The Dinner Files

All those crêpes last week made me think of French camp and the awesome breakfast of baguette and chocolat chaud we got to have every morning. I got to thinking, why not? I am a grown-ass woman who eats a giant piece of leftover almond tart from a dinner party for breakfast if I feel like it. Why not have a tranche of baguette slathered with butter and dipped in hot chocolate like I did when I was eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…. yeah, yeah, I became a counselor. I told you, I loved French camp with an ardor that scares me now. I went every summer from eleven to seventeen. It was my glee club.

As luck would have it, I’ve been experimenting with baguettes.

“Experimenting” is, perhaps, a strong word. Last week I started baking some French bread. My dashing husband and son both love baguette, and after the whole “Mama can make crêpes?” episode, I’ve been in a bit of smack-down mode. “Yeah, not only can Mama make a mean crêpe, but she can bake a baguette, too – booyah.”

The problem is, I’m not so terribly great at baking a baguette. They were tasty enough, but look at those things! They stuck to the floured kitchen towel on which they were raised, I had to untangle them to get them into the oven, and I ended up with these mangled, twisted sticks. But wait – what was that first part? – oh yeah, they were tasty enough. That is what matters. The family gobbled them up – I ate mine with plenty of butter. Dipped in hot chocolate.

I’ve been getting back in the swing of baking bread now and again. I used to do it all the time — there was even a stage there when I was in grad school when it was not uncommon to find me driving somewhere with a bowl of dough in the seat next to me, ready to get punched down as needed during the day. But a career shift, a kid, a job — it all got in the way of regular bread baking. So I’m starting small, starting easy. Fougasse. It’s part focaccia, part unadorned pizza dough. It’s easy, flexible, and fun to make. As you see here Ernie was impressed with his own handiwork at spreading it out on a pan. Surely if a five year old can do it you can too?

Fougasse

1 Tbsp. active dry yeast
4 1/2 cups flour (bread or all purpose, sometimes I even use up up to 1 cup whole wheat flour)
1/4 cup olive oil plus more for the pan
2 tsp. salt

Dissolve the yeast in 1 3/4 cups warm water. Mix in flour, oil, and salt. Stir until mixture holds together in a ball. Knead on a lightly floured surface until smooth and elastic feeling. (This is all even easier if you use a standing mixer and a dough hook.) You can clean the mixing bowl and oil it or just throw the dough back into the dirty bowl (I’ve never had any problem), cover with a clean towel or plastic wrap and let rise until doubled in bulk, about 1 1/2 hours (a lot less if you put it in a warm spot, a lot more if you throw it in the fridge, which you can do and let it rise overnight or keep it for a day to two).
Preheat oven to 425. Oil a large baking sheet. Punch down the dough, turn it out onto a clean surface, and cut it in half. Wrap half the dough in plastic and put it in the fridge for the next night, spread the other half as thinly as you care to on the baking sheet, pulling regular “slashes” into it if you like. Sprinkle with coarse salt if that appeals to you and bake until brown and crispy on the edges, about 25 minutes. Let cool a bit before serving. Let people rip off pieces to eat. It’s fun. Then bake another batch the next night.

Sometimes I cook some chopped garlic or herbs in the oil before using it to add a little something-something.

This weekend we had friends to dinner. I kept calling it that: “friends to dinner” not “dinner party.” I did that because last year I made a resolution to have at least one dinner party a month. And I did. It averaged out to that with only the teeniest bit of fudging of the definition of “dinner party.” I love dinner parties and having people over and I want to do it more. The problem is “dinner party” is sort of a loaded term, isn’t it? It means appetizers and lots of wine and an actual real dessert of some sort and… well, a certain amount of hassle. So I’m switching gears. I’m having more friends over for dinner. If they find themselves handed glasses of rosé cava (“oh, pink champagne!” exclaimed one guest) and platters of crudités and homemade fougasse, salumi and  mostarda before moving to the dining room for an Ethiopian feast followed by an almond nougat semifreddo as were our guests this weekend, so be it. They can count themselves lucky. If they happen to get a serving of spaghetti carbonara and some terribly cheap Bordeaux Superieur I bought at Trader Joe’s on a lark because it reminded me of a dear friend in Paris with whom I used to drink copious amounts of the stuff before walking miles home in the dead of night to save 45 francs in cab fare as did our guest last night, well, that’s the luck of the draw. The point is to spend time with people without having to schlep to restaurants where we have no say in the music, have to interact with strangers to get our food, and pay dearly for the privilege (not even so much the food but the babysitting bill).

So the Ethiopian feast consisted of beef wat, a vegetable stew, lentils, and injera.

I’ve made the spongey flat-bread before and found the recipe I used a bit heavy and wet. It was the kind that uses baking soda and club soda to make the bread bubble and rise a bit. I figured that wasn’t proably “authentic” and tried a yeasted version. I still lacked teff flour, so it was nothing like the real thing, but I was much happier with the recipe I concocted by cobbling together a few versions I tracked down.

