I’m strong to the finich ’cause I eats me spinach—Popeye
When Daphne responded to George Costanza’s query about her eggs with “Eggs are eggs”, I cringed at this particular Seinfeldism. I, for one, value the importance of this often, taken for granted, ovate protein source. As stated in previous writings (that sounds so pretentious doesn’t it?), I love eggs and I am always trying to elevate the taste of them.
If I say the egg is my “muse”, does that mean I have to be artistic? No one has ever accused me of this. It is safe to say I will never cut off my ear if I break a yolk.
This past Friday morning, there was a smidgeon of something resembling a creative spark deep within me that was crying to see the light of the range hood. So the dish above was created.
I’m sure some of you will turn your nose up at this, but it really was a tasteful breakfast dish. If you can get past some of the biases that imprison your morning food choices, you may find this worthy of an occasional alternate start to your day.
This started with some delicious sourdough bread my blue-eyed darlin’ baked. It makes for a delicious toast canvas for my masterpiece. I spread some zhug (https://eat-with-big-surf.blog/2023/11/18/zhug-zhoug-sahawiq-schug-skug-mabooj/) on the toast. I sauteed some spinach with some store-bought marinated, grilled artichoke halves. I topped with a poached egg, salt and pepper.
Now Mrs. Big Surf and I loved the dish, though the missus felt like I used too much zhug and it overpowered her taste buds. I was surprised by this and when I verbalized my surprise, she said, “Your eyeballs are sweating”.
So the moral here is to know your audience. Based on a small sample size, the zhug can be a bit overwhelming to German and Irish palates, so go easy on this Yemeni originated condiment.
Show a little restraint like Van Gogh. He only cut off part of his ear.
“Without my morning coffee, I’m just like a dried-up piece of roast goat.” – Johann Sebastian Bach
I must confess, elitism is an ugly trait in an individual, except for me and my coffee.
I do not like to drink coffee just because it’s coffee, I like good coffee. And I am always dreaming of the perfect cup with the perfect ambiance for which to drink that perfect cup. Therefore, the title of this little blog. I have never found the aforementioned combination, or either component of the aforementioned combination.
I enjoy buying beans to grind myself and I use a French press. I am always trying new coffees and have had much success. Much like Tiger Woods finding the perfect golf swing, Beethoven scoring the perfect concerto, the search continues. I think it may be out there somewhere. Maybe artificial intelligence can develop the perfect cup. However the relaxing aura has always eluded me and I don’t have much hope for the future. It seems George Jetson was always rushing around.
Pre-retirement Big Surf was always thinking about too many things during his morning coffee, usually “where are my shoes?”, “do my socks match?”, “can I make it to lunch without a meltdown?”, or my favorite “where in the week is my next nap?”
So in light of all of these queries to solve during my morning cup of coffee, I would just pour about three cups into my modern-day thermos, the Contigo. I would sip on this during the work morning when the opportunity arose. So…no relaxing coffee for 38 years.
Finally, finally when I decided to retire, I felt my coffee fantasies were about to come true. All those cups of coffee that were sipped in numerous countries, in cafes, on beaches, or looking at incredible scenery still did not provide what I was searching for…for me and my friend Joe. Surely now it would happen, the perfect blend of morning relaxation and java to start my day.
Alas, the start of my day is still filled with self cross-examination? “What am I doing today?” “Why don’t these contractors call me back?” “Will my money run out before I do?”, “The grandchildren are coming WHEN?” And the lovely blue-eyed darling sensually whispering in my ear, “Are you about done with that coffee?”
I am believing tranquility is an urban myth in this lifetime. Much like you-know-who in the title.
I was close to relaxing with my tasty coffee this morning until I felt the need to finish this humanity-saving blog.
Do you want to make a tamale with peanut butter and jelly? Go ahead! Somebody will eat it.—Bobby Flay
Antony and Cleopatra. Lennon and McCartney. Simon and Garfunkel. Abbot and Costello. Ben and Jerry. All are famous pairings. But nothing goes together like peanut butter and jelly.
