White Jacket Required
Page 8
Lemon–Brown Sugar Chicken
Serves 4
I just love this simple chicken dish—the perfect combination of sweet and sour! Serve it with roasted Brussels sprouts and a baked sweet potato for a complete meal.
1 pound boneless, skinless chicken breast
1 cup lemon juice
1 cup flour
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon paprika
Dash of freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons canola oil
2 tablespoons chicken stock (recipe follows)
2 tablespoons brown sugar
1 tablespoon grated lemon zest
Combine chicken and lemon juice in a bowl and marinate in refrigerator for at least 30 minutes and up to 8 hours.
Drain the chicken and set aside. Fill a plastic bag with flour, salt, paprika, and pepper. Shake well. Add the chicken and shake to coat completely.
Heat canola oil in a large skillet (preferably cast iron) until hot but not smoking. Add the chicken and cook about 6 minutes on each side, until browned. Remove chicken from pan and deglaze with stock. Return chicken to pan.
Sprinkle the brown sugar and lemon zest over chicken and transfer to oven to finish baking, about 30 minutes.
Spicy Chicken Tortilla Soup
Serves 6
Serve this with lots of shredded Monterey Jack cheese, sliced jalapeños, and cornbread on the side for the perfect belly-warming meal that heals just about anything.
1½ pounds boneless skinless chicken breasts
1 poblano pepper
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 large red onion, diced
1 jalapeño pepper, diced (include seeds, if desired)
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 teaspoons chili powder
2 teaspoons cumin
8 cups homemade chicken stock (or canned chicken broth)
1 (14-ounce) can fire-roasted diced tomatoes (or Ro-tel tomatoes and chiles)
1 cup hominy
2 (15-ounce) cans black beans, drained and rinsed
1 (4-ounce) can diced green chiles
2 teaspoons salt
4 corn tortillas, cut into strips
Juice of 2 limes
Shredded Monterey Jack cheese for serving
Chopped cilantro for serving
Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Add the chicken breasts and simmer for about 20 minutes, or until cooked through. Drain chicken and set aside to cool. Once cool, chop into 1-inch cubes.
While the chicken is cooking, roast the poblano pepper over a burner on a gas stove or under the broiler until it is very charred (almost black). Set aside on a plate to cool, then dice.
Heat the olive oil in a very large pot over medium-high heat until hot but not smoking, then add the onion and jalapeño and cook, stirring occasionally, until soft, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and diced poblano and cook for another minute. Add the chili powder and cumin and stir until well combined.
Stir in the chicken stock, diced tomatoes, hominy, black beans, green chiles, diced cooked chicken, and salt and bring to a boil. Add the tortilla strips and lime juice and cook until the tortillas soften.
Serve with the shredded cheese and chopped cilantro on the side.
Homemade Chicken Stock
Makes about 2 quarts
Everyone should have a homemade chicken stock recipe; it really does make a big difference in the flavor of any dish. You can freeze this in small portions for quick and easy defrosting.
1 large chicken, about 5 pounds
1 yellow onion, unpeeled and cut in half
2 large carrots, ends trimmed and cut in half
2 large stalks celery, ends removed, cut in half
1 bay leaf
Cold fresh water
Put chicken in a large stockpot with remaining ingredients. Add cold water to cover. Put pot over high heat and bring to a boil, then reduce heat to a simmer, partially cover, and simmer for two hours. Skim any scum that rises to the top.
After two hours, remove the chicken from the pot and remove the veggies. Then, bring the stock back up to a boil and cook until it has reduced by half. This should take another hour or two.
Cool the stock, then strain through a fine-mesh strainer into a clean stockpot. If desired, freeze individual portions of stock in sandwich-sized plastic bags, then defrost as needed.
9
HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS
I HEADED HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS AFTER MEAT FABRICATION class, exhausted both mentally and physically. Helen was going home as well, and despite our very different career choices, we both felt the exact same way. The other night over sushi she had finally confided in me that she felt she might have made a mistake in joining the police force.
