Santa's Incarceration Cuisine: Mofongo

I have a dear friend who was recently removed from his cushy Conneticut home, and placed in an Ohio prison. I know that might seem odd to you, because I'm a happy little do-gooder of a thing, not the type who generally consorts with criminals. It seems odd to me too, as my friend is also a happy do-gooder of a thing. He's a good man and a good friend who is currently in a bad situation. But I digress, as the whys and wherefores of Santa's (not his real name, but in the spirit of the season) incarcertation are beyond the aspirations of this blog.

However, our cuilinary converstions are well within the bounds of the blog. When we met in the workplace, about a decade ago, Santa mentored me. Not in digital technology, which is what we were both doing at the time, but in writing and cooking. He bought me my first copy of Escoffier, a complete set of Bill Bryson books, and many, many sushi lunches. He encourage me to pursue my loves and passions, foregoing the easy career for that which was more difficult, and he assured me from the perspective of a mentor, more rewarding.

Over space and time we lost touch, but about a year ago I was told by mutual friends that he was in prison. I was shocked, confused, and sent him a Valentine's Card the next day. We've been prison pen pals ever since, and he continues to be a mentor, shining bright light on my life, and trading food stories.

Santa sent me the following a month or so ago (and subsequentely granted me permission to blog it). It's a little present from Santa and me to you, in the spirit of remembering those who've encouraged you along your way, and finding the cheer, wherever you are. Merry Christmas.

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All You Can Eat Behind Bars
As told to Allison by Santa

Let me tell you of a humorous, ongoing sutation of a culinary nature, in honor of your of your chosen profession. Sitting comfortably? Mmkay...

In some pique of mordant wit, some time ago, a drunken official at the BOP decided to call the first and second meals of the day on weekends "coffee hour" and "brunch", affecting images of hot beignets, eggs benedict, Bloody Marys, Cafe du Monde, warm beds, softe cuddly SOs and the Sunday Times. How totally cruel they are.

To add furter insult, I give you the Sumptuous All You Can Eat Buffet. Every Saturday and Sunday, most inmates sleep through a pathetic offering that is "coffee hour" typically a stale, shrink wrapped pastry well past its sell-by date, and long since pulled from some distant Government vending machine, too old and evil-looking even for low-level CDC or HHS drones. The date on the wrapper is usually from the summer before. (In my life I have never eaten so much out-of-date food, and I can happily tell you that it won't kill you. Right away, at any rate.) And in my months here I have had one (1) sip of the """coffee""", which surely has absofuckinglutely nothing to do with coffee beans. It isn't even brown, it's kind of a muddy bluish gray. I think not.

So, when 11AM rolls around, they bring forth the Sumptuous All You Can Eat Buffet. The Sumptuous All You Can Eat Buffet consists of a row of dented industrial chafing dishes, each containing an unidentifiable entree, generally random lumps of something that could have, at one time, been part of a living thing, but not a healthy thing -- medallions of weasel perhaps -- soaking in a semi-coagulated, gravy like liquid, generally a yellowish-brown in color, sometimes with a tinge of gray or green.

The buffet is tended by a hatchet-faced, hostile looking man wearing a chef's uniform with large permanent stains. This man never speaks. We call him Emeril. Emeril does not appear to actually cook anything. Just before the Buffet (note capitalization, for it is deserving of such...) begins, he produces the chafing dishes and lights the burners. During the Buffet, he sits behind the counter, arms folded, glaring into the distance, refusing to answer inmates' questions (the most common question being what is this?). At the end of the Buffet, he removes the chafing dishes.

It was my cellmate Rudolph who proposed the theory that Emeril was setting out the same food day after day.

"Why not?" he said, "Hardly anyone eats it. It could last for months."

"I think some of it is actually getting larger," I added. "On its own."

