(Due to technical difficulties, among other excuses, clatter has been unable to post until now. While this is not a particularly timely piece, I would still like to apologize for leaving you hanging for two weeks. Please take comfort in the fact that the problem has been rectified. I thank you for your patience.)
When I moved into my apartment complex seven months ago, I had visions of Melrose Place. Perhaps not as dramatic, with the expected backstabbing, illicit love affairs, and occasional dead body in the pool, but I was still hoping for a little something to spice up the home life. Like in every family, every neighbor has his or her secrets. I have aspired to pick up on some nuggets around the complex, not by doing anything illegal of course, but by just keeping my eyes and ears open. Despite my fervent efforts, however, it appears I have come up severely short: there has been zero drama, no good material, no brow raisers, no crazy stories. What I think might be the most disappointing part about all of this is that the cast of characters has such potential. As I see it, it’s practically a crime not to capitalize on what could be something so shamefully delicious, a person would only crack under the pressures of a lie detector test to admit watching it (bonus points for anyone who got that Seinfeld reference). I know very little about my neighbors, but please consider some of our characters:
-The onsite managers. They are a very nice married couple in their 20s who are always at their tenants’ beck and call. He, an extremely talkative guy who swears he has ADD despite what his doctors tell him, holds down multiple jobs and wears a bluetooth constantly. I’ve struck up conversations with him not realizing he was already talking to someone else, which can be a little awkward. She is a nanny and wants to set me up with her brother. They’re such good people, they must have a dark side.
-The cute doctor downstairs. I suspect he’s the bad boy in disguise – one who may have excellent bedside manner, but he just isn’t quite what meets the eye. On occasion, he has been spotted lurking about the complex, smoking a cigarette. One night while walking past his kitchen window, I noticed an obscene amount of beer bottles on his counter. I’ll take this to mean he has a serious drinking problem, because he's more interesting that way.
-The Passat-driving guy who lives across the hall. He walks with a certain spring in his step, but his face reads, “I’ll only acknowledge that you’re my neighbor with a slight nod because I’m too cool to talk to you.” He whistles in the shower (get your mind out of the gutter - I only know this because he sometimes leaves his bathroom window open). He also places his shoes in such perfect order outside his front door that I’m convinced he must have some form of obsessive compulsive disorder. I’m sure the doc downstairs would concur.
-The wacky, “your music is too loud” nurse below me. Sadly this 35ish year old, orthopedic shoe-wearing woman recently moved out, being replaced by an older woman. I think the nurse would have made one great character, even in spite her horrible taste in fashion - she just seemed so...bizarre. I know nothing about the new lady, but she’s got to have issues. Major issues.
-The gym fanatic. She’s young, she’s hot, and she’s got that certain look that has the guys (the cute doctor, no doubt) doing the head-to-toe stare down. I’m sure she wears something other than spandex and tank tops, but I have yet to see it.
-The quiet girl across the courtyard. She’s a pretty, tall brunette, but I’ve never heard her speak a word. I assume she’s the craziest of them all because she looks so darn normal.
-The girl in the upstairs apartment who spends a lot of time in her kitchen.
Hm, “the girl in the upstairs apartment who spends a lot of time in her kitchen”…. That girl is the author of this blog, right? Wrong. In the last couple of weeks, I’ve noticed that a 20-something year old girl in the apartment across the courtyard that mirrors mine is often in her kitchen when I’m in mine, which as you may have suspected by this point, is quite often. One rainy Sunday afternoon recently, I was in my kitchen per usual, baking a batch of chewy white chocolate chip cookies and simmering ragu bolognese on the stove. Glancing out my window, I saw my neighbor in her kitchen, busy at work on something. I didn’t think much of it until I returned to my kitchen hours later to check on the ragu and heard chopping from my window. There she was again, still working on something. I’ll admit that for a split second I actually questioned whether what I was witnessing was merely my own reflection in the window…until I realized how ridiculous that was.
My curious mind began to run amok: What the heck was she doing in there all day? What was she making? Was she a better cook than me? Would it be possible to have an Iron Chef-like competition from our respective kitchens? Watching her busy in her kitchen, I suddenly began to feel threatened (and maybe slightly creepy) – was my neighbor trying to dethrone me as "the girl in the complex who spends the most time in the kitchen"? Of course I have no way of knowing if I have really logged the most hours amongst my neighbors, but I’d venture to guess that I have indeed earned that status. Either way, once those initial competitive feelings subsided, I decided I mostly just wanted to know what my fellow neighbor was up to. In true Nancy Drew form, I soon found myself with my nose against the open window, hoping to get a whiff of whatever was cooking across the way; I figured that with both of our kitchen windows open, my keen sense of smell might come through for me. Was that sauteed onions? Sniff sniff. Hm maybe some roasted tomatoes? Then my ears perked up as some pans clattered and then the girl uttered the word “salsa” and then “marinara sauce” to her male guest. Ah ha, that’s it! She was spending all day in the kitchen because she probably had a vat of summer tomatoes! Maybe Nancy really can solve mysteries without the help of Bess and George (and she might disagree, but I always thought Ned was kind of worthless.)
Unearthing what my neighbors are cooking in their kitchens may not be the kind of drama that I’ve been hoping for, and perhaps my living arrangement hasn’t quite lived up to my wild expectations of Melrose Place meets Grey’s Anatomy (the complex's close proximity to the hospital makes this an obvious choice), with small doses of Ally McBeal, Top Chef, and Veronica Mars thrown in to make my own role more prevalent. But even so, here’s the good news: I’ve still got five months left on the lease. There’s plenty of time for things to heat up….in or out of the kitchen.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Saturday, September 25, 2010
If you're going to San Francisco...
I might not have worn some flowers in my hair while visiting the Bay Area last weekend, but I did spot a surprisingly high number of flower shops around the city. Not only can I not get that song out of my head, I can't seem to get the coolness of the city off my mind either. While I'll always highly praise Portland to anyone who will listen (and even those who don't care to), my time in SF jeopardized my inclination to call Portland the most hip city on the west coast. Tempted to stay indefinitely, sadly I had to return home on Monday morning, but even so, I think I may have “left my heart in San Francisco.” Well, maybe it wasn't my heart, but I feel like I left something there. Oh who am I kidding, it's probably just the loads of cash spent on bridge tolls, BART tickets, and uh, maybe a little shopping at H&M.
There were so many great aspects of the weekend trip with my brother and sister, but I’ll try to keep my gushing to a minimum. Because this is clatter’s first official travel edition, I’ve even included a few photos to kick it up a notch – just don’t get used to it. Here's a brief(ish) rundown of the trip:
Highlights:
ϕ Observing and experiencing firsthand many of the redeeming qualities of Oakland. (Seriously, stop scoffing – the East Bay is far from being all ghetto!) This included, but is not limited to, the banh mi sandwiches we ate from a Vietnamese hole-in-the-wall in downtown Oakland. Nothing beats a $2.75 sub for lunch, and no, Subway's $5 footlong does NOT count – especially considering how annoying that jingle is. The well-known banh mi is something that I’ve been wanting to try for a while (apparently a food cart in Portland makes a damn good one), so this Oakland treat was the perfect introduction. BBQ pork, cilantro, shredded carrots, pickled something (??), and some kind of sauce (??), all on a crusty roll…mmmmm. The mystery ingredients contained in the sandwich left me curious, but not as much as the highly questionable meats and gelatin-like items being sold at the place as well. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss.
