Hot Chicken with Elvis

My Mom got an Alexa for Christmas this year. As far back as I can remember, she’s forever been dancing around the house, shaking it at parties, harmonizing to whatever tune comes on the car radio. Her house in Virginia had become quiet since my Dad passed away, and my sister and I realized her stereo was too antiquated (key words: tape deck) for actual usage. So we got her the smart speaker, mindful of the fact that she’s typically suspicious of new technology. On a recent visit, I set it up in her kitchen and needn’t have worried—she took to the new device like a duck to water. Her first request, for some reason, was Hall & Oates. Once she realized that wasn’t going to do it for her, she was on to Trini Lopez, the 1960’s Latin folk sensation. The joy was palpable as she danced around the kitchen to Cielito Lindo.

As evening drew near, and she had run through the Beatles and the Stones, we wondered aloud what to have for dinner. In addition to loving music, she’s a food fanatic and knows what she likes. We had gone out the night before, and it was getting too late to shop and cook at home.

“How about we pick up some hot chicken?” I asked, as I finished ridding her cabinets of vitamins and lipsticks from 1997.

“YES!”

 So we put in our order—“HOT” in the middle of a scale that ranges from Classic (no heat) to Code Blue (super extra hot) and we headed to our usual spot for pickup.

We both adore spicy food, a family trait she inherited from her father, who used to say nothing was hot enough “unless you sweat behind the ears.” For us, it’s not a distraction from flavor but instead another taste dimension, like umami or crunch. Mom keeps a tiny, adorable bottle of Tabasco in her purse at all times to season her eggs during travel; somehow, this has never triggered an intervention at airport security. I’m happy to be married to a fellow spice lover, and our 11-year-old son liberally sprinkles red pepper flakes on his pizza. We’re no strangers to the “what the hell” fried rice at our favorite Thai restaurant. When it comes to hot chicken, Mom and I are both code blue curious…but even we have our limits.

Back at the house, we got dinner going. She brought out the old brown salad bowl with the ridges around the side, and I turned on the oven to give our chicken some extra crisp. Perhaps the highlight of this takeout indulgence is the fried okra we always order on the side, and that got some extra crisping, too. The standard “side” portion is around the size of a wine crate, and we’re good with that quantity of okra. You can’t completely take the South out of a woman, after all.

Once everything was crisped to satisfaction and the salad tossed, we were sitting down to dinner, when Mom popped up and went back into the kitchen. 

“Alexa,” I heard her say as I piled okra on my plate. “Play Elvis Presley.”

Now if you’ve ever met my Mom, you’ve probably heard the story. She knows I know it, but she loves to tell it again and again.

“When I was twelve, in the sixth grade, my friend asked me if I wanted to come to a concert with her mother and her—they had an extra ticket. ‘You know, Elvis Presley? He sings Blue Suede Shoes?’ I’d never heard of the guy, but I figured I had nothing better to do that night. He was playing at the Mosque Theater, in Richmond. We were right near the front and I’d never seen anything like it before. Girls were freaking out. They were swooning. My own mother would have dragged us right out of there, but my friend’s mom was just as fascinated as we were, so we stayed for the whole thing. And then not long after that he was a super star. I didn’t get it, but I guess all those screaming gals did.”

“Did you become a fan, right then and there?”

“I didn’t know what to think. I was twelve. And he was so greasy.”

She thought for a second and speared an okra round. Perhaps visions of sideburns and hip swivels were parading through her memory. Hound Dog bumped from the speaker in the kitchen, and she continued:

“I watched that Elvis movie recently and the actor looked nothing like the real Elvis. Too clean cut. I mean…I saw the real deal up close, so I know. We were in the second row.”

