Mastering the Joy of Julia

Having prepared a multitude of recipes from Mastering the Art of French Cooking, I finally decided to tackle the notorious Pâté de Canard en Croûte -- the boned, stuffed duck in pastry that seemed so frighteningly daunting to Julie Powell in the film, Julie and Julia. 

However, a pâté, no matter how extravagant or daunting, just didn’t seem like it could be the main feature of a meal. I decided to go “over the top” with an all-out Julia extravaganza for this event. After all, Julia always advised, "everything in moderation -- including moderation." So, in the vein of obligatory immoderation, one recipe from Mastering just wouldn’t do; I went for seven.

“Over the top” meant that the famous Pâté de Canard en Croûte would be the appetizer. 

Fortunately, I prepared the pastry the night before. The steps in preparing the pâté seemed to be a never-ending story. Of course, we all know about the “boning of the duck,” so here it is from start to finish. (Many thanks to my friend, Steve, for the video production. The music was performed and recorded by yours truly.)

Vegetarians may want to look away at this point:

Let me just say that ducks are very well-constructed little beasts; much more so than their chicken cousins.

Monsieur duck was now de-boned and ready for the veal and pork pâté -- oh, and it's a pâté that also contains truffles, although Julia writes that they are an “optional extravagance.” Since I was going all-out, I had a jar containing two truffles at hand -- extravagant, indeed. 

Once the pâté was placed inside, it was time to stitch it up. However, my makeshift trussing needle kept catching on the skin of the duck and was in danger of tearing it. It was then that my friend, Steve, gently reminded me that he was quite adept at suturing animals; after all, he is a veterinarian for crying out loud. I happily handed the task at hand over to him. (Hint: Preparation of Pâté de Canard en Croûte requires an actual trussing needle – that, or a veterinarian on standby). 

Armed with a pair of pliers and my makeshift needle, Steve expertly went to work. 

“Someday I’ll get you down to the clinic and have you stitch up a cat,” he said without looking up. 

After the duck was professionally sutured, I was able to truss it using butcher’s knots. Julia didn’t mention that it would resemble a giant larva. 

It was at that precise moment that I realized I had forgotten to include my extravagant truffles! 

Mistakes happen in the kitchen. They certainly happened to Julia and on PBS television to boot. But my truffles? 

“No apologies,” as Julia had often said. I realized this could be a happy mistake. As much as truffles cost, they might as well be noticed rather than diced up in the pâté. I would simply feature a slice or two on each serving later on. Prominently.   

The giant larva was browned, cooled, en-croûted, decorated, and egg-washed.

After baking and letting it cool, here’s a proud guy with his Mastering masterpiece. 

Another friend arrived a couple of hours before the meal. She’s an excellent cook and I was only too happy to have an extra pair of hands on hand. I’m fine with preparing a meal, but last-minute sauces, plating up, and I tend to cower under a table. 

My friend, Steve the veterinarian, also sets a lovely table and for that, I am eternally grateful. 

The meal for eight began with an amuse-bouche of small toasts topped with horseradish sour cream and black caviar accompanied by tiny shots of icy-cold Stolichnaya vodka – a very happy and effective way of amusing the bouches of one’s guests I might add. 

It was time for the pâté. Since the duck-encased pâté is baked in its pastry sarcophagus while trussed, one must de-truss it before serving. Julia instructs us to cut the top of the pastry off, retrieve the trussed pâté, remove the strings, return the pâté to the pastry, return the top of the pastry to its place, present it to the guests and slice it at the table. 

All I have to say is, "Rub a lamp, Julia."

The pâté and the bottom of the pastry had fused and become one. There was no removing of the pâté without destroying the pastry. Guests were waiting. 

The pâté was removed, sliced, adorned with awaiting truffles and served with a dry Italian sparkling red – sans croûte.

 

After all, the pâté itself was a slice of juicy, porky, ducky heaven. The croute would have been a pasty afterthought.  Again – no apologies.

Next, Soupe à l’oignon. No gratinée or crouton included; just the luscious, oniony soup served along with a dry California chardonnay (2010 Bin 36 Monterey Chardonnay.)

Main event: Sauté de Boeuf à la Parisienne -- beef filet with mushrooms in a port and cream sauce. It’s one of my favorite entrees of Julia’s and, surprisingly, relatively quick and easy to prepare (Nigella Lawson, take note). Served with asparagus with beurre blanc, pommes de terre Parisienne, petit choux au fromage, it was a meal that pretty well epitomized what our Julia was all about. 

 

 A 2009 Domaine Chêne Bourgogne Pinot Noir was luxurious and just acidic enough to stand up to the cream and butter sauces.

Bavarois Praliné (almond praline Bavarian cream) is my go-to dessert, as much of it can be prepared the day before. 

With all the requisite steps (toasting almonds, making a caramel, beating egg whites, whipping cream, preparing a custard and a Crème Anglaise), one really should prepare it the day before. Trust me. 

Why not end such a meal with a dessert containing twelve egg yolks? Remember, obligatory immoderation.

Sortilège is a maple syrup and whiskey liqueur that has been produced by our Canadian friends for over 300 years and is a favorite of mine that is always kept on hand. It never ceases to invoke ooohs and aaahs from every guest, so of course, it accompanied the Bavarian cream. The expected ooohs and aaahs ensued.  

Laughter among friends poured into the night. My feet and back were sore from day’s preparation, but it’s a small price to pay; the payoff of sharing such a meal with friends one loves is priceless. 

 True, I knew how to cook before encountering Julia Child. However, I’m still happily learning to Master the Joy of Julia. 

