Randy's Recipes: Grandma's Favorite Chicken Hash

In honor of my grandmother’s 122nd birthday (she lived to 87) and since I’d just made chicken soup, I thought it’d be a great time for this recipe.

My mom got this one from her. Every time she made chicken soup from scratch, the next day she made delicious hash with the left over chicken. If you keep the chicken in broth, it’s even better the next day. After that, forget it. So make the hash the day after.


This feeds two really well, three isn’t stretching it.

Dice two red potatoes, leave the skins on. Rinse and put them in water. Bring water to a boil.

To the water add the following. If you have a small grinder, grinding the herbs/spices will unlock the flavor like you wouldn't believe:

1/2 tsp. Kosher salt
several peppercorns – I use about ten
tsp. dry, minced onion
tsp. dry, minced garlic
tsp. parsley flakes
1/2 tsp. thyme
tsp. dry dill
tsp. chives
1 medium bay leaf

This is incredibly aromatic, and GREEN!

Put about 2/3rds of this mixture into the boiling potatoes.

Add a couple drops of olive oil to the water, then blanch some fresh broccoli (I separate half a head and then chop the stalks) in the boiling water. The oil will turn the broccoli deep green. Don’t leave the broccoli in too long. It should still be al dente when you take it out of the water. Set it aside.

Chop the following and put in a large bowl:

a quarter of a medium sized Bermuda onion (any onion is OK)
one stalk of celery
a small carrot (or use a few baby carrots)
one clove of garlic
small handful of walnut pieces

Pull all the soup chicken meat off the bones, throw it into the same bowl.

Heat a fry pan (I use a large sauté pan and it’s perfect for all my recipes) and add a couple of tablespoons of olive oil. Put in all the ingredients, including the broccoli, and stir with a wooden utensil.

Drain the potatoes. Make sure they drain completely, then add them to the pan. Don’t be afraid to let it all brown lightly, especially the potatoes. As it cooks, add some green olives (cut them up), and sesame seed. If it starts to dry, add more olive oil or a little Earth Balance spread.

Spoon into serving bowls or plates. Top with some grated Parmesan, coarse ground black pepper, and a little Kosher salt.

Driving While Liberated

It made national news -- a woman who admitted she was painting her fingernails while driving at a high speed, slammed into a motorcyclist, throwing the biker hundreds of feet, killing her.

Last winter (Feb. 2008) I was in the same general area, waiting to turn onto a main road. Speed limit on the main road was 45. Family in a white SUV was waiting to turn left onto the smaller road I was on. I was waiting to turn left onto the main road.

Some traffic. Typical situation. I was first in line to turn, couple of cars behind me. I had the radio on and I remember looking at the knobs or switches because as I looked down for a second, I heard an atomic bomb go off.

A kid in an old car slammed into the back of the family's stopped SUV at 60 mph. In an instant, what was an SUV turned into an accordion. Before anyone could utter, "Oh my God!" the kid, badly broken up, got out of his car and tried to walk to the van. And he was busted up bad, I can tell you.

Text messaging, ringtones, the radio, whatever he was doing, his choice changed lives forever. I turned right instead of left, pulled over and called for help. Paramedics and police arrived quickly. Other motorists got out of their cars to help with traffic. I waited for the police and then left. I called them later to see how the victims were and to give my name as a witness. At that time, they said there were no fatalities. Yet.

The year before, my neighbor was on her way home from church at night (Good Friday) and got rolled over and dragged 100 feet by a lady in an SUV, on a cell phone. Fire department had to use a hoist to get the SUV off of her -- she was pinned underneath. Both of her arms were broken near the shoulders. Miracle, she survived, had months of therapy, and is now back at work.

I remember standing on the El platform in 1983, waiting to catch a train downtown to go to work. The tracks ran along the expressway. I was appalled to see a guy driving his car on the Kennedy, with a newspaper folded over the steering wheel.

Bicyclists too, are getting killed in droves in Chicago.

Any suggestions? Is this another freedom of speech issue? Do people have a right to drive a vehicle and do virtually anything they want on the basis of being liberated and "empowered"? There couldn't be enough laws passed and enforced to cover any of this -- they'd have to have devices to measure where the eyes are focusing, if the head turns too often towards the dashboard, if hands come off the steering wheel. Sensors all over the car. Voice sensors, too. Oh, that'd fly.

People have to choose whether "defensive driving" is an antiquated, extremist term, thus taking on the meaning "offensive driving" in this brave, new upside down world we call home. Or is there some small portion still alive in the human psyche that says there are limits as to how much one's own selfishness is serving them and society.

Charleton Heston Couldn’t Have Said it Better

We walked into the nightclub late last night – me and Don, the leader of our big band. It was a weeknight and people were still out partying.

