Anyone Out There?

Welcome to an indifferent universe. It’s not hostile; it’s not benign. It’s just really, really big and doesn’t care whether you or I or my incredibly entertaining blog exist. In fact, it doesn’t “care” at all because it just is. Not only that, the universe is mind-liquefyingly infinite, mostly dark and cold and empty, full of invisible matter and theoretical forces, and almost completely inaccessible to you.

Fate and destiny are human constructs, attempts to explain why bad things happen (and they do happen) in this massive, random universe. We all float along, bumping from action to reaction, cause to consequence, and nothing, save the sometimes shaky laws of physics, is driving this thing.

What does all this mean? Well, on the negative side, it means that your future is completely out of your control. Try, yearn, strive, fight all you wish; display talent, aptitude, perseverance, desire, and, suddenly, some uncontrollable, outside force might intervene and bring all your effort to naught.

Why, then, bother at all, you might ask. Pliny the Younger (a first century Roman philosopher and nephew to the famous historian Pliny the Elder) agrees that the universe is the residence of random energies and had something to say about our somewhat depressing state. Paraphrasing, he encourages daily meditation, before one rises, upon all the possible mishaps which may occur in the course of the day. Duly prepared, he argues, one may finally leave bed and, at the least, know what is coming.

I don’t entirely have the same opinion. That the universe is oblivious, I agree. That we are hardly in control of our fortunes, I concur. That dwelling on possible negative outcomes is the proper response, I’m not convinced.

In fact, what the arbitrary nature of the cosmos gives us is the comforting knowledge that sometimes things go wrong and it isn’t our fault. We didn’t get the job, not because we didn’t try hard enough, or that we were under-qualified, but because the boss hired a friend. The cancer didn’t go into remission because, randomly, it wasn’t adequately affected by the chemo, not for of a lack of positive attitude.

This uncaring universe is not, as Pliny would have us believe, a prison of possible misfortunes, but rather a door of unlimited freedoms, a liberation from the bonds of complete responsibility.

Sometimes, bad things just happen, and you aren’t to blame.

So, with a certain amount of joy I say: Welcome to an indifferent universe.

Still, it’s so damn vast and vacuous and awfully cold out there. No amount of philosophical encouragement is going to fix that. Might I offer you some comfort food instead?



Mushroom Risotto

Everything about this dish is comforting. The preparation is deeply satisfying, making a simple stock, the slow, constant, and repetitive stirring of the rice. Both the color and flavor are deeply earthy and rich and mystifyingly warming. The concentrated aroma of roast mushrooms is medieval, somehow, and speaks of hearthside meals long past. In addition, mushrooms and parmesan cheese have a secret relationship that they don’t what to talk about, but, based on overheard whispers, it is a special relationship indeed. Anyhow, mushroom risotto is bloody delicious.

500 g mushrooms
2 cloves garlic
1 sprig thyme
1 cup arborio rice
1 small onion, fine dice
2 tablespoons butter
olive oil
½ cup white wine
¼ cup shaved parmesan

First, mushroom stock. Slice 400 grams of the mushroom (I use cheep button mushrooms for the stock) about ½ cm (¼ in) thick. In a hot pan, working in small batches, sauté the mushrooms in a bit of olive oil until they are deep golden brown. When the last batch of mushrooms is nearly finished, add a crushed clove of garlic and a sprig of thyme. Place all the cooked mushrooms in a small pot, cover with water and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to a simmer and cook 20 minutes. Remove from heat, cover, and sit for 20 minuets more. Strain and discard the mushrooms. Keep the deep brown stock warm in a small pot.

In a medium-sized pot over medium heat gently sweat the onion in a bit of olive oil until it is soft and translucent but has not begun to color. Add the rice, 1 tablespoon of butter, and a crushed clove of garlic. Toast until the rice grains have gone from white to translucent to white again. Add wine, simmer, stirring, until nearly all the moisture is absorbed. Add enough warm mushroom stock to just cover the rice and stir constantly until all the liquid is absorbed. Repeat until rice is soft, but firm – you should not feel anything grainy on your pallet, but should be able to identify individual grains of rice. If you run out of stock simply add warm water or chicken or vegetable stock, whatever you have around.

