Who ya callin' chicken?

And now, for a few words on summer entertaining.

*Despite the advice of every cookbook/magazine/wizened chef on the planet, it is totally no problem to try a new recipe or cooking technique for the first time while you are entertaining guests. Hey, these people are your friends, right? They won't judge you (much) if dinner is a total failure. And anyway, there's pizza down the street and it's pretty good.

*Always make too much food. Not only does this decrease the chance that you will have to think of something interesting to pack in the next day's lunch, but it also decreases the chance of freak out when your spouse comes home with a guest you didn't plan for and says "Hey, is there enough food for one more? I ran into Andre."

*It's not a proper barbecue until you have set dinner on fire at least three times.


*It's not a proper barbecue until you set your grill towel on fire, requiring a guest to stamp out the flames because you didn't bother to wear shoes.

*If dinner is really, really good, nobody except you will notice that you forgot: napkins, non-alcoholic drinks, or dessert.

*If dinner is really, really good, and you're really relieved that you didn't burn the house down, you won't be annoyed that your spouse's extra guest means there aren't enough plates and now you have to eat out of a bowl. Bowls are cool anyway.



Basil-Garlic Grilled Chicken

1/2 cup olive oil
1/4 cup fresh chopped basil
4 cloves garlic, finely chopped or minced
5-6 chicken pieces, skin on (I like thighs)
salt and pepper, to taste

Mix the first three ingredients together. Rub mixture into the skin of the chicken pieces. Now rain salt and pepper down on the chicken. Put the chicken and the rest of the marinade into a plastic bag and refrigerate for 3-4 hours.

Take the chicken out of the refrigerator about 20 minutes before you cook it, allowing it to reach room temperature before grilling. Grill on medium, moving the pieces around regularly. Chicken is done when the internal temp is about 165 degrees Fahrenheit, or when the juices are clear and the inside is notably not pink. Serve.

Life, Love, and Ligurian Olive Oil

My dear Turtle,

Welcome to the Dark Side.

When I graduated from high school, your uncle Stefan wrote me a letter. He told me that he had wanted to be a teacher, but he’d gotten the job at BMW instead, and that was okay. And then he gave me a bunch of life advice, stuff he thought I should know – mostly that sometimes, metaphorically speaking, taking the job at BMW instead of becoming a teacher works out better all around. It was a good letter, and I wish I still had it. Maybe Stefan had something to say about life that I don’t.

It was not so terribly long ago that you were just a little slip of a thing, your arms around my neck, saying: “I don’t want to stop hugging you, Auntie Allycen.” And then, six weeks ago, we were two adults in a dressing room discussing the intricacies of hemlines. Both of us changed a lot in that stretch of time; we were children together for a short while, and now we’ll be adults together for a long time. You are sensible and compassionate and a total, utter joy to be around – I think you’ll be good at this whole adult thing.

I was thinking about you yesterday, while I was at work and you were walking across a stage to get your diploma, and I wondered what I could pass on to you, what little wisdom I could tuck into your palm to carry with you. The problem is that a lot of the really useful stuff is what you have to learn on your lonesome: how to stand up for yourself, how to avoid settling for less, when to turn someone down gently and when to tell them off. The rest of it is just handy, like “wear sunscreen.” (For the record, the last time I had a screwdriver in my hand and I thought ‘righty tighty, lefty loosey’ I silently thanked the guy who taught me that, even if he was a jerk in all other respects.)

But there is one thing I can talk about with some confidence, something you might like to hear about: pesto sauce.

I could wax poetic about pesto, because it’s the perfect food. It tastes good, it’s healthy for you, and it never fails to impress – even if you just open up a jar of the stuff, premade. You can make it from scratch, using the best ingredients (freshly picked basil, Ligurian olive oil, an expensive deli Parmesan), pounded by hand in a mortar and pestle, and it will be totally, 100%, worth every minute you put into it. And you know? I recommend that at some point, you make sure that happens in your life. Good food is one of the most primary pleasures that life has to offer, and the primary pleasures are the hardest to top.

But the important life lesson that I can pass on here is: sometimes you take the BMW job. Sometimes you use premade pesto. You do this because sometimes your time is worth more to you that your palate, or because your blender is broken or basil is out of season or you worked all day and you’re tired. Maybe you don’t like cooking – or maybe you do, but the people who are going to be eating your cooking are not going to appreciate it fully. And you should never waste Ligurian olive oil (metaphorical or otherwise) on people who don’t appreciate it, because that stuff is expensive and so is your dignity. In short, know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em.

So go out! Live well! Wear sunscreen! Buy a very sharp knife for your kitchen, because if you love to cook a sharp knife will serve you well, and if you hate to cook a sharp knife will make you hate cooking less. Don’t microwave aluminum foil. Make pesto from scratch when nothing but the best pesto will do, and don’t feel any shame in opening a jar when something else is more important. Congratulations on your graduation.

With much love from your favorite aunt,

Allycen

Turtle’s Pesto

*2 cups fresh basil leaves, washed

*2/3 cup shredded parmesan

*1/3 cup pine nuts

*2/3 cup olive oil

*3 cloves garlic

*juice from ½ lime and ½ lemon

*salt and pepper, to taste

Throw everything in a blender and process until smooth and saucy. Serve over stuff.