Jes was born and raised on the West Coast, I on the East. We met each other on a computer game, swapped phone numbers, and the rest is history. When she moved out here in Oct '11, there was a lot for each of us to learn about food. For me, it was living outside our parents' homes for the first time and not having a meal plan which prompted my roommate and I to tackle the stove with hand-me-down cookware and secondhand experience. Needless to say, Jes's first memory of my roommate was hearing him scream, "Why do you hate me!?" as napalm rained down upon his white-collar hands while he attempted to stir fry in our wok. Afterward, we purchased a mesh, splatter-proof shield only to discover that improperly heated oil knows no bounds.
For Jes, it was opening up to new and different ingredients and meals. At the onset of our long-distance relationship, I did not know just how particular she was in her diet. Diet, in the sense of "the food you eat." Not vegan, pescetarian, paleo, or even Atkins. Just choosing to eat some foods and not others. Preferential eating, I might say. Like, how my brother didn't eat mushrooms when we were growing up; or how my half-Italian mother doesn't like pasta. Jes and I even survived the cross-country trek together before I realized how deep-rooted her distaste for certain foods was. I say now, in hindsight, how surprising it is that she ate beef carpaccio with our generous hosts in Chicago. Reminding her of that momentous occasion seems to have been the key to unlocking more common dishes to her palate.
After moving here, she's added "no-thank-you portion" to her vocabulary, which her landlord explained as taking a trial portion, but when asked about having seconds, you politely respond, "No, thank you." But until that point, first impressions were as difficult to stomach as the foods she "just didn't eat." Among them? Soup. We laugh about this now, because soup is a very broad term. Now, Jes would say her favorite soup is Riviera minestrone; back then, it was her only soup. This point might have proved integral to the conversion in that stores out here didn't stock that brand. The one can of it we still have in our cupboard was shipped here courtesy of her mother, and I begin to wonder if Jes is aware of its presence.
My endeavors in the kitchen started way back when Jes and I were only typing to each other, or calling each other late at night, or sky-rocketing through the limits of my family's texting plan. One of her many nicknames online—and probably the most applicable—was GP. It originally stood for the name she'd given herself, "getting pwned." After a while of relating, it came to also stand for "guinea pig." We effectively agreed to be each other's taste-testers for meals we would eventually cook for one another. Even to this day, she fears the consequences of that decision, because we are very different when it comes to cooking.
In my mind, Jes is like salt. Jes also likes salt, and that might be why I say this. Salt goes with EVERYTHING. And she doesn't like sweet dinners, so her culinary approach is more conventional, I would say. She likes casseroles, one-dish meals, and not often will she make something with the idea of a "side." She also prefers to follow recipes, which I'm thankful for because she likes to bake. After all, that's a science, where there's seldom room for error.
I, on the other hand, am like pepper. Usually, I tag along with salt wherever it goes, but sometimes I go my own route. Where salt is the foundation of flavor, ground pepper is the beginning of seasoning. Salt is never the star of a dish, but by the same measure you can tell when it's lacking. Salt is common; pepper is bold. And I admit, growing up I never used the pepper-shaker. It was a lost flavor to me. Now? I'm all about experimentation, exploring new combinations, new pairings, reinventing recipes. I rarely measure, and my mother hates it, especially when I create something she's interested in making herself. And I don't bake. I leave that to minds more methodical.
It's amazing that, as well as the two go together, they're still marketed in separate containers. Jes and I clearly have different styles, owing as much to our upbringing as to our tastes. She grew up within miles of San Francisco, with the best Mexican and the worst Asian. I grew up within miles of New York City, with the worst Mexican and the best Asian. Now, relationally speaking, we get along like salt and pepper. But in the kitchen? The age-old expression rings true: too many cooks spoil the broth. Salt wants one thing, and pepper the other. What we've learned? We don't interfere with each other's dish...unless asked. Many a bad memory, argument and fight have resulted from trying to cook together. As the heat goes up, somebody is bound to get out, and that's a painful reality.
