Celebrating with Nathan Miller, the Chocolate Love of My Life

This past weekend was a weekend of celebration.

I celebrated another year on this beautiful planet of ours with THE love of my life and the people who allowed me to enter into it (I say "allowed" because I've been a difficult one from the start; abortion was an option for my parents multiple times, and they said "No, thank you," for which I am forever grateful).

I also celebrated being given the opportunity to do the very first book reading and signing of my first book, Marley Eats His Vegetables (or you can purchase a physical copy on Blurb.com). The event was planned by my old hometown library, Coyle Free Library, as part of their grand re-opening after a gorgeous remodel.

What an incredible day! The townspeople came out in droves (more proof that the idea of libraries going by way of the dodo is a bunch of hooey), and I got to read my book to a bunch of the cutest little kids I've seen in a long time. I met amazing local authors—Ron Keener, Jennie Brown, Sherri Maret and Esther Jones—and even more amazing townsfolk: Selma Thomson who had just turned 100 and was such a pleasure to talk to. Old friends I haven't seen in decades. A mom who encouraged me in a way I don't think she realized how much it meant: thanking me for writing a book that her daughter who struggled with learning to read loved and could read, and I got to talk to the little girl about the truth that it didn't matter how long it took her to learn; what mattered was that she was being persistent.

It truly was such a special day, and so to celebrate and keep it local, my family and I decided to go to Roy Pitz Brewing Company, an establishment I would highly recommend to both locals and those of you who pass through Chambersburg, PA, for whatever reason. It's always got great food and outstanding brew, and the waitstaff are always super friendly, too.



As we were finishing our giant mugs of beer, my mother reminded me to save room for dessert, not for leftover birthday cake but for Nathan Miller's to-die-for chocolate, sold in the same warehouse down the hallway from Roy's.

Nathan makes—and I am not exaggerating in any way—the best chocolate I have ever had. Crafted in tiny batches with beans that he sources from all over the planet, Nathan can literally take you around the world through chocolate, right from his tiny shop in good, ol' Chambersburg, PA.

This weekend we tried chocolate from Guatemala, a deep, dark, grassy chocolate. It was absolutely delicious (pairing nicely with his rich, nutty-and-caramel-y coffee), but it was the bite of his Buttermilk chocolate bar that sent me over the edge. So smooth, so rich and ever-so-slightly salty. It was what I always imagined Willy Wonka's bar to taste like—only a hundred times better.

Averaging about $8.00 a bar, NM chocolate bars make an excellent little gift, the kind where you don't want to spend a lot but still want to show a sincere token of your appreciation. Believe me, anyone who receives a gift of an NM chocolate bar will take one bite and know that your "little" token—and your "thank you"—are HUGE.

I know that my appreciation was huge. To end my incredible day with Nathan, the chocolate love of my life, and bites of his incredible chocolate?

Oh, sigh. There just could not have been anything better. 

A Foodie Honeymoon: Friday Appetizers at Lüke

The smell of polyeurethane wafted past us as we walked through the entrance of Lüke.  What a gorgeous place.  Tin ceilings, parquet floors, heavily varnished wood, vintage lighting...  A beautiful bar lined the far right wall, and we made our beeline.

Another couple was sitting at the bar being helped by the bartender, who told us he'd be with us in a minute.  We read through the beers on tap while we waited, and I couldn't help but eavesdrop when I heard the words "elderflower liqueur" escape the bartender's lips as he described a cocktail that the couple was thinking of ordering. But my distraction by the beers with Lüke's name on them overpowered my ears.  I would never make a good spy...at least not if it involved restaurants, beer, wine, cocktails, or liquors of any sort.  And as we all know from Mr. Bond, spying inevitably involves such things.  Good thing I didn't pursue that childhood dream with any earnest.

Minutes later, true to his word, Steve (as the bartender introduced himself) was pouring us Lüke's homebrew and talking oysters.  Lüke was, as I knew from my Besh menu research, a restaurant designed after the old brasseries of New Orleans' in times past.  Oysters was just a natural on the menu.  And, boy, did you see oysters when you walked up to the bar! Mounds of them, piled behind the glass, waiting to be sliced open and plattered by the cooks, a tasty accoutrement to the amber with the gorgeous head that Chef Reiton was sipping from his pint glass.

"I've never actually had a raw oyster," he confessed to Steve.

I think Steve almost dropped his bar towel.

I also think that Steve's second career will be in food education because, quite eloquently, he began to relay the types of oysters that Lüke served, their technical names and the names that I remember: freshwater oysters from the waters of the lake of Louisiana--Lake Pontchartrain, and the saltwater oysters, with their briny flavor of the sea off the southern coast.

"Do you want to try them?" he offered.  "You can compare the two."

I didn't respond.  I was hoping that I would be that kid in the back of the class who, if I didn't draw attention to myself, would become invisible.  I'd had raw oysters before (for you faithful readers, you may remember my reference to eating them in Illinois at a friend's house--not to be a good experience just from the state alone...), and it wasn't an experience I wanted to repeat--foodie or not.

