Where’s the beef?

Burgers and T-bones and chuck, O my!

This is what a steer looks like after the people who know its people get hungry and descend upon it, brandishing checkbooks.

Herself and I were share owners in this steer, along with a few other folks who were better acquainted with him, and after a quick out-and-back to Crusty County one-eighth of him resides in our freezer alongside a half-dozen quart bags of Pueblo chile. I foresee a synergy between the two in the very near future.*

Thinking about, acquiring, preparing and consuming food helps keep my mind off the ongoing clown show that is American presidential politics. Rick Sanctimonious is getting wiggier by the minute, practically a character in a Monty Python skit about the Spanish Inquisition. And don’t get me started on the RomneyBot 2012. Last machine I saw perform this erratically was a 1996 Ford F-150. It wound up in a ditch, and I wound up back in a Toyota.

* I actually started this post yesterday and didn’t get around to slapping it up until today. Thus the Larga Vista Ranch chile has already become acquainted with the Crusty County beef in the form of a very tasty pot of chili con carne.

In the kitchen at Chez Dog and CycleItalia

Lamb chili with white beans.

You’ll be pleased to know that despite it being February, which sucks, I have yet to eat grease, drink whiskey or buy things.

Instead, I decided to amuse myself with a couple new recipes.

The first, which made its triumphant debut Tuesday night, is a chili con carne in which the carne is ground lamb. And y’know what? Despite its origins in Noo Yawk City and a distinctly minimal approach to tomato products it was purty damn’ good. First time I ever used cilantro stems in anything. Live and learn.

The second, assembled last night, was also from The New York Times, courtesy of Martha Rose Shulman. It involved chicken and chiles, plus a big-ass can of tomatoes to make up for the dearth of same on Tuesday. Alas, it proved a bit sweet for my taste. Next time, fewer red peppers, more chile.

One thing I like about Martha’s recipes is that they normally involve ingredients the average well-stocked pantry already has on hand. I was a little light on chicken and bell peppers for this one, but that was easily remedied.

While I was out scoring bird and bells I swung by the Fine Arts Center and collected a few pounds of Pueblo chile from Doug Wiley of Larga Vista Ranch. I hadn’t known that he was still coming up on Wednesdays despite the farmers’ market being on hiatus for the winter, and there was quite a crowd of Bibleburg foodies on hand to greet him. So now you’ll know where to find me on a Wednesday afternoon.

Last but not least, while we’re speaking of food and the cooking thereof, longtime Friend of the DogS(h)ite Larry T. provides the following. I may test-fly this one over the weekend while Herself is off visiting kin in San Antone.

CycleItalia’s Quick Red Sauce

2 tablespoons olive oil

Half a small onion, chopped fine

1 clove garlic, crushed and minced

1 pinch red pepper flakes

A splash of red wine

1 cup tomato sauce (the better your basic ingredient here is, the better the sauce will be, but the cheapo canned stuff works fine).

Salt and additional pepper to taste

In saucepan over medium heat sauté the onion, garlic and red pepper until just soft, not brown.

Pour enough wine to just cover and let evaporate for a minute or two.

Add in the tomato sauce and stir well, then reduce heat until it’s just bubbling on the edges. Simmer for at least 20 minutes and up to an hour if you have time.

Variation: Pasta all’Arabbiata (Angry Pasta)

To make a spicy version of red sauce, just add more red pepper flakes to the sauce—about ¼ to ½ teaspoon, depending on your taste, and garnish with chopped parsley rather than basil.

Italians do not sprinkle grated cheese on arabbiata — drizzle on a bit of the best extra virgin olive oil you have instead.

And now, for something completely different

Bike rides and beef soup — what's not to like?

Enough about the evildoers already. I quit that part-time job feeding greenbacks to vulture capitalists so I wouldn’t have to be pissed off all the time. And here I am pissed off all the time. What the hell?

Anyway, the Heaviest Snow of the Season® was supposed to hit this evening, so I tore myself away from the computer and went out for a brisk 90-minute ride on the Bike Friday New World Tourist Select, which is next in line for review in Adventure Cyclist.

