Search Results

Another DavidF. Remembrance We humans all live and die... beginning and ending approximately the same way... ashes to ashes. But along our very different paths from birth to mortal terminus, some approach their inevitable Point B with more interesting tales than others... tales that might well leave the rest of us happier for our own experiences, yet way richer for hearing them. On that note, here is another pithy piece from our poet friend DavidF.-- ANGEL DUST was the hip new drug in 1978. Well, maybe not for the haute couture set, who had their Fancy Dan “freebase”, but for us, the lumpen proles. I remember we (me & my roommates Doug & Brian) were at a party at Greg Ross’ place, overlooking the 405 freeway at Sepulveda and everything was always coated in black soot. If Charles Manson had a goofy, possibly less-murderous little brother, that could have been Greg. Doug had met him in jail a couple months back, when he got busted for drinking and being mouthy on Venice Boardwalk. (This is how we ‘social networked’ in our day.) Greg became our go-to dealer for acid, but the last shipment never came in, and Greg owed us front money. In lieu of the missing LSD, Greg offered to give equivalent value in the new Wonder High, Angel Dust. We figured we’d better take him up on his offer, it was probably our only hope of reimbursement. Taking us in the back bedroom, he laid out lines of a vile-looking brown powder (although not as vile as smoking it, I discovered, unless one has an acquired taste for dust-bunnies dipped in hot asphalt.) I made a point of snorting the lion’s share, as most of the money-owed was mine. After that, I remember two things. One is sitting in the corner, deprived of the power of speech, yet smiling like an idiot, looking around at the mix of bikers, burnt-out hippies, teen-age runaways & drunks an realizing if  someone grabbed a ball peen hammer and started beating me about the temples, I’d still be wearing this shit-eating grin as my brains oozed out over the carbon dust-covered floorboards. “This is ‘total derangement of the senses’?” I wondered. The other is standing alone in the kitchen, because I apparently got the munchies, but the only foodstuff was a jar of peanut butter which I was eating with a fork when Brian walked in, went “Well. Ok!” and walked right out. The rest of the night I only know second-hand: blacking-out, foaming at the mouth, comatose, to the point that our friend, who was nicknamed “The Walking Scab with Boots” (not to his face however— he worked at a chemical plant and was usually covered with ulcerous lesions) felt impelled to give me mouth-to-mouth (which made me a tad disgusted when I found out later, but, to be fair, he probably wasn’t too thrilled about the whole thing either) before depositing my prone form in the back of his pickup and carrying it back to our apartment in the neighborhood east of Venice known as “Little Tijuana.” So, anyhow, there I lay on my ratty sofa bed in the front room/kitchenette area of our squalid, motel-style complex (Brian had the other sofa bed, Doug, being the elder, got the bedroom--$240 a month, which broke down to 80 bucks each), my roomies’ drug-addled brains no doubt vaguely worried by the thought that I might up and croak on them, when finally in the pre-dawn hour I found voice and moaned “Where am I?” “Home,” replied Doug. “HHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMEEE?!” I cried out, in such a long drawn-out syllable of relief & joy given our sordid circumstances that Doug and Brian burst out in laughter that was some time dissipating. In fact, my little verbal ejaculation became something of a private catch-phrase for a bit, a joke both mocking and acknowledging a deep existential longing for us & our ilk— strangers, hundred or thousands of miles from our points of origin, randomly thrown together, united in our burning desire to wander the streets of the City of Dreams. I believe it took the better part of a month for my brain to feel normal after this adventure. Also, in case there is some perceived ambivalence, these are what are fondly recalled as ‘the good times’— We were 19, 20, & 21. --David F. (Shamelessly lifted by DannyM. without anyone's freaking permission from some site called FIVE WILLOWS LITERARY REVIEW. Sue me.)

NFL Quarterback Roman Gabriel (1940-2024) HERE is Roman Gabriel's NYT obituary. I entered 6th grade at the age of eleven, weighing 65 pounds and yet absolutely obsessed with somehow, someday playing organized football. In 1970 I wasn't anyone's idea of an athlete and way too light for Pop Warner League youth football, but I was already practicing for the day when I could finally be able to play. And although my path to the playing field would only be as a punter and kicker-- skills that even a non-athlete could hone through sheer force of will and endless practice-- my hero, my beacon, the force that beckoned me onward and upward-- was an NFL quarterback... Roman Gabriel of the Los Angeles Rams. I was never sure why Roman Gabriel captured my fancy when I was so young... maybe it was his professional wrestler-like name, or that he was such a noticeable presence on the NFL gridiron... who knows? I watched him every single autumn Sunday, living and dying on his wins and losses. His passing is very sad for me, because he changed the course of my life. Playing football-- even as a self-taught kicker and punter-- provided me the with one thing that made me feel good about myself as a teenager. I eventually became proficient enough to be a walk-on starter on an actual college football team, which gave me an immediate identity on campus-- I had teammates, a built-in social life, and entree into a fraternity. Although my preoccupation with all of that stuff in lieu of academics forestalled my entrance into what we think of as adulthood, in my particular circumstances it served me rather well. And so, from the bottom of my sad heart, I thank you, Mr. Roman Gabriel, for giving me so much and making such a difference in my life.

Roasting a FROZEN Prime Rib? At 170ºF?? Amazing, yet True. Perfect Prime Rib, by a highly unusual method. NOTE: After ranting about the high price of beef, here I am preparing another Prime Rib roast. In all fairness, I already had the roast in my freezer... and I had purchased it at a great price a while back. Let's say your spouse takes a work-related call at 9:00PM. Sounds important. You are flabbergasted to hear two couples get invited over for dinner the following night. After all, you barely have time to shop, much less cook. And all you have on hand, actually, is a frozen-ass Prime Rib roast. Believe it or not, you've totally got this. Rather than copping out and using Uber Eats, this can be your time to shine... to pull off what might seem to others a culinary miracle. ≈  ≈  ≈  ≈  ≈  ≈  ≈  ≈  ≈  ≈  ≈ Our regular readership knows that we've made Prime Rib cookery one of our main points of emphasis here at Danny's Table... and that every now and then we come up with another angle, a new twist, and/or a clever hack. This one is way outside the box. Advances in the Science of Cookery entail two distinct processes-- hypothetical conjecture, and then trial & error. As I was ferrying my 120'-long 34-wheeler into Boston one night last week, my eyes diligently monitored the highway while a small compartment of my brain reviewed my universe for anomalies, opportunities, and, perhaps most importantly, "what-ifs," which lead directly to the afore-referenced hypothetical conjecturing. You see, after having power-learned everything I could about cooking Leg of Lamb (see "MUSINGS ON EASTER DINNER") my follow-up thoughts quite naturally wandered to the extreme "Low & Slow" roasting method I had written about... and whether it might work for Prime Rib as it did so nicely for the lamb roast. So, like an actual scientist, I went ahead and experimented. We'll jump right to the recipe and skip the blow-by-blow and its underlying reasoning, except for a single key point, one I gleaned from the Leg of Lamb experimentation-- As long as one keeps the roasting temperature well below water's boiling point of 212ºF, there is no danger of screwing up the meat by unintentionally steaming it. SO-- At 6:00AM I took the Prime Rib (Prime-grade Grass-Fed from Holy Grail Steak Co.) from the freezer, wrapped it with heavy-duty foil, and put it in my oven at 170ºF, right on the oven rack with a half sheet-pan below it to catch any drips. After six hours it was thawed enough to salt. (It wouldn't have stuck to the frozen surface.) After re-wrapping I inserted my digital roasting thermometer and returned the roast to the oven. And then I worked on multiple projects on the phone and around the house while the temperature slowly inched upward. When the internal temperature hit 120ºF, I already had my convection section blasting away at 475ºF. I unwrapped the roast and put it on a rack, checking periodically as the convection gave it a sizzling, crispy exterior. Our Prime Rib was ready to serve at 5:30PM. ADVANTAGES OF THIS METHOD: You can prepare a fabulous Prime Rib on relatively short notice. You can accomplish a lot of other tasks while it roasts. No need to let the roast "rest" before slicing. It is as foolproof as a recipe can be. DISADVANTAGES OF THIS METHOD: It ties up the oven all day at a temperature too low for other cookery. It doesn't produce drippings, so you'll need a Plan B for making gravy. You have to "aim" 11 hours ahead to hit 120ºF just in time for dinner. Not everyone has a convection option in their oven. These disadvantages didn't affect me. We have a range with two oven compartments-- regular oven upstairs, and a convection option below. (See "PRODUCT REVIEW-- Our New Oven.") And I was fine without any pan drippings thanks to the huge batch of FAUX JUS I made last autumn. An having done this once, I know to give myself a one-hour cushion in the cooking time. If my next roast reaches 120ºF too soon, I'll just turn the oven off, leave the roast wrapped and resting inside, and then give it the convection blast just prior to service. Oh, and absent a convection oven, cranking up your regular oven to 500ºF will work nicely. For my next Prime Rib roast I'll try something a little different-- thawing it first, giving it my usual pre-salting and a few hours with a fan to form the crust, and then roasting at 170ºF to 120ºF. I look forward to reporting the results.

