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Posts Tagged ‘pork’

Greek Pork and Celery Stew

 A bundle of boneless pork chunks discovered in my freezer this week sent me browsing through cookbooks for a recipe to make with it. A dish we always enjoy is pork long cooked in tomato sauce for pasta, but I wanted something different for a change.

When it’s the unusual I’m looking for, I often turn to Joyce Goldstein’s Kitchen Conversations, a book whose gonzo recipes I’ve written about several times before, making them with various degrees of success; e.g., here and here.

The Hirino me Selino Avgolemono recipe I found there this time – in English, a Greek pork and celery stew – filled the bill for me: I know almost nothing about Greek cooking. The recipe looked straightforward, and I thought the sauce with the avgolemono mixture of egg yolk and lemon juice would be an intriguing taste experience.  And so it was.
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I gathered my ingredients and went to work.

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First was browning the small-cut pieces of pork in olive oil; quickly over high heat, as instructed. Next I took the meat out of the pan and put in the chopped onions. These were to cook 8 to 10 minutes – which, if I’d left the pan over high heat, would have incinerated them. I’ve found Goldstein’s recipes often sloppy about such details. I turned the gas way down and cooked the onions gently.
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The pork then rejoined the onions, along with half a cup of white wine and a cup of water. The recipe also didn’t say to deglaze the pan, but it certainly needed deglazing, so I did – then covered and simmered it for 35 minutes. At that point I added the celery.
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After about 20 more minutes of simmering, both pork and celery were tender. I removed them to a warm platter and quickly reduced the remaining liquid in the pan. Meanwhile I’d beaten an egg yolk with two tablespoons of lemon juice. Into that I stirred small spoonsful of the pan juices to keep the egg from coagulating when it hit the heat, then added the egg-and-lemon mixture to the pan along with some salt and pepper, and poured the finished sauce over the platter of pork and celery.

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It was a good dinner dish – very interesting in the combination of the smooth, sharp avgolemono sauce, the sweet pork, and the astringent celery. It was a bit reminiscent of what in my youth used to be called fricassee, usually made with chicken. I don’t know whether this recipe is an authentic version of the Greek dish (some of Goldstein’s ethnic creations are very idiosyncratic), but it was quite enjoyable.

Oh, and I’ll add that I preceded the stew with an appetizer of my only prior Greek culinary accomplishment: a bowl of homemade tzatziki, to be scooped up with triangles of toasted pita bread.

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Rillettes: A Sad Story

Rillettes are a signature dish of the cuisine of the Loire Valley. Lush and succulent, it’s potted pork: lightly seasoned, lengthily cooked, shredded, and packed in its own fat. I was eager for rillettes on my recent French trip, but nowhere was it offered. Since France wouldn’t cooperate, I determined to make it at home.

Making rillettes looked easy enough, though time-consuming. From Anne Willan’s French Regional Cooking I learned that different cities in the area have different versions, some adding rabbit, duck, or goose to the pork. I used Willan’s recipe for the rillettes of Tours, which is only pork. And pork fat: She says you should use at least half as much fat as lean and you can even use equal amounts of both.

I went to a supermarket to buy the pork, and to my surprise found the cuts were quite closely trimmed. I needed more fat. I settled for two loin chops and some fatty chunks of pork belly. (That may have been my first mistake.) I cut them in pieces as directed.
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The meat, fat, and bones went into a heavy pot along with salt, pepper, half a bay leaf, and tiny pinches of nutmeg, allspice, and thyme.
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I added half a cup of water, brought it to a boil, tightly covered the pot, and put it in a 320° oven. The recipe said it would take four to five hours for a much larger quantity than I was making. Every half hour I checked to see if it needed more water to keep the meat from frying. The belly fat was extremely reluctant to melt. Even without rind, there seemed to be something cartilaginous about it. The pot needed a lot more additional water than the recipe implied, and even so the meat was getting awfully crisp. After the full five hours I took it out of the oven.
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Next was to discard the bones and bay leaf, take out the pork, reserve the fat, and shred the meat with two forks. It did not shred easily. The larger chunks of belly had to be cut up with a poultry shear, and even the softer bits of meat were pretty stringy.
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Hoping against hope, I continued with the recipe. I mixed the cooled liquid fat with the meat. There was less fat than seemed right, so I melted down some lard and added it. Then I packed it all into a small crock and faithfully followed Willan’s quaint instruction to cover it with waxed paper and tie the paper in place with string.
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It rested in the refrigerator for two days, during which time I thought perhaps it would all soften. When I took out the crock and tried spreading some of the rillettes on a slice of baguette, it was immediately apparent that it hadn’t.
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The flavor was okay, but the texture was terrible. None of the fat had permeated the tough, dry, bits of meat. We couldn’t bring ourselves to eat it.

