Hedonia

Ropa vieja: Cuban shredded beef

I won't pussyfoot around it: I'm royally pissed about Prop 8. I'm pissed that that many people in the state of California are so blinded by religious doctrine. I'm pissed that they're so impressionable and prone to accepting blatant lies as truth. I'm pissed that barely 50% of registered voters in San Francisco bothered to give a damn. And I'm pissed that more people are concerned about the well-being of chickens destined for our plates than in the fundamental rights of actual human beings living in this state. (Mind you, I did vote for the chickens, too!)

But what really stuck in my craw most of all was the surprise. I sincerely believed that this whole elimination-of-human-rights thing would all blow over, that people would see reason and be able to make rational decisions. And above all, I was surprised at how powerful the emotional impact was. It's one thing to live your life without a fundamental right. It's not appropriate or just, but you just sort of accept it. However, it is altogether another matter to have something given, then abruptly taken away. I can tell you now, having fought back tears of rage all day on November 5, I understand prejudice in an entirely new light as of now. I want to say it left me speechless, but that is clearly not the case.

Hey, you know who else used to have rights, then had them unjustly taken away? Cubans! (You like the segueway? Didja see that coming?) Yes, like the gays, Cubans once had a swingin' good time until a group of radical asshats spoiled the party. Like the gays, Cubans have a penchant for soulful music and refreshing cocktails. Unlike the gays, Cubans have retained a rich culinary heritage that remains unspoiled in the era of carb-Nazism.

Perhaps the quintessential Cuban main is ropa vieja, strips of beef cooked with peppers until tender, then shredded. The name translates to "old clothes," referring to the rag-like texture of the broken-down meat. 

My fabulous friend David has fabulous Cuban parents. How fabulous? Well, his mother is an opera diva, for starters, and his father is by all accounts a very good cook. It's through him that I learned of the Taste of Cuba website, which he mines for recipes from their homeland. I used their ropa vieja recipe as the foundation for my adaptation. 

It's not a pretty dish, but it is very much a tasty one. It's also super easy. Best of all, it's another excellent candidate for our new favorite toy, the pressure cooker. (Though it's equally well suited to the slow cooker or just on the stovetop.) Enjoy it with some Spanish rice, washed down with a nice Cuba Libre, or whatever libation you require to soothe the wounds of injustice.

Diets, wraps and the alcoholiday

Long overdue, I have decided to start watching my (our) intake and try to get a handle on the slow but steady weight gain that's been getting the better of us both. I'm not a diet kind of guy -- self-restraint is hardly my strong suit -- and I despise all those fad diets that involve either categorically eliminating or overconsuming one thing or another. Atkins? Feh. Carbs are food, people.

The other reason to cast such a critical eye on our food is that DPaul has been given two new medications for his back problem. One gives you a false sense of hunger, specifically for carbs. The other can cause unexplained weight gain. Great combo.

So the two-pronged approach is simple: Firstly, I am back to tracking points on Weight Watchers. It's not perfect, but it does help you make decisions about where to put your caloric investments, and it's worked for me in the past. 

The thing is with Weight Watchers is that, the less you weigh, the fewer points you get. Now, I'm a man of small stature, and though I want to drop a few pounds I am hardly obese. So I am allotted a mere 20 points a day. Tuesday I went to the Farmers Market and got a lamb sausage at Prather Ranch. Hm, lessee ... 12 points. Good sausage, bad diet food. Good thing I didn't have a Coke with that sausage.

The second thing is moderation of alcohol. Now, DPaul and I like the occasional drink, and lately there have been a lot of occasions. So we're setting boundaries, what we call company rules, or alcoholiday. Basically, it means that if we are home alone, just ourselves, no alcohol, period. If there's company, or we go out, then we can drink. And of course, at least for me, those drinks have to fit within my points limitations.

(There is a bylaw to company rules, and that is vacation rules: All bets off when you're on vacation, and pick up the pieces when you return.)

And there you have it. Two days in so far, and we haven't killed each other yet.

And so the wrap. I am mildly embarassed to say that the inspiration for this came from a dish I had at the clubhouse of the resort where my father's wedding was held. The menu was funny -- there were groupings of salads, sandwiches and entrees, and if you looked carefully they were basically repeats of each dish in each category, just composed differently. Those crafy Coloradans.

So I pulled out a flank steak from the freezer (and I think there's maybe one or more left in there yet), and I had gotten some cracking good, peppery arugula at the farmers market. OK, we're halfway there. Reminds me of a fantastic salad I had in Florence -- arugula, grilled steak and shavings of parmesan.

But I had a wrap in mind, and a wrap I made. This is where it goes all Olive Garden. You know, how they take traditional Italian, or at least Italian-sounding  things, recombine them with other Italian or even non-Italian things, and derive a dish that is somehow new but familiar (if not appetizing). Like Chicken Scampi Penne Alfredo, or whatever. Let's call this the Southwest Tuscan Rancho Wrap. Catchy, no?

Steak, grilled. Lovely Ella Bella dry-farmed Early Girl tomatoes, sliced and seeded. Magic sauce for which I could not possibly recount a recipe, done. Arugula at the ready.

I only wish my wrapping technique were better than it is. My plan was to make neat, tight little wraps that I could lightly griddle to crisp up the outsides, but in the end I got kind of awkward, wide wraps that wouldn't stay closed too well. But what matters is that they tasted good. And at by my reckoning about 8 points, I can swing it at dinner. As long as I don't have a lamb sausage at lunch.

Herby beeffalo burgers

Sweet Georgia Brown, it's been hot around here. Saturday, temperatures in Noe Valley got up to 102º, I'm told, and I certainly believe it. We live in a top-floor unit with a tar roof and windows to the east and west, so there was just no help in sight. We watched the temperature on our thermostat rise through the 80s and 90s until ... oops! It only goes to 94º. Everything above that was just "OL" for overload. We were in OL for roughly 6 hours, and I don't doubt for a moment that we broke the 100 mark, perhaps by quite a lot. Sitting in front of our lone fan in the kitchen was no help, as all it did was blast searing hot air into our faces.

We survived, but there were casualties. At one point I entered the kitchen and noticed that wine was leaking from two of the bottles on our rack. The heat had caused the wine to expand, putting pressure on the corks. The bottles that were obviously affected were not ones I particularly cared about, but I hope some of the bottom-rack stuff didn't get too cooked. We immediately shuttled most of it to the basement, and stuck some in the fridge for safe keeping. Guess it's time to invest in a wine cellar.