The Food We Eat,

Save the bones for Henry Jones

...Cause Henry don't eat no meat

I love soup. I love to make it, eat it and serve it. It  pleases me to dice carrots and potatoes just so. To fry bacon at the start of a chowder.  The aroma of bay simmering with celery, tasting for salt, to find the one addition that takes it home. I have powerful, indelible memories of the way in which a soup has returned me to life. 

Once I was caught in a unseasonable blizzard, high in the Cascade mountains. We struggled through the snow for hours, dressed  for July. (For a year I had almost no feeling in the tips of my fingers and toes.) Finally, after huddling together overnight, we were led down the mountain to the safety of a large, warm barn. Someone fed us tomato soup and saltines. At the time, it seemed as if I were literally thawing. That soup is forever with me.

It is hard for me to believe how perfectly delicious reconstituted bouillon is after weeks of NPO, nil per os - nothing by mouth. Yet it is certainly true, even lukewarm from a plastic mug. 

The word, 'restaurant' originally named a cheap, strong soup available at street stands in France. It meant "that which restores." Soup recharges us, it can give us virtually everything we need to survive. When those of us have enough, we give soup to those who do not.

We have been eating soup for 20,000 years. In the beginning we cooked with hot stones. Pits in the earth, rocks with natural hollows and bags made of animal skins were filled with water and meat. Stones were teased from a fire to the mix and renewed until the soup came into being.

Ah, yes. The feet.

Soup is a metaphor for community, family and home. An ultimate soup would be built with what each neighbor brought to the pot. Animal, vegetable and mineral. Anything that is edible. It warms us, fills us, fuels us. Cool soups even refresh us in the heat. Soup does, in fact, restore us.

clam or cod?

"But when that smoking chowder came in, the mystery was delightfully explained. Oh! sweet friends, hearken to me. It was made of small juicy clams, scarcely bigger than hazel nuts, mixed with pounded ship biscuits, and salted pork cut up into little flakes; the whole enriched with butter, and plentifully seasoned with pepper and salt." Moby Dick, supper in Nantucket. 

Every culture has a soup at its heart. Vietnam has Phở, pot-au-feu for France (technically a stew but served with its glorious broth), here in the Yucatan it's sopa de lima, Portugal has caldo verde, Cuba...black bean soup, minestrone, avgolemono, cock-a-leekie, hot and sour, miso, borst, dal and schi. I don't recall much soup in Hawaii but they probably do something with pineapple and spam.

I think I love soup so much because of way it blooms and concentrates flavor. I'm just going to say this once...canned soup is less than the shadow on the wall. I am not above using some but my expectations are very low. Sometimes, we do have a Proustian moment with chicken noodle or tomato soup (yes, from the red and white cans.) Still, not much truly good comes from a can.

stop talking

The pace of cooking soup is forgiving. It is best on low heat for a long time. I am referring to meat based broths for the most part because, to me, they seem the most restorative. Over time the collagen and gelatin in meat, fat and connective tissue melt and leach from the bones into the soup. It isn't just flavor, as these thicken the liquid and soften it to silk. As the soup deepens the aroma begins the meal as it fills the house with anticipation. Chicken broth, in the later stages begins to smell like honey. There is nothing like it.






B was feeling under the weather which is rare but always sends me to the soup pot, such as it is. We are leasing a furnished house and the cramped and awkward kitchen is barely "equipped." Instead of a nice stock pot I have a smallish stew pot. This presents a problem. It is tedious but I make the broth in layers.

one doesn't share soup. sorry.

The first layer is the meat. I like to use more than one sort, this one included beef shank (a nice inexpensive cut with bone, fat and gristle), the remains of a roast chicken and three flanken-cut pork ribs (cut across, rather than in between, the bones.) There isn't room for many vegetables so I squeeze in half of an onion. garlic cloves, slices of ginger and whole pepper corns all covered in water.  I hold this at a slow simmer for about 3 or 4 hours or until the meats are very tender.



