A day for Sue

I don't remember much about how I felt on 9/11. When I see photographs of young children in the arms of firefighters at the site of the Oklahoma City bombing, the pain is remote, foreign, wholly unattached to me like the blood running true from a clean paper cut. Yesterday I will remember forever. I will recall every word of the story of how my friend Susan fell down the steps of her New York City apartment, how she became brain dead, how they took her off life support. Her story, lovely by virtue of its ordinary grace, ended at the mercy of gravity. She will have no more memory to give, no more headlong glances into the future, no more breakfasts, lunches, or dinners, no more friendly nothings on her facebook wall, no dancing, bad mornings, better nights, forgiving laughter, exaggerated opinions, morbid curiosity. To say that she lives on in us is no more than vain hope, the selfish clingings-on of we cripples to mortality. She was good, and there is no more.

Camp food

In theory, I love camping: the great outdoors, the smoky fire, the challenge of cooking. In practice, camping is tough to defend: the mosquitos, the boredom, the lack of running water, the going to sleep at 9, the bastard hard-as-shit ground, the freezing your ass off no matter how warm your sleeping bag. I justify its drawbacks with the Calvin's Dad Defense: It'll be good for your character! Unfortunately, my character likes an Ambien (there were none) and an airbed (nope), a flashlight (cell phone) and a comfy chair (log), to be able to put up with that bullshit. At the end of the night, we fell asleep to the dulcet tones of a parent spanking her child and a banjo whose strummer had the enthusiasm of a Baggins drunk on adventure.

Chinese pulled pork and fresh, sweet slaw

I've been cutting down on carbs for the past month, have been avoiding sweets, and just began the Couch to 5K program with my boyfriend.

Who exactly in the fuck have I become? I'll tell you who: a meat-guzzling, vegetable-cramming nuthouse who looks at sugar like that kid who eats play-doh at recess. Not kidding, this summer I'm going to be eating so much meat I'll see blood. People blood.

Cold lime buttermilk souffles

Like anyone who's worked in a restaurant kitchen or bakery and is also the clumsiest person on Earth, I've learned how to deal with food disasters quite well. Yesterday as I was finishing the decorations on a cake I began far too late, the fondant bow I had set to dry the day before crumbled in my hands. Bakery closing, I had no choice but to embark on a new course for Good Enoughton. The same happened to me this morning while unmolding the souffle I made the night before- and again, improvisation was my saving grace. When dealing with these situations, you have two choices: scrap the lot and tell the consumer, or pull some magic out of your ass and pretend that was exactly what you meant to do all along.

I'm always amazed when things turn out well for me, considering how many dozens of times I've royally fucked up desserts, cakes, and even entire meals. Whenever anyone compliments my food, I'm reminded of an abbreviated stage I had in a Savannah restaurant during which the rolls I made failed to rise properly more than once, molten chocolate cakes for a New Year's dinner came out all different sizes and stages of doneness, strawberry sorbet wasn't strained for seeds, and, the kicker, my hip knocked into the cupboard containing the chef's awards and shattered a heavy glass number into a million sad pieces on the kitchen floor. He sent me home with a check and a renewed sense of self-loathing, and I was fired the next day.

Cream of toasted coconut soup

Soups and stews are the boss of everything. There's no pressure to do stuff too right, you can always add a bit of something you think they need without worrying about timing, and they're perfectly rounded. When I make a soup, I imagine it is a pool party where everyone is invited. At the end of it, everybody's like "That was the greatest pool party! Thanks, Dude!" and then they high-five with a piece of pizza drooping cheese in the other hand. So, soup is like Ninja Turtles.

My inspiration for making coconut soup was twofold: 1) I love the coconut curries Thai places serve, and 2) I didn't have anything goddamn else in my pantry. Necessity is the mother of invention, but the father of invention is desperation, and the druncle is sitting on your couch eating Sriracha out of a spoon- which I have done, will continue to do, and SHUT UP UNCLE MARK.

Lemon curd mousse with fresh raspberries, mango, and white chocolate sauce

The last time I visited my sister, she suggested that I post more instructional pictures on my blog. The truth is, this isn't so easy. Stovetop pastry requires vigilance and lots and lots of stirring. If you stop doing either of these things for even a minute, those fickle fuckers go to shit. Until I get a personal photographer, I shall do my best- but on that day, y'all will be more concerned with the monkeys flying out of my butthole.

