Mojakka: Finnish fish stew

In the liquor store, one is always confronted with the problem of authenticity: you want some hooch to get you pleasantly messed up, yet how to do it in a socially appropriate way? This sets the scene for my foray into the local liquor warehouse. I came across aquavit, that typically-Scandinavian liquor infused with the caraway flavor of rye bread. I've long been tempted by this unusual libation of my forebears (a Finnish great-grandma, should you care to know), so I picked up a bottle of Norwegian Akvavit.

Never one to leave well enough alone, I decided that an authentic Scandinavian meal was in order. What better than mojakka, a Finnish stew. Specifically, the chowderish mojakka that my mother made on occasion when she was feeling nostalgic for Grandma Pulla. (A sobriquet derived from a Finnish sweetbread, should you care to know.)

A quick google search lead me to the conclusion that mojakka is, indeed, the a Finnish generic for "stew." So, without further ado, Mike's semi-coherent recipe for mojakka, Finnish fish stew.

• Bacon
• Onion
• Celery
• Carrot
• Potatoes
  
• Milk
• Cream (if available)
• Fish

So. To pay homage to the French-heritage-of-all-cuisine, we'll start with mirepoix (onion, celery, carrot). In my case, one medium-ish onion, a beefy celery stalk, and two flimsy carrots. Dice.

Saute in fat, until translucent. I had a strip of bacon on hand (no really, just one strip), so I diced and added that to the olive oil a few minutes before the vegetables. Bacon has never ruined any dish, I am convinced.

Pile in a couple of diced potatoes, then barely cover with water or stock, adding a couple cloves if you have them. Simmer for 20 minutes.

Add cream if available (maybe 1/2 cup?) and milk (2 cups or so), then toss in your fish. I chose a 10oz package of frozen cod. Simmer for 15 minutes more.

If the broth looks a bit watery, add a few tablespoons cornstarch whisked with water, and simmer for 5 more minutes. Correct the salt/pepper ratio, and serve.

And that...is a good excuse to drink a lot of Akvavit and eat chowder. Bon appetit.

A Salty Margarita

It's been a while. There's been a lot going on for me, and a lot of margaritas have been downed in the process. My bud Jana reminded me of this last night, in her description of salty margarita popsicles. While I don't tend to take my margaritas salted or frozen, I think we've come up with a good formula for the classic tequila beverage. Our secret ingredient: homemade sour mix.

Mass-produced sour mix--that fluorescent mixture of ascorbic acid and high fructose corn syrup--is fine in a pinch, but we can do so much better.

Exhibit A.

Sour mix is simply lemon-lime juice with enough sugar and water to make it into a pleasantly tart syrup. The basic recipe we stick to is as follows:

• 1 part lemon juice
• 1 part lime juice
• 2 parts simple syrup

We'll come back to that last ingredient. To begin with, slice your lemons and juice into a large measuring cup. They typically have less juice, so you'll know the sort of proportions you'll be working with.

This is the kind of juicer you want.

I managed a cup of lemon juice, and a cup of lime. Now, time for the sweet ingredient: simple syrup. This incredibly useful bar ingredient is--er, simply--a mixture of sugar and water. I use a 1:1 ratio by volume, which yields slightly less than the sum of its parts since water replaces the air between the crystals. In theory, sugar will dissolve at room temperature with enough stirring. But we are lazy; a minute or so in the microwave will help things along.

Two cups simple syrup, going in.

And there you have it: homemade sour mix.

If your world looks like this, put down the glass.

Strained into an appropriate container:
an old tequila bottle. The circle of life!

So. Margaritas. Allegedly created in 1930s Mexico for a Hollywood starlet who found herself allergic to all alcohol, save that distilled from the agave plant. In a restaurant, you'll get a mug of commercial sour mix and a shot or two of tequila. I tend toward the smaller size of classic cocktails (4-6 ounces) and their more robust strength (50% or more full-proof liquor). There is an "authentic" 3:2:1 recipe you'll find everywhere (tequila:orange liqueur:lime), but I've never been able to sell people on it. Too limey, I'm told. And too sweet, I've found. (And: you will become well acquainted with your carpet if you use 80 proof Cointreau or Grand Marnier!) Enter the sour mix--the lemon-lime combination seems to smooth over the roughness of that blend.

Mike's Celebrated Margarita Recipe

• 1 part 100% agave tequila
• 1 - 1 1/2 parts sour mix
• 3 dashes orange bitters

A secret ingredient worth locating.

Shake (with plenty of ice) and pour into a chilled glass, or build in a small glass and stir for a solid 20 seconds (again, plenty of ice--fill the glass, then pour the drink around it). The homemade sour mix creates the right blend of sweet and sour, and the orange bitters replace the subtle orange hint that differentiates a margarita from a tequila rickey.


In the interest of science, I rimmed my glass with salt. Cheers!

Update: Pfffffthltltt!! There's salt in my drink! Jana, the salty margaritas are all yours :)

I <3 Julia Child

Meat glaze will keep for weeks under refrigeration. If it develops a few spots of mold, no harm is done. Pry it out of its jar, wash it under warm water. Then simmer it in a saucepan over low heat with a spoonful of water until it has again reduced to a thick syrup.

