Tuesday, January 07, 2003

Moules a la Mariniere; or, Tiggers Don’t Like Mussels! So John at work, when I tell him I’m making mussels for dinner, says he loves mussels, that mussels are great because they’re so easy and fast, that he made steamed mussels with cream and saffron and they were fabulous, that he isvery jealous that I am going home to eat mussels.  So I’m sort of excited.  I don’t have much experience with mussels myself, and in the past have not been much of one for bivalves, but what the hey!  John likes it, it must be good!  I pick up some mussels on the way home, and a loaf of French bread. Now, Julia doesn’t have quite the same view of mussels that John does.  Although the steaming only takes five minutes, Julia says “mussels must have a rather long and careful cleaning process.”  I’m tempted to just ignore the cleaning process, because these aren’t, after all, the hoary mussels of the Brittany coast.  These are farm raised; probably clean as a whistle, right?  And John said they were fast and easy, which means he doesn’t do this whole routine JC delineates.  But my sainted husband, who never cheats or takes the easy way out, disagrees.  We’ll clean the bastard mussels, and he’ll help.  The first thing we’re to do is discard any mussels that aren’t tightly closed.  And at first I’m discouraged because I find quite a few that are open.  But, lo!  When you put them in water, they shut right up, tight as little, er, clams.  These suckers are alive!  We proceed to tear/cut away their “beards”, which are the stringy bits that stick out of one side of their shells, and are, I guess, like tentacles or something?  I dunno.  Anyway, Eric pulls at them until they come loose, but tree-hugging (mussel-hugging?) wimp that I am, I cringe at the thought of these poor little mussels having bits of them pulled through their shell.  I cut them off, though it’s more awkward, under some misguided apprehension that it will be less painful for the bivalves.  Jesus, I’m pathetic.  Then we put them in a bowl of water mixed with some flour, because JC writes “some cooks add flour to the soaking water on the theory that while the mussels eat the flour and become fatter and more succulent, they are at the same time disgorging their sand more thoroughly.”  I don’t particularly believe this is a theory that bears much thinking about – for one thing, aren’t mussels saltwater creatures? – but I do it anyway.  We let the mussels soak while we watch Antiques Roadshow. My mom calls.  I tell her we’re eating mussels for dinner.  She is distinctly non-plussed.  “Anything else?” “Well, um, bread.  And leftover liver mousse.” “I don’t envy you.” I call her a wimp, but truth to tell, I’m feeling a little less sure of the whole mussels-for-dinner scenario.  Call it a hunch. Towards the end of their soaking time, I mince some shallots and put them in a pot with some vermouth, a bay leaf, some thyme and some pepper.  I let that boil for a minute or two to evaporate the alcohol.  Then I drain the mussels and dump them in the pot, cover and steam for five minutes, shaking them around every few seconds. They come out looking really perfect.  Plump and pinkish, with these brown ruffled lips that are pretty, even if they are kind of gross.  I heap them in two bowls, ladle a little of their cooking juices over them, and serve. Only one problem.  It turns out, I don’t like mussels.  At all.  They taste like Port Aransas during man-o-war season.  I’m a failure.  Eric likes them though, and I have to say I do think they were correct, well cooked.  I just don’t like them.  Guess I’ll have to wait for the mussels gratineed with butter.  That ought to be alright. So now I’m going to go make Roquefort balls to bring to work, because I’m just nutty that way. 6:59:33 AM    comment []