The dark side of the food

I started writing this entry much earlier in the week, but I got caught up in some unnecessary turmoil at work, and I had a sleepless night of self-conscious fits worrying about what I had done to provoke hurtful words from a coworker. My life is an open book, but I've learned in the past year to hedge my shit-talking to a minimum when on the job and when speaking about coworkers to other coworkers. Unfortunately, I didn't realize that being in a kitchen full of women wouldn't afford me the same courtesy. The social strictures of women working in a kitchen are often just as precarious as those of women outside of the workplace can be- one misstep, and you are out of favor, no matter what your previous behavior has been. I hope that I am not like this, and if I am, I would think that I have the equanimity to change that. Now on the subject of honesty...

I love country music. The other day my friend said to me "you don't seem like the kind of person who would listen to country music," and I was so happy to hear this. I consider country music and mainstream rap music similar entities- overly-simplified narrative followed by a twangy, roughneck beat. Country artists sing about the things they dig- gettin' revenge, drinkin' beer, and love. Replace "beer" with "Patron" and "love" with "fuckin'" and you've got the repertoire of any number of rappers on hip-hop radio. Flip over to a pop station, and you hear this leaking into Top 40. Such everyman, equalizing, pedestrian sentiments are heartening to me- it's not brave by any means, but it is fun as hell. Pop, country, rap- they're not meant to be profound, they're meant to make you feel good. And they do this so damn well.

Ginger limoncello with crushed basil

Vodka is a wonder liquor. It is prized for its clean neutrality and ability to enhance the flavors around it. Therefore, vodka is perfect for making your own little precious liqueurs. I have only done this previously  with vodka and vanilla beans, so I was pumped about making my own limoncello. The pale yellow hue and chilly clarity of its finish has an ambrosial quality that turns its every vessel into God of that moment.

Cinnamon-scented cream cake with molasses burnt caramel

Today is my mom's birthday, so I made her a cake. My mom is every kind of quirky. Whenever I describe her to friends and acquaintances, I use a certain key phrase: "She's not a crazy cat lady, she's a crazy lady who happens to have cats." She loves to take care of things, so whenever she feels she has exactly no more time to dedicate to another living being, she acquires five more. It happened with rabbits, it happened with turtles, and cats, and her garden, and then chickens. Another defining characteristic is her assertion that all those beings love her the most. It happened with her kids (conjecture), it happens with her nieces and nephews (fact), and it will happen with our kids (definite) and her menagerie of orphaned slow lorises (projected). Among her other oddities is a proclivity for hurrying her offspring through the airport as if all the planes are on fire, insisting Nicholas Cage is "hot", alluding to her being "so sick of religion and politics in general" but never getting sick of saying "i'm so sick of religion and politics in general," and abandoning me and my sister whenever we go anywhere together, only for us to find her sitting on a bench outside of that very place, smiling blithely into the air like some weirdo. We do love you, though, Mom, just the way you are.

Soup 'n' Salad

I like to combine many different cuisines into one meal. It's almost as if I took nuclear fusion and applied it to food...like a fusion cuisine. Dibs! Last night my Dad and his wife Kay came over for dinner around my apartment coffee table, and I wanted to make something special out of a simple concept because they had just lost a beloved family pet and, well, food is the natural American Southern way of dealing with death. I originally planned to make Thai, but then I came up with an Italian counterpart that would contrast with the textures and flavors of the first, starting off with a bang, and ending understatedly.

But before I get to that, the phone call what started this dinner was one from my Dad to me earlier in the week. I get my interest and flare for cooking from my Dad, and I don't think I've ever had a bad meal at his house. He told me that he was taking cooking classes from a friend in his neighborhood to hone a few of his skills in the kitchen, namely sauce- and stock-making. Fortunately, I relayed that I had three stocks in the freezer and that I would employ two of them for our meal. We shoptalked for about 45 minutes, after which I couldn't get the smile off my face. When you're young you don't see how you'll ever be like your parents, but when you get older, there's no greater validation than to lord your strengths over them while denigrating the senile wretches as scrapple of a dying generation.

