The Dinner Files

Salmon carpaccio with fennel relish. I know a lot about this dish. As I was eating it I had the pleasure of telling my dining companions that, in fact, I had caught the fish.

“How psyched are you?” and other enthusiastic confirmations followed, despite the fact that the Cordovans I was sitting with all eat salmon they catch themselves on a regular basis (about twice a week was the average in my informal poll, but that’s just counting dinner; if you add in lunch the weekly average more than doubles due to the apparent popularity of salmon burgers).

I should clarify one teeny tiny fact: When I say that I caught the fish I really mean that Thea Thomas, a Cordova salmon fisherman, caught it while I was on her boat.

I’d like to say I helped, but that would be a gross exaggeration. “Didn’t hinder too terribly much” is probably a more accurate assessment. While Thea donned some intense rubber gear and worked in the driving rain and freezing wind, I poked my head out of the heated cabin every now and again to try and get a decent picture without my camera getting too wet. In doing so I often asked if she could hold still for just a moment. And another moment while I wiped the lens. And another moment while I adjusted the angle. Oh, and just one more because the light seems a wee bit better at this part of the ocean an inch from where we were before.

At one point I asked her if she normally fished in such weather. To her credit the expression that betrayed how naive my question was barely flitted across her face before she said that yes, when the fishing was open and good she did indeed work in the rain. She did not add “silly city girl” to the end of her answer, which, in retrospect, was an impressive sign of her friendliness and general good character.

Thea, like many other Copper River salmon fisherman, uses gillnets. Like most of her cohort, she works alone (although her delightfully polite young nephew visits every summer to work as a deckhand for a bit). Unlike most of her cohort who spend their fishing days on gun-metal gray vessels with small cabins in which they often live for weeks at a time, Thea works on a cheery and brilliantly blue boat with a small cabin in which she often lives for weeks at a time.

The salmon she catches – the season moves from the king salmon in May through sockeyes and then cohos (called silvers by those who fish them) before the season ends in September – are trying to get up into the Copper River to spawn. And who can blame them? It’s a little chilly but otherwise looks like a lovely place to raise a family.

They have lots of fat built up for the fresh water journey, during which they stop eating and use a lot of energy (the Copper River is long and difficult to swim up even for a fish driven to swim up it, hence the prized richness and quality of Copper Rive Salmon). Once they spawn, they die. As they go upstream they start looking like, well, like they are going to die. Bits of their flesh starts flaking off. Sections of their bodies turn ghostly white. (In a perfect-circle-of-nature way, their rotting flesh will serve as a protein source for the hatchlings they die to spawn. That might sound a bit horrific, but don’t we all feed off our parents in one way or another?)

Out in the Prince William Sound and Gulf of Alaska, however, they’re still in salt water and fattening themselves up. So Thea set out her net, let it sit, hauled it back, and started picking off salmon (and a few flounder that were promptly returned to their ocean home) as they came in.

Then she posed for a picture that – and I’m just guessing here – isn’t a normal part of the routine as she cut the salmon’s gills to bleed it.

Her net was still coming in, there was work to do. The bleeding salmon was put on the floor, where it slid to my feet. Aggressive predator no more.

We brought our tiny catch of three sockeyes back to Cordova and had them hand-filleted by an expert, who can fillet a salmon faster than I can shoot with my camera, at Copper River Seafoods.

[Side note: Did you know there are machines that can fillet fish? I did not and found that fact fascinating. They do not, I was assured, do as good a job as a person, they just do it faster. Custom orders, fillets for smoking, and other situations where looks and super-duper premium quality matter – such as my dinner – are still filleted by hand.]

From there the salmon went to the chefs preparing dinner who chose to pound the living daylights out of it to make carpaccio. To their credit, the fish was so fresh and well-handled, without bruising or damage, that it was perfect to take advantage of that way.

[Another side note: I've heard from many experts that salmon should be frozen if you're going to eat it raw because of concerns about parasitic worms that the freezing kills. So far I appear to be parasite-free. Fingers crossed!]

My beef, so to speak, with the salmon carpaccio was the pounding. To be more specific, it was the noise from the pounding. It was loud, steady, distracting and it took place less than 15 feet and one all together too thin wall away from where I sat trying to follow a detailed technical discussion of cutting-edge fish bleeding practices on one side of me while asking questions (questions that would qualify me for enrollment in Salmon 101, Fishing 101, and Alaska 101 courses if such a placement exam were given) of a very cheerful and patient soul.

I learned this about fishermen: When they work, they work hard. Most of them I met were obsessive about the quality of the fish they caught and went to great pains to treat them well.

