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United States, North Carolina, Carrboro, English, Paul, Male, 56-60, All Music, All Food.

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Sunday, November 24, 2002

Recommended reading. 3:17:38 PM    comment []

Scalde a capon clene, & smyte hem in-to the wast oueretwarde, and scaude a pygge, and draw hym, & smyte hym in the same maner This is a cockentrice, a pig and a capon. Read all about it at The Cockentrice - A Ryal Mete.  Lynne Rossetto Kaspar spoke briefly about it on The Splendid Table (which is broadcast Sunday noon on WUNC here), inspired by the turducken buzz being generated by the NYT article, no doubt. Past Thanksgiving food buzzes have included brining and deep-frying. It is becoming as much a tradition as the turkey itself. 1:14:44 PM    comment []

My name is Paul and I am a pannekoeken addict. Hi, Paul! It started a couple of weeks ago and the event itself seemed insignificant, a Dutch-style pancake in the middle of the night with some homemade apple conserve. Just a lark. Little did I realize that the figurative needle had pierced my metaphorical antecubital. Until last night, when I was strangely driven, as if possessed, to fry cubed Jonagold apple in a small cast iron pan, robotically sprinkling cinnamon and adding rectangles of demon butter as the cacophony of the sizzle began to rise and dominate my entire consciousness. Two eggs, 1/4 cup milk, and satanically-calculated amounts of salt, melted butter, and forbidden spice flowed into the Osterizer, becoming a feverish maelstrom as electrons raced through the motor with a mind of their own. Poured over the apples, the concoction gestated in a Hellish 420F oven, slouching toward my breakfast plate a mere 30 minutes later. Innocent in appearance, graduating in texture from sweet custard to crispy souffle, it has become the sole focus of my miserable existence. My tortured mind screams that it is ambrosia stolen from Olympus, but a quiet voice from the hidden corners of my soul gently whispers that it is the wicked sustenance of Beelzebub.... Let's eat! 5:43:07 AM    comment []

It's gonna be slow today; it's the long-awaited moving day for Liz. In a sense, she has many moving days, but this is the one where all her shit goes from point A to point B. Lots of our hernia-prone friends from the 'dillo will be there to help, as well as her two strapping sons, so the pain and joy will be well distributed. I'm bringing over another smoked turkey breast for the makeshift crew to munch on between boxes moved down and up stairs (one flight each end). It came out a beautiful golden brown. Like last Wednesday, the breast was vacuum-brined (BTW, Pesky the Rat has a great link to his agent's tutorial on use of the passive voice) in a mixture of salt, spice, and sweetness (this time, maple syrup instead of honey) and hung by a skewer through the sternum cartilage at the pointy end. I've used stockinettes. They're very handy, but they always stick to the skin of ham and turkey, making removal difficult and the finished foodstuff looks like it got a sunburn and peeled. All that work for a splotchy result. Not attractive. Better to tie or improvise for minimal marring. Like the last one, this turkey breast took a long time in the smoker heating up to 170F. Those last 20 degrees seem eternal when the ambient is kept below 225F. I feel asleep on the sofa with the Polder remote thermometer on my chest. When its alarm awoke me, I went outside and pulled the plug on the smoker. The temperature outside is at refrigerator levels so that was good enough. 4:51:19 AM    comment []