The Rumored Report of Facetiousism

Again with the falling behind. I’m somewhere between trying to finish school and not wanting to even be going .. which is apparent in my latest report due every quarter.
This quarter I had to write a four - five page report on the history of a salad, complete with a charcuterie menu, tasting of the salad, and a powerpoint on the salad I had done my research on.

This folks, is what my little brain came up with ... seriously.

.. still waiting on the grade.

La Fin DuMond Farm B&B
Charcuterie
June 1, 2009


Beet & Arugula Salad; Candied Walnuts, Gorgonzola & Sherry Dijon Vinaigrette

MEAT
Chef’s Daily Selection of Cured Meat & House Made Rillette

CHEESE
Joe Matos, St. George
Raw Cow’s Milk, Santa Rosa

Bleu D’Auvergne
French Blue, Raw Cow’s Milk

ACCOMPANIMENTS
House Marinated Olives
Chef’s Choice of Fresh Fruit or Fruit Compote

Rustic Breads & Flatbreads

Peach Crisp
Poached Peaches, Cheesecake Custard
Rolled Oat Crisp, Blackberry Coulis


2006 Chardonnay
Icicle Ridge Winery

2004 Merlot
Chateau Ste. Michelle

2005 Zinfandel
Icicle Ridge Winery



One serendipitous afternoon a hairy little caveman fell from the back of a wooly mammoth named Joaquin, consequently breaking his bad Australopithecus self.  Thus, adversely broken, he was unable to chase down the large, menacing varmints he traditionally knocked silly with large pebbles before swiftly beating them to death with a heavy stick.  
As it was he had, regrettably, knocked out all of his canine teeth during this rather unfortunate spill, and was left with only molars with which to masticate whatever he could hunt and gather. So, as he lay bleeding and writhing upon the lushly vegetated ground, he began to grow very hungry. Hungry enough to start lapping at the the dirt that wafted about his misshapen and almost toothless head.  Sadly, dirt was not the rapturous banquet he was now pining for, so he quickly spat it out and began to weep like a baby seal on the first day of clubbing season.  At some point he may have wet himself in frustration, though the history on the subject is sketchy, so we'll just assume, simply because attaining the exhaustive, and all-encompassing account of the history of “a salad” is an inexact science at best, and likely better left to those with ample spare time for such nonsense, like those who are now wallowing in gleeful lunacy at the local boob hutch.
But I digress;
Eventually our poor caveman began manducating a nearby dandelion, and though throughly repulsed, it tasted better than the afore mentioned dirt. Hence, he continued this flora-like exploration until, it would appear, he seemed to have happened upon an early form of romaine, upon which a disoriented, ancient seabird had shat a fermented anchovy, and likely some sort of early sea kelp. (Again, the transcripts on this part of the escapade are vague. It could very well have been phytoplankton as opposed to sea kelp.)
Henceforth, now being well satiated, our lowly caveman was able to evolve and survive, passing his knowledge of avian based vinaigrettes and lattuga romana on to his bewhiskered, stooped progeny.
And that, my dear Instructor, is how salad came into being.

However, since I now have four more pages to fill I guess I’ll just have to make something up. OY! The things I’ll do for a grade.

The first peoples to dine on salads were the Romans and Greeks, (not sure in regards to the Neanderthals) who often ate a basic salad consisting of simple greens and many of the vegetables we eat today. Their dressings weren’t much fancier, in that they typically consisted of nothing more than oil, vinegar, and often a type of brine. In fact, the basis for the word salad is actually “sal”, which translates from Latin into “salt”. Eventually the French turned it into “salade”, and then the English, some time around the 14th century, came up with “salad” or “sallet”.
As you can imagine, these salads varied from place to place, and gradually became more sophisticated over time. For instance, the fine people of the Renaissance enjoyed a good dinner salad, and the folks traipsing about in the 18th century got all hot and bothered over composed salads that were assembled with layers of ingredients, which today we would call a chef’s salad.
Ironically, the name any one salad was given has typically been due to the dressing that accompanies it and not for the greens themselves; which I guess isn’t really much of a mental leap, considering most salads are comprised of similar ingredients, the dressing being the biggest determining factor in regards to the dominant flavor.
Be that what it may, it wasn’t until the end of the 19th century that the United States caught on to the whole salad movement, though for some reason they preferred their salads suspended in Jell-O, as opposed to laying au natural, all wild and free on their dinner plate. In fact, the further removed from their natural looking state these greens were, the healthier people assumed they were. Eventually our tastes (and minds) became more refined, and we began creating eco-urban collages of green, leafy vegetable matter to tantalize both our eyes and our pallets; the salad, as we now know it here in the U.S., was born.

