High Heels & Frijoles

Easter was a casual affair, with some simple but decadent food.  A friend brought over a tin of duck confit (thank you very much!) which was promptly shredded and crisped and served alongside potatoes sautéed in a ladleful of duck fat, then topped it with runny-yolked fried eggs. It was salty, crisp, starchy happiness. The salad, the mesclun greens with grapefruit suprêmes, shaved endive, and paper-thin pear slices, lightened the meal a bit, but I still think all that richness gave me a touch of gout.

For dessert, I made waffles that were supposed to be crispy, but turned out  to be tough. Insert blush of embarrassment: I hope my guest of honor didn’t crack any teeth! Some important rules to live by: don’t get a haircut prior to an important event, and don’t experiment with recipes when you’re entertaining. The pineapple compote-goat’s milk dulce de leche topping were fabulous though, so hopefully that makes up for the waffle failure. Similar to how some great shoes and glam accessories will spruce up your so-last-season frock…

Iglesia Guadalupe in Granada, the city where I was born.

Though the Aeropuerto Internacional Augusto César Sandino has boasted jet bridges for several years now, I still expect to descend directly from the airplane onto the tarmac. In the 80s, excited family and friends would crowd together mosh pit-style on a terrace that overlooked the landing strip, everyone calling out and waving signs like crazed fans awaiting a celebrity’s arrival on the red carpet. But they were just waiting for their exiled own, coming home for the holidays.

Granada by coche, a horse-drawn carriage.

My trips to Nicaragua are bittersweet, especially during Christmas. My passport still marks me a citizen, and I do call it “home” whenever I refer to it, but Nicaragua hasn’t really been home for a very long time. I’ve moved on, but that first sighting of dusty olive green land from the scratched acrylic windows makes my heart cramp. Memories of trips when my family lived in the U.S. and Mexico during the 80s jumble with those from college breaks and the more recent perfunctory visits.  The childhood jaunts were all fun and adventure; I was mesmerized by ox-pulled carts on the main roads and street vendors pouring sodas into plastic bags—mini-udders that dispensed Coca-Cola. But even in the haze of little-kid wonderment, I knew everything was broken, and it made me deeply sad. It’s sadder today. But, there are uniquely beautiful and wow-worthy people and scenes to be found, and I appreciate them all the more.

San Juan del Sur, the beach town I grew up going to—and now a must-see on tourists’ itineraries.

The new spear fishing technique. We’d gone to the dock and  carefully packed our catch of the day in a large cooler when we spotted these kids. They were much hipper than us.

Red snapper, the catch of the day: $2/lb.

Lunch at El Timón, an establishment in San Juan’s “pueblo.” Fresh-caught fish (snapper, in this photo) is coated in pinol, a corn and cacao-based meal, then fried and served with a tomato and onion sauce (salsa criolla), white rice, and plantain tostones.

To market, to market…

Ripe papayas and watermelons.

Melocotones y limones (star fruit and limes).La asunción de la Santísima Vírgen María. The Virgin Mary is a religious and cultural symbol. This image of the assumption is found everywhere, even in markets.

“La quema del viejo” — a local tradition.  These life-size dolls sit on people’s stoops or front yards, awaiting the new year. “El viejo” is stuffed with gunpowder and will be set on fire at midnight to blow out the old year and ring in the new.

Sunset over the bay of Nacascolo.

A one-of-a-kind balsamic reduction turkey.

Six courses! Each meticulously prepared and beautifully plated! Sparkling punch! Three desserts! And, a solid chocolate turkey! It was Thanksgiving 2.0, unfortunately, as the old saying goes, “too much wine before you dine / the photos come out less than fine.” Not a very old saying, but true, nonetheless. And so, of the luscious lobster bisque, asparagus tartare with frizzled leeks and oh-so-elegant balsamic reduction flourishes on the chilled plates, roasted turkey breast with dressing and cranberry-pear sauce, made-from-scratch green bean casserole (no can of condensed cream of mushroom soup, thank you very much), turkey confit and impossibly cheesy aligot, emerald green herb salad, pumpkin cheesecake with an ice skating rink-like topping of bourbon sour cream, raspberry tart, and chocolate-caramel-walnut tart, I have little physical evidence, but, cross my heart, everything was absolutely divine. My apologies to the chef for the shoddy reporting, but also heaps of thanks for a spectacular Thanksgiving.

That thumbprint was my way of branding the tart. Clearly, it was hand-crafted and made with love.

Come November, people inevitably start talking turkey. Food magazines arrive with sumptuous roasted birds on their covers, and TV shows all dole out advice on brining, basting, and carving, while the Butterball folks do a thorough ear swabbing to make sure panicky callers’ questions regarding turkey troubles come through loud and clear. I however, boycotted the Turkey Talk-Line® once again, opting for a bird of a different feather this year: duck.

I guess despite my love for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and secret wish that one day I’ll win Megamillions and be able to afford an apartment on the Upper West Side from where I’ll be able to watch said parade while hosting lavish parties, I didn’t grow up with all-American Thanksgivings. I honestly can’t remember when or why we started observing Thanksgiving. Anyway, I now appreciate it mostly for its nondenominational quality; it’s a family holiday that people of all races and creeds can participate in and enjoy and be thankful (or not-so-thankful, as the case may be) for. That being said, I have no deep-rooted loyalty to Thanksgiving’s mascot, the turkey.