And then there are the boats. These things are as neat as pins. Clean as whistles. Exceptions exist, I’m sure, but I didn’t see any. They are named and cared for and tinkered with and, if my experience is any example, pointed out in the harbor with pride to new acquaintances. I kept up my end of such conversations with this question: Is it a bow-picker or a stern-picker? Feel free to use it as you see fit.

That salmon carpaccio began as a 4-lb. sockeye salmon headed for the Copper River. It was caught at Strawberry Flats by Thea on her fiberglass bow-picker in some gnarly freezing rain. Ireneo filleted it at Bill and Pip and Scott’s place. Adam and Dan and Trevor pounded, cut, and plated it. I think Marley helped. Beth ordered the fennel. I ate it while laughing with Bert and Mike and Robert.

All of that is to naught, of course, unless it’s tasty. Food can have all the backstory in the world, but if it doesn’t taste good you’re still not going to want to eat it.

I ate all my carpaccio. And would have happily eaten seconds. And thirds.

[Final side note: I don't want to forget Cheryl, who took the carpaccio picture at top and so without whom this post could not exist.]

I spent a few days in Cordova, Alaska learning about Copper River salmon. I thought I knew a fair amount about salmon before I went. I could name the five types of Pacific salmon we get on the West Coast, I knew the general life cycle of salmon, and I certainly knew a myriad of ways to prepare and eat salmon. Hell, I’ve smoked it on my stove top, I’ve grilled it in corn leaves, I’ve made more gravlax than you could shake a stick at, I’ve even witnessed my New York City born-and-bred mother-in-law boss the fish cutter at Zabar’s around and make him get out a new piece of Nova. I now know a lot more about salmon. A lot. Really almost a frightening amount.

The other thing I learned about, however, is Cordova. I sort of fell in love with the place. You know how some places are great to visit but the thought of moving there doesn’t even cross your mind whereas others tempt you with visions of a different life? For some reason I’m always tempted by places that get quite cold and dark in the winter. Perhaps it’s the Norwegian in me, or a childhood largely spent in Minnesota so that dark cold somehow feels homey and inviting (or I just appreciate how glorious summer feels after that freezing blanket of winter). Cape Breton, Nova Scotia and Bergen, Norway, for example, loom large in my fantasy path-not-taken life. I’ll now add Cordova to the list.

The trip had several highlights, but I’ll just talk about the final one here. On Sunday night I had the pleasure of eating dinner around the kitchen island at Mikal Berry’s amazingly cozy and serene craftsman bungalow while the incessant “liquid sunshine” as the locals call it leaked from the sky.

This corn, chile, and salmon chowder would have been fabulous enough, but both it and the homecured gravlax she served beforehand were made with salmon she caught herself. On her commercial salmon fishing boat. There aren’t many women commercial fishermen in Cordova (or other places, I imagine, I just happen to know only 6 to 8 of the over 500 permit holders in Cordova are women – I met three of them – more on that tomorrow).

The chowder was followed by a homemade panna cotta garnished with rhubarb compote she harvested and made herself and blueberries and salmonberries (those things that look like giant raspberries) she picked from her garden between courses.

With the panna cotta Mikal served her homemade cranberry cordial. I make a cranberry liqueur of which I was once very proud. Those days are over. I need to relearn how to make it. Mikal’s blew mine away. Of course she starts by gathering wild cranberries in the fall….

It was a calm, easy, homey meal that especially hit the spot. As much as the weather was less than sunny, so too was my constitution that day, what with the previous night having been spent out drinking with a lethal combination of fishermen and chefs. Honestly, I don’t know who is more trouble. Or more fun. I am most seriously out of partying practice. Plus, from what I gathered, bars in Alaska close when everyone leaves, so there is nothing to send you home except your own good sense which, of course, by that time you’ve completely lost. I didn’t even follow my own hard and fast rules to avoid hangover disaster: Don’t change drinks, Don’t change venues. No good comes from either one. That moment when someone says “Let’s go to The Alaskan!” when you’re already in a perfectly fine bar or other drinking venue? That’s the time to go home. You know what I did instead of going home? I recruited people to join us. Mistakes were made. Fun was had. Lessons were learned, again.

It’s been a banner berry year so far here at the cabin. Do you see those berries? Red and plump for their small size and so ripe they are almost falling off the bramble. We have a few raspberries near the cabin that my parents planted. They have some berries on them – enough to plop on top of cereal or for a quick snack. But for a real haul, for a serious amount of berries, for enough berries to serve as dessert to guests, a girl needs to head out to the road, walk or slowly bike or very slowly drive, and keep her eyes open for spots of red.

Those handfuls of wild blueberries Ernest and I found? Child’s play. On Wednesday we picked this in about half an hour:

And by “we” I really mean “I” since Ernest eats everything he picks. I can hardly blame him.

