Cooking – PursuitOfPaprikash

Conquering Hurdles, Cooking, Hungary, New Friends

Pig Magic

January 20, 2016

This one is for all you pork lovers out there. It’s for the countless pieces of crispy fried bacon that have turned our gloomy mornings into a salty, savory delight. For the BLT; it would be nothing without that glistening piece of pork. For the many slices of salami that are carefully placed on a serving tray and when combined with cheese and crackers make any event tolerable. For anything wrapped in prosciutto. Enough said.

I told you a while back the pork in Hungary was on a different level. Everywhere you look there is a different pork product being cooked, smoked, conserved and consumed. The pig is the prized animal here and it is given the utmost respect. For lunch today, I’m having pig’s feet. It’s the real deal over here.

I know. I’m sorry. I’m sure I’ve made you drool all over your electronic device, salivating for some of this pork I rave about (okay, maybe not the pig’s feet) and now you are going to have to let everyone know you are not available because your phone or computer is broken due to pork. Really?! That is the most amazing reason for a malfunction ever!

Well, I hope your device still works because I have a story to tell. About pork. An entire day devoted to pork. You may never truly understand the magnitude of Hungarians and their love of pork unless you come here for yourself, but let me help by taking you on a little pork journey.

It was a foggy, cold, Friday morning when Andy and I met up with our friend Páli. I had met with Páli’s daughter, Krisztina, a few days prior and asked her about Hungarian sausage making. I had heard it only happens in the winter and wanted to get confirmation from a true Hungarian. She wasn’t entirely sure about the timing of sausage preparation, but told me about another common winter time activity, the disznóvágás. She explained it to me, but all I really gathered was that it included butchering a pig and making pig related things. Pig related things? What could be better than that?!

I did a little research and found out disznóvágás literally means pig killing. It can be considered a ceremonial event and dates back to communist times when pigs were hard to come by. When someone was able to get their hands on a pig, it was a celebratory event and the entire community participated. During the winter months when the cold helps keep the meat chilled, families would gather together for the annual pig butchering and each family would take home a portion of the meat.

Nowadays, people either own their own pigs or purchase one, but the gathering of family and butchering ceremony remains true to tradition.

We were told to meet Páli in front of the Saint Háromság statue at 9 o’clock in the morning. He knew some people who were having a disznóvágás that day and invited us along to partake. Right on time, Páli pulled up in his car. He asked where my car was parked, pointed in the direction behind his car, said a few more words I didn’t understand and pulled away slowly. As with most scenarios over the last two months, I recited the sentence over and over in my head to try and decipher just one word, any word! Oh, right. He wanted us to follow him in our car. Duh. Figuring out just one Hungarian sentence is like winning the Amazing Race. I’m living my own reality TV series over here.

So, we followed Páli. I thought the pig killing would be out in the country, naturally, but we drove just a few blocks in town and parked in front of what looked like an abandoned building. We were greeted by five guys, one of them being Páli’s friend and two women. We were introduced, some words were exchanged (something about Americans), a few laughs followed and suddenly Páli was saying goodbye. It turns out he had things to do, but wanted to get us to the disznóvágás. We were there alright. In the middle of someone’s property with a family we had never met, not knowing what we were about to witness; all with a limited Hungarian vocabulary. Talk about diving right in? Rolling with the punches? That’s all we could do. Thankfully we had gotten pretty good at it over the last few months.

Before we could think about what to do next a flatbed truck pulled up and started backing into the yard. You guessed it. On the back lay two pigs already split in half and ready for butchering. I was a little disappointed we missed the actual killing of the pig, but I had just cut a rooster’s neck the previous day so I couldn’t be too greedy.

As soon as the truck stopped it was go time. Everyone there started scurrying around the yard setting up for the day’s events. Each person knew exactly what to do and how to do it. You could tell this wasn’t their first pig rodeo. Andy and I did our best to stay out of the way, but when pig is being thrown around and fires are igniting it is hard to be a calm observer. I was enthralled! Like a kid in a candy shop except better because it was pork! Like an adult in an all you can eat bacon store! I was too excited to remain calm. I thought of every Hungarian word I knew so I could spark up conversations. We were strangers to these people, but they were so kind and generous, offering coffee, pogacsa (little biscuits) and even palinka (the local spirit). After a few shots, even Andy started speaking Hungarian. It didn’t take long before we felt like part of the family.

I leaned in and listened as much as I could to document every detail, but it was much too big of an undertaking for one person to keep track of. It takes a community to butcher a pig. Lots of practice and many hands. There was so much movement all around me. Cutting, grinding, mixing, tasting, weighing, stuffing. A few of the guys tried explaining certain steps to me, but I really only understood about 20 percent of it. All I could do was continue taking pictures. Hopefully my pig butchering picture board will be enough of a guide when I butcher my own pig. Some day. I’ll be sure to invite you all.