The next day I tried to rescue my rillettes by pureeing them through the mini food processor. That didn’t work either. It left me with a semi-smooth base of puree threaded through with stringy bits. Sigh.

So, post mortem: What went wrong here? Various possibilities, starting with the wrong kind of pork and/or too poor a quality of it. Maybe too large a pot, so the meats were too spread out in it and dried before they could tenderize. Probably much too much cooking because of the intransigent belly fat. I don’t think I can blame my recipe for any of this, only myself.

Neverthess, I’m not giving up my determination to make good rillettes. Sometime soon (but not too soon; not until after the trauma fades) I will try again, with better pork, better fat, and more attention to the procedure. It seems such a simple recipe; I should be able to do this.

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Some cookbooks that I’ve had for decades have been loved and used so much – back when my cookbook collection was much smaller than it is now – that I feel I know them intimately. Yet, when I look into them these days, they can surprise me with recipes I can’t remember even reading, much less making. One such book is Marcella Hazan’s More Classic Italian Cooking, which I’ve had since it came out in 1978, a welcome follow-up to her first volume, from 1973.

With a nice half rack of spareribs to cook for dinner recently, I pulled out the Hazan book to look at a recipe for pork spareribs that I’d rediscovered about a year and a half ago, which I’d written up here. I’d had some thoughts about changes I might try. However, on the facing page I found another sparerib recipe, Costicine di Maiale ai Ferri, that I’d also completely forgotten about. Hazan proposes an unusual way to broil ribs, which she says will make them come out nearly as well as grilling or spit roasting them. I was intrigued.

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The recipe starts out conventionally enough, marinating a sheet of spareribs in olive oil, garlic, rosemary, salt, and pepper; and leaving it at room temperature for at least an hour.

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Then the meat is to be set up on a V-shaped roasting rack – the kind with side wings that adjust to any desired angle. Hazan hails her discovery that positioning ribs within the V lets more air circulate around them, which “quickly drains the fat and crisps the meat, giving it a leaner, fresher taste than other methods of cooking ribs.”

I’ve had one of these racks forever, which I’ve used only for roasting chickens or ducks. This seemed a good opportunity to expand its repertoire. I gave it a try.
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The broiling turned out to be a little tricky. The meat had to be turned over every 6 minutes during a 45-minute cooking time. While my rack of ribs had curved well enough into the V-shaped space at first, it quickly stiffened and wouldn’t bend backwards when turned. After a few turns, it essentially lay flat at the top of the metal rack’s side supports.
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It’s true there was more air circulating around the pork than a conventional broiler pan with a perforated top rack could provide. But I don’t know how much difference that made in the long run. It didn’t render out any more fat than I’d expect to get from normal broiling. And in any event, the ribs weren’t actually grilled: Grilling means cooking over a flame, not under it.
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So, there are my faux-grilled spareribs. They were very nicely flavored from the marinade, and they were well cooked. But they were pretty tough. From this and previous attempts I have to conclude that broiling ribs is not the best way to deal with them – at least, not with American ribs. They prefer long, gentle cooking, ideally in liquid.

This broiled batch tasted fine, but it just didn’t get tender at all. It clenched. We had to struggle to saw the meat off the bones with steak knives, while the meat in properly done ribs just falls off the bone. In fact, this meat tore off the bones pretty easily with the teeth – but I don’t always want to eat my spareribs in my hands. I need at least one hand clean at all times for lifting my wine glass. And Beloved Spouse hates the mess gnawing rib bones makes of his moustache.

