A Farewell to Christmas

Dear Boo,

Happy Little Christmas!

I remember growing up, we celebrated the twelfth and final night of Christmas as sort of a last hurrah to the season, softening the blow of taking the tree down, stripping the house of its last shiny bauble, twinkle, and bough. It was always so sad seeing our living room afterwards, as if the way we lived 11 months out of the year was just devoid of something--spirit, spectacle--ooomph. And then there was the dried out, naked carcass of the tree, left for the garbage man on the sidewalk. It was all too much to take. So the Parents devised what in retrospect was a fantastic strategy of distraction. For this one special night, The Mouse and The Boo would make dinner for them--planning the menu ourselves, scanning the food-stained pages of mom's ancient stack of cookbooks, and taking our first few stabs at slicing, dicing, and sauteeing. What did we even make? Do you remember? All I can recall is the discovery made some time around 1996 that parmesan and pears taste delicious together--a revelation for us novices that came in the form of a salad (with fennel maybe?) from one of mom's cookbooks (Silver Palate maybe?) (Note from the Boo: It was Chase's "Open House Cookbook", and the salad was "Mixed Greens w/Fennel, Pears, and Parmesan Shards". The beginning of my obsession.), and Jamie Oliver's Spinach, Feta, and Pea Salad (a standby to this day).

Then there was a make your own sundae bar, where I'd pile on the "Whipped Topping" and we'd sit, cookies and cream mustaches on our faces watching Dad fumble and curse at the ancient movie projector which he'd eventually get to work with a sputter and whirr, and there I'd be, larger than life, six years old in the Helyar Woods, grinning at the camera and lifting my skirt over my head. Or grandma at her wedding on a rooftop in the city, the wind blowing her veil, and you next to me saying, "When I get married, I'm going to do it on a rooftop in Manhattan." (Or did I make that last part up? Is it possible we actually had footage from her wedding?) And then we'd exchange gifts with each other (what did we possibly buy each other as kids?), and give presents to Mom and Dad (remember when I gave Dad a tie? That still makes me laugh. What the hell was I thinking?). And then, the house quiet and a little empty, the scent of pine needles beginning to fade, we'd go off to bed.

I think some of my earliest memories of cooking, and the joy of finding a new recipe, of feeding people and watching proudly as their plates were cleared, came from our Little Christmas traditions. And as this year was the first time I've had my very own Christmas tree, covered in my very own hand-crafted ornaments, I'm finding that I still need a little something to help soften the blow of saying goodbye to the season. (Note from The Boo: Um, mine is still up.)

So, tomorrow night (since tonight, on the official twelfth night of Christmas, I had rehearsal), The Fiance and I will celebrate Three Kings Day (his people's name for Little Christmas) with a gift exchange, dinner by him, and--sniff--taking down the tree.

But before we say goodbye, one last taste of the holiday.

My Christmas plate. Clockwise from down center: the Fiance's Pernil, Yucca with Cuban Mojo, The Boo's Roasted Brussels Sprouts, Raw Kale Salad, Ina's Cauliflower Gratin, The Mother's Sauteed Red Cabbage, The Mother's Stuffing, The Mother's Turkey, and--yep--The Mother's Sweet Potato Casserole. With marshmallows.

And lastly...

For Christmas Eve at the Boo's House, Ina's Baked Shrimp Scampi. A mess of shrimp swimming in garlicky butter with parsley and breadcrumbs, baked until golden brown. (Note from the Boo: MMMMMM)

I'll be making this again. At least some things don't have to get put away with the ornaments.

Ina Garten's Baked Shrimp Scampi

2 pounds (12 to 15 per pound) shrimp in the shell
3 tablespoons good olive oil
2 tablespoons dry white wine
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
12 tablespoons (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
4 teaspoons minced garlic (4 cloves)
1/4 cup minced shallots
3 tablespoons minced fresh parsley leaves
1 teaspoon minced fresh rosemary leaves
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
1 teaspoon grated lemon zest
2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 extra-large egg yolk
2/3 cup panko (Japanese dried bread flakes)
Lemon wedges, for serving

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees F.

