White Fluffy Icing

The best part is pounding the peppercorns.

I almost don’t want to admit it, but The Boy is a lot like me in many ways: strong-willed, independent, sassy. And now that he’s a little older, he’s actually fascinated with cooking.

It started about a year ago, at age one, when he realized that he was missing out on some pretty interesting action on the stovetop.  When he would see me stirring, chopping, and tasting, he’d reach up, head cocked back, standing on tippy toes, and demand, “Up!”  Once in my arms, his eyes would glaze over in wonderment at the new sights and smells.

Seeing steam, he would point and say, “Hot.”  His first kitchen safety lesson. Yes, baby, hot.  The stove will burn you.  It would hurt real bad. He would shake his finger in my face and say “No, no!  HOT.” Yes, baby, hot.  Hot is not nice.

And so it began.  Sometimes people tell me they want to teach their kids to cook, but don’t know where to begin, and this is my answer: meet them where they are, and go from there.  Just like anything else, really.

A year later, The Boy has doubled his life span, and his fascination has only deepened.  When he sees me cooking, he immediately starts dragging out the kitchen stool, chirping, “I help!  I cook!”

For now, that means I stand behind him while we measure and stir things, my hands wrapped over his.  I provide color commentary as we go, telling him in simple terms what we’re doing and why.  I don’t care who you are or what kind of day you’ve had, seeing a toddler’s chubby hand hold a whisk will make you smile.  When he sticks his face in a bowl and inhales deeply, I can’t help but chuckle.  When I chuckle, he giggles.  Pretty soon, we’re cracking up.

Sure, we sometimes destroy the kitchen.  But it’s always worth the mess. Always.

The Boy actually cooks a pretty mean brisket, and he’s been bugging me about sharing it with you. So, ladies and gentlemen, against my better judgment, I give you White Fluffy Icing’s first guest blogger: The Boy.

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After the pepper comes the stinky liquid. DO NOT TASTE.

Hey, ever buddy!  The Boy here.  Not sure what the holdup was, but Mama finally agreed to let me tell you a little bit about myself.  I like rock and roll, older women, and cooking — in that order.  I don’t mind sharing, as long as it’s always my turn.  I also enjoy doing or saying the exact opposite of whatever grownups suggest, which is great fun, except my parents always say words like “contrarian” and “reverse psychology” when I do that.  As soon as I learn how to read, I’m going to figure out which one of our four thousand books is the dictionary and look that stuff up.  I’ll keep you posted.

Mama said that if I wanted to write for WFI, I had to share a recipe.  I had a hard time choosing between the brisket recipe that Nonnie gave me, or my famous bologna sandwich with vegan mayo (I’m allergic to milk and eggs — did you know that?).  I’m pretty partial to bologna, but since the brisket gets me more phone numbers from the ladies, I decided to go with that.  Hope you like it.

Here’s the deal-io: first, bust up some whole peppercorns with a mortar and pestle.  You can use coarsely ground pepper if you want, but the mortar and pestle is wayyy more rock and roll.  You’ll want to pound with the pestle a lot longer than your mom will let you, which is highly unfortunate.  Just know that going in.

Be sure and clean up your mess, lest you be banned from the kitchen.

Put half of your cracked pepper on some foil inside of a pan, then put a brisket in there and sprinkle the rest of the pepper on top.  In a bowl, mix up a bunch of weird looking liquids and powders that your mom gives you, and — trust me, here — DON’T taste them.  They. Are. Yucky.  I haven’t figured out how mixing up a bunch of yucky stuff produces yummy stuff, but Mama says I’ll figure it out when I’m older.

That brings me to another tip: one of the coolest parts of cooking is smelling stuff for the first time, right?  Right.  If you decide to take a whiff of the vinegar, DON’T inhale deeply.  You will pass out.  Seriously.  (Shudder.)

Pour the stinky liquid concoction over the meat.  You’ll see in the recipe that I’m using dehydrated minced garlic in lieu of fresh, because apparently there are a few liability issues concerning toddlers and chef knives.  Not that I don’t have skillz, because I could totally handle it — but Mama is freakishly adamant on this particular topic.  It doesn’t seem to detract from the final dish, so I guess it’s cool.

Wrap up the foil and seal it tightly, then have a grownup slide it into the oven.  Last tip: it has to stay in the oven FOREVER.  So long, in fact, that you’ll get tired of asking whether it’s ready yet.  My modus operandi is generally to ask for something every thirty seconds until I get what I want, but for brisket, Mama says something about melting connective tissue and “low and slow”, whatever that means.  When it’s tender, it’s ready.  Apparently you can’t rush these things.

Before I let you go, I want to thank my Nonnie (Daddy’s Mama, for those who don’t know) for the righteous recipe.  Mama says that she once made like six of these at a time, for Leah and Demitri’s engagement party.  I wouldn’t know, because that was B.T.B. (Before The Boy), but that’s what she says.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go practice my air guitar solos.

Stay fluffy, my friends!  Peace.

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KANSAS SPECIAL BAKED BRISKET

3 to 5 pound brisket, trimmed of all fat
Cracked peppercorns or coarse black pepper
2/3 cup soy sauce
1/2 cup vinegar
1 teaspoon paprika
1 tablespoon ketchup
2 teaspoons dehydrated minced garlic

In a 9 x 13-inch pan, spread a piece of heavy foil large enough to wrap the brisket.  Sprinkle pepper on foil; press meat into pepper, coating on all sides.  Combine remaining ingredients, mixing well.  Gently pour liquid over meat, seal the foil tightly, and marinate overnight.  Bake at 350ºF for 2 ½ to 3 hours, until very tender.