To Live in America

What a strange time it is to live in today’s America. There is constant upheaval and turmoil at every turn. As a people, it seems we are perpetually at odds with one another, and it seems we can’t find common ground among ourselves. The people who bring us out news, our social media outlets, our social meeting places, and even our entertainment, among others, makes sure we know who “they” are. The ones who we must hate. Not just disagree with, not even dislike, but hate. We can’t even agree on basic biology at this point. To say the least, it’s exhausting and, at worst, it’s dangerous.

For Love of Country

It wasn’t always that way though. I have fifty plus years of experience to speak from. I won’t bore you with the exact number, but I am a Gen X’er. The forgotten generation who has been working since they could walk, let themselves into their own houses after school, and had to basically keep the wolves at bay by themselves. It wasn’t as bad as all that, but we were, and still are, pretty self-sufficient.

There is one thing we had by the truck load that has been lost. A commonality that bound us and made us each other’s keeper. That one thing that we wore like a badge of honor, and was shared universally, is patriotism. Oh, please don’t misunderstand, we had our problems. Every day wasn’t met with everyone holding hands signing kumbaya. Still, we knew that above all else we were Americans.

If you wanted to get a group of people from the 70’s and 80’s to stop dead in their tracks just play the Star-Spangled Banner. Public humiliation was your reward if you were caught talking, or moving around, or not having your hand over your heart during The Pledge of Allegiance. We all knew exactly how precious the soil was that we were standing on. We were then, and still are, proud to be Americans.

Our greatness, and yes, we are great by any measure, comes from the combined wealth of knowledge that found its way to our shores from all corners of the earth. That greatness is the result of the best ideas from all other cultures and civilizations.

Love for our country was everywhere. The great stuntman Evel Knievel was dripping in red, white, and blue including his motorcycle. The coolest kid on the block had that Huffy, Thunder Road edition chopper that came wrapped in star spangled loveliness. In Rocky IV, Apollo Creed made his over-the-top American entrance into the ring with James Brown’s “Living in America” ushering the way. There is no doubt that we loved our country…all of us.

Something Changed

Over the past fifteen years or so we’ve lost that patriotism. Not wholly, as it is still proudly displayed at local events, but in the places that matter most it’s all but gone. Not only has patriotism been quieted, but it seems to be fashionable to show just how unpatriotic one can be.

I’ve never seen more people lament living in a place that they proclaim to hate while sleeping under the blanket of its protection, taking advantage of its vast bounty, and refusing to leave. It would be funny if it weren’t so disheartening.

We’ve allowed fringe and extremist views, once thought to be borderline psychotic, to not only be discussed but to take the forefront of the national discourse. We have given a stage to groups who don’t want to change America, but champion for its downfall.

Now don’t misunderstand, I believe wholeheartedly that these people, or groups, should be able to express these views if they see fit. But I also believe that they shouldn’t be given any more attention than it takes to swat a mosquito.

American Validation

From out of nowhere, and from the most unexpected places, came the validation of America’s greatness we have been starved of for so long. The validation that our national leadership and media has muffled.

American was one of the host countries for the 2026 World Cup. That’s soccer to us and football, or footie, to the rest of the world.

People who would probably not have visited our beloved America, from all over the world, came in support of their teams. They came, by many of their own admissions, with great apprehension. They had a preconceived vision that they would be greeted with hostility, violence, and guns, of course.

They were shown images of a cold and calloused people who would not care about them and were not going to be welcoming, much less friendly. Their televisions and media players brought them pictures and videos of the worst parts of our inner cities, and the worst of our behavior as a people, as though it was normal, daily, American life.

As evidenced by their own posted videos, they were happily surprised. Testimony after testimony waxed poetic about how wonderful the people of America are. That they are so warm and friendly. They went on and on about how helpful and fun loving the Americans are. They raved over the beauty of our country, and yes, they loved our food.

To paraphrase on such post, “If you want to hate America, watch the news. If you want to love America, travel the country.”

But here’s the part that wasn’t reported. The part that was only found by watching several of the video posts from our visitors. That was the deep sense of American pride we have. Not boastful, obnoxious pride. But a deep, authentic love for our country. There is nothing greater they could have taken back with them than that truth.

Standing Up

If that level of patriotism was observed in just a few short weeks by complete strangers to our land, how could it be so subdued to us? Could it be that we aren’t shown events, and groups, and people who have American pride? Do those who control information make a conscious effort to bring anti-American media to the forefront while suppressing all that is pro-American? Maybe. I don’t know.

But I do know this. When we collectively decide to not stand together as Americans and be proud of what we have accomplished as a country and a people, while acknowledging that there is much work left to do, that common ground that seems to be alluding us will be rock solid at the feet of all Americans.

When we ignore anti-American ideals, and embrace the pride for our country that lives deep within us, it will not matter what’s on our TV or our phones. We will return to the brotherhood from which this country has prospered.

The next time you hear, “Oh say can you see…” or, “I pledge allegiance to the flag…” stand up. Stand up, place your hand over your heart, and feel that American pride swell inside of you. Embrace it!

This is the greatest country the world has ever known, and you have the undeniable privilege of being a citizen.

You are American.

Being the One

Once again the Holidays are here, and while that should bring joy to everyone there is a certain amount of anxiety that comes along with that.

Crowded shopping centers and stores will be packed with people on missions to find whatever it is they are there for. There will be bumping and pushing.  Rude people will cut the line. Inevitably someone will take the last bobble from right under you.

