Fast Food is for Road Trips: Seared Pork Chops with Sauteed Apples and Leeks

When I take road trips, I don't stop until I get there. I drive too fast at traffic-free times of day. I don't sit for meals, and Kayla doesn't get walked (she's a camel, that one). I'm forever on the quest for my record time.

As part of the fun, I only eat fast food on road trips. Though some colleagues refuse fast food completely, I believe it's better to be of the culture than above it; it's too food snobby and un-American to refuse fast food.

I was gearing up for the new McDonalds Angus, but Burger King had a monopoly on the Chesapeake House, and I would never stop twice. That's okay; as my palate has matured, I prefer BK. That flame broiling seems to drip out some of the beef funk, and their chicken salad is a superior representation of the genre.

So a Whopper it would be. Post-purchase, I returned to the Northern Maryland stretch of I-95, shifting and unwrapping my burger with great success. My cell phone wrang, so it looked like I'd be able to lunch with a friend.

Somehow I manage to answer the phone, explain my fast food ritual, and gush that I'm about to enjoy my annual Whopper. His response?

"Eeew. I used to like those things until I stopped eating them."

Did I want to know why? My mouth was open, the Whopper was steaming. I figured I was going to hear about his bad stomach, his allergic reaction to spinach, or his OCD. This friend is always going on about his ailments. Note to men: Women don't like this. Your momma we ain't. Put your best foot forward and save the whining for your declining years.

"And why did you stop eating Whoppers?" I asked.

"Because I read Fast Food Nation. And this Sunday's Times. Beef is baaaad."

I was time-machined back to the sixth grade cafeteria, where I'd occasionally unwrap a tuna fish sandwich, or a PB&J on whole wheat to a chorus of "eeeew". It was not until I dined on crunchy cheese doodles and micro-warmed chocolate chip cookies that my lunch met with peer approval.

"You know what, pal? This is suddenly feeling very middle school," I said. "Don't be the kid at the table that says eeeeew while I'm eating."

He apologized, kinda, and it occurred to me that had I been eating a tuna sandwich, or a PB&J on wheat, it probably would have been acceptable to him.

The Whopper was drippy and kept me sated for the rest of the drive. Culinary guilty pleasures are an important ritual, and no matter how virulently vegan, assertively Atkins, or chastely Kosher you may be. You know you have a cuilinary guilty pleasure. Fast food is mine.

Seared Pork Chops with Sauteed Apples and Leeks
A few days before I took to the road, I made this dish, and enjoyed the first chop as much as the fourth. This will keep for 5 days in the fridge; see if you can make it last that long.

1 1/2 tablespoons butter
1 golden delicious apple, peeled and sliced 1/4-inch thick
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
4 (1-inch) bone-in pork chops
2 leeks, trimmed, halved, cut into 1-inch pieces and washed
1 1/2 teaspoons flour
1/3 cup white wine
1/2 cup chicken stock (plus more if sauce is too thick)
1 teaspoon mustard (optional)
1/4 cup cream
1/3 cup roughly chopped or whole parsley leaves

1. In a large nonstick or regular skillet, melt 1 1/2 tablespoons butter over medium-high heat. Add apples and cook, gently tossing, until golden on each side, about 4 to 5 minutes. Remove and keep warm in a low oven or by covering with aluminum foil.
2. To the same skillet, add 1 tablespoon oil. When oil is hot (after about 30 seconds), add pork chops. Cook over medium-high heat until golden, about 4 minutes. Turn, cover, and cook an additional 3 to 4 minutes until just cooked through and golden on each side.
3. Pour out almost all fat from the pan, leaving 1 tablespoon. Add 1 1/2 teaspoons flour to the skillet and stir. Add wine and cook for 1 minute, until the mixture forms a thick paste. Add chicken stock and leeks and bring to a simmer. Cook until leeks have wilted, about 3 to 4 minutes. Remove cover; add mustard (if desired) and cream. Return chops to skillet and warm through, about 2 minutes. Add parsley; taste sauce and adjust for seasoning.
4. Serve pork chops with leek sauce and garnish with apples.

TIP: For a thicker sauce, continue to simmer the chicken stock mixture after the lid is removed. For a thinner sauce, add more chicken stock.