It was fine — what isn’t compared to watching the making of political sausage in the nation’s capital? — and when I was done I toddled over to Ranch Foods Direct for  a few pounds of crosscut beef shanks as the foundation of a hearty vegetable beef soup to gird my loins against frostbite.

Only there weren’t any. Shanks, that is. Loins of this and that they had, and some of them frozen, too. But nary a shank was to be seen.

A young lady asked if I needed assistance, to which I replied in the affirmative. And in less time than it took me to write this post three pounds of freshly cut beef shanks were in my hands and bound for the soup pot. Nothing like doing your little bit of business with folks from the ’hood.

Funniest thing. I’m not pissed off anymore.

By request: Cycling and foodie things

Leftovers — they're what's for dinner. And breakfast. And lunch. Annnnd dinner. ...

Egad. Eighteen degrees with a high of 57 forecast. That sort of thing is a shock to the system. It’s also SOP in Colorado. The trick is finding the sweet spot for a longish bike ride in that temperature range. That, and trying to stay out of the wind.

I’ve been road testing bikes again — a Pashley Clubman and a Bike Friday New World Tourist — but I feel like riding one of my own machines today, maybe the Voodoo Nakisi MonsterCrosser®.

The thing is a tank but it’s become my go-to bike for some reason. The 700×38 rubber suits pavement, gravel and single-track alike, and the low end of 22×26 means I can climb a tree if being chased by an angry reader.

Speaking of angry readers, James wants “more cycling and foodie things, less politics.” We’ve covered cycling, so let’s move on to foodie things.

I’ve been trying to stretch the food dollar lately, having bid adios to Los Zopilotes de San Diego. And it ain’t easy, because I dearly love to commit eating.

Pork chops are a fave, and the other day I pulled a pound and a half of same from the freezer to thaw. But I got to thinking that a pork chop disappears pretty damn’ fast, as in during one meal, unless you’re a nibbler, which I am not.

Leftover enchiladas, beans and posole. Much more of this sort of eating and Tom Tancredo will demand that I produce a birth certificate or be deported. Hah! Slipped some politics in there, didn't I?

So I diced a pound of the chops and made a pot of posole, which inspired the cooking of a pot of pintos with chipotle and the assembly of some sausage-and-cheddar enchiladas in red chile sauce. We’re still eating on that mess — in fact, Herself brown-bagged a small container of leftovers to work for lunch.

The remaining red sauce, beans and sausage, meanwhile, will get turned into tonight’s dinner of sausage-and-bean burritos smothered in red with a side of posole and salad.

And that half-pound of pork that didn’t make it into the posole? It was featured in last night’s nuclear kung pao pork with rice. The leftovers from that will be my lunch today.

So there you have it. How to stretch your swine into a fine line, by Chef Dog. Bon appétit.

La Niña, the pintos and Santa Maria!

In hopes of placating La Niña, who has been a windy bitch lately, I spent the afternoon simmering a pot of pintos in chipotle.

While that was going on I made a quick red chile sauce, browned a bit of Ranch Foods Direct’s mild Italian sausage with a handful of diced onion and assembled a smallish baking dish of rolled enchiladas, each containing a couple tablespoons of sausage sprinkled with extra-sharp cheddar. I slathered the lot with the chile, covered the dish with foil and slid the sucker into the oven.

After 20 minutes at 350 I withdrew the dish, sprinkled the enchiladas with a generous handful of Monterey Jack and returned them to the oven, this time uncovered and under the broiler, to brown and crisp the cheese.

By the time the enchiladas were toasty the beans were done. There was some leftover posole in the ’fridge but I said to hell with that and went with a side of shredded red-leaf lettuce and diced tomatoes slathered in olive oil with a little salt and pepper.

No football was harmed in the making of this meal. In fact, no football was involved. Who the hell watches football when he can watch beans and enchiladas?

Season’s growlings

Capping off another terrific Christmas: from left, Bouncing Buddy Banzai the Spinning Japanese Chin; Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein, who clearly had too much eggnog last night; and Miss Mia Sopaipilla.