Injera

2 Tbsp. active dry yeast

3 1/2 cups warm water

1 1/2 cups buckwheat flour

1 1/2 cups bread flour

1 tsp. kosher salt

2 Tbsp. vegetable oil

2 eggs, beaten

In a large bowl dissolve the yeast in the water. Let sit until bubbly, about 5 minutes. Stir in the flours and salt until smooth. It will be a very thin batter. Cover and let sit at room temperature until bubbly – at least several hours and maybe even overnight (I haven’t tested that last bit – I let mine sit for about 3 hours).

Stir in oil and eggs. Add up to 1/2 cup additional water to keep batter thin – or wait to test after cooking one flat-bread.

Heat a frying pan – the larger the better – over high heat. Reduce heat to medium, pour in 1/4 to 1/3 cup of the batter, swirl pan quickly to coat entire bottom surface, and cook, undisturbed and without flipping, until edges dry and bubbles form over entire surface and top surface looks cooked through. Transfer to a large plate and repeat with remaining batter.

Makes about 18 injera, which I found sufficient for 6 people, but I don’t know your friends.

Who is the family chicken champion? The smart money is on my mom. And my dashing husband can do some serious damage to a bird when he puts his mind to it. There is, however, a young pretender in our midst, as evidenced by Ernie’s plate after dinner pictured above.

Both wings, both drumsticks, and half a breast. Devoured. Systematically. And the boy gnaws on those bones. He crunches into the wing tips, and rips charred skin with his teeth. He picks out stubborn bits of meat with his fingers and pulls joints open in search of hidden morsels.

What inspired such fervent eating by Ernie? Roast chicken with arugula bread salad a la Zuni Cafe.

And let me tell you, I put my “you can do anything you want with a properly raised chicken” theory to the test and cooked the be-jesus out of that Clark Summit Farms bird. What happened is the chicken was done so I took it out of the oven, turned the oven off, and headed out to pick up Ernie from school. When I came home I couldn’t find the chicken. Where could I have put it? Surely nowhere outside of the kitchen. But where was it? My kitchen is pretty small. Not a lot of places to hide a hot, cooked chicken. An in-depth search revealed that I had left it in the oven. The turned-off but still plenty hot oven. For an extra 45 minutes. Oh my, I thought, this won’t be good.

Internets, it could not have been more delicious and tender and juicy.
Let it be known: well raised + pre-salting = chicken magic.

Yes, when left to my own devices I will relish in a dinner of cereal or toast. So as the sun set last night and I realized I should put down the needlepoint* and have something to eat, I toasted up some 2-day-old walnut bread, slathered it with the remains of some sheep milk ricotta, and sprinkled the whole thing with salt and pepper. I used a “green garlic salt” my aunt brought up to the cabin this summer and which I boldly took home for my own use. Yes, I could have left it there for posterity, visiting it every summer until I have grandchildren of my own to show it to, but it’s so tasty, it seemed disrespectful not to put it to good use. 

* As some of you know, I love the crafts. Love them! I quilt, I knit, I embroider, I learned how to crochet this summer. But I’ve never needlepointed. My grandmother did, though. Awhile ago my mother asked her to needlepoint a cover for a window seat. Gram didn’t want to start such a big project because, quite frankly, she was hoping to die before too long. I promised I’d finish it if she died before the final stitch. I said it almost jokingly because at the time–and based on her insanely long-lived parents–it seemed pretty clear to me she would finish the cover and have time to do several more. Things didn’t quite work out that way. So this summer I got my mom to dig out the very unfinished project. She found the canvas okay, but what must have been the massive amount of yarn to complete it had gone missing. No aunt nor cousin would cop to taking it or giving it away or throwing it out. So this weekend I headed myself downtown to a needlepoint store, spent a small fortune on yarn, and began stitching. Have you ever done needlepoint? My god, it takes forever. FOREVER! I spent about 6 hours yesterday stitching and covered maybe 3 square inches. Were that I was exaggerating for effect. I am not.

But like all crafting, it’s the process more than the product I love. I do love the products when they’re done, of course. But it is the still, mediative work of making stitch and stitch, slowly and methodically, that takes me a bit out of time. Then, after all that meditation, I have things to give people. Ever hear David Rakoff talk about giving people his homemade crafts as gifts? He’s says it like a runner doing a few laps and saying “Happy Birthday!” So true.

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.

My dashing husband has a theory: bread and tomatoes go together. Not just bread, but yeasted products–such as pizza dough–in general. He just may be onto something….

(In all fairness, he was wondering if something about the combination’s “pH levels” were “good for you.” Hey, whatever you say, crazy man! I like tomatoes on bread too!)

