The Confabulist

Food I have made recently, Part I: Goat Carbonnade with Couscous

I'm cooking a lot these days.  For the first time in awhile, the rate at which I'm cooking postworthy dishes far outstrips the time I have to blog about them.  I've decided that I'm not going to let that stop me from posting, since I do need to some relevant details about the food, if only for my own purposes.  Be warned, though, that many of these posts will be spare, and the pictures may not be quite up to par.

One recent dish was goat stew with couscous.  The goat has been in my freezer for months now, and since I recently acquired a whole pork loin and several other items which demanded freezer space, I decided it was time to cook it up.  I used to occasionally buy goat in Santa Ana when Rebecca and I were in exile in Orange County.  I hadn't bought it while in San Francisco until last fall, when I ran across some at random in Draegers (of all places).

Stew Construction

The stew has a pretty simple construction:  rub the goat with salt, pepper, and spices, and sear it on all sides in a pressure cooker.  Throw in some crushed garlic cloves, peppercorns, a bay leaf, some rosemary and perhaps some other herbs, a bit of smoked ham hock or some bacon lardons, a tin of diced tomatoes, and 3 cups of lamb, veal or beef stock.  Add 12 oz of a good, dark, sweet ale, ideally something with a lot of depth, but not too hoppy.  I wanted to get a good porter, but wound up with Newcastle instead.  Put the mixture under pressure for 2 hours.

In the meantime, cube and roast some potatoes or other root vegetables (turnips would be good here) in the oven with salt and herbs.  Prep some snap peas, chop up a bunch of mushrooms, slice some carrots, and prepare any other vegetables  you might want.  Break out the wok.  (I'm all about the wok these days, but details on that will have to wait for another time.)  Cook them separately until they are not-quite-done.  Set aside.

When the meat is ready, open the pressure cooker and pull the meat out.  Strain the braising liquid and put it back in the pot.  Shred the meat and pull out all of the dubious / fatty pieces.  Reduce the broth a bit, add a little cornstarch slurry for body, and correct for salt.  Throw the meat and vegetables in, and you've got a stew!

Somewhere In There You Will Need A Starch

I made my standard couscous, which is 2 cups of boiling chicken stock, 1 1/2 cups of couscous, some raisins,  dried apricots and a little orange zest thrown into a covered pan for 15 minutes, after which some toasted nuts (in this case, pistachios) are mixed in.  If you were serving this bare or alongside something, it would need to be a little wetter and saltier, but under the stew it actually works better this way.

Here's yer Martha Stewart hint for the day:  In pinch, a buttered ramekin can serve as a ring mold, as it did here.  Like you haven't thought of that already.  Ma always said you were the smart one.

Getting Your Goat

I've never understood why we don't eat more goat meat in the U.S.  It's one of those cultural blind spots -- we have no problem eating lamb, but goats, well, that's just ridiculous.  But goat is the primary food animal in some parts of the world.  I love a good steak as much as the next guy, but goat is far better for you -- about half the fat for the same amount of protein.  It has far less cholesterol.  Imagine having a red meat with the same nutritional value as chicken!

And you know what?  It tastes great.  Some imagine that goat tastes gamy, but it doesn't.  Young goat is lean but tender and somehow rich.  Adult goats do require marination and slower cooking, and is therefore less of a convenience food than, say, a New York Strip steak, but it is still very tasty, if a bit less versatile.  Check it out!

IMBB #12: Lamb Fries and Beef Tongue

There aren't a lot of foods that I dislike.  Oh, I've pretended to be horrified at the thought of eating, say, human placenta, but when it comes right down to it, I'd probably dig right in, if it was prepared well. Rebecca and I racked our brains for awhile and the only thing we could find that it disturbs me to eat is “Jello”.  I find jello to be deeply insulting.  It hurts me to be served jello.  I am not sure why.

That having been said, there are plenty of ingredients that I have been afraid to work with in the kitchen, mostly because I've never had them prepared for me, so even if I have a recipe to work with, I have no idea what the end result should look (or taste) like.

