Upon arriving home this evening after skipping work to enjoy a fun, but rather crazy day of skiing at Mt. Hood Meadows (think: high winds, near white-outs, face numbing, and a girl who has little to no experience in knee-deep powder terrain), I couldn’t imagine anything more comforting than a hot shower, cozy pajamas, and my warm bed (which, I might add, is where I am currently writing this). As I grabbed my mail on my way in, I noticed that January’s issue of Portland Monthly had arrived.
I have a strict rule in my household regarding magazines: Thou shalt not read current magazine issues until older issues have been read and recycled. Mind you, I adhere to said rule for the most part, but I do allow myself a swift thumb-through the day I get one in the mail, so that I get a preview of what I'll be reading approximately four months later. (This is no exaggeration, and I have the stacks of magazines to prove it.) I’ll confess that tonight, however, I spent a few extra moments perusing the Eat & Drink section of the magazine than is normally allowed. Boy, am I glad I did.
Under the Cellar Notes of the section, a picture of a bottle of none other than the……(drum roll) …..Chehalem Mountain 2009 Lorelle Pinot Noir, $14.99, popped out and off the page. And I quote, “A tart-cherry-flavored, delicately textured wine . . . made from fruit grown just south of Portland. Many wines at twice the price aren’t this good” (emphasis added).
Despite my suffering from a moderate to severe case of skier’s fatigue, I may have still done a little happy dance. Hey, I might actually know what I’m talking about! Plus I got it for a whole buck cheaper! Could it be that I’m really a closet bargain wine prodigy who’s practically begging someone to finally notice? I guess it’s possible, but I really shouldn’t get ahead of myself here. Even so, sometimes, I've learned, it doesn’t hurt to give yourself a little credit when you do something right, or even figure out that maybe you really are made up of more than hot air. In my particular case here, I found it took a lot less effort to type out a hyperbolical, self-proclaimed title after a single good wine find than to give myself a simple pat on the back. I’m much too sore from skiing to even attempt such a maneuver.
On that note, I think it’s time to catch those much desired Z’s.......
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Christmas comes a little early this year
I hope reading this post feels like tearing open a package on Christmas morning, shaking from the sheer anticipation and excitement of it all. If not, don't worry about it.
It’s been brought to my attention by more than one reader that my leave of absence - pardon me, my sabbatical - is, for lack of a better term, LAME. I am here today not only to say ‘hey’ (I missed you, she admits, her face turning a pinkish hue), but also to assure you that it’s not lame. Allow me to expound.
In the last few weeks, I’ve been thinking. A lot. I guess I always think a lot, which oftentimes gets me into trouble or entangled into a web of confusion, but particularly, I’ve been reflecting on this year. Remarkable changes occurred and unforgettable adventures were had (the dating, oh the dating!); clatter was also conceived. When I started the blog, I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do with it, or what I was going to write about, besides the central theme forever and always being about food of course. What I’ve come to realize is that over time, I started to become my own worst enemy – I made writing out to be a burden, as if I was being forced to be brilliant and funny and informative every time I posted. My fear of becoming another food blog cliché began to eat away at me to the point that my originality (at least in my eyes) started to look gray, gaunt and frankly, anorexic. The thing is, I refuse to be some food-obsessed dim wit who would never admit that she just learned last week that syrah and shiraz are the same grape. I warned you when I started clatter that I am certainly no authority on the culinary arts, but turns out I am an authority on one thing: me. Indeed the old saying is true – write what you know, at least when you’re first learning how to do it. Until someone – a very significant someone – can rightfully exclaim that he knows me better than me, I’m reserving the right to be the number one expert in the field. I’m exercising that right starting now. Ideally, with this expertise comes the voice of writing that keeps the readers coming back for more. So, I've decided that I need to listen to me more, stop overthinking everything, and just let the words flow. That’s a lot of introspection for one day. Is the cure to writer's block writing about writer's block? Whew, I'm tired now.
All of this being said, my reflection and brainstorming since my declared sabbatical have consisted much of coming up with a project, a goal, a focus, a vision for clatter to embark upon in the new year. I still don’t know what it will be as of now, but I’m hopeful I’ll come up with something that will keep me motivated and you entertained.
Well, now that I’ve got you here, I can’t not tell you some of the things that have been happening the last few weeks because my culinary adventures have continued even when clatter has not. I’ve decided to break it down into categories – awards if you will – for your reading pleasure.
Favorite Meal: A dinner date out with a debonair young man at Accanto, a lovely Italian café in SE Portland. My mouth waters when I think of about that arancini with smoky tomato sauce and arugula salad; potato gnocchi with roasted squash, chanterelles, with brown butter sage and melted leeks; and chocolate budini with burnt sugared gelato. A close second favorite goes to a dinner date in, hosted by yours truly. A joint effort in the kitchen yielded lemon-tarragon chicken served over Israeli cous cous and mixed greens with roasted beets, goat cheese, and pepitas. The low point of the evening came when my guest scolded me for failing to offer him an apron before the sauce from the lemon-tarragon chicken simmering on the stove splattered on his nice buttoned-down shirt. Oops. I need a dating ruling: Is my lapse in manners a dealbreaker?
Favorite Deal: Meeting friends at a teeny wine bar called Lupa (with stellar wine descriptions on its menu) on Mississippi Ave, I ordered a glass of Pinot Noir. It may have cost me $9, but once I took a sip, I declared it worth every penny. I had never heard of it (I also don’t really know wine so this shouldn’t be a shocker), and yet I figured it had to be the product of some small Willamette Valley winery. I did some research on it the next day, trying to find where I could buy it and at what price. Convinced that Fred Meyer wouldn't have it (even at the impressive wine section at the Hawthorne store), it appeared I was correct. I pored over the Northwest section and chose another fairly inexpensive Oregon Pinot to try at home and began to walk away. Before I could even consider feeling a pang of defeat, I caught a glimpse of the wine on special display - there it was, in all its effulgence, the 2009 Lorelle Pinot Noir (of Chehalem Mountains, Willamette Valley) at a mere $13.99 a bottle! I couldn’t believe my luck. Charming as Lupa was, nothing can make me swoon quite like a killer price. $9 a glass or $14 a bottle? What a no-brainer. You sure as hell better believe that I will do everything in my power to recreate the quaint wine bar ambiance in my apartment if it means I will be drinking the same wine for a fraction of the price. A bargain never tasted so sweet...with hints of cherry and blackberry.