Slow-cooker bbq chicken thighs

My boyfriend is super impatient about dinner, and it infuriates me. Almost all the meals I make take no less than an hour to cook, and to an ADHD adult, that is goddamn forever. Still this has in no way hedged my habit of making a production; I braise with abandon, and when Jason asks "when will it be ready, again?" I tend to take a mite longer than need be just to let him know that good food is worth the wait. As a result, he has learned to add 30 minutes of cooking time to whatever I initially project, and I satiate his appetite with a salad somewhere in the middle just so he will shut the fuck up. After all, the kid was living on frozen dinners, canned soup, cereal, and chic-fil-a before we started dating.

Ugh, I know. You're like "Bitch, I don't know your life!"

Expensive-ass bouillabaisse with rouille and stuffed mushrooms

March Madness brings out the worst in people. I pull for Chapel Hill because I like the feel of the place, and my sister is a soon-to-be-graduate, but this is the once instance in which I hedge my emotions for fear of losing my mind. Shit tends to get superficial very quickly, and turns personal even quicker. I try to stay within the realm of "Go Tar Heels" without resorting to personal attacks on Duke fans, among them my boyfriend, his family, and several friends of mine. I know it's fun to provoke friendly competition, but shit-talking without a sense of how ridiculous it all is in the end means you're taking life entirely too seriously. Come on, guys. Don't be dickholes. Eat some bouillabaisse instead.

Spanish stuffed pork chops with mustard salad

Never underestimate the power of a brine. Even when my meat only has time for a quick bath, I dip its toes in. Brines add flavor and make even the driest-ass cuts juicy. In the case of pork I always reach for molasses because its deep black sweet soul cuts through the pig's fatty flamboyance so well. Spanish stuffing is my own indulgence- I like nothing better than to munch on marcona almonds and charcuterie and olives all de liblong day, habitually hanging round the Harris Teeter olive bar, filling up my container, throwing a few in my mouth and filling it back up as if nothing had happened. My hubris around that bar elicits a comical swagger the likes of which no employee has ever seen nor cared about.

Also, have I told y'all that baby spinach is bullshit? You will never see me cooking with it (oops, maybe sometimes). I just don't get why you'd choose baby over leaf. Leaf has texture, and flavor, and a meaty quality to it. It's big and strong like Popeye. Baby spinach is nervous Olyve Oyl with her typewriter-style nailbiting technique, nervous knees, and weirdo low-bun brill-creem hairdo. Ohhhh, Popeye.

Lattice-top blackberry tart

Mom and I saw a beautiful array of tasty berries at the Fresh Market today, including golden raspberries, which look like larvae. I didn't have quite enough of them to make a pie, so I made a tart, which I have lovingly dubbed a fart.

This grub can't even handle me right now

Right off the bat, I'm going to tell you that I forgot to scale the fish. There. Now you shits can laugh it up.

It's a bitch to get fish fillets out of unscaled fish, on the reals. I, however, like to see it as "rustic" to pick out bones and the very occasional scale while you're eating. A scale may turn Padma "Disingenuous Condolences" Lakshmi away, but I'm sure if I cooked this fish pozole for a family meal in Mexico, no one would care a bit.

I see you there, li'l scalio, going to Edglington.

Almond Joy surprise cookies aka Racial harmony cookies except all other races besides just the two

Cookies are my favorite noms with which to fux. It's not quite a dessert, but not quite a snack; it's humble, it's homey; and if you know one basic recipe, you can do a plethora of things with it. A few weeks ago I expressed my disappointment with the Top Chef crew for their inability to make a good cookie, and I stand by that. It's one thing to not be a good cook at all, but to be a chef and not have at least one cookie trick up your sleeve is unthinkable- have you never even made a batch of Nestle's for your child? It just...it flabbergasts me. The cookie for me is a metaphor for truth. It is all that's good in the world. If I had a Patronus, it would be a big, pillowy mother with halfway-melted midnight-dark chunks. If I had no home, I'd live in the house of Toll.

Pulled pork sandwiches on pretzel rolls with smoky mustard citrus aioli and buttermilk shallot rings, hot dill pickled squash

Deciding to make pretzel rolls today was a huge mistake. I was inspired by Dale's prime rib pretzel roll sandwiches on Top Chef the other week, and I lost that inspiration right around the first dough rise when I read down the recipe to the part where you boil them. "What in the very fuck is this shit?" I said to myself, slump-shouldered and quickly losing turgor. Luckily the smell of the pork butt revived me, and, like Powdermilk biscuits, gave me the strength to get up and do what needed to be done #whitepeoplereference.

