Year of the Cow

by Jared Stone

  Chicken-fried steak is, essentially, a steak treated like fried chicken. It’s usually one of the more humble cuts of meat—such as top round—tenderized, floured, and pan- or deep-fried. I haven’t fried any beef at all yet, and I have a brand spanking new Jaccard begging to be used. A Jaccard, also known as a needler, is something like a self-inking date stamp someone might use in an office—only instead of the date, it stamps two dozen razor-sharp needles into the surface of your choice.

  I slip my package of beef into a bowl and turn on a thin stream of cold water. A half hour later, my steaks are thawed, my Jaccard is ready, and I’m eager to perforate some steak.

  I lay the steaks on the board. They’re already tenderized by my butcher, but I can do better. I stamp them with the Jaccard like a nefarious bureaucrat from Terry Gilliam’s Brazil.

  Once they’re thoroughly perforated, I dredge the steaks in some seasoned flour, then an egg wash, then more seasoned flour, and then drop them into some hot canola oil in my Dutch oven. A couple of minutes per side, then I stash the steaks on a plate and stow them in a warm oven.

  The main course is ready, now it’s time to turn my attention to the side salad. What the hell can I do with white onions and lettuce? I start considering dressings. I have herbs, I have vinegar … and I also have all this oil. Just sitting there. Barely used for frying my steaks. Still warm, in fact. Sitting right there.

  I glance back to my onion. Back to the oil.

  Since I’m on a kitchen gadget kick, I pull out my mandoline, which, like my Jaccard, I rarely use. The mandoline is essentially a small, elevated table with a blade set into it for slicing. If you recall those ancient credit card machines that used to take an imprint of the entire card rather than just swiping the magnetic strip, you have some idea of what a mandoline looks like. Only instead of pressing carbon paper onto a credit card, it slides the veggie of your choice through a razor-sharp blade.

  The theme of today’s meal is Deadly Office Supplies, apparently.

  Five minutes later, my white onion is sliced into delicate concentric rings of identical thickness. I dump the flour from the dredging station but create a new, identical one on another clean plate. I put the canola back over the flame and bring it up to about 350 degrees. I drop the onion rings into the oil, one at a time, working in small batches to keep them from sticking to one another. Ten minutes later, I have a stash of beautiful, golden-brown onion rings. I stow them in the warm oven as well.

  Finally, I drain off most of the oil from my fry station and whisk in a little flour to make a quick roux. I add a little chicken broth until I get the right consistency, then a little milk to make a cream gravy. Pleased, I survey my work.

  I have created nothing remotely resembling a salad.

  The head of romaine sits unused on the counter opposite the detritus of my fry frenzy. Somewhat embarrassed, I chop the romaine and pull together the saddest vinaigrette mankind has ever known.

  Also, I’ve cooked an entire meal in canola oil. It’s a highly processed oil that oxidizes easily, leading to all sorts of maladies Nourishing Traditions lays at the feet of the Western industrialized diet. I feel a bit guilty.

  Still, when Summer and Declan return home, I’m ready with the chicken-fried steak, onion rings, and my punchline of a salad.

  “Nice job, Suzy Homemaker,” my wife comments, surveying the meal. She pauses and cocks her head. “Is there anything in that salad besides lettuce?”

  “Um … no. There is not.”

  She laughs. I set the table.

  As chicken-fried steaks go, this is glorious. Better than anything I’ve ever had in a restaurant. Summer forgoes the steak in favor of the ludicrous little salad I made, but Declan dives into the steak with gusto. He rarely eats meat, so this is a welcome surprise. Similarly, the onion rings blow the doors off most restaurant fare.

  We eat and laugh as Summer tells me of their afternoon adventures. I love these little moments when I can put food on the table literally, instead of just figuratively.

  I’m encouraged by how well this meal turned out, but it isn’t really what I set out to do initially. I wanted a salad. I’m dismayed by the dearth of vegetables in my house. I glance over at my copy of Nourishing Traditions lying on the kitchen counter. Mocking me.

  Something needs to be done.

  * * *

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure,” I reply. Summer and I are standing over an open cardboard box. It is overflowing with all manner of vegetables. Some of these vegetables are familiar. Others—such as the enormous white carrotesque roots in the center of the box—are not. “I think they’re turnips.”

