Wednesday, April 23, 2003

I have this fantasy sometimes that I’ll be wandering through a crowded foodie grocery store with my MtAoFC peeking out of my bag, and someone will come up to me and say, “I’m sorry, but are you Julie?  THE Julie?!  I’m such a fan of your work!”  And I’ll have been inducted into the halls of celebrity. Then I go to the Upper West Side and see Peter Sellars and Eric Bogosian in the course of a two-block walk back to the subway from Fairway.  Ah, forget it. Even without the celebrity, though, Fairway’s a pretty good deal.  After two visits the fourteen-year-old Dominican kid behind the counter seems already to be in love with me, albeit in a sort of creepy way, and he sold me a veal roast for twenty-five bucks, which, while “eek” to a certain extent, still, I’d be getting the privilege of paying nearly twice that at Ottamanelli’s, so pretty good.  Veau Poele is pretty easy.  Of course it helps that since our TV’s still on the blitz, there are relatively few distractions.  Eric goes in there and beats on it occasionally, and eventually got it down on the floor and went after it with a screwdriver, but to no avail.  To make the veal, all you do is brown the roast in butter and oil all over, set it aside, throw in some slice onions and carrots, plus the usual parsley, bay, and thyme, let that cook covered for a bit.  Salt and pepper the roast, stick it back in with the vegetables, stick a meat thermometer into it, lay two strips of Julia bacon (simmered, natch) on top, and then some foil, and then the top of the casserole.  Stick it in a 325° oven for an hour and a half, basting occasionally.  That’s it. So, re: the thyme.  You know, I ask Eric to buy thyme, he buys fresh automatically.  I find that a little odd.  Thyme is obviously, unless explicitly stated otherwise, dried stuff in a jar.  That’s the kind of weirdness that comes of a hippy-dippy upbringing, I guess…. So while the veal was roasting, I trimmed the brussels sprouts.  Turns out my cat Maxine is buggy for brussels sprouts.  It’s kind of bizarre she’s only just now discovered this passion, but she’s made for them.  She chomped up all the leaves I tore off then started going for the whole brussels sprouts.  I’m sporting several scratches on the back of my hand this morning, the result of having to beat her off.  Fucking weirdo cat. So I shred the brussels sprouts with the handy-dan slicing blade of my Cuisinart.  There is nothing much funner than slicing brussels sprouts, or anything else for that matter, with the slicing blade of a Cuisinart.  The only problem is it’s so fast – I wish I had mountains of brussels sprouts – or onions, or carrots, or the fingers of government wonks…. But I digress.  I shred them up, and cook them in butter until their browned a bit.  Pour in a bit of water and let them steam a little, covered.  Yummy brussels sprouts. I make rice somewhere in there. I manage to fuck up the twenty-five dollar veal roast.  What happened was this: I was basting the veal with its juices – it produced a surprising amount of juice – looking in on it.  At an hour and twenty minutes, the meat thermometer said 158°.  Julia says 175°.  So I roast another ten minutes.  When I look again it’s at nearly 180°!  So, slightly overdone veal roast.  Nothing disastrous, but it does seem a shame with such expensive meat.  I take the veal out of the casserole, pour some water into the pan, and boil it down, mashing up the vegetables.  Gravy.  Serve. It’s all good.  I gotta say, though, I guess it’s just the Texas girl in me, but I’m not one percent thrilled with veal.  It’s not the torture and premature death so much, I can handle torture, it’s the always-threatening possibility of dryness, and a certain non-oomphiness of flavor.  Certainly I’ve had veal I’ve loved in my time, and will have it again – surely in the course of the dozen or so veal recipes I’ve got coming up I can manage to make some I love – but in my heart of hearts, give me a big dripping hunk of long-cooked picnic shoulder any day…. So y’all’s encouragement plus a good night’s sleep have left me feeling not at all whiny, but I were feeling whiny, I’d say this: So yesterday I woke up at 5 to write my article for Eric’s bloody magazine while he sleeps, go in late to work to finish it, work my ass off all day at a soul-suck job, go to Fairway, which the Upper West Side at six-thirty in the evening is no fucking picnic, come home, via the subway Eric never has to take anymore, and he’s talking on the phone with his brother (hey, Ethan!) for like ever, and there are so many dishes in the sink I can’t start cooking, and the bed isn’t made, and it’s like and for this I have no dog??!!!  Then he comes and washes the dishes, and friends again.  7:45:53 AM    comment []