doughnation

I'm a breadbaking fool, living in a nation filled with bread. To justify my madness, sometimes I just gotta give it away. It's nice to get feedback in the form of deep moans, grunts, lip smacking and chewing sounds. I also like the blurted out "you made this?" That one always gets me. But enough said.......

It was my friend M and his mention of a Fermented Food Feast that would benefit City Slicker Farms here in Oaktown that was the recent reason for a big give away. So, I spent a few days building up the starters to mammoth amounts and then commenced doughing. From left to right in my kitchen, the morning of the event.......

Let's see here. That's two 1/4 whole wheat, free form loaves doing their final rising under the glass bowls. Well, the one on the right should be. Oh, and three sheets of english muffins rising in anticipation of the griddle. These will turn out being part of Shuna's birthday present and represent batch number two of the day.

Over here we have one huge bowl of sourdough starter. It was fed recently and is not yet looking like a madly bubbling cauldron of chalky goo. That will come soon enough. The jugs are soon to be 1.5 gallons of starter for give-away. The red bowl and mostly hidden green covered casserole are focaccia doughs doing their first rise. 1/4 whole wheat and an herbed all white version respectively. The glass bowl contains a free form white sourdough loaf.


Damn, like will it end? How about two all white baguettes in my favorite loaf pan. The tub of muffins is from round one earlier. The bags of flour are empty for now but will contain muffin give-away six packs. Turning further to the right and taking another picture revealed the dirty dishes and my filthy floured self, so I'm stopping there with the kitchen tour.





I took advantage of some afternoon light to take a picture of what came out of the oven. I especially like the golden hues on the crust. It made me think of the spring currently popping out in the desert and how I'm missing it. Content with the loaves, I packed them in the car with the other goodies and made my way down to the party.



To round out the yeast gift, I included a three pack of fermented apple cider. Two of them were from farmers' market produce, the third from store bought for comparisons sake. All of them are equally dry and bubbly. Not exactly a wild fermented item like much of the other items at the fundraiser, including the sourdoughs, but I figured everyone like a little hooch. All in all I was very pleased with my output and proud of my wares. Looking at it now, it appears like a photo of my yeast repertoire.

The following day I still had a quart or so of active starter and I just couldn't see it go to waste. Those poor little cultures of bacteria and molds needed my help. They needed to go out burning up feeding my family. I made up a huge batch of herbed foacaccia, cornmeal laden pizza dough, and a sourdough version of Tea's Russian Black Bread. It was another few rounds of mincing, mixing and kneading but most of the time I couldn't be happier doing anything else.

The pizza dough worked out very nice for pesto with mushroom and jack cheese calzones. The black bread formed a nice dense looking brown bomb. It smelled of absolute delight before baking. During, I almost tore off a piece to burn the shit out of my mouth with.......and then thought better about it and decided to preserve my taste buds for enjoying it for the next few days. I started thinking of how it would pair with salmon and cream cheese.

So if this looks good to anyone out there, and you have a sourdough and a hankering for a nice earthy dark rye loaf, well then feed the starter and get some ingredients because this one will become an instant favorite. Dark, molasses, rye and yum. Just add some fish and cow extract and you're in business.

Thanks for the recipe Tea! I'll go ahead and add my own, scaled down sourdough version of it, based on what was in the house if anyone feels like playing around with it. Enjoy!

SOURDOUGH BLACK TEA BREAD

make 1 cup of strong ass coffee with a moka pot or espresso maker.
drink half, you'll need it.
in a large bowl add:
1/4 c molasses
3 T butter
2 T cocoa powder
nuke it, or heat it up in a pan and transfer back into the bowl. add 1 T apple cider vinegar and the remaining half of your coffee. when this is just warm or near room temperature add about 2 cups of sourdough starter.
in another big bowl add:
2 c rye flour
2 c all purpose flour
1 c whole wheat flour
1/4 c cornmeal
2 t salt and give it a mix
add bowl of mixed flours to the dark liquid starter combo bowl or vise versa, depending on whichever bowl is big enough to contain the flour you will inevitably start throwing everywhere while mixing it up. make a huge mess until the dough comes together, then knead it for about five minutes. then let it rest a bit. let yourself rest a bit too. maybe make yourself more of that coffee or crack open a nice dark beer. maybe a homebrew.
when you feel like it, mince up:
3 T of onion
then measure out:
1.5 T caraway seeds
1/2 t of fennel
incorporate these into the dough and knead for about five more minutes or until the dough is nice and smooth.
let rise in a well oiled bowl in a fairly warm spot and punch down when doubled.
form into a large round and let rise (I do mine on parchment paper) until nearly doubled.
place onto a pre-heated baking stone at 475 degrees for about twenty minutes, making sure to turn halfway through. if bread ain't sounding hollow yet, take off the stone and bake at 425 degrees for another 5-10 minutes.
wait until it's most the way cool and then eat it for the next two days with just about anything, like butter, fish, beer, cheese, chutney, coffee, air...........