 

Julia Child Extravaganza

As I mentioned before, I'll be preparing an "over the top" Julia Child meal this coming Saturday for eight guests. I just bought truffles for the Pâté de Canard en Croûte. (Ouch.)

Here's the menu:

Amuse Bouche: Sturgeon caviar, tiny shots of very cold Stolichnaya vodka

Appetizer: Pâté de Canard en Croûte -- the infamous boned, stuffed duck in pastry featured in the movie, Julie and Julia.

 

Wine: A very dry Uruguayan sparkling red. 

Soup: Soupe a l'Oignon -- French onion soup.

Wine: 2010 Bin 36 Monterey Chardonnay

Entree: Sauté de Boeuf à la Parisienne -- beef filet with mushrooms in a port and cream sauce.

Sides: Asparagus with beurre blanc, pommes Parisienne, petit choux au fromage. 

Wine: 2009 Domaine Chêne Bourgogne Pinot Noir

Dessert: Bavarois aux Praline -- Almond praline Bavarian cream. 

Liqueur: Sortilège - A maple syrup and whiskey liqueur 

Let the games begin!

Confronting the Duck

Well, this is exciting. I’ve been selected by my blog-sponsor, Foodbuzz, to be one of twenty-four bloggers to prepare an “over-the-top” meal on February 25^th. Since our Julia is near and dear to my heart, my event will be titled, Mastering the Joy of Julia and will feature six recipes from Mastering.

I’m sure many of you remember the film, Julie and Julia, in which the Julia character kept putting off the recipe in which she had to de-bone a duck. The recipe is actually Pâté de Canard en Croûte which is the de-boned duck stuffed with duck pâté, wrapped in pastry and baked. 

I’m serving it as the appetizer for my meal on the 25^th. Like I said – over the top. 

Having remembered Julie’s trepidation over this endeavor, I decided to do a bit of rehearsing with a practice-duck. Then, having shelled out twenty-five bucks for a duck, I decided to practice on a four-dollar chicken instead. Fowl is fowl, after all. 

It’s not as if this seemed like a hugely challenging activity to me. Having carved hundreds of turkeys during my restaurant days, I knew my way around a bird’s carcass pretty well. 

As Julia says, one must be fearless. No fear!

First, confront the chicken. 

For this recipe, one must de-bone the fowl, but leave the skin intact. A very sharp boning knife is essential. I’m glad I had one.

Vegetarians, you may wish to look away at this point. . . .

Make a slice down the backbone and begin scraping along the bones down one side. Easy enough. 

What Julia failed to mention was the wishbone which turned out to be a bit tedious to maneuver around.

Finally, half the breast meat was carved away from the carcass. (No, it's not a pretty sight.)

Flip Miss Chicken around and repeat on the other half. Hold the bird by the carcass, let it hang by the end of the breast bone and you’re ready to carefully cut it away from the carcass. 

Now, one is left with a de-boned chicken except for the limbs. 

Scraping along the bones with the knife and you’re left with a de-boned chicken, skin intact. 

I did feel like giving myself a little ta-dahh. Come Saturday morning when it’s show-time, I’ll have no fear of the duck. 

For tonight, though, a little massage with olive oil, garlic, lemon, and my practice-chicken provided a lovely little supper.

My Favorite Julia Recipe So Far

Sauté de Boeuf à la Parisienne

This is, by far, my most-prepared and favorite of all recipes from Mastering the Art.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

Hands down, it's the most delectable of all the recipes in Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

Hands down, it's the easiest of all the recipes in Mastering the Art of French Cooking. 

Such a combination, one would think, should have brought the likes of Nigella Lawson to her knees by now. After all, our Nigella has established herself as the queen of “Maximum pleasure; minimal effort.”

How could she have possibly missed this jewel of Julia’s?

It baffles me. 

If you want to do the impressive, epitome of Julia’s French mastery of the art, then by all means, spend an enjoyable four hours cranking out her Boeuf Bourguignon. 

If you would rather spend a mere half hour producing a luscious, exquisite, over-the-top,  pinnacle of gastronomic indulgence, then Julia’s Sauté de Boeuf à la Parisienne is your go-to recipe. 

Trust me. 

Mushrooms and shallots get browned in butter; sliced filet of beef, likewise. The pan is deglazed with Madeira, beef stock is added and reduced to a strong, dark syrup. A liberal amount of cream is added, reduced, thickened and finished with the addition of butter. The beef and mushrooms then get swathed in this sauce-for-the-gods.


It's beef Stroganoff on crack.

I wish I could express how pleasurable and divine this creation really is. Thanks to a boyhood friend of mine who now lives in France, I can relay what his French family exclaims whenever they’re dining on something really delicious:

"C'est la Sainte Vierge en culottes de velour!"

(It's the Virgin Mary in velvet panties!)

Ha! I don’t think I could have ever come up with anything as descriptive as that. (I really hope Julia had heard that exclamation during her stay in France. I’m sure she would have loved it.)

If any recipe deserves a comparison to the Holy Mother’s velvet underpants, this one is it.

Invite Nigella for dinner while you’re at it.

For 6 people (serve over white rice)

Ingredients:

1/2 pound fresh mushrooms (I much prefer Crimini mushrooms)

2 tablespoons butter

1 tablespoon good cooking oil
3 tablespoons minced shallots
1/4 teaspoon salt
pinch of pepper
2 1/2 pounds filet of beef
2 tablespoons butter and 1 tablespoon cooking oil, more if needed
1/2 cup Madeira or dry white vermouth
1 cup beef stock
1 cup whipping cream
2 teaspoons cornstarch blended with 1 tablespoon of the cream
salt and pepper
2 tablespoons softened butter
parsley sprigs

Directions:

1) Trim off the surrounding fat and filament from the beef and cut into 2-ounce pieces, about 2 inches across and 1/2-inch thick. Dry thoroughly on paper towels.