When I heard that the theme of IMBB #12 would be “Is My Blog Taboo”, I figured it might be a good time to take on some of those challenges.  Oh, sure, I could have wimped out and done oxtail, which I work with all the time, or beef cheeks, which I made a few weeks ago.  But the real question was this:  did I have the balls to take some risks and do something new instead?  Well, I didn't.  But I knew where to get some.

Lamb Fries

Montana Tendergroin.  Rocky Mountain Oysters.  Barnyard Jewels, Cowboy Caviar.  Swinging Beef.  Bull testicles got all the cool names.  The little rams got the shaft. One thing I know for sure, though, is that the “lamb fry” name has got to go.  It's not really fair to anyone.  It's deceptive marketing, for sure.  Might as well rename durian the “Sun Fruit” or something.

Testicles – whatever their origin – are not upscale food.  Most recipes that I have found are quite straightforward.  Unfortunately they are even briefer than they are simple, and omit certain details that someone who has never cooked up a batch of testes might want to know.  Here's an actual example:

Blanch, strip, drain, and dry the fries. Cut thinly.  Bread and fry.

Whoa, wait a minute!  That's not a recipe, it's an intention.  Here's the process I used, learned from what I could glean from the Internet as well as a brief process of trial and error:

• Blanch testes for 5 minutes.  This solidifies the insides enough that you can strip the outer membrane. (Before this, they feel like water balloons.)  Make sure the water is only barely simmering, as too much of a rolling boil can cause the balls to explode. (Ouch!)

• Peel off the thick outer membrane using a very sharp knife.  This is the most difficult and annoying part of the whole process.  Start at the Hole That Nature Made – that will make things easier for you.

• Cut into thin slices.  This is another reason you'll need a sharp knife, as the insides are still somewhat gelatinous at this point.

• Marinate for at least one hour.  A simple vinaigrette makes a good marinade, or try something using beer for more cultural authenticity.

• Pat the slices dry.  Salt and pepper them.  Dip them in flour, then into a (beaten) egg, then into panko or bread crumbs.  Shallow fry them until the breading is a deep golden brown.  Serve immediately.

There you have it.  Like most deep fried entities, these are best eaten immediately after being made.  And you know what?  I don't know that I'll be making these again, but all in all, they weren't too bad.  You can bread and fry anything and it tastes pretty much the same.  It's definitely the most approachable way to eat testicles.  Just don't eat too many; you'll spoil your appetite for the tongue.

Beef Tongue in a Rich Tomato Sauce.

There's an old joke that goes like this:

A guy went into a restaurant and asked 'What's the special of the day?'
'Beef tongue,' the waiter replied.
'Ugh!', the guy said, 'That's disgusting!  I won't eat anything that comes out of a cow's mouth.  Fry me up a couple of eggs!'

I think we're all in agreement that people's food preferences are pretty arbitrary.  You must admit, though, that a beef tongue can be pretty formidable to someone who has never prepared one before – or seen it prepared.  I seriously had no idea what to expect.  For instance, I assumed that the whole of the tongue was a dense, solid meat, kind of like – and I say this with full awareness of how stupid it makes me sound – kind of like a bologna.

In fact the pink part is just a piece of skin, and just like many other pieces of skin, what lies underneath is a thin layer of goop (technical term) and then a muscle.  What you eat is the muscle.

As you might imagine from all of the talking that cows do,  the muscle is quite lean and tough and must be subjected to a long braising or boiling.  After that, though, things change. The tip of the tongue is made up of long muscle strand like brisket, only it's softer and more tender than any brisket ever could be.  The back of the tongue is denser and more solid, but still has a melt-in-your-mouth texture that is difficult to describe.  It's little wonder that Mexicans (the real ones, not the mythical ones that made the menu at your neighborhood Taco Casa) use this meat in burritos.  It's miles above, say, ground beef.

Ingredients:

1 2 to 3 lb beef tongue
4c cider, wine, beer, stock, or combination thereof.
3 cloves garlic, whole
Fresh herbs.