ϕ Viewing the Golden Gate Bridge from every angle known to man (and taking all obligatory photos at each and every one). This included driving through tourist-crazed Sausalito and making fun of all those tourists on their Blazing Saddles rented bikes, trying to make it across the bridge and up through the hills. Instead of bikes, we relied on our trusty ’97 Honda Civic and headed up to North Vista Pointe for incredible views of the Golden Gate above on the bluff. Unfortunately for us, by the time we made it up there, the fog had rolled in just enough to block out any remarkable photo ops. So instead, my sister took a series of pictures of my brother and me chowing down on burritos purchased earlier in the day in a quaint Marin County town called Larkspur. Who needs incredible views of the Golden Gate when you’ve got a delicious carne asada burrito right in front of you?
ϕ Making homemade pizza at my brother’s apartment. Even though there are tons of restaurants in the Bay area that we could have tried, we just couldn’t not cook together one night (as the famous line in our family goes, “It’s who we are, it’s what we do”). I whipped up some pizza dough and we used fresh broccolini and a mixed variety of tomatoes purchased at the farmers market earlier that day and other ingredients from the Berkeley Bowl (my new favorite grocery store). It wouldn't be family cooking without a little competition, so my sister and I battled for "best grilled pizza", although we put our brother in charge of the actual grilling part (he’s a man after all – it’s what they do). We ended up making four different pizzas, grilling two and baking two. I’d like to think that I won the competition, mostly because we made fun of my sister’s looking a little too similar to a Pizza Hut personal pizza (but trust me, it tasted much too good to be Pizza Hut). We tried taking photos of our creations, but the lighting was just not ideal. But here’s one to whet the palate:
I’d wager to say that this evening in the confines of my brother’s OBK (that’s another family term for "one butt kitchen") provided the most fun and the most laughs of the whole weekend.
Other Honorable Mentions:
ϕ Taking the tour of Alcatraz. Most people enjoy the fantastic views of the city from the bay on the boat ride to tour Alcatraz, like this one:
But for me, I could only gawk at this couple sitting directly ahead of and facing us, both on the way to The Rock and on the way back.
My brother and sister didn't think they were anyone special, but I could have sworn they're famous – only I couldn't place them (still can’t). My obsession with unearthing their identities eventually led to my brother taking incognito paparazzi photos. He did this brilliantly, acting as if he were examining his camera lenses at the most opportune of times: just as the woman fed the man yoga chips (case in point for her being famous: only an anorexic Hollywood actress would eat something like that). Anyone able to identify said couple will be awarded by clatter with a year's supply of Yoga Chips.
ϕ Visiting the Berkeley Farmers Market. clatter got much inspiration while perusing the market, especially from the interesting, highly unusual products (I should have been taking notes because now I don't remember anything). The assortment of tomatoes really was impressive, although for my sister and me, we were more focused on getting our brother to ask out the cute girl handing out strawberry samples. How difficult could it possibly be to walk up to the girl and say, "I'll take one basket of strawberries and your number"? Much to his sisters' chagrin, he didn't seize the moment.
ϕ Making the pilgrimage to the Peet's Coffee original store. As a former Peetnik (or is it that I'm a Peetnik for life?), making the journey to the motherland - where all the magic began - on Vine St. in Berkeley was a particularly special moment for me. So much so that we had to document it for posterity.
Lowlights:
ϕ Realizing how out of shape I really am as we climbed the streets of the city in order to reach Coit Tower. It didn’t help to be in the presence of a guy who recently rode his bike from Portland to San Francisco. How do I compete with that? I soon forgot my shortcomings though, because the stunning views of the city and the bay from the tower’s edge had me strategizing how I can one day afford one of the homes we spotted at the top. I’m still working on it.
ϕ Discussions of deadly earthquakes and massive destruction while driving across the Bay Bridge. Not cool.
ϕ Nearly being burned alive while baking pizza. While taking a pizza out of the oven using a dish towel, I failed to protect my entire hand from the incredible heat, causing an ever-so-dramatic dropping of the pan to the bottom of the oven, directly over the burners. I screamed a few expletives and froze (now I know how I react in a state of emergency). While I could have single-handedly (literally, I almost lost a hand in the crisis) ruined the pizza night for us all, my brother rushed in for the rescue, grabbing an oven mitt (oh, is that what I’m supposed to use to protect my hands from third-degree burns?) and procured the pan from the bottom of the oven. Cheers to my brother the hero!
Whew! Well, I think that just about does it for my not-so-brief recap of a great weekend in the Bay area. Until next time, this is your clatter traveler, signing off.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Not All Zombies Are Evil
With most kids returning to school this week, it’s no big surprise that I began to reminisce about my days as a student. I know I make it sound like it’s been forever – and maybe it hasn’t been, since I graduated from law school just last year, but that’s not really what I’m talking about here. I’m talking about the early years of schooling – elementary school. I remember being so excited about taking that annual trip to the store for school supplies – a new package of number two pencils, Pee Chees, wide-ruled spiral notebooks (picking out the right color was always such a tough decision), or even a TRAPPER KEEPER (come on kids of the ‘80s, you know what I’m talking about). But getting new school supplies only begins to describe that excitement of a start of the new school year – I loved to flaunt a brand new backpack and the well-debated first day of school outfit. Of course I also dreaded those annoying first day of school pictures taken in the backyard or in front of the school bus (my mother can vouch that I’m whining to this day about those awful boy haircuts I sported in elementary school.) But oh those glorious school bus days...
I still have nightmares about scary bus driver Peggy, with her intimidating presence and incessant use of the word “tolerate”. I remember she went through a phase where she punished the students by taping off the last three rows of the bus - imagine the riots that followed! Those last few rows were the best place to goof off (or set a firecracker off from. The neighborhood kid would probably deny to this day that he did it. The 20+ year investigation is still pending). We also loved the back of the bus to maximize the bounce factor whenever it would hit a speed bump. (Such adventures to be had on the bus explains why I had a hard time as a young student understanding why Rosa Parks was upset when she was asked to sit in the back of the bus.) But anyway, let’s switch gears now and reflect on the ever-treasured school cafeteria.
While most days in the cafeteria left the kids less than thrilled about their meal prospects (who can possibly get excited about “Mystery Meat Friday”?), there was one menu item that had the kids (including me) dancing in the milk line: the CHEESE ZOMBIE. I don’t know how it got its name or if this is something that was conceived in the Vancouver School District, but none of that really matters – what matters is to express how delicious it really was. The zombie held the essence of a grilled cheese sandwich, but instead of that crispy outside layer, it had a soft, thick, white bread outside, baked until golden. It would be cut into oversized squares, and that thick layer of melted cheese would ooze out each side with every bite. But it’s not just the zombie itself that made those days it was served in the cafeteria the most desired – that bowl of Campbell’s tomato soup completed the meal. A warm, melted cheese sandwich dipped in cream of tomato? Someone please tell me that isn’t the ultimate comfort food!
Circa 1991 may have been the last time I ate a cheese zombie, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t dreamt of the day when I could do it again. While I’ve considered doing lunch out at Harney Elementary, I thought that maybe I could try making it at home instead. My sister came across the recipe a while back for the beloved cheese zombie, and I figured there wasn’t a better time to try it out than during the first week that most schools are back in session.
