"Peas and Carrots" -- Maine Lobster Pancakes with Pea Shoot Salad and Ginger-Carrot Emulsion

First, let's start with some good news: I got my wallet back! Woo-hoo!!!!! It was found and turned in at the Metro station four blocks from where I was robbed. All the cards (including a whopper of a Williams Sonoma gift card) were still in there, and the only cash that was left was one quarter. Hey, big spender.

Anyhoo, I couldn't be more thrilled, because now I'm a two-wallet girl. My old wallet for the regular stuff, and the new bacon wallet to hold all my gift cards and store credits in one place (because right now, they're scattered everywhere and it's annoying).

But enough about me and my accessories. Let's talk about something really important and very official and that is the fact that I am a giant nerd.

Why (this time)?

Because at the Farmer's Market on Sunday, I acutally said, "Oh yay! Pea shoots!"

OUT LOUD.

Not just OUT LOUD, but also kind of loudly -- enough so that people actually turned to look at me as if I were some sort of who knows what. So to that, I say "turn back around people and pay attention to what you were doing before and let me be happy about pea shoots, or else I might have to TUSK you or something."

Actually, I'm sure the reason they turned and looked at me so strangely is because allergy season is kicking my ass, and with all this pollen my exclamation about pea shoots resembled a Harvey Fierstein stage whisper, so they probably thought they had a celebrity in their midst. What a disappointment that they turned around and it was only me. C'est la vie....

I have been dying to do this dish and the salmon dish (coming soon to an Internet near you) because they both involve pea shoots -- which, in case you didn't get it from the words I so lovingly typed above for your viewing pleasure, I love so much.

I made this dish over the course of two days. It could be done all in one, but I have a life, people. Well, not really. I just felt like spacing it out.

The first thing I did was head down to BlackSalt to pick up three lobsters:


I steeped them in boiling water, took them apart, removed the meat for use later, and was left with three lobster bodies:

I cut up the lobster bodies into about 6 pieces each, and put them in a sauté pan with some canola oil. I had them in the pan for about 5 minutes, and then added some tomato, carrots, thyme, and water.



I let this simmer for about an hour and a half. Then, I strained it into another pot, pressing against the solids to make sure all the liquid was released.


I strained the liquid again into a smaller pot, which left me with nearly 2 cups of liquid.



I put the pot o' lobster liquid over medium heat and brought it up to a lively simmer, and reduced it until I had about 2 tablespoons of a thickened glaze.



I noticed there were some solids still in the liquid toward the end, so I strained it again into a smaller pot and finished the reduction (the smell of which was so intensely wonderful, I kind of wish I could afford to do this everyday):

While this was reducing, I prepared the lobster filling. I cut the lobster meat (minus the claw tips, because the texture would detract from the rest of the meat) into a small-ish dice, and minced some shallots and chives:


I mixed this in a bowl, and added a half-cup of mascarpone, some salt and pepper, then added the 2T of the lobster glaze I'd just reduced:


I covered this and put it in the refrigerator overnight. Wanna see a close-up? Of course you do:

The next day, I set out to finish the dish. The French Laundry Cookbook suggests juicing 3 pounds of carrots for the ginger-carrot emulsion, but I don't have a juicer. And, I wasn't going to shell out $200 for one, since I know I would never, ever use it (I generally don't like juice; I'd rather just eat the fruit or vegetable on its own). So, I bought carrot juice and "infused" (infauxed?) it with some fresh, shredded carrots, as well as some fresh, shredded ginger:


I brought this mixture to a boil, then reduced it to a simmer for about 15 minutes.


When it had reduced from 2 cups to about a half a cup, I poured it through a strainer into another saucepan, then whisked in some cream and 12 tablespoons of butter (one by one), then poured it into a blender. I know that the book says not to skim or strain at this point, but I wasn't really making the "correct" version anyhow, so I kind of had to wing it and make it my own from this point on.

I blended it for about 30 seconds and kept it in the glass vessel until I was ready to plate.


The last big step was making the crèpes. Even though I was psyched about this dish because of the pea shoots, I was equally as annoyed about making crèpes. Why? Because I have a history of bad crèpe making. I never seem to get the batter done right, or they're too thick or too thin, or they just end up tasting rubbery and awful. It's really depressing, because I love crèpes. Always have. I went to France for a few weeks after graduating from college, and because we were so poor, my friends and I lived on crèpes. They were about a dollar, and you could get them from these great little crèpe carts on the streets of Paris, filled with whatever you wanted -- ham, cheese, fruit, nutella... the possibilities were endless. The heat would permeate the thin paper they were wrapped in, but on a cold and rainy afternoon, it was an added bonus. Every time I've tried to make crèpes since then has been a disaster. I expected this time to be the same, and was already concocting different final-plating plans for this dish just in case.

I mixed all the ingredients as instructed, poured the batter through a strainer, added the chives, and heated my non-stick sauté pan over low-medium heat.



I poured my first crèpe, ever so gently and tilt-ily rotated the pan and let it cook for less than a minute (probably 30-40 seconds). Then, I lifted one little bit with a small offset spatula, picked up the crèpe with my fingers, and flipped it over:



Not perfect, but not too shabby, eh? This is usually the point at which I find out they're too thin, so they fall apart... or too thick, and they plop like pancakes. This first one looked like maybe, just maybe, I knew what I was doing.

I banged out eight of these, and stacked them in between paper towels as I went:


Right before I started the crèpes, I took the lobster filling out of the fridge, so it could come closer to room temperature before I used it to fill the crèpes.

I laid a crèpe flat on a cutting board, put about 2 T of lobster filling in the center, then folded the edges of the crèpe up over the top until I had a neat, little lobster package. I made eight of them, and placed them on a baking sheet brushed with melted butter, and brushed some melted butter on the tops of the crèpes, then put them in the oven for 10 minutes until they were heated all the way through.





While they were in the oven getting warm, I made sure my ginger-carrot "emulsion" was still warm (it was), and I dressed the pea shoots with a bit of lemon olive oil, salt and some minced shallots.

To plate, I poured a little mini-pool of the ginger-carrot goodness onto the plate, topped it with a lobster-filled crèpe, then topped that with the pea shoot salad.