Growing up I was a PB and J snob, for it had to be smooth peanut butter and grape jelly only. For a brief moment in the space-time continuum, my mom substituted jelly with bananas and that in itself was a wonderful duo for the tastebuds. However it was never a replacement for the original.
A couple of weeks ago, I lived out the above quote from Bobby Flay, except I substituted the tamale for a cheeseburger. Now I never would have ever thought of this, but due to some adolescent peer pressure (yes in a testosterone world, it still exists in your sixties), I succumbed to this immature baiting from co-workers. It is still confusing to me how the testosterone levels can reduce as you age but the level of immaturity stays the same.
I was coerced one day to eat this amalgamation of Americana food… hamburger with cheese, bacon, pickled jalapeno, peanut butter, and GRAPE jelly. Well at least they got the jelly flavor right.
This ostentatious sandwich was served by the innovators at Whiskey John’s Restobar in Shelbyville, Indiana. Some would think you need a few belts of some Kentucky bourbon to order this. I wanted to loathe this burger so bad that I would never, ever consider ordering it again.
However, against all things tasteful and sensical, I LOVED IT!!!
Don’t ask me how it works, like trying to figure out falling in love, leave it alone. It just works. I will treat this as a delicacy and only eat it a few times a year, otherwise I will regress to my 6-yr. old self and eat it everyday.
Ours is a country built more on people than on territory. The Jews will come from everywhere: from France, from Russia, from America, from Yemen…Their faith is their passport—David Ben Gurion
The above quote is historic and also timely.
As one who finds the Jewish people fascinating, living in a country surrounded by enemies, I love this quote. I know the circumstances surrounding Israel, as of November 2023, with their war against Hamas, is a serious geopolitical event. And I have no sensical analysis to make any further comment. So, I will leave it at that since my little blog is nothing more than musings about things not so important.
However the above quote concerning the Jews returning to their homeland after 1948 reminds me of the many people who left Appalachia and returned to their homeland after their exile to Ohio, Indiana, Michigan, and all other points North to work in the factories. That also fascinates me.
This little jar of spice and heat in the title picture fascinated me when I found it in a recipe. Zhug (or pick any other name or spelling this condiment goes by) was brought to Israel by the Jews who migrated back from Yemen in the 1950’s. I wonder if the northern cities thank the Appalachian workers for bringing them soup beans and cornbread?
Zhug combines the warm spices of the Mediterranean region like cumin, cardamon, cilantro, parsley, with lemon juice, olive oil, and salt. Heat in the sauce is from jalapeno and black pepper.
The jar says you can use this on anything…so I am trying it on anything.
This delicious dish was the reason I ordered Zhug. It is an ingredient in Yottam Ottolenghi’s Braised eggs with lamb, tahini, and sumac, from his JERUSALEM cookbook.
I also used Zhug in a Japanese omelette with cheese and spinach. In the photo is my last tomato of the season that I happened to find while pulling up the plant…an added bonus.
People groups moving to different locations bring us new foods to try and enjoy. If you don’t want to move out of the region where you currently reside, you can always order from Amazon. For me it was easier than moving to Israel or Yemen.
While your horse is strong, travel to see places—-Mongolian proverb
Well, this quote is my new mantra.
Mrs. Big Surf and I usually have this conversation about once a week, albeit we usually don’t use the horse reference. It’s usually about me being strong enough to navigate the streets of other countries whilst I can still move about in an upright position.
So we decided to compromise on this beautiful day in October and whilst our Honda Civic was strong, we made the short drive to Greenwood, Indiana and visited Mongolia…or at least the southern Indiana version of Mongolia, to Yummy Bowl.
Now I just didn’t fall off the turnip truck, so I figured the Mongolian cuisine I ate at Yummy Bowl was a blend of Americanized (fill up a bowl to defy the laws of physics) and Sino-American (lots of veggies with sauces and noodles and rice and shrimp). I deduced this since I didn’t see any yak milk or yak yogurt, traditional Mongolian staples. I also didn’t see any animal carcasses laying around in the open kitchen to prepare another traditional Mongolian dish, boodog (meat cooked in the carcass). Also good luck finding shrimp, broccoli, and mushrooms in the Gobi Desert.