Traffic will be thick with impatience and dumbfounded faces.  Add in some holiday road construction and nerves will be grated.

Tempers will shorten as the holidays go on. Merriment will begin to fade as will the bright and colorful lights.

We take part in this cycle each year, but this year seems different. There is a lot of tension and uncertainty in the country, and our communities. Those uneasy feelings are seeping their way into our social lives and families.  We are starting to question people we’ve known all our lives. It all makes us more bah humbug than merry and bright.

So, let’s do something about it.  Let’s be the one.

Be the one who has a little more patience.

Be the one who shows a little more kindness.

Be the one who tips a little better.

Be the one who shows a little more compassion.

Be the one who gives more of their time to those in need.

Be the one who lets others have the last one.

Be the one who give a little more, and keeps a little less.

Be the one who shows grace and understanding in a stressful situation.

Be the one who is a little more understanding.

Be the one who reaches out first.

Be the one who shows others that good people still exist.

Be the one who makes kids laugh in the checkout line.

Be the one who captures the spirit of the season and gives it to all they meet.

Be the one who chooses happiness.

Be the one who recognizes and respects others’ beliefs and celebrations.

Be the one.

Happy Holidays.

Being Christmas

I, as many do, get reflective at this time of year.  I tend to take stock of what I’ve gained and what I’ve lost over the past 12 months. But beyond that I get hopeful.

There is a song I visit each year, “Let it be Christmas”. Written and recorded by Alan Jackson, the song speaks to exactly how I feel about the Christmas season. I post it on social media each year on the day after Thanksgiving in hopes that it will inspire others as it inspires me.

I do not think Christmas should focus on the birth of Jesus.  After all, most historians agree that he wasn’t born on December 25^th.  That date coincides with many other winter solstice celebrations, but we’ll save that argument for another time. 

Besides, Jesus was known to be one of the most humble and charitable people ever to have lived.  If he were alive today, I seriously doubt he would want us making a fuss about his birthday.  Nor would he want us spending all sorts of money on lavish gifts and decorating with silver and gold.

I think…no I believe, he would want us serving others in any way we could.  I believe he would want us to act with great charity.  I believe if the Jesus, the person, was the really the kind and humble servant we were taught about, he would want us to act as he did and give as much of ourselves as we could to those that need it most regardless of how they believe.

Christmas is about love.  Love isn’t always easy.  Love calls on us to be brave enough to care for someone who may not believe as we believe or live as we live.  Love demands that we be strong enough to see the best in people even when they are at their worst.  Love begs us to give, even though we may have little ourselves. It is in these moments that we grow and other grow with us.

To me Christmas is humanity getting yet another chance to be a better version of itself. It’s a reminder to be kind to others. It’s a time to give, materially and through our actions, to all around us.  It’s an opportunity to make our communities more of a place we all want to live. It’s also a chance for each of us to be better people.

It is quite easy to be a Scrooge in this world. There is so much despair every day. But we can change that, and we don’t need anyone’s permission to do it.  Just treat people as you would like to be treated, and here’s the tough part, especially when they don’t deserve it. Do a little extra for those around you than you would normally do, smile more, have a little more patience, help someone in some way, let someone lean on you. It’s really not that hard.

Here’s the challenge.  If you’re eating in a restaurant, tip your server more than you normally would.  Stuck in traffic?  Let that person cut in.  See someone struggling to buy some groceries?  Pay for them, or some of them, if you can.  Someone needs some help at their home?  Give them a hand. Give a coat, socks, warm clothes to a shelter.

Do a little more than you normally would and do it with an open heart.  Do these things and watch what happens.  Not only to those around you, but to you as well.

This is where the hope comes in.  I am hopeful that we, all of us, can be better people.  But I know it doesn’t happen all at once.  So, let’s start with a few days.  Let’s say around Christmas.  And who knows, maybe a few days turn into a few weeks, then a month or two.  We can change where and the way we live. We can.  I know we can.

I hope.  I hope we can be strong enough, brave enough, and giving enough.  I think we can.

So for the next few days…Let it be Christmas, Christmas everywhere.

You’re Not a Chef, and That’s Ok

Chef finishing a dish

Home cook preparing a meal.Image by Freepik

 

I watch a fair amount of cooking shows. Alright, I watch a lot of cooking shows, and I read a lot of
articles about food and cooking. I’ve noticed that there’s been a trend over the past several years of calling everyone who heats up a pan or picks up a spatula “chef”, and it’s gotten out of hand.

Everyone’s a Chef

There’s one show in particular called “4 Levels” that brings this idea to an absurd end. The premise
is simple enough 3 people of increasing culinary skill all cook their interpretation of the same dish. That’s three of the four levels. The fourth is when a food scientist breaks down each dish. That’s my favorite part.

Here’s the problem. Each participant is called a level of chef. The novice cook is a “Level 1 chef”. The intermediate cook is referred to as a “Level 2 chef”. The final participant is an actual chef, or chef instructor, and is called a “Level 3 chef”.

The level one person barely knows what end of a spoon to use; level two is what I would refer to as a cook; and level three is obviously a seasoned kitchen professional. It’s insulting to refer to numbers one and two as chefs…they’re not.

There are mountains of examples of the “chef” moniker being abused in every sort of media. My issue isn’t whether one person can cook better than the other. It’s labeling someone something that they clearly aren’t. There’s nothing wrong with being a cook…nothing. As a matter of fact, it’s pretty great.

