The Moody Kitchen

Blueberry Lime Sorbet and a Love Letter

2010-04-11T22:45:00.005-04:00

Dear Blueberry,

You, my darling, are the wild side of nobility, the King's second son--the edgy one who smokes cigarettes under bridges because he's "got time, nothing but time." You are not the delicate blackberry prince whose life is always on the verge of ruin and rupture. You live hard into old age, remain intact.

You and your flared crown, your deep blue ink that stains my fingers, your tight skin. I once saw your color in a near-night sky in Arizona.

I imagine sea creatures in undiscovered coral reefs that blossom like bouquets of you.

"Blueberries," she remembers him saying over and over again with a smile. "Blueberries, blueberries." She was his student. All of us thought they secretly loved each other--kept it secret, maybe even to each other. One week before he died, she brought him a bowlful of freshly picked blueberries, and he, whose vocabulary was never lacking, even after several drinks, could only say "blueberries, blueberries" at the sight of them. You, my blueberry love, might have been his last happy thing.

Your genus, Vaccinium, derives from the Latin for cow (vacca). It was noted by Captain James Cook that cows loved you. Your name was born from this observed desire. When cows daydream, they imagine your juice dripping down their furry chins.

Love,

Barbara Blue, Licensed Poet and Berry Sensualist

Blueberry Lime Sorbet
(serves 2)

1/3 cup water
1/3 cup sugar
pinch of salt
zest of 1/2 a lime
juice of 1 lime
2 cups blueberries
1/2 tsp. vanilla extract

1. Bring water, salt, and sugar to a boil. Sustain boil for 1 minute, and then remove from heat. As sugar syrup cools, add lime zest and juice. Stir, and allow to cool.

2. Once syrup has cooled, blend with the blueberries and vanilla extract in a food processor. Once mixture is thoroughly blended, strain through a metal sieve, making sure to squeeze as much juice through the sieve as possible.

3. Pour into a glass bowl or casserole dish. Freeze for 2 hours. At 30-minute intervals, whisk the mixture. Frequent whisking ensures that the sorbet will remain smooth (vs. icy & crystallized).

High Art for Those with Low Standards

2010-03-28T22:20:00.007-04:00

True artists refuse to be bound by the rules of society. In the face of Standardization, they spit fluorescent saliva. In the ear of Tradition, they whisper, "Thanks, but no thanks."

When it comes to vision, a true artist views his world not through the eyes of mainstream culture, but through the gaze of his own pulsating pupils--pupils that perpetually widen and constrict like the mouths of glow-in-the-dark sea anemone. Yes, a true artist stands alone, inventing and inventing and inventing with a brush that gives birth to the past, present, and future--all at once. And if a canvas does not exist upon which he can initiate that fantastic rupture in space and time, then he makes a canvas of his world.

Take, for example, Duchamp's famous urinal, aptly titled "Fountain"; or Frida Kahlo's self-decorated body cast; or even the Cadillac Ranch in Amarillo, TX. My friends, the work of true artists cannot be imprisoned by standard media.

Since I consider myself to be one of the truest, brilliantest, bohemianest bohemians of them all, I knew I had to think outside the box for artistic inspiration. So, I stepped outside of my box (literally--I'm so quirky and eccentric and artistic that I actually live inside a 4'x4' glass box; it represents the ideological boundaries created by society, culture, government, the media, and other, uh, stupid things), drove my homemade unicycle to the grocery store, and THERE found the unique canvas I had been craving: corn tortillas.

Two things stood out about corn tortillas in my mind, both of which assured me that this new artistic medium would make my work seem at once rebellious, playful, and, of course, deeply philosophical. 1.) Corn tortillas are circles, not boxes--of which I am trying to think outside, remember? 2.) Corn tortillas are edible! I will literally eat my art! This will really draw a new fan base for my work: the Buddhist, "art-is-impermanent" crowd. Like a god, I will give birth to, and then destroy, that which I create. Born-again Buddhists love that kind of stuff.

So, without further adieu, here is the high art you've been waiting for. If you wish to witness the great life cycle my great artistic hands have the great power to unleash, feel free to drop by my place/box any night for dinner. However, please be reminded that cameras are not allowed. Nor are cell phones, joyful attitudes, or personalities.

Jalapeno, Egg & Roasted Sweet Potato

Red Pepper Hummus and Horseradish Cheddar

Hummus, Red Pepper, Cashew & Olive Oil

Cinnamon, Sugar, Ground Ginger & Olive Oil

The Art of Persuasion

2010-03-08T22:45:00.000-05:00

Red Curry Rhetorically Dominating the Shitake Masses

When a friend emails you a recipe, sometimes you pay attention, and sometimes you don't. After all, life is short; if a recipe presents itself to us wearing anything but a tight red dress and stilleto heels, what's to keep us from looking for newer, sexier, more scantily clad recipes? Answer: Nothing.

However, when a friend emails you a killer recipe, in addition to a stunning photograph of the dish in question, in addition to the rhetorically effective message below, chances are you might pay attention:

"Make this. It is totally a delicious noms."

I received this very message from a friend of mine, Matthew, last fall. This message--in addition to the delicious-sounding recipe & delicious-looking photograph--grabbed my attention by the balls and forced it to listen. I could not resist such artful use of rhetoric--the imperative "make this" followed by the playfulness of "totally a delicious noms." This was not a message I would soon forget. Like a tight red dress at a business meeting, this message/recipe was at once sexy and commanding, with a hint of fun woven into the threads.

If it weren't for my aversion to the idea of soup, I probably would have made Matthew's Curried Coconut Soup with Lemongrass immediately. Instead, I kept it safe in my inbox, knowing that one day--one day soon, when I felt cold and desperate enough to stoop to the prissy level of soup--I would break it out and be made whole again with its spice, its sexiness.

That day came at the end of February when, driven to the igloos of my wintery insanity, I needed to reignite the fire inside. It was there, that space between near-frostbite and frostbite, that I remembered Matthew's words: Make this. Make this. Make this. In moments of icy despair, one submits gladly to dictatorial commands. So, I heeded to Matthew's evangelism, gathered the necessary ingredients, and, with a cold & februaried brain, somehow managed to fumble through the soup-making process.

Prepping the Ingredients

Let me tell you, this soup will knock the icicles off your socks! It is everything at once: rustic, creamy, delicate, manly, spicy, acidic, pillowy, and woodsy. Just when you thought you couldn't handle another flat & icy minute of winter, this soup comes along and complicates the hell out of winter's one dimensional lameness.

Thank you, Matthew, for forcing my taste buds into soupy submission. Your message, albeit two measly sentences, resurrected the tired animal inside of me.

And now, for all of you, I have only one message: MAKE THIS.

A Very Persuasive Bowl of Soup: photo via Matthew

Curried Coconut and Lemongrass Soup
(From Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything Vegetarian, with adaptations below. Thanks, Matthew, for the recipe images!)

Since my lemongrass was a little old (and, hence, tough), I decided not to mince & blend. Instead, I opted to infuse the soup with the halved stalks and removed them before serving.

Also, I added Thai rice noodles and 1 lb. of extra firm tofu to this recipe. The tofu was added at the same time as the stock, and the noodles were added with the coconut milk. I'm sure chicken, shrimp, or rice would be just as tasty!

Doing Right by Accident

2010-03-03T15:40:00.003-05:00

Proof of Happy Accidents

Most accidents don't end happily...which is why we call them accidents. Take these two accident scenarios, for example:

Example 1: You accidentally send your boyfriend an email that was meant for your lover: "Please don't let Steve, your brother and best friend and godfather of your three children, know that you and I are madly in love. Even though I can no longer stand Steve and his ridiculous addiction to Kim Kardashian, he is rich, and that I can stand. After I marry Steve next week, I can empty our then-joint bank account and finally run away with you. I love you." There's a good chance Steve will not see a silver lining on this particular cloud.

Example 2: You accidentally forget (and by "forget" I mean "are too drunk to remember") to feed your sister's cat (the cat she lovingly refers to as her "soulmate") while she's away on a three-week vacation. She returns from the jungles of Cambodia to find that Frederick, her loving feline, is no longer a part of this world. No matter how many times you say, "I'm sorry, it was an accident"--even if tears of holy-Virgin blood pour from your eyes--this is not an accident your sister would soon recall with joyful sentiment.

It's accidents like the ones above that give accidents a bad name. Sometimes the rancid flavor of such accidents can linger on our tongue for weeks, years, or even eternity. (Yes, Steve may still refuse to forgive you even in the afterlife.)

The accident I made a few days ago, however, left a much less rancid taste in my mouth. In fact, the taste was pretty damn cosmic, in a blackberries-and-cream sort of way.

Blackberries, Cinammon, and Sugar Awaiting Transformation

You see, I had plans to make a clafoutis. (Just so you know, "clafoutis" is a fancy-sounding French word that means "to fill up.") Basically, a clafoutis is a custard-like thingy that you "fill up" with fruit, usually fresh cherries, before baking. (Just so you know, "thingy" is not a fancy-sounding French word.)

Anyhow, after baking my berries, prepping the creamy batter, and whipping up the meringue, I realized that my 8x8 baking dish had gone missing. Not really wanting to mess with ramekins, I instead opted to break out the 8x13 baking dish. It looked like I had enough berries & batter to fill 'er up; plus, I figured that by using a larger dish, I could reduce the baking time and, hence, enjoy my clafoutis even sooner! "Good save," I thought to myself, not knowing that an accident was lurking underneath all that positivity.

These maneuvers did, ultimately, lead me into Accident Territory. The clafoutis didn't puff to its normal 3-4 inch potential; instead, it was as thin as a crepe (which is a fancy-sounding French word that means "curled"). ("Curled" is an English word that sounds fancy enough to be French.)

Don't let this "accident scenario" fool you into thinking the resulting dessert was poor, however. In fact, despite this recipe's lack of flour and butter, this accidental crepe was the most cumulus-like crepe I've ever clafoutied my mouth with! (Get it? Clafoutied? When will this fun French wordplay ever end? "Hopefully soon," you say? Lame answer.)

If you're hankering for a airy, marshmallowy, gluten-free crepe that turns purple overnight with the summer-infused blood of blackberries, then this is the recipe for you! I jazzed the batter up with a little jasmine extract, which you can find at most Asian markets. In place of the jasmine, you could just as well add a teeny bit of almond extract. Both extracts go a long, long way, so be very conservative with your dose.

This dessert stands as proof that our contemporary understanding of "accident" is antiquated. Give this word new life in your own kitchens by making accidents of delicious consequence!

What happy accidents have you created in your own kitchens?

Accidental Blackberry Clafoutis Crepe

(inspired by the Alice Waters recipe for Cherry Clafoutis in the Chez Panisse Cafe Cookbook)

-1 lb. blackberries (I used pre-packaged frozen berries, and they tasted GREAT!)

-juice and rind of 1 lemon

-a sprinkling of cinnamon

-1/4 c. sugar

-2 eggs, separated

-5 tbs. sugar

-1 tsp. vanilla extract

-1/4 tsp. jasmine extract

-1/3 c. heavy cream

-1/8 tsp. salt

1. Preheat oven to 350. Lightly grease an 8x13 baking dish with olive oil. Arrange the blackberries on the botton of the baking dish. Sprinkle them evenly with the juice, rind, cinnamon, and sugar. Bake for 8-10 minutes.

2. While the berries are baking, beat the egg yolks and sugar in a medium sized bowl until well blended. Whisk in the vanilla, jasmine, and cream.

3. When the berries have softened a bit and are beginning to release their juices, take them out of the oven. Drain the juice into a container, and set aside. Once again, spread the berries out on the bottom of the baking dish, and set aside. Increase the heat to 375.

4. In another medium sized bowl, beat the egg whites with the salt until soft peaks form. Fold the meringue into the cream-and-sugar batter very delicately. Stir slightly until blended. Pour this batter evenly over the berries, and bake for about 15 minutes. Check on this dessert every 5 minutes or so; when the top has browned, it is finished.

5. Allow to cool 5 minutes or so, and then dig in! The juicy blackberry cinnamon syrup that you set aside earlier can be used as a sauce. Pour sauce over the clafoutis crepe right before serving. This desserts holds up really nicely overnight if you refigerate it. I ate it chilled for breakfast the next morning. It peels off the bottom of the baking dish with much ease, just like a crepe.

How to Cure a Common Cold (and Make a Lion Jealous)

2010-02-24T16:40:00.012-05:00

Dear Nose, Head, Throat, Eye Sockets, Neck, Ears, and the People who Have Them:

I have a message that will save you--turn you from broken to whole. This message is like a brick through a window in rewind.

Yes, my darlings, I can cure you of your congestion, your temporal pressure, your seepage, your self-doubt. Your lack of love, your excess of love. The breath you can't catch at night that wakes you. I can take away all of these pains (well, at least the cold-related ones) and transform them into a herd of deer. Or a flock of seagulls. Or a pride of lions peering back in envy at the majestic beast you have become.

Have you ever felt like a sacred animal? No? Well, what the hell are you waiting for?! I have the power to make you FEEL the Holy Spirit made manifest in your mucus membranes. His Light is alive in every sinus passage everywhere. Even in yours? Yes, even in yours. The message I have to bear just might ignite great Virgin-blue fires on the split ends of your nostril furs.

It's that good.

My message is thus: pour hot water over the following earthly ingredients, allow to steep for 10 minutes, and then sip in a divine fashion until your senses are restored.

2-3 lemon slices

1/4 tsp. red chili powder/crushed dried chilis

1/8 tsp. coriander

1 tbs. honey

Love,

Jada

PS. This tonic is intended to help you fight a common cold. If it does any of the other shit mentioned above, well then, dude--that's crazy. I'm not the most reliable narrator/apothecary/shaman, so your expectations should be limited.

Keepin' It Real with Peasant Food

2010-02-13T15:25:00.005-05:00

Blanched & Ready for Some Offal-free Stuffing

There's nothing like being catapulted into ecstasy by a dish that is cheap and easy to make. Who needs to spend millions on a truffle-stuffed Cornish hen...that's been stuffed into a pig's bladder...that's been stuffed into the slacks President Obama wore to his senior prom...that's been stuffed into a diamond-studded Hummer? As appealingly postmodern as all of those layers sound, I'll stick to something a little less aristocratic.

However, don't turn your back on stuffed food just yet, folks. Even though Obama's stuffed pants might be off limits to those of us forced to survive in a blistery, trust-fundless world, there are still many peasant-friendly possibilities when it comes to stuffed food. In fact, in the world of peasant food, nearly everything is stuffable!

Consider the following stuffed-food examples, all of which have been considered "peasant food" at one point or another by historians & folklorists:

1. Tamales
2. Stuffed Peppers
3. Haggis (Pig stomach stuffed with a number of "treats," including oats, liver, and heart)
4. Sausage (This counts as a "stuffed food," right? I mean, traditional sausage is made by stuffing ground meat into intestines, dude.)
5. Faggots (Don't worry, I'm not using this term in the offensive way. Faggots are a traditional peasant food from the U.K. Midlands. They essentially consist of pig cheeks, livers, and other delights stuffed into caul, the amniotic membrane that remains after a piglet is born.)
6. Cow Brain Ravioli (Argentina & Paraguay)
7. Empanadas
8. Jiaozi/Gyoza/Pot Stickers
9. Korouch (A rice-stuffed pig intestine from Lebanon)
10. Meat Pies
11. Cabbage Rolls

And the list of stuffed peasant food goes on and on. What made these dishes so "peasanty," or economical, wasn't just that the ingredients (oftentimes just leftover scraps of meat and cartilage adorably tucked inside a handy pouch of dough or, uh, stomach lining) were so cheap, but many of them were pretty damn easy to tote around as well. If one had to wake at the break of dawn to erect the walls of the king's new party chateau, one wouldn't want to pack his goatskin lunch bag with a Tupperware-full of lobster bisque, right? Right. Loading the bag with a fistful of meat pies would make much more sense: they'd be both durable and filling. The pies would also have a much longer shelf life (or goatskin-lunch-bag life) than the prissy bisque.

Who says "Peasant" has to be low-brow?!

And even though we've come far from those feudal days of yesteryear, we haven't totally left peasant food in the rabbit skins of our past. In fact, there are many stuffed/wrapped modern-day equivalents. Yesterday's meat pies are today's microwavable burritos, Hot Pockets, white bread sandwiches ("stuffed" into a plastic bag), and veggie wraps. Even though some unidentifiable chunks of meat, or soy-product, might appear in these stuffed goods from time to time, we no longer identify these portable meals as "peasant foods"; instead, we label them as "convenience foods." (And, depending on how longeth be the list of ingredients on the packaging, words like "slightly radioactive" might also come to mind. Yes, chances are the preservability of a Hot Pocket would far exceed that of any peasant's meat pie...or human being. Well done, Science.)

Today's stuffed grab-and-go treats are, in general, pretty cheap, thus linking them even more firmly to their peasanty roots. And regarding the issue of sturdiness, need we even ask? We all know that Hot Pockets can withstand much abuse. Just yesterday I ran over a Hot Pocket with my double-deck Hummer, and the Pocket lived. Case closed.

Though not quite as sturdy as a meat pie, or a Hummer for that matter, my Grandma Ach's Cabbage Balls are as close to stuffed perfection as peasant food gets. Tangy, aromatic, and as multi-textured as a courtesan's wedding dress, these cabbage balls--traditional peasant food of Eastern Europe--will fool any eater into believing they were born into the noble class! However, underneath the surface of all that richness they're the peasantiest of peasant foods: stuffed, sturdy, meaty, filling, portable, and extremely preservable (1 week in the fridge, eternity in the freezer).

I'm curious: What's your favorite stuffed food?

Pre-Sauced, Pre-Cooked Cabbage Balls

Grandma Ach's Cabbage Balls
(Recipe that follows comes directly from granny's recipe index card. I added a couple of additional notes in brackets. Feel free to improvise! I see a lot of room in these rolls for garlic, peppers, and other sturdy-&-aromatic vegetables. Lots of people in the Midwest add sauerkraut to either the filling or the tomato sauce itself. Makes about 12 balls.)

-1 medium head of green cabbage
-1 lb. ground hamburger
-1/2 lb. ground sausage
-1 large onion, chopped
-1/2-3/4 cup long grain rice, uncooked
-Enough canned diced tomatoes, with juice, to cover the balls before cooking (Or even better, in my opinion, is straight-up tomato juice. As in V-8. Sounds odd, but I prefer my cabbage ball sauce to be chunk-free!)
-salt and pepper to taste

1. Cut core out of medium head of cabbage. Put upside down in pan of 3-4 inches of water. Simmer until the leaves are soft, then peel them off. Cut large vein out. Count leaves and set aside. [This process took about 30 minutes. Make sure the leaves are pliable before setting them aside on a plate.]

2. Throw the meat, chopped onion, and uncooked rice into a large bowl. Stir until combined. Add a few dashes of salt and black pepper. Make into balls to match the number of leaves. Wrap balls into leaves. Add tomatoes or tomato juice and simmer 2.5-3 hours. [Try to wrap these balls as tightly as possible. When placing into the cooking pot, I arranged them loose-end down to prevent them from splaying open too much while cooking. I added 2 large cans of diced tomatoes, plus juice, but I prefer my grandma's method of using V-8.]

An Iron-Fortified Apology Letter

2010-02-08T20:10:00.004-05:00

New & Meaty Beginnings

Dear Legions of Moody Kitchen Fans,

For months I have been trembling with confusion and guilt over the dormant state of the Moody Kitchen. (I've also been a wee bit cranked out on iron and animal protein, which has left me with a different brand of trembling altogether, but this is a topic I wish to discuss near the end of this letter--after I have earned back your love, that is.) Allow me to explain.

First of all, I never meant to ignore the Moody Kitchen. I know what you’re thinking: Not another blogger apologizing to his/her (imaginary) readers for being too lazy to blog. I mean, are you really sorry, or are you just lazy? Is it THAT hard to peel your lazy hands away from your lazy bag of plantain chips for, like, two minutes, for Christ’s sake!

Wow, I didn’t know my imaginary readers were so judgmental. And just how did they know about my current relationship with plantain chips?

Anyhow, I’ve really been looking forward to resurrecting this space like a great, pixelated Christ, but the more I planned to re-enter the scene all witty and sophisticated, the more I kept telling myself, “ Jada, for real…you are neither of those things. Just keep eating your lazy plantain chips. Look at it this way: at least you can tell all of your offspring/cats that once, for a brief (plantain) chip of time, you had a blog, and that blog was read by others. Two others, to be exact.”

So, yes…self-doubt kept me away. As did guilt. I mean, it’s not like anyone’s life depended on my clumsy recipes, but I still hate to be all “Baby,-I’ve-returned-from-my-summer-in-Europe,-and,-yeah,-I practiced- my-fair-share-of-physical-anthropology,-but-I’m-back-now-,ready-to-become-remade-in-your-arms.-Oh,-by-the-way,-I’m-pregnant,-and-it’s-not-yours.-I-love-you."

Really, that ain't cool. I am not that type of girl. In fact, I hated being away. And, just for the record, I am not pregnant with a child that is not yours. Nor am I pregnant with a child that is yours.

I am NOT pregnant. (Just for the record.)

What I HAVE become, though, may upset some of you, especially given the fact that my blog was once so vegan (kinda, if you ignore my brief crème brulee and mascarpone whipped cream addictions). No, my new diet is so much worse (and, somehow, so much mo’ better) than guilty spoonfuls of cream and cheese.

Anyhow, I guess I should just come out with it: I now eat meat. Lots of it. And all of it—pork, beef, lamb, buffalo, etc. I guess the image of the infant corned beef brisket at the top of this entry might have been a not-so-subtle signal.

Maybe at a later date I’ll try to explain why I made the choice to shift from veganism/vegetarianism to carnivorous-ism (hehe), but, chances are, I’ll probably just keep that little (plantain) chip of information to myself. I feel like this entry has already been personal enough, and I’d rather play games with weak metaphors than get all Larry-King-interviewee on your ass.

So, there—I said it. I eat meat. Expect some meaty recipes in future entries. That is, if my two readers haven’t fled to Europe to become impregnated by men who are not their official significant others. If they have, I’ll pray they’ll return to me soon!

And, for what it’s worth, and since I feel that this entry has somehow morphed into an emo apology letter, let me say it again: I’m sorry for being gone. (Or maybe I should flip the (plaintain) chip to the other side and apologize, too, for my return!)

At any rate, here is a fake flower to make up for all that absence.And now, as my blunt and impatient brother would say, get over it.

Love,

Jada

Stop and Smell the Marigolds

2009-08-10T21:16:00.003-04:00

I'm working on a new pixelated project with a jewelry-studded, harmonium-playing, Tarot-reading friend. More news coming soon as, well, the news develops.

Hold tight to your peaches, darlings.

Strawberry Chamomile Quick Bread

2009-06-30T20:03:00.014-04:00

And as I looked a quickening gust
Of wind blew up to me and thrust
Into my face a miracle
Of orchard-breath, and with the smell,--
I know not how such things can be!--
I breathed my soul back into me.

--from "Renascence" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

As some of you know, I am a sucker for floral and herbal infusion. Adding a base of lavender or a hue of thyme to a regular bread, jelly, or creme brulee can turn the everyday into a knee-trembling experience. Even before the dessert reaches your lips, your nose informs you that a new jewel awaits. Each time I pass a wildflower, or notice that my neighbor's violets have suddenly blossomed overnight, I can't help but wonder: how would that flower taste in my next batch of _______?

This obsession, I fear, might soon turn me into the village outcast. For example, each time I overhear people speaking about their flower gardens, I always jump into the conversation and ask, a little too overzealously, "Are any of your flowers edible?" Usually they don't know how to respond to this question, and the conversation awkwardly fizzles. I fear that soon everyone around town will be bordering their flower gardens with chicken wire to ward off any nightly raids from the freaky flower-eating girl.

Some bloggers out there, like Conscious Kitchen and Tartelette, to name a few, would understand this urgency to discover new possibilities in the art of herbal and floral infusion. If you visit their pages, you will will discover them adding notes of various flowers, herbs, barks, and leaves to their delicious chocolates and baked goods. Here is a brief list of ingredients they have recently infused into sweet treats: lemongrass, rose, black tea, pink peppercorn, cucumber-scented green tea, violet, saffron and cherry blossom. These blogs obviously give me much to live up to, and in the past year they've inspired me to take my infusion skillz to some pretty fabulous places.

(However, some of these places were more nasty than fabulous. Like the sugar cookies I tried to infuse with yerba mate' tea a few months ago. Blech! Do NOT try that combination in your own kitchen unless you hate everything that is pure and delicious in this world. And please do not tell any gauchos what I did with their sacred tea.)

Don't let this pretty dough fool you.

Sure, the Moody Kitchen has endured some lackluster--and sometimes downright sh***y--experiments throughout my research in the Infusion Arts. After one of these experiments, my cat even threatened to move out of the house. His suitcase was packed and everything.

Despite the occasional culinary failure (and near woman-cat divorce), some combinations have managed to win over my heart and tongue. A few months back, I stumbled upon one such dessert: strawberry chamomile quick bread. Since I had never baked with chamomile before, I thought it would be fun to test out its potential. I mean, how can one go wrong with strawberries or chamomile? I would eat a ball of mud were it stuffed with these two ingredients.

Chamomile buds infusing in coconut milk

And, let me tell you: this combination was as pretty-on-the-tongue as it gets. After I made this bread, my cat was finally able to unpack his suitcase full of berets, cigars and miniature wigs. It's that delicious.

How have you been eating your flowers this summer? Let me know!

Strawberry Chamomile Quick Bread
(makes 1 loaf)

2 cups flour
1.5 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. vanilla
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup coconut milk
2 tbs. dry chamomile buds
2 tsp. vinegar
1.5-2 cups mashed strawberries
1/3 cup olive oil

1. Bring the coconut milk to a boil, and then remove from heat. Stir in the chamomile buds, and allow mixture to sit and infuse for 30 minutes to 1 hour (or more for a stronger flavor).

2. Once flowers have infused into the milk, strain buds and pour milk into a small bowl. Add vinegar to the milk, and stir. Allow vinegar-milk mixture to sit for 5 minutes. Set aside.

3. In a large bowl, whisk your dry ingredients. In another bowl, whisk the sugar with the olive oil until well blended. Then add the remaining wet ingredients, and stir. Pour your wet ingredients into your dry ingredients, and stir JUST until combined. About 10 stirs oughtta do 'er. Batter should be lumpy. Pour batter into a well-greased bread pan, and bake for 45-50 minutes at 350.

Black Cherry and Thyme Jelly from the Red Dimension

2009-04-29T12:15:00.006-04:00

I heard a knock at the door. No, not a knock--more like the rasp of a brush against a snare drum. It was the sound of 10 cats licking the 10 toes of an infant. Of 10 baby bats sucking obsessively at a peach. Yes, this sound was more tongue than fist. A hiss. A feather tickling your wrist. Eyelashes against a pillow.

I opened the door, and in swarmed a red cloud dusted with silver. Had I not been wearing my cowboy boots, this cloud would have, no doubt, knocked me over. This red was alive--but not "alive" in the same way that you and I and all 7 billion of us are alive. No, this red was life. It carried the lives of everything living and everything that has lived. It exhaled a Jurassic breath and inhaled a Cambrian sigh. In its blur and static I could hear the patient shifting of tectonic plates. I heard the fluttering of aquatic tails in shallow waters. I heard reptilian roars and insectual hums and the skeletal barking of dogs. The first fire. The first human yawn. I heard all of this, and I felt it, too.

As this cloud swirled and pulsated around my ankles and calves, I felt the way people feel after waking up from a dream where they are falling off the side of a cliff. Except I didn't want to wake up. I wanted to fall and fall and fall. I wanted this cloud to take me in and send me flailing into the universe like a curly-headed crab nebula. I wanted this thing to take me out of time and body and aluminum siding completely. I was willing to sacrifice everything to keep falling out into a sky of black holes.