Favorite Disaster: I'm torn. I've had a couple of significant baking screw-ups in the kitchen in the last few weeks, so I’m declaring a tie. First there was The Great Thanksgiving Hardship, when I temporarily lost faith in Ina Garten (heaven forbid, may it never happen again!) after my apple cake tatin did not cooperate as she promised. When inverting the caramel apple-y dessert from its pan, portions of it decided to stick, resulting in colorful language and one ugly cake. So I got creative by forming what I called a “pseudo-Bundt cake” and adding pomegranate seeds, both for aesthetics and tartness. Thanksgiving was lost and then saved again. Check it out:
Before:
After:
But then, weeks later, I had to endure The Sunken Chocolate Cake Dilemma. What was supposed to be a lovely dark chocolate loaf, recipe courtesy of Magnolia Bakery (to be served with peppermint ice cream and drizzled with chocolate) for the aforementioned gentleman dinner guest, mostly was that – except that due to a Dutch-processed cocoa/leavening agent issue, the loaf’s center sunk to an appalling low. The good news was I came up with a bright idea of how to fix the problem; the bad news was we never ended up having dessert that night (and subsequently I learned he hates peppermint ice cream). Despite its appearance (should I take it as a sign that I'm going nowhere with this guy?), that loaf cake still tasted mighty good and was polished off in less than a week. Maybe the true disaster is yet to come – once I step on the scale.
Favorite Place: Pastaworks, a gourmet food/wine/cheese/pasta shop on SE Hawthorne that will make any foodie unabashedly drool, especially with its adjoining door leading into the land of Powell's Books for Home & Garden. Ahhh. I described the experience the other day as "a little like entering the gates of heaven." My belief remains steadfast.
See, I’m not dead (and it’s no coincidence that I’m currently listening to the Pink album of the same sentiment). And now, it’s about that time to cut out my sugar cookies into adorable holiday shapes and finish this glass of Lorelle. Just so you know, drinking a $14 bottle of wine is nothing less than extravagant for a Tuesday night for me, but sometimes fancy-free is just what I need. That’s something I’ll never feel bad about – you shouldn’t either. So cheers to that.
Oh, I almost forgot: Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
It’s been brought to my attention by more than one reader that my leave of absence - pardon me, my sabbatical - is, for lack of a better term, LAME. I am here today not only to say ‘hey’ (I missed you, she admits, her face turning a pinkish hue), but also to assure you that it’s not lame. Allow me to expound.
In the last few weeks, I’ve been thinking. A lot. I guess I always think a lot, which oftentimes gets me into trouble or entangled into a web of confusion, but particularly, I’ve been reflecting on this year. Remarkable changes occurred and unforgettable adventures were had (the dating, oh the dating!); clatter was also conceived. When I started the blog, I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do with it, or what I was going to write about, besides the central theme forever and always being about food of course. What I’ve come to realize is that over time, I started to become my own worst enemy – I made writing out to be a burden, as if I was being forced to be brilliant and funny and informative every time I posted. My fear of becoming another food blog cliché began to eat away at me to the point that my originality (at least in my eyes) started to look gray, gaunt and frankly, anorexic. The thing is, I refuse to be some food-obsessed dim wit who would never admit that she just learned last week that syrah and shiraz are the same grape. I warned you when I started clatter that I am certainly no authority on the culinary arts, but turns out I am an authority on one thing: me. Indeed the old saying is true – write what you know, at least when you’re first learning how to do it. Until someone – a very significant someone – can rightfully exclaim that he knows me better than me, I’m reserving the right to be the number one expert in the field. I’m exercising that right starting now. Ideally, with this expertise comes the voice of writing that keeps the readers coming back for more. So, I've decided that I need to listen to me more, stop overthinking everything, and just let the words flow. That’s a lot of introspection for one day. Is the cure to writer's block writing about writer's block? Whew, I'm tired now.
All of this being said, my reflection and brainstorming since my declared sabbatical have consisted much of coming up with a project, a goal, a focus, a vision for clatter to embark upon in the new year. I still don’t know what it will be as of now, but I’m hopeful I’ll come up with something that will keep me motivated and you entertained.
Well, now that I’ve got you here, I can’t not tell you some of the things that have been happening the last few weeks because my culinary adventures have continued even when clatter has not. I’ve decided to break it down into categories – awards if you will – for your reading pleasure.
Favorite Meal: A dinner date out with a debonair young man at Accanto, a lovely Italian café in SE Portland. My mouth waters when I think of about that arancini with smoky tomato sauce and arugula salad; potato gnocchi with roasted squash, chanterelles, with brown butter sage and melted leeks; and chocolate budini with burnt sugared gelato. A close second favorite goes to a dinner date in, hosted by yours truly. A joint effort in the kitchen yielded lemon-tarragon chicken served over Israeli cous cous and mixed greens with roasted beets, goat cheese, and pepitas. The low point of the evening came when my guest scolded me for failing to offer him an apron before the sauce from the lemon-tarragon chicken simmering on the stove splattered on his nice buttoned-down shirt. Oops. I need a dating ruling: Is my lapse in manners a dealbreaker?
Favorite Deal: Meeting friends at a teeny wine bar called Lupa (with stellar wine descriptions on its menu) on Mississippi Ave, I ordered a glass of Pinot Noir. It may have cost me $9, but once I took a sip, I declared it worth every penny. I had never heard of it (I also don’t really know wine so this shouldn’t be a shocker), and yet I figured it had to be the product of some small Willamette Valley winery. I did some research on it the next day, trying to find where I could buy it and at what price. Convinced that Fred Meyer wouldn't have it (even at the impressive wine section at the Hawthorne store), it appeared I was correct. I pored over the Northwest section and chose another fairly inexpensive Oregon Pinot to try at home and began to walk away. Before I could even consider feeling a pang of defeat, I caught a glimpse of the wine on special display - there it was, in all its effulgence, the 2009 Lorelle Pinot Noir (of Chehalem Mountains, Willamette Valley) at a mere $13.99 a bottle! I couldn’t believe my luck. Charming as Lupa was, nothing can make me swoon quite like a killer price. $9 a glass or $14 a bottle? What a no-brainer. You sure as hell better believe that I will do everything in my power to recreate the quaint wine bar ambiance in my apartment if it means I will be drinking the same wine for a fraction of the price. A bargain never tasted so sweet...with hints of cherry and blackberry.
