please send help

Warning: The recipe I’m about to share with you does not qualify as gruel: It is not healthy. It does not include any vegetables to speak of, and no whole grains. It is not a soup, nor is it a stew. And there’s bacon involved.

The bacon is, in fact, deeply involved. I had imagined creating a vegetarian version of this recipe, but the pork products weren’t having it: The bacon is holding a gun to my head while the bacon fat writes up a list of demands, which include a fueled jet, $1,000,000 in unmarked bills, and not to be left off this ingredient list.

I wish I could blame the bacon for my behavior the first time I ate this dish, which was served by my mother-in-law as an appetizer, a little puff-pastry pizza topped with, well, bacon, tiny chunks of apple, and blue cheese, drizzled with honey, and sprinkled with shallots that had been cooked in, well, bacon fat. But it wasn’t just for the bacon that I ate my share of the pizza, and then more than my share, and then, feeling sheepish but unable to stop myself, all that was left without offering anyone the last piece. It was the combination of flavors that was so addictive: salty and smoky and sweet, slightly sharp from the blue cheese. A combination from which the bacon should not be omitted, or the bacon will kill its hostage.

Smoky-Sweet Puff-Pastry Pizza

Adapted from A Farmer in the Dell

1 sheet Pepperidge Farm puff-pastry dough

4 slices bacon

1 shallot, minced

1 tablespoon honey, plus more for drizzling

a handful of mozzarella cheese

a handful of Gorgonzola cheese

½ of 1 apple, diced

1. Thaw puff pastry according to package instructions and preheat the oven to 400 degrees. When the puff pastry is soft, roll it out on a lightly floured surface into a rectangle and transfer to a large baking sheet. Fold the edges over about ½ inch, press the border with the back of a fork, and brush the border with water. Poke holes in the rest of the dough with the tines of a fork.

2. Fry the bacon in a skillet, remove from the pan, and drain on paper towels, then chop or tear into bite-sized pieces. Add the shallot to the bacon fat in the pan and sauté until almost translucent, add honey and stir until the honey is thin, then pour the mixture over the puff pastry. Sprinkle the pastry with mozzarella cheese, apple, and Gorgonzola crumbles, then drizzle with a little more honey. Cook at 400 degrees for 15–20 minutes, until the edges are just golden.

This could be served as a very unhealthy and ungruel-like dinner with a side salad, or do as my mother-in-law did and cut it into squares and serve as an appetizer, preferably to people who will not bogart the whole thing. Whatever you do, please, please don't leave out the bacon.

which do you want first?

The bad news: The honey crisp apples are all gone, and I haven't hoarded a single one.

The good news: Satsuma mandarins are here!

The bad news: Satsuma mandarins are only here for, like, a month.

The good news: Bacon. In a scone. Who knew?

The bad news: I was supposed to be saving that bacon scone for the yachtsman.

The good news: The yachtsman's love for me is unconditional.

The bad news: I'm pretty sure he would have felt the same way about the bacon scone.

sausage nightmare/dreamy kale

For nearly 20 years I was an ovo-lacto vegetarian, which means I ate ovos and lactos and vegetables. After that I was for several years a vegetarian of the ovo-lacto-baco variety, a slippery slope that quickly led to full-on porko-vegetarianism. And then we moved back to Vermont, where the meat is so ethical and healthy, it's basically a vegetable—nowadays, if you set a plate of meat in front of me, I'll at least try it, and most likely enjoy/devour it.

But put me in the kitchen with some raw flesh and a recipe, and it turns out I'm still a vegetarian.


As in, ick. As in, please don't make me touch it. As in, pretend this isn't really happening. As in, I now have PTSD.

So, while I would like tell you how to make White Bean and Sausage Stew...no, I wouldn't, actually. I'd much rather talk about kale.

RAW KALE, bitches: the perfect antidote to sausage-related traumas.

