Food porn: Molly Wizenberg

Every blog needs to sprinkle in a few posts titled this, correct? But, I really do have a good example; I'm not just trying to be hip (although, that's a part of it, too--I must admit)! Reading bon appetit this weekend I 'discovered' (like Columbus 'discovered' a land completely populated by people already) Molly Wizenberg, who seems to be quite famous, actually (there is a pretty full set of images of her on Google images!). She is a food writer for bon appetit, a blogger--see the new addition, Orangette, to my favs list--and a chef/restaurateur, owner of Delancey in Seattle. She is also the author of a food and life memoir A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table.

So, my saying I 'discovered' her is just ridiculous, but her article in the February 2010 issue of bon appetit, a love letter to celery root, is food porn at its best. Read and dream of this ugly duckling at your table.

Gum Crackers!

Seriously. Shut your mouth! No one wants to hear what's going on inside of it. Believe me.

We were walking along Commercial Street today on this crisp, sunny winter day, absolutely delightful when Deb wants to go in a store. I have the dog, so I just decide to wait across the street, standing in a beam of sunlight, breathing in the fresh salt air and loving Provincetown when so few people are in town when CRACK! POP@! CRACK! A woman is getting out of her car--which, by the way, she is parking illegally, cracking her gum loud enough to be heard at the end of the pier. And she never stopped. How many pieces of gum does one need to have filling up the space between their teeth and gums in order to make that damn much noise? But the bigger question is why, tell me why, do people--99% of the time, women and girls--do it? What is the appeal? It's like a fricking addiction. Enough! GO GET HELP! No one wants to hear that nastiness.  I'm calling for a universal ban on gum cracking! Who's with me?

I do not chew gum. I was not allowed to do it as a child because my mother said it made a person look like a cow and she 1) was right, and 2) thank you mom! It is one of her life's lessons for which I am most thankful. I am especially against gum chewing because I think that for some reason, females tend to be particularly drawn to it and it makes females appear unable to control themselves in some primal way. It's ridiculously unprofessional behavior, ungracious, unattractive, a sign of bad manners, and it makes people who engage in it--women and girls mostly--easily dismissed and not taken seriously.  And the cracking--enough said. Shut your mouth! Take yourself seriously and others will, too. Enough!

Restoration

I took my unhappy tummy to Chach and am now restored. A basic and delicious breakfast burrito--a flour tortilla stuffed with perfectly cooked eggs, black beans, and cheddar cheese topped with salsa and sour cream. Roasted red bliss pototoes with herbs on the side and fresh brewed iced tea with lemon quarters thick and juicy enough that when you squeeze them, a good dose of lemon juice drops into the tea. Delight.

Chach has become one of our favorite places in Ptown. (There really is a Chach--someone called out her name today!) What a pleasant place to be. Bright yellow walls and red vinyl booths, Patsy Cline singing away, locals sitting together or alone at the bar and talking to the super friendly staff, and just really good home cooked food. Deb had a reuben and tasty fries. I wish we were locals (for oh so many reasons) and were here during the week so we could go to Mexican night on Tuesday nights--an event so popular that this little homey place recommends making a reservation. All the online restaurant reviews give it almost all of their allocation of stars. They are all deserved.

Thank you Chach for restoring my sensitive tummy and giving our spirits a quiet little place to be for a while.

Bye bye bi-valves

It's official: no bi-valves ever again. After a lovely dinner with friends at one of our favorite places in Provincetown, the Mews, I spent a night akin to that of a college freshman hugging the porcelain goddess, as we used to say.

I experienced a similar fate about three years ago after a delicious cioppino and a couple glasses of red wine at the Alchemist in Jamaica Plain. What?! About a couple months before that, I was doing the same thing after a dinner of mussels. Last night, I had a delicious dish of grilled scallops with handmade papparadelle in a lemony wine sauce. But, boy oh boy, not so fun later. And now I know: I can never eat shell fish again. Not ever.