Can Moderation Be Sexy? Chocolate Popcorn

Oh, Michael Pollan. You've done it again.

I loved your first book, The Omnivore's Dilemma. I had this strange relationship with it, much like I did with Halloween Candy, or Green Sands Shandy after a trip to Trinidad. I could make a case of Green Sands last a year. Halloween candy always made it to the end of June. I would read a bit, and force myself to put it down so that I could make it last.

When I finished the book, I was distraught. Our first experience of one another was over. I'd heard the stories about the pigs diving through refuse with their squiggly little tails in the air, read about how Americans are turning into walking corn kernels, and joined Michael for a wild boar hunt in Northern California. His stories are memorable, but when I put down the book they were all told.

But he's got me all riled up again, with seven little words:
Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.

I know that. Everybody knows that. But something about his nebbeshy authority gives me great relief when he says it. When I pass on dessert, I can do it knowing I'm being smart, not depriving myself. When I spend two hours roasting seasonal vegetables every week, I'm not some health nut; it as important as my twice-daily brush and floss. In a post-anorexic hedonistic world, when passing on the oysters, foie, steak frites, and the sticky toffee pudding makes a gal seem uptight, I feel happy knowing I could order the alfalfa sprouts and a plate of mashed yeast and he'd Clyde to my Bonnie.

Don't get me wrong -- I love nothing more than gorging myself on, well, pretty much anything -- vacation, books, movies, hikes, friends, love, food, drink...but it's warms me to think that indulging myself with vegetables and eating "not too much" isn't prissy. Moderation can be sexy.

Let's take it from another angle. I have a regular get together some food media pals. We've put in our time at Food Network, Martha Stewart, Saveur, Food & Wine, Everyday Food, yada. We write, we teach, we're around food a lot. We've had our hands in more pots of Emeril's this and Alton's that than loyal fans, because it's our job.

But when we get together, there are no four-course meals. In fact, there's barely any cooking. There's reheating (of a ragu that was on Martha's show last week), and slicing (of some cheeses that were rendered homeless on clean-out-the-walk in Friday). We assemble and reheat.

Which is odd, considering we spend our careers teaching others the simple joy of home cooking. The simplest joy, sometimes, can be arranging and under-eating; leaving yourself hungry for dessert and having a couple of bites.

Do you remember in the late eighties, when the Cosby Show took a bow at the top of their ratings? I never understood that. I enjoy the last drop, the last bite; I'm the last to leave the party. But leaving them, and yourself, wanting more has merit. It seems that in today's contemporary food conversation, and perhaps in life, hunger trumps satisfaction.

Chocolate Popcorn
This is a recipe that will never make it onto Food Network, though it was introduced to me by a friend who develops recipes there. It's gluttony in moderation. Every woman I know has a chocolate stash in her house -- maybe it's a Kit Kat thing, Ferrero Rocher, Ghiardelli chocolate chips or white chocolate covered pretzles. Whatever your fetish, you know it's there. Combine it with fresh made popcorn and get the paper towels ready (it's melty). On the plus side -- you're taking in lots of fiber with that chocolate fix. Go ahead; even the pros are doing it.

You'll need:
A big pot with a lid.
A drizzle of olive or neutral oil (1 to 2 tablespoons)
1/3 cup popcorn kernels (the organic kind tastes cornier--give it a go)
melted butter, if you like (or more olive oil)
ample kosher or maldon salt
a couple small handfulls of chocolate chips


1. To make the popcorn, heat a pot over medium-high heat. Drizzle in the oil to cover the bottom of the pot, add the corn kernels and shake the pan a bit to coat the corn with the oil. Put a lid on, count to 30 and soon you'll hear the popping. Shake the pot gently back and forth; you might need to reduce the temperature to medium. Let em pop until...they... slow...down. Turn off the heat and let em pop a bit more.

2. Open and, voila! This is the time to add the melted butter, or just give another drizzle of olive oil, salt it like you mean it, and throw in the chocolate chips. Eat em as they melt and indulge, moderately. Microwave popcorn? Who needs it?

Wordplay for Dummies: Marrow Bones

I've been hitting the pavement hard for the last few weeks looking for a home. A city flat, some ridiculously priced collection of a couple hundred square feet in which to dwell.