When I can easily push the point of a knife into the meat I take it all out of the broth. As the meat cools enough for me to handle, I add the vegetables to the pot. Carrots, celery and more onions. If I have them I might add turnip, rutabaga, fennel, even radishes (which taste like turnips when cooked) When the meat has cooled, I slide it off the bone and set it aside. All of the bones, sinew, skin and gristle goes back in the pot for another few hours.

Foot note?

Well, actually...a note about feet. Because hocks (sort of like ankles) and feet need to be the most flexible part of an animal's anatomy, they are full of small bones, gristle, tendons and skin. These, as I have said, are good things in a stock. As the collagen breaks down it forms gelatin. It was once common to serve calves foot jelly as a dish both both sweet and savory. Gelatin itself has no flavor, only structure. The jellied broth was also considered nutritious and often served to the ill to help them regain strength.

One reward of gelatin is a miracle of Chinese cuisine: Shanghai or, soup dumplings. A strong and flavorful stock is chilled until solid and cut into cubes. These are added to the stuffing in pasta purses. When the sealed purses are boiled, the gelatin melts and reforms the broth. I use the technique to make sure pot pies remain juicy.

Basta for the feet! Trust me, throw in a couple of chicken feet or a pig trotter. Your soup will be better...hands down.

So,,,back to B's soup: When I feel as though I've gotten everything out of the carrot and bones (a couple of hours, I strain it through a colander into a large bowl. Because we only have the one pot I wash it and put it back on the stove. Next I strain the soup again back into the pot, this time with a wire mesh strainer.








There will be a layer of fat on the surface. If I have the time, I let it cool and shove it in the fridge. The next day it is set like jello and the fat will have formed a layer that I scrape off. If I'd rather not wait, I have three more options. If there isn't a lot of fat, you can actually blot it off with a paper towel. Or, there are fat separators: cups that have a spout which pours from beneath (I don't know why, but I have never owned one).

More commonly I skim the fat with a cooking spoon. Placing the pot mostly (but not completely) off the fire helps. When the soup begins to boil the fat collects opposite the heat and it's easier to skim. If I have not allowed the stock to boil but kept it to a lazy simmer, it will be clear.*



Soooo, I now have a rich broth which can be seasoned with salt and pepper to taste and drunk or spooned from a mug. It is more likely that I will begin adding freshly diced vegetables (almost anything), herbs and a starch (rice, beans, corn, potatoes or pasta.) Occasionally the vegetables I've used to make the soup will still have flavor and texture and those go back. And greens are wonderful additions.

I trim the meats that I have set aside and add them. As an extra treat I often shred the pork and beef with my fingers and fry them in a bit of oil until crisp and chewy. If I have made a bean soup (worth a devoted posting, some day) I might brown some flavorful sausage to add.

And when it has become soup, it helps B to feel better, to feel and be nurtured. That is exactly what I like to do.

Cheers,



Chris



* There is another way to produce a clear broth. It is a method used for Phở (truly one of the great soups of the world). Before you begin the broth, place the meat and bones in the pot and cover with cold water. Gradually bring to the boil, then drain and discard the liquid, rinse everything off. Then start again with fresh water and add the vegetables and herbs. This blanching does not weaken the final broth.

Lagniappe:
I never salt my broth until it's reached the final strength.

He started a fire with some chunks of pine he got from a stump. Over the fire he stuck a wire grill, pushing the four legs down into the ground with his boot. Nick put the frying-pan on the grill over the flames. He was hungrier. The beans and spaghetti warmed. Nick stirred them and mixed them together. They began to bubble, making little bubbles that rose with difficulty to the surface. There was a good smell. Nick got out a bottle of tomato catchup and cut four slices of bread. The little bubbles were coming faster now. Nick sat down beside the fire and lifted the frying pan off. He poured about half of the contents out into the tin plate. It spread slowly on the plate. Nick knew it was too hot. He poured on some tomato catchup. He knew the beans and spaghetti were still too hot. He looked at the fire, then at the tent, he was not going to spoil it all by burning his tongue. For years he had never enjoyed fried bananas because he had never been able to wait for them to cool. His tongue was very sensitive. He was very hungry. Across the river in the swamp, in the almost dark, he saw a mist rising.He looked at the tent once more. All right. He took a spoonful from the plate. 'Chrise,' Nick said, 'Geezus Chrise,' he said happily." 

