cabbages and kings

Alice Waters and Edible Education

2009-04-11T14:26:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. It's been an entire six months since I've written anything in here. So sorry! I've been busy learning to batonnet and julienne and braise and saute. The school is going through a massive renovation until the fall quarter, so I shall have more time to write (I hope). I had hoped to keep you updated about the antics of culinary school, and perhaps I will get to that in later posts. For now, though, I want to tell you something exciting.

I saw Alice Waters in person. Granted, she was 50 feet away and obscured from view by rows of bobbling heads, but I occasionally glimpsed her modest defiance when the man in front of me leaned an inch or two to the left. We were all eagerly craning our necks to see her, this woman we've read and heard so much about, whose cookbooks we love and activism we love more. I anticipated a rousing speech.

The crowd was crammed tight in the largest conference room at the Green Festival. After introduction after introduction, I was beginning to get impatient for the star of the show to appear. Finally, after the panelists were seated, Alice Waters was introduced. With an air of hard-earned regality, she took her seat between panelists Tom Philpott, the food editor of Grist.org, and Chris Taylor, the director of the new documentary Food Fight. Food Fight is about Edible Education, a movement advocated by Alice Waters that puts gardens in schools and encourages the use of its produce for school meals. The film features several interviews with Waters.

"I had no idea this film was about me," Waters smiled, her powerful voice laced with maternal modesty. "I am embarrassed I am so prominent. This movement has been going around the country as long as I've been doing this. We are becoming so activated by this idea because we have been so separated from our food. We are coming back to our senses."

She sat proudly, with graceful poise. Her words were simple but poignant, and her voice suggested sincerity. She discussed the news that the Obamas plan to put in a vegetable garden on the White House lawn. Since 1992, Waters has ended her speeches, "And wouldn't it be wonderful if there were a vegetable garden on the White House lawn?" Now that the garden plans are underway, Waters cheerfully joked that "[Obama] should be having press conferences out by the composting."

Philpott mentioned that Monsanto sent a letter to the Obamas praising the fact that they were starting a garden but lamenting the fact that it was organic. He said, "Monsanto isn't going to skitter away because Alice Waters is speaking about organics." Waters was unruffled. "The pushback will be intense," she agreed. She said that is why we need to keep fighting and making films like Food Fight.

About Edible Education, Waters is adamant that "all children should eat at school for free, and should eat food produced by people who care for the land." Her vision is to have a garden in every school and get children learning math and science while developing a connection to the food.

The panel discussion flitted back and forth a bit more, punctuated by hearty applause if someone delivered a particularly effective line. Though the discussion was encouraging, I left with the feeling that I had merely heard a lot of big talk. I enjoyed hearing Alice Waters speak in her simple, direct manner, but missed out on any kind of real information. I would have been more satisfied had the panelists mentioned how we could get involved in the movement or what they were currently doing to promote Edible Education. Ultimately, though, her message came across: "Good food is a right and not a privilege."

A sweet tangent

2008-10-09T19:26:00.000-07:00

Seattle is not the best place to make homemade marshmallows, at least not the kind with folded in egg whites. The meringue will soak up moisture from the October air, and the whole slab of stickiness will go slimy. Imagine squeezing your fingers around a snowy-white rectangle with the texture of a slug. Sound like something you want eat? I thought not.

Which is why, when you make homemade marshmallows in Seattle (or any other semi-arid environment), you should always use corn syrup. I know, I know: it's a foodie abomination. I am no big advocate of corn syrup. It is isolated starch molecules from corn kernels, turned into liquid glucose. We Americans consume far too much corn-derived food as it is, and the whole concept of refined starches and sugars makes me cringe. On the other hand, many many folks in the Midwest would be out of jobs if not for our reliance on GMO corn. We could go around in ethical circles for days and never solve anything.

That, and corn syrup becomes significantly more ethical-sounding when a batch of marshmallows turns out slimy and I need something that won't fall apart in humidity. Don't tell my Sustainable Food Systems instructor I said it, but corn syrup works. Of course it works. It's science. Corrupted, greed-funded science, but functional nonetheless.

I have no photo for you today, but just imagine the piles of pillowy, over-sweetened goodness. These will be excellent dunked in a mug of thick, foamy hot chocolate come winter.

Disclaimer: eating too much corn syrup will in fact give you nasty diseases, despite what the ads may tell you.

Marshmallows!

3 packets unflavored gelatin (such as Knox brand)
1/2 cup cold water
2 cups granulated sugar
2/3 cups light corn syrup
1/4 cup water
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon vanilla extract

Line a 9x9 inch pan with aluminum foil. Coat with a light spritz of nonstick cooking spray, or oil it gently. Set aside.

In a large (and I do mean large) bowl, dump out the gelatin packets into 1/2 cup cold water. Let sit for about 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, stir sugar, corn syrup, and 1/4 cup water into a saucepan. Bring to a full boil and let it bubble for at least one minute or until mixture reaches 250 degrees on a candy thermometer. Slowly pour the boiling mixture over the gelatin, using a hand mixer on low speed to combine. Add the salt, boost the speed to high, and mix for a solid 12 minutes, until the batter has doubled in size and stiff peaks form. Alternatively, use a stand mixer with a whisk attachment. Add the vanilla and beat until combined. Pour the marshmallow into the prepared pan and smooth out the top as much as you can. Allow to sit for at least three hours or overnight, uncovered.

Put a smattering of confectioner's sugar on a plate. Dust a cutting board with confectioner's sugar and turn the marshmallow square onto it. Cut into bite-sized squares with a sharp knife. (I like making extra big squares so that only one big marshmallow fits into a mug of hot chocolate.) Wetting the knife with hot water helps keep it from sticking, but if your knife is too hot the marshmallows will melt. Dredge the pieces in the confectioner's sugar on the plate. Store at room temperature in an airtight container.

The New Kids on the Butcher Block

2008-09-30T21:00:00.000-07:00

We are thirty in number, and we sweep around the school in white-jacketed, houndstooth-pantsed clusters. If you were to look at our faces, some would be wide-eyed with their eyebrows up in nervousness. A precious few hold stolid expressions, some hunch their nervousness into curled shoulders, and still more strut around comfortably. There's a nerdy kid and a princess and a class clown, even. We're no breakfast club but we do prep for the lunch lines, and hopefully there won't be all that sappy stuff at the end, you know like when Molly Ringwald gets all weepy over the angry grunge guy while the kid with glasses reads a dramatic voiceover.

We are the new kids with patchy knowledge and plenty of bravery. We are thrown in the kitchen knives-first, chopping and mincing and dicing for the second quarter kitchen. First quarter students are, essentially, the bitches of the rest of school (albeit willingly). We have our own kitchen separate from the main area, close to the locker rooms, but we do much of the grunt work for the upper quarters. The work gets us practicing our knife skills as well as management; we are required to rotate through a rotary of roles daily.

Today was the first day with our brand-new knives and pressed white uniforms. Last week, a common conversation was whether or not the second quarter students would harass us when we were assigned to their kitchen. Turns out, they were wonderfully nice and helpful. Where are all the hazing stories? I am sorry I have no stories of new-kid woe. No one has been pushed upside-down into a trash can or had their lunch money stolen. Perhaps culinary school is sufficiently bully-free.

So far it has been lectures and more lectures and safety rules. Knife demonstrations and one slow day in the kitchen with a knife. So much for fearful expectations. We haven't been put on the butcher block after all, but in front of it.

Day One: Theatrics

2008-09-23T21:51:00.000-07:00

The Culinary Arts orientation was held in the performance hall. The flier said coffee and pastry at eight, program at eight thirty. When I arrived at ten past eight, I expected a half-full lobby of mingling students, maybe a couple of instructors teetering around to greet us and a neat line at the pastry table. Instead I found a lobby packed tight with smiling, waving bodies, the pastry table inaccessible due to the numbers of people standing in groups around it. I stood by the table, eyeing zucchini bread just out of reach. I seemed to be the only one at the table not speaking to anyone. Looking around for echoes of my predicament, I spotted a couple of girls sitting at either end of a couch, not speaking, appearing curious and bewildered.

"Is this where the people who don't know anyone else sit?" I smiled as I settled down between them, cheery with morning newness. I hid my nervousness. Even adults get first-day-of-school jitters.

They both turned out to be first quarter students. Glad to have a group with which to herd, we filed in to the theatre with the rest of the culinary and pastry students.

The program was comfortable, an easy transition from theatre. With its sound, lights, and projections, the whole production was reminiscent of a show's tech rehearsal. Mistakes were made, chef instructors shielded their eyes from the light and called up to the guy in the booth, and improvisation was necessary when cues were missed. It was a lovable mess of introductions and media. I adored it. Unpolished and scrappy. A casual gathering of people who missed each other and love what they do and love being in that space. It's no wonder I am not the only one changing from a production-related career to, well, another production-related career. The latter is just less obvious.

Imprinted

2008-08-29T16:06:00.000-07:00

Culinary school looms ahead. I have been instilled with plenty of fear, filled with stories of serious discussions in walk-in coolers and chefs throwing pans across the room. Okay, it's not like I'm going to the oh-so-elite CIA. I don't expect flying cookware, though I won't be surprised if a student decides to toss a utensil. (Who hasn't wanted to throw something after spending three hours on a dish that turns out terribly?) All I expect is to learn about food and let the theatre of the kitchen and classroom emerge at will.

Culinary schools are ubiquitous. Every medium-sized city has at least one. Seattle has at least five. New York has over twenty. They are speckled all over California, and several spot the East Coast. The popularity of chef-dom is undeniable. It is easy to feel lost in all of the Star Chef aspirants, lost in this overpopulated world where everyone is competing for something, where too many people are vying for success in the same niche. In a world in which everything has already been done, how do you find uniqueness?

It's a rhetorical question, really. Personally, I find uniqueness in lemon curd tartlets. I may make a recipe exactly according to directions, but it will taste different to me than it does to you. We will never know exactly how an edible tastes to another eater. Sure, we can all use words like "sweet" or "tart" or "rich," but we do not create the same image in our brains. A sampling of lemon curd flickers a memory of elevenses at Harrod's in London with black currant scones and fresh Devonshire cream, followed by an afternoon at a tea room in residential Kensington. For me, Devonshire double cream is the ideal mate for lemon curd because they have imprinted together in my head. For a coworker of mine, lemon curd reminds her of homemade tarts baked in her mother's kitchen. These tarts, or any food for that matter, arouse each taster in a way linked to personal experience, though on the buds they may taste homogeneous.

In her book The Art of Simple Food, Alice Waters writes beautiful recipes that inspire the creative mind. This lemon curd tartlet recipe comes directly from the book, except for the addition of raspberries and drizzled chocolate. The lemony goodness is perfect for the late summer sweet tooth.

Lemon Curd Tartlets
from Alice Waters

Equipment:
six 4-inch tartlet pans, preferably with removable bottoms

Sweet Tart Dough:
8 tablespoons (1 stick) butter, softened slightly (leave for 15 minutes at room temperature before using)
1/3 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 egg yolk, at room temperature
1 1/4 cups all-purpose unbleached flour

Lemon Curd:
4 lemons
2 eggs
3 egg yolks
2 tablespoons milk
1/3 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt (omit if using salted butter)
6 tablespoons butter, cut into small pieces

To make the dough, beat together the 1 stick butter and sugar until creamy. Add the salt, vanilla, and egg yolk, mixing until completely combined. Fold in the flour, mixing well until there are no floury patches (any dry patches will cause the shell to crackle in those places). Gently gather up the dough and wrap it in plastic. Refrigerate at least 4 hours or up to 2 days.

When you are ready to roll out the dough, take it out of the refrigerator. Let it sit about 20 minutes if it is too hard to roll out. Roll out the dough between two sheets of floured parchment paper. If the dough sticks, peel off the parchment and dust the dough with flour. The dough should be 1/8 inch thick. Allow the dough to rest a few minutes in the refrigerator before using. Cut the dough 1/2 inch larger than the tartlet pans and prick the dough lightly with a fork: this will keep the dough from bubbling up while baking. Gently press the dough into the pans, trimming any extra by rubbing your thumbs across the top edge of the pan in an outward direction. Press the sides in and up after trimming the dough to help keep the sides from shrinking down while baking. Chill the dough for at least 15 minutes before baking. Bake in a 350 degree oven for 15 minutes, or until an even light gold in color. Halfway through baking, remove the tart shells from the oven and lightly pat down and bubbles that may have formed. If the top edges are browning before the rest of the shell, remove shells from the oven and cover the edges with foil before continuing to bake. Allow shells to cool before filling.

To make the lemon curd, zest one of the lemons using a fine grater such as a Microplane. Juice all four lemons; there should be a bout 1/2 cup juice. Beat together the eggs, egg yolks, milk, sugar, and salt just until combined. Stir in the lemon juice and zest and add the butter. Cook the mixture in a nonreactive saucepan, stirring constantly over medium heat until it is thick enough to coat a spoon. Do not boil or the eggs will curdle. When thick, pour into a bowl or glass jars to cool. Cover and refrigerate until ready to use.

Divide the chilled lemon curd between the cooled tartlet shells. Bake in a 375 degree over for 7 to 10 minutes, or until the lemon curd is set. Top with raspberries and melted chocolate. Allow to cool before serving.

Belated bivalves

2008-07-29T21:45:00.000-07:00

A couple of weekends ago, the Bivalve Bash occurred at Taylor Shellfish Farms in Samish Bay. I took pictures. I ate food, mostly oysters, and there were plenty. I watched children and adults run through mud and fall on their rumps, emerging from the muck giddy like pigs in the sun.

Today, I am just now posting photos of the event. Apologies for the tardiness of this post. The event joined with MudUp, which hosts a variety of summer events that always involve getting superbly muddy to raise funds for Puget Sound conservation. The website has a comprehensive list of other conservation events, as well reports on restoration progress and what else you can do to help out the cause.

I took a couple of photos of the Oyster Shell Sculpture Contest, but they didn't turn out. If you can imagine Shellhenge, a miniature Stonehenge composed of stacked oyster shells, and a Shellhaus, a mini Bauhaus, then you understand the creativity and whim behind the creators. Shells scattered the mud underfoot, creating a sort of path through the low tide expanse just off the safety of the wooden deck. On either side all sorts of structures emerged from the shells on the ground, making for an impressive walk.

Above: roasted oysters with a variety of sauces to sample. The oyster bar with four types of raw bivalves offered them up slurp-ready for a buck a pop, or a dozen for $10, and I found them deliciously briny and plump, tasting fresh of seawater. The curried mussels over rice were delicately sweet and spicy, with the mussels' meaty flavor still intact. I ate an entire bowl of homemade mixed-berry shortcake, unable to stop eating the sugary melt-in-mouth biscuit soaked in the berry syrup. Fresh and fabulous eats, musical entertainment, and more oyster shells than you've ever seen in one place. That's what I call mudding up.

The burning of the beasts (or why I am not a vegetarian)

2008-07-17T21:27:00.000-07:00

"I am so glad I’m not a vegetarian right now," I said, lurking around a whole spit-roasted lamb at Burning Beast, a meat-centric event that elevated me into newfound carnivorousness. Watching the chefs from a local Seattle restaurant hack expertly at the lamb was an exercise in anachronism; the event was a throwback to a medieval feast combined with a play on the Burning Man festival. As Burning Man is a mass exodus for art, Burning Beast was a pilgrimage to the altar of meat. For me, it was a turning point.

Hungry people were already queuing up behind me, empty paper plates in hand. One of the chefs felt the carcass to find its joints before drawing a scimitar through precise locations, breaking down the whole beast, limb for limb. I awed at my own fascination of the process, the complete lack of disgust. Not too long ago I would have cringed at this display, the whole lamb so whole-looking.

It's odd, to go from a vegetarian shrugging at a meat-eater's attempts to convert, to an omnivore attending a meat-heavy event. To go "un-vegetarian" seemed to others like a fickle choice, a giving up of my ideals. A friend prodded that I wasn't up for "sticking with it." Being a vegetarian wasn't difficult, not something in which I felt stuck. If anything, it expanded my creativity to include unusual ingredients and seek out colorful flavors. I became a vegetarian not for any kind of emotional attachment to animals, but because of the mountains of fossil fuels involved in meat production, and the hormones and antibiotics pumped into the meat.

