From this blog.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Mental Preparations for Thanksgiving 2013
I'm heading back up to New Hampshire in November for Thanksgiving to be with some dear friends who really love food. I am getting excited about cooking the bird, and part of me is slowly, subconsciously working up to the event, rehearsing it and turning it over in my head ... because Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday and cooking a whole animal for people I love is unmitigated pleasure for me.
The turkey will be a Bourbon Red from the farm of a brother of one of these beautiful people. His farm's motto is EAT FREE OR DIE! Only a hardcore mutherfucker will say that.
Wikipedia says Bourbon Reds look like this in life pose:
I was told they are fairly athletic compared to standard "meat birds", roosting in trees, for example. On the trip that included the Milford Fish Market orgy of food love, I roasted one of these birds. I learned that it wasn't a super-gigantic like a Butterball.com; the ossified tendons in the drumsticks are more pronounced; and there's more variety of texture, moisture, and fat in the flesh. Bringing the whole bird out of the oven, you could sense the animal's activity and lean quickness. The flavor reminded me of the difference between "local chicken" in Maya villages in Belize and the commercial death chickens back at home. More subtlety and variation in the meat. So I'm pondering about changing the heat or cooking time to account for this. But these are wonderful problems for me to think about. It's like winding up a long, slow punch of bliss for the glass jaws of my best friends.
The turkey will be a Bourbon Red from the farm of a brother of one of these beautiful people. His farm's motto is EAT FREE OR DIE! Only a hardcore mutherfucker will say that.
Wikipedia says Bourbon Reds look like this in life pose:
I was told they are fairly athletic compared to standard "meat birds", roosting in trees, for example. On the trip that included the Milford Fish Market orgy of food love, I roasted one of these birds. I learned that it wasn't a super-gigantic like a Butterball.com; the ossified tendons in the drumsticks are more pronounced; and there's more variety of texture, moisture, and fat in the flesh. Bringing the whole bird out of the oven, you could sense the animal's activity and lean quickness. The flavor reminded me of the difference between "local chicken" in Maya villages in Belize and the commercial death chickens back at home. More subtlety and variation in the meat. So I'm pondering about changing the heat or cooking time to account for this. But these are wonderful problems for me to think about. It's like winding up a long, slow punch of bliss for the glass jaws of my best friends.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
An Observation from John Lennon
Maybe it's because I'm reaching the age when John Lennon recorded "Nobody Told Me" just before he was shot, or maybe it's just because at this age we are more relaxed about pointing out the general ambiance of pointless bullshit that we're all engaged in, but either way I've been fixated on the song. With respect to food, he nails a couple of nice cliches in juxtaposition:
Strange days indeed, and we're still in them.
.
There's always something cookin'
But nothin's in the pot
They're starvin' back in China
So finish what you've got
Strange days indeed, and we're still in them.
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Olive Garden ....
It shouldn't have taken me this long to realize that there is no such thing as an olive garden, I grew up in California's Central Valley. The restaurant should be called Olive Orchard.
Or if you just want to embrace the absurdity, Pasta Garden.
But no, again, this would have to be a Pasta Orchard. To wit (starts at 0:30):
Or if you just want to embrace the absurdity, Pasta Garden.
But no, again, this would have to be a Pasta Orchard. To wit (starts at 0:30):
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