maggiethecat

Thank you for all your terrific ideas---all of them sound wonderful. A Braise of Brisket....hmmm. (I know who put it there! He'll get lucky around Labor Day.)

As if by magic, a brisket has appeared in my fridge, from an excellent local meat source, Bobak's. It's one sorry brisket. One and three quarter pounds, skinny and lean. It looks more like a thick flank steak than a brisket. Should I just do the low and slow thing? Should I slather it with lard? Bacon? Mirepoix? Cook it in a crockpot like corned beef? If I had a brisket with some heft and fat it would present no problem, but I have the greyhound, the whippet of briskets. Sorry to bring up doggie imagery, but you know where I'm coming from. And I know that there are more brisket mavens on this site than raisins in a Spotted, er, Dog. What should I do?

I had the very rare good fortune to attend a Parsi feast, when a co-worker invited me to the Navjote Mubarak (have I got that right? of her two children. The ceremony itself was fascinating, as was the opportunity to learn about Zoroastrianism. But, oh the food! Rivers, oceans of exotic, delicious fabulous food. (And very large ponds of Johnny Walker Black!) I eagerly await anything you can share about your culinary traditition. That was one heck of a party!

Sigh, Busboy. The most romantic thing I've read in ages --made me want to throw "La Traviata" on the turntable and imagine a happy ending, where Violetta and Alfredo are washing up in Provence. Reality: Dishwasher has been broken for five years, and we haven't been able to afford to replace it. I hate cleaning, though I appreciate the higher forces that a neat clean, organized house bestows. For two years of my life I could afford to overpay a Bosnian/Australian lady to clean my house every two weeks. I think it was the happiest two years of my life. I soak the pots, wash the glasses and let everything else soak. I like your way better.

I have to give you all the credit in the world for this proactive French immersion course -- there's nothing like necessity to provide the fire in the loins to learn a new language. Were you never previously in a position where you had to learn kitchen French?

MizDuckiness: How could I have forgotten the corn flake crumbs? I loved them. It will now be forever for me Cream of Mumble (the Celery wasn't bad.) I'm thinking about the savory bread pudding, or strata or "Scotch Omelet" in my mother's kitchen many years ago. Soak stale bread with eggs till it gets all squishy, layer with cheese, and bake until beuatifully puffed and cheesy. A great, great casserole.

Wonderful topic. (Jaymes, keep digging!) Yes, the basis of great casserole is often a bechemel or a veloute-- not brain surgery. In fact my mother instructed me when I was about ten about making "white sauce" -- her parents were English-- and that was one of the most valuable cooking lessons I've ever received. If you can make bechamel and veloute, and a good tomato sauce, the wide world of casseroles is yours! For that mushroomy base, make duxelles and stir them in. I checked the Alton Brown link, and he seems to have bought into the idea that casseroles are an excuse to be a tacky cook. The flavor pack from Ramen noodles? For shame! Frozen puff pastry? Well, Ok, but why not learn to make your own? Next thing he'll be recommending Pillsbury Biscuits as a topping, which I have to admit might be just fine. Creamed onions. Lasagna. Scalloped potatoes. Yes, mac and cheese and tuna noodle. Mummy made something called "Chicken Divan" which was boneless skinless chicken breasts , broccoli, bechamel and lots of cheese. Three days after Christmas it was Turkey Divan. The word casserole refers to the dish not the recipe. Oh! Read Pepin's "The Apprentice" and bake his Mother's simple souffle in a cassserole dish. In one of his other books he has a casserole of hard boiled eggs and tomatoes. I want more ideas here. I totally understand that autumnal casserole jones.

97,118, Welcome to eGullet, mochihead.

FistFulla: You have no idea how often I think about your wife, and I'm so greatful you checked in with us here. Please tell her a wholelotta people are pulling for her. In the last two weeks two people I know have undergone this procedure. It takes all I have in me not to point them to this thread.

What crap, in so many ways, and in such quantity! Astonishing. But I have to say, as a woman who loves clothes, I had to follow this stupid thesis. A reisling is a saucy cocktail apron? A cab is a plain black skirt? A tokay is a folkloric ensemble, accessorized with necklaces of red pepper? Lady T on this site is the most intelligent, experienced and approachable oeno I have ever met. I will never diss the smart wine men of my acquaintance, and will continue to learn from them, but I don't think wine experience is gender-based. OTOH, a girl at work yesterday who's been having a bad day said there was a bottle of White Zin (shudder) in the fridge with her name on it. Her husband drinks Coors --- gender equality there! Hmmm. A Vouvray is a pretty sundress, and a straw hat held in hand outside window of the deux chevaux. A jug of Paisano is jeans and and a Ban the Bomb tshirt. A bottle of Krug ain't nothing but a string of pearls and a giggle. A Montrachet is Missoni and the first date with a man who could afford it. A bottle of Big House Red is a hotel room with your lover, wrapped in the hotel bathrobes. A Gewurtz is your first dinner party as a married lady -- a Diane Von Furstenburg wrap dress.

I love California, and its veritable cornucopia of fine native produce, wine, cheese, etc. But how does it put a chef ahead of a colleague who grew up in Brittany, Emilia-Romagna, Viet Nam or Upstate New York?

