Posts Tagged 'ben'

How Not to Write A New Blog Post

First, get the hell out.

Like, leave the country. Go away as many time zones as you can. Europe from the West Coast of the US? Good.

Eastern Europe? Better.

Anything recently Soviet? Perfect.

Then come back.

Next, give yourself as little time as possible to adjust.

(Pansy. Suck it up.)

Third. Walk a lot. Then bike a lot. Be physically exhausted.

Then work forty hours, sleep half a day, then get up early to go surfing with friends.

Also, neglect sunscreen. You’re made of wood.

Then take your two-year-old grocery shopping. When he begins to projectile vomit (for some reason), snatch him up in your left hand, catch the chunks with your right, and dash from the store fast enough for your fellow shoppers to notice a Doppler Effect.

Wash him. Wash you. Wash the floor. Wash the wife. Wash the floor again. Wash the dog. Note that your skin burns.

Argue with your wife about the optimal receptical-shape to catch toddler-vomit.

Note that you just came back from Germany, and they probably have a single word for “optimally-shaped-toddler-vomit-catcher.”

Note that you and your wife were both wrong.

Put toddler to bed.

Pet his head until he sleeps.

Die.

Write blog post.

Die again.

Deep breath.

Today, you cooked nothing.

Try again very soon.

Thank readers for their patience.

-j

Short Loin – Garlic-Herb T-bones in a Bourbon Pan Sauce

Forgive me, dear readers, for taking so long to post. Time has been at a premium of late, and I’ve had some difficulty finding time to eat, let alone write about it.

This weekend, however, I made up for all that.

Saturday, I took to the great blue Pacific with my friends Chris and Ben the Baconchef. We spent the better part of the day riding Poseidon’s peristalsis as the ocean eats the land over a span of eons.

In other words, we went surfing.

I love surfing. It’s one of those activities you can really enjoy, even if you’re absolutely horrible at it. Like golf. Or cosmetic surgery.

As the day wore on, the sets came in bigger and bigger. Toward the end of the day, we wound up facing five and six foot waves.

Which means that toward the end of the day, I got my ass kicked by five and six foot waves.

Which means that Sunday, I am a broken man. I’ve been through Neptune’s spin cycle, and now I am hung out to dry. (Wait, Jared… didn’t you call it ‘Poseidon’s peristalsis’ before? Aren’t you mixing metaphors? Shut up.)

I had planned to make a classic French dish this weekend, but after shambling painfully around town on my Sunday errands, I don’t have enough time. Also, it’s hot. And that particular dish isn’t especially suited to SoCal summer heat.

Switch gears. What haven’t I done?

There’s a gem of a recipe in the Grassfed Gourmet cookbook that Chris gave me when I picked up my beef. I’ve been waiting to try it with a T-bone.

I like steak. I like bourbon. Giddyup.

The T-bone is a cut from the loin of the steer. At the center of the cut is a T-shaped bone, hence the name. On one side of this bone is a large, oval-rectangular muscle. This is the strip loin… cut differently, it’d be a Kansas City or New York strip.

The other side of the bone has some portion of a smaller, rounder muscle, the much-adored tenderloin. Cut differently, this would be a filet mignon.

The T-bone is very similar to the porterhouse steak. Both of the aforementioned muscles are located on the steer’s back, running parallel to the spine. The tenderloin, however, is gently conical, like a baseball bat. That is, the diameter of a tenderloin from the front of the animal is smaller than a tenderloin taken from near the back. If you take a T-bone from closer to the front of the animal, the tenderloin is smaller, and the cut is called a T-bone. If you take the same cut from near the back of the animal, the tenderloin is larger, and the cut is called a porterhouse. (The strip half has the same general size difference – bigger when taken from the back than the front. But the tenderloin size difference is probably more noticiable.)

My T-bones were probably taken from near the very front of the animal, as the tenderloin is very small.

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The mise:

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Dream on.

Dream on.

I put the steaks in the (turned off, yet dog-resistant) microwave to come to room temp. It’s important on thicker cuts to bring them to room temp so they cook evenly.

While they’re warming, I knock together a batch of the book’s Garlic Herb Rub (thyme, rosemary, oregano, fennel, garlic powder, salt, and pepper). I’ve done both strip and tenderloin with minimal seasoning, so the rub will be an interesting variation.