6-7 cloves Garlic, minced
1 onion
1 bay leaf
2 tbsp tomato paste
1/3 soy sauce
2 c beer – preferably Strong Brown ale or Belgian-style
2-3 tbsp tamarind paste
2 tbsp molasses
4 pcs thick cut bacon, cut into lardons
3 tbsp fresh tarragon
1 14 oz can tomatoes

• Wash the tongue.  You can scrub it, or you can blanch it in boiling water with a cup of vinegar added to it, like I did.
• Rinse out pot or pressure cooker.  Add tongue, 4 cups of cooking liquid (as above), fresh herbs, and garlic cloves.  Braise for 1 hours (pressure cooker) or 2 hours (normal pot).
• Towards the end of this time, fry the bacon in a medium-sized pot and reserve it, leaving the rendered fat in the pan.  Saute the onion in the bacon fat until it is nearly translucent.  Add the garlic and saute.  Add the tomato paste and saute until it browns slightly.  (You need to be done cooking the tongue by this time if you're using the pressure cooker.)  Add the can of tomatoes, 2 ½ cups of the braising liquid, the bay leaf, the soy sauce, the beer, the tamarind, the molasses and the tarragon.  Let cook for 20 minutes.  Puree the sauce in  small batches in a blender or food processor.  Thicken the sauce if you like.
• Remove the outer layer of skin from the tongue.  It should slough off very easily now.  Cut the tongue into slices.  Add the tongue slices and the bacon lardons to the sauce. Cook 10 minutes.  Serve.

One caveat:  the part that I am least sure about is the braising time.  Recipes I consulted to compare with have wildly differing cooking times.  I actually braised for about an hour and a half in a pressure cooker, and I thought that was a bit much – the outer edges of the tongue were a bit mushy.  Maybe they get this way no matter what.  Regardless, the meat should be pretty much done by the time you take it out of its initial braise, so if the meat at the back of the tongue isn't tender and succulent, braise it for another half hour and check it again.  If you do try this recipe and have a different experience, drop me an email and let me know.

Other Resources:

If you were wowed by the thought eating lamb testicles, you love boobies, and you live in or near Montana or are willing to drive there on your Harley or in your motor home, you should check out the nation's one and only (as far as I'm aware) Testicle Festival.  Lots of “fries” of various kinds for you to eat, and for some reason, while you're there, women of varying degrees of attractiveness will take their tops off!  Must be all that testosterone in the food.

If, on the other hand, the thought of eating human placenta gets you going, there are many resources for you to check out.  (Apparently, it's far more popular than testicles and boobies.)  Also  be sure to check out the hilarious Straight Dope column on the subject.  And don't worry, there's still somewhat of a likelihood that you'll get flashed while waiting in line for your placenta -- I hear those new mothers wear some pretty skimpy outfits when going into delivery.  Whoa, mama!

Peppadews of Madness, Empanadas of Malcontent

Peppadews and I'm losing my mind

The Peppadew is a sweet, tangy, mildly spicy pickled pepper from South Africa.  It's got an appealing flavor profile:  It starts out sweet, then gets tangy, and then finishes with a warm, suffused heat.  It's hard to tell how much of this is due to the nature of the pepper itself and how much is due to the brine.  (The peppers are not available fresh.)

I made the appetizer pictured by stuffing a cube of aged Cheddar inside a Peppadew and pinning a wad of soppressata to it with a toothpick.  Quite good.

I don't know how it happened, but for well over a year I've been thinking that a Peppadew was some kind of pepper crossbred with a honeydew melon. It seems silly in retrospect, but I swear it made sense at the time. The most disturbing thing is that I have absolutely no idea how I came to think that.  I'm pretty sure it wasn't from the friend that introduced them to me.  And I'm equally certain that I've never met another living soul that had heard of them before I gave them one.  So just where did this crazy idea come from? 

Was it just a stray hypothesis based on the name and the fact that they're kind of sweet (which actually comes from the brine) that somehow transmuted in my brain into a fact? The autogeny of an urban legend usually occurs during transmission between people, and it's a bit bothersome to think that I'm giving birth to them all by myself.  Okay, maybe I'm taking this a bit too seriously.

