Originally published in the Herald Sun 7/2012

If, this week, you should hear disembodied wailing and mournful lamentations along the Durham Freeway, it’s not an invasion of otherworldly entities.
It’s only me, as The Kid returned last weekend to culinary school, up in the maple-flavored north. We won’t reunite again until Christmas break.

I will miss my little scholar in a thousand different ways.
The big, exciting class this fall is something called “meat fabrication”. It sounds weird, doesn’t it? But nope, it’s not what you might be thinking. There will be no attempts at cloning, or creating new, edible forms of life. It’s just a butchering course. But when you pay $35,000 a year for tuition, it’s called ‘Meat Fab”.
Although The Kid is training to be a pastry chef, the class is a requirement for a degree in culinary arts.
Being a non-repentant dessert lover, I couldn’t be more excited about those pastry aspirations. I love all things sugar. Strangely though, The Kid, not so much. While I literally dream of bakeries and candy stores, my child has never had much of a sweet tooth. Red velvet cake sans frosting, moon pies, a couple of odd, artisanal candy bars, and my mother’s strangely addictive Christmas cookies, are the sum total of the “like list”.
Which has made picking out a birthday cake somewhat problematic.
Years ago, The Kid fell in love with an odd dish. It has become the perennial b-day request. Not really a dessert, but a light, sweet and salty snack-type item. In accordance with its odd status, it has an equally odd name.
It’s called strawberry pizza.

It a dish loaded with layers of salty pretzels, frothy, whipped, sweetened cream cheese, and fruit spiked jello. The alchemy of the ingredients combine to form a cool, yummy treat.
There are many permutations of the recipe, with various names and assorted components. After making it year after year, I have refined it to this lightly jacked up version.

The Kid’s “Birthday Cake” Strawberry Pizza
Pretzel crust:
2 1/3 cups crushed pretzels (the butter flavor ones taste best)
3/4 cup melted butter
3 tablespoons sugar
1/4 teaspoon (pinch) kosher salt
Cream cheese layer:
2-8 ounce blocks cream cheese, softened
1 1/2 cups sugar
1- 16 ounce tub Cool Whip, thawed
1 vanilla bean, scraped (or 1 tablespoon vanilla extract)
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
Jello layer:
Large box strawberry jello
1- 16 ounce bag individually frozen strawberries (I actually like it better with blueberries; any berries will work great)
2 cups boiling water
For crust: Preheat oven to 4oo degrees. In the pot with the melting butter, add sugar. Let the sugar almost melt into the warm butter. Mix buttery syrup and pretzels, and press into 9×13 pan. Very lightly dust top of pretzels with a pinch of kosher salt. Bake for 8 minutes and let cool completely.
For creamy layer: Beat softened cream cheese, sugar, scraped vanilla caviar or extract, and salt. When totally smooth, fold in fully thawed Cool Whip. Spread over cooled crust. Put in fridge to cool further and set.
Jello layer: In a bowl, slowly whisk boiling water into jello powder. Stir in strawberries. Refrigerate. When the jello has cooled and just started to set, pour over cream cheese, spreading out the berries so that they are evenly distributed. Please, please, DO NOT pour the jello layer on until it is cool and has started to congeal, or the heat will float up the layers, and the jello will leach into the pretzels, and make them soggy (gross).
Refrigerate for three hours or until the jello has fully set. Slice and serve. Keep leftovers covered and refrigerated.

Almost everyone loves this sweet and salty treat. My brother has three daughters, and normally food is a minefield because of their very different tastes. But all of Bud’s girls eat up when strawberry pizza is served.
It’s an odd delight, and while not hard to make, it does take time because if you rush it, you get a 9 x 13 disaster. But, when you open the fridge and see a pan of this in there waiting for you, it makes you happy. It’s a cool, creamy, crunchy simple pleasure.
Give it a try. Who knows, it might be your “birthday cake” next year.
Thanks for your time.

Originally published in the Herald Sun 12/19/2012

The Kid is flying back to NECI on January first.  The plane leaves at the terrifying hour of 6AM. (we’re not morning people).  So, a New Year’s breakfast won’t happen, but my little scholar at least one big, home-cooked breakfast while home for Christmas vacation.

