BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

No, I’m not talking about baseball, I’m talking about steak. But, we’ll get to that in a minute. First, let’s chase a different chicken…

A segment of my life I occasionally mention, but never have spoken about overmuch is that I used to shoot competition archery. I was never a big fan of baseball, football, basketball, or any of the other balls out there, although I did – and still do – thoroughly enjoy Hockey. Therefore, I wasn’t one of those sons who would sit and watch a game on the tube with ol’ Dad, or compare stats, or wonder about the significance of Joe Quarterback’s knee injury where it related to the rest of the team.

Just not my thing…

However, while my father was a sports fan, he wasn’t exactly a rabid sports fan, therefore he sought a middle ground where the two of us could relate and do father/ son stuff together. So, back in the early 70’s, he joined the Archery Club at McDonnell Douglas, where he worked. I quickly became interested in the sport, as I suspect he had hoped, and soon joined with him. From early on through the mid-late 70’s, Dad and I shot on indoor league teams as well as in outdoor bowhunting tournaments. While we weren’t “Robin Hoods” by any stretch of the imagination, we were both fairly respectable shooters, bringing home several trophies and awards during that span of time.

But, as usual, Archery isn’t what this particular blog entry is about. It is, however, a bit of a trailhead for where we are really wanting to go, which is as mentioned earlier, food. It is also about yet another of E Kay’s favorite dishes from my kitchen.

Still, we aren’t quite done with bows and arrows just yet…

You see, I’ve made no secret of the fact that I am from the South. (Don’t worry, the subject change whiplash will wear off, trust me)… And, in the South, we do things a bit differently than folks (that being, “Yankees”) do in the North. This most definitely extends to food in almost every sense.

Back to the curved wood with string and pointy sticks with feathers… During the period of time when Dad and I were at the height of our shooting, we had occasion to be on a team at a National Bowhunting Tournament held in Indiana. It was held on an old strip mine site, and we also manned a booth for an association called Bowhunters Who Care – this is actually where I met Ted Nugent, but that’s yet another story. The point being that we camped on the site for three days while shooting in the tournament, and there was a chow house where we were able to get hot meals since this took place during a time of year when the weather was a bit chilly in the early mornings and late evenings.

The menu was posted outside each day, and one frosty, see-your-breath-morning it made note that supper that evening was to be Swiss Steak. Well, as it happens I love Swiss Steak and I looked forward to that meal the whole day while we were traipsing through the woods, launching arrows at 3d foam targets from precarious perches on tree stands and such. My mind was so occupied with the thought of a plate of Swiss Steak, in fact, that on an 80 yard shot, I nailed a life size target of a black bear right in the kneecap because my mouth was watering and I was drooling all over my kisser button (an aiming aid on bowstrings).

So, imagine my utter shock, surprise, and overall disappointment when that evening my Chinette Oval contained a slab of tasteless inedible gristle smothered in a brownish, and equally tasteless gravy. This was not the Swiss Steak I had been eating for my decade and a half of life on this planet… It was… well… crap.

And so, dear readers, this blog is about Swiss Steak. A commoners low budget meal that warms the heart as well as the stomach, and has become a standing request from E K for her birthday meal every year. Much like the Chili E Kay’s Way of a previous blog entry, when I serve this I definitely don’t get beat by the evil redhead. In fact, this one is so far up on her hit parade that after dinner she rolls around on the sofa with a ball of yarn and purrs so loudly that the windows rattle. It’s kinda cute, actually, but don’t tell her I said that. She hates being called “cute”…

So, anyway, before getting into the recipe proper, let’s have a look at why what those folks in Indiana slopped onto my plate thirty-odd years ago differs so much from the Swiss Steak for which the E K will turn momentarily kittenish.

Swiss Steak, in and of itself, is not actually a particular cut of meat – although you will sometimes actually find Chuck Arm Steaks or Boneless Shoulder Steaks labeled “Swiss Steak”. The name of the dish also has nothing at all to do with neutral timepiece making countries or cheese with holes in it. It actually refers to “Swissing,” which is a process in which fabrics were flattened between rollers. I know, I know, what does rolling fabric have to do with cooking steak? Well, I’ll tell you – “Swissing” a steak is the process of tenderizing it between hammer rollers, thereby creating what we most often see in the supermarket meat section billed as “cubed steak”.