"Thank you for opening the door," the cloud whispered as it wound its way around my thighs and waist. It was both cumulus and the deep inhale of a black hole--at once both a sprawl and a contraction. A small town on the verge of greatness. Her velocity, something I felt more than witnessed, moved in all directions at once. It sent my skirt into a flowering halo about my waist. My shirt began to unthread itself as it circled its way around my torso and chest and neck. The beads of my necklace tore from the chain and ricocheted off the walls like BBs or catapulting squirrel teeth. My hair sprayed outward like the branches of an ancient tree. Black cherries sprouted from the tip of each curl.

This cloud made every part of me move and grow and redden. My ears extended into great rouge satellites while, simultaneously, they grew inward like ruby snails. I heard, at once, the red electricity of my brain. It sounded like a thousand eels winding around the peach of their beginning.

My lips and skin and fingertips and toes bouqueted into red carnations; their roots flowered into me, tasting and licking and tickling the grapefruit layer beneath my skin.

The scent of cherry pie and cherry candy and cherry lip balm suddenly filled my nostrils. Like a dog, I could smell each scent individually: the pie, the candy, the balm. Then, as if someone flipped on a switch in my cerebral cortex, every distinction of fragrance blurred and I could only smell "red." No longer was there pastry, candy, or lip gloss--there was only red, and, oddly enough, I could smell it. I could smell the color red.

This synaesthetic transformation occurred not only to my sense of smell, but to my other senses as well. Suddenly, all that I could see, feel, smell, hear, and taste was Red. I felt like I had been thrown into a universe of red jelly and was clumsily slicking toward the heart of it. The red cloud, sighing now as it took over every part of my apartment & soul, had somehow opened up a new dimension and thrown me into it. In this new dimension there were no jobs, cats or cell phones. Nor were there any blogs. (Yikes!) Heck, people didn't even exist in this realm! All that existed was Red--all shades of Red.

I sensed that this world, this Red dimension, was the world from which the red cloud was born. No, it was more than that--this new dimension was the birthplace of Red. All things Red came from this realm. But why did this cloud choose me to be the witness of this crimson genesis? So I asked it, and this was its response:

"Do not be afraid, girl. Give yourself to Red, and you will be rewarded."

Give myself to red? Huh? What does that even mean? And does that really answer my question?

"Do not resist. Turn off your brain. Slide into it."

Not knowing what any of this meant, I tried doing what the voice of the red cloud had ordered. I allowed my body to go limp, closed my eyes, and switched off my thoughts. For a moment, I felt as if I no longer existed. I could feel every coral molecule of my body fluttering like a fruit fly, trying hard to stay aligned with the others in the flock. Slowly, though, each molecule dissolved into the red surroundings, and I (or at least my physical form) no longer existed.

My body dissolving in the Red Realm

All that remained was thought, and even that was dissolving into cellular pomegranates. So this is what if feels like to be Red, I thought. I was a chunk of coal, ignited. I was the reddest eye of a photograph. I was the lips of the prettiest girl in the class. I understood Red because, at that moment, I became that bloodiest and lipstickiest of colors.

The red cloud witnessed my progress approvingly:

"Good, yes. Very good. Now you know. Mmmm hmmmmm. You are now ready, girl."

As quickly as my body dissolved into Red, my form was reconstituted into human-woman form. First my feet, then my calves-and-knees-and-thighs. The hips next, then the torso-chest-shoulders-and-neck. Finally, the molecules of my head and its bushy, ratty hair vacuumed into themselves, and I was once again a whole human.

A little stunned, I asked the cloud what had just happened. Why was I chosen to witness, uh...whatever I had just witnessed?!

"You were invited to witness the core of Red. We wanted you to understand our place of origin, which, in a sense, is your origin, too. After all, all of you--all humans--survive because of us. Everything inside of you is red--your blood, your heart, your brain, your love, your embarrassment. Oh, yes. We are in all of you. We, those of the Red World, give you life. However, you are on the verge of forgetting us. Each day you dream dreams made of metal and plastic. You speak in pixels. You speak words that are fractions of what you actually mean. You think in decimals and apologies. And when you hug, your arms are like wires stripped of muscle and skin. You are turning away from us."

This message was confusing, especially since I was receiving it from a red cloud. I wasn't quite sure what I was being asked to do. But then my mission was made more clear:

"In your very own kitchen, you have the tools with which to reveal the Red dimension to other humans. By denying the Red World, you deny your Red Blood, which will only distance you from your body and make you ill. Here: takes these ingredients and make something wholly Red."

The cloud whirred through my kitchen, flinging open cupboards and drawers. A jar of cherry juice suddenly appeared on the kitchen counter, as did measuring spoons, bowls, and a bag of sugar.

"Take these, and remake what you just experienced in the Red World. Remind humans that we of the Red World still exist. Remind them that we course through their veins!"

And, with those last words, the cloud tornadoed toward my door like, well, a tornado. In what seemed like one, fluid motion, the door flew open and slammed shut, leaving me standing in the middle of my kitchen without any clothes on. (The cloud unraveled my threads, remember?)

So, I approached my pile of ingredients and set to work on what would be the purest, most gelatinous tribute to the Red World ever created: Black Cherry & Thyme Jelly. (Despite their name, black cherries are really a deep, rich, almost-purple hue of red.) This carmine jelly is velvety, prehistoric, and sophisticated; after all, it represents all life on earth from the beginning of time to infinity. Man, a lot of knowledge can be packed into that lifespan, you know?

Since I'm supposed to spread the word about your ruby-red origins and all, the jelly recipe is outlined for you below. As you prepare it in your own kitchen, think of your veins and your heart and your red, red thoughts. (Then think of all the tasty crepes you'll be able to yield from this sweet batch of jelly!)

Black Cherry and Thyme Jelly
(This recipe is adapted from this site.)

1 cup sugar
1 cup black cherry juice
3 sprigs of thyme
1/2 packet of pectin (a plant-derived gelling agent you can find in most grocery stores near the canning supplies)

1. Bring your black cherry juice to a boil in a large saucepan, and then take it off the heat. Add the sprigs of thyme, stir, and allow flavor to infuse for 30 minutes.

2. Once mixture has cooled, extract the sprigs of thyme, and add the pectin to the juice. Stir until fully combined, and then return the saucepan to the stove. Bring mixture to a boil.

3. When juice is once again at a boil, add sugar and stir continuously until the jelly slithers all snail-like off of your mixing spoon. This took me about 20-25 minutes.

4. Remove from heat, and allow jelly to slightly cool. Pour jelly into jars, and store in the fridge. I didn't mess around with proper sealing and such, which would make this jelly last until the end of time. Instead, I just used small screw-cap glass jars, which should preserve this jelly for a good 2-3 weeks.

All is Right in the Head (of Cauliflower)

2009-04-22T22:26:00.012-04:00

Oh Moody Kitchen, you were not meant to be abandoned. As I peek my head above my stack of to-be-graded essays, I see you growling at me contemptuously with your pixelated teeth. But, please know this: I still want you madly. I want you like a hungry dog wants an uncooked steak, or like a chipmunk wants an M&M. Really, I do. But you must wait for just a few more days, baby. I’ve gotta get my s**t together first. Before these essays were submitted, I was a real woman—a woman with hopes, dreams, and cauliflowery ambitions. I need to find that woman—that woman I was before this red pen was placed in my hand.

Until my identity is once again exhumed, allow me to share some of my latest cauliflower research with you. As some of you know, cauliflower and I go way back. We were buddies in high school. Cauliflower braided my hair and did my homework, and I ate her head—you know, normal BFF stuff.

Anyhow, my hard-hitting, finger-on-the-pulse research has proven that my awkward, clumsy best friend (who suffered from “other child” syndrome during her formative years—her older sister was, after all, broccoli (that bitch!)) has, through much hardship, become an inspiration to many. Sure, broccoli had thin legs and softer hair, but as cauliflower budded (haha) into a young woman, her brainy (haha) nature proved to be much more seductive. While broccoli lies wilting in the fridge of her past (sucka!), cauliflower matures into deeper constellations of deliciousness.

Here’s what some well-respected people of letters have said of cauliflower’s splendor:

“Cauliflower is nothing but a cabbage with a college education.” –Mark Twain (Hmmm…this quote may not work to support my research thesis. *Highlight, right click, DELETE!*) Twain eating a cigar (which is nothing but a cigarette with a college education)

“Come forth with a cauliflower who will plunk herself down beside Him and worry like a white brain.” –Anne Sexton (I like Ms. Sexton’s use of the word “plunk”—yes, yes, that is very caulifloweresque. Unlike insensible Mr. Twain, Ms. Sexton seems to understand the sacred nature of cauliflower. However, I find myself grappling with the same academic dilemma as before: how the hell will I use this as support of my thesis? It ain't exactly logical and scholarly. Save it for the epigraph, you suggest? Perfect! An epigraph is a storage unit for the "useless but beautiful.")

Nothing about Sexton is "plunk"

Sadly, I must put my questionable cauliflower research on hold until I find more logos-driven, pro-cauliflower source information. And until I finish grading my students’ essays. And until I find a way to reconfigure the pieces of my lost identity. Until then, I will be raging against the page with my red pen while munching on the crisp and flowery head of my old best friend: cauliflower.

Here is a simple recipe to hold you over until our next not-quite-sane session. Well, it’s less a recipe and more a pile of random ingredients that, together, make for a tasty, textured meal. This is a cheap, quick-fix meal to make when time becomes an engine that refuses to die.

Getting A-head Brain Food

4-5 cauliflower florets, chopped finely
2 Tbs. horseradish sauce
A few smashed crackers of your preference
Juice of ¼ a lemon
Loads of black pepper and a dash of salt

Toss in bowl, stir, and eat away to your head’s content!

Eat Your To-Do List

2009-04-14T21:45:00.017-04:00

My Summer To-Do List

When I started my first teaching job after finishing my undergraduate degree, I had the pleasure of working side-by-side with a master To-Do lister. Steve, a teacher of 20 years, was the real deal when it came to managing life via Post-It notes. He came to work each day with not just one To-Do list, but with a whole collection of To-Do lists. These small pieces of paper would be neatly folded and stuffed into his back pocket for safe-keeping.

Steve's lists seemed to break from chronological time and enter the cosmological, the eternal. How could one person complete that many tasks per day? The challenge seemed impossible to my lazy, 22-year-old self. No one could conquer that many errands and events and activities in one day without somehow stopping the flow of time--or leaving the temporal plane altogether. No one, that is, except for Steve, armed with his list-making pencil.

Steve's To-Do lists ranged from the short-term (hourly, daily), to the long-term (weekly, monthly, etc.) Throughout the day errands would be marked off with the authoritative line of a pencil, and, without hesitation, new errands and events would be included.

Without a doubt, Steve got things done. And I didn't. Go figure.

Steve's organizational methods seemed somewhat appealing to me, but at the ripe and hippied age of 22, I hesitated to manage my own life in such a manner. I shuddered to think of what these Post-It notes would do to my image. (Is not washing your hair and wearing hole-in-the-knee jeans an image? Maybe. Is it one that should be upheld in the workplace? Probably not, but the 22-year-old version of me paid no mind to values like "professionalism in the workplace." Instead, she lived by this value: "Why the hell not?!")

The 22-year-old me also thought the President was part-lizard, part-alien. As you can see, she was clearly not ready for To-Do lists.

Steve and I worked at a small charter high school south of Tucson. I was an assistant teacher, and Steve was the lead instructor. Aside from occasional visits from case managers and other school administrators, Steve and I were pretty much alone. Well, except for our students--our creative, rambunctious, and, at times, angsty students.

I guess you could say that all 30 of us were alone...in a together sort of way. I mean, this wasn't your traditional busting-at-the-seams high school with cheerleaders and cafeterias and Save the Saguaro clubs and locker-sniffing police dogs. No, this school was small. Very, very small. In fact, the entire school occupied one room (yes, just one room) in a three-room adobe building in the middle of the Sonora Desert.

Yes, the 30 of us were very alone together. And when the occasional dust storm would roll through and turn our entire universe red, we felt like we might be the only people alive in the world. Alive and alone, together.

As a result of this shared isolation, none of us could keep many secrets. We all knew who Margarita was dating. Victor's efforts to win back an old girlfriend went unnoticed by few. And if Veronica was tired of doing work, not a soul was left unawares...mostly because she would sigh, dramatically close her book, then yell, "Uh, I'm tired of doing work!" Nope, nothing in our one-room school remained a secret for long.

As much as I loved these cozy quarters, our own batch of problems arose from time to time. Aside from the normal issues one would expect from enclosing a large group of teenagers in a small room for hours on end, some of the problems--or, I guess you could say my problems--were To-Do list related. Try as I might to ignore Steve's perfect Post-Its, there were days when I just couldn't. The minute I turned away from one pink and perfect list, my eyes would fall upon an even pinker and more perfect list. I felt like "the other child"--the one who is forced to stare for eternity at the "much better child's" Nobel Peace Prize trophy sitting proudly on the mantle of a one-room cabin. Day in day out, she (your humble, disheveled, and hippied "other child") must sit and confront that symbol of "betterness," unable to escape its glare.

One night I decided to take matters into my own hands. If Steve could organize his life with a few strokes of a pencil, then maybe I could, too. So, I went home, and I created my own To-Do list. And I failed at it. Horribly. As much as I want to share with you here some of the goals I listed on that piece of paper, I realize now that I had better not. That list is embarrassing. I have an image to uphold, after all. (Even though I fear it's the same unwashed, hole-in-the-jeans image I struggled to uphold at the age of 22. With a few hints of wrinkles. And cowboy boots instead of soiled tennis shoes. Otherwise, same old pseudo-hippie!)

That first To-Do list was hard. I couldn't come up with any specific and practical tasks in need of completion, so I resorted to the abstract. In other words, my To-Do list became a sort of personal manifesto, wrought with new agey statements like "live free, love free!" and "carry your roots with you!" The page was littered with enthusiasm (as evidenced by the army of exclamation marks), and I'm sure the word "transcendental" probably made a few appearances.

Oh, to be 22 again. No, I wasn't yet ready for To-Do lists at that age. Give a freshly educated 22-year-old the task of developing a To-Do list, and he/she will inevitably turn it into a manifesto. Especially if that 22-year-old graduated with a degree in English.

Surprisingly, though, I now find To-Do lists a little more appealing. In fact, now that I'm a proud card-carrying member of the late-20s demographic, To-Do listing seem pretty necessary. A To-Do list represents logic and structure, a 22-year-old's two worst enemies. But at 28, logic (in small doses) becomes a somewhat cozy idea. It's sort of like a calculator on tax day: you don't really want to use it, but if it wasn't there to support your crappy math skills, you would be left to do battle with the government all alone. In this light, logic is a both a friend and a radical. Logic is a comrade. (Man, I'm getting old!)

Since things are a little chaotic around these parts at the moment--tax preparation, grading, nail-biting, etc.--I thought I'd try my hand at a little Summer To-Do Listing. With Summer Break just 4 weeks away, I find myself full of hope: hope for warmth, relaxation, mimosas, and mangoes. And, when you really think about it, what is a To-Do list but a documentation of our day-t0-day hope? Even if what appears on that list seems a burden at first, we can look forward to the satisfaction of its completion. Once we finish doing the laundry or dying our mustaches--or whatever might appear on our lists--we achieve the freedom to move onto the lists that matter. My lists below fit into this latter category: what to do when the To-Do list has been eradicated!

To do this summer:
1. Buy a silk robe

2. Buy slippers made of feathers

3. Wear silk robe and feather slippers

4. Find a palm tree
5. Drink mimosas under said palm tree while wearing said robe and slippers6. Uh, what else do you want from me? The list ended at #5, dude.

Hmmm. Okay, here are some more lists...only because you insisted. (Didn't you? Hello?) Let's move on to some food-related To-Do lists. Yay!

To prepare:

1. Lots of stuff with fresh, Carolina-grown berries. Like these:
And these: 2. Green corn tamales

3. Black cherry jelly [check! I completed this while compiling my list. Man, Steve would be proud! I'll be blogging about this yummy concoction soon.]

4. Juices and licuados infused with chiles

5. Cherry corn scones (using Sweet Amandine's recipe)

6. Jewelry tarts (using Hadley Gets Crafty's recipe)

7. Millions of batches of sorbets infused with the likes of thyme, basil, lavender, etc.

8. Red wine (using my brother's awesome wine-making apparatus)

9. Homemade pizza

10. Pickled hot peppers

11. Mole sauce (if I can get my hands on the 7,000 ingredients)

12. As many purple foods as I can handle!

13. Muscadine grape jam

15. Many raw goodies inspired by Bridget at Perpetually Creating

To read:
1. David Lebovitz's The Sweet Life in Paris (which comes out in May!):

2. Finish Molly Wizenberg's A Homemade Life

To do with friends and family:

1. Cook with Emily, Jack and Hazel before they move to the Old World

2. Bake some mystical bread with Jaime in the New World

3. Feast on some vegan goodness with Estacia in the West

4. Help my brother start up his own bee colony...for the love of honey!!! And beekeeper suits!

Misc. food to-do stuff:

1. Blog, blog, blog away! I hope to catch up on some old posts and develop some new beauties. If you're interested in writing a guest post (please? pretty please?), email me your ideas at themoodykitchen@hotmail.com

2. Take more blurry pictures of grapefruit, like this one:
To waste:
1. Nothing. Not an ounce of this summer shall be wasted.

What are you including in your own culinary To-Do list for the summer? What 3 recipes or experiments do you wish to conquer in these sunniest of months?

Shag Carpet Salad

2009-04-08T15:37:00.004-04:00

I was born in 1980. This was the year when everyone in the world breathed a sigh of relief and asked, with voices emitting shoulder-padded strength and precision, "What the hell just happened?"

Well, I'll tell you what just happened--the 1970s had just happened. Out of the daze & haze we marched forward into a new decade, struggling to put together the pieces of our civilized selves. This process of "re-civilizing" involved toting around leather briefcases, tucking our jeans delicately into our socks, and ironing.

When the clocks struck midnight on January 1, 1980, everyone suddenly became aware that their walls were painted pea-green and orange, colors they didn't really like at all. They looked at themselves in the mirror and tried hard to remember where the uneven rainbow tattoo on their foreheads had come from. And why did that rainbow consist of only two colors: pea-green and orange? And why was it resting on a deflated lavender cloud?

As if in unison, people all across this great nation began to cringe upon noticing the freaky knick-knacks scattered about their living rooms:

Crocheted clowns?

Pancreatic ashtrays?

Owls floating on magic sticks?

How had American human beings allowed things to get this bad--and this trippy?

In the wake of that strange decade, we were left with something else--something one can only describe as part-jungle/part-freaky. That something was shag carpet, and my childhood home was full of it!

Our shag carpet was a thing of nightmares: mom's high heels would get stuck in it; my toys would get lost in it; stains would never come out of it; dad's spare change was always sucked into it. Many earrings, paperclips, and Barbie shoes fell into the carpet and never returned. If an item dropped from a table to the floor, you might as well consider it lost for good. Little could survive in a field of shag--except more shag.

Like a drunk uncle at an Amish wedding, our shag carpet seemed to suffocate the sober life around it to fuel its own clumsy and tangled ways. Sometimes it felt like our shag was reproducing right before our eyes! It grew up the walls and up the tables and up the legs of my parents. It grew and pulsated and expanded, stretching out the door and into the yard. It sprawled into the cornfield and under the bridges and over the Quaker meeting houses. Last I heard our shag was crossing county lines!

Just as you can't avoid the drunk uncle at a proper Amish wedding, our shag was, likewise, inescapable. Try ignoring it all you want--that's not going to stop it from throwing baby carrots at the groom while incomprehensibly slurring, "Amish, Schmamish! Where's the ranch dressing? And, where am I?"

Our house had two shades of shag: vomit-green and vomit-orange. (What a surprise, eh? It complimented our mustard-yellow & goldleaf wallpaper just beautifully!) When I think back on my childhood, these two shaggy colors come to mind first before any other colors. My memories of childhood seem to crop forth from these vomit-hued fields. And, you know what? Now that I've put about 20 years between myself and that carpet, I find I kind of love it--sort of like a button learns to love the ugly sweater onto which it was sewn. As ratty and nasty as that carpet was, it was also soft and forgiving; even if it did catch hold of your stiletto and toss you bum-first to the floor, at least it gave you a nappy nest upon which to land.

I aptly named the salad below "Shag Carpet Salad" due to its vomit-green and vomit-orange color palette. (Appetizing, eh?)

I wasn't quite sure what to make of this salad at first. Is it delicious? Yes. Does it include some of my favorite vegetables? Mos' def'. Is it pretty enough for a blog? Probably not. But, if there's one thing I've learned from my shag carpet experience, it's that even the ugly and painful things can become pretty when channeled through the processes of memory. And will. A very, very strong will. Even the drunk uncle at an Amish wedding can be pretty in his own goofy and stuttering way. And the baby carrots he's slinging? Absolutely gorgeous!

Shag Carpet Salad
(serves 2-4)

1 large sweet potato, chopped into 1/2-inch cubes
10-12 Brussels sprouts, halved
3 tbs. olive oil
1 tsp. cumin
1/4 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. black pepper
4-6 cauliflower florets, chopped
juice from half an orange
2-3 tbs. sunflower seeds
salt and pepper to taste

Roasting Your Veggies

1. Toss your cubed sweet potatoes and halved Brussels sprouts into a bowl. Throw in the olive oil, cumin, salt, and pepper, and stir until the potatoes and sprouts are coated. Pour the veggies onto a cookie sheet or large casserole dish, and spread them all out to ensure they roast evenly. Bake for 25-30 minutes at 400. You will probably want to flip the veggies once in the middle of roasting.

Preparing Salad

1. Once your sweet potatoes and sprouts have cooled a bit, chop the Brussels halves in half. Spoon these roasted veggies into a large bowl, and then toss in your chopped cauliflower and sunflower seeds. Finally, you can squeeze the juice of 1/2 an orange into the bowl. Stir until combined. Add salt and pepper to taste.

This salad tastes complex and delicious right away, but it's even better after chilling in the fridge overnight. Enjoy these beautiful shag carpet vittles!

"Whatta Man" Peanut Butter Muffins

2009-03-28T10:30:00.001-04:00

Man. Man, oh man, oh man. Words cannot express how utterly exciting it is to find the bold (yet sensitive) flavor of peanut butter in something as normal, as Plain Shane, as a muffin. I know what you're thinking: Dude, peanut butter is normal, too. Yes, this is true. (It's also true that you're a downer who always makes me feel stupid.) But, when peanut butter arrives on your tongue out of nowhere like some sort of mystical, tongue-kissing Zeus, the sensation is one that could change your day--no, your life. Eat this muffin and, I guarantee, something sexy and magical will happen to you soon thereafter. Do you need evidence with which to support this claim? I thought you'd ask. Here's your (weak & imaginary) evidence, Sherlock.

Imagine this: You are in your car. A cat darts out in front of you. To avoid hitting the cat, you swerve slightly to the right and drive onto the curb. Rattled and out of breath, you decide to wait for the wave of adrenaline to hush. This might take a while. So, you exhale, unbuckle your seatbelt and turn on the radio. "Whatta Man," by Salt 'N' Pepa (featuring En Vogue), just happens to be playing on your favorite station. The familiar lyrics and beats allow you to relax, and even dance a little, in your seat.

It's then you see him walking down the sidewalk. A supernova of a man. A whole galaxy, even. Something about the shape of his head and the curve of his neck tells you, without a doubt, that the two of you are supposed to spend the rest of your lives together. He seems to be heading in the direction of your car with much urgency. His eyes dart from left to right to left to right and even up a few times. He must be looking for something, so you roll down the window and ask him if he needs some help. ("Whatta Man" is still bellowing out of your speakers, in case you were wondering.) "Is everything OK?" you ask.

"No," he says, "I've lost my cat. She ran out of my apartment 5 minutes ago. Have you seen a cat roaming around? She's, uh, brown."

"Yes--yes I have," you say with all the confidence of Hillary Clinton. It's like she's living in your throat, power suit and all.

"I think I saved your cat's life," you say to this crab nebula in cargo pants. "Look, there she is."

The two of you gaze across the street and see Tina--your soon-to-be lover's cat, the cat you almost killed--rolling in a bed of purple flowers. Sunshine rays down on Tina, and in that collage of an instant, her fur appears to be emitting sparks of electricity. Tina is a collection of electrons, and the two of you--you and the man--whisper in unison, "She's alive."

Some of Tina's magical electrons must have made their way into the air and into your nose and into your brain cells and heart cells because before you know what you're doing you get out of your car and approach the man and the two of you embrace and before you even know his name and before he knows yours you kiss each other and know then that this is it. This is the electron in which you have been destined to live. This is the moment Tina had been directing you towards when she darted across the street and sent you swerving, safely, onto the curb. Tina, precious Tina, gave you this man. Tina changed your life.

[Cough, cough. Ready to transition back to reality, folks?]

Remember the peanut butter muffin from paragraph 1? Remember when I said that that muffin "could change your day--no, your life?" That muffin is Tina. (OK, so the story about the cat and the hot dude isn't really evidence, per se, as I suggested earlier; it is only an allegory. Once again, you have spotted one of my "pervasive and asinine" logical fallacies, as you like to call them. Aren't you a brilliant downer?)

Despite this alleged rhetorical weakness, I'm going to stick to the promise I made to you in paragraph 1: eat this muffin and hot things will happen. Just as Tina led the hypothetical you to the love of your life, this muffin just might be able to lead the real you to something sexy and special--maybe to a man with a soft spot for brown cats made of magical electrons? Who knows. If nothing else, the silky surprise of peanut butter in these muffins might be all the surprising love you need in this world. Go ahead--open your car door! Something, or someone, might be there waiting for you...

*Disclaimer 1: Author is not responsible for any mixed, weak, or corny metaphors in this post.

*Disclaimer 2: Remember "Whatta Man"? I love that song.

"Whatta Man" Peanut Butter Muffins
(makes 12)
The images above are from my first batch of "Whatta Man" muffins. In this batch I forgot to add the chocolate chips to the batter before spooning them into the muffin tins, so I merely sprinkled a few on top before baking. In the second batch, I stirred about 1/2 cup of mini semi-sweet chocolate chips into the batter before baking. I also used whole wheat flour instead of white flour the second time around. The second batch was far more desirable in my opinion. However, are mini chocolate chips manly? Is wheat flour manly? I say "yes," but I'm not a downer like you.

1 3/4 cup flour (white or wheat)
2 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp salt
1/2 cup peanut butter
1/4 cup oil
1/4 cup brown sugar
2 Tbs. agave or honey
1 tsp. apple cider vinegar
1 cup rice milk
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1/2 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips

1. In a small bowl, mix rice milk with cider vinegar. Allow mixture to sit for at least 5 minutes.

2. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, salt, and baking powder. In a small bowl, combine the brown sugar, agave, and oil. Whisk until well combined. Add your peanut butter, rice milk, and vanilla extract to the whipped sugar. Whisk wet ingredients until well combined.

3. Pour your wet ingredients into your dry ingredients, and with a wooden spoon stir just until combined. Fold in your chocolate chips.

4. Spoon dough into greased muffin tins, and bake for 12-15 minutes at 350. When a toothpick comes out clean, pull these babies out of the oven and indulge!

B(re)aking Bread with Friends

2009-03-24T15:40:00.001-04:00

Let me first begin by saying that I am VERY proud of my title for this post. I guess I did learn something from all the feminist theory essays I had to read in college; these essays encouraged me to "(re-)create my inn(her) voice--a voice that is w(holy) womyn." Or sometimes they just wanted me to "de-/re-construct my post-9/11 gendered identity." Are you confused? Because I am--and so is one of my "inn(her)" selves. I'm not sure which of my selves is confused, but as soon as I identify that zone of instability, I'll let you know. If you're still reading, that is...

Hello?

OK. Welcome to this post, everyone. This entry will happily skip across a meadow filled with bread, friends, and Spring Break cheer. Try and find a better combination of topics--I dare you! (And while I'm at it, I'll dare all of your fragmented inn(her) selves, too!)