Since the time salad caught on as a contributing factor to ones daily intake of food-stuff, gourmands from every corner of the globe began integrating other types of foods with their salads; chicken, lobster, fish, fruit, and yes, even insects, thanks to our adventurous Thai friends. The possibilities were limitless. However, despite all the various components people came up with to incorporate into a salad, there were always a few possible ingredients that seemed to be overlooked, yea, they were the bastard-like rejects of the glamorous salad world; one of these red haired and wall-eyed step-children is the lowly beet. It’s not that it was never used, in fact it’s use in "salads" has been dated back to ancient civilizations along the shores of the Mediterranean Sea. It’s simply that initially people only ate what they saw as edible, that being the vibrant, leafy tops / chard. Over time people did begin eating the plump, red root, and today the beet is eaten in a variety of ways; pickled, baked with Parmesan, constructed into a soup, complementing a meat or fish entree .. but what about a salad? Despite being an excellent source of fiber and phosphorous, and on the low end of caloric intake, our simple little beet has struggled to gain popularity in the world of all things salad .. that is until fairly recently. It would seem our current culture has taken up the cause of underdog vegetables everywhere and adopted the lowly beet into many new and .. well, I won’t say exciting, so I’ll settle with in-vogue and funky salads, with plenty of joie de vivre. And, unlike so many other salads that have to ride the coattails of their dressing for a stake in fabulous and exotic names, the lowly beet has managed to conquer the moniker market. Meaning, regardless of the dressing, if there’s a beet in the salad, it’s going to be listed before the dressing is even mentioned. Wether this is due to it’s robust flavor, flashy colors, or just to serve as an advanced warning, I’m not quite sure. Regardless, if there is even a hint of a beet in your salad, you’ll know long before it hits your pallet.

As far as attempting to try and research “the history of a beet salad”;
PppPppTttTtHhhh! Yeah right! I might as well have inserted the word beet in place of anchovy during my little caveman introduction. (AaaHA! There was a point to all that!)
The internet is packed to the gunwales with various beet salad recipes. Chockablock full of unabridged information on the beet itself, but as far as locating the history of any given beet salad, it’s a virtual wasteland filled to the brim with nothing more than the unhinging resonance of trilling crickets.
Thus, unable to locate the elusive beet salad history I’ll simply regale you with the history of my beet salad, because though the internet may be full of beet salad recipes, most of them (as my innards can fully attest) involve baking a beet, craftily placing it on a bed of greens with some unsavory version of a vinaigrette, and then pelting it with a few odd crumbles of goat cheese in the hopes that the fermented globules of caprine curd will mask the actual flavor of said beet.
I did attempt the basic baked beet salad; in the rain, on a hill, with vinegar swill ... but there’s something about a cold, baked beet sitting naked on my plate, shivering under the deluge of an acidic OJ based vinaigrette, that sends my appetite running for the loo.
Sure, I tried several different recipes to see if the end result would be something worth inflicting on my classmates, but in the end each one; The White Chocolate, Blood Orange Beet Salad; The Beets Vinaigrette with Cashew, Cilantro and Goat Cheese Sauce; all of them, each and every one, ended up tasting much like the dandelion our poor caveman ate. I would sooner have eaten the ancient seabird doo.
So, after several attempts at baking beets and plying them towards some trendy salad I decided to go a different route, bringing into question just how one does go about making a beet salad worth eating. Did I really have to bake them? Is goat cheese the only real logical accompaniment to a beet? What if I didn’t slice, cube or julienne them? Heck, what if I ate the damn things raw? .. OK, maybe a bit too earthy for most people, but how about sauteed up in butter like any healthy vegetable should be?
Aaaahhhh, possibilities.
In the end I shredded the little red devils on my micro-plane, minced up both garlic and shallots and began a little experiment. First I divided my shredded beets in half, mixing one half with the minced shallots and the other half with the minced garlic. Next I divided each of those bowls into two, sautéing a portion of the beets & shallots in butter then doing the same with half of the beets & garlic. Once everything was done I made four individual servings of both the raw and the cooked beets & shallots, following the same pattern with the beets & garlic. I then placed fresh, chopped tarragon on the serving of cooked beets & shallots, their raw version, and then did the same with the cooked beets & garlic and their raw version. I continued doing this, next with fresh chopped rosemary, and then dill, until I had four versions for each herb, even allowing for a simple unadulterated version of each just to see what it would taste like without any flavorful herb; raw and cooked, with garlic or with shallots. Then I put together a dressing of Dijon, olive oil, champagne and apple cider vinegars, a shot of lemon juice, and some honey and black pepper to taste. This I drizzled over each serving before sampling each and every one. The end results?
It actually didn’t suck birdie doo, in fact, I really liked the sauteed garlic and tarragon. Here’s how it broke down for me;
For the raw beet version I preferred the shallots with tarragon. For the cooked beets it was the garlic, and both the tarragon and rosemary, respectively. The dill just didn’t do it for me regardless of how I prepared the beets. My advice there is, if your want dill with your beets simply stick with the smelly pickled things.
Combining both the garlic and shallots would likely be a good combination for a sauteed version, but having a stomach full of beets and vinaigrette, it will have to wait for another day. Tonight I’ll try it on the family; sauteed shredded beets and garlic with tarragon over baby greens with a Dijon vinaigrette. Maybe I’ll throw in a few candied walnuts for texture.

So there it is, the history of my salad. I realize this report isn’t the standard fare, where I spout off all sorts of meaningless drivel regarding the origins of each and every ingredient, or offer you yet another paper stating little more than the fact that Romans started the whole salad movement. I suppose I could tell you that beets were initially used for medicinal purposes and weren’t actually consumed as a food until the 1800’s. Or that beets are a member of the Caryophyllales family, which includes bougainvillea, cacti, amaranth, carnations, spinach, and venus fly traps. (In fact, modern beets are derived from wild sea beets.) I can even make mention that the Greeks presented beets to the sun god Apollo at the temple at Delphi, and that the Romans considered beet juice to be an aphrodisiac, but in comparison to my tale of the caveman and his mammoth Joaquin, let’s face it, the history of a salad, any salad, just wouldn’t have been quite as vivid and .... well, “historic” might be a reach. I’ll settle for distinctive, just like our little friend the beet.
BON APPETIT! ... and happy reading.

