lessons from a lamb

As I’ve alluded to in the past, I tend not to cook red meat very often. I enjoy ordering it at restaurants where I trust I’ll be served a perfect medium rare, but in my own kitchen, a few expensive failures have left me inclined to defer to more experienced hands when I crave it.

But lately I’ve been in the mood to conquer, so I decided that I would attempt to get back on the wagon for Valentine’s Day dinner, a tradition that Jake and I keep in lieu of dropping cash on an overpriced “romantic tasting menu” at a crowded restaurant. No heart shaped chocolate cake for us, thanks.

This year we decided on rack of lamb, one of our favorite proteins but something I’d never attempted. So I temporarily shelved all memories of overcooked disappointment and committed to this dinner. For cooking method, I consulted one of my favorites – Williams-Sonoma’s Cooking at Home, and after reading up a bit, felt reasonably confident that this was something I could do. Rack of lamb was happening.

Spoiler: we were not unique in our ambition. In an uncharacteristic rookie mistake, we showed up to the grocery store fully unprepared to contend with the mob scene of hungry couples that all had the exact same idea. Word to the wise, Whole Foods on Valentine’s Day is an ugly scene. So we opted for plan B, which in our house means pizza, beer and Smash on DVR. Greasy carbs and musical theatre are pretty much my dream back up combination, and I’m lucky enough to have a boyfriend who indulges these guilty tendencies. (He also loves Debra Messing. It’s true.)

We ended up making our belated Valentine's meal the following weekend. Here’s the recipe, along with a few observations on the techniques that helped successfully bring this dish across and mitigated the intimidation factor surrounding red meat. Read: patience.

Recipe:

1 frenched rack of lamb, 8 ribs

4 garlic cloves

¼ cup each mint, rosemary and parsley

4 tablespoons olive oil, plus more for searing

salt and freshly ground black pepper

Remove excess fat from the top of the rack, then generously salt both sides and set it aside. In a food processor, combine the garlic, herbs and pepper and pulse until everything is finely chopped, then slowly add in the olive oil until a nice, thick paste has formed.

Take two thirds of the paste and spread it on the top of your rack, so it looks like this, and let it sit for an hour so the flavors can begin to permeate the lamb. Meanwhile, preheat your oven to 450. 

Heat an oven safe skillet (I used a cast iron) to medium/high and add a few tablespoons of olive oil, enough to coat the bottom. When the oil begins to smoke, add the lamb, herb paste down, and sear for two minutes, then flip it and sear the other side for an additional two. 

Place the skillet in the oven with your lamb herb paste up and roast 10 minutes for medium rare. While the lamb is roasting, melt the remaining herb paste into 2 tablespoons of butter in a small sauce pan over low heat.

When it’s done, carefully remove your skillet from the oven (that shit is going to be hot) and move the lamb to a plate to rest. Let it sit for 5 minutes before carving between the ribs, and serve with the herb butter and a drizzle of aged balsamic vinegar if you're so inclined. We ate the lamb with a creamy celery root puree that I found here, and some cherry tomatoes I halved and simmered in a pan with olive oil until their juices were thick, about 10 minutes.

A few revelations occurred to me as I beamed at my finished product. These may be shamefully obvious to all of you, but as someone who is not especially patient in cooking or in life, getting my desired result really drove home the impact of these techniques (which are really just logical actions I sometimes don't take because I don't like waiting).

For one, if you're searing something, wait until your pan is hot. Really wait. If your meat isn't sizzling as soon as you place it in the pan, you're never going to get the sear you want.  And the big one. Let your meat rest and trust in carry over heat to increase the temperature by five to ten degrees. Cutting it prematurely will disrupt the meat from arriving at its true temperature, and cause it to dry out, which is a bummer.

I know it's tempting to check and see if you've undercooked it, but that 5 minutes can make all the difference. I had to consciously restrain myself, but the end product made for a pretty fantastic belated Valentine's Day dinner. For the record, we've committed to shopping a little earlier next year.

what is a foodie anyway? on hipsters and whole foods totes

I want to talk about my love of food in words that wouldn’t irritate me if someone else wrote them. That’s a weird thing to say. What I mean is, I want to write about the things I like without embodying those Portlandia characters who drill their server on the roaming acreage of their free-range chicken named Colin.

Foodies are easy to rip on. Gabrielle Hamilton gave an interview in which she said that they bum her out and strike her as a population with misplaced priorities. When I first heard that I was all “Right!? Who ARE these people?” Then five minutes later I was all “Wait. Is that me?”

The thing is, I love going to farmers markets. I try to buy local, and I avoid factory-farmed meat. I collect olive oil and I own more than one variety of sea salt. I have a list of food journalists whose work I read regularly, and if you indulge me I will talk to you about food culture for hours. But I’m not these people.

This brings me to my point. Food, as an interest, is extremely popular and on trend in a way that it never has been. And like any trend worth its salt, it prompts quite a bit of discussion and naturally some polarity will grow out of that. It’s healthy, for sure. I love me some lively debate.

On the one hand, there’s now a significantly bigger stage and more captive audience for important issues like the ethics of factory farming, food security, nutrition education, and the availability of affordable, quality staples in low-income communities. These are all critical topics that owe their visibility, in part, to pop culture’s current obsession with food consumption. Their messages have caught fire, progress is being made, and that is 100% a good thing.

On the other hand, I find that with the emergence of a foodie culture, a misplaced elitism has cropped up within certain contingents, who like Hamilton alluded to, might not have their priorities straight. Half the people who buy only organic and preach sustainability are just parroting a philosophy that they read summarized on a reusable Whole Foods tote. And if one more restaurant calls itself as farm to table, I might cry. That sounds bitter, and I’m not. I think I’m just noticing the meaning get lost in the repetition.

It’s interesting, this idea that the food we choose to consume contributes to a lifestyle, and not just to life. But like anything else, I guess you take the bad with the good, munch on your small batch artisanal root vegetable chips and move on.

And I don’t mean to sound protective of anything, like I think I’m the only person with an olive oil collection who isn’t a douche. I’m not saying that I was a foodie before it was trendy, like a hipster who gets their dander up when their favorite indie band achieves mainstream success on the wings of an Apple commercial. I like Whole Foods too. I’m just observing what I think is a fascinating shift in our culture, that I am complicit in, whether I like it or not.

Back to Gabrielle Hamilton - I read her memoir, Blood Bones and Butter, last summer and found something of an ideal in her philosophy. The woman is so honest and unapologetic about her relationship with food. She writes rhapsodically about the experiences that shaped her life and the restaurant she opened, without once drawing from the well of beaten to death buzzwords in the landscape. There’s intense emotion behind her food, but she isn’t wholly absorbed by the industry. 

I think this is why I was so drawn to her perspective, which seemed to me to be, very simply, that eating well and feeding people well is categorically important to her. It’s a part of life…no more, no less. And that’s my jam too.

feeding nostalgia...with chicken noodle soup

There’s something about chicken noodle soup that makes us feel good. Maybe because it’s nursed us through so many sick days, or been the go-to offering of moms everywhere on cold winter afternoons…whatever the reason, chicken noodle soup is instantly comforting, no matter how old you are.

It’s warming and nostalgic, basic in ingredients but deep in flavor. Broth, chicken, noodles and vegetables…simple on paper and screen, but the whole is so much more than the sum of its parts. Aristotle wasn’t talking about soup when he wrote that, but it feels appropriate. 

My version of choice as a little kid was Campbell’s Chicken & Stars. I haven’t eaten it in probably 15 years, but I know it tastes like snow days in the third grade.  These days, I’ve moved on from the canned variety, but until recently I’d never attempted to make it from scratch. I’d done a few batches with a pulled rotisserie chicken and carton stock, and they suited well enough, but I never committed to the real thing, whole chicken and all.

Then last month, using the blog as a commitment device, I set about with a list of soon to make dishes, and the weekend’s chilly weather pushed this to the top. In retrospect, I don’t know what I was so worried about. It was so simple and hands off, worth it even just for the intoxicating scent of simmering stock that perfumed my apartment all afternoon. 

Bright with lemon and rich with the chicken's natural fat, it's wonderfully salty, creamy and balanced with an underlying earthiness from the fresh herbs. If you're looking for something to warm your bones and sate your appetite - for both nourishment and nostalgia - this fits the bill. 

Recipe: 

Stock:

1 whole chicken, (about 3 lbs) rinsed and giblets removed

3 carrots and 3 celery stalks, cut into chunks

2 yellow onions, quartered

1 head of garlic, halved

Thyme bundle, about 6 sprigs

2 bay leaves

1 teaspoon black peppercorns

1 teaspoon salt

Enough cold water to cover the chicken

Soup ingredients:

4 carrots, peeled and cut into ½ inch coins

3 celery stalks, cut into ½ inch slices

2 large garlic cloves, minced

1 yellow onion, chopped

2 cups shredded chicken

8 ounces egg noodles

Handful of chopped flat leaf parsley

1 lemon, halved

2 tablespoons butter

Salt and pepper

Place the vegetables in a large stock pot, and lay the chicken on top. Pour in enough water to cover the chicken (no more than 3 quarts) and put everything else - garlic, thyme, bay leaves, salt and peppercorns - into the pot. Cover and bring to a boil, then lower to a simmer and let it go for at least 2 hours (mine went for 3) partially covered. Season the stock to taste, and remember that salt intensifies the longer it cooks. You'll know when it's right. 

