Cowed

Better late and out of sequence than not at all, here's the story of Stir Friday (Part III, in Glorious 2-D!) past.

It was the best of days, it was the worst of days. Actually, I don't remember anything about the earlier events of the day itself. But it was the day on which I decided to confront my apprehension of red meat. Slabs of raw, bloody beef just aren't my métier, I'm afraid. As expected, I experienced my first qualms as I unwrapped the pound-plus of flank steak I'd just purchased, and proceeded to rinse it under the tap. In my hands, the flesh felt alien - heavy, fibrous yet fragile - and smelled unnervingly of, well, bovine. As I traced the lightly iridescent surface of the meat with my finger, aversion gave way to fascination. I was determined to master this intimidating substance, confident in the knowledge that I possessed a formidable arsenal with which to do so. While the flank steak soaked up a garlic-and-hoisin sauce marinade in the fridge, I reviewed YouTube videos and FDA guidelines. I made notes, which were checked doubly and triply. Guided by the wisdom of the ages, I moved the meat to the freezer to make for easier slicing. I stirfried the carrots, broccoli and sugar snap peas while the meat set up slightly. I could feel that my rhythms were slightly off this evening, perhaps a nervous effect of working with an unfamiliar meat. I was disoriented, and I kept misplacing items - large and seemingly conspicuous ones, like the salt container and the big bottle of canola oil.

The beef, sliced thin, went into the wok, with garlic, ginger, scallions, soy sauce and more hoisin. It cooked through quickly, smelling outrageously good as it did. I taste-tested a piece and practically swooned. Buttery soft, flavorful through and through, with just a hint of charring from the hot wok. I set the beef aside to rest and started the water for the Chinese egg noodles. At this point I was still unsure whether I intended to serve the noodles boiled or fried. I opted for the latter, knowing that Master would appreciate the novelty and the crunch.

Final prep - the vegetables and beef reunited in the wok for one last consummation of flavors, then ladled into a serving dish. The noodles drained and fried in hot, shallow oil, then flipped onto a plate for perfect presentation. Eh, close enough. But how does it taste? Master really loved this one, proclaiming it as good as - and possibly superior to - the chicken and broccoli he always orders when we're at his favorite Chinese restaurant. I had to concur. The beef hadn't tripped me up at all. For all my red meat-related misgivings, this ended up being a Stir Friday for the books. Which it now is, I suppose.

Belts

With both Master and myself trying our hardest to budget more frugally in the next few weeks, I wanted to use up as many pantry and refrigerator items as possible in Wednesday night's dinner. The extra fennel bulb from last week's salmon dinner and a bunch of leeks I'd nearly forgotten about gave me the idea for a veggie pasta bake. I had only to pick up two small eggplants to supplement, to be diced, salted and pressed, per custom, then sauteed in olive oil with the leeks and fennel. A spoonful of sugar, a generous splash each of half-and-half and chicken stock, a sprinkling of dried Herbes de Provence and fresh orange zest, tossed with farfalle and a generous amount of shredded Mozzarella, and baked in a casserole until crunchy on top. The vegetables weathered the twice-cooking well, the eggplant becoming meltingly soft and sweet, the fennel just tender. Served with salad greens, the baked pasta made for another well-received meal. As we reclined after dinner, I was amused to note that a meal made to accommodate belt-tightening measures in fact found us both loosening our own and patting our contended bellies. This is what I do. Homey, comforting food, deserving of equally unadorned prose. Not a fancy feast. Then again, we aren't cats.

Song of Salmon

If memory serves, as the honorable Chairman Kaga used to open each classic episode of "Iron Chef," there wasn't anything especially noteworthy about the preparation of this dinner. That fact bears little weight on the food itself, which I would rate among my proudest moments. The wild salmon fillets had proven irresistible, at just under $10 per pound, and I feel I showed them proper respect with my homebrewed hoisin, coriander seed and orange-based marinade. I baked the fish in aluminum foil, on a bed of fresh fennel and carrots, and served it with a quinoa tabbouleh. I'd been looking for an excuse to introduce Master to the joys of this fluffy, faintly nutty grain, and this one seemed as good as any.

From Master's compliments and apparent savor, I can only conclude that he enjoyed this dinner as much as I did. Which, considering my intensely positive feelings toward it, would be a tall order indeed. The salmon, savory and moist, permeated with each element of the marinade as well as the delicate sweetness of the carrots and the fennel's aniseed essence, sang with flavor. The citrus notes of the marinade were in harmony with the light dressing on the tabbouleh, the crunch of diced cucumbers and red onion serving as counterpoint. I honestly don't know how I could have improved this meal. Well, better tomatoes would have been welcome. But I've bemoaned the quality of winter tomatoes before, and at length. Soon enough the warmer seasons will be upon us, and these bland, oddly textured nonentities will be but a fading recollection. I count the days.