Are you nervous? Don't be! While I won't go so far as to say this dish is delicate, it's not the chewy, fibrous mouthful you're imagining. It's a salad, made with hearty greens, which are marinated in a slurry of bright, savory dressing, and sprinkled liberally with homemade breadcrumbs. It's really, really good. As in, delicious.

The recipe comes from the new cookbook of Melissa Clark, who writes for the New York Times along with my ex-boyfriend Mark Bittman (that's right, we're over). I've had such good luck with her recipes from the Times (this soup of hers is one of my all-time favorites), I bought her cookbook and have now fallen big time for her Raw Tuscan Kale Salad With Chiles and Pecorino.

A few notes:

* When I say "kale," in any context, I am always talking about lacinato (also called Tuscan, black, and dinosaur) kale, which is far more tender and tasty than the super-curly variety often used as a garnish at chain restaurants. Confusing the two here would be a disaster.

* I'd like to take this opportunity to recommend the Farmer's Bread from Bread and Butter Farm (Vermonters: It's available at the Burlington Farmers Market [winter and summer], as well as at Bread and Butter's farm store in Shelburne). I used it here for the breadcrumbs, but it's wonderful sliced and spread with butter, and it makes the perfect piece of toast. Or even better, toast topped with a soft-boiled egg.

You actually don't need fancy bread for your breadcrumbs, though it certainly won't hurt. Also, for crumbs slice your bread more thinly than the pieces pictured here.

* The original version of the recipe recommends letting the salad sit for five minutes before serving; I think it should hang out for 15 to 20, at least. It just gets better with time.

Raw Tuscan Kale Salad Without Sausage
adapted from In the Kitchen With a Good Appetite by Melissa Clark


1 bunch Tuscan kale
2 thin slices country bread (preferably part whole wheat, rye, or sour dough)
½ garlic clove, minced
¼ teaspoon kosher salt, plus a pinch
¼ cup finely grated pecorino cheese, plus additional for garnish
3 tablespoons evoo, pluse additional for garnish
Juice of 1 lemon
½ teaspoon red pepper flakes
Freshly ground black pepper to taste

1. Remove the stems and center ribs from the kale, leaving just the leaves. Slice the leaves into thin ribbons and place in a large bowl.

2. Toast the bread until golden on both sides. Tear it into small pieces and grind in a food processor until a mixture forms of coarse crumbs. Retoast the crumbs on a baking sheet in your toaster or oven if they're not crunchy enough.

3. Using a mortar and pestle or heavy knife, pound the garlic and ¼ teaspoon salt into a paste (if using a knife, use the side to smear and smush the garlic). Transfer the garlic to a small bowl and add ¼ cup cheese, 3 tablespoons oil, lemon juice, pinch of salt, pepper flakes, and black pepper, and whisk to combine.

4. Pour the dressing over the kale and toss very well to combine thoroughly (the dressing will be thick and need lots of tossing to coat the leaves; don't be afraid to use your hands). Let the salad sit for 15-30 minutes, then serve topped with a liberal amount of bread crumbs, additional cheese, and a drizzle of oil.

the yachtsman recommends

[A recurring guest post in which the yachtsman recommends something.]

Allow me to Recommend

As the readers of Gruel for Dinner now know after my mother’s recent post, I was raised on a diet of food cooked in bacon fat. I have incredibly fond memories of eating my vegetables, yummy veggies like green beans, sauteed in delicious bacon grease, and there are nights I still dream about my grandmother Mo’s fried chicken, which was fried up in a skillet full of bacon grease. Some Muslims believe that if a person dies a martyr, he will be greeted in heaven by 72 virgins; I only hope that when I die I will be greeted by Mo and a skillet of her chicken.

In my adopted home of Vermont, where we thrive on the local, the organic, the free range, the hormone free, the cage free, and the antibiotic free, the food is delicious and, particularly this time of year, as fresh as fresh gets. But on occasion I like to feed my Southern heritage, which is one of many reasons why I love to visit my brother and his family in Boone, North Carolina.

