MattBites

Let's just get something out of the way, shall we?

I love this salad.

Pure love.

As funny as it sounds, I really am a salad kind of guy. I love greens in all shapes and forms, raw or cooked, and sitting down to a big bowl of leafy lettuces actually gets me a bit excited–believe it or not. But I must admit that there are moments when, as sublime as it can be, a bowl of lettuce with a simple vinaigrette doesn't quite hit the spot.

Unfortunately those times are more often than not.

Here's my remedy: a chopped salad. A chopped salad is nothing more than chunky bits of ingredients, all relative in size, tossed in a dressing. That's it. It really couldn't be any easier, and it's a great way to enjoy some veggies without having to make a complete meal. Everything's in the bowl already.

I have a quick-and-easy version of my own, but when I came across a recipe from Jar restaurant in the LA Times for their version of a cobb salad I knew it was going to be a winner. Anything with prosciutto has my name all over it, and crunchy cabbage and raw fennel are right up my alley. And you know what? This salad is better than I expected it to be, thanks to an intensely flavored dressing that features champagne and rice vinegar. The olives, oregano and thyme lend a mediterranean feel, and the roasted chicken makes this salad an entire meal. Unlike many other things I test, I kept sneaking back to the fridge to eat just a little bit more of this salad, and sadly it disappeared all too quickly.

So there you have it. Perfect for a mid-week meal. Mom, seriously, try this salad. You'll love it.

Jar Restaurant's Chopped Salad

Vinaigrette Ingredients
1/4 cup Champagne vinegar
2 tablespoons rice wine vinegar
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
Dash dried red pepper flakes
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves
Coarse salt
Freshly ground pepper

1. Mix the Champagne vinegar, rice wine vinegar, olive oil, red pepper flakes, oregano, thyme and salt and pepper to taste. Makes 3/4 cup.

Salad Ingredients
1 1/2 cups thinly sliced green cabbage
1/4 cup thinly sliced carrots
1/2 cup thinly sliced celery
1 cup thinly sliced red onion
1/4 cup shaved fennel
2 teaspoons chopped Sicilian green olives
1 1/2 ounces prosciutto, thinly sliced and torn into 1/2-inch ribbons
1 cup shredded roasted chicken
1/4 cup crumbled feta
1 tablespoon minced Italian parsley

1. Combine cabbage, carrots, celery, onion, fennel, olives, prosciutto, chicken and feta. Mix well with vinaigrette. Top with parsley.

Years ago I had a business trip to Boston to present a marketing program I developed for my former employer. I was extremely nervous and I was glad when it was over –standing in front of a crowd in a conference room isn't my exact idea of fun*. When it was done I couldn't find a cocktail fast enough to sooth my frazzled nerves, and as a result I cannot remember where on earth they took me to dinner. Gosh, I don't even remember who I was with. But even in the midst of my festive inebriation (I swear I'm not a drunk, I swear swear swear and I can quit anytime I mean it no really) I will always remember the appetizer I had on that chilly evening several years ago.

The appetizer came crashing into my lil pea brain recently when I read a post about chicken livers on Chicken Fried Gourmet's website. My love of chicken livers knows no bounds, but I never think of cooking them as the feature of my meal. Besides, unless you grew up in the south or truly appreciate French food, you're often met with a funny snarl or gimpse of disgust when you mention chicken livers. Too bad, so sad, I always say.

It's really hard to improve on a BLT sandwich. It's one of the few things that I consider perfect in this world: you have toast, bacon, lettuce and tomato. You try to find fault with that. See? You can't. But take the everyday BLT, which you're bound to find on any diner menu from here to the other coast, and add a few pieces of seasoned chicken livers and presto! A BLCT. Or is that CBLT? Or LBTC? Or ... Ok, I'll stop.

Like any good recipe, the key is using the absolute best ingredients you can find. Especially since the sandwich's moniker specifically calls out the ingredients. Which makes me laugh. Why isn't pot roast with winter root vegetables called a PRWRV? Like "Hi honey, how was your day? Would you like a PRWRV for dinner? Why are you looking at me like that? What's wrong? Stop it. Oh, I'm freaking you out now? I AM? Oh that's rich!" On second thought, I guess I answered my own question. But back to the sandwich.

