New York City. The only real place to be. Right now I am sitting in a beautiful aparment on the Upper West Side, courtesy of Susan and David- my dads friends-typing and watching the sun go down. There is nothing like it in the world.
One of the benefits of having your entire fathers family on the greatest island in the world is that you can go to the greatest island in the world. The downside is that when they hear that you cook, they want to be fed. I more then happily obliged when asked to cook a meal for my small Manahatten family, them being just six people all told. Indeed, the opportunity to cook and have a dinner party in a gorgeous New York apartment sounded fanatastic right? The result, yes. The execution, very wrong. Enter the stress zone.
First off, my menu was rather ambitious, considering the fact that I had no recipes, and shoddy internet. I went with my old standby of goat cheese and caramalized onion tart, scallops in white wine sauce over pasta and some sort of nutty dessert. Along the way I picked up an idea from my friend Robert Pincus (a blogger for Gourmet) for poached quince. His wife Tara suggested a caramel sauce for the mixed nuts and then baking the whole gooey mess in a pie shell. All very well till it rolled around three o'clock and I started my dinner. Thats where the trouble started.
A list of things I have learned from this whole experience would probably go like this:
1. Never should anyone in their right mind try to shop for anything at Fairway the day before New Years Eve if they like their limbs to be intact.
2. Make sure you have a comprehesive list of ingrediants with enough food for everyone. Take into consideration that these people want to be fed and satiated, not just impressed with the sublime presentation of two tiny seared scallops.
3. Have recipe, so your not scrambling around trying to remember something about hot things that could burn you, and or combust.
4. Learn your kitchen. Never cook a big meal in a space you dont know anything about. It makes trying to find the teaspoons a nightmare.
5. Cutting boards are an invaluable tool, in the absence of which can make cooking most demoralizing.
Yes, I had neither cutting board for anything, rolling pin for tart, no experience making caramel, and no recipies except a crappily copied David Lebowitz blog post for poaching quince.
And somehow, it all came together.
With a good deal of credit going to my little brother, I managed to cook the f@#%!ing caramel into a creamy sauce (adding heavy cream at the end) so the dessert turned into a vaguely candy like pecan confection. I lost one of the tart doughs to lack of rolling pin and attempted pizza tossing (bad idea) but the survivor turned out very well, nothing a little fresh farm goat cheese cant smooth over. The quince turned out spectacularly weird. My brother ended up just mashing it up into a sugary quincesauce paste thing. And as the piece de resistance, the scallops were very yummy indeed, a simple butter-wine sauce with shallots is always a good idea. Yet again I must commend whomever invented butter. All tasty things stem from butter, sugar, and olives.
Credit must go to several people. Robert Pincus, Tara Q. Thomas, their beautiful baby Laila, my sue chef brother and my family, for being so kind and providing wine to relax my shattered nerves. New York City, that you for yet again, teaching me something about living, and living well.
Happy New Year All!
Monday, December 31, 2007
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Of Rats and Bratz
Ok, so this is not so much a food blog but more of a time to reflect on pop culture. Boooring, yes I know, but before you close the window let me say something. Go see Ratatouille, go see it now. Bring whatever age spectrum you have, your nephew will dig it, jaded movie reviewers have dug it. I saw this movie yesterday after much anticipation and my brothers high, high praise and I am happy to say that it more then met my expectations. I don't usually like animated films but the guys at Pixar certainly elevate teh form, its really great that the younger generation will grow up with wonderful movies like Finding Nemo or Monsters Ink. as opposed to something like......Bratz 4Real.
I'm having a hard time not being totally offended by the whole Bratz thing. Admittedly, it was all a little past my time (haha, I know, sounds stupid coming from a 15 year old) but the reality is that by the time the Bratz dolls hit shelves I was old enough to regard them with haughty disgust that only a 10 year old who has graduated from PowerRangers to Harry Potter can muster. I felt I was way to sophisticated to be enticed by these big-headed, small breasted dolls the first graders so dearly loved. Hell, I had just gotten my first skateboard with real trucks, I was cool. So yesterday when I saw four human girls playing four plastic dolls with names like "Punky Brat" touting "Grrl Power...BFF's 4ever." I had a tough time not being totally repulsed.
What really struck me was the total irony of this trailers placement. The movie I had paid to see, a beautiful, charming story about real things like morals and the healing power of food, in direct juxtaposition with a movie that embodies everything wrong with how the media skewers growing up for young girls. I guess you can't have it both ways. Thank god people are taking their little kids to see movies like Ratatouille and not only Bratz 4real. Ugh.
Anyways, enough of my little neo-femenism rant. Back to the good stuff. By now I'm sure you've heard about Ratatouille and if you haven't you should have. This film definatly ranks up there with some of the greats. Don't let the animation or the rat thing throw you off, this is one of the best straight-up examples of a movie I have seen in a long time. Even my mom's boyfriend, a hardened movie buff and fine critic, could not find fault with it.
By now most people who have spent anytime around food or people who love food, know the healing power of a good simple meal, and how things like food relate us to each other and to life in general, but it was wonderful to see it presented in a animated format, with beautiful animation and real, strong characters. The best scene in the whole movie was also the most telling, when the evil food critic bites into his ratatouille and is transported back to childhood: his scrapped knee healed with a bowl of his mothers stew. Taken as whole, the movie was a simple, moving portrayal of humanity (or I suppose inhumanity) set in the heart of Paris. But on a deeper level, it was the story of how we all are connected by what we choose to eat and who we choose to eat with. So please, if you're going to shell out 7 bucks to take the family to a movie on a rainy day, go see Ratatouille, do not go see Bratz 4real. I guarantee you will feel fuller for it.
I'm having a hard time not being totally offended by the whole Bratz thing. Admittedly, it was all a little past my time (haha, I know, sounds stupid coming from a 15 year old) but the reality is that by the time the Bratz dolls hit shelves I was old enough to regard them with haughty disgust that only a 10 year old who has graduated from PowerRangers to Harry Potter can muster. I felt I was way to sophisticated to be enticed by these big-headed, small breasted dolls the first graders so dearly loved. Hell, I had just gotten my first skateboard with real trucks, I was cool. So yesterday when I saw four human girls playing four plastic dolls with names like "Punky Brat" touting "Grrl Power...BFF's 4ever." I had a tough time not being totally repulsed.
What really struck me was the total irony of this trailers placement. The movie I had paid to see, a beautiful, charming story about real things like morals and the healing power of food, in direct juxtaposition with a movie that embodies everything wrong with how the media skewers growing up for young girls. I guess you can't have it both ways. Thank god people are taking their little kids to see movies like Ratatouille and not only Bratz 4real. Ugh.
Anyways, enough of my little neo-femenism rant. Back to the good stuff. By now I'm sure you've heard about Ratatouille and if you haven't you should have. This film definatly ranks up there with some of the greats. Don't let the animation or the rat thing throw you off, this is one of the best straight-up examples of a movie I have seen in a long time. Even my mom's boyfriend, a hardened movie buff and fine critic, could not find fault with it.
