what I'm talking about and then you can let me know what you had as experience for reactions to it.

Between making the cheesecake twice, eating some baked sweet potato for lunch twice myself, and feeding it to the wee one a few times as well, I spent each day involved with a lavendar hue at some point. Topped off with the elder monkey's hair having pink highlights, then coupled with her wearing pink and/or a princess dress for a few days on end while prancing and bopping, hopping and stomping around constantly, I was beginning to wonder if my eyesight had been "pink shifted." Like astronomy and universal expansion being seen in the red shift of things and stuff like that. Only closer to home, super girlie, and way pink. Before I realized it fully, my life in rose colored sight and taste had already lasted a week.

After the day of grotesque turkey consumption came the real days of pink though. Big girl turned four. It was birthday season. I thought to myself, Holy crap. I've got a four year old and a 6 month old!! Couple this with our orchids showing signs of blooming again this year and I'm startin' to feel like a real adult!

Plans for the momentous occasion began the previous weeks with late night store runs and the first rumblings of craft work. These were followed by actual progress on requested birthday items as the hours counted down. Last year we had a piñata, so this year we were being held to furnishing another. Only this time, with a preconceived notion of what the realm of possibility was, she requested a spiderbatflamingo. You've heard of one right? The great mythical creature of long ago. The part spider, part bat, part flamingo beast that was feared by some but loved and now revered by my kid. I hadn't heard of one before and was having trouble envisioning such a thing, but it didn't stop me from trying to accommodate her desires. Now the problem was how to find one. "Sure honey, we could have a piñata like that, no problem!" What the hell was I thinking? No one is going to have such a thing. I'll have to make it myself! I can do it!?


Well it only took about four hours of actual work on it, with maybe another ten of thinking about it real hard. It had a black widow body, and bat wings mounted near the intersection of the cephalothorax and abdomen, since I wasn't sure where a spiders wings would go, being that they haven't any. A flamingo neck and head complete with monkey chosen "poisonous fangs" mounted near the base completed the creature. We hung it from our dining room fixture for maximum effect. It was greeted on party morning with a "that's a flamingo spider!" Then after a wing-type question, "with bat wings!"

It was a hit, so to say. The underside of the spider didn't prove too difficult to whack through and the red violin shape was recognized by monkey and most others as belonging to a black widow. It made me think that maybe we have a future entymologist on our hands. Wait, or is that etymologist? Anyway, the treats seemed to trickle out in small handfulls with each turn of abuse. Perfect for the crowd. I was proud of my design, and the stress of the piñata making and the related worry over its ability to function, resulting in a bizarre sense of "performance anxiety," was over. The creature ended thoroughly mangled and empty of candy. My daughter's face was lit up and happy, beaming with the destruction and success. I patted myself on the back and gave my big girl a huge squeeze, feeling myself getting all choked up.......

Two days after the party, and finally a sense of normalcy is beginning to return to the house, after the holiday/birthday/special-nessy of it all. For me, it was time to start paying closer attention to our latest cider. I had managed to procure yet more apple juice for yet more apple hooch, making it three batches so far this year. And I'm proud to report that this time I went and bought the juice without squeezing it myself, thus saving an inordinate amount of time during a season that was lacking already. The juice was fresh pressed, unpasteurized and kept cold for a day. Not to mention, from one hell of a delicious fuji apple. Well, it was from more than one apple obviously, but not more than one variety. I can't wait to compare it in a few months with the rest of the ciders, side by side.

