1. Better control over salt content. Even with the nutrition label data, it’s hard to know exactly how much salt is in your butter – you could use butter to season your food, but that’s not really its job. Butter is my fat, not my salt.
2. Salt is a preservative. I don’t have solid evidence for this, but I would assume salted butter is older when purchased than its unsalted counterpart. Even so, I’d rather buy it in smaller quantities and know it’s good rather than have a mummified beurre-pharaoh in my fridge.
3. When making pie crusts or other similar doughs, salted butter melts faster and is MUCH harder to work with. There’s a reason it’s used on winter roads. This one is not so obvious, but very
4. It overwhelms the subtleties that great butters can possess. This isn’t always true (see my post on Kiel), but it is the case more often than not. Fresh creamed butter, especially unpasteurized, it absolutely fantastic and unrivaled in complex flavors. I swear I can taste the clover and other pasture feed in some butters.
5. I love fresh bread with butter – and this is the one case where salted butter might be better – but I generally go with anchovy paste for the salinity, or some other umami-laden saline vehicle.

Sorry salted butter: you’re…toast.

I grabbed my biggest wooden spoon—mind you, it is in fact quite large—and proceeded to mash and bash the cabbage until it exuded more water. After 5-10 minutes, I stopped and replaced the bag. A nice brine now slightly covers the cabbage and things should go slightly faster. I’ll update in a few days!

Oh, and the smell is divine. Nice and pungent and cabbagey. Not gross, but definitely not sterile. I. Love. Food.

Ingredients:

• 2 small/medium heads of lettuce, outer leaves removed, about 2 pounds each. Washed, drained, and halved. I used green, but both red and green is ideal. Oh, and get organic if possible, as pesticides kill the natural bacteria that are necessary for the fermentation process.
• salt; I used Kosher, but pickling is supposedly ideal because of its grain size. Rock salt apparently works too. Also, avoid iodized salt as it will kill bacteria!

Equipment:

• large, clean food-grade container. I used a large ceramic crockpot, though a bucket or crock would work. The sides should be as straight as possible.
• a good (sharp) knife and cutting board
• a plastic bag capable of holding water without leaking. I used a garbage bag, and washed the outside before using it, in case of residues.
• water
• a 50-60°F area; cool, dark, and handsome. Okay, the handsome part is ridiculous. Yet I won’t delete it.

Instructions:

1. Cut out the core. I had never tried it before, and was extremely pleased to find that it had a similar peppery heat to mustard greens.
2. With the flat face down on the cutting board, cut each half into quarter-inch strips. You can go smaller or larger; smaller should decrease the time it takes for the fermentation to occur, while larger should take longer. Makes sense.
3. Layer the cut cabbage into the vessel with salt. For every two pounds of cabbage, use 1 tablespoon of salt. For the record, 1 tablespoon equals 3 teaspoons. Mix everything together with your hands. You did wash them first, right? Press the cabbage down with your hands. Some people even bash it, to bruise the cabbage and get it to start releasing liquid sooner. You don’t have to do this, as the salt will draw the moisture out—but you could try it especially for red cabbage, which is harder. Point is, compact it as much as you can so it is not at the top of the vessel.
4. Partially fill the plastic bag with water. The bag is going into the vessel, on top of the cabbage to both:
   1. press out more water
   2. keep air and other debris out, which allows fermentation rather than rotting
   3. to allow the resulting CO2 an escape (through the tiny gaps around the perimeter, between the bag and the vessel).
5. Once the bag is in the vessel, add more water till it sufficiently is weighing the cabbage down. What is sufficient? I’d say at least a gallon or three of water, depending on how much cabbage you’re using. I’ve got about 2 gallons in my bag. Tie the bag up!
6. Let the pre-kraut sit in a cool area, out of direct sunlight, and away from critters.
7. Lift the bag, checking periodically. I’m going to give mine a taste after a week. It may only take a week. Two seems to be the ideal, but it’s all up to your palate. It may even take up to five weeks, so use your senses.
8. If something stinks or seems otherwise awry, it probably is. Ditch the kraut and call the doctor if you’ve eaten it and feel…off. As always, I take no responsibility for your kitchen creations, so don’t blame me!
9. If everything seems good, eat! Decide if it needs more time, or if it has gone past its prime. When it tastes good to you, you can jar and refrigerate it, or even bag and freeze it for later.