(Oh yes, I should also probably note that as of late Tuesday afternoon, after a rather vigorous conversation with a classmate named Laura, I was inclined to try the basic baked beet salad again, despite all my fuss to the contrary. As a woman I was apparently born with that right and shall exercise it ... um, NOW. As you may have noted, the salad I presented to the class, and listed in my menu, is nothing akin to the previously listed “history”. C'est la vie!)




And that was my report. I skipped the powerpoint in favor of a "vision board" where I stuck photos of seed packets against a background of chard. I also included a caveman and caveman-like seagull; who lurked from behind the packets for visual curiosity. (And NO, I don't have permission to use the above pic. I pirated it from another site.)

Next time I just might add glitter and fluffy pom-poms.
Until the next adventure,

J.D.

The Things What I Do

Authors note: I wrote this awhile back but just got busy being busy. I'm posting it now because I'm both lazy and sentimental.

Some things seem to take an eternity: Grieving, “finishing” your barn work for the day, waiting for the “Obama is God” thing to wear off (and thus people regain their senses), and Moussaka.

The goat babies are finally here, three in all; two girls and one boy.
It’s been quite a month, getting down the milking and bottle feeding routines, starting school and trying to keep up with the little things, like laundry and breathing.
There is tons of other stuff I could write about, but for today I’ll stick with the day that belonged to Moussaka .. which would be last Wednesday. Because for some sick reason I thought it would be neat to start dinner at about 1 in the afternoon, slicing and peeling between running to the barn every time the kids needed a bottle, or something else was screaming to be fed, milked or skritched, and home schooling Pubert.
Besides, I’ve mentioned it enough now that people are beginning to ask, “What is this strange “moose-ca-ca” of which you speak?”

Such is the way of the force around here Padawan.

It all started with a sale on ground lamb that the local supermarket decided, for no obvious reason, to begin carrying.
Don’t get me wrong, it sure beats having to drive to Whole Foods and cough up roughly 30% of our retirement every time I want to get a little Greeky.
As all things in my obsessive little world go, I got a little carried away and came home with the entire remaining stock, which translates into about 11 pounds of pulverized lamb bits.
Hey, the way the stores here go, you never know when or if they’ll ever get it again. Besides, we have a freezer, and that translates into being able to buy an entire ground moose, if I so desire.

The recipe I use for Moussaka (moo-SAKA) calls for 1 3/4 lb. ground lamb, so my gluttony of ovis aries chunks was justified. It also calls for five eggplants to be peeled, de-bittered (likely not a word, but one I’ll use none the less), and baked before I can actually incorporate them into the recipe. It also needs an uber Béchamel sauce, which means I need to reduce a gallon of milk to the consistency of mashed potatoes and flavor it with an onion piquet, which is a peeled onion cut in half and decorated with skewered bay leaves and cloves. Said Béchamel also needs to have a white roux added, which translates into; more work, and more dishes ..... and the resulting unhappy children I’ve birthed and forced into slave labor ... and who will now have to go through life with permanent dish-pan hands.

I believe in using the force.

::insert a weezing Darth Vader:: Pubert, I am your mother .. you should have used Palmolive...

Once all the above has been accomplished it’s time to actually start making the Moussaka, which is actually the easy part. This involves nothing more than sautéing onions and garlic, adding my ground lamb, several lovely, fat tomatoes, a fistful of heavenly smelling herbs (parsley & oregano), a few dashes of cinnamon, a hefty glug of red wine; which, by the way, is not a term you’ll find in any fancy cook book, (this is redneck cooking folks) and then simply let the liquored up, aromatic mass reduce by half.
Once you’ve accomplished all that you’ll need to sprinkle a casserole dish with bread crumbs and then apply a layer of sliced potatoes on top of them.
Next, put down a layer of your eggplant, then a layer of your lamb mixture. Keep alternating the two until you run out, making sure to finish the top off with eggplant.
Finally you get to apply that Béchamel you just spent an hour making, but first you have to throw in a few eggs and grated parmesan cheese for added calories and possible heart disease.
Once you’ve worked them into the Béchamel, spread the whole quivering mass on top of your dish and sprinkle it liberally with more parmesan.

The ending result is something between what we call “Poor Mormon Casserole” and an earthy, milk infused heaven. It’s hearty, savory, and just the right combination of salty and sweet. If it weren’t so labor intensive I would say it would make a great camping meal, but as it is, I usually save it for a cool, blustery day.
Which was a far cry from what Florida threw at us Wednesday .. but it worked out anyway.
Considering how much work went into it I never got around to any sort of vegetable or other accoutrements.
Ask me if anyone noticed.

No. They were too busy ululating like abandoned baby monkeys and rending their clothing as they stared at a towering wall of dirty dishes.
About this time I discovered it was time to go feed my other babies, so I wandered out to the barn for a little peace and sanity, hoping they couldn’t smell their cousin on my breath.