On my most recent trip below the Mason-Dixon line, to celebrate my niece Lucy’s sixth birthday, my Southern sister-in-law arranged a trip to Shatley Springs in Crumpler, North Carolina. Crumpler is about 30 miles north of Boone, just a little beyond Meat Camp. For many years, Shatley Springs was famous for the supposed healing properties of its fresh mountain spring, and people from all over flocked to drink the magical waters. More recently, Shatley Springs’ family-style dining room is the place where the magic happens, and believe me, there is nothin' that food can’t heal.


Like I said, it's family style. For $15.50 you get all you can eat of the following:

• Fried Chicken—fried in bacon grease
• Country Ham—nothing goes better with chicken than pig


• Mashed Potatoes—so smooth, it's like eating clouds
• Creamed Corn—not a huge fan of creamed corn, and I am man enough to say it
• Green Beans—cooked in bacon grease


• Baked Apples
• Coleslaw
• Biscuits—I'm talking about Southern fucking biscuits that are so good, they make you want to kill someone
• Cream Gravy—made with bacon grease
• Sweet Tea—by the pitcher

And then, finish it off with cobbler and ice cream
• Strawberry Cobbler or
• Blueberry Cobbler or
• Peach Cobbler or
• Apple Cobbler or
• Do what my awesome sister-in-law did and ask to try all of them, and the waitress will bring you a massive plate of cobblers.


Let me be perfectly clear: The Yachtsman recommends Shatley Springs. As you know, I don’t recommend lightly, but this is without question worthy of my highest recommendation.


Travel details:

Here's the deal: There are cabins available for rent at Shatley Springs. What I'm trying to say is that Shately Springs is a destination resort. It’s the Disneyland of cooking with bacon grease. Fuck Mickey Mouse, I want Billy Biscuit.



Getting there: You can do what I did, and ride a motorcycle from Vermont to Crumpler,


or through Nancy and Udean’s Christian Tours you can book a Christian motor coach tour that makes a stop at Shately Springs. If you're unable to go by motorcycle with my sister-in-law, I can’t imagine a better way to arrive at the Mecca of Fried Chicken.

guest post: His Momma

[This guest post is courtesy of my mother-in-law, who just happens to be one of my favorite people in the world, and also one of my favorite cooks. If you know her or have been lucky enough to eat at her table, I imagine she's among your favorites, too. And after reading this you'll see that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Or the bacon grease doesn't fall far from the bacon, is more like it, though my mother-in-law has been known to eat a piece of fruit, whereas my husband has not. And don't let her fool you: This woman can cook both Southern delicacies such as Oklahoma Ham Loaf and haute cuisine. Oklahomans: Please don't get mad that I just excluded ham loaf from the haute cuisine category.]

In Praise of…..

It is with fear in my heart that I sit down to add my writing to the esteemed group who have been tapped to write guest posts for the “summer bl*g.” I love my daughter-in-law, and as much as I love her, I love her blog…the humor, the pictures, and the tasty recipes. In fact, it is the highlight of my day when she posts, and the cloud that covers the sun when she doesn’t. Her culinary friends and family are erudite and sophisticated in their cooking, eating, and conversations about food, and the idea that I need to match them…intimidating. So, methinks, what do I have that is unique? Immediately I knew. BACON FAT!