My child has odd tastes.  The Kid will not eat an egg unless it’s been made into a Waffle House cheese omelet.    But, breakfast carbs are a different matter.  Pancakes and waffles?  Loves ‘em.  But hold the syrup.  It wasn’t a fave before going off to school, but Vermont maple saturation turned mild dislike into full blown animosity.

When I was a child, my granny made corn pancakes for me.  Not made with cornmeal, but studded with corn kernels.  When The Kid was very little, I made them.  They were an instant and abiding hit.

Whenever I mention fixing pancakes, my big, grown-up college junior turns into a preschooler.  “Can we please have corn cakes? Please Mommy?”

How does a mother say no to that?

They’re actually incredibly easy to do.

Mix the batter in a normal fashion.  You can use any pancake recipe you like, from completely homemade to those shake bottles in the supermarket.  Frozen pre-made flap jacks, alas, won’t do.

When you pour the batter onto the hot surface (a griddle is best for cooking pancakes for a crowd), scatter about 2 tablespoons of frozen, thawed white shoe peg corn onto the uncooked cake.  Then cook normally.

This also works for any other add-ins you want.  Like berries, nuts, chocolate chips, or cheese and bacon.

Waffles can be tarted up like this too.  Sprinkle the goodies after you’ve ladled on the batter, then close the lid.

As a side, we all love potatoes.

My favorite meal to eat out is breakfast.  I love AM potato dishes of all types.  But I normally stick with the hash browns, because many joints make such awful home fries.  They’re too spicy or they’re deep-fried, which turn them into nuggets with only one texture; hard.  You could put an eye out with those things.

The other day at Elmo’s (776 9th Street), my buddy Paxton ordered some.  They weren’t deep fried, but they were burned to perdition.  They were less spuds, and more charcoal briquettes.

On the third try, they finally delivered some that were palatable (the waiter called that batch “light”, we called them edible).  This bummed me out, normally Elmos’ food can’t be beat.

A while back, I was frustrated yet again when out for breakfast, so I decided to try making home fries at home.  I like mine blond-ish, but Petey and The Kid prefer more color and crunch on theirs.  That’s the beauty of DYI, though.  You get to fix them to your liking.

Home Fries At Home

5 or 6 medium waxy potatoes like red bliss or Yukon gold, unpeeled, cut into 1 inch cubes then boiled ‘til barely fork tender

1 tablespoon butter

1 tablespoon cooking oil

½ teaspoon dried thyme

1 teaspoon finely chopped fresh rosemary

1 1/2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley

3/4 teaspoon seasoning blend (I use Goya adobo with bitter orange, you use your favorite)

1/4 teaspoon smoked paprika

Cayenne pepper to taste (optional)

1/8 teaspoon freshly cracked black pepper

Add salt to taste if your seasoning mix doesn’t contain salt; check the label

Put butter and oil into heated skillet.  When the butter has melted and starts to sizzle, add potatoes, herbs, and spices (except parsley).  Toss potatoes to coat in fat and seasoning.

Spread out in pan and give them a little smoosh with spatula so the taters give a little.  This will give you nice crunchy bits.  Turn heat to medium-low, and let them go for 5-8 minutes without fiddling.  If they’re dark enough for you then, flip and cook on the other side until they’re done to your liking. 

Scatter parsley onto taters and toss to evenly mix in.

Serves four.

Although The Kid’s a fan, Petey and I don’t drink coffee with breakfast.  I do love embarrassingly complicated lattes, but only if they’re made by someone else.

However, we do enjoy hot beverages in the colder months.  I make hot chocolate mix from scratch, and it’s easy, at least as good as Swiss Miss, and way cheaper.

Homemade Hot Cocoa

3/4 cup powdered milk

3/4 cup sugar

1/2 cup cocoa powder

¼ teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg

4 cups water or milk

8-12 Hershey kisses

Marshmallows or whipped cream (optional)

Put first four ingredients into food processor and pulse until the powder is finely ground and uniform.  Pour into large bowl.

Boil water, or if using milk, heat until it just comes to a simmer (boiled milk will become wonky and stinky).  Pour over processed mix and whisk thoroughly until completely dissolved.

Place 2-3 kisses into each mug, and pour about a cup of cocoa on top of them.  Stir to melt chocolate, and if you like, top with marshmallows or whipped cream.

Serves four.

