Foie Gras & Flannel

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.

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It’s Monday, and I’m out of words. Just…appreciative.
And excited to see all of the valley’s roadside stands open for business.

In October, I flew out to Denver to meet my brother, who drove cross-country to live with me for a few months. Our drive to Fresno was spread over two days, and on the first leg, we committed to driving only on back roads.

Jason left a couple of weeks ago. Thinking through our time together, I remembered writing the following about our adventure. I think I’m due for another detour.

There are few icons of convenience more prominent than the interstate: high speed limits posted on endless miles of pavement, free of traffic signals and intentional pauses. To date, I figure I’ve seen 30,000 miles of it–trips between parents as a kid, vacation at the Grand Canyon, a cross-country move (North Carolina to California), a handful of extended holiday trips, and so forth. And if there’s one thing I’ve wanted on every trip, it’s a faster speed limit; I’ve given in to the speed and convenience.

Not this time, though. Not this trip. At least, not this day. Just one day of detours, and without an interstate.

The ride? A 2000 VW Jetta, packed with everything Jason owns, plus all of my gear. No cruise control. No radio. An incessant vibration between 3,500 and 4,000 RPM. And a faulty locking system that sometimes requires you to open the truck, start the car, then close the trunk.

First stop: a neighborhood coffee shop. That powered us through sunrise.

I-25 heads south out of Denver. We looked at the headlights dotted on the road as we passed over, heading west on Highway 285. Before long, we were winding up. And up. And up. When we hit Kenosha Pass, we saw an elevation sign–9,997 feet above sea level. We descended about 500 feet into Jefferson and found a spot to fill up.

Throughout the morning, we passed less than a few dozen cars. We had to pay inside when we stopped for gas–the countryside pumps didn’t have credit card terminals. Perhaps most refreshing of all: we went hours without spotting a fast food restaurant.

We were alert, in tune with our conversation, and our surroundings. Here’s what we saw:

• The sunrise. In the rearview mirror, as we climbed above Denver.
• Nine different types of animal crossings signs, including signs for elk and big-horned sheep. Oh, and people–sometimes they cross the road?
• Deer. Quite a few of them. (We almost hit one.)
• Clean air, and snow-capped mountains.
• Birdhouses dotting the fence lines for miles.
• Four Corners.
• Sunset over the mesas of southern Colorado and northern Arizona.
• The Milky Way. Every star in it, and some falling from it.

After 640 miles, we reached Flagstaff, and we welcomed the stop. The trip took us just over 13 hours, which puts our average speed at just shy of 50 miles an hour. I drive faster than that getting across town.

We woke up feeling relaxed the next day, but ready to  to find the fastest route to Fresno. Back on I-40. Average speed: 85 miles an hour.

I don’t really remember anything from that leg of the trip. No, the memories are in the detours.

Life gets complicated. At least, my life has gotten complicated, so lately I’ve found myself retreating and resetting–reformatting. Now, I’m attempting to rediscover the beauty and inspiration that lie in simplicity.

That’s what I found at the market this weekend:

Early season sugar peas

Fresh mint

Eggs (these actually came from a friend’s backyard)

Side note: I also found an amazing work table at a local thrift store–that’s the wood grain in the images above. It’s bulky, gritty, and charmingly weathered. (Interestingly, this is also how I might describe myself.)

Back to the peas. Those were eaten whole, straight from the bag the farmer handed me. The mint was used in iced tea and in a quinoa salad with feta cheese and pomegranate arils. The eggs were used to make Dutch babies, then topped with fresh strawberries and kiwi.

And with these, I’m renewed.

It amazes me how a few fresh ingredients can restore a sense of peace, but they really can. Today, I feel like I may once again have a handle on things–that life is a little less complicated. Today, I want to cook again.

Meet Harlene Summers. We’re writing a story on her restaurant for TasteFresno.

Harlene is a middle name—her first name comes from her father, who wanted a son. But soon she’ll be legally known as Makhenda, a name given to Harlene by elders of a tribe in Congo.

I first learned of Harlene’s restaurant through Groupon; I rarely open emails advertising discounts at locally owned businesses, but several weeks back one arrived offering a special at Makhenda’s Girls. First thought: “Is this a Groupon for an escort service?” (Serious question.)

Of course I opened, eventually clicking through to discover a restaurant with a menu boasting flavors—a “taste explosion,” even—from the Deep South. Okay, I’m listening.

My first taste included brisket, sweet potatoes, greens and cornbread; the food was charmingly delicious. On the second trip, I tried the fried catfish. So good it reminded me of home.

On the third visit, I hovered around the smoker next to the house restaurant, listening as Harlene told stories of growing up and cooking in the South. She smiled the entire time.

According to Harlene, the name Makhenda means “loving and compassionate.” Fitting for a woman surrounded by family (I’ve counted four generations at the restaurant), who cooks to raise money for missions work.

I’m back home from a week in San Francisco. I should probably write about all the incredible food experiences I had during that week (gah! so much good stuff!), but instead I find myself distracted by the sunlight bouncing off of winter-bleached passersby outside of my office door. It’s supposed to reach 71 degrees today—that’s the sweet spot.