Now, I wouldn't trade any part of our relationship to be that couple who takes on dinner like a debut performance of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. In reality, we're more like the premier showing of Stravinsky's Riot of Spring (kudos if you see what I did there); but if on all other counts we are perfect for each other, that is a worthy trade-off. As it stands, we are becoming less and less one another's guinea pig and are beginning to showcase our abilities to other mouths. And since Jes's cooking skills stem from tradition, my avant-garde tactics seem to hold a greater chance for disappointment.
There are some meals which come along, now and again, which I would never make again. Perhaps I messed with a good thing, or perhaps I really had no idea what I was doing. Such failures are inevitable and necessary for the learning process, and since this blog exists for the purpose of documenting our highs and lows in the kitchen, you can expect no mincing of words. If a meal was horrible, it will be flagged; if it was borderline divine, I'll probably break out into French. I'm not classically trained, but...I did graduate from a Cook College.
I've actually been in the business of chronicling my food creations since they arose, but blogging about them or even daring to assemble recipes for them was only first suggested by a friend ten months ago. You can see my enthusiasm in responding to the request. In actuality, the delay in showing any interest for such comes after settling much stress previously held. I am, after all, a married man now. So it is to you, JD, that I direct all fingers of blame regarding the success or failure of this site. May you one day be our guinea pig.
To the best of my ability, I hope to present Jes's and my experiences—both individual and collaborative—in fluid manner, for those interested in the educational side of things. It only took me four years to clue into how to stop burning oil. Don't expect me to go Alton Brown, but I do like to apply science when it's not the be-all and end-all to cooking. After all, pepper is an acquired taste, a piece of art; it needs the proper surroundings to really shine. So, without further ado:
Showing posts with label personal history. Show all posts
Showing posts with label personal history. Show all posts
8.19.2017
7.14.2016
Herbal Essence
In this past week, Jes and I have eaten one roasted cricket (each), more than a taste of kibbeh nayeh (raw ground beef), and I have tried to stomach half a plate of lamb liver (vitamin A-overload!). Backtracking, they go from worst to best: the liver held the flavor of cilantro with the building texture of a grainy film, the kibbeh nayeh shared visual similarities with an uncooked hamburger patty that had been doused in oil and served with raw onions and mint, and the cricket was almost identical to a roasted sunflower kernel.
There are a few running themes here. "Unconventional" might be one label, "earthy" another. But I see "Middle Eastern cuisine," and in particular, the use of herbs for flavor. Granted, crickets aren't herbs. Those just help bring my mind back to biblical times.
The Good News
Crickets are edible and have been eaten for millennia. Jes and I have a friend who I've been egging on to bring some for us to try, and he finally did. Also in his box of goodies: cricket flour, which he uses to make "Johnthebaptist bars." It rolls off the tongue—literally. I'm joking; I'm sure they taste great. They're protein bars based on the Scriptures which tell us what John the Baptist ate (Mark 1.6). Whether or not the interpretation should be removed from context is its own story, however. Similar to how "Ezekiel bread" is also popular today; if that recipe were followed to the T (Eze. 4.9-15), I don't think anyone would eat it.
Eating or consumption in Scripture connotes a sense of "incorporation." Bringing this back to something more palatable [than crickets], bitter herbs are often allegorical of bitter circumstances. Though not Scriptural, Yul Brynner said in The Ten Commandments (1956), "The herbs remind us of the bitterness of our captivity."
The Passover Seder includes roasted lamb with "bitter herbs" and "bread made without yeast" (Ex. 12.8, Num. 9.11). The first Passover was named for the Jews in Egypt being spared from a death sentence. The herbs were symbolic of the grievous night (Ex. 12.30), the unleavened bread symbolic of haste (Deut. 16.3). The lamb's blood symbolized their being saved from death (Ex. 12.21-23), while eating the lamb itself was the act of offering and sacrificing it (Lev. 23.37-38), and therefore partaking in its symbolism (ref. I Cor. 11.26).