I grew up in Oklahoma. It is the land of fresh vegetables, cooked until the grayness appears, and fresh slaughtered meats, fried. There is no real way to cook without bacon fat if this is your point of origin. My grandparents, in the small Oklahoma town where they lived, often rushed to the aid of a family whose home had been “burned out.” As I think of it, I have no idea why so many houses burned. It was a very small town; how many houses could there have been, really? But, it seems they often did burn (perhaps owing to liquor, which was illegal and therefore plentiful), and the neighbors rallied to provide the necessities. Ubiquitous among the clothes, blankets, and furniture, was a Crisco can of bacon grease. This was when the can was metal and did not bear the marks of either butter flavor or “do not fill with hot liquid.” Truth was, if one was to cook in those parts, one could not without an adequate supply of bacon grease. So, this flavor pervades my youth….and truthfully, my early years of marriage. I am here today to bring to you the wonders of bacon grease. Let me list its uses:

• Rubbed on the outside of potato skins before baking, it imparts a wonderful flavor and crisp skin
• Green beans sautéed in bacon fat before parboiling, with a bit of sugar added—sublime
• Biscuits, dipped in liquid bacon fact before baking—heaven
• And the ultimate Southern delicacy...CHICKEN FRIED STEAK WITH CREAM GRAVY

(To those of you who have just turned away in disgust I say, “Ye of little faith.” That is also what they say in Oklahoma at “dinner on the grounds” of the local Methodist church, but that is another story for another day.)

Here is the recipe. You must follow it faithfully for the proper results, a mélange of crispy coating and creamy white sauce. In fancy restaurants they laud the meat used, but the truth is that it makes no difference what the meat is once you encase it with coating, fry it up, and cover it with a blanket of white. In my family, cube steaks were the meat of the day.

Season the meat well (no chicken or veggie substitutes allowed) with season-salt and pepper. Mix flour in a separate bowl with more salt and pepper. (When you consider the cholesterol, think nothing of the sodium.) In another bowl, mix several eggs with whole milk, quantities being commensurate with the amount of meat.

In a cast iron skillet of good size heat a generous amount of bacon fat, say halfway up the side of the pan. (Oh, please, do not whine to me about where you get that much bacon fat. If you are eating this, you are having bacon for breakfast every morning and pouring the fat into your own Crisco can.) The grease (not oil, grease) should be hot enough to start to sizzle when the meat enters it, but not so hot that it burns rather than cooks.

Author's note: If you think I am cooking this so I can take a picture to show you, you are out of your mind. If I make it, I eat it. Therefore, these must suffice.

Well-seasoned cast iron skillet

One of perhaps six packages of bacon you will need to produce the quantity of bacon fat necessary. Note, I have eaten some of it...and don’t touch my Crisco can!

Dip each piece of meat in the flour mixture, then egg mixture, then back into the flour. There is no shaking here, as you want a thick coating to absorb every delicious molecule of bacony goodness possible. Into the hot fat each piece goes, but do not crowd. The temperature must remain level, and the coating must remain surrounded by grease in order to achieve the perfect golden crust.

After all the meat has been fried, the gravy must be made. DO NOT SKIP THIS PART. Any fool can fry meat. Pour off all the bacon fat but 2 to 3 tablespoons. (You can save this delicious grease, made even tastier by the beef juices, for another round of steak or Southern fried chicken.) Add some of the seasoned flour, enough to make a roux. (If you do not know how much this is, you should not be making this.) Stir it around until thoroughly mixed and beginning to bubble. Slowly add whole milk, stirring constantly until it is a creamy consistency. Too much milk and you have “race-horse” gravy; too little milk and you have a thick paste. Let it bubble for a few minutes until the floury flavor is gone. Pepper well and pour over the meat upon serving. It is good accompanied by mashed potatoes, fresh spring onions, sliced tomatoes still warm from the garden, and the green beans I mentioned previously. If you must, some biscuits to soak up the extra gravy will be acceptable, though in my part of Oklahoma, Wonder bread would do.

That’s it. I need to go and take a statin now.

the mark bittman minimalist club: if you don't give a fig about brussels sprouts, eat them with bacon

Instead of complaining about fall today, I'm going to share with you a recipe for the quintessential fall vegetable. No, I'm not talking about squash. Like white should not be worn after Labor Day, squash should not be eaten before Thanksgiving. And I'm not talking about rutabaga, either. Rutabaga is what Vermonters of yore resorted to eating during February blizzards when the snow was falling so hard they couldn't even see their way to the barn to feed the horses, let alone yoke them up or whatever and ride them into town for supplies. After they'd sucked dry the crusty bottles of condiments from the door of the refrigerator, eaten the cat and dog food, as well as the cat and dog, they'd head down to the root cellar and bring up the rutabaga.

