Say it with me…chee-lah-KEE-lehs.
Being a book worm, English teacher, & general language nerd means I have a pretty decent vocabulary. But there have been times—many an embarrassing time, in fact—when I have run across a word that I know the meaning of but have NO idea how to say aloud. Like at a restaurant, for example.
I hate feeling like an ignorant dweeb when I want to order a dish but don’t know how to pronounce it. Luckily, I find that a gentle shrug and point at the menu generally results in help from a good waiter or waitress.
Once I learned how to say “chilaquiles,” I was all over ‘em. This simple and satisfying Mexican dish is a easy to make for a crowd on weekend , and it also makes an excellent breakfast-for-dinner. You don’t have to top your chilaquiles off with a farm egg fried in bacon fat, but I did.
This chilaquiles recipe is of my own making, and may or may not pass an authenticity test, but it’s damn tasty.
red or green salsa
Cut tortillas into strips or wedges. Heat a little vegetable oil in a cast iron skillet until very hot, almost smoking. Add enough tortilla pieces to cover the bottom of the pan and cook on both sides until crisp. If working in batches, keep cooked pieces warm in a low oven. Set cooked tortilla strips aside while frying the rest of the rest in batches.
Once you’ve worked through all of your tortillas, return them all to the skillet over low heat and pour in salsa so it nearly covers the tortilla strips. Simmer for a minute or two, then serve with as many extras as you see fit.
beans of your choice—black, pinto, refried
chopped bacon, chorizo, or veggie crumbles
queso fresco or other cheese
A day or two after news of the Deepwater Horizon oil spill broke, I spotted beautiful, wild-caught Gulf shrimp on sale at my neighborhood grocery store—fat, never frozen, $5.99/lb. I bought 5 pounds, suspecting that it would be a while before I saw such beautiful Gulf seafood at such an amazing price again. Little did I know, right?
I really have no idea how to respond to something like this. Clearly, I take for granted that, in our world of obscenely rapid technological advancement, we should be able to solve this problem. How is it that we don’t know how to fix it? And what is it that I should be doing, other than feeling really, really depressed and making donations to help the humans and wildlife affected by the spill?
There’s no neat little conclusion to this post, just that all of this damn oil is, among other things, another notch in my mental belt of wondering what the proper balance is between apathy and obsession. How much time should I spend in my, let’s face it, really comfortable life, thinking about all of the shitty things happening all over the world at any given moment? And is there some hierarchy of disaster, things I should care about more than others? And where does all of my care and concern go, if I do choose to exert it?
Choosing our positions along these blurry lines is a matter of personal ethics and conscience, and I like to think that thinking rigorously through my positions is at least worth something. Part of my job as a teacher is getting my students to care about something other than themselves, and convincing them that by engaging with the world, they alter it. But sometimes I wonder if I’m not just setting them up for disappointment.
Last weekend, I thawed half of the shrimp I had purchased in April and cooked them simply, with traditional Indian spices and over high heat until they pinked and firmed. My house was pleasantly swollen with friends and loved ones, who fought over the last shrimp and left the tails scattered in shallow bowls. Maybe, at times, that’s the best we can do, and that’s not so bad.
MUSTARD-SEED SHRIMP WITH CUCUMBER RAITA
We ate these straight-up, with raita drizzled on top or alongside as a dipping sauce, counterbalancing the heat of the shrimp perfectly. The dish didn’t seem to suffer for lack of a “vehicle,” but surely they would be delicious tucked into a pita, wrapped in some naan, or served atop some rice or couscous.
2 ½ lb. Gulf shrimp, peeled & deveined
2 tsp. black mustard seeds
1 tsp. coriander powder
1 tsp. cumin powder
½ tsp. turmeric powder
½ tsp. cayenne pepper (less if you’re heat-shy)
special equipment: a heavy-bottomed pot with high sides & a lid
Swirl some oil into the pot, letting it heat until the oil shimmers (medium-high on the stove). Throw in the mustard seeds and turmeric, then immediately bring the lid down to cover the pot. There will be spluttering! Shake the pan and let it sit on the heat for a minute or two more, then remove from the heat.
