Bad Home Cooking

Tortilla soup -- the improv way

Talk about a hot date. Kelli arrived Saturday night bearing two bags of groceries and a six-pack of Mexican beer. "We're making tortilla soup," she told me.

I tried to make tortilla soup once. About three or four years ago. And the results were not pretty. I pulled a recipe off the internet, and all went well until I added the sour cream and the whole concoction curdled in front of my eyes. I ate a small bowl on principal and threw the rest away.

But I love tortilla soup. It was my favored dish at Picante up in Berkeley, years ago, where we'd eat at least once a week; the nits, then very small, feasting on beans and rice, Luke tucking into some giant wet burrito, while I hunched over chunks of avocado and tortilla strips in a spanky broth, twirling long strings of savory queso around my spoon. Ahh, bliss. Can I be blamed for trying to make it on my own?

This time, however, there would be no recipe. "I've read a bunch of them, and I've decided to just break out on my own," said Kelli. "With these sorts of things it's not so much the recipe as the process, anyway." All I could do was nod, snap open a cervezas and throw myself on her superior know-how and confidence.

Which is not to say I didn't try to participate. But it was an alarmingly complicated task, to my neophyte eyes. It took more than an hour to prepare, even using my home-made chicken stock. I tried chopping a big-ass onion using the three cut method Kelli had demonstrated at our last meeting, only to make a mockery of it and slice into my palm for my efforts. I didn't have pepper. I ran out of salt. I'd drank the last of the white wine we might have used for deglazing the frying pan. After a while, I stepped back and watched Kelli work.

If I suck as a sous chef, there is no doubt I'm a tremendous cheerleader. I don't think I closed my mouth for my constant oohs and aahs and general praise of her talents. Truly, there is much to learn just by watching a cook prepare a meal in your own kitchen.

Here's her "recipe:"

8 chicken thighs
Vegetable oil

Brown chicken and transfer to pan to finish in the oven

1 "big ass" onion, chopped or diced
6 cloves garlic
2 guajillo chiles
beer, wine, or tequila (note to self: Everyone needs a bottle of Patron in their pantry. Buy some soon.)
6 cups chicken stock
3 chipotle chilies in adobo
4 T tomato paste or small can puree

Sautee onion, deglaze with alcohol, add chopped garlic and guajillo chili.
Cook for a few more minutes, add stock.  Whisk in paste, add chipotles,
simmer.

Let cool a little and puree in blender or processor.  Strain in fine mesh,
china cap or cheesecloth for a silky soup base.

Meanwhile, back at the cutting board, prepare the condiments:

cilantro
roasted pasilla peppers
green onions
limes
avocados
diced tomato
tortilla strips (cut fresh tortillas into strips, season, coat with olive oil, then roast until brown and crispy)
sour cream (Lucerne brand is delicious, like Mexican crema)
feta, goat or queso blanco (we didn't use cheese, but please feel free. I'll be over later to sample.)

Although I hardly helped, I did learn a great deal. I learned, for example, that you can roast peppers right n top of the stove burner, and that if you put them in a paper bag while still hot, their skins will pull right off. I learned that you NEVER wash a pepper, or you wash away the flavor (that from the very mouth of the great Diane Kennedy, who Kelli worked for in her first ever catering job as a 19-year-old). I learned that you actually can deglaze a pan with beer, and it will still smell yummy. I learned that I really should pop for a food processor.

Also this: Peppers scare me. Both the handling and eating of.

No matter. The broth, while certainly kicky, was also rich and deep; "flavors on top of flavors," Kelli said. And when you added condiments of your choice, chunks of avocado, tortilla strips, lime juice, cilantro, or a dollop of sour cream with a few roasted, chopped peppers on top, it all went down smoothly, leaving you with a sense of profound warmth and well-being. Indeed, after my first bowl, all I could muster was a moan and a whimpered "This tastes like restaurant food!"

