Author: Craig Stewart

Beer. Part of this complete breakfast.

Posted on by Craig Stewart

Author’s Note: Due to no post last week there will be two posts this week. Unless I chop off my fingers. Then there will not be a second post this week.

It’s time I addressed a major issue. One that is standing in the way of me cooking my way through The Food Lab. No, there are no food allergies or intolerances keeping me from making every single recipe in this book. I once ate a ham sandwich with mayonnaise that had been expired for over two years. I’m pretty sure my iron stomach can survive pretty much anything. This issue is a matter of taste and a matter of much controversy.

I don’t like breakfast.

When I tell people I don’t like breakfast they act like I hit their dog with my car. On purpose. Breakfast is a religion. Actually it’s more than a religion. Most people are more passionate about their breakfast beliefs than they are about their spiritual ones. I’ve never been punched by someone when I’ve told them I’m not Catholic. I was hit when I asked a friend, “Why do people like scrambled eggs?”

Sesame Street taught me that breakfast is, “The Most Important Meal of the Day.” It sounds good. But did you know that Sesame Street’s principal sponsor at the time (at least in my home town) was Ralston Purina, a subsidiary of RalCorp who currently own 42 different breakfast cereal brands? Their brand family includes a cereal called Frosted Flakes with a white polar bear mascot. I think his catch phrase is, “Theyyyyyy’re similar.”

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RalCorp is also owned by ConAgra foods, who in turn owns the Egg Beaters brand of processed egg product. Do I need to spell it out? We’ve all been brainwashed into believing that breakfast is important by Big Breakfast and their corporate interests. We’re all just cogs in a capitalist machine powered by whole grains, man.

I will occasionally have breakfast pizza. Which is what I call normal pizza when I eat it for breakfast after it’s been sitting on the counter for 12 hours.

Mostly though, I’m just not hungry in the morning. Plus, I think a club sandwich is a better way to kill a hangover than a pan-fried chicken fetus.

This is the problem. There are 88 pages dedicated to breakfast food in The Food Lab I will eventually have to tackle. Yet, I’m staunchly opposed to most things breakfast food. So I’ve decided to tackle this problem the way any responsible adult would.

Grab a beer and make the best of it.

I’m making Potato Hash with Peppers and Onions (Page 140), which is apparently just everything in the refrigerator thrown in a pan, fried and covered in eggs.

I’ll be using two cast irons for this dish, my trusty old cast-iron pan, Mama Cast, and a 4 Hands Brewing Company Cast Iron Oatmeal Brown. Actually, a few Cast Iron Oatmeal Browns.

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Since I was drinking, I took time-stamped notes as I proceeded, in order to avoid missing anything. Here’s how the whole thing progressed for this “15-minute” recipe.

7:05 – I have begun peeling potatoes.

7:15 – I am still peeling potatoes.

7:16 – I create a new game. Drink every time I drop my potato peeler in the trash can.

7:25 – I am done peeling potatoes. I have already exceeded the 15 minutes of allotted time. I have a drink to drown my sorrows.

7:27 – I begin to chop potatoes.

7:33 – Captain’s Log: The Potatoes have been chopped, and are currently being par cooked. This appears to be a fancy word for microwaved. I propose a toast to my newfound knowledge.

7:34 – I begin to chop peppers.

7:35 – I go blind in my right eye from squirting pepper juice. I have a drink because it hurts.

7:37 – The potatoes go in the pan. I have a drink because they look very lonely in there.

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7:38 – I begin to chop onions. I start to cry. I have a drink because I’m sad.

7:41 – Everything else goes in the pan. I have a drink because I’m happy that all the vegetables are friends now.

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7:43 – I go blind in my right eye again from popping grease. I don’t have a drink because I’m too busy cursing Big Breakfast for my problems.

7:46 – Captain’s Log: The eggs have been added. I have had a drink because I decided “You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs” is a stupid saying. Why the hell would anyone want an omelet? All they do is make you fart.

7:46 ½  – Everything goes in the oven. I have a drink in celebration because my eyes are now protected by a sheet of glass.

7:4? – I check the eggs. They don’t look done. I drink to pass the time.

7:51 – I check the eggs again. There appears to be some kind of film on top of them. I don’t have a drink because I’m slightly disgusted.

7:53 – I check the eggs. They still don’t look like they’re done. I have a drink because I’m frustrated.

7:55 – I pull the entire thing out of the oven. I have a drink because I overcooked the damn eggs.

7:56 – I take this lovely picture. I drink because it’s so damn beautiful.

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8:00 – Almost a full hour after starting I get to eat my hash. I have a drink because a drink with dinner is good for you.

I don’t know if it’s the Cast Irons talking but this is fantastic even with my eggs as overcooked as I am. I propose a toast to the end of toast. With excellent breakfast options like this, why in God’s name would I ever eat toast?

I want to fill a pool with this stuff and throw a Hash Bash. I want to eat so much of it I develop Hash Rash. I want to hide a bunch of it for later in my Hash Stash.

This was way too many Cast Irons.

I drink to my greatness, for I have discovered a way for me to enjoy breakfast food. If I ever want to enjoy it at breakfast time I’ll have to start drinking at 7 a.m., but that seems like a small price to pay for something this damn good.

Recipe: 4.2/5.1

Did I do the Dishes? No

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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?”

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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).

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.