I love thighs. Let’s face it people, thighs are lovely. Whether you’re talking about a piece of chicken, or the female anatomy, thighs are the best.They’re soft. Kinda sexy. Juicy.Chicken breasts? They tend to dry out when you’re cooking them. They’re really good for some things, like cutlets and Milanese and chicken piccata, but in general, I prefer chicken thighs.I also love pesto. I got a little sick of it when my dad--we called him Paps--made so much pesto we were using it on our cornflakes in the morning. But after I got over my overdose of pesto, I started really enjoying it.Pesto is so good for so many things. You can put it on a piece of salmon, you can put a dollop in soup, you can put a tablespoon or two in an omelette. You can use it as a hair gel! Pesto is the best-o.So, I thought I would combine my two loves, pesto and chicken thighs, so I came up with…Pesto chicken thighs! I put the “J” back in genius with this recipe.Some say a thigh is just a thigh, but these pesto chicken thighs are special, delizioso. And quick. And healthy.So let’s dig right in and start cooking. You know, Slim People, sometimes cooking doesn’t have to be all complicated and time-consuming.Sometimes it’s easy. Like this recipe…INGREDIENTS4 chicken thighs, boneless, about a poundOlive oil (a couple tablespoons or so)Salt and fresh-cracked black pepper4 tablespoons of pesto sauce (I make my own, it’s in the Slim Man Cooks cookbook, it’s quick!)
A couple tablespoons of toasted pine nuts (toasted in a dry pan, medium heat, until golden)Here we go!OK, pre-heat your oven to 400 degrees.Take your thighs and rinse them in cold water. Do the same with the chicken thighs. Notice the difference.Pat the chicken thighs with paper towels.Trim off any funkiness, any fat, any leftover bone splinters and such.Put the chicken thighs in a baking dish.Drizzle with some olive oil.Make sure they’re all coated, rub your thighs!Add some salt and fresh-cracked black pepper.Make sure every thigh gets some love.Put the top side of the thighs on the bottom of the baking dish.Put the thighs in the oven for 20 minutes.Take them out, turn them over, and bake for another 10 minutes.When the thighs have come to about 165 degrees (I use a meat thermometer, not the one I use for the dogs) they are done.Take them out of the oven, and turn the oven to broil.Smear about a tablespoon of pesto on top of each chicken thigh. Be smoov!Put them under the broiler for about a minute or two, until the pesto is golden brown.Take them out of the oven, sprinkle with some toasted pine nuts.Put them on a platter, garnish with a sprig of basil, serve with a hunk of crusty bread, or my tomato salad, or both, and…
MANGIAMO!
Chicken and Eggplant Parmigiano
Chicken Eggplant ParmigianoWomen have helped me be more creative with my cooking.Not so much with the recipes, but with their peculiarities.For instance, Selma Krapoff, our Head of Slim Merch, is on a new kick. She wants protein with every meal. And nothing can be fried. Not even sautéed.So when I had a craving for eggplant Parmigiano, I had to get creative. I didn't want to cook two dishes. I racked my brain, what’s left of it. Then it hit me like a frying pan. Or maybe it was Selma who hit me with the frying pan. The light went on above my horsehead, and I knew what I had to do.I decided to make chicken and eggplant Parmigiano! Ain’t I smart? I did a layer of eggplant, a layer of broiled chicken breasts, and a layer of eggplant, instead of just three layers of eggplant.I put in the tomato sauce, mozzarella, Parmigiano and basil with each layer, of course.Then I baked it for about 20 minutes.It was so good. Selma loved it.Then she yelled at me because she ate too much. She told me that if I didn’t cook stuff that tasted so good, she wouldn’t have to worry about getting fat.
Chicken and Eggplant ParmigianoYour breasts and the eggplant should be about the same size. So should the chicken breasts.I bought 2 chicken breasts and cut each in half horizontally, I had 4 cutlets about ½” thick. Then I cut them in half vertically, so I had 8 small cutlets about ½" thick.Then I sliced the eggplant into circular slices, about ½” thick.NOTE:You only have to broil the chicken for a couple minutes per side. It will bake with the eggplant for another 20 minutes in the oven, so you don’t have to worry about salmonella.I hope.Seriously, Slim People? Clean everything that touches raw chicken with warm, soapy water. Or a powerwasher.You gotta keep it clean.INGREDIENTS3 eggs3 cups panko breadcrumbs (or whatever breadcrumbs you like!)Salt and pepper2 medium eggplant, ends trimmed off, sliced into ½” circular slices
2 large boneless, skinless chicken breasts (about 1 pound) each sliced in horizontally in half; you should have 4 cutlets about ½” thick. Cut each in half vertically, now you got 8 cutlets, each ½" thick, capisce?3 cups of tomato sauce (make your own, it’s so easy and takes just 25 minutes!)1 pound mozzarella, cut into circular slices1 cup fresh-grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese¾ cup of fresh, clean basilHERE WE GO…Pre-heat your oven to 400 degrees.Put the eggs in a bowl (I used a glass pie dish), add salt and pepper, and mix ‘em up!Spread the breadcrumbs out on a large platter (I used another pie dish).Dip an eggplant slice in the egg, then press each side into the breadcrumbs.Place on a non-stick baking pan.Do this with all the eggplant slices.Put the pan in the oven on the second-lowest rack, let the eggplant cook on one side for 12 minutes, or until golden brown.
Flip each slice over and cook for another 12 minutes or so.Remove.Turn the oven to broil.Take a piece of chicken.Dip it into the egg.Then press each side into the breadcrumbs.Do this with all the chicken.Place it under the broiler, on the second rack. You don’t want it too close, or it will burn.After 2 minutes, or when golden brown, turn over.Cook on the other side for 2 minutes or until golden brown.Remove from the oven.Get a glass baking dish--I used an 9X13-inch dish.Put a layer of eggplant on the bottom.Add a cup of tomato sauce, spread it around evenly.Add ¼ cup of the basil, snip it with scissors evenly on top.Add 1/3 cup of Parmigiano, spread evenly.Add 1/3 cup of mozzarella slices, spread evenly.
Add a layer of chicken cutlets.Add a cup of tomato sauce.Add ¼ cup of basil, snipped on top.Add 1/3 cup Parmigiano.Add 1/3 cup of mozzarella.Here we go! Final layer!Add a layer of eggplant.Add a cup of tomato sauce.Add ¼ cup basil, snipped on top.Add 1/3 cup of Parmigiano.Add the final 1/3 cup of mozzarella.
Turn the oven to 350 degrees.Put the dish in the oven on the middle rack.Let the eggplant and chicken bake for 20 minutes.Put the oven on broil.Put the dish under the broiler FOR A MINUTE! Keep your eye on these guys, you want the cheese golden brown, not burnt!Remove from the broiler and let it sit for 5 or 10 minutes.Then, cut it up, dish it out, maybe sprinkle a little freshly-grated Parmigiano on top of each serving, maybe garnish with a fresh basil leaf or two, and…
MANGIAMO!
Slim Man Cooks Chicken Stuffed with Goat Cheese
Batu was born in Argentina on Cinco de Mayo – the 5th of May – 2004. Batu’s grandfather was a famous bull terrier from Germany named Rock. Batu’s owner paid $15,000 for Rock. He could’ve bought a car for fifteen grand. I’m glad he didn’t. But that’s still a lot of money for a dog.Batu’s owner had high hopes for the young pup. Batu was entered in a few South American dog shows, but there was some technical defect in his bone structure--he was bow-legged, just like me--which prevented him from advancing any further in his show dog career.Their loss. Batu was a neglected champion, much like Yours Truly. He was kept in a crate, not like Yours Truly. No one knew what to do with him. He just sat in his crate.I had wanted a bull terrier ever since I saw the movie Patton. Patton had a bull terrier named Willie. When my cousin – a true dog lover who knew I wanted a bull terrier – found out about Batu, she decided to get him for me for Christmas.She has a house in Chile. She’s well-connected in the dog world down there. She left Baltimore, Maryland, flew down, rescued Batu, and brought him to me on Christmas Eve, 2005. I was at my uncle Oscar’s house on the river. Cat Tail Creek, outside Baltimore, Maryland.
