Pea Soup Wine

by Citizen Jon-O

280 miles north of Los Angeles (middle of nowhere) lies the tiny dust covered hamlet of Santa Nella. Existing entirely due to the fact that interstate 5 runs straight through the middle of it, Santa Nella is loaded with gas stations, truck stops, and fast food joints. Overall, Santa Nella is unremarkable in every way with the exception of one distinguishing landmark…a big windmill that is visible from a good two or three miles away. This windmill serves one purpose and one purpose only…it’s to let the hungry traveler know that they have arrived at the world famous (in my mind anyway) Pea Soup Andersen’s, home of the world’s greatest split pea soup.

Like many old school travel stops, Andersen’s has a theme and their theme is glorious Denmark! As you enter the giftshop/bar/coffeeshop/restaurant/hotel, you’re immediately thrust into a world of faux Danish delights and décor. Most of these tacky monuments to all things Danish beckon you to enjoy Andersen’s famous split pea soup, and for decades, enjoying the split pea soup is exactly what my family, the Anderson’s (with an O, not an E like the restaurant) has done.

As luck would have it, I was fortunate enough to be able to drive my wife, kids, and mother in law from Orange County to Fremont last month, and, as luck would have it, the kids took my side and agreed that the place to eat along the way on our eight hour journey was Andersen’s. In all the years of going to Pea Soup Andersen’s, I’d only enjoyed their ‘Travelers Special’ (all you can eat split pea soup and bread…with a milkshake or soft drink for $8.95…yum) with the occasional French dip thrown in if I was feeling hi-falutin and continental. However, on this particular visit to Andersen’s, my wife was going to take over the driving duties for the last 90 minutes so I decided I’d live large and enjoy a glass of wine with my split pea soup. The decision to have a glass of vino was a huge shift from family tradition and a major ‘adult moment’ for me. I’d never felt more in charge of my own destiny.

I knew the evening was going to be a special one when the hostess seated us in the dining room (which was closed at the time), instead of the coffee shop. With its 20 foot high ceilings adorned with dozens of large multi-colored Danish inspired banners hanging from the rafters, the dining room is a much more sophisticated environment than the coffee shop, and, as such, is only open to distinguished guests such as myself. With only one other family in the dining room, I felt the time was certainly right to break the decades old tradition of ordering the Traveler’s Special alone and go with a nice glass of red wine as an add-on.

To set the stage, a description of the personnel attending to us at Andersens is required. The hostess, who we’ll call Rosa, was a small town girl who, by the looks of her hair and makeup, didn’t venture more than five miles from I5 very often. Rosa was clearly built for breeding, was unattractive, but had a look in her eye that told me she knew her way around the bedroom in a big way and she didn’t get cheated when it came time for fucking. Our waiter, who was also the manager, we’ll call him Daniel, was a very earnest and hard working young man who was slightly bumbling, short, and moderately overweight. Although he clearly had his challenges, the way Daniel wore his logoed tie, had his shirt ironed crisply, and did his damnest to do a good job told me he was the type of guy who is the salt of the earth, the kind of dude who finds a wallet and doesn’t take the money…a simple yet honorable man. Admirable. This pair, unbeknownst to them, had been chosen by fate to serve me, the man accused by all of being a ‘food snob’ and the wine columnist for the Floral Park Neighborhood Newsletter…the greatness was among them and they didn’t even know it.

Upon sitting down, Rosa strutted up to the table, all the while eyeballing me like she was trying to figure out whether or not she’d break me if the situation presented itself. Homely at best, but oozing raw untamable sexuality, Rosa asked me if I’d like something to drink. I told her I’d have a glass of red wine. To this, Rosa said “Would you like to see the wine list?” I replied “There IS a wine list?”. At this point, Rosa’s face changed and she looked at me like she wanted to have a little meeting with me, a rope, and a tree…she clearly didn’t appreciate my humor. Rosa brought the wine list, a laminated sheet of paper, and presented it to me. The Pea Soup Andersen’s wine list is a who’s who of low rent jug wine that wouldn’t be fit for a hobo, but at the very bottom, at $4.25 per glass, I found what I was looking for, the ‘house’ cabernet sauvignon. For those who’ve never had the pleasure, the house cabernet at Pea Soup Andersen’s is ‘Copper Ridge’, a non vintage wine that I was sure would have great character and depth. I ordered the house cabernet and bid Rosa and her sexuality adieu. And now, the tasting……

