Personal Chickens With Citrus Apricot Ginger Glaze - Baked Stuffed Cornish Hens

 Baked Stuffed Cornish Hens With Citrus Apricot Glaze - "Personal Chickens"

Before I get to the recipe for the birds, I'm going to stage the scene with a bit of reminiscence- 

As a professional musician and artist I've had the great fortune to meet and become friends with some of the most excellent people of our time.  Many are writers or authors or media personalities, others are captains of industry, some come from very privileged backgrounds which have allowed them to pursue artistic paths, others travel frequently to Cons or other conferences.  For reasons I still don't understand it seems the Universe (Jesus? Ganesha? Quanyin? Anyone? Anyone?) desires my path to cross theirs in what is usually a serendipitous manner, late in the evenings; I've learned to read the signs and pay attention.  Some of these fine folk have become very good friends over the years, and we share all the trappings that good friends bring.  My friend M is one of those life-sharing friends who I was foreordained to meet in just that fashion: Ashley used to babysit her children when she was a teenager, in the DC area- nearly twenty years before we met and married. M is a world traveler, a research biologist with the Smithsonian, and also happens to be a top-level travel agent with a thirst for Science Fiction and Celtic Music.  She was our liason for two of the three tours of Ireland the band led, but she was never a tour leader except when she absolutely needed to be so. She just wanted to hang out with a bunch of like-minded cool folks and had the ability and talent to make it happen.  I've traveled with her, on boats and planes six thousand miles from home, drank whisky in centuries-old pubs... she's a Good Friend. Added to all this is a lifelong friendship between M and Ashley, which predates my presence in either of their lives by two decades- the kindly mocking voice of Gandalf whispers in my ear "A chance meeting... if chance it was..." She's also a bit of an Erma Bombeck-type, the quintessential Mom and has a full complement of domestic anecdotes. I posted another Cornish Hen dish on Facebook, to which M replied when her son was younger he called them "personal chickens" because everyone got their own hen. I loved it, and told her I'd try to make a signature dish and work "Personal Chickens" into the name of the dish. Her son's name begins with a "C", this one's for you-

Mister C's Personal Chickens With Citrus Apricot Ginger Glaze

Prep Time: 30 Minutes  Total Time: 2 Hours    Serves: 4
We like to brine the birds to make sure they don't dry out when browned in the oven.  Use enough water to cover them completely, add at least a half cup of salt and a couple of tablespoons of sugar to the water and stir it to mix then add the birds to soak for at least 2 hours.  Safety dictates you refrigerate while brining, however I rarely have that much space in my refrigerator... do as you will, I say.  You will need:


4 Fresh or thawed and rinsed Cornish Game Hens (at least 24oz each) 
Citrus Apricot Ginger Glaze
4oz Apricot Preserves (or 4oz Dried Apricots with 2oz water and 2oz warm honey to soak until soft) 
2oz Fresh Pineapple, Orange or Grapefruit
4 Tbsp Fresh Ginger or Ginger Paste (dry ginger is less potent if you want to tone it down)
1 Tsp Red Pepper Flakes (more or less to taste)
1 Tsp Low-Sodium Soy Sauce
1 Tbsp Olive Oil
Blend all ingredients until smooth, then set aside for glazing the birds

