Tag : meat
Tag : meat
My family isn’t Scandinavian, per se, though it’s clear we wish we were. My paternal grandfather was Irish and born in England, while my paternal grandmother was from Ohio, but also Irish much farther back. On my mom’s side, my grandmother’s family came over from Portugal a long time ago, and I don’t know about my grandfather’s family.
In other words, we’re European-ish. But we’re not Scandinavian. If anything, we’re Irish, but I’ve never made corned beef and cabbage myself and I’ve only successfully made an Irish pot roast once, so this blog isn’t quite ready for a real Irish recipe.
My dad’s family has lived all over the world, from Chicago to Copenhagen. In fact, my dad and some of his siblings went to high school in Copenhagen (and yet the only Danish he remembers is “Vi skal spise snart,” meaning “We’ll eat soon.”)
From my Irish grandfather’s English upbringing and his family’s travels, we’ve adopted a weird variety of family traditions. I don’t know where Birthday Mouse came from, but I do know that our Christmas risalamande is one of the family’s Danish traditions.
We called our grandparents (when they were still with us) farmor and farfar (our cousins called them mormor and morfar), the Swedish words for “(paternal) grandmother” and “(paternal) grandfather.”
Even though we may not have any Scandi in our blood (aside from one aunt through marriage), we have plenty of Scandi in our hearts. And so here are some köttbullar (pronounced “hyutt-boo-ler”), Swedish meatballs. The main flavor in the meatballs is the onion, and though the spices are optional, I refuse to make them without allspice. The general recipe is cooked onions, bread, milk, eggs, pork, and beef, fried in butter. Butter is hit-or-miss with frying, unless you have a good cast iron pan (which I do, and I always use cast iron to make these) that can withstand the wear and tear. When I make the meatballs, I end up not needing any extra fat between the butter for the onions and the fat from the red meat, but if you do need to add more fat for frying the meatballs, you can use vegetable oil, a combination of vegetable oil and butter, or just butter (but watch your pan and your heat if you use butter.)
My version of Magnus Nilsson’s recipe has a tiny Mediterranean flair: I deglaze the pan with white wine (you can also use beer) and make a cream sauce from that.
spiced swedish meatballs (svenska köttbullar) and brown gravy
adapted from The Nordic Cookbook, by Magnus Nilsson
4 Tbsp (2 oz) unsalted butter
1 yellow onion or half of one large white onion
1 tsp ground allspice
4 oz milk or cream
1.5 oz stale bread or unflavored breadcrumbs
8 oz (1/2 lb) ground pork*
8 oz (1/2 lb) ground beef
a hefty pinch of salt
a hefty dash of ground black pepper
2 Tbsp all-purpose flour**
1/4 c white wine or light beer
1 c chicken stock
1 c heavy cream (for the sauce)
Egg noodles for serving
*Be sure that you’re not buying pork sausage or anything with the word “country” in the name: that’s breakfast sausage and is already seasoned (and very, very salty.) If you can’t find plain ground pork, or you can’t grind your own, ask the butcher.
**You only need the flour if you aren’t cooking the noodles. The water that you boil the noodles in will get starchy and you can add some of that to the sauce to thicken. If you are serving the noodles, then skip the flour. If you’re using the flour, add it after removing the last of the meatballs and before adding any liquid: flour for making sauces should go into the pan before the deglazing liquid.
Melt the butter in a cast iron skillet on the stove, on medium heat (you can use a different type of skillet or pot if you want, but I highly recommend bare or enameled cast iron.) While the butter is melting, mince the onion finely (because the onion bits will be in the meatballs.)
Add the onions and ground allspice to the skillet and let cook, stirring occasionally, until the onions brown a little bit and turn translucent, about 5 – 10 minutes. Prepare the rest of your ingredients while onions are cooking.
When the onions are done, turn off the heat but leave the skillet as it is, so you can use it to fry the meatballs.
Meanwhile, in a large bowl, combine the milk/cream, bread/crumbs, egg, pork, beef, and a hefty pinch of coarse salt and ground pepper.
