Miss Tasty's Cafe

What the World Eats

2007-06-06T08:50:00.000-07:00

Appalling. Fascinating. Humbling. Check out this photo essay from Time magazine. Each family recorded every single thing they ate or drank for one week. The families and their foodstuffs were then assembled and arranged for portraits. I am rather disappointed in the Sicilians ... and completely amazed by the Aboubakar family ... and those Cuernavacans! All that fruit looks so goooood. You can imagine what the Americans look like. Plenty of colorful wrappers, and a few stalks of broccoli. Sigh.

Gorgeous Jello ...

2007-04-17T17:09:00.000-07:00

... sounds like the name of a band. However, it's the medium for Liz Hickok's amazing artwork, crafted entirely from everyone's favorite sweet, jiggly dessert. Amazing. My grandmother's molded salads never held a candle to this.

5 Things About Me

2007-04-17T11:16:00.000-07:00

I feel strangely legitimized. I've finally been tagged. Thanks, Hungry T.

1. I was really, really, really scared to become a mom. And now, as gaggingly Hallmark as it sounds, I can't figure out why I didn't do it sooner. It's, like, the most joyful, hilarious, important thing I've ever done. And it pulls me right out of my self-centered ways, so, yeah, it makes me a better person.

2. I don't like beef. In any form. I hate the texture. I hate the flavor. The only beef I have ever enjoyed is the Neua Naam Tok flank steak salad at Whiskey Soda Lounge. It's redolent with lemongrass, shallots, lime juice, and mint - and burns the back of my tongue just so. Occasionally, I will drown a burger in condiments.

3. I'm allergic to every class of antibiotic (at least, so far). When I fill out my drug allergies, my doctors always say, "Hmmm, uhhh ... so what do they do when you need an antibiotic?" To which I say, "Aren't you the doctor?" It's either swelling up and wheezing, or vomiting.

4. I equally love a very fine, exquisitely prepared meal and dive-y Mexican food and that pototoes au gratin in a box from Trader Joe's (just add water). I've made rigatoni with fried fingerling potatoes, sausage and broccolini one night ... and eaten cottage cheese straight from the container the next.

5. I really wanted Sisely to win. Minor girl crush, there.

Bourdain Speaks: The Food Network

2007-02-19T15:14:00.000-08:00

God love him. Anthony Bourdain shows up as a guest post-er on Michael Ruhlman's blog, and gives a couple right hooks to the jaws of the Food Network chefs. I especially love his commentary on Sandra Lee, with delectable little morsels like, "I would likely be arrested if I suggested on television that any children watching should promptly go to a wooded area with a gun and harm themselves. What’s the difference between that and Sandra suggesting we fill our mouths with Ritz Crackers, jam a can of Cheez Wiz in after and press hard? None that I can see."

As an aside, did you hear? Bourdain is gonna be a daddy. And his commentary on what his kid might be like is also hi-fucking-larious.

Cheddarvision!

2007-02-07T15:01:00.000-08:00

The West Country Farmhouse Cheesemakers claim to have a live webcam aimed at an aging round of cheddar. You, too, can watch the mold grow! But is it just me - or does that cheddarlicious onscreen image look more like a still photo than a live shot? (Um, yeah, I know aging cheese doesn't move much, but the light looks wrong, and that tag looks funny ...) Nonetheless, a nice bit of pointless, er, entertainment?

Blind tasting and Wii cooking

2007-01-24T14:32:00.000-08:00

Cruising around the food blogs today, one link leads to another, and I found a couple of odd little morsels to share with you.

Like this Wii cooking game, for instance... I guess it's one way to practice your knife skills ... plus there's that promise of "hot kitchen action" which I'm sure Smooth Melon would not be opposed to, har har. (Has anyone read all the reports of Wii-related injuries? And deaths, even? Huh.)

And then there was this article, which is a year old, but I just spotted it ... gives new meaning to the phrase "blind tasting."

Lovely, lovely things

2007-01-09T16:06:00.000-08:00

Chocolate tastings and exotic salts are tres trendy these days. But I'm not one of those people to stop enjoying something I love simply because "everyone's" talking about it. Salt is so essential, and chocolate is so devine, and that's that.

This afternoon, a coworker splayed out an assortment of interesting bars that she'd picked up at Cost Plus, and one of them just blew me away. Vosges Chocolate makes the Barcelona Bar - "deep" milk chocolate (a milk chocolate-dark chocolate blend; no foodie snooty nose sniffing, milk chocolate is gooood!), delicate, hickory smoked almond bits, and grey sea salt. Ohhh la la, I fear I may become Augustus Gloop. One flavor gives way to the next ... you can practically see fireworks in my eyeballs as the various pleasure centers in my brain light up.

Yes, of course I know about all the hot little chocolate shops springing up across town. Meh. I can get chocolate and new napkin rings and Valentine tchotchkes at Cost Plus.

"Twas the Season of Eating

2007-01-03T15:09:00.000-08:00

M'kay.

So I've been so super busy (yah, I know, the excuse the of non-blogging bloggers everywhere, but sheesh. I mean, The Devouring Woman is cheating on her blog. I check every week. Such a tease.). I've been occupied with stuff like, oh, giving birth. And falling completely in love with this little morsel of sweet goodness called My Daughter.

But, that squishy-lovey subject is for my mama blog. Right here? The place for food.

And since my hands are, these days, generally either full of work or full of baby, and therefore without a lot of time to caress the keyboard, I'm gonna let the pictures do the talking. (I'm not sure anyone is still reading this anyway - but heck.)

So, the holidays brought cranberry-pomegranate cocktails (thanks, bro!) ...

Lasagna that couldn't-a been more homemade without making our own gat-dang cheese ...

And this lovely, simple Christmas brekkie of cranberry-orange scones, mini quiches, Bloody Marys (thanks, K!), and Clementines that were pretty much the only thing my darling 12-year-old cousin would eat ...

Plus, we made the family specialty - Pizzelles. I'm sorry, but these are ever so much prettier than sugar cookies. They are such a tradition in our family, they get their very own post.

New Year's Resolution #3: blog at Miss Tasty's Cafe more often!

Pizzelles

2007-01-01T15:32:00.000-08:00

I could swear I've posted about these before ... I know that I brought them to the Childhood Favorites dinner with my dinner club. But since I can't find a hint of them in my archives, away we go ...

Every Easter, every baby shower, every bridal shower, every wake, these wafer-y, golden cookies grace the table. They look like doilies. They look like snowflakes. They smell of lemon with a puff of licorice, or licorice with a twist of lemon, depending on which great-aunt you listen to in the Ongoing Battle of the Correct Pizzelle Recipe.

They don't always make an appearance during Christmas, probably because the Family Ladies are too busy hand-rolling pasta dough (which I have written about and pictured before), pulling preserves out of the root cellar, knitting scarves for all the cousins, or, these days, biting their nails as they sit in their office counting the minutes to a mad-dash lunch hour in which they can brave the mall for last minute gifities. (Oh, how times have changed.)

This year, prompted by my Fabulous Sister-in-Law K, who honored us with her desire to learn the craft and share stacks of Pizzelle goodness with her own relatives, we dusted off the irons and ... mmmm. It was so, so good to have that smell, rising in the little wisps of steam escaping the edges of the iron, drifting through my house.

The recipe is old, and not really written down (until I transcribed a phone call to my grandmother onto a recipe card). It calls for a lot of eggs, butter, sugar, and flavourings, with flour added until it "sort of slumps off the spoon."

The first few are always burnt and off center. And then, you hit the zone. Your batter is placed perfectly, your nose prickles at just the right moment, and the lid is lifted to reveal beautiful, scalloped, sunny circles of lace.

