Food can be used to affect travel, but food also has a big affect on traveling. Perhaps you’ve had the experience — the best glass of white wine you ever had at a picnic in Cinque Terre, that amazing ceviche on the beach in Mexico, the ta’amiya sandwich you spent three hours hunting down through the tangled streets of Cairo. Food can make some of the most memorable experiences of a trip — how many “best-you-ever-tasteds” have occurred away from home?

But was that white wine really very good? Or were you lulled by the sun, the beautiful countryside, the freedom from work and daily responsibilities, your lover by your side? Anybody who has rapturously sprung for a case of such wine to ship home might be quite disappointed to see how that country white holds up against everyday life. Some things are just for the moment. That may be, I’m afraid, the case for terrine for me.

My first terrine ever — unless you count meatloaf — was in Paris. Martha and I were only there for a couple of days and I was determined that at least one of our otherwise frugally-provided meals would be at a fancy-ish, bistro-ish place. With the help of a Lonely Planet guide we found a maison suitable for tourists such as ourselves. And there on the carte, among the first courses, was a terrine of foies blondes. My French was (and still is) severely limited — in fact I believe we communicated with our waitress in Spanish — but I knew enough to realize foie is a good thing.

I was surprised by what came to the table: a rectangle of grayish-tan meats, bound into a mosaic with jelly. It was cool to the touch. Also brought to the table was a large earthenware crock full of zesty cornichons served with rustic wooden tongs and a venerable old well of mustard — the charming details that makes you feel good about spending 40 euro on a meal. Biting into this mystery-meat melange I was again surprised, but pleasantly: the flavor was clean, meaty, and smooth, with the mustard and pickles adding a zesty punch. I greedily finished my plate, hoping Martha wouldn’t be interested in sharing.

Since then, I’ve been in love with the idea of terrine and  have tried to recreate that magical meatloaf in my kitchen — largely without success. My quest kicked off when I obtained a suitable reference, Time-Life’s Terrines, Pâtés & Galantines. This book has been the source of inspiration for a number of attempted terrines, but most of them have been disappointing, especially when compared against that Parisian ideal. There are a lot of challenges: getting the texture right is difficult: you want to mix chunks of meat, coarsely ground meat, and smooth purees into a homogenous loaf that slices clean. And then there’s the flavor. It wouldn’t be much of a terrine without liver, but thus far I seem to have a knack for overdoing the liver: my terrines come out with mineral flavors and are overly rich. Nor does the appearance help: the culinary aesthetics of the early-eighties cookbook that I am using as a source differ markedly from what we would consider attractive today, but I’d be happy if I could even pull them off. Instead, I often end up with grey loaves wrapped in wan strands of undercooked bacon, exuding a strange gray crud; the kind of thing I have to convince Martha to eat.

If that all sounds discouraging, I have also learned a lot from these many failures. Working the meat mixture thoroughly seems to improve the cohesion of the loaf, as does omitting things like whole nuts whose sharp edges tend to break it up. The taste for adding liquor so present in Terrines, Pâtés and Galantines is something best moderated if not omitted all together. Wrapping meat mixtures in fatback or covering them in rendered lard is kind of gross; bacon is acceptable, but it helps if it gets a little crisp. Go easy on the liver. Always fry a portion of the mixture to taste for seasoning before committing the loaf to the oven. A terrine is a lot of meat for two people to eat in reasonable amount of time.

So terrines continue as a work in progress, each one teaching me something about the next, until, I suppose, I am making that Parisian terrine of a few years ago.

Venison Terrine

This is my most recent terrine, which I made in the midst of a snowstorm that had us stranded inside, using only ingredients we had on hand.

Meats:

• 1 ¾# ground venison (a mix of ground and whole venison, cut into cubes or strips, would be preferable, but we only had ground)
• 4 oz fatback
• 14 ¾ oz lamb liver (this is way too much liver, but I was trying to use it up. Lesson learned.)

Aromatics:

• 1 onion (93 g)
• 2 cloves of garlic (8.6 g)

Seasonings:

• 20 g salt
• 2 g pepper
• .7 g juniper berries (about seven)
• 1 bay leaf

Adjuncts, Binders, &c.

• 2 eggs, lightly beaten
• 20 g bread crumbs
• 125 g milk (1½ Tbsp)
• 9 g whiskey (2 tsp)

Sautee the livers in a few tablespoons of butter until they darken. Place in bowl of a food processor. Sautee onions and garlic, adding more butter if necessary. Add to processor with liver. Process liver and aromatics with milk until smooth. Work the pureed mixture through a sieve into a large bowl.

