School Lunch Success: Roast Chicken

A year ago, my then-boyfriend asked me for help with his daughter. "I can't figure out what to make for school lunch. My sandwiches always come back."

"What do you make?" I asked.

"The same stuff she eats at home. Salami and cheese, tunafish..."

From samlagrassas.com

So basically: the stuff that smells. What 9-year old wants to unwrap tuna or salami that's been aging at room temp for a couple of hours? That's the kind of stuff that earns you a nickname for life.

"I can't figure it out," he said.

So without mentioning the obvious, I asked around, and in Brooklyn at the time, noodles and dumplings were a big hit with elementary school girls. Seems like any pasta derivation wins with kids, and I suggested that he buy a big bag of frozen dumplings, steam 'em by the handful, pack 'em with a little dipping sauce and you're well on your way to an edible school lunch.

It worked.

And then I moved in. School lunch became one of my new chores. We had a good rotation going: turkey sandwich, steamed dumplings, cheese roll-ups, etc. And that was good for a while. Until somewhere, some kid decided something was wrong with bread. And soon, The Kid was asking for a "bag of meat". 

From clipartguide.com

Processed turkey, in a bag. Processed cheese, in a bag.

For some reason, that got to me. I think it was after Thanksgiving, when we had gorgeous turkey leftovers, and she opted for processed turkey. I'd even write it on the grocery list like that: "processed turkey". If I was going to go the bag of meat route, I couldn't send the turkey slices. I could ignore the processed turkey sandwiched between two wholesome pieces of bread, but a bag of turkey slices was just too much.

So I went about making meat she'd enjoy for dinner, and kept hoping it would turn into a bag of meat request for lunch. I tried pork tenderloin, pork chops, steak, even mac and cheese. It took me months before I figured it out.

From KraftRecipes.com

I had recently shot some videos with Kraft, and they asked me to make a very simple roast chicken. Ridiculously simple, basically a bird and some salad dressing. I made it one day when I didn't have time to think about dinner (I even skipped the vegetables), and as luck would have it, she loved it.

The dressing alone moisturized, lubricates and flavors the bird. Use any dressing you like; and if you prefer make your own (3 parts oil to one part vinegar, as much herb, seasoning, and grated Parm as you like), go for it!

This was a bag of meat I sent with pride. And none of it came back.

Indian Cooking for Novices: Coconut Curry Shrimp

I had a cooking date with SodiumGirl today. We were having our first date, and I thought we could get to know each other in the kitchen, via Skype. I was armed with Anjum's New Indian and looking for an excuse to crack it open. Since both Anjum and SodiumGirl are published by my publisher, Wiley, I thought this all made sense.

I love Skype, I really do, but it dropped our call every few minutes. Cooking wasn't going to happen, so I waited until our call was over to try Anjum's recipe.

As you may know, I'm now cooking for myself, my fiance, and his 9-year old daughter who is more into "plain" food than I am. I knew Indian cooking was asking a lot of her.

I gave her the cookbook this morning, with a stack of stickies and asked her to pick a few recipes that looked good. Coastal Shrimp Curry (p. 64), with cardamom, chiles, coconut milk and tamarind paste was the top of her list.

Photo from JustcookNYC.com

A well written Indian recipe can make a non-Indian person feel gifted. There are more spices used than in any other cuisine, plus there are fresh chiles, fresh garlic and ginger; there are purees and spice blends, coconut milk and tomatoes; coriander, cumin, whole cinnamon and thankfully never any one making you look for chicken stock. Indian cooking can take your kitchen to a place your family doesn't recognize and if you have a talented guide (like Anjum) that's a good thing.

As soon as I set the cinnamon and cloves into the oil; The Kid came home from school. I grimaced a bit; there was no way she was going to like this. And yes, I know there's always cereal, but it's important right now for her to feel like she's a part of what we're doing -- what I'm doing -- and I just knew I was going down a slippery slope.

I started cooking faster, and she hung around the kitchen looking for something to do. I added onions to the oil, she picked up a wooden spoon and started to stir, "I love this part so much," she said.

When it was time to measure the spices, I gave her a 1/2 teaspoon measure (which led to an impromptu lesson on fractions), and asked if she wanted to help, "Just for a little bit," she said. I know, I know, there's gotta be something more interesting happening right now on TV. 

I pureed the garlic and ginger; what was left...peeling shrimp? Egads. But she was still in the kitchen. I asked if she wanted to help once more and she said, "Just for a little bit." Again with the little bit.

As I was showing her to remove the shell, pull the legs and wiggle the soft tail out of the hard shell, she asked, "You know why I always say just a little bit when you ask me to help?"