In the meantime, in a small pan on high heat, sauté the remaining mushrooms (use a mix of whatever you like). When you add what you judge will be the final bit of stock, toss in another tablespoon of butter, the sautéed mushrooms, and ½ the parmesan. Season and serve topped with remaining parmesan.

That's Undercooked

Raw fish will kill you. You will, within seconds of consuming even a slightly undercooked aquatic morsel, find yourself in gastro hell, the terrifying fish-pathogens attacking your nervous system until you are a twitchy, sweaty mess, lying, back arched in mock rigour mortis, on the heartless bathroom floor, all the while praying that when your insides are finally completely liquefied the end will be swift indeed.

This, at least, is what I grew up believing. Actually, I was told the first bit and sort of fleshed out the details myself. Anyway, the result was that I was terrified of undercooked fish, and for good reason. The high deserts of western Wyoming are a long way from the ocean, so over-cooking any seafood which has traveled such a distance (and for such a time) does make some sense. However, there isn’t a pond or stream that, given a rod, won’t surrender tiny brook, brown, and rainbow trout. Sadly, in that vast culinary wasteland there is no medium-rare for fish, even those just-caught.

I, happily unaware of alternatives, munched away for years at dry halibut, charcoaled salmon, oblivious that it’s possible to eat seafood that doesn’t conjure primary-school-lunch fish sticks. Then I moved to L.A.

I had, of course, heard about sushi. As youths we talked of it with shudders and headshakes, awed by the gastronomic fortitude of the Japanese. It was, however, a far-off curiosity, in the same category as eating live cobra hearts or deep-fried tarantulas. The consumption of raw fish was some unthinkable, funny, scary custom that only “they” did.

“They” evidently included Frank, a fourth generation Angelino of Hispanic background, and a good friend of my then fiancé Kell. “Frank wants to take us to his favorite sushi restaurant.” Right. Ok. Shit. Ok, I don’t want to embarrass myself here, but I can’t eat raw fish, it will kill me. And the rest of you as well, I imagine. Unable to come up with an excuse better than “I’m scared,” I, in panic, agreed.

Exercising my usual amount of foresight, I drank what might be called more than my fair share of wine the night before we were to have an early (and probably my final) lunch in Burbank. I woke that Saturday morning with a hangover the size of a small pig. In hindsight, this may have been a blessing, for the gentle rocking and intermittent tree-branch-sunlight-flashes of the drive over left me, my sour grape headache, and hair-trigger stomach sobbing for mercy and, as a result, when we sat down to lunch, I was ready for the sweet, claming balm of death. I ate with suicidal glee.

And it was good. Not my impending death, the meal. The meal was fantastic. Not just survivable, or edible, it was all amazingly clean, sharp flavors, subtly varying textures, wasabi lightning, mirin tickles, soy spikes. The chef presented such a range of cooked and raw foods, sashimi and sushi and rolls and delicious bits long since forgotten. Perhaps it was the healthy meal, or the adrenaline rush of my willingness to embrace death, or possibly it was the countless cups of green tea and one small sake, but I walked out hangover-free. Moreover, my soothed stomach indicating, I was down right hopeful I would survive my raw fish ordeal.

Now, when ever I’m “feeling a bit under the weather,” I crave the healing properties of rice and miso and tea and some glowing, glossy, raw fish.

I don’t want you to take this post as an admission that I’m hungover. What happens on tour stays on tour.

This is one of my favorite ways to eat raw fish. It is an adaptation of the classic French Steak Tartare, complete with raw egg yolk, which serves as a sauce and adds a rich element to the rest of the lean flavors. It is also a great way to use up those pesky sashimi-grade tuna leftovers we all have.



Tuna Tartare

200 g sashimi-grade tuna
1 small red chili, seeds removed, fine dice
1 small bunch chives, fine chop
1 shallot, fine dice
1 tbsp small capers, fine dice
½ tbsp chopped parsley
1 lemon
extra virgin olive oil
1 cucumber, fine dice
1 tbsp white wine vinegar
½ tsp sugar
¼ tsp salt
1 star anise
1 clove garlic
2 egg yolks, unbroken

Start by pickling the diced cucumber. Mix the vinegar with one tbsp water and add the sugar, salt, star anise and cracked clove of garlic. Warm over medium heat until the sugar and salt are dissolved. Remove from heat, cool, take out the anise and garlic, and then add dice cucumber. Set aside.

