4 a.m. Are You Freaking Kidding Me!?

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I am God forsaken. There, I said it, God for-sa-ken. No, no, no not in any serious or REAL way, in truth I consider myself very fortunate. I own a home (with the bank being the primo numero uno shareholder), a car (different bank, same story), and a good paying job. None of these things I take lightly and am very appreciative to have all of them. Let me explain: I wake up every morning at 4 a.m. No alarm needed. Doesn’t matter if I went to bed a 2 a.m., I still wake up at 4. God for-sa-ken.

Now mind you, I am very scintillating a 4 in the morning. How many of you can say that? Well, I am, but neither of my ex-wives nor any of the lovely women I have had great fortune of knowing over the years was . . . scintillating at 4 in the morning that is. Now they are all extremely pleasant, charming women but at 4 a.m. they are either headed to bed, with what is sure to be the mother of all hangovers awaiting them, or so fast asleep that even their dreams are taking a nap. Unless, of course, you consider hairdos at that hour . . . in which case they were ALL scintillating!

So here I am, 4 A.M. alone. What to do? Hmmm, drink coffee! Drink Coffee. Yes, as millions of shift workers have done before me, I’ll drink coffee. Hmmm . . . what to drink? Dad and mum loved Folgers. Nah, can’t do it. Peet’s, I’ll drink Peet’s, and so for years I did just that. In fact I served Peet’s Major Dickason’s blend to my clients when I was catering. It was fabulous! Loved it! Bought it by the 5 pound bag even. Until one day . . .

Not so long ago I was looking for a new culinary challenge. Cooking school for me was a real blast. It was my art school education. To know me, is to know that I am a techno-geek, in a masculine way, kind of guy. I like to learn how to DO things. Culinary school was great for this. I learned classic French cooking techniques along with the science to back it up. I also got the chance to experiment with colors, tastes, textures and aromas. It was cool and that experience lasted me for quite a while. Until one day I happened upon an article about roasting coffee. Sounds like fun. By then I had begun straying from Peet’s and started checking out the local roasters. Their coffees are good. So I searched for, and found, a local company that supplies green coffee beans. I bought from them a book, a Whirley-Pop stove top popcorn popper, 2 pounds of Guatemalan Huehuetenango and away I went: Newbee Roaster.

Wow! What a difference. The first batch I ever roasted tasted like an entirely different beverage. Even better than Peet’s. Smooth, rich, chocolaty . . . breakfast in a mug. Needless to say I have become a coffee snob. Oh well, it’s the cross I bear. Now I can tell you all about the endothermic, ectothermic, endothermic, ectothermic process involved but I have gone on too long already. In closing, I am of the belief that the only true great cup of coffee is found in a French press. Here’s how I do it.

2 tablespoons of medium ground coffee per 8 oz cup (roasted fresh that day is the uber-best)

Water brought to a boil and let sit for 30 seconds (colloidal suspension thing)

Pour grounds into press carafe, fill carafe with hot water, place plunger on top (do not plunge), wait 4 minutes, plunge and serve.

Eat Well and Smile Often,

tj

I’ll take mine with sugar please.

Can You Woo Like the French??

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I have a new pen pal or in this day and age is, email acquaintance a more appropriate term? Melani Robinson, of New York, authors a magnificent, sometimes embarrassingly real, blog about dating at 50. I happened upon an article she had published which led me to her website: 1yearofonlinedatingat50.com Her article on To Groom or Not To Groom for Women Over 50 was so hysterically funny, and age appropriate, that I immediately dashed off a note in support of her bravery. Her blog . . . even funnier. A no holds barred style of writer I hope you will enjoy as much as I do. That being said, what does Dating After 50 have to do with food? Everything!!

Now wooing can go 1 of 2 ways; it either does or it doesn’t. I feel a man of a certain age should have a little something up his sleeve when it finally does. By this I mean breakfast. Now breakfast, the morning after, can say a lot of things. There is the, “How about a cup of coffee before you go?” line which really means “Thanks but could you find your pantyhose and go already.” OR “What say we get cleaned up and go out for breakfast?” meaning, “You were a fun date but I’m not ready to commit just yet and I have to drop by the auto parts store downtown anyway.” BUT, should that rare instance occur when you actually want that special someone to stay a little longer I recommend Wooing Like the French.