 Fruit Nut Stuffing

Bread Stuffing with Fruit and Nuts
4 Cups Stale Bread, cut into small cubes (whole grain or multigrain is good because it's very firm)
1 Cup Chopped Celery
1 Cup Chopped Onion
2 Tbsp Butter (just enough to moisten the bread)
1/4 Cup Chopped Walnuts, Almonds or Pistachios
1/4 Cup Dried Apricots, finely chopped
1/4 Cup Dried Cranberries, finely chopped
2 Tbsp Olive Oil and Butter, combined equal parts (1 Tbsp each, warmed and mixed)
Before you start preparing the stuffing, preheat the oven to 350F.
In a large sautee pan or cast iron skillet heat the olive oil/butter mixture and add the onions and celery, sauteeing until just soft then remove it to a bowl. In the skillet add the remaining butter and bread chunks, moving the bread until it is moistened then stir until the bread is very slightly browned. Then add the onions, celery, nuts and fruit to the bread and stir on medium-low heat until it's thoroughly mixed, steamy and soft. Remove the stuffing from the heat and cover it to keep it moist.
Remove the birds from the brine mixture, discard the brine and fill the cavities with the stuffing- it's OK if it overflows a bit. Place the stuffed birds neck-to-neck in the baking dish: I've found that it assists in cooking the thicker ends of the birds if they're arranged that way.  Glaze the birds generously and place on the center rack of the oven for 30 minutes. If you've been reading this blog for any amount of time, you know what to do next; for you newcomers, this is the part of Cookin' With Mister C where the refreshing cocktail or glass of wine becomes necessary.  After all, you've just whipped up the beginnings of a culinary whirlwind and now you have to recharge... you're not done yet, and from here you're going to be moving pretty fast.  After 30 minutes pull those birdies out and add another layer of glaze, making sure to touch up those spots where they touch the sides of the dish and each other. If you're using a baking dish you may wish to pull the juices out of the dish for gravy or other purposes, because the brining makes for a very moist bird. Put the birds back in the oven, glazing at 15-minute intervals over the next 45 minutes. Make sure to turn the pan as often as needed to assure they all brown evenly and pull the juices with a baster bulb when the dish starts to fill up.
After a total of 75 minutes or so the birds should be glazed golden and beginning to crisp on the wingtips.  Remove the birds fromn the oven and all them to rest for the next 10 minutes or so while you pull together your sides; this time I served a Caesar Salad and Sauteed White Button Mushrooms. Place a Personal Chicken on each plate and your family and guests will know you did all this Just For Them.
Enjoy, and if you like this recipe and Cookin' With Mister C, please send your friends and dearest enemies to Life at GreenWood!

Forty-Two

Attaining the age of 42 has been somewhat of a milestone for me, in that philosophical space where I give a damn about age, life experience and all that rot. I've prepared for it by making sure I always have my towel handy (in my car, backpack, and onstage) while attempting to keep an open mind in the face of ridiculous events;  I've tried growing a second head;  I may yet decide to run for public office. I've learned not to pick fights with folks who run Major Wacko Religions- however satisfying it may be to show them the error of their ways- and will thank others to return the favor when I decide to found my own version of Major Wacko Religion.  At this point in the paragraph I'd like to thank Doug Adams for his lovely advice: "Don't Panic!"  I know you're dead, dude, but that simple admonition has literally saved my life more than once.  It has also made my life very nice on occasion, when presented with other, ahem, situations in which a young (or not so young) man might, errr, panic.

You see, I'm really a dweeb cursed with a Superhero's resume- except my parents weren't murdered (they'll be married 44 years in January), my home planet wasn't destroyed, I wasn't tutored by aliens or bitten by radioactive vermin... well, come to think about it I'm just a dweeb who happens to smell nice and can defend himself pretty well.  I did spend years playing in a drainage ditch, and there were some serious puddles and rocks down there: the comic books seemed more real if I read them in a drainpipe.

What in the hell does this inane ramble have anything to do with the concept of "42"? A friend lent me a copy of Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy back in middle school, and I began a lifelong inquiry into the nature of "42".  I was fascinated with such an absurd Answer To A Question, but my Baptist upbringing had prepared me for any number of absurdities when faced with asking about Life, the Universe, Everything.  About the same time I attended my first science fiction convention (on the sly: my parents thought I was spending the night with my friend Chris), where I heard grown men and women answering all sorts of questions with "42".  Why, I asked, were these alleged "grownups" who obviously had their own cars and might have even had sex spouting such nonsense? To my confused pre-adolescent mind they seemed to be speaking in a Code, one that gave them great security regarding the Known Universe, all boiled down to the words "Forty-Two".  When I asked said grownups what the significance of "42" was, they laughed- not at me, but near me- and suggested I needed to think about the question instead of the answer.  That same convention I met Leonard Nemoy (it was VulCon at the old Castlegate Hotel in Atlanta) , and it's one of those occasions that one never forgets: I knew just enough about Spock to know he was a Vulcan, and that Logic ruled his life.  I ran into Mr. Nemoy, literally running, and when I looked up and saw Mr. Spock he smiled at me. "Where are you headed in such a hurry?" he asked. "FORTY-TWO!" I answered, thinking I had just the Answer. He stopped smiling, and gave me that arched eyebrow that let me know that Mr. Spock had relegated me to that disdainful realm of "Fascinating".  He moved on, having a life and all, while I thought about "Forty-Two" for the next thirty years or so.

