Frittata on Sunday

Some folks describe frittata as an omelet.  Others say it’s quiche without the crust.  All of them are clutching at straws.  Really, does a quiche taste like an omelet?  You kidding? Yeah, sure and you might as well say a hamburger tastes like a flattened hotdog.

Frittata brings a lot more to the table than mere sustenance. It’s a toss together microcosm of the Italian happy-go-lucky view of life: First we cook, then we take off our clothes, pour some Prosecco, and share an Italian Happy Meal.  What time does your husband come home?

Well, maybe they’d never say that, but you’d follow the gist with the sensually erotic smiles and the expressive hand gestures that wrinkle your blouse.

You’re asking yourself, all that in a dish of eggs?  Oh, yeah!  But, as an American, you must be able to transform yourself and your state of mind.  Takes practice. First, the average American male must lose thirty pounds.  The front of your pants must not look like an overextended trampoline, with the belt as a safety device.

Cinch that waistline until your eyes bulge and your cheeks begin to collapse.  Unbutton that shirt a bit.  Let a cigarette languish on your lips, even if you don’t smoke. Roll up the sleeves of your linen shirt. Carelessly don a classy sports jacket with no tie and don’t forget to push up the sleeves. Turn up the collar. Practice Al Pacino’s lingering eye contact, and give your lips a sensual curve, even when saying simple things like:  the grinding of salt reminds me of your teeth mia amore, red brick matches your eyes mia cara, and soft socks flatter your stubby toes mia principessa.

Now I know you’re ready to do some ‘talian cookin’.  Ok, here’s the prep work.  Chat casually with two or three lovelies, in your white linen shirt, open at the collar, while sipping a glass of Italian wine, and feeling more at ease than the fire-red Ferrari in your cobblestone driveway.  Throw in vowels at random.

Mix in a few hand gestures that tell the world Miss Universe begged for it, but (insert a big what-can-you-do shrug) you’re only one man.

Keep that frame of mind going while you cook this low carb, easy, sumptuous crowd pleaser.  This recipe serves two, but easily doubles or triples or more…

Frittata For Sunday

One small onion, diced

4 Eggs

1/2 Cup half & half (I used 1/4 Cup whipping cream and 1/4  Cup water, but use any dairy you wish)

Olive oil

1/3 Cup thinly sliced and chopped hard cheese of your choice (I used Pecorino with chili peppers)

1/3 Cub grated Parmesan

Couple of tablespoons of chopped fresh basil, or your favorite herb

Salt and pepper to taste

Pour your guests and yourself another glass of wine.

Mix the eggs, cream and water in a small bowl. Add 1/4 teaspoon salt and pepper.

Preheat the oven to 350ºF (180ºC)

Splash a couple of teaspoons of olive oil in a small frying pan.  Add the diced onion and cook on medium to low heat until the onion is translucent.  Remove half the cooked onion and put it aside for now. Leave the rest in the frying pan.

Pour the egg mixture into the frying pan and turn up the heat just a bit.  This is not a quick fry dish.

As the egg mixture begins to crawl up the sides of the pan and before the center is set, scatter on the rest of the diced onion and add the bits of sliced cheese.

The onions and cheese should sink into the frittata.  Give it a minute, then sprinkle on the grated Parmesan.

Slip the pan into a 350ºF (180ºC) oven and allow the frittata to cook until it is firm and beginning to very lightly brown on top.

Remove the cooked frittata from the oven and toss on the chopped basil.

I like to serve this dish with English style bacon.  Not familiar?  English bacon is cured from the top of the loin.  The English refer to American bacon as ‘streaky bacon,’ which comes from the belly.

Note:  Variations on frittata are almost limitless.  Add anything you like, from chopped Italian Sausage, to chopped dried tomatoes, and any cheese that calls to your taste buds.  Hey, this dish is Italian and just as happy go lucky!

