All right don't worry even if things end up a bit too heavy.
Hooray for the repeal of DADT! It may be a long and difficult road ahead, but it's at least one good step there. And hooray for the Caps finally winning a damn game! Seriously, guys.
I have been talking more about Louise because our time together has gone back to college-levels, where we tend to be within five feet of each other at any given time, and have to adapt accordingly to survive a paradoxical relationship where there is high symbiosis but also lots of potential for destruction and energy. I spent some amount of time trying to figure out exactly which symbiotic pair we are, and finally decided we're most like an ostrich and a zebra. Sure we use our strong and weak senses to benefit the other, but every now and then someone gets mauled by a lion anyway.
But, anyway. Two weekends ago, Louise and I decided to hell with Christmas tree lots and their pre-harvested merchandise, we were gonna cut ourselves a tree down the old fashioned way. This enthusiasm was prompted by the fact I have fond memories of when my family used to cut down our own trees from some of the local farms where we picked produce during the summer, a family room with a really high ceiling, and Louise just likes fucking around with sharp objects. Armed with nothing more than foolhardy resolve, my parents' borrowed minivan, and some internet directions to the closest place that would let us cut down a tree, we sallied forth up I-270.
After forty five minutes of driving, a detour onto a dirt road, and an increasing feeling that we were wandering into some kind of Blair Witch situation, we found the place and immediately embarked down an even rougher dirt road. We crossed a stream and everything; it was like being in a Ford truck commercial. We have a brief debate over pine vs. fir, where fir won and we went down yet another series of dirt roads. By then, we were feeling less like we were in a Blair Witch scenario than we might be in a Hills Have Eyes scenario. I kept an eye out for any road traps that might have been laid by cannibalistic mutants.
At the fir fields, you just sort of wander about looking at trees while your farm-provided saw bangs awkwardly against your leg. There was a saw shortage when we first arrived, so I sent Louise out to scavenge one-a request that, in retrospect, I think I should have worded a little more specifically, because when she rejoined me, she had a triumphant expression and the saw's blade was actually hanging loose from the frame, like it had been in a violent tug of war-while I looked at trees. Louise was fixated on repairing her mysteriously-obtained saw, and I know better than to be in the area when she's putzing with something sharp, so we sort of wended our straggling way up and down the rows, calling back and forth when we found likely candidates. Each time we ended up only shooting down each other's suggestions for factors of such as branch gaps, needle dryness, too skinny, crooked tops, too tall, not tall enough, and "too Charlie-Brownish."
We were getting discouraged. We thought about just packing it in, buying a lot tree, and lying to everyone who asked. It was getting later in the afternoon, and the light was going. Louise had fixed the saw and somehow obtained another one, which she graciously gave to me, in case of witch and/or cannibal attacks. At last, we finally managed to agree upon a tree that we had first discarded for having a gap and weird pinecone formations.
Cutting down a Christmas tree means you basically lie flat on the ground, like you've had a heart attack, and saw at the base from an awkward angle. Louise and I took turns doing this and taking incriminating cell phone pictures of the other while distracted, though I would be remiss in failing to acknowledge that Louise probably did about 70% of the sawing to my 30%. I did, however, managed to keep the tree from falling on either of us when it actually went, a more difficult thing than you'd expect when eight feet of Douglas Fir suddenly slumps into your arms like a silent-movie screen actress with the vapors.
Presented with an fucking great enormous tree, we realized we'd failed to take into account the fact the car was parked about half a mile away, and mutually agreed that I would get the car while Louise stayed to guard the tree from other desperate families, roving lumberjack gangs, moth larvae, angry dryads, etc. I set off on my trek back to the car, taking both saws with me because I didn't want her to find a third saw and get the bright idea to start juggling them or something. By all rights, this should have been where the horror movie part really kicked in, where I got lost and fled from Bigfoot, and Louise had to fend off an entire wolf pack with her bare hands since I had taken her weaponry, or something along those lines. But actually, I found the car and even managed to find Louise without much trouble.
