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Famous Stacey Ballis Quotes

“RJ gets to work in the kitchen on the dinner he is preparing, allowing me to sous chef. He seasons duck breasts with salt, pepper, coriander, and orange zest. Puts a pot of wild rice on to cook, asks me to top and tail some green beans. We open a bottle of Riesling, sipping while we cook, and I light a fire. The place gets cozy, full of delicious smells and the crackling fire. We ignore the dining table in favor of sitting on the floor in front of the fire, and tuck in. "This is amazing," I tell him, blown away by the duck, perfectly medium-rare and succulent, with crispy, fully rendered skin. "Really, honey, it couldn't be better." "Thank you, baby. That's a major compliment. And I have to say, I love cooking with you." "I love cooking with you." And I did. I never once felt like I wanted to jump in or make a change, or suggest a different choice. I followed him as I would have followed any chef, and the results of trusting him are completely delicious, literally and figuratively.”

CookingTrue LoveDuckSeasoningsDinner DateAlana And Rj
Book:Off the Menu
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“A chilled pea soup of insane simplicity, garnished with creme fraiche and celery leaves. Roasted beet salad with poached pears and goat cheese. Rack of lamb wrapped in crispy prosciutto, served over a celery root and horseradish puree, with sautéed spicy black kale. A thin-as-paper apple galette with fig glaze. Everything turned out brilliantly, including Patrick, who roused himself as I was pulling the lamb from the oven to rest before carving. He disappeared into the bathroom for ten minutes and came out shiny; green pallor and under-eye bags gone like magic. Pink with health and vitality, polished and ridiculously handsome, he looked as if he could run a marathon, and I was gobsmacked. He came up behind me just as I was finishing his port sauce for the lamb with a sprinkle of honey vinegar and a bit of butter, the only changes I made to any of his recipes, finding the sauce without them a bit one-dimensional and in need of edge smoothing.”

FoodCookingDishesAlana And Patrick
Book:Off the Menu
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“I look over the recipe again. It sounds very simple. You boil some rice in water like pasta, I can do that. You cook some onion in butter, stir in the rice, pop it in the oven. Add some cream and grated cheese and mix it up. And voila! A real dinner. I pull out a couple of the pots Caroline gave me, and began to get everything laid out. Grant always yammered on about mise en place, that habit of getting all your stuff together before you start cooking so you can be organized. It seems to make sense, and appeals to the part of me that likes to make lists and check things off of them. I manage to chop a pile of onions without cutting myself, but with a lot of tears. At one point I walk over to the huge freezer and stick my head in it for some relief, while Schatzi looks at me like I'm an idiot. Which isn't unusual. Or even come to think of it, wrong. But I get them sliced and chopped, albeit unevenly, and put them in the large pot with some butter. I get some water boiling in the other pot and put in some rice. I cook it for a few minutes, drain it, and add it to the onions, stirring them all together. Then I put the lid on the pot and put it in the oven, and set my phone with an alarm for thirty-five minutes. The kitchen smells amazing. Nothing quite like onions cooked in butter to make the heart happy. While it cooks, I grab a beer, and grate some Swiss cheese into a pile. When my phone buzzes, I pull the pot out of the oven and put it back on the stovetop, stirring in the cream and cheese, and sprinkling in some salt and pepper. I grab a bowl and fill it with the richly scented mixture. I stand right there at the counter, and gingerly take a spoonful. It's amazing. Rich and creamy and oniony. The rice is nicely cooked, not mushy. And even though some of my badly cut onions make for some awkward eating moments, as the strings slide out of the spoon and attach themselves to my chin, the flavor is spectacular. Simple and comforting, and utterly delicious.”

