Earlier tonight my wife was well and thoroughly convinced that the mushrooms I ate at the supper table were going to finally off me in a blaze of culinary experimentation gone wrong and save her the trouble.   As it is now some 4 or 5 hours later and either I’m still here (no ghostwriting…yet!),  I’m afraid I’ve managed to twart untimely death once again and will still be around to annoy her in the morn with my insipid smiles and amateurish humors.   C’est la vie, no?

As it turns out, I quite enjoyably dined on two overly-sautéd (hey, I was nervous, too) yet nonetheless supremely tasty morel mushrooms that I found in my back yard one summers eve, no more than and no less than 2 twilights ago.   Fried in some butter and sprinkled with fresh-ground pepper and sea salt, they were as advertised by the howevermany websites and rumors that eating a morel mushroom in Iowa in the springtime is — well, something terribly natural and wholesome.

WHERE HAVE YOU PEOPLE BEEN HIDING THESE FROM ME?!?

“Flavorful,” seems a too-formal word for the fun I had with these buggers tonight.   Sure, it might have been the Whole Stick of Real Cream Butter they were doused in, but really — wow.   Im-pressive.   More than I thought at first blush would emit from something so…wrinkled.   I would pose the question of, “Perhaps other wrinkled things taste like butter-soaked ’shrooms?” but you wouldn’t want the visual, so I’ll keep that musing to myself.

Oh, damn.   How do I tell them that because of the unfreezing process I have no inner monologue?  I hope I didn’t say that out loud just now.

It’s my understanding that morels do not typically make their appearance to the visual world in the backyard of a bungalow miles from anything hearkening to the terminology, “forest”, and yet, there they were — one large and one large-challenged, sitting there as though it was customary for their kind to be hanging out in the middle of nowhere.   My guess is that their conversation had taken the path of, “Goddammit, I knew we should have stopped at that last stump to ask for directions!  You NEVER listen to me!”   “Oh, shaddup you wrinkled old hag!”   “HEY!   LOOK IN THE MIRROR MR. BOTOX-LESS!!!”

(one can never be sure of the discussions of fungi)

Despite the unusual manifestation, and after checking numerous online sources to determine that these were really morels (they were) and that they were really non-toxic (they are, but only when cooked) and that they weren’t the much-more-impressively-poisonous “false” morel (they weren’t, but did you know that even those are edible after cooking?  You just can’t take any chances that they aren’t cooked or you end up making your own little mushrooms, if you get my drift), I found a simple recipe (gotta start somewhere) and sliced them into some hot moo-fat and off to the races we went.

Sigh.   Culinary adventures?   Check.    Satisfied my danger quotient?   Check.    Amused the wife?

…

Well, there’s always tomorrow.

Any rare moments that I happen to steal from an morning otherwise bereft with the hectic slappings-about of a half-awake Neanderthal I consider to be of the most precious variety.   The sweet velvety dark of a slumbering house still draped in the swaths of night as my naked feet touch down onto the hardwood floor, the flash of artificial light as the monitor wakes up to my sleep-soaked eyes, that first warm, welcoming splash of spray across my shoulders as I slip into the shower — there are some morning events to which not even I can deny the pleasure.

If you know me, this is saying a lot.    Generally speaking, mornings can go shag themselves livid on a sandpaper-wrapped splintered broomstick — does the imagery strike you?

On a rare occasion, my messings-around and screwings-off are subdued to the point where I can sacrifice some minutes to actually cook myself a breakfast instead of slapping something sticky from a jar onto something flat and square from a bag and hoping it won’t get jammed halfway down my throat enroute and cause me to end up blue-faced and dead in a cornfield ditch.

That is — EGGS.

There is a proper way to construct a wonderfully succulent fried egg that will make your nipples curl into corkscrews with glee.    I’ve had these twice in the past week and I felt extremely compelled to share because — we all need twisted anatomy, don’t we?    I heartily recommend them if you have the time, inclination, and have not made any great enemies with fowl of late.

1.   The pan you choose should be as important as the thing you cook in it; nobody makes love in a dumpster, please don’t heat your breakfast in one.    This is one of the areas of culinary excellence where a non-stick pan of some pedigree should be chosen, whether that be cancer-causing Teflon, anodized aluminum, or otherwise.    A sauté pan is recommended for the curved sides; you’ll need some help in flipping later, and I don’t mean your house.   Remember, 30 minutes ago you were under the covers and in the arms of a hot member of the opposite sex eating grapes — don’t overestimate yourself so early in the day.