And, a closer look:

Guys. Gals. And everyone in between. This was freakin' fantastic. Let's start with the ginger-carrot foamy-ish extravaganza. I want soap made of this, and I also want to eat this every day for the rest of my life. If the way I did it was this good, I can't even imagine how amazing it would be to do it Keller's way. Wow. It's hearty and mellow and sharp and strong but smooth and luxurious. Paired with the lobster crèpe? Beyond amazing. Then, a bite of pea shoot along with the lobster-filled crèpe that I slathered with ginger-carrot sauce? So so so so good. Really.... I don't want to sound all haughty and obnoxious, but I was so proud of being able to make something this good.

We all gobbled it up in near-silence, with one of my most finicky tasters chowing down like there was no tomorrow.

While everyone else sat around the table getting caught up on the events of the day, I snuck into the kitchen, took the one remaining crèpe off the baking sheet and debated offering it to whoever wanted seconds. Then, I thought better of it and saved it (along with some of the ginger-carrot sauce) for myself to eat for lunch the next day. Except that I ate it at 11 o'clock that night because I just couldn't fall asleep knowing it was in my fridge, waiting to be enjoyed.

I slept 10 hours that night.

I haven't slept for 10 hours (in a row) in years.

Thanks, lobster crèpe with ginger-carrot fauxmulsion.

Up Next: Citrus-Marinated Salmon with a Confit of Navel Oranges, Beluga Caviar and Pea Shoot Coulis

Resources:
Lobster from BlackSalt
365 canola oil and butter
Produce and most herbs from Whole Foods
Thyme from my garden
Crave Bros. mascarpone
Lakewood organic carrot juice
Organic Valley heavy cream and whole milk
Pea shoots from Calvert's Gift Farm
Eggs from Smith Meadows Farm
King Arthur flour

Music to Cook By: Rodrigo y Gabriela; Rodrigo y Gabriela. It's mesmerizing. Absolutely outstanding. I have the CD in my car and their music on my iPod in the house. It's Mexico and Central America meets Nordic-Irish-Europe with some help from the Gipsy Kings and the steady rhythm of heavy metal. I know I'm not doing it justice. Just get the album and see for yourself. I can't stop listening to it. I was so entranced listening to it in the car the other day, I missed my exit on the Beltway. Doy.

Read my previous post: French Laundry at Home Extra -- Trussing and Roasting a Chicken

French Laundry at Home Extra: Trussing and Roasting a Chicken

A few weeks ago, I was listening to a KCRW podcast of Evan Kleiman's "Good Food" radio show. At the start of each show, she punts to a field reporter who does a "Market Report," talking about what's in and what's good at the local farmers' markets in Southern California. In this particular podcast, field reporter Laura Avery interviewed a chef (his words, not mine) named Paul Shoemaker (formerly of Providence, Los Angeles) as they walked through the Santa Monica Farmer's Market.

I was struck by this interview (which you can listen to by clicking here), because here was this guy, Shoemaker, who claimed to be a chef, but who also claimed the best way to cook a chicken is to "tusk it."

I could tell the interviewer was caught off guard, because she asked him about 5 or 6 follow-up questions about his technique to try and get him to correct himself, but he kept talking about all the ways to "tusk a bird." As I listened to it, I almost began to second-guess myself and what I know about cooking because this is a reputable radio program, and I cannot believe the producers would allow a line like, "I tusk it -- I tie it with butcher's twine" to be on the air.

Go ahead and listen to the podcast -- I lost count how many times that nitwit talked about "tusking" a chicken before I blurted out loud, "No, you dumbass. You truss it. You don't tusk it." (And then, of course, I thought of the USC marching band and was song-poisoned for DAYS.)

I feel like that's something everyone knows -- or should know -- whether you cook, or not. And, while I don't expect most people to know what "en crèpinette de Byaldi" means, knowing the difference between "trussing" and "tusking" (?!?!?!?!) a chicken is pretty basic. ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU HAVE THE BALLS TO CALL YOURSELF A CHEF. And sorry for the imagery you are inevitably getting when you hear the verb "to tusk a chicken" of some poor chicken being rammed you-know-where by an elephant. And yes, I am aware there are no chickens ba-gocking and roaming around the Serengeti with a pack of elephants. That's not my point. Wait. What was my point? Oh yeah, people who call themselves chefs, but don't know basic terminology.

And, shame on KCRW for putting that little interview on the air. They're a reputable NPR affiliate and should know better -- especially when it comes to taped portions of the program that could be edited or fixed. Live mistakes? Fine. It happens. But when you have the time to fix something so erroneous? Tsk, tsk. Or, rather, tusk, tusk, apparently.

So for everyone who has found this page because you Googled "tusk a chicken," please smack yourself and read on. And, Paul Shoemaker, if you've set up a Google Alert for when your name is published somewhere on the Internet and you find this post, smack yourself twice. Oh, and stop calling yourself a chef.

Because of this dude's vocabulary challenges, and my ever-strengthening belief in the importance of really getting good at the basics, I decided I'd take on some of the extra bonus features of The French Laundry Cookbook and do them here, as well. There are a few little extras in the book: trussing and roasting a chicken, preparing Béarnaise Mousseline, and cooking tripe. If you have the book, this little chicken bit is on page 171.

It's no secret that Thomas Keller loves roasted chicken. He writes about it in The French Laundry Cookbook, and there are a few pages devoted to it in Bouchon. On page 171 of The French Laundry Cookbook, he shares a story of how a chef he worked with threw a knife at him because he wasn't sure how to roast a chicken.

You know that I don't share recipes from The French Laundry Cookbook, but Epicurious has reprinted the chicken trussing and roasting instructions from Bouchon, so I'm going to include a link to that here.

I knew I was having some friends over for dinner a few nights ago and I wanted to do something easy because we were definitely having a casual night (and because work has been kicking me in the ass lately). So, I found it the perfect opportunity to roast a chicken. But first, the trussing. Here's the chicken after I'd rinsed it and patted it dry:

See that little triangular piece at the bottom, down by the legs? That's the chicken butt, and because I am twelve, it's my favorite part to point out. It's actually the best part of the chicken to eat (once it's roasted), as far as I'm concerned. Just the right balance of meat, fat and skin, and my neighbor's son and I shared it this time around (it's his favorite part, too).

I turned the chicken over on its back and had the cavity facing me. I then wrapped some twine around the back and below the butt, and brought it up around over the legs -- then crisscrossing it to bring the legs together, then back under the back and on the top to bring the wings in (some people like to tuck them under the chicken; I prefer the way they cook/taste when they're tight to the body). Then, I salt and peppered it (I'd already added a little bit of salt to the inside when I patted it dry):

I put the chicken into a roasting pan and put him in a 375-degree oven for 90 minutes (he was 4.31 lbs.). It was at this point that when I poked a paring knife into it, the juices ran clear.

