Thai Coconut Peanut Curry Sauce Chicken Rice

My Hungerlust is an insatiable beast that must be macerated. This is my favorite discipline tool. Convenient, relatively cheap, and much more satisfying than an evening out at your favorite Thai restaurant. How I would bathe in coconut milk. Folks, this is flavor country, where some of the most robust and powerful tastes in the natural world run free, wild, and easy. After a day of zippity-doo-dah-esque outdoor sheephearding, with stellar jays hopping my shoulders alternatly and humming gin and juice, the embers of my appetite began glowing brighter. I developed the fire down below, a state or condition perhaps necessarily attributed to Bob Seger. I had a fever, in other words, and the only cure was so much more coconut milk. I imagine streams of it, flowing swiftly out of a meadow, the banks of the stream lined with peanut butter mud, studded with rounded halved peanuts. This is all mighty cool and stuff, until a crazyeyes Gene Wilder outcreeps me (admittedly a difficult task), defensive about his coconut milk pipeline. The struggle for precious natural resources continues, even in the candy realm.

Curry paste is the savory hand turning this planet. That, and innumerable other cosmic forces, the nature of which are impossible to describe to you here, and are the reasons we are able to enjoy sunshine and moonshine, and any other words with a -shine -suffix too, I don't know. So, the stuff is the world's flavor maker. I'd say that green is my favorite, but that's like trying to discern which Skittle tastes the best, though much more nuanced. I'm not offering any analogies. Complexity abounds with the curry pastes, inherently...it's paste of many persuasions, joining forces against bland food, forming an unstoppable Voltron of righteousness. A mash up of much, pungent and alarming, almost caustic.

Peanut butter is friend I almost never call. After I get enough subconscious text messages from peanut butter, I inevitably feel guilty, and want to reconnect simply for being so neglectful. And I am almost never disappointed with that decision; in its absence, an unfillable void develops. I ask you, for what substance can be substituted for peanut butter? What else has that unique peanut butteriness? The reason I seem to take it for granted now is because it talks so much, and speaks so loudly. That is to say that it dominates whatever it touches, enveloping, smothering, shy and subtler dance partners, clumsily. I have never been one to eat it out of its jar with a spoon, because I'm human, and am not a monster. People who do that with mayonnaise are not really people at all either, they are shadow people who've withdrawn from life and do not care about anything at all anymore. This is especially true if done whilst alone you are. Its hard to be a Jedi when you've got a mouthful of mayonnaise or peanut butter. Never ever use mayonnaise for anything. Its not real. But it is really gross.

This how I establish the triumvirate of taste:

I make rice, something I can't ever seem to do well. I can't mimic the Thai places yet, but I'm getting better. Of course I don't have a rice cooker. It seems as though I am unable to purchase a kitchen appliance with one sole function. Years of advertising have convinced me to demand more and expect greater new and better things from kitchen appliances, a brave new world or pixar movie or whatever. I am as amazed to find that man put a giant space telescope in the sky, one that takes crazy pictures from far away dimensions of imaginary fake galaxies, as I was to see a device that had the capacity to toast bagels. Truly extraordinary and purposeful objects to be sure.

Then I get largeish sauce or saute pan, or whatnot, and I heat up a can of coconut milk and a can of coconut creme. I know that you thought that there wasn't anything as desired as coconut milk, bu there is and that's what I'm talking about. Coconut Creme. Believe that shizz. When that's all nice and steamy, get some curry paste out and add that stuff to taste, probably more than usual for a normal curry because peanut butter is conversational vortex, and we don't want it to get too out of hand at the flavor after party. We have to set some ground rules. When that dissolves adequately, answer the door. Its peanut butter time. Go ahead and get chunky with it, because its time to dance. Twirl it around until it develops or sauces out, but don't let its peanutbutteriness enchant you into asking for a second dance.

Chicken. It goes in. Ought be reasonably pieced or shredded. If you don't have some already cooked chicken meat in the fridge, you weren't invited to this party in the first place. Go get a rotisserie bird from the deli, for mad cheap. If you have ethical problems with that meat, I suspect you are guilty of moral relativism in other instances, and are certainly a hypocrite and self-righteous narcissist of Voltronic proportions, but in a negative way. But it is even cooler if you cook your own bird. Both of those topics are different posts though, which have a lot of offspringing ideas each requiring the posting of the blog.

