Uncle Vinny's Chicken Cacciatore

One of my fondest food memories is of the day that "Uncle" Vinny introduced us to the joys of chicken cacciatore. Vinny worked with our father and, having no children of his own, had taken an active interest in my brother and me. Secondhand reports on our progress at school no longer satisfied him, and had given way to an exchange of handwritten letters. Vinny and I shared favorite books and movies, and he became my confidant in any matters of surpassing urgency to a teenager. His advice was wise, well considered, and always weighted more heavily in my mind for his lack of formal family ties. He was the Italian uncle every boy and girl should have, but only the luckiest few get.

The Sunday that Vinny drove down from Mt. Vernon, he was determined to teach us the proper way to eat. He commandeered our kitchen early in the morning, respectful of our father's strictly kosher guidelines, yet fully and admirably in charge. By noon, the range was crowded with pots, which he tended to while regaling us with stories and peals of his boisterous laughter. I didn't know my thyme from my tarragon back then; my successive kitchen awakenings were many years off. So there was still mystery, if not honest-to-god magic, in the act of cooking. I had no idea what base ingredients were being commuted into sauce before our eyes, nor was I even aware enough to ask.

I remember that Vinny declared dinner ready to serve some time well after sundown. By then I was almost full to satiety on the aromas that had filled the house all day. So, while the tomato sauce was surely the finest and freshest I'd ever eaten, the chicken so tender that it had reduced itself to shreds, the meal itself was less of an experience than the production leading up to it. To this day, I find the act of eating to be almost anticlimactic. The real pleasure is to be found in the preparation and in the sharing.

Uncle Vinny passed on in December 2008, a fact of which I became aware only a few weeks ago, when I was attempting to reconnect with him via the social networks. We had fallen out of touch over the years, but the sight of his obituary seemed unreal, impossible. Blinking back tears, of anger as much as grief, I succumbed to a flood of sensory memories, essentially reliving this day in detail.

I don't know if the chicken cacciatore I prepared for my dinner with Master lived up to the standards set by Uncle Vinny's example, but it was good. Very good. And the act of cooking it was not just a little bit cathartic, enabling Vinny to live again, in some small sense, for one more day. I could only guess at what ministrations he had performed, back turned to us, powerful arms working at odd angles, as hot oil crackled and flavorful steam poured from the pots. I imagine he, too, dusted the chicken parts with seasoned flour before browning them in olive oil. Did he also add a slip of butter, knowing that the deeper flavor was worth a little extra fat? Vinny wasn't one to compromise taste for the sake of a few calories. I can assume that he sliced his onions into thick rings and finely minced the rosemary, added the ribbons of fresh basil only at the very end, as the pasta drained. I don't remember if he added carrots, zucchini, crimini mushrooms, and a touch of crushed red pepper, but it doesn't matter. I realize now that I saw and learned that day, even if I didn't comprehend it at the time. It all came back to me as I cooked, and intuition filled in the remaining blanks. I think my Uncle Vinny would have been very pleased. And nothing is more important to me than pleasing people.

Untraditional

Wednesday night's dinner for Master fell on the second night of Shavuot, the Feast of Weeks, when it is customary to eat a dairy meal. If my schooling has not failed me, this is done in acknowledgment that the Israelites had not yet been given the formal laws governing the slaughter of livestock for consumption. Or some such jazz. Observant and reverent fellow that I am, I commemorated the occasion by preparing a pork tenderloin.

As I familiarize myself with the diverse and versatile (diversatile? mine.) cuts of the incredible, edible pig, I can see the tenderloin becoming a favorite. Lean, inexpensive, quick to cook, readily accepting of flavors without the need for prolonged marinating, and just plain packed with porky savor, it may just become my go-to cut during indecisive menu-making moments.

The improvised rub included cumin, cloves, two kinds of cinnamon, brown sugar, orange and lime juices, garlic, olive oil. So it seemed fitting, albeit somewhat heretical, to serve the Moroccan-spiced pork tenderloin medallions atop couscous, effectively (if inadvertently) offending yet another major world religion. I was assailed by the aromas of Tangiers each time I opened the oven door to prod the pork with the meat thermometer, battered into salivating submission until the obligatory several minutes during which the meat rested before carving and serving felt like an eternity.

To accompany, I assembled a salad of fennel, Vidalia onion, Cara Cara oranges, and sliced strawberries, bound with a light dressing of citrus juice, good olive oil, sea salt and balsamic vinegar. Next time I may have to make twice as much, as Master simply could not stop singing its praises. I agree that, to paraphrase dear Charlotte A. Cavatica and keep with the porcine theme, this was SOME SALAD. The oranges have a hint of blackberry musk that marries like a dream with balsamic, the onions were as mild as the licorice whisper of the fennel, and the berries, while still far from their seasonal peak, were like strewn sweetmeats that kept our forks straying from the main course to the side of the plate. Master noted that the fennel salad paired perfectly with the couscous, which greedily sopped up the mingling juices. And we agreed that the tenderloin held its own, with spice and sweetness that remained intriguing until the last satisfying bite.

