…but excited nonetheless!

Excited, that is, to introduce the first Comfort Brothers cookbook–hand held version–by way of an i-phone application and available for immediate purchase and use, directly from this site.  Now, in my world (see old guy references above) cookbooks, good ones, are expensive, heavy and you have to turn pages to find something.  So at $2.99 for all that Comfort Brothers goodness, I am, yes amazed.

Over the years, Bill and I have fielded numerous requests for recipes.  Unfortunately, most of ours are written on the walls of the inside of our heads and not on paper.  Well, they still aren’t on paper, but they are available to you and your friends who have an i-phone or i-pod touch.  Hey, you’ve got to start somewhere.

Click on the tab above or the App Store box to the right and follow the path to begin your own journey to fearless home cooking.  The recipes we included are our favorites to cook for ourselves and our families.  As such, they are simple to read, simple to follow and simple to prepare. Some long-held secrets in there as well.  And for fun we added a comforting “yummy” sound effect when you use the random feature.  Too cool.

A gift to our friends and fans, check it out and enjoy, and let us know what you think!

But the football gods as well as the dining crowd, not to mention the Super Bowl advertisers, seemed to want a more interesting contest.  As Sean Payton was contemplating starting the 2nd half with an onside kick, our guests were contemplating stepping into unfamiliar food territory as well.  Perhaps related to the “loosening up” provided by Comfort Daughter Anna’s Hurricane Punch, the diners’ strategy changed from “What’s this?,” and “What’s that?,” into “I’ll try this,” and “Oh, let me get some of that.”  Whatever the reason, the Gumbo pot was undisturbed no longer and the muffaletta and po-boys began to move as quickly as the Saints offense.

Just as Tracy Porter’s pick-six interception ended the run for the Colts and took the game over for the Saints, the ribs and hush puppies gave way completely to the spicier and more interesting N’awlins fare.  As a good deal of America was proud of the Saints and their accomplishment, I was proud of our Richmond, Virginia guests–not normally noted for embracing new and different–for diving into spicy Italian coldcuts laced with olive salad (What?), and chunks of andouille sausage mixed in with their beloved crabmeat in the gumbo.

In the final analysis, though the Saints and their food were the winners of the day, still there was nary a corn dog or rib left to be had, symbolic of the staying power of Manning and the Colts who will certainly rise again.  The game and the menu were both big hits and as they were eating theirs, all declared it was indeed a Super Sundae. New Orleans, and its food, found a home with many new fans and, thankfully for me, now has something other than Katrina to talk about.

Gobs of Gulf Gumbo for Garcon: Saints fans hope the Indy wide receiver gets as healthy a dose of New Orleans as what’s in this classic favorite.  We’ll start with a roux and load it up with shrimp, lump crabmeat, crawfish tails, okra and andouille sausage.

Indiana Wants Me, Lord I Can’t Go Back Ribs: Anything pork works for Indy, so CBL, aka Sweet Lew, put this in the starting lineup, and why not?  The Colts hope to barbeque Brees and Bush and if Manning’s ribs keep from getting bruised, he’ll go back to Indy with another title.  We’ll “bruise” ours with charcoal and hickory and dress ‘em with CBJ’s Lefty’s Best Barbeque Sauce.

Hush Peyton Puppies: We honor Indy with these corny delights, they go with ribs and kids love ‘em.  But at the same time we use ‘em to bust on Manning.  Great player, but he talks too much.  Shut up and eat!

Hoosier Daddy Corndogs: Right out of the Indiana State Fair, pork wrapped in corn.  Another good one for the kids but an adult or two will sneak one too.  ”Hoo” will own this dish and this game?  Peyton’s daddy Archie was a Saint.  Doo-doo-doo-doo, Doo-doo-doo-doo…

A Muffalotta Offense:  We expect “alotta” offense in this one so we need an awful lotta Muffaletta (in N’awlins they pronounce it moof-a-lotta).  The classic New Orleans Italian cold cut super sandwich is a must have if you go to the Crescent City, and a must have on this menu.  Slices of Cappicola and Prosciutto ham, Genoa salami, Mortadella, Pepperoni, Provolone and Mozzarella on a round Italian loaf slathered with olive salad and cut into wedges.  CBJ’s favorite N’awlins food and the real reason he wanted the Saints in this one.

