Project 52 2K13 ~ Week 12 {Focus}

Yesterday morning my beloved asked me what my plans were for the day.  I told him that I was going to a kitchen supply store with my mother. 

She wanted to.  And, to be honest, so did I.  I've had flat whisk dreams for a while now.

And he said,  "So, you'll probably want some money, right?"

You know...like we live in 1955.

And I said, "Money is always appreciated."

Because, why fight it if it's workin' for ya'.

So he asked how much I thought I needed.  Which is just a ridiculous question.    I've never been to this store.  I don't know what they have.  I don't know what they're charging.   What I do know is that it's completely embarrassing to be standing at the register and not have enough money....so just give me everything you have and I'll bring you the change.

This is my thinking and my reasoning for responding with,

"Hundred bucks."

He laughed.  Then he rolled his eyes.  Then he looked at me like I was crazy insane.

But I stood strong.  Ask for the moon and all.

So he says,

"Oh yeah right.  Here's $40."

"Fine.  I'll see what I can get with this," and I put it in my wallet, although I really only wanted to satisfy my flat whisk dreams and maybe a few fantasies about a french rolling pin.

Truly, I would have taken $20, but I didn't want to tell him that because then he would say that he would have given me $60 and then I would have had to put on a strapless, red velvet dress and a sparkly diamond necklace and fly off to San Francisco to see the opera and rescue him right back.

And it was too early in the morning and I couldn't get my hair to curl right.

Besides, I've never been much of an opera fan anyway.

When he got home last night he asked me what I bought and we played Kitchen Toy Store Show and Tell. 

"How much did it come to?"

"$37 and change."

(because the first $20 did, in fact, cover the whisk and the rolling pin, but maybe a few things jumped into my basket that I wasn't counting on)
(3 ladles in graduated sizes are always useful)
(one professional spatula beats the crap out of two plastic ones)
(a red, silicone basting brush that stands heat up to 500 degrees?...come on!)

"Well, it's a good thing I gave you forty."

Right.

Jammin'

We have two freezers in the garage, and between them there are 93 gallon-sized zipper bags of blackberries waiting for me to make jam.

Which is crazy, because I totally can't believe I picked that many berries last summer.

"You didn't.  I did.  You hate picking berries."

I know.  Which is why I thought it was crazy.

There's always other things to do, though, besides make jam.

Like......wipe down the walls and stuff.  I've got a lot to do, you know.  I can't be makin' jam everyday.

"You haven't made jam in eight months."

Yeeeaaah....and you're welcome for changing out all the colored bulbs on the Christmas lights that are still on the deck to white.  It's going to look really festive this summer when it's finally warm enough to go out there again. 

"We should make jam today."

"I can't.  It's Sunday."

"So?"

"Soooo.....I can't do it when the kids are here.  It's too hot.  What if it splashes them?"

"They're downstairs in the Wonderland of Toys.  They'll be fine."

"Well, isn't there that golf thing on TV?"

"Yeah, we can have that on."

"No.  I can't.  It's too distracting.  The jam is really hot and I need quiet to concentrate.  I should probably just make it when I'm alone."

"I think you'll be fine."

He never takes my all-consuming requirement to be alone in the absolute silence seriously.

So, he brought up 147 bags of frozen blackberries and laid them out on the counter to thaw.

"Ohhhhh no.  You know what?  I only have two boxes of pectin.  This is going to take at least three.  Too baaaaad."

He handed me $10 and said, "You going over to the store to get colored pencils and markers for school, anyway, right?

Problem solving freak.

When the man wants jam....I am.  Tellin'.  You.

Project 52 ~ Week 9 {Trinkets & Treasures}

Growing up my mother always wanted me to help her in the kitchen, which, I felt, was a gross and disgusting under use of my talents as a sullen teenager.  She would ask me to do things.  Grate this.  Stir that around.  I would run in the other direction as soon as she came to take the spoon from my hand. I still loved eating the food.  I just was colossally uninterested in it's preparation.

Early on in our relationship, Prince Charming he told me that he wanted a wife who did what his mom did.  I told him that I did not go to college for 6 years to cook dinner and drive carpool.  

