Stories

By: Sean Murphy

All of the nuns in our school had nicknames. The nicknames were a closely guarded secret. If the good Sisters ever found out, it would have meant an excruciating death and eternal damnation.

Sister Florence Fearsome looked like her nickname. She was reputed to have played fullback at St. Francis Xavier University. She had a massive ring like football players wore. The ring boasted a big black X for “Xavier” mounted on a large gold base. Every guy in the class had an impression of that X embedded in the top of his skull. Some of us had more than one.

Sister would cruise around the classroom until she discovered a malfeasance, and then…CRUNCH…Down would come that ring.

Sister Fearsome taught sixth grade biology. The course was mostly about health and the human body. There was a lot about cells, nutrition, brushing your teeth and washing your hands. The only thing that was never discussed was you-know-what.

Sister felt strongly about the importance of iodized salt. It protected us from the evils of iodine insufficiency and the terrors of…Goiter. Goiter scared the hell out of me. The science book had pictures of people with watermelon-sized goiters growing out of their necks. Visions of goiters swam in my head. Goiters lived under my bed. I put iodized salt on everything.

For a Mick, the iodized salt imperative was a matter of easy compliance. Salt was the only Irish seasoning.

We all know the opening chapter to the Irish cook book. “Take everything that walks, flies, or swims, across the face of the earth and boil the living bejeezuz out of it.”

Chapter two was, “Put salt on it.”

For millenniums, salting was the primary way to preserve food. Salt was so valued it was used as currency. Roman soldiers were paid with salt. The word “salary” comes from the Latin for “salt.”

Roman military units were each allotted a portion of salt based on their full complement. If a legion lost fifty men, the legion got the same amount of salt, and each warrior got an increased share. If a man was a good fighter it was said that he was “worth his salt.

Since the invention of the refrigerator salt is used primarily for seasoning.

Massive goiters and Sister Florence Fearsome notwithstanding, the first and best advice for any aspiring cook is “chuck the iodized salt” – switch to kosher. Iodized salt is much bitterer than the kosher version. Kosher salt is also more fun to flick, pinch and sprinkle.

Premium sea salts like Fleur de Sel can add amazing flavor but should be used with discretion. They vary in intensity and character and can make the end result less predictable. In Florida’s humid summers sea salts also get pasty.

Flavored salts are all the rage this week. They come in a variety of flavors and colors: chocolate salt, truffle salt, smoked salt. A good selection is available locally at the Olive Oil Outpost on Pine Avenue on Anna Maria Island.

So if you don’t use iodized salt what about the goiters?

Take some advice from Brad Pitt in Ocean’s Eleven.

Remember the scene? Brad’s character, Rusty, is recruiting Saul at the race track.

Saul is peeling an orange.

Rusty: What’s with the orange?

Saul: My doctor says I need vitamins.

Rusty: So take vitamins.

Take vitamins.

Lose the iodized salt.

Sister will never know.

BY SEAN MURPHY | (SPECIAL TO THE ANNA MARIA ISLAND SUN)

One Hundred Sixty-Seven W. 12^th St., New York City is a non-descript brownstone in Greenwich Village across from the old St Vincent Hospital. It is also James Beard’s House – the temple of American culinary art.

James Beard and Julia Child were responsible for making chefs cool. He encouraged young men to go to Europe to develop chef skills, wrote books on food and promoted restaurants and food events.

The House is operated by the James Beard Foundation, the foundation that awards the culinary Oscars: Best Chef of the Southeast, Best New Chef in the West, Best Food Writer, etc…treasured awards that are the bright pennies of chef’s dreams.

Invitations to perform a Beard dinner are generally extended after a secret visit from a couple of members of the Beard Foundation Board. They check you out, you become the topic of conversation over coffee in New York, and then you are asked to come to the city for an interview.

The interview was not as easy as I had hoped. My inquisitor was Mildred – the tough little lady who then ran the Beard House.

We had just won a Golden Spoon from Florida Trend Magazine. I thought it would be cool to wear my Golden Spoon lapel pin to my James Beard interview.

Mildred looked over my resumé, looked at me and said, “What the hell is a golden spoon except something to stick on your jacket?” (I still have nightmares about Mildred.)

We got our invitation and performed our first dinner there five years ago. We returned again this past week to perform another.