The Presentation:

When I saw Rosa inform Daniel that someone had ordered wine, it looked as if she had told him she was knocked up and the kid was his. Shock and awe are the first words that come to mind when I recall Daniel’s face. When Daniel promptly returned with the wine, he looked as if he was carrying a flaming beehive; it was as if something was going to explode and he needed to unload it as soon as possible. While lacking in elegance and grace, Daniel made up for the freakish nature of his delivery with sheer volume. I don’t know if the tab on the box had stuck open or what, but the wine glass was filled to the very rim with Copper Ridge Cabernet and, as Daniel set it down, the wine sloshed over the sides and splashed on the table. Looking at the heaping glass of wine, I couldn’t help but wonder if Rosa had struck a deal with Daniel and she was trying to get the ‘out of towner’ drunk so she could take advantage of me in the handicap stall in their Denmark themed men’s room…tee heee.

The Nose:

Back in the day, a certain someone who likes wine played himself a little football and he played it pretty well. Additionally, back in the day, terms like “hazing” and “hate crime” and “abuse” were really just funny words that educated people used and were of no consequence to us football stars. As such, when we had football practice, some of us gentlemen on the team would ‘play a game’ where we’d give some of the other guys on the team a little something we liked to call “The Mustachio”. The way the mustachio worked was, you’d do your warmups..the standard pushups, wind sprints, sit ups, stretching, etc. and get a nice sweat going. Once one knew they were good and sweaty, one could get started with Mustachio implementation:

Step 1: Take two fingers and shove them down your pants, all the way down to your taint (the taint is the area between your legs where it aint yer balls and it aint your asshole)
Step 2: Firmly wipe the two fingers between your coinpurse and your thigh from your taint all the way up to your fuzz
Step 3: Find unsuspecting victim (had to be someone you could out run or, if the need arose, someone you knew you could drop like third period French)
Step 4: Run up behind unsuspecting victim and wipe the two fingers across victim’s upper lip leaving a ballsweat mustache known as ‘The Mustachio’. Word on the street was that the delicate aroma of sweaty balls would stay with the recipient for hours on end.

Now that The Mustachio has been explained, just understand that when I brought the wineglass to my nose, it was as if every mustachio I’d ever given was given back to me in one mighty swipe, straight from the nuts of Satan himself. The Copper Ridge Cabernet was a hot batch of ballsweat and nitrates…but I was determined to drink it. After all, I am a professional.

The Taste:

As I brought the heaving glass of Copper Ridge to my mouth, it felt as if the whole world was watching, as if no one could believe a human would actually follow through with drinking it. I paused, took one more sniff of the putrid liquid, then drank.

Once the stabbing chest pains subsided and I regained consciousness, the Copper Ridge Cabernet gave a powerful burning sensation on the palate at first, eventually giving way to a taste that I can only describe as huge fruit and alcohol with strong notes of asphalt, sheep droppings, and the sweatband of a migrant worker’s hat after a day in the sun. The finish was powerful and shocking with a hint of hot grass cuttings and kerosene that lingered longer than a monstrous case of herpes.

Not wanting to insult Daniel or give that sex fiend Rosa the satisfaction of seeing me back down, I drank the entire glass of Copper Ridge lustily and acted as if it were the very nectar of the gods poured from the nipple of Venus herself! (In reality I was calculating how long it would take poison control to make it out to Santa Nella, there’s a prison nearby, so surely it couldn’t take too long…). Rosa quickly approached me and offered another glass but I declined and made a stupid pantomime of someone driving a car whilst shitfaced like some kind of dipshit Clark Griswold impersonator. She walked away with a smartass grin on her face and we quickly finished our soup and skeedaddled out of there.

In short, I do not recommend Copper Ridge Caberne to anyone unless you are planning on killing a dog in the most cruel manner possible or stripping the paint off your car. Overall, I know it will take me a long time to get over the post traumatic stress disorder that will surely follow my consumption of Copper Ridge Cabernet, but I don’t regret it for a minute. There are those timid souls who say life is too short to drink cheap wine, and then there are courageous wine drinkers like me who say: ‘Fuck that, I’m drinkin’ it all!’ The next time you’re afraid to drink shitty wine, just remember me and the Copper Ridge and know that it can’t get any worse than that.