While cubed steak is a perfectly acceptable choice for making Swiss Steak, most cooks (those I know, at least) will choose the aforementioned Chuck Arm, Boneless Shoulder, or in the majority of cases, Round Steak. Then, to start off the process they will either ask the butcher to run their selection through the cuber, or will take it home and beat the living crap out of it with a tenderizing mallet. Personally, I opt for method number 2 myself, because all I have to do is lay out the steak, sprinkle on a bit of seasoning, then hand the mallet to the Evil Redhead and allow her to take out her frustrations on something besides me. (Oh, and let’s not get into any meat beating jokes you dirty minded little monkeys… Be honest, you know you thought about it… It crossed my mind, so it had to have crossed yours…)

Round steak is commonly used for a couple of simple reasons – it is very easy to find and it’s comparatively cheap, depending on the particular cut, as round steak generally has 4 different versions – Top, Tip, Eye, and Bottom. In any event, whether you choose round, chuck, or shoulder steaks, the commonality is this – these particular cuts are less marbled, and while still full of wonderful beefy goodness in the flavor department, the connective tissues tend to be tougher, hence the need for Swissing.

So, we now know why the pounded gristle in brown gravy served to me in Indiana was called Swiss steak – it was steak that had been Swissed. But, as I lamented before, it was not the Swiss Steak of the South, and dare I say, of many of the tables throughout other parts of the country as well. You see, for it to truly be what the culinary aware are likely to call Swiss Steak, there is another piece to the recipe puzzle – that being braising – that is, first sear it on high heat, then cook it to death in a liquid in order to further break down those connective tissues and render the meat fork tender. Yes, you should be able to eat Swiss Steak without even imagining the use of a knife, much less actually bringing one to the table. And, something most cooks and every Southerner knows is that adding an acidic element to the braising liquid will help accomplish this task.

What am I talking about here? Tomatoes, of course. The simple fact of the matter is that no self respecting Southerner would serve something and call it Swiss Steak unless it was meat smothered in tomatoes and onions. And so, while recipes vary, as most generally do, real Swiss Steak is rich with both beefy and tomatoey goodness. Plain and simple. ‘Nuff said.

Now, on we go with my personal version of Swiss Steak, good enough to make an Evil Kat be a little less evil for an evening.

REAL Swiss Steak

(Serves 4 to 6)

You will need: Cooking tongs, a LARGE skillet with lid, sharp knives, and a meat tenderizing mallet

Ingredients:

2 Lbs Beef Round Steak, Trimmed (I prefer Bottom Round, but Top Round will work)
2 Large Yellow Onions, Chopped
3-4 Cloves Garlic, Minced
2 Tbsp Tomato Paste
2 Cans Diced Tomatoes (14.5 oz each)
1 tsp Oregano
1 tsp Thyme
1 tsp Rosemary
1 tsp Ground Celery Seed
Worcestershire sauce
1 to 2 Cups Beef or Vegetable Stock
Coarse/Kosher Salt
Fresh Ground Black Pepper
Whole Wheat Flour
Bacon Grease (Around 1/3 cup – Vegetable Oil will work, but it’s just not the same)

Cooking Directions:

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees F.

Chop onions, set aside.

Cut the trimmed steak into hand sized portions, slicing with the grain. Season both sides with salt and pepper to taste, then pummel it within an inch of its life with a meat tenderizing mallet. Sometimes I will use a papaya based meat tenderizer powder as well, but use this sparingly. Place 1/2 cup whole wheat flour into a paper or zip top bag. Add meat, 2 to 3 pieces at a time, seal and shake. Repeat until all of the meat has been dredged in the flour.

Add bacon grease (or vegetable oil if you must) to cover bottom of large skillet. Over medium-high heat, sear floured steak pieces in batches until lightly browned. Remove to plate. Increase heat and add beef/vegetable stock to skillet and deglaze. Reduce heat, add tomato paste, oregano, thyme, rosemary, celery seed, garlic, and Worcestershire. Stir until tomato paste is dissolved and spices are fully incorporated. Begin layering steak pieces in skillet, alternating with chopped onions. Cover with both cans of tomatoes. Bring to a simmer for 10 -15 minutes, then cover and place skillet in oven for 1 to 1 1/2 hours.

