Manny Howard's Blog

 

Once the carcasses were hanging from gambrels in the barn all that is left to do is dig a gut pit. Since Jakey had missed out on all the work thus far, Tex determined that this job would fall to my seven year-old boy. How deep did the gut pit need to be, asked Jake. "deep enough so the wolves nd coyotes can't find it. Lets call it six to eight feet."

Jake'e eyes bugged and he looked to me for support. "Ground's frozen solid, too," I said, by way of encouragement.

primal cuts chart, goat

"Better use the back hoe, Jakey," said Chris, casually. It took A moment to sink in. Then Jakey started dancing around the Twenty minutes later Tex and Jake were jouncing down the driveway with the front-end bucket loaded with two 30-gallon garbage cans full of steaming goat guts, hooves and heads. Dad and the dogs trotting dutifully behind toward the upper pasture.

Once we'd selected the hole Jake got to work, chirping happily while operating the pneumatic scoop like an old hand.

Once back in at Howard Hall we unpacked the goat shoulders and hung them in the back porch. It being December the only time we reminded of their presence was when it

Hanging in he Florida Room at the back of he house in Flatbush, Brooklyn, enjoying the chilly December temperatures

was time to feed the chickens. Jake does that chore in the morning. Occasionally he'd update me on their progress, but it was rare that he had time to talk goat meat and locate a boot or his backpack, or both. So the goat continued to hang… and hang… and hang.

One particularly balmy Friday morning with spring just around the corner I took the hams of their hooks in the  ceiling and peeled the hardened muscle from the ham, and managed to discover some usable meat. Not enough to feed more than one, sadly. I resolved to make up the difference at the Halal meat market on Atlantic Avenue.

When I called Chef Brad and asked him for a recipe that might cover the funk in the hams resulting from them goat hanging a bit too long. He didn't hesitate, try adapting the Moroccan lamb shank recipe he'd published for Martha Stewart, he said.

Martha Stewart toting The Wall Street Journal once upon a time

Making up the balance by visiting the Halal Market on Atlantic Avenue (add bit re. terror alert for tag)

Ingredients


1/4 cup olive oil
1 onion, sliced crosswise
1 red chile, preferably Holland hot or red Thai chile, chopped
2 cloves garlic, very finely chopped
1 piece ginger (3 inches), peeled and very finely chopped

Jake preparing the veg for our goaty interpretation of Brad Farmerie's Moroccan stew

2 stalks celery, chopped
1 carrot, chopped
2 teaspoons ground cumin
2 teaspoons ground coriander
1 teaspoon oregano
2 cinnamon sticks
3 star anise
2 pinches saffron
Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper
3 cups Brown Chicken Stock, homemade or store-bought
2 cans (16 ounces each) whole peeled tomatoes
8 dried apricots, sliced
20 green and black olives, such as Moroccan or Alphonso and Cerignola
4 lamb shanks
Mint Yogurt




Directions


Preheat oven to 325 degrees.
In a large Dutch oven over medium heat, add olive oil, onion, chile, garlic, and ginger. Cook, stirring frequently, until vegetables begin to soften, 5 to 6 minutes. Add celery, carrot, cumin, coriander, oregano, cinnamon, star anise, and saffron. Continue cooking, stirring frequently, until vegetables are soft and fragrant; season with salt and pepper.
Add chicken stock, tomatoes, apricots, and olives; bring to a boil. Add lamb, making sure it is submerged halfway; season with salt and pepper. Transfer to oven and cook, rotating lamb every 30 minutes, until meat is evenly browned and falling off the bone, and the sauce thickens.

I wish I could say it was intentional, but when I started peeling the goat on Friday morning, it had completely slipped my mind that Easter was two days away. While Jakey and I prepped the Moroccan stew I meditated on an appropriate name for Easter dinner. It was not very challenging. A a main course father and son served Judas Goat Moroccan-style stew.

Rocking the polka dot power play Lisa, busy preparing Easter weekend breakfast on a Saturday morning, has no idea that today isMoroccan Braised Goat Day.