To qualify myself, I was once a working chef. I am now a cook. I have been trained in professional kitchens,
and I carry that training with me still today. On my television show I can show you some decent knife skills, give you some fairly impressive food facts, and show off some cooking techniques that would be described as just slightly more advanced than side show magic. But I am a cook, and here are the differences.

Real Chefs Need Only Apply

There are a lot of positions in a professional kitchen where one could be called chef. From line cooks to Gardè Mangér to Chef de Cuisine and on and on, if you’ve been professionally trained to work in a kitchen, you’ve earned the title of chef. But all of that training is like learning algebra, geometry, and French literature in high school. It’s nice to know but you’re probably not going to ever use that stuff. Don’t get me
wrong the fundamentals of being a chef get used every day.  Things like food safety, proper cooking techniques, proper knife skills, and so on are the foundation of every chef.

But being a working chef in a professional kitchen means doing the same thing over and over every day for
very long periods of time. Menus don’t change very often in restaurants. Of course, there are “specials” and “Chef’s dishes” that pop up here and there, which is usually kitchen code for we bought too much fish
and have to get rid of it. But for the most part workers in a professional kitchen have a job to do every day, and it’s the same job.

Prepping ingredients, filleting fish, breaking down primal cuts of beef, pork, lamb, poaching, steaming,
searing, and roasting are all done by the same people each day.  Except for cleaning.  Cleaning is done by everyone, and I do mean everyone…all day every day. 

“some of the worst food you’ve eaten has come from someone who calls themselves “chef”, and some of the most wonderful things to pass your lips came from people who were cooks.”

Now that is not to say that if someone calls in dead, because that’s the only way you’re not showing up, that
another person can’t do their particular job. They can because cross training is absolutely essential.  But for the most part if your job is peelingpotatoes and chopping onions, you’re going to be doing that for the foreseeable future. Breathe through your mouth so your eyes don’t burn.

What all of this means is that in a working kitchen there isn’t a lot of freedom.  The menu is static until the executive chef says it isn’t, and that prep work ain’t gonna do itself.

A Cook by Any Other Name

I’m not sure why cooks are so looked down upon.  I guess it goes back to the old greasy spoon diners of the 1950’s. Salty, foul-mouthed, middle-aged men complete with band aids on theirforearms and a cigarette hanging off of their lips would yell out from the window,” I got food dying over here! Let’s get it gone!”

For decades cooks have been considered the second-class citizens of the kitchen, and that couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s like is someone doesn’t call you a chef you don’t know your way around a stove. But I’m here to tell you some of the worst food you’ve eaten has come from someone who calls themselves “chef”, and some of the most wonderful things to pass your lips came from people who were cooks.

Think I’m wrong? There’s a great chance that your mom, dad, mawmaw, grandmother, nona, pa-pop, pawpaw, taunte, etc either made or makes your very favorite dish to this day.  And that same person(s) is a lowly home cook.

Here’s something else that’s great about being a cook. Cooks have incredible freedom in the kitchen. They
can make whatever they like, whenever they want. Hey mom, can we have spaghetti tomorrow?  Sure.  Dad, how about some of your famous burger bombs on Friday?  You got it.

Mawmaw sees a recipe online she would like to try? Check the pantry for ingredients and she’ll whip that up in no time. Chefs can’t do that.

Home cooks are also accountants, tutors, counselors, handymen, and can stretch a dollar until Washington says mercy! You think there’s nothing to eat? Let a grandmother get in that pantry and freezer.  She’ll have a 3-course meal on the table better than anything Doordash could bring.

And don’t discount the men.  In the south, and especially in Louisiana, men cook. They pride themselves on how well they can cook. Oh, and if you’re one of those men who cooks but don’t clean up…stop that.  Clean your mess ya filthy pig!

From wild game to barbecue to a thick steak, guys are up for throwing down. Go to any camp and the men there are grading the cook hard.  You don’t want to be asked back to the camp?  Screw up that supper and your name will fall off the guest list quick. Unless you’re a member then they just won’t let you cook anymore.

No Comparison

What this all means is that cooks and chefs really shouldn’t be compared. They don’t do the same job.  The
most that could be said is that they both prepare food, but that’s where the similarities end. 

It’s ok to be a chef, and it’s ok to be a cook.  I’m a cook, and I’m damned proud of it.

 

Red, White, and Waffles

A red and yellow box shaped piece of America.

A small change in your daily routine can show you a part of life that you knew existed, but never have seen.

And so it was, an unscheduled early morning delivery left me with some time to kill. My belly was telling me that it’s time for breakfast, and the yellow sign with black Waffle House letters was calling my name.

Walking in I noticed the place wasn’t too busy, average I would say.  “Good morning. Just have a seat anywhere hon.” A pleasant voice called out.

I sat at the counter.  The counter in a Waffle House is a great place to sit.  That’s where all of the action is.  You can see the food being prepared, all of the smells surround you, other patrons are relatively close by, and the dishes are being washed just a foot or so from you on the other side of the bar.

That’s where I noticed Sean.  A young man of big statue who was busy getting some dishes clean.  Something wasn’t quite right though.  Sean was breathing through his mouth a little.  His brow was wrinkled and furled. He was anxious…too anxious. 

