Adventures with Pork

I've never bought one of these things before, but I was feeling cocky. . .It's a bone-in picnic roast.  Cooking it was not a picnic.

If I hadn't consulted Julia, it probably would have been fine.  First off she told me, "The flavors of a marinade will penetrate pork more thoroughly if the meat is boned."

"Oh, great," I muttered.  I could foresee trouble as my butcher skills are practically non-existent.  I would have to find a recipe that didn't require marinating.

I pushed onward.  Julia described the different pork cuts.  Mine was next to last in the long list.  I read,

 "Picnic Shoulder or Shoulder Arm--No French equivalent."

  Ouch!  What an insult!

She went on to explain "part of it is palette; part is jambonneau."

I don't know what those words mean, but apparently my pork shoulder is some kind of half-breed, not worthy of a French equivalent.  My heart was sinking.  Then Julia moved in for the kill:

"This is lean meat and should be boned," 

How did she know I was looking for ways to get out of shoulder surgery? Drat and double drat!   Heaving a sigh, I resigned myself to the grisly ordeal.

Slowly, I inserted my knife into the meat alongside the bone and started working my way around it.  I pushed and sawed and hacked my way through until I conquered it at last.  It took me about ten minutes.

  

My poor roast certainly wasn't going to be featured in Bon Appetit.

Why butchers wear aprons.

Oh, well.  I proceeded to make up the marinade that Julia said was her favorite.  It was really a dry rub.  I tried grinding it with a mortar and pestle.  After three minutes of totally wasted effort, I got out the little electric spice mill.  Did you know that if you get in a hurry and take the lid off before the blade is completely done spinning,  you will be enveloped in a spice cloud, which will make you sneeze. (Yes, peppercorns.) Then the cloud rains on your countertop, appliances, and floor.

   Once I had the spice mixture rubbed in, I went to get my favorite huge yellow Tupperware bowl with the plastic lid.  I was going to put the roast in there and leave it in the refrigerator overnight.  I peered into the cabinet and found the bowl but no lid.  I got down on my hands and knees and rifled through the contents of the cabinet.  Still no lid.  

All of a sudden, I remembered where I had seen it last.  It was not the kitchen.

I went out to the garage and peered into the cat food can.

No lid.

I lifted out the bag of cat food.

No lid.

I poked all around the vicinity.

No lid.

Baffled, I went back to the kitchen.  While at the sink washing my hands, I spotted something out of the corner of my left eye.  No, it wasn't.  It couldn't be.  

It was. 

I must have brought it in recently to wash?  I don't remember.

At last I got the roast installed in the refrigerator.  Oh, the relief!  It was like I used to feel when Nathaniel was a toddler and I finally got him to bed for the night.

Thankfully, the rest of the preparation went smoothly, and I was pleased with the final result.  

The Glorious Fish Soup

Nathaniel and Emma were not looking forward to making fish soup at cooking class yesterday. In fact everyone dreaded it, fearing the "fishy" taste. It turned out beautifully, though. They used four different fish: a red snapper, a cod, a basa, and a tilapia. These were removed from the finished soup and served separately. Emma decided that she liked all of them and had seconds. Nathaniel's favorite was the red snapper, I believe.

This finishes the soups that we will cover. Next week we are meeting at our house and have a guest teacher, a baker. (She used to bake for the tea room where Emma is going today for a birthday party.) The students will learn how to make pizza.

Cooking as Celebration

"I, for one, would much rather swoon over a few thin slices of prime beefsteak, or one small serving of chocolate mousse, or a sliver of foie gras than indulge to the full on such nonentities as fat-free gelatin puddings.

. . .The pleasures of the table--that lovely old-fashioned phrase--depict food as an art form, as a delightful part of civilized life. In spite of food fads, fitness programs, and health concerns, we must never lose sight of a beautifully conceived meal."--Julia Child, The Way to Cook

I enthusiastically read this quote to Emma yesterday morning. When Nathaniel joined us at the breakfast table, Emma asked him, "Guess what happened?" His eyebrows shot up, and he answered with a question, "The Dow? (stock market)"

"No, silly," Emma explained. "Mom's fallen in love with Julia Child."

It is true. I've never watched her television shows, but I have been looking for a systematic approach to learning how to cook. I decided that I would check out The Joy of Cooking and Mastering the Art of French Cooking from the library. The latter is Julia Child's classic work, volume 1 of which was published in 1961. It was not on the shelf, but I did grab her more recent book, The Way to Cook. As I was checking out, I lamented to the librarian that The Art of French Cooking was not on the shelf. The other librarian at the desk asked me if I had read Julia Child's book, My Life In France. I told her that I hadn't heard of it, but I was interested. She leapt from her chair and procured it for me. I haven't been able to put it down. It details how she learned how to cook after she and her husband moved to Paris in the fall of 1948. She was already 36 years old! That one fact encouraged me considerably.

More than that, though, is the overwhelming catholicity of her approach to life, though as far as I can tell so far, she was not religious at all and leaned left politically. She rejected the American style of doing business where the primary goal is profit and embraced the French style based on the careful building of relationships. She gave this example: "Once, a French friend took us to a wonderful little cafe' on the Right Bank--the kind of out-of-the-way place one needs a local guide to find--and introduced us to the proprietress. 'I've brought you some new customers!' our friend proudly said. With hardly a glance in our direction, Madam waved a hand, saying, 'Oh no, I have enough customers already. . .' Such a response would be unimaginable in the USA."

I look forward to getting to the point in the book that recounts the writing of The Art of French Cooking, which was a collaboration with gourmettes, Simone Beck and Louisette Bertholle.

I do like The Way to Cook. It teaches you a master recipe for something and then all the variations that you make once you know it. It uses modern conveniences like the food processor and has lots of color pictures, which I really appreciate in a cookbook. Still, I plan to buy The Art of French Cooking. I want to learn, and I want my children to learn, the "pleasures of the table" the way that Julia Child learned them.