walking chicken & rice porridge

they say failing to plan is planning to fail (they being elementary school administrators quoting john wooden) and i would tend to agree with them/him if it were not for the calculated generosity of my cube neighbor nguyen. it seems i’m always well fed at work, regardless of continually failing to plan for my lunch, because at any time during office hours nguyen has a cornucopia of exotic vietnamese foods at her desk.

what might i sample in the course of a work week? fresh kumquats, melon with chili powder, pho, banh mi, jackfruit with coconut milk, spring rolls, com tam, etc. apart from the northern mexican food i grew up on, it is quite possibly the best food i have ever tasted. with intense flavors and ubiquitous freshness modern vietnamese fare, at least on the outskirts of little saigon, is often conjoined with an essentially french methodology following on to some of the finest bread and most sublime soup bases in the world.

the terms of my strictly food oriented non-relationship with nguyen are as follows: 1) i take whatever food i want from her desk at any time i want it, without asking. 2) if she is eating something for herself, regardless of portion, i automatically have “dibbs” on half. 3) i make an honest effort to speak harshly to her as often as possible, not because i am cruel by nature, but by virtue of the fact that to have any kind of healthy, albeit solipsist, relationship with a her i have to earn her respect by providing equally matched force (i’m also pretty sure this is how it works in prison). if she is being polite to me i know that she is actually quite angry and i should take this as a sign of disrespect.

for her end i can only hypothesize through a skippy-smeared, wonder bread lens, but to the best of my knowledge this is what i can put together: 1) she can make fun of me when i’m asking for sandwiches in vietnamese, (banh mi). 2) i make myself vulnerable to pinches on my arm fat so hard i cry (very few people can pinch this hard, fewer still weighing a few fingernail clippings shy of 100lbs). and 3) i give her all my office work so she can look twice as busy as me, an enriching opportunity for her because in her culture laziness is automatic qualification for dante’s ninth circle(1).

you get the idea – i trade my dignity for food, most men have no problem with this. i’m constantly begging her for recipes. it usually goes something like this...

Am PoMo: that look’s good, what is it?

Nguyen: (immediate look of disgust) it’s rice porridge, you want some?

Am PoMo: sure, but just a taste.

Nguyen: oh please, you know you only come to my desk for food.

(later...)

Am PoMo: that was good. did you make it?

Nguyen: oh please, don’t pretend you don’t see us eat it every morning for breakfast! you want some more?

Am PoMo: no, i had lunch already.

Nguyen: don’t tell me you have a six dollar burger! are they good?

Am PoMo: are you going to give me the receipe for the porridge?

Nguyen: i’m so mad at you. you just take whatever you want, you think i’m your slave or something.

Am PoMo: if you’re referring to the M&M’s, you don’t eat them – and the bag is from easter! what are you saving them for?

Nguyen: (pinching) special collector bag! they only print it one time! i bought it on ebay.

Am PoMo: (eyes watering) so are you going to give me the porridge recipe or what?

Nguyen: (eye roll) oh please! don’t pretend you like it! it’s so easy even when you could do it. just boil walking chicken and add some rice. do i have to explain everything to you? sheesh.

Am PoMo: i think you’re holding out on me....there was way more stuff in that soup. i’ll buy you lunch.

Nguyen: (again with the pinching) not soup, porridge! you think all vietnamese food is soup. i don’t know exact ingredient.

Am PoMo: (whimpering) but i want to make it and post it on my blog.

Nguyen: what-ever, am pomo, you think all asian women the same. you think we your slave or something

Am PoMo: look, it was really good. i think people will want to know how to make it.

Nguyen: go away now. can’t you see i’m busy doing all your work for you. you’re dead to me.
Am PoMo: how about you just give me the recipe and shut up about it?

Nguyen: i’ll bring you the mushroom mix tomorrow. do you have fish sauce? you think i’m your slave or something.

now before you accuse me of racial discrimination or sexual harassment it should be noted that i don’t believe the chip on nguyen’s shoulder to be primarily cultural or at all gender based (although on the skin-whitening tour of our fluorescent-sunned work week, her beauty, as it would be in prison, is a problem). i daresay, no. if the ACLU (and the editor) will permit me, these are simply the politics of captivity.....only on the wretched cube farm do assets like these become liabilities, kindnesses a coiled trap.

enragingly, nguyen is also a better cook than i am. so naturally to keep the balance of power in her favor, when i do receive a recipe it’s frequently less than articulate....

