Asleep

I woke up at 1:38 and thought

            "I need to write a poem about cephalopods".

So here it is.
It's not very long, or very clever,
but it is done.

Spam, glorious Spam

Smot this with your glazzies: Spam, grapes, peas and onions. My mailbox was lit. and fig. spammed with this monstrosity. Bonus points for the immediate preparation time; (Like the poser asked of Ned Flanders by Homer: Could Jesus microwave a burrito so hot that He Himself could not eat it?) only Yahweh can make it faster. And make it taste delicious, presumably:

" VINEYARD SPAM SALAD

Recipe By :
Serving Size : 6 Preparation Time :0:00
Categories : Salads

Amount Measure Ingredient -- Preparation Method
-------- ------------ --------------------------------
1 cn SPAM Luncheon Meat, cubed
-(12 oz)
2/3 c Mayonnaise or salad dressing
1 tb Lime juice
1 t Dry mustard
2 c Seedless grapes
1 c Peapods, cut in half
1/2 c Thinly sliced red onion

In skillet, saute SPAM over high heat 2 minutes,
stirring constantly; set aside. In small bowl, combine
mayonnaise, lime juice, and dry mustard. In large
bowl, combine grapes, SPAM, peapods, and onion. Tos (sic)
with mayonnaise mixture. Cover and chill 1 hour."

I've always wanted to insert (sic) into somebody else's text. It strikes me as unutterably smug.

Typing “vineyard spam salad” into Google returns 7,540,000 results, which aptly illustrates how nefarious Search Engine Optimisation and content appropriation is. Other than a smattering of why have I been sent this recipe? – type peevishness, all the other links appear to return the recipe verbatim, which serves no purpose other than clogging up the arteries of the internet with spam.

I have also decided to strike from my bookmarks any recipe aggregator site that actually lists this recipe. I'm quite sure none of them have actually kitchen tested this bad boy, and are essentially untrustworthy whores.

I set out to make this salad, but unfortunately we live in an erstwhile food desert. Long Island City attracts yuppies, and yuppies don't eat spam. Even when they're camping in the Ozarks. The local victual repository, The Food Cellar, prides itself in only selling organic and quality noshage. Which is why oranges cost a dollar each. In addition to being deprived of spam, I'm flirting with scurvy. 

Before I moved to NY, I imagined that the average Manhattanite survives on a diet of coffee, macrobiotic salads, foraged microherbs, ortolan eggs, Korean/Kabbalah fusion truck food and so forth. I'm not entirely disabused of this notion. Luckily, I'm a stroll away from both Green Point and Astoria, home respectively to Polish and Greek communities, and handsomely furnished with greengrocers and cheap supermarkets. I secured a tin of low sodium Spam with ease.

I may look like a yuppie, but I don't eat like one. I like spam, luncheonmeat, bully beef, Shippams potted beef, mechanically reclaimed snoutwurst, the late night doner kebab. All are grist to my maw. The more dubious the provenance, the more likely I am to enjoy it. Why does this recipe curl my lip, then? Is it the egregious quantity of mayonnaise, the dubious use of the word Vineyard due to the inclusion of grapes, or the sneaky way Hormel, the makers of spam, market the product?

I can begrudgingly attest that Vineyard Spam Salad is moderately tasty. I deviated from the recipe in 3 ways: I used low sodium Spam, I cut the mayonnaise with a good dollop of crème fraiche, and I neglected to chill for the instructed hour. Mrs FAI, who loathes mayonnaise as a dressing (she only ever eats it with frites), pronounced it “okay”, and my mother-in-law adjudged it “delicious”. The saltiness of the spam complemented the sweetness of the grapes and the raw snow peas provided a welcome crunch. The sauce was tangy but there was too much of it. You can halve the mayonnaise with confidence.

Paula Deen would be proud.

A Burning Sensation

Mrs. FAI puts chilli on just about everything, or rather, she would if I allowed her. To her mind, there's simply no food, or combinations thereof, that won't benefit from being drenched in heat. Chilli has an affinity with most things Mediterranean and Mexican, Near and Far East, however, I put my foot down when she wants to spoon chilli over, say, a quenelle of poached fish with leeks, or a Comté souffle. Just...no.

Sometimes I wonder if chilli is a food crutch, the adult version of slathering ketchup on the dreaded vegetables that your thin-lipped parent insists you eat.

I like Tabasco on my oysters, Sriracha on eggs, MSG-riddled Chinese flavoured chilli oil on fried rice, but for me, the Italian way of preserving fresh chillies in olive oil yields the tastiest results. A pizza or tomatoey pasta is naked without it.

This fruity, spicy condiment gets better with age. Fresh chillies lend a length and depth of flavour (not just heat) that shop-bought, long-dried chillies can't match. You can top up the oil for a while without diluting the fruit's punch. I suppose if you live adjacent to an olive grove you'd happily use your best cold pressed extra virgin, but I have obtained very good results with pomace oil, which is significantly cheaper. Use whatever you can afford.

Holy Oil

Buy a couple of large handfuls of fresh, red chillies. Although you could use piri-piri or bird's eye, I prefer the slightly milder large red “cayenne”style pepper. Remove the green stalks and chop the chillies into 1cm long slices. Don't remove the seeds. Take care not to rub your eyes until you have washed your hands thoroughly, unless you desire to look like the Bride of Wildenstein.

Now place all the chilli pieces in a sieve, add 1 cupful of coarse salt, and place the sieve above a glass or ceramic bowl. Leave for a week, during which the salt will leach all moisture out of the chillies. Stir every now and then so that the salt mixes well with the chillies. You can use the liquor which accumulates in the bowl to flavour cholent or curry, if so desired. Don't be tempted to hurry this procedure. The chillies must be dry before being steeped in oil: any residual water may turn the fruit rotten and there is a risk of botulism, which is really rather nasty.

After a week, pick the chillies out of the salt, shaking out as much loose salt as possible, and then place in a glass jar. Top with olive oil, and leave for a week so the oil can draw flavour. This oil can be kept in the store cupboard.

Keep the salt. I use it every year, topping up when necessary, and after a while it will be a beautiful pink colour and dotted with chilli seeds (my stash is visible on the left of the photo). It is lovely used as a punchy table salt.