By now most people who have spent anytime around food or people who love food, know the healing power of a good simple meal, and how things like food relate us to each other and to life in general, but it was wonderful to see it presented in a animated format, with beautiful animation and real, strong characters. The best scene in the whole movie was also the most telling, when the evil food critic bites into his ratatouille and is transported back to childhood: his scrapped knee healed with a bowl of his mothers stew. Taken as whole, the movie was a simple, moving portrayal of humanity (or I suppose inhumanity) set in the heart of Paris. But on a deeper level, it was the story of how we all are connected by what we choose to eat and who we choose to eat with. So please, if you're going to shell out 7 bucks to take the family to a movie on a rainy day, go see Ratatouille, do not go see Bratz 4real. I guarantee you will feel fuller for it.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
A Step Closer to Provence
There is nothing I could say about France that hasn't been said a thousand times before and most likely much better then I could say it. France is something unto itself. I was lucky enough to visit Paris for a week last winter and it absolutely blew my mind. I am ashamed to admit it, but since then I've become somewhat of a Francophile, or at least, totally in love with the food. Which is not that hard to do, let's be honest.
Provence could not be farther away from Upstate New York. Fundamentally I suppose we both share the similar traits of vegetation and cows, but once you cut deeper then that, we have nothing in common. For a teenage girl in Rochester NY, being obsessed with the South of France and country European cusine is something that can very alienating and disheartening. I am constantly faced with "Provencal" salads at local resteraunts, mostly consisting of canned tuna smothered in a garlicky, gloopy sauce or "French" bread, really just a crustier version of the regular style. So I have decided that, if I can't go to Provence myself, I'll bring Provence home to my own kitchen.
Recently I've been reading, and digesting (literally! haha ok bad pun) a book by Georgeanne Brennan called A Pig In Provence, about the authors transplanting of her family from Southern California to a Provencal countryhouse in the 1970's. From a literary standpoint its not the most spectacular read, kinda boring and not that well written, but what makes it enjoyable is the descriptions of the French countryside thirty years ago and images of a food culture that has me full of nostalgia for something I never experienced. Do I dig her writing? Maybe. Am I totally jealous and inspired? Definately.
So a couple of nights ago I raided my fridge in a bought of culinary despiration. It hasn't been the best week over here in my house and nothing seems to relax the mind and body like making a good loaf of bread. I pulled up a random recipie for "Rustic Peasants Bread", a title I am always skeptical of, but decided to try anyways, and set about creating a true loaf of country bread. Whatever the hell that means.
After letting the sponge rise for about two hours and pummeling that poor lump of dough within an inch of its life, it was time to commence the baking. Now, in the past whenever we have made bread the crust has always been a problem. You know what I mean, no crust at all, or a full blown char-factory. So this time I decided to try steaming, a practice I have always heard about but never attempted. It worked wonders. The bread came out cooked perfectly, with a chewy dense middle and thick, toasty crust.
I had planned originally to do some sort of salad thing but was thwarted by our CSA farmers recent departure (oi veh!) so after some deliberating decided to just utilize our oven to its fullest potential. I slow roasted grape tomatoes with coarse sea salt and olive oil and broiled the hell out of some likewise prepared asperagus spears. A serious deficiency in my cooking skills was discovered when i relized I had no idea how to hardboil eggs. But with my mother shouted advice from the next room I managed to pull off a nice toss of roasted asperagus with boiled eggs and black olives. Very pretty I must say. The tomatoes went onto thick wedges of the fresh bread and after being topped with a lot of Manchego cheese, broiled as well. The result was a simple, extremely fresh tasting meal that recalled for us, all of the things we missed about never going to Provence. Ah well. Viva Upstate New York. Viva France.
Provence could not be farther away from Upstate New York. Fundamentally I suppose we both share the similar traits of vegetation and cows, but once you cut deeper then that, we have nothing in common. For a teenage girl in Rochester NY, being obsessed with the South of France and country European cusine is something that can very alienating and disheartening. I am constantly faced with "Provencal" salads at local resteraunts, mostly consisting of canned tuna smothered in a garlicky, gloopy sauce or "French" bread, really just a crustier version of the regular style. So I have decided that, if I can't go to Provence myself, I'll bring Provence home to my own kitchen.
Recently I've been reading, and digesting (literally! haha ok bad pun) a book by Georgeanne Brennan called A Pig In Provence, about the authors transplanting of her family from Southern California to a Provencal countryhouse in the 1970's. From a literary standpoint its not the most spectacular read, kinda boring and not that well written, but what makes it enjoyable is the descriptions of the French countryside thirty years ago and images of a food culture that has me full of nostalgia for something I never experienced. Do I dig her writing? Maybe. Am I totally jealous and inspired? Definately.
So a couple of nights ago I raided my fridge in a bought of culinary despiration. It hasn't been the best week over here in my house and nothing seems to relax the mind and body like making a good loaf of bread. I pulled up a random recipie for "Rustic Peasants Bread", a title I am always skeptical of, but decided to try anyways, and set about creating a true loaf of country bread. Whatever the hell that means.
After letting the sponge rise for about two hours and pummeling that poor lump of dough within an inch of its life, it was time to commence the baking. Now, in the past whenever we have made bread the crust has always been a problem. You know what I mean, no crust at all, or a full blown char-factory. So this time I decided to try steaming, a practice I have always heard about but never attempted. It worked wonders. The bread came out cooked perfectly, with a chewy dense middle and thick, toasty crust.
I had planned originally to do some sort of salad thing but was thwarted by our CSA farmers recent departure (oi veh!) so after some deliberating decided to just utilize our oven to its fullest potential. I slow roasted grape tomatoes with coarse sea salt and olive oil and broiled the hell out of some likewise prepared asperagus spears. A serious deficiency in my cooking skills was discovered when i relized I had no idea how to hardboil eggs. But with my mother shouted advice from the next room I managed to pull off a nice toss of roasted asperagus with boiled eggs and black olives. Very pretty I must say. The tomatoes went onto thick wedges of the fresh bread and after being topped with a lot of Manchego cheese, broiled as well. The result was a simple, extremely fresh tasting meal that recalled for us, all of the things we missed about never going to Provence. Ah well. Viva Upstate New York. Viva France.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Pizza.Period.
If there's one food that seems to embody everything quintissential to American youth it would have to be pizza. Though we undoubtedly stole pizza from Italy originally, it would now appear to be as assimilated into our culture as apple pie and cherry cola.
We love pizza. All my friends cannot have party without it. No late night recording session is complete without it, no pre-movie pit stop is perfect unless we stop and pick up a couple of slices. Pizza is not just a quick, absolutely delicious food, its also a personal statement. Do you want plain cheese? Oh, your boring. Anchovie pineapple mushroom? Freak. Cheeseburger sausage meatball? Remined me not to sit next to you on an airplane. Personally I dig anything veggie loaded without stringy onions. What you want on your pizza is way more then just a preference, its a fashion statement. It can be a total pain in the butt to order multiple pizzas for a big group of people. I would hate to be a order-taker for a pizza joint. "Hello? Yeah, I'll have 25 large pies, one with cheese, three with pepperoni, five with half veggie half mushroom..." You get the idea. Total suckage.