But that is where my new darling husband was different.  "Okay," he said.  And my heart swelled with pride.  So brave.

Steve brought the first oyster, a freshwater specimen.  "Do I chew it?" Chef Reiton asked.

"It's up to you," Steve explained.  "Some people just swallow them off the shell.  I like to chew them so I can taste them."  I wanted to gag.  I watched the love of my life with complete awe as he loosened the oyster from the shell with his little fork, then lifting the shell to his lips, tilted it like a soup spoon and poured its contents into his mouth, chewing slowly and reflectively before swallowing.

I found myself holding my breathe--for what, I am not sure.  For him to throw up? For me to throw up?

"Wow. That wasn't bad.  Not at all what I expected it to taste like."

And that's where the foodie in me got a little jealous, damn it.  I was missing out on an experience! I didn't know what a freshwater oyster tasted like, and now I kind-of wanted to...

Next came the saltwater oyster.  "These are my favorite," Steve said, placing the plate in front of my husband.  "I like the briny water you get with the oyster.  It tastes like the ocean."

Chef Reiton picked up the next oyster.  I couldn't help but observe just how raw the shell and oyster looked in his hand.  He sipped the contents from its shell--and I saw a flicker of "eww" cross his face.  He politely chewed and swallowed and wiped his mouth.  "Interesting," he said, and there was a pause.  "I think I like the freshwater better."

"Everyone has their own personal taste when it comes to oysters," Steve said.  "It's just one of those things."

We sipped our beers and intermittently talked with Steve as he waited on the other couple.  I was relaxed but excited but sad.  Our honeymoon for foodies was almost to a close.  We had just one more Besh restaurant left.  If I could help it, I would drag it out as long as I possibly could.

I looked down at my coaster on the bar.  "Can I have this?" I asked Steve.  It would be a memoir of what almost wasn't.

Steve smiled and tossed me another one.  "Here, take two.  And email us when your blog is ready."

With a nod, a thank you, and a smile we were out the door, wending our way one final time through the sultry streets of New Orleans to our final destination: August.

A Foodie Honeymoon: Tuesday Lunch at Borgne

Okay, I will be frank: of all the Besh restaurants that we were going to be visiting, Borgne (pronounced "born") was the one I was nervous about.  I eat some seafood, but I am certainly not one of those people who are, like, "Hey! Let's go out for SEAFOOD!" Eww.  No.  If I happen to order seafood at a restaurant--great.  But there are very, very rare moments when I will actually look to do so.

Why?

Because most seafood just sucks.  It smells.  It's slimy.  It tastes like I'm sucking out of a tide pool.  With seafood, I always have a difficult time not imagining (vividly) what I am eating, and that strikes a squeamy type of fear into my gut.  Kind-of like with eating an animal's organs.  No, okay, that's way worse.  But anyway.  It's just not how I want to treat my taste buds, spend my money, or impact my psyche.

I kept telling myself as we walked to Borgne that this, of all places, was the place for me to eat something that I was afraid of.  If I didn't try something here, I'd be selling myself short.  I determined to do so and took a big breath as we entered into the restaurant.

The decor was quite cool, modern without a hint of boat or dock paraphernalia, and the atmosphere was pretty casual.  Huge chalkboards displayed whimsical artwork of Lake Borgne and jazz players.   The building columns were wrapped with wire mesh and filled with oyster shells.

Here was a seafood restaurant that made eating seafood seem like it was the coolest and most natural thing in the world to do, and if I didn't do it, I was seriously missing out.

But I was still nervous.  And then up walked Billie.

Billie was one of those waitresses that as soon as you met her, you were relieved.  She knew everything.  She knew the beers.  She knew the food.  She knew what was in the food and where it came from and what it tasted like.  When she discovered that she was waiting on two foodies on their honeymoon, she really started to warm up.

To start, Chef Reiton ordered the local Abita IPA, and I went for Abita's farmhouse ale.  I was so excited to hear that they had one! And when it came to the table, I got even more excited.

At this point I went to check out the bathroom (beautiful), and when I returned, Chef Reiton was discussing an appetizer with Billie: broiled Louisiana oysters on the half shell with spicy garlic butter, bread crumbs, and a bit of Parmesan.  I gulped.  My only oyster experience had been 1) at a friend's home in ILLINOIS, 2) raw, and 3) disgusting.  But again--here we were in seafood country at a restaurant that is renowned for its cooking of seafood...AND these oysters were cooked.  Hmmm. We looked at each other and said, "Let's do it."  

We decided to wait to order the entrees until we knew if we liked the oysters, so in the meantime, Billie brought us a bottle of water, a paper bag of warm fennel bread, and a dish of softened butter.

We munched and drank and talked and took pictures.  And then Billie appeared again--this time with a bowl of gazpacho.  "I want you to try this," she said, and placed a brilliantly hued soup in front of me.