I took it out and let it rest, covered, for another 15 minutes:

Here's what it looked like uncovered before I carved it:

I'm a huge fan of dark meat, but I gotta say that the breast meat on this chicken was really, really spectacular. And the skin? Crisptacular. I didn't baste with butter. I didn't add any herbs. I didn't put a lemon in the cavity. I didn't put it on a rack. I didn't douse it in apple cider. I didn't do any of the things that many other chefs and home cooks do. I only used salt in the cavity (maybe a tablespoon) and salt and peppered the outside (probably 2T of salt and 1.5T of cracked black pepper). Too often, chicken gets crapped up with too many other competing flavors, when, for me anyway, it tastes best with just a little salt and pepper.

I served this with some peas (which my friend, Holly, so wonderfully provided), some roasted sweet potatoes with thyme, and some corn, which I had frozen from the last crop of fresh corn last fall -- I just thawed it, added some butter, fresh tarragon from the garden, a little salt, and some chopped bacon, and holy moley it was good. Oh, my friend's son also shaved some fresh parmagiano-reggiano overtop the corn and made it even better.


That chicken was soooo scrumptious. I'm still thinking about it now, a few days later. And I'm smiling. WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME? Oh, yeah. I ate good food. It was simple, uncomplicated, and really, really good.

How do you roast chicken? Do you season it with salt and pepper? Do you brine it? Do you shove stuff in the cavity? Do you season or enhance it with other things? Have you ever eaten a chicken butt? Did you giggle just now? Busted. Use the comments to let me know. I'd love to hear how you like your chicken. But do me one favor: try roasting a chicken one night just like this one. Plain and simple. Trussed. Roasted. Salt and pepper. And tell me what you think.

Up Next: "Peas and Carrots" -- Maine Lobster Pancakes with Pea Shoot Salad and Ginger-Carrot Emulsion

Resources:
Chicken from Whole Foods

Music to Truss a Chicken By: A certain double album by Fleetwood Mac. Because if I have to be song-poisoned, so do you.

Read my previous post: Veal Stock

Veal Stock

I promised a long time ago that I'd do a post on veal stock, and I apologize that it's taken me this long to get to it. See, here's the deal: I have a small kitchen with a small sink. I like to make veal stock in large quantities, which requires large stock pots... which means the weather has to be nice because I have to take those pots outside and wash them using a garden hose because they don't fit in the sink. And, because I enjoy a clean and relatively sanitary space in which to clean these pots, it means I have to clean up the area where my garden hose is, oh and by the way, it has to be above 32 degrees Fahrenheit because the hose can't be hooked up when it's too cold, and I hate being outside in the cold anyway to wash those pots, so there you have it. Also? I had a freezer full of veal stock from the last time I made it, so I needed to use that before I made more.

And so I did.

And here we are.

Many of the dishes I've done as part of French Laundry at Home used veal stock -- whether in a braise, a reduction, a sauce, or some other form.

And now, today, at this very moment, you get to see how it's done.

Aren't you lucky?

But before we do that, let me blather on a little more about veal stock.

When Michael Ruhlman published The Elements of Cooking, he spent a lot of time in interviews talking about veal stock (he actually wrote an essay about veal stock for the book, and called it "the home cook's most valuable ingredient"). It's something I paid attention to, because prior to cracking open The French Laundry Cookbook, I don't think I really thought about a) whether or not veal stock existed, and b) that it really is a thing of beauty.

There are those who believe veal stock is unnecessary. Those people are idiots. In fact, there was a great debate on eGullet not long ago, in which some folks claimed that veal stock was difficult to do, or hard to find ingredients for, or just too much work and that beef stock was sufficient. They are sadly misguided. And also probably have bad breath. I'm just sayin'.

Now, I'm not one to delve down into the nitty-gritty of arguments like that because I obviously don't have the culinary training or expertise that some folks have, but damnit -- I have a palate that can tell the difference between dishes made with veal stock versus beef stock, and it DOES make a difference, because veal stock has a certain, distinct neutrality to it. And, if I may get all science-y on you for a minute, because the bones are from a young animal they contain more collagen, which when it breaks down into gellatin gives the veal stock an unparalleled body you just can't get from older bones.

But let me explain it in more Carol-like terms:

Beef stock tastes like Chef-Boy-R-Dee ravioli.

Veal stock is more velvety than actual velvet.

Beef stock is a sweaty, hairy truck driver on the final leg of a cross-country haul, in which he stopped only to sleep, not shower.

Veal stock is like standing naked under a gentle waterfall in the sunlight.

Beef stock makes your house smell like farts.

Veal stock makes your house smell like home.

Beef stock is not veal stock. And don't even get me started on the canned stocks -- they should be outlawed. But that's a rant for another day, and another blog.

Back to the task at hand: Let's talk about how to make veal stock from The French Laundry Cookbook.

One of the biggest complaints I hear about veal stock is this: "But I don't know wheeerrre to buyyy veeeeeaaallll boooonnnnnnneeeess."

To which my reply is: "Get the hell off the computer and TALK TO PEOPLE."

I had no trouble at all finding veal bones because I know how to have a conversation. I know... how very 1991 of me. I simply picked up the phone and (using the yellow pages - I'm old, sue me) called grocery stores, butchers, and other meat-related businesses to see who had veal bones. I found at least 10 places in the DC metro region that carried them regularly, and another 10 who could order them for me 48 hours in advance. And, trust me, it's not just city centers that carry veal bones. I've done my research. You can find them almost anywhere -- you just have to ask.

I also asked the vendors at my local farmers' market if they knew anyone locally who sold veal bones, and it turns out one of them carries veal bones quite regularly.... and if he hadn't had them, I could have ordered them for the following week. So, it's almost like the veal bones found me... not the other way around.

So, it's easy. Again, you just have to ask. And when you do, you get 10 pounds of bones like these:

I rinsed them in cold water and put them in one of my gigundo 24-quart stock pots to begin the first step of making The French Laundry Cookbook's veal stock: "the blanching of bones for clarification."


I filled the pot with enough cold water so that there was twice as much water as bones.


I turned on the burner to medium heat and brought it to a simmer. While it was coming to a simmer, I moved the bones around a tiny bit (but not too much), and I skimmed all the gunk that began to rise to the surface. Bringing the pot of water and bones to a simmer took just about an hour and 15 minutes.


As soon as the pot began to simmer, I turned off the heat and drained the bones in a colander.

