Month: January 2016

Diner-Style Smashed Cheeseburger

Posted on by Craig Stewart

The best burger I’ve ever eaten was on Rollins Street in Columbia, Mo. The year was 2010. Like a first kiss, you never forget where you were standing when you ate that first burger that made you say out loud to the world, “This. This is why we are here.” The first kiss was at a science exhibit about the circus. I still can’t explain that one. The best burger is much more simple. On Rollins Street I discovered the glory of god’s perfect condiments, pickles and mustard.

A great piece of my life has been lived under the assumption that these two delights we’re not just bad, but reprehensible enough to be left for dead on the side of the burger plate like refuse along the highway. I spent over 20 years in denial, and when I look back I am ashamed to think that I spent nearly 80% of my life disrespecting these noble condiments.

That day things changed. I changed. I forgot to ask for no pickles or mustard on my cheeseburger and my worldview shifted. In that moment the rubbery, overcooked hockey puck of a burger I had on that corner stopped being lunch and became love.

I love pickles and mustard on a burger. In my opinion a burger exists for the sole purpose of delivering condiments. It’s a plus if the meat is good too, but the most important piece of the entire operation is not the patty, cheese or bun, it’s the pickles and mustard.

Pickles and mustard were what I fell in love with that fateful day.

I guess you can’t rekindle an old love, because this week’s attempt to ignite that old flame with a Diner-Style Smashed Cheeseburger (Page 552) literally ended up in flames. Specifically, the flames of a burning toaster oven.

Our tragic story began at the grocery store with a hunt for beef, buns and pickles. I got beef because turkey burgers aren’t burgers, they’re sandwiches. I got Colonial Buns because their tagline, “Colonial is good bread” really hits you over the head with a hammer of creativity. I got pickles because, as stated earlier, no hamburger is complete without pickles and mustard. My mustard was waiting faithfully at home, lonely without it’s pickle partner.

The Food Lab recommends grinding your own meat for optimum burger pleasure. Due to lack of time, skill and equipment I trusted the butcher, even though his answer to my question, “What should I use for hamburgers?” was a verbose and well thought-out, “Uhhh…Hamburger?”

IMG_4323

While my pan was heating I got started on preparation work. I sliced an onion without crying and brushed my buns with butter.  The fact that the only brush I own is a toothbrush forced me to actually “spatula” my buns with butter rather than brush them. This means I also spatula’d my countertop, cutting board, hands and pants as well.

The pan is beginning to smoke as I create little Easter Island Meat Moai monuments, and I mentally prepare for the rush of raw power I’ll experience as I smash these perfect little meat-beings under the power of my heavy-duty metal spatula. I place my buttered buns delicately on the rack in the toaster oven.

The meat mounds are in the pan. I take out my anger at everyone who has ever wronged me as I smash the two burgers down with the force of the asteroid that took out the dinosaurs.

I may have overdone it. One burger looks like it spent 15 rounds in the ring with Tyson. The other looks like a meat pancake. I realize that love is delicate and in my foolish attempts to recreate it, I’ve crushed it.

IMG_4330

Moral lessons be damned. I’m a man of solutions. What can I make out of my meat pancake? Meat crepes? A meat Frisbee? Put a hot dog inside of it and make pigs in a meat blanket? What’s that smell?

The toaster oven is on fire.

I did not expect buns to be my downfall. The smoke alarm begins to scream. This does not help the situation, and merely adds a shrill soundtrack to the horror I’m witnessing.

I took a picture of the fire, because I’m dedicated to this food blog even at my own personal risk. If the house burns down and the insurance company gets involved and they find my charred remains, they probably wont even have to pay my family with this type of damning evidence.

IMG_4332.jpg

I turn the oven off and the fire eventually recedes, content with merely terrifying me today, and not taking my life.

A quick breath later, and now my hamburgers are overcooked, and under-flipped. I make the flip and throw some cheese on to cover up the burn marks of meat pancake and the scars of his poor mangled mess of a burger brother. They’ve seen some shit. They deserved a better end than this.

Cheeseburger construction begins, as I feel obligated to put my lover through a proper burial, covered in lettuce, onions, mustard and pickles.

IMG_4340

Despite all that’s happened between us, like my cheeseburger trying to burn my house down, I needed to try to find that spark between us again. I take a bite out of pure respect, for the burger and my efforts. I tried so hard to find that blissful burger moment again. Maybe with this bite of cheeseburger, I will.

