The Greasy Skillet

I'm Not Eating That!

2012-01-26T09:54:00.002-06:00

My wife is convinced that I begin each day with an allotment of words, and once I've exhausted those, I'm done talking for the day. There's much truth to this. After a day of working with students, I don't always have a lot of words for my family. At dinner I usually just sit and listen to my girls visit about the day. Occasionally, I'll chime in and share bits of my day or I'll ask a few questions, but overall, I just listen.

Last night my wife had a meeting to attend, so it was just me and Little Miss Pickyeater at the dinner table. When it's just the two of us sharing dinner, I make an effort to be more talkative. While a have a mental list of topics I want to discuss, I never have to consult the list because my daughter uses our dinner to host her own talk show with me as a guest. She has a knack for coaxing conversation out of her reticent father. Last night she wanted to talk about my childhood eating habits, specifically foods I refused to eat as a kid.

Today I'm resurrecting The Greasy Five by listing five foods of my childhood that I somewhat detested.

The Greasy Five

1. Fried cornmeal mush
2. Pancakes (Currently I'm learning to love pancakes. I attribute my dislike to the artificial syrup that often drowned the pancakes of my youth. Maple syrup or a fruit compote are preferable pancake toppings.)
3. Meat loaf (Today I'm pleased to announce that I love meat loaf.)
4. Tuna noodle casserole
5. Potato boats (They served this at the school cafeteria in my hometown. This consisted of a slice of bologna that functioned as a base for a scoop of instant mashed potatoes and American cheese. This meal still feels like some absurd dream, but I swear it was quite real.)

take care,
muddywaters

Coffee Ice Cream

2012-01-17T08:21:00.001-06:00

My Cuisinart ice cream maker has been the equivalent of a car on blocks that sits in the front yard season after season. When I purchased the ice cream maker ten years ago, I had good intentions, but I rarely used it because I was unsatisfied with the texture of the ice cream it produced. I wanted an ice cream like I would find at my favorite ice cream shops. I wanted an ice cream that could be easily scooped but didn't melt into soup a minute later. I wanted an ice cream with a creamy, velvety texture, not grainy ice crystals. I resigned myself to the fact that I would have to get quality ice cream elsewhere.

Last November Jeni Britton Bauer's book Jeni's Splendid Ice Creams at Home inspired me to dust off the ice cream machine, and after ten years of attempting to make great homemade ice cream, I succeeded. In fact, I was so successful that I made about 12 quarts of ice cream over a one-month span. Flavor after flavor rocked my world. This cookbook needs to be in every kitchen in American, so do yourself a favor, and purchase a copy. This book helped this small-brained fella understand the science behind a great scoop of ice cream.

Now I just need to convince my boss to let me go on sabbatical, so I can take the "cow to cone" ice cream short course at Penn State University.

Jeni's Coffee Ice Cream

2 1/2 cups whole milk
1 tablespoon plus teaspoons cornstarch
1 1/2 ounces (3 tablespoons) cream cheese softened
1/8 teaspoon fine sea salt
1 1/2 cups heavy cream
3/4 cup sugar
3 tablespoons light corn syrup
1/4 cup dark-roast coffee beans coarsely ground

In a small bowl whisk the cornstarch with two tablespoons of milk, until you create a slurry.
Whisk the cream cheese and salt in a medium bowl until smooth. Fill a large bowl with ice and water.
Combine the remaining milk, the cream, sugar and corn syrup in a 4-quart or larger sauce pan. Bring this to a boil over medium-high heat, and cook for 4 minutes. Remove from the heat, add the coffee and let steep for five minutes.
Strain the milk/cream mixture through a sieve lined with a layer of cheesecloth. Squeeze the coffee in the cheesecloth to extract as much liquid as possible. Discard the grounds.
Return the cream mixture to the saucepan and gradually whisk in the cornstarch slurry. Bring back to a boil over medium-high heat. Cook, stirring with a rubber spatula, until slightly thickened, about 1 minute. Remove from the heat.
Whisk the hot milk mixture into the cream cheese until smooth. Pour the mixture into a 1-gallon freezer bag and submerge the sealed bag in the ice bath. Let stand, adding more ice as necessary, until cold, about 30 minutes.
Cut one of the bottom corners off the freezer bag, and pour the ice cream base in the frozen canister. Spin until thick and creamy. Pack the ice cream into a storage container, press a sheet of parchment directly against the surface, and seal with an airtight lid. Freeze for four hours

screaming for ice cream,
Muddywaters

Oklahoma Joe's Red Beans & Rice

2012-01-13T10:04:00.001-06:00

After reading James Carlos Blake's Wildwood Boys and learning that folks from Missouri were referred to as Pukes, I started hurling this insult at my neighbors to the East. Sometimes it's playful ribbing, but at other times there's venom attached to my words. When someone burns my town to the ground, I'm going to always harbor some resentment. Puke Bastards!

Map of state nicknames from 1884

If Missouri ever closed its borders to this Jayhawker, I would miss the Ozarks and of course, Kansas City BBQ. I wouldn't mourn long though because I'd just pack the family in the mini-van and head to Oklahoma Joe's BBQ, which proudly sits on the Kansas side of KC. I usually order the Z-Man sandwich at Oklahoma Joe's, but sometimes a stray oustside the typical BBQ offerings and sample some of the restaurants unique offerings. One of the best non-BBQ items on their menu is the red beans and rice.

Oklahoma Joe's Red Beans and Rice

1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
1/2 teaspoon chili powder
1/2 teaspoon coarsely ground black pepper
1/2 teaspoon ground white pepper
1/4 teaspoon mustard powder
1/4 teaspoon paprika
1/4 teaspoon dried oregano
1 teaspoon kosher salt
4 ounces andouille sausage, cut into 1/2-inch dice (Bruce Aidells makes a good andouille that is available in most supermarkets. If you're in the Kansas City, Kansas, area, Krizman's House of Sausage makes a good andouille. If you're in a bind and can't find a good sausage, improvise.)
1 cup diced onion
1/2 cup diced celery
1/2 cup diced green bell pepper
2 teaspoons minced garlic
2 bay leaves
2 cans red beans, rinsed
3 to 4 cups waters (as needed)
1 tablespoon base or 2 chicken bouillon cubes
1 tablespoon of your favorite BBQ sauce
1 teaspoon hot sauce
2 cups cooked white rice

Combine the spices and seasonings, including the salt. Set aside until they're ready for their closeup.
Saute the sausage in a dutch oven over medium heat for 3 to 5 minutes. Don't use any oil for this step.
Add the onion, celery, bell pepper, garlic, and bay leaves and cook for another 5 to 10 minutes.
Add the seasonings while cooking the vegetables and combine thoroughly. Savor this step: Place your nose directly above the dutch oven. Close your eyes and inhale deeply. Greet this mingling of scents with an exuberant, "Hallelujah!" Blare The Pine Leaf Boys' Cajun version of "Wild Side of Life" from your stereo, and dance around the kitchen; celebrate this marriage of flavors.
After the vegetables have been cooked, added the red beans and just enough water to cover the beans.
Add the chicken base, bbq sauce, and hot sauce. Stir to combine, then raise the heat and bring the liquid to a boil.
turn the heat to low and simmer, uncovered, for 1 1/2 to 2 hours. Stir every 20 to 30 minutes and add water if the beans get too thick.
The red beans are ready to eat when they have thickened slightly and made their own gravy, which is a wonderful, beautiful thing. It's akin to alchemy.
Remove the bay leaves. Serve over the cooked rice.

don't let the bastards get you down,

muddywaters

Caramel Popcorn: Big Bowl of Love

2012-01-05T09:48:00.000-06:00

Once upon a time, I owned the Evel Knievel stunt cycle and an RV that converted into a ramp. During this fabled time, I took breaks from performing death-defying stunts to snack on popcorn balls and grape Kool-Aid, which were a ubiquitous snacks in the 1970's. Since then popcorn balls have fallen out of favor. I attribute this fall and the general decline of our civilization to the fact that most people don't pop popcorn on the stove. Many of the world problems could be solved by standing around a kitchen stove, popping popcorn, talking, and laughing.

Even though the world won't join me around the stove, I'll be there listening to the pitter-patter, pop-pop of popcorn. I'll be there making a caramel corn, a deconstructed version of the popcorn ball.

Caramel Popcorn
(From Chocolate and Confections at Home with the Culinary Institute of American)

Ingredients:

5 quarts of popped popcorn
1 cup of granulated sugar
1/2 cup of brown sugar1/2 cup light corn syrup
1/4 cup water3 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt

Preparation:

I have a bowl bigger than my head, and I have a big head!

Place the popcorn in a large ovenproof bowl. Place in 350 degree oven.
Combine the sugar, brown sugar, corn syrup,, water, and 2 tablespoons of the butter in a 2-quart saucepan.Stir while cooking to 300 degrees.
Remove the caramel from the heat and stir in the baking soda and salt. Mix well.
Remove the popcorn from the oven. Pour the caramel over the popcorn while stirring with a wood spoon.Continue to mix until the caramel begins to stiffen too much to stir.
Return the bowl to the oven for 10 minutes, remove, and stir the mixture again. Repeat until the popcorn is well coated with caramel.
Add the remaining butter, stir gently to allow it to melt and to distribute it.Pour the caramel corn onto a clean counter top and separate the individual kernels before the harden.
Store in an airtight container at room temperature

may all your love be covered in caramel,
muddy

Friday Night Lights

2011-10-14T19:14:00.001-05:00

You must know that there is nothing higher and stronger and more wholesome and good for life in the future than some good memory, especially a memory of childhood, of home. People talk to you a great deal about your education, but some good, sacred memory, preserved from childhood, is perhaps the best education. If one carries many such memories into life, one is safe to the end of one's days, and if one has only one good memory left in one's heart, even that may be the means of saving us.

***From The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky

Today it's a clear, crisp fall day. It's the kind of day where everything is more vibrant. Sunrises. The glad-to-be-home scent of an apple crisp baking. The triumphant blare of a marching band. The tartness of an apple. Even memories are more intense this time of year.

This time of the year I think of my Uncle Don. When I picture him, he's always smiling. Always. Uncle Don wore a megawatt smile, capable of brightening any room. Even as I write this and picture that grand smile, I smile. It's that powerful of a smile.

Every Friday evening in the fall, my Uncle Don and cousin Tim would pick me up and we'd go to the Pomona High School football game. While other kids played touch football or flitted about the concession stand, Tim and I were expected to watch the game. At halftime we would visit the concession stand for a bag of popcorn and Coke, and then we'd return to the game. Even if there was no doubt to the outcome of the game, we'd stay for the final tick of the clock.

I know that my words don't fully capture the memory, but that doesn't matter to me. What matters is that I keep trying to find the right words. What really matters is that I'm still able to step into a fall evening, close my eyes, transport myself back in time, and linger a little longer with my Uncle Don.

clear eyes, full hearts can't lose,
muddywaters

Sweet Flamiche with Summer Berries

2011-10-06T11:36:00.004-05:00

In this autotuned, photoshopped world, I find myself gravitating to all that is real and natural. This is my approach to fruit. Like Eve, I enjoy my fruit simply plucked off the tree or the vine. Sure, nature's bounty is great in a pie, crisp, or cobbler, but I always feel like the natural flavor sometimes is lost in its marriage with sugar. This summer I searched for a fruit dessert that wouldn't have to share billing with sugar, and I think I found it in this sweet flamiche. Flamiche is a fancy word, but don't let it or the phyllo dough scare you away from trying this dessert. It's a light, creamy, custardy dessert whose sweetness comes from the fruit. This is a dessert that showcases the fruit, which is the way it should be.

Sweet Flamiche with Summer Berries

Ingredients:

1 ounce unsalted butter
4 sheets of phyllo pastry
2 1/2 tablespoons sugar
2 eggs
4 ounces sour cream
7 ounces mixed berries
confectioners' sugar, to serve or whipped cream

Preparation:

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. You will need a heat-proof mixing bowl that will fit over a saucepan with the base of the bowl clear of the bottom of the pan. You will also need a small frying pan with an oven-proof handle.
Place the butter in a small bowl and melt in microwave. Use a pastry brush to lightly butter the inside of the frying pan.

Lay a sheet of phyllo pastry in the pan and brush with melted butter. Lay another sheet of pastry on top, but this time at an angle to the first sheet. brush with butter. Repeat with your remaining sheets. By laying each sheet at an angle to the previous one, you will make a rough star shape.

Bring some water to a simmer in the saucepan - enough to come close to the bottom of the heat-proof mixing bowl when you put it on top, but not actually to touch it.

Place the sugar and eggs in the mixing bowl and place over simmering water. Whisk the sugar and egg mixture over the heat until the mixture is light and fluffy. Add half of the sour cream and whisk again, then add the remainder and whisk once more. Take the pan off the heat and carefully lift off the bowl.

Place the frying pan line with pastry over very low heat for 5-6 minutes, until the underneath is lightly browned - you can lift the edges gently with a spatula to check how it is doing.

Remove the pan from the heat, scatter the fruit over the pastry, and top with the egg mixture.

Bake in the oven for 15 minutes, until the egg mixture has set.
Cool slightly and dust with confectioners' sugar before serving, or you can serve a dollop of whipped cream on each slice.

PS. . . The recipe called for creme fraiche, but since I didn't have any, I used sour cream. The reciple also called for a splash of kirsch. Since I had none, I omitted it. However, I can see the benefit of having a bottle of kirsch in my liquor cabinet.

The Truck Got Stuck

2011-10-05T09:55:00.001-05:00

Once upon a time, I ate a lot of frozen burritos, listened to Def Leppard incessantly, and worked as a grunt on a ranch. My job as a ranch grunt was simple. Each day the rancher would grab a feed sack and scrawl a map, showing me the location of the thistles that dotted his pastures. Then I would take the map, hop in a truck, drive, find thistles, pull thistles, and properly dispose of them to prevent future propagation. I spent all summer doing this.

One day the rancher's map contained scribbles that indicated a marshy section of pasture. With the recent rains, he warned me that this section would be marshier than normal and that it might be a good idea to avoid the area. Detecting my youthful ignorance, he added that if I found myself driving through the marshy pasture that it would be a good idea to keep driving and to not stop because once I stopped I would probably be stuck.

Since I was a stupid kid who ate frozen burritos and listened to Def Leppard, I failed to follow his advice and I found myself stuck. I walked to the nearest farm house to call for a tow. On the walk, I pondered my stupidity and the significance of momentum.

I now thinking about the significance of momentum as I try to move this blog forward. If I ever get invited to be part of a panel discussion on blogging, I would tell my fellow bloggers to never stop blogging because once you stop it's difficult to get going again.

I've decided to keep moving forward, hoping I can sustain my momentum. I hope to move towards a blog that is less about food and more about Kansas and my memories of my time in this great state.

rollin', rollin' keep those doggies rollin'
muddywaters

Vaulted Memories

2011-08-09T09:56:00.008-05:00

Someday I will be an old man. I will wear cowboy boots with my shorts and I'll blither blather about past meals. I'll begin all of my stories, "One time I ate (fill in the blank). I'll talk Delta tamales, beer mimosas, fried pies, oysters, piles of crawfish, schnapps, goulash, sausage, onion burgers, bowls of whipped butter, and on and on and on. Some people will look at me strangely Some will ignore me and walk away. Some will listen, but they will doubt me. For those doubters, I will say, "Check out my blog." There I will offer evidence of past repasts, like the meals I experienced on a recent trip along the Lake Superior coast of Minnesota.

At Russ Kendall's Smokehouse in Knife River, I ate smoked white fish, the North Shore's equivalent of BBQ.

At the Duluth Grill I ate cinnamon roll French toast, and the pasty pictured below:

A mandatory stop along the North Shore is Betty's Pies. We stopped twice. The second trip I slurped a shake that contained an entire slice of key lime pie.

I ate peach caprese at the New Scenic Cafe.

I slurped another malt at The Portland Malt Shoppe in Duluth.

I ate a plate of corned beef hash at Hell's Kitchen.

We stopped in the town of Hinkley, where we ate at Cassidy's Restaurant. I ate a meatloaf sandwich smothered in gravy.

They had a read station with seven kinds of bread, and (drum roll)
two big bowls of whipped butter.
I finished the meal with one of these giant cinnamon rolls (only a $1.49).

I didn't eat one of the caramel pecan rolls because that would have been gluttonous.
These are just a few of the meals I enjoyed.

some will simply understand,
muddywaters

PS. . . Next year I want to participate in a Minnesota meat raffle.

Famers' Market Treasures: Onions from ?????

2011-06-02T14:32:00.001-05:00

I had no intention of buying onions at the farmers' market on Saturday, but the smelled lured me. Most people would describe the wild, pungent odor as unappealing, but the scent of onions reminds me of earth and my childhood. A time when my hair was bleached blonde because I didn't come inside until the street lights glowed. A time when I tugged wild onions from the dirt and that earthly scent covered me head to toe and I didn't mind what others thought of that. I'm reminded of a time when I measured the productivity of a day by the dirt ring that remained in the tub after a bath.

forever young,
muddy

ps. . . I don't remember the name of the farmer I purchased the onions from, but I will find out and update that info.

The onions contributed to a wonderful stir-fry.

Quintessentially Lawrence: Drivable Art

2011-05-30T11:39:00.005-05:00

Too cold to start a fire
I'm burning diesel, burning dinosaur bones
I'll take the river down to still water
And ride a pack of dogsI'm gonna break
I'm gonna break my
I'm gonna break my rusty cage and run

***"Rusty Cage" by Soundgarden

Three weeks ago my mood was soured, so I went to the library to sweeten my disposition. I found a little sugar in the parking lot. This made my day:

Farmers' Market Treasures: The Boxer Lady's Cupcakes

2011-05-21T10:46:00.003-05:00

The Blonde and Blue-Eyed Bringer of Truth

2011-04-29T18:08:00.000-05:00

En route to the camping site, we traveled through Commerce, Oklahoma, the hometown of Mickey Mantle. Of course I stopped to snap a few pictures.

I stood in Commerce and read the the following poem from

Kansas poet
BH Fairchild, I though about Mr. Mantle.

"Body and Soul"
by BH Fairchild

Half-numb, guzzling bourbon and Coke from coffee mugs,
our fathers fall in love with their own stories, nuzzling
the facts but mauling the truth, and my friend’s father begins
to lay out with the slow ease of a blues ballad a story
about sandlot baseball in Commerce, Oklahoma decades ago.

