Gin tasting!

Photo by Paul Sciandra

So. Summer is long gone, but some of us are not ready to give up drinking gin.

Recently, friend Judy’s gin-loving parents, Patricia and Paul, came to visit from out of town. We decided it would be fun to line up a bunch of different brands and render opinions on them. We set up three flights, ranging from absolute crap to the classiest stuff we usually buy.

We tried each gin first neat and then with a splash of tonic. Here are our notes. Enjoy!

Flight #1: Trader Joe’s Jail House Gin
All of us were apprehensive to try this one, but it was cheap and on sale so we figured we'd risk it. Years ago, Judy's parents and I both got tricked by an unreliable recommendation for a new gin. We are still bitter about how good New Amsterdam isn't.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. This was the only one we dumped in the spit bucket instead of finishing.

Pat: “I think it smells like gin… of course, years ago I thought gin just smelled like flower water.”
Judy: “It smells like Lake Street.”
Amy: Antiseptic, no evidence of botanicals, rubbing alcohol follow-through.
Paul: “It kind of warms you.” After adding tonic water: “Now it smells like Purell.”

Flight #2: Tanqueray London Dry Gin vs Tanqueray Rangpur
London Dry:
The regular Tanqueray in the green bottle is a favorite for most of us. It’s Amy’s go-to gin.

Amy: “Aaah. Real gin. You can smell the botanicals.”
Pat: “I always flipped between Tanqueray and Beefeaters, but tonight the Tanqueray is sitting better.”

Rangpur:
LI-HI-HIIIIIIIIIME. Super smooth, but too much lime. Tonic made it worse.

Amy: “Oh my God, it tastes like Kool-Aid.”
Judy: “Highly drinkable. A kid-friendly gin.”
Pat: “I like it quite well without the tonic.”
Everyone else: Disagreement, laughter.
Paul: “Peel off the label and put on a lime liqueur one.”

Flight #3: Beefeaters vs Bombay Sapphire vs Hendricks
The high-class dames of the gin we can afford.

Beefeaters:
Amy: “Smells just like that cheap shit!” Taste: Definite juniper, harsher, but better finish than the swill. Tonic makes the botanicals come out! More floral.
Paul’s #3 choice.
Judy: “I like the Beefeaters and tonic. It’s easy. It’s educated but not worldly.”
Amy: “F*** you.”

Sapphire:
Amy: Smooth with a botanical flavor. Oh… tonic makes it harsher.
Paul’s #2 choice.

Hendricks:
Not many notes are written down about this one because a) by this time, everyone had had 4 shots of gin; b) everyone was so busy nursing their taste of Hendricks.
Amy: “Aaah.” Smooth, with the smell of rose petals.
Paul’s #1 choice.

You Know What I Like?

I went to a part last Saturday night, I told you that story, it’ll be all right, uh huh.

It ain’t no big thing.

Late for my job and the traffic was bad, had to borrow ten bucks from my old man, uh huh. It ain’t no big thing.

But I know what you like:

With apologies to Lita Ford.

Mojitos by the pitcher
3 limes
1 handful mint leaves
1½ c simple syrup (make by shaking 1 c sugar and 1½ c water in a jar until clear)
2 trays ice cubes
1½ c rum—I like Flor de Caña and I like it dark
2 c fizzy water

Throw the mint leaves in the bottom of a pitcher. Quarter the limes and squeeze each quarter into the pitcher. Take a wooden spoon and mess things up in there; smash up those mint leaves a little. (This is the famous muddle.) Add the syrup, fill up the pitcher with ice, then pour in the rum and fizzy water. Stir and serve.

Drink while wondering, “What is she doing to that guitar? And why?? And what is that beadwork snail doing on the cutting board? What the hell exactly is this post about, anyway?”

Perfect Pecan Pie!

Artist’s conception - real pic below!

In a rare instance of Amy Boland posting a holiday recipe in advance of a holiday, here’s the pecan pie I made last Thanksgiving and plan to make again!

There are two reasons to like this pie. One, it is full of deep, dark, sugary-buttery-caramely-toasty flavors. Two, it calls for bourbon and I don’t know anything about the stuff. I get to learn! Yay!

Last year I blindly got a pint of Wild Turkey. This elicited reactions ranging from indifference to dismay in the bourbon drinkers of my acquaintance.

This year I went to South Lyndale Liquors—where they will, upon request, pour you tiny tastes of booze from sample bottles lined up on the barrelheads of actual casks conditioned specially for them to sell. The guy who poured for me also explained what I was tasting and why the flavors were there. I chose Buffalo Trace.

