Only You Know Best

People like to give me crap about hardly ever writing on my blog. I agree with them. People also like to give me crap for not knowing geography. I laugh with them. I manage to be a good sport most of the time, but like Barbara Streisand and Donna Summers belted out in the empowering (and annoyingly catchy) duet in the late 1970s, enough is enough. I don't let people push me around. Consider this post my rebuttal.

So, I don't mean to brag, but this past weekend I ate "the best taco in America." Sounds like a big deal, right? I visited at a little place in San Antonio called Taco Taco Cafe. San Antonio is the seventh largest city in the U.S. and located in the state of Texas. Did you catch that accurate statement of geography? POINT ONE. Anyway, about the taco... Bon Appetit dubbed it as such in 2007... and although I didn't catch the episode, Guy Fieri apparently flipped out over it on the Food Network's Drive-ins, Diners, and Dives. While I spent my hard-earned per diem in this so-called, up-and-coming foodie city of San Antonio on blackened Texas redfish with grits and other mediocre Tex Mex, Taco Taco was the highlight of the trip. Sadly I didn't stay long enough to enjoy some good ol', artery-cloggin' Texas barbecue. Maybe next time I'm in Texas, I will - but I'll make sure it's Austin. (When I do visit, I will be prepared to argue how we Portlanders keep our city weirder than them.)

At Taco Taco, we joined the enthusiastic crowd and stood in line for at least a half-hour. As we waited and chatted with some locals, we were visited by the sweet older Greek woman behind the establishment (if you don't trust a Greek making Mexican, think again.) For a few minutes, she escaped what I imagine to be a very hot, cramped kitchen where she makes all the tortillas by hand - considering how many people roll through the place every day, that is a LOT of tortillas - to meet the patrons. It was a very nice touch - and I almost felt like I was meeting a celebrity. I told her we were from Portland and because Oregon isn't exactly known for its Mexican food, we were especially excited. Once we finally snagged a table, I ordered what I had been instructed to order by the reviews: a Taco El Norteño. It's a large grilled flour tortilla and folded in half, and filled with grilled chicken, onions, and green peppers, refried pinto beans, melted cheese and avocado. Perhaps it was a little heavy on the beans (but only because I'm not a big refried fan), a little skimpy on the avocado and cheese, but still very satisfying. If I could do it again, I would have also tried one of their award-winning breakfast tacos. So, you're probably wondering: would I really call a Taco Taco taco the best taco in America? Eh, maybe (although it is quite fun to say "taco" four times in one sentence). How about the best tortilla in America? It would definitely in the running!

After returning to the Northwest after my few days in Texas, I happened to drink the best cider. Ever. Because I am lucky enough to know someone with an apple press, I got to observe (and occasionally assist) in the making of fresh cider. Throwing whole apples, pomegranates, and grapes into the large wooden contraption had my mind flashing the woodchipper scene in Fargo (I much prefer fruit to human flesh), the fruits were broken down and pressed into the sweetest, most delicious tasting cider my mouth had ever experienced. What a remarkable and surprisingly simple process it was to make the nectar of the gods. Turns out nothing captures the essence of an apple quite like fresh apple cider off the press. Nothing.

Whew! The "best" taco and the best (NO quotations) cider in one weekend? Now there's something to blog about. POINT TWO.

And with that, Your Honor, the defense rests.

Under Pressure

A morning without coffee is like....the Pacific Northwest without rain. Oh, that was bad. I've never been good at analogies. I think I'm better at saying what I mean, plain and simple, such as: I want coffee. I need coffee. Without coffee, my standard level of functioning plummets. There's no way I would have survived through law school without it.

As I have mentioned at least once before on clatter, I am a proud former Peet's Coffee barista (picture me throwing up my Peetnik for Life gang sign). I like to think with such credentials to my name, I have a decent palate when it comes to coffee. You may recall that I once praised Starbucks Via instant coffee, but please note that instant coffee is typically, for lack of a better cliché, not my cup of tea. I like the good, strong stuff - not the watered-down kind you might find at your parents' church or a 24-hour Denny's. If it doesn't make me jittery, I'm not interested.

Last month when I visited my boyfriend in Chicago, he served me one superb cup of coffee in his home. Don't think I'm saying such things because I happen to have warm and fuzzy feelings for the barista; it truly was one of the best homemade cups of coffee I had ever had. Of course as I sipped away, I wondered why it tasted so much better than the coffee I make at home. Was it the Intelligentsia coffee beans he brewed? Or the fluffy milk made from his fancy Bodum frother (I use the $2 one from Ikea)? Could it have been the Burgerville mug he served it in? Or was it the method he used to make the coffee? At first I thought he was merely using technology's latest model of the French press, but I was sorely mistaken. This was no French press. This, my friends, was the AeroPress. He swore by the thing, and I quickly considered whether I should do the same.

I suppose it was only natural after my heavenly coffee experience in Chicago that I would need to attempt it myself. Either out of pure kindness or a gentle hint that the coffee made in my apartment is crap (despite his insistence that it's not), he purchased my very own AeroPress over the weekend. This morning before work, I tried it out for the first time. What better way to make Monday morning a little less painful than a deliciously executed cup o' joe? I read the directions ahead of time, and then I began to take action - grinding the illy beans extra fine, boiling water, figuring out what piece goes where, etc. As I added the ground beans, poured the hot water into the chamber, secured the rubber sealed plunger on top and began to apply the "gentle pressure" indicated on the directions, I suddenly realized I forgot a step. I didn't stir the coffee grounds in the water! That's ok, I thought, I'll just stop applying the pressure, remove the plunger from the chamber and stir before continuing. No problem, right? Wrong. Big mistake. Huge.

Take it from me: you don't want to anger the AeroPress. Do it wrong and it will turn on you. Just consider the science behind the AeroPress. Pressing the plunger inside the chamber creates enough air pressure to transform coffee grounds and water into crazy good espresso. If it takes energy on your part to press down the plunger because of the created pressure, it will take energy to pull the plunger up and out of the chamber because of the tight fit. Except that you really shouldn't be doing that at all, because you'll end up being more forceful with the thing than you should until you release the demons and get burned by the AeroPress - both figuratively and literally. That's right - it happened. In my defense, I never claimed to be anything more than a walking disaster.

Have you seen that commercial where a father and daughter conduct a volcano science experiment in the kitchen that goes awry, but then the mom saves the day with her miracle cleaning product? What happened to me this morning came close to art imitating life. Imagine a mini explosive full of coffee grounds and hot water suddenly detonating in a small Portland apartment in front of an unsuspecting girl. Now imagine the chaos that ensues in the aftermath. There is screaming. There is swearing. There is a white shirt. Why does she need the effects of caffeine in the morning when there's an AeroPress explosion to wake her up with one single jolt?

Once I recovered (well, sorta - my left hand burned from the hot water for at least an hour afterwards and my mom never showed up with her miracle cleaning product), I tried the process again. If there's one thing I'm not, it's a quitter. And I sure am glad I'm not. What came next after following the written instructions perfectly was the smoothiest, most flavorful homemade coffee I've had since that cup in Chicago.

Maybe the AeroPress and I didn't become instant friends, but I can say with a great amount of certainty that we are now. I can't wait to bond with it again tomorrow morning. You better believe I'll never forget to stir again before securing the plunger in the chamber! But I might wear black tomorrow just to be safe.

Give me tapas or give me death!

Me thinks I've forgotten how to write. Um, how does this whole 'blogging' thing work again?

Perhaps I've been less than reliable when it comes to posting. And perhaps you thought that I've had better things to do than sit in front of a computer for the last month and a half. The truth of the matter is...I have. Europeans take the month of August off, so I figured why shouldn't I? It was the least I could do really, in order to fully enjoy the summer and properly prepare for my trip to Spain and Ireland. Dear friends, I am happy to report that I have safely returned from foreign lands after two weeks of wondrous sightseeing, girlfriend bonding, and good eating - with plenty of libations to boot.

Weeks before I left for my trip, I read somewhere that the food in Spain is some of the most delicious in the world, and it is considered one of the most underrepresented cuisines in the United States. You can only imagine how reading something like that would get me excited and evoke hype like clatter has never seen before. Throughout our trip, my travelmates suggested on several occasions that I should 'clatter' this, or 'clatter' that...and I agreed. I came across plenty to write about on the ol' blog. The thing is...I should have taken notes. I suffer from short term memory problems, you see. How could I be so irresponsible?! Luckily, sometimes the best things in life, like extra special food memories, won't soon be forgotten.