The stacks fill the table, and shrink as little fingers steal them away, nibbling.

BLT = Late Summer Heaven

2006-08-28T14:53:00.000-07:00

It's one of those tongue-out, scowling, limp-shouldered hot days. My ankles are giant and my with-child belly mounds up before me and the restless baby kicks make it impossible to rest a book there. So I stare out the window, and wonder what to eat.

Toasted artisan honey wheat bread ... slathered with mayo ... layered with thick slices of tomato (the thin skin giving way easily under the knife and bursting forth with all that summerlong sunshine juiced up to fat, scarlet goodness) ... the chilled crunch of iceberg lettuce ... and a crumbly, salty stack of that smoky porcine wondermeat - bacon.

Oh. More of that, please.

Because I want you to know I haven't died

2006-08-10T10:27:00.000-07:00

The sad, sad truth is that I haven't been to the grocery store in two weeks. I'm not quite sure how I'm healthfully sustaining a fetus, since all that's in my fridge are a pitcher of limeade, some desiccated ears of corn, and some expired yogurt. Smooth Melon has managed to keep fresh fruit in the fruit bowl, and Luna bars have decent vitamin content, and the cafeteria at work has a fine salad bar, so somehow, we're still thriving. Mostly, I can't drag my swollen ankles into the grocery store any more than I can fit sideways through a narrow row of restaurant tables, so we're living on takeout, cold cereal, prenatal vitamins, and water.

The nesting urge far overpowers the eating urge. Cooking dinner? Why, no! Let us paint the kitchen instead! Plus, I had the stomach flu (stomach flu! while pregnant! Oh, cruel universe! My abdomen was already a little busy, thanks!) for a week, which totally stole my appetite. People reassure me that the baby takes whatever she needs, and leaves me with the rest, which probably explains why I've been tired, and grumpy, and feeling like I've been leeched .

Actually, I have to credit my dear dinner club for my nutritional survival this past week. Veelicious and Slim Jim hosted last weekend, and very kindly set a theme of "Salads of Summer" to spare us all the heat of our ranges. It's been hot around here. The most gorgeous Lentil-Feta salad from the hosts, a toothsome wild rice creation from Chez Scoop & Cheesy T, my two curried offerings (chicken in one, artichokes in the other - the leftovers held us over for a couple of days), a smashing roasted beet-super fresh ricotta-fried basil delight from M, and Hungry T's juicy, mega-fresh Belgian Endive-Apple-Fennel presentation ... we were all set. And full. And the others consumed 9 bottles of wine between them. And the most fantastic summer pudding of challah and berries with fresh cream (two helpings for me,thanks). And the patio was lit with candles, and we pulled out the medical dictionary again ("queef" has no technical definition, FYI), and there were some vomit-flavored jelly beans snuck in as the hour grew late ... oh yes, it was your usual EP night. And I was hungry, and I ate, and all was right in the world.

And then, Tuesday, Cheesy T put on a hot little polka dot party dress, and had us all out for Tex-Mex and pinata smashing for her 33rd birthday. Aw yeah. I was full-up on chips and salsa for hours (and the most delicious blueberry-nectarine crisp and cinnamon ice cream, made by Scoop. Ohhhhh ...)!

Thank you, EP, for the sustenance! My body and soul and kid are ever grateful.

This is why I love living in Portland

2006-07-26T22:18:00.000-07:00

In my fair city, it is almost impossible to not eat seasonally, locally, and organically. I mean, it's practically handed to us on a silver platter (ew, bad pun) for god's sake! For instance, delivered right into my inbox is a weekly farmers market update, telling me what's new (coming up soon - pickling cukes!). And they even tell me about groovy local efforts like this.

Penne alla Vodka & my darling husband

2006-05-17T13:23:00.000-07:00

I was dragging my ass up the front steps after a horrifically long (hot) day at work, and there sat my husband. Looking sexy, I might add, in his business man attire.

"Hi! You look tired, and beautiful. [ed. note: yes, he really tells me I'm beautiful, even when I'm sweaty and grumpy.] We don't need to worry about dinner, because, gosh, we have these totally random dinner reservations - I don't even know where they came from. We can push them back if you need some time to relax ..."

"Are you kidding?" I said. "Reservations? What? What are you up to? No, let's go now! I'm starving! What is this all about?"

So we hop in the car, and he pulls a card out of the glove box.

"This was hanging around, figured it must be for you."

I open it, and it's the sweetest love note, marking our 13th anniversary - not our wedding anniversary, but the date we celebrated until we got married - the day that we met. Oh - my - goodness. What a guy!

Five minutes later we are pulling up outside of 3 Doors Down - easily one of the most consistent, delicious restaurants in Portland. Not only did he remember an anniversary I forgot, he took the time to get a table reserved at a place he knows I love, and buy a card, and write a touching, funny note in it. I am so lucky.

And I counted myself even luckier to have ordered my favorite thing, the 3 Doors Down specialty - Penne in Vodka Tomato Cream Sauce with Sweet Italian Sausage. Good god, it's amazing. This followed an appetizer of parmesan-prosciutto arancini with roasted red pepper aioli, and a butter bibb salad with bacon and creamy chive dressing, so my inner hedonist could not have been happier.

Thank you, Smooth Melon, for a fantastic evening.

Pok Pok rocks my world

2006-05-10T10:28:00.000-07:00

I am so, so lucky to live in SE PDX, a couple blocks from Division. It feels like a quiet neighborhood, yet I can walk to everything I need - grocery stores, hardware stores, libraries, banks, a dry cleaner, Stumptown coffee, taco stands, sandwich shops, hot spot restaurants, thrift stores, an extinct volcano - hell, even a cement sculpture yard, in case I need a bird bath or a Virgin Mary at a moment's notice. Last night, I took an easy evening stroll down to Pok Pok. Perfect, delightful Pok Pok.

It was my third visit, and I already have my favorite menu item - the shredded pork over sticky coconut rice with a green papaya salad. Pork edges crisped just so, the rest meltingly tender, the smoky, salty richness, a scattering of caramelized curls of shallot that add a subtle, tiny crunch to every third bite, the soft sweetness of coconut milk against the toothy rice. Oh my.

They had a ramen special - those familiar slippery noodles in a beautiful, clean, clear broth, spiked with chili oil and scallions, made substantial with perfect bits of chopped rotisserie game hen. Three dollars, people! The list goes on. Plus, the owner is cute, and his concept is brilliant - buy a house property on a bustling, renewed street, convert the garage space to a small kitchen and walk up window, then as the success rolls in, remodel the house. I think he lives there - I think he might open it as an indoor dining space eventually. Whatever - it's genius.

You'll get a perfectly sized portion, for under $7, and the chance to sit at an outdoor table watching the neighbors go by. Why aren't you over there right now? Go!

**This stuff isn't your usual Thai food, with the saucy noodles and such - it's north and northeast Thai food, seems lighter with more grilled meats - see my friend Hungry T's blog entry for more detail.

How do you feel about beans?

2006-05-08T12:03:00.000-07:00

Beans seem to live tauntingly on the edge of acceptability. Sneaky, charming little devils, like the kid in class who gets straight As without trying and spends the rest of his time cutting up - the teacher adores him and is exasperated by him but can never bring herself to punish him. People love beans - they're delicious and nutritious. People also have ... issues with beans, attributed, of course, to their sonorous end effects.

I am especially partial to chickpeas - garbanzos, cecci, call them what you will, they are the main ingredient in hummus and go with pretty much any side dish or salad. Chickpea fritters? Oh yes.