We managed to carry the tree over to the car (and this is where I call bullshit on the place's website assurances that they had plenty of willing workers who would help you lift and tie the tree to your car) and contemplated whether or not we should even try to tie the tree to the top. The fact that both of us have less than mighty upper body strength and height, plus the hauntingly clear premonition image of our tree tumbling off the roof midway down I-270, meant that we decided in the long run it would be much easier to just jam the damn thing inside the car.
This took… some doing. But on the upside, it was like riding inside the world's most piney, delicious air freshener.
Back we went over the various dirt roads, hooting in excitement like prehistoric hunters who had managed to fell a wooly mammoth. The place has a fairly loose honor system, and there was really nothing to keep us from pretty much driving on out of there without paying for our tree; no one checks if you have a receipt or anything. But we are tree cutters of great integrity, and went into the shop to pay. Also, they were giving away free hot cider. Cutting our own tree was actually way cheaper than buying one off a lot-we paid about fifty dollars-I suppose because you're the one providing all the labor.
We drove it back home, and then began the laborious process of removing the tree from the car, getting it into the house (I have the kind of stairs and doorstep that are pretty much suicide for anyone trying to bring in a large object. The people who delivered my couch basically had to make a running go of it that involved a three man process of one person precariously balancing the couch on the wrought-iron doorstep railing, one person standing on a bench behind the door to hold it open, and the last person shoving as hard as possible) and getting it into the stand. Though there was much swearing and gnashing of teeth, it all came together in the end, and it decorated up quite nicely. We celebrated with Thai food and alcohol.
The only problem was, since it was eight feet tall and Louise and I lacked anything more than a chair to stand on, we haven't been able to get anything on the top since last night. There were some attempts at simply throwing the angel at the top and hoping it would somehow stick the landing, and Louise's efforts to simply tip the tree over, but these were eventually discontinued for blasphemy and foolhardiness respectively. However, while poking through my parents' house, I found a grabber reaching aid inherited from an elderly friend who used it to get canned goods off her kitchen shelves. Brought it back, and presto. Angel now on tree, if somewhat at a cockeyed angle and facing the wrong direction.
It makes me happy every time I go downstairs and see it again. I expect I will be less so when it is time to dispose of it when the holidays are done, but I am secretly banking on possibly being able to shaft the duty off. Louise occasionally goes on late night insomniac cleaning binges, where she can't sleep and decides to rearrange everything. This makes for occasionally startling results, and I have to hunt for things that were previously settled elsewhere, but as long as she keeps doing the dishes as a side effect, I'm willing to put a few extra minutes into finding where my olive oil and potato masher have migrated to.
Basically, it is not outside the realm of possibility she would try to move the tree by herself. (Hell, she already did try that; I didn't find out about the tree-tipping until she told me the next morning.) Granted, this might result in a disaster of epic proportions. But at least it will be entertaining.
I feel rather steam-rollered by the last two weeks, so I am just going to post a recipe and note that I will be in Los Angeles from the 27th to the 3rd of January. Apparently Los Angeles is about two inches away from becoming the lost drowned city of Atlantis right now; I am just that good at picking travel times.
I have made five kinds of cookies in the last couple days, and I need to finish two cakes and a flan. Here is a completely unrelated recipe for fruited pork loin, which is pretty easy and very tasty. Whip it out at dinner parties if you want to look classy and competent.
Fruited Pork Loin with Compote
Makes about 4 to 6 servings
2 pork tenderloins (1 1/2 to 2 pounds total)*
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon granulated garlic
1/4 teaspoon salt (for the rub)
1/8 teaspoon salt (for the compote)
Freshly ground black pepper
Generous drizzle of olive oil, say a tablespoon
1 cup assorted dried fruit, chopped to about raisin size**
1 cup dry red wine
1/4 cup packed light brown sugar
1/2 cup diced shallots
2 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into 8 pieces
*I've done this recipe with one larger pork tenderloin and not suffered any ill effects. It all depends on what your grocery store is selling, I suppose.