Which is how I found myself at a god-awful development known best to South Slopers as a thief of all things neighborly. Before I can debate the horror of modern condo development, I'm stymied by the seller's grammatical indifference. The condo is named the Vue, which is a cutesy reference to their key asset (cuz it sure ain't the rusted nails coming out of the brand "nue" baseboard).

But it didn't stop there; the Vue's marketing information goes on and on about their infinite views. Infinite? Really? Does this building look at a sideways-leaning figure eight? Because views can't last forever (especially with the new building codes on 4th Street -- ba-dum-cha). I've fallen into the thesaurous trap from time to time but I've never printed my bettises on multi-million-dollar collateral. Then again, the real estate business has never been commended for its restraint.

Ah, words. They're on my mind now that I'm trying to sell a book. Complete with images of my ninth grade English teacher who once found it appropriate to write "This is DOY!!!" on a paper I'd written about Elie Weisel's Night. Appropriate? No. Insulting? Oh, yes. An insult using the lingo of the teenyboppers? Impressive, but sadly fell on ears that were already hanging on every word. Ouch, Mrs. Smith.

Last night, as I walked from midtown meeting to Union Square (because I could, because it was dusk, because Manhattan is a wonder), words were top of mind as I passed by a series street-meat vendors all named "Rafiqui's."

This chain-peddler has quietly taken over Manhattan. I found it hard to resist his spicy lamb scent as I walked past Rafiqui #12, but then I remembered my first freaky Rafiqui.

I should preface by that by admitting that a tasty combination of lamb and chicken with white sauce and hot sauce wrapped in a warm, thick pita was only $4.49. Bite 1: Good. Bite 2: Okay, the tomatoes were off, but my fault for not ordering better. By bite 3 I was removing bits of cartilage (or at least I hope it was cartilage) from my mouth. Haute cuisine it was not, nor had I expected it to be, but once food goes into my mouth, I don't intend to remove it.

Rafiqui makes ordering simple; the poster on the side of his cart offers six options: Lamb, Chicken, or Lamb/Chicken on pita, or Lamb, Chicken, Lamb/Chicken on rice. Echos of that other great American entrepreneur who felt that Americans could have any color they wanted as long as it was black.

And how did he title the options? "Rafiquis Simple Selection"? "Rafiquis Real Meals"? Oh no. Instead, it was "Rafiquis Most Favorites". It's almost hard to say that line without rolling your R and putting on some sort of an accent. But for Rafiqui, favorite just wasn't ample. I often wondered, in high school, how certain girls could have 24 best friends. How does that work? Well Rafiqui got it, and has opened up a successful business selling four things, six different ways, and having them all be his "Most Favorites". Good for him.

And then, like an oasis in the ocean, I see Anthony Bourdain's mecca, Les Halles. The wonderful thing about Les Halles (or at least about the more congested, authentic, and delightful former incarnation of Les Halles) is that a passer buy can also visit to buy a raw hanger steak, wrap it up, and cook it at home. Part restaurant, part restaurant-quality butcher.

I glided through the door, and asked the perky pretties in front if I could still buy meat to cook at home. "Nine to five" was my humourless retort. Weird. Sort of cuts down the spur-of-the-moment, on-the-way-home shopping experience. Should be open until 9, at least. If only Bourdain wasn't halfway around the world eating lightbulbs made of moondust, he'd understand.

Though saddenned, the moment could still be retrieved if only I could imagine my delight had I walked in fifteen minutes prior. Les Halles is a meat lovers bistro -- hangar steaks, offal, sweet breads. He had to have marrow bones. If only... I could have purchased a dozen, roasted some, frozen some, given one to the dog, and still had some for soup. Last time I bought marrow bones, they were 50 cents a pound. Oh, savory bliss.

"So you're closed. That's okay. For the future...do you have marrow bones?"

The host-ettes twisted their hair and rolled their eyes, like goddamn Violet Beauregardes. They were gum chewers, naturally.

"What's thaaaaat?" They scowled. "Weird."

