Cheese monged: Part 2 (in which we are shamed, sated)

Eager to bolster the cheese in our stomachs as well as on this flog, my lovely wife and I headed down to Pastoral, which had been on the “we should go there” list for years now. Having no real plan as to why we were there, we kind of hemmed and hawed until a woman asked if we wanted to try anything. Ian’s brain: “Yes, everything. Now.” Ian’s mouth: “Um.” So the lady proceeded to start whipping out hunks of cheese and slicing off slivers for us to taste. There was a lot of bumbling on our part and much patience on her part, with a couple touch-and-go moments where I kinda thought she might just ask us to leave. But she didn’t, and after she suffered such inane comments as “Kinda like a goat cheese” (which was apparently the dumbest thing I could have said, but dammit she had to have known what I meant–that chalky, crumbly tube of white gunk you get at the supermarket that says GOAT CHEESE) and “That’s a really mild blue” (reason: not a blue) we left with our pride in tatters but a bag full of cheese for dinner. The cheese lady was sassy, all right,  but she definitely hooked up us.

Here’s our spread:

From left to right: Queso de la Serena, Tallegio, Saint Agur Blue, and Covadonga. Not the prettiest array, I’ll admit, but who cares?

Queso de la Serena

Critter: cow. Country: Spain. Type: Semi-soft. Rawness: Raw! Aged: 2-3 months.

When we were in the store and mentioned we’d recently been to Spain, the lady asked if we’d had any of this stuff. When we said no she looked like she was about to cry (though who knows, it’s completely possible we had some–we certainly had a lot of cheese and I don’t have a clue what most of it was because I know squat and remember even less). Anyway, she made this whole big deal about this cheese and how amazing it was and a bunch of techy talk about rennett and other stuff that bonked right off our thick skulls. But, we liked it when we tried it, though for some reason eating it that night we were both decidedly less awed. Cheese lady claimed it was an unforgettable cheese, but she underestimated me. I’ve forgotten it in less than 24 hours.

Taleggio

Critter: cow. Country: Italy. Type: Semi-soft, washed rind. Rawness: not raw. Aged: min. 35 days.

Apparently this is kind of a stinky cheese for cowards. We were at a dinner over the weekend that had mac ‘n cheese made with Taleggio and it was killer, so we were eager to really get into some. The aroma’s a little funky, but by no means repellent, and the texture is, well, perfect, and melts like butter on your tongue with a mild but deeply savory and kinda tangy flavor. I LOVE it. I must have more. A new favorite.

Saint Agur Blue

Critter: cow. Country: France. Type: double-cream blue. Rawness: not raw. Aged: 2 months.

Now we get into the blues. Our cheese lady refused to give us any other sort of cheeses to taste once we’d drifted into the blue territory, because I guess the flavors would blow our tastebuds’ minds so much that they would be unable to cope with anything else. So we heeded her warnings in the store, though I wondered just how long until we could reclaim our palates from laying in smoldering ruins–an hour? All day? Forever? Anyway, at home we of course said to hell with it and ate the blues out of order, but why not? I tried the milder cheeses before the blues, then again after, and they tasted different. Not worse. Not less. Just different. I found it kind of fascinating how taste is so relative and how you can screw with it by going big then small, and small then big. Note: oranges taste super weird after a mouthful of blue cheese. Anyway, the Saint Agur Blue is spectacularly creamy–way creamier than it is blue-ey. A winner.

Covadonga

Critter: cow and sheep blend. Country: Spain. Type: blue. Rawness: not raw. Aged: 2-3 months.

Salty! Beefy! Perky! Good! A killer blue that hit my numbed, weary taste buds just right. Seemed to have more of those blue bits than other blue cheeses–in fact, there may have been more blue bits than white binder. If this cheese was a person it would probably be a really annoying person–overly bubbly and peppy. Good thing it couldn’t talk. It would have been too busy being chewed anyway.

So, learned a bit more about cheese, and I think I’ll start a cheese power rankings, because who doesn’t love power rankings?

