(Crawfish) Boils, Boston, and Boozy Cakes

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A few weeks back I took a vision quest to the small village of Cambridge, Massachusetts to visit some friends and partake in my very first crawfish boil. Now I am sure that many of you are picking your jaws up off the floor with the image of my fine Jew self sucking down some crawfish brains. It should be known to all that I was given official Jew approval by the official Southern Jew (SoJew) herself. In fact her exact words were, “You are a Southern Jew now. Get over it.” With those words of encouragement and $40 cash it wasn’t but a few minutes time that I found myself beard deep in serving platter of the little red bastards. One thousand pounds of crawfish had been ordered for the annual LSU Crawfish Boil held at The Baseball Tavern. I ate roughly 999 pounds. I kid. I ate enough that I was afraid to fart in public but not enough that I also chased it with a cheese burger from Tasty Burger about two hours later.

The event overall was wonderful. I was able to spend hours with friends talking about all the great times we had at LSU. The picnics we had in the quad between classes. The all night ragers over at Lamda Lamda Lamda. And then I realized I didn’t go to LSU. That I spent all my time in college working at the mall like all good gay virgins with dreams of big city Working Girl lives. Oh Tape World. I miss you.

The whole weekend was full of fun activities. There was the night I kiki’d with the girls over Indian take out. That night I learned that I am the same Myers Briggs personality type as Joe Hackett from the seminal television classic Wings. Television has not been the same since that show left us.

Then there was the afternoon that I lost my virginity while getting a pedicure. I have to admit it actually was my first time in the pedicure chair. And I have to admit that I really do think I lost my virginity (again and again and again) to that same pedicure chair. My fine Boston friend, Ms. Antipasto, apparently didn’t feel it necessary to tell me that the chair reenacts scenes from movies you normally have to verify your age to watch. The place was lovely. If I lived there I was would have a standing weekly appointment. Maybe on Saturday mornings.

Part of an afternoon was spent crying in a Christian Science library. Part of an afternoon was spent acting out our favorite scenes from Evening Shade on balconies overlooking bays. One morning was spent getting to know strangers over cheesy grits. Another morning was spent binge eating pie for breakfast with friends.

And through it all we still had time to squeeze in some greatly appreciated episodes of Good Times. Thankfully JJ got out of jail in part two of that nail biter.

All in all a great weekend.  

Now I am sure all of you are wondering what the “H”, “E”, Double Hockey Sticks I whipped up in the kitchen this week for the blog.

If you recall last week's riveting post you will know that at one point during my weekend shenanigans I found myself a bar listening to my wonderful friend Leasing Agent sing. While there the barkeep suggested I try this new to me root beer with a kick. He handed me a bottle of Not Your Father’s Root Beer by the fine folks over at Small Town Brewery. Let me just say that if you are a fan of root beer and a fan of alcohol pick some up. Warn your family that rehab is your plan for next Summer and call it day. If this liquid gold had been around when Nancy Reagan was in office she would have warned us against it on an episode of Diff’rent Strokes. As my plan is to not be plastered at the pool all weekend I decided to use what I bought for a good old fashioned Root Beer Cake.

Not Your Father’s Boozy Cake

(adapted from The Food Network’s Root Beer Bundt Cake)

Prepared Buttercream Frosting (recipe here)

Spatchcocked Chicken, Summer Shenanigans, and Sports Bar Pizza

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Herb De Provence Spatchcocked Chicken

With the arrival of summer I have found myself at the pool a few weekends in a row. Now as I am one to only get in a pool on the rarest of occasion, the time spent is pure observational. At the start of the summer I, along with a few select neighbors, could be seen lounging about, cattily chatting about the goings on around our building and tossing back a La Croix or two. With summer now in full swing the pool has become a petri dish of high school coming of age movies. Picture a lovely mash up of Heathers and Mean Girls. Everyone in their places with eyes spying over Hawaiian Tropic smudged knock off Ray-Bans.

So naturally my close knit group have situated ourselves on the deep end in a position to watch absolutely everything. From the pretty gay who surrounds himself with a dozen guests buzzing around to the thump thump of his overly clichéd Pandora playlist. To the wall of silent college linebackers not so stealthy checking out the opposite sex. To the family of four who dares to dip their toddlers in a salt water pool full of marinating humans. Occasionally there is a Step Up-like showdown of whose music can be played loudest. While other times you can’t help but hear the daytime drama emerging from a phone call “accidentally” left on speaker phone.

It is usually at this point I gather up my mumu, straw hat, and waddle my way back to my dorm room four floors up.

As yesterday was no different than the Saturday before I bullied my neighbor, Fitness Instructor, into leaving our Wild Kingdom watering hole early to go re-hydrate with beers alfresco. After we solved all of our problems over Small Batch beers we moved on to a new place in town. I’m not going to bother you with the name of this bar because, other than myself, Fitness Instructor, our dear friend Leasing Agent (who was singing at the bar) and the barkeep, we were the only people there. I could be wrong but there may have been a Nathan’s Hot Dog vendor outside but I think he moved down the block to the new strip club. Because hot dogs naturally go with vinyl lounge chairs and sad men. Needless to say I don’t think this bar will be around long.

However I will say I found my Netflix twin in the barkeep. In fact I was pretty sure we were destined to be best friends forever when after discussing the culinary expertise detailed in the show Hannibal, he offered up some of his cold pizza to share. And if anyone really knows me they know that I would bend over backwards naked behind a Nathan’s Hot Dog cart in front of a strip club to have day old cold pizza. Why it isn’t an option on pizzeria menus I will never understand.

Again all of life’s problems were solved over beers. And then I went to bed.

A few weeks into this summer living I have determined that only one day of pool research is good for the health. With that I have vowed to stay in today and catch up on some much needed housekeeping. And by housekeeping I mean roasting a chicken while binge watching Star Trek: The Next Generation.

As much as I want to just sit on the sofa and lick the carcass clean I plan on using this chicken to feed off of for a few days. You know the Jews love a good roast chicken.

Herb De Provence Lemon Roasted Chicken

  • 1 whole 5 lb chicken
  • 2 Tablespoons Olive Oil – divided
  • Coarse Salt and Ground Black Pepper
  • 1 Tablespoons Herb De Provence
  • 3 Small Lemons – sliced

1. Preheat oven to 425. Start by placing the chicken breast side down on your work surface. Beginning at the thighs remove the back bone using kitchen shears. Discard backbone or save for stock. Flip the chicken over and open like a book. Then press down on the breastbone, firmly to flatten the bird.

2. Rub the chicken with one tablespoon olive oil. Then season with 1 tablespoon of salt, ½ teaspoon of black pepper, and 1 tablespoon of Herb De Provence.

3. Oil the bottom of a rimmed baking sheet with remaining 1 tablespoon of olive oil. Layer half of the sliced lemons on the tray and then place the chicken, breast side up, on top of the lemons.

4. Using your fingers gently separate the skin from the meat of the chicken. Then gently place remaining lemon slices under the skin of the chicken.

5. Roast the chicken for 50-60 minutes. Chicken will be done when a thermometer placed in the thickest part of the breast reads 165 degrees.

6. Remove from oven and let rest 10 minutes before carving up.

Until next time.

Pickled Strawberries, Phantom Roommate Syndrome, and Pleasing Others

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Pickled Strawberries

I am in no position to beg for forgiveness regarding my absence with this blog. Naturally my apologies to my two faithful readers.

Let me see if I can catch you two up. 

In the last three months I have gained no ground on how to boil water on an electric stove top. I am 1000% convinced that they are the Devil’s work. Oddly, I have learned how to fry an egg on an electric stove top. It takes me more than twice as long as it did on a Heavenly blessed gas range, but still, I can fry an egg again.

In the last three months I have explored my vast new surroundings (read: the five square blocks that make up my new downtown living situation). There are wonderful fish tacos at King’s Crab Shack. Amazing wings and pizza at Ronni’s Restaurant. There is hardly anything Irish about the Irish bar down the street. And the dark horse winner is the oddly hipster bar around the corner that seats maybe 10 and has absolutely no online presence. One night I had to actually walk over there to see if they were open.

I have had to ban Pimento Cheese from my home. I have found a new love of air conditioning (Captain Planet will not be happy with me). And I have learned the difference between “y’all” and “all y’all”. 

Also I have slowly found my way back into my kitchen.

Though still suffering from phantom roommate syndrome (I am sure this is real even if it’s not on webMD) I am learning what it means to cook for one. By “cook for one” I mean I still cook for the roommate I don’t have and then I freeze the rest. My freezer has become a cook’s nightmare. 

Thanks to the cast of characters that I have met in my new Melrose Place of an apartment building I have been able to pawn off some of my baked goods. 

Most recently I found myself in possession of a flat of strawberries. And after learning that the good folks of North Carolina do not look kindly upon rhubarb I had to compromise my plans of pies and jams. Thankfully the latest copy of Southern Living arrived and suggested pickling my fruit. Which oddly sounds like a euphemism for a man in a cold pool. 

So with some pound cake, vanilla ice cream topped with pickled strawberries I fed some neighbors and filled a void. Then kindly edged the last of them out of my home by 930 because I am old and needed to catch up on my stories on the TV. 

PICKLED STRAWBERRIES

Inspired by Southern Living Magazine but with modifications

Until next time. 

And know that bullying clearly works because I wouldn’t have done this without threat. Thank you Tami Two. You would be Tami Number One Fan but my mother is Number One. 

Wanted: Bubbie For Hire or How I Made Hamentashen Last Week

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Chocolate Hamentashen

WANTED: BUBBIE FOR HIRE

We (me) here at Benjamin Plante are looking to hire a bubbie for a long term contract position. The ideal candidate will be able to tell if I am eating enough just from a single phone call. She will be suggest I eat more but also remind me that I've put on weight since the last visit. Which was exactly 54 days ago.

She will grill me on my non existent social life reminding me at the same time she will never have great grandchildren. She will set me up with Ada's son from Temple (he's a doctor). When that doesn't work out she will set me up with the gentile at the grocery store (as long we raise our children Jewish).

She will expect me to call every week. She will be at my door in a matter of hours when I am sick. She will always suggest I wear a coat no matter the weather. She will openly judge my tattoos and badger the rabbi on where they can bury my body because of them. She will threaten her own life or my own should I think of getting another tattoo. 

You know Ruth from Temple? She will take me to Ruth's suit guy because he's the best in town and will not cheat you. She will be patient with me as I try to learn mahjong. She will fight the butcher for the best brisket on my birthday.

She will have endless hugs that leave me winded and covered in lipstick smears. She will have a story that will make no sense at first but 45 minutes later have the answer to whatever problem I am presently having. 

This position pays with weekly phone calls. Visits to Boca, Baton Rouge, New York or the Shalom Home as needed. Compliments to your cooking and letting you know Mrs. Schwartz's matzo balls are dry. Making sure the temperature is always ideal in my apartment when you visit. And the promise that I'll name my future unborn children after your brother Saul. 

EDUCATION REQUIREMENTS: 

A lifetime in the kitchen and mastery of the mean streets of life. 

ADDITIONAL SKILLS: 

No knowledge of technology whatsoever. When using Facetime I must be assured you will disconnect at least five times and yell as though it were a transcontinental call from 1930.

And the ability to work effectively with a novice jew feygele.

Referrals welcome. 

OR HOW I MADE HAMANTASCHEN LAST WEEK

Last week I was in the kitchen during a Southern Snow Day baking hamantaschen and pondering life's mysteries. After a couple attempts I found myself swearing at the dough. I couldn't get it the right consistency. And in a short moment of self pity I found myself wishing I had a grandmother (bubbie) to call and tell me what I did wrong. Though a basic recipe I was convinced there was something only a bubbie could get right. I could be wrong. 

Grandparents seemed to exit stage left rather quickly in our family. My memories are not of time spent on grandma's lap or the dinner table. But of stories as told by our parents. 

I'm only in my early to late 30s. There is still time to find a bubbie to make me feel fat while overfeeding me. 

Chocolate Hamantaschen

RECIPE FROM MARTHA STEWART

Prep: 1 Hour

Total Time: 3 hours 50 minutes

Yield: Makes 50 Cookies

"Church", Cookie Sandwiches, and Camp Candy

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 This is the point where I thought "better get a picture before it's all stored in my moobs".

Hey Y'all! My conversion to a Southern Belle is happening slowly. And since we last kibbutz'd I have spent many hours practicing my "y'all", "bless her heart" and general use of the term "church" for anything to do when not at the office. As in, "oh it's five on a Wednesday. I gotta head to church". I'm fairly certain that means they are going home to watch The Big Bang Theory because the next day I never hear updates as to what happened at "church".

When not at work I have continued to spend my time roaming the highways and byways of this still Winter Brown state. Though the lack of snow and cold has been wonderful, I would kill for some winter wonderland to come in for a day or two and cover up all the mud I'm looking at.

So to console myself from the tremendous loss of friends, family and Perkins I have taken to food and basketball. Please don't act shocked. We all know I love food and a few of you know that I love physical activity involving balls. So when I am not at work or court side I am looking for my next feeding.

And here is this weeks restaurant recommendations should you come visit me. Which nobody has yet. I keep a damn clean apartment folks. I'm not like those other dudes who don't clean a toilet seat.

Back to the food -

Lunch yesterday found me at a little hole in the wall across from a video rental store (I assume with good Christian based family movies). The First Carolina Delicatessen is a New York style deli that has been serving the Greensboro area for 20 years. Simple wood paneling and a giant wooden statue of a woman with sagging bresticles makes one feel right at home when inhaling two Kosher hot dogs with hotly debated Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray Soda. For some short reading on the love it or hate it following this celery flavored soda has take a peek here.

Clearly surrounded by Southerns with a refined enough palate to appreciate Hebrew National Hotdogs I fell in love with this place. At a short 20 minutes away it is well worth the drive. 

Second on my sojourn of food yesterday brought me to Maxie B's Bakery and Dessert Cafe, also located in Greensboro. If you ignore the Shabby Chic/Surprise By Design look of the cafe and focus on the 20+ cakes they had to choose from you'll be just fine. With a line out the door on a Saturday dinner crowd you would think I could handle the pressure of choosing what to take home. Oh hell no. I was just inches away from the tween behind the counter kindly demanding my order when I crumbled and ordered a slice (the size of a baby's head) of Pink Lemonade Cake and a nice side of Chocolate Chip Cookie Sandwich. 

I'm presently writing this from my bunk at fat camp. I ate a salad for dinner last night. Chased it with some cake and a La Croix (cuz I'm healthy). Woke up to some Scooby Doo on Boomerang, more cake and coffee (cuz I'm sophisticated). Reorganized my pantry. Had another salad for lunch (see previous note on health consciousness) and proceeded to chase that petite melange with Chocolate Chip Cookies that bookend about two cups of frosting. 

So we can all just agree that I will become diabetic, republican and adept at shooting things while living here. And making frequent stops at First Carolina Deli and Maxie B's.

Gotta run. My camp counselor has found my stash of Mars Bars under my pillow. And for those of you who care my version of fat camp is Camp Candy.