Saturday night snow-in: A discoursePart 2: The Olive and The Cow

(continued from yesturday's post)
As Kristin and I sat, we began to talk about our childhoods and our parents and grandparents, and their different cooking commandments. And we fell into a topic which is the crux of a much heated debate: Butter vs. Oil. Kristin, herself, is in the school of butter. Where as I'm from the school of oil. The mason-dixson line which seperates the two sides lies across the center of europe, splitting the northern butter lovers, from the southern olive oil enthusiests.

In my house, we never run out of olive oil, my parents buy it by the case at a restaurant supply shop (along with full wheels of parmiggiano reggiano -- and no, we do not own a restaurant, this is for our household). Butter was the little tub that sat eternally in the butter keeper on our refridgerator door reserved only for toast and cookies. My mother substitutes butter with oil in her cornbread, my father drizzles it into his pasta water. We've even used olive oil in baking cupcakes when we've run out of butter-- not something I would recommend. What it ultimately comes down to is the type of fat you're looking for. The super market variety of butter his a blank slate quality about it. It will get you a nice, flakey crust without changing the taste. (I recently had my butter awakening on a trip to Ireland, but that's a story for another post.) Oil, on the other hand, has a distinctive flavor, particularly olive oil. Nutty, bold, unapologetic. It announces itself.

Growing up under the influence of the olive, I've learned to treasure the little moments when it shows up unexpectedly. The little white bowls filled with tick, dark, green, extra virgin. The puddle of oil and balsamic left behind after the company has finished the caprese salad. The occasional bottle infused with rosemary or lemon rind in a gift basket.

As far as Olive Oil-phelia goes, there are different degrees. Some, like my father and Lidia Bastianich are, for the most part, strictly olive. They add it to everything. With chopped garlic and parsley over grilled fish, drizzled over potatoes, and probably wouldn't be opposed to a mug full of it (this, I am told, is how they serve it up at olive oil tastings). Then, there are the medial purists, which is where I would most align myself. I love my olive oil, but there's also a place in my heart for pasta con burro, however, never the twain shall meet. Then there are the omni-lipids. Those who float every which way when it comes to their fats. They believe that butter and oil can be mixed. I've tried this method, and I understand that the butter is supposed to lower the smoking point of the oil, however, I never found any real advantage to doing this, and the taste I'm not that fond of.

The last category has as permanent club president, the majesty of the churn herself, Ms. Paula Deen. Paula raises the bar (lest we forget this is the woman who deep fried lasagna). And sometimes it is beyond my comprehension as to how she is still alive (I would love to know her cholesterol...but back to butter!) Butter is the one and only when it comes to crusts, you can't get good crumb without butter. But for savory dishes, it has just never been my thing. I will never caramelize onions or fry a piece of chicken in butter.

In conclusion, I haven't really come to all that many conclusions in this long winded dissertation. But perhaps, I'll just leave the debate open. After Kristin and I discussed the matter in the context of eggs, we did come to one agreement....when it comes to eggs, bacon fat trumps both oil and butter.

Saturday night snow-in: A discourse in 2 parts. Part One: A Wallop

A friend of mine threw a holiday dinner party on Saturday night. Kristin, a kitchen master in her own right, presented a spread of chafing trays (yes, she owns chafing trays) filled with home made creations emitting a scent so delicious you couldn't keep your fingers out of them. I, for one, may have eaten an entire platter of stuffed mushrooms on my own, but I'm not admitting to anything. As the night wore on, and we stuffed our hungry little faces with the delectable spread, outside the snow began to rise. We continued, playing reindeer games, paying no heed to the "winter wallop" of 2009. As the other local guests began to leave, calling cabs (and getting hung up on several times) or walking through the winter wonderland that Brooklyn had become, I settled in for the night (Brooklyn to New Jersey is no easy fete in 10 inches of snow).

In the morning, Kristin and I walked down for breakfast in our PJs and broke out the box of cookies I had brought with me as a hostess gift Molly Wizenberg's "Jimmy's Pink Cookies" which were a total hit, despite the fact that I ran out of powdered sugar and had to omit a full cup from the frosting (I believe it was a sign from the diabetic Gods, because they were perfectly sweet, and didn't cause my blood sugar to soar). This was the first time I had made a cream cheese frosting, scented with cherry liquor -- and I think this is the best one I've ever eaten. It will definitely not be the last one I make, and I look forward to trying it with different flavors. I also happened to realize halfway through that we were out of food coloring - it's difficult to make pink cookies, with nothing to turn them pink.

I scoured the spice cabinet for something flavorless that would make my sinfully delicious white frosting rosy. I finally found a bottle of red sugar crystals which I dissolved (you don't want that texture in the frosting) and ended up turning them the perfect shade of pink (Christina: Kitchen Crisis Master).

At the bottom of my little white box of cookies, was a layer of my old stand by, the biscotti. The recipe lies typed with the broken lettering of a type writer on a yellowing, butter stained piece of paper. It was given to my grandmother by one of her neighbors, Rose, on the little New Jersey street where my mother grew up. It was one of those streets with matching houses, where I imagine tupperware parties and jello molds were all part of a Sunday afternoon. This sheet of paper, contained measurements in grahams, carefully converted to cups by my mother's handwriting. My hand was responsible for doubling the amount of Sambuca. The recipe called for 6 cups of flour and 6 large eggs, and I always made it in triple batches because they vanish. My mother takes a tin full and hides it so at least they'll last through the holidays. But, at present, we were in Kristin's living room, dunking them into hot mugs of coffee.

To be continued in Part Two: The Olive and The Cow