GARDEN PEACH MARGARITAS

I received an email recently from the deliciously inspiring Lisa (she has restauranteur blood coursing through her veins and it shows) at La Mia Cucina and Ivonne at Cream Puffs in Venice (Ivonne's recipes and photos drive me to lick my computer monitor). They were planning to throw a virtual party and I was being invited. The goal was to stuff a table full of food blogger's recipes that showcase fresh summer ingredients. I scratched my head (not sure if from performance anxiety or dry scalp) because I wasn't sure what to create. I generally suck at homework assignments.

Summer is really about abundance. At home I am hoarding a stash of the most juicy, sexy peaches ever. Betty Ford may need to open up a "Peach Wing" at her place out in the desert for me*. My herb garden is bursting with live savory offerings, including a shrub of fragrant basil sizeable enough to trim into a topiary of all seven dwarfs. I decided to splash some tequila into this mix. The result was abundant happiness and joy! I know ya'll surprised that I'm bringing alcohol to this party, right?

*Cindy--No honey, she isn't related to Tom. If he had a place in the desert, trust me, it would be a lot more fun.


GARDEN PEACH MARGARITAS

1 juicy, very ripe peach for each two drinks
Your favorite high quality tequila
Sweet & Sour mix (I used regular ol' margarita mix)
Tripple Sec
Fresh Basil
lots of ice

For each drink:
Wash peach well and pat dry. Slice in half, but leave peel on. Muddle half a peach and a few leaves of basil together until very juicy and basil leaves are crushed. I used a heavy mortar and pestle which makes short work of the task.



Plop fruit (skin and all) and basil mash into a shaker. Add 2 oz tequila and 4 oz sweet and sour mix. Add a splash of Tripple Sec. Fill with ice. Shake well (the cocktail shaker--not your hips. That'll come after you taste). Strain into chilled glass with ice. Garnish with a basil leaf if you are feeling exceptionally gay and festive.

These margaritas look and taste like colorful ribbon candy. The first photos didn't come out quite like I'd hoped so I'd hoped I made a secondd batch. They werent' rite either so I thjink that this thirfd batch wokred well. This isgonna be a gfreat party!

GRILLED CORNISH GAME HENS WITH PEACH SOMETHING-OR-OTHER

I bow my head for a moment of silence each fall when the really good peaches disappear from the produce stands. The best, most incredible peaches I ever tasted were lovingly brought to me from my friend Vicki, fresh from an orchard somewhere outside of Modesto, California. The taste of a good summer peach is so intoxicating that I don't even stop to wipe away the streams of juice winding their way down my chin. Only when the pit hits the trash can will I come up for air, and dab the fragrant juices off my face.

I've been gorging myself on them recently in the way that nature intended--from hand to mouth. However, a particularly good sale on some excellent peaches the other day caused me to purchase more than I could ever hope to eat before they turned the corner and headed down Overripe Avenue. I needed a way to incorporate them into our dinner and the result is below.

The sweet/spicy peach something-or-other (conserve? sauce? relish?) topped two grilled Cornish game hens seasoned with only salt and pepper. We quickly abandoned our forks and knives and tore into these with our hands. It was just about as messy as good barbecue, and a strong contender for the tastiness crown.


GRILLED CORNISH GAME HENS WITH PEACH SOMETHING-OR-OTHER

3 large peaches (ripe and fragrant is a must)
1/2 medium sized sweet onion, diced (I used a Vidalia)
1 tsp canola or olive oil, plus a small amount for brushing on birds
1 cup dry white wine
2 TBS crystalized ginger
dash cayenne
2 TBS brown sugar

2 Cornish game hens (one medium sized chicken would work just as well)
salt and pepper to taste

Drop peaches into a pot of boiling water and blanch for one or two minutes. Remove and set aside to cool on a towel.

Coat bottom of pot with oil and set over medium heat. Add diced onions and cook and stir until onions soften slightly, approximately 4 to 5 minutes. Lower heat and pour in wine. Reduce wine by half. While wine is reducing, pinch skin of peaches with fingers and peel off. The blanched peach should shed its skin easily, allowing it to come off in a few easy swipes.

