Corned beef doesn’t exactly conjure images of glamour and sophistication; nevertheless it’s one of those things I get a craving for it roughly once a year. How convenient that my craving happened a short while before St. Patrick’s Day so I can share my results with you lot (I’m told that’s a right Irish way of saying things- correct me if I’ve misspoken). 

Supermarket corned beef, in my experience, is tough, plagued with a lingering flavor of skeevy salt, and downright bilious in many cases.  Doing it right, which means doing it yourself, really only takes a bit of planning, is more economical and tastes infinitely superior.  I borrowed the corning technique from Michael Ruhlman’s Charcuterie with only minor adjustments based on my own taste preferences.  I’m a bay leaf fanatic, so I doubled up on those since my bay leaf tree is only too happy to oblige me with her radiant foliage.  I started with a lovely first-cut brisket that I picked up for a song from my favorite butcher in Pike Place Market.  The capable butcher men are always eager to help now that they know I write a Seattle food blog and they can log on and check out the crazy things I do to their meat. 

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All three men in my life love meat.  The cat loves it for innate canine reasons that I can’t fault.  My husband loves it so much an ex once broke up with him because she thought his diet was excessively carnivorous.  My 18 month-old toddling bundle Bentley Danger gnaws on steak above chocolate, leading me to believe it somehow runs in the family.  It’s slightly appalling to me given the fact that I only started eating meat several years ago and I still view it as more of an accoutrement than a centerpiece, but I guess boys will be boys. 

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Ok ok, I know I have a wee obsession with duck eggs.  I am seeking proper care to cure my addiction, but in the meantime I want to share yet another showcase meal featuring the lovely oval gems.  I present to you sous vide duck eggs on a bed of wilted greens flanked by butter egg biscuits and drizzled in Meyer lemon hollandaise.  Sexy factor is high on this one since you’ve got all sorts of beautiful consistencies playing off each other for a smooth mouthful. 

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You have probably heard that saying “once you go black you never go back?” Well I recently went on a mission to discover if that was also true in the fowl family.  One of my favorite places in Seattle, Uwajimaya, sells black Silkie chickens.  I’ve been eyeballing their lush, purple- black skin for a few months now but I wanted to make something of them that would truly showcase their ebony splendor.  Silkie chickens are one of the oldest breeds of chicken, and the most well-documented and earliest mentions come from China.  They are prized today for their downy white plumage said to be as soft as silk- hence their name, Silkie.  From a culinary perspective they are most frequently seen in Chinese dishes such as soups and stews, but not very usual in Western culture.  I don’t mean to generalize, but I feel this is because they lack the over-bloated unnatural abundance of flesh most Westerners now expect on the genetically modified animal commonly known as a chicken. 

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I instantly shape shifted into Gollum at Pike Place Market the other day.  You would have done the same thing too if you had seen it though. My precioussss, my preciouss, precioussss, precioussss.  My primal nature kicked in and I furtively, possessively glanced about, assessing the threat from all angles.  It’s mine, all mine, mine, mine, I thought in my suddenly Australopithecus brain.  Ok, maybe most of you wouldn’t have gone quite so nuts over it, but the ambrosial delights I knew I would find inside that little parcel really had my blood all in a boil.  Wondering wtf I’m talking about? Why all the suspense, Linda, you’re bordering on psycho here? Just go seek one out and try it for yourself; then tell me I’m wrong to be so instantly awestruck. 

Ok, ok, the object in question is a goose egg.  Not the kind you get on your noggin after a particularly inebriated night involving five 30somethings and a tetherball, either.  This goose egg called out to me from its cushioned perch at The Creamery in the market, “Linda- bye, bye Miss American Pie, drove my Chevy to the levy but the levy was dry.”  Why was the goose egg singing that song, you ask?   Let’s revisit Homer’s Odyssey for a moment, shall we?  You recall the Sirens of Titan luring unsuspecting seamen with their enchanted voices? Well American Pie would be the song they would sing to me.  It’s like dangerous nectar to my ears every time I hear it.  You could talk me into anything with that song.  Anyway, the goose egg beckoned me to her with my inescapable song, and there was nothing I could do but buy her, and her little buddy behind her too. 

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This is another one of those culture combining posts.  Be warned if you don’t think a Seattle sparrow should fly to Greece by way of Thailand in order to rassle up dinner for the evening.  You know it, I know it, I’m going sous vide crazy right now. It’s a culinary trend that’s sweeping the nation and I’ve tethered onto the broomstick nice and tight.  I can’t help it though, it’s just so fun to throw something into the steamy water bath and forget about it for several hours, only to find that you’ve cooked it to perfection because of, not in spite of your absentmindedness.  I’ve been playing with all manner of meats and vegetables, but not yet a whole fish. Until now. 

Branzino is a sexy, spectacular fish; bass of the Mediterranean, it’s sometimes called.  The first time I had it in Oporto, Portugal at Don Tonho restaurant, it was cooked fully immersed in rock salt in order to lock in the moisture and sweetness of the delicate flesh.  It came out on a glamorous silver platter buried in a deep salt grave that the waiter excavated in order to extricate my dinner.  He filleted it perfectly, leaving nary a bone, and ceremoniously removed the head with a felling flourish as a finale to his dramatic work.  I always thought he was uber-talented in his tableside displays, but after last night I realize it’s actually quite easy to debone a branzino tableside.  The bones slide away from the flesh as effortlessly as the last grain of sand that passes through an hourglass, it’s such a fluid gesture. 

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