When I Became A Cook, by Paige Orloff

For at least the last twenty years, maybe longer, I’ve considered myself a passionate cook. It’s not a hobby, exactly, or an interest, though it is also both of those things, mostly, it’s just what I do. Mind you, I’m a writer and a mother and a wife and a (well-intentioned if inconsistent) friend and a volunteer and a (bad) gardener and I live on a farm with chickens and horses and….you get the idea. My life is full. But the place it most often feels full, and fulfilling, is the kitchen, and much of my passion for cooking is rooted in my relationship with my mom, whose cooking was always the best of any mom I knew.

My mother lives with me now, and she revealed to a friend visiting earlier this summer that one of the reasons she learned to cook (when she was a 19 year old bride living with my dad in Boulder, Colorado) was for the attention it gained her, from my dad and his crew of friends. I suppose that motivation has been mine, too: in college, I remember cooking a meal for a guy on whom I had an absurd, and unrequited, crush. My attempt at seduction failed utterly (though I did end up dating his roommate), but the coq au vin, made for the first time, was really, really good. (Is it a coincidence that the object of my crush is now a successful restauranteur? Hmmm.)

I often try to pinpoint the place in my story when “cook” started to describe me: in graduate school when I threw huge “orphans” dinners ever Thanksgiving? In college, when I baked fresh bread for the half dozen or so guys who shared an off-campus apartment building with me and my roommates? In high school, when I baked care packages of Christmas cookies for classmates who’d returned to their far-flung homes (I went to boarding school) for the holiday? None of those feel right. There’s no B.C., “before cook”, in my timeline, though there are plenty of other stark divides.

When I was four, my mother had a stroke. We were sitting at dinner, the three of us, eating chicken curry. I loved curry nights, because of the delicious, mellow stew and fluffy (never sticky) rice, but also because of the condiments my mother always served alongside: peanuts, shredded coconut, chopped tomato, chopped apple. These were always presented in a tiered Japanese porcelain box, with square compartments stacked one on top of the other, decorated with gold leaf and painted flowers. It was a wedding gift to my parents from my father’s older brother. The whole preparation now feels a little hokey, a very 1970s American interpretation of Indian, but even a fancy foodie would find it delicious. One night over curry, my mother collapsed into her plate, and for years thereafter, my world was much changed.

By the time I was six, Mama was home, but not yet healed. Bedridden much of the time, it was hard for her to care for me and my dad. She did everything she could: I have vivid memories of sitting at her bedside in the morning before school while she brushed my long hair. My other most vivid memory from that hazy time is the afternoon she taught me, step by step, as I ran back and forth between her bedside and her pride-and-joy kitchen (way ahead of its time in 1972, with a restaurant stove and stainless steel countertops) how to roast a chicken.

I’ve never really asked her why she did this. Did she just really crave chicken for dinner? Did she think it would help me to have some control in an out-of-control time if I could put dinner on our table? Maybe both. While the exact recipe from that afternoon is lost (at least to me–she may well remember!), the feeling of pride I felt is still vivid. Maybe that’s why I still relish serving this absolute simplest meal to family and friends, no matter the occasion or time of year. I’ve tried many different versions, tinkering with recipes, rubs and seasonings along the way, but this is my tried and true method. It won’t fail you, and it will comfort you. If it could help heal a scared six year old and a 36 year old stroke victim, roast chicken can do anything.

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Roast Chicken

Serves 4

This method is adapted from Julia Child. I find it easiest to do this in my well-seasoned cast iron skillet (I like having the handle to grab when taking the pan in and out of the oven) but you could certainly use a roasting pan. If you don’t have fresh herbs on hand, the chicken will be perfectly good with just the lemon, or even just a bit of salt and pepper. If you are lucky enough to find a local, small farm chicken – try it. The flavor really is different, and better.

1 chicken, around 4 lbs. (If possible, allow the chicken to air dry in the refrigerator for several hours before roasting: just unwrap it, pat it dry, and place it in the skillet or roasting pan, and shove into the fridge. Drying out the skin makes it crisper when cooked.)

coarse salt (I prefer Maldon)
freshly ground black pepper
1 cup chopped mixed herbs–I usually use a handful of Italian parsley, a few springs each of thyme and rosemary, and perhaps a bit of tarragon
2 lemons
2 T extra virgin olive oil plus extra for oiling the pan
4 cloves garlic, chopped

Preheat the oven to 375 F. Rub your pan with a couple of teaspoons of extra virgin olive oil. Sprinkle the dried chicken with about 2 teaspoons salt and 1 teaspoon pepper, inside the cavity and all over the outside.

