Monday, October 25, 2004
Something in the Air
It's not every day and it's definitely not every Monday that one walks out of one's house's door and is greeted by a caterwaul of cats. Five on the porch. Two on the steps. Three pseudo-hiding in the bushes. And the mother-of-all-cats perched precipitously on the lid of our garbage can.
All staring. All with that crazed look only cats get when there's a juicey meal to be had. Whiskers were alive, full tilt boogie.
What the ?!?!?!?!
And then the disaster of last night's dinner came back to me, awash in the continuing airs wafting from my kitchen and the aforementioned trash can.
Sunday was "Gourmet Night."
As the years depreciate the taste buds, rubbing those little sensory nubs on your tongue until they are flush, spices are the last resort to a memorable meal. Paprika, cayenne, curry powder, sage, chili powder. They are the Viagra of eating pleasure. So, while driving home on Thursday, I was listening to The World on our local NPR station. Sprinkled amongst the usual stories of the downtrodden, unlucky, cursed people or countries, food somehow came up. Two recipes came up for discussion. One item, Clay Pot Pork stuck out. Something to foist on the family on Sunday, the only day of the week where the proper amount of time could be spent on actually cooking a meal in the correct way.
Along with the main ingredient, pork shoulder garlic, pepper, scallions, shallot, and chicken broth Vietnamese Fish Sauce were also called for in this dish. The recipe stated that any fish sauce was fine, but Vietnamese Fish Sauce was the Thing. that seperated this dish from your pedestrian pork dish. Scroungin around our local Far East shoppeteria, I came upon the sauce, "Viet Huong Three Crabs Fish Sauce" to be specific. The smile (dare I say the "mysterious smile") of the shop's owner shuold have tipped me off when I was checking my purchases out. I misinterpreted it as recognition of a fabulous meal soon to be had.
"To be had" is what I should have come away with. In the course of the meal preparations, visions of the pig came to me. It was laughing at me, "Poor fool, you really don't know what you're in for." Two hours later, the pork shoulder was finally cleaned and seperated from the enwrapping fat. The off-putting sweet smell would soon be gone, I thought, by the spices. The fabulous spices. The fam would be ecstatic with the results!
O.K.
Carmelize the sugar.
Pour in (gently!!) the chicken broth.
Throw in the spices.
Open the Viet Huong Three Crabs Fish Sauce (after freeing the bottle from the encasing plastic. No wonder dolphins are killed by this plastic netting. Only multiple sets of knives will free the glass from the wrapper).
I reeled.
I shimmy-shammied.
I believe I even did the Watusi.
I'd fallen into the full-to-the-brim hull of a fish factory ship.
The odor exploded out of the bottle and invaded the house. Plants were wilting. Our newly painted dining room was turning form Mustard Yellow to Vomit Green. I heard a muffled sound as a stampede of cockroaches headed next door.
I must be oversensitive. Or had the fish sauce gone bad? Trudging onward, I picked myself up off of the floor, steadied my hand, measured out 2/3 cup of the vile juice, and dropped it into the mixture.
Heat! Heat and time will do the trick, I supposed. Covering the dutch oven with it's heavy lid, I crawled out of the kitchen. Hopefully, the smell would rise and my position, kissin gthe floorboards, would offer some succor from the nasal onslought.
Three hours later, the pork was done. Or I awoke. One of these. I empathized with my neighbours north of the Delaware state line. They lived amongst the mushroom growers, a fecund spot of olifactory overload, if there ever was one. If they could get used to their overpowering airs, so could I.
Unfortunatley, I forgot my family had been out of the house during this dining debacle. Their arrival came with loud coughs and "What happened"'s. Acclimitization was not a pleasant 30 minute ordeal. I called ABC Rentals to see if they had Diver's Tanks available, but I forgot it was Sunday. They were probably at home cooking an edible meal.
The short of it all? The pork actually tasted fabulous. Who would have thought that mixing a pig with a chicken and a fish (anchovy) would have resulted in such a tasty piece of meat. But the house? It's still in sensory shock.
The balance of the Viet Huong Three Crabs Fish Sauce?
It went the way of your normal dead aquarium fish, down the porcelain subway.
The bottle?
Out in the trash bin; no recycling for that baby.
The cats?
I went to work, leaving them moaning and mewing about the fish that got away.