N.O. No Longer Po-Boys: Just by making it to the Super Bowl the Saints, no longer the “Ain’ts,” their fans, their city, and especially their players, coaches and owners, are no longer poor! In honor of how far they’ve come we honor one of their greatest creations, a pre-depression-era sandwich handed out to striking transit workers by a supportive local restaurant. The sandwich, like the Saints, is no longer cheap and ours are filled with fried oysters and BBQ shrimp.

CBB’s Black and Gold Beans:  Gotta have beans with ribs and CBB’s Black to match the Saints ones are the perfect accompaniment.  He’ll add some “gold” with some golden-browned treat that’s a game-time decision on a need-to-know-basis.

Cajun-Covered Austin Collie-Flower Salad:  CBJB, aka Jaybird, came strong with the suggestion of “Austin Collie-flower” so since we’re light on the “salad” portion of our meal, this will work.  Wide receiver Austin Collie, rookie hero of the playoffs (Playoffs?) for the Colts gets a chance to see how he stands up on the big stage.  We’re going to cover our Collie-flower with corn (to make him feel at home) but kicked up with a Bourbon Street confetti of peppers, onions seasonings to see how he can hang with the big dogs.

Sweet Endings: Without a team to call my own (whither the Baltimore Colts) I always root for Offense and Overtime.  A high scoring affair with a who gets the ball last, down to the last second ending is sweet to me.  Here’s what we’ll have as we finish strong…

Does Coach Caldwell Have Popcorn Balls:  The Colts refused to play for the perfect season by backing off once they were in the playoff driver’s seat.  We’ll see if caution bites them back.  CSS (Comfort Sister Susanne) provides this treat as we see the results.

Bourbon (Street) Banana Who Won the Bread Pudding:  Bananas Foster is the classic New Orleans dessert.  CBJ adapts it to his famous bread pudding further paying homage by using Croissants for bread.  We’ll enjoy this as we learn who wins the game and the score by quarters pool.

Make Your Own Super Sundae:  Super Sunday is as fun as you make it.  So it is with the Super Sundaes.  As with the spectre of a world championship, it’s there for the taking.  Go for it.

Have fun and stay tuned for the post-game recap.

The role of Clarence, the guardian angel, was played to the hilt by Comfort Brother Bill, who made it happen by manning the Comfort Brothers kitchen solo, ably assisted by a serving chorus of Starnes children and cousins and the formidable presence of Michael Hamby, who scored the triple-double as sous chef, line cook and event photographer.  Hovering about as chief angel facilitator was Comfort Sister and CBB’s better half Tressa Hamby, who had held a “staff briefing” prior to the event and created a wonderful collage of 1959 events, culminating in the lead story of Jim’s birth on the 30^th of December.

Bill’s insistence on running the kitchen alone became clear as the evening unfolded.  The “surprise” element I thought I had avoided by “planning my own party” was as unavoidable as the transformation of George Bailey’s world without him in it.  I was to remain in the dining room to receive what was coming to me.  Before my eyes the words and talents of those in the room transformed the small, quiet gathering into the mega-type celebration to which many a semicentenarian is accustomed, and I had hoped to avoid.

Compellations flowed like the varieties of wine: red, white and sparkling, and tasted at once as tart and sweet as the cherry-mustard sauce for the duck.  Beginning with friend, confidante, teacher and student Don Cowles’ “Ode to a Wonderful Cynic” (my title), to neighbors and friends Ken and Suzanne Sullivan, to a moving poetic tribute from Jane Joel Knox, author, matriarch and the better half of a delightfully atypical son-in-law/mother-in-law relationship, to Vince’s epic and humorous emailed account (read by my daughter Emma) of my visit to Princeton as a football recruit, that revealed much about who I still am and established a lifetime friendship, these were NOT your typical “for-he’s-a-jolly-good-fellow” tributes.  They were as perfectly seasoned as Bill’s squid salad, sweet and salty, authentic and honest, no masking of the main ingredient.