Having never cooked duck at home before I was a little nervous, but it seemed fated to succeed. A few days ago I watched a mouth-watering Jamie Oliver episode where he slow-roasted a duck, then someone at work mentioned he was making slow-roasted duck for Thanksgiving and promised to send me the recipe, and wouldn’t you know it? It was Mr. Oliver’s! I took only the essence of the recipe, which was to generously salt the duck inside and out, cook in a 350˚F oven for 1 hour, then for an additional 1 ½ hours at 300˚F, twice or thrice ladling out (and reserving!!!) the duck fat. It was perfection – and a monkey could make it.

Last year there were about 10 of us at dinner, and I transported food across state lines – food I’d started preparing about two weeks in advance – but this year there were only three of us, and I decided I’d take it easy… No running around with half a pat of butter in my frizzy, frazzled hair, no cursing (OK, that’s a stretch – there’s always a little cursing in the kitchen), no sweating, no too-tired-of-looking-at-the-food-to-eat. No, this year, I watched the Macy’s parade and then the dog show (the Pointer won, but I was rooting for the Frenchie) and finally started roasting the duck at 4:00pm, beer in hand (I like to keep it classy). The sides – cornbread stuffing with duck sausage, toasted hazelnuts, sage, and pomegranate seeds; spiced roasted butternut squash with toasted squash seeds; and duck-fat roasted Brussels sprouts – came together once the duck was almost ready. It was the way to go – the secret was the no-nonsense, foolproof centerpiece. If we had a National Bird Show on Thanksgiving, I’m sure turkey would be Best in Show, but I’d still be rooting for the underdog – or duck.

The holidays have come and gone, and for that matter, so has the year. I finally undressed my Christmas tree. It’s limp limbs are far beyond dehydrated – they’re as crisp and dry as Melba toast.

I was on hiatus from the blog for a while – surely you understand how crazy it gets during the holidays – but I can make up with a recap:

Thanksgiving was truly a feast of family and food: rib roast, stuffed chicken, gnocchi, creamed spinach, mashed potatoes, bread rolls, spiced nuts, gougeres, poached pears, almond lace cookies, chocolate pecan pie, pineapple pie, apple tart, and a partridge in a pear tree. The table that supported the buffet groaned as much as our stomachs after dinner. Here’s a taste…

Oh, and yes, how could I forget. There was An Accident. When it was time for dessert I went to unmold my carefully assembled tarte aux pommes. Since it was a false-bottom tart ring I insisted on doing it myself. I lifted the tart up and the bottom betrayed me. Or maybe it was the butter in the crust. Regardless, bottom or butter, I gently pushed up the tart only to have it slide and then fly right off the mold, above the table, past the edge, and down the side, to its final, catastrophic resting place: the hard, cold floor. Face down. I crawled under the table to see if a rescue was possible, but it was beyond rescue. So sad.

Christmas was I regret to inform you, disappointing. I tried my darnedest to get into the spirit, with carols and twinkle lights, but to no avail. It was just the mister and me and we wound up dining with friends. The stuffed chickens made an encore, along with a chocolate sandwich cookies and a croquembouche, but even a mountain of éclairs couldn’t make up for the fact that we were away from family.

Santa did pull through, though, which was a huge comfort. I am now the proud owner of a 2-quart ice cream maker. I’ve already made double-chocolate hazelnut, and there will be lots more to come… Cream cheese and guava…Key lime pie…pineapple caramel swirl… bananas Foster… chocolate and peppermint marshmallow… If he brings me a deep-fat fryer next year my arsenal will be complete!

Some children dream of becoming astronauts. Others aspire to being ballerinas. I had loftier ambitions: to de-bone a chicken. When I began culinary school I thought – wrongly – that removing every single bone from a chicken while leaving it whole would be part of Basic Cookery 101. Crestfallen, I set my book aside and came to the conclusion that de-boning was perhaps an art reserved only for the most masterful of chefs, a process that was only known to a small, exclusive circle. I had resigned myself to live in a world where only bony chickens were served.

And then, one day, the rain cloud that loomed over my bowed head parted and a ray of sunshine broke through: my beloved chef instructor announced that he was going to teach us the coveted procedure. If anything, this one bit of learning has made culinary school worth it.

Doesn’t it look grand?

P.S.
I also made whole-wheat dinner rolls…one of my Thanksgiving trial runs.

Hooray! It’s fall, at long last! It’s been unseasonably and uncomfortably warm around these parts but last night the fever finally broke and gave way to a gloriously crisp, gusty evening. I love fall. It makes me think of spiced apple cider, fresh baked cookies, and Charlie Brown. But I love it most of all because in just a few short weeks I can start playing Christmas carols and nothing puts me in a better mood than carols – but more on that later.

Speaking of holidays, Thanksgiving is fast approaching, and even though I am not American, it’s been a part of my calendar for years now. As such, preparing the menu for said evening is a portentous event in and of itself. Everyone’s appetite needs to be satiated, everyone’s palate engaged, and of course, all of the staple Turkey Day items represented at the table. In recent years we’ve been moving away from The Bird, though, because let’s face facts: even when properly cooked, turkey is nothing but a Brobdingnagian chicken that serves as nothing but a bed for gravy. Pilgrims, fresh off the Mayflower in 1621, were, I believe, responsible for the McDonald’s super-size me mentality. In short, why do we need Big Bird when there are a variety of daintier, more flavorful versions of poultry that would serve just as well? I am proposing little Cornish hens this year – I shall report back on how the suggestion is greeted.

Also, in deciding to push turkey aside, we’ve been able to welcome large roasts of beef and lamb to the Thanksgiving table, and both have been wildly successful. Big celebratory banquets are the only times you can indulge in these bigger cuts because they are expensive and yield too much for two or three people to eat. I’d like to revisit rib roast this November – succulent, rich, meaty. Need I say more?

Please check in during the coming weeks – I’ll be doing a few Thanksgiving item trial runs.