tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9404605747435662582024-02-07T00:39:41.887-05:00Fast? Food? Feminist? Who . . . Me?"My life consists in my being content to accept many things."
Ludwig WittgensteinUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-36604798948288870792008-05-09T15:26:00.009-04:002008-05-10T10:46:19.686-04:00These are the Tunas of our Lives<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6zozww7Q-Ax0blhKxuWsuPs-yIFxwBWYVcarik7qv91WtHuAbyD74Aa_V_fJHvbkQ_PpwoeuJtPa_5hh51bSR76MOoRVNB_46WRy1t-kbjn2du2b-ivnTjYlCfkKEveN-rZKln2p_y-e0/s1600-h/1916154759_3b872442c9_b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6zozww7Q-Ax0blhKxuWsuPs-yIFxwBWYVcarik7qv91WtHuAbyD74Aa_V_fJHvbkQ_PpwoeuJtPa_5hh51bSR76MOoRVNB_46WRy1t-kbjn2du2b-ivnTjYlCfkKEveN-rZKln2p_y-e0/s400/1916154759_3b872442c9_b.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198472336571693746" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Photo Flickr-Matt Biddulph</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Charlie the Tuna is my friend. He's friends with lots of other people too, so I'll have to try to not be possessive of him. Often Charlie is forgotten about (so self-effacing!) but he seems nonetheless to be around in lots of kitchens, ready and willing to be helpful when needed.<br /><br />I was thinking about Charlie just the other day and wondered how everyone else felt about him. So rather vaguely, I posted a query on <a href="http://www.seriouseats.com/talk/2008/05/tuna-in-a-can-love-it-or-hate-it.html">Serious Eats</a> and the response was surprising. So very many ways to use tuna were described - there was a veritable treasure-trove of ways to dress up Charlie. Of course some people don't like him too much - I know that my own children do like tuna at home but never in public. The worst thing I could do to them would be to send a tuna sandwich in a packed lunch for school. I did try, once. Their horror after that experience dissuaded me from ever trying that again!<br /><br />As Mother's Day grows near the tunas made by women who were mother-figures in my own life came to mind. My grandmother (who was not a cook by any stretch of the imagination) put together tuna sandwiches as one of the few things she did "cook". On soft white bread, a mashed pulse of tuna mixed with mayonnaise was flattened along with a swath of butter thickly spread onto one of the bread slices, caressing one side of the tuna like a sliver of fat coolness to bite into. This is the way sandwiches were made in Maine where she lived, when she lived. Butter was a requirement or it simply wasn't a sandwich - no matter whether the filling had mayo in it or not.<br /><br />My mother didn't much like tuna sandwiches. I can understand why. Instead, one of her specialties was tuna casserole. Made with Campbell's cream of celery soup lined up in its red can and Mueller's elbow macaroni lined up in its blue and white box with the little peek-a-boo cellophane center, the tiny curls of macaroni smiling out through it.<br /><br />I loved that casserole. In later years I didn't make it very much - it was simply not in the "gourmet" category I liked to putter around in. Once I did make it, when a little boy was visiting. He was six years old and he knew his food. "You're a Great Cook!" he informed me after tasting the dish, which his mother did not make for him at home, I guess. "A Real Gourmet!" I was happy to have him think this, and remembered the taste of my own childhood.<br /><br />The blue and white box the macaroni came in was useful, too. My dog Wolfie (the most adorable little black Pomeranian one can imagine) stuck his head into the box for some reason then pushed his nose through the broken cellophane peek-a-boo front. It sat on his head like a bizarre crown for a furry little King. I only wish he had worn it every day, but he tired of it after about ten minutes, pawing it off then looking for something else to get into.