If there's one food I would guess that the Spaniards love the most, it's got to be jamon. Jamon, jamon, jamon - it's everywhere! Shop after shop, jamon (the Spanish version of ham) would hang from the ceilings, in window displays, and smell, well, like a good hunk o' pig. Good luck finding a menu that doesn't have it in some form or another. I also learned the extent in which Spaniards like to ease very slowly into their day. In a typical day, they might drink espresso or a cafe con leche (mmm) until noon, lunch at 14:30, siesta from 15:30 to 17:30, snack on churros, and then eat dinner at 21:00 or 22:00. Those Spanish folks - they are creatures of the night! Not until well after the sun goes down do they truly come alive. It took a number of days, but eventually we got into the Spanish lifestyle.

Because we only had a couple of nights in Madrid (one of which we were jetlagged and worthless to the world), it seemed that in some ways our Spanish trip didn't truly begin until we arrived in San Sebastian. San Sebastian is a beach town located in the northeastern border of Spain and France. It is part of the Basque Country - which has been dubbed a culinary capital. In San Sebastian, the night is all about txikiteo (don't ask me to pronounce that). That is, tapas bar hopping. While my dear Rick Steves, my pseudo-boyfriend on this trip (sorry, Gabe), explicitly explained in his guidebook (that I carried around like a bible) how the tapas phenomenon works in Basque Country, we failed to listen to him the first night. After that warm Mediterranean sun set, we found that the narrow streets of San Sebastian woke up from its siesta and became bustling with people. Every drinking hole and little restaurant we passed was filled with colorful small dishes and little sandwiches around the bar area. No joke - all of them! The problem was, we didn't know what to do.

We quickly learned that unless you know the language (and I mean Basque, not Spanish), you may have some trouble without the help of fellow English speakers to tell you what to do (Irish and Canadian folks we met helped us out) and sexy Rick, of course. San Sebastian is not the best place to eat as an American tourist unless you know the procedure - but as we learned, once you figure it out, it can pay off immensely. Our first night we hadn't done our homework and found ourselves much too timid to go into any of the bars. We were lame, I admit, but to us, the whole tapas bar hopping thing was very intimidating. (Was this a new kind of Spanish Inquisition - the type that forces you to eat tapas or starve to death?) By our second night in San Sebastian, however, we gave ourselves a pep talk, learned the lingo, and threw ourselves in the ring. In case you're curious, here are the quick steps to succeed in txikiteo for four American girls:

1) After walking into a bar, ask the bartender for "quattro platos, por favor." Until you ask for a plate, he'll only stare at you like you've walked into his home without knocking. Once the bartender knows you're interesting in eating, he'll become alive and happy.

2) Once you're given a plate, pick and choose which little sandwiches and Spanish delicacies (often on sticks) you would like to try. This was the part where clatter got excited! There are plenty of mysterious dishes to choose from (and some that you'll see at every single bar) and I found myself overwhelmed, but I tried my best to be adventurous. Sometimes it's best not to know what you're eating.

3) Order a drink. We stuck with either "quattro cana" (draft beer) or "quattro sidra" (cider) because that's all we knew how to say. The usual beer on tap, San Miguel, is not very good - but it's cold and perfect to wash down any mystery tapas that don't agree with the taste buds.

4) After you're done eating and drinking, figure out how many tapas you had so you can pay. If you want to be really fancy, ask the bartender "Zenbat da?", which apparently means "How much?" I could never manage to say it without sounding Asian, so I never actually attempted the phrase while hopping. Nevertheless, zenbat da (with or without the question mark) became our favorite phrase to use in any situation throughout our trip. The more we used it, the funnier it became. We apologize to all the Basque speakers out there for butchering their language.

5) Repeat steps 1 through 4 at the next bar. And the next. And the next. When you're full (and/or drunk), you are allowed to stop.

Once clatter put a txikiteo feather in its hat, we were off to Barcelona. After getting a recommendation from one of my travelmate's friends who is studying in Madrid, we made our way to Cerveceria Catalana for dinner one night. We ordered all sorts of tapas - portions just big enough to split four ways for one or two bites. Boiled prawns, pork tenderloin, grilled asparagus, fried squid rings with tons of freshly squeezed lemon juice, warm escalivada (roasted eggplant and red peppers) with goat cheese, toasted bread with crushed tomatoes and olive oil, grilled cutterfish....ahhhhhh. With a chilled bottle of cava, the meal was SO good. Between bites, I couldn't help but exclaim, with wide eyes and expressive hands, "This is foodie heaven." Because honestly, it really was. I believe it was at that moment that I felt enlightened as to why the Spaniards are brilliant with their tapas: a bite or two of the best quality food is really all you need to satisfy your palate. Hands down, our evening at Catalana was the best food experience during our trip - and it might even be a clatter Top Five best food moment of all time. Bold statement, I know, but that's how serious I am!

We learned that while tapas can be delicious, sometimes it's nice to have a REAL, full portioned meal. You know, the eat-until-you-are-so-stuffed-you-need-a-gurney-to-wheel-you-out-of-the-restaurant kind. We didn't find that in Spain (the same cannot be said for Ireland), and it is no surprise that the Spaniards are thin and trim. After experiencing the Spanish built-in portion control plus walking all day long for a week straight, I've been thinking a lot about writing a book called American Girls in Spain Don't Get Fat. That's never been done before, right?

Thirsty? Drink a Mr. Newman.

With those striking baby blues and stellar acting chops, Paul Newman was and continues to be even after his death in 2008, by most movie buffs’ standards, one of the Hollywood greats. For me, the best part about Paul Newman is not his brilliant performance in The Color of Money, his handsome appearance (even as an older man, he still had it), or that he was married to his wife for 50 years. Nope – I just like his limeade.

Ever since the man in the green hat and bow tie - not to be mistaken for the Man with the Yellow Hat - caught my eye last week in the grocery store, I couldn’t help but grab a carton while simultaneously envisioning a beautiful and wonderfully thirst-quenching future with him. While the limeade is quite good on its own, I dreamt (which, in case you weren't aware, is the only word in the English language that ends in "mt") of something with a little more depth...and, well, with a little booze.

When I was a kid, I loved Dairy Queen. (Yes, I still do.) Besides the cherry-dipped cone and the “full meal deal,” one of my favorite items on the menu growing up was the Mr. Misty. Lest you forget, the Mr. Misty is a slushy ice drink made with artificial fruit flavors and high fructose corn syrup. An ideal treat for a hot summer day, the Mr. Misty came in a variety of flavors, but I remember particularly enjoying the lemon-lime. Not that I spend much time at Dairy Queen these days, but when I have found myself inside its doors, I have not seen the Mr. Misty on the menu (trust me, I’ve looked). I just assumed that DQ had taken a turn for the worse and nixed it from their menu, but it turns out the Mr. Misty is still offered, but under the guise of the "Arctic Blast". I would like to take this time and space to publicly denounce this name change. Arctic Blast? Wasn't that one of Portland's local news station's title for the winter storm that dumped two millimeters of snow? I don't care what anyone says, the Mr. Misty will always remain the Mr. Misty in my heart.

With childhood nostalgia on the brain lately, I've been on a throwback beverage kick. My coworkers may make fun of me for sipping on Capri Suns in my office, but I know they're just jealous. (They'd be even more jealous to know that by night, my Capri Suns have flirted with the likes of vodka). While I've already got my sights set on whipping up a batch of Orange Julius (+ rum) one day soon, with this limeade in my possession, I knew this was my opportunity to de-virginize (is that too vulgar for a family-friendly blog?) Newman’s Own limeade with NO high fructose corn syrup(!) into a fantastical, Mr. Misty-inspired summer cocktail.

Crushed ice, limeade, frozen raspberries, and a wee little bit of Grey Goose vodka. Mmmmmmm. Deliciously refreshing and undeniably playful, the Mr. Newman goes down smooth and fast. GENERAL SURGEON'S WARNING: This beverage puts you at high risk for major brain freeze. Throwing out a fist as you cry a frustrated "Newman!" may also occur.

Keeping Up with Currant Events

Hello there, stranger. Have you missed me?

Last week a friend of mine called me to make sure I was ok because there had been no word on clatter for over a month. With the best fruits and vegetables of the year at the forefront, summer should be the time of year when I can’t stop thinking and writing about food. The truth of the matter is my mind has been far, far away from blogging. I’ve been busy cranking out way too much legal jargon on a daily basis in attempt to sound like a smart lawyer and keep my boss off my back. (What a brain sucker.) More interestingly though, I’ve also been occupied doing my best Meg Ryan impression (during her cute, pre-lip injection phase) by starring in my own real-life romantic comedy.

I could go into painstaking detail of the rom-com’s premise and take you through the movie, scene-by-scene. I could make you laugh, make you cry, make you laugh and cry at the same time, gag at the film's cheesiness, and then 10 minutes later, tug at your heartstrings at its very sweetness. But I’ll spare you the spoilers (plus I don’t yet know how it ends). I’d much rather have you blow your well-earned money on a $12 ticket and $5 bag of Twizzlers when the movie comes to a theatre near you. Until then, I’ll give you a clip to tide you over.