**This can be damn near anything. Dried apples, plums, mangos, peaches, pears, figs, apricots, cherries, cranberries, blueberries, and raisins give you the best results, I think. Some others work, but can be overwhelmingly sweet or give a weird texture. I don't recommend pineapple, bananas, kiwi, or papaya for those reasons. If you use dates, take the pit out first. Chop the large fruit pieces; leave the raisins and berries whole. This is a good recipe for getting rid of the dried fruit no one wants to eat from the bottom of the cupboard or a holiday gift platter.
Directions:
Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.
Rinse the tenderloins and pat dry with paper towels. Cut away and discard the silver skin.
Combine the cloves, garlic, 1/4 teaspoon of the salt and the pepper to taste in a small bowl. Rub the mixture all over the tenderloin(s), using sensuous massage-like strokes until you've managed to weird out someone in the kitchen.
Heat the olive oil in a large, nonstick ovenproof skillet or shallow braising pan over medium-high heat. Add the tenderloins and sear until the meat is nicely browned on at least two sides. Transfer the skillet or pan to the oven. Roast for 20 to 25 minutes, until a thermometer inserted into the thickest part of the tenderloin registers 165 145 degrees.
Sidebar, if you please.
Look. We all know what they say about undercooked pork and trichinosis. I respect that. We also all know what they say about salmonella, and we still all eat raw cookie dough. The recipe originally calls for you to cook the pork until the temperature reaches 165 degrees; I am here to tell you that results in drier pork, and you will be just fine if you take the pork out at 145 degrees. It will be tender and juicy and barely pink, and you will appreciate it much more. (Hell, I take mine out at 140 degrees and I have not suffered any adverse effects yet. But I may just have pork-related super powers that have gone hereto yet unrecognized. You never know.)
But you are presumably in possession of free will, and you can take the pork out whenever you damn well please. However, I am just saying that I recommend 145 degrees.
Transfer the meat to a cutting board to rest while you make the fruit compote. Don't cut it up; you want the juices to stay sealed inside. Just cover it loosely with aluminum foil and leave it be. This is the pork's special alone time, and it is not to be disturbed.
Now: place the roasting pan with its juices and drippings over medium heat. If you need it, add another small drizzle of olive oil. Add the chopped shallots and cook for a couple of minutes, stirring until the they've softened and are translucent. Scrape up the savory browned bits from the bottom of the pan; I think there's an actual cooking term for them, but my dad has always just called them "the yummies" and I follow in his footsteps.
Add the chopped dried fruit and stir to incorporate it so it's all one big mess. Add the red wine, brown sugar and 1/8 teaspoon of salt. Stir some more. Increase the heat to medium-high and bring to a boil; cook, stirring occasionally, until the mixture has reduced by about a third. Reduce the heat to medium-low; whisk in a few cubes of the butter at a time, making sure the butter is well incorporated before adding the next few pieces. Otherwise, you have this great slop of butter separated within the compote, and it's not as delicious.
Taste, and adjust the seasonings as needed. Remove from heat.
Cut the pork into slices of even thickness and divide among individual plates or put it on one big serving plate, whatever you please. Spoon equal amounts of the compote over each individual portion, or you can put it in a bowl and let people just glob it over the pork themselves. Serve warm.
I would round this meal out with some green vegetable and oven roasted potatoes. I tend to just blanche some green beans until they’re crisp-tender (though you could also sauté some brussel sprouts, or stirfry some broccoli, or whatever floats your boat) and drizzle a little olive oil and some sea salt on them. Same thing with the potatoes-cut some potatoes up, toss with olive oil, salt, pepper, and garlic (and some rosemary, if you like the taste) and roast in the oven. I sometimes sauté some apples with brown sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg to go with it as well, just because I like pork with apples, but they're not necessary since you have the compote. You could always serve them for dessert over vanilla ice cream.