In Lamentations 3, verses 15 and 19, Jeremiah says: "He has filled me with bitter herbs/ and sated me with gall.... I remember my affliction and my wandering,/ the bitterness and the gall." Matthew 27.34 speaks of gall being mixed with wine, presumably as a form of sedation, and particularly for ingestion by those who are dying. The same event recorded in Mark 15.23 uses the word "myrrh," implying that the actual additive used was simply known for its bitterness. Psalm 69.21 is another Messianic passage that aligns bitter flavor with bitter feelings.
Now, the correlations throughout Scripture can only get more beautiful. The Messiah was prophesied to be like that lamb offered in sacrifice (Isa. 53.7,10). Not only would he suffer a bitter death (Isa. 53.9), he was gifted and given bitter herbs (Matt. 2.11, John 19.39-40). In John 6, verses 28 through 58, he allied himself to bread and told everyone to partake in his sacrifice (John 6.51). He commanded against yeast (Matt. 16.11-12), and we have been encouraged to make spiritual bread without yeast (I Cor. 5.7-8). He compared himself to manna, which came directly from God (John 6.31-33). Just as blood signified cleansing (Heb. 9.18-22) and life (Lev. 17.11-12), his blood was the source of life (John 6.53-57, 4.13-14). The people around him mistook allegory for madness (John 6.52), but like every prophet before him, he only spoke in allegory (Matt. 13.34-35). The simplest thing he told them was to believe (John 6.28-29,47).
A Different Kind of Oil
"I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God for the salvation of everyone who believes: first for the Jew, then for the Gentile." (Rom. 1.16)
Returning to the herbs what started this, it's interesting that most herbs are in fact bitter, astringent, or—to be perfectly neutral—strong. I recall taking a course on Medicinal Plants at college, though I can find no evidence for it in the form of homework. I'm sure I have a notebook somewhere. Anyway, what we commonly refer to as "herbs" in the kitchen are the leaves of plants which exhibit pleasant flavors or aromas, which notably come in the form of oil.
This oil is most often exuded from the surface of the plant's leaves—which, by the way, can be a natural pest-deterrent in your garden. Using deer as a prime example, plants with a strong taste or stinging fragrance are avoided by their sensitive noses, so interspersing one's vegetable plot with plants such as rosemary, lavender, oregano and basil can be extremely advantageous in that regard.
Like tea which has steeped for too long, densely concentrated herbal oils can be distasteful. Tannins play some role in this bitterness, being abundantly present in areas of new growth, but among herbs themselves, some flavors are stronger than others, and especially when dried they can become overly excessive.
In the debate of fresh vs. dried herbs, I can tell you—only from a consumer's standpoint, mind you—that dried is the way to go. I have wasted so much money through the purchase of fresh herbs that I look forward to simply growing my own one day. For the DIY herb gardeners (and I don't mean the tokers), this source would prove very useful by not only covering the basics of how to dry your garden stock, but also providing you with several methods for infusing their flavors, such as in vinegar, oil, and even sugar.
GG
My delight in the kitchen is to create flavor combinations using unconventional pairings. As yet, I cannot think of a better way to describe it, but these sorts of meals end up in my honorable mentions, my portfolio. In this particular, mental series, the following marks the third to come about. And it all starts with a choice of meat.
As the name suggests, this came about as a derivation from ratatouille, showcasing green and yellow squash, and eggplant. But, it's the ground turkey which is responsible for harmonizing all of the other ingredients. I won't go so far to say this was cooked to perfection; far from it, as I don't cook with ground meat often enough to keep it moist. However, it's not the inconsistency of overcooked squash and eggplant beside dry squiggles of turkey which I'm highlighting here—it's not the textures, but the flavors. And the selection of those flavors has some, let me say, "territorial" background.
