Vic Socotra

13 February 2010

Desolation Meat Pie

I have been getting some alarming notes from correspondents in Alabama and northern Florida about the snow, and some complaints from as far south as Key West about the unsettling chill.

Something is going on. The obvious questions are asked in a thoroughly pro forma manner, to which some learned individual responds with some soothing blather about "well, it is colder here, but warmer elsewhere and it is a large world."

As you know, we have shattered all records for snow at Dulles, with more to come from the Canadian Clipper on Monday, and weeks beyond that of seasonal vulnerability to more white stuff.

The stuff on the ground here is like concrete now, settling down into the densest of dense pack. My son could not finish digging out his car yesterday and will have to complete the task today. What does it mean?

I have no idea. The el Nino cycle in the Pacific is clearly is responsible for the current change; the idea that 49 of 50 states have snow on the ground is breathtaking. It might actually be all fifty, if there is a pocket left out of the sun's direct light at the summit of Haleakala or Mauna Loa.

Sometimes you have to shrug and move on.

I could not quick bring myself to watch the opening of the Winter Olympics last night. Maybe it is the long hangover from the hyper-spectacle of the Beijing Summer games; nothing will ever approach the level of the lavish statement of a whole civilization declaring itself on the march, and clearly marching this way.

The death of Nodar Kumaritashvili that morning may have contributed to a lack of interest. There is nothing in the summer games that has the smack of real danger that the winter games do. The Georgian slider lost control of his sled while traveling nearly ninety miles and left the track feet first before impacting a light stanchion.

They say the Canadians had restricted training opportunities for visiting Olympians in order to preserve the "home court" advantage.

I heard about it on the radio at the office, looking down at the Hispanic workers trying to shovel out the work site across the street.

I am so lucky not to have to really work for a living.

When I wandered back into Tunnel Eight at the end of a day that simulated something like it, I decided that I would do something radical.

I grabbed a package of frozen ground beef out of the freezer- the last one- and a package of chorizo sausages of indeterminate age. There was exactly one Vidalia onion left, and it was starting to look a little bedraggled. Half a red pepper that was on the verge of going south. Two little cans of mushroom stems and caps. A jar of Newman’s Own marinara sauce. All the garlic cloves left on the bulb in the bowl by the refrigerator. Two of the dried whole yellow panka chilis, hand-crushed, that hang above the stove.

One tall vodka and tonic.

I turned the gas burner on “high” and started browing the meat and the sausage without mercy or subtlety. As it got close, I threw in the chopped onion and peppers to sauté in the juices. When just turning translucent, I added the mushrooms and drained the mess when they lost their canned yellow color in a colander.

I poured the marinara sauce over all of it, threw in the crumbled chilis, raised the heat to bubbling and turned it down to simmer.

I went to the cupboard and pulled out the box of Bisquick. This is desperation cooking at its finest. We learned the skill back at the fraternity house, an ancient stone pile of a building that had a vast and unused kitchen dating to the 1930s.

It had last been used in the mid-1960s, when the Brothers dined in style, but things had disintegrated. Despite its general dilapidation, it had broad working surfaces and was an ideal test kitchen for a variety of things.

One of them was the miracle substance that is Bisquick.

You could substitute your own mix and have no need for General Mills intervention, but sometimes there is a value in expediency. If you were going to make it yourself, throw some flour, baking powder, salt and oil together and voila! There you are.

According to the definitive “Legend of Betty Crocker: the Happy Homemaker,” the product was conceived when Colonels reporting to General Mills met a dining car chef on the Super Chief in 1930 who mixed lard and the dry ingredients for biscuits ahead of time to make things easier on the rails.

His recipe was adapted, using “Ingredient S” which eliminated the need for refrigeration. Some say it was seseme oil. Others say differently. One thing is certain: biscuits are being created today from the original sifted mixture. But I am leery about Ingredient S.

No one has seen Betty since 1986.

Anyway, the times and the mood fit. I went into a use-everything-reverie and prepared to get floured up. It was time for a rash and dramatic act, and I mixed another drink and got on with it.

It occurred to me when I was rolling out the dough that it is going to be a hell of a trip to the Commissary to replace all this crap.

1 pound ground chuck (or bison)
6 links chorizo sausages
1 Large Vidalia Onion
1 Red or green pepper
2 cans mushrooms
4 cloves garlic
2 dried panka chilis, crumbled
1 16 oz jar Newman’s own Marina Sauce
Sea Salt and Crushed Black Pepper to taste
Heinz Ketchup for Logo Decoration in squeeze bottle

Bisquick Crust:
2 eggs
1 c. Bisquick
1 1/4 c. milk
Bisquick substitute: 1 c flour, 1 1/2 tsp baking powder, 1/2 tsp salt, 1 tbsp oil or melted butter.

Stir the mess together until it is smooth. Roll as thin as possible, since the stuff is going to rise like gang-busters.
Cut the sheet of dough in two. Take a greased pie-pan and place one half across the bottom. Trim to the roundness of the pan but leave enough to join the top crust of the pie.

The Pie:

Pour in the filling. Take the remaining dough and place over the filling. Trim around the pan and crimp lining to top.

Take Heinz ketchup bottle and use to create fun logos or useful phrases on top of the pie. Bake at 350 degrees for thirty minutes, or until the Olympic Rings darken on the pleasingly-browned Bisquick crust.