 

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A few times a year, I get an urge to try cooking pork tenderloin. This is strange, because in the past I’ve hardly ever achieved a successful dish with that cut of meat. I don’t know why; I’ve just assumed it was “not in my skill set,” as a work colleague of mine once said when he was asked to take on a task. But I keep trying, and this time I think I succeeded.

1000 Italian RecipesThe recipe I used was Balsamic-Glazed Pork Tenderloin with Arugula and Parmigiano, from Michele Sciolone’s 1,000 Italian Recipes. I liked the look of it because it had enough other flavorings to be attractive but not so many as to turn the dish into a big production number. And it was extremely easy to prepare.

condimentsThe main – almost the only – effort it took was to stir together a glaze of minced garlic, balsamic vinegar, honey, salt, and black pepper, a combination of tastes that promised interesting results. I happened to have some very fine balsamic and a jar of good acacia honey to use for that.
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I laid the tenderloin in a snug baking dish, brushed the glaze over it, and roasted it in a very hot oven, pouring a little water into the dish after the first 15 minutes. The pork was ready after 20 more minutes, without any basting.
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tenderloin-cooked

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While the tenderloin rested in its pan for 10 more minutes, I tossed a bunch of baby arugula with a balsamic vinaigrette. Then I placed the meat on a platter for slicing, drizzled the pan juices over it, spread the arugula around it, and sprinkled grated parmigiano over the salad.

tenderloin-served

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(Actually, the recipe calls for making cheese shavings with a vegetable peeler, but I didn’t have a chunk of parmigiano available. The grated cheese was fine.)

The result was the excellent medley of flavors I’d hoped for. The meat was only gently imbued with the glaze, but it had created a very nice, light pan sauce. I love arugula even just plain, and dressed as it was here, it made a sparkling foil for the sweet, succulent pork.

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My trip to Rome earlier this month was, gastronomically, very much of an auld lang syne experience. Beloved Spouse and I dined only at restaurants we’ve known and loved for years, and mostly on dishes that we’ve often eaten there and that are a large part of the reason we love them. Here are what we had on three of the days.

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fortunato-al-pantheon

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Fortunato al Pantheon
is a slightly austere establishment, favored by politicians from the nearby national Parliament. It was a modest trattoria years ago, when we first discovered it, but it has grown in elegance while still retaining its basic honesty.

The moment we walked into the dining room, we smelled truffles. Wow! We hadn’t expected the season to have started yet. We couldn’t resist them, but first we had to have antipasti: a pair of carciofi alla romana and a plate of salume.
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fortunato-1

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Then came the truffles. For Tom, tagliarini topped at tableside with shavings of a single large white truffle; and for me tagliarini already dressed with a sauce of black truffle and porcini mushrooms. By our waiter’s courtesy, I also received the last little bits of Tom’s white truffle.
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tartufi-bianchi

Tagliarini con tartufi bianchi

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tartufi-neri

Tagliarini con tartufi neri e funghi porcini

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These were both stunningly rich dishes, but after them we felt we could manage a little dessert: a dish of fragoline con panna and a small tiramisù.
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fortunato-3

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Walking back to our hotel, we pondered one of the enduring mysteries of Roman dining: How do you get fresh artichokes, wild strawberries, and truffles at the same season?
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checchino

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Another evening found us at Checchino dal 1887. It’s in Testaccio, the epicenter of Rome’s ancient quinto quarto cuisine – i.e., variety meats, or more simply, offal. Testaccio used to be the butcher’s section of the city, and the “fifth quarter” of the animal was what the poor got, after the best cuts went to the aristocracy, the clergy, the bourgeoisie, and the military. Dishes made from those innards, though not for today’s faint-hearted eater, are central to Rome’s traditional cuisine.

