Upon arriving home this evening after skipping work to enjoy a fun, but rather crazy day of skiing at Mt. Hood Meadows (think: high winds, near white-outs, face numbing, and a girl who has little to no experience in knee-deep powder terrain), I couldn’t imagine anything more comforting than a hot shower, cozy pajamas, and my warm bed (which, I might add, is where I am currently writing this). As I grabbed my mail on my way in, I noticed that January’s issue of Portland Monthly had arrived.
I have a strict rule in my household regarding magazines: Thou shalt not read current magazine issues until older issues have been read and recycled. Mind you, I adhere to said rule for the most part, but I do allow myself a swift thumb-through the day I get one in the mail, so that I get a preview of what I'll be reading approximately four months later. (This is no exaggeration, and I have the stacks of magazines to prove it.) I’ll confess that tonight, however, I spent a few extra moments perusing the Eat & Drink section of the magazine than is normally allowed. Boy, am I glad I did.
Under the Cellar Notes of the section, a picture of a bottle of none other than the……(drum roll) …..Chehalem Mountain 2009 Lorelle Pinot Noir, $14.99, popped out and off the page. And I quote, “A tart-cherry-flavored, delicately textured wine . . . made from fruit grown just south of Portland. Many wines at twice the price aren’t this good” (emphasis added).
Despite my suffering from a moderate to severe case of skier’s fatigue, I may have still done a little happy dance. Hey, I might actually know what I’m talking about! Plus I got it for a whole buck cheaper! Could it be that I’m really a closet bargain wine prodigy who’s practically begging someone to finally notice? I guess it’s possible, but I really shouldn’t get ahead of myself here. Even so, sometimes, I've learned, it doesn’t hurt to give yourself a little credit when you do something right, or even figure out that maybe you really are made up of more than hot air. In my particular case here, I found it took a lot less effort to type out a hyperbolical, self-proclaimed title after a single good wine find than to give myself a simple pat on the back. I’m much too sore from skiing to even attempt such a maneuver.
On that note, I think it’s time to catch those much desired Z’s.......
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Christmas comes a little early this year
I hope reading this post feels like tearing open a package on Christmas morning, shaking from the sheer anticipation and excitement of it all. If not, don't worry about it.
It’s been brought to my attention by more than one reader that my leave of absence - pardon me, my sabbatical - is, for lack of a better term, LAME. I am here today not only to say ‘hey’ (I missed you, she admits, her face turning a pinkish hue), but also to assure you that it’s not lame. Allow me to expound.
In the last few weeks, I’ve been thinking. A lot. I guess I always think a lot, which oftentimes gets me into trouble or entangled into a web of confusion, but particularly, I’ve been reflecting on this year. Remarkable changes occurred and unforgettable adventures were had (the dating, oh the dating!); clatter was also conceived. When I started the blog, I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do with it, or what I was going to write about, besides the central theme forever and always being about food of course. What I’ve come to realize is that over time, I started to become my own worst enemy – I made writing out to be a burden, as if I was being forced to be brilliant and funny and informative every time I posted. My fear of becoming another food blog cliché began to eat away at me to the point that my originality (at least in my eyes) started to look gray, gaunt and frankly, anorexic. The thing is, I refuse to be some food-obsessed dim wit who would never admit that she just learned last week that syrah and shiraz are the same grape. I warned you when I started clatter that I am certainly no authority on the culinary arts, but turns out I am an authority on one thing: me. Indeed the old saying is true – write what you know, at least when you’re first learning how to do it. Until someone – a very significant someone – can rightfully exclaim that he knows me better than me, I’m reserving the right to be the number one expert in the field. I’m exercising that right starting now. Ideally, with this expertise comes the voice of writing that keeps the readers coming back for more. So, I've decided that I need to listen to me more, stop overthinking everything, and just let the words flow. That’s a lot of introspection for one day. Is the cure to writer's block writing about writer's block? Whew, I'm tired now.
All of this being said, my reflection and brainstorming since my declared sabbatical have consisted much of coming up with a project, a goal, a focus, a vision for clatter to embark upon in the new year. I still don’t know what it will be as of now, but I’m hopeful I’ll come up with something that will keep me motivated and you entertained.
Well, now that I’ve got you here, I can’t not tell you some of the things that have been happening the last few weeks because my culinary adventures have continued even when clatter has not. I’ve decided to break it down into categories – awards if you will – for your reading pleasure.
Favorite Meal: A dinner date out with a debonair young man at Accanto, a lovely Italian café in SE Portland. My mouth waters when I think of about that arancini with smoky tomato sauce and arugula salad; potato gnocchi with roasted squash, chanterelles, with brown butter sage and melted leeks; and chocolate budini with burnt sugared gelato. A close second favorite goes to a dinner date in, hosted by yours truly. A joint effort in the kitchen yielded lemon-tarragon chicken served over Israeli cous cous and mixed greens with roasted beets, goat cheese, and pepitas. The low point of the evening came when my guest scolded me for failing to offer him an apron before the sauce from the lemon-tarragon chicken simmering on the stove splattered on his nice buttoned-down shirt. Oops. I need a dating ruling: Is my lapse in manners a dealbreaker?
Favorite Deal: Meeting friends at a teeny wine bar called Lupa (with stellar wine descriptions on its menu) on Mississippi Ave, I ordered a glass of Pinot Noir. It may have cost me $9, but once I took a sip, I declared it worth every penny. I had never heard of it (I also don’t really know wine so this shouldn’t be a shocker), and yet I figured it had to be the product of some small Willamette Valley winery. I did some research on it the next day, trying to find where I could buy it and at what price. Convinced that Fred Meyer wouldn't have it (even at the impressive wine section at the Hawthorne store), it appeared I was correct. I pored over the Northwest section and chose another fairly inexpensive Oregon Pinot to try at home and began to walk away. Before I could even consider feeling a pang of defeat, I caught a glimpse of the wine on special display - there it was, in all its effulgence, the 2009 Lorelle Pinot Noir (of Chehalem Mountains, Willamette Valley) at a mere $13.99 a bottle! I couldn’t believe my luck. Charming as Lupa was, nothing can make me swoon quite like a killer price. $9 a glass or $14 a bottle? What a no-brainer. You sure as hell better believe that I will do everything in my power to recreate the quaint wine bar ambiance in my apartment if it means I will be drinking the same wine for a fraction of the price. A bargain never tasted so sweet...with hints of cherry and blackberry.
Favorite Disaster: I'm torn. I've had a couple of significant baking screw-ups in the kitchen in the last few weeks, so I’m declaring a tie. First there was The Great Thanksgiving Hardship, when I temporarily lost faith in Ina Garten (heaven forbid, may it never happen again!) after my apple cake tatin did not cooperate as she promised. When inverting the caramel apple-y dessert from its pan, portions of it decided to stick, resulting in colorful language and one ugly cake. So I got creative by forming what I called a “pseudo-Bundt cake” and adding pomegranate seeds, both for aesthetics and tartness. Thanksgiving was lost and then saved again. Check it out:
Before:
After:
But then, weeks later, I had to endure The Sunken Chocolate Cake Dilemma. What was supposed to be a lovely dark chocolate loaf, recipe courtesy of Magnolia Bakery (to be served with peppermint ice cream and drizzled with chocolate) for the aforementioned gentleman dinner guest, mostly was that – except that due to a Dutch-processed cocoa/leavening agent issue, the loaf’s center sunk to an appalling low. The good news was I came up with a bright idea of how to fix the problem; the bad news was we never ended up having dessert that night (and subsequently I learned he hates peppermint ice cream). Despite its appearance (should I take it as a sign that I'm going nowhere with this guy?), that loaf cake still tasted mighty good and was polished off in less than a week. Maybe the true disaster is yet to come – once I step on the scale.
Favorite Place: Pastaworks, a gourmet food/wine/cheese/pasta shop on SE Hawthorne that will make any foodie unabashedly drool, especially with its adjoining door leading into the land of Powell's Books for Home & Garden. Ahhh. I described the experience the other day as "a little like entering the gates of heaven." My belief remains steadfast.
See, I’m not dead (and it’s no coincidence that I’m currently listening to the Pink album of the same sentiment). And now, it’s about that time to cut out my sugar cookies into adorable holiday shapes and finish this glass of Lorelle. Just so you know, drinking a $14 bottle of wine is nothing less than extravagant for a Tuesday night for me, but sometimes fancy-free is just what I need. That’s something I’ll never feel bad about – you shouldn’t either. So cheers to that.
Oh, I almost forgot: Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
It’s been brought to my attention by more than one reader that my leave of absence - pardon me, my sabbatical - is, for lack of a better term, LAME. I am here today not only to say ‘hey’ (I missed you, she admits, her face turning a pinkish hue), but also to assure you that it’s not lame. Allow me to expound.
In the last few weeks, I’ve been thinking. A lot. I guess I always think a lot, which oftentimes gets me into trouble or entangled into a web of confusion, but particularly, I’ve been reflecting on this year. Remarkable changes occurred and unforgettable adventures were had (the dating, oh the dating!); clatter was also conceived. When I started the blog, I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do with it, or what I was going to write about, besides the central theme forever and always being about food of course. What I’ve come to realize is that over time, I started to become my own worst enemy – I made writing out to be a burden, as if I was being forced to be brilliant and funny and informative every time I posted. My fear of becoming another food blog cliché began to eat away at me to the point that my originality (at least in my eyes) started to look gray, gaunt and frankly, anorexic. The thing is, I refuse to be some food-obsessed dim wit who would never admit that she just learned last week that syrah and shiraz are the same grape. I warned you when I started clatter that I am certainly no authority on the culinary arts, but turns out I am an authority on one thing: me. Indeed the old saying is true – write what you know, at least when you’re first learning how to do it. Until someone – a very significant someone – can rightfully exclaim that he knows me better than me, I’m reserving the right to be the number one expert in the field. I’m exercising that right starting now. Ideally, with this expertise comes the voice of writing that keeps the readers coming back for more. So, I've decided that I need to listen to me more, stop overthinking everything, and just let the words flow. That’s a lot of introspection for one day. Is the cure to writer's block writing about writer's block? Whew, I'm tired now.
All of this being said, my reflection and brainstorming since my declared sabbatical have consisted much of coming up with a project, a goal, a focus, a vision for clatter to embark upon in the new year. I still don’t know what it will be as of now, but I’m hopeful I’ll come up with something that will keep me motivated and you entertained.
Well, now that I’ve got you here, I can’t not tell you some of the things that have been happening the last few weeks because my culinary adventures have continued even when clatter has not. I’ve decided to break it down into categories – awards if you will – for your reading pleasure.
Favorite Meal: A dinner date out with a debonair young man at Accanto, a lovely Italian café in SE Portland. My mouth waters when I think of about that arancini with smoky tomato sauce and arugula salad; potato gnocchi with roasted squash, chanterelles, with brown butter sage and melted leeks; and chocolate budini with burnt sugared gelato. A close second favorite goes to a dinner date in, hosted by yours truly. A joint effort in the kitchen yielded lemon-tarragon chicken served over Israeli cous cous and mixed greens with roasted beets, goat cheese, and pepitas. The low point of the evening came when my guest scolded me for failing to offer him an apron before the sauce from the lemon-tarragon chicken simmering on the stove splattered on his nice buttoned-down shirt. Oops. I need a dating ruling: Is my lapse in manners a dealbreaker?
Favorite Deal: Meeting friends at a teeny wine bar called Lupa (with stellar wine descriptions on its menu) on Mississippi Ave, I ordered a glass of Pinot Noir. It may have cost me $9, but once I took a sip, I declared it worth every penny. I had never heard of it (I also don’t really know wine so this shouldn’t be a shocker), and yet I figured it had to be the product of some small Willamette Valley winery. I did some research on it the next day, trying to find where I could buy it and at what price. Convinced that Fred Meyer wouldn't have it (even at the impressive wine section at the Hawthorne store), it appeared I was correct. I pored over the Northwest section and chose another fairly inexpensive Oregon Pinot to try at home and began to walk away. Before I could even consider feeling a pang of defeat, I caught a glimpse of the wine on special display - there it was, in all its effulgence, the 2009 Lorelle Pinot Noir (of Chehalem Mountains, Willamette Valley) at a mere $13.99 a bottle! I couldn’t believe my luck. Charming as Lupa was, nothing can make me swoon quite like a killer price. $9 a glass or $14 a bottle? What a no-brainer. You sure as hell better believe that I will do everything in my power to recreate the quaint wine bar ambiance in my apartment if it means I will be drinking the same wine for a fraction of the price. A bargain never tasted so sweet...with hints of cherry and blackberry.
Favorite Disaster: I'm torn. I've had a couple of significant baking screw-ups in the kitchen in the last few weeks, so I’m declaring a tie. First there was The Great Thanksgiving Hardship, when I temporarily lost faith in Ina Garten (heaven forbid, may it never happen again!) after my apple cake tatin did not cooperate as she promised. When inverting the caramel apple-y dessert from its pan, portions of it decided to stick, resulting in colorful language and one ugly cake. So I got creative by forming what I called a “pseudo-Bundt cake” and adding pomegranate seeds, both for aesthetics and tartness. Thanksgiving was lost and then saved again. Check it out:
Before:
After:
But then, weeks later, I had to endure The Sunken Chocolate Cake Dilemma. What was supposed to be a lovely dark chocolate loaf, recipe courtesy of Magnolia Bakery (to be served with peppermint ice cream and drizzled with chocolate) for the aforementioned gentleman dinner guest, mostly was that – except that due to a Dutch-processed cocoa/leavening agent issue, the loaf’s center sunk to an appalling low. The good news was I came up with a bright idea of how to fix the problem; the bad news was we never ended up having dessert that night (and subsequently I learned he hates peppermint ice cream). Despite its appearance (should I take it as a sign that I'm going nowhere with this guy?), that loaf cake still tasted mighty good and was polished off in less than a week. Maybe the true disaster is yet to come – once I step on the scale.
Favorite Place: Pastaworks, a gourmet food/wine/cheese/pasta shop on SE Hawthorne that will make any foodie unabashedly drool, especially with its adjoining door leading into the land of Powell's Books for Home & Garden. Ahhh. I described the experience the other day as "a little like entering the gates of heaven." My belief remains steadfast.
See, I’m not dead (and it’s no coincidence that I’m currently listening to the Pink album of the same sentiment). And now, it’s about that time to cut out my sugar cookies into adorable holiday shapes and finish this glass of Lorelle. Just so you know, drinking a $14 bottle of wine is nothing less than extravagant for a Tuesday night for me, but sometimes fancy-free is just what I need. That’s something I’ll never feel bad about – you shouldn’t either. So cheers to that.
Oh, I almost forgot: Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
The sound of clatter
For all my loyal readers still out there, I greet you with the warmest of hellos on this chilly November evening. You may think that I have drifted off into the abyss of canned soup and frozen dinners since I last wrote, but I assure you, I have been eating and drinking well – very well. Now that I think about it, October and November 2010 might even be recorded as the two months I’ve checked more Portland restaurants and bars off my wish list than any other since I moved here. What superb dining indeed. But for those of you who may be concerned with my cholesterol level due to my latest food escapades (foie gras and steak tartare, however palatable they may be, cannot possibly be good for the heart), I have also spent an equal amount of time at the gym as to debunk any truth to “a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.” But anyway, it’s been a busy few weeks, and surely you’ve noticed that my postings in the last couple of months have dwindled to an almost unspeakable infrequency. I’ve noticed too, and I’m not happy about it.
On the eve of the most beloved food-centered holiday of the entire year, I find it rather poetic and maybe even a little ironic to announce that clatter is taking a sabbatical. If we stick strictly to its definition, a sabbatical only comes every seventh year, as a time for one – usually a college professor - to study or travel for a period of time. Considering that I am neither a professor nor have any official plans to travel or study and clatter has only been around since March of this year, I am using this term very loosely. Even so, I have decided to use this holiday season to bake up a storm, recapture my inspiration, cure writer's block, and pursue those visions of sugar plums dancing in my head - without feeling an ounce of guilt for abandoning clatter in the process.