Slice through peaches and remove pit. Dice fruit. When wine is reduced by half, add diced peaches, brown sugar and cayenne (to taste) to pot and bring to a slow boil. Continue to cook, stirring frequently. Mash fruit slightly with back of spoon while it cooks and continue until thickened and peaches resemble chunky preserves. Remove from heat.

Remove backbone from Cornish game hens. Lay birds flat and pound slightly with mallet to ensure the birds will lie flat on the grill.

Brush lightly with oil and season liberally with salt and pepper. Sear both sides of birds on grill over high heat, directly over coals or flames if using a gas grill. Once seared, move birds away from heat source to cook indirectly. Brush birds with a small amount of the peach something-or-other. Cook just until done. Birds are done when legs move freely when you tug on them or until juices run clear.* Remove from grill and let stand for 10 minutes before cutting bird in half through breast. Spoon peach something-or-other over top and serve.


*Most people overcook poultry. Purchase the freshest birds (free range if available) possible and wash well, inside and out, before cooking. Do not overcook chicken on grill and remove just before done. Birds will continue to cook slightly after removing from the grill. I test for doneness by the texture, the legs will move easily and juices will be nearly clear. If you are in doubt you should check for an internal temperature of approximately 160 F in the thickest part of the breast. Fresh chicken, stored and prepared properly, should not be overcooked, producing dry and stringy meat. Your birds were butchered once, don't do it to them again.




Sorry for the crappy picture. I forgot to capture the finished product in the kitchen and I just can't let dinner get cold while I set up a photo shoot.

BLUEBERRIES, BOWERY BURGERS AND BRADYS

To me, a lazy weekend breakfast is a romantic thing. I love getting out of bed with the knowledge that I may return to it at any time if I so desire. I have a routine. I retrieve the paper from the front gate quickly, before somebody happens to see me in my underwear and sporting bed head that would frighten Ty Pennington. I slip back inside and deliver it safety to the bed where Ed will send every section of the folded paper flapping away like rabid bats while he shakes it vigorously in search of the real estate section. That is my cue to exit again. I skip in my slippers to the kitchen where I can enjoy unspoiled, leisurely, sacred time.

First and paramount to everything else is coffee. Hot. Very black. Very robust. You may have guessed that I'm very hooked on caffeine. A java junkie.

Pancakes. Maybe with some fresh berries. Perhaps with some bananas tossed into the batter. Definitely with gobs of butter! If nobody were watching, I'd fill the batter with chocolate chips!

French toast. Ecstasy with orange oil and cinnamon.

Waffles. Pools of butter in each window.

Egg white omelets (for Ed only--I abhor eggs for some reason).

Weekend mornings spent in the kitchen are a happy time. I tend to hum while I open cupboards and contemplate my choices. Hummingbirds zip around their feeder on the deck. A red-tailed hawk coasts overhead as if using the rays of morning sunlight as a slide down to Earth. I imagine that Carol Brady would be delighted to sit at my dining room table and share coffee with me. Snow White and a throng of animated woodland creatures could show up offering fresh berries they had picked in the woods and it wouldn't seem unusual. The Folgers coffee "Happy People" would be right at home here too.





Perhaps my euphoric state is actually remnants of the previous evening's martinis coursing through my veins. Perhaps I'm just a little weird. Whatever the reason, the martinis or the coffee, I enjoy it immensely.

There is only one thing that could possibly splatter red paint on my luxury fur coat of a morning. That is the realization that the plate of butter-soaked, bleached white flour pancakes is not exactly what my love handles need at the time. Damned reality sneaks into my morning afterglow and ruins the spell. Camelot falls. Hopes are dashed against jagged images of Sears Expando-matic waistband slacks.

Last Saturday I found myself staring at a box of the most beautifully plump blueberries on my refrigerator shelf. I was drawn into a blueberry muffin frenzy. Cookbooks flew off the shelf as I scanned each book for the perfect recipe. Certain words vibrated off the pages and scratched deep gashes into my corneas.