Just when I thought the season of pink might come to an end, I get roped into "let's put some of the foamy stickers on the cider daddy!" Willingly that is. You see, I'm a sucker for my monkey. She's trained me how to be a dad, and she deserves all I can give. I'm proud. And stressed. And comfortable in my masculinity amongst all the girlie-ee. Stickered in pink, even wearing a skirt or ribbons in my hair, I've never been happier in my whole life.

butternut pomegranate pistachio muffins (of Persian influence)

I've been thinking a lot lately, about the role of food in culture, but mainly how it is more important than religion. You can go ahead and argue the point, but the simple fact remains that you need to eat in order to worship. No food means no religion. Given this, and coupled with thinking of myself in the past at times as a zen buddhist with taoist inklings who was baptized as a catholic, I've been considering scrapping any sort of fondness or affiliation with organized philosophies and religions and just start declaring myself a worshipper of food. Who needs a deity when you have pomegranates? Of course, I realize that you can say, "hey, no deity no pomegranates dude," but the point I'm trying to make is that our love of food goes back to a time before our concepts of religion took any formal shape. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that we listened for the breath of God in our daily meal before we ever did in a church. With this in mind, I'll be listening for the divine in some Persian produce.

I've been pawing through a Persian cookbook that my SIL loaned me and I've been struck with how many of the produce items involved are ones that are currently available at market. Nearly every other recipe has pomegranates or pistachios in it somewhere. Butternuts rule the squashes involved in most of the dishes. Reading this and realizing I have this produce and a fair quantity of the spices needed in my cabinet I suddenly felt inspired. A butternut deity from the fridge whispered: "my roasted honey self, on the lower shelf would lend a great undertone to some muffins." A voice from the dried goods drawer rasped: "come to the salted pistachios." As I thought about the voices, another far off in the garage screamed: "HEY! Please pull it together and do something with us!" I guess a few pomegranates were getting some moldy edges, and afflicting others no doubt. It was time to worship.

Out came the Cuisinart. That's always worship. I blended up some pom arils and sieved the pulp. I removed the skins from my roasted butternut wedges that were slathered in honey from a few nights before. To get a nice consistency I blended the pom juice with the squash, then added pistachios at the end and pulsed it a few times to leave some chunky deity in there. I consulted my Persian spice fairy and came up with a blend of cinnamon, cardamon, coriander and black pepper. This was pulverized by my lovely assistant while she chanted "POUND THEM, SQUASH THEM, POUND THEM!" several times and then stopped to begin circumnambulating her brother while he flailed about in the Johnny jump up.

I used the blended mash as the fruit portion in a recipe for banana bread. I pitched in the warm spices we ground and while mixing the batter before pouring into the cups, made sure to include some variance in aril usage for learning purposes. I decided to put some on a couple, some in a couple and then leave the remaining as a control group. Fresh from the oven they looked and smelled very promising, but what would the insides and the final flavor be like? Would the voices be pleased with my treatment of their ingredients?

Although this crappy picture doesn't document it well, I'll tell you here that the texture was fluffy and moist, the spicing nice and the chunks of pistachio right on. The muffin pictured was one with pomegranate arils in it. I found that they worked well, but then again I don't mind eating them whole, without spitting out the seed as many folks do. Cooking them made the seed softer, but probably not enough for everyone. They were very pretty though, and would be even more striking if they were from darker pomegranates. The Persian produce deities smiled and concluded the worship a success.

I'm so glad I listen for the little voices in my produce. They can be inspiring.
What a great way to worship.

sssshhhhhh!................what was that? did you hear something?


UN-BANANA PERSIAN NUTS BREAD or BUTTERNUT POMEGRANATE AND PISTACHIO MUFFINS

based on the old standby Joy of Cooking Banana Bread recipe:

1&1/2 c all-purpose flour (I'm trying using a blend of whole wheat and oatmeal next time)
1 t salt
1/2 t baking soda
1/4 t baking powder
3/4 stick (6 T) room temperature butter
1/2 c granulated sugar (I'll try using about half brown next time)
2 large room temperature eggs
1/2 c cooked butternut squash
1/2 c pomegranate juice
1/2 c pomegranate arils (seeds)
1/4 c pistachios
1/4 t cardamon
1/4 t coriander
1/4 t black pepper
1 t ground cinnamon