The day went on with smiles, laughter, hard work, a little more palinka and some serious pig magic. It was a day I’ll never forget.

Now, you’ll have excuse me. There is some bacon calling my name.

This is how the disznóvágás went down:

The pigs arrive. These were around 200 kilograms a piece. Each pig is split in half and the organs, head and other insides removed, but saved for good use.

Three wood burning stoves are lit with large cauldrons placed on top. The pots are filled with water and brought to a boil. They hold the head, organs, and other internal goodies which, when soft, will be ground up and made into one of two sausages: véres hurka (blood sausage) or májas hurka (liver sausage).

The butchering continues with all the common cuts of meat separated. I’ve never seen butchering done with such speed and precision.

The meat table.

The shoulder meat, some meat scraps and pieces of fat are ground up to use for kolbász, the most popular type of Hungarian sausage.

Handfuls of sweet and spicy paprika are added to the pork along with ground onion, garlic, salt, pepper and other spices. It is then given a nice, long, hard, hand massage to fully incorporate the flavors. Note: You can’t be afraid of raw pork at this point. Grab a good size pinch and taste it! This is the only way to know if your mix is perfect.

The stuffing begins! Pig and cow intestines are used for two different sized sausages and some sort of magical intestine ladder is created for efficient stuffing.

Some of the kolbász along with the blood and liver sausage is baked in the oven and eaten fresh (the day’s lunch) while the remaining sausages are smoked and cured for later enjoyment. As for the rest of the pig? It will bring months of joy to it’s happy, pork loving owner.

Cooking, Hungary, Paprikash

Rascal the Rooster

December 23, 2015

Today, I butchered a rooster. It took two weeks to find a good bird. I named him Rascal and with the help of my family I murdered him in the backyard. This butchering brought up an issue I want to revisit. Remember when I challenged you to clean all of the meat off of your chicken bones? It was a request in my very first post and the challenge remains. Even more so now than before. Seriously, if you are going to eat chicken on the bone, you better get all of the meat. Suck, slurp, tear, do whatever you have to, but for the love of eating animals, clean that bone! Get over the gross part and clean it like you mean it. Like you truly appreciate and respect the life that was given in order for you to enjoy that piece of chicken with all of it’s fried, grilled, roasted and/or saucy glory.

If this is grossing you out, you should probably stop reading. Wait…no. If this is grossing you out, you should most certainly KEEP READING. I think we have become disconnected with how our food arrives on our plates. We go to the store, throw some things in the basket, cook it and eat it; probably wasting some of it (meat on the bone!) without really thinking about the process or resources that go into the dozen buffalo wings we suck down before the team even runs on the field. Being the butcher gave me the ultimate farm to table lesson and heightened my appreciation for the animals that give us juicy, meaty, delicious meals.

I have also learned that here in Hungary, every part of the animal is used. I mean, every part. The head, brains, kidneys, feet, lungs, EVERYTHING! Well, almost everything. I think the only thing I’ve seen go into the trash were the chicken claws, but that is simply a necessary safety precaution. The parts that are nowhere to be found in most U.S. markets are considered prized additions to traditional Hungarian dishes. Chicken paprikash is delicious, but if you can get your hands on some pig kidneys and a brain, you just took paprikash to another level! And soup? The bones and other parts make a broth oh so tasty!

This rooster butchering; my short-lived relationship with Rascal, made a big impact on me. It was one of the most enlightening things I have experienced in the past few months. It’s not about killing things, it’s about appreciating the food you eat and respecting where it came from and how it got to your plate. I know you all know that if you eat meat, an animal had to die, but even I, an avid food lover and cook have never seen the butchering of an animal from start to finish. I was raised in the city. I too generally grab my meat from the grocery and head on home without much thought about its life prior. It took me 33 years before my first bird butchering. It really struck a chord. And to top it off, I did it alongside my great-aunt Juci (pronounced Yoot-see). She doesn’t mess around. She’s an amazing cook, a mighty fine teacher and we’ve gotten really good at laughing together.

Here is our rooster story, from start to finish. I should warn you, some of what you will see may be unpleasant, but it is reality. Find a farm, get yourself a bird and go for it. I guarantee if you butcher your own, you’ll clean that bone.

This story is dedicated to Rascal, the rooster and the many animals who have allowed for our table’s bounty. May you appreciate their sacrifice this holiday season.

Some live video footage. My technique may not be the best, but in my defense, I couldn’t understand most of the directions given to me.