WHITE FLOUR

OIL

BUTTER

SUGAR


The issue is that Friday night was a delicious night of the most amazing hamburger ever from the Bowery* on Sunset. Gruyere and grilled onions oozed out from the sides of the buttery English muffin that served as its bun. Equally tasty was the glistening pile of sweet potato fries heaped on the plate. I devoured it. A Belvedere Gibson helped wash it down. It was phenomenal. Nothing was left on the plate.

I'm eyeing my blueberries and remembering the caloric and fat-filled evening. A mental scale hovers in front of my eyes and it's tipped far in favor of the "You're a Porker" side. I just can't justify making blueberry muffins for breakfast.

Or can I?

I ripped through a half dozen blueberry muffin recipes and set to work. The recipe that follows is my reduced-fat, higher fiber, and generally healthier version of a typical blueberry muffin recipe. I tried not to wince as I stirred the completed batter because I knew it was going to taste like eating a corrugated cardboard pizza box dotted with bits of blueberry. My happy Saturday morning would come crashing down around me with the first taste.

Surprisingly, I came up with a recipe that didn't shatter my Saturday morning fantasy. The muffins are dense, very moist and just sweet enough. I was surprised at how edible they turned out as previous attempts to lighten up baked goods ended dismally. Snow and Carol would be begging to stay for muffins and coffee. And, they'd delight in knowing that they could have one without sacrificing their girlish figures.


SURPRISINGLY EDIBLE AND ENJOYABLE REDUCED FAT, LOW SUGAR BUTTERMILK BLUEBERRY MUFFINS

1/2 cup oatmeal (I used Coach's Oats--more like a steel cut oat but without the long cooking time)
1 TBS vanilla extract
1/2 cup low-fat buttermilk (I used the powered kind I keep handy for baking)
2/3 cup whole wheat flour
1/3 cup white flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp pumpkin pie spice
3/4 cup Splenda sugar substitute
3/4 cup unsweetened applesauce
2 TBS canola oil

1/4 cup sliced almonds

1 cup blueberries

Combine the oats, buttermilk and vanilla in a small bowl and set aside. Pre-heat the oven to 400 F. Grease 9 muffin tins or line with baking cups. In a large bowl combine flours, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon and pumpkin pie spice. In another small bowl, combine the applesauce with the Splenda and the canola oil.

Add the applesauce mixture to the dry ingredients and stir until just barely blended. Add the oat mixture and stir until ingredients are mixed. Fold in blueberries and almonds. Spoon batter into muffin tins-- approximately 2/3 full. Bake for 14 minutes or until tops are golden brown.

*The Bowery
6268 Sunset Blvd. @ Vine
Hollywood CA 90028

Tables are in short supply so expect a brief wait. Full bar and terrific menu.
No reservations accepted.

DRIVING THROUGH THE SANTA BARBARA WINE COUNTRY... TOPLESS! PART TWO

The hit film "Sideways" has focused tourist's eyes on the region. Los Olivos, Buellton, Solvang, and surrounding communities have experienced tremendous increases in tourism since the film's release in 2004.


Solvang is a mirage of a town that just sort of crashes into your windshield out of nowhere as you are cruising through the Santa Ynez Valley . The town was established in 1911 by a group of Dutch settlers on 9,000 acres of a former Spanish land grant. Solvang is the Dutch word for "sunny fields." Although old men sporting wispy comb-overs, knee-high socks and short pants (and Honda Odyssey's packed with grandchildren eating fudge that's guaranteed not to melt in the sun) mostly tread the cobblestone streets, there are still a surprising number of Danish-Americans who call Solvang home.

The town's sappy, Disneyesque charm overshadows the fact that walking its streets is actually best left to those with small children who are easily entertained or those seeking the pleasures of baked goods and collectible thimbles. Endless Danish bakeries cozy up to candy shops and candle-makers. **Yawn** It's really a pretty town, just a bit creepy in an Ozzie and Harriet kind of way.