Good Bread
I'm a stickler for bread. While fluffy, white slices are great for PB&Js - IF YOU'RE SIX! – you'll be better off finding something rustic, something artisan. You could even make your own. I believe we all have that recipe by now. Toast it lightly, even brush with olive oil if you'd like.

Lettuce
I promise I'm not hatin' on the old iceburg, but I am a huge fan of arugula (also known as rocket). In fact, it's my favorite salad green. It's spicy and peppery and gives a wonderful bite, and if you can't find it you can always use watercress.

Bacon
Thick slab bacon is key here. You want nice, flavorful, smoky pieces here, not wimpy tiny strips. What else is the mayo going to cling to?

Mayonnaise
I love making homemade mayo, but let's face it, it takes a bit of time and committment, and I'm usually too busy trying to come up with acronyms for my food. You owe it to yourself to seek a good quality jarred version, and luckily there are plenty of specialty types out there. I am addicted to The Ojai Cook's brand of mayos.

Chicken Livers
Chicken Livers are easy to prepare. Just sauté with a bit of oil for 8-10 minutes, season with salt and pepper, and slice. You could always dredge with flour before cooking, but I'm going for simple and quick here.

Tomatoes
Ah, tomatoes. Ok, this really makes or breaks the sandwich. I'm going to stress a good quality tomato here. Make this with a mealy, pathetic, anemic tomato and you've just ruined the entire thing. I'm serious. Head to the farmer's market, wait until late summer, do whatever it takes to get your hands on good tomatoes. They make all the difference in the world.

*Had I been in wig and heels, well, that's different.
 

Growing up my mother and grandmother fed us picadillo, a dish of ground beef, potatoes, tomatos, onions and spices. It was the perfect meal–delicious and satisfying–and always enjoyed with fresh flour tortillas on the side. It’s a dish I still crave to this day, and like most Latin cuisine it has its regional differences.

As I’ve traveled I’ve noticed that almost everyone has their own version of meat and potatoes, and it’s easy to see why. A traditional Irish corned beef and potatoes, a Kashmiri Rogan Josh served with slowly stewed potatoes, or Brazilian churrasco enjoyed with mounds of Brazilian potato salad- – mix a protein and a starch and happiness is always guaranteed…not to mention a fully belly.

Sometimes in my moments of quasi-food snobbery I chide my friends who refuse to join me for dinner, fearing I’ll pick something that falls outside their culinary comfort zone. I practically have to sign a form promising them no organ meats, no intense heat, no stinky cheese, no bellpeppers and certainly nothing that comes from the “strange” parts of an animal (which always leads me to ask why a rump roast isn’t strange but a tongue is, but whatever!) However, the perfect meal to satisfy my picky meat-and-potatoes kind of friends are, well, meat and potatoes. But only meat and potatoes in their most simple, smoky and stripped down form: steak frites.

My mouth waters just saying that: steak frites.  Grill a steak (with butter). Season with salt and pepper. Serve with French fries. Seriously people, how could you ever improve on perfection? It’s one of the dishes that my picky friends and I can always agree on.

A Belgian favorite, steak frites can be found all over the world. It’s a bistro classic, and depending on where you’re dining the cut of meat will vary. Sometimes it’s hanger steak that’s seasoned and sliced, other times it’s a higher quality cut of meat that’s grilled, topped with butter and served with fries.  To me the best part is halfway through the steak, dipping salty fries in the juices that have mixed with butter on the plate. Cholesterol be damned!

Of course, it’s not something I can really allow myself to enjoy on regular basis, so when I’m going to indulge in full fats and fried foods, a steak frites it is!

Steak Frites
From the Everybody Eats Well in Belgium Cookbook by Ruth Van Waerebeek.

Ingredients
4 beef steaks, such as porterhouse, sirloin, rib eye, shell or filet mignon (1/2 pound each and 3/4 to 1 inch thick), or one 2-pound steak
5 tablespoons unsalted butter
salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
1 tablespoon water

Fries (however you choose to prepare, but I prefer a smaller cut than a big giant steak-cut fry for this recipe)

Method
With a sharp knife, make small incisions, about 1 1/2 inches apart in the fat around the outside of each steak.