The place was once a bowling alley. I used to bowl there in the late 60s with my high school buddies. A few years ago, it changed hands and was reconditioned into a combination of the old Playboy Club, the Drake Hotel, and, if you’ve ever been there, House on the Rock in Dodgeville, Wisconsin.

The main dance floor could have been used as a set for Star Trek or any of the action movies, including Batman. There were lasers, more than half-naked girls, an unbelievable sound system that pumped really good, modern dance music.

Three other smaller side rooms served as auxiliary bars. By smaller, I mean the size of a large banquet hall with a 25-ft. ceiling as opposed to a gymnasium. Speaking of the ceiling, there were chandeliers – maybe 20 feet in diameter and God knows how tall – that had to have been taken from an old hotel downtown. Hotel Xanadu.

It’s all Polish. Young, affluent Polish, ultra-chic, not like grandparents who came over on the boat and worked in factories. They were dressed to the nines (I forget how to say “nine” in Polish). The waitresses and female clientele struck me as something you see on the internet (when you should be doing something else), or maybe Dancing with the Stars. This is like money Hugh Hefner doesn’t even have. Course, I’ve never been and never will be to one of his parties. I hear they wear even less clothes. I read about it.

I had to tell the blond, thin, fit, 20-ish waitress who drew our $7 beers that the girls were so pretty I wish I was 30 again. She thanked me. I could have been her grandfather. The bar was a huge mahogany and glass job that might have come from a world’s fair at the turn of the next century.

Did I mention there were four TV screens in the marble and frosted glass washroom?

You can call it sex, hedonism. Opulent sexuality. But I didn’t get the feeling of sleaziness or meat market. That’s from my culture. “Meat Market” was Rush Street in the 60s and 70s where you’d meet white girls who didn’t go to college and you’d see plenty of pro baseball players hanging out after a game.

The nightclub struck me as the pinnacle of Polish culture in America. But it wasn't exactly the America we knew. However, the owner seemed to have had some thoughts about that.

I finally noticed the floor – narrow strips of maple, worn. I motioned to Don. It was the original floor from the bowling alley. An artifact. How nice of them. You could even see marks where you’d spot your ball. I wondered if I was standing at the spot where maybe 40 years ago I’d knocked down some pins.

We headed out. BTW, we were there to see if the owner wanted to hire the big band. As of this morning, surprisingly, it looks like a maybe. Have to make another phone call. Got another smile from the waitress when I told her we were jazz musicians, had a big swing band and we were the “real deal.” She seemed to think that was cool.

Don and I went through the lounge, which could have come from the Palmer House. The door to the parking garage was chained, but we kept walking towards it, still exploring.

A wall had blocked what we were about to see. Slowly, on the left, a space opened up and something came into view. Take, double take, then swallow.

There, in dim greenish florescent light, were two remaining lanes of the original bowling alley. Pins were set in both lanes, many balls, black and colored (the ladies’ bowling balls were colored and lighter as I remember) were racked up between the lanes, a pair of small scoring screens still hung overhead.

“Damn you! Damn you all to hell!” Charleton Heston’s utterance was a mix of shock and disgust at the end of Planet of the Apes. We could have well come upon the head of the Statue of Liberty sticking out of the floor.

I wasn’t angry and I wouldn’t have damned anybody. I was shocked at the passage of time and seeing the culture I had known become quaint – distilled to a museum piece in the corner, contrasted by this grandiose opulence.

We’ve lived a long time. Maybe playing big band music at this club – music written before I was even born – will somehow balance all of this.

Randy's Recipes: Pot Roast, Italian Style!

Boneless chuck roast, seven blade roast, whatever you think is best. I used a 2-1/4 lb. roast for this recipe.

Brown the meat in peanut oil, season with garlic powder (find one without salt or additives), minced dry onion (perfect for browning meat -- no moisture), and lots of oregano. When meat is well-browned, remove from pan. Clean the pan or use a Dutch oven, and then add 3/4 inch of beef stock, 1/2 of a red onion (it's Italian!), 1 medium green bell pepper sliced, put the meat in, a couple of carrots, 1 leek or the tops of three green onions, a small bunch of fresh dill, a bay leaf, 2 large red or white potatoes (cut into quarters, but leave the skin on), a good splash of Chianti, black pepper, couple a cloves of garlic, more oregano. Simmer, simmer, simmer, 2 hours is good, till the meat is soft but not dry. Test! Cut off a bit and taste. Don't let it dry out – make sure it's tender! Add green beans and a sprinkle of savory. I also like some chopped zucchini and mushrooms, but add both at the end for only 5 or 10 minutes. Serve with a green salad and some Chianti or red wine. Whew! Delish!

Update: I now have a pressure cooker and this entire roast can be cooked in about half an hour. I also grind my herbs and spices in a small grinder and rub them into the meat. You can also cut small pockets into the roast before browning and insert pieces of raw garlic.

