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Whats Cooking?
Thanksgiving went off without a hitch, of course Sunday promises to be more stressful when I’m doing all the cooking. Ok, not really, I enjoy the cooking and about the only stress I have with it is getting everything to be done at the same time. Case in point, the two items I took for Thanksgiving were simply stellar, and their recipes have already been tucked into the ‘make again’ file.
If you’d like either recipe; Pumpkin Cake with Egg-Nog Frosting or Sweet Potatoes in Orange Cups give me a holler or pick up this month’s Cuisine At Home. The cake recipe is perfect as written, but I’d make two changes to the sweet potato recipe. First I’d loose the orange cups. I had enough potatoes to cook some in the cups and some in a casserole. The ones in the cups took on a little bit of bitter pith flavor but the casserole variety was ‘roll-in-them’ good. They are very visually appealing, but I’m not sure the cups are worth all the extra work. Also I substituted rum (yeah, you aren’t’ surprised are you?) for the bourbon called for in the glaze. I did it because there was no bourbon in the house, but a friend who made the same recipe said he wished he’d done the same as his were distinctly bourbon-ee. Of course if you prefer bourbon to rum then never-mind, heh.
I played with the new camera during dinner, but it is still far smarter than I am. I did manage a shot of the sweet potatoes, but the cake went so fast I couldn’t get focused! I also got a photo of my Mackenzie’s mama, Bear*, with her most favorite thing in the world, a tennis ball.
She is seriously ball-happy and one of the sweetest dogs ever. She’s a leaner; she just walks up to you and leans her head on your knee and gives you one of those soulful doggy looks...*sigh* just heart melting.
It was a pleasant, if uneventful day and I even had enough time in the evening to work on my Pincushion Challenge Swap which is coming along nicely. Next up is the OrnaMENTAL exchange which I’ve challenged myself to finish up next weekend so I can put some hours in a promise I made back in October, and (finger’s crossed) finish up my brother’s quilt top. Until then, if you catch me making a promise or signing up for a swap, smack me please!
*I have not spelled that right, they spell it funny, like Baer or Baree or some such.
Probably our only travel rule is to avoid main stream, big business restaurants whenever possible. Where’s the adventure in eating at a restaurant that is available to you every night of the week? Nowhere! Sure we ate at McDonalds and Cracker Barrel because there’s one at every exit, but we also managed a few, far more satisfying places like Zaxby’s. Yes it’s a chain, but not in our area so it was new to us. It was also very affordable, and dang tasty!
In The Dells, we ate at a little restaurant set over a gift shop called The High Rock Café. No, its not a play on “Hard Rock Café”, rather it is named after one of the more recognizable rock formations of the area, High Rock. D had a Monte Cristo, and I had pork tenderloin with saffron oil, cole slaw with apples and walnuts and German potato salad. More related to skillet potatoes, it was warm, brimming with bacon, onions and potatoes and so good I wanted to roll in it.
In Atlanta, my brother took us to Ria’s Blue Bird Café for breakfast. Tucked into a tiny store front with a four car parking lot, Ria’s is rough edged cute. Blue Birds adorn many surfaces, or are perched in windows, and much of the china appears to have been made at a ‘you paint it, we fire it’ type of place. The food is as eclectic as the decor, delicious common breakfast fare along side exotic frittatas and coffees. D and my bro sampled the pancakes (which they are famous for) and I had eggs, bacon and fried potatoes and all agreed that it was mighty tasty.
For dinner that same day we went to the Graveyard Tavern, near my brother’s house. D and I both had tenderloin with mushroom and black pepper sauce, mashed potatoes we both thought we some of the best we’d ever had, and a veggie. I don’t remember which one D had, but I mix of carrots, onions and mushrooms that was divine. Bro had a burger the size of his plate that he declared delicious. To top it off, they not only had a great selection of beer (Bro is very picky) and wine, but also two of the nicest pool tables I’ve seen in a long while. Unfortunately, dinner did nothing to improve my game, but we enjoyed ourselves nonetheless.
Our best, and probably most memorable meal, was at the Kaminski Brother’s Chop House, at Chula Vista Resort in Wisconsin Dells. We had spent a ‘too long’ day at House on the Rocks and D thought I’d enjoy more of the fine wine and potato salad at High Rock, so we headed back to the Dells. On the way we passed signs for Chula Vista, which D pointed out, his best childhood friend’s family owned and ran. In fact, he thought the friend might work there, so we decided to stop in and find out. Despite having ‘resort’ in its title it appeared pretty standard as hotels go, the lobby was packed with folks in shorts and bathing suits and we didn’t feel out of place. We spent thirty minutes looking for his friend (everyone we asked sent us somewhere else) before giving up. Figuring we were smack in the middle of no less than five restaurants we opted to eat at the resort rather than getting back in the car. D suggested the Chop House, which I readily agreed to - steak being a favorite food, and not seeing it directly off of the lobby asked where it was.