I rinsed the bones to remove all the gunk that was clinging to them, and had to take this pot outside later to clean it to get rid of all the gunk that was sticking to the bottom.

Thankfully, pot #2 was ready and waiting, so I could keep going.

I put the rinsed bones into a clean stock pot, added 12 quarts of water, and began what The French Laundry Cookbook calls "Veal #1 -- The initial extraction of flavor from bones and aromatics to obtain a first liquid."

I turned on the heat to medium and slowly brought it to a simmer -- again, it took about an hour and 15 minutes. I skimmed every 10-15 minutes so get rid of all the impurities that were rising to the top.


Once the liquid was simmering, I added tomato paste, which I stirred in to help it break up a bit in the water. Then, I added carrots, leeks, onions, garlic, parsley, thyme, bay leaves and fresh tomatoes.



I brought this to a simmer and let it simmer for just over four hours. I skimmed every 20 minutes or so.


When it was ready, I strained it and saved the bones and aromatics for the next step. I strained this part of the stock into a smaller pot, put it in a sink full of ice and stirred it to cool it before putting it in the refrigerator.



Next, it was time to make "Veal #2 -- or, remouillage (remoistening) -- the second extraction of flavor to obtain a second liquid." To do that I put the bones and aromatics from what I'd just strained into a clean stock pot and added 12 quarts of water.


I slowly brought this to a simmer, and allowed it to simmer for four hours, skimming every half hour or so.

I strained this liquid and cooled it, just as I did the first batch.


I let both batches of vealy goodness really cool off in the refrigerator overnight and began the final step the next morning.

I poured both pots of veal liquid into a large stockpot and slowly brought it to a simmer. This time, I let it simmer for 7 hours, and it reduced and reduced and reduced, and I skimmed and skimmed and skimmed, and MAN did my house smell amazing.



I poured it through two different strainers into a smaller pot and cooled it off in another sink full of ice.

Finally, I ladled it, 2 cups at a time, into plastic containers that later went into the freezer for safekeeping.

Make it this way once. Humor me. You won't be sorry. You can even halve the recipe, if that makes it easier. However, if you need a quicker go-to way for making veal stock, Ruhlman has it down, so follow his lead. The man knows his stuff.

Up Next: A French Laundry at Home Extra: Trussing and roasting chicken

Resources:
Veal bones from Smith Meadows Farm
Cento tomato paste
Aromatics and produce from Whole Foods

Music to Cook By: It's a little bit of a roundabout story, but I listened to a pretty steady rotation of The Fixx and Re-Flex. See, I've been thinking about Ruhlman's The Elements of Cooking a lot this week, and whenever I read that title, my brain sees/reads "The Elements of Cooking" to the tune of "The Politics of Dancing" by Re-Flex, and then I have that frakkin' song in my head all day. So, of course, I had to listen to Re-Flex while I cooked, and then thought, hey -- maybe I should also listen to The Fixx (with their obvious music video production budget of $50). Why? Because they are also from the 80s and have an "x" in their name. I know. How the MacArthur Foundation hasn't awarded me one of their genius grants by now astounds me, too.

Read my previous post: Saddle of Rabbit in Applewood-Smoked Bacon with Caramelized Fennel and Fennel Oil

And, a special thanks to Spooneroonie, who sent me this lovely, lovely bacon wallet to replace the one that got stolen. How much do I love her?!?!

Saddle of Rabbit in Applewood-Smoked Bacon with Caramelized Fennel and Fennel Oil

Vacation was lovely, thank you for asking. And, how did I get welcomed home? By getting mugged, thankyouverymuch. At the grocery store, of all places. I'm fine. I wasn't hurt, but the guys who robbed me made off with my wallet, which not only had a wad o'cash in it, but also a drivers license with a kind of awesome photo from when I was really having a good hair and makeup day. Damn them. And, if I may risk sounding girly for just a moment, my wallet was really cute and took a long time to find, so I'm actually kinda pissed about that more than anything. Cancelling credit cards was easy, and luckily, I didn't have anything else of value in there. But I miss my wallet. Maybe Mike Bloomberg can buy me a new one, since he's decided not to run for President and thus will have some extra cash to spend on me. Maybe if you see this wallet in a store near you, you'll let me know. Isn't it adorable?

Let's talk about this dish, because I've been looking forward to making it for a little while now. The only two times I've ever eaten rabbit were in fine dining establishments -- first, in 1992 at Le Cirque and later, in 1999 at Picasso in the Bellagio. I haven't ordered rabbit since then, although I've seen it on a few menus. And, I've never cooked it. When I started this project and was going through the list of dishes, I was excited to try rabbit. I'm not quite sure why, because it's never been one of those meats I've had a hankerin' for, nor have I ever yearned for the smell of rabbit cooking in my house. I think it's because I knew I liked it, but I didn't know why -- and if I made it myself, maybe I'd be able to figure it out.

The day before I knew I wanted to serve this, I made the fennel oil.


I blanched the fennel fronds and the parsley (separately), and ice bathed them. I drained and dried them off, and put half those green lovelies into my blender along with some canola oil. I turned the blender on medium, then high, and whacked them until they were smooth. I added the remaining parsley and fennel in small batches until everything was a blended, smooth purée. I put the purée into the refrigerator overnight. The next day, I florped it onto some cheesecloth, and rigged it onto my Kitchen Aid mixer so that the fennel oil would drop out into a bowl below.


The French Laundry Cookbook suggests that you secure the cheesecloth over the top of a container, and spread the mixture on top and let the oil drip down. I've done it that way before, but had difficulty this time getting it to work, so I improvised. It tasted great, so yay for me.

While the fennel oil dripped (for about an hour or so), I cooked the fennel. I trimmed off the top and root ends of the fennel bulbs, and cut a small "x" into the bottom of each. I put the fennel into a pot, covered the bulbs with cold water, and added some thyme, star anise, fennel seeds, a bay leaf, and some kosher salt.

I brought the water to a boil, covered the pot, and let it simmer for 40 minutes. At that point, the fennel was nice and tender all the way to the core. I drained the fennel before putting it into a container and storing it in the refrigerator until I was ready to do the final steps before plating.


Now, on to the main event. The rabbit.

