The Multiples Advantage

    In addition to a general aversion to kitchen gadgetry, I despise sets of things.  Why would I ever need a very small, a medium and a gigantic frying pan?  My advice to those who need to fill a new kitchen with pans is to buy multiples of the medium size—the standard twelve inch pan.  Like a line cook at a busy restaurant, I have a stack of these loyally waiting just next to the range.  This is a basic efficiency; there is no application for a miniature frying pan that the standard one can’t accomplish, and if cooking in volume is really necessary, I switch to a large brazier.  In other words, small and large frying pans are irrelevant, but a medium one is just right.  Is this really so exotic a concept?  For professionals, not, but the humble home cook usually finds the idea (or me) peculiar.

    And yet I have never been in an amateur kitchen that doesn’t possess some favorite pan, or knife, or spoon, or apron…  I had a friend who made a good soufflé, but he could only do it using his favorite soufflé ramekin.  It shattered one day, and he quit soufflés for good.  Despite a number of others, my mother uses an old sauce whisk that has long lost its handle.  She grips at the little metal stub feverishly each evening so as not to lose it in the dressing.  This is insane!  I don’t begrudge the desire for the consistent performance of a favorite; I just don’t understand why dinner must screech to a halt if some piece of equipment is in the wash.  Instead I’m preaching perpetually available consistency.  

    To return for a moment to size: it is not universally ill-advised that it should vary.  Stainless steel bowls are the unsung heroes of the efficient kitchen, marinating meats, storing leftovers, serving as impromptu Champagne buckets.  But six bottles of bubbly and a ten pound bag of ice won’t fit in a two quart bowl, and a sixteen quart one is far too large for storing a few cups of concasse.  So one resorts to sizes in, say, four quart increments from two to sixteen.  This works well, but, once again, only if there are multiples in each size.  If one very large bowl is needed, the chances are good that another will for the same meal.  Incidentally, the twelve quart stainless bowl is the most useful—I have at least four of them in constant rotation.

    A confounding and mercurial force is at work preventing all of this kitchen prudence: the packaged deal and its silver-tongued appearance of value.  When my wife and I registered for our wedding, a very slippery salesperson escorted us about the kitchen department recommending sets of all the, as she put it, essssentials.  When challenged on what was so essential about a three inch braising pot, her response was the full pitch: you never know…and the set is such good value.  I do know, and no it isn’t.  Packaging things is always a tactic to get the consumer to spend more, not less.  And throwing in a few specialty pots for which there is little need is an inexpensive way to create an impression of value.   She was not amused when I confiscated the little gun from her and zapped three identical pans.

The Bowl of Plenty

A bowl of the good stuff.

    Buying baguettes, boules, ciabattas or anything else not pre-sliced and packaged will, at some point, raise the question of what to do with that which goes stale.  Pitching it, of course, is not an option—so how to handle the steady accumulation?  I keep a big metal bowl of the stuff,  half full at any given moment and often brimming.  Stale bread, alongside oil and salt, is one of my more relied-upon pantry items.  

    Croutons are the most obvious application, and should be reserved for the freshest of the stale bread.  This has less to do with flavor than it does with safety; cutting very hard, stale bread is risky, even for those with developed skills.  A heavy chef’s knife works best here.  Use the heel of your free hand to knock the back of the blade until it bites, then push through.  Don’t focus on uniformity; a little variety in your croutons will signal they are homemade.  Fry them in plenty of butter or good olive oil, seasoning with salt, pepper and, if you wish, dried herbs.  These are particularly delicious if served while still hot.  For salad, add half the croutons prior to tossing and the rest after plating.  This way some will remain perfectly crisp while others will soak up the vinaigrette.  

    Bread crumbs are far more fun.  To make them you will need a clean apron, a stout rolling pin and a hard surface.  Wrap whatever stale scraps you have in the apron and let them have it.  Frying pans, cricket bats and empty Champagne bottles are just as effective.  Toddlers are good to have on hand as well; they will appreciate the excitement far more than your neighbors.  The most obvious advantage to the homemade route is the control you have over the crumb—just cease bashing when you’ve reached the desired level of pulverization.  