Eventually I had to take my daughter Wednesday to soccer practice, which is where I actually happen to be again now, sitting in the car plugging away at the keys.
I was informed it was in the best interest of my daughters ability to maintain her life functions if I remained in said vehicle, as I’m still wearing barn all over my shirt.
I likely have a few nanny berries hanging from several of the unraveling threads of my cut-offs as well, and I’m almost positive I sat in kid wiz at some point after retiring to the barn.

(Think twice he will, next time husband takes the truck and leaves barn wench his Benz.)

Some days the glamour just ups and kicks me to the curb.
It doesn’t help that at school I made the mistake of telling my young and impressionable Chef Instructor I have goats, because now he’s obsessed with the novel idea, and I have become known as “The Goat Lady”.
What the heck happened to “Farmer Girl” or “That One Mormon Chick”?
Regardless, I have inadvertently become the person in class to ask about any and all random questions regarding cheese making, goat milking and anything involving “farm”.
?????
As it is I try to become invisible and busy whenever I feel another question being leveled in my direction. If I can dodge it I consider it a small victory.
Do I like cheese? Yes.
Am I the Grand Poo-Bah of all things cheesy? No, that would be Mr. Chester’s title.

So tomorrow it’s another day in the kitchens. This time we’re doing something that involves the mass grinding of meats and possibly a few fingers. We’re also suppose to be cooking up a little fois gras surprise .. which I have decided I actually like when it’s sauteed and served up with a little apple coulee.

Die of a heart attack you will.

Thus ends another day in the saga of the perpetually busy life of moi. I realize I haven’t written in a while and I will lay the blame on just about anything at the moment, but what it really comes down to is I’ve just been taking it one day at a time as the phases wash over my little house built upon the sand.
I’m still working through Jason’s death, and it would seem it’s a little more complicated than the literature from the funeral home implied. Right now I call this phase the “I don’t feel like it, so stuff it” phase, which ought to explain a few things, but I’m getting there.

Maybe I’ll even get back into writing more regularly on this universally uninhabited blog.

Until then, I have livers to toast and barns to clean.
See you on the far side.

J.D.

Smokin Butt and Screaming Goats

Some days your environment gets the better of you. It would appear the redneck roots that crawl through the sand and black mud here in the swamps have snuck up and implanted themselves leech-like to my habitually bare feet.

It’s all my fault really, I was warned that running around barefoot in a place like this could land me with parasitic company, and sure enough I’ve picked up what looks to be a rather virulent form of redneckus countrymusicus. I was completely oblivious to this mental infestation until this afternoon when, after stopping by the feed store to load up on barn supplies, I found myself yodeling along with Gretchen Wilson, bragging about keeping my Christmas lights up all year long and not being one of them high class broads. The only thing missing was a tick infested hound dog named Festus, snoring and passing gas in the passenger seat.
Though I will admit, if I thought I could get away with it I probably would have picked up one of those too. ... minus the ticks.

WHATEVER. Considering the south seems to have taken over my sensibilities today I gave in and picked up a healthy serving of boneless pork butt, hickory chips, (more) cabbage, and white beans, just to officially baptize my palate into it’s newfound religion of wildlife poaching, tobacce chewin’ and fried pork rind consumption. (And on the odd occasion, hearing rumor of certain crazy people chasing down stray emus. ::couJoJogh::)

You see, I’m a bit stressed out, so some down-home cooking fills the bill tonight. Why? Well I have a whale about to give birth in my barn, and she’s happy to announce how unhappy with the whole situation she is .. 24 freaking 7.
The neighbors love me, though not nearly as much as they love the people down the street with the three parrots they set on the porch first thing every day at 8 am to herald the arrival of a the sun via psychotic parrot freak-screaming. So for now I think I’m safe from any of their backward redneck revenge.
I hope.
However, back to the whale in my barn.
OK, she’s not a real whale, just as big as one, and much, much louder. This pseudo whale is named Felicia, and she’s technically due April 3rd. Only, after talking with her original owner today, it would seem she could actually be further along than we thought. Meaning, I could be saying, “Thar she blows!” any day now.
She’s starting to show some of the signs of possible labor; increased vocalizations and pawing, eating less, and having bursts of hormone fueled rage. Luckily the rage is currently being directed at her pen-mate, Charlene; AKA: Tusalope (... it’s French).

So, while listening to Felicia grumble and talk to her babies over the baby monitor I have set up, I made dinner. Not the usual musical accompaniment but, considering this new situation in which I’ve found myself, the sounds of a miserable, pregnant goat bemoaning her position in life out in the barn fit right in with the Southern Style Smoked Pulled Pork, Coleslaw, and Baked Beans being created in my kitchen. Besides, it’s been blustery all day so the weather blowing in from my back porch is lovely. I can hear the fish playing tag in the pond, their splooshie “ploops!” accompanying the tempo of the tree frogs as they trill merrily from within the confines of the encroaching jungle that is my backyard.

The first order of business was to get the beans together and in the oven, which involved nothing more than combining white beans, onion, Anaheim chilies, molasses, brown sugar, ketchup, mustard, cider vinegar, worcestershire sauce, and hot red pepper sauce. Then I needed to start the pork butt smoking, which was an adventure in and of itself, again. I’m still working with the hibachi, so the glamour has all but left my occupational title at this point.
I started with a pile of charcoal briquettes and what appears to have been around six ounces of lighter fluid ... hey, the charcoal had been sitting out and was slightly damp. Besides, the last time I tried to light it I used half a box of matches. A big box.
Considering I was now down to three matches to work my magic I didn’t want to take any chances.
It was about the time the paint started peeling off the porch ceiling that I reckoned perhaps I used a few too many ounces of that lighter fluid.
Eventually I contained the blaze and threw my damp hickory chips in to smoke, along with my butt.
THE PORK BUTT, which I had rubbed with a mixture of garlic, cayenne pepper, paprika, salt, and dry mustard first.