The cages are open...

Los pajaros estan en su lugar

 (The birds are where they belong)

Valladolid is a lovely, provincial town in the Yucatan. I spent a night there about a dozen years ago with a group including several of us from Asheville, some ex-patriot Americans living in Merida and one Meridano. We stayed at a hotel, El Meson del Marques, which has a lovely restaurant surrounding a fountain and garden. Hanging from one wall is a line of empty birdcages and a proverb painted on bamboo (my heading today, above.) Our Meridano friend, Samuel, translated the proverb for those of us whose Spanish was inadequate. The cages are open and the birds are free to choose their place, to choose where they belong.

The proverb struck me since I have spent my life moving from place to place. It's a common issue for the children of the military, "where do I belong?" I have always thought myself fortunate to be raised in the US Coast Guard. Our duty stations have been in extraordinary places including Puerto Rico, Hawaii, Seattle, the San Francisco area (Palo Alto) and after I left home at 18, I have spent extended periods in Germany, Scotland and Vietnam. Whether or not I have felt at home, each place taught me more about who I am and how to adapt.

I am visiting Merida again, and happy to be back in the Yucatan with its dense history and rich culture. By the way, my Spanish still sucks and I hope to change that (learning will help me stave off dementia.)  Merida is the "White City" and the capitol of the state.  I want to use my time here to understand more of the region and to deepen my ability to feel less other in the world.

Merida was founded in 1542 by three conquistadors (each of whom were named Francisco de Montejo, plus nicknames.) The early city was built of a local white stone and some of the structures and particularly churches date to the 17th Century. The Maya occupied the same location for many centuries and Merida is considered the oldest continually occupied city in the Americas. The population is 60% Mayan, making it the city in Mexico with the greatest portion of indigenous citizens.

Across the street from the second floor balcony; the neighborhood is San Sebastian

Today, the mix of houses on a given quarto (block) can be surprising. The street face is typically of high, thick walls. Ceilings in the old houses are very high to keep the rooms as cool as possible. Behind these walls are beautifully and traditionally restored spaces; high design, entirely contemporary interiors; modest (and less) dwellings and businesses; as well as abandoned ruins. The city is very proud of its beauty and often, from the street, it is impossible to tell what lies behind the walls.

The original popsicle was invented byAmerican, Frank Epperson, about 1909. I think
 Mexico has improved on the model.

Colonias, or neighborhoods, often spread around a principal church that fronts a plaza with large trees and fountains. Many areas have lots of trees and others simply bake in the sun. Sundays, large sections of streets are closed to traffic and throngs of locals and a small number of tourists walk, enjoy their city, shop and dine. As is the case throughout Mexico, there is an abundance of street food, fruit drinks, shaved ice with syrups, wonderful fresh juice popsicles called paletas and savories of all sorts. (Those of you in Asheville should visit Yuzu Patisserie in the Cotton Mill studios and try Cynthia's versions, seriously.)

It will be no surprise to you who have read a bit of this blog, that food, cooking and hospitality are at the top of my list of things to explore. Everywhere in Mexico, food plays a huge roll, Merida is no exception. The food in Merida is a major part of the culture and has combined Mayan tradition and native ingredients with a variety of European sources. Some of the food is incendiary beyond my comfort level but for the most part, the fire is offered separately as sauce. They love both serranos and habaneros, up there on the Scoville scale, the habaneros are from twice to six times hotter than tabasco.

Habeneros are native to the Yucatan and are inescapable

You cannot imagine the excitement I feel seeing all of the vegetables, fruit, cuts of meat, herbs and spices about which I have no idea. Just this morning I tried a guaya for the first time. They are in season and abundantly carpeted the patio of a new friend. (To call this wide, shaded and walled paradise just a patio seems insulting.)

guayas

Guaya are related to lychee and rambutan but with a less floral, more tart flavor. The flesh has the texture of peeled grape and I found them delicious and refreshing but a bit of work. Once peeled, there is a small amount of the juicy flesh that fastens, stubbornly, around a large stone. I popped the whole, peeled fruit in my mouth and ate the meat off the pit. I assumed the pits are inedible, as in lychee. Our friend's beautiful big dogs love them and have the skill to delicately peel the fruits before slurping them down.