2) Sauté the mushrooms in the first amount given of butter and oil for about five minutes, or until lightly browned. Stir in the shallots and cook for a minute longer. Season the mushrooms and scrape them into a side dish.

3) Place butter and oil in the skillet and set over moderately high heat. When the butter foam begins to subside, sauté the beef, a few pieces at a time, for 2-3 minutes on each side to brown the exterior but keep the interior rosy red. Set the beef on a side dish and discard the fat.

4) Pour the wine and stock into the skillet and boil it down rapidly, scraping up the coagulated cooking juices, until liquid is reduced to about 1/3 cup. Beat in the cream, then the cornstarch mixture. Simmer a minute. Add the mushrooms and simmer a minute more. The sauce should be lightly thickened. Correct seasonings.

5) Season the beef lightly with salt and pepper and return it to the skillet along with any juices which may have escaped. Baste the beef with the sauce and mushrooms, or transfer everything to a serving casserole.

6) When you are ready to serve, cover the skillet or casserole and heat to below the simmer for 3-4 minutes, being very careful not to overdo it or the pieces of filet will be well done rather than rare. Off heat and just before serving, tilt casserole, add butter to sauce a bit at a time while basting the meat until the butter has absorbed. Decorate with parsley and serve over white rice at once.

Julia's Bouillabaisse

After last week's incredibly sumptuous meal of Sauté de Boeuf à la Parisienne, my steadfast dinner companion decided to hold fast to a diet and asked if we could hold off on our weekly Julia Child forays.

I was devastated.

Well, 'devastated' may a bit dramatic, but I was concerned to say the least.

After all, how does one find another weekly dinner companion who lives only a block away in downtown Chicago? How many social websites are there that cater to single, middle-aged men who delight in sharing weekly meals featuring only recipes from Mastering the Art of French Cooking in downtown Chicago?

Six, maybe seven?

That word, "diet" was the key. Julia had to change everything when her husband, Paul, was transferred from Paris to Marseilles in the south of France. Rather than fight it, she delighted in it.

Why couldn't I do the same?

Bouillabaisse was the answer; that fisherman's fish stew, the epitome of Marseilles' cookery, if not in all of southern France. Not a speck of Paris's nasty cream, butter or bacon was to be found, but instead, a  Provençal infusion of onion, garlic, fennel, tomato, basil, bay, orange peel and saffron.

Bouillabaisse originated as a means for rough-n-tough fisherman to utilize scraps of the day's catch by incorporating it into a tasty seafood stew. Of course, our French friends refined it, imparted local flavors, and our Julia swept in to make it as appealing as possible for us all. She is quoted, saying "to me the telling flavor of bouillabaisse comes from two things: the Provençal soup base - garlic, onions, tomatoes, olive oil, fennel, saffron, thyme, bay, and usually a bit of dried orange peel - and, of course, the fish - lean (non-oily), firm-fleshed, soft-fleshed, gelatinous, and shellfish."

I began this new journey by sweet-talking the fish guy at Whole Foods Market for some fish scraps with which to make the broth. Fortunately, he had plenty of huge cod frames (a non-oily fish) that he was willing to sell for next to nothing. (The very friendly young woman at the check-out was rather perplexed, if not alarmed, at the sight of these rather large fish skeletons. Upon informing her that they were to go in to Julia Child's bouillabaisse, and that I blogged about it, she asked for my website address. Such a treat.)

Fish frames, tomatoes, onion, garlic, fennel, basil, bay, saffron, and orange peel all piled in to make a flavorful broth:

 Meanwhile, seafood of your choice should wait in readiness. In this case, fresh cod, sea scallops, shrimp and Cherrystone clams. (I accidentally killed two pounds of mussels. The fish guy said they like ice and, apparently, I failed to provide them with an adequate ice bed. Half of them were dead by the time I was about to boil them alive in scorching broth.)

Here's my seafood, ready and waiting:

Perhaps the best part of bouillabaisse is the garlicky "rouille" -- that mayonnaise-like topping consisting of roasted red pepper, lots of raw garlic, boiled potato, basil, hot chile, all blended with olive oil until you have a thick, red, garlic mayonnaise.

Here's the final deal:
Bouillabaisse with a dollop of rouille

And since red pepper, orange peel and fennel went into the preparation, why not feature it in the salad?
(I served it with an orange juice, tarragon-and-olive-oil dressing)

I can see that Julia fell in love with Marseilles. Obviously, she embraced it with all her Julia-esque enthusiasm and imparted everything she loved into her recipe for bouillabaisse with rouille. 

Actually, the whole thing is an experience; from preparing it to serving it to sharing it. At first, the fish stock tastes a bit bland, but please don't over-salt it. If you've used the right fish frames and followed Julia's instructions, all will be well.

Add your fresh seafood -- But a word of warning: If adding clams or mussels in their shells, for god's sake, scrub them well with a green scrubby (dig in to the crevasses) and rinse them more than you think you need to. A few slightly sandy clams can ruin an entire seafood stew. You can put all your effort into making the perfect broth, but the slightest bit of grit is no joke. Trust me on that one.

Don't overcook the seafood. Just poach it and serve it before the clams and mussels open up all the way. Let each guest stir in a spoonful or two of rouille into each bowl, sit back, and watch the ecstasy ensue.