Add the shrimp to the pot—all of them if they fit—then return to the burner. Using a large spoon, gently turn the shrimp regularly to ensure even cooking. Toss in the remaining spices, including a teaspoon of salt. After 3-4 minutes, turn the stove down to medium, letting the residual heat finish the shrimp.
Continue to turn the shrimp until they have all pinked and are just cooked. Remove immediately from the pot so they do not overcook. Taste for salt and serve warm.
You can also add a finely chopped Serrano pepper if you’d like a little fire in your raita.
2 cups plain, thick yogurt
2-3 small cucumbers, peeled & grated
¼ cup buttermilk
¼ cup mint, roughly chopped
1 T cumin powder*
juice of 2 lemons
salt, to taste
Squeeze the grated cucumbers in a cheesecloth or paper towel to drain the excess liquid, then combine them in a bowl with the remaining ingredients. Stir. Thin with a bit more buttermilk if necessary.
Raita will keep in the fridge with an airtight container for a few days.
*If you like, toast your own cumin seeds until fragrant and then grind them. They will add great depth of flavor.
We celebrated Blue Jean Gourmet’s first birthday last night with a backyard happy hour: beer, margaritas, two kinds of sangria, & lots of snacks. It was a beautiful, overcast-but-not grey day and we were blessed with the presence of friends, fans, & even a few strangers (i.e. Twitter friends we’d never met in person!) to help us commemorate the day.
Party pictures and a more detailed menu still to come, but in the meantime I bring you chickpeas, because we served them yesterday, because they are delicious, and because they also serve as a nice Mother’s Day crossover. You see, when you have a mother like mine, who is an incredible, instinctive cook and from whom you learned everything you know about making food—it feels like a real victory to introduce her to a dish or a method or an ingredient that she ends up loving. There’s nothing more fun than your culinary badass mama calling or emailing to say “I love that!” And roasted chickpeas are one such victory.
In one hilariously ironic twist, my mother now fusses at me on the phone, “Don’t work too hard, don’t do too much,” when all I ever saw her do as a kid was work hard, both inside and outside of our house, and cook beautiful meals for eager guests, never letting anyone help, insisting on doing every bit of the prepping, cooking, & cleaning herself, all the while making it look easy and being incredibly gracious.
So when I find myself sending guests out the door with leftovers or insisting “I’ve got it,” when someone tries to help, or when I notice how much like Veena I’m starting to look in pictures as I get older, I’m thrilled. And sometime soon, I hope to notice myself worrying and fussing over a child of my own, raising him or her with as much freedom, love, and unconditional support as I have been blessed to receive over the last twenty-seven years.
To all mamas—biological, adoptive, step-moms, aunts, big sisters, grandmothers, and the women who take on mothering roles in our lives—Happy Mother’s Day.
If you have not discovered how delicious chickpeas (also known as garbanzo beans or ceci beans) are when roasted in the oven, please remedy as soon as possible. This is a dead-easy snack; you can make a big, inexpensive batch for a crowd by soaking & cooking a bag of dried beans before roasting, or drain a can at a moment’s notice when unexpected company comes calling.
These spicy chickpeas are a fantastic partner to beer, margaritas, even champagne—you can season them a dozen different ways—and the best part? Healthier than potato or tortilla chips. But no less addictive!
a few tablespoons of olive oil
seasoning of your choice*
pan: baking sheets (optional: line with parchment for easy clean-up)
Drain the chickpeas well, then get them as dry as possible. I like to line my salad spinner with a few paper towels & send the chickpeas flying. Not only does it make a cool noise, it helps the olive oil stick.
Toss the dried chickpeas with a few drizzles of olive oil—you want them to be lightly coated, not drowning. Roast in the oven for 20-30 minutes, checking after the 15 minute mark to shake the baking sheet to ensure that the chickpeas don’t burn.
Once the chickpeas have browned nicely, remove from the oven and let cool a few minutes before sprinkling with salt & seasoning of your choice. Serve warm or allow to the chickpeas to cool to room temperature before storing in an airtight container for up to a week.
*For each can of chickpeas, I recommend between 1-2 tsp. of seasoning. My favorite flavorings include: za’atar, smoked paprika, cumin & cayenne, thyme & lemon zest, or chili powder and a squeeze of fresh lime juice.
Every once in a while, we human beings are bold enough to take an idea, a possibility, a “what if” or a “hmm, could we?” and allow it to germinate in our mind, to take us over, to use us and pull us into creation mode. Then, if we’re crazy enough, we begin to speak our idea aloud—we tell other people, they tell other people. And before we know it, we are wed to the thing, we are given by it, we find ourselves sitting at the kitchen table (right, Julie?) in our pajamas, working and working but the work almost doesn’t feel like work. Or at the very least it feels like the right kind of work to be doing.
For me, I find it’s all too easy to watch the news, to read the paper, to look at the world and think “I wish I could help,” to feel deeply for the suffering of others and then put that all aside and move on. But not Julie van Rosendaal. She created something, a beautiful something, something I am very proud to be a part of:
Inside this cookbook, you’ll find recipes and gorgeous photographs from some of the best chefs and bloggers on the internet, a group in which I’m honored to be included. While the book was put together in record time (just under three weeks!), it’s lost absolutely nothing in terms of quality. Preview a handful of the pages online; they’re gorgeous.
You can purchase the soft cover edition for $25, the hardcover for $50. Every penny raised from sales will go straight to earthquake relief efforts in Haiti, via the Canadian Red Cross & Doctors Without Borders.
I think the Blog Aid cookbook would make a great birthday, housewarming, wedding, Mother’s or Father’s Day gift. Or just buy it as a statement of faith, a vote on the side of hope and good work, a testament to the fact that one woman’s idea can become food in a child’s mouth, medicine for a wounded man, glossy cookbook pages you hold in your hand.
GAME-DAY CHILI (among other Superbowl food ideas)
I hardly ever make chili the same way twice—depending upon what’s in my pantry, spice cabinet, freezer, & fridge, all kinds of meats and seasonings have made their way into the pot. Don’t be afraid to mix meats—pork, venison, beef—and change up the type of beans you use (if you use beans at all). If you have a crock pot or slow cooker, now is the time to drag it out! It serves perfectly for chili-making. Don’t worry if you don’t have one, though, you can still brew up some perfectly good chili the old-fashioned, stovetop way.
Every chili has some “signature moves”—mine are dark beer, cinnamon, & a little cocoa powder. All three of these do a little something to the flavor…you can’t pinpoint what you’re tasting, but it tastes good. Mushrooms may seem like a strange ingredient, but they bump up the “meatiness” quotient of the chili without you actually having to add meat at all. Control the heat to match your own preference, and bear in mind that big pots of chili usually get hotter after a day or two in the fridge!
2 lb. ground sirloin
1 cup chopped crimini or white mushrooms
1 onion, diced
3-4 cloves garlic, minced
1 serrano or 2 minced jalapeño peppers (if you like/can handle the heat!)
1 T cocoa powder
1 tsp. chipotle chili powder
1 tsp. allspice
1 tsp. cumin
1 tsp. salt
½ tsp. cayenne pepper
½ tsp. cinnamon
4 cups beef stock
1 dark beer (I used Negra Modelo)
1 28-oz. can fire-roasted, crushed tomatoes
2 14-oz cans kidney beans (but only if their presence won’t offend your sensibilities)
2 T Worcestershire sauce
2 T chipotle peppers in adobo sauce
1 dried ancho chile (you could certainly use another type)
a few dashes of liquid smoke
potential accompaniments: white rice, spaghetti, tortilla chips, Fritos, cornbread, cheddar cheese, sour cream, scallions
Mix all of the spices in a small bowl. Bring a large, heavy-bottomed saucepan over medium-high heat, then brown the meat, in batches if necessary. As you cook the meat, add in some of the spice mixture to each batch.
Once the meat has browned, transfer to a crock pot or large, heat-proof bowl. Drain most but not all of the accumulated fat—swirl in a little vegetable oil, then sauté the onions and garlic for a 3-4 minutes before adding the carrots & mushrooms.
If using a crock pot or slow cooker, once the vegetables are soft, add them to the beef. Pour in all of the remaining ingredients and cover, cooking for full cycle or at least two hours before serving. Check for spices & salt.
If cooking on the stove, return the meat to the pot and add the remaining ingredients. Bring to a boil, then simmer for at least an hour before serving. Check for spices & salt.
This recipe is much more Indian-inspired than actually “Indian.” It’s not some old-country recipe the secrets of which my mother has passed down to me, but rather an idea I got out of a Cook’s Illustrated magazine a few years ago. There isn’t really anything authentic about it, in fact, and so it might not at all belong in the “food of my people” category, but you know what? It’s cheap, it tastes delicious, it’s easy to make, and it got me to actually EAT CAULIFLOWER.
A strange and lovely, flowery, blooming, cruciferous vegetable. Oddly photogenic, pretty good for you. Generally overcooked or masked by a tragic cheese sauce. Oh maligned cauliflower, redemption is near.
When I was a kid, I hated cauliflower. H-A-T-E-D it. Gobi, in Hindi, was one of my dad’s favorite things to eat: pickled, stuffed into paranthas (griddle breads), even raw. Oh how I used to gag and fuss in that dramatic way little kids do when it was even suggested to me that I might eat some.
But like so many other palate-changing moves that come in adulthood, I at some point found myself eyeing the vegetable in the grocery store, tilting my head and thinking “Hmmm…” and now I will eat plates and plates of this stuff, warm from the oven, with a little naan at hand. Cauliflower, my new best friend.
This happened with olives, too, in graduate school. As a little girl, I remember plowing through those tiny cans of black olives, balancing each one on the top of my index finger before popping it in my mouth. But I suppose I overdosed on olives because, from age 6-24, I was not interested. Yick, yeesh, yuck, ew.
But then, one magical night at my friend Cara’s tiny graduate school apartment, which she kept impeccably and impossibly decorated, I sat drinking through a couple of bottle of cava with my two best friends, faced with a dreamy Spanish-inspired spread of almonds, figs, prosciutto, Manchego, & you guessed it! Big, fat, luscious olives. Once anathema to me, they suddenly glistened like jewels and I found myself downing them one after another, briny revelation.
I’m not sure how these transformations happen, if something one day becomes unlocked in our brains or our stomachs, if the tongue has a mind of its own which it can change at will, if as we age and smell new things and live in new places and with new people, we shift, glacially, towards things that had once seemed impossible.
ROASTED CAULIFLOWER WITH YOGURT SAUCE
Adapted from Cook’s Illustrated
So here’s the thing: curry powder isn’t so much an authentic Indian ingredient. It isn’t even a consistent ingredient, seeing as how it’s actually a BLEND of spices. Therefore, the quality, taste, & heat of curry powders can vary widely, so it’s an ingredient where I suggest you go for quality: McCormick’s has a fine enough grocery-store accessible version; I’m currently using Penzey’s medium hot bottle.
All of that being said, I’m dying to try this same method with halved brussels sprouts—another often-hated vegetable I have grown to love. The caramelization that comes when roasting brings out a nuttiness in the sprouts and I think the flavors of the yogurt sauce would nicely offset their inherent bitterness.
1 head cauliflower
½ cup olive oil
1 ½ T curry powder
pan: two large baking sheets or roasting pans, lined with foil
Remove any leaves from the cauliflower and trim the stem so it’s flush and the head will sit upright on a cutting board. Using a large knife and caution, cut wedges in the cauliflower about ½-inch thick all the way around, leaving as much stem intact as possible. The idea is to create cauliflower pieces which will lie flat on either side.
In a small bowl, combine the olive oil & curry powder. Distribute the cauliflower equally between the two baking sheets or roasting pans, then drizzle with half of the oil. Sprinkle the cauliflower with salt, then flip and do the same on the other side.
Roast in the oven for 10 minutes, then remove baking sheets so you can flip the pieces over and roast the other side. Cook an additional 10-15 minutes, or until the cauliflower is as tender as you want it (test with a fork). I like mine quite short of mushy, with a bite to it still.
If the pieces become too brown while cooking, simply cover with more foil. Serve when warm, with yogurt sauce.
for the sauce:
1 cup yogurt
¼ cup diced red onion
¼ cup chopped fresh cilantro
2 T lemon or lime juice
1 tsp. curry powder
Heat just a tiny bit of oil in a small saucepan and sauté the onions until very soft. Remove from heat and sprinkle the curry powder atop the onions, stirring to mix.
Combine the yogurt, onion mixture, citrus juice, & cilantro in a bowl. Stir thoroughly, then taste-test, adding a pinch of salt if you like. Spoon over the warm cauliflower.
I don’t really speak Hindi. It is the only way, and I mean this truly, apart from melodrama it may connote, it is the only way in which I feel at all like a failure in life. I can understand a great deal of Hindi when spoken to, I know my colors and numbers and (of course) food items, but I can’t really form sentences on my own in order to respond back. The alphabet I recognize, and I can sound out words phonetically but my vocabulary isn’t so great and my writing ability is limited to signing my own name.
I can hear my mother: “I know, I know, we screwed up big time!” My one big wish, that they had taught me when I was a baby. They didn’t because they thought it would be best. Raising a child period seems scary enough to me, let alone raising one in a completely foreign country. My parents feared that difference would haunt me, that I would be teased, encumbered by an accent. For them, their voices were the main channels through which they encountered resistance, were flagged as “other.”
And so English was my first language. It fact, it was the only language they spoke to me, around me, for a long time. By the time I was old enough to wish for bilinguality, to request that my parents start speaking in Hindi around the house, they were rusty, throwing in English words where their vocabularies had gone soft. I believe I was in college by the time I figured out that my father was actually trilingual (Punjabi), my mother an impressive quad (Punjabi, Urdu). No need to worry about this daughter assimilating: I’m an all-American, English-only speaker.
I took one semester of Hindi in college, and struggled through the whole thing. Perhaps it was the case of a naturally gifted student bucking up against something, for once, not coming naturally. Perhaps I thought, of all things, this should. I’ve also always been so totally intimidated by other Indian kids, to tell the truth. Like they are part of some club I just don’t belong to. They watch the movies, they have spent multiple summers in India, they hang out almost exclusively with other Indians. They knew much more of the language than I did. Me? I took a geeky, dead language (Latin) in high school and have a terrible ear for accents and intricacies. Thank goodness I took that class pass/fail. Needless to say, I did not go back for Hindi 102.
A few years later, I put in a good effort with a set of those ubiquitous Rosetta Stone CD-ROMs before my parents and I traveled to India, doing well enough to make my three weeks there a fertile time for my brain to absorb everything I heard. I found myself laughing at jokes, having mostly understood them, and even dreaming in Hindi for weeks after we got back. Dreaming in another language is one of the most sublime things I have ever experienced, as if the gods had favored you: my child, you are authentic now.