Grate the zest off the lemons. Combine zest, chopped herbs, garlic and olive and olive oil in a small bowl. Add another pinch each of salt and pepper, and stir to combine. Stuff some of this mixture (about a tablespoon per side) under the skin of the breast. Smear the rest all over the inside and outside of the chicken. Stuff the zested lemons inside the chicken’s cavity.

Place the chicken on its side in the pan. (This can be a balancing challenge; just do your and the chicken’s best.) Roast for 25 minutes on that side, then remove from oven, and place the other side up. Return to oven for another 25 minutes.

Turn the chicken breast up (lying on its back) and roast for another 25 minutes. Finally, turn the chicken breast down, and roast for the last 25 minutes.

Remove from oven and serve hot or cold. The juice of the roasted lemons is delicious squeezed over the sliced meat.

Later that day we feasted at the legendary Brookville Hotel, serving fried chicken heaven since 1915.

It was an early Father’s Day dinner, and we saluted my husband and father-in-law, both great Dads. But the piping, crunchy chicken – seemingly endless legs, thighs, breasts, wings – reminded me who was missing at the table. A holiday for fathers, and for the first time without my own, eating a not-so-often treat he adored. I pushed back the hard gulp and saw what he would see – platters worth diving into, a laughing night of gluttony, a family taking pictures, rolling eyes and passing biscuits.

Back in Dep-haired teen years, my family’s favorite takeout was Brown’s Chicken – no Brookville feast, but plenty good paired with cole slaw, hush puppies, and honey. Dad would pick up his car keys, clink, and say “want to go for a ride?” Picking up stuff with Dad meant 8-track tunes and quick, friendly questions about boys, friends, classes, boys. Eyes would roll, but I didn’t mind. Something about the car rides was pleasant, okay even in teen view, an argument-free zone with a bag of warm chicken on my lap. Dad tapped out songs on the wheel and drove with his elbows, a knee, a thumb.

My father loved corn – on the cob, in a fresh juicy heap, or creamed, as we had it here, passed around the table more than once. His stomach forbade him to eat the corn, but not to say he wanted to eat the corn. “I love corn,” he’d say, “but I can’t eat it.” A predictable three minutes later, “well…maybe this once.”

Happy Father’s Day to you and yours. Great men aren’t here just once.  They go where we go, and I will snicker and cry and pass around more biscuits. All the best parts are still with us at the table.

* my father passed away December 5, 2008. Here’s the place to read more about him, and the eulogy I delivered that day.

Spicy, please -

- green beans…

…Bo Ling’s.  Gong POW!

Peppers, ow.

Our first true guests were from my husband’s office, a funny and casual couple who were treated to undercooked, over-garlicked lamb and several under-mixed, over-ginned martinis.  The evening would feature a clogged sink, dishwater buckets, our crotch-poking Dalmatian and one seriously wailing fire alarm.  The last thing they saw was Greg broom-whacking the smoke detector and me at the sink, right hand down the drain and left hand in the air.  Bye, great having you!

Everyone meets these horrors, but why?  When you turn 25 they should hand you a pamphlet called Hosting! Relax and Don’t Try Anything New. Let’s face it, the clues were there – the oven temp was off, I’d never mixed martinis, I tied that lamb loose as a blind butcher.  I could have seared steaks or made cheese fondue or even flipped omelets.  I could have used a standby.

A lot of people say they don’t do standbys, they prefer something new, something dazzling, an unknown mushroom or an expensive hunk of cheese.  Okay, dazzlers:  I don’t care if you’re Julia Child, there are people coming at seven.  That mushroom could taste like dung and the cheese might hit the floor, so do what you know.  Do what you do well, be comfortable and your guests will be comfortable, do a standby.

This I’ve learned, and so I do. Ask any French chef what they serve dinner guests, and nine out of ten times you’ll hear roast chicken.  Their maman’s roast chicken – a five-star version, perhaps, but a standby nonetheless, meaning easy, reliable, perfect.  I have a rotating cast of things I like, stress-less menus that let me shop ahead and even – oh yes – put on a clean shirt.  And lip gloss.  My friends, if there are flowers and chicken and time to look in the mirror, you are at the top of your dinner game.

That is how I’ve come to prepare Cherry Chicken, aka Extra-Good Chicken I Can Make in My Sleep – for guests.  Feel free to name it what you like – “Linda’s Super Shallot-Cherry Chicken” or “Jean’s Company’s Comin’ Chicken” or whatever.  Like most things I cook, it’s more technique than recipe:  sauté the chicken, remove the chicken, put some stuff in the pan for flavor, then put back the chicken. That’s it.  Follow those moves, substituting as you wish, and you’ll find that reliable isn’t dull, it’s deliciously drama-free.