Pizza is such a regional identification as well. The battle between Chicago and New York style pizza is one that continues to rage with passions and fury on both sides. Don't try to cross me in an arguement over the two. New York could kick Chicago's butt anyday. California can keep their no cheese, white truffle oil drizzed monsters, Chi-Town can keep those deep dish, eat-me-with-a-fork things to themselves. Give me a thin, chewy, greasy piece of pizza on a paper plate and I'll be completely happy. In my opinion the best pizza in NYC is not the ubiquitous Ray's but a tiny non-descript joint on 101'st and Broadway called Cheesy Pizza. No subtleties there, just the way I like it. No bull, no frills, nobody but the locals in there and a freaking good peice of pizza. We always go get a slice no matter what the weather is or how hungry we arn't. I dont know what it is about that place, the ambiance is terrible and the linoleum tables are dirty but the pizza is the perfect thickness and has just the right amount of cheese to sauce ratio.
Again I hate to continue to mention Rochesters' failings in the culinary department so instead of being negative I'll mention that we have a comparatively exellent pizza place right downtown. Formerly Pizza-Pizza, now called Piatza's, it has a fair imitation of a true NYC slice. Admittedly its nothing like the original but clocking in at a hefty 14 inches lengthwise it's a feat of cheese and dough. You cannot (should not) order out, but instead stop in and get a massive slice to go, eating it outside folded over with a lot of napkins. Almost perfect.
When we feel up to it, a great way to spend a Saturday is going to the market early in the morning then coming home and making pizza from scratch. I've gotten good at baking a decent Neopolitan style pizza, with a super thin crust and just tomatoes and mozzerella for topping. The last time we made pizza from scratch we had several friends over and they sat in out kitchen while I rushed around covered in flour and slamming oven doors much to my mom's chagrin. They turned out well. Definatly a pizza and definatly a pretty tasty meal. Next time though, I'll have to make waaay more. The pies were nowhere near substiantial enough for six people and we were left still a little peckish afterwards. My bro-face even enjoyed his chorizo pizza, and a hug from him sealed the deal.
A pizza is a pizza is a pizza, but a damn good pizza is different thing entirely. Like a new bag or a favorite pair of jeans, a good slice of pizza is a way to enjoy the things that make us essentially human: nourishment through our collective culture. And obviously something we can over-analyze and analogize too. So long for now.
We love pizza. All my friends cannot have party without it. No late night recording session is complete without it, no pre-movie pit stop is perfect unless we stop and pick up a couple of slices. Pizza is not just a quick, absolutely delicious food, its also a personal statement. Do you want plain cheese? Oh, your boring. Anchovie pineapple mushroom? Freak. Cheeseburger sausage meatball? Remined me not to sit next to you on an airplane. Personally I dig anything veggie loaded without stringy onions. What you want on your pizza is way more then just a preference, its a fashion statement. It can be a total pain in the butt to order multiple pizzas for a big group of people. I would hate to be a order-taker for a pizza joint. "Hello? Yeah, I'll have 25 large pies, one with cheese, three with pepperoni, five with half veggie half mushroom..." You get the idea. Total suckage.
Pizza is such a regional identification as well. The battle between Chicago and New York style pizza is one that continues to rage with passions and fury on both sides. Don't try to cross me in an arguement over the two. New York could kick Chicago's butt anyday. California can keep their no cheese, white truffle oil drizzed monsters, Chi-Town can keep those deep dish, eat-me-with-a-fork things to themselves. Give me a thin, chewy, greasy piece of pizza on a paper plate and I'll be completely happy. In my opinion the best pizza in NYC is not the ubiquitous Ray's but a tiny non-descript joint on 101'st and Broadway called Cheesy Pizza. No subtleties there, just the way I like it. No bull, no frills, nobody but the locals in there and a freaking good peice of pizza. We always go get a slice no matter what the weather is or how hungry we arn't. I dont know what it is about that place, the ambiance is terrible and the linoleum tables are dirty but the pizza is the perfect thickness and has just the right amount of cheese to sauce ratio.
Again I hate to continue to mention Rochesters' failings in the culinary department so instead of being negative I'll mention that we have a comparatively exellent pizza place right downtown. Formerly Pizza-Pizza, now called Piatza's, it has a fair imitation of a true NYC slice. Admittedly its nothing like the original but clocking in at a hefty 14 inches lengthwise it's a feat of cheese and dough. You cannot (should not) order out, but instead stop in and get a massive slice to go, eating it outside folded over with a lot of napkins. Almost perfect.
When we feel up to it, a great way to spend a Saturday is going to the market early in the morning then coming home and making pizza from scratch. I've gotten good at baking a decent Neopolitan style pizza, with a super thin crust and just tomatoes and mozzerella for topping. The last time we made pizza from scratch we had several friends over and they sat in out kitchen while I rushed around covered in flour and slamming oven doors much to my mom's chagrin. They turned out well. Definatly a pizza and definatly a pretty tasty meal. Next time though, I'll have to make waaay more. The pies were nowhere near substiantial enough for six people and we were left still a little peckish afterwards. My bro-face even enjoyed his chorizo pizza, and a hug from him sealed the deal.
A pizza is a pizza is a pizza, but a damn good pizza is different thing entirely. Like a new bag or a favorite pair of jeans, a good slice of pizza is a way to enjoy the things that make us essentially human: nourishment through our collective culture. And obviously something we can over-analyze and analogize too. So long for now.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Punk Rock and Food
In the insular little community of punker rockers and metal-heads I call my friends, often times I realize that we are constantly surrounded by hipocrisy and more importantly, very poor eating habits. This hit me last weekend, when I was standing in the middle of nowhere, staring at a veggie weiner and two portabella mushrooms. The dudes in the band playing after us (a super-hardcore outfit called "Assbeer"-no joke) had decided to have a barbeque at the outdoor lodge we were congregated at. It was supposed to be local benefit for something or other, but was really a big chill-fest for all the kids in the bands and in the scene.
Functions like this crack me up. Punk is dead. At least to me it is. The real punk, the smack you in the face, scare parents and babies punk is dead. Henry Rollins is on TLC and Hot Topic is selling Black Flag shirts for 20$. This is decidedly not punk, no matter what anyone tells you. So when I see a huge group of dirty, scabby kids waving skateboards around and screaming lyrics about fighting the man like a fuzzy Ian MacKaye I feel a little...silly I guess. Don't get me wrong, I love the raw power of the music, and the rebellious DIY spirit of the ideals, but the whole thing can get very tedious and backwards after a while. That said, most of my best friends are huge punkers and would not be very happy with me for writing this.
Anyways. Back to the food thing. No teenage boy I have ever encountered cares about nutrition or calories or vitamins. But punk, punk in all its glorious rebellion has always had close ties to vegetarianism, veganism and other forms of radical foodie thinking. Most of the punks I know, all who are pretty young, subsist on a diet of pizza, mountain dew and really cheap stolen beer. They all tolerate my uber-healthy, free ranginess but it tends to be the butt of all jokes. When we stop for a pre-show fuel up at the Wilson Farms I'll get a expresso and granola bar while they all buy Red Bulls and DingDongs.