Allow to rest before serving. Meat should be fork tender and falling apart.

Serve with fresh, lumpy mashed potatoes or steamed rice. Buttered peas or green beans make the perfect compliment to round out the meal.

Variations:

If I was making this dish solely for myself, I would also add a chopped bell pepper to the ingredient list, however E K and bell peppers don’t get along. It has something to do with a shish kebab, a riding crop, a bottle of Ouzo, a seedy motel room in New Jersey, and a restraining order. E K staunchly refuses to talk about it, suffice it to say, she is not allowed within 100 yards of any bell pepper, regardless of variety. Therefore, whenever I prepare Swiss Steak here at home I am not allowed to add bell peppers.

I have been known to add chopped celery to the pan if I have it on hand, but I don’t go out of my way to obtain it in order to fix Swiss Steak. That’s what the ground celery seed is for.

And there you have it…

More to come…

Murv

Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the dining room…

As cliche as the following statement may be, the scream echoing up the stairwell was enough to make my blood run cold. Hell, it was more than that. It was enough to make me wet myself.

Therefore, it was a damn good thing my bladder was empty, or I would have had some serious explaining to do. This would not have been easy seeing as I am both too old and too young to be in diapers, so I’m thinking I would have been hard pressed to come up with a suitable excuse in the eyes of the redhead.

And, speaking of the Fiery Tressed Queen of the Evil Underworld, her worship THE E K herself, the scream sounded again. There were no two ways about it. My wife was screaming. However, even in my half-awake state I could tell that she was screaming at someone – or something – in anger, not in fear. Given that even Satan himself is terrified of E K, this stood to reason.

A loud crash, followed by a scampering thud wafted up behind the scream, and it was quickly joined by the sound of claws trying to gain traction on hardwood just ahead of the vicious thumping cadence of a pair of Mary Janes. I fumbled over my head and switched off my CPAP, then extracted myself from the mask. Squinting in the darkness while turning my head from side to side, and holding my mouth just so, I eventually managed to get a blurry image from the segmented LED’s on the alarm clock to show up in the general vicinity of my retina. According to the muddled deciphering I somehow managed to do, it appeared to be 1:47 AM. Either that or 7:41 AM. Or even PM.

Of course, it was also entirely possible that it was Sevum One Oh Forty and a half PMA Greenwich Mean Time. But, I didn’t feel like thinking that hard so I decided to stick with 1:47 AM.

Throwing back the covers I rolled out of the bed and wandered around to the door. In my stupor I completely forgot to lean the appropriate direction – our bedroom is in the upstairs half-story, you see – and therefore clocked my head on the angled wall. I set about cursing for a moment as I absently rubbed the spot on my forehead that had attempted to dent the drywall, only to find a stud in the way. Little did I know, however, that this was the least of my worries.

Stumbling the rest of the way through the dark, I finally arrived at the door and swung it open. No more had I done this than the banshee wail of an angry, firehaired, petite bundle of concentrated eebil rattled up the stairwell once again. This time it sounded closer. Much closer.

The thumping of frantic paws with extended claws – (say that three times fast) – was closer still, and hot on their trail were the Mary Janes. A split second behind the scream and melange of thundering footsteps, a 28 pound domestic gray tabby bounced off the wall in front of me, did a triple flip in the air before sticking his dismount on the stairway landing. He then spun in place twice, rolled over, ran backwards into the office door, somersaulted, and then finally, with puffed tail, ears laid back, and eyes wide in abject fright, he ran directly between my legs and into the bedroom.

However, I didn’t get the opportunity to see exactly where he went in the bedroom, because before I even had the chance to think about turning to look a blur of red whipped around the corner and slammed into me full force.  Immediately following the impact I found myself flat on my back with one Mary Jane in my stomach and the other planted on my face. The evil redhead stood there on top of me, so intent on her mission, that she was completely oblivious to the fact that I was now serving as her squishy carpet.

“DAMMIT! Come back here with that you little fleabag!” She screamed.

“Kahhmmm nabbner wib uht?” I asked.

