Stay at Stove Dad

Planning and Food Shopping Tips from the Trenches

My late father had many colorful expressions at his disposal. He wasn't a man who swore a lot (at least not around the children), and he had a great faculty with language (he was a litigator). One the things he used to say when something wasn't going his way was, "I need this like I need a hole in my head."

That expression came to mind tonight when I came home. I have a number of recent and unexpected stresses in my life right now. One is a career-related project that I'm very excited about and will fully describe in the near future. As thrilling as this project is, it does take up a lot of brain power. The other stress is related to my living situation, and it remains in my best interest not to detail it here. Suffice it to say that I need it like I need a hole in my head.

I've been so distracted that I can barely cook. Usually, I do the menu planning and grocery buying, but this week Santa Maria volunteered to take on this task. She's doing her best to pick up much of the domestic labor as I throw myself into this new work project of mine, but she is also subject to the same living-situation stress as I am.

When I plan a menu, I try to think three or four steps ahead, and I'm proud of one of my more recent tricks that helps me balance work, play, parenting, cooking, and shopping. For a long time, I've been frustrated by the way fresh herbs spoil before you can use them up. Take parsley, for example. How many times have you thrown out three-quarters of a limp head a week after using a pinch to gussy up a dish? Parsley is on my mind lately because it is a key ingredient in the weekly quinoa-and-sweet-potato salad I make for Santa Maria's lunch.

Due to the recent distractions, I forgot to put parsley on the shopping list last weekend. But I was still able to make the quinoa salad because of the trick I've learned. As soon as a head of parsley comes into the house, I wash it well and dry it thoroughly in the salad spinner. It will then keep in the refrigerator for up to two weeks.

I'm very grateful that Santa Maria is helping out with the shopping and planning. Her menu for this week included mushroom risotto. Delightful, I thought. It was something I could put together tonight while the kids were playing before bedtime. I'm not of the persuasion that risotto needs to be stirred constantly. It's not necessary. I'm not a great chef, just a great eater. Though if you ate my food, you might quibble with that self-deprecating description. I can cook very well, and love to do it.

Tonight, though, I was stymied. I couldn't find any mushrooms in the house. I asked Santa Maria where the dried porcini were, or if we had any at all. "I don't know," she replied. "How could you not know, if you put the dish on the menu for the week," I snapped. 

"Porcini mushrooms are a staple." she said. "They should be in the house, like salt, Mr. Stay-at-Stove-Dad."

On to plan B, which was no plan. I found a head of cauliflower and Santa Maria offered to roast it. That was very nice of her, as it got me out of the kitchen. I was starting to feel angry because I wasn't going to have a delicious dinner. I sat with the kids while they played, and if ever there was an antidote to anger it's in their joyful laughter.

I snacked on some baby carrots, and gave my blood-sugar a boost. Pinta trotted around eating what she called a pequeño carrot, and I relaxed. There was left over asparagus from the kids' dinner, and I found some frozen empanadas to round out my dinner. A filling meal, but not one with any real culinary satisfaction.

One of my favorite artists, Prince, uses my father's expression in a slightly different context. It's not one of his better songs, but somehow it seems fitting. Santa Maria suggested it.

Anotherloverholenyohead - Prin...

Late Fall Salad with Peconic Bay Scallops Recipe

Saturday morning I was grumpy about all the work I had do to. Domestic work. The pile of laundry was knee high. The weekly food shop loomed. These things would have to be taken care of, and the number of leisure hours available to me was rapidly dwindling.

The food shop could wait. Taking care of myself could not. I've learned the hard way (cf: therapy bills, etc) that if I don't tend to my own needs, there's a price to pay. So I went out for a run in the park, and on my way there, I threw the soiled clothes in the laundromat up the block.

