Return to the Cookery index page
Background image provided by 
Text ©1988 by Sam Waring. All rights reserved.
Created: Sat, 24 Apr 2004 at 23:15:52 UTC
A while back, I used to spend a significant amount of time as an Impoverished Student, as (I expect) have an awful lot of poeple in this area. Mind, being an Impoverished Student doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with being a poor student (or Really Impoverished Student). It is quite possible to be a Merely Impoverished Student while simltaneously being heir to several million worth of trust fund. Merely Impoverished Studentry involves more of an attitude toward life, and just looking about today, I have the feeling that the attitude may be on the rise again, as in the late Fifties and the Sixties. (Or at least an interest in tacky dress, which was certainly a hallmark of lots in the late Fifties.)
One of the prerequisites for Impoverished Studentry is a desire to eat well without spending a fortune. I had that figured out before I ever got to college, so I had it in the back of my head when, one day I was browsing through a B. Dalton (my taste in bookstores has changed considerably since then; I now regard them as somithing like the Big Mac of bookstores) and spotted a slim, paper-bound volume which seemed to address some of those problems. It was The Impoverished Student’s Book of Cookery, Drinkery, and Housekeepery by Jay Rosenberg (Doubleday, 1971). Written while the author was a student at Reed College in Oregon in the first years of the Sixties this vade mecum explains basic recipes for things that taste very good without costing a fortune to prepare, and which do not call for exotica such as kiwi fruit vinegar and masa hand-ground by a hundred-year-old woman in Quintana Roo. It also explains how to set up a KITCHEN (as opposed to a kitchen, in which Mom cooks in high heels), basics of decorating an Impoverished Student’s apartment (including the de rigueur picture of a Three-prong, Two-slot Blivet for meditation purposes), and different ways to divide up living expenses equitably between several roommates. Also, if you have a taste for beer and don’t mind bending the liquor laws a bit, he does (after suitable disclaimers) explain how to make your own. This book was published to benefit the Reed College Alumni Association, and I would suggest it might even be worth wasting a postage stamp to find out if maybe they still have some copies hanging around the office. I’m all for benefitting good liberal arts colleges, and if I can get Useful and Entertaining Information while I’m at it, so much the better. Also, Rosenberg has something to do with the way I sound in this column; very conversational and slightly tangential.
Rosenberg’s recipes are indeed good, with a little modification to allow for his high cholesterol count cooking, and are indeed inexpensive but taste good. They also make enough to feed several Hungry Impoverished Students (who are, after all, known for their appetites). He explains the difference between rice (uncooked rice) and R*I*C*E (cooked rice). For those who don’t know, one cup of rice equals about three cups of R*I*C*E. He also explains the basic principle of what does a casserole and how, things to serve When the Faculty Comes to Dinner, Home-made bread for those who get tired of Mrs. Baird’s Culture, and Ethnica, which includes such really offbeat items such as real Armenian Imam Bai-il-di (this, incredibly, translates as “The Priest Fainted”), Chicken Paprikash the way your Authentic Hungarian Grandmother used to make it, and (yes, I’m getting to the recipe, finally) Bechinalt as made by that same Authentic Hungarian Grandmother. Bechinalt (no, I don’t know what it means and neither did he) is a sort of cream of gizzard soup with garlic, and it is great for keeping away vampires, if you have problems with vampires, as well as being cheap and good.
| 1 or 2 pounds chicken gizzards | Salt and pepper to taste |
| 4 tablespoons flour | 6 tablespoons butter |
| ½ tablespoon garlic powder, or 2 cloves of garlic, pressed |
Wash the gizzards and place them in a pot with water to cover; add some salt and pepper. Place the pot on high heat, bring to a boil, then reduce the heat the let it simmer for about 20 minutes, until the gizzards are cooked. Fish out the gizzards and chop them up, skim the protein scum from the broth and discard. Reserve the broth.
In a second pan, melt the butter and add the flour, cooking it slowly until the mixture browns. This is known as making a roux, for anybody who wants to mess with Cajun cooking. (Was that a digression? Well, yes it was, but you may have noticed that a lot of digression got into this column. Go back and count all the parenthetical comments.) Add the garlic, and cook for a minute or so, while you are bringing the reserved broth back to a full boil. When the broth boils, pour a small amount into the roux, STIRRING CONSTANTLY, because if you don’t you get lumpy gravy and Frank Zappa wasn’t invited to the party anyway. If you did it right, you get a thick-looking gravy. Now add the rest of the broth, still stirring. Dump the cut-up gizzards back in, taste it and adjust the salt and pepper, and let the whole thing cook for about five minutes more on low heat. Serve it like soup, and it is perfectly permissible (really, it’s almost imperative) to sop up the gravy with chunks of challah, which you can, these days get at most supermarkets with an in-house bakery. Of if you feel like it, you can use some of my Famous Texas Monthly French bread which I will (cliffhanger!) publish in a future column.
first ran: April 1988
Return to the Cookery index page
Background image provided by
Text ©1988 by Sam Waring. All rights reserved.