Favorite Disaster: I'm torn. I've had a couple of significant baking screw-ups in the kitchen in the last few weeks, so I’m declaring a tie. First there was The Great Thanksgiving Hardship, when I temporarily lost faith in Ina Garten (heaven forbid, may it never happen again!) after my apple cake tatin did not cooperate as she promised. When inverting the caramel apple-y dessert from its pan, portions of it decided to stick, resulting in colorful language and one ugly cake. So I got creative by forming what I called a “pseudo-Bundt cake” and adding pomegranate seeds, both for aesthetics and tartness. Thanksgiving was lost and then saved again. Check it out:
Before:
After:
But then, weeks later, I had to endure The Sunken Chocolate Cake Dilemma. What was supposed to be a lovely dark chocolate loaf, recipe courtesy of Magnolia Bakery (to be served with peppermint ice cream and drizzled with chocolate) for the aforementioned gentleman dinner guest, mostly was that – except that due to a Dutch-processed cocoa/leavening agent issue, the loaf’s center sunk to an appalling low. The good news was I came up with a bright idea of how to fix the problem; the bad news was we never ended up having dessert that night (and subsequently I learned he hates peppermint ice cream). Despite its appearance (should I take it as a sign that I'm going nowhere with this guy?), that loaf cake still tasted mighty good and was polished off in less than a week. Maybe the true disaster is yet to come – once I step on the scale.
Favorite Place: Pastaworks, a gourmet food/wine/cheese/pasta shop on SE Hawthorne that will make any foodie unabashedly drool, especially with its adjoining door leading into the land of Powell's Books for Home & Garden. Ahhh. I described the experience the other day as "a little like entering the gates of heaven." My belief remains steadfast.
See, I’m not dead (and it’s no coincidence that I’m currently listening to the Pink album of the same sentiment). And now, it’s about that time to cut out my sugar cookies into adorable holiday shapes and finish this glass of Lorelle. Just so you know, drinking a $14 bottle of wine is nothing less than extravagant for a Tuesday night for me, but sometimes fancy-free is just what I need. That’s something I’ll never feel bad about – you shouldn’t either. So cheers to that.
Oh, I almost forgot: Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
The sound of clatter
For all my loyal readers still out there, I greet you with the warmest of hellos on this chilly November evening. You may think that I have drifted off into the abyss of canned soup and frozen dinners since I last wrote, but I assure you, I have been eating and drinking well – very well. Now that I think about it, October and November 2010 might even be recorded as the two months I’ve checked more Portland restaurants and bars off my wish list than any other since I moved here. What superb dining indeed. But for those of you who may be concerned with my cholesterol level due to my latest food escapades (foie gras and steak tartare, however palatable they may be, cannot possibly be good for the heart), I have also spent an equal amount of time at the gym as to debunk any truth to “a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.” But anyway, it’s been a busy few weeks, and surely you’ve noticed that my postings in the last couple of months have dwindled to an almost unspeakable infrequency. I’ve noticed too, and I’m not happy about it.
On the eve of the most beloved food-centered holiday of the entire year, I find it rather poetic and maybe even a little ironic to announce that clatter is taking a sabbatical. If we stick strictly to its definition, a sabbatical only comes every seventh year, as a time for one – usually a college professor - to study or travel for a period of time. Considering that I am neither a professor nor have any official plans to travel or study and clatter has only been around since March of this year, I am using this term very loosely. Even so, I have decided to use this holiday season to bake up a storm, recapture my inspiration, cure writer's block, and pursue those visions of sugar plums dancing in my head - without feeling an ounce of guilt for abandoning clatter in the process.
Please don’t cry! Please don’t despair! I won’t be gone for long. Think of this departure as the Von Trapp children singing "So Long, Farewell". Leisel, Kurt, Brigetta, and the rest of the clan may be saying words like adieu and auf wiedersehen, but as you and I both know, that scene hardly marks the end of the movie. I might not have Nazis to dodge or the Alps to cross, but clatter’s story too is far from being over.
For now, I ask only one thing of you: to have a truly rich and blessed holiday season in the presence of your closest friends and family. Don’t hold back when it comes to gulping down eggnog in a reindeer glass, dishing yourself a second (or third) piece of pumpkin pie, fitting in one final run before the lifts close, or pretending you’re excited about receiving yet another pair of socks from your grandma. Just remember: as long as you’re doing it in the holiday spirit, you’re doing it right.
Well, this is my exit. I flit, I float, I fleetly flee, I fly….. Check back with clatter in the new year, as I hope to feel rejuvenated and with my distractions quelled, enthusiastically ready to begin clatter’s next chapter. Until then my dearest readers, climb every mountain, and I’ll catch ya on the flip side.
On the eve of the most beloved food-centered holiday of the entire year, I find it rather poetic and maybe even a little ironic to announce that clatter is taking a sabbatical. If we stick strictly to its definition, a sabbatical only comes every seventh year, as a time for one – usually a college professor - to study or travel for a period of time. Considering that I am neither a professor nor have any official plans to travel or study and clatter has only been around since March of this year, I am using this term very loosely. Even so, I have decided to use this holiday season to bake up a storm, recapture my inspiration, cure writer's block, and pursue those visions of sugar plums dancing in my head - without feeling an ounce of guilt for abandoning clatter in the process.
Please don’t cry! Please don’t despair! I won’t be gone for long. Think of this departure as the Von Trapp children singing "So Long, Farewell". Leisel, Kurt, Brigetta, and the rest of the clan may be saying words like adieu and auf wiedersehen, but as you and I both know, that scene hardly marks the end of the movie. I might not have Nazis to dodge or the Alps to cross, but clatter’s story too is far from being over.
For now, I ask only one thing of you: to have a truly rich and blessed holiday season in the presence of your closest friends and family. Don’t hold back when it comes to gulping down eggnog in a reindeer glass, dishing yourself a second (or third) piece of pumpkin pie, fitting in one final run before the lifts close, or pretending you’re excited about receiving yet another pair of socks from your grandma. Just remember: as long as you’re doing it in the holiday spirit, you’re doing it right.