No, marrow bones are not weird. They're a delight. What's weird is that these nincompoops were working at Les Halles and had no idea what a marrow bone was. But at time where "vues" are infinite, and hyperboles are modified with other hyporboles, I suppose I can't expect brilliance on Park Avenue.

Marrow Bones: You Know You Want Them

Marrow bones (3 for a snack, 6 for dinner and a heart attack, or roast a whole tray's worth for a party)
Salt

Preheat the oven to 425F. Season the stuff in the bones (the marrow) with salt. Put the bones on a roasting pan and place in the oven. Cook the bones until they're browned on the edges and warmed through, about 20 to 25 minutes for room temperature bones, depending on the size.

You can also enjoy these tossed in soup, especially vegetable soup. No one need tell the vegetarians.

Note: If you're preparing these for dogs, they're best enjoyed frozen.

Advice for the Single Girl? Duck.

I’ve decided that this is the year I’m going write a book. I mean pitch a book. Well, at least finish a book proposal. My professional obligations have thinned, and this is the right year to do it. As a single girl whose primarily obligation is a low-overhead dog, when will there be a better time to give all I've got to a time-consuming, poorly-compensated activity? It's an act of love! And even if it doesn't work out; the book won't break up with me, and I'll have something to show for it at the end.

Yesterday I went to the Barnes and Noble of Union Square, to do a bit of research and check out their cookbook section. I can now confirm that every cook book that needs to be written has been written, twice. Tomes are in – big, fat, exhaustive books written by very knowledgeable people. If only a home cook could eat the book.

What the majority of home cooks are seeking are good tasty basics. Yes, they’ve been shamed out of can-opener recipes, long gone are the days of putting a can or two of Campbells on top in a casserole dish with a couple of pieces of protein and calling it dinner. Cooks are curious, but their resources are chef-written books that even I find intimidating. I’m looking forward to changing all that.

A big goal of my cookbook is that I want it to be laugh-out-loud. I want someone to pick it up, flip it around, and giggle in their first few minutes of reading. So I nosed about the non-cookbook sections, trying to get a sense of the size, shape, and topics that made a book leap into my hands.

I found myself at the “So You Want To Write A Book” section (and quickly found a "So You Want to Write a Cookbook" book. Can you believe?), and thumbed around a bit. A scruffy young male, resembling a terrier approached me and said, “So you’re a writer?” Uch. There’s something that should never be said in New York, certainly not in the how-to-write section. I choked down all I wanted to say, looked up at his emerging facial hair and said, “Yup.”

“Oh good, then can you recommend a book for me? On how to write”. Zinsser, who I love deeply, was sitting on top. I pointed at it, and suggested the young buck give it a read. He asked if I had read it. “Actually, I listened to it on audio tape when I had a bad commute.” His retort: “So how good of a writer is this guy if you didn’t even want to read his book?” And then he snorted.

I extricated myself and proceeded to the self-help/fitness section. I swear, it’s just between the "how to write" section, and the cookbooks. They’re cruel at Barnes and Noble.

There was a sassy, pink book that called out to me – cute little chick on the cover, perfect size to pick up without a big commitment. Was it a fashion book? No, it was the “Single Girl's Survival Guide: Secrets for Today's Savvy, Sexy, and Independent Woman”. I dropped it like a hot cast iron skillet. I looked around – no one saw. Not like I knew anyone there, but just in case. It would be like getting caught popping a pimple in the high school bathroom.

I walked the perimeter of self-help/fitness, and eyed the book from another angle. Oh yeah, it was by Andrew Lloyd Weber’s daughter. I heard her talk about the book on NPR. I wonder what she looks like. If she’s so happily single, she must be cute. If she’s his daughter, which means she’s rich, she can at least buy cute. I’ll just open the back cover and see what she looks like. Hmm. I wonder why she’s sing…”

“Sooooooo. What are we reading?” He took the book from my hand. “The Single Girl’s Survival Guide? Is it any good?”

I flash deep red. “I wouldn’t know. I was just reading about the author.” Totally caught. But this time it was a different guy, one who resembles Ziggy, from the second season of the Wire.

