TwoBusy

Apparently, the other white meat is me

I don't know about you, but I was absurdly productive this weekend. Saturday I spent virtually the entire day in the kitchen (note: I was neither barefoot nor pregnant at the time), preparing a feast for my parents in thanks for their help during the looooooong week TheWife spent in exile in Boise. The exercise in bacchanalian spelndor included:

* Pork chops in a shallot madeira sauce
* Roasted sweet potato spears in a maple glaze
* Arancini with mozzerella and a bunch of other tasty stuff (courtesy of Whole Foods)
* A super-dense and rich chocolate porter cake (featuring almost a full 12oz of Smuttynose Robust Porter... mmm...)

All washed down with a fine, fine bottle of Suncé Meritage.

Verdict: I rule.

On Sunday, TheWife took TheBrood north to the forbidden wastelands of Grandmaland -- leaving me free to fill the house with toxic fumes as I primed and painted the lovely little sunroom that once was my office... and is now a playroom for bloodthirsty primates.

Whatever. Now they've got some nice yellow walls to look at while they throw toys at one another and feast on the remains of my quality of life.

And how was your weekend?

You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have...

THE GOOD
After spending the better part of the past two weeks "living" (and I use that term only in the technical sense) without the benefit of God's most precious gift, the carbohydrate, I threw caution to the wind yesterday and cooked up about a gallon of chili. And when I threw caution to the wind, I really chucked that fucker outta there, because as I stirred and cooked and cooked and stirred, I found myself quickly leaving the security of my ancient chili recipe behind -- and instead making bold (some might even say foolhardy) ventures into the world of spice exploration.

Let me clarify by saying that, up until yesterday, chili in my world has basically been an amalgamation of ground beef, kidney beans, chopped tomatoes, tomato sauce, a little cumin and a lot of chili powder. Good, solid stuff, but nothing remotely earth-shaking.

Yesterday, I explorified. I freestyled. The tomatoes were fire-roasted. The beef was two pounds of Whole Foods' 90% lean. There were diced portobello mushrooms. There were a half-dozen cloves of garlic. There was chili powder, and there was cumin, but there was also cayenne pepper. And chipotle powder. Lots of of chipotle powder. There was a splash of amontillado, and half a bottle of beer. (I'll let you imagine what happened to the other half.) And there was, of course, love. Because if you're not cooking with love... don't bother cooking at all.

For more than four hours, it bubbled away on my stovetop. The sharpness of the spices and powders softened into strong washes of flavor, blending with the richness of the beef and mushrooms and the sweet spices of the great White Ale.

And then, at long last, it was ready. On a January evening in New England, with the wind howling outside and the temperature hoving around 20 degrees, we settled down to big, delicious bowls of this wonderfully complex and sophisticated chili. Sprinkled a little shredded cheddar on top. Cut a few slices of thick, multigrain bread for dipping. Opened a bottle of smooth, rich, liquid magic.

And by God, it was beyond good.

THE BAD
Reche fucking Caldwell, man. I know it's not entirely his fault... but I think - in fact, I'm pretty sure - I'm always going to blame him for what happened last night. Yes, the Pats defense fell apart in the second half. Yes, their complete inability to mount a decent pass rush from the end of the second quarter until about four minutes before the end of the game basically doomed them. Yes, they looked exhausted and confused throughout. And yes, since credit must clearly be given, Peyton Manning had a phenomenal second half.

But Reche. Those two balls you dropped... how is that even possible? Your entire career is leveraged on your ability to catch a football. And these two balls were thrown directly into your hands -- you didn't have to jump, or move, or even lean: they were delivered into your hands as cleanly as a newborn child into the arms of its mother. And you dropped them. You dropped the babies, Reche!

(steaming)

(steaming)

Sorry. I'm not ready to be rational about this yet.

Re: carb-free vs. business travel

"I'm not spending a week in Boise without drinking."
- TheWife

On an unrelated but hopefully more appetizing note...

I'd meant to post this earlier in the week, but then... uh... circumstances overtook me. So: a brief photo essay on Thanksgiving in Castle TwoBusy.