Now throw some brown sugar at me. Yeah. That's right on, and I like it. More. Really any sugar would do, but perhaps not. I wouldn't do it differently, because what's to gain? You're seriously telling me that you are not taking brown sugar to the park to meet up with Mr. Peanut butter? Are you insane? You jest. Those two have so much fun together. But this also may help to slap down a superheated ultra curry, down for public consumption, near tastenothing people. I go strong to the hole with that heat, and typically draw an offensive foul.

I spread out some rice on a plate and I add a double layer of spinach on top of the rice futon that I've created. Then I add the awe inspiring sweetness that has chicken swimming in it right on top of that spinach rice futon. And I garnish with peanuts and cilantro typically. Why spinach? I've seen it done, and its a stand up guy. Ask around.

Then devour with power, gustatory gusto, savor it out load. It's okay to moan and even make all sorts of noises in expression. Cooking is expression, and in many ways, so is eating. You could eat while break dancing interpretively.

Potato Kale Bacon Grease Chard

Everyone needs a skillet, it's true. It is also true that bacon grease should never be dispatched before befriending some potatos.

Kale is in abundance always in this climate, but most especially now. Same with chard. People are giving it away. Whole wheel barrows brimming with kale and chard are slowly pushed around the neighborhood, the people are calling out in desperation, "Please take this kale. It shouldn't be wasted. I would hate to compost all of this, because my family and I can eat it no more." And so friends and aqauintances grudgingly haul off the kale in old grocery bags and by the handful. It gets home and it...it wilts. Because no one can eat that much kale and chard, not that often. Perhaps they had kale and chard as recently as last night.

So what do you do when vegetables began to wilt and get droopy on you, when vegetables get sad? Working in the produce aisle as I once did, you learn that the quality, edibility, of shipped produce must be sustained through refrigeration and repatriation at the store before it hits the shelves, and perhaps during a rotation. Running a produce aisle means never sitting down. Sometimes greens are soaked in water before and after they are put out. This engorges the starving leafy greens such as kale and chard, but also lettuce, endive, whatever. The sad greens become emboldened and crisp once again, like they would be if separated from a backyard garden. While kale is known as the Chuck Norris of greens (maybe nettles would be the Charles Bronson of greens?), it benefits from rehydration and can keep for quite awhile, I don't know...several days? More? Maybe a week. Rainbow chard is the northern lights of the backyard garden. Nevermind.

So I was lucky enough to receive a bale of both kale and yellow chard the other night, right off of the plants, and both were varieties I did not have in my garden stable. I always say yes to backyard greens.

Then it came together as I took inventory of the pantry. Some red potatos. Extra Bacon Grease, and these massive greens. So I fried the potatoes in the skillet first. Then I added the greens. Too easy. Then I added a little salt and pepper, and turned off the stove. As I was wrapping up, I spotted the jar of sun dried tomatos, and added those too. It was tasty before, real tasty, but then it got crazy good. Chewey conssistency provides an extra texture. I imagine basil or fresh oregano and parmesan would be alternate additions, but that isn't new.

Well, it's not exactly better than....

...table tennis. Maybe sometimes, but not on the whole. Yet some days...and I don't even know what it is, some days I would pass up a game of table tennis for this food. Not seriously, here, just prone to subtextual hyperbole. Not there's anything wrong with that. I don't even know what subtextual hyperbole means, but I bet we could arrive at a workable definition. Let's discuss this over dinner. Which reminds me that I don't have a foodblog niche. Perhaps a mexican wrestler theme, like in that fuzzy establishment I've been asked to leave. But, I like to cook and eat and try everything, and most of my favorite foods are not considered home cooking, which I would never knock, but my tastes have changed. I just manhandle the flavor from everything I want to try next, learn, and then move on. What can we draw from that?