Not long after Californian winemakers mastered Chardonnay, they seemed to have lost their way. MEIOMI has rediscovered it. MEIOMI Chardonnay... mass-produced, yet delicious. When they first met, Chardonnay and California seemed absolutely made for each other. Beneath the Golden State's reliably warm sunshine, the transplanted queen of Burgundy achieved hedonistic ripeness that was deliciously mitigated by the zingy acidity fostered in the cool coastal fog... almost like a voluptuous blonde surfer girl separated from full nudity only by a scant and overworked bikini, a dynamic tension that reliably satisfied with immediate sensual satisfaction along with suggestions of charms unseen. Maybe it was too easy... just like filmmakers and architects and chefs who reflexively eschew that which seems obvious and sooo yesterday, maybe the incoming generation of young Californian winemakers felt the need to make their marks on Golden State œnology by forsaking Chardonnay's tried-and-true, oak-and-butter formula and instead explored new and uncharted territory. Generally speaking it didn't work, and more often than not it left us consumers with unfamiliar-tasting wine that didn't seem to know what it wanted to be. Some Californian Chardonnays were syrupy, over-top, more-is-more wines, while others were un-oaked and so crisply thin and dry as to confound varietal recognition. And then about twenty years ago, like an obscure Kentucky Derby entry streaking from the rear to catch the odds-on favorite in the final furlongs, along came Sauvignon Blanc in full gallop-- a white wine so sharply and distinctly aromatic that it couldn't possibly lose its identity even if it tried. (See THE ROYAL SISTERHOOD for a comparative analysis of premium white wine varieties.) And, of course, along also came Pinot Grigio... a simple, dry sipper whose enormous popularity many of us wine mavens were at a loss to explain, except for the fact that it wasn't Chardonnay. (This is about the time when we in the wine industry started hearing about the "ABC Club"-- "Anything But Chardonnay!") By the turn of the millennium, Chardonnay was no longer the undisputed queen of white wines on America's dining tables and patios. And in the intervening two decades, its Californian versions made little or no progress toward reclaiming its previous primacy with a unified message. But now we have MEIOMI ("may-OH-me") Chardonnay, here to replicate and reclaim California Chardonnay's glorious past. Bravo, I say! ≈  ≈  ≈  ≈  ≈  ≈  ≈  ≈  ≈  ≈  ≈ MEIOMI WINES was established by the fifth generation of the Wagner family, the folks responsible for the legendary CAYMUS Cabernet Sauvignon. (I used to pop Caymus Cab corks by the nightly case or more as the wine steward in a fancy Boston steakhouse.) Meiomi's initial focus was Pinot Noir, that notorious brat of a grape with a long history of melting hearts with its greatest successes, only to then cruelly crush them with its subsequent and all-too-frequent failures. (See THE ROYAL BROTHERS.) Beginning in 2006, MEIOMI steadily developed what would eventually become a 700,000 case per year Pinot Noir program... a huge volume for any wine, a market juggernaut for one selling for $17-20, and, most amazingly, a theretofore utterly unthinkable volume for consistently delicious Pinot Noir, the variety that had regularly vexed even the most talented Californian winemakers for well over half a century. As its popularity grew, MEIOMI inevitably became the Pinot Noir that critics loved to hate, the wine that sommeliers resentfully poured with fake smiles and gritted teeth. After all, the romantic notion of hard-to-get, "small quantity, hand-crafted, estate-bottled, organic" wine always plays well, while rumors circulated about how MEOMI Pinot Noir was somehow "reverse-engineered" to make it more appealing to less-knowledgeable palates. (What a concept-- intentionally making wine that tastes good. I dunno... maybe more wineries should consider such heresy.) I never, ever bought into this sort of snobbery-- to me, everything a wine IS can be found right in the glass before me... and if it tastes good, I don't give a flying crap whether the wine was made in a rustic barn, or a sprawling factory... whether the grapes were crushed mechanically, or stomped barefoot... or whether they were grown in a Napa billionaire's greenhouse, or in the end zone of MetLife Stadium. MEIOMI's smashing success understandably led to its sale (for $315 million!) to the gigantic wine industry conglomerate CONSTELLATION BRANDS. There was a time when the acquisition of a quality-oriented winery by a large corporation often spelled its doom. CONSTELLATION, however, was literally born in the wine business, and they darn well knew how to manage and grow wine brands. Their acquisition of MEOMI dovetailed perfectly with their recent practice of shedding high-volume, bargain-priced wines in favor of a more upscale portfolio. And after purchasing MEIOMI, CONSTELLATION quite naturally sought to expand the brand known for affordable, high-quality wine that was consistently excellent from year to year. So along came MEOMI Rosé, Cabernet Sauvignon, Red Blend (reportedly equal parts Cabernet Sauvignon, Zinfandel, Merlot, & Syrah)... and, most notably for our purposes here, Chardonnay. Wines made from Chardonnay can be challenging for wine geeks to describe because versions from all over the world can taste so different. In the northernmost reaches of France's Burgundy region, for instance, Chardonnay-based Chablis had long tended to be sharply acidic, austere, and mineral-driven, while Australian examples are quite the opposite, commonly described as fruit bombs... or, disparagingly, as "banana juice." Before Californian Chardonnay lost its way, the best versions thereof sat fetchingly balanced between those two extremes-- many were excellent, and some were even good enough to embarrassingly fool the French judges at the infamous 1976 "Judgement of Paris" tasting. Describing MEOMI Chardonnay on a scale that includes "good" or "excellent" doesn't do it justice; I choose to explain it as tasting uncannily like the decent Californian Chardonnays of yore-- bearing the unmistakable perfume of French oak, with a nose quite similar to their Burgundian sisters; oh-so slightly sweet, but not overtly so; light-to-medium in mouth weight, and therefore a perfectly good companion to seafood. Napa Valley's Chateau Montelena Winery produced the 1973 Californian Chardonnay that beat the best of France in that 1976 tasting; their current vintage (2021) sells for $75/bottle on the wine.com site. Want the very best? A bottle of Kongsgaard 2021 "The Judge" Chardonnay-- if you can even find one for sale-- will set you back $800. Or, for $18-20/per bottle, you can enjoy a bottle of MEOMI Chardonnay. NOTES: My bride Andrea occasionally presents me with a "stumper," a wine for me to taste blind and then attempt to identify. She recently brought out a MEOMI Chardonnay, and it took me directly back four decades, when right out of college I was managing a French restaurant for a mobster who regularly had me taste his $200 French white Burgundies.