I don't recall ever seeing police in Solvang. I can't imagine what crime would possibly be committed in that sugar-sweetened, pig-tailed town. The dogs even remember to buckle their seat belts.



Hi there! Wanna' neck?



It's like the inside of one of those cheesy Valentine's Day cards you deposited so long ago in your classmates' "mailbox" that was constructed out of a shoebox or paper sack, decorated with pink construction paper, dried beans and lentils that were sprayed with red glitter, and glossy pictures you cut of your mother's copy of "Mademoiselle". Of course, you gloated at the end of the day when your mailbox was full, proving once and for all just how popular you were.

It was full, right? I mean, mine always was. At least that's how I choose to remember that traumatic, Charlie Brown holiday.



We made friends at Ostrich Land outside of Buellton.


We fed them too.

We bonded.




And then, after we lovingly nourished them...




...we ate them!



Okay, we didn't actually eat those guys. I don't think we ate even a brother or cousin because Ostrich Land doesn't butcher their residents but rather breeds them and collects their eggs. The ostrich jerky was made by O. K. Corral Ostrich Farms. The ostrich jerky is largely indistinguishable from beef jerky. The only subtle difference I noted was that the fowl jerky might be a bit more tender than its tougher, bovine counterpart. Otherwise, it was the rustic, salty, jerky you've always known and avoided.

It was fun feeding them. Their beaks aggressively attacked the food pans, occasionally missing and glancing off the edges like darts careening away from the board and into a pub wall. They seem somewhat alien, peering at you from behind massive eyes that seem to be the window into absolutely nothing at all.


The Hitching Post II in Buellton needs no promotion.

The film "Sideways" has heaped tons of tourists, glassy-eyed from a long afternoon of sipping wine, on its rustic doorstep. Virginia Madsen played a waitress at the Hitching Post in the film but that is not where it's real fame lies.

Trust me...it's famous for its meat!


Me: *shoving New York Steak into my mouth* "Oh my God! This is heavenly! *shoving more New York Steak into my mouth* "Mppthhhth passsh tthee wiinneh" *swallow* "please pass the wine." "

Ed: *shoving New York Steak into his mouth* "I'm so full! Oh my God. It is sooooo good!"

Me: *shoving New York Steak into my mouth* "I can't eat all of this! Oh. My. God!"

Todd: *shoving New York Steak into his mouth* "This steak is amazing! Oh my God!"


Our exclamations turned eating steak into an ordination.

It went on like that all night. Most of us enjoyed 14 oz (yep) New York steaks that really were some of the best we have ever eaten. They were smokey, butter-tender, unadulterated cuts of beef that were cooked to perfection. Ours were accompanied with french fries that had obviously been fried in a bit of the beef fat because they had that glistening crunchy exterior and flavor that exudes pure ecstasy. You know, the kind for which McDonalds got busted a while back. Others ordered baked potatoes and swooned over them. It's hard to get too excited over a baked potato, so obviously the Hitching Post does everything well.

The Hitching Post also (surprise!) makes wine! Our friends ordered several bottles of a Pinot Noir to go (Cork Dancer, 2004, I believe). I didn't taste it on this trip, but I've tried it previously and enjoyed it very much.



By Sunday afternoon we had our fill of wine and pointed the cars south, back to Los Angeles. We stopped on Stearns Wharf in Santa Barbara for fish and chips (over-breaded and really dry), and crab melts at Longboard's Grill , and some delicious cookie dough ice cream from the Great Pacific Ice Cream Company.

Next week's posts will be devoted to diet foods. *sigh*

DRIVING THROUGH THE SANTA BARBARA WINE COUNTRY... TOPLESS!

No, this isn't Joe Francis' latest release of "Guys Gone Wild." In fact, it was the opposite. When our gang gets together for a typical West Hollywood Friday night, it is entirely possible that Joe's camera crew would tape some material to drive sales of his discretely delivered DVDs. But this was our anti-weekend, weekend. We went away to relax and take it slow. Nobody was interested in filming our escapades except ourselves. The Santa Barbara wine-growing region is an amazing place to unwind, slow down and shrug off worries.