My disillusion with meat occurred when I began researching the meat industry in college. I was angry that food could be so industrialized, previously imagining lovely green farms filled with sunlight and grazing cows. When I read stories about cows standing in their own waste, any desire to eat from the industrial food system was eradicated. I cut out meat entirely in a fluster of anger, thinking vegetarianism would protect me from ingesting scientific-sounding things that would likely give me unwanted superpowers. At Burning Beast, however, I found myself standing in a field filled with the aroma of roasted flesh, and I was hungry.

We were on a dairy farm turned artist retreat near Marysville, Washington, only about an hour north of Seattle. Several teams, most of them high-profile chefs from Seattle restaurants, were garnishing and cutting and checking their beasts; each team chose one animal to prepare whole or in parts at the secluded location. They were allowed to use only natural elements and simple machinery (such as using bicycle cogs to turn a rotisserie) to cook their beast; no gas grills allowed. The event’s coordinator, Tamara Murphy, is the owner of a meat-fearless restaurant called Brasa in Seattle. Her intent with Burning Beast was to reconnect chefs and consumers to the land. As soon as she rang the bell signifying dinner’s launch, the crowd at Smoke Farm pillaged the food off the tables, piling their plates with roasted duck, goat with “more-meat” stuffing, and rabbit and pork belly sausages.

If I was teetering on the vegetarianism fence before, then I leaped over to the omnivore side at Burning Beast. I nearly became a carnivore after a lamb confit made by the Culinary Communion folks, who teach cooking classes with a community-building flourish. While I was in line for the confit, a patient dog caught rejected scraps as the chef shredded the lamb. The confit was pulled and piled atop pita, which had been smothered in "gut relish," a succulent concoction made from the lamb's mashed internal organs. A dollop of tzatziki finished it off. The lamb was cooked up in the rendered fat of "Wooly pigs," the Berkshire hogs that have been so popular in Seattle of late. We lucky few lingering near Culinary Communion's table post-dinnertime got the pick of the night; a batch of the confit was lifted out of the fat at least an hour after the rest. I was stuffed already, but had just enough space for a few melty bites. You know, for dessert.

As a parodic contribution to Burning Man, a rickety-looking figure of some kind of animal was built out of wood scraps and lit as dusk settled in. The bonfire brought more meat-laced conversation, mostly about Seattle street food and the merits of cream cheese on hot dogs. I learned that after you hit the bars in Seattle, a hot dog nestled in a cream-cheese slathered bun is the late-night food of choice. I’m not sure I’m ready for hot dogs with cream cheese just yet, unless it is created by the same people who made the rabbit and pork belly sausages.

Though I may seem to have given up the idea that eating meat is not sustainable, I have actually just revised it: an animal may be eaten sustainably, without the unnaturally corn-fed diet, gushes of pollution, or hindrance to ecological health. In practice, I am not always able to eat this way. Grass-fed meat is expensive. Free range whole chickens cost more than factory ones. Researching where every item came from just isn't practical. And I get lazy, or hungry and impatient. But as sustainable meat became easier to locate, I began to eat it again, in small amounts, bites at a time, starting with sneaking pieces off friend’s plates “just to remember what it tasted like.”

It will be quite some time before I eat that much meat again. I'm ready for a diet of greens. One of my companions at the event was a woman who keeps a kosher kitchen. We all break our own rules.

As I type this, a chicken stock is stewing in the kitchen. It's my first try, and so far it seems to be going well. I must honestly say that I don't really know what to do with raw meat, my former vegetarian tendencies making its presence in my kitchen an uncomfortable experience. It seems so out of place there, like stilettos on a camping trip.

Even after filling my belly with beasts, I am still only an occasional meat-eater. Discovering one's omnivorousness, like roasting a whole beast, is a slow process. A full conversion may take some time. For now, I am simmering a stock, and anticipating the next omnivorous adventure.

Bivalve Bash Edit

2008-07-10T09:57:00.000-07:00

Oops! It seems that I have provided some incorrect information about the Bivalve Bash. If you would like to join the Low Tide Mud Run, you will be able to register the day of the race. Advance registration is not, in fact, required. There will also be free admission for Mud Runners. Have fun getting muddy for Puget Sound!

Burning Beast and the Bivalve Bash

2008-07-09T11:09:00.000-07:00

Hey there. I know it's been a little silent around here lately. The silence here is just the rest of my life screaming loudly with this and that. I have been busy filling out applications and forms within forms, making phone calls and securing a spot. All this because...ta da! I am starting culinary school in September!

The decision was made months ago. My name lay dormant on a waiting list. I don't know if people dropped because the school is doing construction next year or what, but I landed a spot for fall quarter when I expected winter at the earliest.

I forgot how many forms one has to fill out to attend school. The last time, my parents did a large chunk of the work. I had just recently memorized my social security number, and had never done my own taxes. Now I am a--gasp--adult, with a degree, and filling out paper after paper. (Did it really take over an hour to fill out the FAFSA last time?) So today, instead of a recipe, you get events! That's right, some upcoming food events to distract us all from our paperwork. If you go to the Bivalve Bash, look for the one trying not to get sand in her camera. That's me.

Burning Beast

It's like Burning Man, but it's not. It's a giant meat roast headed up by Brasa chef Tamara Murphy. Eight teams made up of Seattle chefs will prepare animals over spits and fire pits. It happens this Sunday, July 13, with an option to camp out and stay through Monday morning. Tickets are $65/person. From the website:

"On Sunday, July 13th, Burning Beast will host ticketed guests at Smoke Farm for a feast of medieval proportions. As many as eight cooking teams have been challenged to master one of six specified animals, whole or in parts, using fire, earth, steel and little else. Participating are many of Seattle's most notable chefs, including; Dylan Giordan (Serafina), Maria Hines (Tilth) Angie Roberts (Boka), Nick Albrecht (Brasa), Matt Dillon (Sitka and Spruce), Garret Abel (DeLaurenti), Dustin Ronspies (Art of the Table), Gabriel Claycamp (Culinary Communion), Ron and Larry Jones (Jones Glassworks). The event is BYOB and casual. Guests should feel free to bring tents, sleeping bags, swimsuits and healthy appetites. Overnight campers are welcome. Country air, coyote songs and delicious food guarantee a great night's sleep!

Smoke Farm is a former dairy farm situated on 360 acres along the North fork of the Stillaguamish River and is approximately 60 miles from Seattle. Visit smokefarm.org for more information and directions to the farm. "

Article from the Seattle PI Blog
Buy tickets

Bivalve Bash

The annual Samish Bay oyster celebration promises frivolity and food. Lots of food. There will be games, an oyster shell sculpture contest, a race through ankle-deep mud wells (known as the Low Tide Mud Run; registration is available in advance or on the day of the race), crab races, oyster shuffleboard, and dancing! Live music provided by The Atlantics. Plenty of sun and beach to enjoy. Proceeds go to Skagit Conservation Education Alliance. No coolers. Shuttles provided from offsite locations in Bow, WA. $5 entry fee and $1 oysters. More information here.

Attack of the Killer Tomato-less Chili

2008-06-19T22:01:00.000-07:00

Lately I have not been doing much cooking. The 50 degree weather in the middle of June is throwing me off, so I have opted for less confusing options such as pizza, sandwiches, and Hefeweizen. Healthy, I know.

While on a recent vacation to visit family and friends, I ate at a Subway. Yes, occasionally I visit Subway. (Sometimes that spongy bread hits the spot, though if given a choice, I'll take Quizno's.) A sign on the sneeze-guard glass over the food line informed me that due to the recent FDA recall of tomatoes, Subway does not currently have them available. The sign projected a skull-and-crossbones on the food supply, a fearsome image when you are standing in line to order lunch.

I'm sure by now you have heard of the killer tomatoes. Salmonella has been found in a number of cases throughout the U.S., and a full list of "safe states" is available on the FDA website. Washington is on the list (but with that recent bout of coldness, we're lucky if we get fresh tomatoes by August), along with Tennessee. If you have never heard of Grainger County, Tennessee and their beautiful red fruits, you are missing out. I stopped at a market stand to pick up fresh okra and got distracted by the plump Grainger County tomatoes. When I asked the attendant what variety of tomatoes she sold, she answered, "Them's Grainger tuh-may-tuhs." I was glad to see nothing had changed.

But not everyone is so lucky. Arizona, Idaho, Illinois, Montana, Nevada, both Dakotas, Oregon, Rhode Island, and Wyoming did not make the cut. Florida must issue a certificate from the Department of Agriculture with their tomatoes.

Did anyone ever see that movie Attack of Killer Tomatoes? I am nerdy enough that I rented it the other day, having found it wedged into the Sci-Fi section at Scarecrow, a Seattle house converted into a giant movie rental mecca. The opening text links the laughing audiences of Hitchcock's "The Birds" with an actual subsequent bird attack, stating that "no one is laughing now." I'm still laughing, and so should you be.

Many tomatoes were harmed in the making of this film. My favorite line is "Man, who woulda thought? All we wanted was a bigger, healthier tomato." Overall, the movie is pretty terrible. I made it about 20 minutes in before I turned it off.

I did, however, manage to get a recipe out of it. If all this tomato business is making you feel a little phobic and you have that June northwestern chill, eat some tomato-free chili. And next time you buy a beefsteak, check it for teeth.

Killer Tomato-less Chili

2 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
2 carrots, cut into chunks (cut into quarters lengthwise then into 1/4 inch pieces)
1 red bell pepper, chopped
2 tablespoons red wine vinegar
1 can kidney beans
1 can black beans
1/2 cup bulgur wheat
2 cups water
1 tablespoon cumin
1/2 teaspoon cayenne
1 teaspoon chili powder
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
salt to taste

Heat olive oil in a large pot over medium-high heat. Add onion, garlic, carrots, and bell pepper. Cook until onion is almost translucent and carrots are slightly tender, about five minutes. Add remaining ingredients and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium. Simmer uncovered for 20 to 25 minutes, until chili is thickened and bulgur is cooked through. Serve hot, topped with grated cheese and crumbled cornbread.

So often ignored

2008-05-21T00:16:00.000-07:00

It's a little too far into spring for beets. I just couldn't help myself. The lovely greens were bright and fresh, the red veins crawling through the leaves like a monster in a horror film. In fact, the entire plant is somewhat horrifying. After roasting the beets and passing them through a food mill, my kitchen looked as if I'd just made a slasher flick instead of beet juice. Splatters of red rained on the wall, not to mention my face. I felt like that guy in Fargo, pushing the evidence through a wood chipper. A week later, I am still finding tiny red speckles on the countertops and in strange places like on the side of the microwave.

But it isn't beets I want to speak about. It's the greens. The poly-textured bitters that are so often tossed into the compost without hesitation. I frequently find greenless beets in my local grocery store, their stems sticking higgeldy-piggeldy in the air, empty of their green tops. It's sad, really. Like finding a dead bird in the street. It's almost grotesque. I don't buy these beets. I can't bear the thought of their woody-sweetness without their bittersweet partners.

I do enjoy some good sauteed beet greens, with a scent of garlic and a splash of sweet balsamic vinaigrette. They are lovely on their own, too, eaten freshly washed, water still clinging in beads to their delicate ruffled edges. It's a texture playground, with those crunchy veins. The central vein is best removed when you are going to saute them, but I like to leave it in while munching on the leaf raw, right off the stem.

These greens are a well-kept secret, it seems. A secret that is slowly being divulged in private homes. Perhaps one day we will see beet greens alongside their beetless counterparts on menus. (Or are they there already, and as easily ignored on a menu as attached to their root vegetables?) Anyway, it's a bit late in the season for them, but they will make a comeback in June. When they do, I will be waiting. With a sponge, to hide the evidence.

They'd eaten every one.`

2008-05-09T18:01:00.000-07:00

Outside the bathhouse, the ocean lapping up the sand played backup for the giant grill pits topped with piles and piles of steaming oysters. The oysters were covered with wet burlap sacks, which were sprayed every so often to keep them moist. To the left is a photo of David Smead, "roast master" and partner in food execution with Jon Rowley (photo right). According to Rowley, oyster guru and coordinator of the event, about 300 dozen (3,600) roasted Pacifics were consumed in a matter of five hours. Another 40 dozen raw Totten Inlet Virginicas, the oyster named "Best of the East Coast" at a recent competition, were consumed as well. All oysters were donated by Taylor Shellfish.

Like wine, oysters have their own vocabulary and regional specialties. Wine pulls flavor from the soil in which the grapes are grown, and oysters taste of the water from which they feed. If you get a briny one, maybe it is a Virginica. But which variety of Virginica? A Totten Inlet Virginica, raised on the west coast? Or an Apalachicola, the variety from Florida thought be the first oyster used to make Oysters Rockerfeller? An oyster's array of flavors: melon, mineral, copper, cucumber, brine, butter, is dependent on its area of growth. The beautiful thing about it is the sense of adventure in tasting a new variety for the first time. Even if you think you don't like oysters...maybe you've just never had a species you enjoyed.

The roast was a blast, and I hope there are many more in years to come. Without looking at the beach outside, just listening to The Tallboys' bluegrass made me feel I was back in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains. The coleslaw was brilliant, and I usually hate coleslaw. (I even plan to hijack the recipe.) There was butter-crisp garlic bread and rich baked beans and beer. (Fish Tale Ales, an organic brewing company in Olympia.) It's not often you get to mingle and chat with strangers over a messy, newspaper-lined table. The success of the event gives me hope for the eaters of this city, knowing that so many can enjoy communal eating and ditch food snobbery for a good old time with bluegrass and beer. The "Seattle Freeze" is all too real, and this sloshing, down-home event melted off a little of that city ice. I hope you are able to don some of your best oyster-shucking protective gear and come on out next year.

Speaking of messy events, if you like getting down and dirty you may enjoy the Samish Bay Bivalve Bash and Low Tide Mud Run on July 19th. Yep, that's exactly what you think it is. Fresh shellfish galore and a race through inches-deep sticky mud. Check out the website for more details.

"'O Oysters,' said the Carpenter,
'You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one."

Without packages, boxes, or bags

2008-04-30T10:25:00.000-07:00

When did it become snobbery to make everything from scratch? Perhaps it is due to the
bombardment of canned goods adverts in the fifties? Theoretically, packaged foods entered into the realm of coolness after they were widely used for convenience, possibly due to advertisements. Did you know the Snap Crackle Pop trio of Rice Krispies fame were animated in the 1950s? If you click on that link, you will see a grayscale version of the trio, with low men's voices instead of squeaky cartoon ones. My favorite part is the dumping of half a cup of granulated sugar on the cereal after the milk is poured in. Now there's some innovation in food styling. Classic.

Anyway, back to scratch. Was it during the fifties that convenience overruled quality? It would be useful to have a food historian around to answer such questions. Unfortunately, I am out of my range of knowledge on this one.

I am certainly not saying that everyone should (or could, in our fast-paced world) make everything by hand. Kneading bread and waiting for it to rise is not something most people have the time to do. And I feel a little ridiculous talking about this when there are people who can't afford fresh produce. I volunteered for a little while to help take care of children in Birmingham's northside, serving them the breakfast they wouldn't receive at home on Sunday mornings. The donated goods were usually packets of store-brand potato chips, out-of-date packaged jelly rolls, and stale Goldfish. Health issues were obvious, the effects more than apparent in the children. I had to wonder what (or if) they ate at home. It is a sad fact that packaged goods are cheaper and easier to obtain than fresh foods.

Still, those of us who are able to afford fresh asparagus in the spring are still buying cans of sodium-saturated flavorless soup. I am no exception. Sometimes convenience wins the slow food battle. Okay, more than sometimes. Often.

All that said, I try to enjoy all-slow-food meals as much as possible, and boy are they worth the effort, though they do nothing to alleviate food-privileged guilt. I recently acquired a pasta machine and had a lasagna craving simultaneously. And I wanted pesto. Lots of green, springy pesto. I based my recipe on an asparagus pesto lasagna recipe found in Vegetarian Times a few years ago. The recipe is very, very long when you add the fresh pasta, so I'm just going to provide the pesto bechamel recipe and a link to the pasta recipe I used. I sauteed the asparagus and used the tips on the top layer (not that you could see them for the amount of Romano cheese I dumped on top. In retrospect, I probably should have put the cheese on first.) This lasagna turns out very green-tasting, with peppery bits from layers of arugula. With enough cheese, it ends up a creamy, peppery, slightly basil-sweet pile of deliciousness. The fresh unboiled pasta held up well in baking and was surprisingly easy. It's way more flavorful than that ruffled-edge dry stuff, and it vehemently soaks up the moisture of the cream sauce. Well worth the time involved, and much more entertaining than opening a package. It's like playing with edible Play-Doh.