My Spring Break was spent baking and breaking bread with two lovely ladies: Bridget from Perpetually Creating and Jaime from Chicago. Lovely Bridget and I got together early on in the break to engage in some yeast bread action. She invited me to her home, fed me, let me pet her dogs, and sat me in front of piles of awesome raw food books while our dough was rising. Let the music commence: These are a few of my faavooriite thiiiings... (Thanks, Bridget!)

I had a great time baking bread with Bridget. I'm new to the yeast bread scene, and as a beginner, I approach yeast bread recipes with care--so many things can go wrong! My brain floods with hundreds of questions and doubts: Is the yeast any good? Why isn't the yeast proofing? Did I add too much salt? Will my bread rise in this temperature? Why isn't it rising?! Why am I an imperfect womyn?! Bridget has way more experience with yeast breads than I, and I took plenty of mental notes as we waited for our ingredients to work their magic.

Bridget's wheat buns (and a bun in the oven!)

Our yeast was a little cranky, indignantly refusing to rise to its full baby-bum potential. However, when it was all said and done, we ended up with some tasty bread! Bridget made whole wheat rolls, and I made two loaves of spelt/whole wheat bread.

Me (re-)negotiating the feminist identity of my spelt bread (robbed from Bridget's blog)

Bridget has some special dough rising in her womb, and it made me happy to know that the little peanut got to feast on our yeasty efforts! It's never too early to introduce a baby to the intoxicating splendors of spelt flour. Sadly, this last sentence will probably never make it into a parenting manual. People jus' don' know...

Then, later in the week, my beautiful & bejeweled friend, Jaime, came to visit from the windy hinterlands of Chicago.

Feather-eared, widgeting womyn

Jaime had a birthday this month, so I bought her Molly Wizenberg's new food memoir, A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table. Isn't the cover pretty?Visits from Jaime are always inspiring, and it seems that no matter how much time has passed, she and I find new and magical ways to gel together--like water to flour. Jaime doesn't cook or bake as much as some, but I had to--just HAD to--give her Molly's dream-of-a-book. (Some of you might be familiar with Molly's blog, Orangette. It's a delight!) Jaime's voice and style remind me so much of Molly's: dreamy, poetic, and infused with clouds and cream. Both of them have such a way of making little things--like crystallized ginger, or feather earrings--into the ecstatic monumental, and I admire them for that.

Jaime and I ended up baking Molly's Ginger, Banana & Chocolate Quick Bread together. Bananas? Ginger? Chocolate? How could a womyn resist? We certaintly couldn't. It was fun getting into the quick bread baking zone with a close friend. Quick breads don't elevate your neuroses in the same way that yeast breads do; they're not as sensitive as their yeasty brethren, and thus demand less of your attention. The process of measuring, stirring, whisking, and combining can be rather calming and meditative.

Jaime whisking the dry ingredients--with rad purple nails!

After popping our silky, ginger-studded dough into the oven, we laid back and admired Mr. Mushroom and Bella, a married troll couple from the village of Trolldom.

Lovers

We bought these creatures from U.S. Trolls, a magical troll boutique in the heart of Wilmington. The Finnish woman who runs this troll operation out of the front room of her home sprinkled magic dust on our heads and everything! If you ever visit Southeastern North Carolina, please make U.S. Trolls your #1 stop.

A visit from Jaime was just what I needed to re-energize myself for the final stretch of the semester. No matter how many piles of essays I find myself treading through these last couple of weeks, I can rest assured knowing that I am protected by Finnish magic dust. And Molly's magic bread. And the love of new friends and old friends.

Molly's Amazing Banana Bread

(if I wouldn't have taken it out of the oven a few minutes too soon)

I wouldn't leave you without a recipe, dear souls. Before Jaime arrived, I baked her this 3-way lavender infused quick bread. This bread is SURE to get your innards ready for all the troll-inspired joy this new season has to offer!

Lavender Tea Bread
(1 loaf)

See this post for directions on how to make lavender sugar, lavender milk, and lavender extract. This recipe calls for all three. However, if you are stretched for time and need this bread NOW, you can still get a flowery bread by using only lavender milk. Lavender milk only takes about 30-45 minutes for the flavors to really take hold.

2 cups unbleached white flour
1 tsp. salt
1.5 tsp. baking powder
1 cup lavender sugar
1 cup lavender rice milk
2 tsp. apple cider vinegar
1/3 cup olive oil
1 tsp. lavender extract
1 tsp. dried culinary lavender buds

1. In a large bowl, whisk together the dry ingredients. In a small bowl, add the vinegar to the lavender rice milk, and let sit for 5 minutes.

2. In a medium-sized bowl, whisk together the wet ingredients until combined. Pour wet ingredients into the dry ingredients, and stir just until combined. Fold in the dried lavender buds.

3. Pour dough into a greased bread loaf, and bake at 350 for 45 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean. After 10 minutes, remove from the bread pan, and allow to cool until you can't wait any longer!

Apple Butter Scones for Bertha

2009-03-20T16:30:00.017-04:00

Every brawny woman has a little softness at her core, a little feather from which all the bones and muscles and metals spring forth. Some might even call that soft spot a "heart." For Bertha, this feather was revealed through the magic of apple butter. Apple butter?! Yes, apple butter--creamy, meditative, and sexy (in a 19th century, woodsy way) apple butter.

But, let me back up a bit. I have not yet properly introduced you to steely-and-stoic Bertha, and here I am speaking already of her "soft core." Bertha (or "Bertha Butts," as my brother and I referred to her), was our summertime babysitter. Every summer morning before work, my mother would drop me and my brother off at Bertha's back door. As soon as our car wove its way around her gravel driveway, Bertha's shadow-of-a-dog would race out of his doggy door like a deranged mop and greet us with a few snotty sniffs and growls. I was sure he was a gremlin disguised in a suit of black curls.

Slowly but surely, Bertha would arrive at the screen door, unsmiling. Her thighs were thick tree trunks made of living steel; they rooted firmly out of her home-sewn shorts like whole, muscular bodies of NFL players."Well, guys...I'll see you in a few hours," mom would say nervously, trying to act as though all of this--Bertha, the rat-dog, Bertha's garrison-like legs--were normal. Mom's eyes darted back and forth between my worried face and the stern woman at the door. Eventually, Bertha would welcome me and my brother indoors with a hushed and indifferent "hello" that sounded more like a breath, a sigh, than a greeting.

Bertha's home was just as inviting as her daily "hello" through the screen door. The stench of fermenting cabbage was the first thing one would notice upon entering her house. You see, Bertha was obsessed with sauerkraut, and she would stir excessive piles of it into almost every dish. To fuel her obsession, Bertha fermented her own sauerkraut in not one, but two wooden barrels; as a result, the acidic, nose-burning scent of vinegar was ever-present in her home. In Bertha's kitchen, macaroni-and-cheese became macaroni-and-cheese-with-pickled-cabbage casserole. Likewise, a simple grilled cheese sandwich--a kid's dream lunch, right?--became so heavily doused with sauerkraut that it transformed from dream to dirty sock right before our eyes. And, come on--we were too young to witness first-hand the dissolution of sandwichy dreams!

If Bertha was in a good mood, and if the weather was just right, some days we'd be able to go run around in her backyard--or, better yet, in her garden! Even though I was too scared of spiders at that age to journey into the heart of this living feast, I was at least brave enough to graze around its perimeters. And, oh--the joys that could be found there! On one edge of the garden Bertha and her husband planted raspberry bushes, and when the berries had finally plumped to their full potential near the end of the summer, my brother and I would do battle with the bees and butterflies for our own juicy sector. Even though Bertha Butts limited our serving to "just a handful," we sometimes (er, always) pilfered just a few (er, many) berries more. If we were to return to the Queen of Vinegar, we needed to arm our stomachs with as much berry-sweetness as possible!

Upon returning indoors from playing in her backyard one afternoon, I remember a smell that seemed to mellow out, if only a tiny bit, the bitterness emitted by the vats of sauerkraut. Looking for the source of this new smell, I saw Bertha hovering over a large pot on the stove. She was stirring something with much concentration, her wooden spoon moving methodically around and around and around the circumference of the pot. The light above the stove shone down on her creation, and for a millisecond--I didn't just eat a poisonous berry, did I?--I saw Bertha smile. Just then she heard me approach, and even though I don't think she liked me that much, she asked me if I wanted a "taste of something sweet." Something sweet? Say wha'?

"Hold your finger out," she said.

Since I was never brave enough to disobey Bertha's orders, I gave her my index finger. She took the wooden spoon and smudged a dab of warm, brown sludge onto my finger. Thinking that the substance on my finger was probably one of Bertha's new sauerkraut experiments--maybe sauerkraut pudding?--I prepared for the worst.

"Go ahead, try it!"

The smile was back on her face. Who the hell was this new woman wearing Bertha's homemade shorts?! Was this Bertha before me, or was it a gremlin disguised as Bertha?

Gremlin or not, I knew I had no choice: I closed my eyes and licked the mud off my finger...and liked it. No, loved it! Bertha Butts--Purveyor of Drab, Duchess of All Things Fermented--had somehow made something sweet! This sweet sludge was apple butter, a combination of stewed apples and apple cider....and no sauerkraut. Thank our German-God in Heaven!

Having grown up in the Midwest, apple butter was a spread I would not be made to do without. After this first encounter, apple butter seemed to be everywhere. However, as time passed and my homes changed in latitude and longitude, I admit that I almost forgot about apple butter. A month ago, however, I ran into an unsweetened variety, and, being driven forcefully by nostalgia, I bought it. And, you know what? It wasn't a gremlin disguised as apple butter...this spread was the real deal: sweet, creamy, and lusciously Midwestern. One whif, and I was brought back to Bertha's stove where, if only for a second, I saw the feather behind the steel.

Apple Butter Scones
(makes 6)

1 cup spelt flour (or other whole grain flour)
1 Tbs. baking powder
1/4 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/8 cup olive oil
1/2 cup apple butter (preferably unsweetened)
1/2 cup milk (I used rice milk)
1 tsp. almond extract
1 dried date, chopped (or raisins)
1/4 cup almonds, chopped
2 Tbs. brown sugar

1. In a large bowl, mix together your dry ingredients. In a small bowl, whisk your oil, apple butter, milk, and almond extract.

2. Pour your wet ingredients into your dry ingredients and mix with a wooden spoon just until combined. Fold in your chopped date and almonds.

3. Drop 1/4 cup spoonfuls of your dough onto a greased baking sheet, and sprinkle the tops with brown sugar. Bake scones for 10-12 minutes, or until the bottom edges begin to brown.

My gremlin (disguised as a cat) praying over the fallen scones. RIP.

3-Way Lavender Infusion and a Love Letter

2009-03-14T15:42:00.021-04:00

Dear Lavender,

Let there be a god as large as the purple moon so he can reflect his love onto you.

Let there be a banjo that plays purple Appalachian chords.

Let all women wear purple tights and all men walk their purple poodles to the all-you-can-eat buffet.

Let the girl who just lost her first tooth sprout a purple one in the empty place.

Let there be a garrison of purple tutus pirouetting erratically in your direction.

Let there be a drought that ends with purple floods.

Let your arm be coated in naked lady tattoos. Let holy purple spray from their ribs.

Let gray winter end and purple spring begin.

Let us spring perpetually into purple fountains like muskrats made of liquid silver.

Let every supermodel in my country wear purple lipstick on the pages of fashion magazines. Let them kiss us in purple.

Let us be thankful that your love is purple and that my love is purple. Let it spread thick and iridescent into this future like a Pacific oil spill. Let it give back a million moons.

Love,

J. Violet Shadows

********** ********** **********

3-Way Lavender Infusion

Below you will find three magical ways to infuse shadows of lavender into everyday baking ingredients: vodka, sugar, and milk. (I know vodka isn't necessarily an "everyday baking ingredient," but once infused with lavender it becomes lavender extract--a supersonic baking necessity.) Once married with the flavor of lavender, these ingredients can be used in many traditional recipes that call for extract, sugar and milk. A regular quick bread can become a spectacular quick bread when infused with this lovely floral flavor! What's even better is that mastering the art of infusion is a cheap way to make the same-ol'-recipe taste like a different princess entirely! My bag of culinary lavender buds--nearly 6 cups!--cost me a mere $4. That's one cheap princess!

While not all grocery stores carry culinary lavender buds, some apothecaries, aromatherapy joints, tea shops, natural food stores, and flower shops do. If it is not readily available in your area, you can order it online for super-cheap. Or, consider other edible & infusible delights: vanilla beans, jasmine, ginger root, loose tea, etc. The possibilities are endless when it comes to infusion! When hunting for lavender buds, however, make sure they were grown pesticide-free.

1. Lavender ExtractSummary: While extracts take only seconds to blend, you will have to wait at least a month for them to reach their full flavors. An extract is created by combining alcohol (usually whiskey, rum or vodka) with another substance--namely, a substance whose flavors you want to "extract." Nuts, fruits, and flowers are common items used in culinary extractions. When building a lavender extract, I use 2 tsp. lavender buds for every cup of alcohol. So far I have only used vodka, but I imagine rum would give the extract a sweet & yummy base.

Process: Using a jar or other airtight container, combine your dried lavender buds with your alcohol of choice. Shake the container for a couple of minutes, and then set aside. Make sure to shake the container once every couple of days to strengthen the flavor of your extract. Once a month has passed, strain the lavender buds from the liquid. Your extract can now be used to add a punch of purple to any sweet!

Suggestions: Often I use lavender extract in place of vanilla extract. Consider using a tsp. of lavender extract in pancakes, quick breads, lemonades, sorbets, cupcakes, whipped cream, cheesecakes, scones, etc.

2. Lavender SugarSummary: Lavender sugar is a fabulous ingredient to have on hand! As lavender infuses with sugar, its flavor becomes subtle, gentle, and light--the perfect addition to spring and summer desserts!

Process: Depending on how strong you'd like your lavender flavor to be, you can use 2-4 Tbs. of lavender buds per 1 cup of sugar. Layer your sugar and lavender, and then set aside for future use. After about 2 weeks, the lavender oils will have lovingly anointed the sugar crystals. If you are wanting a stronger flavor, then let the flavors meld for up to a month. If you are looking for a quick floral fix, however, you can flavor your sugar much more quickly. Simply combine your buds and sugar in a bowl, and macerate with the backside of a spoon for 5 minutes. This method will not result in as strong of a flavor, but it will still be noticeable.

Suggestions: This sugar works great in berry- and citrus-based desserts, such as sorbets, pie fillings, and muffins. Imagine using lavender sugar in your next creme brulee recipe!

3. Lavender MilkSummary: Milks and creams are a wonderful base for the flavor of lavender, as they tame the sometimes bitter & perfumey taste of lavender. Milk is like a thick fog that settles over the glassy terrain of lavender, making the landscape appear softer and less threatening. (Not to mention delicious!)

Process: I use 2 tsp. of lavender to flavor 1 cup of milk. Bring milk to a boil, and then quickly remove from heat. Add the lavender buds and stir. Allow mixture to cool for 30-45 minutes. The longer you let the milk sit, the stronger the flavor! Strain buds from milk before using. Use instantly, as the lavender flavor can become a little bitter if you allow it to sit for more than a couple of hours.

Suggestions: Can you imagine using lavender milk as the base for your next ice cream recipe?! It tastes fantastic in cupcake recipes, quick breads, milkshakes, and pancakes.

Have you ever used lavender in a recipe? How did you like it? Where would you use this extract, sugar or milk?!

Cowgirl Cupcakes

2009-03-06T15:30:00.009-05:00

"Sometimes the best cowboys ain't cowboys at all."
from "American Cowgirl"

I want to be a cowgirl. I want to be a cowgirl so badly, in fact, that not a day has gone by this semester when I have NOT worn my cowboy boots to work. Last week one of my students actually said to me, "Miss Jada, you need some new shoes!" Fashion faux pas aside, I can't help my obsession. Nor do I want to. These boots are staying right where they belong: on my gnarled and tired feet!

I love to daydream about my life as a cowgirl. These daydreams usually consist of pretty sunsets, encounters with rugged men on horseback, scandalous fireside tales, rambling brooks, and spectacular views of Moenave formations from the cliff's edge. I even daydream about the nightly can of beans. I mean, I love beans! (And so does the rugged man with whom I would share my nightly can.) Ah, daydreams...

"Cowgirl" has not always been at the top of my career list, and probably for good reason:

1. I have no ranching experience.
2. I don't like riding horses.
3. I like regular showers--sometimes two a day.
4. I am easily scared by spiders
5. And wolves
6. And bears
7. And mountain lions.
8. I don't eat meat. (Although, I might make an exception for mountain lion meat.)
9. I become paralyzed with fear when in the presence of guns.
10. I like cupcakes (which are probably hard to transport via horse).
11. And on a final note, it is not yet clear to me what a real cowgirl actually does on a daily basis. I know a horse is involved, but beyond that things get a little cloudy. Whatever she does, I'm sure it's cool.

Even though I might be a little out of touch with real cowgirl values, I still hold onto my leathery dream of a fenceless world where the desert perpetually unfurls into limitless galaxies of sand. Granted, I'm sure cowboy/cowgirl freedom goes hand-in-hand with a little prairie-induced lunacy, but whatevs: "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." I'm sure there's a good cowgirl fireside song out there that ruminates mighty fine on this adage in a much cooler way than I could ever express--after all, the cowgirl song would (of course!) be sung in a badass cowgirl dialect. Which reminds me...I guess I should add a #12 to my list above: I don't speak (or sing) in the cowgirl dialect.

Since I might not become a real cowgirl in this lifetime, I can at least make these cowgirl inspired cupcakes to satisfy my need for leather, horse manes, and sand. Don't worry--you will not find leather, hair, or sand in this cupcake; what you will find, however, is the essence of cowgirl. These cupcakes are sturdy (like a cowgirl's thighs), brown (like dirt, horse poop, or leather boots), and cute (in a rugged, Annie Oakley sort of way).They are also full of flavor. Taste them and you will become free and courageous, ready to enter the wild, open spaces of your local park. (These cupcakes are vegan, too. Shhhh! It might be wise to keep this a secret when in the presence of real cowgirls. Cowgirls don't take too kindly to veganized pastries!)

Cowgirl cupcake dominating my backyard fence: "Don't fence me in!"

Cowgirl Cupcakes
(makes 1 dozen--adapted from Taste Buddies)

1 cup of unsweetened rice milk
1 tsp of apple cider vinegar
3/4 cup of turbinado sugar
1/3 cup of olive oil
1 1/2 tsp of vanilla extract
1 cup of all-purpose flour
1/3 cup of unsweetened cocoa powder
1 tsp. powdered ginger
3/4 tsp of baking soda
1/2 tsp of baking powder
1/4 tsp of salt

1. Combine rice milk and vinegar in a small bowl, and set aside for 5 minutes. This mixture will act as a binder since no egg is called for in this recipe.

2. In a small bowl, whisk together the flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. Set aside. Once you have given your milk and vinegar the chance to activate, add the sugar, olive oil, and vanilla extract. Whisk until sugar is noticeably dissolved.

3. Pour the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients in two batches. Whisk until well combined, and then pour into prepared baking cups. No more than 3/4 of the cup should be filled.

4. Bake at 350 for 15-18 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean. Allow to cool before topping with frosting.

Peanut Butter Frosting
(enough for spreading generously on 12 cupcakes)

1/2 cup peanut butter
1 cup powdered sugar
1/4 cup margarine (I used Earth Balance)
1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
1-2 tbs. rice milk

Whisk ingredients together until they well combined. If frosting is too wet, add more sugar. If it appears to be more dry, add more rice milk.

Baked Sweet Potato Fries

2009-03-01T20:45:00.000-05:00

What's better than a potato fry?

If your answer is "100 potato fries," or "a new car," or "a date with Kirk Cameron in 1988," then you are clearly putting too much thought into my question.

Let me bring you back to earth--and to the year 2009, you Growing Pains junkies!--by answering my question in clear and simple terms: the only thing better than a potato fry is a sweet potato fry. (Obviously!)

Luckily, I live in Sweet Potato Country! In the U.S., North Carolina leads all other states in sweet potato production. In 2007, nearly 40% of the nation's sweet potatoes were grown in this fair state. California, often considered the country's agricultural nexus, came in a distant second with 23%. Eat it, California! (No, really--eat a North Carolina sweet potato, California. It's sure to be tasty!)

Ugly, but delicious, local sweet potato

I was lucky enough to snag some ugly spuds over the weekend, and as a person who is usually turned off by sweet potatoes in their candied form (but not Bridget's yummy quick bread form), I found these spuds to be irresistible when prepared as a savory dish. Sweet potato fries are the perfect blend of salty and sweet. Their texture reminds me more of fried cassava than a fried potato. These fries are a little fluffier, creamier and less dense than their Russet brothers.

And, boy, are these fries easy to make! They are so easy, in fact, that this dish could become dangerous for the ol' waistline. I have one more sweetie in my kitchen waiting to be peeled, chopped, spiced and baked. Its chirpy little voice, which sounds oddly similar to Kirk Cameron's voice circa 1988, fills my ears with pink clouds of desire each time I spy into its cabinety lair. This spud, with a flesh that's marbled like some ancient salmon goddess, is damn seductive.

How do you like your sweet potatoes? What spices do you add when baking/roasting them?

Baked Sweet Potato Fries

Ingredients:

2 sweet potatoes
1 tsp. salt
2 tbs. olive oil
1/4 tsp. ginger powder
1/2 tsp. black pepper

Preheat oven at 400. Wash and peel potatoes, and then cut into strips. Toss potatoes on a cookie sheet, and coat with the oil and spices. When potatoes are evenly coated, roast for 30-35 minutes. In the middle of cooking, flip potatoes so that both sides get evenly roasted. They should have lovely caramelized edges when ready!

Before:

After:

Poblano Lasagna

2009-02-28T12:29:00.009-05:00

Image from here.

If someone would have told me 10 years ago that my kitchen would now be stocked with the likes of jalapenos, serranos, Anaheims, Poblanos, and (sometimes) habaneros, I would have thought she was crazy. I also would have asked her why she decided to travel back in time to tell me what my fridge would contain in the year 2009. Shouldn't she, instead, have been inventing Wikipedia? Or warning us to not purchase a 4-million dollar home if we had $26 in the bank? Thanks, hypothetical future-chick.

The truth is, I used to be scared to death of chiles. Having grown up in a Midwestern town where the only option for Mexican food prior to 1996 was Taco Bell, my palette wasn't assimilated to the pop and spice and fizzle that only real chiles can administer. If I wanted spice back then, I would have resorted to a few extra dashes of black pepper in my mashed potatoes. In the '90s, black pepper was as far as I would go in terms of spice.

I only began to learn about the true power and glory of chiles while living in Cordoba, Argentina back in 2001. The cuisine of the Argentine pampas is about as picante-less as the Midwest: It's mostly beef. And potatoes. And more beef. The food of Cordoba is delicious as hell, don't get me wrong--I never had a real steak until I sunk my teeth into the tough-but-flavorful beef of Cordoba. The pampas are, after all, still gaucho territory. (Thank God!) However, if one craves a spicy plate in Cordoba, chances are she'll be disappointed.

As were my Mexican friends to whom I grew very close while living in Argentina: Mayra, Erika, Yazmin, and Mariluz. They taught me many necessary cultural tricks of the trade, and I sometimes felt like I was learning more about Mexico than Argentina! Erika taught me how to flirt with boys in Mexican-Spanish. Mariluz taught me how to hike in high heels. Yazmin taught me how to add -ito and -ita to my nouns to make them sound cuter. And they all taught me, through laughter-turn-tears, why it was dangerous to confuse the verb tomar (to get) with coger (to get with...yep, in the Peaches way).

They also taught me--Mayra, especially--much about their undying & almost-romantic love for chile peppers. (Sidenote: there are many phrases in Mexican Spanish where a certain male body part is referred to as el chile. I was most definitely taught those phrases as well. After all, one's education should be well-rounded, right?)

Despite all of the vegetable stands and markets and grocery stores in the booming Argentine city of Cordoba, my bitchitas mexicanas just could not find a single chile. This pained them, and at the time I could not understand why. Why, after all, would someone want to voluntarily burn their mouths? Why, if given the choice, would someone choose pain? Even the verb picar, from which the adjective picante derives, sounds painful when translated literally: picar means to sting. When a dish provides sufficient spice, one would say me pica ("it stings me"). If stung by a bee, the same phrase--me pica--would apply.

Huh? At the ripe age of 20, I did not equate bee stings with deliciousness, and nor did I understand why my amigas mexicanas were so frustrated with Cordoba's lack of culinary sting.

When talking about what we missed about home, our discussions almost always veered in the direction of food. I missed turkey and mashed potatoes and Chinese food. Gotz, our German friend, missed streudel--and he missed it even more so after failing miserably at baking his first streudel in my apartment. Mayra, my friend from Puebla, Mexico, missed chiles. She missed them with all her corazon. At one point I even remember Mayra, the most saddened of the group, printing off a "Chile Chart" from the Internet so that she could at least share with me in photo-form what seemed now to be extinct in real-form.

After much chile-estranged suffering, however, mis bitchitas finally found their long-lost love. While strolling through a produce market, they found the object of their affection. They found el chile. I don't remember now what type of chile they discovered. What I do remember, though, is that this chile was cause for much celebration. That night would be fajita night. The pictures I have of that feast say much about our love for the foods we grew up with. In one picture, Mayra, Erika and Yazmin are huddled together around their bowl of uncooked chicken marinating in sliced chiles, onions and oil (and probably a little beer). All three of them are holding on tight to the bowl, their sleeves rolled up past the elbows. The smiles on their faces stretch wider than any Anaheim chile.

The picture of all of us sitting around the table feasting on their labor tells a similar story. The Anaheim smile was contagious, as all of us--even I, a Midwestern chile-phobe--taste our friends' love for home in this spicy dish. I experienced my first Anaheim smile that night. There was surely some sting behind that smile, but strangely the sting has evolved into something I now cherish--no, it's more than that: I now desire and obsess over that sting! Chiles are more than just a dish, they're a worldview: to know the good in life, we must also taste a little of the hurt as well. We're always in between pleasure and sting--of loving and missing--and chiles remind us of that.

My kitchen will be forever-stocked with the shiniest, spiciest of chiles I can find. This just goes to show that you CAN--with a little patience--teach an old Midwesterner new tastes!

Mayra/Maiz/Minimonkey: Te extrano, bitchita! Espero que nos deja con mucho tiempo en el futuro para experimentar juntas con los chiles! (Los chiles de dos tipos, no?! jeje)

Here's a recipe I came up with last weekend when yet another chile craving stung my tongue! This recipe is sure to picar the hell out of you...in the most loving way possible!

Here's the dish in the pre-bake stage surrounded by discarded Poblano stems.

Poblano Lasagna
(for a 9x9 casserole dish)

Ingredients

3 Poblano chiles
1 Anaheim chile
1 jalapeno chile
3 cups sliced mushrooms (go cheap, y'all!)
1 19 oz. can enchilada sauce
1 can diced tomatoes, drained
1.5-2 cups cooked and drained black beans
1 sweet onion
4 cloves garlic, diced
10-15 corn tortillas
1 cup cooked rice or other grain (I used bulgar wheat)
1/2 cup vegan cheese
1/4 cup oats
salt and pepper to taste
olive oil
cilantro (optional)

3-Step Preparation

Roast the Poblanos

1. Rinse your chiles and place them whole on the broiling rack of your oven. Broil for 6-10 minutes, or until chiles begin looking charred on all sides. You might have to flip your chiles halfway through the process to get an even roast on all sides.

2. Once chiles are fully roasted (and they smell like Mexican heaven), quickly transfer them to a large baggie or plastice bag. Seal the bag, and allow them to sweat for about 10 minutes. This allows them to loosen their skin, which you will then scrape off before cutting.

3. After 10 minutes, scrape off the loose skin, and cut open the chiles. Some water may have accumulated during the sweat, so make sure to pour it out. Remove the seeds and the white membrane, and cut each chile lengthwise into strips. Set aside.

Create a Spicy Sauce

1. Over medium heat, oil a large skillet and add your chopped onion, Anaheim pepper, jalapeno, mushrooms and garlic. Saute over medium heat until onion begins turning translucent.