So I decided to test the theory that Emeril was recycling the food. I went thorugh the Buffet some weeks ago, pretending to be selecting my lunch. Previously I had cut out a photo of our Warden, H. Meiser. I slipped this photo under one of the weasel medallions.

The following week, plate in hand, I searched the Buffet, dish by dish, picking through the mystery lumps. I thurst my fork triumphantly in the air, when, in the fourth dish, I uncovered the gravy-soaked but still-smiling face of the happy Warden.

This discovery led to the creation of a betting pool among the inmates, five stamps a man to see who could predict how long Emeril could keep the Warden's dish alive in the Sumptuous All You Can Eat Buffet. For five weeks, I had gone through the Buffet; each day, sooner or later, I'd find the photo.

This past Saturday was critical. It was six weeks since I placed the photo, and only two inmates were left in the pool: myself, who had bet seven weeks, and Brother Claus, our local obese, bellowing Pentecostal preacher, who, though a Man of God, wasn't above winning the whole mess o'stamps. (He bet six weeks...) Thus, there was considerable tension in the chow hall this Saturday when I, the other inmates watching closely, went down the row of chafing dishes, fork in hand. There are ten chafing dishes, and as of nine, I had found nothing. Painstakingly, I rooted through the tenth one and...

"YES!" I shouted, reaching into the dish, pulling out the slowly decomposing photo and holding it for all to see.

"Shit" said Brother Claus.

"Emeril," said I, "you DA man!"

Emeril, from his stool, continued to glare into the distance.

"Should we start another pool?" I suggested.

"I dunno man," said Rudolph. "Maybe we should warn somebody about this. I mean what if somebody eats this? They could die!"

"The way I see it," said Brother Claus, "anybody who eats this wants to die."

"That's a point." I said.

So back goes the photo into whatever it is in the chafing dish, and we began a new pool this week. Brother Claus took two more weeks. Fat F (the local loan shark) took three weeks. I took a full month.

"I have faith in Emeril," I said. "This man is loyal to this food."


Mofongo
An authentic jailhouse recipe.

6 bags of chips
4 ramen soups
3 packages instant rice
10 packages mackerel
2 pre-wrapped "sausages"
2 packages kipper snacks
1 16-ounce bottle of squeeze cheese
1 bottle ketchup
Adobo seasoning
2 garbage bags.

First, crush chips to powder. Mix with water to form a thick paste. Squeeze out excess water and deposit on opened garbage bag. Fold bag over top. Using a cylindrical deodorant container, spread thinly through the plastic, making sure no deodorant leaks out. Form a large rectangle of chip paste. When spread thinly and evenly, open bag.

Mix up soup, rice, according to directions. Do not use soup "flavor" packets. Mix in paint bucket 'til combined well. Spread in a "line" on chip slurry, about 18 inches long, 5 inches wide. Open mackerel packages. Squeeze out fetid, stinking fish slime. Set aside. Spread mackerel evenly along top of soup/rice line. Repeat with kipper snacks. Repeat with chopped "sausages". Apply most of ketchup to top. Top with all the cheese. Sprinkle liberally with Adobo for that blood-pressure-making Dead Sea salty flavor. Now, using bag, roll top of chip slurry over top of "line" much like a strudel. Seal with water. Brush with remaining ketchup mixed with fish slime. Cover wtih top of bag, and twist ends to retain shape. Insert into second bag.

Sneak into kitchen. Insert Mofongo into dishwasher. Run through three full cycles, and sneak back to unit. Cut into thick slices; serve immediately.

The Three Minute Relationship: Mango Salsa

As a mid-30 single woman, it's hard to find social activities in Manhattan that don't involve booze or babies. Most friends are pre- post- or mid-baby making, and for the ones who aren't, there just aren't a ton of options that don't involve booze. It's not that I'm friends with Madonnas or whores, that's just Manhattan; it's an eating and drinking town. We're not going to ski, snowboard, surf or mountain climb, for chrissakes, we're New Yorkers. We're going to listen to music, go to museums, eat, drink and be merry. That's how we do, that's how we've always done.