Hopefully, I will come back with lolpopes in a day or so.
I have been talking more about Louise because our time together has gone back to college-levels, where we tend to be within five feet of each other at any given time, and have to adapt accordingly to survive a paradoxical relationship where there is high symbiosis but also lots of potential for destruction and energy. I spent some amount of time trying to figure out exactly which symbiotic pair we are, and finally decided we're most like an ostrich and a zebra. Sure we use our strong and weak senses to benefit the other, but every now and then someone gets mauled by a lion anyway.
But, anyway. Two weekends ago, Louise and I decided to hell with Christmas tree lots and their pre-harvested merchandise, we were gonna cut ourselves a tree down the old fashioned way. This enthusiasm was prompted by the fact I have fond memories of when my family used to cut down our own trees from some of the local farms where we picked produce during the summer, a family room with a really high ceiling, and Louise just likes fucking around with sharp objects. Armed with nothing more than foolhardy resolve, my parents' borrowed minivan, and some internet directions to the closest place that would let us cut down a tree, we sallied forth up I-270.
After forty five minutes of driving, a detour onto a dirt road, and an increasing feeling that we were wandering into some kind of Blair Witch situation, we found the place and immediately embarked down an even rougher dirt road. We crossed a stream and everything; it was like being in a Ford truck commercial. We have a brief debate over pine vs. fir, where fir won and we went down yet another series of dirt roads. By then, we were feeling less like we were in a Blair Witch scenario than we might be in a Hills Have Eyes scenario. I kept an eye out for any road traps that might have been laid by cannibalistic mutants.
At the fir fields, you just sort of wander about looking at trees while your farm-provided saw bangs awkwardly against your leg. There was a saw shortage when we first arrived, so I sent Louise out to scavenge one-a request that, in retrospect, I think I should have worded a little more specifically, because when she rejoined me, she had a triumphant expression and the saw's blade was actually hanging loose from the frame, like it had been in a violent tug of war-while I looked at trees. Louise was fixated on repairing her mysteriously-obtained saw, and I know better than to be in the area when she's putzing with something sharp, so we sort of wended our straggling way up and down the rows, calling back and forth when we found likely candidates. Each time we ended up only shooting down each other's suggestions for factors of such as branch gaps, needle dryness, too skinny, crooked tops, too tall, not tall enough, and "too Charlie-Brownish."
We were getting discouraged. We thought about just packing it in, buying a lot tree, and lying to everyone who asked. It was getting later in the afternoon, and the light was going. Louise had fixed the saw and somehow obtained another one, which she graciously gave to me, in case of witch and/or cannibal attacks. At last, we finally managed to agree upon a tree that we had first discarded for having a gap and weird pinecone formations.
Cutting down a Christmas tree means you basically lie flat on the ground, like you've had a heart attack, and saw at the base from an awkward angle. Louise and I took turns doing this and taking incriminating cell phone pictures of the other while distracted, though I would be remiss in failing to acknowledge that Louise probably did about 70% of the sawing to my 30%. I did, however, managed to keep the tree from falling on either of us when it actually went, a more difficult thing than you'd expect when eight feet of Douglas Fir suddenly slumps into your arms like a silent-movie screen actress with the vapors.
Presented with an fucking great enormous tree, we realized we'd failed to take into account the fact the car was parked about half a mile away, and mutually agreed that I would get the car while Louise stayed to guard the tree from other desperate families, roving lumberjack gangs, moth larvae, angry dryads, etc. I set off on my trek back to the car, taking both saws with me because I didn't want her to find a third saw and get the bright idea to start juggling them or something. By all rights, this should have been where the horror movie part really kicked in, where I got lost and fled from Bigfoot, and Louise had to fend off an entire wolf pack with her bare hands since I had taken her weaponry, or something along those lines. But actually, I found the car and even managed to find Louise without much trouble.
