Dave the Cook

That, in fact, is what I've always done. But Mike seems to want to do a big batch of legs, and some supplementary fat may be required. Of course, if you're starting with a good amount of your own rendered duck fat, that supplement can be almost anything: chicken fat, olive oil -- I've even known people to use butter.

DeKalb Farmers Market almost always has fresh ducks and duck parts. I'm not sure about fat; I've never looked. You can get it through Amazon, though.

The issue isn't really the age of the wine, it's the fortification. The Malmsey will be fine, though you really don't need to go that fancy. Just as with red or white used in cooking, you don't want to use anything undrinkable. I've gotten fine results with $10 bottles.

There's also JAZ's chicken braised in vinegar. It's written for thighs, but would work fine with a whole cut-up chicken.

I had just posted with my lame suggestion when I realized that all I had in the fridge (besides a fourth straight day of ham) was . . . chicken. So I made this: I used four thighs instead of a cut-up whole, and for color, I added some blanched asparagus with the lemon. It was very tasty, and a loaf of crusty bread helped us sop up the pan juices. It was also gorgeous:

There's quite a bit of information about raw fish and pregnancy here: Pregnant Women and Sushi in Japan. The topic includes research links and lots of anecdotal testimony, as well as this observation, which addresses the "they don't know why" phenomenon:

It's pretty much another roast chicken, but orange-glazed chicken with cumin and mint might be a nice change of pace. It calls for grilling, but there's no reason you couldn't do it in the oven.

I followed the technique from Hugh Fearnly-Whittingstall's River Cottage Meat Book. I like the book very much, but in the end I've decided that this particular recipe leaves much to be desired. I keep a charcuterie notebook, and it's easier to post a photo of it than type out what I did: This makes an oversaturated brine. After half a day, about a half-inch of brine sludge had come out of solution to rest at the bottom of the Cambro. At first I thought that this wasn't really a problem, but it had consequences down the line. The cooking part of the recipe (referred to at the bottom of my notes) was a boil followed by glazing and roasting. Here's what it looked like post-brine, post-smoke, post-soak, post-boil: I had gone out to run some errands while it simmered. Upon return, the aroma smacked me in the face the second I opened the door: ham. It didn't smell, as I'd feared, like bacon, butt or generic smoked pork. It was ham. Well, I couldn't wait. I cut a slice, and sure enough, it was ham inside, too: Here's a gratuitous shot of the first slices: Since there were only three of us, I cut the butt end off for the day's roasting. Rather than go Hugh Farfel-Whangstuff's route, which involves the classic pineapple and cloves, we mixed up a glaze of Applejack (to continue the apple theme), brown sugar and French's yellow mustard (perhaps the highest and best use of this condiment). Here it is right out of the oven: Here's where I start to take issue with Mr. Fearless-Whatshisname. He gives loose cooking instructions: "simmer very gently for 4 to 5 hours," then glaze and "Roast . . . in a moderate oven (350 F) for 1 to 1-1/2 hours." It seemed like a really long time, so I stuck a probe in the ham while it was in the pot. It stalled at 170 F (just like a smoked butt will do) at about three hours. When the temperature started to rise again, I took it out. The butchering and glazing took about a half-hour (you have to let the surface of the ham cool a bit). When I put it in the oven, the center still registered 168 F. Rather than follow the "1 to 1-1/2 hours" directive (it was only half a ham, plus I was now leery of all this heat), I decided to stop the roasting as soon as the temperature started to go up again. This took about 45 minutes, and then the temperature started to rocket. The combination of boiling then roasting resulted in a dry finished product. Gone was any memory of those first succulent samples. It was far from bad -- I mean, it's ham, make from pork with an excellent provenance -- but it wasn't what it could have been. Luckily, I still have the half that was only boiled, and it's great. But there's another problem. Look at the color in this photo: See the gray-brown area near the center of the meat? That's plain old roast pork -- where the cure, despite twelve days in brine, didn't reach. There are two ways around this, I guess: more time in the brine, or an injection. But I also think that the saturation of the brine meant that curing salt was probably falling out of solution along with everything else. Next time, I'll use the Bertolli method for the cure, and maybe get myself a brine pump. Having said all that, the flavor of the Fawning-Whitsunday cure is great -- not overly apple-ish, but light and fruity -- a good complement to the rich pork. I don't know if all that cooking is a British thing (that's a joke!) or a miscalculation on Fiery-Youknowthedrill's part. As for cooking, next time I think I'll stick it in a very slow (like 170 - 200 F) oven for a long, long time, then glaze with a torch. And I think it could use more smoke. In Professional Charcuterie, Kinsella recommends smoking for roughly 60 hours (his dry-cured ham), or at 130 until a wet-cured ham reaches the same temperature -- a matter of many, many hours, I imagine.

