A buddy of mine where I am now has a roommate… a young man from Miami. He had managed a quality restaurant before joining the Army.

Challenges have been thrown down. For the last few weeks we have been engaged in an all-out chef war. Our friends have been the beneficiaries. When we both don’t have late homework or other work to do during the week, we alternate cooking.

It’s been one culinary treat after another.

I did a smoked pork loin with a cabernet reduction with raspberries. He almost blindsided me with a planked salmon earlier this week. Then he upped the ante: ingredient challenge. Couscous. I don’t like couscous very much because it never tastes that good to me, but I’ve apparently only been trying the pre-flavored boxed stuff.

Tonight: roasted chicken breasts stuffed with couscous, pine nuts, sun-dried tomatoes and feta. A side of roasted asparagus. Dessert was a fresh berry custard. He tried to ding the presentation since a couple of grains of couscous wandered away to sit solo on an inappropriate part of the plate, but after taking a bite… he had to give it to me. Besides, the ladies were having none of it.

AWWW YEAH. Looking forward to what he pulls off next week.

However, my desserts are not the money-shot they should be at the end. The flavors are there, usually, but the goodness just lay there, not spurting up and out in tasteful abandon. Desserts are more science with a hint of finesse rather than a blend and chance to correct and enhance. So much of it requires faith. And patience. Once the ingredients are in place, all one can do is sit back and wait for the results some time later. Even when one sees the errors, nothing can be corrected. At best a pie or torte becomes a cobbler.

Recently, due to an influx of guests and some blueberry bushes that have been producing for the first time since I lived here, I’ve been working on it.

I have the pies down. I have them down cold. I can do pie.

I like pie.

And after sitting with 3 friends at my table last week, their plates topped with blueberry pie, we all took our first bite of what I had worked on and built up over a few days’ kitchen time and perfecting. Firm, but not thick, light and just sweet enough. And I received the most creative compliment on my cooking to this date. After his first bite, one of my guests looked at each of us, finally looking back down at his plate and said:

“I regret my childhood.”

Now let’s see if I can really figure out cakes.

But the days since coming back have been a combination of many things as I try to readjust to my world which is now forever changed. I do not have to return to work just yet as my “hand off” is not yet completed to my home unit. Tonight I went through the last of the paperwork and issued gear I have and put much of it away as needed. I can see another day this week will be spent further de-cluttering my cabin. I have way too much stuff. I’m also going to have to buy a few more ceiling-height bookshelves right away. I’m even turning off my phones later in the evening as I do need a break from the steady stream of calls by the time the moon has risen.

But the days have been amazing. Fall is coming to the mountains in a magnificent fog settling down in our souls. The quiet of the cabin seems so much more quiet. The scents of the woods so much stronger. I listen to music at a much lower volume. The comfy leather chair has become more insistent in its demand for napping patrons though I have resisted well, thanks to the discipline of being forbidden to sleep except between 2100 and 0430 hrs for the last couple of months.

I’ve not been able to thank everyone for all the support I received. Seriously, the amount of letters and cards took up so much space that there was no more room in my personal drawer in my wall locker. I ended up mailing 3 large padded envelopes full of letters home while still retaining a number of others. I handed off the leftover stamps to my battle buddies as they were continuing on to their advanced training while I was the only one allowed to leave to go home in the whole company.

I was truly blessed.

But, yes, in case you were wondering, some things had to be initiated. Last night was my first dinner at home.

Chicken Chevre… like a chicken parmesean, only I also stuffed and smeared the chicken breasts with goat cheese, and added a lot more balsamic vinegar and hearty burgundy reduction to the tomato sauce.

It was a little bit better than the chow hall, I would say.

It would so be overkill for someone like little ole me to tell you about someone as wonderful as she…but I will try. AWTM, all the peoples that I’ve met in this big, bad blodgeworld that mean anything at all to me, all think the world of you. Everyone. I’ve heard it, seen it, read it firsthand many times. You are one adored lady and I hope you are feeling the love on this lovely, sunny (in Texas) afternoon. Cheers, lady!

