For Lydia's third roast chicken, I wanted a recipe that involved either turning the chicken, or playing with oven temperature. I decided to go with Mark Bittman's "Minimalist's Simplest Roast Chicken" recipe, which calls for placing an oiled chicken in a heated cast-iron skillet, roasting the chicken at 500 degrees, then turning the oven down to 350 degrees. Putting the chicken in a heated pan starts the legs cooking before the breast, and lowering the heat then prevents the breast from overcooking.
The problem: Lydia didn't have a cast-iron skillet, or any other skillet that you can put in the oven. And a roasting pan wasn't going to conduct the same amount of heat. I was going to start searching for another recipe, but then Lydia, dedicated project-er that she is, cheerfully volunteered to buy one. (Which is good, because recipe #4 is going to require a cast-iron skillet, too. It's also good because cast-iron skillets are wonderful things to have.)
Here is her bounty, a 12-inch Lodge:
Congratulations on the newest addition to your kitchen, Lydia! May you get years and years of enjoyment out of it. A cast-iron skillet is excellent, as my brother pointed out, for making panini ... or, as a colleague pointed out, for bashing a mouse with it and killing it dead.
Mandatory side dishes this time: green beans, again (using a different method than the sauteeing of the first project); and roasted potatoes, via the parboil-then-roast method suggested by my brother Brian. I made these recently and they were incredible -- they turned out almost like big, crispy + fluffy french fries. It probably did not hurt that I followed his instructions and used bacon fat. But then, how many things are ruined by adding bacon fat? Um, none, that's how many.
And now, on to the project.
Roast Chicken #1: Thomas Keller
Ed. note: Good girl!
Ed note: I did not see any of these texts until this point, as I was out doing karaoke for a friend's birthday. My version of Counting Crows' "Mr. Jones" killed. Anyway, here I saw the texts and suggested she cut into the thigh to see if the juices ran clear.
Ed. note: Maybe...
Ed note: I suggested that next time she blanche instead of parboil. Me, I usually dispense with the blanching and just saute the hell out of mine, steaming them a bit at the end... but then I like mine a little burned, Chinese-style.
So there you have it. New cast-iron skillet, "best so far" chicken, amazing potatoes! Unfortunately, during the process I couldn't help Lydia much with whether the chicken was done or not, as I couldn't tell from the pictures -- it looked good to me, but hard to say. I'm going to guess that opening the oven door frequently may have thrown the cooking off a little. But I don't really mind if the breast meat is a touch pink.
I don't have a recipe for chicken salad; I just add mayo, maybe some pickles or celery, with possible additions of walnuts, apple, raisins, even a little salad dressing. (Usually just mayo if that's all I've got. I still dig it.) I think this is just one of those things you have to do a few times, sans recipe, until you figure out what proportions you like -- it's certainly something my mom had me make when I was younger, and I didn't even realize I was learning a skill. But I'll try looking for a recipe anyway. My question to you: What do you like to add when you make chicken salad?
Coming up next time: Yes, you guessed it, I'll be throwing the Zuni Cafe roast chicken with bread salad at Lydia. Probably won't add sides at all, unless any of you can think of some (besides potatoes and green beans) that would go well with that. But I think the bread salad should be plenty. And I may even make it alongside her, just because I love it so much.
In my last post, I forgot to mention the turducken -- a critical omission on my part. Yes, in future years, my family and friends may refer to 2011 as "the year we made turducken," as we did indeed accomplish this feat of cooking a chicken inside a duck inside a turkey. Here it is:
And now, onto Roast Chicken #2.
As a reminder, I'm trying to teach Lydia to master the roast chicken by cooking several different variations, one a week. Last week was Thomas Keller's Simple Roast Chicken. This week's was Ina Garten's, aka the Barefoot Contessa (is she really ever barefoot?) on the Food Network.
The assignment I gave Lydia was to cook Ina Garten's Perfect Roast Chicken. It's oh so different than Thomas Keller's -- rub things on the skin! stuff things inside! put vegetables underneath! Thomas Keller and his minimalist bird would faint dead away. My only instructions were to cook the recipe, and also to make potatoes, whether separately via my brother Brian's parboiling method or in the pan itself. (Note to Brian: I tried this and the bacon-wrapped James Beard roast chicken, and neither turned out great. Remind me to tell you later.)