This weekend I was in a rush to throw together lunch for some guests - one of whom is allergic to dairy and wheat. (She has that stomach thing - something like "celiac" disease? - where she can't digest certain things ... it's very weird.) So pasta salad was out, anything with cheese was out, I had no meat on hand other than the cold cuts that were already being set out for sandwiches ... but I did, of course, have some cans of beans in the pantry. Everyone has cans of beans in the pantry.

Throw together one can kidney beans, one can black beans, one can chickpeas - rinse very well under cold water. Coat with a liberal amount of good olive oil, splash on some red wine vinegar, some rice vinegar (for the sweetness), generous cumin, generous oregano, chopped cilantro, diced red pepper, chopped scallions, and a few heavy pinches of fleur de sel. Refrigerate, stirring occasionally. Not too shabby! Easy picnic side dish that is devoid of mayonaisse and full of fiber and protein.

my recipe box is my pill bottle

2006-05-02T15:37:00.000-07:00

For various reasons, I've been in some emotional turmoil. No, these are not pregnancy hormones. Rather, they are the effects of having three sharply separated areas of my life: Work, which is the midline - little drama, sort of interesting, good people ... fine. Home, which is wonderful these days, what with these burbly little sensations of baby motion in my belly, a husband who seems totally in love with watching me grow rounder, sunshine pouring in the windows of my still-new, "I can't believe it's mine" house, and really, really cool friends. Then there is The Mom Reality. I never know what to expect from the woman. She's either the warmest, safest, kindest, funniest person I know, or she is TOTALLY CRAZY. We are talking Twilight Zone, people.

So lately, whether I find myself spitting mad and throwing my arms around in the air ... or, alternately, grinning and humming and padding around the house as the Queen of Domestic Bliss, I seem always to wind up thumbing through my recipe box and pulling out cards spotted with cooking oil, lovingly creased, many written in one of my grandmothers' handwriting. This is good comfort and stress release, and it's a good companion to peaceful joy, and it just so happens to feed our faces, too. It's better than valium. It's my mood stabilizer. (It's that, or TV. I love TV. I admit it.)

Spicy Mixed Bean Chili was on the menu this weekend, and it's so easy - toasted cumin seed, sauteed onion and garlic, minced chipotle in adobo, a can each of red kidney beans, pinto beans, and diced tomato (undrained), ancho chili powder, good dried oregano, simmer, serve with mom's cornbread, sour cream and cilantro, and think about the 1970s and how mom used to cook beans in a pressure cooker that shot steam three feet into the air, spitting hot water and howling its whistle ...

Or maybe it's Strawberry Buttermilk Ice Cream (yes, I know the strawberries are still from California at this time of year, but who can resist those shiny, happy red piles tumbling from those green plastic baskets?). Two cups water, two cups sugar, brought to boil and cooled completely, 4 pints pureed strawberry and two cups buttermilk - everything into the ice cream maker for 20 minutes and it's right back to 1982, sitting sticky-handed in the backyard and licking it right off the paddle ...

Or maybe it's Sweet Onion and Feta Risotto, my favorite meal in college, when all I had was one big pan and so many things to procrastinate, the stirring and stirring was just the ticket. Warm chicken stock, spoon cup by cup onto arborio rice as liquid evaporates, stir until creamy, throw in some feta, sauteed onion and chopped parsley before serving. Think about 1994, that crappy apartment, ugly birkinstocks, and eating bowl after bowl to gain the freshman 15 (and an additional sophomore 15) ...

Or maybe it's Gram's Lemon Merigue Pie, adapted with Meyer lemons. Her recipe card, in her loopy script, reminds me to take the "secret step" to make sure the filling turns out just right ... not revealing that here, no way, do you want me disowned?! Pull it from the oven just when the peaked whites turn that lovely amber shade and think about the way Gram still to this day deliciously licks her fingers after she's scraped the last filling from the bowl ...

Tonight - Toll House Chocolate Chip Cookies. Not from the recipe box, but from that same old trustworthy recipe on the chocolate chip bag. Hot cookies, cold milk, and (ahem) some TV should do the trick.

Pesticides - blech!

2006-04-28T10:11:00.000-07:00

I've always loved - and preferred - local, seasonal, organic foodstuffs. Yeah, all those buzzwords. But it's true - I was destined for that after being fed baby food that my mom made by hand in her mouli mill from stuff grown in her very own garden. Or purchased from some recluse farmer - eggs, goat cheese, and milk all arrived in our house in battered cardboard crates after long, bumpy trips down dirt roads in our VW poptop bus. She was a cook and baker at a (hushed voice) health food store when those were hidden, tiny places with names like "Mountain Mama's" and "Rainbow Crystal Market." She baked bread and made soup and said things like "co-op," and "brewer's yeast" and fed me carob stars. She might have made her pie crust from whole wheat flour (good god) and forced quinoa down my throat two decades before it was the Next Hip Thing - but she also set a standard for the taste of spring lettuces still tinged with the mineral taste of warm dirt, and the sour sunshine flavor of apricots shaken right from the old orchard trees. I love her for that.

Now that I'm looking toward my own mamahood, and thinking about the fact that a freakin' brain stem is taking shape in there, I've become even more dedicated to drinking organic milk and choosing pesticide-free fruits and veg. I mean, with it so readily available (even at Safeway!), why not? I don't even have to haul the kids to the outskirts of town and make friends with weird hermits to get the stuff. It's worth the extra buck per gallon or pound when I'm growing an entire nervous system for another human being.

That said, it isn't always possible to buy organic. What if I really, really need that guacamole for my shredded guajillo pork tacos, and organic avocados are nowhere to be seen? Thus, the handiness of a recent study that measured the amounts of pesticide in produce, and broke them down into two lists - stuff you should definitely try to buy organic, and stuff that has a consistently low pesticide load. Handy info! I first read it in Consumer Reports, but it's also posted online here. And here's a short version for Miss Tasty readers:

12 Most Contaminated with Pesticides - Buy These Organic
• Apples
• Bell Peppers
• Celery
• Cherries
• Imported Grapes
• Nectarines
• Peaches
• Pears
• Potatoes
• Red Raspberries
• Spinach
• Strawberries

12 Least Contaminated with Pesticides
• Asparagus
• Avocados
• Bananas
• Broccoli
• Cauliflower
• Corn (sweet)
• Kiwi
• Mangos
• Onions
• Papaya
• Pineapples
• Peas (sweet)

See you in the aisles. (And by the way - I still hate brown rice.)

Eggs - Essentially Bizarre, Totally Yummy

2006-04-25T11:11:00.000-07:00

I want this book.

Eggs are weird, certainly. They fall along the same line as placentas (see my previous post) if you think about it for a couple minutes. But they are so delicious! And so necessary to so many things - cookies, cakes, custards, and for god's sake, breakfast.

I love them - especially the yolks. I also love the beautiful ovoid shape, the colors they come in, and the sound of cracking the shells against the rim of my grandmother's stoneware bowl.

In fact, I really want two chickens so I can have fresh eggs with deep orange centers that actually taste rich and deep, but Smooth Melon grew up on a farm and he hates the very mention of this. I also had a friend suggest that I'd infect my neighborhood with avian flu. Oh, c'mon people. A couple little cluckers = the best omelettes ever.

sweet potato salad & pork loin (& placentas)

2006-04-24T17:00:00.000-07:00

Visited the in-laws this weekend. They made a gorgeous slow-cooked pork loin, served with a simple green salad and some delicious sweet potato salad from New Seasons. It's just like regular potato salad, with the creamy dressing and so forth, but with sweet potatoes - not only was it delightful in its surprising sweet earthiness, but the orange-ness of it made my plate a very nice study in color balance.