Company Cherry Chicken

4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
2 shallots, chopped medium-fine
1 cup (or more) dried sweet cherries
2-3 cups red wine
1 cup flour
butter, few tablespoons
canola oil
salt and ground pepper

Slip chicken breasts into large Ziploc bags and using a meat mallet, pound each to even, ¼ – ½” thickness.

Toss flour with salt and pepper to season, and spread on a plate.  Dip each chicken breast (both sides) in flour, patting to remove excess, and set chicken aside.

In large sauté pan (preferably non-stick) heat oil to medium-high.  When sizzling, add chicken breasts, cooking each side to nicely browned, 1-2 minutes per side.  Turn heat to medium-low and remove chicken breasts to clean plate; tent with foil to keep warm.

Toss chopped shallots into the same pan, sizzling and moving about 30 seconds, until cooked through and transluscent.  Add about 1 cup of the red wine, sizzling with shallots until wine begins to reduce.  Add dried cherries all at once, moving with spatula to blend with shallots and wine.

When cherries start heating up, add the remaining red wine.  Increase heat to medium and cook cherry mixture, stirring occasionally, until cherries are softened and a small amount of liquid remains.  Turn heat off.  Using a spatula or whisk, swirl in butter, mixing to form a rich, red blend.  Season with salt and a generous amount of fresh ground pepper.  Test and adjust seasoning to taste, adding more butter, salt or pepper as you wish.

Turn heat back on to low.  Place cooked chicken breasts in the pan, turning to coat each side in cherry mixture.  Remove from heat, plate chicken and top with cherry-shallot mixture.

note:  this is more of a cooked, reduced cherry mixture than a true sauce.  If you’d like more liquid in your sauce, add more red wine and reduce a little less.

Serves 4, and is perfect with blue-cheese mashed potatoes and steamed asparagus.

…and don’t forget that standby dessert!

Call me loco, but I’m probably the last living soul in the US of A that doesn’t like nachos. Why?

There are many reasons why. But if I shared them with you, I’d have to reveal my especially loopy feelings about mushy things, bean things, and how certain spices make me throw up – and you’d back away, slow.

And that’s why I am an exceptionally good sport and all-around decent girl to make Chicken and Black Bean Nachos for my nachos-craving family. I don’t even know what I’m doing – and yeah, I can hear it now – she can make chocolate ganache cakes, but she can’t make nachos?

Oh but si, I can. Hey, this is a girl who took Spanish from 7th grade through college, and followed my friends gamely to Chi-Chi’s, though the food made me gag (I did like the fried ice cream). I don’t know my nachos, but I’ve certainly watched enough of them get scarfed down to make it up as I go along.

And with that, I put aside my cuminphobia to bring you this beautiful, tequila-shot-inducing photo essay of a muy delicioso snack. Just in time for next week’s football-viewing pleasure.

Now, I am going to make myself a pizza.

A very little amount of prep. Beans, olives, tomatoes. Chop the tomatoes.

Cook a few chicken breasts – better yet, buy the cooked chicken breasts, it’s nachos, for pete’s sake – and chop some green onions.

Fry the chicken with green onions and some chopped garlic..now this part was good. It was like I was making Kung Pao Chicken, and it just smelled great, and then…

…oh, no! Salsa…and black beans. I can’t tell you exactly how much. You must get in contact with your nacho feelings on this one. My feelings said, “none.” Yours will say “mas!”

Then you will need chips. A whole enormous sheet full of chips.

Get the Calida brand – because the red dancers are so cute, I wish they were printed on a vintage tablecloth. Oh yes – nachos.

Add all that stuff from the frying pan and chopped tomatoes to the top of the chips.

And now, the crucial step – like the folding of the souffle, the torching of the brulee…

…add as MUCH freaking CHEESE as YOU can STUFF ON TOP of ONE PAN. Then bake.

Garnish – whatever – with black olives, green onions, sour cream and avocado. That last bit with the avocado, and then the “plating,” got my nachos called “kinda gourmet” by my family, and thus not entirely embraced as the true nacho.

Note to self: next time, no garnish! And no nice place mats. Apparently no bowls or utensils, either.

Fine. It’s a finger food, I guess – and I’m no food snob, people, I eat Winstead’s burgers with abandon doubles, with cheese, and preferably bacon! – but god help me, sometimes I use a fork and knife.

This is why they eat nachos without me. Enjoy yours – con mucho gusto!