Batu came out of the bedroom that Christmas Eve, walked up to me, and stuck to me like Velcro that night--and almost every day since. Batu came with that name. I don’t know how he got it. I Googled "Batu" and all that came up was the grandson of Genghis Khan, Batu Khan.Batu Khan. So that’s the story I’m going with.At the time, I was living in an apartment in Roland Park, an incredible place in an old mansion that used to be a country club.I loved the place. When I brought Batu home, he would not leave my side. If I walked into the kitchen, he’d follow me. If I walked into the living room, he’d be right behind me. If I went into the bathroom, there he was.The first few nights I had Batu, he slept in bed with me. When I found a tick on the sheets one morning, I decided to get him his own bed. I put it on the floor by my bed, and that’s where he slept. If I woke up in the middle of the night, I would reach down and pet him.I think Batu had separation anxiety. Or maybe it was me. Whenever I’d leave, he’d howl.Truth was, I missed him, too.
So I took him just about everywhere I went. If I went to a recording studio, I’d call in advance and make sure it was OK. DC, Philly, New York — if I had a session, Batu went with me. If I went on vacation, Batu went with me. If I went to visit my Dad in upstate New York, Batu went with me.Whenever I’d sit down and play piano or guitar, Batu was there. Almost every song I wrote for the past eight years, Batu was at my feet, eyes closed halfway. He was probably dozing off. My music has that effect on people.The apartment in Roland Park had a crazy little kitchen with a small four-burner stove. I got a video camera and started shooting cooking videos; short, goofy little five-minute home movies which featured Batu.
I had heard about this new website called YouTube that had just started. I started posting the cooking videos on YouTube. One of my five or six fans saw the cooking videos, and brought them to the attention of their friend who was involved in a new network, the Italian American Network.They liked the videos. They loved Batu. The Italian American Network started posting the videos on their channel. They encouraged me to do more. Batu and I started making more cooking videos in that little kitchen. And I started writing those recipes down, so the Italian American Network could post them along with the videos. Batu and I kept on making videos and posting recipes.A few years later, Batu and I were at my Dad’s house in upstate New York on the Fourth of July, 2009. We were cooking and making videos. It had just rained, and there was a double rainbow reaching across the mountains. I took a photo. I walked inside my Dad’s house. The phone rang. My Dad lives on top of a mountain, a place called Rat Tail Ridge, and there aren’t too many neighbors. The phone doesn’t ring too often.
I picked up the phone. I got the news that Oscar—my Dad’s only brother-- had died. I told my Dad.My Dad said “Fuck!” about a hundred times in a row. Then he cried. I’ve only seen my Dad cry twice. When his best friend died, and when Oscar died.Unc — that’s what I called him – had fallen down the basement steps at Cat Tail Creek. He was going to the cellar to get a bottle of wine for the osso buco he was cooking. Unc died immediately. He was extremely wealthy, in good health, had a beautiful young wife. He was 88 years old. Unc and I were really close. He was like a second father to me, I had lived with him for a couple years. Unc taught me a lot about cooking. And wine. And life.I packed up Batu and my Dad, and we drove for six hours from Rat Tail Ridge down to Cat Tail Creek. We didn’t talk much. I was heartbroken. I felt so bad for my Dad; Oscar was his only brother, they had grown up poor on the mean streets of New York, and Oscar was always looking out for his younger brother – throughout their whole lives. Unc was like the Godfather — our world seemed to revolve around him.After the funeral, there was a wake at Unc’s house. The next day, I took off for a show in San Antonio, Texas. I had no idea how I was gonna get through it. I left Batu with the family. They knew him, loved him, and I knew he would get more than enough attention. Everybody loved Batu.When I landed in Texas, I got a frantic phone call.My sister started shrieking. They were crabbing off the pier. They put a chicken neck on the end of a string and threw it in the river. Batu jumped in after it. Batu can’t swim. Bull terriers can’t swim. They sink.Batu sank to the bottom. Everyone started jumping off the pier, right into the river--clothes on, wallets and cell phones in pockets. They were following the trail of bubbles, trying to find Batu. Finally they dug down, found him and fished him out. Mouth to snout resuscitation was not needed. Batu survived.Right after the concert in San Antonio, I flew back. Batu was fine.
I’ve had dogs all my life, but I never had a connection like I had with Batu. I never thought of him as a dog. To me, he was more like a funny little man in a dog suit.Batu had a bark that would make you jump five feet straight up in the air — it was loud and sharp and startling. He didn’t bark much. He was a very calm, laid-back mutt. Not much bothered him. When we would walk the streets of Manhattan, there was so much noise – trucks, sirens, car horns, brakes screeching. Batu never flinched. I could have fired a gun next to his head and he wouldn’t have blinked an eye.Batu had a sense of humor, he liked to play. He was funny. He was photogenic. When I pulled out the camera he’d look right at it.
Batu loved to ride in the car. To the post office, to New York City, or across the country, he was all-in. I’d throw his bed in the back of the car, and I’d have to lift all 70 pounds of him into the back. Then we’d take off. It’s funny; I guess he never knew if we were going a mile away, or a thousand miles away. He was just happy to be along for the ride. He would lie there for hours and hours and not make a sound.I’d have to reach back and shake him just to make sure he was alive.In 2011, Batu and I packed up the Slimousine and moved to Nashville. I wanted to re-pot the plant. Wipe the slate clean. So we drove to Tennessee. Eleven hours. Seven hundred miles. We did it in one day.I love Nashville. I found an apartment in a neighborhood called The Gulch. But after we moved in, Batu’s skin problems started getting worse. He’d always had skin problems, really bad sores between his toes. No one could solve the problem. I took Batu to more vets in more states than any one dog known to man. We tried soaks, meds, diets, boots, salves, and nothing worked. His feet were always pretty bad. In Nashville, Batu’s skin got much worse.How bad? At one point, I took Batu to his vet in Nashville and asked him if we should put him down. I told the vet that if we had to put Batu down, he might as well put me down, too. Maybe we could get two for the price of one.
The sores on his feet were so bad he couldn’t walk. He had sores on his elbows, his back, his chest, even his face. It looked hopeless. Batu was so miserable. So was I. The vet then suggested we put Batu on every dog medication known to man, and if it didn’t kill him, maybe he’d get better.We put poor ol’ Batu on antifungals, antibiotics, prednisone - I changed his diet to an incredibly expensive hypoallergenic dog food. I gave him baths a couple times a week with ridiculously expensive medicated shampoo that I had to leave on for 15 minutes at a time. Eventually Batu got better. We started eliminating drugs, and after a few weeks, Batu was almost back to normal. It was miraculous.Once a month, Batu and I would drive from Nashville back to Baltimore to see my Dad. He had moved nearby to Annapolis--Rat Tail Ridge was too isolated, and hard to maintain, with all the snow in the winter. Stacking firewood alone was a full-time job.Soon after my Dad moved to Annapolis, he fell and broke his hip. The doctors placed him in a hospice. I explained to the people in the hospice how much my Dad loved Batu. To my surprise, they let me take Batu up to my Dad’s room. My Dad would always brighten up when Batu and I arrived. When I got there, I’d lean in close to my Dad's ear (he was hard-of-hearing), as he lay there on the bed with his eyes closed and I’d yell,“WHERE DID YOU HIDE THE MONEY? IS IT BURIED IN THE FRONT YARD?”My Dad would smile, frail, cheeks drawn, and squeeze my hand.
A few days later, my Dad passed away. Batu and I were just about to walk into his room when the nurse walked out and gave me the news. I sat down on a bench in the hall. I took a photo of Batu on the floor.Funerals aren’t funny, in general.My Dad’s was. The service was serious, it was at a Quaker Meeting House in Baltimore, the same one where my cousin Johnny had his service years ago; my Mom and uncle Oscar had their services there.I gave the eulogy at my Dad’s service. Afterwards, people got up and told stories, funny anecdotes, and crazy quotes. It was touching, all the remembrances and memories. I played “Summer Days” after the service. It was a song I wrote for Angela Bofill; she recorded it on her debut CD. It was one of the first songs I wrote while I was at Motown. The first time my Dad heard it, he asked me to play it at his funeral. Thirty-five years later, I did.My Dad had been cremated. He wanted the urn of his ashes buried next to his mother, Angela. I had been to that cemetery many, many times. I remembered one February 14th years ago, roses in hand, Batu and I walking through a foot of snow, trying to find her grave, which was a plaque set in the ground. It was her birthday. Valentine’s Day. I stopped, reached down and scooped out some snow, and as crazy as it seems, there was her gravestone.After my Dad’s service, we went to the gravesite. It was freezing cold. There was a small hole next to Angela’s grave. It looked like it had been dug by a five year-old with a Fischer Price shovel. Some spray paint lined the circumference. Pieces of sod sat nearby. Next to the hole was a small plastic orange sign, stuck on a piece of wire, like a flag, that read,
“Please contact our office.”My Dad would have seen the humor. We left a basil plant at his gravesite, to honor his pesto prowess. His wife took his ashes. Batu and I drove back to Nashville soon after.A few days after we got back to Nashville, my sister called. Her only son had died suddenly and unexpectedly of heart failure. Batu and I got in the car and drove back to Baltimore for the funeral. It was heart-breaking. No parent should ever have to bury a child.I spoke at the funeral. And then Batu and I drove back to Nashville. It was a long drive.A year later, in December 2013, I left Nashville with Batu, and we drove to Breckenridge, Colorado. Batu and I needed a change of scenery.Breckenridge is a charming and lovely ski resort, with a vibe like an old Western mountain town. My brother had rented a place there for Christmas so the family could be together and hang out for a week or so. I took a jar of my Dad’s ashes with me, to give to my brother--which we accidentally dropped on the kitchen floor Christmas night. We scooped them up, and went outside, and scattered them at the foot of the Rockies. Batu was there.