“It’s not really what I thought,” she had said, as she picked at some lightly salted edamame. We had gone out to dinner to celebrate the end of my first semester and the impending Christmas break. “It’s not that I don’t think I can do it, but I’m just not all that happy. I keep thinking it will get better, but it’s getting worse.”
Orlando had a tough crime scene, and Helen looked as if she hadn’t slept in weeks. I wasn’t sure she had.
As we prepared to go our separate ways for the holiday break, we hugged and promised to stay in touch over the next few weeks. Then she jumped in her SUV and turned toward the interstate. I only had an hour and a half drive home but was looking forward to it. I needed to clear my head a little bit. Though I hadn’t told anybody yet, I was also beginning to second-guess my decision to go back to school. I hadn’t made many friends and constantly felt alienated because I was the only person there who didn’t aspire to be a chef. Now, three months in, I was worried that I had made the wrong decision.
It didn’t help matters that people were constantly asking me why I would go to culinary school in the first place if I didn’t want to be a restaurant chef. I patiently explained again and again that the art of writing about food required actually knowing food. If I didn’t really know the subject I was writing about, how could I ever be taken seriously? I had read many writers who could give beautiful, mouthwatering descriptions of food, but their eloquent prose seemed to lack a deeper knowledge. I wanted to be the writer who really knew what she was talking about, who understood why a given dish worked or didn’t work. But I was starting to doubt myself. Was culinary school really the way to achieve my goals?
As I turned the corner onto my parents’ street, my anxious thoughts melted away, and I felt relief wash over me.
“Jen’s back!” my brother shouted as I opened the door.
“Hey, John, what’s goin’ on?” I said. My little brother wasn’t so little anymore, and he towered over me. I noticed the faint shadow above his lip and the way his arms seemed to fill out his white short-sleeve shirt. He was five years my junior, and through our whole lives we had maintained a very standard “little brother–big sister” relationship. We fought. We yelled. We bickered. But at the end of the day, he was my little brother and I loved him.
“Nothin,’” he said, and threw open the fridge to grab a Coke.
My parents came down the stairs and hugged me. “Welcome home, sweetie,” my mom said.
“We were hoping you could debone our chicken for dinner tonight,” Dad said, winking.
“Ha, ha. Very funny. I think I’m ready to take a little break from animals.” I set my suitcase near the stairs and followed everyone into the kitchen. “How’s school going, John?” I asked.
“Fine. Boring.” A typical seventeen-year-old’s answer. “Hey, Mom? Can I go to David’s house now?” he asked.
Mom sighed. “We would love to have you stay for dinner, John, but if you really want to go, you can go.”
“Great. See ya, Jen!” John shouted as he slammed the front door behind him.
Mom had made a delicious pasta dish using fettuccine, Brie cheese, and escarole, the slightly bitter green. She served heaping portions to my dad and me, alongside a simple gr
een salad. I loved how the Brie coated every strand of slippery fettuccine and perfectly rounded out the flavor of the spicy greens. Mom was such a fabulous cook, and she took pride in feeding her family well with dishes that were not only tasty but healthy, too.
Later that evening, I lay in my childhood bed and considered my options. I hadn’t let on to my parents that anything was wrong; I just needed time to really think. I could keep going, I could drop out, or . . . I could switch to the Pastry and Baking Program, the other culinary option offered at my school. I hadn’t given the P&B program much thought when I enrolled. It cost about the same as the Culinary program, and I just figured since I was there, I might as well do the whole shebang.
The next day, I sat in my closet, organizing clothes I never wore anymore and going through old pairs of shoes, deciding what to take back to Orlando with me and what to donate to Goodwill. I was reaching up to grab a shoebox from the top shelf when a bright orange plastic box fell down, scattering note cards all over my closet floor. I jumped down from the chair I had been standing on and picked up one of the cards. The script was tiny and faded, but I could make out an old-fashioned recipe for Ritz Pie. I knew immediately that the box once had belonged to my great-grandmother, but had no idea how it had found its way into my closet.