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Meanwhile, sides. Our organic veggie delivery service hooked us up with some nice button mushrooms. A quick perusal of Bittman’s index nets me some Mushroom-Bacon skewers. (Who doesn’t like bacon?)

Our veggiefolk also dropped of a beautiful head of Romaine lettuce. Ladies and gentlemen, there will be salad. I knock together a quick honey mustard vinaigrette for use with the greens.

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Quick question though: Why the hell is Ferran Adria on my Olive oil?

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Is there some molecular gastronomy at work here? Is there a foam involved? Is this label actually edible nori? Is my olive oil actually some amalgum of liquid nitrogen, corn husks, and dimethyl sulfoxide? What’s the deal, Adria? Why are you getting all Rachel Ray on me?

Whatever. Everybody needs a paycheck.

T-bones are close enough for jazz. Let’s dance.

Olive oil and butter in the front pan. Just olive oil in the back. Count to an arbitrarily large number.

Oil’s hot. Bacon and mushroom in back. Steaks in front. I have about ten minutes on each, so I start humming Stairway to Heaven.

By the time there’s a bustle in my hedgerow, the steaks are asking for a flip. I oblige, and stir the shrooms.

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“And it makes me wonder…”

Steaks are done. Temp check confirms it, so I tent them with foil and let them rest. Deglaze with bourbon and simmer.

“And she’s buying… a stairway… to…” something or other. Shrooms are done.

Plate.

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Verdict: Lovely, as you’d expect. There wasn’t much of a tenderloin to speak of in this cut, but the strip was excellent.

The rub was a bit overpowering. One thing I’m noticing about the steaks on this steer is that they don’t need much. Salt, pepper, good oil – and they shine. Big fancy rub, and I tend to regret it. (I’m talking about steaks here. Those ribs were lovely, for example. Barbecue is a different beast.) The bourbon pan sauce was inspired, however. I’m adding that to my bag of tricks.

The wife says: 8.5 out of ten. The steak was excellent. The rub wasn’t really necessary. The beef is very lush and flavorful all by itself.

I really enjoyed it. I can’t wait until I work my way back toward the porterhouse.

What else can I deglaze with bourbon?

Meet the Meat

Quite the weekend.

Yesterday, I visited Chaffin Family Orchards in Oroville, CA. I’ve been waiting for this weekend for quite a while. It’s the weekend I pick up my cow.

I know, I  know. It’s not a cow. It’s a steer. Not all cattle are cows, and not all tissues are Kleenex. Let’s move on.

I somehow conned my good friend Ben into coming with and running camera for me while I toured the ranch and interviewed Chris Kerston, the rancher/media liaison/marketing chief/beef guru/tour guide/good dude who’d agreed to show us around.

Chris is my beef guy.

Chris

Chris

Chaffin Family Orchards started up a hundred years ago when Del Chaffin bought the land from UC Berkeley, which had an ag research station there. The research station grew olive trees, and those original olive trees are still there. They’re fat and gnarled and picturesque now, and still producing fruit.

Everything Chaffin grows is certified organic or beyond. They have a wide variety of fruit they produce, including the original olives, chickens, chevron (goat), eggs, nectarines, grapefruit, lemons, oranges, persimmons, pomegranates… the list goes on. I think they have a river of molten chocolate and an organic candy rainbow somewhere on the property.

Regardless, we find Chris as we’re poking around the Honor System farm stand they have set up on the property. You can drive in, pick out the stuff you’d like to buy, and drop your money into a slot on the top of a safe they have sitting out. It’s cool. They trust you.

So Chris shows us around. Turns out, they don’t raise free range, grass-fed beef just to raise free range, grass-fed beef.

They do it to raise better fruit.

Thus began my introduction into a ridiculously cool agricultural program. There are no isolated monocultures here. Every crop they raise works in tandem with everything else.

They have these ancient olive trees, which were the original basis for the ranch. They’re planted in neat rows, equidistant from each other.

orchards nystrip taco pie 054

Left alone, other plants will grow up between the trees. Plants like blackberry bushes, which can grow tall enough to choke out olive trees in as little as three weeks.

