When is a cake not just a cake?

During my dark period, before I met my wife, I flirted with vegetarianism.  People that know me today are stupefied to hear this.  “You!?!?!  A vegetarian?!?!?”, they exclaim.  In truth, I fell into it as sort of a knee-jerk reaction following the results of blood work from an annual physical when I was twenty-seven.  At the time my cholesterol was a staggering 309.  I was like, “What the…..I’ll be dead by the time I’m forty!”. 

So out of desperation, I devised a solution.  I came up with the idea of eating a mostly low fat, mostly vegetarian diet.  And for the next three years (until I met my wife, who as you know became my own personal food-messiah), I was dialed in on miserly watching every gram of fat that went into my body.  I’d eat fish or chicken every so often, but most of what I put into my body consisted of plant matter and other flora.  Those who know me, know that when I get “into” something, I don’t do it half-assed.  Even a brief trend can become an all-consuming venture.  I was so obsessed with eliminating that fiendish, life-ending fat from my diet, that someone looking from the outside in might conclude that I was in the throws of some type of wacked-out eating disorder.  It was difficult.  It was miserable.  It was a completely banal way to live.  It’s no wonder that certain vegan-types are so easily angered and confrontational.  They (like me back then) miss out on all of the things that make life worth living, and their souls suffer for it.  What specifically brought me back from the brink?  Be patient, the answer is right around the corner.

As I said a few posts back, culinary salvation was in my future, and this three-year “monastic period” of my life came to a screeching halt upon hearing those wondrous words on my thirtieth birthday, “I made you a chocolate cake from scratch using my mom’s special recipe.  You gotta try this”.  As I look back, I’m certain that the Big Three-Oh was my tipping point.   Sure, The Wife (then, The Girlfriend) had graciously and lovingly stuck to my dietary conventions and made me grilled chicken and a dry baked potato as my birthday meal, as per my request.  But the cake…..god dammit, I didn’t ask for this!  She had to tempt me with a fucking cake? 

As she brought it out and placed it on the table, I desperately stared at it for a brief second.  I took in the slight imperfections in it’s symmetry that are commonplace when you make a cake from scratch.  But that comes with the territory.  You want your cake to look perfect, open a box of Duncan Fucking Hines, Jack.  It looked soooooo tempting.  Why was she doing this to me?  This was like offering a now-clean Nikki Sixx a huge eight-ball.  I found myself in an amazing quandary.  Did I stick to my kooky regimen and say, “Nah, I can’t.” and risk hurting my girlfriend’s feelings?  Did I want my birthday dinner to be the last time I every set foot in her apartment?  Would she give me the gate and kick me to the curb because I was a stubborn, insensitive, obsessive-compulsive psycho mess?  Was there a restraining order in my future?  I looked at that amazing little chocolate-iced creation in front of me, and quipped, “Yeah, I guess I could try a SMALL piece.”.   

I hadn’t even swallowed the first bite, and I was abundantly aware that it was all over for me and this futile pseudo-vegetarian adventure that I had attempted.  I knew that at that moment I had been brought back to the world of the living.  She hadn’t fed me the end result of just ANY chocolate cake recipe.  This was perhaps THE single greatest chocolate cake recipe of all time.  Right away, I noticed the moistness and the amazing mouth-feel of it all.  I was then hit with an incredibly intense chocolate taste.   Sure, there have indeed been other food experiences in my life that have had a similar immediate impact in shaping my culinary condition.  My first beer and wurst while studying abroad in Vienna; my first time trying sushi; my first sampling of hummus at Amer’s in Ann Arbor; the Kobe strip loin I had in Stratford, Ontario; the veal sweetbreads I tried in Burgundy.  All are awesome experiences and memories.   But none of them compare, or were as an impactful watershed moment as the birthday cake that I ate on my thirtieth birthday.  That evening, as I sat at my then-girlfriend’s kitchen table, in her tiny third-floor apartment on a sweltering August night, I could feel the pendulum swinging back toward me. Said pendulum was once again heading in the “right” direction, and I knew emphatically that the last three-odd years of my life had been a mistake.  A well-intentioned mistake, but a mistake nonetheless.   

Every year since, for the past twelve years, I request the exact same cake on my birthday.  Some years my wife makes it.  Some years my mother-in-law makes it.  But if I had to skip having this cake, I’d probably prefer to skip having a birthday.  Who says getting older has to be all bad?  And nothing helps cushion the blow of being on the wrong side of forty like chocolate cake.  Lesson learned.

