He pointed to an office building—an aging art-deco era five-storey that now rested in a seedy area of town, kitty corner to a strip club and across from the train station. It housed various state-agency offices, including my own.

“Ummm, no. I think that would be city hall,” I said.

His shoulders slumped and he sighed. He looked at the paper in his hand.

“They said I need her birth certificate.” He looked up at me again. “I think she was born at Baystate. Is that even in Springfield?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding, wanting to say more, but not know what to say.

He went on, in explanation. “I’m trying to get custody of my niece. Her mother’s incarcerated. But they’re making it so hard. They even destroyed my truck.” He waved his hand in the direction of a small, maroon-colored pickup that had been scrawled with black spray paint. He didn’t explain who “they” were.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“Well, do you know where city hall is?”

“Do you know where the courthouse is?” I asked in return, hoping he did since it would make the directions a bit easier.

He shook his head, again looking defeated.

“Go up this street and take your first left, follow it for a ways. If you hit State Street you’ve gone too far. Just before you do, though, you’ll see a square of official looking buildings. It’s off of that square.”

“Thank you,” he said, still distracted, and moved to get into his truck.

“Good luck,” I said, impotently standing there, wondering about the missing details of his story, his niece’s story as he drove off.

It’s rare to get such insight into the intimate struggles of a total stranger. I felt for him, for his niece—who clearly was in a situation that was not likely in her best interests, at least not yet. I was glad I could offer a little help, such that it was.

And the encounter made me feel grateful—grateful that I knew the answer to his question; grateful that I wasn’t in a similar situation.

I’ve been feeling more open to the world this week, to its experiences, both good and bad, and it appears the world opens up a bit when you’re willing to let it in.

Small encounters can make a big difference.

I hope he was able to get what he needed.

There are certain foods that, although I know I have liked them (even loved them) in the past, I always recoil when I think about consuming them again. For some reason, tea falls into this category. As does liver. The liver part kind of makes sense to me (it is, after all, an internal organ which functions as a filter for icky things, so the idea is hard to overcome). The tea? Not so much. But, it is what it is.

Nonetheless, as past posts will attest–and with apologies to my veggie/vegan friends–I have been experimenting in liver of late.

Last weekend I endeavored to make a duck-liver terrine and, today, finally, I was able to overcome my mental aversion enough to try it. The result? Well, let that wait until I tell you about my little adventure in acquiring and manipulating duck livers.

Originally, I had to skip over the terrine recipes in Peterson’s book. Why? Because duck livers are surprisingly hard to come by in my smallish community, despite ample agricultural activities nearby.

I had just determined to try the recipes using chicken livers when, lo and behold, I finally entered the specialty foods store that just opened in my town (in a space we previously had used for our swing dances, which explains why it took me so long to visit–I had to overcome my disappointment at losing the great space).

There, tucked back into a small refrigeration unit, were vacuum-packed foie-gras-quality duck livers! Only $30 for 0.33 lbs! (Yes, I meant that sarcastically).

Intent on my mission, I shelled out the money for the yellowish-pinkish organs (purchasing some duck legs confit into the bargain) and took them home.

There I was, my 0.33 lbs of duck livers and Peterson’s recipe that calls for 2.5 lbs. (7 times more!). Luckily, I had purchased these adorable, and very small, retro-blue loaf pans. I looked at the livers; I looked at the pans. Yep, two would do it.

Aside from finding the ingredients, and taking out the mortgage to pay for them, making terrine is actually really easy. I took some prosciutto and lined the two tiny loaf pans. Then salt-and-peppered the livers and smooshed (is that a technical cooking term?) them into the little loafy rectangles. I lovingly covered the pans with parchment and foil and soaked them in simmering water (taking care that the water didn’t boil into the pans themselves), then stuck ‘em in a 300 degree oven for 45 minutes, then placed ‘em in the fridge.

For six days.

My refrigeration was a little longer than the recommended 24 hours, so I was a bit apprehensive. When I finally unpeeled the wrappings at lunch today, I was delighted to see the buttery-yellow outline of the fat that had congealed around the edges (Looked like Peterson’s!).

As I sliced into the rectangular delicacy, the smell of roasted duck wafted up and piqued my appetite, rendering senseless whatever aversions I had been feeling. My little loaf pans yielded tiny slices 2.5 inches long by 1 inch high–perfect sizing for a cracker, so cracker them I did (La Panzanella rosemary croccantini crackers work quite well…or just a knife and no crackers at all).

Can’t remember now why liver sets me awry. Salty from the prosciutto, the liver was infused with the full flavor of a well-roasted duck (my favorite poultry for eatin’). Delicious!

