There are plenty of reasons not to eat squid. You’re allergic. It’s against your religion. Maybe you plain don’t like squid. Or, as some people point out, “Those things eat shit, bro.”
I wish I were kidding. All that talk of unscrupulous fishermen using socks (or stockings) stuffed with excrement to lure squid with? It’s true. It’s not standard practice, but it is done (and not merely with squid, albeit minus the sock). Don’t give me that look. If it’s good enough for the squid, why in heck not? Who’s to say those creatures don’t eat shit as a matter of course? Lots of free-floaters out there, bro. Care to guess who’s mopping up that crap? (Coprophagic animals include chimps, rabbits, elephants, pandas, koalas — and, of course, pigs and dogs. That’s fine company if you ask me.)
But enough. I just wanted to get your attention. I might as well tell you that the same people who point out that that squid right there might have had more than a passing acquaintance with feces — why, they’re all over the stuff! Like flies to… well, you-know-what. And that includes yours truly. What can I say? That shit’s good, bro. The squid, I mean.
Ironically, the only squid I have trouble eating is squid that I have cooked myself. I regard squid with trepidation. It’s slimy, yes. And ugly. But more than that, it doesn’t take kindly to rigorous, heavy-handed cooking, which is just about my only approach to food (see here, for example). If you have cooked squid before, you know how easy it is to overdo. It’s like liver, but with tentacles.
Bottom line, I would rather leave squid for others to cook. Nothing ventured, nothing botched, right? Unless there are no “others” to speak of. I refer to the cook being on maternity leave.
Have I told you about the first time I made humba and it turned out really great, and then I tried doing it again (and again) and could not replicate my initial success? No? Well, I hope this was nothing like that incident, because my first attempt at stuffed squid was showered with approval, if on the sardonic side. Obviously someone “got lucky.” Now who could that be?
For the stuffing, I sautéed minced red onion, garlic, scallion, tomato, and finger chilies (I figured the spices could use a head start given the brief cooking time for the cephalopods themselves), then seasoned the mixture with salt and ground black pepper. After stuffing the squid, I made a few incisions in the mantle (or sac) to allow some of the liquid to leach out during cooking (I’m not a big fan of the mushy stuff inside squid, which reminds me of you-know-what).
The squid was fried in a little oil for about a minute on each side, then I gave the pan a generous sprinkling of Knorr liquid seasoning, followed by a pat (roughly a teaspoon) of salted butter to bring the smooth, inky sauce together. Served with lots of rice, they were succulent, and the stuffing provided a soft, sweet crunch and mild heat. But what really surprised me was that it took more restraint than effort on my part for the dish to turn out like it did.* It was that easy, that fast, that good. I made it again the next day, and then the day after that, until satisfied that I had it down to a science — and that no one dared utter the word “luck” again. Could you tell that hurt my feelings, bro?
This post has no comments.
Post a Comment