Thoroughly Mexican? Not So Much.

At some point during any stay with Pops O'Food, usually on one's last morning, you will be treated to the sound of bacon sizzling in a skillet and the smell of biscuits baking in the oven. You are in store for an original: POF's biscuits and gravy. After just one bite, folks cease their search for The Best. They've found them right in my father's kitchen. I stopped ordering them off of menus years ago. The experience was always a major disappointment. As I recall, the last straw was at a Waffle House somewhere in North Carolina. The waitress there plopped something in front of me so disgusting and so obviously NOT biscuits and gravy, that the plate sat untouched. I've never looked back.

Pops has been making perfect B&G since he was a boy. Back then, eggs, potatoes, sausage, ham, bacon, biscuits and gravy from the pan drippings were a staple served every morning. Who knew about cholesterol back then? Would it have mattered? These were poor country folk living off the land with plow and rifle, and a hearty breakfast kept them going until suppertime.

These days, knowing what to expect, I sit back in eager anticipation of the reaction people new to Pop's biscuits and gravy express. The looks on some of their faces are classic. The scales drop from their eyes. They are moved to poetry and singing. I smilingly nod in meaningful agreement.

Buttermilk Biscuits and Pan Gravy - a recipe by Pops O'Food

Biscuits:

2 cups self-rising flour, plus extra for rolling out dough 1 cup buttermilk, plus or minus for stiff batter 2 Tbsp peanut oil

In a large mixing bowl, stir in just enough buttermilk into the flour to form a stiff dough. Sprinkle extra flour onto the dough and on a cutting board or other clean, flat surface and roll out dough to about ½ inch. Using an empty, cleaned large Alaskan salmon can (Pops O'Food is very particular about his cutter), or another round dough cutter, cut out biscuits. Dredge both sides through peanut oil in a cast iron skillet or baking sheet and crowd together. Bake in a 395° pre-heated oven until golden brown, about 18 minutes. (Check the bottom of your biscuits a few minutes early.)

Pan Drippings Gravy:

½ lb bacon or sausage links 3 Tbsp all-purpose flour 1½ cups 2% milk 1 Tbsp sugar

Brown bacon or sausage until crisp and fat is rendered. Remove meat from skillet, reserving grease. Add enough all-purpose flour for a 1:1 ratio of fat to flour and cook over medium-high heat for several minutes. You're looking for a brownish hue to your roux. Pour in milk, add sugar and stir frequently until gravy thickens and small bubbles start to rise from the bottom of the skillet. Season to taste with salt and black pepper. Split golden buttermilk biscuits and smother in hot gravy.

This is nothing short of authentic, down home cookin' Grandma used to make. Genuine. Unpretentious. The real deal. This is the kind of food that makes me so appreciative of my roots, especially proud to call Pops O'Food my father.

Thanks for taking the time - Blog O. Food

Mexican Through and Through

For all you infrequent readers out there (and you know who you are), visits with Pops O'Food revolve around twin suns: food, obviously, and golf. Pops has a regular group of local and snow bird cronies who accompany him on the course several times a week. I am permitted to join them whenever I'm in town. The only reason I took up the game in the first place was to have something to do with my father besides stuffing my face. It has turned out to be a minor passion, especially when my swing is going well. Between bouts of Mexican peasant food were some very good rounds of golf this year. One course in particular took my breath away, Emerald Canyon Golf Course on the Colorado River just outside Parker, AZ. This La Paz County course is an oasis. Impeccably tended fairways and velvety smooth greens, built into the ravines and washes that feed into the river. I have never played a finer course in the country. Even on those idyllic links however, my thoughts frequently turned to what our next meal would be.

Not that it was ever really a worry at Casa de Pops. He had a treasure trove of recipes to offer up.