Jean called my attention for a second. “Something to drink love?” she asked through a pleasant smile.  “Coffee please” I answered back as I shifted my gaze back to Sean.  “I’ve gotta get these out!” he told himself forcefully.  Another worker, Cathy, was ringing up a ticket at the register which is right next to the sink as she heard Sean’s self-demand.  “Hey, hey Sean. It’s going to be ok buddy. You’re alright. Just take your time and concentrate on those dishes.  We’re not even that busy.” She reassured him.

This wasn’t the first time. Cathy wasn’t surprised by Sean’s behavior, and the tone of her voice was one that had been practiced and repeated. Sean obviously has some issues with anxiety, and all of the other workers knew it.  It wasn’t long before yet another worker, Deashia, talked to Sean in a calm, supportive voice to keep him on task. 

Jean made her way back to me.  “Whatcha having?” she asked.  “Give me a couple of eggs over medium, hash browns, and sausage please.” I answered.  “You got it” she said through a smile as she scratched the order on a ticket. And as quick as a glance she swept herself away to another table. She moved like the wind.

Just beyond Sean was the grill.  I love the grill.  It’s been more than a few years since I cooked short order, but there was a time I could crank it out.  I still love looking at the set up.  In French cooking it’s called mise ‘en place, everything in its place.  In a Waffle House it’s called a setup.

This is where all of the ingredients are laid out for quick access by the cooks. The eggs are in a wire basket that hangs above the grill.  No need to keep them cold.  They’re not going to be there long enough to spoil.  The hash browns are frozen and kept in a large, cold bin, along with chopped onions, peppers, and meats all within the cook’s arm length.  A stainless-steel container of butter sits on the grill, melted and at the ready.

The cook looks at the order ticket and methodically goes into action.  A small ladle of butter on the grill, a handful of hash browns on the butter, she makes a well in the middle of the mound, another ladle of butter in the well, then covers the well with more shredded potatoes. While the hash browns brown, she cracks two eggs on the grill with the skill of a surgeon. Some breakfast sausage takes its place close to the eggs and everything is cooking. There are no wasted movements.

The sound of the spatula sliding on the grill reminds me of the sound effects in a samurai movie…shwing!

“Girl, I’m just not sure how I can keep affording everything for Jonah’s school.” Cathy moans to Deashia.  “I know. Every damned day it’s something else they need money for.” Deashia agrees.  “I just don’t remember it being like that for us when we were in school.” says Cathy. “Mmm hmm…me either.” Deashia confirms.

My coffee cup is almost empty and right on cue Jean appears with my order and a coffee pot. “Imma top that off for you love.”

A couple of guys sitting to the right of me are in a heated discussion.  “So, you threatened to run him off the job?” one asked the other.  “I told him if that’s the kind of work he’s going to put out, he can get he fucking ass off my job!” poking his finger into the table just enough to make the silverware rattle. “Jesus Chad!” the other one laughed.  “It’s not funny!  I do good work. No, I do great work, and sure don’t have time to go back and fix something that don’t need to be fixed in the first place.  And you know what?  It’s my damn name on the truck.” The other fellow agreed, “Yep. You’re right.  Man, it sure is tough to find good help.”

“Um, excuse me.” I called out to Jean.  “Yes sir. What can I get for you?” she happily answered.  “Can I get some hot sauce please?”  I asked.  “Tabasco, ok?”. “Uh…do you have anything else.” Cathy piped in, “Boy puhleeze! This place ain’t from Louisiana. All they know is Tabasco!”  All of the workers laughed together, and I laughed with them.  “I’ll pass.  Thank you.” I answered as I reached for the salt and pepper.

I looked back at Sean, and he was still working on those dishes, but he seemed better, not as stressed, maybe even a little calm.  Deashia passed by and patted him on his shoulder, “Good Sean…good.”

The women working there called upon their nurturing natures and took care of who needed taking care of.  All the while the orders kept on being filled and served with smiles.

It was then I noticed it.  I was served something with my breakfast I didn’t order, but couldn’t have been happier to get. Along with my eggs over medium, hash browns, and sausage I got a big old slice of Americana. And it was delicious!

I could have sat there all day and watched. We’re going to be ok.  And by “we’re” I mean us…all of us.  This snapshot, this moment in time on a random Wednesday painted a picture where we’re much more the same than we are different.

How I love living here.

Chicken Parmesan-Modern Twist, Classic Dish

A few small changes like using an air fryer and panko bread crumbs lightens this Italian classic and still packs on huge flavor.

Crisp chicken, rich marinara sauce, and creamy cheese is what makes Chicken Parmesan a true classic.

There are 4 pieces to the chicken parmesan puzzle, and no one is more important than the others.

In no particular order:

1. The chicken
2. The breading
3. The Sauce
4. The cheese

The chicken—Traditionally the chicken of choice is boneless breasts that are pounded thin. This is fine, and it works because the thickness and shape can be made very uniformly for even cooking. 

The case can be made for boneless thigh meat.  It won’t be quite as uniform after pounding, and you will have a couple small nuggets break away, but the flavor is much better. 

Start with the breast until you get the groove of the recipe.

The breading—We want crunch! This dish is basically a fried chicken cutlet smothered in sauce and cheese then baked.  We are going to need some serious crust to standup to all of that. 

A multi layered batter is the way to go here, but instead of boxed Italian bread crumbs, we’re going with panko.  This will guaranty crispy, crunchy goodness.

Don’t worry we’re going to season every step of the way with some Louisiana Love and some Italian goodness that will make our Nona smile.

The sauce—Yes, you can “get away” with a jarred sauce by doctoring it up.  But why?  For only about 45 more minutes you can get a real, honest, homemade marinara using quality canned tomatoes, incredible ingredients, and some time.