The hot chicken was tasty and hit the spot. It could have been crispier, but that’s the gamble you make with takeout. In the subsequent days I thought a lot about hot chicken (and Elvis, too). I thought about how I might make it at home, and I remembered one of my favorite dishes at a neighborhood spot Popina: the hot chicken Milanese. A Milanese is a flattened version of fried chicken (see also katsu and schnitzel, as well as chicken cutlets), which gives it the advantage of quicker cooking, shallower oil, and less guesswork around doneness. The recipe below is what I came up with after some R & D. It’s neither a traditional hot chicken nor a true Milanese, but it’s delicious. You can dial the cayenne up or down, or eliminate it all together. I like this served with a nice, simple salad and half a lemon to lighten things and make it into a composed plate. It would be great with pickles and slaw, or on a Martin’s potato roll as a sandwich. You could also whip up a quick spicy mayo by stirring together mayonnaise and your favorite hot sauce, if you like things even hotter and richer.

This one’s dedicated to Mom:

Dial the spice up, down, or eliminate all together

RECIPE: HOT CHICKEN MILANESE 

Ingredients:

• 4 boneless, skinless chicken thighs

• 2 tsp. cayenne pepper (adjust cautiously for more spice, dial it down or eliminate altogether for a non-spicy version)

• 4 tsp. sweet paprika

• 1 tsp. garlic powder

• 1 TBS. salt plus extra for seasoning at end

• 1 cup all-purpose flour

• 3 eggs

• 2 cups panko (Japanese) breadcrumbs

• Peanut oil for frying (or canola, grapeseed, or other high-heat oil)

• 2 lemons, halved

• Salad for serving: Arugula and cherry tomatoes, or any greens and shaved vegetables, tossed with olive oil and lemon juice, or your choice of dressing.

Instructions:

1. Flatten the chicken pieces: First pat them dry, then one at a time, place chicken thighs between two pieces of parchment paper on a cutting board. Using the flat side of a meat tenderizer, or a rolling pin, or bottom of a small pot, pound the chicken pieces until they are around 1/3” thick. It doesn’t have to be exact, just try to get it even and thin. No worries if you don’t have parchment paper—it just makes for neater work.

2. In a small bowl, mix the spices and salt together. Sprinkle the chicken pieces with around half of this mixture on both sides. You should have an even and fairly generous (but not too heavy) distribution. Reserve the other half of the spice mix for the end.

3. Set up a dredging station, which will have three steps: 1 plate or wide bowl for the flour, 1 bowl for the eggs, and 1 plate or wide bowl for the panko—plus a final tray, preferably with a rack, for the dredged chicken. Put the flour and panko on their separate plates, and beat the eggs in the bowl. Now dredge each seasoned piece. First, coat chicken completely with flour, then shake off any excess. Dip chicken pieces in the egg, then shake off as much as you can. Next, roll the chicken pieces in panko, pressing to coat every surface area with the crumbs. Repeat with all pieces, setting them on the tray at the end. When you’ve finished, put the tray with chicken in the refrigerator for a half hour to an hour to really set the panko—this will ensure your breading stays put during frying.

4. You can prepare the salad, if serving, while the chicken rests. When ready to cook, heat a skillet over medium high heat, with oil in it. You are shallow frying, so you want around 1/4” or less of oil, enough to cover the bottom of the skillet but not immerse the chicken. When the oil begins to shimmer slightly, place the pieces gently in the skillet, not touching. Fry around 3 minutes on each side, or until golden brown and crisp and cooked through. Move to a tray when done. Working quickly but carefully, spoon a few spoonfuls of hot oil into the bowl with the spices, and stir. Brush the hot oil onto the surface of the chicken, coating evenly. You can skip this step if you like your chicken milder, but either way sprinkle some salt on the chicken if you think it needs more seasoning (taste a bit of the breading if you’re not sure). Serve with lemon halves and salad.

