cooking with the doctor

When I woke up this morning, there was snow on the ground. It’s all melted into rain now, thank you for asking, but this mid-April brush with winter made me all the more excited, and grateful, for the hot (in both senses!) leftovers from last night, destined for today’s lunch table: Dr. Pepper pulled pork.

Considering I hadn’t even tasted Dr. Pepper at this time last year, this dish is a big step. Considering I don’t consider myself a huge fan of spicy foods, and this dish calls for a can of chipotle peppers in adobo sauce, this dish is an even bigger step. And yet the idea of slow-roasting pork shoulder in both for five hours caught hold of me, if only for curiosity’s sake. (Billy is so lucky, to hear entreaties like “This sounds weird. Let’s make it for dinner!) We tried it last weekend and, with some trepidation, spooned it into corn tortillas with sour cream, tomato salsa, caramelized onions and red peppers, and a little jack cheese.

It was unbelievably good. The meat was quite spicy but a little sweet, with an almost barbecued flavor, and the smooth sour cream mellowed out all that heat. Matched with the acidity of the tomatoes and the deliciously sweet onions and peppers, and the cheese — I was just done. It’s the best slow-cooked meat I’ve ever had, and definitely the best pulled pork.

We made it again last night, less than a week after its first audition. It’s that good. I know it sounds weird, and you’re likely thinking, there’s surely a reason chefs don’t regularly baste their roasts with soda . . . but try it anyway. If only for curiosity’s sake. I think you’ll be converted.

Spicy Dr. Pepper Pulled Pork
(Via the Pioneer Woman)

Enough meat for 10-12 6inch tortillas. How many that serves is between you, your guests, and your stomach.

• 1/2 yellow onion
• 1 1/2 to 2 lbs pork shoulder (also called pork butt; you can buy the whole shoulder, about six pounds, or packaged shoulder cuts, which are just the right size for this recipe)
• salt and pepper
• 1 tbsp brown sugar
• 1/2 can chipotle peppers in adobo sauce, or about 3 ounces
• 1 can Dr. Pepper, more to taste

Preheat the oven to 300 degrees.

Cut the onion into wedges and lay it at the bottom of a heavy dutch oven. Add the meat. Salt and pepper generously. Add the brown sugar and chipotle peppers, and pour the Dr. Pepper over it all.

Lid it, and cook in the oven until the meat is positively falling off the bone and pulls apart easily, about five hours. (Pictured in the photo above. If, after some preliminary fork investigation, your meat looks more like the photo at the very top of the post, it’s not ready. Return it to the oven, lidded, for another hour.) Using two forks, shred the pork, discarding big pieces of fat. Put it on the stovetop and keep warm until ready to use. Feel free to add some more Dr. Pepper at this point, just for kicks, for the meat to absorb.

N.B. Although I have not tried it this way, you could definitely adapt the recipe to a slow cooker — just cook it for longer, i.e. all day.

We love it in corn tortillas (ahem, not pictured) with salsa, sour cream, grilled onions, peppers, and cheese.

the curious case of artisinal chocolate

If you’d asked me two years ago what sprang to mind when I heard the words “Iowa artisan,” I would have (somewhat shamefacedly) admitted corn husk dolls. Because I had one! Not because I stereotype! Or perhaps . . . pie baking. Hog fattening.

Maybe I had a couple stereotypes.

Basically, I didn’t know anything about Iowa, or what I was getting myself into.

As it turns out, I have encountered zero corn husk dolls or “fattest pig” state fair competitions since moving here, and most of the pies have come out of my oven. What I have encountered is gourmet roasted Amana coffee, in flavors ranging from the traditional French Vanilla or Hazelnut to the wackier Blueberry Cinnamon Crumble and Vermont Maple Nut Crunch. A reminder: those are all coffee flavors. I have also encountered fruit wine. Yes, I know all wine is made from grapes, and that grapes are a fruit, but I mean cranberry wine. Apricot wine. Peach, apple, rhubarb wines. I believe it is what you would call “interesting” (as in “iiiinteresting…”) and let’s just say there’s a reason wine is made of grapes and not plums.