Pan on the stove and vegetables in a basket on the floor, a quiet moment before the action starts

And so begins the regular photo feature celebrating enticing, evocative–occasionally provocative–kitchens we think are worth your consideration. These are not the showcase make-over kitchens, the museum pieces, or food mausoleums that the editors of glossy shelter porn mags fixate upon, these are working spaces where good food gets made by serious cooks, they are also hallowed ground where table fellowship (and once in a while, love) is made. So feel free to comment, and/or submit your own photos.

Lost this day. March 24, 1930 – November 7, 1980

A Stunt Foodist who has joined the national Occupy Wall Street protest movement confronts a pair of "deep pockets" as protesters march north to midtown Manhattan. "We are the 99 percent, too!" proclaimed Adele Higgins, a Stunt Foodways activist who, like many in the movement, advocate using the whole animal when cooking, among other things. Higgins and fellow Stunt Foodists found in the now familiar Occupy Wall Street rallying cry a demand they could relate to, and they took to the streets today. Higgins chose only the Primal Cuts grid as a costume--but elected to wear gloves to ward off the cold.

(courtesy The Huff Post)

NEW YORK — Hundreds of protesters, emboldened by the growing national Occupy Wall Street movement, streamed through midtown Manhattan on Tuesday in what they called a "Millionaires March."

They marched two by two up the sidewalk, planning to pass the homes of some of New York City's wealthiest residents. An organizer said they didn't have a permit and wanted to avoid blocking pedestrian traffic.

"No Billionaire Left Behind," said a placard hoisted by Arlene Geiger, who teaches economics at Manhattan's John Jay College of Criminal Justice.

Protesters expressed concern about how much less the wealthy will pay – and who would be negatively affected – when New York's 2 percent "millionaires' tax" expires in December.

In the closest they've come to naming names, the protesters planned to visit the homes of News Corp. CEO Rupert Murdoch, JP Morgan Chase CEO Jamie Dimon and oil tycoon David Koch, among others.

Protesters have been camped out for weeks in lower Manhattan's Zuccotti Park, near Wall Street, saying they're fighting for the "99 percent," or the vast majority of Americans who do not fall into the wealthiest 1 percent of the population.

Lisa just loves the greenmarket on Cortelyou Road. Every Sunday she returns with a report about how it has grown, or how busy it is. She presents the week’s trophy fruit or vegetable. This week Lisa said she’d purchased the most gorgeous fish. She called it a striper. I smirked. Nobody sells whole stripers at the greenmarket. Hours passed. Lisa worked intensely cleaning up after the painters. Howard Hall was more in the weeds than usual. The playroom ceiling had been replaced.

I did nothing. Worse than nothing, I played SPORE for the entire afternoon (I’d ordered the game when it first came out, but was only now trying it out. It’s completely absorbing).

The sun set. The kids argued. “So are you gonna cook this fish, or what?” demanded Lisa.

“Me?” shaking free from the care and feeding of my gayly painted two-legged carnivore with antlers, long, bony hands for grasping and nasty biting teeth. “I’m cooking the fish?”

“It’s too big for me to cook. And its got scales.”

“What is it?”

“I told you, a striper.”

“A bass? You mean a ‘sea bass.'”

“A striped bass.”

“Like this?” I asked, holding my hands seven inches apart.

“Much bigger.”



I held my hands nine inches apart. Lisa shook her head.

“A legal striped bass is 28 inches minimum.”

“At least.” Lisa nodded her head.

You bought a wild bass at the greenmarket? Not scaled? Is it gutted?”

“Nope,” said Lisa losing patience with my condescending questions. “The lady said it wasn’t hard to do.”

“It’s not, if you’ve done it a hundred times, but it’s always messy as hell.”

“Forget it!” Lisa stormed. “I thought it’d be fun. I’ll just throw it away. We’ll just have chicken fingers.”

“Throw it AWAY? A striper? Shit.”

“Forget it. You don’t have to do anything. I will. Just tell me how.”

“Tell you how?”