In case you think I’m being too hard on Italian men, let me clarify.  I plan to move to Italy, buy a villa on the Mediterranean, have a wife and two very frisky maids, and drive a Lambo….as soon as I’m young enough.

The Generals: Patton, MacArthur, Marshall and the Winning of World War II, by Winston Groom

How often we remember famous names, but not exactly what they did, or what they were like, or where they came from.  The Generals, takes us on a well guided tour of the lives of three giants from the Second World War, Patton, MacArthur, and Marshall.  Three men, very different in temperament, strengths, and weaknesses.

Patton is probably the best well known of the three, in large part due to the eponymous Oscar winning film starring George C. Scott.  Scott also took the Oscar for Best Actor, but unlike the general, who was known for his love of the spotlight, Scott did not accept the Oscar, but he wore the famous ivory-handled pistols well.

Patton was once asked about his pearl handled pistols.  His attributed reply was pure Patton:  Son, only a pimp in a Louisiana whore house carries pearl handled revolvers, these are ivory.

There have also been many films about Douglas MacArthur, the last being The Emperor in 2012, starring Tommy Lee Jones.  Many would recognize the corncob pipe, aviator sunglasses and crushed military cap.

George Marshall is perhaps the least known by today’s public, but was called by Winston Churchill, “The organizer of victory.”  In addition to his military career, he served in many high governmental positions, including Secretary of State, and Secretary of Defense.  So why isn’t he more well known?  The simple answer is he didn’t win fame on the battlefield.  His organizational and planning abilities were so great that even before he was a Lieutenant Colonel, his expertise led him to be called by name from one staff job to another.  In World War II, his was the guiding hand behind every strategic and logistical decision across both theaters of war, Europe and the Pacific.

So, what about Winston Groom’s book, The Generals?  In a word, fascinating.  His prose style is closer to that of a skilled novelist who keeps you turning pages and keeps you up late at night.  Anyone can list a chronology, which becomes deadly boring after a page or two, but Groom is a storyteller and a storyteller fills in the gaps and places his subjects in a moving panorama of the times and circumstances.

Throughout the book, the personalities shine brightly, not only in the context of military performance, but loves, hates, friends, and associates.  Groom follows these men from West Point (Patton and MacArthur), Virginia Military Institute (Marshall), through the Mexican border conflicts, World War I, and the conflagration that was truly world wide, World War II.  He intertwines ups, downs, disappointments, and successes, always tying them to family, personality, and sense of duty.

You find yourself as a fly on the wall, as three of our greatest military leaders endure and rebound, time and again, through the flames of war and the sadness of personal tragedy.  Reading this book, you come face to face with ordinary men, who drove themselves hard to become exceptional men.

If you care about history, military history, and even the psychology of leadership, you don’t want to miss The Generals, by Winston Groom.  But, be forewarned, these three giants of World War II are going to leave you with both a feeling of inadequacy that you should have done more, but also with the encouraging hope that you can do more.

Low Carb Curried Pork Stew

A couple of things you should know about me.  Don’t care to know? Fine!  Skip down to the semi-fabulous recipe that can cook while you’re off to visit your busy day and still feed your ungrateful family who has no idea how hard you work and all the things you do for them daily.

But, enough about you.  Let’s get back to me and the things you should know.  I love to cook…scratch that…I love to empress people with my cooking.  I only invite people who are exuberantly thrilled to be impressed.  I am also lazy…well not really lazy….ok, really lazy.  I like to work at a frenzy, then casually sip a wine or three with my freeloading friends, while the spectacularly delicious meal takes care of itself.  Lots of ways to do that and one of my favorites goes under the unremarkable heading of stew.

In my never ending search for the unremarkably remarkable, I chanced upon a stew recipe that with just a bit of tweaking could turn a suburbanite’s common Mustang into a fire-spitting Shelby Cobra.  I know, I know.  Mixed metaphors.  First cooking, then screaming sports cars.  But, that fire-spitting Shelby Cobra sticks In your mind, n’est pas?  Mission Accomplished!