I barely managed to croak out the question in a muffled voice. After all, she had knocked the wind out of my lungs when she ran right up me and danced on my head. Besides, I was trying to talk through the sole of her shoe, which is probably why she didn’t hear me. Either that, or she fully intended to ignore me. With E K you just never know.

“There you are,” my wife finally hissed, but judging from the direction of her gaze it was obvious that the comment was not aimed at me.

Still atop me, E K began to emit a throaty yowl while simultaneously doing the feline “butt wiggle”. You know, that little dance cats do whenever they have spotted their prey and are getting ready to pounce. (I keep telling you folks her name is Kat for a reason…) But, before the redhead could make her move there was a loud, hiss-yowl combination from the corner of the room, followed by thudding paws. A heartbeat later a gray blur flew through the air past her, only barely evading her grasp. At least, that is what it appeared to be from my vantage point, trying to see around a Mary Jane that was still in the middle of leaving an indelible impression on face.

E K jumped, and I said, “Ooofff!”

I said this primarily because she had used me as a springboard, however I have to admit that part of it was also because I knew someday this incident would become a blog entry and as it happens I just love onomatopoeia. At any rate, the next thing I heard was the wild scream of the redhead receding back down the stairs as she chased the gray feline for some yet unknown – but obviously quite  earthshattering – reason.

After dragging myself up from the floor, against my better judgment I decided to stumble down the stairs to investigate.

While a wildly screaming redhead wasn’t all that unusual around our house, nor was a scampering cat, the fact that this was occurring at oh-dark-thirty in the A.M. definitely had my curiosity piqued.

By the time I made my way to the main floor and rounded the curved landing, all was deathly quiet. This could be a good thing, or it could be a bad thing. If I suddenly heard the sound of a meat cleaver hitting the chopping block in the kitchen, it was definitely going to go down in my books as not so good. Especially if E K expected me to clean up the mess.

Cautiously, I made my way through the living room and into the dining room. Just as I was nearing the kitchen doorway, Her Supreme Evilness stepped through, barring my path. I immediately jumped back for fear that I was about to become her runway and launching pad once again. However, she was moving at a much less frantic pace, although her brow was deeply furrowed in the patented, “E K is NOT amused” fashion.

In her right hand she held the gray tabby by the scruff of the neck. The oversized mouse catcher – who has never caught a mouse in his life, by the way – was looking at me with imploring eyes that said, “Please Save Me!” This stood out as extremely unusual since the gray tabby is scared to death of me, but absolutely adores the redhead. Without saying a word, in a display of uncanny strength, E K thrust the massive blob of fur at me. I took it from her and it immediately tried to crawl inside my T-shirt to hide from a fate worse than death.

Still mute, her supreme eebilness made a deliberate beeline for the dining room table, perched herself in a chair, then plunked a half chewed, cat slobber covered puzzle piece into an empty hole on the jigsaw that was laid out before her.

The issue of earth shattering importance was now readily apparent.

I didn’t interrupt the Queen. Instead, I sent the feline downstairs into the basement where he could hide and I returned to bed – after scrubbing the shoeprint off my face, of course. When I re-awoke at my usual hour of rising, that being 5:30 AM, E K was just then coming to bed. I wandered downstairs and started the coffee, casting a quick glance at the dining table on the way through the room. One look confirmed my suspicions – the jigsaw puzzle was completed, cat slobber and all.

You see, E K is a certified – maybe even certifiable – Puzzle Dominatrix who is afflicted with JOCD (Jigsaw Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder). She will continue to torture a jigsaw, no matter how many pieces it contains and for however how long it takes – sans food or sleep – until she has beaten it into complete and total submission. And Gods help anyone – or any creature – that gets in her way. Especially if they take one of her puzzle pieces.

One of her nicknames is even “The Puzzle Mistress”…

So, if you ever want to drive the redhead up a wall, just give her a jigsaw puzzle with a couple of missing pieces. But, if you’re smart you’ll send it to her anonymously, because when she gets down to those missing pieces… Well, let’s just say that in our basement we have some 10,000 piece 3D puzzles that look remarkably like some people who used to be our friends, but whom we haven’t seen for several years.

And, every time I ask E K where she purchased these puzzles, she just smiles an eebil smile…

A VERY Eebil smile.

More to come…

Murv