Peel, devein, and butterfly the shrimp, leaving the tails on. Place the shrimp in a mixing bowl and toss gently with the olive oil, wine, 2 teaspoons salt, and 1 teaspoon pepper. Allow to sit at room temperature while you make the butter and garlic mixture.

In a small bowl, mash the softened butter with the garlic, shallots, parsley, rosemary, red pepper flakes, lemon zest, lemon juice, egg yolk, panko, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and 1/4 teaspoon of pepper until combined.

Starting from the outer edge of a 14-inch oval gratin dish, arrange the shrimp in a single layer cut side down with the tails curling up and towards the center of the dish. Pour the remaining marinade over the shrimp. Spread the butter mixture evenly over the shrimp. Bake for 10 to 12 minutes until hot and bubbly. If you like the top browned, place under a broiler for 1 minute. Serve with lemon wedges.

Love,

The Mouse

Plantains and Peppermint: Christmas in Florida

Dear Boo,

Do you realize that the first entries we ever wrote were two letters to each other on the very first Christmas we ever spent apart? That time, I was in Jersey, holding down the buche, as they say. But this year, again at two different celebrations, I was at my very first Christmas away from our childhood home. It was a Christmas of firsts in many ways: my first Christmas away from the family, my first Christmas in a warm climate (Tampa, Florida), my first Christmas with the Boyfriend and his family, my first Christmas cooking the entire meal (with the Boyfriend, of course), and my first Christmas with an (almost entirely) latin menu, which in itself constitutes a number of firsts...

I'm not going to lie--it was hard being away from our family and our traditions (no Alastair Sim's Christmas Carol on Christmas Eve, no lobster dinner the night before, no massive tree with wacked out homemade ornaments, no turkey!). But I decided early on that it was time to let go of the past, and embrace this Christmas as something entirely new. A day which, in spirit, resembled the holiday I knew, but in sights, smells, sounds, and yes, taste, was something all its own. I was, after all, a guest of someone else's family who have their own much-prized traditions, and far be it from me to impose my own esoteric Hart family mumbo jumbo where it doesn't belong and wouldn't quite fit. And I have to say, it was a lovely time, full of newness (for me), festive decorations, tons of kids (who are really what makes Christmas so magical, once the rest of us have gone all disillusioned and jaded. I actually engaged in Santa letter-writing, cookie and milk plating and then eating, and all kinds of fun little white lies in the name of the Jolly one), and feasting like you would not believe. Indeed, said feast went on for DAYS as the Boyfriend and I traveled from house to house to visit siblings, bearing leftovers which we reconstituted in all sorts of creative and delicious ways (Christmas Part 2: Leftover Boogaloo, soon to be posted).

As you may remember from last year's Christmas miracle, the Boyfriend had declared that this year, there would be no ordering food from the Cuban restaurant nearby. Having tackled the Pernil (roast pork leg) the year before, he would now (with my help) be cooking the entire menu. The sisters gasped, some reached for the phone to call in back-up orders in case we really blew it, and others reached for the fire extinguisher. We barely broke a sweat. I don't think I'm ruining the suspense when I tell you we pulled it off like gangbusters. Let's take a post-holiday tour, shall we?

The morning after we arrived, we took the rental car to pick up the pork from a little store that looked like an East Harlem bodega, complete with glass-enclosed, bar-covered corner where lottery tickets and phone cards are sold. The pork leg was handed over, a 26 pounder, and we were on our way. The Boyfriend seasoned it with the secret ingredients and set it to marinate in the fridge, which reeked of garlic every time the door was cracked. On Christmas morning, at 4am, the Boyfriend took it out of the fridge, let it come to room temp and then put it in a 450 degree oven for an hour, letting the top get golden, the onions turn to crisps. He then turned the oven down to 275 and we waited...and basted...and waited...until about 4pm when it came out, perfectly golden, falling off the bone, and soaking in its self-created gravy. Fingers immediately pounced, pulling off tender bits before the oven door was closed.