Turns out, according to the Cleveland Clinic website pages on food allergies, shellfish allergies are more common in adults. And, being a medical writer, I know that allergies can come on during adulthood. But I have always believed myself, I don't know, above such things. But alas...I am not. I am a foodie who now cannot eat a whole range of foods that I really enjoy.

My biggest fear now? Oysters. I LOVE oysters. If those, too, need to be off my list, it will be a very sad day for me! I ate oysters last summer at the new oyster bar at the Pig here in Ptown, and that was all fine. Sitting at the bar in the middle of the day enjoying a plate of 6 oysters with a spicy cocktail sauce and a squeeze of fresh lemon, washing it all down with a bloody Mary was a joyous hour or two spent indeed. While it will not be a crime for my waistline if I can never have a fried oyster po'boy again, my soul will be devastated. Let's hope that oysters do not enter the realm of the forbidden....we'll have to wait for summer to see. Until then, stick with meat!

Best Deal in Town

Hands down is L'Espalier on Cheese Night. For $75 per person, you are served four courses, each with an accompanying wine, including the cheese course. Each course features a cheese that is the focus of the evening. Outstanding.

We have gone to Cheese Night a few times, and each one has been a delight. Our trip last week, however, included a special treat. The evening featured selections from the Vermont Butter and Cheese Creamery. The special treat was that the founder and head cheese maker, Allison Hooper, and a 10-top table of her friends were with us for the evening.

The VBCC is best known, I think, for two products: the bright pink containers of creme fraiche (and the only brand of this that you can find most places) and their butter, which is creamy and fresh and tastes how butter is really supposed to taste.  This night was an opportunity to try her cheeses, which I have to admit, I had never tried. I am always eager to reach for cheeses from further away--like Europe; to choose those from just a few miles north didn't seem adventurous or indulgent enough. I even resisted the "buy local" trend by arguing that we needed to all buy local from small artisan fromagers in Europe if we want them to survive. And I do, so I buy. I've also not been as content with local cheeses, believing they lack the depth and delicacy of European cheeses. I have been put in my place!

Hooper learned to make cheese in France, so she has a European sensibility to her cheesemaking; only fresh ingredients, and take the time to do it right every time.

She gave an introduction and then introduced her cheese course, which featured "Cheese 17" a still as yet unnamed new cheese that we were being offered as a trial run. While most of VBCC cheeses are made from goats milk, #17 is a dual-latte of goat and cow. It was closest to the French d'aufinois. Creamy goat with a little cow funk. The delight of eating these cheeses this night was that they were chosen at their best, so each selection was fresh, pungent with real depth and delicate on the palate. The cheese course also featured two standards: a fresh cottin, an easy, very pleasing little cheese, and a bonne bouche, a little runny, richer, ash covered rind. Both delicious.

Of course she has a book out now: In a Cheesemaker's Kitchen, that we had to buy. The photos are beautiful, the recipes look like the align with her philsophy of the best ingredients well prepared, and shared with love.  But if nothing else, it's addition to our collection will remind me to choose her cheeses and to be on the lookout for #17 when it arrives in the market.

Virtuous Eating

"Virtuous" is described in the online Merriam-Webster dictionary as "morally excellent" or righteous.  Here is even a Google image of it:

Fascinating. I think the discussion of "virtuosity" usually focuses on "reason" and 'discipline", but hardly ever compassion, which is too close to passion and passionate, which are "immoral" feelings. But I digress. I named this post the way I did because I had a pretty good day of eating what in many circles would be described as virtuous: fruits, vegetables and proteins, very few sweets and very few carbs. Of course to fully achieve eating enlightenment and mass approval, I would have not eaten any carbs, sugar, or drunk any alcohol. As I write this, I am enjoying my second glass of a delightful crisp  chardonnay, so throw that one out on its keester. Also, I had a few cups of coffee today, which in some books, is also deemed immoral. It got me thinking.

I don't believe in God or religion, much less moral eating. I frown--ok, I usually scoff and roll my eyes and may even throw out a *(&*^%*^*%$#$# THAT! at the suggetion that there is a "moral" or "good" or "virtuous" way of eating. I was in a health seminar once where my discussion group leader was convinced that being a vegetarian was the only morally right way to eat. I disagree completely.