After little brother Scott delivered Harry Bailey’s “richest man in town” speech (but longer and better), and puddles of tears had formed under the all the chairs in the room, I had had enough and was ready to seek relief from Mr. Martini.  But alas, as with Harry’s big brother George, such relief was not to be found, not yet.  There was my third daughter Jane and my fourth, my sister Wendy, serving more emotional cocktails, followed by the family Hamby, whose sweet and creamy tributes rivaled our chocolate pots de crème and included an appearance, through their words, by the too soon departed Patrick Hamby as a topper-off.

When “Happy Birthday” was whistled, yes whistled to me by dear friend Jane Cowles, the surreally and pleasantly cinematic nature of this event was secured.  And then Jan opened the door and let in the rest of the residents of my own personal Bedford Falls in the form of a book of printed emails.  Enter former players I have coached, high school and college pals, football and baseball teammates, including the “30 and Over Cardinals,” my parents: Luther and Joyce who birthed whatever talent and skill I am proposed to possess, and myriad other friends and acquaintances, some of whom I’d forgotten, and my oldest friend with whom I’ve had the most adventures, some sane, others not so much, all instructive and unforgettable, my brother Jeff.

Where to begin to thank everyone for contributing to the celebration of 50 years of me?  It is 12 days later and I’m just now waking up from the emotional hangover—too many “shots” of love, affection and appreciation.  I truly had no idea of the level of caring, and while I am not worthy of the honor I experienced (How could anyone be?), I’ll take it and tuck it away in my heart forever.

To “Mary,” I owe you the moon.  And lastly, “Atta-boy, Clarence.”

But the discovery of g & t bitters enhancement pales to the one I made about my dad who died on Thanksgiving Day eleven years ago, a day that was also our 21st wedding anniversary, an emotional trifecta of a day to be sure. I learned that he was a writer of fiction, a fact that after sixty years of being on this planet, forty-nine with him, I knew zilch about. I asked my mom why I never knew this, especially since I have been trying to evolve as a writer since I could hold a crayon. “I just forgot,” she said.

My brother looked over, “Well Bill, I guess this is where you get it,” then, “and your boys.”

To understand the impact on me regarding all of this it might help to know that my dad, Guindle Fair Hamby, was a guy of a certain generation that talked but didn’t really communicate, kept his personal stuff to himself, and at least from my view as a kid, had not a creative thought in his head. I viewed him as a disciplinarian, strict, all business, not a glimmer of an artist or craftsman. A lifer as a General Electric midddle manager, he always encouraged education and pushed us hard to learn, but as my brother and I pursued music and film and television and writing in college, he never copped to the fact that he secretly had similar interests. I know he was proud. I just don’t think he knew how to say it, or how to explain himself to us.

But in his papers were short stories, letters to literary agents, and most striking, letters FROM agents. The last letter from New York encouraged him to make some structural changes and return his story. That was dated two months after I was born. So I asked myself silently, wow, was I the reason he quit chasing his writing dream? Then out loud I said, “Mom, I think I was the reason he quit writing.”  She said, “Absolutely not!”

But I’m not so sure. The demands of life can be greedy and soul sucking to someone dreaming dreams. I hope it wasn’t me, sapping his writing and creativity. I know he loved me and I hope he wasn’t bitter.

If they had meetings for my kind I’d be at the front of the room at least three times a week.

"Hi, I’m Bill, I’m a Comfort Brother and I’m an eggaholic."

"Hi Bill"

From Innocent to Corrupted I can remember the day I lost control. And it was the unlikeliest of persons who started me on the path to eggaliscious ruin. I think I was about twelve years old, in the early sixties, visiting my grandparents in tiny Iuka Mississippi, locally famous for the curative powers of the sulphery mineral springs in the park in the middle of town. Iuka, named after an Indian Chief, was not too far from Pick Wick Lake, and was about a half an hour by train from Muscle Shoals Alabama. Luckily, I had a grandmother who was filled with boundless and endless unconditional love for me and all her grandchildren, and who seemed to be from a time and place totally alien to a kid growing up in the suburbs of Cincinnati, Ohio. From where I sit now, she might as well been from the Moon. And for me, that love was expressed by food. She had a big garden and a chicken coop, made the best apple sauce in the world from the two trees outside her back door. She, Pearl Barnette, made pecan pies from the trees next to the driveway that dropped permanent inky blots on my Dad’s 55 Buick that evoked his wrath. Everything was fresh and everything came from about five miles around granddaddy’s and her little house on Rowena, the yellow gravel street a ten minute walk to Main Street where Granddaddy, Ernest, had a small pharmacy. There were Mimosa trees, a swing on the porch, no air-conditioning or TV reception and the screen door to the back porch banged with each entry or exit.