These were men’s teams, grown men, some in their thirties
and forties who worked together in zinc mines or on oil rigs,
sweat and khaki and long beers after work, steel guitar music
whanging in their ears, little white rent houses to return to
where their wives complained about money and broken Kenmores
and then said the hell with it and sang Body and Soul
in the bathtub and later that evening with the kids asleep
lay in bed stroking their husband’s wrist tattoo and smoking
Chesterfields from a fresh pack until everything was O.K.
Well, you get the idea. Life goes on, the next day is Sunday,
another ball game, and the other team shows up one man short.

They say, we’re one man short, but can we use this boy,
he’s only fifteen years old, and at least he’ll make a game.
They take a look at the kid, muscular and kind of knowing
the way he holds his glove, with the shoulders loose,
the thick neck, but then with that boy’s face under
a clump of angelic blonde hair, and say, oh, hell, sure,
let’s play ball. So it all begins, the men loosening up,
joking about the fat catcher’s sex life, it’s so bad
last night he had to hump his wife, that sort of thing,
pairing off into little games of catch that heat up into
throwing matches, the smack of the fungo bat, lazy jogging
into right field, big smiles and arcs of tobacco juice,
and the talk that gives a cool, easy feeling to the air,
talk among men normally silent, normally brittle and a little
angry with the empty promise of their lives. But they chatter
and say rock and fire, babe, easy out, and go right ahead
and pitch to the boy, but nothing fancy, just hard fastballs
right around the belt, and the kid takes the first two
but on the third pops the bat around so quick and sure
that they pause a moment before turning around to watch
the ball still rising and finally dropping far beyond
the abandoned tractor that marks left field. Holy shit.

They’re pretty quiet watching him round the bases,
but then, what the hell, the kid knows how to hit a ball,
so what, let’s play some goddamned baseball here.
And so it goes. The next time up, the boy gets a look
at a very nifty low curve, then a slider, and the next one
is the curve again, and he sends it over the Allis Chalmers,
high and big and sweet. The left field just stands there, frozen.

As if this isn’t enough, the next time up he bats left-handed.
They can’t believe it, and the pitcher, a tall, mean-faced
man from Okarche who just doesn’t give a shit anyway
because his wife ran off two years ago leaving him with
three little ones and a rusted-out Dodge with a cracked block,
leans in hard, looking at the fat catcher like he was the sonofabitch
who ran off with his wife, leans in and throws something
out of the dark, green hell of forbidden fastballs, something
that comes in at the knees and then leaps viciously towards
the kid’s elbow. He swings exactly the way he did right-handed
and they all turn like a chorus line toward deep right field
where the ball loses itself in sagebrush and the sad burnt
dust of dustbowl Oklahoma. It is something to see.

But why make a long story long: runs pile up on both sides,
the boy comes around five times, and five times the pitcher
is cursing both God and His mother as his chew of tobacco sours
into something resembling horse piss, and a ragged and bruised
Spalding baseball disappears into the far horizon. Goodnight,
Irene. They have lost the game and some painful side bets
and they have been suckered. And it means nothing to them
though it should to you when they are told the boy’s name is
Mickey Mantle. And that’s the story, and those are the facts.

But the facts are not the truth. I think, though, as I scan
the faces of these old men now lost in the innings of their youth,
it lying there in the weeds behind that Allis Chalmers
just waiting for the obvious question to be asked: why, oh
why in hell didn’t they just throw around the kid, walk him,
after he hit the third homer? Anybody would have,
especially nine men with disappointed wives and dirty socks
and diminishing expectations for whom winning at anything
meant everything. Men who knew how to play the game,
who had talent when the other team had nothing except this ringer
who without a pitch to hit was meaningless, and they could go home
with their little two-dollar side bets and stride into the house
singing If You’ve Got the Money, Honey, I’ve Got the Time
with a bottle of Southern Comfort under their arms and grab
Dixie or May Ella up and dance across the gray linoleum
as if it were V-Day all over again. But they did not
And they did not because they were men, and this was a boy.

And they did not because sometimes after making love,
after smoking their Chesterfields in the cool silence and
listening to the big bands on the radio that sounded so glamorous,
so distant, they glanced over at their wives and noticed the lines
growing heavier around the eyes and mouth, felt what their wives
felt: that Les Brown and Glenn Miller and all those dancing couples
and in fact all possibility of human gaiety and light-heartedness
were as far away and unreachable as Times Square or the Avalon
ballroom. They did not because of the gray linoleum lying there
in the half-dark, the free calendar from the local mortuary
that said one day was pretty much like another, the work gloves
looped over the doorknob like dead squirrels. And they did not
because they had gone through a depression and a war that had left
them with the idea that being a man in the eyes of their fathers
and everyone else had cost them just too goddamn much to lay it
at the feet of a fifteen year-old-boy. And so they did not walk him,
and lost, but at least had some ragged remnant of themselves
to take back home. But there is one thing more, though it is not
a fact.

When I see my friend’s father staring hard into the bottomless
well of home plate as Mantle’s fifth homer heads toward Arkansas,
I know that this man with the half-orphaned children and
worthless Dodge has also encountered for the first and possibly
only time the vast gap between talent and genius, has seen
as few have in the harsh light of an Oklahoma Sunday, the blonde
and blue-eyed bringer of truth, who will not easily be forgiven.

What a great poem! Mr. Fairchild works some magic with words.

bring the truth,
muddy

A Fistful of Dynamite

2011-04-28T12:20:00.004-05:00

Mr. Crankypants has been rattling his cage more than usual, so we put a 2nd padlock on it. He's wound tight. He's like a stick of dynamite in a Sergio Leone movie.

The other day I was driving up on campus and Mr. Crankypants was in the passenger seat. We're stopped at the crosswalk and this college student - talking on his cell phone, eating an apple, and listening to his Ipod - leisurely crossed in front of us. The kid was more intent on talking and eating rather than crossing. When Mr. Crankypants saw that the kid was wearing flip flop when the temperature was in the 40's, that was the straw that broke the llama's back. Mr. Crankypants threw a vicious elbow into my ribs, and snarled, "Hit the son of a bitch!"

Then he rolled down the window, pounded the side of the car, and screamed, "Hey! We're driving here!"

In his sleep, Mr. CP's been mumbling something about John Boehner's country-club tan. I don't know what that's all about, and I have no intention of asking Mr. CP about it.

With him being gloom and impending doom, I've decided to take him on vacation. I'm taking him camping, where he'll sip whiskey, eat cabbage bombs, and sleep underneath the stars. There he will live an idyllic existence free of idiots, politics, and absurdness. I'm hoping that the stick of dynamite will be reduced to a mere firecracker.

We'll send you dispatches from the road.

chompin' on a bit I just can't spit,

muddywaters

Holding It Together with Gardening

2011-04-13T16:32:00.001-05:00

I come from a long line of gardeners, so my summer childhood scrapbook is filled thick with the following snapshots:

sitting underneath my grandparents' car port snapping green beans.

digging potatoes

My Uncle Raymond dropping by our house sharing the bounty from his garden

zucchini, zucchini, zucchini, zucchini, and zucchini

rhubarb

snakes in the strawberry patches

eating a jalapeno in my Uncle Don's garden and sprinting toward the water spigot to attempt to cool the burn

standing in the garden with a salt shaker and eating tomatoes off the vine

riding in the back of a pickup as a it crosses the creek (pronounced "crick") on my way to my grandparents' garden (Once upon a time people rode in the beds of pickups)

With the exception of a few herbs I grow to use in my cooking, I don't keep a garden. I think a lot about what is lost because I don't garden, and it makes me sad. Lately my daughter has asked if we can plant a small garden. It makes me happy to think that this urge to garden might be in her DNA. Maybe she and I need to break ground on this project as a way to reconnect with those relatives from my past.

With these thoughts and memories pinballing in my head, I reflected on the following passage from Ted Kooser's wonderful book Local Wonders: Seasons in the Bohemian Alps:

According to the TV weathermen-all smiles at six this morning- today is to be one of the "top ten days of the year!" He was exclaiming his own prediction of good weather, of course, but most of us among his early morning viewers are hoping that this will be top ten day of the year in ways other than that. I for one am hoping that it will be among the top ten days for making a few pints of applesauce from our bruised and wormy windfalls and also among the top ten days for gluing together my late mother's cutting board, which during the past week split in half and by so doing opened a crack in my heart, into which a good deal of syrupy sentiment trickled.

Mother would never have paid "good money", as she would have said, for a gourmet cutting board, heavy and thick as a layer cake and cleverly fitted together from finely planed strips of chocolate-dark and sugar-light hardwoods. No, her cutting board was three short pieces of one-by-four pine, glued together into a surface about the size of a piece of typewriter paper. She probably bought it at a yard sale. On this crude table, which over the years turned roast beef brown from the oil of store brand cheese and the juice from whatever fruit was on sale, was inscribed her kitchen's history, scored into the surface by a dull paring knife with the rivets gone from one side of the handle. There are chapters on flaky pie dough, thick egg noodles, and round steak hammered to a pulp.

When she died by sister and I were dividing her few belongings, I kept mother's cutting board. At the time I didn't have a sentimental attachment to it, but I thought my wife and I might be able to make some use of it. I hold on to nearly everything that comes my way.

And we have used it, nearly every day. It is my generation's time to slice store brand cheddar on it and dice the sale carrots and core whatever poor apples might fall from our trees. And I am going to make applesauce today not so much because I like applesauce but because it would please Mother- and, for that matter, her mother and her mother's mother- to know I don't intend to let those miserable little windfalls go to waste.

So, on this top ten day, the first thing I am going to do is to carry the halves of my mother's cutting board down to my shop in the barn and glue them together. And then I'm going to clamp them to dry - clamp them with heavy iron pipe clamps, tightly, so tightly my fingers hurt twisting the handles, because there is so much I want to hold together.

I love the last sentence.

plow to the end of the row,

muddywaters

South Wind People

2011-04-04T17:07:00.001-05:00

Kansas is named after the Kansa Indians, whose name means "people of the south wind." As yesterday's blast furnace, southern wind, stirred whitecaps on farm ponds and rocketed temperature into the low 90's, I was reminded of the aptness of my state's name.

Before the wind wreaked havoc on my weekend, I enjoyed a beautiful Saturday afternoon walking the Kansas River levee trail. The river is the main attraction.

However, after about a mile into the walk, the cottonwoods blocked my view of the river, so I set my eyes on other sights:

Which one of these items did I really want to bring home?

the answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind,
muddy

Poem in my Pocket: I Believe by Jim Harrison

2011-04-01T07:55:00.009-05:00

April is National Poetry Month. For me every month is National Poetry Month, but my fire for poetry burns much hotter in April. Last year I celebrated Nation Poetry Month by spotlighting some poems on this blog, but I also tried to spread my passion for poetry in more conventional ways. For example last year, I participated in Poem In Your Pocket Day (I know this sounds odd, but I like odd), where I carried the following poem in my pocket and shared it others:

I Believe

by Jim Harrison

I believe in steep drop-offs, the thunderstorm across the lake

in 1949, cold winds, empty swimming pools,

the overgrown path to the creek, raw garlic,

used tires, taverns, saloons, bars, gallons of red wine,

abandoned farmhouses, stunted lilac groves,

gravel roads that end, brush piles, thickets, girls

who haven't quite gone totally wild, river eddies,

leaky wooden boats, the smell of used engine oil,

turbulent rivers, lakes without cottages lost in the woods,

the primrose growing out of a cow skull, the thousands

of birds I've talked to all of my life, the dogs

that talked back, the Chihuahuan ravens that follow

me on long walks. The rattler escaping the cold hose,

the fluttering unknown gods that I nearly see

from the left corner of my blind eye, struggling

to stay alive in a world that grinds them underfoot.

I don't know what everything in the above poem means. Experience and age are probably essential to completely understand everything.

However, I do know this: Everyone needs to carry a poem around with them that states his/her beliefs. The words should be original, not phrases cut and pasted from some pop cultural artifact or something processed and sold. The words should be real and true and sincere and unabashed. The words should steer clear of politics and religion because those well-worn sentiments are best suited for bumper stickers and protest signs. I don't know if I can write something like this, but I'm going to try and when I finish, I'll fold it up and place it right next to my organ donor card.

There ain't no money in poetry; that's what sets the poet free,

muddywaters

PS. Poem In Your Pocket Day is April 14th, so start selecting your poem today.

Starry Nights & Wauneta, Nebraska

2011-03-30T08:53:00.011-05:00

I grew up in Pomona, Kansas, a town of around 1,500 or so. Due to Pomona's small size, we did most of our shopping and business in Ottawa, which was ten miles to the east.

When I was about five, my grandparents asked me if I wanted to go to Otta-Way with them. I loved go anywhere with my grandparents, but I was especially excited about this trip because I'd never been to Otta-Way. We headed east, and eventually we arrived in Ottawa, and I thought: Gee, Ottawa must be on the way to Otta-Way. Then we pulled into the parking lot of Town and Country in Ottawa, and I realized that Ottawa and Otta-Way were the same town. I didn't say anything to my grandparents, but I was a bit disappointed because I really wanted to go somewhere new.

To this day, I still get excited to visit a town for the first time. I have an old Rand-McNally atlas where I highlight all the roads I've traveled in this life.

I've also started taking pictures of towns I visit. I need to do it more often, but it really increases the time it takes to get from point A to point B. Last week I sorted through some old photos I found of Wauneta, Nebraska. I remember going there to drop off my father-in-law's truck, so the damage done during a recent hail storm could be repaired. While I waited I snapped a few photos from the parking lot of the body shop.

There's nothing spectacular about the photos, but I still like them. I like the big sky. I think about how it would be great to spend part of my evening drinking at the Good Times Bar in Wauneta and how it would feel to step out of the bar to experience that big starry sky. That's gotta be something.

the road goes on forever,

muddywaters

The Dog of the South

2011-03-20T17:51:00.014-05:00

I'm currently reading The Dog of the South by Charles Portis. Most of you probably know Mr. Portis as the author of True Grit, but I'm quickly learning that he has other books that are worth reading. The Dog of the South is a story of man who's tracking down his wife who has left him for another man. It's that simple. There are no subplots or literary posing. It's simply a quirky romp that is one part Hunter S. Thompson, one part No Country for Old Men and one part Coen brothers. If you like road books, absurd humor, and the subversive, you'll like this book. If you don't like any of these, I'm OK with that.

Since this is a food blog, I thought I would share a food-related passage. It occurs early in the story when the narrator dines at a Texas restaurant that is run by a couple from North Dakota. He's skeptical of their ability to serve a good chicken-fried steak.

You can usually count on a pretty good chicken-fried steak in Texas, if not a chicken-fried chicken, but I didn't like this setup. All afternoon I had been thinking about one of those steaks, with white gravy and a lot of black pepper, and now I was afraid these people from Fargo would bring me a prefabricated vealette pattie instead of fresh meat. I ordered roast beef and I told the waitress I wanted plenty of gristle and would like for the meat to be gray with an iridescent rainbow sheen. She was not in the mood for teasing being preoccupied with some private distress like the others. She brought me a plate of fish sticks and the smallest portion of coleslaw I've never seen. It was in a paper nut cup. I didn't say anything because they have a rough job. Those waitresses are on their feet all day, and they never get a raise and they never get a vacation until they quit. The menu was complete fiction. She was serving the fish sticks to everybody, and not a uniform count either.

I hate menus that are mere fiction. I hate the prefab, frozen, deep-fat fried CFS. Give me a hand-pounded, hand-breaded, never-frozen,, cook-in-a-skillet, chicken fried steak. The same goes for a pork tenderloin sandwich. Oh, and please hold the canned gravy. It's tough to find a good chicken fried steak in Kansas, but I hear they have a good one at the Leon Cafe in Leon, KS. That's just hearsay though.

This passage made me think of this scene from the movie Five Easy Pieces:

the dude abides,
muddywaters

Ginger-Peach Hand Pies

2011-03-15T11:42:00.004-05:00

I've written about my struggles with baking pastries and how I usually defer this type of baking to the experts. Since I usually leave the pastry baking to my wife, I've never baked a pie in my life, which is a damn shame considering how much I love pie. I'm the guy who rarely eats dessert at restaurants because I'm too cheap and I often consider the calories, but if I see pie on the menu, I suspend all rationale thought.

Monday I decided to confront my fears, expand my culinary repertoire, and attempt to bake a pie to celebrate National Pi Day. While pi and pie have very little in common, it's impossible to hear pi and not think of apple pie with a big dollop of ice cream.

Since I believe in taking baby steps, I used some of last summer's frozen peaches, I also used frozen pie dough and I baked little hand pies rather than a whole pie.

There are two things you need to know about hand pies: First, when you pull these cuties from the oven allow them to cool completely. Biting into a hot pie will place your taste buds on injured reserve for several weeks. I speak from experience. In fact, biting into a molten pie is such a severe form of torture that even Dick Cheney wouldn't condone its use.

Second, hand pie is not a sexual euphenism, so get your mind out of the gutter. Although I never want to hear my daughter utter the following: "After the game I gave Bubba a little hand pie."

I used frozen pie dough for my recipe, but feel free to make your own dough. Below is the recipe for the filling.

Ginger-Peach Hand Pies

Pie Filling Ingredients:

3 cups peeled and pitted ripe peaches cut into bite-size chunks.
1/3 cup granulated sugar
2 tablespoons orange juice
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons cornstarch
pinch of nutmeg
2 tablespoon freshly chopped ginger

Preparation:

Combine the peaches and sugar in a medium-sized saucepan over medium heat. Bring to a gentle boil, stirring occasionally. Reduce the heat and allow to simmer for 4 minutes.
In a separate small bowl, mix the orange juice, lemon juice, and cornstarch. Add to the peaches. Add ginger. Increase the heat and continue to cook, stirring, until thickened and clear, about 2 minutes. Remove from the heat, and add nutmeg. Let cool.
Note: I made tiny pies, but if you want to make just four large pies, this would much easier. Spooning the filling into little pies of dough proved to be quite difficult. Divide dough into four equal pieces and roll each piece into an 8-inch circle. Spoon cooled filling over half of the dough, leaving a 3/4-inch border along the edge. Moisten the edge of the pastry with a finger, then fold the empty half over the filling. Press the edges together with a fork. Place on the prepared baking sheet. Refrigerate while you make the remaining pies, putting each on the sheet as it is assembled. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.
Remove the sheet from the refrigerator and brush each pie with a little milk. sprinkle with granulated sugar, then poke the surface of each pie 2-3 times with a fork to make steam vents. Place the sheet on the center oven rack and bake for 10 minutes. Reduce the oven temperate to 375 degrees and bake until golden brown, about 10 minutes. If necessary for even browning, rotate the sheet 180 degrees, so that the side that faced the back of the oven now faces forward, about 10 minutes before the pies are done.
Transfer the pies to a wire rack and let cool before you enjoy them.

