Consider the egg

“Eggs shouldn't dance with stones.”     Charlie Chan  (Earl Derr Biggers)

the Twelve Monogram Egg, Fabergé

There is nothin' like an egg. Nothing in the world. Sometimes they disappear into a dish such as meringues, macaroons or macarons (see my posting from Dec 23.) Sometimes they are the dish: baked, boiled, coddled, dried, fried, pickled, poached or preserved as 100 year old eggs.

preserved eggs, composée

Should you wish to preserve eggs, here are very brief  instructions: take whole eggs and coat them with a mud made from ashes, salt and lye (if you have extra you can open a drain or two). Next roll them in rice husks and put them in the basement for at least a month at which point you may crack the shells and ... eat them. Or you could age them longer...like, forever.

here lies this guy

The egg holds things together. Paints made of pigment mixed with egg yolk and white wine have lasted more than two thousand years. Apparently, the odor was a little off-putting for the first two weeks, sort of like Florida tap water. Icon painters in Greece mixed myrrh into the paint to mask the smell.



Sometimes, eggs become the sauce, to wit: bibimbap, a Korean meal of rice, sauteed vegetables and meats topped with a raw egg to be stirred in by the diner. And... the magical spaghetti carbonara. By quickly combining eggs and piping hot pasta they bypass scrambling and emulsify with a little fat to form a sauce which coats the pasta like a rich butter. Just add black pepper.

Spaghetti Carbonara* for two

one half pound of spaghetti, linguine or bucatini
2 whole eggs and another yolk

picture by culinariaitalia.wordpress.com

at least a full cup of grated cheese, I like half and half pecorino/parmigiano
a quarter cup of diced guanciale (cured jowl.) Pancetta and unsmoked bacon works almost as well.
olive oil
lots of freshly ground black pepper

Put a pot of salted water to the boil and add the pasta. In a medium mixing bowl, beat the eggs and the extra yolk lightly and add the cheese, stirring to mix.
Choose a pan large enough to contain all of the cooked pasta. In a slick of olive oil, saute the meat until it has rendered and is not quite crisp.

Use tongs to lift the cooked pasta out of the water and into the pan with the seasoning meat. Pour in the egg mixture all at once and immediately begin tossing the pasta to distribute the egg. If it seems too dry when you're finished, add a splash of the pasta water. I would add a rounded teaspoonful of freshly and coarsely ground black pepper although you may like more or less.

beef tartare with egg

We eat eggs uncooked. Rocky himself drank them by the quart.. A cheap power lunch during the Great Depression consisted of a cheese sandwich and a milkshake with an egg beaten in. In tartar à l'Americaine, a yolk sits on top of raw beef. Personally, I would rather mix it all together and cook meatballs. Eggs are served uncooked in other dishes that I love: tiramisu, zabaglione, mayonnaise. We are warned about the dangers of salmonella although I am confident in eggs from organic and free-range producers.

Flying cloud (rust) coddler

The egg also holds a special literary place for me. Mother went to Occidental in Los Angeles where she once received the scariest writing assignment I've ever heard. The students in her class were told to write a three page (single spaced) essay on the feel of an egg (unbroken) in the hand.

In a non-egg aside: while a student at Oxy, Mother was fixed up for a college weekend with a Whittier underclassman. He turned out to be a bore and a boor so she terminated her date with Richard Milhous Nixon. I am so proud!

The ability to manipulate and cook eggs is a fine kitchen skill. They provide structure and texture in souffles, puddings, custards, cakes and sauces. There are many possibilities but eggs are delicate. They cook quickly and can become rubbery.  If you don't understand the different ways to combine eggs with other ingredients your cakes can be leaden, sauces curdled and souffles will never rise.

My father taught me a very fluffy omelet:

Capt. Kobler's Omelet 101

not cooked by my father

Lightly beat eggs one ot two eggs per person and season. You may enrich the omelet with a splash of water, cream, wine or stock.
Heat the pan, add butter, wait for the foam to subside and pour in the egg mixture.

