The Dinner Files

One of my craziest friends (believe me, that is some stiff competition) sent me a recipe from Fine Cooking that she claimed was a) delicious, b) quick, and c) neither pasta nor soup.

I got the hint.

I messed around with it a bit, but just the specifics, not the big picture. I pretty much doubled all the spices, used more herbs, used two preserved lemons instead of one (you don’t develop this “how to make preserved lemons” without ending up with too many preserved lemons sitting around; I need to use them with abandon). I also used all one cut of chicken so they would cook evenly. Feel free to mix it up if your family has white meat-only and dark meat-only people making your life difficult.

When I make it again, I’m going to chop a bulb fennel and add it with the onion. If you beat me to it, let me know how tasty it is.

Preserved lemon chicken with olives
I used thighs for this, but any chicken breasts would work just fine – bone-in, boneless, skinless, whatever you like, just decrease cooking time a bit if you use boneless. My son would have liked it if I’d used wings and drumsticks, and I’m sure it would have been just as over-eatin’ good. Feel free to bump up or turn down the paprika, ginger, and cayenne depending on how kicky or mild you like it.

2 1/2 – 3 pounds chicken thighs (or other chicken pieces)

1/2 teaspoon sea salt

2 Tbsp. vegetable oil

1/2 bunch worth of fresh cilantro (a generous, loosely-packed 1 1/2 cups)

1/2 bunch worth of flat-leaf parsley leaves

1 onion

2 teaspoons ground ginger

1 1/2 teaspoons hot paprika

1 teaspoon ground cumin

1/2 teaspoon turmeric

1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1/4 teaspoon cayenne

Generous pinch saffron threads (about 20)

1/2 cup white wine or chicken broth (water works too)

2 preserved lemons

1 cup black olives (unpitted would be fine, but I used some pitted black olives that were really a red-brown color from Lyndsey’s “Naturals” line)

Rinse chicken pieces and pat dry. Sprinkle with salt. Cover and chill up to overnight, if you like, or simply set aside while you heat the oil.

Heat the oil over medium high heat in a large, heavy pan or pot that will be able to hold all the chicken in a single layer eventually – that eventual single layer can be crowded.

For now, however, things are not going to be too crowded. Place the chicken, skin-side down if that applies, in the pan to brown. Don’t let the pieces touch to maximize the browning and minimize the stewing for the moment. Cook until the chicken naturally and of its own volition releases from the pan, 3 to 4 minutes. Turn and brown on the other side. Repeat with the second batch, if necessary.

Meanwhile – and you’ll need to either do some of this ahead or work somewhat quickly, chop the cilantro and parsley and onion (you could do this by pulsing it all in a food processor if you like, but I’m warning you now that you will eventually need to clean it) and put them in a large bowl. Add all the spices and toss to combine. When the first chicken pieces are done browning, add them to this mixture and toss to coat the chicken. Add the second batch if you needed to do one and toss to combine too.

Drain off any excess fat from the pan. Add wine or broth and scrape up the delicious brown bits on the pan. Add chicken and herb-onion-spice mixture and 1 cup of water. Bring just to a boil, cover, reduce heat to a gently simmer, and cook until chicken is tender and onions are melting into the sauce, 20 to 25 minutes.

After you cover the chicken, remove the pulp from the preserved lemons, rinse the rinds in cool water, and cut rinds into strips. Scatter lemon rind strips and olives over the chicken and return cover.

Serve chicken hot, with plenty of sauce, over couscous or with crusty bread with the heft and ability to soak up the addictive sauce. Some sauteed greens onto which you can drizzle some of the sauce as you eat are a nice addition.

Add fried chicken to the list – including crêpes, baguettes, and macaroni and cheese – of things that my son never imagined in a million years that I could actually cook right here in our very own kitchen. Sauteed greens with home-preserved lemon? Sure, he’s seen that plenty of times. But fried chicken? That’s something you get at the zoo! Or for lunch at ski school!

I cut up a pasture-raised chicken (doing, I must admit, a rather ill job of it – sometimes those joints come apart with ease and other times I swear the bird is fighting back), threw the back into a plastic bag and froze it for future stock making, and put the chicken pieces in a giant bowl. I then covered them with buttermilk, a bit of salt, some black pepper, and a dash of cayenne. I covered this gruesome looking concoction and put it in the fridge overnight. The acid in the buttermilk tenderizes the bird very nicely.

The next day, I pulled the chicken out of the buttermilk. I let a lot of the buttermilk that others might rub off  the chicken cling as much as it likes – I like a fairly thick coating by the time all is said and done. Then I dredged the chicken pieces in flour that I’d seasoned with salt, black pepper, and a bit of cayenne.

The trick to doing this with as little mess as possible is to keep one hand dry and one hand wet – I use my left hand to only touch or handle things that are dry, my right for things that are wet. This helps avoid having to constantly wash my hands as buttermilk and flour build up to dexterity-reducing levels during the breading process.

Then I heated plenty of vegetable oil (I decided to forgo the lard-frying in this instance) in a well seasoned cast iron pan and only added the chicken when the oil was around 350 – measure it with a thermometer or do what I do and dip the end of the handle of a wooden spoon into the oil, when the oil is the right temperature it will instantly but gently bubble up around the handle. I fried the chicken until it was brown and crispy, about 12 minutes each side.