I love a great steak... And like many steak lovers, I'm now looking for less-expensive alternatives. As beef prices rise, don't blame the ranchers... they are also paying more for everything. In case you haven't noticed, everything is getting more expensive lately... and beef is getting WAY more expensive. It surely won't be long, I figure, before beef lovers rise up and start looking elsewhere for their soul-satsifying wallops of deliciously-charred animal protein and saturated fat. Fortunately, they needn't look far. Tomahawk Steak, the epitome of overpriced ridiculousness... $90 a pop for prime, $150 for Wagyu. Rather pricey, considering that half of it (by weight) is the cool-looking but inedible bone. But never mind the Tomahawk Steak-- how about $30 a pound for a decent (choice-grade Angus) supermarket steak? Or $99 for a top-grade (boneless prime) ribeye? NO WAY, or so I and many others are increasingly saying. This leaves us beef lovers with two choices-- eat lesser cuts of beef, or find acceptable alternatives to beef. Lesser cuts of beef-- e.g., chuck and short ribs-- are certainly flavorful... more so, even, than steaks. However, they are considered "lesser" and priced accordingly because they come from muscles toughened by regular exercise and therefore don't grill nicely into juicy, tender mouthfuls. The long and slow braising required to tenderize such cuts certainly results in mouth-wateringly delicious beefiness, as with a classic red wine pot roast. However, the braising process obviates (or maybe obliterates) two of the most important guilty pleasures of a great steak: the FAT and the SCORCH... two unhealthy things that we carnivores are hard-wired to crave. We're all gonna die, whether we've lived on steak or tofu. I choose to live accordingly. Can the luscious flavor of great steak like this be exactly replicated? Hell no. But there IS a viable substitute for one helluva lot less money-- the pork chop... so long as you find the RIGHT pork chop and do it culinary justice. THE RIGHT PORK CHOP Aside from "shoulder chops," pork chops generally are cross-cuts of the loin and may or may not include a bone. If you want to get as close as possible to a steak-like experience with a pork chop, look for a bone-in center cut pork chop, like this-- The pork equivalent of a Porterhouse steak. The dark region on the left is the tenderloin, while the large section on the right is the loin. For the record, a Porterhouse is a type of T-bone with a large section of tenderloin. Now that we know the right cut, let's pick the right pig. You can easily spend beef-like money on porterhouse chops from one or another of pork's heritage breeds-- Kurobuta/Berkshire, Duroc, Iberico, and Mangalitsa. (See "THE YEAR OF THE PIG" for more info.) SNAKE RIVER FARMS, one of our Partners & Favorites, offers a Kurobuta Porterhouse for $21, sold in packages of six. However, they weigh in at only 9 ounces each... way too small for most of us, as we look for a minimum size of 16 ounces. Likewise, the online gourmet purveyor D'ARTAGNAN offers 6-packs of only slightly smallish (14 oz.) Kurobuta Porterhouse Steaks for the nominally attractive price of $90; however, their shipping costs ($45.95 for such an order) run way higher than the industry average. Since we're looking for low-cost alternatives to beef, it might be best to just seek out the tastiest and best-farmed versions of the common White Yorkshire, which, when well-fed and responsibly-raised, can be perfectly delicious. The best of the lot might be from  PORTER ROAD, another one of of our Partners & Favorites. They offer top-quality, pasture-raised White Yorkshire porterhouse for just $15 per serving. (Click HERE.) Supermarket pork porterhouse of decent quality, meanwhile, can be had for as little as $5 a serving, which beats the crap out of a $150 Tomahawk no matter how great the latter's flavor. COOKING METHODS Every technique that puts a nice, delicious scorch on a beef porterhouse works equally well for its porcine equivalent-- grilling, iron-pan-searing, and broiling. HOWEVER-- unlike beef, pork benefits from a little help from a marinade, and for two reasons: As compared to beef, pork has a less powerful intrinsic flavor (one often hears of "beefy" taste, but never "porky" taste) making pork something of a blank slate for a wide variety of added flavors ranging from apricot to Asian, from mild to spicy. And reason number two-- perhaps more importantly, most marinades contain sugar (please avoid other sweeteners) and the sugar contributes mightily to the scorch we crave. There are hundreds of online recipes for pork chop marinades, and perhaps as many selections on the retail shelves. Here is a very simple version-- A Dab of Dijon Mustard A Tablespoon of Chopped Garlic A Splash of Soy Sauce (or Worcestershire, or Fish Sauce) A Dab of REAL Ketchup (like THIS fabulous homemade version) Brown Sugar and just enough Salt to balance the sweetness. Mix ingredients together and judiciously tweak until it tastes great as well as nicely balanced. Smear on both sides of the pork chops, then refrigerate overnight. Wipe off excess before cooking. Grill, sear, or broil to your heart's content. Pour yourself a bold red... ..and then, as you enjoy the scorched and fatty and savory wonderfulness, think of all the money you're saving by not having steak. It's like getting paid to live well.

CHANNELING ONE'S INNER PIRATE IN PURSUIT OF AN UNLIKELY REAL ESTATE DEAL. The pirate captain spots an opportunity, throws the rule book overboard, and then undertakes a months-long, Ahab-like chase. My reaching the age of 65 this past November was, of course, a significant milestone... and, according to my college buddies, not all that short of a miracle. Among other things, I suddenly became eligible to "move some money around," i.e., withdraw money from my rather modest work IRA without penalty and invest it elsewhere... somewhere other than the stock market, as methinks it on increasingly shaky ground. And for me, that "somewhere other" would be land-- land ideally within an hour of our home; land measured in dozens of acres, not square feet... lush, verdant land, with lots of wild plants and trees... good trees like maple, oak, hickory, and evergreens... land teeming with wildlife like squirrels, partridge, rabbits... and especially DEER. I got hooked on deer hunting as a youngster (see GOOD SWEATER HUNTING) and simultaneously developed a high comfort level with outdoor spaces well wooded and far from the nearest road. Indeed, the depths of the forest-- most any forest-- has long been my favorite place in the whole world. And so I started scouring the Internet for forested hunting land I could afford. And while searching, I soon discovered two important things: LAND IS ALWAYS VERY EXPENSIVE. (Or almost always, as we'll soon see.) One real estate truism holds that the best time to buy land was thirty years ago, and the second-best time is NOW, because land values (and prices) almost always trend upward. And yet I was working with a finite budget... and if rural land anywhere near a population center in my region is legally and practically considered "build-able," then demand from downstate New York empty-nesters in search of weekend getaway property tends to drive the price into the stratosphere. Another real estate concept-- that of the "best and highest use" of a given property-- puts hunting at or near the very bottom, a sensible use for land only if it isn't good for much else. In short, viable and affordable hunting land within my budget was in very short supply... and the land that was really only good for hunting was often either barely accessible, or perched on a steep slope, or swampy, or just plain scraggly. THE REAL ESTATE BUSINESS IS RIFE WITH FRAUD. If an offering for a parcel of land seems too good to be true, it probably is. While reviewing various listings I found more than a few that were 100% fictitious-- including one for a lot that I personally owned! I began to recognize a pattern in the fraudulent listings as I continued my search, as they were quite naturally concentrated in the low-end price range. And the more I looked, the easier it became to spot them. In early November I found a 5-acre property for sale in Columbia County (right near where I regularly hunted in my youth) for the exceptionally low price of $19,000-- a price that set off my B.S. meter, since that area sits at the northern terminus of the Taconic Parkway and thus has always been in high demand by Big Apple escapees. Using some of the skills I honed long ago as a professional skip-tracer (and, truth be told, as a deer hunter) I bypassed the obviously dishonest listing agent, proceeded to learn everything I could about the property and its owner, and then tracked him down and contacted him directly. No, his land was not for sale, he said; however, now that I mentioned it, he would be willing to sell it to me... for only $7,000! I excitedly drove to the land through the rolling and gorgeous Columbia County hills. Said excitement soon dissipated as I walked the land itself and not only found no signs of animal existence, but also that I could physically sense the property's utter lifelessness-- though heavily wooded with mature hardwoods, there was no nutritious undergrowth atop the rocky soil, no cover that four-legged critters instinctively seek for protection. It was eerily depressing, like a set from some gothic rural horror movie... a feeling I definitely wasn't accustomed to experiencing in the typical forest. Oh, for a mere seven grand I really tried to see the good... it would require a lot of strenuous logging to make it sufficiently attractive to deer, I figured, but at such a low price, maybe I could buy it and then snap up a similarly-priced adjoining parcel or two and create a sprawling estate to eventually sell to some wealthy New Yorker. Based on my observations I made a counter-offer of $5,000, and in exchange for a bottle of exquisite Châteauneuf-du-Pape I enlisted the aid of a family friend/realtor in the area to learn more. She dug deeply and reported back that, due to quirky subdividing when the region's electric power company and the Tennessee Gas Pipeline acquired their easements, this parcel became completely landlocked, as in no legal access, not even for its owner. I promptly withdrew my counter-offer and kept looking. And then, Dear Readers, I stumbled upon what looked like the mother of all fraudulent listings-- 28 acres in the beautiful town of Bristol, less than an hour south of me. Scammer Realty. Sue me for calling you that. Market Value: $132,000 Enchanted Farms Discount Price: $99,500... Savings of 25%!! (Terms and conditions apply. 