I. Ten True Confessions.

1. Our kitchen often looks like this:

2. We have been known to eat ramen and 75 cent tacos for weeks on end.
3. We have never been to Europe.
4. We buy Carlo Rossi wine by the gallon.
5. We cook on an electric cooktop.
6. Hell, we don’t even own a dishwasher.
7. Needless to say, we suck at cleaning up after ourselves.
8. One of us (guess which one) runs screaming at the sight of organ meat.
9. The other one (guess which one) has no problem at all drinking cheap beer.
10. Despite all of this, we are starting a food blog.

II. The cook.

Chopper Dave has been in the industry for ten years, and is a recent culinary school graduate. Despite what some owners of sports bars might think, this did not turn him into a snob. He’s still as irreverent as ever, it’s just that now he knows how to pronounce all those fancy French and Italian words.

Chopper Dave got his nickname due to an incident involving a Buffalo Chopper and a fifth story window. Descriptions of this incident available upon request. For a small fee.

III. The cook’s assistant/photographer.

Mrs D isn’t a cook. In all honesty, she prefers watching her husband cook to actually cooking, and if he asks her to set down her camera to chop vegetables, she’s likely to get pissed.

Mrs D does, however, love good food. Unless that good food contains dairy products. Or broccoli. Or cauliflower. Mrs. D has food issues. Or rather, her gut has food issues, and she would do just about anything to trade in her gut for one made of cast iron.

IV. Platelicker.

Platelicker is only allowed to lick plates once they’ve been placed on the floor, far, far from begging territory. This does not stop her, however, from fulfilling a life-long dream of being rechristened “Steakgrabber.” She achieved this dream once. She will never achieve it again.

V. The Cat.

What’s a kitchen without a cat? Especially a cat who has permission to walk across the counter, shedding fur into our blueberry gastrique. Why do we let her do this? So she can reach her cat food dish, also on the counter, far far out of reach of Platelicker.

VI. It’s all about the teamwork.

Mrs. D and Chopper Dave met during a production of Sweeney Todd. They have yet to determine what impact this fact will have on their culinary fate.

In a fit of insanity, nearly one year ago, Mrs. D and Chopper Dave decided to get married. Not only that, they decided to tread where mere mortals fear to tread and cater their own wedding. This fit of insanity was quickly followed by a long spell of exhaustion. During this spell, they made plans for many other joint projects, including an online serial adventure novel, a nautical screenplay, and a theatrical extravaganza that begins with a mass food poisoning. Some of these projects may even see the light of day. In the meantime, they are happy to finally launch their food (and beer — did we mention beer?) blog, Belly-Timber.

So it’s the day before we get Belly-Timber up and running when I spring the notion of Paper Chef on the cook. He’s all over it. He says, let’s dive in, feet first and make this our introduction to the food blogging world. (He’s a little crazy that way.)

Before we even know what the ingredients are, he’s talking meatloaf. (This, because he’s been craving meatloaf for days.) I suggest that perhaps he should hold that thought — after all, if we’d been around last month, he would have made a pomegranate and chocolate meatloaf and… Well, actually he’d probably figure out a way to make that work, but even so, I felt it best to convince him that he should at least wait for the ingredients list.

As soon as we see the list — goat cheese, sherry vinegar, prosciutto, green garlic — he’s talking pizza. For about five minutes. Then the brainstorm hits. A new creation, half quiche, half frittata. That’s it! We’ll make a Quittata!

Now, on to the ingredients. First thing to mention, we’re on an island. What this means is we’ve got two supermarkets, and one tiny little gourmet shop. No butchers, no specialty ethnic groceries, and our farmer’s market doesn’t start till later this month. Fortunately, this first time out, our only stumbling block was the green garlic. So, because I was endlessly indecisive at the market, I opted for a trio of replacements: regular garlic, shallots, and green onions. The prosciutto, I should add, was packaged, because, well, that’s the only way we can get it here. Fortunately for us, a single 3 ounce package gave us just the amount we needed.

Second thing to mention: the kitchen. We’re cooking in my parents’ kitchen these days, which means we’re in a kitchen designed by People Who Don’t Like To Cook. (Yes, they exist. Just ask my mom.) No worries. Improvisation and space management (of a space the size of a postage stamp) is what we’re all about these days.

So, on with the recipe!

