Food Alchemy, Part II

I was going to call this Food Alchemy, Part I, but then I realized that this is a common theme in my writing. If you want to read what is, essentially, Food Alchemy, Part I, see Croquettes and the Kitchen Sink.

I like to cook. In fact, I have a not-entirely-healthy fascination with cooking—it’s a comfort, a screen between me and the real world, and a major distraction. Dare I say it’s an addiction?

    There are three key things about me and cooking. One, I am not a minimalist. I believe that more is more. If I might serve something with two sides, why not four? If the dessert could have sauce or frosting, why not both? Two, I find it difficult to follow directions. I read the title of a recipe and get giddy with anticipation and inspiration. I have to take a deep breath and force myself to read all of the ingredients and steps decreed by the recipe’s author, and even then I most likely will bushwhack rather than follow the trail marks.

     And three, I am a re-purposer of food. If something wasn’t well liked, or wasn’t finished in one form, I will always try to save it by turning it into something else. Just last week I took the Asian cole slaw (fennel, carrots, cabbage, cilantro, ginger, rice wine vinegar, peanut oil, soy sauce) that was languishing in the refrigerator and transformed it into a stir fry. Sometime a food goes through a series of transmogrifications before I declare victory (every last drop finished) or defeat (down the garbage chute). Which is how we happened to have Super Nachos during the football game last night.

Pork for the Pig

My husband, Mark, is an unapologetic carnivore. I am an apologetic carnivore. I don’t eat meat. That much. I like the flavor, I admit. But I don’t like the concept. At least, I don’t really think I should eat meat. But I do. Sometimes. You see, I’m quite wishy washy, and can stand in the butcher aisle at the supermarket prevaricating about buying flesh for so long that I have to leave so that the manager won’t think I’m a homeless person loitering there.

    But Mark likes most meat, and this fall a type of pork roast that we hadn’t seen before found its way into our favorite store, Adams. It’s a roast called a porchetta, and we liked it because it was flavorful and tender, and not monotonous in texture. It wasn’t difficult to roast it to a crispy tender brown and pink perfection, with the aid of our trusty but ancient meat thermometer.

    Alas, on Thursday night, when the latest porchetta was about to be roasted, the meat thermometer was suddenly nowhere to be found. Both Mark and I know where this implement should live, and each responsibly places it there when it is his or her turn to empty the dishwasher, but it was just gone. Not in its home drawer, nor anywhere else. (As is always the way with such things, it magically reappeared, one drawer over, several days later, but only after I’d replaced it with a digital model endorsed by the ubiquitous Martha Stewart.) Without a meat thermometer to guide us, we miscalculated, and cooked the beastlet until it was nearly white, a disappointingly tough and monochromatic eating experience.

When Life Gives You a Lemon (Or an Orange)

We ate a bit of it, and I sliced it very thin for Mark’s sandwich on Friday, and dressed it with peppadew, home-pickled carrots, butter lettuce, and General Tsao Stir Fry Sauce from Trader Joe’s. But there was still lots of the none-too-flavorful meal left. On Saturday, when I was sitting at my desk, re-re-re-re-writing my resume, I started to think about what I was going to make for dinner, and, the next thing I knew I was in the kitchen, checking my supplies. I was in a musing sort of a trance as I perused the contents of the cabinet over the sink, when the bottle of Dinosaur Barbecue Sauce caught my attention.

I wonder what I could do with that? I wondered.

    Visions of fire pits and smokers, totally impractical in a five-by-ten kitchen on the fifth floor. Wait. Couldn’t I cut up the remaining porchetta, toss it in a baking dish with barbecue sauce, vinegar, orange juice, and a little hot sauce, cook it real slow in a 325 degree oven, until it gets so tender I can shred it with a fork, and call it pulled pork?

    So I did. And Mark ate it for a late supper over the last two slices of that Tuscan Bread (Trader Joe’s, two weeks ago. Don’t worry, we froze it.)

Then on Sunday, after we returned from the New York Botanical Gardens, where we’d attended the last Edible Garden event of the season (gourmet food vendors, outdoor cooking demonstrations by TV star chefs), Mark sat down to watch The Game. I guess it’s football season, then. Or it could be pre-season, or something, I don’t keep up with this stuff. But it occurred to me as I stood in the back of the living room, reading the unimportant parts of the Sunday Times and vaguely watching the incomprehensible scrimmages, that Super Nachos are something that people eat while watching football games. And that got me really excited, because I believed I was in possession of all the ingredients necessary to make something Nacho like.

Out of the Ashes Super Nachos

• I half eaten bag of blue corn tortilla chips
• 1 small container of leftover pulled pork
• 2 scallions (farmers’ market)
• 1 15 ounce can black beans
• 1 tsp chili powder
• 1 tsp garlic powder
• 1 Tblsp peanut oil
• 4 ounces of havarti with jalapenos (I know, sounds weird, on sale at East Village Cheese)
• 1 small container of homemade salsa, with tomatoes, cilantro, pepitas, garlic, and lime juice

1. Get the aluminum tray out of the toaster oven and make sure it’s relatively clean. Line with silver foil.
2. Rinse and chop the scallions.
3. Pour oil into a small frying pan. Add the can of beans, partially drained, and the garlic and chili powders. Smoosh it up with a fork as you heat it over the burner. Make a semi-mash of it, but stir it around as it heats so that it doesn’t stick to the bottom of the pan too much.
4. Shred the cheese with a box grater.
5. Make sure that the pork is pliable enough to spread. If it’s coagulated, add a bit of orange juice and heat in the microwave for 20 or 30 seconds.
6. Put a layer of chips down on the silver foil.
7. Cover with a few spoons of black beans, some scallions, a bit of the pork, some salsa, and a handful of cheese. Heap some more chips on top.
8. Repeat this, ending up with three or four layers, or however many your ingredients hold up for. Make sure you top with cheese and salsa.
9. Put this in the toaster oven, with the oven set for 375 degrees. Cook for ten to fifteen minutes, until the cheese is nice and melty and starting to crust on the edges.

Remove tray from the toaster oven, using pot holders. Carefully transfer the silver foil under-layer to a plate, without disturbing the Super Nachos.

Enough to feed two to three football watchers, with beer and many napkins.

    
This may have been the best rendition of the porchetta.