The Tamminator thought the way to your heart was via the AWTM family digestive tract, so here goes. Please keep in mind, I know something from our resident gourmet RSM would prolly turn out better, but I’m going kid friendly on this one:

Easy Chicken Pie

4 chix breasts boiled, 2 cups chix broth, 1 cup milk, 1 cup self rising flour, 1 stick oleo, 1 can cream of chix soup + veggies of choice

Combine broth & soup in baking dish. Add in cooked & diced chix. Add veggies if you wish (frozen green beans, carrots & corn make it look traditional in the end stages.) Mix flour, butter & milk and pour over the top. Add salt and pepper to taste. Bake at 375 for 1 hour.

Enjoy! and Happy Birthday!

But I found myself a ways away from the cabin around lunch, and close to my favorite sushi restaurant anywhere.

When I say this place has the best sushi I have eaten, I am not lying. I have eaten in California, Seattle, around most major cities, and nothing compares to this place in a little strip mall at the foothills of the mountains. Sushi is not just about the freshness of the fish, though that is a key component. The rice and even the way the fish is cut can affect the flavor. A bad white tuna tastes flat, fishy, and has a rubbery texture. A good piece cut at the right angle and just the right thickness is like a light version of the most tender of kobe beef soaked in butter. Decadent.

Today I sat quietly at the sushi bar, the only one there. Two of the four chefs were working lunch, one was my favorite of all of them. He was always too busy to talk the other times I had visited, but not today. I watched as his long knife cut the seaweed, his hands constantly being washed, then dipped in water, then shaping the rice. The many times I have been in before I have tried to catch his eye to say hi, to say I appreciated how well he worked. Sometimes I would, other times not.

Even in his white smock and white hat, always impeccably clean, he had a hard look about him. He seems almost unable to smile, his attempts at smiling looking almost dangerous, his eyes hard, and cold.

“Everything okay?” He asked when he had a moment to slow down as Chopin played gently on the speakers overhead.

“Yessir. Every time you make it, it is always outstanding.”

“Thank you,” he bowed, his heavy accent coming through his soft, but gravelly voice. “You sometime not here often.”

“Yes, I live 35 miles away up in the mountains.”

“Oh,” his eyes narrowed, harder. Analyzing. His brow wrinkling, gray hair at his temples bristling. “Why here for lunch?”

At that moment a regular patron wandered in and sat near me at the sushi bar. The wait staff came over and filled his water glass, exchanged his disposable chopsticks for some quality ones, and began asking about why he had been away lately. He liked the attention. I would, too, though my disposable chopsticks were fine. He began talking loudly about the new videogame he had started playing, some sort of fantasy role-playing quest. The chef’s eyes turned colder as the loud man stood up on his stool and stuck out his hand to shake the chef’s hand, which was engaged in rearranging the fish in the case. The chef shook his head no and issues a curt, “sorry.”

He moved closer towards me. “So why for lunch today?”

“I’m leaving for military training in a few days. I will be gone for at least a few months and I know I won’t be able to have any food this good while there.” Glasses in the seated area of the restaurant clinked away as new groups settled in at their tables. I enjoyed my little corner away from the crowd.

I began to notice the worry crease between his brows was not natural like mine, but rather inked in the green of an old tattoo. As his hands busied themselves, I saw characters that didn’t seem to be Japanese on his arms and hands. Then came another of his grimacing smiles, enough to frighten a child. “I train for military too. I miss it sometime.”

“The military?”

“No. Only training. I train in Thailand for one year.”

“That sounds great,” I added while he tore a strip of paper from the machine next to him detailing his next order. He dipped the paper in water and laid it on the second level of the counter in front of him.

“Is that where you learned about this?”

“No,” he said, his eyes losing focus, drifting to another place. “No, I learn fight.” He seemed to pause for a moment in thought, though his body did not slow down. I could see his physical presence while his mind abandoned this place for a vivid memory long past.

“…aaaaand the chicken chow mein and a couple of those sushi piece things,” the loud patron at the other end of the bar called out to the waitress.

I saw the chef come back to the moment, anger in his eyes that dissipated in a flash.

“Which army were you with if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Cambodia. After Thailand I fight in Cambodia. Seven years. It was bad time then. That war not good. I had to leave.”

“Seven years is a long time to be fighting.”

