Brussels sprouts will likely never be the food of choice for a 4-year old, but my introduction to the sulfurous miniature cabbages was less than ideal. Learning to cook in communal houses filled with blue-collar hippie dudes, my dad's early go-to recipes consisted mainly of hearty soups prepared in restaurant-sized pots. These methods translated to our family of three with occasional success, as leftover chili can be acceptably resurrected as nachos, chili dogs, or stuffed potatoes, especially when layered with shredded cheese. But the day he came home with a bushel of bargain Brussels spouts, mom and I were rightly wary. It wasn't so much the resulting bowl of murky green soup that we were served for dinner, but the oozing plastic tubs of the stuff that filled the freezer for far too long that still haunts me.
In the twenty-five-or-so years since his infamous lumpy concoction, he has refined his culinary skills and now manages to whip up the vegetable that turned my stomach into something nearly gourmet-- though the quantity is still impressive!
Dad's Brussels sprouts
As many Brussels sprouts as you can get your hands on, for the cheapest price you can find; up to an including negotiating with your produce provider
Several slices of bacon
A few shallots
Balsamic vinegar
Sea salt and fresh pepper
Meticulously rinse, trim, and half (or quarter, depending on how much patience mom has with you hogging the kitchen) each sprout and boil until tender but not falling apart. Drain and set aside.
In the biggest cast iron pan you have (but not the one you left on the campsite at the top of the mountain), fry bacon until crisp and aromatic enough to lure the cats to your ankles. Remove and drain, sampling as much as necessary, just to ensure it is top-notch. Crumble and set aside for later.
Thinly slice a pile of shallots and soften in the bacon grease, periodically shaking the pan like the chefs on TV. Add the Brussels spouts and cook until they're, you know, done. But not too done. Season with salt and pepper and finish with balsamic. Toss in the bacon at the last minute.
Oh, and make it your own.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
a meat journey and the beer trek.
Coercion and manipulation are the surest signs of love, as long as they are thinly veiled as "encouragement." After nudging the man to write about his affinity for expensive, esoteric craft beers, I've realized that no matter how I spin it, my motives for trying to get him to write an incomplete sentence and snap a quick bottle picture "to share his genius with the world" are not pure. Instead, they are not at all unlike buying him a book for his birthday with the hope that he will suddenly devour stacks of novels and spout philosophical quotes in casual conversations.
But beer is his passion, his escape; his vehicle by which to explore the country and the world while relaxing after a long day's work. The experiences of going to out of the way pubs and hole in the wall liquor stores have not escaped me even though I am deprived of the actual tasting of the beers, as an unfortunate wheat-and-nut allergy has left me to be a stout-sniffer and branding criticizer. I will, however, take a bit of credit for pressing him to peek into every bar we pass and make late-night runs to party stores even though his obsession is slowly creeping out of his beer fridge and into my sewing area; soon it will encroach upon my art corner and meat storage unit.
What's a beer teetotaler to do whilst supporting an expanding hobby with a high alcohol content? Make small talk with the over-eager college boy gulping happy hour hefeweizen ("It's OK honey, I'm sure he was gay...") while her man waxes on about last year's bourbon barrel-aged bottles with bartenders? Or perhaps make note of the details in the markets we've entered? I have eyed the extra-long counter piled exclusively with red plastic cups next to the imposing touch-screen virtual bartender on the UCSB campus uneasily, thinking of 19-year old sorority girls with poor judgment; daydreamed of the visionary Highland Park 7/11 employee who makes his mark selling $25 bottles of last year's Christmas ales next to the ubiquitous rotating hot dog stand to the sound of mariachi music; and chatted and shuffled to distract cashiers at gourmet stores from questioning sales of unlabeled 12-ounces while quickly shoving them into brown paper bags. All in the name of encouragement. And meat.
See, we have a whole schtick going-- and neither of us can bear to deprive the other of our respective passions for brews and burgers. Supportive we are of weekend trips to breweries and butcher shops, of gifting each other with beer- and bacon-of-the-month club memberships, and of running like hell to burn off the calories. But where will the line be drawn? Will we keep playing this coy game until one of us decides to really pursue our sidetracks as something gainful? Can I turn a blind eye if he decides our refrigerator would live a better life as a mega-sized kegorator because I'll jump on the opportunity to turn his gadget nook into a pen for plump pink pig?
But beer is his passion, his escape; his vehicle by which to explore the country and the world while relaxing after a long day's work. The experiences of going to out of the way pubs and hole in the wall liquor stores have not escaped me even though I am deprived of the actual tasting of the beers, as an unfortunate wheat-and-nut allergy has left me to be a stout-sniffer and branding criticizer. I will, however, take a bit of credit for pressing him to peek into every bar we pass and make late-night runs to party stores even though his obsession is slowly creeping out of his beer fridge and into my sewing area; soon it will encroach upon my art corner and meat storage unit.
What's a beer teetotaler to do whilst supporting an expanding hobby with a high alcohol content? Make small talk with the over-eager college boy gulping happy hour hefeweizen ("It's OK honey, I'm sure he was gay...") while her man waxes on about last year's bourbon barrel-aged bottles with bartenders? Or perhaps make note of the details in the markets we've entered? I have eyed the extra-long counter piled exclusively with red plastic cups next to the imposing touch-screen virtual bartender on the UCSB campus uneasily, thinking of 19-year old sorority girls with poor judgment; daydreamed of the visionary Highland Park 7/11 employee who makes his mark selling $25 bottles of last year's Christmas ales next to the ubiquitous rotating hot dog stand to the sound of mariachi music; and chatted and shuffled to distract cashiers at gourmet stores from questioning sales of unlabeled 12-ounces while quickly shoving them into brown paper bags. All in the name of encouragement. And meat.
See, we have a whole schtick going-- and neither of us can bear to deprive the other of our respective passions for brews and burgers. Supportive we are of weekend trips to breweries and butcher shops, of gifting each other with beer- and bacon-of-the-month club memberships, and of running like hell to burn off the calories. But where will the line be drawn? Will we keep playing this coy game until one of us decides to really pursue our sidetracks as something gainful? Can I turn a blind eye if he decides our refrigerator would live a better life as a mega-sized kegorator because I'll jump on the opportunity to turn his gadget nook into a pen for plump pink pig?
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