Louisiana – Life In A Word

I’ve never met a French baked good I didn’t want to devour at first sight. Macarons have called my name ever since my wife and I tried them in a little shop in Strasbourg. I’ve made a surprisingly good Croquet Madame (disguised as a three-cheese breakfast pizza) considering my limited skills in the kitchen. And croissants, well, croissants speak for themselves don’t they? So when a neighbor challenged my wife and I to make beignets ten days ago, I confidently replied, “oui!”

Technically we’re not talking about a baked good today. Beignets are fried in oil, like doughnuts. In fact, they’re exactly like sugar doughnuts, just not as sweet. Think Krispy Kreme’s Original Glazed without the glaze. Small, chewy pillows of heaven.

So why would a neighbor request beignets? Because she invited us to a college football game watch (Clemson vs. Louisiana State) and she’s one of those who turns a basic entertainment into a full-on festivity. Louisiana State is in Baton Rouge so her menu was start-to-finish Cajun. Étouffée. Muffuletta. Red Beans and Rice. Chantilly Cake. I mean, if she’s going to make all of that how could I say non to beignets?

Thankfully, I found an “Easy Beignets Recipe” online (note: whenever a recipe starts with “easy”, it’s anything but). At least I already had the ingredients in my pantry. But beignets start out like a high school science experiment. Heat the water to exactly 105°. Add yeast and a little sugar, because yeast “feeds” on sugar. Then watch it all foam. If it doesn’t foam, you killed the yeast and you have to start over. (No pressure Dave, little lives are at stake here.)

My yeast foamed (it lives!) so I was then allowed to proceed with the more traditional ingredients. Shortening, sugar, milk, and egg whites all mixed together, to which you add boiling water. When the temp is exactly 105°-110° (again with the science experiment) add the foamy yeast, flour and salt, and into the refrigerator it all goes, to rise for an hour or more.

Did my foamy-yeast-shortening-and-other-stuff concoction really rise? I have no idea. It looked the same as it did an hour before. But I threw caution to the wind and proceeded. At this point my wife had to get involved, because (as the recipe warns in capital letters), THIS IS A TWO-PERSON JOB. Maybe a three-person. One of you slaves over a pot of boiling oil (my wife), another gently transfers the beignets to paper towels to “oil off” (me), and the third suffocates them in powdered sugar (me again).

That last sentence happens very quickly. You can’t get the timing wrong on any step or the beignets won’t taste right. They fry for a minute or so on each side, rest for a minute on the paper towel, and don their coat of powdered sugar with just enough oil remaining to serve as the glue.

When beignets are done correctly, they’re light and flaky. The shortening and yeast create an air pocket inside. But you’re not really sure if this science happens until you rescue them from the boiling oil. Remarkably, ours really did rise. Doused in powdered sugar they really were pretty good (then my wife mixed a little cinnamon and vanilla into the dough and they were even better).

There’s a reason why beignets are so much better at the famous Cafe du Monde in New Orleans than in Dave’s kitchen. You need to eat them as soon as they’re powdered with sugar, and wash them down with a top-shelf cup of coffee. You see, beignets, sadly, have the shortest life of any baked good I know. If you don’t eat them warm, minutes after they’re fried, they’ll shed their light and airy consistency. An hour later they’re as cold and chewy as day-old doughnuts at 7-Eleven. And God forbid you leave them overnight on the counter. The next morning you’ll have nothing but rocks.

So, you ask, were our beignets a hit at our neighbor’s game watch? Well, let’s just say the other guests were being polite by declaring, “very good!”, especially when they ate more of our frosted sugar cookies instead (our backup dessert). Hey, our kitchen is no Cafe du Monde. I never said it was. It’s the reason I’m never making étoufée. At least I have a neighbor who will be happy to do it for me.

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

If you’ve ever been to an IKEA home furnishings store, you know the shopping experience is more about navigating a vast warehouse than a cozy “store”. IKEA retail covers several football fields worth of showrooms and merchandise, with clever navigation arrows projected onto the floor so you don’t lose yourself in the maze. Before or after your purchases, IKEA offers a spacious sit-down cafeteria, so you can fuel or restore your energy levels as needed. And it is here – in the IKEA cafeteria – where I can’t help but picture the Swedish Chef from the The Muppet Show.

You remember Swedish Chef, don’t you? Even if you only occasionally glanced over the shoulders of your children as they watched The Muppet Show, Swedish Chef left an indelible impression. Chef had those big, bushy brows completely covering his eyes. He always had a handful of utensils, inevitably launched into the air of his kitchen as his gibberish songs ended with “… BORK, BORK, BORK!” Chef sported a colorful bow tie, a white apron, and the distinctive toque blanche (white hat) on his head. Swedish Chef was always my favorite Muppet.

Chef could be working behind the counter of the IKEA cafeteria, because naturally; IKEA serves Swedish food. My favorite entree (as if I dine at IKEA regularly) is the Swedish meatballs in brown sauce (köttbullar), served with a side of the crepe-like potato pancakes (raggmunkar) and a dollop of lingonberry jam (Sweden’s famous “food freshener”).

There’s another fellow in the States who reminds me of Swedish Chef, and he doesn’t work in the IKEA cafeteria. Ever heard of Mimal, “the Man in the Middle of the USA”? Mimal lives in the Midwestern states, and he’s a big boy. In fact, Mimal’s so big he barely fits between Canada’s border to the north and Mexico’s to the south.

Have a look at the map. Mimal (sometimes called “the Elf”) is a silhouette of a chef, represented by the outlines of seven American states. MIMAL is quite literally (M)innesota, (I)owa, (M)issouri, (A)rkansas, and (L)ouisiana. He holds a pan (Tennessee) of fried chicken (perfectly represented by Kentucky). Mimal can thank the west bank of the Mississippi River for the shape of his five-state body. He also looks like he’s about to march his chicken right off the map, over the Atlantic Ocean, and on into Europe. Maybe he’s headed to Sweden?

Whoever discovered Mimal hiding in America came up with a clever way for children to memorize a handful of states. Appropriately, Mimal the chef is made up of a baker’s half-dozen of them. A baker’s dozen (13) began in the 11th century, when an extra loaf was added to the bread basket to guarantee the minimum sales weight. A baker’s half-dozen then – rounded-up – is seven loaves. Or seven American states.

Leave it to Americans to deny Mimal his innocence. Based on one or more unsolved mysteries in the MIMAL states, the elf-chef was once connected with a real-life kidnapper/murderer. The legend claimed if you drove straight from Minnesota to Louisiana – through each of Mimal’s five “body” states, you’d be abducted (never to be seen again) once you crossed Louisiana’s northern border. My logical brain asks how said abductor knows you made it through all five states? But this is legend we’re talking about, much like the monster in Scotland’s Loch Ness. Tabloid fodder at best.

Educators expanded on Mimal’s seven-state profile, including all fifty American states in a story designed to help students memorize names and locations (would’ve been helpful back in my school days, when I’d confuse Wyoming with Colorado). Still, I prefer to limit the game to Mimal’s baker’s half-dozen. I can’t help but see a big chef every time I look at a map of the United States. I also can’t help hearing him sing, “…BORK, BORK, BORK!”

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”, and the Laughing Squid blog.

Tag: Louisiana

Ten Days to “Ben-Yays”

A Baker’s Half-Dozen