The result:

Chopper Dave sez:
This recipe was actually remarkably simple to prepare and it had a very pleasing flavor. Basil and tomato always complement each other and the goat cheese went perfectly with that. The sauce on top of it added a sweet punch to the savory flavors of the herbs and prosciutto.

Mrs D sez:
Yum!
This is like taking all the things that annoy me about quiches and frittatas, throwing them out the window, and creating a new dish that gives me the best of both worlds. One thing that worked very well: keeping the tomatoes, the goat cheese, and the garlic in larger slices. Instead of a scramble where everything blends together too much, each bite has a different flavor profile. In one bite I get a nice big slice of garlic. The next bite is mostly goat cheese. The next is all about basil and tomato.

But it’s the lightness of the puff pastry and the zing of the sherry gastrique that knocks this one out the park. We’ll definitely be making this one again!

I grew up gardening at my father’s side. We lived in a 1890s farm house on a half acre of land. Not a huge spread, but enough for us to raise chickens, put in a fish pond, and plant a quite useful vegetable garden.

I don’t remember much about what we planted — other than I know we had pumpkins for Halloween, giant sized late summer zucchini, and I always begged to have at least one or two sunflowers to harvest (though I was challenged getting to the seeds before the crows did). I remember spring time when I was no more than five or six, doling out seeds, running from hole to hole with the hose, impatiently checking for sprouts, day in and day out.

More though, I remember the other highlights of the yard: Our Bing and royal Anne cherry trees, the upper branches in perfect pit-spitting distance from one another, the pie cherry tree that always yielded her crop on June 14th, thus creating the family tradition of Bastille Day pie, the peach tree that, if we were very lucky, yielded just a few peaches per year, and the mountain ash — not edible to us, but to the evening grosbeaks, it was better than the neighborhood pub. By the time those bright orange berries had reached perfect fermentation, the tree would be saturated with grosbeaks, all chattering up a storm and falling off branches, dead drunk.

That’s what I remember. My father, I’m sure, remembers the detail of his planted garden. Not just the vegetables, but his native plants as well — taking pride in having much more than the hydrangeas and camellias we saw at all our neighbors’ houses. Colts foot, bleeding heart, devil’s club. Just the names alone made our garden the coolest garden in the neighborhood.

We’ve long since moved from that house, and now my parents live at the edge of unspoiled woods with a meadow in front and just a small plot that my father’s turned into workable garden space. With my brother’s help he put in a pond. He’s planted fruit trees, raspberry canes, his favorite native plants, and a lively vegetable garden. But, in more recent months, he hasn’t been able to do much more than pull a few weeds or clip back a tiny portion of the winter’s debris.

And now it’s spring again. And this will be his last garden. And since we are here, my husband and I, and since we know how much he hates to look out form his wheelchair and see the weeds and neglect, we will plant it. We have big plans. Squash, peppers, tomatoes, an assortment of greens, potatoes, peas, and as many herbs as we can cram into our designated space. We’ll prune the fruit trees, make quick work of the berries, and run string up to the eves for a late summer riot of green beans.

He won’t be able to eat most of what we plant, and he may not be around for the harvest. But that’s not what matters here. I want him to know this garden will be well cared for. I want him to know I remember my childhood of gardening and that it was never a chore and always a pleasure. I want him to know he taught me well.

When the dog sheds on freshly washed white pillow cases, when the cat turns that cranny behind the computer table into her indoor commode, when that final, intractable cold germ sets up shop in your sinuses and refuses to leave, it’s time for comfort food.

Comfort foods (or so they say) have everything to do with two things: childhood memories, and that sweet/fat combo that acts as an instant stress-reliever (well, at least until the next trip to the scales). Mac and cheese, chicken soup, a big dish of chocolate ice cream… All good, but when I reached back to my own childhood, I couldn’t come up with a solid list of traditional comfort foods. Instead, I remembered two things: One, the daily after-school snack of saltines and Nestlé’s Quick, and two, cottage cheese and shrimp stuffed blintzes.

Both involved ritual. The first began with a tumbler. Not any tumbler, but a Coca Cola tumbler — the kind with the stained-glass pattern in black and red (free at Chevron stations everywhere!). The key to the snack was this: fill the tumbler with milk, then dump heaping spoonfuls of Quick into the milk and watch as the lumps of chocolate drizzle to the bottom. Do not stir until the layer of chocolate almost reaches the lower edge of the stained-glass pattern. Add two more heaping teaspoons of Quick, then stir — carefully — so as not to disturb the inch-thick of chocolaty goodness. This is your dessert. Set tumbler of Quick onto the arm of the couch, next to a stack of saltines, at least eight crackers high. (Ten, if you can manage to keep them from toppling.) Turn on the TV to channel 12, and enjoy the afternoon of Gilligan’s Island and I Dream of Jeannie reruns.

