2016-02-05 13.49.49

Yankee Bolognese Sauce

american style, bolognese, pasta sauce, smokey pics, Things of Italy, waiting

This is my American-clothed version of a classic Italian pasta sauce from the city of Bologna, necessary for lasagne.

Yes, it takes probably around 6 hours from beginning to end. Yes, now don’t be dramatic, read on, it’s not much work, just a great deal of simmering, for a quiet day at home.

I make the amount below because it’s convenient, given US supermarket sizes, then I freeze ~6-8 single portions.

You will need:

2016-02-05 13.49.491 lb. ground Bison
1 lb. ground Turkey
~3 thick slices of Bacon, better if smoked
carrots
celery
onions
beer
milk
tomato paste
hot water or broth/stock (veggie or meat, no fish)
butter
oil
black pepper
salt

You must have picked up I never quite care about exact amounts…

Chapter one: “What it looks like when you throw chopped veggies into warm butter and oil”

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What does Butter find in a simple veggie mix like me? Somehow it can bring out the best of me, in 15 minutes, and… Whoaahh, easy! Stay classy, Big Lump of Ground up Meat. (Yep, bacon included.)

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This is awkward… I can’t tell what’s meat and what’s veggie any more… Time to drink up some beer!
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… and when the beer was all gone, burnt out by fiery passion, lady Tomato came around, and round and round she went…
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Now, reader, if you’ve come this far, it’s time for time. Add a couple ladles warm broth/stock/water. (You need to have a little pot of that sitting by.) Let it gently simmer away a few hours (3-4?), adding warm broth as needed. By all means stir every now and then, if it sticks and burns, it’s a tosser. Add the pepper here. The salt? Keep it for last. When you feel it’s about done, add the milk and let dry up.
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And that’s what it looks like when they make Yankee Bolognese. You’re welcome.

Ancient Apple

book of genesis, not about risotto, sweet and sour

photo 1

Bananasitter was confounded. Someone else dared add apple where it does not belong. And that’s when he knew. She was back and she was here to enrage the gods.

While in the background, all the shredded and diced truth was coming out of those little potato bastards, cinnamon was singing its old song. Our blind old friend pickle mistook hash browns for sauerkraut. Let’s leave him to his illusion.

This photo is from 1898, the year our friend was first joined in sacred unity with some dill and pepper. Also, the year when Brooklyn merged with NY to become present city of NY.

photo 2

Ramén Amén à Paris – Choux Patates!

guest post, Pardon our French, smokey pics, Terrine Super

cp3

Bananasitter has friends he does not deserve or desert. (Quincey Dance has dessert.) This week we visit an old friend: Terrine Super. She lives in the “ville lumière”, she knows all about Mars’s rocks and she is never not up to deeds (such as kidnapping French cook Jules). Here her testimony in the language of the country.

cp5 cp7cp8 cp10 cp11 cp9  cp2 cp4

De larges rondelles de patates et du gros sel dans un océan d’huile d’olive méditerranéenne bouillante.
Gare aux geysers!
Aller-retour en passant par Bruxelles, c’est choux tout plein!
“Les carottes rendent aimable”
Sirloin (ou Mamprès) chez le traditionnel Boucher Français
-qui devrait manger plus de carottes-

Une larme d’oignons pour sécher les tomates

Et pour accompagner ce plat,
du pain et,
non,
pas du vin,
du jus d’abricot.

AAA. All my weight. Actual breadcrumbs. Anolén.

Christmas day, Grandma's recipes, hard dough, rituals, takes sweat and tears, WARNING, What Bananasitter eats for

2014-12-25 12.38.252 lb flour + 11 eggs. 4 cups grated aged parmigiano cheese + 2 cups actual breadcrumbs scorched dry with milk + 2 eggs + nutmeg. Serves everybody within miles.

That makes the dough, that makes the filling. They both need to rest.

Actual breadcrumbs, my friends. Get yourselves actual bread, slice it up, put it in the oven at ~190 Fahrenheit (spelled this way) for about… for ever, until it’s perfectly dry but not browned in the least. Then grate it or blend it to fine fine crumbs. No seasoning, ’tis the season already.