But it didn’t last. My father died, and somehow the desire to work on my Hindi died with him. Losing him only highlighted how much I wish I spoke this language, how inadequate I feel not knowing it, how utterly defeated I am by the whole thing. I find that I am ashamed, worried I seem like a fraud, such a white girl parading around in brown skin. At some point, I’m just going to have to accept that I may never speak Hindi the way I want to—which might free me up to actually make a concerted effort to learn it instead of wishing I could just magically go back in time and learn how.
What I can do is cook the food. And, for now, that is a kind of language in and of itself.
GAAJAR, GOBI, & HARI MIRCH ACHAR
(CARROT, CAULIFLOWER, & JALAPEÑO PICKLE)
This is, I’m afraid, one of those Indian recipes which calls for ingredients you probably don’t have on hand. They can, however, be easily acquired at any Indian grocery store or good spice purveyor.
Though this recipe is for a pickle, there’s no reason you can’t eat it like a sabji (vegetable dish), especially if you are a fan of spice. Otherwise, serve it alongside other Indian dishes as a condiment or with storebought papadum or other flatbread/cracker as an excellent appetizer.
1 ½ tsp. mustard seeds
1 ½ tsp. whole coriander
1 tsp. whole cumin
1 tsp. anise seeds
1 tsp. fenugreek seeds
Toast the spices in a small saucepan or toaster oven (set on low) for 5-8 minutes or until fragrant. Cool the mixture a bit before grinding to a powder.
4 large carrots, peeled & cut into ¼ -inch slices
1 cup cauliflower florets
3 jalapeño peppers, sliced ½-inch thick
Place the vegetables into a heat-safe colander. Pour 4 cups boiling water over them to soften/sterilize.
to make the achar:
¼ cup canola or vegetable oil
¼ cup lime or lemon juice
½ tsp. turmeric
¼ tsp. garlic powder
Heat the oil over medium in a deep, heavy-bottomed pot. Add the turmeric and a few sprinkles of asafetida, if using. Heat the spices and oil for a few minutes, then remove from the heat and toss in the vegetables. Pour in the masala (spice) mixture, adding the garlic powder and a small palm-full of salt.
Toss everything to coat, adding in the lemon juice and a splash of hot water if you need more liquid. In cold weather, you can jar the achar and leave it outside to sit overnight. In warm weather, refrigerate immediately.
Achar will keep well-sealed, for 4-6 weeks. Shake the jar before serving.
First off, thanks so much to all of you for your love, sympathy, and good wishes. It’s amazing how all of that feeling really does travel across space & time to make a difference. I remember that sensation when my father died; it was as if I could literally reach out and touch the compassion being sent my way from people all over the world. They were holding me up, buffering me. Astonishing.
I know that there are much more dramatic, intense, & devastating events than the loss of an old dog; the world is full of so much sadness and hurt that if I think about it too much, it literally impairs my ability to function. Behind every ambulance siren or news item is someone whose life is changing forever, someone whose idea of a live-able life looks, by necessity, drastically different from mine.
Life can be kind of terrifying, right? Jill’s getting on a plane this afternoon to fly away to Egypt for a conference, and while I am terribly excited for her, in the moments I allow myself to imagine my life without her I am utterly broken open. Someday, too, my mother will die and I just don’t know what to do about that.
I also know that it doesn’t do to dwell on these things. A life of terror and worry is useful to no one and does nothing to thwart the inevitable. But I do want to be mindful of the preciousness of my days, to balance being blithe and joyful with an ocean of earnest feeling. I never want to forget that potent urgency I experienced after losing my father, the absolute necessity of living life in this moment instead of planning for “someday.” For months, I walked around so mad I could spit to see all of these human beings wasting time as if they had time to waste. The job they found unfulfilling, the relationship they refused to mend, the feelings they wouldn’t share, the project or plan or dream they kept putting off.
Last week, I went to see the Alley Theatre’s very fine production of Thornton Wilder’s American classic, Our Town. Like many, I saw it first in high school. Coming to it some ten years later allowed for a potency of reflection I wasn’t anticipating. The quote my friend Marynelle wrote for me on her senior “goodbye” poster means much more to me now than it did then:
Emily: Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?–every, every minute?