Six good friends + three convertibles + perfect weather + good wine = HEAVEN. Topless is the only way to travel through wine country!


The Santa Ynez and Santa Maria valleys are home to a relatively new, but well-known, wine region. The unique topography of the area allows for nighttime, moist ocean air to keep the land cool enough to balance the daytime heat of summer. In fact, the sight of the dense Spanish moss hanging from the oak trees along the winding roads amazed me. I've never seen moss decorating the trees of any other area of normally dry, arid California. It is an interesting east-west formation of canyons that allows nighttime marine fog to flow inward and bolster the production of excellent Chardonnay, Pinot Noir and Syrah. The area is now home to many well-known wineries such as Sanford, Fess Parker, Foxen, Babcock and dozens more.



Sanford is one of the most charming wineries we've visited in the region. Their tasting room is located in an old dairy farm which is off-grounds of the actual vineyard. We were greeted in the gravel driveway by two deer who promptly retreated down a long row of vines. Cactus and redwood trees make for strange bedfellows, but both of them dot the property and fuel the charming peacefulness of this winery. We might have removed our shoes and taken naps on their sun washed patio if it were not for the fact that other cars occasionally snaked down the crunchy gravel driveway, delivering a honeymooning couple and disturbing the serenity.




We tend to leave Sanford with a little less cash in our pocket and a little more wine in our trunk. On this trip we left with their Pinot Noir, Santa Rita Hills, 2004, and Sauvignon Blanc, 2005. Both were amazing. I tend to like full-bodied red wines and this Pinot delivered that with a distinct pleasantness. The Sauvignon Blanc had a very nice balance and didn't venture into the too-sweet realm that I avoid.




The first time we drove through the region we sped past the Foxen tasting room, mistaking it for a fruit stand or abandoned juke joint. Amanda (?) the dog greets you with a stick in her mouth and hopes you'll play fetch with her in between sippings.



Foxen is a very cool tasting room with laid-back pourers. Its tiny size and disarming appearance have not managed to dissuade many visitors as it is always popular. We both loved the 2003 Chenin Blanc - Ernesto Wickenden Vineyard (Old vines) which may have been my favorite white wine of the trip. We also loved the 2002 Foothills Reserve-Santa Ynez Valley, which is a combination of Cabernet Franc, Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon.



We visited Andrew Murray Vineyards in the tiny Los Olivos downtown area. This sparkling white, almost aseptic tasting room seems far too sterile for something as romantic as wine tasting. I'm glad that appearance didn't stop us because we walked away with some 2004 Esperance, which is a blend of Grenache, Syrah and Mourvedre. My tasting sheet describes it as having, "aromas and flavors of ultra-ripe strawberries, black cherry, and blueberry, mixed in with the spiciness of cinnamon, vanilla, and crushed black pepper" and "having a balance between fruit-forward California and elegant-austere French styles." As this was toward the end of the day for us, I don't believe I retained enough clarity to remember what specific characteristics drew me to this wine, but I certainly enjoyed it! I'll report back after we uncork the bottle.


The Firestone winery offers a really cool tour of the vineyard and overview of the wine making process. We skipped the tour on this trip, but seeing the French oak barrels stacked to towering heights in the dim, mist-filled aging room is worth the price of admission. A few perfumed whiffs of the wine-scented air are enough to send you straight to the counter for a purchase. We did, however, find enough time for a round of tastings, but left empty-handed.

What I know about wines you could put into the glovebox of a Mini Cooper (it isn't much). My earlier mistake with wine tastings was that I was being far too cerebral about the experience. The first time I entered a tasting room I felt too intimidated to relax and enjoy the wine. I finally realized the obvious--that the way to learn about wine is simply to taste wine and be open to the very sensual experience. Eventually you learn to trust your nose, your mouth and your eyes. Once this happens it's like a wine tasting de-virginizing. Once you relax, forget about performing poorly and appearing a fool, you can enjoy the experience and pleasure comes flooding in!