"Because you'd rather watch TV?" I answered.

"No. Because when I say 'a little bit' you always give me a something more to do. I said I'd measure spices, and now I'm peeling shrimp!"

Sometimes I really misread The Kid. As for dinner, she ate two cucumbers, rice, shrimp, mango juice, and a glass of milk because that curry was seriously spicy and that's the only way she could get it down.


Anjum's Coastal Shrimp Curry 
Adapted from Anjum's New Indian
(adapted to be made with what I had in my pantry)

2 tablespoons vegetable oil (or coconut oil)
5 cloves
3-inch piece of cinnamon stick
1 medium-large onion, finely chopped
1-inch piece fresh ginger, peeled and roughly chopped
7 large cloves of garlic, peeled
1/2 teaspoon chile powder
1/2 teaspoon ground turmeric
1/2 teaspoon ground cardamom
1/2 teaspoon ground curry powder
1 teaspoon ground coriander
4 medium canned tomatoes, quartered
1 green chile, minced
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 can light coconut milk
1 pound shrimp, peeled and deveined
2 teaspoons tamarind paste

1. Heat the oil in a medium nonstick skillet. Add cloves and cinnamon, and cook until they are fragrant. Add the onion and cook until golden, 8-10 minutes.

2. Puree the ginger and garlic in a food processor and add to the skillet with a tablespoon of water. Cook over medium-low heat for 2 minutes until the water has evaporated and you can fry the paste. Add the spices, tomatoes and green chile and salt. (SodiumGirl, I tried, to pull myself back but I couldn't. I just saw all that good stuff in the skillet and knew a little salt would make it sing. I tried to wait until the end and taste, I really did, but I couldn't. I held back on the fatty coconut milk; this was not a compromise I was willing to make. Cook for 15 minutes, or until the mixture releases oil droplets into the pan. Taste; there should be no raw-tasting bits.

3. Add coconut milk and bring to a simmer for 5 minutes. Add shrimp, cook for 3 minutes and remove from the heat. Put tamarind paste in a small bowl, add 2 tablespoons of curry broth and stir to make a cohesive mixture. Return tamarind broth to skillet and serve over rice.

Modern Healthy: The Crisco Kid

When I first started dating my fiance, his 9-year old daughter and I bonded through cooking. Whether we made big kitchen-sink cookies or chicken under a brick, our friendship started in the kitchen. We cooked and we ate, she made a mess and I cleaned; it was what we did.

I moved in six weeks ago, and we're all taking our time feeling each other out during the transition. The dishes that we enjoyed making together no longer receiving love at the dinner table, and I don't want to get in the habit of making multiple meals.

As a cooking teacher, I'm used to making food, having people enjoy it (politely or sincerely; I'll take either), and having help with the dishes. But it's one thing to hypothesize cooking for a family; it's quite another to do it. I'm not used to putting a meal on the table and have my patrons opt for a slice of bread instead. And though I know I can make her pasta and butter or mac and cheese every night and have her fed and happy; that kind of cooking and eating is not going to make me happy in the long term.

What to do? These days I'm making the food I like to make, except I'll always leave a piece (of chicken, tofu, meat) "plain" so that she can try it.  I want her fed and happy, though the last thing I want to do is make food an issue for us. So I continue to cook. Because I like it And the understanding is that if she doesn't care for it, she can have bread or a banana or cereal.  And I've got to be OK with that too.

Last week, after deciding against a quinoa salad and herb-roasted pork tenderloin, she took a mini-bagel out of the fridge and slathered it with cream cheese. She was so proud of doing her own cooking and food prep and clean up and I was proud of her.

The next day, she asked for the same thing for lunch. I looked to the fridge: no cream cheese. Hmm. She kept pointing to the door, "It's right there!".

It wasn't, but there was a silver-foil wrapped brick of Crisco left over from my Thanksgiving pie crusts. "This isn't cream cheese, sweetie, it's Crisco," I said.
 
And I made the face that you are probably making right now, and asked, "Is this what you put on your bagel last night?"

A nod.

"And you liked it?"

A more enthusiastic nod and then a soft question, "Can I please have it again?"

Here she was, making a culinary request of me: Can I please have a bagel, slathered with Crisco, for my school lunch. I couldn't possibly...and yet, she was so proud, so excited about her invention, and once-again showing some enthusiasm for (I cringe to say it) semi-homemade food.

So yes, I made that Crisco bagel. I spread a thin layer on each side of the bagel, and packed it up with an apple and a note.

Because in this particular situation, given my hopes for healthy home cooking, it seemed like a Crisco bagel was the better choice.

She ate it, and never asked for it again.