Funny what love does to you.  Or me, at least.

When he asked me to move in with him, I floated up, did a Thomas flair right into a triple axel salchow and stuck a perfect landing on Gloria Steinem, who very politely, told me to pull it together, be a man, and stop acting like such a freakin' girl. 

Love, man.  It messes with your head.

The first night that his kitchen became mine I was desperate to impress him.  Really show him that he hadn't made a mistake in choosing me.  I wanted him to know that I could create a comforting, delicious meal that warmed his insides and melted him into a gooey pile of little, velvet box.

I made Chicken Tortellini Soup.  It came in a plastic pouch from the deli department at Safeway and was exactly like the soup I'd eaten in the dining hall in college.

"Are you sure you don't want to stir it?" he asked, looking warily over my shoulder.

"No.  It doesn't say that on the package.  It just needs to cook."

That was the night learned that If you can read, you can cook is only meant to sell cookbooks.

Our lovely first meal as a cohabitating couple burned.  So so badly.  

When my son was born I decided that I wanted him to have the same kind of wonderful, home cooked, from scratch type of meals that I grew up eating around my mother's kitchen table.  Food that made our house a home that he would grow up loving.  Food that would make him one day look at his beloved wife and torture her with the same phrase that my beloved tortures me with now:

You know, my mom used to make....

So, I turned to the best chef I've ever known for help, and she was still in the kitchen, spoon in hand, right where I left her.

She's become my mentor, my professor, my master, as I slowly, but ever so surely learn how to craft a pile of ingredients into a meal that my family asks for more of.

If nothing else, she taught me three things:

1. The best ingredients make the best dishes.  If it's not good going in, it won't be good coming out.
2. Having the right tool for the job makes all the difference.
3. Cooking can be a little of this and a little of that, but baking is an exact formula.

And one more that isn't necessarily a rule, but has saved my runny cheese fondue, thickened my marsala, and made all of my sauces divine~

Rue...what it is and how to make it.

The more I cook, and read cookbooks, and watch cooking shows, the more I've come to appreciate the phenomenal effort that my mother made in cooking for us when we were kids.  These old handwritten recipe cards are like a pathway back to my childhood.  Back to my mother's kitchen, when she and her grandmother stood making Christmas bread and pancakes and Thanksgiving turkey.

The loopy penmanship and scrawled ingredient lists are an immediate connection to those we've loved our whole lives and who we know loved us because they cooked for us.    

 

Saucy

One of the things my beloved really loves to do with me is cook.

You totally thought that sentence was going another way, didn't you?  I know.  I did too when I first thought it.

He loves to be in the kitchen together, which is actually really sad for him because I rarely let him in the kitchen.

He tends to be one of those controlling, over my shoulder, "You sure you know what you're doing?" types of cooking partners.

And it sort of pisses me off, but in a quiet, passive aggressive kind of way.  Most often I turn into a psycho Ghostbusters demon floating four feet above the stove, growling

"You want a piece of this?"

and then I shove a hot spoon in his mouth.  Backs him right up.

We haven't been together over the stove since right after Thanksgiving when we spent all day making 47 gallons of stock from the leftover turkey carcass.

A couple of weeks ago he came home with 153 cans of diced tomatoes.

"You know.....I don't know...If you feel like making sauce or something."

So, I put them on the shelf in the garage and waited for my Pizan inspiration to hit me.  Good sauce takes all day and I have to be in the mood.

Then he brought home a three pound wedge of parmesan.

"Look at the rind!  I thought it would be great for the sauce!"

It was.  It was a beautiful rind.  I cut it off and put in a plastic baggie in the fridge, then ate the rest of the wedge for lunch.

He kept asking me about it.

"Sooooooo.....what do you think?  Sauce?'

And then my mother made sauce and it became abundantly clear that I hadn't broadcast any new episodes from Mama Lisa's Kitchen in a while,

and he said,

"Okay...tomorrow.  We're making sauce."

He was very excited.  He prepped all the fresh ingredients,

and set our pots side by side, like they were holding hands,

and I showed him how to make sauce.

It took all day, and we ended up with two gallons of sauce.  He was happy.

And full.

And for the record, the only person I've ever heard call sauce gravy is Tony Soprano. 

There's regular tomato sauce and there's meat sauce.

You can get fancy and call it Marinara or Bolognese.

You can forget what you're doing and write "Meet Sauce" on the container.

You can pour in a bottle of wine and make it drunk sauce.

Just don't call it gravy.  It's dumb.

Buon Salute!

This Is Why I'm Not On A Cooking Show

On occasion Prince Charming's work takes him to the city.  My work used to take me to the city every day.

But that was before I decided that traffic and crowds and noise and stoplights and taxicabs and my really bad sense of direction were totally gross and I just wanted to stay at home in my yoga pants and flip flops all day, drinking coffee and not paying attention to the rest of the world.

And taking care of kids.

And cleaning.

And cooking.

Which is what brings me to this story.

Prince Charming's work took him to the city the other day.  He called me.

"Hey, I'm about a block away from the market and I was thinking about picking up some fresh fish for dinner. "

Fantastic!  I'm not much for the city, but I love love love the market.

 
Anything you get there is wonderful and fresh and beautiful and local and delicious and...

 "Okay.  I got these really big shrimp.  They're really big.  $22.50 a pound.  I got two pounds."

....holy, freakin' expensive!

"They're called Scampi."

Yeah, I know what that is.  I've made it before.

When was that?

I thought I should probably do a little epicurean research just to make sure I didn't flummox the 22-dollar-and-50-cents-a-pound magic.  I had to call him back.

"How big are these things?  Can I saute them or do they have to go on the grill?"

"No, you can saute 'em."

"Okay.  I've got something from the Contessa I think you'll like."

Anything from the Contessa is wonderful and I'm pretty sure I heard him smack his lips as he hung up the phone.  I always love it when I can give him a little dining teaser that he can look forward to all day.  It satisfies my secret Donna Reed fantasies.

But, then I had a second thought.  The whole point of our new year was to eat healthier, and a stick of butter sauce is not really on my radar.

I reworked the plan.  A healthier version.  With tomatoes and garlic and shallots and white wine to keep it light.  Some fresh parm.  A little Italian seasoning.  A hit of red pepper flakes.

Bam!  Scampi a la Mama Lisa.

I ran to the store to grab a good loaf of bread, fresh herbs, some really good cheese and a great bottle of wine I'd been wanting to try.  I felt very metropolitan in my yoga pants with a bottle of wine, fresh herbs and a loaf of bread in my cart. 

Look at me!  I'm breezy and I could be on a cooking show.... La la la...

He came home.  Through the door, eyes glazed, looking, scanning, sniffing, arms outstretched, half mumbling,

"Butter sauce.....Butter sauce.....Oh.  What's that?"

"This is the scampi stuff that I'm using."

"Have you done that before?"

"Yes.  Don't you remember that Valentine's dinner I made you when were first dating?"

"You mean back when you kept mail and outdated magazines in the oven?"

Okay....maybe he didn't really say that.

He kept watching me, though.  Eying me as I patted the 10 gi-normous shrimp dry and put them in a saute pan with olive oil.

I poured myself a glass of the fabulous wine that I've been dying to try and took a sip, savoring the wonderful fruity flavor and inhaling the shrimpy aroma filling up my kitchen.

Yeowch.  That didn't taste like I thought it would.  Try it again.  Try it again.

Whoa!  Weird.

"Let me try," he said.  I passed him my glass and he took a sip.

"Ugh...Blech!" and he passed it back.

Okay....save face.  Never let 'em see ya' sweat. 

"I think I just have to chill it.  It's great.  It'll be great," and I popped the wretched swill in the fridge, totally bummed, and went back to my shrimp in the pan.

His arms were taut against the counter as I put the shrimp on a plate and added in the ingredients to simmer for the sauce.

He may have even sucked in his breath and held it there for a second as he watched the tomatoes go in.  I'm pretty sure he did. 

I grated in some parm, stirred it around, and put the shrimp back in to finish.