One morning while my mom, dad and brother slept I got up early and headed to the kitchen, a small and simple place that was always warm and frequently very hot, with uneven linoleum under foot and a green and yellow parakeet named Pretty Boy in a cage by the kitchen table, the same table that Granddaddy gave me my first taste of coffee, a small dram into my milk, the kind of thing grandparents do that my own would have never. I love grandparents and can’t wait to corrupt my own children’s children. But on that morning in a slick, ebony colored cast iron skillet forged in Muscle Shoals (I own it now) Grandma made me two eggs over very easy from her henhouse that she had robbed an hour earlier. I'm sure there was bacon and/or sausage involved, maybe grits, certainly toast (Broiled in the gas oven, four pats of melted butter, like yellow rouge blots, soaking the crispy bread.) to run through the bright orangey yolk that spread on my plate.

And I asked for more, a signal to anyone paying attention that this boy had an appetite, and it probably wouldn’t stop at eggs. Of course she complied, smiling, loving to feed someone she loved, a feeling I now know so well. I asked for more, and more and more. I ate a dozen fresh eggs that morning. That’s how it all started. I can’t stop. I am a punch line in my own house. To quote one of my sons: Dad will put an egg on anything.

Damn right I will. But it doesn’t make me a bad person. And I’m worth it.

Other attributes can accrue to understanding how to prepare simple food well. Once, in my kitchen in Richmond, Virginia I was cooking for my late, great, gone too early from this mortal plain friend, Reed Boatwright and his fiance, Gloria. Patrick, my middle son, he to, gone way too early, then a teenager, was hanging around the kitchen, a big fan of Reed’s. The boys loved his stories from Cincinnati and hearing about our misdeeds as kids there. As I was plating up veal cutlets, pork tenderloin or salmon something, Gloria leaned into Patrick and said, “Pat, you know, girls love guys who know how to cook.” I discovered this long after my dating days were over. But even though Patrick had no problem making friends or attracting girlfriends he took it to heart. He cooked professionally, if briefly, while living in Boone, North Carolina, and became the house cook at an apartment he shared with some other guys there. In fact, the very last time I spoke with him he was calling to confirm with me that his roommates should not be smoking in the kitchen while he was cooking. He said, “They aren’t respecting the food,”

I told him he was right. I think about that conversation lots.

The other obvious reason to be the master of the kitchen is to be able to cook what you like the way you like it. Seems simple; and I think ultimately this is what led my dad to move more and more into the realm of the burner, cast iron and the oven.

At the end of his life, starring in a three month, three act play with no curtain call in Greenville Memorial Hospital in Greenville, S.C., my dad and I had time together to talk about things. We had no serious issues. We were long past that. But I did have some questions to ask him, one in particular. I said, “Dad, can I ask you a question about Mom’s cooking?” The last, bright, vital parts of his body were his blue eyes, and if they didn’t twinkle, they tried to. And it gave me permission to go on. I said, “Dad, you cooked out of self defense, didn’t you?”

He smiled.

