Stirring Memories

Spring, traditionally, is the season of rebirth. Where living things, whether they be animal or plant, shake off the cold gray dregs of winter and bask in sunlight. They turn their faces or their leaves and soak. It's not normally a cruel season but for this spring, for me, it certainly is.

Before I was cook or foodie, before I ever snapped my first picture, I was a dog person. I'm not sure how it happened. Maybe it was the Ribsy character in the Beverly Cleary books that I first proudly checked out at the library. It could have been Jack London's Buck who finally yielded to The Call of the Wild. Maybe it was our own wild beagle Skipper, who made our lives as adventurous children much easier by getting into so much trouble we looked like angels in comparison. Or maybe it was the neighborhood mutt who really belonged to no one but appreciated the love of a small girl who would pick nasty ticks from his blond coat. Or the smiling little Schnauzer Cindy who even went to the beach with us. All I know is that having a dog in my life is natural and right. There is a price to pay though. We all know it, we dog people, that the moment you sign those adoption papers or pick up that stray, that the moment comes when you have to say goodbye. That moment came recently for me as I said goodbye to not one, but two members of my little pack in the space of two months, ending a journey that spanned sixteen years. Winter may have been long and cold but my spring is bitter and dark. I need the comfort of routine.


I need activities to busy my brain and my hands. Judith Jones, the woman with the legendary eye for plucking diamonds from the pile of rejected manuscripts, has written her own cookbook. Following the passing of her husband, she finds herself adjusting to a new life of cooking just for herself. I need something intensive yet comforting. Mushroom risotto with it's close attention to the stirring details should help. I have yet to achieve that creamy, spreading plate of risotto. So it begins, with the mincing of some shallots and heating them in a pan with some olive oil and dehydrating whatever dried mushrooms you'd like to use with your risotto. Don't throw out the mushroom soaking liquid, it's good stuff that you'll heat up with your stock. Once your shallots have cooked about 4 minutes and before they get browned, add your rice. Just a little glaze in the pan for the rice, about a minute. Next a bit of wine, cooked until it's absorbed. Now begins the process of adding hot liquid and stirring and moving your rice around. It's here that the memories crowd out the present.

Sarah
We had a dog. That dog was Bear. But as most dog people will tell you, while most dogs enjoy the company of people, they much prefer the company of other dogs. That is what dog people will tell you to your face. What they fail to mention is that this Dog Truth also allows dog people to stuff their homes with more dogs without having to admit that you're getting another dog for you, not your poor, lonely, pining away for a companion, dog. Thus it was decided that Bear would enjoy the company of a sister dog. This is how my partner and I ended up standing on the cold concrete floor of a windowless garage where a small, sable colored German Shepherd cowered in abject fear in a corner. I'm not sure what the man's purpose was in buying this Backyard Breeder special, all I know is that she needed someone with a huge soft heart. I could feel my partner's NO in her mouth even with my back to her. I told the man Yes, even before she had a chance to speak. The man asked if we wanted the tiny towel he had given the dog to sleep on in that cold garage. I couldn't get her in the SUV fast enough. Even in the truck, my partner still tried to comprehend what had just happened, how the "just going to look" trip turned into an adoption so quickly. All I know is that Sarah owned my heart from the moment she rested her head on the cushion between the front seats as if to say, I'm ok now, I'm with my right forever family.

While she may have owned my heart, she tried my patience to boundaries I didn't even know I possessed. She was a submissive urinator. People terrified her. Luckily none of these traits turned into aggression. Plus she was great for the economy and the local dog trainers. We went to many classes and cowered under many chairs in a long fought battle to socialize with the world in general. The world of people may have been something she avoided at all costs, it was the world of dogs was where she was happiest.

She loved the Beardog, certainly more than Bear loved her. They ran and played and eventually Sarah settled into a truce with the world of people as long as she could be safe with her own little family. I, on the other hand, was convinced that she was some sort of freakish DNA, species splicing experiment let loose in the Heartland. You see, I believe that Sarah was part goat, part beaver and part owl all stuffed into the body of a German Shepherd.

See, she would do this thing with her head. I swear she could put Linda Blair to shame. You ask her the right questions and she would swivel that head so much trying to figure out an answer for you that you couldn't help but love her. That was important because Miss Sarah had some powerful bad habits. The top of the list was the chewing. Now before you think that Sarah chewed for lack of dog appropriate objects to chew on....you would be right but only because in Sarah World there is never enough to chew on. Most dog toys were merely an amuse bouche to Sarah. A warm up, a teaser to the grand feast that was the world in general. Sticks, logs, wind ripped branches were fun. Dog bones were good. Paper was particularly tasty. Grandma's knitting projects. Rugs, throws, pillows, comforters, dog beds, hats, socks, t-shirts all fell under her grinding jaws. The dog gnawed on the corner of a wall. How does one decide that a wall would taste good to chew on? And yet despite all the crap and junk she chewed up, it always came back out. Her stomach capacity and intestinal tract were legendary.

