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.
Friday, August 27, 2010
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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