It’s perfectly acceptable to make cocoa with water, but if you’re going for it, then go for it.  Also, I’m a fan of Mexican hot chocolate, which is so thick and rich you can almost stand up a spoon in it.

If you want to get all Martha Stewart with your cocoa, make homemade marshmallows.  Tyler Florence has a great recipe on the Food Network website that unlike most recipes, doesn’t entail cooking a sugar syrup.  Making marshmallows is kind of tricky, though.  I’ve ruined numerous batches, so having double the ingredients on hand before starting is not a terrible idea.

But marshmallows made by hand taste so much better than store-bought.  And you can flavor them, or coat them in chopped nuts or coconut.  Imagine peppermint or ginger marshmallows melting into your cocoa.

So, if on New Year’s morning you can face the kitchen, whip up some grub.  Or, you can make it later and enjoy one of my favorite meals, breakfast for supper.  And if you add a slice of melon, you can call it brunch.

Thanks for your time.

 

 

 

 

Originally Published in the Herald Sun 2/2012

In March, I bought a six inch piece of beef tenderloin. It was just ordinary grocery store meat, but still cost about twenty-four or five dollars. Due to circumstances too embarrassing to relate here, the dish it was meant for never got made.
So it has shunted around the freezer since then, forlorn and forgotten. The packaging was torn, and the longer it subsided in sub-zero hell, the more icy damage was done. Guilty and resentful, I ignored it.But the other day I was in a “what the hey” kinda mood, and I called that puppy up to the majors.

I thought about Beef Wellington, the original purpose for which it was purchased. But Welli is complicated and very time-consuming if it is made from scratch. I enjoy that kind of thing normally, but my heart would break if I went to all that work and it was awful because the beef was so freezer burnt.

I thought about dishes that might hide the deficiencies of the meat and thought about chicken-fried steak. But it seemed both ridiculously indulgent, and crazy heavy, even for a lean cut like tenderloin. I thought about cutting it thinly, seared quickly, then served with a pan sauce of some sort. I went to Aunt Betty’s Cookie Store and bought a small bottle of cognac just for this purpose.
Yesterday when I went to clean it up and slice it, I cut it into three pretty 1 1/2 inch steaks, and a smaller one for steak and eggs, a favorite of Petey’s. I would cook it in my cast iron, and just go for it. Consequences be damned.
I’ve been seeing restaurants on TV that specialize in steaks. One of the things they all have in common is cooking at extremely high heat, some at higher than one thousand degrees. Now I can’t approach that temp, but I cranked the heat under my cast iron pan, and got it literally smoking, scary hot.

I tied the fillets with a piece of butcher’s twine to keep them round and attractive. Right before I put them in the pan, I massaged them all over with olive oil (I’ve since learned that canola oil has a much higher smoke point than olive, and can take higher temps without blackening) and heavily sprinkled them with just kosher salt, and coarsely cracked black pepper. I inserted a probe thermometer into the thickest steak set at 125 for medium-rare, and laid them into their molten metallic bed. And quickly jumped back, because them babies started hissing and spitting.
At the 43 degrees which they started out, they would need to cook for a while. But since I figured the meat was so damaged there was a good chance our protein that night would come from Burger King, I didn’t stress. I just barely lowered the temp under the pan and put a lid on it, slightly ajar, to keep most of the heat from escaping.
What I was looking for was a heavy crust on both sides and a beautiful juicy pink on the inside. But, in my eyes the meat was already ruined, so I threw caution to the wind.
When the probe reached 110, I flipped the meat over. I got a tad worried, because it looked browner than I would normally allow it to go on the first side. I lowered the heat a little more, forgot about it again, and took it out of the pan when it chimed at 125. I set it aside to rest and turned my attention back to the pan.
I threw in some diced shallots, and when they had colored and softened, I poured in the small bottle of cognac (3.8 ozs and I don’t buy the best, I’m cooking with it here). I scraped all the stuff off the bottom of the pan.

After it had reduced ’til it coated the back of the spoon (called nape; pronounced nap-ay), I took it off the heat and whisked in a little pat of butter (maybe 1/2 tablespoon). This is called mounting, and gives a silky finish to your pan sauce. Most French chefs would use way more butter mounting a sauce, but I’ve grown fond of my heart beating at regular intervals, and Petey’s getting older (unlike myself).
You know what? It was honestly the best filet mignon I’ve ever made (we really didn’t need the sauce, but the sauce was good). The lack of confidence in the meat, and the benign neglect had turned into a correctly cooked steak. Instead of fiddling and obsessing, I just let go.

