THE OL' PESTO CHANGE-O.

Pesto and I have a long and semi-complicated relationship.  I first attempted to make pesto during my senior year of college.  I had given up meat for Lent (a harbinger of things to come?) and a friend and I decided to have a meatless dinner.  I offered to make pesto, and, long story short, it turns out that fresh basil and dried basil aren't the same thing and you can't just straight substitute one for the other in a pesto recipe.  I can't remember what happened to dinner that night; I think my lovely friend gamely tried to eat some, whereas I took one bite, almost threw up, and maybe ordered pizza.

Fast forward some odd number of years, after I had moved to DC and inherited the food processor that my mother took when she left her job (or got as a wedding present – the story varies).  Enough time had passed since the dreaded Pesto Tragedy of 2004 that I felt confident in giving it another go.  Long story short (too late), fresh basil is tasty and my love affair with pesto was born.

Even though my love for pesto has waned a bit over the years, we are still on good terms.  In fact, there is almost always pesto in the freezer, as it is my and The Husband's* go-to dinner option when we are feeling lazy and uninspired and can't be arsed to cook but still want to act like grownups and have something more than cereal for dinner.  However, we sometimes resort to pesto pasta more often that we'd maybe like to admit, which leads to feelings of resentment, which leads to me feeling pretty apathetic towards making pesto, AGAIN, even though I bought the basil and we clearly won't use it in anything else.

That's the problem with pesto and I; pesto often becomes an afterthought.  It's what I make when I have leftover basil (and there is ALWAYS leftover basil).  I never seem to make it because I want to; I make it because basil starts to go bad the second you get it home and I'm tired of wasting food, so I begrudgingly whip some up and then throw it in the freezer and forget about it.

However, tonight I actually wanted to make pesto, if only to replace the unpleasantness that was the lemon basil pesto from a month or two ago (lemon basil has its place, but it's not in pesto).  One of the stalls at the farmers' market yesterday had basil and arugula; it was bag-your-own, so if you could cram it into a bag, it was yours for $3.  After much furtive glancing around the market to ensure that no one was watching as I stuffed already overflowing bags with more and more leaves, I sauntered off with a tidy sum of greens and a hankerin' for some pesto.

I ended up with two types: your standard basil and pine nut (extra garlic, natch) and an experimental version of arugula pesto, this time using toasted pepitas, a bit of spinach (to cut the spiciness of the arugula) and basil oil.  I had some of the arugula pesto on whole wheat fettuccine (with chopped tomatoes and Parmesan) for dinner, and I was terribly pleased with myself.  The rest has been dolloped out into an ice cube tray and popped into the freezer; once it hardens, the individual cubes of pesto are transferred to freezer bags, and voila!  We have single-serving portions for the future.  MAGIC.

(I had taken some photos of the pesto to illustrate the fascinating color differential between the basil and arugula versions, but the basil pesto looked thoroughly unappetizing; I tried to adjust the color, but fixing the basil meant that the arugula looked radioactive.  So, instead, I offer you this photo of our cat, Pannekuchen.  He is lounging on our copy of "How to Cook Everything Vegetarian," so this photo is relevant to my post and I'm only partially cheating.)

Let's be honest: he is a cat, and this is the internet.  This will always be relevant.

Next up, a long and rambling story about mouse books and the resulting obsession with scones.

*In Wyomingese: The Husband and I's.

WHEREIN I CHEEZ MY DAIRY (ALSO, SHARDS OF GLASS)

You know how, when you're doing research, you're supposed to use primary sources more than secondary sources, because that way you get to formulate your own conclusions and sound brilliant instead of citing lots of footnotes and having your thesis advisor repeatedly ask you why you're not doing close readings of the poems?*

Well, lately I've been enchanted with the idea of doing the same thing with my food and trying to make various simple things from scratch.  This is mostly for the sheer novelty of it all, but I've also been on this self-sufficient/survivalist bent where I'm trying to prepare myself for the downfall of civilization and build up a skill set so I can barter my way into one of the better post-apocalyptic societies.  Of course, there are flaws in this plan, since I can't keep cows in downtown PHX and there's a world of difference between a butter churn and a Kitchenaid mixer; as such, my plans rely heavily on (A) my local dairy also surviving the apocalypse and (B) there being a reliable source of electricity in our dystopian futureworld.