The “Upstairs, I think” answer we got should have been our first clue that something was amiss. But having successfully negotiated the ‘where do you want to eat’, ‘I don’t know, where do YOU want to eat’ dilemma we were dogged in our determination to reach the Chop House, so up we went. It was practically in front of the elevator doors, which further puzzled us over the answer to ‘where is it’. We walked up to the threshold of the thrown wide double French doors and peered into the bustling upscale restaurant to our left, and highbrow oak bar to our right. We shared a ‘we don’t belong here’ glance and started to leave when the hostess walked up and asked if she could help us. In all we tried three times to go back downstairs to one of the more casual establishments, and between her and the manager, we were arm-twisted into staying. Moreover, they weren’t even technically open, we had wandered into a practice night packed with invited guests and family. After a short time in the bar (where we giggled at our predicament and discussed slipping out) we were seated at a table overlooking the river. Thankfully the neighboring table of eight was so boisterous and loud (and great fun to watch) we realized anyone looking our way would be looking at them and not our white trash attire. Our server wheeled up a long narrow cart laden with wrapped examples of their various steaks and fish. I opted for a bleu cheese crusted fillet, and D for something called a baseball steak, which I suspect is simply a huge, four inch thick sirloin. We also ordered mashed potatoes, which are served family style and could have fed a small town. The next cart to arrive was basically a salad bar on wheels, and our server built us one to order; black olives for me, none for D. I won’t bore you with a bite by bite description of our meal but I will say it was outstanding, as was the service, management (a son of one of the brothers), and the owners neither of whom remembered D but both visited the table and were truly interested in our comments about the establishment.
Before the evening ended we’d been adopted by the 8-top next to us. They were family and friends of the dessert chef, to prove it they shared their dessert with us; a huge family style chocolate cake and a key lime pie. It’s a shame we got chummy with them so late, we could have shared the fish bowl sized Cosmopolitan they had, hee. If you’ve ever splurged by visiting Ruth’s Chris Steak House, you have a very good idea of both the service style and caliber, as well as quality of food and spirits. You’d also have a pretty good guess at our total bill, but there you’d be wrong. Since it was a practice night, and they felt the timing was not quite right, our bill was discounted 50%, even the alcohol. Part of me wishes we’d been dressed better, but in the end that too was part of the experience. If you’re reading this Kaminski Brothers, don’t change a thing! We loved every part of our visit; is was definitely a high point of our vacation!
Ya know, when I started this post I had three full paragraphs about how crappy I’ve been sleeping, how overwhelmed I feel - despite the weekend off, and about my head hurting today. Well, poo! Who freakin’ cares? I’m not even sure I do. So instead I’ll tell you about last night’s dinner.
I got home about an hour late last night from work. D and I spent some time chatting about our days and then I slipped off to my office/craft room to wind down a bit before starting dinner. I got pretty engrossed in what I was doing and a lot of time passed. Gradually, though, I became aware of a sizzling noise coming from the kitchen and the smell of something cooking. “Are you cooking something?” I yelled and got no answer. So, I rushed to the kitchen to find out for myself. Yes, rushed, and in a mild panic too.
For the last seven years I’ve been the only cook in the house. D is limited to frozen pizzas and carry out, and even that I do most of the time. I’m fine with it, mostly because early in our dating he cooked for me twice ... the same thing, and it’s a wonder I lived to tell the tale. D survived most of his bachelor years on broiled chicken, which is arguably better than the Raman noodles, canned tuna and hot sauce my brother survives on, but its not the method I have an issue with – it’s the production. D’s version of broiled chicken is heavily dusted with cinnamon, and then covered with ketchup before being cooked within an nanosecond of jerky dryness. Sure, balance the spices a little, upgrade the ketchup to tomato paste and pop it into a tangine and you’re well on your way to Moroccan fare - but you’ll have to take my word for it, he’s a long, long way from Morocco.
