Is It True You Can't Go Home Again?

You can't go back home...to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame ... .'

--Thomas Wolf

Last summer, when the fear and uncertainty of the Great Pandemic of 2020 was at its strongest and the turning tide was no where to be seen, my two sons decided to defer their freshman year of college to 2021 when life was presumed to return to normal. (As if life, or especially freshman year of college, has ever been "normal.") One son took a job in his hometown of Birmingham, Alabama, focused on his interest in history by helping a historical cemetery organize and archive a hundred year's worth of documents. My other son also took a job close to his heart—the great outdoors—by working as a lift operator ("liftie") in Breckinridge, Colorado. Hamp started in November and by February, I must sheepishly admit, I still had not visited him. 

My hard-working liftie.

But that changed when I booked a hotel room and a plane ticket and made my way to Breckinridge a few weeks ago. The plan was food (obviously), his birthday, and skiing. 

About the skiing....

The last time I skied was in 2001—almost twenty years to the date that I stepped off the plane in Denver. At the time, I was a pretty avid skier and not too bad at it, if I must say. So what happened? Kids. Career. Inertia. 

I grew up in the South. I didn't grow up in a skiing family. My interest in skiing, oddly, coincided with my nascent interest in James Bond movies. Skiing and Bond have gone hand in hand since the beginning. In the summer of 1981, when I was between fifth and sixth grade, I saw For Your Eyes Only, part of which takes place in the Italian Alps. It all seemed so elegant, with all the dining al Fresco (at least until Bond interrupted). That movie also had one of the best ski chase scenes of any Bond film. That fall, I discovered that I wasn't the only one enamored with the glamor of skiing. My friend Don and I dreamed of the day when we would go skiing with expensive clothes and glamorous girls in tow. We both had ski jackets that, because we lived in the South, were worn maybe two or three days a year. Before Don and I could take off on our grand ski tour, however, I moved away to the suburbs of Washington, DC.

Living "up North" was when I finally got the opportunity to ski on a regular basis. In high school, we would pile into our cars on cold, dark Saturday mornings and head up to the slopes in Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Western Maryland. To save money, we packed our own gourmet lunches: Bologna sandwiches, Doritos, Oreos. And of course, there was always a bota bag or a flask for some liquid courage for the black diamonds. 

The skiing adventures continued into college, but the food choices, sadly, remained the same. One time, on the way back from Snowshoe in West Virginia, our pickup truck skidded on an icy road and hit a car in the oncoming lane. No one was seriously injured, but my friend Brian, who was driving, broke his wrist. We spent the night in a very small town called Franklin, where they had to open the clinic to treat Brian's arm. To this day, I recall a local asking me if I knew who the town was named for. Thinking this must be a trick question, I slowly answered, "Benjamin Franklin?"  He looked at me as if I had just won the Nobel prize. We spent the night at the local Holiday Inn. Dinner came from a diner next door. My dad once said that, when in doubt, order a ham sandwich because you can't screw it up. Well dad, I gotta call B.S. on that one. That diner in Franklin, WVa, in the winter of 1989 somehow figured out to royally screw up the simple, yet noble, ham sandwich. 

Other trips included Sunday River in Maine for Spring Break 1992--I know, wrong direction. I don't remember what we ate, but we did consume a lot of frozen mudslides. 

So....back to Breckinridge.

I arrived on a Friday evening, so it was too late to ski. I was also tired and not up to going out to dinner. The answer was easy: pizza. My son recommended Luigi's. He said it was very good, but out of his price range. Hampton learning the value of a dollar!? At this point, I couldn't deprive him because the only person who loves pizza more than I is Hamp. And it was worth the COVID-19 wait. The only way I could've gotten a more authentic NY-style pizza was by airplane. 

The next day, Saturday, was when the rubber hit the road; the big test; the moment of reckoning. This was either going to be like riding a bike or a riding in an ambulance. Thankfully, it was the former. I even looked pretty good, thanks to some slick ski clothes from some friends who live in Colorado. Don from sixth grade would have been impressed.