But I digress.

So far, my excursions into the wonderful world of dairy-making include butter (pour cream into mixer, turn on, forget about until it starts sloshing) and ice cream (pour batter into mixer attachment, turn on, forget about until it starts clicking).  Both have been successful, but since our dairy CSA gives us copious amounts of butter and ice cream every week, I needed a new challenge.

Enter creme fraiche.

For the uninitiated, creme fraiche is a lot like sour cream, only a bit thicker and with a more restrained tang.  It can be used just like sour cream, and is also found in pasta sauces and in some baked goods.  More importantly, it is right expensive, so it's not something I can just toss into my basket while I'm roaming around the local Fresh and Easy trying to figure out what the cut-off number is between "acceptable" and "besotted lush" in regards to buying cheap wine.

ANYWAYS, I picked up a pint of cream and a pint of buttermilk and decided to try to make some magic.  Essentially, all creme fraiche is is cream plus buttermilk, left to sit at room temperature until the bacteria get feisty and it thickens up.  I am normally of the opinion that dairy left out over night = horrible stomach ache, but I had eaten some sourdough starter (not recommended) and didn't die, so I figured I'd give it a shot.  I mixed one cup cream with half a tablespoon of buttermilk, gave it a stir, and set it on the counter.  In theory, I would wake up to creme fraiche, which would then lead to figgy chocolate scones, which would lead to joy.

In actuality, I woke up to cream that had resisted all efforts to change, save for the addition of a slightly sour smell.  "Perhaps it hasn't sat long enough," I thought.  "Maybe it wasn't warm enough to kickstart the bacteria."  (This is FALSE, given how it is summer in the desert and it is never not warm enough for anything, except maybe for nuclear fusion.)  So I left it out all day.

When night fell, I gave the bowl a stir, and I discovered that while a thick skin had formed on the top, the rest was still just plain cream that smelled a little funny.  I had cheezed the creme fraiche.

this lolcat will never stop being funny

So, there were no scones in guhlersville, for mighty Heather had struck out; or, more accurately, she hadn't paid close enough attention to the recipe to realize she needed cultured buttermilk, not just the leftovers from making butter.  Fortunately, I also have recipes for scones made with cream and buttermilk, of which we are in great supply.  Tomorrow I will drown my sorrows for my lost creme fraiche in sweet sconey goodness, and will start on plans to make cheese (which I will hopefully not cheez).

ALSO!  I started my glass fusion class tonight.  Here is what I have learned so far:

1.  Glasswork is an expensive hobby.
2.  Over the next 10 weeks, I will cut myself.  Probably frequently.
3.  Apart from me, no one under the age of 50 takes art classes.
4.  The softening point for glass is 1100º F.

Next week we will actually start playing with glass, so I'll let you know how that goes (assuming I don't slice off a finger/limb in the process).


*FYI, the appropriate response is "Because I don't actually like poetry, and I especially don't like overanalyzing word choice in poetry, and besides Robert Burns is pretty straightforward about how much he loves the ladies and Scotland and more ladies and the simplicity of farm life and OH DID I MENTION THE LADIES and the point of my thesis is to examine the various ways his entire body of work can and has been co-opted, so if I were to focus on every line of every poem, I would never graduate."

THE PROBLEM WITH BLOGGING: I SOMETIMES FORGET TO BLOG (PLUS A RATHER LONG STORY IN WHICH I ANTHROPOMORPHIZE CORN)

Here's the interesting thing about blogging: you need to remember to actually write things, otherwise you're less a blogger and more a lazy person who happens to have a blog.  And laziness will not net me a book deal, nor will it bring me fame and wealth and UNSPEAKABLE POWER.  So, I need to get kraken.  I mean, cracking.

cracker?