1 walking chicken (very good for soup and a bit tougher to chew)
1 ½ gallon of water
1 rice bowl (1 cup) of jasmine rice (new crop)
1 pho spoon of salt
1 ½ pho spoon of suger -- or --
2 wo medium siz of rock sugar
2 pho spoon of good fish sauce
1 sleeve of ginger
½ pho spoon mushroom seasoning

this is the best i can tell you. i hate writing down instruction....

- clean the chicken
- when water is boiled, throw in the chicken (this way the water is not cloudy)
- thow a sleeve of ginger and an onion (optional)
- throw in all the seasoning
- clean/wash the rice until the water is clear
- dump the rice into the soup
lower the heat after 10 - 15 minutes to medium heat
- since you're an inspired chef, you know when the chicken is done
- once the chicken is done, remove the chicken from the pot to shread

what goes in the porridge to enhance the taste..

- dice cilantro
- dice green onion (opional)
- clean bean sprout
- and don't forget the chile sauce
- ground pepper


did i believe i was getting the actual recipe for the food i had just tasted? did i f@&%.

before i made my first rice porridge there were some practical issues i needed to resolve per the recipe above...like what the fuck is a walking chicken? but if correct/pure ingredients are the rubric of my cooking philosophy i can’t get squeamish about markets selling chicken-headed chickens. next to the hens, the walking chicken was leaner and more expensive (i can only guess this is attributed to it being more flavorful due to maturity).

nguyen agreed (only after mucho eye rolling) to take me to a vietnamese market. obviously i was far too slow a shopper – every time i looked up from my shopping list she had disappeared around the corner.

once i had the correct ingredients, the cooking method was fairly easy. so i will only add a few cooking tips to the recipe above.

1. nguyen was right, boil the water first.
2. i found it more settling to remove the head and feet from the walking chicken.
3. i only added half the sugar she suggested and i found the broth to be sufficiently sweet.
4. after the chicken is cooked (approx 30 minutes), strain out the ginger and onion before adding the rice.
5. i doubled the rice ingredient and this resulted in a much thicker, porridge-like porridge.
6. remove the bones and skin from the chicken and shred the meat.

7. add the “enhancements” just before serving.

musice pairing: kings of leon, “because of the times”
no wine for this staple dish; i would just drink green tea




(1) loosely speaking, postmodernists would be circling the drain of dante’s eighth circle of hell, often being the root of social discord. inverting dante’s hell, he obviously thought loyalty (and subsequently conformity) to be paramount in virtue; and even more obviously – he didn’t write his divine comedy in a 3’ by 3’ space (enough room to pivot on an non-ergonomic chair from email to phone to boss to knees. etc...) with low, burlap paneled aluminum walls and orwellian network surveillance.

good meatball: the key to seducing your editor

it’s saturday and i decide i’m going to make a run at my editor. now seducing the person who washes your underwear, the person with whom you share a bathroom isn’t as easy as Dylan would have you think, “lay lady, lay / lay with your man a while”. the editor is beginning a fitness "boot camp" on the morrow and for the next six weeks our amour conjugal windows will be a scant half hour after getting the kids in bed at 8:35pm and her falling asleep on the couch at 9:02pm.

if the home fires are to remain burning, they will have to be stoked tonight, so how to lay the groundwork? i don’t have any money to buy flowers (a sure fire first step) nor am i all that accomplished of a romantic poet (Bukowski is of no use in the married home). i suppose i could just soberly point out that i’ll keep nagging her with sad, wanting sighs until she takes pity on me. but i dismiss the thought as less than masculine.

just when i’m running empty strategicallywise(1), a dark, manipulative plan hatches somewhere in the cold recesses of my mind. it so happens that during boot camp most of the food i make (that she loves) will be restricted. also on the restricted list, alcohol. it occurs to me suddenly, this will be my last chance for six weeks to get her drunk.

now my editor seldom over-imbibes, a certain company christmas party or anywhere there’s good tequila(2) notwithstanding. so i will need to create a menu that demands glassfuls of red wine (an approved household beverage for the next 24 hours). this will mean pasta, cheesy bread, and some kind of chocolate.

i decide on making some homemade meatballs. toss them with a simple tomato sauce and some mostacolli (recipe below). as a grand gesture i make the most fattening garlic bread ever to see the nether side of a broiler; conspiring with 4oz of parmesan cheese and an entire stick of butter the bread would be grounds for dishonorable discharge from boot camp. and for the coup de grace...undercooked brownies. the wine will surely flow.

however, as we eat (and i pour) my aim of bedding my editor falls into jeopardy as my true feelings about boot camp begin to stick up uncomfortably in our conversation like flakes of skin behind one's eyelid....