But I do know that when I eat a meal--as I did tonight--of lean protein and vegetables, I feel... healthier. Not that I am better person in the world for it or a better citizen--I don't immediately want to run out and save a dying refugee or plant a tree--but I do feel...more whole.

I would like to strip away all the value judgments from food: carrot sticks GOOD/ chocolate cake with fudge icing and toasted pecans and caramel drizzle BAD.  What does it mean that some food is "bad" for you: bad in that it is loaded with calories or fats or "bad" in that it will make you shoot someone in cold blood (the infamous "twinkie defense). Maybe chocolate cake is actually good for you because it makes you happy and then you are nicer to people, who respond to your starry-eyed, chocolate buzzed kindness by doing good things--like planting trees and saving dying refugees. Choco cake then becomes the basis of all the good in the world. Ah! cake is GOOD for you!

It's a fascinating discussion, isn't it? I suppose it's really tied to weight; more weight is bad, less weight is good. Fat is bad, thin is good. Unless you live in sub-Saharan Africa where people are starving, and then fat is a sign of wealth and prosperity--ah; fat is good. (I just searched for an image to include here, but only turned up starving looking children who are likely refugees, and so posting pictures of them to make my point would be in bad taste....bad.) Fat here also may mean greed and corruption.. back to bad.

Balance, I suppose, is key. There is not good or bad eating that inherently then makes me a bad person. There are, however, (as there has almost always been) a handful (or a couple) of pounds that need to be lost, so alas...down to eating fewer calories and burning up more of them on the treadmill. It will not make me a better person in the world; it may however extend my time in it, and well, at least for me and the few people who really do love me, that would be good. 

Leftover Dinner

Random thought: leftover dinner is mighty delicious when there are good leftovers. Tonight: choucroute garnie from New Year's Day (every year, pork and sauerkraut for luck; I think it's a German thing); scalloped potatoes from New Year's Eve (how can you go wrong with potatoes, Gruyere, and heavy cream?); roasted cauliflower from I can't remember, and a boneless BBQ chicken wing from New Year's Day viewing of the Rose Bowl (with OSU v the Oregon Ducks: Bucks take it!). Oh, and a little fresh arugula salad tossed with lemon, olive, oil, S and P, and some chopped toasted pecans. Really? Sometimes, it's the simple things that are the best.

What Makes Me Happy? Cheese Snacks!

Oh yum. Humboldt Fog, extra sharp Cheddar, and Cashel blue. Slightly salty sesame crackers. A perfect little repast for a windy cold day. Maybe even a little chutney to go with the cheddar. Now, I think I need a beer, too. I have more work to do, but maybe this will make it all go that much more smoothly. Wish I had a little salami, too. Oh well. I'll be happy...

Another Vacation Food Story: Crab Legs

It just leaves itself open to so much innuendo, doesn't it? Beginning with J.R.'s love of a new girlfriend (I think we can refer to her that way now), at the announcement that we were having these delicious delicacies for dinner and the following discussion about the best way to eat them, looked doey eyed at him and asked if he would crack her legs. Off to that start, it just had to be all downhill from there.

We surrounded the dinner table, covered smartly by Keela with a plastic table cloth (but red, for the season) and had placed before us a bowl of cold boiled shrimp and a small container of zesty cocktail sauce, another bowl of hot shrimp sauteed in spices, and then the piece d' resistance of the meal: a platter of hot pink crab legs. Grab a knuckle and go to town.

With only two mechanical crackers to share amongst the six of us, there was very little waiting or resting on ceremony. We regressed to the behavior of our cave-dwelling ancestors and, with atavistic hunger and glee, ripped the piping hot legs open with bare hands and pulled, or sucked, or dug out the meat inside. Ahs and grunts and cheers accompanied us, and we competed to retreive the longest, thickest piece of claw leg. Dip it in butter and pop it your mouth in one continuous motion. Ah the joyous carnage if it all. 

And of course, with all that clawing and plunging and biting and dripping, there was bound to be  equally enlightened table talk. I have to admit, I took the lead...what can I say? It was all good funky food fun--some of the best food porn ever.