Pie-O-My,
muddywaters

Riding the Kentucky Mule

2011-03-12T18:57:00.007-06:00

Recently I've fallen in love with ginger and Elton John's early 1970's recordings. Both have a changed my life. I avoided Elton John for most of my life because he sang "Nikita" and seemed more concerned with fashion and being a knight than music.

I never used ginger in the kitchen because I'm a son the Great Plains and ginger (especially in root form) would be considered to exotic for a Kansan's taste buds.

Now I'm trying everything with ginger in it. I'm especially into ginger beer, which is an invigorating, quenching, smooth drink. If you've never tried ginger beer, try the one brewed by The Ginger People. If you want to take ginger beer to the next level try it in the following cocktail:

Kentucky Mule

Ingredients:

1 1/2 ounces of whiskey
ginger beer
splash of lime juice
wedge of lime or lemon

Preparation:

Fill glass with ice, add bourbon, dance a gig, top off with ginger beer, whistle, splash drink with lime juice, and garnish. Sip and count your blessings.

with a pirate's smile,
muddywaters

Drink Locally

2011-03-11T15:33:00.002-06:00

What do Bud Lite and making love in a canoe have in common?

Both are fucking near water.

We just finished watching the documentary Beer Wars. In addition to producing subpar beer, it seems Anheuser-Busch engages in some insidious tactics to squash small brewers.

Mr. Crankypants isn't very happy about this. In fact, right after watching the documentary, he armed himself with a tiki torch and pitchfork, ready to storm Anheuser-Busch's lair. I told him to relax, and then he mumbled something about that being a pitiful battle cry when dealing with calculating, corporate fucks.

I told him that there will always be corporate fucks out there doing anything to make a buck, and that it's counterproductive to get angry. I told him to stick the tiki torch in the back yard, light it, and we'd lounge in the back yard enjoying a few beers from local brewers who love beer more than they love money.

And that's how we ended up on a Friday afternoon enjoying beers from two Kansas brewers: Free State and Tallgrass Brewing.

drink locally,
muddywaters
PS: Mr. Crankypants also wondered why any one would want to drink a beer brewed by some Missouri pukes.

The Best Fortune EVER!!

2011-03-08T17:43:00.009-06:00

In my youth I cracked open fortune cookies with an exuberance that is now reserved for beer, bourbon, bacon, and beans. My enthusiasm was rooted in the hope that the factory-generated fortunes would materialize, and we all know the folly in this thinking. After awhile I started leaving my fortune cookies untouched.

Last week I received a fortune that rekindled my enthusiasm for fortune cookies. The fortune read:

It is better to have beans and bacon in peace than cake and ale in fear.

I realize it's more wisdom than fortune, but I need this sort of Jujitsu (I know I'm mixing my Asian cultures) for the soul.

I look forward to allowing more fortunes into my life.

wherever you go, go with a full heart,
muddy

PS: I wish I could get a job writing fortunes.

A True Man

2011-03-01T11:58:00.009-06:00

The Greasy Skillet hit the road this past weekend and visited the Harry S. Truman Library and Museum. I learned much about Mr. Truman, and I'm learning more. For now all, you need to know about Mr. Truman are the following details I read in David McCullough's Truman:

First:

"At threshing time, when neighboring farmers came to help the Trumans, as part of the season's usual exchange of labor, Harry would work through the morning, but then, just before the big midday meal, while the other men were relaxing, he would clean up quickly and go to kitchen to help his mother and sister."

Second, when courting his wife Bess, Mr. Truman relied on the written word:

"But it was in letter after letter -- hundreds of letters as time passed -- that he poured himself out to her, saying what he found he never could in her presence, writing more than he ever had in his life and discovering how much satisfaction there was in writing. He also longed desperately for her to writing him, which, as he told her, was the main reason he wrote so often and at such length. Phone calls on a party line were out of the question, with the neighbors listening. He didn't like the telephone under any circumstances. 'I'm always rattled and can never say what I want to,' he explained to her. "

Now I'm contemplating what it means to be a true man, and I'm considering developing a set of courtship rituals for my daughter. I will require her suitors to write letters to her for a year before they embark on dating.

the buck stops here,

muddywaters

Little Saigon Cafe

2011-02-21T15:51:00.017-06:00

The combination nail salon/restaurant deterred me from trying the Little Saigon Cafe. The neon Pho sign in the window of the nail salon didn't exactly inspire me to slurp noodles.

However, after a few Lawrence chefs recommended the restaurant, I decide to visit Little Saigon Cafe this week. I enjoyed my first experience so much that I returned later in the week. I can't recall the last time I visited a restaurant twice in one week.

I still have a lot to learn about Vietnamese cuisine, but this restaurant is a good place to learn. The staff was extremely helpful and friendly, and I'm eager to return so I can sample the entire menu.

So far I've sampled two soups:

Jjam Bong, which is a Spicy Seafood

and pho

Both soups were amazing. There was tremendous depth of flavor. At this point I would say the pho was my favorite. Its aroma cleared my head and was the perfect aromatheraphy for a stressful day. There were layers and layers of flavor in this soup: salty, citrusy, beefy, minty, and earthy flavors mingled to make a perfect bowl of soup. At the time I had a sore throat, and this soup cured it. Coincidence? Or is this a miracle soup?

Eating soup always changes my state of mind. For me everything slows down when I eat soup, and I find myself living more in the moment. This might sound like New Age mumbo jumbo, but for me it's true. I know I come across as a loon, but I'd have it no other way.

My visit to the Little Saigon Cafe reminded me that this is a big ol' world with a lot to experience. I walked out the doors of the restaurant with a lust for life, which is what good food should inspire.

dancing with thunder,

muddywaters

PS. . . What foods have the power to change your state of mind?

Love

2011-02-14T19:40:00.024-06:00

You must know that there is nothing higher and stronger and more wholesome and good for life in the future than some good memory, especially a memory of childhood, of home. People talk to you a great deal about your education, but some good, sacred memory, preserved from childhood, is perhaps the best education. If one carries many such memories into life, one is safe to the end of one's days, and if one has only one good memory left in one's heart, even that may be the means of saving us.

***From The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky

I recently fell in love with singer-songwriter Rodney Crowell's book Chinaberry Sidewalks. I knew I was under the book's sway when I found myself reading passages aloud, so that could hear the music of his words. I rationed the last 50 pages of the book, so I could milk the affair. Alas it came to an end, but I plan on revisiting it one a regular basis.

The book is a memoir of Mr. Crowell's experiences growing up in Houston. Much of the book explores the turbulent relationship of his parents. At times it's a heartbreaking book, but it's told with love and grace. The following passage is one such example of the beauty that can be found inside this book:

As a boy my favorite place in the world was my grandmother's apron-covered lap. Her favorite place in the world was the tiny bedroom where she kept her Bible, a wicker rocking chair, and an old tube radio tuned to the hundred-thousand-watt radio station KXEG in Del Rio, Texas. Lost in the scent of her leather-covered Bible and the overheated transformers, we went places, met people, and saw things that would shape the remainder of our lives. Rocking on her lap and listening to a live Carter Family performance, I remember knowing for the first time that I was loved. In time I came to understand the nature of her love as being part of an even greater love, one that loved my grandmother for loving me.

One day I asked if she had anything to do with this God I'd been hearing about. Without pause or condescension she answered, "Why, yes, child, I do, but no more than you or your momma or a rank stranger on the street. Some say God's sittin' up in heaven mad as a hornet 'bout how we actin' down here, but I don't think he's mad at all. Ain't nobody mad coulda ever made somebody half as special as you." She was the enlightened enchantress of my childhood. I was, and still am, very much in love with Grandma Katie.

All these years later, the smell of burning leaves often transports me to the tiny front yard on Avenue P, where on an autumn day in 1954 my grandmother buried me up to the neck in freshly fallen post-oak leaves. Like every great adult playmate, she knew the value of repetition and, for my please alone, spent the entire afternoon re-raking leaves in an attempt to create the perfect pile. More than just that, she created the perfect day. Then, when the daylight and my interest in being buried alive began to wane, she raked the pile high one last time. "Why, I do believe a fine young man like you should do the honors," she said, ceremoniously handing me a lit kitchen match.

From the blaze, sparks sprang like newborn shooting stars in reverse, defying gravity and rising far above our heads. A hoot owl on the telephone pole harrumphed his approval. Trees leaned in for a closer look. house kept a respectful distance. But the wind couldn't resist the urge to see what it could do, hence more sparks. The pyromaniac in me today can be traced to the moment Grandma Katie passed me that match.

Before long, our roaring fire gave way to a smoldering glow, and eventually, the pitch-black darkness of another star-studded witching hour. It was, after all, Halloween season, when the blurred edges of blue shadows, the coolness of day's end, and my encroaching bedtime normally put me in mind of ghosts and their attendant hobgoblins. Not on this evening. Backed by my grandmother's fierce innocence, the chains of my four-year-old imagination refused to be rattled. To be well loved is to be free of the evil lurking around the next darkened corner. Every child should know that feeling.

Later on, after I'd played in the bathtub until my fingers and toes were nearly purple as prunes, she read my favorite Unclue Remus story - the one where Br'er Rabbit gets in a jam with the Tar Baby. I was fast asleep before B'rer Fox could outline, for the hapless Br'er Bear, his plan to snare Br'er Rabbbit. My life since has been ongoing search for the stillness that marked the end of that one perfect day.

This passage reaffirms my belief that love never dies. Even after a loved one passes, the love they created lives in memories and stories. Their love lives in us, and we have an obligation to perpetuate that love by passing our stories on.

dreaming under moonbeams,
muddywaters

Citrus Salad

2011-02-11T08:47:00.000-06:00

Here at The Greasy Skillet, our fruit bowl is always teeming with seasonal fruit. Lately our local grocery store has been carrying a variety of apple called Pinata. This is the first time I've ever tried a Pinanata which isn't surprising considering that there are a whopping 7,500 varieties of apples out there. My family likes the Pinata's sweet and tart flavor and crunchiness.

We've also been eating a lot of oranges and grapefruit. Usually we eat our fruit straight up, but sometimes we have our fruit co-star in a recipe like the following:

Citrus Salad

Vinaigrette:

3 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
2 teaspoons finely grated orange peel
2 teaspoons finely grated grapefruit peel
1 teaspoon honey
1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil

***The key to this dressing is the grated citrus peel. It gives this dressing a bright flavor.

Salad:

1 bag of mixed greens
2 small pink or ruby grapefruits, all peel and pith cut away, segments cut from between membranes
2 oranges, with peel and pith cut away, segments cut from between membranes
3/4 cup crumbled feta cheese

Preparation:

Vinaigrette:

Whisk vinegar, mustard, citrus peels, and honey in small bowl. gradually whisk in oil. Season vinaigrette with salt and freshly ground black pepper.

Salad:

Place greens in salad bowl and add a little bit of dressing. Toss. Add more dressing until you have the desired amount. Plate salad and top with orange and grapefruit segments. Sprinkle feta on salad. Enjoy.

take care,

muddy

Roasted Vegetables and Pasta

2011-02-07T12:25:00.005-06:00

At one time I was a stickler for following recipes. I'd make special trips to the grocery store to track down one ingredient for a recipe. Now I usually allow the ingredients I have on hand to determine the direction of a recipe, and as I get older, I find myself ditching recipes altogether. Some of you know that this is the best way to cook.This approach was handy during this recent bout of winter weather when going to the grocery store wasn't an option. The following is a recipe that I adapt to fit ingredients I might have on hand. I encourage you to do the same:

Roasted Vegetables and Pasta

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.
Cut up a variety of vegetables. Last week I used mushrooms, cherry tomatoes, onions (cut into wedges), zucchini , yellow squash, and garlic. Place the veggies in a roasting pan.
Mix 1/3 cup olive oil with 1-2 tablespoons of balsamic vinegar.
Pour olive oil-balsamic vinegar over the bowl of veggie mixture, season with salt and pepper, and toss to coat.
If you want some meat with your meal, feel free to add it. I used Italian sausage this time. I just removed the casing, and cut the sausage into chunks. You could also use chicken or shrimp. If you use shrimp, I would add it the last 3-4 minutes. If you use meat, simply place it on top of the veggies.
Place roasting pan in the oven and roast for 30 to 45 minutes. I usually stir everything about half way through cooking.
Serve with cooked pasta and some Parmesan cheese.

The aroma of the vegetables roasting will make you very happy, and it might inspire you to knit a scarf. The taste will make you sound a barbaric "yawp over the roofs the world." Even if you choose not to add any meat to the dish, the yawp will be barbaric.

throw the map out the window and drive,

muddy

Culinary Souvenirs from Charleston

2011-02-03T15:11:00.013-06:00

My mother collects rocks as travel souvenirs. My mother-in-law prefers acquires little teaspoons when she travels. My wife and daughter collect pressed pennies. I collect bumper stickers that I plaster on filing cabinets in my classroom, but I also seek out recipes as travel souvenirs.

There's no better way to relive a trip than by gathering around the table to enjoy stories and flavors from past travels. Each time my family gathers at the table to enjoy a meal of goulash and knedliky we're strolling down the streets of Prague without leaving Kansas.

While in Charleston, I encountered a lot of great food, so it was easy to pick some flavors that will help me conjure visions of the city's wrought iron fences, beautiful gardens, and eclectic architecture.

The following are five dishes that I'm going to attempt to replicate, so that I can get my Charleston fix without leaving the Sunflower State:

Bacon jam - I know this might seem like a misprint, but bacon jam is real. Go ahead and google it. At McCrady's I was served a small dollop of this jam with a roasted chicken. It's smokey, sweet flavor rocked my world. This is the recipe I'll be trying.

Caramelized pears: At Slighly North of Broad I ordered a salad that came with caramelized pears. The pears had a light candy coating on them à la creme brulee. I've already tried replicating this at home using the broiler in my oven, but I couldn't achieve the crunchy coating. I might need to buy a kitchen torch.

Creamed barley: At SNOB I had the sauteed flounder, and it was served on a bed of creamy barley. I liked the creamy texture and the crunch of the barley. It was more like a risotto.

Grits: Do I need to say more?

Hoppin' John: Hoppin' John is a simple Southern dish consisting of rice and black-eyed peas. About eight years ago, I made this dish, but at the time I didn't know how to cook rice, so it turned out lumpy and glumpy. After eating this dish at Poogan's Porch, I'm ready to prepare it again. I like their Hoppin' John because it contained a tinge of heat to it.

BBQ Au Jus: My flounder at SNOB was also served with a bit of BBQ au jus that paired well with the fish and barley. The au jus was smokey, sweet, and salty. It's convinced me that I need to do more with sauces in my cooking.

keep on the sunny side,

muddywaters

2011-01-30T12:18:00.001-06:00

Right this moment I am sitting on a porch in Charleston, South Carolina, nursing a sore throat with some hot tea.

I need to try incorporate more moments like this into my daily life.

Sincerely,
Muddy waters

PS. . . My wife informed me that this fleece doesn't look good on me. ONCE AGAIN, she's right.

With the cat and hot tea and the use of lovely, I'm sensing a little more estrogen than usual in this post. At least I am not reading a romance novel on the porch.

Charlestonian Green

2011-01-28T20:11:00.001-06:00

After the Civil War, the federal government gave Charleston surplus black paint to assist in the reconstruction. The proud Charlestonians refused to use the paint as is, so they added a tinge of yellow to each gallon to create their own unique color, Charlestonian Green.

Here's a sample of that color:

At first glance, it looks black, but upon close inspection, you'll see some green peaking through.

However, Charlestonian Green isn't the only color in the city. If you travel along Rainbow Row, the pastel-colored homes resemble easter eggs.

I could spend days walking through this city. There's something interesting to look at around every corner.

Shrimp and Grits

2011-01-28T14:06:00.000-06:00

This morning's breakfast:

Shrimp étouffée with fried green tomatoes, a side of grits

And a buttermilk biscuit.

More updates to come.

Take care,
Muddy waters

Location:Broad St,Charleston,United States

The Rhett Butler

2011-01-27T08:48:00.009-06:00

I don't quite understand it, but my wife swoons each time she watches this scene from Gone with the Wind. She talks about how romantic it is, and how Clark Gable impressively takes two steps at a time as he heads to bed Scarlet. I tell my wife that I could take two steps at a time up our stairs, but she just rolls her eyes. Maybe I should build a grander staircase.

Here's what I don't understand:

Why doesn't Clark Gable have a Southern accent?

Why do women find Clark Gable attractive?

Why isn't Rhett's roughness with Scarlet a turnoff? He seems to be one step away from pulling an Ike Turner. I guess it's all about the context.

Today as I'm heading to Charleston, the home of Rhett Butler, I'll ponder these questions and the female mind and more or perhaps less.

For now I offer you the counterpart to the Scarlet O'Hara cocktail:

The Rhett Butler

Ingredients:

2 oz Southern Comfort

1/2 oz orange curacao

1/2 oz fresh lime juice

1/2 oz fresh lemon juice

Mix, garnish with a lemon-twist, enjoy, and share dramatic interpretations of Gone with the Wind.

i give a damn,

muddywaters

PS. . . OK, maybe he's slightly attractive, but he's no Cary Grant.

I Want to Go Everywhere

2011-01-25T07:45:00.001-06:00

In my family, the driver controls the radio. While I don't believe in dictatorships, I think this is a good rule. I'm a benevolent dictator when I drive. I keep in mind that my wife and daughter hate the nasally Willie Nelson and the guttural Bob Dylan, so I abstain from including them on road trip playlists. I also take requests when I'm driving.

