Comfort Foods and Indulgences

I can't remember exactly where I had my first taste of beef short ribs. A restaurant? Someone's house? I do know they were served over cheesy polenta and together they did this little dance in my mouth (I think it was a rumba). Anyway, the meat was so tender and overall was a very good food memory.

Fast-forward in time, I now love making short ribs at home. The process is so easy and your reward is a very flavorful dinner everyone loves. However, I never cook short ribs and serve them right away. I usually make them in the morning or put them away until the next day. I like to let the fat settle at the top and remove it before serving. This type of dish always tastes better after the flavors meld.

If you've never heard of beef short ribs, the best cuts come from the lower (ventral) section, between the 6th and 10th rib, often called the short plate. The short plate is what gives them their name (not the fact that they are short). The meat itself is on top of the bone, about 1-2" in height. Make sure to select a package with meaty hunks as lots of times they are packaged with more hidden fatty pieces inside.

From the L.A. Times

Fried chicken is a beautiful thing.

Nothing beats the simplicity of a tender, moist piece of meat, delicately seasoned and lightly dredged with a dusting of flour, and then baptized in a pool of sizzling fat to crisp, golden perfection.

Quintessential comfort food that it is, fried chicken is unpretentious. No haughty airs here. Eating with your fingers is not only acceptable, it's all but required.

So maybe it's a little surprising to find that fried chicken has become the hot culinary muse of the moment. Chefs, meet Eliza Doolittle. Fine cuisine, meet fried chicken.

Read article...

Sometimes I think I should just throw caution to the wind and write a book called “The Blue Cheese Diet: Eating Your Way To Happiness Through Gorgonzola And Roquefort”. I’d take all the photos, test each recipe personally, get it published, then do the TV show talk circuit, answering questions like “How did you come to invent the Blue Cheese Diet?” and “Now correct me if I’m wrong, but you went from 186 lbs to well over 350 lbs over the last 15 months, right?” The audience would snicker and laugh and point, I’d wipe the sweat from my face, and then they’d wheel me out on some gurney and my cookbook would be on the clearance rack at some B. Dalton close out sale a few months later, or worse, a bogo.

On second thought, I think I’ll stick with the day job.

But seriously, if I knew I could live on blue cheese I’d probably do it. I always seem to crave the full flavors of blue and when the craving starts no amount of cheddar or aged anything will suffice. I realize eating so much blue cheese is the taste equivalent to listening to my iPod at full blast, but that’s not to say I don’t appreciate the subtle flavors of shyer cheeses – I most certainly do!

With our 12th wedding anniversary right around the corner, I thought I’d look up 12th year wedding gifts. The traditional gifts are silks and linens. Who came up with those? Does that mean I should expect a linen table cloth? Should Jeff expect silk pajamas? I think not.

In fact, after 12 years together, I want to give Jeff something memorable, something unique. So, I was thinking a potato. Not any potato. (What kind of wife do you think I am?) A jacket potato, as they call it in England, or as we Yanks call it, a stuffed potato. Now, before you consider me the most un-romantic person you’ve ever met, read on.

 Our honeymoon had an inauspicious start. Our scheduled non-stop flight from Boston to London was cancelled due to thunderstorms, and consequently our luggage was “misplaced” (the Brits’ genteel word for “lost”). In part due to a choppy ride and part due to just-married-bliss, we did not sleep on the flight over and landed in London late and red-eyed.

When we arrived, we discovered that our inn was just as we anticipated: a Victorian brownstone on a tree lined, thoroughly British street. There was even a consummate Brit, heels clicking on the pavement, with his walking stick swinging in one hand and the Sunday Times in the other.

The woman at the inn greeted us warmly then asked for our name. After Jeff told her, she looked at him, then at me, then back at him and back to me. She said, “Uncanny how much you two look alike. Are you brother and sister?”