In the meantime, using a sashimi knife (or a thin-bladed fish knife) cut the fish into the smallest cubes possible ( about ½ cm squares, smaller than this and the fish becomes mush). In a medium bowl, mix tuna with a pinch each of the chili, chives, shallots, capers, and parsley. Add a squeeze of lemon juice, and about a tablespoon of olive oil. Season and taste; adding more of the components as you like. You probably won’t use all of any one of them.

Now assemble. Drain the liquid from the cucumbers and place into rings on two plates (don’t have rings? pastry cutters? bits of PVC pipe? It’s not necessary, but it makes the dish look nice). Divide the tuna mix between the two rings and pack gently. Delicately remove the rings. Top with an egg yolk and dress with more olive oil. Serve with toasted sourdough.

Pro Patria

(Duck Meal # 4 See here for more info.)

There are certain dishes which stir national pride, encourage love of the motherland. Take, for example, Irish stew. Served in pubs throughout the emerald isle, hardly an Irishman would exalt it. Attack it, however, and see how patriotism is indeed rooted in the stomach. Bangers and mash to an Englishman, meat pie to an Australian, the hotdog to an American, flan to a Mexican (or half of Central America for that matter).

Then, there are dishes which threaten to tear a nation apart; the very real and heartfelt arguments about the exact method one should employ whilst preparing a particular dish which erupt from time to time here and there around the globe are but pathetic, childish spats in comparison to the French. That’s right, you heard me, the fighting French.

What they lack on the battlefield they more than make up for in the kitchen (and in the bedroom, just ask your girlfriend). Sure, the French have a questionable military history, one in which surrender is often floated as plan A, but try to convince a farmer from Carcassonne to cook in the manner of his counterpart from Toulouse – only a few miles down the road – and see how soon you become the proud owner of a pitchfork-bellybutton piercing.

I recon they’ve got it right. Something about priorities comes to mind. At any rate, it is because of their conviction that I reproduce the following recipe with some trepidation; below is my version of a classic French dish and I know it’ll only manage to anger a bunch of already cranky, beret-wearing, garlicky, cheese-eaters.

This dish is so revered there is a brotherhood (complete with robes and stupid hats) devoted to it. It is a classic of both haute cuisine and farmhouse cooking. Simple in concept and components, the origin of both the word and dish casserole, here is my, terribly humble, cassoulet.



In many ways this is a dish born of many meals; leftover ham hock, confit duck meat, spare sausages, mutton (maybe in some places, but not here, buddy), bacon, and whatever else might be hanging about are thrown into cassoulet. When I prepared this cassoulet, it was the culmination of my “four meals from one duck” project.

1 confit duck leg (see older post)
1 small ham hock
2 small pork sausages, cut into 4 cm (2in) segments
1 cup dried white beans
2 brown onions, peeled
2 clove garlic, peeled
1 sprig thyme

In a medium pot, cover beans with 8 cups water, roughly chop 1 onion and crush one clove of garlic and add these to the pot. Simmer until beans are soft, yet firm, 2-3 hours. Strain, reserving liquid.

In the meantime, simmer the pork hock in enough water to cover until the meat is soft and comes easily from the bone. 2-3 hours. Cool and pick meat from bone. Discard bones and liquid. At he same time pick the meat from the confit duck leg, discarding the bones and skin.

Fine dice the remaining onion and mince the remaining clove of garlic. In a pan on medium heat, sauté the sausages in a bit of oil until they are lightly browned on each side. Add the onion, garlic, and thyme and cook until the onions are soft but not colored. Deglaze the pan with a bit of water or stock.

