A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about how many restaurants in the Bailey area had failed to stay in business for more than a few months. Which leads to the question “Well, why don’t you cook for yourself, whiny-ass?” which of course, is a question with some merit. And the answer is, I do cook, although not as often as I’d like. The perpetual complaint of “not enough time in the day” rears its ugly head, but on occasion, such as this weekend when I had the house to myself without too many chores to do, I had a grand old time cooking for myself.
Dear Wife and I tend to have different tastes in home cooking as in; I like food with heat while she does not. Now I know what you’re thinking; she’s American while I’m British so therefore it should be the other way round, right? After all, as every American knows, British food is bland. The number of times I’ve had this pointed out to me by Americans (usually ones who’ve never been there) leads me to wonder if this is something taught in schools.
The fact is, that during my almost twelve years in this country, I’ve been constantly disappointed by the insipid fare served in most restaurants. Even menus boasting “hot and spicy” choices are invariably disappointing. True, there are authentic flavorful ethnic dishes to be found, but anything catering to an American audience tastes like so much baby food. Dear Wife, bless her heart, is unable to handle anything remotely resembling flavor so when I cook for us both, the dish has to cater to the lowest common denominator. In order for her to enjoy it, I rarely can.
So when I do get the opportunity to cook for myself alone, I tend to go hog-wild with hot spices, chilies and garlic. Friday night was vindaloo curry and if I say so myself, it was pretty darn good. It wasn’t the same kind of Chernobyl strength production I used to make for myself a decade or two back, but then I have to remember that not only am I unused to hot food these days, I’m also in my forties and there’s only so much my colon can handle. Placing the toilet paper in the fridge the night before is all well and good but experiencing the ol’ Ring of Fire has lost its appeal somewhat.
Once that was out of my system (in more ways than one), I was able to settle down and tackle some dishes which, while still tasty, weren’t likely to melt holes in my intestines. Someone recently gave me a beautiful Irish cookbook, full of photographs, history, folklore and mouthwatering recipes. I’d been anxious to try some of them so after investing a chunk of my paycheck in Safeway, I came home with a fridge full of ingredients and a spring in my step.
Cooking in the mountains comes with challenges flatlanders will never experience. Many cooking instructions will give advice beginning with “At high altitude (above 3,000 feet)”, with details of the changes required. Which is all well and good, but considering Denver sits at 5,275 feet, while we’re a giddy 3,500 feet higher still – over 1 ½ miles above sea level, just what adjustments are we supposed to make?
Experienced chefs swap notes on the importance of decreasing the quantities of baking powder, baking soda and sugar, while increasing the water, flour and cooking times. Even so, comparatively close neighbors can still have variances of a couple of thousand feet or more in their elevation so a certain amount of trial and error is invariably called for. Still, the recipes I’d chosen were straightforward enough and other than adding extra water and allowing for more cooking time, there wasn’t too much to worry about.
I’m very much a fan of the “stick everything in a pot, stir it and see what it tastes like” school of cookery. Subsequently, my repertoire tends towards the stews, curries and other sloppy type foods. I’m also a big fan of soup so my first effort was carrot soup, with a traditional Irish potato based dish called boxty. The carrot soup was straightforward enough and even allowed me to use up some home made turkey stock that’s been in the freezer for longer than I choose to calculate. It also called for orange juice, which was tasty enough but a little overpowering so I made a note in the book to use a little less next time.
The boxty was a bit more of a challenge, mainly due to the fact that I had no idea what it was supposed to look like. It’s made with a combination of mashed potato and grated potato with a few other bits and pieces for flavor. Planning ahead, I’d already done the grunt work and had the potatoes prepared and sitting in a zip lock bag in the fridge, which maybe kept them fresh, but didn’t stop them from turning an unappetizing brown color. Or maybe that was because I’d left the skins on. (Very nutritious don’t you know, and far easier than peeling).
Not only that, it was apparent I’d made far too much. What threw me further was that the recipe advised putting “2 or 3” large spoonfuls of the mixture in the frying pan. All well and good, but primitive that I am, I didn’t know if this was for one boxty or “2 or 3”. Naturally, I guessed wrong and made huge, slab like creations, which while tasting better than they looked, tended to settle rather heavily on the stomach. From the taste, I suspect they were supposed to be more like the 3-bite hash browns served at upscale restaurants such as McDonalds. I’ll know better next time.
The final production, for Sunday night required me to save a can from my precious stash of Guinness, which took a lot of willpower, let me tell you. However, once added to the stew it released a flavor, which can only be described as superlative. That one’s a keeper too.