shark food

This past Wednesday evening, elder monkey and I attended a San Jose Sharks hockey game. She'd been to two before, but was on our laps at the time. This was her first time that she remembered. The two of us drove on down to San Jose in good time with no traffic and parked way out in the free zone. She's a little hiker and we hoofed it quickly, pretending we would "chase" various groups of people. Before we knew it we were at the gates with our tickets, pack full of treats, but most importantly "Sharkie" in hand.
She takes a look at the hundreds of folks milling about.
"What are all these people here for daddy?"
"To see the Sharks hockey game honey, just like us."
"Wow, this must be one big shark tank!"
"Well, that's just what they call it hon, but really the only sharks in it are the hockey players."
"Yeah, and my Sharkie!"
"Yup, and your Sharkie honey. And lots of others. In fact, look around and you tonight and you will see other people with their little sharks swimming around when the right music plays."
"I don't want my sharkie to swim around!"
"It's up to you sweetie, you'll see."
We arrive at the front of the building and que up.

Whew!
Magic Fae Fae and the baguette wrapped in a kitchen towel did their job at concealing the hooch, just as planned, allowing us safe maneuvering past the rugged security, consisting of the ticket scanner guy asking sheepishly: "oooh, hey, can I check your bag there?" I wondered if Canadian hockey arena workers made it into the american leagues as this case sounded to be.

We secured our tickets in a pocket and made our way up the stairs. It is a stroll all the way around the arena to get to our section and we pass all the concessions. Her eyes were aglow with the possibilities. She stops at the fresh popcorn.
"I think that later, I want the sweet popcorn, if we happen to find some."
Happen to find some!
My heart melts.

We find our seats and sit down for the last 5 minutes of the pre-game stuff. The monkey looks around, mouth agape at the multimedia presentation that is the NHL. When the puck hits the ice, I break out the baguette and fixin's and start constructing sammiches. Monkey wants one with cheese. I think to myself, we did it, we did! a kid who eats stinky cheese on home-made bread!

Five minutes into the game a fight breaks out that seems to last forever. Figures.
"Why are those men hitting each other?" she wonders aloud, in a voice that everyone in the section can hear I'm sure.
"Well sweetie, sometimes in hockey, when someone is angry at someone and wants to fight them, they take off their gloves and the referees lets them duke it out!"
"Oh." I can see her imagining that all she needs to do is wear gloves the next time she's around her brother and angry.
"He sweetie, don't get any ideas, you don't play hockey yet."

After finishing the first round of food and making it through the first round of high-fives with strangers during the first goal, she requests one with salmon next. Yeah, that's my kid, right there. I tear her off another hunk of bread and put some nice slices of smoked salmon in there for her. Her eyebrows nod up and down with approval and I hear a few sounds of contentment.

To celebrate the occasion, I do what hockey fans do. I have a beer. Only I remain seated and pop open the pink water bottle to drink some fine homebrew. That's right, you heard me. Snuck in homebrew. Shit, I figure, at $7.75 a pint for a beer on tap at the tank, I'll open one at home and transfer it into an unbreakable container for safe transport and "suffer" through the effects it has on the beer. Ahhhh, the tough moral decisions that one must face in this life. Good thing they go rather nicely with an IPA.

We nosh away for the rest of the period. After seeing everyone else get up and go somewhere we decide to try it ourselves, buying a bag of "confetti popcorn." She takes her first taste and makes a face.
"That one tasted like banana!"
We make it back to our seats and I make myself another sammich and polish off the beer. We witness a horrific crash behind the goalie into the boards that results in a player leaving on a stretcher with a broken leg. One of those kind of games, just filled with brawls and injuries. We get through two periods before losing all steam.
I ask her if she wants something else like a hot dog or maybe some fries.
"No."
Time to go.
"Well, let's pack up and head out sweetie."
"Wait.......daddy?"
"Yeah honey?"
"Can we wait until we see the ice cleaners one more time?"
"Sure sweetie, sure............"