combine the first four dry ingredients into a bowl and mix thoroughly. melt the butter and cream in the sugar. by hand if you like torturing yourself/enjoy the workout, or in a mixer for a few minutes until it fluffs up some. oh yeah, use about two medium white pomegranates (the ones that are lighter in flavor and color) for this recipe. you can use the darker more common variety but remember they both taste and stain stronger. take them apart underwater as to separate the membrane from the arils and to keep them from doing the inevitable and squirting all over that light colored shirt that you are no doubt wearing right now. juice most of the seeds (~2/3rds) and use for blending with the squash, keeping the rest intact for topping or adding into the batter. add the pistachios at the end of blending the squash to keep some in larger pieces, or chop by hand and add later. measure the spices into a mortar and pestle and pulverize as finely as your arms allow. if not using freshly ground spices, you might want to add a pinch more. toss the spices into the dry ingredient mixture and add to the creamed butter fluff. mix this until it is all crumbly and sugary looking. crack and mix your eggs into this. when thoroughly combined, fold, that's right I said fold the butternut/pom/pistach blend into it. if you really really like pomegranate seeds and enjoy eating them whole then add the rest of seeds to the batter. line cupcake pans with paper cups and spoon some batter in. bake at 350 for about 25 minutes or until golden brown and done.

favorite english muffins

I talk a lot about english muffins around here. I guess it's fine and dandy and all, but really I'm just full of hot air (as my cousin Ro so delicately pointed out) if I never reveal my sources. Apparently I've never given you the recipe I'm working with. So, contained here you will find my own current favorite version, of the one that my sis sent me an email about after discussing my early sourdough attempts, that started the whole obsession with the totally addictive muffin, that, has now morphed into a thing of deliciousness and beauty. So, besides the issues of transparency and full disclosure of sources, I wanted to write this version down for myself too because no matter how simple a recipe, the "details" will get lost.

If you can get your hands on fresh corn meal, you will be wanting to make these, and soon. Provided you have a sourdough starter. If you don't and live around the bay area, maybe we can talk and I'll give you some. I'm thinking of a sometime in the future, kind of english muffin workshop thingamagig. Otherwise if you want to forge ahead without starter it's up to you, because I've never attempted these with dry yeast, nor do I have any confidence that they will taste the same, so if you do, please tell me about it. And now, for the treats from this year's trick:

My friend Chilebrown, besides being a true bacon aficionado is also a bread fiend, who gifted me some bread flour from his recent trip north. The coolness of this particular flour is that it's from the mill that was first started by Bob, before he moved across the border and took up shop in Oregon, and called it by a different name, starting with his first instead of his last. It is a lovely light and fluffy bread flour that claims to be especially good for sourdough, so I fed mine with it and then did up some muffins the next day. I used a ratio of about 1/4 corn meal that was just fantastic.

In case you have not heard, the time is now for fresh cornmeal, so do yourself a favor and go get some and go home and use it. Now. It tastes the best right now. If you love muffins and cornmeal just go do it.

For halloween this year I made a double batch and did some pumpkin shaped ones and some big rounds. The pumpkins were fun, but unless you saw the cutter with it, you might not immediately think pumpkin. I almost put something in to make them orange, but after having discussions with my friend K, decided that the brain might not be able to get over them not tasting orange colored while consuming. Folks at the market seemed to appreciate them as treats, as I gave some out to my favorite vendors, making sure to get some to the source of the cornmeal, Full Belly.

They had to be tested before giving out and as with any muffin in this house, it is subject to a sweet or savory treatment depending on the mood. This time I wanted both to see how the corn flavor stood up. Two eggs over medium, homemade plum chutney on half, butter on the other, real strong and sweetened coffee (not pictured) to complete the round. I think I had two rounds of coffee, one of egg and four of muffins. This type of muffin munching made me tally what I figure in the last week, must be about 1/4 of my sustenance, I like them that much. Like I said, if you dig muffins and cornmeal, go do yourself a favor and make some of these if you are at all inclined.