Honestly, you have not experienced seafood until you've "done" Julia's bouillabaisse avec sa rouille. (Pardon my French, please.) The combination of the perfectly prepared fish stock, with the best seafood you can find, topped off with the perfect rouille (and a bottle of fine, white Bordeaux) and you will have then experienced the best that any sea can offer.

Honestly, I just love that Julia could do this for us.

A Little Tong Action

Here’s a kitchen utensils that I find invaluable, yet I’ve never seen Julia Child ever use it.

A simple pair of tongs. They pretty much stay in my right hand while I’m cooking and will be used for a multitude of purposes: To flip sautéing chicken, give a sauce a quick stir, deglaze a sauté pan, whirl some boiling pasta, plating an entrée, and later, scraping plates into the sink. Yet, if you watch decades of Julia’s programs, not once will you see a pair of tongs being used.

Frankly, she seems to spend an inordinate amount of time clumsily grasping things out of pans with two spoons, often with a couple of flimsy plastic ones. I could never figure out why. Perhaps tongs weren’t utilized in France when she learned to cook. Maybe it’s because she didn’t spend much time in professional kitchen where there’s often a dozen tongs lying about. But it’s very obvious she never once used a pair of tongs on TV.

There are all kinds of tongs out there to choose from. Heavy duty ones that lock on the end are good if you don’t want them springing open in your utensil drawer. There are silicone-tipped tongs that can be used on non-stick pans. For me, I use the cheap, garden variety, restaurant-kitchen tongs.

Again, the absence of tongs in Julia’s kitchen is a mystery. She wholeheartedly embraced new gadgets such as the microplane, the Cuisinart and non-stick equipment.

But the woman never employed any tong-action.

"To Master The Art . . .

I was assisting two friends of mine in hosting a Thanksgiving dinner for about thirty people here in Chicago when I met one of the guests named David. By the time I was introduced to him, he knew that I was a Julia Child cook and blogger, so they asked if I'd been to "the Julia Child play."

"The what?" I queried.

The play about Julia Child. "I think it's called 'Mastering the Art' or something like that",  he said. It was a play about Julia Child and her husband when they lived in postwar France and her discovery of cooking.  "But it's been sold out for a long time," said another one of the Davids. 

"To Master the Art"

He said that the theatre might be adding a couple of performances and that I should call the Timeline Theatre the very next day. Maybe I could get a ticket. . . .

I called the theatre the next day, the very minute the box office opened. All performances were sold out, But! . . alas! .They had added one more performance on December 15th and had only two tickets left. . .
"Did I want them?"

"Yes . . . innocently . . . Implicitly. . . .

My bestie foodie friend, Liane, accompanied me on a blisteringly cold night to a performance of "To Master the Art".  Within the first thirty seconds of this performance, I had tears streaming down my face. The performance was that stunning. Liane was, hopefully, not embarrassed by my reaction; I doubt that she was surprised by it. (After all, that's why I brought my bestie foodie friend to accompany me to the world premier of this performance.)

Needless to say, the performances were brilliant throughout. Whenever there was a scene in a restaurant, a kitchen, or the Cordon Bleu, the audience was permeated with exquisite different aromas: roasted chicken in tarragon, and, (I swear) the smell of beurre blanc blasted the audience.

The theatre was small and intimate, perhaps six rows seated in-the-round, so we could really enjoy every facial expression. (I'm dying to see what some chef-musician wanna-be will do to Julia's vocal line when this is crucified into an off-Broadway musical -- and don't think for a moment that I won't be the one to take a stab at doing it!)

Please know that "To Master the Art" the stage performance was written BEFORE the movie "Julia and Julia" - - that abominable, trite thing. 

I'm truly sad that I saw the last performance of "To Master the Art."  During the next two-and-a-half hours of the performance, I laughed, was surprised, cried some more and continued to be overwhelmed  - - - at how much joy can be obtained from food. . . . Such joy from food! 

But, you know, . . . . the same thing happens whenever I prepare any one of Julia's recipes from Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Whenever I follow Julia's precise instructions, pure unalloyed joy -- and some euphoria - - are always the results. How many endeavors such as that can one claim?

"To Master the Art" conveyed precisely what I've felt about Julia's work all along. That's why I wept within the first thirty seconds.

"To Master the Art" will be a huge hit, mark my words.
My only frustration is this - -

- - that everyone I truly love didn't get to see it with me.

Steak au Poivre

Last night, my friend, Carla, came over after her yoga class for our usual Julia Child night. The menu consisted of Julia’s steak au poivre, creamed spinach and buttered artichoke hearts.


I was familiar with steak au poivre – steaks that have been coated with crushed peppercorns with a sauce made from beef stock, shallots, cognac and butter – but I’d never had it before.

I have to say that this is, hands down, the most delectable creation of Julia Child’s that I’ve ever had. I was surprised that such a simple sauce could be so incredibly appealing. My friend, Lorraine, said it best: “It’s beef crack.”

Part of the fun is getting to flambé the sauce. Julia says there’s no need to do so and that it’s a technique done to impress tourists.

Sorry, Julia, but it’s fun.
Lot’s of fun as you can see from the video.


For this recipe, I used Angus rib-eye steaks. We both both like it pretty rare.

Here it is: Beef crack

Sauce Béarnaise; Sauce Choron

Béarnaise sauce. Sauce Béarnaise. It’s been a steadfast member of every chef's culinary repertoire since 1836;
an old war horse of a sauce if there ever was one.

Sauce Béarnaise begins life as a hollandaise sauce but includes a reduction of white wine, wine vinegar, shallots and tarragon. Regarding the classic hollandaise, Julia claims that it’s the most popular of sauces, but perhaps, also the most dreaded.

I love that.

Begin with ¼ cup of white wine, ¼ cup of white wine vinegar, a minced shallot and 2 Tbs of fresh tarragon. Reduce this over high heat until 2 tablespoons remain, strain and let it cool.

Now for the dreaded part: The hollandaise. It’s basically egg yolks to which an acid is introduced and then thickened with a substantial amount of melted butter. The thing is, it can get into all sorts of trouble. It can easily separate, not thicken at all, can quickly scramble if the heat’s too high -- all sorts of dreaded accidents can occur. But, follow Julia’s three pages of detailed directions, and all will be well.

Begin by whisking 3 egg yolks in a bowl over simmering water. Add 2 Tbs of cold butter and whisk until it’s melted. (Not too hot, or you’ll have scrambled eggs.) Now, add the reduction that you’d strained and cooled. Oh, and you’ve also melted 2 sticks of butter which is waiting to be incorporated.

Gradually, drop by drop, begin adding the hot, melted butter to the egg yolks. (Not to fast or it’ll separate.) As it becomes thick, more butter can be drizzled in. And more. And more. Keep whisking. There’s a lot of whisking involved. If you’re a middle-aged woman, sleeveless apparel would be ill-advised.

Finish the sauce with chopped, fresh tarragon and parsley.

I wanted to showcase this wonderful creation. I had pan-seared salmon filets, artichoke hearts, and fresh asparagus, all of which would get swathed with it. This was going to be an all-out Béarnaise extravaganza.

But wait! As with most recipes, Julia had supplied a couple of variations, and there it was. Add a bit of tomato paste to Béarnaise, and it becomes a Sauce Choron.

Tomato paste in Béarnaise? Never heard of it, but it sounded terrific. So, some of the Béarnaise was set aside and easily became a sauce Choron to be spooned over itty-bitty baby potatoes.

Here’s the meal:

The real surprise was the sauce Choron. I’d never heard of it before and perhaps a lot of other folks haven’t either. I’ll certainly showcase it from here on out. After all, if you’ve triumphantly conquered a Béarnaise, why not serve something truly unique by simply stirring in a spoonful of tomato paste? It was fantastic on the baby-taters but would be truly astounding over a filet mignon or even a grilled rib-eye.

See, now this is what cooking is all about. You head in one direction and discover something even better and totally unexpected. I just love it when that happens;
in cooking . . . and in life.

Fondue de Poulet à La Crème; Chicken Simmered in Onions and Cream

I often try to imagine how certain recipes were developed or rather, what necessitated their creation.

Take, for example, one of my favorite food items of all: Ravioli. Some enterprising grandma in Italy probably found herself with a few scraps of meat on hand and a lot of hungry tummies to fill. What to do? Grind the meat, add fillers, lots of tasty spices, and place tiny morsels of it between pillows of pasta. Presto! The family loved it and all went to bed happy and sated.

Meanwhile, a French grandma found herself with an abundance of cream on hand. She’d already made all the butter she could use and the litre of cream was about to sour. What to do? Simmer a chicken in it. Voila! Fondue de Poulet à La Crème.

Julia, of course, took the lusciousness of this recipe, pointed it skyward and shot it off into the stratosphere.

A chicken is basted in butter and onions -- I used the equivalent of chicken thighs – and it receives just a whisper of curry powder. White wine and Cognac are added and reduced.

Now for the cream.

A cup of cream is appealing. Two cups would be over the top.

So, this recipe calls for three cups of cream. (Remember, the French grandma.) Although the recipe didn’t call for it, I browned some mushrooms in butter because I had them on hand and needed to use them.

The chicken gets simmered for half an hour, but frankly, I think it could use quite a bit longer in its cream-jacuzzi. Julia has us remove the chicken, reduce the sauce even more and touch it up with some fresh cream and lemon juice.

I came up with a pretty scrumptious salad if I do say so myself. Baby spinach, grape tomatoes and diced mango was dressed with orange olive oil and tangerine balsamic vinegar.

That orange oil and tangerine vinegar combo is just about the best thing you’ve ever tasted. It’s available at a cute little oil and vinegar shop here in Chicago called Old Town Oil. If you’ve got a foodie friend for whom you’d like to buy a gift but don’t know what to get, there you go.

Serving this recipe over rice is perfect. As a matter of fact, plain rice with this sauce would be a slice of heaven – forget the chicken.

A nearby farmer’s market sells this Japanese hybrid of corn that is known for its sweetness. I can eat four ears in a sitting. This was the last day the corn was available so I obviously took advantage of it.

If you want to prepare a Julia Child recipe that’s pretty easy and has a big voila-factor, this would be the way to go.

Three cups of cream. You only live once. Go for it.

Bavarois á L'Orange - Orange Bavarian Cream

In Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Julia usually begins with a "master" recipe and then offers two or three variations on the theme. So far, I've made all the variations of Bavarian creams but have neglected the master recipe -- until now.

Actually, I've recently learned that it was Julia's co-author who was solely responsible for the Bavarian creams in Mastering. So, kudos to Simone Beck.

First, a trip down a Bavarian memory lane. Here's the voluptuous Bavarois aux Fruits (Strawberry Bavarian Cream):

 And her handsome cousin, the almond praline Bavarian cream:

Bavarois á L'Orange is a molded dessert in which egg whites and whipped cream are folded into an egg custard that is flavored, and into which gelatin is added. As I've mentioned before, I've never really enjoyed desserts or sweets very much, but these Bavarian creams have truly made me a convert.

What's really remarkable about the orange Bavarian cream -- and I didn't notice this until I tasted it -- is that you get a full-on orange experience with this ochreous puppy. Orange is highlighted in this recipe in four different ways: The custard is flavored with orange juice, grated orange peel and orange liqueur (I used Grand Marnier). Then, orange segments that have been marinated in Grand Marnier and sugar top the dessert and also serve as a side sauce.

But it's not all orange-orange-orange-orange. It's all involved in that eggy-rich custard as well. (The recipe calls for seven egg yolks.) Due to the massive and recent egg recall, and being that I try to avoid poisoning my guests, I played it safe. I used organic, free-range, pasteurized eggs from chickens that were into natural healing, meditation and yoga.

Yes, with these Bavarian creams, you'll need to make an investment of time and effort but the orange variety requires the least. (The almond praline Bavarian cream is, by far, the most labor-intensive but it's also my favorite.)

Julia writes: We have concluded that this particular masterpiece cannot be achieved in seconds; a cooked custard, well-dissolved gelatin, stiffly beaten egg whites, properly whipped cream, perfect flavoring, and then the right blending of one element into another at the right time seem to be the requisites for a true Bavarian cream. 

Do not be daunted. Once you make this masterpiece, it becomes considerably easier each and every time from there on out. That's not to say I've made mistakes along the way. I've had custard split from overheating it. One time, I poured the cream into my KitchenAid to whip, left it unattended for a moment, and soon returned to a whirling mass of butter and whey. (It only calls for a half cup of cream to be whipped -- best to crank that out by hand and forgo the heavy machinery.)

The best part is, it can be made a day in advance and takes seconds to assemble. Your guests will already, no doubt, be impressed with your meal. You can slip away into the kitchen and with careless ease, magically re-appear with your masterpiece at hand.

Beurre Blanc

While re-reading Julia’s autobiography, My Life in France, I found myself captivated by her discovery of the classic sauce, beurre blanc. “Captivated” meant that I had to make it.

The origins of beurre blanc (meaning “white butter”) appear somewhat obscure but most sources claim it was derived by an inconspicuous chef in the Loire Valley during the early 20th century. By the time Julia was on the Parisian scene in the early 1950s, beurre blanc seemed to have become a culinary urban legend.

Snooping it out, Julia and her friends found a tiny restaurant in Paris whose chef had mastered the sauce. After sampling it and sweet-talking the chef, Julia was invited into the kitchen and the technique was demonstrated.

Rushing home, Julia practiced and perfected the sauce which consists of a reduction of white wine, wine vinegar, shallots, into which a vast amount of chilled butter is incorporated. The acid reacts with the fat in the butter, suspends it almost by magic, which results in a tangy, complex, extremely appealing emulsion; just about the best of all sauces. Legendary.

She typed up the detailed recipe and mailed it to her sister in California in order to verify that her instructions would result in a successful beurre blanc.

Here is a copy of Julia’s typewritten page to her sister. I love how Julia marked it “Top Secret”, no doubt, evidence of her training in the OSS (the forerunner of the CIA).
(Double-click on it. It embiggenates nicely)

Seeing Julia’s typewritten instructions dated Nov. 7, 1952, I feel as though I’m looking at something holy, to be revered; a signed letter from St. Paul to the Corinthians or Handel's autographed manuscript of the Messiah.

Begin by cutting two sticks of unsalted butter into half-inch cubes. Place them on a plate and chill in the fridge. (It’s important that the butter be cold, so you might as well get this done first.)

Mince one tablespoon of shallot, add it to 3 tbs of white wine vinegar and ¼ cup dry white wine. Also add 1/8 tsp pepper and salt. Reduce this over high heat until a mere ½ Tb of liquid remains. Now, begin whisking in the butter, piece by piece over very low heat. Once each piece melts and becomes creamy, add another piece until all of it is used. (Yes, two sticks of butter.)

It should result in a thick and creamy sauce. Taste for salt and serve right away.

I invited my dear friend, Carla, over for dinner. Knowing she adores scallops, I served this sauce over scallops and asparagus. Grape tomatoes from a friend’s garden and pan-roasted baby Yukon gold potatoes completed the meal. (She blogged about it here.)

How good was this sauce? We ate every drop. Once the scallops were gone, the saucepan was brought to the table and we practically dove in with spoons. And that’s no joke.

One should really have Handel’s Messiah playing when Julia’s beurre blanc is served. And, again, that’s no joke.

Tranches de Jambon à la Crème; Sautéed Ham in Fresh Cream Sauce

It's no secret that Julia enjoyed butter, cream and booze; all three get used in this recipe for ham.
In unabated abundance.

Incidentally, this recipe would be a fantastic way to use that leftover Christmas ham. That, I imagine, is how this creation came to be.

Let me begin by saying that I've never been much of a ham fan. It's just always seemed like a salty, gristly thing to me. The only way I really enjoyed it was to chuck the ham bone into a pot of split peas and discard it a couple hours later after it had manifested its ham destiny.

Until now.

Although it's a quickie, it's just about the richest recipe of hers I've come across so far. Begin by sautéeing smoked ham in butter until browned. Not a bad beginning.

After it's removed, shallots (or scallions in this case) get the same treatment.

Now for the booze: Two-thirds cup of Madeira along with 3 Tbs of Cognac deglaze the pan and reduced until only about 3 or 4 tablespoons remain.

Now for the cream: You'd think that adding one whole cup of heavy cream would be over-doing a good thing. Julia didn't think so. She calls for two cups of heavy cream. Got that?

It gets reduced. After all, you might as well concentrate that much rich butterfat.

We're not done yet. Meanwhile, whisk together 2 Tbs of cream, 2 Tbs of Dijon mustard and 1 Tbs of tomato paste.

That gets added to the cream-n-booze reduction.

Return the ham and simmer. Serve over spinach that's been braised in chicken broth (and butter).

As mentioned before, this is an incredibly rich entree. It reminded me of Pork Chops with Mustard, Cream, and Tomato Sauce (Côtes de Porc Sauce Nénette) that I had prepared a couple of months ago. However, the sauce with the previous pork recipe was considerably milder: no booze reduction and less mustard.

At first, I thought perhaps the two sauces should be switched. This more robust, pronounced sauce might zhoozh up the mild pork chops basted in butter, while the more subtle Sauce Nénette might let the smokey, salty ham play a leading role.

In actuality, this sauce is perfect for the ham. You'll enjoy the boozy, creamy, mustardiness playing with hickory of the ham. Served over a mound of hearty, ferrous spinach and you'll have an entree that your guests will remember for a very long time.

 A word of advice: Modest portions are in order. Remember, we're dealing with salty pork and concentrated cream here. You might do well to have a defibrillator at hand should any guests be dining with a pre-existing cardiac condition.

What a great recipe. The Christmas ham will pale in comparison to a second incarnation such as this.

Bitokes á La Russe, Hamburger in Cream Sauce

Hamburger patties in Mastering the Art of French Cooking?

You bet.

That’s what drew me to this recipe – I just had to see Julia’s treatment of this lowly “all-American” food item.

Bitokes á la Russe, or "hamburger in the Russian style" calls for a pound-and-a-half of really lean ground beef, but don’t think for a moment we’re heading into low-fat territory. The fat content of the lean beef is oomphed up by the addition of pork fat, beef suet, or butter (your choice).

Markets in downtown Chicago likely didn't carry pork fat and since I had no access to a British butcher in the 19th century, beef suet was out, too. I opted for butter.

Minced onions are sautéed (in butter), added to the ground beef mixture along with an egg, pepper, salt, and thyme.

This mixture gets pattied, dusted with flour and fried (in butter). After they’re removed, beef stock is added to the drippings and reduced. To that, cream is added and reduced again. To that, three tablespoons of butter is whisked in.

Delightful.

Fresh herbage, lemon juice and a scritch-scritch of nutmeg finish the sauce.

The verdict?

I over-salted it. Big time.

When cooking with this much butter, one should really use unsalted butter. I’m able to get this really fresh butter from an Amish farm, I love the stuff, but it only comes in the salted variety. Also, the beef stock I used, Progresso, doesn’t come in a low-salt version. When one is reducing this much sauce, any saltiness is only going to be concentrated. The recipe calls for 1½ teaspoons of salt in the meat mixture. I should have employed a bit of foresight and left that out. Mea culpa.

The first bite presented me with a hefty, saline punch.

Other than that, well, sure, it was scrumptious. Of course, cream and butter are awfully appealing. Coating the patties with flour imparted a crispy texture on the outside and probably kept them juicy. (Butter in the meat mixture certainly didn't hurt.)

I really should try it again and correct the salt problem. This recipe is easy enough and I’ve always got these ingredients on hand. I really think a dollop of mustard in the sauce would improve it, though.

Mustard on hamburger -- who ever heard of such a thing?

I should be ashamed.

Lobster Killer

How do you feel about killing live lobsters? True, dispatching a fellow creature is not the most pleasant task in the world but, unless you’re a vegetarian, it’s a task that must be done in order to get that entrée on your plate.

I’m sure we all remember the “lobster killer” scene from Julie and Julia in which Julie was barely able to plunk the lobster into the boiling cauldron. Finally, after doing so, the lobster dramatically sends the lid flying off the pot causing Julie to scurry out of the kitchen like a frightened kitten.

Such drama! Boiling a lobster is nothing remotely like that in real life.

I really have mixed emotions when it comes to eating the flesh of animals. (And yes, I’d be a very satisfied and happy vegetarian.) At one point, that luscious boeuf Bourguignon was a live cow that was gruesomely killed – something I’m not sure I could bring myself to do.

I have eaten a vegetarian diet for much of my life, mainly because I really enjoy food that doesn’t have meat in it, and also on principle. If I couldn’t bring myself to kill a cow, then I’m exercising some pretty inconsistent principles by purchasing and eating beef.

In reality, though, I’m not at all that wedded to consistent principles.

The beef at the market has already come from a murdered cow and my being a vegetarian won’t change that one way or the other. If I didn’t buy it, then I couldn’t enjoy Julia’s boeuf Bourguignon, so there’s that.

What I can do is pay a bit extra for organic beef that comes from free-range cows rather than hormone-pumped ones that live a dreadful life. That is, unless it’s too hot to walk the extra eight blocks to Whole Foods Market. Like I said, I’m a snurd and not that wedded to my principles, alas.

Before I began writing about Julia’s food, I was at my friends’ house preparing a Julia meal. I was making lobster Thermidore and decided to demonstrate Julia’s method of quickly killing the lobster. My friend, Steve, demonstrated the simpler lobster-in-the-pot method. He’s also a veterinarian and, no doubt, very familiar with the nervous system of animals. As he explains, the lobster feels nothing.

Yes, killing a live lobster is not that horrible, probably because they're not cute and fluffy. If I had done the same to a beagle puppy, this video would have gone viral and I'd have been arrested. Obviously, some animals are blessed with cuteness and fluffiness so that we won't eat them.
Evolution is an amazing thing.

With that, I give you “Lobster Killers”

Supêmes de Volaille aux Champignons - Chicken Breasts with Mushrooms and Cream

If you've attended any business meeting, wedding reception or banquet of any sort during the past three decades, you've no doubt been inundated with the ubiquitous, dried out and dreaded entree: Boneless, skinless chicken breast. (No doubt, accompanied with "vegetable medley" and rice pilaf.)

Am I right?

It's a horrible, insulting entree: Easy to serve, inexpensive, and a "healthy" thing that we, as a society, will blindly eat and to which we've become extremely inured.

From my own experience, having attended innumerable events in Chicago and Springfield, I can attest to the 'ubiquitosity' of this dreaded entree. (Hint: Whenever possible, request the "vegetarian option" ahead of time. Usually, it's surprisingly good and the other nine folks at your banquet table will probably be jealous of your meal.)

I had never really noticed the ever-prevalence of the boneless, skinless chicken breast until my dad brought it to my attention many years ago.

My dad is only 21 years older than I, a staunch, conservative Republican in Texas, an incredibly appealing guy to be around, and is not without a good bit of executive influence on the local and state level of the Texas political scene.

Here's my dad, all friendly and shaking hands with President Bush back in '06.

So, yes, my dad's been around and did express to me his disdain toward the ever-prevalence of the boneless, skinless chicken breast, especially at political functions.

As a matter of fact, my dad has wielded his executive power on both local and state organizations -- and has commanded that neither may be allowed to serve boneless, skinless chicken breasts at any function.

These are really big functions in Texas. They now serve steaks, Mexican food, pasta -- anything but boneless, skinless chicken breasts. All because of my dad.

I've often heard my dad say that chickens don't suckle their young and, therefore, don't have breasts. They have chests.  
"They're chicken chests."

Recently, he was at a restaurant with his two young grandsons, my nephews. The server announced that the special was a chicken breast . . .
And both boys said in unison, "Chicken chests!"

There are probably well over a thousand people in Texas who will say the same mantra, thanks to my dad.
"Chicken chests" can be heard across Texas.

I've even heard my dad jokingly claim that Hillary Clinton had financial ties with Tyson Foods in Arkansas and was involved in a financial kick-back campaign with Tyson to get Americans to eat healthier, i.e. boneless, skinless chicken breasts. 

My dad and I couldn't be farther apart on the socio-political scale. We poke gentle fun at each other, but of respect, I don't diss the Republican Party and he changes the TV from Fox to CNN whenever I'm home visiting. (We both have little respect for MSNBC)

So it was with a good bit of hesitance that I decided to try Julia's Chicken Breasts with Mushrooms and Cream. I thought, "What could Julia have done with the boneless, skinless chicken breast that won't remind me of the rubber-chicken circuit?"

I also thought, "How will I tell my dad about this?"
He knows I've met and supported Obama, but boneless, skinless chicken breasts might push the envelope.
 
There are the political, banquet-dinner chicken breasts and then there is Julia's "Supêmes de Volaille".

"Supêmes de Volaille" are the "finest part of the chicken." I did as Julia told. I went to Whole Foods Market, purchased two plump, expensive free-range organic chickens, and boned out the breasts myself. None of this factory-raised, supermarket, plastic-wrapped nonsense.

Boneless chicken breasts can be awfully dry. Julia's recipe does everything to alleviate that. Here, technique is really the key. . . .

A small amount of shallot and mushrooms were sauteed in a huge amount of butter in a casserole. The breasts were placed in the casserole with a buttered piece of wax paper on top. This was placed in a 400 degree oven for 6 minutes. The breasts were turned over and placed in the oven for 6 more minutes.

The breasts were removed, port and beef stock were added to the shallots, butter and mushrooms in which the chicken was baked. This was reduced by quite a bit to concentrate the flavors and cream was added.
And that was served over the (gasp!) boneless, skinless chicken breasts.
(Sorry - chicken chests)

First of all, the results were unbelievable.

I've never tasted chicken so juicy and "chickeny" as this, breasts or otherwise. Julia's method made me think that the chicken would be undercooked. And it would be if you were using those gargantuan, hormone-pumped chicken breasts that are usually available in supermarkets. Purchase a normal-sized chicken that's been running around (or kill your own that you have to run around after) and you'll see what normal-sized breasts are supposed to be.

The sauce was so creative. Shallots, butter, port, (not white wine) beef stock (beef stock!) and cream.

When eating this, you'd never know you're eating anything remotely associated with that dried-out, tasteless banquet fare. No, this was succulent-for-succulents' sake; the most chickeny thing I've ever eaten.

Here it is with a side of tarragon-buttered peas and a baked tomato Provençale.

I'm really looking forward to a Texas vacation so that I can cook for my parents. Julia's Boeuf Bourguingon will be a must. So will the Almond Praline Bavarian Cream. Chicken Fricassee would also be impressive. 

As you can see from the above description of my dad and his politicized disdain for boneless, skinless chicken breasts (sorry, chicken chests) the ONE thing that I must make for him, the ONE thing that would truly impress him about Julia's Mastering the Art of French Cooking, would really be this recipe for Supêmes de Volaille.

I truly look forward to making Julia's boneless, skinless chicken breasts for my dad.

How impressive is this recipe?
Good enough to make him vote for Obama in 2012.

Sorry, chicken chests.