So I was suprised and delighted to see the guys from Assbeer standing around smoking and grilling giant mushrooms. Admittedly it was a little sad, seeing packs of veggie hotdogs littered next to a jumbo bag of Chitos and Cokes, but it gave me a little hope. I guess it's punk rock to eat vegetables.
Veganism in punk goes hand in hand with "straightedge" or the concept of abstaining from all drugs or in some cases, sex. Bands will tour the country under the straightedge vegan banner, tattooed and angry and very very sober. The local DIY punk house that sets up alot of the underground shows, will host vegan cook-outs and vegg-fests with lots of good music in park pavillions next to bridal showers. For me, when I say punk is dead, I am speaking about the old style punk, the old ways of dressing and flicking everyone off. True punk can never die however, as long as free thinkers need a way to define themselves out of what they consider the norm. Punk is doing what feels right and not caring what anyone else thinks. Punk is sticking to your guns and doing the right thing. Hell, punk is grilling portabella mushrooms with a bunch of hairy dudes called Assbeer.
Functions like this crack me up. Punk is dead. At least to me it is. The real punk, the smack you in the face, scare parents and babies punk is dead. Henry Rollins is on TLC and Hot Topic is selling Black Flag shirts for 20$. This is decidedly not punk, no matter what anyone tells you. So when I see a huge group of dirty, scabby kids waving skateboards around and screaming lyrics about fighting the man like a fuzzy Ian MacKaye I feel a little...silly I guess. Don't get me wrong, I love the raw power of the music, and the rebellious DIY spirit of the ideals, but the whole thing can get very tedious and backwards after a while. That said, most of my best friends are huge punkers and would not be very happy with me for writing this.
Anyways. Back to the food thing. No teenage boy I have ever encountered cares about nutrition or calories or vitamins. But punk, punk in all its glorious rebellion has always had close ties to vegetarianism, veganism and other forms of radical foodie thinking. Most of the punks I know, all who are pretty young, subsist on a diet of pizza, mountain dew and really cheap stolen beer. They all tolerate my uber-healthy, free ranginess but it tends to be the butt of all jokes. When we stop for a pre-show fuel up at the Wilson Farms I'll get a expresso and granola bar while they all buy Red Bulls and DingDongs.
So I was suprised and delighted to see the guys from Assbeer standing around smoking and grilling giant mushrooms. Admittedly it was a little sad, seeing packs of veggie hotdogs littered next to a jumbo bag of Chitos and Cokes, but it gave me a little hope. I guess it's punk rock to eat vegetables.
Veganism in punk goes hand in hand with "straightedge" or the concept of abstaining from all drugs or in some cases, sex. Bands will tour the country under the straightedge vegan banner, tattooed and angry and very very sober. The local DIY punk house that sets up alot of the underground shows, will host vegan cook-outs and vegg-fests with lots of good music in park pavillions next to bridal showers. For me, when I say punk is dead, I am speaking about the old style punk, the old ways of dressing and flicking everyone off. True punk can never die however, as long as free thinkers need a way to define themselves out of what they consider the norm. Punk is doing what feels right and not caring what anyone else thinks. Punk is sticking to your guns and doing the right thing. Hell, punk is grilling portabella mushrooms with a bunch of hairy dudes called Assbeer.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
A Taste of Home
Being orginally from the Pacific Northwest, specifically Seattle, I harbor a certain fondness for salmon and all kinds of maritime fishy food. However, as there are no salmon swimming around in Lake Ontario, Rochester has a definite lack of good seafood. I love going back home to Seattle, the air there is like nothing I've ever breathed, nothing beats the cold Pacific wind coming of the water.
One of the best things about Seattle and that region in general is the abundance of fresh produce. Pike Place Market, though a vast complex of touristy junk, is a wonderful place to spend a morning wandering around, sipping a fresh coffee and marveling at the color of the strawberries and asperagus. The last time we were there, over spring break, we decided to cook a meal for my mothers friend and take advantage of all the good stuff that was availible to us. We got up and wandered downtown to the Market, spending an hour trying to find a parking spot before finally coughing up the money for a garage and began our shopping. Our meal plan was this: grilled salmon over fresh pasta tossed with tomatoes and snap peas, olives and cheese for apps and angel food cake with a lemon-lime custard for dessert. The pasta was easy to find-we opted for handmade tomatoe linguine-and then we bought at least 30$ worth of amazing parmesan and olives before moving on to the fish.
My mother, a Seattle native and expert, insisted on one fish monger only and refused to see anyone else. Our salmon chopper (for lack of a better term) was a surf-scarred blond dude with a pink bandana and Australian accent who laughed and joked with us as he hacked up our beautiful pink fish. Behind him, the owner was gaily chatting with a tiny asian man in a bloody apron. "See that guy there?" My mom said "He's my sisters ex-boyfriend. Looks a little worse for wear but he sells the best fish in the market." Ahh, now I see why we passed up the packed stalls of men flinging fish at each other over tourists heads. Personal relations. We left and walked back to the car, the salmon weighing heavily in my arms.
I cooked that fish up pretty good if I do say so myself. We grilled it on the back deck, leaving the grill maintenace up to the only man in the house (my 12 year old brother) and as the adults caught up on the front porch I put on my iPod, dancing around happily while stewing tomatoes, plating the cheese and boiling down the custard. It was a success. The salmon flaked nicely into the pasta and the tomatoes added a tartness that offset the fishes sweet flavor. That evening was spent in the small kitchen, basking in the glow of being at peace with the world again. Over there, everything fits in its right place. I realize now, in being back upstate, that though the salmon here tastes nothing like the way it does in Seattle, it will forever hold a little bit of home for me.
SALMON WITH FRESH PASTA AND TOMATOES
-a good chunk of fresh salmon
-Roma tomatoes, halved
-snow or snap peas
-pasta (linguine or penne would work well I think)
-olive oil
-garlic
-salt and pepper
-chili flakes
Prep grill. In a small bowl, mix olive oil, garlic and spices together. Brush salmon with oil mixture and set on grill, checking doneness frequently. When salmon is close to finishing (flaky and dull pink) cook and drain pasta, drizzling with more oil. Sautee tomatoes in a pan with oil and snap peas till watery and soupy. Toss with pasta. When salmon is done flake it into large chips and mix with the pasta. Garnish with cracked black pepper and cheese. Serve with fresh bread and friends.
One of the best things about Seattle and that region in general is the abundance of fresh produce. Pike Place Market, though a vast complex of touristy junk, is a wonderful place to spend a morning wandering around, sipping a fresh coffee and marveling at the color of the strawberries and asperagus. The last time we were there, over spring break, we decided to cook a meal for my mothers friend and take advantage of all the good stuff that was availible to us. We got up and wandered downtown to the Market, spending an hour trying to find a parking spot before finally coughing up the money for a garage and began our shopping. Our meal plan was this: grilled salmon over fresh pasta tossed with tomatoes and snap peas, olives and cheese for apps and angel food cake with a lemon-lime custard for dessert. The pasta was easy to find-we opted for handmade tomatoe linguine-and then we bought at least 30$ worth of amazing parmesan and olives before moving on to the fish.