I have no idea where the recipe came from (it stated it came from “memory”, which in and of itself made me a little nervous), but I figured a simple recipe of flour and other typical yeast bread ingredients couldn’t possibly yield anything horrible. I cut the recipe into a more suitable amount for my household and got to work. As I rolled out the dough for the zombie, I felt the strong urge to tuck my hair behind a hairnet. But then again, no one puts the cool in the hairnet like a lunch lady and to even pretend to be one of them would surely prove to be futile.
You probably already know this about me, but I’m going to say it again: I love cheese (see "A Love Note" post for reiteration purposes). I never thought I’d do this, but in order to complete this clatter “back to school” challenge, I sought out velvetta in the grocery store. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t search for it discreetly - I was even prepared to rearrange other items in my basket to hide it and do the self-checkout. But sadly, the velvetta was nowhere to be found except in the “singles” form (who wants to bet TSTSNBN carries it?), so I decided I needed to change my strategy: I would put my own adult spin on the zombie and use a combo of Tillamook’s extra sharp cheddar and pepper jack instead.
As the sheet of zombies baked in the oven, I reheated my tomato soup on the stove. But here’s the thing: I didn’t use Campbell’s tomato soup. I had made Ina’s roasted tomato basil soup a few days ago and thought this would be a lovely addition. Ok, I know you’re thinking – how would Allison possibly relive those fond memories of her childhood if she’s ruining the very heart of this concept? I understand your concern, and here’s my response to it: throughout my process of reinventing the cherished cheese zombie lunch, I came to a startling realization. There is nothing I could ever do that would bring back the perfection once created in that school cafeteria and served on a plastic tray. And it’s even possible that this lunch menu is only exemplary in hindsight, but there are just some things in life that shouldn’t be messed with – and the cheese zombie happens to be one of them. Life is all about avoiding regrets, and if I tarnished those very memories of the cheese zombie by trying to replicate it exactly and fall short, how could I ever forgive myself!? (Probably through expensive, intense years of therapy.) For the record, however, I’ll have you know that my adult version wasn’t too shabby – in fact it was quite scrumptious… even without a hairnet!
I still have nightmares about scary bus driver Peggy, with her intimidating presence and incessant use of the word “tolerate”. I remember she went through a phase where she punished the students by taping off the last three rows of the bus - imagine the riots that followed! Those last few rows were the best place to goof off (or set a firecracker off from. The neighborhood kid would probably deny to this day that he did it. The 20+ year investigation is still pending). We also loved the back of the bus to maximize the bounce factor whenever it would hit a speed bump. (Such adventures to be had on the bus explains why I had a hard time as a young student understanding why Rosa Parks was upset when she was asked to sit in the back of the bus.) But anyway, let’s switch gears now and reflect on the ever-treasured school cafeteria.
While most days in the cafeteria left the kids less than thrilled about their meal prospects (who can possibly get excited about “Mystery Meat Friday”?), there was one menu item that had the kids (including me) dancing in the milk line: the CHEESE ZOMBIE. I don’t know how it got its name or if this is something that was conceived in the Vancouver School District, but none of that really matters – what matters is to express how delicious it really was. The zombie held the essence of a grilled cheese sandwich, but instead of that crispy outside layer, it had a soft, thick, white bread outside, baked until golden. It would be cut into oversized squares, and that thick layer of melted cheese would ooze out each side with every bite. But it’s not just the zombie itself that made those days it was served in the cafeteria the most desired – that bowl of Campbell’s tomato soup completed the meal. A warm, melted cheese sandwich dipped in cream of tomato? Someone please tell me that isn’t the ultimate comfort food!
Circa 1991 may have been the last time I ate a cheese zombie, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t dreamt of the day when I could do it again. While I’ve considered doing lunch out at Harney Elementary, I thought that maybe I could try making it at home instead. My sister came across the recipe a while back for the beloved cheese zombie, and I figured there wasn’t a better time to try it out than during the first week that most schools are back in session.
I have no idea where the recipe came from (it stated it came from “memory”, which in and of itself made me a little nervous), but I figured a simple recipe of flour and other typical yeast bread ingredients couldn’t possibly yield anything horrible. I cut the recipe into a more suitable amount for my household and got to work. As I rolled out the dough for the zombie, I felt the strong urge to tuck my hair behind a hairnet. But then again, no one puts the cool in the hairnet like a lunch lady and to even pretend to be one of them would surely prove to be futile.
You probably already know this about me, but I’m going to say it again: I love cheese (see "A Love Note" post for reiteration purposes). I never thought I’d do this, but in order to complete this clatter “back to school” challenge, I sought out velvetta in the grocery store. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t search for it discreetly - I was even prepared to rearrange other items in my basket to hide it and do the self-checkout. But sadly, the velvetta was nowhere to be found except in the “singles” form (who wants to bet TSTSNBN carries it?), so I decided I needed to change my strategy: I would put my own adult spin on the zombie and use a combo of Tillamook’s extra sharp cheddar and pepper jack instead.
As the sheet of zombies baked in the oven, I reheated my tomato soup on the stove. But here’s the thing: I didn’t use Campbell’s tomato soup. I had made Ina’s roasted tomato basil soup a few days ago and thought this would be a lovely addition. Ok, I know you’re thinking – how would Allison possibly relive those fond memories of her childhood if she’s ruining the very heart of this concept? I understand your concern, and here’s my response to it: throughout my process of reinventing the cherished cheese zombie lunch, I came to a startling realization. There is nothing I could ever do that would bring back the perfection once created in that school cafeteria and served on a plastic tray. And it’s even possible that this lunch menu is only exemplary in hindsight, but there are just some things in life that shouldn’t be messed with – and the cheese zombie happens to be one of them. Life is all about avoiding regrets, and if I tarnished those very memories of the cheese zombie by trying to replicate it exactly and fall short, how could I ever forgive myself!? (Probably through expensive, intense years of therapy.) For the record, however, I’ll have you know that my adult version wasn’t too shabby – in fact it was quite scrumptious… even without a hairnet!
Friday, August 27, 2010
Next Time, Don't Forget the Invisibility Cloak
I’ve been brought up well in a family where savings are prized and frugality is king. As I grow older, however, I’ve learned that seeking out bargains can sometimes come at a cost – one that I probably shouldn’t be willing to pay.
A couple of nights ago after work, anticipating my apartment would have that certain “tropical” feel sans air conditioning and knowing that my fridge was empty, I decided it would be the perfect time to enjoy the superb cooling system of my car and take a trip to the grocery store, one that I will hereinafter refer to as The Store That Shall Not Be Named (“TSTSNBN”).
Just like with Voldemort (that’s a Harry Potter reference for all of you confused readers), the mere utterance of TSTSNBN’s name is predictably followed by gasps, shrieks, and looks of horror. I’ll admit – it’s not my first choice in grocery venues. In fact, it’s probably not even my fifth. But when push comes to shove, sometimes it’s just not economical to do all your grocery shopping at some place like Whole Foods, or even somewhere like Safeway for that matter, especially when you can still get the same brand-named ingredients for a fraction of the cost (and at the same time brush up on your bagging skills!). TSTSNBN is truly a “no frills” kind of place. While this is something that normally would be a quality commendable in a company, it probably wouldn’t hurt if TSTSNBN had a few. After all, the typical experience at this establishment likely results in pushing your cart around at top speed (imagine the pace contestants take in the final round of Supermarket Sweep and then double it) and getting the heck out of there before the usual clientele has you clenching your wallet or handbag, all the while feeling convinced that you have lost all sense of class you thought you once had. Ok, maybe I’m being a little dramatic here – maybe a little snobby too. But if you’ve been there and you’ve experienced it firsthand, surely you’d agree with my haughty assessment.