2. Add the beans and tomatoes, and stir. Allow to simmer for 1 minute. Add the can of enchilada sauce, and allow sauce to bubble and thicken for about 5 minutes. Add a little salt and pepper to taste.

3. Finally, add the cooked bulgar wheat (or other grain of choice). If mixture appears rather watery after grain is incorporated, you might want to add some oats to thicken it just a bit. It should not look like soup, but should instead have the consistency of a marinara sauce. Finally, add a handful of chopped cilantro, stir, and remove from heat.

Arrange Your Layers

1. Before layering your lasagna, add a tablespoon of olive oil to your 9x9 casserole dish and spread evenly on all sides. Begin adding your roasted Poblano strips as the first layer. I added a dash of salt to this layer to bring out more of the chile's flavor.

2. Next, add some spoonfuls of the sauce. I added about an inch. Finally, create a corn tortilla layer. I used about 4 or 5 of the small taco tortillas for this layer. On top of this layer, add a generous amount of your shredded vegan cheese. My grocery store only had a Parmesan-Mozzarella blend, which tasted fantastic in this lasagna!

3. Repeat the layering of Poblano strips, sauce, tortillas and cheese until you reach the top of the dish. I tried to finish the layering with the corn tortillas and cheese. Drizzle some olive oil and add a bit of your chopped cilantro on top of the last layer.

4. Before transferring your dish to the oven, you might want to add a little water around the sides of your dish to prevent the lasagna from drying out. I was able to add about 1/8-1/4 of a cup of water around the sides.

5. Bake at 350 degrees for about 35-40 minutes.

6. Allow lasagna to cool for about 10-15 minutes before serving.

Clutter Cookies

2009-02-21T11:30:00.003-05:00

Nothing is more comforting than a little old fashioned clutter. I'm talking stacks of books on the coffee table, jars and vials of spices in the kitchen cabinet, clusters of Virgin Mary images on the living room wall, and mantlepieces adorned with innumerable crystals and shells. This cozy clutter, to me, is what makes a house a home. Add a long-haired cat to that formula, and chances are I'll love that place 'til the death of me.

(Recent spotting of earring/coin/baby leg clutter in my bedroom)

It's no wonder, then, that this preferred aesthetic would find its way into some of my recipes. In fact, just last week I applied the clutter-approach to a batch of cookies. These treats were a jumble-lover's dream! The recipe did not call for merely 5 ingredients (save those recipes for the minimalists), let alone 10--or even 15 ingredients! These cookies were as clutter-happy as a museum basement! Or a baroque Catholic Church! I've donned these 17-ingredient cookies with this very unoriginal but fitting name: Clutter Cookies.

This cookie recipe is extremely versatile because you can add any random, soon-to-be-thrown-away ingredient to the mix. Do you have 3 apricots left in your pantry and you don't know what to do with them? Add them to the mix! Do you have a few tablespoons of wheat flour left that would soon turn to pantry dust? Add them to the mix! Not sure how to recycle your pencil eraser shavings? Add them--wait! As clutter conscious as I tend to be, I would hesitate incorporating items such as rubber, roach legs or leftover break fluid into the recipe. While this cookie recipe might be flexible, please exercise caution before tossing in potentially hazardous ingredients.

There is a sad ending to the Clutter Cookies, however. Sure, these treats might be totally unruly and multi-textured and collaged with both the subtle and strong--everything a clutter connoisseur could want in a cookie! However, they will most definitely leave your kitchen pantry in a state of nightmarish...order. (Breathe, breathe.) Remember that for every spice and nut and flour you throw into this dough, you could be creating vast, clutter-free spaces in your cabinet and fridge...and hence, in your heart.

Therefore, if you're like me, you must re-equip your cabinets with haste once these cookies are out of the oven. Rush to the bulk section of your nearest grocery store and start filling new baggies like mad--even if you have no idea how you'll eventually use the stuff. You never know--those wheat berries and wasabi-flavored hemp clusters might be called upon to serve in your next clutter-crazed recipe!

(Clutter-friendly ingredients used in my own cookies!)

The amazing Bridget over at Perpetually Creating (just one of THREE blogs this creative woman produces, which is why she dons the adjective "amazing") called these cookies Granola Bites after I gave her a few to munch on this past week. I like that description. A lot of the ingredients I used in this version of the Clutter Cookie do seem granola-ey in nature: oats, nuts, dried fruit, etc. Now that I think about it, granola is a very clutter-inspired snack; it fuses together a wide variety of tastes, textures, and colors into one, whole snack.

Make these cookies part of your spring cleaning ritual. Instead of throwing perfectly edible items away, see if you can give them new life in your own clutter-inspired cookie recipe!

What combinations of flavors would you select for your own Clutter Cookie recipe?

Clutter Cookies
(makes about 2 dozen)

Ingredients:

1 dark chocolate bar (3-4 oz.), chopped finely
1 cup whole wheat flour (or whatever you have on-hand)
1 cup oats
1 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 cup almonds, chopped (or other nut)
1/4 cup cried cranberries (or any dried fruit you might have on-hand)
1/4 tsp. cinnamon
1/4 tsp. nutmeg
1/4 cup shredded, unsweetened coconut
1/4 cup margarine
1 tsp. vanilla extract (almond would taste great, too!)
1/8 cup of milk (I used rice milk)
1 Tbs. molasses (I used blackstrap)
1 Tbs. agave
1/8 cup peanut butter
1 egg (I didn't include any eggs, but it might work to gel these cookies together. They were a little on the crumbly side.)

1. Beat the margarine together with the molasses and agave in a small bowl. If you are using an egg, now would be the time to incorporate it. Begin adding the remaining wet ingredients: peanut butter, milk, and vanilla extract. Mix until well-combined.

2. In a large bowl, combine the flour, oats, baking soda, baking powder, spices, and salt. In yet another bowl (yes, your kitchen becomes a delightful, cluttery mess!) combine the coconut, chocolate, nuts, and cranberries.

3. Now comes the fun part: pour everything into the large bowl, and mix well until you have a solid, shining cookie dough.

4. Since so many odd-shaped things are incorporated into this dough, they are a little difficult to form into perfect balls. Grab about a tablespoon of the dough, and press it tightly in your hands while rolling it slightly. You're not going to get perfectly shaped cookies with this dough, but that's okay. What they lack in presentation, they make up for in taste!
5. Bake these delights in a 350 degree oven for about 10 minutes. Allow them to cool for at least 20 minutes before diving in--that chocolate can definitely burn your tongue even after 10 minutes of cooling! (Believe me: I know. It happened to me not once, but 4 times.)

Here's to some delicious clutter for your own mouths and hearts!

Spring Is For Real

2009-02-08T20:01:00.021-05:00

For weeks I have been doubting the old Earth-orbits-around-the-sun "fact" we all memorized as kids. I wanted to scream, "Oh, come on!" to any scientist who dared to argue that seasons change--that winter inevitably turns to spring. Come February, winter feels like an eternal headlock in an endless wrestling match. However, I think my faith in science might have been restored today. Spring, that heavenly beer at the end of a long day, might be within reach after all.

Today the temperature shot up to 70 in Southeastern North Carolina! Yes, that's right: 70! I turned off the heat, opened my windows, and let the fresh air fill my stale apartment for the first time in months. Instantly, several small tornadoes swept through the musty quarters of this old house, clearing the dust and cat fur from seemingly every nook and cranny. Winter residue be damned! You are no match for the pure air of Spring!

If the warm air and clear sky were not enough proof of the coming of Spring, the expressions on people's faces as I walked downtown more than gave away the surprise. As Ingrid Toth says in her poem "Spring 1946," "People were finally smiling again." Not only were the people smiling, but their canine counterparts also seemed to be glowing with new light. Rottweilers, weiner dogs, yippy schnauzers, and even a few bipolar chihuahuas were out and about with their human pals enjoying the first hint of Spring...and I swear I saw a few grins on even the most crotchety of pups! Everyone in town thawed themselves out of hibernation today, anxious to wag their tails in the direction of the sun.

In celebration of a new season (sorry, Northerners...I imagine this post might be 4 months too early for your polar environments, right?), I created a Spring-inspired smoothie guaranteed to shake the last bit of frost from your limbs. Here's to a bright season filled with Vidalia onions, mangoes, and two new exciting memoirs by two of our favorite food bloggers (see here and here)!

"It's Almost Spring, Dude" Smoothie
(for 2)

2 dates
2 bananas
1/3 cup unsweetened coconut flakes
1/8 cup cashews (salted or not)
4 cups milk (I used rice milk)
1/4 tsp. nutmeg (gotta include a touch of lingering winter to this beverage, no?)
1 Tbs. agave or honey

1. Throw everything into the blender and blend until frothily combined! This nutty & slightly sweet smoothie offers up a beautiful taste of Spring that might just come into full-bloom if we're good & patient.

Origin of the Scone: Cate Blanchett or Bob Dylan?

2009-02-06T17:08:00.010-05:00

Every time I say "scone," I feel grandiloquent. The word "scone" just sounds so hoity toity, like something an aristocrat's Persian cat nibbles on while it suns itself in the bay window. (I want to be that cat!)

"Scone" is such a bourgie word. In fact, it's difficult to say it without sounding British. Go ahead--say it to yourself: "Scone." Did you hear your inner Brit intone with glee? Scones bring the Cate Blanchett out in all of us.

This British connection makes sense. After all, scones are a traditional Scottish quickbread.

(However, it should be noted that 2/3 of all Brits (and 99% of Scots!) pronounce "scone" the same as "con" or "John." Most Americans, on the other hand, rhyme "scone" with "cone." Funny, then, that by warping the British pronunciation, I feel more British. Well, you know what they say: One American woman's ballroom is another country's crackhouse.)

You know what they also say: one country's scone is another country's biscuit.

But, let's not muddy my old money image of "scone" by calling her "biscuit." There have got to be some differences between British scones and North American biscuits, right?

Despite their similar texture and appearance, some would argue that these two quickbreads are not the same bird. For one, scones "rely on cold butter for their delicate, flaky texture, while biscuits are more often made with shortening and are crumbly rather than flaky" (Incredibly Credible Wikipedia). However, this definition alone does not work for me. I have referred to many butter-heavy biscuit recipes in my day. And the line between crumbly and flaky is, at times, hard to draw.

What about the tasty nibs we associate with scones? Visit almost any coffee shop in the States, and you'll find rows of scones dotted with innumerable tasty treats: berries, nuts, pears, M&Ms, white chocolate chips, candied ginger, peppermint chips, etc. Well then, you might be thinking, is a sweet nib the distinguishing marker between a scone and a biscuit? Well, maybe...but one could also argue that these nib-encrusted scones are just biscuits with a boob job.

Some would say that the overall dining context is what separates a scone from a biscuit. For example, Dorie Greenspan, fabulous blogger and author of Baking with Julia (as in Childs), says that scones "are made in a manner similar to biscuits and, in fact, share biscuits' buttery-layered texture, but their name, their shape, and the fact that they're served with tea rather than gravy, lift them to the level of fancier fare." For Greenspan, then, it isn't so much a difference in ingredients that distinguishes a scone from a biscuit, but a difference in presentation, culinary accompaniments, and overall setting.

In other words, slather some gravy onto that quickbread, and you've got yourself a biscuit; sip on some Earl Grey while contemplating your fanciness, and you've got yourself a scone. The difference between a scone and a biscuit, then, almost becomes a matter of performance--like acting. If we suspend our disbelief for the duration of the act, then scone exists. Allow me to use Cate Blanchett (once again...yay!) as an example. In the 2007 movie I'm Not There, Blanchett changes her accent, hair, mannerisms, posture, clothing, tone of voice, and overall Cateness to "become" Bob Dylan circa 1965. However, underneath it all, wasn't she still Cate Blanchett, a stunningly talented British actress? Wasn't she a biscuit underneath all those layers of Dylan? Is "scone," then, just an act we choose to believe in until the credits roll?

Hrmmm. The distinguishing line between scone and biscuit, for me at least, still remains a little blurry. (As is the line between sanity and insanity in my cerebral cortex.) There's got to be a real and solid way to draw the line between the North American biscuit and the British scone--one that doesn't involve postmodern theory. Or lame & awkward comparisons between quickbread and Cate Blanchett.

Ah ha! Here's some data you can sink your teeth into: Kitchen Saavy says that scones usually call for both cream and eggs, which sets them apart from their biscuity counterparts. Scone recipes often call for more liquid as well, which makes them "a bit more cake-like in their consistency." And while biscuits may or may not call for sugar, a touch of sweetness is the norm for most scone recipes.

So, there you have it: One woman's biscuit is not another woman's fancy scone. Or is it? I guess the decision is all yours! While you're busy figuring out which side of the quickbread pond you fancy most, here's a tasty scone/biscuit recipe you're sure to fall in love with. Enjoy this ballroom (or crackhouse) treat!

Vegan Ginger, Pear & Almond Fancy Scones (or Biscuits)

(makes 8-10)

1 3/4 cups spelt or whole wheat flour (spelt has a nutty flavor, and it's full of fiber!)
1 Tbs. baking powder
2-3 tsp. powdered ginger
1 tsp. cinnamon
1/4 tsp. ground cloves
pinch of nutmeg
1/8 cup turbinado sugar
1/4 tsp. salt
1/3 cup chopped almonds
3 Tbs. olive oil
1/2 c. rice milk (with 1 tsp. apple cider vinegar)
1/4 cup chopped pear (the softer, the better)
a drop of maple syrup or honey never hurts!
1 tsp. vanilla extract

1. Set oven to 400 and grease a cookie sheet with a drop of oil.

2. Mix the dry ingredients in a large bowl, and set aside. In a small bowl, whisk together the wet ingredients until combined. Pour wet ingredients into the dry ingredients and stir just until combined. The dough might look a bit lumpy, but that's okay. You don't want to over-stir, as the scones could turn out tough as a result.
3. Drop dough onto your cookie sheet with a big spoon. The size and shape of your scones is up to you! Before baking, sprinkle a little sugar on top. Bake for about 15 minutes, or until you see a little browning around the bottom edges. I have found that spelt dough doesn't rise as much as white or wheat flours do, but the nutty taste makes up for the lack of puff!

Avoid Being Februaried

2009-02-03T18:35:00.010-05:00

Februaried [feb-yoo-er-eed]: To be screwed over deliberately and excessively by February's Gray Army.

This is the month of treading lightly, of watching our every icy step. Like hamsters, we burrow deep into coves of sawdust and meal nervously on our cheekfuls of seeds. We are fearful of the elements: the polar cold that transforms our breath into frozen clouds, the blades of grass that stiffen into temples before cracking to ruins. In the caves of our beds and living rooms, we wonder if anything outside is still alive. Have all of the hearts frozen at half-beat? Was any moth saved? For answers, we creep to the window; it shows us a layer of crystals, and that is all.

For those of us brave enough to exit our homes and enter February head-on, we feel as though we are looking at the world through three layers of wax paper. Instead of a woman, we see a ghost, a blur. Instead of the sun, we perhaps see a circle of gray in a blanket of onyx. A simple landscape that once had edges and right angles now, through the lens of winter, seems more like wind than photography, more like a smudge of paint than the crisp mark of a pencil.

In this unreal place, the world is a photocopied version of itself. And, as winter persists, it all becomes a photocopy of a photocopy of a photocopy. Winter, the frosty bureaucrat! After a while the solid things--grass, spiders, etc.--get lost in the files. The files loom over us, becoming towers of summer's lost inventory, and who knows where the originals are. It takes a lot of faith to believe that grass and spiders still exist underneath all that fog and ice and snow and wet. Winter: the biggest bureacrat of all!

If we remain too long in this environment, the statistics fall in favor of hopelessness--even under the new Administration of Hope! When one is hit by the ravages this month administers against our souls, he/she becomes "februaried." Many summer-inclined individuals can reach a state of frostbitten despair if februaried for too long. What if I were to tell you, though, that hope IS possible in this frosty terrain?! What if I were to declare that the sun still exists? That love is still possible? That citrus is your savior? (Citrus? What the...)

To avoid being "februaried," try using some of these sunny ingredients in dishes where you'd least expect them: cranberries, ginger, citrus zest, agave syrup, and jalapeno peppers. A pinch of these ingredients can add a punch of spice or sweetness to your life, thus remedying your wintered-out condition. These ingredients are approved by the FRC (February Resistance Council).

What are your favorite sunny treats to serve in the depths of hell--er, winter?

For a great sunshine-inspired winter dessert, check out this colorful tart my friend Hadley created over at Hadley Gets Crafty! This tart is sure to make your heart pump 20,000 watts of solar energy! Also check out Mad About Martha's FRC-friendly treat: roasted pineapple with coconut sorbet!

Here's a tangy & nutritious winter dish sure to aid any februaried soul:

Brussels Sprouts of Passion
(Photos of these sprouts forthcoming. In my februaried state, I refused to brave the elements to develop my photos. There is hope in tomorrow, though...)
10-15 brussels sprouts, halved
3 cloves garlic
1/3 cup almonds, chopped and roasted
1/3 cup dried cranberries, chopped
zest of 1 orange
juice of 1/2 an orange (eat the other half as an appetizer!)
1/2 cup water
dollop of agave syrup, maple syrup, or honey
2 Tbs. olive oil
salt and pepper to taste

1. Heat a large skillet at medium heat. Toss in your chopped almonds, and roast for 5 minutes. Stir frequently. Set aside.

2. Heat your olive oil in the same skillet, and toss in your brussel sprouts. Stir until coated in oil, and then cook for 5-6 minutes, or until sprouts turn slightly brown and caramelized. Add minced garlic, stir, and cook for 1 minute longer.

3. Add your water, zest, orange juice, sweetener, and cranberries. Stir until evenly distributed. Cover and let cook for 6-7 minutes.

4. Before serving, add your chopped almonds, salt, and pepper. Fill yourself with passion!

Hippie Science

2009-01-13T21:01:00.004-05:00

Burger, Burger, glowin' bitchin'

On the counters of my kitchen,

If you give me one last taste

I'll glow green in outer space.

"Glowing green" is good I hope,

But if it's not I'm sure I'll cope.

I'm glad I got this off my chest;

Please consider my pale request,

Baby.

XOXO,
Clementine Zesterton

This poem was written for a very special veggie burger. A burger whose utter luminescence could only be scientifically engineered by the most new agey of hands. How does a burger glow without radiation, you might be asking? You add as many green-and-glowing vegetables and legumes to the mix as you possibly can, that's how. The superfood miracle I designed in my kitchen last night was so green, in fact, that it did have the power to make my body shine. Metaphorically speaking, that is. It shined with the light of holy, kale-fondled goodness.

Veggie burgers, in my opinion, have so much untapped potential. Often, veggie or bean burgers sold in the frozen food sections at most grocery stores are more fluff than nutritious, more bark than teeth-in-your-thigh. And, most often it seems like these frozen patties try so hard to look and taste and smell like their meaty counterparts that they lose all sense of who they really are, you know? I'm all like, "don't compromise yourself, girl," but the veggie burger just doesn't listen. She continues to mope in a self-medicating, meat-mirroring state like a girl who can't get over her first boyfriend. The thing is, that dude was never good for her anyhow. He lied, cheated, wore her bras, and thought work was something he "just couldn't connect with in a spiritual way." God--why doesn't she just get over him already and find herself! Why doesn't she become the veggie burger we all know (or, at least we think) she can be!

This is why I decided to experiment with some veggie-heavy variations of the traditional veggie burger last night in my own labratory. Since it is hard to find a veggie burger that does not don a soy mask in the name of "meat substitute," I decided to create my own green-glow monster. Before diving head-on into the realm of science, there were a few things I needed to assess:

Madness? [Check]

A method to that madness? [Say wha'?]

Science is tough, eh? It's not all lab coats and cute scientists. So, before jumping into the lab, I guess I needed to devise a scientific plan. Usually I say "ah, criminy" when it comes to devising plans, but this research was, well, how should I say this...this research could mark a shift in the path of hippie history. May no other hippie man, woman, or child be forced to consume another frozen disk infused with liquid smoke!

So, after eating a banana and pondering real hard, I came up with a research plan:

Research Question: Is it possible to put the "veggie" back in "veggie burger," or must one continue to remain in a vacuous state of greenlessness?

Research Tools: Lots of green stuff, beans, and state-of-the-art kitchen shit (like a bowl, skillet, and burger-flipping device).

Method: Mix loads of random stuff together, try to press said stuff into a patty, and grill said-said stuff.

Measure of Success: The following things will signal the acceptance of delicious molecules: my tongue, nose, brain. Neurons will probably fire. Other cellular functions and things will fire, too, I'm sure.

Margin of Error: 2%, give or take a few

Final Result: Wow, +/-2%

The experiment went off without a hitch! Well, until my eyes became a little blinded by all the brilliant green materials glowing from beakers and bowls. Confused and blurry-eyed, I accidentally added cloves (eeek!) to the mix instead of cumin. However, the end result was still delicious despite this research error. Whether or not the resulting success was at all affected by this error can only be determined by future research. Here's to a bright (hehe) and sexy future in veggie burger research, folks!

Veggie-Heavy Veggie Burgers
(makes about 5 or 6)

Ingredients:

1/2 onion, diced
1/2 green bell pepper, diced
3 ribs of celery
2 jalapenos, diced
3 cloves of garlic, minced
2 TBS olive oil
1/2 tsp. of cloves
1 tsp. whole cumin seeds
dash of turmeric
2 TBS. sesame seeds
2 slices of toasted wheat bread, crumbled into pieces
1 package frozen peas
1 can black beans
a few handfuls of kale cut into small strips
salt and pepper to taste

1. Saute first five ingredients in the list in olive oil for 7-10 minutes on medium heat. When onions become slightly transparent, then you can add the cloves, cumin, turmeric, salt and pepper. Coate veggies in spices, and then add the sesame seeds and kale strips. Saute for another minute, and then remove from heat.

2. In a large bowl, mash together your black beans and peas. Add salt and pepper to taste. Add the cooked veggies and toast to the mashed legumes. Stir until combined.

3. Form mixture into patties, and then grill over medium heat. My burgers sort of fell apart, which is what future research in this burgeoning field will hopefully rectify. However, don't fret. Just eat the pieces that fall up during the flip. Cook about 2 minutes on both sides, and then serve on your bread of choice!

(Unfortunately, the brilliance of these burgers was so intense that the pictures developed all blurry and postmodern. And I take yet another step toward digital photography...)

Sturdy-Woman Winter Vegetables & Two Recipes

2009-01-10T13:37:00.003-05:00

Do you hear the mandolin-legs of crickets somewhere in the distance? Is the ivy threatening to stretch its arms all slender & sexy-like up your white picket fence? Are you waking to the ribbon-songs of robins and finches and sparrows? Are you galloping around your house naked, making deer-leaps from the coffee, to the bowl of fresh strawberries, to the spotlight of sun beaming through your kitchen window?

No? Crap. Me neither. Truth is, we've got a ways to go before springtime seduces us from our wintry slumber.

However, there is no need to fret! Until those first dew drops of spring arrive, we've still got plenty of delicious cold-weather standbys to feast upon: root vegetables, pumpkins, citrus fruits, stored grains, brussels sprouts, cauliflower, artichokes, avocados, etc. Winter is the season of hardy-woman food--food that nurtures us despite the ice-blasting elements in which it is made to survive. For some reason, when I think of winter food--and when I try to compare this foodstuff to a woman, which, as you know, I love to do--I think of my Great-Grandma Larrair. Even though my great-grandmother died before I was born, I feel like I know her through the stories told to me by my mom and grandma. I'm sure these stories are often more legend than truth, but I like believing in them. They paint a picture of a fiery, opinionated, big-boned woman who stood her ground, loved many men, and kept things (and people) alive with her hands. In my imagination, those hands are charged with electricity: sometimes they are planting maple saplings around the perimeter of my childhood home, while other times those hands are smacking the ass of my mom's horse as a way of prodding it to "Go, son--move!"

And still other times, those hands are proofing yeast, or draining bacon grease into an old coffee canister, or stirring the chicken & dumplings just one last time. Her hands are never still, never resting--they're always moving and rattling and creating and digging. They have to, almost, because this woman would not stand for anything less than energy and surge.

Winter vegetables are much the same: they're either rooting deep into the hardened soil, or they're trying hard to preserve themselves in jars, sacks, freezers and cellars. In any case, they last. Even after their thick-armed roots have been ripped from the soil, they can last for months, or sometimes even years, if stored properly. And it's that ability to endure that sustains us through even the most blizzard-stricken of seasons. (Well, I guess we can also thank Safeway and the global marketplace for our winter survival, too...but, whatevs. Gotta give props to those yonder-year methods from time to time!)

Like those leathery root vegetables of winter, my great-grandmother's memory has proven itself capable of long-lasting preservation. While I may not need that root-memory for my physical survival, it sure doesn't hurt to have a whiskey-loving, no-crap-taking woman in my family tree whose roots, I hope, can channel a little of their lifeblood into my own branches from time to time!

Below are two recipes sure to fill you with comfort and warmth as we ride out these last few months of winter. These dishes are chock-full of some of the best sturdy-woman winter staples: potatoes, winter squash, beets, oranges, sage, and flour. What's so great about these dishes, though, is their delicacy, their emotional appeal. Despite the fact these recipes rely on some brawny ingredients, they become something softer when manipulated by our own hands. My great-grandmother wasn't all gruff, I'm sure--and these two dishes, I feel, make me understand the woman underneath the iron-and-steel into which legend has preserved her.Butternut Squash & Potato Dumplings with Sage-Butter Sauce
(In the Midwest, which is where I'm from, we'd call these starchy little treats "dumplings." However, you could just as easily call them "gnocchis," which is what potato dumplings are called in Italy--and throughout many parts of the U.S. nowadays. "Dumplin'" sounds more cozy, and we need all the comfort we can get this time of year!)

For Dumplings:

1 lb. butternut squash
1 large russet potato
12 sage leaves
Egg Yolk
3 cups white flour
1 tsp. nutmeg
2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. black pepper

1. Roast 1 medium butternut squash for 45 minutes at 350. (Or, use 1 can of butternut squash.) The real thing is cheaper, though, and it yields way more meat!

2. While squash is roasting, boil peeled chunks of potato in lightly salted water. When potato is tender, drain it and allow it to dry.

3. In a large bowl, mash your potato with your squash meat. In the middle of mashing, add the nutmeg, salt, pepper, egg yolk, and 2 minced sage leaves. A dash of olive oil wouldn’t hurt, either! Continue mashing until well combined.

4. Begin adding the flour in stages, and stir. Your mixture should begin looking like dough, and you should be able to knead it without it sticking to you. You might need to add more than what the recipe calls for depending on how much squash and potato you had to work with. (I added close to 3 cups, I believe.)

5. When dough is ready to give into your fingers, place on a floured surface, and knead for 1 minute. You may need to flour your fingers, as the dough can become quite sticky at this point!

6. Tear off a third of your dough, and begin rolling it into a long strip, about 1 inch thick. With a sharp knife, begin cutting off little 1” squares, and set aside on a strip of parchment paper.

7. Bring a pot of heavily salted water to a boil, and then drop in your dumplings. They should be fully cooked in 5 minutes! Remove with a slotted spoon, as dumplings are quite tender.

Sage Butter Sauce with Mushrooms

-1/3 cup butter or margarine (I used Earth Balance Spread)
-1 cup sliced mushrooms
-handful of fresh sage leaves
-pinch of nutmeg, salt and pepper1. In a large frying pan, stir butter over medium heat until it begins to bubble. (I used a non-dairy spread instead of butter, but either would work.) Reduce heat just a tad, and toss in your strips of sage. I used about 10 leaves, but feel free to add more! Next time I plan on using around 20.

2. Slice mushrooms of your choosing, and toss into the pan. (I used the cheap white ones.)

3. Once mushrooms begin to brown, add salt and pepper to taste. A touch of nutmeg wouldn’t hurt either!

4. Pour over warm dumplings, and serve immediately! Your heart will melt into buttery/margariney heaven…

Orange-Glazed Beets
(for 1 or 2) Adapted from Isa Chandra Maskowitz's Vegan with a Vengeance

1-2 beets
juice of 1 orange
zest of 1/2 an orange
1 tsp. maple syrup
1/4 tsp. salt
ginger (optional)

1. Cut beets into small pieces (about 1/4 inch bits), and toss into a saucepan with the other ingredients. Bring to a small boil, and cover for 10-12 minutes, until beets are tender.