And of course it reminded me of my own dad, who happened to choose to die in front of me on my watch at the hospital while my mom went home for a short break. And his once great and wide appetite was long gone. He had stopped eating anything at that point. But Guindle Fair Hamby, unlike Ed Keller, was not a guy that left the family. He was a provider, and loving, although at times as a kid that was hard to decipher. And having grown up in an orphanage during the Depression looking after two younger brothers, he had zero role models or skills for parenting two sons in a new world who would bat heads with him for years. He couldn’t fly a kite, ride a bike, he threw a baseball like a girl (sorry girls), and although he grew up in the mountains of western North Carolina, couldn’t bait a hook or shoot a gun. But he was the only one of six sons who went to college. Education rescued him from the mountains. Dad gifted us in ways it would take me years to understand. (I learned only very recently from my 84 year old mom that he hocked his wrist watch to buy my first bike.) For example, he told my brother Larry and I a couple hundred thousand times at least, “Don’t be one of the common herd!” when we wanted to join a crowd or have something they had. The Three Cardinal Rules, No Lying, No Cheating and No Stealing were tattooed on our foreheads. He was of a generation that could be emotionally distant to the point of wooden, patriarchal and morally starchy. He believed in discipline, politeness and asking permission. And one central thing he permitted me to do without asking was to feel free to cook.

But it took me a while to get that straight in my head. Like so many other things.

My earliest memories of food preparation in our house in Cincinnati, Ohio was pretty much a 1950’s cliche. Monday through Friday Mom was at the tiller of the kitchen and had it be an actual boat or ship we would have been in an SOS situation on numerous occasions. Weekends, Dad, who along with our neighbor John Choate had helped each other build more or less identical brick grills at the rear of our more or less identical little houses on Wexford Avenue would flame up burgers, brats and hot dogs, and when there was a little extra money steaks and pork barbecue. I still remember those T-Bone steaks. In those days there was still an inch of fat, or so it seemed untrimmed ready to sizzle. This was a cholesterol free zone. My memory is that John and Dad hadn’t done too good of a job venting the grills. Grilling usually involved volcanic plumes of smoke to compliment the Cincinnati Redlegs on the radio, and John and Dad with a bottle of local beer, a Weideman or Hudepohl or a Burger or Schoenling, all the while fighting to keep the flames under control.

But back then the charcoal was real.

Now, I am aware of Keller and his reputation for detail and order in his kitchens and being a bit of a DI himself, so as writer Severson points out, being the son of a sonofbitch is probably a plus for a guy who according to some could give Gordon Ramsey a run for it in the Hell’s Kitchen Olympics.

Unfortunately they had only a few years to hang out. Ed Keller wrecked his car and became a paraplegic. But the old guy toughed it out for a year before he died. The NYT story talks gracefully about the care and compassion Thomas provided his father through that time and the cooking of his last meal, his favorite: barbequed chicken with bottled sauce, mashed potatoes softened with Half & Half, braised collard greens with bacon fat, and for desert, the first strawberries of the season with a shot of Grand Marnier because Ed liked some alcohol in his deserts. What really touched me was the thought of a world-class chef renown for complex, technical recipes putting all that aside as an act of love to do something special for a guy who chose to spend only three of his 86 years with his grown son. But according to the story, the bargain worked for them both, if briefly. Thomas had a dad for a while, and Big Ed contributed by becoming part of the French Laundry/Yountville scene, a larger than life cat who loved his cigars and most days could be found at the restaurant sipping wine in the garden and telling large tales.

The NYT story talks a lot about how the experience has changed the hard charging chef recognized for precision, analysis and control, and made him realize there is more to life than growing his empire. And that ultimately there are even some things simply out of his control. Some of us learn that lesson sooner than others. And he reportedly has finally become engaged to his long-time companion Laura Cunningham following this experience with his father.

So Thomas Keller has seen the light, going to get married and will always remember smoking a cigar with his pop. I’m happy for him, but it got me to thinking about a couple of things, namely my dad, who wasn’t a sonofabitch, even though there were times as a teenager when I thought he fit the description, but he never left the family, and in my next post I’m going to write about our conversations as he lay dying. But I’m wondering if you had the same scenario of long-lost father and son reuniting and reconciling and thriving even if ever so shortly, and you replaced Keller’s profession with, say, a mechanic, lawyer, software designer, insurance salesman, minister, advertising executive name it.

Would it have the same resonance if the last act of kindness was to tune-up the car, de bug the computer, pray over him or put an ad in the paper? Would it? I’ll fully grant the illogic of that question because the relationship between a father and son is complex indeed and probably never more so than at the end. But what a privilege to cook a simple meal to commemorate and celebrate a relationship that might never have been.

Pass the Grand Marnier.