During my first fall as a single person, I started eating fried fish
for dinner a few nights a week. I cooked it with ingredients I bought
at M2M, a Korean bodega across the street from my apartment building in
the East Village. M2M sold three types of fish: salmon, sole, and basa.
The salmon was bright orange and fat, the sole was thin and yellow with
odd raised bumps like pores, and the basa was light pink and
smooth-fleshed. I have a bourgeois distaste for salmon stemming from a
childhood vacation to France where it had was served at nearly every
meal, and I feared the wan, pebbly sole. So I always bought the basa,
despite the fact that before moving across the street from M2M I had
never heard of this fish.
Each package of basa contained two fillets; when I cooked dinner for myself, I used only one, leaving the other piece in its yellow Styrofoam tray and covering it with cellophane wrap to spend another night in the refrigerator. I rinsed the basa fillet under the water, sometimes squeezing the juice of half of a lemon onto the slippery flesh. Then I traced the seam that ran down the center of the fillet with my small ceramic knife and divided the fillet in two parts. There were no bones. I cut each of the twin pieces into smaller chunks, then broke an egg into a bowls and beat it. In another bowl I mixed together equal parts flour and cornmeal with half-teaspoons of black pepper and oregano and a pinch of salt. I dropped the pieces of fish into the beaten egg, rinsed them around with the fingers of my left hand, and then dropped them into the flour mixture. I tossed them in the flour with the fingers of my right hand.
So folks are embracing “Meatless Mondays” – from L.A. Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa (maybe he’s also embracing meatless policies) to celebrity chef Mario Battali (who might consider some meal-less mondays – I know, I know, who am I to talk), but what about “Meatless Mostdays?” That’s what’s getting embraced around my house,
The other day, I just couldn't shake the thought of slow-smoking some
ribs. I was in the mood for Memphis-style baby backs, the meat
fall-off-the-bone tender, a simple dry rub tantalizingly complicated
with deep hickory notes, the flavors drawn out with a tart
vinegar-Dijon mop.
I hate 3:00 p.m. on a school day. It means I’m a failure. Once
again, I’ve failed to come up with a “healthy snack” for my ravenous
Varsity Cheerleader. Our routine was to just go over to Chipotle which
wasn’t really great because those burritos, even though they were
pretty clean, would stuff her until around 5:30, at which time, I’ve
lost the will to live because I’m tired and I don’t want to come up
with any kind of dinner, so she’s left to forage which makes me feel
like an even worse failure.