After the Zambonis did their work and "everything is smooth again" we let ourselves out and began the trek back to the car. She makes it all but two of the blocks on her own. During those we look for jets landing at the airport nearby while she tells me how excited she is to be up so late to see the "golfey players." At the car we get her into jammies and start listening to the radio broadcast. In the final minute, the lead changes twice. We pull away and it's sudden death. She's talking non-stop. "Sweetie, it's after 10 o'clock, can we be quiet for just one minute and then we'll talk?"
"Okay" she manages to exhale.
10 seconds later she's out.
It's a real nail-biter.
In a shoot-out the Sharks win. I'm ten minutes from home, the monkey is asleep, jammied and smiling in her sleep. I'm one happy dad.

The next morning I reached in the pack and took out what was left of the bread. A dorsal fin it appeared. I reflected on how yummy the rye and wheat combo worked with the alder smoked salmon and ultra tasty chevre. I sliced up the remains and put it in the toaster, then got out the remainder of last night's fixin's from the fridge. I figured we could revisit our menu from the shark tank (minus the beer) and eat shark food for breakfast.





Two of my favorites on home-made sourdough baguette slices.
The SGS combo. Salmon, Goat, Sourdough.
Mmmmmmmm........shark food.

hints that spring is nearly here

Sometimes, here in sunny California, it can be a little confusing as to exactly when it's spring. Sure, you've got that whole equinox thingy and all, but well before that, spring has sprung. The plants know what's up. Some keep track of the temperature while some pay attention to the sun's rays. Some pay attention to neither. Or both. I try to make sense of it all, but it's the little clues of it's arrival, such as these flowers placed so lovingly into the hood of my car. When I see this, I know spring is near.

Another way of telling is by who visits. Think about it. You probably have a few relatives or friends who you only see at certain times of the year. A holiday perhaps. If this regularity can be counted on then you start thinking things like: "oh, hey, auntie so and so is coming to town, it must be (insert occasion here)." When it's Saint Nick, you think x-mas. The Great Pumpkin, Halloween right? And so on and so forth. Well, around here, before that big damn bunny makes his appearance we get a visit from Princess Cinderella and the Pink Princess Mariposa. Yes, spring is here when I find myself making lunch for these two.

Maybe you are a devout eater of what's in season. If that's the case you'd probably say spring is here when you're eating asparagus or something else fresh, green and newly emerged from the cold or recently frozen ground. Now, I love my asparagus and all, but to me nothing says the arrival of spring like eating peach pie. You heard it: P E A C H P I E. The filling for this baby was made back at the end of September and tucked away into the freezer. With the warming weather and trying to imagine what we can cram in the freezer that is the last of winter's goodness, it seems we shall need to make some space. The peachy goodness has got to go. Next up is a bag of Red Haven pie filling. When that one goes, there ain't no more warm peachiness until I feel the fuzz from this year's crop on my lips.

When I really know it's spring though, is when the light streams through the Tofuhenge just so. It will pierce through one of the bean curd windows and illuminate the center with a nice clean line. With high enough air quality in the kitchen the light will even shine through all the way to the pull-down panels on the ancient Wedgewood. Of course you have to have constructed your "henge" with the proper alignment for this to happen, but when it finally does, as far as I'm concerned spring is here.

Silly readers, and you thought tofu was just for eating!

Happy almost sprung..........

sordid stuff my ass!

I wasn't quite sure how to start this post, so I'm giving you a picture I took of some good old fashioned oakland zoo camel sex. You see, Biggles tagged me and now I'm all dirty. I've got to give up 5 sordid facts about myself.

The rules are: (or were it seems, because the master of meat couldn't pull it together and didn't bother to obey the first rule and tell me to post the rules, so thank you Cookiecrumb!)
1. Link to your tagger and post these rules.
2. Share 5 facts about yourself.
3. Tag 5 people at the end of your post and list their names, linking to them.
4. Let them know they've been tagged by leaving a comment at their blogs.

Hmmmmm...........after many days of contemplation, here goes:

5 Sordid Facts?

One-a-roo: As a toddler, I was known for scooching over and gnawing on the high lead content paint windowsill, then looking around to pluck dead flies off and, you guessed it, eating them.

D-d-d-dos: With a four year old and a nine month old in the house, and me being the stay at home parent, when I do the math, I've changed somewhere well over two thousand diapers. And that's being conservative.

Tha-ree: Sticking with the kids theme, once, about eight months ago, I was peed on four times in the same day. Before noon.