I knew I'd never be able to recreate this on my own. But then Kelli left me with a large portion for the week's lunches and a bucket of leftover roast chicken. And she promised she'd be available via phone to walk me through it should I want to attempt it again.

I'm only sorry that, in true BHC fashion, I've misplaced my digital camera, so there is no photographic evidence that this soup actually exists. You'll just have to take my word for it. Or show up and try some yourself while there's still some leftovers.

Chicken stock for beginners

Somewhere I got it into my little pea brain that the dividing line between a real cook and a pretend cook is the ability to make your own stock.

Long ago, when I first bought Mark Bittman's 'How to Cook Everything" and became more interested in cooking, I noted with delight that stocks are allegedly not hard to make. Of course, I never got around to finding this out for myself.

Fast forward to now. Kelli came over for her second session as my cooking coach, and announced, "Today, we're making stock."

Michael Ruhlman, the chef/writer I worship from afar, in his new book, "The Elements of Cooking," says this about stock: "In the creation of good food, no preparation comes close to matching the power of fresh stock. It's called le fond, "the foundation," in the French kitchen for a reason....ultimately, well-made stock is the ingredient that definitively separates home cooking from the cooking of a professional."

Gulp.

Kelli isn't concerned. "Pish," she says, when I inform her that chicken stock is serious business, and probably not for the likes of me. "Everything is better with homemade chicken stock," she says. "And even you can make it. There are just a few rules." She has brought with her two packs of chicken wings, carrots, celery, an onion and fresh sprigs of thyme and rosemary.

Then she introduces me to the Trinity. Diced celery, carrots and onion. The mirepoix. And she shows me how to dice them, overwhelming me with a wave of information regarding different cuts and knives and when to use what when and which where. Like a good teacher, she then hands me the knife and asks me to repeat what she did, and I do my best, hunched over, tongue between teeth, like a second-grader trying to solve a fourth grade math fact. She shows me how to hold my fingers on the produce, knuckles against the knife edge, that will best prevent my slicing off any fingertips.

I was not as quick nor as neat as she was, but at least I still have all 10 tips on my person, which in my view suggests basic success. My next victory was finding a stock pot big enough to hold everything, deep in the corner of my pantry.

We sauteed the vegetables in a little too much canola oil (she said I wouldn't need a measuring spoon), added the chicken and herbs, and covered with cold water. She explained the term "season expertly," to me, but since I didn't have any peppercorns my expertise is limited. She added a few cloves of garlic.

As she worked, she offered additional tips: Always put your fat into a heated pan. Use the parts of the chicken that move the most (like wings) when making stocks. Cover with cold water. Do NOT let it ever come to a rolling boil. Simmer for two hours or more, until your whole house is infused with the aroma of chicken soup. Strain, then strain again, then divide into containers and freeze.

Since she worked for years in a hotel kitchen as a saucier, she gave me a quick symposium on basic sauces, nothing of which I retain. The very word "sauce" frightens me. But I vow to revisit the topic down the road, when I am less timid in the ways of cuisine.

Kelli left me with a clove of mashed garlic on the back of my chef's knife and a quick explanation on how to make my own garlic bread (mix with soft butter, spread on crusty toast then finish in the oven. I later make this for my kids, adding a bit of mozzarella cheese on top, to spectacular accolades, and a near fistfight over who got to eat the last piece).

I simmered the stock for more than two hours, then strained it into my second largest pot. Alas, I then found I didn't have nearly enough containers with lids to hold all of the liquid gold, and so, in fine BHC tradition, I had to half-ass it and use what I could, including old Chinese take-out soup containers. 

I have chicken and rice soup on the stove as I write this (and now that I think about it, I'd better go check it...), featuring my own home-made chicken stock. Is this the beginning of a new era for me...or a new level of hell to explore?

Stay tuned. Next week we venture to the Santa Monica Farmer's Market.

zucchini inspiration

Inspiration has been in short supply lately. This morning I found some, growing green in the dirt.