2. Uncover, and stir. Increase boil for 4-5 minutes until liquid reduces and thickens to a glaze.

3. Serve warm or chilled. Achieve nirvana.

Feasting on Hemingway's Hunger

2009-01-03T21:03:00.002-05:00

Hunger is good discipline and you learn from it.
--Ernest Hemingway, Moveable Feast

When Hemingway said that that cutting back on eating and drinking could make one write more--and better--it was obvious he didn't have a food blog with which to concern himself. While reducing the amount of food that we consume can, I found, sharpen one's focus with the pen, it certainly doesn't produce many exciting morsels for food writing. In other words, there is little room for creme brulee or wine sorbet or orange-walnut brie when adhering to such a regiment.

Which is why I've been a delinquent food blogger as of late, folks. But, don't blame me...blame dear ol' Hemingway.

I feel like I picked up Hemingway's Moveable Feast at a magic moment. The perfect moment. Kinda like when a guy sees his unknown twin brother from the window of his departing train and knows then, at that exact moment, that he is not alone. That he has another half somewhere out there in the world. That's exactly (and by "exactly" I mean "kinda") what my experience was like when sitting down to read Hemingway's collection of essays he wrote while a young-buck expat in Paris.

In the essay "Hunger Was Good Discipline," Hemingway tauts the mental benefits of cutting back on food. At first, I thought that such "hunger" would leave one in a constant state of want. I mean, doesn't "hunger" imply that there is a genuine lack of something considered necessary? When we delete the things we love, will we not mourn those losses? And, depending on what our bodies are made to do without (food?!), won't our bodies weaken...or die? These are questions I thought I knew the answers to before embarking on my own journey of Hemingway's brand of hunger.

First, before I begin sounding insensitive, allow me to clarify what I mean by "hunger" in this context. For many--MANY--we know that hunger is not a choice. To say that "hunger is good discipline" to someone who has no choice but hunger is nothing less than cruel and ignorant BS. Hemingway did not literally "go hungry" in Paris. Even though he wasn't exactly living the champagne-and-truffles life of a literati when he wrote these essays, he certainly had the means to provide (very) basic food for himself and his family. Unlike the way we usually speak about hunger, Hemingway's version of "hunger" was neither forced nor life-threatening.

What Hemingway meant when he said "hunger is good discipline" was that if we resist overindulgence in some realms of our lives, we can devote more focus and energy to other areas of our lives. In his case, he believed that cutting back on over-eating and over-drinking (Hemingway?!) would make him a more disciplined writer in a world where he had a LOT of brilliant competition. And, according to his essay, such a regiment seemed to work. He underindulged (like this new word?) in food so that he could overindulge in his art--and the art of others:

"[A]ll the paintings were sharpened and clearer and more beautiful if you were belly-empty, hollow-hungry. I learned to understand Cezanne much better and to see truly how he made landscapes when I was hungry."

When I began leafing through these essays in early December, I had already begun to change some of my eating and lifestyle habits on a whim. (I am a frequent whimmer, which means I might "whim out" of some of these habits soon. Ah, well.) I cut out dairy. I began eating more uncooked veggies. I started running. And, lo and behold, I had much more energy for reading and writing. Maybe that energy was born out of a refusal to overindulge--a sort of "hunger," a happy lack. (Or, maybe it was merely an end-of-semester spurt of optimism.) In any case, I was feeling very, very satisfied. So satisfied, in fact, that I had no desire to eat all of the tasty, buttery, melt-on-your-tongue holiday delectables that usually appear at work and home and dreams come mid-December. I was willing to sacrifice the taste of those treats for the taste other things.

I could get all new-agey and say that I was "present" or "in a metaphysical sphere wherein I finally got a chance to look at myself in the mirror & when I looked I waved not to myself but to my twin brother. From a train." But, no--all I'll say is that things were/are good...and maybe Hemingway's "hunger" deserves all the credit.

However, this blast of Good also left this blog a barren wasteland devoid of sweet delights, save my mom's pretty banana split poem. (Thanks, Linda Lee.)

So, where does this new-found hunger leave the blog? Same place it was before! Except, I'm not so sure you'll be seeing any deep-fried cupcakes or cream cheese pound cakes anytime soon. The gears are shifting, but the direction of the vehicle is still undetermined. Here are some goodies I am currently looking forward to experimenting with and blogging about in 2009, however:

-Yeast breads
-Veggie stews
-Homemade wine
-Vanilla extract
-Lavender-walnut whole wheat pancakes (nope, I'm not giving up on lavender just yet!)
-More food poems and stories!
-Veggie sushi
-Anything with turnips--my new favorite grab-and-go treat
-Stuff infused with tea--I'm thinking muffins, scones, etc.
-Anything with hominy
-Vegan ginger cookies with home-crystallized ginger bits
-Meatless cabbage balls (representin' Hungary!)

In conclusion, I apologize for forgetting about food in December. I was eating--don't get me wrong. But, I'm not so sure raw turnips (hellz yeah!), avocado on toast, or yet another bean burrito (can I get another hellz yeah!) was Moody Kitchen material.

I'm not going to leave this post without offering up something delicious for you to bake, however. Below is a recipe for Sparkled Ginger Cookies from Isa Chandra Moskowitz's Vegan with a Vengeance. I baked a big batch of these cookies, plus some pumpkin muffins, for my students during Final's Week.

Happy 2009, lovelies! (And congratulations to Grieve & Co.! I can't wait to visit you in your new home overseas.)

Sparkled Ginger Cookies
makes 2 dozen
Ingredients:

-4 Tbs. turbinado sugar
-2 cups flour
-1 tsp. baking soda
-1/4 tsp. salt
-2 1/2 tsp. ground ginger
-1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon
-1/2 tsp. ground cloves
-1/2 cup oil (I use olive)
-1/4 cup molasses
-1/4 cup rice milk
-1 cup turbinado sugar
-1 tsp. vanilla extract

1. Preheat oven to 350. Lightly grease 2 cookie sheets. Place the tablespoons of turbinado sugar in a small bowl.

2. Sift together the flour, baking soda, salt, and spices.

3. In a separate large mixing bowl, mix together the oil, molasses, rice milk, sugar, and vanilla. Pour the dry ingredients into the wet and combine well. Roll into 1-inch balls, flatten onto a 1 1/2-inch-diameter disk; press the cookie tops into the turbinado sugar and place 1 inch apart on a prepared cookie sheet.

4. Bake 10-12 minutes, let cool on cookie sheets for 3-5 minutes, and transfer to cookie rack.

Banana Split Tease

2008-12-13T13:19:00.006-05:00

While I work to gather the pieces of myself after a week of grading, I am pleased to post a sexy poem written by Linda Lee Madison of Indianapolis. Linda is a disability claims analyst who enjoys running, sipping on margaritas, and reading Tarot cards. She is also my mom. Enjoy Linda's first poem submitted to the Moody Kitchen! Also, be expecting un monton de posts in the next 3 weeks; today marks the first day of my holiday vacation!

Banana Split Tease

There you sit in your fancy bowl, enticing me with your charm.
You think I do not know that you have disguised your legs with a smooth, sleek banana and your bosoms with two thick mounds of the richest ice cream. Premium brand, I am sure.

I see your scarf wrapped around your neck made of the thickest, fluffiest cream available, along with your Cover Girl make up of chocolate, strawberry and pineapple. Everything about you is strategically placed to attract more attention.

You want me to admire, most of all, your sugar-crusted pecan accessories scattered ever-so-poignantly with the utmost detail. You top all of this off with your cherry-red “Sunday-go-to-meeting” hat. You’re a good girl going bad.

I hear you laugh quietly as I scramble for a spoon.
I lick the very last drop of your blood in your lead crystal bowl and you roar like the king of the jungle, knowing that you cost me 100 points. How could you?

I quickly climb the 16 steps, turn right, turn right and face the monster in my bathroom. I slowly step my heavy leg onto the digits, knowing already that I lost more than a pound today.

'Tis the Season for Citrus Fruits and Radiators!

2008-12-02T21:30:00.000-05:00

While I am horrible at remembering book titles, album titles, and people's names, I am pretty damn good at remembering images. When it comes to image-collection, I am the queen of hamsters, stuffing those pretty pictures into my brainy pouch so that I can meal on them later. I once stored an image from an M.F.K. Fisher book that ranks right up there with the best of seeds in my rodent world. What's the title, you might be asking? That's for you to hunt down, Wiki-Sherlock. If this essay ain't getting graded, the responsibility for accuracy is out of my hands. Please tolerate my breed of hyper-unreliability.

Anyway, back to the hamster. Back to the citrusy seed. The image I recall so fondly is a slice of tangerine that Fisher accidentally roasted atop her apartment radiator in Paris. What I love about this image is the sheer accidental nature of its creation. Finished with her tangerine, she placed the remaining pieces on an old piece of newspaper and tossed the now-weighted paper aside...onto her metal radiator. This was the kind of heater you might imagine in any studio apartment in Chicago. Or a bourgie Parisian apartment circa 1930. Or 1931, Mrs. Picky Calculator Lady! Early-30s Paris might very well be the setting for this miracle. Or not.

At any rate, the radiator, the 1930s, the newspaper, the tangerine scraps, the woman, the naked man this woman can see in the apartment building across the street--none of these things are important. Nothing is important in this image I'm mealin' on betwixt my hamster teeth except for the final citrusy transformation.

While Fisher rested studiously in her armchair, perhaps considering a new way to prepare a fig compote at the tennis club brunch, her tangerine became something entirely new. From summery orange slice, to a crispy-shelled nugget of winter sun, Fisher's tangerine had changed. (If I could remember the book title or the essay title--or, if I could somehow summon forth Fisher's ghost--I would be thrilled to offer you her gorgeous description of this accidentally-roasted tangerine. However, these primary sources are the properties of other hamsters. Hamsters with winning memories and connections to high-ranking government officials.)

Back to the miracle that took place at Fisher's side: she remarked on how the soft membrane of this small slice turned to crunch, how the inside of the tangerine remained juicy, became almost creamy when warmed. How this union of glass and cream must have rattled her spine! How, after taking the first bite, she must have wanted to dive through her own glass window and into the creamy arms of the man still see standing naked across the street. (Or, am I once again imposing my own psychology upon this scene?)

I tried roasting my own tangerines a few years ago--without the newspaper, without the radiator, without the naked muse standing before me. I roasted my slices in a more conventional way: I used the oven. While my roasted sun slices were kinda good, they were nothing to lose yourself over. Perhaps they were made too deliberately, with expectations far exceeding anything in this real world (vs. my hamster world). Or, perhaps one needs to be in a bourgie apartment in Paris to understand such delights. I was dissatisfied with my copied tangerines, but still hopeful of their possibility. I probably won't try roasting my own tangerines again, but at least I still have the original and perfect image-seed to continue nibbling on until an accidental miracle takes place on my very own radiator.

By the way, for those of you with real radiators (vs. the metaphorical radiator I just crappily tried to create above), check this out. Radiator cooking sure has come a long way since Paris in the 30s!

Here are two near-miraculous recipes for appetizers that contain citrus. Since we are currently in the thick of citrus season, you might give one of these a shot at your next holiday gathering!

Citrus Roasted Olives
Based on a Rachel Ray recipe. You might have seen her prepare these olives during her 1-hour Thanksgiving Special.

3-4 cups of olives (I used a mix of Kalamata and Greek)
drizzle of olive oil
a few pinches of red pepper flakes
a strip of orange zest (from half an orange)
a strip of lemon zest (from half a lemon)
black pepper
a drizzle of the orange and lemon juice

1. Place olives on a large strip of aluminum foil. Throw in the remaining ingredients and mix everything around with your hands.
2. Fold the foil so that your olives are contained in an air-tight pouch. Toss your pouch into the oven (250-300) for 25-30 minutes.
3. Serve in a bowl while still warm.

Orange-Walnut Brie

1/4 cup of brown sugar
zest from half an orange
a few tablespoons of orange juice
1 Tbs. butter (cut into small squares)
a pinch of cinnamon
1/4 cup of walnuts
1 wheel of brie cheese

1. In a bowl, mix the brown sugar, orange juice, zest, butter, and cinnamon. When mixtures looks mixed and slightly clumpy, add the walnuts. Stir to combine.
2. Place your wheel of cheese onto a large piece of foil. Top it with the nutty mixture. Fold foil so that your cheese is contained in an air-tight pouch, and place your pouch in the oven (250-300) for 25-30 minutes. (Same as olives...you can warm both together!)
3. Serve warm with bread.

On Old Favorites and Mimosas

2008-12-01T21:13:00.007-05:00

This post has sucked a lot out of me the past four days. It's a post about Thanksgiving. A holiday devoted to food. On a blog. A blog about food. Er, can you please remove the weight from my shoulders, please? For a woman who sometimes suffers from an empirical drive to document her surroundings Bill Clinton-style (hint, hint: his autobiography was 1008 pages long!), a simple post about Thanksgiving has totally wrecked me. To avoid writing this post, I experimented with every act of avoidance possible. I dusted my mantle. I played find-the-glow stick with my raver cat for, like, 7 hours. Hell, I even made soup! And you know how I feel about soup!

Yes, I've been driven to the verge, baby.

How does one even begin to summarize 2 days of planning; 10 hours of drinking; and 48 hours of feasting on delectable, wholesome, tried-and true, labor-intensive, goddamn-I-feel-my-arteries-singing food?

And even before the feast, how do I begin to describe the sensation of traveling 2,200 miles to a home I left 4 months ago--not my mom-and-pop-drinkin'-eggnog-in-front-of-the-fireplace home (although that reality would now include step-moms and step-dads), but a new home. Flagstaff, Arizona. The first place I was able to call home after studio-jumping from city to city for 3 years. The home where some of my closest friends are--human-friends and dog-friends alike! A place where, two years ago, I celebrated Thanksgiving away from my home-home for the first time and finally felt like an adult...kinda. A place where I will never feel like an adult.

And, how do I also describe the cavernous sense of loss I sometimes experience in that home? Even though it is a home dizzyingly full of pillows and long-haired cats and full moons and cute forestry boys, it is also a home where we have lost people who we loved dearly.

Ahh, a Flagstaff Thanksgiving: the blur of spills, the flavorful textures. The flashes of friends from kitchen...to table...to kitchen...to bed. The drinks in their hands. The Turkish friend who posed eagerly with a turkey tendon stretched from mouth to bird. The Canadian linguist friend who woke early to baby the bird until it turned into a new thing entirely. Two generous friends who shared a secret. The lemon meringue pie that changed my opinions on lemon meringue pies. The best friend whose intelligence and sense of style (I mean, hello Clinton and Stacey!) is admired by everyone who meets her. A best friend who is everything.
The dog-friend who just might be the only non-human friend my cat will ever have. My button wanting to pop into constellations if I don't stop eating soon! The super-smart libertarian friend who makes the free market sound like the best sex you'll ever have. The brain hazy with mimosas and images of pilgrims drinking mimosas. The people who aren't there...but are there, too. And the Pennsylvania sweetcorn we now make and enjoy not because it tastes good (even though it does taste good!) but because he thought it tasted good. And we never questioned his sense of taste.
And my brain is/was kinda fuzzy because that's how we have to approach this day: to spit our mimosas from the kitchen to the mountain outside and say thanks for this meal that keeps everything together.

Eat Me and Die

2008-11-30T11:54:00.004-05:00

While I'm busy writing up a mimosa-infused Thanksgiving post, I'll leave you with a delightful poem written by Flagstaff writer (and "hardcore libertarian"), Dan Heller. When Dan is not busy expressing his love for free market capitalism, you can find him falling in love with Che Guevara in the mountains of Flagstaff, Arizona. Enjoy his spicy-tongued poem!

Eat Me and Die

It’s burning me like a hot pepper,
Because I am one,
On the grill

Smoking these small plumes
Of hot fruit
Or are we vegetables?

A collection, an assortment
We are,
Each with her own juicy tail

From which we used to hang
On our mothers’ limbs,
That old dusty tree

In the middle of nowhere
Before Mr. Mexican came,
And plucked us off her land

Like grapes or oranges,
Only we don’t sour,
Spicy veggie fruit, we are!

No touchy! Beware!
I’ll burn your tongue,
Or scratch your eyes as your nose sizzles

Until they bleed,
And cluster,
And rot

As our poor mother did,
Once we left her,
To be outside in cold desert

Molested by foreign hands,
Those that cradled us,
And nourished our green baby bottoms

Some of us red or yellow
Some of us seedy
Some of us not

But if you dare to eat us,
To select us from the market—district of red and green lights,
To slice us up in two or three and rip out our insides and make them hollow

To fill us with cheese,
Sometimes white and creamy
Sometimes cram us with cheese that’s clumpy like Feta

To wrap us in bacon or poke us with sticks
Alcoholic toothpicks to hold us together
After being ripped apart

We will all scream!
Collectively! An organized union!
As our red skins sizzle and smoke and drop

Into the pan of the summer grill’s bottom
Until you swallow us whole
Lick our dried lips by the limbs Momma used to swing us

As we swim down your dark throats
Together, now, all as one
With cheese and bacon and taste-bud riots

In your dark stomach
We shall still shriek
And bite you right back

Because we are voluptuous peppers
Jalapenos of smiles and moonlit night
Shadows and curves of Latina color

We spice you well below the South
We, too, can give you color and turn your face yellow
With red or green tears that will never dry up

Consume us as we sear
On this black grill
Burning sweat of fire

And we will be blessed
Choke you with spite
As our spices kill you

We shall live forever .

Butternut Squash Custard

2008-11-20T21:37:00.001-05:00

So, are you tired of pumpkin yet? I hope your answer is "no," as I have quite a treat to share with you. After roasting and preserving pounds of butternut squash, acorn squash, and other colorful gourds this fall, I've been trying to find new ways to incorporate these thick-skinned delights into new and exciting recipes. From gnocci to mashed potatoes-and-pumpkin to a strange-and-sickening coconut smoothie thingy, pumpkin meat has been showing up in the craziest of places in my kitchen. Sometimes these new recipes work wonderfully, while other times you wish the recipe (cough-cough, smoothie) existed another dimension--a dimension that will soon implode.

However, I will refrain from passing on disastrous experimental formulas in this post. (Those formulas have long been heaved into Dimension 76.) Instead, I will offer up a recipe inspired by an old tried & true autumn favorite: pumpkin pie. No fancy lavender infusions in this recipe! (Yes, you can finally breathe a sigh of relief. My lavender addiction is on the down-slope. As tempted as I was to add lavender extract to this custard, memories of my failed coconut-pumpkin smoothie reminded me to keep things simple and traditional this time around.) And, boy...this butternut squash recipe reminded me that traditional can be damn good.

I love how pumpkin pie inspired desserts have the power to totally take over American towns this time of year. Just the other day, I strolled down to The Scoop, a quirky little ice cream parlor in Wilmington's historic Cotton Exchange, to sample their signature pumpkin milkshake during my lunch break. Yes, milkshake was my lunch. I am not ashamed. To my surprise, the milkshake technician, who is also The Scoop's owner, spooned freshly roasted pumpkin meat into the blender along with ice cream, milk and spices.

"Wow," I said, "Real pumpkin! That's exciting!"

"Yeah, we don't use any of that powdered shit. This is the real thing."

Yes, there's definitely something about "the real thing" that makes the drinking/eating/smelling experience so much more gratifying. Using real meat from real pumpkin vines us more tightly into our real environment. In other words, pumpkin treats are so common this time of year simply because they are harvested this time of year. In a world where harvesting periods no longer dictate our palate--I can buy blueberries in a supermarket in the middle of December, for example--our devotion to pumpkins in autumn speaks measures about the natural cycles to which we have long been indebted. And refuse to lose hold of. And love. This culinary tradition of consuming pumpkin in the autumn months represents a history of cultivation that is wholly North American, and I will always be amazed by people's use of "the real thing." Using home-roasted pumpkin meat in an ice cream shop reveals more than just that shop owner's dedication to taste; by using real pumpkin, he is also resisting a beaker-centered, powder-obsessed worldview that can, at times, work against nature.

(Granted, all this is coming from a girl who could make a meal out of Red Vines and Skittles, but hey--once your chemistry steps into pumpkin territory, I take offense!)

Whether it be roasted or canned, your use of real pumpkin meat in this recipe is a political act! (Or, at least a delicious act. Two birds with one stone, eh?) The only modification I made to the recipe below was in the use of ramekins instead of a pie crust. The best part of squash pie is the filling, right? (Plus, eating out of a ramekin is so much cooler.) If you choose this modification, fill a big casserole dish with an inch of water, and place your ramekins into the casserole dish before baking. This method ensures that the custard cooks through all the way.

Butternut Squash Custard
(via Pittsburgh Needs Eated, who got it via David Lebovitz's Room for Dessert; recipe copied and pasted directly from Pittsburgh's blog.)

2 pounds butternut squash (for about 2 cups pulp)
1 cup heavy cream
1/2 cup milk
4 eggs
3/4 cup light brown sugar, firmly packed
1 tsp ground ginger
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp ground cloves
1/4 tsp ground black pepper
1/4 tsp grated nutmeg
pinch of salt
1/2 tsp vanilla extrct
1 tbsp brandy (I did without)
one 10-inch prebaked pie crust (again, I did without. I instead poured custard into 5 2-cup ramekins.)

1. Position the oven rack in the center of the oven and preheat to 400F. Line a baking sheet with parchment and rub generously with butter.

2. Slice the squash in half lengthwise. With a spoon, remove the seeds and fibers from the cavity. Place the halves cut side down on the baking sheet and bake for 45 minutes, until tender and fully cooked.

3. While the squash is baking, mix together the cream, milk, eggs, sugar, spices, salt, vanilla, and brandy.

4. When the squash is cooked, remove it from the oven and turn the oven down to 375F. Scoop out the squash pulp and add to the other ingredients. Mix until smooth in a food processor or blender.

5. Pour the warm filling into the pre-baked pie shell and bake for 30-35 minutes, until just barely set in the center. (I poured the filling through a strainer). (Again, you can also do without the shell. Ramekins give this pie filling more of a custard/pudding feel! Yummy.)

Lavender Pomegranate Truffles and a Love Letter

2008-11-14T11:52:00.026-05:00

Dear Lavender,*

Purple Darling, I love you aggressively! My cells explode into flocks of Canadian geese when you are near. I want to infuse my neck with you, wear you like God on my wrist, pray to your guitar.

Mummify my body, baby, like some ancient Egyptian priestess. Toss yourself into my tomb before I'm entombed. Become eternal.

Livendula, livendula: I will crawl up your Roman skirt and into your ivy. I will pluck the purple grape from between your fingers and feed it to myself. I taste you going down my throat.

Mary washes her Jesus with you before drying his feet with her hair. Their house is filled with the odor of you. She places Baby onto your nest and makes you holy for eternity.

Let me enter your Gothic chamber. Let me watch--from the window to the outside world to the spotlight raying down earthward from the sun--the washing women. Lavenders. They dance hysterically to your music.

You are a pillow under the head of Charles VI. A spoonful of jelly down the Queen's throat. A royal paste coating the armpit of a princess. The revolution beyond the fence.

In a world of professional noses, you have "a green, haylike sweetness." In Provence, les nouveaux amoureux roll like wild serpents in your fields. How many French babies have you carried into this world? You make me want to live in a harmonica.

In conclusion: take me. Your love can save Jerusalem.

Love,

Jada

(Letter infused with historical facts found here: The History of Lavender)

Lavender Truffles

The tartness of pomegranate and the sharpness of a good dark chocolate (60-75%) has the ability to bring alive the holy power of lavender. Taste...but only if you are willing to love.

8 oz. dark chocolate
3/4 cup heavy cream
2 Tbs. culinary lavender buds
2 Tbs. butter
1 Tbs. pomegranate molasses
4 Tbs. cocoa

1. Chop dark chocolate into slivers so that it will melt easily into the cream.

2. Heat cream in a saucepan over high heat just until it comes to a boil. At this point, take the pan off the heat and stir in the lavender buds. Let this mixture sit for 30 minutes to an hour, or until you reach the strength you desire.

3. After lavender essence has infused into the cream, strain. Incorporate butter into the cream by stirring slowly over low heat. When butter is completely melted, bring cream to a heat once again, just until it comes to a boil. Pour cream over the chocolate, and let sit for 30 seconds. After 30 seconds, stir chocolate and cream until chocolate is thoroughly melted. Add molasses, and stir until combined.

4. Cover bowl, and place in refrigerator for 2 hours. This will cool the mixture, making it easier for you to form into balls.

5. Once chocolate has cooled and somewhat hardened, form into small balls. You might want to wear plastic gloves during this part of the process, because the chocolate tends to soften and melt in your hands as you are working with it. After forming each ball, place in a bowl with the cocoa. Agitate the bowl until balls are coated. Store truffles in the fridge for safekeeping.

6. Eat truffles until you become the Queen of England.

Lavender Ceremony: Creme Brulee*

2008-11-08T10:30:00.028-05:00

We have long closed the blinds on summer. With legs firmly knotted into the pumpkin vines & old sticks & dried-out cornstalks, we still catch ourselves looking back over our shoulders to make sure it really happened--that one season stretched like 100 cat backs and then relaxed itself into this new season. That one thing arced & eased itself into a new day. Maybe I'm not talking about summer here, but of other things--and people--we can lose under sheets & soil.

But what logic is there in looking back, in recalculating these losses with the same broken calculator? What logic is there in looking under the blanket just one last time? What logic is there in digging the plowed dirt until our shovels reach that layer of bedrock we knew we'd inevitably arrive at?

And after all of this--all this searching & formulating & shoveling--what peace are we left with? What one, whole, golden skeleton are we able to reconstruct in the museum? And if none, then how to we reconcile that constant loss?

First, I need to slough off all metaphors, all cliches, and simply state that last year I lost a beautiful friend. A friend who, when I am not too pained to remember him, I remember in the kitchen. A friend who, after getting paid, once came home with close to $40 worth of berries. A friend who knew how to eat a pomegranate. Who was never satisfied with my dicing skills and so would always re-dice. A friend whose re-dicing did not annoy me but made me smile. A friend who was never a slave to simplicity and so would one day spend a Saturday making homemade pizza dough & pizza sauce with a splash of wine & would top those 7 pizzas with 4 cheeses & fresh herbs all while drinking an entire bottle of $20 Zin...and a few bottles of IPA. A friend who once whipped up a vegetarian meatball sub with chipotle sauce I will always remember as one of my favorite meals. A friend who was always a somewhat haphazard cook--always spilling and dropping and forgetting. A magician--always making those spills seem like part of the act. Who was always singing John Lennon in front of the stove. A friend who I choose now to remember in the kitchen because in other rooms, in other places, we were not as synchronized.

This weekend, as a form of ceremony, I made my very first creme brulee, a dessert my friend and I had always planned on making. As corny as this might sound, making this dessert brought me a sense of peace. This dish is sensitive, always threatening to curdle, overcook or become too dense. He would have loved taking on these challenges. After eating a spoonful of this creamy pot of lavender, I felt as though it might be possible to put down the shovel and the calculator. This ceremony gave me the chance to take in his memory, whole and delicious. Each time I spill a sauce, or dice a clove of garlic with the precision of a surgeon, or make a dish that has the power to make my body and other bodies happy, I need to remind myself that he is, in fact, present. These small acts of ceremony give us the ability to stop the questioning and remember without the uncertainty of decimals.

Lavender Creme Brulee (from this Rocco DiSpirito recipe) 4 servings

1 cup heavy cream
1 cup whole milk
3 tablespoons culinary lavender
6 egg yolks
1/4 turbinado sugar
more sugar for torching

1. In a small saucepan, bring milk and cream to a boil, monitoring it closely so it doesn't boil over. Remove from the heat. Add lavender, and allow lavender to infuse the cream for one hour at room temperature. Strain mixture into a clean saucepan. Bring to a boil again and remove from heat.