Fish Tales

It has been three(?) months since I began making meals for Master, and this is only the second time that I have turned to the sea for my main protein. I think my reticence stems from a comment made in passing about how he dislikes "fishy fish." Since I wouldn't know what to do with a fishy fish, like a mackerel or a bluefish, even if you were to slap me across the face with one, this should be a non-issue. As long as the fish is fresh and properly prepared - and I wouldn't think to serve it any other way - we would probably be fine.

But that's only half the battle. Fresh fish options in my area are limited, even more so when the reliable corner market is in the middle of extensive renovations. With only the vague notion that I wanted to try making some sort of fish stew, I ventured forth in search of a firm-fleshed white fish. The best I could come up with - and only with great persistence, at that - was a pound of bacala. Cod is cod, right? Fortuitously, this "private stock" of salt cod had been soaking for several days and was ready for use.

Any misgivings I had about using the bacala were dispelled as the stew - a Moosewood-inspired Tunisian concoction of chickpeas, savoy cabbage, and tomatoes, spiced with lemon juice, cumin, and coriander - came together. The cubes of cod cooked to a pearly white opacity in the simmering stew, and they held their shape even through my gentle stirring. The picture above doesn't do justice to the richness of flavor and texture. Toasted whole-wheat pita points rounded out what proved to be a very satisfying meal. Master may also have been unsure at first, but he devoured two bowlfuls (and several pitas) with gusto.

The aftermath was a different story. Let's just call it "eventful" to spare you the play-by-play. I was quick to assume responsibility, on behalf of the now-suspect salt cod. But the timing didn't seem quite right to me, being either too immediate (in my case) or delayed by a day (in Master's). And we've since separately finished off the leftovers without any adverse effect. The Friday evening of the meal found me on the mend following a bout with minor seasonal ills. So it was probably just a matter of the potent polysaccharidic punch packed by the combination of legumes, cabbage, and bits of green bell pepper, all swimming in what was a rather acidic soup, proving a little too much for my unsettled constitution. And Master's workings are finicky and extremely unpredictable on the best of days. So I think the fish is in the clear, and I'm declaring this one a success, on balance.

The leftovers, by the way, were absolutely delicious. I climbed right back onto the (sea)horse, too. Picked up some lovely salmon fillets for tonight's menu...

You're Through, Yev Kasem!

I think Newman would have been very happy with the jambalaya I made for Master on Wednesday night. The rice was plump, tasty and just tender to the tooth from soaking up a tomato-and-stock broth redolent of bay and thyme. The Cajun "Trinity" of bell pepper, onion and celery was well accounted for, of course, along with carrots, zucchini, and okra. It would have made a fine vegetarian dish, and I probably would have kept it that way had I been dining alone. But Master gets the royal treatment. So I larded the luxuriant stew further with tender bites of chicken breast and sweet chicken-and-apple sausage, pan-browned to a mouthwatering caramelization for that final special flourish. Master's worth it.

Once the prep - lots and lots of dicing - was done, the jambalaya came together effortlessly. I find that I'm becoming much more efficient and organized in the kitchen. There was plenty of room for improvement, believe me. Even a few weeks ago, I'm not sure I would have recognized the person at work last night. I was a well-tuned machine, dancing between the cutting board and the pantry - stirring, tasting, making fine adjustments to the burners, keeping a watchful eye on all pots, and even getting the dishes done in real time. I notice that this confidence is showing in the food I bring to Master's table, which is at a level of refinement far beyond anything I'd ever made for myself. After serving up a jambalaya this good, I feel comfortable stating (with an uncharacteristic yet warranted touch of immodesty) that Master is lucky to have me. Just as I am lucky to have him, for so many reasons. I hope he knows how much I enjoy every opportunity to cook for him. Sharing my passion for food with someone who appreciates it (and me) has completely changed my life for the better.

Finally, I've even found a compromise for the heat that I've felt has sometimes been missing from our meals. Kochukaru - Korean red chili flake - saves the day! With a sweeter, much milder kick than cayenne pepper, a little of this wonderful stuff makes all the difference. I hesitated to tell Master about this addition, but he took well to it, confirming that the dreaded afterburn was negligible. I'm overjoyed. Maybe now I'll even be able to make dak galbi - one of my specialties - for Master. Though I'm still unsure what to substitute for the essential chili paste, kochujang, which may be a shade too potent for his palate. It's no exaggeration to say that this dilemma has kept me awake on more than one night. Any suggestions?

No Complaints

As I suspected, having a stove whose components work has made preparing meals so effortless as to be routine. Not having to wait hours for a small pot of water to boil, or worrying that only the top half of a casserole's contents will cook thoroughly is going to make it harder to come up with blogworthy material. But I owe it to my readers to try to find the stories worth telling. There will inevitably be minor mishaps and victories. But more dinners than not are likely to be as uneventful as this one. Bear with me.