Lydia was excited about doing an Ina Garten recipe. So she purchased the chicken Ina called for -- 5 to 6 pounds, which shocked me; what does she think she's going to put in there? -- and away she went.
Editor's note: At this I was confused. Didn't Lydia realize she was texting me? Why did she just address me in the third person? Then I realized, aaaahh, she's not writing to me, she's writing to THE BLOG. Carry on.
Well done, Lydia and Ina! Looking forward to the next one, I am contemplating recipes that call for turning, or for stuffing herbs under the skin, or lowering the temperature at a certain point, or butterflying. Or I could just give Lydia the original super-simple roast chicken recipe my mom gave me. Thoughts? Please let me have 'em!
To paraphrase Stuart Smalley, 2011 was not my best year.
A year ago today, I had a full-time job, employees, responsibilities and a salary. I had just been promoted. I got up and went to work every morning and came home and worked some more. I lived in a spacious apartment comprising the entire top floor of a brownstone, into which I'd moved only three months previously, that came with a mouse and a brusque landlady who lived downstairs and seemed to hate me. (I have since learned that she did not. Sometimes old people just come off mean, I guess.)
Today, I have no job, having lost it -- well, not "lost" it, since I'm pretty sure I know where it is -- in abrupt and traumatic fashion, bringing me into the public eye in a way that I never wanted to be. I live in a different apartment, having "lost" (see above) the other one nine months after I moved in. I spent three months taking a chance and applying for an out-of-town job I didn't get. I was voluntarily homeless for a month and a half. In my new, smaller apartment, I do not, as far as I know, have a mouse ... yet. Knock on wood. (I did find a dead one in my storage unit; does that count?) I have a different brusque landlady.
But though it's been a difficult year, I'm not about to say it's the worst year I've ever had. To put it pessimistically, things can always get worse; to put it optimistically, this was a year that, like any other year, had its bright spots. (At least I didn't drop a knife into my foot.) I'll never forget it, one way or the other. And isn't that more than you can say about most years?
My friend Abby and I used to play a game where we would ask each other, at the end of the day, "What was the best thing that happened to you today?" The point was, no matter how bad a day you'd had, there was always going to a "best." Always. Even if "best" meant "least bad," it was there if you looked for it.
And therefore, I present to you, in no particular order or weight, the best things that happened to me in 2011:
- I visited Portland for the first time, and can see why people fall in love with the Pacific Northwest.
- I learned how to surf, sort of, in my first-ever (but it won't be the last) visit to Barbados.
- After my birthday party last December was canceled owing to the big snowstorm, I hosted my birthday pig-dinner anyway, in January. And we ate a whole pig.
- I was able to keep busy -- and earn money -- freelancing, which is not something everyone is able to do.
- I got to spend time with my adorable 3-year-old nephew on three separate occasions this year, and not only did we have a grand time but he also loved the green Land Rover I gave him for Christmas (auntie present FTW!), and made me play at driving the Land Rover and his new monster truck over to the "restaurant" (aka the piano bench) to eat calamari. I love being an aunt.
- I spent lots of quality time being an aunt to Annah's two kids when I stayed with her for two weeks. Did I mention I love being an aunt?
- I got to see my family a bunch this year. Time with my family is precious. I don't take it for granted.
- I went to Cabo with my parents and brother and sister-in-law and read a bunch of books and ate some amazing crudo and Pescado Zarandeado and otherwise did a lot of nothing, which I needed.
- I tore through all the "A Song of Ice and Fire" books in less than two months and they were so good, reading them reminded me of being consumed by books as a child, reading under the covers with a flashlight because I didn't want to stop.
- I organized our Thanksgiving dinner and was perhaps a little too proud of myself for doing it. I also made deviled eggs and chocolate pecan pie for Thanksgiving, and tuna poke for Christmas, and did not embarrass myself with any of those dishes.
- Parks and Recreation was outstanding this season. Just brilliant, my favorite comedy in years. It had me at "Meat Tornado."
- Louie was even more brilliant. I've never seen a TV show do some of the things Louis C.K. got away with this season.
- Breaking Bad wasn't too shabby, either.
- And I came to adore Happy Endings. The show! The show!
- I learned the value of downsizing, and that if I had to, I could live out of a medium-sized suitcase for a month and a half.
- I moved twice in one month (once into storage, once out), and endured a hurricane in the middle of it. The next move's gonna be cake.