Please don’t cry! Please don’t despair! I won’t be gone for long. Think of this departure as the Von Trapp children singing "So Long, Farewell". Leisel, Kurt, Brigetta, and the rest of the clan may be saying words like adieu and auf wiedersehen, but as you and I both know, that scene hardly marks the end of the movie. I might not have Nazis to dodge or the Alps to cross, but clatter’s story too is far from being over.
For now, I ask only one thing of you: to have a truly rich and blessed holiday season in the presence of your closest friends and family. Don’t hold back when it comes to gulping down eggnog in a reindeer glass, dishing yourself a second (or third) piece of pumpkin pie, fitting in one final run before the lifts close, or pretending you’re excited about receiving yet another pair of socks from your grandma. Just remember: as long as you’re doing it in the holiday spirit, you’re doing it right.
Well, this is my exit. I flit, I float, I fleetly flee, I fly….. Check back with clatter in the new year, as I hope to feel rejuvenated and with my distractions quelled, enthusiastically ready to begin clatter’s next chapter. Until then my dearest readers, climb every mountain, and I’ll catch ya on the flip side.
On the eve of the most beloved food-centered holiday of the entire year, I find it rather poetic and maybe even a little ironic to announce that clatter is taking a sabbatical. If we stick strictly to its definition, a sabbatical only comes every seventh year, as a time for one – usually a college professor - to study or travel for a period of time. Considering that I am neither a professor nor have any official plans to travel or study and clatter has only been around since March of this year, I am using this term very loosely. Even so, I have decided to use this holiday season to bake up a storm, recapture my inspiration, cure writer's block, and pursue those visions of sugar plums dancing in my head - without feeling an ounce of guilt for abandoning clatter in the process.
Please don’t cry! Please don’t despair! I won’t be gone for long. Think of this departure as the Von Trapp children singing "So Long, Farewell". Leisel, Kurt, Brigetta, and the rest of the clan may be saying words like adieu and auf wiedersehen, but as you and I both know, that scene hardly marks the end of the movie. I might not have Nazis to dodge or the Alps to cross, but clatter’s story too is far from being over.
For now, I ask only one thing of you: to have a truly rich and blessed holiday season in the presence of your closest friends and family. Don’t hold back when it comes to gulping down eggnog in a reindeer glass, dishing yourself a second (or third) piece of pumpkin pie, fitting in one final run before the lifts close, or pretending you’re excited about receiving yet another pair of socks from your grandma. Just remember: as long as you’re doing it in the holiday spirit, you’re doing it right.
Well, this is my exit. I flit, I float, I fleetly flee, I fly….. Check back with clatter in the new year, as I hope to feel rejuvenated and with my distractions quelled, enthusiastically ready to begin clatter’s next chapter. Until then my dearest readers, climb every mountain, and I’ll catch ya on the flip side.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Pie-partisanship
Could it be the answer to all the troubles in American politics? Happy Election Day from clatter!
I've never considered myself much of a political buff, but I've been excited today. While my newly found obsession with The West Wing is probably somewhat to blame for recently spurring my enthusiasm in the political process, I assure you that the brilliance of that show (or my crush on Rob Lowe?) is not the only reason. Not only does today mark the ever-so-important midterm elections and define 218 as the magic number, it finally puts an end to what could arguably be a season of the most annoying political commercials in television history. Tonight (and tomorrow and maybe nine months from now) there will be winners and losers, victorious empowerment and disappointing defeat, but right now, at this very moment as I write, so much of America's future remains utterly unpredictable. There is something, however, on Election Day that is an absolute guarantee: good ol' fashioned drama, evoking emotions of all sorts. I for one can always get excited about that.
I took a jaunt during my lunch break today to turn in my ballot at the Multnomah County Elections Headquarters, and I’ll admit that I felt a bit emotional myself. I experienced one of those cheesy, yet completely heartfelt "It's a privilege to be an American" moments. As I watched a KOIN 6 news guy get out of his studio van to cover the story and observed some of my fellow Portlanders line up at the polls, I was moved with a certain sense of patriotism. I may have even heard The West Wing theme music faintly playing in the background.
Like any holiday suggests, the presence of food is a necessity in order to properly celebrate. Election Day is not exactly a holiday known for its food, but why shouldn't it be? If you were to poll a handful of Americans right now, I'd bet that the majority would choose to eat while they watch the results trickle in. Even a higher percentage of those Americans would want comforting food that make them feel warm, safe, or nostalgic for a simpler time. So what kind of food should be eaten on Election Day? Foods that are red, white, and blue in color? Cleverly named foods like hot wings and freedom fries? What is the one food that defines democracy? I really have no idea, but what I had in mind to celebrate “Decision 2010” tonight is not only quintessentially American, but it's also very much in season. My fellow Americans, the clatter kitchen voted to make an apple pie.
In the name of freedom and all things delectable, I elected to skip spinning class tonight in order to fully celebrate. There are few things in life I enjoy more than 1) baking and 2) watching drama unfold. And tonight was the perfect night to engage in both at the same time. Burning calories might be beneficial, but I figured I'd be sweating enough as it is between the heat of the oven and the tight governor race between Chris Dudley and John Kitzhaber that I could easily justify my gym absence.
For the pie itself, I considered using my mother’s crust recipe, but then decided I would consult Martha Stewart’s Cooking School and try her pâte brisée instead. This recipe involves butter - lots of butter - so I knew it had to be a winner. I used a variety of apples and got to work, strategically creating a workspace in the kitchen that faced the television in the other room. Turns out there’s something strangely relaxing about peeling and coring apples as the Democratic House comes apart at the seams…uh, not that you should interpret that statement as an official clatter political stance.
Now that I’m sitting on my couch, clicking away on the keyboard while simultaneously captivated by the Congress scoreboard on the television screen and shoving fresh, home-baked apple pie à la mode in my mouth, I'm feeling extremely blessed - not only to be a person who can make a decent pie, but more importantly, to be an American. Too often I think we take that for granted. So with that said, clatter thanks you for voting. Here's to the voice of the people...to the very last bite.
I've never considered myself much of a political buff, but I've been excited today. While my newly found obsession with The West Wing is probably somewhat to blame for recently spurring my enthusiasm in the political process, I assure you that the brilliance of that show (or my crush on Rob Lowe?) is not the only reason. Not only does today mark the ever-so-important midterm elections and define 218 as the magic number, it finally puts an end to what could arguably be a season of the most annoying political commercials in television history. Tonight (and tomorrow and maybe nine months from now) there will be winners and losers, victorious empowerment and disappointing defeat, but right now, at this very moment as I write, so much of America's future remains utterly unpredictable. There is something, however, on Election Day that is an absolute guarantee: good ol' fashioned drama, evoking emotions of all sorts. I for one can always get excited about that.
I took a jaunt during my lunch break today to turn in my ballot at the Multnomah County Elections Headquarters, and I’ll admit that I felt a bit emotional myself. I experienced one of those cheesy, yet completely heartfelt "It's a privilege to be an American" moments. As I watched a KOIN 6 news guy get out of his studio van to cover the story and observed some of my fellow Portlanders line up at the polls, I was moved with a certain sense of patriotism. I may have even heard The West Wing theme music faintly playing in the background.
Like any holiday suggests, the presence of food is a necessity in order to properly celebrate. Election Day is not exactly a holiday known for its food, but why shouldn't it be? If you were to poll a handful of Americans right now, I'd bet that the majority would choose to eat while they watch the results trickle in. Even a higher percentage of those Americans would want comforting food that make them feel warm, safe, or nostalgic for a simpler time. So what kind of food should be eaten on Election Day? Foods that are red, white, and blue in color? Cleverly named foods like hot wings and freedom fries? What is the one food that defines democracy? I really have no idea, but what I had in mind to celebrate “Decision 2010” tonight is not only quintessentially American, but it's also very much in season. My fellow Americans, the clatter kitchen voted to make an apple pie.
In the name of freedom and all things delectable, I elected to skip spinning class tonight in order to fully celebrate. There are few things in life I enjoy more than 1) baking and 2) watching drama unfold. And tonight was the perfect night to engage in both at the same time. Burning calories might be beneficial, but I figured I'd be sweating enough as it is between the heat of the oven and the tight governor race between Chris Dudley and John Kitzhaber that I could easily justify my gym absence.
For the pie itself, I considered using my mother’s crust recipe, but then decided I would consult Martha Stewart’s Cooking School and try her pâte brisée instead. This recipe involves butter - lots of butter - so I knew it had to be a winner. I used a variety of apples and got to work, strategically creating a workspace in the kitchen that faced the television in the other room. Turns out there’s something strangely relaxing about peeling and coring apples as the Democratic House comes apart at the seams…uh, not that you should interpret that statement as an official clatter political stance.
Now that I’m sitting on my couch, clicking away on the keyboard while simultaneously captivated by the Congress scoreboard on the television screen and shoving fresh, home-baked apple pie à la mode in my mouth, I'm feeling extremely blessed - not only to be a person who can make a decent pie, but more importantly, to be an American. Too often I think we take that for granted. So with that said, clatter thanks you for voting. Here's to the voice of the people...to the very last bite.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Growing up is hard to do
In theory I should never have trouble convincing myself that I'm a grown-up. I've completed over 20 years of schooling, I hold down a full-time job, I pay my own bills, and I live on my own. But sometimes I have to remind myself that I am an adult and not just a nine-year-old trapped in a 28-year-old's body. My bouts of uncontrolled excitement at the very sight of Skittles/Mike ‘n Ikes/SweetTarts/Jolly Ranchers/other sources of candy that pay for my dentist's country club dues, Berenstain Bears books, Full House reruns, and roller coasters are examples of some of those times.
Even if I act my age most of the time, I still haven’t managed to alter my response to brussels sprouts: "Ewwwwww. Grody!*" Until tonight, there would have been a likely possibility that the very presence of brussels sprouts could evoke the most irrational of responses from me: kicking, screaming, sticking out my tongue, rolling my eyes, scrunching up my face, and if you were lucky enough to get one in my mouth, you better believe that I’d plug my nose until I was done chewing and swallowing.
Of course I wouldn’t actually react in any of those ways (except maybe plugging my nose – that trick really works in blocking out taste), but admittedly brussels sprouts did sorta freak me out until tonight. Maybe not to the point that mushrooms freak me out, but I was still wary. Interestingly enough, my opinion of the sprouts had been based only on peer and societal pressure and not because my mother force fed them to me as a child (that is, unless I have merely repressed such memories and they will only surface via hypnosis). The same cannot be said of the mushroom, as the trauma of my first experience of eating one still haunts me today.
Earlier this week, I decided that the mature thing to do as both an adult and a person who prides herself in her open-mindedness and interest in food would be to put these preconceived notions about the brussels sprout to the test. I figured the only way I could fairly provide such vehement criticism of this baby cabbage would be to prepare some myself and make a reasonable assessment through taste-testing. Since my latest obsession is roasted seasonal vegetables, I decided to add a handful of brussel sprouts to my assortment of carrots, turnips, and red onion on a baking sheet; I roasted red beets separately wrapped tightly in aluminum foil. I drizzled the veggies with olive oil and liberally dusted them with kosher salt, pepper, and herbs de Province. After roasting at 425 degrees for about 45 minutes, the moment of truth had arrived.
Crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, the roasted sprouts were good…at least at first. As I allowed the flavor to permeate my mouth, I realized that whiny kids who refuse to eat them may be on to something. It certainly wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever eaten - I didn’t have any kicking or screaming responses to speak of – but those sprouts were far from one of the best things to ever pass my lips. As for the other vegetables, I couldn’t get enough of those and ate them eagerly, but there was something about the bitterness of the sprouts that left, well, a bitter taste in my mouth. Even so, I’m not about to close the door on them. But it should also be noted that I’m never going to force my kids to eat them (my future children now have that in writing) – that is, unless I teach them the plugged nose trick first.
Well, now that I’ve got the brussels sprouts situation straightened out, I think I’m going to stay up late tonight and watch an R-rated movie and eat spoonfuls of pumpkin ice cream straight out of the carton, just because I can. Sometimes being a grown-up is the best!
*Grody was a favorite word of mine in the early ‘90s. I probably picked it up from an episode of Full House.
Even if I act my age most of the time, I still haven’t managed to alter my response to brussels sprouts: "Ewwwwww. Grody!*" Until tonight, there would have been a likely possibility that the very presence of brussels sprouts could evoke the most irrational of responses from me: kicking, screaming, sticking out my tongue, rolling my eyes, scrunching up my face, and if you were lucky enough to get one in my mouth, you better believe that I’d plug my nose until I was done chewing and swallowing.
Of course I wouldn’t actually react in any of those ways (except maybe plugging my nose – that trick really works in blocking out taste), but admittedly brussels sprouts did sorta freak me out until tonight. Maybe not to the point that mushrooms freak me out, but I was still wary. Interestingly enough, my opinion of the sprouts had been based only on peer and societal pressure and not because my mother force fed them to me as a child (that is, unless I have merely repressed such memories and they will only surface via hypnosis). The same cannot be said of the mushroom, as the trauma of my first experience of eating one still haunts me today.
Earlier this week, I decided that the mature thing to do as both an adult and a person who prides herself in her open-mindedness and interest in food would be to put these preconceived notions about the brussels sprout to the test. I figured the only way I could fairly provide such vehement criticism of this baby cabbage would be to prepare some myself and make a reasonable assessment through taste-testing. Since my latest obsession is roasted seasonal vegetables, I decided to add a handful of brussel sprouts to my assortment of carrots, turnips, and red onion on a baking sheet; I roasted red beets separately wrapped tightly in aluminum foil. I drizzled the veggies with olive oil and liberally dusted them with kosher salt, pepper, and herbs de Province. After roasting at 425 degrees for about 45 minutes, the moment of truth had arrived.
Crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, the roasted sprouts were good…at least at first. As I allowed the flavor to permeate my mouth, I realized that whiny kids who refuse to eat them may be on to something. It certainly wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever eaten - I didn’t have any kicking or screaming responses to speak of – but those sprouts were far from one of the best things to ever pass my lips. As for the other vegetables, I couldn’t get enough of those and ate them eagerly, but there was something about the bitterness of the sprouts that left, well, a bitter taste in my mouth. Even so, I’m not about to close the door on them. But it should also be noted that I’m never going to force my kids to eat them (my future children now have that in writing) – that is, unless I teach them the plugged nose trick first.
Well, now that I’ve got the brussels sprouts situation straightened out, I think I’m going to stay up late tonight and watch an R-rated movie and eat spoonfuls of pumpkin ice cream straight out of the carton, just because I can. Sometimes being a grown-up is the best!
*Grody was a favorite word of mine in the early ‘90s. I probably picked it up from an episode of Full House.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Instant Gratification
I've been reluctant to report on something that I've become a fan of because frankly, I feel a little ashamed by it. Then again, what’s a blog if not an avenue to expose all my deepest and darkest secrets to the world?
It all started when I went to Starbucks. Duh duh duh.
I had tragically run out of coffee beans and needed my usual morning jolt to get me through the day. The Starbucks up the street from my apartment was the obvious choice because I’d still be able to get my java and make it to work early enough as to avoid putting my boss into a tizzy. Whenever I buy coffee in the morning (which isn’t very often), I usually keep it simple with an Americano or a drip. But something about that morning’s crisp October air had me thinking one thing: pumpkin spice latte. I have a number of friends who are obsessed with this drink; as far as they’re concerned, autumn hasn’t arrived until Starbucks puts this seasonal beverage on the menu. To them, it only becomes socially acceptable to start playing Christmas music once the red Starbucks cups hit the stores.
I’m not one of those people – I don’t let Starbucks dictate the seasons. In fact, I don’t let Starbucks take any hold on me whatsoever. Well, except that as much as I would love to blame it on my Peets’ heritage and consider myself the ultimate anti-Starbuck, here’s the thing: sometimes I like Starbucks. And on that particular morning, I liked it for an even more despicable reason than pumpkin spice lattes or red holiday cups.
As I stood in line to order, a barista carrying a tray approached me and asked if I’d like to try a sample of their mocha VIA Ready Brew coffee, a.k.a. INSTANT COFFEE. If anything’s got a stigma in the world of coffee, it’s instant coffee. That’s not even real coffee, is it? Well, turns out this is, and with the subtle sweetener added to it, VIA was surprisingly delicious. I felt a little guilty for enjoying the sample, but then it got worse: the barista at the register told me my drink would be free if I bought a box of VIA Ready Brew, containing six individual packets of coffee. I quickly did the math in my head. Hey, I thought, this isn’t such a bad deal. If each cup of coffee tasted like the one I just had, it would totally be worth it; it might be good to get out of my afternoon, pick-me-up tea and Jolly Rancher rut.