When I hit the kitchen he had three Bubba Burgers going in a skillet, leftover potato salad already on the plates with chips and dip and not a jar of cinnamon* in site. Bless his heart, he’d even fixed me a rum and coke. Dinner was late and a little over done, but in all honestly it was one of the nicest I’ve had in a while!
*Probably because there are three varieties in the house and he’s not sure which one he likes - heh.
Friday nights show was a blast, I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time. Once it was over we decided that we’d go grab some dinner at a nearby Mexican restaurant. The first clue that we may have made a slight mistake was the four security guards standing at the door and the velvet ropes leading in that are not usually there. One of the guards looked at us and said, laughingly “I guess you guys aren’t here for the dance.” They told us to go right in, not bothering to ‘wand’ us for weapons. Our second clue was the ear bleedingly loud music, I was very surprised my father didn’t turn us around before our butts could even warm a chair. When a server finally approached us, we asked if we could move to the patio, hoping that it would be quieter. It was, by about three decibels and had the added addiction of a line of colored stage lights directly over the table which gave our food unnatural color in time with the beat. By the time we finished eating the dance crowd had started to trickle in, Hispanic men mostly, in freshly pressed jeans and pearl button shirts. But there were also younger boys who were given orange wrist bands to indicate they were below drinking age. Their dress was more hip-hop, low hung pants, boxers peeking out the top, greased hair and bandannas tied around their heads. The older cowboys paid us no mind at all, for the younger men though we were definitely a curiosity and they openly stared, one even going inside to bring his friends out to see the silly white folks. By the time we finished eating the crowd had increased, but was no were near what it promised to become. The security troop at the door had doubled, and standing in the parking lot were five police officers in black t-shirts with ‘gang control’ emblazoned on the back. My step-mom tapped one of them on the shoulder and asked ‘Is it like this every weekend?’ They all answered in the affirmative and by their expressions I guess things get pretty tough ... I was glad to be leaving.
The weekend’s other project, the cake, went off with a hitch. And yes, I did mean ’with a hitch’. Early yesterday morning I was pouring the batter for the first round of cakes into the pan, supporting the mixing bowl with one hand and scraping out the batter with the other. The bowl was heavy and ungainly and I guess dangerous. When I turned to the sink to rinse it out something under my left shoulder blade seized up and hasn’t let go yet. For a while there I couldn’t pick up a glass, or bend over or even turn my head a certain way. It hurt, but mostly it made me mad because it just seemed so stupid. Poor D had to rotate the cakes for me, test them for doneness, and take them out. He had to pick up everything I dropped on the floor; it seemed like every two minutes I was calling him to help. Coloring my hair was difficult, ‘dressing’ it nearly impossible, and putting on my panty hose a herculean feat. For me to sit was a controlled fall, and standing could only be done by sliding my butt to the edge of the chair so my legs could do all the work. Picture a pregnant hippo in an evening gown and you’ll have a pretty good idea of how graceful I was last night. Nonetheless, we had a great time and D did a fine job on the cake, dontcha think? **schnort**
I had hoped that the first “What’s Cookin?” entry would be an awesome recipe for a cold winter night. While cooking and photographing my progress last night I also constructed witty cometary in my head. And even took pictures like this to share.
And the finished product looked awesome all plated and dressed.
Sadly though I was pretty disappointed. I just didn’t think it had enough flavor to justify $20 for less than two pounds of meat. It is possible that I did something wrong ... or that I had a bad cut of meat (it happens), but I don’t think I’ll make it again. If your are curious the recipe can be found here, I’d love to hear from you if you try it, perhaps you will have more success.
On the other hand, the potatoes were stellar. And since I ‘invented’ the recipe last night that’s saying something. D and I usually make up names for the recipes I invent, but this one is so basic its just ‘New Potatoes’.
10-12 small new potatoes
1 can beef broth
2 Tbs butter
1 Tbs dried shallot (you can use fresh - but the dried toast up nicely)
Salt and pepper to taste
Parsley, fresh or dried
Wash potatoes, remove any eyes or bad spots. Peel around the middle of each potato, leaving peel at ends. Place broth in a sauce pan and bring to a simmer. Using a steamer insert, add potatoes and cover. Size plays a big part in cooking time, so check for doneness at 10 minutes. Potatoes should be just fork tender, center may still be a little firm and that’s fine. Heat butter over medium / high heat in a skillet large enough for potatoes to fill in one layer. Add shallots and cook for 1 minute. Add potatoes and allow to cook undisturbed until golden brown, turn and repeat. Salt and pepper to taste, garnish with parsley and serve. Serves two.