I will need a mentor, and better Spanish. Much of what I see I recognize: guava, mangoes, abundant citrus including a wonderful, distinct variety of lime, pineapple, cactus pears ("tunas" in Mexico)  eaten both hard and green and ripe and juicy, huge papayas and bananas. There are at least a dozen varieties in markets that I don't recognize. 

Texas style enchiladas with green chili 

The Mexican food that is available in most of the U.S. has been sad. I was raised eating food prepared for the Yankee palate, which is to say, dumbed down, at least in most of the north. Truthfully, I  love many varieties of border state interpretations, New Mexican style, Tex-Mex, Arizona-Mex, Mississippi and Louisiana tamales. 40 plus years ago I was taken by an old friend to a San Francisco restaurant that offered "California Viejo" food that simply replaced corn tacos with spoon bread made from masa harina. I thought it wonderful but I am unable to track down any current reference to this subset. It might have been a dream. At least it was a good one.

As the U.S. palate has shifted in the direction of greater sophistication and authenticity (I suppose we need to thank the Food Network), it is now possible to get much better Mexican food in the States but the spectrum is limited. The foods I have eaten in my brief trips to Mexico have been a revelation, both in quality and variety. I have known this for years, from the terrific books of Diana Kennedy and, more recently Rick Bayless.  I have expected great food and I have not been disappointed down here.

There is, however, one issue. Let me tell you what you probably already know: it's hot here. In two months, we will begin a four month span in which the average temperature dips below 90 Fahrenheit. Yes, there are hotter places one can live, but... It is also humid, from May to October, the word is oppressive. It does cool off in the evening and nights can be very pleasant outside; inside, it stays pretty warm. Utilities are very expensive and our friends advise that one turns on the AC only when one goes to bed. The units here are split-system, the cooling device is indoors and the compressor (which actually generates heat) Is placed outdoors. 

 This is a split, it cools the bedroom quickly and
I love it, deeply

I tell you this because it affects my normal desire to turn on the stove. I do it but I might need to examine my head. Still, cooking is my life force and I will adapt. The first real cooking I have done is a made up sopa de lima, we will have it again tonight. We had gone to a Mexican superstore: furniture and appliances, clothing, groceries, pharmacy and so forth. Without thinking, we bought a chicken with celery, carrots, garlic and onions, thinking to make stock. I added a leek because it looked so good.

For a few days that chicken weighed on my mind. Do I really want to turn it into poached chicken and broth, simmering it for hours, heating up the kitchen. I couldn't throw it away and we need room in the freezer for ice, lots of ice. Two nights ago I woke up at 5 in the morning, a couple of hours earlier than normal. I knew it would be cool outside and I hobbled downstairs (I hobble a bit nowadays, but I can get around.) This was my chance! 

I put the chicken in a stock pot with the feet, neck, gizzard and heart and covered it with water. When it began to simmer and release its foam, I skimmed it and added a big carrot, scrubbed and chunked, two stalks of celery, washed and left whole, a quartered red onion, a head of garlic, sliced in half at its equator, and a small hand full of peppercorns. Back to the simmer and an hour later I fished out the chicken, let it cool enough to handle (about a half hour), and pulled  the meat off and threw the bones back in the pot until noon and then shut off the flame. 

In the evening, I strained the stock and tossed all the solids except the celery, which still had flavor. That evening, after everything had cooled, I sliced the celery into small moons, cleaned and sliced the leek and put them both in the fridge along with the stock itself. The next morning, I scooped out the fat and added the leeks and celery. When it came back to a simmer, I seasoned the broth and with oregano and bay and added the leek and celery.