I think Miss Fetus liked it, as well. And speaking of that, I have realized that placentas are pretty miraculous things. I mean, when else do adult human beings ever grow a whole new, essential organ, keep it functioning for nine months, and then get rid of it? But I still can't deal with the idea that some people eat their placenta. That just freaks me out. I bet my friend Hungry T, who is all into eating exotic meats and wants to try horse someday, wouldn't even do it. (And I won't be offering. No way.) There are probably placenta recipes on the internet somewhere, but I refuse to look. What, with onions or something, like liver? Made into a pate? Ground and mashed into burgers? Puh-leese.

Girls Love Chocolate

2006-04-20T11:49:00.000-07:00

Well, okay. Most people love chocolate. But I have had this feeling from the very beginning of pregnancy that I was toting around a little girl in there. And when I felt movement (just like hunger rumbles, or popcorn popping, only not) for the first time after eating a bag of M&Ms, I thought, hmmmm. That seems like a girl thing to do.

And I was right. Found out yesterday that Baby Tasty is 90% certain to be una bambina!

And in other news, I visited one of my standbys the other day, Aqui - a (tex-ish) mexican cafe in my old neighborhood. Hungry T just posted about this place, and reported that their chips are way too salty. I agree - though I love salt lately, so I didn't do any scraping. But they could definitely stand to be unsalted. I had to order their guacamole, which is delicious. I never order the salsas, because I think it's a rip off to pay for salsa, even when they give you three kinds. I hate tomatillo salsa anyway, so it doesn't pay off for me. I scarfed down my usual, the carnitas soft corn tacos with a side of their "Potatoes Ole" which consist of mashers, tons of cheese, and sweet corn kernals all melty and yumm together. MMmm, mmm. My only complaint there is that they need a little pico or sour cream or something to dress up the tacos. My friend only finished half her plate, so I'm not sure if she just didn't like it, or got full, or what. But I do recommened Aqui, and they have a patio and serve margaritas - an ideal combo on the ever-warmer evenings.

Looking back to last weekend, Easter brought the traditional baking handed down from my great-great nonna Ricci. We bake what's called "doll." Because they are shaped like little chubby women, I guess. Though the boys often get "doll" shaped like baskets or chickens. Basically, they are just like biscotti only not baked, sliced, and baked again - they are baked once and left whole, and frosted. Anise seed, lemon, eggs, flour, sugar. Frosted with beaten eggs whites, sugar, and the tiny ball-shaped colored sprinkles, my family has been making and eating these for at least five generations. Simple and devine with coffee, they get crunchier and yummier with each passing day.

We also had the usual homemade pasta, and my sister-in-law nicely contributed the all-American honey baked ham - which (gasp!) I had never had before. Delicious.

bad, bad blogger

2006-04-13T12:36:00.000-07:00

Yes. It has been three months since I posted. And I'll tell you why.

For three of those months, I could eat nothing but peanut butter toast and citrus fruit. Because I happened to be growing an embryo in me, see, and that sort of thing can make a person very, very ill. It can make a food lover detest the mere thought of edibles that she once loved beyond words. Food aversions? Pretty much anything made me want to vomit.

And then it passed! And I could eat again! Everything except Indian curry, which I ate while just barely pregnant and had a terrible reaction to. I'm not quite sure if I'll ever be able to eat it again.

So here's an interesting thing to ponder - not only do I love food. But now, I AM food. Yes, it's a baby and will be cute and all of that wonderful stuff. But the relationship here, folks, is a parasitic one. It takes everything it needs - including leaching calcium from my very bones if I don't consume enough. It's very bizarre.

And soon enough, my body will be producing food. Milk, that is. Human milk. Like I said - it's very bizarre.

Anyway, now that I have "come out" as pregnant to friends and family, I can return to blogging life.

So - hi!

Hospital food - who knew?

2006-01-06T16:22:00.000-08:00

I just had the strangest experience.

For lunch I had the most delicious bowl of chicken gumbo. And this chicken gumbo was purchased at the "Lovejoy Cafe" at none other than Good Samaritan Hospital while waiting for my mom to get a CAT scan. The gumbo was chock full of white meat, fresh sweet corn kernals, magically firm and tasty okra, a rich tomato base, herbs, black pepper, and so on.

And the whole bowl was just $1.90. I would seriously consider stopping there for lunch on occasion if I worked in that part of town. The atmosphere wasn't bad either. Wonders never cease.

I love the word "scramble"

2006-01-04T16:56:00.000-08:00

I've been going nuts with scrambles lately. The ideal solution to a long-workday, no-time-to-plan-a-menu-dilemma. What the hell is in my fridge ... frozen spinach, basil, chunky salsa, veggie sausage, eggs, cheese ... hey wait! That could be an omelette! No, even better - scramble it.

Strips of corn tortilla, enchilada sauce, black olives, green chilis, eggs ...

Parmesan cheese, oregano, tomato, mushroom, chunks of sourdough, eggs ...

Scramble scramble scramble. Like the Dagwood sandwich, only whisked around in a skillet. Who needs Denny's?

Time to Make the Donuts

2005-12-28T13:04:00.000-08:00

A childhood icon has passed through the Great Donut Hole in the Sky. Little did he know, he is somewhere in my subconscious every morning when I struggle out of bed, stumbling through the grey morning for yet another day at the office ... he exemplified an honestly exhausted, unshakable work ethic that is an inspiration to us all. May he (finally get some) rest, in peace. I'll be raising an Old Fashioned and a cup of scorched coffee in his honor.

An EP Dinner - The Tuscan Feast

2005-12-13T14:44:00.000-08:00

Old and new recently merged in my kitchen. This is why I love my dinner club. It inspires me to take what I know, and push it one better, newer, fresher, prettier. Thus, my brother was summoned to pass down the oral history of Ravioli di Moschetti e Ricci (Papa Anotonio and Mama Clorinda, rest in peace) ... and the internet was consulted to determine a specific nod to Tuscany: Ravioli filled with Chestnuts, Apple, & Prosciutto.

Ingredients are assembled from across the metro area. And so it begins. After a small explosion, I find myself staring down at a weird, dark pod in my palm, peeling away its husk. A chestnut. I was happily incredulous to discover them, pre-roasted and bagged, in Trader Joe's frozen section. The reheating in the microwave creates an angry, white splatter when one little nut can't quite take the heat. Otherwise, it's a simple way to introduce myself to these chewy, strangely-sweet items that are native to Tuscan cuisine.

With my fingertips, I create a well in the center of a powdery mound of durham semolina flour. This cradles two beaten eggs and a pinch of salt. By hand, with careful scooping action, I begin to mix the floury edges into the eggy center, and as it forms clumps I knead it into a smooth ball. The resulting dough rests, 20 minutes, and is then rolled murmur thin in my Atlas pasta machine.

This is the family machine. Everyone has one; it's a rite of passage to get one. I twist the side knob, with muffled clattering, between each successive pass of the dough, bringing the rollers ever closer together. I slide my left wrist under the cool , floury sheets as they emerge, lifting them from the counter so they don't collapse upon themselves, turning the handle, ratchety, with the other hand, thinking about Mama Honey, who made yards of noodles from this same dough - in her small, miraculous way - with just a rolling pin and a sharp knife.

The peeled chestnuts are chopped and the soft, fluffy bits are mixed with diced apple and crispy bacon, a flutter of Italian parsley, and the requisite salt and pepper. I spoon this onto the pasta sheets, brush beaten egg around the filling and drape another sheet of dough over the top. Here's the hard part - every bubble of air must be coaxed away from the filling, slowly pressing the dough down to seal the edges. (If a bubble remains, the ravioli will burst in the boiling water.) Edges sealed, the filling pushes against upward, stretching the pasta to near translucence, and I zip the crimper around the outermost perimeter to create a scalloped edge.

