Cooking for Men.

That is a concept I don’t completely understand, though I’ve heard it over and over.  When I was doing catering, I’d be told, “remember, this is for men.”   Ummm… how do you make food just for men?  Do you drop it on the floor?  Hide it in plain sight?  Serve it in a very cold, 70 degree environment?   It always puzzled me, so I’d ask the hiring person to be a little more specific about the food and the way it needed to be presented, to appeal “to men.”  I learned that Men like to eat a lot of beef, pork and sausages.  They like big portions.  They like sandwiches.  For anyone taking notes, Men do NOT like the following things:  Flavored coffee, bar snacks with flecks of green stuff on them, vinaigrettes, water chestnuts.  They DO like potato chip crumbs on casseroles, yellow cheddar cheese, tamale pies, buns for their sandwiches, and iceberg lettuce.  DO NOT give them Potatoes Anna.  DO give them baked potatoes with bacon bits.

Our family has, for years, gone to  Prescriptions For Fitness, in Chappaqua, for periodic ass kickings.   One of the trainers, a delusional man named Anthony, claims that men are better cooks than women. Once he had a one-sided cookoff with me and declared himself the winner, which is not fair since all I had to work with at the time was a microwave oven and a hot plate and also because I didn’t enter anything into his contest.  I suppose he did win that one, but still.  If I weren’t afraid of him, I’d have, well, not just wussed out on a blog. But I digress.

Last week, Anthony told my kid that he wanted me to bring him some food. Fattening food.  And he wanted it tout suite.  He may have said, “chop chop.”   This one was easy.  No bologna sandwiches, pickle loaf, thick slabs of bacon for these guys.  The trainers at PFF are Girlie-Men, and they’re getting cream puffs.  If you know any girlie-men, they will like these.

Cream Puffs:  Makes enough for about 18 Sissy Girlie-Man Trainers

Preheat oven to 400.  Equipment to have ready:
Two sheet pans lined with parchment paper
One spoon, scoop, or pastry bag with a large round tip.
One large mixing bowl
One saucepan, about 3 or 4 quart

¾ stick of butter, in about 6 pieces
One Tablespoon of sugar
One cup of water
One cup of all-purpose flour
Five eggs, beaten lightly

One egg beaten well with one tablespoon water, for egg wash.

Method:  In the saucepan, bring the water, sugar and butter to a boil.  When the butter has melted, take the pot off the heat and stir in the flour, all at once, until the mixture starts to clump up.  Return the pan to moderate heat and stir for about a minute.  This will release steam from the dough and allow it to absorb egg.

Put the flour mixture into a mixing bowl (or the bowl of a mixer), and beat for about a minute, until the mixture is lukewarm.  Making a well in the center, and beating constantly, beat in about ¼ cup of the beaten egg.  When that is incorporated, beat in another ¼ cup of the egg, and then the last ¼ cup.  The mixture will go from looking choppy to looking glossy and smooth, and will fall from the spoon.  It should not be runny or stiff.

Pipe or scoop the dough onto the lined baking sheets, about 2” apart, in the shape you want. For these guys, I did little round lumps so they could eat them with their pinkies extended.  Brush with the egg wash; if you get peaks on any of your blobs, the wash will bring them down with the rest of their blob.

Bake at 400 degrees for ten minutes. Reduce heat to 350 degrees and bake for 20 minutes more, rotating the pans at least once during the baking time.  Puffs should be high and golden brown.  Cool on a rack.

To fill, either fill a pastry bag fitted with a round tip and pipe each cooled puff full of cream, or slice the top off and fill the puffs.  Sift confectioner’s sugar over the top.  Don’t overfill; do remember that girlie-men generally eat with their pinkies extended.

*Note:  The puffs freeze well.  Cool completely and freeze on a sheet pan; when puffs are frozen through, simply put them into a plastic freezer bag.  Keeps for 2 months; thaw in the refrigerator.