One summer afternoon, the girl accompanies the boy to his parents’ house to pick berries. While she quietly curses the drizzle and 67 degree weather in the middle of July, the girl cannot help but marvel at his parents’ beautiful home and yard (truly one that could appear in a Nancy Meyers’ movie). After his mother greets the girl with the warmest of welcomes and shows her an embarrassing/downright adorable first grade photo of the boy wearing a bright orange sweatshirt with a clip-on tie (and the girl reflects on the fact that this photo was taken merely one year before she beat him in the spelling bee), they get to picking.

They could have spent all day picking and filled an entire freezer with fruit, the bounty of raspberries, blueberries, and red currants more than one household could ever handle. Most of the blueberry bushes needed more time and some warmer weather before reaching their full potential, so the girl and boy focus mostly on picking the raspberries and currants. As she picked (much more efficiently than the boy, mind you), the culinary-inclined protagonist could not help but remain deep in thought about what she could do with fresh red currants. A day later, she was still thinking about it…

Best to my knowledge and failing memory in my 29 years, I don’t believe I had ever tasted a fresh red currant before yesterday. Tart with an absence of that certain sweetness most people expect from a berry, fresh currants are often made into jam. I had only had dried currants in scones before, so you can imagine my excitement at the thought of experimenting, eating, and (hopefully) extolling the virtues of a rather unfamiliar summer berry.

I decided to do what I like to do best: keep things easy and simple, but still try to look and sound fancy enough that people will be really impressed with my accomplishment. Is there a better way to fake fancy in cooking than to use a French word? I think not. With an unopened half gallon of Tillamook vanilla bean ice cream in my freezer, my decision came quickly: I would make red currant coulis. Coulis (pronounced COO-LEE) is the French’s way of describing a thick sauce made of pureed fruit or vegetables. From what I can tell, coulis is basically a compote, except that a sieve is used to remove the seeds.

After washing and cooking the currants with sugar and water, I pressed them through a sieve disguised as a cheese grater (not a perfect substitution to cheese CLOTH, but it got me by). Voila! Coulis was born. It’s that easy to be fancy. And now to extol: currant coulis really is a great topping to drizzle on ice cream… preferably to be eaten while watching a romantic comedy. In my expert opinion, the cornier the movie, the better the dessert will taste.

Don't Go Breaking My Heart

The month of June is such a tease. June is like that guy you’re just starting to date. You’re quite certain he likes you and finds you remarkably interesting, and in turn he begins to show you his charm, his warmth, his true colors. You might have a really good day with him, and you can’t help but let your expectations escalate. You think, “Wow, this guy might be something special. I’m so excited to see what lies ahead for us!” But then, perhaps on the very next day (or even as early as the next hour), it seems he is pulling away and turns cold. Naturally, you begin to question whether he’s merely playing you. Just when you decide you should write him off as a flirt and nothing more, he shows up again, shining his rays of light and presenting you with beautiful flowers. I don’t care what girls may say, they always like getting flowers. Especially peonies.

It’s probably bad form to do this on my blog, but I’m much too non-confrontational to do it in person. Please bear with me while I get this off my chest. I’m a little nervous.

June, I feel like you’re messing with me. I like you, but you’re all over the place - you’re hot one minute, you’re cold the next. I'm always wondering which version of you I might get on the phone tonight. (Thank you, Taylor Swift, for that line.) I’m being such a girl right now, overanalyzing the things you do and constantly asking myself whether I’m wearing the appropriate clothing. I know it’s early on (this is only our 11th day together), but why is it that you’ll be sunny and warm towards me, but then suddenly you turn cloudy and chilly? Are you afraid of commitment? I understand the internal struggle you must feel – half of you is in spring and the other half in summer. But it’s cruel to show the summer side of you prematurely and then take it away (not to mention make me put my sweater on and then take it off again 20 times a day). I realize that I can’t ask a lot from you, but why can’t I just get the best of you? I don’t mean to make you jealous, but you should probably know that there are others I have my eye on – namely July, August, and September. I see such potential in you, but your moodiness makes me wonder if I should simple forget you and look forward to a brighter (and warmer) future.

Whew! I feel better. That was good catharsis.

I caught some of June’s coyness today at the Hollywood Farmers Market. Seeing and smelling all the late spring flowers, herbs, strawberries, greens, sweet carrots, etc., etc., etc., made me want it to be summer – like real summer (no flirting, no games) - so bad. I can’t wait for the varieties of tomatoes, raspberries and blackberries, green beans, and so much more. Such as popsicles. And ice cream. Lots of ice cream.

At the market this morning, I picked up luscious rainbow chard, radishes, yellow zucchini, and a bunch of Walla Walla spring salad onions. As I perused Aurora, Oregon’s very own Big B Farms’ display, I spotted something I hadn’t seen before: an odd-looking variety of leek, the actual name of which is completely lost on me at the moment. (Was it leek bulbs?) Here’s a visual instead.



Of course I was intrigued by this specimen, but I wanted more information, so I decided to ask Farmer Big B himself (do realize that I have no idea if this guy is a farmer – let alone the farmer - but he worked behind the table so I figured he must know something). As I inquired, he grabbed three from a bunch, handed them to me, told me to treat and prepare them like asparagus, and report back. We exchanged some nice leek banter, and I walked away with free produce.

June may be fickle and unreliable with its weather, but at least I know I will always enjoy a day at the farmers market….that is, as long as it’s not raining.

Go Ahead, Make My Day

I like to think that I am a fairly humble person, but even so, there are a few accomplishments in my life that I have no qualms in bragging about. As I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, any success in the kitchen would fall under this category. Another would be that after driving for 13 years, I’ve never been pulled over by a police officer. Some of you may challenge this by reminding me that I once got pulled over and cited by a cop while riding my bike in college. (For those of you who don’t know this story, just ask. It’s a good one.) To avoid any confusion, I will clarify by stating that I’ve never been pulled over by a police officer while driving a car. I now deeply regret to inform you all that after last Friday evening, I can no longer say that.

Preparing for a weekend trip to the vibrant and bustling city of Kennewick, WA for a birthday celebration, I made a quick stop at Fred Meyer to pick up a few items. As I pulled out of the parking lot and onto NE Glisan to make my way to the freeway, I looked down for a brief (ever so brief!) moment to turn up the volume on my phone and to place it in my middle console. Bringing my focus back to the road then (with hands at ten and two!), I glanced at my rear view mirror. I’m usually pretty quick on the uptake, but there was a good five to ten second delay before I realized that the flashing red and blue lights coming from the motorcycle directly behind me was 1) a cop and 2) that the cop was flashing his lights at ME. Other than an excited utterance or two in the form of an expletive, I remained cool, calm, and collected as I veered right onto the nearest side street, wondering what I could have possibly done wrong. My relaxed demeanor proved to be very short-lived indeed.

Even though at that moment I had never experienced the act of getting pulled over by a cop on the road before, I still figured I knew the drill. After all, I’d seen it a million times before on TV and movies. So why I decided to turn off my car and open my car door rather than roll down the window is anyone’s guess. As the cop approached my car and asked if my driver side window was broken, I stammered as if under interrogation and guilty of some heinous crime, and explained that the window wasn’t broken and I wasn’t sure why I had done that. That’s when I took the time to actually look up at this man in uniform to see what he might ask next. I believe I reacted then in a manner that any girl of similar like and kind might: “Whoa, this cop is kinda…hot.” Bringing myself back to reality, I followed his next instructions and handed him my driver’s license.

As I sat there when he studied it (and likely wondered why I look like a 300-pound terrorist in my picture), my mind began to retain all that material I thought I had forgotten from criminal procedure in law school, e.g. reasonable suspicion, the plain view doctrine, and what constitutes probable cause to search the trunk. Of course it’s not like I was under the influence or possessed illegal substances or had any open containers in the car, but as soon as I started to look around, I began to sweat a little bit. There was the bottle of root beer in the cup holder with the uncanny resemblance to a bottle of beer, and the four bottles of sparkling wine in the backseat, and the bottle of Bacardi rum next to them. The only innocent item in sight appeared to be my box of Good ‘n Plenty. [Insert dumb donut joke here.]

Just as I was about to blurt out, “Officer, this is not as bad as it looks!” he asked for my registration and proof of insurance. Reaching for the glove compartment, I realized how jittery I had become. First I couldn’t find the current insurance information and then I couldn’t locate the current registration, and as papers were spilling out in every which way and I was muttering to myself about how I need to be more organized, I came to terms with the fact that I was a disaster.