The second ritual wasn’t nearly so complicated. All I remember is that blintzes were my favorite. I’d beg Mom to make them as often as possible, and when she did, I’d help with the filling (typically cottage cheese, shrimp, and celery), and I’d fold the wrappers and pin them together with toothpicks. The fun came in seeing how many I could eat; lining them up on my plate, then counting the toothpicks at the end of dinner to determine if I’d achieved true gluttony that night.

On Chopper Dave’s end of things, it’s all about the traditional comfort foods: mashed potatoes, pot roast, meatloaf. This past couple weeks of high-stress living we tackled two on the classic list: Chicken and Dumplings, and Fried Chicken in a Buttermilk Marinade.

The buttermilk marinade threw me. It’s just not something I’ve run into before, and I — not knowing the science behind milk (other than whey and I do not get along anymore at all) — didn’t realize that buttermilk was acidic. So, the cook starts with the marinade and I have to ask, will this actually work?

Sure, he says, and goes on to explain about emulsifiers and the creation of lactic acid. I’m lost, two sentences in. “Perhaps we need Alton Brown to explain,” I say.

“But then we’d need actors.”

“Yes, in cow suits, I know, I know. Okay, I’ll take your word for it.”

I do take his word for it, trusting that buttermilk is indeed acidic enough to make a good marinade (after all, yogurt works for Tandoori, right?), but because I’m also into the geekery of it, I google and discover this site, courtesy of a PhD in Biology and Chemistry, that explains it all. And more. Check out the cheese page. Really.

Meanwhile, we’ve got this delicious fryer, all tendered up with buttermilk. Now what? Collard greens and mashed potatoes, of course.

Chopper Dave has a thing about braised greens. Kale, chard, collard greens — he nails it. Seriously, I used to hate the stuff. Maybe it was all that frozen spinach I was subjected to as a small child, or maybe it’s just that Mom never quite understood that adding things to vegetables (and not over-cooking them) can actually make them taste better. Either way, I am now, at long last, in love with braised greens.

And dumplings. Don’t get me started on dumplings. It’s not that I ever disliked dumplings, it’s that I’ve always had the kind made with flour, water, and just about nothing else. Comfort food, yes, but oh so boring. Bring on the thyme and polenta, baby and comfort me good.

Of course, now that I’m writing this, the leftovers are all eaten, and the chef is off at work, cooking for other people, not me. I need comfort and I don’t even have any Nestlé’s Quick to add to a glass of soy milk. Time to seek out dark chocolate, pour myself a nice cup of tea, and daydream about cottage cheese and shrimp blintzes.

Our quick trip to Portland last week meant we could gather a few more items to add to our Belly-Timber toolbox. Nothing too fancy or large, since we’re still dealing with the World’s Smallest Kitchen^TM up here, but we did manage to snag a box of plates (special Goodwill As-Is variety set!), Chopper’s pasta roller, and some much-needed illumination for food photography.

Not that we always use the much-needed illumination even when it’s much-needed, but it is nice to have it on hand in case I actually have time to set up a decent shot.

Which, mind you, isn’t often. Cooking around here typically goes like this:

“When’s dinner going to be ready?”
“Soon.”
“How soon is soon?”
“Soon enough.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Um. Real soon.”

Then, fifteen minutes to two hours later:

“Okay, who wants the first plate?”
“Wait, let me grab my camera!”
“But, I’m hungry!”
“Just let me get one picture.”
“Just one…”
(snap)
“Wait! I’m not done yet! I need some more light!”
“We don’t have time for light. Just take the picture already. I’m starving!”

And, the results end up something like that hideously out of focus shot of fried chicken from my previous post. (Eventually, I will prevail and force my aesthetic quest upon this tiny kitchen.)

But enough of that.

This:

Is far more interesting.

It’s Cuban Oregano. Cuttings of it, to be exact, off of this big old rangy house plant I’ve been growing for the past two years. I finally cut it back, re-potted it, and packed up the clippings for our trip back north.

