Messy Mussel Sunday

Sitting at our high-top dinner table, with wine coated fingers flinging potent drops of mussel juice about the table; he said, “We love making a mess, don’t we!?” And for once, my not-so-articulate boyfriend had said the words to properly sum up our cooking adventures.

Yet another Sunday evening food adventure, resulting in kitchen catastrophe. Two pounds of mussels and half a pound of grouper in the fridge, and with an interview looming on my mind, I was looking for anything to distract me. Thus, what led me to a number of websites searching for an authentic moules Mariniere recipe.

Never having been able to successfully make mussels and pomme frites that tasted anything close to the paper baskets that filled my hands while in France, I attempted another try. I’m embarrassed at how surprisingly easy it is to achieve the true flavors. The secret and key ingredient to this recipe, which is considered to be a blue-collared dish in France, is shallots. We had a few rotting in the back of the fridge, a quick clean-up adding two garlic cloves and a chop through the Cuisinart, the mixture was added to melting butter that soon turned in to a fragrantly steaming pot of heaven. I knew that I had done something right, continuing with the addition of about half a bottle of wine, bringing to a boil, tossing in the mussels, another splash of wine on top and closing my pot of cold mussels. Meanwhile mixing my garlic and butter in the Cuisinart for yet another loaf of garlic bread, this one a bit more traditional and simple than last weeks, and keeping my fingers crossed that the ingredients were welding together in a fury of white wine steam. Keeping my paws busy elsewhere- I turned around to the most delightful surprise on my stove! I didn’t think that such simple steps could yield such beauty, however when I saw the shells opened wide, exposing the delicately swollen and plump mussels, I knew that finally, I had done something right. Mentioning this because the fear of failure that evidently looms in the atmosphere of a testing kitchen, when other options for dinner are not readily available- rather unexplainable to an unhappy boyfriend—is a consequence that I sometimes face. But, with my fathers words in mind, “you can’t go wrong with butter and garlic,” I continued in confidence.

Using a slotted spoon to drain the mussels out of the pot, keeping the heat on, in order to plop two nice pieces of grouper in the mussel broth. These too, were steamed and puckered up when ready to be eaten. Placing the fish on top of the bowl of mussels, pouring the entire pan of wine broth, steaming that heavenly scent, signaling that dinner was served. By now, my garlic bread was just about to burn- I always seem to catch it close! Tearing the hot loaf into three hunks and inserting them around the edges of the bowl, their tips sitting in the broth, soaking up the juices. Now, had I had the ingredient, adding handfuls of freshly chopped Italian flat parsley along the way, had made for not only a colorful splash, but also a tasty addition. Having lacked that, I have to say that it was just fine without.

Ten steamy minutes later, our table was a mess, and with one look in to the kitchen, Chris made his comment. Making a mess in a relationship may be inevitable, but making it together in our kitchen has only made us stronger- and our bellies more satisfied!

Chrissy Omo and her Cheese Farm!

Exhausted after a flight from Miami in to Austin, and a long drive to my parents’ town in the hill country of Texas, they drove me straight to their precinct insisting that they get my vote in before the caucus was to close. After hours of unsuccessful chaos, a mouth-watering meal of pho the size of a fish tank, seared duck breast with plum sauce on an arugula salad, bottle of malbec, and a fiery plate of basil beef from August E’s- Fredericksburg’s hottest new restaurant- my body was ready to retire.

A refreshing sleep, only to be awoken by my sixty-one year old father, risen at sun-rise, ready to take “the day to its knees,” as he would say. Dressed in running gear, I realized that if I took half an hour getting ready, he would have already become too impatient and would have left for his run without me. Lucky for me, my strategy was achieved and when he came in sweating I sat satisfied in the kitchen, cup of coffee, filled with relaxation. That is—until I heard what was next on the agenda! I was to be picking up my boyfriend at the airport that afternoon, so when my father suggested that we all make the road trip together, and casually stop at a “goat cheese farm” along the way- I was a bit hesitant. Taken by surprise, I was simply happy to hear that the goat cheese part would be over before my boyfriend arrived- as he will have no part in anything to do with goat.

Another winding road trip through the hills of central Texas lead us to a farm where goats greeted us at the door of our car as opposed to dogs- like most homes. Alarmed at first, Chrissy simply implied that they wouldn’t hurt, and indeed you are encouraged to treat them as if they were pets. Chrissy is the young woman who practically runs the entire goat cheese farm- CKC Farms; everything from the milking to the churning, to the creations of flavors, gaining her skills from traveling in Italy.

I say young, because Chrissy is younger than me, and many of you know—I am only twenty-two years old. She and I hit it off as friendly young women would, and then suddenly a wisely mature young adult developed before my eyes. Her business goals, her gratefulness for her family, and willingness to work hard, were all qualities that are rare to find in a young woman. Sitting with a smile on my face, tasting her incredible samples- my favorite being the ash-coated chevre- I saw a woman who I not only admired, but also related to, and in that moment I felt incredibly comfortable in her warm aura of talent and confidence.