Once I accepted the barista’s offer, I felt as if I had just made a deal with the devil. My God, had I sent Alfred Peet rolling in his grave? This wasn’t just Starbucks coffee I was purchasing, this was Starbucks instant coffee. What happened to me!? Had my love for good coffee lost its luster? Quite possibly. On second thought, is it so bad to have such an intense "I want coffee, and I want it now" response that I'm willing to let my snootiness fall to the wayside every now and again? I don’t think it is. Now that I've got a stash in the top drawer of my office desk, coffee is just seconds away whenever I’m feeling my sharp legal mind waning. That’s definitely something my clients would appreciate.
Before I close, please allow me to divulge one more thing in the interest of full disclosure: I’m writing this at Starbucks! I might only be here because the internet isn’t being installed in my apartment until tomorrow. I could also be here because I’ve given up on my neighbors for good people watching. But none of that matters now – the damage is done. Whatever way I look at it though, I’m quite sure that I’m in a better place than the poor soul sitting at the table next to me. She’s got stress written across her brow as she pores over financial statements on her ThinkPad, which is under the guise of a MacBook. Hey lady, your Apple sticker ain’t foolin’ me! Well, maybe I’m not fooling anyone either. I’m enjoying my tall extra hot decaf soy latte, the tunes of James Taylor, and the wind-blown leaves outside the window of this corner table just as much as any regular Starbucks schmuck might. Not only that, I took much pleasure in pouring myself a sample of the caramel VIA (I hadn’t tried that flavor yet!) as I handed the kind barista my credit card. I also grabbed a $1 off coupon for my next VIA purchase. The display adjacent to the pastry case might be so big that I feel like it’s screaming at me, but it appears that Starbucks advertising the pants off of this product might be working, even on the likes of people like me. Now if only they’d put some of that effort in turning up the heat in this place – my fingers have turned to icicles.
It all started when I went to Starbucks. Duh duh duh.
I had tragically run out of coffee beans and needed my usual morning jolt to get me through the day. The Starbucks up the street from my apartment was the obvious choice because I’d still be able to get my java and make it to work early enough as to avoid putting my boss into a tizzy. Whenever I buy coffee in the morning (which isn’t very often), I usually keep it simple with an Americano or a drip. But something about that morning’s crisp October air had me thinking one thing: pumpkin spice latte. I have a number of friends who are obsessed with this drink; as far as they’re concerned, autumn hasn’t arrived until Starbucks puts this seasonal beverage on the menu. To them, it only becomes socially acceptable to start playing Christmas music once the red Starbucks cups hit the stores.
I’m not one of those people – I don’t let Starbucks dictate the seasons. In fact, I don’t let Starbucks take any hold on me whatsoever. Well, except that as much as I would love to blame it on my Peets’ heritage and consider myself the ultimate anti-Starbuck, here’s the thing: sometimes I like Starbucks. And on that particular morning, I liked it for an even more despicable reason than pumpkin spice lattes or red holiday cups.
As I stood in line to order, a barista carrying a tray approached me and asked if I’d like to try a sample of their mocha VIA Ready Brew coffee, a.k.a. INSTANT COFFEE. If anything’s got a stigma in the world of coffee, it’s instant coffee. That’s not even real coffee, is it? Well, turns out this is, and with the subtle sweetener added to it, VIA was surprisingly delicious. I felt a little guilty for enjoying the sample, but then it got worse: the barista at the register told me my drink would be free if I bought a box of VIA Ready Brew, containing six individual packets of coffee. I quickly did the math in my head. Hey, I thought, this isn’t such a bad deal. If each cup of coffee tasted like the one I just had, it would totally be worth it; it might be good to get out of my afternoon, pick-me-up tea and Jolly Rancher rut.
Once I accepted the barista’s offer, I felt as if I had just made a deal with the devil. My God, had I sent Alfred Peet rolling in his grave? This wasn’t just Starbucks coffee I was purchasing, this was Starbucks instant coffee. What happened to me!? Had my love for good coffee lost its luster? Quite possibly. On second thought, is it so bad to have such an intense "I want coffee, and I want it now" response that I'm willing to let my snootiness fall to the wayside every now and again? I don’t think it is. Now that I've got a stash in the top drawer of my office desk, coffee is just seconds away whenever I’m feeling my sharp legal mind waning. That’s definitely something my clients would appreciate.
Before I close, please allow me to divulge one more thing in the interest of full disclosure: I’m writing this at Starbucks! I might only be here because the internet isn’t being installed in my apartment until tomorrow. I could also be here because I’ve given up on my neighbors for good people watching. But none of that matters now – the damage is done. Whatever way I look at it though, I’m quite sure that I’m in a better place than the poor soul sitting at the table next to me. She’s got stress written across her brow as she pores over financial statements on her ThinkPad, which is under the guise of a MacBook. Hey lady, your Apple sticker ain’t foolin’ me! Well, maybe I’m not fooling anyone either. I’m enjoying my tall extra hot decaf soy latte, the tunes of James Taylor, and the wind-blown leaves outside the window of this corner table just as much as any regular Starbucks schmuck might. Not only that, I took much pleasure in pouring myself a sample of the caramel VIA (I hadn’t tried that flavor yet!) as I handed the kind barista my credit card. I also grabbed a $1 off coupon for my next VIA purchase. The display adjacent to the pastry case might be so big that I feel like it’s screaming at me, but it appears that Starbucks advertising the pants off of this product might be working, even on the likes of people like me. Now if only they’d put some of that effort in turning up the heat in this place – my fingers have turned to icicles.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Won't You Be My Neighbor?
(Due to technical difficulties, among other excuses, clatter has been unable to post until now. While this is not a particularly timely piece, I would still like to apologize for leaving you hanging for two weeks. Please take comfort in the fact that the problem has been rectified. I thank you for your patience.)
When I moved into my apartment complex seven months ago, I had visions of Melrose Place. Perhaps not as dramatic, with the expected backstabbing, illicit love affairs, and occasional dead body in the pool, but I was still hoping for a little something to spice up the home life. Like in every family, every neighbor has his or her secrets. I have aspired to pick up on some nuggets around the complex, not by doing anything illegal of course, but by just keeping my eyes and ears open. Despite my fervent efforts, however, it appears I have come up severely short: there has been zero drama, no good material, no brow raisers, no crazy stories. What I think might be the most disappointing part about all of this is that the cast of characters has such potential. As I see it, it’s practically a crime not to capitalize on what could be something so shamefully delicious, a person would only crack under the pressures of a lie detector test to admit watching it (bonus points for anyone who got that Seinfeld reference). I know very little about my neighbors, but please consider some of our characters:
-The onsite managers. They are a very nice married couple in their 20s who are always at their tenants’ beck and call. He, an extremely talkative guy who swears he has ADD despite what his doctors tell him, holds down multiple jobs and wears a bluetooth constantly. I’ve struck up conversations with him not realizing he was already talking to someone else, which can be a little awkward. She is a nanny and wants to set me up with her brother. They’re such good people, they must have a dark side.
-The cute doctor downstairs. I suspect he’s the bad boy in disguise – one who may have excellent bedside manner, but he just isn’t quite what meets the eye. On occasion, he has been spotted lurking about the complex, smoking a cigarette. One night while walking past his kitchen window, I noticed an obscene amount of beer bottles on his counter. I’ll take this to mean he has a serious drinking problem, because he's more interesting that way.
-The Passat-driving guy who lives across the hall. He walks with a certain spring in his step, but his face reads, “I’ll only acknowledge that you’re my neighbor with a slight nod because I’m too cool to talk to you.” He whistles in the shower (get your mind out of the gutter - I only know this because he sometimes leaves his bathroom window open). He also places his shoes in such perfect order outside his front door that I’m convinced he must have some form of obsessive compulsive disorder. I’m sure the doc downstairs would concur.
-The wacky, “your music is too loud” nurse below me. Sadly this 35ish year old, orthopedic shoe-wearing woman recently moved out, being replaced by an older woman. I think the nurse would have made one great character, even in spite her horrible taste in fashion - she just seemed so...bizarre. I know nothing about the new lady, but she’s got to have issues. Major issues.
-The gym fanatic. She’s young, she’s hot, and she’s got that certain look that has the guys (the cute doctor, no doubt) doing the head-to-toe stare down. I’m sure she wears something other than spandex and tank tops, but I have yet to see it.
-The quiet girl across the courtyard. She’s a pretty, tall brunette, but I’ve never heard her speak a word. I assume she’s the craziest of them all because she looks so darn normal.
-The girl in the upstairs apartment who spends a lot of time in her kitchen.
Hm, “the girl in the upstairs apartment who spends a lot of time in her kitchen”…. That girl is the author of this blog, right? Wrong. In the last couple of weeks, I’ve noticed that a 20-something year old girl in the apartment across the courtyard that mirrors mine is often in her kitchen when I’m in mine, which as you may have suspected by this point, is quite often. One rainy Sunday afternoon recently, I was in my kitchen per usual, baking a batch of chewy white chocolate chip cookies and simmering ragu bolognese on the stove. Glancing out my window, I saw my neighbor in her kitchen, busy at work on something. I didn’t think much of it until I returned to my kitchen hours later to check on the ragu and heard chopping from my window. There she was again, still working on something. I’ll admit that for a split second I actually questioned whether what I was witnessing was merely my own reflection in the window…until I realized how ridiculous that was.
My curious mind began to run amok: What the heck was she doing in there all day? What was she making? Was she a better cook than me? Would it be possible to have an Iron Chef-like competition from our respective kitchens? Watching her busy in her kitchen, I suddenly began to feel threatened (and maybe slightly creepy) – was my neighbor trying to dethrone me as "the girl in the complex who spends the most time in the kitchen"? Of course I have no way of knowing if I have really logged the most hours amongst my neighbors, but I’d venture to guess that I have indeed earned that status. Either way, once those initial competitive feelings subsided, I decided I mostly just wanted to know what my fellow neighbor was up to. In true Nancy Drew form, I soon found myself with my nose against the open window, hoping to get a whiff of whatever was cooking across the way; I figured that with both of our kitchen windows open, my keen sense of smell might come through for me. Was that sauteed onions? Sniff sniff. Hm maybe some roasted tomatoes? Then my ears perked up as some pans clattered and then the girl uttered the word “salsa” and then “marinara sauce” to her male guest. Ah ha, that’s it! She was spending all day in the kitchen because she probably had a vat of summer tomatoes! Maybe Nancy really can solve mysteries without the help of Bess and George (and she might disagree, but I always thought Ned was kind of worthless.)
Unearthing what my neighbors are cooking in their kitchens may not be the kind of drama that I’ve been hoping for, and perhaps my living arrangement hasn’t quite lived up to my wild expectations of Melrose Place meets Grey’s Anatomy (the complex's close proximity to the hospital makes this an obvious choice), with small doses of Ally McBeal, Top Chef, and Veronica Mars thrown in to make my own role more prevalent. But even so, here’s the good news: I’ve still got five months left on the lease. There’s plenty of time for things to heat up….in or out of the kitchen.
When I moved into my apartment complex seven months ago, I had visions of Melrose Place. Perhaps not as dramatic, with the expected backstabbing, illicit love affairs, and occasional dead body in the pool, but I was still hoping for a little something to spice up the home life. Like in every family, every neighbor has his or her secrets. I have aspired to pick up on some nuggets around the complex, not by doing anything illegal of course, but by just keeping my eyes and ears open. Despite my fervent efforts, however, it appears I have come up severely short: there has been zero drama, no good material, no brow raisers, no crazy stories. What I think might be the most disappointing part about all of this is that the cast of characters has such potential. As I see it, it’s practically a crime not to capitalize on what could be something so shamefully delicious, a person would only crack under the pressures of a lie detector test to admit watching it (bonus points for anyone who got that Seinfeld reference). I know very little about my neighbors, but please consider some of our characters:
-The onsite managers. They are a very nice married couple in their 20s who are always at their tenants’ beck and call. He, an extremely talkative guy who swears he has ADD despite what his doctors tell him, holds down multiple jobs and wears a bluetooth constantly. I’ve struck up conversations with him not realizing he was already talking to someone else, which can be a little awkward. She is a nanny and wants to set me up with her brother. They’re such good people, they must have a dark side.
-The cute doctor downstairs. I suspect he’s the bad boy in disguise – one who may have excellent bedside manner, but he just isn’t quite what meets the eye. On occasion, he has been spotted lurking about the complex, smoking a cigarette. One night while walking past his kitchen window, I noticed an obscene amount of beer bottles on his counter. I’ll take this to mean he has a serious drinking problem, because he's more interesting that way.
-The Passat-driving guy who lives across the hall. He walks with a certain spring in his step, but his face reads, “I’ll only acknowledge that you’re my neighbor with a slight nod because I’m too cool to talk to you.” He whistles in the shower (get your mind out of the gutter - I only know this because he sometimes leaves his bathroom window open). He also places his shoes in such perfect order outside his front door that I’m convinced he must have some form of obsessive compulsive disorder. I’m sure the doc downstairs would concur.
-The wacky, “your music is too loud” nurse below me. Sadly this 35ish year old, orthopedic shoe-wearing woman recently moved out, being replaced by an older woman. I think the nurse would have made one great character, even in spite her horrible taste in fashion - she just seemed so...bizarre. I know nothing about the new lady, but she’s got to have issues. Major issues.
-The gym fanatic. She’s young, she’s hot, and she’s got that certain look that has the guys (the cute doctor, no doubt) doing the head-to-toe stare down. I’m sure she wears something other than spandex and tank tops, but I have yet to see it.
-The quiet girl across the courtyard. She’s a pretty, tall brunette, but I’ve never heard her speak a word. I assume she’s the craziest of them all because she looks so darn normal.
-The girl in the upstairs apartment who spends a lot of time in her kitchen.
Hm, “the girl in the upstairs apartment who spends a lot of time in her kitchen”…. That girl is the author of this blog, right? Wrong. In the last couple of weeks, I’ve noticed that a 20-something year old girl in the apartment across the courtyard that mirrors mine is often in her kitchen when I’m in mine, which as you may have suspected by this point, is quite often. One rainy Sunday afternoon recently, I was in my kitchen per usual, baking a batch of chewy white chocolate chip cookies and simmering ragu bolognese on the stove. Glancing out my window, I saw my neighbor in her kitchen, busy at work on something. I didn’t think much of it until I returned to my kitchen hours later to check on the ragu and heard chopping from my window. There she was again, still working on something. I’ll admit that for a split second I actually questioned whether what I was witnessing was merely my own reflection in the window…until I realized how ridiculous that was.
My curious mind began to run amok: What the heck was she doing in there all day? What was she making? Was she a better cook than me? Would it be possible to have an Iron Chef-like competition from our respective kitchens? Watching her busy in her kitchen, I suddenly began to feel threatened (and maybe slightly creepy) – was my neighbor trying to dethrone me as "the girl in the complex who spends the most time in the kitchen"? Of course I have no way of knowing if I have really logged the most hours amongst my neighbors, but I’d venture to guess that I have indeed earned that status. Either way, once those initial competitive feelings subsided, I decided I mostly just wanted to know what my fellow neighbor was up to. In true Nancy Drew form, I soon found myself with my nose against the open window, hoping to get a whiff of whatever was cooking across the way; I figured that with both of our kitchen windows open, my keen sense of smell might come through for me. Was that sauteed onions? Sniff sniff. Hm maybe some roasted tomatoes? Then my ears perked up as some pans clattered and then the girl uttered the word “salsa” and then “marinara sauce” to her male guest. Ah ha, that’s it! She was spending all day in the kitchen because she probably had a vat of summer tomatoes! Maybe Nancy really can solve mysteries without the help of Bess and George (and she might disagree, but I always thought Ned was kind of worthless.)
Unearthing what my neighbors are cooking in their kitchens may not be the kind of drama that I’ve been hoping for, and perhaps my living arrangement hasn’t quite lived up to my wild expectations of Melrose Place meets Grey’s Anatomy (the complex's close proximity to the hospital makes this an obvious choice), with small doses of Ally McBeal, Top Chef, and Veronica Mars thrown in to make my own role more prevalent. But even so, here’s the good news: I’ve still got five months left on the lease. There’s plenty of time for things to heat up….in or out of the kitchen.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
If you're going to San Francisco...
I might not have worn some flowers in my hair while visiting the Bay Area last weekend, but I did spot a surprisingly high number of flower shops around the city. Not only can I not get that song out of my head, I can't seem to get the coolness of the city off my mind either. While I'll always highly praise Portland to anyone who will listen (and even those who don't care to), my time in SF jeopardized my inclination to call Portland the most hip city on the west coast. Tempted to stay indefinitely, sadly I had to return home on Monday morning, but even so, I think I may have “left my heart in San Francisco.” Well, maybe it wasn't my heart, but I feel like I left something there. Oh who am I kidding, it's probably just the loads of cash spent on bridge tolls, BART tickets, and uh, maybe a little shopping at H&M.
There were so many great aspects of the weekend trip with my brother and sister, but I’ll try to keep my gushing to a minimum. Because this is clatter’s first official travel edition, I’ve even included a few photos to kick it up a notch – just don’t get used to it. Here's a brief(ish) rundown of the trip:
Highlights:
ϕ Observing and experiencing firsthand many of the redeeming qualities of Oakland. (Seriously, stop scoffing – the East Bay is far from being all ghetto!) This included, but is not limited to, the banh mi sandwiches we ate from a Vietnamese hole-in-the-wall in downtown Oakland. Nothing beats a $2.75 sub for lunch, and no, Subway's $5 footlong does NOT count – especially considering how annoying that jingle is. The well-known banh mi is something that I’ve been wanting to try for a while (apparently a food cart in Portland makes a damn good one), so this Oakland treat was the perfect introduction. BBQ pork, cilantro, shredded carrots, pickled something (??), and some kind of sauce (??), all on a crusty roll…mmmmm. The mystery ingredients contained in the sandwich left me curious, but not as much as the highly questionable meats and gelatin-like items being sold at the place as well. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss.
ϕ Viewing the Golden Gate Bridge from every angle known to man (and taking all obligatory photos at each and every one). This included driving through tourist-crazed Sausalito and making fun of all those tourists on their Blazing Saddles rented bikes, trying to make it across the bridge and up through the hills. Instead of bikes, we relied on our trusty ’97 Honda Civic and headed up to North Vista Pointe for incredible views of the Golden Gate above on the bluff. Unfortunately for us, by the time we made it up there, the fog had rolled in just enough to block out any remarkable photo ops. So instead, my sister took a series of pictures of my brother and me chowing down on burritos purchased earlier in the day in a quaint Marin County town called Larkspur. Who needs incredible views of the Golden Gate when you’ve got a delicious carne asada burrito right in front of you?
ϕ Making homemade pizza at my brother’s apartment. Even though there are tons of restaurants in the Bay area that we could have tried, we just couldn’t not cook together one night (as the famous line in our family goes, “It’s who we are, it’s what we do”). I whipped up some pizza dough and we used fresh broccolini and a mixed variety of tomatoes purchased at the farmers market earlier that day and other ingredients from the Berkeley Bowl (my new favorite grocery store). It wouldn't be family cooking without a little competition, so my sister and I battled for "best grilled pizza", although we put our brother in charge of the actual grilling part (he’s a man after all – it’s what they do). We ended up making four different pizzas, grilling two and baking two. I’d like to think that I won the competition, mostly because we made fun of my sister’s looking a little too similar to a Pizza Hut personal pizza (but trust me, it tasted much too good to be Pizza Hut). We tried taking photos of our creations, but the lighting was just not ideal. But here’s one to whet the palate:
I’d wager to say that this evening in the confines of my brother’s OBK (that’s another family term for "one butt kitchen") provided the most fun and the most laughs of the whole weekend.
Other Honorable Mentions:
ϕ Taking the tour of Alcatraz. Most people enjoy the fantastic views of the city from the bay on the boat ride to tour Alcatraz, like this one:
But for me, I could only gawk at this couple sitting directly ahead of and facing us, both on the way to The Rock and on the way back.
My brother and sister didn't think they were anyone special, but I could have sworn they're famous – only I couldn't place them (still can’t). My obsession with unearthing their identities eventually led to my brother taking incognito paparazzi photos. He did this brilliantly, acting as if he were examining his camera lenses at the most opportune of times: just as the woman fed the man yoga chips (case in point for her being famous: only an anorexic Hollywood actress would eat something like that). Anyone able to identify said couple will be awarded by clatter with a year's supply of Yoga Chips.
ϕ Visiting the Berkeley Farmers Market. clatter got much inspiration while perusing the market, especially from the interesting, highly unusual products (I should have been taking notes because now I don't remember anything). The assortment of tomatoes really was impressive, although for my sister and me, we were more focused on getting our brother to ask out the cute girl handing out strawberry samples. How difficult could it possibly be to walk up to the girl and say, "I'll take one basket of strawberries and your number"? Much to his sisters' chagrin, he didn't seize the moment.
ϕ Making the pilgrimage to the Peet's Coffee original store. As a former Peetnik (or is it that I'm a Peetnik for life?), making the journey to the motherland - where all the magic began - on Vine St. in Berkeley was a particularly special moment for me. So much so that we had to document it for posterity.
Lowlights:
ϕ Realizing how out of shape I really am as we climbed the streets of the city in order to reach Coit Tower. It didn’t help to be in the presence of a guy who recently rode his bike from Portland to San Francisco. How do I compete with that? I soon forgot my shortcomings though, because the stunning views of the city and the bay from the tower’s edge had me strategizing how I can one day afford one of the homes we spotted at the top. I’m still working on it.
ϕ Discussions of deadly earthquakes and massive destruction while driving across the Bay Bridge. Not cool.
ϕ Nearly being burned alive while baking pizza. While taking a pizza out of the oven using a dish towel, I failed to protect my entire hand from the incredible heat, causing an ever-so-dramatic dropping of the pan to the bottom of the oven, directly over the burners. I screamed a few expletives and froze (now I know how I react in a state of emergency). While I could have single-handedly (literally, I almost lost a hand in the crisis) ruined the pizza night for us all, my brother rushed in for the rescue, grabbing an oven mitt (oh, is that what I’m supposed to use to protect my hands from third-degree burns?) and procured the pan from the bottom of the oven. Cheers to my brother the hero!
Whew! Well, I think that just about does it for my not-so-brief recap of a great weekend in the Bay area. Until next time, this is your clatter traveler, signing off.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Not All Zombies Are Evil
With most kids returning to school this week, it’s no big surprise that I began to reminisce about my days as a student. I know I make it sound like it’s been forever – and maybe it hasn’t been, since I graduated from law school just last year, but that’s not really what I’m talking about here. I’m talking about the early years of schooling – elementary school. I remember being so excited about taking that annual trip to the store for school supplies – a new package of number two pencils, Pee Chees, wide-ruled spiral notebooks (picking out the right color was always such a tough decision), or even a TRAPPER KEEPER (come on kids of the ‘80s, you know what I’m talking about). But getting new school supplies only begins to describe that excitement of a start of the new school year – I loved to flaunt a brand new backpack and the well-debated first day of school outfit. Of course I also dreaded those annoying first day of school pictures taken in the backyard or in front of the school bus (my mother can vouch that I’m whining to this day about those awful boy haircuts I sported in elementary school.) But oh those glorious school bus days...
I still have nightmares about scary bus driver Peggy, with her intimidating presence and incessant use of the word “tolerate”. I remember she went through a phase where she punished the students by taping off the last three rows of the bus - imagine the riots that followed! Those last few rows were the best place to goof off (or set a firecracker off from. The neighborhood kid would probably deny to this day that he did it. The 20+ year investigation is still pending). We also loved the back of the bus to maximize the bounce factor whenever it would hit a speed bump. (Such adventures to be had on the bus explains why I had a hard time as a young student understanding why Rosa Parks was upset when she was asked to sit in the back of the bus.) But anyway, let’s switch gears now and reflect on the ever-treasured school cafeteria.
While most days in the cafeteria left the kids less than thrilled about their meal prospects (who can possibly get excited about “Mystery Meat Friday”?), there was one menu item that had the kids (including me) dancing in the milk line: the CHEESE ZOMBIE. I don’t know how it got its name or if this is something that was conceived in the Vancouver School District, but none of that really matters – what matters is to express how delicious it really was. The zombie held the essence of a grilled cheese sandwich, but instead of that crispy outside layer, it had a soft, thick, white bread outside, baked until golden. It would be cut into oversized squares, and that thick layer of melted cheese would ooze out each side with every bite. But it’s not just the zombie itself that made those days it was served in the cafeteria the most desired – that bowl of Campbell’s tomato soup completed the meal. A warm, melted cheese sandwich dipped in cream of tomato? Someone please tell me that isn’t the ultimate comfort food!
Circa 1991 may have been the last time I ate a cheese zombie, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t dreamt of the day when I could do it again. While I’ve considered doing lunch out at Harney Elementary, I thought that maybe I could try making it at home instead. My sister came across the recipe a while back for the beloved cheese zombie, and I figured there wasn’t a better time to try it out than during the first week that most schools are back in session.
I have no idea where the recipe came from (it stated it came from “memory”, which in and of itself made me a little nervous), but I figured a simple recipe of flour and other typical yeast bread ingredients couldn’t possibly yield anything horrible. I cut the recipe into a more suitable amount for my household and got to work. As I rolled out the dough for the zombie, I felt the strong urge to tuck my hair behind a hairnet. But then again, no one puts the cool in the hairnet like a lunch lady and to even pretend to be one of them would surely prove to be futile.
You probably already know this about me, but I’m going to say it again: I love cheese (see "A Love Note" post for reiteration purposes). I never thought I’d do this, but in order to complete this clatter “back to school” challenge, I sought out velvetta in the grocery store. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t search for it discreetly - I was even prepared to rearrange other items in my basket to hide it and do the self-checkout. But sadly, the velvetta was nowhere to be found except in the “singles” form (who wants to bet TSTSNBN carries it?), so I decided I needed to change my strategy: I would put my own adult spin on the zombie and use a combo of Tillamook’s extra sharp cheddar and pepper jack instead.
As the sheet of zombies baked in the oven, I reheated my tomato soup on the stove. But here’s the thing: I didn’t use Campbell’s tomato soup. I had made Ina’s roasted tomato basil soup a few days ago and thought this would be a lovely addition. Ok, I know you’re thinking – how would Allison possibly relive those fond memories of her childhood if she’s ruining the very heart of this concept? I understand your concern, and here’s my response to it: throughout my process of reinventing the cherished cheese zombie lunch, I came to a startling realization. There is nothing I could ever do that would bring back the perfection once created in that school cafeteria and served on a plastic tray. And it’s even possible that this lunch menu is only exemplary in hindsight, but there are just some things in life that shouldn’t be messed with – and the cheese zombie happens to be one of them. Life is all about avoiding regrets, and if I tarnished those very memories of the cheese zombie by trying to replicate it exactly and fall short, how could I ever forgive myself!? (Probably through expensive, intense years of therapy.) For the record, however, I’ll have you know that my adult version wasn’t too shabby – in fact it was quite scrumptious… even without a hairnet!
I still have nightmares about scary bus driver Peggy, with her intimidating presence and incessant use of the word “tolerate”. I remember she went through a phase where she punished the students by taping off the last three rows of the bus - imagine the riots that followed! Those last few rows were the best place to goof off (or set a firecracker off from. The neighborhood kid would probably deny to this day that he did it. The 20+ year investigation is still pending). We also loved the back of the bus to maximize the bounce factor whenever it would hit a speed bump. (Such adventures to be had on the bus explains why I had a hard time as a young student understanding why Rosa Parks was upset when she was asked to sit in the back of the bus.) But anyway, let’s switch gears now and reflect on the ever-treasured school cafeteria.
While most days in the cafeteria left the kids less than thrilled about their meal prospects (who can possibly get excited about “Mystery Meat Friday”?), there was one menu item that had the kids (including me) dancing in the milk line: the CHEESE ZOMBIE. I don’t know how it got its name or if this is something that was conceived in the Vancouver School District, but none of that really matters – what matters is to express how delicious it really was. The zombie held the essence of a grilled cheese sandwich, but instead of that crispy outside layer, it had a soft, thick, white bread outside, baked until golden. It would be cut into oversized squares, and that thick layer of melted cheese would ooze out each side with every bite. But it’s not just the zombie itself that made those days it was served in the cafeteria the most desired – that bowl of Campbell’s tomato soup completed the meal. A warm, melted cheese sandwich dipped in cream of tomato? Someone please tell me that isn’t the ultimate comfort food!
Circa 1991 may have been the last time I ate a cheese zombie, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t dreamt of the day when I could do it again. While I’ve considered doing lunch out at Harney Elementary, I thought that maybe I could try making it at home instead. My sister came across the recipe a while back for the beloved cheese zombie, and I figured there wasn’t a better time to try it out than during the first week that most schools are back in session.
I have no idea where the recipe came from (it stated it came from “memory”, which in and of itself made me a little nervous), but I figured a simple recipe of flour and other typical yeast bread ingredients couldn’t possibly yield anything horrible. I cut the recipe into a more suitable amount for my household and got to work. As I rolled out the dough for the zombie, I felt the strong urge to tuck my hair behind a hairnet. But then again, no one puts the cool in the hairnet like a lunch lady and to even pretend to be one of them would surely prove to be futile.
You probably already know this about me, but I’m going to say it again: I love cheese (see "A Love Note" post for reiteration purposes). I never thought I’d do this, but in order to complete this clatter “back to school” challenge, I sought out velvetta in the grocery store. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t search for it discreetly - I was even prepared to rearrange other items in my basket to hide it and do the self-checkout. But sadly, the velvetta was nowhere to be found except in the “singles” form (who wants to bet TSTSNBN carries it?), so I decided I needed to change my strategy: I would put my own adult spin on the zombie and use a combo of Tillamook’s extra sharp cheddar and pepper jack instead.
As the sheet of zombies baked in the oven, I reheated my tomato soup on the stove. But here’s the thing: I didn’t use Campbell’s tomato soup. I had made Ina’s roasted tomato basil soup a few days ago and thought this would be a lovely addition. Ok, I know you’re thinking – how would Allison possibly relive those fond memories of her childhood if she’s ruining the very heart of this concept? I understand your concern, and here’s my response to it: throughout my process of reinventing the cherished cheese zombie lunch, I came to a startling realization. There is nothing I could ever do that would bring back the perfection once created in that school cafeteria and served on a plastic tray. And it’s even possible that this lunch menu is only exemplary in hindsight, but there are just some things in life that shouldn’t be messed with – and the cheese zombie happens to be one of them. Life is all about avoiding regrets, and if I tarnished those very memories of the cheese zombie by trying to replicate it exactly and fall short, how could I ever forgive myself!? (Probably through expensive, intense years of therapy.) For the record, however, I’ll have you know that my adult version wasn’t too shabby – in fact it was quite scrumptious… even without a hairnet!
Friday, August 27, 2010
Next Time, Don't Forget the Invisibility Cloak
I’ve been brought up well in a family where savings are prized and frugality is king. As I grow older, however, I’ve learned that seeking out bargains can sometimes come at a cost – one that I probably shouldn’t be willing to pay.
A couple of nights ago after work, anticipating my apartment would have that certain “tropical” feel sans air conditioning and knowing that my fridge was empty, I decided it would be the perfect time to enjoy the superb cooling system of my car and take a trip to the grocery store, one that I will hereinafter refer to as The Store That Shall Not Be Named (“TSTSNBN”).