Master got his shepherd's pie this past weekend. Or should we call it a cottage pie? Neither seems right. "Thanksgiving pie," maybe? I left the choice meat up to Him, and we ended up with ground turkey. This wouldn't have been my first choice - too bland, too dry. But I made do, and we were both happy with the results. Parsnips and Yukon Gold potatoes, skins on, lent more flavor and textural interest to the mash. The bottle of Worcestershire sauce I'd spied in Master's downstairs storage turned out to have a 2006 expiration date. I'm not quite so bold a soul. So that was out, and dry sherry was substituted. I'd prepared the potatoes, carrots, mushrooms (using up those wonderful shiitakes) and onions at home, which gave me a chance to play around with the Vidalia Chop Wizard I'd received for the holiday. Verdict? Great for potatoes and carrots, but I'll stick with a good, sharp knife, thank you. Especially for onions. My brother swears by this gadget, though. So further trial and experimentation may be in order.

A box of frozen peas, fresh marjoram (and here I must bemoan what a sorry and decrepit lot the herbs at the supermarket were that day), a bit of butter, salt, and a heavy hand on the black pepper completed the filling. Topped with the parsnip-and-potato mash and baked until its crackling surface oozed rivulets of butter, the dish tasted as good as it looked. Master pronounced it one of my finest moments. I'm sure I blushed. I'm happy to please, but never completely comfortable with compliments.

I can't recall why, now, but I felt that I'd "owed" it to Master. So I indulged him with a dessert - apple crisp, this time perfectly executed. After the earlier fiasco, I wasn't about to take unnecessary chances. I used a commercial apple crisp mix for the topping, so I can only in clear conscience claim partial credit - for the idea to cut the butter in by hand, and for the inspired addition of orange and lemon zest - for the sensational results. The Empire apples melted into gooey sweet-tart loveliness beneath the crunchy cinnamon-and-citrus-enhanced crust. It was a damn good apple crisp. The mix seemed to use powdered oats, and I missed the rustic texture of whole rolled flakes. Next time, when I'm feeling brave, I will attempt this with my own crust concoction. The bar's been set pretty high, I confess. But I think I can still surpass it.

Out with the Old

The new arrival - seen here before it could be christened once in bright spatters of tomato sauce, and again in a festive sprinkling of cilantro - prompted a rare Thursday night meal at Master's. He had requested another cottage pie, but I was still too contentedly stuck in a veggie/vegan groove. We also didn't know for certain when "between noon and 4 PM" the stove was scheduled for delivery, so I was hesitant to plan for a dish that relied upon it being present and operable. It seemed like a good night to trot out my vegetable enchiladas, which always get a good response, modified to suit Master's negligible hot-pepper threshold. In a pinch, the electric cooktop and the microwave could be deployed to get the deed done.

I prepared a sauteed medley of vegetables at home - spinach, peppers, mushrooms, leeks, carrots, corn and petite peas - spiced with garlic and chili powder, and packed it up for the uphill trek to Master's. Once there, after ogling and cooing over the new stove, I put it to work, whipping up a very simple sauce of crushed tomatoes, shallots, garlic, icing sugar, and fresh cilantro. We assembled the enchiladas together (always fun), packed these into a ceramic casserole, and baked the works until the sauce bubbled. Over the top of my portion, I Microplaned a bit of Monterey Jack, which gave it a quick-melting texture somewhere between fluffy, newly fallen snow and tinsel. Master opted for a few of the lactose-free cheese singles by which he swears. Whatever it takes to get him - us, really - through the night with a minimum of discomfort.

The enchiladas tasted great and left us feeling full and happy.

"You can tell them that Master is very pleased and very satisfied."

And that's what it's all about, isn't it?

Now that I have a fabulous new stove at my disposal, what ever will I write about here? That old heap may have been a source of much agita and woe, but it sure did give me some good stories.

Oooooh-mami

Master and I had some tough conversations online both nights leading up to our Wednesday night dinner, so I expected the mood to be somewhat prickly. If there's a better way to melt tension than sharing a hot and hearty udon, I have yet to find it. I was inspired by several days of near-zero temperatures and, admittedly, by a hotpot recipe I'd seen prepared on Martha. A stroll through my favorite Asian market left me in possession of a beautiful kabocha squash, shiitake mushrooms both dried and fresh, and a package of konbu. I was so eager to start making some umami magic, I practically danced back home.

Thanks to Master's generosity, I now have at my disposal all the proper tools (including that indispensable large strainer) to make preparation relatively effortless - though I did have to borrow my roommate's cleaver to hack the enormous squash into more manageable quarters. I reserved one for the udon, one for another preparation TBA, and one each for my roommate and my brother. With a vegetable bounty like this, I just had to share the love.