Preheat oven to 180ºC (350ºF). Assemble the cassoulet in (traditionally) a clay dish, or a wide-mouthed, ceramic vessel. Start with half the beans, top this with the sausages and onion mix. Add the hock and duck meat, and top this with the rest of the beans. Add enough of the reserved bean water to just cover the cassoulet and bake, uncovered for one hour. Reduce heat to 150ºC (300ºF) and bake for an additional 2 hours, adding reserved bean liquid whenever the cassoulet begins to form a crust. Remove from oven. Cool and refrigerate overnight.

The next day preheat oven to 150ºC (300ºF) and bake for 2 hours, adding bean liquid, or if this runs out, water, whenever the cassoulet looks dry. After two hours stop adding liquid and allow the cassoulet to form a crust over the next hour. Remove from oven after three hours, rest for ten to twenty minuets and serve with bread to mop up all the goods. Oh, and a salad so that your guests might have something to feel good about.

Philosophy of a Cliché

(Duck meal #3 see here for more info)

Philosophy, for a change. Meaning “love of knowledge”, the word “philosophy” was once synonymous with “science.” The gradual separation, over the last 1000 years, has left philosophers to deal with the nature of the human condition, or man’s position, morally, in the universe, or the very question of the practicality of existence – ephemeral subjects ultimately improvable. On the other hand, scientists have been granted dominion over all things quantifiable. The two remain tentatively separated, like backseat siblings on a long journey, bound from time to time to wander into neighboring territory, oft at their own peril.

One notable example of these border marauding schools of philosophical thought is that of epistemology, or, to put the study in the form of a question: How much of the can we know? As the primary aim of science is to describe the workings of the universe, this seems like a reasonable question for the scientist as well as the philosopher. Someone only has to ask the inevitable: “Can we know that there are things that we cannot know, and if we know that unknowables exist, are they truly unknowable?” before most logic minded folk do that funny little eye-roll-flutter-brow-scrunch-head-tilt-shrug-grunt maneuver and wander off. Mostly I’m with them.

Another of these gray-area examples is my personal favorite: entropy. Scientifically the concept relates to thermodynamics. Any energy system is by natural law, inefficient, and looses energy to heat, vibration, and friction, all simple forms of energy not easily recovered. As a result, no system can produce more energy than it consumes, or even equal the energy it consumes. By extension, if all systems “leak,” then the general trend of energy in the universe is from ordered and complex forms to chaotic and simple ones. Philosophically speaking this concept is applied to the universe as a whole, and the general trend should therefore be from complex to chaotic.

I say “should be” because that’s not what appears to be happening. Called by philosophers “the trend towards complexity” and by scientists “emergence,” is the attempt to explain how complex systems arise out of a universe that ought to be, physically speaking, plunging into chaos.

Ok. Stick with me here. An Emergent System in nature is one where the separate parts of a system interact with their immediate surrounds (but not the entire system) as part of a circular chain of events that forms some semblance of order. Think evolution, formation of galaxies, human social structure. In nearly all of these systems, contrary to that pesky entropy thing, the assumed potential order is less than the actual observed order.

Philosophers ask the same question. How, in a universe careening inevitably towards ultimate and unending chaos, is it possible that seemingly simple components combine to form a complexity which is greater than that which appears possible?

I know what you are thinking: “What’s the bloody point?” Well, mister, let me tell you, this whole essay, all the philosophical malarkey, the scientific confusion, is a complex setup, a long-winded, two-pronged (science AND philosophy) defense of an old cliché.

This meal is better than the sum of its parts. (Or, in the above terms, its assumed potential order is less than the actual order.) The combination of salty and rich duck meat, capped with its crisp skin, contrasts and complements the smoky sweet and bitter witlof, which in turn sits on a fluffy potato that is itself soaking up the complexity of roasted duck and port.

Out of the entropic hellhole that is my fridge comes all of these components which work together to emerge as this:



Crispy Skin Confit Duck Leg with Caramel Braised Witlof, Pomme Fondant, and a Duck and Port Jus

When the revolution comes, I will make sure everyone knows how to prepare duck confit. It is a skill we all should have. What a wickedly wonderful dish. The magical transformation, transmutation, of a piece of meat into the suppertime joy, the crunchy, salty, rich, soft, delicate, fatty, unhealthy delight can only have come by way of some kind of dark magic. No holy god would create such a deliciously heart-stopping monster. I’ve done my best, with the addition of some profane accompaniments, to take it one or two steps further.

