I used to live on San Francisco's Fog Line. A completely sunny day was rare at our house. The Pacific's eastward flow of fog and bitter-cold wind would engulf us by late afternoon, if not earlier. The Mission District, a half-mile away, would bask in its warm microclimate while I, shivering, lit the fire and wrapped myself in sweats. On such afternoons, when considering dinner plans, my mind would turn to bubbling pots of stews and soups.
I have always loved to cook. An obvious reason to enjoy cooking is if one enjoys good food, which is certainly true for me. But more than that, I enjoy sharing food, especially cooked in quantity, even with total strangers. A bond is made when one breaks one's own bread with another. I had watched my mother, a very good cook, receive strokes from family and friends for her efforts and set out to become a great chef, with sometimes comic results. I prepared my first solo dinner when I was about 8 or 9 out of "The Betty Crocker Cookbook For Boys And Girls" (an early gender consciousness-raising title, considering this was the mid-60's) for my godfather and "uber-mench" figure, Hal.
I will have to write a separate post about Hal -- he was a good and beautiful man. He was watching me while my parents were out, and I rewarded him with (and I am not making this up) "Happy Face Dinner." It consisted of a meatloaf base baked in a pie tin with eyes, nose and mouth sculpted from mashed potatoes. I believe peas figured into the mix somewhere, too. I served this abomination to poor Hal, who consumed it with every indication of delight, and probably great lashings of catsup to get it down. Out of my hearing, my mother apologized to Hal when she returned. "But it was GOOD!" he said loyally. I had nowhere to go but up from "Happy Face Dinner."
Nearly forty years later, I still come a cropper sometimes. A few months back, I invited a friend for dinner. This was the first dinner I had prepared for him, and I wanted to set the proper gourmet tone. I knew he was vegetarian, with the occasional fish thrown in. No problem. I had been reading several books about Italy and its cuisine (Marcella Hazan's Complete Italian Cookbook, Italian Days, Under the Tuscan Sun) and conceived a meatless menu of Tuscan relish (featuring roasted garlic, olives and pimento, among other good things) to spread on baguette toasts as a starter, while I completed the polenta with wild mushrooms, and caprese salad (fresh mozarella, tomatoes, basil, with a dash of balsamic and fruity olive oil). My friend sampled the relish and politely put down the half-eaten appetizer. He asked about the main course. With some embarassment, he told me, "I don't think I gave you a clear idea about my food limitations. Not only do I not eat meat, there are three foods I loathe: olives, mushrooms and eggplant." Shit. If I had made the eggplant side dish I had considered, I would have hit the trifecta. "Oh, well, scratch plan A, now it's time for plan B," I said gaily, but inwardly I gnashed my teeth. I found some cheese to go with the baguettes, finished the polenta and set it aside, and put on a pot of water for pasta. Plan B involved Trader Joe's bottled Marinara sauce and linguine. Only the caprese salad was salvaged. I'm not sure, but dessert may have included coconut, which I now know is also on the Will Not Eat list. Henceforth, I check every ingredient before preparing food for my friend, and we have shared many successful meals since then.
What happened to the Tuscan Relish and mushroom polenta? It was served with much fanfare the next night to an appreciative audience. Like so much of provincial cuisine, it only improves by the next day. (Incidentally, that meal marked the Bubba's first understanding of the concept of wine pairing. The Bubba's idea of a good drink is lemonade or a Long Island Iced Tea, not wine. But I served a Chianti Classico in the old-fashioned straw-wrapped bottle and told the Bubba that it, too, was from Tuscany. The Bubba, eyes wide, cried, "Hey, this wine is GOOD with this food!" I saw a 40-watt bulb light over his head. He now also likes Pinot Grigio with fish. I feel like Annie Sullivan.)
So now it is fall, and even though I live in My Little Town on the California Coast, sunny and temperate year-round except for the occasional monsoon or landslide, I'm still dreaming of soups and stews. Last night I made a fabulous Salmon Chowder. It will be even more flavorful tonight after a day's rest in the refrigerator. This is safe for the lacto-ovo-fish vegetarians among us and is fabulously healthy, except for the butterfat (and what is life without butterfat?). As the cookbooks always say, serve with a crusty loaf or soup crackers (which I dislike, but to each her own) and a green leafy salad for a complete meal. Great for casual entertaining.
SALMON CHOWDER
- 1/4 C butter
- 2 medium or 1 very large yellow onion, chopped coarsely
- 2 bay leaves
- 1/4 C all-purpose flour
- 1 quart vegetable broth
- 4 pounds red new potatoes, scrubbed (unpeeled) and sliced
- 1-2 C diced bell peppers (green, yellow and red for color is nice)
- 1 1/2 C corn (frozen is fine, even good quality canned -- save the juice and add to:)
- 1 quart milk (whole)
- 1 1/2 pounds salmon fillet, cut into smallish chunks (remove and save skin in one piece)
- salt and fresh ground pepper
- paprika or chives (optional)
In an 8-quart stockpot (non-stick is best), melt butter over medium heat. Add onions and bay leaves, stirring occasionally, until onions are tender but not browned. Stir in flour and cook and stir over low heat while it bubbles for a minute or two. Stir in vegetable broth, 1 cup at a time, mixing until smooth after each addition. Add potatoes, bell peppers and salmon skin and cook at a low simmer, covered, until potatoes are just tender, about 20 minutes. Remove skin carefully and discard. Add corn, milk and salmon. Mix well and heat just below a simmer for another 20 minutes, covered. Season to taste with salt and pepper. (Can be held and refrigerated at this point. Just remember not to let boil when reheating.) Serve garnished with a dash of paprika or minced chives. Makes about 4-5 quarts.
This is not a gluey-thick chowder, yet has a rich mouth-feel. If you like your chowders to double as wallpaper paste, increase the butter and flour accordingly in equal quantities, but I will not be held responsible.
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