Just like with Voldemort (that’s a Harry Potter reference for all of you confused readers), the mere utterance of TSTSNBN’s name is predictably followed by gasps, shrieks, and looks of horror. I’ll admit – it’s not my first choice in grocery venues. In fact, it’s probably not even my fifth. But when push comes to shove, sometimes it’s just not economical to do all your grocery shopping at some place like Whole Foods, or even somewhere like Safeway for that matter, especially when you can still get the same brand-named ingredients for a fraction of the cost (and at the same time brush up on your bagging skills!). TSTSNBN is truly a “no frills” kind of place. While this is something that normally would be a quality commendable in a company, it probably wouldn’t hurt if TSTSNBN had a few. After all, the typical experience at this establishment likely results in pushing your cart around at top speed (imagine the pace contestants take in the final round of Supermarket Sweep and then double it) and getting the heck out of there before the usual clientele has you clenching your wallet or handbag, all the while feeling convinced that you have lost all sense of class you thought you once had. Ok, maybe I’m being a little dramatic here – maybe a little snobby too. But if you’ve been there and you’ve experienced it firsthand, surely you’d agree with my haughty assessment.
Maybe it was the air conditioning I was enjoying so much, or perhaps it was that long day of staring at my computer in the office, but for whatever reason my latest TSTSNBN trip caught me in a more spaced out disposition, with my usual snooty guard down. Deep in thought in the leafy green section, debating the cheap bag of spinach vs. the more expensive box of organic mixed greens (the latter eventually won), my mental pro/con list suddenly got interrupted by a young man I sensed was standing directly behind me. And so I turned around.
“Hello there,” the 20-something, pimpled-face, homely-looking guy greeted me. “How are you doing today?”
“Oh just fine, thank you.” I responded. Abort. Abort. My eyes darted around, looking for my quickest escape. Avocados. Yes, I needed an avocado! So I pushed that squeaky cart (still without a decision made on the greens) and moved swiftly to the bin of avocados at the end of the aisle before he could say another word. Whew, that was a close one.
After picking out that avocado I figured would be perfectly ripe in approximately three days, I headed back to the greens, determined to make a final decision (come on, Allison, this wasn’t that difficult). Big mistake. I wasn’t there 15 seconds before I heard a familiar voice.
“Hi. Um, my name is ______. So, uh, I’m currently a student at _______ University.” Oh shoot, I thought, was this guy selling something? Turns out he was, in a sense. “I’m studying computer science. And I play the guitar.” I immediately channeled my acting days and tried my best to hold a straight face. I anticipated where this was going, and the lawyer in me kicked in to think quickly on my feet and conjure up my rebuttal after his opening statement. “And I, uh, was wondering if you, uh, would like to go out sometime.”
“I’m sorry, ________. I actually have a boyfriend.” Forgive me, Mother, for I have sinned. (In my defense, sometimes a little white lie must be told for protection.) After spewing out my fib, I realized I’ve never seen a guy take rejection so well, as he disappeared before I could even consider stupefying him. Well, at least I could check “Get hit on” off my grocery list.
I managed to dodge any and all other highly suspect TSTSNBN patrons, and I got to the checkout stand, chuckling to myself about my little run-in in the produce section and reflecting on how you never know when you’ll meet Mr. Right (no, this was not one of those times). As I placed all my bargains on the conveyor belt while reading the lastest shocking US Weekly headlines (so shocking in fact, that I have absolutely no recollection of what they were), an older, very short man (like, half my size) standing in front of me in line said something that seemed to be directed at me. I could have been imagining things, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t speaking English.
“What was that?” I asked, leaning forward and feeling like a giant.
[Inaudible.] Ok, it wasn’t just my imagination. This was definitely not English. This was Russian.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
In a very strong accent with widened eyes, he exclaimed, “You don’t speak Russian?!?!”
“No, I don’t. I don’t know lick of Russian. Why, do I look Russian?” I asked.
“Oh YES!! You could be onnnnne huuuuuuuuundred perrrrrcent Russian!!!”
Huh. What do ya know. I’ve been called a lot of things in my 28 years, but Russian was not one of them. But hey, I thought, looking on the bright side, at least he didn’t ask me out.
A couple of nights ago after work, anticipating my apartment would have that certain “tropical” feel sans air conditioning and knowing that my fridge was empty, I decided it would be the perfect time to enjoy the superb cooling system of my car and take a trip to the grocery store, one that I will hereinafter refer to as The Store That Shall Not Be Named (“TSTSNBN”).
Just like with Voldemort (that’s a Harry Potter reference for all of you confused readers), the mere utterance of TSTSNBN’s name is predictably followed by gasps, shrieks, and looks of horror. I’ll admit – it’s not my first choice in grocery venues. In fact, it’s probably not even my fifth. But when push comes to shove, sometimes it’s just not economical to do all your grocery shopping at some place like Whole Foods, or even somewhere like Safeway for that matter, especially when you can still get the same brand-named ingredients for a fraction of the cost (and at the same time brush up on your bagging skills!). TSTSNBN is truly a “no frills” kind of place. While this is something that normally would be a quality commendable in a company, it probably wouldn’t hurt if TSTSNBN had a few. After all, the typical experience at this establishment likely results in pushing your cart around at top speed (imagine the pace contestants take in the final round of Supermarket Sweep and then double it) and getting the heck out of there before the usual clientele has you clenching your wallet or handbag, all the while feeling convinced that you have lost all sense of class you thought you once had. Ok, maybe I’m being a little dramatic here – maybe a little snobby too. But if you’ve been there and you’ve experienced it firsthand, surely you’d agree with my haughty assessment.
Maybe it was the air conditioning I was enjoying so much, or perhaps it was that long day of staring at my computer in the office, but for whatever reason my latest TSTSNBN trip caught me in a more spaced out disposition, with my usual snooty guard down. Deep in thought in the leafy green section, debating the cheap bag of spinach vs. the more expensive box of organic mixed greens (the latter eventually won), my mental pro/con list suddenly got interrupted by a young man I sensed was standing directly behind me. And so I turned around.
“Hello there,” the 20-something, pimpled-face, homely-looking guy greeted me. “How are you doing today?”
“Oh just fine, thank you.” I responded. Abort. Abort. My eyes darted around, looking for my quickest escape. Avocados. Yes, I needed an avocado! So I pushed that squeaky cart (still without a decision made on the greens) and moved swiftly to the bin of avocados at the end of the aisle before he could say another word. Whew, that was a close one.
After picking out that avocado I figured would be perfectly ripe in approximately three days, I headed back to the greens, determined to make a final decision (come on, Allison, this wasn’t that difficult). Big mistake. I wasn’t there 15 seconds before I heard a familiar voice.
“Hi. Um, my name is ______. So, uh, I’m currently a student at _______ University.” Oh shoot, I thought, was this guy selling something? Turns out he was, in a sense. “I’m studying computer science. And I play the guitar.” I immediately channeled my acting days and tried my best to hold a straight face. I anticipated where this was going, and the lawyer in me kicked in to think quickly on my feet and conjure up my rebuttal after his opening statement. “And I, uh, was wondering if you, uh, would like to go out sometime.”
“I’m sorry, ________. I actually have a boyfriend.” Forgive me, Mother, for I have sinned. (In my defense, sometimes a little white lie must be told for protection.) After spewing out my fib, I realized I’ve never seen a guy take rejection so well, as he disappeared before I could even consider stupefying him. Well, at least I could check “Get hit on” off my grocery list.
I managed to dodge any and all other highly suspect TSTSNBN patrons, and I got to the checkout stand, chuckling to myself about my little run-in in the produce section and reflecting on how you never know when you’ll meet Mr. Right (no, this was not one of those times). As I placed all my bargains on the conveyor belt while reading the lastest shocking US Weekly headlines (so shocking in fact, that I have absolutely no recollection of what they were), an older, very short man (like, half my size) standing in front of me in line said something that seemed to be directed at me. I could have been imagining things, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t speaking English.
“What was that?” I asked, leaning forward and feeling like a giant.
[Inaudible.] Ok, it wasn’t just my imagination. This was definitely not English. This was Russian.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
In a very strong accent with widened eyes, he exclaimed, “You don’t speak Russian?!?!”
“No, I don’t. I don’t know lick of Russian. Why, do I look Russian?” I asked.
“Oh YES!! You could be onnnnne huuuuuuuuundred perrrrrcent Russian!!!”
Huh. What do ya know. I’ve been called a lot of things in my 28 years, but Russian was not one of them. But hey, I thought, looking on the bright side, at least he didn’t ask me out.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Yabba Dabba ZU!
Due to recent budget cuts in the clatter kitchen, I am no longer getting deliveries from Organics to You. I have every intention on picking it up again in the fall, but I’ve been finding lately that my lack of time in the kitchen has caused much of that goodness to go to waste. Without the scheduled box arriving today after work, I knew I had to find a new avenue to outsource my produce – something that could still provide fresh, local products at a reasonable cost. Nothing says reasonable cost like free, so I took to my mother’s garden over the weekend to see what I could come up with. While it was slim pickins’ (let it be known that this is in no way a reflection on my mother as a master gardener – the funky weather this late spring/summer has taken its toll on many of the crops in the area), I still managed to make a getaway with a few grape and cherry tomatoes, some green beans, a jalapeno, and a zucchini.
Late last night I watched a really terrible movie (I’m too embarrassed to reveal its title) and even though viewing it was not a good use of my time, there was one line in particular that stuck with me. This isn’t verbatim, but one of the main characters said something along the lines of, “I try to find something to love in every person.” This is certainly not an easy feat even by a figment of the imagination, but I think it’s a great philosophy - a philosophy that should apply not just to people, but to vegetables.
I’ve never been a huge fan of zucchini. In fact, up until a few years ago, I really just didn’t like it. I blame this at least partially on being scarred by anything zucchini-related after my sister attempted to bake what would become a seven pound (it could have weighed more - my younger brother even brought out the scale to measure) loaf of zucchini bread. Even if completely unfounded and unfair, I used to think of the zucchini as the ugly stepsister to the cucumber – lacking the zest, flavor, and crunch to give it that happy ending. (I could very possibly rhapsodize for hours about the many things I respect about the cucumber, but this post is the zucchini’s 15 minutes of fame.) After more thought, I’ve realized the two vegetables really shouldn’t even be put in the same category. Yes they could be siblings (and I mean blood-related, not step) because of their similarities in outward appearance, but inside they’re very different. What is it about the zucchini that made me change my mind over the years? What is the one quality that I see in the zucchini that really makes it special?
Its versatility. Just think about it. I don’t know about you, but I’m having very little trouble coming up with all the ways I’ve utilized zucchini: sautéed it with other veggies for the perfect side dish; split it in half and baked it stuffed with sausage, bread crumbs, and parmesan; drizzled it with olive oil, sprinkled with salt & pepper and thrown on the grill (ok, I haven’t done this, but if I had a grill I would); made a faux salsa verde to top some white fish (I got this idea from a recent Bon Appetit issue); and made a most delectable chocolate cake out of it (don’t even think about asking for that recipe – it’s top secret).
So what if the zucchini on its own doesn’t hold the most vibrant of flavors – it makes up for it in so many other ways. Even so, it still sure seems to get a lot of flack during the summer months. I guess it’s really no big surprise - how is that homegrown oversized, awkwardly shaped, flavorless zucchini supposed to compete with the cute-as-a-button cherry tomato, or the tall and slender green bean? If only people would learn to pick the zucchini before they get too big and turn into the garden-rejects-on-the-sidewalk-that-your-neighbors-won’t-even-take-for-free, maybe they could find something to love about it – on the inside and the outside. Perhaps instead of grabbing one to use as a bat for a game of baseball in the backyard, people could appreciate the zucchini for all that it can be. When I think of that oversized zucchini shaped like a bat, my mind goes straight to an image of Bamm-Bamm Rubble from the Flintstones. After finding this picture, I can’t help but ask with the most disdainful of looks: Betty, are you overgrowing your zucchini?!?
Late last night I watched a really terrible movie (I’m too embarrassed to reveal its title) and even though viewing it was not a good use of my time, there was one line in particular that stuck with me. This isn’t verbatim, but one of the main characters said something along the lines of, “I try to find something to love in every person.” This is certainly not an easy feat even by a figment of the imagination, but I think it’s a great philosophy - a philosophy that should apply not just to people, but to vegetables.
I’ve never been a huge fan of zucchini. In fact, up until a few years ago, I really just didn’t like it. I blame this at least partially on being scarred by anything zucchini-related after my sister attempted to bake what would become a seven pound (it could have weighed more - my younger brother even brought out the scale to measure) loaf of zucchini bread. Even if completely unfounded and unfair, I used to think of the zucchini as the ugly stepsister to the cucumber – lacking the zest, flavor, and crunch to give it that happy ending. (I could very possibly rhapsodize for hours about the many things I respect about the cucumber, but this post is the zucchini’s 15 minutes of fame.) After more thought, I’ve realized the two vegetables really shouldn’t even be put in the same category. Yes they could be siblings (and I mean blood-related, not step) because of their similarities in outward appearance, but inside they’re very different. What is it about the zucchini that made me change my mind over the years? What is the one quality that I see in the zucchini that really makes it special?
Its versatility. Just think about it. I don’t know about you, but I’m having very little trouble coming up with all the ways I’ve utilized zucchini: sautéed it with other veggies for the perfect side dish; split it in half and baked it stuffed with sausage, bread crumbs, and parmesan; drizzled it with olive oil, sprinkled with salt & pepper and thrown on the grill (ok, I haven’t done this, but if I had a grill I would); made a faux salsa verde to top some white fish (I got this idea from a recent Bon Appetit issue); and made a most delectable chocolate cake out of it (don’t even think about asking for that recipe – it’s top secret).
So what if the zucchini on its own doesn’t hold the most vibrant of flavors – it makes up for it in so many other ways. Even so, it still sure seems to get a lot of flack during the summer months. I guess it’s really no big surprise - how is that homegrown oversized, awkwardly shaped, flavorless zucchini supposed to compete with the cute-as-a-button cherry tomato, or the tall and slender green bean? If only people would learn to pick the zucchini before they get too big and turn into the garden-rejects-on-the-sidewalk-that-your-neighbors-won’t-even-take-for-free, maybe they could find something to love about it – on the inside and the outside. Perhaps instead of grabbing one to use as a bat for a game of baseball in the backyard, people could appreciate the zucchini for all that it can be. When I think of that oversized zucchini shaped like a bat, my mind goes straight to an image of Bamm-Bamm Rubble from the Flintstones. After finding this picture, I can’t help but ask with the most disdainful of looks: Betty, are you overgrowing your zucchini?!?
Sunday, August 8, 2010
You can take the girl out of Lebanon...
...but you can’t take Lebanon out of the girl.
Truth be told, I’ve never stepped foot in the homeland. And to be fair, I can’t really call Lebanon my homeland either, given that I’m only a quarter Lebanese. Even so, over the years I seem to have identified more with that 25 percent than the other 75. I’ve considered the following possibilities for said phenomenon: 1) My family has been rather unclear about what exactly comprises that other 75% (I’m under the impression it’s mostly German, maybe some English?), whereas the 25% Lebanese is a done deal, no question marks. I take comfort in this certainty. 2) It’s more interesting to tell people that I’ve got Middle Eastern heritage than to say I’m composed of the expected European hodgepodge. 3) I look Lebanese(ish). I tend not to believe this one, although as aforementioned, documentation has proven my resemblance to the Lebanese ancestors. Furthermore, when I was in college, several people told me I looked “exotic”, to which I would laugh and tell them they were mistaken - I was just from Washington. 4) I love Lebanese food.
Let’s focus on #4. In fact, I can’t seem to get Lebanese food off the brain. Of course I’m blaming all of this on the family reunion we had last weekend. That hot Lebanese blood of mine has been surging through my veins for the last seven days, begging me to do something about it. The clatter kitchen is ready and willing.
Anyone who has traveled in foreign lands knows that nothing captures the essence of a culture quite like street food. The thing is, I really don’t know that much about Lebanon or its food, but I’d love to travel there someday. Until I do, I’ve had to gather all my information regarding its food from Lebanese restaurants (remember: the shadier the establishment and the more it resembles a hole-in-the-wall in the heart of Beirut, the closer it will taste to the real thing), those family members who are still living and knowledgeable about traditional fare (I’m still waiting for my grandmother to reveal to me the secrets of her famous stuffed grape leaves), and from the internet. Quick research today revealed that the two most popular street foods in Lebanon are falafel and shawarma.