After a cathartic workout, I stopped at the Green Market to buy fish. I don't often run, but it works wonders on my psyche when I do. Out of breath and sweaty, I was full of good spirits. In that mood I tend to start dreaming of buying loads and loads of fish and inviting everyone I know to dinner. My run had been good, but not that good (it was short for one thing--that laundry needed to be put in the dryer), so I checked that impulse and kept to my original plan. I had my eye on our usual weekend meal--white clam sauce and sautéd flounder. I buy my seafood from Blue Moon Fish. Years ago, I worked in a retail fish market, and I know how to spot quality fish; Blue Moon's is unusually good. Typically, there's a long, meandering line of stroller-toting dads, young couples with coffee cups, and other devoted seafood eaters snaking halfway across the asphalt of the Greenmarket like some kind of Great Wall of China. On Saturday, though, there wasn't any line. I felt lucky, and when I  spoke to a clerk and saw that they had real Peconic Bay Scallops, an extremely rare treat, I felt luckier still.

Small and sweet, Peconic Bay Scallops, from the namesake body of water on Eastern Long Island, were once relatively common. When I was working in that retail fish market in the eighties, the scallops were one of the things we carried in our gleaming display cases. During their season, a guy named Peter, the head of one of the store's wholesale accounts who was permitted to mingle among the staff, used to walk up behind the counter, where I stood as one of the clerks, and reach into the display of scallops and pop them into his mouth, raw. This was well before the vogue of sushi, and I was always shocked. He would swear that they were the best that way.

Peconic Bay scallops have nearly disappeared since I hung up my seafood smock. A mean brown tide, which is a toxic algae bloom, swept through Peconic  Bay in the late eighties, devastating the stock. The brown tide has since waned (no one really knows why) and efforts to restock the bay are bearing fruit. This year's harvest promises to be the best in years, according to a recent article in the New York Times. I was beside myself with delight walking home with half a pound for lunch. I picked up a fresh loaf of French bread and some arugula to go with them.

Santa Maria had to go to a meeting, so I ate alone with the kids. I took the scallops out of the refrigerator and told Nina and Pinta that if they were very lucky they might be able to have one. Nina grabbed the plastic bag of scallops out of my hand and pretended to keep it from me. I acted horrified. Terribly horrified. I don't think they've seem me react this way to a joke about food. I thought it might entice them to try one. It didn't, which was just fine with me.

I heated chicken soup that I had on hand for the children and started to consider my lunch. I wanted to leave the scallops in their sweet and simple glory, but I wanted a full meal. I wanted them over the fresh arugula, but that felt a bit too summery to me. Caramelized onions, I figured, would add a bit of warmth. All it needed, I thought, was one more note. Toasted pine nuts would give it a savory flavor and a bit of crunch.

Getting this all together while feeding the kids was a bit like being in a Marx Brothers movie. Back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room I ran. Caramelizing onions is always a bit of hit or miss for me. I didn't have time to think about it, though, so I heated the cast-iron pan, added some oil, and threw in slices of onion. I bashed the onions with a spatula to break them up, covered the pan, and ignored it. Every so often I'd give it a shake or stir, until the pan was smoking and they were in danger of burning, at which point I turned off the heat, and really ignored it.

I served the children their soup, and started to put together my salad. The kids seemed content, and I poured myself a glass of white wine. I took my wine and my salad to the table, but tasting the scallops became another Marx Brothers comedy. Pinta was exhausted and she nearly fell asleep while eating her lunch (or more accurately, not eating her soup). I kept her from falling over, and was able to take one bite of the salad. The scallops were warm and they bounced in my mouth. The pine nuts crunched beneath my teeth. I took and other bite, and, hurriedly, another. But I knew that Pinta really needed to be put into bed. I got up and took care of that. I sat back down with Nina, who had finished her soup and was happily eating slices of French Bread. I had two more bites. Then Nina announced that she was ready for bed. I got up and got her dressed, and put her into bed.

Finally, I sat back down. I had three bites left. A perfectly equal amount of arugula, onion, pine nuts, and scallops. I had my wine. I had a slice of freshly buttered bread. I ate them all, and then wondered where the rest of my lunch had gone. Had I really eaten it? Was it as good as I hoped it would be? Was eating it quickly, in fits and starts, anything like the way Nina and Pinta's childhood is passing? Would I miss that as soon as it was over, and wonder what had happened to it?

Late Fall Peconic Bay Scallop Salad

• 1 onion, sliced in half and then repeatedly, lengthwise.
• t tablespoon or to taste pine nuts
• fresh arugula
• salt and pepper
• 1/2 lb fresh Peconic Bay Scallops
• Olive Oil
• White wine vinegar

Heat some oil in a frying pan, preferably cast iron, and add the onion, stirring occasionally.