Apparently I used too many hickory chips.
It was while I was in the kitchen chopping my onion that I got a good long, panicked bleat from Felicia on the monitor, quickly followed by Charlene, Jacques, and Eligio.
“She’s in labor!” I screamed, which set my three dogs into a royal fit. Of course it could have been the smoke now creeping in my open doors and accumulating at the crest of the vaulted ceiling like some sort of Hogwarts in-home thunderstorm.
The onion flew across the kitchen and I flew out the slider door only to find the porch hemorrhaging smoke into the night. Not surprisingly, once I had doused the cause everyone settled down.
I went back to my onion mess and began pondering why it was the smoke alarm never went off.
Might need to get that thing checked. It’s been spotty since we bought the place; along with the illegally dug well and leaky roof.

OK, in my defense I will state I have a large porch, and the hibachi was on the furthest edge where we normally grill. Typically I don’t asphyxiate everyone in the house while I cook dinner, it’s simply that my mind happened to be elsewhere tonight and there was that issue with a few too many hickory chips.
(And for certain family members who will understand me when I say, " My shrimp were in the closet." - That about sums it up.)

Again, back to the butt. To say it accumulated a sufficiently smokey flavor would be a prodigious understatement, but the results were pretty dang amazing.
Basically, if you want some flavorful pulled pork, be sure to burn your house down to instill that hearty smoke essence.

Thus, after rescuing my butt from the smoke I sauteed the onions, then added my crushed tomatoes, brown sugar, paprika, mustard, lemon juice, ketchup, white vinegar, and worcestershire sauce. Next I threw in my butt and simmered (covered) the whole concoction until the now eternally smoke-infused pork fell apart easily with a fork. After it had reached this point I removed my lid and allowed the liquid to reduce.

While all this was going on I threw together my cole slaw, and since I like a little tang with my slaw I threw in some Granny Smith apples.
I won’t bother going into detail here. There are a million slaw recipes and everybody is going to like a different one, tweaked to their liking. I’m still working on perfecting mine, so if anyone has a good recipe for one, I would be more than happy to give it a go.

Both the kids and the dogs loved the pulled pork. It’s kind of hard to go wrong with something like this, unless of course you actually do burn the house down in the process. The slaw was fresh and crunchy but the beans got a bit neglected during the smoking fiasco so they were a bit on the “dry” side.
Oh well. Not every day is a Lagasse day.
Obviously the beans weren’t too bad because there wasn’t anything left by the time everyone finished, which wasn’t too much of a surprise, my kids like their southern grub.

::::jaw dropping to floor in sudden realization::::

Holy Crap! My kids have officially turned into rednecks too!
“How did this happen?” I wonder aloud as my pregnant goat lets loose another pitiful whale song into the baby monitor that’s taken up permanent residence next to my olive oil and salt. In another corner of my kitchen our bulldog Lucy snores contentedly with a full tummy, passing gas while she dreams.
Outside the frogs are laughing.

J.D.

The Irish, the Goats and a Tornado

Oh the follies of man! The trials we bungle through for the strangest of things, in this case, one word, GOATS!
Yes, the long awaited creatures are now resting comfortably in my barn; you know, the one I had build for the first great idea I had when we initially moved here ... horses.
The barn was custom built for a rather large draft horse, so everything is oversized and the roof sits somewhere amongst the milky way, but then the cretan went and lambasted my leg into my next life, effectively ending my horse riding days.
Now I have noisy little goaties residing in this Olympian sized barn, and the irony is they’re Kinders. For those of you not quite up on your ruminants, Kinders are a cross between Nubians (Read: noisy, long legged milking machines with floppy, bunny-like ears.) and Pygmies. The latter pretty much sums it up as far a the size goes.
While Nubians are known for their milking abilities the Pygmies are more of a meat goat. Thus, once the milk ebbs or a little buck comes along, my culinary skills will be coming into play.
That said ... because I can hear my family laughing from here ... I’m sure some of the dear creatures will end up gracing my pastures well into old age.
SOME.
(Now why on Earth would people assume I wouldn’t eat any of them? Hhmm?)

So, the story of the goating, because dear people, it’s worth the telling, and after which, feel free to have me committed.

I left for Georgia just before Steve and Pubert got back from their road trip. (Remember that car Pubert got for his birthday? Well, it turns out you can’t drive an old 66’ Volvo from Portland, OR to Lotsocrappie, FL in one weekend ..but I knew that .. eehhheemmm.)
Moving forward.
I took our truck, which was in dire need of new tires, so it vibrated like a rodeo clown on crack when you drove between 60 and 80 miles per hour. Unfortunately the speed limit was 70, and I got the first freaking speeding ticket of my life just south of Macon, Georgia.
AAAAGGGGHHHHH!
So now I get to dish out more cash for going 11 miles over the speed limit.
It turns out Florida and Georgia were operating a sting that particular day to try to upset the Mexican drug cartels that have moved into Georgia

WHAT?!?!
I got pulled over (with around 11 other cars all in one big line) because of a Mexican drug cartel?!?

