Buying a chicken coop, I quickly discovered, is a lot like buying a fish bowl—it’s the easy part. After it was assembled and ensconced in the backyard, the real work began. Picture a full-size bale of hay strapped precariously to the tiny roof of a Honda Del Sol as it navigates the winding streets of the Hollywood Hills, and you will get a sense of what I’m talking about. Then there was the extensive reinforcing to make the shoddy made-in-China hen house predator-proof, the feed sourcing, the extension to the yet-to-be inhabited coop, and finally the procurement of the actual chickens (four 2-month-olds, three breeds in all).

Kate, it turns out, is a natural chicken whisperer. She swears they have unique personalities, and named them accordingly. Over time she began to recognize their individual grooming habits and routines. As Yolko, Lucinda, Josephine and Mimi grew bigger, I built a second bedroom and an atrium to accommodate their burgeoning girth. And then just as life in the hen house was finding its groove, Kate left me. To put a finer point on it, we didn’t split up, but she returned to Toronto, as was always the plan, to continue work on her PhD. And now I am the single parent of four rambunctious adolescent girls.

In my entire adult life, I have never had a single pet. In fact, I don’t even own a houseplant. I blame it on my busy travel schedule, but it also has a lot to do with my minimalist sensibilities. My life 2.0—the one with four pre-pubescent hens—began to resemble a sitcom starring Jim Belushi as a bumbling single dad trying to cope with his new responsibilities. There’s me reading up on the two pages of “dos” and “don’ts” that Kate left behind. That’s me hitting my head on the roof of the coop as I clean it, then stepping in the shit as I recoil (cue the laugh track). Piss yourself as I try to chase down the chicken that escapes when I open the door to throw in the feed.

Every day, I dutifully chop up my veggie cuttings and add a few handfuls of greens that I forage from the waste bins at the farmers market. Then I feed the girls, replenish the water and do a quick clean-up of their prodigious poop. When my day allows it, I take my lunch on my deck and scan the horizon for wily coyotes as the girls free range in the back yard. At first, corralling them back into the coop was a comical exercise in futility. But then I accidentally discovered that a cob of fresh corn is like crack to a chicken, and I instantly became the pied piper of poultry. After a couple of months on our own, the girls and I bonded. Now they follow me around and even allow me to pick them up without flapping their wings in protest. Come to think of it, why shouldn’t they be content? They have a personal chef, room service, and a lavish condo with a bird’s eye view of the Hollywood sign.

Despite the girls’ acceptance of my single parenting skills, I eventually began to lose interest in the whole Farmer Bob charade. Then a funny thing happened as I opened up the nesting box to tighten a loose screw. There in the hay, sitting like a glistening pearl in an oyster, was a perfect light brown egg. I picked it up and cradled it in the palm of my hand in amazement—it was still warm to the touch. Then I poached it.

When I cracked the egg open, the yolk was a startlingly bright orange. When cooked, it had a silky texture and a rich, intensely eggy flavor. To say it was the best egg I’ve ever tasted is a bit like thinking your child is the smartest kid in the class. But knowing its provenance and being nature’s accomplice certainly makes one appreciate every morsel. A week after the first egg, my second hen started laying, and a week after that all four were in full production, dropping 3 – 4 eggs in total per day. The Rhode Island Red lays a conventionally brown egg, while the Plymouth Barred Rock lays brown eggs with a slight rose tinge. Despite the fact that the remaining two girls were both purportedly blue egg-laying Ameraucanas, their shells differ significantly: One has a faint blue hue, while the other is decidedly putty-colored. They are all equally delicious—after all, a parent should never play favorites. So far, they’ve laid a fluffy omelet, several stupendous scrambled egg mash-ups, a creamy Caesar salad and a rich pasta carbonara.

As is often the case with presents, my surprise for Kate ended up being a gift for both of us. I gained a deeper appreciation for the humble egg, and learned to see beyond its traditional functions, recognizing it as a thing of great beauty and economy. Keeping hens forms a perfect loop in the ecological cycle of my kitchen: a gift that keeps on laying—four eggs a day.

egg-iliscious mash-up
8 eggs
salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
½ cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano
1 tablespoon olive oil
1/4 pound pancetta or bacon, sliced crosswise into ¼-inch strips
6 green onions, finely chopped
2 – 4 garlic cloves, minced
1 handful fresh Italian parsley, or other herbs, chopped finely
2 roasted red bell peppers: fresh, canned or jarred, skinned and sliced thinly

In a bowl, beat eggs, salt, pepper, and Parmigiano-Reggiano. Reserve.
In a sauté pan over medium-high heat, add oil and cook pancetta, stirring occasionally until it starts getting crispy.
To the pan add green onions and garlic. Cook for 2 to 3 minutes, or until garlic shows the first sign of turning golden.
Add herbs and red bell pepper. Stir for 1 minute.
Reduce heat to medium, add egg mixture to pan, and stir until eggs are cooked to your liking.
Serves 4

I paired the Newton with a blue cheese bruschetta, inspired by a version I tasted in my recent travels. Toast sourdough bread until crispy, rub with garlic, drizzle with olive oil, cover with crumbled stilton (or any other blue) and drizzle generously with honey.