I had never had a cold soup before, and this one was created with yellow tomatoes.  I believe there may have been a bit of yellow pepper in it as well; but what I loved the most was the flavor added by the watermelon chunks at the bottom of the bowl.  What a deliciously light way to get the stomach ready for what was to come:

(My picture isn't very good and in no way does the flavor of this dish any justice.)

I have to admit, my first bite was timid, but within the five seconds of my first few chews, my fear was gone.  Roasting had taken the slime that I was afraid of and eliminated it.  What was left was a delicate softness that slowly melted into nothingness as I chewed.  Being Gulf freshwater oysters, there was not a hint of brine, thank God.  The butter and pepper added some depth, and the breadcrumbs added some body.  I found myself actually enjoying them.

I glanced at Chef Reiton.  He looked to be enjoying them, too.  "I can't believe I'm eating oysters," I said.  "These don't taste anything like what I had before."  

He nodded.  "They are good."  As we were each going for the last one, we suddenly remembered: we hadn't taken a picture! Imagine missing out on our experience!

When Billie returned to clear our shells, we exclaimed at how surprised we were at the flavor, the texture, the complete absence of our preconceived notions of what these oysters would be. She smiled and nodded.  "So what do you think you'll have for your main course?"

Chef Reiton decided to go for an Abita Andygator Helles Dopplebock and another oyster dish with the oyster spaghetti.  Billie told us that it was Besh's favorite dish on the menu.  I was sold on the Tuesday lunch special: cochon de leche (pork braised in milk), served over garlic mashed potatoes and roasted veggies; Billie was very excited about that choice.

Because we love to cook, which is truly a scientific art form, Chef Reiton and I analyze everything that we are served.  We try to pick out the combination of flavors used in what we are eating and strive to educate ourselves when we aren't sure what something is.  

The oyster spaghetti was spaghetti tossed with steamed oysters in your typical butter/oyster juice/wine sauce, but here, cream was added, coating the pasta and oysters and settling into a delicious little pool in the bottom of the bowl.  Scattered on top were shavings of parmesan, purple basil, and--little green things???

We weren't sure what they were.  They had a very bright, green taste, almost like a bean, but yet they looked a bit like seaweed.  Upon consulting with Billie we learned we were half correct on both analyses.  What we were eating were sea beans, an aquatic plant of the succulent family that grows in salt marshes and on beaches (see Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salicornia).  They were delicious and added a brightness to what could have been a heavy dish.

My dish was so not a summer dish, but I could not believe how happy I was as I ate it.  Piled on top of a bed of roasted eggplant, mushrooms, carrots, and white cubes that I didn't know were the smoothest garlic mashed potatoes I had ever eaten, lightly interlaced with herbs and olive oil.  Spooned over the potatoes was pork that had braised in milk until it completely fell apart, the juices and milk marrying into a gravy that surrounded tender shreds of meat, mild in flavor and almost sweet.  Chives and baby beet greens were scattered on top.  

Our forks kept intersecting as we reached for tastes of the other's dish.  "I can't place the flavors of my pork," I mumbled between mouthfuls.  "I feel like it's maybe nutmeg? Or pumpkin pie spice? Something that's in baked goods, and it's reminiscent of something sweet." Chef Reiton agreed, but we just couldn't put our finger on it.

Billie once again came to our aid.  Her eyes brightened when she heard the word "nutmeg" come out of my mouth; you could tell she was enjoying having someone who was appreciating the food for what it was.  "There is nutmeg in there," she said. "And the other spice is clove."

"Clove!" Chef Reiton and I both exclaimed together as I banged on the table.  "I couldn't get it!" I told Billie.  "I knew something in baking, but I could not place it.  Everything is just so perfectly balanced and hinted at.  It all compliments each other so well!"  Ohhh, the art of proportions--that's something that I need work on.  I'm slowly learning that I need to back off on things.  Just because I like it doesn't mean to put a shitload of it in my food.

"And what are these?" I asked, poking a white rectangular cube.  "Is that turnip?"

"It's fennel," Billie answered. 

"Fennel!" I like to repeat things when I am surprised.  I'd never had roasted fennel because I couldn't imagine it, but roasting completely changes the flavor; it loses that licorice-y taste.  So yummy.  I am now going to roast myself some fennel for Thanksgiving.

When we could eat no more, Billie came to clear our plates.  "Dessert?" she asked, and we groaned.  "How about coffee," she suggested, and so we conceded.  I don't think either of us wanted to leave just yet.  

A few minutes later a delightful little coffee set-up was placed on the table.  As we prepared our coffees and continued to talk about our meal, Billie reappeared and placed two tiny glasses on the table.  "It's honeyed rum," she said.  "It's absolutely delicious."

Chef Reiton looked at it and turned green.  "I don't know if I can drink that," he said.  (One very bad rum experience long, long ago...)