Add onions to the mixture and combine with a spoon, whisk, or your hands, until the mixture is mostly uniform and you don’t see any dark red/pink spots left.
Cover the bowl in plastic wrap and let the mixture chill in the refrigerator for at least half an hour to let it firm up. With ground meat, it’s best to handle and cook it cold because it holds its shape better. You still need to be careful about internal temperature, for sanitation reasons, and ground meat is generally less sanitary than whole pieces of meat. Make sure your meatball mixture is chilled so the meatballs don’t fall apart in the skillet, but while cooking, make sure they brown thoroughly and cook all the way through.
Preheat the oven to 350 F/175 C, in case you need to finish the meatballs in the oven, and set aside a large ceramic baking dish.
Reheat the skillet that you used for the onions, on medium-high, adding more butter or vegetable oil if the bottom of the pan looks really dry.
Use spoons, your hands, or a cookie scoop (the cookie scoop is the safest and most consistent way to scoop the meatballs) to scoop the mixture. If you need to, roll the scoops of meat between your hands to form spheres.
Add the meatballs to the skillet. You should immediately hear sizzling as soon as you put the first meatball into the skillet, but not as much sizzling as when searing steaks. If you don’t hear the sizzling or you don’t see any bubbles around the edge of the meatball where it touches the pan, increase the heat slightly. If you immediately see smoke or the sizzling is intensely loud, reduce the heat slightly.
Add as many meatballs as you can without crowding the pan (they should be able to sit about 2 inches or 4 centimeters apart), let them brown on the bottom, then flip them to brown one more time on a different side. Each batch will probably take 3-5 minutes to brown on two sides.
You can either continue turning the meatballs to brown more than twice, and cook them through entirely on the stove, or you can transfer them to a baking dish and finish them in the oven for 5 – 10 minutes.
Test a meatball by cutting it in half: if it’s brown inside, that meatball and the others in the same batch are done.
When the meatballs are almost all done, start a pot of water boiling for the noodles. Once the water is at a rolling boil, add a splash of olive oil and about 1/8 c (most of a handful) of salt. Add the noodles and cook according to the directions on the package, but save about half a cup of the pasta water for the sauce before you drain the noodles. As soon as you drain the noodles, pour some olive oil on top and toss the noodles and oil together to keep the noodles from sticking while you finish the sauce.
Once all the meatballs are seared and out of the skillet, reduce the heat of the skillet to medium-low.
There should be plenty of fat in the pan from the meat, but if it looks dry or crusty, add a little more butter.
If you’re using flour for the sauce, instead of pasta water, add the flour to the pan and whisk to coat it completely in the oil. Let the roux cook and darken for a few minutes. (If you’re using pasta water for the sauce, save that for later in the process.)
Add the wine or beer and bring to a boil. While the alcohol is boiling, scrape up the browned bits on the bottom of the skillet and whisk them into the alcohol. Let the alcohol boil down for 2-3 minutes until the volume is reduced and the liquid is a bit thicker.
Add the chicken stock (if you have pork bone stock, that will also work), and continue boiling to reduce and thicken the sauce.
Reduce the heat to low and slowly whisk in the cream, about 1/4 c at a time. Once the cream is totally incorporated, increase the heat to let the sauce simmer so that it thickens. If you’re using pasta water, add that to the gravy at this point. Let the sauce simmer at medium-high heat for about 5 – 10 minutes, tasting and seasoning occasionally, until it coats the back of a metal or wooden spoon.
Turn off the heat and add the finished meatballs to the sauce to coat them. Serve over the egg noodles.
Smaklig måltid! (“bon appetit”)
I used to be picky about meat. I didn’t hate it, but I didn’t particularly like it. I don’t know if I just got bored with what was on offer, or if I hadn’t developed a taste for it yet, but it was a rare meat that made me smile.
They say “distance makes the heart grow fonder,” and that’s exactly what happened.
One week in middle school, my best friend said he didn’t believe I had the will to be a vegetarian, and that it was stupid to try. I showed him…for exactly one week. Then I caved. One meat I did like was Chinese beef, or beef in “Chinese” food. The chow fun did me in, y’all.