1: Taleggio

2: Saint Agur Blue (more like 1a)

3: Piave Vecchio

4: Covadonga

5: Queso de la Serena (though I’m willing to admit it may need to be revisited)

6: Vacherin Fribourgeois

Cheese monged

If you’ve ever met me, you probably know that I’m made up of approximately 23% cheese, and am trying with all my might to up that number whenever possible. I recently reviewed the Best Food Writing of 2009 for Booklist, and found this preposterous gem of a line: “When you eat cheese, you mainline the uncut elixir of life.” A totally ridiculous thing to say, to be sure, but also kind of great and a sentiment that I can totally relate to. But, sadly enough, I’m a total idiot when it comes to remembering anything when I venture outside of the heavyweight class of cheddars and such. So, in the interest of committing to memory any new cheese dabblings, I’ll use this flog to create a handy reference source for me.

I went in to Whole Foods to get a Gruyere and Emmentaler for fondue, which is what I always use and love to death. But, said I to I, why not dabble a bit? I got talking to the fromage-dealer and nibbled a few samples, and ended up with two slight variations on the theme.

Taking the place of the Gruyere was a Piave. The little sign said it was similar to a Gruyere, but a little sharper. I’m all about sharp, so seemed like a good fit. Also, it was on a killer half-off sale and I’d eaten about half the sample bites so figured I should buy some.

Critter: Cow. Region: Paive River, Italy. Type: Hard. Rawness: Not raw. Also sometimes called a Piave vecchio (“old”) or stravecchio (“extra-old”). Via artisinalcheese.com (who seem to know what they’re talking about):

Piave is named after the river Piave, whose source is found at Mount Peralba in Val Visdende, in the northernmost part of the province of Veneto, Italy. The land surrounding the ancient river is integral to the character of the cheese: it is where the milk is collected, the curd cooked, and the cheese aged until hard. Piave has an intense, full-bodied flavor, reminiscent of Parmigiano Reggiano, that intensifies with age and makes this cheese absolutely unique. Pair Piave with Zinfandel.

And, in place of the Emmentaler was (/checks label) a Vacherin Fribourgeois. This one came after much deliberation with the cheese guy, but mainly I thought if I was going to get all snooty I might as well get a cheese whose very name will make the proletariat rise up and smite me. Plus, neato rind.

Critter: Cow. Region: The Fribourg canton (what’s a canton?), Switzerland. Type: Semi-firm. Rawness: Raw! Again, I’ll let artisinalcheese.com lay the groundwork:

Vacherin Fribourgeois is a hearty and potent Swiss cow’s milk cheese with a semi-soft to firm texture, depending on age. Selected by master affineur Rolf Beeler, Vacherin Frigourgeois is an “old fashioned” Vacherin with an uneven, craggly rind and harsh edges. Its taste is grassy, nutty, and with the perfume of fresh-cut hay. The flavors increase when melted, and, as such, Vacherin Fribourgeois makes an excellent fondue cheese. Pair this cheese with Pinot Noir.

New life goal: become a master affineur. Second new life goal, find out what an affineur is. Anyway, sure enough these two did make a lovely fondue, with a perfect consistency, though it probably won’t supplant the Gruyere-Emmentaler standard. We made sure to do a little lasting before they got thrown into the melt. I have a pretty crappy palate, so my mental tasting notes go something along the lines of “The Vacherin is a pretty good cheese, while the Piave is a really good cheese.” But if I had to play the game, I’d say that the most memorable thing was that the Vacherin really did smell awfully barny. Didn’t taste barny at all, but there you have it.

Ready for dippin’.

And primed for scrapin’. This is the incredible treat at the end of fondue–a quarter-inch thick shellac of crispy cheese cracklins. Bliss.

Thanksgiving in Heaven

We spent turkeyfest 09, as I hope to spend it every year, in the cabin in the woods of Maine, a treat that is only one of the many reasons why it’s really no contest that I’m the luckiest fella around. For those of you who haven’t yet had the pleasure, he’s a quick tour:

The faucet

The washstand

The bar
(missing, probably due to the fact that it was constantly being passed around, is the bottle of Brennivin, a curiously delicious Icelandic schnapps)

The view

Perty, no?

The way it works in Limerick, Maine  is that we all head over the Kate and Fontaine’s amazing house for a spectacular first Thanksgiving (followed by a round of headlamp croquet, in which my wife made a series of jaw-dropping shots to help us race from worst to first. If there was an ESPN Classic channel devoted to night croquet, this match would have been an instant classic, to be studied and marveled over for the ages). Then, on Friday everyone reconvenes in the cabin for second Thanksgiving. But, before I get ahead of myself, here’s some pics from First Thanksgiving:

The 28-pounder just out of the oven. This thing was massive, as if a turkey had et another turkey. I’m not sure how this thing walked around. I’m guessing it didn’t. Not that I would have, but I could have stuck my entire head in that cavity. Ok, I kinda wanted to, but am blessed with remarkable restraint. Figuring out how to transfer it from the roasting pan to the carving dish without it coming apart from its own sheer weightiness was a challenge, but Fontaine was up to the task:

Note the cast-iron wood-burning stove in the background. I MUST have one.

