Monday, October 20, 2014

Sauerkraut and caramelized onion sandwich.

The Wilhelm. © Ryan Schierling
I love a great Reuben. It is one of my favorite sandwiches ever, and I will eat a Reuben anywhere, anytime. The sad thing is, I'm usually disappointed by thin and flaccid, flabby and fatty, tasteless corned beef brisket that's been boiled to the point of inedibility. In my opinion, if there's no respect for the meat, you might as well do away with it altogether. 

This... this is a sauerkraut and caramelized onion sandwich. Think about that for a second. It's cabbage and onions. There’s no corned beef, pastrami or turkey, or kielbasa, or any veggie substitutes like tempeh or seitan, because they're not necessary here. 

The boldest flavors of a Reuben are the sauerkraut, the Russian dressing or mustard, the rye and, if you’re going for a non-Kosher version, the Swiss cheese. Unless you’re eating a $20 Katz’s Delicatessen-style meat-pile, the rindfleisch is usually an additional sub-par, thinly-sliced, sad lunchmeat texture at best, and what little flavor it does have gets lost in the fistfight of aggressive tastes the traditional toppings hold. 

This isn’t a Reuben. It's not a West Coast Reuben, or a Montreal Reuben, and it's definitely not a Rachel

So, really, what is this meatless punch-in-the-mouth we made? I hereby declare this sandwich The Wilhelm. It’s not the prettiest handful you’ll ever make. If fact, it's downright ugly, but it hits all the right notes for fall – toasty warm and rich, savory, tangy, with hints of sweet and spicy. 

The caramelized onions take a while but are easy enough (see Chips, Dips and Dorks) and if you'd like to try your hand at making sauerkraut, the simple recipe is below. Löwensenf Extra Hot mustard, a staple in our "mustard locker," is great with this sandwich. 

Sunday, October 5, 2014

The secrets we keep – chilaquiles at El Torito.

Chilaquiles at El Torito. © Ryan Schierling
When we first visited Anna Salinas' El Torito seven months ago, there was no information across the wood shake above the front windows, only a blank open signage slot with exposed fluorescent tubes, waiting to illuminate something, anything.

There was no banner with the tiny restaurant's name, or specials, or letting the public know that the flour and corn tortillas were hand-made. There were only large, hand-written signs in the windows that read "TACOS," "GORDITAS" and "MENUDO."

There is a larger taqueria in this same strip mall, just down the way, and an even bigger Mexican restaurant/cantina across the street where the parking lot always seems to be full. Truth be told, we're not ones for sizzling fajita specials, frozen margaritas and roving mariachi bands, and we've never been the least bit curious about either of those joints. After our first breakfast at El Torito, we were absolutely, unequivocally hooked.

Sunday, September 14, 2014

Seriously, we can only eat so much fried okra.

Roasted okra and tomatoes with chili garlic vinaigrette. © Ryan Schierling
My first experience with okra was decidedly unpleasant – an unfortunate "high-brow" circumstance wherein a vegetable galette included its overly-mucilaginous presence.

Then we moved to Texas. If you know anyone with a big garden in these parts, you're certain to find okra offered to you by the cubic bushel in late summer. Okra thrives in the heat and seems to defy the sun-baked earth, and it's been showing up on our doorstep for the last few weeks.

So, how do you say "no" – in good conscience – to the pound of okra that arrives with every late summer CSA delivery? We joined for the local and seasonal offerings, and it just wouldn't be right to turn it away or not make good use of it. 

What exactly are you supposed to do with this stuff? Common wisdom points immediately in the direction of pickling, making gumbo, or battering and frying. But there's only so much pickled okra that's going to get eaten at our house this year, and if I'm going to make a mess of my cooktop with a pot of boiling fat... well, I can't honestly say that okra is the first thing I'd choose to fry up.

In a flash of merciful recollection, Ryan remembered seeing a recipe for roasted okra and cauliflower salad in a cookbook we got last year – Smoke and Pickles by Chef Edward Lee. It has been our salvation over the past few weeks of CSA deliveries. (You can also find it featured in this post by CBS The Talk, where he was a guest last Fall.)

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Tomatoes rock.

Tomato carpet at the now defunct Emo's on Red River - Austin, Texas. © Ryan Schierling
My mother always describes eating fresh tomatoes out of a childhood, long-ago family garden – plucked ripe from the vine, warm from the sun, juices dripping down her chin on the first bite. I imagine it is what tomatoes were always supposed to taste like... killer.

Grocery store tomatoes are a sad affair, no matter how organic or fresh. Compared to home-grown, they are typically a little mealy, a little dry, lackluster and lacking in fresh-picked, sun-ripened flavor. When we buy tomatoes outside of our Central Texas growing season – which is to say, November through March – they're usually used for making salsa or tomato jam. The little actual tomato flavor they've got is augmented by other, bolder ingredients. But when it's summertime in Austin – which is to say, April through October – we have two garden plots that are a cage-match tomato free-for-all.