I was ashamed but also prideful, “I realized there was no point in being vegetarian. You were still wrong, even though I did give up. So…hah!”
Then in high school, I decided to try again, and really try. For me, it was like a challenge: could I challenge myself to expand my non-meat experiences? By eliminating “cheeseburger” from my options at restaurants, I figured it would make choosing an entree easier, something I still struggle with. I also figured it would be the healthy choice (Present Me is rolling his eyes at Teenaged Me), and that it made sense because I still wasn’t super thrilled about meat as a concept.
The first year was rocky. My family would (perhaps unintentionally, or perhaps cunningly) leave halves of Panera sandwiches that they had bought in the fridge. They would be halves of the very panini that I enjoyed the most…and I, though I probably could, would not restrain myself from sneaking bites of the chicken bacon whatever that belonged to my sister.
I was a bad vegetarian. Once, I wanted to try a friend’s nachos, which had ground beef on them. I wiped the beef off, and shrugged, “meh.” They all looked at me and said, “you’re a really bad vegetarian.”
The summer before that, I had spent a month in Ireland, gorged on bacon and Irish sausage (Irish sausage is a godsend, unless it dark and called “pudding.” That is a not-godsend.)
I was ashamed. So I doubled down and said, “no more of this nonsense!” I went to homeroom a changed dude.
For about two years after that I was a good vegetarian. I was super discerning. I was also a little nag-y, maybe (my college friends can confirm or refute.)
I once went out for Korean barbecue with friends, just because I didn’t want to be the only one not going, and ate all the pickles and condiments. And then I ate dinner when I got home. That was sort of a low, but I didn’t realize it at the time.
Early on in my second year at university, when I was starting to think about studying abroad in Japan, and also just living in Japan in general, a friend convinced me to exchange my vegetarianism for pescetarianism (is there a standard spelling for that yet?!) It didn’t take a lot of convincing. Before she could even get the “sc” out of her mouth, I was all in. “Please, teach me the ways of the fish!” We went out for a sushi dinner that night.
I loved all of it. That’s huge: as much as I disliked meat, I used to like seafood even less. But that night, I was in love. The lust has since plateaued into a balanced and prominent enjoyment of seafood.
I assumed I should get into seafood because Japan, and obviously, and duh. I later discovered I was misguided: Japan loves meat. The second step towards my carnal rebirth was ramen, an unavoidable and unforgettable thing…made with pork bone broth. I caved a little more: “I’ll only eat meat if it’s in ramen. Just that one exception.”
People were, understandably, flummoxed. I survived that way for a good three years, enjoying Los Angeles’s sushi and seafood scene, getting into Korean food (I can have KBBQ now!), and paradoxically eating ramen.
Fate, however, had different plans. Not only did Japan love meat, Japanese public schools loooooooove serving meat for school lunch, and the whole “how do I maintain my pescetarianism (sp?) at school without compromising my relationship with the staff” dance was exhausting. I successfully got them to stop serving me meat at my junior high school, but my elementary school was a more difficult task, and I gave up. I decided to eat the meat, but only at school (or in ramen, or if it comes from the sea, or if I can’t see it…and so on, and so on.) One of my favorite dishes was, morbidly, orange chicken.
One evening, while enjoying my daily hazelnut latte across from the McDonald’s near my apartment, I could feel my willpower leaving my body through the foot area, and I caved one last time. I told everyone I had started eating meat again. Nearly everyone I had ever known was elated.
My heart had grown fond, but my tastebuds and stomach acids had grown lusty.
When I first started officially eating meat again, I had to take it slowly, to ease my stomach back into the process, but I was like a caffeinated baby: ready and raring to go. Once I felt like my stomach could handle the red, I went crazy. I jumped so far off of the no-meat bandwagon, I couldn’t even see the car anymore. I ate so much meat, my mom commented when I moved home, “Well, I guess you really aren’t a vegetarian/pescetarian anymore.”
And if you asked me three years ago what my favorite meat was, I would have said “chicken.” I would still say “chicken,” though steak, cooked right, is pretty damn good, too.