The cheese—It really is as simple as this, the cheaper the cheese, the worse the dish will be. You don’t have to break the bank, but go at least mid-range in cheese price.  The primary cheese used is, you guessed it, parmesan.  But it is often paired with Mozzarella for the ooey gooey factor.  Let’s go one better and switch out the Mozz for Havarti.  Danish Havarti melts and stretches every bit as good as Mozz and tastes a thousand times better. 

As for the parm…there’s only one step up and it’s an expensive one.  Parmigiano Reggiano…the king of cheeses.  The price difference is about $10.00 per pound.  Is it worth it?  Get both and decide for yourself.

That’s the breakdown of the dish.  Again, each part is just as important as the others.  Get the best ingredients you can. 

Let’s talk about the sauce!

Marinara to Italians is like gumbo to Cajuns.  Everyone has their own way of doing it, but one thing is certain.  It takes some time, and don’t use crushed tomatoes.

Using whole, stewed San Marzano tomatoes will give you the best marinara you can make other than using fresh tomatoes.  Which is a huge time commitment, and really doesn’t yield a better sauce for the amount of time and effort it takes.

Cento brand makes a great product that is available at most large grocery stores.

Ingredients:

• ½ cup            Olive oil (extra virgin)
• 1 medium      White onion (chopped)
• 4-5 cloves     Garlic (chopped)
• 4-28 ounce   Cento San Marzano stewed tomatoes
• 2-6 ounce     Cento tomato paste
• 1½ cups        Dry red wine (Cabernet Sauvignon or Chianti)
• 2 tablespoons          Louisiana Love Seasoning Blends (or to taste)
• ¼ cup            Dry Italian seasoning blend

Method:

1. Place a large, heavy pot over medium-high heat and add olive oil, onions, and garlic.
2. Pour in tomatoes and all juices.
3. Using hands, crush tomatoes until separated.
4. Add tomato paste, wine, and dry seasonings.
5. Stir well and heat until boiling, then reduce to a simmer.
6. Cook for 1-2 hours stirring frequently.
7. Note: The longer it cooks the better it will be, but after 2 hours stirring will be almost constant to prevent burning.
8. Taste and adjust seasoning.
9. Purée with a stick blender or in a food processor.
10. The color should be a dark maroon or rust color…not bright red.

In the beginning.

An hour and a half later. Look at that color!

The stuff on the edge of that spoon is what makes a good sauce great.

Now that the sauce is made, let’s get to the main event, shall we?

Ingredients:

• 2 pounds      Boneless, skinless chicken breasts
• Gallon size zipper bag
• Louisiana Love Seasoning Blends to taste
• Dry Italian blend seasoning to taste
• 1 cup  All-purpose flour
• 1 egg   Beaten
• 2 cups           Milk
• 3-4 cups       Panko bread crumbs (Kikkoman)
• 1 quart           Marinara sauce (see above)
• ¼ cup            Fresh basil (chopped)
• 4 cups           Havarti cheese (shredded)
• 2 cups           Parmesan cheese (shredded or grated)

Method:

1. If the chicken breasts are very thick, use a sharp knife to carefully split them along their length.
2. Place each piece inside a gallon size zipper bag, using a meat mallet or skillet, or rolling pin, pound the thickest side of the chicken down to a uniform thickness.
3. Note:  Go easy…the blows should be glancing away from you, not straight down.  This isn’t Game of Thrones.
4. Add the beaten egg to the milk and whisk together.
5. Make a dredging station in this order, flour, egg wash, and panko.
6. Season each one with dry seasonings to taste…about a tablespoon of each seasoning in the flour and egg wash, two of each in the panko.
7. Place marinara in a heavy pot over medium-low heat until steaming, then add basil and allow to cook for 5 minutes.
8. Bread chicken pieces and place in air fryer at 375° for 7-8 minutes.
9. Note: Because the chicken is thin it should be cooked throughout. If in doubt use a meat thermometer to verify a temperature of at least 160° in the thickest part.
10. Preheat broiler on oven to high.
11. Using an over safe plate assemble each as follows: a ladle of sauce on the plate, a piece of fried chicken, another ladle of sauce, Havarti cheese, then parmesan cheese.
12. Place under broiler until cheese melts and starts to brown, about 5 minutes, but watch it carefully.
13. Note: Leave the oven door crack open a bit.  This will ensure that the heating element stays on.
14. Remove and serve immediately.

Make sure there is some garlic bread for all of that incredible marinara!

Stay hungry!

Come Eat At My Table

The grill…the heart of the meal.

Come eat at my table.  Come enjoy life for a while and breathe easy.  Grab something cold to drink and enjoy some company.

Close your eyes and inhale what I’ve prepared for you.  Smell that?  It’s bread fresh from the oven in all of its yeasty goodness.  My nose knows nothing better.  Listen to the sizzle and smell the char of the meats on the grill.  See the rainbow of colors of just picked vegetables. 

Come eat at my table and let me show you what food means to me.  Grab whatever you like. It’s all there for the taking. 

I can’t tell you with words how much I enjoy preparing this meal.  So, I have to show you in the meal itself. Much time has been taken in trimming, peeling, chopping, and seasoning.  It’s all intentional, all done carefully, all done with respect for both the food and those who will be eating.

Great thought has gone into flavors and cooking technique to ensure the foods complement each other and make you close your eyes with each bite. 

