The United States of Bacon

Tomorrow is election day...  finally.  It's been a long, hard, ugly summer of campaigning, pitting formerly friendly neighbors against each other.  People are afraid to read their friend's Facebook posts, and more frightened, still, of answering the phone.  Millions of trees have died in order that I might have fistfuls of election fliers jamming up my mail box on a daily basis.  Bob and I have taken to watching TV with the sound down, so we don't have to listen to all of the campaign ads on the airwaves.

But tomorrow, it will be be decided, one or way or another.  And red or blue, we're all in this together.  We need each other for this country to prosper.  I suggest that it's up to us to find again the things we all have in common.  

My own prescription for national healing is bacon.  It is one of the things that America does so much better than any other country.  And I know whereof I speak on that, having grown up mostly in London, England, and being half French.  I have eaten, and enjoyed, the bacon of many countries...  England, France, Germany, Italy, Canada, just to name a few.  But nobody, NOBODY does bacon like the United States of America.

American bacon is the perfect blend of salt, fat and sumptuous smokiness...
and there's nothing I don't love about it, from the way it smells as it cooks, to the way its flavour enhances every other ingredient it touches.  Of the 95 pounds of pig in our downstairs freezer, 8 of them are bacon.  That makes me very happy.

For our first bacon dish, we decided to do our take on a tradition... BLT... with an E.  I bought Breadsmith French Peasant bread, and cut it into thick slices.  I fried up the bacon until it was just crispy.  I sliced the last of our farmer's market tomatoes.  And I added a farmer's market fried egg on top.  I didn't skimp on the mayo, with plenty of fresh ground pepper, and I added a layer of fig preserves on one side, because I really love the little hint of sweetness. A leaf or two of iceberg lettuce... and it was perfection.  Served with homemade pickled baby carrots, and a tart green salad.

Now it's true that not everybody can eat bacon...  and I'm not suggesting that people who can't or won't eat bacon are any less American than the rest of us.  I'm grateful for them, actually, because it means more bacon for me.  

But we've got to start somewhere...  and I'm starting with a BLT.  Maybe I'll make one for the neighbors.

God bless America.  I'm feeling better about politics already.

Chop chop, it's pork time! (finally...)

The day dawned gray and cold, big gusts of wind from the outer bands of Frankenstorm Sandy bent the backyard birch trees almost sideways.  When the sleety rain started, it came in so hard it felt like acupuncture needles on my exposed face.  Who needs the great outdoors on day like this?  Not me, I've got pork chops to cook.

I believe I was dreaming about the pork chops the night before...  something about Julia Child and a very big spatula. So naturally, as I drank my morning coffee, I was drawn to my spattered copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking.  Who better to lead me than Julia?  If I'm going to start this porcine adventure, I want to kick it off right with the officially sanctioned way for a girl to handle a pork chop, from the Queen herself.  

She suggests that the perfect chop is about 1-1/2"s in thickness.  I look at my thawed pack of chops... 1" thick, check.  

She further suggests that it is ideal to marinate the pork chop for at least 6, but preferably 12 hours before cooking.  Her favorite marinade for a pork chop (because it "tenderizes the pork and accentuates its natural flavor") is a dry salt rub, as follows:

Marinade Sèche (from Mastering the Art of French Cooking)

(Per Pound of Pork)

1 tsp salt

1/8 tsp freshly ground pepper

1/4 tsp ground thyme or sage

1/8 tsp ground bay leaf

Pinch of allspice

Optional:  1/2 clove mashed garlic

Mix all the ingredients together, and rub them into the surface of the pork.  Place in a covered bowl.  Turn the meat 2 or 3 times if the marinade is a short one; several times if it is of long duration.  Before cooking, scrape off the marinade, and dry the meat thoroughly with paper towels.

I had 3 pork chops, 2 pounds in all... so I doubled the recipe (and quadrupled the garlic... we're all about garlic, chez Fish).  Then I took the pork chops out of their packaging, and admired them.  Yes, I know, I'm a dork... but they really were quite striking, uncooked on the plate.  The color was the main thing... a deep rosy pink, so much richer looking than the grey-ish white-ish grocery store pork chops I have sadly gotten used to.  Okay, enough mooning, time to marinate.  I rubbed the rub into the meat, put the covered plate into the fridge, and waited.  

After many hours, and several flips on the plate, it was finally time to cook.  I consulted Julia.  She recommends searing, and then finishing the chops in a covered casserole for 25-30 minutes in a 325 F oven.

I took the chops out of the fridge, so that they could come to room temperature, and I scrapped off the marinade, and dried the chops as directed.  The smell of the garlic was intoxicating.  Or, maybe that was just the glass of chardonnay I poured, to keep me company through the adventure.  Either way, this was getting exciting.  (Did I mention that I'm a dork?)