    Uses are innumerable.  Deep-frying requires bread crumbs to form the crunchy exterior, but in the case of  fritters and such, can be used in binding the wet ingredients.  If you don’t mind being associated with the late 90’s, bread crumbs are also crucial in crusting things.  My favorite of these dated preparations goes like this: scale and de-bone a whole salmon laying it flat on a  greased sheet pan.  Prepare a paste of bread crumbs, chopped shallots, minced parsley, dijon mustard, softened butter, white wine, salt and white pepper.  Pack this mixture on the flesh side of the salmon and cook for twenty minutes in a hot oven.  

    Milk or stock-soaked bread has a fancy name—panade—and is classically used in everything from forcemeat to soup, efficiently thickening or providing moisture.  Irregular pieces of stale bread can be soaked in milk, stock or wine and incorporated into meatball and meatloaf preparations.  This technique all but guaranties a moist result as the bread mush bastes from the inside while cooking.  And really is the concept so unfamiliar?  Most Americans eat stuffing at least once each year, and what is stuffing but stock-enriched stale bread and vegetables?  

The 90s called, they want their crusted salmon back.  

   Sadly, some bread is beyond use.  While an open metal bowl and airy storage prevents mold, some higher-gluten bread seems to petrify instead of going stale.  Rather than risk a filling, I like to return that which cannot be used to the wild in the form of bird feed.  The massive city crows that swoop in for these scraps have formidable beaks and I've often watched as they reduce even the largest, toughest pieces to crumbs.   They seem to enjoy it, and it certainly fattens them up...   Maybe those stalest scraps serve a purpose after all.

The Remains Unite (Part II)

    Mondays are ideal for discussing the mechanics of leftovers.  Presumably the weekend has produced some food and, unless you wish to be like my former teammate from Part I, now is the time to consider what to do with it.  

X marks the spot.  NB:  You should not grind and ingest leftover bones; they are to be used to flavor  that which has been pulverized.

    Of course dictating specific dishes is only so helpful; a suggestion of fricasseed cod won’t go very far if cod wasn’t on the previous night’s menu.  What really needs to be established is a broad matrix consisting of categories of leftovers and methods for transforming those leftovers.  I’m rubbish with spreadsheets though, so I’ve jotted down a chart on the adjacent cocktail napkin.  Happily, leftovers fall rather neatly into four categories, as do techniques for their management.  

    The ideal leftover meat is a roast: seasoned, relatively lean, neutral.  Beef, pork, lamb—doesn’t matter.  The meat needs only be sliced from the bone (if present) or diced for use in several of the techniques to follow.  Braised and stewed meats are excellent leftovers too, but if the idea is to have a neutral meat for use in a leftover dish of a different direction than the original, some caution should be taken to first rinse away strongly-flavored cooking liquids.  Chicken meat should be pulled from the carcass; using forks makes this easy, although your hands are better if the intended application requires larger pieces.  Fish universally flakes.      

    Bones come next.  Pork and beef bones add excellent flavor to soups, stews and broths.  I have a friend who cleans and freezes all his leftover bones until sufficient for stock, although I’ve always found fresh bones preferable there.  A chicken carcass is a different matter.  I like to re-roast mine until golden before plunging, along with aromatics, into cold water for broth.  There is really no excuse for discarding a chicken carcass.  Lamb bones are rather gamey, and recycling fish bones is a step too far.  I understand either can add richness to a compost heap though.  

    Vegetables.  Sides seem simple but can be difficult to transform.  This is because thought has often gone into flavoring a vegetable side dish and reworking it can be either counterproductive or a shame.  I am very fond of classic blanched and buttered vegetable sides; whether this is because I am subconsciously envisioning transforming the leftovers I do not know.  The point is the more neutral your vegetable leftover, the more suited to reworking; the ultimate vegetable leftover are small boiled potatoes.  

    This leaves grains and starches (other than potatoes).  There really is only one thing to do with leftover pasta that has already been mixed with its sauce—which we’ll get to in a moment.  But unadorned noodles and plain boiled or pilaf rice are very versatile.  The one crucial step here is to add some oil or butter before storing or you will end up with something glutinous and bowl-shaped.  