As a concession to the holiday, I served a micro-sliver of chocolate cheesecake for dessert. Too little, too late to atone for the meal's transgressions? Perhaps. But my bothered conscience demanded the gesture. Jewish guilt, it's a powerful thing.

Tales of Two Chickens (and One Fish)

Since Master makes frequent supermarket runs, and seems to enjoy shopping, I've been entrusting him with the selection of the "protein" for our dinners. We've been eating a lot of chicken. And that's fine with me. What could be more versatile? With so little character of its own, it's a meat that provides a fine canvas for my dabblings in different flavor profiles. It's best when there's time for a long, leisurely marinade, but this isn't always possible. Take last Friday, for example. I had to see Iron Man 2 on opening day. Otherwise, what's the point, right? Even a late-afternoon showing got me to Master's place a little too late to start cooking, prompting a resort to a mutually agreeable Plan B of dinner at a Chinese restaurant. I promised to (over)compensate with a home-cooked Saturday lunch, which had the upshot of giving the chicken breasts the benefit of an overnight soak in white wine, Dijon mustard, fresh-squeezed orange juice, honey, garlic, tarragon and thyme. They were practically tipsy with flavor by the time they hit the oven, on a bed of carrots, celery, onion, and parsnips. Snow peas, steamed along with a quantity of basmati rice and drizzled with a hot vinaigrette, rounded out a plate that more than made up for the prior evening's laziness. The chicken was juicy and full-flavored, and the vinaigrette - shallots, butter, mustard, honey, orange juice, the last of the wine - made every bite of the sweet, crisp pea pods a reason to celebrate. Not bad for an improvisation. I need to start recording my recipes.

It was practicality rather than apathy that led me to douse the chicken thighs with bottled BBQ sauce for Wednesday night's dinner. I'm all for making sauces from scratch... when they don't require a good 2-3 hours of patient simmering. Freshened up with a few thyme sprigs and bay leaves, since I can't leave well enough alone, was more than serviceable. I could hardly have done better. Before the chicken could be baked, though, minor disaster had to be averted. While preheating, the oven belched smoke, sending Master into door-slamming panic mode. And not without reason, I'll say, having now experienced the full-on pandemonium of police and firefighter response instigated by a few overdone pancakes one fateful Saturday morning. Upon inspection, we realized that the oleaginous drippings of some garlic bread toasted without a tray for/by (who can remember?) dinner guests on Sunday evening had fallen on the heating element. No longer nearly apoplectic, though still cursing the carelessness that led to the brink of catastrophe, Master scrubbed away the burnt residue and pronounced the oven once again fit for use.

I focused on the slaw. It was my interpretation of one of Master's favorites, the broccoli slaw at Café Martin in Shelburne Falls, MA. I'd only sampled a few forkfuls of this house special, so it was always going to be a loose rendition. They finely chop their broccoli; I decided to shred mine. But two medium broccoli stems don't grate down to much. Even with a couple of carrots added as filler, it was necessary to stretch the portions further with some mixed shredded cabbage. If it means Master eating more raw vegetables, I have no problem with that. My dressing of sour cream, mayonnaise, honey, lemon juice and parsley was thicker than theirs but no less delicious. Ultimately, the only thing our two slaws had in common was the dried cranberries. But Master seemed just as enamored of mine as he is of Café Martin's, so I'll call it a success and expect many encore requests for this one in the near future.

I'd been eager to put the "new wisdom" regarding the preparation of asparagus, as reported in a recent New York Times Sunday magazine, to the test. So I was happy that Master had picked up a bundle during his grocery shopping. Typical of Stop & Shop produce, these spears were freakishly large. I was concerned that the revisionist, parboil-shunning saute method cited above wouldn't work as well for such thick asparagus. I was mistaken. Eight minutes in a hot pan with a few tablespoons of olive oil produced succulent, ever so lightly caramelized, and thoroughly cooked spears. A little butter and fresh lemon juice, and a sprinkling of toasted almonds, made this the best asparagus I've ever tasted or served. Here's one vegetable I will never boil again.

The plate above was the result of a rare collaborative shopping effort. Master and I had ventured out one Friday to the Big Y in North Branford, lured by a special deal on strawberries. The strawberries were sold out, alas. But the seafood department had beautiful line-caught salmon to offer, and dark, leafy kale and (a personal favorite) Persian cucumbers were to be found in the produce section. I remember that it was a very warm day, so I kept the meal light. Boiled new potatoes with parsley and a hint of butter and the sauteed kale accompanied broiled salmon, sauced with mustard, white wine, and fresh tarragon. The cucumbers, thinly sliced, salted, rinsed, and tossed with slivers of ice-cold shallot, were the surprise hit. I was concerned that the citrus dressing was too tart, but Master couldn't get enough of it. I think I've broadened his palate since we started dining together. If that's the case, I couldn't be prouder, or happier.