Shut up. Diddy? Damn it. I really don't want to watch her new show... but somehow I don't think I'll be able to stop myself. Trainwreck television in the making. ← Martha and Diddy? Shut up indeed, Girlfriend. Damn, I wish I had a working TV. (Thought Sean had a thing for Hispanic beauties--got the new Vogue today, all ten pounds of it and he's nuzzling Penelope Cruz. Martha is lovely, but she is the farthest possible type from a sultry nubile Latina! Penelope, JLo, Martha. I am busting a gut at the cynicism of TV. Guess I'll have to miss her talking about peonies. Sigh. I suspect that Martha for the first time in her hard-headed career has made a bad choice here, though I guess it sounded great when she was behind bars. She's smart. I think sheill be back to her own educational mission soon enough after this silliness bombs. I hope so. For ten years she taught this country that cooking and gardening and making a pretty home are noble aims. And it was never ten minute makeover with Martha.

I think I'm an egg --shiny and inscrutable, but fragile and very easy to crack. Then I can be anything I want to be, or you want me to be. The air in your souffle, your sunny side up, your over easy, your scrambled, your devilled. I'm versatile and useful, but I'm very sulforous if ignored or mistreated.

Jan: My deepest sympathy to you. Reading your food memories of your father reminded me of what I consider to be one of the all-time greatest threads on eGullet --thank you ivan. Check it out -- it might even provide some amusement and comfort. And for new posters here, we would love to hear your story. How we ate growing up

This tradition is Brit, and an English wedding cake had nothing to do with dolce de leche buttercream layered cake--it was, and often still is a three layer, hundred pound excellent fruitcake. It id frosted with a dense layer of marzipan and royal icing, which acts as almond flavored duct tape. Canadians, Australians and such have continued this tradition until very recently. I happen to adore a good fruitcake, and the two layers I schlepped from Montreal to Chicago kept for at least two years, unrefridgerated for three years, with only the occasional rubbling with booze. That cake kept us alove when we were dirt poor for a long, long time. I don't think the modern American wedding cake was ever meant to be preserved until the first anniversary or christening. It's all about the traditional fruitcake. And yes, my American inlaws's eyes rolled to the back of their heads when they were served a piece of wedding fruitcake.

This book turned me onto chiffon cakes. So good, so easy, so fresh tasting.

I swear by Delia Smith's recipe from her Christmas cookbook. She doesn't use puff pastry; her recipe is for a divine flakypastry, achieved by grating frozen butter directly into flour using a box grater. My mother precooks the meat, I don't because the long rolls of sausage are easier to form using raw sausage, which I usually make myself. The pastry holds up, and I think the rolls are slightly tastier. I serve them with spicy mustard and-or chutney.

Now you offer! We can hope that there's leftover pig! I just know that the caramel cake will be gone, though. One of my (very) few regrets about the Pig Pickin' Part One is that all the pig was gone before I emerged from the kitchen. Never got a hush puppy either, come to think of it. Party on, good people. It looks like a rager.

Ronnie's always ready to take one for the team -- that's why he's our beloved and respected Heartland Forum Host! What fabulous looking peaches.

That's hardcore. (Have some more!)

Steve, I have a few ideas why. Does "No Boyz Allowed" mean nothing to you?

96,833. Yum.Happy Birthday, Suzi Ma'am!

In the Quarter? The Verti Mart- on Royal- real food 24/7, delivery, the New York Times a bottle of wine, stamps, aspirin. The Croisant D'Or. All the little bars with cheap beer and fried crawfish tails. Garden District:The Upperline.

Everyone who's ever been lucky enough to spend tiime in New Orleans has a story, culinary or otherwise. Post them here.

I'm not the only person whose world has been rocked, emotionally and in sweet memory, by Katrina. I went out drinking tonight with my "team," from work.-- all ages, genders and pursuasions, from suburban Chicago. We all had a New Orleans story, from college or honeymoon or a crazy wild weekend with a girlfriend. I wish Julia would chime in here to talk about how she bought her newlywed husband two lap dances at Larry Flynt's club, but I know she won't. New Orleans unravelled each of us in a different way. I'm a little shy about the perception that I'm pimping a Smackdown because of a terrible tragedy, but I want to tell a story about my connection with the Big Easy, and I know that you can all top mine. Let's call it catharsis, and tribute. I was in New Orleans last February, much more comfortable climate-wise than my previous visit over Memorial Day Weekend. My hair wasn't big, my dress wasn't plastered to my body with plain ole Northern Woman sweat. We'd walked and walked: checked out the casino, the mall (to pick up the ever so essential facial moisturizer I'd forgotten to pack) cruised Lucullus, the culinary antique shop. (I loved it, but, frankly my mother's dining room could kick it's ass.) Had a beer and some crawfish tails in a corner bar on Decatur. Had dinner and martinis at an old New Orleans Italian restaurant on Decatur---Sziba's? I've lost the matchbook, but the cork from our bottle of wine still rattles around the bottom, of my purse with loose change, renegade lipsticks and the odd earring. I was feeling pretty easy when we got back to our rental on Chartres and changed into silk pyjama pants and a silly bustier. We sat outside, smoking and sharing a bottle of wine, amazed at how quiet our piece of the Quarter was at ten PM., foggy as Sherlock Holmes's London. Then I heard a rumble out of Dickens, or Zola: the hoofs of the mules that drag the tourist carraiges all day, being sprung. They were heading for home, clattering down the cobblestones. The next day we walked around Faubourg Marigny, and we smelled a distinctly non-urban smell: manure. We wandered down the street and found the stable where out equine buddies sought their stalls and their straw after a long day's work tugging tourists around the New Orleans. They chewed, they drank, they shat. That's my story. You can do better, In the spirit of love, nostalgia, fear and hope, post them here.. And yes, there will be a Fabulous Prize. Let's leave this open for a month.