10% APR in-house financing available only for purchase at full market value. All deposits and/or down payments are absolutely non-refundable.) I've always loved Bristol. When I was quite young, my father used to hunt partridge there and bring me along. Bristol sits smack in the sweet spot of the Finger Lakes region-- right near Canandaigua Lake, multiple wineries, precious little towns like Naples and Hammondsport, and close by the Bristol Mountain Ski Resort. (Location, Location!) Bristol is close enough to population centers with their stores and services and such, yet still ruggedly rural. So this parcel was absolutely perfect... except that this listing was clearly fraudulent, as evidenced by the property's description that read like a poorly-translated Chinese restaurant menu-- "Discover a remarkable 28.1-acre land property nestled in the prestigious Finger Lakes region. With its desirable RURAL RESIDENTIAL zoning, this parcel presents an array of possibilities for the discerning buyer. Embrace the freedom of constructing a stunning single residential dwelling, perfectly tailored to your vision. Located in the esteemed Zone A. Rest assured, electricity is readily available for your convenience just a simple verification away. In order to ensure self-sufficiency, a well and septic system are required, empowering you to personalize your oasis. Agricultural enthusiasts will rejoice in the freedom to cultivate their own farm and raise livestock, truly embracing a harmonious rural existence. The fertile land invites you to nurture your agricultural aspirations and create a thriving haven. Seize this chance to manifest your dreams on this captivating 28.1-acre canvas, where the possibilities are as vast as the land itself." Real or fake, a hundred grand was well out of my budget; however, I am a deeply curious person, especially when something seems so obviously amiss. So I contacted the listing agent. Her company was based in Florida, an especially scammer-friendly state. Her English was rather poor, and yet she had clearly mastered the word "deposit," and she really, really wanted one from me to supposedly secure my purchase. That's the scam, I concluded-- they list land that isn't theirs to list, and then they collect "non-refundable" deposits. Rinse and repeat as often as possible, and keep everyone's money. Brazenly illegal though that is, it would cost those thus victimized more than it was worth to legally recover their funds. Now that I was certain of the scam, I felt an obligation to prevent would-be buyers as well as the landowner(s) from getting screwed. And I also entertained a tiny sliver of hope that doing something rather than nothing might somehow eventually make this land mine. ("You miss 100% of the shots you don't take." --Wayne Gretzky) I found the name of owners in the parcel's property tax records. A little Internet searching revealed that they were in their early nineties. I phoned the land line number on the tax record, but it was no longer in service. My mind raced through the possible and likely scenarios-- might they be in a Florida nursing home, with the scammers going room to room collecting property titles? Are they even still alive? But then I donned my skip-tracer's hat and ascertained that they resided just two towns over from me. And then, with nothing to lose, I decided to counter Enchanted Farms's apparent wickedness with a little piracy of my own-- I drove over and knocked on the landowner's door one morning. The elderly Mr. K. answered it. "I'm nobody official," I began. "But I live nearby, and I'd like to talk to you about your land in Bristol." "C'mon in," he said after a lightning-quick assessment of me as he simultaneously opened the door and restrained his especially frisky new puppy. Mr. K. was quite mentally sharp for a 90-year-old... or, actually, for anyone at any age. He was also pretty darn upbeat and lively for a recent widower with a pacemaker. He had purchased the land forty years ago for a possible retirement home, he explained, but, you know, life got in the way. Yes, he knew all about the scammers offering his land for sale, and he had already reported them to local authorities. "Well," I eventually got around to asking, "are you interested in selling this land?" "I haven't told anyone yet, but... yes. Yes I am." "Okay... how much would you like to sell it to me for?" (If you are getting a sense of déjà vu regarding this and the previously mentioned Columbia County deal, so was I.) Mr. K. quickly mumbled through the relevant numbers, weighing his original purchase price for the property against his current enthusiasm for no longer paying taxes on it. No, he assured me, his children had no interest in it. And no, he insisted, he didn't need to check with anyone to sell it-- this was HIS land, and he could do as he pleased with it. "How about--?" His presented price was WAY below that of the scammer's listing. Wow... I knew I could just barely make his asking price figure work. "That's a good price," I said. (It was a VERY good price.) "Let me drive down and take a look at it." Mr. K. sent me away with some detailed maps of the property... and I was soon reminded that actual land can look very different from its two-dimensional representations. For instance, what seemed on the map and even the satellite photos like a quaint little trout stream turned out to be a ridiculously deep gorge... one that definitively cleaved the front of the parcel from the rest of it and required all four of my limbs to cross as I descended a steep slope down to the trickle of water and then up the other equally treacherous side only by clutching exposed tree roots. There was a second, smaller gorge... and also a very large and very dilapidated old camper parked on the land that would surely cost a lot of money to have removed and properly disposed of. I went to see Mr. K. the next day, bringing extra copies I had made of his maps. "Looks like I'll need to build a couple of bridges," I said. He chuckled in agreement. "I've already spec'd them out-- all you need is eighteen-inch galvanized drain pipe and a few yards of crushed dolomite. Ran to about ten grand a few years ago... probably closer to fifteen now." Would he accept, say, 20% less than his previous asking price for the land as-is? He thought for a few seconds and said yes, he would. We shook hands. "Great," I said. "I'll have my lawyer draw up the papers." That was in early December. I had my real estate attorney draft a formal Purchase & Sale agreement, then I brought it over to Mr. K.'s house to have him sign it. Done deal, right? Not in real estate, where it isn't truly over until it is really, completely over. I insisted that Mr. K. retain his own attorney. For one thing, buying land from someone his age at such a great price invites what one might delicately call harsh scrutiny. But Mr. K. balked, claiming that when he bought the land forty years ago it was simply a matter of a personal check and a handshake with no fancy lawyers involved. So I offered to pay his lawyer's fee. He accepted, but he would have to wait for his daughter's return from an extended overseas vacation because she handles all his financial and legal matters. Fast-forward to late January. I had been checking in on Mr. K. every week or so, but he still didn't have an attorney. His daughter had returned from her vacation, but now she was recovering from some sort of minor surgery. By mid-February it was starting to feel like this deal was stuck in limbo... and that if I didn't do something to un-stick it, the opportunity might well expire for any number of reasons. Bristol really is this beautiful. Whenever I felt really frustrated with this deal, I just thought of scenery like this and whispered to myself-- "Bristol... Bristol..." All I had was Mr. K.'s daughter's first name, but by once again slipping into skip-tracer mode I was able to find her. I left a voicemail introducing myself, and she promptly returned it. She was the executrix of her mother's estate, she said, so she already had an attorney who could handle the deal for them. (I really, really liked that he was also a specialist in Elder Law.) The two lawyers exchanged paperwork, but there would be another delay for a complete title search and abstract, work that would be outsourced to a specialty firm. Three weeks later I called Mr. K's attorney for an update. It seems that title searches are backed up for a month, he said. Three weeks after that I contacted the title & abstract firm, and they told me that the work had been completed two weeks ago. Arrggh! (I know... "Bristol... Bristol..." My new mantra soothed me somewhat.) Now it was well into March, and I felt like I was walking a tightrope, fretting like a love-struck teen fearful of ruining things by doing either too much or too little to make something good happen... and having no idea which was the correct path. When the calendar flipped to April I was wondering if this deal would ever happen, so I called both lawyers. Mine said that he hadn't heard a thing, except that the original seller's attorney had passed the matter off to a different lawyer in his firm and he hadn't heard anything since; the original seller's attorney, meanwhile, said quite emphatically that yes, he was still Mr. K.'s attorney, and that his paralegals were working on getting Mr. K.'s old and paid-off mortgage properly recorded as duly discharged. Furthermore, he had sent numerous emails to MY attorney that had gone unanswered... yet another log jam for me to personally resolve. ("Bristol... Bristol...") By the second week of April I was all the more fearful that if I didn't give this deal yet another kick in the pants, it would likely stop moving forward and eventually just disappear. So, at the risk of pissing off multiple lawyers who could break this deal by simply doing nothing, I sent all parties involved a group email explaining where I thought we now stood and what the remaining obstacles were, and requested that we all communicate more effectively. And by God, it seemed to have worked-- two days later I got a most surprising email from my attorney asking if I could appear in his office just three days hence to finally close this deal. And so now, Dear Readers, my bride Andrea and I are the proud and happy owners of twenty-eight hillside acres of mature hardwoods and evergreens in beautiful Bristol, New York. Ontario County is so flush with deer that they have a special September season to thin their herd, and I have reason to believe that when my deer hunting days are finally over maybe a decade from now, God willing, we'll be able to sell this gorgeous property at a profit that more than justifies all of my efforts in acquiring it. LESSONS LEARNED AND/OR AFFIRMED IN ALL THIS? TWO, TO WIT-- One lesson can be stated several different ways-- To everything there is a season-- a time for patience, a time for initiative. Praying for the wisdom to know the difference cannot hurt; likewise a soothing mantra. ("Bristol... Bristol..") In other words, know when to be a priest and when to be a pirate. Or, when you have nothing to lose, there's really no reason not to risk everything you have. Or, you miss 100% of the shots you don't take. (Thanks, Great One!) Or even, always be patient and respectful... but only up to a point. Beyond that, be willing to grab the bull by the balls, give'em three full turns, and then yank sharply downward. The other lesson is perhaps self-evident, yet worth mentioning-- Simply doing your homework, doing the requisite legwork, remaining flexible, being creative, and being willing to knock on a stranger's door and make a personal connection can result in a truly wonderful outcome.