As I've approached the age of 42 I've watched many of my friends and family reach that magical number and continue onward with nary a sideways glance; was 42 just another number, with no real significance?  Now that I've arrived there myself I think there is something special about the number: it shows up in so many significant spots:  In mathematics, a magic cube can be constructed using 27 same-size cubes whose nominal values progress from 1 to 27, using a 3x3x3 progression in which every straight line drawn through the center of the cube comprises 3 cubes whose sum is 42.  If you were to fall into a hole which went straight through the Earth, your elapsed time would be 42 minutes- assuming you didn't bump or slide on the way. It's the angle in degrees in which a rainbow appears, the number of gods and goddesses in ancient Egypt, and the number of letters contained in one of the Qabbalistic names of God.

As I pondered the significance of 42, and upon reaching that magical number of years, I've suspected the philosophical retort that it might be the correct answer to a question incorrectly asked might just add some seasoning to the pan. What I can claim with reasonable certainty is that 42 has inspired me and countless others to wonder what's behind the seemingly nonsensical answers Life, The Universe and Everything provides us. We'll see what the year brings...mmm?

RIP Sadie Mae, The Junkyard Dog

Sadie Mae 1993- 2009

One month since my last update, although it seems like a season has passed here at Greenwood. The dog is our dear old mutt Sadie, 15 or 16 years old and as goofy as the photo suggests. Sadie in her senility had taken to following whatever happened to be moving around her, and would become confused and unable to find her way home. We have no fences here at GreenWood- although we've wished for them for some time now- so I had to hunt her down more than once. Yesterday, she evidently followed Zoe and Ash to the bus stop, and then being basically blind and deaf wandered into the highway and was hit by a car. Tragic, yes but certainly not unexpected.

Old Sadie was rescued as a puppy from a junkyard by Zoe's dad Felix, where she had been fed massive quantities of booze and suffered subsequent brain damage. She was a full grown trash-eater by the time I came onto the scene, a weird and kind of scary chow-german shepherd mix; she'd get spastic and run away if one tried to pet her, but then she'd come up behind you and shove her head in your lap for a good scratch. The house in Decatur was in an older suburban neighborhood, and so there were animal control employees who collected unfenced dogs. Sadie mocked them, and their lariats, and their food traps; she especially enjoyed mocking their football-fake-rush attempts to tackle her, giving them good sport and showing them how it was done. They never managed to catch her, so they settled for yelling at us about our dog from time to time.

We moved to GreenWood in 2002 and of course Sadie came with us. Ash said she didn't travel well and would puke in the moving van, but it turned out she was just fine. Now Sadie had lots of land to explore, woods to sniff and all sorts of animals to discover. Sadie stayed on the porch, not caring at all that there were deer in the field along with rabbits and squirrels practically underfoot. What got her riled was unfamiliar cars coming up the long driveway, and it was on those occasions that we saw the other side of Sadie the Junkyard Dog. She wasn't a big dog, but she gave the impression that she didn't need to be. Never one to cry wolf, when she started barking I knew I needed to come outside.

A couple of years later Norno and Tatsu came along, all 150+ pounds of them and Sadie had to learn the dominance game. She didn't mind being lowest in the pack as long as she could still eat compost and lay about on the porch. Sometimes I had to wade into a three-dog fight but they pretty much functioned as a mini-pack. Then Tatsu was killed, and we had a succession of strays show up who Sadie accepted in her strange way: Jax, the flying Jack Russell who bit her tail constantly; Honey, the Corgie/lab mix who was part of a rescue litter of nine puppies; then came Pugsley.

Sadie and Pugsley were inseperable, and Pugsley was the only dog I ever saw Sadie play with. Every morning they made their rounds together, trotting side by side around GreenWood. She would spring to her feet whenever he came outside, and always seemed happy to see him. When she was so stiff she couldn't get up Pugsley was able to get her up and moving when all she would do was bite me.