What I mean by that is this: Turkey is a game bird. It's traditionally hunted. So, when I think of a live turkey, for better or for worse certain foods come to mind. Gourds, for one. The squash taken care of, there is a certain essence of pumpkin in this pan: its seeds. This isn't exactly the same concept as toasting whole seeds, especially if you're like me and you eat the shell, but the nutty flavor of shelled pumpkin seeds is what ties this dish to some of my other most beloved creations (recipes to follow).
Black olives, though among my least favorite processed foods (for reasons I'll delve into another day), mark the final ingredient that doesn't fall under the category of spices. I like their tart addition to certain meals, and without them I think turkey-touille would have ended up too sweet, especially for Jes's tastes.
I don't know what it is with eggplants and cinnamon, but I just love putting them together. Not only is it earthy—and that is a word I would apply to the majority of the flavors here—but it also adds balance to the other piquant spices: powdered ginger, garlic powder and ground pepper. And then, of course, salt. Spices not being herbs, this recipe doesn't actually have herbs in it. If you're wondering, then, why it's here, it's to serve as a segue into the really delectable crème de la crème dinner below.
Scarborough Fair
If you're looking to make herbs shine, simply pair them with poultry. There's nothing a dense piece of white meat needs more than flavor. Now, I much prefer dark meat if given the choice, but this recipe is all about melding flavors over a slow heat, and white meat can certainly take it.
It begins with a frozen turkey breast, and thanks to Jes, it is joined with a splash of water. I don't remember the brand, and it's not my interest to sell it. But, I was pleasantly surprised by how much liquid came out of this by the time it was done.
As a precursor to potting the turkey, we charbroiled some choice veggies for that extra layer of yummy goodness: the default carrots, celery, and onions, along with a personally appealing root, turnip. My only complaint was that I insisted on including sliced garlic on that baking sheet. I'm sure the flavor was to be a vital enhancement, but it burned into unrecognizable oblivion. Never have I ever seen such a pure piece of cancer. I tasted it, too, before chucking it. It had a very similar texture to...liver.
Enter our good friend Herb. The turkey and vegetables slow-cooked overnight, and the next morning before work we added the famous four: parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. More than just a good song, these lend their oils well to chicken, so why not turkey? I did choose fresh for these, but I've since changed my position about using fresh herbs. After all, the point in using them is the "medicinal" oil they contain. Dried herbs simply lack water, and oil extracts are even better; the further you go from the fresh leaf, the [generally] higher quality of the flavor you're looking to add, though you'd understandably need a lower quantity added to your meals.
Alongside these, the final ingredient came in the form of ground black pepper. I don't know why I didn't use peppercorns. Maybe I intended to consume it with the meal. Regardless, something I am always proud of for reasons untold unknown: I didn't add salt, during nor after.
Ten hours later, this is what we got. Jes, of course, had to deal with these scents wafting from the kitchen all day long. This took a grand total of 22+ hours. It was probably a wholly arbitrary amount, since, whenever we use our slowcooker, it is in between our sleep and work schedule. But I hardly think we could have too much time for this. Thyme, on the other hand, requires better management.
Other sources:
http://nutritiondata.self.com/facts/lamb-veal-and-game-products/4669/2
http://www.biblicalhorizons.com/biblical-horizons/no-24-locusts-and-honey/
http://movie-sounds.org/famous-movie-samples/sound-clips-from-the-ten-commandments-1956/the-herbs-remind-us-of-the-bitterness-of-our-captivity-eleazar
http://www.dictionary.com/browse/gall
There are a few running themes here. "Unconventional" might be one label, "earthy" another. But I see "Middle Eastern cuisine," and in particular, the use of herbs for flavor. Granted, crickets aren't herbs. Those just help bring my mind back to biblical times.