I didn’t. I’m out of goddamn mustard.

Recipe: 14/20

Did I do the dishes? No

Quick and Easy Pan-Seared Steak with Simple Red Wine Pan Sauce

Posted on by Craig Stewart

I am a man held hostage by a hunk of cow.

I decided to make something quick and easy. It also needed to be hearty and fulfilling because it’s so damn cold a parade of penguins is moving in next door. So I chose to make something that had the adjectives “quick” and “easy” in the title, yet would be substantial enough to help me survive this frozen wasteland I call home. That dish is Quick and Easy Pan-Seared Steak (Page 311) with a Simple Red Wine Pan Sauce (Page 319).

IMG_4253

Notice the use of is, not was. I’m currently still waiting to get this “quick, easy and simple dish” started. Allow me to explain.

The first step of Quick and Easy Pan-Seared Steak is “Season generously with salt and pepper.” The second step is wait 45 minutes.

45 minutes is not “quick.” It’s a full episode of Maury when you fast forward through commercials.

45 minutes is not “easy.” I once walked out of a Jimmy Johns because there were four people in line ahead of me.

Rather than once again dwell on The Food Lab’s outright lies, I decided to fill the endless void of time and space by being productive. I sliced one shallot and minced another. I googled “Slicing vs. Mincing” and received absolutely no direction. I made an educated guess. I don’t think I did it right.

If Satan has a garden, he grows parsley. I watched several YouTube video tutorials about the proper way to cut parsley and I still have absolutely no idea how it’s done. I feel like my rage alone should be enough to scare the parsley pieces into separating from each other, but when that didn’t work I threw down my knife and got out the scissors. They did nothing. I’m left with a heaping pile of malformed greens. I abandon the Dark Lord’s Decorative Garnish.

I look at the clock. There’s still over a half an hour left until I can start cooking.

I’m making Red Wine Pan Sauce. I have 30 minutes with nothing to do and I’m angry and hungry. I don’t think Red Wine Pan Sauce takes the entire bottle and it’s about time the chef took a taste. I pour myself a glass and wonder if Hemingway did it like this when he wrote his food blog.

My mind has wandered and I’m starting to think about thyme. I only need four sprigs of thyme for this recipe, yet was forced to purchase roughly 400 sprigs because that’s how grocery stores work. Is this an allegory? Do we think we need more thyme/time to make a difference in our recipes/world yet in reality a little goes a long way? What does this say about the human condition? Do we grasp for more thyme/time against the inevitable end? How much thyme/time is too much thyme/time?

Have I had too many glasses of wine?

The clock has struck zero. There is no more thyme/time for philosophical questions. There is only thyme/time for steak.

30 minutes later.

It all happened so fast.

As instructed, I heated the pan to roughly the temperature of the Sun. When I threw the steak into the molten hot pan I was greeted by a satisfying sizzle, and a terrifying fear of losing my eyesight as hot oil jumped out of the pan and into my face.

I kept my head up, and fought through the plumes of smoke to make the ever-important steak flip. It happens flawlessly and I stare in wonder at the crispy brown steak crust I have birthed, and the thyme, butter and shallots I have forgotten about on the prep counter.

I throw everything in the pan hoping it’s not too late, before flipping the steak a few more times. Many cooks believe flipping a steak more than once is the secret to ruining a perfectly good steak. J. Kenji Lopez-Alt believes otherwise, and I am but his faithful disciple, now anointed by searing hot vegetable oil.

IMG_4269 (1)

When I was growing up, my friend’s father once ordered a steak by telling the waiter, “Knock the horns off, wipe its ass and walk it on in here.” I’m not quite so bold. I’m shooting for 120oF, more commonly known as Medium-Rare. I bought a thermometer at the grocery store for this, so I guess I’m officially invested now.

The steak is out and needs to rest for five minutes, but my panic can not subside. I thought to myself, “If my steak gets cold before the pan sauce is ready everything is ruined.” In reflection, that was somewhat dramatic. All I’ve had to eat today was a frozen dinner. I could have covered the steak with ketchup and would have eaten it.