Finally I handed the correct documents to Officer Hotness and that’s when I realized I seriously needed to get a grip if I wanted to avoid getting a ticket. The internal pep talk commenced: Allison, stop being a befuddled fool and get it together! You need to get your head in the game. Take a deep breath and channel the inner actress in you. Waterworks, please remain on standby. Batting your eyelashes and turning on the charm should prove to be a less difficult task when your subject is this easy on the eyes.

The cop then began to explain that he had pulled me over because he noticed that I had looked down at something and it appeared that I was texting. (“Officer, I really wasn’t,” I asserted in my sweetest tone possible.) As he droned on about the dangers in texting while driving and the new law now in place and the expense of those tickets, I realized that this might just be a lecture and nothing more. As soon as he said, “I’m actually on my way home now, but…” I knew then that I was home free. No ticket, even without having to use tear or flirting tactics? Victory for me! As he walked back to his bike, I reflected on the biggest surprise of all: I couldn’t believe he made not one comment about my apparent alcohol problem.

So, maybe I can no longer say that I’ve never been pulled over by a cop, BUT I can still brag that I’ve never been pulled over by a cop and gotten a ticket. Don’t think for one second though that I didn’t take anything away from this little experience. Next time, I will be sure to 1) roll down my window; 2) have current registration and proof of insurance readily available; 3) keep all alcoholic beverages in the trunk (just in case); and 4) take a chill pill. Lesson learned, Officer Hotness, lesson learned.

A Dying Wish

At one point or another, I know you've contemplated it: if you were on death row, what would you request as your last meal before you meet your maker?

According to last meal history, the requests have truly run the gamut. For example, there has been the pious approach (Joan of Arc - holy communion); the classy (Edward Hartman of North Carolina - Greek salad, linguini with white clam sauce, garlic bread, and cheesecake with cherry topping); the petite (Victor Feguer of Iowa - a single olive with the pit still in); the weird and stinky (Harold Lloyd McElmurry of Oklahoma - a pint of chicken livers, cottage cheese, and one raw white onion); the generous (Philip Workman of Tennessee - he declined a special meal for himself, but asked that a large vegetarian pizza be given to a homeless person); and the downright gluttonous (Dennis Wayne Bagwell of Texas - medium rare steak with A1 Steak Sauce, fried chicken breasts and thighs, BBQ ribs, French fries, onion rings, bacon, scrambled eggs with onions, fried potatoes with onions, sliced tomatoes, salad with ranch dressing, two hamburgers, peach pie, milk, coffee, and iced tea with real sugar).

Gross. How in the world did these people keep this stuff down?

While I have no immediate plans to make it to the slammer with a death sentence to boot, I've thought long and hard about my last meal request. It's a tough one. I was always quite certain that my request would at least in part follow what Timothy McVeigh had in mind (2 pints of Ben & Jerry's mint chocolate chip ice cream), but I'm starting to have second thoughts about that after something has recently come to light.

Eat St., a show on Food Network Canada, recently featured a number of food carts around the U.S., including the beloved Big Egg in Portland. (It also featured P-town's Brunch Box and Creme de la Creme, a cart I've been meaning to visit because it's walking distance from my apartment.) I haven't actually watched this episode (or the show...or the network for that matter), but its website has included a recipe from the Big Egg. Oh Canada, bless your heart.

Do clatter a favor, will you? Please give that to the warden to pass along to the kitchen crew of the penitentiary of which I will be instated. Thank you - I will be eternally grateful.

With this delectable Monte Cristo sandwich recipe now in my possession, I think I can die in peace. Preferably not by lethal injection.

It's Not Easy Being Green

I’ve never had a lot of sympathy for Kermit the Frog. Sure, “having to spend each day the color of leaves” has its downside, but the guy still has it pretty good. After all, when a manic, high maintenance lady pig treats you like a god, how bad could it be?

Personally, I pity a different kind of green living thing. I present to you the world’s worst-sounding edible plant:



Picking up a few fruits and veggies after work at my favorite local “farm”, I did a double take when I saw this sign. Wild pig weed? What? That sounds disgusting. Obviously I grabbed a bunch immediately – I couldn’t wait to try it!

As soon as I got home, I got on the Internet to do some research on said greens. I was amazed by how little information my Google search rendered, but I gathered enough to learn that pigweed is actually one word, not two (shame on you, Kruger Farms!) and that it is often prepared as cooked spinach would be – boiled, steamed, or sautéed. After nibbling on a couple of the leaves, I decided that I didn’t want to cook it; I want to eat it raw. On the tongue, the pigweed gives something less peppery than arugula and less bitter than dandelion greens. It could easily be mistaken for watercress, both in flavor and appearance. Maybe it’s just me, but the wild pigweed tastes an awful lot like…spring.

Could clatter be blazing a trail here? When the next person’s interest is piqued by a sign that says “wild pigweed” and he googles it, will clatter provide him all the answers about this mysterious leafy green? Of course not, but he will learn one important thing about me: I’ll take wild pigweed over Miss Piggy any day. She’s all yours, Kermie.

Mortal Beloved

I heard on the radio this morning that starting tomorrow, four planets – Venus, Jupiter, Mercury and Mars – will be visible to the naked eye for the next month. I imagine this would be quite the sight to see in the wee hours of the morning. While I probably won’t get the chance to see the planets myself, I have been gazing up at the stars a lot lately....

Star light, star bright
First star I see tonight
I wish I may, I wish I might
Please make me finish Beloved tonight.

Book: Beloved
Author: Toni Morrison
Year: 1987

clatter’s nutshell summary and review:
In theory, I was supposed to love this book. I was supposed to lose myself in its spellbinding powers and feel all sorts of things that no other author has ever made me feel before. The only thing I'm really feeling is this: For the love of Oprah, please don't make me read that again.

I've read Morrison before: The Bluest Eye affected me the disturbing ways, and Sula, well, I don't remember much about that one. But this is the Toni Morrison I’m supposed to read. This is the Pulitzer Prize winner - the one that takes the cake, the one that established Toni Morrison as a game changer, the one that John Leonard of the Los Angeles Times says he “can’t imagine American literature without.” Hm, well folks, I can. And I feel just fine.

I was a comp lit major, so I like weird, scratch-your-head literature (you know, the-books-that-make-you-go-huh). Sometimes, that is. When I decided I needed to have this novel under my belt, I suddenly felt an immense amount of pressure to understand why every major book review called Beloved a triumph! A masterpiece! Dazzling! Magical! Astounding! Overpowering!

Overpowering, yes. Now there's an adjective I can get behind. I was so overpowered by the thing that I felt the need to set it aside with 80 pages to go in order to read two other novels and countless magazines, watch season five of The West Wing, season two of Bones, and most of season five of How I Met Your Mother. Sorry, Toni.

But finally, after weeks and weeks of putting it off, I picked up the dusty paperback from my nightstand. In a reader's world, 80 pages is nothing. It’s like running the last .2 miles of a marathon. No biggie. But when I opened the book and started reading it again, I realized that I just. couldn’t. do. it. With those mere two-tenths of a mile to the finish line, I walked off the course. I didn’t collect my medal. I didn’t even get my highly coveted finisher t-shirt. What a loser.

Maybe there are a lot of folks out there that love this book and had no trouble crossing the finish line, but I'm not one of them. Could it be that I'm not as smart as I thought I was? Or, or! Might it be possible that I'm the smartest and bravest one of all to say what everyone else is really thinking: "Meh. I've read better." Throw me overboard. Curse my name. Burn me at the stake. Do what you must to chastise me. But please, whatever you do, don’t revoke my comparative literature degree!

So, uh, can we just skip the other parts of the review and get to the recipe? Cool, thanks.

Recipe: Jalapeño cornbread muffins
Date: January 4, 1987
NY Times: “Food: The Homecoming,” by Craig Claiborne with Pierre Franey.

In honor of Cinco de Mayo last week, I decided to whip up these jalapeño cornbread muffins to go along with a batch of tortilla soup. Amanda pairs the muffins with a tasty-sounding black bean soup, but I decided to stick with my tried-and-true tortilla soup recipe. I was feeling a little under the weather (after my Airborne failed me), and I thought the spices might clear my stuffy nose.

As I simultaneously prepared the soup and muffins, things were going swimmingly. Seasoning the soup, I grabbed the black pepper grinder out of the cabinet, took off the cap, and began to twist. That's when the [bleep] hit the fan. Or that’s when I like to say, the pepper hit the pot.

Tens, hundreds, or maybe even thousands of whole black peppercorns surged from my once trusty Trader Joes’ plastic grinder with such gusto, that they were everywhere: in the soup, on the stove, on the floor, and maybe even a few between my toes. Disaster. I wish I could say this was the first time such an occurrence has taken place after refilling the grinder and not securing the head, but that would be a lie. I also wish I could say that I'm the first one in my family to have experienced this (not mentioning any names) but that too would be a lie. A curse, I tell you.