In anticipation of the new stove arriving on Thursday - yay! - facilities at Master's were limited. I walked in to find the old unit pulled away from the wall, disconnected and turned at an unworkable angle, the sink cluttered with containers that had been hiding for years in the dusty cleft between range and wall. It was probably for the best that I'd opted for a heat-and-eat dinner. I'd done all the heavy lifting at home, allowing plenty of time for the dried shiitakes to reconstitute, and for the simmering broth to soften the kabocha, carapace-like rind and all, to mouthwatering fork-tenderness. The fresh wheat udon noodles needed more encouragement to cook than a ladle-full of the hot broth was able to provide. So I added them to the pot and brought the works back up to temperature on the electric burner. That thing has been a godsend.

I suspected that both udon and kabocha would be new to Master, and I was not mistaken. I can't imagine a better introduction. The sweetness of the kabocha was really accentuated by the complex savoriness of the broth. I don't know if he loved the dried shiitakes, whose extreme chewiness can make for tricky eating. But Master and I were absolutely in agreement that the udon was not only delicious but also surprisingly filling. One bowl each was enough to put us in much improved moods as we retired to watch TV.

Shiitake and Kabocha Udon

1 Qt stock (chicken or vegetable)
1 Qt liquid reserved from reconstituted shiitake mushrooms, strained
1 piece konbu, cut into 2" pieces
2" ginger, cut into 1/4" slices and bruised with a heavy knife
2 t sugar
1/3 C mirin
1/3 C soy sauce
1/4 kabocha squash, washed well, seeded, and cut into 2" chunks
2 carrots, cut into 1" chunks on a bias
5-6 fresh shiitake mushrooms, sliced
6-8 dried shiitake mushrooms
2 scallions, sliced on a bias
2 small packages of fresh udon noodles

In a large bowl, pour a quantity (at least 4 C) of hot water over dried shiitake mushrooms and let soak for several hours. Reserve liquid and strain. Remove woody stems and slice mushrooms in half on a bias.

Combine stock and mushroom liquid with konbu, ginger, sugar, mirin and soy sauce. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, and simmer for 15 minutes. Remove konbu and ginger.

Add vegetables and simmer uncovered for 30 minutes. When ready to serve, add udon noodles and simmer to desired tenderness.

Discipline!

Don't all get too excited, now. This post isn't going to be about "that." Well, not entirely.

When I took my first tentative steps into official blogdom, picking up my pen after a seeming eternity of wilderness years, I did so with several certainties. The first of these was that Master would be eating well. Whether or not I was successful in maintaining this anecdotal log as a sideline, Master would enjoy a succession of wholesome, tasty meals, prepared with utmost respect for the dietary preferences and time-and-budget restrictions upon which He and I had agreed. I am happy to report that this has been the case. While Master's Chef may have idled, Master and his humble chef have eaten well. As I adjust to the demands and delights of my growing relationship with Master, many stories may have fallen by the wayside. So I have not yet shared my ice-and-sleet beleaguered misadventures in search of dried cranberries on Christmas Day, or related the woes of the gluey wheat soba noodles that torpedoed the better intentions of my New Year's shrimp stir fry. Nor have I shared the triumphs - the turkey goulash, the chimichurri pork, the sherry-laced mushroom barley soup, my very first apple pie - that have thus far fortunately outnumbered the disappointments. In many instances, the eminently blogworthy sagas related to the preparation of each have been erased in part, if not entirely, by the swift and windblown passage of Winter time. I have also been away from home, and therefore separated from the comforts of my keyboard, for nights on end, as Master's companionship has mercifully supplanted the wee, empty hours in which I'd normally type, engaged only by the indifferent gaze of the computer screen.

The second certainly was that discipline would be a critical factor in the success of my related endeavors as Master's Chef. I sought out Master for the same reason that I have never been able to respect an editorial deadline, to keep a diary or, for that matter, to be an effective blogger. Heh. I hoped that having someone to serve, with the understood expectation of real and serious repercussions for any job done less than well, would provide the incentives, structure, consequences, and the other stabilizing elements that I lack, particularly when I have been out of work for such a long time. But Master has been too kind to punish the few mishaps - a flubbed apple crisp comes to mind - with more than a hearty paddling, already an integral (and consensual) component of our private regimen. And I have often been too distracted by the many pleasures of our budding relationship to block out the required time in which to chronicle my kitchen activities. For this I feel I owe my few but loyal and supportive readers an apology. As the season for resolutions is upon us, and as routine reclaims both Master's life and my own, I promise to be more diligent in updating Master's Chef.

And, if I ever do fail you again, you are fully within your right to chasten me with a sharp-tongued comment or two. Really. Let me have it. I am here only to serve you all.