Maybe it was the air conditioning I was enjoying so much, or perhaps it was that long day of staring at my computer in the office, but for whatever reason my latest TSTSNBN trip caught me in a more spaced out disposition, with my usual snooty guard down. Deep in thought in the leafy green section, debating the cheap bag of spinach vs. the more expensive box of organic mixed greens (the latter eventually won), my mental pro/con list suddenly got interrupted by a young man I sensed was standing directly behind me. And so I turned around.
“Hello there,” the 20-something, pimpled-face, homely-looking guy greeted me. “How are you doing today?”
“Oh just fine, thank you.” I responded. Abort. Abort. My eyes darted around, looking for my quickest escape. Avocados. Yes, I needed an avocado! So I pushed that squeaky cart (still without a decision made on the greens) and moved swiftly to the bin of avocados at the end of the aisle before he could say another word. Whew, that was a close one.
After picking out that avocado I figured would be perfectly ripe in approximately three days, I headed back to the greens, determined to make a final decision (come on, Allison, this wasn’t that difficult). Big mistake. I wasn’t there 15 seconds before I heard a familiar voice.
“Hi. Um, my name is ______. So, uh, I’m currently a student at _______ University.” Oh shoot, I thought, was this guy selling something? Turns out he was, in a sense. “I’m studying computer science. And I play the guitar.” I immediately channeled my acting days and tried my best to hold a straight face. I anticipated where this was going, and the lawyer in me kicked in to think quickly on my feet and conjure up my rebuttal after his opening statement. “And I, uh, was wondering if you, uh, would like to go out sometime.”
“I’m sorry, ________. I actually have a boyfriend.” Forgive me, Mother, for I have sinned. (In my defense, sometimes a little white lie must be told for protection.) After spewing out my fib, I realized I’ve never seen a guy take rejection so well, as he disappeared before I could even consider stupefying him. Well, at least I could check “Get hit on” off my grocery list.
I managed to dodge any and all other highly suspect TSTSNBN patrons, and I got to the checkout stand, chuckling to myself about my little run-in in the produce section and reflecting on how you never know when you’ll meet Mr. Right (no, this was not one of those times). As I placed all my bargains on the conveyor belt while reading the lastest shocking US Weekly headlines (so shocking in fact, that I have absolutely no recollection of what they were), an older, very short man (like, half my size) standing in front of me in line said something that seemed to be directed at me. I could have been imagining things, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t speaking English.
“What was that?” I asked, leaning forward and feeling like a giant.
[Inaudible.] Ok, it wasn’t just my imagination. This was definitely not English. This was Russian.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
In a very strong accent with widened eyes, he exclaimed, “You don’t speak Russian?!?!”
“No, I don’t. I don’t know lick of Russian. Why, do I look Russian?” I asked.
“Oh YES!! You could be onnnnne huuuuuuuuundred perrrrrcent Russian!!!”
Huh. What do ya know. I’ve been called a lot of things in my 28 years, but Russian was not one of them. But hey, I thought, looking on the bright side, at least he didn’t ask me out.
A couple of nights ago after work, anticipating my apartment would have that certain “tropical” feel sans air conditioning and knowing that my fridge was empty, I decided it would be the perfect time to enjoy the superb cooling system of my car and take a trip to the grocery store, one that I will hereinafter refer to as The Store That Shall Not Be Named (“TSTSNBN”).
Just like with Voldemort (that’s a Harry Potter reference for all of you confused readers), the mere utterance of TSTSNBN’s name is predictably followed by gasps, shrieks, and looks of horror. I’ll admit – it’s not my first choice in grocery venues. In fact, it’s probably not even my fifth. But when push comes to shove, sometimes it’s just not economical to do all your grocery shopping at some place like Whole Foods, or even somewhere like Safeway for that matter, especially when you can still get the same brand-named ingredients for a fraction of the cost (and at the same time brush up on your bagging skills!). TSTSNBN is truly a “no frills” kind of place. While this is something that normally would be a quality commendable in a company, it probably wouldn’t hurt if TSTSNBN had a few. After all, the typical experience at this establishment likely results in pushing your cart around at top speed (imagine the pace contestants take in the final round of Supermarket Sweep and then double it) and getting the heck out of there before the usual clientele has you clenching your wallet or handbag, all the while feeling convinced that you have lost all sense of class you thought you once had. Ok, maybe I’m being a little dramatic here – maybe a little snobby too. But if you’ve been there and you’ve experienced it firsthand, surely you’d agree with my haughty assessment.
Maybe it was the air conditioning I was enjoying so much, or perhaps it was that long day of staring at my computer in the office, but for whatever reason my latest TSTSNBN trip caught me in a more spaced out disposition, with my usual snooty guard down. Deep in thought in the leafy green section, debating the cheap bag of spinach vs. the more expensive box of organic mixed greens (the latter eventually won), my mental pro/con list suddenly got interrupted by a young man I sensed was standing directly behind me. And so I turned around.
“Hello there,” the 20-something, pimpled-face, homely-looking guy greeted me. “How are you doing today?”
“Oh just fine, thank you.” I responded. Abort. Abort. My eyes darted around, looking for my quickest escape. Avocados. Yes, I needed an avocado! So I pushed that squeaky cart (still without a decision made on the greens) and moved swiftly to the bin of avocados at the end of the aisle before he could say another word. Whew, that was a close one.
After picking out that avocado I figured would be perfectly ripe in approximately three days, I headed back to the greens, determined to make a final decision (come on, Allison, this wasn’t that difficult). Big mistake. I wasn’t there 15 seconds before I heard a familiar voice.
“Hi. Um, my name is ______. So, uh, I’m currently a student at _______ University.” Oh shoot, I thought, was this guy selling something? Turns out he was, in a sense. “I’m studying computer science. And I play the guitar.” I immediately channeled my acting days and tried my best to hold a straight face. I anticipated where this was going, and the lawyer in me kicked in to think quickly on my feet and conjure up my rebuttal after his opening statement. “And I, uh, was wondering if you, uh, would like to go out sometime.”
“I’m sorry, ________. I actually have a boyfriend.” Forgive me, Mother, for I have sinned. (In my defense, sometimes a little white lie must be told for protection.) After spewing out my fib, I realized I’ve never seen a guy take rejection so well, as he disappeared before I could even consider stupefying him. Well, at least I could check “Get hit on” off my grocery list.
I managed to dodge any and all other highly suspect TSTSNBN patrons, and I got to the checkout stand, chuckling to myself about my little run-in in the produce section and reflecting on how you never know when you’ll meet Mr. Right (no, this was not one of those times). As I placed all my bargains on the conveyor belt while reading the lastest shocking US Weekly headlines (so shocking in fact, that I have absolutely no recollection of what they were), an older, very short man (like, half my size) standing in front of me in line said something that seemed to be directed at me. I could have been imagining things, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t speaking English.
“What was that?” I asked, leaning forward and feeling like a giant.
[Inaudible.] Ok, it wasn’t just my imagination. This was definitely not English. This was Russian.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
In a very strong accent with widened eyes, he exclaimed, “You don’t speak Russian?!?!”
“No, I don’t. I don’t know lick of Russian. Why, do I look Russian?” I asked.
“Oh YES!! You could be onnnnne huuuuuuuuundred perrrrrcent Russian!!!”