Dinner that night was at Empire Burger, a place where the burgers live up to the name. I mean, if you can't get good beef out West, then you are, quite frankly, incompetent. Hamp got the double cheeseburger because this place was a bit of stretch for his liftie income. I warned him; he paid the price. 

Sunday was Hamp's birthday. We had dinner reservations for 8:45, but after a full day of skiing, neither one of us wanted to wait that late. Instead, we headed to a Vietnamese restaurant, Peak of Asia, that Hamp recommended. He had heard it was good, but too rich for his wallet. (Notice a pattern here?) The pho was excellent, but the highlight was when a co-worker who worked there greeted Hamp and gave him a birthday present. The spring roll also had a lighted match in it. We all sang happy birthday. 

Lunch of Champions  

Monday, Hamp had to work. I was on my own. Maybe because I wasn't concerned about looking like a doofus in front of my 19-year old son, I really let it rip. I had my best day of the whole trip. I tore it up, hitting a breathtaking 26 MPH on a blue! I rewarded myself with a hot dog and a beer at 11,000 feet. At the end of the day, however, I was pooped. Eating out that night was a no-go—pizza again.  

Tuesday. My last night in Breck. For the previous four nights, I had been trying to get reservations at Mi Casa, the local Mexican restaurant that gets great reviews. It didn't happen.  We found the next best thing at Sancho Taco, a Mexican street taco restaurant with awesome Margaritas and authentic street tacos. I don't know about Mi Casa, but it would be hard to beat this place. Go with the fried chicken taco!

The next morning, Hamp had to head back to work, and I had to head back to Atlanta. As we said goodbye, I could tell that my son was not looking forward to Hot Pockets and microwaved hotdogs. And while he will roll his eyes at half the crap his old man says, he certainly appreciates the decent meals he gets. Yeah, this was probably the best eatin' I've had on a ski trip. Maybe one day, when Hamp's been off the slopes for many years, he can return the favor with his kids.

And yes, you can go home again if you know how to read a trail map. 

A Labor of Love

This is a post about Valentine's Day written in March, but time is rather fluid these days—Monday seems like Wednesday and Monday might as well be Friday. So cut me some slack. 

Next  to flowers and heart-shaped boxes of chocolates, dining at a nice restaurant is perhaps the most popular Valentine's Day tradition. But considering the times we live in, that is not an option for a lot of people. Besides, going out to eat V-Day is amateur hour! Stay at home and put all those COVID-19 cooking skills to good use!

What to make? It being Valentine's Day, I wanted to make something French. After all, the French practically invented l'amour, right? Second, I wanted the dish to be special. With these two variables accounted for, the outcome was obvious: cassoulet. I came to this conclusion around 11:00 a.m. on Valentine's Day itself. You can see where this is headed. 

I made cassoulet, for the fist and only time, several years ago using Julia Child's recipe. So, off to the bookcase near the kitchen where I keep my cookbooks and grabbed Mastering the Art of French Cooking. There at page 399, the recipe read: "

FRENCH BAKED BEANS 

Cassoulet

Don't let the rather quotidian title fool you. This recipe is six damn pages long and requires cracked mutton and lamb bones! Pretty sure I skipped the cracked bones the last time. In fact, I'm pretty sure that I blocked that recipe out of my mind. I don't recall slogging through six pages of detailed instructions or spending all day in the kitchen. Call it culinary PTSD.

Maybe there's a quicker version...

I next turned to David Lebovitz's, My Paris Kitchen. His recipe was a mere five pages, but required a two-day head start. Hmmm, now where did I park the DeLorean?

Ina Garten was now my last chance to make cassoulet on Valentine's Day. She is an expert at taking classic French recipes and making them relatively straightforward. I walked back to that bookshelf with a bit more optimism in my step and confidently plucked Barefoot in Paris from the shelf and opened the index: caramelized shallots, rosemary cashews, cassis a l'eau, cauliflower gratin...but no cassoulet.

Maybe she has a recipe online, I thought. 

When I googled "Ina Garten cassoulet," I discovered why she doesn't have a cassoulet recipe: 

“There are so many dishes I love to make at home, but there are some things I just don’t make at home. I order them in restaurants, like cassoulet. Things that take, like, days to make and they’re so good.”

Well, if Ina Garten doesn't think cassoulet made at home is worth it, then I'm sold. But there was still the question of what I was going to make. Back to that bookcase yet again.

There on bottom shelf between Eric Ripert's Avec Eric and Raymond Olivier's La Cuisine, was Mimi Thorisson's French Country Cooking, someone I've written about before. One of my favorite recipes in French Country Cooking is Pork Tenderloin with Prunes and Red Win Sauce. Because of its ease of preparation and its deliciousness, this recipe punches well above its weight.

Here's the recipe:

PORK TENDERLOIN WITH PRUNES & RED WIN SAUCE

FOR THE SAUCE

2 1/2 tablespoons unsalted butter

1 medium carrot, diced

2 shallots, finally chopped 

1 bay leaf [I usually double what recipes call for.]

Leaves from 3 springs of fresh thyme

Course sea salt and freshly ground pepper

3/4 cup of red wine

2 tablespoons of red wine vinegar

1/4 chicken or vegetable stock

8 onces of prunes soaked in warm water for 15 minutes

FOR THE PORK

4 tablespoons unsalted butter

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

2 pounds of pork tenderloin, cut into four equal pieces

Coarse sea salt and freshly ground pepper

3 garlic cloves, unpeeled

Leaves from a few sprigs of fresh flat, leave parsley, finely chopped

PREPARATION

1. Make the sauce. In a medium sauté pan, heat 1 tablespoon of the butter over medium heat. Add the carrot and shallots and cook until slightly golden, about 3 minutes. Add the bay leaf and thyme, season with salt and pepper, and then add the wine and vinegar. Simmer for a few minutes to reduce slightly. Pour in the stock and bring to a low boil. Reduce the heat and simmer for 10 minutes.

2. Add the remaining 1 1/2 tablespoons butter to the pan. Drain the prunes and add them to the sauce. Continue to simmer for 5 mins. Season with salt and pepper to taste. 

3. Meanwhile, cook the pork. In a large sauté pan, heat the butter and olive oil over medium-high heat. Season the tenderloins on both sides with salt and pepper and add to the pan with the garlic cloves. Cook on both sides until golden brown and cooked through, 8 to 10 minutes. [I would like to try this recipe with bone-in pork chops.]

4. Spoon off and discard any excess fat from the pan, then pour the prune sauce on top of the pork. Garnish with the parsley and serve immediately. 

And there you have it. And while not the labor of love that I had originally intended, this recipe gave me more time to enjoy that meal with my love. And that's the whole point, isn't it?

Oh, did I mention that Mimi Thorisson has a recipe for cassoulet? Maybe I'll try again next year, starting around the end of January. 

Avocado is the Color of California

California is (was?) a different country. It is big, trendy, and shiny—with skinny, trendy, shiny people. And after you've stared at the 20th Ferrari dealership, one of many that seem to sprout like weeds every quarter mile, and after you've checked into your hotel, and after discovering you are hungry, you head to the hotel's stylish, skinny restaurant for lunch. 

You are greeted by a friendly, tan, sun/fun-loving blonde who cheerifully hands you the menu, one with no less than 9 dishes containing avocado. There is roasted avocado, avocado toast, avocado-grapefruit salad, various types of fish with avocado, and even steak with avocado. You will wonder whether there is some regulatory requirement in California that restaurants are required to have a certain quota of avocado dishes on the menu. Surprise: more avocados are consumed in L.A. than anywhere else in America. 

Where did this ugly little rock star come from?