On to the recipe.

Low Carb Curried Pork Stew

Hint:  If you’re getting an early morning start, cook this stew the night before.

Pre-heat your oven to 275ºF (140ºC)

1 Pound (or a bit more) of either cooked, or raw pork.  I used some of each.

3 cloves of fresh garlic, thinly sliced

Salt and pepper to taste or about ½ teaspoon each

6 Ounces button mushrooms, washed and quartered

½ Medium onion, diced

½ Red bell pepper, sliced

½ Green bell pepper, sliced

1 Large parsnip, julienned

4 Tablespoons of your favorite concentrated curry paste.  I use Patak’s.

1 Can (about 1 ½ to 2 Cups) double strength beef broth, undiluted

2 Cups chicken broth

Juice of ½ Lime to finish

Puttin’ It All Together:

If you’re using raw pork, drop a tablespoon or two of oil in a frying pan and lightly brown the meat, adding salt and pepper.  Don’t worry about the pork not cooking completely!  The stew will be in the oven a few hours.

Put the vegetables in a large skillet and lightly cook them.  This reduces the water in the vegetables and intensifies the flavor. 

In your stew pot, put a bit of oil and the minced onions and garlic slices. Cook until they wilt.  Add all the pork and stir.

Add the beef and chicken broths and bring to a boil.  Add the curry paste and stir well.  Add the vegetables.

Put a top on your stew pot, slip it into the 275ºF (140ºC) oven and go do something else for three hours.

When the stew comes out of the oven, taste, and add salt and pepper as necessary.

Squeeze the juice of half a lime over the stew and stir.

Ladle the stew into bowls and serve with a slice of lime.

This stew goes well with either swilling a beer, or sipping a Pinot Grigio!

An Excerpt From Stroud's Newest Novel: Lowdown. Dirty. Shame.

Dear Sir or Madam, enclosed is a teaser for my newest novel, but first…

My second novel, available in paperback and Kindle editions on Amazon, is offbeat, quirky, and elicited some offbeat and quirky comments, as you might expect from my offbeat and quirky readers.

“Too much sex and violence for me!”  Wait a sec!  You can have too much sex?  An old wives tale.  Very old wives.  Wives with dementia.

“Laugh out loud funny!”  My fervent hope is the reader laughed at the right places.

“I don’t buy books.”  For your vigorous resolve, my poverty stricken family applauds you with hunger-weakened hands.

“The part I liked best was….now I can’t remember.”  What was your name again?

“I thought things like this could never happen, and then my wife found the photos.”  Delete, delete, delete.  Never forget these words.

For those of you, and by that I mean the billions of you around the world that have not had the supreme pleasure of reading my latest scabrous tale of the small town South, I offer this encapsulation:

Jack Hudson is in a pickle. He’s not a private investigator; he’s a small town, small time writer. But, when a well-to-do acquaintance and fraternity brother asks him to check on his wife, Jack is all ears. He has good reasons. The fraternity brother’s wife and Jack are on better than speaking terms, if you know what I mean, wink, wink, nudge, nudge. The job sounds simple and there’s money on the table for just one night of slightly perverse snooping. But, simple things aren’t. Now the wife is missing, Jack is accused, Jack’s other girlfriend is again tangled with her ex-husband, the fraternity brother’s first wife may also be missing, and Jack’s simple life is instantly scrambled and scattered across Cassavora County, several other counties, New Orleans and Charleston. Oh yeah, Jack’s brother may be part of a criminal conspiracy, Jack’s mother is on her last legs…Damn, I know your heart is pounding just thinking about it!

Ready for a sample?  Something to whet your curious and slightly deranged appetite for twisted mayhem?  Keep reading!

Extract From: Lowdown. Dirty. Shame.