Huh. What do ya know. I’ve been called a lot of things in my 28 years, but Russian was not one of them. But hey, I thought, looking on the bright side, at least he didn’t ask me out.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Yabba Dabba ZU!
Due to recent budget cuts in the clatter kitchen, I am no longer getting deliveries from Organics to You. I have every intention on picking it up again in the fall, but I’ve been finding lately that my lack of time in the kitchen has caused much of that goodness to go to waste. Without the scheduled box arriving today after work, I knew I had to find a new avenue to outsource my produce – something that could still provide fresh, local products at a reasonable cost. Nothing says reasonable cost like free, so I took to my mother’s garden over the weekend to see what I could come up with. While it was slim pickins’ (let it be known that this is in no way a reflection on my mother as a master gardener – the funky weather this late spring/summer has taken its toll on many of the crops in the area), I still managed to make a getaway with a few grape and cherry tomatoes, some green beans, a jalapeno, and a zucchini.
Late last night I watched a really terrible movie (I’m too embarrassed to reveal its title) and even though viewing it was not a good use of my time, there was one line in particular that stuck with me. This isn’t verbatim, but one of the main characters said something along the lines of, “I try to find something to love in every person.” This is certainly not an easy feat even by a figment of the imagination, but I think it’s a great philosophy - a philosophy that should apply not just to people, but to vegetables.
I’ve never been a huge fan of zucchini. In fact, up until a few years ago, I really just didn’t like it. I blame this at least partially on being scarred by anything zucchini-related after my sister attempted to bake what would become a seven pound (it could have weighed more - my younger brother even brought out the scale to measure) loaf of zucchini bread. Even if completely unfounded and unfair, I used to think of the zucchini as the ugly stepsister to the cucumber – lacking the zest, flavor, and crunch to give it that happy ending. (I could very possibly rhapsodize for hours about the many things I respect about the cucumber, but this post is the zucchini’s 15 minutes of fame.) After more thought, I’ve realized the two vegetables really shouldn’t even be put in the same category. Yes they could be siblings (and I mean blood-related, not step) because of their similarities in outward appearance, but inside they’re very different. What is it about the zucchini that made me change my mind over the years? What is the one quality that I see in the zucchini that really makes it special?
Its versatility. Just think about it. I don’t know about you, but I’m having very little trouble coming up with all the ways I’ve utilized zucchini: sautéed it with other veggies for the perfect side dish; split it in half and baked it stuffed with sausage, bread crumbs, and parmesan; drizzled it with olive oil, sprinkled with salt & pepper and thrown on the grill (ok, I haven’t done this, but if I had a grill I would); made a faux salsa verde to top some white fish (I got this idea from a recent Bon Appetit issue); and made a most delectable chocolate cake out of it (don’t even think about asking for that recipe – it’s top secret).
So what if the zucchini on its own doesn’t hold the most vibrant of flavors – it makes up for it in so many other ways. Even so, it still sure seems to get a lot of flack during the summer months. I guess it’s really no big surprise - how is that homegrown oversized, awkwardly shaped, flavorless zucchini supposed to compete with the cute-as-a-button cherry tomato, or the tall and slender green bean? If only people would learn to pick the zucchini before they get too big and turn into the garden-rejects-on-the-sidewalk-that-your-neighbors-won’t-even-take-for-free, maybe they could find something to love about it – on the inside and the outside. Perhaps instead of grabbing one to use as a bat for a game of baseball in the backyard, people could appreciate the zucchini for all that it can be. When I think of that oversized zucchini shaped like a bat, my mind goes straight to an image of Bamm-Bamm Rubble from the Flintstones. After finding this picture, I can’t help but ask with the most disdainful of looks: Betty, are you overgrowing your zucchini?!?
Late last night I watched a really terrible movie (I’m too embarrassed to reveal its title) and even though viewing it was not a good use of my time, there was one line in particular that stuck with me. This isn’t verbatim, but one of the main characters said something along the lines of, “I try to find something to love in every person.” This is certainly not an easy feat even by a figment of the imagination, but I think it’s a great philosophy - a philosophy that should apply not just to people, but to vegetables.
I’ve never been a huge fan of zucchini. In fact, up until a few years ago, I really just didn’t like it. I blame this at least partially on being scarred by anything zucchini-related after my sister attempted to bake what would become a seven pound (it could have weighed more - my younger brother even brought out the scale to measure) loaf of zucchini bread. Even if completely unfounded and unfair, I used to think of the zucchini as the ugly stepsister to the cucumber – lacking the zest, flavor, and crunch to give it that happy ending. (I could very possibly rhapsodize for hours about the many things I respect about the cucumber, but this post is the zucchini’s 15 minutes of fame.) After more thought, I’ve realized the two vegetables really shouldn’t even be put in the same category. Yes they could be siblings (and I mean blood-related, not step) because of their similarities in outward appearance, but inside they’re very different. What is it about the zucchini that made me change my mind over the years? What is the one quality that I see in the zucchini that really makes it special?
Its versatility. Just think about it. I don’t know about you, but I’m having very little trouble coming up with all the ways I’ve utilized zucchini: sautéed it with other veggies for the perfect side dish; split it in half and baked it stuffed with sausage, bread crumbs, and parmesan; drizzled it with olive oil, sprinkled with salt & pepper and thrown on the grill (ok, I haven’t done this, but if I had a grill I would); made a faux salsa verde to top some white fish (I got this idea from a recent Bon Appetit issue); and made a most delectable chocolate cake out of it (don’t even think about asking for that recipe – it’s top secret).
So what if the zucchini on its own doesn’t hold the most vibrant of flavors – it makes up for it in so many other ways. Even so, it still sure seems to get a lot of flack during the summer months. I guess it’s really no big surprise - how is that homegrown oversized, awkwardly shaped, flavorless zucchini supposed to compete with the cute-as-a-button cherry tomato, or the tall and slender green bean? If only people would learn to pick the zucchini before they get too big and turn into the garden-rejects-on-the-sidewalk-that-your-neighbors-won’t-even-take-for-free, maybe they could find something to love about it – on the inside and the outside. Perhaps instead of grabbing one to use as a bat for a game of baseball in the backyard, people could appreciate the zucchini for all that it can be. When I think of that oversized zucchini shaped like a bat, my mind goes straight to an image of Bamm-Bamm Rubble from the Flintstones. After finding this picture, I can’t help but ask with the most disdainful of looks: Betty, are you overgrowing your zucchini?!?
Sunday, August 8, 2010
You can take the girl out of Lebanon...
...but you can’t take Lebanon out of the girl.
Truth be told, I’ve never stepped foot in the homeland. And to be fair, I can’t really call Lebanon my homeland either, given that I’m only a quarter Lebanese. Even so, over the years I seem to have identified more with that 25 percent than the other 75. I’ve considered the following possibilities for said phenomenon: 1) My family has been rather unclear about what exactly comprises that other 75% (I’m under the impression it’s mostly German, maybe some English?), whereas the 25% Lebanese is a done deal, no question marks. I take comfort in this certainty. 2) It’s more interesting to tell people that I’ve got Middle Eastern heritage than to say I’m composed of the expected European hodgepodge. 3) I look Lebanese(ish). I tend not to believe this one, although as aforementioned, documentation has proven my resemblance to the Lebanese ancestors. Furthermore, when I was in college, several people told me I looked “exotic”, to which I would laugh and tell them they were mistaken - I was just from Washington. 4) I love Lebanese food.