Uncle Sándor helps with the next step: submerging the bird in hot water to ease with feather plucking.

Juci and I plucking away.

The feathers are gone, but little hairs remain. Singeing them off is the best method.

What’s cooking without a little fun? I couldn’t help myself.

One more close inspection.

First to go, the feet. They are delicious after a couple hours of simmering.

A cleaver is the recommended tool for this project.

Into the pot the parts must go. Cousin Zoli stokes the fire and stirs the stew.

And finally, real, authentic, home-made from start to finish, rooster pörkölt in all of its glory.

Cooking, Hungary

Color Me Happy

December 3, 2015

I have an addiction. Lately all I eat, sleep, see and breathe is paprika. Not the rusty colored stuff you typically find sprinkled on deviled eggs. True, pure, bright red, Hungarian paprika. It’s all about the color, smell and most importantly the taste and it deserves much more attention than just a sprinkle. It’s everywhere in Hungary and frankly I find it a little sexy. Within seconds, a brown, drab, broth can be ignited to another flavor palate and color palette.

You may have seen Hungarian paprika at your local grocer in the bright red tin, but glossed right over it with no reason or know how to use it. And good for you because spices are not good when left alone, they will lose their freshness and power in the kitchen. Aside from deviled eggs, when do you hear of using paprika? Not very often. I’ve seen some recipes and pictures of paprikash on the internet and I love that people outside of Hungary are trying these dishes, but most are missing something. They are missing the color. The essence if you will. Don’t be afraid of paprika, just let it fall into that pot, a lot of it, and watch as your food transforms before you. You may think it is only a red food coloring, but it is so much more. It will change the flavor. It will change the heat level. It will change the structure. It will change your life (that may be a bold statement). You never know, it changed mine.

Don’t worry about trying to conquer the use of paprika on your own. Let me do it for you, when I open my restaurant. That’s the point right? Wanting to try new flavors and cuisines without having to research and do the work yourself? I got you. Not yet, but I will. You keep sprinkling eggs and I’ll bust out some amazing, red, Hungarian dishes. So good, your taste buds may need a room. Oh, how that would bring me so much joy.

Every day as I cook, I drop spoonful after spoonful of paprika into pots and pans and with the tip of each one I get closer to my dream. I’ve had a lot of fun with that red powder lately and I want to share that with you. I hope you can find the beauty in it as I do.

Paprika, it colors me happy.

Not your ordinary chicken broth.

Stuffed cabbage never looked so good.

Have I mentioned the pork here? Even the sausages are red.

Making drab veggies look good since 1898.

Cooking, Hungary, Recipes

With Love, your Rolling Pin.

November 14, 2015

I think I have some explaining to do. I told you I was going to spend the summer in Skagway, Alaska, and I did, it was amazing. I worked at the local brew pub, joined a softball team, hung out on some glaciers, laughed and loved life with some amazing individuals, ate more meat than veggies, danced with the northern lights and finished the season with a four day backpacking trip on the iconic Chilkoot Trail. It was life changing. I was uncomfortable at times, faced some fears, got homesick more than once and had sore feet most of the summer, but do I have any regrets? Not one. I wouldn’t trade my summer in Alaska for anything.

I was told if you work hard enough in Skagway, one can save a decent amount of money. Enough to say, live in Hungary for two months and work unpaid? Gosh, I sure hope so because here I sit in the little town where my mother and grandparents lived for many years before immigrating to the United States.

My grandparents started with nothing. They didn’t speak a word of English and had coins, at best, when entering the United States. But they worked hard. They worked countless hours to make a life for themselves and my mother. They worked hard enough to eventually purchase a small, second home in their hometown so they could once again be close to their family. Our family. They are still here today. I can’t speak to them very well because Hungarian has not yet become my strong suit, but we get by, quite well actually. My communication tactics will require a completely separate entry, so more on that later.

My grandparents are no longer with us, but my family is fortunate to still have access to the little Hungarian house they bought some twenty years ago. After retirement, they would spend six months in Hungary and six months in the U.S, loving each place simply because of the people they could surround themselves with. I get it. Why not live in two completely different places? I’ve only been in the country for two weeks and I understand the allure. Perspective, differences, lack of one thing, but more of the other. Could it be the best of both worlds?

I know, I was supposed to explain something to you. I was supposed to explain the reason for my being in Hungary, but I got sidetracked. I got sidetracked by the rolling pin and worn out apron still hanging on the kitchen wall. I got side tracked by the fifteen ceramic and plastic rooster decorations oddly placed in this fifty square foot kitchen. My great grandmother’s wooden salt container still has its place on the counter and still holds salt to this day. Much of what my grandparents brought over from the United States in multiple, large suitcases, hasn’t been touched, I think on purpose. When they passed, we didn’t have to sell the house like a family typically does. No estate sale. No urgent packing. Their belongings in Hungary remained. They still do. And now, everything around me reminds me of my grandparents. Sometimes I can still smell them.