    The most satisfying leftover technique must be the hash.  A small amount of leftover roast pork or chicken can be made to stretch into a filling meal if the preparer takes a few careful steps.  Chop the leftover meat into a medium to small dice and in a large pan fry until well-browned on all sides.  This step is as much about developing flavor in the pan as it is about transforming the leftover meat.  Follow with diced raw potatoes, mirepoix or other leftover vegetable, taking care to preserve the structural integrity of all that is added.  The result should be a savory jumble of browned meat and vegetable, not a mush.  Mind things don’t become greasy, and make sure to season generously with ground black pepper.  

    Unadorned leftover vegetables are ideal for soups and sauces of every description, from chowder to veloute, but pulverization is an exercise in control.  Carrots demonstrate this nicely.  A side dish of blanched and buttered rondelles can be added to broth with other vegetables for a rustic soup or permitted to simmer with potato until both begin to disintegrate for a chowder.  But when confronted with leftover carrots I find it difficult to do anything other than make a rich bisque: sauté carrots with a fine dice of onion, season with salt, white pepper and bay, adding broth along the way; liquify in a blender, adding heavy cream until smooth.  Lobster, quite unnecessary.

    The minimalist approach can be fun too—although the technique leaves little to be said.  Cold chicken?  Wheat toast and mayonnaise.  A few ounces of salmon?  Flake over salad with vinaigrette.  Cold roast beef?  Answer: Coleman’s English Mustard.

    And then there is binding, and by extension, a brief homage to the necessary egg.  If the creative juices are ever ebbing, simply fry an egg and put it on your leftovers.  No one will complain.  But to unlock the greater potential of the egg is to know its agglomerative ability.  Leftover rice, mashed potatoes, chopped or shredded vegetables—all these and others can be mixed with beaten eggs to form a batter: deep fry at will, putting your faith in the albumen.  Fritters are terrific, but something eggy and delicious lurks still.  If you regularly make pasta that isn’t drenched in sauce—say spaghetti studded with pork, spinach and onion, the best (and only) thing to do with the leftovers is this: add four or five beaten eggs, a little milk or cream to loosen and a generous grating of parmigiano reggiano.  Fry in butter, finishing in a hot oven.  Let cool; turn out onto a plate.  You can serve as-is, slice into wedges for starters, or cut smaller and insert toothpicks for hors d’oeuvres.  Whatever you choose, leftovers are unlikely.

What a tangle: pasta cake of spaghetti, spinach, pancetta and onion.

The Remains Divide Us (Part 1)

Some see three pork chops.  Others, three pork chops, two pork sandwiches, one plate of scrapple and bones for soup.  

     Early in my married life I played on a club soccer team.  The team captain—we’ll call him Matt—was a decent guy whose wife was an enthusiastic fan of our rather modest Saturday morning performances.  Win, lose or draw, she would produce from her car a cooler full of post-match beers and sandwiches.  Over the course of a few weeks she and my wife became friendly and it wasn’t long before we were invited over to Matt’s house for dinner.  The only night that seemed to work for all of us was Friday, and though loathe to sacrifice even one  precious weekend meal at home to the perils of an unknown kitchen, we obliged.  

       Matt and his wife were perfectly pleasant hosts, but something curious did occur as the evening wound down.  They had served a large roast chicken with mashed potatoes and vegetable sides but had obviously anticipated larger appetites for plenty was left over.  My wife and I helped clear the table, and, innocently enough, inquired after the tinfoil to cover the leftovers.   We were met with astonishment, and after a few pregnant moments, Matt curtly responded that they do not keep leftovers.  He and his wife then rather quickly scraped the chicken carcass—still heavy with meat—and several cups each of potatoes, carrots, spinach and corn into the garbage.  Sensing my urge to dive in after the fowl, my wife tugged silently at my rear belt loop.  