In the meantime, il fratello has been crafting his luscious red sauce, and its simmering goodness has filled the house with memories.

Sixteen ravioli later - eight of them with ricotta/asiago cheese filling, eight with the chesnut mixture - I have flour in my hair, it's 7 pm and I've already learned that I was due at J and V's at 6:30. Lucky for me, Hungry T had a dessert crisis, a crust that fell apart, and he's late, too.

At J and V's casa, folks are seated around a tray of antipasti, and V kindly pours me a glass of Spumanti, which calms my nervous energy from the day in the kitchen. Other than boiling the ravioli and making a brown-butter sage sauce (which came out just right, thanks to J's perfect tutelage), I do nothing more but revel in the fantastic company, raucous humor, and delightful dishes crafted by the dinner club to rival all dinner clubs. Here's to you, fellow Edible Porn-sters!

A Tuscan Feast - The Menu

antipasti
salami toscano, artichoke hearts, roasted red peppers, & pecorino toscano

zuppa
Pappa al Pomodoro
the hearty goodness of peasant food - a bread and tomato soup

primo
due ravioli
ricotta-herb with marinara & chestnut-apple-bacon with sage-brown butter

secondo
Arista Pork & Cannelini Toscano
"from a recipe apparently created in 1430 at a meeting of the Roman and Byzantine Churches (first since the schism)... roasted pork top sirloin, rubbed and run through with garlic, salt, pepper and rosemary. Served with slow-cooked Tuscan White Beans (cannelini)."

altri
tre formaggi
with "a completely inappropriate baguette and tiny breadsticks"

Pecorino Toscano Stagionato
slightly aged (2 to 3 mo) sheeps' milk cheese
Gavianella
cows' milk cheese, fairly soft
Pantaleo
goats' milk cheese, slightly firm

Dolci
Biscotti & Coffee
In Absentia: Ricotta-Meyer Lemon-Pine Nut Tart

Vini
some remain vague - I was drinking, not taking notes!
Spumanti
Chianti
L'Ecole Syrah
1999 San Felice (Agricola) Vin Santo del Chianti Classico
1993 Felsina Vin Santo

At Long Last - EP10

2005-12-10T16:18:00.000-08:00

Tonight, at long last, an Edible Porn Dinner! V and J will host. The theme: Tuscany.

We haven't really done anything regional since tyhe Evening of Turkish Delight at Cheesy T's and Scoop's. The sauce and the filling for my ravioli are simmering at this moment.

It is sure to be yet another evening of total hedonism. Check back soon for details!

The Long Absence

2005-12-06T14:21:00.000-08:00

It's been awhile. But I've been eating plenty.

You can see my post about my cross-cultural Thanksgiving meal at my dinner club's blog.

Another meangingful meal was my 5th wedding anniversary dinner at Nuestra Cocina. We've been going there since opening day, and they continue to send out beautiful dishes from the open kitchen. That night, it was a glorious pumpkin soup and warm, soft, aromatic slow-cooked pork tacos on handmade corn tortillas, simply adorned with chopped sweet onion, cilantro and sour cream. The margaritas might as well come with their own mariachi band, they are so sublime. The perfect thing for commemorating our nuptials on that remote Mexican beach.

Of course, with a house full of boxes in various states of unpackedness, we find ourselves eating over the kitchen sink as of late. Or eating on the floor in front of the TV, which is also sitting directly on the floor, stuffing our faces with something mashed together from our as-yet bare bones fridge and watching Desperate Housewives. Classy. We need a dining room table very, very badly.

Do I tear out the kitchen and start over? That's the question of the month. Seems like if we do one thing, we should just do everything. Once you move the fridge you have to move the stove, which means you have to reroute the gas line, which means you have to move the dishwasher ... and so forth.

For now, maybe I will just paint it and call it good. So that I can get cooking, at least!

Bacon-Wear

2005-11-16T23:33:00.000-08:00

I'm proud of my relatively recent conversion to the Church of Bacon, plus I have some bacon-loving friends that are deserving of holiday gifts. What better way to spend my workday than searching for bacon-wear?

I found a surprising number of very fine t-shirt options, in styles ranging from dorky chic to simple and classic; there are even excellent options for recovering vegetarians like me.

Of course, one of the most hilarious and disturbing I already posted on my dinner club's blog.

And then I found something that was not exactly clothing, but that I must own. What fixes a boo-boo better than bacon, I ask you?

Perhaps I'll construct an entire bacon gift basket ...

Chicken a la Mortgage

2005-11-16T22:57:00.000-08:00

There is something so tasty about takeout eaten while sitting on a blanket in the dining room of a totally empty house. Especially when you just bought that house.

Curried Fried Rice, Sweet & Sour Chicken, Salad Rolls with Peanut Sauce, and a bottle of Argyle Brut, popped open to gleeful applause and poured into Reidel crystal.

It must say something about me that the very first thing I moved into the new place was my collection of stemware ... let the dinner parties begin!

All-Green Salad

2005-11-14T23:02:00.000-08:00

Avocado, Belgian endive, scallions, Italian parsley, salt, olive oil. Do it.

This from The Food Lover's Companion: "The fruit's name comes from ahuacatl, the Nahuatl word for "testicle," which is assumed to be a reference to the avocado's shape."

Apparently, half an avocado has only 138 calories and tons of unsaturated fat. Sometimes, I love life.

My First Roux, My First Roast Chicken

2005-11-13T23:10:00.000-08:00

I'd never roasted a chicken.

I was raised vegetarian, and although I ate my first hamburger at age 17, and started exploring chicken and fish in college, I consider September 29, 2002, the first day of my carniverous life.

That was the day I ate bacon. Willfully. There's no turning back after bacon. If skinless boneless chicken breasts are the gateway drug, bacon is the meth of meats.

But I digress. I'd never roasted a chicken, and on Sunday I decided, "It's fall! It's chilly! I should roast a chicken." I cheerfully scribbled down my shopping list.

And as I hummed along down the aisles of New Seasons, Mr B called. It appeared that I'd forgotten one teensy little detail. A dinner party was planned that night. A dinner party that we were hosting. They'd be there at 7:30, and were bringing a cake.