Chew on that!
T.S.G.

Tough day at the office? Try this: mustard crusted rack of lamb!

Disclaimer:  This is a favorite recipe that The Wife and I prepare quite often.  It was originally one that The Papa Bear of all gluttons, Emeril Lagasse had demonstrated on one of his Food Network Cooking shows.  If his short lived bomb-sitcom had one iota of the magic of this recipe, it would have made MASH or Seinfeld look like Cop Rock.  Trust me on this one, this recipe is a home run!

Cook time: About an hour.

Ingredients

• 1 rack of lamb, trimmed (about 1 1/2 pounds)
• 3/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
• 1 tablespoons vegetable oil
• 2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
• 2 teaspoons minced garlic
• 1/4 cup seasoned bread crumbs
• 2 tablespoons grated Parmigiano Reggiano cheese (It’s KEY that you use the REAL stuff – FROM ITALY.  Trust me on this.)

Note:  This recipe ALSO works well with the loin chops, as well as the rack; but the rack is the preferred cut of lamb to use.  Overall, it’s pretty simple to execute.  Any fool can pull it off.

If you have a dog, and he/she’s like ours, once the lamb comes out of the packaging, your dog will go nuts.  When our dog smells all that gamey, meaty goodness she starts gleefully howling like she’s being tortured.  It’s not that the smell is THAT strong to the human nose, but to the canine nose it inspires a reaction somewhat akin to a sorority girl smelling a generous amount of Drakar Nior on a trust fund, pre-med frat boy.  So…..

Season the rack of lamb well on all sides with salt and pepper. Heat a medium skillet over high heat and, when hot, add the oil. When the oil is almost smoking, add the rack of lamb and brown well on all sides for about 4 - 6 minutes. Transfer the lamb to a plate and set aside to cool slightly before proceeding.  Depending on how you want to pull this off, you can section off the lamb into little chops.  We prefer to section them each into a chop containing three rib sections.  Or you can simply leave them intact.  It’s you’re choice.

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees F.

Combine the minced garlic and the mustard together in a small bowl, and then generously spread them onto the lamb.  The back of a spoon can work, but my wife prefers to simply use her hands.

In a small mixing bowl combine the breadcrumbs and grated cheese and mix/toss together thoroughly. Using your hands or a spoon, spread the breadcrumb mixture evenly all over the lamb, pressing so that the crumbs adhere to the meat.

Place the rack of lamb on a baking sheet and bake for 12 to 15 minutes for medium-rare. Allow lamb to sit for 5 to 10 minutes before carving or serving.

As for side dishes, we like to serve roasted baby or fingerling potatoes with a dusting of rosemary and olive oil; along with steamed FRESH green beans with this dish.  The lamb itself is pretty rich and a similarly rich side dish would simply be too over the top.

As for a wine pairing, we really like Montes Alpha Cabernet Sauvignon.  It’s Chilean, and it can be found for under $20.  If you want to spend more money, one of the BETTER California Cabernets will work.  A red Bordeaux that’s mostly Cabernet based will also work.  But why bother with those expensive choices when Montes Alpha is already a complete slam dunk with this dish. 

Chew on that!
T.S.G.

Eric Straton. Rush Chairman. Damn glad to meet you!

I christen thee, “The Snarky Glutton”: a blog for the intrepid food reader and the adventurous palate.    I was once like you.  Misguided, confused, a dedicated consumer of microwave dinners, canned food, and meals at schlock-on-the-wall chain restaurants.  Then along came my wife (or at least the woman who eventually became my wife), and everything changed.  Among all the great things that were woven into the tapestry of my life from the moment I was able to con my way into a second date with her, culinaria seems to figure into our relationship as one of the most prominent elements.  I’m not going to force feed you any of this sappy, contrived Jerry Maguire “you complete me” bullshit, but my wife had me at, “I’ll take my rib eye rare-plus.”   

So Baby, thanks for pulling me back from the brink of food-oblivion.   Thanks for eleven years of (mostly) wedded bliss.  And thanks for not smothering me in my sleep with a pillow during those rare, less-than-blissful moments.  I dedicate this blog (and my elevated cholesterol levels) to you.   You’re the best, Kid!  Are we doing cassoulet this Sunday?