Cast iron – or other heavy pots – are so great for frying like this because they hold heat so well and can maintain a steady temperature. You want the oil to be gently bubbling around the chicken constantly.

Drain the chicken on paper towels or on a cooling rack.

The verdict from Ernest? “Mama, this chicken is even better than the chicken at the zoo!”

Snap.

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’ve been sick. Really quite sick. In bed for six days sick. It’s a been a bit of a bummer to say the least. I hadn’t eaten anything other than jello, crackers, broth, and popscicles since last Tuesday. Luckily, my mother-in-law was scheduled to come for a visit this weekend anyway. She did laundry and entertained Ernest and quick-set jello. And then last night she fried up some chicken cutlets.

They drew me down from bed and tempted me to eat an actual meal. I’m up and about today. Coincidence? Perhaps. But these cutlets have worked their magic in the past: they have aided many a recovery from long and painful flights across the country to visit her in New York, they fortified me after I had my son, they cheered me up when I broke my hand last spring.

Recovering from the flu? Had a baby? Need a little pick-me-up? Try the magic of chicken cutlets. In the words of my mother-in-law, “they couldn’t be easier.”

Thinly slice 1 1/2 lbs. chicken breast (or, have your butcher cut them for you – that’s what my mother-in-law does!). Whisk 2 eggs in a medium bowl and spread about 2 cups bread crumbs in  a wide shallow bowl or rimmed plate.

Dip each chicken piece in the egg mixture, then dredge the chicken in the bread crumbs. Use one hand to touch wet things and the other hand to touch dry things to keep things as clean adn easy as possible. Dip and dredge all chicken pieces, laying them on a large plate or baking sheet when you finish them. [Note: Some people, including me, like to dredge the chicken in a mixture of flour, salt, and pepper before dipping it in the egg. My mother-in-law skips this step and her cutlets are better than mine.]

Heat a frying pan over medium-high heat and add enough vegetable oil to make a 1/4-inch layer in the pan. When the oil is hot, add several chicken cutlets – you want to fill the pan but not have any cutlets overlap. Fry until browned on one side. Turn cutlets over and fry until brown on the other side. Remove and drain on several layers of paper towels. Repeat with remaining cutlets.

Sprinkle with salt to taste. Serve cutlets hot, warm, or even at room temperature, with a squirt of lemon is you’re so inclined (my mother-in-law is not so inclined). These cutlets are most delicious with a crisp green salad with a French-style vinaigrette or old-school Italian dressing.

I’m in Colorado skiing with my family. My extended family. I suppose a week with parents and siblings and aunts and uncles may not sound so fun to many people, but my family… well, they’re pretty fun. Everyone makes an effort 1) not to hassle each other and 2) (and this is key) maintain a sense of humor about themselves.

I’m here with my dad’s side of the family. He is one of four boys, so the family ethic is definitely skewed towards activity-based (rather than relational or yackety-yack) bonding. Lots of exercise, fresh mountain air, and a carefully calibrated amount of Jamesons, Guiness, and mulled wine keep everyone cheery. The trip has become a bit of a tradition (5 years going and next year already set up). Last night my aunt made us a Lunar New Year dinner. Since it’s lucky to eat things cooked whole and there were seven of us at dinner, so she made two whole chickens. Can you say taste test? One was poached in a rich gingery broth and the other was roasted and covered with a ginger jam during the last bit of cooking so it developed sort of a sweet glaze and the skin became extra brown and crispy (that’s the one my uncle is mangling in the picture above). I begged not to have to chose a favorite, each succulent of flavorful in its own way. Are you forcing my hand? Really? Well, then I’m going with the roasted ginger jam-swathed bird.

Sadly for me she used the ginger jam when I wasn’t there, so I didn’t get to see it. Internets? Have you ever seen ginger jam? Anyone know how to make it? Or are you going to make me do experiments?

p.s. The night before my mom used the pork shoulder I packed in my luggage to make a green chile posole. It was quite delicious. I’m going to perfect the recipe and get back to you. I promise.

I had the supreme privilege of being asked to go on down to Pomona College and regurgitate what little I’ve managed to figure out about food writing to some very bright undergrads for a few hours last night. What they usually do Wednesday nights from 7-9:50 is have serious discussions about race and gender and politics in their food studies class. What they did last night was eat a food product they did not recognize and attempt to describe it. I then rewarded them with chocolate. But then I made them describe that, which probably took some of the fun away for them. And I made them try and describe it to someone who’d never had it in an effort to help that person figure out if they would like to try it. So the term “chocolatey” was out. But man did they come up with some good stuff. Their young, fresh palates even figured out, basically, what the mystery food was.

Want to join in the fun? Track down some gjetost* and write a sentence or two describing it. Not your opinion of it. It. If you want to throw in your opinion that’s fine, I suppose, but that’s the easy part. If you’d like to share it with the class, I’m sure we’d all appreciate it.