Not mine, but this is how it looks (needs tortilla strips)

I began to salt the soup, a little bit at a time, tasting until the balance was right. I believe the salt balance is the single most important aspect of a dish. I aim for the fullest possible flavor which does not actually taste salty. The single most important tool one has is the act of tasting. After an hour or so, I added some of the chicken, the juice of a whole lime and a bit of excellent, even though canned, Salsa Casera (home style.) Meridanos would shred the chicken, roughly, into bite size pieces; I cubed it.

The lime juice upset the balance of flavors with a touch too much sour. More salt restored the balance. I served it with, not very crispy, taco strips and sprigs of cilantro. Our avocado was not yet ripe but it would have been a lovely addition, floating in the soup. Either way, it was rich and satisfying.

Tomorrow night...an easier choice: gazpacho.


Cheers,

Chris

Lagniappe: Juicing a lime is more thorough with a reamer but when I don't have one, the butt of a chef's knife handle works admirably (Be Careful!)

After all the snow it's Fårikål for me

It is gorgeous outside. Asheville is always beautiful with a few inches of snow.

Buttermilk Creek                                     brigid burns

We seem to get a big snow every few years. My first Asheville blizzard was 20 years ago. The family lived on the Manor grounds. The Manor began as a fin de siecle mountain inn on Charlotte Ave. with cottages (each with a name: Cleo, Dogwood, Possum Trot) that wend up the steep base of Town Mountain. To approach our house, we had to cross a wooden bridge with stone abutments. "Wildfell" had seven floors with one or two small rooms on each level. There was a porch with tree trunks as supporting pillars. The whole neighborhood is a virtual museum of charming, antique architectural styles.

I had Blue Moon Bakery then and had been kept away for a full day by the snow. When I finally got there by walking and sledding, it was a mess. The doughs had overproofed, spilled out of the tubs and was stuck to the floor. It took me a couple of hours to clean up. It was depressing but I took the time to mix a fresh batch of country French bread.

After baking the bread, I filled some cardboard boxes and tied them to the sled. As I hauled the sled home, everyone I passed got a warm loaf. It was a wonderful moment for me. I had become the village baker.

Now, Brigid, Mookie and I live in a west Asheville neighborhood. It was developed in the 1920's as Horney Heights (revisionists want to say hor-nay, but we know better...we are the 'hor-nee haytians.') Mary, who lives across the street, was raised in the area and has seen most of the population turn over. Lots of dogs, children, and grownups with Subarus and kayaks.

repurposed kayak                             brigid burns

Since I was under the weather I spent the storm indoors. Dosed with Dayquil and ginger tea I slept away a good part of two days. I would get up from time to time and peer out at the fun, sad that I couldn't join but feeling the happy vibe.

home                                                     brigid burns

We have developed a tradition with our good friends, Martin and Leah. Whenever there is real snow on the ground we get together to share food and warmth. Last night, as I huddled under


the covers. Brigid and Mookie trudged around the corner for a sweet time. Martin had made a spinach lasagna and there was whiskey. Later I heard voices and looked out to see Martin shoveling a path to our backdoor. They brought me a square of the lasagna and went back to their fire. I helped dry the dog as B described the snow scene.

                                                                                                      brigid burns

A good crowd had gathered at the top of Harris St. to celebrate and sled. Cheryl had built a bonfire and there was every imaginable sliding device; no cars and the dogs ran free. Mookie is pretty small and has to hop to get anywhere in the deep snow. When everyone was warm (and I was full) all three of us went back upstairs to cuddle and watch a good movie on Netflix.

(so what is Fårikål?)

Knowing the snow was on the way I had prepared for the cold by making Fårikål, the Norwegian national dish. Simplicity itself: 4 lbs of lamb chunks layered with three lbs of cabbage wedges, a handful of black peppercorns, salt and water. Put it on the back burner and let it simmer for a few hours, it cannot be overcooked and the flavor is better each time it's reheated. After a couple of days of cooling and warming the meat falls into soft shreds and the cabbage turns into a broth. I expect it to restore me to health in a day or two. Today, we've eaten it twice.

Cheers,

Chris

Taking Stock

The chill has arrived in Asheville, flowing down from the hills and under our front door. The mountains have lost their haze and we have the crystal distance again. Our Fall is gorgeous and I am feeling renewed. It has been a long year for me. This time last year I was in terrible shape, dependent on machines for survival and in an ICU trance.