Cover the onions, stir every so often.

When the pan is so hot that the onions are at risk of burning, turn off the heat and let the onions sit, covered. There will be enough heat in the pan to sweat them sufficiently. If not, repeat the above steps a bit more rapidly.

Heat a second cast-iron frying pan and sprinkle the pin nuts on its surface. Shake and move the pan about until the nuts brown.

Remove the nuts from the pan, set aside

Wash the arugula and place in a bowl.

Heat the cast iron pan that was used to toast the pine nuts.

Put some oil in the pan.

Dry the scallops on paper towel and toss in pan.

Sear them about thirty seconds on one side, and thirty on another, keeping in mind that they don't really have to be cooked at all. (I only like them with a nice brown crust, though.)

When the scallops are reasonably browned, have swollen but not given up their liquid, remove them from the heat. 

Toss the arugula with olive oil and white-wine vinegar.

Add the pine nuts to the arugula, layer a bit of the caramelized onions on it, and top with the cooked scallops.

What I Learned from "Julie and Julia": How to Make Better Scallops

Last night I watched "Julie and Julia," and I learned something. After seeing scene after scene of Julie Powell drying the meat for boeuf bourguinon, it occurred to me that I should be drying my scallops when I sauté them. 

I tried it this afternoon when making lunch. I patted down the scallops with paper towel before throwing them in the pan.  It really makes a difference. The scallops browned better, and stuck less. Who knew?

Where I've been

Last week, we headed out west to see Santa Maria’s folks, and spent five days in their company. They have many things at their place, from a grand piano that needs tuning in their living room to an old Mercedes coupe that’s going to seed in their garage. But they don’t have wireless Internet access, so I wasn’t able to blog.

Instead, I went swimming at a nearby lake where evergreens ring the water and canoes slip silently by. Another day we went to a family-run amusement park out in the country where green mountains stand sentinel over the gleeful screams of children and piped-in strains of country rock.  It was a fine way to end the summer.

We make the two-hundred-fifty-mile trip to visit them once or twice a year. Sometimes the journey goes well for me. Other times, not so well.

A low point of recent memory: Thanksgiving last year. Pinta screamed through dinner. I lost my temper and tossed some thoughtless verbal barbs at those gathered around the table before retreating to the kitchen. I’m forever grateful to Santa Maria’s brother for the sly comic line he let loose as I departed the dining room. I don’t remember what he said, but I remember that it was funny and that it made me feel a little bit better.

During this visit I happened to be sitting outside a local shop drinking an iced coffee. It was Sunday, and I watched a father and his family leave the shop. One of his boys was whining about something he wanted to keep. His father insisted that he throw it out. The child was about eight, and he had his heart set on holding on to it. I heard them arguing before I saw them, and when I looked at the father I could see how angry he was.

Why are dads typically so angry? My dad was angry. I’m often angry. If I thought for a minute, I could find many more examples than the guy at the coffee shop, my dad, and myself, but three examples constitutes a trend so I’ll stop there.

Perhaps it is because men are conditioned to succeed in the business world, where controlling, managing, and more-or-less avoiding emotions are part of the unofficial office rule book. Except for anger (see professional football, traffic cops, and investment bankers at the top of their game). Anger is ok.

Children, on the other hand, are nothing but pure emotion. They cry. They scream. They have temper tantrums. All things grown men wish they could do around the cubicle, but can’t.

Put men with children, and out comes anger, the single emotion men are most versed in. Of course this is not true for all men, and it's not true all the time for any man. But there's some truth to it, I'm sure.

I'm sure this dynamic can change, and the thing I'm banking on is awareness. If we can see it, we can change it.

What does this have to do with cooking? Emotions are at the root of why I cook so much: where else do I experience the same sense of control and reward?

I found some reward in my lunch today. Because we were away for few days, we're a little behind on the shopping. There wasn't much in the kitchen this morning, but today I found enough left-overs to make a nice sandwhich. The key was basil pesto. I had it in the fridge from the other day.  I put it on some poached chicken and had it with fresh bread. It changed two simple ingredients, bread and chicken, into a tasty treat.