After Christmas, Batu and I drove to Scottsdale, Arizona, stayed for New Year’s Eve, and then drove to Palm Springs, California, where I had some concerts lined up. On the way to Palm Springs, we passed the General Patton Museum. We stopped by the statue of Patton and Willie – those two were the reason I got a bull terrier in the first place.Batu and I got to Palm Springs, and decided to hang out for a while. The weather was wonderful; sunny, warm and dry, with fresh lemons, oranges and grapefruit everywhere. Batu loved it.The first four months of 2014 were the healthiest and happiest days of Batu’s life. All of his skin problems disappeared — it must have been the climate. I put him on a diet. He lost nine pounds. He was in the best shape of his life. Batu seemed to flourish in Palm Springs. He was the King of the Springs.Batu had only one health problem remaining. He had an enlarged heart. Batu would pass out occasionally, drop to the ground like a ton of bricks. It was always very scary. But he always came back.Batu turned 10 on the Cinco de Mayo, 2014. He never looked better. On Mother’s Day, I left for a concert in San Diego. When I left Batu with the dog-sitter, all was great.I did the show that night at Humphrey’s, a cool little club on the bay. That night was one of the happier ones in a long time. I had just done a really good show, my California band was sounding really good, Batu was doing great, we were both digging California - all was good in SlimLand.The next morning I got a text from the dog sitter. I called her, and she told me Batu had fallen asleep the night before – Mother’s Day, May 11th – and never woke up.I couldn’t believe it. When I left he was healthier than ever. There was no way he could be dead. I drove from San Diego to Palm Springs. Three of the longest hours of my life. I could hardly see the road from the tears streaming down my face.
I walked in to the house. Batu was lying on the kitchen floor. I scooped his lifeless body up, and put him in the car, as I’d done so many thousands of times before. And I drove him to the vet to be cremated. When they took him out of the car and walked away, you would have thought that everybody I had ever loved had just gone down on the Titanic. I broke.Three thousand fifty-nine days. That's how long I had Batu.Seems like a long time. It wasn’t nearly long enough. I miss my sidekick. He had been by my side for the past nine years, through the good times and the bad.I started this cookbook when Batu and I started making cooking videos for the Italian American Network. It was early 2006.This recipe was the last recipe I did with Batu. I took the photos for this dish on May 3, 2014. Batu passed away the following week. After a couple of weeks curled up on the floor in the fetal position, crying my eyes out, I decided to start this cookbook.CHICKEN STUFFED WITH GOAT CHEESE
I don’t like wasting food. If I’ve got leftovers in the fridge, as long as they don’t have anything growing on them, I’ll eat ‘em.I had some goat cheese that was on the cusp, so to speak. I took a sniff, and it smelled OK.But I knew I needed to use it soon, so I came up with this brilliant idea--mix it with some scallion and red pepper and make a little stuffing for the chicken breasts I was about to cook.The dinner was actually delizioso.A couple things -Before the lawsuits start flying in, always remember to check the expiration dates on your food. Your nose knows. Take a sniff - when in doubt, throw it out.My brother once made a hot dog late at night, and as he was eating it, I noticed the bottom of the roll was all moldy and green. It was pretty funny - until that night when he threw up in the drawer of the bedside table that we shared.It’s important to check stuff before you stuff your face.Whenever you handle raw chicken, make sure you clean everything it touches really well.As with any recipe, if you don’t like an ingredient, leave it out, or substitute.You guys are smart. With incredibly good taste, I might add. You can do this.INGREDIENTS
¾ cup goat cheese1 tablespoon chopped scallion — the middle part only1 tablespoon minced red bell pepperSalt and fresh-cracked black pepper3 chicken breasts, sliced thin (about ¼ inch thick)
3 slices prosciuttoFlour (1/3 cup should do)1 tablespoon butter1 tablespoon olive oilHere we goPreheat your oven to 400 degrees. Now let’s make our stuffing…Put the goat cheese in a small bowl.Add 
the scallion and red pepper.Add salt and pepper to taste.Mick ‘em up.Set aside. Let’s make some chicken!Lay a chicken breast flat on a plate.Put a slice of prosciutto on half the chicken breast.
Put a couple tablespoons of the goat cheese mixture on top of the prosciutto, spread it around evenly.Fold the breast over, in half.Do this with all 3 of your breasts.Put some flour on a plate, about 1/3 cup. Add some salt and pepper, mix.Grab a folded breast.Place it on the flour.Turn it over, so both sides have been dusted with flour.Do this with all the chicken.Get a sauté pan; put it over medium-high heat.Add the butter and olive oil.When the butter starts to bubble, add the 3 chicken breasts.Cook for 4 minutes.Turn ‘em over, cook on the other side for 4 minutes.Put them in a baking dish, and place in the oven for 5 minutes.Pull ‘em out, check for doneness.If they’re not done, put ‘em back in the oven for a few more minutes.When the chicken breasts are done, dish ‘em up!I did roasted beets with carrots as a side dish, along with some risotto.
MANGIAMO!!!!!
Slim Man Cooks Chicken with Marsala and Porcini Mushrooms
Chicken Marsala with Elvis in Memphis
I was in Memphis in the late 1980s organizing a country music talent contest with my friend Michael.Michael is black. I’m white. Well, Italian.Marlboro sponsored the contest. Why they picked a black guy and a white guy — two city slickers, no less — to do a country music talent contest, is still puzzling.It’s not puzzling why Michael and I did the contest - they paid us a lot of money and they paid all our expenses. I ended up doing four tours for Marlboro. The one with Michael was my first.Michael and I traveled around the USA looking for the next big country music star. We went to more honkytonk hellholes than most cowboys. We’d roll into a town like Memphis, find a club, organize the bands, and do the contest. The grand prize was $50,000. Fifty grand.I was in charge of the bands; I made sure all the musicians knew where to go, what to bring, and what to do. Michael was the MC. He was the Ryan Seacrest of honkytonks. When Michael appeared on stage, and introduced himself to the primarily white, all-country crowd, there was a little apprehension - on both sides of the microphone.He’d come out and say,“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Marlboro Country Music Talent Roundup.”That’s when the crowd got a little quiet. Michael was from New York City, and he sounded like it. He’d continue,“I know I don’t look like the Marlboro Man, and I don’t sound like the Marlboro Man, but tonight…”He’d reach down and put on his white ten-gallon Hoss Cartwright cowboy hat on, and continue,“I am the Marlboro Man.”Michael sounded like Shannon Sharpe — the football player and NFL analyst. He looked like Cleavon Little in Blazing Saddles. Michael always got a laugh when he put the big white hat on. He had a singular charm.Marlboro tossed a lot of money at this thing. We had all kinds of great merchandise — denim jackets, satin jackets, duffle bags, playing cards, T-shirts, polo shirts, denim shirts, posters. And they gave away free cigarettes at every show. All you could smoke.They should have given away a Marlboro coffin. Or maybe a Marlboro iron lung.Here’s how we ran the contest - we had ten bands a night, three nights in a row. Each band got 15 minutes on stage. We had three minutes in between bands, that’s all.Judges picked the winners--not the audience. We’d find judges —usually three — from the local talent pool; DJs, producers, managers, agents. The judges would pick one band to go on to the finals in Nashville, where they would compete with the other finalists from other towns for the grand prize of $50,000.Before we got to Memphis, we got a call from Marlboro headquarters. They told us to be careful. It was the 20th anniversary of Martin Luther King’s assassination in Memphis. And then they told us that the club owner was rumored to have ties to the KKK.The club was called The Vapors, a country music honky-tonk in the middle of Memphis. Michael and I pulled up to the club in our rental car. We walked inside and met the owner. He was friendly. He was as nice and helpful as could be. He wasn’t wearing a white pillowcase over his head.