No problem, I taunted, all you need to do is remove the fins, scrape every single last scale of four square feet of fish skin, cut it from its gills to its anus and tug free a couple-three handfuls of icy cold fish guts. Oh, and then clean the god forsaken mess up before even turning on the stove. All at 6:30 on a Sunday. With that I stormed into the garage, found a ten-penny nail and a framing hammer, grabbed the fish (sure enough it had the tin taglooped from gob to gill vent) from on top of the cooler.

“Nice fish,” I said, impressed.

“I told you,” said Lisa.

I nailed the fish’s tail to the fence, turned to Lisa who was cold, and heading back inside. “No way. If I’m going to process this fish in the dark, you’re holding the flashlight.”

After some to-do I recovered two respectable fillets. After pawning off the guts and carcass on the chickens, I picked what remained of the broad leaves from the spindly fig tree and washed my hands and the leaves thoroughly. I sliced the fillets into single-serving pieces and then placed alternating layers–fig leaves, seasoned fish, olive oil–until the baking dish was full. The fish baked at a high heat to draw out the flavor and aroma from the fig leaves. I served it all with baked spaghetti squash seasoned with Chinese Five Spice (fennel, cloves, and cinnamon, star anise and Szechuan peppercorns) and steamed broccoli. (7 servings in 50 minutes, not including fish processing)

Related articles

Striped Bass Fly Fishing Tips (mademan.com)

Lisa just loves the greenmarket on Cortelyou Road. Every Sunday she returns with a report about how it has grown, or how busy it is. She presents the week's trophy fruit or vegetable. This week Lisa said she'd purchased the most gorgeous fish. She called it a striper. I smirked. Nobody sells whole stripers at the greenmarket. Hours passed. Lisa worked intensely cleaning up after the painters. Howard Hall was more in the weeds than usual. The playroom ceiling had been replaced.

I did nothing. Worse than nothing, I played SPORE for the entire afternoon (I'd ordered the game when it first came out, but was only now trying it out. It's completely absorbing).

The sun set. The kids argued. "So are you gonna cook this fish, or what?" demanded Lisa.

"Me?" shaking free from the care and feeding of my gayly painted two-legged carnivore with antlers, long, bony hands for grasping and nasty biting teeth. "I'm cooking the fish?"

"It's too big for me to cook. And its got scales."

"What is it?"

"I told you, a striper."

"A bass? You mean a 'sea bass.'"

"A striped bass."

"Like this?" I asked, holding my hands seven inches apart.

"Much bigger."



I held my hands nine inches apart. Lisa shook her head.

"A legal striped bass is 28 inches minimum."

"At least." Lisa nodded her head.

You bought a wild bass at the greenmarket? Not scaled? Is it gutted?"

"Nope," said Lisa losing patience with my condescending questions. "The lady said it wasn't hard to do."

"It's not, if you've done it a hundred times, but it's always messy as hell."

"Forget it!" Lisa stormed. "I thought it'd be fun. I'll just throw it away. We'll just have chicken fingers."

"Throw it AWAY? A striper? Shit."

"Forget it. You don't have to do anything. I will. Just tell me how."

"Tell you how?"

No problem, I taunted, all you need to do is remove the fins, scrape every single last scale of four square feet of fish skin, cut it from its gills to its anus and tug free a couple-three handfuls of icy cold fish guts. Oh, and then clean the god forsaken mess up before even turning on the stove. All at 6:30 on a Sunday. With that I stormed into the garage, found a ten-penny nail and a framing hammer, grabbed the fish (sure enough it had the tin taglooped from gob to gill vent) from on top of the cooler.

"Nice fish," I said, impressed.

"I told you," said Lisa.

I nailed the fish's tail to the fence, turned to Lisa who was cold, and heading back inside. "No way. If I'm going to process this fish in the dark, you're holding the flashlight."