    We took a thrashing the next morning.  Matt and I—both midfielders—couldn’t seem to  communicate well on the field.  Worse: there were no sandwiches or cold beers offered following the match, and after one or two more similar showings, Matt joined another team.  Some say to avoid politics, religion and sex in social or professional settings; I say: do not discuss leftover food for what we do with it exposes our very marrow.  

    I am staunchly, fervently a leftover person.  Our kitchen is a buzzing place where large cuts of meat, whole fish and baskets of produce enter twice weekly; weeknight dinners, packed lunches, coursed weekend meals and Sunday lunches flow steadily out.  But for the volume, ours might be a hotel kitchen.  And like any efficient operation, very little goes to waste.  Those Sunday roasts frequently stretch into Wednesday packed lunches and weeknight dinners often feature some recycled aspect.  

    This is hardly a new concept.  If one peruses the ne plus ultra of cookbooks, Le Guide Culinaire, one quickly determines many of the dishes are really just ways of preparing leftovers.  Take this charmingly archaic entry (#2475) for Hachis a l’Americaine: “Sauté an equal amount of small diced potatoes as there is meat in butter until golden brown; add half to the meat and mix together with a little tomato puree and reduced veal gravy; reheat without boiling.  Place the mixture in a deep dish, sprinkle with the remaining potatoes, which must be nice and crisp, and finish with a little freshly chopped parsley.”  (Escoffier, 299).  So easy, and a great excuse for regularly having veal bone gravy on hand.

    My misguided teammate aside, most do indulge leftovers.  Tupperware exists, doesn’t it?  But I’ve long suspected that we sacrifice an opportunity when we simply ladle in the mashed potatoes and fork over the  slabs of corned beef with nothing more involved than the nuke it later protocol in mind.  Actually Escoffier’s fancy beef hash perfectly demonstrates a number of the rules that I follow when using leftovers.  

    -  To begin, simple reheats are not permitted.  Not only are they unimaginative, but a steaming plate of microwaved chicken and boiled potatoes will only ever be a pale shadow of its original self.  The far better route is to visualize something new.  If not a simple chicken hash, then why not whip up some easy pastry for a platter of meat pasties?

        -  A well-stocked pantry is essential.  Spices, oils, vinegars and starches should always be on hand, but I extend my pantry to things like eggs, cheese, milk, bread (fresh and stale), lemons, leftover wine, canned tomatoes, tomato paste, parsley, carrots, celery and onions.  Bacon, too, for its ability to improve just about anything.  

        -  Leftover meals are not an opportunity to purge your icebox.   Restraint is vital.  Escoffier could easily have added green beans and a dodgy looking carrot to his Hachis but that would have altered the familiar harmony of beef and potatoes.  If you really must use those slightly limp celery stalks that have been haunting your vegetable drawer for a fortnight, brace them in cold water, thinly slice and toss with a vinaigrette for a side salad.  

        -  As for food safety (for I know the subject bubbles just beneath the surface of any discussion involving leftovers) I will offer these unscientific guidelines that I follow.  Clear the table of leftovers, wrap in plastic or foil and refrigerate as soon as possible.  Leftovers are to be used within a 72 hour window.  Don’t push it.  Use common sense; if the leftover in question is unappetizing, don’t eat it.  It’s always advisable to thoroughly heat-through leftovers.  If in doubt, substitute your usual table wine with high-proof grain alcohol.

    Writing this now, I mourn the spectral corn puddings, carrot soups, chicken hashes and spinach timbales that could have resulted from the remains of my old teammate’s dinner table.  What stings most cruelly is not the actual waste of food (though that too is shocking), but the sad waste of all those lovely meals that could have been.  

Speaking of which, Part II of this series will deal directly with methods, ideas, and recipes for the leftover enthusiast.    

Clockwise from upper right: Grilled bread, deviled eggs, pinchos de puerco, braised carrots, deviled eggs,  celery vinaigrette.  All from leftovers.  

A Jarring Realization

Undaunted by reduced numbers, my jars reclaim their ancestral shelf space.  