My mother, a Seattle native and expert, insisted on one fish monger only and refused to see anyone else. Our salmon chopper (for lack of a better term) was a surf-scarred blond dude with a pink bandana and Australian accent who laughed and joked with us as he hacked up our beautiful pink fish. Behind him, the owner was gaily chatting with a tiny asian man in a bloody apron. "See that guy there?" My mom said "He's my sisters ex-boyfriend. Looks a little worse for wear but he sells the best fish in the market." Ahh, now I see why we passed up the packed stalls of men flinging fish at each other over tourists heads. Personal relations. We left and walked back to the car, the salmon weighing heavily in my arms.
I cooked that fish up pretty good if I do say so myself. We grilled it on the back deck, leaving the grill maintenace up to the only man in the house (my 12 year old brother) and as the adults caught up on the front porch I put on my iPod, dancing around happily while stewing tomatoes, plating the cheese and boiling down the custard. It was a success. The salmon flaked nicely into the pasta and the tomatoes added a tartness that offset the fishes sweet flavor. That evening was spent in the small kitchen, basking in the glow of being at peace with the world again. Over there, everything fits in its right place. I realize now, in being back upstate, that though the salmon here tastes nothing like the way it does in Seattle, it will forever hold a little bit of home for me.
SALMON WITH FRESH PASTA AND TOMATOES
-a good chunk of fresh salmon
-Roma tomatoes, halved
-snow or snap peas
-pasta (linguine or penne would work well I think)
-olive oil
-garlic
-salt and pepper
-chili flakes
Prep grill. In a small bowl, mix olive oil, garlic and spices together. Brush salmon with oil mixture and set on grill, checking doneness frequently. When salmon is close to finishing (flaky and dull pink) cook and drain pasta, drizzling with more oil. Sautee tomatoes in a pan with oil and snap peas till watery and soupy. Toss with pasta. When salmon is done flake it into large chips and mix with the pasta. Garnish with cracked black pepper and cheese. Serve with fresh bread and friends.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Veggie Burgers-A Love Letter
This is how I imagine the conception of the veggie burger going. Some long haired dude in 1970 is sitting around watching his friends chow down on hamburgers and looking wistfully at his own, less exiting meal. "Hmm. That sure looks good," he thinks, glancing down at his plateful of beans and brown rice "I wish I could have that. Hey, wait a minute. What happens if I mash up these beans, maybe throw in some lentils, a couple of carrots, and slap some cheese on that baby. That would be pretty rad man. Almost like a hamburger but not really." Viola! The veggie burger is born.
One of the main reasons I sense a change coming is how veggie burgers are showing up on the menus of more and more restaurants around the country. In my travels, I am beginning to see a steadily increasing number of veggie burgers listed next to the Philly Steaks and Jumbo Burgers. Now, these "veggie burgers" are seldom more then a thin slab of dried legumes or in BurgerKings case, a reheated frozen pattie, so a truly exellent veggie burger is a rare find indeed. I am constantly keeping my eyes peeled for places with good vegetarian food and if I see a veggie burger on the menu of new joint I will always order it.
My carnivorous friends have an interesting perspective on veggie burgers, I can't remember how many times I've heard the words "If you want a burger, eat meat hippie." But they've got it wrong, though the idea of a "veggie" burger is something that initially seems oxymoronic and silly, it isn't that much of a bizarre concept. A pattie shaped mound of food between two slices of bread and condiments certainly isn't something that should only be for meat eaters. It's a slice of the great American pie that we're all given under the Constitution. That said, try ordering a veggie burger in the middle of upstate New York, just watch the waitresses face as you ask for the "Vegetarian Special". It's a pretty sheepish experience.
So in Rochester New York, a calling card for crusty old hippies and not-quite-cool-enough-for-NYC hipsters, I am very blessed in having a great veggie burger right down the street. Hogans Hideaway is the one place I have found whose veggie burgers rival their meaty breatheren in mass and height. These things actually look like a big, fat, cowfest, only sans cow and heavy on the actual veggies. Every Thursday night at my moms house, after she teaches piano, we treat ourselves to take out and let me tell you, it's practically the highlight of my whole week.
The entire menu is pretty good, high points being the chili, the regular burgers and their staple Minestrone soup, though I find that the specials can also be exellent (the only that could ever entice me from my veggie burger is the salmon cakes). We rarely actually eat in the restaurant, as we're all totally exausted by this time of week but they have a nice deck and(I'm told) a good bar. The only reason I say that is because I think the bartender is cute.
So right now, as I sit in my fourth period class, wilting like lettuce under the flourescent lights and dreading my science test next period, I am really looking forward to eating those tomorrow night. It's a sad existence and probably a testimony to utter boredom of school that all I am looking forward to is a big lump of lentils and some greasy onion rings. The bells about to ring, I gotta go.
One of the main reasons I sense a change coming is how veggie burgers are showing up on the menus of more and more restaurants around the country. In my travels, I am beginning to see a steadily increasing number of veggie burgers listed next to the Philly Steaks and Jumbo Burgers. Now, these "veggie burgers" are seldom more then a thin slab of dried legumes or in BurgerKings case, a reheated frozen pattie, so a truly exellent veggie burger is a rare find indeed. I am constantly keeping my eyes peeled for places with good vegetarian food and if I see a veggie burger on the menu of new joint I will always order it.
My carnivorous friends have an interesting perspective on veggie burgers, I can't remember how many times I've heard the words "If you want a burger, eat meat hippie." But they've got it wrong, though the idea of a "veggie" burger is something that initially seems oxymoronic and silly, it isn't that much of a bizarre concept. A pattie shaped mound of food between two slices of bread and condiments certainly isn't something that should only be for meat eaters. It's a slice of the great American pie that we're all given under the Constitution. That said, try ordering a veggie burger in the middle of upstate New York, just watch the waitresses face as you ask for the "Vegetarian Special". It's a pretty sheepish experience.
So in Rochester New York, a calling card for crusty old hippies and not-quite-cool-enough-for-NYC hipsters, I am very blessed in having a great veggie burger right down the street. Hogans Hideaway is the one place I have found whose veggie burgers rival their meaty breatheren in mass and height. These things actually look like a big, fat, cowfest, only sans cow and heavy on the actual veggies. Every Thursday night at my moms house, after she teaches piano, we treat ourselves to take out and let me tell you, it's practically the highlight of my whole week.
The entire menu is pretty good, high points being the chili, the regular burgers and their staple Minestrone soup, though I find that the specials can also be exellent (the only that could ever entice me from my veggie burger is the salmon cakes). We rarely actually eat in the restaurant, as we're all totally exausted by this time of week but they have a nice deck and(I'm told) a good bar. The only reason I say that is because I think the bartender is cute.
So right now, as I sit in my fourth period class, wilting like lettuce under the flourescent lights and dreading my science test next period, I am really looking forward to eating those tomorrow night. It's a sad existence and probably a testimony to utter boredom of school that all I am looking forward to is a big lump of lentils and some greasy onion rings. The bells about to ring, I gotta go.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Sunday Breakfast
My father is the only person I know who actually enjoys gefeltifish. That oily, slightly fetid fishy paste is usually placed on the table only as an obigitory gesture, but he will actually eat the stuff. I guess that I'm missing something but I don't quite know what it is about New York Jews and white fish.