Without a doubt the cleverest salad I’ve ever seen. Get it?

Plate o’ happy.

On to Second Thanksgiving. This is the big event for Aba, when he gets to deep-fry two new turkeys in the woods. Here’s the setup:

Hard to see here, but it was pretty much pouring all day. However, Aba’s got this method so well perfected that it mattered none at all. Take that, precipitation!

About to drop bird one.

Bird one in!

And about an hour later, perfection.

While bird two is getting its fry on it’s time to finish up the fixins. Caramelized pecans for the sweet potatoes, and in the big pot is a double helping of roasted hearts, livers, and gizzards for the gravy.

Meanwhile, bird one is getting torn asunder by ravenous hordes. The desired method is to peel off a bit of skin and use it a taco shell for torn-off hunks of thigh meat. No pics available because I was pretty busy gorging myself.

The Spread:

(the tankard in the center is filled with gravy. I couldn’t have been the only one to ponder the implications of gravy as a beverage)

The pies:

Thanks to everyone who made it such a terrific weekend! I daersay it’ll be impossible to top, but have no doubt we’ll find a way to do so next year.

BBC Chili

That first B stands for Bison. The second one stands for Bacon. And the C? Oh you’d better believe that means Chorizo my friends. After years of dabbling, I may have finally found the perfect meat combo for chili. Rejoice!

Actually, since I did use a bit of leftover beef and the main bean source was black beans, I could call it BBBBBC Chili (or B5C2, which a few months ago would have had a nice mad scientist lab experiment ring to it, but now just probably sounds like a new flu). So I’m sticking with BBC Chili.

I had planned to do one of those lists that ranks chili toppings in order of importance, but I’m finding that sort of impossible. How can you say that minced onion is any less vital than shredded cheese? Where do you rank sour cream? Sour cream’s so good that no matter what list it’s on, it should be first. I eat sour cream straight out of the tub with a spoon and not an ounce of shame. But with all the delicious but admittedly soggy textures, you really need some crunch, so the Fritos can’t possibly be a secondary option (some people go with Saltines, which is fine, but trust me, a handful of crunched-up Fritos on your chili takes it to a whole other place. You’re welcome). I love me some avocado and how it’s essentially a fruit trying to pass itself off as fat, but I suppose it’s the least essential chili add-on, so if I had to rank toppings it would probably look something like this:

1. OnioncheesesourcreamFritos

1a. Avocado.

The main thing to keep in mind is to get a bit of everything in every bite. Sometimes I re-top my chili as many as three or four times before I reach the bottom of the bowl, and then gobble up all the leftover topping scraps scattered about the cutting board. A couple tupperwares full of chili in the freezer makes for a truly happy winter.

Finding Umami

One of our two must-stop stalls at the farmer’s market we frequent on Saturday mornings, aside from the lady we get our magnificent fresh eggs from, is the guy who seems to grow nothing but mushrooms, but grows them like a maniac. It’s an orgy of fungi pouring out of the back of his truck: portobellos, shiitakes, criminis, morels, oysters, chanterelles, hen of the woods. I admit I barely knew the difference between many of these at the beginning of the summer, but a dedicated sampling schedule each week allowed a peek at what distinguishes each of them, and why anyone should care (verdict: you don’t need to care, but it’s a ton of fun to).

Then, one day there was a wee little basket of mushrooms we’d never seen before. In size and shape they were a little like swollen wine corks. We were informed that they were the highly prized Japanese matsutake, and went for a sobering price of $40 a pound (I’d soon find out that this was actually a screaming deal, as they can easily go for upwards of $100 a pound). Having a wife in grad school and a me in the nonprofit sector, spending this kind of money on mushrooms seems like a inexcusable luxury, but we’d been scared off of buying morels and hen of the woods earlier in the summer because of price, and I was tired of our self-imposed fungus pauperhood. So we went nuts and bought four pieces, which probably cost about seven or eight bucks all together. Here they are:

The mushroom folks are full of great ideas on how to use their product. In fact, the week the guy opened my eyes to using the big-as-your-face portobellos as a base for pizza effectively ended my quest for the perfect pizza crust–just scoop out the gills, smear on some sauce, sprinkle with cheese and whatever toppings you’ve got around, and bake at 400 for about twenty minutes or so–oh hell, here’s a pic:

I”m just now realizing that I can’t believe I haven’t topped the portobello pizzas with more mushrooms. Chopped olives and salami are another killer topping set.

