The Dinner Files

Oh my. That sounds odd, doesn’t it? Regular readers will remember that my dashing husband doesn’t eat much meat. So when he’s out of town, I tend to cook up some meat-heavy meals for Ernest and me. But this trip of his has coincided with an uncharacteristic utter lack of interest in cooking on my part. So it’s been leftover soup and frozen pizza and taquerias. Until yesterday. I got it back. I no more know where it came back from than I know where it went, but my cooking mojo has returned. I got a bee in my bonnet about Swedish meatballs, the good homemade kind, of course. I tried to get Ernest excited about them – Swedish meatballs! I exclaimed, little tiny spiced up meatballs! Ernest got a look for horror on his face.

“No, Mama, I don’t want those!”

“What do you mean?” I asked, “Why wouldn’t you want meatballs?”

“I want plain meatballs, not Swedish.”

“But honey, Swedish meatballs are pretty plain… wait, you’ve never had them before… what do you think they are?”

“Mama, I don’t like sweet meat!”

Fair enough. I don’t much like sweet meat either. The Swedish versus sweetish difference was described and everyone was on board with the great meatball dinner of 2009.

We didn’t have any cream in the house, so I made the sauce without it. I wouldn’t say I liked the sauce better, but I did like it just as much as the creamy version. Just as much. So just as much that I ended up dousing my escarole salad with the gravy. And then had a second huge helping of the escarole in order to drown it in even more gravy. 

Not Sweetish Meatballs

In a standing mixer with the paddle attachment, soak 1/2 cup fresh bread crumbs in 3/4 cup milk or broth for a few minutes. Add 1 lb. lean ground beef (I used some wonderfully flavorful pastured beef from Clark Summit Farms, but these have so much great seasoning any old ground beef will do; also, you could get crazy and use half ground beef and half ground pork – that would be delic too), 2 Tbsp. minced onion, 1 Tbsp. minced parsley (if you like), 1 tsp. kosher salt, 1/2 tsp. freshly ground black pepper, and 1/2 tsp. ground allspice. Beat on low to combine. Increase speed to medium and beat until sort of fluffy looking, about 5 minutes. 

Wet your hands with cold water and form tiny little meatballs. Re-wet hands as necessary to keep the fluffy meat mixture from sticking all over the place. Put the finished meatballs on a baking sheet or cutting board that you’ve sprinkled with some more cold water to keep them from sticking to that.

Melt 2 Tbsp. butter in a large frying or sauté pan. Add meatballs – in batches if needed – and cook, turning and shaking as need to brown on as many sides as possible. Transfer meatballs to a paper towel-lined board or plate. Add 2 Tbsp. flour to the fat/liquid in the pan. Cook, stirring, until flour turns golden. Add 2 cups beef stock or use chicken stock as I did (it worked just dandy). Cook, stirring, to make a smooth sauce. Increase heat and reduce to make a thick sauce. Add 1/2 to 1 cup cream to this if you’re so inclined and cook to reduce and thicken a bit. Whether you add the cream or not, taste and add more salt and pepper to taste. 

Return meatballs to the pan to warm them up again. Serve immediately. We had extra, which I froze. I’m sure I’ll be telling you how that turns out at some point.

This recipe makes quite a bit of sauce. Enough so you can cover some roasted or steamed potatoes and plenty of salad along with the meatballs.

Yesterday I embarked on a week-long ski trip with my extended family. Good times will surely be had by all (knock on wood). I couldn’t help but snap a shot of my suitcase before I closed it. Along with the ski boots and ski helmet and long underwear and wimpy knee brace (it’s a psychological thing, I know) and toiletries and flip-flops for wearing to the hot tub and power cords for my laptop and camera were a pork shoulder roast, a top sirloin (thanks Clark Summit Farm!), chocolate samples from the fancy food show last week, a sample-size collection of flavored salts, a panne forte (essentially an Italian fruitcake) someone sent me in November, and a copy of King Corn I’ve been meaning to view and review (for Local Foods) for almost a year now. And what you’re not seeing are the pounds upon pounds of California citrus I had packed in my carry-on (I didn’t want it to get bruised!).