These past couple of years her decline accelerated, and she was basically blind and deaf. I could tell that petting her was painful and she just wanted to lie about most of the day. We gave her glucosamine and Prednisone when she began to fall off the front porch, her back legs not really working correctly. When she discovered that she could move about without so much pain, she would try to run but with her legs locked. She looked like a hobby-horse trying to make a break for it, but she kept up somehow.

The last few weeks were difficult, as it was becoming obvious that she was losing what was left of her vitality and mind; Ash and I talked several times about the option of giving her release but we decided that we'd just tough it out and let her come to her end naturally. She wandered off two weeks ago and we thought she was dead then, but my neighbors found her and I brought her back to the house. I knew then it was pretty much a matter of time, I just hoped it didn't happen while we were away at Dragon*Con. We came home and there was Sadie, standing on the porch like she'd just been put off a bus in a strange town, not really knowing us but happy to see us nonetheless. She was so frail that Norno's tail could knock her over, and she had a hard time rolling off her dog bed but she managed to rouse herself whenever there were leftover ribs to be had- a frequent treat here at GreenWood.

When I walked outside yesterday morning to take Conor to school I didn't see her on the porch; I knew that I'd find her dead this time. She was on the side of the highway, facing East with her ears straight up. No blood, not mangled, but looking towards the rising sun like she'd just decided to lay down and die right then and there. No final twisted grimace of violent death, her eyes still clear and her mouth closed; she looked like she'd been prepared by a taxidermist. I had my yellow garden wagon down on the highway to carry her back in some semblance of comfort, and when a trucker saw what I was doing he stopped right there in the highway and blocked traffic so I wouldn't get hit myself. When I rolled her back across the highway he flashed his lights and gave her three quick blasts from his air horn, then the world returned to its mindless rush. At that moment, the skies opened and torrential rain began to fall: I think that was the longest walk I've ever taken up the Road and driveway.

I knew where I wanted to bury her, there's a spot at the edge of the woods near the pumphouse where a previous owner had buried a dog. It looks North, towards Three Sisters mountain and Woody Gap where the Appalachian Trail begins its first serious rise. Sadie was a bigger dog than I realized, and her grave took me all day to dig. I had to dodge lightning and the worst of the deluge but there was nothing for it, she deserved to be laid in comfort- I'd be able to anesthetise myself later. We all participated in filling her grave, Felix was on the cellphone while we were working so it was a true family affair. Sadie's spot is ringed with rocks we've collected over the years, and I'll be planting a V-8 engine head as her headstone in honor of the junkyard dog that she was until the moment of her passing.

We came in and celebrated Sadie's long life with bloody rare ribeyes, smashed potatoes with Old Bay and a romaine/sweet pepper salad. Ash and I drank an entire bottle of Shiraz, and toasted the Old Lady until we were pretty well snockered.

RIP Sadie Mae, you old weirdo.

Easy as Pie: Mr. C's JerkBerryRibs

Back in the early '90s I was working as a full-time bench jeweler and salesman while going through a rough divorce. The first Bush had recently left office, and I was reeling from the mini-recession a single Bush term had cast the nation into; I was in need of comfort, and so I discovered the music of Bob Marley, the local graduate school and gourmet cooking on a budget.

My new roommate Dan was a wealthy grad student and epicure, raised in the surf culture of the Eastern Shore and had already enjoyed life as an international downhill skiing champion. To my everlasting gratitude he was also a die-hard live music fan and a world-class connoisseur of reggae music. We were both young, single and enjoyed cooking Caribbean food while partying hard, so we devised a sure-fire method of keeping the people coming (with a focus on female grad students) and the fun times going: "Bring it and we'll cook it" parties. Add booze, grad-school "party favors" and music and we had a serious event happening, but adding the booze and other stuff to the mix made for some interesting experimentation in the kitchen. And in the back yard, upstairs den, and on the stoop of our townhouse. Soon there were people I didn't know in my dining room, showing up with all sorts of meat to grill or bake and we began to see the need to move the party out to the back garden with an eye towards co-opting the communal greenspace (and industrial-sized grill) behind our building. That decision was not well-thought out, as there are always more people who want to come to a cookout than you have space to accommodate, and we soon ran afoul of the building association. We also realized that we were actually reducing our ability to stay under the radar of the local constabulary, as those worthies have always gone the extra mile to ensure that no group of grad students has a good time off-campus... but I digress...