Well, this is my exit. I flit, I float, I fleetly flee, I fly….. Check back with clatter in the new year, as I hope to feel rejuvenated and with my distractions quelled, enthusiastically ready to begin clatter’s next chapter. Until then my dearest readers, climb every mountain, and I’ll catch ya on the flip side.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Pie-partisanship
Could it be the answer to all the troubles in American politics? Happy Election Day from clatter!
I've never considered myself much of a political buff, but I've been excited today. While my newly found obsession with The West Wing is probably somewhat to blame for recently spurring my enthusiasm in the political process, I assure you that the brilliance of that show (or my crush on Rob Lowe?) is not the only reason. Not only does today mark the ever-so-important midterm elections and define 218 as the magic number, it finally puts an end to what could arguably be a season of the most annoying political commercials in television history. Tonight (and tomorrow and maybe nine months from now) there will be winners and losers, victorious empowerment and disappointing defeat, but right now, at this very moment as I write, so much of America's future remains utterly unpredictable. There is something, however, on Election Day that is an absolute guarantee: good ol' fashioned drama, evoking emotions of all sorts. I for one can always get excited about that.
I took a jaunt during my lunch break today to turn in my ballot at the Multnomah County Elections Headquarters, and I’ll admit that I felt a bit emotional myself. I experienced one of those cheesy, yet completely heartfelt "It's a privilege to be an American" moments. As I watched a KOIN 6 news guy get out of his studio van to cover the story and observed some of my fellow Portlanders line up at the polls, I was moved with a certain sense of patriotism. I may have even heard The West Wing theme music faintly playing in the background.
Like any holiday suggests, the presence of food is a necessity in order to properly celebrate. Election Day is not exactly a holiday known for its food, but why shouldn't it be? If you were to poll a handful of Americans right now, I'd bet that the majority would choose to eat while they watch the results trickle in. Even a higher percentage of those Americans would want comforting food that make them feel warm, safe, or nostalgic for a simpler time. So what kind of food should be eaten on Election Day? Foods that are red, white, and blue in color? Cleverly named foods like hot wings and freedom fries? What is the one food that defines democracy? I really have no idea, but what I had in mind to celebrate “Decision 2010” tonight is not only quintessentially American, but it's also very much in season. My fellow Americans, the clatter kitchen voted to make an apple pie.
In the name of freedom and all things delectable, I elected to skip spinning class tonight in order to fully celebrate. There are few things in life I enjoy more than 1) baking and 2) watching drama unfold. And tonight was the perfect night to engage in both at the same time. Burning calories might be beneficial, but I figured I'd be sweating enough as it is between the heat of the oven and the tight governor race between Chris Dudley and John Kitzhaber that I could easily justify my gym absence.
For the pie itself, I considered using my mother’s crust recipe, but then decided I would consult Martha Stewart’s Cooking School and try her pâte brisée instead. This recipe involves butter - lots of butter - so I knew it had to be a winner. I used a variety of apples and got to work, strategically creating a workspace in the kitchen that faced the television in the other room. Turns out there’s something strangely relaxing about peeling and coring apples as the Democratic House comes apart at the seams…uh, not that you should interpret that statement as an official clatter political stance.
Now that I’m sitting on my couch, clicking away on the keyboard while simultaneously captivated by the Congress scoreboard on the television screen and shoving fresh, home-baked apple pie à la mode in my mouth, I'm feeling extremely blessed - not only to be a person who can make a decent pie, but more importantly, to be an American. Too often I think we take that for granted. So with that said, clatter thanks you for voting. Here's to the voice of the people...to the very last bite.
I've never considered myself much of a political buff, but I've been excited today. While my newly found obsession with The West Wing is probably somewhat to blame for recently spurring my enthusiasm in the political process, I assure you that the brilliance of that show (or my crush on Rob Lowe?) is not the only reason. Not only does today mark the ever-so-important midterm elections and define 218 as the magic number, it finally puts an end to what could arguably be a season of the most annoying political commercials in television history. Tonight (and tomorrow and maybe nine months from now) there will be winners and losers, victorious empowerment and disappointing defeat, but right now, at this very moment as I write, so much of America's future remains utterly unpredictable. There is something, however, on Election Day that is an absolute guarantee: good ol' fashioned drama, evoking emotions of all sorts. I for one can always get excited about that.
I took a jaunt during my lunch break today to turn in my ballot at the Multnomah County Elections Headquarters, and I’ll admit that I felt a bit emotional myself. I experienced one of those cheesy, yet completely heartfelt "It's a privilege to be an American" moments. As I watched a KOIN 6 news guy get out of his studio van to cover the story and observed some of my fellow Portlanders line up at the polls, I was moved with a certain sense of patriotism. I may have even heard The West Wing theme music faintly playing in the background.
Like any holiday suggests, the presence of food is a necessity in order to properly celebrate. Election Day is not exactly a holiday known for its food, but why shouldn't it be? If you were to poll a handful of Americans right now, I'd bet that the majority would choose to eat while they watch the results trickle in. Even a higher percentage of those Americans would want comforting food that make them feel warm, safe, or nostalgic for a simpler time. So what kind of food should be eaten on Election Day? Foods that are red, white, and blue in color? Cleverly named foods like hot wings and freedom fries? What is the one food that defines democracy? I really have no idea, but what I had in mind to celebrate “Decision 2010” tonight is not only quintessentially American, but it's also very much in season. My fellow Americans, the clatter kitchen voted to make an apple pie.
In the name of freedom and all things delectable, I elected to skip spinning class tonight in order to fully celebrate. There are few things in life I enjoy more than 1) baking and 2) watching drama unfold. And tonight was the perfect night to engage in both at the same time. Burning calories might be beneficial, but I figured I'd be sweating enough as it is between the heat of the oven and the tight governor race between Chris Dudley and John Kitzhaber that I could easily justify my gym absence.
For the pie itself, I considered using my mother’s crust recipe, but then decided I would consult Martha Stewart’s Cooking School and try her pâte brisée instead. This recipe involves butter - lots of butter - so I knew it had to be a winner. I used a variety of apples and got to work, strategically creating a workspace in the kitchen that faced the television in the other room. Turns out there’s something strangely relaxing about peeling and coring apples as the Democratic House comes apart at the seams…uh, not that you should interpret that statement as an official clatter political stance.
