Fry each breast in the oil for 3 to 4 minutes on each side. (I usually do two at a time, but I’ve been known to cram all of them in at once and then spend the entire meal wishing I had just sucked it up and waited the 6 extra minutes.) The cutlets are cooked when chicken is firm to the touch but not rock hard.
Remove and drain the chicken onto a paper-towel-lined dinner plate tented with foil if you have more pieces to fry. Add more oil to the pan and fry the remaining breasts.
Note: Feel free to add any of the following to the bread crumbs: a pinch of cayenne, a teaspoon dry mustard, fresh thyme or oregano leaves, some ground flax, sesame seeds, or freshly grated Parmesan.
WHAT’S UP WITH POUNDING CHICKEN?
Flattening out a chicken breast with a meat pounder will leave you with chicken that cooks more evenly and tastes more tender.
To pound, place your chicken cutlets one at a time in between two sheets of wax paper set over a cutting board.
Then whack the poor thing in the center while simultaneously pushing out toward the edges until the breast is about 1/3 inch thick. (The important thing is that it’s all the same thickness.)
The chicken will likely increase in surface area so if it gets too large and unwieldy to handle, you can cut the pounded breast in two pieces before dredging.
How much better does this look than nuggets? Grandma Jody’s Chicken, topped with arugula and summer tomatoes.
Starter Curry: Curried Chicken with Apples
The original recipe we clipped from the New York Times had us concocting our own curry with turmeric, cumin, coriander, and cayenne, but more often than not, I fall back on my decent-enough store-bought madras curry blend. This is a constantly evolving dish and we never make it the same way twice. For instance, only in the past year did we start adding coconut milk to the broth—it’s just enough to make the dish feel slightly decadent. Total time: 30 minutes
2 tablespoons canola oil, plus more as needed
½ large onion, chopped
1 garlic clove, minced
½ large stalk celery, chopped
1 large apple, such as Granny Smith, peeled, cored, and cut into bite-size pieces
1 teaspoon grated peeled fresh ginger
2 tablespoons madras curry powder
3 medium-size boneless chicken breasts (about 1½ pounds), rinsed and patted dry, cut into bite-size cubes, salted and peppered
½ cup chicken broth
¼ cup light coconut milk
Handful of frozen peas (optional)
Few dollops of plain yogurt
Suggested garnishes: chopped cilantro or mint, sliced or chopped almonds
Heat the oil in a deep, large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the onion and sauté until it begins to soften, about 2 minutes.
Add the garlic, celery, apple, and ginger. Cook for 2 to 3 minutes and then add the curry powder, stirring to combine.
Push the ingredients to one side of the pan, add a little more oil, and brown the chicken on all sides. (If your pan is too stuffed, you can do it in two batches.) Stir all of the ingredients together then add the broth and coconut milk. Bring to a boil and then reduce to a simmer. Add the peas (if using) then cover and cook 10 more minutes, until chicken is cooked through.
Serve with basmati rice or flatbread and top with a dollop of yogurt and desired garnishes.
March 1998
A Recipe Starter Kit
At least once a month, maybe twice, for the fourteen years that I’ve been married to Andy, we’ve received a fat envelope in the mail from his mother, Emily. Nine times out of ten it’s an article she clipped from the Washington Post (even today, she remains dubious of an emailed link), and most likely the Post clipping features either the latest buffoonery on display by a politician or a travel piece highlighting a particular city in the Middle East, where she and Andy’s dad, Steve, spent seven years in the Foreign Service in the late 1960s and early ’70s. Every now and then she sends a food-related clipping, like one from Cooking Light (her favorite food magazine) or the newsletter from the Center for Science in the Public Interest. (She was definitely the first to alert me to the saturated-fat horror show of movie-theater popcorn.)