Since I can’t justify another day out of the office, I’m flipping through photos from my trip. Last Sunday, I was here:

Here, the San Andreas Fault has carved cliffs that reach 200 feet, overlooking a narrow strip of sand that soaks in tide from the Pacific. It’s a magical place, with hang gliders and horseback riding and sand dollars and sunshine. And fresh air.

Oh, and dogs. There are dozens of dogs roaming the dunes, including Ramona—

I spent the week looking after her, walking around the city, exploring the parks, and soaking in sunshine.

Now, it’s time to focus on work. So here I sit…staring out the office door.

Sunday afternoon I found myself staring over the shoulder of two friends, anxiously awaiting a taste of the meat they were ripping from the shell of a Dungeness crab.

“You’re not throwing those shells out, are you?”

I asked as though I would have done otherwise. Then, this slipped out of my mouth: “Those would make a great stock.”

I probably heard that on The Food Network.

Truth be told, I’ve never made a real stock–let alone one of seafood. Laura called my bluff: “What would you do with the stock?” She then scooped out the “crab butter” and set it aside, excited to hear what I would do with it.

“Not sure. A risotto, maybe?” It sure as hell sounded like I knew what I was talking about. But like the stock, I had no experience with risotto; it’s a dish I’ve been taught to fear.

I thought about the flavors, consulted a few friends, and decided on making a mushroom and pea risotto. Here’s the result:

It’s good. It’s really good, actually–rich, creamy, with a unique depth from the stock. It’s a delicate comfort food.

I’d post the recipe, but I didn’t create it. Instead, I turned to trusted sources, and adapted as needed:

For the stock, I followed Hank Shaw’s recipe. I only had the body from one crab (the recipe calls for four or five Dungeness), so I mixed in the tomalley before the adding the shells to the pot. I appreciate’s Hank’s instruction on simmering–I would have boiled the shit out of the broth to concentrate the flavors, but he explains that doesn’t work, and it creates a cloudy stock.

With the crab at a simmer, I started on Elise Bauer’s recipe for mushroom risotto. I used a mix of shitake, chanterelle, and black trumpet mushrooms–that’s what looked best at the market. (I also used this mix in the stock.) I switched chicken stock for the crab, and used a sauvignon blanc leftover from the stock. If I could do it over, that’s the one ingredient I’d change; the bottle I had was a little too bright and citrusy for this recipe.

I also added about half a cup of fresh peas to the risotto. I wanted them crispy, so I tossed them in at the end, with the Parmesan.

That’s it. A little simmering, a lot of stirring, and a desire to test myself. There’s room for improvement, but I’d proudly share a bowl. If I had any left.

Well damn. It’s February?!

I wish I could explain where I’ve been, but 1) you probably don’t want to know that much about me, and 2) I’m still making sense of all that 2012’s already thrown my way.

So let’s clear the table–start fresh. Here are a few of my current obsessions:

• Seasonal fruits and veggies, and making them a little less intimidating
• Juicing (casually)
• Taking photos of my brother, staring at food
• Alcohol-themed months (it’s now Febrewary)

What are you currently obsessed with?

I’m not big on tradition–at least, not in the form that it seems to take during the holidays. Thanksgiving, for example, long ago highlighted the rich flavors of harvest, but the “traditional” celebration seems to have devolved into canned sweet potatoes, green beans topped with crispy onions, and a cranberry-colored gelatinous substance. Sure, my family serves a version of these dishes; my grandfather also smokes venison and my aunt makes a bourbon pecan pie that I would fight you for–if there’s a turkey, it’s usually wild.

This year, Kim and I didn’t travel: we packed a picnic, and headed to Yosemite for the Thanksgiving day with my brother and Kim’s sister. That’s Kim on the left, Ashley on the right, and Jason photo-bombing in the background:

More of the family:

And Darla Abercrombie dog:

We live less than an hour from the entrance to the park, but in my seven years here I’ve been once (actually, I think that was before I moved here!). I’ve forgotten how incredible our national parks are.

We spent the morning walking around the lower falls (and the village). We gave up on waiting for sun to come out and settled on a spot on the bank of the Merced for our picnic.

Lunch:

Kim and Ashley cooked everything. From the top: ham and Gruyere bake, roasted acorn squash with wild rice and cranberries, and cauliflower soup. I want to marry that soup.

Overall, it was an incredible day, rooted in spending quality time with loved ones, and in savoring the flavors of the season. That’s our new tradition.

You know that joke about Nascar drivers only being able to turn left? (That is a joke, right? I know I didn’t make that up.) Well, I feel like that with my travels–my car is always pointed toward San Francisco or Sacramento. This weekend, however, I’m in Santa Monica for the International Food Bloggers Conference.

Last night’s start to the conference included small bites from several area restaurants, but the highlight (with regards to the food) was being turned loose inside of The Market at Santa Monica Place. We learned how to make macaroons, sampled cheeses and gelato, and ate tacos; specifically, beef cheek tacos with a peanut mole from The Curious Palate.

I’ll take four more, please.