Pork & Hominy Stew - A recipe by Pops O'Food

1 large can (29 oz) Mexican-style hominy 2 lbs pork loin chops, boned and diced 1 tsp garlic powder 1 tsp onion powder ½ cup olive oil 1 large yellow onion, diced 6 cloves garlic, crushed 3½ cups chicken stock 1 can (14.5 oz) diced tomatoes 1½ cups homemade salsa*

Drain hominy, and put to a simmer in a small saucepan. Meanwhile, brown pork, including bones, on all sides with dried spices in olive oil over medium-high heat in a large heavy-bottomed stock pot. Brown in batches if need be. Remove pork from pot and sweat onions and garlic over medium heat until just soft, but not brown. Return the meat and bones to the pan, add the chicken stock, tomatoes, salsa and hominy. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to medium-low and simmer for 90 minutes.

Holy crap, that guy POF knows a thing or two about food! Browning the bones and including them in the stew red-lined the flavor meter. Just remember to separate them from the dish before serving. The slow, long simmer softened all the tough connective tissue in the meat. It practically fell apart on the fork. Pops served Mexican rice and refried beans, and piping hot flour tortillas for sopping up the juices.

We all have dishes that remind us of childhood or other memorable occasions. I was transported that night. This is a meal I'll cook again when I'm homesick or just plain nostalgic. I hope this post prompts you to dust off delicious recipes of your own. Relive old memories or make new ones tonight.

Thanks for taking the time - Blog O. Food

*Salsa

3 lbs Ortega and yellow chilies, roasted, skinned and chopped 10 cloves garlic, finely minced 2 large white onions, diced ½ cup cilantro, chopped 1 cup, green onions, diced

Toss all ingredients together in a large mixing bowl. Store in clean mason jars. Flavor will intensify over time. Will keep for about two weeks.

Fyn

Just because you take to the sea and cross the world, it doesn’t guarantee that you will come by treasure.

Danes hate the phrase “good night”, so the birthday party went on until all hours and included a late night skinny-dip in the Lillebælt - bottle of snaps and shot glasses in hand. Heaven knows when we finally stumbled into bunks and tents, but plenty of overnight guests made for quick work of KP duty the next morning, and by noon most of us were ambitious enough for a walk.

The Danish leg of my trip was supposed to end that morning with a train to Hamburg and then a flight down to Bergamo, Italy. However, sometime earlier in the week the thought of leaving Strib became less and less appealing. The summerhouse has a magnetic hold on me. I don’t even like going into town all that much. So, with a small group of friends extending their stays, it didn’t take much persuading to get me to change my plans.

I wish I could regale you with tall tales of adventure, but we mainly stayed close to home or struck out on day trips, always back in time for a glass of wine and a good dinner. We spent one fine day in Århus walking along pedestrian streets in the shopping district, eating pølser, drinking strong ales and admiring the Danish masters at ARoS Århus Kunstmuseum.

P.S. Krøyer - Skagens jægere

Another day found us in Svendborg in southern Fyn, looking for yet one more of Denmark’s legendary lunches. We were not disappointed. At Hotel Æro, four of us split an enormous omelette topped with crackling (G.H.W. Bush would say pork rind). It was eaten with rye bread, spicy mustard and pickled beets. There were saner fish entrées, but who wants to be safe & sane on holiday? Emboldened by all that pork fat, one fellow diner ordered the Svendborg stew, or "Pound of Bacon Soup", strips and strips of crispy fried bacon wading in a shallow pool of tomato broth. Ridiculous.

Closer to home in Melfar (Middlefart), we returned repeatedly to Holms, the 425-year old inn that anchors that ancient ferry and whaling town. They serve leverpostej, a liver pâté spread, accompanied by sautéed mushrooms and crispy bacon. I ordered it three times in 10 days and cannot believe I’m still alive to tell the tale. There is an extravagant version called dyrlægens natmad (literally, veterinarian’s midnight snack!) served open-faced on dark rye bread, topped with a slice of corned beef, a slice of cooked meat in aspic, and finally raw onions and water cress. Even I never had the guts to order that.

With only a couple of days left on the itinerary, we migrated east toward Copenhagen. Needful of some down time, I snuck off solo early one morning, wandering the capital with nothing but a camera and a coin purse full of kroner. Snob that I am, I cast furtive looks of disdain at the more obvious tourists and kept to myself. I wanted to absorb the city, undistracted, through my pores.