Michael and I got set up for the show that night. We had to hang all the Marlboro Country Music Roundup signs around the club, we had to make sure the sound company was good to go, the bands ready to play, and the judges prepared to judge.We finished soundcheck and had a few hours before showtime. Michael had a friend who had a limo and tour bus company based in Memphis. She rented these things out to bands and rock stars. She invited us for a limo ride to Graceland and a private tour. She was a friend of Elvis Presley’s Mom.Graceland is the house that Elvis built. It’s now a museum.Michael and I drove over to his friend’s house. She had all these limos and tour buses parked all around her property. She got behind the wheel of one of the limos and Michael and I got in back. She put the big black limo in reverse and floored it.She rammed it into the side of one of her tour buses that was parked right behind her. BANG! We got out, and surveyed the damage. It was substantial — to both the limo and the tour bus.She left the smashed-up limo right there, and got into another one and drove us over to Graceland. She gave us a private tour. We saw the Graceland that not many people get to see. It was surprisingly small, and had a sixties vibe to it—lots of yellow vinyl and white shag carpets and mirrored walls.Elvis must have loved TV. There were TVs everywhere. He had quite a collection of cars, all kinds of exotic sports cars. Elvis also had two luxury jets parked right across the street from Graceland.
After the Graceland tour, Michael and I went to visit the Lorraine Motel, where Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. There were TV news crews doing interviews about the 20th anniversary, and one of them came up to Michael and interviewed him.It was eerie.Michael and I went back to our hotel, a Holiday Inn. We decided to take a jog before the big show that night. We put on our running shoes and started jogging down the streets of Memphis, side-by-side.On our way back, we heard someone shout from a car – you’ll have to excuse the language, but this is the way it went down.“Hey nigguh boy! Hey hippie fag!”True story. That’s exactly what was said. I couldn’t believe my ears. Then I heard it again.“Hey nigguh boy! Hey hippie fag!”Oh, shit, I thought. Here we go. A black guy and a long haired white guy, running down the streets of Memphis. I stopped and looked to see where the voice was coming from.It was the owner of the Vapors. He was laughing, hanging out the window of his car, smacking his hand on the door.“I got you! I got you goin’! See you fellas at the club later! Have a nice run!”
He smiled and waved and drove off, laughing.He got us, all right.We did the contest that night at The Vapors. The owner couldn’t have been nicer, the crowd was as cool as could be and the show went as smooth as glass.I love Memphis - Sun Studio, Graceland, Beale Street - and any city with a restaurant named Automatic Slim’s is OK in my book.CHICKEN WITH MARSALA AND PORCINI MUSHROOMSAutomatic Slim’s did not have chicken Marsala on the menu. But they should have!I came up with this dish a few weeks ago. I used porcini mushrooms and the water they soak in. It was amazing, if I may say so myself.The next night I cooked it for a very beautiful woman of excellent taste, and it was just OK. I overcooked the chicken, and it was a bit tough and dry; so don’t overcook your chicken.I like to serve this sauce over egg noodles – not a lot, just a little bit underneath each serving.I used three boneless, skinless chicken breasts. They were real thick, so I cut each of them in half. I had six cutlets, each was about ¼ inch thick.Marsala is a wine from Marsala, Sicily. There are basically two kinds; dry and sweet. I used sweet Marsala.Be careful when handling raw chicken—clean every surface it touches, wash your hands, and get out the pressure washer and put on the HazMat suit.
INGREDIENTS6 chicken breast cutlets, about ¼ inch thick½ ounce dried porcini mushrooms (soaked in 1 cup of water for a minimum of 20 minutes—don’t throw out the water!)2 tablespoons butter2 tablespoons olive oil½ shallot, chopped fine, about 2 tablespoons3 garlic cloves, sliced thin, about 1 tablespoon¾ cup sweet Marsala1 cup of water1 tablespoon fresh rosemary, chopped½ pound of egg noodles – pappardelle work wellKosher salt and pepper to tasteHere we go…Rinse off your chicken breasts and pat them dry with paper towels.Remove the porcini mushrooms from the cup of water with a slotted spoon.Take the remaining porcini water and strain through cheesecloth — I used a coffee filter, by the way. I’ve even used paper towels as strainers. Whatever you use, save the water – you’ll use a half cup for the sauce, and a half cup in the pasta water, if you want to put the sauce over pasta.Rinse off the mushrooms and pat dry. Chop into small pieces.Grab your breasts. Then grab your chicken breasts. Notice the difference. Salt and pepper the top of the chicken breasts. Fresh cracked black pepper is the way to go. Salt and pepper just one side of the chicken breasts.
Let’s make the sauce first.Put a small sauté pan over medium heat.Add one tablespoon of butter, and one tablespoon of olive oil.When the butter starts to bubble, add the shallots.Cook and stir for 2 minutes, until the shallots just start to brown.Add the garlic, cook for 2 minutes. Give it a stir.Add the Marsala.Add ½ cup of porcini water.Turn the heat to high and let it cook for 2 minutes.Turn the heat to medium-low, and add the porcini mushrooms.Cook for 2 minutes while stirring.Add the rosemary. Cook and stir for 2 minutes.Remove from heat. Sauce is done!Let’s do the chicken.
Get a large sauté pan (I used a 12 inch skillet). Put it over medium-high heat.Add 1 tablespoon of butter and 1 tablespoon of olive oil.When the butter starts to bubble, add the chicken breasts, salted/peppered side down.Cook for 2 or 3 minutes until golden.Flip ‘em over.Cook for 2 or 3 minutes on the other side until golden. Give a cutlet a slice, make sure it’s done.Pour the Marsala/porcini sauce over the breasts.Remove from heat!Plate ‘em up! You can put this sauce over egg noodles, or rice, or eat it as is.I like to put this sauce over egg noodles--pappardelle are my favorite. I use a half-pound. Get a large pot, fill it with cold water. Add the remaining ½ cup of porcini water to the pasta water. When it all comes to a boil, add 2 tablespoons of kosher salt.Add the egg noodles, cook until al dente, drain and drizzle with a tablespoon of olive oil. Stir.Put A SMALL PORTION of egg noodles on a plate. Put some Marsala sauce over the noodles, put a chicken breast on top, spoon some sauce and juice and mushrooms on top and…
MANGIAMO!!!!!!!!!
Slim Man Cooks Arancini
Arancini and Christmas 2013For the record, when I die, I want a Viking funeral. They put your body on a small wooden boat, cover you with hay, float you out on the water, and shoot flaming arrows until the hay catches fire. Then the boat burns and sinks.Is that too much to ask?In November, 2013, I drove from my home in Nashville to my hometown of Baltimore. Seven hundred miles. Eleven hours. Batu, my bull terrier, drove with me. We did it in one day.A couple days later, I dropped Batu off with a friend who just loves Batu and loves taking care of him. Then I flew to Madrid to work on the new Bona Fide CD with guitarist Marc Antoine. He had volunteered to produce and mix.Two weeks later, the CD was almost finished – all it needed was a couple of tweaks. I left Madrid, flew back to Baltimore, and picked up Batu. I was getting ready to drive back to Nashville when I got a phone call.My Dad’s second wife had passed away in Annapolis, Maryland. She was young, and it was so sad. My Dad had passed away two years before — on January 4th. He was cremated.I went to the memorial service for my stepmom. It was heart-breaking. It had to be tough for her two kids. Right before I left, her son — my half-brother — gave me two jars of my Dad’s ashes. One for me and one for my brother.Batu and I drove from Baltimore to Nashville the next day. I stayed a few days in Music City, and then packed up some things – including the jar of my Dad’s ashes for my brother – and Batu and I decided to head west. Destination? Breckenridge, Colorado, a skiing village in the Rocky Mountains. My brother, the Slim Bro, had rented an apartment so the family could spend Christmas together.My plan was to hang out in Breckenridge for Christmas with la famiglia, go to Scottsdale for New Years, and then head to Palm Springs, California, for a couple months of Slim Gigs. So I packed up the Slimousine, threw Batu in the back and we left Nashville and drove west.Batu and I got to Breckenridge safe and sound. We drove 1200 miles. It took us two days. We checked in to the apartment. It was pretty nice, on the ground floor, right in downtown Breckenridge.
