Like a rice bowl, but with — quinoa… And with the seitan and the beans, a nice little protein bomb. Sauteed sweet potatoes and some lovely greens round things out atop the broth-boiled grain, seasoned with a little chili powder, browned onion and garlic as well. Soused with a little light gravy on serving.
Somewhere a plant grew, and its seed head, culled, was ground. The powdered grain then bathed, allaying starch and forming to a gloopy mass then dried, then ground again. That resulting dusty powder then was formed again into a gloopy mass with herbs and salts and fats, then simmered in a broth, then cooled and sliced. Then breaded, fried and stacked on marbled rye with mayo and hot mustard. A truly lovely sandwich, but such entitled food decisions folded there, within.
The actual impetus for the seaweed stewed seitan — to add a little chewy texture in the filling, and mission accomplished. Largely pulling on a recipe from food.com, subbing in mock duck, and the mini-minced seaweed style seitan to join with cabbage, carrot,Green onion, garlic and ginger et al. A better egg roll has not been had.
Pretty clam chewy little sticks that would likely be less startlin’ off the bat sliced slimmer — not a killer, though. Sea flavor far subtler than hoped and barely remembered through the Old Bay in the breading. Good correlate, certainly, for calamari or clams — as planned. Presuming the color of the end product is irrelevant, pureeing in the seaweed with the gluten would impart a fuller flavor.
Accompanied by Asian slaw, spiced apples, potato wedges and Old Bay/dill seasoned ranch.
Recipe at this link. For what?
Chopped vegetables and mock duck in a light sauce with quinoa. Broth, a little soy, hot mustard, vinegar, sesame oil, drop of habanero sauce and a pinch of brown sugar + corn starch.
The scarce remnants of the seitan/chipotle/marmalade sandwich filling with a cheese of unkown ethnicity, simply labeled, “Herb & Garlic.” With a little guac and pico de gallo, a really outstanding little snack.
Regrettably, as is often the case, it is difficult to find the point of focus — an ongoing (dare we say, first-world problem — especially since that site is apparently circling the drain!) issue since the original, and fabulous photo-flicking phone of the exact same model abruptly failed to function. Much eye rubbing has ensued, glasses grabbed, sort of reasonably concluding the issue wasn’t fully biological, and best summed up with this broad-daylight, ae/af locked shot of a little green heron:
Exactly what part of that photo is in focus?
Well, after a bit of grumbling, last night, not-very-helpful Ememely suggested some sort of tremor might be at play — and that was googled. It’s probably, like, seven…
But the conversation did forge the impetus to query the google, and such privileged travails are apparently not uncommon, at all. There were helpful apps offered, several suggestions (including shaking hands), but the most common and agreed upon solution was to simply smash the phone on a hard surface. This seemed like a really bad idea, and a quick, non-locked shot was clocked and it was done. BAM!
A nervous check to make sure the screen hadn’t shattered and a second, non-locked shot:
Coincidence? Numerous quick shots have confirmed: The smash is an effective repair! Bizarre…
Beyond the self evident: Well bronzed onions, loads of garlic, little salt, cayenne and Tofutti. And a splash of vinegar…
With Chihuahua — really, more of a sorta torta, Latin American roots only tenuously tied by the just acceptable sauce thereon applied. Though that, too, is untrue to the tried and true, unless the definition is expanded to include anything on any sort of bread.
The fault for that, however — and possibly rambled on ad nauseum, previously, as the cognitively disfunctional tend to do — the fault lies with the very first torta ever tried, which was served on the appropriate roll, with fried avocado. And mole. It was such an amazing sandwich that it warranted driving half-way across the state for lunch — which was done once.
The return trip found that the mole had left the sandwich, served with no sauce of any kind! However, the request for a bit of mole was gratefully acknowledged without a missed beat, then, ruefully dismayed when what came returned, was just a small shot of thin, oily, red liquid, with little for flavor and not nearly enough heat for a properly sopped sandwich.
Perhaps the gentleman — the same for both times — assessed he was in company with vapid, dumb gringo, one seeking torta ahogada: More spice and more sauce, if that’s the case. When questioned if it was indeed mole, he responded dismissively. Perhaps he has acquiesced to local tastes. Perhaps the first time was a mistake — perhaps, a special item. We will return and sneak into the kitchen — to see if any mole remains. Because it was the best mole ever tried, and no recipe, or amount of tweaking has been able to equal the perfected balance of sweet and savory, spice an bitter; Sister Rosa’s comes close: Every drop was consumed.
One of the most beautiful people you could ever meet came in to the office earlier in the day — an older woman, who has lost a son, another that struggles mightily; her husband ran off to Florida long ago. She carries the most wonderful, unmitigable cheer, always sharing the positive, always seeking solutions to the negative — always talking. She hasn’t been able to drive for a while, but she still stops in every month, makes her daughters cart her around — she’s driving them nuts! I always make sure there’s a little chocolate on my desk when she stops in at the beginning of the month — she only wants simple things: The best for her children, a small treat here and there. She’s had nothing but struggle in the twenty years of our acquaintance, but never complained.
She prides herself on looking much younger than her age — indeed! — and one of the things she loved to do, was, once a week, head to a little bar down the way, and dance a little bit with the fellows that she met. If she — litterally — had a single extra dollar for the month, she’d buy herself a coke, as well.
Since she hasn’t been able to drive, that hasn’t been an option, though she aspires to drive again and return, maybe once… Twice — maybe even go every month! It’s a dive of a bar, one known only, because through the swinging doors from the bar, behind, once stood an incredibly, amazing Mexican restaurant. Every time she starts talking about the bar, memories return — Speedy burrito, anyone? The Don? Or, how about, their incredible mole enchilada!
Lingering thoughts last week brought a rather uninspired, yet inevitable mushrooms and pasta. Another night of fickle fancy eschewed dining out, carrying out and ended in a store. First, targeting Middle Eastern — only hummus. Then, frozen garbage: Eh… We just grabbed chihuahua — the thoughts lingered, of mole enchilada and the fantastical torta.
And so, once again, after hours of frothy remonstration, we ate dinner at 10 o’clock at night, put together this sandwich: Chihuahua — wonderful in certain applications. Mole — better in application than drunk straight. Seitan — deliciously salty with nice, bright, lemony impression. All on a buttered roll, pan toasted: Damn! That was good…
Redundancy is the greatest form of repetition. Back to favorites, tweaked with the addition of Will’s remnant orange, fervido cerebros sachayed with onions, garlic, ginger and simply assembled upon the bread, with arugula.
Topper marmalade and bbq sauce with a pureed chipotle pepper.
Redundancy is the greatest form of repetition. Back to favorites, not tweaked at all: The gyro, perfect just like it is with tofutti/tahini dressing.
Redundant Friday will now conclude, with a parting correction, that what a sourdough does best is get toasted (as I), spread with butter and a little marmalade.
Crew Cuisine 