After a while, booze and babies becomes a bore. In effort to find activities in Manhattan that stepped to a different beat, a few of my friends have been salsa dancing. Recently, I started tagging along.

Jimmy Anton runs a well respected social every other Sunday night in Manhattan, and it's unlike anything I've ever experienced before. When you open the doors to the ballroom with low ceiling and a wall of mirrors (imagine the school dance scene in Grease, but with more Cha Chas and less Sandys), you're hit with the stench of sweat, not unlike the smell you'd have in a real gym, the kind where men are sweaty and spandex is scarce. As soon as you stabilize to the humidity the movement hits. If you dilly dally even an instant, you'll be slammed by a whirling woman coming at you fast, but since she's got a perfect awareness of her physicality, she stops with a sassy ball-change about 3 inches from you.

Breathe out, breathe in; it's a salsa social.

My friends direct me to a spot in the back that's for advanced beginners and I watch the motion with great respect. The crowd is largely Latino, Black and Asian. Today's NY feels so ethno-cleansed, standing in this space reminds me why I came here in the first place. Diversity, variety, opportunity.

Half way through my thoughts, my hand is grabbed my a tall black man, probably about 50. Or was he a short Peruvian, who just moved here from Japan. No, he's a Pennsylvania-based gym teacher who comes to the socials every Sunday. Ah no, it's an extraordinarily poised, well built Cuban who likes to show tall brunettes the rudiments of a dance he holds dear. No matter, before the night is done, I'll dance with each of them, much like I'd sample different items on a menu. (And, like dining, if a friend has a particularly delicious foie gras dish, she's only too eager to insist that I enjoy a taste as well.)

Salsa socials are salsa first; social second. We're here in deference to a dance style. Most of the broken English conversations have to do with motion and rhythm, steps and lines; guiding and leading. There's none of the typical man-woman banter that accompanies all that booze and baby-making.

The socials (or not-so socials) are a refreshing break (as well as an intense workout), and I can't wait for the next one. In no more than the space of a three minute song, I've had my hand taken, relaxed in deference to a partner who knows something I don't, have made contact with another human being, celebrated, danced, concluded, said thank you, and moved on to the next. Or perhaps I had my toes stepped on and moved on to the next with a bit more efficiency. Either way, it's a perfect, encapsulated three minute relationship*, where the only commitment required is to make it through the song.

*Shout out to my pal Heather who is coined the phrase.

Mango Salsa
This works very well with roast chicken, pork, or fish. Or swap out that traditional tomato salsa and give it a go with chips. You'll be repaid with sweet, delicious vivid flavor.

2 mangoes, finely chopped
1 jalapeno, finely chopped
2 tablespoons chopped cilantro
Juice of 1 lime
Kosher salt

In a medium bowl, combine mangoes, jalapeno, cilantro and lime juice. Stir to combine flavors, season to taste; serve. Will store up to three days; add cilantro just before serving.

Sunshine Smile: Spicy Ginger Carrot Soup

Isn't it amazing what can happen when you answer your email? This week when I got a call from two dudes with a web site and an inclination for video streaming. It wasn't my first random web call, I hope it' won't be the last.

The two dudes are emerging break-out comedians, with a keen sense of graphic design, no fear of singing off key; modern merry pranksters with good Southern manners. They are making the most of the opportunity that new media has given creative types who have some technical capabilities. But don't take my word for it; spend some time with Rhett and Link, who already have a bit of an international cult following: they'll make you laugh.

They asked to interview me for their first live webcast, as a "celebrity voice". They found me keenly articulating how to make Mashed Potatoes on YouTube, as part of the project I was working on for HolidayKitchen.TV.

(Culinary note: This version of mashed potatoes is a bit of a guilty pleasure. You know me, I'm all fresh leeks and farmer's market eggs. This is not my recipe, but damn it's good. You put two little buds of that grocery store Boursin into the mix and damn. Liquid crack, my peeps. But yo you didn't hear it here.)