PART THE ONE
We hosted -- 12 adults, plus a handful of small children (mostly ours). It's our house rule that no one can come to Thanksgiving empty-handed, which limits the amount of prep work we have to do to a manageable logistical nightmare. And thus, half an hour before our guests arrived, the table was ready for a full-on harvest feast:

(please note TheWife's homemade banana-cranberry bread, which was delicious.)

PART THE TWO
The bird -- a 22+ lb. monster that I massaged and spoke to sensually for days before finally undressing and then... uh... dressing... in all its Thanksgiving finery. We named it after one of TheWife's co-workers, in honor of its Rubensesque figure.

(please note the perfect, golden-brown skin, as well as my extra-sensual, apple, celery, raisin and sherry-infused stuffing. Damn, I'm good.)

PART THE THREE
Then a whole bunch of in-laws showed up.

(photography omitted to preserve the illusion of a Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving experience.)

PART THE FOUR
In which the Thanksgiving party - overloaded with tryptophan and Shiraz - passed out immediately after leaving the table.

THE END.

Winter warmer

A great, hearty recipe for cold weather days, as inspired by Real Beer and Good Eats:

BROCCOLI ALE SOUP
Ingredients
* 1 bottle of good, robust ale or porter (I used Harpoon's Winter Warmer this past weekend, for example)
* Approx. 2-3 cups broccoli crowns, chopped into bite-sized pieces
* 2 Italian sausages, chopped into bite-sized discs
* 1/2 cup chopped ham, canadian bacon or prosciutto
* 4 TB chopped garlic
* Olive Oil
* 2 lg cans Muir Glen Diced Fire-Roasted Tomatoes (note: if you cook with tomatoes, and you've never used the fire-roasted... I'm about to change your world)
* 4 cups chicken stock/broth
* 2 cups macaroni-type dry pasta (I'm personally a big fan of cavatappi)
* 1 Tsp nutmeg
* Kosher salt
* Fresh-ground pepper

Directions
1. Heat a couple of tablespoons of olive oil in a big soup pot (medium/high heat), then toss in your chopped sausages and ham/prosciutto/whatever. Stir 'em around for about 5ish minutes, until nicely browned.

2. Add in your chopped garlic (and probably a little more olive oil), and stir it around until lightly browned.

3. Drain your tomatoes, then add them, your chicken stock/broth, and probably about 1/3 bottle of ale.

4. Take a nice, long sip of your beer. If it tastes good, you're doing the right thing. Smile, and take another sip.

5. Heat everything until it boils, then drop it down to a nice simmer for 5 minutes. Stir in the nutmeg, plus salt and pepper to suit your taste (or lack thereof).

6. Add in your pasta and broccoli. Stir it around. You should probably pour in some more beer, too -- the soup is practically a stew at this point. Then have another sip. Mmm... beer. Finish the bottle while your soup cooks, then recycle it. No, seriously.

7. Keep stirring - and adding more salt and pepper - until the broccoli and pasta are cooked. You'll want to taste the broth to make sure it's got enough character... do NOT under-season! The last thing you want is a bland soup.

8. Ladle it into a couple of bowls. Throw a little fresh parmesan over it, if you feel so inclined. I hope you thought to make some fresh garlic bread, because that goes really well with it. Open up a nice bottle of red - a barbera, for example - sit down, and enjoy.

Celebrating the magic of pork

This past weekend's culinary masterpiece, as created by yours truly with more than a little help from the phenomenal Black Dog Cookbook:

PORK CHOPS IN SHALLOT MADEIRA SAUCE
Ingredients
4 big, beautiful boneless pork chops
1/2+ cup madeira
1 cup chicken stock
1 shallot, chopped
3 garlic cloves, chopped
Canola oil
1+ cup breadcrumbs
Kosher salt

Directions
1. Take a large, flat plate and combine breadcrumbs, 1 chopped clove of garlic, and 1/2 cup of canola oil.

2. Take as big (wide) a pan as you have and heat 1/2 cup of canola oil over medium heat.

3. Grab your big, beautiful, boneless pork chops and brush a little canola oil over all sides. Then coat each pork chop in the breadcrumb mix -- ideally, you should get a nice, thin layer of breadcrumbs over most of the chop. Do this for all 4 chops, then drop them into your heated pan.

