gravy Tag

Boneless “turkey purse” w/ stuffings and peppercorn gravy

”  An completely boneless, flabby, perfect roasting pouch engineered by nature that is 360 degrees encased in skins, ripe for any stuffings and cooks in one hour only  “

Be hold, the answer is here.

If you are one who is unreasonably attached to the grunt and unpredictability of the Thanksgiving turkey tradition, look away.  For this post could and will impose onto you, the liberation from the struggle.

For this point on, you will no longer look at turkey in the same light; you will no longer see it as a rigid object that takes an enormous space in the fridge to brine, a conductor of anxiety that takes forever to cook in the oven, a pending obstacle course that requires professional skills to carve.  No you will no longer.

From this point on, you will witness the way of turning turkey into an utterly boneless, malleable, flabby sack of skin and meat; deflated, deconstructed, a perfect roasting pouch engineered by nature that is 360 degrees encased in skins; a floppy blob that takes up little space in the fridge; a miraculous poultry-pocket ripe for any stuffings of your choosing and cook gloriously and evenly in the oven, if you can believe it, in one hour only; an epic center piece that is as easy to carve — for it has no bones! — as a loaf of sourdough bread.  And if you have chosen to honor it with my pick of the trade, it will open up to a wild rice stuffing that is diabolically jam-packed with fried garlics and whole soft-boiled eggs, paired with an incredibly floral and peppery gravy tinged with Sichuan peppercorns.  Best of all, mostly done the day before.

I call it, the turkey purse.  And it will put your next talk-of-the-town Thanksgiving in the bag.

But no thanks needed.  You’re very welcome.

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London, barely, plus Yorkshire pudding and my Sunday roast

Some of you may have noticed, that this series of travel-diary/recipe-exploration on the three fabulous European cities I visited last month, is actually going in reversed orders.  Reasonable doubts would suggest that I’m saving London for last, but truth is… it’s because I’m struggling to remember any of it.

Before Lisbon, before Madrid, going backwards in sequence, we actually arrived in London first, this posh and thrilling British gentleman that I’ve always had a crush on from afar.  But turned out, we didn’t arrive alone.  Came with us, was a persistent, cunning and serpent-like seasonal flu which already found us to be very amiable hosts back in Hong Kong, then apparently, took an even deeper liking in the unpredictable and drizzling British weather and decided to extend its stay for our next several miserable days.  What is it that they say here?  Blimey, fucking wanker.  Yes, very well put.  Although, in the flu’s defence, it did embody a certain level of traveller’s enthusiasm and took us for a joyride to all the most notable drugstores that London had to offer (Boots, you’re a doll).  However, beyond which, it showed lacking interests in just about anything else.  Museums?  Charming little street?  No, flu wanted to stay home and suck fingers.  Bloody hell, you bag o’ shite.

(poetry, British profanity is poetry)

So I’m sorry, London (and the ones who fell ill on the tube going from West Kensington to London Bridge on Dec 22nd around 1 pm…  It was me).  Because I could only sort of remember you as a beautifully wetted city of yellow bricks and steels under an eternal overcast, or as least so you were every chance I looked, mostly up from a pile of tissue-ruins through my watery and bacteria-infested eyes.  Were you a bit blurry or was it me?

THIS THING THEY CALL, YORKSHIRE PUDDINGS… THE AIR BALOON-EQUIVALENT OF PASTRY… ONLY THAT IT IS EGGY, CRISPY, FLUFFY AND SO MUCH BETTER THAN I EXPECTED

I did see though, a couple of the important stuffs.  The Borough MarketDuke of York Square MarketSt. John Bread & Wine… made the pilgrimage.  And the more I scratched over the surface of all the excitements, wonderful smells of cheeses and seared meats, captivatingly unique architectures, and the deeply profound culture underneath it all that London has to offer, the angrier I was that I didn’t have the energy to explore further.  So much to see, so little life.  This isn’t an excuse, London!  You weren’t the best mate to help sort out a flu and you bloody well know it!

And here I am, one month later, flu-free and apologetic, I figure the least I could do is not to insult London by pretending that I have anything insightful to say.  In fact, the only tribute I could pay is to say this…  Regardless of the experience I had, immobile or even if it was well explored, I feel London is the kind of city that will always leave me feeling hungry for more.  More to eat, more to see, more to pry out of the maze of bricks and steels, and just when you thought you had it figured out, there it is, another discovery.

I hope I see you again, London.  I know, I will see you again.  But next time, summer perhaps.

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BREAKFAST SAUSAGE BISCUIT GRAVY CASSEROLE

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I know that you know how it feels, to be nagged by your tireless other half on executing tasks that the difficulty of which, he/she has absolutely no idea of.  This is no doubt an important subject that touches the very fabric of the marriage establishment, a possible and perhaps convincing argument made by the anti-commitment party, as one of the many fears that they don’t want to be trapped with.  But for the rest of us, I’d like to say I, I know how you feel…  To elaborate on such subject more personally, I’m once again, reminded that there’s a crucial member behind Lady and Pups whose profile, you may not have been properly introduced.

Jason, this is everybody.  Everybody, Jason my husband.

Jason my husband, who thinks it would be tremendously cool, you know as a side-hobby of this nocturnal creatureto invest every possible weekend-mornings on the driving-range together on his visions to become… the couple who golfs.  Jason my husband, who thinks it would be only fitting as our retirement blueprints, for me to finally open and run a restaurant/his personal whisky bar, and simultaneously, without saying of course, raise a whole ranch of organic kettles on the side.  Jason who doesn’t cook, but for the life of him, cannot understand why this house doesn’t serve freshly baked bar nuts.  Jason who thinks, since I already bake cookies and make pies, why not start producing, from scratch…

… our very own sausages.

THE KIND THAT WOULD TURN MY KITCHEN INTO DEXTER’S WET DREAM,

AND ME, THE THINGS HE STUFFS INTO PLASTIC BAGS.

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justly gravy

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We can at least all agree that it sucks to live under someone else’s shadow right?  It’s a cruel life to carry if you know that you’ll forever be on the edge of someone else’s spotlight.  Does anyone aspire to be Robin who always looks comparatively ridiculous in his spandex and at least one foot shorter than Batman?  Whoever marries Prince Harry… well good luck, and frankly it makes you a loser if you are dating Harry Potter’s best friend What’s-his-name.  As personal experience goes, it’s quite depressing being my right face as my left-side always gets the photo-ops (shrugging my left shoulder).

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