I know. I’m nuts.

And yet much less nuts than is years past, as my beloved sister-in-law reminded me once we arrived at our destination. A few years ago I packed my 7-quart Le Creuset pot, several pounds of duck confit, some garlic sausage from Fatted Calf, and containers of frozen broth, beans, and lamb stew in order to cook up some cassoulet for everyone. Sure, I’ve been teased mercilessly about it by my family ever since, but their eyes glaze over ever so slightly every time they talk about it.

I thought I’d be writing today about heritage breeds, humane animal husbandry, and a wee bit of brining. I went to a press event last night on just those topics. It was well organized, informative, and delicious. And yet, my attention was split.

You see, I sat with people who know a lot about food and, in particular, a lot about the food world in San Francisco. They are plugged in and knowledgeable and interesting and reminded me that I don’t care about restaurant openings, which spaces are available, and who is thinking about going where. Believe me, I’ve tried to care. I just don’t.  I do, however, care about urban gardens. We all had a lot to say on the subject. It made for lively dinner conversation; things were going well.

And then the subject morphed to kids. And schools.

Some of them also send their children to private schools. One does so because the public school their child was assigned to was “in the ghetto.” I’m not even kidding. That is a quote. Where, may I ask, dear internets, is the “ghetto” in San Francisco? There are schools that aren’t great, to be sure. And there are projects. But where is the “ghetto”? Don’t tell me. I think it might be my neighborhood.

The public school assignment system in SF is insane. One person last night recounted his inability to see his child through the process, and instead just opted for the private school that accepted his child. The lottery system as it currently exists is daunting, bizarre, inscrutable, and opaque. It needs to be fixed. However, after some discussion, he recounted how, like me, he knows many people who saw it through and ended up with the schools they wanted.

I’ve done it on several school sites, I did it in a now long-shelved radio interview for “Philosophy Talk,” and now I’ll do it here. I’ll come out as pro-public schools. Rabidly so, one might say. I am a product of public schools. I believe strongly in their importance as the foundation of democracy. That’s right: the god damn foundation of democracy. I was pushed over the edge, however, by a friend years ago who said: “if a school isn’t good enough for your kid, why is is good enough for anyone else’s kid?”

Touché. Words to live by. Someone at dinner last night, someone I like and respect very much, someone I’ve always looked up to, to be honest, said “well, San Francisco schools are a lost cause.” She said it as one would say the sun rises in the east. As undebatable fact. As fixed and determined as the place of dry-farmed heirloom tomatoes in the average foodie’s wet dream. Internets, this person fights the fight against all kinds of food problems, all kinds of sustainability issues, all kinds of labor issues. But her local schools? She was willing to write them off.

It made me want to cry.

When asked,  I mentioned where my son goes to school. The table agreed, “that’s a great school!”

People, it’s a San Francisco public school. If they are a lost cause, how is one of them great? And it’s not one that’s great. It’s dozens. Dozens of them are amazing schools. But, it ends up, in some eyes they are a lost cause.

There are public schools in this country where I would not send my child, don’t get me wrong. Without a real depth of knowledge, I’m guessing those in Wasilla, Alaska might not be my cup of tea. And who knows what will happen as my son gets older? But I digress….

I’ve said it at dinner parties, I’ve said it on the radio, and I’ll say it here: If people were willing to put half the time, money, and energy into public schools that they do into private schools there would be no discussion of “lost causes” and “not good enough”. Public schools would be good enough for everyone. And then instead of elitist, classist, racist crap we’d have a real meritocracy and some shit would get done.

Yes, I realize this had very little to do with dinner. My apologies.

I was invited to move to Portland last night. And I’m thinking about it. Of course, I’ve thought about it before. (Wait, I did it before! Wait, does going to college someplace count as “moving there”?) I’ve even floated the idea by my dashing husband. His response: “I love to visit Portland.” I know what that means. That means there’s no way in hell he’s moving there.