Let’s focus on #4. In fact, I can’t seem to get Lebanese food off the brain. Of course I’m blaming all of this on the family reunion we had last weekend. That hot Lebanese blood of mine has been surging through my veins for the last seven days, begging me to do something about it. The clatter kitchen is ready and willing.
Anyone who has traveled in foreign lands knows that nothing captures the essence of a culture quite like street food. The thing is, I really don’t know that much about Lebanon or its food, but I’d love to travel there someday. Until I do, I’ve had to gather all my information regarding its food from Lebanese restaurants (remember: the shadier the establishment and the more it resembles a hole-in-the-wall in the heart of Beirut, the closer it will taste to the real thing), those family members who are still living and knowledgeable about traditional fare (I’m still waiting for my grandmother to reveal to me the secrets of her famous stuffed grape leaves), and from the internet. Quick research today revealed that the two most popular street foods in Lebanon are falafel and shawarma.
I’ve had both beef and lamb shawarma, and it’s divine. For those who aren’t familiar, shawarma is the Middle Eastern version of the Greek gyro – meat from a spit is shaved and made into a wrap. As much as I’d love to have a spit plastered from the ceiling in my kitchen, dangling a hunk of lamb or beef that I could ever so delicately shave to create unforgettable shawarma, I’ve come to terms with the fact that this dream may have to be put on hold, at least until I’m a homeowner. While there’s no explicit language in my lease regarding spit installations in the kitchen area (I checked), the implications that this type of activity is prohibited are still evident (ok, I didn’t really check).
I would love to tackle lamb in some form someday because it’s so frequently used in Lebanese food, but tonight it just didn’t feel right (there’s also something unsettling to me about fixing lamb for a party of one). Since shawarma off the spit was also not happening, I figured my best bet would be to attempt the falafel. I didn’t have one particular recipe in mind, but I knew that I shouldn’t make it up since I’ve never made it before and didn’t really know what was in it besides chickpeas and a bunch of spices. I made it up anyway. After looking over a few recipes, I decided I didn’t feel like following anything. So I threw a can of chickpeas (i.e. garbanzo beans), a few cloves of garlic, salt, pepper, ground coriander, cumin, smoked paprika, cayenne, and fresh parsley, and hit the button on the food processor. What’s the worst that could happen?
I let the mixture refrigerate for an hour (I learned this from my research) and then formed little patties with it. Here’s my clatter confession du jour: I didn’t deep fry the falafel. I know, I know – it’s not a falafel if it’s not deep fried! But I just couldn’t find it in my heart to do it on this particular occasion. This was not the best move - while I still had plenty of oil in the pan on high heat to cook it through, the consistency was off. At least the flavor was still there.
As I’ve already revealed, I haven’t had a ton of experience in the Lebanese culinary realm, but before tonight, I’ve made a few things, the most repeated by far being tabouli (also spelled tabbouleh or taboule or tabooli. I don’t know which one is considered correct). I’ve heard some people complain that tabouli is too much parsley and not enough of anything else. There has been some debate amongst family members in terms of the bulgur wheat to parsley ratio – some think the bulgur should have a strong presence in the salad, while others believe that it should hardly make an appearance. For the record, I am Team Parsley. As far as I’m concerned, the parsley is the star. It’s what I love about tabouli – the striking parsley flavor creates a wonderful salad that’s light, fresh, and has just enough zing that it accompanies any Middle Eastern style protein perfectly. The bulgur wheat is important too, and I’m not a huge fan of tabouli that uses it so sparingly that you hardly know it’s there. The key is to find the balance, but when it doubt, use more parsley and less bulgur. Now you know my position on The Great Tabouli Dilemma. I believe settling this conundrum is the first step in bringing peace to the Middle East.
I’ve made several versions of tabouli over the years, adding and subtracting items as I have seen fit. I don’t think there’s any need for exactness (albeit I’ve provided slight guidelines below to be helpful), just make sure that you constantly taste-test as you’re making it. Excellent chopping skills don’t hurt either. I suppose you could cheat and use a food processor, but what’s the fun in that? Tabouli not only provides a delicious and healthy alternative to another boring green salad, but it also allows you to perfect your knifing skills. So sharpen your chef’s knife and get to work! Here’s the version I made tonight. The longer the tabouli sits, the longer the bulgur and parsley have to drink up all those delicious flavors.
AR’s Lebanese Tabouli
1 cup of water
1/2 bulgur wheat
1 bunch of parsley plus a little extra (I used mostly curly-leaf and a handful of flat-leaf for good measure)
handful of fresh mint, finely chopped
cucumber, tomato, red onion, all finely chopped (to put it in movie terms, these shouldn’t even get supporting cast billing – consider them only the extras)
fresh lemon juice of one lemon & a couple of tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil
kosher salt & freshly ground pepper
Boil salted water, take off heat, and add the bulgur. Cover until all water is gone (should take about 20 minutes). Refrigerate until you’re ready to make the rest of the salad. Chop all parsley and veggies. Whisk together the lemon juice and olive oil. Toss everything with the bulgur, and salt & pepper to taste. Let it sit for at least an hour (preferably much longer), and taste again before serving. My guess is you’ll need more lemon juice and salt.
To complete my meal tonight, I warmed a whole wheat Middle Eastern flatbread (TJs makes a good one) and whipped up some tzatziki (plain yogurt, chopped mint, lemon juice, diced cucumber, and S&P – I made this batch without garlic). Rolling a couple of spoonfuls of tabouli and falafel patties into the flatbread, I slathered it with tzatziki and a thin (ok fine, it was thick) layer of tahini, because my love for tahini runs deep.
You can imagine how messy this was to eat, but what’s street fare if it doesn’t get on your hands? Besides, after taking that first bite, my manners were the last thing on my mind. The only thing going through my head went something along the lines of: "Holy motherland, ص. لذيذ, شهي, طيب, نمير !!!!” For all you non-Arabic speakers out there, need a translation? That means “Delicious!!!” Just don’t ask me to say it out loud.
Truth be told, I’ve never stepped foot in the homeland. And to be fair, I can’t really call Lebanon my homeland either, given that I’m only a quarter Lebanese. Even so, over the years I seem to have identified more with that 25 percent than the other 75. I’ve considered the following possibilities for said phenomenon: 1) My family has been rather unclear about what exactly comprises that other 75% (I’m under the impression it’s mostly German, maybe some English?), whereas the 25% Lebanese is a done deal, no question marks. I take comfort in this certainty. 2) It’s more interesting to tell people that I’ve got Middle Eastern heritage than to say I’m composed of the expected European hodgepodge. 3) I look Lebanese(ish). I tend not to believe this one, although as aforementioned, documentation has proven my resemblance to the Lebanese ancestors. Furthermore, when I was in college, several people told me I looked “exotic”, to which I would laugh and tell them they were mistaken - I was just from Washington. 4) I love Lebanese food.
Let’s focus on #4. In fact, I can’t seem to get Lebanese food off the brain. Of course I’m blaming all of this on the family reunion we had last weekend. That hot Lebanese blood of mine has been surging through my veins for the last seven days, begging me to do something about it. The clatter kitchen is ready and willing.
Anyone who has traveled in foreign lands knows that nothing captures the essence of a culture quite like street food. The thing is, I really don’t know that much about Lebanon or its food, but I’d love to travel there someday. Until I do, I’ve had to gather all my information regarding its food from Lebanese restaurants (remember: the shadier the establishment and the more it resembles a hole-in-the-wall in the heart of Beirut, the closer it will taste to the real thing), those family members who are still living and knowledgeable about traditional fare (I’m still waiting for my grandmother to reveal to me the secrets of her famous stuffed grape leaves), and from the internet. Quick research today revealed that the two most popular street foods in Lebanon are falafel and shawarma.