Arugula-Pistachio Pesto Bechamel

I used the leftover pesto in a shrimp-and-Parmesan omelet the next day. The rest of the bechamel can be reheated over low heat and tossed with pasta or veggies, or used as a spread for grilled or smoked salmon.

For the pesto:
1 1/2 cups arugula, packed
1 1/2 cups basil leaves, packed
1/4 cup raw pistachios
1/2 teaspoon salt
a few turns of fresh ground black pepper
3/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
1/4 cup freshly grated Parmesan

Pile all ingredients except the oil and cheese into a blender or food processor. Whir it up until it forms a paste. Add the oil, 1/4 cup at a time, blending until it reaches the desired consistency. Add more olive oil if you would like a thinner pesto. Transfer pesto to a bowl and fold in the cheese.

For the sauce:
1/3 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
3 1/2 cups milk, divided
1/2 cup pesto
2 tablespoons freshly grate Parmesan
salt and pepper to taste

Whisk the flour and 1/2 cup of the milk together over medium heat until the mixture is smooth, with no lumps of flour. Bring to a low boil, keeping the heat at medium and whisking constantly. Boil for a minute or so, until the sauce is thickened. Remove from heat and stir in the pesto and Parmesan. Season to taste.

Oops! One egg spilled out on the counter. I had an interesting time gathering it up into the flour, but it worked, eventually.

Seattle Community Oyster Roast

2008-04-12T19:33:00.000-07:00

“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said,
“Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed—
Now if you’re ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed.”

I received an email yesterday announcing Seattle's 1st Annual Community Oyster Roast. This is right up my alley; it is, after all, a southeastern tradition, and I hail from the southeast. Plus, I adore oysters. So what if I've never been to an oyster roast. There's a first time for everything, even if it is a geographical displacement. As the press release quotes (Bill Taylor of Shellfish Farms), "We have the oysters here. Why not have the fun?"

The fun happens Sunday, May 4 at the Golden Gardens Bathhouse (8498 Seaview Pl. NW, Seattle). All proceeds go to the Puget Soundkeeper Alliance, which works toward the conservation of Puget Sound and fights against water pollutants in the area.

To complete the southern atmosphere, entertainment will be provided by The Tallboys, a local bluegrass band. Wear your jeans and bring your oyster knife, because you'll be shucking your own roasted oysters at the table! Don't worry if you don't have one--you can purchase one at the event. If you're thinking of sharing a knife, well, let's just say there's no way I'd let you borrow mine when there's a pile of hot roasted oysters on the table, and I'm sure I'm not the only one.

Cost is $45 for as many oysters as you can shuck and shove, plus sausage, cole slaw, baked beans, beverage, and rhubarb crisp. And of course, an ocean view. What could be better?

Reservations are for seatings between 3:00-5:00 and 6:00-8:00pm. Advance tickets required, and get them early! For more information or to purchase tickets call Puget Soundkeeper at 206-297-7002.

Fiddle me tender

2008-04-04T19:26:00.000-07:00

I once met a child who thought the body of a snail was shaped like a curlycue. To her, the shell was a curled-up tube and the body fit perfectly inside, and if you took the body out it would look just like the shell, only squishier.

That is what I thought of when I saw these little curlycues piled beautifully on a produce crate at the market. Little snail bodies, without the squishiness. What a curious shape for a food.

If you are from New England, or the Northwest coastal area where green plants flourish in the spring, you may have already heard of Fiddlehead Ferns. You may have even eaten them. To me, they are spectacularly new. I'm delighted to have found them.

Fiddleheads are the unfurled fronds of wild ferns. Only two or three can be picked from each plant or the fern will die, and they must be foraged--these are not grown commercially. They are only available in spring, when the young fronds have just started to appear and before they unfurl for summer. Fiddlehead, of course, refers to the close resemblance to a scroll on a violin or other stringed instrument, but is not specific to any certain fern variety. They are mainly picked from the ostrich fern, but can also be derived from bracken (which contain more toxins) and cinnamon fern. You can find fiddleheads in some supermarkets, but look for them at your local farmer's market. Ask your vendors about them. If you are in Seattle, Sosio's in Pike Place is just getting their first rounds of them and will carry them throughout the spring.

My first attempt at these was a failure; I steamed them without blanching first. Fiddleheads need to be blanched before cooking to remove the shikimic acid, which contains tannins and tastes bitter, and are certainly terribly toxic. I previously read that they must be blanched, but lazily decided not to do so. I'm telling you now--blanch them first! They turned out tasting of nothing but tannins and were hardly edible.

The second time I tried to cook them, I went for the blanching and it was a significant improvement. After a brief saute, the tannins were no longer taste-able. The little curls tasted like asparagus, but grassier and wilder. I dribbled a basic aioli over them and they turned out delicious. I did not measure the ingredients for the aioli, so the recipe below is an estimation. As long as the sauce thickens up and tastes yummy, don't worry too much about ingredient balance.

Fiddlehead Ferns with Aioli Sauce

For aioli:

3 cloves garlic
1 tsp sea salt
1 tablespoon coarse-ground mustard
1 egg yolk
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice (I used Meyer lemons)
1 teaspoon warm water

Crush, mince, or press garlic. Mash it up with the salt to make a paste (I used a mortar and pestle for this but you can certainly use a food processor or even the back of a spoon and a bowl). Add the mustard and whisk to combine. Whisk in the egg yolk. Slowly drizzle 1/4 cup of the olive oil into the mixture, whisking constantly to emulsify. A good way to do this is to lightly dampen a kitchen towel and place it under your bowl as you whisk. That way, the bowl doesn't wobble as you use one hand to whisk and the other to pour the oil. Whisk in the lemon juice and water. Slowly add the rest of the oil in a thin stream until all the oil is incorporated. The sauce will thicken up to slightly thinner than commercial mayonnaise. Aioli will keep in the refrigerator for about a week, but it's better fresh.

For the fiddleheads:

a couple handfuls fiddlehead ferns
truffle oil (optional)

Blanch the fiddleheads in a pot of boiling salted water for 3-5 minutes, or until they are slightly tender but still crisp. Meanwhile, heat a glug of olive oil over medium heat. Drain the fiddleheads and shake out as much water as you can before tossing them directly into the hot pan. Saute until lightly browned, about 5 minutes. At this point, I tossed them with some trusty truffle oil. Drizzle the fiddleheads with the aioli and serve.

More information on fiddlehead ferns
More fiddlehead recipes

Bus-ted

2008-03-29T21:22:00.000-07:00

Seattle Metro transit will "get you there," so says their website, where you can find bus times and transfer locations. It gives information on reroutes but doesn't tell you about all the journeys you will take on the way. No eating, no smoking, and considerate use of headphones are posted clearly in English and Spanish on each bus, but does the sign tell you how to choose a seat when one partner of each pair of seats is occupied? Does it say to sit next to the older woman with piles of groceries and not to sit next to the kinda-cute headphones guy because it could make for an awkward ride? Does it tell you to thank the driver on your way out or stop sneaking peeks at that person's newspaper? No. None of these things are posted, and yet every day the bus is filled with such dynamics.

Proper bus etiquette is expected. When it is broken, the entire mood of the bus changes. Eyes turn to the culprit. People stare, giggle, furrow their brows. Volume millimeteres up on mp3 players. Making small talk with the person next to or across from you is often considered intrusive rather than friendly. A simple "hi, how are you" heard by the first five rows of seats can create a wave of glances.

A certain Metro bus customer waits for the bus while holding a microphone. The microphone is attached to nothing, just a thin wire dangling like dog's drool from the tapered end. He sings silently into this mike, getting so into it that his face wrinkles up and his body moves to unheard music. He grins happily between songs, blinking with heavy lids. If you look closely, his eyes contain contentedness, not vacancy.

As he approached the bus this morning, he stopped, stepped back, and gestured clumsily. "Ladies first," he grinned, and sounded like he had taken a sip of water without swallowing. He took the seat nearest the driver, who asked him questions about where he was headed and what stop he wanted. A young woman carrying her baby in a sling sat across from him at the next stop. He grinned again and danced freely in his seat to entertain the child. "See that? It's a chicken dance!" The baby opened its mouth in what could only be called a smile. The mother thanked him for the dance. He looked so excited that he danced again, jamming wildly, freely to unheard music. Many of us sitting in nearby rows found ourselves smiling, too. What a beautiful display of innocent joy, of uninhibited vitality. I felt like getting up and dancing, too, twirling about the bus in silly circles.

So why didn't I? I suppose it's the same reason we all follow the rules of daily life, to keep ourselves out of trouble and embarrassment. Just like we all break them, at one time or another.

I've been known to sneak breakfast on the bus and sit out of view of the driver's rear-view mirror. I can understand the no-eating rule, to keep the bus clean and avoid spillage and whatnot. But there are times when I hit snooze a couple times too many and breakfast must be taken en route. In which case I squinch to the back of the bus and quietly munch my bagel, trying to avoid crumbing the floor. This kind of rule-breaking is blatant disregard for an acknowledged rule. Microphone guy's rule-breaking is the kind that goes unnoticed. It is rewarded with a smile and a nod, like a chef's personal creation on a menu. We bus riders, following the rules, are the token chicken breast on every menu. We are the one pork dish, the one fish and one vegetarian option. Microphone Mike is the Lobster Gnudi with Tarragon and Brown Butter Coriander Emulsion. Not many people will order it, because they don't know exactly what it is. But it's probably the best thing on the menu, if you give it a chance.

Spring in Seattle

2008-03-27T09:21:00.000-07:00

And just in time too. I was starting to get tired of squash and turnips. Sorry squash, sorry turnips. Next year it will be your turn again, and I will be ready for your warmth. Now it's time to break out the asparagus and zucchini, with a hint of summer tomatoes just waiting, waiting.

Warm Heartbreak Salad

2008-03-17T17:00:00.000-07:00

When someone dies unexpectedly, a chain of tremors runs through all connected parties. Even the loss of a friend's family member can be felt in watching her hold back a surge of vibrating tears. Empathy, I think it's called. It is what connects us to another's emotions, allowing for understanding. Without it, we would merely sympathize, which is too akin to pity to be constructive.

Empathy allows a person to go from modest indifference to experiential resonance. I had heard from a friend about the death of another friend's aunt, and felt mostly cold about it. Seeing her with puffy eyes, tears shuddering in her chest and stopping speech, I immediately had a need to go into the kitchen. In times of emotional distress, cooking keeps my mind occupied. Eating can be a comfort equal to the tightest of hugs. And food lasts longer than a hug, too! So I rolled up my sleeves and went to work, grabbing stuff out of the fridge and in the cabinets. For on-the-fly comfort food, it turned out very well. It served to comfort both her and me--I speak perhaps a bit selfishly when I say that making a sad person smile evokes solace and peace in a way that nothing else can. This particular dish is no more comforting than a bowl of mac n' cheese, but I hold to the idea that anything can taste like comfort if made and eaten with that intent in mind.

She asked if I would name the salad "heartbreak" due to its original purpose. Though the combination of quinoa and veggies are not traditionally "comfort food," next time I make it, I will certainly think of it as truly comforting, something to make when a heart feels cracked from the inside. So here we have it, warm salad made just for broken hearts. This one is for Christine.

Warm Heartbreak Salad

1 cup quinoa
1 3/4 cups water
1 bouillon cube
glug olive oil
about 1 tablespoon fennel seeds
1 bunch asparagus
2 bunches Swiss chard, rinsed and stemmed

fig vinegar or other sweet, fruity vinegar
extra virgin olive oil
pinch salt

Combine quinoa, water, and bouillon cube in small saucepan. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat, cover, and simmer until quinoa is dry and slightly al dente, 10-15 minutes.

Meanwhile, heat some olive oil in a skillet over medium-high heat. Break asparagus spears at their natural breaking point by bending both ends gently. Discard the stem end and chop the rest into bite-sized pieces. Toss the fennel seeds into the hot pan and cook briefly, until fragrant. Add the asparagus and saute until bright green and still crispy. If your asparagus is getting wrinkly, it has cooked too long. At this point I added a drizzle of truffle oil to the asparagus, because I happened to have some in the cabinet, but this is certainly not necessary to the final product (though it did combine nicely with the fennel seed). Transfer to a large bowl. Return pan to heat, turning it down to medium. Add the chard and cook until wilted. Add both chard and quinoa to the bowl and mix gently.

For the vinaigrette, which added a delicate sweetness to this earthy, grain-rich dish (and an addition I wouldn't even consider skipping next time even as it was a spur-of-the-moment addition the first time round), pour a glug of fig vinegar into a small bowl. Whisking constantly, slowly drizzle in the olive oil until the mixture is creamy. You'll be adding about double the amount of olive oil to the amount of vinegar. Whisk in the pinch of salt and pour a small stream over the salad. Mix gently. Add more vinaigrette to taste. Serve warm.

Prosciutto Photo

2008-03-11T15:22:00.001-07:00

Plums with blue cheese and prosciutto. This bright little salad would be improved if the plums were replaced with pears; the brightness of the plums was a bit too much for the tangy blue cheese and salty prosciutto. Next time: switch plums for pears, and add toasted walnuts.

Prosciutto di Parma

2008-03-10T11:26:00.000-07:00

So sorry about the long absence. I imagine that you, if there are any readers out there, are busy, too, and are grateful for one less thing to keep up with sometimes. The market is getting gradually busier as the sun blinks out through clouds more and more frequently. Projects and applications (!), which I will tell you more about as time goes on, have taken up both time and mental capacity these days. At any rate, I have been eating popcorn for dinner and skipping brunch, so there hasn't been much to write about anyway. Wandering the market, however, has not stopped. It has only slowed due to increasing traffic.

At DeLaurenti's, where the cheese list could wrap around the deli counter twice, I find myself in a nearly spiritual awe over the tiny delights that shine from the shelves. I do not consider myself a spiritual person generally, but DeLaurenti's is like walking into a shrine of Demeter. I'm sure any New Yorkers out there would shout the praises of Zabar's, which admittedly is to DeLaurenti's as prosciutto is to SPAM (TM), but here in Seattle, it's as close as we can get. Many local artisan cheeses make their way into their cheese counter, and the cellar displays wines from Washington and Oregon alongside imports: 1,800 wines in total. And they do have six different kinds of prosciutto.

I had no idea there were six different kinds of prosciutto. Apparently, there are. And they are each a beautiful, beautiful thing.

If you are wondering about the appearance of pork, a food I used to turn away with a certain curl of the nose, in this blog, well, I should clarify my intentions. Though I no longer consider myself a vegetarian, I only consume meat maybe twice a week. I have grown towards meat in a picky sort of way. I'm not a fan of braised short ribs or a giant slab of steak and stay away from canned meat or anything wrapped in cellophane. I tend toward liver pate, chorizo, applewood smoked bacon, grass-fed local lamb, and of course, prosciutto. Anything freshly sliced, whose origin and diet can be traced to a humane and antibiotic-free life. For the most part. I have been known to sneak a bite of Greek sausage with feta from my roommate's plate at breakfast.

I was purchasing prosciutto for a specific party where I knew the silky slices would go mostly unappreciated. We hosted a board game night, attended by 16 people at the peak, so I made Medjool dates stuffed with mascarpone and gorgonzola, wrapped in prosciutto and lobbed under the broiler. This was a crowd of actor friends and regulars at the coffee shop where both my roommate John and I take up a few hours a week. The kind of early-20s crowd that doesn't expect you to make their drinks when they walk in the door and expect chips and salsa to be the main attraction on the snack table; not foodies, but they know their own taste buds. So when I started playing bartender and poured a balsamic reduction on the dates, a few guests commented on the "classiness" of the event. Perhaps I have just been around snooty gourmets too long and have lost touch with the instant ramen and "I can boil pasta" crowd. Some of the guests owned up to their lack of ability in the kitchen. Why is it that so many people think they can't cook? Anyone can do it, it just takes a little knowledge and little bravery. And maybe some time thrown in for good measure. Good food is not just for elitist food network chefs with sticks up their rumps. If you can taste, you can appreciate good food and make it to your liking. There will be debacles, as with any new endeavor. Who was it that said genius is 10% inspiration and 90% perspiration? He was a genius.