Batu and I sat on the couch. I was reading the brochure for the apartment when I noticed there was a $100 dollar-a-day fine for having a dog. A hundred bucks a day. It was too late to find a new place. So I had to keep Batu on the QT, the Down Low and the Hush-Hush.My brother walked in. It was so great to see him. I hadn’t seen him since our Dad’s funeral. I gave him the jar of our Dad’s ashes. He put it on top of the refrigerator.Breckenridge was bitter cold. I woke up one morning and it was one degree outside. We were at 10,000 feet. I went jogging, like a fool. I jogged around the mountain. It was exhilarating – clear and sunny and beautiful and freezing cold.On Christmas Day, my brother, the family and I went to an absinthe bar on Main Street. I had never had absinthe. I’d heard about it. It’s an alcoholic beverage that is supposed to make you really crazy.How crazy? Well, rumor has it that one time Van Gogh drank way too much of the stuff, then cut off his ear and gave it to a prostitute.I’m sure she would have preferred to be paid in cash.So, on Christmas Day, we, the Slim Crew, went into the absinthe bar in Breckenridge, Colorado. We sat down. The waitress came over and started explaining the different kinds of absinthe. I think she must have tried most of them within the past hour, because her eyes had that space alien luminescence about them. And her ear was missing.The absinthe was expensive. Twenty bucks a shot.We ordered a couple. Only one of us had tried absinthe before. That person — I won’t say who – drank a lot of absinthe the night before a wedding, took a fire extinguisher off the hotel wall and sprayed everybody in sight.
The waitress brought over two glasses of absinthe, one clear and one green. She put a small strainer over top of each glass, and placed a cube of sugar on top of the strainer. She brought over a samovar of ice water, and placed the two glasses under the two faucets. She let the water drip slowly over the sugar cube, through the strainer, and into the absinthe.When the cube dissolved, we turned off the faucet, and we each took a sip. It tasted like old bathwater, smelled like stinky sweat socks and kicked like a mule. We passed the two glasses around, and drank. When we finished, we walked in the snow through the quaint little village, which was all decked out in lights and wreaths and ribbons.The town was glowing. We were also glowing – like nuclear waste. I don’t know if it was the absinthe or what, but we were definitely feeling merry and bright.When we got back to the apartment, we had a traditional Christmas dinner — turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes. We drank wine. Not that we needed to. After we finished, as we were cleaning up, someone — I won’t say who — knocked the jar of my Dad’s ashes off the top of the refrigerator. It shattered on the kitchen floor.We all stood in silence for a moment. Then we started laughing.Why were we laughing? You’d have to know my Dad. He was a professor of philosophy and literature; a tough and gruff and grouchy curmudgeon who also had an incredible sense of humor. He once taught a course in comedy. He had a great laugh, his eyes would squint, he’d throw back his head, and he’d let it out.We all looked at his ashes there on the floor. What to do?We gathered up the ashes in a dustpan, picked out the glass as best we could, and went outside in the cold, dark night. I took the dustpan, and scattered his ashes in a schoolyard behind the apartment. Then we gathered in a circle, held hands, and mumbled something that sounded like a prayer.That was our Christmas. But that’s not the end of the story.When it came time to check out of the pet-unfriendly apartment, it was just me and Batu, cleaning and packing. My brother and family had checked out earlier. Check out time was 10 AM. At 10:05, there was a loud knocking on the door.“Time to check out!”Apparently, they were not only pet-unfriendly, they were people-unfriendly as well. Batu started barking. His bark could make Superman jump.I tried to get Batu to shut up. As the knocking got louder, so did Batu’s bark. All I could think about was paying the $100 a day dog fine. I grabbed Batu, lifted him up, and went out to the balcony of the apartment. I lifted all 70 pounds of him over the four-foot railing and dropped him in a snowdrift (don’t call PETA, we were on the first floor).
I grabbed his bed and tossed it over. Then I jumped over the railing, into the snow drift. I scooped up Batu, grabbed his bed and ran to the car. I threw the bed in the car, put Batu on top of the bed, and ran back to the balcony.I jumped the railing, went inside, and went to the front door. I opened it. The guy who was knocking came in and started looking around. There was obviously no dog. He walked around, and then left without saying a word. I packed my car and took off with Batu.We drove from Breckenridge to Scottsdale, Arizona. It was treacherous — up and down icy, snowy two-lane roads. The car was skidding all over, and there were no guard rails. The drop was precipitous. The drive took forever. I had the death grip on the steering wheel. It was tense. A trip that should have taken 10 hours took 20.But we made it. That’s my Christmas story for 2013. Happy Holidays.
ARANCINIWant to make people happy around the Holidays? Make some arancini! Arancini are Sicilian rice balls stuffed with mozzarella cheese.Arancia is the Italian word for oranges. Arancini means “small oranges” which is the size and shape these rice balls should be.Two cups of leftover risotto should make about seven or eight small rice balls.In the past, I’ve used mozzarella for the stuffing. One night, all I had was goat cheese. So I used that, and I loved the way it tasted. If you are using mozzarella, cut it into small cubes, two for each rice ball. If you are using goat cheese, roll it into seven or eight small balls – each about the size of a grape.Eight ounces of cheese should be more than enough for seven or eight arancini.INGREDIENTS2 cups leftover risotto – I used some risotto with shrimp and peas I had cooked the previous night½ cup of flour3 eggs1 and ¼ cups breadcrumbs (I use panko)½ pound of mozzarella, cut into 16 small cubes, or ½ pound of goat cheese, rolled into 8 small balls¼ cup olive oilHere we go…Take the leftover risotto, put it in a large mixing bowl.Put the flour on a plate.Break 2 eggs into a bowl, add some salt and pepper, and mick ‘em up.On another flat plate, add 1 cup of breadcrumbs.Break an egg into the risotto, and add the remaining ¼ cup of breadcrumbs.Mix the risotto, the egg, and the breadcrumbs by hand. Mick ‘em up.Take a small amount of risotto. Put it in the palm of your hand, roll it in a ball--about the size of a small orange. Poke a hole in it, add 2 cubes of mozzarella in the center, or one goat cheese ball, and fold the rice over the mozzarella.
Take the rice ball, roll it in the flour, and then dip it in the egg. Let the excess drip off, and then roll the rice ball around in the breadcrumbs until it's coated. Keep making the rice balls until all the risotto is gone.Put the olive oil (you can also use canola) in a large sauté pan over medium-high heat. I used a 12” pan.When the oil is hot, put your rice balls in the pan, and sauté until golden on the bottom, about 3 or 4 minutes. Don’t burn your balls.Turn them over, and sauté on the other side, about 3 or 4 minutes, until golden brown.When done, put ‘em on a platter lined with paper towels.Dish ‘em up!Eat immediately. Serve with some absinthe and go nuts!
MANGIAMO!!!!
Slim Man Cooks Luigi's Chicken
Luigi’s Chicken and Luigi
Luigi was my grandfather. Luigi Quintiliano. Grandpa Luke is what I called him. He was quite a character, a tough guy, an Italian immigrant. He left Italy, came to New York City, got his start as a tailor in a sweatshop, and then got involved in the labor unions.Luigi was an anarchist. Just so you don’t have to look it up, an anarchist is someone who doesn’t believe in government, thinks we might be better off running things on our own.Luigi was a political activist; he helped edit the anti-Fascist Italian newspaper Il Martello, which was started by labor organizer Carlo Tresca. Tresca survived an assassination attempt by Fascists, but was later gunned down by the Mafia because he insulted a mob boss.Luigi was also secretary of the Italian Committee for Political Victims, which raised money to defend Italians who had been imprisoned because of their political beliefs. Luigi helped raise funds for Sacco and Vanzetti, two Italian anarchists who had been accused of murder and robbery.Most folks conclude that they were railroaded. Luigi testified at their trial. Sacco and Vanzetti were convicted of murder in 1921. The case was appealed. For the next six years, the Sacco and Vanzetti case got worldwide attention. Protests were held in most major cities in the world.Luigi helped raise money for the appeals process to try to get them acquitted. But in 1927, the verdict was upheld, and Sacco and Vanzetti were executed. Most scholars agree that they were convicted because of their anarchist beliefs, not because they were guilty of murder.Luigi carried a gun, a 32 automatic. He was handsome, well-dressed and elegant. He was also an anarchist, a radical, an activist. But to me, he was Grandpa Luke; the guy who gave me silver dollars and said “donna tella nobody.” He was always so sweet to me.
