From Road to Kitchen to Stable

This morning after a 2.5 hour drive from New York and following a fine day at my parent’s house to celebrate Thanksgiving, I roll in to the farm to find that the two days prior to 27 November had been so busy that we were nearly wiped out of all the stuff that I am responsible for making for retail sale. So, delighted, I jump in and immediately begin breaking down the last of the three sides of veal that are hanging in the meat locker. (See above) There was some brown veal stock to reduce to demi-glace, turkeys to bone for sausage, pancetta to cut and package, ripe salami to cut down from the drying room for packaging and I’m working alone and rocking so hard that at 2 o’clock when I see Alex (who comes when he’s off from school to hang out with his father, our chief farm hand ) run in to the kitchen and grab some paper towels, I almost don’t understand that a calf is about to be born.

I drop the boning knife I’m using to take apart a side of veal, grab my camera and hustle out to the barn and shoot these pictures (below) of the birth of a Ayrshire dairy calf.

I’m sure that most of my readers will understand how bewitching something like this is to someone who has made a career from , in large part, cooking animals. I was never comfortable cooking, serving or eating meat in the absence of having direct knowledge of all aspects of the food web. I always felt that unless I had the guts to interact with the creatures that I used for food before they became food, I was a fraud. Certainly it is cowardly for me to cook meat if I cannot work up the courage to know and butcher animals.

Of course, that’s a standard that I only apply to myself.

I will not say that everyone who eats meat is a coward if they cannot butcher and cook an animal with whom they have had a personal relationship. (For the record: the female calf you see being born will probably not end up in my kitchen, but one of the bull calves at the end on the slideshow probably will.) But I will say this.

If you eat meat and the sweet, life-affirming pictures you see here make you seriously unhappy about preying on animals, you might consider giving serious thought to either becoming vegan or spending some time doing what I’m doing. Veganism is noble (vegetarianism, not so much) and so is -I believe- what Trent, and I am trying to do: face up to the reality of the consequences of appetite.

Think about it. Who wants to be one of those people who eats meat but says things like “Oh, if I had to kill an animal and cut it up, I’d probably become a vegetarian?”

I know that I don’t.

The best sauce in the world is hunger.

Untitled Title

When I compare my recent output here with what Ruhlman has been dishing out these last few weeks, I feel like a one trick pony. During what is supposed to be a two-month hiatus from writing, Michael has been rattling off great posts on phony food allergies (Did I tell you the one about the lady who told me that she was allergic to pork?) sous vide and, most recently, fried bone marrow. But whatever, he is a writer and writers write, right?

So what’s been my excuse for not keeping up with my blog? Dunno, really. Perhaps if my livelihood depended on it I’d be more prolific but I doubt it. Eh, enough hand wringing.

The slideshow at the top of the post contains a few of the very few photos I snapped last week at the farm. I was so busy butchering (we slaughtered two veal calves last week) that I did not have much time to shoot. The lonzini (pl. lonzino, loin) are from one of our Berkshire hogs and were cured for two weeks in a mixture of salt, sugar, pink salt black pepper and thyme. I’m guessing that they will hang for at least four weeks. Usually, I would scrub off the cure before hanging, but this time I left it on, in large part, because Trent thought it looked cool. I thought it looked cool too, but I’m a little skeptical of how it is going to taste with a layer of bristling thyme on the edge.

The country ham in the last two slides is wonderful. Trent cured two of those last year in a mixture of salt, molasses, pepper and pink salt (I’m pretty sure they were from one of the Yorkshire hogs that was raised for us by another farmer.) and I could not be more pleased by the outcome if I had cured it myself. The cure runs all the way through right down to the bone. There is no sign of bone sour (which can happen if the cure takes too long to penetrate all the way through) and the color is very uniform. The flavor is marvelous and not unlike that of a prosciutto di Parma. The fat is so dense that it’s almost crunchy.

The best sauce in the world is hunger.

Untitled Title

When I compare my recent output here with what Ruhlman has been dishing out these last few weeks, I feel like a one trick pony. During what is supposed to be a two-month hiatus from writing, Michael has been rattling off great posts on phony food allergies (Did I tell you the one about the lady who told me that she was allergic to pork?) sous vide and, most recently, fried bone marrow. But whatever, he is a writer and writers write, right?

So what’s been my excuse for not keeping up with my blog? Dunno, really. Perhaps if my livelihood depended on it I’d be more prolific but I doubt it. Eh, enough hand wringing.

The slideshow at the top of the post contains a few of the very few photos I snapped last week at the farm. I was so busy butchering (we slaughtered two veal calves last week) that I did not have much time to shoot. The lonzini (pl. lonzino, loin) are from one of our Berkshire hogs and were cured for two weeks in a mixture of salt, sugar, pink salt black pepper and thyme. I’m guessing that they will hang for at least four weeks. Usually, I would scrub off the cure before hanging, but this time I left it on, in large part, because Trent thought it looked cool. I thought it looked cool too, but I’m a little skeptical of how it is going to taste with a layer of bristling thyme on the edge.