Her conscious? Uncluttered by guilt. She had other weaknesses, such as being easily manipulated by her love of peanut butter.

A little dab behind the ears of a willing participant and dog kisses will flow like honey. Could life get any better than this? Depends on that big soft heart tripping all over itself again.

Jacob
Our friends were out puppy searching. Finally they had found exactly what they wanted. Poloroids were whipped out and it was love at first sight. Two pairs of enormous ears sitting on little blond shepherd bodies. "Somebody dropped these two brother puppies in a dumpster and we're taking one, you want the other?" Der! Does Paula Deen love butter? Do Americans love cheap gas? I was the easy one of the couple when it came to dogs. I tried a little reverse psychology on Bear and Sarah's other mommy. "Don't look at that picture" I warned. "Not if don't want to get another dog, you will NOT look at that picture." Of course she looked.

There's just no fighting the incredible cuteness of the brothers, Jacob and Tucker. I mean, c'mon on, look at those ears?? Jacob was the last puzzle piece that easily fit into our wicked little tribe.

Big sister Sarah taught him the ropes of the ways of the house. Which direction the car comes from when someone comes home from work. Of not being allowed in the kitchen, when it's time to eat and when it's time to wake the humans for the important dog duties they are in charge of. Jacob took it all in stride. He was smart and quick and was the only one of the three to earn his Good Citizen award. He did have a style all his own when forced to live in a house full of females.

It was this laid back attitude that made him a favorite of his cousins. Yes, Jakers, somehow vaulted into the familial hierarchy with alarming ease, writing letters, learning to read and generally becoming the dog equivalent of a Rock Star.

Glasses and reading aren't so scary when your best dog bud is doing the same. Sarah adored him too, finding a more energetic playmate to help divert her chewing energies.

Whether it was playing in the snow or peeing on the big fish, we had a blast. The giant dog park had to be our most favorite activity in the whole wide world.

The dog park was our heaven for so many reasons. Freedom, adventure and drama, not to mention fantastic exercise for all of us. It was where we all got in touch with our inner dog and if a deer happened to cross our path, well, we all might take off running after it. ALL of us. Some of us usually didn't make it far but we did get our heart pumping.

We never "caught" a deer. There was even one time when they (they being the three dogs with incredibly sensitive canine noses) didn't even know the deer was close enough that I got the picture above. Let's face it, that deer wasn't worried at all, he knew he could outrun all of us with a flick of his tail. Descendants of mighty hunting wolves my ass.

This was about as close as Jake got to a real deer.

I've stirred all of my hot liquid into the rice and I have failed again. Perhaps I've cooked it at too high a heat or maybe my hearts' just not into it. It's not loose enough and now I hear Tom Colicchio's voice in my head berating my risotto. However because it's my head, I tell Tom to shove it. Maybe I should have made the dog's favorite, Beef Barley soup. I was the rock star whenever I made that, especially searing all the oxtails. But now the house is too quiet. There's no click of nails on hardwood floors. There's no constant lapping of water from the dog bowl. A dog bowl that sits there still because I don't have the heart to take it up. I taste the risotto.

It sits like ashes in my mouth and is quickly disposed of into the trash. There is no handbook, no instruction manual to deal with grief. It is just something that must be endured. Slogged through. I realize that Jake and Sarah and Bear's suffering was quickly over with a little needle prick and sleep. Whatever pain they had is over. My pain exists because I'm left behind. My selfish need to have them, touch them, just to scratch their big silly ears. For now I must be content with my photos and my memories.

If there's a heaven where there are dogs (because it's not going to be much fun if there's not) then I wish to be hiding behind a big tree in the dog park and just wait for the inevitable pounding down the trail of twelve dog paws, sniffing me out of my hiding place, just like they always did in real life, quickly planting dog kisses on my face before urging me back down the path to our new adventures. That my friends, is a heaven I look forward to.

All in the Family

There was a scene in the second season of The Sopranos where one of Tony's henchmen, after being served a formal meal in Italy, asks "Can I just get some macaroni and gravy?". The native Italians were not amused. I imagine it's how Fabio must of felt for this episode of Top Chef All Stars. Had Fabio remembered Jen's advice way back in episode two, he might have won the challenge. Cook for the judges, but really cook for Tom. Just as the fishing episode was Tom's baby, so was this episode. So I knew that once the episode was complete I had to see what explanation Tom had for why Mike got a hall pass for barely cooked pasta. To Tom's blog I went.