"It's really mild and mellow," Billie said.  "It doesn't taste anything like what you'd expect."

I eagerly grabbed my glass.  I'll drink anything, but you all already knew that.  A tilt of the tiny glass sent a thrill down my throat.  "Dear God, that is so delicious," I said, wide-eyed.  Chef Reiton looked at me dubiously.

"Just try it," I said.  "It really doesn't taste like rum.  It doesn't even taste like alcohol.  It's amazing!"

I don't think I've ever seen anyone take a tinier sip, but within two minutes, it was gone.  Delicious, we both concurred.  Unbelievably so.

And, so, our first seafood experience and second Besh excursion was wrapping up.  We sat in complete content for a few minutes before thanking Billie profusely and wandering towards the front door.  There we were met by the manager, who got an earful of how great our Besh experiences had been so far. When he found out our trip goal and that we were going to Besh Steak that evening, he said, "The general manager for Besh Steak is right over there eating lunch.  Go introduce yourselves!"

We quickly declined, wanting the man to eat his lunch in peace.  So the manager asked for our names and said he would pass them on.  We thanked him and headed out into the New Orleans summer heat.  As we walked down the sidewalk, sighing with pleasure and looking forward to a swim back at the hotel, I couldn't help but feel a happy premonition of the evening to come.

A Foodie Honeymoon: Monday Dinner at Domenica

It's strange how anticipation of an event can be a complete killer to an experience because it doesn't live up to what you want it to be.

OR it can be a total laugh because the experience completely blows away even your wildest hopes.

Such was the start of our John Besh honeymoon.  Domenica, his Italian restaurant, was our first stop.  After unloading at the hotel and taking a brief siesta, we walked to this gorgeous restaurant for happy hour (a restaurant who's decor was as fantastically un-Italian as you could get):

Happy hour at Domenica means 1/2 price pizzas, beer, wine by the glass, and well cocktails.  Considering we were going to get pizza and beer anyway, it was quite a deal for such a great place.  But there is something about getting restaurant food for a deal that always makes me feel a little--oh, I don't know--like I'm being cheap.  Which I am.  But I always have a twinge-y feeling that the waitstaff will be disappointed in my cheapness and therefore treat me less.

Well.  Let me introduce you to Vanessa and Corey.  If you have the same qualms as I do, they will make you feel right at home and laugh your qualms to scorn.

The first item set on the table was a bottle of water.  Vanessa introduced herself as Corey, who she was training, and the evening got off to the perfect start with a good laugh.  We introduced ourselves as well--something that I like to do--then Vanessa then took our drink order: I ordered a local IPA, and Chef Reiton ordered a blonde (beer, that is.  Domenica isn't that kind of place...). 

When Vanessa and Corey returned with our beers and a chunk of hot Italian bread with a bottle of pepper-infused olive oil, we chit chatted about what brought us to New Orleans.  Of course our honeymoon came up, and they both responded with congratulatory smiles and remarks.  We told them that we were honeymooning to eat at all of Besh's restaurants, and they asked if we'd eaten at August, yet.  We told them that Domenica was our first and that August would be our last.  And according to them, apparently that was the best way to do it.

In between bites of gorgeously chewy, bubbly bread, we perused the menu; everything sounded so good. Chef Reiton decided that he would go with the Calabrese: spicy salami, tomato, mozzarella, capers, and olives.  I was a little shocked--he hates olives.  But this was what we came to Besh and New Orleans to do: eat foods put in front of us whether we were scared of them or not.  I chose to go with the  Bolzano, a mix of pulled pork shoulder, fennel, bacon, and sweet onion.  

Corey and Vanessa affirmed our food choices as we ordered, then dashed off to the kitchen.  As we waited for our food we snapped some pictures

and talked excitedly of being together, being married, being foodies.

And then Vanessa and Corey showed up.

Not with the pizza but with flutes of sparkling wine.

"Congratulations!" they both said and set the glasses before us.  "It's your honeymoon! We had to do something." 

What a wonderfully surprising treat! We thanked them profusely, then toasted each other, and took another picture.

Soon our pizzas came, way larger than I expected and absolutely gorgeous.  The Calabrese was fantastic: salty from the olives and capers, with a good pucker from their pickling.  The spiciness of the salami bit back, too, but the whole seemingly chaotic mess was sweetened by the tomatoes and  smoothed out in the mellowness of the mozzarella.  It was perfect.  A full tongue experience.

My Bolzano was also very, very good.  It was a much more subtle dish.  The pulled pork was not spicy, and the bacon was not overly salty or smoky.  The meats' flavors were kept simple, given depth and sweetness by the roasted fennel and the sweet onion.  The combination was--comforting.  And it was real food.  I found a bone chip in a chunk of pork, for crying out loud.  Why??? Because THEY ACTUALLY SMOKE AND ROAST THEIR OWN MEAT.  Ohhhhh, foodie heaven.

