Molasses-Brined Pork Chops – More Similar to "The Sopranos" Than You Think

I was so happy with how my Carolina barbecue sauce experiment went, I almost forgot I'd filmed the molasses brined pork chop I slathered all that sauce on. So, I figured I better get cracking and post this before grilling season turns into hockey season.

Brining pork chops is like upgrading to premium cable, once you do it, you can’t go back to basic. You hear people say HBO wins all those awards because they have the big advantage of using the profanity and casual nudity that the network competition can't.

When it comes to brining, the F-bombs and low-cut blouses are the flavor and extra moisture that the sweet, salty solution brings. When compared to your standard grilled pork chops, these brined beauties will surely get better reviews.

Other than having to wait a few hours for all that sexy, semipermeable membrane-on-membrane action to take place, this recipe is incredibly easy. Dissolve salt and molasses in water, toss in the chops, and wait. And what do you get from such little effort? A pork chop that's seasoned from the inside out, with a firm, but very moist texture.

I brined mine for about 6 hours, but according many osmotic experts, as little as one hour per pound of pork chop is adequate. For me, that would have been about 45 minutes, but since I learned this trick from a chef that used to leave these overnight, I can’t bring myself to brine them any less.

Whether you cover these with a Carolina barbecue sauce, or some other shiny glaze, I hope you decide to upgrade to premium pork chops soon. Enjoy!

Ingredients:

4 thick double-cut loin pork chops

For the brine:

1/2 cup kosher salt (only use 1/4 cup is using fine table salt)

1/2 cup molasses

4-5 whole cloves

1 cup boiling water to dissolve salt

7 cups cold water

Gravy

It is 1am and I am lying on the single bed in the nursery staring at the ceiling, listening to Kitty's shallow breathing in the cot next to me. She has just fallen asleep.

She is very ill. Strep throat, a doctor will say two days later. She was boiling - boiling - to the touch with fever when I arrived at her bedside. I got myself ready to adminster some life-saving Nurofen but she didn't want it - gagged and vomited a little bit down herself in protest. So I jammed as much in her mouth as I could, changed her pukey sleeping back, walked her round, waited for her to nod off and then lay down braced for a sleepless night listening to her whimper.

It's a terrible noise, a baby whimpering in its sleep.

And as I lay there in the dark listening to the whimpering and to the nursery clock ticking and the aircon whirring I thought for the first time in a long time "At least I'm not in Australia."

That is my thing, my "At least I'm not..." thing.

I ended up in Australia in the late summer of 2001. I went out with no clear idea of what I was going to do but my sister was out there for a year and I was bored, so I went. My sister was working in some snazzy bar and going out with a very posh Australian - yes they do, in fact, exist - called Jimmy. He was terrific, Jimmy - he was hilarious. Tall with dark hair and long dark eyelashes like a girl. He was always stealing his flatmates' food - usually dinky little take-out pots of spicy asian-fusion salads - late at night when drunk and peckish.

"Hmm..." he would say, his head in the fridge. "What's Polly got in here? A little snacky-snack for Jimmy before bedtime?"

Anyway you get the idea.

I couldn't stay in Sydney with them so I took off up the East Coast. It was boring. I had a shit time. There was one okay week where I worked on a cattle farm and I should have stayed there mucking out the horses and working in the bar, but I moved on in the wrong belief that there was more to see.

What happened instead was that I unwittingly became a thief.

It happened like this:

I was sitting about in some hostel or other with a girl who was going home soon. "Just going," she said "to have a quick rummage round lost property for some flip flops. Mine are broken."

"Is that a thing you do?"

"Yeah there's always great stuff in hostel lost properties. These Miss Sixties?" She said, pointing at her jeans. "Alice Springs. This bag...?" etc.

So off we went to the lost property box. There was nothing that fascinating except a shitty brown t-shirt with red Japanese writing on the front that I thought looked quite unusual. I tucked it under my arm and thought no more about it.

Three days later I was sitting in another dull, depressing hostel somewhere hot and crappy, wearing my scavanged t-shirt, and an angry Irish girl stormed up to me.

"Where did you get that t-shirt?" she demanded. "It was stolen out of my bag. Why have you got it?"

And here is where it went wrong. Why didn't I just say "Found it. Lost property in X. Is it yours? Have it back!!"?

I don't know why not. What I did say, however, was "My sister gave it to me."

Why did I say that? WHY?

