Foie Gras & Flannel

Another crawfish post? Yep—but this one’s more about the excuse to eat them.

See, each year about this time, I start day dreaming about crawfish boils. They were common throughout my childhood in Louisiana, but the last one I attended was organized in honor of my little brother’s graduation; then, our family shipped 120 pounds of live crawfish to North Carolina for the party.

That’s really what the boil is all about—a party. It’s an excuse to get together with friends, stand around a table and get our fingers dirty. Forget napkins, plates, or any sense of etiquette: this is a hands-on, chin-soaked, grab-it-before-anyone-else-does kind of meal. Rip the tail. Suck the head. Bite the claw. Anything goes.

The impetus for this weekend’s shindig came from Ryne; Tracy offered to host, and The Great Crawfish Boil of 2012 was born. We pulled nearly 80 pounds of the largest mudbugs I’ve ever seen from the Sacramento delta, asked some friends to bring corn, potatoes, onions and a few pounds of Fresno State sausage. Then we threw it all into a pot.

Also on the menu: peach cobbler, corn bread with honey butter, pickled okra, berry-vodka trifle, and an unjustifiable amount of beer. And Jameson. And Ciroc Obamas. And Hurricane Chuck—hurricanes, made with two-buck Chuck. (Okay, so it’s not just about the food.)

The soundtrack was a mix of zydeco and Southern folk music. It kept us dancing long into the night.

(Plug: I owe huge thanks to the crew at Sierra Seafood–they came through with a last-minute order for crawfish when everyone else told me they couldn’t be found.)

Warning: if this post feels a bit disjointed, it’s because I started writing it almost a month ago. The leftovers are long gone, but the thoughts, and the sense of comfort, remain.

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I’ve often joked that I’m going to write a book titled How to Burn Out by 30. I have at least three chapters already outlined in my head–the result of my insistence on learning things the hard way, I suppose.

While the number really doesn’t hold significance, I hit the big three zero earlier this year, amidst feelings of burnout and an urgency for change. Friends have called this my third-life crisis; I’m considering it more of a third-life catalyst, though the former is a much more accurate description most days.

I’ve found this to be an intensely reflective period–I’ve looked more and more to the past to understand the present, and in doing so, I’ve reached for long-lost comforts, the most tangible of which are foods from my childhood.

So imagine my excitement when Saveur published The Essential Louisiana several weeks back. After clicking through to the crawfish étouffée recipe, I knew I had to make it. Étouffée is a rich, roux-based Cajun  dish served over rice–it’s far from healthy, but it’s incredibly flavorful. And it’s comfort food.

Crawfish are seasonal, and they’re available in California, but I have yet to find a reliable source. The local fish market orders them this time of year, but from Louisiana–the three pounds I picked up were shipped in live and boiled with a light seasoning. I’ll gladly take what I can get.

Here’s where I need to make a confession: prior to making this, I’d never successfully made a roux. I mean, I’ve burned my fair share, but a good roux takes a lot of time and attention. A dark roux takes stamina and a bit of insanity.

Saveur’s recipe calls for a “dark chocolate” roux, which took a couple tries, but it’s reminiscent of the style of étouffée I grew to love as a kid, so it was worth it. The recipe really needs no improvements; instead of posting a tweaked version, here’s the stock I made from the crawfish shells.

Crawfish Stock

• 3 pounds of seasoned, boiled crawfish, shelled (save the tails and claw meat for the étouffée!)
• 2 large white onions, cut in half, then quartered
• 4-5 stalks celery
• 6 carrots
• 1 Tbsp. vegetable oil
• 3 bay leaves
• 2 cloves garlic
• Salt, to taste

Preheat the oven to 400°F. Spread the crawfish shells evenly across two 9″x13″ baking pans; place the onions on top. Toss the carrots and celery in the vegetable oil and spread out in a third baking dish. Roast everything for an hour, then remove the veggies, turn the oven to 450°F and continue toasting the shells for another 20-30 minutes.

Place the shells, veggies, garlic and bay leaves in a large stock pot and cover with plenty of water. Bring to a boil, then cover and reduce to a simmer for an hour and a half.

The seasoning from the crawfish will flavor the water and may add quite a bit of spice, which is just how this Southern boy likes it. The stock will still need salt–mine needed about three tablespoons.

Strain the stock with a cheesecloth, doubled over (so the shells don’t cut through). Save the excess in the fridge for a few days, or freeze for later use; think, shrimp and grits.

I’d post a photo of the final product, but it looks like mirky water. Instead, here’s the étouffée:

This early summer is messing with the berries. I mean, we were picking mulberries in mid-June last year; this year, we’re we’re almost a month ahead of schedule. Guess that means it’s time for a little urban foraging.

Picture this: it’s 8:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning. A dark SUV rolls quietly down a city street. It stops: two people quickly exit, run across the street, and disappear into the bushes.

Okay, that sounds a bit dramatic, but it really happened. I suppose we could have knocked on the door and asked permission, but where’s the fun in that?! We were gone within a few minutes, anyway–a small collection of ripe berries in our stained hands.

Mulberry-Maple Syrup

• 1/2 cup fresh mulberries, rinsed
• Juice of 1 Meyer lemon
• 2 Tbsps. grade B maple syrup

In a small sauce pan, heat the berries and lemon juice until boiling. Stir in the maple syrup, and reduce heat. Use the back of a wooden spoon to break the berries apart and cook over medium-low, stirring constantly, until the liquid reduces and thickly coats the back of the spoon (keep in mind that the syrup will thicken as it cools).

Simple, right? The lemon and maple really bring out the flavor of the berries.

Drizzle over a stack of Martha’s buttermilk pancakes.

Last Thursday I get a message from my favorite coffee roaster: “Yo dude…smoked cabeza at keiths box car, this sat 8pm.” Hmm, I’m apprehensive. A whole cow’s head?

But I trust Leo; he’s an adventurous foodie with an incredible ability to pick apart intricate flavors. And I get excited about anything that comes off of Keith’s smoker.

Here’s the scene: A small group of us gather at dusk at Keith’s restaurant, in the middle of downtown’s warehousing district (read: it’s the only place with a light on). Each of us brings a side and something to drink–Keith is taking care of the cabeza.

I can’t remember the full prep, but I know that the tongue was removed and cooked separately–Leo says this step is necessary to preserve the flavors of the different meats. Everything was smoked for 90 minutes, then wrapped in foil and burlap soaked in beer, and slow cooked for 11 hours.

What resulted was incredible. As in, “grunting mid-bite, eyes rolling back” incredible. Or, “curl the toes while licking the fingers” incredible. Or…okay, you get the picture: it was tasty.

The tongue and cheek were my favorite, but we ate everything, including the meat from the scalp, the muscle around the eyes, and yes, even the eyes. So. Tender.

Then, we made tacos:

Also on the plate: fresh tortillas from a local vendor, homemade pilaf, roasted carrots and cauliflower with honey and tarragon, collard greens, and fresh salsa.

Not a bad night.