Currently the following are my daughter's five most requested songs:

"I've Been Everywhere" by Johnny Cash

"Ring of Fire" by Mr. Cash

"Love Shack" by the B-52's

Any song from the Harry Potter soundtrack

"Poker Face" by Lady Gaga

"I've Been Everywhere" has even inspired our buckets lists. We've both set the goal to visit every place mentioned in the song. Below is a list of places mentioned in the song, and in red are the places I've visited:

Reno

Chicago

Fargo

Minnesota

Buffalo

Toronto (Kansas)

Winslow

Sarasota

Wichita

Tulsa

Ottawa (Kansas)

Oklahoma

Tampa (Kansas)

Panama

Mattawa

La Paloma

Bangor

Baltimore

Salvador

Amarillo

Tocapillo

Baranquilla

Perdilla

Boston

Charleston

Dayton

Louisiana

Washington

Houston

Kingston

Texarkana

Monterey

Faraday

Santa Fe

Tallapoosa

Glen Rock

Black Rock

Little Rock

Oskaloosa

Tennessee

Hennessey

Chicopee

Spirit Lake

Grand Lake

Devils Lake

Crater Lake

Louisville

Nashville

Knoxville

Ombabika

Schefferville

Jacksonville

Waterville

Costa Rica

Pittsfield

Springfield

Bakersfield

Shreveport

Hackensack

Cadillac

Fond du Lac

Davenport

Idaho,

Jellico

Argentina

Diamantina

Catalina

Pittsburgh (Kansas)

Parkersburg

Gravelbourg

Colorado

Ellensburg

Rexburg

Vicksburg

El Dorado

Larimore

Ardmore

Haverstraw

Chatanika

Chaska

Nebraska

Alaska

Opelika

Baraboo

Waterloo

Kalamazoo

Kansas City

Sioux City

Cedar City

Out of 88 places, I've visited 28 Later this week I'll cross Charleston off my list. How many of these places have you visited?

the road goes on forever,

muddywaters

P.S. "I've Been Everywhere" was originally an Australia song and listed places in that country.

San Diego Dining: An Unconventional List

2011-01-23T19:10:00.000-06:00

The holidays found me living a Merle Haggard song minus all the drinking. We rambled all over the western United States. First we traveled to southwest Nebraska. Then we headed to Boulder, and finally we ended up in San Diego to watch the University of Nebraska play in the Holiday Bowl.

While I prefer to stay put during the holidays and the bowl game didn't end the way I wanted it to, I'm still grateful to have had the opportunity to travel.

Even though I've been to San Diego three times, I haven't sampled a lot of the food the city has to offer. On my trips to the city, most of my meals were provided for me or we packed picnic lunches consisting simply of sandwiches. Since this a food blog, I thought I'd share my favorite places. It's an unconventional list. I don't think you'll find most foodies raving about any of these places or dishes, but it's what I ate when I was in San Diego:

The Cheese Shop: Our first full day in San Diego was rainy and cold. We plodded our way through the Gaslamp Quarter looking for breakfast. We were a bit crabby until we entered this warm, friendly establishment where they served a good breakfast at a reasonable price. The Cheese Shop also packs picnic baskets. On my next trip to SD, I plan on having them pack my lunch for a picnic in one of San Diego's great parks.

Mystery Ice Cream Novelty Treat: On a day trip to Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, I stopped at a gas station an purchased an ice cream treat. It resembled a drumstick on steroids (I should avoid such trite phrases), and it was the greatest ice cream novelty I've ever eaten. However, I can't remember its name. I thought it was called The Matterhorn, but a Google search turns up no such product. I'm beginning to think this treat is a figment of my imagination.

Fried Cabbage at Camp Pendleton: Once I spent a week in San Diego as a guest of the United States Marines. I was part of a group of educators who spent a week observing how the USMC trains soldiers. We ate all of our meals at various mess halls at Camp Pendleton and the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego. My favorite thing I ate all week was the fried cabbage.

Point Loma Seafoods: I've eaten at Point Loma Seafoods more than any place in San Diego. When a Kansan has access to fresh seafood, he goes a bit crazy. I think I've eaten at this place five or six times. When I traveled there as a guest of the USMC our hotel was within walking distance. This is a seafood market that also prepares meals. Grab your meal and sit outside and overlook the bay.

The Broken Yolk Cafe: They have various locations around town, but we ate at their location in the Gaslamp. The service was friendly, the menu was varied, and the food was reasonably priced.

This is a weak post, but I'm just trying to grease the ol' wheels to get this blog rolling again.

take care,
muddy

Beans for Breakfast

2010-12-09T08:14:00.009-06:00

Earlier this week I ate red beans and rice baptized with a healthy dose of Tabasco for breakfast. I decided that this is the ultimate cold weather breakfast, and it's something might work into my regular breakfast routine.

However, as I happily ate my beans for breakfast, the following Johnny Cash lyrics echoed in my head:

"Beans for Breakfast"

I couldn't hear you for the TV, I didn't know you said goodbye
I saw your cancelled check for the airfare, didn't know flyin' got too high
Beans for breakfast once again, hard to eat 'em from the can.

I've run out of clean utensils, I'm a hungry nasty lonesome man
I heard the crows outside my window, guess it's me they're talkin' about
The fire you lit has burnt to cinders, every good things fizzled out
Beans for beakfast once again, hard to eat 'em from the can.

Wish you'd come back and wash the dishes, I'm a hungry nasty lonesome man
Caught a cold with the window open, crow droppings o my window sill
Probably got histoplasmosis, got no gun or I would kill them crows
Beans for breakfast once again, hard to eat 'em from the can.

Plastic forks are a dime a dozen I'm a hungry nasty lonesome man
Finally made it to the mailbox, felt so bad I thought I'd die
All I got was a bill from my doctor, well I guess flyin' ain't so high
Bean for breakfast once again, hard to eat 'em from the can.

Blue tick mattress cold and greasy, I'm a hungry nasty lonesome man
The house burned down from the fire that I built, in your closet by mistake
After I took all them pills, but I got out safe in my duck head overalls
Beans for breakfast once again, I'm a hungry nasty lonesome man.

I thought about how eating beans could be viewed as a desperate act and how food is more than food and how there will never be another Johnny Cash. Despite this, I still enjoyed eating my beans for breakfast.

What's your favorite unconventional breakfast?

don't build a fire in a closet by mistake,
muddy

Twitter: I'm a Mannish Boy

2010-12-08T12:54:00.003-06:00

I listened to some coffee guru on The Splendid Table speak about how easy it is to roast coffee beans at home and how it was the best way to prepare a pot of coffee and I thought this sounded like a great idea, so I was making plans to order green coffee beans and the appropriate equipment to roast them and then I thought about my wife's reaction when she came home one day to find me roasting coffee beans and I decided that I really liked being married, so I didn't order anything.

i'll do whatever the hell I like -- as long as it's ok with my wife,
muddy

Banana Bread Pudding with Cane Syrup

2010-12-05T20:51:00.007-06:00

For the past few months, I've been monitoring the calories I eat. Vanity isn't driving this lifestyle change; I just want to be healthier. When I crave something sweet I reach for a piece of fruit, and this has worked well for me. When I crave something sweeter, I've started preparing desserts from a cookbook titled Small-Batch Baking by Debby Maugans Nakos. This cookbook has recipes for two-serving desserts, so instead of being faced with the temptation of a pan of brownies, I just eat my one-serving dessert to get my sugar fix, and then I can return to healthier option of eating fruits.

The recipes from this book also give me the opportunity to experiment in the kitchen without all the residual calories. I've tried a few recipes from the cookbook, and this one is my favorites:

Banana Bread Pudding with Cane Syrup

Ingredients:

Cooking spray for ramekins
2 tablespoons cane syrup
1 large banana
1 large egg
1/2 cup skim milk
1 tablespoon packed brown sugar
pinch of salt
1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
1/8 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups stale wheat bread cubes
whipped cream or vanilla or butter pecan ice cream for serving

Note: The original recipe called for twice as much cane syrup and sugar. It also called for cream, 1/4 cup chopped pecans, and white bread, but I lightened the recipe.

Preparation:

Place a rack in the center of the oven and preheat to 350 degrees. Spray two 1-cup ramekins with cooking spray. Pour 1 tablespoons of cane syrup into each ramekin, and place ramekins on a baking sheet. Set aside.

Peel the banana and slice one third of it. Arrange the banana slices on the syrup in the ramekins.

Cut the remaining two thirds of the banana into chunks and place them in a food processor. Add the egg, milk, brown sugar, salt, ginger, cinnamon, and vanilla. Process until the mixture is smooth. Pour the mixture into a medium-size mixing bowl and stir in the bread cubes, pressing down on them to submerge them. Let the bread soak 5 minutes. If you want to add chopped nuts at this time, you may.

Spoon the mixture into the ramekins, diving it evenly. Bake until the puddings are firm and a knife inserted in the center comes out clean, 30 to 35 minutes. Removing the baking sheet from the oven, transfer the ramekins to a wire rack, and let them cook for 10 minutes.

To serve, unmold the puddings: Run a sharp knife around the edges of the ramekins , and invert the puddings onto individual plates. Serve warm, with whipped cream or ice cream or caramel syrup or dusted with powder sugar or simply plain. Enjoy.

take care,

muddy

Gleaning

2010-12-05T15:18:00.001-06:00

There's always something left to learn. I love this aspect of life. While I love seeking out knowledge, I probably savor the little bits of wisdom and knowledge that land in my lap when I need them most.

Thursday I stumbled upon the concept of gleaning while listening to a podcast of The Splendid Table. According to Wikipedia:

Gleaning is the act of collecting leftover crops from farmers' fields after they have been commercially harvested or on fields where it is not economically profitable to harvest.

According to the Holiness Code and the Deuteronomic Code of the Torah, farmers should leave the corners of their fields unharvested, and they should not attempt to harvest any left-overs that had been forgotten when they had harvested the majority of a field[1][2][3]. On one of the two occasions that this is mentioned by the Holiness Code, it adds that, in vineyards, some grapes should be left ungathered[4], an argument made also by the Deuteronomic Code[5]; the Deuteronomic Code additionally argues that olive trees should not be beaten on multiple occasions, and whatever remains from the first set of beatings should be left[6]. According to the Holiness Code, these things should be left for the poor and for strangers[4][2], while
the Deuteronomic Code argues instead that it should be left for widows, strangers, and for paternal orphans [3][6][5].

I like this notion of sharing the harvest. It's something I need to do more.

take care,
muddy

Mr. Crankypants, Taco Hell, and the Chicken Enchilada Grilled Stuft Burrito!!!

2010-12-01T21:40:00.006-06:00

Mr. Crankypants is combustible, so we try to censor any stimuli that may cause him to flare up. For example, we've deleted FoxNews from our cable directory, we don't invite him to eat at Applebee's, and we never ever discuss politics in his presence. However, it's impossible to create a completely sterile environment for Mr. Crankypants. He's bound to encounter irritants in this crazy world.

For example, last weekend we were watching a little college football and commercials for the following Taco Bell product kept airing:

This sent Mr. Crankypants into a tailspin. He already refers to Taco Bell as Taco Hell, and now they were insisting on butchering the English language by referred to something as STUFT and they were pushing a product that makes no sense at all: Chicken Enchilada Grilled Stuft Burrito! Each time the comercial aired, he twitched and mumbled something about the corporate bastards ruining America.

To soothe Mr. Crankypants I poured him a whiskey and cola, and then I made him watch the following SNL Taco Bell parody.

Mr. Crankypants laughed so hard that he snorted whiskey out his nose. I guess, laughter is the best medicine.

support your local Mexican restaurant,

muddy

Feelin' Cheesy

2010-12-01T07:34:00.014-06:00

We have a dictionary in almost every room in our house because I never know when the need or urge to look up a definition will strike. You would think that having dictionaries this accessible would make me more articulate or at least a great Scrabble player, but unfortunately is does nothing but feed my curiosity and make me a bit odd.

I'm especially intrigued by the birth and evolution of words. When I read about a word evolving and taking on a new meaning, my ears perk up. This was the case this weekend as I read Eric LeMay's book Immortal Milk: Adventures in Cheese. In that book, Mr. LeMay ponders the following question:

Why has cheese come to signify all that's sappy, campy, tacky, corny, kitschy, vulgar, lame, stupid, fake, overdone, cliche ridden, and sentimental in American culture? What's wrong with "corny" or "soupy"? Why did cheese have to be sacrificed on the food-as-adjective altar? It's not fair.

Mr. LeMay spends an entire chapter exploring these questions, and I was riveted. Mr. LeMay cited that the first printed occurrence of "cheese" used in the above connotation occurred in a screenplay for a 1943 comedy titled Hail the Conquering Hero in the following line: "Of all the cheezy songs I ever heard that one certainly takes the crackers." Mr. LeMay then shares some historical background:

The answer might lie not in what cheese is, but in what cheese was. In 1943, the year Americans started saying "cheesy," World War II was on. Food was rationed, and the cheese that people were eating wasn't artisanal and organic. I t was industry. It was Kraft. In 1943, you could trade one rationing coupon for two boxes of Kraft macaroni and Cheese Diner, and Americans at home at about 80 million boxes that included orangey powder labeled "cheese.
American soldiers had it worse. The K-ration that they ate for lunch contained biscuits, sugar, salt tablets, cigarettes, gun, and a "cheese product" that could patch holes in airplanes.

Mr. LeMay goes on to share an account of a crew who patched bullet holes in their B-29 during a WWII bombing raid, and then he gives readers his explanation of how "cheesy" possibly evolved to mean something trite and schmaltzy:

Cheese wasn't cheese as we now know it when Americans started saying "cheesy." It was a fake, a substitute, not only for meat but for metal. Is it any wonder that it became slang for other fakes, other substitutes? You might call cheesiness an "emotion product." The label on it says "happiness" or "love," but when you experience it, it feels powdery, rubbery, not quite real.

I don't know if he's right, but I find all of this intriguing. And it makes me crave a grilled cheese sandwich.

oddly yours,

muddy

Brussels Sprouts Hash

2010-11-30T09:41:00.009-06:00

I believe that roasting is the best way to prepare most vegetables. Toss almost any vegetable with a little olive oil, season with salt & pepper, and place them in a 425-degree-or-so oven. Flavors and sugars will emerge that will make you believe that your oven is capable of granting culinary wishes.

Lately, we've been roasting a lot of broccoli, which is a nice change from the steamed version that normally graces our dinner table. Invite some Parmesan to the roasting party, and then you're crossing into gourmet territory. However, this post isn't about roasting.

I normally roast Brussels sprouts, but last night I expanded my vegetable repertoire by preparing the following recipe:

Brussels Sprouts Hash

Ingredients:

1 pounds Brussels sprouts

1 tablespoons butter

1 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

3 ounces smoked ham, coarsely chopped

1 large garlic clove, minced

1/3 cup low-salt chicken broth

Coarse kosher salt

Preparation:

Trim root ends from Brussels sprouts. Using sharp knife or processor fitted with coarse shredding disk, thinly slice Brussels sprouts into shreds. I would use a knife. When I used the food processor, it grated my Brussels sprouts too finely. Is it just me, or are food processors overrated? DO AHEAD: Can be prepared 1 day ahead. Cover and chill.
Melt butter with olive oil in large deep skillet over medium heat. Add ham; sauté until golden, about 3 minutes. Add garlic; stir 30 seconds.
Add Brussels sprouts and broth; sauté until crisp-tender but still bright green, 3 to 5 minutes. Season with coarse salt and black pepper. Transfer to serving bowl.

Here's what I learned from preparing this recipe:

For almost 40 years, I've been leaving the "s" off of Brussels. I've been saying "Brussel" sprouts, and it should be Brussels.
The "B" in Brussels should always be capitalized. Again, it took me 40 years to learn this.
This recipe rocks. Not only is it a quick way to cook Brussels sprouts, but it's a good base recipe for improvisation. If you don't have ham, you could use bacon or you could you toss in some leftover pulled pork. Heck, you could leave the meat out completely. There's room to add other vegetables. I could see julienned carrots or peppers in this recipe.

What improvisations would you make to this recipe?

there's always something left to learn,

muddy

Rage Against the Grind

2010-11-29T08:05:00.008-06:00

"You only get one shot.
Do not miss your chance to blow.
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime."

***"Lose Yourself" by Eminem

When I started this blog I intended to post daily. Of course, life and laziness and a multitude of playful diversions altered my good intentions. Anyone who blogs knows how challenging it can be to post on a regular basis. This weekend I deleted bookmarks of food blogs I used to read, and when I browsed them one last time, I noticed that almost 95 percent of them were defunct. A lot of people storm out of the blogging gate with lofty intentions, but most are shot down with the reality that blogging regularly is a grind.

With the year waning, I've decided to rage against the grind. What inspired me to rage against the grind? Jay-Z. Yes, you heard correctly. Jay-Z. I read the following excerpt from his autobiography where he talks about his early passion to put pen to paper:

“Everywhere I went I’d write. If I was crossing a street with my friends and a rhyme came to me, I’d break out my binder, spread it on a mailbox or lamppost and write the rhyme before I crossed the street. If I didn't have notebook with me, I’d run to the corner store, buy something, then find a pen to write it on the back of the brown paper bag.”

I admire this. I'm not a fan of rap, but I've always admired how rappers are ambassadors of the written word. Most rappers are prolific and they don't get trapped in the snare of literary snootiness.

With Jay-Z's inspiration, I've decided to cut loose and post daily. I'm not going to worry about filtering or polishing. I'm just going to write. I know that I'll sift through a lot of silt and muck, but I'm hoping to acquire a few flecks of gold in this experiment.

keeping it real,

muddy

PS. . . The following passage at the end of the book, blew me away and demonstrates the power of the written word. I also like the idea of individuals creating their own culture when the one they're given doesn't suit them.

“We were kids without fathers, so we found our fathers on wax and on the streets and in history, and in a way, that was a gift. We got to pick and choose the ancestors who would inspire the world we were going to make for ourselves. That was part of the ethos of that time and place, and it got built in to the culture we created. Rap took the remnants of a dying society and created something new. Our fathers were gone, usually because they just bounced, but we took their old records and used them to build something fresh.”

In Praise of Small Gifts

2010-11-18T16:00:00.003-06:00

I'm blessed to have exchange students from Russia and Germany in my classroom. Both are intelligent, talented, personable, and have a lust for life. Needless to say, they make our school a better place, and they're constantly inspiring me.

These students are probably growing tired of me asking questions about the food of their countries. However, they patiently answer my culinary questions.