A Hard Way to a Great Squid and Potato Salad Recipe

I’ve long known that I’ve suffered from esprit d'escalier, or what is roughly translated from the French as “staircase mind.” The condition refers to failure to come up with a witty reply in a timely manner. Imagine you are at the top of a staircase. Your adversary is at the bottom. You both start walking and pass in the middle, where he insults you. Your mind goes blank and you each continue on your way. Only when you are at the bottom and he is at the top do you think of anything clever to say. Then, it is too late. He is too far away.

I’ve also known the emotional corollary, such as only realizing I loved someone after they left. And of course there must be a financial version of it, too: who amongst us these days doesn’t wish they had thought of selling their stock a year ago? To the list, I now add, a culinary version.

In the confusing chaos of Sunday night’s dinner, I overlooked what Santa Maria was up to at the table. She later told me that she combined the squid with a potato salad I had made. I should have paid closer attention— I just used some leftovers to do the same thing, and discovered that it is an amazingly delicious combination.

I make my potato salad with nothing more than salt, pepper, scallions, parsley, and olive oil. It is a light and fresh combination. I’ve already established just how light and fresh the squid is when it’s cooked without any dressing. Put the two together, and it’s brilliant. The scallions have a light crunch. The parsley is refreshing and clean. The squid is salty and slightly crispy on its edge. All the pieces work together. Now if only I had thought of making it the other night.

Squid and Potato Salad

• four baking potatoes
• three scallions
• parsley to taste, washed and chopped
• one pound squid, cleaned and cut into rings
• sea salt
• olive oil
• two cloves of garlic, peeled and cut in half

        In a pot of water, boil the potatoes until they a fork can be inserted in them with ease.
        Cool the potatoes and cut into cubes.
        Trim and finely chop the scallions into tiny circles.
        Combine the potatoes with scallions and enough olive oil and salt to taste.

        Heat a cast-iron frying pan until it is smoking.
        Add olive oil to the pans.
        Rub the garlic in the oil and remove once it starts to brown.
        Toss some sea salt into the pan.
        Add the squid in one layer; work in small batches.
        Leave it spread out until it starts to brown.
        Flip or otherwise stir the squid to cook the other side (the whole time is just a few minutes)

        Cool the squid and combine it with the potatoes.

        Note: I suspect this would also be good with some lemon juice, but I haven't tried that yet.

My Roundabout Poached Chicken Breast Recipe

Whenever I travel, I bring food with me. During the long-ago days that I owned a car, I used to keep a loaf of sandwich bread on the passenger’s seat. It was for trips longer than a half mile. I’d eat a slice with one hand, keep my other hand on the wheel, and never take my eyes off the road.

I was always hungry. Afraid that I would not get enough to eat, I planned ahead. And if the planning failed me, I knew how to scheme.

Once, at a wedding in the Berkshires, the bride and groom tried to pass off passed hors d'oeuvres as the main course. I was looking around for dinner but the cake was being cut. We were miles from anywhere and I was starving. I went into the caterer’s kitchen and begged for something to eat. The only things on hand were a few eggs and some cheese. A kind chef gave me a midnight tutorial in how to make an omelet.

Over the weekend, we visited the Abuelita and went to a few parties. I didn’t do much cooking. The Abuelita decided not to buy mussels. But she did get cockles, and I used them to make a sublime variation on my linguine alle vongole.

As I’ve aged, my metabolism has slowed and I no longer worry about traveling with something to eat. This trip, however, I ended up carting food around the tri-state region for a different reason. I had a few things—basil, spinach, and chicken breasts—that were going to spoil if I left them in the refrigerator at home. So I took them to the Abuelita’s. 

My plan was to make a pesto with the basil. I even brought pine nuts with me. I didn’t have a plan for the spinach, but it didn’t matter. I never got around to making the pesto and the spinach sat unused. I poached the chicken breasts, though, before their expiration date. The pine nuts I brought back home.

Poaching chicken breasts is one of my new favorite things to do. It is very easy, healthy, and results in a tender, tasty, and extremely versatile piece of meat. It can be shredded for salads, and sliced for sandwiches. I used mine to make sandwiches at work today, pairing the white meat with ripe avocado and multigrain bread. 