Melt 3 tablespoons of the butter in a large heavy skillet or sauté pan over high heat until hot but not smoking. Add the steaks and sear for 1 minute on each side. Reduce the heat to medium. Season the steaks generously with salt and pepper and continue cooking, turning the steaks every other minute, until you see little pearls of blood come to the surface, about 6 to 8 minutes. The steaks should be cooked rare to medium for juicy, tender meat.

Remove the steaks and place them on warmed plates. Over medium heat, deglaze the pan with the water and swirl in the remaining 2 tablespoons butter. Drizzle these pan juices over the meat and serve at once with fries.  Serves 4.

Matt says: Don't forget a big glass of beer. Or wine. Lots.

I've gone through great lengths to not let my professional culinary experience get the best of me. No amount of food tours, international travel, trade shows, dinners and tasting panels will ever go to my head, no sir! (Ok, written down it sounds exciting but trust me, it is a job.) Underneath the exterior of a man who tries his best to live up to his corporate image is a professional dork of the highest order. If you don't believe me I've got photographic evidence of me in a wig with, er, um, nevermind. Back to the food, the real reason why I keep this blog.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I find it necessary to step away from my professional life and get back to basics. And when I say basics I mean the tastes and flavors that i grew up with on the gulf coast of Texas, however-bad-for-you and trashy they may be.

Enter Frito Pie.

I was prompted to write this entry about my beloved Frito Pie because just today I was talking about it with a co-worker. I went on blabbing for about 6 minutes about how it's been forever since I've had one and how if I had my druthers I'd eat my weight in fritos and chili and get fat (ok, fatter) and never leave the house and wear torn up sweatpants and a wifebeater and drink nothing but Big Red and become a giant blob of a human being–all with tattoos, of course. After my co-worker let me gab nonstop (thanks, Sandy!) she turned to me, stared me straight in the eyes and asked:

"WHAT THE HELL IS A FRITO PIE???????"

Ok, people, if you keep a vegan blog, a blog focusing on healthy eating or living, or have any type of political agenda against bad taste or junk food then now is a great time to point your browser to another web site. You see, Frito Pie is so wrong that it's right, so bad that it's good, and that makes me very, very happy.

Just like margaritas and caesar salads, Frito Pie's origins aren't completely clear and have been debated for many years. Everyone seems to stake their claim to its invention, but in this case I could care less. New Mexico, Texas, Jupiter or Mars, it could be from Heaven as far as I'm concerned. Just keep them coming.

Ok, enough already. What exactly is a Frito Pie? A staple of county fairs, drive-ins, bake sales and ballparks for decades, Frito Pie nirvana is created when an individual serving-size bag of Fritos is spit open along the back and topped with chili, grated cheese and chopped onions. You may encounter different methods such as baking all the ingredients like a casserole but be assured that you're reading nothing more than good old-fashioned heresy.

As with all recipes of high quality pedigree, Frito Pie's ingredients and proportions do matter. I believe it's most authentic when prepared with canned chili without beans, and Frito Pies must be made with Frito-Lay brand corn chips. Anything less and it's not a Frito Pie. A scoop of chili is sufficient as your goal is to not drown the chips but slighty coat them, leaving them crunchy.

And yes, I'm fully aware that the image above portrays a Frito Pie a la  "Straw Hat" variety because it's in a bowl and not the bag.

Ok, at this point I know what you're thinking: man this sounds absolutely atrocious and horrible and packed with sodium, artificial ingredients, saturated fat and I can't wait to try it! Seriously though, I won't fault you or get angry if you leave hate mail as I realize that regional "specialties" aren't for everyone. We can't all love cheese curds from Wisconsin, a grinder from New England, or even Poutine from Quebec (Wait a minute, I love all those things so scratch that point I was feebly attempting to make.)

Tomorrow I'll return to my world of artisan foods, but tonight I'll be indulging my inner Texan and damaging some arterial walls. I'm off to the kitchen, y'all!