Six different kinds of prosciutto. Really. Six. I was baffled. The guy behind the counter kindly offered explanations. Three were from Parma, Italy, fed whey from Parmigiano-Reggiano to get a hint of nuttiness. Each one differed substantially in price because of the amount of time the ham was cured. One from New York. I don't remember the others because I was so taken with the Prosciutto di Parma. They were beautiful. Sliced to order. Wrapped around the dates the slices added a needed saltiness to the candy-like sweetness of the dried fruit. They were consumed entirely and I didn't pull out my camera, so no pictures of the actual dish. I did have a shot of some prosciutto and gorgonzola, but it didn't turn out so well. No pictures today. I read somewhere that readers are more likely to read a post if it contains a picture. I find this is true for myself when I read other blogs, particularly food-related ones, so perhaps it is true for you as well. If you have made it this far, I commend you, my friend.

A break from brunch

2008-02-19T13:16:00.000-08:00

I used last Thursday's holiday status as an excuse to buy fresh fish and oysters. It's a holiday, I thought. Why not splurge a little? I don't often purchase these items, because it ends up being a lot to spend on a food that does not last very long. Then again, I spend more than I should on Scharffen Berger Chocolate to make the richest, most decadent pan of fluffy brownies. And I made them three times last week. So perhaps justifying the occasional pound of Olympia oysters or tuna steaks isn't so hard; if I can spend it on dark, rich chocolate, I can spend it on salty, oily fish. And be healthier for doing so.

But I digress. I vary from the newly found joys of brunch to bring you yet another post-holiday post. I am terrible for posting post-holiday. Perhaps if I posted pre-holiday, any readers that may be out there would be able to utilize the contents of the post rather than read my reminiscing about certain lovely meals. On this certain holiday, while everyone else was out with a date, home with a partner, or crying over chick flicks at all-female wine parties, I was making myself dinner. I took advantage of the empty house (one roommate was at rehearsal while the other had a show), turned on NPR, poured myself a Pinot Gris, and set out to fry some oysters and sear some fish.

I went to college in Birmingham, Alabama, where the famous history of the region has not quite yet ended. Leftover bitterness and racism hang in the air with the humidity, causing an oppressive exhaustion that is felt but is for the most part ignored. Here in this jazzy, industrial city lies a secret. It has some damn good food, if you know where to look. It is the home of really good barbecue, fried green tomatoes, and, you may be surprised to know, Mediterranean delights. Perhaps the best-kept secret in Birmingham is Frank Stitt and his series of restaurants, though I guess he's not really a secret in the food world; he has won the James Beard award for best Southeast Chef, and his restaurant Highlands Bar and Grill was featured in Gourmet as the fifth best out of the fifty best restaurants in America. I was lucky enough to visit the kitchen of this elegant-but-comfortable restaurant as an observer/unpaid intern, prepping a bit in the kitchen for a couple of evening rush hours to see what the restaurant business involved. The food at Highlands combines classic French with classic Southern American, but not in the Louisiana style. You won't see crawfish etouffee or anyting Creole on the menu, but you will see fried green tomatoes, simple fish dishes on piles of cold bean salads, and desserts ranging from profiteroles and creme brulee to Jack Daniel's ice cream and peach cobbler. The food is comforting, elegant, and light, with that hit-the-spot something reminiscent of homemade grilled cheeses and warm, rich soups. I recently obtained Frank Stitt's book, Frank Stitt's Southern Table, and chose a holiday to crack the spine in my cookbook holder.

Red Snapper with Provencal Tomato Sauce. I won't give away the recipe this time, but I will tell you this: it is a lightly seasoned, seared fish on a bed of fennel wedges, fingerling potatoes, and a fresh tomato sauce with fennel seeds, orange zest, and sherry vinegar. Except for a couple of mishaps with getting the fish to hold together when flipping it and slightly undercooked fennel, the dish was absolutely delightful. My kitchen smelled distinctly like Highlands Bar and Grill. If you get the chance, I highly recommend picking up this book.

Lazy morning biscuits

2008-02-12T14:52:00.001-08:00

For many years, my mother has baked homemade biscuits. She formerly wrote recipes for White Lily Flour, Co, and many of her recipes ended up on the back of the flour bags or brownie mix pouches. She was always testing some recipe involving a White Lily product: red velvet cake, strawberry shortcakes, cast-iron skillet cornbread, and brownies with chocolate fudge icing and caramel pecan layers, just to name a few. Throughout this time, she baked plenty of biscuits. Cheesy biscuits, sugary scone biscuits, drop biscuits, cream biscuits. When I came home from college on breaks, I requested homemade drop biscuits made with fragrant buttermilk on lazy Saturday mornings. We sat by the bay window, light streaming in to the little breakfast table reserved for such occasions, and spread jam on our bites of Southern tradition. Later on we might go hiking in the Smoky Mountains, or lay around reading, or go visit my grandparents. But it was the biscuit mornings, with fresh coffee and maybe some berries or melon, an array of jams or preserves on the table, that was the reason to wake up before noon on Spring Break. Otherwise I was likely to just sleep all day, with no studying to do. Come to think of it, that was probably why she agreed to bake them in the first place: so I would wake up and come downstairs instead of leaving her to putz around alone all morning.

Most of the time, it was the drop biscuits that left me satisfied. They come out all knobbly-looking, with a thin crispy crust encasing a soft, moist center. These biscuits break apart into bite-sized hunks rather than cut cleanly down the center, so you get to play with your food as you eat it. They are most certainly a finger food. Each bite is full of creamy, crispy flavor that does not require the addition of condiments, but a dollop of jam is wonderful, a gobbet of lemon curd even better.

Occasionally, I would request Touch-of-Grace Biscuits (picture above, latte art by my roommate John) from Shirley Corriher's book Cookwise. My teenage self giggled at the super-Southern recipe title before I tried them and realized just how well the name fits. These are quite fluffy and light in texture, crumbly yet cloud-like. The original recipe calls for sugar, which many people have raved about, but I just can't love, so I have always requested them without the sugar (though I think she put some in half the batter so she could have a few the way they were intended).

But it was, and still is, the drop biscuits that I think of when I want a lazy Saturday morning breakfast. They are so easy to make it's hard to imagine not making them every Saturday, if my work schedule allowed it and if they weren't chock full of cream and shortening. The version below is pretty much as my mother made them, except I switched out some of the buttermilk for heavy cream.

Now for a note on flour. I grew up in the South, where soft wheat flour is easy to find. When I moved to the Northwest and attempted these biscuits, they turned out tragically sad because my self-rising flour was not Southern soft wheat. In theory, one should be able to substitute 1 cup cake flour plus 1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder and 1/2 teaspoon salt for every 1 cup of Southern self-rising called for in a recipe. I tried this, and it still didn't work out so well. I ended up with dense, dark biscuits.

It's all about gluten levels in the flour; soft wheat flour has significantly less gluten than hard wheat flour. Most national brands of all-purpose flour contain 12% gluten protein per cup, compared to the Southern all-purpose 10.5%. As the proteins in the flour absorb water, the gluten is formed as strands of glue-y protein. The more the dough is worked and kneaded, the more gluten is formed and the harder the bread. In the oven, the gluten coagulates and we have the chewiness of bread. However, with biscuits, you don't want to overwork the dough because it adds more gluten to the mixture, which will give you dense, chewy biscuits. It is also the reason to use low-gluten, soft wheat Southern flour. If you live anywhere other than the South, I highly recommend mail-ordering White Lily or Martha White. Though that seems like a lot of trouble to go through for baking, it is worth it for good biscuits and airy cakes.

Southern Drop Biscuits

2 cups Southern self-rising flour, such as White Lily
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 cup vegetable shortening
1 cup buttermilk
2/3 cup heavy cream

Preheat oven to 500 degrees. Spray a baking sheet with cooking spray.

Whisk together flour and salt in a medium bowl. Add the shortening and mix with fingertips, until the lumps of shortening are no bigger than a pea. Slowly add the buttermilk and cream, mixing gently, carefully, so as not to overmix. The dough should be wet and sticky but not soggy. If it is still too dry to hold together well, add more cream, one tablespoon at a time, until it reaches the desired texture. Using a 1/4 cup measure or ice cream scoop, spoon out lumps of dough and drop them onto the baking sheet. They will look uneven, with lots of meringue-like peaks. Bake 8-12 minutes, or until the peaks are golden brown and the wells are set.

Cowabunga, dude (on toast)

2008-02-07T20:44:00.000-08:00

One of my early influences was a quartet of anthropomorphic turtles. They wielded nun-chucks, fought crime, and said cool new words like "gnarly" and "cowabunga." Anyone who grew up in the late 80s and early 90s knows the wise ways of Splinter, an oversized sewer rat spouting yoga-master, sleepy-eyed calm, and the party-wise antics of four very similar-looking mutant turtles, whose very coolness made even the sewers look fun. They ordered pizza, watched a lot of TV, and reflected the age of grunge rock and synthpop. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were totally, like, awesome, dude.

Oh, the nostalgia. Side note: don't even get me started on the angry-eyed computer animated version that came out a year or so ago. When the Turtles grew up, they got scary-looking. That is so not the Turtles. Where's the fun in that? End side note.

A well-known fact about the Turtles is that they always "hold the anchovies." I think this comes from the live action movies, because I seem to remember them eating plenty of anchovies in the cartoon show. They ate tons and tons of pizza of all kinds; in fact, it was most likely their only source of food. Whether they ordered with anchovies or not, the little fishies were still a big part of their usual routine. Even now, when I think of anchovies, I think of four bipedal turtles with ninja masks. It just happens.

So when I saw a couple of shelves of anchovies in DeLaurenti's, a local gourmet food shop, I immediately thought "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" and "pizza." I bought a jar, but decided not to make a pizza. I could work anchovies into brunch! Presto! Michaelangelo eggs. Donatello Benedict (sounds like a 1500s priest, doesn't it?). Raphael scramble. Leonardo with a side of hashbrowns.

To class it up a little bit, I picked up some Humboldt Fog, a goat's milk cheese with a line of ash down the middle and around the edges. The cheese is nostalgic for me, in a different way than the cartoon. I ate it some time ago, but I have no recollection of where or when. I remembered only the name and that creamy taste, and how shocked I had been to find ash in my cheese (this was before my interested in food was piqued). It subsequently disappeared. I hadn't seen it, but I definitely thought about it. When I first went in DeLaurenti's, I was so excited about finding Humboldt Fog again that I immediately phoned my mother.

Much can be done with this sort of cheese and oil-cured anchovies, but I wanted to brunch it up a bit. So here we have it:

Cowabunga on Toast
(Eggplant Mushroom Egg Scramble with Anchovies and Goat Cheese)

serves 1

1 baby eggplant, julienned
2 crimini mushrooms, julienned
2 eggs
1 slice bread (I used walnut bread)
2 or 3 anchovy fillets
a hunk of Humboldt Fog or other goat cheese

Whisk the eggs in a bowl and set aside. Pop the slice of bread in the toaster. Heat a little oil in a skillet over medium heat and toss in the eggplant and mushrooms. Saute until soft. Pour in the eggs and scramble them (use your preferred method--I will get to the many ways to scramble eggs in a later post) with the eggplant and mushrooms. Top the toasted bread with the scramble. Add the anchovy fillets (or you can skip this step if you are not a fan of anchovies) and crumble the cheese on top.

Portland: Broder

2008-01-31T13:17:00.000-08:00

If you have ever been in Ikea, you may have noticed a food section. You will have noticed menu items like Swedish meatballs, lingonberries, and potato dishes, not to mention all the packages of unknown items labeled in Swedish. The food at Ikea is similar to their furniture; cheap, easy to put together, and filling.

So when I say that Broder has Swedish food, I am not talking about the Ikea kind. The menu may be similar, but do not expect to see a paper-plated dish of salted fish. Instead, there is house-made smoked trout and egg scrambles filled with simple, Swedish-style ingredients. The lunch menu includes the classic Swedish meatballs and an array of fresh sandwiches. In fact, upon entering Broder, one breathes in a feeling of freshness. The open-style restaurant with one long counter, behind which sits the kitchen and bar, gives the whole place an airy feeling, with a pinch of coziness reserved for the tables in back. Clean lines and one fabulous lighting system give eaters room to breathe, even while sitting remarkably close to the neighboring table.

It was a debate between the Wild mushroom and caramelized onion baked egg scramble and the Smoked trout and red onion baked egg scramble. We went with the trout, because of its house-made superiority, and did not regret it. It was slightly under salted to my taste, as was the accompanying potato cake, but Corrie found it pleasant and lacking nothing. The presentation was just like the architecture; clean, rectangular, and lovely. It was served on a wood platform in two parts. The baked egg scramble was atop the platform in a miniature square cast-iron skillet, complete with tiny oven mitt. An accompanying square plate contained the potato cake and walnut toast.

We also ordered the Aebleskiver, or Danish pancakes, which are actually more like small, round pastries. They taste richer than they look. Almost savory and very eggy, the aebleskiver were delicious with a spread of lemon curd, lingonberry jam, and maple syrup. The syrup was almost too sweet for the pancakes. The lemon curd was just right. I am glad we shared these two dishes, because this alone would have been too much sweetness at once for me.

Located in Southeast Portland. Baked egg scramble: $9.00. Aebleskiver: $8.00.

Brunchtastic: Crave

2008-01-24T15:20:00.000-08:00

The only good thing about waiting thirty minutes for a table before your morning coffee is a readily available coffee bar in the waiting area. While standing in the funky-feeling waiting area that quadruples as a lobby for the Capitol Hill Arts Center, a massage therapist, and a Pilates studio, I sipped a cup of drip and one Americano and got the jitters before we even sat down. Crave serves the Seattle-based roaster Caffe Umbria, an Italian-style cuppa with decent reviews on Yelp. I have not lived in Seattle long enough to become a coffee snob, but I can feel it seeping in like a caffeine onset (especially after today's visit to Stumptown Coffee Roasters' training room.) Caffe Umbria's coffee was good enough for my semi-ignorant taste buds, but I must say, Stumptown has superiority.

But who am I to complain about the wait? It was a Sunday and a sign above the door reads "Max 37 Occupants." Anticipate a wait for weekend brunch, unless you get there early enough to beat the hangover crowds. This crowd was less hangover and more Capitol Hill-style cute, with plenty of unhidden tattoos mingling with some vintage eyeglasses and a few college t-shirts. You won't see too many business suits, but you will see a bunch of clean and ragged weekenders.

The astonishingly creative menu tucked onto your tiled table, lit by large windows that fill the small space with washes of light, is the primary draw of Crave. The kitchen is in plain view of the counter seats, where you can watch the food being plated and sent out, or potentially chat with the chef if it's slow. Teeny-tiny salt and pepper shakers nestle beside a jam packet holder, augmenting the miniature feel of the place. The food, however, is not miniature. Don't expect piles and piles of hash browns, but do expect to be full. The refreshing twists on comfort-food classics are the appeal here.

We thought we read "Mimosa French Toast" on the menu online, but we realized upon a glance at the real-live menu that it was actually Mimosa Benedict. At first we were disappointed. We had looked forward to Mimosa French Toast all week. Then we looked closer. How could we pass up champagne-shallot-orange hollandaise? On house-made lox? That's right. House-made. Instead of the traditional English muffin, it was served atop triangles of sourdough toast. I found this difficult to cut through and made an eggy mess on my first attempt. After a couple of tries, I figured out a method and wow, was it worth the effort.

I find that the mark of a great brunch place is the effort they put into their side dishes. There is no scrimping on the sides here; the homefries were spicy with cumin and rich with flavor without overpowering the main dish.

The real star, however, is Mom's Overnight French Toast. This took some debating between a couple of other delicious-looking menu items, but I am telling you right now, this French Toast is why Crave has some of the best brunch in town. You don't want to miss this one. It is Macrina's sourdough soaked in orange custard and baked, served in slices with a blue cheese butter and maple syrup. What butter, you say? Yes, blue cheese. The smallest of drizzles over your slice of French toast, with a topper of another drizzle of maple syrup, is what makes this dish spectacular. You get orange-tinted blue-cheesy sweetness, with the texture of a good bread pudding.