By the time I got home, I had a dozen leeks, a pint of cream, two heads of cauliflower, smoked paprika, a four pound fryer cut into eight fleshy, bloody pieces, and a wild look in my eyes. In three hours, there would be five people dining in my living room, and I was about to prepare two recipes never before seen in my kitchen. Lock me into the bungee harness and shove me off the cliff, my friends ...
~~~~
Breathe, focus. Do the prep work. The best time for a mise en place is when you have no time for error, so take the time up front. Chop onion, measure flour, wash and cut the cauliflower, trim away the tough green ends of the leeks, unwrap the butter, grate the cheese, unwrap and rinse the fryer.

There will be a lot of melted butter tonight. Let's start now. Saute the onions and blanch the cauliflower. Put the cauliflower in the onion mixture and stir it lightly until the everything starts to get golden brown edges. Set aside in a baking dish. This is for the gratin, which you'll come back to later.

Heat a pan and slit the leeks down the middle. Let them cook a few minutes on each side in hot butter, until they start to fan out and caramelize. Layer them in a giant, round ceramic baking dish (a gift from your manic depressive friend in New York who's now studying art education and living above a rare books store). More butter to the pan, turn to gaze upon the fryer.

Look at the cute little rib cage, marvel at the spine (and wonder how the hell you deal with a spine in presentation), poke at the leg bone. Think about the fact that you have a bird skeleton on your kitchen counter. With tongs, nestle the pieces together in the hot pan, searing each side. While you wait, start some more butter melting in a saucepan.

When the chicken is seared, layer it atop the leeks, toss some fresh rosemary, thyme and sage on top, cover the dish and put in the oven at 450. Twenty minutes on the timer, counting down ...

The saucepan butter is melted. Add the flour. Whisk. Make a cartoon "O" shape with your mouth when you suddenly realize you're making a roux. Huh. How easy was that? Just because it's French doesn't mean it's complicated. Julia was right.

Watch it turn a pale gold, then a richer brown. Add cream and milk, whisk until very thick. Stir in the grated manchego, a pinch of nutmeg. Spoon it over the waiting cauliflower, top with more cheese, and slide it into the oven under the roasting chicken.

Yell at Mr B when he informs you he forgot to call guest #1 to ask him to bring a salad. We have no salad greens. We have no time to go to the store! Are you insane?! He goes anyway. You're convinced he will be hypnotized by the BOGO bargains in the cereal aisle and you will be left alone, saladless, smiling at people in your living room with a smear of roux down your shirtfront and a raw chicken in the oven.

Friend #1 arrives early - smile and hand him the matches to light the candles. Close self in the bathroom, smooth your hair down and remember these are great friends who will be totally cool with takeout.
~~~~

A totally successful evening. Perfectly tender chicken, delicious cauliflower gratin, and I even remembered an extra side dish (wild mushroom cous cous) for the, ahem, vegetarian friend. Amazing how a few pomegranate seeds tossed into the pre-meal prosecco made everything feel seamlessly planned and fancy. After three bottles of wine and thick slabs of Marsee Baking Guinness-Stout Double-Chocolate Cake, I'd say my roast chicken/roux maiden journey scored a 10.

Oh s**t, I forgot I was having a dinner party tonight!

2005-11-12T14:15:00.000-08:00

Effing A.

I emailed Mr B at work, let him know I was planning dinner and to "think 'roast chicken'" and come home hungry. He just called and said, "Um, remember H is coming. Should I ask him to bring his own vegetarian dish?" Huh? Wha'? Oh crap, that dinner party is tonight?!

So now I am tripling the recipes. And adding a non-meat option. It's okay ... I'm just really glad Mr B has my back on days like these.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Quesadilla Redux & Six Feet Under

2005-11-11T23:37:00.000-08:00

After that gluttonous lunch at Nostrana, dinner had to be simple. Last night's quesadillas were revisited, this time with goat cheese, black beans, and whole wheat tortillas. On the side, I tossed another chopped avocado with sea salt and black pepper.

Food is always better shared - Mr B and my mom dug into their plates while we started the second season of Six Feet Under. Mom is an artist, and she always holds her food like it's a musical instrument or a paintbrush. It was raining.

Impromptu Nostrana

2005-11-11T14:27:00.000-08:00

Mr. B e-mailed for a lunchtime rendezvous, and I got giddy like a schoolgirl. Twelve years and a ringed finger haven't gotten in the way; we giggled (yes, Mr. B, you giggle) in the parking lot about how illicit it felt to meet midday! Destination: Nostrana.

It was all over the grapevine for months - Cathy Whims was opening a new place, she was gonna do pizza, it was gonna finally fill one of those oddly empty spots in the renovated building at SE 15th and Morrison. So she did, and she does, and it's amazing how the space has utterly left behind its past as a Su-Bee grocery. Ultra-high ceilings, dark cork floors, massive sliding windows - nothing pretentious whatsoever (plastic chairs), but an easygoing classiness and that inevitably cozy feeling that comes from a woodburning oven.

So we ordered hot drinks and food to share, and have this to report:

The antipasti misti were weird - greens marmalade that would have been better warm and needed salt; roasted peppers with marjoram that just weren't special in any way; fried pumpkin that was delicious, but again, would have been much better served hot. The "irresistable crostini" were just that - irresistable - but for the price of the plate, those three little crostini didn't quite cut it. Next time, I'll try the white bean and olive oil-poached tuna salad over greens.

There'd been talk that the pizzas might rival Apizza Scholls, but I can firmly report that they do not. It's not really a fair comparison, because they aren't really the same sort of pies. They reminded me a whole lot of the pizzas I ate while studying art history in Italy. Super thin, lovingly made, so thin and stretchy it's better to tear off chunks than attack it with a knife for slices. There will be Nostrana pizza moods, and Apizza pizza moods, and never the twain shall meet. For the record, Apizza pizza makes my eyes roll back in my head and sends endorphins shooting through my brain. It's that kind of good. Nostrana pizza: yummy lunch. That's just fine. Sometimes you want a martini, sometimes you want a microbrew.

Now, for the kicker: Nancy's Yogurt Panna Cotta with Blackberry Syrup. Ohmigod. Ohmigod. I must puzzle out how to make this. Now that my tastebuds have undergone this epiphany, I suspect American panna cotta is often made solely with cream. Some quick research tells me that panna cotta is a Piedmontese speciality, where the local cream has a faint sourness, like creme fraiche. Yogurt, then, makes perfect sense. This dessert had a brilliant whisper of tartness, the most pristine white color, and the light, smooth texture ... Praise jesus.*

Our server was a little spaced out, the cappucino took forever, and it was really irritating to watch three employees gabbing casually with friends - who seemed to have stopped by to say hi, not to eat - at various spots around the bar. C'mon people, give me a little mystique. This isn't your living room. But otherwise, a great neighborhood spot with a menu that will pull me right back in the door.

What an excellent way to spend a workday lunch hour. Mr. B is so easy on the eyes ... sigh.

*I've long considered getting a yogurt maker, the kind that actually heats the milk ... this would be a perfect reason.

Dinner at Home - Manchego-Sweet Corn Quesadilla & Aguacate Salad

2005-11-10T20:47:00.000-08:00

Grated four-year manchego, sliced scallions, sweet corn kernels, ribbons of roasted red pepper, between two tortillas and grilled. Accompanied by chopped avocado simply dressed with coarse sea salt and a spoonful of red salsa. A quick weeknight meal - I'm keeping my vow of cooking at home.

A bit of hazelnut-currant dark chocolate for dessert.

Dinner at Home - Puttanesca of Sorts

2005-11-09T23:23:00.000-08:00

It begins with garlic, waiting smugly in its papery skin. Smash, peel, mince. Slide the sticky, tiny pieces off the flat side of the knife, into olive oil waiting shiny and level in the bottom of the saucepan. Turn on the flame, let it heat slow, slow. Now, the cheat (silent penance paid to Mama, hail mary or some such thing): add jar of good pre-made sauce as a base. Splash of red wine, splash of "balsamic" vinegar, red chili flakes, kalamata olives, some whole basil leaves for slow extraction, simmer on low while Smooth Melon makes pesto for freezing so the rest of the basil finds a purpose and pleases later, mid-winter.

Stir the simmering sauce. Taste ...more red chili flakes, a little salt. Let it do its thing. Wash the salad greens, dance a little bit around the kitchen.

Stir the sugo with a wooden spoon, lift it up from the saucepan, cup my hand under it carefully, in a wide c-shape, like I'm cradling a baby bird, lift it to my mouth and softly blow ... touch it to my lips. Taste. I watched my mother do this a million times. Even the way my tongue touches my upper lip, the way I blink, pause and nod. It's just like her.

Whisk the vinaigrette and toss the greens till they shimmer.

Big pot of water on to boil, let the salt slide from between pinched and rubbing fingers, making a circle above the water and watching it vanish into the bubbles.