Preparations for the annual holiday feast have begun at Chez Dog. Herself’s gift, a Canon Vixia HF M41 camcorder, is charging on the kitchen table (she aced a video-production class this fall) as she assembles a raspberry cobbler.

Next up is a cornbread-stuffing recipe we’ve never tried before — the cornbread itself is already done, and top-notch it is, too — followed by an appetizer of toasted baguettes topped with a rich spread of prosciutto, butter, Parmigiano-Reggiano and pine nuts (also a newcomer); mashed spuds; sauteéd spinach with mushrooms; giblet gravy, cranberry relish; and last but not least, roast turkey.

I usually do something offbeat for Christmas, like a Northern New Mexican feast or a chicken cacciatore, but this year I decided we needed the comfort food. The leftovers are the best part of a traditional turkey dinner — turkey sandwiches, turkey enchiladas, turkey soup, and whatnot. You cook like a mad bastard for one day and reheat leftovers for three days. What’s not to like?

Meanwhile, the traditional Humiliation of the Animals has been accomplished. The furry swine failed to get me a MacBook Air or an iPhone 4, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let that pass without retribution. You can order that stuff online, f’chrissakes. No messy human interaction or trips to the mall required:

“Hello, how may I help you?

“Meow.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Meow!”

“Come again?”

“Meeeowwwwwwrrrr. ... Oh, fuck it, Buddy, you try.”

“Woof?”

A sound of thunder

Again with the “snow,” just enough to glaze the streets like a cop’s doughnut. I’ve seen more white powder on a proffered mirror, sighting along a rolled-up dollar bill. At least the wind is barreling down out of the north at 22 mph, with gusts to 31. So we’ve got that going for us.

Weather like this sends me straight back to the Mexican cookery for its natural-gas component. Last night it was posole and chicken-and-jalapeño quesadillas; tonight I’m simmering up a pot of beans with chipotle chile. I should whip up a batch of green chile sauce, but I think I’ll save that for tomorrow — I have a quart each of Anaheim and New Mexico chile thawing in the sink, and then we can greet the day over breakfast burritos with leftover chicken, beans and spuds smothered in green.

So, yeah. A day without beans is like a day without thunder. Just in case you thought Fort Carson was engaging in a little holiday artillery practice.

Thorazine is on my Xmas list

"You said a bad word," says Mia. "And another. And another. And another. ..."

What’s been going on around here, you ask?

Well, let me think here for a minute. Hmm. …

We had the big Thanksgiving Day U-turn from Bibleburg to Fort Collins and back on Thursday; a full day of VeloNewsery plus dinner with our across-the-street neighbors Larry, Jill and Wendy on Friday; lunch with (and saying adios to) our wonderful next-door neighbor Judy on Saturday, with an extra-large side of work; and work work work on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, culminating in yet another dinner with friends tonight, a northern New Mexican project to which I tended between bouts of pixel-pushing for the Boulder boyos.

Whew. Long week for an old dog. And it ain’t over yet.

As you might imagine, something’s had to give around here, and that something is exercise. My ass is approaching critical mass, and I ain’t talking about the traffic-snarling bicycle parade, either.

I did sneak out for a 20-minute “run” this afternoon before putting the beans on the stove. Folks probably thought they were seeing a particularly ugly, sluggish zombie on the prowl.

And I probably managed to sweat off a couple of grams running around the kitchen, chopping, mincing, slicing, sautéing and stirring bits of this and that until in desperation, running out of time, I finally dialed down the menu from cheese enchiladas in green sauce with one side of beans in chipotle and another of red chile roasted potatoes to a bare-bones platter — bean burritos smothered in green with a side of the aforementioned spuds.

The bad news is, I probably put those lost grams right back on by going back for seconds. Plus pie. Did I mention pie? Oh, Lord.

Meanwhile, we will return to our regularly scheduled snark come Thursday, when I have a day off — and the weatherman is calling for wind-driven snow and a high in the 20s. I foresee much grumbling and the first stationary-trainer ride of the season, not necessarily in that order.

Buh-bye, bunga bunga

A guy can't eat Mexican 24/7, f'chrissakes. One must think of the neighbors. Leave the gas attacks to the coppers at Occupy Denver.