But the holy grail of mailers arrived in 1998, about six months after I married Andy. It came addressed to both of us: a little stack of white index cards on which were scribbled a half dozen of the recipes that Andy grew up eating at his kitchen table. The recipes were so basic—breaded pork chops! meatloaf! porcupine meatballs—so simple, and for him, so infused with nostalgia. I imagined they had been copied from recipe cards given to her by her mother-in-law or grandparents or from really old cookbooks that showed softly lit aspic buffets on yellowed pages. Whatever their provenance, though (I never asked—what would be more romance dashing than finding out they came from Cooking Light?), it doesn’t really matter. Within a few months, we had made each one of the recipes enough times to commit to memory, and twelve years later we both still think of the little index card cache as our family dinner starter kit.
Best wedding present ever, courtesy of my mother-in-law: Andy’s favorite childhood recipes handwritten on genuine index cards.
Porcupine Meatballs
I would like to go on record and say that this recipe might best represent our whole philosophy of cooking: It’s fast, easy, nostalgic, delicious, and only went up in value once we had kids. One note: Unless you are under four feet tall, you will probably need something acidic (a green salad with vinegary dressing) to cut the sweetness of the braising liquid. Total time: 45 minutes
1 pound ground beef or dark turkey
½ cup uncooked rice
1 tablespoon finely chopped onion
2 tablespoons diced green bell pepper
1 teaspoon salt
1 garlic clove, minced
2 cups tomato juice
4 whole cloves
½ teaspoon cinnamon
2 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
Combine the meat, rice, onion, bell pepper, salt, and garlic in a large bowl. Shape the mixture into small balls, about 1 inch wide.
In a deep skillet, whisk together the tomato juice, cloves, cinnamon, sugar, and Worcestershire sauce and bring to a simmer.
Drop in the meatballs and cover the skillet. Simmer for 30 minutes, or until rice is cooked and spiky, gently flipping over and spooning braising liquid over exposed meatballs from time to time.
Don’t forget to remove the cloves before serving. (But if you do forget, don’t worry—it will give you something to laugh about every single time you make it from that day forward.)
Breaded Vinegary Pork Chops
This version has been adapted slightly. The original called for Progresso Italian bread crumbs, but we’ve upgraded to panko (available in better supermarkets and all Asian markets) kicked up with lemon zest, to add extra crunch. Total time: 1 hour 25 minutes (includes 1 hour marinating time)
4 bone-in pork chops (about 2 pounds), pounded to ½ inch thickness
1 cup red wine vinegar
1½ cups panko
Zest from ½ lemon
1 tablespoon chopped fresh thyme
1 tablespoon chopped fresh oregano
Salt and pepper to taste
½ cup all-purpose flour
2 eggs, beaten
Olive oil
Arrange the pork in a single layer in a large baking dish and cover with the vinegar. Let sit for 1 hour at room temperature.
In a small bowl, combine the panko, zest, thyme, oregano, and salt and pepper. Set up your dredging stations: one rimmed dish for the flour, one for the eggs, and one for the panko mixture.
Heat a large cast-iron or heavy nonstick skillet over medium heat and add a few glugs of olive oil. Using a fork, dredge each chop first in the flour, then in the egg, then in the panko; make sure you coat the sides as well as the tops and bottoms, as every inch of crust is crucial. Drop the chops into the hot oil. Working in two batches, cook t
he pork chops until crispy and cooked through (about 4 minutes on each side), wiping out skillet with a paper towel after first batch and adding more oil as necessary.