So when I hear that these two snickerdoodles want to interview me for their inaugural show, what could I do? I got a sense of their stule through their red carpet antics and other bits of humor. This was going to be like ripping off a bandaid. I was going to be the butt of the joke, but what was I going to do, run and hide? I put myself out there, now it was time to take the licks. I've achieved the level of notoriety where I get interviewed. It's like Letterman, except it's noon on a Friday and, outside of friends and family, we might break a hundred viewers. It was high time to stick the pinky toe in the pool.

Plus, when I had a pre-call with Rhett on the phone, he seemed like a good natured, good humored North Carolinian (were he from Williamsburg, I'd most certainly take a pass). How bad could this be?

They called; I answered. They made fun of me, I made fun of myself, then they made fun of themselves. But there was a constant scrolling of commetary from the 148-odd people who were listening in. Some, like my cousin were giving positive pro-Fishman comments, but some were just wankers saying wanker-y things.

After I said goodbye, Rhett started reading the scroll and got a little down in the mouth. He requested that the listeners think before they write, or maybe even watch a few webcasts before they so quickly write something negative. The comments weren't that bad -- it was dime-store moron vintage, but he took some of them to heart. He was doing his best to entertain a globally dispersed group of 148, and, through the privelage of anonymity, they demonstrated their lack of manners.

Link pulled Rhett out of his funk, and they continued to be their incredibly talented selves. But I knew how he felt; he was feeling that which I was dreading before I answerd the phone.

That's where web performing is incredibly different from accepted modes of modern entertainment. Sure, Rhett and Link get a chance, but they have to deal with the fronteir mentality. When you're on TV, you're edited. When you're on the radio, no one can say you're fat. When you cut an album, or write a book, people can take you or leave you. (Plus, they've pay for the privelage, so they're already inclined to like you.) When you're on stage; there are other people around, and peer pressure reinforces social grace.

But when you're performing on the Internet, live, the comments come, fast and furious. The comments sting; it's easy to get distracted by the cruel noise. And Rhett and Link are doing good work. I hope they realize that; keep their chins high, and continue to smile their own particular brand of bright Southern sunshine.


Spicy Ginger Carrot Soup
Serves 4 to 6

Play with this delightful recipe a little, depending on your carrots. If you have super sweet (thin) carrots, go with less sugar. If you've got bigger carrots, you might need to amp up the sugar, or use some honey. I've made it twice this week already. Really good stuff (and it freezes well time). Guaranteed to warm up the toughest winter day.

1 1/2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon chopped fresh ginger or 1 1/2 teaspoons ground ginger
1 medium onion, chopped
4 large carrots (about one pound), chopped
1 1/2 teaspoons coarse salt (or 3/4 teaspoon table salt)
2 cups low-sodium chicken stock
1 cup spicy ginger beer or ginger ale (the spicier the better!)
1 1/2 tablespoons granulated sugar
1/2 cup half and half (optional)
1/4 cup sour cream or thick greek yogurt
1 tablespoon finely chopped chives

1. In a medium saucepan over medium heat melt butter. Add ginger and cook until fragrant, about 15 seconds. Add onion, carrots, and salt and stir to combine; reduce heat to medium-low and cook for 5 minutes. Add chicken stock, water and sugar; bring to a simmer and simmer until vegetables are soft, about 10 minutes. Add half and half (if using).

2. Transfer carrot mixture to a blender and cover. Blend until smooth, about 1 minute. Divide the hot soup among serving bowls, and dollop 1 tablespoon of sour cream in the center of each bowl. Garnish with chives and serve.