Scoop up handfuls of rattling, dry pasta, floury in my palm, cast it quickly into the pot, arching backward to avoid the small, burning splash.

Stir pasta, listen to it clack against the spoon, still hard.

Lift the pasta bowls down from the shelf. Grate the parmeggiano-reggiano. Nibble a chunk. Peer at its perfectly rough, broken edges, run a forefinger along the rind.

Stir the pasta. Lift it up from the water, squint at the telltale yellow opacity, working toward translucent at the corners. Not quite done.

Wrap and heat the bread.

Stir the pasta, watch it swirl like a school of fish, somersaulting up and down, rolling in the churning water. Chase a single piece to the side, jiggle in the spoon to cool, slip it into a waiting palm, then mouth, then bite. Al dente.

Two-handed, dump the pot's contents into colander. A whoosh of steam, splatter of noodles, lift the colander and shake, toss, shake, quick rinse under hot water, shake again, slide pasta into the waiting bowls, quick quick sauce spooned on and tossed gently so the noodles don't stick. Top with more sauce, divvying out olives between portions.

Hurry. Bread out of the oven, slice it with grandma's mean, graceful bread knife, watch the crusty shrapnel fly and the yeasty steam rise. Toss into a basket, cover with towel.

Parmeggiano on the pasta, a little more parmeggiano, a giddy fling of chopped fresh basil, smile at the colors, wipe the rims, to the table.

Wine poured. Glasses clinked. Fork to bowl to mouth to mmmmmmm ...

Cure Your Own

2005-11-08T22:27:00.000-08:00

Book I want: Charcuterie: The Craft of Salting, Smoking, and Curing, by Michael Ruhlman. I'm putting it on my Christmas wish list. I reviewed his Soul of a Chef back when I had a book column - his writing is so easy and lovely. While I'm waiting to see if someone gift wraps Charcuterie and puts my name on it, Ruhlman's article in the NY Times made me wiggle with curiosity -- he gives instructions for curing your own bacon.

I might as well buy a whole pig at this point. Back fat, belly ... and to think that at one time in my life I refused to eat pork.

Praise the Lard

2005-11-08T14:08:00.000-08:00

The foodie pipeline started whispering. Whispers grew to a murmur. Soon, we'll hear the roar from the stands. Our grandmothers will nod knowingly, and be proud: lard is back.

For an excellent overview of this subject, and a nice tale of a maiden voyage into cooking with (and rendering) lard, see Peter Wells piece on page 102 of December's Food & Wine. From his article (which cites a recent New York Times report by Corby Kummer), I gleaned the following:

- Lard contains just 40% saturated fat (butter has 60%).
- Lard contains 45% good, mono-unsaturated fat (twice butter's 23%).
- Lard tastes effing good.

Thing is, Wells tells us, the bricks o' lard in the supermarket are hydrogenated, which adds icky trans fat. The best lard is the pure stuff. Hungry Thom tells me he has a source for hog's back fat. We're making plans for a lard rendering party, followed by a lard dinner, which I will title Praise the Lard! and invite all my deep-fry-loving friends. Maybe Hungry T will make his famous biscuits.

And of course, golden, lard-laden pie crust cradling apples and cinnamon. I can smell it now.

An Irie Good Time & Elusive Joe

2005-11-07T23:16:00.000-08:00

Happy birthday, Scoops. Tonight I joined Cheesy T and her man for his birthday dinner at Montego Bay. We ordered a round of the happy hour libation that had "Ecstasy" in the name, and I managed to suck down its pineapple-y banana-y coconut-y goodness before the waiter took our order. Liquid vacation. (The waiter, by the way, was roundly agreed to be mmm mmm good on the eyes.)

I'd taken wagers that Hungry Thom would order the goat. He has a thing for exotic meat. It was that, or the oxtails. I hooted and gave double rocker fingers of victory when he did, in fact, select the curried goat. Scoops ordered the oxtails, and there was fascinating discussion about whether this was, in fact, the actual tail, or if it was just a hind part of the ox. Regardless, there was, indisputably, a whole vertebra on his plate. Wow.

I had the Gunga Peas and a side of fried plaintains. After careful application of Scotch Bonnet sauce, it was just right. A good foil to the copy of Dirty Found 2 circulating around the table. This birthday present made its way toward me just in time for the seemingly 10-year-old busboy to catch a glance of gaping crotch polaroids. Jerk chicken and sexual awakening. Forever more, the rotisserie to that poor child will be like heavy ankles to R Crumb.

Coffee, like the weather, always comes up. I mentioned the new Stumptown Annex (can I call it a cupping room?) and both Hungry T and Scoops were eager to check it out. We three dashed across town in hopes that it might have late hours. Alas, closed and dark. Worse, upside-down stools in the Belmont Stumptown. And to round out the misery, after flying back across the bridge, an all-too-cheery "Closed early November 7th!" sign at the downtown Stumptown. We could see them having a staff meeting inside. I wanted to press my palms and nose against the glass and wail. Curses!

Where to get coffee without driving again? Hell, we'd even do Spanish coffees. Gilt Club: closed. Mother's bar: closed. Saucebox: closed. Brief talk of Shanghai Tunnel. Passed by Backspace, measured the too-hip factor, shrugged, and entered. Passable cafe au lait for me, "eh" coffee for Hungry T, fine macchiato for Scoops. Swept the chess pieces into the drawer and talked about whether rerouting gas pipe was an appropriate DIY project (verdict: no). Brief polling on the merits of Office Space (two yes votes) and Napolean Dynamite (posited opinion: funnier to talk about than to watch).

A really nice evening. And a Monday, no less.

The Planning Begins - Thanksgiving Looms ...

2005-11-07T10:13:00.000-08:00

We're going to host a casual-format Thanksgiving dinner at the new house. Everyone has been forewarned that they'll be surrounded by boxes, the plates will be paper, and they have to bring a dish.

Brine: I am a huge fan of brining the bird. So we'll do that. I may follow a Chow magazine recipe for cooking it two ways - brined breast, confit legs. Seems easy enough and very likely to have tender results.

We'll do the potatoes. (Mashed, for god's sake. Please don't whip the potatoes. Save it for the bedroom.) Of course, we'll provide the beverages. I need to consult with Hungry Thom on a nice sparkling option.

If anyone out there has other good tips for cooking a turkey, fill me in.

So far, the guests have offered green beans, scalloped corn, yeast rolls, various pies. I'm hoping my brother will do a big batch of his famous sugo. Man, it's so good. He's even done it with fresh tomatoes from the garden. Incredible talent on that kid. We'll roll gnocchi by hand and it will be like the old days - big Italian family, wherein the lasagna sat right next to the spiral cut ham.

The Superfecta***

2005-11-06T23:28:00.000-08:00

Three meals, three well-established (historic, even) neighborhood joints. I really need to cook at home more often. In my new house (with my new mortgage) I have a feeling this will happen more often. My poor mixing bowls have missed me lately.

Breakfast at Junior's. Such a good spot. Service is always unobtrusive, cheery, a little bit punk rock, hot coffee in the mug before you have to ask. The decor reminds me of sitting in a happy, nutty little granny's parlor. The tunes are sublime. And the scrambles don't miss. Today - the Texas scramble for me, Spicy Spudz for Mr B. Mine was better (for once). Sweet corn kernels, red onion, spinach, cheddar, salsa and three eggs. The toast is soaked in sweet, warm butter. The homefries always have crispy, oily exteriors giving way to steamy, mealy middles. Mmm, mmm. We scrawled ideas for a dream kitchen remodel on a napkin, and fought only mildly about whether an entire staircase could be rerouted.