Milestone

My son was accepted by the college of his choice today. It feels about as good as the day he was born.

Soon he will be off. He's been to camp several times, and for most of the summer. But this time will be a real passage – he'll be going on to the rest of his life.

He'll do wonderfully. He needs your prayers along with mine and so do others just like him, because innovative, creative minds like his are what's going to save this country. They are what made America great in the first place.

Yo, Carrie!

Carrie Prejean -- anybody going to say they are ignoring her drop dead gorgeous looks and beautiful figure? -- spoke her heart, without hate, and with tolerance for those who didn't agree with her viewpoint. She's got my support, and crown or no crown, she's a hero.

Dreamin'

When you dream about people you know, particularly the ones who are supposed to be dead, what do they look like? Every time I dream of them, like last night (and I'm writing this just after I woke up), they always appear younger.

Not only that, but they look the same as I remember them until the point of recognition, then things change. Get to that later.

There was a friend of mine from college, I hadn't seen him in easily 30 years. He was a mentor of sorts -- couple of years older than I, he was smart enough to have been a doctor. Instead, he was a hippy. He bought a '61 Harley Davidson, a former police bike, and we used tool around the Chicago expressways at two or three in the morning. The bike was like being on a comfortable truck, so yo to all you old Harley riders.

What did I learn from him? Sarcasm. But with a point. At a young age, only 20, 21, this guy was already fed up with the way the world worked. He saw the writing on the wall and knew things weren't going to change. His life was a combination protest against the absurdities of society and also the pure romance of a free-spirited Easy Rider. If things were different, he might have sported short hair, a stethoscope and a lab coat, instead of looking like a Hell's Henchman and riding a Harley.

I lost track of him, except that I remember he was busted for hauling marijuana, I think in a semi-trailer! Yeah, that would have been him. BTW, no drugs -- one afternoon, we threw a refrigerator off the third floor of the old, condemned tenement that was the Student Union building at college. We called the yearbook staff on the 1st floor and warned, "don't look up."

BTW #2 -- we ran the campus newspaper. Our former advertising manager appears regularly on TV here as a bankruptcy attorney. Plenty of stories there, but for those of you in the know, the attorney is a good guy and despite the jokes, has helped a LOT of people. And he reveres the guy I'm writing about.

A few years back, on a whim, I started looking for my friend, the Harley guy, on the Net. I was amazed, yet not surprised, to find that he headed of a division of Harley Riders up in Alaska. As expected, he was sort of a sophisticated drifter. The group he led was doing something like Toys for Tots. That's where I wasn't surprised. HR are a great bunch of folks, generous, and they include many police.

But I laughed, as my friend looked almost the exact same -- his full beard was even longer, big black leather vest, same round wire rim glasses. Older. That's him in the photo on the far right. Far right, ha-hah! Anything but! Also, he is called "Rev." in the picture. That's a chuckle. I remember the day in the newspaper office when he filled out the mail-order seminary degree form to get out of going to Vietnam.

Not long after that, I found his name again. He had been killed. Not one to stay in one place too long, he'd moved from Alaska to Grand Junction, Co. Fatal error, with Fate taking the upper hand. The news story said he'd been riding his cycle on a highway when an 85-yr. old woman pulled out from a side road, not looking carefully, and ran over him. My friend died in the hospital, hours later. Yeah, with his boots on.

Another BTW -- if he'd have lived to see the Pirates of the Caribbean moves, he WAS Capt. Jack Sparrow, only less confused. Once, when water started spouting from the ceiling of a huge, brick-lined pit at school that served as a lounge and study hall, my friend stood atop a ledge, raised himself to his full height and boomed engagingly, "Don't panic! We've struck an iceberg and sprang a small leak. There is nothing to worry about. Don't panic!"

In the dream I had this morning, we were in a high school and I was asking for permission to turn the lights up in a certain room. Who knows why -- it was a dream. I was told to go and find my friend. As soon as I was told this, he appeared out of a sea of faces. At first I saw him as I remembered him in college: beard, hippy. But as he got closer, he grew younger, like I mentioned at the start of this column. The anomaly, if it indeed was an anomaly, is that he became clean shaven -- his beard disappeared, his hair was short, combed, and forgive me, he wore a beanie like some did as college freshmen, before the leftist movement and Vietnam protests had taken hold in the Midwest.

Shocking, how my friend looked. I saw him closeup. He carried a stack of schoolbooks under his arm. The was no blur around him as dreams are often portrayed. The "blur" was that he appeared out of a sea of activity -- changing classes -- and that's what isolated him.

I wondered why he appeared so clean cut. After all, I knew my friend well as an iconoclast; a renegade with a soft heart. But maybe he looked like that in the dream because he'd found a world where things were as he desired them to be. And he was functioning as his true self. He was happy.

(photo at top by Gigi Pilcher)