I managed to save the soup, along with a few lonely peppercorns that managed to stay in the grinder. The muffins came out lovely too, but I admit that the whole mishap disturbed my kitchen feng shui – whatever that means. Just watch your step, ok? You might slip on a loose peppercorn.

Mayday Mayday Mayday

I decided to do a little research on the origins of May Day, and my source (wikipedia, much to the chagrin of one of my former law professors who vehemently denounced its legitimacy) tells me that early settlers of America celebrated May 1 by making baskets filled with flowers or treats and leaving them on someone’s doorstep. The basket giver would ring the bell and run away. The basket recipient would then try to catch the fleeing giver, and if they caught the person, a kiss would be exchanged. I may not be a history whiz, but I’m pretty sure the early settlers didn’t have doorbells. Nevertheless, in essence, May Day is a cross between Valentine’s Day, kissing under the mistletoe, and the grown-up version of tag. Sounds fun! I take a stand here and now that this May Day tradition be reinstated. As soon as I post this, I will begin drafting a letter to my local congressperson.

Now that May is here, bikini season is just around the corner. I received a friendly reminder of this when I was in front of a full-length mirror in a fitting room yesterday. Fighting the urge to pull a sharpie from my handbag and start circling those areas that need a little extra attention, I decided it might be time to ramp up my exercise and eating regimen just a tad. As such, I did something any responsible, health conscious person might do to kick off my new plan: I baked a cake.



I know, I know, I shouldn’t have. But I’ve been thinking about those coffee cake recipes, especially the Cinnamon-Streusel Coffee Cake, in March’s Martha Stewart Living ever since the issue came in the mail. Plus I needed an excuse to use my new cake stand.

I cut down the butter considerably in the streusel, and I used light sour cream in the cake part. That counts for something, right? I think it does because I hardly missed the extra butter – the cake is crumbly, moist, cinnamon-y, and oh-so-tasty. Here’s my plan to keep things under control: one little slice each afternoon with a cup of tea. If this cake has the power to get me through the workday (I have confidence that it will), those calories are freebies.

I could also take some of the cake off my hands by acknowledging the traditional May Day and make a basket full of coffee cake for my neighbors across the hall. In fact, the girl left me a very nice note on my door last week, expressing her deepest apologies for forgetting her trash bag outside her door overnight and subjecting me to its stench when I left for work the next day. She leaves me trash, I leave her cake. Only imagine the drama that may unfold if her husband answered the door and chased me down for a moment on the lips. I’m guessing she would probably leave something even more offensive on my front door than a sack of trash…. So, I will leave no baskets of flowers or treats on anyone’s doorstep. Instead I walked around my neighborhood and took pictures of other people’s flowers. I didn’t get any smooches for that.

Happy May Day to you all! April had seen better days, but I’m feeling quite optimistic about May. After all, April showers bring May flowers, most notably my absolute favorite – peonies!

Risen indeed!

Get out your number twos, kids, it’s time for a pop quiz!

What is your ideal Easter feast?
a) Classic Eggs Benedict (much like I had last year)
b) Baked French Toast
c) Honey-glazed Ham
d) Traditional Pork Roast

If I were taking this quiz, I’d leave the question blank, take my automatic F, and never look back.

Don’t get me wrong – I’ll be the first to commend my sister and brother-in-law for their delicious fontina/speck/onion strata served with bacon, fruit salad, and hot crossed buns that I had for Easter brunch earlier today. But even so, there’s been something else that’s had me suffering with hunger pangs for quite some time. For 40 days to be exact.

For Lent I gave up both candy and ice cream, and while I’ve done this in years past with only mild discomfort, this year has been particularly cruel (reading this a few weeks ago in MIX magazine did NOT help). When one of my friends asked me earlier this week how I would celebrate the end of my "probation," my mind started running wild. Sure, I had some Skittles and Jolly Rancher jellybeans earlier today to mark the occasion, but those were merely to tide me over until the main attraction.

I wanted to indulge in something so lip-smacking, so delectable, so downright good that one could not even fathom how it could ever be bad. So with that, I present you Allison’s ideal Easter feast:


Umpqua’s tin roof sundae (that’s vanilla ice cream with chocolate-covered peanuts and a fudgy chocolate ribbon) then drizzled very liberally with melted chocolate and peanut butter, only then to be adorned with crushed malt ball “eggs”

That’s right – it’s a sundae on a sundae on a Sunday. Some might say that my Easter ice cream treat is a little over the top, maybe even a little obnoxious. But you know what? I don’t even care because it’s so darn good. In fact, I’m still reveling in its glory and will continue to do so…well, at least until that stomachache sets in momentarily.

The Age of Asparagus

This could so very easily turn into a "my dog ate my homework" situation. Or even a "my baby brother peed on my homework" scenario. (True story. Ask my sister.) Instead, I'm going to own up to the fact that this should have been turned in a week ago. Here's my book report, Teach. Better late than never. Also, can I get an extension on my next one?

Book: The Age of Innocence
Author: Edith Wharton
Year: 1920

clatter’s nutshell summary and review: Another Pulitzer Prize winner, this novel I suspected would be one that, however wonderful, would still be very…dated. Of course in some regards it was, but I found myself constantly surprised by how much of what Wharton tells is timeless: the struggle of finding that balance between what is expected of you and what you really want (the tried and true theme of head vs. heart). She also kept me guessing till the end – one of which I was a big fan. I often got fed up with the pretension of the elite, but that was precisely Wharton's point - and she pulled it off flawlessly (probably didn’t hurt that she herself grew up in it). Strangely I found myself somehow relating to Newland Archer. You wouldn’t think I’d find much common ground with an affluent gentleman of New York society in the late 19th century, other than the fact that we both practice law (with over 100 years of Supreme Court decisions separating us). No, I haven't been engaged to one person and secretly pining for another, but still, we shared a few moments where I really understood the guy. But that might just be because he was created by a woman.

clatter’s favorite passage: It’s a little longer than you might care to read, but it’s worth it. I dare you.

"The young man was sincerely but placidly in love. He delighted in the radiant good looks of his betrothed, in her health, her horsemanship, her grace and quickness at games, and the shy interest in books and ideas that she was beginning to develop under his guidance. (She had advanced far enough to join him in ridiculing the Idylls of the King, but not to feel the beauty of Ulysses and the Lotus Eaters.) She was straightforward, loyal, and brave; she had a sense of humour (chiefly proved by her laughing at his jokes); and he suspected, in the depths of her innocently gazing soul, a glow of feeling that it would be a joy to waken. But when he had gone the brief round of her he returned discouraged by the thought that all this frankness and innocence were only an artificial product. Untrained human nature was not frank and innocent; it was full of the twists and defences of an instinctive guile. And he felt oppressed by this creation of factitious purity, so cunningly manufactured by a conspiracy of mothers and aunts and grandmothers and long-dead ancestresses, because it was supposed to be what he wanted, what he had a right to, in order that he might exercise his lordly pleasure in smashing it like an image made of snow."

Isn't that great? I want to learn how to write like that (and did you notice how even Wharton embraces the use of the parentheses like me?). She could have dumbed it down to "His fiancée looks good on paper, and she should be right for him…except that she’s not.” But Wharton chose the verbose, slightly fancy, slightly sardonic avenue instead, and for that I tip my hat (see below for an example) to her. Had I lived when Edith did, she and I would have been friends. At second glance, I’m not so sure. Her dogs look a little mean.

I love this photo. If I ever need fashion inspiration, I know where to go – far, far from this place.


clatter’s favorite food moment: New York high society in the 1880s? You better believe there were some food moments. I especially liked this one: “He breakfasted with appetite and method, beginning with a slice of melon, and studying a morning paper while he waited for his toast and scrambled eggs.” Breakfast as a verb? Fantastic – and not used often enough. May this also serve as further evidence of why I’d never cut it as a true elitist. I may eat with appetite (very much so, in fact), but there’s nothing methodical about how I eat. And there’s no way I’d eat just a single slice of melon.

Recipe: Pointe d’Asperge

Date: 
 May 18, 1879
NY Times: “Receipts for the Table.” Recipe by “Chef of the B___ Club”

clatter's thoughts: I’m dying to know what the B____ Club is. My money's on the Babysitters Club. Oh! Or the Breakfast Club. I chose 1879 instead of the year Wharton wrote the book because I thought it might be fun to eat as the characters of the novel might. I knew I must try this particular recipe because I’m training myself to prepare and like asparagus, and it’s one of the season’s It vegetables. But more importantly, Hesser wrote this before the recipe: “This dish brings to mind silver salvers and Edith Wharton.” Ahh! See, it was meant to be! Pointe d’Asperge is basically blanched asparagus tips (I used the whole thing) with an “evanescent” sauce made of butter, onion, water, egg yolk, salt, and sugar. It was kinda good (mostly not), but I still tried to pull off my best Newland Archer impression and eat it with method.