My family, though pretty far removed from our Jewish heritage (our Temple going lasted only a few years) has always maintained contact with that part of our history through food. It's a funny thing, being Jewish, and one that we probably take way to much credit from. Admittedly, we've got the whole immigrant, Holocaust refugee story down and it is an amazing story, but were not that Jewish. It's mostly a identity we take on as an excuse for our obnoxiousness I think. Something that makes it endearing as opposed to annoying.
One thing I've always loved though, is Jew Food.
If you've ever been to New York you know jew food. Hell, New York is jew food. Zabars is proof of that. What's better then street bagel on Broadway or a knish slathered with ketchup from the fat hairy guy on the corner? My little brother would argue nothing. The kind you get upstate are nothing compared to a real New York knish. Filled with potatoes and peas, hot and crusty right off the fryer, dripping oil and mustard down your hands, there's nothing that tastes or smells quite like a street knish.
Anyways, yesterday we tried to recreate the Sunday brunches of my father's youth in our tiny apartment kitchen to limited, if enjoyable success. We had fresh bagels with cream cheese, lox and tomatoes, omelets filled with spinach and mushrooms, and of course, cinnamon doughnuts.
The cooking process did not take that long and was fun. I took over the egg station, teaching my culinary challenged father how to properly dice an onion and flip an omelet. The actual omelets themselves didn't turn out quiet how we had hoped,they were simultaneously rubbery and undercooked,but looked really nice so it was ok. Being the limited meat eaters that we are, we turned to our old favorite Morningstar Farms for their ever popular veggie sausage link to provide us with the porky bits we lacked.
But it was the lox that really hit me.
I've never really(gasp) dug salmon lox, I hate the way the fish smell sticks to your fingers and how the taste hits you in the roof of your mouth, so I never eat them. This time however, I thought I would be daring and venture out into the deep recess of Jewdom I have inherited.
So I tentively took a bite of my bagel, moving past the wet seedy tomato and smooth cream cheese till I hit the fish. Whoa, did I ever hit the fish. For a second my nostrils were compeletly engulfed in the oily thick smell of brine and I couldn't taste anything except fish fish fish. I put my bagel down and decided to consult the eggs, leaving the lox for a later time. Upon glancing up however, I glimpsed my dad happily chomping down on that poor dead fish like his name was Goldstien (Frank comes pretty close though). Maybe I have to grow into true enjoyment of Jewish cuisine, right now I'm good with just bagels and mustard.
THE (NOT QUITE NEW YORK) POTATOE KNISH
Ingredients
(makes 1 serving)
My family, though pretty far removed from our Jewish heritage (our Temple going lasted only a few years) has always maintained contact with that part of our history through food. It's a funny thing, being Jewish, and one that we probably take way to much credit from. Admittedly, we've got the whole immigrant, Holocaust refugee story down and it is an amazing story, but were not that Jewish. It's mostly a identity we take on as an excuse for our obnoxiousness I think. Something that makes it endearing as opposed to annoying.
One thing I've always loved though, is Jew Food.
If you've ever been to New York you know jew food. Hell, New York is jew food. Zabars is proof of that. What's better then street bagel on Broadway or a knish slathered with ketchup from the fat hairy guy on the corner? My little brother would argue nothing. The kind you get upstate are nothing compared to a real New York knish. Filled with potatoes and peas, hot and crusty right off the fryer, dripping oil and mustard down your hands, there's nothing that tastes or smells quite like a street knish.
Anyways, yesterday we tried to recreate the Sunday brunches of my father's youth in our tiny apartment kitchen to limited, if enjoyable success. We had fresh bagels with cream cheese, lox and tomatoes, omelets filled with spinach and mushrooms, and of course, cinnamon doughnuts.
The cooking process did not take that long and was fun. I took over the egg station, teaching my culinary challenged father how to properly dice an onion and flip an omelet. The actual omelets themselves didn't turn out quiet how we had hoped,they were simultaneously rubbery and undercooked,but looked really nice so it was ok. Being the limited meat eaters that we are, we turned to our old favorite Morningstar Farms for their ever popular veggie sausage link to provide us with the porky bits we lacked.
But it was the lox that really hit me.
I've never really(gasp) dug salmon lox, I hate the way the fish smell sticks to your fingers and how the taste hits you in the roof of your mouth, so I never eat them. This time however, I thought I would be daring and venture out into the deep recess of Jewdom I have inherited.
So I tentively took a bite of my bagel, moving past the wet seedy tomato and smooth cream cheese till I hit the fish. Whoa, did I ever hit the fish. For a second my nostrils were compeletly engulfed in the oily thick smell of brine and I couldn't taste anything except fish fish fish. I put my bagel down and decided to consult the eggs, leaving the lox for a later time. Upon glancing up however, I glimpsed my dad happily chomping down on that poor dead fish like his name was Goldstien (Frank comes pretty close though). Maybe I have to grow into true enjoyment of Jewish cuisine, right now I'm good with just bagels and mustard.
THE (NOT QUITE NEW YORK) POTATOE KNISH
Ingredients
(makes 1 serving)
DOUGH:
2 c Flour
1/2 ts Baking powder
1/4 ts Salt
1 Egg
1/4 c Oil
POTATO FILLING:
4 Potato: cooked mashed
Chicken fat: melted
Salt and Pepper (lots of pepper )
LIVER FILLING:
1/2 lb Liver beef: broiled, choppd
3 Chicken liver:broiled chopped
1/2 lb Ground beef: sauteed
1/2 c Potato: mashed
1 Egg
1 Onion; minced and browned in 1 tb Oil
1/2 ts Salt
Instructions
Sift flour, baking powder, and salt into a bowl. Beat egg, oil, and water and add to the flour mixture. Knead lightly until dough is soft; it will be slightly oily but not sticky. Cover and set in a warm place for 1 hour. Make filling. For either filing, combine all ingredients and mix well. Divide dough in half and roll as thin as possible into a rectangle. Spread the filling on long side of the dough and roll like a jelly roll. Cut into 1-in. slices. Pull ends of the dough over the filling and tuck into the knish to form small cakes. Place on a well-greased baking sheet. Bake in a 375 degree F. oven until brown I didn't post the original knish recipe, but I do have quite a few in my collection. This is one from Balabustas More Favorite Recipes, by the B'nai Israel Sisterhood, Gainesville.
*modified from chef2chef.com- The liver filling can be substituted with any vegetarian mixture- I dig peas and carrots.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Gym Class and Oranges
I like high-school.
Well, I like high-school more then most people seem to. I have a feeling it has something to do with the fact I don't go to some faceless red-white-and-blue joint in the suburbs but an urban arts centered school. Here, the losers can be the cool kids to a certain extent. Not to romanticize anything, its public education and it still can suck. But I have it better then a lot of people I know.
Anyways, its no great secret that America has a problem with crap. Crappy jobs, crappy leadership, crappy schools, and more importanly, crappy food in those schools. Here at SOTA we harbor no illusions about the contents of our "sloppy joes" and "chicken tacos". This morning I had a fascinating conversation in lab with three of my guy friends about the dubious "snack line" and its artery clogging cuisine.