Thanksgiving Countdown: Cranberry Sauce and Pie Crusts

Yesterday, I made cranberry sauce.  We always have the jellied kind in a can that Mr. Foodbabe likes and we both put on our sandwiches, but I also make a batch or two of this.  We freeze the leftovers for Christmas dinner, if there are any.  Leftovers, not Christmas Dinner, silly.

Into a medium-sized saucepan (about 2 qts), put

One 12-ounce bag o’Cranberries — 3 cups.

About 3/4 cup of granulated sugar

three cups of water

Juice of 1/4 of an orange — about 2 Tablespoons.  I just whacked part of the orange off, squeezed in the juice, chopped the peel and pith and tossed that in as well.  (Make sure you leave the chunks nice and big so you can fish them out later.  Unless you like big chunks of pithy orange peel in your sauce.  not that there’s anything wrong with it …)

Aromatics:  One bay leaf, one cinnamon stick

Bag o’spices:  One teaspoon each white peppercorns, whole allspice, and whole cloves, put in a cheesecloth bag and whacked with the bottom of a pan to crush them just a little.

Over medium heat, stir until the sugar dissolves, and then let the mixture cook, stirring occasionally, until most of the berries pop.  Take off the heat, stir and let cool.  Cover and chill.

Before serving, take out the seasonings and orange chunks, and stir.  Taste — it’s at this point that I add some vanilla extract (a half-teaspoon), and a little orange juice if I want it.  No, I don’t put in a cornstarch slurry to thicken things up. Sorry, Emeril!

***

I kind of fibbed when I wrote that we have the same thing for Thanksgiving every year.  I mess around with pie crusts.  I’m supposed to say, “experiment with different types,” but honestly, I mess around with them.

Standard in my kitchen is the 3-2-1 method (3# flour and dry ingredients, 2# fat, 1# water).  I like it because I just toss the flour and fat into a mixer bowl, mix them for a while, and then add the water and just combine it.  No dribbling ice water over a mound of flour and shortening, and tossing gently with a fork.  No pastry cutters when fingers and beaters work just as well. I’ve never had less than a good pie crust with this method, and it’s fine for pot pies, too.

But two years ago, I made cream cheese pie crust (Using the recipe from Liz Johnson at the Journal-News — an outstanding cook and extremely cool person), and it was freaking amazing.  This year, though, I’m going to make the vodka pie crust that’s all the rage this year.  tomorrow, we’ll take a look at them. If I’m feeling frisky, I’ll make the cream cheese AND the vodka recipes and compare them.

Fabby’s Blogstats:

Hours til Firstie is due home:  25

Pounds o’Hound that hurtled onto my bed this morning:  105

Ugliness factor of fish el Secondo ordered for his upstairs aquarium:  Extreme.

Amount of money Mr. Foodbabe won for me on his golf outing at the Mayacama last weekend:  $0.00.  (When he called me from SFO last night and broke the news, I told him that he needed to get a craps game going in the airplane’s aisle so he could bring me some $$$.  I think he just slept.)

A Fabulous Thanksgiving Begins; Things I Don’t Care About.

Last year, I had part of a kitchen:  the coffee machine part, the refrigeration part, and the cabinet part (for the most part).  Scheduled house guests stayed put, and the four of us (the Mr., Firstie and El Secondo, and I) went to the now-gone Chart House in Dobbs Ferry.  What a great view, btw — Chrysler building clear as you can imagine.

This year, though, will be Thanksgiving della Casa de Foodbabe.  I’m already cooking.

As a teacher, and a cook, this is the time of year I’m asked what I make for Thanksgiving.  It always makes me a little sad to dash the asker’s anticipation.  Their eyes glow with visions of pumpkin creme brulee, oyster stuffing from a trip to the shore where I wade into the water and hand-select the oysters, doing some sort of funny cook-thing that tells me which are the most succulent … turkeys I raised myself from the hatchery, with all sorts of amazing herbs tucked under the skin, spuds a’plenty, appetizers and soup and whatever the fancy side dish of the moment is.  The truth:

We have the same thing every year.  Sometimes we have different wine and sometime we make a green salad, but that’s about it.  I started my own tradition as soon as I could after I married.  (My Italian family hosted thanksgiving every year; we had ravioli as big as an adult’s hand, braciole, sausages, peppers … and then the turkey and potatoes were brought to the table.  Not eating your body weight was considered the supreme insult to my Nonna and you did NOT want to be the one to make her get teary eyed and say, “well, the food really wasn’t all that good anyway.”  After the meal, the women cleaned up and the men snoozed in front of the television.  No dishwasher at Nonna’s house, of course, except those lucky enough to be a female.  When I married, I realized that little separated my family from my new in-laws,except for finances and the amount of food.  (This family’s terror at becoming fat truly amazed me — one turkey breast poached in chicken stock to serve for eight people?  Only one kind of roll?  No butter? Sugar-free Cranberry juice? One tiny eight-inch pie?  no leftovers?)  and yet, the women STILL cleaned up after the men!)

But I digress.

As this week progresses, I’ll show what we (ahem, I) do to get the Thursday meal ready.  I’ll even take some photos, and upload them.

***

Today:  Rolls.  for the sandwiches.  I make mine with made with sourdough and biga, and I think this time, in in two shapes.  Recipes to follow — so I can show photos as they progress.

***

In case you were wondering, here are things I don’t understand or care about:  Vampires.  Why the landscaper feels he must continue to levy a 5% fuel surcharge even though fuel prices are way low.  the number of calories in a spoonful of anything.  Portion control. Major College Football.

***

Fabby’s BlogStats:

Days until Firstie comes home:  Two.

Days until Mr.Foodbabe comes home: One.

Dogs that sleep with me when Mr.Foodbabe is away:  Two. Time said dogs wake me in the morning:  Four

Adorability factor of basset hounds curled up at one’s feet:  Off the charts.

Day 44: Calm Before the Storm, 3 Days to Cabinets; RIP Mittens and Paul

Yep, another sweet day chez Foodbabe. Up early after a satisfying night of driving my kid to and from Queens, and watching “Damages,” and a lovely walk. Who has more fun? Anyway, the place looks pretty much the same as yesterday.

Did you really think I’d NOT add a boring photo to this?

Men On Stilts (I’m calling them MoS from now on) arrived and departed between a.m. errands and my thrice-weekly butt-kicking — for some reason, when this particular trainer works with me, I cuss. A lot. I forgive him because today I got to whale on him with the boxing gloves, which is always gratifying.

So. We’re T-3 work days until the cabinets arrive. Or maybe T-2? If tomorrow is Thursday, and the cabinets arrive on Monday … I’m doing a countdown and really can’t figure it out. I’m sure someone will help!

In sad family news, the remaining triplets — we think they were Mittens and Paul — have gone to that big coconut shell in the sky. They were very good Scorpions and never failed to wave their stingers at me when I put live crickets into their little terrarium. Whiskers, Mittens and Paul came to use from Texas last December, and were immediately part of the FoodBabe Family. What we remember most about them was their excellent glowing exoskeletons and how they never lost an opportunity to exercise the crickets before eating them whole. They, and their waving little claws, will be missed.

Interment: Thursday, September 13, next to their predecessor, Fluffy, in the FoodBabe Backyard Critter Cemetery, Westchester County, NY.

Sigh. Personal Stats:

Live arachnids chez Foodbabe: 0

Husbands who made the final cut for the Club Championship: 100% (1)

Children away at school who requested his “dress shoes” be “sent ASAP”: 1 (50%) Likelihood that he’ll tell me why: 0%

Litter boxes cleaned: 1 (100%). Cat’s body weight in loose hair removed: 1 pound (10%) Who knew he had such a cute little six-pack under all that fur?

Weirdest thing I found in my freezer: Duck head. Yes, a duck head.

Day 42: Peaceful; New Toys Chez Foodbabe

I know it bothers some people to hear this, but I love having part of a day off from construction work. Jean-Luc can run through the house all he wants. We can hear ourselves talk and think. No donuts are left to beckon me. The walls were checked and some more repair/sanding done, in preparation for big stuff next week. Electrical things were done, as well. But the 10 hours of jack hammering, moving cars back and forth. chasing the dog as he escapes his handlers and races through the work space, dragging his ears in the drywall dust … we were glad to have some time off from that.