Waiting until the bottom of the mix just begins to firm, shake the pan to loosen the omelet and so it slides easily. You can encourage the slide with  the curve of a fork. Continue to shake and slide from time to time and your eggs won't stick.

With a fork, gently draw the firming egg to the center, try not to touch the fork to the pan itself as you'll cut through the butter and the omelet may stick. As you bring the custardy egg to the middle it will mount up. When you can no longer pull the cooked portion to the center, scatter what fillings you like**. Then tilt the pan away from you so the omelet slides up the side of the pan. Lift the edge with a spatula and fold the omelet back onto itself, enclosing the fillings. After a very brief shake, slide the eggs onto a plate.

If at any point they do begin to stick to the pan, my advice is to scramble the remains and pretend that was your intent all along. Speaking of intentionally scrambled eggs, B showed me a method of low heat cooking that produces very creamy and rich eggs. It was taught to her as a Swedish style and it is a favorite. There is nothing particularly difficult about them. They simply require patience and frequent and gentle stirring. The idea is to cook the eggs slowly enough so that they barely form curds.

Shakshuka -  NYTimes

From time to time, I come across a dish that I want again and again. A few years ago I read about a north african egg dish that was intriguing: shakshuka. Basically, it consists of eggs baked or poached in a chunky pepper and tomato sauce and served with bread. As is often the case I knew the dish for quite a while before I tried it. B came across a version in a magazine and we tried it. It is a wonderful meal and we serve it often.

My version is seasoned with whole toasted caraway and cumin seeds, smoked paprika, turmeric and some spice heat (Aleppo pepper if you can find it.) The sauce comes together very quickly: sweat onions and peppers in olive oil, add tomatoes and seasoning and cook until a red oil forms little pools on the surface, stir in roughly chopped spinach or chard. Turn off the heat and break eggs into the sauce. Finish the the eggs (to the level of firmness that you prefer) either back on the surface with a moderate heat or place the pan in a 375 to 400 degree oven until the eggs are set. Top each one with a generous spoon of mascarpone or creme fraiche. Put out a basket of fresh, crusty bread and let diners serve themselves.

Lagniappe, if you have leftovers, lift out the remaining eggs (which toughen on reheating) before storing in the fridge. Chop the eggs coarsely, toss with  cannellini or garbanzos and canned solid, white tuna, preferable in olive oil. Nest portions of the mix on small piles of butter lettuce and dress with a vinaigrette. Garnish with capers and olives. -and- You can reheat the sauce and poach fresh eggs for another meal or add some stock to make a pasta sauce.

There you are, it's just a beginning but that's it for now,

Cheers

*The Martha likes to add half in half and some people add English peas, softened garlic or onions. Personally, I think it's gilding a glorious lily, further, these are rarely added in Italy. Generally, I am not a purist but this dish is perfect as I've presented it. Splurge on fresh, organic eggs, first rate cheeses, good black pepper and the best cured meat that you can find. You will be rewarded. Serve it to me and I will come back.

**Since it is important to avoid overcooking and vulcanizing the eggs, I precook most fillings.
Exceptions are grated cheese and tender greens for which the heat in the omelet is enough.

Every morning, when the sun comes up

I learned to drink it black out of fear.

I didn't care for coffee until I began to reject peanut butter. Adolescence. I went to sleep thinking PB&J was fine and woke up knowing that I was tired of sticky, oily and too sweet. I lost my taste for soft bread and popsicles and looked for the new and especially the forbidden. Surrounded by adult things, I wanted some. Surely you can remember foraging the remains of cocktail parties: chips, clam dip with olives and eau de Gilbey's. I loved those olives.

I was sixteen; everything was changing. I no longer knew where I belonged or even what I liked. I needed to go off by myself. If only I could simply put to sea, to live before the mast and learn manly things. Wait, I did exactly that! Conveniently, we lived near a seaport so I signed on to have my Ishmael moment. While at sea, I was forced to drink coffee every single day.