Anyway, we didn’t really have a clue what to do with our four little pieces of matsutake mushroom, but the mushroom guy claimed that their flavor was so intense that just a few dropped into a stew was the way to go. So, I stopped into the Japanese market down the street and came home with a bunch of product that I can only vaguely identify:

I will admit that this is the first time in my entire life that I’ve personally purchased tofu. I’m not sure if there’s a word for how I felt about this, but it’s some uneasy mix of pride (that, you know, my horizons are expanding and I’m maturing enough to buy tofu) and shame (that I willingly bought tofu).

As I sliced open the first matsutake, I was a little surprised to find that it looked kind of like a sponge on the inside, lined by little tunnels and dotted with holes. No wonder they’re so light, thought I as I peered closer at the curious texture. And that’s when I noticed the itty bitty corpse-pale maggotish worm squirming around, chomping away at my $40 a pound mushroom without a care in the world. Sonofa!

I immediately showed it to Lauren and we jumped around a bit, shuddering with revulsion and making little huffing barfy sounds which made the dog go nuts and start barking and jumping around with us wondering what all the fuss was about which made us dance around even more frantically because that dog of ours can be downright dangerous when she gets all wound up, which is pretty much always. I threw the infested mushroom in the trash with the force usually reserved for spiking a football, and bravely sliced open the next. This one had a pure, untouched inside, unmarred by evil little squirmy grub-trenches. Phew. The next one also had a little worm citizen, but by this point I was no longer revolted, just pissed. Now, I realize that pesticides are ruining the world and all that, but you know what’s worse than pesticides? Maggots in your exorbitantly priced mushrooms, that’s what. The last mushroom was fine, so I was down to two pieces. Four-dollar-a-pop mushrooms the size of my thumb had damn well better be fantastic.

Wouldn’t you know it, they were. I made an udon soup, or, as I call it when Lauren orders it when out for dinner, “spaghetti water,” which never ceases to amuse me, yet somehow never manages to amuse her. Women are such a mystery! I started by frying the sliced matsutakes in a bit of sesame oil, then boiled down some mirin (a sugary rice wine) in the pan:

The matsutakes were almost candied at this point, swimming in a thick and incredible smelling syrup, so I slid the whole concoction into some dashi (fish stock), added some reconstituted dried shiitakes (I was hoping that the two different mushrooms wouldn’t compete against each other too much, but being down to two itty bitty matsutakes kind of forced my hand), seaweed, udon noodles, and yes, cubed tofu. Five-ten minutes of boiling and it was ready to go.

The matsutakes were really unlike anything I’d had before, and imparted a markedly distinct flavor than what the shiitakes brought. I’ve read about it because I’m a dork and read about food, but I’ve never really completely grasped the concept of the fifth taste (after sweet, sour, bitter, and salty) called umami. And while I still don’t have the intellectual grasp of umami in the way I might for bitter, I do know that I can now recognize it because this broth most definitely had it. Deep, earthy, meaty, irresistible. We slurped up that spaghetti water till we were groaningly full–from soup, which isn’t easy. Yes yes, stupid expensive, but I guess that’s the cost of stupid good. I’m willing to pay.

Yom Kippur Brisket

Our first yearly food tradition is to make a huge brisket for Yom Kippur break-fast. Now, I don’t fast because I honestly don’t think I’d survive, but the wife does and I like to have a huge meal waiting for her and her Jewish brethren when they return from services. And I LOVE every step of making brisket. I get positively giddy when I get to go to the butcher and ask for a seven-pound hunk of cow. Here’s this year’s beauty:

Season the heck out of the meat and sear on all sides (had to cut this one in half to fit in the dutch oven). Searing meat makes me crazy. I absolutely lose my mind in a haze of bliss with the kssss of the meat hitting a hot pan, the smell of meat and fat caramelizing, the divine visuals of perfectly dark-golden crust, and knowing that all the browned bits of left-over meat-specks on the bottom of the pan are going to lead to positively destructive deliciousness in the sauce. Gawk a bit at this holiness:

Just looking at that picture make me so excited I can hardly sit still. Gah! SEAR!!!