Frito Pie

Ingredients
Fritos Corn Chips
Chili (without beans)
Grated Cheddar Cheese
Chopped Onion

Method
Heat chili and pour on top of Fritos. Top with cheese and onions. Because it's usually served on the go I have omitted exact amounts needed. It's always to taste, it seems. This recipe can also be prepared with vegetarian chili with delicious results. It's really the Fritos that make it so bad for you.

This entry originally appeared last year at the old Mattbites sight. It has magically reappeared because 1) I pigged out on a Frito Pie last weekend and 2) I find myself craving another one.

Wait. What day is it again?

I’m writing a piece on tequila for May, brainstorming on a summer marketing campaign at work, and shopping for swim trunks for next month’s trip. All signs point to summer and warm weather, but in reality, it’s been colder than normal here in Southern California. While I’m dreaming of ribs, backyard barbeques, and copious amounts of rosé, one step outside in the early morning reminds me that I shouldn’t get too far ahead of myself. It’s downright cold! Brrr!

Ok, so I had to trick my brain into thinking it was January, which it is. Wait. I’m confused. What? At any rate, while flipping through a cookbook that was sent to me I stumbled upon the perfect dish, something simple and easy and guaranteed to keep you warm. Pasta e Ceci is a soup made with chickpeas and pasta from Jamie Oliver’s book titled “Jamie’s Italy”. More on the book in the next couple of days, but right now I’m going to help myself to another heaping bowl of soup, a piece of crusty bread and a glass of wine. And as I do I will remind myself that even though my brain is on summer, my body and stomach are fully enjoying winter – well, what we call winter here in Los Angeles!

Pasta E Cecci, from Jamie’s Italy by Jamie Oliver.
Serves 4

1 small onion, peeled and finely chopped
1 stick of celery, trimmed and finely chopped1 clove of garlic, peeled and finely chopped
Extra virgin olive oil
A sprig of fresh rosemary, leaves picked and finely chopped
2 14-oz. cans of chickpeas
2 1/4 cups of chicken stock
3 1/2 oz. ditalini or other small Italian "soup" pasta (matt's note: I used riso)
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Optional: a small handful of fresh basil or parsley, leaves picked and torn

Put the finely chopped onion, celery, and garlic into a saucepan with a little extra virgin olive oil and the rosemary and cook as gently as possible, with the lid on, for about 15-20 minutes, until all the vegetables are soft, without any color.

Drain your chickpeas well and rinse them in cold water, then add them to the pan and cover with the stock. Cook gently for half an hour and then, using a slotted spoon, remove half the chickpeas and put them to one side in a bowl.

Puree the soup in the pan using a handheld immersion blender. If you don't have one, you can whiz it up in a food processor instead, then pour it back into the pan. Add the reserved whole chickpeas and the pasta, season the soup with salt and pepper, and simmer gently until the chickpeas are tender and the pasta is cooked.

At this point, if the soup is a little thick, pour in some boiling water from the kettle to thin it down, and add more salt and pepper if needed. Serve drizzled with good-quality extra virgin olive oil. Lovely sprinkled with some freshly torn basil or parsley.

 

Parsnips. Parsnips parsnips parsnips.

Just saying the world really fast makes and in repetition makes me laugh. I don’t know why.  And yet as cute and funny looking as they are (think albino carrots), I realized I don’t include root vegetables in my life nearly enough. And why is that? It’s not as if I don’t like them. I just never seem to think about them. Perhaps because they are our seasonal winter-loving friends, hiding underground until someone comes along and plucks them from the earth. Maybe it’s because they are starchy, somewhat tough and require some finesse and trickery to enjoy.

(I’m going to exclude radishes from the above, as they are just fine sprinkled with a little sea salt, perhaps a dab of butter, and popped into my mouth like there’s no tomorrow.)

Parsnips are delicious when pureed or roasted with other root vegetables, but I’m digging this recipe I found while on a work assignment. It screams winter, and pairs perfectly with a tender, slow-cooked pork roast. Comfort food at its best.

Maple Glazed Parsnips
Use a high-quality maple syrup for the glaze. It can’t be that butter-flavored fake syrup stuff, folks.