"NOBODY GOES THERE ANYMORE; IT'S TOO CROWDED." (Yogi Berra) A Total Solar Eclipse is a wonderful, once-in-a-lifetime experience... more than once, if one's birth year is timed correctly. Mine was-- in July of 1963 when I was just four, my family rented a camper and traveled to northern Maine to experience one. (HERE is an article about that one.) What a trip that was! We got to see lumber logs hurtling down a giant slide into the upper Kennebec River, and we watched black bears foraging a garbage dump after dark, illuminated by our headlights. From a high mountain ridge we witnessed a violent thunderstorm that featured spectacular chain lightning, and we saw what we ostensibly came for-- a total eclipse of the sun. Fast forward six decades. My nearby city of Rochester, NY sat smack in the middle of the "region of totality" for the Great Eclipse of 2024, and the predictions of social disruption were dire-- the cities of Buffalo, Rochester, and Syracuse would be so jammed with visitors as to constitute a genuine crisis, threatening our safety and even our very infrastructure. Stock up on food, they said. Make sure your gas tanks are full. Blah, blah, blah. And just like the "breaking news" predictions of life-threatening snowfall that winds up measured in single-digit inches rather than multiple feet, these predictions were astonishingly wrong; indeed, it seems that would-be visitors "stayed away in droves," as the ever-quotable Samuel Goodwin once put it. Either the predictions were off because people actually believed them and changed their plans, or they were simply way wrong to begin with. For the best possible rant/explanation of the 2024 Eclipse and the implications of all the ridiculous hype, your Grumpy Old Mansplainer turns to one Mr. Bob Lonsberry, Upstate NY's well-known raconteur and socio-political observer-- BOB LONSBERRY (from the WHAM 1180 AM website) April 9, 2024 We live in an era of error. The experts are seldom right, the journalists are seldom diligent, and the truth is seldom told. That was shown in government policy about covid and in similar government predictions of eclipse visitors. Ignorance and arrogance breed certitude among those who hold power or the public’s attention. That is true of the governor in the embroidered windbreaker and the anchor in the tailored suit. And it was true of almost everything we were told about what people would do during the April 8 eclipse. For a year and a half, meetings were convened and plans were made in response to a false premise unquestioningly held by those who didn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. In Buffalo, there were to be a million visitors. In Rochester, it was to be a half a million. And in Syracuse, it was to be between 500,000 and a million. Ultimately, all of those predictions were off by more than a factor of 10. What was at first hundreds of thousands became tens of thousands and ultimately just thousands, and realistically in most places it was few of those. For Syracuse, it was less than an average day of the state fair. For Rochester, it was about a day of the old Park Avenue Festival. For Buffalo, it was a Bills game or a Wednesday at the Erie County Fair. For all of upstate New York, it was a failure of leadership, it was a disappointment by delusion. Not that the eclipse wasn’t amazing, or that the events weren’t wonderful, or that the people – from near or far – weren’t great, but that the predictions and assumptions upon which government acted and media spoke were fundamentally and completely wrong. Which cost taxpayers tens of millions of dollars and showed once again that trust in public officials is misplaced. For a year and a half, hospitals planned for a surge, police agencies prepared for Armageddon, transportation officials anticipated a shut down. Society would be overwhelmed by an influx of eclipse viewers, lemmings crowding to their doom, and the warning voice was raised. The governor told us to stock up, the state officials reminded us to buy medications and food, the roadside signs blared that we could be trapped for hours or days. The sky was falling and it was falling hard and every night at 6 o’clock we got another serving of crap, repeating with earnestness the preposterous assertions of communications majors at the tourist bureau. There was no divergent view, there was no attempt to verify, there was no pointing out that the emperor had no clothes. It was lockstep, the company line, like masks and boosters and grandma dying alone in the nursing home. This is what someone said into our TV camera and that makes it real and catch our special report Tuesday at 7:30. While it was all a bunch of crap. It was all a baseless, hyperventilating fake, whipped up by people with too much time and too little sense. And so the helicopters hovered overhead and the state police came in from outside of totality and they brought in the Probation officers to provide extra security. But “better safe than sorry” only goes so far, it only covers so much incompetence. Leadership is accurately envisioning risk and need and charting a course that avoids the one and satisfies the other. Allaying fears, instead of creating them, is what real leaders do – in the halls of power and on the evening news. In the insane miscalculation of the number of eclipse visitors, and in the daffy reactions to fantasized problems, government and tourism leaders, amplified by the press, showed the public again, even on something as ultimately inconsequential as an eclipse, that they have a tendency to incompetent idiocy. And that destroys public confidence. And public confidence is the glue that holds a society together. When the people in charge are idiots, those of us who are supposed to do the following lose faith. And while the list of things the people in charge are wrong about grows, the confidence and peace of mind of the people shrinks. That’s what we thought about while we drove home last night, over empty roads that were supposed to be choked with hundreds of thousands of eclipse visitors. Although this piece isn't exactly "reprinted with permission," I sincerely thank Bob Lonsberry for his thoughts as well as for the typing and googling he saved me. Mr. Lonsberry can be heard weekday mornings on Rochester's WHAM 1180 AM from 9:00am-12:00 noon, and in Syracuse on WSYR 570 AM on weekdays 3:00 - 6:00pm.

The age-old recipe for homemade crème fraîche suddenly stopped working, and DannyM. wanted to know why. If you really want to solve a problem, don't be a Karen, be THIS GUY-- polite, if annoyingly persistent; inquisitive, analytical, and thorough until the answer becomes obvious. I came to love crème fraîche as a neophyte foodie in the 1980's. It was a chi-chi, Silver Palate/Martha Stewart thing... a cornerstone of Nouvelle Cuisine as a sauce, an ingredient, and a hip substitute for sour cream, yogurt, and other dairy products. And unlike most dairy products, it was really easy to make at home-- just add a wee splash of buttermilk to a pint of heavy cream, then let the active cultures work their magic overnight at room temperature. Presto! Thick, rich, and delicious crème fraîche. I've been making it this way for more than half my life. But then, Dear Readers, this age-old, time-tested recipe very suddenly stopped working. You can purchase ready-made crème fraîche, but it was always easy and way cheaper to make at home... that is, until the recipe no longer worked. With pointless wars raging all over the globe, millions needlessly dying, whole national economies crumbling, and Western Civilization itself seemingly teetering at the edge of collapse, going without one's crème fraîche is perhaps the downright self-parodic epitome of a "First-World Problem." But dammit, there had to be a clear reason for this abrupt failure of such a simple process, and a mind like mine couldn't help but race in search of an explanation-- Sunspots? Pesticides? Genetically (mis)engineered cultures? 5G? Maybe a Deep State conspiracy to flush out paranoids? Or maybe... none of the above? We humans somehow managed to survive the pre-pasteurization era when buttermilk was simply the liquid residue from butter churning. In the era before mandatory pasteurization in America, raw milk (and the cream scooped from it) commonly underwent bio-chemical changes prior to consumption or butter-churning thanks to the naturally-occurring live bacteria cultures. Buttermilk was originally the tangy and biologically lively liquid remaining after butter was churned from slightly "cultured" cream. Nowadays, however, buttermilk is made from  pasteurized milk by adding live cultures and letting them "work," giving the milk an acidic tang as well as that "biological liveliness" necessary for further processes and reactions. To make my own crème fraîche, I'd long been buying buttermilk produced by a nearby dairy, one self-styled as "artisanal" and located in an oh-so-precious and comically snooty suburb-- we'll just call it Swank Dairy for now. Swank Dairy happens to be the only manufacturer anywhere near me that produces and sells full-fat (or "whole") cultured buttermilk. (I avoid anything labeled "low-fat," which I consider gastronomic fat-shaming. Besides, in low-fat ANYTHING they usually replace the fat with artificial crap far worse for you.) So when their buttermilk stopped working, I began to channel my inner Columbo. I suspect that every generation and indeed every individual viewer entertains their own specific notions of what constitutes "The Golden Age of Television." For me, it spans roughly from the first episode of I LOVE LUCY in 1951 to the series finale of NYPD BLUE in 2005. This half-century of prime-time TV gave us many memorable characters, a small handful of which managed to outlive their shows as stand-alone icons and become Internet meme material to this very day, all while re-runs of their shows remain popular on various streaming services. My short list of such figures includes Lucy from the aforementioned I LOVE LUCY, Sgt. Schultz from HOGAN'S HEROES, Mr. Spock from STAR TREK... and the frumpy, cigar-chomping, beagle-loving, secretly brilliant LAPD Detective Frank Columbo from the eponymous NBC show-- simply COLUMBO-- that began airing in 1971. "Scuse me-- mind if I ask you a few questions?" I initiated my Columbo-esque inquiry by telephoning Swank Dairy. Absolutely nothing has changed in their buttermilk-making process, the cashier who answered the phone immediately insisted; maybe I should try again with their latest batch. After failures with two more batches-- AND an unsolicited report from a neighbor of the same exact problem-- I called the dairy again... and then a few more times. I was eventually told that I needed to speak with their plant manager, who would be available the following morning. I called as directed. He was in, but he was too busy to take a call. They supposedly left my name and number on his desk so he could call back as soon as he was available. He didn't, so I called again the next day. Lt. Columbo: So you're the plant manager? And you make ALL these great products? Isn't that amazing... all from plain old milk. Swank Dairy: Our milk is neither plain nor old, Lieutenant. Now, if you'll excuse me-- Lt. Columbo: Certainly, Sir. Oh, just one more thing... As I