2 duck legs, trimmed of excess fat, skin on
200g rock salt
2 sprigs thyme
1 cinnamon stick, broken into bits
1 star anise, crushed
1 bay leaf, crumbled
1 clove garlic, cracked
1 orange, zest only
1 tsp black peppercorns
1 L (4 cups) rendered duck fat

Mix the salt, herbs, spices, and zest. In a container that will just hold the legs, sprinkle half the salt mix, add the legs and then top with the rest of the mix, making sure to coat all surfaces of the duck legs. Salt in the refrigerator 24 hours.

Preheat oven to 160ºC (320ºF). Rinse the legs thoroughly and pat dry. Melt the duck fat in a large oven-safe dish (do not overheat, we’re not frying here, just melt it) and add the duck legs. Cover with a tight-fitting lid and cook in the fat at least two hours, as many as four. The fat should just be ticking over, reduce the heat if necessary. After the first hour and a half, test the legs every twenty minuets; when they are done, you will feel the meat release from the bone as you gently pull on it with tongs. Don’t pull too hard, as you want to keep the legs intact.

Remove from oven and allow to cool slightly in the fat. Using a spatula or slotted spoon, remove the legs from the fat carefully, taking care not to let them fall apart at the joints. Place them in a sterilized container and ladle the warm fat over the top of them without collecting any of the cooking juices that will be at the bottom of the fat in the pan. When the duck is covered completely, cool completely and then refrigerate overnight at least, preferably for a couple of weeks as it tastes much better when it has had a chance to age. Strain and reserve any remaining fat for future use.

When you can no longer wait to eat your confit, preheat your oven to 190ºC (375ºF). Gently pry the legs out of the cold fat, wiping off any excess. In a non-stick pan smear a tablespoon of cold duck fat, place the legs skin side down and then put the pan over a medium-low flame. When it starts to sizzle and pop, transfer it to the oven (it may be stuck to the pan at this stage, don’t worry, it’s all good). Roast in oven until it is golden and the skin is dark and crisp (at which point it will most likely have released itself from the pan). Remove from oven, flip, and serve immediately with the delicious bits I describe below.

Caramel Braised Witlof

1 head witlof (also called Belgian or French endive)
4 tablespoons table salt
4 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon sugar
½ cup chicken stock or water

Quarter the witlof and sprinkle liberally with the table salt. Leave in fridge for one hour. This will draw out some of the bitterness of the witlof. Rinse well and dry. Heat some oil in a pan over high heat. Sprinkle the cut sides of witlof with the sugar and place cut side down in the hot pan. Dust remaining sugar over the top and add 1 tablespoon of butter to the pan. This is where you have to get yourself some cooking balls. The sugar will begin to melt and then turn brown and the butter will brown as you swirl it around the pan. Just when you think you can’t take it anymore, add another tablespoon of butter to slow the cooking of the sugar. Repeat this step another two times and you should be left with witlof that has caramelized, the pan side dark brown, surrounded by a rich, dark, but not burnt, caramel. Quickly pour in the stock or water, bring this to a boil, reduce the liquid by half and transfer to the same hot oven in which you are cooking the duck. Cook until the core of the witlof is soft when pierced with a knife.

Pomme Fondant

2 large baking potatoes
4 tablespoon butter
1 cup chicken stock or water

Peel potatoes. Cut into rectangular solids (that’s the technical term, I looked it up) about 2 cm (1 in) thick x 4 cm (2 in) X 4 cm. Place into a heavy bottomed pot just big enough to hold them and add stock until it comes ¾ up the potatoes. Dot the liquid with the butter and cook over medium heat until all the liquid is evaporated. At this point the butter will foam up. Reduce the heat enough to keep the butter from burning but not so much that it stops foaming. Cook this way until the potatoes are crispy and golden. If you are good, and I mean fucking good, the spuds will pop right off without sticking. Good luck with that.

Duck and Port Jus

2 tbsp duck jus (see bottom of a former post)
2 tbsp port

In a small saucepan over low heat, reduce the port to ⅓ at the slowest of boils. Add the duck jus return to a simmer and skim.