Eat at Crave, and do it when you have time to gush. And don't forget the scrumptious Pomegranate Mimosa, a tart and welcome addition.

(Photos of Pomegranate Mimosa and Mom's Overnight French Toast by Corrie.)

Brunchtastic: Le Pichet

2008-01-22T15:58:00.000-08:00

When I called Le Pichet to ask if they serve brunch on weekdays, the woman on the other end told me there is no brunch menu but an all-day "Le Casse Croûte" menu, which contains a couple of egg dishes. (I learned later that Le Casse Croûte translates to snacks, or small plates.) I had heard from coworkers that brunch was the best time to visit Le Pichet, so naturally I was surprised to hear it was technically nonexistent. We went anyway, for the French gastronomic reputation it holds in this city. I had heard it is more casual and less snooty than Campagne, and a welcome bite of authentic French simplicity. It does have a twinge of snootiness, but the latter is more than true.

Even though it was not officially called "brunch," the small plates felt brunch-y enough. The quaint restaurant is small and packs authentic charm. We enjoyed our suave, elegant service, which was prompt but not overbearing. We were hassled by one server (thankfully not ours) who spoke in a brisk French accent as she asked us if we needed our check, cold and impolite. Other than that there was nothing to taint our experience; the food had exquisite flavor, rich and hearty, succulent and toothsome.

Dish 1: Œufs plats, jambon et fromage, Two eggs broiled with ham and Gruyère. Simple, elegant, and impossibly delectable. I would go back just for this.

Dish 2: I unfortunately did not catch the French name for this one (because it is not on the website's menus, and the only French word I know is "bonjour"). It was salt cod served with whole grain toast and marinated olives. The cod was mixed with mashers and herbs and served in a ramekin. Not as salty as I expected, but tasty nonetheless. A traditional French dish. (photo below is Corrie's.)

Dish 3: Yaourt fabrication maison au miel et noix, House-made yogurt with honey and walnuts. Just slightly sweet with a nutty crunch and a runny, homemade texture. Clean and simple, and delicious.

If you live in Seattle, you already know that Le Pichet is one of Seattle's best French restaurants. So I don't have to tell you. As a moderate newcomer, I am learning my way around the local establishments by word of mouth and drop-in exploration. Know of any good places? Drop a line.

Smoked Salmon Eggs Benedict

2008-01-17T15:28:00.000-08:00

I have never made hollandaise over a double boiler. It just sounds like lots of dishes, and I for one, would like less dishes. With three (currently and temporarily four) people living in a small house, sharing a kitchen with storage space that would be a struggle even for a single, doing dishes with no dishwasher can be quite an event. With one person washing and another drying, we can manage to get the grimy skillets and plates from potentially four separate dinners clean in about an hour. You see, we do not often cook for each other. We have very separate and irregular schedules. My roommates are both actors. Rehearsals are often in the evening, so that day jobs can be completed before the real work begins. Sometimes, however, they take place during the day. Which is why many actors are also servers or baristas; they need flexible schedules. This means we are all responsible for our own meals, including our own dishes. So why get a double boiler and some bowls dirty when you can use a blender?

Blender hollandaise is not a new invention. Loads of recipes for it can be found across the interweb, including Epicurious, Cooks.com, and Chow.com. It is superbly simple, and while I am sure many food purists out there will object to the shortcut, the stuff is quite tasty and equal to the slow food version. I added tarragon and horseradish to mine, with a dollop of whole ground mustard. I think the addition of tarragon technically makes it a Bearnaise sauce. Bearnaise is traditionally an egg-yolk, butter, and tarragon vinegar reduction, while hollandaise is egg-yolks, butter, and lemon juice. I used lemon juice here with some actual tarragon, so that makes it, what? A Bearnaise hollandaise? It has a nice ring to it. And a yummy flavor, too, though I added a twitch too much lemon. More horseradish and less lemon next time. I like hollandaise with a slight kick, so that the mildness of the eggs and English muffin get a big wham! at the end. I have compensated for the lemon and horseradish in this recipe, therefore these are approximations based on my eyeballing and tasting, eyeballing and tasting.

I poured a (un)healthy amount of this over my Smoked Salmon Eggs Benedict this morning and had a lovely, rich breakfast. With Eggs Benedict, I am not a huge fan of over-toasted English muffins because they are difficult to cut through, so I toasted them gently, topped them with a layer of lox, a sprinkling of capers, a poached egg, and finally the hollandaise. I won't go into the poached egg fiasco today. The usual white vinegar and simmering water method worked fine, but I ended up with four broken yolks sitting in a cold water bath on the stove and residual frustration. I could dedicate an entire post on poaching eggs. And I might, eventually. With all the available methods, including the new trick in Michael Ruhlman's The Elements of Cooking, there are many techniques to try out. Alas, for another day.

Bearnaise Hollandaise in a Blender

3 egg yolks
1 1/2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon chopped tarragon
1 tablespoon horseradish
1/2 c butter

Dump all the ingredients except the butter into a blender. Whir it up for 2 to 3 seconds, until the yolks are broken and the tarragon is well blended. Heat butter (I did this in the microwave, to take the shortcut even further) until hot and bubbly but NOT brown. Brown equals burnt, and burnt butter equals an unhappy hollandaise. With the blender on high speed, slowly add the butter in a constant stream. This should take a good 30 seconds. When all the butter is added, the sauce should have thickened and it will be done and delicious. Add more horseradish or salt to taste.

Brunchtastic: Persimmon

2008-01-15T18:41:00.000-08:00

From the outside looking in, Persimmon appears to be just another diner. Blinds and slightly darkened windows allow only the tiniest peek of counter stools to a sidewalk viewer. Once inside, the place bursts with energy and color; orange-tinted walls, fashionable servers, and a hopping kitchen within view of the coffee counter lively up the intimate space. It is busy without being loud, vibrant without being garish.

The first thing I noticed upon being seated was the size of the coffee mugs. They are the size of a teacup. I like my coffee mugs big, enough to wrap my hands around to seep out that lovely warmth into my fingertips and take little sips. I am also a big coffee drinker and enjoy a mug or two with breakfast. When I complained about the small amount of coffee to Corrie, she pointed out the fact that the coffee would not get cold, because it would be refilled faster. And she was right: it stayed hot, mainly because the servers were quick with refills and never let the cups get completely empty. It's really the servers who should be complaining. They have to return with fresh pots frequently, especially for customers like us who drink a substantial amount of coffee with breakfast.

We ordered an Uli's Sausage, Apple, Onion, and Aged White Cheddar Omelet and Berry Crepes to continue the sweet and savory tasting. I was hesitant about the omelet. Apples in an omelet? I tend to dislike apples in savory dishes. Eating apples alone, or with peanut butter, is the extent of my apple taste range. I find cooked apples too mushy, often doused with too much cinnamon or sweetener. Taking that first bite of an apple-studded omelet was a fearsome event. I picked up the fork and stabbed a piece, sure that this was not going to be the most pleasant of experiences. As you may have expected, I was surprised. I am not sure if the apples were sauteed or blanched or poached or what, but they were delicious. Still slightly firm, cooked enough to remove their potent tartness and grit but not so much that they turned to slime in your mouth, the apples tasted like apples. Sweet-tart as they are meant to taste, without all that cinnamon and sweetener. The combination with the sausage was delightful. And the cheese! The aged white cheddar blended in with the other flavors like a hippie at the Fremont Sunday Market. Tasty.

The crepes were equally good. Creme fraiche was folded into the layers and the whole thing was topped with a pile of berry compote. It was slightly sweet, but not so sugary that the berry's tartness could not shine through. The first sensation upon a mouthful of this dish is of the creamy, buttery combination of creme fraiche and crepe, then the sweet-tart berries hit your tongue and you get a creamy, buttery, natural sweetness that goes down easy. These were oh-my-god good, with slurps of bittersweet coffee-and-cream between bites.

The portions are satisfying but not huge, and definitely worth the price. Expect to pay about $15 a person (including coffee and tip). Not bad for a quality brunch.

Brunchtastic: Wild Mountain Cafe

2008-01-11T11:01:00.001-08:00

All too often, brunch is a meal placed among luncheons and tea parties that require refined ladies to wear hats with their summer dresses. It is crumpets and English muffins, pats of butter and raspberry spreads. It is fine china and teacups with delicate floral decor. This is not brunch.

The brunch I know can be eaten wearing the same clothes you were in the night before, at any time of day (preferably before four pm, however, when most places serving brunch begin to prepare for dinner rush). It is eaten during hangover hunger, during a midmorning work rush, or on a lazy Sunday when there is nothing else to do but bask in a warm house, listen to midmorning rain, and make an egg scramble. It is most comfortable eaten off of chipped, mismatched plates with a big cup of coffee in a thrift store mug. It is also best either shared with a housemate or picked at underneath a widespread newspaper. Even in the middle of the afternoon, the consumption of brunch invites a quiet, reflective morning-feel. It exudes the sensation of morning half-light peeking through the curtains, the way you might feel waking up at your grandmother's house as a carefree kid knowing you don't have a single obligation.

I have decided to make more time for brunch. Starting today, I am beginning a series of brunch posts. I will be seeking out the best brunch spots in Seattle as well as making my own breakfast foods. I would like to explore the many mysteries of the egg: baked, fried, scrambled, coddled, poached. If you know of a great brunch spot in Seattle, leave it in the comments!

Yesterday morning I started off this series with a fabulous little place called Wild Mountain Cafe, located in a chicken-wire-and-concrete house built in the 1900s. They are dedicated to sustainable food sources, composting, and reusing; almost all of their flatware, plates, cups, etc are secondhand, according to their website. The mismatched tables, chairs, and a Santa Clause coffee mug in January made me feel quite at home there, as if I were eating off my own collection of not-so-fine china. My friend Corrie suggested the place, and we decided to split one sweet and one savory item off the menu. Eggs Benedict with lox instead of Canadian bacon and homemade hollandaise was the first choice, served with a roasted garlic potato pancake, which we dipped into the hollandaise and gushed over. It was served with a fruit cup. I am not much interested in fruit cups, because most of them consist of syrupy-sweet goop drowning a few bits of melon. This fruit cup was nothing of the sort. We were both surprised by the presence of mango in our fruit cup. A perfect sweet accompaniment.

The sweet choice was something called the Persian Sun, tahini-stuffed French toast with pineapple and honey-lemon "drizzle," as it is called on the menu. Sound weird? We thought so, too. But the slather of tahini hidden between two slabs of perfectly eggy French toast gave the whole thing a rich kick. It was like dipping French toast in hummous, and it was good. The sweet pineapple and honey-lemon drizzle (which was the syrup replacement, an excellent alternative to the sugar-laden maple variety) gave the dish just enough sweetness to contrast with the side of salty ham. My southern roots would call this "country ham," a salt-cured slice of (often dry) pork, but this was a deliciously juicy northwestern version.

I highly recommend checking this place out if you are in the Seattle area. A creative menu, fast service and friendly staff, and some really good food. Quality coffee, too. The ideal spot for a quiet, or bustling, brunch.

Corrie took a few pictures, and they are most excellent:

Post-party pictures, plus a few ramblings

2007-12-30T21:41:00.000-08:00

I neglected to inform you that I was going out of town for a week. Well, I went out of town for a week. I fear I have neglected this blog over that period of time, but hopefully you, my small number of readers, will understand.

North Carolina ranged from about 40 to 70 degrees over the week of Christmas. My mom's "significant other" (or whatever the appropriate term for a fiancé when you're 50...and mom, i apologize in advance for giving away your age) hosts a neighborhood Christmas Eve party every year. Oysters on the half shell with an array of dipping sauces are featured halfway through the night, and an original Christmas-y drink, often red in color, is slurped down by the many friendly and getting friendlier neighbors. Food is overflowing on the tabletops. And until last year, every last bit of it was made by the host himself. Last year my mom helped a lot and I helped a little. This year, I had my own recipes on the menu. I made a butternut squash tart, some amazing chocolate cookies from Orangette with a few delicious additions, and prepared a lovely salmon tartare from French Laundry at Home. When preparing all this I realized how much I have learned in a year's time. My knife skills are much improved, and I know what "tartare" means. If you had asked me a year ago what "tartare" meant I probably would have told you, "a sauce that goes with fish." I also grasped the idea that there is much more to be learned and more recipes to be made than one could possibly make in a lifetime. There are many methods and many skills about which I am still clueless. I have a long way to go.

I suppose I never really introduced this blog, at least not properly. I began this with the hope that it would give me a reason to continue my culinary self-education; it would give me incentive to keep cooking even when I didn't feel like cooking. It is to motivate me to learn how my camera works by taking photos of what I make. It is to cultivate methods and remember tricks and tips I pick up along the way. Besides, I like to write, I like to cook, and I like to take pictures. This is a place for me to develop all of those things. Where I can freely explore writing style and mess with photo editing and share a few recipes.

So: for the new year, I resolve simply to continue exploring. To lift up, take off, and fly with whatever whimsical food idea that comes to mind and not be afraid to try. There is too much to be explored in this world to find oneself bored with food. There is chemistry and art and millions of flavor combinations, not to mention methods and varieties. Did you know there are over four hundred varieties of heirloom tomatoes? Four hundred! Imagine the possibilities, each a distinct flavor.

Anyway, back to Christmas Eve. I started cooking as soon as I got over the first wave of jetlag and did not stop until I flew back to Seattle. Oh, sure. There was a bit of shopping here and there. A little reheating of leftovers punctuated with family time. But most of it was spent cooking. This post is mainly to share photos from the party, but I would be happy to share a recipe or two if they are requested. Many of them are the host's recipes, so I will have to check with him before sharing.

From top to bottom:
Chewy Cocoa Cookies (with dried cherries and orange zest). These are rich, brownie-like cookies. I should post about these soon.

Salmon Tartare with Red Onion Creme Fraiche. Served on tasting spoons on a bed of kosher salt.

The host's own crab cake recipe. For the recipe, you'll have to buy the book. Or I may post about it sometime.

Scooping out Chewy Cocoa Cookies.

Rack of ribs. I was not around when these were being prepped so I don't know exactly what kind of barbeque sauce is on these guys. Admittedly, I ate a couple of these. I must officially call myself a Vege-most-lian now. Mostly veg and picky about what meat I do happen to eat.

Butternut Squash Caribbean Curry

2007-12-18T21:48:00.000-08:00

Edit: I really must be better at proofreading.

That Moosewood cookbook has me inspired. This particular version of the Moosewood Restaurant cookbook, previously mentioned here, is a rich 700 pages worth of ethnic recipes. I usually prefer cookbooks with breathtaking photography, or at the very least a section of photographs, but this one has none. Zero. It is 700 pages of concise recipes. And it still makes me drool.

Our humble little house tucked in behind some shops is the current caretaker of said cookbook. We are watching over it while its owners are out of town. I have photocopied several recipes and am having trouble with the prospect of giving it up, as if we were pet sitting their baby kitten who can't help but bat at the bottom of your jeans as you walk through the house, and then you have to play with it just because it's there, and when it goes home there is this horrible sadness left behind. Okay maybe it isn't quite like that. But close.

This recipe is based on "Colombo de Giromon," or curried vegetables, in the Caribbean section of the book. I would hardly call it a curry in the Indian sense, because it contains no curry powder or cumin, but the name does seem to fit. The original recipe called for pumpkin, but I'll be damned if I was going to peel, seed, and cube a pumpkin. A butternut squash sounded much easier to handle. The first time I made it, there wasn't enough sauce for my liking. I want to be able to pile this on a bed of cous cous cooked in vegetable broth and let the coconut milk, wine, rum, and spices soak into the fluffy grains. It also needed to be spicier. I am not one to dump Tabasco on my eggs or pile on the extra cayenne, but a little kick can be nice. I at least wanted to need that cous cous. I wanted to feel the heat ever-so-slightly, so that when I took a bite with the cous cous, it all mellowed out in a deliciously rich spicy-sweetness. So I doubled both the spices and the liquids.

I ended up with this:
Boy, was it tasty. I polished off two bowls of it. This one is even better the second day, but after that it starts declining. Serve immediately or reheat on Day Two over the stove top.