The fire has been built and tended to, vents adjusted, and coals added to make for perfect grilling.  As the meats touch the grill the smell of seasoning mixes with the smoke to make your stomach growl a bit. Sauces are ready to bathe still sizzling cuts with incredible flavor.

Come eat at my table and we’ll talk about whatever you wish. The day’s events, catching up with our families, your hopes and dreams, even politics and religion if you choose.  This is a safe place…judgments are reserved until after you leave.

Tell me a story. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, just enjoy telling it.  I don’t care if I’ve heard it before…I’ll listen as though it’s the first time. Come eat at my table and share some of you with me.

Come eat at my table and let’s sit on the porch.  We’ll take in the fresh, country air and let the sun slip away.  We’ll hear the night creatures slowly come to life as we empty bottles and glasses.  Don’t worry about my old Bassett.  Charlie just wants you to scratch behind his long, velvet ears.

Simple goodness

Let’s laugh with others and at ourselves.  Let’s enjoy this time, this moment to be alive, this place in the world. Let’s say things we wouldn’t normally say in mixed company for we are among friends. Come eat at my table and let your guard down…relax.

Come eat at my table where I hope to impress you. This meal is important to me.  I want you to taste and know that this is my best. This is the sum total of my work, and what I love to do. I want to share this food with you, this time with you, this meal…I want to share this meal with you.

This meal isn’t about ingesting food and nutrients for energy and to sustain life, no.  This is about celebrating not only what gives us life, but also why we live…to give of ourselves, to share, and to be happy.

Come eat at my table.

Café Sydnie Mae—Your Happy Place

Cafe’ Sydnie Mae invites you to come in, relax, eat, drink, and be merry.

Easy to find, impossible to forget

There’s a place, hidden in plain sight, and it’s where you want to be.  Among the shared wall buildings on Bridge Street in beautiful downtown Breaux Bridge, Café Sydnie Mae sits on a corner, and welcomes you to come in and enjoy life for a while.

Café Sydnie Mae is the result of a collaboration between Chip Durand, son of the restaurant’s namesake—Sydnie Mae Durand, and the present owner David Puckett. 

David is a retired insurance agent whose restless heart and boundless energy led him to culinary school and ultimately a restauranteur…not exactly the path of a retiree.  If you ask him though, it becomes perfectly clear that this has been a dream of his for some time.  Not just owning a restaurant mind you, but contributing to a community and culture he and his wife Cheryl simply love.

Cafe’ Sydnie Mae’s dining room is casual and inviting…stay a while.

“It taught us who we were as people, employees, and an organization.”

-David Puckett

The covid effect

David will never tell you this but during the covid crisis of 2020 he worked tirelessly to support those in the hospitality industry.  When asked what he was most proud of he said, “Exactly 54 weeks into the pandemic we wrote a check to the 100^th musician to play at the café.”  What he’s not telling you is he paid them twice the normal rate plus gave them a $50.00 gift card to his restaurant.

This was at a time when seating capacities were fifty percent or less, and the monthly expenses were one hundred percent.

What David will tell you is the lessons learned from covid.  He said that it taught them who they were as people, employees, and an organization. Another blessing he shared was that is made him a better businessman.

The restaurant business is already an ever-changing monster where the only thing certain is the uncertainty. Covid magnified this one hundred times over.  The headaches were plenty with shortages in ingredients, new regulations on the local, state, and federal level (which often contradicted one another), staffing issues, health concerns, patron safety, finances, increased expenses…you get the point. 

No one would blame once retired, relatively new restaurateurs to just pack it in and cut their losses.  But David and Cheryl didn’t do that.  They rolled up their sleeves and dedicated themselves to helping not only their employees, but their vendors, their community, and anyone else they could.  In their eyes, service goes far beyond the table.

An incredible restaurant experience

Great restaurants are a combination of incredible food, excellent waitstaff, warm and inviting atmospheres, and smiling managers that keep it all running like a well-oiled machine.  Sydnie Mae has this in spades.  Let’s start with the food, shall we?

A Cafe’ Sydnie Mae destination dish- Steak and Cake. A perfectly cooked ribeye with and incredible crab cake.

Once seated you are presented with a simple two-page menu…one sheet front and back.  As simple and unassuming as this seems the ink on those pages spells out surprising deliciousness.  Seafood, steaks, specials, and signature dishes are all there and the waitstaff will gladly explain any and all of them. 

Get the Breaux Bread! If you have just one thing on that incredible menu, make it this unassuming little appetizer.  On the surface it’s just a warmed loaf with Parmesan cheese, olive oil, and marinara sauce. But in reality, it’s so much more than that.  The bread is toasted just enough to be crispy, but still pillowy soft inside.  It’s then dressed in olive oil and topped with grated Parmesan.  What the menu doesn’t tell you is that an incredible, chunky, tangy, rich marinara comes along for the ride.  This appetizer cannot be oversold…it’s that good!

Breaux Bread at Cafe’ Sydnie Mae….get the Breaux Bread!

When it comes to their steaks, the devil is in the details.  Yes, the cuts are excellent, and yes, they are grilled to your specific liking with a wonderful crust.  But what the menu doesn’t share is that a rich, herb-filled compound butter sits on top of these bodacious pieces of bovine just melting away.  That butter is what makes a good steak great.

One of the signature dishes is a little jewel they call Teche Wellington. This is decadence from the sea.  Puff pastry is filled with seafood and baked until crispy and brown.  Then it is surrounded by a velvety smooth sherry cream sauce with shrimp and crab meat.  Pause for effect.  Yes, it’s that good.

