An Effing Foodie

Another Thanksgiving, Another FN Birthday!

Hullo, fellow deflating countrymen!

Sorry it's been slow, these last few days have been dedicated to servitude in the kitchen, to feed beloved friends, family, and sundry sweet castaways far from homesteads.

We've really done ourselves proud this year...go team turkey bloat!

Appetizers:

• Grape Tomato, Olive, and Ricotta Galette (Max and Edna)
• Two-Pesto (Basil, Sun-Dried Tomato) Terrine (Max and Edna)
• Cilantro Pesto Terrine with Salsa Fresca (Max and Edna)
• Gruyere Fondue Croutes (Max)
• Olive Tapenade (Max)

Main and Sides:

• Brined Turkey and Gravy (Max and Paul, respectively)
• Cranberry-Fig Chutney (moi, via the Amateur Gourmet via Food 52)
• Canned cran (Ocean Spray)
• Frankenstufing (moi)
• Garlic Mash (moi)
• Cauliflower Gratin with Mustard Crumb Topping (moi)
• Scalloped Sweet Potato, Apple and Red Onion (Max)
• Green Beans with Curried Mushroom Cream (moi)
• Brussels Sprouts 2 Ways: Mustard and Pine Nuts, Balsamic and Shallots (moi)
• Corn Pudding with Scallions and Red Pepper (moi)
• Caramelized Gnocchi (Paul)
• Fennel Braised in White Wine (Max)

Desserts:

• Apple and Pumpkin Pie (Max)
• Hand-Whipped Cream (Edna)
• White and Dark Chocolate Oreo Peppermint Bark (Jill)

As always, thank you kindly Max and Alex for opening up your home, and being the primary caretakers of mass gluttony and celebration! 

Mighty thanks too to Edna, for her good humor, fits of song and cooking feats; muchas gracias to the Effing BroBros and Tammi for transportation, refreshments, morale and kitchen help; muchas smoochas to The Man for being unfailingly gracious and patient in the kitchen and on the road; hugs to PSSOM, for making the Battle of the Market a breeze and a pleasure; and TY much to SSFL and Chocolate Bear, for your lovely company!  

And thank YOU, readers, for just being you! Thanksgiving time means birthday time for this 'lil 'ol blog, and I'd be nothing without your curiosity, comments and readership for the past two years.  May your leftovers be copious, your loved ones near, and your antacid nearer.

Rainy Date Night in the LES: Clinton St. Bakery & Stuffed Artisan Cannolis

Times have been tight, and it occurred to me that it had been awhile since The Man and I had broken bread that wasn't a leftover reboot or suped-up pantry amalgam.  We popped out of the F train at Delancey St, wellies-grommeted and umbrella-armed, in search of good eats and bearable background noise.

Methinky the rain had scared off the suckers--this is the only time I'd seen Clinton St. Bakery without a cramped line snaking out.  The smiley hostess sat us in a booth by the window, and damp pedestrians looked in longingly as we sipped a giant Bloody Mary and split the soup of the day, beef barley ($6):

"Soup" is a bit of a misnomer--'twas much closer to porridge or risotto, but no complaints here.   Maybe because it was so nasty out, but the soft pearls of barley and tender cubes of beef, carrots and potatoes hit the spot, and the creamy chunks of avocado were a welcome hit of richness and freshness.

Not that starters are necessary at Clinton St.; The Man sprang for the Buttermilk Fried Chicken ($16), which turned out to be half an FN chicken with a mini loaf of jalapeno cornbread, honey, and coleslaw:

We've had crisper, more contiguous skin elsewhere, but the chicken itself couldn't be juicier, and the Tobasco and honey helped to speed The Man's poultry carnage. 

The Man succumbed to siren song of Vidalia Onion Rings (side order, $6):

Lightly sweet and crumbly-crunchy looplets--bits of their crust commingled with fried chicken crumbs in The Man's beard. 

Not that I was a shrinking violet, with my two-handed cheeseburger ($14, with cheddar):

But The Man loves me the way that I am (Read: Dripping beef and caramelized onion juices, BLAUGH).  'Twas more medium than the medium-rare I'd ordered, but with a sprinkle of salt and dabs of ketchup, the burger stars aligned well enough.

And you can't have a Date Night in a bakery without pie...

...warm Apple Lattice a la Mode ($7 sans ice cream, $10 with).  The pie is almost--almost--as good as their pancakes (which are available for dinner, GENIUS!).

We were in desperate need to walk off dinner...where better than in pursuit of breakfast?  Soft-Spoken Feisty Lady and I had tried to stop into Stuffed Artisan Cannolis the week before, only to find them shuttered before their posted closing time.

This time around they were still open, but there was only one lady to attend to a growing multitude of tubular-pastry-seeking-fiends, and a wonky credit card machine.  We managed to snag a box of a dozen mixed minis ($18) and get out of there before the sugar-craving hipsters went feral:

(L to R, top row: Pistachio, Dulce du Leche, 2 Mint Chocolate Chip, 2 Original; Bottom row: 2 Chocolate-Shelled Original, Peanut Butter Cup, Pumpkin Pie, Coco Loco, Cappucino)

'Twill come as no surprise that those with chocolate-covered shells fared best when we'd gotten to them the next day.  The mint-chocolate chip was a hair too minty in a disconcertingly toothpaste-ish way, and the Coco Loco tasted like shag rug suntan lotion, but The Man was really feeling the Peanut Butter Cup, and I favored the plain-with-chocolate-shell sort.

As overwhelmed as she was, the Cannoli Lady offered to fill any of their wares to order, so if you're a real stickler, have them do just that, and eat them on the spot (or call in any combination for an easy pickup).

And for sh*ts-n-giggles, there's also a ginourmous foot-long cannoli available for parties, to be crammed with the ricotta filling of your choosing.  Nothing begins or ends a conversation like 5 pounds of tubed cream.

On Brits, Baboons, and Eating Cartoons

I'll admit that the reason I try to keep up with a few food blogs in the UK is because...well...the cultural divide makes some of the writing and food concerns (like arguing over who invented oatmeal, or worrying about the demise of British curry) HI-larious to me.

(Oh, stop.  I'm sure watching fat Americans endlessly dissecting FN hamburgers and deep-fat-frying all-but-babies is equally diverting to them.)

To wit:

[A.A. Gill has] really gone and done it this time, having started a recent review with, “I shot a baboon in Africa, last Wednesday, just after lunch. Shot it dead.”

Gill goes on to explain that he was in Africa wearing “the sort of hat that just makes you ache to kill stuff” when a fellow hunter asked “Why don’t we shoot a baboon?” With the help of a telescopic lens, Gill took aim at one 250 feet away and “a soft-nosed .357 blew his lungs out.” Gill admits he had no excuse for becoming a “recreational primate killer,” since “baboon isn’t good to eat, unless you’re a leopard” — so why did he do it?

I wanted to get a sense of what it might be like to kill someone, a stranger. You see it in all those films: guns and bodies, barely a close-up of reflection or doubt. What does it really feel like to shoot someone, or someone’s close relative?

Gill got maudlin when he examined his kill (“when you stare into the magnifying glass at a profundity, it’s the prosaic and pitiful that’s reflected back”), but it goes without saying that the review stirred up even more of a fuss in the U.K... (via Grub Street)

I know this makes light of a serious moral and philosophical debate worth having; most people would rather not mull over the strange and arbitrary boundaries that justify what makes which animals acceptable food from culture to culture. 

But...I couldn't stop thinking of this: