Country Captain

The other day at work the third engineer off the M/V Kennecott (an Alaskan Ferry we’re working on) came up to me and told me that Phil Harris had just died. For those of you who don’t know who Phil Harris is he’s the long time captain and owner of the Cornelia Marie and a seminal figure in the Fox docudrama Deadliest Catch.

I can’t say that it was a shock that he’d died, but my first thought wasn’t, as you might expect, tragedy at sea. Had I thought that I would have certainly taken pause because a buddy of mine fishes on the Corn Hole (as the boat is affectionately known). No, I was pretty sure that when the third came to me with this news that the cause of death wasn’t some maritime catastrophe but more like some sort of coronary issue, cardiac arrest or stroke or something more fitting a legendary fisherman like Phil. No disrespect to Mr. Harris but I think it’s interesting that Bering Sea crabbers are more often noted for their fast living than their fishing exploits. It’s true they risk their lives and have interesting and sometimes exciting occupations but more often than not their true mark, their real legend is built on the stool of a bar rather than at the helm of their vessel.

Phil was probably a heck of a guy and a pretty decent fisherman, and I don’t mean to disparage him or his memory just because he was on a crappy television show. I only mean to point out a sobering truth, fishermen are, for the most part, full of shit. Contrary to the picture we get of them on the television screen they are not by and large sage observers of the human condition but drunkards and gluttons, with bad hygiene and missing teeth. Not to say they’re not a lovable bunch, I just wouldn’t take any grooming tips from them. Or for that matter advice on women or health.

I didn’t know Phil Harris. For all I know he was next of kin to the Dalai Lama. The closest I ever got to him was I sat between him and a greenhorn off our boat at the Airport Bar in Dutch Harbor. I remember this kid made us move from our table so we could sit closer to Phil. We were the only ones in the bar and this kid almost creamed his pants when he saw Phil come in with one of his famous deckhands. I didn’t want to move from where we were sitting because first of all I thought it was weird, and second of all I was trying to watch something on TV and they had another channel on at the bar. This kid wouldn’t quit though. He kept going on about how he couldn’t believe it was actually him and that he couldn’t wait to tell all his friends back in Nebraska that he’d actually been in the same bar with this TV big shot. Finally to shut him up I agreed to go up there on the condition that he didn’t bother the guy or say one word to him. He said that that was fine, that he’d probably be too scared to talk even if he could think of something to say. I sat between him and Phil just to be on the safe side. I still felt weird. I didn’t have anything to say to the guy either, but not because I was tongue tied by awe. I just thought of him as some other asshole out there trying to catch our crab. Who the fuck was he anyway? So what if he had a boat and could throw around a few hundred pots? Any idiot can catch crab in the Bering Sea. Believe me, it’s not rocket science.

I do, however, want to dedicate this blog entry to the late Phil Harris, may he rest in peace. Like I said before, I’m sure he was a heck of a guy. My sincere condolences to his family and friends.

Country Captain

Country Captain is an old Southern chicken and curry dish that came to the States by way of the British Navy who in turn probably picked it up in India in the early 1800’s. Traditionally the British used to refer to indigenous members of their colonies as “country” people, meaning essentially anyone not from England. With regard to India and its local merchant fleet a country captain was a ship captain of Indian descent. It is only conjecture but it is believed that the dish got its name because it was learned by British mariners from their Indian counterparts. The Brits in turn brought it to the U.S. through ports in South Carolina and an “American Classic” was born. I put that last bit in quotes because for one thing it seems as though there isn’t much about this meal that is particularly American, and for another, I doubt that a lot of you have ever heard of it. It was however quite popular in the 1940’s and 50’s in large part because Franklin D. Roosevelt and George S. Patton were served the dish (on separate or the same occasion I’m not certain) and instantly fell in love with it. In fact it was the President’s favorite food. Mrs. E.H. DeSaussure came out with a recipe in the 1950 book “Charleston Receipts” which was reported to be identical to the one Mr. Roosevelt enjoyed. The recipe came to me by way of Paul Prudhomme who included it in his epic edition “Seasoned America” in 1991. This book has made several journeys with me on the Bering Sea and does not have a bad recipe in it. It doesn’t have an easy recipe in it either which made it challenging to cook from at sea, but it never disappointed (not that starving crabbers are a tough audience). A distinct difference I noticed between DeSaussure’s recipe and Paul’s was that D included bacon and the spice mace. It’s unlike Prudhomme to pass up a chance to use bacon, and while I’m not really all that familiar with mace I’ll have to try this other version someday.

A couple of things that are in both recipes but that I don’t include in mine are raisins and sliced almonds. I leave the raisins out primarily because my wife thinks they are some sort of culinary abomination. She can’t understand why they exist or why anyone would want to turn a perfectly good grape into something shriveled and dry that resembles a black booger. Before we’d ever met though I’d omitted them on the boat because our Chief engineer Billy thought that anyone who ate meat and fruits together was a kind of degenerate he liked to call a “fruity meat lover”. I come from a family that stuck to the traditional pairings of applesauce and pork chops, pineapple and ham, and oranges and waterfowl so personally I don’t share this aversion. Coming from an Irish background and living more than a decade in an industry skewed toward Norwegian influences, an industry that’s meal set was almost entirely meat and potatoes, Billy refused to believe that normal people would eat such reprehensible concoctions. To him these people were following some sort of unnatural path, their inclinations for fruit and meat a sign of other aberrations like body piercings and gay sex. Naturally I steered clear of these associations. The last cook on the boat they’d taken to calling “the Gay Chef,” and hoping to avoid that nickname myself I’d chosen to pare down these fruit and meat groupings.

The only one I didn’t totally abandon was apple sauce and pork chops, but that was only because I’d read somewhere that it was bad luck to serve pork without its apple accompaniment. Not being one to tempt fate, and being in a field who’s participants have a certain respect for superstition I guarded myself against any accusations of fruity meat loving by loudly declaring this fact. This worked for the most part. I think Billy respected that my hands were tied on this particular meal and so couldn’t fault me. The blame obviously had deeper more ancient roots and lacking the willingness to give up pork chops and the intelligence to discover the origin of this superstition he just let the matter rest.

Had I known at the time that Country Captain was one of George S. Patton’s favorite dishes I may have had the courage to serve it in its original form, raisins and all. I don’t think even Billy, as tough as he was, would accuse Patton of being a fruity meat lover, not at least without risking being pistol whipped.

As for the slivered almonds I really don’t have a reason for leaving them out. Maybe it’s because almonds are so expensive (especially in places like Dutch Harbor), or maybe it’s because I don’t like the idea of having slivers of any kind in my food. That just sounds like it might be dangerous. Whatever the reason I’ve never made Country Captain with almonds and therefore view them as merely optional.

RECIPE

SEASONING MIX

2 tbsp curry powder (I use Gram Masala)
1 tsp dried thyme
1 tsp dried cilantro
½ tsp dry mustard
1 tsp dried sweet basil
1 tsp ground cumin
½ tsp white pepper
¼ tsp ground cardamom
¼ tsp ground allspice
2 tsp salt
1 tsp dark brown sugar

It’s best to make this seasoning mix first so you have it on hand. It will play a role in several stages of the recipe

1 whole fryer (about four pounds) cut into six pieces
1/3 cup all purpose flour
3 tbsp olive oil
1 cup chopped onion
2 cups chopped green peppers
1 cup long grain rice (uncooked)
4-6 cloves garlic (minced)
2 cups chopped fresh tomatoes (or 1 ½ cans whole tomatoes, drained and chopped)
3 cups chicken stock

1. Rub chicken pieces with 2 tbsp of the seasoning mix.

2. Mix the flour with 1 tbsp of the seasoning mix in a shallow bowl.

3. In a large pot or sauce pan (something you can cover and will hold several quarts of liquid) heat the oil over medium high heat. Flour the chicken pieces, reserving the left-over flour. When the oil is hot arrange the chicken in the pan and brown, turning several times. After about eight or ten minutes remove the chicken and set aside.

4. In the same pan add ½ cup of the onions and ½ cup of green peppers and cook for several minutes.

5. Stir the rice and the remaining seasoned flour. Cook for several minutes stirring and scraping the pan occasionally so that the rice doesn’t stick.

6. Add the garlic, tomatoes, remaining onion and pepper and remaining seasoning mix and cook for five minutes.

7. Add the stock and scrape the pan in order to get all the crust from frying the chicken off the bottom. I’ve actually burned the chicken a little a couple times but don’t worry if this happens. When the little black bits get released into the rest of the sauce it lends a nice charbroiled aspect to the overall flavor.

8. Return the chicken to the pan resting the pieces on top of the sauce and bring to a boil. Once you’ve reached a boil reduce heat and cover. Simmer for 20 minutes.

9. Remove from stove and let stand 10 to 15 minutes keeping the lid on.



10. Serve in bowls.

Food for the Vermin

A few days ago my wife and I lay our pet rats Squeaky and Flo to rest. After some weeks of suffering with a massive tumor and dementia, respectively, we had them euthanized at a local veterinarian hospital. My wife prepared their coffin with treats for the afterlife, coins for the boatman, their favorite blanket, some newspaper, and read aloud a eulogy at their tiny gravesite (a flowerbed next to our front door). We lit a candle and sprinkled some food over their grave for the birds and their outdoor cousins to come and enjoy. The candle burnt for two and a half days before finally guttering and melting into the soil.

Yesterday I was shooting the bull with some guys at work (I got a job at the shipyard a few months back) and I happened to mention our recent loss. I guess I should have known what kind of response I’d get. They laughed and joked and imagined inventive ways of dispatching pet rodents. Someone suggested that instead of taking them to the animal hospital we should have taken them to the Lychee Restaurant, a local Chinese Buffet. He argued that instead of paying a vet fifty bucks to euthanize the rats I might have actually made money on the deal. To be completely honest I wasn’t terribly offended by the off-handed way they treated the death of our rats. I realize that if I’d have been reporting the loss of a dog to these same men I would have probably received solemn condolences instead of wisecracks, and maybe that’s unfair. I guess there’s a certain hierarchy in the value we ascribe to certain animals’ lives. As rats, Squeaky and Flo were in the lower end of that hierarchy, but as members of our family their value was placed very high. (Just as an example of how disparate our views are on this matter, a fishing buddy of mine, a Mexican guy we called Cholo, always dreamed aloud of one day leaving the industry to open up an exotic meat store in Sea-Tac. Noting the large population of Asians and Hispanics in the area he thought it would be a great idea to open a butcher shop specializing in dog, cat and horsemeat. I tried explaining to him that first of all, there were laws against selling any of those animals as food, and that second, his store would probably be burnt down inside of a week, but he just didn’t get it. Cholo was convinced by his experiences in Mexico and the testimony of some of his Asian friends at the cannery that his store would be a booming success. As far as I know there is still no dog, cat and horsemeat emporium in Sea-Tac or Tuckwilla.)

I remember resisting the rats inclusion in our household. When Cat first brought them home, unannounced, I wasn’t very happy about it. All I could think of was how they were going to stink up the house and how we would get in trouble with our landlord who had a strict no pet policy. My wife is the kind of gal that would rather beg forgiveness than ask permission, so after hearing her sob story about how Squeaky and Flo were to be euthanized so that their original owners could move abroad I finally gave in and tried to enjoy the critters for what they were, food begging machines. Flo was the most shameless and aggressive offender. She would sit on the gate of her cage leaning out over the edge as far as she could, her front foot pawing at the air, trying to stir up some aroma from the dining room table. Neither of them were very tough critics of my cooking but after a while I began to suspect that they had a greater appreciation for it than my wife did. I never once saw them pick a mushroom or olive or any other ingredient out of something I fed them. They savored everything and ate whatever I put in front of them. And unlike my wife they never balked and complained about any of my dinner proposals. They never said, “Sundried tomatoes are gross,” or “I don’t eat pork,” or “I hate artichoke hearts.” They were excited about everything that crossed the threshold of their cage, so eager to try my new concoctions in fact that they literally snatched them from my fingers, sometimes even trying to sample the fingers themselves. Now that’s a compliment. A little bit scary and cannibalistic, but I can’t think of higher praise for a chef’s abilities than wanting to trace the flavor of the food all the way back to the fingers that created it.

It was around the time when Squeaky’s tumor made it difficult for her to reach her food dish and Flo’s brain trauma (she suffered a fall in December) left her unbalanced and unable to climb the gate or grasp and hold things like she used to that I noticed their appreciation for food deteriorating to a purely instinctual level. They’d always had a sort of competition going to see who could get the fattest but now it seemed as their friendly wager had devolved into something more like a death match. Flo just didn’t know what was going on anymore. She would sit at the seed dish brushing through it with her paw but unable to pick up any of it. Squeaky would drag around her tumor like a sidecar with a square tire in an effort to collect whatever hit the floor of the cage, unable to climb to the second level herself. With her added girth and Flo’s inability to comprehend her surroundings Squeaky began to bully food away from her. Suddenly it was like we were feeding two castaways on a life raft. One was delirious from sunstroke, the other determined to survive no matter what the cost, even if it meant eating her lifelong companion.
It was then we decided to put an end to their lives. Once they’d lost the ability to enjoy food, to sleep peacefully, or play in the wheel we figured that it was probably inhumane of us to wait around until, either one of them croaked, or the stronger of the two did something unforgivable.

I don’t know exactly what life lesson to take from this experience. I guess if I learned anything from Squeaky and Flo it was that you’ve got to enjoy life while you have the faculties to do so. To settle for bland food, to take no pleasure in sleep, or play, or any other carnal pursuit seems to suggest you deserve your lower rung in the hierarchy. Squeaky and Flo were not very sophisticated animals, they often sat in their own poop, and drug food through where they defecated, but compared to some people I know they certainly had broader palates and a much more vibrant appreciation for the things in life that sadly a lot of us take for granted or neglect entirely.

As a small tribute to beggars and vermin everywhere, to people and animals who still know how to enjoy life and to make do with what they have I’ve put together two recipes that I think represent and celebrate their tastes and spirit.

Stone Soup

This has a special place in my heart and culinary history. When I was about six years old I heard of stone soup and was intrigued by the idea. I don’t think I’d heard the folk tale or was read the children’s book (there’s one from 1947 by Marcia Brown, one written by Ann McGovern in 1968 and a much more recent one penned in 2003 and set in China) but essentially the story goes as follows, a stranger or a group of beggars or a soldier returning from the front after WWI passes through a starving town. The townspeople tell them to move on because there is no food but they decide to stay and rest. They take from their wagon a large iron pot and a magic stone (or an ordinary stone, or in some stories a piece of wood, a button, a nail, or an axe) and they announce to everyone that they’re going to make a batch of stone soup (or wood soup, or button soup, etc.). Everyone in the town is pretty hungry so their interest is naturally aroused. They come to see how this stone soup is prepared. The stranger fills his pot with water, builds a fire under it and then ceremoniously puts in his special stone. He sits watching the soup for some time licking his lips in anticipation. Then after a while he says to himself, loud enough for those gathered round to hear, that stone soup is great, but that once he’d had stone soup with cabbage that was fit for a king. Soon enough a villager appears with a small cabbage that he’d been saving in secret for himself. The stranger puts it in the soup and waits. Later he makes another soliloquy about how such and such a stone soup was fantastic but one he’d tried with potatoes was out of this world. On and on he extolls, one variation of stone soup after another, until finally there are carrots, onions, celery, meat and all kinds of herbs and spices complimenting his creation. All he’d started with was a pot and a stone and some water. He’d contributed nothing substantial to the soup but an idea, a kind of promise of a more delicious meal than what each individual could have prepared for themselves. He’d inspired people to pool their resources and in the end was able to “trick” them into feeding him.

I think as a kid what appealed to me most about stone soup wasn’t it’s lesson about community (or trickery) but that it seemed like you could put just about anything in stone soup without it becoming something else. As long as you started with water and a stone you had free range to do whatever you liked. At the time I made my first and only batch of stone soup I’d never cooked anything without my mother’s assistance, and without the aid of a recipe. In fact I think the only thing I’d ever attempted was the fried egg in the street and regular old bisquick pancakes. Stone soup was my first culinary adventure.