It seems every time I have a culinary breakthrough, the lesson seems to be something like, “Get over yourself, you big drama queen! It knows what it needs. You’re just along for the ride.” Being alive for almost half a century, married for almost thirty years, and with a kid in college you think I would’ve learned that lesson by now. Maybe this time it’ll stick, I’m almost sort of sure it will.

Thanks for you time.

My very favorite line from the original Star Trek series is, “I’m a doctor, not an escalator!”

Hilarious, yes, but I kind of know from where Bones was coming.

On any given day, most people’s plates are too full.  Jobs, school, families, you name it, folks barely have time to draw a breath.  And getting three meals a day into bellies is practically a full-time job by itself.

After putting your heart into making a meal for the family, preparing different dishes for each diner is just cray-cray.

Dammit Jim, I’m an exhausted mom, not a short-order cook.

When The Kid lived at home, the three members of the Matthews family band ate dinner together every week night.  I usually cooked, and each night spouse and child had two choices.

Eat what I’ve cooked, or PB&J.

I know the palates of Petey and The Kid, and what they particularly like or don’t like; neither can stand cabbage or beets, but don’t ever get between them and seafood or broccoli.  So, I seldom cooked stuff that they vehemently dislike.

Luckily neither are picky eaters.

Growing up, my brother Bud, on the other hand, was quite the picky eater.  We did discover later though, that if the food in question was drench-able in cheese sauce or ranch dressing, the chances of ingestion were vastly improved.

But often my mom would make, if not two entirely different dinners, at least two sets of sides.  There weren’t tons of foods that everybody liked.  Although my dad, having been in the military, will eat anything that’s on a plate and doesn’t move.

One time when I was in elementary school, we visited my dad’s family in Pittsburgh.  My Aunt Eliza made us dinner during our stay.

My dad’s big sister was what used to be called a “career girl.”  Unmarried, she was an executive of a bank, and lived by herself in her own home.  Nowadays it’s known as being a woman.  To me, she was very glamorous and exciting.  She is also the person that taught me that in the winter-time you don’t have to shave above your knees — big thanks, Aunt Eliza.

The dinner she made for us that night was a revelation.  We all loved it, even Bud.  It was a dish that was super popular for ’70s dinner parties.  My mom, between bites, asked for the recipe, and it’s become one of our family’s favorite dinners.

Here is that original dish.  I’ve tried different twists on it, but it’s never as good as when Mom makes it directly from the instructions Aunt Eliza gave her all those years ago.

Beef Stroganoff

 2 pounds sirloin tips, cut into bite-size pieces

 2 beef bouillon cubes

 3 or 4 cloves garlic, diced

 ½ yellow onion, chopped

 ½ cup sour cream

 1 tablespoon sherry

 2 cups water

 1 pound mushrooms, sliced

 3 tablespoons tomato paste

 1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce

 All-purpose flour

 Butter

 Salt & pepper

Season flour.  Put some butter into large frying pan and melt over medium heat.  Coat sirloin tips with flour and brown in butter. Put chopped onions and garlic in with meat to soften.  While meat cooks, heat water and bouillon cubes separately in a large pot.  When meat has browned, empty skillet into the bouillon-water along with sherry and turn to low, stirring often.  When meat is cooked tender, melt a bit more butter in the frying pan and cook mushrooms, then stir in tomato paste, sour cream, and Worcestershire. Cook a couple minutes, then add to pot with meat and combine.  Cook for about 10 minutes –bingo (the word bingo was actually in the recipe Mom sent me).

Traditionally, this is served over noodles.  The other night Petey and I enjoyed it over some porcini egg pasta I’d scored at Big Lots.  But like most unctuous, meaty, sauce-y types, it’s delicious over any kind of starch.

Although Bud and I share the same chin (thanks bunches, Dad), we are really very, very different people.  Like Donny and Marie used to sing, he’s a little bit country, and I’m a little bit rock ’n’ roll.

But we never disagree about our love of Aunt Eliza’s stroganoff, by way of Mom.

Je suis Charlie.