  “I’ve seen turnips. Those are not turnips.”

  “Maybe rutabagas?”

  “I don’t think so,” she says.

  “Have you ever had a rutabaga?” I ask.

  “No. But they’re like big round globular things. Not giant carrots.” She thinks. “Go check the list.”

  I jump on the computer and pull up my e-mail. We’ve signed up for a vegetable delivery service, and our first delivery has just arrived. We don’t get to pick what we receive, though. Each shipment is simply an assortment of whatever’s fresh and in season at the time. They e-mailed an inventory of the first shipment.

  “Parsnips.”

  “Oh, cool,” she says. Then, a second later: “I have no idea what that is.”

  “Me neither,” I reply, examining the gigantic roots before moving on to the rest of the box. There are huge green leaves everywhere. “We have kale for days, though.”

  “So much kale. What are we going to do with all of it?”

  “We’ll figure it out.” I smile. “It’s an adventure.”

  “It certainly is.”

  “What doesn’t kale us—”

  “Stop,” she interrupts. “Let’s get this stuff in the fridge.”

  * * *

  Thursday night. All is not well.

  I walk in the door to the sound of a screaming toddler. Dec is cranky, sobbing his lungs out in his room. Meanwhile, Summer is riffling through our kitchen stores.

  Summer hears me come in. “Check on him,” she says, gesturing to the far side of the house. I drop my bag and head for Declan’s room.

  The little man is in a bad mood. There’s nothing really wrong with him, but he’s hungry. Toys aren’t calming him. I try to read him a book, but he won’t hold still. He’s hungry. I hoist him up onto my hip and head back in Summer’s direction.

  “Do we have any chicken nuggets?” she asks.

  “Trade me.” I pass Declan off to Summer and take her place in the kitchen.

  Go time.

  We need food for the munchkin, and we need it yesterday. I raid our vegetation-crammed fridge.

  Snow peas! Dec likes peas.

  Broccoli! Superfood. Everybody likes broccoli.

  Asparagus? Why not.

  Edamame—definitely. Another toddler favorite.

  Declan likes all this stuff. Surely he’ll be in the mood for one of these.

  Now, what to do with it all? I could do tapas—in our house tapas is another word for lazy buffet. But raw broccoli and raw asparagus are nasty. Luckily, I have brown rice in the fridge. Brown rice plus a boatload of vegetables equals stir-fry. Beef for a protein. Done.

  I raid the freezer and pull out a pound of round. At least, I think it’s round. The package is conveniently labeled “stir-fry beef.” Good enough for me. I throw it in the sink under a thin stream of water to thaw.

  That done, the knife comes out. I slice everything into approximately equal-sized pieces. In a stir-fry, prep is everything. Once the cooking process begins, there’s no stopping it. You have to have all the ingredients ready to cook, standing by in the proper order, and know how long everything needs to stay in so that the entire dish is ready at once. Good prep makes that easier.

  I begin the rice in a pot on a back burner. Meanwhile, I pull together a quick sauce out of soy sauce, some rice
vinegar, a little mirin—Japanese cooking wine—I had on hand, and the juice of an orange. I also dice a couple cloves of garlic. Garlic is always good.

  Summer pokes her head in, still holding a grumpy child. “How long ’til dinner?”

  “Soon. Ten minutes. Ish.”

  She nods and darts back out. I slam my wok down on my biggest burner, splash in some oil—organic, virgin coconut oil rather than canola—and crank the heat to high.

  When the oil shimmers, I toss in the thawed beef. There’s a frenzy and commotion in the wok as the meat hits the oil. When the beef is browned, I pour it into a bowl to wait.

  More oil into the wok. Then, all the veggies. I cook them until they’re only slightly soft—overcooked veggies are gross. Just undercooked veggies are crisp. Besides, they’ll continue to cook as they cool.

  I pour in the sauce, which responds with a hiss and a cloud of steam. I let it just warm, then add the beef back in to heat through.

  The rice is done. I drop a scoop in three bowls and fat ladles of stir-fry over the top. I add extra veggies for Declan, in hopes that there’s something in the bowl he likes. I’m playing the screaming-toddler lottery here. Dinner is served.