2. Preheat oven to 275°F. In a mixing bowl, whisk the yolks and granulated sugar until just combined. Temper the egg mixture by very slowly whisking a small amount of warm lavender cream into the eggs. Take your time with this step so that the yolks don't scramble. Once the egg mixture and cream are roughly the same temperature, whisk the remaining egg mixture into the cream.

3. Divide custard among four 4-ounce ramekins. Place ramekins in a baking dish or roasting pan. Fill dish or pan with water so that water comes halfway up the sides of the ramekins and transfer to the oven rack. Bake for 25 to 35 minutes. During the last 10 minutes, check frequently for doneness: when fully baked, the crème brûlées will be firm and will wiggle just slightly when shaken. Remove ramekins from water bath and refrigerate until chilled, at least 2 hours.

4. Before serving, sprinkle each dessert with 1 1/2 tablespoons turbinado sugar. If you own a propane torch, hold the torch about 8 inches from the custard's surface and flame the sugar into a golden brown, brittle curst. Alternatively, place ramekins under a preheated broiler and broil until sugar has caramelized, 1 to 3 minutes. Watch carefully: sugar turns from light brown to black quickly. Serve immediately.

*Photos forthcoming. The lovely photograph at the top is from here.

Food & Politics

2008-11-04T16:34:00.013-05:00

Paul Allor is a fiction writer, journalist, and food lover who currently works for the city government in Kokomo, Indiana. In the following guest post, Paul challenges the assumptions that we have about food, and argues, with an even balance of research and wit, that arugula does not an elitist make. Thanks, Paul, for this delightful essay! You can reach Paul at pdallor at hotmail dot com.

If you are reading this after my lunch hour on Tuesday, November 4, then I have already cast my vote for Sen. Barack Obama in the 2008 presidential race. Why did I vote for Sen. Obama? One word: Arugula.

You see, I love arugula. At least twice a week, I toss arugula leaves with stemmed-and-sliced strawberries, to make a simple, elegant, two-ingredient salad that I eat with no dressing or oil. And ever since Sen. Obama mentioned “the price of arugula at Whole Foods” while campaigning in Iowa, the Republicans (and the media) have sought to tie him inextricably to that most bitter of leafy greens. So if I like arugula and Sen. Obama likes arugula, then naturally, I have to vote for him.

Obviously, I’m kidding. No one makes election decisions based on food choices. And if someone did, you would probably want to pull them aside and ask them, politely but firmly, to either take their civic responsibility more seriously, or stay the Hell home next election day.

Why, then, is food so often brought up in our political campaigns? Most obviously, candidates use food as a way of burnishing their “regular-guy” credentials. That’s why candidates eat so many corn dogs at so many county fairs, and why, during this year’s Democratic primary, Sen. Hilary Clinton could be found throwing back shots at a Pennsylvania pub. Heck, during the 2004 Gubernatorial Race in Indiana, Gov. Mitch Daniels’ campaign boasted that the governor had eaten a pork tenderloin sandwich in all 92 of Indiana’s counties.

But I’m more interested in those times when food is used as a weapon against the other guy. There are a couple of ways to do this. First, you can skewer your opponent, by mocking him or her for not understanding regional food traditions and customs. In 2004, Democratic Presidential Candidate John Kerry ordered a Philly Cheesesteak with Swiss cheese, an apparent Philly Faux Pas. President George W. Bush, campaigning later in Philadelphia, made a point of telling audiences that he “like(s) my cheesesteak whiz with.”

Second, you can use food to slice a candidate, by arguing that the candidate is an out-of-touch interloper, whose food choices are radically different from yours. For example, after the 2004 election CNN reporter Candy Crowley told audiences that Sen. Obama lost the election because … he drinks green tea.

Yes, really.

Here’s what Crowley said, according to a 2004 article in the Palm Beach Post:

In January 2003, when his campaign was still young enough that Kerry would actually sit down with reporters in a relaxed setting, he and Crowley met for breakfast at the Holiday Inn in Dubuque, Iowa. "I'd like to start out with some green tea," Kerry told the waitress, who stared at him for a moment before responding, "We have Lipton's."

Lipton's would be fine, Kerry said, but the memory stayed with Crowley. “There were many green tea instances … There's a very large disconnect between the Washington politicians and most of America and how they live. Bush was able to bridge that gap, and Kerry was not.”

Crowley’s comments are really quite astounding in their sheer, naked elitism. And I am not someone who throws the “e” word around much. But come on! Kerry’s preference for green tea represents a “large disconnect” between Washington and most of America? Translation: “us rubes in flyover country don’t drink none of that fancy ‘green tea’ stuff. We drink black tea, from a bag or a bottle, and if you do any differently, Mister Fancy Pants East Coast Elitist, you ain’t someone I can trust.”

This says more about Candy Crowley, and her apparently dim view of Middle America. Green Tea is sold, and consumed, nationwide, from the smallest towns to the biggest cities. It’s not some fancy commodity that can only be found in the more culturally sophisticated parts of our country.

Similarly, let’s revisit Arugula-gate. Sen. Obama was portrayed as out-of-touch for two reasons; first, because “no one in Iowa knows what arugula is.” Yikes. Are you kidding me? Again, arugula is grown throughout Iowa, and eaten throughout the nation.

Second, Obama was mocked for mentioning “Whole Foods,” the upscale grocery store. There are no Whole Foods locations in Iowa, and right-wing commenters pounced on this as another indication of Obama’s out-of-touch elitism. The clear implication is that Whole Foods is a big-city grocery store, patronized by big-city folks. But there are Whole Foods locations in Kansas, Missouri, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Nebraska and Indiana. So, if you’re wondering why there are no Whole Foods stores in Iowa, it isn’t because Iowa is a backwards state full of hicks who don’t care about high-quality food; it’s simply because Whole Foods hasn’t yet opened its first Iowa location.

And honestly: does anyone care if Sen. Obama eats a different kind of leafy vegetable than you, or shops at a different grocery store than you? Does anyone care if Sen. Kerry drinks a different kind of tea than you? This argument is based on a flawed understanding of middle-Americans by people who, to paraphrase Candy Crowley, believe there’s a large cultural disconnect between the coasts and the center of our nation that simply doesn’t exist.

Oddly, you don’t hear many of these attacks when it comes to the Republican candidates. Earlier this year, Sen. John McCain held a party for his traveling press corps, and served couscous. A birthday party he held a few years back included lobster salad and crème brulee. I suspect this is because the “he eats odd foods” attack fits neatly into the “Democrats are effete elitists” stereotype that the media and the GOP love to perpetuate.

But it’s time for them to realize, it doesn’t work. We are an omnivorous nation. Regardless of geography, we fashion our own food choices, choosing to include or exclude meat or dairy, to go organic or pesticide-friendly, to eat raw or cooked, to frequent fast-food or prepare everything for ourselves, to grow our own produce or have it shipped in from overseas. Most importantly, we don’t expect our friends and neighbors – our or governors and presidents – to make the same choices we do. So God bless America, and pass me the tofu.

Photo of Mitch Daniels, courtesy of Ryan Nees

Red Dress Recipe Call-Out

2008-11-02T19:02:00.033-05:00

"I like to think of the Golden Gate Bridge as a sexy red dressed woman." --from the back of a postcard sent to me by a good friend who was living in San Francisco.

Ah, the red dress. Apple of my knee, rhubarb of my waist, and tomato of my bosom. This sexy fashion statement is booming as a literary conceit. In the past 100 years, several American poets have published red dress poems that dance off the page and into our cherry-red hearts: Kim Addonizio, Anne Sexton, Dorothy Parker, Sharon Olds, etc. I probably don't have to tell you that the red dress in these poems symbolizes sex, attitude, confidence, and desire. I see the red dress a verb, propelling the wearer "into this world, through the birth-cries and the love-cries" (Addonizio).

Since I fall into new obsessions almost daily, it didn't take long for the red dress to totally consume my body and soul. For the past year or so, I have been accumulating red dress poems by some fabulous American poets--and I've even been writing some of my own! I am extremely dedicated to this obsession. For example, if I ever own my own business, I will call it The Red Dress. Hell, if I have a kid, maybe I'll even don him/her with the name Red Dress. Yes, this is an obsession I will work hard to preserve, even if it means that someday, somewhere, a 1st grade teacher might have to say, "Red Dress, please give us your answer for 2+2."

This red dress is driving me deliriously happy! And crazy. Some nights I stay up until 4am just contemplating the possibilities of its red-flame power! I often miss work after riding a 4-day red dress binge. At night I sometimes choke on my plateful of red dress, and not even 40 chugs of my red dress beer can unclog the red dress. She speaks to me, too:

Red is Courtney Love lipstick and chicken blood. Red, the color of a hooker's heels in Vegas or the flashing lights of a police car. Red is dangerous. Red is apple and cherry and pomegranate open mouths. It says lick my palm. Red is Richard Simmons cheek-glitter or the real color of blackberry stains. Rhubarb pie with strawberry. Red pepper chile ristra in the doorway saying enter, enter. Red wax of the candle dripping off the mantle and onto the white white carpet for 8 days straight. Red wine dripping infinitely onto coffee tables and doilies. Red give-ins . Red mornings when the sun seeps through red curtains. Roadkill. Ketchup on my red dress you can't see oh-no-you-can't.

Wow. Maybe I should learn to shake this red dress obsession. It may no longer be a healthy academic endeavor...

Red Dress Recipe Call-Out: Here's how I want you to join in my obsession: Email me a recipe that calls for beets at adabach at hotmail dot com. Yes, BEETS! What could be a more perfect Red Dress food! Beets are red to the fiery core. The stains they leave on your hands and lips scream out to you that they cannot be forgotten. They are Red Dress. Next Sunday I will post your recipes, poems, pictures, or anything else beet-related you wish to send my way.

On a final note, here's what novelist Tom Robbins has to say about beets:

"The beet is the most intense of vegetables. The radish, admittedly, is more feverish, but the fire of the radish is a cold fire, the fire of discontent, not of passion. Tomatoes are lusty enough, yet there runs through tomatoes an undercurrent of frivolity. Beets are deadly serious."

Impecunious Person's Recipe Swap

2008-10-24T13:53:00.010-04:00

Impecunious: habitually having very little or no money.

My friend Sara is hosting a recipe swap for those with skeletal wallets. The aim of this swap is to prove that good food can still be had on a budget. Cardboard & sawdust may not be our only edible options when the times get tough. (Although, I'm sure some of you out there would be able to whip up some pretty fancy dishes using these two ingredients as your base! Apple Pie with a Buttered Sawdust Crust, anyone?)

Each person who participates in Sara's Impecunious Person's Recipe Swap "will prettily write up the recipes for an entree, dessert, and hot beverage and mail them out to their three other swapmates." Here comes the impecunious part of the game: the ingredients for the entire meal must cost less than $15. (Try not to include such dishes as cardboard stew or sawdust fritters into the menu.) Click here if you are interested in participating or would like more information.

Now, back to my dinner:

Ginger, Apple, Tofu and Butternut Squash Soup

2008-10-21T18:42:00.013-04:00

I am usually not the type of person to order soup at a restaurant. Ordering soup at a restaurant, in my mind, is equivalent to ordering water at a bar. You just don't do it. In a world where sandwiches and pizzas and stir-fries and pastas exist, why order liquid in a bowl that you have to clumsily eat with a spoon? It just seems so intangible, so un-American. (Hehe). I mean, if you like soup, you might as well move to Europe to live with those other soup lovers on their fancy soup farms. While you're across the pond spilling half of your lunch on your doilies, I'll be atop my horse in the blazing American sun eating something solid (topped with chili and cheese and jalapenos. And mustard. And beer. And America sauce.)

So, when I returned home from work this afternoon, I began questioning my street cred (and my citizenship) when I found myself desiring soup, of all things. The prissy nature of soup defies cool on many levels. But, since I am already very aware of the fallibility of my coolness--after all, my students remind me that I am not cool almost daily--I reluctantly accepted my soupy desire.

Soup! Oh, Soup! I had you all wrong. It's just that most of my encounters with soup have been of the canned variety. Or the watered down restaurant variety. This afternoon's rendezvous, however, has opened my eyes to the possibility of a real, long-term relationship with soup. (If soup shares my feelings, of course. Can you talk to him? Maybe? I mean, don't tell him I asked you to ask him or anything. Play it cool.)

After assessing what my kitchen had in stock, I decided to do an Asian twist on Butternut Squash Soup. I will try to remember how much of each ingredient I threw into the pot, but this recipe is definitely flexible (much like my national identity, I guess).

Ginger, Apple, Tofu and Butternut Squash Soup
1 TBS olive oil
1 tart apple, peeled and chopped (I used Granny Smith)
1 small red bell pepper, chopped
3 cloves of garlic, minced
1 Tbs. minced ginger
1 tsp. cumin
1 tsp black pepper
1 tsp. red pepper flakes
1 cup rice milk
3 TBS. soy sauce
1/2 cup water
more olive oil to taste
1 can butternut squash
1/4 cup red wine (optional)
nutritional yeast to taste (optional)
more cumin
more olive oil
1 package extra firm tofu, diced into tiny cubes

1. Heat olive oil in a pot & then toss in the garlic, ginger, apple and red bell pepper. Toss for 3-4 minutes, or until ingredients soften a bit.

2. Add black pepper, salt, red pepper flakes, and cumin. Toss until all ingredients are covered with spices. Add rice milk, water, and soy sauce. Bring to a boil.

3. Add squash, red wine and nutritional yeast. Stir. Keep at medium heat for 15-20 minutes.

4. Pour soup into a blender or food processor, and blend for 2 minutes. Return soup to pot, and continue cooking at a simmer. At this point, you can add the diced tofu (and maybe some powdered ginger, salt to tast, black pepper to taste, and more cumin).

5. Simmer for 5 minutes after adding tofu. This will give the tofu the chance to adopt some of the flavors of the soup.

Once you have poured your soup into a bowl, add a drizzle of olive oil and a pinch of sesame seeds. Or, you could drizzle a bit of cream on top. Or soy sauce. Or love. (But, beware: this soup is my boyfriend. Don't get too friendly, girl.)

Enjoy!

Food as a National Security Issue

2008-10-20T21:17:00.018-04:00

Michael Pollan, author of In Defense of Food, An Omnivore's Dilemma, and A Botany of Desire, was interviewed on NPR's All Things Considered this evening. While I have much to blog about myself (squash pudding & squash soup--OH MY GOD!), I will instead have to leave you with a link to Pollan's interview with Terry Gross.

The interview focuses on Pollan's recently published open letter to the next president, "Farmer In Chief" (New York Times Magazine, 10/9). In that letter he outlines several key food policies he hopes either Obama or McCain will consider once they enter the White House. "There are many moving parts to the new food agenda I’m urging you to adopt," the letter reads, "but the core idea could not be simpler: we need to wean the American food system off its heavy 20th-century diet of fossil fuel and put it back on a diet of contemporary sunshine." Among other recommendations, the letter calls on the next president to create a new government position: Farmer in Chief. Maybe the losing candidate could be awarded this position. I'd take fresh produce and sunshine over awkward calls to foreign leaders any day of the week! Losing the election on November 3rd might be a blessing in disguise for one of these chaps.

This letter is a lovely read, and like most of Pollan's work it stresses a more intimate (and more local) relationship between people and the delicious stuff that we consume.

I will be back in full-blogging-swing in a few days. For now, I must return to grading (and nibbling on this delicious black bean & egg burrito).

May your Tuesday be packed with minerals, nutrients, and other magical microscopic delights!

Some Thoughts on Pumpkin

2008-10-15T18:30:00.005-04:00

Sometimes I think I like the idea of pumpkin more than the taste of pumpkin. I mean, pumpkin ain't never good on its own, right? I've never heard of anyone sitting down to a steaming plate of pumpkin--unless it's doused with salts or sugars, spices or creams, broths or chihuahuas. However, there's something earthy and homey and comforting about pumpkins that keeps me coming back to them year after year. (Plus, babies and chihuahuas look just ADORABLE in pumpkin costumes. How can one turn their back on pumpkin when pumpkin gifts us with small mammals decorated with stems?!)

But still...do we really like pumpkin? Does it have to be pumpkin? Couldn't a pumpkin pie just as easily be a sweet potato pie? Or an acorn squash pie? Or a Palin ponytail pie? I'm not saying I don't like pumpkin pie, pumpkin ice cream, pumpkin bread, pumpkin soup, pumpkin seeds, pumpkin cupcakes, pumpkin etceteras. Hell no. I am NOT saying that. Toss that canned pumpkin into a bowl full of sugar, cloves, nutmeg, ginger, cinnamon, and liquid, and I will suck up the entire bowl with a straw! I love all things pumpkiny...well, except for pumpkin, naked of all adornments.

So, since I would not eat pumpkin on its own, does that mean that I don't like pumpkin? No. Not liking pumpkin does NOT mean that I, uh, don't like pumpkin? Man, this is confusing. I need a metaphor to help me understand this dilemma. Here's (a lame) one: even though we can't look at the sun head-on without blinding ourselves, we still love the image of Sun, right? Think of how many ankle and lower-back tattoos have been inspired by the image of that life-giving orb of hot gases! We can never experience the beauty of the unfiltered sun with our own eyes, yet we are fascinated by it.

This same reasoning applies to pumpkin. (Stick with me here.) Just as we are unable to view the sun without solar filters, we are likewise unable to enjoy the taste of pumpkin without the filters of gentle autumnal spices (ginger, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg). These spices are like those solar eclipse boxes we made in elementary school--they filter out the icky & blinding & bad and leave us with the good. (This logic does not apply to my resurrected Pre-Columbian readers who love eating naked pumpkin, no filter required. Feel free to call me a "silly Post-Columbian" for voicing this culinary fallacy.)

Granted, I don't see many people with pumpkin tattoos, so something about this sun-pumpkin metaphor ain't quite workin'. But, maybe this metaphor will: think of pumpkin as a drunk uncle you cannot enjoy until you've had 3 or 4 drinks. Or more. After tying one on, that annoying uncle becomes your best friend. Before you know it, you two are hugging each other and repeating your "I-love-you-mans" while the rest of your family looks on in disgust. Come midnight, you and your uncle are on a Greyhound to Vegas singing/slurring the lyrics to "Runaway Train." Back to the metaphor: to love your uncle, you need the filter of booze; likewise, to love pumpkin, you need cloves, ginger, cinnamon, and nutmeg.

Okay. I'll cool it with the bad metaphors. Our pumpkin is not the sun. Nor is it a wasted uncle. It's pumpkin, plain and simple. And we love that simplicity (well, after complicating it with spices and sugars...and baking it...and then topping it with ice cream).

What are your favorite pumpkin recipes? Does anyone out there love pumpkin without the feather boas and purple rouge? This fall, I'm looking your way, America, for some great pumpkin recipes (wink-wink-you-betcha- gosh-darnit-tootin-uh-uh-maverick-education-policy-chihuahua-squash)!

Below you'll find some ideas for how to utilize your pureed pumpkin this fall. Some of these recipes have been tested and approved (*), while others will be experimented upon with probes & tubes in the near future.

*Pumpkin French Toast (for 2): In a bowl blend together 3 eggs, a dash of rice milk, a few tablespoons of maple syrup, a tablespoon of honey, cinnamon, ginger, crushes cloves, nutmeg, vanilla extract, and 2/3 cup pumpkin puree. Saturate 4 pieces of whole wheat bread, and fry away! Drizzle with maple syrup. Dash of cinnamon. Holy-French-Pumpkin, these are good!

*Vegan Pumpkin Muffins (makes 12, from Vegan with a Vengeance): to save me the time and energy I could better spend doing cool Post-Columbian things (like racquetball or chugging emergen-C), I will not copy this recipe from Isa Chadra Maskowitz's book. Instead, click here. Internet plagiarism just gifted me with more time to up my dosage of Vitamin C!

*Vegan Pumpkin Pancakes (makes however many you want): throw together some flour, baking powder, salt, sugar, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, cumin (very little), ginger, rice milk, maple syrup, sugar, and vanilla. Yum.

Pumpkin Coconut Sorbet (maybe gross, but we'll see...): I will blog about this soon. Hopefully I can experiment with this recipe this weekend. I'm guessing it will include some measurements of the following: pumpkin puree, coconut milk, shredded coconut, nutmeg, cinnamon, cumin, sugar, and jasmine extract.

Pumpkin Milkshake (hellz yeah!): ice cream or rice dream, milk or rilk (hehe), adequate spices, pumpkin puree, and maple syrup.

*Pumpkin Cupcakes with Cream Cheese Icing (makes 24): Check out Gourmet Peasant's "Naughty and Nice Pumpkin Cupcake" recipe here. I made these last fall, and they were, by far, the most delicious pumpkiny treats I have ever digested. Coming from a true pumpkin lover (er...), that's saying a lot!

Now, look at this:

Navajo Tacos and a Show

2008-10-12T23:36:00.009-04:00

Nathaniel Curley is a writer, student, and 'zine editor from Tuba City, Arizona. In the following essay Nathaniel remembers a time when a little team effort and a batch of Navajo Tacos earned him some much-needed cash (and beer). Check out Nathaniel's previous submission to the Moody Kitchen here.

It was the summer after I graduated from high school (which only took me five years to complete instead of the typical four). That was the summer I stayed with my brother’s family in Phoenix, Arizona. During the summer of ‘98,’ I hadn’t a clue what the “real world” was supposed to be like. I was only interested in the important things: girls, beer, pot, girls, and beer, and did I mention beer? I wasn’t 21 yet, so I drank what was offered then, which mostly consisted of a tall, fat, frosty 40 ounce of Mickey’s, or Old English, or maybe a Crooked Eye. I was naïve to the fact that money was needed to live in the urban setting that was Phoenix.

I was like most young men back then who graduated from high school with a GPA of 1.7-something. I looked for any type of suitable work. I remember dreading the idea of work because I wanted to live like the songs of the band Primitive Tribes and emulate their ideals of realizing that we are nothing but “Wage Slaves” feeding the rich capitalistic overseers who truly run the world. I was an angry young man with ideas of changing the world by not wanting to do anything except party and complain about stuff. Punk rock was my life then, and punk girls preoccupied my mind because punk girls didn’t care if you had a job or drove a cool car.

The problem was that one of ways to meet these ideal, super-cool girls was to go to a punk show, and that had its own problems. I needed cash to go these shows, even when some were free, the beer usually wasn’t. I think a 40 was roughly about two bucks back then. I can picture it now, me saying to a group of young whipper snappers, “I remember when a 40 ounce of Mickey’s only cost two dollars.” Eventually, though, there was no other way around it; I needed to get a job, which I eventually found as a day laborer at minimum wage.

On one particular weekend, my brother’s wife expressed with a sense of concern that we needed to find a way to pay for the utility bill, which, if I remember correctly, was $119. I don’t know how I remember that number, but I do. Not one of us who lived in that small one-and-a-half bedroom apartment had that kind of money, and even if we pulled together our monetary sum, we would have fallen well short of what was needed. There were seven of us--my brother and his wife and their daughter, his wife’s younger sister and her boyfriend, his wife’s younger brother, and then me.

Finally, one of the others thought up the idea that we should sell Navajo Tacos in order to pay for the utility bill. I am not sure if we would have still called it a “Navajo Taco” if we were some other tribe, but most people from Arizona know what a Navajo Taco is, so as a marketing scheme we made flyers with, “NAVAJO TACO Sale! 5 Dollars Today Only!” printed on them.

My brother’s brother-in-law, Dub, and I had been charged with the responsibility of hanging the flyers around the apartment complex. Armed with clear tape, thumb tacks, and a stapler, we roamed to all corners of the complex, but as we did so, we also had a hopeful plan of seeing the Nobody’s and The Queers play at Boston’s Bar and Grill in Tempe, AZ that night. Paying for the utility was, of course, the primary reason for this sale, but we hoped that maybe--just maybe--we could sell enough to pay for the show (and, of course, some beers). This was our added incentive to run around in the 100-degree heat. It was also a given bonus that if you sold Navajo Tacos, it was very likely that you would get to eat one.

There are three basic main ingredients to a well made Navajo Taco: Frybread, chili beans, and grated cheese. However, the toppings may vary depending on the taste of the individual. I like mine with tomatoes, lettuce, onions, and hot salsa. I have been taught the process of blending flour, baking powder, salt, milk, and lukewarm water to make the dough for frybread. Unfortunately, I have not perfected it yet because my dough usually comes out as a clump of plaster clay. When done right, the dough should be soft and airy and stretchy. There’s nothing like the crackling sound of hot grease sizzling in bubbling fashion around the soft texture of well crafted dough. When the dough is gently placed in the hot oil, the sound is like a scattering glass precisely hit with a sharp tipped instrument. The resonations of the flopping flop sounds of dancing sizzles are enough to bring an eager willingness to bite into the soft, hot and often crunchy frybread. I have to admit that my sensory memory is being overwhelmed as I write this.

I remember the excited facial expressions of the others as the phone rang; it was enough to say, “Alright, our first costumers!” As the day wore on, Dub and I operated as the delivery guys and we got to see where all the Navajos lived in the complex. We were greeted with gratitude because some were away from home and a Navajo Taco was welcoming sight. We felt like we weren’t only providing food to people, but a connection back to the Motherland of the Navajo Nation. At one apartment that we delivered to, a group of Navajos were enjoying themselves on a Saturday afternoon, drinking beer and watching TV, when we rung their doorbell. We were greeted with a loud, “Hey the food is here!” when one of them blurrily asked, “What did you order, pizza?” And one of the ladies of the apartment answered, “Pizza! You can get pizza anytime, these are Navajo Tacos! Pizza?” Then, to us, she said, “Hey, you two want a beer?” That last question was tempting, but we were on the job and we had a goal in mind. It seemed like every time we returned from a delivery, we had to head right back out taking with us our hot product. It was madness for about a couple of hours before it was announced that the monetary goal of $119 was met! We cheered and, most importantly, we got to sit down and eat.

I don’t recall when, but I do remember my older brother asking, “Do you guys want to go to the show?”

Last Taste of Summer Sorbet

2008-10-06T17:21:00.011-04:00

First thing I heard that morning was the sound of her too-tall heels shuffling their way toward the door of my apartment. It must have been, oh, 3 or 4am. Despite my desire to tear out of the sheets and throw my body in front of the door and beg and plead with her to never-ever-ever go, I didn't move a muscle. No, I didn't move. Played dead. Gonna save my pride this time, I thought.

I heard her grab her keys, heavy with the objects dangling from the chain: 2 troll dolls, a beer bottle opener, a picture of the two of us on a roller coaster in a small plastic frame, and a Schnauzer figurine. Hidden in the clink-clink of this kitschy mess was one key, the key to my apartment. Next, I heard her fumbling with the clasp of her bra. Heard the plastic click of her lipstick container. Imagined that lipstick spreading on those Angelina Jolie lips of hers. And then--then, she was gone. Door open, door close.

This is the 27th time Summer has abandoned me. Each year I hope she'll change her mind and stick around. "If you move with me to the Southern Hemisphere, baby, you can have me longer this year," she said a few weeks ago. And I've considered the move--really, I have. I mean, once you get a taste of Summer, sometimes you feel like you'd do anything to make that love stay. However, I had papers to grade...and no money saved...and a late-20s tension headache. Something about the move didn't sit well with either of us, so we didn't talk about it after that.

As the days grew less humid, I could sense that Summer was getting antsy. After knowing this woman for 27 years, I can tell when she's fixin' to leave. September comes around, and all of a sudden she throws a sweater over her tube top, starts losing her tan, and switches from Camel Lights to organic cloves. Nearing the end of the month, she's long gone. Nothing I do or say can make her stay, so I've given up trying. I guess the best I can do is remember the good times, right? That, and hope she'll show up on my doorstep next year with a pack of ice-cold Coronas in her hand, a slice of lime between her pink-pink lips. Because no matter how sour the goodbyes, I don't change the locks.

The morning she left, I concocted a sorbet using some of Summer's favorite flavors. With each bite, the memories of her flood in like a giant monsoon--takes all I've got to put the spoon down and walk away.