After preheating the oven, I grabbed one of my bags of pig back fat and rendered about 1/4 cup of the white gooey stuff in a hot, oven safe pan on top of the stove.  Slowly, slowly the back fat began to release liquid piggy-deliciousness.  After about 15 minutes, I had enough in which to sear the chops, so I cranked up the heat.  I sliced up another two cloves of garlic (did I mention we love garlic?), and laid the pork in the pan, sighing at the satisfying sizzle as the meat hit the heat.

I seared the chops for about 3 minutes on each side.   Just long enough for them get a bit of a golden crust, then I took them out of the pan and let them sit, while I wiped the pig fat out.  I put the pan back on the stove, with 2 tablespoons of butter.  When it was melted, I threw in the chopped garlic, laid the chops back in the pan, basted them with the butter, then covered the pan, and slid it into the oven.  

Meanwhile, I was working on the side dish... roasted baby cabbages.  I found the recipe on line at a blog called thekitchn.com -- check it out here:

Roasted Baby Cabbages

25 minutes later, and 4 additional bastings, and it was time to take them out.  So far, so good.  The meat was springy to the touch, and the juices were a pale yellow.  They looked done.  I put them on plate, covered them with a clean dish towel so they could rest, and set to the business of making a simple pan sauce.  

I deglazed the pan with about 1/3 of a cup of vermouth, stirring vigorously to get all of the yummy bits off the bottom.  I let it boil down about half way, then tasted... it was a little salty (not surprising, really), so I added a tablespoon of butter and about 1/4 cup of cream to take the edge off the saltiness.  

And here's the result.

The verdict 

Yum.  I had to sigh a little, and close my eyes as I tasted the pork... it was really good.  It sounds obvious, but it tasted like pork...  and I think I'd forgotten what pork chops really taste like.  And the roasted baby cabbages were delicious, if I say so myself.  Thank you, thekitchn.com  The downside?  It was little salty for my taste... I don't think I'll be making the dry salt rub again (sorry, Julia).  And a little more done than I like.  Next time, only 20 minutes in the oven.  But in the main, I'd say we're off to a good start.  2 pounds down, 93 more to go.

Sing it with me friends, "95 pounds of pig in the fridge, 95 pounds of pig, you serve three chops with a parsley sprig, 93 pounds of pig in the fridge."  Next time, BLT&Es.  Can't wait!

The Back Up Plan

Day 1 of the pig... and sadly, no pork chops.  See my last post about that.  But, since we had been clever enough to pick up one of Spartan Country Meat's very delicious fresh chickens while we were at the market, we didn't starve.

I'm a fan of roast chicken generally, but the ones we get from the market are sublime... food for the soul.

My favorite way to roast a chicken (in the 3-4 pound range) is to crank the oven up to 450 F.  Gently slide slivers of garlic up under the skin, over the breast and leg meat.  Salt and pepper liberally, inside and out.  Add fresh sprigs of rosemary to the cavity.  Heat an oven-proof skillet big enough to just barely hold the chicken on the stove on high.  Add enough vegetable oil to just cover the base of the pan.  Wait until the oil is very hot (it will be shimmering).  Tuck the wings under, and lay the chicken in the pan, breast side down.  Then pop the chicken in to the oven for 35 minutes.  Remove the pan from the oven, remembering that the pan handle will be scorching hot.  Carefully remove the chicken from the pan. Pour out the juices that have accumulated... they'll be mostly fat.  Then replace the chicken, breast side up, and roast for another 30 minutes.  It will need to rest 10-15 minutes after it comes of the oven, which is perfect timing for making a simple pan sauce.  We served this one with roasted sun chokes from the East Lansing Farmer's market, and a simple green salad.  Long live the back up plan!

Hog Wild

It's pig pick up day, and I am ready.

The basement freezer has been cleaned out... I think Freud might have had something to do with it, as one night last week, someone (probably me) went to the freezer for a popsicle, but didn't close the door all of the way.  By morning, everything inside had melted into an unappealing mush, and I was forced to throw it all in the trash can.  I might have shed a few tears over the batches of lovingly cooked lentil soup and zip-locked bags of pre-marinated flank steak that would never be the stars of our dinner table, but at least now I had a place to put the pig.

Armed with our two small red coolers, cloth shopping bags, and dreams of the pork chops I was going to make for dinner, Bob and I headed off to the last meeting of the East Lansing Farmer's market on this cold, late-October Sunday morning.

First, we did our regular shopping... eggs (of course!), sun chokes, baby cabbages, lettuce, carrots, tomatoes, onions, garlic, popcorn and, on impulse, some kimchee.  We put the produce in the car, and put in our order at the Trailer Park'd food truck...  pollo torto and a pulled pork sandwich, which we ate shivering on the seats of the metal picnic table while we plotted our pig plans together.

Then, at last, we made our way to Christine at Spartan Country Meats and immediately, we discovered the first flaw in our plan....  and it was a big one.  There was no way in hell all of that pork was going to fit in our puny little coolers, not even with the added capacity of our shopping bags.  Lesson number one:  95 pounds of pork takes up a lot of room.