Am PoMo: i never said boot camp was lame. i just think it’s pretty silly that someone would be motivated just because they’re paying someone to yell at them.

Editor: it’s not like that. they’re supportive.
Am PoMo: what i mean is that you’re all adults who can choose to participate or not. so the “boot camp” is just a marketing ploy.
Editor: so what? i think it’s a great idea. why do you have to break everything down?
Am PoMo: i’m not breaking it down; i just want to separate what's happening. all i’m saying is if you don’t write in your food journal or you don’t show up one day what are they going to do?
Editor: they make the whole group do extra push ups. so you don’t want to let the team down.
Am PoMo: what i mean is everyone there is trying to get in shape. it still comes down to an individual choice to do the work or not.
Editor: why would it be important to point that out? why can’t you just support me?
Am PoMo: i do, you know i do. i just like to keep things pure. so you know what the truth is versus what is marketing.
Editor: you think i don’t know the difference?

ugh. inevitably my cursed postmodernist/deconstructionist tendencies have sabotaged my plan and now i’m in the kitchen looking for that bottle of tequila (read to mean Plan "B").

but the dinner was spectacular. and it just might have worked if it wasn’t for those meddling, faux military metanarratives....


music pairing: jackie maclean “nature boy”, the new pornographers "challengers".
brownie mix: betty crocker fudge brownie mix
wine pairing: any good chianti will do, even the $7 bottle in the basket in from your grocery store; columbia crest merlot(3) "grand estates"


meatballs

½ lb lean ground beef
½ lb lean ground pork
3 oz grated parmesan
2 cloves finely minced garlic
2 TB chopped italian parsley
½ cup fresh bread crumbs
2 TB whole milk
1 egg
lots of salt and grand black pepper




quick tomato sauce

1 28oz can of whole, peeled tomatoes
1 14oz can tomato sauce
½ medium white or brown onion
1 tsp crushed, dry oregano
¼ cup mozzarella and ½ tsp finely chopped italian parsley to finish

garlic bread

1 large loaf of italian bread (the squishier the better)
1 stick softened butter
4 oz shredded parmesan cheese
1 TB garlic power (or garlic salt if the butter is unsalted)
1 tsp finely chopped italian parsley
½ tsp paprika

although i grind/grate most of the meatball ingredients in a food processor, i always combine the separate ingredients by hand so the actual meatball is not "over processed". also, take some liberties with the salt and pepper......there's nothing worse than a dry, bland meatball.

1. combine the meatball ingredients by hand; roll 2 - 3 TB of meat between your hands, gently applying pressure to make sure the meatball is solid all the way through.

2. dredge meatballs in flour and chill in the fridge for about a half hour while you prep the garlic bread and pasta.

3. heat 2 TB olive oil in a heavy bottomed dutch oven; brown meatballs in batches until all sides are browned; when frying the last batch begin making the quick tomato sauce...add onions first and let them cook with the meatballs; add all remaining ingredients for quick tomato sauce.

4. simmer meatballs in tomato sauce for about 20 minutes. meanwhile cook mostacolli (per box instructions), strain. dump the past into a pasta server and add some of the tomato sauce so the mostacolli doesn't stick.

5. fire up the broiler. assemble the garlic bread by splitting the stick of butter between the halved loaf; sprinkle bread with garlic salt, parmesan cheese, parsley, and paprika; broil quickly, checking for browned edges every minute or so.

6. keep that broiler going.....arrange the meatballs on top of the sauced pasta and spoon remaining sauce over the top. now sprinkle a few ounces of shredded mozzarella, any remaining parmesan and some parsley over the top; broil quickly just to brown the cheese topping.

after the meatball extravaganza is over make sure you have some merlot left over. the under cooked brownies will benefit from some grape. just as there is an order with salt, tequila, lime i suggest the following....strawberry, brownie, merlot. trust me, it work(ed)s.

(1) kadigan #34.....for some reason my boss finds it perfectly acceptable to add the suffix "-wise" to any word whereby exacerbating it's already obvious meaning.

(2) the editor is a legend in tequila consumption. on a recent girl's boondoggle she emasculated several grown men consuming grande quantities of tres generations.