Other Ways

Last weekend we spent some delightfully analog time in Vermont with friends. The snow has been subpar this year, but the ski places were making it work with what they had. The excellent Wild Wings (cross country) center has a simple warming room with a wood stove sporting a little propellor on top like one of those old-fashioned beanies and whirls with the rising heat, dispersing it throughout the room. Equipment rentals and a day ticket come out to a fraction of what a similar arrangement would cost at one of the downhill ski resorts—minus the lift lines—so I’m officially a convert. We worked up a sweat along streams and over bridges on the quiet wooded trails, which had been hand groomed by a shovel-wielding crew (an Instagram post the day before showed them literally moving snow by the shovelful from the woods onto the trails). After a day like that you feel simultaneously beat up and at peace. It’s Vermont at its finest.

The house we’re renting this year might not be everyone’s jam, but it suits our crew just perfectly. The original part was built in the 1920’s I think, and the foundation is constructed around a natural spring, so the first thing you see upon descending into the basement is a boulder with actual spring waters trickling out of it and into a small diversion ditch that leads them gently outside to join a stream that feeds into the larger stream that traverses the property. You would think this setup would breed mold and rot and all sorts of moisture problems, but everyone who goes down to the basement marvels at how the air smells pure and crystalline somehow.

The overall vibe of the house is 1970’s hippie family compound, with homespun paintings and lots and lots of dark wood paneling, and a quirky accumulated library from 100 years of bookworms (1968 Whole Earth Catalog, anyone?). There’s even a harvest gold upholstered Barcalounger, which is highly coveted fireside real estate; as soon as someone leaves it to fetch a drink from the kitchen, there’s always a kid waiting to swoop in and claim the spot. The floors are Vermont soapstone—the deep green of a forest swimming hole and just as chilly. Among the house’s quirks is a perpetual draft, which we counter with chunky sweaters and a dawn-til-dusk fire in the fireplace. Our 10-year-old has taken to getting up in the pre-coffee hours and making the fire himself; we’ll find him seated criss-cross on the hearth, feeding shreds of cardboard into the flames, gazing glassy-eyed into his creation…much preferable to staring at an ipad.

After this weekend, during which we enjoyed outdoor sport and worked an impossible puzzle and ate collaborative meals and slept under ancient quilts, we made the long drive back to the city, where the shock of Manhattan was real—the wall of skyscrapers along the FDR streaked by, brightly lit, looking like futuristic pod dwellings. “What is this strange place we live in?” I thought to myself. The next morning no one in my family wanted to get up, and then we had to walk a block out of our way to avoid the usual film crew that had claimed our street as their own. An alligator was found this week, emaciated and lethargic, floating in our local park’s lake.

Is it time to live another way? To move somewhere quieter and sweet-smelling and more wholesome? Impossible to fathom, though in some branch of the multiverse my kids are fire building and woods roaming on the daily. The community is just too good here and we’re not ready for change. A non-NYC friend recently asked me how we’ve survived this long in the city and I answered: “We’re kind of like prisoners who’ve been incarcerated for a long time and can’t figure out how to move on in the outside world. It’s like Morgan Freeman’s character in Shawshank—We’re institutionalized.”

At some point during the weekend a text pinged in from my sister, though when she sent it is unclear as service is blessedly spotty out there. She’d scrawled an excited note about some miso chocolate chip cookies she’d made. She’s more of a savory cook—an excellent one—and mostly only bakes under pressure from her children, so I knew I had to try this one. You’ve probably seen a lot of miso added to baked goods lately, and done well, the addition of this subtle umami element is worth the hype. Add brown butter and irregularly chopped dark chocolate chunks, and the goodness is almost too good to take. It’s a bit of a departure from a classic, basic chocolate chip but worth the journey.