Last week the student from Germany received a care package from home, and the student gave me this:

A gift like this isn't received lightly. It meant a lot to me that this girl who is over 4,500 miles from home and who probably craved the tastes of home unselfishly offered me one of her chocolate bars.

I took the chocolate bar home and shared with my family because a gift like this should always be shared. Plus food tastes better when it's shared. After tasting the chocolate bar we agreed that it was better than a Hershey bar. The Milka bar was creamier than it's American counterparts.

This experience reminded me that a small gift can make an individual's day, so during the next few days I will bestow small gifts to unsuspecting individuals. I'll be like a much smaller scale Oprah. In future posts, I will document this little social experiment.

take care,
muddy

PS . . . I plan on posting an interview with each of the exchange students. Look for it in the near future.

Ham & Beans or Ham & Bean Soup

2010-11-16T07:38:00.010-06:00

A marriage is a culinary union. I've even proposed that wedding vows acknowledged this in order to help preserve the marriage when taste buds clash. Sometimes that union offers a stark contrast, like the vegetarian Jew who marries the Southern Bubba. However, often often the subtle differences stir up minor arguments over questions like: How many beans go into a pot of chili? What bourbon should take center stage in the liquor cabinet? Do raisins belong on cookies? What is the ideal ratio for the perfect margarita?

In our household culinary harmony usually exists, but the occasional disagreement surfaces.

Exhibit A:

Early in our marriage, I casually mentioned that I was hungry for ham and beans. Since my wife is a kind soul, she fixed me ham and beans for supper. However, when she set the bowl in front of me, I could see my disappointed reflection in the broth.

"What is this?" I asked.

"Ham and Bean soup," replied my wife.

I trolled my spoon through the bowl, attempting to find a bean, "Where are the beans?"

"I let the soup boil too long and they disintegrated," she said.

"Oh," I said.

Then I politely explained my disappointment. I told her about the ham and beans of my youth, a dish that was more a stew than a soup. My ham and beans consisted of more beans than broth and was a hearty affair. Spending my evening looking for a single bean in a bowl of ham and bean soup was more of a dainty affair. I prefer hearty.

Since that moment, I've learned to do dainty, and I enjoy my wife's ham and bean soup. It's something I look forward to this time of year. I'm OK waving the white flag with this culinary battle, but I refuse to give up any ground when it comes to boiled summer sausage.

Ham and Bean Soup

Ingredients

1 cup dry 15 navy or Great Northern beans, rinsed (If you want to use canned beans, that would be fine.)
1 to 1 1/2 cups chopped cooked ham
1 large onion, chopped
1 cup sliced celery
1 teaspoon dried thyme 1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper
1 can of diced tomatoes
4 cups water
1 bay leaf

1. Rinse beans. In a 4-quart Dutch oven combine beans and 4 cups water. Bring to boiling; reduce heat. Simmer, uncovered, for 2 minutes. Remove from heat. Cover and let stand for 1 hour. (Or, place beans in water in Dutch oven. Cover and let soak in a cool place for 6 to 8 hours or overnight.) Drain and rinse beans; set aside.

2. Add beans, thyme, salt, pepper, bay leaf, celery, onions, tomatoes, and 4 cups fresh water. Bring to boiling; reduce heat. Simmer, covered, for 1 to 1-1/2 hours or until beans are tender. Discard bones and bay leaf. Slightly mash beans in saucepan (I, however, would never mash my beans.)

3. Stir in chopped meat; heat through. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

pass the Beano,
muddy

Apple Walnut Bundt Cake

2010-11-15T18:59:00.009-06:00

Today is National Bundt Day. Normally I would overlook this day, but since my wife has baked a bundt a month for the past year, this date has been circled on my calendar.

I'm proud to say that my wife has possessed the discipline of a marathon runner as she pursued her goal to bake a bundt a month.

This year I've enjoyed a variety of bundts. The following is a Butterfinger bundt:

In March, we enjoyed a Bailey's Irish Cream bundt.
However, my favorite was October's apple walnut bundt. This bundt encapsulates fall. With a single bite you'll rummage your closet for your favorite flannel shirt. You'll decide to grow a beard. You'll contemplate quitting your job, so you can roam the country planting apple seeds. This cake has that power. I think, it's the combination of the apples and mace or it just might be the culinary mojo my wife injects into the cake. Who knows? All you need to know is this: Do yourself a favor, and make this cake while apples are in season.

Apple Walnut Bundt Cake

Ingredients:

1 cup butter
2 cups sugar
3 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla
3 cups sifted all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground mace
3 cups peeled & chopped apples
2 cups coarsely chopped walnuts

Preparation:

Cream butter and sugar until fluffy.
Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Mix in vanilla.
In a separate bowl, mix and sift flour, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, and mace; add gradually and mix.
Stir in apples and walnuts. The batter will be quite stiff.
Spoon into a greased and floured bundt pan.
Bake at 325 degrees for 1 1/2 hours.
Let cool, remove from pan, and enjoy.

all you need is love,
muddy

Little Miss Pickyeater: The Good, the Bad, and the Chili

2010-11-09T12:07:00.009-06:00

In previous posts, I've documented my frustration with my daughter's finicky nature at the dinner time. Things have improved, but occassionally Little Miss Pickyeater appears.

When this happens we have the following rules in place to handle her:

If we serve something new, she has to try it. In the past week, she's tried a butternut squash gratin and fried polenta. She didn't like either, and even though I don't feel like she tasted these things with a open taste buds, I'm fine with this. At least she's trying something new. I'm not going to dictate taste to her; instead, we'll reserve dictatorship for mandating proper nutrition.

When we have meal we know she likes, she has to finish everything on her plate, or she doesn't get anything to eat until the next meal. No snack or dessert for Little Miss Pickyeater.

We consistently apply these rules without getting angry or upset with her. There's no point in letting our emotions ruin dinner. Unfortunately, this doesn't always keep her from heading into an emotional tailspin.

Last week we served chili, and even though Little Miss Pickyeater likes chili, she refused to finish her bowl. In the end, she was denied dessert, which prompted tears and a retreat to her bedroom.

Later that evening, I found this on her little writing desk.

It's a picture of a steaming bowl of chili, and I'll translate the writing for you: I do not like chili. It tastes gross. It is so disgusting. Yuck!

I'm proud of her. She dealt with her frustration and anger by putting pen to paper, which is a healthy way to cope.

She might even follow in my footsteps and become a food blogger.

eat your veggies,

muddy

Entertaining MInus Bacon, Beer, and Beans

2010-11-03T17:47:00.007-05:00

While I'm somewhat skilled in the kitchen, I'm not the best at cooking for guests. I can't really be counted on to plan a balanced menu. I rely too much on the 3 B's: bacon, beer, and beans, These ingredients are fine fare for ruffians, bushwhackers, and secondary characters in a Clint Eastwood western, but these primordial ingredients aren't always suitable for company. When we entertain, I often hand the reins over to my wife who is a fine cook and quite crafty. The following are snapshots of some of her work from a small Halloween party we hosted:

boo,
muddy

PS. . . There was a little beer at the party and beans in the chili. You can't really entertain without at least one of the three B's.

I'd expand the three b's to the five b's: bacon, beer, beans, bbq, and bourbon.

Biscuits and Gravy at Wheatfields

2010-10-26T12:13:00.009-05:00

I've been teaching at my current school for 14 years now, so I possess the comfort that comes with knowing the rituals, routines, and rhythms of a place. Every Thursday the cafeteria serves biscuits and gravy. When I was younger, I looked forward to my weekly biscuit and gravy fix.

Because I like to fit comfortably into my pants and because my principal frowns upon mid-morning naps, I rarely eat biscuits and gravy at school. Someday I will have a career that demands hearty breakfasts, and every morning I'll eat biscuits & gravy, hash browns, eggs, and chicken fried steak. Until then I'll try to stay away from the gravy.

For now it's a once-in-awhile treat, and when I want to treat myself to biscuits and gravy, I head to Wheatfields.

The gravy takes center stage in their version of this American classic. It's a meaty gravy that is generously seasoned with a blend of spices that gives it an addictive quality. In a future post, I will attempt to break down the spices, but I need a little time and help. It's the most elaborately seasoned gravy I've ever had.

They might be the best biscuits and gravy I've ever eaten, and that's saying a lot because I've eaten a lot of biscuits and gravy. Where have you found the best biscuits and gravy

may you have a little gravy in your day,

muddy

PS. . . I only ate a half order of biscuits and gravy, which cost me $4.09 with tax included. I've never consumed a whole order, but if I did, I imagine that I would like this.

The Bottleneck Mural

2010-10-22T13:15:00.008-05:00

The camera is an instrument that teaches people how to see without a camera.

***Dorthea Lange

I use a simple point-and-shoot camera for this blog. I'm no photographer, and right now I have no desire to improve my photography skills.

I like taking pictures. I could easily spend an hour a day taking pictures. While I'm not a photographer, I consider myself a documenter. Someday I'm going to place a capital "D" on this title.

I'm very aware that nothing lasts, which is the main reason I'm a documenter. I'm also a documenter because I derive great joy in seeing the extraordinary in the ordinary. I like documenting stuff that brings me joy.

For this post, you'd expect some breathtaking photographs to illustrate this point, but I've got nothing. Remember, I'm not a photographer; I'm a documenter.

I snapped these pictures a year ago at a show at The Bottleneck, the legendary Lawrence, Kansas, music venue. It's dark inside The Bottleneck, so it's difficult to take good pictures. However, I didn't let this stop me from taking pictures of the following mural:

It's a very unpolished mural, and while it still might not satisfy most art lovers, I still like it. If you've ever been to The Bottleneck, you know that this is the perfect location for this mural.

I need to do more exploring and documenting of folk art like they're doing over at Deep Fried Kudzu.

trampin' a perpetual journey,
muddy

PS . . . Writing about art makes me think of the following great song by Terry Allen:

Mr. Crankypants: BBQ Beer

2010-10-20T16:22:00.003-05:00

I think a man ought to get drunk at least twice a year just on principle, so he won't let himself get snotty about it.

~Raymond Chandler

The other day I'm kicked back reading Mr. Chandler's The Big Sleep, and muddywaters comes home from the liquor store with a wet-dream grin on his face. This worried me. When muddy visits the liquor store, he usually answers the Sirens' call of those corporate marketing bastards, and he returns with some fruit-infused beverage.

I told him to wipe that grin off his face. I explained how I survived the Great Wine Cooler Scare of the 1980's, and I don't care to revisit that estrogen ash heap. He told me that I was being a jerk and a bit sexist, so I told him to quit acting like a pussy.

Normally muddy would go upstairs to pout and read some Jane Fucking Austen, but he held his ground this time. He then started telling me that he had something that would put hair on my chest. Then he pulled this out of his bag:muddy beamed and pointed to the beer like he was Vanna Fucking White.

I mellowed and attempted to comprehend the scene playing out before me.

I like the smokey taste of BBQ brisket washed down with a Shiner Bock, one of my favorite beers. I also like Guinness, which has a smokey taste. Could it be possible that after all these years, muddy knows me better than anyone?

Rather than contemplate the possibility that muddy and I were becoming one, I grabbed a cold Shiner, The Big Sleep, and headed to my hammock. I spent the rest of the afternoon reading Mr. Chandler and thinking about girls with smiles that I could feel in my hip pocket.

I'd like to buy a vowel,
Mr. Crankypants

Globe

2010-10-17T17:47:00.015-05:00

Globe is home to one structure, a stained glass shop. I'm not crazy about stained glass, but after browsing the shop's website, I'd like visit it when it's open. I would like a stained glass collage of my favorite foods or the Kansas state seal.

When I was in high school, Globe was home to a small gas station, and it was rumored that underage drinkers could purchase beer there. I lacked the courage to test this rumor. Considering that I was carded well into my late 20's, this was a wise decision.

Just northeast of Globe is an Atlas Missile silo, a relic from the Cold War Era. In 1983 the ABC movie The Day After and a Nostradamus documentary on PBS filled my head with impending nuclear doom. This rattled me so much that I started losing sleep. Looking back, I was just an anxious kid who often worried about things beyond my control.

To ease my mind, I wrote Senator Nancy Landon Kassebaum expressing my anxiety about being a push of a button away from a nuclear holocaust. Composing this letter taught me that writing can be cathartic.

Shortly after I received a letter from her office that put my mind at ease. If I can find the letter, I'll share it in a future blog post.

North of Globe across the 56 Highway, there used to be a bait shop, but it's closed. I don't fish, but I think, the world needs more bait shops. Cold beer at a reasonable price is a good thing.

East of Globe is a home constructed out of rail cars. I'd rather live in a grain silo or a barn.

They recently moved the depot from Welda, Kansas.

I'm eager to see what they'll do with it.

i hear that train a comin',

muddy

PS. . . The picture of the truck makes me want to buy a Red Sovine album. I have a 2cd compilation of trucker songs I need to place on my Ipod.

Stoysich's House of Sausage

2010-10-15T11:21:00.005-05:00

With apologies to bacon, I've decided that sausage is my favorite meat.

I crowned sausage the King of Meats on a recent trip to Omaha, where I visited the Stoysich House of Sausage. House of Sausage! With almost 40 varieties of sausage, I showed tremendous amount of will power and only purchased two kinds, a Portuguse linguica and a Polish chicken sausage.

The House of Sausage is north of the Immaculate Conception Church. I'm sure a wittier man could crack a joke about the proximity of the two, but I'm not that man.

They also sell European beers and homemade kraut. It's one-stop shopping for Octoberfest.

always travel with a cooler,

muddy

Rice Dressing with Dried Fruits

2010-10-13T12:15:00.005-05:00

Three years ago, I didn't like mixing savory with sweet. My Kansas stomach liked my food straightforward and uncomplicated. Now I'm at a stage in my cooking where I'm intrigued with how flavors play off of each other, so I'm more willing to try a recipe like the following:

Rice Dressing with Dried Fruits

Ingredients:

1 cup mixed wild and white rice (I like the RiceSelect Royal Blend)
1 1/2 cups chicken stock
1-2 teaspoons olive oil
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
3/4 cup dried apricots, quartered
2 -4 tablespoons butter (I went light on the butter)
2 large ribs celery, diced
2 large carrots, peeled and finely chopped
1 yellow onion, finely chopped
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1 tablespoon minced fresh sage
1/2 cup minced fresh, flat-leaf parsley
1/2 cup dried cranberries
freshly ground pepper

Preparation:

Begin by heating the oil in a medium saucepan over medium-high heat. Once the oil is heated, stir in the rice. Cook until fragrant. Add the stock and 1/4 teaspoon of salt. Bring to a boil. Turn the burner to low, cover the rice, and let it simmer for 15 minutes. Remove the pan from the burner and allow the rice to sit with the lid on for another 15 minutes. Remove lid and fluff the rice with a fork.
Place the dried apricots in a small bowl, add hot water to cover, and allow to plump for 20 minutes. Drain and set aside.
In a skillet, melt two 2 tablespoons of butter. Swirl to coat the pan, add the celery, carrot, and onion, and saute until the onion is soft and lightly browned, about 5 minutes. Add the thyme, sage, and parsley, and saute for 1 minute longer. Remove from the heat.
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. When the rice is cooked, stir in the vegetable mixture. Add plumped apricots, and dried cranberries. stir to combine. Add the remaining 1/4 teaspoon salt and a few grinds of pepper. Taste and adjust seasoning.
Lightly grease a casserole dish. Spoon the rice mixture into the prepare pan and cover. Bake the rice until heated through, about 20 minutes.

We served this with some grilled pork chops and roasted broccoli. I loved this recipe. It's a beautiful autumn dish accented with the earthy scent of sage. The rest of the family didn't care for fruit in their savory rice, so the next time I prepare it I'll omit the fruit. Perhaps, I'll serve the fruit on the side, so I can mix it into my rice.

may the wind always be at your back,

muddy

Aztec Couscous Salad

2010-10-07T16:35:00.006-05:00

I gravitate towards the unglamorous.

Exhibit A:

I dream about driving across North Dakota. I might be the only person in America who has this on his bucket list.

Exhibit B:

If I had a choice between being Paul Giamatti or Brad Pitt, I would be Mr. Giamatti. I'd rather be talented, versatile, and artful than have my picture taped in the lockers of high school girls. Mr. Pitt is talented and an artist, but he has to deal with the baggage of being glamorous.

Exhibit C:

I like my coffee black.

My cooking lately has been very unglamorous.

I've been cooking a lot with whole grains, the Paul Giamatti of American cuisine. I'm cooking with whole grains to add another healthy element to my cooking, but I'm also doing it because it's fun. I like getting outside my comfort zone and learning something new. When I stand in front of the bulk grain bins at my local market, I experience the same giddiness I feel at a library or at the start of a road trip. There's great energy in the possibilities.

Today I'm sharing a recipe that provided me with a safe, tasty introduction to cooking with whole grains. It's a recipe from Whole Grains for Busy People by Laura Sass.

Aztec Couscous Salad

(Would the Aztecs eat couscous? WWAE? What would Aztecs eat? )

Ingredients:

1 cup frozen corn
1 cup whole-wheat couscous
3 tablespoons olive oil
1/2 teaspoon salt, plus more to taste
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
1/8 teaspoon granulated garlic
1 can black beans, drained and rinsed
2 green onions, thinly sliced
1/3 cup chopped cilantro
1/3 cup chopped red bell pepper
1 jalapeno pepper, seeded and chopped
3 tablespoon lime juice

Preparation:

Defrost the corn, and then slightly heat it in the microwave oven.

Place the couscous in a heavy saucepan. Use a wooden spoon to stir in 1 tablespoon of the olive oil. Continue stirring until the couscous are thoroughly coated with oil. Add the salt, cumin, garlic and corn.

Stir in 1 1/2 cups boiling water into the couscous. Cover and let sit off heat for 5 minutes. Fluff with a fork.

While the couscous is steeping, combine the beans, green onions, cilantro, roasted red pepper, and jalapeno in a large bowl. Toss he couscous mixture, the remaining olive oil, and lime juice. Season with salt, if needed.

"unglamorously" yours,
muddy

PS. . . Despite my allegiance to the unglamorous, it would be cool to be Johnny Depp.

Quinoa Pilaf with Apples and Pecans

2010-10-04T16:07:00.002-05:00

In a recent photo shoot for a quinoa and apple pilaf, Quinoa grew surly. When I requested a different poise, Quinoa screamed, "Do you know who I am? I'm Quinoa. The Incas revered me. Nutritionist say I'm the perfect food because of my nutritional balance. I am often referred to as a Super Grain.I've been around for 6,000 years, and I'll be here long after you're gone. I don't need this! Suck it!"