- I ate at Locanda Verde three times.
- I ate at Maialino twice. And had the suckling pig, twice.
- I ate at Peter Luger twice.
- I ate at Ink and had incredible brussels sprouts and lamb neck and stared at the chef, Michael Voltaggio, throughout the whole dinner, and yes that is so him.
- I had a wonderful visit with my cousin and her husband, in which we had a typically superlative meal at Momofuku Ssam and then dessert at Milk Bar and went back to their hotel afterward for drinks and more great conversation.
- I had the ultimate star sighting of Ryan Gosling at The Dutch, and one second after I realized it was him, I locked eyes with the woman accompanying him and saw that she was giving me what seemed like a dirty look. As soon as I caught up to my friend, she said, "Can you believe, Emma Stone?" I love Emma Stone, but hadn't recognized her because she was blonde (for the Spider-Man movie, presumably). All of this came just before I fell into deep crush with Ryan Gosling -- thanks to Drive, The Ides of March, "Hey Girl" and this interview -- which is fortunate, because if I'd seen him whilst in the throes of Gosling-love, I would have gone into shock and passed out and hit my head and had to go to the hospital, which would have made this the worst year ever. Except maybe he would have gone to the hospital to make sure I was OK, in which case, best year ever.
- I had both the shrimp toast at Son of a Gun and the crab toast at ABC Kitchen. Shrimp toast was great, but the crab toast won.
- My parents came out in the spring and they liked every restaurant I took them to: Momofuku Ssam, Aldea, Mile End, Shake Shack ... also the pancakes at Cafe Luluc and casual dinner at Lunetta.
- I'm on an album cover.
- I learned how to network. Or that is to say, I'm learning. It isn't easy for me, so I'm glad to have the opportunity to push myself. Every time I have a meeting that doesn't go horribly, it feels like a win inside.
- I don't get to see movies for free anymore, but I was still able to see several. My favorites: Bridesmaids, Warrior, Drive, Hugo, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2, The Muppets, Midnight in Paris. Still need to see: Attack the Block, The Artist, The Interrupters, The Descendants, Moneyball, Page One, Margin Call, Jane Eyre, Beginners, Weekend, Take Shelter, A Separation, We Were Here, Melancholia, The Tree of Life. (Clearly I didn't get to see as many movies as I wanted to.)
- It's been the toughest year of my life, yet I'm still here. And I feel pretty good. In some ways, I consider that a miracle. Or, that's life. Either way, I'm glad not to be lying in a ditch somewhere, sobbing and clutching a can of paint thinner. We're pretty resilient, humans beings.
- My family and friends are healthy and safe. I am grateful.
- I was bowled over this year by the kindness and generosity of friends and colleagues, who offered sympathy, comfort, outrage, advice, meals, drinks, job leads, work, places to crash and more moral support than I ever knew existed. To all of you who are reading this, thank you; I am forever grateful. When I remember 2011, that is what I will remember: that life is hard, but that the people in my life -- from close friends and family to passing acquaintances -- reached out to help and bolster me when I needed it, and from now on I will always do the same.
Happy New Year, and may your 2012 be full of joy, good health, success and prosperity. And more importantly, great food and time with your family and friends.
Peace out, 2011.
It's no secret that I don't think of myself as a great cook -- or at least, I'm not as good a cook as I am an eater. My mother and my brothers inherited the "inventive chef" gene, but I'm not nearly confident enough to whip up dishes the way they do.
I suppose it doesn't help that when you're single, cooking for yourself can get kind of boring. It also didn't help that when I was younger and my mom was in the kitchen, I'd be in my room with my nose stuffed in a book, and would only come upstairs at the last minute, in time to make salad. (I was always disappointed that there wasn't anything left to saute, which I considered far more exciting; but for some reason I didn't quite work out that offering to help earlier might someday work to my benefit. Plus, no doubt my mother didn't trust her clueless bookworm anywhere near the stove. I wouldn't have.)
The fact that I have to follow recipes, and often have to keep consulting them even after I've made a dish multiple times, always struck me as an essential cooking failure. Still, I know the basics -- "how to boil water," etc. -- and it wasn't until recently that I understood that knowing even that much sets me apart from people who don't cook at all.