I’ve had both beef and lamb shawarma, and it’s divine. For those who aren’t familiar, shawarma is the Middle Eastern version of the Greek gyro – meat from a spit is shaved and made into a wrap. As much as I’d love to have a spit plastered from the ceiling in my kitchen, dangling a hunk of lamb or beef that I could ever so delicately shave to create unforgettable shawarma, I’ve come to terms with the fact that this dream may have to be put on hold, at least until I’m a homeowner. While there’s no explicit language in my lease regarding spit installations in the kitchen area (I checked), the implications that this type of activity is prohibited are still evident (ok, I didn’t really check).
I would love to tackle lamb in some form someday because it’s so frequently used in Lebanese food, but tonight it just didn’t feel right (there’s also something unsettling to me about fixing lamb for a party of one). Since shawarma off the spit was also not happening, I figured my best bet would be to attempt the falafel. I didn’t have one particular recipe in mind, but I knew that I shouldn’t make it up since I’ve never made it before and didn’t really know what was in it besides chickpeas and a bunch of spices. I made it up anyway. After looking over a few recipes, I decided I didn’t feel like following anything. So I threw a can of chickpeas (i.e. garbanzo beans), a few cloves of garlic, salt, pepper, ground coriander, cumin, smoked paprika, cayenne, and fresh parsley, and hit the button on the food processor. What’s the worst that could happen?
I let the mixture refrigerate for an hour (I learned this from my research) and then formed little patties with it. Here’s my clatter confession du jour: I didn’t deep fry the falafel. I know, I know – it’s not a falafel if it’s not deep fried! But I just couldn’t find it in my heart to do it on this particular occasion. This was not the best move - while I still had plenty of oil in the pan on high heat to cook it through, the consistency was off. At least the flavor was still there.
As I’ve already revealed, I haven’t had a ton of experience in the Lebanese culinary realm, but before tonight, I’ve made a few things, the most repeated by far being tabouli (also spelled tabbouleh or taboule or tabooli. I don’t know which one is considered correct). I’ve heard some people complain that tabouli is too much parsley and not enough of anything else. There has been some debate amongst family members in terms of the bulgur wheat to parsley ratio – some think the bulgur should have a strong presence in the salad, while others believe that it should hardly make an appearance. For the record, I am Team Parsley. As far as I’m concerned, the parsley is the star. It’s what I love about tabouli – the striking parsley flavor creates a wonderful salad that’s light, fresh, and has just enough zing that it accompanies any Middle Eastern style protein perfectly. The bulgur wheat is important too, and I’m not a huge fan of tabouli that uses it so sparingly that you hardly know it’s there. The key is to find the balance, but when it doubt, use more parsley and less bulgur. Now you know my position on The Great Tabouli Dilemma. I believe settling this conundrum is the first step in bringing peace to the Middle East.
I’ve made several versions of tabouli over the years, adding and subtracting items as I have seen fit. I don’t think there’s any need for exactness (albeit I’ve provided slight guidelines below to be helpful), just make sure that you constantly taste-test as you’re making it. Excellent chopping skills don’t hurt either. I suppose you could cheat and use a food processor, but what’s the fun in that? Tabouli not only provides a delicious and healthy alternative to another boring green salad, but it also allows you to perfect your knifing skills. So sharpen your chef’s knife and get to work! Here’s the version I made tonight. The longer the tabouli sits, the longer the bulgur and parsley have to drink up all those delicious flavors.
AR’s Lebanese Tabouli
1 cup of water
1/2 bulgur wheat
1 bunch of parsley plus a little extra (I used mostly curly-leaf and a handful of flat-leaf for good measure)
handful of fresh mint, finely chopped
cucumber, tomato, red onion, all finely chopped (to put it in movie terms, these shouldn’t even get supporting cast billing – consider them only the extras)
fresh lemon juice of one lemon & a couple of tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil
kosher salt & freshly ground pepper
Boil salted water, take off heat, and add the bulgur. Cover until all water is gone (should take about 20 minutes). Refrigerate until you’re ready to make the rest of the salad. Chop all parsley and veggies. Whisk together the lemon juice and olive oil. Toss everything with the bulgur, and salt & pepper to taste. Let it sit for at least an hour (preferably much longer), and taste again before serving. My guess is you’ll need more lemon juice and salt.
To complete my meal tonight, I warmed a whole wheat Middle Eastern flatbread (TJs makes a good one) and whipped up some tzatziki (plain yogurt, chopped mint, lemon juice, diced cucumber, and S&P – I made this batch without garlic). Rolling a couple of spoonfuls of tabouli and falafel patties into the flatbread, I slathered it with tzatziki and a thin (ok fine, it was thick) layer of tahini, because my love for tahini runs deep.
You can imagine how messy this was to eat, but what’s street fare if it doesn’t get on your hands? Besides, after taking that first bite, my manners were the last thing on my mind. The only thing going through my head went something along the lines of: "Holy motherland, ص. لذيذ, شهي, طيب, نمير !!!!” For all you non-Arabic speakers out there, need a translation? That means “Delicious!!!” Just don’t ask me to say it out loud.
Truth be told, I’ve never stepped foot in the homeland. And to be fair, I can’t really call Lebanon my homeland either, given that I’m only a quarter Lebanese. Even so, over the years I seem to have identified more with that 25 percent than the other 75. I’ve considered the following possibilities for said phenomenon: 1) My family has been rather unclear about what exactly comprises that other 75% (I’m under the impression it’s mostly German, maybe some English?), whereas the 25% Lebanese is a done deal, no question marks. I take comfort in this certainty. 2) It’s more interesting to tell people that I’ve got Middle Eastern heritage than to say I’m composed of the expected European hodgepodge. 3) I look Lebanese(ish). I tend not to believe this one, although as aforementioned, documentation has proven my resemblance to the Lebanese ancestors. Furthermore, when I was in college, several people told me I looked “exotic”, to which I would laugh and tell them they were mistaken - I was just from Washington. 4) I love Lebanese food.
Let’s focus on #4. In fact, I can’t seem to get Lebanese food off the brain. Of course I’m blaming all of this on the family reunion we had last weekend. That hot Lebanese blood of mine has been surging through my veins for the last seven days, begging me to do something about it. The clatter kitchen is ready and willing.
Anyone who has traveled in foreign lands knows that nothing captures the essence of a culture quite like street food. The thing is, I really don’t know that much about Lebanon or its food, but I’d love to travel there someday. Until I do, I’ve had to gather all my information regarding its food from Lebanese restaurants (remember: the shadier the establishment and the more it resembles a hole-in-the-wall in the heart of Beirut, the closer it will taste to the real thing), those family members who are still living and knowledgeable about traditional fare (I’m still waiting for my grandmother to reveal to me the secrets of her famous stuffed grape leaves), and from the internet. Quick research today revealed that the two most popular street foods in Lebanon are falafel and shawarma.
I’ve had both beef and lamb shawarma, and it’s divine. For those who aren’t familiar, shawarma is the Middle Eastern version of the Greek gyro – meat from a spit is shaved and made into a wrap. As much as I’d love to have a spit plastered from the ceiling in my kitchen, dangling a hunk of lamb or beef that I could ever so delicately shave to create unforgettable shawarma, I’ve come to terms with the fact that this dream may have to be put on hold, at least until I’m a homeowner. While there’s no explicit language in my lease regarding spit installations in the kitchen area (I checked), the implications that this type of activity is prohibited are still evident (ok, I didn’t really check).
I would love to tackle lamb in some form someday because it’s so frequently used in Lebanese food, but tonight it just didn’t feel right (there’s also something unsettling to me about fixing lamb for a party of one). Since shawarma off the spit was also not happening, I figured my best bet would be to attempt the falafel. I didn’t have one particular recipe in mind, but I knew that I shouldn’t make it up since I’ve never made it before and didn’t really know what was in it besides chickpeas and a bunch of spices. I made it up anyway. After looking over a few recipes, I decided I didn’t feel like following anything. So I threw a can of chickpeas (i.e. garbanzo beans), a few cloves of garlic, salt, pepper, ground coriander, cumin, smoked paprika, cayenne, and fresh parsley, and hit the button on the food processor. What’s the worst that could happen?
I let the mixture refrigerate for an hour (I learned this from my research) and then formed little patties with it. Here’s my clatter confession du jour: I didn’t deep fry the falafel. I know, I know – it’s not a falafel if it’s not deep fried! But I just couldn’t find it in my heart to do it on this particular occasion. This was not the best move - while I still had plenty of oil in the pan on high heat to cook it through, the consistency was off. At least the flavor was still there.
As I’ve already revealed, I haven’t had a ton of experience in the Lebanese culinary realm, but before tonight, I’ve made a few things, the most repeated by far being tabouli (also spelled tabbouleh or taboule or tabooli. I don’t know which one is considered correct). I’ve heard some people complain that tabouli is too much parsley and not enough of anything else. There has been some debate amongst family members in terms of the bulgur wheat to parsley ratio – some think the bulgur should have a strong presence in the salad, while others believe that it should hardly make an appearance. For the record, I am Team Parsley. As far as I’m concerned, the parsley is the star. It’s what I love about tabouli – the striking parsley flavor creates a wonderful salad that’s light, fresh, and has just enough zing that it accompanies any Middle Eastern style protein perfectly. The bulgur wheat is important too, and I’m not a huge fan of tabouli that uses it so sparingly that you hardly know it’s there. The key is to find the balance, but when it doubt, use more parsley and less bulgur. Now you know my position on The Great Tabouli Dilemma. I believe settling this conundrum is the first step in bringing peace to the Middle East.
I’ve made several versions of tabouli over the years, adding and subtracting items as I have seen fit. I don’t think there’s any need for exactness (albeit I’ve provided slight guidelines below to be helpful), just make sure that you constantly taste-test as you’re making it. Excellent chopping skills don’t hurt either. I suppose you could cheat and use a food processor, but what’s the fun in that? Tabouli not only provides a delicious and healthy alternative to another boring green salad, but it also allows you to perfect your knifing skills. So sharpen your chef’s knife and get to work! Here’s the version I made tonight. The longer the tabouli sits, the longer the bulgur and parsley have to drink up all those delicious flavors.
AR’s Lebanese Tabouli
1 cup of water
1/2 bulgur wheat
1 bunch of parsley plus a little extra (I used mostly curly-leaf and a handful of flat-leaf for good measure)
handful of fresh mint, finely chopped
cucumber, tomato, red onion, all finely chopped (to put it in movie terms, these shouldn’t even get supporting cast billing – consider them only the extras)
fresh lemon juice of one lemon & a couple of tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil
kosher salt & freshly ground pepper
Boil salted water, take off heat, and add the bulgur. Cover until all water is gone (should take about 20 minutes). Refrigerate until you’re ready to make the rest of the salad. Chop all parsley and veggies. Whisk together the lemon juice and olive oil. Toss everything with the bulgur, and salt & pepper to taste. Let it sit for at least an hour (preferably much longer), and taste again before serving. My guess is you’ll need more lemon juice and salt.
To complete my meal tonight, I warmed a whole wheat Middle Eastern flatbread (TJs makes a good one) and whipped up some tzatziki (plain yogurt, chopped mint, lemon juice, diced cucumber, and S&P – I made this batch without garlic). Rolling a couple of spoonfuls of tabouli and falafel patties into the flatbread, I slathered it with tzatziki and a thin (ok fine, it was thick) layer of tahini, because my love for tahini runs deep.
You can imagine how messy this was to eat, but what’s street fare if it doesn’t get on your hands? Besides, after taking that first bite, my manners were the last thing on my mind. The only thing going through my head went something along the lines of: "Holy motherland, ص. لذيذ, شهي, طيب, نمير !!!!” For all you non-Arabic speakers out there, need a translation? That means “Delicious!!!” Just don’t ask me to say it out loud.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
The apple really doesn't fall far from the tree...
(and I'm not just saying that because I grew up in Washington state!)
Well folks, August has arrived. I considered extending my blog-cation (yes that’s the love child of blogging and vacation) European-style and not writing again till September, but I couldn’t in good conscience do that to my ever-devoted readers. My delinquent behavior is not one that should be easily forgotten, but I do hope you will find it in your (hungry?) hearts to forgive my distracted mind and busy schedule to keep reading. Plenty of happenings have been cooking in the kitchen, although admittedly so not so much in my own. This past weekend was my big family reunion. Before we cue the moaning from the audience, turns out what should have been that dreaded, obligatory familial duty one must endure at least once in his or her life really wasn’t dreadful at all. Folks from my mother’s side of the family flocked from many pockets around the U.S. to gather nowhere else but the beautiful city of Portland, Oregon to celebrate our Lebanese heritage.
While I’m sure you’re dying to have me rehash every detail of my sixth degrees of separation from every last one of my ancestors from Lebanon, tell you the story of how my great-grandmother and great-grandfather met (even if it is a good one), or present side-to-side photo comparisons of the freaky, uncanny resemblances between my siblings and me with my relatives from many generations preceding us (we have now put to rest any rumors of adoption), I’ll cut right to the chase: I’ll talk about the food. Wipe that shocked look off your face! I wish I could take some credit for what was eaten this weekend, but I was merely an innocent bystander, as we kicked off the weekend with an event that was entitled something along the lines of “Flavors of the Pacific Northwest.”
If there’s ever a time to show off how truly great the Pacific Northwest is, we’re in the thick of it. Ask anyone who lives here and they’ll tell you that the summer months make putting up with the rest of the year worth it. That’s almost true, until you remind them of that eight week stretch in the spring when we didn’t see the sun once. Even so, the summers are pretty damn great if I may say so myself, and that crappy weather on either side of these months really only makes us appreciate them more. There are so many things that make this place superb, and as a cook and enthusiastic eater, I believe it all begins with what's in our backyards. It’s no big surprise that Portland and Seattle in recent years have become two of the most important hubs for young, innovative chefs wanting to use only the freshest, most local, organic, sustainable ingredients they can get their hands on. In fact, I had a conversation with my brother-in-law the other day about how many new (and old) restaurants there are in Portland that I still haven’t tried. While Fenouil, Paley’s Place, and Wildwood all top my wish list, my brother-in-law (a Portland restaurateur himself) and I both laughed about how many of these restaurants all take such a similar approach that it’s hard to tell them apart – they boast their style to be something like "new American cuisine with a French twist, using only the freshest, most local, organic, sustainable ingredients”. We can laugh, but really, why would they create a delicious plate of food and dining experience in any other way? It’s no big surprise this is the approach they take – heck, if I was starting a restaurant here, I’d probably be doing the exact same thing. When you have to work with what you’ve got, and what you’ve got is vibrant produce from your local farms or fresh seafood from the coast, you’d be a fool not to take advantage.
And so with that long-winded paragraph now behind us, I return to the Flavors of the Pacific Northwest. My parents hosted the event at their house, and they couldn’t have shown off the best of the Northwest summer better than they did. Not only did my parents drive up to the Gorge to buy a Chinook salmon caught earlier that day in the Columbia (look for a Native American man in a parking lot in Cascade Locks next time you need one) as the main event, but their menu was also jammed packed with the best of the locals: green beans from the garden, homegrown blueberries, neighborhood blackberries, Lapin cherries, Oregon Pinot Noir and microbrews, etc. etc. etc. It was a feast, and one that I’m sure many of my out-of-town relatives will not soon forget. I live here, and even I felt a little stuffed by the end of the evening because I just couldn’t get enough. At Saturday night’s event we enjoyed traditional Lebanese fare which was great, but personally, Friday night’s meal was the one that had me swooning – with every bite, I fell in love with the Pacific Northwest all over again.
After the weekend was over and the relatives trickled back to their homes around the country, my parents asked me if I was going to report the weekend on clatter. I promised them I would (my mom's response: "You better!!"), but I still wasn’t sure which angle I wanted to take. It didn’t take long before we all agreed that the key to their successful event on Friday night was simply letting the ingredients speak for themselves. As my dad explained, even someone who doesn’t know anything about cooking (him) could prepare fresh salmon on the grill with only lemon, salt and pepper and never screw it up. While my mom vehemently disagreed with his assessment (“Oh you’ve screwed it up before!”), he did have a point (and for the record, his salmon on Friday night was perfection). It takes very low maintenance to highlight the Northwest’s best, and the ingredients offered during the summer make that even easier. You don’t need heavy dressings or sauces and you don’t need to take complex steps to prepare a meal. By all means, take the backseat approach when you’re cooking in the summer, because those ingredients will do all the talking for you. And let me tell you - they’re going to make you look good, whether you deserve it or not.
