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Posts Tagged ‘chevy impala’

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Are you sick of hearing about my kitchen screw-ups? No? Awesome, because here’s another one. It’ll also be good reinforcement for those who say they can’t imagine me fouling up a recipe. Plus, it features colorful language and is therefore a shot of truth for those who don’t think I ever swear. I’m all altruism today, aren’t I?

It started with a request from an actor friend of mine. Some time ago she had posted about her love of peanut butter fudge on Facebook. I told her I had a fantastic recipe and would treat her to some during the run of our upcoming show.

The day before I planned to bring it in, I looked for said fantastic recipe and couldn’t find it in my recipe files. No worries, I thought. I’ll find it on Martha’s site. It’s hers. But it wasn’t there. She had a different one, but not MINE. My printer has been chewing up paper lately, so I wrote it out by hand. It was simple, but it did say not to overcook.*

That night I was out late with the cast, then proceeded to yammer away in the restaurant parking lot, as theatre types tend to do, until it got even later. Got up around 9 all the same, and began. I had to leave by 6 for the show and knew the candy would need to set awhile. Here’s how it went.

1) Blinked blearily into the exceedingly bright light of the fridge. Saw I had no milk for the recipe. Mumbled the first of the day’s colorful language.

2) Decided I needed to double the recipe since we had around 21 actors, who typically are hungry creatures, plus crew and staff. Doubled it. Set it into a pot that still had a good half-capacity empty space above it. It was only about a quart of goo. Harmless.**

3) Had to bring the mixture to 236 degrees. Began to worry when I hit 220 and it started to foam up like a Chow-Chow watching a Sizzler commercial. Turning down the heat to medium didn’t help. Also, turning down the heat to barely on didn’t help. More colorful language ensued.*** Brown, sticky, and continuing-to-bubble peanut butter goo erupted all over jet #1.

4) It did smell nice, though.

5)  Had just a few seconds to decide if I was going to chuck the whole sorry pan or figure out what pan I was going to switch it into. Candy is a diva; you let the temperature fluctuate just a little bit and it gets all ‘I can’t work like this.’ And I already had a strike against me lowering the heat as quickly as I did. I had a great enamelware pot that would be perfect to use, but I used it last week to make mulberry compote, and parts of the bottom still had cheerful berry-shaped burns on them. I had neglected to stir the compote as often as I should have. I also very purposely neglected to tell you about it. All I had left to use was my turkey stockpot, which could accommodate a watermelon. If you set it on end, it could also accommodate a Chevy Impala transmission.

6) Pushed aside everything on the counter and set down the oozing pan. Grabbed the step ladder and pulled the stockpot down from the shelf above me. Poured all of the goo into it, set it on jet #2, and started it up.

7) Waited for the goo to come back to temperature. Wet a dishtowel and began cleaning the melee off the stove. ‘Why’s the dishtowel smoking?’ I’m thinking. ‘Wait, what’s this jet still doing on?’ My stove is only about 2 weeks old, and the jet dials are opposite of my old one. Which meant the dishtowel was smoking for a very good reason**** , and I had turned off the heat on the candy again.

8) Turned it back on. Realized using a really deep pot means your candy thermometer will be too short to reach into the goo. Held it myself with the traumatized dishtowel in one hand, and a rag in the other to wipe off condensation so I could read the numbers.

9) Still hard to read due to the above. Hit 236. Well, 7. Okay, 8. Poured the goo into the parchmented pan, which turned out to be too big a pan. So much for doubling. Lifted the whole shebang into a smaller one. Twice. Took an extra 10 minutes trying to scrape out the remains from the godawful big, and 238-degree hot, pot.

10) Since I messed with the temperature too much, the fudge predictably Patti LuPoned, and the edges turned out as chewy as caramel.***** Chopped them off, and thanked the universe, asteroids and nebulae when I found the interior still soft. Not as creamy as it should have been, but at least I wouldn’t have to contend with any backstage lockjaw. Tasted it. It didn’t have that kick of salt that I think peanut butter needs, so I sprinkled some fleur de sel on top. Then I crashed on the sofa until my 6:30 call.

The actors loved it. One quoted the movie Big Night and told me she had to die now. The girlfriends of the actors loved it. One told me she wanted to marry it. It’s gratifying knowing my cooking can inspire drama, but then again, I was in the right place for it.

I cleaned the kitchen today. Was this close to opening my windows and asking the boys next door at the fire house to let rip the water hoses.

*Words to live by. For someone else.

**And I’m not even done.

***On the ROYGBIV rainbow scale, we’re somewhere around cadmium yellow.

****Turquoise.

*****Ebony. Oh, we’re way over the rainbow.

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Almost a year ago I got into an accident which broke my collarbone, put my dominant arm into a sling, and forced me to give up cooking anything that was too physically demanding. All last fall and winter I was surprised at how much I missed cutting up apples and slicing into fresh pumpkins to make pies and cakes, and at how deprived I felt of those lovely flavors. I know, I could buy other people’s creations, and I did. It wasn’t the same. I wanted to taste my own recipes. And what surprised me most was that I actually craved the process of making them, the actual work, just as much as the tastes.

I met a new friend recently who put it perfectly: She said making things yourself makes you feel like more of a person.  And to put an even finer point on it, I think it’s the labor-intensive stuff that does the job the best. After my accident I lost the ability to do lot of what made me feel like a person. I like the physicality of cutting into a cheese pumpkin. I like feeling—through the resistance of a chef’s knife—the difference between a crisp Empire apple and a soft Macintosh. I was amazed at how much the work I put into baking flavors the pie.

My shoulder and arm have been strengthened in the past year by physical therapy and theatre therapy (in other words, crewing shows, mostly recently one that required me to lift antique gramophones that weigh as much as a Chevy Impala), and I have been swooning with excitement at the thought of working with fall fruits again. So a couple of days ago I got started with the above. It’s a hot sandwich that I made with apples and a sharp Jack cheese.

Take an apple. Wash it well, cut it in half, core it, and cut half into thin slices. Eat the other half while you work. Grate or slice up some of your favorite cheese.* Take out two slices of your favorite bread and put them side by side on a plate. Heat up a pat of butter in a wide skillet** over medium heat and swirl it around. Put half of the cheese on one bread slice. Top with apple slices. Put the rest of the cheese on top of them. Put the other bread slice on top.

Using a spatula and your hand to balance, lower your thing of beauty into the skillet. Let it sit there for about 30 seconds. Then slide the spatula carefully underneath it, put your hand on top of it, and invert. Give yourself points if nothing falls out. Gobble up whatever does fall out. Let the sandwich sit on the heat for another 30 seconds, then slide it onto a plate, cut and keep eating.

For gooier fun, make a panini*** using the low tech method: Find a brick, wrap it in parchment paper, and plop it on top of your sandwich while it’s cooking. It’s way, way cheaper than one of those fancy-schmancy presses from Williams-Sonoma, you don’t have to clean it, and it can live in your oven. Pressing the sandwich flattens it a bit and melds the apples and cheese together into a most appealing crunchy/oozy combo.

This is the simplest of sandwiches. It celebrates one of the season’s iconic flavors, and in my case, regaining the ability to cook the way I love.

Can’t wait to work with pumpkin next.

Standing by.

*The sweeter the apple, the sharper the cheese it can take. It’s like a spirited debate between friends. Go for an aged cheddar or something along those lines.

**Don’t get cocky (like me) and use a little saucepan and burn your ring finger and pinky while flipping the sandwich (like me).

***This is actually the plural of the famous pressed sandwich. Panino is the singular. Whatever.

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