Sneak in all quiet-like. Like a fish.

It seems to be in fashion to choose an official fish these days.

Therefore, I hereby declare the awesomely-named Patagonian Toothfish (fuck those assholes who renamed it "Chilean Sea Bass") the National Fish of my blog.

Not only is it a delicious mercury-steeped treat (I know, I know, I must lean toward vegetarian fish), but it is in part responsible for the landing of a record-breaking colossal squid.

Calamari rings the size of tractor tires. I imagine those would be a bit on the chewy side...

Oh la la! C'est super-cool!

It seems likely that I'm going to get some back-sass on this, but I'm firmly of the opinion that everything is cooler in French (and in France in general, those folks know how to live, talk about the War all you want). No, it's not some kind of Stockholm Syndrome after years studying French. I do not wake up in the middle of the night screaming "Où est la bibliothèque?!"

So, it's no surprise that I'll play and replay "C'est la mort" by Stereo Total because I like the nonsensical lyrics... in French. Nor should it surprise you that I'm a devotee of Clotilde and her blog, Chocolate & Zucchini. First of all, the subtitle of her soon-to-come book is "Daily adventures in a Parisian kitchen." Now, THAT sounds cool. Mostly because the implication is before the adventures in the kitchen, there are adventures in the Parisian markets which are wonderful and embody everything that food shopping should be (tactile, local, daily, social... I could go on. Now imagine talking about some neat purple carrots with a vendor... in French. See? Automatically cooler.). Of course, in my head, Clotilde is cooking in the kitchen from Amélie, and shit, I wanna do that (even though I currently cook in the most rockin' kitchen in which I've ever had the pleasure to wield a Wüsthof, it's not, you know, in France).

Clotilde's recipes allow me to indulge the crazy on a few levels. First, she tends to title recipes in French, which gives me permission to write them in The Book of Greatest Hits as such without feeling like too much of a tool. Second, when baking her cakes and whatnot, I bust out the old metric digital scale, thus engaging in a deliciously precise baking process (Seriously. Fuck cups. When are we living? Le Moyen Age? I cannot tell you how crazy I feel scraping sticky ingredients out of cups for recipes; "But. If. I. Don't. Get. It. All. Out. The. Finished. Product. Won't. Be. Right." And then my mother doses me with a glass of Malbec and I forget to set a timer and it's all ok.).

But more than anything, it's just that culinary terms are so much better in French. My favorite example is the bain-marie. It's the hot water bath in which you bake your crème brûlée . It's the pan of boiling water that melts your chocolate. It's also, very poetically and awesomely derived from an alchemy term, according to Wikipedia. I previously thought it meant "Mary's bath" as in the Virgin, but I guess I was wrong. It turns out that it's awesomer, invented by an alchemist called Mary the Jewess.

Now, you tell me, would you rather bake a crème brûlée in a bain-marie or a hot water bath? While we're at it, is not crème brûlée more appetizing than burnt cream? You may argue that the French makes it all seem so impossibly grandiose, but I think that's what makes it so great. You think that crème brûlée is some insurmountably difficult dish, but it turns out it's just a soft custard baked in a hot water bath (it's the torching that makes it fun and grand, and gives you that wonderful crack when you break it with a spoon).

Today's awesome French culinary term, as learned from C&Z: abricotage. This is the method whereby French patisseries get the pretty shiny glaze on tarts and whatnot. It apparently involves heating some apricot jam with a little water until it's thin-ish and spreadable. The combination, aside from adding a pleasant fruity flavor, sets up and makes the confection look like a work of art.

Abricotage sounds so much cooler than "paint with melted apricot jam," no?

So, in honor of abricotage and the bain-marie, and because it uses both, it seems that I'll be attempting this cake for Sunday dessert. Thanks Clotilde!

No no no.... Thank YOU!

I suppose I'll get in on the action of post-Thanksgiving wrap up. When we left off, I was still in the shopping and prepping phase. The day itself began with a brine.


Here's that lovely delicious turkey bath. Water, kosher salt, honey, a lemon, an orange, whole cloves, bay leaves, and peppercorns. After putting the brine together on Wednesday morning, I rushed off to a double shift (on the craziest bar night of the year, in fact).

After surviving lunch and dinner, it was home again to make some stuffing. This is when things got a little tricky. I was a leeetle tired, a touch hurried, and just a smidgeon preoccupied with the desire to get the hell into bed. Add one crusty loaf of sourdough, one dull-ass bread knife, and instructions for a 1/3 of an inch dice, and you get:




A rather nasty slice through my left index finger. The good news: I stopped cutting before I sawed off the tip of my finger. Also good news: my knife-weilding hand is fine (though it would take a really special someone to cut their knife hand... or a really special knife), so my ability to continue in my Thanksgiving cookery role is shaken, but holding on. Bad news: Bleeding. Bleeding a lot. I was luckily too angry by the delay to get all woozy as one might when one sustains a nasty cut to the finger. My anger manifested itself in me running around the downstairs at 11:30pm, clutching a paper towel to my finger, screeching obscenities. It was at this moment that I decided to enlist my mother, a skilled Nurse Practitioner, who'd just gone to bed.