I giggled as we snapped away at our food, glancing around to see if anyone was frowning upon our unclassy behavior.  "I don't care," I muttered as Chef Reiton framed the shot.  "We came here to eat, and there is no way I'm blogging without pictures."

When we couldn't eat anymore, Corey and Vanessa insisted that we have dessert.  We both paused, and they suggested we share--then left us with the dessert menu and the words "Banana Zuppa Inglese" ringing in our ears.  We read the description: "moist banana cake, butterscotch mousse, and peanut brittle."  One glance across the table said the same thing: we're on our HONEYMOON.  And when Corey came back, we simply said, "Let's do it."

A few minutes later, we were presented with this (you can see Chef Reiton couldn't wait):

Our first notice was of the vessel: a canning jar! So rustic. So simple. So screaming "HOMEMADE!!!"  

And then I noticed something even more unusual: I liked the brittle, and I HATE peanuts.

I was very quickly starting to understand this about a first class restaurant (which I have frequented very, VERY rarely in my 37 years): here, delight is in everything, because everything everything is made from scratch from quality ingredients.  No half assing.  No skimping.  No cheating.  Make it the real way and make it good, and you will have customers like Chef Reiton and I making obscene noises at your dinner table.

A final discovery with our dessert was this: it is truly a delightful experience to dive downward with your spoon and resurface with an array of ingredients that look to be completely distinguishable but meld in your mouth to become one utterly unified flavor unlike anything you had tasted before.  Creative flavor genius at work. 

Shortly after demolishing our B.Z.I., Corey and Vanessa came to check on us and give us the bill--and a plate of fudge cookies.  They congratulated us again--and we thanked them again: two of the most delightful people who had ever waited on us.

As Chef Reiton signed the check and we pushed the last plate away, we turned to each other, brushed the crumbs off our fronts, and laughed.  We were stuffed.  We were happy.  We had leftover pizza. 

We had started the journey.

The Marriage of Foodies

I promised last post that I would write about Chef Reiton's and my wedding, so here it is for your amusement: a post about love and food.

Chef Reiton and I met at an interesting point in both of our lives: both of us had been separated for about 6 months and were in the midst of divorces.  Both of us were rediscovering ourselves (as all of you out there who have been divorced well know)—and one of the ways we both were finding freedom and consolation was through the education about and creation of food.  In fact, the first post I wrote for this blog was written the night after the third time we met—the first time where our meeting was actually planned.

Anyway, we obviously fell fantastically in love with each other—and each other's food—and this past winter we decided that we wanted to get married.  It being the second wedding for both of us, however, our priorities on what the wedding should be like were a far cry from the first time.  We agreed from the start that it would be 1) small, 2) DIY, 3) reminiscent of us and 4) home-cooked.

Now, Chef Reiton and I met on a plane—twice.  Due to the bizarre nature of meeting and then re-meeting each other in such a manner, we decided to embrace our serendipitous history and apply it to our wedding.  We made the invitations ourselves, designing them to be boarding passes, complete with a ticket folder from "Serendipity Airlines."

The setting for our day was to be the beginning of summer.  The ceremony would be held on a deck overlooking a large wetland lake at a local county park where we love to walk the dog, and the reception, both pre- and post-ceremony portions, was to be held in our backyard.  No renting of any buildings was required. The guests we limited to immediate family, as well as local family members and friends who are like immediate family.

The planning and preparations continued.  Chef Reiton ordered his clothes from L.L. Bean and looked dashing when he tried them on.  I bought a dress on a rush, hated it on me when it came in, so made myself a new one with the guiding hands and advice of my awesome neighbor, Heather, and the dear Mare at Nimble Thimble in Cambridge, WI.  It didn't look so bad, either! Definitely homemade, but the girls in the factory in China didn't do so great on the $100 dress I bought, so I didn't feel so bad about it.  And I LOVED my dress.  I should have followed my DIY gut in the first place.  It would have saved me sewing two weeks before the wedding.

Because our numbers were small, we were able to stick with renting just six round tables for the adult guests and two rectangular tables for the food.  We rented old wooden ballroom chairs from a church for $1 apiece.  For kids' seating, we set up the massive picnic table Chef Reiton built with brightly colored treat bags stuffed with candy, glow bracelets, bubbles, and water guns; the teenagers sat at a high top on the patio.  The adults were arranged on the driveway under a 30'x30' white tarp stretched tent-like between the garage and the house (an engineering feat by Chef Reiton).