Lunch at Grand Central. Consistent, walking distance, the ponderous happiness of eating near giant ovens and fresh breads. Big bowls of White Bean & Bacon soup with thick slabs of a crusty wheat loaf. It was raining hard. A little kid came skip-running in, waving his hands around,dodging through the line of people, dressed in a head-to-toe ladybug outfit. Wings, tight-fitting hood with little red pom pom antennas. And black cowboy boots. Fabulous.

Dinner at Rose & Raindrop, where I helped Miss J and Chef B work on their CVs for jobs in New Zealand. They leave in March for a whole year of interning at wineries, ski lodges, etc. I am so jealous. I missed the window of opportunity and am about to enter an inescapable love affair with four walls and a roof. Won't be leaving the country any time soon. I'll sit in the backyard and drink Sauvignon Blanc and think of Miss J shearing sheep and traipsing off to Indonesia. Oh - I had the Mediterranean Sampler - hummus, tsatziki, cukes, olives, pickled red onion, warm pita bread. Good solid pub food at the R&R and they always have a booth. They were out of the steamers (poor Miss J), the Hale's cask conditioned (poor Mr. B), and the bread pudding (poor me). Vaguely annoying, but we recovered.

Sans bread pudding, we had dessert and tea at Rimsky Korsakoffee. That place is so fantastically creepy. Big, old Victorian with tiny framed photographs hanging from the ceiling, flowery cloth napkins, poetry vending machine. The lifesized stuffed doll in the kayak in the bathroom ... well. The lady at the piano played loudly and we tried to read our tea leaves. I had the very unseasonal-unregional Lemon Panna Cotta with Lavender Infused White Nectarines. Delicious, but too summery. Chef B's triple chocolate espresso thing was much better for a windy, wet night in Portland.

This week, I am vowing to make at least 4 dinners at home.

***Thanks to Hungry Thom, who pointed out that my original title on this post was "The Trifecta" when, actually, I list four dining spots. Thus, it's been changed to superfecta (definition: a racing wager that chooses the top four finishers in the order of their finish).

The Pumpkin Pie-Chocolate Ice Cream Discovery

2005-11-06T00:03:00.000-08:00

Birthday parties often lead to interesting discoveries.

I was out late last night for Miss K's 30th bday bash. Salvador Molly's ("pirate cookin'") for dinner and foo foo drinks. I had the Amazombie, which had lots of everything in it, and was bright blue. It hit the spot. Then to East, a new hot spot in Old Town. I managed to spend way too much money buying drinks for other people. The four shots of Don Julio for me and the ladies was a climactic moment for my debit card.

Anyway - today was the continuation of said birthday party, only the family-friendly version. Miss K & the lil bro hosted at their place. Little cutie kids running around, lots of good polite conversation. Miss K's favorite dessert is pumpkin pie with chocolate ice cream. I had never had the pleasure of this flavor meld. Chocolate is so complex, and pairs well in surprising ways. Even in Dreyer's ice cream, you can detect that hint of natural cacao bitterness, and it played so nicely with the cinnamon nutmeg goodness of pureed gourd.

I think I'll make a pumpkin cheesecake one day, and add a layer of dark chocolate ganache.

A new fan of CHOW?

2005-11-03T23:26:00.000-08:00

As I posted on my dinner club's blog, the food mag CHOW has come a long way in its first year on the stands. I wanted to write for them as soon as I saw the debut issue last year, but of course I am terrible at actually composing all the query letters in my head. It's very DIY, which is good for inspiration. Edgy, visceral, and yet has a certain direct elegance. Like Maggie Gyllenhaal. Or like ReadyMade for foodies. (FYI, the current issue of ReadyMade is the food issue!) I am even pondering a subscription. So, these are some highlights from the issue now on newsstands:

p 9 - A really good article on Gabrielle Hamilton, chef at New York's Prune, wild child, compared in the article to Anthony Bourdain, but I think she is possibly far more interesting (well, at least not so overexposed).

p 12 - An easy-to-miss clip about Matthew Herbert, the convention-mangling electronic musician, who "spent two and half years studying agribusiness and the world's food supply" and then made an album called Plat du Jour. One track is the sound of 3,000+ people eating apples.

p 67 - An excellent bit of journalism on country ham - the American Prosciutto.

In other news, I had yet another terribly scorched cafe au lait from the coffee shop at work. I've got to be better about setting my machine before I go to bed. Unlike my friend Hungry Thom, I am never, ever awake early enough to mess around with French press. My Capresso CoffeeTec was touted by all sorts of reliable sources as a fabulous machine. I'm a little disappointed with the milk frother, though. And I need to get the coffee:water ratio really, really perfect. I'm sticking to Stumptown House Roast for now (1/2 lb at a time, ground for drip, cone-filter, please), so I can be somewhat scientific about it.

How Dare You Mash My Baked Potato

2005-11-02T21:54:00.000-08:00

Decided a rainy, cold, Portland night was right for baked potatoes. Got some really massive russets at New Seasons, brought 'em home, and while they baked I browned a finely sliced leek in olive oil. I love the rich, pungent flavor of caramelized onion-type things. It's like savory candy. Steamed some broccoli as a nod toward vitamin content, got out some good, sweet butter. Shaved some manchego (4-year ... the 14 year is just too spendy to melt on anything).

So when the honey got home from work, and proceeded to peel, cube, add warm milk to and mash his baked potato, I was miffed. We had a ... conversation, shall we say ... about whether or not mashed and baked were the same dish, or if he had just redefined my dinner menu. I went to all that effort, see? I wouldn't take a rolling pin to has Sunday morning pancakes just because I like crepes ...

Horrible Staff Luncheons

2005-11-02T15:05:00.000-08:00

A conference room that smells like a Safeway deli is a terrible place. Sliced meat, mushy tomato slices and florescent lighting. Ehhhhhh ....

Lunches and staff meetings. I don't care how you try to dress it up, the scalloped edges on the black plastic veggie trays don't fool me. Why is it that staff luncheon pasta salad is always underseasoned? What is the fascination with large bowls of white rolls? The way the mayo bowl gets that hard yellow film over it is so ... oogy.

The chili wasn't half bad, though.

The Culinary Cross-Culturalism of Trader Joe's

2005-11-02T09:58:00.000-08:00

Last night. Post-work, post-yoga (wherein I pulled a hamstring). Needed something fast. Gotta have the flavor. Of course, my kitchen is stocked with various and sundry Trader Joe's items. I don't have a problem with out-of-the-box eating, since it's better than out-of-the-drive-through-window eating—sometimes life is just too frantic to make osso bucco. (The sodium content and non-local sources of these packaged items is another issue. Hey, I'm no saint.)

Thus, my dinner was pistachio-currant studded Cous Cous (pre-mixed, in a box, just add water) and a vegetable egg roll (pull from the freezer and reheat). A random collision of Middle-Eastern mini pasta and bastardized-for-American-palates Chinese.

This got me to thinking about how weird this dinner would have been to my grandmother. Cooking for two boys and her lieutenant colonel husband in the 1950s, these items would have seemed exotic to an extreme. Especially the Cous Cous.

For me, they're just quick eatin'.

The evolution of a foodie, part I

2005-11-01T13:58:00.000-08:00

I have a thing for food. I have a thing for reading about, growing, gazing upon, and otherwise exploring all things food. I chop, I dice, I mix until moistened, I whip to soft peaks, I boil, broil, bake and braise, simmer over medium heat, chill over night ... And of course, there's eating. Tasting, nibbling, chomping, savouring ... I'm a licking-the-bowl-clean, sopping-up-the-sauce, juice-running-down-my-fingers food enthusiast ...

Yep. I love food.