I’ll post further developments as they occur! Peace.

• update 1

Resources:

• http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ItUPwdlViCY
• http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ItDXpNyOmhA
• http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TeBlvOa62W8
• http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AAByu1Lb8GM

They’re the perfect vehicle for flavors, sweet or savory. And they can make an especially brilliant breakfast if you’d just toss those wimpy packets in the bin. This way is cheaper, tastier, and will get some heat in your belly for those chilly autumn days that are certain to come.

Here’s how I make them for one serving. You’ll need:

• 1¾ cups water
• 1 cup rolled oats. You know, the same kind as the goofy dude with the hat
• salt
• unsalted butter
• 2 tablespoons of palm sugar (date palm, not coconut)
• dried sultanas (I’d get them from an ethnic Western Asian store), or golden raisins. They’re essentially the same, just produced slightly differently.
• half stick of cinnamon
• cloves
• Cognac

You’ll also need a small pan and a heatproof spatula or wooden spoon.

1. Get your water on high. Once boiling, add the oats and mix. Add the sultanas, cinnamon and a few cloves.
2. Once firmed up a bit and not watery, add a small amount of butter. A teaspoon or two should do the trick. We’ll be adding a touch more at the end. Crumble up the sugar with your fingers and stir constantly until the water is absorbed. I like mine sorta gloopy but so the oats hold their shape, still swollen with water.
3. Add a splash of cognac. I use about 2 tablespoons. Mix briefly while on heat. Then kill the heat and give it some time to soak up.
4. Serve. I keep the cinnamon and cloves in as long as I can but you can remove them if you don’t want to accidentally bite into them. I finish with a modest pad of butter and let it melt over the top, eating a little with each bite. So good.

More ideas:

• You can use currants, regular raisins, or other dried fruits in addition to or instead of sultanas.
• Soaking the dried fruits in alcohol will add a KICK to your morning You can also be less of an alchy and soak in water, juice (see * below) or a flavored syrup for a few hours.
• The date palm sugar provides a sweetness that is extremely mellow. It almost melds with everything else. You can tell it’s sweet but you might not necessarily realize why. Cane sugar is often much less discrete. If you don’t have palm sugar, brown sugar is a good substitute. There’s also muscavato sugar, and a variety of others. Give them a shot, you’ll feel your culinary world open before your eyes.
• leave the butter out and it’s vegan. If you want some richness, there are plenty of substitutes!
• A tiny hint of heavy cream? Gorgeous. Or, I’d imagine this would top a nice, rich ice cream brilliantly. The heat, melting the cream? I can almost taste it now.
• A squeeze of *orange juice would pair nicely with the spices and alcohol, and add acidity to balance the richness of the butter and or cream—if you’re using it.

This is made almost exclusively with pantry stuffs, relatively cheap, fast, delicious, can be made for many people, and is relatively healthy.

Best of all?

You don’t have to take your dentures out to eat it!

1. I learn new techniques, glean ideas and adapt them to my own cooking – similarly, others learn from me.
2. More hands means faster prep work, which means less time actually cooking.
3. More dishes, more variety
4. You can learn a lot about people from their cooking, and how they cook with others.
5. There’s an incredible intimacy that food affords – to cook well requires all the senses, and to share that with others brings them closer. It almost transcends genetics – if I cook with you, you might as well be my brother.

There are so many other reasons, but I think this sums them up.

These are eaten all over the Caribbean and Central America, and are also called patachones and tachinos. Since they’re starchier than bananas, they’re usually eaten with some sort of savory dish and used to sop up fats and liquids—but they’re also eaten as treats, which is how I’ve prepared them. Here’s how to do it. You’ll need:

1. However many plantains you want to prepare. I’d get two or three the first time around.
2. Oil. I prefer vegetable. Canola can suck it. Hard.
3. Salt. Kosher please, thanks.
4. Sugar (optional)

You’ll also need:

1. a pan—preferably a wide one if you’re cooking a lot. I used a small 8–inch cast iron pan (I only used one plantain). I’d say at least a 12–inch pan if you’re cooking two or three.
2. tongs
3. a knife and cutting board
4. a wooden spoon, spatula, or glass bottle
5. a bowl of cool water
6. a cloth towel for drying the plantains
7. a drying rack or paper towels/bags to absorb excess oil
8. a fry thermometer (optional)

First things first: get your pan on a medium high flame and fill it with 2cm of oil. Let it heat as you prep your plantains. If you’ve never seen a plantain…

Now you have.