For decorations, we kept it simple and classy but held to the theme (and all the dishes, linens, votives, and favors were bought online after scouting for hours and hours for the most inexpensive but quality supplies; I may be cheap, but I am anal).  The tables were covered in white linen tablecloths and set with square placemats (my eldest sister created them out of Chef Reiton's old runway maps and a variety of blue papers), white china plates, navy blue linen napkins, silverware from our own drawer and borrowed from family members, and glass "polka dot" tumblers.  The seating cards, also made by my eldest sister, were die-cut paper airplanes printed with guest names and their table number, strung on fishing line. Table numbers were "seat numbers," made from 8-inch kraft numbers and letters from Hobby Lobby, painted silver and hot-glued to a white-painted base.  A random mix of orange and white flowers (bought at Walmart) in small bud vases (bought at Goodwill) and blue votive candleholders were scattered across the tables.  Laying on each plate were the wedding favors: an individual bag of Terra Blue chips. Draped overhead were strings of white bistro lights, and hanging at the peak of the garage was a large 3'x4' navy blue sign with white letters that read "GATE C28"—the gate where we met the second time and knew it was Destiny.

My middle sister made my beautiful bouquet, which I allowed her complete artistic freedom.  I simply bought a bunch of flowers at the grocery store that I loved, handed them to her, and said, "Do whatever! Just keep it small."  She designed a small nosegay out of baby white carnations, orange tea roses, and tiny chartreuse pin cushion mums—a simple, modern and perfect bouquet for me.

And now for the food.  The kegerator was brought outside to the garage and the top set with a fun runner, a "borrowed" orange tray from the N.A., and an assortment of beer mugs and pint glasses. Nestled inside were a variety of home-brewed beers (several brewed just for the wedding, including my Old Fort IPA and Chef Reiton's Belgian wit).  The wine was set out on a navy blue spray-painted wood changing table that I found a few weeks before the wedding; it made a lovely wine bar.  Wine glasses from IKEA were stacked on the top shelf, each stem wrapped with a circular paper-and-metal hangtag on which guests wrote their name; a sign stood next to a cup of pens that read: "Label your glass! It's the only one you are getting!"  The bottom two shelves of the "bar" were loaded with red wines, and a round tub filled with ice water and white wines sat to the side.

Appetizers during the pre-ceremony reception were kept simple: I wanted yummy finger foods but with minimal prep work or time.  A variety of good cheeses from Sam's Club, as well as an assortment of nice crackers, were laid out on cheese slates and vintage pressed tin trays.  Snipped clusters of green and red grapes, strawberries, and blackberries were mounded on a platter.  Bacon-wrapped dates were piled onto a tiered plate stand.  Small clear plastic plates and fun cocktail napkins were provided for mingling purposes.

Dinner foods were prepared largely the days beforehand.  Pork shoulder and brisket were smoked by Chef Reiton and his brother, then shredded and sliced after they were rewarmed a few hours before the wedding.  Spicy barbecue sauce, baked beans, and cornbread muffins were all made ahead and either refrigerated or frozen.  Hebrew National hot dogs, our homemade kobas, and fresh zucchini, portobello caps, whole sweet peppers, and asparagus were all grilled during the ceremony (a friend of mine came and helped with the putting out of food and manning the last minute details while we got ready, mingled, and got married!).  Chef Reiton's youngest sister brought a huge green salad (she makes the best) to help pitch in, and purchased rolls were placed in a basket.  All the food was set out to form a buffet.

Then, there was dessert.  What an assortment we had! To keep with tradition and to give our reception at least one ceremonious act, my eldest sister made our wedding cake: a beautiful two-tiered creation with cloud-like buttercream swirls, topped with a JetBlue jet plane.  To commemorate Chef Reiton's and my first cooking experience together, the day before the wedding my two best friends and I made four tiramisus. To honor Chef Reiton's father who had passed, my new mother-in-law made a blueberry pie, as well as loads of yummy Mexican wedding cookies and pecan dainties. For the kids (and the rest of us!), two of my girlfriends made mass quantities of two amazing flavors of cupcakes: lemon-berry with pureed berry in the frosting and sunken brownie with bright blue and orange frostings (JetBlue's colors).

The night went on with a bonfire, giant sparklers, music, and lots and lots of laughter and fun.  We intentionally steered clear of all the wedding "traditions" (i.e. toasting, tossing, dancing, etc.).  We simply wanted everyone to be relaxed and just hang.

And eat.

And drink.

And that we did.

Summer Lovin': A Simple Summer Menu

I just got back from a fantastic trip to Massachusetts with my eldest sister.  We were visiting family that we see very rarely (unfortunately).  One of them was my great aunt Jane who turned 92 yesterday.  She is a marvelous human being: strong, witty, independent, and incredibly generous.  She, so like my passed grandmothers, is the exact example of who I want to be.

The other family member, my dear Uncle Fred (U.F. as he has been dubbed), is the uncle I was going to visit when I met Chef Reiton (happy sigh).  My sister and I spent two nights with him pre- and post-visit with Aunt Jane.

For our first night with him, my sister provided dinner: a meal so delicious I kept inappropriately making yummy-sounds at the dinner table.  It was really quite simple: a grilled sesame-chile chicken served with a watermelon salsa over coconut rice--a meal that I don't know that I'd ever have eaten if it wasn't presented to me.  But, true to most flavors that are forced upon me, once I dug in, I couldn't stop.  The flavors were delightfully summer--bright, zingy, sweet, and salty.  And, thankfully, they weren't the stereotypical burger and corn-on-the-cob.  They were simply OMG.