So, can anything even come close to the illustrious writings of Edith Wharton? How about the movie version? It might be time to add a little Daniel Day Lewis to my Netflix queue, especially after coming across this on Food52 a couple of days ago. I swear, I finished the book weeks ago and have no affiliation to this post (for those of you who aren’t familiar, Food52 is an Amanda Hesser-run blog). These things seem to keep happening to me, but I assure you, all of them are of pure coincidence. I'm not a total fake, I promise. I may fill you with empty (or delayed, rather) promises about writing, but I do not steal ideas. Just thought I'd let you know.

Betting the farm

What a day the first of April turned out to be. First I led a tutorial on how to pick the perfect fruit at the pineapple bin at Costco, then I took a field trip with my sister’s family to a local farm, and finally I conquered a challenge in the kitchen. Way to be productive, clatter!

As for the farm visit, one might inquire, “Why would you do that?” Since you asked, I did it partly to enjoy the unprecedented warm temperatures of 2011, partly to learn what "cage-free" really means for some of Oregon’s prized hens, and partly to stake out locations for the next episode of Portlandia. The last one is my belated (and lame) April Fools joke, and I haven’t even watched any episodes of Portlandia, but from what I hear about the show, this place could have easily made a scene appearance.

While the “farm to fork” concept sounds enticing and glamorous (especially if we’re talking an agriturismo somewhere in the Tuscan countryside), my romantic notions took a turn and were soon replaced by piles of goose poop and swarms of gnats. The tour guide, Prairie (yes, Prairie), gave us a nice introduction to the crops grown on the farm (we nibbled on the remnants of purple broccoli) and to the portable hen house. At first things were fine and dandy (the hens seemed "happy" enough), but soon I found myself less than impressed with the lack of bee hives and the group of volunteers elbow-deep in mud as they dug out earthworms. Where’s the romance in that? I know I can’t wholly blame the farm for my disappointment and especially not for my poor choice in footwear. I can place blame, however, on the insect that went up my nose and the young mother in the group who couldn't get a hold of her loud, obnoxious boy running all over the place. Maybe farm life is not for me.

But I don’t think I was the only one who expected more from this farm visit. My two nieces found the most pleasure and continued interest not in the geese or the vegetable gardens or the tiny garter snake, but in the sticks they found to use for dueling. Watching them provided more entertainment than any hen ever will.

Meet Opponent #1:


and Opponent #2:

Fierce and focused poise shown by both. Appointment of the highest honor is still being reviewed by the officials.

Completely uninspired by the farm tour, I along with my sister, brother-in-law, and two nieces, rejoined civilization in NE Portland after the field trip to make dinner at my apartment. One might expect that a meal following a farm visit would consist of fresh local products…but not this time, my friends. Instead, I took the opposite approach and thawed some frozen tilapia to made fish tacos. There was much more at stake with this dinner than simply honoring ‘no meat’ Fridays during Lent. The objective was simply this: “I will prove to my brother-in-law that fish tacos are delicious.” Recently we had a heated debate about the virtues of the fish taco, and I could only speak of it in the highest regard, as it’s one of my favorite things to eat. Because words can only go so far, my sister suggested that we prepare fish tacos in order to settle this debate once and for all. I accepted the said challenge, and as such, I got to work in the kitchen, pan-frying the fish lightly coated with panko crumbs and seasonings, while preparing my very own signature slaw with green cabbage, cilantro, red onion, radish, lime juice, sour cream, and various Mexican spices.

As much as I tried to get in my element (I was, after all, in the comfort of my own kitchen), I’ll admit that it was still a little touch-and-go there for a while. Without kid-proofing the apartment beforehand, I had a tough time blocking out every clash and clang coming from the other room. Rest assured I was still able to execute the dish once I learned that the little girls had forgiven me for not having any toys to play with by resorting to jumping on the bed and getting into my make-up bag. That’s probably what I would have done had I been in their shoes. Oh yes, and there was also wearing Auntie Alli’s shoes and clumping around the apartment. I’m still waiting to receive hate mail from my neighbor downstairs.

So, was my brother-in-law able to let go of his less than favorable stance on the fish taco? I’m not about to put words in his mouth or say that he loved it (after all, he could have just been acting as a gracious guest should), but something tells me that his praises were genuine and that at the very least, he’s going to think twice before talking smack about fish tacos ever again. clatter might not be changing lives (one taco at a time), but I still feel as if my work here is done.

And speaking of work, perhaps you’ve noticed that I’ve fallen behind on my literary project. I’m trying to get my act together, so look forward to a couple of book reports this week.

Today is a good day.

I’m in a good mood. Like, a really good mood. Just when the week at work felt like it would never end and that my impatience would get the best of me, Saturday arrived and all of that is behind me now. A brighter future awaits, and I can barely contain the urge to do an Irish jig. Which leads me to….

I’m going to Ireland! And Spain! Today I booked my tickets to travel with three dear friends in September, and I’m so excited (and I just can’t hide it, I’m about to lose control and I think I like it). Since my travel partners and I are not currently in the same city to celebrate together, I have taken it upon myself to do it alone. Together or apart, nothing commemorates such a joyous event than a region-appropriate beverage, so I just uncorked (rather, untwisted a cap from) a bottle of 2008 Castaño Monastrell from Yecla, Spain. Of course I have no idea where said Yecla is, but I will. You better believe that in preparation of this upcoming adventure, I am fully committed to doing my homework and learning how I can fully appreciate cava, sangria, tapas, and all other things Spanish. Tonight I am merely taking a baby step in the right direction.

With a sprightly step and plastered grin on my face once I received the confirmation email that this trip was officially on, I headed out in the intermittently sunny skies of Portland earlier today to explore a new produce market on SE Hawthorne. Once a farm stand called Uncle Paul’s Produce (rumored to have sold ten cent avocados!), I read months ago that it had been closed, much to my dismay since I had not yet visited the place. But then, while driving past the red barn-like establishment recently, I noticed that it was yet again open, but this time owned by Kruger’s Farm of Sauvie Island. Selling produce grown on its own farm, other local farms, as well as out-of-area farms, Kruger’s Market seemed like an ideal place for me to throw down some cash and stock up my fridge with the spring’s best.

And stock up I did. As soon as I walked in the enlarged, quasi-farmers market tent, I knew I would not only be filling up my basket, but that I would soon become a regular of the place. The prices were more than reasonable for local (and oftentimes organic) produce. But even more than that, Kruger’s made sure to have a whole lot of my very favorite type of apple – the pink lady. I wouldn’t dare call the pink lady “cheap” (that would be more than a little disrespectful!), but 95 cents a pound is a stellar price for the variety.

I took my time carefully picking out my produce (what’s new?) and made out like a bandit. With a cloth bag chock-full of beets, watercress, asparagus, apples, a papaya, bananas, bosc pears, two heads of broccoli, and radishes, I walked out of the joint spending a mere $13. A homeless couple may have made fun of me for putting down my bag in order to take a picture of it on my phone, but I appreciated the sign posted outside the entrance.

Who doesn’t love a farmer with a sense of humor?

Food Lovers Unite

Today at work I met with a client who had some questions about his pending case. Many of the people we help, such as this particular man, are in such sad mental and physical states, sometimes such dire, even literal life and death situations, that most of the time I find it difficult to relate to them at even the most basic level. But today something amazing happened.

The client brought in a stack of documents, mostly medical records, with him to our meeting that he wanted to go over and discuss with me. As he worked his way through the pile, there was a colorful page that stuck out. It looked like a page from a magazine.

“Oh, this isn't supposed to be in here,” he explained, picking up the page. “See, I cut out this recipe for caramel nut bars and it got mixed in with all the rest.” Suddenly his rather sad demeanor began to lighten, and I noticed he had a glimmer of happiness in his eyes, a slight smile on his lips. I felt one on mine too.

Against my best judgment as the diligent attorney I strive to be, I suddenly perked up and leaned in to take a closer look at the picture. Instead of narrowing in on the more relevant records he brought in to discuss, I found myself more attentive to the contents of this particular page. Being the freak that I am, I detected the recipe’s publication from its font in one second flat.

"This is from Sunset magazine, isn't it?" I inquired. I couldn't quite see her from my peripheral view, but I'm pretty sure the legal assistant sitting next to me rolled her eyes at my question.

