Month: February 2016

Did You Know? Clams and Shrimp are Totally Different.

Posted on by Craig Stewart

Clams are difficult to find in a land-locked state. I’m not sure I’d want to eat clams out of the Mississippi River. I’m not sure I’d want to eat a pig that drank out of the Mississippi River. I’m not sure I’d want to be near the Mississippi River, which is a problem considering it’s about a mile from my front door.

I decided to make Linguine with Fresh Clams this week. I was going to write about how it’s my dad’s favorite Italian dish, which is true, and that I was honoring him by making it, which would not be true.

In reality I chose to make Linguine with Fresh Clams the same reason I do almost everything, last minute panic. I blindly pointed to a recipe in the pasta section of The Food Lab while sitting in my car at the grocery store.

I landed on Linguine with Fresh Clams. I did not make Linguine with Fresh Clams. Apparently, the grocery store doesn’t carry a lot of clams this time of year. Or any time of year. This is not a clam-rich part of the country. We have highway construction, racial tension and the wrong type of crabs, but unfortunately just no clams.

We do have shrimp. Which is odd considering the no clams thing. As far as I know these two shellfish grew up in the same neighborhood. I guess only the shrimp had the guts to get out of the ocean and try to make something out of himself in the big bad Midwest. You go shrimp. You go.

So I made Pasta with Extra-Garlicky Shrimp Scampi (Page 690). It has almost the exact same ingredients as Linguine with Clams, but with a main ingredient that’s actually available. I look at this as a lesson in love. Don’t discriminate. If you can’t find the mollusk you’re looking for, you might be looking for a crustacean and just not know it.

Scampi means “shrimp” in Italian. So when you order shrimp scampi, you’re ordering shrimp shrimp. Don’t you feel like an idiot now. I did after I read that fun fact on the internet.

After the seafood counter saleswoman and I decided that shrimp and clams are pretty much the same thing anyway I had to pick up some other ingredients, including a dry white wine.

The only wine I know anything about comes out of a box. So I wandered up and down the wine aisle reading labels like a soccer mom searching for gluten-free crackers. Sterling. Guenoc. Clos de Bois. These sound like World War II battlefields. I need something relatable. Something that I know won’t let me down. Something friendly and approachable.

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My wine’s name is Josh, which really stands out next to a fancy-ass name like Estancia. Josh is a bro. He’s cool, maybe a little standoffish at first, but Josh is definitely a good dude. I’m feeling strongly about Josh. No one named Josh has ever let me down. Except maybe Josh Duggar, he let us all down.

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Josh and I went home together (wine will do that to you) and started thawing out shrimp. Weird, yet sensual first date. Next, following traditional first date protocol, I introduced him to my oldest enemy and one true fear, parsley.

Something has changed in me and the parsley. The chopping process has become easier. The Devil’s Herb isn’t making me want to find the nearest parsley farm and start a labor dispute. I finished chopping the parsley and thought to myself, “maybe we’ve both grown up a little.”

Then I dropped the parsley on the floor.

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I hate this stupid plant. I hate it more than I hate Charles Schulz’s Peanuts and James Cameron’s Titanic. I hate it more than I hate chocolate and peanut butter. I hate it more than I hate Family Circus and Luke Bryan.

I may need to lighten up. I seem to hate a lot of things that normal people enjoy. Except parsley. Parsley can go straight to hell. Luckily I have extra to chop up. Oh boy.

I do love garlic. Which is good because there is enough garlic in this recipe to ruin next week’s vampire convention. The full recipe calls for 12 cloves of garlic prepared in various ways. The smashing gives me a chance to take out my remaining parsley rage like a UFC fighter would, violently. The slicing gives me a chance to practice not chopping my fingers off. The mincing presents a problem, as I do not own a garlic press.

A garlic press and a lemon squeezer look the same. They are not. After loading up the lemon press full of garlic and squeezing it several times, I’m left with garlic boogers. The smell of eating these garlic boogers would make me as much of a social outcast as eating real ones.

Oil, garlic and salt are added to the shelled grey decapods while the shells themselves are cooked in oil. The Food Lab says this is the secret to achieving full shrimp flavor. Full shrimp flavor sounds like an excellent ska band. Like a ska band this whole ordeal just seems unnecessary.

The oil is strained and everything goes into the pan. Shrimp cooks faster than a man running to the bathroom after a Chipotle burrito. I must be getting better at this because I’m not as stressed about how fast things are happening. Maybe it’s because of my second conversation with Josh.

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Pasta is ready. Everything is thrown in the big pot and cooked down. I’ve made close to two pounds of pasta and shrimp. Probably three pounds if you count all the garlic. I’m going to be a very fat, very sleepy, very smelly person this week. Kind of like last week. And the week before that.

Pasta is difficult to plate without he fancy pasta dishes they have on Food Network. I went with a more traditional Italian plating style. I call it, heaping on as much pasta as possible.

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For having 12 cloves of garlic prepared in various ways, the pasta itself is a little bland. It’s scampi so I know it’s supposed to be lighter, but I feel like there should be more flavor to the noodles. Especially since there’s still clumps of garlic booger hanging around in there.