The Good News
Crickets are edible and have been eaten for millennia. Jes and I have a friend who I've been egging on to bring some for us to try, and he finally did. Also in his box of goodies: cricket flour, which he uses to make "Johnthebaptist bars." It rolls off the tongue—literally. I'm joking; I'm sure they taste great. They're protein bars based on the Scriptures which tell us what John the Baptist ate (Mark 1.6). Whether or not the interpretation should be removed from context is its own story, however. Similar to how "Ezekiel bread" is also popular today; if that recipe were followed to the T (Eze. 4.9-15), I don't think anyone would eat it.
Eating or consumption in Scripture connotes a sense of "incorporation." Bringing this back to something more palatable [than crickets], bitter herbs are often allegorical of bitter circumstances. Though not Scriptural, Yul Brynner said in The Ten Commandments (1956), "The herbs remind us of the bitterness of our captivity."
The Passover Seder includes roasted lamb with "bitter herbs" and "bread made without yeast" (Ex. 12.8, Num. 9.11). The first Passover was named for the Jews in Egypt being spared from a death sentence. The herbs were symbolic of the grievous night (Ex. 12.30), the unleavened bread symbolic of haste (Deut. 16.3). The lamb's blood symbolized their being saved from death (Ex. 12.21-23), while eating the lamb itself was the act of offering and sacrificing it (Lev. 23.37-38), and therefore partaking in its symbolism (ref. I Cor. 11.26).
In Lamentations 3, verses 15 and 19, Jeremiah says: "He has filled me with bitter herbs/ and sated me with gall.... I remember my affliction and my wandering,/ the bitterness and the gall." Matthew 27.34 speaks of gall being mixed with wine, presumably as a form of sedation, and particularly for ingestion by those who are dying. The same event recorded in Mark 15.23 uses the word "myrrh," implying that the actual additive used was simply known for its bitterness. Psalm 69.21 is another Messianic passage that aligns bitter flavor with bitter feelings.
Now, the correlations throughout Scripture can only get more beautiful. The Messiah was prophesied to be like that lamb offered in sacrifice (Isa. 53.7,10). Not only would he suffer a bitter death (Isa. 53.9), he was gifted and given bitter herbs (Matt. 2.11, John 19.39-40). In John 6, verses 28 through 58, he allied himself to bread and told everyone to partake in his sacrifice (John 6.51). He commanded against yeast (Matt. 16.11-12), and we have been encouraged to make spiritual bread without yeast (I Cor. 5.7-8). He compared himself to manna, which came directly from God (John 6.31-33). Just as blood signified cleansing (Heb. 9.18-22) and life (Lev. 17.11-12), his blood was the source of life (John 6.53-57, 4.13-14). The people around him mistook allegory for madness (John 6.52), but like every prophet before him, he only spoke in allegory (Matt. 13.34-35). The simplest thing he told them was to believe (John 6.28-29,47).
A Different Kind of Oil
"I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God for the salvation of everyone who believes: first for the Jew, then for the Gentile." (Rom. 1.16)
Returning to the herbs what started this, it's interesting that most herbs are in fact bitter, astringent, or—to be perfectly neutral—strong. I recall taking a course on Medicinal Plants at college, though I can find no evidence for it in the form of homework. I'm sure I have a notebook somewhere. Anyway, what we commonly refer to as "herbs" in the kitchen are the leaves of plants which exhibit
This oil is most often exuded from the surface of the plant's leaves—which, by the way, can be a natural pest-deterrent in your garden. Using deer as a prime example, plants with a strong taste or stinging fragrance are avoided by their sensitive noses, so interspersing one's vegetable plot with plants such as rosemary, lavender, oregano and basil can be extremely advantageous in that regard.
Like tea which has steeped for too long, densely concentrated herbal oils can be distasteful. Tannins play some role in this bitterness, being abundantly present in areas of new growth, but among herbs themselves, some flavors are stronger than others, and especially when dried they can become overly excessive.