Late in the morning, I met up with Whogus and a good old Dane, René. They found me drinking a beer in one of the squares off the main walking street. After more walking, lots more walking - and beers, LOTS more beers - and even some sightseeing, it was time to say goodbye. My friends escorted me - besotted - to the train station late in the day for my journey back to Germany and a morning flight to the States. No one was willing to utter the words goodbye. There were awkward handshakes, and then heartfelt hugs before the doors to my carriage closed. I listened to sad songs on my iPod, watching the Danish countryside whiz by, thinking there would be time for happy songs and happier memories later on.

There are so many trite clichés about traveling “broadening one’s horizons.” What a load or tripe! You could walk to the corner market or Timbuktu and it wouldn’t matter one fig but for the companions who share the journey along the way. So if there is a lesson here in my summer story, it is this: enjoy the ride, embrace the company, and dwell on the truth that you only get one shot at this, so don’t screw it up.

Thanks for taking the time - Blog O. Food

Strib

"...but if everybody would stay content with what is his own and let others enjoy the same rights, then no law would be needed." - Code of Jutland (1241, preamble)

To me, Denmark is the rational embodiment of the "live and let live" sensibility. Danes respect privacy and the rights of property. As long as you're not hurting anybody, pretty much anything goes. You see evidence of this in their industry, in Danish homes, and in how they play. While maintaining a strong free market capitalist economy and a large social safety net, it has few fabulously wealthy or extremely poor citizens. People are not hung up on accumulating stuff, or in sticking their noses in other people's business. An ugly debate about the sanctity of marriage couldn't happen in Denmark. They just don't speak that particular language. And so, whenever I visit, I literally feel the baggage of my divided country slipping away with each passing day. By the time our party reached the summer house, there was no tension in my shoulders. I was infinitely patient, almost serenely calm.

An excellent state to be in, as there was lots of work to do preparing the cottage for the birthday onslaught. The gardens needed tending, the lawn furniture hauled out of the tool shed, bunks made up, and finally, the flag pole painted and the Dannebrog flown. In between were fabulous home-cooked meals, long walks through the countryside and wicked games of cards lubricated with plenty of excellent wine.

We had fine weather all through the week. It made one morning ritual an utter delight: the bakery run. Tradition has it that the first to arise each morning bikes into town for fresh breakfast rolls. Beating Whogus out of bed, however, is a challenge. I personally don't think he sleeps, or maybe he has a twin who steps in while the other dozes off somewhere unnoticed. But Whogus can be relied upon to wait for others to stir before heading off. Everyone seems to love this task most of all. One rarely makes the trip alone. So every morning we break our fast with a meal of still-warm bread, butter & jam, stinky cheese, and strong black coffee. And then we go off together or in small groups for the day's outings. On Thursday morning a large party tent had to be erected and wild berries picked for the night's dessert. Naturally the women all stayed behind to assemble the metal frame and hang the canvas while the boys donned straw hats and carried baskets out into the fields. Oh if saying it only made it so! By the time the guys - sweaty and grimy - had the shelter up, the girls were back with armloads of berries and plums. What an industrious lot!

Late in the day, all was prepared. We shared one last cozy evening together before the crowds descended the next morning. We ate out of doors, dawdling over coffee and chocolate before washing up and starting another game of røvhul. There was plenty of music (everyone seemed to have an iPod), and an almost palpable, convivial, loving atmosphere. I think everyone suspected that once the house overflowed with company, the intimacy would quietly dissipate.

Finally, the day arrived. There were dips in the Lillebælt, the narrow strait that separates the mainland of Jylland from Fyn where our little summer house sits. Many of us were reluctant to forfeit our daily constitution, but did consent to shorten it a bit. There was a light midday meal (mostly liquid on my part) as we chefs prepared the feast. A local Dane had arranged for the hindquarters of a fresh lamb and a turbocharged gas grill borrowed from his boss. In the kitchen, scores of helping hands whipped up pasta, potato and green salads. We were introduced to an herb that grew right along our stretch of beach, to brighten our side dishes. Of course there was snaps, beer and enough wine flowing through the prep work and the banquet itself to float the Danish Navy.