I didn’t find out until I was older that Luigi wasn’t my real grandfather. My real grandfather died before I was born. Luigi was my grandmother’s…boyfriend? That sounds weird. Lover? Even weirder, especially for a grandson. They were in love, Angela and Luigi. That’s for sure.Even though they were never married, a lot of folks knew them as husband and wife. In the US census in 1940, they were listed as Luigi and Angela Quintiliano. Back in those days, two people in love didn’t just shack up. They usually got married if they wanted to live together. But Luigi, being an anarchist and all, didn’t believe in marriage. Even though Angela and Luigi never got married, I know they loved each other.Luigi had a sister, Estherina, who was a nun. She was in a convent in Italy, and then later was assigned to a convent in New Jersey. Estherina wasn’t too happy about her situation in Jersey. Apparently, the convent in Italy was a lot more respectful of the nuns than the convent in Jersey. I imagine the food in the Italian convent was a little bit better than the one in Jersey.Estherina was miserable.Luigi was more than happy to help Estherina leave the convent. Luigi told Estherina that his friend, Joe, had agreed to marry her, so she could stay in this country.Luigi arranged for my uncle Oscar — Angela’s oldest son–to get her out of the convent.Oscar and a friend drove to the convent in New Jersey, snuck Estherina out of a window, over a wall, and then drove her to Baltimore. Luigi introduced Estherina to his friend Joe, and they got married. Luigi wanted Estherina to get married in order to become a US citizen, but he didn’t want her to stay married. But something crazy happened…Estherina and Joe fell in love. They moved up to Flushing, Queens and lived happily ever after in New York.Luigi continued his anti-marriage crusade. When Oscar was getting ready to get married, Luigi was against it. Oscar’s fiancé’s family was against it as well. They offered Oscar money not to get married.Luigi got offended. On one hand, he was against marriage. But on the other hand, Luigi was pissed off that they thought Oscar wasn’t good enough to marry their daughter. Harsh words were exchanged.Oscar’s fiancé’s family threatened Luigi with a gun. Luigi said, “You better not miss, because I never do.”There was always a lot of animosity between the families, but never any gunfire. Oscar got married anyway.When my Dad fell in love with my Mom and wanted to get married, he brought her to meet Angela and Luigi. Luigi made a feast. He made antipasti, pasta, cutlets, sauces, meats, and he kept serving my Mom.My Mom, being ever so gracious, ate what was served. Luigi was amazed that she hung in there like a real Italian. It was like he was testing her, and she passed with flying colors.Luigi developed a soft spot in his heart for my Mom. You could see he loved her.Luigi was still against marriage, so I guess that’s why my Mom and Dad eloped—they got married in New Orleans.
Luigi and Angela eventually broke up. I guess a girl can only take not being married for so long. Angela broke it off, somewhat reluctantly. I have letters from Angela to Luigi, and they are so sad. Angela really loved Luigi, but he couldn’t commit, couldn’t let himself go.What a shame.When Angela died, I was going through her stuff, and found Luigi’s gun at the bottom of a trunk. I still have it. It’s the only thing of Luigi’s I have, besides a few letters and this recipe…LUIGI’S CHICKENLuigi used to make this dish with rabbit. I don’t know if it’s because I love Bugs Bunny so much, but I’m not crazy about eating rabbit. I don’t wake up in the middle of the night and say “Damn! I wish I had me some rabbit to nibble on.”When I cook this dish, I use chicken. Most times, I use organic free-range chicken, although in all the western movies I’ve seen, and in all my travels, I’ve never seen herds of wild chickens roaming the free range. I’ve seen buffalo roaming. I’ve seen horses. But never chickens.When I first cooked this dish, I used chicken on the bone. I had my butcher dude chop each breast into three or four pieces, and each thigh into two pieces.When I cooked this recently for a lady people friend of mine, she mentioned that chicken cut like that would never fly in a restaurant – people might choke on the bones. She told me I should use boneless chicken.I felt like grabbing Luigi’s gun and firing a couple of rounds in the ceiling, but I didn’t. I just agreed.You know what? She’s right. You don’t want Grandpa Luke choking on a chicken bone!So the next time I made Luigi’s chicken, I used boneless, skinless chicken breasts and thighs. It was real good, but I thought that it could be even a bit mo’ better with just chicken thighs. Boneless, skinless chicken breasts don’t hold up well in a dish like this; they tend to get a little dry.So last night I cooked this dish with boneless, skinless chicken thighs. And it tasted really good. Moist and delizioso! I dig the dark meat, it really made this dish sing. Zippity Do Dah!I used about 2 pounds of chicken thighs. You need to cut them into thick pieces, about the size and shape of a flattened egg. Or a big chicken McNugget.The chicken needs to brown. That means the oil has to be hot enough so the chicken sears, but not too hot that it burns and sticks to the bottom of the pot. The chicken should sizzle when you first put it in. Don’t stir it around, let it sit and brown.. Each piece has to brown on each side. This is important; browning sears in the juices so the chicken doesn’t dry out. Browning also gives the stew a nice color.If the chicken thighs take longer than 5 minutes to brown on one side, your heat ain’t high enough.Dutch ovens are good for searing, and then making a stew like this. I used a 7-quart (12” diameter) Dutch oven. You can use any big, heavy pot.You’ll need to peel the pearl onions. It’s easy. Drop them (with the skin on) in boiling water for a few minutes. Remove, and cut off the tip of the root end. Grab the pearl onion by the top, and squeeze the onion out of the skin.In the video, I cook the pearl onions and the chicken together. I was using a really big Dutch oven, and everything fit easily. If you’re using a smaller, 7-quart Dutch oven, brown the chicken first, take it out, and then brown the pearl onions.And please be careful when you light the Cognac on fire. Stand back! It’s explosive. Have the water pistol loaded and ready.INGREDIENTS8 boneless, skinless chicken thighs, about 2 pounds, cut into large cubesFlour (a half cup should do) plus 1 tablespoon5 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil3 dozen or so pearl onions peeled (about 2 cups)2 ounces of Cognac (about ¼ cup)3 cups sliced white mushrooms1 ½ cups of chopped celery5 garlic cloves, chopped fine (about 2 tablespoons)2 ½ cups chicken stock1 cup dry red wine1 tablespoon fresh chopped rosemaryKosher SaltFreshly ground black pepperHERE WE GO!Rinse your chicken pieces in cold water.Pat dry with paper towels.Take some flour, put it on a plate.Take each piece of chicken, and roll it in the flour, coating all sides lightly.Do this with all the chicken. Salt and pepper the tops of the floured chicken pieces.Put some olive oil, a generous 3 tablespoons, in the bottom of a large pan or Dutch oven over medium-high heat.Let the pan heat for 2 minutes, and then add the chicken; salted/peppered side down.Add a little salt and pepper to the tops of the chicken pieces. Don’t stir; let the chicken brown for 4 or 5 minutes. The chicken needs to be BROWN, Slim People.Flip the pieces over and brown on the other side – still no stirring – for 4 or 5 minutes.Remove the chicken from the pan, and put on a plate.Put the onions in the pan and let them brown for about 3 minutes.Turn them over, and let them brown on the other side for about 3 minutes..Add the Cognac to the onions.Be careful!! Get a lighter with a long handle, and stand back as you light the Cognac on fire—it’s gonna explode!When the flames die down, and your wig has stopped burning, add the mushrooms and celery. Add a tablespoon of olive oil.Give’em a stir. Scrape the delicious bits off the bottom of the pan.Let the celery and mushrooms cook for 5 minutes, stir often.Add the garlic, cook for 3 minutes.Now, put the chicken back in the pan.Add 2 cups of the chicken stock.Add the cup of red wine.Add the rosemary.Turn the heat on high.When it comes to a boil, let it boil for a few minutes, then reduce the heat to medium-low, and cook, uncovered, for 10 minutes.Take a tablespoon of flour, whisk it in the remaining half-cup of chicken broth, and stir it into the sauce. The sauce needs to be thick, like gravy.Turn the heat to simmer, and cover and cook for about 30 minutes, until the chicken is tender, and the gravy is gravylicious! Stir every so often.Taste the sauce for salt and pepper and adjust.You can serve it as is, with some crusty bread or over egg noodles—I use a half-pound of pappardelle. You might want to cook them first.Cook the pasta according to the instructions. Drain, put in a bowl and drizzle with the final tablespoon of olive oil.Pour some of Luigi’s chicken over the egg noodles, make it look nice, and…MANGIAMO!