Well folks, August has arrived. I considered extending my blog-cation (yes that’s the love child of blogging and vacation) European-style and not writing again till September, but I couldn’t in good conscience do that to my ever-devoted readers. My delinquent behavior is not one that should be easily forgotten, but I do hope you will find it in your (hungry?) hearts to forgive my distracted mind and busy schedule to keep reading. Plenty of happenings have been cooking in the kitchen, although admittedly so not so much in my own. This past weekend was my big family reunion. Before we cue the moaning from the audience, turns out what should have been that dreaded, obligatory familial duty one must endure at least once in his or her life really wasn’t dreadful at all. Folks from my mother’s side of the family flocked from many pockets around the U.S. to gather nowhere else but the beautiful city of Portland, Oregon to celebrate our Lebanese heritage.
While I’m sure you’re dying to have me rehash every detail of my sixth degrees of separation from every last one of my ancestors from Lebanon, tell you the story of how my great-grandmother and great-grandfather met (even if it is a good one), or present side-to-side photo comparisons of the freaky, uncanny resemblances between my siblings and me with my relatives from many generations preceding us (we have now put to rest any rumors of adoption), I’ll cut right to the chase: I’ll talk about the food. Wipe that shocked look off your face! I wish I could take some credit for what was eaten this weekend, but I was merely an innocent bystander, as we kicked off the weekend with an event that was entitled something along the lines of “Flavors of the Pacific Northwest.”
If there’s ever a time to show off how truly great the Pacific Northwest is, we’re in the thick of it. Ask anyone who lives here and they’ll tell you that the summer months make putting up with the rest of the year worth it. That’s almost true, until you remind them of that eight week stretch in the spring when we didn’t see the sun once. Even so, the summers are pretty damn great if I may say so myself, and that crappy weather on either side of these months really only makes us appreciate them more. There are so many things that make this place superb, and as a cook and enthusiastic eater, I believe it all begins with what's in our backyards. It’s no big surprise that Portland and Seattle in recent years have become two of the most important hubs for young, innovative chefs wanting to use only the freshest, most local, organic, sustainable ingredients they can get their hands on. In fact, I had a conversation with my brother-in-law the other day about how many new (and old) restaurants there are in Portland that I still haven’t tried. While Fenouil, Paley’s Place, and Wildwood all top my wish list, my brother-in-law (a Portland restaurateur himself) and I both laughed about how many of these restaurants all take such a similar approach that it’s hard to tell them apart – they boast their style to be something like "new American cuisine with a French twist, using only the freshest, most local, organic, sustainable ingredients”. We can laugh, but really, why would they create a delicious plate of food and dining experience in any other way? It’s no big surprise this is the approach they take – heck, if I was starting a restaurant here, I’d probably be doing the exact same thing. When you have to work with what you’ve got, and what you’ve got is vibrant produce from your local farms or fresh seafood from the coast, you’d be a fool not to take advantage.
And so with that long-winded paragraph now behind us, I return to the Flavors of the Pacific Northwest. My parents hosted the event at their house, and they couldn’t have shown off the best of the Northwest summer better than they did. Not only did my parents drive up to the Gorge to buy a Chinook salmon caught earlier that day in the Columbia (look for a Native American man in a parking lot in Cascade Locks next time you need one) as the main event, but their menu was also jammed packed with the best of the locals: green beans from the garden, homegrown blueberries, neighborhood blackberries, Lapin cherries, Oregon Pinot Noir and microbrews, etc. etc. etc. It was a feast, and one that I’m sure many of my out-of-town relatives will not soon forget. I live here, and even I felt a little stuffed by the end of the evening because I just couldn’t get enough. At Saturday night’s event we enjoyed traditional Lebanese fare which was great, but personally, Friday night’s meal was the one that had me swooning – with every bite, I fell in love with the Pacific Northwest all over again.
After the weekend was over and the relatives trickled back to their homes around the country, my parents asked me if I was going to report the weekend on clatter. I promised them I would (my mom's response: "You better!!"), but I still wasn’t sure which angle I wanted to take. It didn’t take long before we all agreed that the key to their successful event on Friday night was simply letting the ingredients speak for themselves. As my dad explained, even someone who doesn’t know anything about cooking (him) could prepare fresh salmon on the grill with only lemon, salt and pepper and never screw it up. While my mom vehemently disagreed with his assessment (“Oh you’ve screwed it up before!”), he did have a point (and for the record, his salmon on Friday night was perfection). It takes very low maintenance to highlight the Northwest’s best, and the ingredients offered during the summer make that even easier. You don’t need heavy dressings or sauces and you don’t need to take complex steps to prepare a meal. By all means, take the backseat approach when you’re cooking in the summer, because those ingredients will do all the talking for you. And let me tell you - they’re going to make you look good, whether you deserve it or not.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Oh the Summer Nights (tell me more, tell me more)
Alternative title: The Art of Culinary Courtship, Part Deux
Dating is a funny thing. If you’ve been on enough dates like I have, you begin to believe you’ve got it all figured out – you know how to choose the right venue, the right outfit, the right things to say. But then, just when you think you’ve got it down to a science, a guy does something that throws it all out the window: he offers to cook you dinner.
Maybe I just haven’t grown accustomed to romantic gestures like this one, but I think more than that, I didn’t know how I felt about a guy swooping in and using one of my classic moves before I even had the chance to do it myself. After all, cooking is my specialty and obviously tops my male wooing techniques. (Let the record show that my shrimp scampi from March’s post was not a contributing factor for that relationship’s failure.) But because this particular guy jumped at the chance to cook for me with such enthusiasm, I certainly couldn’t fault him for his assertiveness. Plus I could hardly wait to see what kind of skills this guy had up his sleeve. Something made me think I wouldn’t be eating Hamburger Helper chez man friend.
Gearing up for the big date all week, I decided the night before that it would be proper for me to ask if he wanted me to contribute anything to the meal. I figured my offer would be declined, but the culinary control freak in me couldn’t help but at least try to slip something in. I was wrong. “You can bring dessert if you like” he responded. Sure, I can bring dessert. Not a problem. Dessert is often what I do best. Of course this offer and acceptance came at 11:00 pm Thursday night, so I had to start thinking fast. What kind of summer dessert could I whip up tomorrow night after work and still allow enough time to primp myself, account for Friday night traffic across the bridge, and be a punctual dinner guest to arrive by 7? Hm I was stumped. I had no eggs, no cream, no berries; finally I came to the realization that in this narrow time frame, I would be forced to fit in a trip to the grocery store. Luckily I chose to forego the usual heels for flats, because after work, I practically ran through the store, picking up the necessary items to make a blueberry crisp with lemon zest whipped cream when I got home.
Multi-tasking in the kitchen is not always my strong suit, but last night, I was nothing short of amazing. Wash and sweeten berries with sugar, apply mascara. Pulse oats, flour, sugar, and butter into a coarse meal in food processor, straighten hair. You get the picture. All of this, and I still only managed to be 20 minutes late (and I'm wholeheartedly blaming the traffic on that).
After I got over the shock of how huge his kitchen is (not to get ahead of myself here, but this was definitely a kitchen I could get used to), I noticed something else startling: it was immaculate. There wasn’t an appliance, dish, or an ingredient in sight. Wait a minute: I thought he was cooking for me – had I been led here under false pretenses? Turns out I wasn’t – he’s just all about simplicity, preparation after his guest arrives, and washing dishes as he goes (something my mother has been trying to teach me for years). This approach may be far from clatter’s, but I decided I’d just sit at the bar, chat, and watch the man at work.
He started by toasting thin slices of a baguette, and then softening cream cheese in the microwave. As he made a spread for the crostini by adding wasabi paste to the cheese, fresh tuna lightly sprinkled with seasoned salt seared on the stove until just golden on the outside and still pink on the inside. Simple yet sophisticated…and delicious! I might have to steal this idea. He then turned on the grill and prepared the rest of the meal.
Just as I got settled in at the dining room table with a gorgeous view of the Columbia River from my seat and linen napkin in my lap (nice touch!), I noticed how quickly my date was eating and how little he was talking. I’m aware that I eat on the slow side (and that I don’t like to dine in silence), but this seemed a little odd. With the salmon and asparagus perfectly grilled, the rice plump, and the bread superbly soft and toasted, I just wanted to savor it. But apparently there was no time for that, because he had bigger plans in mind. As soon as I took that final bite, he quickly examined the sky, cleared my plate, and told me we had to hurry – we were going to miss it.
Sure a post-dinner stroll along the river’s trail to admire a clear view of Mt. Hood and a beautiful sunset with a good-looking chap sounded nice, but I didn’t expect to be knocked off my feet. I’ll give the guy props for his brisk walking pace (have I finally found someone who doesn’t tell me to slow down?), but what he failed to take into account was my footwear. I’m pretty good with heels, but these particular three-inch wedges are far from ideal when it comes to, well, anything other than sitting and looking pretty. So you can imagine that these shoes did not bode well for a quick jaunt to the trail’s point to catch the last moments of the setting sun. I’m all for efficiency, but taking a shortcut off the path came at a steep price. Yep you guessed it - I took a tumble and have the battle wounds (including bruised pride) to prove it. At least I could take some comfort in knowing there was a doctor close by.
Even with my less than graceful moment, we still managed to enjoy the warm summer air and catch the last of the sunset. (Are you gagging yet? This is why I write a food blog and not romance novels.) I’ll admit, I half-expected to spot The Bachelorette TV cameras and to feel Chris Harrison tap me on the shoulder as I gazed out at the water (or was it into my date’s eyes?) in order to ask me if I felt an “amazing connection” with this guy. Gosh - with a home-cooked dinner, a walk along the river at sunset, and an evening swim while blueberry crisp baked in the oven, it was almost too much for my jaded heart to take.
But even so, I’m sure you’re still dying to know: did my swain get a rose at the end of the night? You’ll have to wait until the episode airs to find out.
Dating is a funny thing. If you’ve been on enough dates like I have, you begin to believe you’ve got it all figured out – you know how to choose the right venue, the right outfit, the right things to say. But then, just when you think you’ve got it down to a science, a guy does something that throws it all out the window: he offers to cook you dinner.
Maybe I just haven’t grown accustomed to romantic gestures like this one, but I think more than that, I didn’t know how I felt about a guy swooping in and using one of my classic moves before I even had the chance to do it myself. After all, cooking is my specialty and obviously tops my male wooing techniques. (Let the record show that my shrimp scampi from March’s post was not a contributing factor for that relationship’s failure.) But because this particular guy jumped at the chance to cook for me with such enthusiasm, I certainly couldn’t fault him for his assertiveness. Plus I could hardly wait to see what kind of skills this guy had up his sleeve. Something made me think I wouldn’t be eating Hamburger Helper chez man friend.
Gearing up for the big date all week, I decided the night before that it would be proper for me to ask if he wanted me to contribute anything to the meal. I figured my offer would be declined, but the culinary control freak in me couldn’t help but at least try to slip something in. I was wrong. “You can bring dessert if you like” he responded. Sure, I can bring dessert. Not a problem. Dessert is often what I do best. Of course this offer and acceptance came at 11:00 pm Thursday night, so I had to start thinking fast. What kind of summer dessert could I whip up tomorrow night after work and still allow enough time to primp myself, account for Friday night traffic across the bridge, and be a punctual dinner guest to arrive by 7? Hm I was stumped. I had no eggs, no cream, no berries; finally I came to the realization that in this narrow time frame, I would be forced to fit in a trip to the grocery store. Luckily I chose to forego the usual heels for flats, because after work, I practically ran through the store, picking up the necessary items to make a blueberry crisp with lemon zest whipped cream when I got home.
Multi-tasking in the kitchen is not always my strong suit, but last night, I was nothing short of amazing. Wash and sweeten berries with sugar, apply mascara. Pulse oats, flour, sugar, and butter into a coarse meal in food processor, straighten hair. You get the picture. All of this, and I still only managed to be 20 minutes late (and I'm wholeheartedly blaming the traffic on that).
After I got over the shock of how huge his kitchen is (not to get ahead of myself here, but this was definitely a kitchen I could get used to), I noticed something else startling: it was immaculate. There wasn’t an appliance, dish, or an ingredient in sight. Wait a minute: I thought he was cooking for me – had I been led here under false pretenses? Turns out I wasn’t – he’s just all about simplicity, preparation after his guest arrives, and washing dishes as he goes (something my mother has been trying to teach me for years). This approach may be far from clatter’s, but I decided I’d just sit at the bar, chat, and watch the man at work.
He started by toasting thin slices of a baguette, and then softening cream cheese in the microwave. As he made a spread for the crostini by adding wasabi paste to the cheese, fresh tuna lightly sprinkled with seasoned salt seared on the stove until just golden on the outside and still pink on the inside. Simple yet sophisticated…and delicious! I might have to steal this idea. He then turned on the grill and prepared the rest of the meal.
Just as I got settled in at the dining room table with a gorgeous view of the Columbia River from my seat and linen napkin in my lap (nice touch!), I noticed how quickly my date was eating and how little he was talking. I’m aware that I eat on the slow side (and that I don’t like to dine in silence), but this seemed a little odd. With the salmon and asparagus perfectly grilled, the rice plump, and the bread superbly soft and toasted, I just wanted to savor it. But apparently there was no time for that, because he had bigger plans in mind. As soon as I took that final bite, he quickly examined the sky, cleared my plate, and told me we had to hurry – we were going to miss it.
Sure a post-dinner stroll along the river’s trail to admire a clear view of Mt. Hood and a beautiful sunset with a good-looking chap sounded nice, but I didn’t expect to be knocked off my feet. I’ll give the guy props for his brisk walking pace (have I finally found someone who doesn’t tell me to slow down?), but what he failed to take into account was my footwear. I’m pretty good with heels, but these particular three-inch wedges are far from ideal when it comes to, well, anything other than sitting and looking pretty. So you can imagine that these shoes did not bode well for a quick jaunt to the trail’s point to catch the last moments of the setting sun. I’m all for efficiency, but taking a shortcut off the path came at a steep price. Yep you guessed it - I took a tumble and have the battle wounds (including bruised pride) to prove it. At least I could take some comfort in knowing there was a doctor close by.
Even with my less than graceful moment, we still managed to enjoy the warm summer air and catch the last of the sunset. (Are you gagging yet? This is why I write a food blog and not romance novels.) I’ll admit, I half-expected to spot The Bachelorette TV cameras and to feel Chris Harrison tap me on the shoulder as I gazed out at the water (or was it into my date’s eyes?) in order to ask me if I felt an “amazing connection” with this guy. Gosh - with a home-cooked dinner, a walk along the river at sunset, and an evening swim while blueberry crisp baked in the oven, it was almost too much for my jaded heart to take.
But even so, I’m sure you’re still dying to know: did my swain get a rose at the end of the night? You’ll have to wait until the episode airs to find out.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Don't Knock It Till You Try It
I always like to think that I am not easily swayed by the many ploys of advertising and product placement in grocery stores. For example, I don’t grab a pack of gum at the checkout stand when I know I can buy the three pack for a fraction of the price in the candy aisle. I’m also aware that just because a bag of potato chips boasts “No trans fat!”, I shouldn’t necessarily interpret that to mean that it’s just as healthy as a bag of pretzels. But today, I must confess that I wiped the usual smirk from off my face and fell into that very trap of consumerism. The scene of the crime? The entrance to Trader Joe’s. The victim? A girl in business attire and looking rather vulnerable. I hadn’t even made it inside the store when a certain something caught my eye and tugged at my very heart strings. The huge bin of watermelons is hardly tough to miss, and with that rather large, visible sign with that cute TJ font stating $3.99, I thought, “Huh. Maybe I should get a watermelon.” After all, with that very melon just recently becoming a fruit even more near and dear to the hearts of my entire family, I just couldn’t resist the temptation to knock on at least 10 of them before finally placing one lucky winner in my cart. A watermelon near and dear to the heart? I’ll explain.