Years ago, when I met my friend Lydia, she professed that she didn't cook. Since then, she's taken numerous cooking classes, and in fact I've eaten one of the gourmet meals she learned how to make -- it was delicious. But when we shared a vacation rental in Barbados, I noticed that there were certain fundamentals that weren't part of her cooking vocabulary, like how some vegetables might cook at different speeds. It occurred to me that when it comes to learning how to cook, there's nothing quite like doing the boring basics repeatedly, not to mention trying things a lot, and failing a lot (and oh, I fail a lot).
Lydia was in search of a project, so I suggested she learn how to make one of the simplest, most wonderful dishes there is to make: roast chicken. It's not the easiest thing to master. I've made a lot of roast chicken in my day, and I can do it off-book, but I'm always looking for new ways to do it, and I still fail at it one out of every three times. I remembered that my younger brother (a great cook) once told me he was making a roast chicken every week, just to perfect the technique.
Lydia and I have agreed on this: Every week, she'll have to make a roast chicken from a recipe I will send her. She has to make whatever sides I dictate, too. Supplying her with any number of recipes won't be a problem, as I've got loads of them clipped and bookmarked. The problem for me will be narrowing it down to just four. (I already know what the last one is going to be -- and if you know me, then you know what it's going to be, too.) After she's made those four roast chicken recipes, she'll have to roast a chicken by herself, with no recipe at all.
We started with the basic recipe that I use as my go-to, Thomas Keller's "Favorite Simple Roast Chicken." There's really nothing to it, the only quirk being that he uses high heat to roast, whereas not all such recipes do. I also love that he waxes rhapsodic about eating a wing and the chicken butt immediately, which I totally do standing up at the cutting board, and now no longer have to feel guilty about (Thomas Keller does it, too! and he's a master!).
I gave Lydia her assignment, which was to make the chicken along with two sides, in this case roasted potatoes and green beans. And she had to document the process with pictures and descriptions, which she did, texting me photos and commentary at every step. Will she learn, not just during this first step of the cooking project, but over the next four installments? We'll see. And if you have any roast chicken recipes you think she absolutely has to try, let me know in the comments. Note: I'm giving her a pass this next week, since it's Christmas.
So now I'll turn the blog over to guest blogger Lydia and her pictures and texts. Take it away, Lydia! (I cut out most of what I texted back, but my occasional commentary is in green.)
[Ed. note: Next time, she doesn't get to use a thermometer.]
[Ed. note: I forgot to take a screengrab of this text, but here Lydia informed me that she'd decided to make "spicy blackened green beans."]
So how do you think Lydia did? For a first try, I think she did pretty well, myself.
The next time I'm looking for an apartment, number one of my list of criteria is going to be "bedroom can't have a streetlight directly outside the window."
Blergarrrrgh.
A quick note about the Great Sodium Cleanse of 2011. I've cut way back on prepared and processed foods (Trader Joe's, sob -- I even gave away my unopened jar of curry simmer sauce, so that it wouldn't tempt me) and takeout (I miss you, Seamless!), and though that's something I probably should have done anyway, it also means I've been forced to use my kitchen a lot more, which has been an interesting challenge. Story for another day. And I've been using less salt in cooking, sometimes even -- gasp! -- none, though mostly what I'll do is cook without adding salt, then add a teeny bit of finishing salt at the table. I'm using low-sodium soy sauce, and only half of what I would normally use. I've tried not to add salt to side dishes at all, when bearable. Look, I'm trying.
But despite my efforts, and despite the fact that I've cut back and my taste buds haven't shriveled up and died, there is still quite a lot of pain involved.
Exhibit A: sodium-free bread. I bought this at Trader Joe's, and have been trying it for the past couple days. It's weird. It tastes like tin. Me no like it. Apparently, bread really needs salt. Now you know.
Exhibit B: sardines, which I love, have sodium. Not a lot, but they are preserved and canned, so it's not like they make sodium-free sardines. I had some the other day but felt guilty about it.
Exhibit C: It is really, really hard for me not to have soy sauce. Even though it's the low-sodium kind, using it in cooking -- which I've been doing -- is probably wrecking all my hard sodium-reducing work. But I can't help it! I love soy sauce, OK? I'm Asian.
