Church Avenue Chomp

Wait mama — needs pepper!

(If this was a short story in an anthology, titled as such, would you read it first, or never read it at all?)

We grocery shopped yesterday, at the big fancy market on the water with the view of the Statue of Liberty, so I bought some fish.

Budgetarily, cod made the most sense. It’s also light and I’ve discovered a fun way to cook it. It’s called the Weeknight Cod Challenge. Do you want to play?

The Weeknight Cod Challenge is improvisational. If it were a musical genre, it would be jazz, sort of. It’s: getting a piece of cod, dressing it lickity split with only with things that exist in the fridge or the pantry, cooking it as fast as possible, and eating it up, extra delicious.

It’s an on-the-fly sort of challenge and I’m really only challenging myself, unless you would like to participate.

I love it.I get about a pound. That always looks like too much, and frankly 3/4 of a lb. might be a better amount, but a lot of water comes out during the cooking process, and the fish butcher (?) won’t usually let me have less. I think he only contracts with the standard-sized cod community.

The first time I made it, a few months ago, I cranked the oven to 425, patted the fillet with olive oil, put the fish in a smallish ovular enameled iron pan, added a bit of (basil) pesto we had in the fridge, chopped olives, and a splash of tomato. I put chopped mushrooms around the fish. I’m sure there was pepper involved. Perhaps white wine? Probably lemon. Possibly oregano. Cooked 10 or 12 minutes? DELICIOUS!

The second time I made it, I don’t really remember what happened, but it was quite popular. The fillet was longer and I needed to put it into the cast iron skillet, sort of curled around. I think that my husband liked it better. I don’t exactly remember what I did to it, but I believe that olives were involved. Oh — and perhaps this cilantro, almond and jalapeno pesto that I’d made a week or so before.

The true challenge of the challenge is wrangling the baby while doing  it. That’s ok, all that’s required in the WCC is to wash off the fish, cover it with some things, and put it into a very hot oven.The prep should not be where the word “challenge” comes into play, because the challenge is to make a dinner with no prep or planning. Plus I can generally do a fast bit of chopping while Henry preps his own fake dinner.

He has a dedicated cooking drawer. Well, two special drawers, that we stock with fake ingredients and either fake or real utensils. They did not start out as his drawers, by the way. They have always been what I loosely consider mine to store my pots and pans in, for the duration of the time that I pay the rent on this house. But if I have a pot or a pan, he wants one. If I have a wooden spoon, where is his? So we’ve turned them over. Tonight he made some octopus stew using a wooden tambourine of an octopus nestled in a little saucepan. He stirred it with a purple spatula with a face on it.

But since he doesn’t have his own stovetop, we must engage in the cooking part together.The moment I light a burner, or begin to stir ingredients together in earnest — the moment that he senses that I’m no longer just mucking around with a wooden octopus in a pot, but about to braise a real one — he is standing up, trying to scale my legs, demanding to be included.

I must pick him up or pay the consequences.

It’s worth it because I get to see the mesmerized dance of sauteing, which is a fast rocking back and forth in rhythm to the sizzle, while pointing.

I washed the fish. Patted dry, patted with olive oil. Spooned on a bit of artichoke sauce that tastes an awful lot like vinegar. Added chopped olives with herbs de provence. Well, they were supposed to be chopped, but really I only could manage to tear the pits out because I figured that time the clock was ticking. I sliced a big shallot. I had a really nice flavor thing building, with a lot of bitter and a bit of creaminess from the olives, sweet pungence from the shallot, and acidity from the artichoke. I also had a great color thing going, with green and purple.I was walking back and forth, spooning artichoke sauce on, then walking to the cutting board to pick up the olives from the cutting board, then walking back to get the shallots. When I sprinkled the last of the shallots on, I got a resounding “YAY!!”

Then I remembered an orange that HAPS had begun to eat from the outside in in the supermarket. “He’s eating it!” people were warning me as we wheeled around the store.

And? You try to take it away from my baby shark. He will get you.Then a woman came up and said “He’s eating that” and her husband actually said “Yes, but look, he’s not screaming.”

Correct, sir.

I had to put Henry into his high chair in order to get the orange and the grater. He started agitating, because he couldn’t see. I had to continue to dress the fish right in front of him, where he could watch the proceedings. Orange: zested. Butter: put in tiny pats atop the fish. White wine: glugged around the edges. Pepper, ground atop.

Finally, he was satisfied, and I could put it into the oven. It would have taken 5 minutes to prepare, but instead it took about 10, which is still within the realm of ok.

We ate with polenta from a tube, no less, the ultimate in quickness, sauteed in a combination of olive oil and butter. And we had very skinny pieces of broiled asparagus.

Ironically, all the child would eat was asparagus, with his fingers. Like a member of the elite, except for there was more cramming involved.

I recommend the weeknight cod challenge as fast, easy, cheap, delicious, healthy, satisfying.

Think about your fridge. How would you play?

WEEKNIGHT COD CHALLENGE RECIPE (exemplar)

Preheat over to 425.

Ingredients:

• Cod filet
• Olive oil
• Artichoke pesto
• handful of olives, pitted and chopped
  
• shallot, sliced
• orange zest
• ground pepper
• white wine
• a few small dabs of butter
  

Put a cod filet into an enameled cast iron pan, or a cast iron skillet. Rub lightly with olive oil. Put other items on and around cod. Cook for 12 minutes.

i couldn't find monthday sushi: this is birthday sushi! happy happy.

Hi readers,

Happy Monthday!

Today (actually yesterday, but that was already two holidays at once )  . . . today marks a month since the inception of this blog at this address. Whee! It’s been a fantastic month so far.

Thanks to each and every one of you! And special thanks to every commenter.

And especial (that’s espanish) thanks to some of my favorite bloggers, tweeters, and pals, who have helped build momentum over here on the Avenue by recommending specific pieces or simply sending readers to the blog as a whole through Facebook or Twitter.

Especifically:

Evan over at Two Dishes to But to One Table

Alexis from Knot Sew Crafty

Julia at Venn Circus (who is also helping with design aspects of the site)

Sona, writer and director of the film For Real

Kim, Playwright and director

If you know someone who might enjoy Church Avenue Chomp, please let them know!

I’ve been leaning on social media (mostly the F word) to let you know when a new post is published, but if you like what you read, I encourage you to subscribe via email or subscribe to posts via RSS, both of which you can do in the right column.

Astute question: If I subscribe via email, why don’t I get the whole post emailed to me?

Informed answer: Because of an act called “scraping,” which is when someone, or a robot, goes through The Web and steals content. (I recently discovered that sections of an article I’d written in 1997 were eerily re-represented, with no attribution, in an article published 3 years later by an award-winning writer. Perhaps she did not want to bother to make her own turducken.)

Speaking of which, I need to go out and buy a Halal chicken, though I will not be stuffing it. But I may be “broasting” it. (A product I got called Broast was likely the inspiration for the Zoaster.)

Wish me luck out there!

Warm and featherly,

MP

Special thanks to gamene on Flickr for Creative Commons use of this bento pic. And this isn’t even the best one!

I woke up yesterday with the right side of my facing roaring like a lion. Pounding like the surf. Metaphor metaphor metaphor.

Ironically, Matthew was the household member who had to leave early to make a dental appointment. Me? I rarely leave the house, certainly not to take the subway to anywhere fun, like a medical thing.

I wasn’t certain that the pain was teeth, anyway, because while my mouth and jaw felt sensitive, I couldn’t pinpoint a particular problem. But over breakfast, things got pretty bad. With one side of my head throbbing along like a bass drum, I started to go down some grim alleys about what might be wrong. Spinal meningitis? One of those African worms that drills around in your body?

I even didn’t drink my (fake, decaf) coffee (that I nevertheless need in order to feel and act human). My plan was to go back to sleep the minute the sitter was in the door, just in case sleeping would make me feel better. I decided to take at least a sick morning from work, if not a whole sick day.

Matthew called to say that the dentist insisted that I come in right away, before the holiday weekend began, in case I was about to run into real trouble. What a great dentist! He even said I could bring the kiddo if I needed to. Does he know what the kiddo is like, Frankensteining around and trying to put everything in his mouth? Perhaps an oral fixation makes sense to the dentist. Perhaps he has straps to keep children in place.

Anyhow, when the sitter arrived, I set off for the dental office.

I used to send all of my single female friends to the handsome young dentist I saw. But then that guy disappeared from the practice and was replaced by another young dentist, whose salient characteristics — in contrast to the charm, pin-stripe trousers, BMW convertible, jokes, offers of valium, and flirting that I had become accustomed to — are hurrying, refusing to administer enough numbing agent, and then ignoring you when you are pawing at the air and moaning, wide-mouthed, in desperation.

That’s ok, it was my plan to never see him again in my life. I would see the older dentist who owns the practice, who gets good reviews from my husband. That’s the dentist who’d suggested I come in no matter what, appointmentless.

When I arrived, he looked at some x-rays and poked around in my mouth and announced that nothing is wrong with my teeth.

(Take that, Matthew. Matthew periodically inspects my toothbrushes to back up his theory, developed by periodically inspecting my toothbrushes, that I brush too hard. The dentists and their team of vaguely foreign assistants, they have not decided that I brush too hard, but based on comments they make to Matthew about his own teeth, he has become convinced that I have a real problem.)

So, what is wrong with me? You are on the edge of your seat. Do not fall off!

It’s tension, he said. I’m grinding. I need to relax.

The dentist gave up on my mouth and started rubbing my neck. He actually found some lumps that he said were discs, and slid them back into place. Whoa! I already felt way better.

He told me to go to yoga, and that if I can’t cut down on using a computer or carrying a baby — does he not know that these are my two main interests? — that I could come back and get fitted for a bit. Like a horse. Meanwhile, I should try to enjoy myself. He waved me away and said that the visit was free. I love you, unusual dentist.

In keeping with the decree that I must enjoy myself, and in keeping with the new potentially Western theme of at least my teeth, I bought myself some mustard yellow mini-cowboy boots on the way home. An impulse buy to match an impulse dental visit!

Thanks to the talented and obviously delightful yomi955 on Flickr for use of the excellent Japanese milk-tooth holders photo.

In the middle of the night, I’m suddenly flush with fear that the baby is going to fall off of the bed. “You’re too close to the edge!,” I say, and try to scooch him back closer to my side. To the middle. He’s getting big, though, and requires some maneuvering.

In the process of trying to move him, I touch his face, and realize that there is something stuck to his cheeks. They feel wrong. Crunchy. Like something dried on them? Oh no, I think. He was sick on himself. It has dried on his cheeks.

I’m patting the little cheeks and lamenting that I’ve let all these bad things happen, when Matthew wakes up and tries to squirm out of my scooching, patting grasp, and says “What, what are you doing?”

You, giant baby in my bed, are not what you first appear to be.

many thanks to flowery L*u*z*a* on flickr for use of the beautiful photo

Remember the Monty Python skit about the joke that was so funny that everyone who read it actually died, writhing, from laughter? This post is sort of like that, except you may die, writhing, from boredom. I’m imperiling you to talk about . . . health insurance. I apologize in advance for endangering you. If you are on the fence about continuing to read, I can dangle the carrot that it includes some interpersonal drama between me and my therapist, should you find that sort of thing compelling. Read more…