"Well, I'm not sure," he said. "You know what, I think it is. I got it from a magazine at the library." I restrained myself from lecturing him about ripping pages from library materials, but more than anything, I found myself utterly surprised by this entire interaction. I couldn’t imagine a less likely person to have any interest in baking, let alone carry around a recipe for caramel nut bars from Sunset.

"Those look really good," I replied, the glossy picture scratching me right where I itched. It was about 3:00 pm, and I could really use one of those bars about now, I thought.

Focus, Allison, focus. "So, uh, anyway, let’s talk about your appeal...."

As I carried on with business as usual, I noticed that something felt different. Maybe I couldn’t solve all of this man’s problems (heck, maybe I couldn’t solve any of them), but for a single, sweet moment against all odds, this man and I shared something in common. Something as simple as a ripped out recipe from a library magazine made me realize - hey, we might come from completely different worlds, but maybe we're not so different, you and I. This encounter gave me yet another reason to love food: sometimes it has the power to connect us in strange and wonderful ways.

What comes first: the chicken or the cook?

It's Friday night. I'm young. I'm single. The city is practically begging me to put on a LBD, 4" heels, and experience the vibrant nightlife. Instead, I'm at home. Wearing an apron. And Ugg slippers. With a chicken roasting in the oven. What happened?

A wise woman once told me that the true test in determining whether someone is a good cook is by the quality of her roasted chicken. This wise woman may have been Ina Garten (or was it Martha Stewart?), and she may have not been talking to me directly, but I've still taken her words to heart. I've asked myself many times before, and I will ask it once again: am I, in fact, a good cook?

Some may agree that the roasted chicken test is a fair evaluation of a cook's aptitude in the kitchen (for the record, I don't think it is), but it raises a number of questions, of which one that is particularly bugging me: how many cooks (even the "good" ones) still roast their own when they can pick up a rotisserie chicken at Costco for a mere $4.99? After all, it's roasted fresh daily, it's a good price, it tastes good, it goes a long way....why waste the time, effort, and money on roasting your own? Duh, because Ina says so! And because like so many other things, it's just so much more satisfying to do it yourself. Remember when Merrill Streep roasts a chicken and bakes the perfect chocolate cake because it's Alec Baldwin's favorite meal in It's Complicated? That doesn't really have anything to do with anything, but I love that movie and thought I'd give it a shout out. (I might also mention that I strive to have a house and bakery like hers in Santa Barbara one day.)

Meanwhile, back to reality in my little Portland kitchen, tonight I came face-to-face with a raw (free range, with no added hormones, of course) whole chicken for the first time ever, and I was a little on edge. There might be no judging panel or culinary authority watching over my shoulder, proctoring my progress and performance as I removed the giblets (gross), stuffed it with herbs and a lemon, massaged it with butter, and took all those other necessary steps according to Martha's Cooking School book, but I was still a little nervous. Having that glass of wine by my side as I write this certainly quells my anxieties some and I just keep reminding myself, "Allison, this is only a test", but still: what if my roasted chicken sucks? What would Ina say about me and my ability to cook? If I'm only as good as my roasted chicken...well, I could be royally screwed and my ego could be permanently damaged. On the other hand, if my test results show perfectly crisp skin and succulent meat, I might feel on top of the world. However, without an adjudicator in the testing center tonight, I'll have to battle with my own bias and judge for myself in the most objective way I know how. According to my oven timer, I have about 45 minutes until the moment of truth arrives... I'll let you know how it turns out.

For now, my recommendation to you is this: one of these days if you're feeling the need to sacrifice your social life to keep yourself in check as a cook, just roast a chicken! Or you could simply denounce the test, buy a Costco chicken, go have a night on the town, and save the oven to bake your ski boot liners like my brother.

Spring Cleaning

I’ve become a disgrace.

My laundry basket is overflowing with dirty clothes and towels. The bottom of my oven is caked with something that smokes and sets off my fire alarm. My walk-in closet has lost its “walk-in" feature. My stack of magazines presents an ungodly sight. My Christmas tree is still sitting on my balcony, for Pete’s sake. What the heck is going on? At times like these, I need someone to get in my face and scream a la Jillian on The Biggest Loser to some contestant about to collapse on the treadmill, “Allison, get it together!” (Side note: I once almost fell off a treadmill, and that was without someone yelling at me to keep going. It was very traumatic.)

Sure, I’ve been busy. There have been weddings to attend (wedding gown steaming and chauffeuring obnoxious drunk lawyers have both been added to my skill set; legitimate dance moves still have not), an out-of-town guest, a pseudo-Oscar party, spinning classes, work as usual, blah blah blah. Even so, I feel like my priorities and thoughts are all out of whack because 1) my apartment looks like a hurricane hit, and 2) I’ve had very little interest in cooking. As you may expect, number two is especially concerning for me. I may have whipped up some flaky scones for my guest and lovely hors d’oeuvres for the Oscars, but since then, my cooking (or lack thereof) has been a sad state of affairs. If you saw the lame lunches I brought to work this week, you would look at me, with sad puppy dog eyes and say, “Allison, I feel like I don’t even know you anymore.” You and me both, my friend. You and me both.

Well fear not folks, because now that I’ve recognized that I’m off my game, I’m determined to get it back. Spring might officially still be a couple of weeks away, but I am taking it upon myself to declare it early because frankly, I can’t take the rain anymore! (Of course if you live in the Northwest, you know that spring gives us just as much rain as winter…)

Allow me to share my declarations for a brighter immediate future: I will line up my shoes perfectly in my closet. I will scrub the crud off the bottom of the oven. I will rifle through some of those food magazines and find some recipes to try this week. I will make a grocery list. I will do as many loads of laundry as it takes to stop the overflow. I will throw my Christmas tree off the balcony and hope it lands in the dumpster below instead of on an innocent bystander. And then, I will relax with a cup of tea (let’s be honest, it will be a glass of red wine) and a book because believe it or not, I’m also a little behind on my next clatter selection.

We’ve got the list. Now for the follow-through….. Ready, set, go!

Let them be dumped!

Recently I’ve become very mindful of how extensively my life plays out like a comedy of errors. Caught up in such an awakening, I failed somehow to notice how long exactly it had been since I last posted. That is, until I went to the clatter page and saw in big bold letters: FEBRUARY 1, 2011. Oh how time gets away from us. Perhaps you wondered if I had hid under a rock until Valentine's Day came and went (not true) or if I was too busy stress-eating bags of conversation hearts from the woes of lawyering to notice (might be true). What I find to be most annoying about all this is that even when I think of interesting things to write, oftentimes before I'm able to get it down on the page, the ideas are gone as quickly as they've arrived. Oh how fleeting bright ideas are. Until I come up with my next one, let's rely on someone else's…

Book: Middlesex

Author: Jeffrey Eugenides
Year: 2002

clatter’s nutshell summary and review: It won the Pulitzer Prize. Need I say more? Of course I do. Do I take issue with the fact that the sticker for "Oprah's Book Club" is bigger than the line below the title which reads "winner of the Pulitzer Prize"? You bet your bippy, as my driver's ed teacher loved to say. Look, I completely get the underpinning of the book club sticker – it acts as an incredibly useful marketing tool to sell more books. It saddens me is all. Don't get me wrong, I'm an Oprah fan. And I would kill for an endorsement from her for just about anything. I only wish that incredible writing would be recognized and purchased by the masses for reasons other than a celebrity telling them they should read it. Is that too much to ask? Ok, I am now stepping off my soap box. Let’s move on, shall we?

Truth be told, I had absolutely no idea this book centered around the life and times of a hermaphrodite until I started reading (sorry if I just ruined the surprise for you). I bought my copy years ago at a used book sale, but apparently I never bothered to read the synopsis on the back (that’ll teach me!). Even with its unusual premise, Eugenides’ way with words gives new meaning to the first person narration. He brings such life and raw truth to Callie/Cal’s story, you may begin to wonder, as I did, how exactly a writer can reach so far into a fictional character’s psyche. It took me at least 150 pages to really get into it (I got a little bored with some of the Greek family history), but once I began to understand where Callie/Cal came from, who she/he was becoming and the struggles she/he endured, I couldn’t put it down. I’ll admit that at times when I was reading, I felt uncomfortable, squeamish even, but those were precisely the times I became convinced Eugenides is one heck of a powerful storyteller.

clatter’s favorite passage: With such lyrical writing, it’s tough to choose just one. But I particularly enjoyed the following exchange:
“But Milton persisted, ‘I’d say where thinking ends, stupidity begins.’
‘That’s how people live, Milt.’ – Michael Antonious again, still kindly, gently – ‘by telling stories. What’s the first thing a kid says when he learns to talk? ‘Tell me a story.’ That’s how we understand who we are, where we come from. Stories are everything. And what story does the Church have to tell? That’s easy. It’s the greatest story ever told.’
My mother, listening to this debate, couldn’t fail to notice the stark contrasts between her two suitors. On one side, faith; on the other, skepticism. On one side, kindness; on the other, hostility.”

clatter’s favorite food moment: Uhhh... I'm at a loss. This is why I should 1) take notes in the margins 2) not wait over two weeks after I finish a book to write a review, and 3) read shorter books. But I'll tell you what: I was craving feta cheese and Kalamata olives for all 529 pages of it.