I would say that the small size of my loaf pans probably upset the liver-to-prosciutto ratio a bit, so that it was somewhat saltier than ideal, but still completely divine. And so rich I couldn’t eat the whole serving, despite its smallness. But that just means appetizers for dinner!

I may just stick with “pardon” since it can be read either way, is short and gets the point across. But it still doesn’t seem quite right.

Maybe “beg pardon”?

Oh, pother, this is too hard. I think the tone I use is such that “pardon me” does not come across as command-like. And it certainly trumps the outright rude failure to say anything at all.

I wonder what else I do wrong in the world of proper etiquette? No, don’t tell me. I think I’d rather figure these out for myself.

I beg your pardon for even bothering you with this.

From Misc Photos (2011)

(From prior posts, you know I’m embarking on a tour through James Peterson’s “Cooking” cookbook. This post relates to that adventure.)

There is a dearth of duck livers in my area. Unable to find any, I resorted, for the moment, to skipping the terrine section of Peterson’s cookbook and jumping right to the chicken-liver mousse recipe.

Oddly, chicken livers were not so easy to find either. After my third sweep through the store without success, I had to ask the butcher. Turns out they were ensconced on the top shelf of a refrigerated section nearby. I am not a tall person. I never would have seen them there without assistance. In fact, I had already perused that section and missed them. I thought chicken livers would be available in abundance, an inexpensive meat “by-product” of America’s chicken ubiquity. But, apparently, at least in the northeast, they are not popular enough to garner front row shelving.

Anyway, I have never deliberately bought fresh livers in my life (French pate, yes. Liverwurst, yes. But not their origin ingredient).

It’s probably a culinary travesty to admit this, but the sight of the internal organs themselves (as opposed to in already-processed form) makes me a bit nauseous (even more so when processed into a mousse slurry from scratch). The organs are just so much more intimate somehow than the muscle meat of a hearty steak or drumstick. I’m only doing this little experiment to garner some classical culinary skills and knowledge. But it kinda has me rethinking vegetarianism again.

Unfortunately, my chicken-liver experiment has left me with four good-sized ramekins full of liver mousse. My spouse won’t eat it, so it’s just me. Yes, I will, of course, try it, and even attempt to eat a good portion of it (assuming I can overcome the psychic barriers), but what the heck do I do with the rest of it?!

As with a prior post, I note that Peterson would do well to address storage issues for each recipe, though that wouldn’t help me here since my off-book research indicates that liver mousse made with real whipped cream (like Peterson’s) won’t freeze well. The suggestion? Do everything except adding the dairy; freeze what you’ve got; re-process with the dairy ingredients upon thawing. Wish I’d done my research prior to making the stuff.

Ah, yes. Making the stuff. About that. It turns out it’s extremely economical and easy. Have you seen how much they charge for pates at the store? If you like it, you should definitely make your own. It will be very impressive at a party to say, “What? Oh the pate! Yes, I made that myself.” Unless PETA’s attending.

Okay. I’m skipping class for a bit.

The next lessons in Peterson’s tome are “puff pastry rectangles,” “canapes,” and “tartlets.”

Having made Peterson’s cheese puffs, I feel as though, with that experience, I now have the confidence to pull off the puff pastry rectangles for a party at some indefinite future date. Since I’m essentially just cooking for two, it can get a little ridiculous getting all cooked up with no place to go (63 cheese puffs! Really?!).

As for canapes, I’ve made some before, although I do note that he recommends the use of pumpernickel bread and French butter for these (as opposed to the white bread and American butter I’ve used previously), along with a cookie cutter to make fun shapes. Sounds pretty do-able and Martha-Stewart approved.

Finally, the tartlets. I’ve made plenty of pie crusts in my life, and pecan tassies. And, again, what do I need with 60+ tartlets? Also, I don’t have tartlet pans, though, whenever I do try the recipe, I plan to use my mini-muffin tin and see what happens (since a muffin tin is less of a one-trick pony). Peterson does note that the tartlet shells can be frozen for later use. This is a good reason to make these soon, since I have a baby shower coming up. But, since I’ve recently bought fresh liver, I’m anxious to get to the liver “starters.”

Before that, however, here are some other educational tidbits I picked up from the reading for the practicums I’m skipping:

* Bresaola: It’s air-cured beef. Think “beef prosciutto.”
* French butter is so yummy because it’s made with creme fraiche.
* For caviar, use American Sturgeon. It’s less expensive than others and equates in quality.
* Don’t match crunchy things with caviar.
* The traditional difference b/w pates and terrines is that pates had crusts. The terms are now used interchangeably.
* When shopping for canned pates, get “entier” (whole liver) or “bloc.” The “mousse” is typically made from trimmings and lacks the same texture.