So that was me torturing others. I flew back today and had lunch with a friend. But now I wonder: Is she friend or foe? She took me to 900 Grayson where she suggested I order a Demon Lover. Since the Demon Lover is fried chicken on a waffle with cream gravy, I, being no fool, ordered it. Oh. My. God. She was right. She warned me. It will haunt my dreams. I will die wishing I’d eaten more of them, I’m sure of it. Crunchy and creamy and a bit spicy and just so much fat and flavor without being greasy or overly unctuous and coating your mouth in the unpleasant way and the chicken was so tender deep inside that spicy crunchy coating and there was so much of the coating, which is always the best part of fried chicken, and and and…. I couldn’t eat the whole thing. I just couldn’t. I wanted to. But I couldn’t. So I took about a third of it home. I meant to share it with my family, I really did. But I only lasted about an hour and a half in the house with it alone. I wasn’t hungry. In fact, I was still quite full. But I had to eat it. It was sitting on the counter, calling to me.

How did it know my name?

Long story short: I skipped dinner tonight. No little salad. No bit of toast. Just skipped it. I may never eat again. Not, that is, until I can get my hands on another Demon Lover.

* Once again, wikipedia is off. I’ve been to Norway. I’ve seen “gjetost” on the label in the stores.

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.

It must be fall. Braised endive (one of my favorite things in the world, pictured left)), mushroom wild rice, and chicken for dinner. The chicken. Let me tell you about the chicken. Yes, it was spatchcocked (is there a better food word? come on–tell me what it is); that is, I cut out the backbone and then pressed the whole thing as flat as possible before smearing it with a paste of 1 Tbsp. smoked paprika, 1 tsp. ground cumin, 1 tsp. salt, a sprinkle of cayenne, and about 1 Tbsp. lime juice (lemon would have worked too) and grilling it (skin-down over high heat for about 10 minutes and then until done skin-up over indirect heat, which was about 35 minutes). And that was all fine and good, but the thing that interested me most was that it was from our first share in the Clark Summit Farm Meat CSA.

Yep, once a month we get a bunch of frozen animal parts (a.k.a. “meat”) as well as a dozen of the most beautiful, delicious, silky eggs I’ve ever cracked, eaten, or held. As I’ve said before, when you start with a good bird, cooking it and keeping it moist isn’t such an issue. That theory was born out last night. I was distracted–by work, by Ernie having a friend over, by a thousand things–and was not focused on making that chicken the best that it could be. It didn’t get the skin-drying air-chill I like to do, I barely remembered to pre-salt it, I was late on turning down the heat to avoid overcooking the poor thing. None of that mattered. The meat was–and I really hate to use this word–succulent.

The Man: Hey, your blog is hilarious!

Me: Thank you.

The Man: It must be really fun to write whatever you want, huh?

Me: Yes, yes it is.

The Man: Who were you writing about? They sound insane.

Me: Um. Yeeesss. They can be pretty difficult to work with.

The Man: So I’m really glad we got that project straightened out.

Me: So A, B, and C with some P worked out?

The Man: They did, they did. [pause] Seriously, who were you writing about? 

Oh internets, how I wish I were making this up. We are all truly blind to our faults, aren’t we?

For dinner I ensickened myself at The Fifth Floor. It wasn’t my fault. What was I supposed to do? Not eat the crazy rich and tender perfectly and barely cooked cuttlefish on a bed of crab salad? I don’t have super-human strength or god-like will power! Should I not have shoveled all the tender tea-smoked halibut down my gullet? Left some brandied cherries and almond custard tart on the plate? Not had a second helping of anise-seeded challah?

I did resist the caramelized melon and sous-vide chicken with a lobster sauce. I both resisted it and did not understand it. Can someone please explain it to me? 

I’ll tell you this: that kitchen is putting out some very tasty food and yet there was no one there to eat it. The place was dead. The manager had a few ideas as to why: it was a Tuesday night, a HUGE convention was around last week so everyone is probably just exhausted, “this week” is a traditionally slow one. But I think everyone was home stuffing whatever cash they could find into their mattress.

I did not leave the house before dinner time thinking I would be having spicy crab and grits. I thought I’d be having pizza. Then I thought I’d be having Good Frickin’ Chicken. Then, for just a moment, it looked like a new Peruvian place on Mission was the answer. But, in the end, between what was open and what we wanted (or, rather, all agreed) to try… we ended up at The Front Porch. It claims to be “rocking” and it was! (Not literally, which is a bit of a shame.) I had spicy crab and grits (with plenty of sweet corn and scallions thrown in for good measure) and it was awesome.  I don’t know how those grits were so creamy (um, wait, yes I do; I’m pretty sure it was heavy cream), but the leftovers are going to make the best Monday morning breakfast I’ve had in quite some time.Ernie downed a plate of fried chicken with glee (it was difficult for the lad to let go of the GFC dream for the sake of his parents wanting to try something “new”).My dashing husband ordered the special which involved “platain risotto” and gypsy peppers and I don’t know what else. It sounded dreadful to me when the server described it and I was shocked when that order came out of his mouth. He was the less happy member of our crew.  I offered up my uneaten spicy crab and grits, but it was too late. The place was spoiled for him. Funny how that happens, huh?