While this episode's theme might have been Inspiration, was it really was about was not eating. The Quickfire was only for looking, not eating. The Elimination challenge involved a restaurant 99.9% of the viewing audience will never eat at, Rao's. Ten tables, one seating a night and standing reservations that are passed down from generation to generation. Southern Italian cuisine but and that's an important but, made by Italian Americans. Here's how Tom describes his family's Sunday dinners: "We started with a salad of some sort, an antipasto. We'd next have gravy and macaroni (we never called it sauce and pasta), and we'd then have the meat that had been cooked in the gravy as our third course. We wouldn't deviate from that, be it spring, summer, fall or winter." OK, sounds like Tom's family was definitely set in their ways and those ways I think were felt in the judging. Tom's blog again: "The chefs were not asked to make Italian food , but, rather, to be inspired by what generations of Raos and Pellegrinos have done at Rao's, which is homey Italian-American food. When my father's family came over to the States from Italy, absolutely no one was importing Italian ingredients. His family had to incorporate into their cooking traditions the foods available to them here. As a result, the dishes have changed over time. People are invariably surprised when they go to Southern Italy and first sample the food, saying, "Oh, the foods very different!" Of course it is." So, if I understand what Tom is saying that while Antonia's mussels were more French than Italian the dish was still Italian-inspired enough to wow everyone at the table over Fabio's cacciatore and giving her the win. However it's the losing group that interests me more.

Mike, Dale and Tre and their pasta dishes make up the bottom three. Mike's pasta was severely undercooked, Dale's pasta did not come together and Tre's risotto was stiff. Tom says Tre's flavors were way way off and that may be but frankly Tom seems to coming down hard on Tre because of a restaurant trend that Tom doesn't particularly like. "Unfortunately for Tre, he wound up creating something that many people think risotto is supposed to be. About 15 years ago, for whatever reason, people tried to mold risotto into a ring stand. This is simply wrong. Risotto should be soupy. If you go to Italy, you'll be served it that way; ditto, a good Italian restaurant here. Tre's risotto wasn't even creamy. The starch should go into the stock and the risotto should run on a flat plate and not hold its form at all." Bourdain goes further in his explanation of a good risotto: " A good bowl of risotto is never overcomplicated with too many ingredients or garnishes. It is never buried in seafood or vegetables or mushrooms or even truffles. It is always -- and forever -- first -- about the rice. One of the most famous seafood risottos, from an island off Venice, has no seafood in it at all--just its extracted essence, delicately, delicately coaxed into broth. Attention must be paid constantly during the cooking process, first toasting the individual grains (in most cases) on the bottom of the pan, then slowly, gradually, feeding in small amounts of broth, stirring constantly to incorporate it. When finished it should be soft -- and almost porridgy, but with each distinct grain still possessing a bit of bite. It should lay flat on the plate. Never sit up in a mound. To cook Italian food well, one needs to have eaten good Italian food. And I can only guess that Tre has never eaten a good risotto. There is no shame in this -- as most risottos in most American restaurants -- even some well regarded ones -- are criminally screwed up. One of the most common transgressions is by the "genius" chef who sees risotto as a medium or delivery system for some clever and expensive garnishes -- and I suspect Tre has been subjected to more than a few of these both as a diner and during his training. His mentors did him a disservice here." So on the one hand, Tom and Tony applaud Antonia for serving a good tasting dish that was inspired by Italian cooking but auffs Tre for not adhering strictly to the Rules of Risotto? Here's my problem. I think someone who supposedly cooks pasta all the time, tells the audience about his Italian American upbringing in NJ, screws up his pasta for the Italian challenge should be going home instead of the guy from Dallas whose rice mounds instead of spreads and knows no better. I can eat stiff risotto, in fact I have eaten stiff risotto...


...Tre's risotto to be exact, back in September of 2007 when Ms. Xaxa (of the long lost and lamented blog, Amuse Biatch) and I took a little jaunt down to Dallas. As you can see, not much spreading happening and the rice is not the star, the lobster is. Was this dish popular at his restaurant? I have a feeling it was. Is it classic Italian risotto? No. But it's certainly better than what Bourdain described Mike's dish being: "It was hard, too tough and it didn't cook enough (I'm not convinced it ever could) -- as a result it never took in the sauce, and went down like a mouthful of bullets." I've tasted undercooked pasta and sent it back. It's spoils the whole dish and should be tolerated even less than stiff risotto. But what bugs me the most is Tom's insistence that Tre's culinary crime was more egregious than Mike's when Tom commits the same sort of culinary contortions. On that same trip to Dallas, Xaxa and I wanted to give Tom's Craft restaurant in Dallas a try but only had time left for Sunday brunch. Being a good southern girl, I ordered the grits to go along with my crab Benedict. What I hadn't ordered was a large glop of mozzarella cheese with the grits, having melted into a long stringy mass that sat on top like a wad of dried Elmer's glue. I realize grits hardly merit the Culinary Cross of Distinction that risotto has earned but I can think of no better way to mess with a Southerner than to mess with their grits. So perhaps Tom should get off his high Italian horse and realize most people would rather have dined on Tre's stiff risotto than Mike's bad pasta.


UPDATE: It appears that Tom heard the cries of his Southern customers and changed the Dallas Brunch menu to reflect something more appetizing. Check it.

Dang, if a stubborn old dude like Tom can change, maybe I can too. Now if Tom wants to come to Kansas City and teach me the right way to make a kick ass risotto, I'm game. It's not like there's nowhere to cook, I'm sure Lydia Bastianich wouldn't mind letting us in her restaurant for a little private lesson? Heck I bet we could even auction off some other spots for Tom's favorite charity? What say you Tom?