Red-Cooking Ham

We're dancing around here. Seriously. Dancing. And we're white boys. We don't dance. Without biting our upper lips. But we're doing it anyway because our book, HAM: AN OBSESSION WITH THE HINDQUARTER, got nominated for a James Beard award! Holy cow. Or pig. Or something.

We cannot believe it. We were nominated for one of the most prestigious awards in the country for a book that is at the heart and soul of who we are: Bruce's crazy-good recipes and my rather fractured take on the narrative that is our lives.

To celebrate, I thought I'd put up one of Bruce's favorite recipes: a red-cooking ham. It's a traditional Chinese braise, named for the fact that soy sauce takes on a red cast when long stewed--this time with a fresh ham, a gorgeous, decadent pork-out for the table. I had intended to blog this recipe in the weeks ahead; but with the nomination today I thought, oh, what the heck. Let's all get us a big taste of our favorite back-side. So without further ado. . . .

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Pork Butt Braised in Milk and Spices

If you don't know this Italian classic, it's high time you got acquainted. It's sumptuous: the pork sweet and tender as it slowly cooks in the milk.

Milk? Sure enough. Milk is one of the few protein structures on our planet that will not coagulate over heat. Put a piece of chicken on the grill and the proteins begin to coagulate into those layers of "done meat." Same goes for the proteins (a. k. a. glutens) in bread.

But not those in milk. That's because the basic milk protein, casein, is negatively charged. The molecules can't get near each other--unless you add an acid and cause the calcium ringlet that holds the casein strands together to come undone so that the proteins float free and get diluted in the surrounding water, thereby losing their group strength. Voilà, very loose curds. Or unless you add cultures that give the casein a negative-ion hair cut. Voilà, much stronger curds--also called "cheese making."

But without all that fandango, you can boil milk down to almost nothing and it won't coagulate--except for that milk skin on pudding, a skin that's actually a layer, not of coagulation, but of casein drying out. But with enough pork fat in the mix, you don't have to worry about that skin. And you've got the best braised pork imaginable.

Figure on serving four if it's all you've got, six if it's part of a coursed sit-down. OK, so let's get to it.

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Cold Sliced Pork in Szechuan Garlic Sauce

Texans don't get Chinese food. That is to say, as Chinese food is practiced in the United States. By which I mean, the Jewishization of Chinese food à la New York.

When I was growing up in the Lone Star State, we ate Chinese fare about like any other food. We went to a restaurant. (Never called it in, not once.) We may have shared a couple of appetizers, but we each ordered our own dish. And ate it. Maybe we passed a taste around the table. Maybe. But that was considered bad manners, the swapping around of the utensils.

Then I moved to New York. (OK, some other stuff happened in-between. I got married, went to grad school in American lit, moved to Austin, came out, went through a bad divorce, essentially went bankrupt, started writing screenplays, and met Bruce. You know: the usual stuff.) Bruce had a different take on Chinese food. More a free-for-all. You don't got to a restaurant. You call in a bunch of things, put the containers on the coffee table, and dive in. Particularly on Christmas.

Not only does he love take-out, he also makes his own version of Chinese classics. He loves an Asian-inspired buffet, particularly at the holidays: a bunch of dishes, all out on the counter, lots of plates and chopsticks. A feeding frenzy generally ensues.

Last night, we had one such party. I thought people were going to have bitter turf wars over the dumplings in the steamers. He also made one of his classics: this dish of sliced pork in a tangy, pungent sauce. It's perfect for a buffet. I encourage you to think about it for the holidays ahead. Because it's just that good.

By the way, this is one of many pork recipes in our 900-recipe tome, THE ULTIMATE COOK BOOK (which you can find here.) So off we go.

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Perfect Meatballs

I've got a confession. A pretty rank one. Pull up a chair, get a cup of coffee.

First, a picture.

A skillet full of browning, herb-laced meatballs. Pretty good, eh? OK, so now the truth. Ready? I don't like ground meat.

OK, don't leave me. I did my best to prepare you. There's more. I could probably go the rest of my life and not eat another hamburger. (See, it gets worse.)

Growing up, we called it "loose meat." As in "loose meat sandwiches." (AKA, Sloppy Joes.) Call me crazy, but I don't like loose meat rolling around my plate. It's unbecoming. Plus, you have to go through about a thousand sessions of expensive therapy for every time your mother ever asked you as a teenager, "Mark, are you willing to try some loose meat tonight?"