Poached Chicken Breasts

• one package boneless chicken breasts
• water
• white wine, to taste
• dried thyme, to taste
• salt, to taste

        Place the chicken breasts in a low pan and cover with water and wine.
        Add the salt and turn the burner to high.
        Allow the water to come to a boil.
        Reduce to a simmer and cook until the breasts are done, from two to ten minutes, depending on thickness.

A Quesadilla Recipe for Good Memories

We spent the weekend visiting the Abuelita, and enjoying the turn in the weather. The children got to swim at the local town pool and explore the house I grew up in.  I know its layout and furniture well, but to them, the house is a wonderful new world. On a previous visit, Nina asked “why are there so many bedrooms?” There are only four, but to her that is a lot.

It was built in the mid sixties, so the floors don’t creak all that much. But if you step on the right place, they creak in predicable ways. There is a spot, just inside my parent’s bedroom door, that cries out with every footfall. Over the weekend, I stepped on it, and when I heard the sing-song sound of the floorboards, I was suddenly reminded of a thousand evenings of my own childhood. I could picture my parents retiring for the night. Two steps and a creak. It echoed in my mind.

I then wondered, what will my children remember? We rent our apartment. I don’t expect to still be there after they are grown and return home with their own children.  Where will their hidden memories reside? Perhaps they will be in my cooking. The flavors I share with them can have a powerful effect.

At the pool on Sunday afternoon, Nina sunk into a blood-sugar funk and spent much of the time sitting in a folding chair with a towel wrapped around herself.  I knew that she was hungry, but we hadn’t brought enough food with us.

I went to the snack bar and saw that they sold quesadillas. Bingo. She loves them, and the protein in the cheese would soon have her back in good spirits. I asked her if she wanted some, and she nodded yes. Nina took one bite and put the gooey triangle back on the paper plate. She didn’t touch the rest of them. I asked her what was the matter. “I don’t like the cheese,” she said.

They were made with American cheese. It was the first time she’d had it. I always make the quesadillas at home with a sharp cheddar, perhaps not the most traditional method, but clearly one with a strong effect. The next day, back at the house, I cooked some up for her.

Quesadillas

• Corn tortillas
• Slices of cheddar cheese

        Heat a cast-iron frying pan.
        Place a tortilla on it.
        Heat the tortilla for a few minutes, then flip.
        Layer with sliced cheese and fold in half.
        Continue to cook, flipping occasionally, until the cheese melts and the tortilla is as toasted as desired.

        Note: You can use olive oil in the pan if you prefer, but I've found that it is completely unnecessary.             Also, quesadillas lend themselves to a number of additional fillings, from chicken to avocado. Feel free         to experiment.

(The photo is of two roses that the Abuelita gave to Nina and Pinta. Maybe they'll remember the flower's sweet smell, too.)

Summer Saturday Limeade Recipe

After weeks and weeks of rain (one of my colleagues told me that she recently dreamed of being on an ark), the weather finally broke here today. The sun was shining when we got up. Inspired by the clear skies and seasonal temperatures, we headed to the Greenmarket for clams and mussels. We wanted to have our seafood extravaganza for lunch. Last week, Nina was sick and she couldn't have her "soupy pasta" as she called linguine alle vongole.

On the way to the Greenmarket, we passed a mobile beverage vendor. This being Park Slope, they weren't selling soda, they were selling handmade lemonade and limeade, at $5 a cup. Nina wanted some, but I had just bought her a Tootsie roll, at 15 cents, and pointed out to her that she'd already had a treat for the morning. She was not particularly happy with this reply, but she accepted it.

Santa Maria, being more inventive and loving by nature, volunteered to make fresh lemonade when we got home. Alas, we didn't have any lemons in the house, but we did have limes. She made limeade, and it was one of the most fantastic things I've ever tasted. Fresh and sweet and sharp, just like her.

Saturday Limeade

• 2 limes
• 1/3 cup sugar
• 1/4 cup water
• 4 sprigs mint

        Boil the water, and stir it into the sugar to make a simple syrup.
        Juice the limes.
        Mix the lime juice with the simple syrup and 3 cups water.
        Garnish with mint leaves and slivers of lime peel.
        Serve with ice.