All right, so I don't have any recipes per se, because I am not-so-good with remembering those sorts of details when I'm in the midst of cooking.   I also don't have any photos, because (a) I am too impatient to dig out my camera and waste precious moments between the food being ready and the food being in my stomach, and (b) my camera (or our lighting) gives everything a yellowish tint, and I don't want you thinking that all of our food is afflicted with jaundice.  (Given these qualifications, I am clearly well on my way to food blogging success.)

BUT, I do have a story.  A story of meat, and corn, and one woman's attempt to learn from the mistakes of others and make a damn fine meal for herself.

The Husband had decided to skitter off and feign interest in professional sports, so I was left to my own devices for dinner.  Since I would be dining alone (so, so alone), it seemed like as good a time as any to tackle the pork ribs that had been sitting in the freezer.  (NOTE: Yes, I am usually a vegetarian.  It was one of the three or four times a year when my bloodlust rises up and can only be satiated by hunks of sweet, tender flesh.  Stop judging me.)  I had also just received a shipment of mole powder, so the choice was obvious: braised pork mole.  In addition to the spices and chiles, I decided to add some Roman beans (because we have too many beans - seriously, I HAVE PROBLEMS) and – this is where it gets interesting – some posole.

My friend Soups has written about her adventures with posole, so I thought I knew what I was getting myself into.  I bought pre-treated corn (it said CORN FOR POSOLE right on the bag), I soaked it overnight, and I planned on an extended cooking time.  After making up a sauce with garlic, onions, roasted chiles, Mano y Metate's Pipian Rojo mole powder, tomatoes, tomatillos, and vegetable broth, I quickly seared the ribs, threw everything (pre-soaked beans and posole included) into a pot, and boshed it into the oven at 300 degrees.  After four hours, I removed the pork to a cutting board to cool, then moved the entire operation to the stove, where it simmered for an hour.  I de-boned and cut the pork (more like pulled apart the pork, since it was so tender and fall-off-the-bone and buttery and it all sort of made me question this whole vegetarian thing).  I popped the pork chunks back into the mix, salted and peppered, and let the whole shebang cook for another hour.

Now, at this point, it was 7pm.   I was starving.  I took a taste.

The pork was still fantastic.
The beans retained a bit of their meaty texture, but still melted in your mouth.
The mole sauce had just the right amount of bite and sweetness, with some smokiness from the roasted chiles.
The posole...?

The posole was crunchy.

SIX HOURS.  That's how long it had been cooking.  Six hours of roasting and simmering and filling the apartment with delicious aromas, and still the posole taunted me.

Now, under normal circumstances I would have left the posole to simmer all night if I had to, all the while muttering dire threats and suggesting that, if the food didn't cooperate, I could not be held responsible for what might happen.  But I had bar trivia obligations in two hours, still hadn't showered, and needed to eat something, as English pubs are not known for their vegetarian-friendly fare. 

So, I gave in.  I ate the crunchy posole.

Overall, it wasn't terrible.  Apart from the chewy bits, the whole thing was quite tasty; I originally ate it over rice, but it was even better the next day with a hunk of crusty sourdough bread.

The score so far: posole 1, Heather 0.  But I still have a lot of posole left, as well as three other mole powders and a hill of beans.  And a pressure cooker. 

There will come a time when our paths will cross, posole, and I assure you: I do not intend on being defeated again.

DEAR GOD, I'VE DONE IT.

After much hemming and hawing and sitting on this URL for months, I've finally decided to start typing things here.  I have grand designs that this little blaggity blog will become a repository of great things, mostly of the "incredibly witty observation" or "trenchant insight" variety; however, I am also easily distracted by shiny objects (seriously, I'm like a magpie here...ooh, magpies have pretty iridescent feathers...wait, what?), so we shall see how long this little social experiment lasts.  Hopefully this will be a place where I'll talk about tasty foods, thrilling crafts, things I find interesting, and other navel-gazing observations from the scorching desert.

If nothing else, I'll try to at least post photos of our adorable cat - lord knows the interwebs are lacking in cute cat pictures.