“Sure you were. Did you get any good tips?” This dolt started smirking and thumbing through the thing. Where are they minting these guys, these dick-y dorks? Dorks aren’t supposed to be dicks. I felt like I walked into a Manhattan episode of Beauty and the Beast, where the Beasts were working on their pick up skills in the goddamn self-help section. Except these guys were intrusive and insulting; the beasts on that show are always so sweet and insightful.

I got myself out of there with a few more sentences, and found cookbook land, where, thank god, there were no aggressive dweebs. Just Sandra Lee, Bobby Flay, Mario, and that hot chick from Top Chef who makes a lot of international food with her fabulous friends. Yet another home cooking tome that won’t help a homemaker in Topeka.

I ducked out of the Barnes and Noble without another interaction. I thought about the simple high-bang-for-the-buck dishes that can be made at home without a fuss.

I continue to be impressed with the number of really good home cooks who have never tried duck. It’s something reserved for restaurants, and really, it couldn’t be simpler. Like any great (and expensive) piece of protein; season it properly, cook it perfectly, and just get out of the way. Here’s how you do it:

Seared Duck Breast
Serves 4

2 (14-ounce) magret duck breasts (D’Artagnan makes good ones)
Salt, to season

1. Preheat oven to 400F. Score breasts on fat side and season both sides with salt. Place breasts, fat side down in a cold skillet. Cook over medium-low heat until fat renders. Continue cooking for 15 to 20 minutes, increasing heat to medium-high for the last five minutes.
2. Discard all but 1 tablespoon duck fat. Turn duck breasts, and place in oven for 7 to 10 minutes, or until still pink in the middle. Let rest, covered with aluminum foil, for 10 minutes. Slice thinly, serve warm.

New Year's Oysters and Christmas Kielbasa

I love New Year's eve. First of all, it's our only non-denominational domestic holiday that's celebrated at night (that's pretty sexy in and of itself). A holiday that celebrates the passage of time, the ticking of a clock; opening and closing. It gives us an opportunity to look back and celebrate and look forward and celebrate. A collective kiss at a particular second enjoyed by everyone on your slice of the globe. It's delicious and debaucherous.

This year, as usual, I had no plan. No boyfriend, no prior committment, no stack of party invites. And I came down with the flu, which gave me the opportunity to curl up with Woody Allen and call it a night. But no...

I was obsessed with the idea of tossing back oysters at midnight, and so I pursued the vision right down the street to Blue Ribbon, where I've enjoyed many a late night oyster. I found myself a male slurping partner, which is important, as it renews my faith in men, which could use a bit of bolstering these days. (I've always feared men who don't dig raw oysters, the ultimate yonic symbol. Men who love raw oysters can properly love a woman, and vice versa. Think about it.)

So there I was at 11:59, staring at a dozen shimmering balls of bliss, a bottle of Northwestern Pinot (a wonderful, minerally partner for the ladies), and a bowl of chicken soup. Now is the time to enjoy the plump, briney beauties--- forget about raw shellfish at summer beach parties; they're meant to be enjoyed in those ber (burr) months, when the water is cold, and these girls are vivid and tight. I didn't have the heart to put any sauce on them; I just enjoyed their nakedness like mini edible Baby New Year's.

But don't take my word for it, go get them yourself. Happy New Year!



Christmas Kielbasa
For Christmas this year, I was up in Rochester, NY, visiting with my stocking-stuffing relatives. I was given dinner detail, and the crowd gave this spicy beer-steamed kielbasa a double thumbs up.

1 tablespoon olive oil
1/2 large vidalia onion, sliced
Salt
3 tablespoons your favorite prepared mustard (we had French's, but feel free to mix it up)
1 bottle amber beer
3 pounds kielbasa


1. Heat oven to 350F. Heat oil in a small skillet over medium-high heat. Add onion, season with salt, and stir. Reduce heat to medium-low, and cook until caramelized, about 30 minutes.

2. Add mustard, and stir to coat. Add beer (I know, hot beer seems weird but just go with me on this) and bring to a simmer.

3. Meanwhile, stab kielbasa all over with the tip of a knife (every 1 1/2 inches or so) and place in a roasting pan. Pour hot beer and onions over the kielbasa, and place in the oven. Cook for one hour, until beer has almost completely steamed away. Raise heat to 425 and cook for an additional 15 minutes. Slice carefully and serve.