I’ve received a few emails over the last couple of days, from folks wanting to know where I’ve been; it wasn’t like me to not pontificate on some culinary subject or another (thanks for the kind words) or to let things go with nary a word of my whereabouts. So, here’s the story.
My dog died.
This is not an excuse, like The Dog Ate My Homework and therefore I couldn’t write for a few days. The fact is that, my erstwhile kitchen compadre; my recipe tester; the greatest, most transparent and fair-minded food critic I know, met her maker last Friday, January 30th, at around 9-ish in the morning, EST. We knew it was coming; at 12 years old, she couldn’t stand up anymore, seemed to be confused when surveying her domain from our front stoop, and was slipping into the congestive heart failure that would keep her coughing straight through the night, for two nights in a row. When she stopped wagging, and ceased growling at her most hated housemate, Vontz the cat, we knew: it was time to say good-bye.
Not all dogs are all things to all people, but in my house, we actually never thought of Macgillicuddy (aka Gilly, MacGilly, Goober Guts, Stinkerbottom, Poopie Pants — thank you Anne Lamott, Ruffle Buns, Lip Smacker, Stinky Fish Pants, Curly Girl, Snootie-and-the-Whitefish, Popcorn Paws…I could go on) as, well, a dog. Yeah, I know–no real dog lover ever thinks of their pooch as a dog, and the childless among us? We’re the most pathetic of all. Especially when we spend a lot of time alone with our four-legged progeny. Like I did, when I was writing my cookbook, Big Food.
What no one knows–including my partner, Susan–is that part of the impetus behind Big Food came at the paws of the dog. Some years back, I got it into my brain to try and teach home cooks the power of restaurant-style repurposing with the help of bulk-sized products bought at places like Costco and BJs, and even farmer’s markets and CSAs. Because honestly, what neophyte, smart-minded, wannabe locavore hasn’t found themselves staring into a 10 pound crate of turnips at the start of every winter rotation, and thought “Damn. Now what?”
Anyway, over the years, we discovered that Gilly had a profound love for all the “AM” foods: Ham, Spam, and Lamb. If we made a small ham (half of which was always meant to go into Jean Anderson’s classic recipe for golden pea soup, along with the bone), she generally wouldn’t go near anything else in the house, unless we cubed up some of the leftovers, and put a quarter cup of them into her food. This meant that we could then cut back a bit on the ground beef we gave to her everyday with her dry food, thus pushing both the ham and her proper food, and the ground beef, to yet another meal. (Unfortunately, giving her ham also meant that she would risk falling into a nitrate-induced stupor, which culminated with her staring off into the distance, glassy-eyed, like Michael Phelps after a long, deep, bong hit.)
Another particular favorite dish of Gilly’s was lamb. She loved it gamey or young, and when I spent two days testing recipes for braised lamb shank, she sat in the corner of the kitchen, drooling so badly that she looked as though she was swallowing shoe laces. After the recipe was perfected and we ate it for dinner (Susan and I with a bottle of Salice Salentino; Gilly, with some water to wash down the few pieces we gave her), we had an extra shank leftover: the next day, when I got down to testing, the dog positioned herself in front of the fridge, drooled furiously, and, I swear, mumbled the word “ragu.” Perhaps I was imagining it, but I don’t think so.
As for Spam, I’m pleased to report that I haven’t actually dined on the pressed meat product since I was a child, when my father (casting a big SCREW YOU AND YOUR FANCY FOODS in the general direction of my mother, whom he divorced some years later) brought home a tin of the stuff, fried it up, and sent our Airedale into tail-chasing convulsions. But the one time we did bring it into our home, Susan and I discovered Macgilly positively frothing at the mouth when we cracked it open. We decided that it was really too vile to eat, much to Gilly’s extreme pleasure. Waste not, want not, she thought.
Macgillicuddy, our beloved pooch, my kitchen companion, a friend of Poor Man’s Feast and self-appointed tester for Big Food, I bid you a tearful adieu; may you dine from the golden bowls of the gods, and feast on all of the foods you loved for eternity, with nary an incident of dyspepsia:
Ham
Spam
Lamb
Penang (a bad idea)
Lox
Buttered Toast
Roast Beef
Pastrami
Corned Beef
Lamb Ragu with Pappardelle
Glazed salmon
Peas
Potatoes
Bucatini all ‘amatriciana
Epoisse
Fromage Blanc (Vermont Butter and Cheese, not homemade)
Fromage Forte
Goan Shrimp Curry
Spagetti and Meatballs
Smoked Whitefish
Meatloaf
Kreplach
Tongue from Katz’s
Tamari-Glazed Black Cod
all washed down with
A small bowl of Typhoo Tea with milk.
(After all, she was English.)
Goodbye, sweet thing.