Emily’s Meat Loaf
For her holiday party one year, my friend Elizabeth served a row of meat loaves that were presented on her finest China platters and had been stuffed with spinach and cheese. I loved that, and occasionally follow her lead for just a regular Tuesday night meal. To stuff, place half the meatloaf mixture in the loaf pan. Using a spoon, make a well down the length of the middle, then add thawed frozen spinach and mozzarella cheese into the well. Cover with remaining mixture and proceed as directed. Total time: 1 hour 15 minutes
1½ pounds ground lean beef, turkey, veal, pork, or combination
1 cup Italian bread crumbs
2 eggs, whisked
1 cup tomato juice or 1 8-ounce can tomato sauce whisked with water to make 1 cup
1 small onion, chopped
1 stalk celery, chopped
3 to 4 tablespoons cored, seeded, and chopped bell pepper (any color)
2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon ketchup
2 strips smoky bacon
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
In a large bowl, use your hands to thoroughly mix together the meat, bread crumbs, eggs, tomato juice, onion, celery, bell pepper, parsley, thyme, Worcestershire sauce, and salt. Add the meat mixture to a loaf pan, spreading ketchup on top. Lay bacon strips on top of ketchup and bake for 1 hour. The loaf is done when a knife inserted into the middle feels hot to the touch or when internal temperature reads 160°F.
We call this our recipe door—four of our favorite family recipes, painted inside our cabinet by the stove. See Great—Grandma Turano’s Meatballs.
A LETTER TO MY YOUNGER, NEWLY BETROTHED SELF
Dear Younger Self,
Congratulations on your engagement! Having been married to your soon-to-be husband for nearly a decade and a half, I can say with conviction that you’ve done an excellent job choosing a life partner. I know you are worried about Andy’s inability to remember when the recycling bins need to be dragged out to the curb, and that it’s really annoying when he leaves dresser drawers and kitchen cabinets open, but trust me, these are shortcomings that will be easily overlooked as soon as you taste his meltingly tender braised pork ragù. Also: the flee-to-the-suburbs vs. stay-in-the-city decision? I don’t want to give away the ending, but please work on repeating this mantra as you fight and freak out together: It’s a nice problem.
Okay, enough about the next fourteen years of marriage! What about the next ten months of wedding planning? I’ll bet you are getting a ton of advice from parents and friends and bloggers and you have a million decisions to make! Empire waist or A-line? Rabbi or justice of the peace? Where to have the ceremony? The reception? And perhaps most exciting: What to register for? I know I’m an old lady now, but I remember exactly how psyched I was . . . you are . . . to hit Crate & Barrel with a clipboard and pencil to start noting SKU numbers for wineglasses and chip-and-dip platters and all those other sophisticated accoutrements of adult living. Someone else is footing the bill so you can finally afford to buy that pasta pot with the built-in strainer! Hooray!
Except I’m here from the future to tell you that you will not use that pasta pot with the built-in strainer more than once, maybe twice, and it is currently enjoying its second life as a very expensive leak-catching bucket in the basement. The problem was that the pot-with its aluminum base but stainless-steel sides (stainless: poor conductor of heat; avoid)–took about 45 minutes to bring water to a boil. The strainer? I can tell you now that both you and Andy tend to favor the freestanding colander that you can use for all occasions, not just one that fits into this particular rotten pot. It will take a few more years and a few more purchases before you discover a hard-earned truth: When confronted with anything claiming to be two in one, you should run the other way. (The one exception here is the Spoonula-a silicone spatula and spoon combo that I find to be life-changing in the scrambled eggs department.)
You should also know this: The chip-and-dip platter? Dork move.
The point of this visit from your future, however, is not to make fun of you. That, as we both know, is Andy’s job. (And my! He does it so well!) The purpose of my letter is to help you. So on the next page, I’m going to tell you the six most important kitchen items to register for, the ones which fifteen years from now you are still going to be using and loving on a daily basis.
Much love,
Future Self, 10/4/11
Dear Future Self,
Thank you for your very helpful advice. I just have one question: What’s a blogger?
Love,
Younger Self, 12/16/96
SIX REGISTRY ITEMS YOU’LL NEVER REGRET
3-Quart Sauté Pan with Lid. (All-Clad stainless) You are probably thinking, Wait, you just told me to avoid stainless. Wrong: I told you to avoid it on its own. All-Clad has a line of cookware with an aluminum core (a metal with excellent heat retention properties) and a stainless exterior. (Stainless wears well, looks cool, and is easy to clean.) As soon as you discover the genius of a skillet dinner (like Andy’s Thai-spiced Salmon, which, I’m sorry to say, you’ll have to wait another decade for), this pan becomes an absolute workhouse. There will be a point in your life when you decide to just leave it on the stovetop and never put it away.