When my family entertains or cooks for guests, we like to do things a little differently (I take it you’ve gathered as much from some of my prior posts). While some traditions are great and shouldn’t be messed with, some American customs, well, should be. I’m not here to bash the hot dogs and hamburgers of a summer barbeque (I will, however, take the opportunity to tell you how disgusting heavy mayo’d potato salad is and should be a crime to serve); I merely want to express that sometimes it’s ok to throw a summer party and not do what’s expected. And that’s exactly the philosophy my sister adopted when she decided to throw a watermelon-themed, first birthday barbeque for my niece.
You may laugh (I know I did) at the thought of a watermelon-themed party, but you have to admit, it’s pretty darn cute, especially when you’re as creative and detailed as my sister and didn’t let any part of this celebration go without at least a reminder that watermelon was the fruit du jour. Watermelon wedge-shaped cintronella candles posted in the yard, watermelon sangria, watermelon napkins, and watermelon food trays only begin to paint the picture. Indeed, we had aprons, potholders, and bibs (those were for the nieces, not the guests…although with the messy ribs off the grill, it would have come in handy) made with watermelon-patterned fabric (thank you, Mother). I even wore watermelon-shaped earrings to commemorate the occasion (thank you again, Mother, for having impeccable taste even in the early ‘90s). I don’t know, some may say that the hosts went overboard with the theme, but I thought it was fabulous. Plus, I always love an excuse to exercise my cookie decoration craftsmanship. Here, for the first time ever, clatter has posted a picture of my creation taken from my phone. Now you understand why I stick to my words and not my photography.
My sister also made a fantastic watermelon bombe cake that had the guests ooh-ing and aah-ing. Years from now, when my niece looks back at old photographs of her first birthday, she’ll make fun of her mom for being a total dork (although I’m sure by then, there will be a way cooler slang word for that) and I will try my best to defend my sister. But I can’t make any guarantees, for I might still be bitter that I didn’t win a personal-sized watermelon during the watermelon trivia portion of the party. (Seriously, how could I not have known that the world record for watermelon eating is 13.22 pounds consumed in 15 minutes?? I’m a disgrace!)
Even at the off-chance that I’m still reeling from that defeat (I am), my respect for the watermelon has not wavered. As soon as I grabbed that hollow-sounding melon from the bin today, my mind went straight to thoughts of salads. Watermelon in anything savory initially left me skeptical (maybe aside from a salt-rimmed watermelon margarita), but I’ve seen recipes for watermelon-tomato salads with or without feta cheese way too often (I even spotted one in June’s issue of InStyle magazine!) to keep a closed mind about it. And so, tonight I figured I’d break into that melon (after throwing it in the freezer for a while to chill) and make a salad. I came across a lot of recipes in my research, but couldn’t seem to make a decision about which one I wanted to try. So instead, I just took some of those ideas I came across and ended up cubing some watermelon and adding fresh basil, crumbled feta, arugula, sea salt, freshly ground pepper, and drizzling it with balsamic and olive oil. That skepticism I once felt? Vanished in a single bite. Ok, maybe it would have tasted a tad better had I been wearing those watermelon earrings while I ate it, but the salad was still pretty tasty.
When my family entertains or cooks for guests, we like to do things a little differently (I take it you’ve gathered as much from some of my prior posts). While some traditions are great and shouldn’t be messed with, some American customs, well, should be. I’m not here to bash the hot dogs and hamburgers of a summer barbeque (I will, however, take the opportunity to tell you how disgusting heavy mayo’d potato salad is and should be a crime to serve); I merely want to express that sometimes it’s ok to throw a summer party and not do what’s expected. And that’s exactly the philosophy my sister adopted when she decided to throw a watermelon-themed, first birthday barbeque for my niece.
You may laugh (I know I did) at the thought of a watermelon-themed party, but you have to admit, it’s pretty darn cute, especially when you’re as creative and detailed as my sister and didn’t let any part of this celebration go without at least a reminder that watermelon was the fruit du jour. Watermelon wedge-shaped cintronella candles posted in the yard, watermelon sangria, watermelon napkins, and watermelon food trays only begin to paint the picture. Indeed, we had aprons, potholders, and bibs (those were for the nieces, not the guests…although with the messy ribs off the grill, it would have come in handy) made with watermelon-patterned fabric (thank you, Mother). I even wore watermelon-shaped earrings to commemorate the occasion (thank you again, Mother, for having impeccable taste even in the early ‘90s). I don’t know, some may say that the hosts went overboard with the theme, but I thought it was fabulous. Plus, I always love an excuse to exercise my cookie decoration craftsmanship. Here, for the first time ever, clatter has posted a picture of my creation taken from my phone. Now you understand why I stick to my words and not my photography.
My sister also made a fantastic watermelon bombe cake that had the guests ooh-ing and aah-ing. Years from now, when my niece looks back at old photographs of her first birthday, she’ll make fun of her mom for being a total dork (although I’m sure by then, there will be a way cooler slang word for that) and I will try my best to defend my sister. But I can’t make any guarantees, for I might still be bitter that I didn’t win a personal-sized watermelon during the watermelon trivia portion of the party. (Seriously, how could I not have known that the world record for watermelon eating is 13.22 pounds consumed in 15 minutes?? I’m a disgrace!)
Even at the off-chance that I’m still reeling from that defeat (I am), my respect for the watermelon has not wavered. As soon as I grabbed that hollow-sounding melon from the bin today, my mind went straight to thoughts of salads. Watermelon in anything savory initially left me skeptical (maybe aside from a salt-rimmed watermelon margarita), but I’ve seen recipes for watermelon-tomato salads with or without feta cheese way too often (I even spotted one in June’s issue of InStyle magazine!) to keep a closed mind about it. And so, tonight I figured I’d break into that melon (after throwing it in the freezer for a while to chill) and make a salad. I came across a lot of recipes in my research, but couldn’t seem to make a decision about which one I wanted to try. So instead, I just took some of those ideas I came across and ended up cubing some watermelon and adding fresh basil, crumbled feta, arugula, sea salt, freshly ground pepper, and drizzling it with balsamic and olive oil. That skepticism I once felt? Vanished in a single bite. Ok, maybe it would have tasted a tad better had I been wearing those watermelon earrings while I ate it, but the salad was still pretty tasty.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Hot Town, Summer in the City...
Sans air conditioning and with the heat rising (quite literally), I wasn’t really in the mood to slave over a hot stove tonight after work. Now that it’s finally summer in Portland, I had a profound thought earlier today: why is it that the best ingredients to cook with come during the months when you'd rather be prancing in a bikini at the beach (it was 85 degrees at the Oregon Coast today) than sweating it out in a sweltering kitchen? While I’m tempted to just play dead in front of a high-powered fan – which apart from my typing fingers really isn’t too far from reality – I would go to the depths of hell for my clatter readers to make sure I posted this week. And apparently tonight I won’t even have to leave home to get there. Seriously, it’s downright TORRID in here. Alright, enough blining (that’s a self-created word that combines blogging and whining) about my rather miserable AC-less living arrangement, it’s time to get to work.
Yes it’s true that when it’s really hot outside, eating real food aside from watermelon, popsicles and ice cold beer doesn’t always sound very appealing. But a girl's gotta eat to stay strong and lively (you know, in order to maintain the ability to write brilliantly), so I was trying to think of something today to make for dinner tonight that would be easy, filling, and COLD. What was the first thing I thought of? A cold, Asian noodle salad. Honestly I don’t know why I thought of this, especially considering that I’m only recently learning how to like sesame oil, fresh ginger, and various forms of the “peanut sauce”. On second thought, that’s maybe precisely why I did think of it.
I'll never quite trust a restaurant that proclaims to serve Thai, Chinese, and Korean cuisine (oh, and sushi!) all under the same roof (anyone who knows Spokane, WA is quite aware that Division provides said establishments by the dozen). However, I’ve found that when I venture into the realm of Asian gastronomy, I do just that. If I throw some fish sauce in a dish, I’ll say I’m making Thai. If I’m making a stir-fry with hoisin sauce, I’ll call it Chinese. Substitute in yakisoba noodles, and I’ve got Japanese. I know this isn’t the right thing to do, but I’m not the only guilty party. Our good friend Trader Joe makes a Gyoza Dipping Sauce that in my estimate pigeonholes almost two-thirds of the world’s eaters into a 10-ounce bottle by adding a caption that reads: “a classic Asian dipping sauce for everything Asian.” Hmm, well, at least I’m in good company.
So for dinner, I ended up adapting this Bon Appetit recipe (http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Spicy-Sesame-Noodles-with-Chopped-Peanuts-and-Thai-Basil-238798) but per the reviews and my own curiosity, I put together the following instead, measurements all ballpark. I figured I’m long overdue in posting a recipe:
AR’s Spicy Peanut Sesame Noodles
(this makes a lot – maybe 4 servings)
1/2 lb capellini pasta (yes, I’m aware this is not in any way Asian)
1 clove of minced garlic
1 tablespoon minced fresh ginger
1 minced shallot
1 tablespoon chunky peanut butter
1 tablespoon rice vinegar
2 teaspoons sesame oil
1 tablespoon Sriracha hot sauce
2 teaspoons roasted red chili paste
2 tablespoons soy sauce
chopped green onion and fresh basil
toasted sesame seeds
Cook pasta as usual, but when done rinse through with cold water. Meanwhile, sauté garlic, ginger and shallot in a bit of vegetable oil for about a minute. Whisk together all the other ingredients (minus the green onion and basil). Thoroughly toss together the pasta, sautéed garlic mixture, and sauce. Chill in fridge for at least an hour. Before eating, top with green onion, fresh basil, sesame seeds, and/or extra soy sauce and Sriracha. Word to the wise: The “chill” of the noodles doesn’t make up for the sweat that will inevitably bead your brow if you add that extra hot sauce at the end. (When will I learn?)
Ok, so in addition to the noodles, I also made some fresh Vietnamese spring rolls. (Oh who am I kidding, these are summer rolls; there's nothing spring about 95 degrees in July.) I’m calling these Vietnamese because not only did I first have them in a Vietnamese restaurant, they apparently actually exist in Vietnam. I’m still familiarizing myself with the art of rice paper rolling (i.e. I suck at it), but that fresh flavor was still there, even if all the vegetables fell out of the roll as I ate it. Tonight I stuffed mine with green cabbage, red bell pepper, cucumber, jalapeño (no seeds!), shredded carrot, cilantro, parsley, and bay shrimp. I dipped them in that famous TJ’s sauce and voila – Vietnamese food served fresh at Allison’s residence. But hold on, there’s more!
A couple of years ago when I was working in Seattle for the summer, I went to a Vietnamese place for lunch. The food itself left much to be desired, but there was one thing that made the meal worth it for me. The law partner I lunched with that day told me it was essential that I order the iced coffee. Now, keep in mind that as a former barista, law student, and a child of the Pacific Northwest, I take coffee very seriously. I like the darkest, strongest stuff you can get - and without sugar. But there was something about the iced coffee that day that was different. Was that cream in there? Simple syrup? Well, whatever it was, it was fantastic. Turns out the secret to this traditional Vietnamese beverage (known as café sua da) is sweetened condensed milk. So, in order to cool myself off tonight as I cooked and now write, I poured some leftover coffee from this morning over a tall glass of ice with about a tablespoon of sweetened condensed milk and a splash of 1%. Yum – there’s that flavor I remember! Of course the p.m. caffeine intake will have me perked till the wee hours of the morning, but it was worth it. And hey, I just got a novel idea: You could easily top this drink with whipped cream (no, not the can, the real stuff) and adorn it with a chocolate covered espresso bean and serve it to guests for a special coffee drink dessert on a hot summer day. Or better yet, you could blend it and call it something like, oh I don’t know, a frappuccino…
Yes it’s true that when it’s really hot outside, eating real food aside from watermelon, popsicles and ice cold beer doesn’t always sound very appealing. But a girl's gotta eat to stay strong and lively (you know, in order to maintain the ability to write brilliantly), so I was trying to think of something today to make for dinner tonight that would be easy, filling, and COLD. What was the first thing I thought of? A cold, Asian noodle salad. Honestly I don’t know why I thought of this, especially considering that I’m only recently learning how to like sesame oil, fresh ginger, and various forms of the “peanut sauce”. On second thought, that’s maybe precisely why I did think of it.
I'll never quite trust a restaurant that proclaims to serve Thai, Chinese, and Korean cuisine (oh, and sushi!) all under the same roof (anyone who knows Spokane, WA is quite aware that Division provides said establishments by the dozen). However, I’ve found that when I venture into the realm of Asian gastronomy, I do just that. If I throw some fish sauce in a dish, I’ll say I’m making Thai. If I’m making a stir-fry with hoisin sauce, I’ll call it Chinese. Substitute in yakisoba noodles, and I’ve got Japanese. I know this isn’t the right thing to do, but I’m not the only guilty party. Our good friend Trader Joe makes a Gyoza Dipping Sauce that in my estimate pigeonholes almost two-thirds of the world’s eaters into a 10-ounce bottle by adding a caption that reads: “a classic Asian dipping sauce for everything Asian.” Hmm, well, at least I’m in good company.
So for dinner, I ended up adapting this Bon Appetit recipe (http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Spicy-Sesame-Noodles-with-Chopped-Peanuts-and-Thai-Basil-238798) but per the reviews and my own curiosity, I put together the following instead, measurements all ballpark. I figured I’m long overdue in posting a recipe:
AR’s Spicy Peanut Sesame Noodles
(this makes a lot – maybe 4 servings)
1/2 lb capellini pasta (yes, I’m aware this is not in any way Asian)
1 clove of minced garlic
1 tablespoon minced fresh ginger
1 minced shallot
1 tablespoon chunky peanut butter
1 tablespoon rice vinegar
2 teaspoons sesame oil
1 tablespoon Sriracha hot sauce
2 teaspoons roasted red chili paste
2 tablespoons soy sauce
chopped green onion and fresh basil
toasted sesame seeds
Cook pasta as usual, but when done rinse through with cold water. Meanwhile, sauté garlic, ginger and shallot in a bit of vegetable oil for about a minute. Whisk together all the other ingredients (minus the green onion and basil). Thoroughly toss together the pasta, sautéed garlic mixture, and sauce. Chill in fridge for at least an hour. Before eating, top with green onion, fresh basil, sesame seeds, and/or extra soy sauce and Sriracha. Word to the wise: The “chill” of the noodles doesn’t make up for the sweat that will inevitably bead your brow if you add that extra hot sauce at the end. (When will I learn?)
Ok, so in addition to the noodles, I also made some fresh Vietnamese spring rolls. (Oh who am I kidding, these are summer rolls; there's nothing spring about 95 degrees in July.) I’m calling these Vietnamese because not only did I first have them in a Vietnamese restaurant, they apparently actually exist in Vietnam. I’m still familiarizing myself with the art of rice paper rolling (i.e. I suck at it), but that fresh flavor was still there, even if all the vegetables fell out of the roll as I ate it. Tonight I stuffed mine with green cabbage, red bell pepper, cucumber, jalapeño (no seeds!), shredded carrot, cilantro, parsley, and bay shrimp. I dipped them in that famous TJ’s sauce and voila – Vietnamese food served fresh at Allison’s residence. But hold on, there’s more!
A couple of years ago when I was working in Seattle for the summer, I went to a Vietnamese place for lunch. The food itself left much to be desired, but there was one thing that made the meal worth it for me. The law partner I lunched with that day told me it was essential that I order the iced coffee. Now, keep in mind that as a former barista, law student, and a child of the Pacific Northwest, I take coffee very seriously. I like the darkest, strongest stuff you can get - and without sugar. But there was something about the iced coffee that day that was different. Was that cream in there? Simple syrup? Well, whatever it was, it was fantastic. Turns out the secret to this traditional Vietnamese beverage (known as café sua da) is sweetened condensed milk. So, in order to cool myself off tonight as I cooked and now write, I poured some leftover coffee from this morning over a tall glass of ice with about a tablespoon of sweetened condensed milk and a splash of 1%. Yum – there’s that flavor I remember! Of course the p.m. caffeine intake will have me perked till the wee hours of the morning, but it was worth it. And hey, I just got a novel idea: You could easily top this drink with whipped cream (no, not the can, the real stuff) and adorn it with a chocolate covered espresso bean and serve it to guests for a special coffee drink dessert on a hot summer day. Or better yet, you could blend it and call it something like, oh I don’t know, a frappuccino…
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