Pan banging results in a flatter, denser, chewier cookie

Cassie’s Miso-Brown Butter-Chocolate Chunk Cookies

Ingredients:

• 1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter PLUS 2 tablespoons butter for browning both softened at room temperature

• 1 heaped tablespoon dark miso paste (light or medium is fine too)

• 3/4 cup granulated sugar

• 1 cup dark brown sugar, packed

• 2 teaspoons vanilla extract

• 2 large eggs

• 2 1/8 cups all-purpose flour

• 1 teaspoon baking soda

• 1/2 teaspoon salt

• 2 1/4 cups dark chocolate chunks or chocolate chips

Instructions:

1. In a small saucepan heat the 2 tablespoons butter over medium heat, watching carefully. Once the butter develops golden colored flecks and a nutty aroma, remove from heat and stir in miso paste until smooth. In a medium bowl, cream together 2 sticks of butter plus sugars with a mixer until smooth, then blend in the miso brown butter. Add the eggs and vanilla until just incorporated. In two additions mix in flour until just blended (no streaks of flour) but do not over mix. Using a spatula, stir in the chocolate chunks. Put dough in the refrigerator to chill at least an hour.

2. While the dough chills, preheat oven to 350°. Scoop dough into balls roughly the size of ping pong balls and space on parchment- or silpat-lined trays about 2” apart. Bake until edges are golden brown, around 12-15 minutes depending on your oven (check often—they should look slightly underbaked). Remove and give your pan a good bang on the counter so cookies flatten—this will make them denser and more chewy. Sprinkle a little flaky salt on top and allow to cool and firm up before removing them from the tray.

Adventures in Pescatarianism

The first week of 2022, my boy came home from school and announced: “I’m becoming a pescatarian,” and then paused for effect. He was a few weeks away from his ninth birthday, and we’d been down this road before. A few years back it was an attempt to go full-on vegetarian, a run that lasted all of a week and a half and was stymied, as is usually the case, by bacon.

“Oh really?” I asked, unconvinced. “What’s the inspiration?”

“S. is going vegetarian for the new year, so I figured I would too. Except I don’t have a problem eating fish.”

The logistics would not be much of an issue. Our oldest daughter has been an unflagging vegetarian for nearly four years, and we’ve all slowly drifted toward a more plant-based existence. When my son made this announcement, his sister had just returned to school, and we were thinking about braising a big pot of pork paprika…but apparently the universe had other plans. Instead, we pulled together an emergency “Sahadi’s night,” a thing in our family that involves picking up middle eastern prepared foods from a favorite market and making a big Greek-ish salad to go alongside it.

“How’d it go with the pescatarianism?” I asked him the next night at dinner.

“Great,” he said. “Except they had hotdogs in the cafeteria and they smelled soooo good. I was almost tempted.”

“Gross,” said his 15-year-old sister.

“And S.?”

“Still goin’.”

On the third day, my son came home and announced that his friend S., erstwhile vegetarian, had lapsed.

“What did it?” I asked.

“They had pulled pork in the cafeteria and he couldn’t stand the temptation. ‘I just gotta!’ he said.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I’m committed.”

We had miso salmon for dinner.

Things continued like this for the next few weeks. S. continued to hop on and off the wagon, and my son recounted his friend’s struggles with temptations of the fleshly variety.

“I hope you’re not shaming him?” I asked, suddenly worried he might be that sanctimonious kid everyone avoids at lunchtime. “You’re not a meat-shamer, are you?”

“Oh no! Definitely not. I do me, he does him.”

A month and a half later, he’s still going strong, and I realize the ways in which he’s becoming a big person, capable of long-term goals and commitments. I’m a little verklempt. Many nights we rely on our vegetarian favorites: savory tarts, tofu tikka masala made with a favorite vegan simmer sauce, simple pastas sans meat. For him and his sister I created a vegetarian version of hearty French Onion Soup. We have fish some nights, but given the state of today’s fisheries limit consumption. One favorite is slow-roasted salmon which I first spread with a paste of white miso, sesame oil, rice vinegar, ginger, and garlic. Another salmon favorite is Alison Roman’s slow roasted citrus salmon with herb salad (possible paywall). They are both easy.

