The Dinner Files

It is, perhaps, unfair to characterize this soup as a “clean the fridge” creation. It was really terribly delicious and satisfying – neither my dashing husband nor grade school son said anything other than “more please” about it – but I was using stuff up. Using it up fast. Using it up before I’d have to throw it out. So I hacked a hunk of bacon that had been sitting in the back of the freezer into pieces and put it in a pot and sweated out its fat – adding a bit of water now and then to keep it from scorching before all the fat had melted. While that went down, I sliced a small onion that looked like it was thinking about sprouting, chopped a small savoy cabbage that needed a few wilted outer leaves pulled off of it first, and diced a carrot that was holding its own but I couldn’t remember when it had made its way into the fridge in the first place, which is never a good sign.

All of this was sauteed in the pot with the bacon and a bit of butter and a bit of olive oil (I was hedging all fat bets) until they softened a bit, then I threw in the potatoes that needed some trimming as they were chopped, a bunch  of chicken broth, and brought the whole thing to a boil.

I simmered it all down, cooked it until everything was tender and the flavors had all blended together nicely – about 25 minutes or so, and served it up with some chopped parsley on top for color. So pretty! So fresh!

A whole grain baguette and two half-eaten hunks of cheese were placed on the table along with the soup and we had ourselves a tasty, frugal, quite French (although the potatoes would have been peeled and the whole thing likely pureed) dinner. And the fridge? It’s all ready to be filled, yet again.

A BLT. It’s my default order. I’m at a restaurant, I know no good can come of the meal ahead, I order a BLT. My reason? Even a bad one is pretty good. You can always remove the mealy tomato or scrape off the excess mayo. Nine times out of ten you end up with something edible.

And then there’s the one time.

When I’m back in Minnesota visiting family my mom and I often meet my grandfather for breakfast. She and her siblings meet him for breakfast once a week–they’re not all there every time, but if I’m in town the event usually draws a decent crowd of 3 or even 4 of his 5 kids. We often go to Keys Cafe in St. Paul where I’ve been known to order their Minnesota Supreme omelet with wild rice in it.

And then one time we went for lunch. As the platters that serve as plates passed by the table piled high with gravy-laden meats at Keys that afternoon, I ordered a BLT. A sure, safe, reasonable BLT.

I had not read the menu. Above the sandwich section it stated “all hot sandwiches served with melted cheese.” First, a BLT is not a “hot” sandwich. The bacon should be hot, but that’s it. Even the toasted bread should be cooled enough to not melt the mayo, on that point I am firm. Second, there is no cheese–melted or otherwise–on a BLT. Clearly. Finally, to say there was melted cheese on the sandwich I was served is putting it mildly. There was a solid 1/2 pound of melted cheese worked into every crevice of that poor thing.

So when I made BLTs last night I made them right. Perfectly ripe tomatoes, crispy bacon, toasted bread, snappy lettuce. Homemade aioli in place of the mayo would have been great, but that would have required a lot more work and the heat wave didn’t break until after dinner.

After some brief talk of cooking ourselves an Ethiopian feast (stay tuned–I now have that bee in my bonnet and we all know what that means), and a moment when it looked like we might drive over the bridge to go to Camino again, instead we walked a few blocks to Universal Cafe. We love it for brunch–especially just as it opens at 9 when we can grab a table on the sidewalk and avoid the insane crowds that start to build around 10. We hadn’t been for dinner in a long time. My rigatoni with braised pork shoulder, greens, and pecorino wasn’t what I pictured, but I loved it and will attempt to re-create it. Plenty of black pepper was key. My home version will have MUCH less salt, however, it seemed almost like three or four people independently salted the dish. I doubt anyone tasted it before it headed out over the kitchen counter.

As usual, Ernie did a respectable job on his roast chicken–picking up entire quarters and digging in with glee.

But overall we weren’t terribly hungry. Earlier that day we had celebrated Fathers’ Day and–why be shy about it?–my birthday with a huge brunch. I made yeasted waffles; my dad cooked the bacon. He doesn’t cook much. The standard man-grilling America expects from its fathers, but nothing else besides bacon and fried eggs, actually, unless you count toast. And, because he eats about half a loaf worth every morning, he is an expert toaster.

My parents do not like messes. Not at all. But my dad loves bacon. And, as we all know, bacon is messy. So he has devised a system. A system he implemented in my kitchen when my own system for no-messy-kitchen-bacon–cook it in a cast iron skillet on the grill (which has the added benefit of making the entire neighborhood smell like bacon)–failed due to freezing winds whipping up our hill and keeping the grill from heating up sufficiently.

Behold!

With just a morning’s worth of newsprint and a quarter roll of Scotch tape, this creation can be yours! What? You think all that newspaper next to an open flame seems a wee bit dangerous? Peshaw! It’s fine! What’s a little fire hazard when you can have easy-clean-up, mouth-watering bacon? Live a little!