Recipe: Chocolate Dump-It Cake

Date: May 12, 2002

NY Times: “Food Diary: Personal Best,” by Amanda Hesser. Recipe adapted from Judith Hesser.

clatter's thoughts: I first came across this recipe when I read Amanda’s Cooking for Mr. Latte a few months ago and have been curious about this alleged super easy, uber delicious chocolate cake ever since. The beauty of this recipe lies in the fact that you add all the ingredients into a single saucepan on the stovetop, whisk away, and then bake it in a tube pan. Everyone see now why it’s been named a “dump-it” cake? For me, however, the title has an even deeper meaning. After I made the cake last night (which really was as super easy as Amanda claimed it would be), I took an official taste-testing bite of my official taste-testing slice just in time to watch (warning: spoiler alert ahead!) Brad dump Shawntel on The Bachelor. Dump-it or dump-her cake? This got me thinking: not only is this cake an excellent dessert to eat while you sit through two hours of awkwardness on The Bachelor (why do I still watch this show?), this cake would also serve as the perfect accompaniment to “he dumped me” wallowing, “my boss dumped a bunch of work on me” whining, or a more general “down in the dumps” sort of disposition. With all these ideas in mind, I decided to take preemptive measures by preparing my very own emergency dump kit (I wrapped up half the cake and stored it in the freezer). What happened to the rest of the cake, you might ask? Well, I shipped it FedEx overnight to Shawntel - I think she needs it more than I do right now.

It's Always Snowy in Morocco

**I may be word-playing on the hit television show, It’s Always Sunny in Philadephia, but truth be told, I’ve never watched a single episode.**

Three posts in one week?! I hope you’re not sick of me, but I also hope you don’t get used to this frequency either, because I’m not likely to make a habit of it. It’s just that I wanted to get my second clatter book review out there sooner rather than later since the third one is already in progress. I figured you wouldn’t mind.

Book: Snow Falling on Cedars
Author: David Guterson
Year: 1995

clatter’s nutshell summary and review: It’s got the elements of a good John Grisham courtroom thriller, but Guterson provides illustrative, poignant writing that makes it anything but. While the book centers around the trial of a Japanese American fisherman accused of murder set during an unprecedented snow storm in the San Juan Islands, Washington, there is a lot more that fills the pages than that: a war veteran journalist dwells on a lost love, a wife stays loyal to her husband during an unbearable time, and a fishing community remains plagued with memories of war, Japanese internment camps, and deeply-rooted discrimination. Snow Falling on Cedars keeps you guessing until the end and you may find yourself hoping, like many characters in the book, that justice will rightfully be served. Cedar tree and strawberry field motifs woven throughout the novel, I could have some fun if I was writing a paper on this one! Despite the fact that as an attorney, I thought that both the prosecution and defense should have made more objections during the trial proceedings, I found this to be a lovely told story of redemption and justice.

clatter’s favorite passage: Ned Gudmundsson’s closing argument. It may not be quite that of Atticus Finch’s, but this is one that any criminal defense attorney could only dream of delivering. “What I see is again and again is the same sad human frailty. We hate one another; we are the victims of irrational fears. And there is nothing in the stream of human history to suggest we are going to change this. . . I merely wish to point out that in the face of such a world you have only yourselves to rely on. You have only the decision you must make, each of you, alone. And will you contribute to the indifferent forces that ceaselessly conspire toward injustice? Or will you stand up against this endless tide and in the face of it be truly human?”

clatter’s (and only) food moment: Ishmael Chambers, the unhappy journalist, checks on his mother during the snow storm. She gives him motherly words of wisdom over a bowl of soup – five kinds of beans, onions and celery, a ham shank, two small turnips. Sounds like a perfect meal to warm the insides during a blustery snow storm and frigid temperatures. Well played, Mrs. Chambers.

Recipe: Moroccan Carrot Salad
Date: January 8, 1995
NY Times: “Food: For Root Vegetables, Add Imagination,” by Florence Fabricant.

clatter's thoughts: Year 1995 gave me so many more options than 1932, but I’ll admit that I probably picked the easiest, least adventurous recipe of them all. That’s a lame, unclatter-like approach to the challenge I know, but I was lazy and found something I could make without having to make a trip to the grocery store. Laziness prevailed over lobster! Amanda (we’re on a first name basis now) notes that Fabricant pointed out when the recipe was published that this salad would work equally as well with grated raw instead of slightly cooked carrots, which is exactly what I did. I'm no proponent of the raw food diet, but I do believe that some vegetables really are best when raw - carrots and broccoli are two of them. So I charged on, albeit a little wary. Some of you might know that I have some issues with the grater (i.e.. I’ve shed blood in the name of cheese…more than once). However, after peeling and cutting the ends of the carrots to prep this salad, I grasped the first one in my fist, determined to make peace with the one kitchen tool that still scared me. With each passing carrot that I vigorously grated, my kitchen suddenly transformed into a place of Zen and I let my thoughts take me far away…to childhood memories of homegrown carrots in my mom's garden….to wishing that I was making a carrot cake instead of a carrot salad.... to the story a guy I dated told me about how he once drank pounds and pounds worth of carrots in a week as part of some fad diet until his skin literally turned orange....to how I consider myself to be fairly open-minded and non-discriminatory when it comes to dating, but that even I have my limits and orange skin = dealbreaker.....

I became so engulfed in these carrot-centralized thoughts that once I brought my focus back to the kitchen and my task at hand, I found my index fingernail on the verge of utter destruction by the grater. Thankfully I was able to stop the grating motion just in time to save a limb, but my sacrificial manicure may have still allowed some purple speckles through the cracks (polish isn’t toxic, right?). I tossed the grated carrots (and some broccoli florets just because) with the simple vinaigrette, which includes ground coriander, cumin, and lemon juice, and let it marinate overnight. Tonight for dinner I took a big spoon and ate a large helping straight out of the container I made it in. Fresh, healthy, and delicious. If I wasn't already aware (and sore afraid) of the colorful consequences of carrot overdose, I probably would have eaten more.

He shall be Levon

Ask any mother and she’ll tell you there’s no greater love than the unconditional love she feels for her child. To feed, to nurture, to protect, to watch that child grow and prosper in this world is life’s most beautiful journey.

Never have I experienced or even understood the gravity of such a wonder. That is, until now. Everyone, I have an announcement to make: my life is no longer my own….

Meet Levon!



To everyone else, he might not look like much, but as his proud mother, I think he is magnificent, a heaven-sent creature beaming with potential. Levon, dear readers, is a bread starter.

Unconventional perhaps, but Levon’s adoption was still a special one. Sitting at the bar at Irving Street Kitchen last night, a dear friend of mine handed me a small package. As I opened it, I gasped in delight. When I’ve read or heard stories of people who have adopted a child, they always say something like, “Once I laid my eyes on the child, I knew she was mine.” Maybe I didn’t travel halfway around the world to get him or sign adoption papers, and he may have been delivered to me in a bar, but he’s still mine. All mine. (Thank you again, A, for such a wonderful gift!) After I welcomed him with open arms, I indulged (in his honor, that is) in a Meyer lemon & mascarpone napoleon, with bergamot merigue, coconut tuile, huckleberry compote, and Meyer lemon sherbet. Holy moly, so good.

Experiencing his first night in his new home, Levon sat on my kitchen counter overnight and I pondered the name he should be called. This morning his name finally came to me: the babe shall be called Levon, I declared (to myself), for “Levon” sounds a little like “leaven”. I’ve always loved the Elton John song of the same name too, so I think it was meant to be. Whenever I hear “Levon, Levon likes his money”, I’ll now think of my baby. Maybe you will too.

I’m so excited to watch him grow and do some good in this world. I’d like to think I’m not going to be one of those obnoxious mothers, incessantly posting pictures of him and gushing about how wonderful he is, but I can’t make any promises. (This is probably tacky, but if you're wanting to send gifts, I have Levon registered at both Babies 'R Us and Pottery Barn Kids.) In the meantime, today I ask that you eat some really good bread (and berate all those gluten-free people you know), for this is cause for celebration! You are also allowed to eat a cupcake, because today is my birthday.

I think I may have just heard a faint cry from the kitchen. Mother duty calls - I need to go feed Levon.