Truly seafood decadence. Teche Wellington is a Cafe’ Sydnie Mae exclusive.

Looking for another destination dish? Café Sydney Mae’s grilled pork chops are a must have.  French cut pork chops are brined in an undetermined location for an undetermined amount of time then grilled to you liking (don’t go past medium).  Here’s the thing, you can get a 10-ounce cut or a 20-ounce cut…Twenty ounces! The brining brings flavor inside and makes the chops oh so tender.

Even the sides are a cut above…creole cream cheese grits. That’s all you need to know.

The specials really are special

You know the old adage that says you shouldn’t order the chef’s special because it probably something that needs to sell quickly.  Well forget that here. Order the specials. Chef Kim, more on her in a minute, goes deep into her book of culinary knowledge to offer some truly unique dishes.  Need an example?  Recently she created a confit duck tamale with a house made mole sauce.  The mole sauce alone has 17 ingredients.  That’s what special means at the café.

Duck Tamales with house made, 17 ingredient mole’ only at Cafe’ Sydnie Mae

Crusted redfish on creamy polenta with creamed spinach. Another Cafe’ Sydnie Mae original.

“if something should fall short, I can find and correct the problem quickly.”

Chef Kim Nuzum

Chef Kim

Kim Nuzum is the chef at Café Sydnie Mae.  She is a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York. It is very evident that she has learned well.

Classical French cooking technique and flavor profiles can be seen in most of her dishes.  Even traditional Cajun favorites are executed with perfect technique and pinpoint precision.  Chef Kim makes as many things as possible in house, like that 17-ingredient mole. When asked why she said, “It’s important to me to control the process, and if something should fall short, I can find and correct the problem quickly.”

Kim enjoys making one-off dishes and unique creations as she draws inspiration from everything around her. She shared that David had wanted her to do simple, exceptionally well executed dishes.  And while she does that she says, “I love to push the envelope.” 

Raising the bar

David has live music every weekend, usually three different performers each week. Cajun, jazz, country, folk, acoustic, and other performers carve out a little corner and fill the air with sounds that will have you tapping you toes and raising your glasses. Combine that with a great bar that knows just how to mix a drink and you’ve found a place that makes you want to stay a while…a long while.

The bar isn’t a drinker’s bar.  It, much like the restaurant itself, is simple and unassuming.  It’s a bar where smiling face will happily mix your pleasure and talk with you.  It’s a nice place to relax.

Find your happy

There are so many little things that make Café Sydnie Mae unique.  One of them is that David is always aware of the environment.  He’ll walk up to the musician playing and ask them to tone it down a bit, or turn it up a smidge just so the level perfect.  Everyone who works there is concerned about one thing, and one thing only…did you enjoy your time there.  That is a lost art.

Go to Breaux Bridge.  Park a few blocks away and enjoy the walk up on the huge covered sidewalks and take in a little piece of what downtowns used to be.  David and Cheryl will probably be sitting outside.  

Smiling through his glasses with wavey greyed hair, he will quickly get up to welcome you and open the door. 

Enjoy where you are, have some incredible food, listen to some great music, and know that you have found something special…almost a little magic.  You’ve found your happy place.

Stay hungry.

The Best Edamame Hummus

The pale green color of edamame hummus is your first clue of how fresh it tastes.

When most people see edamame (soy beans) they think Asian cuisine, and they’re not wrong. But being that edamame is essentially a bean, and hummus is essentially bean dip, this match watch bound to happen.

A few simple ingredients, a food processor, a microwave and 30 minutes is all it takes to transform this simple, table freebee into a fantastic dish you will always have on hand.

A food processor make quick work of simple ingredients.

Edamame Basics

Very high quality edamame can be found in your grocer’s freezer section. Of course you can seek out a supplier at a local farmer’s market somewhere, bring home your purchase, pick though the beans, blanche them, and shock them, but the good people Pict Sweet Farms have done all of that for you, and packaged the little green gems in a microwavable bags that steams and cooks them for you in about 5 minutes.

It takes two 10 ounce bags of edamame to yield enough beans for this recipe, which is about 8.5 ounces. A 1200 watt microwave will have both bags perfectly done in 9 minutes total.

Place both bags in the microwave and cook on high for 6 minutes, and then let them rest for 3 minutes more.

Cut the bags open over the sink to let the water drain, then let them cool for a couple of minutes. Shell the edamame by simply pinching the pods to release the beans inside, simple yes?

Everybody in! Pale green goodness is a buzz away.

Edamame Notes

Here are a few notes to make sure you have hummus success.

• Use good quality olive oil–no skimping.
• Use ice water, the colder, the better.
• Let the food processor do the work. Total processing time is about 3 minutes 30 seconds.
• Kosher salt only.
• Stir the tahini well before using.

Ingredients:

• 8.5 ounces Edamame (cooked and shelled)
• 1/4 cup Tahini
• 1 clove Fresh garlic
• 1 tablespoon Fresh lemon juice
• 1 tablespoon Fresh lime juice
• 1/2 cup Olive oil (extra virgin)
• 1/2 teaspoon Kosher salt
• 2 tablespoons Louisiana Love All-Purpose Seasoning
• 1/2 cup Cold Water

Method:

• Combine all ingredients in food processor, and blend until very fine.
• Add cold water while processor is running to make smooth.
• Taste and adjust seasoning.