Now that I’m sitting on my couch, clicking away on the keyboard while simultaneously captivated by the Congress scoreboard on the television screen and shoving fresh, home-baked apple pie à la mode in my mouth, I'm feeling extremely blessed - not only to be a person who can make a decent pie, but more importantly, to be an American. Too often I think we take that for granted. So with that said, clatter thanks you for voting. Here's to the voice of the people...to the very last bite.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Growing up is hard to do
In theory I should never have trouble convincing myself that I'm a grown-up. I've completed over 20 years of schooling, I hold down a full-time job, I pay my own bills, and I live on my own. But sometimes I have to remind myself that I am an adult and not just a nine-year-old trapped in a 28-year-old's body. My bouts of uncontrolled excitement at the very sight of Skittles/Mike ‘n Ikes/SweetTarts/Jolly Ranchers/other sources of candy that pay for my dentist's country club dues, Berenstain Bears books, Full House reruns, and roller coasters are examples of some of those times.
Even if I act my age most of the time, I still haven’t managed to alter my response to brussels sprouts: "Ewwwwww. Grody!*" Until tonight, there would have been a likely possibility that the very presence of brussels sprouts could evoke the most irrational of responses from me: kicking, screaming, sticking out my tongue, rolling my eyes, scrunching up my face, and if you were lucky enough to get one in my mouth, you better believe that I’d plug my nose until I was done chewing and swallowing.
Of course I wouldn’t actually react in any of those ways (except maybe plugging my nose – that trick really works in blocking out taste), but admittedly brussels sprouts did sorta freak me out until tonight. Maybe not to the point that mushrooms freak me out, but I was still wary. Interestingly enough, my opinion of the sprouts had been based only on peer and societal pressure and not because my mother force fed them to me as a child (that is, unless I have merely repressed such memories and they will only surface via hypnosis). The same cannot be said of the mushroom, as the trauma of my first experience of eating one still haunts me today.
Earlier this week, I decided that the mature thing to do as both an adult and a person who prides herself in her open-mindedness and interest in food would be to put these preconceived notions about the brussels sprout to the test. I figured the only way I could fairly provide such vehement criticism of this baby cabbage would be to prepare some myself and make a reasonable assessment through taste-testing. Since my latest obsession is roasted seasonal vegetables, I decided to add a handful of brussel sprouts to my assortment of carrots, turnips, and red onion on a baking sheet; I roasted red beets separately wrapped tightly in aluminum foil. I drizzled the veggies with olive oil and liberally dusted them with kosher salt, pepper, and herbs de Province. After roasting at 425 degrees for about 45 minutes, the moment of truth had arrived.
Crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, the roasted sprouts were good…at least at first. As I allowed the flavor to permeate my mouth, I realized that whiny kids who refuse to eat them may be on to something. It certainly wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever eaten - I didn’t have any kicking or screaming responses to speak of – but those sprouts were far from one of the best things to ever pass my lips. As for the other vegetables, I couldn’t get enough of those and ate them eagerly, but there was something about the bitterness of the sprouts that left, well, a bitter taste in my mouth. Even so, I’m not about to close the door on them. But it should also be noted that I’m never going to force my kids to eat them (my future children now have that in writing) – that is, unless I teach them the plugged nose trick first.
Well, now that I’ve got the brussels sprouts situation straightened out, I think I’m going to stay up late tonight and watch an R-rated movie and eat spoonfuls of pumpkin ice cream straight out of the carton, just because I can. Sometimes being a grown-up is the best!
*Grody was a favorite word of mine in the early ‘90s. I probably picked it up from an episode of Full House.
Even if I act my age most of the time, I still haven’t managed to alter my response to brussels sprouts: "Ewwwwww. Grody!*" Until tonight, there would have been a likely possibility that the very presence of brussels sprouts could evoke the most irrational of responses from me: kicking, screaming, sticking out my tongue, rolling my eyes, scrunching up my face, and if you were lucky enough to get one in my mouth, you better believe that I’d plug my nose until I was done chewing and swallowing.
Of course I wouldn’t actually react in any of those ways (except maybe plugging my nose – that trick really works in blocking out taste), but admittedly brussels sprouts did sorta freak me out until tonight. Maybe not to the point that mushrooms freak me out, but I was still wary. Interestingly enough, my opinion of the sprouts had been based only on peer and societal pressure and not because my mother force fed them to me as a child (that is, unless I have merely repressed such memories and they will only surface via hypnosis). The same cannot be said of the mushroom, as the trauma of my first experience of eating one still haunts me today.
Earlier this week, I decided that the mature thing to do as both an adult and a person who prides herself in her open-mindedness and interest in food would be to put these preconceived notions about the brussels sprout to the test. I figured the only way I could fairly provide such vehement criticism of this baby cabbage would be to prepare some myself and make a reasonable assessment through taste-testing. Since my latest obsession is roasted seasonal vegetables, I decided to add a handful of brussel sprouts to my assortment of carrots, turnips, and red onion on a baking sheet; I roasted red beets separately wrapped tightly in aluminum foil. I drizzled the veggies with olive oil and liberally dusted them with kosher salt, pepper, and herbs de Province. After roasting at 425 degrees for about 45 minutes, the moment of truth had arrived.
Crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, the roasted sprouts were good…at least at first. As I allowed the flavor to permeate my mouth, I realized that whiny kids who refuse to eat them may be on to something. It certainly wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever eaten - I didn’t have any kicking or screaming responses to speak of – but those sprouts were far from one of the best things to ever pass my lips. As for the other vegetables, I couldn’t get enough of those and ate them eagerly, but there was something about the bitterness of the sprouts that left, well, a bitter taste in my mouth. Even so, I’m not about to close the door on them. But it should also be noted that I’m never going to force my kids to eat them (my future children now have that in writing) – that is, unless I teach them the plugged nose trick first.
Well, now that I’ve got the brussels sprouts situation straightened out, I think I’m going to stay up late tonight and watch an R-rated movie and eat spoonfuls of pumpkin ice cream straight out of the carton, just because I can. Sometimes being a grown-up is the best!