Ingredients:
1/3 cup maple syrup
1/4 teaspoon mustard
2 teaspoons butter
5 1/2 cups parsnips, raw and sliced
3 tablespoons water
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 dash of black pepper
1 tablespoon freshly chopped parsley

Method:
1. Combine the maple syrup and mustard in a bowl; stir well and set aside.

2. Coat a large, nonstick skillet with cooking spray; add butter, and place over medium heat until butter melts.

3. Add the parsnips and the next 3 ingredients. Cover, reduce heat to medium-low, and cook for 10 minutes or until tender, stirring occasionally.

4. Add syrup and cook, uncovered, over medium-high heat for 1 minute or until lightly glazed, stirring constantly. Remove from heat; sprinkle with parsley and serve.

I hope everyone had a fantastic holiday and is enjoying the new year. Mine went well, but it involved a fever, blankets and  electrolyte-replacing liquids. How about a toast to that?

But it wasn't all that bad. After all, I was home with my man, my dogs, a stack of DVDs, and a roof over my head. I could ask for no more.

But a sidenote:: Don't watch Jackass 2 if you are easily offended, or if you possess a refined sense of humor and find toilet humor absolutely disgusting. I'm still giggling.

As always, my better half knows exactly what it takes to cheer me up and lift my spirits, so on New Year's Day he headed off to the kitchen to make one of my favorite things on earth–biscuits and gravy. But not just any biscuits and gravy folks. This is the recipe that he learned from his father.

Elton, my father-in-law, moved to California from Jackson, Mississippi when he was a teenager. His recipe for biscuits and gravy is one of the things he taught Adam, who informs me that "my dad taught me how to make biscuits and gravy when I was 10 years old. Then I got fat."

Sssh! We don't think of these things when we eat biscuits and gravy. Besides, it's not like we have this every day.

Although I grew up in Texas, which is next to the deep south, well, kinda sorta, biscuits and gravy were never the featured star at our breakfast table. They were flaky afterthoughts that took up space next to eggs and bacon. And the diner style of two dry hockypucks doused with bland floury gravy isn't my idea of tasty.  It wasn't until Adam made biscuits and gravy from scratch that I realized how rib-sticking good they are by themselves, no other ingredients needed.

Elton, thank you for raising such a fine son who takes care of me when I'm under the weather. More importantly, thank you for passing down your recipe. I'm fat, too!

Biscuits & Gravy
While I'm a fan of letting sauces and flavors meld over time, I've learned that the best way to enjoy this dish is immediately. Besides, it's not like I have enough will power to wait, you know?

Biscuits
For the sake of baking clarity I'm borrowing Alton Brown's recipe for buttermilk biscuits, which is the same standard recipe that Adam learned and uses.  I'm not a baker and I know I'd fudge something up for you since it's not in front of me. And then peeps will be trippin. Besides, Alton sounds remarkably similar to Elton, no?

2 cups flour
4 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons shortening
1 cup buttermilk, chilled

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

In a large mixing bowl, combine flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Using your fingertips, rub butter and shortening into dry ingredients until mixture looks like crumbs. (The faster the better, you don't want the fats to melt.) Make a well in the center and pour in the chilled buttermilk. Stir just until the dough comes together. The dough will be very sticky.

Turn dough onto floured surface, dust top with flour and gently fold dough over on itself 5 or 6 times. Press into a 1-inch thick round. Cut out biscuits with a 2-inch cutter, being sure to push straight down through the dough. Place biscuits on baking sheet so that they just touch. Reform scrap dough, working it as little as possible and continue cutting.

Bake until biscuits are tall and light gold on top, 15 to 20 minutes.

Sausage Gravy
You can use any type of sausage, but breakfast sausages tend to pack more flavor and spice, yielding a tasty gravy.

1 lb breakfast sausage
4 cups of warmed whole milk
6-7 tablespoons of flour
2 -3 tablespoons of butter, optional, only if sausage is lean
salt and plenty of black pepper, to taste

Brown the meat.  Add the flour and butter and cook for 2 minutes. Add milk and bring to a boil, reduce heat and let thicken. Season with salt and pepper to taste and serve over freshly baked biscuits.

At least I didn't say "orange you glad....?"