So now, today--it was a brew day, so D and I decided early that we would make dinner on the grill and eat outside. The kitchen is just too much of a disaster zone on brew days to even think of finding an inch of counter space or room on the stove to cook indoors.  At the word "grill" my brain immediately recalled my sister's amazing meal.  What a perfect evening to try it! I emailed her for the recipe, and present it here for your use: http://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/sesame-chile-chicken-with-gingered-watermelon-salsa-10000001065509/

It's an incredibly easy meal to prepare, perfect for just the family or to impress company.  To make coconut rice, mix a cup of coconut milk and 7 oz. of water with 1 cup of jasmine rice and cook as you usually do (all brought to a boil and then simmered covered on low for about 15 minutes, resting for 5 more after the heat is turned off).  Oh, and I also pounded out and cut up the chicken breasts like my sister did.  It makes for a nicer presentation and more flavorful chicken:

To drink we made a new favorite concoction taken from Men's Health.  It's the Costa Rhode Island:
- 3/4 oz. elderflower liqueur
- 3/4 oz. fresh squeezed grapefruit juice
- 1 1/2 oz. tequila
- 6 oz. light beer (we used our home-brewed Belgian wit)

Salt your pint glass rim, mix your juice and liquors in the glass, fill it with ice, and top it all with the beer.  Mmmm mmm. Summery and deliciously light.

Dessert consisted of the simplest of summer ingredients: fresh berries and cream.  I had some whipping cream that needed to be used; so, armed with the balloon whisk my other sister gave Chef Reiton and I for our wedding, I whipped up about 1/2 a cup of whipping cream with about 1 tablespoon of sugar, then whisked in about a tablespoon or two of sour cream and a teaspoon of vanilla until relatively stiff peaks formed.  Everybody had their own little dipping bowl, and voila! Dessert was fast, healty(er), and fun!

Speaking of wedding, I really need to tell you all about that marvelous day.  It will be the next post, I promise.  :)

Using Homegrown Hops

Aren't they beautiful???

Being only in their first year, our hop babies didn't produce much, so we decided to use the total 3/4 of an ounce that we harvested in a beer we are calling "The Kitchen Sink."  We had a bunch of grain and hops leftover from other batches, so Brewmaster Reiton thought, "Why not just put it all together in one experimental batch and see what happens?" 

We moved "The Kitchen Sink" from primary to secondary fermentation this afternoon and did a mid-fermentation taste test.  I liked it.  It's nicely hoppy. We're debating dry hopping at the end for aroma, which I'm okay with, if it doesn't change the taste.  It's a beautiful color, too.  A rich dark amber.

We'll see how it tastes at the end! My fingers are crossed!

Properly Planting Homegrown Hops

Yesterday, in an amazingly short amount of time, D and I put in the hops.

This is a "hill."  We cut out the sod in four separate circles, then covered each circle with 6-inch tall mounds made of manure and top soil:

 

After we finished the mounds, we staked each of them with a 6-foot stake.

 

Next went on a weed mat:

 

and then we planted the hop rhizomes.  Here's what one looks like:

Each mound then got mulched and labeled.

Here are the four varieties that we are growing:

It is going to be a fascinating summer, watching these come in! We've put them in a bit late, but from what we've read, hops are extremely hardy, so we shouldn't have a problem. And next year they are going to get much taller. We'll see how it goes for Year 1. I'll keep you all posted.

I can't wait to brew with our own hops! Woohoo!!!

A Menu for an Indoor Picnic

We had a first anniversary dinner celebration with the family today, and boy, was it a feast! Check out the spread!

• Tortilla chips with homemade pico de gallo
• Neighbor Joe's dilly beans
• Mom's cornbread
• Green salad
• Homemade baked beans, made with home-cured/smoked bacon (see Low & Slow by Gary Wiviott)
• Grilled bun-length weiners
• Home-smoked brisket (also see Low & Slow by Gary Wiviott)
• Home-smoked Kreuz's sausage (shipped from Lockhart, TX)
• Home-smoked Usinger's brats (straight from Milwaukee)
• Home-smoked homemade kobas (see the blog entry "A (Graphic) Experience with Kobas")
• Aunt Sally's broccoli, corn and cheese casserole
• Pecan pie (see Joy of Cooking and use dark syrup with rum)
• Fresh glazed strawberry pie (see Joy of Cooking but use 1/3 cup cornstarch and set for 5 hours)
• Molasses cookies (see America Test Kitchen's American Classics, and let them sit for a day in a Ziploc)
• Home-brewed Old Fort IPA, MARS Oktoberfest, Beat Army Bock, and Dundalk Irish Heavy

You ain't got nothing on us, rain, with family and food like this!