After some to-do I recovered two respectable fillets. After pawning off the guts and carcass on the chickens, I picked what remained of the broad leaves from the spindly fig tree and washed my hands and the leaves thoroughly. I sliced the fillets into single-serving pieces and then placed alternating layers–fig leaves, seasoned fish, olive oil–until the baking dish was full. The fish baked at a high heat to draw out the flavor and aroma from the fig leaves. I served it all with baked spaghetti squash seasoned with Chinese Five Spice (fennel, cloves, and cinnamon, star anise and Szechuan peppercorns) and steamed broccoli. (7 servings in 50 minutes, not including fish processing)

Related articles

Striped Bass Fly Fishing Tips (mademan.com)

Whether it's continuing education classes, or competitions at food events, evidence of a growing interest in the nearly-lost art of animal butchery is all around us. Leave it to the folks at Schleich, the same forward-thinking German toy designers who brought us the Smurfs, to anticipate a child's curiosity in the burgeoning trend.

And leave it to the crack team of investigative reporters here at stuntfoodways.com to secure the first images of this secret new toy line. Made from the same highly detailed, quality casting that has made the toy line a favorite of deep-pocketed parents the world over, a new line, Primal Cuts, now offers kids a toy with all the classic primal cuts clearly delineated on the hide of a cow, pig and sheep.

Cow with beef primal cuts chart

Pig with pork primal cuts chart







mutton with chart

The line (rumored to be expanding to lamb, chickens, ducks, turkeys, rabbits, goats and possibly a horse) encourages kids to identify the source of those cuts of meat they eat every day (below right).

The new toy line allows kids to identify and locate the cuts of meat they eat everyday

An ambitious youngster can even use the clearly marked charts to memorize each cut (left).

Each toy comes with its own primal cut chart so kids can study and memorize every cut right down to the brisket

We at Stunt Foodways cheer the progressive thinking of the good folks in Schwäbisch Gmünd who are working to make learning about the harvesting and butchery of animal protein fun. High quality cuts of meat have always been enjoyable; now, with the new Primal Cuts line of domesticated animals, meat can also be a game.

Of course, not everybody approves of the new line. British television personality, celebrity pin-up and Peta activist Jodie Marsh has responded to the new Primal Cuts toy line by (apparently) tattooing her naked body with a primal cuts chart. This dedicated act of protest was, in all likelihood, undertaken before elective surgery to greatly increase the size of her breasts

Peta activist Jodie Marsh tattoos entire body with primal cut chart to protest German toy manufacturer's new line

At press time neither Jodie Marsh nor her representative at Intrigue Management could be reached for comment, though Marsh, has been outspoken in support of the rights of food animals including chicken in the past.

It's a big world full of people.

Related articles

If I Were A Smurf (riggledo.com)
What are the schleich animals coming out in 2011 (wiki.answers.com)

Image by artie* via Flickr

This Year's celebration of the culinary inside-job and tight, cropped white jeans, was celebrated on June first. The location of the Le Diner en Blanc is shared with participants just one hour before the event. This year two locations were arranged: Cathédral de Notre Dame–above–and Cour Carrée du Louvre (an inner courtyard of  the Louvre),

The challenge for diners is to get the tables and chairs set up and the food served before the cops arrive. Once underway the police will not (dare?) disrupt the meal. One stuntfoodways source with a seat at the Louvre estimated the crowd at nearly 8,000 Some estimates put total at 12,000. The event is 2o years-old this summer and has already been  in Lyon, Amsterdam, Munich, Zürich, Quebec City and Montreal.

On August 25, 2011 there's a plan afoot to hold the cloak-and-dagger dinner in NYC. Is there really already a waiting list? …We shall see.

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Now that's a picnic… (cindywall.wordpress.com)
Dîner en Blanc (…et noir) (portraitsofstrangers.wordpress.com)

