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Kimchi Fried Rice with Shrimp and Whatnot

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Hailing, as I do, from the nether regions of the African continent, the arcana of Korean cuisine have never really been my bag. As a consequence of later life travels in the Koreatowns of Trumpistan I have learned that the Han-In diaspora makes a good fist of chicken wings and their indoor barbecue is an innovation that I fully endorse. While I have had occasion to taste it on the restaurant circuit, expanding my use of buried, fermented vegetable matter has hitherto not been high on my kitchen experiments list. A Dutchman of this parish, with whom I compare occasional notes about cookery and home economics, has consistently extoled the virtues of Kimchi (a fermented cabbage matter, stewed in the hot sauce paste of the Korean people, and buried in their yards). Kimchi is, so the Hollander claimed, a cheap, versatile and healthy vegetarian snack one can store in the refrigerator for months without fear of tummy knack. What’s more, he has been known to say, it makes an excellent
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A Beef Pot Roast to Warm the Soul

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With Potatoes and Salsa Verde for the Ages! Take your garden variety polar vortex, spice it up with some extra-low atmospheric pressure, sprinkle it with a storm named Grayson , and you are left with the horrifying Frankenstein " bomb cyclone " my African arse has had to endure over the course of the past ten days. It has been utterly miserable: laying waste to dreams of healthier living in the new year, outdoor exercise, and all that. There has been nothing to do but hide under blankets, order groceries online, and drink copious amounts of whisky. There is at least one god... and s/he is a beef pot roast with taters and salsa verde That was until I remembered my pot roasts of yore (!!!). There is nothing quite like a good pot roast to fortify the constitution and warm a cyclone-bombed soul. Executing it again, however, would require the hoodwinking of my stoically vegetarian wife, and the location of precious pot roast notes shouted down a crackling trans-Atlan
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Freeze Your Bones: A stock maker's postscript

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Back in the mists of time, when I was a lithe bachelor, living downtown in a slick, split-level apartment with a pool on the roof, and a doorman for gossip, I would save all of my chicken bones, and lob them into a massive Ziploc bag in the freezer. At the point when there was no room for more bones, I would saunter on down to the supermarket, load up on some celery, carrot, and everything else mentioned in my superb, fool proof  turkey stock recipe , and bubble up some stock for posterity. Oh, the times we had! Did I mention the pool on the roof? My mate, Dave, lived next door, and The CHEF's restaurant was within stumbling distance of the front door. Dangerous days!
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Turkey Two Ways: Resurrect Your Thanksgiving Leftovers with Salad and Stock

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There are a couple things the United States of America can shamelessly offer to the world, and no, it’s not regime change and tax evasion. I’m talking turkey and Thanksgiving. En repos Back in the early days of the separatist American enclave, a band of fresh-off-the-boat religious zealots invited over their brown neighbors to toast a wondrous harvest. Corn, turkey, cranberries, and other assorted goodies were passed around in thanks, and a foundation myth was born. Pesky facts are irritatingly truculent, and it seems the record contradicts almost every alleged component of that first Thanksgiving dinner . They probably ate deer (not turkey), the natives were likely crashing the party, and the mythical Indian leader, Squanto, rather than being the heart of the party, was actually a former slave of the English who had lost his entire people to small pox. It’s entirely unclear what he would have had to be thankful about. But why sully a good story? Fast forward almost
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It's Butternut Soup Season, Motherfuckers

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Ah! I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to get my hands on some fucking butternut, and make soup. That shit is going to taste so seasonal. I’m about to head out to the store right now to find that mutant squash fucker, peel and de-seed it, toss it in olive oil, and roast it just right. When my guests come over it’s gonna be like, BLAMMO! Check out my roasted butternut soup, assholes. Guess what season it is — fucking fall. There’s a nip in the air and my house is full of tasty fucking squash soup. They set the clocks back this weekend past, and Thanksgiving is in sight. The summer garden is all but dead, and my toes are creaking at the prospect of frost. It's Roasted Butternut Soup season, mofos. I'm from the nether-regions of the African continent, where butternut squash grows with abandon and every restaurant and household hoards a secret recipe for the sacred soup. At the intersection of the prevailing westerlies and trade winds, the vernacular cuisine of my h
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Pan-Fried Salmon with Roasted Spaghetti Squash, Kale, Green Beans and Beurre Blanc

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A spaghetti squash had been loitering on the kitchen counter for weeks, demanding attention. Thankfully, this particular fall phenomenon has a relatively long shelf-life and, as a consequence, I could eyeball it, and wait for optimal squash roasting conditions to avail themselves. With the moon in a waxing crescent, rain in the overnight forecast, and an oversupply of kale from my garden plot, the squash's fateful evening duly arrived. But, I also had a hankering for fish... and lemon vinaigrette. Following a quick scan of the interwebs for inspiration (beurre blanc, ahoy!), and having stowed the pesky squash in the oven to roast in my absence, I alighted to the supermarket to top up the required ingredient stash. An hour and a half later, there was quite a triumph to behold. The squash, praise be, had not been sacrificed in vain. Boom! Ingredients (serves two) 1x medium sized spaghetti squash (ours was donated from a friend's garden) 1x large handful of green
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Vermont, Vermont, Vermont

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The state where I want to be... 'Bucolic' fails to do it justice. It came to pass: The wife, knackered from interviewing Trumpists on Pennsylvania's coal-stained ramparts, insisted on evacuating the swamp for a vacation in Bernie's magical kingdom.  Vermont! , she said, Oh! Vermont... You'll see!  She had made all the arrangements. My job was to point the vehicle north, drive for nine hours, and make cooing noises on arrival. Vermont it would be. If we made haste we would arrive in time for Peak Fall Foliage. I'd heard only whispers about this northern hinterland: of deranged feral hippies churning cheese in the hills; of Jewish hobbits hurtling out of town halls waving their hands about and mumbling plans of praxis ; and of magnificently bearded, plaid-clad hipsters brewing sweet nectars for the gods.  AND IT WAS ALL TRUE. Jesus, Bernie and Joseph! Make no mistake, Vermont tastes good!  The Cheese Indeed. T
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