That package has four rabbit saddles in it, and I only needed three in this dish, so I've got an extra rabbit in my freezer, which I can't wait to experiment with in the next week or so. But enough about me. Let's talk about the bunnies. Oh, sorry. Does it bother you that I just referred to them as bunnies? Some of my friends were kind of grossed out when I told them I was making rabbit. It wasn't as bad a rejection as a certain celery dish, but no one was really all that thrilled to try rabbit. One of my younger tasters outright refused to try it, laughing in the face of my one-bite rule. I wonder if it had anything to do with me taking the package of meat out of the fridge the night before when they were visiting and making the package dance around the kitchen to "Here Comes Peter Cottontail." Perhaps I stepped over the line with that one. Perhaps.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Shocker, I know.

BACK TO THE RABBIT AND COOKING AND NOT GOOFING OFF.

Here's what the rabbit looked like out of the package:


These are what's referred to as "super saddles" -- the saddle (with the ribs attached) along with the kidneys. I turned one of them over and got started on what ended up being a long, laborious boning, cutting and wrapping process that I'm not so sure I a) did correctly, or b) enjoyed. The first step was to remove the kidneys (one of which you can see encased in the yellow-ish membrane there in the center of the rabbit):


Once I'd removed all the kidneys (and the membranes, fat, and other gunk that were present), I was left with three beautiful saddles, six gorgeous kidneys, and a sink full of nastiness:




This next part is a little hard to describe, but I'll do my best. I had to separate the racks (ribs) from the rest of the saddle, yet leave one rib attached to the saddle. Then, I had to split the racks lengthwise to form two (ultimately six) individual racks.

This photo really doesn't describe what I just wrote there, so instead, just close your eyes and picture me and Mike Bloomberg skipping through a field of daisies, feeding bonbons to each other...


The next step in preparing the rabbit is to bone the saddles. This involves removing the loins and tenderloins, trimming the flaps, seasoning the whole shebang with salt and pepper, then replacing the meat I JUST CUT OFF (*WHAT!?!?!?!!*) and folding it all back into a cylinder-type shape-thingie. Then, you get to wrap it in bacon.

I have no idea if I did this properly, and this was one time I really wish I'd taken an advanced knife skills-slash-small animal deboning class, because mama was confused. However, the wrapping it in bacon part? Pfffssshhhtttt. Child's play.

Please enjoy the horrors of my photography, as you try to follow along with what I've just written:





That doesn't look awful, does it? I think it's what I was supposed to do. After I'd made three of these, I tied each of the bacon-wrapped rabbit rolls so that they'd stay together when I cooked them.

So, let's do a quick check of the to-do list:

Fennel oil? Done.
Caramelized fennel? Prepped.
Rabbit wrapped in bacon? Oh yeah.
Kidneys removed and ready to cook? Yeppers.
French the bones of the rabbit racks? Oh, shit.

Yeah, so you all know I'm terrible at this level of detail when it comes to making meat dishes. I am not good at frenching bones. I know it's important, and I know it matters. I wish I cared more about it than I do. But it's hard to muster the excitement, fortitude, attitude, and desire to do something you really don't wanna do, but I figured I'd better give it a shot because I wanted to at least give it my very best. Or, as close to my very best as I could give without having the stabby thoughts.

So, yeah. I started with six racks o' rabbit. I used the right knife. I thought I applied the appropriate amount of pressure/skill/concentration. Basically, I just suck. I broke a ton of bones, pulled off most of the meat, and generally screwed up this step big time. You'll see in the photo below that only two racks survived, and they're lookin' kinda mangy and, in a word, sad.
That's not right. I feel like I need to blur those guys out to protect their anonymity. Poor little rackie-rackers.

It was time to finish the food and get it on the table. I preheated the oven to 350 degrees. In a medium-size sauté pan, I heated a little canola oil and sautéed the saddles, rolling them around a bit to make sure all the sides were cooked.

I transferred them to a baking pan and put them in the oven, where they needed to cook for an additional 20 minutes (not 5 minutes, like the book said), while I finished the rest of the dish.

I didn't take photos of this step, but I removed the fennel from the refrigerator, sliced it into half-inch-thick slices and caramelized them in a sauté pan. Nor did I photograph the making of the rabbit Quick Sauce. You can click here to see how Quick Sauces are done.

I sautéed the sad little rabbit racks, as well as the kidneys (which popped all over the pan like Mexican jumping beans - it was awesome), and got ready to plate.

I squeezed a ring of fennel oil onto the plate, and in the center of that ring spooned the quick sauce. On the plate, you can see a kidney, a rack, and a slice of the bacon-wrapped rabbit. The fennel slice is under the rabbit; sorry you can't see it:


I know those racks are lookin' kinda ghetto, but let's talk about taste for a minute. I was admittedly quite squeamish about trying the rabbit kidney. There's nothing about the words "rabbit kidney" that is enticing, to me. However, I sliced a little off the side and took a bite. You know what? It wasn't bad at all. I ended up eating the whole thing. No one else touched theirs. I took a little taste of the rib rack, and it was nothing to write home about. Fatty, underwhelming, and just not even worth the effort I had put into it. The bacon-wrapped rabbit? Hello, lover. We all know that here at French Laundry at Home, Bacon Makes Everything Better™. There's nothing that bacon can't improve. The rabbit was actually pretty good all on its own, but the addition of bacon to it, combined with the fennel was absolutely outstanding. Really, just imagine it. Well, if you've never had rabbit, that might be hard to do. Let me see if I can describe what rabbit tastes like: if you could combine the texture of veal and chicken (dark meat), I think that's the texture... and taste-wise, it's... well.... it tastes like rabbit. Not like chicken. I didn't think it tasted gamey, and I really, really liked it.

Would I make this dish again? Parts of it, yes. I'd wrap the loin of a rabbit in bacon and make that for dinner, along with something fennel-related, for sure -- it was totally worth it. All the rest? Not so much.

Up Next: Veal Stock

Resources:
Rabbit from D'Artagnan
Produce from Whole Foods
Spices from Takoma Park-Silver Spring Co-op
Niman Ranch applewood-smoked bacon
365 canola oil

Music to Cook By: Shelby Lynne; Temptation. If you were to ask me what kinds of music I don't like, I'd probably tell you there are two kinds: Country and Western. I also don't like Celine Dion, but it doesn't fit within the joke, now, does it? From time to time, I can stand listening to old classic country like Johnny Cash, Dolly Parton, Willie Nelson, but anything in the country genre that came out in the past 20 years just makes my shoulder blades twitch. Except for Shelby Lynne. There's something about her voice that I just love, and I love that she had already been a successful recording artist for about 15 years when she won a Grammy for Best New Artist. Duh, Academy people. Duh.

