Kick Ass Marinara

Two or three Sundays ago I took a cooking class with Brother Bruce at La Medusa in Columbia City. We had a great time cooking and Peggy and Patti came down later to join us for a wonderful meal. I give the restaurant 5 stars. A must go to.

We made some marina sauce that was part of a Crazy Water Soup. The soup had 6 oz of marinara, 6 oz of chicken broth, a dab of this garlic/anchovie sauce that we made (and I cannot spell without my sheet). On top of the soup you put a piece of toast (with oil) and a fried egg on top of that.

A week later I tried to recreate the wonderful marinara sauce that we prepared that night at the restaurant from the recipe sheet they gave us.

It was good, but marred by my inability to ask questions. The recipe is printed below and suffice to say the "t" after cayenne pepper denotes "teaspoon" not tablespoon.

I made it again Tuesday night with this new found knowledge it was much nicer than my first batch. The sauce made me feel like Ted Williams, if you catch my drift from earlier posts.


24 medium cloves of garlic*
2/3 cup of olive oil
28 ounce can of San Marizono Tomatoes
1 t of cayenne pepper
2 t of salt (I went less)

* at the class I learned that one can tell lots about a cook in the way they treat garlic. Their suggestion - shitcan your Susie Garlic Press. They advised to individually slice the garlic into thin pieces. I did this the first time but the cayenne pepper overpowered everything so I could not tell the difference. The second time I used my little Cuisinart chopper. I got a hint of garlic bitterness in the sauce so next time I will go back to individual slicing. I have the time.

Saute the garlic in the oil until it blooms. Add the pepper and salt. Stir it up some. Add the tomatoes. Let it simmer for at least 20 minutes.

Wonderful!!!!

National League Cooking

Why do I even bother? I like to cook. I get drawn in. And if you know me, you know I am an idea guy. Big ideas. I get overextended on my ideas. Somewhere between idea and talent I sometimes get really frustrated.

As a cook, and I say this lightly as will be explained, I get carried away. I shoot higher than my ability. I am not a real follower but more of a instinctive cook. Hence my problems.

I see things in restaurants. I see pictures in recipe books and I get an inspiration. I go to the store and availability can also influence this inspiration. Then I get going in the kitchen and reality bites me in the ass.

Last night was a prime example. A couple of years ago in DC we ate at an Italian restaurant and I had this rabbit dish. The dish had flattened rabbit wrapped around asparagus and it was quite tasty. I am kind of drawn to these fancy wrapped food.
So I was inspired to recreate the dish. I substituted chicken thighs for the rabbit added bacon (just because) and did my best.

Well it started out all horseshit. It is pretty damn complicated to get the chicken into the right shape. And I need some sort of commercial stapler that is safe for cooking. The big ass toothpick things I was using made it difficult to create that cool look.

I was ready to throw the whole thing away about midway through. Quick end of the story, they came out very tasty, but looked horrible.

Of course I drank my beer while cooking and kept tabs on the Mariners during the process. They were playing San Diego, in San Diego. I saw Felix Hernandez bat, and then it hit me. As a cook I am like an American League pitcher playing in a National League park. I have no real business cooking. Sure I can run into a ball by accident. I can bunt, but who am I fooling. The other hitters are real and I am just flailing away. I better stick to bunting and trying to not strike out in the kitchen.


Of course I will still continue to try to run into a ball every now and then. But this new attitude should help me not get so frustrated.

Proof Positive That I Invented the TACO SALAD

He Made Me a Reader

I just got this picture. He is very young. Seven years old. Hard to see him in the picture. The man I knew. The powerful, demanding man. Was he really this young, ever.

He never graduated from High School. He dropped out, lied about his age and joined the Coast Guard. Headed for sea. Went to Alaska. Crewed on ice breakers and manned lonely light houses. Personally I never saw him read a book. Partly due to my bed time. Partly due to the hours he kept. Partly due to the way he was.

But he made me a reader. My mother gets credit as well. She was the visible example. She was always reading. Still does. My father had lots of books. Never saw him read. Too late to see it now.




I became a reader in Chicago. I must have been a second grader. I went to second through fifth grade in Chicago. Eisenhower Elementary. Kennedy was killed while I was on that playground. I always came home for lunch. I always smelled the school food being cooked. I never got to eat there, but that is another story, another time.

I became a reader because my father read Jack London's The Call of the Wild to us at night. Bit by bit. As only he could have read it. My father had the Alaskan accents down. He knew the talk. He knew the words. I mean knew the words. Had heard the words. Had seen the people. He knew what they were saying. He had seen the Wild. Heard the call. And he passed it on.

That Spitz.. she be one damned she devil dog