Me: (At the bottom of the stairs, tentatively, but with some urgency) "Mo-om? I cut myself pretty badly."

Mom: (Appearing on the landing in her bathrobe, trepidatious) "What?"

Me: "Yeah, pretty bad. With the bread knife."

Mom: (she has not seen it yet) "Jesus Christ!"

Me: (ascending the stairs, arm outstretched) "Do you think I need stitches? Please tell me I don't need stitches."

Mom: (looking at finger) "Jesus Christ Sheena!"

- It should be noted here that my mother is not a blasphemer by hobby, but rather finds taking the name of the Lord to be steadying in the face of her idiot children hurting themselves, thereby worrying her. Her bedside manner with her real patients is impeccable. With us it's a little adversarial.

My mother ruled that stitches would be useless for the type of wound, a ____ion (one of those medical words she throws around and I forget), expertly anointed and wrapped my finger in bandages, and scolded me soundly. Luckily, my middle name didn't enter the equation at all, so I know I'm not in too much trouble. She warned that the finger would "Throb like a mo-fo" (she was right... ) and told me to stop what I was doing and get some sleep for Christ's sake.

I finished assembling the stuffing nine-fingered (sorry Mom... had to be done) and retired.

Thanksgiving morning, with my finger thumping away, we welcomed cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandmother to the melee of meal preparation. Dad handled the musclework of getting the turkey from its briny bucket to the roasting rack, while I sliced brussels sprouts and Hayley chopped mushrooms. My cousins were put to work on the pies:

Here is Shayne, assembling a Tarte Tatin (with pears instead of apples)



Here, my cousin Corey helps Shayne with the Tarte.


Naomi displays the caramel pumpkin pie filling.


Here's the bird, right out of the oven, perfectly crispy and golden thanks to the convection setting.

And the turkey's friend, Prime Rib:


Here's my uncle Mark, enjoying a prime rib chew:


Generational portrait!



Much food was eaten and good times were had by all. Many thanks to my impromptu army of sous-chefs.

Tomorrow, I'll post about a Joshie weekend, and two new installments of Big Dude, Small Dog.

Over the river and through the woods, down Everett Turnpike we go!

Thanksgiving is upon us, and I've spent the last week or so poring over cookbooks and Gourmet, taking polls of the family, and skulking about my local grocery stores in preparation for the big meal.

We're having quite a lot of extended family over, which should be fun, and since I have these pesky cooking aspirations, I volunteered to spearhead the planning and preparation of our first Stateside-as-a-family (less my younger sis, whose Scots university doesn't give Tryptophan-and-Football Day off, oddly enough) Thanksgiving feast.

While I certainly don't mind the planning or the cooking, finding some of the ingredients and equipment has been challenging. A 10-inch deep-dish fluted quiche pan for the pumpkin pie? Not going to happen. I have to accept that and take the ceramic pie weights and steel pastry scraper I found today as sufficient consolation. Furthermore, I'm dealing with the lack of one-stop shopping. Our mildly-fancy grocery store does not carry brussels sprouts or shallots. Or more than one variety of wild mushroom. I'm just going to have to move on with my life, suck it up, and drive all over hill and dale in search of these things. Nevermind my pointless quest for cooked, peeled, and jarred chestnuts. I'm going to roast and shell those suckers myself... perhaps imparting an interesting smoky flavor to the stuffing? Or maybe the shells will cause my fingers to bleed... either way, it'll be nearly impossible to keep from eating them instead of reserving them.

The matter of the turkey is fully in hand, however. The bird arrives from Vermont tomorrow, will be collected Wednesday, and subsequently submerged in a honey salt brine. I can hardly wait to unleash our convection oven goodness on it.

You may wonder what the photo has to do with anything, aside from showcasing my kitchen-nerdiness.

Well, as promised, I test-drove the much-ballyhooed Bittman bread recipe, with quite delicious results (if I may say so myself). I am therefore quite pleased that I have 25 pounds of flour to work with over the next few weeks as I slow-ferment some carby goodness as frequently as possible. I have to say, I was frightened by the thread on Kitchen, but I never should have doubted The Great Minimalist. As we speak, I'm fermentin' up a wheatier version of the original recipe to bring to a potluck tomorrow. We'll see if I got the proportions right, gluten-wise... it'd be bad form to show up at a dinner gathering with a hockey puck masquerading as bread.

Oh, the other element of the picture is my super cool squeeze-handle flour sifter. My Gram gave it to me, as the squeezing motion is bad for her arthritis, and I'm in love. We've had the same crank-operated one for ages (an heirloom on my mother's side), and there's a hole in the screen, rendering it pretty well useless. This new one has me sifting flour even if the recipe suggests it as optional.

So, what's everone else up to for the holiday? Planning to eat anything exciting? Be sure to stop on by the farm for some leftovers. Between the turkey and the roast beef, we're going to have a full fridge for ages. Joshua, I'm looking at you. You know how I feel about leftovers. Don't let me down.