French month begins at last! I'm beginning to think I should just lay off the "month" thing and concentrate on doing four recipes per "unit." February will be over so soon, and I've barely had time to choose my recipes.
Nonetheless, here is the first installment of my French unit. Despite a rough start, it turned out quite well.
The rough start: I went to the overpriced gourmet market for my scallops because our car was, quite literally, frozen to the street. I didn't purchase the full 1-1/4 pound of sea scallops the recipe calls for since there's only two of us, and the bastards were $20 a pound. I ended up getting about a pound anyway because the initial 3/4-pound I asked for looked pretty small on the scale.
So I bring them home and get set to start cooking. I discover that many of the scallops are partially frozen. Not rock-hard frozen, but definitely on the icy side. Goddammit. Not only that, the guy had given me a bunch of runty little ones - there were probably two or three good-sized scallops, and the rest were nubbins. Personally, I'd rather have fewer of the big, meaty ones than a bunch of tiny sad dudes.
But this was OK, at first. I left the scallops out of the fridge and set to preparing the other ingredients, chopping shallots and tarragon and meting out the liquids. I cut up some bread, divided the butter, dum de dum... the scallops were still frozen. Now I began to get angry.
I started picking up the frozen scallops and pressing them between my hands, trying to work the ice out of the meat. I had limited success with this, so, in a desperate moment, threw a couple in the 'crowave to defrost. They began to cook, even on the defrost setting, so I yanked them out.
At this time, I had my usual thought: "Ah, fuckit." So I just started cooking. Angrily.
The scallops didn't sear quite the way I wanted them to—they didn't seem to get brown enough on the tops and bottoms. Next time I should use a little higher heat, I guess, or get scallops that AREN'T FROZEN. Despite the lack of browning—they got more of a light tan—the texture of the meat was just about perfect after spending some extra time in the skillet.
And then, the sauce: Oh, the sauce. The sauce was easy and quick to put together. The sauce was fucking delicious. I love tarragon so much. It reminds me of summer when I was little, before I could go to school even: the scent of dewy, freshly cut grass in pale yellow sunlight. My brother and I insisted on swimming in our baby pool in the morning, probably before 10 a.m., so my mom would fill it up with water from the hose. She'd try to do it early in hopes that the sun would warm up the water a bit, but we'd usually just go in anyway, shrieking at the chilly water.
Anyway: Tarragon. I love it. Tarragon + butter + white wine = drooling joy.
So the beurre blanc sauce turned out well, in short. I mopped up every last bit from my plate with baguette, and shared the rest from the pan with John. Heavenly.
So: Success! Next time I'll be more careful with my scallops, though their steep price means I probably won't be using them again anytime soon. Which also means I need to find other uses for that glorious sauce—but next time I think I'll ease up on the vinegar just a touch.
Recipe: 5/5
My performance: 4/5
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