In the debate of fresh vs. dried herbs, I can tell you—only from a consumer's standpoint, mind you—that dried is the way to go. I have wasted so much money through the purchase of fresh herbs that I look forward to simply growing my own one day. For the DIY herb gardeners (and I don't mean the tokers), this source would prove very useful by not only covering the basics of how to dry your garden stock, but also providing you with several methods for infusing their flavors, such as in vinegar, oil, and even sugar.
GG
My delight in the kitchen is to create flavor combinations using unconventional pairings. As yet, I cannot think of a better way to describe it, but these sorts of meals end up in my honorable mentions, my portfolio. In this particular, mental series, the following marks the third to come about. And it all starts with a choice of meat.
 |
| March 9, 2013 - Turkey-touille! |
As the name suggests, this came about as a derivation from ratatouille, showcasing green and yellow squash, and eggplant. But, it's the ground turkey which is responsible for harmonizing all of the other ingredients. I won't go so far to say this was cooked to perfection; far from it, as I don't cook with ground meat often enough to keep it moist. However, it's not the inconsistency of overcooked squash and eggplant beside dry squiggles of turkey which I'm highlighting here—it's not the textures, but the flavors. And the selection of those flavors has some, let me say, "territorial" background.
What I mean by that is this: Turkey is a game bird. It's traditionally hunted. So, when I think of a live turkey, for better or for worse certain foods come to mind. Gourds, for one. The squash taken care of, there is a certain essence of pumpkin in this pan: its seeds. This isn't exactly the same concept as toasting whole seeds, especially if you're like me and you eat the shell, but the nutty flavor of shelled pumpkin seeds is what ties this dish to some of my other most beloved creations (recipes to follow).
Black olives, though among my least favorite processed foods (for reasons I'll delve into another day), mark the final ingredient that doesn't fall under the category of spices. I like their tart addition to certain meals, and without them I think turkey-touille would have ended up too sweet, especially for Jes's tastes.
I don't know what it is with eggplants and cinnamon, but I just love putting them together. Not only is it earthy—and that is a word I would apply to the majority of the flavors here—but it also adds balance to the other piquant spices: powdered ginger, garlic powder and ground pepper. And then, of course, salt. Spices not being herbs, this recipe doesn't actually have herbs in it. If you're wondering, then, why it's here, it's to serve as a segue into the really delectable crème de la crème dinner below.
Scarborough Fair
If you're looking to make herbs shine, simply pair them with poultry. There's nothing a dense piece of white meat needs more than flavor. Now, I much prefer dark meat if given the choice, but this recipe is all about melding flavors over a slow heat, and white meat can certainly take it.
 |
| March 26, 2015 - Unnamed Turkey |
It begins with a frozen turkey breast, and thanks to Jes, it is joined with a splash of water. I don't remember the brand, and it's not my interest to sell it. But, I was pleasantly surprised by how much liquid came out of this by the time it was done.
 |
| March 26, 2015 - Unnamed Turkey |
As a precursor to potting the turkey, we charbroiled some choice veggies for that extra layer of yummy goodness: the default carrots, celery, and onions, along with a personally appealing root, turnip. My only complaint was that I insisted on including sliced garlic on that baking sheet. I'm sure the flavor was to be a vital enhancement, but it burned into unrecognizable oblivion. Never have I ever seen such a pure piece of cancer. I tasted it, too, before chucking it. It had a very similar texture to...liver.
 |
| March 26, 2015 - Unnamed Turkey |
Enter our good friend Herb. The turkey and vegetables slow-cooked overnight, and the next morning before work we added the famous four: parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. More than just a good song, these lend their oils well to chicken, so why not turkey? I did choose fresh for these, but I've since changed my position about using fresh herbs. After all, the point in using them is the "medicinal" oil they contain. Dried herbs simply lack water, and oil extracts are even better; the further you go from the fresh leaf, the [generally] higher quality of the flavor you're looking to add, though you'd understandably need a lower quantity added to your meals.
Alongside these, the final ingredient came in the form of ground black pepper. I don't know why I didn't use peppercorns. Maybe I intended to consume it with the meal. Regardless, something I am always proud of for reasons
 |
| March 26, 2015 - Unnamed Turkey |
Ten hours later, this is what we got. Jes, of course, had to deal with these scents wafting from the kitchen all day long. This took a grand total of 22+ hours. It was probably a wholly arbitrary amount, since, whenever we use our slowcooker, it is in between our sleep and work schedule. But I hardly think we could have too much time for this. Thyme, on the other hand, requires better management.
Other sources:
http://nutritiondata.self.com/facts/lamb-veal-and-game-products/4669/2
http://www.biblicalhorizons.com/biblical-horizons/no-24-locusts-and-honey/
http://movie-sounds.org/famous-movie-samples/sound-clips-from-the-ten-commandments-1956/the-herbs-remind-us-of-the-bitterness-of-our-captivity-eleazar
http://www.dictionary.com/browse/gall
6.03.2016
Delicate Flavors
May has become my Sabbath rest this year, within the reasoning that it would be a huge disservice if I actually took so many consecutive days off from my employment. Instead, there was still plenty of room for spiritual renewal, and what better month for it than the one which marks Jes's and my anniversary?
Excuses aside, we haven't been cooking much lately for different reasons, and probably won't be for at least the next month, but when we do, you can be certain we'll be loving it in our new kitchen.
BUTTER!?
Our first road trip together brought us over the entirety of I-80, from the Golden-Gate to the George-Washington. Somewhere along the way, one of us reached into a bag in the back seat and pulled out, of all things, a tiny packet of butter. Many laughs ensued. If you happen to be in our presence when we exclaim this singular word out of context, you'll at least know what's going through our collective mind.
Jes is not a saucy person. She also doesn't like too much sauce with her pasta—something I discovered, and something she suffered, when we visited my great aunt in Southern California. My maternal family has been hugely influential in my love for Italian cuisine, whether cooking it in batches and sharing the wealth or going to some ristorante for most every celebration. Leave it to the Syrian-Americans, however, to be carrying on that tradition.
Anyway, I presume Jes's dislike for such heavily laden, tomato-sauce-smothered pasta is related to her delight in simply buttered pasta. My mother used to do this on occasion, as well; and, to take it further, a misunderstanding during one of my childhood sleepovers once led me to eat dry spaghetti for dinner, to my own chagrin. However, in addition to its simplicity, it gains a 1-Up in my book for preparation time: 10 minutes.
Now, buttered spaghetti is fine enough, but Jes dresses hers up with salt, pepper and garlic powder. It holds quite the appeal on its own, but I leave it to her to craft it. Besides, things always taste better when it belongs to someone else.
Purposed Segregation
Using that dish as a base, I made a meal last year which was pleasing in many ways. If you recall what I'd said regarding my veggie-parfait, I had cooked each ingredient individually only to rejoin them for the final product. The following recipe predates that one, and it lived up to the hope of keeping the elements separated all the way to the plate.
The concept behind it all was to have the flavors of shrimp alfredo without actually melding them together into a coherent sauce layered over dense linguini. I've never made a cream sauce from scratch—though I aspire to undertake the task one day—but this meal kept things as simple as possible.
I'm a believer in pairing a noodle's width with the weight of its sauce. That said, a traditional alfredo sauce matches well with fettucine or linguine, but you'll find no actual sauce here, so I went with Jes's personal favorite: angel hair. A specification of capellini, angel hair is among the thinnest Italian noodles (I've seen much thinner Asian noodles). It's perfect for runny, brothy sauces, and here, its only dressing is butter, grated parmesan, and ground pepper.
Beside that, thinly sliced tomatoes gained some color and texture with a momentary searing in a pan. Charred onions are also a nice flavor add-on (and they happen to remind me of mom's good, old-fashioned London broil, or giddo's kebabs).
