Busby Bakes

Readers, it’s been a crazy summer. Happy to report that the Husband and I have been putting our former neighbor’s cast-off Weber to good use. A recent weeknight dinner was inspired by a New York Times recipe for a Stout Citrus Glaze.

Lacking a true stout, I used a random bottle of Java Vanilla Porter from Atwater Brewery. No idea how it migrated from Detroit to the back of our fridge.

The strong flavors of the beer settled down with the addition of balsamic vinegar and lemon. The Husband spread this sticky brew on some gorgeously thick lamb steaks from Mint Creek Farm, purchased on my sole trip to the farmer’s market this summer. Delicious!

We were supposed to meet up with a friend and his lady who were visiting from L.A. The Husband’s flight home from D.C. was delayed. I had some work to do. We bailed on the plan.

I decided to stay home. My dinner consisted of olives, some addictive crackers, an apple, and slices of a brown sugar and fennel salame from Boccalone that a friend had brought from San Francisco.

The Husband tried a little harder. He had a sandwich from Potbelly at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport (Terminal B).

Whole Foods

30 W Huron (at Dearborn)

An evening return home from a business trip and a long week had me thinking that the Husband might not feel like going out. So I cheated and went to Whole Foods on my way home to procure an assembled dinner. I bought baby greens, grape tomatoes, a loaf of crusty bread, and from the prepared food counter, a gingery Asian-inspired black quinoa slaw  and grilled salmon. Presto! Healthy, protein-rich salad.

The Husband approved and said it surpassed his dinner from Panda Express last night.

Total unclear due to addition of cat food and body lotion to shopping cart. $24, maybe?

Pastoral

53 E Lake St (at Wabash)

As the Husband has a last-minute business trip to prepare for, tonight we cheated a little and picked up sandwiches from Pastoral to eat at home.

But that doesn’t sound right. Pastoral doesn’t make just any old sandwich. They carry some of the best cheese and bread in the city. They take their cured meat seriously. And the combinations they put between two pieces of bread are incredible. This is sandwich artistry of the highest form.

The Husband ordered a Bocadillo de la Mancha: Serrano, Manchego, greens, membrillo and dijon on a baguette. I ordered my favorite, the Canard Balsamico: duck, cipollini onions soaked in balsamic vinegar, baby greens, oozy Fromager D’Affinois,  and dijon on a baguette. Le sigh. We really should get back in the gym.

Total was $20 even.

Chicago French Market

131 N. Clinton (at Randolph)

For tonight’s dinner, we strolled from office locales to meet friends and their 2 younguns at the city’s attempt to “bring back the European-inspired marketplace.” Located at the Ogilvie train station, the French Market consists of a hodge-podge of items to consume onsite as well as lots of ingredients to take home. Also square pegs like homemade soap and woven baskets. The meat, cheese, and fish vendors displayed some great-looking stuff. Live lobsters in a tank entertained the kids. One of my favorite places, Pastoral, has a prime spot by the front door. But as a whole, it felt like the gastronomic version of a buddy cop film: suburban mall food court is paired with an urban gourmet shoppe and as long as they stick together, they’ll be given one hell of a deal on rent.

We camped at a table and took turns hunting and gathering before returning to the den with food for the kids.

From Frietkoten Belgian Fries & Beer: Frites with curry mayo and blue cheese mayo. But no beer, as the liquor license is still snarled in the city’s red tape machine. The allure of frites+beer after work had been the focus of my afternoon. Le sigh.

From Necessity Baking Co.: Tsoureki (Easter egg loaf shaped like a wreath with dyed, hard-boiled eggs as garnish). Turns out an entire hard-boiled egg can cram nicely into the mouth of an 18-month-old.

From Bowl Square: Bibimbap with beef. Also “some kind of really spicy French dressing.”

From Chundy’s Bistro: Curried chicken and saffron rice. Also a discussion about being allergic to chicken.

From FLiP Crepes: Buckwheat crepes filled with brie, fig jam, onion confit, walnuts and spinach. Also samples of Nutella-filled crepes that were for the chocolate tour group, not us. Completely busted by chocolate smeared lips and fingers. This would be the adults, not the kids.

From Vanille: A chocolate eclair. Also a perfect-looking raspberry macaron, which fit into an 18-month-old’s mouth in a single bite.

From Delightful Pastries: An small cake loafette, decorated like an Easter egg. Crumb survey revealed that the 3-year-old was a big fan.

Overall, everything was pretty tasty. And the company was excellent, with ample entertainment by adorable children. I estimate that we spent about $15 a person (not including the kids).

The Husband and I spent the past weekend in Viroqua, Wisconsin with his family.  Twas beautiful, rural, hilly, beery.

Saturday morning we went to the farmer’s market. Small but some good finds among the baskets and beaded what-not. And a vibrant, friendly vibe. Bored Amish kids hung in the buggy while mom and dad sold deep, dark, grade B maple syrup. Chatty, pink-cheeked farmers sold seedlings, rhubarb, and spring onions. I scooped up a couple of jars of picked veg: baby brussel sprouts and asparagus.

Dinner on Saturday night was outstanding local prime rib at the
Olde Town Inn in Westby. We felt a bit guilty upon leaving the restaurant when we noticed a herd of cows across the road. Um…thanks?