IMG_4270

I quickly start throwing everything I can into the pan to try to get it cooked down in time. Shallot? In. Flour? In. Wine? In. Stock? In. Stupid-ass parsley? In. Dijon Mustard? Safety seal still on. I reached for a knife to cut the bottle open and grazed the nuclear-hot pan with my wrist. There is no time for pain. Next time i need less wine, and more preparation.

I defeated the safety seal but felt the overwhelming pressure of my ever-cooling steak and quickly decided to eyeball a tablespoon of mustard into the pan when Hurricane Dijon made land. Chicago doesn’t go through this much mustard during baseball season and it’s in the middle of my sauce. I decided to just heat it up, cook it down and live to fight another day. What can man do but persevere in the face of such overwhelming tragedy?

IMG_4271

Once the sauce was remotely thick I chopped my steak in half, scooped out a spoonful of the stuff and sharpened my teeth. During my panic I forgot to throw the frozen vegetables in the microwave. I don’t care. It’s 9:00. None of this was quick. None of this was easy. None of this was simple. I am a carnivore and it is time to feed.

IMG_4281

This is the best steak I have ever eaten. The burns and boredom were worth every single savory bite. I simply can’t describe how incredible this piece of cow was. I am proud of my creation. Did I invent steak? No. Have I perfected it? Yes.

When I go to sleep tonight I’ll do so with my stomach full, and I’ll dream about this steak. When I wake up tomorrow, I’ll do so with my head on fire, not from the searing hot oil bath, but because I probably had one too many glasses of the main ingredient in Simple Red Wine Pan Sauce.

Recipe: 9/9

Did I do the dishes? Kind of.

Ultra-Crisp-Skinned Pan-Roasted Salmon Filets with Cherry Tomato-Shallot Relish and Braised Asparagus.

Posted on by Craig Stewart

I came to two conclusions this week. First, if I ever want to finish this thing I’m going to have to double up on recipes. Second, I do not look good in straight-on photos right now. Those two realizations drove me to select this week’s dish, a healthy triple header, Ultra-Crisp-Skinned Pan-Roasted Salmon Filets (Page 380) with Cherry Tomato-Shallot Relish (Page 382) and Braised Asparagus (Page 445).

Sounds healthy on paper. The amount of grease on my hands and keyboard disagree.

My first hiccup occurred at the grocery store. Confession time, I have no idea what a shallot is. I thought it was a type of fish. I first looked for them next to the salmon. I found scallops, but not shallots.

Shallots are not a meat, so they must be a vegetable. I next went to the lettuce section. I found parsley, something else I needed. I only needed two tablespoons of the useless stuff, but you have to buy an entire head. I am not pleased. Olive Garden doesn’t use this much parsley during Never-Ending Pasta Month.

Shallots are not a leafy vegetable, so I went to the mushroom section. I did not find shallots.

Shallots are not a fungus, so I went to the potato section. I did not find shallots.

In the far back reaches of the produce section sits a world nearly untouched by the hands of man, the onion section. There you will find the shallot, next to a wise old guru who makes fun of you for not knowing what a shallot is. Apparently it’s just a tiny, oddly-shaped onion. Super exciting.

IMG_4177

Back to the kitchen. I consulted the ten pages of The Food Lab dedicated to Ultra-Crisp-Skinned Pan-Roasted Salmon and decided that the author has too much time on his hands and uses too many adjectives.

I prepared all of my ingredients before I started cooking, which is a very new step for me. My kitchen preparations generally consist of opening the freezer, then opening the microwave.

Prep takes too long. If I was on Chopped I would have wasted my entire 20 minutes on the near-impossible task of chopping parsley. I tried banging my knife on the cutting board, rocking it back and forth, pulling it apart with my hands, yelling at it and cursing loudly. Nothing worked at achieving perfect little parsley pieces. Eventually I ended up with three separate parsley piles. The first was salvageable but still probably still too big. The second was a pile of parsley leaves large enough to fan the Pharaoh. The third was stems, all of which still had parsley on them despite my noble efforts. I think they make you buy so much of this worthless garnish because they want it to haunt your home even after you’re done cooking.

IMG_4189

As I chopped my shallot I began to cry. I don’t think it’s an emotional attachment to the shallot I spent so long looking for, but I did go through a lot for this little member of the onion family. I’ve now cried twice in three days, over shallots and the St. Louis Rams moving to Los Angeles. This cooking thing is making me soft.