New Year's Eve Dinner

For now the second year in a row, Deb and I spent a fun feast of an evening with our friends Barb and Kim. Last year, we made a beef wellington the size of a half sheet pan and one of the most delicious meals I've ever had. This year, we opted for another elegant choice: crown of lamb. What a treat!

We made our plan about a month ago and had been discussing cooking options since then. Never having made a crown, we worried about cooking times, especially, given the little lollipops of meet. It would be a real tragedy to have such a lovely crown and burn the meat. When we arrived at their house, however, Barb had gathered several recipes and had a plan: 15-25 minutes at 400 degrees, and then down to 325 for another 30. Trusting a rub she uses on a rack of lamb--and similiar to one that Deb has used to great results on a leg of lamb--she made a loose paste of chopped garlic, rosemary, and thyme. She oiled the lamb with olive oil, rubbed the paste generously over the meat, and into the oven. The crown sizzled and popped and was perfectly medium rare. On Top Chef, the contestants are always undercooking their lamb chops, poor things--and even less fortunate judges! They should take a lesson from Barb! The only thing missing were the cute little paper crowns--oh well!

I called dessert and again, about a month ago, decided on a poached pear chocolate tart. I looked everywhere for a recipe and couldn't find anything that combined all of these elements. My only choice: make it up for myself. My plan: a chocolate and pastry cream tart topped with poached pears filled with marscapone cream and dipped in chocolate.

I started with poached pears. I wanted seckle pears; they are the perfect adorable size. Because I also had the idea early on to fill the poached pears with marscapone, I imagined the pears sitting upright on the tart whole. The 1 1/2# seckle pear would have been perfect. I couldn't find them at the market the day I shopped. I chose a pear a bit larger.

I found a recipe for a poaching liquid that included red wine, sage leaf, sugar, vanilla bean, and cinnamon sticks and water. Believe me, this liquid turned syrup after several hours of simmering following the poaching was worth the bottle of good red wine I used to make it.  The pears came out a lovely pink color with little hats on top.

Next steps included a pre-made crust (why mess when Pillsbury will do it for me, only better); a filling made of marscapone, powdered sugar, vanilla, a pinch of cinnamon, and heavy cream. And then the chocolate, which became much more of a challenge than it probably needed to be. I found a recipe for a chocolate sauce: melt butter and then stir into it an equal amount of finely chopped chocolate. But, I decided to try to use some ganache (chocolate and cream) I had left over from a previous recipe. That did not work so well. Then I tried melting a jar of hot fudge sauce that Deb had been given for Christmas. I dipped the pears in that, and they looked lovely, but later, the chocolate began to slide off.

Frustrated, I moved onto the pastry cream, which began with cream steeped with vanilla, a pear core from a bosc pear, and orange peel. That was delicious. I think I'm lazy, though, because I always give up on my pastry cream a little too soon and it never gets quite thick enough. The flavor, however, was delicious.

I put a layer of the ganache over the baked crust--that worked well. And then spread that with the pastry cream and chilled. That worked well--at that point. Then, I returned to the chocolate sauce recipe and used that to drizzle over the pears. That worked beautifully, and I wish I had just started with that from the beginning. My "chocolate lava pears" as Deb called them, were ready to be put on top of the tart. Assembly would happen at Barb and Kim's house.

After dinner and several glasses of wine, I brought out my tart (which I should have been holding in the refrigerator and not on the counter), and topped it with the chocolate pears (which at this point had lost most of their fudgey bottoms because the chocolate had melted away). The pears sunk into the too thin pastry cream and what fudge was left started to run into the cream. Alas, it was a bit of a mess. (Deb is not wrong when she says I need to work on presentation!)

 

But, on the plate, I served a generous swipe of the wine syrup along with one whole pear, and it looked lovely. The best part--the whole thing was delicious.

Next time, I will stick to others' knitting and follow the classic French recipe for a pear tart, but for a special dinner with good friends who are adventurous in spirit and palate, I was happy to try something new and, ultimately, uniquely my own.