So, just for him, I made tomato sandwiches for dinner. Mine was open-faced with ricotta cheese; his, the standard two-piece stacker with pesto. We were both pleased with the choices we made.

And for Ernie? Ernie had the lentils from the lentil salad I also made (brown lentils tossed with minced red onion, minced dried tomato, minced parsley or whatever herb lives in your fridge at the moment, salt, lots and lots of black pepper, sherry vinegar, and just a sprinkle of crumbled feta) with the leftover corn from last night and some rice. Like his mother and maternal uncle as children, the child does not care for raw tomato or really tomato in any identifiable form and, as we all know, bread is gross and thus sandwiches inedible (oh internets, what oh what are we going to do when we need to start making him lunch to take to school everyday? His preschool provides lunch. I am spoiled! Spoiled, I say! But the child won’t eat a sandwich and how many tupperware containers of cold noodles with parmesan–which he would happily eat everyday–will my conscience get away with?).

We took that mother down.

Chana dal, eggplant, saag paneer, 4 lamb kebabs, 2 orders of fish (Ernie eats one all by himself), 5 naan, 2 orders of rice. 4 adults and 1 Ernie. It wouldn’t be nearly as impressive if 1) any of the food you see clinging to the dishes remained by the time we left the table (seriously, we even downed all the raw onions) and 2) the kitchen hadn’t felt it had overcooked the fish and sent us a second double-order on the house.

Before dinner with Cousin Sam and Cousin Katie, Ernie and I went to see a surf movie with Cousin Sam. “Archy” is about a very troubled surfer known as Archy who, according to the movie, is super-duper famous. I had never heard of him, so I found that pretty interesting. Ernie had begged to go with Sam when he heard Sam talking about it. Sam and I both thought perhaps there would be a lot of surfing footage. And there was. But there was much more footage of people repeating themselves and each other on the subject of Matt Archbold and his rise and fall and rise and fall and redemption in the world of professional surfing. Ernie claimed the fun Friday after-school treat was boring. We could not fully disagree. The child was rewarded with flatbread and tandoori fish and seemed to think it a fair trade.

We had what I’m sure was a horribly bastardized version of leblebi–a Turkish breakfast dish (please, correct me!). I had this one time and decided it would be good with escarole, we had escarole sitting in the fridge, and so I made it with escarole. It was good. Please note grown-up version (served with an unpictured soft-boiled egg on top–picture of which is not included because it fell apart while being shelled and looked nasty) and Ernie version (served with hard-boiled egg on side):

Note that the Ernie version was taken before he picked out the bread, which, as you probably know, is a disgusting food and can’t simply not be eaten or even removed from a dish and left alone; bread is so gross it must be rushed to the kitchen with great fuss and a few tears whenever possible. Run, don’t walk, when carrying a plate of bread away from your dinner place. Don’t let your horrible mother make you eat bread. If she tries, act quite put-upon and play it for a third hard-boiled egg.

Late yesterday morning I asked my little family, “What shall we have for dinner tonight, my dear loved ones?”

My beloved husband said, “Why don’t we have something fun?”

My heart sank. With every ounce of my being I suppressed the tidal wave of annoyance and visions of more homemade pizza or a bunch of shellfish or anything else time-consuming, messy, or both as I asked back in a gentle, loving tone, “Like what?”

“I don’t know… Good Frickin’ Chicken, maybe?”

And that, dear reader, is why I married this man. He meant fun for everyone–me, his obviously exhausted wife*, included. And Good Frickin’ Chicken is both frickin’ good and fun for the whole family. Why is it so fun? Because, the chicken is so frickin’ good. And this family loves frickin’ good chicken. Plus, it comes with herby pita bread and a thick garlicky “sauce” that is more spread than sauce and which I demand “extra” of but have never had the guts to ask for what I really want: Hey, instead of that tiny dab, which, garlicky as it is, should suffice for any human being, could I get more of a soup-bowlful amount? Enough to eat as a main dish that I could simply garnish with bits of your frickin’ good chicken?

Ernie loves GFC–both chicken and pita bread, which is interesting because, officially, when asked, the child doesn’t like bread. That’s right. He claims to not like BREAD. (And you know what that means. If he doesn’t like bread he couldn’t possibly like sandwiches. Yes, now that you mention it, this categorical food aversion is terribly convenient. A joy, really.) But he does like pita and tortillas. To sum up, as observed by my former editor, he likes “ethnic flat breads.” A chewy, crusty baguette? Hearty walnut bread? A homemade spiced pecan loaf? No thank you. But good luck to anyone who stands between my boy and a piece of naan. He will use his giant eyes and long lashes and take you down.

*The insomnia plague has targeted me again. I’m not sleeping and the effects are starting to show, as was remarked several times today by both son (“Mama, why are your eyes like that?”) and husband (“Are you okay? You look really tired. I don’t mean it in any bad way, but are you okay? You just look so tired.”).