My self-guided culinary journey resulted in fatality two weeks ago when I suffocated three pounds of live mussels. Although I do not feel quite as guilty as perhaps Elliot Spitzer feels at this exact moment, my moral compass has been disjointed. I felt bad that my faux pas resulted in the unnecessary death of three pounds of mussels. Or maybe I’m just more upset that I blew $18 on mussels, $15 on saffron not to mention the $20 bottle of wine for what I had hoped would be a culinary masterpiece. (Actually, the $20 bottle of wine did not go to waste!) My excuse, total inexperience.
I had been looking forward to preparing mussels for some time. I read several tips about cleaning, removing sand and ensuring that the mussels were tightly sealed shut prior to steaming in order to avoid certain foodborne illness. I clearly got the message that eating mussels can be a bit dicey! In fact, I only finally got the nerve to try my hat at preparing mussels after watching Ina Garten prepare Moules à la Marinière on a recent episode of Barefoot Contessa. I distinctly remember Ms. Garten pulling a clear plastic bag full of mussels from her refrigerator. Despite my taking copious notes throughout the episode, I do not remember whether she commented on the storage of mussels. One small hint: that would not be in a clear plastic bag wrapped in butcher paper and stored on the top shelf of your refrigerator for over 24 hours.
It was Sunday night - Oscar night. What a perfect evening for an Oscar party à deux of mussels, white wine and fresh sourdough bread. A week before the intimate affair, I placed an order with my local butcher for three pounds of mussels to be delivered Friday. I was running late, so I waited to pick up my order the following Saturday morning. (In case it is unclear, this would be my first mistake.) When I arrived at the market, my butcher handed me my order, which was already sealed. I was asked if I would like to take a look at the mussels, to which I stupidly responded, “no, that’s okay.” (Mistake No. 2) I returned home, put the package in my refrigerator and did not bother to look at the mussels until Sunday afternoon, which was over 24 hours later. (Mistake No. 3)
When I opened the package, I noticed that some of the mussels were open and the scent of sea water was very strong – looking back, maybe too strong? As I further studied the package, I noticed more and more mussels had already opened. I thought, hmmm, maybe they just need to be soaked and the shells will close back up. Seriously. So I proceeded to soak the dead mussels in water with flour to remove sand. An hour later, there was very little sand in the bottom of the pot. I discovered why – the sand was in the clear plastic bag that they had been sitting in for over 48 hours! One-by-one I removed the mussels from the pot to find all but seven of the shells open. It was a holocaust!
We threw out the mussels and I went online to find out what I did wrong. There it was in black and white and color: you are supposed to remove the mussels from the plastic bag and store them in a damp towel in the refrigerator so that they can breathe!
I feel like I have no culinary common sense.
The night was not an entire loss. My husband made a delicious chili, which we enjoyed with cold beer. (I think he was relieved that the mussels didn’t work out!)
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Pomegranate Jelly
My joy and excitement of being newly married was tempered rather suddenly in October 2007, when my husband lost his mother to a massive stroke. Ma belle-mere was a creative woman and extremely skilled in the “dying” crafts of sewing, quilting, knitting, preserving, canning and baking. I say “dying” because in this century, urban women are focused on billable hours, partnership track, and dealing with the incessant and yet archaic male chauvinist pig syndrome. We shop on the internet and covet gift cards. Gone are the days of holiday baking for the neighbors – for that matter, gone are the days of even knowing your neighbors! In any event, I admired my mother-in-law’s skills very much and felt a tremendous loss when she passed away knowing that I would never be able to spend that time in the kitchen with her, talking, laughing, and most of all sharing her secrets of baking and cooking.
One of her favorite seasonal things to make for family and friends was pomegranate jelly. (We still have few jars of her prized jelly in the freezer.) As such, this past Christmas I decided to make her famous pomegranate jelly and give jars of it out as Christmas gifts to my in-laws and friends.