“Mom!” I ran into her room with the Ritz Pie recipe in one hand and the orange box in the other. “Where did this come from?” I asked, holding out the box for her to see.
“Oh, I had totally forgotten about that! Grandma gave me that to give to you. Those are all of Great-Grandma’s recipes from when she had the bakery during World War Two. Grandma thought you might like to have them,” my mom said, a smile growing on her face.
I had almost forgotten about my great-grandmother, who had worked as a baker and cake decorator during the Second World War, while her young husband fought on the front lines in Europe. After he was killed in the war, my great-grandmother had three young children to support, and she continued to work as a baker for the rest of her life. She had passed away when I was just a baby, so I never really knew her, but I wore her tiny emerald-studded ring on my right hand.
“I think she would have wanted you to have these, Jennifer. She had the best dessert recipes!” Mom said.
Back in my room, I carefully went through the cards, sitting cross-legged with them scattered all around me. I could have sworn they still smelled of spun sugar and buttercream icing. There were recipes for Swedish ginger cookies, sour-cream coffee cake, and a very retro chocolate pie made with saltine crackers and whipped cream. Other recipes called for old-fashioned ingredients such as clabbered milk and lard, and I immediately started thinking of how I could remake these desserts in a modern-day kitchen. I was taken with the story, the faded handwriting, and the recipes themselves, and suddenly all I wanted to do was bake. What if I reworked all these recipes for a more modern kitchen and then wrote a book about it? My heart started fluttering. Yes, I thought, that’s what I will do. It was perfect! I could combine my passions for food, writing, and history all in one. But first, I would need to know how to rewrite the recipes.
The whole thing seemed like an answered prayer. I no longer stressed about my decision to go to culinary school, and instead prepared to tell my parents about my new decision: to switch over to the Baking and Pastry Program. It was perfect, really. I could swap my hours at the restaurant for a day shift and then go to school at night, when the B&P program took place. I would learn everything possible about baking, and then when I graduated, I would work on Great-Grandma’s recipe collection. I couldn’t wait.
Come to think of it, I didn’t love to carve pork. I didn’t even really love to chop carrots. What did I love to do more than anything? Bake. It’s been said that most people can cook but not everyone can bake, and I had always found solace and comfort in reading recipes and watching bread rise. I loved the fact that if you followed the recipe’s instructions, the final product would turn out as expected. In a world with no real guarantees, the fact that I was promised sugar cookies in one hour if I read the fine print in my big yellow Gourmet bible was an unmitigated joy. I was sure that switching to the B&P program was the answer to my prayers and, that night, I prepared to tell my parents the news over dinner.
My mom was serving up slices of perfectly cooked roast pork when I piped up.
“I have an announcement to make!” I said. “I’ve decided that I want to switch over from the Culinary Program to the Baking and Pastry Program at school.”
Mom and Dad raised their eyebrows while John stuffed a large piece of pork in his mouth. “Honey?” Dad said. “What brought this on? I thought things were going well at school.”
I sighed. “It’s been . . . fine. I just haven’t been one hundred percent happy, and with the kind of money I’m spending to go, I want to actually enjoy my time there.”
I chewed on a piece of pork and instantly memories of Meat Fab came flooding back, leaving an almost bitter taste in my mouth. I had been so looking forward to my mom’s cooking during this break, but this was not what I’d expected. After dealing solely with chopping up animals for the past month, I had simply lost my appetite for meat. I couldn’t help but notice, though, the color of the pork and wonder if it had been cooked to a proper 160 degrees. I just couldn’t seem to escape meat, no matter where I was.
“But are you sure you want to do this?” Mom asked, a look of worry in her eyes. “I thought you said getting a general degree in culinary arts was looked at with higher regard in the actual job market . . . . You don’t want to transfer now just because it’s easier and then have a harder time later getting a job!”
