Dial S for Schmaltz

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Ew. Liver.

I’ll just say it: the mere thought of eating liver triggers a tiny gag reflex.

Blame it on childhood trauma. Specifically, my best friend’s mom making liver for dinner when I was staying over. I ate it without complaint—because that’s how I was raised—but it was…a lot. Not bad. Just intense.

Then there’s the visual: cling-wrapped beef liver, slightly bloody, lounging in grocery store cold cases like it knows it’s upsetting folks — and is probably about to step out for a smoke break. Although now that I think about it, I haven’t seen beef liver at a store in years. 🤔

Chicken livers, on the other hand? I imagined mini versions of the triangular organs. But no—turns out they’re more like a cluster of wet, quivering lobes. (gag) Okay. Breathe. I’m a grown-up. Act like one.

I can hear him now, laughing at me. Not softly, either—guffawing. “You’re wasting time,” he says, still catching his breath.

He’s not wrong. This week, the ghost picked Chopped Liver on Rye (Appetites, pg. 28). Because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to eat it, I added Potato Salad (Appetites, pg. 77) to the menu. Both are deceptively long recipes. Not complex. Just…time consuming.

First step? Make schmaltz. For those not raised Jewish: that’s rendered chicken fat, made by slowly cooking hunks of skin and fat. (It also means “overly sentimental or melodramatic,” but I fail to see the connection— maybe it will come to me.)

I called the butcher to ask about extra chicken skin. Nope. So instead, I bought a big pack of bone-in, skin-on thighs. I skinned them, deboned them, and threw the meat in the freezer for later. The skin? Into a pan over medium-low heat, where it sizzled and sighed and gave up its fat like a confession. Unburdened, they became light and crispy. A little salt, and they were better than potato chips.

“You like the outer parts but not the inner ones?” he said, rolling his eyes.

I crunched a crispy chicken skin extra noisily in response. Petty, but fair.

Chicken livers were easy enough to find—though mercifully hidden in opaque containers, because they’re revolting to look at. The rest of the ingredients—sweet onions, hard-boiled eggs, seeded rye—were much prettier and less emotionally complicated.

The potato salad? That’s where the trouble started. The grocery delivery was out of cornichons. I refused to go store-hopping for one jar of tiny pickles, so I used what I had in the fridge. (Spoiler: I will regret this choice.)

Back to the liver: onions get gently browned in schmaltz until soft and sweet. Then more schmaltz hits the pan, and in go the livers—cooked carefully to medium. Yes, medium. For chicken. (If you’re asking yourself, “Wait, isn’t that dangerous and possibly illegal?”—same.)

As best I could tell after repeatedly stabbing my instant-read thermometer into the sizzling bits, medium chicken livers clock in at about 148°F. Slightly pink in the middle, but cooked. Allegedly.

Once done, everything goes into the food processor with more schmaltz, some hard-boiled eggs, and gets blitzed into something textured but spreadable. And then… I had to taste it. Just to see if it needed more salt.

It did. And?

It was delicious.

Like, actually good. Probably would’ve been even better if I hadn’t watched it come into being. It’s like sausage—you want to eat it, not witness its creation.

Dammit. Now I have to eat my words. Literally.

With the liver spread resting, I tackled the potato salad. Potatoes: peeled, chopped, boiled, cooled. Bacon (instead of eggs, per Anthony’s orders): cooked. Celery and red onion: diced. The pickles? Still the wrong kind. Should’ve gone with sweet ones.

Do you need any more proof that I’m just a little bit weird? Probably not. But I made the mayonnaise from scratch anyway (Appetites, p. 272). There are perfectly good store-bought options—I like one made with olive oil. But scratch mayo is creamier, dreamier, and well, his suggestions are my command. Sunflower oil, white wine vinegar, egg yolk, dried mustard, salt, lemon juice. Whisked by hand. Because I didn’t want to have to wash out the food processor.

Everything got tossed together with a splash of red wine vinegar and a spoonful of Dijon mustard. I took a bite.

It was very tangy. Almost aggressively so. I should’ve bought the damn cornichons.

Still, I have hope it will mellow overnight. Like many things—grudges, grief, butter—the bite softens with time.

By the time I finished, the kitchen was a war zone. Schmaltz dripped in mysterious places. The pan was crusted with liver bits. The dishwasher groaned in protest. It took me over 30 minutes to clean it all up.

But first, we needed to eat. I cleared a little space, plated the rye sandwiches and salad, snapped a few photos, and served dinner just before 8 p.m. And yes—we’ll be eating this again over the weekend. Even halved, the chopped liver recipe made a lot.

Next week? Something easy. Something unfussy. Something like… Lasagna Bolognese.

Stay tuned. And maybe stock up on cornichons.

I wanted to mention the passing of Anne Burrell. Her infectious energy, impressive culinary background, and fearlessness made her a sparkling star on many of Food Network’s shows. She will be missed. Today, I put a little extra swoop in my hair in her honor. RIP, Anne.

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