My adventure began by picking all of the pomegranates off our tree. That was the easy work. The next job was to remove the seeds from the fruit. This is no small task! Remembering a “how-to” tip I saw on www.oh-audrey.com, I put a bowl of water in the sink. I then cut one of the pomegranates in half; put one of the halves upside down in the palm of my left hand and (using a wooden spoon) pounded the back of the pomegranate with my right hand. The seeds do come out better and faster than if you try to remove them one-by-one, but you have to break apart and “work” the pomegranate halve a bit in order to retrieve the under-layers of seeds. This step is repeated for each halve of each pomegranate. This is not a big deal if you only need a few seeds for a champagne cocktail or a salad dressing. Making jelly is another story. (I gained an incredible respect for my mother-in-law who must have made hundreds of jars of this jelly over her life-time!) It took me about five (5) hours –which I split up over the course of 4 week-nights –to de-seed approximately 35 pomegranates. (This amount resulted in approximately 3 ½ cups of pomegranate juice – enough for 12 jars of jelly.)
Now, if you do this at home, don’t underestimate the staining that results from pomegranate juice. Shortly after this process, I was nearly refused service at a nail salon after they took one look at my “yellowed” cuticles and thought I had some horrible fungus. Their concerns (which were exaggerated by stares, giggling and low-toned conversations in Vietnamese across the entire salon) even caused me to question the source of this yellowing; was it really the pomegranates, or had I contracted some flesh-eating disease? I was mortified as I left the nail salon and the manicurist said to me “I hope that goes away soon.” To which I responded in the same low-toned voice, “yeah, you too bitch!”
I have no complaints about the work involved in making this fabulous jelly. (I didn’t even mention my first-time experience with jarring and pectin) In fact, it was a sheer joy for me to be a part of this dying art, of giving someone a gift that I made by hand, with loads of love and in honor of my mother-in-law. I may try strawberry preserves next, but there is nothing like the flavor and ruby-red color of pomegranate jelly. A gift that my mother-in-law once told me, “you should always treasure.”
One of her favorite seasonal things to make for family and friends was pomegranate jelly. (We still have few jars of her prized jelly in the freezer.) As such, this past Christmas I decided to make her famous pomegranate jelly and give jars of it out as Christmas gifts to my in-laws and friends.
My adventure began by picking all of the pomegranates off our tree. That was the easy work. The next job was to remove the seeds from the fruit. This is no small task! Remembering a “how-to” tip I saw on www.oh-audrey.com, I put a bowl of water in the sink. I then cut one of the pomegranates in half; put one of the halves upside down in the palm of my left hand and (using a wooden spoon) pounded the back of the pomegranate with my right hand. The seeds do come out better and faster than if you try to remove them one-by-one, but you have to break apart and “work” the pomegranate halve a bit in order to retrieve the under-layers of seeds. This step is repeated for each halve of each pomegranate. This is not a big deal if you only need a few seeds for a champagne cocktail or a salad dressing. Making jelly is another story. (I gained an incredible respect for my mother-in-law who must have made hundreds of jars of this jelly over her life-time!) It took me about five (5) hours –which I split up over the course of 4 week-nights –to de-seed approximately 35 pomegranates. (This amount resulted in approximately 3 ½ cups of pomegranate juice – enough for 12 jars of jelly.)
Now, if you do this at home, don’t underestimate the staining that results from pomegranate juice. Shortly after this process, I was nearly refused service at a nail salon after they took one look at my “yellowed” cuticles and thought I had some horrible fungus. Their concerns (which were exaggerated by stares, giggling and low-toned conversations in Vietnamese across the entire salon) even caused me to question the source of this yellowing; was it really the pomegranates, or had I contracted some flesh-eating disease? I was mortified as I left the nail salon and the manicurist said to me “I hope that goes away soon.” To which I responded in the same low-toned voice, “yeah, you too bitch!”