*Grody was a favorite word of mine in the early ‘90s. I probably picked it up from an episode of Full House.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Instant Gratification
I've been reluctant to report on something that I've become a fan of because frankly, I feel a little ashamed by it. Then again, what’s a blog if not an avenue to expose all my deepest and darkest secrets to the world?
It all started when I went to Starbucks. Duh duh duh.
I had tragically run out of coffee beans and needed my usual morning jolt to get me through the day. The Starbucks up the street from my apartment was the obvious choice because I’d still be able to get my java and make it to work early enough as to avoid putting my boss into a tizzy. Whenever I buy coffee in the morning (which isn’t very often), I usually keep it simple with an Americano or a drip. But something about that morning’s crisp October air had me thinking one thing: pumpkin spice latte. I have a number of friends who are obsessed with this drink; as far as they’re concerned, autumn hasn’t arrived until Starbucks puts this seasonal beverage on the menu. To them, it only becomes socially acceptable to start playing Christmas music once the red Starbucks cups hit the stores.
I’m not one of those people – I don’t let Starbucks dictate the seasons. In fact, I don’t let Starbucks take any hold on me whatsoever. Well, except that as much as I would love to blame it on my Peets’ heritage and consider myself the ultimate anti-Starbuck, here’s the thing: sometimes I like Starbucks. And on that particular morning, I liked it for an even more despicable reason than pumpkin spice lattes or red holiday cups.
As I stood in line to order, a barista carrying a tray approached me and asked if I’d like to try a sample of their mocha VIA Ready Brew coffee, a.k.a. INSTANT COFFEE. If anything’s got a stigma in the world of coffee, it’s instant coffee. That’s not even real coffee, is it? Well, turns out this is, and with the subtle sweetener added to it, VIA was surprisingly delicious. I felt a little guilty for enjoying the sample, but then it got worse: the barista at the register told me my drink would be free if I bought a box of VIA Ready Brew, containing six individual packets of coffee. I quickly did the math in my head. Hey, I thought, this isn’t such a bad deal. If each cup of coffee tasted like the one I just had, it would totally be worth it; it might be good to get out of my afternoon, pick-me-up tea and Jolly Rancher rut.
Once I accepted the barista’s offer, I felt as if I had just made a deal with the devil. My God, had I sent Alfred Peet rolling in his grave? This wasn’t just Starbucks coffee I was purchasing, this was Starbucks instant coffee. What happened to me!? Had my love for good coffee lost its luster? Quite possibly. On second thought, is it so bad to have such an intense "I want coffee, and I want it now" response that I'm willing to let my snootiness fall to the wayside every now and again? I don’t think it is. Now that I've got a stash in the top drawer of my office desk, coffee is just seconds away whenever I’m feeling my sharp legal mind waning. That’s definitely something my clients would appreciate.
Before I close, please allow me to divulge one more thing in the interest of full disclosure: I’m writing this at Starbucks! I might only be here because the internet isn’t being installed in my apartment until tomorrow. I could also be here because I’ve given up on my neighbors for good people watching. But none of that matters now – the damage is done. Whatever way I look at it though, I’m quite sure that I’m in a better place than the poor soul sitting at the table next to me. She’s got stress written across her brow as she pores over financial statements on her ThinkPad, which is under the guise of a MacBook. Hey lady, your Apple sticker ain’t foolin’ me! Well, maybe I’m not fooling anyone either. I’m enjoying my tall extra hot decaf soy latte, the tunes of James Taylor, and the wind-blown leaves outside the window of this corner table just as much as any regular Starbucks schmuck might. Not only that, I took much pleasure in pouring myself a sample of the caramel VIA (I hadn’t tried that flavor yet!) as I handed the kind barista my credit card. I also grabbed a $1 off coupon for my next VIA purchase. The display adjacent to the pastry case might be so big that I feel like it’s screaming at me, but it appears that Starbucks advertising the pants off of this product might be working, even on the likes of people like me. Now if only they’d put some of that effort in turning up the heat in this place – my fingers have turned to icicles.
It all started when I went to Starbucks. Duh duh duh.
I had tragically run out of coffee beans and needed my usual morning jolt to get me through the day. The Starbucks up the street from my apartment was the obvious choice because I’d still be able to get my java and make it to work early enough as to avoid putting my boss into a tizzy. Whenever I buy coffee in the morning (which isn’t very often), I usually keep it simple with an Americano or a drip. But something about that morning’s crisp October air had me thinking one thing: pumpkin spice latte. I have a number of friends who are obsessed with this drink; as far as they’re concerned, autumn hasn’t arrived until Starbucks puts this seasonal beverage on the menu. To them, it only becomes socially acceptable to start playing Christmas music once the red Starbucks cups hit the stores.
I’m not one of those people – I don’t let Starbucks dictate the seasons. In fact, I don’t let Starbucks take any hold on me whatsoever. Well, except that as much as I would love to blame it on my Peets’ heritage and consider myself the ultimate anti-Starbuck, here’s the thing: sometimes I like Starbucks. And on that particular morning, I liked it for an even more despicable reason than pumpkin spice lattes or red holiday cups.
As I stood in line to order, a barista carrying a tray approached me and asked if I’d like to try a sample of their mocha VIA Ready Brew coffee, a.k.a. INSTANT COFFEE. If anything’s got a stigma in the world of coffee, it’s instant coffee. That’s not even real coffee, is it? Well, turns out this is, and with the subtle sweetener added to it, VIA was surprisingly delicious. I felt a little guilty for enjoying the sample, but then it got worse: the barista at the register told me my drink would be free if I bought a box of VIA Ready Brew, containing six individual packets of coffee. I quickly did the math in my head. Hey, I thought, this isn’t such a bad deal. If each cup of coffee tasted like the one I just had, it would totally be worth it; it might be good to get out of my afternoon, pick-me-up tea and Jolly Rancher rut.
Once I accepted the barista’s offer, I felt as if I had just made a deal with the devil. My God, had I sent Alfred Peet rolling in his grave? This wasn’t just Starbucks coffee I was purchasing, this was Starbucks instant coffee. What happened to me!? Had my love for good coffee lost its luster? Quite possibly. On second thought, is it so bad to have such an intense "I want coffee, and I want it now" response that I'm willing to let my snootiness fall to the wayside every now and again? I don’t think it is. Now that I've got a stash in the top drawer of my office desk, coffee is just seconds away whenever I’m feeling my sharp legal mind waning. That’s definitely something my clients would appreciate.