I’ve had both beef and lamb shawarma, and it’s divine. For those who aren’t familiar, shawarma is the Middle Eastern version of the Greek gyro – meat from a spit is shaved and made into a wrap. As much as I’d love to have a spit plastered from the ceiling in my kitchen, dangling a hunk of lamb or beef that I could ever so delicately shave to create unforgettable shawarma, I’ve come to terms with the fact that this dream may have to be put on hold, at least until I’m a homeowner. While there’s no explicit language in my lease regarding spit installations in the kitchen area (I checked), the implications that this type of activity is prohibited are still evident (ok, I didn’t really check).
I would love to tackle lamb in some form someday because it’s so frequently used in Lebanese food, but tonight it just didn’t feel right (there’s also something unsettling to me about fixing lamb for a party of one). Since shawarma off the spit was also not happening, I figured my best bet would be to attempt the falafel. I didn’t have one particular recipe in mind, but I knew that I shouldn’t make it up since I’ve never made it before and didn’t really know what was in it besides chickpeas and a bunch of spices. I made it up anyway. After looking over a few recipes, I decided I didn’t feel like following anything. So I threw a can of chickpeas (i.e. garbanzo beans), a few cloves of garlic, salt, pepper, ground coriander, cumin, smoked paprika, cayenne, and fresh parsley, and hit the button on the food processor. What’s the worst that could happen?
I let the mixture refrigerate for an hour (I learned this from my research) and then formed little patties with it. Here’s my clatter confession du jour: I didn’t deep fry the falafel. I know, I know – it’s not a falafel if it’s not deep fried! But I just couldn’t find it in my heart to do it on this particular occasion. This was not the best move - while I still had plenty of oil in the pan on high heat to cook it through, the consistency was off. At least the flavor was still there.
As I’ve already revealed, I haven’t had a ton of experience in the Lebanese culinary realm, but before tonight, I’ve made a few things, the most repeated by far being tabouli (also spelled tabbouleh or taboule or tabooli. I don’t know which one is considered correct). I’ve heard some people complain that tabouli is too much parsley and not enough of anything else. There has been some debate amongst family members in terms of the bulgur wheat to parsley ratio – some think the bulgur should have a strong presence in the salad, while others believe that it should hardly make an appearance. For the record, I am Team Parsley. As far as I’m concerned, the parsley is the star. It’s what I love about tabouli – the striking parsley flavor creates a wonderful salad that’s light, fresh, and has just enough zing that it accompanies any Middle Eastern style protein perfectly. The bulgur wheat is important too, and I’m not a huge fan of tabouli that uses it so sparingly that you hardly know it’s there. The key is to find the balance, but when it doubt, use more parsley and less bulgur. Now you know my position on The Great Tabouli Dilemma. I believe settling this conundrum is the first step in bringing peace to the Middle East.
I’ve made several versions of tabouli over the years, adding and subtracting items as I have seen fit. I don’t think there’s any need for exactness (albeit I’ve provided slight guidelines below to be helpful), just make sure that you constantly taste-test as you’re making it. Excellent chopping skills don’t hurt either. I suppose you could cheat and use a food processor, but what’s the fun in that? Tabouli not only provides a delicious and healthy alternative to another boring green salad, but it also allows you to perfect your knifing skills. So sharpen your chef’s knife and get to work! Here’s the version I made tonight. The longer the tabouli sits, the longer the bulgur and parsley have to drink up all those delicious flavors.
AR’s Lebanese Tabouli
1 cup of water
1/2 bulgur wheat
1 bunch of parsley plus a little extra (I used mostly curly-leaf and a handful of flat-leaf for good measure)
handful of fresh mint, finely chopped
cucumber, tomato, red onion, all finely chopped (to put it in movie terms, these shouldn’t even get supporting cast billing – consider them only the extras)
fresh lemon juice of one lemon & a couple of tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil
kosher salt & freshly ground pepper
Boil salted water, take off heat, and add the bulgur. Cover until all water is gone (should take about 20 minutes). Refrigerate until you’re ready to make the rest of the salad. Chop all parsley and veggies. Whisk together the lemon juice and olive oil. Toss everything with the bulgur, and salt & pepper to taste. Let it sit for at least an hour (preferably much longer), and taste again before serving. My guess is you’ll need more lemon juice and salt.
To complete my meal tonight, I warmed a whole wheat Middle Eastern flatbread (TJs makes a good one) and whipped up some tzatziki (plain yogurt, chopped mint, lemon juice, diced cucumber, and S&P – I made this batch without garlic). Rolling a couple of spoonfuls of tabouli and falafel patties into the flatbread, I slathered it with tzatziki and a thin (ok fine, it was thick) layer of tahini, because my love for tahini runs deep.
You can imagine how messy this was to eat, but what’s street fare if it doesn’t get on your hands? Besides, after taking that first bite, my manners were the last thing on my mind. The only thing going through my head went something along the lines of: "Holy motherland, ص. لذيذ, شهي, طيب, نمير !!!!” For all you non-Arabic speakers out there, need a translation? That means “Delicious!!!” Just don’t ask me to say it out loud.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
The apple really doesn't fall far from the tree...
(and I'm not just saying that because I grew up in Washington state!)
Well folks, August has arrived. I considered extending my blog-cation (yes that’s the love child of blogging and vacation) European-style and not writing again till September, but I couldn’t in good conscience do that to my ever-devoted readers. My delinquent behavior is not one that should be easily forgotten, but I do hope you will find it in your (hungry?) hearts to forgive my distracted mind and busy schedule to keep reading. Plenty of happenings have been cooking in the kitchen, although admittedly so not so much in my own. This past weekend was my big family reunion. Before we cue the moaning from the audience, turns out what should have been that dreaded, obligatory familial duty one must endure at least once in his or her life really wasn’t dreadful at all. Folks from my mother’s side of the family flocked from many pockets around the U.S. to gather nowhere else but the beautiful city of Portland, Oregon to celebrate our Lebanese heritage.
While I’m sure you’re dying to have me rehash every detail of my sixth degrees of separation from every last one of my ancestors from Lebanon, tell you the story of how my great-grandmother and great-grandfather met (even if it is a good one), or present side-to-side photo comparisons of the freaky, uncanny resemblances between my siblings and me with my relatives from many generations preceding us (we have now put to rest any rumors of adoption), I’ll cut right to the chase: I’ll talk about the food. Wipe that shocked look off your face! I wish I could take some credit for what was eaten this weekend, but I was merely an innocent bystander, as we kicked off the weekend with an event that was entitled something along the lines of “Flavors of the Pacific Northwest.”