Being health-conscious surfer/snowboarder types we tried to ensure that our offerings were indulgently organic if not specifically low-calorie, and so we began to combine fruit with tahini and other interesting textures to use as sauces or glazes. As our epicurean mob began to expand with the addition of girlfriends and friends from abroad, Dan and I found ourselves relying increasingly on the grill in the garden rather than the oven; more fruit found its way into glazes because it's so easy to combine taste and texture and save the leftover glaze as a sauce. Our garden was full of organic peppers, tomatoes and herbs plus we had a huge organic grocery store a couple of miles away which carried a variety of inexpensive jams and preserves which served as the carrier for the glazes. Then we added herbs and spices as time and availability permitted, and settled in for one gastronomic journey of discovery after another. It was cheap, allowed us to drink and party at home and acquire a reputation for being Really Cool.

Why the long ramble down memory lane when you're waiting for a recipe? Because the road to a favorite recipe often leads past landmarks in the memory: cooking for others (whether they are your family or friends) is equal parts creativity, nurturing and social justification. When we set out to cook something other than burgers or fishsticks we usually have a memory associated with what we're preparing; sometimes it's an attitude or feeling that motivates that desire to re-create or embellish a memorable dish. Personally I like to remember favorite times and what type of cuisine I associate with them, and then get creative from there. Tropical always works for me, and fruit is somewhat neglected in meat and fish recipes so I like to experiment with them mixed with jerk spices on the grill. In the present, I make sure we have plenty of all-fruit preserves because this is one of the family favorites. This time I served it with a Black Bean Salad and white rice. I'll post my Black Bean Salad recipe in the next post-

With all that said, here's my JerkBerry Ribs Recipe:

Mr. C's JerkBerry Ribs
*double or triple amounts for multiple racks

Rack of Pork Spare Ribs (at least 5lbs)
1 cup of mixed all-fruit preserves (or fresh fruit mashed into goo for less sweet and more tart)
*This version used 1/3cup each of strawberry, red raspberry and black currant preserves
4 Tbsp Jerk Seasoning (adjust the quantity to your heat preference- we like it hot)
2 Tbsp Minced Ginger or Ginger Paste
2 Cloves Garlic, Minced
1 Tbsp Soy Sauce
2 Tbsp Honey (to carmelize)

Warm the preserves or fruit mash with the honey until soupy (about 30 sec in the microwave), then add the other ingredients and mix well. Now's the time to do several things: Start the grill, and try to get it no warmer than 300F... it's harder than you'd think, at least for my grill. Now you can fix that frosty beverage of your choice and prepare for the basting. Toss the ribs on the grill bone-side down (I used foil and nonstick spray because I loathe cleaning the grill more than I absolutely must) and baste the top and sides of the meat with the glaze. Close the grill and resume partying with your friends or kids (in appropriate fashion, of course). Check on them every 20 minutes or so, basting fresh each time until they are done. I usually cook them for at least 2 hours if I can: Because they cook at such a low temperature the juices are retained and they practically fall from the bone.

Let me know how yours turns out, and share it with a Dad Who Cooks.

On Beltane, or May Day

Welcome the "official" debut of Life at GreenWood- the place where I live and work. Here I hope you'll find enough that's interesting that you'll drop by or leave a comment about Cookin' With Mister C, GreenWood Studio creations, Church of The GreenWood or the many things of a musing nature I hope to post here. Music and video will show up here too, with Emerald Rose news as well as other projects I'm working on.

Happy Beltaine to those of us who celebrate in the Old Style- may your day be lascivious and fun! Happy May Day to my friends who celebrate for Workers' Rights, and to those who just want some reason to dance around a Maypole!

Be sure to catch the previous posts for recipes and other minutiae- I'll have more recipes and studio updates soon