Ka-wa-tro: Enough of the kids, back to my gnarly, filthy old self. It's rare I don't eat something after I've dropped it on the floor. Butter side down toast certainly gives reason to pause, but mainly, naw. Now, let me make clear, I won't serve anything I've dropped on the floor to a family member or guest without carefully inspecting, washing, and then generally cooking it. Me though, I'm way more lax. Then again, I think that we are suffering from too clean an environment in our homes sometimes and that the added bonus of some healthy competition for the intestinal fauna from floor food just might be a good thing, however gross it is.

Fuh-hive: I've eaten dumpster chocolate. Not just any old dumpster chocolate, but Scharffen Berger. I know some folk who do dumpster diving on a regular basis. Not because of being destitute, but as a choice; to address the fact that we throw away somewhere near a quarter of all the food we prepare in this country. Not only is the methane this produces in landfills way not good, but considering how many million tons of waste this is, it makes great sense to me to glean the good stuff from the trash. Now, I don't go dumpster diving myself (it looks a bit strange to have to tether your kids to the trash bin while your in it searching around I've thought) but when my friend handed over a two pound plus, irregularly shaped chocolate hunk and said it was from Scharffen Berger, it piqued my interest a bit. Then having learned it had been shaved off and eaten from for weeks at this point, and that no one had been sick, I carved off a wedge and started eating. The beer might have helped.

So, was that disgusting, filthy, dirty and morally degraded enough to be five sordid facts?

Well, I'm gonna go ahead and tag five others who I'm sure have a disgusting little bit or two to share. I think, well, uh, hope......

You already saw the rules, then here's the links to more jewels:

Marc over at Mental Massala would be a lovely start. He is just so thoughtful, ethical and smart, I'd just love to hear something naughty from him.........please Marc?

Mimi, I know you must be craving to play along. Delectable Tidbits you say? How about give us the sordid, maybe a bit more blow chunky bits.

Lindsey. Writer and pastry chef. Awesome at both. With writing skills and much time spent in kitchens, she's gotta have some super sordid stuff in her nug. She's hella busy, so I'd like way understand if she bowed out of this one, but let us put our hands together and prey she might like to share. If you have never been over her way for some adventures in dessert, well, let me tell you, you need to.

Aileen? Are you out there? Cozy and warm I hope? Well, I figure with all the darkness this time of year up in the land of Quixote's Tart, there just has to be some sordid stuff. I hear the mind can get dark this time of year. It might help to share...........

Last only on this list, but only because I wondered for a long time wether she would have a scrap of time for this one and then said hell with it (big gasp for breath) is Leena. Leena eats this blog already contains plenty of sordid stuff. It practically leaks off the page sometimes. Now that, is gnarly. (I can say this because she is half a world away and can't come kick my ass!) But we want more.

That's all I gots! Please don't hate me now.

gooey hearts day

Happy Gooey Hearts Day Honey!

I love my wife. She is the best-est pardner a monkey wrangler could ask for. She brings home the bacon and possesses the sensitivity and talent to bust out a few frosted pink buttercream with sugar sprinkles chocolate cupcakes for our family on this special day of pinkness and candy sweet things of joy.

You see, we have fallen head over heals in love with our kids. It is crazy labor of love food items like this that say so. (See, it's not just me in this household who goes overboard with the cooking love.) Apparently it's something designed into our primitive brains so we cook for our children and therefore we don't eat them.

Well, that said, what is better in the eyes of a four year old who is waaaaaay the epitome of girlie and the apple of our eyes, than having pink frosted cup cakes? As the princess of our little world, she deserves the best. Sometimes though, the princess can sound like anything but.

We were sitting on the livingroom floor. I had the wee one sitting between my legs with a few toys. The Innocent little princess was running about the room with a nylon strap that we have for the purpose of aiding in stretching during yoga and the sort. She came running over and plopped herself down in front of me and little dude. She smiled at us with a devious little twinkle and proceeded to tell us something very excitedly, leaving no doubt in my mind that what she was speaking was intended for her little brother and not a lovey or imaginary item:

"Daddy, I'm gonna catch him and drag him into my room!" she says, her eyes all big.
"Then, I'm gonna screwdriver him. In his eyeballs and his nose, his ears......and his teeth!"
I'm looking at her rather shocked I must say, but can hear my wife reminding me when I need it the most that it is better to hear these kinds of things rather than bear witness to the act. Like I said, I love my wife. We make a great pair.
The princess went on, her eyes looking up and away to the side imagining another horrid act to commit........"and in his toe jams" she squeels thinking she's hit the ultimate in brotherly torture.
She chuckles a bit and adds, "then I'm gonna poison him."