Krausen Blow-outs and Stuck Carboy Stoppers: Averting a Brewing Disaster

I woke up this morning to what sounded like explosive diarrhea.

For a split second my brain did the half-dazed scramble through every conceivable cause of the sound until it hit what I knew was the correct analysis: the beer.  I had a blow-out.

You may have remembered (ages ago, it seems) that I mentioned that Chef Reiton had taken up brewing.  And I've been meaning to write about this brewing for a long time because it has become a serious part of our lives.  So much so that we have named ourselves.  We are the one-and-only Shirley Street Brewhouse.

ANYWAY.  I seriously digress.  So, the beer woke me up.  This beer, a wit beer, similar to Hoegaarden, is an all-grain single infusion brew.  What the HELL does that mean, you ask? (I know, I know.  I was there once, too...)  Well, it's really a very abbreviated way of describing the process of making the beer.

In a nutshell (and I'm really going to dumb this down—no offense meant), beer wort (the liquid that will become the beer once hops and yeast are added and it has fermented) can be made two ways: the "quick" way by adding extracts to water or the "old-fashioned way" by heating grains in water (how this wit beer was done).  So the first term above, "all grain," tells you that this beer wort was made directly from grain, not an extract.  In this case, we used 9 lbs. of malted barley, flaked wheat and oats, to be exact, to make the grain mash.

The second term, "single infusion," essentially refers to how many times the temperature of the grain mash is raised by adding hot water before it is lautered and sparged (steeped like a tea and then rinsed and drained) to create the wort.

After the wort is made, it is boiled and hops are added.  This wonderful liquid is then placed in a carboy where it is introduced to its delightful companion: yeast.  These two partners, for varying periods of time (depending on the type of beer you are making), will sit in the dark and make wonderful noises together, sometimes loud and boisterous, sometimes soft and slow.  These noises are the carbon dioxide gas they create together being forced out of the carboy through an airlock so the whole damn thing doesn't explode and make your house smell like a frat hall.

These are the noises that woke me this morning.  Only I shouldn't have been hearing spraying sounds.  I should have been hearing belching, bubbling sounds.  Peeking into the dark box that covered the carboy, I saw a mess: krausen (pronounced KROY-sen, with a good German gutteral 'r'!), a foam created by the fermentation process (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Krausen), had risen up through the airlock and was dripping down over the carboy.  I knew from previous experience that this was not good.  You want air out, not krausen.

A quick text to Chef Reiton had him calling back with directives in 2 minutes flat.  Our best remedy was to remove the airlock and its rubber stopper and replace them with a dense foam stopper and a blow-off hose.  I mixed up a batch of sanitizer and sanitized the stopper, hose, and blow-off jar.  Knowing that oxygen is a serious enemy of beer, I wanted to do the next step quickly: I inserted the blow-off hose into the foam stopper, carefully removed the old stopper and the airlock, and quickly (my often mistake) thrust the new stopper and hose into the carboy neck.

Aaaaaand—I thrust too hard.

The stopper, slippery from the sanitizing solution, slid too far and slipped almost completely down into the neck of the carboy.  A string of expletives flew from my lips.  I wanted to just leave it since I knew I had an airtight fit, but Chef Reiton explained that it was best to remove the stopper now while the stopper was still wet; otherwise it would essentially get glued into the neck and be very difficult to remove later.  He asked if I was able to remove the hose and slip my pinky down through the stopper hole and pull it out.  I easily pulled the hose out of the stopper, but my pinky was too short.  I couldn't latch around the bottom of the stopper to get leverage to remove it.  I decided to just put the hose back in the stopper hole--and in the process shoved the stopper even further down into the neck.

Poor Chef Reiton heard another string of expletives.  Actually, it was just one expletive repeated in a string.  I was about to ruin his beer due to well-intentioned carelessness--classic me.  He calmly asked if I could use a screwdriver to hook around the stopper to pull it out.  I ran down to the basement to his brewing toolbag and grabbed a screwdriver.  And that's when I saw it: some weird-looking tool that looked like a heavy flattened fishhook on a handle.  I grabbed it, too, ran to the sanitizing bucket, swished them both in sanitizer, ran upstairs, shoved the hooky-looking tool into the hole, and pulled.  POP! Out came the stopper, quicker than you could repeat my previous string of expletives.

Oh, thank you, baby Jesus! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I quickly resanitized the stopper and hose end in the blow-off jar, placed the free end of the hose in the jar of sanitizing solution, and very, VERY carefully pushed the stopper into the carboy neck once again.  Bubbles immediately began to burp through the hose.  Oh, wonderful, wonderful tool! I wanted to kiss it, but I didn't know what it was.  Chef Reiton told me it was a beer faucet wrench. I highly recommend one for the removal of stuck carboy blow-off stoppers!

As I sit here and write, I can hear our beer bubbling away.  It's such a pleasant sound—especially knowing what disaster I almost caused but averted!