What I'm talking about here are Brussels sprouts.


Maybe you've heard of them? They're a member of the cabbage family. My greek stepmother says they're better after a frost. They're delicious roasted and sprinkled with salt, but cook them with bacon, and your meat-eating, vegetable-hating husband will say, "It's better than your average brussels sprout, that's for sure." And better than your average rutabaga, too.

If You Don't Give a Fig About Brussels Sprouts, Eat Them With Bacon
from the New York Times

2 tablespoons olive oil [why a recipe that calls for 4 to 8 ounces of bacon requires olive oil is beyond me; I used 1 tablespoon, which was plenty; you could probably make this with even less than that]
4 to 8 ounces bacon, chopped [I chopped mine, but in the photos on the Times website the bacon is in pretty big pieces, so maybe slice it short ways into chunks]
1 pound Brussels sprouts, stems trimmed
1 cup dried figs, stemmed and quartered


s&p
2 teaspoons balsamic vinegar, or more to taste.

1. Put a large skillet over medium heat and add oil, then bacon. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the bacon starts to crisp, 5 to 8 minutes.

2. Meanwhile, put sprouts through the feed tube of a food processor equipped with a slicing attachment and shred. (You can also do this with a mandoline [if you don't like having fingertips], or a knife.)


3. Add sprouts, figs, and ¼ cup water to pan; sprinkle with salt and pepper, turn heat to medium, and cook, undisturbed [er, I stirred it], until sprouts and figs are nearly tender, about 5 to 10 minutes [for me, the recipe ended here: after about 6 minutes, my sprouts and figs were tender and the water evaporated; overcooked Brussels sprouts are gross, so I just stopped cooking at this point]. Turn heat to medium-high and cook, stirring occasionally, until any remaining water evaporates, another 5 to 10 minutes. Add vinegar, taste, adjust seasoning, and serve.


Yield: 4 servings. [I have a new theory about Mark Bittman's serving sizes, which involves his sumo wrestler intern who types up the recipes; this would serve four as a main dish, but who eats Brussels sprouts as a main dish? People in olden times, during blizzards, right before they ate the cat.]

This dish reminded me of a slaw. A warm, salty-sweet, autumn slaw. The figs are lovely, sweet and a little gritty, and you can't go wrong with bacon. Next time I would chop the bacon into bigger pieces, quarter the Brussels sprouts instead of shredding them, and maybe top the finished dish with toasted walnuts. In the photo that accompanied the recipe on the Times site, the food looks gorgeous. Mine was not, but it tasted good.

sunburn. without a view. unless you count the tv.

I would like to regale you with stories of my 4th of July weekend -- the hours spent reading a trashy murder mystery; the capsized sailboat (the yachtsman blames me, but he was the captain, and I was just following orders); the post-capsize swim in my underwear; the easy, delicious pasta we made for dinner; my wonderful, funny, generous family of in-laws.

But instead I sit here with a freezer pack on top of each thigh, so sunburned I cannot think straight. Or walk straight. Or take these freaking ice packs from my legs. Literally, I remove the ice packs and my thighs are on FIRE. Have I mentioned that I cannot walk? I predict there will be blisters. I am considering stealing some of my dog's pain medication.

So instead of stories, a few photos:

Roasted beet salad with a view

The yachtsman with a view

Tea with a view

BLT with a view (thanks, Sue!)

Couch jedi with a view

please do not be still, my beating heart

Do you know what this is?


It's a maple-glazed doughnut. WITH BACON ON IT.