Quinoa stormed out of the my photo studio, leaving me with no pictures for this post. Despite quinoa's uppity attitude, I still like the flavor and texture of this grain. However, I might be better off working with some local grains, which like most Kansans are humble, good-natured, and unassuming. I could see a few of those grains being a good replacement for Quinoa in this recipe.

The apple flavor of this dish intensified day #2, and it's great cold for breakfast.

Quinoa Pilaf with Apples and Pecans

Ingredients:

2 tablespoons butter
1 Granny Smith apple, peeled, cored, and finely chopped
1 onion, minced
1 teaspoon sugar
1/4 teaspoon dried thyme
2 cups quinoa, rinsed and drained (Rinsing is essential to remove the bitter exterior coating of quinoa)
1 3/4 cups chicken broth
1/2 cup pecans, toasted and chopped
2 tablespoons minced fresh parsley
pepper

Preparation:

Melt the butter in a saucepan over medium-high heat. Add the apple, onion, sugar, thyme, and a dash of salt. Cook until the onion is softened, about 5 minutes. Stir in the quinoa, and cook until it is just beginning to turn golden, about 4 minutes.
Stir in the broth and bring to a boil. Reduce to a simmer, cover, and cook until the quinoa is tender with a slight crunch, about 15 minutes.
Remove the cover from the saucepan and continue to cook the quinoa until the remaining liquid has evaporated, about 2 minutes. Off the heat, let the pilaf stand for 5 minutes. Gently stir in the the pecans and parsley. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

it's hard to be humble when you're perfect in every way,
muddy

Wheatfield's Pretzel Rolls

2010-09-28T08:33:00.001-05:00

I love Wheatfield's Bakery. I'm very stingy with my dining dollars, but I never regret spending my hard-earned cash at Wheatfield's. If you're planning a foodie tour of Lawrence, Kansas, it's an essential stop. I've been eating their baked goods since they opened in 1995, but recently I discovered one item on their menu that flew under my gastronomic radar.

Every Friday, they bake pretzel rolls. You have to get there early because they're usually gone by 2:00 or so.

At $1.25 per roll, they're a little overpriced, but a pretzel junkie like myself is willing to ocasionally indulge.
They're light, fluffy rolls. Of course, they go well with some beer.

The next time you're in Lawrence on a Friday swing by Wheatfield's and pick yourself up an afternoon snack.

these pretzels are making me thirsty,

muddy

House Band: Mumford & Sons

2010-09-20T15:47:00.004-05:00

Once upon a time, the mullet was king, every boy desired a muscle car, and rock 'n' roll meant well, but it couldn't help telling young boys lies***. During this fabled age these lies were delivered via cassette tapes. Today in my digital haze I have trouble remembering this period of my life, but I do remember Def Leppard's album Pyromania booming from my cheap Sparkomatic speakers. I recall playing that tape so much that it began to warp and the music eventually warbled like an eunuch instead of booming with a testosterone.

Today I have a sensible haircut, I drive a minivan, and I don't believe those rock 'n' roll lies. I still love music though, and if I find an album I enjoy, I play the hell out of it. This summer I knew my listening habits were entering obsessive territory with the band Mumford & Sons when I heard my daughter groan and ask, "Could we please listen to something else?"

At that moment I played my daughter some Johnny Cash, and I decided that Mumford & Sons would be my next house band.

After some research, I found that this English band was a perfect fit for The Greasy Skillet. One member occasionally blogs about food. Another posts photographs from the road on a blog. And another member hosts a book club on his blog. In future posts, I hope to share my love of Mumford and Sons with you and few recipes inspired by their music. For now, enjoy the band's acoustic performance in a book shop:

cheers,
muddy

***"Rock 'n' roll means well, but it can't help telling young boys lies" is a great line from the song "Marry Me" by the Drive-By Truckers.

Rock Chalk Backgammon

2010-09-14T15:53:00.009-05:00

Perpetual Joy: Where I blog about things that amuse me, tickle me, or generally make me feel good, and you scratch your head.

Two weeks ago I attended the KU-North Dakota State football game, where I painfully watched Kansas lose 6-3.

At one point I found it more interesting to survey the crowd than to watch the game, and I observed the following:
This couple busted out the ol' backgammon board and decided to play.

This past week the Jayhawks defeated the #15-ranked Georgia Tech in a well-played game; thus banishing any thoughts of me toting a Scrabble board to future KU games.

However, the thought of the couple playing backgammon still makes me happy.

With pictures of graveside peanuts, and backgammon-playing football fans, you might think I'm staging the photos, but I guarantee all is real. It's my nature to keep my eyes peeled for the strange and unusual, and if you do the same, you too can tramp in perpetual joy.

truth is stranger than fiction,
muddy

Unincorporated: Worden

2010-09-10T12:30:00.006-05:00

The boy loved maps. He liked to glide his finger along a map. He'd whisper the names along the paths he traced. Nacogdoches. Coushata. Natchez. Picayune. Alabaster. The words were magical incantations that could transform dreams into reality.

As a young man he bought a map, threw it in his car, and began highlighting all the roads he traveled.

He's no longer young, but he still possess an enthusiasm for maps and places.

Now he's decided to document the places that aren't destinations for most. Today he's starting with Worden, Kansas.

imitation is suicide,

muddy

Bacon & Cashew Caramel Popcorn

2010-09-02T19:38:00.004-05:00

For a brief time in the 1990's, I lived in a cave with a slab of bacon as my only companion. I'd caress that slab of bacon and call it My Precious. It was a bleak period in my life, but that's the dark power bacon holds over me.

Occasionally, I find a recipe using bacon that plunges me into the murky depths of a culinary Mordor, and I wonder if I'll be able to return home. This was the case with the following recipe from Bon Appetit:

Bacon and Cashew Caramel Popcorn

Ingredients:

1/2 cup popcorn kernels

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

6 ounces bacon, chopped

1/2 cup cashews

1 teaspoon coarse kosher salt or coarse sea salt

1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1/4 cup heavy whipping cream

Nonstick vegetable oil spray

1 1/2 cups sugar

1/4 cup water

2 tablespoons light corn syrup

Preparation:

Heat popcorn and oil in covered heavy large pot over medium-high heat until kernels begin to pop. Using oven mitts, hold lid on pot and shake pot until popping stops. Pour popcorn into very large bowl.
Cook bacon in heavy large skillet over medium heat until almost crisp. Using slotted spoon, transfer to paper towels to drain; cool. Add bacon and cashews to bowl with popcorn. Sprinkle with coarse salt and cayenne; toss to coat.
Line rimmed baking sheet with foil; coat with nonstick spray. Coat 2 wooden spoons or heat-resistant spatulas with nonstick spray; set aside.
Stir sugar, 1/4 cup water, and corn syrup in large saucepan over medium-low heat until sugar dissolves. Increase heat to high; boil without stirring until syrup turns deep amber, occasionally swirling pan and brushing down sides with wet pastry brush, about 13 minutes.
Remove from heat and immediately add cream (mixture will bubble up). Stir until blended. Immediately drizzle caramel over popcorn mixture; toss with sprayed spoons until evenly coated. Transfer to sheet.
Place caramel corn in oven and bake at 250 degrees until caramel is shiny and coats popcorn, tossing mixture occasionally, about 20 minutes. Cool completely on sheet on rack, tossing occasionally to break up large clumps. DO AHEAD: Can be made 2 days ahead. Store airtight in refrigerator.

(Bacon, the star of this production)

I adapted this recipe slightly. It called for me to steep an oolong teabag in the cream, but I didn't have this tea in my pantry. This recipe rocks without the oolong, but I'm curious about what flavor the tea would add.

Salty. Sweet. Smokey. Spicey. I must find a slab of bacon and crawl back into my cave.

all that is gold does not glitter,
muddy

Twain's Feast

2010-08-24T07:33:00.001-05:00

I'm currently reading Twain's Feast: Searching for American's Lost Foods in the Footsteps of Samuel Clemens by Andrew Beahrs. I'm enjoying this book, and I heartily recommend it to anyone who is interested in American food, traveling, Mr. Twain, history, cooking, and the ecology our food. The focal point of the book is Twain's love of food, specifically the foods he longed for on the tail end of a European trip. These cravings compelled him to compose the following list of American foods of he wanted to eat when he returned home:

Radishes
Baked apples with cream
Fried oysters
Frogs
American coffee, with real cream
American butter
Fried Chicken, Southern style
Porter-house steak
Saratoga potatoes
Broiled chicken, American style
Hot biscuits, southern style
Hot wheat-bread, Southern style
Hot buckwheat cakes
American toast
Clear maple syrup
Virginia bacon, broiled
Blue points, on the half shell
Cherry-stone clams
San Francisco mussels, steamed
Oyster soup
Clam soup
Philadelphia Terrapin soup
Bacon and greens, Southern style
Hominy
Boiled onions
Turnips
Pumpkin
Squash
Asparagus
Butter beans
Sweet potatoes
Lettuce
Succotash
String beans
Mashed potatoes
Catsup
Boiled potatoes, in their skins
New potatoes, minus the skins
early rose potatoes, roasted in the ashes, Southern style, served hot
Slice tomatoes, with sugar or vinegar
Stewed tomatoes
Green corn, cut from the ear and served with butter and pepper
Oysters roasted in shell - Northern style
Soft-shell crabs
Connecticut shad
Baltimore perch
Brook trout, from Sierra Nevadas
Lake trout, from Tahoe
Sheep-head and croakers, from New Orleans
Black bass from the Mississippi
American roast beef
Roast turkey, Thanksgiving style
Cranberry sauce
Celery
Roast wild turkey
Woodcock
Canvas-back-duck from Baltimore
Prairie-hens from Illinois
Missouri partridges, broiled
'Possum
Coon
Boston bacon and beans
Green corn, on the ear
Hot corn-pone, with chitlins, Southern style
Hot hoe-cake, Southern style
Hot egg-bread, Southern style
Hot light -bread, Southern style
Buttermilk
Iced sweet milk
Apple dumplings, with real cream
Apple pie
Apple fritters
Apple puffs, Southern style
Peach cobbler, Southern style
Peach pie
American mince pie
Pumpkin pie
Squash pie
All sorts of American pastry

I photocopied the list, and now I'm carrying it around as a compass for my belly. I'm still digesting the list, but I'm interested in hearing what you think.

What are your favorite things on this list? What would you add to Mr. Twain's list?

keep your skillet good and greasy,

muddy

Mama Lou: American Strong Woman

2010-08-22T16:00:00.002-05:00

Strong women turn me on. I trace this back to the lovely Lynda Carter and her portrayal of Wonder Woman.
However, Freud might throw around terms like Oedipal when describing my love of strong women, but we won't go there because that just would be disturbing.

Last night I pursued my fascination with strong women by attending American Strong Woman Mama Lou's performance at the Lawrence Busker Festival. She swaggered into Lawrence armed with a wink and a bag of tricks.
She strapped on her gloves.
She effortlessly performed a series of one-armed pull ups. She crushed an apple with her bicep.

She lifted two bags of potatoes with her tongue.
She rolled up a skillet with her lovely bare hands.
She broke chopsticks with her butt.

Are you impressed?

And for her finale, she ripped a Kansas City phonebook in half.
I left wowed and slightly in love. This whimsical guy will be seeking therapy.

keeping it weird in Lawrence,
muddywaters

Apricot & White Chocolate Cookies

2010-08-17T16:12:00.018-05:00

Sometimes me think what is love, and then me think love is what last cookie is for. Me give up the last cookie for you.

****The Cookie Monster

When I bite into something tasty, I imagine loin-clothed clad and club-bearing neurons storming the fortress of my brain that monitors calories and social norms. Inside the the wall of that fortress, tie-wearing neurons scan ledgers and listen to Pat Boone as they monitor any signs of irrational behavior on my part. It's a full-time job.

When those conservative neurons detect something awry, they march in a single-file formation in a concerted effort to suppress my appetite. They don't stand a chance against my raging, craving, ravenous neurons. Appetite rules!

Appetite rules, especially when it comes to cookies. Now typically, I like a thin, chewy cookie devoid of raisins, In my opinion, raisins have ruined many good cookies. However, occasionally a recipe comes around that challenges my tastes. This is the case with today's recipe, apricot and white chocolate cookies.

It's a denser cookie. It comes out of oven gnarled. It contains dried fruit. Think of it as the Ernest Borgnine of cookies. This cookie gets three strikes at first glance, which is why after my wife baked these cookies they sat on the counter untouched for 24 hours (a personal record for me). When I did taste this cookie I was blown away. These cookies possess a creamy, velvetty texture. Maybe it has something to do with the butter or the cream cheese or the sugar. And those dried apricots - they bring something special to the party also.

You gotta try these.

Apricot & White Chocolate Cookies

Ingredients

7 tablespoons unsalted butter
7 tablespoons cream cheese
1/2 cup sugar
2/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/3 cup chopped dried apricots
1/4 cup white chocolate chips or chopped white chocolate

Directions

Preheat the oven to 350 F.
In a large mixing bowl beat together the butter and cream cheese. Add the sugar and beat until fluffy. Gradually add the flour, then fold in the apricots and chocolate. The dough will be quite soft but don't worry!
Drop the mixture by heaped teaspoons onto non-stick or parchment paper-lined cookie sheets, spacing well apart, and bake in the oven for about 15 minutes or until lightly golden. Let cool on the cookie sheets for a few minutes before transferring to a wire rack to cool completely.

me leave last cookie for you,
muddywaters

Perpetual Joy: Graveside Circus Peanuts

2010-08-17T14:12:00.008-05:00

Lucinda Matlock
I went to the dances at Chandlerville,
And played snap-out at Winchester.
One time we changed partners,
Driving home in the moonlight of middle June,
And then I found Davis.
We were married and lived together for seventy years,
Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children,
Eight of whom we lost
Ere I had reached the age of sixty.
I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick,
I made the garden, and for holiday
Rambled over the fields where sang the larks,
And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,
And many a flower and medicinal weed—
Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.
At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all,
And passed to a sweet repose.
What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,
Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?
Degenerate sons and daughters,
Life is too strong for you—
It takes life to love Life.

From The Spoon River Anthology by Kansan Edgar Lee Masters

Perpetual Joy: Where I blog about things that amuse me, tickle me, or generally make me feel good, and you scratch your head.

My father's headstone was placed in the cemetery last week, so Sunday I visited it. In my youth the cemetery was a place to drink beer or engage in other teenage hijinks. At 40 it's a much different place. I know many of the names on the headstones, and with those names I have a library of stories I could share. There's joy in these recollections, and of course, sadness.

It's difficult to stand in a cemetery and not be aware that the clock is ticking and there's not a darn thing I can do to stop it. All I can do is decide how I want to use the time I've been given. However, this type of contemplation often yields more questions than answers.

Amidst all this cloudy-with-a-chance-of-sunshine thinking, I was still able to find something to amuse me. On Mr. Roy Robert Heckman's headstone set a bag of circus peanuts.

Look closely. Do you see the Circus Peanuts? This tickled me. Were they there because Mr. Heckman loved Circus Peanuts? Or was it an inside joke Mr. Heckman shared with a granddaughter? I wanted to know the story behind the Circus Peanuts.

I guess it doesn't make much sense to snap photos of a bag of Circus Peanuts. It certainly doesn't make sense to write about them. This post is a little odd and disjointed (New blog name: Odd and Disjointed). However, I refuse to play by the rules. I'm intrigued by the stories that are products of this crazy world, and I'm especially intrigued by the obscure, the whimsical, or the things that most don't notice.

When you see graveside offerings, I'll be there. I'll be everywhere. Wherever you can look - wherever there's a ritual people deem outdated, I'll be there to document it. Wherever the world decides to stomp on the accelerator, I'll be there slamming on the brakes. I'll be there in the way guys howl against the glide of a slide guitar. I'll be in the way kids laugh when they visit the local ice cream shop. I'll be there when supper's ready, and when the people are eatin' the stuff they raise and livin' in the houses they build - I'll be there, too.****

What snack should we place on your grave?

we're all goin' to die someday,
muddy

***I lifted and revised this from John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath. I enjoyed reworking it, but it needs more thought and revision. I'll revisit it later. I like the idea of writing a mantra or code of beliefs.

I'm trying to have more fun and take chances with my writing. I also want to be more prolific. I'm bound to stumble, but I'm enjoying myself.

The Avett Brothers - I and Love and You

2010-08-16T07:50:00.004-05:00

Today we bid farewell to The Avett Brothers as the house band at The Greasy Skillet. In the next few days I'll announce the next house band. I'll be seeing The Avett Brothers next month in Kansas City, so there's a good chance they'll make a future guest appearance on this blog.

It's difficult to let go of The Avett brothers, but it's time to introduce you to a new band. For now watch the following clips of The Avetts performing at this year's Bonnaroo Festival. Their passionate performance will leap off the screen, but pay close attention to the fans. They're enthralled and hanging on every words. Thus is the power of music.

I want to do more with food and music in this blog. I've sturggled to match recipe with the music, but it will be easier to do it with the next band because one of the members has a food blog.

Anyway I'll leave you with one last recipe, green chile hominy. What's the connection with The Avett Brothers? The Avetts are Southerners and I think of hominy as a Southern food. Growing up I ate a lot of hominy. I don't know if this was common for most Kansans. Maybe some of my readers can weigh in on this topic. I first encountered this recipe at Perini's Steakhouse in Buffalo Gap, Texas. I usually serve this as a sidedish when I smoke a brisket. You'll find they get along well together.

Green Chile Hominy

Ingredients:

1 cup chopped onion, sautéed
4 (15 ounce) cans white hominy (drain and reserve liquid)

1/2 cup hominy liquid

1 tablespoon juice from pickled jalapenos

1/2 pound Cheddar cheese, grated
10 slices bacon, fried crisp and chopped (reserve drippings)
1 cup fresh seeded and chopped poblano or Anaheim peppers
1 or 2 pickled jalapenos, seeded and chopped (optional)

Preparation:

Sauté the onions in a little of the bacon drippings and put aside.

Heat the hominy in a separate sauté pan, stirring often. When heated thoroughly, add the hominy liquid and jalapeno juice, bring back to high temperature and add 3/4 of the cheese.