Set the table, drain the linguini, pour the wine, a dash of fresh parsley over the top, and we were in a little business I like to call

Dinner....a la Mama Lisa!

It looked really wonderful.  I have to say.  Beautiful.  Really pretty.

He wound his fork though the pasta, stabbed at a shrimp, and put it in his mouth.

"How is it?" I asked.

As he chewed, his eyes lowered, his head tilted to one side, his eyebrows lifted.  The only sound that came out was,

"Ehhhh...mmhmm...."

Swilly wine and crappy scampi.  I was two for two.

Wonderful.

It couldn't be that bad, right?  I cut into mine and immediately noticed the color.  White on the bottom of the piece, but a little gray on the top.

No.  Not possible.

I took a bite.

Yep.  Totally possible.

I'd been so afraid of over cooking this holy-freakin' expensive shrimp that I actually undercooked it to the point of being raw.

"No.  It's fine," he said.  "I mean, you can eat it raw.  You can eat Sashimi."

I hate Sashimi....but save face.  Fake it 'till ya' make it.

"I think I'll just pop mine back in the pan for a minute.  Do you want me to do yours, too?"

"No," he sighed. ".....It's....It's fine."

Screw that.

Slamming my chair back, I stood, stormed over to the stove, put these stupid, overly priced, totally undercooked, bland little pieces of octopus bait back in the pan and cooked the ever-loving sh....well....You get it, right?

I didn't speak for about an hour.  Not out loud anyway.

I fumed.

I seethed.

I raged a silent rage.

I sneered and pouted and finally said, "I'm sorry dinner totally sucked."

"It just wasn't what I was expecting.  I thought there would be butter."

Yeah, I thought it would be butter, too.....

The Great Razor Clam Clean-Out of 2K12 {Illustrated Edition}

When last we met, my beloved had just informed me that it was going to be my job to clean out the razor clams that he dug up on the beach last weekend.  He decided that it was my job for three reasons:

1. He did all the hard stuff by digging them up so I should at least contribute something by cleaning them out.
2. If they were left in the bucket until he could finish cleaning them out later in the week they would die and the whole thing would be a waste.
3. He likes to irritate me.

Because you're my friends and I love you, I've decided to help you out by offering this advice:

If you're ever taken hostage by a demonic razor clam digger who forces you out of bed and makes you drive him to the beach while you're still sleeping without offering you any good coffee to drink and then inflicts upon you the mental anguish of cleaning out the slimy, squiggly, squirmy live creatures that he brings back, this is how you do it:

1.  Gather your supplies, which include multiple knives, tongs, cutting boards, baking sheets, bowls of varying sizes, and a pot of boiling water.
I would also advise you at this stage not to think about what you will be doing.  It can only hurt the ball club.

2.  Working in batches, use the tongs...

...to carefully drop each clam into the boiling water for a few seconds until the shells open.  At this point, they are dead.

I only do four at a time so the water doesn't cool down too much.  Also, it gets kind of cloudy in there once you get going and I don't want to loose track of what's happening and forget one in the bottom of the pot.

P.S.  If you happen to have a soft-hearted child who dares ask "Why are you hurting them?", simply push her out the nearest door and lock it.  Then repeat to yourself, "Clams do not have feelings.  Clams do not have feelings."  They are, however, helpful little guys who don't torment you with high-pitched squealing when they hit the water like their obnoxious friends, the lobsters.

3.  Once the shells open, pull the clams out of the pot, and drop the meat right into an ice water bath to stop the cooking process.

Be sure to save the shells on a baking sheet so you can show your hubby the new color scheme you've picked out for your bedroom.

"Purple?"
"It's beachy."
"It's girly."
"It's from nature."
"I'm not Donny Osmond."
"What's wrong with Donny Osmond?  Donny Osmond won 'Dancing with the Stars'.  He's the president of a little something called About Awesome."
"Whatever."

4.   Once you've de-shelled all the clams, move your work station to the cutting board and prepare to get your Chop-Master on.

It's also helpful here to have a second large bowl filled with water to put the clams in once they've been chopped, and and a smaller bowl for...well...another part of the process.