--Mastering the Art of French Cooking

I had forgotten how much I love Julia Child, until some internet link surfing took me to old videos of her on PBS. Such a wonderfully batty, Muppet-voiced old broad. And more than that: her cooking was the real deal. Much as Catherine de'Medici is said to have brought the culinary arts from Florence to the French court in the 16th century, so Julia Child--an ambassador's wife with ambitions beyond mere homemaking--brought the traditional techniques of the French chef to her American counterpart with the first printing of Mastering the Art in 1961.

In other words, I have a marinade for Coq au Vin going in the fridge, and it is on. My recipe is from the Balthazar Cookbook; updated a bit for modern palates: garlic by the head, bacon by the half-pound. But I'll be sure to say a few Hail Julias to that wonderful six-foot-something chef, in hopes that some good karma will extend to my coq. Pictures to follow.

And now...Julia in her later years, charmingly bickering with Jacques Pepin on their PBS series.

Jacques (to the camera): You know, with picnic like that, I love white wine, I love red wine, any type of wine is good with any type of picnic.

Julia (rummaging around in the background): I like beer.

In which I eat a Creature.

I tried to focus my attention on washing the dishes as the microwave whirred away, above and to the left, in its vacillating defrost setting. On, again. Off, again. On, again. As the smell of the sea began to fill the kitchen, my stomach tightened into a knot. Forget my usual cocktail-for-cooking--I needed a shot of liquid courage, manhood in a 2 ounce portion.

Happy Tequila, please live up to your name.

It's a rare occasion that I happen to eat a New Creature. Beef, chicken, pork, fish of many colors: been there, done that. But octopus...that's new. I'll discount my experiences chowing down on tako at the sushi bar, as it seems the main intention of sushi is to remove the portion as far from the animal as possible, into a neat rectangle of exotically-named protein. Perhaps this is unfair to sushi; in a way, all meat products are somewhat coyly named. My "chuck roasts" are, in fact, neat polygons of what once was a cow. The "white meat/dark meat" dichotomy was invented by Victorians too proper to say "breasts" and "thighs" at the family table.

But. There is something uniquely unsettling about a recipe that calls for an entire animal. "One standing rib roast" or "2 lbs. turkey thighs" I can understand. But "one octopus"? Even "one turkey" is code for "one headless, featherless, legless, disemboweled bird". I have a dead, frozen, octopus--in toto--gradually becoming flaccid in my microwave.


The creature is at the airlock door...

As I desperately focus my attention on scrubbing out a bread pan, my mind begins to ponder the uncanny valley that "meat that looks like itself" creates. Ohgodohgodohgodohgod. Octopuses are capable of learning. Let one watch another open a locked food box, and it will do the same--one time is all it takes. Scientists are giving them rubiks cubes. To watch how their legs manipulate them, but...well, you know where this is headed. Ohgodohgodohgodohgod.

I saute garlic and red pepper flakes.


There. Not so bad--just making dinner. I look over at the...thing...splayed out next to the stove.



Oh god. Groping quickly and inaccurately with the tongs, I plunge it into the hot oil. There. Now you're food!

It's moving! Why the hell did no one tell me it moves as it cooks?!

I burn myself as I place the covered pot into the oven. Clearly a sign of karmic retribution to come. Two hours later (the alcohol has long since taken effect)...

Haha! Not so bad now, all braised up, are you?

I plate up portions of this once-noble creature with appropriate fixins (glorified potato salad).


I'd love to say it was as wonderful as I remember when I had this dish at Babbo, in New York. But something was lacking...the flesh was sticky, the vinaigrette under-seasoned. Or perhaps, it was the taste of a guilty conscience. The end of the evening found me in the kitchen, absent-mindedly dunking leftover potatoes in the tangerine citronette, as the charred remains of an octopus gloated in the trash.

He's Just So Yummy

Obama Pops, via Serious Eats.

Fawn&Forest

Fawn&Forest is store designed to be a "starting point for parents to share the joys of good design with their children..."

But I want their stuff for me.

My Home Invasion

I really need to wash those, I told myself for the third time, as I shifted my weight and leaned up against the uncomfortable handle of the freezer door. It was approaching noon on a Monday morning; I'd yet to shower, shave, or do anything productive besides consuming the morning's blog posts with a side of strong coffee. This unemployment thing is not working for me.

I sighed, then caught sight of my grossly-distorted reflection in the curved surface of a dirty pot. I moved slowly to the left, then back to the right, watching the reflected homunculus wax and wane, sliding across the stock pot. Some facetious inner voice sniggered at me: So, Mike, you quit your job...for this.

Then I froze. Silently, purposefully, a figure had stepped behind me. Dressed all in black, he filled the distorted doorway in the distorted reflection. Jesus Christ. So this is a home invasion. My heart stopped beating; in sheer terror I held perfectly still, as if I could somehow will the intruder away. The refrigerator motor clicked off. The house was silent. I braced for the inevitable blow from behind.

Then the intruder brushed up between my legs and meowed plaintively, eying his food bowl. Stupid cat. Stupid parabolic reflector. I need to find a goddamn job.