The family lived in Bellevue, across Lake Washington from Seattle. I joined the Inland Boatman's Union and found a berth on the tug Charles. We pulled full barges up the protected inside passage to Alaska and empty ones south.

a different tow boat with barge

Sometimes we offloaded in Anchorage and sometimes in Whittier, one of the stranger places I've ever been. It was built as a military facility in 1943 (in case of something.) Basically a large dock facility, a railway spur and the largest building (abandoned) in Alaska. When a barge arrived, a crew of longshoreman would train across the isthmus from Anchorage, unload the barge and go back home.

My job was in the engine room, I remember it without even a trace of affection. I was a Wiper, the lowest conceivable position on a ship. My primary function was to ensure that the engines did not overheat. And explode. I never really knew how to do my job. It was explained once and involved adjusting seven valves in a very specific pattern. It was not written down. Furthermore, it was the first and last time that the engineer (my boss) addressed me directly.

inside passage

The engine room was a constant 120 degrees and a bit over 115 decibels. There were a lot of old Reader's Digests (bi-monthly editions.) To stall the impending explosion I would jump up from my reading or swabbing every few minutes and run from one engine to another, making random adjustments to the 14 wheels.



While on duty I was allowed up to the galley for coffee (the only option) and, because of the explosion thing, I was afraid to take the time to get sugar or milk, just the joe. Absolute and unvarnished (both the coffee and the truth.)

Since that summer my devotion (or enslavement) to coffee has settled in. I have learned what coffees, methods and cups I prefer. It has taken most of the past 52 years to get it right. The shipboard version was strong and both bitter and sour. Since my coffee consciousness began before the first Starbucks, it was all perked or boiled with egg shells and pepper. On special occasions, father would brew in an Italian moka.

Then, in 1966, I chased a girlfriend to Hamburg, where I got a job as a pearl-diver in the kitchen of the Hotel Europaeischer Hof. One kitchen for four restaurants and room service: many, many dishes. 3:00 PM to midnight, 6 days a week. The job included a room in a transient hotel and two meals a day (we were often served chicken necks with white sauce on white rice.)

While in Germany I moved to more serious coffee at stand-up tables. It was delivered in a heavy, silver-plate pitcher that held two full cups of rich, round flavored coffee. It seemed to me that I had actually not had real coffee until then.

I'm sure that it had much to do with libido and a manly, tough guy image. I liked being seen drinking this dark and rich brew without any feminine sweetness and cream.

Then, a dozen years later, I drank espresso in Rome and was reborn. Again, it was as if I had not had real coffee until that first moment. Those Roman shots remain my favorite coffee experience but I also happily drank church-basement coffee for decades. In Vietnam, we boiled water over burning C4 explosive, trying not to inhale the fumes. We dug it out of hand grenades and claymore mines (because it burned very hot) to heat rations and for my Sanka. It even burned in  the rain.

At this point in life, my coffee ritual is the way in which I ensure that the sun will rise (it has a retroactive effect since I like sleeping late.) I recommend the entire experience. It starts the day outwards, I have just spent hours floating inwards. It eliminates the grump and I approach the task with gratitude and focus. I know exactly how B likes her coffee and she has won me over so that my first cup now also gets a little sugar and milk.

The dog begins to wake me, she knows that walking and eating will only occur after that first cup. It can take a while but, when she's won, I go downstairs and she goes back to sleep. Sometimes the operating theater is prepared: water on the stove; cups, press pot, spoons and the coffee jar in place on the counter. If I'm really on my game, my pills and vitamins are laid out on the other counter.

An after dinner demitasse   (shot by Brigid Burns)

OUR COFFEE

Having consumed the stuff for a long time uniquely qualifies me to tell you exactly how to make coffee for me
and B. Except for a wonderful Italian coffee, Lavazza Pienaroma, no single coffee  works for us. B prefers less caffeine and we start with a mix of two coffees. After I brew the first pot, I adjust the ratio and often add a third variety.

I do have a grinder that we use when I find a whole bean coffee on sale but I don't require my coffee fresh ground. I use nearly a cup of ground coffee in a one quart french press. I brew it very quickly. As soon as I've added the water I stir it thoroughly, press the plunger and fill the cups.

For the moment, we have an inexpensive espresso machine which I only use for the steam wand. I am pretty good with it.