Anyway, I sizzle some garlic and onions in this yum-packed pan:

Deglaze with a bottle of nice red wine, add some stock, bay leaves, thyme, bring to a boil and nestle that brisket right in there.

Low and slow in the oven for about four hours or so, just enough time for the smell to make the dog to go completely bonkers and me right along with her. It’s really best to do this all the day before, and let the cooked brisket sit in the juice overnight in the fridge magically getting even more perfect. Slice and reheat with juices in a covered roasting pan.

At this point I kinda forgot to take any more pictures, but alas. Next year. Served with roasted carrots, matzo-dumplings (boiled in the brisket braise liquid), horseradish sauce, and pecan-noodle kugel. There may have been a salad. Who can remember? Nine or ten good friends helped make sure there was nary a speck of meat left over.

Eggs en cocotte

Eggs en cocotte (Frenchy for “eggs in cocotte”) is the new favorite breakfast around here, and rather easy to throw together. Saute some mushrooms and shallot in butter or olive oil or whatever, then toss in a hearty dash of cognac, a touch of cream, boil it down, and season with S&P until it tastes yum. Rub some butter all around the inside of some ramekins, and evenly (or disproportionally, whatever you’re feeling) dole out the mushrooms.

Layer on some cheese. I used blue because I love blue cheese so much it’s bordering on unhealthy. A question I ask the wife more and more frequently, no matter what I’m making, is “What do you think, can we add some blue cheese to this?” The answer, awesomely, is yes 100% of the time.

Drop in some eggs and sprinkle with chopped herbs (tarragon here) and put the ramekins in a skillet water bath, cover and simmer about five minutes or so until the eggs are just set.

If you know what’s good for you, leave the eggs a little runny and you’ll be left with a gorgeously goopy mix of yolk-soaked cheesy mushrooms to start the day. Then, right back to bed with ye.

Mail call

These just arrived in the mail from our dear East-coast-based compatriots Adam and Deb:

iPod pictured to give a frame of reference of just how huge, massive, and mind-boggling these jars of cheese balls are. No, not jars. Tubs, vats, kegs of cheese balls. This started when we brought Adam and Deb one of these cheese-ball monstrosities as a housewarming gift earlier this summer. Obviously, we are now engaged in an arms race. Next time we see them, this honor shall be revisited upon them threefold.

Best friends ever?

Best friends ever.

Breakfast

This is how we do it.

Crabcake.

Poached egg.

Hollandaise.

/wins

Roasted Everything Salsa

Stupid tomatoes. At the beginning of the summer I bought a little tomato plantlet called “bush early girl,” which meant that it was supposed to be good for container planting (this part turned out ok) and also was supposed to fruit WAY earlier than other tomatoes, like in mid to late June. Sure enough, in June there was nothing. July there were a few hard little greenies, which stayed green throughout August. It wasn’t until MID-SEPTEMBER that they started to turn red, by which time it’s cool enough in Chicago for the plant to, you know, stop living and get on with dying. What a jerk.

I watered these things every day for over four months, hoping that I’d turn out to miraculously be some sort of tomato-growing savant. Alas, when Lauren and I took our first reverent bites of the plant we’d tended so carefully for so long, the tomato was a resounding meh. Not bad, mind you, just on the acceptable side of being mealy with not a whole lot going on tastewise. I’ll try again next year, but don’t feel like I’ve necessarily learned anything, so kinda doubt it’ll work out much better. For now, though, I’m going on the assumption that 2009 was just a disastrously poor summer for tomatoes. If this is not the case, do me a favor and don’t tell me.

So, we had these tomatoes that we didn’t necessarily want to eat, so the missus suggested I make a roasted tomato salsa out of them. My wife has terrific ideas. Along with these gorgeous peppers

which, when I asked the lady at the farmer’s market what kind they were, she said “hot.” Thanks lady. But they were pretty, so I stuck the tomatoes and a few others we had lying around, the peppers, some onion and garlic in the broiler.

Before (less delicious)

After (with flame-added delicious)

A quick whir in the foodchopmachine and yum, salsa! Curiously, this was blisteringly hot right when I made it, but after letting it figure itself out for a few days it somehow got milder. Is that even possible?