The country ham in the last two slides is wonderful. Trent cured two of those last year in a mixture of salt, molasses, pepper and pink salt (I’m pretty sure they were from one of the Yorkshire hogs that was raised for us by another farmer.) and I could not be more pleased by the outcome if I had cured it myself. The cure runs all the way through right down to the bone. There is no sign of bone sour (which can happen if the cure takes too long to penetrate all the way through) and the color is very uniform. The flavor is marvelous and not unlike that of a prosciutto di Parma. The fat is so dense that it’s almost crunchy.

The best sauce in the world is hunger.

Never Say "Never"

This list of things one should never do in a restaurant is not only conspicuous for it’s exclusion of truly foolish behaviors like trying to tip the server with an angry dog or arriving with your own china and flatware because you read about some dive where that had been cited by the health department for a busted thermostat on its dishwasher, but for it’s inclusion of some truly wrong-headed tips. I’ll refrain for now from telling you which of these tips I think are completely smacked-ass (My newest favorite expression. I’ll get over it; I promise.) and sit back and enjoy your comments.

The home of this list of tips can be found at the end of an article at the TimesOnline that wonders if we are about to enter an era where chefs don’t scream and throw stuff at their employees. The author wonders if the recent appearance of female chefs in a profession that was (and still is) dominated by males might alter the dynamic of the realtionship between the chef and the brigade de cuisine and lead to a kinder, gentler, more democratic style of management.

I say yes, because as everyone knows, women never scream or throw things. They are incapable of being dictatorial and intolerant and always value communication over bullying and intimidation. Sorry, I couldn’t resist.

Things you should never do in a restaurant

•Trust the hollandaise sauce. Bacteria love it, and it’s never made to order.

•Even think about ordering anything if the bathrooms are filthy. Imagine what the kitchen must be like.

•Order your steak well done. You’re likely to end up with meat that the chef was unhappy to send out to anyone else.

•Go on a Monday. A lot of wine will be sold at the weekend, so the bottle you fancy could be out of stock.

•On Mondays, the ‘fresh fish’ could be less than fresh: boats don’t go out on a Sunday. And it’s a quieter day, so the chef is likely to not be there.

•Order the special. It could be that the chef legitimately wants to try out something new. But it might just as likely be designed to push older inventory.

• Get seduced by something with a sauce or gravy — they cover up mistakes.

•Order a medium steak and send it back as it’s pink in the middle. That’s what it’s meant to look like. Send it back when it’s not the kitchen’s fault and you open yourself up to a world of pain.

•Order oysters. Ever. I have a gastroenterologist friend, and the one thing he’ll never eat is oysters — they can contain the dangerous vibrio bacteria.

•Order off-menu. You’re just showing off. Unless you’re on a special diet. A chef does a menu to the best of his ability, and if you turn your nose up at it, you’re unlikely to get the best out of him. [Source]

The best sauce in the world is hunger.

Never Say "Never"

This list of things one should never do in a restaurant is not only conspicuous for it’s exclusion of truly foolish behaviors like trying to tip the server with an angry dog or arriving with your own china and flatware because you read about some dive where that had been cited by the health department for a busted thermostat on its dishwasher, but for it’s inclusion of some truly wrong-headed tips. I’ll refrain for now from telling you which of these tips I think are completely smacked-ass (My newest favorite expression. I’ll get over it; I promise.) and sit back and enjoy your comments.

The home of this list of tips can be found at the end of an article at the TimesOnline that wonders if we are about to enter an era where chefs don’t scream and throw stuff at their employees. The author wonders if the recent appearance of female chefs in a profession that was (and still is) dominated by males might alter the dynamic of the realtionship between the chef and the brigade de cuisine and lead to a kinder, gentler, more democratic style of management.

I say yes, because as everyone knows, women never scream or throw things. They are incapable of being dictatorial and intolerant and always value communication over bullying and intimidation. Sorry, I couldn’t resist.

Things you should never do in a restaurant

•Trust the hollandaise sauce. Bacteria love it, and it’s never made to order.

•Even think about ordering anything if the bathrooms are filthy. Imagine what the kitchen must be like.

•Order your steak well done. You’re likely to end up with meat that the chef was unhappy to send out to anyone else.

•Go on a Monday. A lot of wine will be sold at the weekend, so the bottle you fancy could be out of stock.

•On Mondays, the ‘fresh fish’ could be less than fresh: boats don’t go out on a Sunday. And it’s a quieter day, so the chef is likely to not be there.

•Order the special. It could be that the chef legitimately wants to try out something new. But it might just as likely be designed to push older inventory.

• Get seduced by something with a sauce or gravy — they cover up mistakes.