Tu eres más feo que el culo de un mono tu chorra cártels!
And you can quote me on that one.

After the encounter with one of Georgia’s finest (strange, just suffered a coughing fit) I managed to hit rush hour in Atlanta, but made it to my parents house in one piece, just in time to catch the news. It would seem that Missouri was about to be hit with some sort of mega storm; death, destruction, Warning Will Robinson!
By this point I was too tired and frazzled to care much, my brain having been shaken into a puddle of lukewarm pudding by the truck. Besides, I really didn’t believe the trip could get much worse, and I refused to be negative, I was finally getting my goats!

The next day my mom and I set out for Missouri, the truck rumbling happily through Alabama, Tennessee, Illinois and on into St. Louis, where we came to a screeching halt. It seems St. Louis has worse traffic than Atlanta.
After a few hours we made it outside the city limits, just in time to be between it and Columbia .. which translates into; in the middle of freaking nowhere.
And that, my friends, is when the tornado hit.
It started with lightning that fizzled out the radio with every rumble, then came the wind, followed by the rain. It was when the rain started pelting the truck sideways, and visibility dropped to what you could make out in the darkness of the truck’s cab, that I cracked a joke along the lines of, “at least we’re not getting the eeehhhh, eeehh, eeehhh, of the emergency broadcast system...”
Which apparently was some sort of cue to the powers that be that I needed reminding as to their sense of humor, because within moments the old system roared to life and informed us of a tornado just east of Columbia and south of Auxvasse and Mexico (no, not that Mexico), moving east at 40 miles an hour.; “Now get in your basement and seek shelter immediately!” they warned.
.. You’ll never guess where we were.
Noting there wasn’t a light to be seen in that vast, no-man’s land between Columbia and Auxvasse, nor any way off highway 70, we debated whether we turn back or run for it. Since the storm was moving east we headed west, right through the thick of it.
Despite the fact I couldn’t see much I got that wobbly truck up past what would have not just landed me with a ticket, but possibly a set of shiny conjoined bracelets .. at least until my mom expressed her doubts as to my ability to keep us from becoming airborne, or above ground.

We did eventually make it to Columbia, just in time for one last, good winter storm that dropped the temperatures to something I can only relate to as “Did I actually die and I’m now in Hell?” cold.
But the goat people I met were wonderful, and I got in on some soap and lotion making.
Eventually it was time to head home, so we loaded up my new brood; Felicia, Charlene and Eli in back and little baby Jet in the cab with mom and I.
I wasn’t quite sure how she was going to take that, but she was a good sport about my oddities and had a lovely little conversation with Jet going on as we drove back to Atlanta ... which had just received it’s own unusual snow storm.
My, go figure.
The goats spent the night in the truck, I slept in the room above Jason’s and the next morning I was off into the great wide open, this time driving well under the stupid speed limit.

In the end we all survived and now it’s March 17th. (Happy Birthday brother Steve!!!)
Felicia has evolved into Félicie, Eli to Eligio, Jet to Jacques, and Charlene the super freak to well, let’s just say it’s French as well.

So now I’m back, Listening To The Music with The Doobie Brothers and cooking up a little Irish dinner for the kids and myself. Tonight it’s the obvious, Corned Beef with Cabbage, Carrots, and Red Bliss.
The first order of business was to simmer the hunk of meat in a court bullion of onion, carrot and celery, along with the seasoning packet it came with. I also threw in some cilantro sprigs and whole cloves for a little pop. I let it bubble away for about an hour and a half until the meat had reached fork tenderness, to the extent that corned beef can. Then I removed it from the pot and set it in a shallow pan with some of the bullion broth before placing it into a 350* oven to keep it warm, and set a crackle to the layer of fat on top. Then I put my cabbage, potatoes, green onions and more chopped cilantro in the bullion for a half hour.
Once everything was done it was just a matter of carving the Corned Beef and serving up steaming plates with a little of everything.

Pubert’s not big on the cabbage, but he ate it, and Wednesday thought it was worth going back for seconds.
At this point in life I can eat just about anything, but I happen to like Corned Beef anyway, so it was a treat for me.

Now it’s time to start focusing on school again. I start April 6th. Hopefully Félicie will have had her babies by then and this whole home schooling Pubert thing will get a little easier.
Did I mention that? Well yeah, I’ve taken that gem on as well.

....Hhhhhmmm. Now that I think about it, forget about having me committed. It would appear I already live in a loony bin.

Well, time for me to have it on me toes,

J.D.

Remembering

J.D.

Bourbon Mosquitoes

Soccer season has caught up with us yet again, the smell of dank shin guards, moldy socks that pull up to your armpits, and sweaty tween bodies permeates the chill, humid air around the field like the stink rising from a hoard of weary African wildebeest during their annual migration.
This year practice starts at 7:30, which isn’t too bad in regards to the temperature, but it’s going to be a living hell once the mosquitoes break free from the swamps that surround these parts and descend upon us like miniature airborne zombies intent on sucking the life from our juicy bodies.

Oh crap.. as I sit Soccer Mom-like on the sidelines typing this account of my evening, a large, hairy mosquito trolled by the softly glowing apple on the front of my laptop, his fat, round eyes glancing covertly in my direction.
They’ve already broken free?!
Time to break out the Deet and Agent Orange.

