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.

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.