5½-Quart Round Dutch Oven. (Le Creuset) There have been a few times when I wished I had the 7¼-quart one, but only a few, and the point is this: You need this pot more than any other on the list. A home without a Dutch oven filled with soup simmering on the stovetop or a piece of meat braising in the oven is no home at all! And it will take you only a few years to develop the patina that makes your mother’s fifty-year-old 3½-quart Le Creuset look so awesome. (Also, good thing you inherited that 3½-quart one from mom, or I’d have to tell you to register for that, too, since you use it every time you make Marcella Hazan’s milk-braised pork loin. Which is to say, you will use it often.)
4-Quart Casserole with Lid. (All-Clad Stainless) You registered for this pot because back then it was called the “Soup for Two.” You are such a hopeless romantic! (And FYI: still are.) But I’m glad you picked this one because it will make many meals for you and your beloved, not just soup, and if you hadn’t lost it before your move from Brooklyn to . . . I’m not telling you where . . . you would still be using it thrice-weekly for rice and pastas for your family of four. (No, not four kids. What are you insane?) You will eventually replace it with a Dansk enamel pot found on eBay for next to nothing, but it remains to be seen if this one will last as long as the rest of the All-Clad line has. Buy this workhorse and this time, try to hold on to it.
Three Knives. (Wüsthof) You’ll want either the 5-inch or 7-inch chef’s knife (or both, so you can cook together and not fight over who gets the good one), which will be used for chopping about eight million future onions and shallots and . . . Are you serious? How old are you again? A shallot is a small, delicately flavored onion, with purplish skin that, when minced finely, makes it an excellent addition for salad dressings! You’ll also want a 7-inch serrated bread knife, which will come in handy for making Andy’s beloved tomato sandwiches–there will be a lot of these once he discovers them in the summer of 2001–and a 3-inch paring knife, essential for mincing garlic or peeling the skin off an apple in one smooth, coiling motion.
P.S.: That reminds me: Buy stock in Apple! As much as you can afford.
April 1998
The Happy Birthday Scallops
Okay, so I might have been lying just a tiny bit when I said that we are completely self-taught when it comes to churning out a steady stream of edible dinners. Because there was that one birthday—my twenty-fourth, in 1995—when I opened a card from Andy to find three or four cooking class description
s that had been ripped from the New School of Culinary Arts catalog. I could choose “The Food and Wine of Italy” or “A Middle Eastern Feast” or even a class taught by David Bouley, owner of Restaurant Bouley in New York and the closest thing 1995 had to a celebrity chef. Since that one was already filled to capacity, I chose a French cooking class that promised I would learn “classic culinary principles” and the basics of “balance and texture.” And so a few Saturday nights later, I showed up to a West Village brownstone and joined eight other apron-clad students around the kitchen’s island facing our professor, a restaurant chef who was taking time off to teach. As far as I could tell, I got my money’s worth about ten minutes into the class, the moment he taught us the trick for removing the stench of garlic from your fingers. (Rub them against stainless steel.) But since other students probably weren’t so easily satisfied, he went on to walk us through a basic recipe for scallops. Really basic. Like six-ingredients-and-10-minutes’-cooking-time basic. To the point where I wondered if I even needed a professional’s help with it. But I soon learned that packed into this unassuming little recipe were a few core culinary principles that would see me through hundreds of future meals. Including:
Deep flavor comes from browning and searing. To optimize browning and searing, make sure whatever meat or fish you are cooking is patted dry and is as close to room temperature as possible. (Also: poking and prodding every few seconds to see if the crust has formed is the surest way to prevent a crust from forming.)
Dinner: A Love Story Page 3