I would never, ever buy something like this, just like I never would have bought That Burger. But I will eat it, of course. And I did. And it was delicious. There is no good reason to put bacon on a doughnut, and there are plenty of reasons not to eat a doughnut with bacon on it. Which I am unable to discuss at this time, because I am licking the bacon off a doughnut.

the yachtsman wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot oar

It was a short long weekend in the Adirondacks, during which time I took up with ham in a pretty major way. I'd thought I didn't like ham (actually, for about twenty years I thought I was a vegetarian, another story entirely), but it turns out I only like certain ham. This ham was so good, I ate it as regular ham (three days in a row), and then I ate it in my mother-in-law's grandmother's "signature recipe," Oklahoma Ham Loaf. While not particularly photogenic, Oklahoma Ham Loaf is actually pretty tasty.


I'm currently working on my own signature recipe, which I hope will be a pork product topped with a pork product, but will more likely be toast topped with peanut butter.

cooking bender, part 2

I've got a real thing for lentils. I've also got a real thing for bacon. Last week on his bl*g Bitten, Mark Bittman mentioned a lentil dish with bacon he'd eaten in France, and then vaguely described it. Lucky for me, my stepmom was around to help me translate Mark Bittman's non-recipe into something we could actually eat. Here is a loose interpretation of what we made.

Smoky French Lentils
~5 slices of bacon
olive oil
a carrot
a few scallions, chopped
a tomato or two, chopped
~2 cups of French lentils
water
Dijon mustard
Red wine vinegar
Glass of wine for drinking

1. Mince the bacon and saute it in a little olive oil. Grate in the carrot (or not), add the chopped scallions (or garlic or onion or whatever), and continue to saute while you sip your wine and enjoy the amazing smell in your kitchen. Add the tomatoes. When the moment feels right, add the lentils. Add just enough water to cover the lentils and then cook until they are tender, adding more boiling water if necessary. How long this takes doesn't really matter, as you'll be pouring yourself a second glass of wine and feeling very much like Julia Child as you take the top off the pot and taste the lentils, glass of wine in one hand, wooden spoon in the other. When the lentils are cooked to your liking (Bittman recommends that they be very thoroughly cooked; this is tasty but sort of ugly, so if you're really looking to impress, cook them al dente), add a couple of tablespoons of the mustard (or more or less to taste) and a splash or two of red wine vinegar (or more or less to taste). We served ours on a bed of micro spinach, which was delicious and helped pretty it up.


But this morning I've been eating the leftovers straight from the fridge. Still delicious, not so pretty, too early in the day for wine.

well that's a fine how-do-you-do

It's snowing up in here.


And bleak and ugly.



But the Crazy Pet Lady offers you this small consolation:


The Crazy Pet Lady is going to offer herself breakfast at Libby's Blue Line Diner as consolation (and also as physical, spiritual, and mental preparation for a trip to Costco; pray for me).

gruel for dinner

Awhile ago Chris and I started rating meals I had made, and I would record our ratings and comments with the recipe. Texas-born Chris is a meat-and-potatoes guy (though he does have girlie hands, so don't be too quick to stereotype him), while I very rarely partake of the beast (unless that beast is a pig) and prefer healthier food (unless the food is bacon, or cheese, or chocolate). At the time we started this post-dinner rating system, I was just learning to cook, I did most of the cooking, and I cooked strictly vegetarian food that was somewhat healthy, food that my charming husband refers to as "gruel." I now eat a little meat, though I generally don't prepare it, and I am still learning to cook.

I recently decided to start compiling my favorite recipes and our ratings/comments, and though I'm not a big fan of this horseless carriage that is the internet (unless you count the hours each day I waste surfing it), an online food diary (I will not use the word bl*g, which is as ugly as the word turd but more ridiculous) seemed like as good a place as any to create my little recipe box of gruel.

I should note that Chris has come a long way from the night I found him washing an onion (skin on) because "it's grown in the dirt." He now bakes (way better than I ever will) and cooks, but still would prefer to eat less gruel.