Everything in the kitchen reminds me of my grandmother. I know what every gadget and device was used for. I know what every cutting board endured to give us the delicious meals she made. Her scratched pots, dull knives and paprika stained tupperware are all still here. Her passion for cooking is still in the kitchen. The only thing missing is her.

I don’t have many regrets in life, but I do regret not cooking more with my grandma. I would give anything to watch her roll out noodles again. To watch her slice a cucumber faster than a food processor. Okay, maybe not that fast, but she was pretty damn quick and precise too! Every slice was the same thickness and all she had to use was your basic Chicago Cutlery kitchen knife. I use a mandolin nowadays. She is probably cursing at me from afar.

Okay, the point is, I came to Hungary to cook. I can’t cook with grandma anymore so I am trying to find the next best thing. Her hometown, her family, and her hometown restaurants. I am here to cook and learn so I can cook and serve Hungarian food in the United States. That is my goal. That is my restaurant. Grandma taught me a lot, but I want to learn more. I want to bring more than just recipes overseas. I want to bring the culture, history, devotion, simplicity and pride that is so apparent in Hungarian cooking. I have been tasting paprika (true, Hungarian paprika) since before I was born (aka, in the womb) and my taste buds aren’t even close to getting tired of it. Each time I taste it, it’s like the first time, the best.

For the last week, I have been cooking at a small étterem in town, next to Josephine, who is not too much taller than my grandma and not too many years younger. She has similar facial expressions when cooking and similar techniques. I’d say I’m in the right place. She doesn’t speak English and I don’t speak much Hungarian, but we are getting along just fine. So fine in fact, I have mastered the art of flipping palacsinta. It’s a delicate dessert requiring precise execution and close observation. It’s all in the wrist. One chance to swirl and one chance to flip, that is all you get. I’ve got it down. Grandma would be proud.

Step 1. Achieving the once around perfect swirl to cover the pan.

Step 2. Flipping it at just the right time. Remember, using only the flick of the wrist.

Step 3. Cooked, stacked and ready for filling.

Next up, stuffed cabbage. It sounds easy, I know, but it can be a three day process. I’m up for the challenge. I hope you’re up for the story.

Budapest, Cooking, Paprikash

How Clean Are Your Chicken Bones?

April 13, 2015

I always loved watching my grandmother raise her large cleaver and strike down on those poor little chicken legs. With each whack! I got more excited for the meal to come. Weird, I know, but take a cleaver to a bone sometime and you’ll understand what I’m talking about. She did it without remorse, with such ease and precision. I never viewed it as gross or disturbing, but just another step in the careful preparation of one the many dishes she would take all day, sometimes two, to prepare for us. And for the record, I was taught at a very young age about appreciating the bird and using/eating every part of it. Have you ever seen me eat chicken wings? Try to get more meat off than me, I dare you.

This primal butchering was a crucial step in my grandmother’s most prized dish. The dish that changed my life. The dish that has sparked this blog (or chronicle of adventures as I’m going to call it – I just can’t get used to the term blog). The dish that will one day be served in a brick and mortar, cooked with love by me, for all of you reading this and hopefully hundreds of other people who seek warmth and adventure in food as I do. This dish – so appropriately described by a dear friend as a culinary hug – is called Paprikash. It can reek havoc on your pastel colored t-shirts, but damn does it make your belly happy!

This chronicle is my pursuit of paprikash. My dream. My future restaurant. My tribute to my grandmother. She, along with my mother and grandfather emigrated to this country to start a restaurant – a Hungarian restaurant – which would have had the best paprikash west of the Mississippi.

She never did get her restaurant, but she devoted her life to rolling out (probably millions of ) noodles, stuffing sausages, slicing, dicing, baking and slowly cooking pot after pot of the Hungarian staple – paprikash.

And now, I am devoting my life to those things. I’m going to open the restaurant my grandmother never had.

So, I’m moving to Alaska. Alaska?! Yes, Alaska. Why you ask? All in the name of paprikash. I know, what the hell does Alaska have to do with this widely unknown dish? I’ve been getting that question a lot lately, rightfully so. The goal is to get to Hungary by way of Alaska. It will make sense soon. Stay in touch and I’ll fill you in on the details.

The next eight months of my life are only partially mapped out. As adventures unfold, I hope to have you right there with me. In the mean time, work on getting all that meat off the bone.