And, now the world can turn..




Cheers

Not born this way...a prequel

I haven't always been like this.

That is to say I haven't always been gaga about food as art, culture, language, spiritual path. After all this life, who knows what my natural palate discerns and prefers and what I have acquired. It may be that one's palate is always a bricolage. Many people (perhaps most) want only to duplicate the menus of childhood. The rest of us somehow have become more curious than suspicious.


I believe that my parents were very conscious of having and giving us the widest variety of experiences possible. Typically we moved from coast to coast and, each time, we took a different route. By the time I was 15, I had been in every US State, Protectorate and Territory, except American Samoa. You may not remember Burma Shave but I do..."If you / Don't know / Whose signs / These are / You can't have / Driven very far"

And always the food. We were required to taste everything at least once but were not forced to eat what we disliked. There was the hope that we would clean our plates. I recall not caring for lima beans (except in succotash), winter squash or poi.

Jason, on the bridge of a destroyer escort

My first meal was a gauze wrapped finger dipped in sugar syrup. It's purpose was to distract me while someone sliced off my foreskin, (a hanging chad as it were.) I had a sweet tooth before I had a tooth. After that we wandered the country from San Juan to Guam; we ate locally, as well as from family archives and recipes that were printed on calendars.

Barbara, the ante bellum belle

I must have been a joyous celebration since I emerged nine months and one day after VE Day. My parents met when both were in the Coast Guard. My father was at sea doing graduate research in marine biology. War was declared and he was already on a Coast Guard cutter. Meanwhile, mother was also in graduate school. She went to enlist in the Navy but ended up as one of the original 15 SPARS. Ultimately, my mother and father became the first American military officer couple to be married in uniform, under crossed swords at the Old North Church in Boston.


They both got out after the war. Mother applied herself to mid-century modern motherhood Short on hugs, long on reasoned conversation before ending with, "Because I said so!" The rod was spared but Carolyn and I were not spoiled. She was born on an even day and I was odd and thus the chores and privileges were apportioned. This, of course, established the unfairness of life. As you are aware, most months end in 31 and they all begin with odd numbers...dishes two days in a row,

no connection to my life

Father worked in advertising for a few years. He had fun but concluded that the Coast Guard was our place and re-upped. We had been living in White Plains and suddenly it was San Juan and all in spanish. Saltines with cream cheese and guava paste, empanadillas and rice with gandules. Herman the dachshund and the lizards basking together in the sun..

as I said, the Seventh Regiment

It was too early for me to sort things out then (and now, it's too late) but the blocks off which I am a chipped, are as confusing as grammar.  We Koblers have not practised ancestor worship although I am beginning to see its merits. Father had had enough of New York and mother had finished with southern California and therefore details are scarce. But this, I do believe...



Mother, Barbara, was the daughter of an Episcopal Priest. Her father, the Reverend Philip Ayers Easley (from New York) became rector of St. Stephen's in early Hollywood (about 1920, it was Cecil B. Demille's church.) His widow, Martha, followed us around the planet: Hawaii, Seattle, and finally, Connecticut. They both were at least third generation pink (Scots-Irish-French). My great grandfather was a tea broker for A&P and a member of the New York Seventh Regiment.

Mother was a swimmer, trained for the  1930 Summer Olympics. Instead it was polio, a year in a full body cast. She must have been tougher than I remember and she fully recovered. Although we didn't see each other some years, we were pals until the end (cooking shows and coffee.) I sometimes feel badly that I think of him more than her. He was somehow less diminished by death than she.

home for nine months

And him? Just look at the picture. Don't you want to know more about him and wouldn't you want his approval? Furthermore, he was a stitch; we laughed all of the time. I was with him often. In fact, I spent a whole school year on his ship from August of 1957 to May of '58.  He was captain of  USCGC Basswood (WLB-388), 186 feet and about 80 men. I turned 12 somewhere between Guam and Japan.

