Homemade Fish Stock and Hysterectomies

This is going to be a quick one because...well, if you can't tell from the title of my post, I'm a bit laid up compared to my usual self. I'm only writing because, after tonight's experience, I thought maybe I should warn any of you out there who are preparing to have a hysterectomy: do NOT plan on making homemade fish stock within the first week or two of recovery.

Why?

Well, the following scenarios might give you an idea why. Imagine experiencing each one of them sequentially while sporting a 6-inch incision on your lower abdomen that has been glued shut and is surrounded by bruising the color of a yellow highlighter marker.

1.) After bringing the salted heads and skeletal remains of two large, species-less fish, two halved onions, a few sprigs of parsley, some fennel fronds and two bay leaves to a boil in a stockpot, I lift the lid to see this:

2.) Upon another stirring of the pot, I lift the lid to see a translucent ball drift to the surface, bob gently in an eddy, then lazily roll over to reveal the iridescent glow of a fish eye staring back at me.

3.) As I get ready to tuck myself into bed in the guest room on the lower level, I get a text from my husband: "It really stinks up here. I think next time we should make fish stock outside."

And now I sit here in bed with an ice pack on my belly because it hurts so much—and I'm still laughing.

So! Just a fair warning to those of you who want to have hysterectomies and then go make fish stock soon after. I caution you: Get that ice pack ready.

Lessons on Using Bones for Stock

Last weekend we had my good friend/former student, Anna (now of Anna Rosie Bakes fame!) and her wonderful significant other, CDR, come up for the day and just hang and eat and drink.  We had a fantastic time, even though our dog was running around in a make-shift diaper the entire time.

After snacking on bacon-wrapped dates and poufy gougères

and imbibing several glasses of Campari-laced cocktails, we settled down for dinner.  The main event of our main course was a frenched pork loin roast, "the crown roast of pork" my butcher's assistant declared.  We used a delicious recipe from—you guessed it, BA.  It is a cider-brined pork roast in which you brine the pork for hours, dry rub it for a few more, then roast it with veggies to browned perfection.  (If you want to make a great mistake, try brining it with unfiltered cider vinegar by accident.  I think I liked it even better!)

But this post is not to be about the roast.  It is about the bones that we saved from the roast after we devoured it that night and the next day.  Bones that called to me yesterday morning through the gray drizzle on the windows and the wet leaves plastered to the driveway.  It was a day to hole up and do some winter kitchen prep: stock.

I've always been scared in the past to make soup and stock, but my food reading over the past year has really pounded into my head that when it comes to the history of peasant foods, like soups and such--there really wasn't a recipe.  It was whatever you had on hand thrown into a pot and (usually) cooked low and slow for a long time to yield whatever tasty treat your random items were going to give you that particular time.  The poor couldn't be picky, and so every time the results were different.

I decided that I was going to be okay with that and not let my anal side be bothered by the fact that I wasn't going to be able to exactly replicate this stock if I really liked it.  So I did what the peasants did.  My stockpot was soon loaded with the rib rack, old carrots, old celery, a couple halved onions, some sage and thyme that were on their last legs, a couple cloves of garlic, and a lot of salt and pepper.  I filled the pot up with water, set it on the stove over low heat, draped the lid almost on the whole way, then let it all go for hours.

Sigh. It's just delightful to me that this:

can turn into this:

Oh, what yummy soups these are, just waiting to be made this winter....  And all for the five minutes of prep time that it took to rinse my ingredients and throw them in the pot and the other 10 that it took to strain and jar the stock.

Good grief! I've got to do this more often!

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.