Wow. What a long, strange couple of weeks it’s been of celebrated faces and crazy travel. It all started 12 days ago in New York City where I found myself sitting in a make up chair for the Today Show next to Dee Sneider. This was an auspicious beginning to a week of promoting my new cookbook/memoir (as it has been called) because before I my accidental food career began, I was in the music biz, and one of my first jobs was being the “T-shirt puke” for Twisted Sister. T-shirt pukes, FYI, are the low man on the rock tour totem pole. I mentioned this to Dee who was kind, but not nearly as excited as I was about the coincidence of our reconnection. In fairness, lead singers never venture into T-shirt puke territory on the road unless they need some swag for a “special guest.”

My Today Show segment was with Kathie Lee and Hoda. Hoda’s first question for me was something to the effect of “so I understand your mother had a lot to do with this book”. Well, as it happens, my mother has been dead for 30 years (a fact I chose not to bring up), and my recollections of her cooking have more to do with burned chocolate chip cookies than coconut shrimp lollypops. I recovered as best i could and buried the two of them in a little Glutton triathlon for some sweet revenge.

Later that day I attended a party at Hill Country BBQ where I ran into Mario Batali. His empire continues to expand as his waistline shrinks. Mario is one of the coolest guys in the biz and Eataly, the newest addition to his empire, is nothing short of stunning. And speaking of cool guys, I was fortunate enough to have a 3 ½ hour lunch with Jeffrey Steingarten, my food-writing hero, at Ma Peche, a contemporary Vietnamese restaurant that is part of David Chang’s empire. Jeffrey is as enigmatic in person as he is in print, and never fails to amuse with stories about his experiences as a judge on Iron Chef America and columnist for Vogue. I am trying to convince him to publish a third collection of his Vogue articles and offered to work for him for a month for $1 to help him compile the material. BTW, his first compilation, The Man who Ate Everything is a must-read for any inquisitive foodie.

Jeffrey Steingarten in the test kitchen of his NYC apartment

From New York, I flew to Tampa to do a surreal cooking demonstration on a Holland American cruise ship for a fund-raiser for the new Salvador Dali museum in St. Petersburg, FL.. The original Dali museum played a pivotal role in my evolution as a Surreal Gourmet, and I was happy to return the flavor. Before my appearance, I was treated to a half hour tour by the ship’s executive chef of the ship’s cooking facilities. I saw miles of kitchens and walk-in freezers capable of storing 2 weeks worth of food for 1300 passengers and 600 crew members. My favorite part of the tour was the crew mess hall which housed two kitchens, one featuring Philippine food and the other Sri Lankan—designed to keep the crew members from those respective countries happy and well-fed. (note to self: if I ever end up on a cruise, eat with the crew).

Twenty-one hours in the air later, I found myself in Hong Kong having dinner beside the Travel Channel’s Samantha Brown. I had met Samantha in Hawaii while shooting my Kona coffee-picking episode a couple of years ago. And when I say “met”, it was literally a 15 second conversation after which I concluded that she was a bit of a diva. Well as it turns out, I was quick to judge (another note to self: maybe 15 seconds isn’t enough time to sum someone up). Samantha is quite hilarious. As we ate and drank our way through an awesome Szechuan meal, she compared how humans meet for the first time, with the butt-sniffing ritual that dogs go through.

Sniff sniff.

My bacon & eggs dessert, as served at the TLC launch party in Hong Kong

Samantha and I were in Hong Kong courtesy of Discovery Travel & Living (the network that carries Glutton and Surreal Gourmet in Asia), along with the fabulous Janet Hsieh, to host a huge party in celebration of the global rebranding of the network to TLC. For the occasion, they built a life size “replica” of my Toastermobile. (It wasn’t exactly an Airstream, but it was damn impressive non-the-less). To top it off, the chefs at the Four Seasons prepared my bacon and egg dessert for the 400 guests in attendance. Suffice to say, those Discovery-cum-TLC folks know how to have a good time.

Life size replica of the Toastermobile created for TLC (Asia) launch party in Hong Kong

And the adventures continue…

x
B

If you have seen the show, you might recall that last season in Glutton we traveled to New Iberia, Louisiana, where I entered the World Gumbo Cook-off. I made a lot of gumbo and a lot of friends, and even managed to shock the locals by placing 2nd in the professional seafood division.

In fact we had such a good time that Will and I promised to return this year and host a fund-raising event for the chamber of commerce. Over the course of the past year, Will got so into making gumbo, that he decided to enter the competition himself. That’s where I came in as his sous chef. In between book tour dates in Toronto and Calgary, I hopped on a plane to Louisiana to laisser les bons temps rouller. And boy did the good times roll. Those Cajuns sure know how to party.

The theme of this year’s competition was “Roux Dat”, which Will interpreted as some form of hip hop call. As evidenced by the photo, we embodied our team name “Canadians with attitude” (CWA). At 4 am Saturday morning (not my favorite part of the “good times”) we lugged our ingredients to the site. And when the cannon sounded at 6:30, the roux flew. Four hours, lots of stirring, and several Bloody Mary’s later, Will was serving up an awesome chicken and sausage gumbo with multiple layers of flavor and heat. He also walked away with a prize for his booth design. No doubt next year he’ll be chasing a speeding wheel of double Gloucester cheese down a cliff.

Asta la pasta baby,
bob