And now for the secrets and methods, the "meat" of the method, with some pictures from the last year of making different versions:

SOURDOUGH CORNMEAL ENGLISH MUFFINS:
adapted from sourdough english muffins recipe found at Baking Bites.
Hi Nicole! Really, this muffin obsession is all your fault.....

Note: from the point of initially taking the starter out of the fridge and feeding it, until eating the end product is at least 20 hours, maybe more. Remember this is sourdough and that despite this, the actual time you spend doing something is anywhere between one or two hours. More like one once you get the hang of it.

Uhhh, (clears throat) like, the recipe......

Take one cup bread flour and one cup room temperature water and whisk together in a glass, ceramic or plastic bowl. Remove starter from fridge and stir into the flour and water mixture. Use a plastic or wooden spoon for this. Cover with a tight lid or plastic wrap and allow to sit out on the counter in ambient temperatures between the high fifties and the low seventies, wherever that may be in your home.

The next day (8-12 hours later) scoop out 1&1/2 cups of starter and add to a clean, large bowl. Add an equal portion of non-fat milk and stir. (I usually use the same measuring cup from the starter as to get it all from inside and out while pouring the milk into it.) Add 1 cup corn meal and two cups of all purpose flour and stir. The result should be a soupy dough somewhat like pancake/waffle batter. Cover this and let sit out overnight (or 8-12 hours).

The next day (did I say 20 hours?) it should look as pictured here, a white and a whole wheat version of the muffin mix at this point in the process, sitting near some waffle mix ready for cooking. To this bubbly and frothy bowl, add 1 cup all purpose flour, 3 Tablespoons of granulated sugar, 1 teaspoon of baking soda and 1 teaspoon of salt. Mix until it is time to use your hands. Then add a few more tablespoons of flour at a time until the dough is just hardly unsticky enough to turn out onto a well floured cutting board. I turn the edges of the dough inward and press flat, rotating and repeating a few times until the dough is no longer a sticky mess and is ready for a few minutes of kneading.

When the dough just begins to tighten up a bit (this will vary on your gluten content and how much whole grain product you use), roll it into a large sheet, rectangular or otherwise until it is approximately 1/4 inch thick. With the cutter of choice, cut as many shapes as possible with the first go round. Gather the remaining bits and while kneading as little as you can, roll it out again and repeat the cutting process.

Take the cut shapes from the board and arrange onto a cookie sheet that has been sprinkled generously with cornmeal. After all the muffins are transferred, sprinkle the tops with ever more cornmeal and then cover loosely with a damp towel or plastic wrap. Let these rise for anywhere between 30-60 minutes. If you are cooking the muffins on an iron griddle as I do, you will want to put it in the oven and pre-heat it at 500 degrees while the muffins do some rising.

Over medium heat, transfer the muffins one at a time onto the hot, seasoned but not buttered griddle. Cook for 3-4 minutes and then take a peak. When the muffins are beginning to brown on the bottom and show signs of bubbling through like pancakes, flip them. To compensate for differences in the griddle, I rotate my muffins during cooking and flipping to even their cooking times. If you can do pancakes, you can do muffins. Different end product, but the same basic cooking method.

Using a four inch round cutter, this recipe can yield 18 muffins, this and a smaller round makes easily twenty, using the pumpkin more like thirty, so if you're worried about disaster and don't quite want the commitment to wasting so much flour, halve the recipe and go from there. But if you do, be warned, as you'll probably wind up eating them all in a day whether they're great or not because they'll be hot and now. Then think, it will be another day (at least) from satisfying the craving for more. They are like crack. Especially served with smear of crack sauce or the like.


As for an english muffin workshop, I'll wait to see what kind of response I get to the idea. If any of my fellow bay area foodies are interested in this let me know. I'm thinking about 4-6 folks over to my home where there will be a co-created muffin batch with everyone getting some time to practice their hand at kneading dough, flipping muffins at the griddle, stuffing your face with muffins and copious quantities of jam, and then to top it all off leaving with some starter so that you can forge ahead at home and start feeding your own addiction.