Last Taste of Summer Sorbet

The recipe below is not super-specific. With these ingredients, however, you can't really go wrong!

3 handfuls of Concord Grapes (or other inky grape)
2 handfuls of strawberries
1 cup sugar
2/3 cup water
a few lavender buds
a touch of vanilla extract
a drizzle of honey
1 drop jasmine extract (optional)

1. Bring a bit of water to a boil, and then drop in your handfuls of grapes. Let boil for 2 minutes. Once you see the skin peeling back a bit, take off the burner and let sit for a few minutes. Strain grapes through a wire sieve. Hopefully this will yield close to a cup of fresh juice. Set juice aside.

2. Bring to boil the cup of water with the 2/3 cup of sugar. Maintain boil until sugar has dissolved, and then remove from burner. At this point you can toss the loose buds right into the sugar mixture to infuse the syrup with a flowery flavor. This smells fabulous!

3. In a food processor or blender, blend the strawberries, vanilla extract, honey, and jasmine extract. Blend for close to 1 minute, making sure no pieces of strawberry remain. Add the fresh grape juice, and blend until combined.

4. Once the lavender syrup is at room temperature, strain out the buds and blend together with the fruit. Pour mixture into an 11X13'' casserole dish.

5. Every 30 minutes for 2 hours, you should remove the sorbet and whisk. This ensures that your sorbet will not crystallize.

6. Eat. Remember. Cry.

Chocolate Stout Brownies

2008-10-03T13:59:00.011-04:00

With the economy quickly melting into a giant puddle of Velveeta, one must learn to cut corners. One must begin tightening one's belt for the difficult times that lie ahead. One must acquire the skills to kill two birds with one stone. Or four squirrels with one stick. Or 7 hot dogs with one gag. One must gather in the fine leathery reins of exorbitant spending and eat said reins, diamond studs and all. If one is not careful, one will be forced to eat oneself. One does not like the sound of that one bit.

Okay, it's time to get real with oneself--er, myself. When it comes to buying food, I find it hard to cut corners. I find it hard to sink my teeth into leathery reins when such things like dark chocolate, chocolate stout, and white chocolate exist in this world. Oh--and Dutch-processed cocoa. And semi-sweet chocolate chips. And butter. Oh my...

Call me crazy. Call me naive. But since I only have one life to live, I make it a point to indulge from time to time in my favorite treats. On any given Sunday morning, for example, you can find me munching on truffles, caviar, and saffron-infused creme brulee in my baroque-inspired gazebo.

Well, maybe my indulgences are not that extreme. I do, however, enjoy a good dark beer from time to time. And I find it hard to shy away from purchasing a good bar (or 10) of dark chocolate.

Could my obsession with chocolate and beer--an obsession made possible, as of late, by a plastic card--be the cause of this current economic crisis? Maybe, and for that, America, I am sorry. However, will a chocolate stout brownie suffice as a bailout? Run it by those guys in the House, and then let me know. In the meantime, I'll put my oven on preheat.

Below is my recipe for Chocolate Stout Brownies, stolen/adapted from the blog A Mingling of Tastes. The only change made to the original recipe (which was adapted from various online recipes) was this: Mingling's recipe calls for Guinness, and my version calls for Young's Luxury Double Chocolate Stout. Any stout beer will work...but why refuse to add another layer of chocolate to this chocolately dessert?!

Chocolate Stout Brownies:

1 cup all-purpose flour
3/4 cup unsweetened natural cocoa powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into cubes
8 ounces dark bittersweet chocolate, chopped
4 ounces high quality white chocolate, chopped
4 large eggs, at room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
1 1/4 cup Chocolate Stout beer, at room temperature
3/4 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Line a 13 x 9-inch baking pan with nonstick foil (or regular foil coated with nonstick spray); or, use a nonstick pan coated well with nonstick spray.

2. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, cocoa and salt; set aside.

3. Melt the chocolate in a medium saucepan. Combine the dark chocolate, white chocolate and butter. Over low heat, stir until chocolate and butter is melted and combined. Set aside.

4. Combine the eggs and sugar in a large bowl and mix on high speed until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add melted chocolate in two additions, beating on medium speed until combined. Add flour mixture in two additions, beating on medium speed until combined. Add one-third of the beer and whisk until combined. Repeat two more times with remaining beer.

5. Pour brownie batter into prepared pan. Sprinkle chocolate chips evenly over top. Bake for 23 to 27 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean (mine took exactly 25 minutes). Cool completely in pan, cut into 24 squares and serve. These are excellent eaten within 24 hours (possibly longer; I’m not sure), and they freeze very well.

(Pictures to come!)

You Said It, John Keats!

2008-09-27T13:40:00.002-04:00

In his poem "Ode to Autumn," John Keats described fall as the "Season of mists and mellow fruitfullness." Once again another seemingly immortal summer has weakened and dissolved into a chilly and vaporous autumn. The winds begin to roll in, forcing us to seek refuge in woolly sweaters. The songs of birds unravel with slight threads of anxiety we didn't notice when the air was warmer, thicker. Change, no longer an abstraction or a political slogan, is all around us.

We can see, hear, smell, feel, and most definitely taste this transformation from summer to fall. It's times like this when we remember that the earth's axis does, in fact, exist. We spin and tilt, spin and tilt, until--suddenly!--our environments metamorphose almost miraculously before our eyes.

This is the season of reflection, of maturation. Summer--the tube top-wearing, 20-something stripper--throws on a brown sweater and decides to teach a seminar on Women Philosophers of the Late Modern Period. This brown-sweatered Ivy Leaguer is Fall. If Fall were a woman, she would consider Dostoyesvsky "light reading." She would open curtains dramatically. Her sigh would be a rhetorical marvel; in it we would finally understand our own existence. She would says things like, "Internet? I would rather not participate in that experiment. What about passion? Where is passion in a pixel? Now, pass me the ground white pepper, darling."

Is she pretentious? Sure. But would we would love her anyway? Yes. We would always love her. Why? Because she's just so, well, cool (in an old money, New England sort of way). Plus, underneath all of that wool and lavender mist and hosiery, she's pretty damn sexy. She carries the experience of the world in the way she walks and talks and cocks her neck ever-so-slightly when listening to her super-cool friends say super-interesting things.

God, will I ever be as cool as Fall?! Probably not. I doubt terms like "super-cool" exist in Fall's vocabulary.

Maybe, however, I've gotten Fall totally wrong. Maybe she's not an Ivy League Professor in Massachusetts, but instead an organic farmer in Montana...or a lonesome cowgirl in Douglass, Arizona...or a Ukrainian egg painter. As Keats noted in his poem, Autumn is the season of mist; just when we think we have it figured out, it morphs into something new. We need drowsy eyes from which to view this season. With eyes too logical, or eyes too curious, we may become frustrated with the ephemeral nature of fall. (This is philosophy my brown-sweatered autumn woman would definitely dig. She's a fan of ambiguity.)

Here's a dessert sure to please those of you ready for the "mellow fruit[s]" of fall. It's full of everything this season is about: subtlety, calming spices, and sophistication.

Spiced Fig Upside-Down Cake (adapted from an online recipe you can find here)

Ingredients:

2 tbs. melted butter
3 tbs. brown sugar
10 black mission figs, halved
1.5 cups flour
2 tsp. baking powder
2 tsp. ground ginger
1/4 tsp. cinnamon
1/4 tsp. cloves
pinch of salt
1/3 cup olive oil, softened
3/4 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup molasses
2 egg yolks
1/2 cup rice milk
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 egg whites

1. Preheat oven to 350.
2. Coat a 9-inch round cake pan with cooking spray. Coat bottom of pan with melted butter, and sprinkle with 3 tablespoons sugar. Arrange fig halves over sugar, cut sides down. Set aside.
3. Lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 6 ingredients (through salt), stirring with a whisk. Place 1/3 cup butter and 3/4 cup brown sugar in a large bowl, and beat with a mixer at medium speed until blended. Add molasses and egg yolks; beat well. Beat in milk and vanilla. Add flour mixture to butter mixture; stir with a whisk just until blended.
4. Place egg whites in a medium bowl; beat with a mixer at high speed until stiff peaks form. Gently fold egg whites into batter; spoon over figs in prepared pan. Bake at 350 fot 55 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean. Cool 15 minutes in pan on a wire rack. Loosen cake from sides of pan using a narrow metal spatula. Place a plate upside down on top of cake; invert onto plate.

Edible Weekend Magic

2008-09-19T18:32:00.007-04:00

After a stressful week at work, nothing calms my spirits more than spending some time in the kitchen. Come Friday afternoon, I'm tired of thinking, speaking and analyzing. I'm ready, instead, for magic. Real magic. Edible magic.

Such magic works like this: throw plants & minerals & potions together in one big bowl, blend them together with possessed hands & wrists, and toss this chemistry into the oven to complete the nearly-final step of this alchemical process. Of course, the final-final step is to take the baked-broiled-braised-roasted food into our bodies. Chew. Swallow. Digest. Live.

Nothing comes closer to magic than this. (Well, some would argue that Richard Simmons is more magical, but I'll save a discussion on his brand of magic for a later post.) Cooking is one of the only (Western) arts that allows us to become the thing we have created--literally. Unlike other art forms that are designed and manufactured to stand the test of time, we accept food's pregnable fate. Its destruction is inevitable. We add colors and decorations and fancy names to our food to ensure this destructibility.

However, I'm not so sure "destruction" is the right word to use when describing the act of eating. Sure, the act of eating involves the breaking down of matter into smaller and smaller pieces until, finally, we can no longer see certain parts of the original whole. Our bodies are gifted with minerals and vitamins and emotional comfort, none of which we can see with the naked eye. These chemical processes, charted to some extent by Science, depend on our collective suspension of disbelief. This scientific stuff happens inside of us, we think, but the fact that it does happen is also part miracle.

No, the act of eating is not a destructive act, but a magical one: one thing collapsing so that another thing can live. This is magic, a magic we perform on a daily basis--no microscopes or awkward scientists needed!

Here are my magical-alchemical-superradical plans for this weekend:

1. Lavender extract: While I won't get the chance to actually use this extract for a good two months, I will begin the infusion process this afternoon. The recipe is simple: 2 tablespoons of lavender buds + 1 cup of vodka. (I'm sure I'll find other "culinary" uses for the remaining vodka. Is "drunk" considered a culinary use?)

2. Fig Upside-Down Cake: Brown sugar, molasses, figs, ginger, cloves, butter... How could this recipe do me wrong, baby?

3. Lemon Quick Bread: One of the loaves will be reserved for a coworker of mine who's expecting his first baby in less than a month. I thought that the soft & spongy texture of the bread + the sharp wails of citrus would work well to represent everything that is baby.

4. More French Toast: I can't get enough of this ginger-cinnamon-maple-milky-moussey goodness! I feel like I've devoted an entire loaf of bread to my French Toast endeavors this week. I tried throwing blueberries onto the skillet the other day while the toast was browning, and the berries magically melted into soft pearls of creamy sweetness. Pour them over the top of your toast, and you've got yourself one helluva breakfast (or lunch, or dinner). Yum.

5. Pear & Thyme Tart: If time permits...

What do you hope to find on your plate this weekend?

Lavender Cupcakes

2008-09-13T17:03:00.001-04:00

Most of my friends know about my love for purple food. I eat purple food any chance I get: potatoes, cabbages, plums, heirloom tomatoes, cauliflower, blueberries, etc. Tonight I get to add a new purple food to the list: lavender.

Tonight was not my first experience with eating lavender, but it was definitely my most memorable encounter so far. Lavender Dagoba bars have long been among my favorite chocolate bars on the market. Since these bars also contain dried blueberries, however, the lavender flavor always seemed to be overshadowed by the 59% dark chocolate and the zing of the berries. In other words, lavender plays more of a supporting role in these bars. It might even be the prop guy or dog-star washer. We know it's there behind the scenes, but we forget about it once the show begins.

For tonight's dessert, I wanted to give lavender the opportunity to finally put on the evening gown and reveal herself for the entertainer she really is. No supporting roles. No fancy lighting. No Governors of Alaska dissing on community organizers. Just one light shining down brilliantly on Lavender.

Since I had yet to bake with flowers, I didn't know how best to incorporate them into the batter. I could do many things to infuse the cupcake batter with the flavor of the buds I recently purchased. At first I considered making homemade lavender sugar or lavender extract. While making both is quite simple, I would have to wait 2 weeks to 2 months to use either. I could make lavender butter, but I wasn't sure if the resulting flavor would be strong enough. (Or, did I not want it to be strong?) I decided to infuse rice milk with about a tablespoon of the dried lavender. After bringing the milk to a boil, I could toss in the buds and let their floral flavor seep into the liquid. This method seemed the most promising. It would make it easy for me to guage by smell just how strong the potion was. If too strong, I could add more milk. Likewise, I would be able to add more flowers if the scent were too weak.

Below is the recipe for my Lavender Cupcakes. Since I have many, many buds left, I have plans in the works for making lavender extract. Just imagine a touch of this potion added to pancake batter or whip cream!

In other purple food news, I bought some delicious-looking concord grapes this afternoon. With wine. Do I smell another purple sorbet?!?! Maybe I can find a way to work lavender into that recipe. I think I would explode into purple vapor at the first bite!

Lavender Cupcakes with Lavender Cream Cheese Frosting
(makes 12)

Cupcakes:
1/2 cup unsalted butter at room temperature
2/3 cup cane sugar
3 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1 3/4 cups flour
2 tsp. baking powder
2 tsp. culinary lavender buds
1/4 tsp. salt
1/4 cup rice milk

Lavender Cream Cheese Frosting:
1/2 cup cream cheese
1/2 cup butter
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1/4 lb. powdered sugar
1 tsp. culinary lavender buds

To make lavender infused rice milk (or any milk of your choosing):
1. Bring milk to a boil. Remove from heat and add the 2 tsp. of culinary lavender. Allow
mixture to sit for 20 minutes.
2. Once mixture has cooled, strain. Set milk aside for the batter.

To make the batter:
1. Cream sugar and butter together until smooth.
2. Add eggs, one by one, until mixture is foamy and airy. Add vanilla extract. Whisk with a
hand-held whisk.
3. In a separate bowl, combine the dry ingredients with a whisk.
4. Go back and forth between adding the lavender milk and the flour to the creamed sugar.
Once all ingredients have been added, whisk mixture for 1 minute until smooth. At this point I
also added some of the buds that had simmered in the milk.
5. Distribute batter evenly into muffin tins. Bake for 18 minutes at 350.

To make frosting:
1. Beat the cream cheese and the butter until smooth.
2. Add the vanilla extract. Beat until all ingredients are evenly mixed.
3. Slowly add the powdered sugar until the frosting reaches the consistency you desire.
4. Finally, add a few lavender buds if you like. Fold buds into the mixture.

Once cupcakes are done, give them an hour to cool before adding the frosting.

Unlike Lavender Dagoba Bars, there's no denying the main ingredient in these cupcakes! Every bite is lavender romping on stage in a sequins dress, her hair a great purple afro!

Desert Sand Cookies

2008-09-12T16:55:00.001-04:00

After slightly poking fun at Mrs. Akerstrom-Soderstrom in an earlier post, I felt guilty. I mean, a Princess can't help that she's a Princess, right? If I were a princess, I, too, might decorate pigs' heads with butter. Hell, if I had princess-time and princess-money, I might even decorate my entire lawn with butter! Anyhow, to make up for my rhetorical missteps, I decided to prepare one of the recipes from Mrs. AS's book, Swedish Smorgasbord: 100 Recipes for the Famous Swedish Hors d'oeuvres (1937). What better way to honor the memory of a culinary princess than by keeping her sugary art alive!

I've been crazy-busy this past week with lesson planning, essay grading, etc. During weeks like this, sometimes a smile is hard to come by, especially when you find find 3,308 emails in your inbox all chanting something along the lines of, "Sorry I couldn't come to class today...Could you let me know if I missed anything?"

I needed to bake the rage, to knead out all of the accumulated stress before it exploded into something drastic & thunderous & nuclear. If I didn't bake--and soon!--eruption would be imminent. Pushed to the limits, there's no telling what I would have to do. Perhaps I'd be forced to break a piece of chalk in half. Haha, yes! That would teach 'em! (I think I need a hardcore guidebook.)

To avoid having to break a perfectly good piece of chalk, I instead turned to Mrs. Akerstrom-Soderstrom, Princess of Repressed Emotions. I didn't have the time, nor the patience, to create any of the complicated appetizers from the book; there would be no "Veal Saute with Peas" gracing my plate this week (or ever). I needed something sugary, something simple. It was then that I stumbled upon recipe #98: Desert Sand. Even though the title sounds a little less than comforting, the recipe itself was more Paula Dean than Komodo Dragon. I saw "Butter," and I saw SALVATION!

Since this recipe is old, I had to make one slight adjustment. It called for "salts of hartshorn," known scientifically as "ammonium carbonate" and colloquially as "baker's ammonia." Salts of hartshorn is an old leavening agent derived from the crushed horns of red deer (or Harts). "Harts' horns" (2 words) slowly evolved into "hartshorn" (just 1 word), most likely to signify this substance's transition from animal to household ingredient. While salts of hartshorn is difficult to find in the States, it is still used in parts of Northern Europe and Scandinavia.

I do not have access to the horns of Harts, and I therefore had to do a little research to find an adequate substitute. Ammonium carbonate was the forerunner to such contemporary leavening agents as baking soda and baking powder. While many sites said that using baking powder would not result in the same fluff or puff in my cookie, they said it was the next best thing.

Also, when I refer to this recipe in the future, I will definitely be adding an egg or two. The current recipe does not call for eggs, but that is probably because the hartshorn would have given the dough the umph it needed to rise and soften. The baking soda was not enough to make these cookies rise to their full potential. They were delicious, don't get me wrong, but they could have been softer, smoother, airier.

However, the sandy texture of my, uh, Sand Cookies could also have been the result of my overly aggressive oven. A few days ago I bought a portable oven thermometer, only to realize that my oven temperature has been off by 150 degrees! No wonder my cupcakes burned to a crisp. I should have heeded to the warnings of the Princess herself: "too hot an oven will make them hard." Oh, Princess...always making me out to be the clumsy other sister when my cookies go awry!

What follows is the original recipe for Desert Sand cookies from Swedish Smorgasbord: 100 Recipes for the Famous Swedish Hor D'oeuvres. Enjoy Mrs. AS's really specific directions in some parts of the recipe (make sure "with one finger" that your hartshorn is dissolved), followed by that good old fashioned inexactitude in other parts (bake your cookies "in a rather low oven-heat"). This recipe leaves a lot of room for improvisation, especially in terms of toppings: jam, dulce de leche, lavender cream cheese icing, etc. These are sturdy cookies, ready for you to knead and devour whenever work-rage strikes!

Desert Sand

Ingredients:

7.5 oz. butter
An even 7.5 oz. suger
1 Tbs. vanilla sugar
1 tsp. salts of hartshorn (I used 1 tsp. baking powder)
1 Tbs. tepid water
2 cups flour

Brown the butter carefully in a saucepan, stirring the while, and watching it closely so that it does not get too brown. Pour it into a bowl, and add the sugar while the butter is still hot. Place the bowl in a dish of cold water, and stir the mixture until it is light, creamy, and cold.

Dissolve the hartshorn in 1 Tbs. tepid, not too warm water, making sure, with one finger, that it is completely dissolved. It may then be poured into the dough. The vanilla sugar and flour should also be added and stirred in.

Shape the dough with 2 tsp. turned towards one another, so that the cakes take the shape of the spoons and acquire a smooth surface. They should be placed on well-buttered baking sheets.

Bake them on double sheets in a rather low oven-heat for about 45 minutes, until the surface of the cakes crack a little. It will then be necessary to lower the heat still further. The cakes when baked should not be noticeably darker than the dough, and they should be spongy and floury on the outside. Too hot an oven will make them hard.

Enough for 60-65 cakes.

Food, Sex, and Wordly Women

2008-09-09T19:38:00.010-04:00

While I'm waiting for my pictures of Mrs. Akerstrom-Sodorstrom's Desert Sand cookies to develop so that I can blog away about them, I'll leave you with this interesting post titled "Top Ten Food & Sex Scenes in the Movies" from The Houston Press Food Blog. This might be one of my favorite top ten lists of all time!

Is there a food-sex scene you feel should have been listed in the top ten? If so, let me know!

Also in the sexy food vein is Isabel Allende's 1995 memoir Aphrodite: A Memoir of the Senses. Here's an excerpt from the book where Allende comments on the sexual rhythms of a meal: "A well thought out dinner forms a crescendo beginning with the pianissimo of the soup, passing through the delicate arpeggios of the appetizer, culminating with the fanfare of the main course, which is followed, finally, by the dulcet chords of the dessert. The process is comparable to that of making love with style, beginning with insinuations, savoring erotic juices, reaching the climax with the usual crash of cymbals, and finally sinking into a pleasureful and well-deserved repose."
If you haven't read this book yet, then you must--soon! Allende's voice in this memoir is that of a wise & worldly woman who most definitely has a silk scarf to match every occasion. She's the woman nibbling on gourmet macaroons and Madagascan chocolate truffles in a Parisian cafe. She is the woman who once cried after cracking the thin surface of a creme brulee because it reminded her of her own birth. And her own death. And the fragility of all humankind. Yes, she is that woman. Yet, while I find such literary personalities to be amusing and, at times, downright corny, I just can't get enough of them!

Another reason to read the book? Allende includes a recipe for "Orgy Soup" in the chapter titled--not surprisingly--"The Orgy." This recipe, chock-full of bacon, pork ears, pig's feet, ham hocks, veal ribs, veal hock, pork sausage, and ground pork, is sure to get your heart-rate up (or forever still) at your next, uh, gathering.

Happy eating (and sexing)!

Princess of Pig Heads

2008-09-05T20:59:00.022-04:00

After burning not one, but TWO batches of strawberry-raspberry cupcakes last night, I thought my Moody Kitchen had sunk to a new level of moodiness. First a flood, and now a fire. I guess the Second Coming is much smaller and more localized than the Scriptures would like to have you believe. If you don't wish to experience a mini-apocalypse, stay away from my kitchen.

If you live in an old house, though, you've got to make peace with the fact that nothing is predictable. Sooner or later a hose will bust, or an oven's thermostat will grow slightly out of whack. My new place is old--90 years old, to be exact. And even though I love thinking of all the delicious meals that have been prepared and feasted upon in my kitchen throughout those 90 years--pork roast, peach cobblers, roasted squirrel, etc.--the wear and tear does, at times, try my patience as a fledgling cook. Be it true for people or buildings, the older things get, the crazier they become. For the Moody Kitchen, this craziness has lately come in the form of minor floods and burnt cakes. However annoying these issues might be (especially when my cupcakes are on the line!), they make me appreciate the tasty treats my kitchen DOES allow me to create from time to time.

In the meantime, not only have I been aggressively preparing for Hurricane Hanna (I bought two cans of beans and, uh, a candle), but I have also been browsing through 2 foodbooks I purchased at an antique shop last weekend. God, are these books entertaining!

Swedish Smorgasbord: 100 Recipes for the Famous Swedish Hors D'oeuvres (1937) is hilarious, which I'm sure was not the tone the author (or should I say authoress?) intended to create in this piece. Mrs. Akerstrom-Soderstrom (yes, "Mrs." even appears on the book's cover) says that the purpose of the book "is to give American house-wives a perception and knowledge of how to prepare the many delicacies listed among Swedish hors-d'oeuvres." I love imagining Mrs. AS in front of the typewriter--her recipe index cards by her side, her back as straight as a flag post, her husband lusting after her silently in the background while nibbling on a fresh shrimp cocktail--considering with much forehead-crinkling seriousness what American women needed to know regarding the preparation of Swedish appetizers. Her voice is controlled and authoritative throughout; the introduction even refers to her as the "authoress." (If I ever publish anything, I will demand that people call me "authoress.")

Here is another excerpt from the introduction: "Should American hostesses, seeking to surprise their families or friends with new proofs of their talent or interest in cookery, turn to this little book, and find the suggestions therein both helpful and enlightening, the sincerest wish of the authoress will have been fulfilled."

I love this Swedish woman! As cover letter-like as these words sound, isn't it the goal of almost every cook/baker to satisfy our friends and family with "new proofs" of our talent, even when that talent is imaginary (as is the case with me)? I am comforted by knowing that if I enjoy the recipes in this book, the author's wishes "will have been fulfilled"...unless, of course, my oven burns the "Mock Turtle" made of "leftover fragments of veal."

Mrs. AS, also the author of The Princesses' Cook Book (no, I am not making this up), includes recipes that range from the deliciously simple--bacon-wrapped olives--to the, uh, disgustingly simple. An example of the latter would be the recipe that caused me to fork over the 35-cents for the book in the first place: "Pig's Head." You want to know the ingredients? According to the authoress, all you need is 1 brine-cured smoked pig's head and water. Oh--and don't forget to decorate the boiled head with creamed butter. Yes, creamed butter. There is actually an illustration of this buttered, bristly delight following the recipe. It looks much creepier than the one I pasted below.
Just in case you ever want to decorate a pig's head with creamed butter, here are the instructions: "Put some creamed butter into a paper cone, with a tiny hole at the end, and squeeze. Garnish the head according to taste and write 'Merry Xmas' on the forehead."

For some reason, the word "forehead" doesn't mesh well with the word "food" for me. But, then again, I am neither a Mrs., nor a Princess, nor a Swede, so perhaps I will never know about the delights of pig forehead. I'd surely give it a try were I invited to a Swedish Christmas dinner.

At any rate, this book is worth the skim if only to be fascinated by the upper-crust rhetoric (in sometimes awkward translation) of the early 1900s. Just as I can simmer for hours in the tight-collared rhythm of Victorian prose, so, too, is Mrs. Akerstrom-Soderstrom's blue-blooded voice one that gives me great joy. While funny at times, this type of book allows me to visit a new reality--a reality where kitchen floors are forever clean, and "Creamed Salmon Tid-bits" fill my belly before the dinner bell chimes.

(I'm still unsure, however, as to what the authoress means when she tells the reader to "wash the butter" in almost every recipe. Must be a princess thing...)

The other book that I purchased might resonate a little more with my lifestyle: The Enriched, Fortified, Concentrated, Country-Fresh, Lip-Smacking, Finger-Licking, International, Unexpurgated Foodbook by James Trager. I can't see Mrs. AS uttering even half of the words in this title.

And, about Trager? He ain't no Mister. Nor is he a prince. He did, however, live in a hotel when the book was published in 1970. And, he includes a delicious recipe for boiled horse saddle somewhere in the New World section of the book. Nope, this guy definitely wouldn't be invited to the Princess's house for Christmas pig head.

Crusoe Went Crazy, So Why Can't I?

2008-09-02T19:05:00.008-04:00

September ain't been too kind to me yet...

I woke up this morning to a flooded kitchen. After my water heater hose busted, lukewarm water rained down on my Moody Kitchen for God knows how many hours before I woke and dumbly thought, "Wow! There must be a beautiful storm pouring down on this fair town!" The water gushing from the hose did, after all, sound like a steady coastal shower.

When I looked out my bedroom window and saw nothing but dry streets, I thought I had finally lost it.

I turned from the window and followed the sound of the waterfall. At this point, I was scared, but also exhilarated: I'm going crazy, and I know I'm going crazy! Like, I'm totally aware that I'm looking for a waterfall in my own house! I always thought that I would be one of those women who would gradually go a little crazy without knowing it, you know? Never did I think the crazies would inhabit my brain overnight, and I certainly didn't think I'd be aware of them when they did arrive!

When I finally do lose my mind, I hope it feels like this morning: an aimless stroll into my kitchen-jungle with the sound of a magical waterfall guiding my every step. I felt like Robinson Crusoe, except I'm not a shipwrecked mariner who watches all of his shipmates die--I'm a community college teacher. (And unlike Crusoe, I have yet to be theorized by a literary scholar. I'm still waiting for my very own Marxist critic to describe, in clear and mechanical prose, what I mean in this contemporary phallocentric, post-feminist, pro-global, pre-future context. Until this happens, I will remain in that state of Otherhood with other, uh, Others? Maybe I am going crazy...)