(3) i don't care what you picked up from the movie "sideways", merlot is good wine. the right bank of bordeaux will comply, canon-la-gaffeliere 1998 surely. on the value tip, washington's columbia crest "grand estates" has been making some of the most affordable and perfectly drinkable merlot for at least a decade. it scores in the 90's with the wine spectator and is almost always on the shelf in your local pedestrian grocery store for $8 or less. it is quite simply the best value you'll ever find in mass production.

demob happy: start w/good soundtrack, quiche and shut up about it

it's a much belated shot in the ass to get some new music from my artistic director, b. yotchslaap salamander. i said i wanted to do a blog on food and i needed a spring soundtrack to get the ball rolling (note: i will be blaming all unfavorable aspects of the blog on my staff for the duration). i returned home from chicago last week to find a few cd’s pushed through the front door mail slot. so i now have KoL, kate nash, hanne hukkleberg (some plaintive german? singer), herb ohta jr (hawai'i's finest ukulele virtuosos), and the new U2 downloaded to my bb curve. was this antecedent soundtrack obtained through the music industry's legal retail avenues? let's not be naive.

i guess the raison d’être for this blog is that i have to write something or i’ll lose my goddamned mind. i am bored to death. i've been driving myself crazy with guilt over my debilitating time serving propensities. realizing last night that i was lulling her into a coma with turgid ranting over trivial office politics(1) my wife/editor insisted i start writing again and shut up about it. so, i've started....blogging. demob happy(2), i hope.

right now i'm calling it the amateur postmodernist food blog. i'm thinking i'll write some bits about food i like to cook. i’m no slouch in the kitchen but i'm terrible at staying on point so...hey! do they have donuts over there? my editor assures me she can keep me topical, but she's on the wrong side of seven loads of laundry and hasn't yet managed to glue the bird on the junie b. doll for the open cereal box book report, so... i think you should just read it and shut up about it.

credentials? i'm passionate about cooking, and i have a solid vein of objective critical theory from my private protestant pentecostal education (K - college)(3). i’m looking for more out my native English language than what i overhear in the office(4). i’ve written about 14.7 poems and two short stories (mostly in my car at lunch and none of them published), and i adore eating. but truthfully i really just have an abundance of time on my hands when i’m not mouth breathing in my cube.

but why postmodernist? because i took one of those illuminating facebook quizzes "What kind of philosopher are you"(5) and apparently i'm a postmodernist, meaning i'm incredulous to metanarratives. i don't know what metanarratives are either (not really sure it's a word) but i like it because it made me sound so super smart and i am often accused of and certainly enjoy being incredulous towards things; a little something my editor refers to as "snarkiness". not sure this is a word either.

the description also pointed out the self-contradictory problems inherent in post modernism. i don’t see this as a problem.....you can't imagine what an albatross down it is to finally be vetted by the sage fb quiz authors, their various grammatical errors notwithstanding, to know once and for all why i find it uncomfortable to follow any established convention.

concerning cooking, i’m specifically interested in the creative process. for my methodology i borrow from the chilean poet huidobro who said a poem should always be a new object “...like nature creates a tree.” i think this can be applied to cooking. well, my cooking at any rate. even when i follow a recipe the result is never the same. there are a myriad of explanations for this.....maybe i didn’t write down the method correctly, or got heavy-handed with an ingredient. maybe i paired the dish with a different starch or a clashing wine. but now i think it’s my postmodernist tendencies overpowering my ability to follow any set of rules....thanks facebook!

what i have found out in over 10 years of serious amateur cooking is that 80% of cooking is shopping. i think method, oven temp, and cooking time all come second to ingredients. don’t get me wrong.....i love eating good food and pleasing people with something i’ve made is a great feeling. but what really gets me going is planning a menu because at this point there are no limitations and what i end up making could be anything. (this is also why i’m frequently banned from doing the weekly grocery shopping....i end up spending our whole budget on impossibly perfect nectarines or a bagful of baby bok choy that only i will eat.) if i had a mission statement for am/po-mo it would be something akin to an Edward Behr quote i read a couple years ago, “...cooking so straight-forward, that assembles outstanding materials separately and perfectly cooked, that demands, through much labor to humbly exalt nature.”(6)

so diving right into my amateur recipe book i will now include one of the first things i ever wrote down. quiche. penned almost 11 years ago i remember foolishly thinking it would be the one and only way i would ever make quiche. no idea where the original recipe came from but the quiche i made for my daughter’s school function this past thursday bore no resemblance to the original from what i can tell. however, it still disappeared faster than it took me to break six eggs; the secret was a high quality gruyere and a homemade pie pastry that uses an entire stick of butter. so below is the recipe i used last week.