An Ode to an Avocado

The more I learn about the avocado, the more I like it. According to Connie Barlow’s 2001 book, “The Ghosts of Evolution,” the oily fruit co-evolved with ground sloths during the Pleistocene epoch. Sloth? That’s practically my middle name.

The theory looks at the world from the plant’s perspective. The plant needed to spread its seed, so it encased it in a delicious layer of fat, the wonderful green fruit we all are familiar with. The sloth was just the right sort of animal for the job. It had a mouth big enough to eat the fruit whole, right off the tree. In wandering around, the animal spread the seed far and wide in its excrement.

I don’t often see things the way a plant might. Michael Pollan’s “The Omnivore’s Dilemma” has an eye-opening explanation on how corn has become a dominant starch by manipulating humans, rather than it being the other way around. 

I’ve been eating a lot of avocados these days. I started buying them for Santa Maria, who likes them in a salad with scallions and Romaine. We’d have them around the house and the tricky thing about avocados is managing their ripeness. Often, they’re not ripe when they come from the store, so you can’t really buy one and expect to use it. It’s better to buy one and let it sit around. Of course if you buy two, so much the better, but then you might end up like me, with a bunch of ripe avocados staring you in the eye. There’s little else to do than to eat them. Once they’re ripe, they go bad quickly.

They’re also full of good things: vitamins, minerals, monounsaturated fats, and other healthy compounds like carotenoid lutein, carotenoids and tocopherols, which, reportedly, do everything from help with one’s eyesight to prevent cancer.

I had an avocado today. I’ve started to take whole ones to work with me. This afternoon, I sliced it and made a sandwich on fresh bread with some chicken breasts that I had sautéed with lemon before leaving for work. There’s another benefit of avocados—they’re mighty filling. I didn’t need to eat again until dinner, which is a rarity for me.

Photo copyright and courtesy of California Avocado Commission

Friendly Recipe for Vietnamese Chicken Salad

A lot of the work I do in the kitchen is utilitarian. I cook because the family (by which I really mean me) needs to eat. With so many mouths to feed (and mine counts for about three—if you knew me personally you might even say four), a full-time job, and a (teetering) social life, there isn’t much time to experiment.

Still, we can’t eat the same thing week in and week out, so I was excited to try a recipe a friend had given me for Vietnamese chicken salad.

I don’t have any idea how authentic this dish is. My friend didn’t give me a source for the recipe. All she said is that she visited Vietnam and Cambodia in '95 or '96 and came back in love “a cuisine (Vietnam's) and some temples (Cambodia's)." And in my bleary-eyed, sleep deprived state I misread her instructions and substituted ginger for garlic in the dressing. No matter; it was fantastic.

I can tell you who’s also in love with this salad: Santa Maria. I made it this morning before breakfast while she was out biking. She came home hungry and instead of pouring herself a bowl of cereal or cooking some eggs, she dove straight into this salad. She couldn’t stop eating it, and raving about it.

For me, this was an experiment in technique as well as in foreign flavors. It was the first time I poached a chicken breast. It's much easier than I imagined. And I liked the way the breasts plumped up as they cooked. I put them in a large frying pan, with just enough water to cover them. I tossed in some salt, mint, and ginger; brought the water to a boil; and simmered for just a few minutes. The meat came out moist and delicious.

One utilitarian note: I took the salad to work today for lunch, and noticed that the mint didn't age well. In the future I would travel with that separately and add it to the salad just before eating.

Friendly Vietnamese Chicken Salad

• 2 or 3 boneless chicken breasts
• 1 small cabbage, shredded for slaw
• 1 bunch carrots, julienned into matchsticks
• 2-3 handfuls of chopped peanuts (I substituted cashews because I didn’t have any peanuts in the house)
• 1 bunch of mint, torn or cut into chiffonade

  

        For the dressing:

• 1 lime, juiced
• 1 teaspoon grated fresh ginger
• 2 tablespoons rice-wine vinegar
• 2 tablespoons fish sauce

        Poach the chicken breasts with some ginger and mint (you can use salted water or chicken stock).
        Shred the cooked breasts.
        Combine the cabbage, carrots, mint, and chicken.
        Dress and serve.

        Note: I doubled the amount of dressing. And used half a head of cabbage. And added white wine to             the poaching liquid.