French Toast that is. Now what woman doesn’t like French Toast and I don’t mean soggy old milk toast. I mean something with a little thought and a little flair, like you. So this morning . . . I practiced. Having only my faithful hounds as advisers I put together the following.

In a small bowl mix

1/2 cup Ricotta Cheese
1/4 cup walnuts, chopped
1/4 cup syrup, maple, real, don’t chintz

Whip in a separate bowl

2 eggs

Using either thick sliced bread (I sliced from the loaf I baked myself . . . eh hem.)
or
2 slices sandwich bread, preferably wheat

Slice a pocket in the bottom of the thick slice and stuff with cheese mixture or spread one slice with mixture and top with second

Heat a flat pan with 2 tbsp butter

Dipped stuff bread into egg and let sit for 30 seconds
Turn over and wait another 30seconds

When butter begins to bubble in pan place egg bread in and turn heat to medium
About 90 seconds later check to see if egg is browning.
When brown flip and let cook for about 60 seconds

When browned on both sides place on plate and pop in microwave for 30 seconds to warm cheese

Serve and woo!

Remember to Eat Well and Smile Often!

tj

(How do you write so it sounds like your mouth is full?)

Oh My . . . Tamale Pie!!

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I don’t know what it is about Sundays but occasionally I seem to develop a sub-clinical case of the blues, malaise or more aptly called, “Punky Monkey Face.” The funny thing is that after a week of rain storms the sun finally broke out long and loud enough for me to spend some much needed time working in the garden. A clip here, a weed pull there and now I hope no punky monkey faces from my neighbors. A good day except . . .

Suzanne, gracious as always, said that I, “. . . merely seemed quiet.” She did all those things a good friend does: Drove me to Napa with the top down, bought me a beer and found us a table in the sun, told me jokes and talked food to me. Still punky monkey me until, we started to discuss dinner. She wanted to make fresh pasta with scallops in a beurre blanc which I normally would leap at but I just wasn’t feeling it. I need something more . . . comfort-ish. I mentioned a hankering for Tamale Pie and she jumped at the idea. Instantly my mood changed. Tamale pie was one of my sainted mother’s go-to recipes growing up. Suzanne, with her background in healthy cooking, initially winced at the thought of using canned ingredients but reasonably justified their inclusion due to the lack of seasonal fresh ingredients.

Back at home I tucked in tight to my favorite saute pan and added diced onions and garlic to a “reserved’ splash of olive oil. (Suzanne’s style is beginning to rub off on me.) To that I added Ancho and Arbol chili powders and a healthy bit of paprika and let them all cook together until the aroma of roasted chili filled the kitchen. Next, some ground beef and pork sausage, because I like meat. After a bit of browning I placed all this into mom’s terra cotta pot she got as a wedding gift, and forever the proper dish for tamale pie. Next I saute’d canned beans, black and pinto; canned tomatoes, drained; and frozen corn (no salt, another concession to Chef Suzanne) and a bit more onion. After about 15 minutes of flipping with salt and pepper on high heat I stirred it in with the meat mixture, topped it off with a corn bread recipe I have and popped it in to a 350 F degree oven for an hour. A bubbling good time.

Can’t tell you what a mood elevator Tamale Pie is. Smiled and laughed while cooking, and the rest of the night too. Never underestimate the health benefits of mother’s comfort food.

Eat well and smile often!

tj

No Good Saturday Lie About!!

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So I set the mandolin to thin and sliced away at some potatoes that were left lying about. (How I hate a lie about.) Its partner in crime, The Onion, sat there mocking me with its many layered personality and me, with mine, so shallow, so base . . . so hungry. I grabbed the onion and noticed that the eyes, of the remaining potatoes, never left me. They stared at me unflinchingly as I julienne sliced their brothers. The onions never shed a tear. They both took their final swim in olive oil and pepper and thyme and salt. I laid the saute’d remains on a bed of thinly rolled dough I’d pressed into my quiche pan. A topping of 4 eggs, thyme and parmesan cheese and into the oven they went.

The inspiration for this came from my father’s dear departed aunt. She did this thing with potatoes, onions and butter. YUM!! Always plenty of good eats at auntie’s. So in an homage to dear Priscilla I will happily share . . . what’s left.

Eat well and smile often!

tj