I first found Cuban Oregano at the Portland Nursery, and though I’d not heard of it and I’d no idea how it was used (or even if it was used at all for culinary purposes), I bought it simply because the aroma was amazing. It’s more like an intense, spicy cross between sage and marjoram than common oregano. Oddly, I’ve since seen commentary online that likens the smell to turpentine, but then I’ve also seen forum posts by gardeners and nursery owners who say they are certain Cuban Oregano is not edible, stating that it would be “odd” to eat a succulent. (Um, cactus, anyone? Aloe vera?) Apparently, they also forgot to do research into popular culinary herbs of the Caribbean.

(Then there’s the furry thing. Ew! The leaves are furry — I can’t eat that! Well, that’s never stopped anyone from eating anchovies. Actually, I take that back. It’s stopped me from eating anchovies, but that’s beside the point.)

Now, we own a Caribbean cookbook, and had we been just a wee bit more on the ball when we packed the car, we would have brought it with us from Portland. But, no dice. So, this time out, Chopper Dave opted for scampi and sauteéed vegetables, with just a little bit of Cuban Oregano added to the mix of lemon, capers, basil, and diced Roma tomato.

Yum! The herb added a zing to the dish and blended exceptionally well with the lemon. My only complaint is: next time use more!

It’s possible that Chopper Dave was being conservative, under the assumption that we’d soon run out of cuttings. Not to worry, though. These guys have been in a cup of water for a week now and not only do they look great, they’ve sprouted roots. Looks like it’s potting soil time!

Molasses & White Wine Zabaglione
(with molasses brittle)

(a recipe with detours)

Molasses. Color me strange, but I really like the stuff. Maybe it’s those fond memories of home baked gingerbread cookies at Christmas time and me sneaking a spoonful straight from the bottle, or maybe it’s just the label with that grand old rabbit — that same rabbit, selling molasses for decades and way cooler than the Trix bunny.

So here we are, our first Sugar High Friday, and it’s gooey-sticky molasses time. Thing is, it’s also damn hot for this time of year, so if we want a dessert, we don’t want something gooey-sticky, we want something refreshing. Something simple and elegant, but (here’s the catch), with the rabbit.

And so was born Chopper Dave’s latest creation: Molasses and White Wine Zabaglione.

To clarify, this isn’t your Italian grandmother’s zabaglione. This is a modified zabaglione. The classic version includes just three ingredients — egg yolks, sugar, and marsala wine — but we’ve added heavy cream and crème fraîche for two reasons: One, it reduces the labor and time involved so that the whole process takes no more than about 20 minutes. And two, it enhances the flavor and mouthfeel of the dessert.

That is, Chopper Dave says it enhances the flavor and mouthfeel of the dessert. Me, I just rack up reason number three: It contains dairy products, meaning Mrs. D. can’t eat any, meaning more tasty goodness for the chef!

Just kidding.

With all that’s been going on around here, it’s a wonder we had time for anything at all other than cheetos, and truthfully, we didn’t have the time. It’s just that I had such a loony notion of what I wanted to do for the Orange themed Is My Blog Burning, I insisted we make the time come hell or high water.

Trouble is, my notion really was loony. As in (and I’m quoting Chopper Dave here) “This is a harebrained scheme and it’s not going to work.”

But trouble with that is, I’m the Peter Quincy Taggart of harebrained schemes. You know, never give up, never surrender? That’s me.

And this time (wonder of wonders), it paid off.

It all began with a pasta roller. That, and my fond memory of the year I turned Christmas into my own personal craft bazaar by decorating every object I could get my hands on with Fimo polymer clay. My favorite trick? Making checkered Fimo by running two colors through the pasta maker and weaving my Fimo fettuccine like a basket.

And then it hit me: Why not do the same thing with two colors of pasta dough and make checkered ravioli! Better yet, why not do two shades of orange for IMBB #14!

So, I pitched this harebrained scheme to the mister, and (shockingly) he agreed to try it. So off I went to the store for our best bet in the creation of orange pasta dough: Achiote paste. Meanwhile, Chopper Dave scoured the pantry for filling ideas and discovered a package of smoked salmon. Off to the market again for goat cheese and we’re halfway there.

Well, except for that whole basket weaving thing.

See, with Fimo, it doesn’t matter if you end up with little holes between the checks of your checkerboard design. You just push the clay together as best you can and call it done. But, holes in ravioli? Bad idea.

And that’s how the first attempt went horribly wrong. Holes, holes, everywhere.