2.  Eggs appear to be a dollar twenty-three a dozen but looks and bulk pricing can be deceiving.    When adding to a box pound cake, whether or not your source hen spent her days roaming the hills of Austria or zip-tied and spread-eagled above a stainless-steel hopper probably matters little, but I guarantee you’ll notice the anguish of your mistake when cooking eggs straight up.   Chip in for the free-range ones, if not the organic, unless you have a local farmer wherein you can extract said food orbs from directly underneath the warm ass of a clucker, whereupon you know you’ve hit the motherlode.   (pun fully intended and appreciated)      A good indicator is yolks that are dark yellow, thick, and well-contained upon entering the pan.

3.  Unsalted butter is the only acceptable lubricant for this endevour.    Margerine is not intended for this sort of cooking (or, really, any cooking), oil is too bland (canola) or uppity (olive), and any other fancy whipped-this or seasoned-that is just a gimmick.     Two to three healthy tablespoons will do nicely in a 8″ pan with 2 – 3 eggs.

4.  Your attention, please!    This is not the time to browse the classifieds or brush the cat; it won’t take you more than 8 minutes or so to cook these, try to hold your enthusiasm for Marmaduke until the end.   A watched pot never boils, but an ignored egg will boink your daughter on the living room couch.

5.  Put your pan on the burner, bring up the heat, and then drop in your butter.   Wait until it is fully dissolved and bubbling merrily before proceeding.   If you have too much unmelted butter when the rest has been bubbling and is starting to brown, you have the heat too high.   The low side of medium high to medium should be your goal for this, but it truly is a feel-and-test sort of thing.

6.  Give each egg a solid whack! on the cooktop to crack it and then split it over the pan.    The purists in the audience will note that at this point, I should be first dumping the insides into a bowl to make sure there isn’t anything funny in there, like a lizard or a pair of pantyhose, but I don’t have time for that.   In a soufflé or pavlova, yes, but for breakfast?  Live a little, people.    A note on the egg white at this point — if your heat is correct, it will go opaque almost instantly along the bottom.   Any delay and your heat is low or the igloo has a draft.

7.  At this time, seasonings should be applied.    For this ultimate fried egg recipe, I shy away from anything but tried and true S&P, but with a new twist, because you want to love these eggs, not just like them.    Liberal amounts of fresh, ground black pepper in the biggest chunks your grinder will create is essential and you would be hard-pressed to apply too much of it.   The pepper has this wonderful property of cutting through the sweetness of the carmelized bits (more on that in a second) and gives a marvelously pungent aroma to the dish.     Finish this with the application of some sea salt granules — just enough to taste and not more than you need.   This is one area where I feel the so-called, “colored”, sea salts have real application as they are both spice and seasoning, but don’t push your luck.

8.  Patience is a virtue as you want to continue to fry the eggs until the surface of the yolks barely start to look dry and you can start to see the very, very edges of the white turn a wonderful brown.    The cook time on this side is about 85% of the total time, so don’t be afraid to go a bit long, but you want to prevent from fully cooking the yolk!    Yes, I know some of you like yours hard, but you are all  strange and odd.   A cooked yolk  means pasty dryness and an overcooked and rubbery white, so avoid trashing a perfectly good egg.   This goes for you, “3 minutes on one side and down the trap” people that prefer it when your food wiggles into your intestines rather than being deposited there.    Creepy.

9.   Cut the eggs apart with your flipper so you have neat packages to flip and then ease them over gently to prevent breaking the yolk.    Remember the admonition to use the sauté pan?   This is the reason why, as gently pushing the egg up the side till it flips back onto your instrument is both a turn-on and terribly handy.

10.   After flipping, count to 20 and turn the heat off; don’t worry, they’ll finish fine.    Let sit for 60 seconds and slide onto a plate.    Grab a fork and try to contain yourself to a ten foot radius of thrashing about as you experience the wonderful joy of — an Excellent Egg.

Bon apetit mes ami.