God Bless Us, Every One.

New Toys include a cell phone for me. I’ve been carrying around a freebie from about 6 years ago, with a long antenna and a bulky little shape. Now I have a cool phone with about 15 features I don’t understand. El Secondo toldme that the phone I liked, the Treo, would be completely lost on me. Sigh.

Another new toy is the Photoshop we finally installed. Now, certain family members have eye patches in the photos, and we’re trying to figure out how to make me look 10pounds lighter, and 20 years younger.

Restaurant One in Irvington: Worth it!

Loved it. Good food, and entertaining to boot.

Heirloom tomatoes with ricotta salata to start. Truffle salt and a watermelon consomme finished the dish, and what looked like microgreens but the menu said was ruby basil. I didn’t care, it was wonderful. The purist in me wanted to drop a dime into the dish to see if, as my CIA chefs insisted, the consomme was properly done. (“Fabby, if you see zee dime tru’ dee KAHHHHNsommay, eet eez done to the well!”)

Mr. FB’s grilled shrimp and corn chowder had a little chorizo in it, some sort of custard, and drops of vanilla oil. I snagged a few spoonfuls of it and ahhh, nice. (More on the vanilla oil in a minute.)

Entrees were, for him, a strip steak with spuds of some sort; for me, butter poached halibut topped with a poached egg, over tasso risotto and asparagus, in a lobster sauce with (again) the vanilla. We ordered a side of black truffle gnocchi: wonderful, but the waiter told us the black truffles were the rarest of all and, um, I think he’s wrong. No matter, though. If they’d cut the tasso in about half and go easy on the salt, the dish would have been a “go back for.” I first wanted to try the halibut as it sat, and as I took a bite of it around the egg, a large, bald, fierce-looking waiter sternly told me that the Chef recommends that I break the egg yolk over the fish and let it blend with the sauce. I thanked him for the direction. Two minutes later, our waiter came over and informed me that the chef recommended that I break into the egg yolk and let it blend with the sauce. I thanked him, too. Then my cell phone rang: the chef was calling from the kitchen, and recommended that I break the egg yolk over the halibut … (Okay, I made that last part up, but you get it. )

the vanilla oil in both dishes left a taste in the back of my mouth that made me think “fake.” I don’t know if that’s the case; I didn’t ask. But it’s the same sensory feel I get from “flavored’ grocery store coffees and most fast food burgers: fake.

Now, for the entertainment. We were squeezed into a two-top between a couple out on a date (grownups, like us), and a fourtop of, um, biggish men and their incredibly skinny (and proud of it, man) wives. They were grownups, too. Every time the women got up to smoke or tinkle, they said, “I’m skinny! but I don’t know that I can get between these tables without asking you to move them …” One, in this marvelous restaurant, ate salad greens with lemon and poached fish with vegetables and, yes, lemon. The other ordered squab and pushed it around her plate. How do I know this, when I’m gazing into Mr. FB’s eyes? Because THEY TOLD US, when they peered over at my plate and asked me what I was eating and if it was good. Because one was skinny and only ate lean proteins and vegetables without sauce and the other, who knew she was skinny, just loves squab but only wanted a taste. (Note to self: When you turn 80, eat something, for chrissakes. It’s good for the skin and the disposition.)

We skipped dessert for one reason: Firstie was out, and Secondie called from a carload of kids to say he was going to some other kid’s house … so we went home to await disaster. None occurred, and a good time was had by all. We did take a moment to walk along the riverfront and I said, “now, tell me again why we didn’t move to a river town in 2001?” Lovely. Beautiful, and very very cool. Definitely a “back again” place.

Oh, the family table.

The setting: Dinner chez Foodbabe.

The players: Mr. FB, moi, Firstborn and Secondborn.

Mr. FB, always the optimist: “Well, Firstie, how was your exam today?”

Secondie, always alert: “Looks like you did great on the Ugly test!”