Cut fatback into 1″ chunks and freezer 30 minutes. Chop in food processor until coarsely ground. Add to bowl with liver puree.

Grind the seasonings, except the salt, in a spice grinder until no large chunks of bay leaf remain. Add spices and salt to bowl with liver puree.

Add venison, eggs, bread crumbs and whiskey to bowl. Work vigorously until thoroughly combined (you could also beat it in a stand mixer). Fry a small portion of the mixture in a skillet to taste for and adjust seasoning.

Butter a terrine or loaf pan and line with buttered parchment. Add meat mixture to the terrine, smoothing the surface. Cover with foil. Bake at 300ºF until loaf reaches an internal temperature of 140ºF. Remove from oven and cool, draining juices from pan.

Wrap the terrine — still in the mold — in plastic wrap and place in the refrigerator. Place something flat over the top and weight it. The terrine is ready to eat the next day, though some argue for aging it a few days before slicing and eating.

Serve with mustard, pickles, and crusty bread or crackers.

Otto von Bismarck once famously compared legislation to sausage-making: either one was better left unseen. As even seemingly minor political questions in the United States become more and more contentious, Bismarck’s advice seems sage—at least when it comes to politics. What about sausage? Having never made sausage before, I couldn’t have told you. But I did spend my undergraduate career studying politics; if Bismarck’s comparison was apt then surely my knowledge of politics would make for easy sausage-making. As it turns out, the processes are remarkably similar.

Step 1: Ignore all the Experts

The world is filled with people who devote their lives to studying complex problems for no other reason than a desire to solve them. As a lawmaker, it’s absolutely paramount to ignore these people—after all, God chose you for office, not them. It goes the same with sausage; there are cookbooks in the local bookstore and library filled with sausage recipes: there are probably even some on my own bookshelf. The Internet gives me access to thousands of sausage recipes developed by competent cooks with years of experience making sausage. But what do they know? I went rogue and left the cookbooks on the shelves.

Step 2: Misunderstand the Situation

The background for this sausage-making session is this: last winter, my friend Shawn decided to become a vegetarian. Consequently, his freezer full of game—provided by his avid hunter stepfather—was of no use to him. And so one cold winter in the parking lot of Stub & Herb’s, Shawn provided us with a foam cooler full of mostly unlabeled frozen bags that he identified as duck, venison and goose—unfortunately I neglected to carefully remember which was which.

After the better part of a year dipping into this bounty for feasts of wild game, I was down to one large bag of unidentified meat. Pulling it out of the freezer I was pretty sure I remembered that this bag contained goose, but as days of gradual thawing in the refrigerator passed I became less confident. When sausage day came I had to rely on the same thing so many of our elected officials use every day: research? Hah, who has the time? I went with my gut. Looking at the deep red color, I took a deep whiff of the meat and decided with confidence that this was, without a doubt, venison.

Two weeks later I can say with equal confidence that the meat was definitely goose.

Step 3: Break it into Manageable Parts

The issues brought before our congresses are often hopelessly immense, affecting great segments of society. Faced with such a situation, many of us would be paralyzed: how can we change things when so many people will be hurt, even if many more benefit? But rather than freeze in the face of the immensity of their task, our august leaders know the best way to tackle a complex issue is to break it into smaller, easier-to-understand titles, sections, subtitles, subsections, addenda, clauses and footnotes. Or, when making sausage, cut the meat into manageable 1″ chunks. Putting them in the freezer for thirty minutes helps firm them.

Step 4: Add a lot of Extra Stuff

One and a half pounds of half-frozen chunks of mystery meat hardly sounds appetizing, nor are, in most cases, bills brought before Congress in their original form particularly palatable. Luckily, it’s easy to add in enough enticements to make even the worst stinker of a bill passable, or the lowest grade of soon-to-rot meat into a delicious hot dog. Passing a bill to cut Medicare benefits? Throw in a rider to insure children—everybody loves kids! Funding the military? Might as well build an ethanol plant back home; it’s a lot of money either way. Sausage-making is a little more constrained here since the adjuncts have to somehow go with the meat you are using, rather than just tossing in any old thing. For my goose (that I thought was venison) I added 44 grams of garlic and onion, 8 grams of black pepper, 3 grams of juniper berries and 15 grams of salt (NB: this sausage was over-seasoned, in the future I’ll cut some of the pepper and juniper).

Incidentally if I had added some pork it not only would have improved the sausage it would also have made the metaphor behind the post all the more fitting.