Butternut Squash Caribbean Curry
adapted from Sundays at Moosewood Restaurant

4 cups water
1/2 cup dry white wine
1 heaping teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 lbs butternut squash, peeled, seeded, and cubed (about 5 cups)
1 red bell pepper, chopped
1 green bell pepper, chopped

Colombo Seasoning:
1/2 teaspoon cayenne
4 teaspoons coriander seeds
4 teaspoons dry hot mustard
8-10 garlic cloves, pressed
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
1-1 1/2 teaspoons water

Sauce:
1/4 cup peanut oil
1 large onion, chopped
1 teaspoon unbleached flour
1 cup coconut milk
4 tablespoons fresh lime or lemon juice
4 tablespoons dark rum
1/4 cup leeks, chopped
salt and pepper to taste

Combine the water, wine, and pepper in a large saucepan and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to a simmer, add squash and red and green peppers, and cook until very soft. The squash should break neatly when it hits your teeth, but should not break up in the pan. Strain the squash and peppers and reserve 2 cups of the cooking liquid.

Smash together all of the Columbo Seasoning ingredients to a paste.

Heat oil in a large skillet on medium heat. Saute the onion for a few minutes, until nearly translucent. Stir in Columbo Seasoning paste and flour. Add the 2 cups of reserved cooking liquid, stirring occasionally, until sauce thickens. Add the coconut milk, lime or lemon juice, rum, and leeks. Stir in the squash mixture and cook 5 minutes more, until hot. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Serve hot over a bed of cous cous or wild rice.

Mexican Hot Chocolate

2007-12-11T17:49:00.000-08:00

All this time and not a single bit of chocolate has appeared on this blog. Criminal! I have been baking, oh yes. There have been cookies. Batches and batches of them. And yet they have shied away from appearing here. They get embarrassed in the limelight, those cookies. They like to stay out of the way. Someday I will bring them center stage. But for now, I bring you hot chocolate. The recipe comes from Sundays at Moosewood Restaurant, from the section on Mexican cooking by Lisa Wichman. Next time I make this, I am adding more chocolate. The recipe is terrific as it is, but I like that thick, dark drinking chocolate that tastes like sipping a melted chocolate bar. As is, the hot chocolate is a creamy decadence with hints of cinnamon and vanilla. It is dessert all by itself.

Mexican Hot Chocolate
from Sundays at the Moosewood Restaurant

2 oz unsweetened chocolate
2 cups milk
1 cup heavy cream
6 tablespoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1 egg
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Melt the chocolate in the top of a double boiler. In a separate pot, heat the milk and the cream on low heat until hot but not boiling. When the milk is hot, slowly add a little bit of it to the chocolate until you have a thin paste. Stir in the rest of the milk and cream, the sugar, and the cinnamon.

In a bowl beat the egg and vanilla with a rotary beater (I used a whisk instead). Add a very little of the hot chocolate to the egg (you don't want to "fry" the egg in the hot chocolate) and stir the egg mixture into the hot chocolate. With the double boiler still on low heat, beat the chocolate with a rotary beater (or whisk) for about 3 minutes. Serve immediately.

Polenta and Pomegranate Acorn Squash

2007-12-10T23:49:00.000-08:00

A recent leak in our kitchen sink has caused a backup of unwashed dishes. The combination of having a small kitchen, a dripping pipe, and no dishwasher equals dishes piling up not only in the sink, but also all over the counter tops and the two wooden kitchen carts we use for extra workspace. Not exactly an inviting place to cook. Hence, no posts lately. Apologies.

However, I did get the chance to sneak into the kitchen for one crazy Caribbean curry. That post will come later. The recipe needs a bit of manipulation before it goes up. All I will tell you is that I purchased five different kinds of spices just for this recipe. And that it was well worth the effort of peeling, seeding, and cubing a butternut squash. Here's a taste:

I just love winter squash. While picking up a plump butternut in the market, I spied these lovely green-and-orange acorn squashes. One might expect a giant squirrel to come pick one up and stuff it into the rafters. Seeing no squirrels about the market, I stuffed that acorn squash into my backpack for safekeeping on the bus ride home, where it sat in the vegetable and fruit basket in the corner of the kitchen for a couple days.

The state of the kitchen worsened after my adventure with butternut squash curry, withholding my desire to crack open the acorn. Today, however, the landlord fixed the pipe. I washed three loads of dishes, leaving one or two loads for another time or another roommate, and then I saw it. There, in the corner, was my stashed-away acorn. Something had to be done. I didn't feel much like trekking to the grocery store, so I improvised. I adore roasted squash. That's a start. I halved it, scooped out the seeds, plopped a bit of butter in each half and stuck it in the oven. Now what? I only had some exotic spices, a bit of dried thyme, and a pomegranate. How long had that been sitting in the basket? Two weeks? I had no idea if pomegranates lasted two weeks at room temperature, so I cut it open to find out. Turns out, they do!

If you have never seeded a pomegranate, you are missing out on one of the most entertaining foods to prep. I would recommend laying down newspaper under a bowl before beginning. This can get rather messy. Quarter the fruit, then dig in with your fingers. Pop the juicy seeds out of their maze of flesh, being careful not to break them. You'll break some. That's what the newspaper is for. I ended up with some on the kitchen wall. Try to avoid flinging the seeds against a white wall; you'll get a red splatter that looks like something from a horror film. Throw away the bits of flesh and you'll end up with a bowl of shiny red teardrops, the ones that made it through the clumsy seeding.

I also had some polenta around. And some Pear Champagne vinegar. Any sort of light-colored vinegar will do for this recipe. If you happen to have some Pear Champagne vinegar lying around, by all means, use it here. In a moment of weakness, I purchased the stuff at Whole Foods..."foodsters" (the name J has given to foodies) with a low budget should never be allowed in Whole Foods. It is entirely impossible to resist the rows of unusual ingredients and funny-looking fruit. Anyway, white wine vinegar, rice vinegar, or cider vinegar would work here as well.

Throw in some spices and you have a sweet and savory, super-easy squash dish. The pomegranate seeds brighten up the whole thing with an instant cool sweetness which gives way to the earthy coriander and molasses-sweet squash. The flavors blend surprisingly well. I had this with a glass of pinot grigio.

Polenta and Pomegranate Acorn Squash

1 acorn squash
2 tablespoons butter
1/2 cup Pear Champagne vinegar
2 1/2 cups water
1 cup polenta
2 teaspoons coriander
2 teaspoons dried thyme
1/4 cup pomegranate seeds
pinch salt

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Halve the squash and scoop out the seeds. Place the squash halves on a roasting pan and drop a dollop of butter in each cavity. Brush the flesh with oil. Bake 35 minutes or until a knife goes in easily. Allow the squash to cool until you are able to handle it easily.

Meanwhile, boil the water with the vinegar. Reduce heat to a simmer and stir in polenta. Stir frequently so the polenta doesn't stick, until it thickens. Remove from heat.

Gently scoop out the acorn squash flesh into a bowl, leaving about half an inch in the skin so the squash holds its shape. This is best done with a paring knife, a spoon, and little patience. The shape of the squash is so pretty that I was careful not to smush the sides up, but that's up to you of course. Add about 3/4 cup of polenta to the squash. Mix well, mashing up any large bits of squash as you go. Fold in coriander, thyme, and pomegranate seeds, blending carefully so as not to break the seeds. Spoon the mixture back into the squash halves and bake ten more minutes, until hot. Sprinkle with pomegranate seeds and serve.

The first snow of the season

2007-12-02T20:52:00.000-08:00

I was on the bus headed to work when I saw them. Large, fluffy flakes of snow, falling to the ground like broken-off pieces of cloud. It looked more like millions of these cloud bits were strewn about on the streets downtown, then swept into the air by gusts of swirling wind, rather than falling down from the sky. But gravity won out in the end, as it generally does, and we were left with a slushy mess. The snow stuck to the tops of parked cars, a few dark lampposts, and the roof of Pike Place Market, but not on the ground. It turned to rain soon after.

The first snow of the season has a way of enlivening a recently gray autumn. I got off the bus to overhear someone say into a phone, "Mom, it's snowing!" Which, of course, gave me the idea to call my own mother and brag about the fact that it snowed here before she got a single flake in Ohio. Walking around downtown, I noticed people smiling for no reason. One couple stopped to catch the flakes on their tongues. There was a sense of community spirit, a general inexplicable happiness. For a brief moment, Seattle was in a state of giddy wonder.

When I arrived home from work, in the rain, I decided that nothing could be better on the first day of snow, on December 1st, than a grilled cheese and a bowl of tomato soup. The comfort food classic is a winter favorite, and everyone has their method. Some like creamy tomato soup, others prefer traditional acidic. And then there's the choice of bread. White or wheat? Many of us Americans grew up eating grilled cheeses on the kind of white bread that rolls into a sticky ball when you squeeze it. My adult taste favors handmade artisan bread, such as Seattle's Essential Baking Company or Tall Grass Bakery. This time, I went for the multi-grain seed bread, packed with poppy seeds, sunflower seeds, and grainy goodness. This particular grilled cheese contains plain 'ol medium cheddar, but next time I would like to try a little Beecher's cheese or a smoked Gouda. Any combination of bread, cheese, and soup will do. The point is, it's comfort food, and it's yours, so you can make it the way your mom made it on the first day of snow or add your own twist. Either way, I hope you find it as satisfying as I did.

Ode to the Oyster

2007-11-30T10:44:00.001-08:00

Writing about oysters without mentioning M.F.K. Fisher is like going skiing without the skis. You can slip around all over the place, and even ride down the hill on your nylon-ski-pants-covered bottom, but you're watching everyone else whiz past with their perfectly parallel pieces of wood. Without a little M.F.K, a writer ends up trying to get at the taste of an oyster, but doesn't quite get there.

Okay, I must be honest. I have never read Consider the Oyster. It's on my to-do list. And admittedly, there are plenty of other writers who have attempted descriptions of the elusive oyster just as thoroughly as Fisher. And yet there is something about her that appeals to my dreamy reverie, the part of me that waxes poetic about foods and their preparation. She is a prose-poet of food.

I have found that many people are squeamish about oysters. They don't look like something that would go in your mouth. They look more like something that should be complained about to your server if found in your soup. To eat them right out of the shell is brave, to slurp them right out of the shell even braver (and an act I have yet to experience--my oyster skills are young yet).

Neither of my roommates eat them. J tried them the day before Thanksgiving, when we were making grilled cheeses with bread from Essential Baking Company and red-pepper tomato soup and shucking oysters while the sandwiches were on the stove. Perhaps not the greatest of combinations, but we bought some Kumamotos from the market and they were too tempting to allow to go bad. J didn't like them, even with the mignonette. It is a texture thing, I suppose. Fried oysters are more conducive to texture-eaters, people who base much of their pleasure or lack thereof on a food's mouth feel. I chew my oysters, because swallowing whole is cheating. You don't taste the oyster, instead you get a little of whatever sauce you may have doused it in before the whole thing goes sliding down your throat.

I missed the opportunity for shots of the Kumamotos. My dad and I ate them up. A few weeks back I bought some Olympia oysters from Oyster Bill at the U-District market. Oyster Bill delivers to Seattle restaurants, and is co-author of the book The Joy of Oysters. He looked like he stepped right off the boat; a neatly trimmed white beard almost hides a genuine smile, and his waterproof clothing gave him the look of a fisherman. And Oyster Bill knows his oysters. He had some large Pacifics (photo left), which I found to be a little too large for eating raw, as well as a few others, but the ones that struck me were the Olympias. Olympia oysters (photo below) are the only type indigenous to the Pacific Northwest. All the others were brought from Japan and breed very well here, according to Oyster Bill, and have very brittle shells but delightfully briny interiors.

I had to buy the Olympias, even though they weren't the cheapest choice. They were well worth it. I had no trouble opening their dainty little shells and slurping down their liquor. The mignonette was hardly necessary.

Mignonette is a combination of 2 tablespoons red wine vinegar, the juice of two lemons (though I found one to be enough), 2 teaspoons of finely minced shallots, lots of black pepper and (optional) fresh tarragon. I obtained the recipe from a food writer friend of mine and fellow oyster-lover. I can hardly eat oysters without this stuff now. It's that good. It adds a subtle acidic flavor without overpowering the gentle briny citrus of the oysters.

Rowan Jacobsen (see link below) describes oysters as if he is tasting wine. This is a less familiar method of eating oysters for me, but a lovely read nonetheless. His description of the oyster's umami is a bit much for me, but I do find interest in his description of oyster seasons. Earlier this fall, when I tried the large Pacifics for the fist time, I found them milky and strangely mushy. They tasted fine, but I could hardly choke them down, especially when I discovered that this was a sign of spawning oysters. I decided I would research oyster seasons before I bought them next time. So far that has worked well. In general, oysters are best in the fall and winter, when they have stored up food to live on during the cold months, much like a hibernating mammal.

I would like to attempt to fry my own oysters, or steam them, or do something with them other than eat them raw. I happen to like eating them raw, so I have a feeling most of them would end up in my mouth before they even get coated with a fry mixture. I'll buy extra to accommodate my lack of self-restraint.

More about Oysters:

The best online source I have found for oysters is on chow.com. It is an excerpt from Rowan Jacobsen's book The Geography of Oysters: A Connoisseur's Guide to Eating Oysters in North America. The excerpt is beautifully written and informative, and where I obtained some of my information for this entry.

The Wikipedia entry on oysters. Includes info on preparation and storage, plus a bit of history.

A Global Gourmet bit on oysters. Includes recipes and a little information.

Leftover Purple Mashed Potato Pancakes

2007-11-25T00:01:00.000-08:00

What to do with mounds of leftover mashed potatoes? Make purple potato pancakes! These are made from 2 cups leftover mashed potatoes, 1 egg, 6 tablespoons flour, and a bit of onion. Fry them up for a couple of minutes on each side, douse with maple syrup, and you have a post-Thanksgiving breakfast! We took these over to Neptune Coffee to share with friends. We looked a bit silly spreading out a homemade brunch in a coffee shop, but we were getting good-quality Stumptown roast and scarfing the brightest, friendliest-looking potato cakes I've ever seen, so we didn't mind.

Lamb, Blue Mashed Potatoes, and One Happy Thanksgiving

2007-11-24T22:53:00.000-08:00

My first hosted Thanksgiving went off without much of a hitch. The biscuits turned out a little dense, as did the potatoes, but the sheer beauty of purple potatoes (made from a small blue-fleshed variety) more than made up for their slightly off texture. With all the heavy cream, butter, and roasted garlic in those potatoes, the texture was perfectly ignorable.

I have attempted to recreate my grandmother's fried okra about four times now, and have yet to get it exactly right. The first time was a complete disaster; I had a wet, mushy mess that tasted of gooey, grainy salt and slimy vegetable. Not good. The second time around was slightly better; I managed to get them crispy but the okra still had its trademark sliminess. Grandma's never has sliminess. It is perfectly salted, tossed gently in cornmeal, and pan-fried...and somehow turns out perfect every time. My mother, after years of practice, still has not perfected the secret of the okra. Thursday, I made my fourth attempt (the third was similar to the second, not worth discussing). I can't have a Thanksgiving without fried okra, off season or no. So I went for frozen, and it was the best so far. Not perfect, not grandma's, but the best yet. The secret seems to be in the thawing. I called the okra expert for advice, and she told me to let it thaw halfway, then toss it in the cornmeal and salt to let thaw completely. This would get the cornmeal to stick. If I had used a finer-grind cornmeal (I used Bob's Red Mill medium-grind), the okra would have been pretty close to the nostalgic southern fried I have been eating since I could chew solid food.

J took care of the green beans, cornbread stuffing, and pumpkin pie. When he went to add the nutmeg to the pie, he shook the bottle and about double the intended amount fell right into the batter. He baked it anyway. It was excellent. Next time you bake a pumpkin pie, add more nutmeg. You will not regret it.

We had a lovely table setting of dried autumn flowers in a red teapot (we don't own a vase), set off by the Bordeaux recommended by the owner of the wine shop three blocks from here. A plate of purple potatoes, bright green beans, yellow butternut mac 'n' cheese, pink lamb, dark green fried okra, and tan cornbread stuffing made for one good-looking plate. Unfortunately, I only got so-so shots of it. I decided to share one, anyway. Excuse the blurriness and wonky exposure of the photos below.