Here it is, ready for carving. Notice the bald spot where a taste was stolen. Child in background with maracas, natch.

A knife is hardly necessary after twelve hours of slow roasting. I turned the juices into a gravy that would have made grandma proud.

Also on the menu were my Old Bay chicken thighs and legs, for those who don't partake in pork (and those that do), and fried sweet plantains, made by the Sister-in-Law, who unlike us, has actually made them successfully before. Starchy, sweet, crisp, and delicious.

Yucca, tended to like a week-old babe by the Boyfriend who boiled them until tender, and then covered in a mojo of sauteed onions, a TON of garlic (I'm sure you're sensing the theme here), lime juice, orange juice, olive oil, and fresh oregano. Similar to a potato, the Yucca is good for mashing or boiling and absorbs the zingy, acidic sauce like a well-seasoned sponge. You can find a similar recipe here, if you're interested...

Rice and beans were also on hand, though I have hardly a picture to prove it. Sorry, rice and beans, I guess you're just not as visually arresting as a 26 lb hunk of slow-cooked meat. You were delicious, nonetheless, and provided essential leftover ingredients for the days to come.

Oh look, there you are! Alongside the green salad of onion, tomato, hearts of palm, and traditional noche buena (Christmas Eve) radishes.

And of course, the red cabbage. Did you really think I'd go without it?! The Boyfriend wanted me to add something to the menu that would represent my Christmas flavors, so I picked the cabbage not only because it, like the jello mold, is a ubiquitous part of the Hart holiday meal, but because out of all of our dishes, it seemed to match best with the menu. Cabbage is a natural pairing with pork and the sweet and sour nature of the dish echoed flavors in the plantains, yucca, and salad. Also, it's cheap and can be made on the stove, which with the oven occupied all day, was a plus. In the end, it was quite a hit and blended in with the crowd so well you'd think it was a native spanish speaker.

For dessert, two apple crisps, one with nuts and one without. Topping made with help from three nieces. Crumbling butter and sugar with hands is a great job for little fingers.

And, the chocolate cake made by our Aunt for Chanukah which was so delicious, so light and chocolatey and creamy, that I had to recreate it. It was quite easy as well, and kept perfectly in the fridge. Next time you have to make a birthday cake, use this recipe, from our favorite Contessa.

I have to say, one of my happiest moments was walking into the dining room, the tree glowing in the background, music tinkling and glasses clinking from the kitchen, and seeing nine small heads bent over plates of chocolate and apple sweets, cookies and candies, smiling and munching. Later that night, when all the gifts were opened, leftovers stored, a late night bourbon drunk, a midnight snack snuck from the fridge, shoes cast off, and a brother-in-law sleeping soundly on an armchair in front of the tree, I got into bed, turned down the lights, and with one earphone in my ear and one in the Boyfriend's, lay listening to the melodious tenor of Dylan Thomas' voice, reading A Child's Christmas in Wales, thinking of you and wondering if a few hundred miles away in a colder climate, you were doing the same. Some traditions I'm just not ready to let go of.

Love,

The Mouse

P.S. For pre-dinner bites, I made this guacamole, and this rosemary chickpea dip (which was more like a chunky spread due to the lack of food processor). Both delicious and simple. And to me, rosemary always tastes like Christmas.