But the thing the boy has been asking for again and again is clam chowder, one of his most favorite foods. He once ate a raw oyster for $20, but other than that, shellfish is usually off the table. Except for clam chowder. This week, I granted him his wish. It holds a special place in my heart, too, ever since I enjoyed a bowl at Grand Central Oyster Bar in my early NYC days. Like barbecue, clam chowder is a culinary lightning rod, telling of regional alliances and gustatory prejudices. Manhattan or New England? White, red, or clear? Bacon or none? For us, the answer in that winter moment was simple: white clam chowder with no bacon and no frills. A deep dive into internet chowderdom revealed a dizzying number of options. The two I was most drawn to were Sam Sifton’s, made with bacon and cream, and Ina Garten’s, with no bacon or cream and a large amount of roux. I came up with something in between, creamy and rich but not too thick, and of course no bacon, because that would just be mean. It starts with whole fresh clams, which may seem fussy but I promise is worth it. I got mine from our local shop Fish Tales, and the fishmonger kindly scooped armloads of free oyster crackers into the bag. The chowder came together nicely, and as we warmed from the cold February day the taste was rich, briny, and comforting.

Our rendition of New England clam chowder

CLAM CHOWDER RECIPE

Ingredients:

• 24 medium/large sized top neck clams (or cherry stone, or if using quahogs, fewer clams), rinsed briefly

• 1 large white or yellow onion, diced

• Salt - 1 teaspoon or as needed

• 5 tablespoons unsalted butter

• 1/2 cup dry white wine

• 4 medium yellow potatoes, peeled and cubed

• 1-2 ribs celery, peeled and diced

• A couple sprigs fresh thyme

• 1 bay leaf

• 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour

• 2 cups whole milk

• 1/4 cup cream

• Chopped parsley for garnish

• Oyster crackers (Optional but recommended!)

Instructions:

1. In a large heavy pot or Dutch oven (le Creuset or similar), put the clams and about a cup of water. Cover and heat for 10-15 minutes, checking occasionally. When clams are open, transfer them to a bowl to cool. Discard any clams that haven’t opened after about 15 minutes. Important: Strain the liquid through a fine strainer and set the liquid aside for later—this will be your broth.

2. Clean the pot and put it over medium heat. Add 2 tablespoons of the butter and the diced onions, and sprinkle with some salt and pepper. Cook gently for about 10 minutes, until onions are softened a bit but not browned at all. Add the potatoes, celery, thyme, and bay leaf and sauté, stirring, for a few minutes, then add the white wine. Let simmer for 5 minutes or so, allowing the wine to cook down a bit, then add in the strained clam broth and cover the pot. Cook over low-medium heat until potatoes are soft enough that they can be pierced with the tip of a knife.

3. Meanwhile, prepare the clams: pull them out of their shells and discard the shells. Chop the clams into quarters or more if they are on the large size.

4. In a small saucepan melt the remaining 3 tablespoons butter and then whisk in the flour. Cook, whisking, for 5 minutes, then add milk and continue cooking. Whisk until the lumps are out, milk is simmering and beginning to thicken. This will take around 10 minutes.

5. Once potatoes are tender, add clams to the pot and pour in thickened milk mixture. Bring the pot to a simmer and cook for another few minutes. Taste for seasoning. Clams and their broth contain natural saltiness, but you may find the soup needs a little more. Just before serving, remove sprigs of thyme and the bay leaf, stir in cream, crank in some pepper, and taste once more for seasoning. Serve hot, with parsley sprinkled on top and oyster crackers.

Sausage Rolls and Flaming Pudding

When our girls were small, and their brother was nothing but a speck of stardust, we would sometimes steal away between Thanksgiving and Christmas. We’d ditch school and head to England, because that is where Ben’s extended family lives and there was usually some excuse—an anniversary party or a birthday—that didn’t take much arm twisting. His Granny was alive until a few years ago, and when she celebrated her 91st birthday we didn’t hesitate to fly over for it. We’re so glad we did.

Those trips weren’t always easy. Toddler jetlag deserves its own circle in hell, and during that first mini-vacation, England was in the clutches of a cold snap. Our hotel room’s window was stuck in a “cracked open for ventilation” position, ushering in an Arctic blast that left us all sniffly and ill-slept; the girls’ noses ran like faucets the entire trip. London is magical around the holidays, though, and its delights soon outweighed the trials of travel as we wandered the glittering streets way past bedtime every night. We made the obligatory visit to Father Christmas at Harrod’s, and he was so convincing I’m sure he extended the lifespan of our daughters’ beliefs. They squirmed and shotgunned pastries through high tea (“top tea” as they called it). The Winter Wonderland amusement park had sprung up in Hyde Park, and we spent hours on the kiddie rides and trying our luck at archery games, sub-freezing temperatures be damned.

In the countryside, hoarfrost blanketed graveyards and hedgerows, making everything look as though a giant hand had brushed it with icing; none of the pictures I took managed to capture the magic. When our fingers got numb we took refuge in warm, dark pubs where we drank warm, dark beer. The girls lived on mediocre chips and fruit pastilles. I don’t know how much they actually remember of these trips, though, especially that first one—if you ask them they’re probably recalling photographed scenes. And in this digital age our lives have become collections of crisply photographed scenes. (My own early memories are tinted orangish, no doubt because I’m actually remembering 70’s era photos rather than the occasions themselves).

The girls are teens now, and we haven’t been back to England for years. Playing hookie is now a no-no, and casual travel is all but impossible in the omicron age. Our holiday traditions, though, will always be partially British, just like our kids are. Typically, we’ll cap off the Christmas feast by dousing a Christmas pudding in booze and lighting it on fire. Someone runs it around the dinner table while it burns, as many times as possible before the flame dies out, because the more laps you can make the more prosperous the coming year promises to be. And Christmas would never be Christmas in our house without piles of sausage rolls, which often sit on a platter beside ham biscuits, a Virginia tradition from my childhood.

Christmas is never really the same as it was the year before, but it’s these little traditions that keep it festive. I’m experimenting with a vegetarian mushroom version of the sausage rolls and will keep you posted. For now, I give you our traditional recipe, both the short and the long versions….

Easy sausage rolls:

Ingredients:

• 1 package good quality, all-butter puff pastry (I like DuFour, in U.S. freezer sections)—defrosted overnight in refrigerator

• 6 or so good sausages, either sweet Italian variety or something sage-y. Feel free to experiment with non-meat varieties.

• Flour for rolling

• 1 egg, lightly beaten in a bowl with a few drops of water

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 450°. On a lightly floured surface, lay out the puff pastry and gently roll it with a rolling pin until it’s even in thickness and just slightly compressed. Next, squeeze sausage from its casing and lay it vertically along the left side of the dough, in a couple of inches from the edge. Pat the sausage into an even strip, about 1 inch thick. Discard the casings. Now you’ll want to work out the width of the pastry needed to surround the sausage, allowing enough dough to overlap slightly. With a sharp knife, cut the dough parallel to the sausage. Brush edges with a little bit of egg and fold the dough over the sausage, until the sausage is completely surrounded. Press the edges firmly together to seal; you can use the tines of a fork to make little crimps along the edge. Now you should have a long strip of dough-wrapped sausage. Cut it into equal pieces (Size is up to you! We like them bite sized) and lay them on a lined baking tray. Cut small slits into the tops and brush with egg.

2. Bake at 450° for about 10 minutes, then lower heat to 375° and bake for another 10 minutes or longer, if needed. Pastry should be puffed and golden brown and the sausage cooked through and sizzling around the edges. Serve hot or room temperature. I like to serve them with mustard for dipping.

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Traditional Sausage Rolls from Scratch:

(This recipe was given to me by my mother-in-law, Pauline:)

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