I had no idea what I was doing but just the idea of there being a stone in the soup pot made the whole experience sort of magical. I felt like I couldn’t fail, that whatever crap I decided to throw into my soup it would be delicious just on account of the big ass rock I’d started out with. I don’t know how to explain it exactly. But to a kid, a boy six years old, a pot of soup with a stone sitting at the bottom of it is about the coolest thing in the world. It didn’t matter how bad it ended up tasting (and believe me it was pretty horrible) the fact that I’d made the soup with a rock in the bottom of the pot made it some sort of culinary masterpiece. Or at the very least weird enough to be something to brag about. That stone soup was my soup. I invented it. All by myself. I didn’t get to touch the knobs on the stove but everything else I’d done one my own, without supervision.

Obviously I don’t remember what all I put in my stone soup but I can at least leave you with a basic recipe to follow. I figure as adults maybe some of the magic will be gone but maybe not the community part of it. Get together with friends. Have each person bring an ingredient. Mix and match. Break bread. Eat soup. Watch out for the rock in the bottom of the pot though. No amount of cooking is going to make that thing tender.

Stone Soup Recipe

One large stone (about the size of your fist, washed of all dirt and boiled)
1 ½ - 2 gallons water
Salt and pepper to taste
Additional ingredients (optional)

In a large pot combine water, salt and pepper, and stone and bring to a boil. Add desired additional ingredients and simmer for an hour and a half. Serve hot with crackers or fresh bread.


Kleftiko (robber’s lamb)

This is a fantastic dish that both my wife and I really loved. I found it in a Mediterranean Cookbook my Mom gave me for Christmas. I have a lot of cookbooks that seldom get used so I was glad to finally make something from one that really spoke to me. Kleftiko literally translates from the Greek to mean “stolen meat”. The nickname robber’s lamb apparently is derived from a time when sheep rustler’s were a problem in the region. Kleftiko is an enclosed dish, kind of like a pie, but with a shell that holds in all the steam and juices. Traditionally it was cooked in an underground oven, somewhat like the Kalua pig, presumably so that the smoke from the smoldering coals wouldn’t give away the position of the bandits. We cooked ours in a conventional oven. However you decide to prepare this dish I just want to warn you now, this is not going to be any thirty minute show stopper. You’re going to have to work to make this baby, and you’re going to have to put in the time to make it right.

Kleftiko Recipe

4 to 6 lamb leg steaks about 1/2 inch thick (enough to cover the bottom of a 10 inch pie dish, or a ceramic casserole dish)
Juice of one lemon
2-3 tbsp. fresh mint (chopped)
1 tbsp. dried oregano (rubbed gently between fingers or roughed in a mortor)
1 tsp. salt
2 tsp. black pepper
3 tbsp. Olive Oil
1 large yellow onion (sliced thin)
1 large red onion (sliced thin)
½ cup dry white wine
4 bay leaves

Single 10-inch pie crust

½ cup shortening
1 ⅓ cups all purpose flour
Pinch of salt
3 – 4 tbsp. cold water


1. Combine the lemon juice, mint, oregano, salt, pepper and 1 tbsp. olive oil in a shallow pan. Place lamb steaks in pan and coat both sides. Marinate for several hours, 4 to 6, turning the meat a couple of times.
2. Combine the ingredients for the pie crust and form into a ball. Reserve for later in the fridge.
3. After sufficient time pull meat from marinade and reserve. Preheat the oven to 325° F. Then heat 2 tbsp. oil at medium high heat in a large frying pan. Brown the lamb on both sides, turning once.
4. Remove lamb from pan and place in a single layer at the bottom of pie plate or ceramic dish. Arrange onions and bay leaves over the top of the meat.
5. While pan is still hot pour in the wine and scrape up the crust sticking to the bottom of the pan. Add marinade and cook about 1 to 2 minutes. Pour over lamb and onions.
6. Wet the rim of the pie pan. Roll out dough and cover the pie pan tightly covering any cracks or holes with excess dough.
7. Cook for 2 ½ hours.

Serve with boiled potatoes and roasted or sauted vegetables.

Rest in peace Squeaky and Flo. We enjoyed feeding you our scraps.