That satisfied silence that accompanies any good meal was punctuated by toasts in Whogus's honor, celebrating long friendships and familial ties. Shouts of "skål" rang out into the night and akvavit was lifted to smiling lips. And at last, wild blackberry crumble. Oats, brown sugar and butter crust atop berries so fresh and so ripe that adding sugar would have been nothing short of pure folly. As the mid-summer sun slowly set behind us, we each offered up thanks in our own personal ways for the accident of life and the blessing of friends.

Happy Birthday, Whogus - Blog O. Food

Sorgenfri

Despite the city's being surrounded on all sides by water, all roads in Denmark lead to Copenhagen. Denmark's capital is still its hub and gateway. I arrived by night train from Paris on a Monday morning. Whogus and his greeting party put me right to work. A tour of Pusher Street in Christiana (no photos, please) and then a forced march to the top of the gold and copper spire at Vor Frelsers Kirke (the Church of Our Savior) all before breakfast.

There is an architectural flaw with the spire at Vor Frelsers Kirke, it winds its way up counterclockwise, fatal for right-handed soldiers defending it and the city. But confident there would be no marauding hordes in our immediate future, we paid our kroner, and started the climb, all 311 feet and 400 steps. If you click the photo on the left above, you can just make out figures at the very top of the spire. The view is breathtaking. But it was rainy and cold, and slippery when wet. I couldn't wait to get back to solid ground. And what should greet me upon my return to terra firma? A frosty cold Tuborg Classic. Ahhhh...

We had come to Copenhagen instead of meeting at the summer house not because Copenhagen is the heart of Denmark, but for the archetypal Danish lunch. On the weekend, Danes will sit down to a meal lasting most of the afternoon. It is not uncommon to remain seated at the table for three hours or more. Sorgenfri (roughly pronounced song-free) is famous for its traditional fare. Danes go to great pains to eat here.

Lunch always begins with a skål  before one even thinks of ordering. Everybody raises a shot glass filled with akvavit (snaps) and meets everyone else's gaze before drinking the contents. As a sign of respect, tradition demands that you again meet everyone's gaze before setting your glass back down. I just love that and am a strict adherent of the practice here at home. Aalborg makes a whole line of snaps distilled from either grains or potatoes. Sorgenfri serves their Nordguld (Northern Gold), distilled in amber. It hints of pine and resin, and will kick your butt.

Fish is always the first course in a formal lunch. Herring, pickled or marinated, shrimp salad and fried cod. Everything is eaten on buttered coarse rye bread. Danes wash down lunch with beer and more snaps. Every skål, or toast, follows the same strict ritual. Unless just released from prison, a Dane won't be seen wolfing down his food. Each morsel is savored with lots of conversation peppering the meal.

After the fish plates are cleared and more toasts offered up, the main courses come out. Liver pâté, frikadeller (Danish meatballs), roast pork and aged cheese. The pork is always roasted with crackling - crispy, crunchy and sweet. The cheese is strong enough to get up and walk away of its own accord. Being Danish is not for the faint of heart. Finally, forks and knives slow their pace, there is a distinct silly turn to the conversation, and grins break out everywhere. You've just spent a good part of the afternoon in one attitude sampling Denmark's greatest joys: sharing her spoils.

Americans nap after stuffing themselves. Danes walk. We ended up at Tivoli, people-watching and playing arcade games. Somewhere along the way a beer garden was spied and the remainder of the day became a blur. Welcome to Denmark. Please check your liver at the door.

Sorgenfri Brolæggerstræde 8, 1211 Copenhagen, Denmark Tel. 33 11 58 80 Hours: Monday - Saturday: 11.00 - 23.00 Sunday: 12:00 to 18:00

Thanks for taking the time - Blog O. Food