No recipe today, but I will be perfecting my okra and biscuits in the coming weeks. Did the biscuits come out dense because of the lack of southern self-rising flour? Or is it the humid northwestern weather? We shall have to wait and see.

This is not about Thanksgiving (okay, it is)

2007-11-21T18:43:00.000-08:00

I have read so many blog posts about Thanksgiving lately that I am overwhelmed by the delectable possibilities. Gourmet sides, comfort food treats, the best ways to roast a turkey. This year, I am cooking for three. A small Thanksgiving but a huge meal, and my first time ever planning the menu.

The night before, right now in fact, I am prepping one dish only: butternut mac 'n' cheese, recipe courtesy of Alanna at A Veggie Venture. Tomorrow's menu, to keep up with the food blogging Joneses:

seared rosemary-garlic lamb sirloin
fried okra (the way my grandma makes it)
butternut mac 'n' cheese
blue mashed potatoes (that's right. blue. pictures later.)
true Southern biscuits
green beans
stuffing (my roommate's relation's recipe)
pumpkin pie

My roommate J and I are splitting the dishes. C is from Seattle, so she will be eating with her family tomorrow. My dad is in town and we'll be cooking up a storm, starting with the biscuits (so we can have them for breakfast and reheat them for dinner).

I will write a post-Thanksgiving update when I've digested the leftovers.

An Orange in Winter

2007-11-16T23:50:00.000-08:00

Okay, so it isn't winter yet. We haven't even made it to Thanksgiving. But a recent discussion between some friends and I on the appearance of fresh oranges this time of year got me thinking. Aren't oranges a tropical fruit? Then why do we have them in winter? And why is it a tradition to put oranges in a Christmas stocking?

Well, my friends, I have done some research for you in answer to these pressing questions. I consulted Wikipedia and numerous other websites (see citations below) in order to bring you this consolidated information. There is more information on oranges that I thought possible, so I have whittled it down to the facts I found most interesting.

The Orange (citrus sinensis)

Oranges most likely originated in southeast Asia (according to Wikipedia, either in India, Vietnam, or southern China). It is supposed that oranges were cultivated to an "advanced stage" in this region before they were ever introduced to southern Europe (Italy and Greece), where they were once thought to have origins. Herbert John Webber explains the history of citrus beautifully:

The history of the spread of citrus reads like a romance.¹ Even in very early times the beautiful appearance of both tree and fruit attracted the attention of travelers and received mention in their written narratives. The spread of the genus, however, from one part of the world to another was very slow.
Curiously, the first member of the group to become known to European civilization was the citron, mentioned about 310 B.C. by Theophrastus. For several hundred years this was the only citrus fruit known. Then came in order, but possibly centuries apart, the sour orange, the lemon, and the sweet orange. As far as preserved literature indicates, this last species was not known in Europe until approximately 1400 A.D., about seventeen centuries later than the citron. However, on the basis of careful examination of a Pompeian tile mosaic, Tolkowsky (1938) presented strong evidence that the orange tree—possibly of the sweet variety—was grown in Italy prior to the destruction of Pompeii in 79 A.D. He suggested that while the orange tree was cultivated at that period, it neither blossomed nor, consequently, bore fruit. A tile floor mosaic found in a Roman villa near Tusculum (modern Frascati) indicates that soon thereafter lemons and limes were also known in Italy. Eventually, Tolkowsky believes Italian gardeners succeeded in obtaining fruits from their citrus trees. From a vaulted ceiling mosaic in Rome, designed about 330 A.D. for Constantine the Great, Tolkowsky adduced "unassailable proof of the fact that in fourth century Italy oranges and lemons were actually grown."

He goes on to say that the orange is now known to have been grown for many centuries in China before Europe. The sweet orange was mentioned in many Mediterranean manuscripts in the sixteenth century, suggesting its widespread use during this time. It is widely thought that the orange seeds were brought to Europe by Genoese trading. Because much of Europe was too cold for growing oranges, some growers built heated buildings to avoid cold injury. They were dubbed "orangeries" and, as one might suspect, originated greenhouses.

Citrus is not indigenous to America; no records indicate that these fruits existed here as explorers wrote about the new plant and fruit discoveries. Columbus's second voyage brought the orange seed to the Caribbean Islands, and according to legend, the native Americans living there tended to the orange trees with great care. The first mention of the sweet orange in continental America was not until 1518, in a manuscript by an explorer who transplanted them from Cuba.

Skipping ahead to the 1800s, oranges were being grown in groves all over Florida, when it was a Spanish colony. In 1821, the Spanish ceded the territory to the United States. Subsequently, in true American spirit, oranges became a commercial industry. Citrus then spread to Arizona and California, most likely by Franciscan missionaries, and became the industry we know today.

Mandarin and Satsuma oranges are very available here in Seattle this time of year. They are not grown here, of course, but are imported from California and other places in the southwest. Oranges are planted in the spring and harvested in the fall and winter months.

Oranges are not tropical, but subtropical; they grow best between 50 and 100 degrees F. During the dormant period, they should be kept at 35 to 50 degrees F. The word "orange" comes from Sanskrit. Some languages refer to it as "Applesin," which means "apple from China."

The origin of oranges in Christmas stockings is debated. One website claims that it comes from the story of St. Nicholas:

One story tells of a poor man with three daughters. In those days a young woman's father had to offer prospective husbands something of value—a dowry. The larger the dowry, the better the chance that a young woman would find a good husband. Without a dowry, a woman was unlikely to marry. This poor man's daughters, without dowries, were therefore destined to be sold into slavery. Mysteriously, on three different occasions, a bag of gold appeared in their home-providing the needed dowries. The bags of gold, tossed through an open window, are said to have landed in stockings or shoes left before the fire to dry. This led to the custom of children hanging stockings or putting out shoes, eagerly awaiting gifts from Saint Nicholas. Sometimes the story is told with gold balls instead of bags of gold. That is why three gold balls, sometimes represented as oranges, are one of the symbols for St. Nicholas. And so St. Nicholas is a gift-giver.

Another theory is that oranges were a rare and precious commodity among the upper class northern Europeans, before importing subtropical fruit was the industry it is now.

If you have any more information on oranges, please leave it in the comments!

References:
History and Development of the Citrus Industry
Orange (citrus sinensis) information
Wikipedia entry on oranges
Hungry Monster orange page
St. Nicholas Center
St. Nicholas and American Christmas Customs

Rainy day vegan sage chili

2007-11-13T13:43:00.000-08:00

I must admit that I thought of every possible pun using the word "chili" for this post's title. Then I decided most people like "chili" puns about as much as they like scrubbing out the bits of crusty spiced tomatoes and beans from the bottom of the chili pot after it's been left on the stove a couple of days. (Hopefully you, unlike my roommates and I, do not leave your chili pots out longer than necessary. It must be nice to have a dishwasher.)

Sunday evening, the members of my household and I hosted a dinner-and-game-night for the cast of A Chorus Line. One of my roommates (we'll call him "J") plays Don in the show. J made a meaty chili, and I made a vegetarian version. My thinking: lots of theatre people are vegetarian, right? My other roommate, C, is allergic to diary and chooses not to eat meat, a vegetarian by choice and a vegan by necessity. No, she isn't lactose intolerant. She is allergic to dairy, which mean she breaks out in red rashes when she consumes milk or cheese or yogurt. I call myself a pescatarian, or "fish-atarian," as my coworkers at the Retail Store like to call it. I eat fish and seafood but not pork, beef, or poultry. With some very politically incorrect exceptions, but I'll get to that in a later post. So I figured we would need a vegetarian option. I mean, this is Seattle. Vegetarians must run rampant here, right?

I was the only one who ate the vegetarian chili because of dietary choices (C couldn't be there). J ate it because he likes veggie food, and a couple of other people tried it, from the looks of the pot after dinner. It's not that it was bad. It was quite good, actually. Fake meat and sage make a delightful combination, and I will be putting sage in all batches of chili from now on. Next time, I'll try adding whole sage leaves and pulling them out before serving, like a bay leaf. The sage was a bit overwhelmed by the chili powder. Less chili powder and more sage next time.

To me, sage tastes just like autumn. Like warm and cool colors, seasonal food is inviting and welcoming. Cool colors in the summer go with the cool food; not temperature-cool necessarily, but summer-cool...basil and cilantro, gazpacho, caprese salads, cajun fish, and boiled shrimp. In the fall, warm autumn colors match the warm food: rosemary, thyme, and sage, stews, cornbread, smoked cheeses and meats, roasted vegetables, and of course, chili. Chili is the epitome of rainy day food: warm, filling, a little spicy, and a hint of warm autumn herbs. Who hasn't felt better after eating a warm bowl of chili and cornbread after traversing a wet, rainy sidewalk? I know I have.

No pictures for this one. I was too busy hosting to take any.

Easy Vegan Sage Chili

1 large onion
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 (12 oz) package frozen soy crumbles
1 tablespoon cumin
1 tablespoon chili powder
1 can each kidney beans, black beans, pinto beans
1 can diced tomatoes
2 (4 oz) cans diced green chiles
2 tablespoons chopped fresh sage
2 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme
2 teaspoons salt

In a stockpot, heat oil over medium heat. Add onions and garlic. Saute until onions are translucent.

Add soy crumbles, chili powder, and cumin. Cook until heated through, stirring occasionally. Add beans, tomatoes, and chiles. Stir occasionally until hot. Add sage, thyme, and salt. Season to taste.

For best possible flavor, refrigerate overnight and reheat over medium heat.

This is my post for this week's Weekend Herb Blogging! This week's host is Vanessa from What Geeks Eat. Check out her recipe for the yummy-looking Black-Bottom Cupcakes while you're there!

Polenta and Mushroom-Stuffed Peppers

2007-11-09T13:04:00.000-08:00

Gorgeous, gorgeous, peppers. Many of the peppers at the farmer's market looked very much like Edward Weston's classic photograph. I had some polenta (or corn grits, as they call them in my native southeast) from another recipe and wanted to try it in some sweet peppers. The curled-up shape of those Edward Westons (my new term for funny-shaped bell peppers) would not do well for stuffing. Would the filling fall out because of their twists and curves? I opted for unusual colors instead; the purple bell pepper.

I do not recommend the purple pepper in this recipe. It tastes the same as a red bell pepper, but the color turns an odd grayish-lavender after cooking. Quickly saute or blanch it or toss it raw over a salad in order to preserve the brilliant color. The other peppers worked just fine here. The stuffed yellow miniature bell peppers would work very nicely as an appetizer.

This is post for this week's Weekend Herb Blogging. This week, the host is The Expatriate Chef of The Expatriate's Kitchen. On Monday, click on the link to see this week's roundup.

Mushroom Polenta-Stuffed Peppers

½ cup dried chantrelle mushrooms, rehydrated according to recipe below and finely diced
2 ½ cups warm water
4 bell peppers, large poblano chiles, lipstick peppers or a combination
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 medium shallots, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 medium Portobello mushroom caps, finely diced
½ cup leeks, chopped
1 cup polenta or cornmeal
½ cup heavy cream
2 teaspoons thyme
2 teaspoons basil
½ cup Parmesan cheese, roughly grated
½ cup Gruyere, roughly grated
3 teaspoons salt
fresh ground pepper to taste

Rehydrate the chantrelles by pouring the 2 ½ cups warm water over them into a bowl. Allow to sit, covered, for about 30 minutes or until the mushrooms are soft. Place a strainer on a medium-sized bowl and drain the mushrooms; reserve the stock for use in the polenta mixture.

Cut out the stems of the peppers, discard, and slice each pepper in half from stem to tip. Remove the ribs and rinse out the seeds. Arrange pepper halves in a buttered baking dish.

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

Heat oil in large skillet over medium heat. Add garlic and shallots and sauté until shallots are translucent, about 3 minutes. Add the diced mushrooms and leeks and cook about 5 minutes, stirring often. Add polenta and stir to combine. Slowly pour in the reserved mushroom stock and mix well. Add the cream, thyme, basil, salt, pepper, and ¼ cup of the Parmesan. Cook 10 minutes or until polenta mixture thickens, stirring constantly so that the mixture thickens evenly. Taste. Add more salt and pepper if you like your filling spicier. The spice will dampen once the flavors bake with the sweet peppers, so don’t be afraid to give it a little oomph. (Not too much oomph or you’ll overpower the mushrooms. The oomph should be to Goldilocks standards: just right.)

Remove from heat.

Fill the pepper halves with the polenta mixture. Top with the remaining Parmesan and the Gruyere. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, until golden and bubbling. Serve hot. Drizzle with a bit of olive oil and a sprinkling of fresh basil.

A non-vegetarian variation: Add chunks of Italian sausage, chorizo, or bacon into the polenta mixture. Cook the meat just after the shallots and garlic, before you add the mushrooms.

Creme Brulee French Toast

2007-11-09T11:48:00.000-08:00

I am not entirely sure of the ethics of widely sharing a recipe from a cookbook. If anyone knows, please share in the comments. I have made a couple of minor changes here, but otherwise it is straight out of the Mustard Seed Market & Cafe Natural Foods Cookbook, by Bev Shaffer.

The Mustard Seed Market & Cafe is plunked onto a street in Akron, Ohio along with a Wal-Mart, several fast food joints, and one or two other specialty food stores. (I recall a decent Indian restaurant along there somewhere, too.) I was in Akron visiting my mother, who was there for work, and we went for Sunday brunch at the Mustard Seed. The cafe is known for their Sunday brunch. Buffet-style, there's yogurt and granola and an array of hot foods, many of which are vegan and most of which are decently healthy. They offer several fresh vegetable juices as well as a custom omelet stand (the guy behind the eggs will make you a vegan, fake-egg, soy-cheese omelet or a fat-laden, real-egg, meat-and-cheese version). Naturally, I couldn't stop eating the least healthy item in the buffet; Creme Brulee French Toast.

The next day, my mom and I tried to recreate this decadent breakfast dessert. To no avail. We tried to recreate the egginess that filled the bread, but no, we ended up with a crunchy, soppy mess. The cookbook came out about a month later. We finally held the secret! Lots of eggs, a brown sugar syrup mixture, and chilling overnight. A tasty, tasty dish. Almost like eating bites of French toast with the syrup already mixed in. The crusty bread is soft enough to cut with a fork and is soaked with creamy eggy goodness.

Here is my version, changed because I didn't have any Grand Marnier but I did have Frangelico, and I wanted the bite-sized pieces so I went for a baguette instead of a round loaf.

Creme Brulee French Toast

1/2 cup unsalted butter
1 cup light brown sugar
2 tablespoons brown rice syrup
1 French baguette
5 large eggs
1 1/2 cups half and half
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 teaspoon Frangelico
1/4 teaspoon sea salt

Melt butter with brown sugar and brown rice syrup over medium heat. Stir until smooth. Pour mixture into a 9x13 inch dish.

Cut baguette into 1-1/4 inch slices, discarding the ends. Place the slices in one layer on top of the butter/sugar mixture and gently press down to hold the slices in place.

Whisk together eggs, half and half, vanilla, salt, and Frangelico (or Grand Marnier, or any such liqueur) until smooth and creamy. Pour mixture over bread. Cover and chill overnight.

Bring to room temperature for 30 minutes. Preheat oven to 350 degrees, and bake uncovered until puffed and golden, about 35-40 minutes. Optional: sprinkle with confectioner's sugar before serving.

This would be great as a Christmas morning breakfast. All the work is done the day before! Enjoy!

Weekend Herb Blogging!

2007-11-02T02:00:00.000-07:00

Every week, a food blogger posts a roundup of blog posts that have something to do with an herb,vegetable, plant, or edible flower. This week, the event is hosted by the lovely Kalyn of Kalyn's Kitchen, the originator of Weekend Herb Blogging. Check out her blog on Monday to see the roundup of this week's entries.

My entry for this week's event is a recipe that was unexpectedly challenging to test, but now that the recipe is (fairly) solidified, making these little cookies are a cinch. I never knew how much work went into recipe testing, how much longer it takes to test a recipe than it does to simply follow directions, until this very task. Baking is especially difficult to get exactly right; if one does not have the perfect combination of ingredients the texture comes out all wrong. Perhaps that is why cake mixes are so popular; the bulk of the work is already done.