"It doesn't taste like anything." Said one of my friends, a massive brushcutted kid. "I mean, you eat the taco and it tastes like the hamburger, you eat the hamburger and it tastes like the pizza."
"Yeah" added another. "The oranges have like, embryo's growing on them, I was totally freaked out."
Then they turned to me, the resident annoying hippie chef girl.
"Dont eat that stuff." I said. "Its probably from California and has been sitting in some warehouse for three years. Those things are not oranges, they're the undead, like citrus zombies."
This is just a snippet of the things that we think about our food here in public education land. As one of my dear friends put it "It's cheaper."
Yeah it's cheaper, I know its cheaper, thats all we ever hear, is it's cheaper. It's cheaper to sell kids Ding-Dongs that will give them heart disease then to sell fresh oranges with some nutritional value. Which is really cheaper I ask you? Medicare (when they can get it) or fruit?
Our daily menu usually consits of re-heated hamburgers,greenish-tinged ham sandwiches and the pizza Dominoes gives us for a discounted price when it's a day old. All these options come with french fries and the choice of salad and fruit. No one gets the salad, they all get the fries.
Then there's the snack line, the pride and joy of the cafeteria, a tiny room carved out of the wall filled with all members of the fat and suagar-laden genus. Hostess must love us, half the student body subsits on Ho-Ho's, Twixes and Famous Amos. These "snacks" can be washed down with one of the vending machine options, Coke, Gatorade and Tropicana for one dollar. Bottled water costs almost double that.
So with my one dollar left over from whatever I can't buy a bottle of water but I can buy a Pepsi.
And we wonder why most of the lower-income range is fat!
So please, my voting age friends, put your tax dollars towards vending machines that dont sell soda, or FRESH veggies that are cheaper then pizza. People can make all the documentaries and write all the articles they want, but they're pretty much preaching to the choir. I read those articles, my friends don't. But they can taste the difference between moldy bread and fresh oranges just the same as anyone.
Well, I like high-school more then most people seem to. I have a feeling it has something to do with the fact I don't go to some faceless red-white-and-blue joint in the suburbs but an urban arts centered school. Here, the losers can be the cool kids to a certain extent. Not to romanticize anything, its public education and it still can suck. But I have it better then a lot of people I know.
Anyways, its no great secret that America has a problem with crap. Crappy jobs, crappy leadership, crappy schools, and more importanly, crappy food in those schools. Here at SOTA we harbor no illusions about the contents of our "sloppy joes" and "chicken tacos". This morning I had a fascinating conversation in lab with three of my guy friends about the dubious "snack line" and its artery clogging cuisine.
"It doesn't taste like anything." Said one of my friends, a massive brushcutted kid. "I mean, you eat the taco and it tastes like the hamburger, you eat the hamburger and it tastes like the pizza."
"Yeah" added another. "The oranges have like, embryo's growing on them, I was totally freaked out."
Then they turned to me, the resident annoying hippie chef girl.
"Dont eat that stuff." I said. "Its probably from California and has been sitting in some warehouse for three years. Those things are not oranges, they're the undead, like citrus zombies."
This is just a snippet of the things that we think about our food here in public education land. As one of my dear friends put it "It's cheaper."
Yeah it's cheaper, I know its cheaper, thats all we ever hear, is it's cheaper. It's cheaper to sell kids Ding-Dongs that will give them heart disease then to sell fresh oranges with some nutritional value. Which is really cheaper I ask you? Medicare (when they can get it) or fruit?
Our daily menu usually consits of re-heated hamburgers,greenish-tinged ham sandwiches and the pizza Dominoes gives us for a discounted price when it's a day old. All these options come with french fries and the choice of salad and fruit. No one gets the salad, they all get the fries.
Then there's the snack line, the pride and joy of the cafeteria, a tiny room carved out of the wall filled with all members of the fat and suagar-laden genus. Hostess must love us, half the student body subsits on Ho-Ho's, Twixes and Famous Amos. These "snacks" can be washed down with one of the vending machine options, Coke, Gatorade and Tropicana for one dollar. Bottled water costs almost double that.
So with my one dollar left over from whatever I can't buy a bottle of water but I can buy a Pepsi.
And we wonder why most of the lower-income range is fat!
So please, my voting age friends, put your tax dollars towards vending machines that dont sell soda, or FRESH veggies that are cheaper then pizza. People can make all the documentaries and write all the articles they want, but they're pretty much preaching to the choir. I read those articles, my friends don't. But they can taste the difference between moldy bread and fresh oranges just the same as anyone.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Summer in The City
So every morning on the intercom our principal gets on the speakers and announces "Good morning School of The Arts, we are in our final countdown to the end of the year, its almost summer and final exams are just around the corner."
Now, every morning this sentence severally depresses and amuses me. Summer for school kids is the best thing that happens all year long. I love walking through the halls and feeling the mounting anticipation, the breeze through the windows and the shouts of teachers chasing after gleefull vagrants in too-short-shorts. It's a feeling like no other, directly contrasted with the fact that in the last blessed week before freedom, we're slapped with five days of testing. This seems like a pretty self-defeating thing to do, testing kids on stuff they learned six months ago the day before they leave the building for three more months. I dont know, from a teenagers standpoint, June exams are hellish, especially with the mounting threats of college transcripts hanging above all of our heads.
So I decided to combat the urge to simultaneaously blow off and study like mad for final exams by cooking all I possibly can during these gorgeous half-summer days.
Here in Rochester we have a fantastic farmers market, every weekend it fills with fresh produce and arty people focused on urban renewel and all that jazz. I love it for the seasonal veggies and the smell of frying doughnuts and coffee. I think that wandering the stalls and returning home to grill all the sweet potatoes and portobello mushrooms I can handle is the only thats going to be relaxing. NOT pouring over quadratic equations and the origins of the Roman Empire for hours on end.
I'll have to run this plan by mother...no doubt it is not quite in the best interests for higher education.
Now, every morning this sentence severally depresses and amuses me. Summer for school kids is the best thing that happens all year long. I love walking through the halls and feeling the mounting anticipation, the breeze through the windows and the shouts of teachers chasing after gleefull vagrants in too-short-shorts. It's a feeling like no other, directly contrasted with the fact that in the last blessed week before freedom, we're slapped with five days of testing. This seems like a pretty self-defeating thing to do, testing kids on stuff they learned six months ago the day before they leave the building for three more months. I dont know, from a teenagers standpoint, June exams are hellish, especially with the mounting threats of college transcripts hanging above all of our heads.
So I decided to combat the urge to simultaneaously blow off and study like mad for final exams by cooking all I possibly can during these gorgeous half-summer days.
Here in Rochester we have a fantastic farmers market, every weekend it fills with fresh produce and arty people focused on urban renewel and all that jazz. I love it for the seasonal veggies and the smell of frying doughnuts and coffee. I think that wandering the stalls and returning home to grill all the sweet potatoes and portobello mushrooms I can handle is the only thats going to be relaxing. NOT pouring over quadratic equations and the origins of the Roman Empire for hours on end.