That said, Bruce has changed me over the years. (Darn you, marriage.) I've actually gotten to the point where I like meatloaf. And--get this--crave meatballs. Beg for them, in fact. I'm still not over the burger thing, but I'm working on it. Nonetheless, when we were writing COOKING KNOW-HOW, the chapter on meatballs was hands-down my favorite. I loved the whole technique, the way you could make this crazy, global range, from Turkish kofta to buttery Danish frikadeller, from down-home Italian meatballs to Romanian chiftele (made with mashed potatoes and lots of garlic).

So I begged for meatballs the other night. And here's what I got:

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Lard

Is there a more wonderful sounding word? The moment we got our pig back from slaughter, Bruce spent an entire day rendering this pot of pork fat. (All of it, by the way, leaf lard, taken from around the kidneys, the most delicate and prized kind of fat on the pig.)

Spent is a big word for his activity. He put the fat in a gigantic Staub pot, turned the flame as low as it would go, and left it alone for 7 hours. No joke.

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Red Cooking Pork Belly

I thought we might as well go over the top. I've been saving this recipe back; but heck, the day's are getting shorter and it's time to fatten up for winter. Thus, a big hunk of pork belly. NOT smoked. About 2 pounds worth. Notice how lean this thing is. You can find the same at high-end supermarkets. But this baby is from our own pig. This year's version, that is. Wilbur II. (The tale of the original is told in our forthcoming HAM book. Let's just say it involves gunky stuff scraped off Prada boots with twigs, screeching French butchers, and a certain collie on meat patrol for weeks. But that's another story indeed.)

Anyway, "red cooking" is a classic Chinese braise, so named because of the way good soy sauce develops a slightly red cast after simmering for hours. In other words, this is not a dish for a Wednesday night but a weekend one, for sure. (With a couple statins as a chaser, of course.)

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Mapo Dofou

One man's comfort is another man's. . . .

Not sure. Anyway, I am sure that this dish is one of mine--even if the name means something like "pockmarked grandmother's tofu." Doesn't sound very promising, eh? My grandmother steered clear of smallpox. And Baptists. But that's another story.

Anyway, I'm crazed about Mapo Dofou. It's one of those go-to meals around here. Because of the wedding.

Mine, to be exact. Bruce and I were officially married this past weekend. Nothing big: just the two of us, a rabbi, her partner, and some homemade gravlax with cream cheese on rye toast for brunch. You see, I've now been married four times. Three of them to the same person: Bruce. What am I, Elizabeth Taylor? First, a commitment ceremony in Maine in 1999, then a legal civil union in Connecticut in 2007, and now this legal, full-blower marriage. Whew. Bring on the diamonds--and the comfort food.

Like this:

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Slow-Cooker Pork Chili

Sometimes, life moves too fast. Like lately. We've had photo shoots aplenty at the house, as well as scouting runs for a coming series of cooking technique videos for weightwatchers.com--and have been in and out of New York City so many times in the past two weeks, I feel as if I live there. Dreydl's sick of the kennel. I'm sick of the car.

Slow-cookers are made for times like these. Dump stuff in, set the thing going, come back later, eat dinner. Seems like a no-brainer to me.

So I have no clue why these lovely appliances get such a bad rep. Once, we pitched a fancy magazine on a passel of slow-cooker recipes, and the uber-chic editor said, "Oh, sure, American housewives love that crap." (Well, she actually used another word for "crap." I'll leave it to your imagination.)

Well, Ms. Fancypants, call me an American housewife. I've always been partial to the slow cooker (aka, the crock pot).

Because of my years in Wisconsin for graduate school? No.

Because of my Baptist pot-luck supper roots? No. (By the way, we didn't believe in luck, so we called them "pot-providence suppers." We were nothing if not exacting.)

I love the slow cooker because it's really just a braising tool. And you know how I feel about braising.

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Oven-Roasted Pork Ribs

I was reared a good Texas boy. You can tell because I say "reared," not "raised." Children are reared; rolls, raised.

In the tradition of Texas boys who get reared and itch for something else, I moved to New York City to get as concentrated a dose of the whole liberal, complicated, moiling mess as I could swallow.

So I got a Jewish boyfriend.

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