The larger varieties don't usually fare so well. They split before they're ripe, they are susceptible to leaf-footed bugs, and we've found that crafty mockingbirds abscond with bits and pieces of them as soon as they're soft enough to poke a beak in. Sweet little cherry and grape tomatoes are prolific and quick to grow, the medium-sized orange ones do well, and small heirloom varietals have been very successful. We stick with the tried-and-trues, and use them to their tomato-ey fullest while we've got them.

Sunday, July 6, 2014

Cookies. With or without sticks.

Two kinds of chocolate and a wee bit of peanut butter. Pretzels optional. © Ryan Schierling
In my now "vintage" 1970s recipe box there is a faded card that is spattered from decades of use, and the careful lines of my early teenage script are a barely-legible watercolor of blue ink. This is the mother recipe for innumerable batches of cookies I've baked in my lifetime. We all have a recipe or two like this tucked away somewhere – one from which a thousand improvisations are sprung. 

I was a lucky kid to help in the kitchen from a very early age, but somewhere around the age of eleven, baking cookies became a legitimate activity to stave off summer boredom. After hours of riding our ten-speeds on dirt roads through the middle of barley fields or walking the railroad tracks to the little general store with its weathered board and batten siding and shake porch that looked like something straight out of a spaghetti western, my friend Tammy and I would often choose to pass an afternoon baking cookies.

Friday, June 20, 2014

Hangover breakfast, part two.

Caramelized fennel and onion hash. © Ryan Schierling
Sometimes, there’s not a definitive narrative to the things we make.

Sometimes we mumble. 

Sometimes there’s just an overflowing refrigerator and a short-order cook aesthetic – throw some stuff together and put an egg on it. The treatments will vary depending on what we’ve been cooking lately (have you ever eaten taco salad variants five nights in a row?) and what happens to be in the pantry, but shaking things up sometimes requires a reset and breakfast is always where I begin again.

We had pounds of potatoes, tons of onions and two generous fronds of fennel. How am I supposed to be fabulous with fennel?

I don’t enjoy anise-flavored things in the least – Jagermeister and NyQuil (which may as well be the same disgusting thing when you have a cold), absinthe (love the old-world concept and execution, hate the liquor), Black Jack chewing gum (what the…?), star anise (pretty, but pretty repulsive) uhm… black licorice (sue me, it's foul). Some spell it “liquorice” and that would seem to imply I’d love it, seeing that it’s a compound word containing “liquor” and “ice.” Not so. Definitely... not so

But fennel that is slow-cooked down with onions until it’s brown and supremely sweet isn’t something we’ve ever done before. The fennel flavor changes from a bracing, bright anise hit to a far more complex, mellow mouthful that’s so very nice with potatoes. A squeeze of lemon juice and a couple of garden-fresh tomato slices add some acidity, and the egg on top is required whether this is for breakfast or not. Enjoy.

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Sweet flan? Don't carrot all.

Savory carrot flan with carrot-top walnut pesto and feta. © Ryan Schierling
My forays into flan have been few and far between. I don't care for the caramel-sweet Spanish dessert custard and the crusty English open-pie version isn't my cup of tea. I'd rather have a small, savory custard as an appetizer course, and if blue cheese flan happens to grace a menu, I'll take it as dessert with one last glass of red wine, thank you very much

We've finally gotten with the CSA program, and our bi-weekly delivery of the Austin-area's finest farm veg is a welcome challenge to eat more locally-grown produce, and who doesn't like getting a super-secret-surprise box delivered to their doorstep every once in while? 

Grocery stores offer every fruit and vegetable you can think of – even if it's not in season – when you think you want it... which is always right now. With our CSA box, we're delighted (forced) to use what's currently ready to be harvested, and sometimes it's very nice to be filled with wonder (dread) at how we're going to use our very-perishable bounty. Kidding, kidding. The quantities are small enough that we haven't had too many issues with things getting lost in the crisper (rotter). 

There were some beautiful little carrots in our last delivery, with the most delicate, lacy, bright-green tops I've seen in a while. The easy way out is salad. Boring, big ol' salad. A better option (fate) would be Julie's crowd-pleasing carrots on the side, and this would have been entirely appropriate but I wanted something a little different and a little fancier than the last recipe I offered up, which was Krab enchiladas. Oh, I may occasionally put Slim Jims and gas-station cheese inside a jalapeño and deep fry it, but I know what the hell a bain Marie is. This is penance, perhaps redemption, and I'm using the carrots nose-to-tail. Errr, root to leaf

It's a simple, savory custard, full of right-out-of-the-earth carrots, topped with a pleasantly-grassy (and very complimentary) carrot-top and walnut pesto and some sheep's-milk feta. First course, last course, it doesn't matter. 

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