I've already mentioned my father's father, Albert John Kobler. Vienna, Jewish. Somewhere after 1900, Albert converted to Christianity. I don't know if his family put up a headstone but they did disown him. He was a fabric designer when he moved to New York but soon got into publishing for the Hearst organization. He was known as a collector and there are a few paintings in museums that came from his estate. (Grandfather Albert was the only one of us who has produced an "estate". Sadly, all that is left is the silver and 5 Capodimonte cups with six saucers.)

voila!

Both Mother and Father had one brother each. I recall only two gatherings that involved each of them, one at a time. They both had arrogance issues.

I remember eating outside in very picturesque Connecticut with father's brother. Mussels, steamed in seaweed, true love. There were tiny, crunchy crabs in each one. At one point the four children (from his first two wives) sat around John to hear some ongoing stories he made up spontaneously. It seemed that previous sessions had set up an insurmountable barrier of facts and it was too much trouble to bring me up to date. I felt left out. Uncle John was a writer who eventually wrote the biography of Al Capone (still in print.)

Jim Easley was a nuclear physicist. In the early 40's Jim and Peg lived "near Albuquerque" wink, wink. You know, when they were doing "experiments." Out there...in the desert. Years later, during a Christmas break from college #1, we all gathered in the pretty part of New Jersey, the horse country. They served goose. I remember how much I loved the skin and the wonderful fat.

Neither Mother nor Father enjoyed the company of their sibling. Later I did spend time with John. As a freshman at Haverford our first mixer was with Bryn Mawr. I danced with a junior who turned out to be my first cousin, Karen. We did not become close but I did spend a memorable Thanksgiving with the Connecticut/New York branch (later.)

This is a meal with which I was raised. The recipe is so simple it's more of an idea than directions. The dish seems to have come from the Kobler archive, maybe Austria. It doesn't seem as if it would be enough for a meal but it is very satisfying on hot summer nights.

Schmierkase mit kartoffel

Boil some new potatoes, waxy, thin skinned and small. Do this just before dining. Have ready: several bowls of toppings: grated carrots, chopped chives or green onion, caraway seed, crumbled bacon, diced cucumber...anything of this sort that appeals.

Mix one part sour cream with two parts cottage cheese, you'll want at least half a cup per person.

When the potatoes have boiled to tenderness, lightly crush a few on each plate, top with a good pat of butter, salt and pepper. Serve and let the diners add the toppings they like.


















A digression: I prefer conversation to speeches and dialog to statements. There is a space at the bottom of each post for you to tell me something. Just ask if there is something further you'd like: clarifications, more information about something I've said, food questions about which you've always wondered, questions about ingredients (What's asafoetida used for anyway?), equipment, or techniques  I promise to respond to any question at all, even if only to say, how DARE you ask that!)  

A Birthday Message of Myself

It is a question of experiencing everything.

"Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day."

― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

no photoshopping

I am 68 today, roughly twice as old as I expected ever to be. Flirting with the full spectrum of disaster has filled my life with excitement and beauty with a normal portion of sadness. (I used to complain about boredom until a therapist explained that boredom is simply the inability to pay attention...she didn't actually say, "You dope," but I heard it.) There have been near-death experiences but no significant run ins with the law. It is a wonder to have made it this far. Forgive me but it is hard not to reflect and I'd rather not do it alone. Let me see what regrets I've accumulated.

I don't believe that I have physically harmed anyone, not even in Vietnam. There is that. (The only time I ever fired my rifle was to win a bet from the platoon sergeant that it would actually fire and not explode in my hands [I never cleaned it.] I might have fired it to save my life but I never had to. Five dollars in scrip and no place to spend it.)

What I did for love?

My 20's were a reckless, nearly feckless decade about which the less said the better. Large sections of it are unavailable as memory. The war was an excuse but the truth is that I wasn't ready to move on until I broke 30.

When I finally woke (read...detoxed) , I had cleaned up and began to look around for my place and time. My goals were modest and quiet and I began to address myself with sympathetic affection as if I were Rilke's young poet. So I listened more and became less angry and ashamed.  I began to be available to whatever there was for me.