His eyes drifted again, harder, reviewing. “Yes. Too long.” He came back to the present for a moment, “What is your name, please?” I told him, he repeated it and tried to smile again.

“What about yours?” I asked.

“Tom.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Tom?” Another grin/grimace. “What’s your real name, if I may?”

“Sah-rhin.” I repeated it, attempting to mimic his intonation and accent as closely as possible. He nodded his approval at my pronunciation. “It easier for most people say Tom.”

“Thank you for trusting me Sah-rhin.”

I opened my fortune cookie. Okay, it’s not at all Japanese, but I’m eating sushi made by a Thai-trained Cambodian war fighter who probably witnessed, and, from the intensity of his gaze, may have participated in some horrible things. Inside were three fortunes:
Your family is young, gifted and attractive. – no comment. Not much of a family here.
You will soon be crossing great waters on a fun vacation. Well at least that means I won’t be deployed right away, unless the ’stan is turning into a tourist hotspot.
Your surrounding friends will take good care of you. Yes, I get the hint everyone, Michele, Chou, etc.

I laughed. “Three?” Sah-rhin asked. I tried to show them to him, but he said, “Oh no, I not read that small with bad eyes.”

I nodded.

“You come back again before you leave?” he asked as I signed the card slip for my meal.

“I don’t think I’ll have time.”

“Maybe you can. We talk more.”

“I will try, then.”

“It good we talk.” Perhaps I could hear more about the tattoos.

“Thank you, Sah-rhin,” I said with a slight bow. “I won’t forget your name.” He set down his knife, rinsed his hands and bowed towards me. Then he stepped forward, reached across the counter and presented his hand to shake. His grip was coarse, hard, firm, almost like the wall he placed around himself.

“Even if you not come back many month or year I not forget your name, RSM.”

I don’t doubt it.

So I will not present a cream cheese desert, oh no. I’ll not share a recipe for food. I’ll share a recipe for alcohol. If you want to celebrate the 4th as an adult, fix up some of these for your friends after the kids are tuckered out and sleeping. Raise one for me. I’ll be in-processing somewhere at an Army base near you.

You will need a shot glass and a spoon.

Pour clear Creme de Cacao into the shot glass to fill it about halfway. Turn the spoon over and gently pour red grenadine syrup over the spoon letting it drop down the side. It will settle on the bottom. Clean the spoon and again, with the spoon turned over, edge of the spoon against the side of the shot glass, gently, and very slowly, pour in Blue Curaçao. If the top layer mixes with the bottom layer, you will get permanent purple and lose the effect.

The effect is a red, white and blue shot of stuff that you take in one quick gulp. It ends up tasting like a chocolate-covered cherry with a hint of orange. Behold the Viking Medic with his very own:

Friend: Watcha doin’ for Memorial Day?

Me: Nothing special. Just got back from West Virginia at 2 am. Yardwork, clean out the Jeep. Fix some lunch.

Friend: What’s for lunch?

Me: Normal food.

Friend: Which means what to you?

Me: Sandwiches, maybe a tomato…

Friend: Which means what to you?

Me: A sandwich and a tomato…

Friend: Which means what to you?

Me: Fine. Shaved Boars’ Head roast beef on an open French roll with a smear of a mayo/pesto blend, topped with a cabernet soaked goat cheese, lightly broiled alongside a tomato stuffed with fresh basil, garlic, parmesean, and topped with mozarella …

Friend: That’s more like it.

Then, later…

(another) Friend: Alright, I need to whip up some dinner. Back in a bit.

Me: Get out those whips.

— Later —

Friend: Well that was a lot of work for about 5 minutes

Me: That’s what good foreplay is all about.

Friend (walking in, late in the evening): Who were you talking to?

Me: A friend of mine up in New York.

Friend: What was that about food?

Me: Oh, I made some plain country food. She wanted to know what.

Friend: … … … … plain? …

Me: Yeah. Shepherd’s Pie

Friend: …

Me: Alright, so I browned the beef lightly in caramelized sweet onions then stewed it in burgundy wine until it reduced down, fresh pepper and oregano, then a layer of baby swiss, sliced carrots, then the potato puree with roasted garlic and topped it with some cheddar, parsley and a little rosemary. Happy?

Friend: Not unless you still have some left over.