IMG_4190

I started off by browning the asparagus in oil. Once it was browned I braised it by adding three tablespoons of butter and covering. So far I’m counting three tablespoons of butter and two tablespoons of oil.

I’m supposed to cook the salmon with the skin on in hot oil and flip for the final few seconds when the “skin releases” whatever the hell that means. That’s three tablespoons of butter and four tablespoons of oil for those playing along at home.

I combined the tomatoes, shallots, parsley, balsamic vinegar and oil together to create the relish. That’s three tablespoons of butter and six tablespoons of oil. I know why we’re going to run out of oil one day, it’s all on my plate.

My hopes of this actually being a healthy meal have gone away, but at this point it smells pretty damn good, so I don’t really care. Healthy crap can start tomorrow.

Disaster strikes. The first piece of fish flipped easily. The second flipped on the counter like it was trying to get back for mating season. I captured it with my bare hands before he found his way to the floor. For that brief moment, I was the Crocodile Hunter.

By now the asparagus, butter, oil, and chicken broth bonanza is supposed to have cooked down to a glaze. Mine looks more like a soup. I’m hungry and I’m not picky. I decide the poor asparagus has served his time in the pan-itentiary and it gets out early for good behavior.

Looking at my pieces I find myself overwhelmed with pride, and decide to attempt to plate my dish with a little bit of presentation like they do on the TV.

IMG_4214

Eat your heart out Scott Conant. I can hear the applause from here.

The salmon turned out incredible. It was tender with crispy skin. It had all of the good of salmon and none of the bad. Biggest deal for me? It didn’t take very long. I’m pretty proud of myself. This one’s going in the back pocket for quick evening meals that are possibly but probably not healthy.

I loved the relish, but hated the preparation time. Chopping parsley, tomatoes and shallots takes way too much time. Plus, you can buy relish from a hot dog cart anyway.

The asparagus I enjoyed. I should probably have cooked it down longer because it was still a little firm. I’ve always loved asparagus though so I don’t mind. The most fun part about eating asparagus hasn’t happened yet as of this writing, and you probably don’t want to read about that anyway.

Now, my house smells like fish. The 1000 page cookbook doesn’t cover how to eliminate it. Sorry coworkers, but I made two pieces and only ate one. You’ll get to experience the sensation in person tomorrow.

Recipe Rating: 14/15

Did I do the dishes? Yes

Ultra-Gooey Stovetop Mac ‘n’ Cheese.

Posted on by Craig Stewart

“You want what?”

“A half-pound block of American Cheese.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

That’s how my attempt to make “Ultra-Gooey Stovetop Mac ‘N’ Cheese” (Page 723) began. It ended with me losing feeling in my right arm and uncovering a deep sense of regret inside myself.

For my first recipe I decided to pick a classic that would be hard to screw up. I’ve eaten macaroni and cheese a thousand times. There are three steps on the Kraft Macaroni and Cheese blue box and I know them by heart.

  1. Boil water. Add mac. Cook for 8ish minutes.
  2. Drain.
  3. Add butter, milk and neon orange cocaine dust. Stir.

It’s really eight steps, but who’s counting? Clearly not the people at Kraft. I’d add my own fourth/ninth step. Eat until you feel bad, then finish the pot anyway.

The blue box deserves its reputation as a classic, the stuff is delicious. I was promised The Food Lab version of macaroni and cheese required little more effort, little more time, and was much more delicious.

I was lied to.

There are 11 pages dedicated to macaroni and cheese in The Food Lab. That’s longer than the United States Constitution.  Those 11 pages don’t even include how to boil the noodles. There’s another five pages dedicated completely to pasta prep. The majority of those 11 macaroni pages are focused solely on the stuff that comes out of the Kraft packet.

One of the secrets contained in those pages is the importance of a cheese with maximum melt-ability. Which is what led to the awkward exchange with the woman behind the deli counter when I asked for enough American Cheese to win a small war. The founding fathers would be proud.

I spent over $20 on materials at the grocery store. The founding fathers would again be very proud. I’m going to have to up my grocery budget for this project. Especially when I get around to lobster.

IMG_4072

The first step according to the recipe was add the pound of pasta to the pan and cover in cold water. The three basic steps of mac and cheese have already been violated. You boil first. It’s on the box. I’m putting a lot of faith in this cookbook. Perhaps too much.