believe I demonstrated in ANATOMY OF A REFUND, I'm always polite and respectful when addressing customer service with product issues... even when such manners aren't reciprocated, as in Swank Dairy's verbal eye-roll in response to my next call-- "You're the buttermilk guy, right?" Swank Dairy's plant manager quickly became suspiciously skittish about discussing the specifics of their processes. I'd need to speak with the owner, he said; he would be in at 10:00am. I called at 10:15, and I was told that the owner was out of town for the day. They gave me his email address. I got a mailer daemon response. I eventually found my way to the "contact us" option that was fairly well hidden on Swank Dairy's website, and I sent them a message that would hopefully reach the owner-- Dear Sir-- I've been in contact with your company several times trying to answer my question-- what has recently changed with your buttermilk? I've been making my own crème fraîche for 40 years... and in the last month I've had FOUR batches fail to thicken. I used your buttermilk all 4 times, all with different expiration dates... with the same disappointing result. If you don't believe me, please try to make some crème fraîche yourself with your heavy cream & buttermilk as I did. Looking forward to a response. Thanks! --Danny No response. Now it was time for me to go to war... not with Swank Dairy, mind you, but with the problem itself. I wanted the truth. I dare say I'm blessed with a somewhat scientific mind; I have a working grasp of chemistry, and I know physics well enough to (grumpily) man-splain things like space travel and nuclear reactors and the upcoming solar eclipse. However, I wasn't paying very close attention back in high school biology class, and I avoided the subject entirely in college. And so to find the answer to my problem I would have to do some serious digging. THE MICROBIOLOGY OF DAIRY PRODUCTS "Fermentation" isn't just the well-known reaction by which yeast turns grape sugar into ethyl alcohol. According to my desktop dictionary, such a biological process is generally "the chemical breakdown (or metabolism) of a substance by bacteria, yeasts, or other means, often producing by-products such as carbon dioxide and/or heat." In this situation we focus on the work performed by bacteria... and if you ever want to explore a very deep rabbit hole, try power-learning for yourself exactly what bacteria are. "King Philip Came Over For Good Spaghetti" is (or used to be) the mnemonic device by which high-schoolers recalled the hierarchical organization (a.k.a. the taxonomy) of all life forms-- Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus, & Species. But twentieth-century scientists found that bacteria didn't categorize very neatly-- they are way too small to scientifically examine as one would, say, a squirrel or a daffodil; so primitive a single-celled organism as to lack even a nucleus... indeed, difficult to peg as either plant or animal. Furthermore, bacteria are numerous in the extreme, some 5 nonillion strong in the Earth's ecosphere. (That's the number five followed by thirty zeros.) And so in 1990 the scientific community came up with a NEW highest level of taxonomy-- the Domain, also known as a super-kingdom, dominion, realm, and empire. And bacteria, they declared, are important enough to merit two of the three Domains: The New World Order-- the three Domains are bacteria, archaea (a different type of bacteria) and eukara (living things that have cells with nuclei and DNA.) And so, descending from the recently-minted bacteria Domains down the taxonomic ladder to a specific Order, Lactobacillales are bacteria that metabolize carbohydrates into lactic acid. (All you would ever want to know about Lactic Acid Bacteria-- a.k.a. LAB-- is HERE.) Lactic Acid Bacteria perform a wide array of essential jobs. Lactobacillales include the bacteria responsible for such tongue-tingling delights as kimchi, sauerkraut, and pickles. For our purposes here we'll confine ourselves to the sub-category-- i.e., the genus-- responsible for many of our dairy products by specifically converting naturally-occurring milk sugar (lactose) into lactic acid. Lt. Columbo: That's just incredible... these little creatures are way too small to even see, but they create all these different great foods! Amazing! You know, my wife just loves sauerkraut. I can't eat it 'cause it gives me gas, but my wife-- why, she'll even eat it for breakfast. Swank Dairy: Lieutenant, PLEASE! Much of the dairy section at your local grocer depends on just two ingredients-- milk from cows or other ruminants, and various strains of bacteria that turn the milk into other products like yogurt, sour cream, and kefir. Cream is scooped from the top layer of freshly-drawn milk, half & half is a mixture of the two, and butter is made from churning cream. Swank Dairy's buttermilk label claims that it contains "Whole Milk and Cultures." A fair interpretation, therefore, would be that "cultures" indicates the kind of live bacteria capable of turning the naturally present lactose (milk sugar) found in milk and cream into the lactic acid that gives buttermilk its familiar tangy flavor... and if the cultures were truly "active" (as in alive) then their buttermilk should turn my heavy cream into crème fraîche in a matter of hours at room temperature... just as it has done until very recently. Swank Dairy's buttermilk TASTES like buttermilk, but it now fails to PERFORM like buttermilk. And so, after considerable research, experimentation, and detective work-- and in the absence of any honest assistance or input or timely responses from Swank Dairy-- I've drawn a troubling but unavoidable conclusion. I defer to Lt. Columbo to explain: Swank Dairy: And what, exactly, is THIS runny mess, Lieutenant? Lt. Columbo: It's what happens when I try to make crème fraîche with your Swank Dairy buttermilk, Sir. Swank Dairy: You... make your own crème fraîche? Lt. Columbo: My wife likes a little in her mashed potatoes. I always put a spoonful on my chili. Do you like chili? Boy, I know this great little-- Swank Dairy: We... we never imagined anyone still made their own crème fraîche. Lt. Columbo: A celebrity chef in Santa Monica taught me right before I put him away for murder. What puzzled me was your buttermilk tasted the same, but it wasn't working right anymore. The lab boys were able to confirm that your buttermilk contains lactic acid, but no active cultures. Which means either you're re-pasteurizing it, or you're just adding the acid to your milk and then selling it as real buttermilk. Either way, it's fraudulently labeled. You're under arrest. Swank Dairy: (Sigh) I hope they have decent cream for my prison coffee. Lt. Columbo: I'll personally see to that, Sir. So yes, I honestly believe that Swank Dairy has recently started selling what is essentially fake buttermilk; however, I seriously doubt that they'll ever be held accountable for this beyond the readership of this essay. Whatever. Now that the mystery was solved (at least to my satisfaction) I still had a problem-- how would I make my crème fraîche? By first making my own buttermilk. For about $3 a pop including postage, the little culture packets inside this envelope make half a gallon of buttermilk each. My Internet search turned up New England Cheese Making Supply Company and I ordered some buttermilk starter culture. I then found Serenity Meadows, a Jersey cow raw milk dairy farm in Weedsport, NY, conveniently located right off the New York State Thruway on my weekly trip back to Rochester. The SERENITY MEADOWS self-serve store. Their cash register has written directions for how to use it-- This place hit me right in the heart... restoring (at least partially) my faith in the inherent baseline goodness of all humankind. Wagyu beef has become so synonymous with tip-top quality that the name "Wagyu" is being co-opted as a generalized gastronomic superlative, e.g., Kurobuta pigs described as "the Wagyu of Pork" and Australian White ovines "the Wagyu of Lamb." By this standard, Serenity Farms' Mennonite-produced, 100% grass-fed, A2 Jersey cow raw milk might well be the "Wagyu of milk." This is the kind of stuff I live for to find and share. Jersey Girls-- maybe they should call this breed "Dairy Queens" for the unparalleled excellence of their output. I combined my mail-order active cultures with this fabulous raw milk and made my own buttermilk, which I then added to heavy cream. And two days later (one for each step) I once again had homemade crème fraîche. Maybe I should have stopped right there, but then a possible hack occurred to me-- since I had the cultures, what if I skipped the buttermilk step and emptied a culture packet directly into the heavy cream? I'm delighted to report that this worked quickly and beautifully... if significantly more expensively. I'll save this hack for some future crème fraîche emergency. NOTES: New England Cheese Making Supply Company sells citric acid and tartaric acid for cheese making, but not lactic acid. HOWEVER, I did find lactic acid sold by the gallon from numerous online dealers like THIS one. And so, without picking through Swank Dairy's dumpster for evidence of surreptitiously outsourced lactic acid-- and thus the proverbial smoking gun-- I'm satisfied that I've found the means and opportunity for their deceit, if not the motive... be it greed, cost effectiveness, limited culture availability, or whatever. And while I don't have the LAPD's "lab boys" at my disposal, my numerous failed attempts at making crème fraîche with what Swank Dairy is selling as "buttermilk" serves as a prima facie laboratory test that proves their fraudulent labeling. If Swank Dairy gets wind of this essay and takes offense, I will gladly grant them the space to state their case... and I'll be happy to apologize and also print a full retraction if they succeed in proving me wrong in this matter. FWIW, they're going up against my uncannily accurate B.S. alarm. Yes, the lactic acid responsible for crème fraîche is the very same lactic acid that makes your thigh muscles feel like they're on fire toward the end of a grueling ergometer race. (See BREAKING SEVEN: Training & Racing on a Concept2 Ergometer.) Full episodes of COLUMBO are available on AppleTV. And if you want to see the sum total of Columbo captured in just a few minutes, HERE is Emmy-winning actor Peter Falk's epic appearance in full character as Columbo at the 1978 Frank Sinatra Celebrity Roast. Some Recipes Using Crème Fraîche: 30 Uses for Créme Fraîche (The Copper Table) Créme Fraîche Recipes (NYT Cooking) Twelve Ways to Use Créme Fraîche (The Vermont Creamery) Gravlax on Rye Bread with Dill Créme Fraîche (food.com) In addition to Serenity Meadows IN WEEDSPORT, NY, here are two more REAL boutique dairies that raise Jersey Cows and label their products honestly-- Highlawn Farm (Lee, MA) (See THE PERFECT LITTLE DAIRY FARM) JERSEY BELL DAIRY FARM (Waterloo, NY) Their milk is raw... and their website is down, but info is available HERE. And on a larger scale, I'm happy to recommend various VERMONT CREAMERY products such as cultured butter, goat cheese... and crème fraîche, if you don't care to make your own. Vermont Creamery products are available at WEGMANS among other top-quality retailers.