Step 5:  Mangle it Beyond Recognition

With the ingredients assembled, all that remains is to introduce your bill to the various committees, subcommittees, sub-subcommittees, caucuses, interest groups and lobbyists who will happily amend, rewrite and otherwise modify it. The process in sausage-making is much simpler—toss everything in a meat grinder running at full tilt—but achieves the same result.

This was certainly the step that Bismarck had in mind when he warned against observing these processes; in either case it ain’t pretty.

Step 6: Package It

All that grinding and chopping is sure to leave you with a mess and more than a little blood on your hands. The same is true in sausage-making. Few would be excited to eat the loose-meat slop that exits the grinder—what’s needed is a little salesmanship. Enter the sausage-casing: a way to take all those sundry bits and package them into an appealing cylinder that will plump as it cooks. Although it is important when filling sausage casing to leave enough space to be able to twist off the links, when attempting to pass legislation it is most important that the text be printed on as few pages as possible, lest your opponents gain a valuable prop.

Step 7: Ram it Down their Throats

The sausages are stuffed, the pages are all written and the votes taken, the only thing that remains is to foist your work on an unsuspecting public or, to borrow a phrase from some of our more enlightened contemporary political philosophers, to “ram it down their throats.” Of course, if you’ve done a good job obscuring the whole sausage-making process from your diners’ eyes, this will be less necessary as they’ll be allured by the aromas and ignorant of all the necessary gore. This is easy enough to achieve in a home kitchen—just have your guests arrive well after the meat grinder is cleaned up and put away.

As much as I love to cook, I am really not a fan of kitchen gadgets. This is partially out of necessity; our very small kitchen doesn’t have room to store every species of specialized tool for making every conceivable cooking task a breeze. I also have a deep aversion to spending money, so when I walk into the local kitchen store whatever desire I feel is quickly snuffed out by a look at the prices. All that said, I can’t pass up a deal, so when Martha came home from some thrift-shopping with news of old-fashioned, hand-cranked meat grinders for the ridiculous price of $2.00, I made a quick decision: it was time to start grinding my own meat.

“But Tom,” you say, “it’s the twenty-first century. You don’t have to grind your own meat anymore! You can buy it ground in nice little packages from your local grocery. You can even get it pre-pattied for all your hamburger needs!” True, but then how would I get two dollars worth out of this grinder? Besides, there are some real advantages to grinding meat at home. If you’re worried about E. Coli,  grinding in small batches means less chance of mixing in contaminated meat (this always remains a possibility, of course). More importantly for me, by grinding at home I can control what beef gets ground. Specifically, I can grind in a high percentage of beefy, marbled short-ribs. Given the variety of beef cuts available, a grinder can take you way beyond the grocery store options of chuck or sirloin.

Although the pitted cast iron surfaces, wooden handle, and the fact that it was a consumer product made in the USA all suggested to me that my thrift store grinder was quite old, it appears that it was actually in production recently enough to be sold new over the Internet. My particular model was either old and neglected or just neglected enough to require vigorous a scrubbing down.

With a mind to that scrubbing, I fired up the Google to learn about meat grinder care and was surprised and a little disappointed that my meat grinder was actually a Food Chopper — a kind of proto-food processor. The difference seems to be that while meat grinder usually extrude the grind through perforated disks, the Universal Model 2 Food Grinder passes the food through a kind of toothed wheel that screws on to the end of the unit. Different tooth sizes and spacings are used to produce different sized chops. But you can in fact grind meat with a food processor (chill cubes in freezer 30 minutes then pulse), so it stands to reason that its predecessor would work well enough. I set about cleaning it anyway.

With all the parts cleaned and dried, I was excited to cube my beef and get to the business of grinding. For simplicity’s sake I planned to make hamburgers using a beef blend that has worked in the past: about 70% beef short ribs and 30% chuck. For the beef to be caught by the augur of the Universal Model 2, I cut it into 1″ chunks.

The grinding process went very smoothly; I was able to process the 1.5# of beef in under 5 minutes. I did notice two apparent flaws in the design: 1.) the cutting wheel is positioned too close over the base of the grinder, making it difficult to place any kind of tray in a spot where it will collect all of the ground meat and 2.) as I was grinding, I started to notice blood dripping onto the floor out of the place where the handle attached to the augur. Martha acted quickly, putting a plate down to protect our floor, but it seems to me that any blood that is squeezed out by the action of the grinder is blood that’s not going to be making your hamburgers juicy. Still, for a pound and a half of meat, I think we only lost a teaspoon of blood; hardly earth-shattering. This might be remedied in the future by remembering to chill the meat in the freezer before grinding to firm it up. The grind produced by the larger cutting wheel was suitable for hamburgers, though I might have liked it a bit coarser.