As part of a magazine assignment, I asked my friend Kelli, former caterer and all-around big idea gal, to be my "cooking" coach. She agreed to come over once a week and teach me some basics; some knife skills, some recipe ideas, some notion of what to keep in my pantry. She promised that when she was done with me I'd no longer open my refrigerator in despair, but would come to view it as a box full of potential meals. I choose to believe her, even though I really don't.

This morning she called me early as planned. "You up for starting at the very beginning?" she asked. I was, I said. "Good. Then I'm taking you to the garden."

As we drove across town to the community garden, Kelli told me that she liked to start in the place where food and inspiration meet. She wants to help me set up my own kitchen garden in the planter outside my living room window. When I told her that my gardening skills, like my cooking ability, were all talk and C-list action, she smiled. "When you walk among success, you become successful."

Ah, grasshopper. Already I was in a better mood.

The 25-year-old community gardens are spread over several acres, tucked away in a corner bordered on one side by a park and on the other by the freeway. The spring bounty is just beginning to bust out, pumpkin and zucchini plants are creeping into the pathways, runner beans are starting the twirling climb up their trellises, tomato plants are getting frothy. Flowers bloom everywhere, despite the June gloom. If you tell yourself that the freeway din is actually the sound of a mighty river, it's darn near paradise.

We walk the site and Kelli talks, explaining how to cook Swiss chard, how to make teas using lemon verbena and chamomile, how certain squash likes to be up off the ground. She asks every fellow gardener we meet what they feed their tomatoes, as she's not happy with the development of her own. By the time we run into her friend Lesley, I am delirious with the smell of earth and the potential of produce. I am making noises about getting on the waiting list for a plot myself. My own bit of garden. So what if I find myself awash in bushels of zucchini come next summer.

As if reading my mind, Lesley offers up this recipe:

Cut a medium-sized zucchini, a medium-sized summer squash, or any other sort of squash you happen to have, into largish chunks.
Coat them with two tablespoons of olive oil.
Coat them with a bit of marinara or tomato sauce "anything you have left over from pasta night," she says. Don't put too much in, just a coating.
Mix in a cup or so of mozzarella cheese.
Add some pasta seasonings

Bake all this at 450 degrees for about 45 minutes. She swore by its deliciousness. Then she handed me a decent-sized zucchini just cut from her garden, along with a summer squash, and a funny looking white squash I don't have the name for. "You want some basil too?" she asked, cutting me a bundle. Kelli nodded approvingly. "That will go great on top," she says.

I came home with the aforementioned squash, fresh basil and dill, fresh broccoli, a handful of chard, a cup of blackberries and a head of cabbage the size of a bowling ball. Visions of my week's menu tripped through my head: artichoke frittata, chard sauteed with garlic, blackberry tarts, maybe. Tonight, however, I aimed to make the zucchini bake.

I did, to shockingly good results, made even better with fresh shredded basil on top. It made the house smell like a home. The drama-tween ate an entire bowl (although a plate of soft vegetables is still too much to ask of the boy, cheesy or not). I was left feeling recharged, re-inspired. A focus was emerging for my long, boring summer. It's the potential of abundance.

Can you taste it? Stay tuned.

Red, red wine...

This just in: In a New York Times report today, researchers are saying that red wine may slow the aging process. The study is based on dosing mice with resveratrol, an ingredient found in some red wines (Merlot? Please say it's merlot!).

True, the scientists dosed mice with the equivalent of 35 bottles of red wine a day, but given the other resveratrol-like compounds that may also be beneficial, and taking into account a mouse's higher metabolic rate, a mere four, five-ounce glasses of wine “starts getting close” to the amount of resveratrol they found effective, according to the report.

Four glasses of wine? If I could work up to that, the effects on my cooking might be disastrous, but at least I'd regain my youthful spark. What d'ya all think? Worth a try?