Maybe I thought she wouldn't believe the story that I'd found it in lost property and scream "Thief!" at me. I can't be bothered to recount exactly what happened in the days that followed but it was nasty. The angry Irish girl and her friend accused me to everyone they could find of having stolen her t-shirt. And the Eastern Coast of Australia turns out to be a very small place. I somehow kept up with my lame story that it was mine.

They followed me up the coast for three days, telling everyone at every hostel that I was a thief. Hissing at me as they passed me that I was pathetic. Then one day the angry Irish girl's friend came up to me and said that they'd called the police. By then I had lost all sense of perspective and couldn't see that it was obviously total fucking rubbish. I'd had enough. I hadn't eaten for about three days or really slept. I am an anxious person, you see, and being accused of being a thief is something I can't really style out.

I went to my rucksack and took out the t-shirt. "If I give this to you," I said. "Do you promise to leave me alone and never speak to me again?"

I saw, on the girls' face, a flicker of doubt that she and her angry Irish friend were right.

"I'm not an arsehole, you know," she said.

"Sure," I said, and handed her the t-shirt.

Then that night, in the middle of the night, I split. I took a taxi to a hostel well off the beaten tourist path, filled with cattle station hands and middle-aged women travelling cross-country to see newborns. And that was that.

It's bothered me for years, that incident - although with hindsight I didn't really do anything that bad. Just really thick. But still, I have never told anyone that story. Not. A. Soul.

(A week later I arrived back in Sydney and went straight out and got a tattoo. I've always wondered if the two things are connected.)

The day before I flew back to London the twin towers collapsed. (It was interesting getting on an international flight via the Middle East on 12/09/01, I tell you.) Then about three years later, Jimmy killed himself. I won't go into how. And I simply don't know why. Oh, and someone gave me fucking chlamydia.

So that's why however crumby things are, I'm glad I'm not in Australia.

Although I think I am one of the few people to have enjoyed the film.

I have newly fallen back in love with my husband. Not that I was ever out of love with him but in the last few days I have been crawling around after him screaming "I love you! I worship you! Please marry me!"

The thing is, he comes into his own when there's something wrong with the baby and I am simply vomiting in a corner with anxiety, ringing NHS Direct and crying. My husband takes charge, shooes me out of the nursery, won't let me near the baby monitor and makes me dinner.

All we had in the house was some beef, which he decided to roast - "Although I know we're not celebrating or anything," he said. "I know we're all in mourning because Kitty's got a cough."

And he wanted to make a gravy to go with it.

Gravy is something that can appear daunting but actually it's okay if you give yourself a bit of time.

For gravy, you need:

1 The pan that something has roasted in

2 Some shitty alcohol (even this is optional, really)

3 Some flour or cornflour

4 Some stock or vegetable cooking water

Roughly to make a gravy, take the roasting pan and "de-glaze" with shitty cooking wine. This means you place the pan over a medium flame and pour in some alcohol, about half a wine-glass full I'd say. Then you scrape at the pan and get all the roasty bits and sticky bits off the bottom.

Then reduce this until it becomes glossy-ish round the edges. Reduce the heat and take the pan off the flame. Sprinkle over some flour - about a tablespoon. With the pan off the heat, mush this all round until it is a paste.

Now add some of your liquid - either stock or some veg cooking water - to the pan still off the heat. Mix this round until vaguely combined.

Then put the pan back on the heat and add some more sloops of stock or cooking water. Simmer it briskly until it starts to thicken thanks to the flour.

Pour over your roast dinner.

Then take a Valium. Or three.

Mahi Mahi Ceviche Ceviche

The last time I posted a ceviche recipe video, I almost had to hire a security detail to protect me from angry Peruvians. I'd done a bay scallop and mango ceviche, and within minutes of uploading, highly annoyed South Americans were demanding I change the name, since what I had made was NOT a ceviche.

It seems as though there are some very strict views on what may and may not go into a ceviche, which is too bad, since the technique begs for accessories. Thankfully, I'm no fundamentalist, so I was free to make this version.

One traditional ingredient I omitted was the sliced onions. Personally, I don't like the sharp bite of the raw onion in this recipe, so I decided to use chives instead. I'm pretty sure I'm in a very small minority, as most people consider the sliced onions an absolute necessity, so feel free to add those in.

This mahi mahi ceviche requires a little bit of knife work, but when you consider the seasonal advantage of not using the stove, and just how tasty this really is, I think it's all worthwhile. You can also use shrimp, scallops, swordfish, and snapper.

By the way, sorry about that extra "ceviche" up there, but it's not often you get the chance to publish a symmetrical post title. Enjoy!