It's not every day and it's definitely not every Monday that one walks out of one's house's door and is greeted by a caterwaul of cats. Five on the porch. Two on the steps. Three pseudo-hiding in the bushes. And the mother-of-all-cats perched precipitously on the lid of our garbage can.
All staring. All with that crazed look only cats get when there's a juicey meal to be had. Whiskers were alive, full tilt boogie.
What the ?!?!?!?!
And then the disaster of last night's dinner came back to me, awash in the continuing airs wafting from my kitchen and the aforementioned trash can.
Sunday was "Gourmet Night."
As the years depreciate the taste buds, rubbing those little sensory nubs on your tongue until they are flush, spices are the last resort to a memorable meal. Paprika, cayenne, curry powder, sage, chili powder. They are the Viagra of eating pleasure. So, while driving home on Thursday, I was listening to The World on our local NPR station. Sprinkled amongst the usual stories of the downtrodden, unlucky, cursed people or countries, food somehow came up. Two recipes came up for discussion. One item, Clay Pot Pork stuck out. Something to foist on the family on Sunday, the only day of the week where the proper amount of time could be spent on actually cooking a meal in the correct way.
Along with the main ingredient, pork shoulder garlic, pepper, scallions, shallot, and chicken broth Vietnamese Fish Sauce were also called for in this dish. The recipe stated that any fish sauce was fine, but Vietnamese Fish Sauce was the Thing. that seperated this dish from your pedestrian pork dish. Scroungin around our local Far East shoppeteria, I came upon the sauce, "Viet Huong Three Crabs Fish Sauce" to be specific. The smile (dare I say the "mysterious smile") of the shop's owner shuold have tipped me off when I was checking my purchases out. I misinterpreted it as recognition of a fabulous meal soon to be had.
"To be had" is what I should have come away with. In the course of the meal preparations, visions of the pig came to me. It was laughing at me, "Poor fool, you really don't know what you're in for." Two hours later, the pork shoulder was finally cleaned and seperated from the enwrapping fat. The off-putting sweet smell would soon be gone, I thought, by the spices. The fabulous spices. The fam would be ecstatic with the results!
O.K.
Carmelize the sugar.
Pour in (gently!!) the chicken broth.
Throw in the spices.
Open the Viet Huong Three Crabs Fish Sauce (after freeing the bottle from the encasing plastic. No wonder dolphins are killed by this plastic netting. Only multiple sets of knives will free the glass from the wrapper).
I reeled.
I shimmy-shammied.
I believe I even did the Watusi.
I'd fallen into the full-to-the-brim hull of a fish factory ship.
The odor exploded out of the bottle and invaded the house. Plants were wilting. Our newly painted dining room was turning form Mustard Yellow to Vomit Green. I heard a muffled sound as a stampede of cockroaches headed next door.
I must be oversensitive. Or had the fish sauce gone bad? Trudging onward, I picked myself up off of the floor, steadied my hand, measured out 2/3 cup of the vile juice, and dropped it into the mixture.
Heat! Heat and time will do the trick, I supposed. Covering the dutch oven with it's heavy lid, I crawled out of the kitchen. Hopefully, the smell would rise and my position, kissin gthe floorboards, would offer some succor from the nasal onslought.
Three hours later, the pork was done. Or I awoke. One of these. I empathized with my neighbours north of the Delaware state line. They lived amongst the mushroom growers, a fecund spot of olifactory overload, if there ever was one. If they could get used to their overpowering airs, so could I.
Unfortunatley, I forgot my family had been out of the house during this dining debacle. Their arrival came with loud coughs and "What happened"'s. Acclimitization was not a pleasant 30 minute ordeal. I called ABC Rentals to see if they had Diver's Tanks available, but I forgot it was Sunday. They were probably at home cooking an edible meal.
The short of it all? The pork actually tasted fabulous. Who would have thought that mixing a pig with a chicken and a fish (anchovy) would have resulted in such a tasty piece of meat. But the house? It's still in sensory shock.
The balance of the Viet Huong Three Crabs Fish Sauce?
It went the way of your normal dead aquarium fish, down the porcelain subway.
The bottle?
Out in the trash bin; no recycling for that baby.
The cats?
I went to work, leaving them moaning and mewing about the fish that got away.
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