Here, Tom always starts with the same pasta dish: rigatoni con pajata. Pajata is the small intestine of milk-fed lamb, still filled with partially digested milk. Tied into little sausages and cooked in tomato sauce, it’s delicious beyond what you would expect. That evening I chose an equally traditional, though meatless, first course: pasta e ceci (chickpeas).
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checchino-1-1

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I made up for that reticence with my second course, padellotto alla macellara. This “butcher’s platter” was a sauté of pajata, liver, sweetbreads, and testicolo. (Yes, testicle). Not your everyday plate of protein. Tom had a bollito misto – mixed boiled meats – including on this occasion beef, calf’s tongue, and a small pig’s foot.
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padelotto.
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I must admit, we couldn’t finish either of these ample plates.
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zi-umberto

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Osteria da Zi’ Umberto
is a small, lively, bustling, casual eating place in Trastevere. Though not strong on atmosphere and looking a little run-down, it turns out very good, mostly rustic food at relatively modest prices. After starting with a few fiori fritti (batter-fried zucchini flowers stuffed with cheese and anchovies), we had first courses of pappardelle with wild boar sauce and fettuccine with porcini mushrooms.
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2-umberto-pastas

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Then Tom had oxtails – coda alla vaccinara – and I had suckling pig – maialino arrosto con patate. Both were beautifully prepared.
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coda

 

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At all these meals we drank wine, of course – mostly wines of Rome’s Lazio region, which aren’t commonly available in New York – and ended with espressos and grappa. Many interesting kinds of grappa. Tom has written a post about the wines for his blog, which you can see here.

Our remaining three dinners in Rome are described in my next post.

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I intended a culinary trip down Memory Lane this week, but got detoured onto a side path and was rewarded with an excellent new dinner dish instead.

I’d been thinking about a cut of pork my mother used to cook, long ago, which we knew as fresh butt. It’s not a familiar name nowadays. I couldn’t remember what actual part of the pig it came from, nor exactly what she did with it, but it was a family favorite. At a visit to my butcher, I asked if he had it. Sure, he said, and showed me a neat 1½-pound hunk of boneless pork, which looked just right. Despite the name “butt,” it turns out to be from the shoulder. It wagged its tail at me (metaphorically) so I took it home.

fresh butt

Then the task was to remember how my mother made her fresh butt. I seemed to envision it in slices, in a frying pan, but wouldn’t that toughen meat from the T-L Porkshoulder? I decided to do a little research in the Pork volume of the Time-Life Good Cook series. These are all fascinating books, and by the time I finished poring over this one’s text, pictures, and recipes, I’d found a dish so appealing that I forwent my nostalgic quest. It was Palette de Pork “Pauvre Femme” (braised pork with onion sauce), attributed to the 1978 book The Nouvelle Cuisine of Jean & Pierre Troisgros.

The main ingredients in the recipe, aside from the meat, were copious amounts of sliced onions and potatoes: about 1¼ pounds of each.

onions, potatoes

The dish was very easy to make. I browned the pork – salted, peppered, and with a few slivers of garlic poked into it – in butter in a heavy casserole, while softening the onions in butter in another pan.

browning

Next, I scraped the onions into the pork, added the raw potatoes and a small bouquet garni (parsley, bay leaf, thyme, sage, peppercorns), poured on a cup of boiling milk, stirred it all about, covered the casserole, and baked it at 325° for 1¼ hours, until the pork was very tender. Then I took out the pork and kept it warm while I finished the dish.

The recipe said to skim off the fat and put the rest of the casserole contents through a food mill, “to obtain a light, pureed sauce.” Updating that instruction, I used a food processor – and, wickedly, didn’t skim the fat. What I obtained was not a light sauce but a very thick puree: A big scoop of it held its shape in a spoon almost like mashed potatoes. It smelled and tasted luscious. And there was an ocean of it!

serving dish

I have a feeling the quantification of the ingredients might have gone astray in the translation from French, but we didn’t mind at all because the puree was so good. Along with a few sauteed apples, it was a perfect accompaniment to the sweet, succulent pork.

plated

I wish my mother could have known this way of cooking fresh butt. She would have enjoyed the dish as much as we did.