When I arrived to the scene of the watery crime, I realized I was not, in fact, going crazy. The hose thingy on the water heater thingy had ruptured. Reality is always so lame and technical and predictable. Where's the freakin' jungle?!

In sum, the Moody Kitchen is out of business for a few days until I get things cleaned up proper-like. This means that, sadly, I will be eating toast and canned soup for a couple of days. Here are my plans, though, for Thursday and/or Friday:

Raspberry-Strawberry cupcakes with mascarpone icing. Maybe I'll find a way to work my week-old red wine into the mix as well.

Since I'll be oven-less (and slightly saner than expected) until the end of the week, I'll see if I can post some food poems or short-short-short food fiction onto the blog. I will also be searching for a Marxist critic who, I'm sure, has much to say about how my water heater symbolizes the aristocracy while I, the cookie-obsessing escapist, am a symbol of the modern (and silenced) milkmaid subculture.

Stay dry and mildly sane!

Payday Sorbet*

2008-08-30T23:12:00.002-04:00

Today I received my first paycheck in what feels like eons. Can you hear my sigh of relief from where you're sitting? If not, it sounds something like this: Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

It's been 2 months since I've been paid. Or more. At this point, I've stopped counting.

Like they say in Argentina when the wallets are light, "No tengo ni un mango," or, "I don't even have a mango." (Thanks to credit cards, however, I DID have berries. Lots and lots of berries. No mangoes, though.)

So, after picking up my first check from payroll, I did what any (fiscally irresponsible) girl would have done: I shopped like an aristocrat.

Forgetting, for just an hour, about my accrued debt, I loaded my shopping basket with the following items: strawberries, Mascarpone cheese, whole milk & whipping cream & butter from Maple View Farm (an NC dairy just north of Chapel Hill), red wine, Belgian beer, dark chocolate bars, organic thyme, etc.

My excuses for such exorbitant purchases are numerous, ranging from the celebratory to the, uh, celebratory? Whatever! I don't have to explain myself! I don't regret these purchases! In fact, I already have plans for all of these items, beginning with the dessert I created tonight that rings with the bells of celebration: Thyme, Wine & Berry Sorbet.

It's been hot and muggy in Wilmington the past few days, so I knew I needed something frozen to break the tension. My mind was instantly reminded of the blueberries and blackberries I had thrown in the freezer a few weeks back. Hmmmm...what goes perfect with berries? WINE! Of course!

This sorbet was still in need of a little umph. Berry sorbet? Good, but nothing new. Berry sorbet with wine? Yeah, sounds good...but not yet fantastic. Berry sorbet with wine and...thyme?! Yes! Thyme would be the herbal thread to sew together the dryness of the wine with the sweetness of the berries.

I love finding ways to bring herbs into the dessert world. Our pallets seem ever-surprised when they encounter a hint of basil in dark chocolate, or the sharp echoes of cilantro in a lemon bar. Thyme is one of those herbs that, in my opinion, goes great in just about any fruity dessert. I've used it before in apple tarts, peach pies, and mascarpone-berry parfaits.

There are also some delicious mojito recipes out there that call for thyme. Maybe part of my next paycheck can wander down this refreshing path.

What follows is the recipe for what I call Payday Sorbet, a yummy combination of thyme, wine, blackberries, blueberries, and pomegranate molasses.

Payday Sorbet

Sorbet:

1 cup berries (I used blueberries and blackberries)
1 cup wine
2/3 cup sugar
1 cup water
5 sprigs of thyme
juice of 1 lime
2 t. pomegranate molasses (optional)

Mascarpone & Honey Whipped Topping:

1/2 cup Mascarpone Cheese
3 Tbs. honey
1 t. vanilla extract (optional)
zest of 1 orange (optional)
1. Simmer together the sugar, water and thyme in a 4-quart saucepan. Stir mixture frequently. Bring to a boil. Once mixture comes boils for 1 minute, set aside and let cool to room temperature.

2. In a food processor, puree the berries, wine, lime juice and pomegranate molasses. Blend for 1-2 minutes, or until berries are completely pureed.

3. Once sugary liquid has cooled, extract the sprigs of thyme (and maybe save for some roasted veggies!) Pour sugary liquid into the food processor that still contains the berries & wine, and blend for a few seconds. Once the thyme-infused syrup is combined with the berries, pour mixture into an 8x8 casserole dish.

4. After an hour, take the sorbet mixture out of the freezer and rapidly blend with a whisk. This will prevent your sorbet from crystalizing. Repeat this quick whisking every hour for 3-4 hours. Some recipes recommend putting mixture in a blender or food processor every hour, but I find this to be a hassle. Whisking works just as well.

5. While your sorbet miraculously transforms into frozen goodness, get out a small bowl in which you will blend your whipped topping. Whip the half-cup of Mascarpone cheese until it softens and smooths out. Add the honey, orange zest and vanilla. Whisk for 30 seconds. This delicious topping can be stored in a refrigerator for 2-3 days.

6. When your sorbet is ready to devour, scoop some into a cup or bowl, and then pile on as much creamy topping as you like. Maybe add a sprig of thyme to the dessert if you wish! This topping also works nicely in a fruit parfait.
Treat yourself to this decadent dessert on your next payday!

Beach + Fried Food = An Almost Perfect Formula

2008-08-29T13:17:00.004-04:00

Last weekend I happily munched on these greasy morsels of breaded okra at Carolina Beach, just 20-something miles SE of Wilmington. While I never really considered myself a beachgoer, I must admit that North Carolina's sandy coastline is the perfect location to indulge in a bulging shrimp burger with a side of fried okra. (If only I had a bowl of fried ice cream to go along with this oil-icious meal!)

First fried okra experience: Hmm...er...it was okay. Sort of. Well...

While I can't say that I LOVE deep-fried okra, I enjoyed it more than the raw okra I tossed into my salad earlier this month. (Surprise, surprise!) This batch of okra from A & G BBQ really stood up to the fry, and I respect that. While some veggies turn limp or grease-logged when bathed in oil, my okra stayed crisp, fresh and flavorful. However, the gumminess I complained about in "Okra Confessional" was still present in the fried version, and maybe this is something that one eventually learns to love--like onions, or our parents' dog. On the other hand, maybe I just need to come to terms with the fact that okra just ain't the pod for me. I hope this is not the case.

To set the matter straight, I'm going to give fried okra another shot. The flavor of a dish as seemingly simple as fried food depends on many factors: the cook's preferences (and mood), quality of ingredients, amount of ingredients, region, season, etc. Taking these factors into account, I don't want to dismiss okra after only two tastings. After all, it took me months to enjoy yerba mate' tea, and years to finally be able to stomach Brussel Sprouts. After all the agony I endured while growing up with these mini-cabbages, Brussel Sprouts are now among my favorite vegetables. So, who knows--maybe okra will soon have a place at the top of my culinary list!

This Southern cuisine deserves another chance in my own kitchen. Third time's a charm, right? (Or, as with my experience with Brussel Sprouts, the 87th time might be the charm.) A co-worker shared with me her recipe for fried okra, and in a week I'll be stockpiling my fridge with my not-so-favorite--yet!--green pod.

(Kind of) Pretty Trash: Round 1

2008-08-24T17:53:00.015-04:00

Here is my trash after a day of stuffing myself with South Carolina peaches, bananas, garlic mashed potatoes, coffee, coffee, avocados, roasted beets, and Lord knows what else:

Now, what does yours look like? Show me how colorful or utterly disgusting your own garbage is after a day of feasting.

Late Night Improv: Chocolate Berry Cake

2008-08-24T01:48:00.018-04:00

The creative ideas expressed by fellow food bloggers inspire my taste buds on a daily basis. However, I usually find my cupboards to be lacking some of the essential ingredients needed to spontaneously recreate these dishes. Every time the title of a post unfurls its tendrils in my direction, I will grow dangerously excited: Honey Raspberry Semifreddo?! Lemon Almond Torta?! Avocado Coconut Ice Cream?! "Oh hell no," my brain will say when it hears of desserts such as these. Quickly that disbelief evolves into hyperactive desire: "Iwantthese-Iwantthese-Iwantthese!"

Then reality sets in.

When I read the list of ingredients, I usually realize that I don't have even half the stuff the recipe calls for. Since I make multiple trips a week to the grocery store to stock up on fresh produce, it’s usually not a big deal if I encounter a recipe for which I am missing an ingredient; what I don’t have today, I can surely hunt down tomorrow.

Sometimes, however, there arrives a late night desire to throw a recipe together, and we may find ourselves unable to gather all of the ingredients needed to satisfy that instant fix.

Such was the case for me tonight when I discovered a recipe titled “Chocolate Cherry Cake” on :pastry studio’s blog. Instantly, I was seduced by the images, ingredients, and soul of this cake. When my senses become seduced, my brain has little choice but to join them in their hypnotic donkey ride into bliss. “I wantthis-Iwantthis-Iwantthis,” my brain once again chanted. What could I do but offer my body this delight?

Still lost in entrancement, my eyes skimmed down to the list of ingredients, and I soon realized that this particular cake would be out of reach—at least for this evening. I was lacking bittersweet chocolate, cherries (hmmm…this could be a problem), lots of eggs, kirsch, and butter. In other words, I was screwed. After all, what’s chocolate cherry cake without chocolate…or cherries?

My body, however, remained in a state of yearning—it yearned for the marriage of bold cherry to courageous chocolate; it yearned for that soft pillow of vanilla, butter and milk whereupon cherry and chocolate would have their first make-out session; it yearned for the subtle, the delicate, the bitter and the sweet, all merging together into one, unified cloud of orgiastic delectation.

Translation of soap opera jargon: I was hungry.

So, what could I do? Well, I did have that quart of frozen blueberries (and a few blackberries) I stored a few weeks back: And, while I didn’t have bittersweet chocolate, I DID have Dutch-processed cocoa. (I know, I know—cocoa is a poor substitute for the real slabs of chocolate the recipe calls for, but I was getting desperate.)

After taking inventory of the few edible items my kitchen had in-stock, I finagled with the original recipe just a bit—well, a lot. I’m sure it’s not as delicious as the :pastry studio version, but it definitely held me over until tomorrow when I can finally purchase the ingredients for the original cherry-filled recipe. My blueberry version of the recipe follows:

Chocolate Berry Cake
(adapted from :pastry studio's adaptation of David Lebovitz's recipe)

Candied Blueberries (with a few random blackberries):

1.5 c. blueberries
1 c. sugar
1 c. water
¼ c. red wine (any ol’ kind--I used a cheap Pinot)

Cake:

1 1/2 c. unbleached flour
1/3 c. cocoa powder (though I would probably use 1/2 c. were I to make this again)
1 t. baking soda
1/4 t. salt
1/3 c. olive oil
¼ cup rice milk
4 Tbs. sugar
2 t. vanilla
2 eggs

1. Throw the berries, sugar, water and red wine into a 4-quart saucepan. Simmer on medium high heat for 20 minutes. Once a foam (so purple!) develops on the top of the mixture, bring heat down to medium. Stir occasionally. When mixture is done, berries will appear wrinkly and sauce will be slightly thickened:

2. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, cocoa, baking soda, salt, and sugar. Set aside.

3. In a small bowl, stir together the oil, rice milk, vanilla and eggs.

4. When berries are deliciously soft & wrinkly, remove them from the saucepan with a slotted spoon. Set aside in a small bowl and allow to cool to room temperature. When berries are at room temperature, add to the oil mixture. Also add 1.5 cups of the syrup.

5. Combine wet ingredients with dry ingredients, making sure to stir quickly with a wooden spoon for 1-2 minutes. Pour into a greased 9” springform pan. Bake at 325 for 40 minutes.

6. When cake is done, allow to cool for 10 minutes. With a fork, make a few perforations on the top of the cake, and then pour 2 Tbs. of the remaining berry syrup onto the top. This will make the cake even more moist and flavorful!

Devil Tomatoes, Virgin Mary Banana Chips, and Much, Much More!

2008-08-19T19:18:00.007-04:00

Have you ever found a cross hiding inside your Russet Potato? Has the olive oil you left heating in the wok ever transformed, miraculously, into the face of Satan--or Frank Sinatra? Has your fried chicken strip ever taken on the shape of a hippo?

If you answered "yes" to any of the above questions, then you will definitely get a kick out of the website I just stumbled upon: the Museum of Food Anomalies, otherwise known to the cool & cultured kids downtown as MoFA. This site devotes itself to "the art of regular food gone horribly wrong." Yes, some of it is very, very wrong...but I can't stop looking!

The galleries are divided into categories, ranging from the ever-popular "Conjoined" and "High Art," to my personal favorite, "Religious Artifacts." As a collector of all things Virgin Mary, I was pleased to find the piece titled "Virgin Mary Banana Chip." Sticking with gallery formalities, the MoFA addresses the media of each piece. For example, "Virgin Mary Banana Chip" is composed of the following: "Banana Chip. Holiness." "Tomato Diablo," on the other hand, was constructed out of the more traditional, though difficult to work with, "Unadultered Evil."

Finally, an institution that will support me in my endeavor to build corpora in the important (though terribly underfunded) field of Interpretive Corn Flake Studies! I was beginning to run out of space in my apartment for my Tina Turner-shaped CF artifacts...

Have you ever found any strange shapes or messages in your food? If so, please share!

Berry Country, USA

2008-08-15T16:17:00.003-04:00

Muffins have long been a comfort food for me. Not only are they delicious in a grandma's-country-porch-in-the-summer sort of way, but they're easy as hell to make. When preparing muffins, it's hard to go wrong: mix the dry ingredients in one bowl, stir together the wet ingredients in another bowl, combine the wet with the dry, pour the batter into the tins, and 20-25 minutes later you have 12 moist, aromatic little pillows of deliciousness that will bow to the needs of your sweet tooth. Muffins are also extremely versatile, leaving much room for improvisation. From spices to fruits, vegetables to seeds, muffins can handle just about any ingredient you throw their way.

Yes, muffins provide me with the love and companionship I am unable to find in real people. (Wait...I should save this discussion for my future therapist.)

Nothing meshes better with the just-sweet-enough batter of muffins than the super-sweet pop of berries. Luckily, I currently live in an area where berries are not only bulbous and abundant, but they are also cheap! When living in Arizona, it was impossible to find a mere quarter-cup of raspberries, blueberries, or blackberries for less than $4! These high costs caused me many-a-berryless night. Oh, the agony! While I was sitting at home munching on grapes and old newspapers, I imagined the rich and famous over-filling their bathtubs with gooseberries, cherries, and acai. I'm not quite sure what these aristocrats would do with (or in) these berry-filled tubs, but that was not the point: the point was that many could afford such juicy luxuries, while I, poor and in desperate need of antioxidants, could not.

Until North Carolina.

Berries thrive in this coastal environment. In fact, North Carolina's agricultural revenue relies so heavily on berries that in 2001 the General Assembly named the strawberry the official "Red Berry" of the state, while blueberries were named--you guessed it!--the official "Blue Berry" of the state. In 2005, NC strawberries brought in over $19,000,000 of revenue, while blueberries shoveled in close to $37,000,000. That's a lot of money...and a lot of gratifyingly stained fingers and lips!

In a fair economic market, local agriculture translates into better prices for the local consumer. 'Tis the case with the North Carolina berry. Just yesterday I found myself wandering around Harris Teeter, a grocery store found in 5 southern states, including NC. I approached the berry display with much hesitation. "Don't do this to yourself," my brain said in its all-knowing British accent. "Don't tempt yourself with these plump and succulent jezebels that your bank account cannot handle. No. No. No! Wait...what?! 4 quarts for $6?! Hellz yeah!"

I couldn't believe my eyes. Both blueberries AND blackberries were on sale: 4/$6. Unable to trust the 2 signs before me, I nudged the produce guy and asked, "Are those prices for real?" He gave me a confused, though assuring, "Uh, yeah. I guess."

So, needless to say, I stocked up. When I say "stocked up," I don't mean to imply that I spent $6 on 4 quarts. No. Unlike my paternal grandmother who stockpiles the shelves of her basement with dusty canned goods "in case disaster strikes," I am cheap (and apparently at risk). For a gal used to buying a mere handful of berries for a million dollars (plus the souls of my unborn children...and maybe even yours), "stocked up," in berry terms, means that I bought 1 quart of blueberries for $1.50. 1 quart is more than enough for now.

Think of all the things I could do with these berries in the future! Think of the pies I could bake, the sorbets I could blend! Think of the endless muffin tins I could satisfy with such goodness! And, most importantly, think of the bathtubs I could soon fill for no purpose other than, well, it might be good...and snobbishly delicious!

***By the way...did you know that a persimmon is a berry? Vedi intedesteeng!

Recipe Time:

A few weeks back, I came into possession of an unknown quantity of blueberries & a yet-undisclosed amount of blackberries. The coordinates of this purchase will remain top secret (mostly because my memory is bad & I fail to remember where the hell I bought these tasty fruits.) Anyhow, after suffering a mad muffin craving, I decided to throw both berries into the batter. Orange juice and zest were also added. The recipe follows.

Blueberry-Blackberry-Orange-Good Muffins
(inspired by Orange Blackberry Muffins at the blog Genesis of a Cook)

2 cups all-purpose flour
2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/3 cup honey
1/8 cup of sugar
1/2 cup olive oil
Zest and juice of 1 orange
3/4 cup rice milk
2 eggs
1/2 cup blackberries
1/2 cup blueberries

1. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Grease the muffin tins with a little bit of olive oil.

2. Pour the orange juice into a large bowl, and pour in enough rice milk to yield 1 cup. Whisk in the eggs and honey. (I can see a little splash of wine working well in this concoction as well!)

3. In a large bowl, rub sugar and orange zest together with fingertips until the sugar is moistened. Whisk in the flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Pour the liquid ingredients over the dry ingredients and gently but quickly stir to blend. Stir in the berries. Divide the batter evenly among the muffin cups.

4. Bake for about 22 to 25 minutes.

Enjoy!

Charred Mutton

2008-08-14T18:47:00.001-04:00

Nathaniel Curley, a past student of mine from Dine' College (Tuba City, AZ), has volunteered to be the first guest writer for The Moody Kitchen! Nathaniel is not only a talented poet and fiction writer, but he also shares an intense respect and love for what he eats. In his short essay below, he takes time to reflect on mutton, a dish that connects him to both his family and Dine' culture.

At my grandmother’s home in Birdsprings, located 20 miles north of Winslow, Arizona, the best time for fresh mutton would be late spring, or early summer, but it’s not uncommon to get the meat at other times of the year. Most Navajos I know love to eat mutton, but mostly they just love to eat. I’m no exception. There is a sense of freshness when meat is directly processed in front of one’s own eyes. Since its inception into the Navajo culture, sheep has been greatly depended on as a natural food source.

Growing up on the Navajo Reservation, I have come to learn the value that these animals hold. They are a troublesome livestock to care for because of their constant need for more grass and water, which neither is abundant out here in the arid southwest. This habitual tending to the flock only makes the meat taste sweeter. There is an air of accomplishment when people comment on the thickness of fat on the ribs, or the tenderness of the meat melting into their willing mouths. As a kid, I didn’t give much thought as to how I contributed to the raising of the flocks, only that it was my job to know when to chase them in. In all that time of growing up, I observed that smiles were easier to make when the lips are lined with bits of mutton grease, or at any time when we ate.

My grandfather, Ashe K. Yazzie, as it is spelled on his Arizona ID, taught many of us grandchildren to butcher by letting us participate at a very young age. I have yet to master his level of slicing and dicing of the feeble sheep, but I don’t think I’d ever starve if I ever were to become stranded on deserted island where sheep flourished. Active participation in butchering carries with it a sense of pride that fills me with gratitude that I might, someday, be able to provide food for my family. Butchering has taught me that mankind has a powerful responsibility of respecting life, especially animal life, because we can easily take it. When we do make the decision to take the life of an animal, it has to be for the purpose of good like quenching hunger, and not for the mere intention of profit. I don’t mean to be preachy, but there is a difference when it comes to killing for the sake of feeding your family, and killing for a franchise chain, or for sport. There is a means of closure when a kill is done where every part of the animal is use for a different specific purpose. When my grandparents butcher, every part of the sheep is used, from the meat to the internal organs to the skin. I want to convey the purity or sacredness of killing an animal for human consumption, because not many things come close to cooking a fresh kill over an open flame.

***All photographs were taken by Nathaniel. Since I a still trying to figure out how to incorporate captions, I'll include Nathaniel's captions here:

Figure 1: Roasting mutton and Navajo tortillas
Figure 2: No caption
Figure 3: My grandmother's flock
Figure 4: My grandfather, Ashe K. Yazzie, roasting fresh butchered mutton

Thanks, Nathaniel, for contributing your writing and images to the Moody Kitchen!

Okra Confessional

2008-08-12T22:02:00.001-04:00

My knowledge of Southern food is, well, limited. Very limited. Here is my confession: My name is Jada, and even though I write a food blog about food, the pleasures of eating it, and the things I know about it, I must embarrassingly admit that, before last week, I had no idea what okra was. I (maybe) knew that okra was food, and I (probably) knew that it was green; otherwise, okra was a fuzzy mystery that my mouth had never experienced.

And maybe it should have stayed a mystery…or, at least my version of it.

Craving a fresh and meaty peach, I drove over the river to Eagle Island Fruit and Fish Market for the second time in one week. The wide variety of this market is fantastic: South Carolina peaches bursting at their fuzzy seams, quarts of freshly picked blackberries for $2.50, and all the catfish, night crawlers and moonshine-flavored pancake syrup a gal could ever want!

In addition to these beautiful, (mostly-) tasty & edible products, Eagle Island also sells okra—and lots of it. Whenever I move to a new place, I find it necessary to sample whatever I can of the local cuisine. I had never tasted okra, and there it was piled in glorious (yet intimidating) piles in front of me. Since I am not yet fluent in okra, I chose a few of each shade: light and airy green, to the confident and presumptuous pea green. Some carried the bruises of maturation, while others bore the daring gleam of teenagers.

After purchasing these furry pods of varying shade and experience, I began worrying about how to prepare them. Should they be steamed? Fried? Eaten raw? Should I bread them with cornmeal? Flour? Should I give them names and tuck them into lettuce-leaf sleeping bags before bedtime? (My neuroses has hit a new high.)

Like any other computer-dependent 20-something, I directed these questions to the most valuable, wizardly source available: the Internet. There, I found out that frying my okra was not the only option; I could also chop it up and eat it raw. This relieved me, as I usually don’t like to dunk my food into a pool of oil unless, of course, I’m making eggrolls. Or frybread. Or breaded cauliflower. Or fried cheese. Or…

OK. So I DO enjoy fried food. But, if I’m sampling a food for the first time, I’d like to taste the entire idea of the food before baptizing it in oil. The act of frying sometimes compromises the integrity of a dish. I wanted to save the delicious degradation for later.

(Note: Sometimes real live people should be consulted before the Internet. Especially when working with okra. And especially if the Internet is telling you to eat okra raw. Remember that the Internet does not have taste buds, and should, therefore, not be the ultimate authority on food preparation.)

So, since I had a lot of other delicious vegetables on-hand—turnips, broccoli, red bell peppers, snow peas, etc.—I decided to make a fresh chop salad with a balsamic & pomegranate molasses dressing. After happily chopping all of my vegetables, I unveiled my okra pods from their plastic sheath. They looked stunning: long, sleek pleats ran from stem to base; fine furs softened what, otherwise, could have been a stiff and cold demeanor.

I chopped the first pod with much enthusiasm, and just when my glee was at its peak, I tossed a piece into my mouth. It was then that I felt it: the jelly-like innards oozing to the back of my tongue and down my throat. The sensation was fun, but not appetizing. Who knew that a pretty and respectable pod could so quickly transform into disreputable slime! This same gel is actually what makes for a good gumbo. During the cooking process, okra releases this sticky substance, which, ultimately, works to thicken the gumbo.

Good for the gumbo, but bad for me.

When I told some of my co-workers about my experience, they, too, seemed disgusted that I had disgraced the okra by not frying it before consumption. Frying, a process that I had earlier assumed would compromise the okra, actually, according to okra-professionals (or at least the people who eat it, cook it, love it), might enhance its qualities after all. While in the fryer, okra’s gel infuses and strengthens the breading, making for a jelly-free meal! (According to a reputable source--human, not Internet--cornmeal makes for a better breading than flour.)

Hopefully this weekend I will get the chance to plunge my hands into the okra bin once again, and if all goes well, I will learn to love this furry, gelatinous pod. If there’s anything I’ve learned so far in Coastal Carolina, it is this: if you don’t like it, fry it!

*I apologize for the lack of photos on this blog. I will soon be purchasing a digital camera, which will make for a prettier page.

Ode to Papalote

2008-08-09T17:05:00.002-04:00

I love burritos. In fact, I sometimes consider myself to be somewhat of a burrito snob. It seems a strange thing to claim to be a know-it-all of a food that, when translated from Spanish to English, means "little donkey." Yes, while some people are connoisseurs of fine wine, moose milk cheese, and rare melons (a black melon just sold in Japan for over $6,000!), I like to think of myself as a connoisseur of the widely popular (though culinarily underestimated) "little donkey." My snobbery only costs me, on average, $2 to $5 a pop. This is a snobbery I can afford.

Burritos have long been considered a dish of the people: they're cheap, they travel well, and when stored properly, they can stay fresh and delicious for days on end. What's even better is that the options for filling are endless. While some prefer their burritos to be stuffed with eggs, burritos, and black beans, others might prefer wine-marinated shrimp, Soyrizo or tiger prawns. If it's edible, chances are it has been stuffed into a burrito.

But even if it seems impossible to ruin the delicious, populist fare that is burrito, I am sure that all of us, at one time or another, have been a little less than impressed with the results. Sometimes the cook skimps on the main ingredients (which, in most cases, would include the fillings with the most protein: beans, meat, tofu or eggs). Other times the many ingredients are not evenly allocated before the cook begins the ever-artful wrapping process; as a result, one end of your burrito might contain all the lettuce and cheese, while the other end is heavy on the beans and guacamole. In any case, a dish that seems easy enough to master can go wrong in a number of ways.

Papalote, however, was very right. When I visited my friend Jaime in San Francisco last January, she told me she had a new obsession: a local burrito joint by the name of Papalote. Jaime's obsessions, more often than not, soon become mine. Over the years we have shared a love for Virgin Mary knick-knacks, Frida Kahlo paintings, and Tarot readings. If she loves it, I know it's cool. So, I was a little more than eager to sink my teeth into a burrito from a place she was tauting as "her favorite burrito joint--ever."

Boy, was I impressed.

I ordered the wine- and butter-marinated shrimp burrito, which also came loaded with black beans, rice, avocado, tomatoes, lettuce, and cheese. Mexican street food usually comes with a number of free sides, including salted cucumber, radishes, and pickled carrots; I was pleased, therefore, to find my plate adorned with radishes, melon and mango. The contents of the burrito were evenly allocated, so that with every bite my teeth sliced gently into a succulent, deliciously seasoned shrimp. This is rare; in the past when I have ordered a shrimp burrito, the pieces of shrimp were few and far between. Not with a Papalote burrito. Each bite gave me just what I wanted: juicy shrimp, Monterrey Jack cheese, black beans and rice, all fused together in both taste and texture. The flour tortilla was lightly toasted, which made the burrito much firmer and easier to handle--not to mention, tasty!

7 months have passed since I devoured this burrito, and I am still obsessing over it. The only problem is that there are over 2,500 miles between me and Papalote. Damn the size of this country...

While researching San Francisco burritos, I found that many residents of the Bay Area have intense feelings regarding local burrito history and culture. On Wikipedia, there is even an entry for "San Francisco Burrito"! Interestingly enough, San Fran burritos are noted for being loaded with rice (unlike traditional Mexican burritos) and hefty in weight. Many Bay Area blogs devote themselves entirely to the burrito. I admire their obsession with and respect for a meal that I hold close to my heart--and mouth.