music pairing: calexico (feast of wire) or horace silver (song for my father)
wine pairing: pinto gris from oregon, off-dry sparkling wine (blanc de noirs), or a mimosa since it’s breakfast and your kids will think you’re drinking orange juice.

quiche filling

6 eggs
1½ cups evaporated milk
¾ cup heavy cream
1 10oz. package of frozen, chopped spinach (defrosted)
1 cup diced ham
2 tbl finely chopped onions
¼ cup small diced red bell pepper
2 tbl butter
½ cup shredded irish white cheddar cheese
½ cup shredded gruyere (or high quality swiss cheese)
1½ cups shredded parmesan cheese
½ tsp ground nutmeg
½ tsp ground black pepper
½ tsp salt
½ tsp garlic salt

pie pastry

1½ cups flour
1 tsp sugar
½ tsp salt
8 tbl butter
¼ cup vegetable shortening
¼ cup plus 2 tbl ice water
extra flour for rolling the pastry

make the pastry first. this is the hardest and possibly most frustrating part. it took me years to get pastry right. just remember you want to keep the butter in the pastry solid/cold. you will have time to prep the filling while you let the ball of dough rest for 30 minutes.

whisk to combine flour, sugar, and salt.
using a pastry cutter or two butter knives cut flour with a very cold stick of butter until you have pea sized nuggets of butter.
quickly cut in the vegetable shortening.
add ¼ ice water to form a ball, adding additional water if dough won’t stick together.
wrap pastry ball in plastic wrap and chill in the fridge for 30 minutes while prepping the filling.

preheat your oven to 425 degrees. you’ll want to use a towel or something to squeeze all of the water out of your defrosted spinach unless you want your quiche to be green.

thoroughly dry spinach.
lightly sauté ham, onion, and bell pepper in butter for about 3 minutes, and let cool.
whisk eggs with evaporated milk and cream.
add veggies to egg mix along with cheeses and seasonings.

lightly flour your pastry ball and roll it out to a 10’ round, keeping the thickness of the pastry to at least ¼ inch. the easiest way i’ve found to get the pastry to the pie dish is to fold it. fold the pastry round in half and then fold again into a quarter circle. place the point of the quarter folded pastry in the center of the pie dish and unfold. pinch up the edge of the pastry around the pie dish and pour in the filling.

positioning the pie dish in the center of the oven bake the quiche at 425 for 15 minutes then reduce the oven temp to 350 degrees and bake for an additional 25 minutes.


(1) yes, i’m aware that more people than a few people are out of work right now and that i could join them at any time per my “at will” employment status. i usually refrain from talking about my horrible failure of a career, however when i do uncork about my job i usually don’t stop until my wife’s eyelids are struggling to stay open and she’s sorry she asked.

(2) demobilization; broadly applied as a british idiom – a feeling of relief at imminent release from a time-serving burden, such as a career.

(3) at no point was i ever taught evolution or sex education (at least not in the classroom, if you know what i mean) at the schools i attended; math and science were taken less seriously than home economics and ceramics respectively; at least half of my 9th grade biology class was a deep immersion in the tenants of biblical creation. in 7th grade we were taught that there were certain musical notes, specifically in rock and blues songs, that the devil used to speak to young people (see Winkie Pratney, Doorways to Discipleship, Bethany House Publishers, Minneapolis, 1977. ISBN 871231069).

(4) non-words, kadigans, and horribly butchered idioms used in everyday speech at work (but mostly by my boss), e.g. "really nail the head on the coffin" or "make a mountain out of an anthill".

(5) "What School of Philosophy Best Describes You" with the result Postmodern.....“You are incredulous to metanarratives. Truth is relative to all the elements of history and social location. You seek diversity and fragmentation as well as the dissolution of power structures that oppress people. You are probably a feminist and you probably critique social mores through the use of deconstruction. Unfortunately many don't consider you a philosopher: logical self-contradictions abound in postmodern theory, but you certainly have a lot to offer in the way of social critique. You are a postmodern.”

(6) Art of Eating #69, Edward Behr critiquing the food from Normand Laprise’s Quebecois restaurant Toqué!