So, four days of self sufficiency and I have to say, that’s the best I’ve eaten in a long time. The bad news is, Dear Wife will be home tonight and as of time of writing, I’ve no idea what I’m going to feed her for dinner. The products of my supermarket trip are all used up and the cupboards are bare. Mind you, I did see something green and furry at the back of the fridge – I wonder if I could find a recipe for that. I’ll get back to you.
Dear Wife and I tend to have different tastes in home cooking as in; I like food with heat while she does not. Now I know what you’re thinking; she’s American while I’m British so therefore it should be the other way round, right? After all, as every American knows, British food is bland. The number of times I’ve had this pointed out to me by Americans (usually ones who’ve never been there) leads me to wonder if this is something taught in schools.
The fact is, that during my almost twelve years in this country, I’ve been constantly disappointed by the insipid fare served in most restaurants. Even menus boasting “hot and spicy” choices are invariably disappointing. True, there are authentic flavorful ethnic dishes to be found, but anything catering to an American audience tastes like so much baby food. Dear Wife, bless her heart, is unable to handle anything remotely resembling flavor so when I cook for us both, the dish has to cater to the lowest common denominator. In order for her to enjoy it, I rarely can.
So when I do get the opportunity to cook for myself alone, I tend to go hog-wild with hot spices, chilies and garlic. Friday night was vindaloo curry and if I say so myself, it was pretty darn good. It wasn’t the same kind of Chernobyl strength production I used to make for myself a decade or two back, but then I have to remember that not only am I unused to hot food these days, I’m also in my forties and there’s only so much my colon can handle. Placing the toilet paper in the fridge the night before is all well and good but experiencing the ol’ Ring of Fire has lost its appeal somewhat.
Once that was out of my system (in more ways than one), I was able to settle down and tackle some dishes which, while still tasty, weren’t likely to melt holes in my intestines. Someone recently gave me a beautiful Irish cookbook, full of photographs, history, folklore and mouthwatering recipes. I’d been anxious to try some of them so after investing a chunk of my paycheck in Safeway, I came home with a fridge full of ingredients and a spring in my step.
Cooking in the mountains comes with challenges flatlanders will never experience. Many cooking instructions will give advice beginning with “At high altitude (above 3,000 feet)”, with details of the changes required. Which is all well and good, but considering Denver sits at 5,275 feet, while we’re a giddy 3,500 feet higher still – over 1 ½ miles above sea level, just what adjustments are we supposed to make?
Experienced chefs swap notes on the importance of decreasing the quantities of baking powder, baking soda and sugar, while increasing the water, flour and cooking times. Even so, comparatively close neighbors can still have variances of a couple of thousand feet or more in their elevation so a certain amount of trial and error is invariably called for. Still, the recipes I’d chosen were straightforward enough and other than adding extra water and allowing for more cooking time, there wasn’t too much to worry about.
I’m very much a fan of the “stick everything in a pot, stir it and see what it tastes like” school of cookery. Subsequently, my repertoire tends towards the stews, curries and other sloppy type foods. I’m also a big fan of soup so my first effort was carrot soup, with a traditional Irish potato based dish called boxty. The carrot soup was straightforward enough and even allowed me to use up some home made turkey stock that’s been in the freezer for longer than I choose to calculate. It also called for orange juice, which was tasty enough but a little overpowering so I made a note in the book to use a little less next time.
The boxty was a bit more of a challenge, mainly due to the fact that I had no idea what it was supposed to look like. It’s made with a combination of mashed potato and grated potato with a few other bits and pieces for flavor. Planning ahead, I’d already done the grunt work and had the potatoes prepared and sitting in a zip lock bag in the fridge, which maybe kept them fresh, but didn’t stop them from turning an unappetizing brown color. Or maybe that was because I’d left the skins on. (Very nutritious don’t you know, and far easier than peeling).
Not only that, it was apparent I’d made far too much. What threw me further was that the recipe advised putting “2 or 3” large spoonfuls of the mixture in the frying pan. All well and good, but primitive that I am, I didn’t know if this was for one boxty or “2 or 3”. Naturally, I guessed wrong and made huge, slab like creations, which while tasting better than they looked, tended to settle rather heavily on the stomach. From the taste, I suspect they were supposed to be more like the 3-bite hash browns served at upscale restaurants such as McDonalds. I’ll know better next time.
The final production, for Sunday night required me to save a can from my precious stash of Guinness, which took a lot of willpower, let me tell you. However, once added to the stew it released a flavor, which can only be described as superlative. That one’s a keeper too.
So, four days of self sufficiency and I have to say, that’s the best I’ve eaten in a long time. The bad news is, Dear Wife will be home tonight and as of time of writing, I’ve no idea what I’m going to feed her for dinner. The products of my supermarket trip are all used up and the cupboards are bare. Mind you, I did see something green and furry at the back of the fridge – I wonder if I could find a recipe for that. I’ll get back to you.
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