If there’s ever a time to show off how truly great the Pacific Northwest is, we’re in the thick of it. Ask anyone who lives here and they’ll tell you that the summer months make putting up with the rest of the year worth it. That’s almost true, until you remind them of that eight week stretch in the spring when we didn’t see the sun once. Even so, the summers are pretty damn great if I may say so myself, and that crappy weather on either side of these months really only makes us appreciate them more. There are so many things that make this place superb, and as a cook and enthusiastic eater, I believe it all begins with what's in our backyards. It’s no big surprise that Portland and Seattle in recent years have become two of the most important hubs for young, innovative chefs wanting to use only the freshest, most local, organic, sustainable ingredients they can get their hands on. In fact, I had a conversation with my brother-in-law the other day about how many new (and old) restaurants there are in Portland that I still haven’t tried. While Fenouil, Paley’s Place, and Wildwood all top my wish list, my brother-in-law (a Portland restaurateur himself) and I both laughed about how many of these restaurants all take such a similar approach that it’s hard to tell them apart – they boast their style to be something like "new American cuisine with a French twist, using only the freshest, most local, organic, sustainable ingredients”. We can laugh, but really, why would they create a delicious plate of food and dining experience in any other way? It’s no big surprise this is the approach they take – heck, if I was starting a restaurant here, I’d probably be doing the exact same thing. When you have to work with what you’ve got, and what you’ve got is vibrant produce from your local farms or fresh seafood from the coast, you’d be a fool not to take advantage.
And so with that long-winded paragraph now behind us, I return to the Flavors of the Pacific Northwest. My parents hosted the event at their house, and they couldn’t have shown off the best of the Northwest summer better than they did. Not only did my parents drive up to the Gorge to buy a Chinook salmon caught earlier that day in the Columbia (look for a Native American man in a parking lot in Cascade Locks next time you need one) as the main event, but their menu was also jammed packed with the best of the locals: green beans from the garden, homegrown blueberries, neighborhood blackberries, Lapin cherries, Oregon Pinot Noir and microbrews, etc. etc. etc. It was a feast, and one that I’m sure many of my out-of-town relatives will not soon forget. I live here, and even I felt a little stuffed by the end of the evening because I just couldn’t get enough. At Saturday night’s event we enjoyed traditional Lebanese fare which was great, but personally, Friday night’s meal was the one that had me swooning – with every bite, I fell in love with the Pacific Northwest all over again.
After the weekend was over and the relatives trickled back to their homes around the country, my parents asked me if I was going to report the weekend on clatter. I promised them I would (my mom's response: "You better!!"), but I still wasn’t sure which angle I wanted to take. It didn’t take long before we all agreed that the key to their successful event on Friday night was simply letting the ingredients speak for themselves. As my dad explained, even someone who doesn’t know anything about cooking (him) could prepare fresh salmon on the grill with only lemon, salt and pepper and never screw it up. While my mom vehemently disagreed with his assessment (“Oh you’ve screwed it up before!”), he did have a point (and for the record, his salmon on Friday night was perfection). It takes very low maintenance to highlight the Northwest’s best, and the ingredients offered during the summer make that even easier. You don’t need heavy dressings or sauces and you don’t need to take complex steps to prepare a meal. By all means, take the backseat approach when you’re cooking in the summer, because those ingredients will do all the talking for you. And let me tell you - they’re going to make you look good, whether you deserve it or not.
Well folks, August has arrived. I considered extending my blog-cation (yes that’s the love child of blogging and vacation) European-style and not writing again till September, but I couldn’t in good conscience do that to my ever-devoted readers. My delinquent behavior is not one that should be easily forgotten, but I do hope you will find it in your (hungry?) hearts to forgive my distracted mind and busy schedule to keep reading. Plenty of happenings have been cooking in the kitchen, although admittedly so not so much in my own. This past weekend was my big family reunion. Before we cue the moaning from the audience, turns out what should have been that dreaded, obligatory familial duty one must endure at least once in his or her life really wasn’t dreadful at all. Folks from my mother’s side of the family flocked from many pockets around the U.S. to gather nowhere else but the beautiful city of Portland, Oregon to celebrate our Lebanese heritage.
While I’m sure you’re dying to have me rehash every detail of my sixth degrees of separation from every last one of my ancestors from Lebanon, tell you the story of how my great-grandmother and great-grandfather met (even if it is a good one), or present side-to-side photo comparisons of the freaky, uncanny resemblances between my siblings and me with my relatives from many generations preceding us (we have now put to rest any rumors of adoption), I’ll cut right to the chase: I’ll talk about the food. Wipe that shocked look off your face! I wish I could take some credit for what was eaten this weekend, but I was merely an innocent bystander, as we kicked off the weekend with an event that was entitled something along the lines of “Flavors of the Pacific Northwest.”
If there’s ever a time to show off how truly great the Pacific Northwest is, we’re in the thick of it. Ask anyone who lives here and they’ll tell you that the summer months make putting up with the rest of the year worth it. That’s almost true, until you remind them of that eight week stretch in the spring when we didn’t see the sun once. Even so, the summers are pretty damn great if I may say so myself, and that crappy weather on either side of these months really only makes us appreciate them more. There are so many things that make this place superb, and as a cook and enthusiastic eater, I believe it all begins with what's in our backyards. It’s no big surprise that Portland and Seattle in recent years have become two of the most important hubs for young, innovative chefs wanting to use only the freshest, most local, organic, sustainable ingredients they can get their hands on. In fact, I had a conversation with my brother-in-law the other day about how many new (and old) restaurants there are in Portland that I still haven’t tried. While Fenouil, Paley’s Place, and Wildwood all top my wish list, my brother-in-law (a Portland restaurateur himself) and I both laughed about how many of these restaurants all take such a similar approach that it’s hard to tell them apart – they boast their style to be something like "new American cuisine with a French twist, using only the freshest, most local, organic, sustainable ingredients”. We can laugh, but really, why would they create a delicious plate of food and dining experience in any other way? It’s no big surprise this is the approach they take – heck, if I was starting a restaurant here, I’d probably be doing the exact same thing. When you have to work with what you’ve got, and what you’ve got is vibrant produce from your local farms or fresh seafood from the coast, you’d be a fool not to take advantage.
And so with that long-winded paragraph now behind us, I return to the Flavors of the Pacific Northwest. My parents hosted the event at their house, and they couldn’t have shown off the best of the Northwest summer better than they did. Not only did my parents drive up to the Gorge to buy a Chinook salmon caught earlier that day in the Columbia (look for a Native American man in a parking lot in Cascade Locks next time you need one) as the main event, but their menu was also jammed packed with the best of the locals: green beans from the garden, homegrown blueberries, neighborhood blackberries, Lapin cherries, Oregon Pinot Noir and microbrews, etc. etc. etc. It was a feast, and one that I’m sure many of my out-of-town relatives will not soon forget. I live here, and even I felt a little stuffed by the end of the evening because I just couldn’t get enough. At Saturday night’s event we enjoyed traditional Lebanese fare which was great, but personally, Friday night’s meal was the one that had me swooning – with every bite, I fell in love with the Pacific Northwest all over again.
After the weekend was over and the relatives trickled back to their homes around the country, my parents asked me if I was going to report the weekend on clatter. I promised them I would (my mom's response: "You better!!"), but I still wasn’t sure which angle I wanted to take. It didn’t take long before we all agreed that the key to their successful event on Friday night was simply letting the ingredients speak for themselves. As my dad explained, even someone who doesn’t know anything about cooking (him) could prepare fresh salmon on the grill with only lemon, salt and pepper and never screw it up. While my mom vehemently disagreed with his assessment (“Oh you’ve screwed it up before!”), he did have a point (and for the record, his salmon on Friday night was perfection). It takes very low maintenance to highlight the Northwest’s best, and the ingredients offered during the summer make that even easier. You don’t need heavy dressings or sauces and you don’t need to take complex steps to prepare a meal. By all means, take the backseat approach when you’re cooking in the summer, because those ingredients will do all the talking for you. And let me tell you - they’re going to make you look good, whether you deserve it or not.
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