Although our attempts to make it an annual event have not yet come to fruition, the other weekend we got together for the 2nd annual (but not really) meeting of the gourmet chef minds of myself and my friend Lea and tossed together a meal of epic proportions and flavors.    While we usually don’t dump that much money for a single evening of a meal, sometimes you have to splurge for the Good Stuff™.

Herein lies the evidence of the night.   I’m afraid to say that I didn’t get nearly enough photos of the productions of the evening, but there’s a few for you to ‘feast’ your eyes upon.   Click each to make it larger and more lifelike.   Sorry, we have yet to perfect the scratch-’n'-sniff interface, so you’ll have to imagine for now.

We decided upon a combination of Italian and Greek, probably a mix of cultures not done often, but we really both like those cuisines and we have good skill in cooking them, meaning that we’d be able to pull off a nice meal without banging our heads with a saucepan most of the night.

I won’t go through the wines we had, that was covered in my post, Three Wines Meet Liver at Party.

Appetizer Course

Italian Rye Squares – This is a tried-and-true item that I’ve made many times before.  Grated parmesean cheese, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, kalamata olive oil juice, and Italian seasonings are all mixed together to form a paste.   This is then spread on rye bread squares, topped with your choice of mozzarella or provolone, and then put under a broiler until blissfully melted and warm.    They’re wonderful bite-sized pieces of happiness when done.

Spanikopita Finger Bites – A Lea dish if I ever saw one, which takes the basic spanikopita idea but instead of making it as a dish meal, instead wraps the filling in triangular strips of fillo dough which are brushed with butter and then baked.   The result is a wonderfully rich and flaky outside with a happy, creamy-filled surprise in the middle.

Soup Course

Soupe à l’Oignon Gratinée – Straight from my Saveur Cooks Authentic French cookbook, this traditional French onion soup is the king of my soupy creation as it is almost impossible to fuck up and always turns out to be this wonderfully sweet and cheesy, fulfilling dish.   If the only french onion soup you’ve tried is from the reconstituted packet, you’re missing out on one of the finer items in life.

Salad Course

Greek Salad – Nobody makes a wonderful Greek salad like Lea, what with the crunchy lettuce, beautiful tomatoes (she even found cherries, if you can imagine in this freaking wasteland), and the feta — oh god, the feta.   If I die because I ate too much feta in my life, I won’t regret it one single bit.

Italian Pasta Salad – My wife’s creation, actually; I can’t take the credit for this one as she did all the work.    Salami, mortadella, provolone, olives, capers, shallots, peas, and pasta, along with a fresh fennel/parsley/basil dressing and you have a light and very approachable salad but lots of flavor to behold.

Main Course

Homemade Gyros – Unlike the meatloafy versions that you normally see, this one actually turned out very much like the “real thing”, spices and all, based on this recipe we found online.   After running a pound of lamb and 2 pounds of ground beef through a hand meat grinder, we combined this with onion and spices and moulded it around the spikes on our Baby George (don’t laugh) rotisserie.    An hour later, we had a juicy, succulent loaf of joy that I cross-sliced into strips and we consumed mightily, complete with lettuce, Greek yoghurt,  and homemade tzatziki sauce.    Amazing.    Spent the rest of the night burping it up, too.

Dessert Course

Just when we thought that our stomachs simply couldn’t hold any more and if we tried stuffing more in, we’d end up in little bits sprayed around the room, we defied all logic and made — DESSERT!

Brown Sugar Bananas – Slightly-fried banana halves doused in a caramelly sauce and sprinkled with pecans — a beautifully happy dish that’s easy to whip up.   The only detractor from the beauty of it was the fact that, while chopping the nuts and having copious amounts of wine, I managed to slice the end of my thumb off and spent the rest of the night with a wad of padding in my hand and my arm above my head to try to staunch the bleeding.    Fortunately, the dessert was saved from needless bloodshed.

Cremé Brulée – A “classic” that I had always wanted to make, it came out wonderfully well.     Of course, anything made out of heavy whipping cream, eggs, and sugar, baked slowly in an oven, and then sprinkled with yet MORE sugar and torched to a candied crisp with a propane torch just can’t be wrong.   50,000 calories each and worth every bite.

Other Pictures

Holy hell that’s a lot of food, looking back on it!   But what a night spent with good food, great friends, memorable wine, and a maimed hand.   Here’s to next year’s gathering of the spoons!