How were the burgers? They were good — how could anything involving that much short-rib go wrong? I was pleased not to notice any metallic taste from flaking off rust — we must have done a good enough job scrubbing. Ideally, I would like to do a blind taste-test involving store-ground beef, beef ground in a food processor and the Universal. I am also excited to use the grinder in other applications, especially revisiting my old friend the terrine. Now I just have to figure out where I’m going to put the thing.

Last week, Martha came home with exciting stories and delicious bresaola from a butcher shop she found in Linden Hills: Clancey’s Meats and Fish. I had read about the shop on the Heavy Table, but had yet to go. Intrigued, I wanted to check it out. On Saturday after the farmers’ market we biked there. My plan was to buy some fatty pork for carnitas to go with the tomatillos, corn and tomatoes we got from the market, but when I got there there was some goat staring me in the eye, calling my name. Apart from the fact that they actually have goat, the best part about Clancey’s is that from the cuts offered in their cases, it’s clear that they’ve butchered whole animals themselves. The goat’s various parts were all in evidence and arranged together. Think of the supermarket butcher: 50 ribeyes from 50 cows. Although I have never made goat before, as soon as I saw this leg roast all my thoughts of pork went out the window.

The staff of Clancey’s suggested that I cook the goat as I would lamb, although better to braise it than to roast it medium-rare, which is my lamb-preference. I couldn’t really shake my carnitas idea, so goat carnitas it was. I was kind of surprised that Diana Kennedy’s The Art of Mexican Cooking contained not a single recipe for goat since I assumed for some reason that  goat was popular in Mexico. None of my other cookbooks were much help either, so I decided to wing it. I rubbed the roast down in a vaguely Mexican way (cumin, oregano, chile powder, black pepper, salt) and seared it. In went orange juice, lime juice, garlic and onions and then the pot into a 250° oven for a long, slow cook.

Of course, these goat carnitas were going to require some delicious fixins, and luckily the farmers’ market was able to provide. I used the most beautiful tomatillos of my life to make a salsa verde (with cilantro, garlic, onion and some lime juice). Martha used the first sweet corn and tomatoes of the season with cilantro, lime juice and green onions to make a corn salsa.

After three hours in the oven, the goat was tender but not falling apart. I pulled it to shreds with two forks. At this point I became a little concerned as I was hit with a smell that can only be described as “goaty.” Tasting the meat was reassuring; it was a bit like lamb and a bit like beef, with a deep flavor and very tender texture. I tossed it with a little of the salsa verde for color.

Maybe a taco is not the best way to appreciate the flavor of goat, but it’s not a bad way to eat goat. In fact, the acid of the salsas and sour cream cut through some of the meat’s earthiness. By the end of my third taco, my eyes were craving a fourth and my stomach was saying “no!” As usual, the eyes won out.

Whenever I buy and trim a big ol’ beef chuck roast to make stew,  I am left with big ol’ pile of this:

So what to do with all that fat and gristle?  Throw it out? NO! That’s my fat and gristle! I paid for it! And in these troubled economic times, I need every I you can get. No, the only answer to a big pile of beef fat is to render it.

The first step is to chop it into smaller pieces. When I did this I just used a knife to roughly chop the fat as is, but I would suggest a different method: put the meat in the freezer for a half hour or so to stiffen it up and then chop it, preferably with a food processor. The finer you chop the fat, the more liquid fat you’ll be able to render out.

That’s right, liquid fat. The chopped fat goes in a small saucepan with a little bit of water, over low heat. And then you go do something else, enjoying your brilliant economy and the wonderful beefy odors wafting about your house. This is meat potpourri at its finest.

After a few hours, it will start to look like this:

It’s done once the bits of meat are crispy and brown. In the pork fat rendering world these are known as cracklins. You can eat one once they’ve cooled; I am afraid to say that they are pretty delicious and guarantee an almost instant heart attack.

But enough about the crispy bits, what about that sweet golden fat? Strain/filter it to get rid of as many impurities as possible. I first poured the fat through a mesh strainer to remove the big meat chunks then decanted the fat off of the remaining small flecks of beef. The fat will solidify at room temperature or after a few minutes in the fridge.

And there you have it, beef suet! What to do with the stuff? Basically, you can use it like butter or shortening, or any other fat for that matter. I used some of it to brown the beef chunks for my stew (beef browned in its own fat is a beautiful thing) and the rest I cut into pie dough, which I used to make pasties with the leftover beef stew. And thus the circle of life was complete.