Be that as it may, I’ll attempt to soldier on despite any life threatening puncture wounds I might receive. Everything for the cause.

Before I corralled Wednesday into the car I did manage to fabricate a few morsels of food for my nutritionally forsaken family, and I even succeeded in including a fruit.
I also incorporated a heavy liquor, but I swear it was for marinating purposes only.
The mosquitoes will be flying straight tonight. .. so will the kids.
(For anyone keeping track, my little friend has called in the reinforcements, and the bloodsucker count is now up to 5.)

Tonight it was Apricot and Bourbon Grilled Chicken. However, since our gas grill gave up the ghost back in November, it was more like “Apricot and Bourbon Hibachi Chicken that had to be finished in the oven because the apricot sauce kept putting out the charcoal” grilled chicken.
So before I progress any further, if you don’t have a gas grill, or access to a flame thrower, skip the whole grilling part of this thing and simply cook the stupid chicken in the oven. It’ll save you a lot of trouble, charcoal, repenting, and mess, about 20 minutes into it.

To begin with, I twisted open a new bottle of Jim Beam and poured several tablespoons into a bowl large enough to allow a whole chicken room to swim and marinate. Then I mixed in the Dijon mustard, soy sauce, worcestershire sauce, and a healthy dose of brown sugar before breaking down my chicken and stripping the skin from it’s unnaturally fatty, commercially raised body. (Mmmmm, Monsanto.)

While the bird liquored up in the fridge for about an hour I prepared the apricot sauce.
More Dijon, apricot preserves, white wine vinegar, worcestershire sauce, honey, and red pepper flakes. Which I then set to simmer for about 10 minutes before cooling and setting it in the fridge next to the sauced up bird as it sat waiting to be sacrificed.

:::SMACK!!!::: Stinkin’ mosquitoes number around 13 now, and the hovering swarms undulating under the halogens lighting the fields have begun to organize into duck-stepping rows of antennae laden Nazi troops with rather nefarious attitudes towards us homosapiens.
Only the die-hard Soccer Moms are still on the field, screaming frantically at their child in an effort to convince them that intimidation techniques that leave another child trembling in the fetal position under the bleachers, or permanently disabling another child, is perfectly acceptable if done while wearing a team jersey - or when the ref isn’t looking.

But back to dinner, because I find child endangerment is somewhat unappetizing.

Once the chicken had it’s fill of bourbon I removed it from the marinade and plopped it on a nice warm grill .. or what I wished was a nice warm grill. In reality I plopped my chicken on a warm grate over some rather unimpressive coals. Initially it worked fine, at least until I began to apply my apricot sauce. At this point I began to detect a slight wheezing sound emitting from the coals.
That, or Kahuna, one of our many cats, has become an asthmatic. He had watched the whole progression of my chicken grilling attempts with one eye as he pretended to sleep on top of our old, burned out grill .. you know, the one that actually worked, once upon a time. Given how cool the coals were at this point, he was simply waiting for me to turn my back before he executed one of his stealthy Ninja cat moves that would land him a half-grilled chicken feast for dinner.

"Oh but Mr. Kitty, I'm on to you, as you sit there smugly mocking me from your lofty perch atop my now defunct grill."

:::And returning now to sanity:::
Though the first application wasn’t too bad, by the time I turned my chicken over and applied a second round of the sauce the wheezing had turned into a full blown, Kingsford heart attack. The bottom of my hibachi was now a pool of muddy apricot sauce that resembled a very aromatic tar pit, the only thing missing being the odd mammoth tusk and saber toothed tiger.
In the end I tossed the pathetic coal sludge and set the chicken in the oven, basting it on occasion with the apricot sauce.
It came out fine, just minus the great outdoorsy flavor a grill imparts. The apricot glazes into a lovely, gooey covering that tarts up the dry bourbon marinade. Had it had that grill flavor, it would have an underlying smokey flavor that would have made the sugars pop, but sometimes these things happen.
The recipe calls for toasted almonds to be sprinkled on top at the time of service, but considering I was running late due to the pathetic effort of the coals, I skipped them.
The kids did get red bliss potatoes and green beans to go with their saucy chicken, and they appreciated the meal, likely because of the simplicity and sweetness, so I doubt they missed the almonds.
Then it was off to the soccer fields, where I am now confronting a scene straight from the campy 95’ insect horror classic “Mosquito”.
I’ve retired to the car for the remainder of practice, having been driven here after the armies began their full scale invasion of the fields.
Soccer moms are littering the bleachers, their bloodless bodies still twitching in an effort to scream out one last command to their cleated progeny before succumbing to the effects of desanguination. Their poor children on the field still running around clueless, the living dead ... never to taste the sweet deliciousness that is Apricot and Bourbon Grilled Chicken... that is, except my own daughter. It would appear that though the apricot marinade pulsing through her veins drew them in, the bourbon knocked them out cold after only a few sips of her adrenalin and booze infused blood.
Sometimes it pays to be a redneck child.

...OK, yes, I know I likely exaggerated a bit there .. hysteria brought about due to loosing several pints of blood as I ran to the shelter of my car. It’s a phenomenon not completely unheard of in these parts, and it’s not entirely improbable to assume that perhaps some of the lifeless mothers are merely dozing after a few rounds of bourbon themselves. This is “Lots-o-scratchie” folks, and boozed up skeeters (and soccer moms) ain’t nothing new round here.
However, I have once again lost complete control of the whole blogging concept and have mentally run amok. Let’s see.. where was I ...?