They look super similar to bananas, but they’re not as easy to peel by hand. So, with a knife, cut off both ends. Then make a slit through the flesh from end to end. Remove the fruit and cut into 4cm lengths (roughly 1½ inches). The peel should look something like this:

Not all that different from a banana, but it is much stiffer, as is the fruit inside. Anyhow. Since the segments you cut are 4cm and the oil is 2cm, that means we’ll have to give them a flip to cook both sides. Once the oil is up to temperature (325°F) gently place in the segments so they rest on a flat, cut side. If you don’t have a fry thermometer (I don’t either, don’t worry), just guess. The oil should get excited initially, but should settle down after 30 seconds or so. If it continues to rage, turn the heat down slightly. You should be able to see the segments as they cook–they shouldn’t be completely enveloped in bubbling oil. Here’s a photo to clarify:

After about 1½ minutes or when the bottom halves have started to brown, give them a flip to the other flat side with your tongs. Cook again for 1½ minutes. They should look something like this:

Now remove them from the oil and let them drain a little on a cooling rack or paper towels. I kill the heat at this point because the cast iron retains the temperature and I don’t want the oil to burn. Using the wooden spoon (or other squashing implement), flatten each segment down to half it’s size, like this:

Then, place the medallions in the bowl of water for a minute or so. Don’t let them sit too long or they’ll absorb excessive moisture and fall apart. Keep this in mind when squashing them–don’t make them too flat! Remove them from the water and pat dry in a cloth towel.

Get the oil back to about the same temperature as before and gently place in the medallions. You’ll need a little more room this time around; work in batches if you need to so you don’t overcrowd the pan and lower the temperature. Also: when frying it’s best to place things in away from you, so the oil doesn’t splash onto you. Don’t blame me for your hospital visit! Work smart and safe, always. Here they are back in the oil:

Cook for about 4 minutes per side, until golden brown. Remove, drain, and season immediately with salt (even if making them sweet). If you want them to be sweet, sprinkle on a sugar variety of your liking. I like granulated or cane for the texture. You could even use a squeeze of lemon juice, some crème fraîche, or whipped cream to add some more richness and bite to this treat.

There you have it.

If you live in Milwaukee and are fry-tened (groan) to fry on your own, let me know and maybe we can arrange something.

Eat well, and cook safely!

What more could one ask for? Well fancy you should ask. I buy my beans dry rather than canned—either in bulk or pre-measured packs—and I do this for several good reasons.

• Weight. I bike. To work. To friends’ houses. To the grocery store. Canned beans are packed in that weird goo, not to mention…a can. Both of these things are HEAVY. Bagged beans are dehydrated, so I get more for the weight. After soaking, reconstituting, and cooking, beans nearly triple in mass. Amazing.
• Cost. This is somewhat related to reason one. A bag of beans and can of beans weighing roughly the same also cost roughly the same where I shop. In fact, usually exactly the same. Even in bulk they’re close. The dried will yield about 2½ more in mass than the canned. Et, voilà. Pound for pound, beans are some of the cheapest natural protein in the world.
• Storage. I keep them bagged or in a sealed container. They take up less space than a can and generally last longer. Were I to stockpile dried, I could use them in whatever quantity I wanted. Try that with a can.
• Processing. I like knowing how my food is prepared and I like buying it with the least amount of processing possible. This is how beans should get to my mouth:
  • Grow beans
  • Harvest beans
  • Dehydrate beans
  • Package beans
  • Transport

  That’s my sort of bean. None of that aforementioned goo. That the fuck is that shit anyway? Were I to grow them, I could eliminate the last three steps—maybe someday, but I’m not quite there yet.

Hopefully I’ve convinced you to at least give beans a chance. You might be tempted to give peas a chance too, but beans would give that legume a lashing of a lifetime. No offense, Mr. Lennon. I’ll post some bean recipes soon. If you’ve got a recipe or ideas to share, email me. If enough are submitted, I’ll try to post something in a similar vein.