Christmas Ubiquitous Braised Red Cabbage

3 strips of bacon (can substitute olive oil if you're anti-pork)
2 heads of red cabbage (2 heads served about 16, for a large party. But prorportions are forgiving if you want to halve or quarter for a smaller meal)
1 large onion, sliced
1 apple, sliced thin (granny smith works great)
6 Tablespoons cider or red wine vinegar
2 Tablespoons honey
1 Tablespoon brown sugar
Salt and pepper to taste

Slice cabbage thinly, removing core, of course. Soak in a pot of cold water for about 30 minutes to soften. Drain and discard water. Cook bacon in the bottom of a large, heavy pot until the fat is rendered. Remove bacon and discard (or eat). Sautee onion and apple (amounts can vary depending on your taste) in the pot with the bacon fat until tender and browned. Add the cabbage, vinegar, honey and sugar and plenty of salt. Turn heat to low, cover and let cook for 60 to 90 minutes, stirring and tasting occasionally. Amounts may vary depending on how you like it. I may have added more vinegar and sugar as I went until it tasted just right. Add black pepper and salt to finish. As mom wrote when she emailed me the recipe, HMMMMMYUMMMISH...GOES GREAT WITH HAM/TURKEY...

A Mouse Bouche's Christmas Miracle

Dear Boo,

Before every last strand of tinsel is tossed in the trash and every leftover cookie stacked in the freezer, and the record of Dylan Thomas reading A Child's Christmas in Wales back in its sleeve, I'd like to take one more trip back to Christmas past/present.

While we were busy braising red cabbage and throwing out failed buches, another Christmas miracle was taking place a few hundred miles south of us in sunny Tampa, Florida. For the past few years, for a number of reasons, the Boyfriends family has taken to ordering their Christmas dinner from a great little Cuban restaurant near his sister's house. The menu usually consists of Pernil (roasted pork shoulder), chicken, plantains, congri (a variation on black beans and rice), and yucca. And while the food is very authentic and delicious, the Boyfriend had begun to miss the smells and tastes of home-cooked dinner. So, in a fit of adventuresome spirit, he announced to the family that he would be making the pork and chicken this year. They were supportive, if a bit skeptical. "Sure, I've made it before," he lied. He was excited, and nervous, and began doing research, calling his aunt in Miami to get her recipe (which, like many great home cooks was mostly--add a little bit of this, then a little more of that, until it looks about right). He planned out the local butcher where he'd purchase the cut of meat, and we even briefly toyed with doing a test run in our kitchen before he headed out of town.

A couple of days before showtime, and after just a tad of expectant father-esque fretting, the Boyfriend visited the butcher to buy his 10-12 lb pork shoulder. "We've got a 25 pounder, and that's all we've got left," he was told. The gruff butcher wrapped it up and sent him off without another word on the subject. When he unwrapped the meat it turned out to have a thick layer of fat and all of the pig skin on the shoulder, the traditional Puerto Rican preparation which allows for enough skin to make chicharrones (pork rinds). NOT how his aunt had described it. So, with a $7 supermarket knife he set about to cut the skin off until it resembled the meat he remembered. Once it looked about right, praying he didn't get rid of too much fat, he set about to make the mojo of sour orange juice, garlic, oregano, and other secret spices, to marinate the meat. Around this point I got my 12th or so call of the day to update me on the status of the pig. I bit my tongue silently when he told me of the incisions he'd made in the meat in order to stuff in some of his aunt's secret ingredients. "One of the cuts I made was a little big." "How big?" I asked, trying to sound calm. "About 5 inches long across the top..." "Uh...okay...so maybe you'll just cover that or something so you don't lose too much moisture." "I could tie it up with butcher twine. Or staple it..." He honestly said this, folks. I'm going to say he was joking. A few more frantic phone calls, and the subject was put to rest. The meat was marinating, the carols were being sung (by someone, somewhere, I assume), and there was nothing left to do but wait for the big day.

On Christmas morning, the Boyfriend woke up at 5am to take the roast out of the fridge and bring it to room temp before putting it in the oven. So hardcore. By the time our house woke up, a few hours later, his was already full of the smell of garlic and bacon fat and things were looking good. Around 3pm, I received a slightly blurry picture message on my phone:

A gloriously browned roast, practically swelling with pride as it rested in the pan. I passed it around to my family, proud as the roast of my new favorite chef. A text appeared: "Pork is damned tasty. I'm already slated to do next year's." My eyes welled up. "You realize this is all because of A Mouse Bouche," my oh so modest sister said, "We inspired this!". When I got the busy chef on the phone he was bursting with excitement. "It was incredible! When I served it, I had to go take a moment to collect myself. The meat FELL off the bone, babe. FELL OFF THE BONE." The Boyfriend's sister said she would try making the black beans next year, and his Sister-in-Law ventured that she could probably manage the yucca. Home cooking had returned to Christmas.