I'll have to run this plan by mother...no doubt it is not quite in the best interests for higher education.
Friday, May 11, 2007
The Miracle of The Panini Press
One of the most difficult things about living in a family is deciding what to eat for dinner.
Both my mother and I are hardcore epicureans, dedicated to organic and locally centered living, while my brother is a staunch carnivore who only eats meat and cheese bi-products, coupled with the sometimes addition of my moms boyfriend (an almost vegan vegetarian), and you have an interesting delimma at 6:30. I feel sorry for mother, in her struggle to unite us at the table, we have probably half-starved my little brother at times. He more then makes up for this lack of nutrition however, in the utilization of our spankin' new Panini Press...40$ at Target.
Almost everyday when I get home from softball, I invariably find the kitchen covered in an explosion of cheese and pepperoni crumbles all over the place. Cooking in our beautiful stone floored kitchen is always a spatial challenge, as I try to navigate a sauce pan full of stock around the smoking little grill, with its sides slathered in melted cheddar. This post is dedicated to my little brother, in his never failing rebellion against the kale stews and tomatoe gazpachos of our kitchen, a battle fought with Kraft, Dominoes and the develish little impliment that is our Panini Press.
My favorite of his cholesterol raising creations would have to be a tie between the mozzerella-pasta-pepperoni panini (say that five times fast) and his breakfast dish fondly called "Burgers'n'Bits." This thing will kill you, unless you are blessed with a healthy lifestyle and a 11 year old boys metabolism. Its basically a crapload of eggs, butter, ground beef, and ketchup in a sauce pan. I think he's tapping into some latent substream of American cuisine few find in their life time.
Anyways here it is, my little brothers favorite meal to end all meals.
HARRISONS BURGERS'N'BITS
- four eggs
-half-lb ground beef
-tbsp butter
-grated american or cheddar cheese
-salt and pepper
-ketchup
Beat eggs till scrambled. In a sauce pan, heat up butter till melted, add beef and fry till slightly browned. Mix in eggs and stir till combined and beginning to set. Continue to cook until the eggs are almost done, sprinkle cheese on top and season accordingly. Serve with ketchup and any more grease you can imagine would taste good.
*go get a hell of lot of excerise and drink water.
Both my mother and I are hardcore epicureans, dedicated to organic and locally centered living, while my brother is a staunch carnivore who only eats meat and cheese bi-products, coupled with the sometimes addition of my moms boyfriend (an almost vegan vegetarian), and you have an interesting delimma at 6:30. I feel sorry for mother, in her struggle to unite us at the table, we have probably half-starved my little brother at times. He more then makes up for this lack of nutrition however, in the utilization of our spankin' new Panini Press...40$ at Target.
Almost everyday when I get home from softball, I invariably find the kitchen covered in an explosion of cheese and pepperoni crumbles all over the place. Cooking in our beautiful stone floored kitchen is always a spatial challenge, as I try to navigate a sauce pan full of stock around the smoking little grill, with its sides slathered in melted cheddar. This post is dedicated to my little brother, in his never failing rebellion against the kale stews and tomatoe gazpachos of our kitchen, a battle fought with Kraft, Dominoes and the develish little impliment that is our Panini Press.
My favorite of his cholesterol raising creations would have to be a tie between the mozzerella-pasta-pepperoni panini (say that five times fast) and his breakfast dish fondly called "Burgers'n'Bits." This thing will kill you, unless you are blessed with a healthy lifestyle and a 11 year old boys metabolism. Its basically a crapload of eggs, butter, ground beef, and ketchup in a sauce pan. I think he's tapping into some latent substream of American cuisine few find in their life time.
Anyways here it is, my little brothers favorite meal to end all meals.
HARRISONS BURGERS'N'BITS
- four eggs
-half-lb ground beef
-tbsp butter
-grated american or cheddar cheese
-salt and pepper
-ketchup
Beat eggs till scrambled. In a sauce pan, heat up butter till melted, add beef and fry till slightly browned. Mix in eggs and stir till combined and beginning to set. Continue to cook until the eggs are almost done, sprinkle cheese on top and season accordingly. Serve with ketchup and any more grease you can imagine would taste good.
*go get a hell of lot of excerise and drink water.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Brooklyn Sunshine
Considering that a good chunk of my childhood travels were spent in Manhatten, wobbling around the Upper West Side and chasing after pigeons in Central Park, I would like consider myself a seasoned New Yorker. However, up until a week ago I had never really ventured out into the "other boroughs", my experiences centering around hungry pissed off family members and jokes about the "Billysburg" hipsters. I was lucky enough to have the opportunity over the course of last weekend to spend three days cooking and exploring the city with two dear friends who reside in Carroll Gardens Brooklyn. We roamed all over the place in both buroughs, shopping for groceries in Union Square, wandering around the West Village and most importantly, eating.
I flew down Friday morning (skipping out on school..shhh dont tell) and we spent the first day in lower Manhatten, where we explored the epicurean wonders of Chinatown in tiny dimly lit dumpling houses, as well as the incredible smells that linger in "Curry Hill" and all of the wonderful trattorias that crowd Little Italy even amongst the sweaty New Jerseyians. There's nothing that satisfies a need to escape normality like a weekend in New York.
The highlight of my culinary life so far came that evening, in the doughnut shaped form of dinner at Telepan, an Upper West Side resteraunt c0-owned and cheffed by Bill Telepan. Now, though the "culinary wasteland" criticisms abound about the Upper West Side, this place is a real treat. The four course tasting menu (with a more then a few generous extras from the kitchen) left me so completely full and content I could not even think about eating until the next afternoon. The dessert menu is particularly creative and delicious, though most people seem enchanted by the "foi gras doughnuts", little cocoa and cinnamon dusted balls of duck liver that have a penchant for exploding all over the place and humiliating unsuspecting victims (ok, maybe that was just me). For lack of a better pun, the icing on the cake came with a visit to the kitchen, and my first glimpse into the magic that happens in the space between fine dining and completely wonderful chaos.
I flew down Friday morning (skipping out on school..shhh dont tell) and we spent the first day in lower Manhatten, where we explored the epicurean wonders of Chinatown in tiny dimly lit dumpling houses, as well as the incredible smells that linger in "Curry Hill" and all of the wonderful trattorias that crowd Little Italy even amongst the sweaty New Jerseyians. There's nothing that satisfies a need to escape normality like a weekend in New York.
The highlight of my culinary life so far came that evening, in the doughnut shaped form of dinner at Telepan, an Upper West Side resteraunt c0-owned and cheffed by Bill Telepan. Now, though the "culinary wasteland" criticisms abound about the Upper West Side, this place is a real treat. The four course tasting menu (with a more then a few generous extras from the kitchen) left me so completely full and content I could not even think about eating until the next afternoon. The dessert menu is particularly creative and delicious, though most people seem enchanted by the "foi gras doughnuts", little cocoa and cinnamon dusted balls of duck liver that have a penchant for exploding all over the place and humiliating unsuspecting victims (ok, maybe that was just me). For lack of a better pun, the icing on the cake came with a visit to the kitchen, and my first glimpse into the magic that happens in the space between fine dining and completely wonderful chaos.
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