Food for thought, wine for, well, you know what that's for

Ok, I was about to apologize for not writing anything for a whole day and a half, due to HORRIFIC stomach illness, but honestly, BFD, right? No one was too concerned, least of all me.

The world is ending, its all a big huge mess, and we should all feel guilty writing about anything that doesn't refer to some heavy-handed condemnation of the current non-government. Except. Umm. I don't really want to talk about those things, I'd really rather write a silly little post about my forays into French cuisine.

So forgive me gods of the bloggosphere for my callous disregard for human life (it isn't that my heart isn't bleeding, but I can only bleed so much, at least publicly, before returning to what the readers are tuned in for, Self-involvement 101 - and no, I wouldn't dream of spending thousands on shoes at a time like this, especially if my presence were actually required by anyone of import).
And speaking of which, a big drum roll please... Thanks to Oscar and Dean for inviting me to participate in their non-political, non-personal (so far), fabulously self-referential meta-bloggerature site "De blogeros y blogs" if only to give me an excuse to post occasionally in Spanish (my adopted tongue). [end of shameless self-promotion... I am really a different person in Spanish, curious.]

So what are the French good for? if not great wine, food and sex... and er... maybe I'll stop there.

I rarely call to talk to my dad. I love him, for sure, but the phone conversations with him generally are distilled down to a few distracted grunts and then an apologetic excuse that he has a lot of work to do (which in his case is always true). No, Mom is the one who calls several times a week, hoping for a videochat with the girlchild, but usually catching us just as we are headed out the door for dinner at a friend's (this has happened, quite literally, four times just this week). But, the two nights that I actually dedicated to food preparation were both virgin attempts at French dishes, and frankly, they were not half bad.

Wednesday night, after spending our requisite three hours at the rec cen (I read La Celestina while I. splashed about in the kiddie pool) we discovered that once again I had left my keys dangling in the ignition and locked all the doors. I really must be a certified moron, or just highly distractable? So while we waited for M. to come and rescue us, I. climbed the car and I machinated dinner plans. What can you do with fresh mushrooms, chicken breast and a bottle of two-week-old wine? Survey says:

Coq au vin.
Dad is the French chef, and unlike with my mother, cooking is not a social experience that involves shared responsibilities, but rather is a solitary expression of one's culinary genius. I called for the recipe and explained that I didn't need the real recipe, just a rough outline because I was locked out of my car with no writing utensil and a slightly faulty memory (as evidenced by my lack of ability to remember to remove aforementioned keys before locking).
He procured his recipe book and shot.

This is how it turned out:
Sauteed chiken breast in a few tablespoons of salted butter (it calls for bacon but that is not a product that I ever buy, and I wasn't going to start then). Browned the breasts in a heavy stockpot, and then took a large onion (quartered) and mushrooms, sauteeing as well. Added a mix of poultry seasonings including rosemary, thyme, black pepper, salt etc. Poured half a bottle of Shiraz, and a quart of consomé. Boiled for a good fifteen minutes. Great save.

Thursday night: starving, foodless, grumpy. The only available protein were scads of frozen seafood products. Rock-solid, six o'clock. I search through the wonderful reference that Laura gave us for Hanukkah in 2000 (I still use it!) How to cook everything (Mark Bittman). I am not a big cook-book user, but I find this useful not for following ingredient for ingredient, but rather as a general procedural and technical guide, as well as for its host of ideas.

Bouillabaisse

I had a pound of frozen filet of sole (which I had been meaning to make into a Florentine - spinach, sour cream etc. but never got around to), frozen shrimp, scallops and calamari. What to make??? Well I quickly abandoned the procedure that the recipe called for, but rather boiled the frozen fish in water with salt and two split cloves of garlic for the broth base. Then in a another pot, I sauteed chopped onion (1 1/2) two bay leaves, garlic powder and salt until the onion became translucent, at which point I added a can of (I know I cheated) peeled plum tomatoes that had been seasoned with fresh basil. To this, a dash of salt and pepper, and the contents of the other pot, in its entirety. The fish flaked apart just as I had hoped. I added the frozen shrimp and scallops and let it simmer for a good 10 minutes, while adding another half jar of strained, jarred tomato puree and a few cups of yet another (different) Shiraz, in order to make it more robust. About five minutes before the end, I added the calamari (they get tough if cooked too long), and parsley (harvested from the Kibbutz on which my brother lived) only to discover that we had been invited to dinner at Liber and Laura's house, and that my cooking had been in vain! Ah well, this sort of a stew does better with a few days under its belt, and was perfect tonight for a shared meal with Kirsten, Peregrine and her mom, after a relaxing day at the beach.