In this case, I had to taste the dough many, many times (oh, how demanding the life of a baker) to ensure the delicate lavender a place on the tongue. A flower that is easily overpowered by other flavors, lavender has a delightful smokiness with a bitter edge. The bitterness gives way to a floral brightness, but if it is overused in a recipe, it will tend to lend its bitterness to the finished product, so use very little of it to preserve its flavor.

Here I have made a thumbprint cookie with an almond and lavender cookie base filled with mashed sweet figs and honey. The often overlooked floral smokiness of the lavender gently undertones the toasted almonds and honeyed fig. The flavors blend beautifully, and I think I figured out the optimal texture for the cookie. Being new to recipe testing, I am quite sure there is room for improvement here, but I can tell you this: just saying the name of this treat made a room of actors beeline for the plastic container next to the coffee machine. The cookies disappeared in seconds.

Lavender Almond Thumbprint Cookies with Fig Filling

1/2 lb figs
1 tablespoon honey
1 teaspoon dried lavender flowers

1 cup almonds, toasted and cooled
1 cup light brown sugar
1 tablespoon dried lavender flowers
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
10 tablespoons butter, softened
2 egg yolks
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Halve figs and scoop out the flesh. Mash the flesh until it resembles fig preserves; smooth but seedy. Add the honey and 1 teaspoon lavender. Mix well and set aside.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Combine almonds, light brown sugar, and remaining lavender in food processor and process until almonds are pulverized. In medium bowl, combine flour and baking powder.

In large bowl, beat butter and almond mixture with an electric mixer until blended. Beat in egg yolks and vanilla extract. Add the flour mixture in thirds, beating with electric mixer until dough becomes stiff. Knead a bit to bind dough; it will be slightly crumbly.

Shape dough by squeezing it into 3/4 inch balls. Place 1 inch apart on 2 ungreased cookie sheets. Press your thumb into the center of each. Dough may crack a little; to prevent this hold the outside of each dough ball in place with your fingers while your thumbs make the indentation. Fill each indentation with 1/4 teaspoon of fig mixture.

Bake cookies 10 minutes or until bottoms are lightly browned. Cool 2 minutes in pan. Transfer to wire rack to cool completely. Store in airtight container at room temperature up to 3 days. Makes about 60 cookies.

Balsamic Brussels Sprouts

2007-10-30T23:00:00.001-07:00

This lovely-looking stalk of Brussels sprouts (and it is beautiful, yes?) was sitting in the produce section of my local Town and Country market. To be honest, I had never seen Brussels sprouts on a stalk, nor was I aware of the fact they grow in such a manner. I assumed they grew like most cabbage-like vegetables: underground, one per plant. It would seem that many sprouts grow on one plant, above the ground. The stalks look fun, take up a whimsical amount of space in the fridge, and are a pleasure to prep. Be careful when popping the bulbs off the stalk; they may end up rolling around your kitchen floor.

Brussels sprouts are members of the cabbage family, as one might expect, and they really do come from Brussels. Well, they were cultivated in Belgium, anyway. Who knew?

They are also a food that many people fervently dislike. I hated them as a kid, probably because everyone else hated them. My classmates wrinkled their noses at the boiled, squishy-looking green orbs sitting in their plastic cafeteria bowls, so I followed suit and picked at them with my fork.

It wasn't until I had some freshly roasted that I fell for these little guys. I ate them doused in a bit of balsamic. The flavors complemented each other, but the texture was something to be desired. In making them at home, I steamed them before roasting to soften the exterior leaves a tiny bit. I didn't measure out the ingredients for this one, so I've just gone straight to the directions.

Start by plucking the bulbs off your Brussels sprout stalk. Rinse them off and quarter them lengthwise. Steam in batches for 3 minutes, or just until they turn bright green (as opposed to their previous yellowish color). Transfer to foil-lined roasting pan, douse with a good bit of balsamic vinegar (about 1/2 cup) and toss to coat. Roast at 400 for 25-30 minutes or until soft on the flat sides and lightly crispy on the curved exterior. If you have some kind of unique vinegar leftover from another recipe, toss it in there, too. I had some pear champagne vinegar lying around, so I dumped a bit of that on (1/4 cup balsamic and 1/4 cup pear champagne). It added a light pear crispness, very much in the spirit of autumn.

In the flower dish is a pine nut, thyme, and herbs de provence couscous.

Pappardelle's Pasta and recipe

2007-10-25T21:27:00.001-07:00

As a child, whenever my mom made spaghetti (particularly spaghetti, because I was a picky eater and refused any oddly shaped pastas), I would sneak a few snaps of dry pasta as an appetizer. I loved bland foods at the time, and would eat my spaghetti with only a little butter and no sauce (I allowed the occasional marinara, but never sauce containing mushrooms. Gross). The dry pasta had a nice crunch, like tortilla chips.

Since then, my palate has diversified. At Pike Place the other day I decided to try the delicious-looking artisan pastas, and let me tell you...this is dry snacking pasta. Pappardelle's Pasta is based in Denver but sells its dry pasta all over the country; you can buy it at farmer's markets in New York, Florida, California, and even Kansas, among many other states. They were sampling bits of dry Dark Chocolate Linguine at Pike Place yesterday; chocolate and pasta may sound like a strange combination, and indeed it is, but one bite of this stuff and I'm hooked. It tasted of smooth, high-quality chocolate with a hint of coffee. Rich without the heaviness, the pasta would be fabulous with a sweet cream sauce. I immediately started thinking of possibilities. However, this will have to be another entry, because now that I love mushrooms (anything mushroom is welcome in my kitchen), the Porcini Mushroom Linguine also called out to me, so I bought it instead.

All of Pappardelle's pastas come with a recipe suggestion. This one came with a recipe for Wild Mushrooms and Artichokes with Porcini Mushroom Pasta, and it is delightful. The sherry fills out the flavor of the pasta and gives it a nice sweetness that blends beautifully with the wild mushrooms. Here it is, with some added detail. The original recipe lacked information...I am a fan of detail and believe that the more of it a recipe contains, the greater likelihood it will turn out well. I have added some instructions to this recipe but have otherwise left it unchanged, except instead of serving with grated Parmesan I topped it off with a bit of creamy Saint Agur, a delightful blue cheese I bought to smear on some walnut bread from Three Girls Bakery, also in the market. The blue cheese paired nicely with the earthy mushrooms and sweet sherry.

Wild Mushrooms and Artichokes with Porcini Mushroom Pasta

1 lb Porcini Mushroom Pasta (or any other available pasta)
1 lb variety of wild mushrooms (I used chantrelle, crimini, and shiitake), cleaned
3 tablespoons butter
2 14oz cans artichokes in water (do not drain)
2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon pepper
1 teaspoon fresh thyme, chopped
1 cup dry sherry

Wash mushrooms, trim stems, and coarsely chop (into about 1-inch pieces).

Cook pasta in 6-8 quarts of rapidly boiling salted water until al dente (about 8-10 minutes).

In a large skillet, melt butter over medium heat. Add the mushrooms and saute until just barely tender, about 3 minutes. Add artichokes, salt, pepper, thyme, and sherry. Cook over medium heat to slightly reduce liquid, about 5 minutes. Add pasta and gently toss to coat the noodles. (I transferred the whole thing to a larger stock pot because my skillet was not large enough to hold all ingredients. Keep this in mind as you are working with the reduction.) Serve with freshly grated Parmesan or a rich blue cheese.

Herbed baby red potatoes

2007-10-23T22:50:00.000-07:00

It is a cold, rainy day in Seattle. How many countless people have uttered that very same sentence? There are, in fact, many cold and rainy days in Seattle, interspersed with days of warm sunlight and freakish 70 degree weather in late October. So far, the weather has been acting very similar to the rainy weather of my native southeast. But who knows what the weather should be anymore, with global warming reconstructing the patterns? I should get off this topic before I dig out my soapbox.

When it gets cold and rainy, I get cravings for starchy, filling foods to warm up chilly bones. Thick, fatty foods are not my normal fare, but they get straight to the heart, warming up even the chilliest of days or most frustrating of events.

Potatoes are the penultimate starchy comfort food (the ultimate being bread), whether fried or mashed or steamed, and are usually at their most comfortable with butter. Lots of butter. I found these baby reds at Pike Place Market and couldn't resist those eyes staring up from the bin (pun intended, apologies for bad humor). I had some fresh herbs in the fridge already and decided to go for some herbed potates. It's an easy recipe, a classic, and you probably have some variation of it as a staple accompaniment to your protein of choice. Here's my version.

Herbed Baby Red Potatoes

1 lb small red potatoes (any variety)
4 tablespoons butter
2 cloves garlic, minced
a smattering of mixed fresh herbs, chopped (about 3 tablespoons--I used thyme, dill, and rosemary)
salt and pepper to taste

Wash the potatoes and quarter them. Steam in batches until just tender, about 9 minutes (you want them to be slightly undercooked at this point). Set aside.

Melt the butter over medium heat in large skillet. Add the garlic and saute until fragrant, about 1 minute. Add potatoes and salt and pepper, saute gently (so as not to break them up) for about 5 minutes, coating the potatoes with the butter. Add the herbs and saute three more minutes, until potatoes are cooked through but still firm enough to hold their shape. Season to taste.

Cafe Campagne

2007-10-21T00:07:00.000-07:00

Since I am a new Seattlite (I only moved here six weeks ago), I am slowly making my way through the restaurants in town. Perhaps old Seattlites do this as well. Trying not to listen to my coworker's reviews, I instead wish to make my own decision about restaurant quality. However, if they have a suggestion, I'll take it (this is how Le Pichet got on my list--I will make it there someday). Cafe Campagne is the inexpensive and (slightly) less snobby version of Campagne, which is a Pike Place Market feature. I have nothing to say of Campagne itself, because, of course, I have not yet eaten their food. But the cafe, oh, the cafe. If the cafe is this good, the upstairs version must be positively spectacular. Campagne was written off as "too stuffy" by a fellow coworker, and I can see her point. Anyone who chooses to dine at a restaurant with an in-house sommelier takes the risk of experiencing stuffiness. I enjoyed the atmosphere as much as the meal. The wait staff is knowledgeable, the ingredients are fresh and seasonal, and I overall enjoyed myself. I walked away thinking, "Wow, that was really good." To me, that is what makes a good restaurant.

I must first mention that I, while not a complete Francophile, am a fan of French cooking. Who isn't? I may be inexperienced but I know my own tastebuds. Every time my brain tells my tongue it's tasting French food, I end up with a positive experience. At Cafe Campagne, I ordered the Poisson du Jour (okay, I admit to the fact that the titles of all the dishes were in French makes it a bit stuffier). A simple, light dish of pan-roasted lingcod, adorned with nothing but salt, a little lemon, and a touch of olive oil, served with fennel couscous and an arugula salad. Our server suggested a dry chardonnay which complemented the light dish very well...this one was all about the the fish. Everything on the plate rounded off the fish.

And dessert. My housemate/dinner-mate and I split two: a pistachio tart with figs and citrus ice cream, and a pear clafoutis with walnut ice cream. We both raved over the tart--the bitter/salty pistachios didn't exactly blend smoothly with the sweet figs, but the flavors connected, like two thoughts that suddenly click together in your brain. The walnut ice cream was the best part of the pear clafoutis. I could have consumed bowls of it.

After dinner, we went to see My One Night Stand with Cancer by Tania Katan. If you are in the Seattle area, you must see this show before it closes November 11. If you are elsewhere, go see it if it tours to your part of the country. At first I was put off by the boldness of the title; another show about cancer? I mean, how many shows/movies can there be about cancer? After I saw the show I felt like an imbecile. Tania Katan's one-woman show awakens audiences to a scary disease, and is nothing of the expected. It is bright, hilarious, and pointed, and it points right to the center of the issue. It hits home, whether you know someone with cancer, have had cancer, or have experienced none of the above. Go see it. It is enlivening.

Butternut Squash and Mushroom Tart

2007-10-16T00:05:00.001-07:00

Almost a year ago now, I had an internship in England, in a little town called Lancaster. There is a delightful little theatre there called the Dukes that does some very refreshing work. (Think a Brechtian version of Hunchback of Notre Dame. Very intriguing stuff.) I had the pleasure of interning as an assistant director and literary manager (which basically meant I watched rehearsals from the corner of the theatre and took plays home to read).

Anyway, during the course of this internship I discovered the enjoyment of the Saturday Guardian. In one such newspaper was a recipe for stuffed butternut squash with blue cheese and walnuts. It was basically a roasted butternut scooped out, mixed with blue cheese and walnuts and thyme, and spooned back into the shell to bake. A tiny drizzle of honey and you’ve got a bangin’ good, ultra-rich dish. Since then I have made the recipe a few times and wanted to spice it up a bit, find a new way to mash together the same ingredients.

I wanted a casserole with a crust. What would be better than a tart? I found a butternut squash tart on Epicurious and pulled the crust recipe from there. A food writer friend of mine suggested adding mushrooms to make the tart more “fall”-y. A great way to introduce myself to the world of food blogging.

Two phone calls to my mother (and two burnt batches of walnuts) later, I had something blog-worthy.

The original recipe is by Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, the food writer for The Guardian and one of my favorites to read.

I ate this with a fresh green salad with roasted pears. This one is great for fall!

Butternut Squash and Mushroom Tart with Blue Cheese and Walnuts

For tart shell:
1 stick (1/2 cup) cold unsalted butter
1 ¼ cups whole wheat pastry flour or all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon sugar
½ teaspoon salt
¼ cup very cold water
pie weights or raw rice to weigh the shell while pre-baking

For filling:
2 tablespoons butter
1 large butternut squash or 2 small ones
1 large Portobello mushroom cap or 2 small ones
7 oz (200g) mild blue cheese such as buttermilk blue or gorgonzola, crumpled into lumps
½ cup walnuts, coarsely chopped and lightly toasted
¼ cup heavy cream
about 3 sprigs fresh thyme, removed from stems
salt and pepper
tiny bit of honey (optional)

Blend flour, salt, and sugar in a medium bowl. Add butter straight out of the fridge, cutting into chunks as you add it to the flour mixture. I use my fingers for this, but you can also use a pastry cutter to blend the butter into the mixture until most of it becomes coarse, while the rest is left in pea-sized lumps. Do not overwork. Add 2 tablespoons of water and blend, using your hands, until just incorporated. Squeeze a bit of the mixture; if it does not form a dough, continue to add water 1 tablespoon at a time until it just barely holds together. It shouldn’t crumble in your hand, but you shouldn’t be squeezing water out of it, either. Form dough into a patty, wrap in plastic wrap, and refrigerate 30 minutes.

Turn dough onto a lightly floured surface. Roll into a 12-inch round (about 1/8 inch thick). Carefully take the dough from your surface as not break it and lay it gently on an 11-inch tart pan with a removable fluted rim. Gently tuck the dough into the corners of the pan, pressing into the sides as you go. Remove any excess dough. Freeze 15 minutes.

Preheat oven to 375F.

Line tart shell with foil and fill with pie weights or rice. Bake 20 minutes or until the edges turn golden. Carefully remove foil and weights or rice, and bake for 10 minutes more, until the bottom turns golden. Leave the oven on and set the shell, in the pan, on a rack to cool.

Meanwhile, halve the squash and scoop out the seeds. Place a square of butter and some garlic in each cavity, brush with oil, season well, and roast for 1 hour or until squash is tender all the way through (a knife should go in easily).

While squash is roasting, remove the stem from the mushroom and scoop out the gills with a spoon. Chop the cap into small pieces. Heat some oil in a skillet and sauté the mushrooms with a bit of the thyme (about a spoonful) until just cooked through, about 3 minutes. Remove mushrooms from heat and set aside. Toast the walnuts in the oven until they have that delightful crumbly crispness, about 5 minutes.

When the squash is tender, scoop out the flesh into a large bowl. Roughly mash it up. Reserve some of the blue cheese and fold the rest into the squash, along with the mushrooms and cream. Add the rest of the thyme. Season to taste.

Spoon the mixture into the pie crust. You will have leftover mixture. At this point you may want to sample the rest of the bowl with the nearest utensil. Smooth out the top and sprinkle with the remaining cheese and walnuts. Return to oven and bake for 25 minutes, or until cheese is bubbling.