I hadn't made a risotto before, mostly because I didn't have chicken stock, but also because it seemed silly and time consuming. I thought: rice porridge, easily construed as peasant food, becoming a gourmet symphony of ricey bullshit in a pan. I saw Giada on TV and was suddenly reinspired to do this whole thing. I see a lot of Giada. I thought that maybe this was beyond my expertise, and I didn't want to evaporate the liquid gold I had been hoarding. But, this was the chicken stock's other natural purpose. The first, of course, is currency. The stuff is hard and fast currency in France, with the underground market for chicken stock recently exploding. Only barter with a vendor you trust, and make sure they weigh it out in front of you. And, never engage in a game of wits with a sicilian. I digress.

So making this risotto, I needed some loose guidance from a recipe that sounded tasty, though I had predetermined and typed out a shopping list with wild rice and mushrooms on it. Now that the chantrelles are back locally, I will have another go at it soon, but I went with some button mushrooms from just outside of the area. This selection was as pedestrian as it was affordable, mind you. And I had parmesan on the list too, so you know it's going down when those three comingle. Since it's three ingredients, would that be thromingle?

-- Butter in the pan on low-medium (like the fuse on a flavor bomb, do it slowly, or the butter explodes). Added shallots too.

-- I par-boiled the wild rice because it is heartier, and needs some extra love. I read to it before bedtime. Yeah. That's what I did. Drained and put in the pan.

-- Rice in the pan, blasters set to medium-high*

Now, the whole thing was trial and error, but I minimized the margin through mitigation of measurables. I controlled the heat, added the cream slowly towards the end, cooked it down. It seemed as if I had ladled more chicken stock into this dish than I would for a soup (but really I just knew I would miss each ladlefull, so it was a bittersavory experience), but it cooked in incredibly well; the homemade chicken stock is a pizza-danceparty of flavor and subtle textures. Tasting along in the process, I realized that I couldn't ruin these ingredients if I wanted to, and I didn't want to, so a little attentiveness was half of the battle. Knowledge.

So when the rice had bathed sufficently in the radiant luxury of majestic sunsplash, and the lifeforce had cooked down, I added a small amount of cream and shredded parmesan cheese, added salt pepper, a little oil, and a smallish square of butter, stirring until the mixture thickend and became creamy for a couple of minutes. They had to meld. Then I added some italian parsely.

It was second best thing ever. The first is Def Leppard. I couldn't believe how mind numbingly easy it all was. It took some attention, but that's how I get down in the kitchen anyway. Wildrice, mushroom risotto with parmesan. It's not better than intercourse yet, but it will be when I get my hands on some chantrelles. And you can watch...a video post? Maybe?

Chicka-Chicka Chick Peas.......

So I was looking for foodblogs to start following, and I came across rawbeets.com,
and I said to myself, "Charles...you are no longer in charge." Because this person's in charge. While the concept of a rawfoods diet is spectacularly unappealing to me, I enjoy entertaining the notion. What a marvelous way to eat. Just like a brontosaurus. In the land before thyme. Anyway, this website is the bomb-bizzle honey-drizzle for those into raw food. I grew beets this year an entertained hanging a near identical blog title. but I don't have a theme yet, which is another reason why I love this website. Mad style, hella cohesiveness all up in that. And it's witty. So witty it pissed me off. But as I calmed down, and realized that a raw food diet might exaggerate my burgeoning superpowers, I entered the kitchen to laydown a raw foods track, on that spicy tip B.

The dish pictured above has chicken in it, but it doesn't want or need it, like the way I feel about a classic ceasar salad; the salad doesn't need or want for chicken, but I'm not saying no to it. Just my way of avoiding wasted rotisserie bird. Turning a sidedish into a meal. Better believe that was a euphemism. Dig.

So I martryd some tomatoes off the backyard vine. I baked some potatoes (whatever you want, but the Yukon golds bring the flavor extreme and help create a paste of eurasian spices). Maybe even boil them with some bay leaves. Then I brought out some canned chickpeas because soaking the dried ones overnight just isn't my steez.