Friend: You doing okay? You haven’t seemed quite yourself lately.

Me: Things are a little rough, but I’ll be alright.

Friend: It’s just that there’s a lot of dishes in the sink and the trash has food boxes and stuff. Convenience-food food boxes.

Me: Yeah, I’ve not been eating at home as much but when I have, it’s just been something quick.

Friend: Want to go get some dinner?

Me: Nah, I feel like eating here. The food out there isn’t so great.

Friend: Macaroni? Pizza?

Me: I’m thinking simple: Grilled strips of lemon-marinated chicken thighs over a bed of orzo topped with gruyere and sauteed portobellos in a white wine reduction, maybe a side of steamed broccoli. Something quick.

Friend: Yeah, you’re sounding more like your old self.

Chicken Francese:

First off, the chicken breast. Most boneless breasts are too thick for proper cooking, so trim fat, lay flat and slice each breast parallel to the cutting board to make 2 thin-sliced breasts out of each half. In a non-stick skillet over medium high (absolutely not high) heat melt 1 tbsp of butter in 2 tbsp olive oil.

Set two bowls aside. In one bowl, mix 1 egg with a little milk. In the other bowl pour in some italian bread crumbs. Dip the breast in the egg, then bread crumbs then place in the skillet. Cook for about 5 minutes one side until golden brown but not burnt. Turn and complete the cooking. Set aside the cooked breasts on a warm, covered plate to let the meat rest. Do not overcook. There is a delicate balance between sufficiently cooked while still being tender and juicy and overcooking to stringiness.

In a very heavy bottomed sauce pot or pan, melt 2 tbsp butter on low-medium heat. Do not let the butter change color or scald. If it happens, toss it and try again. This makes a BIG difference in whether or not you have a bitter sauce. Add 1 tsp of finely chopped garlic (about 2-3 cloves worth.) Saute for only a few minutes. Let the garlic infuse, but do not apply enough heat to cause the garlic to brown. Keep stirring. Add 1 cup of chicken broth. If you are not going to use your own, try Better Than Bouillon brand stuff. Stir while adding 1/3-1/2 cup of semi-dry white wine. Bring the sauce to a very slow simmer. Add the juice of two large overripe lemons. Stir. The key to this sauce is to heat without any scalding or rolling boiling while making sure some of the alcohol in the wine has a chance to work its way out.

On a deep dish plate, place the chicken on a bed of pasta (fettuccine or farfalle). Just before serving, melt 2 more tbsp of butter in the sauce and blend well. Pour sauce over the dish, sprinkle on a little mozarella. Serve. The sauce will be very thin, but worth it. Make sure you have some extra toasted bread on hand. Someone will want it for the remaining sauce.

Had this for lunch today with a friend.
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Better Than Bouillon™ is a trademark of Superior Touch Products who in no way endorse or sponsor this blog. If they would like to, well, the reality is one of those jars lasts forever and I have a few already. But if you know the guys at CamelBak, maybe you could put in a good word?

Friend: yeah, I’m thinking it’s about dinner time.

Me: I’m a little hungry but I still have stuff to study so I’m gonna hang around the cabin.

Friend: yeah, some good ole fish sticks and tater tots.

Me: …

Friend: yummy

Me: …

Friend: Well?

Me: You’re just trying to goad me into including you in one of my overachiever posts.

Friend: Did it work?

Me: Not sure yet. I’ll tell you in about 20 minutes. I think the secret to achieving a really good chicken francese is to make sure the Chablis is a newer vintage before it matures and becomes more pointed and the lemons are several days old and almost overripe. I won’t know until the butter is clarified and infused in the sauce, then we’ll see if I have something to talk about.

Friend: bitch.

But yesterday I was pressed for time, so I thought I would give something else a shot. Frozen pizza? No. That stuff just rips out the lining in my mouth for some reason. I ended up getting a package of Complete Meals™ from Betty Crocker, some sort of cheesy chicken bake.

First a disclaimer: I know these packaged foods are ideal for many families with kids and working parents, and by working, I include those stay-at-home parents who work constantly. Children’s tastebuds can be odd and if you can prep a meal they will eat for a couple of kids in five minutes, go for it. In addition, $2.50 for a complete main dish? Bargain.

