Brandon Eats

Fuck crack pie.

Although I shouldn’t have been surprised, Christina Tosi’s recipe is one of the most time-consuming, odd ingredient-demanding culinary enterprises I’ve embarked upon lately.

Probably the most frustrating thing about it is that I knew it would be like this before I began. All you have to do is read the recipe, which is, in fact, three recipes nested within one.

David Chang’s Momofuku cookbook is exactly the same — filled with recipes that involve making at least two or three other things and that send you to several different stores to obtain all of the different ingredients before you can even start making it. I once made kimchi soup (first I made my own kimchi two weeks before) which involved visits to the Korean market across the river, Belmont Butchery, and the regular old grocery store. It then took two days — and my family said it was “fine.” Same with Chang’s fried chicken; they liked it okay, but they liked regular fried chicken much better, they said.

I knew this starting out. But I was dying to try Milkbar’s crack pie.

More after the jump. Lots more.

Take my word for it, it tastes better than it looks.

I haven’t made meatloaf in twenty years, probably. You have to compromise when you’re in a relationship, and these are the foods that I like but rarely, if ever, cook because my husband doesn’t like them:

Meatloaf
Pot roast
Beef stew
Peas
Lima beans

His compromise? No Indian food, not ever, not even a walk past an Indian restaurant on the way to somewhere else to have dinner. And green peppers. It seems fair to me — I get to eliminate an entire country’s cuisine (and green peppers) in exchange for giving up some pretty unexciting food.

(However, I have held firm at asparagus. Like a ROCK. I will never give up asparagus nor stop cooking it once a week while it’s in season even if I’m eating all of the leftovers on everyone’s plate each time. Commonsense might suggest that I simply make myself an extra, extra-large helping of asparagus and leave everyone else alone, but I’m convinced they’ll come around one day.)

I make beef stew once in a while when my husband goes out of town in the winter, and he likes this one okay. I really didn’t think too much about the other food I don’t make anymore, until I started flipping through Amanda Hesser and Merrill Stubbs’ The Food52 Cookbook.  If you don’t know about the Food52 site, head over there right after you finish reading this post. If I let you leave now, you won’t come back. It’s a community-based food site — home cooks contribute recipes, others try them out and then everyone votes on them in weekly contests. The winning recipes were compiled in this cookbook (actually, the site’s second). It’s social, there’s lots of food porn-y photography and the recipes are excellent. I spend far too much time there.

So, I’m flipping through the cookbook, and I came upon meatloaf with blackberry barbecue sauce. And my mouth began to water. It also made me think — because it’s topped with an unusual, spicy blackberry sauce, the meatloafiness of the meatloaf might be mitigated, and with the word “barbecue” thrown in, possibly the first word, “meatloaf,” would be forgotten about entirely.

More (plus a link to the recipe) after the jump.

I may be from the South, but I never was a bourbon drinker. Actually, I don’t drink a lot of liquor because I’m a relative lightweight when it comes to alcohol. I’m a sipper — a serial sipper, and if I get drunk too fast, then I have to stop drinking long before everyone else does. I will then start to demand to go home because I’ll be getting sleepy and also why continue to stay out when you could be at home in your pajamas?

And you know, that’s annoying.

However, a few years ago after Christmas, I began to go through eggnog withdrawal. I started searching for other recipes like the Tom and Jerry  or the flip, sort of ur-nogs.  After trying them, I realized that what I liked about eggnog wasn’t the nutmeggy milkiness I expected, but the bourbon — which was missing in the drinks I'd found.

With that realization, I became a convert. Much to the astonishment of my husband, who thinks bourbon is moderately vile (although he drinks his share of eggnog) and unnecessary. From his perspective, throughout most of our marriage I've been a person who didn't drink brown liquors, and now, without warning, I’ve become a bourbon drinker. He sees it as an affectation, I think.

More (plus a recipe) after the jump.

A repost — I know it's a cheat for someone who hasn't posted for so long, but I am posting over at Broken Eggs, you know. I wrote this so long ago we forgotten all about it, haven't we? At any rate, it's what I'm having for dinner.

Never underestimate the ability of a recipe to fail miserably. You can follow the directions, choose your ingredients with care, watch the clock carefully, and still — landfill fodder.  Even such a venerable publication as Gourmet gets it wrong sometimes.

In the latest issue of Gourmet (which features models instead of food on the cover--I flipped through diligently to see if Quebeçois chefs were as gorgeous as they are talented, but apparently they're just as ordinary-looking as our chefs and didn't make the cut for the cover), an article promising quick and easy meals was obvious bait and I, of course, fell for it. 

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