(Don't scrap the remaining breadcrumbs. These come in handy later.)

4. Let the chops cook for approx. 8 minutes, then flip over. When you flip 'em, the cooked side should look pretty well grilled. If not, you haven't cooked 'em for long enough -- give 'em another minute or two, then flip.

5. Let the chops cook for another 8-10 minutes, then check for doneness (is that a word? If not, let's pretend it is and move onwards.). If you like the meat thermometer route, go ahead. Personally, I am guilty of the cardinal sin of cutting into the meat to make sure it's cooked all the way through -- I'm too paranoid of undercooked meat to do otherwise.

6. When the chops are cooked thoroughly on the second side, flip 'em over again and then add in your chopped garlic (2 cloves) and chopped shallot. Let 'em brown, stirring occasionally.

7. Briefly remove the pan from heat. Pour your madeira into the pan -- but beware of "flareup." (This is what the cookbook says, although I've never experienced it for myself.) The recipe calls for 1/2 cup, but I like to be generous here... your dinner will not suffer from the presence of too much madeira, unless you accidentally pour in half a bottle. Anyhow, after you pour it in, return the pan to the stovetop and heat for 5ish minutes (medium heat). Then pour in your chicken stock and let the whole thing heat through, stirring the pan to scrape up the good bits and allow it to thicken (and boil down) the sauce.

8. After a few minutes, pour in your leftover breadcrumb mix. This will make your sauce nice, thick and delicious.

9. Serve over the grain of your choice -- I went with Giant Pearl Couscous (Wild Mushroom flavor) from Whole Foods, which went phenomenally with the entree. Fresh green beans/haricot vert worked nicely as a side.

10. Pop open your bottle of red - we enjoyed a delicious bottle of d'Arenberg Footbolt Shiraz - sit your ass down, and dig in.

Seconds, anyone?

As yesterday was both Columbus Day and Canadian Thanksgiving - holidays apparently celebrated here in the far north, if nowhere else - we had the day off. TheWife and TheBrood once again took off for Grandmaland, leaving me to a full day of landscaping, moving lawn furniture, and savoring the rare sensation of not being screamed at.

I decided to express my gratitude for this day by preparing an autumnal feast for my beloved. As day turned into afternoon and then into early evening, I slaved over a hot stove -- preparing my variation on Wilson Farms' Cream of Tomato Soup (a thick, rich, hearty soup made even more flavorful by the use of fire-roasted diced tomatoes and, of course, about a gallon of amontillado sherry) and Autumn Bruschetta (a variation on the Hay Day Cookbook recipe, where I skip all the stuff I don't like - marscapone, parsley, etc. - and switch out pears for apples, and basically end up with apples and blue cheese on a toasted baguette) accompanied by what would surely be a gorgeous bottle of Sunce Barbera.

By the time the famdamily returned from the forbidden wastelands of the north (e.g. the greater Nashua, NH area), our home was rich with aromas of food, drink and love. Golden light spilled through the window onto our dining room table, as we settled the offspring into their seats and began preparing their dinners (even as I put the finishing touches on our own). With the baguettes broiling in the oven we spooned out tiny tender baby peas, cut chicken nuggets into bite-sized pieces, and handed over the drinkable yogurts that bring nothing but joy to a young child's heart. A weak breeze sent a ripple through the golds and reds and bright burning oranges in the maples outside. The children laughed and ate. I opened the bottle of wine, and TheWife took her first sip as I stepped back into the kitchen.

This was the ideal October meal.

It was at this point that TwinA -- and I'm having trouble keeping track of this A vs. B stuff, so we'll just call her Butterfly from now on -- started coughing. A chicken nuggest going down the wrong tube, perhaps. No big deal -- it happens every meal. TheWife gave her a little pat on the back, and Butterfly smiled, and everything seemed fine. "Is she okay?" I asked. "She's fine," came the response. And as I leaned down to open the oven and flip over my baguette pieces, I heard the coughing begin again -- only much stronger. And almost instantly, I heard the magical words that transform any meal into an exercise in pain: "She's throwing up all over the place!"