Read my previous post: Notes and Notables

French Laundry at Home: Notes and Notables

Within the first month or so of starting French Laundry at Home, I heard from Shuna Lydon, former pastry sous at The French Laundry. From the get-go, Shuna has been a font of encouragement as well as a great behind-the-scenes supporter of mine, for which I am most grateful. Since that first email, we've stayed in touch pretty regularly, and I enjoy reading her blog: Eggbeater.

There's one recent post in particular I think is worth reading and re-reading: Chef Owners Who Work the Line. It's a story about one of Shuna's experiences at The French Laundry, and it really speaks to character, integrity, ownership (in the true sense of the word), responsibility, and the core of what it means to pursue being the best. For those of you here in the DC area, you'll recognize Eric Ziebold, owner and executive chef at CityZen. But more important than the familiar names in the story are the take-aways that, I think, can be applied to almost any profession or trade. What you read in "Chef Owners Who Work the Line" will very likely mean different things to different people, so I'm going to spare you my own analysis of the story because I want each of you to read it "through your own lens," as they say, and see what it means for you.

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Michael Ruhlman recently posted a query on his blog, asking what readers thought the next big food trends might be. At last count, there were more than 170 comments/replies, so drink it all in and see what others are thinking.

* * * * *

To answer all the emails I've been getting in the past week or so: Yes, Thomas Keller has a new book coming out in the fall. No, I haven't seen an advance copy, so I can't tell you what I think about it. But I have a sneaking suspicion it's going to be pretty spectacular.

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Up Next: Saddle of Rabbit in Applewood-Smoked Bacon with Caramelized Fennel and Fennel Oil

Read my Previous Post: Pan-Roasted Striped Bass with Artichoke Ravioli and Barigoule Vinaigrette

Pan-Roasted Striped Bass with Artichoke Ravioli and Barigoule Vinaigrette

If you've been paying attention to the "What Else Did I Eat This Week" section to the right, you can see I'm on a little vacay in Southern California. Every year at this time, I journey west in search of an era when.... oh hell. I can't even pretend to have a meaningful reason. The truth of the matter is, every year, I leave DC for a week in April because the pollen is so bad I can't breathe, and I need to be in a climate that doesn't give me an asthma attack (yes, smog is easier to breathe than tree pollen), and that happens to be the greater Los Angeles area.

Why LA, you may ask (it's a love-it or hate-it kind of town, I know)? Well, it's kind of become a tradition of sorts. I have friends here I miss and want to see. There's a cookbook store I love. There's a café serving what I believe might be the best coffee ever. There's great shopping, and even better people watching. I can see three movies in one day and not feel guilty about it. I can also spend a few days in near-solitude at my favorite hotel near the ocean -- laying in an insanely comfy bed for a long afternoon nap, taking long walks, reading good books, sleeping with the windows open so I can hear the ocean, sitting on the beach watching surfers, and just generally clearing my head. I look forward to this little jaunt every year, and I'm always a little sad when it winds to a close.

The one thing that's always a little hard to get used to at first is not having a kitchen for a week. Don't get me wrong: I love getting away from home and work, but it's weird not being able to cook. I'm always up for dining out, but sometimes -- even on vacation -- I just want a stove, a frying pan, some eggs and some vegetables. I want to buy all the things I see at the farmers' markets and figure out how to make something out of them. And, I just want to have a knife in my hand, chopping things... because, believe it or not, that's the one thing that relaxes me more than anything else. The sound of the knife hitting the board. The feel of the side of the blade against my knuckles. The uniform pieces of whatever it is I'm cutting all lined up and ready for duty. My mom likes to bake chocolate chip cookies in times of stress. I like to chop things. It's what I do when I'm stuck on an issue with a client, or need to figure out an answer to a pretty big problem -- I cut stuff up. I'm not saying I'm stressed here on vacation. Not even close. I just miss my kitchen.

Even though I'm on my wee vacation, I don't want to leave you hanging here in French Laundry at Home Land. I made this dish just before I left, and wrote the post in my head as I cooked (as I'm wont to do), then plunked it all out on the plane on the way here, inserted the photos tonight, and here we are. I wasn't a huge fan of the last artichoke dish (which inspired my friend, Catherine, to defend artichokes' honor in her blog), but I will say that this one was a huge improvement. Of course, I'm a big fan of ravioli and rockfish (striped bass' other name, and also? The state fish of Maryland -- wooo-hooo!!!!!), but I wasn't so sure about the artichoke angle. I was happy to be persuaded otherwise.

Remember the artichokes? Remember how they went from this...

... to this?

In this dish, I used the remaining three artichokes from the artichokes barigoule.

I chopped the three artichokes, mixed them with some salt, pepper, and a little bit of olive oil and set it aside.

I also strained the artichoke barigoule braising liquid and set it aside.

You'll see photos in a minute that show the layer of ooginess that formed on top of the strained braising liquid, and how deftly I removed it, because I'm suave like that.

I'd already made the pasta dough (which you can see an earlier demo of here *snerk*), and just had to run it through the pasta machine to make some long sheets.

Let me take a moment right now not to bitch about how my kitchen floor is soooooo hideously 1983, but instead to say that if you only do one thing out of The French Laundry Cookbook, make the pasta dough. I've tried, no kidding, 10-15 different fresh pasta instructions -- everything from Craig Claiborne to Mario Batali and everyone in between -- and none is as good as this one. The cynic in me, the side of my personality that is judgey, critical and bitchy, cannot find one mean thing to say about this pasta dough. My kitchen floor? HEINOUS. This pasta dough? I think I might love it more than I love Mike Bloomberg. There. I said it.

Aaaaaaanyway, I made the pasta dough, cursed the inventor of linoleum, and rolled the dough into two sort-of-equal-sized sheets. I lightly brushed the surface of each with egg wash, then put little mounds of artichoke filling along the dough, leaving enough room between each pile so as to eventually put the other pasta sheet on top, seal it all shut, then cut the ravioli shapes. Like so:

I stored these suckers in the refrigerator until I was ready to complete the dish.

The next thing I had to prepare was the assortment of vegetables that would be used as a garnish. This time, it was just a set of carrot batons and the red and white pearl onions. I put the carrots in a small saucepan, covered them with lightly salted cold water, brought that water to a boil, and cooked them for about 3 minutes. I then drained them and chilled them in an ice bath, and patted them dry (but did not burp them) afterward:

I also made red and white pearl onions again. I put the red and the white into separate saucepans and covered them with cold water. I added a little bit of sugar and butter, and brought the water to a boil. I then reduced it to a rambunctious simmer and let them cook for about 15-20 minutes, until the liquid had evaporated and the onions had a nice glaze to them.