We hosted a memorial day crawfish (crayfish?  i'm going with crawfish, but go crazy if you need to) boil.  I had not had crawfish for a very long time and figured it was a good time to eat some.  (figured is a southern term for "I thought it was a good idea" just like "fixin to" means getting ready or going to do something)  Anyway, I called up some friends with New Orleans ties and surfed some sites for info on getting crawfish.  The local fishmongers all said the same thing, that gas prices where to high to justify running small batches of crawfish.  I decided on LACrawfish Company. (check the spelling!)  I did some more research on appropriate quantities for a party and got all sorts of conflicting reports from 2 lb per person to 7 lb per person.  My wife and I came up with a list of people to invite and I ordered 50 lb of crawfish, as looking at the website it looks like one big sack of crawfish.  I ordered early in the week with saturday delivery, airport pickup was cheaper so I went with that.   I had to have them delivered on Saturday as FedEx wouldn't be available on Sunday or Monday (Memorial Day).  Turns out that airport pickup means at the FedEx facility that is 5 minutes from my house so bonus!  I drove down Saturday 9:30 am and strolled into the facility.  Once I told them what I was picking up they mentioned the "huge seafood package."  They wheeled out the foam casket that was my shipment and let me use the dolly to get into the car.   I brought the casket home and opened it up to reveal two large sacks of very pissed off crawfish.

Angry Crawfish

Angry Crawfish

Healthy and Alive, and yes angry.  From this point on It was a matter of keeping them alive till Memorial day.  I put each sack in it's own cooler, (I left one sack in the original foam casket) and rotated ice and cold packs for the next two days.  I panicked a couple of times as the crawfish where silent when the cooler was opened, but upon stimulating then (easy now… just poking them a bit… seriously grow up) they sprang to activity, apparently just too cold.  We had several cancellations for the party as the date approached and it became clear (to my wife) that we where going to have too much food.  I had bought some sausages from Belmont Butchery which I had planned on grilling with some clams, but as I prepared to go out the door to the seafood shop for clams my wife stoped me cold and pretty much kiboshed the idea of more food.  I admit I was a bit put out, but begrudgingly agreed to not have more food.  (Grilled clams and sausage is going to happen this summer at some point though)  Monday came around and what do you know, hottest day in the new summer, I think it got up to 98 deg Farenheit.  I went out and cleaned up the pool and grill area, gathered wood to, of all hairbrained things, light a fire.  I planned to cook the crawfish in my Cowboy Cauldron.   I rinsed and flushed the mud out of the crawfish.

I cleaned and chopped some corn.

Once I got the fire going beneath the cauldron I noticed I wasn't feeling so great.  I had breakfast but not lunch as the party was schedulled to begin at 3 pm.  I went in and told my wife I was a dehydrated, my daughter made me drink some water and some electrolyte water (smart water and gatorade), and I started to feel a bit better.  People started to arrive and I fired up the grill and two extra pots of water to boil the crawfish.  I divided the potato, corn, andoui sausage and seasoning amongst the three cooking areas, cauldron and grill.  I also made some spicy dip from a jar of rocotto pepper puree, queso fresco and lime, all pureed in a blender.  Went great with the potato and the crawfish tails.

And ran back and forth between the crawfish, cauldron and grill… with occasional dips in the pool.  I nearly burned the grilling sausage,  as I tried to keep an eye on multiple cooking sites, and then really began to feel poorly.  I was drinking water and my daughter asked me why the water was shaking… I couldn't stop trembling… I doubled up on the water intake and took a break in the pool.  My wife worriedly looked me over and asked me if I was OK.  I probably wasn't but I didn't want to disappoint the guests.  Who by the way where devouring crawfish.  I had a pair of leather gloves on so I could scoop the bastards into a colander and the into the boiling seasoned water.  I stayed away from the beer and alcohol and tried to stay alive as I continued to cook… it soon became apparent to me that 50lb of crawfish is a shitload of mudbugs, there was no way in hell that 1. I could cook all of them in one afternoon, 2. that they would all be eaten in one afternoon with the number of people present. and  3. this shit might kill me.

I decided to stop cooking, get away from heat sources and spent the remainder of the gig, eating crawfish in the pool.  I had to rally to cleanup,  feeling rather shaky I didn't chase the escaping crawfish in the yard… maybe they have set up a renegade clan in our creek.  I put away a ton of crawfish to clean and reserve for another day, along with leftover potato and corn.

This is the first time I felt that my health was in jeopardy from prepping for a party, despite that the gig went great (probably with the exception of my wife saying "if you go down who is going to pick you up?"  Despite the risk on life and limb,  we are considering doing it again next year just with half the amount of crawfish and hopefully less heat.