We figured it had something to do with the lack of water, or rather, the fact that I didn’t reapply water to the pasta as often as I should while weaving it, but by this point it was mid-afternoon and Chopper Dave was due at the restaurant in half an hour. Our excitement over the possibility of checkered ravioli vanished. We were deep into impossible harebrained scheme territory.

Until I hit on the solution. Simply this: If one is making a lace dress and one doesn’t want it to be see-through, one gives it a lining.

After all, no one’s going to notice that the inside of the ravioli isn’t checkered.

So, I grabbed some more fettuccini, created another weave (this time with plenty of water), then rolled some of the leftover dough out into a thin sheet and placed it on top. I then trimmed all the edges and fed the whole kit and caboodle into the pasta roller.

And — voila! — checkered ravioli!

Of course by this point, the chef (AKA, the only one around here who knows how to make a good sauce) was off at work, so alas, my presentation is sans sauce. No matter. It still tasted quite yummy, and why would I want to cover up all that labor-intensive basketweaving with a sauce?

It may be a while before I try this trick again, considering I spent 45 minutes making five ravs. Perhaps I’ll take it on next Halloween. Only that time, I’ll tint half the pasta dough with squid ink.

Side note: And with this post, we’re off for a few days, attending Chopper Dave’s formal graduation from culinary school. As soon as we’re able to get back to the computer, we’ll take on a few more harebrained schemes, we’ll visit the local pub, and we’ll ask the question, if it stings your hands, why the hell would you want to eat it?

Barfly, you say? Cake. Our default setting is at the Bar.

Front Street Ale House, our main default, sits just a block away from the ferry dock, overlooking the port of Friday Harbor. On the off season, it’s a great place to sit at the bar and jaw with the bartender (and the assistant brewer who’s there more often than not), and collect our all-the-time happy hour discount by wearing our “bar wear” — two quite stylish Front Street baseball caps. (The bar wear, I should note, extends to boxer shorts, though I couldn’t tell you if patrons are required to drop trou to get their discount.)

During the summer, Front Street (along the rest of the town) turns into a hopping, tourist-laden joint, and often times it’s hard to get a seat. It’s still April, but we’re starting to notice this already — packed tables and service that does the best it can to stay caught up.

Though we do default to the bar itself, at our most recent visit we found the bar seats full up and picked a window instead. This allowed me to grab a few quick shots: the beer (which you can order in full liter mugs as well as pints) and the ferry dock, just across the street.

Had I been hungry (I’d just eaten at home) I would have ordered my usual favorite, the “Ass-kicking chili,” but I opted to sit this one out and instead spend the time admiring Chopper Dave’s choice of the day, Shepherd’s Pie.

Yes, the food is pub grub. Very good pub grub, with a touch of the English to it, but still, pub grub. On a line cook’s salary, what more can we ask for? It’s not like the guys slinging the Veal Osso Bucco can go out and eat Veal Osso Bucco on those pay checks.

So, we default to pub grub. In part, also, because it’s comfort food and it’s a good excuse to drink the most(ly) excellent beer.

Our pick for this trip: Moggy Mild — a traditional English mild with a deep, malty flavor and made with equal portions of Fuggle and Kent Golding hops. It’s not a hoppy beer by any stretch, but the hops are still present in the background, and it was refreshing enough to add to our regular repertoire.

In fact most of the beers here aren’t all that hoppy. This could be a disappointment to me — my idea of the perfect beer is one that tastes like I’m sucking it through a vat of fresh-off-the-vine hop cones — but fortunately almost all of the beers brewed by San Juan Brewing have other assets that make them quite enjoyable.

Like the Ale Diablo. It’s made with four kinds of peppers — Anaheim, Jalapeño, Serrano, and Habanero, and believe me, it makes you sweat. There’s nothing better around here on a hot summer day when you’ve just stepped in from a long day at the beach or on the boat.

(Sheesh. Do I sound like a tourism brochure, or what?)

The Ale House, which is right next door to the San Juan Brewing Company facility, typically carries at least six or seven originals on tap, and they rotate in new ones on a regular basis. Next up, for Cinco de Mayo: a Smoked Pepper Ale, and a Mexican Chocolate Ale. Mix the two together, so they say on the promo flyer, and you’ve got Molé Ale. That, I can’t wait to try!

Front Street Ale House & San Juan Brewing Co.
1 Front St
Friday Harbor, Washington, 98250

Typical passer-by at Front Street Ale House: