P'DOGS

Tonight amid duck confit and lamb kebabs preparations, I needed fuss-less, folky fare to balance my food equilibrium. Ta’da: P’Dogs!

P’Dogs (short for Panini dogs) are a close cousin of the Waffle Dog, specialty of a short-lived Chattanooga hot dog shop. In a way, P’Dogs are health food. Deep-fried hot dogs in cheesy cornbread batter too much for your diet? Then try these hot dogs in cheesy cornbread batter that are toasted—not deep fried—to chewy perfection on a hot Panini press. Not enough to soothe your health-conscious soul? Then dip them in veggie-rich, spicy remoulade, and, hot damn, you’re golden.

P’DOGS

1 cup flour
1 cup cornmeal (not self-rising)
1 ½ tsp. salt (less if you’re using a salty seasoning)

1 ½ tsp. cajun seasoning (preferably Alchemy Bayou Ya-Ya)
1 tsp. baking soda
¼ tsp. baking powder
½ cup sharp cheddar cheese
1 ¾ cups buttermilk
8 all-beef hot dogs with natural casings (or veggie dogs, of course)
½ cup cornstarch
Wax paper
16 wooden skewers

· Preheat your Panini press; I set mine to medium-high to achieve a crunchy, chewy exterior.
· Mix the first six ingredients (dry ingredients) thoroughly.

· Next, toss cheese in with the dry ingredients and, following, add buttermilk. Stir until just combined.
· Insert the skewers into the hot dogs (2 per dog, side by side), pushing them to within one inch of the tip.
· On a large piece of waxed paper, spread the cornstarch and roll each skewered-dog in the cornstarch until thoroughly cover; tap off excess.
· Empty the batter onto another sheet of waxed paper and thoroughly cover each dog in its entirety.
· When press is fully preheated, introduce the dogs and cook for seven to eight minutes apiece.
· Yep, a bit of batter will puddle at the bottom, all toothsome and crusty and golden. Enjoy it dipped in rich, mustardy remoulade.

· Nota Bene: We order our hot dogs from Chicopee Provisions.

REMOULADE

½ cup onion (one medium yellow), chopped
½ cup green onions, chopped
½ cup celery, chopped
¼ cup, 2 T spicy mustard
¼ cup lemon juice
¼ cup fresh cilantro
2 T horseradish
2 T ketchup
2 T roasted red pepper
1 T sirachi or hot sauce
1 tsp. salt
1/8 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
¾ cup olive, vegetable, or canola oil

· Add all ingredients except oil to food processor and process until moderately homogenized and smooth but with lovely specks of cilantro-green and pepper-red throughout.
· Add oil slowly—a thin, even drizzle—as if making mayonnaise.
· Serve immediately or store, refrigerated, in tightly-sealed container.

HOW TO BECOME A FOOD SNOB

A hundred small choices.