Part two of our topless wine-tasting weekend is coming soon.

WHO KNEW URI GELLER COULD BAKE CARROT CAKE?

She called me Uri Geller. However, she said it with affection instead of with mockery and disdain, as the name is often synonomous with charlatans.

This was her reference to a Thanksgiving meal four years ago when I turned our dining room into a fantasy garden setting. Rolling hills of live moss spilled down the centers of two long tables. Lilliputian-sized birdcages sprayed with dark metallic green paint dotted the crooked landscape. Live succulents, twinkling with rice lights and flecks of pewter-colored glitter poked their heads out of the cages at the diners. Butterflies darted in and out of pewter teacups, demitasse cups and gravy boats that were all sprayed varying shades of dark, metallic-flecked earthtones. Spoons grew out of the landscape like stalagmites, their heads bent back as if gazing at the moon above. Forks, with glittery tines bent in a fan of twisted metal, rose out of gravy boats like a Dr. Suess creation. Little butter knives grew like crocuses out of the moss. Wine glasses shimmered as if a full moon were rising within our darkened dining room and drenching the table in effervescent light.

I admit that the effect was pretty cool.



Cindy: So, I'm having my 50th birthday party and you have to bend spoons!

Me: Huh? *scratch scratch*

Cindy: YOU KNOW! BEND SPOONS! And forks! And twinkling rice lights! All that stuff like at Thanksgiving a few years ago! I want you to decorate my dessert table like that! Be Uri again for me!


Cindy and I have a certain bond. We finish each other's sentences. We "get" each other's wild and unique sense of humor. We earned the nicknames "Will" and "Grace" from people around us who tired of our antics. At 4 am, we made trips for Thai food in the Valley. We burned sheets of paper over candles at the dining room table and read each other the fortunes we saw in the smudges. And on occasion, we silently slid cocktails across the table to each other and exchanged looks that conveyed our sympathy and understanding at the cruelness of the world.

In fact, I trust her so much that I once let Cindy set my pants on fire--while I was wearing them. No, you wouldn't believe me if I explained so please don't ask.

Needless to say, I would have tended a thousand gardens for Cha Cha if it contributed to a happy birthday celebration for her.


I hope you had an amazing birthday Miss Lou Who! Let me know when you want more carrot cake. I hope the icing didn't stain your sheets.

P.S. Thanks again for the petrified fish.

"CLEAN OUT THE KITCHEN AND MAKE __________ "

This is a picture of what you see when you open the doors to the freezer.



There is a reason for this. It's because soooooo many food items have been shoved in there lately that the little lights in the back of the unit are eclipsed. There is no air circulation. I think the little penguin who turns the lights on and off when you open the door was murdered and eaten by this guy:



I remember reading a celebrity cookbook that was sold as a fundraiser for some charity long ago. One of the contributions was from Phyllis Diller and was titled "Garbage Soup." Her recipe basically instructed you to, "cozy up to your butcher and buy a soup bone. Tell him you have a Great Dane, he'll think this is wild!" The bone goes into a large cauldron of water that you keep simmering on your back burner. All of your leftovers (sans pickles and Jell-o) are added to the pot. The end result should be a tasteful, sterile way of disposing of clumps of meatcake (that's "meatcake" not "beefcake") collecting in your fridge. Hopefully the clump of glowing ash dangling from her lit cigarello didn't make it into the pot as well.

I realized that I had to tackle Mt. Freezemore and get rid of some items. I wasn't quite ready to serve Ed "sauerkraut and coconut Pad Thai soup a l'a Phyllis," so I donned a parka and ski cap and dove in determined to make something tasty. The load from the freezer, fridge and pantry were all lightened a touch. I even wrestled a few items out of the all-important "canned goods earthquake stash" you need if you live in rumble-tumble country. The problem with the "stash" is you have to remember to rotate that food every few decades, otherwise, after THE BIG ONE you'll not only end up living amongst the rubble but also sick from eating contaminated food.