These berries were so ripe and so sweet and so lovely that when I served them with very lightly sweetened whipped cream and then offered everyone sugar to sprinkle on top not a single person took me up on the offer.

Last week I dropped Ernest off at the day camp in town he goes to when we’re in Northern Minnesota. I had some errands to do in the bigger town of Brainerd and so ended up driving through Ironton, not something I do much. Boy am I glad I did because I saw an addition to the town since I last drove through – whenever that might have been. As you might guess from the picture above, it rather captured the eye. I can barely describe the extent to which this flame-covered building with its bright reds and oranges and yellows stands out in a small town in Minnesota lake country. The folks here are practical, utilitarian, pragmatic people. Energy must be conserved for the long winter that always looms in the background. Colors are muted, speech is reserved, and blending in is highly valued.

Upper midwest culture firmly embraces (and enforces) a no-tall-poppy policy. Garrison Keillor has documented it extensively. Don’t stand out. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Who do you think you are? It is an aspect of the region that has not always served yours truly very well. I know what it takes to stand out here. I know the snarky comments and dry-humored back-handed compliments those flames attract.

So perhaps you can imagine how happy those flames made me as I drove (blah) through to do errands (double blah) on a gray day (triple blah).

And when I saw that this extremely tall poppy houses Louie’s Bucket of Bones, a rib joint and smokehouse (custom smoking available!), I nearly fainted with pleasure. Stenciled lettering promotes the establishment’s ribs, chicken, and catfish, as well as tacos and lasagna. A little something for everyone, I suppose.

Over the weekend I sent my brother to pick up ribs, both St. Louie style and baby back. Both were, in their unique way, fabulous. The tender, unctuous baby backs were preferred by half our group and the dryer, chewier St. Louie by the other half, so peace was maintained as we gnawed our way through our order until we had, indeed, created a bucket of bones.

We started with these:

Lake trout, two fillets sprinkled with salt and pepper and drizzled with olive oil (for the record, this was my suggestion on how to prepare them) and one lightly spread with hoisin sauce (for the record, not my idea and not, in the end, the best combination).

They were caught and cleaned by:

My Uncle Denny, griller of chicken and smoker of fish. In this case he merged these impressive skills and helped my father and my husband (how many dudes does it take to grill some lake trout? it ends up quite a few more than you may have guessed) cook the fish thusly:

And then we had:

I made the coleslaw and the potato salad (my trick for such delicious potato salad? dress the warm potatoes with vinegar and let cool to room tmeperature, then add whatever else you like in your potato salad – be it mayonnaise and hard-boiled eggs and bread-and-butter pickles or olive oil and capers – and serve at room temperature without ever refrigerating the potatoes), my mom made her famous corn pie. It involves canned corn and canned cream of corn and corn meal and it is very corny and quite amazingly delicious.

The extra nice touch is that we ate the lake trout that my uncle caught and cleaned and helped grill on placemats his wife, my Aunt Nancy, made and gave to us more years ago than any of us might care to calculate.

Yum. This was a good one. I made the turkey mixture from this turkey taco recipe, put it on some toasted corn tortillas (fried would have been good, too), and topped the whole thing with this corn avocado salsa and some shredded lettuce. Perfect easy, fresh summer dinner.

I owe many thanks to a good friend. She visited Ernest and me in northern Minnesota this past weekend and gave us two incredible gifts.

First, in response to me saying that it was too bad we didn’t have an ice cream maker or I would make her some of the awesome buttermilk ice cream I’ve been obsessed with, she told me she makes ice cream all the time with a bowl and a whisk (and a freezer, of course). So I gave it a try. OMG. Why do I own an ice cream maker? Why do I make space for it in my limited storage space? It worked great – just pour the cooled mixture into a large metal bowl, cover it, and whisk it up every 20 minutes or so until it’s ice cream. Side-by-side I’m sure ice cream maker-ice cream would be smoother, but without direct comparison, an ice cream-lover would find nothing lacking in the results of this low-tech method (which I wrote up step-by-step at Local Foods).

Second, she got Ernest into the idea of building a fort in the woods. Yesterday afternoon I went to the site with Ernest and something small, blue, and low to the ground caught my eye. There weren’t many of them, but they were delicious.

“Mama,” Ernest said as he crammed his tiny haul into his mouth, “the blueberries from the store are bigger, but these taste better.”

True that.

Like last year, I am fortunate enough to find myself in Northern Minnesota for a few weeks this summer. I love it up here. I love the clear lake water. I love that Ernest has the freedom to go outside all by himself. I love that the local grocery store has four different options if you’re looking for wild rice. I love that since last summer that same store has decided to start carrying fresh jalapeno chiles.