1. Belgium beers
2. muddy espresso
3. good farmstead cheeses (from farmers that moonlight as academics)
4. tellicherry peppercorns
5. freshly-ground cinnamon
6. nutmeg grated on a rasp
7. rosemary that you snip just before you eat it
8. fresh basil
9. melted sweet onions
10. roasted garlic
11. Wagyu beef
12. heritage pork cooked low & slow over a fire
13. vinegary, homemade BBQ sauce
14. tomatoes with names like Old Ivory Egg
15. fish that your dad caught
16. spicy boiled peanuts
17. hot dogs with natural casing that pops
18. gelato
19. Jack Daniels
20. drunken mushrooms with dry red and fresh herbs
21. lamb from a farmer with whom you’ve shaken hands
22. muscadines
23. vegetables grilled on a fire
24. olive oil that tastes of green apples and warmth
25. twenty-five year old balsamic
25. tart, homemade yogurt
26. La Chouffe
27. lobster rolls in Narragansett
28. fried sage leaves
29. perfect salads
30. fresh lemonade with rosemary
31. homemade pierogies
32. warm chocolate chip cookies
33. chocolate pot de creme
34. raw tuna with avocado and spicy mayo
35. Royal Reds at the Gulf
36. baba ghanoush
37. flat bread made in unauthorized kitchens and hidden behind the grocery counter
38. briny dolmas (lamb/rice/hot/ cold)
39. coconut-milk curries
40. homemade paneer
41. avocado
42. chocolate ganache and fruit
43. crispy fish tacos
44. homemade birthday cake
45. dark rye bread with sweet butter
46. Mexican-style shrimp cocktail
47. chorizo and eggs
48. chip wagon poutine
49. buffalo burgers
50. hot baguettes
51. bacon fat
52. duck confit
53. just-mixed vinaigrettes
54. dijon
55. artichokes
56. crunchy slaws
57. maple syrup
58. red beans and rice in New Orleans
59. butter
60. a freezer full of bones for stock
61. lots and lots of cilantro
62. ribs at Dreamland (but only the one where the roof leaks)
63. sesame and walnut oils
64. vanilla powder
65. kielbasa
66. crispy apple fritters
67. wild rice from a reservation
68. sexy, sexy bulgur
69. homemade pasta
70. basil pesto on homemade pasta
71. remoulade
72. gouda that crunches with saltiness
73. pilaf
74. eggy tapioca
75. wood-fired pizza
76. tacos from a road-side trailer
77. crisp, juicy roasted chicken with mustard
78. perfect mashed potatoes
79. lamb stew
80. pork and sauerkraut with applesauce
81. lobster pot pie
82. cornmeal-dusted hot fish
83. risotto
84. homemade mayonnaise
85. crisp, tart apples eaten out-of-hand
86. filet with herbed compound butter
87. roasted asparagus
88. corned beef and cabbage
89. coconut cake
90. plantain chips
91. crispy carnitas
92. jasmine rice
93. ricotta
94. toast with butter
95. salsas made from market veggies
96. ‘nana pudding & chocolate mousse pie
97. roasted peppers and Asiago
98. funnel cakes
99. scrambled eggs with lots of black pepper and ketchup
100. a thick, medium-rare Kobe burger with onion rings

Chris adds:
101. salmon caught from the Kenai River, blackened, and eaten outdoors within four-hours of its final swim
102. sausage
103. fried chicken (beside velvet wallpaper) at Lamar's

SUMMER SHOTS & A COCKTAIL

Some quintessientially summer pictures that I had to share...

.

a lovely heirloom tomato BLAT with basil mayo

(bacon, lettuce, arugula, tomato)

kegs, cases, & cans

Driving home for lunch a few weeks ago, I saw this: an overturned tractor trailer of Coors Light. Do you think all of those made it to the trash heap?

farmer's market find

Quite possibly the best farmstead cheese I've tasted: Bonnie Blue's Cave-Aged Camembert--soft, 'shroomy, and silky. This ain't feta, folks.

And the cocktail...

Lem'onade Motlow-Style

These are certainly the dog days of summer--burning, bright, and drippingly humid. Lem'onade Motlow-Style will either cool you down or make you hazy enough to ignore your discomfort.

3/4 cup raw sugar

2--4"stalks of rosemary, washed

1 cup fresh-squeezed lemon juice

Jack Daniels

• Add sugar and rosemary to a two-quart pitcher and muddle them with a wooden spoon to release the rosemary's oils.
• Next, add the lemon juice and stir until the sugar dissolves fully.
• Add water to the two-quart mark.
• To each tumbler, add ice.
• According to taste, add one to two shots of Jack Daniels per glass.
• Fill with rosemary-lemonade and enjoy.

LOST SOULS & STAYCATION

The Incomparable La Chouffe

Sweet Grass Dairy Holly Springs, Pecan Chevre, & Hopeful Tomme

We’ve had a couple weeks of ownership shifts and relaxation. To start, my iPod was stolen from our car. Now, we have two other iPods, but mine was a 60-gig. I have a strong instinct to narrate nearly every instant of my life with the exact song at an exact time. There is, of course, a moment when only Dylan’s Frankie & Albert will do (and another when only Taj Mahal’s will). In my life, there are many of these moments necessary to my creative stimulation and overall mental health, and only a big-gig Pod will meet these musical demands. Right now, I’m having severe Felice Brothers withdrawal, “My baby told me, Darling, if you don’t get a pardon better get a parole.” And I truly want to believe that some little brat is going to get a serious slap on the hand for stealing my muse.

Second to that in my lost-and-found theme, a puppy. Down-and-out-dogs are kind of our thing, as you may have gathered. Needless to say, our parents held their collective breath, for our newly-found-on-the-street Adelle (hard A, A-dell, as in “Put your titty up, Adelle,” Brad Pitt in Kalifornia) was possibly the cutest puppy ever: a brindle American-bulldog/pit/boxer mix. Our Gracie loved her; Stella abhored her; Jed was indifferent; and Chris and I were semi-smitten. But our little bungalow is simply too small for four big-wilds. Thankfully, a good forever-home presented itself with a fun dad and a Chihuahua named Whitten. And we were able to send her onward.

We spent last week on a cobbled together staycation (a vacation for the financially-challenged): camping at a kayak-in site on a North Carolina lake; two nights in Decatur, Georgia at one of our favorite bars; and lots of laughing and partying with our friend Mike in the interim. Which brings me to food.

Our days in the forest with freeze-dried dinners and instant oatmeal were a bit surreal. Chris assured me that Mountain House meals were the best on the market (synonymous, it turns out, with the only edible on the market), but, amid a torrential downpour in a 15-year-old tent and bear-proofing, a girl wants something not just substantial but substantially comforting and tasty and fresh. Rest assured, I am now terribly taken with the idea of homemade, pack-in camp food: light, compact, but fortifiably domestic and delicious.

Following the woods, we hit Atlanta, a jarring not unlike our transition from Death Valley to Vegas in 2002. Our mecca was Decatur’s Brick Store Pub—no neon; beautiful punk and Kings of Leon-looking staff; and an all-Belgium bar atop. Plus toothsome, vinegar-drenched fish and chips with house-made remoulade. Plus Sweet Grass Dairy cheese boards and warm baguette. As if that’s not enough, at the Brick Store, each beer is served in its own brewery-issued glass. Perfection.

When we needed a (brief) break from the rich Belgiums, we ventured outward for dinner at Cakes & Ale. Chris ordered the Cakes & Ale Burger with Fries. He often goes burger in upscale joints and judged this brisket-and-pork-belly version to be “good,” though not so good as our own St. John's Meeting Place kobe burger. My meal, however, was excellent: Sliced Wagyu Roast Beef with New Crop Potato Salad, Tomatoes, Horseradish Sauce, & Greens. The beef, at a ¼” thickness, was pink, soft, and buttery. The potatoes and lettuce were tender as only the freshest, small-garden vegetables are, and the horseradish sauce melted airily but distinctly with each element. I loved the meal and would order it again this evening. And tomorrow evening as well.

Following that, we enjoyed three courses at The Chocolate Bar across the street: Goat Cheese Mousse with Raisin Toast and Grape Confit, Chocolate Banana Ganache with Olive Oil Crumble and Banana Sorbet, and Chocolate Pot de Crème. Though I was stuffed and hesitant to lemming-along with the course idea at first, I loved the progression—light to rich, savory to intensely sweet, a patchwork of complexities—and scratched at each serving dish with my little spoon for sticky remnants.

One last note, a found staycation souvenir and something I’ve been searching for: a purse-sized pepper grinder. Yep, I’m an extremist, but I simply can’t endure the stale, tasteless pepper offered in restaurants and bars. Now, I won’t have to. And if you’d like to avoid the same torture, you can find the three-inch GSI Outdoors lexan beauty here (http://www.gsioutdoors.com/detail.aspx?s=7&c2=3&p=73490&lu=%2flist.aspx%3fs%3d7%26c2%3d3&).

DOG BLOG: A BRIEF BREAK FROM FOOD

A Young Bowser, Circa 1993

We lost one of our family dogs this week. Bowser was 15 ½ years old (a pure mutt of Collie, German Shepherd, Irish Setter, and St. Bernard) and escaped from his pen at my parent’s house in Pennsylvania while they were here in Tennessee visiting. My father kept the news from us the entire four days of the trip, not wanting to ruin our time together; once home, he burst into tears in the kitchen. We still have hope that Bowser will trot back with burrs in his fur; it’s only been a week. Even as I am writing this, there’s been a false alarm: the rangers from Keystone State Park, less than a mile from my parents’, called to say that they’d found him. But it was another dog—shorter, furrier, not our old guy.

My father hopes that, “he’s getting a piece of ass.” I hope that he’s found adventure: deer to chase, a pond to swim in. We don’t say what we fear: that in his deafness and blindness he’s lost, scared, and alone for the first time. My father raised him from birth, after all. His mama, Sweetie Pie, was our dog (a runt hand-fed from an eyedropper by my mother), as was his grandmother, Tassie. Bowser’s the last generation of the family of dogs that extended from my second year to my thirties.

We didn’t treat those dogs as we treat our dogs now: they lived outside, stinky and matted but loved. Bowser’s enclosure opened into my Dad’s workshop and garage. He slept there on an old couch and when my father went into the garage, Bowser would ease up on his old back legs and grin, a really big grin for my father.

I suppose it’s fair to say that my Dad’s often misunderstood in the human realm—interpreted as gruff and harsh, which is really his mask for emotion or social unease. With the family dogs, he’s always comfortable. A few years ago, he began giving them middles names—Maizee May, Kenai Florissa, Gracie Louise, Stella Elizabeth, Duncan Diesel, Jedidiah Linston. And when our Kenai died in May of 2006, he wrote her a song, “Kenai Florissa, we’re sure gonna miss ‘er.” He’s working on songs for all of them now. Bowser’s, too, will be a posthumous honor.

For a dog of Bowser’s size, his life span is off the charts. True, he was never coddled or brushed, but he had his fun killing groundhogs, slipping his collar and tearing across the corn fields, and, of course, barking at anything barkable. It must have worked for him, for he was a happy dog. A few years ago, my sister, Maria, had him groomed—those poor, underpaid groomers!—and tried to gentrify him for a life in the house. Bowser sprayed everything in sight: wood burner, couches, kitchen chairs, walls, doors, and toilets; he feared the tile flooring; and he escaped out the door every chance he got. Back outside, Bowsie Boy was content even as he lost his senses, cooing for attention anytime he sensed a family member. In this late great adventure, I hope he’s sitting tall and proud with his tan mane fuzzily framing his face, grinning at some new unexpected joy and, just maybe, getting a piece of ass.

LUNCH & LIFE

We were out of place; no question. Even as we walked towards the first car, its truck open, forty men glancing down into its recesses, every head pulled towards us: Chris’s button-down and my all black dress get-up didn’t help; Warren, in his shorts and t-shirt, offered the most credibility to our group. Chris reached into his pocket and pulled a crisp twenty into view, which seemed only to confirm their discomfort. Cocaine? Illicit weapons? Black market baby?

Nope, we were after lunch. And lunch was in the trunk of that car.

There were three cars in the lot actually, positioned strategically to serve hundreds of Hispanic workers at two of Chattanooga’s many condo construction sites. This car, a big old coupe with a cooler of Cokes in the backseat and a trunk-full of three-compartment Styrofoam meals, was operated by a chunky man with a Hawaiian shirt and a ponytail. “No more,” he told us, though a number of containers remained.