You'll see the glazed onions in the final plating shot.

The next step in this dish was making the barigoule vinaigrette. Remember when I wrote earlier in this post that I strained the artichokes' braising liquid and let a layer of fat rise to the top? Well, I did. I wasn't lying. See?


I got out my trusty skimmer and got all that fat right off the top and ended up with a bowl of liquid that had no fat. I know. Not really an earth-shattering, David Copperfield hocus-pocus-fest, but you know... that's life, kids.


If you'll recall from my earlier math wizardy, I split one recipe of artichokes between the last artichoke dish and this one, since I was low on tasters and high on artichoke hateration. So, I only needed half of this liquid -- 2 - 3 cups to make this work.

I put some chopped shallots, garlic and white wine into a saucepan:

I brought it to a boil, then let it simmer and reduce until the liquid was nearly gone. I added the 2 - 3 cups of barigoule liquid and cooked it for about 40 minutes, until it had reduced to a little under a cup of liquid was remaining.

I strained this liquid into another small saucepan and got rid of the garlic and shallots.

I then heated and reduced this liquid until it was darker and more syrupy, then poured it into my blender:

I turned on the motor and slowly drizzled in some olive oil. I tasted as I went to make sure it was the right balance of oil and acid. I also added a smidge of salt, and an even smaller smidge (smidgelette?) of pepper. I set the vinaigrette aside until it was time to plate.


The only thing left to do was prep the fish, which I'd cook at the same time the ravioli was happily cooking away. I say happily cooking away because deep inside the twisted confines of my mind, I was hoping against hope that they wouldn't fall apart in the water, leaving a crapped-up, artichokey disaster on my hands.

Back to the fish. The lovely, gorgeous, striped bass -- a.k.a. rockfish -- which I got from the ever-hilarious and quite handsome fishmonger at BlackSalt.

I cut the fish into smaller three-ounce servings, seasoned each side with salt and pepper, and cooked it (skin side-down first) in a little bit of canola oil. While this was going on, I dropped the ravioli into some boiling, salted water and let them cook for about 4 minutes.

I also warmed up some of the reserved chopped artichoke (from before I made the ravioli filling out of it), carrots, and pearl onions, and added some tomato diamonds, parsley, and butter in a small saucepan. I seasoned it with salt and pepper, and got ready to plate.

If you're following along with The French Laundry Cookbook, you'll notice there's also mention of using basil oil in this dish. I opted not to make it because the basil I got at Whole Foods ended up being limp and awful in the two days it took to getting around to using it in this dish.

To plate, I spooned a circle of barigoule vinaigrette onto each plate, topped it with a ravioli, then added the fish and the vegetables. I topped the dish with a small sprig of chervil (one of my favorite herbs):


Whaddya think? It looks pretty well-composed, doesn't it? Not bragging here, but this was a really gorgeous dish in person. It smelled great, and tasted divine. I love rockfish, so I'm happy to eat it whenever I can. I gotta admit -- that ravioli was pretty freakin' awesome, too. The pasta was the perfect texture, the filling was light in heft, but strong in flavor, and the vegetables were really, really nice. There were only three of us dining that night, and we all liked it.

Was it a Thomas Keller PlateLicker™ or FaceKisser™? No, it was not. Not even close. But it didn't suck. And that's about the highest praise yer gonna get outta me when it comes to the artichoke.

Up Next: Saddle of Rabbit in Applewood-Smoked Bacon with Caramelized Fennel and Fennel Oil

Resources:
Striped bass from BlackSalt
Produce from Whole Foods
Eggs from Smith Meadows Farm
King Arthur flour
Benissimo sherry vinegar
Antica Italia olive oil

Music to Cook By: Rick Astley; Whenever You Need Somebody. Damn you, YouTube. Damn. You. All that RickRolling on April 1st song-poisoned me, so I had to listen to Rick as I cooked. And, yes. I have more than one Rick Astley album on my iTunes. What? Like you don't.

Read my previous post: Salad of Globe Artichokes with Garden Herbs and Gazpacho

Salad of Globe Artichokes with Garden Herbs and Gazpacho

Well, well, well.... yesterday was fun, wasn't it? You guys were such good sports about it that I decided I'd better get a real, honest-to-craptastic food post up here lickety-split. Well, this dish really wasn't craptastic. It was sort of, um, boring. I blame myself and my utter non-sewingos..... I mean, non-caringness for artichokes. But let's not put the cart before the horse, as they say. Shall we begin? Let's shall.

It all started with me checking my trusty planning system (some nerdly spreadsheets and food-stained legal pads full of notes) and realizing that there are two dishes that use the Artichokes Barigoule, so I figured I'd better do them back-to-back and make all those dang artichokes at once. However, I also realized that my tasting crew would be cut in half due to various spring break and other travel-related absences. Thus, with my nationally recognized math prowess, I calculated that I could make one batch of Artichokes Barigoule and split them between the two dishes.... as long as I remembered to halve the ingredients of both dishes to accommodate this change. I took a Post-It note and wrote "HALF!!!" on it and plonked it on both pages of the book to remind me. My head hurts just remembering all this. Yipes.

I must confess that even though I think artichokes are lovely (and I don't hate them like I hate cilantro or soft-shell crabs) I have to say that I'm not really a big fan of the 'choke. I don't like them when they're roasted. I don't really enjoy artichoke hearts. I don't even like them with with spinach, cream and cheese in some sort of "dip"-type fashion. I do not plan to start an artichoke fan club. I will not chant "Artichokes '08!" at any political rallies. I guess I just haven't ever had a dish in which they were done really well, or that I thought to myself after eating them, "man, I gotta have me some more of them there artichokes!" So me and artichokes? Not really sittin' in a tree, if you will. Eating them, for me, tastes like what I can only imagine licking a metal sliding board must taste like.

But, I thought, if anything can get me to like artichokes, surely it will be a dish from The French Laundry Cookbook. So, when I saw fresh artichokes at the market, I knew it was time to stop procrastinating on this dish and just get it done. It's all about trying new things, right? The first step was making a batch of Artichokes Barigoule (translation: stewed artichokes) which I'd split between this dish and the Pan-Roasted Striped Bass with Artichoke Ravioli and Barigoule Vinaigrette (which I'll post about in a few days).

Here we go:

Pretty, huh?

Now, I know how to peel an artichoke, but I checked the book to make sure there wasn't a special way I needed to do it. I read and re-read the instructions and realized that if the artichokes were fresh, as these were, that the leaves woud tear off right where they needed to, and we'd be good. Thankfully, I was right.