I had nothing by mouth for three months. Gods! This is a pure food guy here! As I began to improve I imagined what my first meal would be. I knew that it was cold outside (although the weather never changed in the hospital) and dreamed of stews and braises, chowders, soups, short ribs, beef tea, chicken and bone broths and consommes. For me, these are the most comforting and restorative foods.

Of all the elements of great cooking, the liquids we use are most fundamental: stocks, broths, Court Bouillon, fruit and vegetable juices, beer, wine, tea, herbal tisanes, milks (cow, sheep, goat, horse, donkey, water buffalo, coconut, almond, rice and soy), butters, syrups and oils. Plain water is advanced with aromatics, herbs and redolent vegetables plus heat and time.

Of course you can buy stock: organic, free-range and low sodium if you like. Sadly, the very best of them do not compare with what you can make yourself. One can improve store bought foods and if I am unable to make my own stock I will take two quarts of a clean stock (read the label and eliminate anything you would never find in your kitchen). To these two quarts I might add chunks of celery, carrot and onion with a bay leaf and a few peppercorns and then reduce to one quart. This results in a serviceable cooking stock.

Delicate flavors require delicate liquids, simmered briefly with mild additions. Sole poached gently in lightly salted water with a bit of lemon juice and fresh parsley leaves. But for a warming, nourishing and healing meal I choose braises and stews which (for me) require a deep and rich meat stock. Which takes time...a lot of time. Stock may be reduced very slowly from gallons to quarts, from quarts to pints and further until it becomes nearly solid.

This semi-solid is called demi-glace and begins with roasting meat, bones and vegetables until dark and caramelized. The browned ingredients are added to a pot that is deeper than it is wide, covered in unseasoned water and simmered slowly for 8 hours to extract all of the flavor. The rich stock is strained and de-fatted, then slowly reduced and concentrated (for another 8 to 10 hours) until it forms a thick syrup, dark, dark, dark and powerful.

It's true that I am a bit of a mad man and consider it a pleasure to spend 20 hours to produce something which is, however magical, a single ingredient. Of those 20 hours, only 2 requires your attention. The rest is a murmuring simmer that should not be disturbed until done, It is absolutely worth the time and effort. I use it to push dishes over the top; the last step from wonderful to the sublime. Dishes that I savor with my eye closed.

As it happens, one can also buy a tub of demi-glace. I have tried two different brands and they are remarkably good. I am not sure why I can buy a good demi and not a good stock. Go figure. They are pricey and a bit hard to find (the one I have now came from Amazon!)

It really is a kind of secret weapon. Typically, I only need a spoonful. For example, I might pan roast a steak which leaves a very flavorful skin on the bottom of the pan called the fond. Throw in one or two finely minced shallots or garlic and cook in the fat until browned and then a half glass of red wine to loosen and then incorporate the flavors already there. When the alcohol has burned off and the sauce has slightly thickened stir in a teaspoon of veal or beef demi-glace. Finally a pat of butter. Time to close your eyes and savor.

Back to being comforted and restored: Boeuf aux carottes...beef braised in red wine and carrots. Braise, slowly and tightly sealed in a enameled, iron pot for two and a half to four hours (as long as it takes for the meat to yield to spoon-soft) in a moderate, 350º oven. This seems to me as the ideal French farm house meal. An inexpensive chuck roast cooked with vegetables and a fruity wine. The important thing is to chamber everything, not permitting evaporation.

About an hour before the meat reaches the yielding softness I aim for, I strain the spent carrots and whatever vegetables that have not dissolved and add fresh carrots and a tied bundle of parsley and thyme sprigs. I might add cubes of turnip and some fingerling potatoes. At this point I taste the juice which has begun to thicken and adjust salt and pepper and finally, before I reseal the pot I stir in a spoon of demi-glace (for an excellent approach to this  dish, see the daube recipe in Dorie Greenspan's Around My French Table. http://www.doriegreenspan.com/.)

I am working on the next post that includes a recipe and technique for my go-to healing broth. 

Cheers,

Chris