Oh yes, the apricot, chicken thing. It’s sweet, it’s easy, and it’s good. You ought to give it a try, the kids will like it and the mosquitos will thank you,
.......even the ones in the middle of a 12 step.



J.D.

Birthday Cake and Exploding Goats

Inevitably there comes a time in every parents life when they realize the torch of youthful vigor, and the ability to walk through this life with an air of aloof coolness, has been passed on to the next generation. Said torch landed in the outstretched hands of my son “Pubert” Saturday night in the form of a keychain for a 1966 Volvo that became the highlight of his 16th birthday.
And I’m freaking jealous. Aaahhh, youth.

We had been looking for something inexpensive the last few weeks but only managed to locate a few well used, hand-me-down redneck rigs that looked as though they were the loosing entrants in a demolition derby. Thankfully the man-child doesn’t have the same burning desire to fly his inner rebel flag that many of the local youth do, and has had a thing for Volvos since he got his learners permit last year. Finding the 66’ Amazon on eBay was a serendipitous, spur of the moment bidding battle that landed the child with a classic Swedish ride, which is anything but a worn out Chevy with bits of opossum and armadillo still lodged in it’s grill.
I’m not sure if our buying it was the vehicular version of the 4 horsemen heralding the arrival of dual mid-life crisis’ that will wreck havoc on our little brains, but regardless, it certainly made the kids day, and he’s been needing a positive upturn in light of recent events.

As far as dinner went I put together a little crawfish and shrimp etouffe that ended up a bit on the spicy side. Now, I realize I’ve already written about this particular dish, but the kids like it and I knew Pubert would appreciate having it for his birthday dinner, so I won’t go into great detail.
Normally I cut the usual recipes request for 1 tsp. of cayenne pepper in half so that “Wednesday” is able to enjoy dinner as well, but this time I was a bit rushed and doubling the recipe. Without thinking I threw in 2 full teaspoons. It actually turned out fine, and even the right consistency, but the spice overpowered the flavor in my estimation. My parents who were visiting from Georgia were kind enough to eat it anyway, but it was embarrassing none the less.

The traditional cake and ice cream was a Publix’s version of an ice cream cake, sans actual cake. I’m not sure what they are using anymore, and I can’t claim to be a knowledged pastry student .. yet, but I know enough to claim that whatever that thin layer of greasy, crum-like stuff is that’s been sandwiched between the two different layers of what barely passes as ice cream is not, by any stretch of the imagination, cake. Even the melamine producers in China run in gastric infused panic at the mere mention of one of these so called ice cream cakes.
And I don’t even want to know what god-forsaken chemical creates that Smurf blue icing that stains not only your teeth and skin, but your actual dinnerware as well.
But, it’s what Pubert wanted, so I shed my motherly conscious and concern for his longevity and served my children and parents a “cake” that could very well be the sole cause of extinction for the human race if consumed in large enough portions.

I can only imagine what my parents must be thinking. First I try to give them a heart attack with the cayenne pepper, then I feed them some frozen chemical cocktail, stick a few candles in it and try to pass it off as a cake for my child.

Motherhood: Fail. Talented Daughter: Fail.
Oh well, better luck the next go round eh? ;)

After my parents left to drive back home we sat around and vegged. I was feeling highly unmotivated, so dinner Sunday night was what we refer to around here as “Fend For Yourself” night. Which pretty much breaks down to

Dad: Carbonated beverage, leftover spaghetti, Reeses peanut butter cups, leftover “cake.
Mom: Apple with peanut butter, Lime Ricky, leftover “cake”.
Pubert: Last of the etouffe, liter bottle of carbonated beverage, apple, leftover “cake”, leftover rice, leftover chicken, sandwich, several pounds of pretzels.
Wednesday: Went over to her friends house to eat because her own parent were behaving negligently. (She was already over there.)

Tonight I’m considering making dinner, though I’m sort of in a holding pattern while waiting for a friends goats to have it’s babies. She’s ready to explode any second now (the goat, not my friend) and when I hear the call, “Thar she blows!”, I need to drop everything and run out the door or I’ll miss the big event. Considering I’ll be picking up my own goats the end of the month (one of which is very preggers) I do need to make this particular birthing, so I’ll know what to do when my own goats start exploding.

Now, I realize this is a food blog, and exploding goats, the poisoning of my children and parents via commercial cake, and the lack of actual food mentioned in this particular blog is somewhat of a detour from the norm. I promise I’ll be back on track in a day or two. Sometimes life has a way of happening, and when it does it’s best to simply hold on and take in the scenery as it flies by. If your able to learn from it, laugh at it, grow from it, or just survive it, you’ll come out the other side a more rounded, stronger person.
Until then feel free to try something new yourself. Breaking from the norm is a great time to surprise yourself.

"Do one thing every day that scares you."
-Eleanor Roosevelt-

Let me know how it goes, and I’ll keep you posted on those goats.
J.D.

(BTW: Normally I wouldn't include photos of Pubert or Wednesday for the obvious reasons, but considering most of his face is hidden by the hair, I figured it was ok. I was more going for a photo of the deadly cake.)