The Dinner Files

You know what brats are, right? Bratwurst. Hard to find in much of the country,* brats are ubiquitous in Minnesota and Wisconsin. There are plenty of bad brats out there, but even bad ones are pretty damn tasty. And just the thought of a good one (like those sold at Clancy’s Meats in Linden Hills in Minneapolis) makes those saliva glands back behind my molars go crazy. Like most people, I like mine with good mustard, some sauerkraut if I can get it, and a cold beer.

What I only recently discovered, however, is the harmonious perfection of a brat on a RYE bun. Of course! It’s so obvious! How have I ever eaten them any other way?

* In California, for example, people will actually try and sell you bockwurst as bratwurst, telling you it is the same thing. It is not: bockwurst is a mild ground veal sausage that looks like a long hot dog, bratwurst is a fat spiced ground pork sausage–traditionally a bit of veal is thrown in too, but not in modern U.S. versions

Grilled chicken is a tricky thing. Or so people would have you believe. When I was at Sunset there was a lot of interest in grilled chicken. To clarify: based on marketing surveys and reader feedback, the editors were convinced that the readers have an insatiable appetite for grilled chicken recipes. They were also convinced that grilling chicken was difficult, or at least that there were many “secrets” and “tricks” involved to make the chicken delicious. I would say, no, there are no tricks, just facts. You need to:

1. Buy good chicken–a creature that was allowed to be a chicken when it was alive, scratching and pecking and being outdoors now and again
2. Pre-salt or marinate said chicken
3. Grill it slowly (medium indirect heat for about 30 minutes for breasts, an hour or more for whole birds)
4. Let it sit 10 to 15 minutes (up to 30 minutes for the whole bird) before you cut into it

That’s it. Follow that advice and, quite frankly, you can even overcook it a bit and it will still be juicy. Whole chickens stay juicer than pieces; bone-in pieces stay juicer than meat left to fend for itself against the flames.

Oh! You wanted me to tell you how to make hormone-laced factory chicken taste good? Now that would involve some tricks. That you’re going to need to make taste like something besides chicken. The chicken flavor left that stuff a long time ago.

My parents followed my method method last night. The chicken was outstanding. I have never had a juicier piece of chicken. Never! I drizzled some steamed green beans with a mint-chili powder dressing and tossed the salad with an avocado vinaigrette (1 mushed avocado, 3 Tbsp. olive oil, 1 Tbsp. lemon juice, 1 Tbsp. red wine or sherry vinegar, 1/2 tsp. Dijon mustard, plenty of salt and pepper) to have alongside the chicken. We also had a baguette my mom had brought up north, stuck in the freezer, and heated up before dinner. I always forget how well bread freezes. Very well, it ends up. Very well indeed.

That’s right. I said Pig Roast. The pig was raised by who seemed to be a very nice man who lives a bit north of here. It was slaughtered this week by same said nice man, brought to our neighbors’ place and roasted to perfection by–you guessed it!–same said nice man. The resulting delight was served up to hoards of friends and family while draft Summit Pale Ale and draft 1919 Root Beer* flowed, children frolicked on the lakeshore, people cooed at new babies they hadn’t met yet, and everyone generally caught up with each other over plates of highly flavorful pig, chips, pickles, and beans.

It was a fine way to pass a few hours. Many of my own family were there, as well as scads of old family friends. I had never, however, met the hosts before. My hat (wide brimmed, striped ribbon I bought in Paris 10 years ago) is off to them. It’s no small endeavor to put on a pig roast and extend your hospitality to strangers.  Well done Trish and Tamara!

*This stuff is good. I don’t even particularly care for root beer and I love it. It is made with sugar, not corn syrup, in New Ulm, Minnesota and available only on tap. I love the company’s take on soda consumption on the FAQ page of their web site:

Question: We hear daily about the obesity epidemic in our country, people are ingesting too many calories and especially sodas. How would you reply to that?

We would agree. It is not unusual to hear people talk about drinking 6 to 12 cans of soda a day. We certainly do not advocate that!

1919 Classic American Draft Root Beer is a destination soda… you go to a restaurant that has 1919 on draft for a TREAT. As in 1919 – today, soda should be an occasional treat and, like any treat – make it special!

Anyone else charmed by the concept of a “destination soda”?

Rice and double beans, really. I bought the green beans at the jalapeño-less wild-rice-saturated market the other day. They looked good. Then I got them home and started trimming them. No snap. They were old. Not in-the-store-too-long old; they were on-the-vine-too-long old, with that slightly woody texture thing starting to happen. The upside to that is the beans inside were bigger and taking on a toothy starchiness that I rather like, in its way. So I cooked them a little extra and marinated them overnight. They were edible. Even tasty. But again, in their way. Qualified, circumstantial deliciousness.

I made a simple rice pilaf–sautéed a chopped onion in olive oil with salt until it started to brown, added a few cloves of chopped garlic, added a cup of long grain white rice, sautéed that until the rice looked opaque, added 2 cups of water (broth would have been better, but I had none), brought it to a boil, covered it, reduced heat to a simmer, and let it sit for 15 minutes, turned off the heat, left it covered and sitting there for 5 minutes, uncovered it, fluffed it, and voila! Oh wait, I almost forgot: I also added a handful of orzo to the rice right before adding the water. It makes it a bit like homemade Rice-a-Roni.

You like the look of that dal? Here’s how to make it: devote a decade or so of your life to studying French history, drop that and become a “food writer,” take about 5 years figuring out how that works during which time you spend six months writing for what may have been the worst magazine ever published and another six months at an overpriced cooking school where you learn very little and get even less professional help, be lucky enough to have a friend who gets a job at a large and well-respected regional lifestyle magazine who leaves said job and recommends you as a replacement, have another friend corporate-savvy enough to tell you how to ace interviews, ace the interviews, work there for almost three years, bust out as a freelancer, end up on Amy’s Kitchen PR list, receive an unsolicited box of their new canned soup varieties, bring said soups to the family cabin because you’re never going to try them at home, open the can of “Indian Curry Lentil Dal,” heat it up, and serve with rice pilaf and marinated green beans.

As regular readers know, I live in San Francisco. As very regular readers know, I am in Minnesota for a few weeks. I’m at my family’s cabin on a lake in Northern Minnesota. This afternoon I stopped by the market in a nearby town before picking up Ernie from day camp. I was not surprised there were no fresh jalapeños to be found, nor that there was no tofu, and I guess, when I thought about it, I wasn’t surprised by this either:

But I thought you might be. Yes, you’re seeing right. That’s two kinds of 100% Minnesota-grown wild rice and canned cooked wild rice. This at a small market in a small town.

I did not partake. We had chicken and cheese quesadillas with a remarkably un-spicy avocado and tomato salad.