Blood oranges are my winter equivalent of summer's heirloom tomatoes. They're at their best just once a year, which means I always feel the need to cram as many as possible into my mouth and the mouths of others. Sometimes I wish I felt the same way about navels and valencias, but alas, I do not. Is it a color bias? Gosh I hope not.

Blood oranges get their color from something called Anthocyanin, a pigment that's usually found in flowers and other fruits and vegetables. It's what gives petals that deep red, blue or purple color, and for some reason Mother Nature decided to include it in this citrus variety. Thank you, girl!

There are three types of blood oranges: Tarocco, Sanguinello and Moro. The moro is grown here in California and is said to be the sweetest of the three varieties. For me the most exciting part, aside from their flavor, is the first time you cut into the orange. Deep crimson droplets leak out, giving way to dark flesh that can take you by suprise if you're not expecting it. The colors of blood oranges can vary from crop to crop, and even inside an individual fruit you may get a beautiful uniform hue or speckles of red, purple and orange.

But the best part is the flavor. Less acidic and "fruitier" than regular oranges, they're pleasantly sweet with notes of raspberries and blueberries. To me they taste like fruit punch, which is why I love the juice in cocktails and mixed drinks (geez Matt, must it always be about the booze?) Of course you can use blood oranges the same way you'd use standard oranges, but that beautiful gorgeous color will affect whatever you are preparing.

Not like that's a bad thing :)

If you're anything like me, your relationship with citrus fruits usually went no further than the occasional twist in a martini or fresh lime juice for homemade margaritas (do you see a pattern here?) Sure, they add zip and zing to just about everything, have been used by people the world over for hundreds of years and prevented traveling sailors from coming down with that awful Barlow's disease, but seriously folks, how exciting could citrus fruits REALLY be?

It was a work assignment a few years ago that made me fall in love with winter citrus. I had to put together a small winter citrus guide, complete with recipes, history, varieties and flavor profiles. I ate my way through cases of Meyers, crates of clementines, bags of pomelos, devouring key limes and kumquats and everything in between. Rest assured this boy wasn't ever gettin' scurvy, that's for damn sure. What developed after that project (along with a permanent sour puckerface) was a true appreciation of citrus. I experimented in the kitchen, testing and making things like Texas Grapefruit Pie ('twas horrible, don't ask, and I'm even from Texas), homemade limoncello, Moroccan-style preserved lemons, Mexican candied orange slices, satsuma dressing, grapefruit pomander, the list goes on. I squeezed, juiced, zested and baked myself to a Vitamin C nirvana. Some things were quite delicious, other recipes were ruined by citrus' uncanny ability to bully just about everything else it comes in contact with. Live and learn, live and learn.

The color of citrus fruits only develop in climates with a cool winter, which is why a huge percentage of American grown citrus comes from California, Texas and Florida. Winter citrus is beginning to trickle in now, and some of the more unique varieties are coming to market as we speak, so it's time to get in the kitchen and start experimenting. Out of everything I tested, one salad recipe became a favorite in our house, and during the peak of winter citrus season I can't help but prepare this at least three times a week. I'm obsessed with it. My friends laugh at me and wonder how on earth something so simple can yield such spectacular flavors, but come on people, it's from Alice Waters, one of the pioneers of fresh, simple California cuisine. If you make this and don't like it, well, I just don't know what to tell you. You'll make me sad.

Alice Waters's Avocado, Grapefruit, and Curly Endive Salad with Citrus Dressing

6 small heads curly endive
1 large shallot
2 tablespoons white wine or champagne vinegar
1 lemon
1 orange
Salt
2 grapefruit
3/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
3 avocados

Wash and spin dry the curly endive. For this salad, use only theblanched hearts and save the green leaves for cooking greens.

Peel the shallot and dice it fine. Let macerate with the vinegar, 1 tablespoon each of lemon juice and orange juice, and a pinch of salt.

Cut away the grapefruit peel, all the pith below, and the membrane around the grapefruit flesh. Then cut the sections free, carefully slicing along the membranes. Peel a little lemon and orange zest and finely chop enough to make about 1/4 teaspoon of each.