Luckily, Christine is the trusting type, and she offered to let us borrow her coolers to transport the meat, as long as we promised to bring them right back.  Phew, bullet dodged.

We dragged the two big blue coolers of pig through the farmer's market, passed the bemused glances of our neighbors, and hoisted them into the car.  And we were off.  

It was while unpacking the pork that I discovered the second flaw in the plan... all the pork was already frozen, rock solid.  There would sadly be no pork chops thawed in time for dinner.  A dream deferred is a dream denied...  Lesson number two:  always have a back up plan.  

And another thing... I had asked for all of the pig fat and bones to be included, dreaming of the soups I can make, and the dishes to which I will add that buttery delicious pig flavor.  Unfortunately, I neglected to ask that the bones and the fat be packaged in something smaller than a Sam's Club-sized grab bag.  I can't think, off-hand, of any family recipe that calls for 18 pounds of pig fat at a go.  So I guess I will spend the next few days thawing bones and fat, repackaging them into single use-sized portions, and refreezing.  Lesson number three:   packaging matters, and one needs to be specific.

But look at that freezer.  Just look at it!  It's a pork lover's paradise, full of chops, ribs, shoulders,  ham, sausages, bacon and bones... and I have all winter to dream.

Pigs Can Fly

After a week of Indian summer, a blast of cold air blew in from Minnesota just in time for the last Sunday of the East Lansing Farmer's Market.  It's the kind of day that makes your bones rattle and your fingers numb.  There's a wet chill on the wind whispering that snow won't be far behind, scaring the last of the leaves from the embattled trees that surround Valley Court...  home to our small, but very enthusiastic weekly gathering of area farmers, bakers, bee keepers and banjo players.  There, every Sunday from July to October, you can find a rainbow assortment of locally-grown organic vegetables, humanely-raised meat and chicken, fresh-caught fish driven in from the Upper Peninsula's pristine waters, and off beat home-canned concoctions like kimchee, hot sauce and smoked whitefish dip.

I don't know how long the ELFM has been in operation, but I know that I came across it three years ago, and fell for it, hook line and sinker (appropriate for a Fish.)  Sundays are my favorite day to dream, and I do a lot of it as I wander among the tents, sipping apple cider, singing along to an eclectic mix of live music, and filling my shopping bags with the ingredients for a week's worth of family dinners.

Most Sundays, my husband and I walk the mile to the market hand in hand, trailing behind us our year-old Labradoodle, Jadzia.  We chat amiably with vendors and neighbors, while Jadzia flirts with the children that always want to pet her.  We might sit on the hill, soaking up the summer sunshine and listening to the band play, or we might buy our lunch from one of the excellent food trucks in the parking lot.

We have our weekly "must buy" items -- eggs that are so fresh that I swear you can still hear the hen cluck when you cook them, Spartan Country Meat's fresh whole chicken, sweet garlic, and a loaf of Stone Circle sourdough bread.  We never buy more than we can carry, although it occurs to me that sometimes we're more optimistic about our carrying power than we ought to be, as I massage the strap marks off of my weary shoulders.

On the walk home, I dream out loud about my plans for all the fabulous meals I'm going to make, and Bob offers suggestions about what we could grill, or whom we might invite over to share in all the yummy goodness.  And then I cook... all Sunday afternoon, while I listen to NPR, or sing along to Nina Simone.  Ahhhhhhh, heaven.

Like most of my women friends, I am a collection of a lot different personalities.  On any given day of the week, I'm a gardener, or a high-heel wearing blues diva, or an egg-head competitive scrabble player, or a wine-sipping brie-nibbling French girl, or the hurried and harried logistical manager of this multi-faceted enterprise we call THE FISH FAMILY (just to name a few.)  But on Sundays, thanks to the ELFM, I unleash my inner granola-eating birkenstock-wearing hippie chick earth mother... and boy, she loves the Farmer's Market.  And she gets depressed each Halloween, knowing that she's going to be put away for the winter like the flower pots on our porch or the rattan furniture in our gazebo.

But not this year.  No, this year is going to be different...  all because of a pig.  Well, half a pig, to be precise.

You see, a couple of weeks ago, during our weekly stop at the Spartan Country Meats tent, I noticed a sign that read "Last Day to Order Your Pig."  On impulse, I asked my bewildered husband to whip out his credit card, and hippie-chick earth mother girl hatched her plan to make the ELFM last all winter long.  We bought half a pig... 95 pounds of porcine dreams to take us from October to July, when the market will return once again.

This blog, Fish and the Pig, will document this culinary adventure...  complete with pictures and recipes.  At least two pig dishes a week, until we run out or we go crazy.  I'll be looking for ideas and suggestions.... 95 pounds of pork is a daunting proposition.  But I can't wait to start.  One of my heros, Julia Child would say Bon Appetit!  But I think I'll just say oink oink.