I told her to hold that thought and I immediately wrote down the exchange, to share with her and her brother when they are older. I thought about how I much I love my big sister and that we must have started off somewhere near this long ago. Seeing this quote by the computer for the past few days, I just had to share it on this here day of smoochiness and sugar. There are definitely two sides to love. At the very least, it is one long continuum, that you may find yourself anywhere along. With the case of siblings, and the perspective of the parent, you pray it moves toward the supportive, accepting, and not producing bodily harm end.

Our little princess has broken us into this whole parenting thing. Our younger one will just have to suffer the consequences.

Happy Gooey Hearts Day Everyone!

windborne grains

Know of any California farms that use draft horses these days?

Or one that grows teff, amaranth, millet, or flax?

How about any who use a biodynamic approach to their land?

Well, if you are drawing a big blank, then consider yourself now informed. One such place that answers yes to these questions is Windborne Farms, located in Fort Jones, California.

This past Sunday we received our first delivery of grains from Windborne. It included a sack of millet, rye flour, hard red wheat flour (in the metal can, the bag was torn before the picture), pancake mix and a hot cereal mix. I am ecstatic! (Sorry for not opening the others and showing you, I didn't mean to tease.) Everything smelled so nice, but particularly the wheat flour. It smelled so sweet, almost like it had honey in it or something. Floral. I couldn't wait to try it out, so as soon as the grains came in the door I took the starter out of the fridge and fed it in anticipation of a fluffy loaf the next day.

I began with well over a cup of starter (probably closer to two) and then added a cup of warm water. After mixing these together well, the older monkey measured out two cups of whole wheat and then two of bread flour. Adding a little over a teaspoon of salt to finish it off, we got down to pounding and squishing. I let this rise in the oven with the pilot light heat for a few hours, then beat it down. I repeated this rise and beat procedure, then shaped my loaf for the final rise.

I didn't know the gluten content of the wheat, but having a name such as hard red wheat gave me a clue. I suspected it would be higher than the wheat from Full Belly I've been getting, and if not, it was at the very least a finer grind that gave me the confidence to start off with making a loaf with at least one third whole grain. I didn't have the patience to let the dough ferment for a full day, and I really wanted to taste the flour without too much sour taste. Okay, so maybe too sour is not really possible in my book. What I mean here is that I wanted to downplay the sour component of the bread's flavor and let the whole wheat component shine through.

I gave the loaf a spiral cut and doused it with plenty of water before putting into my oven, cranked to the max. Meaning: 550 degrees and on a preheated baking tile. After two minutes I sprayed water all over it again. After 7 minutes I rotated it 180 degrees. 15 minutes in and I turned the oven down to about 400, repositioned my lower rack to be on top of the baking tile and put the loaf on it. At 20 minutes I turned off the oven and let it sit in there for 3 more minutes. Finally done I transferred it to a cooling rack and put it near a drafty window, hearing it crackle while it cooled.

This was one hella-tastalicious loaf. We waited long enough to get to that still a touch warm where it tears a bit while cutting stage. We slathered in butter. We made lip smacking and moans of content sounds. We went through half the loaf before dinner. Then I ate another quarter of it while mopping up the rest of my favorite soup in the world, minestrone. This morning we finished the loaf as toast with fried eggs. I made sure to take a picture of it sliced open in order to properly "show you the love" as Biggles would say right about now. It's a good thing I make a lot of bread around here because it disappears quickly.

I was nice and surprised at how well the dough came together and held its shape during the rise and baking. Apparently this whole wheat has plenty of gluten and is ground fine enough to give you access to it. Next time I'll go ahead and attempt a loaf that is at least 1/2 whole wheat, I was that happy with the results. And thinking that this is only the first time I have used anything from this CSA "box," I look forward to receiving each new delivery of varied grains and trying my hand with some new recipes in the coming year, in what looks to be my own personal year of grain exploration. Mmmmmm, grains. Windborne grains.



If you act fast, you can still sign up for a CSA bag from Windborne Farms that will be filled with tasty grains that vary during the year. Write Jennifer Greene an email at: windborne3csa (at) yahoo (dot) com for more info. It is $325 for 10 deliveries during the year starting in March. Please sign up by February 20th if you are at all interested.

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.