We managed to carry the tree over to the car (and this is where I call bullshit on the place's website assurances that they had plenty of willing workers who would help you lift and tie the tree to your car) and contemplated whether or not we should even try to tie the tree to the top. The fact that both of us have less than mighty upper body strength and height, plus the hauntingly clear premonition image of our tree tumbling off the roof midway down I-270, meant that we decided in the long run it would be much easier to just jam the damn thing inside the car.
This took… some doing. But on the upside, it was like riding inside the world's most piney, delicious air freshener.
Back we went over the various dirt roads, hooting in excitement like prehistoric hunters who had managed to fell a wooly mammoth. The place has a fairly loose honor system, and there was really nothing to keep us from pretty much driving on out of there without paying for our tree; no one checks if you have a receipt or anything. But we are tree cutters of great integrity, and went into the shop to pay. Also, they were giving away free hot cider. Cutting our own tree was actually way cheaper than buying one off a lot-we paid about fifty dollars-I suppose because you're the one providing all the labor.
We drove it back home, and then began the laborious process of removing the tree from the car, getting it into the house (I have the kind of stairs and doorstep that are pretty much suicide for anyone trying to bring in a large object. The people who delivered my couch basically had to make a running go of it that involved a three man process of one person precariously balancing the couch on the wrought-iron doorstep railing, one person standing on a bench behind the door to hold it open, and the last person shoving as hard as possible) and getting it into the stand. Though there was much swearing and gnashing of teeth, it all came together in the end, and it decorated up quite nicely. We celebrated with Thai food and alcohol.
The only problem was, since it was eight feet tall and Louise and I lacked anything more than a chair to stand on, we haven't been able to get anything on the top since last night. There were some attempts at simply throwing the angel at the top and hoping it would somehow stick the landing, and Louise's efforts to simply tip the tree over, but these were eventually discontinued for blasphemy and foolhardiness respectively. However, while poking through my parents' house, I found a grabber reaching aid inherited from an elderly friend who used it to get canned goods off her kitchen shelves. Brought it back, and presto. Angel now on tree, if somewhat at a cockeyed angle and facing the wrong direction.
It makes me happy every time I go downstairs and see it again. I expect I will be less so when it is time to dispose of it when the holidays are done, but I am secretly banking on possibly being able to shaft the duty off. Louise occasionally goes on late night insomniac cleaning binges, where she can't sleep and decides to rearrange everything. This makes for occasionally startling results, and I have to hunt for things that were previously settled elsewhere, but as long as she keeps doing the dishes as a side effect, I'm willing to put a few extra minutes into finding where my olive oil and potato masher have migrated to.
Basically, it is not outside the realm of possibility she would try to move the tree by herself. (Hell, she already did try that; I didn't find out about the tree-tipping until she told me the next morning.) Granted, this might result in a disaster of epic proportions. But at least it will be entertaining.
I feel rather steam-rollered by the last two weeks, so I am just going to post a recipe and note that I will be in Los Angeles from the 27th to the 3rd of January. Apparently Los Angeles is about two inches away from becoming the lost drowned city of Atlantis right now; I am just that good at picking travel times.
I have made five kinds of cookies in the last couple days, and I need to finish two cakes and a flan. Here is a completely unrelated recipe for fruited pork loin, which is pretty easy and very tasty. Whip it out at dinner parties if you want to look classy and competent.
Fruited Pork Loin with Compote
Makes about 4 to 6 servings
2 pork tenderloins (1 1/2 to 2 pounds total)*
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon granulated garlic
1/4 teaspoon salt (for the rub)
1/8 teaspoon salt (for the compote)
Freshly ground black pepper
Generous drizzle of olive oil, say a tablespoon
1 cup assorted dried fruit, chopped to about raisin size**
1 cup dry red wine
1/4 cup packed light brown sugar
1/2 cup diced shallots
2 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into 8 pieces
*I've done this recipe with one larger pork tenderloin and not suffered any ill effects. It all depends on what your grocery store is selling, I suppose.