  It’s a good dish—a little rushed and a little sloppy for it. But we enjoyed it; the sauce was bright and lovely. Declan wolfed down the edamame, largely ignoring the rest of the dish. But that’s okay. He ate. Perhaps through sniffles, but he ate.

  Summer likewise approved. “I love broccoli so much.”

  “Me too. And it’s so good for you it’s silly.”

  She nods. “Nice work, Stone. And on a weekday, to boot.”

  “It’s a weekday.” I grin a little. For a weekday, this is quite a meal.

  It’s also the type of meal I’ve found myself eating more and more in this project. And it seems to be having an effect on me—I’ve dropped nearly ten pounds since last I weighed myself, which admittedly, I do not do often.

  Though counterintuitive, this weight loss does make a kind of sense. I’m cooking far more than I did in the era BC (Before Cow) and eating a far higher-quality beef than I ate before I started the project. Chicken-fried steak notwithstanding, having a freezer full of beef has led me to eating far more vegetables as well. I’m eating a diet much closer to that of my great-grandparents than that of people of my generation. Whole grains. Raw sugar. Grass-fed beef.

  I may not know what I’m doing all the time. But I feel like I’m doing something right.

  Chicken-Fried Steak and Onion Rings

  Time: About 1 hour

  Serves 4

  This is not, in any sense, a salad. However, if you grew up in a few particular areas of the Midwest or South, this dish will taste like home.

  1 pound round steak or tenderized round steak

  3 large eggs, plus 1 additional, beaten

  3 cups plus 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour

  2 tablespoons kosher salt

  2 teaspoons freshly ground black pepper

  1 teaspoon garlic powder (optional)

  1 white onion

  1 cup canola oil (approximately)

  1½ cups chicken broth (plus 2 tablespoons, if needed)

  ½ cup milk

  ½ teaspoon fresh thyme leaves

  1. Preheat the oven to 200°F or the “keep warm” setting.

  2. Using a Jaccard tenderizer, stamp your steaks from tip to tip. Rotate the Jaccard 90 degrees and stamp them again. Flip the steaks to the other side and repeat. (Alternatively, you can pound each side all over with a tenderizing mallet, but be gentle.)

  3. Put the 3 beaten eggs in a wide bowl and beat them lightly with a fork to combine. In another bowl, combine 1½ cups of the flour with salt and pepper (and garlic powder, if desired), to taste. Transfer half of the seasoned flour to another bowl.

  4. Dredge each steak in the first bowl of seasoned flour, then dip in the beaten egg, then dredge again in the second bowl of seasoned flour. Gently shake off any excess.

  5. Stow the steaks in the fridge for 30 minutes to allow the egg/flour mixture to harden into a crust.

  6. Meanwhile, peel the onion, keeping it whole, and slice into rings 3/8 inch thick. A mandoline is your friend here.

  7. Create a new dredging station in clean bowls, again seasoning 1½ cups of flour and dividing it in half between two bowls. Use the remaining egg as the egg station for the onion rings. Repeat the same flour-egg-flour dredging process used for the steaks.

  8. Put the oil in a wide stockpot until it reaches a depth of 1 to 2 inches. Heat the oil to about 350°F on a deep-frying thermometer, or until it’s shimmery. Lower the heat to maintain the temperature.

  9. Working in batches, fry the onion rings until golden brown, then transfer them to a baking sheet lined with paper towels. Sprinkle the onion rings generously with salt, then put them in the warm oven until ready to serve.

  10. Pour off most of the oil into a heatproof bowl, leaving only ½ inch in the stockpot. Heat the oil in the stockpot to about 350°F, or until shimmery, then lower the heat to maintain the temperature.

  11. Working in batches so as not to overload the pot, fry the steaks for about 4 minutes per side, or until each side is golden brown.

  12. Remove the steaks to a plate and season with a sprinkle of salt.

  13. Quickly pour the remaining oil into the heatproof bowl, then add 1 tablespoon back to the stockpot. Boost the heat to medium and whisk in the remaining 3 tablespoons flour to make a roux.