Needs:

Tumeric
Paprika
Cumin
Salt
White Pepper (Incidentally, the name of my last R&B album)
Olive oil
Lemon juice and zest if you are a baller

I do everything to taste unless I am really getting down, down to Electric Avenue, from a recipe. A recipe for funky body movin'. These spices constitute a curry
basically. Super rudimentary, just mixin it all together, like a bollywood mixtape. I like to throw in some chopped italian parsley in everything I make, all the time. But, scallions would do it right. Chop everything chunky and mixed up well, then refrigerate. It is better when the flavors take a skinny dip in the pool, relax.

All of these items are raw. The only work is baking or boiling the potatos.
Ohh baby I like it raw, said the Biz Markee to the grand marquis, and I agree; the less you play and prep with your food, the better sometimes. Fresh flavors are the prerequisite for DJ Quick and simple meals. Don't touch it - just let it chill for a second. Yeah boo. And you're feeling it, don't be afraid of the funky chicken.

Dill Clinton Always Doin' Work...

Just an observation: HTML Text Can be daunting, immense.
I came home from a scheduled hiking endeavor early, leaving an unexpected extra day of vacation open to interpretation. After an incredible hike in the north Cascades, I came home late, hungry for some hearty carbohydrates, a baguette, a little pasta. I had been spotting carbonara recipies here and there around the foodblog galaxy, and I finally couldn't ignore the plain-speaking gustatory reason of bacon and noodles anymore. It occured to me that if could win a lifetime supply of anything, it would have to be parmesan arregiano. That's my choice. I could eat pesto everyday, just as I could put on socks, or shower. Parmesan has so many applications, like the iphone of cheeses.

So I went to my gardenspace. I hoisted some scallions, separated some greek oregano (that stuff is robust), and copped down a bushy dwarf genovese basil plant, a lone survivor from early summer's basil massacre...too sad to talk about. Seriously, don't ask me about it. Don't even. I'm only gonna say...no, it is still too soon.
Moving on.

I didn't use a recipe. Pasta really doesn't need a directive once you understand the foremost rule of pasta: there are no rules. Maybe prison rules. Garlic needs to be incorporated, but after that it is more of a choose-your-own-adventure-story with meat and cheese and garlic and herbs. And everybody loves to read those. That's delicious complexity. Perhaps I should develop a pasta algorythm? Or iphone application, like a magic eightball for pasta dishes.

So...

Bacon or pancetta (seems tough for me to find)
Decent olive oil (always the extra virgin)
scallions
Shallots
oregano
garlic
Sun Dried Tomatoes (SDT's isn't a fortuitious acryonym for these treats)
parmesan
salt & my friend the ground black pepper
I asked my buddy about capers, which I have been putting in everything lately, just a 'yes' or 'no', without any context, and he says 'yes'. That was how I was leaning anyway. Glad I did that. Capers make anything more interesting.

Made the bacon, reserving bacon fat (unicorn dust; all-spark) for later, for everything.

Made the pasta, linguine. Linguine never disappoints me. Olive Garden disappoints me.
Generic Alfredo sauce disappoints me. When that happens, belive me, somebody gets whacked Sopranos style. I too can be cold, like the fettucine you had the misfortune of serving me.

Chopped the basil, oregano, garlic (finely),scallions, and shallots.
You know I do the scallions for color and the shallots for all of those things that shallots do to me and you. I do it for you really, and shallots really do it to me. No, I do it for us. I do it for we. That's why I diced so finely. Because I care. Me, you, and shallots in a fragrant dance of flavor.
Heated up the olive oil and a small amount of the flavorexplosion formerly known as Prince, to medium, added the chopped garden goodness.
Dumped in the sun dried tomatoes and followed that with the pasta and capers.
Salt and pepper the things, with little salt and heavy black pepper, always heavy with the black pepper on pasta.
Put in bacon. Cue the cheese. Don't be bashful here, just give yourself what you want. More cheese.

I left out the egg yolk this time, wanting something a little lighter. I understand if you don't appreciate me using the term carbonara here. If that makes me more of
marked man, then a 'made' man in your eyes, don't whack me. I also understand if you think I am perpetuating italian stereotypes here. I am, just not in the kitchen.

Capers!!!