Ham or Lamb? We've got you covered both ways. Potatoes & Asparagus? ALWAYS! Until Halloween got really huge, Easter was the second-biggest holiday of the year, especially among Catholic families like mine. After church and an Easter egg hunt, the aromas of Easter dinner beckoned us to the table. While the roasted turkey is for many folks a one-size-fits-all holiday dinner, the popular choice for Easter has become largely binary-- ham or lamb. My family had it good-- lamb on Saturday with one grandmother, and then ham on Sunday with the other. Here we examine both sides of the issue. THE HAM DINNER Hardly anyone actually "cooks" a ham, because they generally reach our stores pre-cooked. For the record, ham is pork that has undergone either wet or dry curing and is often (but not always) smoked. And what, exactly, is "curing?" Click HERE for a detailed explanation. Furthermore, there are many types of ham. HERE is a useful delineation from Coleman Natural Foods. And well worth noting-- "REAL" ham is a large chunk of meat from a pig's hind-quarter, while really, REALLY cheap ham is often made from all manner of pork that is chopped and/or finely ground, more or less liquefied, and then molded into the familiar "ham can" shape-- Why "Chill Before Opening?" So it doesn't freaking disintegrate. In addition to the different types of ham, there are several different breeds of pig available. Most supermarket pig is of the pale-fleshed and bland Yorkshire lineage, specifically bred for mass-farming rather than superior flavor. But far-tastier heritage breeds-- e.g., Duroc, Mangalitsa, Iberico, and Kurobuta-- are increasingly available from small farms and are rapidly gaining in popularity. (See "THE YEAR OF THE PIG" for more info.) Unless you're a culinary control freak who orders a fresh ham so you can do all the curing and smoking yourself, the ham you'll be preparing for Easter dinner is either partially or fully pre-cooked and you just need to heat it up. Either way, baking it at 325ºF to a minimum internal temperature of 140ºF is advisable. Why is ham "baked" instead of "roasted?" Because many recipes suggest cooking it in a pan above a little water and covered with foil to retain moisture... and that ain't roasting. However, we often finish a ham like a roast-- as with a reverse-seared Prime Rib, a brief and very hot finishing blast (without the foil, and perhaps brushed with a sweet glaze) fosters the formation of a dark and tasty crust. Unlike most other meats, pork-- and especially ham-- conspires nicely with sweetness as exemplified by the pineapple and maraschino cherry garnish shown above, or alternatively a sugary, tangy glaze. There are thousands of online recipes for versions thereof... perhaps none as sophisticated as Chef Slim Oakheart's take in A SAUCE FOR HOLIDAY HAM. I'll be making that myself this year. Here is a somewhat simpler glaze that sounds downright goofy and yet tastes wonderful-- DANNYM.'S ROOT BEER HAM GLAZE 2 pounds of onions, chopped & well-browned (maybe even caramelized; HERE is the distinction.) 2 12 oz. Bottles REAL Root Beer (i.e., all-natural and made with cane sugar, not high-fructose corn syrup) A generous scoop of Cherry Marmalade 12 Pitted Prunes Zest of two small Clementines A good squirt of Spicy Brown Mustard Pinches of Pepper, Ground Clove, and Cinnamon A generous splash of Apple Cider Vinegar Simmer until prunes are tender. Purée ingredients (except the vinegar) until smooth. Add vinegar last, to taste. Glaze ham for the hot blast at the end, and then offer guests a bowl of this concoction at your Easter table. Expensive but fabulous-- I use this and other TIPTREE marmalades in several different recipes. A surprising amount of Southern cookery utilizes Dr. Pepper as an ingredient (e.g., THIS.) Our glaze recipe above approximates Dr. Pepper's flavors without the high-fructose corn syrup and artificial flavors. If your kids don't love ham with this glaze, consider feeding them a steady diet of gluten-free kale lasagna until they come around. ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ THE LAMB DINNER An absolutely perfect-looking roasted Leg of Lamb. Lamb is WAY different from ham... more expensive, more sophisticated, and harder to cook properly. Not everyone likes lamb; some find it "gamey," while others find it hidden in the children's napkins after dinner. And although you'd never know it from a supermarket label, lamb are actually baby sheep. And yet-- when high-quality lamb is done just right, it is as exquisitely delicious and wine-friendly as the finest Prime Rib, with the added advantage of being Easter (or at least springtime) referential. LEG of Lamb is by far the go-to cut for Easter, and one finds boneless, bone-in, and semi-boneless versions in the market as Lent wanes. To me the semi-boneless seems the worst of both worlds, and the boneless version needs to be tied together in order to maintain a proper roasting geometry. Unless you are interested in stuffing the boned leg with seasonings or making "butterflied" leg of lamb, I recommend defaulting to a bone-in cut. Lamb shanks are either fore or hind, but Leg of Lamb comes only from the hind. Leg of Lamb is sold as either Whole Leg with the shank included, or just the upper part. New Zealand has long been the source of the least expensive lamb, with Australia filling the mid-range and American lamb on the high end. Of the three, New Zealand's lamb is most responsible for lamb's "gamey" reputation, and I accordingly avoid it. (Some claim that lamb's objectionable "gaminess" comes from either the fat that lines the meat, or the waxy lanolin that waterproofs the wool. I'm not so sure about either... but I DO know that some lamb just plain tastes better than others.) And what about the breed? Wagyu beef has become so iconic that we now see slogans like "the Wagyu of (x, y, or z)" to denote a higher fat content and richer flavor. The "Wagyu of Lamb" tag is presently claimed by purveyors of Australian White Lamb, which has an especially high intramuscular fat content, a lower fat melting point (99ºF vs. 113ºF) as well as straight (and lanolin-free) hair in lieu of wool, makes it more suitable to hot-weather ranching and maybe, maybe less gamey. The Wagyu Shop offers imported Australian White Lamb, while Fagerman Farm in Alabama seems to be the first (and perhaps only so far) to offer American White Lamb. Australian White USA (AWUSA) is a trade association that promotes the White breed in the United States, and we may expect their efforts to result in wider availability (and maybe lower prices) in the coming years. COOKING THE LEG OF LAMB Recipes vary greatly from one cookbook to another, so I conducted a comparative survey of several well-known chef-authors regarding their recommended techniques for a 6-pound, bone-in leg of lamb, beginning at room temperature: Julia Child: ("Gigot de Pré-Salé Rôti") Rub with butter. Roast at 450ºF for 15 minutes, then 350ºF to an internal temperature of 125ºF for rare, 135ºF for medium-rare. James Beard: Rub with rosemary and pepper. Roast at 325ºF all the way to internal temp. of 130-135ºF. Salt generously 15 minutes before removing from oven. Gordon Ramsay: Rub w/ olive oil & herbs. Broil each side, then cover with foil and roast at 375ºF to internal temp. of 125-135ºF. The New York Times (Hopkinson/Moskin): Rub w/ a paste of garlic, anchovy, & mustard; sprinkle w/ pepper, and drizzle with fresh lemon juice. Roast at 425ºF for 15 minutes, then at 350ºF to internal temp. of 130-135ºF. Jamie Oliver: Liberally salt & pepper, then drizzle w/ a mash of garlic, rosemary, olive oil, and lemon zest. Roast all the way at 400ºF to on an oven rack suspended above the roasting pan to insure even cooking. (Chef Oliver's recipe gives cooking times rather than target temperatures, e.g., 75 minutes for "pink." Better, I think, to trust your thermometer.) All of these recipes notably call for letting the cooked lamb rest for at least 10 minutes before carving. I was all set to mix and match aspects of all these recipes and then tinker as needed. But the almighty Internet knows all, folks... and in the midst of my hours spent googling this stuff, I not-so-mysteriously received an unsolicited pop-up ad/recipe that suggested a very intriguing technique, one that requires the purchase of a special smart thermometer that enables one to simulate sous vide cooking in a regular oven. I passed on the thermometer, but borrowed aspects of this version. A name for this recipe practically suggested itself-- IDIOT-PROOF ROAST LEG OF LAMB Pre-heat oven to 170ºF. (That's as low as mine goes.) Trim as much membrane as practicable from leg. If cooking a Whole Leg, cut a circle around the shank about an inch from the end. Cut shallow cross-hatches all over the leg. Prepare a smear of olive oil, garlic, chopped fresh rosemary, and mustard. (note: a little garlic goes a long way in this dish.) Smear the mixture all over the leg. Wrap the leg securely in foil and insert your oven-friendly digital thermometer into the thickest part; avoid contact with the bone. Place on a rack above (not in) a roasting pan in the oven. Cook to desired internal temperature-- 125-135ºF (or more) To accommodate my bride's preferences I cooked it to an internal temperature of 143ºF, which took six hours and resulted in a uniform and perfect (for her) pinkness. A 12-minute finishing blast at 475ºF in the convection oven gave the exterior a proper crust. I repeated this version with great success using a Fagerman Farm American White Lamb leg that had been in my freezer since last spring. (It was NOT notably superior to the Australian version.) ALTERNATIVE COOKING METHODS If all of this roasting sounds intimidating or like too much work, a leg of lamb braises beautifully, and braising is perhaps the most foolproof cooking method of all. (Think pot roast.) A plethora of recipes for braised leg of lamb await your google search; most of them call for browning the meat and then simmering it in a covered pot for three hours or more at 325ºF, half-submerged in a flavorful mixture of wine, stock, herbs, and/or veggies. It practically cooks itself AND makes its own delicious sauce. But if braising seems like a cop-out, there's a Plan C.