You’ll then have to get a pan, throw the crumbs in, heat them up just a bit, then add milk sip by sip, until you own a big solid wet lump of breadcrumbs, which you’ll use once cooled.

I can hear Quincey Dance’s voice telling me: “Bananasitter, are you really cooking that poor bread flour for the third time?” “As a matter of fact, [smile] It’s gonna be four times once I cook the anolén in the broth”

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Then it’s time for labor. Thin strips of dough. The filling in between. All your weight. Back to picture one…

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The broth needs to have hen and suitable beef cuts. Pork is optional. Now run find a hen in the States.
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A flood of brown pitch over Vienna

decadence, gory, Vienna

cake

“Watering my horses at St. Peter’s altar in Rome.” That’s all a Padishah, Caliph, Khan, other titles, and finally Sultan of the Ottoman Empire thinks about. “Let’s begin with Vienna”, the Grand Vizier thought, Mustafa the Black.

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Mustafa did not have his things in order and certainly could not beat egg whites with half the sugar. He did not have the patience to make softened butter and the other half sugar into a cream. He could not melt chocolate right, smooth and warm, would not put it with the yolks into the butter cream.

He was never going to fold this into the egg white2014-11-01 22.16.57s with a mindful bottom-up gesture, followed by the flour, feeling compassion for all the tiny air bubbles who did not want to go. He was not keen on slicing the baked cake across into three (!) disks. Mustafa ate raw apricots, did not sift their jelly, did not dilute it with some lemon juice, did not spread this all over the cake and between the disks. Mustafa the black was a brutal, impatient man.

But on September 11th 1683, chocolate, cream and honey were simmering to his chagrin.

2014-11-02 01.04.27The winged hussars of the king of Poland came down the Kahlenberg heights like “a flood of pitch that consumed everything it touched”.
And there was no army of Islam any more around Vienna.
Only a silken lace for Mustafa’s throat.

 

 

It’s That Time of Year Again. (Guest Writer From Portland!)

Meganza

That time when my wretched empty soul feels the slightest pangs of meaning. For 11 months, my heart beats just because it has to, just because it doesn’t know any other way. In October, it beats for haunted houses and costumes and dancing skeletons. And, most of all, it beats for pumpkins. All year, I work to cultivate a lifestyle and social circle that will support my obsession. A couple months ago I secured an apartment that is walking distance from the Trader Joe’s on Glisan and 21st. Success.

photo 1

On Saturday, I walked to TJ’s. I bought pumpkin bread mix. I bought pumpkin soup base. I added chocolate chips to the former and hefty amounts of vegetables, rosemary, and a freshly ground black pepper to the latter.

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In between those two recipes, I was a spectator at the World Beard and Moustache Championship. After those two recipes, approximately 25 people jammed their way into my 1 BR and carved pumpkins with reckless abandon. It grew unbearably hot and, just when we thought we couldn’t stand it anymore, we lit a very many tiny fires ablaze inside the jack-o-lanterns, raising the temperature but also making us immune to any worldly discomforts. Add a warm bowl of soup and a hot little muffin, watch the pumpkins glitter and glow, and the rest of the world seems to melt away.

photo 3

Recommended: whipped cream atop the muffins and crunchy croutons atop the soup. an unwavering passion for things unusual. friends with similar interests. friends with dissimilar interests that will support your special day regardless. friends with blogs who ask you to write a guest post.

The Dangers of Saying Why Not

Uncategorized

On some days you miss America.  On other days you miss the Filling Station at Chelsea Market and their infused olive oils and vinegars.

 

infuse

The jar makes it look like it’s something being pickled. It’s not; Portland will be featured in one of the future episodes of the cities we miss. The books in the background are all on pickling.

Orange skin (not the one from my thighs), Iranian barberries, and a piece of beet for the color. Some really slutty olive oil.

Rosemary, mint, basil. Is this going to be disgusting or what.