Mongolia’s history goes back to Ghengis Khan in the early 1200’s after he united all of the Mongolian tribes, a feat that is remarkable considering the modern-day Republican party or the rebellious Democratic Squad . Then he conquered parts of northern China after a hankering for Peking Duck and dumpling take-out.
Nevertheless, Yummy Bowl is quickly becoming one of my favorite lunch spots. Whatever kind of food they advertise, it is delicious and served in a way that is fun to eat.
After filling your bowl as full as humanly possible and choosing your sauces, it awaits for the large grill and expert cooks too prepare your dish.
Can you smell the welcoming aroma and hear the sizzle?
The final product. I ordered the vegetarian bowl. The sauces add so much extra goodness.
I know Mr. Khan would have questioned my choice of Mongolian fare. However, since there was no goat, mutton, or camel on the menu, I may have had a good defense before he made a boodog out of me.
Go eat lunch at Yummy Bowl. The food and experience is wonderful, even though you may not be able to order yak milk for the young’uns.
The corn is as high as an elephant’s eye an’ it looks like it’s climbin’ clear up to the sky—Oscar Hammerstein II
Since moving to Indiana, I see a lot of corn. I think a lot about corn. I could write a song about corn but evidently Mr. Hammerstein took care of that. I think I have developed a corn pollen allergy (is there such a thing?). But, and I can’t stress this enough, I eat a lot of corn.
This time of year in southeastern Indiana, the only place you don’t see corn is where there’re soybeans.
The Native Americans gift to us (along with a little help from Monsanto), had to be eaten fresh, unless they could freeze it in the nearest river or pond until Fred Wolfe got tired of falling into frozen rivers to freeze his corn and decided to invent the refrigerator in 1913.
Today I “put up” some freezer corn, as I heard many hard-workings moms and grandmas say during my childhood in eastern Kentucky. This was my first batch ever. At sixty-six, it was about time I learned this tradition. And let me tell you, I couldn’t have been more proud of myself if I had split the atom. And if you had seen my kitchen at completion, it looked like a small atomic bomb had detonated, I guess from too much yellow corn uranium.
Anyways winter can’t come soon enough for me to enjoy a little bit of summer in Indiana. Thank you Mr. Wolfe.
They say that the Cathedral of Milan is second only to St. Peter’s in Rome. I cannot understand how it could be second to anything made by human hands—Mark Twain 1867
Milan was not on our radar as far as destinations to visit.
However, through a few twists from our family’s adventurous desire to rendezvous and convincing the missus and me to come along, we wound up on a spur-of-the-moment trip to this wonderful city in northern Italy. We used Milan as a meeting place to go to our ultimate destination of Lake Como.
Though Mrs. Big Surf and I decided to leave a couple of days earlier so we could explore some of Milan sans grandchildren, we neglected to factor in the air travel schedules…as in the willy-nilly schedule. After the initial flight cancellation due to a sick crew, the reschedule had to be changed due to a covid policy we did not meet for our connection into Amsterdam. Thankfully, a maverick gate supervisor got on the computer and found us a flight that would route us through Paris. Evidently the French didn’t care what our covid history looked like as long as we had Euros. But this delayed us so much, we lost a full day in Milan. We made the best of the day we had before the grandchildren onslaught and chaos ensued.
Now Milan is known for fashion and banking, two well-versed soliloquies that won’t be uttered from my lips. Milan is also known for its magnificent cathedral, Duomo di Milano, and Leonardo Da Vinci’s, THE LAST SUPPER. The former a huge gothic edifice in the center of town that is hard to miss, the latter in a small church you have to look for.
The Duomo is a marvel of engineering, started in the late1300’s and supposedly built over the baptismal site of Augustine of Hippo, has been added to and renovated down through history. It survived bombings in WWII, and even started another restoration in 2016. I love the dedication of Europe to it’s historical buildings and churches.
The Duomo of Milan with its piazza.
The Duomo with the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II entrance on the left.
The Duomo with lions from the Vittorio Emanuele II statue in foreground.
One of the many statues that adorn the Milan Duomo.