HOWEVER, good lord. First off, the meat and sauce come in a Progresso soup can, a can of which you will never find stocked in the soup aisle. I will say this: Whatever you do, avoid smelling the contents at any point. A large part of my cooking is done by scents. If I were to come across this smell partway through my own preparations, I would take the pot well out into the woods and bury it deeply, at least 300 yards away from a water source.

Then the tired sauce addition. Apparently the stuff in the can was part of a base sauce that had to be modified by a magic powder, kind of like what Kool-aid does to a pitcher of syrupy water. And some pasta and water, mix it all up, cover in foil and bake.

The smell never really goes away, it is only masked.

Once finished, you have to set it aside to “thicken.” In the medical world, we call that the early stages of clotting. Then a topping is added to give it that extra kick.

All in all, not bad, which means not good, either. If pressed for time, I’ll fix a sandwich. Instead I met a friend for a few games of Gin and dinner.

———-

™ Complete Meals is a trademark of Betty Crocker, which is owned by General Mills (who never served in the military, it turns out) who in no way endorse or sponsor the blog. If they would like to, however… you know what? never mind. Seriously. I even prefer Old Pioneer over Bisquick. Maybe you could throw a can or two of green beans at me, but that’s about it. Maybe some salsa. Thanks though. Talk to the guys at CamelBak if you have any connections, though.

Friend: yay. lunch. Grilled cheese and ramen

Me: um. yeah. raspberry and balsamic vinegars blended with feta & ricotta over pasta and chicken

Friend: you work with what ya got.

Me: Bow chicka bow wow.

Friend: Lunch soon, I think.

Me: I will concur. I still have some leftovers from last night.

Friend: I have little microwave chicken sandwiches only because I didn’t read the box and I thought it was a box of standard chicken patties.

Me: So I guess you don’t want any of this Rhamschnitzel with wine and sauteed mushrooms over wild and basmati rice and a side of dilled green beans?

Friend: I didn’t say that…

Me: I also threw together a quiche lorraine for breakfast.

Friend: Nap. Just going to take a nap…

However, I wanted some good food… so… traditional holiday fare around here:

Basic Turkey breast slow roasted on a rotisserie in a convection oven over several hours, still moist, rich and tender. Seasoned with sea salt from just outside my house when I was in the Caymans, fresh English Rosemary (a little milder than domestic) and thyme from the yard, lemons, a bit of butter and dry white wine. Stuffing… well, dressing, since it’s hard to stuff a spinning bird… includes homemade bread from last week, sage, thyme, garlic, shallots (all from the yard, of course), and some homemade chicken stock.

Fresh mushroom/wine sauce for the gravy a little less thick than my normal but still tasty. There is also a standard, traditional gravy with no mushrooms for the less sophisticated.

Side dishes include a different kind of green bean casserole with swiss and gruyere cheeses, sour cream, and NO condensed mushroom soup. Also, cranberry relish made from whole crandberries and no gel or can indentations. I never understood those, by they way… cranberry sauce is so incredibly easy to make, why go with the canned variety that tastes like chemicals and has a slight grit to it?

Also, sweet potatoes, of course, with standard salt, cinnamon, brown sugar, brandy, butter, and stuff. And the mashed potatoes. I’ve said it before, the French, for all their faults, know how to cook. And when it comes to doing mashed potatoes… or a puree, rather, they have it down. Mine come out so good that no one wants to put gravy on them. But it takes a lot of patience and a lot of arm and shoulder strength to do them right. It’s technique more than ingredients.

As an appetizer, roma tomato slices baked slowly under a low heat with fresh basil and garlic, drizzled in olive oil over goat cheese and toast.

For desert, a winemaker’s harvest cake with an odd combination of late season crimson-red grapes, olive oil and merlot. Not too sweet, not too rich, but still full of goodness.

A wide variety of beers, wines, fruit juices and sweet tea are also available, please be sure to tip your server.

I also take requests and have thrown together a raspberry torte for a couple, but no… not enough time for the slow-bake green beans. Maybe later this weekend.

And between my stray soldiers and my friends, I have had calls from all over the world. It’s truly a blessing to know these men and women. They are not forgotten on a day like this or any other day for as long as I live.