A white and tan Ford, a row of flashing blue lights on top, tires crunching the gravel, stops behind my dented, aging, but still dependable Honda. A couple of officers step out, adjusting their gun belts and heading for my front door. I hide in the semidarkness of my bedroom and edge the curtain back another inch. Momentary comfort, before somebody pounds my door with a sledgehammer fist.  An edgy feeling, like a kid playing hide-and-seek when the footsteps get closer. 

Normally I’m up and sparking at seven thirty, but the night before had stretched out like a lazy cat.  Make that a semi-guilty, lazy cat.

The knock is not the gentle knock of a frolicsome cutie, followed by an invitation to come in, take off her clothes, and straddle my quivering flesh.

This knock carries visions of chokeholds and handcuffs.

         “Sheriff’s Department.  We need to ask you a few questions.”  A deputy bangs a couple of more times. 

         “Just a second.”  I grab a robe.  Judy, a sixth grade teacher, offered me a pair of pajamas a few years back, but the two of us never used them.  The PJ habit didn’t take.

         “Sir, we’re asking you to open the door!”  The sharply pitched voice wears a cloak of authority and likes the fit.

         “Hang on!” This time I yell a little louder.  Loud, not threatening.  Only a masochist, or someone suicidal threatens cops.  I’m just a mild mannered writer who yearns for finer things than he can afford.  Younger cars.  Faster women.

         Sunlight cuts my eyes and sprays across two officers in Cassavora County brown and tan uniforms. They stand there hatless, with hard eyes, like they’ve just spotted Son of Sam.  The guy in front is shorter and thinner. Behind him, the other deputy makes up the difference, with beef to spare.  The big guy gives me a bully’s thick-lidded stare, and adjusts his uniform shirt, the way fat guys do when they’re trying to keep their pants pulled up over their paunch.

         I hold up a hand for shade.

“Sir, we need to ask you a few questions.” 

“Yeah, you said that.”

The guy in front, the skinny one, rocks back on his heels, his thumbs hooked inside his tooled leather pistol belt with the fingers of his right hand lightly brushing the handle. The big guy doesn’t say anything, just keeps glaring at me like a linebacker determined to spear the passer.

         “What questions?”

         “When did you come in last night, sir?”  Don’t you just love the needless signs of respect that mean they can kick your ass with impunity?

         “What makes you think I went out?”  Aside from some innocent snooping, unarmed and without malice, I hadn’t done anything noteworthy.  I never do much noteworthy, although that seems to be changing by the minute.

         “Sir,” the voice tightens up, “Are you going to answer our questions, or do we need to take you back to the Sheriff’s Office and question you there?”

         “You know, I might be a little bit more forthcoming if you told me what this was about.”  A citizen’s rights are only a thin veneer when armed officers of the law stand on your porch.

         “Forthcoming,” the big guy mutters, twisting his lips like he’s just spit out a fly.

         “We’re conducting a police investigation and we’d like your cooperation,” the thin one continues.  There is no mistaking the tone. Bad cop and worse cop.

I step out onto the porch. The big guy grabs my shoulder, snaps me around and cuffs me.  “My advice is not to try to resist, motherfucker, although that might be a lot of fun for us.”

“Sorry, didn’t know it was your mother.”

“Don’t,” I hear the thin guy whisper.  The big guy tightens his grip anyway. 

Resist?  That’s a laugh.  “Resist?  I haven’t done anything.”  That point floats cloud-like past the guardians of the law.  Your newspaper spouts off about criminals having too many rights, then you’re cuffed and suddenly everything changes.  You’d like all those rights you read about, a few extras, and a hotshot attorney’s number on your speed dial.  This has to be a gigantic mistake.

         “Can I get some clothes?”

The thin deputy leads me back to my bedroom.  He doesn’t take off the cuffs, but grabs a few things as I nod.  He tells me I can change at the jail.  The big guy stays outside, while skinny hustles me through the front door.