“Mom, you know I don’t want to be a restaurant chef anyway!” I said. “My passion isn’t for cooking chicken, it’s for baking. Finding Great-Grandma’s recipe box solidified that. I want to learn everything possible about baking and desserts so that I know enough to rewrite her recipes.” I didn’t add that I had already found out that some of my credits would transfer over, so I’d still be able to graduate at the same time. I gingerly sliced through my pork again, seeing visions of the whole animals that I had just broken down a few days before.
“Well, you’re right. It is your money and your time. If you think switching programs is best, we trust you,” Dad said with a smile.
Later, my mom came up to my room and lightly knocked on the door. I was sitting in my pajamas on my bed, with Great-Grandma’s recipes spread out all over my comforter.
“Jenny Ren?” Mom called softly. “Can I come in?”
Jenny Ren was her pet name for me, a name she had been calling me since I was a baby, even though no one else in the world did.
“Of course, come on in!” I called.
Mom was wearing her pajamas, too, and her shoulder-length blonde hair was pulled up in a ponytail. Growing up, I always wanted to be just like her, and it sometimes struck me how similar we’d become as I’d grown older.
“I just wanted you to know that I’m proud of you . . . really. Great-Grandma would be proud of you, too. I think you’re making the right decision,” she said, sitting down on the edge of my bed and picking up one of the faded recipe cards.
I smiled. “Thanks,” I said.
“You always did have that stubborn streak in you, just like Grandpa. Once you get your mind wrapped around something, there’s no turning back, is there?” Mom let out a soft laugh and reached over to gently squeeze my shoulder. “But I think baking is much more up your alley,” she added.
I could hear John’s video games almost shaking the bedroom wall, and Mom rolled her eyes. “See, or rather hear, what you’re missing? That boy will be the death of me.”
I thought about asking my brother to go to a movie over the break, but I knew he would say no. We had never been very close, but I had always wanted and wished for a best-friend type of sibling relationship. With my living away from home and his being a sullen teenager, that seemed almost impossible now. Still, it couldn’t hurt to try. I jus
t hoped he wasn’t falling in with the wrong crowd at school. Mom reassured me he wasn’t, but I had my doubts. A few times I thought I had smelled pot in his car, but when I tried to confront him about it he just laughed it off and denied anything. John had been pushing the limits in every way since we were kids; he was as much of a rebel as I was a conservative rule-follower, and I hoped he was staying safe. Mom had also casually mentioned that a few times a very cute, soft-spoken girl with long brown hair had been hanging around the house. Of course, whenever she brought it up with John, he turned bright red, muttered a one-word response, and ran up the stairs.
I laughed and chatted with Mom for a while longer before turning off the light and climbing into bed. A sense of peace washed over me that I hadn’t felt in quite a while. I still had almost two whole weeks at home to think and plan for the change. There would be no more butchery, no more precision cuts, and no more bleeding all over the onions.
Linguine with Escarole and Brie
Serves 4
Peppery escarole, creamy Brie cheese, and salty, crisp bacon—in a word, delicious! If you can’t find escarole, use kale instead.
8 ounces dry linguine pasta
2 ounces bacon, chopped
1 large garlic clove, minced
1 shallot, minced
1 pound fresh escarole, chopped into 1-inch ribbons
½ pound Brie cheese, rind removed and cheese diced into medium-size cubes (it doesn’t matter if the cubes aren’t perfect!)
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
Cook the pasta according to package directions in a pot of boiling salt water until al dente.
Meanwhile, cook the bacon in a large skillet until crispy. Add the garlic and shallot and cook for another two minutes, stirring well. Add the escarole and toss together, cooking until wilted.
When the pasta is cooked, drain it (reserving ½ cup cooking water). Toss the pasta with the escarole in the skillet until well combined, then add the Brie. Cook until the Brie begins to melt, adding a little of the extra cooking water if the pasta gets too dry.