So now I feel I have picked a winner, and I’m going to have plenty of bourbon left over afterwards. Um. Pie-making party at my house?

Oh, wait, yeah, the PIE! This IS supposed to be a post about pie.

Perfect Pecan Pie

Post-Thanksgiving pie pic update

I copied this recipe out of a column in the Star Tribune in 1997. Usually I don’t post recipes I didn’t create or significantly modify, because I think the person who wrote the recipe should get the credit (and should get stuck doing the typing). But since I don’t think we can go back in time and purchase a copy of the newspaper from an unknown day in late fall 1997, I’m prepared to make an exception.

Also I recall from my glamorous youth, when I worked on food books at a children’s publishing company, that the Copyright Guardians consider recipes to be formulae. So I’m not running afoul of the law, either. Potential haters, please make a note.

1 c dark brown sugar
⅔ c cane syrup OR ⅓ c light corn syrup and ⅓ c dark molasses
¼ c unsalted butter
3 T bourbon
½ t vanilla
½ t salt
4 eggs
2-3 T half & half
2 heaping c pecan pieces
1 unbaked single 9” pie crust
A big handful of pecan halves

Heat oven to 350°. Melt the sugar, syrup, butter, bourbon, vanilla, and salt together. Heat to boiling and boil one minute, stirring constantly. Let cool.

Beat the eggs with the half & half until frothy. Add this to the syrup, beating until well mixed. Stir in the pecan pieces.

Pour into the pie shell and top with a layer of pecan halves. (Make it look pretty.) Bake 45 to 50 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Here's to Julie

A few months ago, we reshuffled desks at work. Julie from account services moved into the cube behind me. "I don't want a new neighbor," I grumbled. "She'll talk to me. She'll try to have conversations."

Well, I found that I like sitting by Julie. She has an ear out for stray remarks that might fly over the cubicle wall; she'll volley right back. It's fun.

Like the day two weeks ago when it went from 50 degrees to 103 degrees overnight and the air conditioning wasn't on. We were sitting in the cube farm, panting slightly and trying to concentrate on work. I was thinking about how nice it would be to go home and have something icy cold... something refreshing... something like...

"Lavender-infused vodka tonic on crushed ice," I announced to the air around me.

"Yes!" Julie exclaimed without missing a beat. "And we could have those here? Now?"

No. Just thinking about booze doesn't make it appear. (Plus we'd like to keep our jobs.) But I did try making my daydream a reality when I got home.

I have two Munstead lavender plants in my yard. They're from Dehn's Garden by way of the Minneapolis Farmers Market. I learned they are winter-hardy one year when we had a long, warm fall and I didn't get around to cleaning out the herb garden. The following spring, to my surprise and delight, the lavender was not dead. It put out new shoots. Who knew?!

"Who knows if this'll work," I thought to myself. I popped some sprigs in a jar, sloshed in some vodka, and left it alone for a few days.

It did work! The lavender imparts a lovely pale green color to the vodka, which pulls perfumey and minerally notes out of the herbs. This may edge out gin and tonic for my favorite summer drink.
I'll bring Julie some lavender sprigs on Monday. I just know she's going to like this.

Lavender-Infused Vodka Tonic

4-6 sprigs lavender
1 pint vodka
Ice
Tonic water

Wash the lavender and stuff it in a pint jar. Fill the jar with vodka and screw on the lid. Leave in a cool, dark place for 3 or 4 days (you can taste and see if the vodka is flavorful enough). Remove the sprigs and pour the vodka in a bottle if you have one.

Make yourself a nice drink with vodka, ice, and tonic!

Kitchen's Done. Let's Drink!

My kitchen is done!

The last step was to put in the backsplash. I chose 2 x 6 subway tiles from Mission Tile West’s Revival series in blue wash. They make tiles to order, so I had to wait forEVER! for them to arrive. Almost none of them were broken and the guys from Handyman Connection were very careful and efficient. So now I have six or seven square feet of field tile left. What should I do with it? Someone hit me with ideas.

Detail: Look what a good job they did! Also: oooh, bullnose.

To celebrate, let’s make something easy and fun. The new countertops are acid-proof and the backsplash means I can use the blender with impunity. Let’s make fruity drinks!

I got a pineapple on sale and the mint in my garden is green and glorious. Plus there is a brand new bottle of rum in the cupboard just begging to be opened.

Yeah, baby.

Pineapple Agua Fresca Mojito
This is fun because a) it can be made out of any fruit you want, really; b) it probably doesn’t need any added sugar; c) you can skip the booze and it is still delicious.