Eight or nine months after my last drink, I took modern dance classes* in pursuit of a woman (that's her, spinning by the piano.) We had virtually nothing in common so I tried her world. Trying new things? Living the question as I wore a Sherwood Forest green leotard. By day I worked as a free lance writer/editor which is hardly even possible without scotch. There was still no real life passion (just passing fancies.) But it was certainly entertaining and I remember it all.



Then came Nora and a couple of years later, Emily. It's a commonplace, but no less true, that children wake corners of your heart that you never knew were there. I stopped regretting that I had no particular passion, no mission. Within the moment (being there then) I had a father's love for his daughters and for a while didn't really need more. I am more in love with them now.

By the time I hit 40 I was fully integrated. A house in Chevy Chase (on Tennyson St.); Emily and Nora were at Lafayette Elementary with the children of movers (if not shakers.) I wore a suit and tie (with an eye-patch) and commuted during the week to southeast DC and my job as a mid-level bureaucrat. For a while, there was a second house in the Shenandoah valley. Except for the lack of affairs (I am nothing if not loyal) my life became Cheeverish and Updikey: full of envy, guilt and circles with which you're in this week...and next week you are out, Auf Wiedersehen.



I was unhappy in my government job, I was competent but didn't fit. Socially there was pressure and competition to be the most informed and clever and (truthfully, I thrived at parties [with facile repartee-thanks Dad]) I was pretending that it wasn't tense and exhausting. I did excel at the bon mot. I am still awed by the astonishing phrase, and bow before superior Scrabble Players.

Then I began to cook and feed people. There were a few false starts like being sidetracked by what Nora Ephron called "competitive cooking" or the struggle to find more and more obscure cuisines and ingredients. But, since I was sober and could think clearly it became apparent that feeding people somehow stacked up my Chi or aligned me with the Meridians.

This discovery and its implications didn't really take shape until I turned 45. It was an entirely new life and I started to become myself. I passed through the hubris of mastering the art of baking, believing that the purity and quality of my bread made me important. But my daughters and many, many good friends have permitted my idiosyncrasies until they were no longer necessary. There is a saw about people like me: an egomaniac with an inferiority complex.

Thanks, Mr. Tatarka

Perhaps not everyone would be convinced of my better nature. Still, my impulse to feed you, to see that your needs are being met, has become my salvation. It is my way of life and my method of self rule: the moment I wonder what you would like to eat, I cease being your enemy. It keeps me out of trouble.

I had a friend who was a holocaust survivor. He was a happy and zestful man but he knew that any one of us is capable of evil. He taught that it is our responsibility to guard against this possibility. I have always secretly been afraid of my potential to damage and I see Arnost's point.





I am 68 today.

I cook to gather my friends and give them pleasure and nourishment, to see to their needs and enjoy their company, to create community. It is working for me, I trust myself to be a good man in ways that I could never have at 18, 28, 38... And I have others who are glad for me. Why, just last night they surprised me with balloons and a truly warm family meal. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, kale salad (it is Asheville) and carrot cake. You see, we all cook for each other even though I am the actual obsessive. Balloons at 68, how about that?

Cheers,

Chris


*I achieved the apex of my dance career as an off-stage voice.

We talked about our dogs (hi Laurey)

She has always been there

In my mountains, Laurey has always been a part of the view. When I came to Asheville to bake bread, Laurey patted the empty seat next door on Biltmore Ave. We thanked her at our home with dinner and my bread; she brought a strawberry cake that had beautiful, crisp, meringue layers and a generosity of whipped cream. She had understood immediately what I wanted to do here and knew that it would work.

So we opened Blue Moon Bakery next to her tiny kitchen and storefront at 60 Biltmore. She used her space to cook and to meet catering clients. She hoped our bakery cafe would thrive and helped to spread the word. 

Our first Thanksgiving celebration in Asheville was in that small storefront; she had cooked for the crowd. There were about 20 of us, friends, employees, family and neighbors. A kind of guest of honor was her nephew who traveled with a nurse. He had been very badly burned and could no longer care for himself, but he had Laurey's spirit and refused to quit. And Laurey taught all of us (or at least me) to fight back against the instinct to cringe with pity. She loved her nephew and wanted to share her friends with him and he with them. 