When your stock has fully developed its flavor, pull out the chicken and pour the liquid through a strainer to remove impurities, reserving it. When the chicken has cooled, pull it apart with a fork and set it aside. (It will yield extra, so save that for another dish.) Simultaneously, add butter to a soup pot and soften the garlic, onions, celery and carrots for about 10 minutes on medium low heat. 

When vegetables have softened, add the stock back into the pot and fold in the chicken. Lastly, add the noodles and allow soup to simmer for 5-8 minutes until the noodles are tender. Just before serving, sprinkle with a handful of fresh herbs and the juice of one lemon. 

Ladle into bowls and enjoy!

I used fresh parsley and egg noodles this time, but next time I'm going to try cilantro and orzo, with a little cinnamon and cayenne. Really any pasta is fine, so long as you use something that can stand up to sitting in the broth. Other than that, this is infinitely customizable. I hope you'll experiment and find a version that you like. 

Waiting for a snow day to pair with my soup,

Kira

PS, does anyone else remember this little gem?

bringing back the "no thank you" portion

One day, a long long time from now, I’ll probably have some kids. And as karmic retribution will surely dictate, they will be picky little shits just like I was. It’s only fair. Until I was seven or eight, I was loath to eat much more than elbow pasta with butter. If there was red sauce involved, I required a bowl on the side so I could painstakingly dip each individual noodle. To put it simply, I was the bane of my food loving parents’ existence for a while, but they pressed on with a technique that I fully intend to implement with my future finicky children.

Though they entertained my kiddy eating habits to a degree, they would regularly institute what they called “no thank you" portions of new dishes that my sister and I were required to try. The purpose of this strategy was two-fold: expand the narrow repertoire of things I liked to eat, and teach me manners so that I would never be that brat wrinkling my nose at food served in someone else’s house.

The concept is simple, and I think, as important for adults as it is for little kids. Unless you have an allergy or a moral opposition, suck it up and take a few bites. It shows respect for the person serving you, allows you to try new things, and is much better than saying “No, thank you.”  It’s not always tasty, but in my humble opinion, social grace trumps the fact that you don’t like broccoli.

Now, I recognize that some people have a few foods they find so repulsive that they just cannot eat them, some of which are even grounded in science. Cilantro haters, you get a pass. The New York Times said so.

Offal is another one that I can come close to understanding, but I think gets an unfair rap simply because it’s so unfamiliar to most people. Americans are turned off by many cuts of meat that the rest of the world uses out of necessity. I’m not saying you have to eat a big bowl of tripe to placate me, just that overall, it’s silly to refuse something because you’ve never tried it and the idea of it kind of weirds you out. That goes for all food, not just foreign animal parts. For the record, fried sweetbreads and beef tongue tacos are delicious. You should try them.

The idea of the no thank you portion stuck with me long after my buttered noodle days, and I credit it with my open-minded approach to eating. I love trying new dishes and cuisines, and experimenting with unfamiliar ingredients in my kitchen. Stumbling onto a new flavor is as exciting for me as finding a gorgeous pair of shoes on sale. And I especially love when someone is thoughtful enough to cook a meal for me, even if it happens to contain a few things I wouldn’t have chosen myself. In my opinion, it’s one of the purest forms of hospitality.

Of course, on the flip side, I’d be mortified as a host to find out that I’d served someone something they hated, only to have them politely suffer for my sake. But that’s why I always ask about likes and dislikes ahead of time, and try to serve things that aren’t notably polarizing. Easy enough.

As for the foods I struggle with, there are a few, but rounding out the top would be cooked spinach (I don’t like soggy, wilted greens of any kind), injera bread (it’s cold, sour, spongy and the color of dishwater) and most cheese. 

That’s right, I don’t like cheese. I’m aware that this makes me a rare and bizarre specimen, and I’ve been questioned by many a foodie friend who can’t understand how someone like me, otherwise obsessed with food, exists without it. It’s not for lack of trying!! All I want in this world is to share a cheese plate with friends and compare our snooty impressions. But I’m working on it…

The other night Jake and I went to dinner at Obelisk, an amazing restaurant in DC that serves a cheese course with the meal. It’s the sort of restaurant that would gladly make a substitution to accommodate the tastes of its guests. But since I’m trying to train my stubborn palate into submission, I elected to follow the rules of the no thank you portion. 

Long story short, I sampled them all, and, not wanting to seem like a tasteless ingrate (and ashamed by my own lack of refinement), I ended up hiding the majority of what I am sure were beautiful varieties of Taleggio and Chèvre in the bread basket. Like an eight year old. But with different motivations.

As I said, the outcome of the no thank you portion won’t always be tasty. But it’s worth trying anyway.