Last but not least, hiding in the shadows would be sriracha-crusted shrimp. If you're either confused or intrigued, it was a revisited recipe which you will soon see here: a simple twist on breading shrimp that utilized flavored potato chips. All of my creations with shrimp deserve their own series, but to remain in the recipe at hand, it is enough just to have garlic-butter shrimp, whether such is infused or contains visibly chopped pieces of garlic. Perhaps the flavor would lend itself well to the added texture of a béchamel sauce, thereby setting up a more distinct division of the four elements already present.
In case you couldn't tell, I'm giving myself brilliant ideas worth exploring. I would definitely like to recreate this.
Excuses aside, we haven't been cooking much lately for different reasons, and probably won't be for at least the next month, but when we do, you can be certain we'll be loving it in our new kitchen.
BUTTER!?
Our first road trip together brought us over the entirety of I-80, from the Golden-Gate to the George-Washington. Somewhere along the way, one of us reached into a bag in the back seat and pulled out, of all things, a tiny packet of butter. Many laughs ensued. If you happen to be in our presence when we exclaim this singular word out of context, you'll at least know what's going through our collective mind.
Jes is not a saucy person. She also doesn't like too much sauce with her pasta—something I discovered, and something she suffered, when we visited my great aunt in Southern California. My maternal family has been hugely influential in my love for Italian cuisine, whether cooking it in batches and sharing the wealth or going to some ristorante for most every celebration. Leave it to the Syrian-Americans, however, to be carrying on that tradition.
Anyway, I presume Jes's dislike for such heavily laden, tomato-sauce-smothered pasta is related to her delight in simply buttered pasta. My mother used to do this on occasion, as well; and, to take it further, a misunderstanding during one of my childhood sleepovers once led me to eat dry spaghetti for dinner, to my own chagrin. However, in addition to its simplicity, it gains a 1-Up in my book for preparation time: 10 minutes.
Now, buttered spaghetti is fine enough, but Jes dresses hers up with salt, pepper and garlic powder. It holds quite the appeal on its own, but I leave it to her to craft it. Besides, things always taste better when it belongs to someone else.
Purposed Segregation
Using that dish as a base, I made a meal last year which was pleasing in many ways. If you recall what I'd said regarding my veggie-parfait, I had cooked each ingredient individually only to rejoin them for the final product. The following recipe predates that one, and it lived up to the hope of keeping the elements separated all the way to the plate.
The concept behind it all was to have the flavors of shrimp alfredo without actually melding them together into a coherent sauce layered over dense linguini. I've never made a cream sauce from scratch—though I aspire to undertake the task one day—but this meal kept things as simple as possible.
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| June 22, 2015 - Shrimp Alfredo, Deconstructed |
I'm a believer in pairing a noodle's width with the weight of its sauce. That said, a traditional alfredo sauce matches well with fettucine or linguine, but you'll find no actual sauce here, so I went with Jes's personal favorite: angel hair. A specification of capellini, angel hair is among the thinnest Italian noodles (I've seen much thinner Asian noodles). It's perfect for runny, brothy sauces, and here, its only dressing is butter, grated parmesan, and ground pepper.
Beside that, thinly sliced tomatoes gained some color and texture with a momentary searing in a pan. Charred onions are also a nice flavor add-on (and they happen to remind me of mom's good, old-fashioned London broil, or giddo's kebabs).
Last but not least, hiding in the shadows would be sriracha-crusted shrimp. If you're either confused or intrigued, it was a revisited recipe which you will soon see here: a simple twist on breading shrimp that utilized flavored potato chips. All of my creations with shrimp deserve their own series, but to remain in the recipe at hand, it is enough just to have garlic-butter shrimp, whether such is infused or contains visibly chopped pieces of garlic. Perhaps the flavor would lend itself well to the added texture of a béchamel sauce, thereby setting up a more distinct division of the four elements already present.
In case you couldn't tell, I'm giving myself brilliant ideas worth exploring. I would definitely like to recreate this.
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