On our way home, we stopped in New Glarus, a super Swiss Miss-ed town. Seriously, even the Citgo looked like a chalet. But we were there for the beer. New Glarus Brewing Company makes delicious, small-batch craft brews that aren’t available outside of Cheesehead territory. So we stocked up. Those Old Style tall boys in the fridge had better make room.

Last Sunday, the Husband and I met some friends for a hands-on cooking class. Our mission was to learn the secrets of chef George’s house-made sausage…and to end the humiliation suffered at a grillfest some 10 months back. At a barbeque last summer, the Husband and I showed up with “fresh” sausage from Whole Foods. Our hosts smacked down that yuppie nonsense with a batch of sausages so delicious, so porky, so incredible that even the guys at Bari would have approved.

Turns out, the encased perfection came from August. A small neighborhood grocery, August is the kind of place that will grind the beef for your hamburgers. Their fish selection is small but incredibly fresh. Stacks of cookbooks are on hand to lend inspiration. And they make a nightly dinner special for the hurried or the harried. And sausage, did I mention the delicious sausage?

Here’s a quick version of the class, which was really fun. Chef George made sure we knew the why behind the what, which I always find extremely helpful.

Step One: Chop up a cold Berkshire pork shoulder. If I recall correctly, 30% fat is desirable. Feed the chunks through a meat grinder.

Step Two: Divide the meat in half. To one half, add chopped oyster mushroom and fresh herbs; to the other, blanched leeks and hot pepper. Salt and pepper to both. Combine with your hands. Keep the meat mix cold.

Step Three: Stuff into casings. Casings being the small intestine of a pig. Don’t think it was the same one who gave the shoulder. Mercifully, the cleaning and rinsing had been done by the butcher.

Step Four: Cook each type of sausage two ways: Brown in a hot pan, then cook through in a hot oven.

And steam (never, ever boil) then brown in a pan.

A BYOB dinner at the counter followed, where despite our best efforts we reached no consensus on the best sausage nor the best cooking method. Will have to revisit when we cook up the links we brought home. And again upon purchasing more from August. To all of our friends with grills: this summer, we promise to show up with the good stuff!

Here is a shot of my Valentine’s Day present. I’ve been wanting this baby for ages! The Husband is so good to me (swoon).

Along with a box of delicious homemade cookies, over the holidays a friend gave us 2 little jars of chocolate-peanut spread from, well, Spread, a restaurant in San Diego.

The dark chocolate peanut version (No. 14) has made a few appearances with my afternoon snack of toast and coffee. A delicious combination.

For some reason I waited until today to break out the other one, white chocolate pretzel (No. 73 ). Forget the toast: this one just needs a spoon. It’s criminally good. I’m eating it as I type. Don’t know if I can stop.

Last week, an outing with friends to a concert caused me to change the menu for a big dinner I was doing Saturday night. After hearing a song about the making of mole poblano, a complex dried chile-based sauce from Mexico, I realized I’ve been wanting to make this ever since a Oaxacan cook gave me a recipe nearly 10 years ago.

Having long lost the recipe, which if I recall was more of a scrawl–in Spanish–on the back of an envelope, I found what appeared to be a solid one on Epicurious that included crucial suggestions and warnings that could mean the difference between tired cook/great sauce and scorched cook/ruined sauce.

Early Thursday morning, I rolled through the largest of my local Mexican grocers, searching for 3 kinds of dried chiles and countless seeds and spices. My amusement at the curiosity of the checkout guys (what’s this gringa buying?) turned to delight when I saw my total: $21.75. This was the high point of the day.

And then home, where the grind began. Each ingredient must be cooked separately, then combined in precise ways that all seemed to involve my Cuisinart bowl, which I must have washed a dozen times. The hours of labor, I soon learned, were a cake walk compared to the occupational hazards of making mole. I diligently heeded the warnings to wear gloves whilst de-seeding the ancho, mulato, and pasilla peppers and took care to avoid the sting of popping pumpkin seeds.

But I grossly underestimated the ferocity with which the chiles, now reconstitued and pureed, would spatter when heated in a stock pot. I also was off on the distance a bubble could fly. Within minutes, chile puree was spattered all over the stove, the kitchen cabinets, the floor, my arms. At the moment I realized that a thick, hot sauce made with spicy ingredients burns bare skin in two very distinct ways…a bubble popped and slapped me right in the eye. I recommend removing the contact lens as quickly as possible and then letting the tears flow freely.

It should be noted that the wise woman who first served me mole poblano had not made her own sauce, but purchased a paste from an expert mole maker at her local outdoor market. It should also be noted that like the French, I don’t attempt to make my own baguettes or croissants. Why I felt compelled to make a dish that requires a day of work, techniques I’ve never tried, and more than twenty ingredients, I cannot say. While on my hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor in front of my stove, I still didn’t know.

It wasn’t until the Husband and I had a sample with poached chicken for dinner that night that I realized: busting your ass to take a giant leap of faith feels amazing when the result is this good. The mole was simply fabulous. Dark, complex, earthy, spicy, sweet, smoky….luscious. Gorgeous on the plate, voluptuous the tongue. Thank goodness the 20+ people having dinner at my mother’s house were appreciative. But I’m no fool: it will be years before I try making this again. We’re hoarding a container of spare sauce in the freezer…maybe we’ll have mole for Christmas.