The truth is that, outside of the company line, which is largely content-free, not much information is available about what the Peppadew actually is.  Urban legends reproduce well in low-information environments.  In fact, I suggest that you can see one in action right now with regard to the Peppadew -- one besides my own, that is.  The original company materials noted that Peppadews looked like little cherry tomatoes. One way of expressing this resemblance was to say that Peppadews "looked like a cross between" a pepper and a tomato. Possibly after having read such a description, some people decided that Peppadews also tasted like such a cross. A lot of people began reporting that the product was "sort of a cross between" them. It's not really clear what they meant by "sort of a cross"; most likely they didn't know either and didn't care to take the trouble to clarify matters. Then, finally, the genesis of an urban legend:  somewhere, in some random mutation, the "sort of" got dropped.  People began reporting that the Peppadew was a cross between a pepper and a tomato.

Like all good urban legends, this one has some associated facts that lend it just enough support to seem credible enough to propagate:  besides the taste and the look, the discoverer of the plant and the creator of the product was a tomato farmer.

Ordinarily I'd make fun of the originators of such stories as sloppy thinkers and lazy writers, but look at me!  Up until last week, I told people that it was the product of an interracial union between a pepper and a melon!  Not that there's anything wrong with that.  (I'd also like to point out that when it came time for me to put something down in writing about it, I did enough digging to find out that I was wrong.)

So what, then, is the Peppadew?  Some people suggest that it's a hitherto obscure pepper from Central America.  Others suggest that it is a pepper hybrid (no, between two peppers) of recent provenance. Either way, it's a fun little fruit.  Check it out.

Recently, Jeanne over at Cook Sister talked about peppadews from a perspective that's closer to the source.  Have a look.

Empanadas disappoint

I made empanadas the same night that I made Peppadew-on-a-stick.  I had a grand idea: a pork shoulder, black bean, plantain, and currant filling.  I slowly braised the pork shoulder and shredded it like I normally do, briefly boiled the plantains, added the beans and the currants, threw in a goodly bit of lime juice, and let the whole mixture cook together for awhile.  The end result?  Ho hum.  Eatable, but entirely unremarkable.  I had a great idea for a recipe, good ingredients, and flawless technique (ha!), but things still didn't work out.  Sometimes you just can't catch a break.

I'm not sure where to lay the blame.  The pork was probably underspiced, but that could hardly be the sole culprit.  The empanada dough I made, while functional, lacked character. It probably would have been better if I'd had some masa harina.  Still, something else was missing...

I'm eager to try again, though, using masa harina in the dough and with a different recipe for a filling.  Any suggestions?

Getting your goat

I finally remembered to marinate the goat this morning. I didn't have time to do anything fancy, as I was on my way to work, and I had an early meeting. In fact, I didn't have time to consider what the hell I was doing at all. I just grabbed the first ingredients I could find, which resulted in a hodgepodge of red wine, pomegranate syrup, currants, balsamic vinegar, a half of a bottle of flat beer (!), various spices, and several other things that I have forgotten but are probably best left unmentioned.

After work I chopped some orange zest, ginger, and garlic and sauteed them in olive oil in the base of the pressure cooker. I threw goat and the marinade in, brought it up to pressure, and ignored it for about two hours.

Goat is supposed to be fairly tough and benefits from marination and a long braising time. The exception to this is kid, a young goat, which requires neither; most kid recipes I've found require less than an hour to cook, though some take as long as two hours.

This made me wonder if my goat leg was from a kid or from something older, and if I was possibly doing my goat an injustice by cooking it for so long in the pressure cooker. When I went in to check on its progress. I discovered the the cooker had lost its pressure, so that my goat stew had basically just been simmering for two hours. After inexpertly judging the toughness of the goat meet by feel, I decided to cook it for one more hour under pressure and then call it done.

Unfortunately, I had to go out that evening, so I told Rebecca to take care of it, and I left for the night.

I came back around 1 a.m. and looked in the fridge. Sure enough, there was the goat stew. I wasn't hungry, so I didn't eat any, but I did sample some of the goat meat. It was lean and dense, with a character all its own. I had assumed that it would generally be like lamb. It isn't! It's much leaner and has a unique flavor. I was very excited. Rebecca laughs at how worked up I can get over something like cooking a goat.

I'll write more about it tomorrow, when we have this stew for dinner.