The best discovery of all, though, has been the local chocolate-makers. There’s the Chocolate Haus in Amana, whose four-pack of truffles almost always proves an irresistible pick-me-up. And then there’s Bochner Chocolates, with a single store off the Coralville Strip (and a tiny factory near the grocery store!) that churns out the most gorgeous, creatively flavored special occasion chocolates I’ve been lucky enough to taste. They have blue-speckled truffles filled with sea salted caramel and purple-dusted ones filled with lavender. There’s a whole line of alcohol-filled squares, from Bailey’s to Mojito (!), and an equally large group of fruit-fillings. They even cater to choco-purists with truffles made of cocoa nibs or Ghanaian beans. I would never (truly, never) have expected to find a place like Bochner Chocolates in Iowa — but oh, how wrong I was. I just finished my Valentine’s box (I know – discipline!) and our high-top table looks suddenly quite sad without all those snazzy, rich flavor possibilities.

worth a (farther) drive

Yesterday, in a supreme gesture of “because I can” and testament to the power of “why not,” I drove to Des Moines for a couple hours. And not the cultural big city Des Moines; no, I set my sights the mall, full stop. I don’t know what it says about me that I logged four hours behind the wheel just to indulge in the consumerist pleasure of tooling around an (admittedly beautiful) indoor shopping center with stubby, potted palm trees and water fountains, poking around the sauce pans at Williams-Sonoma and picking up a slice of peanut butter cheesecake for dessert several hours later. But it felt really good. I picked an Auntie Anne’s pretzel, the butter-dipped kind — one of the world’s best shopping indulgences. I spent an hour at J.Crew trying on soft tees and cropped pants and even (gasp!) gingham shorts and, at the end, marveled at how much nicer the Jordan Creek sales associates are than the ones in Tyson’s, VA. I popped across the artificial outdoor bridge for the P.F. Chang’s lunch bowl and read my Pride and Prejudice. And then it was back to Iowa City, where it was still brightly sunny and a gorgeous 65-degrees — and all of this to say, I suppose, how lovely a simple, do-nothing, indulgent day away is. I hope you get to have one soon, too.

worth a drive

The New York Times has a new article up entitled “Four Paris Restaurants Worth a Metro Ride”, and when it was published ten days ago about as many people emailed it to me. I hope to pay a visit some of those tables next month, though truthfully I’m still a little peeved at author Mark Bittman for blowing one of my favorite local-ish restaurants, Astier, with a mention in the paper of record. I guess I can kiss my insider badge goodbye. . .

I know some people (ahem, most of you) consider Iowa City a trek in and of itself. With so many fantastic dining options downtown — many of which I’d continue to frequent if they were transplanted to New York City, high praise indeed — it can be tempting, even here, to fall into geographic snobbishness. Kalona, twenty miles southwest of our cosmopolitan little city, is a town of less then 2500. Getting there is a drive through pure country, and yet I’d been wanting to go for a good year. Why? Food, of course.

It’s called Tuscan Moon, and it’s a quiet, unassuming, delicious restaurant housed in the historic Old Kalona Hotel. There’s a gorgeous patio for outdoor dining, but the inside is just as fun: with old hardwood floors, exposed brick walls, chandeliers and high ceilings, it’s a real trip. When we went last weekend, there was a classical guitarist performing and the owner was circulating, asking how everyone’s meal was. It’s that kind of place.

My dinner was a perfectly respectable showcase of the restaurant’s home-cooked Italian roots: a very fine Caesar salad and an enormous plate of farfalle with bolognese sauce (which came, in true home style, with a slice of soft white loaf bread). I think Billy’s selections really hit it out of the park, though, demonstrating what happy heights Tuscan Moon can sail to outside the Italian box. There was the simply presented yellow fin sashimi and then — oh my — jerk-rubbed, grilled pork tenderloin with mango salsa. It was a special that night, but I heard they’re turning it into a regular menu item. I hope so, because it’s what I’d get next time. The smoky, charred flavor of the grill and spices were a brilliant foil to the sweet, juicy mango. It was a totally different level. It was grown up and sophisticated and wow, Kalona! Small but mighty. You done good.

the calm before?

It took a little while, but the daffodils behind our holly hedges exploded into radioactively-yellow bloom this weekend. We were so happy to see them — an incontrovertible sign that spring is truly here, despite the waning/waxing temperatures and threats of severe thunderstorms/tornadoes. At eighty degrees and sunny (and, okay, very windy), it’s hard to believe any of those nasty evening forecasts and we are stubbornly planning on firing up the grill tonight. I mean, hopefully we can at least finish barbecuing the chicken before repairing to the basement, which (fun fact!) still has a turn-of-the-century coal room and is definitely not haunted. For the next six hours or until the winds change (whichever comes first), the afternoon is all about walking downtown, turning off the heater, and finally getting to wear shorts.

cooking up letters

I don’t know what Miss Manners or Ann Landers would say about this, but my thank yous to recommendation-penning professors have fallen into a pattern: a letter and some biscotti. I’m not quite sure how it happened. A compulsive gifter and, perhaps more to the point, an over-enthusiastic baker, I like to chase my cards with token gifts of thanks. And biscotti? Well, gift certificates feel a little too impersonal (not to mention more like money, which stumbles upon the awkward idea of paying off your professor), and cookies a little too juvenile. But biscotti? I mean, those are Italian. They are very grown up, not to mention they travel well and last a while.

I only have one (and a half! I saved a half!) biscotti left. But if I had an infinite stash, here’s who they’d go to: Dear Forever21, thank you for setting up an outpost in Iowa City. I’m informed I’ll be needing a maxi skirt this summer, and I’m betting you can do the trick for a couple pennies. Dear Anthropologie, the truth is, more than any particular designer line or dress shape or love of lace, I can’t quit your unabashed embrace of constant whimsy. It’s the sort of effortless, high-low, undone loveliness that I try to cultivate on a daily basis. It’s silly, but it’s inspiring. Dear Bank Account, is practicality really the most important consideration?

Dear Weather, I’m not digging your peak-a-boo sun routine, but these temperatures are pretty close to a home run, and I’m taking a vow of abstinence from complaining. Just … please hold out for our barbecue tomorrow night? Dear Katy Perry, When I’m driving with the girls I babysit and one of your songs comes on, odds are I change the station. What the hell is that “Peacock” song? Besides “INNUENDO DO YOU GET IT?” It is simply unendurable. But “Teenage Dream“? I’m a little embarrassed to admit how much I love it. It’s infectious and nostalgic and has this sweet, retro/new sound. And I definitely did not spend an hour youtubing Glee and Idol covers, thank you very much. Dear Boyfriend, I think your new retro Star Wars lunchbox shoe shine kit is perfect.

Sigh. Biscotti. They’re just the ticket.

Lemon-Walnut Biscotti
(Gently adapted from Bon Appetit Desserts)

Makes around 30 biscotti, depending on how you shape and slice them

• 1 1/2 cups all purpose flour
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 1/2 tsp baking powder
• 1/8 tsp baking soda
• 5 tbsp unsalted butter at room temperature
• 2/3 cups sugar
• 1 tbsp finely grated lemon peel
• 1 large egg
• 1 tbsp fresh lemon juice
• 1 1/2 cup chopped walnuts
• 1 egg, beaten to blend
• sugar for sprinkling

Whisk flour, salt, baking powder, and baking soda in a medium bowl.

Using an electric mixer, beat together butter, sugar, and lemon peel in a bowl until fluffy. Add the egg and beat thoroughly. Add lemon juice, then flour mixture. Stir in walnuts.

Divide dough in half. Place each on a sheet of plastic wrap or wax paper. Form dough into an 8-inch logs and flatten to 2 1/2 inch-wide logs. Wrap plastic around logs and chill until firm, at least three hours and at most two days.

Preheat oven to 325 degrees and line baking sheet with parchment paper. Unroll logs from plastic wrap and set atop baking sheet. Brush with egg and sprinkle with sugar. Bake until golden brown and just firm to the touch, about 50 minutes. Cool logs completely and reduce oven to 300 degrees.

Using a long, serrated knife, carefully cut logs on the diagonal into 1/3-inch thick slices. Arrange biscotti, cut side down, on the same baking sheet. Bake until golden around the edges, around 10 minutes. They’ll crisp as they cool.

grill mates

Last night was our first grill of the year. And what a thrill it was. The weather (and the sun!) was perfect… well, if perfection includes a mid-weight coat, which it necessarily does in this picture. We mixed up an easy, bubbly drink or two and and the hot coals worked their magic on some brats and skewered summer squash. When your (grill) time comes, friends, remember that toasting the buns right before serving is a non-negotiable.

Once the food was gone and the coals had cooled to ashy nubs, B and I started bemoaning the fact that we won’t have a grill in New York this summer. But then he had a brainwave: Brooklyn’s Prospect Park offers a host of public, first-come, first-served barbecue and picnic areas. If you think we’re not already planning on staking a claim Sunday mornings for whole days of brats, burgers, corn on the cob, grilled tomato caprese, grilled peaches with gelato, or, you know, 101 other things — well, you’ve got another thing coming.

french onion soup

The weather has been such a tease lately. Seventies on Sunday, thirties this morning, it’s gray, it’s sunny, it’s in-between! Oh my. I made onion soup (B: “French onion soup?” Why, yes, is there any other kind?!) for lunch yesterday, one of the more gloom and doom days we’ve experienced in a while. For about an hour this morning (the hour when the sun was out), I wasn’t sure about posting a hearty soup-and-cheese-and-bread recipe today. But then the clouds came out to play, and it seems like a soup day after all.

This recipe is a total French classic, executed in a brilliantly simple style by Julia Child, who was not French but might as well have been. And while I usually attach the caveat of “this may not be authentic, but it is delicious!” to my recipes, this one is both. Ha! This is the one type of cuisine I can lay claim to.

It’s a double-edged sword, though, because I think when most people see the words “French Food,” they still imagine the fancy, the expensive, the impossible-to-replicate-at-home. This little ol’ soup could not be farther from such monikers. You brown the heck out of a pound and a half of onions in some olive oil, butter, and salt. You sprinkle in a little flour (to thicken) and you add liquid. Julia recommends beef stock and a splash of white wine, which is what I’ve used the past couple times with fabulous results, but my dad gets the same mileage out of water and sometimes chicken stock. You simmer it all together, the longer the better, and ladle it into a bowl with little floaters of toasted bread and cheese. Friends, this is one of the cheapest dishes you can make.

And before we go on, a word about that cheesy bread. I am, to my bones, no fan of the gratin top that accompanies 99% of restaurant onion soups. You know what I’m talking about. When the cheese gets all melted under the broiler and forms a sort of gooey lid over [soggy] bread and, beneath that, the actual soup. Not for me. The way I was raised, there’s a basket of toasted baguette rounds and a plate of grated cheese on the dinner table, and you adorn your own soup bowl moments before eating it. The cheese still melts, but the bread stays crunchy — and that textural contrast is, after all, the entire point of adding toasted bread to soup.

I hope I’ve made myself clear.

But even if you’re a devotee of the gratin top, you’ll love the soup underneath. Try it today! Before the weather gets nice!

Julia Child’s French Onion Soup
(Adapted Mastering the Art of French Cooking, with some proportions tinkering)

Enough to generously fill three soup bowls

• 1 1/2 lbs or about 5 cups thinly sliced yellow onions
• 3 tbsp butter
• 1 tbsp oil
• 1 tsp salt
• 1/4 tsp sugar (helps the onions to brown)
• 1 1/2 tbsp flour
• 1 quart boiling low-sodium beef stock, or 2 cups boiling water and 2 cups beef stock (N.B. For this amount of onions, Julia actually recommends two quarts of liquid. I halved it, the first time by accident, and now because I find the soup so much thicker and richer for it.)
• 1/2 cup dry white wine
• 3 tbsp cognac (optional; I omitted)
• salt and pepper to taste
• several rounds of thinly sliced toasted baguette
• 1 cup grated Swiss or Parmesan cheese

In a large, heavy-bottomed stock pot, melt the butter and oil together. Add the onions, cover, and cook over low heat for 15 minutes.

Remove the cover, raise heat to moderate, and add salt and sugar. Cook 30 to 40 minutes, stirring frequently, until onions have turned an even, deep brown color.

Sprinkle in the flour and stir for 3 minutes.

Add the boiling liquid and wine. Simmer partially covered for 30 to 40 minutes, skimming occasionally. Season to taste. (At this point, you can remove from heat and let the soup hang out until ready to eat.)

Just before serving, add the cognac. Pour the soup into bowls and add bread rounds and a generous handful of cheese. Enjoy!

a glass half-full

Here’s a story. Yesterday, it was seventy degrees, humid and gray and a little girl named Natalie thought it’d be the perfect time to stir up an inaugural glass of her favorite summer cocktail. It’s called a porch swing, and she drank it on her porch, which does not have a swing but even having a porch is pretty good, and honestly more than a lot of her friends can say. The Pimm’s No. 1 reminded her of that one time she sipped a Pimm’s Cup with orange and cucumber garnishes in a harbor cafe in Cyprus, and the fresh lemonade tasted like a backyard cook-out, and the gin was as nice as ever.

And she was happy.

The end.

Stir up some summer for yourself:

Porch Swing
(Adapted from the Smitten Kitchen, who had it from a Gael Green recipe.)

Ingredients

• 1 1/2 ounces (or 3 Tbsp, or 4.5 cL, which is the unit our jigger uses) Pimm’s No. 1
• 1 1/2 ounces gin
• 3 ounces homemade lemonade (recipe below)… add an extra splash if you’re feeling sassy
• ice
• 7-Up
• several paper-thin cucumber slices, optional

Directions

My boyfriend would insist that I start with the admonishment to CHILL YOUR GLASS. A tall, thin Collins glass is recommended, but we don’t have those, and I’ve found the squat little tumbler pictured more than adequate. Even though it makes it look like I’m drinking an entire glass of Scotch.

Measure the Pimm’s, gin, and lemonade into the chilled glass. Add several ice cubes and top with 7-Up. Garnish with a few cucumber moons.

Homemade Lemonade
Juice your lemons into a measuring cup. (I only need one lemon to get the right amount for one drink, but buy a bunch and make a large batch of lemonade; it’ll keep in the fridge and is tasty without the alcohol, too.) Add an equal amount of simple syrup, and twice as much cold water.

—–
EDIT: I bought cucumbers two days later. Here’s how it should look:

sam’s pizza

The story of our journey to Sam’s Pizza on Thursday night is an existential one, which ran the gamut of dinner indecision from Mexican to pasta to sushi to burgers to finally settling somewhere around “I just want something new”. Oh, and included “My stomach hurts.” We finally settled on Sam’s Pizza: new to us, low-key, downtown. Even before walking in, I knew it couldn’t touch the likes of 2Amys or Motorino, but I hoped it might eclipse Pagliai’s , a local institution whose appeal regrettably escapes me.

We started with an order of cheesy bread, which was fabulous. Most pizza places just make the bread part out of leftover pizza dough, which is tasty but means the appetizer’s essentially cheese pizza, hold the sauce. Not so at Sam’s. It’s a doughy loaf of French bread, split open and buttered within an inch of its life, then topped with cheese. You get warm marinara sauce, too. Not bad for a sport’s bar. In terms of pizza, they offer both deep dish and thin crust. I’m lukewarm on deep dish in the best of circumstances, so the choice was a no-brainer.

And the verdict? It’s a different take on “thin crust” altogether, because unlike those primo New York pizzerias where “thin crust” means soft, chewy and charred, Sam’s is positively crispy. Like, cracker-crispy and about as thin — but also pretty good, especially the tomato sauce. It’s obviously a great place to catch a game (a game, the game, whatever game’s on), and the food’s yummy, to boot. Also worth mentioning: impressive drink specials. And the pinball machine, pool, and darts. I’m not sure about its future as a dinner-only destination, but it’s the ideal spot to meet friends for a late nice brew and bite. Approved!