The shrimp themselves are spectacular. I feel like a real Italian. My German mother would be proud. There’s only one real complaint that I have about the shrimp.

They’re not clams.

Recipe: 8/11

Did I do the Dishes? No

Did I pick the parsley off the floor? No

Pan-Roasted Chicken Parts with Micro-Steamed Asparagus

Posted on by Craig Stewart

There’s just something special about meat on the bone. It’s primal. When I eat it I feel like the top of the food chain. I feel like a hunter, when most of the time it’s Colonel Sanders doing the real work. I’ve only been hunting once. I fell out of a tree stand. I don’t think the sport is for me. I’ll stick to food for getting the caveman juices flowing.

Making Pan-Roasted Chicken Parts (Page 365) with Micro-Steamed Asparagus (Page 242) was about more than just pan-roasting a chicken. That would be too easy. This is America. You’ve got to work for your food and make all those Republican Presidential Nominees proud. Since the only hunting I know how to do is for my keys in the morning, I had to get up close and personal with my bird in a different way.

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I’m talking butchery. I’m about to get all Michael Myers on this poor little five-pound bird and chop it into little tiny pieces. Eight of them to be exact.

I started by popping the leg and thigh out of their socket. I was expecting to be slicing and dicing, not performing fowl physical therapy. Luckily the next step was more my speed, lopping off the dark meat bits with my handy dandy assault weapon.

If this was a slasher film it would be a boring one. Not Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan boring, but close. I’m not really chopping the legs off as much as I am grinding the chicken into submission. Maybe if I pull at the legs they will just pop off like Mr. Potato Head.

After the most disappointing dismemberment scene since the latest Eli Roth movie, the meat chunks kind of look like legs and thighs, so it’s on to breasts. I needed to separate the breasts from the back, then separate the breasts from each other, then slice the breasts in half. If anyone Google searches “breasts”, I’m really hoping this post shows up and they are wildly disappointed.

The back separates surprisingly easily. What the hell do I with a chicken back? The Food Lab says to make stock. I say that’s more work than I’m willing to put into this right now. I give up and throw it in the freezer, where it will be forgotten.

Did you know they throw in extra parts for free when you buy a whole chicken? I think I found a liver, kidney and a heart. I never found any lungs. This chicken must have had a really shit mile time in high school.

I am all that is man. I have butchered my bird. It took the better part of half an hour, but I did it. With my bloodbath complete I was left with 13 vaguely chicken-shaped pieces. I somehow made five extra and I don’t know how. I decide that this is a good thing, because more chicken is always better.

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Now it’s time for the chicken to go for a seaside holiday, in a process called brining. Brining sounds fancy, but apparently all it takes is soaking the chicken in salt water. This I can do. Waiting 45 minutes? This I cannot.

I filled the time by watching Frasier. I still haven’t watched Making a Murder, Better Caul Saul, or The Walking Dead, but I’ve watched six seasons of a 20-year old network single-camera sitcom. Maybe I’ll catch up on Night Court next. No spoilers please.

It’s finally time to cook. I throw the first piece in skin side down and quickly realize, this pan is too small. Other than this small issue and an equally small grease fire everything goes surprisingly well. I flip the chunks when brown and throw them in the oven with a thermometer. Now comes my favorite part, more Frasier.

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Why am I doing this? It’s 2016. Watch House of Cards or something.

After 22 minutes of watching Niles and Daphne making eyes at each other, the chicken comes out of the oven. I grab the thermometer that’s been inside the bird for half an hour, burn my fingers off and drop the thermometer on the floor. I immediately pick it up with my other hand and burn those fingers off too. Finally, I wise up and grab it with my sleeves like I’m wiping off finger prints at a crime scene.

The second chicken batch is ready for the oven. Instinctively, I grab the thermometer and burn my hands off for the third time. I have no brain cells left to lose so I bang my head angrily on the countertop.

Luckily making Micro-Steamed Asparagus takes no cognitive thinking. It barely requires hands. You place the asparagus on a microwave safe plate, cover it with damp paper towels and microwave it. That’s it. I don’t know why or how this book dedicated four pages to this process, but they did. This recipe doesn’t belong in The Food Lab. It belongs here.

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After preparing my microwave vegetables I took this picture.

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I don’t know what that growth is, but I’m starving and don’t care. I immediately added two more chicken chunks on the plate, because it’s almost bedtime and dammit daddy’s hungry.

It’s great. The chicken is crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside. All the recipe took was chicken, the basic bitch of food, salt and pepper. That was it. The asparagus tastes like microwaved asparagus, and it’s shockingly good. There’s only one thing left to answer. What show will I watch while I enjoy this masterpiece?

Smart money is on Frasier.

Recipe: 23/23

Did I do the dishes? Yes.

The Best Corn Chowder

Posted on by Craig Stewart

Corn is going to kill us all.

I read the first 83 pages of Michael Pollan’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma. I watched Fed Up. I’ve seen Children of the Corn. I get it. We started growing butt-tons of corn in this country because it’s profitable and supported by government subsidies and it can be used to make sugars that add flavor to pretty much everything from Coca-Cola to Toothpaste. It’s the only vegetable that can rot your teeth and fix them at the same time. Take that, Broccoli. Unfortunately these corn sugars are giving us all kinds of diseases according to men in white lab coats somewhere. It’s all probably true, but guess what?