She had already dealt with round 1 of her cancer battle. She is tough, we all know that. I admired her grit and wanted some. But the real gift I have from Laurey has been the rewiring of my mind. I've always been too cool. The protective layer of cleverness, sophistication and sardonic wit are the tools I use to keep emotions in check. I have privately snorted at all of the repeated phrases that form the soundtrack of living in these mountains. Be here now, live and let live, one day at a time, you doin' all right? 'preciate you?, have a blessed day and, worst of all,..Don't Postpone Joy.

I thought (again, to myself), what the hell does that mean? It's just a cute way of saying, "buy more of my food." A Chamber of Commerce slogan and something to embroider on a pillow. A bumper sticker and I never use bumper stickers, what could be less cool than a bumper sticker? I have always been a land snark. I almost feel apologetic for all of my cynicism. Almost. And it would have to be an apology to myself.

Of course that hasn't lasted, I've softened. I've mellowed for a lot of reasons but the greatest piece of it has been because I've directly witnessed and experienced so many expressions of love in the 22 years that I have been here. There have been many, many powerful examples of heroic living. As I think of friends who are gone and all of us who have come close, I see that I am changed. I no longer have time to be cynical. For myself and for everyone that I can touch I need to thank Laurey for her demand that we generate positive thought and choose joy.

The last time we talked, in late January, it was about the amazing the love of our dogs . How they sit next to us and press their warmth into us when we are not well. They are incapable of negativity. I hope her dog is with her now.

Thank you Laurey

Chris

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

FAKE SAUCE (sugo di scapatto, sort of)

I spent December, 1971 in Rome, visiting a girlfriend from Philadelphia. She was enrolled in a junior-year-abroad and I had spent the first of two years on a Scottish island writing poetry, drinking and smoking dope; getting over a war. It was just as cold and wet in the Eternal City and very crowded with Christmas shoppers. Some of the piazzas were ringed with green plywood booths selling celebration foods; I particularly remember enormous slabs of chocolate and nougat.

Timing is everything. In the midst of our romantic month, her parents flew in for a surprise visit. Her father, a psychiatrist, had gone to medical school in the Eternal City. We had to make arrangements to reassure him of the security of her virtue. The arrangements, of course, were rearrangements. More specifically, I was to stay out of sight except when I was specifically  invited. They needed a lot of family time. Whether or not he knew what we were up to, he certainly knew the city well and very kindly included me for a few of their outings.

On the days when I was not included I felt very sorry for myself and wandered the damp and windy city with a small cassette player listening to "After the Gold Rush"; both the rain and Neal Young's whiny voice provided the perfect soundtrack for my misery. But what a place to be miserable: I kept returning to the Capitoline hill, overlooking the Forum. I think that there were orange trees with fruit. In Rome with Christmas approaching. Enjoying my Roman Holiday.

Luigi

When I did join them it was for meals that are still vivid in my memory. One day we went to a place outside of the city. I can't remember why, but I was the designated driver of the rental car. Driving in Rome during the evening rush was the third most terrifying experience of my life; at one point we were stopped for a light and on the curb was an actual one-eyed cat staring at me, very tough looking. There is an entire feral cat culture in the ruins throughout the city. I felt the scorn.

We arrived at the restaurant which was deep in an ancient cellar. There was no menu but they gave us everything. First, an aperitivo, wine, then a platter of cured meats and cheeses, wine, then a vat of spaghetti with a plain but perfect marinara, wine, then a huge assortment of grilled meats: beef steak, pork chops and both beef and pork liver, various sausages and chicken, wine, then (for those still able) a salad, wine, and finally, a digestivo. Everything was perfectly delicious. The meal, which went on for hours eclipsed my nervousness and on the way back to Rome, I drove like an Italian.

I won't  describe my other meals except to say that I found a different experience of food than I had known. In fact, although it took decades for it to sink in, the foundations of my culinary identity were being laid. The first principle of this identity is, "Everyone should be able to eat like a Roman." Food is simply much more important to the Italian than to the American.