**This can be damn near anything. Dried apples, plums, mangos, peaches, pears, figs, apricots, cherries, cranberries, blueberries, and raisins give you the best results, I think. Some others work, but can be overwhelmingly sweet or give a weird texture. I don't recommend pineapple, bananas, kiwi, or papaya for those reasons. If you use dates, take the pit out first. Chop the large fruit pieces; leave the raisins and berries whole. This is a good recipe for getting rid of the dried fruit no one wants to eat from the bottom of the cupboard or a holiday gift platter.
Directions:
Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.
Rinse the tenderloins and pat dry with paper towels. Cut away and discard the silver skin.
Combine the cloves, garlic, 1/4 teaspoon of the salt and the pepper to taste in a small bowl. Rub the mixture all over the tenderloin(s), using sensuous massage-like strokes until you've managed to weird out someone in the kitchen.
Heat the olive oil in a large, nonstick ovenproof skillet or shallow braising pan over medium-high heat. Add the tenderloins and sear until the meat is nicely browned on at least two sides. Transfer the skillet or pan to the oven. Roast for 20 to 25 minutes, until a thermometer inserted into the thickest part of the tenderloin registers 165 145 degrees.
Sidebar, if you please.
Look. We all know what they say about undercooked pork and trichinosis. I respect that. We also all know what they say about salmonella, and we still all eat raw cookie dough. The recipe originally calls for you to cook the pork until the temperature reaches 165 degrees; I am here to tell you that results in drier pork, and you will be just fine if you take the pork out at 145 degrees. It will be tender and juicy and barely pink, and you will appreciate it much more. (Hell, I take mine out at 140 degrees and I have not suffered any adverse effects yet. But I may just have pork-related super powers that have gone hereto yet unrecognized. You never know.)
But you are presumably in possession of free will, and you can take the pork out whenever you damn well please. However, I am just saying that I recommend 145 degrees.
Transfer the meat to a cutting board to rest while you make the fruit compote. Don't cut it up; you want the juices to stay sealed inside. Just cover it loosely with aluminum foil and leave it be. This is the pork's special alone time, and it is not to be disturbed.
Now: place the roasting pan with its juices and drippings over medium heat. If you need it, add another small drizzle of olive oil. Add the chopped shallots and cook for a couple of minutes, stirring until the they've softened and are translucent. Scrape up the savory browned bits from the bottom of the pan; I think there's an actual cooking term for them, but my dad has always just called them "the yummies" and I follow in his footsteps.
Add the chopped dried fruit and stir to incorporate it so it's all one big mess. Add the red wine, brown sugar and 1/8 teaspoon of salt. Stir some more. Increase the heat to medium-high and bring to a boil; cook, stirring occasionally, until the mixture has reduced by about a third. Reduce the heat to medium-low; whisk in a few cubes of the butter at a time, making sure the butter is well incorporated before adding the next few pieces. Otherwise, you have this great slop of butter separated within the compote, and it's not as delicious.
Taste, and adjust the seasonings as needed. Remove from heat.
Cut the pork into slices of even thickness and divide among individual plates or put it on one big serving plate, whatever you please. Spoon equal amounts of the compote over each individual portion, or you can put it in a bowl and let people just glob it over the pork themselves. Serve warm.
I would round this meal out with some green vegetable and oven roasted potatoes. I tend to just blanche some green beans until they’re crisp-tender (though you could also sauté some brussel sprouts, or stirfry some broccoli, or whatever floats your boat) and drizzle a little olive oil and some sea salt on them. Same thing with the potatoes-cut some potatoes up, toss with olive oil, salt, pepper, and garlic (and some rosemary, if you like the taste) and roast in the oven. I sometimes sauté some apples with brown sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg to go with it as well, just because I like pork with apples, but they're not necessary since you have the compote. You could always serve them for dessert over vanilla ice cream.
Hopefully, I will come back with lolpopes in a day or so.