I brought the water to a boil with the pasta already in it. It took forever. I searched the book to learn the science behind why this method of cooking pasta was better than the old-fashioned way but all I really found myself asking was the eternal question “Has science gone too far?”

While the pot was warming up at the same rate as the Pacific Ocean, I whisked together the evaporated milk, eggs, hot sauce and mustard. I googled “whisk” just to make sure I had the correct technique. It doesn’t seem to matter much.

I realized I mixed up tablespoon and teaspoon when measuring the mustard and the hot sauce. I guess this mac and cheese is going to be great for clearing out your sinuses.

The pasta is finally boiling. I removed it from heat and covered. This is not how pasta is made I’m sure of it, but I must place my faith in the recipe.

I mixed the ½ pound of American Cheese cut into blocks with a pound of shredded Extra Sharp Cheddar Cheese and some cornstarch. I used a big pot because apparently I don’t own any big bowls.

Finally, something I understand, a blue box step, drain the pasta. It looks extra puffy. Maybe the weird cooking method worked? The next step is to add all of my ingredients back into the pot and mix. This entire process has already taken the better part of 25 minutes. A little longer my ass.

The pot is too small.

I don’t know why I thought a pound of pasta and one and a half pounds of cheese could fit into this little pot. I decided to attack the problem as if I were trying to shove a sleeping bag back in the bag. You don’t think it can fit, but somehow it always does.

It doesn’t. I had to move up a pot size. Actually, I had to move to a pan. A tall pan. I don’t think it’s technically a pot. I don’t really know the difference between the two. I wonder if there’s a page in this book covering that.

It’s stirring time. I’ve never rowed a Viking ship, but I imagine this is similar. The Cheddar was liquefying and causing the entire pot to become a sticky, cheesy mess. Except the giant blocks of American. So I was stuck stirring, and stirring, and stirring. Arm lost feeling. Felt weak. Stomach started grumbling. Note to self, smaller cheese blocks next time.

IMG_4083

Who am I kidding? There will be no next time. Why would someone do this when Kraft does all the work for you?

I abandoned the operation and just scooped out a section without a block of cheese and added some salt and pepper. I’ve worked hard for this. It better be worth it.

IMG_4085

It was ok. I don’t think it was four pots and 40 minutes good. I really liked the salt. Couldn’t taste the extra mustard. Going back to the blue box next time.

I find myself faced with a new dilemma. One pound of pasta. One pound of Cheddar. Half a pound of American. I made two and half pounds of macaroni and cheese. I have to travel for work for the next five days. I don’t have a family. Maybe my roommate is hungry.

Recipe Rating: 4/7

Did I do the dishes? No

Why Craig’s Cooking Crap

Posted on by Craig Stewart

I can’t cook.

It’s a skill I never really picked up.

My culinary expertise starts and ends with making Hamburger Helper, usually without the Hamburger, a meal I lovingly refer to as Helper. I once tried to broil a frozen pizza. I burnt a can of chicken noodle soup.

I’ve survived so far on a robust bachelor diet of pre-packaged ramen noodles, styrofoam take-out boxes and frozen dinners. When I’m feeling fancy, I’ll put an egg in the ramen and eat it out of a big-ass coffee mug. How’s that for presentation?

I know what presentation is. I’ve watched Chopped. I’ve read Kitchen Confidential. All I learned is that I’d get my feelings and my fingers hurt working in a commercial kitchen.

The problem isn’t interest. The problem is effort. I’m too lazy to actually get out a pan or pot and give it a shot. If a recipe has more than four ingredients and one of them isn’t ground beef, then I’m pretty much worthless.

Today that changes.

This Christmas I was given the textbook/recipe book The Food Lab: Better Home Cooking through Science, by J. Kenji Lopez-Alt. It has 960 pages of food science, recipes and advice on how to sharpen knives.

My mission? Beat the book from cover to cover. From “Fool-Proof Soft Boiled Eggs” to “Crispy Oven French Fries.” Which are kind of underwhelming titles for the first and last recipes in the book.

One recipe a week. One write-up a week, hosted here. I hope you enjoy my attempt to not set myself or my home on fire. I hate breakfast so that section of the book should be pretty exciting at least.

Check in tomorrow for the first attempt, something simple to start.

Something I’m used to making out of a blue box with a dinosaur on it.