I leapt back into the dining room, just in time to see the chicken nugget in question come back up. Along with the yogurt, and peas, and a large selection of grapes and hot dogs she'd apparently enjoyed for lunch. And up it came. And up and up and up. And then, suddenly, it was done. She was drenched, her high chair tray was drenched, the aroma in the house had abruptly changed to something quite different... and then Butterfly and her sister Rabbit both began cackling hysterically.

(My children are violently insane.)

Things devolved quickly from there, with sudden emergency laundry runs and bathtubs and hosing downs of the high chair in question and TheHurricane demanding "Cookies! I want cookies, please! I want cookies! Aaaaaiiiiiigggggggg!!!" And, of course, the forgotten baguette burning to a fine, black crisp.

As a meal event, it was roughly equivalent to Pompeii after the eruption of Vesuvius -- a smoking ruin where something spectacular had once been.

(Besides that, though, things went great.)

Red Sox 5, Devil Rays 1

Last night marked a rare evening out for your old friend TwoBusy. Joined by my friend Swoosh (not his actual name, but a clever pseudonym), I ditched work early and headed in to Fenway for the first completely meaningless Red Sox game I've seen in probably 10 years.

* Parking cheaply and strategically in Brookline at the Allston line (meters end at 6pm, meaning we parked on Beacon Street for the entire event for 35 cents), we made the 10-minute walk up to the Boston Beer Works. Good God, I do love the Beer Works. It was the site of my first brewpub encounter back in the early 90s, and it was a defining experience for me. From that first visit, I knew these things as a certainty: 1) I love good beer; 2) I love good beer food; and 3) all I wanted from life was a cute girl who would enjoy these things with me. (Hence... TheWife.)

Even 2 hours before game time - in the last week of the season, where a disappointing 3rd-place Sox team would be facing one of the worst teams in the game - Beer Works was packed. I put in our name for a table, was told to expect a 30+ minute wait, and Swoosh and I made our way down to the lower bar to order a couple of brews. Within 5 minutes, two people abandoned their seats at the bar and Swoosh... uh... swooshed right in. I can't even begin to express how miraculous this was. I mean, in a heartbeat people were standing 3-deep behind us, trying to order beers and waiting for seats of their own... and yet there we were, happy as clams, beers in hand, burgers and sweet potato fries on the way, 3 flatscreens above the bar in front of us feeding us all the sports minutia we could hope for...

And there was much rejoicing.

* I enjoyed two pints, for those of you who may care: a Pumpkinhead Ale (great aroma, but less spiced and wonderful than I remembered... the pumpkin flavor was almost too subtle to pick up on, which is not necessarily what I'm looking for when I drink a pumpkin ale) and an Oktoberfest Lager (very nice -- robust, flavorful and extremely full-bodied for a lager. Yum.).

* We then meandered over to Yawkey Way to explore the memorabilia shops. Insofar as that, between Swoosh and I, we've got 5 kids to clothe (holy fuck... five kids? Who are we?) we figured that a nice "thank you" to those who allowed us to get away would be a few kid-sized Sox t-shirts, sweatshirts, hats... whatever.

HA.

A little 4T/5T blue sweatshirt with the words BOSTON RED SOX ironed across the front? Forty. Fucking. Dollars. For something our 3-year olds would outgrow in about 4 months. And never mind one of those serious, old-school Sox jerseys I've been dreaming of picking up for years. Above and beyond the fact they don't offer a Gabe Kapler model (not just a great role player, but one of the smartest athletes I've ever heard and a guy really worthy of respect), I don't think the sum total of every piece of clothing I was wearing last night matched the $150 they were asking for a jersey.

* And then, the game itself. (I should mention here that I got the tickets for free from a buddy of mine in DC, and all it cost me was my soul.)

The seats were pretty mediocre -- right field grandstand, about 2/3 of the way up. But it was our full expectation that the park would be only half-full, especially given that it was the last week of September and we'd be watching a 3rd-place team playing one of the worst teams in baseball. We figured we'd be able to move up easily.