The resulting creation was:

The Not Yet Ready for Wolfgang Puck Southwest Style Grilled Pizza with Spicy Turkey Sausage, Chicken, Corn and a Blue Cornmeal Crust.



I set my pizza stone on the outdoor grill to warm. I combined about 2 cups of dry baking mix, 1 cup of blue cornmeal and enough hot water to form a pizza dough. Boneless, skinless chicken breasts and spicy turkey sausage were grilled until just done then chopped into bite-sized pieces. I draped my prepared cornmeal dough over the hot stone. A jar of salsa was drained of excess liquid and spread over the dough. Canned corn, chopped leftover cilantro and some normally inedible fat-free cheese (the stuff NEVER goes bad!!!) were added to the mix along with about 1/3 cup of shredded smoked cheddar. I liberally added sliced jalapenos to my half of the pizza, closed the cover and let everything meld together on the hot grill.

The result was at least decent, if not actually tasty. I feel proud to report a ray of light is now visible emanating from the opened freezer. Phyllis Diller, it has been rumored, is now dating her butcher. He proposed because he never believed she was coming to him for a soup bone because, really now, who owns a Great Dane?

YOU SAY "CHEE-O-TAY", I SAY "MR. CHAYOTE HEAD"

Chayote
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

The chayote (Sechium edule) is an edible plant, which belongs to the gourd family Cucurbitaceae along with melons, cucumbers and squash.

The plant has large leaves that form a canopy over the fruit. The vine is grown on the ground or more commonly on trellises. Although most people are familiar only with the fruit, which in culinary terms is a vegetable, the root, stem, seeds, and leaves are all edible.


I only recently became familiar with chayotes. I took a sample bite and found it to be very similiar to a crunchy, slightly starchier cucumber. The crunchy texture is refreshing and enjoyable and I initially decided that it would lend itself to recipes where the fruit itself is not cooked. I made a crispy, chilled slaw simply by combining grated chayote, grated carrots, and a few pepitas and tossing with a cool, tart lime yogurt dressing. It was excellent with grilled chicken.



Chayotes benefit from disguises. It's not that chayotes taste bad, they simply don't embody any distinctive flavor on their own. They lend themselves to creative cooking where they have the opportunity to absorb other flavors. My soup broth wielded hot New Mexico green chile and the grilled chayote offered a counterpart for the agressively flavorful chile.



I felt adventurous tonight and decided to try the chayote cooked. My resulting dish was a spicy broth boasting loads of southwest flavors including New Mexico green chile, grilled chicken and grilled chayote. I add the chayote to the broth toward the end of cooking to keep a slightly firm bite to the fruit. Since we are opting for lean dishes (yeah, the treadmill and I are not on good terms these days) I kept the recipe very light and healthy. However, in a fantasy world where every meal would be enjoyed like your last, I would top this with fried tortilla strips and a sprinkling of Manchego or jack cheese. Another great possibility might be to finish the dish with a crumble of crisp, smoky bacon over each serving.

SOUTHWEST CHICKEN AND CHAYOTE SOUP

1 TBS + olive oil
3 scallions
4 garlic cloves
1/4 cup hot New Mexico green chile (I pull from my supply of frozen, chopped chile)
4 cups low salt chicken broth
2 half boneless , skinless chicken breasts (use dark meat or leave skin on for richer flavor)
1 chayote
1 small red bell pepper, quartered and seeded
1 cup corn kernels ( I used canned, but fresh would be FAR superior)
1/2 cup carrots, diced
3 TBS cilantro, chopped
extra olive oil for brushing on veggies

2 cups cooked brown rice




Add olive oil to a large pot. Mash scallions and garlic with mortar and pestle and add to pot. Add green chile. Simmer over medium heat until veggies soften and are very fragrant--do not allow to brown. Add broth, diced carrots and corn kernels and bring to a boil. Cover, reduce heat and simmer very slowly.