Before I close, please allow me to divulge one more thing in the interest of full disclosure: I’m writing this at Starbucks! I might only be here because the internet isn’t being installed in my apartment until tomorrow. I could also be here because I’ve given up on my neighbors for good people watching. But none of that matters now – the damage is done. Whatever way I look at it though, I’m quite sure that I’m in a better place than the poor soul sitting at the table next to me. She’s got stress written across her brow as she pores over financial statements on her ThinkPad, which is under the guise of a MacBook. Hey lady, your Apple sticker ain’t foolin’ me! Well, maybe I’m not fooling anyone either. I’m enjoying my tall extra hot decaf soy latte, the tunes of James Taylor, and the wind-blown leaves outside the window of this corner table just as much as any regular Starbucks schmuck might. Not only that, I took much pleasure in pouring myself a sample of the caramel VIA (I hadn’t tried that flavor yet!) as I handed the kind barista my credit card. I also grabbed a $1 off coupon for my next VIA purchase. The display adjacent to the pastry case might be so big that I feel like it’s screaming at me, but it appears that Starbucks advertising the pants off of this product might be working, even on the likes of people like me. Now if only they’d put some of that effort in turning up the heat in this place – my fingers have turned to icicles.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Won't You Be My Neighbor?
(Due to technical difficulties, among other excuses, clatter has been unable to post until now. While this is not a particularly timely piece, I would still like to apologize for leaving you hanging for two weeks. Please take comfort in the fact that the problem has been rectified. I thank you for your patience.)
When I moved into my apartment complex seven months ago, I had visions of Melrose Place. Perhaps not as dramatic, with the expected backstabbing, illicit love affairs, and occasional dead body in the pool, but I was still hoping for a little something to spice up the home life. Like in every family, every neighbor has his or her secrets. I have aspired to pick up on some nuggets around the complex, not by doing anything illegal of course, but by just keeping my eyes and ears open. Despite my fervent efforts, however, it appears I have come up severely short: there has been zero drama, no good material, no brow raisers, no crazy stories. What I think might be the most disappointing part about all of this is that the cast of characters has such potential. As I see it, it’s practically a crime not to capitalize on what could be something so shamefully delicious, a person would only crack under the pressures of a lie detector test to admit watching it (bonus points for anyone who got that Seinfeld reference). I know very little about my neighbors, but please consider some of our characters:
-The onsite managers. They are a very nice married couple in their 20s who are always at their tenants’ beck and call. He, an extremely talkative guy who swears he has ADD despite what his doctors tell him, holds down multiple jobs and wears a bluetooth constantly. I’ve struck up conversations with him not realizing he was already talking to someone else, which can be a little awkward. She is a nanny and wants to set me up with her brother. They’re such good people, they must have a dark side.
-The cute doctor downstairs. I suspect he’s the bad boy in disguise – one who may have excellent bedside manner, but he just isn’t quite what meets the eye. On occasion, he has been spotted lurking about the complex, smoking a cigarette. One night while walking past his kitchen window, I noticed an obscene amount of beer bottles on his counter. I’ll take this to mean he has a serious drinking problem, because he's more interesting that way.
-The Passat-driving guy who lives across the hall. He walks with a certain spring in his step, but his face reads, “I’ll only acknowledge that you’re my neighbor with a slight nod because I’m too cool to talk to you.” He whistles in the shower (get your mind out of the gutter - I only know this because he sometimes leaves his bathroom window open). He also places his shoes in such perfect order outside his front door that I’m convinced he must have some form of obsessive compulsive disorder. I’m sure the doc downstairs would concur.
-The wacky, “your music is too loud” nurse below me. Sadly this 35ish year old, orthopedic shoe-wearing woman recently moved out, being replaced by an older woman. I think the nurse would have made one great character, even in spite her horrible taste in fashion - she just seemed so...bizarre. I know nothing about the new lady, but she’s got to have issues. Major issues.
-The gym fanatic. She’s young, she’s hot, and she’s got that certain look that has the guys (the cute doctor, no doubt) doing the head-to-toe stare down. I’m sure she wears something other than spandex and tank tops, but I have yet to see it.
-The quiet girl across the courtyard. She’s a pretty, tall brunette, but I’ve never heard her speak a word. I assume she’s the craziest of them all because she looks so darn normal.
-The girl in the upstairs apartment who spends a lot of time in her kitchen.
Hm, “the girl in the upstairs apartment who spends a lot of time in her kitchen”…. That girl is the author of this blog, right? Wrong. In the last couple of weeks, I’ve noticed that a 20-something year old girl in the apartment across the courtyard that mirrors mine is often in her kitchen when I’m in mine, which as you may have suspected by this point, is quite often. One rainy Sunday afternoon recently, I was in my kitchen per usual, baking a batch of chewy white chocolate chip cookies and simmering ragu bolognese on the stove. Glancing out my window, I saw my neighbor in her kitchen, busy at work on something. I didn’t think much of it until I returned to my kitchen hours later to check on the ragu and heard chopping from my window. There she was again, still working on something. I’ll admit that for a split second I actually questioned whether what I was witnessing was merely my own reflection in the window…until I realized how ridiculous that was.
My curious mind began to run amok: What the heck was she doing in there all day? What was she making? Was she a better cook than me? Would it be possible to have an Iron Chef-like competition from our respective kitchens? Watching her busy in her kitchen, I suddenly began to feel threatened (and maybe slightly creepy) – was my neighbor trying to dethrone me as "the girl in the complex who spends the most time in the kitchen"? Of course I have no way of knowing if I have really logged the most hours amongst my neighbors, but I’d venture to guess that I have indeed earned that status. Either way, once those initial competitive feelings subsided, I decided I mostly just wanted to know what my fellow neighbor was up to. In true Nancy Drew form, I soon found myself with my nose against the open window, hoping to get a whiff of whatever was cooking across the way; I figured that with both of our kitchen windows open, my keen sense of smell might come through for me. Was that sauteed onions? Sniff sniff. Hm maybe some roasted tomatoes? Then my ears perked up as some pans clattered and then the girl uttered the word “salsa” and then “marinara sauce” to her male guest. Ah ha, that’s it! She was spending all day in the kitchen because she probably had a vat of summer tomatoes! Maybe Nancy really can solve mysteries without the help of Bess and George (and she might disagree, but I always thought Ned was kind of worthless.)