Several trailer-court residents have gathered along my driveway, a few hundred yards from their tin abodes. Must have been the flashing lights.  Moths to the flame. Between them they probably own a baker’s dozen unpaid traffic fines, not to mention a file cabinet full of arrest records. Cans of kerosene, waiting for any flicker of judicial flame.  The deputies barely notice.

         “Hey, Dally!”  Moon yelled at me.   Moon is a well-muscled, white tee shirt, baseball cap wearing, never been close to a razor in a week, mountain man.  My pal.

         And just because he writes only as well as a large canine, doesn't mean he's stupid.  His river of expertise just doesn't follow the usual gullies to the sea.  Need a door re-squared?  A lock installed?  Not getting a pure sound out of your speakers?  Moon reads the intricacies of mechanical problems like another man reads a newspaper.  If anyone still reads newspapers.

         I should mention my house, a mansion in comparison to my trailer park pals.  Nice little bungalow with a porch.  Thanks to Moon, I've got speakers in every room and the sound is perfection.  Didn't have to buy a new stove when a heating element went out.

        Trailer park residents walk under modified streetlights, pulling current the electric co-op hasn't missed.  Moon also walks dogs and fixes cars.

        Ever ask to see your mechanic's high school transcript?  We pick people for their strengths.

My name is Jack, John D. Hudson, or for most just Hudson. The D is for Dallas. I hate my middle name as much as I hate a hair in my gravy.  Moon gets to call me anything he wants.  First of all, he’s big enough and mean enough to pound the crap out of Hulk Hogan’s momma, not necessarily in a fair fight.  Secondly, Moon encourages my passion for fresh herbs, and brings me potted versions from time to time.  Sometimes the little green plastic cups say Wal-Mart on one side and K-Mart on the other, so god only knows.

         I’ve done a few things for Moon and his trailer park brethren. Wrote a letter to the County Commissioners that got the trailer park’s road paved.  Also, regular county garbage pickup. 

Months ago, Moon was court-ordered to write a letter of apology to the owner of a local restaurant, after his persistent and loud belches cleared three tables.  Moon explained he’d been waiting a long time for a table and some of the customers had finished, but weren’t moving.  Right and wrong are vague concepts for Moon, carelessly applied.

My letter allowed Moon to bypass the Creating a Public Nuisance charge and climb the social ladder to the infinitely more respectable, “if you see his car at a restaurant, don’t go near the place.”  He got light community service, serving lunch an hour a day at the jail. He’d been bringing me herbs ever since.

         I have a couple of large, rambunctious rosemary bushes in terra cotta pots outside my door.  As I’m shoved into the cruiser, the big deputy walks over, pulls at the leaves and sniffs his fingers.  “This stuff legal?” he asks no one in particular.

         Moon balls his fists and starts toward him.  “It’s ok,” I yell, “He’s just never seen a plant before.”

         Moon stops. 

The thin deputy tells me, “Shut up and watch your head,” and pushes me the rest of the way in, scattering my bundle of clothes over the back seat.  Both deputies climb in the front.  Doors slam.

         “These restraints are too tight,” I say.  The thin plastic started to numb my fingers.

         “Shut up,” the big deputy says.

         I cough, harder than I need to, spraying the back of his neck. 

         He turns around, his eyes on fire, and uses his stick to rap hard against the steel mesh separating the front seat from the back.  In this case, the mesh is for my protection.  “Don’t do that again,” he says, with venom to spare.

         “Hey, my arms are behind my back.  I can’t help it.”  I cough again. This time the spray hits both deputies.

         The little guy slams on the brakes.  My face slams into the mesh, the same time as the big guy swings his stick. My face feels the sting of a thousand bees.  The little guy tells me if I try that again…the rest of the threat drifts.

A few miles later, we pull in front of the station. The big guy jerks me out of the backseat more roughly than he needs to.  An uncomfortable feeling snakes down my spine.  This has to be about last night.

Final words to faithful readers:  William Stroud, Amazon, Lowdown. Dirty. Shame.  Paperback and Kindle.  Be sure to write a brief review on Amazon!