Ingredients:

3/4 to 1 pound fresh mahi mahi

1 tablespoon minced jalapeño

1/2 teaspoon salt, or to taste

pinch of dried oregano

pinch of cayenne

2/3 cup equal parts fresh squeezed lime and lemon juice

1/2 cup diced cucumber

1/2 cup orange segments

1/2 cup thinly-sliced red or white onion (or chives instead)

2 tablespoons julienne radish

1 tablespoon chopped cilantro

This Blueberry Clafoutis Didn’t Get My Goat (Cheese that is)

I’ve had this wacky idea to try a berry-studded goat cheese clafoutis, so when I saw these gorgeous looking blueberries at the market, I figured the time was right. 

I had a couple ounces of leftover chèvre in the fridge, and was very excited to see if this possibly odd, but fundamentally sounds idea would work. And, everything would have, if I had only skipped breakfast that morning.

That morning I woke up starving, and facing a pile of emails and other less fun computer-driven busywork. So without thinking (literally) I whipped a nice cheese omelet, using the aforementioned cheese. D’oh!

It was a delicious mistake, and one I forgave myself for very quickly, but it also presented me with a tough choice. Go back out to the store, or just make a good, old fashioned, plain blueberry clafoutis. Laziness prevailed, and here you have it.

So, while I’m very proud of this clafoutis, I can’t help but wonder how much better it would have been with that faint, but tangy accent from the cheese. Maybe you could give it a try and let me know? I was simply going to add it to the blender and mix it right into the blender.

Anyway, goat cheese or not, this recipe is a great way to enjoy fresh, summer fruit, and as I mention in the video, this technique really lets it play the starring roll. I hope you give it a try soon. Enjoy!

Ingredients:

butter as needed

pint of blueberries

1/2 cup flour

2/3 cup sugar

1 1/4 cup milk

3 large eggs

1 tbsp vanilla

pinch of salt

Nigella's mexican lasagne

I once read in a magazine - I forget which one now - a problem on the problem pages that went something like this:

Q. My husband refuses to pick his towel up off the bathroom floor. It drives me demented. How can I punish him?

A. Instead of wanting to punish him, why don't you think to yourself, as you pick the towel up off the bathroom floor, of all the nice things he does for you without you asking? It is little act of devotion like these that keep marriages going.

Here are some of the annoying things that my husband does:

- He doesn't pick up the bathmat off the bathroom floor

- He clears his throat in quite an annoying way

- He steals my car key because he can't be bothered to find his, then accuses me of having used, and lost his key (thus forcing him to use mine).

- He will turn to me and say "Shall I have a shower? Or not?"

- If the TV is on and he wants to say something, rather than finding the remote and pausing the programme he will shout "PAUSE!", which is my cue to find the remote (under his bum, usually) and pause the programme for him so he may deliver his opinion.

- He will suddenly decide that the house is a mess and pick things up randomly (an unopened letter, a pair of flip flops, a baby's toy) and say "What's the story with this? Should it be here?"

- He will walk into his own kitchen and wonder aloud where we keep the knives, forks, salt, pepper, plates and so on

Here are some of the annoying things that I do:

- I pick at my cuticles. Constantly.

- I clear my throat in a nice way. But I do it ALL the time

- I never open my post, particularly anything that looks financial

- I interrupt all the time.

- I give my husband death stares

- I am a sluttish washer-upper

- I call the baby "Kitty-Cookan-TIS"

- I sometimes only empty half of the dishwasher and then wander off to do something else and forget to unload the rest

- I throw money (his) at any problem

- I leave the area around the toaster a mess, attracting ants and wasps.

- I don't make the bed

Here are the nice things that my husband does for me:

- He doesn't make me go and get a job

- He does my tax

- He takes out all the bins and deals with the compost

- He sorts out the cars, the tax for the cars, the maintenence of the cars

- He doesn't make me see people I don't like

- He'll make any phonecall for me that I'm too scared to make

- He cleans all my hair out of the trap in the shower

Here are the nice things that I do for my husband:

- I hang up the bathmat

- I always make sure there is enough deodorant, shampoo, showergel etc in the bathroom

- Ditto for the kitchen

- Ditto stamps, birthday cards and wrapping paper

- I sort out dinner, pretty much every night

- I will fire anyone that he feels too guilty to fire

- I don't give him shit about going out and getting drunk

- I don't give him shit about his swearing or bad taste jokes

- I don't give him shit about doing more childcare

Whenever my husband has done something annoying and I feel enervated, I always run those lists through my head. It's what my marriage balances on, like a fat elephant on a plank of wood on a ballbearing. But a few years ago, I realised that my husband was NOT aware that there was this careful balancing act going on. He did not think, as he ignored my throat-clearing, cuticle-picking, death-staring grotesqueness, that he was simply keeping up his end of the bargain. He believed that he was bearing the brunt of marital irritation, while I sailed through life blithely un-irritated. One day, things exploded in a terrible row about me not making the bed.