The Boyfriend already can't wait to make it again, with some minor adjustments (maybe no huge gash across the top of the meat?) and I will happily turn the kitchen over to him, sit back, watch and learn. I mentioned your comment to him, Boo, and he surprised me by agreeing with you. I guess A Mouse Bouche can take some tiny bit of responsibility for the birth of a new love affair with cooking. I'm so proud, you have no idea.

Below, some pics from the lunch we had the Sunday after Christmas, using leftovers. I played sous-chef, making an slapdash mojo-esque sauce (cilantro, red onion, garlic, oil, vinegar, lime juice, and salt) for the pork and the Boyfriend's perfectly golden-fried yucca.

It's an amazing feeling to create something with your own two hands that can feed and warm the people you love. But what's almost as satisfying is watching someone discover this for the first time.

And it sure was damned tasty.

Love,

The Mouse

My Left Arm

Dear Boo,

I really miss my left arm. A wise woman once sang, you don't know what you got til its gone. Well, being a righty, my left arm has always seemed like an inferior appendage. Its only really there to assist the right one, no? I'm ashamed to say this is how I used to think. But all that changed on Monday evening. Or maybe on Friday evening when a guy at a bar told me I was like a young Daniel Day Lewis.

Let me back up.

Monday evening I was on my way uptown to do a reading at New Dramatists. I was looking forward to it and had a little bounce to my step as I walked down to the subway. Perhaps it was this fatal bounce that led me to step directly into the small puddle of NYC gunk that someone had spilled on the platform. Whatever it was, in slow motion I felt my legs fly up in the air in front of me and my body turn midair landing entirely and directly on my left elbow. It hurt so much I wasn't even embarrassed by all the people staring at me, or the huge mess my iced coffee made when it hit the concrete. Or the fact that an old lady came up to me to tell me she does that all the time and then criticize my insubstantial footwear. Shaken, I got on the train and went to the reading, which went well, though I probably looked like an ass, being the only one on stage seemingly refusing to clap for the likes of Marian Seldes.

Afterwards, over a glass of wine at the reception, I was convinced to go to the ER if only to confirm my belief that this was merely a bad bruise. Well, you can probably guess the rest. A sling, some xrays, and a wondrous percocet later, the verdict came in: Radial head fracture of the ulna. Dirty. Arm: out of commission for two weeks. No flying to Indiana the next morning as scheduled to perform my show. No moving. No funny business. And, as the Boyfriend pointed out in the ER, no home cooked birthday dinner for him.

I had already planned a whole menu for the occasion that I was getting really excited about. My plan was to make one of his favorite dishes from childhood that I've always wanted to try--Bistec Empanizado, or breaded steak, served with black beans and rice, and tostones (fried plantains). I was lamenting the plight of my elbow to our friend Chef Josh (of Secret Eats fame--come back to us, Josh!) when he suggested that he could help me cook. I said, "Oh I couldn't possibly ask you to do that" a couple of times before leaping at the tantalizing offer. Of course, "helping" me cook dinner really meant cooking dinner himself while I occasionally offered to to assist in a one-handed task (there really aren't too many. That is, other than tasting, of which I did my fair share).

Our journey began at the Whole Foods in Union Square where we picked up the essentials and rolled our eyes when the produce manager explained they didn't have plantains or yucca because it's too hard to keep them. They do, however, have a full supply of Ostrich eggs at $39.99 a pop. Well thank god for that. Can you imagine how people would take to the street in protest if they were to run out??

Josh picked up some steak which he had the butcher slice thin and pound out--something I'm always shy about asking for though really that's what butchers are there for, no? When Josh informed me he already had some of the ingredients, including some whole trout from the farmers market, sausage, and heirloom tomatoes, I knew this dinner was going to be beyond anything I could imagine whipping up in my sweaty little hot box of a kitchen.

Once home I was set to work slicing peaches and hulling strawberries for a cobbler Josh wanted to throw together. So far, so good. If I lifted my left arm onto the work surface with my right I could hold down the fruit while slicing with my good hand--triumph!

When the cobbler was in the oven and the black beans brought to a boil on the stove, we set out to find some plantains and yucca. With a bodega on every corner, you'd think these wouldn't be that hard to find. WRONG. We tried every food establishment large and small from 14th to 6th and 3rd to Ave B. Nothing, despite the fact that pretty much everyone working in these stores was latin. Finally, as a last gasp on our way home, we stopped at a food emporium in Sty Town and hallelujiah--there they were.

Back at the house, I was put to work slicing and peeling the plantains for the tostones which have to be fried twice.


Meanwhile Josh cut and steamed the yucca which is just such a beautiful bright white that I've always been tempted to buy it long before I ever imagined what one might do with it. I got a great lesson on how to fry something without having it turn all greasy on you (secret is in keeping the oil hot and the object of frying circulating in the pan. That way the moisture inside the food heats up and out, keeping the oil from seeping in) while I crushed ritz crackers for the breaded steak.

Somewhere in the next hour, here's what happened:

The steak got seasoned, dredged in flour, then dipped in an egg wash to create a sticky surface for the bread crumbs which it got covered in next. Here it is frying up to perfection:

Once the oil was hot, the plantain pieces were fried, then cooled slightly, turned on their sides, and squashed into little pancakes by yours truly. Then, back into the oil they went until they were crisp and golden and impossible to keep our hand(s) off. The yucca went in next, crisped up like little squat french fries.

Josh pulled out the fish--two whole fat trout who looked like they'd just leapt out of the river about an hour ago, and happily, at that. He quickly snipped off the head and fins and threw them into a cast iron pan with a couple of sausage links.

My elbow beginning to ache, the birthday boy took over slicing some gorgeous heirloom tomatoes from the greenmarket, and sprinkled with salt and pepper. Then creamy blobs of ricotta were spooned on top and finished with olive oil and a chiffonade of basil (I've always wanted to use that word). Oh, and did I mention there was some leftover pulled pork? Oh yeah. We sat down to what was surely a feast about 500% bigger and more beautiful than my attempt would have been. And man oh man was it good. Here's my plate:

After making myself horizontal on the couch in an attempt to digest faster, I was handed a glass of homemade strawberry infused vodka to help it all go down a little easier. It sort of helped. Enough to allow me a few bites of the cobbler before my body began to shout NO MORE! and we rolled home to bed, our bellies full, and I for one, feeling a little less sorry for myself.
Moral of the story: How do you cook dinner with one arm tied behind your back (or slung across your front)? Get someone else to do it for you. If he happens to be a chef, and also AWESOME, that helps too.

Love,

The Mouse

P.S. Special love and thanks to Kate for being an awesome special lady and letting us invade her home :)

Josh's Kickass Breaded Steak: A Prose Poem by Chef Josh

The meat is Sliced Sirloin Steak (ask the butcher to pound it out).
I seasoned the meat with salt, pepper & a little sazon.*
Then to bread it I dipped it in Flour then eggwash (1 egg to 1 tbsp water ratio) then finely crushed ritz crackers.
I did this process twice to make it extra crispy.
to fry i add just enough oil to cover the bottom of a 9-10 inch pan and then added medium (to medium low) heat.
Let it get hot, then add 1 1/2 tbsps butter. Butter should melt easily but not turn brown right away.
drop the breaded steak in and let it go slowly until golden brown. flip it and repeat. mmmmmmm.

*Editor's footnote: Sazon=Goya Sazon, those little orange packets you can get at the supermarket