Sometime around 500 B.C.E, someone cultivated the avocado (persea americana) in Mesoamerica. The avocado gets its name from the Nahuatl word ahuacatl, which means "testicle." To the Aztec, avocados, which grow in pairs, were symbols of love and fertility. About 95 percent of the avocados you will eat in the U.S. are of the Hass variety. In fact, about 80 percent of the avocados consumed worldwide are Hass avocados. 

So, here I was in a bar, thousands of miles from home. Nothing on the menu looked familar or appealing to this Southern boy, until I saw that they offered a srimp po-boy. But...with avocado? Who puts avocado on a shrimp po-boy?!  But try anything once I always say. And, I must say, it wasn't too bad. 

I am not crazy about big junks or slices of avocado in most dishes. Avocado is better as the drummer rather than the lead singer. 

But when in Rome...

Buh Bye 2020!

It is safe to say that I've never been happier to see a new year arrive. And I also never want to hear the word "unprecedented" again! But before I put away my comfy pants and hit the treadmill to undo nine months of working within twenty feet of the employee cafeteria (i.e., my kitchen), I have one last culinary indulgence: black-eyed peas and collards. 

In the South, it is traditional to eat black-eyed peas and collards on New Year's day for luck (the peas) and money (greens). The green color of collards represents money--that's pretty obvious. What's perhaps less so is why black-eyed peas represent luck. One story is that during his infamous march to the sea in Georgia, General Sherman didn't burn the fields planted with black-eyed peas, thinking they were animal feed. Because of the black-eyed peas Sherman spared, many Georgians avoided starvation and ever since the blacked-eyed pea has been considered to bring good luck. 

Black-eyed peas are not just for New Year's Day. I grew up eating them on a regular basis. In my family, we served them with chopped onion and ketchup. 

I've always made my black-eyed peas separate from the collards, cooking the peas slowly over low heat with butter, onion, and a ham hock or bacon. This year, however, I tried something new—a recipe by Raleigh, North Carolina, Chef Ashley Christensen. In her recipe, she combines black-eyed peas and collard greens, appropriately naming it Luck and Money. John T. Edge, named it one of his favorite recipes in a recent issue of Garden & Gun. Here's the recipe, though I added bacon to mine:

Luck and Money

Chef Ashley Christensen, Raleigh, NC

About 6-8 servings

¼ cup canola oil
1 yellow onion, minced
2 lbs. collard greens, stemmed and chopped*
1 tsp. red pepper flakes, toasted (Toast the pepper flakes in a dry sauté pan over medium heat, tossing constantly until they become aromatic.)
½ cup white wine
2 cups cooked peas (Use your favorite field pea.)
¼ cup apple cider vinegar
2 tbsp. roasted garlic butter**
sea salt to taste
fresh cracked pepper to taste

Warm canola oil in a stockpot over medium heat. Next, add onion and cook until translucent. Add chopped greens, and stir to mix with onion and oil. Season lightly with sea salt and toasted pepper flakes. Stir for 2 minutes to allow the seasoning to permeate the ingredients. Add white wine, and cook the contents of the pot (still over medium heat), stirring every few minutes. Cook until tender, about 30-40 minutes.

Once greens are tender, stir in cooked peas and cider vinegar. Bring to a simmer and season with roasted garlic butter, sea salt, and cracked pepper to taste. Simmer for 10 more minutes, allowing all of the ingredients to incorporate.

*Stems in greens are a matter of preference. I like them both ways, but I also love to pickle the stems separately for garnishing deviled eggs, or Bloody Marys…anything that likes a pickle.

**Roasted garlic butter is made by mixing soft, roasted garlic cloves into soft butter in a ratio of 1:8, so 1 tablespoon of roasted garlic to 1 stick of butter. It’s great for finishing sauces and vegetables. If you prefer, you may just use plain butter. If using plain butter, add a couple of cloves of crushed fresh garlic in with the onion.