-- a combination, in a sense, of A. and B. ... a foolproof way to make a very different (but delicious) ROAST leg of lamb... The LONG & SLOW ROAST. Simply brown both sides via broiler or convection oven, then roast, covered not wrapped, at 325ºF until it is falling apart tender. Aim for an internal temperature of 175ºF. Click HERE for one of many online recipes. EASTER SIDE DISHES A cheesy potato au gratin casserole (like Julia Child's Pommes de Terre au Dauphinoise) is fabulous with baked ham. The classic version below tastes as good as it looks. (History & Recipe HERE.) Potatoes, maximized. Alternatively, roasted potatoes go nicely with either ham or lamb. A GREAT HACK FOR ROASTED POTATOES Cut red potatoes into pieces maybe half again larger than optimal home-fries size and cover with just enough salted water. Bring to a boil; keep it there for five minutes, then strain. KEY HACK-- toss the potatoes up and around in your metal colander to scruff their surfaces a bit, then toss them in a mixing bowl olive oil, garlic, and salt & pepper, maybe some herbs, maybe even chopped anchovies... or, alternatively, whatever the hell you like on your taters. Roast them on parchment paper skin side down, then switch to low broil to finish browning the cut sides. And finally, there's ASPARAGUS! Taken together, Asparagus and Hollandaise Sauce betoken springtime as surely as daffodils and pussy willows. HERE is last year's treatise on the topic, with links to recipes. ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ NOTES: There is no reason NOT to buy a spiral-cut ham, especially for a self-serve buffet or other large gathering. In popular culture, a "ham-and-egger" is an ordinary person of little consequence; GREEN EGGS AND HAM, meanwhile, is perhaps the most consequential 50-word book in history. OF MAN, MUTTON, AND MINT SAUCE Lambs grow up to be sheep; the meat of sheep is called mutton. I stole the following from some random website-- Mutton is the meat of a mature adult sheep, typically between two and three years old. Producers can harvest mutton from a ewe (female) or wether (castrated male.) Since the animal is older, it contains more fat and muscle, resulting in a stronger flavor and denser, tougher texture. Sounds really delicious, right? Mint jelly was most likely invented to make mutton taste less horrible. However, some sort of red wine sauce or gravy is a superior choice with high-quality, properly-cooked leg of lamb. But if you must (or if you're simply British) you can make your own Mint Sauce from fresh mint, white wine vinegar, and sugar. HERE is everything you need to know... except for one thing: spearmint, or peppermint? My further digging suggests that spearmint is preferable. But if you want something more sophisticated to sauce your lamb, consider making a lamb-specific red wine sauce. Here's how to adapt classic Sauce Bordelaise to your lamb-- DANNYM.'S RED WINE SAUCE FOR LEG OF LAMB 1/2 bottle Red Wine (I chose a big strapping Mendocino Zinfandel) 4 Large Shallots Pan drippings from your roast (or maybe the previous one) (scrape and clean your roasting pan; rinse, and reserve the rinse water and the scrapings) 1 lb. Ground lamb Cornstarch or roux to thicken, as needed And finally, a generous dab of MORE THAN GOURMET® Classic Roasted Lamb Stock, which conveniently contains veal demi-glace. Chop the shallots and cook well in just enough clarified butter. Add the ground lamb and cook thoroughly. Add the wine and pan drippings, then gently simmer. After an hour, strain, thicken, and re-season to taste. Although my test run with American White Lamb didn't live up to its price, I'm still bullish (ramish?) on American lamb in general. There are many small farms out in the countrysides of America that raise and sell good lamb, and we'll be adding names from time to time. Grand Teton Lamb, for one, caught my eye as I was doing research for this essay. And finally, WINE WITH EASTER A Ham dinner is both child- and oldster-friendly. And I suspect that, on average, Easter ham dinners begin earlier in the day than do lamb dinners. Tally that as two strikes against Easter wine with ham. That being said, there's no reason not to offer wine with ham for those who will enjoy it. Think sweet-- Moscato is currently en vogue, and dovetails perfectly with ham's sweet/salty duality. Ditto for semi-dry rosé. For œnological and gastronomic sophisticates, the perfect ham wine might well be GEWÜRZTRAMINER. Lamb is way more wine-friendly than ham, and a lamb dinner tends to entail a more formal air. Wine with lamb, therefore, is a no-brainer. An old Continental maxim calls for Bourgogne Rouge (Red Burgundy) with beef and (Red) Bordeaux with lamb... perfectly good pairings, but today there's no need to thus restrict oneself. Lamb does indeed pair well with sturdy Bordeaux varietals like Cabernet Sauvignon and old-school Merlot, but it also works nicely with spicy reds like Zinfandel and Syrah. All that being said, if you cook your lamb properly and match it with any red wine you personally prefer, then it's hard to go wrong... especially if, first and foremost, you pair your wine with great friends and cherished loved ones. We around Danny's Table wish one and all a delightful Easter... whether or not you actually celebrate it.

Surviving out on America's highways for weeks on end entails finding hot meals wherever one can. This is how DannyM. came to appreciate "roadside cuisine," be it Tex-Mex, Cajun, or Barbecue. The REDNECK RIDGE BBQ is our tribute to the best of the gritty, soul-satisfying fare that one feels lucky to find out on the open road. COMING SOON-- A comprehensive collection of recipes for BBQ and other "roadside cuisine. We'll start with... MINIMALIST CHILI (09/19/22) How to make the smallest possible batch from the fewest # of ingredients.

Who among us doesn't love a great diner when we don't have time to make breakfast? I love to cook, so Andrea and I NEVER go to restaurants... except diners, for an occasional break from the stove. When we went to orientation for our first team-truck-driving job, the food they provided was utterly inedible, but there was a Waffle House right across the street. We ate there twice daily, and then every couple of weeks in one southern town or another during our half decade together on the road. It was a Waffle House cook who graciously taught me how to make a nice and fluffy omelet... but I had to figure out how to make hash browns all by myself. A HACK FOR HASH BROWNS (09/28/22) HOME FRIES! (10/06/22) (MUCH more to come.)

Born in a short story, the fictitious CAYUGA LOUNGE is the embodiment of "retro-cuisine" from the era of Julia Child's cooking show and avocado-colored kitchen appliances. THE CA-LO SIGN (04/06/22) One of DannyM.'s rare forays into fiction, here is a twisty short story (with a mini-screenplay thrown in) set in upstate New York's Finger Lakes region. VONGOLE CASSINI (THE STORY) (06/22/22) The tale of one of the more significant Cayuga Lounge employees. VONGOLE CASSINI (THE RECIPE) (06/22/22) An Old-World take on Clams Casino. CHEF ASTOR'S AUTUMN MENU, PART ONE (08/24/22) CHEF ASTOR'S AUTUMN MENU, PART TWO (09/14/22) CHEF ASTOR'S AUTUMN MENU, PART THREE (09/27/22) --RECIPES-- (RE)CONSIDER THE OYSTER (01/05/22) In amongst all the history and lore sits a fantastic, old-school oyster recipe. POTATO HEAVEN (03/02/22) Pommes de Terre au Dauphinoise... a.k.a. Scalloped potatoes w/ cream, gruyére, & garlic. Nobody serves potatoes like this anymore... but you can make this at home. FRENCH ONION SOUP (06/21/22) My mother-in-law is a fantastic cook. This is her recipe. COQUILLES ST. JACQUES (07/13/22) A decadently rich preparation of sea scallops. TROUT WITH ALMONDS (07/25/22) Amandine? Almondine? It's delicious whatever one calls it. (MUCH more to come.)