I won't lie, there were tears.

Then I explained about the list. About the importance of acts of devotion. And he got it, more or less.

And that's why I'm always sorting out dinner; it's part of the deal. It's why I try to find new things to cook, rather than just doing a roast chicken or pasta over and over again. If it's going to be my area, I might as well having a big repertoire. It makes everything easier.

Which explains why I tried out this Mexican Lasagne, by Nigella. I thought it looked fun although like everything that used canned tomatoes, it ends up tasting a lot like canned tomatoes. But it's a good one to have up your sleeve to pull out when things are getting a bit samey.

This is not Nigella's exact recipe but it is close enough. The exact one can be sourced easily on the internet.

Mexican lasagne

Serves 4 hungry people, or 6 less hungry, with a salad

1 pack flour tortillas

2 cans chopped tomatoes

1 can sweetcorn

1 can black beans

2 red chillies

1 large onion

2 cloves garlic

1 small bunch coriander

2 tsp mild chilli powder

salt

1 red pepper, roughly chopped, or a jar of peppers in oil, chopped

two big handfuls cheese - manchengo, monteray jack or cheddar

Preheat oven to 180

1 Chop the onion, garlic, chillies and red peppers and sweat in a pan with some veg oil for about four minutes, then sprinkle over the chilli powder and cook for a further 10 minutes over a low flame. Then add the tomatoes and chopped coriander and simmer for about 10 minutes.

2 In a separate pan put the black beans and the sweetcorn, heat up and mix around.

3 Now layer the tomato sauce, bean mix, grated cheese and flour tortillas (2 per layer) to make up a lasagne. I'll leave you to decide the best way of doing it, but it's good to finish off with a layer of tortillas and then cheese for a bubbly brown top.

4 Bung in the oven for 30 minutes.

You can eat this with yoghurt or guacamole or any other Mexicany-type thing you can think of, while you ponder the secrets of martial bliss.

action shot

What Do You Know About Peach Cobbler?

Photo (c) Flickr User: Neil Conway

I've never made a peach cobbler. I've made peach crumbles, peach crisps, peach tarts, peach pies, and peach parfaits, but not one single cobbler. 

I've been doing some research for an upcoming video, and I'm leaning towards the classic southern style where the batter bakes up through a buttery layer of peaches and juice to form a beautifully browned crust over the top. I literally just made myself hungry typing that sentence! If you have any "to die for" peach cobbler recipes, please pass them along! Thanks and stay tuned!

Grilled Swordfish Bruschetta with Thai Basil Cherry Tomato Salad - The End of a Great Recipe

This grilled swordfish bruschetta recipe is the type of thing I rarely think to film. Recipes that are so simple I assume there won't be any great technique or creative twist to feature. Of course, as soon as I serve it, I realize there was plenty to share, and end up eating with a large side of regret.

This time, I decided to not let that happen, and filmed the plating of the recipe, which gave me the opportunity to at least describe the recipe. There are only a couple ingredients, and as you'll see and hear in the video, the procedure could not be simpler.

There are two keys to this recipe: One is to add enough oil and vinegar to your tomatoes to make a good amount of "sauce," with which to douse the grilled fish and bread. Secondly, be sure to grill the bread very well over the coals. It should be golden brown with distinctive charred grill marks. The bitter hit from these stripes of charred bread actually makes the tomatoes even sweeter and more delicious.

I hope you give this a try while cherry tomatoes are at their peak ripeness. Below you'll see all the ingredients I used to make this incredibly simple, yet extraordinary meal. Enjoy!

Ingredients:

6 slices French bread, brushed with olive oil

For the fish:

2 swordfish steaks

1 teaspoon grapeseed oil

salt and fresh ground black pepper to taste

* For the tomato salad:

1 cup cherry tomato halves

salt and fresh ground black pepper to taste

1/4 cup balsamic vinegar

1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

2 tablespoons freshly sliced basil

pinch of cayenne

* Mix and let sit out for at least 30 minutes