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Some edible items seem to take root in my freezer or pantry. It’s not that I don’t want to use them – I do – but somehow the right moment doesn’t arrive. The Hatch chileslatest one was a large can of Hatch green chiles, which had been sitting in the pantry long enough for its use-by date to be looming. It was absolutely time to make something with it.

Hatch green chiles are a special kind of New Mexico chiles, grown only in that state’s Hatch Valley, along the Rio Grande. My can was the mild variety, though there are hotter ones if you’re lucky enough to find them.

I don’t know a lot about New Mexico cooking, but from a trip in that region some years ago, Tom and I did develop a genuine passion for dishes made with green chiles. Back home, the dish we’ve had our best luck with was a green chile stew recipe I found online. It’s from Central Market in Texas, which probably makes it anathema to all good New Mexicans – but hey, we’re gringos, and it tastes good to us.

When I opened my can of chiles I was surprised at how many it contained: This was a solid pack, and they were firm, clean, fragrant vegetables.

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can contents

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No way I was going to be able to use them all at once, so I deseeded and chopped up about a cup’s worth, carefully wrapped the remaining ones, and put them in the freezer for another day.

The recipe starts with browning cubes of boneless pork in olive oil. I’d defrosted a generous pound of meaty country-style pork ribs, and Tom cut them up for me. Using a little artistic license, I asked him for larger pieces than cubes: That wasn’t canonical, but I wanted to try it. I also decided to use lard instead of olive oil, for a porkier oomph.

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When the meat was browned I added chopped onions and garlic, cooked a few minutes, sprinkled on flour, cooked a little more, stirring. Next came a cup of chopped tomatoes, the chiles, salt, pepper, and a tiny pinch of sugar; finally a big potato cubed and two cups of broth. All that cooked gently, covered, for about two hours, until the pork was tender.

The chiles were indeed mild, but quite authoritative in the stew, providing a distinctive flavor and gentle warmth. I served it with black beans, rice, guacamole, and white corn tortillas, making a fine Southwestern combination.

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Though these Hatch chiles were canned, they were better tasting than either the fresh or the frozen ones we’d occasionally been able to buy here before. So good was their effect that if I make the stew again with the rest of this batch I intend to cut back the amount of tomato, so the chile will be greener. Or perhaps try a totally green chile recipe: We have fond memories of a bowl of what seemed a simple green chile puree that we ravened down in a nondescript diner somewhere near Sonoita, New Mexico.

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Post script: It wasn’t long until the rest of the Hatch chiles got their day in the spotlight. Tom was the instigator, since we’d invited his brother and wife for dinner and he’d had ideas about ways to get that recipe greener and spicier. So out of the freezer came the remaining chiles. This time I became the cook’s assistant, as he proceeded to make the recipe his own.

For starters, he went heavy on the meat: The recipe calls for 2 pounds of pork to serve 6 to 8; Tom used 2½ pounds for the 4 of us. He cut the meat fairly small – not quite the little cubes the recipe indicated, but more normal stewlike chunks than in my earlier version.

pork browning

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He increased the proportion of onion, reduced the tomato by half, used all the remaining Hatch chiles, and added – his secret ingredient ­– three chipotles in adobo, minced.

chipotles

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After that, he more or less followed the original recipe’s ingredients and steps. It produced quite a hefty pot of chile, which scented the kitchen with the spiciness of the chipotles as it simmered along. I envisioned enough leftovers for another meal for Tom and me.

At the dinner table, after a first course of guacamole and chips, we served the chile with black beans, rice, and fresh corn tortillas.

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second stew served

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To our surprise, it was not the fiery dish that we’d expected, much to my brother-in-law’s relief and my sister-in-law’s disappointment. The Hatch chiles provided fine flavor again, but they had lost almost all their heat, compared to the first time around. Also, except for those cooking aromas, we couldn’t discern the chipotles at all. That was a pity but, fortunately, not enough to spoil our enjoyment: The ingredients did blend into a good, harmonious stew. At the end of dinner, there were just three chunks of pork left in the bowl.

 

 

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