Mussels in Vermouth

Many food blogs avoid discussing news. It’s easier to avoid politically fraught issues (oh, I can see the Facebook posts now….) and just leap to the recipe.

Leaping was never my forte.

Over at the Huffington Post, there’s a partial list of the dead. The single most shocking thing about these people–apart from the fact that they are all dead–is how young they are. The eldest–so far–was only 50. The youngest was a heartbreaking 19.

In trying to search out a dignified transition to food, I consulted M.F.K. Fisher’s famed passage in The Art Of Eating regarding food and the bereaved. It is unsuitable, for Fisher writes concerning the anxious appetites of men whose wives have just died. The well-bred are raised to starve in the face of loss. I turned to Nigella Lawson, whose otherwise exuberant Feast closes with “Funeral Feast.” Here is woman who should know, having lost her sister, mother, and first husband to cancer. Bless Nigella, she comes through:

Any food is a vital reminder that life goes on, that living is important. That isn’t brutal: it’s the greatest respect you can pay to the dead.

Wouldn’t it be great if we could call an end to 2016 right now? Just make July January? How about it?

—

So, mussels. Compared to the past seven days, or really, the past seven months, mussels are easy. They are politically correct, wild or cultivated. They’re cheap. They’re fast, easy, and taste like you spent hours in the kitchen. They make their own sumptuous broth. They’re self-explanatory in a life where little else is. Cracked shell? Toss. Refuse to open, though you’ve cooked ’em for ten minutes? Toss. Don’t take it from me. In Prune, Gabrielle Hamilton describes sickness from eating bad shellfish as “a holy hell of wretched despair.”

So, returning to shellfish.

Mussels in Vermouth is really Moules Mariniere, swapping out white wine for vermouth, because I tend to have Vermouth around. You can use either.

Mussels in Vermouth cries out for good bread, to sop, and not much else, even utensils. You eat them with fingers, or by using a shell as a spoon for the broth.

A few words on safely handling shellfish: (in case that holy hell up there wasn’t enough) Cook mussels the same day you buy them. On hot days, either bring an icepack to the market or ask your fishmonger to pack your mussels with ice. Once home, immediately empty the mussels into a bowl, cover it with a damp dishtowel, and store it in the coldest part of your fridge.

Even if you’ve purchased cultivated mussels, it’s a good idea to give them a quick soak in cold water. As you see in this wildly attractive photo, mussels kick out lots of gunk. And no, that’s not my hair. It’s beard, which is easily removed with a decisive tug.

Once the mussels are cleaned, place them in a clean bowl, cover them again with a damp dishtowel, and refrigerate until they go into the pot.

I should also tell you that for blogging purposes I prepared only a half-pound of shellfish. The IK gets the nicest light between noon and 2:30 p.m., which isn’t exactly dinnertime. Normally this presents few problems, but mussels don’t improve with time. The photographs show a 1/2 pound, enough for a delicate appetite, luncheon, or a blog post.

Once your mussels are clean, dice a few aromatics–shallots, a little garlic–and melt some butter in a large pot. Add thyme (or don’t), tip in your mussels, pour vermouth to cover, clap on your lid, and moments later, dinner.

Any leftover broth freezes beautifully should you be moved to make fishy soups of some sort.