Slim Man Cooks Chicken Piccata
Chicken Piccata and Hobnobbin’ with Slim Slimski
Follow a transvestite while he/she shops for clothes. Go to an underground tattoo parlor, get a tattoo, then go to a dermatologist and get it removed with a laser.Those are just a few of the episodes we did for a TV show called Hobnobbin’ With Slim Slimski.Rei Spinnicchio was the director. He was the cameraman. He was also the editor, the light guy, the sound guy. He was the guy. The guy behind the camera. I was the guy in front of the camera. It was just the two of us, thinking up wacky segments to shoot.We would then go around our hometown of Baltimore, Maryland, and film these episodes. Most of the stuff was completely spontaneous. Well, we’d make appointments; but what we did when we got there was just run and gun — improvise, see what happens. No script. It was a lot of fun. Nerve-wracking fun.Rei had the idea to follow a transvestite while he/she shopped for clothes. "He" was a man, dressed as a woman. He called himself Marilyn. Most of the clothes shops we visited were in Fells Point, which is a funkified neighborhood deep in the heart of Baltimore. Marilyn seemed to like biker clothes—black leather motorcycle jackets, things like that. A man, dressed as a woman, shopping for biker clothes.In another episode, we went to an underground tattoo parlor. It was in this guy’s kitchen, in his small apartment, in a nasty section of town. Strange-looking folks were waiting around to get tattoos. It wasn’t the cleanest place in the world and he was making some of the most bizarre tattoos I’ve ever seen.Of course, I got one. The tattoo guy asked me what I wanted. I asked for a simple heart with “Mom” in the middle, on the inside of my forearm.I got tattooed. The guy didn’t use any ink—he must have run out! So I felt the pain, but got no stain. It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. Even without the ink, you could clearly see the tattoo. The skin was raised and red and it looked like I had been branded with a branding iron.I showed my Mom and she thought it was real. Then she hit me in the head with a frying pan.Just kidding. How could she be mad? I got “Mom” tattooed on my arm!I went to the dermatologist soon after to see what it was like to get a tattoo removed. I wasn’t the first in line. There was a woman before me who wanted to get a big eagle tattoo removed from her chest. She was complaining that the wings of the eagle looked like chest hair when she wore low-cut shirts.The dermatologist let Rei and I sit in on her tattoo removal. We all had to wear special goggles, so the laser wouldn’t fry our eyeballs. We looked like mad scientists. The doctor placed the laser pen on her tattoo and zapped. She flinched, like she’d just been Tasered. He put the pen back on the tattoo and zapped. She flinched again. He’d zap, she’d flinch, dozens of times - it went on way too long, like a torture session. She looked like she was having some kind of strange conniptions every couple seconds.
Rei and I were filming and watching all this play out with our mad scientist goggles on. I wanted to jump in, wave the white flag, blow the whistle, toss in the towel, call off the dogs.The doctor finally relented. The woman got out of her chair. The tattoo was still visible. Doctor Dude told us that a tattoo that big and dark would need a couple of sessions to remove. The gal didn’t look too happy. Plus, she had to pay for all this. She zombie-walked out of there.I sat down in the chair. The doctor revved up the laser and zapped me. It didn’t hurt as much as the time I got my genitalia caught in my zipper, but it was close. The laser hurt more than getting the tattoo. After a bunch of zaps, my skin was on fire. I would have confessed to anything, just to make it stop.No wonder that poor woman was flailing around like that.For another episode of Hobnobbin’ With Slim Slimski, we went to the Timonium Fairgrounds for the 4H festival. 4H stands for Head, Heart, Health, and Hands. It’s a collection of young folks trying to improve urban, suburban and rural communities.I walked into a large barn, with Rei following and filming. Some of these young folks were demonstrating how to milk a cow.I like farm animals. They look OK from a distance. But I’ve never felt the strong urge to get real close to any of them, let alone start mangling their mammaries. The cow they wanted me to milk was named Leslie. Really.I walked up to Leslie and sat down on a stool by her rear legs. She turned her huge head around and stared me up and down with these big dark eyeballs. I looked her in the eye, and then looked down at her udders and…It was a little too soon for me. Call me old-fashioned, but I think it’s more appropriate to go out on a few dates, have some drinks, get to know a female before you start yanking on her breastages.Then Leslie winked. I think she liked me. I liked her, too. But sadly, that was the end of our relationship. I walked away, knowing I did the honorable thing.The highlight of the 4H festival was Rei following me around, cameras rolling, as I walked among the fairgrounds, checking out the games; you know the kind - games where you throw a hardball and try to knock down some pins, or you try to shoot a basketball into a hoop a million times in a row or you throw darts at balloons or toss Ping-Pong balls into small gold fish bowls.If you win, they give you prizes, like huge stuffed animals. Those kinds of games.As we were checking out the games, I walked by a dunking booth. Let me explain the dunking booth. A guy sits in a chair over a pool of water. There is a target over his head. You buy three hardballs, and if you hit the target, the guy gets dunked in the water.This guy was hurling insults at people as they passed by. Calling people all kinds of nasty names. As I walked by, the guy got quiet. Then, all of a sudden I heard…“Hey, you! Donkey Face!”
That’s what he said. Donkey Face. I kept walking. I had long hair in a ponytail. The guy kept shouting,“Hey you! Donkey Face! With the ponytail! You can’t cut off that pony tail ‘cause it goes with your donkey head!”That’s what he said.I stopped walking.“That’s right! Donkey Face! I’m talkin’ to YOU! Uno, dos, tres, come on, hit me Donkey Face!”He kept chanting.“Uno, dos, tres, come on, hit me Donkey Face!!”A crowd started to gather. That made him scream louder.“Uno, dos, tres, come on, hit me Donkey Face!”I calmly walked over to the booth and bought three balls. He kept chanting. I reared my arm back and threw as hard as I could. I nailed the target with the first throw. Bulls-eye. He fell in the water with a huge splash.But the damage was done. When my friends and family saw that video footage, they didn’t say, “That’s not funny. That guy was way out of line. Glad you nailed him.”No. Instead, they started calling me Donkey Face. Not behind my back. Right in front of my face. Friends, band members, and family. My own father called me Donkey Face.Not all the time.Just most of the time.Rei and I pitched the Hobnobbin’ with Slim Slimski TV show around to whoever would look. We had a couple of people interested. And then, suddenly nothing happened. I guess we were way ahead of our time. Again.
CHICKEN SLIMMATA PICCATAAfter clothes shopping with a transvestite, there’s nothing like a home-cooked meal. This dish is perfect after a long day at work.I began with 3 large boneless, skinless chicken breasts that were a little too thick for this dish. So I cut them in half, and it worked out fine.INGREDIENTS6 chicken cutlets, each about 1/2 inch thick½ cup flourSalt and pepper2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil2 tablespoons butter¼ cup white wine½ cup chicken broth2 tablespoons fresh squeezed lemon juice (no seeds!)2 tablespoons capersA few sprigs of parsley for garnish
Here we go…Heat your oven to warm (the lowest setting).Rinse off your chicken breasts and pat dry with a paper towel.Put the flour on a flat plate. Add salt and fresh cracked black pepper.Take a chicken cutlet, put it in the flour. Turn it over. Make sure both sides are lightly coated. Shake off any excess flour.Repeat with all 6 pieces of chicken.Put the oil and butter in a large sauté pan over medium heat. When the butter starts to bubble, put the chicken in the pan.Cook for 3 minutes or until golden brown on the underside. Use your tongs and turn them over.Cook for 3 minutes on the other side. Check for doneness. If done, place them on a plate and set them in a warm oven. If not, cook for another minute or so until done, then place them in the oven.Turn the heat on the empty sauté pan to medium-high. Add the white wine and stir and scrape (deglaze the pan) for a minute or so.Add the chicken broth and capers. Cook while stirring for a minute or two.Add the lemon juice and cook and stir for a minute or two.Take your breasts out of the warm oven. Place them on a nice platter. Pour a little sauce over each breast, garnish with lemon and parsley, and…
MANGIAMO!!!!!