CookingIngredientsCheeseCreamRiceOnionsButterAnneke StroudtSoubise
Book:Recipe for Disaster
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“In a frenetic whirlwind we chop and dice and mince, turning anything we can think of into a possible pizza topping, and packing them all in small hotel pans in the rolling coolers we use for field shoots. When the dough has risen, I roll out fifty twelve-inch rounds, separating each with sheets of parchment, and stacking them in sheet pans, a rotini with a creamy sauce with ham and peas, and a simple rigatoni with vegetables in a light tomato sauce. Patrick discovers a big bowl of leftover risotto from Friday's testing, and heats up the deep fryer, yelling at me to set up a breeding station so he can do some arancini. While he is frying the little rice balls, I grab a huge prep bowl and fill it with romaine, shaved Parmesan, croutons and crispy capers, and I mix together a quick peppery pseudo-Caesar-style dressing.”

CookingIngredientsItalian CookingFood PreparationAlana And PatrickFlatbread Pizza
Book:Off the Menu
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“In ten minutes I am at the massive Whole Foods on Kingsbury. I go to the salad bar. I fill containers with carrots, celery, sliced onions, shredded cabbage, chopped tomatoes. Garbanzo beans and corn. Shredded chicken, peas, chopped cauliflower, and broccoli. Baby spinach leaves. Cooked barley. I check out, with my three salad bar containers, and head back toward home. I stop at La Boulangerie and pick up a baguette. I get home and don't even take my coat off. I get out one of my big stock pots, and dump all three containers into the pot. From the pantry, a jar of Rao's marinara. From the freezer, a container of homemade chicken stock. I don't even bother to thaw it, I just plop it like an iceberg into the pot. Salt, pepper, and pepper flakes for heat. I crank the heat to medium, give it a stir and leave it.”

CookingIngredientsVegetablesSoupGrocery ShoppingJenna StewartSalad Bar
Book:Out to Lunch
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“I wander back out, and find Patrick doing the unthinkable. He is cooking. There are two placemats on the island, napkins and forks. He has found a dish of leftover pasta I made last night, linguine with chickpeas, pancetta, and toasted breadcrumbs, with torn basil leaves and lemon zest. He's put together a frittata, which he has cooked on one side, and is deftly flipping it over to cook the other side. On another burner, some of my marinara that I put up last summer simmers in a small saucepan. A pile of shaved Parmesan is on the cutting board, two plates sit at his elbow.”

CookingDinnerIngredientsPastaPatrick ConlonFrittata
Book:Off the Menu
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“I've got a leftover cooked pork chop from dinner last night, an acorn squash, pistachio nuts, and honey vinegar." "Okay," I say, practically watching the wheels turning in his little head. "Time starts... now!" Ian gets down to business, steeling his little chef's knife. "Talk me through it as you go," I say. "I'm going to do a pork chop and roasted squash quesadilla with pistachio chimichurri and honey vinegar crema." "That seems smart. Tell me why as you prep." Ian begins slicing the acorn squash into rings, laying them on a baking sheet and drizzling with olive oil. "Well, the pork chop is already cooked, and quesadillas are a smart use for leftovers because they cook fast so things don't have time to dry out or get tough. The squash has good sweetness, which will go well with the pork, and will also be friends with the honey vinegar." "Good. Why not just toss the pistachios into the quesadilla?" He seasons the acorn squash rings expertly with kosher salt, taking a pinch from the bowl and holding his hand at eye level, raining the salt crystals down evenly over the squash, and then pops the tray in the oven. "Because the heat of cooking would make them lose their snap and you need that textural element for contrast with the soft quesadilla." "Excellent. Tell me about the chimichurri." He throws the pistachios into a small nonstick sauté pan and starts to toast them. "Well, I'm toasting the nuts to bring out the flavor and intensify the crunch, and I'm going to chop them roughly and mix them with minced green olives, mint, parsley, shallots, olive oil, a touch of the honey vinegar, maybe some red pepper flakes for heat.”