5.  Grab a clam

Don't be afraid of it.  Just stick your hand right in there and grab one of those suckers.   Be sure your hand looks wrinkly and like your grandmother's when you do it.

6.  Lay the clam on the cutting board and chop the neck off about half an inch up from the body.  Toss the neck into the smaller glass bowl.

We're saving those for later.  I'll tell you why in a bit.
Notice the baking sheet under the cutting board.  These little guys are just full of...water?  Juice?  Ocean googe?  I don't know, but if you don't have something to catch it on, it will just ooze all over your counter, and down the cabinets and into your shoes.  Trust me on this.

7.  Using a serrated knife, slice the clam open from stem to stern, also known as 'butterflying'.

Prince Charming likes to use a paring knife for this, but I found the edge of the serrated cuts through the little clammy tentacles better.  If you have any kids who are wigged out by octopus tentacles, now is a good time to hold up one of the clams really close to their face, jiggle it around a little and go "Oooooooooo" while they wretch and shriek and run out of the room.

It's kinda' fun.

8.  Rinse the clams one by one under running water to get to rid of all the inner goop.

You're not just holding them under water for a second and then done.  You really have to push and pull and rub and rinse and clean every little speck of sand and I don't know what out of them.

I don't have pictures for this step because it's really, pretty gross looking.  It's fleshy and flappy.  Stuff is squirting out.  Some of it's yellow.  Some of it's not.  In fact, the first time that I did it I told Prince Charming that I thought it looked kind of...

...and he said, "Gross?"

And I said, "Familiar."

And he laughed and laughed and said "Yeeeaaaahhhhh, baby!"

'Nough said.  Moving on.


9.  When you're done with the Georgia O'Keefe portion of the process, you'll have a plate of clams that looks like this.
Don't worry.  All of that liquid is supposed to be there.  It's what's left over from the rinse cycle and melds back with the clams to form the nectar, which is a vital part of the chowder, or sauce, or whatever clam thing you're going to make.

Don't they look pretty?

P.S.  This 9" pie plate of clams represents about half of our total take.  My point being that it's a lot of damn work to do this and when you're done just don't expect a big huge pile.  You'll be disappointed.

10.  Divide the clams into one quart freezer bags

I fill them about half way, then pour in the nectar.  Prince Charming says they freeze better with the nectar in the bags.  I totally don't think it makes a bit of difference, but sometimes I like to humor him, and as I said back in #9, it does help make your chowder uber-delish.

11.  Label the bags and pop them in the freezer.

Then you can pull them out whenever you need some for whatever yummy dish you're making that requires clams. 

Just an FYI, this amount is about what you'd need for a big pot of chowder.  Not like one of those little cups you get at Skipper's.  Like, a Sunday afternoon in the kitchen, while it's pouring down rain and your beloved has a roaring fire going and is kicked back watching a game.  I know you get me....

...but then while you're eating it you'll decide that there's not enough salt in it, mostly because you were afraid to over salt like you did that one time, and it's actually kind of bland.  So, Prince Ch...I mean, your...whoever...will decide that it might be great to add jalapenos to it.  Yeah.  That's it.  That's what it needs.  Some jalapeno....

...Great thinking, honey.

And what you'll be left with are two and a half quarts of too spicy, jalapeno clam chowder that only he will eat.

12. Remember those clam necks from before?  

Give them to your kid...Yeah.  The one who wanted to know why you were hurting them.  Hand her the bowl and say....

"I made you an after-school snack!"

Bahahahahahahaha!

Moms need to have fun, too, you know....

Fine. 

This is what you really do with them:

 It's a delicacy....

They fight over them....

...and yet another reason I don't eat the eggs.


At this point I recommend putting every utensil, bowl, board and tray that you used, touched, looked at or thought about during the cleaning process into the Whitest Whites cycle of whatever washing machine you have. 

Or just throw them away.

Or move.

And that's it!  You're done!  Clams cleaned.

If you have any questions about the process, feel free to hit me up.  I'm here for you.  I'll hold your hand through the entire thing.

Even the clammy one.

~Lisa