I don’t care.

Corn tastes great. Corn on the cob is delicious, even if it takes 10 feet of floss to feel like a normal human being after eating it. Corned Beef is fantastic, and I don’t think it has anything to do with corn, but whatever. Cornbread is the only reason to go to Cracker Barrel. That and the friendly service, home-style cooking, and giant game of rug checkers you can play while waiting for your cornbread. The golf tee game is cool too. Maybe I don’t hate Cracker Barrel*.

Soup is also going to kill us all.

Canned soup is full of salt, preservatives and additives that are poisoning us all from the inside. It’s drying us out and turning us into human jerky for the aliens to eat when they arrive. Andy Warhol’s later Campbell’s Soup Cans work had all those odd and vibrant colors because he’d eaten too much soup during research and the additives were affecting his vision and perception of reality. It’s all probably true, but guess what?

I don’t care.

My coworkers once gave me 24 cans of Healthy Choice Soup for my birthday, accompanied by a card that said “Have a Soup-er Day.” That gift was practical, unexpected, delicious and quite possibly the best gift I’ve ever received. Well, maybe Spider-Man socks. I guess I’m easily impressed.

This week I decided to combine these two forces plotting my demise, and make “The Best Corn Chowder” (Page 212). The best seems a little strong. Why can’t we just call it what it is? This week I made “Hot Milk and Corn Death Water” (Page 212).

After my trip to the grocery store, where I discovered that Coriander costs more per ounce than crack cocaine, I sat down to investigate the secrets of Corn Chowder in The Food Lab. The most important factor is fresh corn, preferably bought directly from the farmer. It’s February. My corn is wrapped in plastic. It most likely came off an Iowa farm in early-September. This would be before the farmer, who I’m supposed to somehow have a relationship with and buy my corn from, had any idea of the highs and lows his Iowa Hawkeyes would take him through this college football season. Spoiler alert Mr. Farmer, you end up disappointed, just like I am in myself and my poor plastic-wrapped corn before I even start cooking.

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After cutting the corn off the cob, and in the process scattering it across my kitchen I was directed to, “Milk the corn.” It’s not a euphemism. I don’t know how to milk corn, because milking corn is not a thing. So I squeezed the corn over a pot, and scraped at it with the back of a knife until the corn juice (I don’t know much, but I know it’s not milk) started to flow.

Corn juice, corn cobs, bay leaf, coriander, fennel and stock all go into one pan and are turned up to a boil. While that pot is heating up I prepare the onions, garlic, salt pork and potatoes. The potatoes present an issue, as I don’t own a potato peeler. I try to tackle the situation with a pairing knife, and in the process one potato ends up on the ground, mashed, mangled and screaming for life. I was prepared for this disaster with a back-up potato. My confidence in my cooking skills is so low I bought an extra potato, simply because I knew I would screw up at least one of them. Is that intelligent or sad? I’ll leave that distinction up to the jury.

I melt butter and cook the salt pork in another giant pot. Salt pork is bacon for people who look at bacon and think, “It’s good, but could use more fat and salt.” I was going to make fun of those people until I tasted the salt pork. I am now one of those people.

Once the fat has rendered (which is fancy cook language for melted) I add the corn, onions and garlic and coat everything in the delicious butter/salt pork fat mixture. I start to realize that I appreciate this style of cooking more than the quick-searing meats. It’s much more paced, almost Zen. I begin to feel enlightened. Maybe cooking isn’t so bad? I open my inner eye to the glory of the soup, and it’s time to add the stewed stock mixture to the pork pot through a fine mesh strainer.

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Back in reality, I don’t own a fine mesh strainer. This is not Zen. I Frankenstein together a colander and a coffee filter and hope for the best. It works, but like a coffee pot, takes time. Luckily this is soup, we have all the time in the world. I rediscover my peaceful center.

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10 minutes later it’s time to add the most important ingredient, half-and-half. We haven’t skimped out on fat thus far, and we’re not stopping now. The entire concept behind this recipe is that it’s supposed to kill me eventually. I stare in death’s face unafraid and drown the sucker in half-and-half.

The butter and the rest of the soup have separated like a traveling salesman and his wife. Kenji has a solution, soup meet blender. I am skeptical. I don’t think I’ve ever used the blender for anything other than a milkshake. Plus, with my track record there’s no way that this doesn’t end with the neighborhood coated in a thin layer of corn chowder.

It worked, and spectacularly so.

I scoop out a bowl, chop up a scallion and prepare for my death cocktail.

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It’s staggeringly good. I don’t care what those bastards in white lab coats say about corn and soup and climate change, this is worth it. If I die, I want to do so covered in corn, like a true American. Every single bite of The Best Corn Chowder brings me closer to my impending doom, and I’ll go there gladly.

As long as they have corn chowder when I get there.

Recipe 3/3

Did I do the Dishes? Yes

*Promotional consideration definitely not provided by Cracker Barrel, but if they’re offering, I’m listening.