When you are ready to assemble the salad, whisk the olive oil into the shallot mixture. Add the orange and lemon zest and taste. Add more olive oil or lemon juice if necessary. Cut the avocados in half lengthwise. Remove the pits. Using a sharp knife, cut the avocados into lengthwise slices about the same size as the grapefruit sections, keeping the skin on. Scoop out the slices with a large spoon. Toss the curly endive and grapefruit sections in a bowl with about two thirds of the dressing. Taste the salad and add more salt if necessary. Arrange on a platter or individual dishes. Distribute the avocado alongside the endive and grapefruit, season them with a pinch of salt, and drizzle the rest of the dressing over them.

Serves 6

Matt's notes: I prefer bibb lettuce (also known as Butter or Boston Lettuce), as the endive texture can be a bit too curly and then you have dressing all over your mouth. Oh heck, just skip the greens altogether and eat the grapefruit and avocado tossed in the dressing. Lord knows I've done that a thousand times.

Sometimes I think I should just throw caution to the wind and write a book called “The Blue Cheese Diet: Eating Your Way To Happiness Through Gorgonzola And Roquefort”. I’d take all the photos, test each recipe personally, get it published, then do the TV show talk circuit, answering questions like “How did you come to invent the Blue Cheese
Diet?” and “Now correct me if I’m wrong, but you went from 186 lbs to well over 350 lbs over the last 15 months, right?” The audience would snicker and laugh and point, I’d wipe the sweat from my face, and then they’d wheel me out on some gurney and my cookbook would be on the clearance rack at some B. Dalton close out sale a few months later, or worse, a bogo.

On second thought, I think I’ll stick with the day job.

But seriously, if I knew I could live on blue cheese I’d probably do it. I always seem to crave the full flavors of blue and when the craving starts no amount of cheddar or aged anything will suffice. I realize eating so much blue cheese is the taste equivalent to listening to my iPod at full blast, but that’s not to say I don’t appreciate the subtle flavors of shyer cheeses – I most certainly do!

But hey, life is too short, which is why I’ve made it my purpose to enjoy as many types of blues as I can get my grubby little hands on. It’s what cheeseheads like me do. As with many varieties of cheeses, almost every corner of the globe produces their own version of blue cheese, and believe me when I say I haven’t yet a blue cheese I haven’t liked. Gorgonzola, Cabrales, Roquefort, Stilton, even my state’s own Point Reyes Original keep me a very happy fat man.

Right now I’m enjoying Roaring 40’s Blue Cheese from Australia (which is no coincidence as I’m ramping up for January’s Australia Week here in California, but more on that later.) From King Island, Roaring 40’s is a cow’s milk cheese that is matured in wax, giving it a creamy consistency throughout the entire wheel. It’s a mild blue, with sweeter notes and a much creamier consistency than its crumbly cousins. It also makes a fantastic soufflé!

Roaring 40's Blue Cheese & VPC Truffle Honey Soufflé
This recipe comes from my friend Chris at Valley Produce Company in Victoria. I’ll save the accolades and idol worship for an upcoming post, but Chris is an amazing character and truly passionate about his food. He’s an inspiration. If you can’t find his VPC Truffle Honey in your local market you can substitute any honey you’d like. Of course you’ll miss the truffle flavor, but hey, what can you do?

Serves 4

1 cup milk

1⁄2 lb blue cheese, soft & creamy

5 eggs, separated

3.8 oz plain flour

2 tablespoons VPC Truffle Infused Honey (or other honey)

salt & pepper

Heat the milk over the stove and add the blue cheese.  Whisk until the cheese melts.  In a bowl, mix the egg yolks and flour together.  Add the milk mixture to the egg mixture until well combined.  Return to the heat and mix consistently for about 5 minutes.  Add the VPC Truffle Infused Honey and mix well.  Season to taste and set aside until cooled to room temperature.  Spray soufflé moulds with oil spray or line with butter.  Preheat the oven to 390 F.  Beat the egg whites until they form firm peaks.  Add a small amount of egg whites to the blue cheese mixture to break it down, then gently fold the remaining egg whites through.  Add some of the mixture to the soufflé moulds, then fill to the top.  Put on a tray and bake for 8-12 minutes depending on the size of the soufflé dish or until the soufflé is raised above the mould by 2 cm.