Unearthing what my neighbors are cooking in their kitchens may not be the kind of drama that I’ve been hoping for, and perhaps my living arrangement hasn’t quite lived up to my wild expectations of Melrose Place meets Grey’s Anatomy (the complex's close proximity to the hospital makes this an obvious choice), with small doses of Ally McBeal, Top Chef, and Veronica Mars thrown in to make my own role more prevalent. But even so, here’s the good news: I’ve still got five months left on the lease. There’s plenty of time for things to heat up….in or out of the kitchen.
When I moved into my apartment complex seven months ago, I had visions of Melrose Place. Perhaps not as dramatic, with the expected backstabbing, illicit love affairs, and occasional dead body in the pool, but I was still hoping for a little something to spice up the home life. Like in every family, every neighbor has his or her secrets. I have aspired to pick up on some nuggets around the complex, not by doing anything illegal of course, but by just keeping my eyes and ears open. Despite my fervent efforts, however, it appears I have come up severely short: there has been zero drama, no good material, no brow raisers, no crazy stories. What I think might be the most disappointing part about all of this is that the cast of characters has such potential. As I see it, it’s practically a crime not to capitalize on what could be something so shamefully delicious, a person would only crack under the pressures of a lie detector test to admit watching it (bonus points for anyone who got that Seinfeld reference). I know very little about my neighbors, but please consider some of our characters:
-The onsite managers. They are a very nice married couple in their 20s who are always at their tenants’ beck and call. He, an extremely talkative guy who swears he has ADD despite what his doctors tell him, holds down multiple jobs and wears a bluetooth constantly. I’ve struck up conversations with him not realizing he was already talking to someone else, which can be a little awkward. She is a nanny and wants to set me up with her brother. They’re such good people, they must have a dark side.
-The cute doctor downstairs. I suspect he’s the bad boy in disguise – one who may have excellent bedside manner, but he just isn’t quite what meets the eye. On occasion, he has been spotted lurking about the complex, smoking a cigarette. One night while walking past his kitchen window, I noticed an obscene amount of beer bottles on his counter. I’ll take this to mean he has a serious drinking problem, because he's more interesting that way.
-The Passat-driving guy who lives across the hall. He walks with a certain spring in his step, but his face reads, “I’ll only acknowledge that you’re my neighbor with a slight nod because I’m too cool to talk to you.” He whistles in the shower (get your mind out of the gutter - I only know this because he sometimes leaves his bathroom window open). He also places his shoes in such perfect order outside his front door that I’m convinced he must have some form of obsessive compulsive disorder. I’m sure the doc downstairs would concur.
-The wacky, “your music is too loud” nurse below me. Sadly this 35ish year old, orthopedic shoe-wearing woman recently moved out, being replaced by an older woman. I think the nurse would have made one great character, even in spite her horrible taste in fashion - she just seemed so...bizarre. I know nothing about the new lady, but she’s got to have issues. Major issues.
-The gym fanatic. She’s young, she’s hot, and she’s got that certain look that has the guys (the cute doctor, no doubt) doing the head-to-toe stare down. I’m sure she wears something other than spandex and tank tops, but I have yet to see it.
-The quiet girl across the courtyard. She’s a pretty, tall brunette, but I’ve never heard her speak a word. I assume she’s the craziest of them all because she looks so darn normal.
-The girl in the upstairs apartment who spends a lot of time in her kitchen.
Hm, “the girl in the upstairs apartment who spends a lot of time in her kitchen”…. That girl is the author of this blog, right? Wrong. In the last couple of weeks, I’ve noticed that a 20-something year old girl in the apartment across the courtyard that mirrors mine is often in her kitchen when I’m in mine, which as you may have suspected by this point, is quite often. One rainy Sunday afternoon recently, I was in my kitchen per usual, baking a batch of chewy white chocolate chip cookies and simmering ragu bolognese on the stove. Glancing out my window, I saw my neighbor in her kitchen, busy at work on something. I didn’t think much of it until I returned to my kitchen hours later to check on the ragu and heard chopping from my window. There she was again, still working on something. I’ll admit that for a split second I actually questioned whether what I was witnessing was merely my own reflection in the window…until I realized how ridiculous that was.
My curious mind began to run amok: What the heck was she doing in there all day? What was she making? Was she a better cook than me? Would it be possible to have an Iron Chef-like competition from our respective kitchens? Watching her busy in her kitchen, I suddenly began to feel threatened (and maybe slightly creepy) – was my neighbor trying to dethrone me as "the girl in the complex who spends the most time in the kitchen"? Of course I have no way of knowing if I have really logged the most hours amongst my neighbors, but I’d venture to guess that I have indeed earned that status. Either way, once those initial competitive feelings subsided, I decided I mostly just wanted to know what my fellow neighbor was up to. In true Nancy Drew form, I soon found myself with my nose against the open window, hoping to get a whiff of whatever was cooking across the way; I figured that with both of our kitchen windows open, my keen sense of smell might come through for me. Was that sauteed onions? Sniff sniff. Hm maybe some roasted tomatoes? Then my ears perked up as some pans clattered and then the girl uttered the word “salsa” and then “marinara sauce” to her male guest. Ah ha, that’s it! She was spending all day in the kitchen because she probably had a vat of summer tomatoes! Maybe Nancy really can solve mysteries without the help of Bess and George (and she might disagree, but I always thought Ned was kind of worthless.)
Unearthing what my neighbors are cooking in their kitchens may not be the kind of drama that I’ve been hoping for, and perhaps my living arrangement hasn’t quite lived up to my wild expectations of Melrose Place meets Grey’s Anatomy (the complex's close proximity to the hospital makes this an obvious choice), with small doses of Ally McBeal, Top Chef, and Veronica Mars thrown in to make my own role more prevalent. But even so, here’s the good news: I’ve still got five months left on the lease. There’s plenty of time for things to heat up….in or out of the kitchen.
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