So growers need to mow between the trees. They put a guy on a tractor, and he knocks all the grass and shrubs back to a manageable level so they don’t overwhelm the fruit crop. This means you have to have a  guy, you have to have a tractor, you have to have fuel for that tractor, and you have to pay that dude to play Hank Hill for two days a week or so. It’s a huge energy input, and it isn’t especially efficient, either economically or environmentally.

Chaffin does things differently. Rather than hire The Guy Who Mows, they bring in goats. The goats mow down the shrubbery and keep the lower six feet of the trees pruned (fruit trees need to be pruned of green shoots off the main trunk, lest their yield decline). Further, the goats fertilize the soil as they return that shrubbery to the earth as manure.

Mmmm... shrubbery.

Mmmm... shrubbery.

As a result, rather than pay The Guy Who Mows, Chaffin gets an extra crop to sell. And that crop prunes and fertilizes the trees to boot, further increasing their fruit yield.

Then, when the goats have cleared out the shrubbery, the folks at Chaffin send in the cattle. The cattle eat the grass the goats have left behind, and further fertilize the soil with their manure. In addition, the cattle are another crop, further displacing The Guy Who Mows.

They're like bovine ninjas.

They're like bovine ninjas.

So I’m not just getting grass-fed beef, I’m getting the elusive and rare Forest Cattle.

And frankly, it was pretty remarkable to see a herd of eleven hundred pound steers scampering hither and yon amidst hundred year old olive trees. They really are quite nimble.

Then, three days after cattle have cropped the grass down to millimeters, the ranchers send in the chickens. Contrary to popular belief, chickens are omnivores. They’re at their best when they eat both grass and animal protein in the form of bugs. Bugs like the ones that hatch in the manure of cattle, three days after said cattle have passed through.

Ah, nature.

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So the chickens come through, eat bugs, fertilize the trees (again) and lay eggs (another crop). And in what I thought was a stroke of genius, they lay the eggs in a mobile chicken coop. As Chris put it, “We don’t play Easter morning every day out here.” The chickens are imprinted with the image of their mobile chicken coop when they’re chicks.

Put another way, they think the mobile chicken coop is their Mom.

Mama...

Mama...

Finally, in what I considered one of the most remarkable aspects of the system, they equip each herd of goats with a livestock guardian dog – usually a Great Pyrenees – who lives, eats, sleeps and bonds with the herd. The herd accepts the dog as one of their own, and the dog, for his part, considers himself a full-fledged goat.

I'm old, but I will break you off...

I'm old, but I will break you off...

The dogs let people approach, but not coyotes, mountain lions, foxes, wolves, chupacabra, or whatever might like to take a bite out of a goat. This makes the system environmentally friendly to the point that even Hungry Carnivores In Search of Goat-Kebabs are gently rebuffed.

Coyote: “I will kill and eat you.”

Dog: “I’d prefer you didn’t.”

Coyote: “Well… okay.”

To summarize: Goats eat shrubs. Cattle eat the grass that’s left. Chickens eat the bugs and grass that results. And the dogs keep everybody safe.

Oh, and they raise several thousand acres of fruit and olives while they’re at it.

I was really impressed with the system Chaffin has set up, and Chris took the better part of an afternoon to show me around and explain the different aspects of production that a city kid like me would likely miss. If you have the opportunity, I highly recommend making the trip to Oroville and checking them out.

At the end of the day, Chris sent me away with a bag of nectarines, fresh off the trees. I munched them on the way to our lodging for the evening. (We spent the night in Oroville. LA is six hours away.)

Those, my friends, were some remarkable nectarines. Sweet and soft, and among the moist poignent fruit-moments I’ve ever had. When I got home, I shared them with my toddler son. He was very impressed.

It was a good day. A beautiful organic farm, a relaxing, informative tour, and ultra-ripe nectarines as I drove to my quaint, lakeside B&B for a well-deserved night’s rest.

Wait, what? B&B? No. This is Oroville. Ben and I stayed at the Gold Country Hotel and Casino.

They’re the best hotel on earth. Why?

Their logo is a BEAR THAT EATS YOUR DREAMS.

Fear me.

Fear me.