    Something like sixty empty jam jars once buckled a shelf in my kitchen.  My then girlfriend (who agreed to marry me a few years later) thought it was weird; in fact before she would take our courtship any further she insisted I reduce my holdings considerably.  I obliged, filling my shelves with designer tumblers and, eventually, the cut-glass tokens that uselessly accompany matrimony.  For several years I longed for my stout jam jars; if not sixty, then a scant dozen to remind me that a bohemian streak glimmered still beneath the forced conformity that hobbles so many young couples. 

    Why jam jars?  A Swiss father and English mother from an early age inculcated the appreciation of warm toast, butter and jam, a pleasure I practice to this day most mornings.  With the jam, of course, comes a jar and a lid, and, when finished, the pressing question of whether to toss both or clean them for reuse.  In leaner collegiate times, one could justify the regular purchase of pricey European preserves by making a firm commitment to retain the empties.  A collection of half a dozen precluded further glassware; an expanded collection eliminated the need for tupperware.  Assuming collegiates still use things like pens, toothbrushes and razors, the jam jar is handy.  I understand they keep loose cigarettes fresh, and I had a girlfriend once who kept all her makeup in a few.  

    I must have consumed jam at a faster rate than my friends smashed or stole my jars, for I found one day in my early working life I had amassed several dozen.  For one reason or another, my apartment became a sort of regular meeting place for friends and colleagues, and my jars rose to modest notoriety.  I occasionally speak to old acquaintances from those carefree times who recall, if not much else, my jam jars.  

    I should pause here to specifically address the jam jar’s place as a drinking vessel.  Moonshiners once favored the preserving-type jar for packaging their liquor, and similar molded glass cups and mugs have served in busy bistros and beer halls across Europe since the widespread manufacturing of the stuff began two centuries ago.  Today’s jam jar is an ideal tumbler: strong, correctly sized, and unprecious.  The lid is handy should you have to dash suddenly but wish to retain your drink, say at a house party which disturbs the peace.  In more civilized surroundings the lid becomes a coaster, protecting grateful sideboards and mantels.  And then there are the ineffable qualities to consider.  A jam jar seems to cheer up poor wine; very good wine drunk from a jam jar will feel illicit--as if you’ve stolen the bottle from an oppressive employer.  

    Other uses.  If you have any inclination toward pickling things you will quickly discover large mason-type jars are too big.  (Who really is going to use a pint of pickled okra)?  The small jam jar is different; its manageable size will encourage experiments with the dregs of your vegetable drawer.  Pickled kohlrabi, for instance, is delightful with cold beef, and I credit the jam jar for the discovery.

    If you enjoy pottering around the house, try this: firmly glue several lids to the bottom of a shelf.  Once affixed, the jars can be screwed into the lids creating transparent and convenient storage for nuts, bolts, clips, tacks and twine.  Actually, if you are the crafty sort, you doubtless have other ideas with which to fill the comments section below.  

    Strangely enough, following a dreary eight year dearth, jam jars once more dominate our shelves.  Stranger still is the culprit for the reinvigorated collection: a baby.  In a sweet I told you so moment the other day, I glanced over my shoulder to see my wife with two jars.  One contained left-over soup, which she uncapped and popped in the microwave for our daughter’s lunch.  The other she gave to our daughter who methodically filled it with odd bits of her sidewalk chalk.  I couldn’t mask a smile.  Perhaps these uses aren’t in the same romantic spirit as those cocktail parties of years past, but it makes me immeasurably happy to think a tradition might have been created.

House Party Dash:

Throw several ice cubes (or a handful of crushed ice) into a jam jar along with two ounces of whiskey, an ounce of lemon juice and a sugar cube.  Put the lid on and shake vigorously until the sugar has mostly disappeared.  Top with a splash of soda.  And keep the lid handy for Pete’s sake. 

Bread and Butter Kohlrabi Chips:

Thinly slice some kohlrabi and put it in a sterilized jam jar.  Heat up two cups of apple-cider vinegar in a small saucepan with ten whole peppercorns, a teaspoon of mustard seeds, two bay leaves and a a tablespoon each of salt and sugar.  Pour the mixture into the jar and seal with the lid.  Put in the refrigerator.  You’ll notice the jar will vacuum-seal itself as it cools.

Pickled things, plus several ounces of rendered bacon fat.