When the cheese melts, add half the peppers and bacon and all the onion.

Pour into a 9 x 13-inch baking pan and sprinkle with the remaining cheese, bacon and peppers. (At this point it can be refrigerated or even frozen, if you want to make it in advance.)

Bake at 325 degrees F until cheese on top melts, about 15 minutes (or 40 minutes, if refrigerated).

Back-to-School Belly Dance Party

2010-08-11T13:11:00.008-05:00

Perpetual Joy: Where I blog about little things that tickle me, and you'll just scratch your head.

In Kansas it's typical to the kickoff the school year with something like an ice cream social, watermelon feed, or bbq. However, there are unconventional celebrations out there, especially in Lawrence, Kansas. For example, last week at the grocery story, I spied the following flyer:

This seemed weird. I would never think of kicking off the school year with belly dancing. I'm not very well versed in the art and custom of belly dancing, but I always find it sexual. Chalk this up to my mind being in the gutter most of the time. I must research belly dancing.

When I read the flyer the 2nd time, I was almost persuaded to attend. Who wouldn't want to float across the floor wearing a veil and playing the finger cymbals? Hummus at the Back-to-School Belly Dance Party would have guaranteed my attendance.

What back-to-school traditions do you like?

Yalla!
muddy

P.S. I thought about attending and blogging about the event, but I would have been viewed as a pervert with a notebook and camera.

I looked up the definition of Yalla. I guess, it's Arabic for "Come on! Let's go!" I'm surprised the Ramones never used this word in a song.

Beermosa

2010-08-09T09:27:00.000-05:00

Woody: Can I pour you a draft, Mr. Peterson?
Norm: A little early, isn't it Woody?
Woody: For a beer?
Norm: No, for stupid questions.

***From Cheers.

On a recent trip to Denver, we revisited Snooze, which bills itself as an "A.M. Eatery." Staring at Snooze's menu is like peering into a 64-count box of Crayola Crayons. It's full of possibilities that paralyze me with indecision and giddiness. I offer the following evidence, a partial menu of their breakfast cocktails:

Where does a fella start? Do I order the Booze Hound Dog or opt for the humorously named John Daly or maybe I get my coffee fix with the Cosmonaut? You see what I mean.

I know what you're thinking: Who does this muddywaters think he is quaffing alcohol for breakfast: Well, my friends, I normally don't order a drink with my meal because I must too cheap for such antics, but on vacation I live more unconventionally. I enjoy drinks on the porch of the Stanley Hotel. I eat pie for breakfast. I even wear a gas-station cowboy hat, something I'd never do in my real life.

Let's get back to that drink menu. After some enjoyable contemplation, I opted for the Beermosa, a mix of orange juice and New Belgium Trippel.

How did it taste? Wonderful. The flavors worked well together, and I can't think of a more "laid back" morning drink; it's much better than a bloody Mary. I'll be purchasing some New Belgium Trippel and making this drink a staple here at The Greasy Skillet. I hope it's something you'll enjoy too.

drink locally,
muddy

Stir-Fried Chicken with Black Bean Sauce

2010-07-28T17:30:00.001-05:00

As I've been tackling the art of stir-fry cooking, I've been consulting Grace Young's book Stir-Frying to the Sky's Edge. The book has demystified many of the techniques and ingredients used in stir-fry cooking. I've only tried two recipes from the book, but both yielded great results and have bolstered my confidence.

Today I'm sharing a recipe that utilizes fermented black beans, an ingredient that isn't present in most Kansan's pantries.

Don't let the idea of fermented black beans scare you. It's merely soy beans with a mixture of soy sauce and spices. Think of it as a heartier, beefier, thicker soy sauce.

The original recipe called for a homemade black bean sauce, and since I couldn't track down any fermented black beans, I simply purchased a jar of sauce at my local Asian market. The recipe also called for salt to be added, but I thought that was overkill.

This dish isn't the most photogenic recipe, so I didn't include any photographs. However, it tastes great spooned over a bowl of noodles or rice.

Stir-Fried Chicken with Black Bean Sauce

1 pound skinless, boneless chicken thighs or breast, cut into 3/4-inch cubes
2 teaspoons cornstarch
1 teaspoon plus 1 tablespoon rice wine or dry sherry
2 teaspoon soy sauce
1 teaspoon plus 1 tablespoon peanut or vegetable oil
2 tablespoons black bean sauce (or add to your taste)
1 small red onion, cut into thin wedges (about 3/4 cup)
1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes
1 cup thinly sliced carrots cut into matchsticks

In a medium bowl, combine the chicken, corn starch, 1 teaspoon of the sherry/wine, 1 teaspoon of oil and soy sauce. Stir.
Heat wok or skillet over high heat until bead of water vaporize within 1 or 2 seconds of contact. Add remain oil, red onion, and red pepper flakes. Stir fry for 30 seconds. Push the onions to the side of the skillet and add chicken, evenly in one layer. Cook undisturbed for 1-2 minutes. Cook chicken until the chicken is lightly browned.
Add the carrots and black bean sauce. Stir fry until everything is fragrant and cooked.
Enjoy.

wax on,
muddy

The Greasy Five: Great "Session" Foods

2010-07-26T15:21:00.026-05:00

Last week I sat for 30 minutes in my local Borders debating whether to buy a magazine about beer or one about cheese.

This is my goofy world.

I figured purchasing a magazine about cheese was a little weird and if I went down that rabbit hole, I would eventually end up with a herd of cows in my backyard, and cheese making in my future. Therefore, I opted for the beer magazine.

I've always had an appreciation for good beer, but I'm no expert on the brewing craft. The magazine has served as a good primer on the specifics of brewing, especially the terminology. In the issue of this magazine I was introduced to the term "session" beer, which is defined as follows:

"A session beer is anything that is meant to be consumed in quantity - lower alcohol, usually lightly hopped. It can be an ale or lager, it just has to be lighter drinking."

I like this term very much because now I have the terminology to organize my beers. In my reckless youth, all beers were session beers, but with age, I've started to divide my beers into session and non-session beers. In a later post, I might reveal my favorite session and non-session beers, but for now I want to get to point of my post.

I thought it would be interesting to apply the term "session" to food and tie it into this edition of The Greasy Five, so I brainstormed a list of foods that can be enjoyed in large quantities without causing extreme physical discomfort.

My Five Favorite Session Foods

Crawfish: In 2003 I traveled to New Orleans to watch KU in the Final Four. One afternoon we ate at a cinder block restaurant that didn't have a name. I just remember there were like three mountains of oyster shells standing guard in the parking lot. Inside, they poured buckets of boiled crawfish on the table. We spent about two hours eating crawfish and washing it down with Abita beer.
Sunflower seeds: I don't have a story to tell; I just like sunflower seeds.
Chips and Salsa
Popcorn
Watermelon: I could eat a watermelon a day. Each time I take a bite of watermelon, I think of Mr. Mark Twain's words:

It is the chief of this world's luxuries, king by the grace of God over all the fruits of the earth. When one has tasted it, he knows what the angels eat. It was not a Southern watermelon that Eve took; we know it because she repented.

What's your favorite session food?

I apologize for the choppy post. I'm just trying to find my mojo. I'm shooting for a post a day this week.

never eat anything bigger than your head,
muddy

P.S. If I did have cows in my backyard, I'd name each one after my favorite female singers, Patsy, Billie, Loretta, and Nina.

Japanese Pan Noodles

2010-07-21T11:55:00.001-05:00

(Picture of the stir fry, minus the sprouts and cilantro)

After visiting the Asian market, I''ve armed my pantry with fermented black beans, rice wine vinegar, and several varieties of soy sauce, and I've embarked on preparing a variety of stir-fry recipes.

Today I'm sharing a copycat recipe of Noodle and Company's Japanese Pan Noodles, which are describe on the menu as "satisfying and hearty, caramelized Japanese udon noodles in a sweet and spicy soy sauce."

I've tried this recipe twice, and I've been quite pleased with the results. It's a quick, tasty summer dish and seems to be similar to the version Noodles and Company serves.

Here are a few things to keep in mind as you prepare this recipe:

I found the udon noodles at my local Dillon's near the ramen noodles. I you can't find udon noodles, I would simply use linguine.

If you don't have access to rice wine vinegar, simply substitute apple cider vinegar with a pinch or two or sugar.
Don't leave out the cilantro! I love the way it rounds out the flavors in this recipe.
If you want, you can leave out the sprouts. They add some crunch, but overall I'm not too found of sprouts.
After I chopped my vegetables, I boiled some water and blanched the broccoli and carrots for about two minutes. I then placed them in a colander and rinsed them in cold water. Doing this will give your veggies more color, and gives you a jump start on cooking them before they hit the skillet. You could even blanch the veggies the day before you prepare the stir fry.
I had trouble caramelizing the noodles. I might need experiment more with this.
I don't know if it's worth it to add the black sesame seeds, unless you're into aesthetics. I'm all about the flavor.
Feel free to substitute and experiment with this recipe.

Japanese Pan Noodles

Ingredients:

3 cups hot cooked udon noodles (Japanese wheat noodles)
12 ounces steak, thinly sliced (optional)
cornstarch
salt to taste
2-3 drops, toasted sesame oil
4 tablespoons teriyaki sauce
2 tablespoon rice wine vinegar
2 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 tablespoon minced peeled fresh ginger
2 large cloves minced garlic cloves
1 tsp red chili flakes
1 cup mushrooms, sliced
1 cup Asian sprouts
2 cups broccoli florets
1/2 cup (2-inch) julienne-cut carrot
1 tbsp black sesame seeds
1 cup freshly chopped cilantro leaves

METHOD:

In a mixing bowl, add the beef strips and mix with a little cornstarch.
Heat oil in a large nonstick skillet or wok over medium-high heat. Flash fry the beef strips and remove quickly.
To the wok, add the carrots, mushrooms, and then broccoli. Stir fry 2-3 minutes and then remove.
Add a little oil, the saute the ginger & garlic. After a minute or so, add the well drained noodles and let caramelize.
Add the red chili flakes. Add the sesame oil, teriyaki sauce and rice wine vinegar. Add all of the other ingredients and toss to coat well. Serve.

wax on,
muddywaters

Trampin' a Joyful Perpetual Journey

2010-07-16T14:11:00.012-05:00

Long enough have you dreamed contemptible dreams,
Now I wash the gum from your eyes,
You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light & of every moment of your life.

Long have you timidly waded, holding a plank by the shore,
Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,
To jump off in the midst of the sea, & rise again & nod to me & shout, & laughingly dash with your hair.

—Whitman, Song of Myself

Last month my family embarked on the 5th Annual Father's Day Ice Cream Tour. Even though my heart was heavy with grief, I enjoyed the tour. It was good to have a ritual that reminded me of the joy that exists in this life.

The joyful possibilities were clear as I browsed the menu board at Sylas and Maddy's.

It was clear in the company I kept during the afternoon.

(Picture at stop #2 on the tour)

I pray that I'm always able to see the joy life has to offer.

I pray that I'm always able to bask in the "dazzle of the light and of every moment in this life."

What's one simple thing that brings you great joy?

trampin' the perpetual journey,
muddy

Rhubarbarita

2010-07-09T09:10:00.001-05:00

When I hear the word rhubarb, my imagination runs wild. I envision myself having an Aunt Rhubarb who I visit in the nursing home. When I visit, she insists that the kitchen staff make me a big glass of sweet tea, and even though I don't care for sweetened tea, I drink it anyway because it's the the polite thing to do, and she's my Aunt Rhubarb who I will do anything for.

During the visit, she shares jokes she learned from the latest issue of Reader's Digest. Then she'll tell me how she was born hungry and how the food at the home isn't fit to eat. Then she'll ask me if I can smuggle an electric skillet into the home. As I hug her goodbye, I tell her that I'll see what I can do about the skillet.

For the folks over at The Splendid Table, rhubarb inspired them to make a Rhubarbarita. I tried it, and I like it. On my second glass, I cut the simple syrup in half and replaced it with lime juice because I like a little pucker to my margaritas.

This afternoon, I'll try the rhubarb-infused simple syrup in a glass of iced tea, even though I don't care for sweet tea. Remember, the mind is like an umbrella; it works best when it's open.

catch a wave,

muddywaters

Honoring My Father

2010-06-19T19:59:00.004-05:00

My father passed away last night.

Some might say he lost his battle with cancer, but I would say that he won.

He died with dignity and in the end he was at home surrounded by family.

I'll be taking a hiatus from the blog, but I hope to return soon with a series of posts that honor my father.

Please keep me and my family in your thoughts and prayers.

keep on the sunny side,
Mike

P. S. Take time during the next few days to share a meal with those you love.

Reading Beer

2010-06-16T09:55:00.005-05:00

I'll read anything. If the printed word is in front me, I read it.

Exhibit A:

Even though I have no interest in golf, I recently flipped through an issue of Golf Digest because it was the only reading material in the doctor's office. Despite my lack of interest in golf, I still enjoyed reading the magazine.

Exhibit B:

I love reading beer bottle labels. If brewers knew how much joy I derived from merely reading their labels, they could get away with charging me much more for their beer.

A few weeks ago, this label on a bottle of Shinerbock 101 rejuvenated my interest in beer.
I like the simplicity of it. Four ingredients. In a world of where polysyllabic ingredients dominate most processed foods, it's refreshing to enjoy something simple. Barley, hops, yeast, and water. That's it.

The next few weeks I plan on drinking and reading this gallery of beers:

I'm especially looking forward to Rogue Brewery's Chipotle Ale. It's simply malt, hops, water, peppers, and yeast. I wonder what a Pacman Yeast is.

What your favorite beer to read or drink?

sippin' and readin'
muddy

Matzo Ain't Nothing But a Cracker

2010-06-07T09:03:00.002-05:00

Over at The 12th Man Training Table, they used a Mark Bittman recipe to make crackers. This reminded me that I have a man crush on Mr. Bittman, and this inspired me to list my top-five man crushes in the comments of that post. Crushes often lead to irrational actions.

Are these crackers worth making? I guess, it's OK to allow Keebler to do my cracker baking. However, I do like the idea of knowing what's going into my food. It's also nice to get in touch with the craft of creating something so simple. There's art in small things like making a cracker, and I'm better off baking crackers than trying to recreate the Sistine Chapel ceiling in my garage using dryer lint as my medium. Although there's value in doing that too.

Anyway I was also reminded of Mr. Bittman's recipe for Olive Oil Matzo, which I tried this spring, so consider this post spring cleaning.

What small thing do you do well?

keep it crunchy,
muddy

Black-Eyed Peas and Basmati Rice Salad

2010-06-02T09:52:00.000-05:00

I'm a man of leisure in the summer, which gives me more time to try new recipes. It's not uncommon to try 3-4 new recipes a week. Out of those recipes, my family usually approves of 70-75 percent of them. However, some recipes are greeted with scrunched up noses as a scant servings are spooned onto plates. If a recipe doesn't receive approval, my wife will politely say, "It's OK, but you don't need to make it again."

I usually agree with their assessments of recipes, but sometimes I try something, I like it, they don't like it, and I lament the fact that I will rarely get to prepare the recipe.

This was the case with the black-eyed and basmati rice salad from the recent issue of the Food Network Magazine. I liked this salad because it's a nice change from potato or pasta salads, and it's a good way to use leftover cooked rice.

Black-Eyed Peas and Basmati Rice Salad

Salad

1/2 cup canned black-eyed peas, rinsed
salt
1 1/2 to 2 cup basmati rice (For instructions on perfectly cooking rice, visit my post titled Rice, Rice, Baby!)
1 teaspoon minced
1/4 cup thinly slice red onion
1/2 cup finely chopped red bell pepper

Dressing:

2 tablespoons coarse-grain dijon mustard (I didn't have a coarse-grain dijon mustard, so I mixed a little coarse-grained mustard with plain ol' dijon mustard. I like the Inglehoffer brand.)
4 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon honey
1 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro.
salt and pepper to taste

Make the dressing: Whisk all ingredients, and adjust seasoning if necessary.
Toss the salad ingredients. Add dressing and toss again. Refrigerate until ready to serve.

Later this week I'll prepare a salad with fennel, something Kansans rarely use in cooking. I'll keep you posted.

keep on the sunny side,
muddy

Cooking for One

2010-05-29T17:10:00.000-05:00

My wife and daughter are SW Nebraska for the weekend, so I'm home alone. I enjoy the first few hours home alone, but then the novelty wears off and I crave my usual company. With Little Miss Pickyeater out of the house, I should use the time to try new recipes, but cooking for myself isn't as satisfying. Food always tastes better when you share it with those I love.

Tonight I'll just settle for cheese, crackers, and summer sausage. I'll wash it down with some bottled Free State Beer, which just hit stores this week.

What's your favorite meal to eat alone? My 92-year-old grandmother today mentioned that she often prepares herself a fried egg sandwich for dinner. Maybe that will be dinner tomorrow night.

Chocolate chip cookies sound great, but I'm an old fashioned guy and prefer mine with milk.

fuggles --that's a word that makes me smile,
muddy

More Cowbell and Cole Slaw

2010-05-27T17:16:00.001-05:00

At Man Camp I was assigned to a team of cooks who prepared a BBQ dinner. While other cooks were assigned glamorous tasks like manning the deep-fat fryer and smoking a hunk of beef on a space age contraption(The Orion Cooker), I was told to make cole slaw, which is kinda of like playing cow bell in a rock band.

I didn't whine. Instead I put my nose to the grindstone and tried to prepare a suitable cole slaw. I found this task challenging because with the exception of the Brookville Hotel's cole slaw, I've never been smitten by slaw.

I knew I wanted a vinegar-based slaw that was simple to prepare and didn't overwhelm the taste buds of the kids at Man Camp. After browsing my resources I adapted a recipe from Peace, Love, and Barbecue by Mike Mills. Since I didn't want to chop cabbage in the rain, I used a shredded slaw mix, and I omitted the onions, green pepper, and garlic in the original recipe.

(If you visit amazon.com, they have closeouts of Peace, Love, and Barbecue for $7.95. I'm eager to try the watermelon ice cream with chocolate seeds.)

Crunchy Cole Slaw

1 bag of prepared cole slaw

Dressing

1 cup of cider vinegar
1 cup of sugar
1 tablespoon of vegetable oil
1/2 teaspoon of salt
1/2 teaspoon of black pepper
1/2 teaspoon of celery seed (This is the key ingredient to this slaw)

Mix all the dressing ingredients.
Place slaw mixture in a large mixing bowl. Pour about half the dressing over it and toss. If you need more dressing on the slaw, keep adding it until your satisfied with the consistency.
Enjoy the slaw.