•Order a medium steak and send it back as it’s pink in the middle. That’s what it’s meant to look like. Send it back when it’s not the kitchen’s fault and you open yourself up to a world of pain.

•Order oysters. Ever. I have a gastroenterologist friend, and the one thing he’ll never eat is oysters — they can contain the dangerous vibrio bacteria.

•Order off-menu. You’re just showing off. Unless you’re on a special diet. A chef does a menu to the best of his ability, and if you turn your nose up at it, you’re unlikely to get the best out of him. [Source]

The best sauce in the world is hunger.

Just Another Meal

For someone who spends as much time cooking and thinking about cooking as I do, sometimes it is difficult to think of the act of preparing a meal that does not involve some esoteric ingredient or cooking technique as worth recording. Occasionally though, something about what I am doing while I’m cooking simple dinners for my family will strike me as interesting enough to pull out my camera and shoot, which is exactly what I did last Thursday when I shot these photos of grilled pork chops, sauteed broccoli rabe with garlic and basmati rice.

I think what moved me to grab the camera had something to do with me recognizing how much I take these meals for granted. In a world where millions don’t have enough to eat, and where millions who do have enough to eat don’t eat nearly as well as they could if they only took the time to cook their own food, it seems wrong, amoral even, to be unmoved by a meal that looks as nice as this one does to me. Also the fact that I knew the pig who I was cooking, the smell of the charcoal fire in the damp November air, and the glass of sauvignon blanc that drained so fast that I was afraid that I was being gas-lighted by a poltergeist had something to do with it too.

The best sauce in the world is hunger.

Kodak Moment: The Miracle of Bacon

Christian the Apprentice inspires awe in a child with nothing more or less than bacon.

The best sauce in the world is hunger.

Kodak Moment: The Miracle of Bacon

Christian the Apprentice inspires awe in a child with nothing more or less than bacon.

The best sauce in the world is hunger.

November Blues

I’ve been smitten with Herman Melville’s Moby Dick for so long that I cannot remember the last November that has not caused me to recall -and fret over- these lines from the first paragraph of the first chapter of the book that I’m pretty sure contains a big chunk of the narrative of my soul.

“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off–then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.”

Why November drives me to hunker down and get restless and cranky over the condition of my soul is obvious -I was born in November, the weather is dour and the landscape goes mute as daylight becomes twilight. I’ve never run off and gone to sea in any way that was not metaphorical. But since my first reading of Moby Dick, whenever November comes around I imagine myself, like Ishmael, walking in damp boots towards New Bedford under a grey drizzling sky , a rucksack on my back, daydreaming of Cape Horn, harpoons, and doom.

Hmm, now that I think about it’s probably a good thing that I identify so closely with Ishamel than the more obvious choice of Fleece, the Pequod’s cook. True, like Fleece I live a good portion of my life below decks in the galley, and I’m sure I could fry up a whale steak quite as well as he. But Fleece went down with George Bush, I mean Captain Ahab, in the ship in the vortex produced by the enraged whale, while Ishmael survived.

Sorry if this post is a downer. I’ll make it up to you in the next one with something bright and clever about the latest installment of some smacked-ass cooking show where the cooks battle it out like Rock-em Sock-em Robots. (No I won’t.) In the meantime have a look at a few shots of the farm in November. The ham was made in October, but I added it in because it felt right.

The best sauce in the world is hunger.

November Blues

I’ve been smitten with Herman Melville’s Moby Dick for so long that I cannot remember the last November that has not caused me to recall -and fret over- these lines from the first paragraph of the first chapter of the book that I’m pretty sure contains a big chunk of the narrative of my soul.

“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off–then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.”

Why November drives me to hunker down and get restless and cranky over the condition of my soul is obvious -I was born in November, the weather is dour and the landscape goes mute as daylight becomes twilight. I’ve never run off and gone to sea in any way that was not metaphorical. But since my first reading of Moby Dick, whenever November comes around I imagine myself, like Ishmael, walking in damp boots towards New Bedford under a grey drizzling sky , a rucksack on my back, daydreaming of Cape Horn, harpoons, and doom.

Hmm, now that I think about it’s probably a good thing that I identify so closely with Ishamel than the more obvious choice of Fleece, the Pequod’s cook. True, like Fleece I live a good portion of my life below decks in the galley, and I’m sure I could fry up a whale steak quite as well as he. But Fleece went down with George Bush, I mean Captain Ahab, in the ship in the vortex produced by the enraged whale, while Ishmael survived.

Sorry if this post is a downer. I’ll make it up to you in the next one with something bright and clever about the latest installment of some smacked-ass cooking show where the cooks battle it out like Rock-em Sock-em Robots. (No I won’t.) In the meantime have a look at a few shots of the farm in November. The ham was made in October, but I added it in because it felt right.

The best sauce in the world is hunger.