Think again. We found ourselves joined by 32,000 other people out to enjoy a beautiful, early fall evening in New England. The temperature was a comfortable 60ish degrees, no wind, crystal clear sky fading into a rich dark evening... and as the game unfolded, we shared the most mellow, fun game experience I've probably ever had.

Why? I mentioned something to Swoosh about how this was the most easy-going Sox crowd I'd ever seen, and he nailed it: he said it was because there was absolutely no tension in the game. There was nothing hanging on the result -- all 32,000 of us had the freedom to do nothing more than sit back and enjoy the game for the game itself. And you know... it was pretty awesome. We even saw a Yankee fan - with full sleeves of tattoos, a Jeter jersey and blue NY hat - making his way around the stadium in the 6th inning, and there was really no venom at all to the catcalls the guy received. It was all pretty good-natured ribbing (which, if you know Fenway, you know is not the normal reaction), and the guy in question just smiled and waved it off.

What a great experience.

* Before the game, they held a ceremony for David Ortiz to celebrate his earning the Sox single-season home run record (previous record: Jimmie Foxx, 50 HRs in 1938). He was joined by Jimmie Foxx' daughter, Babe Ruth's granddaughter, and his own wife and 2 adorable kids. The Sox unfurled a long red banner down the Wall listing the top single-season HR totals in team history, with Ortiz' name and the number 53 at the top. And the crowd gave him a 5-minute standing ovation -- just pure, pure love. You can't enjoy baseball and not love David Ortiz.

I'll let you imagine the reaction when he hit #54 in the third inning.

* Curt Schilling notched his 15th win of the season. Given how up close and personal Curt and I have become over the past month or so, it gave me great pleasure to see him strike out 9 and basically dominate the Tampa lineup. Especially the way he struck out Delmon Young three times -- and didn't even get hit by a bat in retaliation.

Great parking spot. Great food & beer. Great game. Great night.

Parts is parts

Last week, TheWife was able to duck out of work briefly and make a run to Whole Paycheck in order to pick up foodstuffs of great quality and natural goodness for her famdamily. That evening, while the offpsring milled around our feets, we unpacked her bounty and shared the following conversation.

Me (pulling out some prepackaged meat): "Huh?"

TheWife: "It's turkey."

Me: "No, it's something called 'turkey ham.'"

TheWife: "Which is what I said."

Me: "No, this is... I don't know what the hell this is. Turkey and ham are two separate animals. Turkey equals turkey, ham equals pig. Turkey ham? What the hell is turkey ham?"

TheWife: "Uhh..."

Me: "What kind of fucked up genetic manipulation is going on over at Whole Foods? I thought those guys were committed to wholesome goodness and loving the earth and all that crap -- but NO! Instead, we discover the ugly truth: they're cross-breeding pigs and turkeys to create something... unnatural."

TheWife: "Uhh..."

Me: "They bred it, and then they killed it, and then they sliced it up and put it in plastic, and now you want to feed it to our children."

TheWife: "I just thought it was turkey. Or ham."

Me: "Alright -- we'll look at the ingredients. Maybe we'll get some clarification."

TheWife: "I'm not feeling very good about this anymore."

Me: "Item number one: turkey thighs. Then a lot of sweetener and spices and stuff."

TheWife: "Okay -- so it's turkey."

Me: "You know what they mean when they say thighs."

TheWife: "...no."

Me: "Butts. Turkey butts. You want to feed our children turkey butts."

TheWife (burying hands in face): "Oh my god."

Me: "You want some? It may be the ass of the turkey, but I'm sure it's the very highest quality turkey ass money can buy. Mmmmmmm... tuuuuuuuurkey buuuuuuuuuutttttts..."

In which I kick ass

The dinner I made yesterday:

* Grilled eggplant in a chile-onion relish
* Couscous with currants and nuts
* Grilled pork chops in East-West BBQ Sauce
(E-WBBQ = sesame oil, onions, mustard seed, tobasco, cola (yes, cola), soy sauce, ketchup... a very strange and delicious cross-section of ingredients)

* And, for dessert, grilled bananas with raspberries in a rum-caramel sauce

All of which we washed down with half a bottle of Sunce's robust Cabernet Sauvignon.

Damn, I'm good.