I liked this slaw. I like placing a little on a bbq pork sandwich. Give it a try. I still view this recipe as blank canvas for other possibilities. I might experiment in small batches with other vinegars or a little Tabasco. I might use less sugar or other sweeteners. I might also work some jalapenos into the mix. I'll keep you posted as I shape this recipe.

it's OK to be tart,
muddywaters

P.S. I found the following excerpt from Peace, Love, and Barbecue interesting:

Did you know you can freeze cole slaw? Simply boil the dressing and pour it over the cabbage. Let it cool and transfer to large freezer bags or covered plastic containers and freeze. Keep up to one month.

Who knew? There's always something left to learn.

Slow Down, You Move Too Fast

2010-05-10T08:47:00.005-05:00

Sometimes I like it when the weather dictates my schedule. This was the case at Man Camp when the rain forced me inside my cramped tent on a Saturday morning.

At first I wasn't happy with this arrangement. I wanted the rain to stop, and the first hour in tent was torturous. Every 3 minutes my daughter interrupted my reading and asked, "Dad, when is it going to stop raining?"

Eventually, we embraced the rain and cramped became cozy. I used that time to read Mr. Ron Rash's book of short stories titled Burning Bright and the Oxford American's food issue. My daughter doodled and read from one of her favorite books.

In this calm I read a paragraph that struck a chord with me. It's from an article in the Oxford American titled "The Southern Strawberry: Liquid Rubies" by Marianne Gingher:

In lieu of odes, our foodie ancestors created the jar-size museum and invented preserves so that lovers of short-season perishables could enjoy the palate'sequivalent of instant replay. To Make preserves heirloom quality, you need to work as deliberately at the task as divining water. My own patient grandmother concocted a strawberry condiment so like a jar of jewels that we children called it liquid rubies." She discovered that making small batches and not stirring the berries while they simmer produced a lucid, red-gold syrup that fattened and embalmed the fruit. This was my grandmother who had no talent for scramble. She could lean on a windowsill for hours, watching an inchworm's progress; the dreamy to and fro of darning a sock pleased her. Although her languid habits infuriated my grandfather, they made her an excellent cook. Watching sugar and strawberries percolate, feeling the rope syrup gather weight on her spoon, my grandmother tilted her face into the lush, promissory steam unraveling from her jam pot like genies rubbed from lamps.

This reminded me of one of the reasons I cook. Cooking provides me with a model of how to live. Slowly. Deliberately. Doing small things well.

take care,

muddy

Cabbage Bombs

2010-04-29T12:34:00.000-05:00

Prior to Man Camp, there was a lot of e-mail chatter among past participants. Two words kept popping up in many of those messages. Cabbage Bombs!

Of course, I was intrigued.

Cabbage Bombs! I envisioned a campfire cabbage roll, similar to the potluck dinner staple of my youth. They consisted of seasoned ground beef, rice, green peppers, and onions wrapped in cabbage leaves that were bathed in tomato sauce.

My vision of the Cabbage Bomb wasn't close to being accurate.

Cabbage Bombs aren't cabbage rolls.

They're much bigger and grander and worthy of their name. Cabbage Bombs consist of an entire head of cabbage that's been cored and stuffed with whatever ingredients tickle your fancy. Then you wrap it in foil, set it next to the fire, and roast until it's nice and soft.

I dub this Cabbage Bomb "The Josey Wales" because it's stuffed with whiskey, beef jerky, and jalapeno peppers. This trio of ingredients might not sound appetizing, but it creates a rich, beefy broth that's reminiscent of soy sauce, perfect for dipping leaves of cabbage.
I can't wait to create my own Cabbage Bomb on my next cookout.

drop cabbage, not bombs,

muddy

Man Camp 2010

2010-04-28T16:28:00.000-05:00

Saturday, rain clamped its teeth on our day and refused to let go. This picture speaks for itself.

There were breaks in the clouds throughout the day, and this picture tells a different story.

Despite the rain, I had a great time at Man Camp, and if I'm invited back, I'll attend next year. Tune in tomorrow and I'll tell you what's wrapped in the foil.

can you guess what's in the foil?
muddy

The Greasy Five: Essentials for Camping with Ruffians

2010-04-23T08:05:00.001-05:00

This weekend I'll be camping near Noel, Missouri, with a crew of whiskey swilling ruffians whose idea of a meal is six courses of meat followed by whatever they chuck into the deep fat fryers. This yearly event is called Man Camp. It's my inaugural participation in this fabled event, and I don't know what to expect.

I've never camped with a group before. Camping has always been a solitary event, where I decompress and commune with nature. I anticipate that Man Camp will be overwhelming for me, so today's Greasy Five consists of things I'll take to help me cope on this outing.

Whiskey: This is used for medicinal purposes.

Fresh fruits and vegetables: Since a diet of only grease and meat releases Mr. Crankypants from his cage, I'll bring my own little stash of greens

Reading Material:

Coffee: For this trip, I purchased a new percolator for my camp stove. For me coffee is more important than clean underwear.

Notebook: When my camping companions begin to sound their barbaric yawps over the Ozark Mountains and things become a bit unbearable for this introverted soul, I'll take a walk with my notebook and do some writing.

wish me luck,
muddy

PS. . . For years, I was led to believe that Man Camp locale was a primitive environment (I guess, actually only the behavior of the participants is primitive), but I now know the truth. This year's outing will be held at the River Ranch Resort. For the record, any place that has miniature golf and delivers pizza to your campsite isn't primitive.

Farmers' Market Treasures: Jalapeno Nut Brittle

2010-04-20T12:10:00.003-05:00

Visiting the Lawrence Farmers' Market is one of my favorite ways to start the weekend. I love the way my senses are entertained at the market. If you view the photographs from a 2008 post over at Simmer Till Done, you'll see some of the sights I love. When I'm at the farmers' market, I feel like among my people, kindred spirits who value good produce, bluegrass, and handmade tamales.

This past Saturday, the presence of pepitas and candied jalapenos enticed me to purchase some jalapeno nut brittle.

The $4.00 pricetag made this item a luxury for this frugal soul, but I'm pleased to say that this treat was worth every penny. The slight heat of the jalapenos complemented the sweet, nutty flavor of brittle. It was the Johnny and June of sweet treats.

If you find yourself in the vicinity of the farmers' market, I recommend swinging by and picking up some jalapeno nut brittle. Also, grab a tamale while you're there.
What do you recommend from your community's farmers' market?

bringing the heat,
muddy

Edible Poems: If the World Was Crazy by Shel Silverstein

2010-04-19T12:31:00.003-05:00

To celebrate National Poetry Month, I'll being sharing some of my favorite poems about food in a series of posts.

In this blog, I'm guilty of projecting the image of muddywaters being a relaxed fella who rolls with the punches and who is perpetually happy. This is far from the truth. I'm uptight. I demand structure. I'm often cranky. I take myself too seriously. I get worked up about politics. I don't always enjoy being around people. I'm a pessimist. I get upset about things I can't control.

My daughter and wife like to remind me that attitude is everything.

They're right, but applying this wisdom isn't so easy. It's a constant tug-a-war between the man I am and the man I want to be.

Blogging is one tool I use to maintain a positive attitude, but it doesn't always help. Lately I've been turning to poetry as a way to give my attitude a tuneup.

If you're having a bad day, I recommend picking up one of Shel Silverstein's book and flipping to about any page. There you will find words that will transform the way you see the world.

I'm sure this sounds corny to some, but when I read one of his poems aloud, I can feel the tension leaving my shoulders. When I read one of his poems, I'm a tow-headed boy with barefeet stained from playing underneath the mulberry tree, and life is about the possibilities, not the obstacles. The following edible poem has that kind of power:

If the World Was Crazy by Shel Silverstein

If the world was crazy, you know what I'd eat?
A big slice of soup and a whole quart of meat,
A lemonade sandwich, and then I might try
Some roasted ice cream or a bicycle pie,
A nice notebook salad, an underwear roast,
An omelet of hats and some crisp cardboard toast,
A thick malted milk made from pencils and daisies,
And that's what I'd eat if the world was crazy.

If the world was crazy, you know what I'd wear?
A chocolate suit and a tie of eclair,
Some marshmallow earmuffs, some licorice shoes,
And I'd read a paper of peppermint news.
I'd call the boys "Suzy" and I'd call the girls "Harry,"
I'd talk through my ears, and I always would carry
A paper umbrella for when it grew hazy
To keep in the rain, if the world was crazy.
If the world was crazy, you know what I'd do?

I'd walk on the ocean and swim in my shoe,
I'd fly through the ground and I'd skip through the air,
I'd run down the bathtub and bathe on the stair.
When I met somebody I'd say, "G'bye, Joe,"
And when I was leaving--then I'd say "Hello."
And the greatest of men would be silly and lazy
So I would be king...if the world was crazy.

embrace the absurd,

muddywaters

PS. . . Mr. Silverstein wrote one of my favorite Johnny Cash songs, "A Boy Named Sue."

Edible Poems: The Bean Eaters by Gwendolyn Brooks

2010-04-16T17:45:00.000-05:00

To celebrate National Poetry Month, I'll share some of my favorite poems about food. You might also visit Jenni at Prairie Air who is also serving up tasty morsels of poetry.

Around dinner time, I get the urge to go door to door in my neighborhood to investigate what my neighbors are preparing for meals. Part of this curiosity is related to my interest in food, but I'm more interested in the narrative behind the meals and what dinner rituals reveal about people.

My first edible poem "The Bean Eaters" is an example of narrative I hope to find when I knock a neighbor's during dinner time. This is a snapshot that is more than the sum of its parts. If you look closely you'll see something much more than dinnertime.

The Bean Eaters

by Gwendolyn Brooks (I found that she was born in Topeka, so I claim her as a Kansan.)

They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair.
Dinner is a casual affair.
Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood, Tin flatware.
Two who are Mostly Good.
Two who have lived their day,
But keep on putting on their clothes
And putting things away.
And remembering . . .
Remembering, with twinklings and twinges,
As they lean over the beans in
their rented back room that
is full of beads and receipts and dolls and cloths,
tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes.

pass the gravy,

muddy

WTF at KFC

2010-04-14T17:16:00.003-05:00

They say a picture is worth a thousand words:

The new KFC Double Down sandwich is real! This one-of-a-kind sandwich features two thick and juicy boneless white meat chicken filets (Original Recipe® or Grilled), two pieces of bacon, two melted slices of Monterey Jack and pepper jack cheese and Colonel's Sauce. This product is so meaty, there’s no room for a bun!

Here at TGS we'll just call this the What-the-Fuck sandwich!

Watch the language around the youngsters,
Mr. Crankypants

Notes and Observations: Ted Kooser

2010-04-13T19:14:00.002-05:00

Do not choose your wife at a dance, but on the field amongst the harvesters.

****From Local Wonders: Seasons in the Bohemian Alps by Ted Kooser

Last night I left Ted Kooser's poetry reading invigorated, and I'm motivated to venture into some new territory with my blog. Today I'll informally share my impressions of Ted Kooser's reading.

The event was held at The Oread, which is a new hotel in town constructed of native limestone. I'm still forming my opinion of the building, but it might be a bit too much for me. Inside the confines of the stone walls, I felt compelled to strap on a miner's headlamp and to do a little spelunking.

Poetry should be read aloud. The cadence and music of the words need to be heard for a poem to be fully savored.

Mr. Kooser mentioned that he enjoys writing about ordinary things.

One of Mr. Kooser's favorite activities is driving by himself and visiting small towns

Mr. Kooser is good friends with the painter Keith Jacobshagen who I mentioned in my post about my recent trip to the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. After viewing Mr. Jacobshagen's painting and hearing Mr. Kooser read, I see why they are friends. There are great similarities in their works.

Mr. Kooser mentioned that he might revise a poem 30-40 time before he considers it complete. For someone like myself who doesn't always feel at ease putting pen to paper, I found this reassuring. Even someone of Mr. Kooser's talent and skill still struggles to find the right words.

He talked about the value of taking time to record family memories. I must set aside time to write down family stories.

He read a poem titled "Splitting an Order" about an elderly couple sharing a meal at a restaurant. I liked this poem because it reminded me of my grandparents who used to share a "broasted" chicken dinner at Green Acre's Restaurant.

When asked about his fondest memory of being the U.S. Poet Laureate, Mr. Kooser said his favorite moment was having the opportunity to interview the songwriter John Prine at the Library of Congress. John Prine was only the second songwriter to perform at the Library of Congress. The first was Woody Guthrie. You can view Mr. Kooser's interview with Mr. Prine at the following link: A Literary Evening with John Prine and Ted Kooser.

There's much more to share of my evening listening to Mr. Kooser, but I'll save it for another day. I feel blessed to have had the opportunity to hear him speak.

you can observe a lot just by watchin',
muddy

Rebelling Against Reality

2010-04-12T09:26:00.000-05:00

Tonight I'm attending a poetry reading by former U.S. Poet Laureate Ted Kooser, so I thought I'd tie an excerpt from his book Local Wonders: Seasons in the Bohemian Alps. Then I'll try to tie everything back to food and cooking.

I like to get outside and paint pictures in the early spring. I suppose it's my way of trying to be a tulip, pushing my way out of the tight white bulb of winter and opening a little color against the darkness.

I've converted my '92 Mercury Topaz into a rolling art studio so I can paint wherever I can park, and in all weathers. I built a small plywood table over the passenger's seat for my palette, paints, and brushes, and a Masonite easel that fastens over the steering wheel. For a week I've been out making watercolor sketches and was blessed to observe the first greens coming on in the roadside ditches. On the first day everything was the dusty deer-hide brown of late winter. On the second day I would begin to see traces of green in the sunnier spots. And by the third, there was green everywhere. Though I'm an amateur painter and my poor mixing isn't good enough to perfectly capture this transition, my first day's sketch, of a field of corn stubble, looks like late winter and the third day's, of a couple of big bales in the shelter of some trees, looks like early spring. That's accomplishment enough for a Sunday painter in his sixties.

While I was parked by the road, a farmer pulled out of the lane to a farmhouse about a quarter of a mile away and drove slowly toward me in his pickup. When he got up beside me, he stopped, rolled down his window, leaned out, and asked if I needed any help. He looked to be about my age. "No," I said, "I'm just painting a picture." I could tell by the look on his face that he'd never run into anything quite like that before, but he just said "Oh," as if it happened every day, and rolled up his window, tight enough to seal tin his sense of the way things ought to be. then he drove to the next corner, turned around, came past me again, and turned back into his lane.

I like the notion of a car being converted into an art studio. In fact. I love seeing something being used for a purpose different than intended. The missile silo that becomes a home. The propane tank that's becomes bbq smoker. The sinner that becomes a saint.

I guess, this is one of the reasons I decided to use my car to cook earlier this year. My potatoes turned out well, but later I tried baking a flatbread. It didn't go so well. It didn't help that I tried this during a snow storm, which extended my drive to work by 20 minutes and cooled my ambition to stop, get out of the car, and flip the foil-wrapped bread on the manifold.

When I arrived at school, I removed the foil pouch from my car's engine. I could smell the pungent char of the burned bread. Even though it was the smell of failure, I was giddy. Giddiness accompanied with failure makes no sense, but I trace my joy to the satisfaction that comes with rebelling against reality, a reality that dictates that I shouldn't bake bread underneath a car hood and a reality that dictates that we shouldn't take time from more pressing matters to paint tulips.

How do you rebel against reality?

march to your own beat,
muddy

William Stafford and a Place Where Words Matter

2010-04-08T08:16:00.005-05:00

"You don't have to prove anything," my mother said.
"Just be ready for what God sends."

***William Stafford's last poem

During my freshmen at Emporia State University, my comp professor invited one of his poet friends to read to the class. The poet dressed in black, possessed wild shocks of hair, and read poems that were laced with profanity. I remember him being particularly fond of the words cock and pussy. Squeezed between his salty words were long dramatic pauses and uncomfortable eye contact with the audience. That was my first exposure to a real live poet, and I wasn't impressed.

Later that year, I gave live poetry another chance when I attended a reading by William Stafford, who was billed as a poet from the Great Plains. I was still gun shy from the first reading I experienced, but Mr. Stafford grandfatherly appearance put me at ease. Then he spoke. He didn't rely on a dramatic, booming delivery. He spoke in a quiet, unassuming voice, a characteristic of someone who was raised on the Kansas Plains. Then I started to pay attention to the words, and I realized he articulated what I felt about being a product of the Great Plains He noticed and pointed out the beauty of the Plains without scarring it with his ego.

That night was a revelation to me. We live in a world where loud, glitzy, sit-com buffoonery is often in the spotlight, but that night I watched a quiet, gentle person shine without the aid of a spotlight. At that moment I realized there would always be a place in this world for me.

I now read Mr. Stafford's poems on a regular basis. I guess, the poems are part anchor and part compass. They give me a sense of who I am and who I want to become.

Mr. Stafford's poems reaffirm that it's OK to be gentle and kind, and there are places in the world for quiet folk. Most importantly his poems remind that there's value in quiet places where words matter.

I believe, we all need a poet who speaks to us. What poet speaks to you?

You Reading This, Be Ready

Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scene of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?

Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?

When you turn around, starting here, lift this
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life--

What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?

****William Stafford from August 26, 1993

sincerely,
muddy

Fanatic

2010-03-31T10:37:00.003-05:00

Yesterday some of my students argued that the University of Kansas should be ranked ahead of the Kansas State Wildcats when the final Associated Press NCCA Men's Basketball Poll is released. I can understand why some would make this argument. However, They went on to claim that KU should be ranked in the top five.

Even though I'm a KU fan, I didn't buy their arguments. Some would claim that I'm not a true KU fan because I disagreed with them. Some would claim I'm not a true KU fan because I supported KSU during their tournament run. I try to avoid fanaticism because I've found that it leads to irrational thought and unsavory behavior. The following video illustrates the delusional state of most KU fans:

I'm not always a civilized KU fan. However, I recognize the ills of fanaticism, and I try to avoid such behavior.

Speaking of fanaticism, here's Hitler responding to KU's loss to Northern Iowa:

hoping to post something more substantial later this week,
muddy