Brooklyn Food Salon: Apple Turnovers

I started my love affair with Brooklyn as many do, without ever having been. There's something about the accent, the whole "fugghetaboutit" thing that makes me feel like I'm in a place where people shoot straight. I love all kinds (indulge me in some obvious stereotypes...)-- the French for their aesthetic, the Southerners for their charm, but Brooklyn always seemed like a good kind of New Yorker; a real person who tells you like it is. Maybe hasn't had the financial success of the Manhattanites, but they'll get there, and they are not in no rush to do so, know what I mean?

So I'm looking for a house in Brooklyn, a town house, something modest, a la the Bunkers (yes, I know they lived in Queens, but work with me). Something more like Moonstruck, but without actually having to be in Brookyn Heights, which, though lovely, offers little except a good commute. And if your key selling point is that you're easy to leave, well then, that's just not a neighborhood for me. I prefer immobility, like Staten Island.

It's very hard to find a modest three bedroom (planning ahead) for less than a million that 1) safe, 2) within 10 blocks of a subway, and 3) in need of *major repair*. That whole thing I said in the first paragraph about Brooklynites shooting straight? Well that straight quick become savvy...and if nothing else, they've become quicksmart to the world of realty. Which is good for Brooklynites (neighborhoods continue to be increasingly wonderful neighborhoods), and tough luck for us renters looking to move on.

So the only way I can rationalize a truly wonderful investment of a space is if I use it for work purposes as well. Though when I told my realtor that I wanted my home to be a work space, he immediately said, "What, a rent by the hour plastic sheet house?" See what I mean about Brooklyn people? That said, if I was a true entrepreneur, I could see my way to a pretty penny that way.

But I remain ethical, committed to deliciousness and all that, gosh darn it, and so I'm working to earn an income doing something I believe is important -- offering superb food fun, joy, and culinary information to those who seek it. Excellence and ease in home cooking and all that.

So how can I extend that to a home business? Well, if I find the right space, I'd like to offer incredible home cooking classes in it. Standing on the shoulders of giants, of course, as Peter Kump, James Beard, and Claudia Roden have all done this before me (to name a very few). But even better, how about a night or two a week of a different type of food conversation? A product review taste test (hot dogs? potato chips? beaujolais?), or having a variety of local chefs (and local home cooks) featuring their cooking skills? Or maybe just a place to throw a bris, or a shower, because seating 35 people in your home just isn't as easy as it should be.

I think it's time for Brooklyn to have it's own food space, and since Brooklyn is such a homey spot, why not have it be part of a home?

Mull it over and let me know what you think. And in the meantime, I made these killer Apple Turnovers with a client before Thanksgiving, and we're both in love -- with them. She calls these home made pop tarts, and I'm telling you, they do not dissapoint.

Enjoy!
Allison


Apple Turnovers

2 medium granny smith apples, peeled, cored, and cut into 1/4-inch dice
Juice of 1/2 lemon
2 tablespoons sugar, divided
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1/8 teaspoon cinnamon1 frozen puff pastry sheet (from a 17 1/4-oz package), thawed
1 large egg, lightly beaten
2 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into bits

1. Put oven rack in lower third of oven and preheat oven to 400°F. Spray a large baking sheet with nonstick spray, or cover with a sheet of parchment.

2. Stir together apple, lemon juice, 1 tablespoon sugar, cornstarch, and cinnamon in a bowl.
Roll out pastry on a lightly floured surface into a 12- by 9-inch rectangle. Cut into 6 roughly 4-inch squares. Divide apple mixture among squares, leaving a 1-inch border, and dot filling with butter. Fold each pastry into a triangle, enclosing filling, and crimp edges with a fork. Cut 2 small steam vents in top of each turnover. Brush tops lightly with egg and sprinkle with remaining tablespoon sugar. Bake on baking sheet until puffed and golden, about 20 minutes. Cool turnovers and serve.

NOTE: Try with a peach half, and fold all four corners of the puff into the center. Secure puff well by pinching. Serve with crème fraiche. Use vanilla, or vanilla bean instead of the cinnamon.