And I love that in a town of less than 600 people the hardware store stocks lefse grills. Yes, that is plural. They have more than one. If I were back in San Francisco and got the yen to grill up some lefse, I would call ahead to Sur la Table to make sure they had one before heading down. I imagine I just might have to special order it. But here? I can just drive into town and pick one up. Not just pick one up, but get one for a neighbor as well if I were so inclined.

What’s lefse, you ask? It’s a potato-based Norwegian flat bread cooked on a griddle. It’s large, round, and delicious. I’ve never made lefse. As you might imagine, I’m thinking pretty seriously about driving into town, buying one of those grills, and getting busy. Anyone out there made lefse? Have a recipe? Tips?

My Uncle Denny has been featured here before. Or at least his famous smoked salmon has been. The other night he held a little shin-dig for his cousin (my first cousin once-removed – I figured out the difference between once/twice-removed and first/second/third cousins at a family reunion years ago). He invited a mess people over and cooked up six chickens all snug and cozy on his little Weber charcoal grill. They’re about half-way done here. He was a bit reluctant to open the grill, since part of the secret to the deliciousness of the final chicken is leaving the lid on to capture all the smoke and get it into the chicken meat. If they suffered I almost wouldn’t want to taste the more perfect birds – the chicken he served up was smoky, juicy, and fabulous. Just salted and peppered them, and put them on the grill as crowded as can be, and let them cook until golden and “done” from what I could tell. He seemed to spend most of the party in a lounge chair nursing a margarita without a chicken concern in the world. I should have asked more questions, but by the time I knew how good the chicken was, I was busy eating it.

Note: My cousin (technically another first cousin once-removed, the sister of the guest of honor) Jajie* really wanted to make the blog. She talked about it and made a fuss but then refused to stand still for any picture-taking. She made this awesome salad, however, which I then re-made, tweaked for the dressing, and posted a recipe (Blueberry Blue Cheese Spinach Salad) because it was so pretty and tasty and easy:

*You wonder what kind of name “Jajie” is? It’s short for Janet. You can’t really hang with the Watson clan and not have your named turned into a diminutive ending with a long “e” sound. Even Schuyler ends up being called “Schuylie” half the time.

I’m having another Minnesota summer. I love how my eyes relax here – it just feels so good to look at all the shades of green everywhere. I spent most of the last week in Minneapolis, meeting my brand new nephew (who could try to be cuter, I suppose, but it’s difficult to imagine how he would succeed) and seeing other family and friends. I also had a chance to check out some farmers markets in the Twin Cities – there is a real local foods scene in these parts that is all the more impressive by how trying much of the year is.

There is plenty to love about Minneapolis, especially in the summer. It is beautiful, there are lakes and rivers everywhere you look, the skyline is stunning, the Mississippi riverfront is revived, there is plenty of art and theater, the state now has two (count ‘em, two!) senators, and the city is just full of people who are drunk on the warm weather and frolicking accordingly. I’ve written here about the wonder that is Jasmine Deli before (the first day we were here Ernest asked “Mama, can we go to the Jas?”), some new delights I discovered on this latest visit:

Brasa Rotisserie. Roasted meats and sides like creamed spinach with jalapeno with a super-cas atmosphere and generous portions that make the reasonable prices seem almost criminal

Mill City Market. I went to the St. Paul Farmers Market too, but I really dug Mill City. It’s in downtown Minneapolis, between the new Guthrie Theater (worth a visit its own self) and the Mill City Museum (ditto) right on the Mississippi riverfront at St. Anthony Falls (again – go, visit, enjoy!). Tons of vendors selling a great range of stuff – including a place selling grain and home flour mills! How cool is that? Also a food truck called “Chef Shack” dishing out all kinds of deliciousness including “Indian spiced mini doughnuts” that were crave-inducing. In fact, now that I’m thinking about it I’d like some right now….

Izzy’s Ice Cream. I don’t care about their “Izzy’s Scoop” which is a mini scoop you can have them put on your cone. But I fell in love with the cake batter ice cream. It tastes just like very cold golden cake batter – it even has that almost chewy texture of raw cake batter. Brilliant.

Clancy’s Butcher in Linden Hills. Okay. I knew aboand have shopped at Clancy’s before. But I just have to give them a shout-out. Coming in from a state where a butcher (a bucher! the shame!) once told me that “bratwurst and knockwurst are the same” it is a delight to go to a fabulous neighborhood butcher and find there some amazingly perfect bratwurst in the case. Spicy, tender, perfect bratwurst. The kind that haunt a Midwesterner’s California dreams.