I have no complaints about the work involved in making this fabulous jelly. (I didn’t even mention my first-time experience with jarring and pectin) In fact, it was a sheer joy for me to be a part of this dying art, of giving someone a gift that I made by hand, with loads of love and in honor of my mother-in-law. I may try strawberry preserves next, but there is nothing like the flavor and ruby-red color of pomegranate jelly. A gift that my mother-in-law once told me, “you should always treasure.”
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Grocery Shopping
Friday was a good day at work. I successfully defended two motions for summary judgment on behalf of my client in a complex business litigation matter in which I am involved. A loss on these motions would have effectively precluded my client from pursuing upwards of $750,000.00 in damages against the defendants. Needless to say, our win has a significant impact on the case.
After oral argument, I decided to take my husband to lunch. The subject of “marketing” as in ‘going to the grocery store and buying food’ came up. I admit I have no idea how to shop at the grocery store, despite the advice I’ve read in Sunset Magazine or Ina Garten’s Barefoot Contessa at Home. Planning a menu for the entire week is not only difficult, but unrealistic because inevitably, we spend at least two to three nights eating out due to working late, my husband will have a meeting with his Cricket team and won’t be home for dinner, or I lose interest in the creative dinner menu I selected three days earlier. In short, the food ends up going bad, getting freezer burn and ultimately thrown out. I can’t stand throwing away food particularly when I read stories like this morning’s front page article in the Los Angeles Times on Zimbabweans flooding South Africa because they are starving for food. As a result, I end up going to the market a lot. Not fun.
This past week, we returned from a three-week trip traveling through Southern France and Northern Spain. I went to the market the day after our return. I bought groceries for breakfast (which usually seems to last a little longer), fish, pasta and vegetables for my Summer favorite: Gazpacho soup. I also bought peppers and sea salt so that we can try to make the delicious pintxos we had in San Sebastian. Perhaps I was a little too focused on the pintxos, but I bought enough groceries to cover at least two dinner menus.
Apparently, my marketing didn’t quite cut it. Two days later, my husband tells me he is going to the market. Surprisingly, that stung quite a bit! In the past this would not have bothered me. Go get it yourself, right?! But my feelings are different now. I’m trying really hard to create our “home” and him telling me he was going to the market, after I had just gone, felt like I failed.
I decided to go with him. We walked up and down each aisle. I watched him pick and choose what he wanted (hoping to glean what it is I should be buying). He selected two jars of jam (we already have three in our pantry and I had purchased another one on my shopping trip two days earlier), two loaves of bread and English muffins (he didn’t like the wheat variety I selected two days earlier), two bottles of dishwashing soap (we already have two in our pantry) and so on and so forth. He also selected a few items that I just totally forgot when I was at the market the other day.
I came away from the experience realizing that we are just different people. I don’t know if it is a male vs. female thing. Whatever it is, apparently I’m still shopping for one person and he shops for a family of five. Does this ever get any easier? I’ll keep reading.
After oral argument, I decided to take my husband to lunch. The subject of “marketing” as in ‘going to the grocery store and buying food’ came up. I admit I have no idea how to shop at the grocery store, despite the advice I’ve read in Sunset Magazine or Ina Garten’s Barefoot Contessa at Home. Planning a menu for the entire week is not only difficult, but unrealistic because inevitably, we spend at least two to three nights eating out due to working late, my husband will have a meeting with his Cricket team and won’t be home for dinner, or I lose interest in the creative dinner menu I selected three days earlier. In short, the food ends up going bad, getting freezer burn and ultimately thrown out. I can’t stand throwing away food particularly when I read stories like this morning’s front page article in the Los Angeles Times on Zimbabweans flooding South Africa because they are starving for food. As a result, I end up going to the market a lot. Not fun.