It is a wonderful experience to wander through the old cathedrals of Europe, thinking of all the Christians that have come inside to seek peace and comfort. And the Milan Duomo has the same experience (if you can tune out the hundreds of tourists).
I was mesmerized by the intricacies of the St. Bartholomew statue inside the Milan Duomo. I will spare you the details of his demise, but you can probably guess by the detail. Incidentally, that is his skin draped over him.
My lovely blue-eyed darlin’ and I love to sit on the steps of these cathedrals and watch the people in the piazzas.
Statue of Leonardo Da Vinci near the Galleria and Duomo.
The dancing bull mosaic on the floor of the Galleria is the coat of arms for Turin. For some reason if you put your heel in a certain spot and spin, it will give you good luck. You can tell where the magic spot is because it has worn away by all those people who suddenly have experienced good luck. Yes I did it, too…still awaiting for the Milan financiers to call me.
This small (by European cathedral measures) church and former convent is San Maurizio al Monastero Maggiore. It is a very special gem in the Milan necklace of sights. If you have time to visit this place, make every effort. It’s entire inside is made up of frescoes and ornate decor. It was built in the 1500’s.
Santa Maria delle Grazie houses THE LAST SUPPER. My advice get tickets in advance.
I was surprised to find THE LAST SUPPER was a frescoe.
Now let’s talk fashion…of which I know nothing about. I am not on the cutting edge of fashion, more likely on the cutting floor.
I will say the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II is the best mall I have experienced. It is the oldest shopping center in Milan. I went looking for some white socks.
When the missus and I couldn’t find anything in our price range at the Galleria, we offered this couple 100 Euros for their outfits.
Is there anything that sits on a table in front of you that is better than fried chicken?
Some say the above quote has an origin in the back alleys of shooting craps during the depression, when desperate gamblers just wanted to win so they could purchase a chicken dinner. Well we rolled snake-eyes on a proposition bet this week.
A newly acquainted couple treated the Big Surfs to a wonderful night at the Kopper Kettle Inn in Morristown, IN. This is an old inn and has been a restaurant for about a hundred years. The specialty is Hoosier fried chicken. Now being an eastern Kentucky boy, I don’t know the difference in Hoosier fried chicken or southern fried chicken. But one thing I do know…the Hoosiers love their fried chicken. There is even a “Winner Winner Chicken Dinner” chicken trail throughout Indiana.
Recently I found out that Colonel Harland Sanders was born in Indiana (Henryville). So the DNA of eleven herbs and spices wrapped in a helix of lard began in southern Indiana. Well, that is close to Kentucky.
OK enough history, back to the task at hand, eating this fried delicacy. The star here is the plate of fried chicken served family-style in this beautifully decorated old grande dame on US 52. I have eaten a lot of fried chicken in my day and I have my favorites, Mrs. Big Surf’s, my mom’s, any fried chicken I ate at a West Liberty Christian Church dinner to name a few. This is really good fried chicken at the Kopper Kettle. It is crispy on the outside and has tender and delicious meat inside, and not greasy…a rare combination.
For those of you in the minority who love chicken livers, well you can’t go wrong ordering them up here either. These are really good livers. And considering a chicken only has one liver, a whole hen house sacrificed for the plate that was put in front of us for only one order.
The sides were good, especially the green beans. We had a broccoli cheddar soup also that was outstanding.
I hope to return to the Kopper Kettle soon and, no, this is not a shameful solicitation for another invite but we wouldn’t turn it down. I just hope I don’t get larded and feathered when I return to my roots in Kentucky.
A plate of comfort.
For those who love fried chicken livers, you can’t wrong here. For the rest of you, my condolences for missing out.
In nineteenth-century Russia, sauerkraut was valued more than caviar—Mark Kurlansky
My love affair with sauerkraut was born out of a gastric sacrifice not to offend my future mother-in-law.
I know this seems like a strange beginning to a beautiful relationship with one of my most beloved foods. You see on New Year’s Day 1985 my girlfriend, who later came to be known as Mrs. Big Surf, invited me to dinner to meet the family on this day.