CookingIngredientsHerbsFlavorsSeasoningsFood PreparationQuesadilla
Book:How to Change a Life
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“I invested in a fifteen-dollar handheld mandoline, knowing that my knife skills would never be good enough to get the potatoes thin and uniform. I shockingly manage to slice them all without opening an artery, and briefly cook them in a mix of cream and half-and-half, with a pinch of nutmeg, a sprig of thyme. I've got a buttered dish at the ready, which I've dutifully rubbed with the cut side of a half clove of garlic, but I'm suspicious of this maneuver; I can't imagine it will really impart much flavor. When the potato slices are pliable but still not cooked, I transfer them to the dish, discarding the sprig of thyme, and add enough of the cooking liquid to barely cover them. I pop it in the preheated oven, wondering how that soupy mess of potato and cream will come together into a sliceable dish.”

CookingIngredientsPotatoesSeasoningsAnneke StroudtDauphinois
Book:Recipe for Disaster
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“But every once in a great while, the pull of her heritage would hit her, and Grand-mere would cook something real. I could never figure out what it was that triggered her, but I would come home from school to a glorious aroma. An Apfel-strudel, with paper-thin pastry wrapped around chunks of apples and nuts and raisins. The thick smoked pork chops called Kasseler ribs, braised in apple cider and served with caraway-laced sauerkraut. A rich baked dish with sausages, duck, and white beans. And hoppel poppel. A traditional German recipe handed down from her mother. I haven't even thought of it in years. But when my mom left, it was the only thing I could think to do for Joe, who was confused and heartbroken, and it was my best way to try to get something in him that didn't come in a cardboard container. I never got to learn at her knee the way many granddaughters learn to cook; she never shared the few recipes that were part of my ancestry. But hoppel poppel is fly by the seat of your pants, it doesn't need a recipe; it's a mess, just like me. It's just what the soul needs. I grab an onion, and chop half of it. I cut up the cold cooked potatoes into chunks. I pull one of my giant hot dogs out, and cut it into thick coins. Grand-mere used ham, but Joe loved it with hot dogs, and I do too. Plus I don't have ham. I whisk six eggs in a bowl, and put some butter on to melt. The onions and potatoes go in, and while they are cooking, I grate a pile of Swiss cheese, nicking my knuckle, but catching myself before I bleed into my breakfast. By the time I get a Band-Aid on it, the onions have begun to burn a little, but I don't care. I dump in the hot dogs and hear them sizzle, turning down the heat so that I don't continue to char the onions. When the hot dogs are spitting and getting a little browned, I add the eggs and stir up the whole mess like a scramble. When the eggs are pretty much set, I sprinkle the cheese over the top and take it off the heat, letting the cheese melt while I pop three slices of bread in the toaster. When the toast is done, I butter it, and eat the whole mess on the counter, using the crispy buttered toast to scoop chunk of egg, potato, and hot dog into my mouth, strings of cheese hanging down my chin. Even with the burnt onions, and having overcooked the eggs to rubbery bits, it is exactly what I need.”

CookingIngredientsPotatoesOnionsGermanHot DogsAnneke StroudtGrand MereHoppel Poppel
Book:Recipe for Disaster
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“I watched as Ian pulls the cooked squash out of the oven and drops it on the part of the cooktop that is currently not in use to let it cool for a moment while he mixes honey vinegar and a touch of brown sugar into thick crème fraîche, tasting along the way with the spoons I keep in a little cup on the stovetop. Satisfied with the crema, he turns back to the food processor, where he has chopped the pistachios, shallots, olives, and herbs, and empties out the contents into a bowl, adding a splash of the honey vinegar, a pinch of red pepper flakes, and a healthy glug of olive oil. He tastes, adds salt and a good grinding of black pepper, tastes again, and nods, pleased with himself. "Ten minutes to go," I say, checking my phone. "Keep talking me through things." Ian reaches for a large flour tortilla and places it in a dry nonstick skillet. "I'm going to assemble the quesadilla now," he says, sprinkling shredded fontina cheese over the whole surface of the tortilla. He dots the shredded cheese with small bits of fresh goat cheese. "I'm using fontina because it melts well and is mild, and some chèvre for a bit of punch and creaminess. Now the pork." He has sliced the pork thin, and layers it over the cheeses, following with cubes of the roasted squash.”

CookingIngredientsPorkCheesesQuesadilla
Book:How to Change a Life
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