This past week, we returned from a three-week trip traveling through Southern France and Northern Spain. I went to the market the day after our return. I bought groceries for breakfast (which usually seems to last a little longer), fish, pasta and vegetables for my Summer favorite: Gazpacho soup. I also bought peppers and sea salt so that we can try to make the delicious pintxos we had in San Sebastian. Perhaps I was a little too focused on the pintxos, but I bought enough groceries to cover at least two dinner menus.
Apparently, my marketing didn’t quite cut it. Two days later, my husband tells me he is going to the market. Surprisingly, that stung quite a bit! In the past this would not have bothered me. Go get it yourself, right?! But my feelings are different now. I’m trying really hard to create our “home” and him telling me he was going to the market, after I had just gone, felt like I failed.
I decided to go with him. We walked up and down each aisle. I watched him pick and choose what he wanted (hoping to glean what it is I should be buying). He selected two jars of jam (we already have three in our pantry and I had purchased another one on my shopping trip two days earlier), two loaves of bread and English muffins (he didn’t like the wheat variety I selected two days earlier), two bottles of dishwashing soap (we already have two in our pantry) and so on and so forth. He also selected a few items that I just totally forgot when I was at the market the other day.
I came away from the experience realizing that we are just different people. I don’t know if it is a male vs. female thing. Whatever it is, apparently I’m still shopping for one person and he shops for a family of five. Does this ever get any easier? I’ll keep reading.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Getting Started
Domestic Goddess I am not. I am a 36-year old attorney, recently married and happily, but clumsily, embracing (on a part time basis) my long-desired ability to begin “nesting.” About a year after my now husband and I “shacked up” I decided that harmony in our life and home would only be achieved by finding a proper work/life balance. As such, I did what many other women in my profession are doing in their mid-thirties: I left the grind of billing requirements and “firm life” to work for myself, at home and to cut down my hours.
I moved from my rented apartment in San Francisco to my husband’s home in Southern California. The house is a 75-year old ranch-style home designed by architect Cliff May and sits on 3 beautiful acres. He purchased our home in 2000 and had completed quite a bit of work on the property before I moved in. I was incredibly excited to finally begin nesting. What I didn’t know and still don’t know is a lot. In short, while I may have a knack for designing an 850 square foot apartment, a 5,000 square foot home is another story particularly, where I am now trying to appease two very different interior design sensibilities.
In addition, I’ve spent the better part of the last 15 years eating take out, cereal or appetizers at a bar. I’ve always loved to cook, but getting home late, being alone or going out for drinks after work didn’t inspire me to delve into Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. In fact, the first time I even heard of the book was two years ago, when my husband bought it for me as a Christmas gift. (Was that supposed to be a hint?) Moreover, (and I apologize in advance for the cliché ) me in the kitchen is kind of like a bull in a china shop. As a child, I loved to cook. I would experiment all the time. However, I would also burn things all the time. After several calphalon casualties, my mom ultimately had to cut me off from using her pots and pans and bought me my own small frying pan. Everything I made from that day forward was cooked in that single pan. My mother on the other hand is a beautiful cook. We grew up on pasta, casseroles, fresh vegetables and grilled meats and fish. She was and still is always cooking and her pans are never burned.
Even now, as I start to hone in on my domesticity, I am still burning things. Two days ago, I decided to make a fig tart that I saw in the August 2007 issue of Martha Stewart’s Living Magazine. I schlepped through the Third Street Farmer’s Market in Los Angeles to find black mission figs, vanilla beans and (whole) star anise. Never mind the fact that I bought dried black mission figs figuring it wouldn’t make a difference. (Do you see where this story is going?) Anyway, I bought all of the millions of ingredients that the recipe calls for, none of which I have on reserve in my pantry. (I now have ruby port in my pantry.) I returned home and made the crust, a pâte sucrée, with no problem. I then preheated the oven and endeavored to “roast” the (dried) figs. Seriously. They were supposed to roast for 45 minutes. I set the oven timer for 25 minutes, at which point I opened the oven and basted the figs. I closed the oven and set the timer for the remaining 20 minutes. Everything was going well until I decided to check my E-mail.