If I did live there I would spend a lot of time having drinks at the Secret Society Lounge. Up a non-descript, “I’m going to my therapy appointment” staircase and into a cozy, grown-up bar with a slight speak-easy feel. The breeze blowing in the open window on the warm but not sweltering summer evening made the well-crafted drinks taste all the better.

Then I would head downstairs and go next door to Toro Bravo for dinner. Amazing tapas: oxtail croquettes, mint-stuffed squash blossoms, green olive radicchio salad, squid ink fideos, churros e chocolate. A dish called “drunken pork” was a particular favorite. Chunks of meaty, juicy pork wrapped in bacon served over big but not bitter fava beans. I forgot to ask what made the pork so drunk, but I’m guessing it was gin.

That I ate anything following the afternoon of eating I had was a testament to the power of the human stomach. I split a burger, half a rack of ribs, and a charcuterie and sausage plate for lunch, then stopped in at Ten 01 for some Thai sticky ribs around 5. Of course, my friend had dragged me to “corepower yoga” earlier in the day. Have you heard of this? It’s flow-style yoga in a sauna-hot room (not Bikram!) with sit-ups and various core-building Pilates-mat-work-esque worked into the proceedings. Since my idea of a good time is long swims in cold water by myself, listening to someone tell me what to do in a dark room with a bunch of sweaty people was not so much up my alley, but it was an amazing work-out and I did feel all high afterwards, which was nice. I also felt hungry. Very, very hungry. Burger, ribs, and sausage hungry. Oxtail croquettes and drunken pork hungry.

My Very Tall Cousin Sam came to dinner last night. The evening was marked by two big events. First, Ernie let go a bit too soon while showing off on his trapeze for Sam. He gashed his head on the pea gravel and bled profusely. Sam, who was in town for a job interview, carried Screaming Ernie up the back stairs to the kitchen trying simultaneously to comfort the child and, understandably, not to get blood all over his nice clothes. Once we got the blood cleaned up we all realized the cut was small. Ernie was back outside with Very Tall Cousin Sam within three minutes.

Second, I perfected the spring vegetable couscous (cuckoo!) that has haunted me lo! these many days. We ate it with grilled peppers and spicy Italian sausage from Boccalone, a cured meat CSA in the Bay Area (what won’t they think of next…).

I recently developed a ribs recipe for Sunset magazine. I can’t tell you anything else about them except the whole story got shelved and won’t run until next year, if ever. I probably shouldn’t have revealed as much as I have, certainly not as much as I’m going to. I had to cook a lot of ribs in the process. More ribs than we could eat. So I stored a bunch of them in the giant freezer we have in the basement that just may be my favorite thing about our house. My husband went to a talk and was getting home late, so to the freezer I and my one useful hand went.

Ernie and I sat down to eat the ribs together. After many silent minutes of focused gnawing and inhaling, I thought we should have a bit of dinner conversation.

“These are good aren’t they?”

Ernie continued to bite and chew but nodded his head in agreement.

“Do you like how they’re spicy but sweet at the same time?” I said, trying to lure him into a more detailed compliment of my efforts.

“Mama,” he replied, slowing down his speech with great patience and sounding like it was he who was talking to the child, “I like them because they are meat.”

Oh, okay then.

The food at a food writers conference is, admittedly, better than at many professional conferences, but the buffet still plays a key role. And where there is a fancy resort buffet, there is a carving station. Here’s my strategy when confronted with a carving station: using every bit of charm I can muster, I chit-chat with the carving master before asking if perhaps they have a little end morsel of prime rib tucked away somewhere–an almost-burnt piece of crunchy, concentrated meat. The strategy paid off last night with an entire end cut. I was thrilled until I returned to the table only to realize I couldn’t cut my food. The salad was crunchy. But it wasn’t meaty. Not one little bit.