Heat grill until very hot. Brush red pepper wedges, chayote, and chicken breasts with small amount of oil and grill until chicken is just well seared (slighly underdone in center) and veggies are grill-charred but still firm to the bite. Remove and dice chicken and veggies into large chunks. Add to pot along with chopped cilantro. Simmer for 3 to 4 minutes to finish chicken and vegtables. Ladle soup into bowls. Pack a scant cup of cooked brown rice into a ball and place in center of bowls. Serve hot.

As I typed this, I realized that perhaps a small amount of smoked sweet paprika added to the simmering broth might be interesting. I'll give that a try next time.

THE GOOD NEWS IS THAT SHRIMP DON'T BLINK

Monday evening we prepared to sit down to comfort our souls with heaping plates of forbidden foods and a bottle of wine. I was tripping over myself timing the delivery of food from the barbecue grill, the oven, and the cooktop. Blurred spatulas, tongs and serving spoons zipped past Ed faster than Mel Gibson down PCH with an open bottle of tequila on the passenger seat. I removed medium-rare filets off the grill and allowed them to rest on a platter while I brought the wine reduction to the perfect temperature to finish with butter. I eyed the baby veggies sizzling in the skillet and raced to remove them at just the right time before they lost their perfect firm bite. I yanked the smoky, bacon-wrapped shrimp off the outdoor fire at the perfect time, preserving their tender juicy offerings. The jalapeno macaroni and cheese glided out of the oven, with just the perfect crunchy browned top and a bubbling, creamy, cheesy sauce peeking out at us from the edges of the pan.

The plates were arranged, the wine was poured and we slipped into our rarely-occupied dining room chairs. The perfect meal was served. And everything was cooked to perfection.

Ed: "Wait!"

Me: "What's wrong?"

Ed: "Aren't you going to photograph this? It's beautiful!"


Food blogging is a family disease!


My appalling habit of photographing everything is apparently rubbing off on my family like a infectious disease. Perhaps I can find a vaccine to prevent further spread of infection? Maybe there is some resistance training excersize Ed can do to thwart the growth of this internet fungus? What have I done?

What's worse is that the resulting photo was actually horrible, not doing the meal any justice whatsoever as I snapped it post-haste at the table. I committed every food photography faux paus and probably invented a few new ones so that the deed would be done and we could enjoy the meal. Perhaps I'll tire of this food blogging "thing" and will not thrust my partner or our guests into such artificial and bothersome situations where the light of table top candles is diminished by the pulsing disco strobe from a digital camera.

PURE COMFORT

Today we needed serious comfort food so I flipped off the Surgeon General and got cooking.

*Grilled Shrimp wrapped in bacon, basted with BBQ sauce*

*Filet Mignon with red wine reduction*

*Jalapeno macaroni with three cheeses and bacon*

*Baby veggies (A foil to all this cholesterol, but still comforting)*

*Homemade chocolate chip cookies with vanilla ice cream*




JALAPENO MACARONI WITH THREE CHEESES AND BACON

2 cups mostaccioli or elbow macaroni
4 slices bacon
1 TBS flour
splash of olive oil
1 Jalapeno, diced
2 1/2 cups half & half
1 cup grated sharp cheddar cheese
1/2 cup grated smoked Gouda
1/2 cup grated Gruyere

1/4 cup Panko or bread crumbs

Boil pasta until very al dente (5 to 6 minutes). Drain and set aside.

Heat oven to 375 degrees. Using large skillet, fry bacon until crisp, remove from skillet and chop. Add flour to skillet and cook over low heat 4 to 5 minutes or until brown. Add a touch of olive oil to skillet if too dry. Add chopped, cooked bacon and Jalapeno and cook one minute longer. Slowly add half & half in a stream and cook one minute longer, stirring constantly. Remove from heat and stir in grated cheeses. Add well-drained pasta and stir to mix thoroughly.

Pour prepared pasta into well-greased casserole. Sprinkle with panko or bread crumbs. Place in oven and bake for approximately 20 minutes or until top has browned and pasta has absorbed sauce.




I love ya Harpo. Have fun makin' out with Trevor.

PLEASE STAND BY

While the ACME dork tries to figure out this new template...please excuse the looney layout for a bit until things get smoothed out.