Caesar salad with curry honey grilled chicken and roasted tomatoes with green olive tapenade

I recently started a new job, so I haven't had quite as much time to blog. That's a lie. I've had plenty of time. But I spend it napping, instead. For some reason work makes me want to crash whenever and wherever I have the chance- be that on a back table at the bakery or on my couch, we Bardolphs are champion nappers. We also like to eat. Imagine a wheelhouse run on gravy. Now picture three lazy fucks rolling their eyes at the wheel for even existing. This is us.

The time I disgraced my ancestors by fucking up a biscuit

Creamy roasted carrot and garlic soup with parsley whipped ricotta

I've been contemplating a healthier diet for the past few weeks. I tend to make meals in which meat or fish is the star, so I'm on the lookout for adventurous vegetarian mains and sides to expand my repertoire. One thing I will not do, however, is cut out sweets. I'd rather die. The Cookie Monster and I have that in common.

See, I don't believe in a life of deprivation. I deprived myself of enough food in my adolescence to make up for years of being a chubby kid, and once I became an adult I learned that both eating and exercise can be fulfilling endeavors as long as you're not doing it to prove a point. I've gained and lost weight, eaten more than I should and less than I should, exercised daily and then only when I felt like it, but it's never changed who I am. My strong constitution, my happiness, my sense of humor remain forever the same. I won't deprive myself of the pursuit for good food any sooner than I will relinquish the love of family, abstain from affection, mock sincerity, or give up on hope even when it is dashed. My best self and my true self are one and the same- always here, always now.

"Red-eye" poached egg and grits

Breakfast is by far the best meal of the day. In no other setting besides a cruise boat are you more encouraged to stuff your face with fat and carbs, then sink into a thick coma with a prayer of bacon of your lips. Heck, we have a word for breakfast that you eat at lunch and one for breakfast that you eat at dinner. Brinner may not be in your lexicon, but I'm sure you can appreciate the motivation behind it; and when that motivation happens to be fresh eggs from my mom's coop, then that's when I go to town.

Roasted carrot buttermilk ice cream sundaes with brandied ginger butterscotch and honey lemon walnuts

One of my last jobs involved creating new ice creams weekly for an ice cream/sorbet trio that was on the bistro's menu. Since then the only times I've gotten the machine back out was first to impress this jerk I dated, and now to get myself back in the game. One of the problems I have with baking at home is I'm compelled to bake far more than I'm willing to eat, the result of which is a full-ass freezer rather than a full ass (bloops, too late). Also, you have to have friends to take it off your hands, friends who don't do that "Oh, you're trying to make me fat!" bullshit. These are easy to come by if you choose wisely and throw the food at their car as they drive away.

Get brown-wise

Myriad varieties of brownie have been made over the years- boxed, from scratch; nuts, no nuts; iced, cheesecake. I don't get it. Why can't we let brownies be brownies? The brownie is the prototype for all chocolate desserts. It is, simply, chocolate, flour, butter, eggs, and sugar. When we go mucking about with nuts and jams and zest and (ugh!) marshmallows and that awful cream cheese mess we swirl onto the top that says "cheesecake" but doesn't come close to tasting like it, we lose the meaning of the brownie.

About a year ago, I tried Thomas Keller's Ad Hoc brownie recipe for the first time, and I've never gone back. They are the perfect compromise between fudgy and cakey- almost contradictory, like a dense chocolate mousse. They are, in fact...the Henry Clay of brownies.

When you read you begin with ABC, when you bake you begin with rolling your sleeves

Back around Christmas, my mom and sister asked me how to make cookies. When I began to give them the recipe, however, I realized that it would take much more than a recipe to explain how to bake. Not only do you need to know some fundamental rules; you need to know when to break them in order to enjoy the activity, which brings me to my first and most important rule:

If you're not having fun, stop. Home baking should never be something to stress over. If you feel yourself losing your nerve, sit down and have a glass of wine before you return to the kitchen. If you're completely defeated, quit! No one is going to judge you more harshly than you do yourself. Once you get back your confidence, you'll not only bake better; you'll be better.

Bring all your ingredients to room temperature. Don't be afraid to leave eggs and dairy out on the counter! Listen, I know salmonella is a thing...but is it, really? Sugar denatures the proteins in eggs, essentially "cooking" the harmful bacteria out of raw dough. When your ingredients are the same temperature, they just work better together. Cold retards the chemical and physical processes necessary for successful baking.