His anxiety was no surprise. Chattanooga’s Hispanic community has been on edge since the raid of the Pilgrim’s Pride poultry plant this spring; over a hundred workers were arrested. Even the Hispanic Festival at the Chattanooga Market, generally bustling and colorful, was reserved, poorly attended, slightly mournful even.

At the next car, a man and woman spoke rapidly to one another at our inquiry, a sort of should-I-or-shouldn’t-I back and forth. Finally, the woman said, “Carne only. Eight dollars.” The gringo price for sure, but we were hungry and pleased at their willingness. We gathered our armfuls—napkins and spoons, foil-pouched tortillas, sodas, and Styrofoams—and went to sit on a flowerbox.

Poor working-man’s food: meat—mostly bones—that most of us would discard, veins jiggling and gristle, in a tasty gravy, floating delicious sauce-soaked chunks of potatoes; rice and elbow noodles with a scattering of bagged mixed vegetables, seasoned with Goya; chubby red beans in sauce; and homemade corn tortillas. I made “tacos” of the rice and beans, dipped them in the spicy red meat stock, and gnawed the meat from the bones.

The workers around us lounged, some napping, in spots with a snatch of shade, enjoying their few minutes before the return to bricklaying and building in burning sun. By the time I went to wash my hands, they seemed comfortable with our presence, pointing me towards the lady’s room and smiling from under the brims of their ball caps. For Chris, Warren, and I, it was a memorable lunch, a lunch of experience: politics and culture, thrift and sustenance, homemade and open-market, beans and rice and bone and marrow.

OFF THE WAGON

The Past Week

The past week has been a hectic feast of picnicking and near-miss food adventures, a fall off the cooking wagon as it were. Over the days preceding the Fourth of July, my sister-in-law with her husband and five boys (ages 10, 5, 2, and eight-month-old twins) ascended on my in-laws. Chris and I were invited for dinner each evening and had lovely, raccous times which included bottle rockets and jumping jacks; bratwursts and gazpacho; ‘nana pudding; various magic tricks and associated bets; a rosary presented by our sweet, five-year-old Burkley to help “Gramma Kay quite smoking;" the sneaking of cigarettes; gin-and-tonics; whoopie pies.

In the middle of it all, Chris and I slipped off to Birmingham for Tom Waits’ Glitter and Doom tour appearance at the Alabama Theatre. The first time I heard Tom Waits, I was fourteen, riding in a Cadillac Brougham with my friend Caleb’s dad at the wheel. “Step Right Up” spiraled nearly-out-of-control on the stereo (everyone’s a winner, bargains galore…something for the little lady, something for the little lady, something for the little lady), and I was sucked in; have been ever since.

For the record, Birmingham is a beautiful downtown of potential and nothingness. We found a single bar, packed to the gills with Rain Dogs and a lone slow-motion bartender; no luck. So we were back on the street, searching for dinner, when Pete’s Famous Hot Dogs beamed brilliantly through its grime. Ever on the search for a good dog, Chris was drawn in and even more so when he swung open the door to be hit with the scent of “boiled meat, steamed buns, and onions,” as he describes. Sadly, the hunched, aproned man behind the counter apologized that he’d cleaned up for the evening, and we, ultimately, were left to theatre drinks and dirty-sock popcorn.

We had a similar miss yesterday for my birthday breakfast, when Chattanooga’s Koch’s Bakery was closed for family vacation. It was apple fritters that we were after. I choose the crispiest fried heap that I can find, glazed in simple confectioners-frosting, and feathery soft crumb inside: an ornery treat reserved for birthday morning, serious hangover repair, or early-morning barbeque-team relief. Oh well.

Tonight, we’ll be hoisting back onto the wagon. Tomatoes are here, and, damn, does this first harvest of Brandywines look promising. I hope my sad little basil plants are ready to be ravaged.