Stage Manager: No. The saints and poets, maybe–they do some.
While it may be somewhat impossible to get every, every minute, I’m working on more every day. The lovely purple tulips on my desk, my students who make me laugh, my beloved who sings along to Chaka Khan in her big red truck, my dear friends who delight and care for me—all hang in the balance of what I love and what I’d miss (like Jill & her bff Bonnie):
Perhaps you are one of those people who revisit the same movie, book, or play every year or every couple of years. I love the idea of coming back to words and scenes which stay constant while we change, measuring ourselves against them as a kind of yardstick.
Right now I’m planning a re-read of Somerset Maugham’s The Razor’s Edge, to see how/if it will move me, ten years later. I return regularly to The Bhagavad Gita, of course, and The Tao Te Ching. Other re-reads I’d like to take on include Little Women (Alcott), The Glass Bead Game (Hesse), & Crime and Punishment (Dostoevksy).
What about ya’ll?
Don’t worry, in all of this “deep” talk, I haven’t forgotten about the food! Two spicy shrimp dishes here: the first is a favorite of my father’s, the latter certainly would have been, and both are excellent for football watching (Sonya & Jill tested them out a few weekends back).
CHIPOTLE BAKED SHRIMP
Adapted from Gourmet, August 2000
Look for smoky chipotles in adobo sauce on the International Foods aisle, with other Mexican condiments. You won’t need a whole can, so buy a pork tenderloin while you’re at it for some really good sandwiches.
I’ve made this recipe both with the shells on and the shells off. Tastes great either way, but shells on is more fun and also messy—you shell them as you eat, slurping up extra sauce.
1 ½ – 2 lb shrimp
½ stick unsalted butter
¼ cup dry white or red wine
1 ½ T Worcestershire sauce
half a can chipotles in adobo sauce, peppers minced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tsp. salt
must serve with: a baguette or other crusty bread, for sopping up sauce
Melt butter in saucepan or microwave. Add in the wine, Worcestershire sauce, chipotles & sauce, garlic, and salt. Toss the shrimp with sauce.
Bake the shrimp in a shallow dish for 10-12 minutes. Serve in wide bowls with plenty of sauce & bread on the side.*
*If you like, you can remove the shrimp from the baking pan & reduce the sauce on the stove before serving.
BUFFALO GRILLED SHRIMP
Slightly adapted from Gourmet, July 2009
I’m not sure what more to say about this except that it’s really, really good. And that you’ll need a lot of napkins.
For the dip:
½ cup sour cream (use half thick yogurt & half sour cream for a slightly healthier option)
½ cup crumbled blue cheese (I used a wonderfully pungent Maytag)
¼ cup chopped green onions
2 T finely chopped dill
juice of half a lemon
a little buttermilk or milk, to thin the dip (skip if you used the yogurt)
salt to taste
Stir together everything except the buttermilk/milk. Then mix in a tablespoon or two until you reach your desired consistency. Personally, I like my blue cheese dip really chunky.
For the shrimp:
1 ½ – 2 lbs shrimp, peeled & deveined
½ stick melted butter
¼ cup hot sauce *
must serve with: many celery sticks!
I made the shrimp in a grill pan over medium-high heat, but the original recipe calls for an outdoor grill. Oil either the pan or rack and then toss the shrimp with a little olive oil, salt, & pepper.
Grill until just cooked through, about 7-8 minutes depending on the heat of your grill.
Stir together butter and hot sauce in a large bowl. Add shrimp and toss until they are coated.
As official BJG taste-testers, Jill and Sonya suggest eating the shrimp plain and “chasing” them with celery dipped in the blue cheese dip. This, they found, was more effective than trying to dip the shrimp themselves.
*We used Louisiana Hot Sauce, Gourmet recommends Frank’s RedHot.