The logistics of a Beard dinner are daunting. Each dinner consists of four passed appetizers and then a full six- course presentation. Each item has as many as 10 ingredients. Thus there about 100 items that have to be sourced, delivered, prepped and transported into a kitchen that is not much bigger than yours. Coolers packed onto airplanes, suppliers shipping from all over the country, guys speeding around New York in taxi cabs in search of edible flowers, fresh micro-greens and grits.

The pressure of travel and preparation builds in intensity over three days. Finally the clock ticks down to the guests’ arrival.

All guests enter James Beard’s house the same way. Stone steps lead below street level and through a small hall and anteroom into a tiny kitchen stuffed with blazing hot equipment. Guests creep single file through the kitchen past a team of chefs who are working diligently. Photographers are popping pictures. Writers are asking questions. The crowd then stands elbow to elbow for an hour in a tiny patio for a champagne reception before climbing a set of stairs to the dining room, a room that regularly hosts 80 of the toughest food gangsters in the country – diners that demand you show all your best skills and serve the best food product in the world.

Once the guests are seated, the chef team is left to check food temps, fret over sauces and focus on the thousand things they have to do in the next two hours to launch the best dinner of their lives.

The logistics have been maddening. The expectations are massive. The pressure is almost suffocating.

It’s great.

BY SEAN MURPHY

The spring of my fifth year, Uncle George covered his suburban front lawn with horse poop and turned it into a “farm” to drive the neighbors crazy. Weekends, I stayed at Uncle George’s and helped him with the farm.

On Sundays, mom made Uncle George take me to church.

I took half of an hour getting ready. Ten minutes were spent donning the required church uniform for five-year-old Nova Scotian males: short-sleeved white shirt, Nova Scotia tartan short pants, tartan bow tie and tartan knee socks…cute. I spent another twenty minutes working through a half-tube of Uncle George’s Brylcreem into my hair so it laid as flat and shiny as an ice-rink.

George dressed to aggravate Father Murphy. He wore his favorite 7-up sweatshirt, his sweat-stained 7-up ball cap, green dungarees and the black, knee-high rubber boots that he had been wearing while shoveling horse poop all week. The rubber boots were essential. They not only smelled to high heaven they also galumped when he walked so that they would drown out Father Murphy’s Latin.

Mom maintained that George and Father Murphy had fallen out over the teaching of home economics in the church school. Dad said it had more to do with a bottle of rum and a poker game.

George’s major concession to the Lord’s Day was that he did not drink before church. He mixed a tall rum and 7-up and kept it in the van console for ready access after the sacrament.

On the way to church, George would drive around for a bit to make sure we were late; then he would park the van, check his rum drink and galump up the church steps and boom open the big oak door. The procession from the door to our seats most resembled an old fishing schooner chugging into a crowded cove.

George galumped all the way down the center aisle, to the front pew, with me bobbing cheerfully in his wake like a brand new, brightly-painted dory. George would put his helm, hard over, stop and take a disapproving look around the tiny church to see what hypocrites had turned out. Then he would drop anchor and thump into his seat in the middle of the front row. After a couple of seconds staring down a fuming Father Murphy, George would cross his booted legs and snap open his newspaper. The snap said it all.

George ignored the standing, sitting, kneeling, crossing and amens until it came time to take collection. The senior male of our family had been taking collection in that little church for generations. George was damned if there were going to be any changes on his watch. He folded his paper and galumped up and down the aisles with the basket until the offering was taken. Then he would drop the basket on the communion rail, summon me with a jerk of his head, and I was up and bobbing in his wake and out the door.

George was into his rum drink before the rest of the congregation had cleared the final blessing.

When we got back to the farm he would cook up what he called Acadian eggs.

ACADIAN EGGS

Directions:

1)  Clean out the fridge and gather half-used onions, peppers, carrots, shallots, a little garlic and celery. Some spinach or parsley is helpful.

2)  Grate up the ends and rinds of any cheeses you find. Dice everything up about the size of the end of your finger. Cook it in a pan with a little butter, so it still has some crunch without browning it.

3)  Season with salt and pepper, fresh thyme (whole twigs) and fresh basil. Add about a quarter cup of chicken broth or V-8 just to build a little extra broth/veggie jus.

4)  Carefully crack your eggs over the top of the mix and sprinkle a little grated cheese and parsley over the whole thing. Lower the heat, pop on the lid and steam/poach your eggs until they are cooked to your preference. Spoon it up in bowls with toasted brown bread.

If it doesn’t go right don’t call me – I’ll be in church.