Of course this created a level of angst only to be surpassed by what she was about to make known to me…her mom would be serving sauerkraut. Now at this point in my life, I had convinced myself that I did not like sauerkraut, don’t know why. I never liked the smell of it as a wee lad and that carried over into teen and adult years. I think I tried it once in an elementary school lunch and vowed never to partake of this fermented cabbage again. We all know the eating habits of children will be figured out whenever we get a cure for the common cold, but I carried this vow until my 28th year of life.
The blue-eyed darlin’ being from German heritage and living in a German-populated area of Kentucky, informed me sauerkraut or some sort of cabbage dish was always served on New Year’s Day, a tradition I was not aware of or most likely didn’t care about at that point in my life. Nevertheless, I decided my love for this wonderful young woman would not be sabotaged because I wouldn’t eat what her mom would set in front of me on my first meeting with her.
I don’t know what happened at that dinner. Maybe my taste buds were affected by the reflection of the sauerkraut in the blue eyes of my future missus or my heart slapped my brain and said “Eat this you big doofus”. The sauerkraut was like a long-lost treasure that was found. From that moment, I became so enamored with this delicacy that I couldn’t get enough of it and still can’t. I eat it with pork, soup beans, sausages, hot dogs, chicken, out of the jar, off the floor, or anywhere I can get it.
Fermented or pickled cabbage was first known in ancient China about 2500 years ago or so, but our sauerkraut was probably closer to what the Romans made a few hundred years later. However, my fully known existence of sauerkraut was discovered thirty-seven years ago.
Mrs, Big Surf commandeered this recipe of Reuben Casserole from a friend when we lived in Highland Heights, KY. It captures the taste of one of my favorite sandwiches, the Reuben (clever).
Sauerkraut is just one of the many rewards in my life with Frau Groß Surfen.
I think steak is the ultimate comfort food, and if you are going out for one, that is not the time to scrimp on calories or quality—Tom Colicchio
When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for some people to dissolve the dietary restrictions and throw off the shackles of government recommendations, it is time to eat a big ‘ole steak.
The missus and I took the 75-minute drive down I-74 to have a celebratory dinner at Jeff Ruby’s Steakhouse in Cincinnati, Ohio. We celebrated 37 years of me being married to this wonderful creature with sparkling blue eyes, and her hanging in there.
Jeff Ruby is a restaurateur extraordinaire. He has fine dining establishments in Cincinnati, Louisville, Nashville, Lexington, and Columbus. He has shown this tri-state population that we too can have fine dining like those persnickity diners on each coast.
So I pulled out my gift card from Christmas, for fine dining ain’t cheap. Nevertheless…
Mrs. Big Surf and I had a lovely table outside, some very nice wine and gazed into each others eyes like we did at that altar so many years ago. (I was gazing and she was thinking, “Could I have done better?”)
Our appetizer was the delicious breads and the butter placed before us.
The staff and service was impeccable. The servers were so courteous and knowledgable.
The blue-eyed darlin’ settled on the Halibut Forte, served with King Crab, Shiitake, and Beurre Blanc. This may have been the best halibut dish I have ever tasted. She put on her big girl pants and consumed it all. I had the 14-oz Center Cut New York Strip, served with a Bèarnaise Sauce. And at the risk of repeating myself, at this stage in my life it is expected, it may have been the best steak put in front of me. I, of course, not to be outdone by the fairer partaker of swimmy things, devoured all of my medium-rare steak. We also had their award-winning Baked Mac and Cheese, made with six imported cheeses…yeah that’s right you Manhattanites, this is Mac and Cheese in the Midwest.
Jeff Ruby establishments are known for their steaks but they also can produce wonderful seafood dishes like this Halibut Forte.
The New York Strip was cooked perfectly to medium-rare. The Bèarnaise Sauce was so very delicious and complimented this steak, like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were gliding effortlessly across by taste buds.
This Mac and Cheese is probably the best you will eat.
Jeff Ruby’s Steakhouse in Cincinnati offers a wonderful dining experience. Tastefully decorated in old Hollywood Art-Deco, live music at the bar, wonderful service, and of course the food.
When someone wants to give me another gift card to use, I will more than happy parlay that into a great meal.
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