A pineapple
Water
Sugar to taste (probably none!)
Mint leaves
Rum

Peel the pineapple. Don’t worry about doing too good of a job; and you don’t need to bother coring it, either. Cut it into chunks.

Fill the blender with pineapple chunks. Pour in some water; the waterline should be maybe a quarter to a third of the way up the blender jar. Liquefy. Set a fine strainer over a bowl and dump in the puree. Repeat this until there is no more pineapple. You may be forced to eat a chunk or two, you poor thing.

When the puree is well drained, sweeten the fruity water to taste (you might not need any sugar at all). Pour it into a pitcher and chill well. The pulp is done for, unless someone knows of a use for it besides compost?

Now then. Tear up a mint leaf or two or three into a tall glass. Use a chopstick or the handle of a wooden spoon to smash up the leaves a bit. Drop in some ice cubes and a finger or three of rum. Fill up with agua fresca, stir, and enjoy!

All I can fix in THIS kitchen

I have walls! I have paint! But still no horizontal surfaces.

While I was painting this weekend, I snuck around behind my back and tore off the rest of the window trim. I sanded and primed the sashes, too, while I wasn’t looking. What a jerk.

Now, for your and my amusement both, a list of things that happen in my friend John Reimringer’s book Vestments that have happened in my kitchen since last week:
• Smashing out wallboard
• Fixing wallboard
• Sanding and repainting window sashes
• Painting walls
• An enormous glass of whiskey

It’s Jameson on the rocks. Recipe: One Jameson. One rocks. Put in a glass. The End.

Big Goddamn Steak Night!

My favorite holiday of the year is one I made up: Big Goddamn Steak and Bucketful of Whiskey Night—or just Big Goddamn Steak Night for short. It's an annual dinner party of food movie proportions: my own little Big Night.

Originally a thirtieth birthday party for my best friend, this decade-long tradition has become a night of big songs, big toasts, big personalities, and big steaks. Not all the steaks are made of beef; vegetarians and carnivores alike sit down at the big table. Not everyone drinks the whiskey sours that flow like tap water from the big pitcher. Literal adherence to the theme is not as important as the spirit of friendship, epicureanism, and ribald snarkiness. That's the true meaning of Big Goddamn Steak Night.

BGDSN is BYOM—bring your own meat. As guests arrive, they pile their steaks on the kitchen counter. When everyone is present, I grill the steaks to order. People who request their steaks cooked more than medium are teased.

If there's anything more fun than the meal that follows, I don't know what it is. The traditional side dishes are passed around and devoured. We sporadically interrupt our conversation to sing something from the Big Goddamn Steak Night songbook, which tends to grow ever year as new songs are invented or introduced from elsewhere.

Dessert is the time to begin calling friends and family in different time zones. Often these individuals are eating big steaks, too. We sing songs and exchange congratulations. (My parents get a call earlier in the day warning them to turn off their phone before going to bed.)

After dinner, we usually compose haikus or listen to a dramatic reading. That sounds so literary, doesn't it? Except the haikus are all about steak and whiskey, and the readings are from young adult novels of questionable moral value. Or maybe we dance to the cheesy funk music playing on the stereo.

When the last guest has departed and all is quiet except the ringing in my ears, I look at my debauched table and smile. I am so thankful for my friends and for the fun we've had. I am the luckiest big goddamn steak in the world.

Big Goddamn Menu
I invite you to hold your own BGDSN whenever you're up for a big party. Mine is the Saturday closest to November 15.
Bucket of Whiskey Sours
Bring Your Own Meat
Big Goddamn Salad
Five (expletive deleted) Pounds of Mashed Potatoes
A Tiramisú as Big as You



The whiskey sours are made with Canadian whiskey and Sunkist Sparkling Lemonade in a 1:1 ratio. I know. We don't pull any punches on BGDSN.

The salad is always romaine lettuce with balsamic vinaigrette. This year it included sunflower seeds and some red pear slices that had been macerated briefly in lemon juice.

Yes, the potatoes have a crass title that I will not repeat here. They are Yukon Golds scrubbed well, sliced up with their skins on, and boiled. Then I mash them with butter, sour cream, sea salt, freshly ground black pepper, olive oil, and two heads of roasted garlic. Mmm-hmm. We save the goofing around for the dinner table.

I make the tiramisú with chocolate cake instead of the conventional ladyfingers. It's so good, makes you want to call your mom. Unless she's sitting right next to you, as mine is some years. Then it makes us both want to call Grandma.

Mangiamo!