These? Feeding tongs They're my new favorite tool: not just for plating but plucking a single vegetable or strand of pasta out of the pot to check doneness; for flipping small items like shrimp or scallops in a saute pan; for removing things like bay leaves from bechamel.

Here's a shot from early in the smoking. I try not to open the door, but I can't help myself.

Your father was an honorable man. I'm sure you're proud of him. Here's that bad boy, fit to be tied: And here he is, um, tied. He goes in the smoker this afternoon. Just to end the year with one more surprise, we'll be having it New Year's Eve instead of New Year's Day. I'm not sure what you mean. What a nice thing to say, especially coming from someone who is a fine writer herself. Thank you.

I hadn't had Bugles in maybe 20 years, but last July at a gas station off I-10 on the way back from New Orleans, they called out to me. Let's ignore the fact that they were the only snack food left on the rack, making them a chorus of one. Airy, crunchy corn with a hint of toasted wheat. And salt, of course. They were sublime.

The existence of hugely-sized soft-drinks in every gas station and fast-food restaurant doesn't prove to me that Americans like to consume large amounts of liquid so much as it proves that Americans can be persuaded to purchase something that seems to be a bargain. Studies have shown over and over again that consumption is related to availability: that's where the two-liter cola bottle came from. I think the 44-ounce cup is a related phenomenon. There's probably an economics discussion in waiting about marginal ounces. A 28-ounce glass seems huge to me, unless a handle is attached. Three-quarters of a liter brings up visions of ale, tankards, wenches and dogs fighting for scraps under the table. And not to derail the argument, but my problem is finding classy glasses for cocktails -- five ounces or less. They seem to be as scarce as the medieval containers you're looking for.

I'm glad to read that you put sauteed onions ahead of bacon. Though personally I prefer the aroma of bacon, in my experience, onions frying in butter or olive oil is the smell most likely to elicit that comment that lightens every cook's heart: "Something smells good!" That's worth a promotion. What, pray tell, are the cooking aromas (I assume there are at least three) that occupy places six through ten?

What's a pupick?

I am all over this. All of these ingredients (store-bought dough, Pomi Strained Tomatoes, middling mozzarella, etc.) are availailable here. Of course, it will be at least nine days before I can report results.

I don't have any brand or model recommendations, but I'd opt for a tall jar over the wide ones that got popular in the late '90s. The latter require too much in the way of volume to generate good blending action. I also think that two or three speeds is sufficient. Spend your money on a glass jar and a powerful motor (wattage isn't specifically about motor power, but it's a good indication), not fancy "refinements." Disclosure: I use a 30-year-old Oster, and I once co-wrote a piece for the Daily Gullet on the history of the machine, so I might be prejudiced.

I thought I'd skated through without major mishap, despite having missed the scalloped oysters (not a matter of leaving something in the kitchen; I just forgot about them once I'd brought them to the table). As I cleaned up tonight's dinner -- creamed turkey on split, toasted leftover rolls -- I must have been thinking about posting a question regarding the use of my now-superfluous six cups of roasted turkey stock, because I caught the lip of the bowl on a refrigerator shelf, and spilled a quart of it on said shelf, under the vegetable drawers and on the floor. They say that pride goeth before a fall. I say that stock goeth before the pride, in mass quantities.

The problem with this, I think, is that the one-handed sifters seem to be designed to identify forearm weakness and diagnose incipient arthritis as much or more than to sift stuff. If you do a lot of sifting -- and by that I don't necessarily mean a couple of cakes a week, but even just a once-a-year holiday cookie marathon -- I don't think you can beat the old crank style. Yeah, it takes two hands, but it goes a whole lot faster, with a lot less hand-and-arm fatigue. You just have to check for good seals where the crank enters and leaves the sifting cylinder, since leaks can develop there.

We have a great topic on "Cocktails With Champagne, As Opposed to Champagne Cocktails." This topic here is for what Sam calls ". . . drinks that are fundamentally champagne with stuff added in . . . " Today I had a revelation. I was casting about for a light drink (it's not good manners to pass out face down in the mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving dinner, but the celebratory mood of the day calls for, well, a celebratory drink). Plus, cooking is thirsty work. It being one of those rare occasions when I have orange juice in the fridge, I settled on a good old Mimosa. something I often have at brunches (not being a Bloody Mary fan). It occurred to me that I'd never made one according to a recipe; I've always just sloshed some OJ into a flute and topped it off. so, it being a day of many recipes, I looked it up. To my surprise, according to Gary Regan (in Joy of Mixology), triple sec is an essential ingredient: So of course I made it his way. He's right. Mimosa 0.5 oz triple sec 1.5 oz orange juice 3.5 oz chilled champagne Build in a flute in the order listed.

Lately I've been enjoying Blason de Borgogne, a cremant cru that sells for $10/750 here at Trader Joes. It's a great value; not bad on its own, but even better for champagne cocktails. It's pink, so it also lends a beautiful tint to the drink.

Michael, you've earned the privilege to publish your take on the professional kitchen. And defining it in personal terms -- ". . . an opinionated glossary of cook's terms, everything I think cook's need to know in the kitchen, everything I needed to know when I entered the CIA, and all that I've learned since . . . " -- explains the premise of the book well. My review was based on that proposition. It is certainly opinionated; point for the book. Everything a cook needs to know? Even a generous definition of "everything" finds the book wanting. It's odd to me that cooks need to know about mayonnaise but not soy sauce (which must be less important than nam pla or preserved lemons), or that the relationship between mirepoix and sofrito (which, by the way, is hardly the condiment that you've suggested), or even trinity for that matter, is of no importance. A cook does need to know these things, just as they need to know what happens to a roux as it cooks -- much more than they need to know about "peasant style" or "dextrose." These are your choices, and you had a right to make them, of course. I wouldn't have, because I think the omissions weaken the book (as do circular assertions such as the one that says iodized salt is useless. I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss it. You correctly point out that iodine deficiency is no longer an issue in this country. Of course, that's because of iodized salt, so tossing it over your shoulder, so to speak, could lead right back to the problem it solved.) Everything you needed to know when you entered the CIA? Only you can answer that question, but I'd suggest that you were hardly the typical student. Although I didn't attend the CIA, I've yet to meet a schooled cook (and I've met quite a few, including CIA alums) who didn't know most of this stuff before they entered school, and didn't already have a bookshelf full of food literature. I'm not bitter, Michael, I'm disappointed. You committed to an important -- perhaps impossible -- task, and for that you have my admiration. I spent the first paragraph of my review explaining how much I wanted to like Elements; I further said that I agreed with almost everything you wrote. Where we part company has nothing to do with my role as a Society administrator. We differ on what each of us thinks a cook needs to know. You haven't really responded to my criticisms, so I have to ask, where have I been inaccurate?

I've been getting Peet's at Fresh Market here in Atlanta for the past year. Comparing it to Peet's excellent mail-order system, the only differences have been in package size (Peet's will ship in pounds; the retail packaging is 12 or 13 ounces) and selection. I prefer the Garuda, but have often had to settle for Major Dickason. Regardless, the quality of the coffee (ground or whole bean) has been tops.

I'm surprised at the lackluster enthusiasm for NOLA, which is the Emeril place I'd recommend. There's nothing wrong with the steaks at Delmonico, and I've loved the original Emeril's since dining there in 1991. But NOLA is a great space, the food is innovative and enticing (the best duck I've ever had, and I've had a lot), and it's an easy walk from anywhere in the Quarter.

Two recent books -- Jessica Seinfeld's Deceptively Delicious and Missy Chase Lapine's The Sneaky Chef -- have sparked a few heated conversations -- the conversations being more interesting than the books, I'm afraid. Today, Slate cleverly paired columns addressing two of the more interesting spin-off topics. In Not That There's Anything Wrong With That, Steven Shaw (our our Fat Guy) lays the plagiarism claims to rest, and instead derides the intellectual firepower that's wasted on such lightweight material: More experienced foodie parents than Steven will remember Jane Brody's Good Food Book (1987), where similar tactics were recommended (I recall a suggestion to shred zucchini into spaghetti sauce, for example). I'm sure that our parents had their own tricks, too. Mimi Sheraton takes another tack in Lie to Your Children -- It's Good for Them: To these two well-written laments. I'd add a third. Shaw starts out with it, but drops the issue in his pursuit of other game: "Originality and authorship are not salient features of most celebrity or spouse-of-celebrity cookbooks . . . " Why do we let celebrities get away with this? When did we decide to ignore the fact that a famous person is often just a front for a real cook and real writer? Does anyone else find this odd?