Get Creative:

Edamame hummus makes a fantastic bed for a succulent piece of grilled chicken, or pork loin.

Use it as a spread for your favorite sandwich or wrap.

Add feta cheese crumbles and honey for something completely new.

Stay hungry.

Roscoe

He hated to get a shot. He HATED to get a shot. Roscoe hated shots so much that he would snap at me if I reached into his house, even if I was only going to pet him.  He thought I was going to drag him out to give him a shot.

As much as he hated shots, he loved human food. When I would walk out of the house and toward his food bowl with a plate, or container he would stamp his feet with excitement while actually licking his lips.  It was one of the purest expressions of joy I had ever seen.

Welcome Home:

He was just a three or four pounds when we got him. His ears had just fallen. Bassets aren’t born with floppy ears. It takes about 6 weeks for them to fall. One look and saw his name…Roscoe. I knew straight away that we were going to be friends.  Even though he was a puppy, it was as though I’ve known him all of my life.  It’s tough to explain, but Roscoe was familiar.  Roscoe was actually a gift for my youngest daughter, but I took care of him.  When she moved from home, she couldn’t take care for him so Roscoe stayed.

The second day he was home I was busy building some shutters on the patio.  Young Roscoe spent his time rolling around in the sawdust and barking at bugs. I laughed a lot that day.  Roscoe had a personality, and a playful spirit. I would take breaks and hold him like a baby while softly scratching his chest.  He would close his little eyes and moan those puppy moans that melt your heart.

Roscoe Sings:

As Roscoe grew, he spent time finding his voice.  He would change the tone, inflection, and duration of bark depending on his mood as do all dogs.  But here’s the thing about Bassets…they howl. And just like people with singing voices, some do it better than others.

One day while I was outside Roscoe was barking.  Short, choppy chatters were followed by deep, powerful barks. Then, out of nowhere Roscoe turned his chin to the sky and…and…Roawooo!! He howled! His belly would draw in towards his spine as his diaphragm contracted to push air through his incredible vocal cords. It was deep, rich, and melodious.  It was loud!  Wow could that dog howl! 

Once he finished, he looked at me with my big mouth opened as if he wanted to say, “What?” I was so happy with him that at that point I was going to train him to howl on command, or “sing”.  For the next couple of weeks Roscoe and I would practice singing. 

I would howl, and he would look at me funny.  I would howl some more, then give him a treat.  Ah-ha!  Positive reinforcement.  Up until the day I lost him if I had a treat, or any food really, or anything that resembled food, Roscoe would sing on command.  He would do it for no reward if it was just he and I. Most of the time he would perform for other people as well, but sometimes he would get nervous.  When that would happen, I would pet him and tell him that it was ok.  Five to ten minutes later, when no one was looking……Roawooo!!!!!

I loved to hear him sing, and he knew I loved it. When he would finish, he would sit proudly with his chest out. 

A Picture-Perfect Basset:

Roscoe was a postage stamp of a Basset Hound.  His proportions were perfect as his ears just grazed the ground; his chest swooped up as it went back towards his tail. His nose was long, but not too long for his round head. His paws were huge and purpose built for digging.  That dog could move some dirt.

But it was his coat that stole the show.  Roscoe was mostly a rusty brown color that reminds you of oak leaves in the winter. He had patches of white, and white socks on all four feet.  A couple of spots of black finished of the telltale trifecta that is unmistakably Basset.

When something would catch his attention, as it often would, he would stand with his chest out, nose pointed slightly towards the ground, and eyes drawn keenly on area of interest. His ears were cupped open, and his rigid tail curved in a perfect arc with the white tip pointing where he was looking.  His coat glistened in the sunlight.

He was calendar ready, and post card perfect.

Almost Human:

Roscoe has opinions.  I know that sounds a bit silly, but it was true.  He would change his bark to a huff if he wanted you to know that he didn’t approve of his food, or another dog.  I would raise my finger to him and say, “Don’t you fuss at me Roscoe.” That would only serve to work him up into a fuss which was indicated with full on ear ringing Roscoe barks.

He knew when I wasn’t happy, or it wasn’t play time.  He would go in his house and wait for me to call him.  Each day when I left for work, he would wait for me to pet him and tell him goodbye. When I would return, he would be waiting in that same spot…no matter the time. Roscoe would roll over on his back and wait for me to scratch his belly.  Yes, he was spoiled.

If he would do something that he wasn’t supposed to, like chew on my irrigation tubing. I would ask him who did this.  He would go sit in the back of his house and not come out. I would laugh every time he did that.

A Hunter’s Heart:

Roscoe wasn’t a trained hunting dog.  He was my friend, my pet. But there is no denying a bloodline. When he smelled something different, he would work the yard.  He would walk up and down the ground in a specific pattern working that incredible nose the whole time.  Opossums, frogs, armadillos, June bugs, snakes, none were safe. If it smelled different, Roscoe would find it.

It was that instinct that took him from us.  The will to track overcame the electronic collar designed to keep him in our yard.  A nearby highway, and Roscoe’s inexperience in dealing with moving cars proved fatal.

How a Soul Moves:

It is clear to me that dogs do not have critical thinking and decision-making skills that humans have.  But Roscoe was a kind, and caring creature.  He was a gentle soul that I believe was capable of love, and that energy is the same for dogs as it is for humans. His soul moved me, as did his death.

He was a constant source of happiness, and unconditional love. I miss my puppy