So, I peeled the suckers right down to the softer, yellowy leaves, and then cut off the stems, peeled the base, and cut 2/3 off the top, so that all I was left with was the heart. I also scraped the hell out of the insides to get all that fuzzy shit out. That took longer than I thought it would because these guys were more fuzzy than I ever recall an artichoke being.

(Dudes, that's the mess from just ONE artichoke.
Multiply that by six and then tell me how pretty I am.)

As each of the artichokes were prepped, I squeezed each with a little fresh lemon juice. When all six were done, I submerged them in a pot of water, wine, vegetable stock, and olive oil. Then, in a separate pot, I heated some more olive oil, then progressively cooked some carrots , fennel, onions, shallots and garlic.

I removed the artichokes from the liquid they'd been sitting in and plopped them (stem side up) over the vegetables. I sprinkled them with a little kosher salt, covered the pot, and let them cook on medium heat for about 10-12 minutes. After that, I poured the liquid from pot #1 onto them, and added a bouquet garni (parsley, thyme and bay leaves all tied up in some leek leaves) and simmered them for 25 minutes.

After they'd cooked, I removed the bouquet garni and transfered the artichokes and their liquid to a separate pot so everything could cool to room temperature. When they had sufficiently cooled, I removed three of them to complete the salad:

While the artichokes were cooling, I prepped the rest of the salad ingredients. I'll spare you every single play-by-play because it was laborious, and you guys are smart, funny, and attractive enough to know how to do most of these things -- so below is a photo of the salad ingredients' mise en place, as it were:
Clockwise from the top: blanched haricots verts (the store was out of wax beans, so I subbed in more haricots verts) and carrot batons; glazed red pearl onions; glazed white pearl onions; balsamic glaze; artichokes barigoule, sliced; eggplant caviar; herb salad (parsley, chervil, chive tips, tarragon with a wee bit of olive oil); and, roasted and diced red and yellow bell peppers there in the center.

I assembled the salad the best way I could and sprinkled it with grey salt as a finishing touch. You'll notice in the title of this dish, there is mention of Gazpacho. In the recipe, it is listed as optional, so I decided not to make it. In the past year, I've developed an allergy to peppers (it sucks on soooooo many levels), and I knew I was tempting fate enough to eat the tiny bits of roasted pepper in this dish -- I didn't want to overdo it and end up in anaphylactic shock.

Here's the final plating:

It's pretty, isn't it? Honestly, it wasn't bad at all. The flavors were fresh and clean, and I didn't hate it. Still, it didn't win me over to the pro-artichoke side, like the "Oysters and Pearls" dish at Per Se turned me into an oyster lover. I actually loved this dish more for the eggplant caviar than anything else. I forgot how much I love that stuff -- and I was thrilled to have a little bit left over so I could spread it on my toast the next morning. But the artichokes? Blech. Still not loving them.

If you're an artichoke lovah, you'll probably like this dish, because they taste okay with this preparation. My tasters liked it, but again, it wasn't something that any of us were bouncing all over the dining room like Daffy Duck woo-hoo-woo-hoo-ing about.

Up Next: Pan-Roasted Striped Bass with Artichoke Ravioli and Barigoule Vinaigrette

Resources:
Produce from Whole Foods
Bogle chardonnay
Benissimo balsamic vinegar
Antica Italia olive oil

Music to Cook By: Holly Williams; The Ones We Never Knew. My friend, Claudia, turned me on to Holly (whose has quite the family lineage) a few months ago during a long, wine-fueled phone conversation in which we traded music back and forth online, and she sent me a few of Holly's tunes, after which I went to iTunes and downloaded some of her stuff. This album is raw and good and it's something I'd like to listen to with the lights low, a glass of scotch in hand, and no other distractions to take away from her lyrics and gorgeous, honest vocals. In fact, a few times I found myself stopping what I was doing in the kitchen and just listening to her sing. She's kind of a singer-songwriter/Nashville version of Lizz Wright.

Read my previous post: Roasted Guinea Fowl en Crèpinette de Byaldi with Pan Jus

French Laundry at Home Forced to Close: Final Post

It is with a heavy heart and sad regret that I write this, my final post, today. Unfortunately, even though I have not yet completed this project, I have to shut down this site because of a cease-and-desist notice I received, which I've pasted below with the sender's permission:


Sophia Petrillo, Attorney At Law
Petrillo, Nylund, Devereaux, Zbornak, LLP
6151 Richmond Street
San Francisco, CA 94102

To the attention of Carol Blymire:

On behalf of our client and in the matter of French Laundry at Home (carolcookskeller.blogspot.com and frenchlaundryathome.com), we duly request that you halt production and publication of above-mentioned web site(s), pursuant to the precedent set forth in case #S82-34983734. We issue this notice in response to the following items of content discussed forthwith:

Article 1) On February 4, 2008, you posted objectionable content that included a hypothetical dictation from Mr. Keller to acclaimed author Mr. Michael Ruhlman, regarding sweetbreads, that read: "If you are an unskilled non-sewing loser named Carol Blymire who is the shame of her family and also her Amish homeland because of her non-sewingosity, then I guess you can take the easy way out, because clearly, Carol Blymire, you should not ever be around needles, even really dull larding needles, because we really don't need your fingers bleeding into this dish, Carol Blymire, or having it look even more hacked up than it probably eventually will because we know you, Carol Blymire, oh yes, we know how you roll." We object to this particular statement because Mr. Keller does not use, nor would he ever use, the word "non-sewingosity."

Article 2) Mr. Keller in no way elects to be associated with crustaceans (or mollusks) named after or in the likeness of any entertainment industry figure, Canadian or otherwise (May 14, 2007).

Article 3) On behalf of our client's relationship with California's Regional Apple Producers, we wish to object to your entire entry dated May 1, 2007 on the grounds that your content reflects defamatory practices, notably, cruel and unusual punishment to said produce mentioned herein.

Article 4) Our final complaint, and the issue that originated this complaint on behalf of our client, was your April 14, 2007 recommendation of REO Speedwagon as "Music To Cook By." We stand by our client's assertion that this was, and remains, an unfortunate, misguided choice.

We appreciate your cooperation with this matter, and look forward to its swift resolution. Should you wish to challenge or respond to this request, I may be reached at (719)567-6742.

Sincerely,
Sophia Petrillo, Esq.

cc: Michael Bloomberg




For a trip down memory lane, please click here.