My computer is located out of the main part of our house, across a courtyard and in what was originally a garage but is now our home office. An hour later, I looked up from my computer and remembered the figs. I went running into the kitchen. My dried figs had been “candied” like a Jolly Rancher. Fortunately, it was Thursday, the one day a week we have housecleaner to come in and help out. I dumped the figs in the trash, left the Pyrex soaking in the sink and went to work. The funny thing is, my idea of remedying the situation is not to stay in the kitchen when things are baking or roasting, but to install another router near the kitchen so that I can work on my computer when I’m cooking.
Despite my mistakes, ineptitude and sheer ignorance, I am passionate about and determined to create a “home” in every sense of the word. A home in which my husband and I can enjoy, entertain, be comforted by and experience our life together.
This is my diary.
I moved from my rented apartment in San Francisco to my husband’s home in Southern California. The house is a 75-year old ranch-style home designed by architect Cliff May and sits on 3 beautiful acres. He purchased our home in 2000 and had completed quite a bit of work on the property before I moved in. I was incredibly excited to finally begin nesting. What I didn’t know and still don’t know is a lot. In short, while I may have a knack for designing an 850 square foot apartment, a 5,000 square foot home is another story particularly, where I am now trying to appease two very different interior design sensibilities.
In addition, I’ve spent the better part of the last 15 years eating take out, cereal or appetizers at a bar. I’ve always loved to cook, but getting home late, being alone or going out for drinks after work didn’t inspire me to delve into Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. In fact, the first time I even heard of the book was two years ago, when my husband bought it for me as a Christmas gift. (Was that supposed to be a hint?) Moreover, (and I apologize in advance for the cliché ) me in the kitchen is kind of like a bull in a china shop. As a child, I loved to cook. I would experiment all the time. However, I would also burn things all the time. After several calphalon casualties, my mom ultimately had to cut me off from using her pots and pans and bought me my own small frying pan. Everything I made from that day forward was cooked in that single pan. My mother on the other hand is a beautiful cook. We grew up on pasta, casseroles, fresh vegetables and grilled meats and fish. She was and still is always cooking and her pans are never burned.
Even now, as I start to hone in on my domesticity, I am still burning things. Two days ago, I decided to make a fig tart that I saw in the August 2007 issue of Martha Stewart’s Living Magazine. I schlepped through the Third Street Farmer’s Market in Los Angeles to find black mission figs, vanilla beans and (whole) star anise. Never mind the fact that I bought dried black mission figs figuring it wouldn’t make a difference. (Do you see where this story is going?) Anyway, I bought all of the millions of ingredients that the recipe calls for, none of which I have on reserve in my pantry. (I now have ruby port in my pantry.) I returned home and made the crust, a pâte sucrée, with no problem. I then preheated the oven and endeavored to “roast” the (dried) figs. Seriously. They were supposed to roast for 45 minutes. I set the oven timer for 25 minutes, at which point I opened the oven and basted the figs. I closed the oven and set the timer for the remaining 20 minutes. Everything was going well until I decided to check my E-mail.
My computer is located out of the main part of our house, across a courtyard and in what was originally a garage but is now our home office. An hour later, I looked up from my computer and remembered the figs. I went running into the kitchen. My dried figs had been “candied” like a Jolly Rancher. Fortunately, it was Thursday, the one day a week we have housecleaner to come in and help out. I dumped the figs in the trash, left the Pyrex soaking in the sink and went to work. The funny thing is, my idea of remedying the situation is not to stay in the kitchen when things are baking or roasting, but to install another router near the kitchen so that I can work on my computer when I’m cooking.
Despite my mistakes, ineptitude and sheer ignorance, I am passionate about and determined to create a “home” in every sense of the word. A home in which my husband and I can enjoy, entertain, be comforted by and experience our life together.
This is my diary.
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