In honor of Silvio Berlusconi’s departure and Larry T’s extended Giro d’Italia — and because we’ve had an overlong run of beans, green and red chile, and posole around the DogHaus lately — I whipped up a skillet of buffalo bolognese tonight and laid it out over spaghettini.

Herself assembled a green salad and tackled post-dinner KP, while as per usual the cats and dog contributed exactly jack shit to the common good. Why we let all these critters Occupy Caramillo Street free of charge remains a mystery. Oh, yeah, they’re cute. Mystery solved. You know my methods, Watson.

Bloggery was nonexistent this weekend thanks to an unusually large pile of VeloNews, which caused me to mumble many words of four letters and one syllable as I shoveled away.

I wrote five race reports thanks to the miracle of streaming video; fielded quotes, updates and wisdom from Brian Holcombe, our man on the ground at USGP Louisville; posted a mess of results and bits of this, that and the other from Euro’ scribe Andy Hood and other contributors — and yet, when I look at the homepage, somehow it doesn’t look like there was much going on. It just took a long time to get it up there.

Meanwhile, for some reason I’ve decided to resume “running,” if your idea of “running” involves five minutes of same sandwiched between two 10-minute segments of walking. My knees were bugging me earlier this year, so I 86ed the ground-pounding in hopes that a respite might spare me a trip to the doc. Bad news I can get right here in the office for pennies via the Innertubes.

But on Saturday I did the walk-run-walk thing, and I repeated it today — ramping the “running” segment up to seven and a half minutes — and while I can’t say that it feels as pleasant as getting a hot-oil rubdown from Elle MacPherson and Tyra Banks after a double Talisker, it’s not as painful as watching Rick Perry or Herman Cain demonstrate how woefully unqualified they are to hold any position loftier than that of Wal-Mart greeter in Undescended Testicle, North Dakota.

Oh, deer

The Turk' has that sinking feeling as Daylight Saving Time comes to an end.

The weather went a bit sideways on us this week, briefly taking a distinctly Novemberish turn. Snow, wind and cold — the combination put me out of sorts, as the first frigid wedgie of winter always does. If I wanted to wear long pants all the time I’d have grown up by now.

I slouched around indoors, squatted at the computer and took far too many pictures of the cats, so many that a Facebook friend complained, “Man, I know it’s cold outside, but you need to get out for some fresh air.”

So today, after Daylight Saving Time crapped in our clocks, I took his advice. Herself had been out earlier wearing everything in her closet, but we cyclo-crossers are made of sterner stuff (even the retired geezerly ones). So come afternoon, once the VeloPile had dwindled to a workable size, I slipped out for a short ride clad in the basics — wool socks, leg warmers, bibs, two long-sleeve jerseys, long-fingered gloves, tuque, and the old Giro helmet that fits over a heavy-duty skullcap. You know; manly kit.

I chose a leisurely ride I call The Four Parks because it takes in (wait for it) four parks. No hustle, no hassle, no hurry; just stretching the legs and enjoying the endorphins. My fellow Bibleburgers were entranced by the feetsball, some faux military struggle between wild horses and buccaneers that kept them off the streets and glued to the One Big Eye. Thoughts of crimes against the State and Nature receded into the distance like farts in a whirlwind.

My spectators included a four-point buck guarding his harem with one eye on me. A few miles further along there was another four-pointer who could have been his twin brother, also with kinfolk in tow. And finally a mother and daughter, the latter wobbling all over the path on a pink bike.

I performed the traditional Laying of Hands Upon the Brake Levers, because it’s unseemly for cantankerous baldheaded tosspots to run down children, even among the libertarians. Words of four letters and one syllable queued up behind my clenched teeth, awaiting deployment.

And then the kid waved joyously, squealing, “Hi!”

Mom grinned and shrugged, and I retracted my venom-tipped fangs.

“Hi!” I replied with a smile as I rolled past, both mitts still on the levers (hey, I’m flexible, not foolish).

And then I rolled casually back to my own family, deciding to cook up a pot of chile con carne, just like the one Mom used to make.