That’s where this bird comes in: beer braised chicken. In my quest to learn cooking techniques (poaching, braising, grilling, roasting, and so on), I found a recipe for braised chicken and immediately fell in love…with the end result, but not so much with the recipe itself. It was inordinately complicated, so over the last fifteen-ish months, I’ve simplified it a lot. It’s a franken-braise, hardly reminiscent of the original recipe at all. I don’t even remember where I found the recipe.
Braising is one of those things that feels complicated because people make it complicated. You can find multiples of dozens of braising recipes and styles and techniques and tips online. It’s enough to make your chicken thigh spin (pun.) Since starting this recipe, I’ve tried a few others (coq au vin, braised pork belly, pot roast, to name a few), and every time, I was overwhelmed by the deluge of braising styles. To make things more palatable, I like to think of braising as Six Simple Steps:
Every recipe is just a variation on this. Some recipes use starch, others don’t. Some use a lot of liquid, others only use a little. Different meats take different lengths of time to braise. Some people boil the hell out of the meat (don’t do that.) Others, smartly, don’t let it get above a simmer. Some people pour off the fat, while others (me. it’s me), love the fat. They embrace the fat. You can make gravy with the braising liquid, or serve it as is, or even serve it soupy.
beer braised chicken
2 lbs chicken breast and/or thigh with skin and bone
~4 Tbsp canola or coconut oil (for searing and sautéing)
kosher or sea salt
crushed black pepper
1 large yellow onion
1/4 lb carrots
3 cloves of garlic
1 Tbsp all-purpose flour (or other starch, such as corn, potato, or tapioca)
1/2 a bottle of beer (dark beers, lagers, Pilsners, etc., work best, as opposed to IPAs or flavored beers.)
1 c chicken stock
1 long sprig of fresh rosemary (or 1 Tbsp dried rosemary)
Place chicken, skin side up, on a paper towel-lined plate or baking sheet, and cover with paper towels to dry. Let the chicken come to room temperature, sitting out of the fridge for about an hour before you’re ready to sear.
Peel and roughly chop the onion. Chop carrots into thumb-sized chunks and place in a bowl with the onion.
Heat a large, wide sauté pan, braiser, or Dutch oven on medium heat for a few minutes. Add 1-2 Tbsp of the oil and heat.
Make sure the oil covers the entire bottom of the pan/pot. It’s ready when it runs as thin as water or starts to smoke. You can also test the oil by tilting the pan so the oil pools on side, and sticking the end of a wooden spoon into the pool. If it bubbles, it’s ready.
While the pot/pan and oil are heating, peel and mince the garlic cloves and set aside. Measure out and prepare the rest of the ingredients, each ingredient in its own bowl or measuring cup.
Liberally salt and pepper the skin side of the chicken, and when the oil is hot enough, gently place the chicken in the pan, skin side down. Place chicken in one layer with some space in between each piece. Liberally salt and pepper the opposite side.
Flip the chicken after a few minutes, when the skin is nicely bronzed, and continue to sear the opposite side.
Remove chicken, reduce heat to low, and add another 1-2 Tbsp of oil. Set the chicken aside in a bowl, and let the oil heat.
Add the onion and carrots and sauté for about 5 minutes until tender and fragrant, then add the garlic and sauté for 1-2 minutes until you can smell it.
Add the flour and cook for another minute or two, stirring/whisking constantly.
If you’re using dried rosemary instead of fresh, add the chopped, dried rosemary at this point and cook another minute or two.
Pour in the half bottle of beer and bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to a simmer and let the beer reduce by about half.
Pour in the chicken stock and bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to a simmer and add the chicken back in, skin side up, and cover the pot/pan.
Braise/simmer for about 45 minutes, making sure the liquid doesn’t boil, until the chicken is cooked all the way through and falls apart easily.
If using fresh rosemary, mince the rosemary and add it to the chicken after about 40 minutes.
Serve the chicken with the gravy, reducing the sauce after you remove the chicken, if necessary.
See ya on the flip side,