  14. Add 1½ cups of the broth and whisk to deglaze the pan (add a splash more if the fond is stubborn about dissolving).

  15. When the broth begins to bubble, add the milk and thyme and cook until the liquid is reduced and coats the back of a spoon, about 5 minutes. Season with salt and pepper to taste (pepper is your friend here) and kill the heat. You’ve got gravy.

  16. Serve the steaks alongside the onion rings, applying gravy to whatever suits your fancy. Or serve the gravy on the side.

  17. Next meal, eat a salad. Seriously.

  7

  Go Big

  Here’s a little-known fact: God made summer to give the rest of the world a taste of what it’s like living in the City of Angels.

  I mean, sure. Beautiful days exist in other places. But not like here. We get the platonic ideal of beautiful days. We get Elysium and the Land of Milk and Honey. Other places have the odd song written about them now and then—“Take Me Home, Country Roads”; “New York, New York”; “April in Paris”—whatever. We’ve got the entire Beach Boys canon.

  And in certain specific instances of this Southern California idyll—on certain days when the sky is impossibly blue and the sun shines down with all its beatific glory and people slip their shades on and crack a grin that splits their faces ear to ear—on days like that, it’s a crime against nature not to go to the beach.

  On this particular Saturday, the beach of choice for us is Leo Carillo. It’s dog-friendly and toddler-welcoming. Close enough to our house that we don’t have to pack a lunch and a canteen to get there, but far enough away from Los Angeles proper that we won’t have to throw elbows to find a place to drop our towels.

  At the beach, Summer relaxes while Declan, Basil, and I chase the waves back into the sea. It’s an altogether lovely way to spend a Saturday. And it’s becoming more and more common.

  Since I’ve been focusing on cooking and eating whole foods, I’ve noticed that trends in my life reinforce one another. When I’m active—when I run, climb, surf (or try and awkwardly fail to surf)—I also cook more often. I’m inspired, in some weird way, to seek sustenance in proportion to my ambition. And the reverse is also true—when I slouch around the house, I cook less. I can’t really explain it. But it could be that when I do things that I personally ascribe meaning to, I want to keep the chain going. I ride a wave—I want a steak, a beer, and a sunset. I blow some time killing virtual zombies, I want a pizza.

  And today, I was active. I’m tired but not ready to quit. On the way home, I turn my
thoughts to dinner. “Surf ’n’ turf,” I suggest, grinning to my wife in a way I hope splits the difference between cocky and genius. Have Jeeves bring around the Bentley and fetch me my driving Rolex. No, no, the good one.

  This meal is stunt food. It exists because it’s a way for restaurants to package the two most expensive items on the menu—tenderloin and lobster—into one ostentatious price tag. Otherwise, these two items don’t even go together. It’s the most conspicuous of conspicuous consumption, and maybe even a little cliché.

  But it also sounds delicious, and I already have the tenderloin.

  Summer grins a little. “I like the way your brain works, Stone.” When my wife is down for an adventure, that adventure moves from “great idea” to “absolutely epic” with a quickness. “That means we’ll have to buy a lobster.”

  “Yeah. I was reading the other day that lobster prices have fallen through the floor in the last few months. Global recession, financial catastrophe, yada yada—nobody’s buying lobsters.”

  She grins wider. “I’m down.” Then she turns to watch telephone poles whip by in front of a shimmering ocean. “Do you know where to get a lobster?”

  “Sure,” I say. “I know a guy.”

  * * *

  I don’t know a guy.

  After trying two Vons supermarkets, a Henry’s, and a Ralph’s, I finally find a supermarket that has a tank of lobsters—and a seafood attendant who’s never sold one. He has to call over his manager to figure out how to package the crustacean. He settles on a plain white box that I believe once held cans of tomato sauce.

  Minutes later, the box is resting on my wife’s lap. Something scrapes the lid from within. It’s like a sound effect from a zombie movie. Creepy.

  At home, I open the box, gross out the wife, frighten the child, and freak out the dog, in that order. Then, as is my wont, I do a little research.

  Lobsters are colloquially referred to as “bugs,” and that’s actually relatively accurate, as they are both arthropods, or beasts with no backbones and their skeletons in their skin. Their brain is about the size of a grasshopper’s—and I use “brain” very loosely here. It’s more like a clump of ganglia that don’t really have other plans.