In the end, on New Year's Eve, I shared a train compartment with a young German I had met. I was headed through Switzerland and across France to Calais and the ferry to Dover. My friend was only going across the Swiss border under a deportation order because of his day job. He drove luxury cars  to the market in Istanbul. As it happened, his employer did not own these cars.

Outside of the hamburger, nothing comforts me as completely as pasta in almost any form. Eaten for at least 4,000 years with western literary references from BCE Greece. The earliest record of boiled pasta is in the Talmud but people had been eating forms in China much earlier. There are so many different theories about how pasta might have been introduced from one culture to another that I have to conclude that it arose, independently, everywhere that grain was milled (or, in fact, where any starch was consumed).

4,000 year-old noodles with Chinese dirt

I love all varieties of pasta, although not equally, from Vietnamese glass noodles made from canna lily starch to Mueller's elbows made from bleached, bromated, "enriched" and extruded wheat flour. I like it stuffed, in broth, fried into rangoons, baked in lasagna (and even the baked spaghetti at the S&W cafeteria), boiled and tossed with butter and black pepper, boiled and then sauteed, or pushed through a ricer into a simmering stew as spaetzle.

Sometimes we just want pasta with red sauce and what follows is my approach. The sauce I make is based on a recipe by Giovanni Bugialli, a great chef and writer who inspired me through the 1980's. His intention was Sugo di Scapatto, meat sauce from which the meat has escaped. The sauce is normally meatless, hence the name. An alternate meaning is "fake sauce" because it is often a meat sauce without the meat. His version included veal stock. The one I made yesterday included ground beef simply because we had some in the fridge. His sauce was a revelation to me and the techniques I learned form the basis for a great number of my dishes.

red sauce ingredients                    brigid burns

My approach depends on a soffritto or a mirepoix, a seasoned vegetable mix: celery and onion and garlic . I add parsely and carrots (which is a bit Frenchy) for their sweetness. I think the size of the chop is important and for this sauce, I like a mince, which is pretty small (see below). For other dishes I might want these ingredients to remain separate and cut them into chunks. 

This time I began by cooking ground beef until all of the pink was gone. As it cooked, I broke the meat into the smallest pieces I could by stabbing it over and over with a wooden spoon. When the meat had all gone brown I added the soffritto, seasoned it lightly with salt and pepper, and cooked it slowly for about a half hour until all of the vegetables were soft and brown, If it seems that the sauce is too dry and might burn, a splash of water slows everything down.


Next, I added a glass of red wine (enough to lift the solids into a shallow soup) and cooked the mix slowly until it absorbed the liquid and had become almost dry again. Then I added an equal amount, or more of stock (in this case, a mix of veal and beef stocks). If you haven't got any of your own, the next best thing is to get 2 quarts of an organic stock and reduce it to one. It will cook for quite a while so there is no need to reduce it in advance. As the stock simmers into the mixture, add the seasoning that you choose. In this case I used a mix of oregano, marjoram and red pepper flakes.

When the stock had also been absorbed I added a large (28 oz.) can of the best tomatoes I could find. I prefer the whole peeled variety although you can use crushed or "chefs cut" if you wish.  I pour the juice into the pot and squeeze the tomatoes through my fingers. Now it is time to begin tasting for balance. This batch needed quite a bit of adjustment as the tomatoes were a little flat: I used lemon juice to raise the tartness, soy sauce for umami, or savory roundness, honey to balance the tart, heat from the pepper and just enough salt to bloom the flavors. It shouldn't actually taste salty, but the right amount opens your palate to the full savoriness of a dish.

From this point it is all about personal taste, tune it until you like it. Then it is time and low heat until all the flavors meld. It improves with an overnight rest. When you reheat the sauce taste it again until it pleases you. This works well with most pasta shapes, I like it with bucatini for a long pasta and penne rigate for a short  version.

Dinner        by brigid burns

Heat the sauce in a large frying pan while the pasta is cooking in a separate pot of salted water. When it is done, net it out with a spider, a skimmer or a slotted spoon into the sauce and turn it over and over to coat the pasta. If necessary, use a ladle of pasta water to thin a sauce that has become too thick.

Mange, mange!

Cheers,

Chris