Exhibit D, E, et al.: I walked down the frozen-foods aisle of the grocery store the other day and started pulling out frozen dinners just to see what the sodium content was. EGADS. It shouldn't have come as a shock to me that these things were loaded with sodium, but it still kind of did. Not that I ever eat frozen dinners, but I am inordinately fond of Swanson's turkey pot pies for lunch, and it turns out that each one contains 750 mg of sodium. Considering you're only supposed to have a maximum of 2,300 mg per day, that's a lot.
So no more Swanson's turkey pot pies for me. Other things I can't have: hot dogs, cold cuts, Popeyes fried chicken (990 mg for the leg + thigh, 500 mg for the biscuit), cheese... sigh. I have to stop. This is depressing me.
But don't worry, I'm still going to reward myself for all this sacrifice by going out to dinner once in a while. If I have to choose between treating myself to a fab dinner at Zabb Elee (awesome and authentic Thai food) and eating a Swanson's turkey pot pie, I'll take Zabb Elee in a New York minute.
And incidentally, since I started all this, my blood pressure has gone down -- though I'm still not sure if it's the sodium reduction, the diuretic my dad gave me in L.A., the herbal pills my sister-in-law gave me, or my new rule that requires me to get out of the damn apartment (and/or exercise) once a day. Maybe all of the above?
I've never tried to hide that I'm a pack rat. The summer after high school when I went to Europe, the chaperones presented me, at the end-of-summer awards dinner, with a squashed bun, meant to represent all the stuff I'd saved to put in my scrapbooks. I even saved sugar packets, emptying out the contents and placing the empty packets carefully on a page next to ticket stubs, postcards and theater programs.
It's a habit I've carried around with me most of my life. But when you move into a place half the size of your old one, you have to make some hard choices. Some of them turn out not to be as hard as you thought. For example, I had two yolk separators. When was the last time I used a yolk separator? (I kept one. I figured maybe it was a sign. Hey, baby steps.)
Today, I pulled a pile of notebooks out of a box, and they turned out to be some of the notes I'd saved from college, along with some papers I'd written. I don't exactly know why I'd saved these notes. Did I think I'd need the knowledge I'd gleaned from those classes someday? I'd think, what did Daniel Defoe mean in that one section of Robinson Crusoe? Oh, I know! I can just look it up!
Maybe I thought that one day they'd have historical value. I'd become famous, and my college notebooks would sell at auction for big bucks to one of my adoring acolytes. Well, I don't see that happening anytime soon, and I haven't touched these notebooks in more than a decade, so it's trash they will become. (Or recycling, that is. I am taking a break from tearing all the pages, a few at a time, out of the wire rings. And now the couch, the floor and my legs are covered in little bits of paper. Being environmentally responsible is a real drag sometimse.)
I did take one last look through the notebooks before I have to consign them to the curb, and just as I suspected -- or should have suspected when I saved them in the first place -- I found them boring and incomprehensible. Couldn't get through a few words without my eyes glazing over. Did Nabokov's notes provoke such disinterest? Surely not. Ergo, I am no Nabokov. I'm glad I could finally clear that up.
Perhaps another reason I could barely read my notes is that they were written in cursive. Yes, when I was in college, I took notes in cursive. I insisted I could write in cursive faster than I could print, which in fact was true; at some point shortly after college, I switched to print as my default writing out of embarrassment. (There are many ways in which I was uncool. Writing in cursive was the easiest of these to fix.) Seeing as how I now only use cursive -- or "cursive," I should say -- to sign my name, I'm fascinated to picture myself in my jeans and flannel (it was the '90s), casually and quickly scribbling away in such a neat, proper and, dare I say it, classy manner.
A sample:
I also found little messages written to other people who would have been sitting next to me. If college students today don't take notes with pen and paper (do they?), then this is an art of communication that has sadly been lost. They probably just text each other.
Also, doodles. I seem to have drawn a lot of flowers.
One day, I had bacon on my mind. It's nice that some things never change.
And so, the last perusal complete, out these notebooks go. What daring insights am I tossing away, never to be plumbed again? Sorry, history.
As an aside, I am, however, keeping the papers I wrote that were in that same pile. I was a much better -- though not as disciplined -- writer when I was 21 than I am now. I blame the Internet. Though it did make me tear up a little to read my Mass Communications 10 TA's enthusiastic comments saying, "You have a lot to offer the world; I hope you find your calling -- the world needs it!" All this time later, I still haven't found my calling. But it's heartwarming to know that he so wanted me to find it.