Taste what you make before it goes in the oven. Not only is it delicious, but it gives you a good sense of what the finished product will taste like. When you get better at baking, you will develop the ability to tell how your product will turn out just by looking at it. Proper initial consistency and flavor are the two key elements to proper final texture and taste.

Make a mess. Admittedly, this has been a problem in my professional life. Keeping clean and organized is a sign of respect to your coworkers, yourself, and your food. At home, I just don't give a damn. I'm constantly coming up with ideas as I work and acting on those ideas whether I know they'll turn out or not. As a consequence, my countertops are near constantly covered in a dusting of flour or cocoa, and I have at least three kitchen appliances out at one time. Despite my attempts to change, I always revert to the mess. The mess makes me feel accomplished, happy, and comfortable in my clumsiness. The outside world can be harsh to my kind, but in my kitchen, I am queen.

Scrape dat bowl. Between every stage of mixing, scrape your bowl and paddle down thoroughly with a spatula. This helps incorporate bits of the mixture that may have gone rogue during the first go-round.

Butter and flour your pans. Nothing's worse than a good brownie that won't come out.

Invest in silicone baking mats. You will never have to grease a cookie sheet again.

Wash up. I don't just mean your hands; your pots, pans, measuring cups, mixer, and spatulas, too. I may be messy, but I always clean up afterwards. Butter and dairy pick up even the slightest off flavor left behind from a previous project. Egg whites fail to whip in the presence of fat.

Measure properly and sift! I'm not joking. Baking is not an improvisational endeavor until you're really good at it. Sifting does three things: adds volume to the dry ingredients and thus the baked good, sorts out any bits or clumps, and equally distributes chemical leaveners such as baking soda or powder. Depending on the recipe, I will sift up to four times.

If possible, move your shit to a cooling rack. Cookies, cakes, brownies, and bread continue to cook once they have come out of the oven. Even if your product is done when a knife has come out clean, it may overbake if you leave it in the pan for too long. Once you've ascertained that the product is stable enough to be handled, flip it out.

Finally...

Chill, bitch.

The one where I save my herbs from certain death

The worst thing about buying herbs is you get one or two uses out of it before the freshness starts to fade, and you're left with an entire bunch rotting into that fetid dark green mucus at the bottom of your crisper drawer. Suck.

Fortunately, I become a martyr when it comes to saving the unsalvageable, so in near tragedy, I hold out one vain hope: to put that shit in a blender and purée the fuck out of it. Tonight I remembered there were just such asshole herbs in my fridge, so put that shit in a blender did I, and purée the fuck out of it I did.

Herb Purée

Leafy greens of the offending herb (parsley, cilantro, basil, tarragon...caveat: no woody herbs like thyme or rosemary, this recipe works best aesthetically with brightly-colored ones)

Juice of half a lemon

A pinch of kosher salt

Canola or any neutral-flavored oil (olive oil is too aromatic and will mask the flavor of the base herb)

Place all ingredients in a blender with the exception of the oil. Switch on the blender and slowly pour the oil in a thin, steady stream until the mixture turns into a green paste.  When you can run your finger through the mixture and it falls back into itself, the purée is ready. Divide it into small ziploc bags, and refrigerate overnight- if not using the next day, freeze until needed.

Now comes the fun part sort of! Save the stems and steep them in a broth or stock. Use the purée as a garnish for soups, sauté shallots and blend both into softened butter as an accompaniment to thin white fish fillets, spread it on sandwich bread, or blend it into a simple white wine or cream sauce. Or...hang on, I can't talk anymore. Cookie Monster is on Top Chef All-Stars, and it is making my life. How come no one on this show can ever make a damn dessert?

If a white girl writes a food blog, does anyone care?

Over the past few years, I've been making all kinds of mistakes- throwing myself at the wrong guy, starting jobs and failing miserably at them, moving to new places and quickly tiring of their bullshit. One thing I've always done right, though, is bake, cook, and eat. Besides becoming obsessed with TV shows, memorizing the lives of celebrities, and mocking those same lives, it's about all I can do. When I step into my own kitchen, I feel my clumsiness, my self-doubt fading away like Nick Cage's credibility or hair- I mix and knead and burn and spill with abandon, spouting delighted expletives at my victories and reckless chortles at my defeats. Now I'm bringing you bitches along for the ride.