Slim Man Cooks Italian Chicken Soup
Chicken Soup and My Dad's Eyebrows
My Dad (I called him Paps) had eyebrows that looked like two small porcupines had perched above his eyes. His eyebrows were so wild and wooly he could have combed them straight back and it would have looked like he had a full head of hair.Paps was bald. Maybe that’s why he wouldn’t let anybody trim his eyebrows. It was the last patch of thick hair he had on his head. You would have needed a weed-whacker to trim them, anyway.We kids would beg my Dad to trim the shrubbery, but he wouldn’t. The barber would offer to clip the hedges, and my Dad would refuse.His eyebrows were a topic of conversation among the family. They were hard to ignore. They’d enter the room a few minutes before he would. You could have braided them. As my Dad got older, his eyebrows got hairier and more wiry. If you got too close to him, they’d poke your eyes out.My Dad was the least modest person I knew. He let it all hang out. I don’t feel bad telling stories like these, because I’ve told tell them many times, right in front of him. And he’d be the one laughing the hardest. That was one of the many beautiful things about Paps — even though he was a serious guy, he didn’t take himself real seriously.But he had some real serious eyebrows that he never trimmed. Except once.My Dad had come down to Baltimore to fix up his Mom’s house. Angela had died a few months prior — April, 1975. I was living with her when she passed away. It was a horrible time. She was so sick and in so much pain. After she died, I continued to stay in her house, which was near Pimlico Racetrack, a horse racing track where they have the Preakness Stakes race.I idolized Angela. She was an Italian immigrant who came to this country with nothing and made an incredible impact on this world. She was such a comfort to be around; she was easy to talk to. She was generous. She paid for my piano lessons, even bought me an upright to practice on. When she died, I was heartbroken.I wanted to keep on living in the house, but my Dad and his only brother, Oscar, wanted to sell the place. The neighborhood was going downhill--probably because I was living there. So my Dad came down from New York to get the house ready to put on the market.One night, after a hard day’s work on the house, my Dad and I were sitting at the kitchen table. He wanted to cook something in the oven. It was one of those old gas stoves that you had to light by hand. Paps turned the gas on.
I explained to him that you had to light the stove by hand. He bent over, opened the oven door, and struck a match. Before I could stop him, a blast of flame knocked him flat on his ass. I thought for sure that his face was fried.But it wasn’t. He was sitting on the kitchen floor, facial hair smoldering. I helped him up and sat him in a chair.His eyebrows were trimmed at last. As a matter of fact, I think they might have saved his life. The flame probably had a hard time burning through the shrubbery that was his eyebrows, which probably saved his face from getting flame-broiled. His eyebrows looked normal for once. That was the one and only time my Dad’s eyebrows got trimmed.We worked on the house just about every day, cleaning, painting and fixing everything up. I was really struggling with the loss of Angela. We were real close. One day, when I was feeling low, my Dad took me to the racetrack, which was right up the street. He thought it might take my mind off things. We walked up the street to Pimlico racetrack.On the way, Paps found a wallet in the bushes stuffed with cash—hundreds of dollars. Paps looked at the address on the driver’s license, and we walked to the house. Paps walked up and knocked on the door. A guy answered, and my Dad handed him the wallet. I’ll never forget the look of relief and gratitude on the guy’s face. He offered my Dad some money. He didn’t take it.Paps and I walked to Pimlico racetrack, a thoroughbred track. When we got there, he explained to me how to bet, how to pick horses. I wasn’t paying attention. If I liked the way a horse looked, I’d bet a couple bucks. If I liked the jockey’s colors, I’d bet a couple bucks.I lost every race. I was more depressed than ever! When the last race came around, Paps explained that it was a trifecta, which means, if you pick all three of the winning horses in order, you win big.I picked the #2 horse to come in first, the #1 horse to come in second, and the #4 horse to come in third.2-1-4. It was Angela’s birthday, February 14th—2-1-4.The horses took off out of the starting gate. For the whole race, the #2 horse was in front, the #1 horse was second and the #4 horse was third. When they crossed the finish line, the #5 horse beat out the #4 horse for third place. The final order was 2-1-5. I was a big loser!I showed my Dad my ticket, and then threw it on the ground. He picked it up, gave it back to me and told me that the race wasn’t official yet. He explained that the race wasn’t official until they had a chance to review the race, which took a couple minutes.A voice came over the PA system. There was an objection against the #5 horse--he had bumped into the #4 horse right before the end of the race. The officials then disqualified the #5 horse, and the final, official result was 2-1-4.I won $899 on that race. I could feel my grandmother smiling down on me.We went back to the house, and the next day, started working again. We eventually got the place all fixed up. It didn’t take long to sell Angela’s house. It was a great place, with an apartment on the second floor that had a big balcony off the main bedroom. I hated to see the place go.
My Dad took the money from the sale of Angela’s house and bought a place in upstate New York. It was called Rat Tail Ridge. Forty acres on top of a mountain with a view that was breathtaking.One door closes, another one opens.ITALIAN CHICKEN SOUPThe toughest thing about making Italian chicken soup is finding an Italian chicken. They’re usually the ones in the corner of the coop, drinking wine and arguing.My Dad loved soup. He was a soup guy. Maybe it was because he lived on Top of Old Smokey, where it was so cold that bears knocked on the front door looking for a place to hibernate. Hot soup works wonders when you come in from the cold.I roasted a chicken the other day. I used my Mom’s recipe, which is basically sticking a whole lemon inside the chicken and baking it. The next day was a cold and rainy winter day, so I made some soup from the chicken.If you have leftover chicken (turkey works, too), here’s what you do - pick the meat off the bones and the carcass. I usually end up with about three cups of chicken meat. Throw away the stuff you don’t like—fat, skin, small bones and such.I broke the carcass into two pieces. I used those and a couple leg and wing bones in the soup — they add great flavor. Just make sure you remove all the bones and stuff before you serve the soup. Take a slotted spoon and go fishing for bones or skin and remove them. You don’t want any of your guests breaking a bicuspid on a chicken bone.After you’ve made the soup, if there is any fat on top, skim it off.You can serve this soup as is, or you can add some pasta or rice.I like using small pasta, like ditalini. I cook the pasta separately, and put some in each individual bowl. I used to put it right in the soup and let it cook in there, but the pasta absorbs too much broth, and gets soggy.You’ll need to smoosh the Italian tomatoes before you add them to the soup. Open the can, pour them in a bowl, and dig in with your mitts and smoosh ‘em up! Remove the small yellow core from each tomato, and any skin or stems.
INGREDIENTS¼ cup of olive oil1 cup each — chopped celery, carrots, and onion4 garlic cloves, minced2 cups cabbage — I used Napa cabbage — sliced into small pieces8 cups chicken brothChicken or turkey carcass and bones2 cups water1 bay leaf1 twenty-eight ounce can whole, peeled Italian tomatoes, smooshed up by hand2 tablespoons fresh oregano, or 1 tablespoon dried3 cups of chicken or turkey meat, white and dark1 cup of corn–fresh, canned or frozen½ pound of pasta (ditalini works well, as does elbow macaroni)Salt and pepperHere we go…Put a large pot on medium heat.Add the olive oil, let it heat up for 2 minutes.Add the celery, carrots, onion and garlic.Let it cook for about 7 minutes, stirring every so often.Add the cabbage.Cook for 5 minutes.Add the chicken broth.Put the chicken/turkey carcass and bones in the pot.Add the water.Add the bay leaf.Add the tomatoes.Add the oregano.Turn the heat on high and bring to a boil.Then lower the heat to medium-low, cook for about 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.Remove the carcass pieces and bones.Pick off any remaining meat from the carcass and bones that you’ve just removed, and add the meat to the soup. Discard the bones and carcass.Add the 3 cups of chicken or turkey meat to the soup.Add the corn.Cook for 5 minutes.Take the soup off the heat.Check it for bones and any other funky stuff.If you want to add some pasta…Get a pot, fill it with cold water, and put it on high heat.When it comes to a boil, add a couple tablespoons kosher salt.Add the pasta.When it is VERY FIRM, drain it.Dish it up! Serve the soup in large bowls.Add a little pasta to each bowl. Give it a stir.You can also add some cooked rice, if you'd prefer that to pasta.Serve with some crusty bread, and…
MANGIAMO!!!!!