<br /><br />My mother-in-law Josephine (a wonderful cook who had learned at her mother's side on a small farm in Italy) had six children to raise. Her way with tuna is remembered with both fondness and fear by her children. She did send tuna sandwiches for lunch, and her children did have to eat them. No discussion here - it was what there was to eat. Actually it was delicious though daunting to have to eat it in front of the eyes of taunting classmates as I hear tell - but I've eaten it and loved it. Flaked inexpensive tuna, grated carrots, finely chopped celery, minced parsley, chopped hard-boiled egg and grated onion with some mayo, salt, pepper and red wine vinegar went into the blend which was then put between slices of white bread. Her trick was to not drain the tuna too much. So what one ended up with was a lovely drippy mess which was rather disgusting at the same time.<br /><br />How many other ways is Charlie used? I roll a blend of tuna, mayo, capers and lemon juice between roasted red peppers then slice into roll-ups for a cute-looking casual h'ors d'oeuvre. Sometimes I layer tuna blended with mayo, garlic, lemon juice, plenty of ground black pepper and chopped parsley on a baguette with sliced tomato and Provolone and heat the whole thing in the oven for fifteen minutes for a savory, rich hot tuna hero. Divine. Add potato chips on the side and there is no need to imagine heaven - it is there in a very simple, quick bite. A plebian heaven perhaps, but then that's how I like it!<br /><br />For classicists, there's Vitello Tonnato. For Francophiles there's the famous Pan Bagna (Claudia Roden offers the best recipe, to my mind). Elizabeth David mentions a historic recipe from the 1500's for "Tarantella" in one of her letters to a famous friend. But of course that was before Charlie was canned.<br /><br />That Charlie. He sure does get around.<br /><br />Happy Mother's Day to All! (P.S. Save Charlie for another day - he's usually pretty easy to find.)<br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-82039326092698452122008-05-03T18:25:00.016-04:002008-05-09T09:49:51.443-04:00To Eat: Shoots and Leaves<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbwmW1WshxsrcD6tgcot-cKAla39knkms-9ngw3RUnvG6tk7Qb6rlVyrueklb3eCrhObJhSshm2k1lYgVXMG9UBZJYs7KOkcI_ttvwjdYOsT_M7Tk4-4A_rKGPquFIYde9F-TxknnD5OeW/s1600-h/308919406_07c601454b_b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbwmW1WshxsrcD6tgcot-cKAla39knkms-9ngw3RUnvG6tk7Qb6rlVyrueklb3eCrhObJhSshm2k1lYgVXMG9UBZJYs7KOkcI_ttvwjdYOsT_M7Tk4-4A_rKGPquFIYde9F-TxknnD5OeW/s400/308919406_07c601454b_b.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196589952295103154" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">Photo Flickr-john w</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I’m not on a diet. Nor is anyone else here. But that doesn’t mean that strong personal food preferences, definitely idiosyncratic food preferences, do not reach my ears as chief cook and bottle-washer, oft expressed in the well-known phrase “I don’t like that” when the dinner menu is being discussed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It's not really even (solely) about pickiness to my mind. It’s about taste and perhaps even about physiology. My daughter would like the world to be made of cheese, with a little bit of chicken on the side please. My son would vastly enjoy a universe built from Japanese food and Doritos. Me? I just want a salad. Preferably one someone else made, just for me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The only “diet” I’ve ever heard of that caught my imagination was written by MFK Fisher. Her advice was to make a meal of one good thing and lots of it, as much as one might want - then to plan the meals to create a balance of food over the day . . . instead of the more usual way of planning the meals to each be completely balanced as independent entities. The only problem with that diet could be the tendency to make every meal an ice cream meal.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">If I were on a diet, things supposedly would be simpler. Day would follow day, so nicely planned out and well-running. The Plan would Rule. No matter what the plan was. But is a diet really the answer? Most everyone I know is on a diet – and nobody is really too happy about it. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />It gets even worse when to add insult to injury the diets one decides to bow to then obstinately do not live up to the promises they hold. Not being able to eat things one really likes (whether it be for reasons of health or even merely of being organized in a family of many tastes) can make life seem rather grim. Especially if the diet is for health and as so often happens, the pounds do not magically start rolling off. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">My solution has been to try to find a happy middle ground, one without a sense of denial but rather a feeling of hopeful embrace. One solution to resolve my family’s “I don’t like that’s” is to say “To Eat: Shoots and Leaves”. It’s not a perfect solution, granted. But it’s better than eating (a diet), shooting (someone, anyone – maybe whoever invented the diet?), and leaving the scene grimly after meal upon meal of food not to one’s taste.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Embracing the eating of shoots and leaves can be shaped many ways. As a way to find a meal everyone likes, it often works for us. So if the perennial question of what to eat for dinner raises its head in your home, you might also want to respond to it with the answer - "To eat? Shoots and leaves!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Here is an excellent recipe to try, full of the variety any usual family with fully-developed idiosyncratic tastes requires. It’s an oldie but goodie, quiet but still staunchly standing. You too can be cute as a panda eating shoots and leaves.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >Sukiyaki Salad</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Buy lots of these good things. Be sure they are fresh and colorful:</span><br />Spinach</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Mung Bean Sprouts</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Mushrooms</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Red Bell Peppers </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Cabbage</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Cucumbers</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Carrots</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Scallions</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >Choose a salad dressing or offer all sorts: </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sesame-Ginger or Tomato Vinaigrette, or whatever odd things the children may like</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >Prepare your choice of: </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Grilled Beef, Chicken, Shrimp, Pork, Lamb or Tofu </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Chop and toss, dress and devour. You can make it pretty or just chow down, glad that finally the bickering has ended.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-82645433634781703412008-04-25T10:30:00.000-04:002008-04-25T10:35:57.111-04:00Hello Kitty in My Life<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY7AoH99MSrUQK3Wq11TjPikT5swiWAjUf8uVoZuw1J5INUPVc9AH4pjGHaJlSh-9T2SxYo7OTrNlsdPCPq7QBGCJecp1mVBHlxmTA2C3SkHutLD47V9KPqVXxW50edmQJouQhxelYJVcD/s1600-h/919754971_3476d00c41_o.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY7AoH99MSrUQK3Wq11TjPikT5swiWAjUf8uVoZuw1J5INUPVc9AH4pjGHaJlSh-9T2SxYo7OTrNlsdPCPq7QBGCJecp1mVBHlxmTA2C3SkHutLD47V9KPqVXxW50edmQJouQhxelYJVcD/s400/919754971_3476d00c41_o.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193191172875086338" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Photo Flickr - devlyn</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />Sung to the tune of "Let it Be" by the Beatles</span><br /><br />When I find myself in times of trouble<br />Hello Kitty comes to me<br />Speaking words of wisdom<br />"Be like me"<br /><br />And in the hour of darkness<br />There is still a light that shines on me<br />There will be an answer<br />Hello Kittyyyyyyyyy<br /><br />Hello Kitty Hello Kitty<br />I'm glad you talk to me<br />Bringing words of wisdom<br />"Be like me"<br /></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-62083754940226948922008-04-19T11:11:00.001-04:002008-05-11T15:00:27.352-04:00You Can, Go Home Again<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGanbM9bSpUg6qN-ttTdDplAX0N1G80ccNx7cbYAgA3Z_YdGeRGzvxb5yOGQC8C3hbkzlDt9V2S6xTb_QNRNRRUxJme0f9LLpSYWXAE6CHjBJ_4Qgk3I64w60suDw1Bg-7SIhegLCmeWOK/s1600-h/542696674_1a7a164508_b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGanbM9bSpUg6qN-ttTdDplAX0N1G80ccNx7cbYAgA3Z_YdGeRGzvxb5yOGQC8C3hbkzlDt9V2S6xTb_QNRNRRUxJme0f9LLpSYWXAE6CHjBJ_4Qgk3I64w60suDw1Bg-7SIhegLCmeWOK/s400/542696674_1a7a164508_b.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190979655108128450" border="0" /></a>Photo Flickr-law_keven<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_emwknrtue18/RlDof6sCnsI/AAAAAAAAAF8/sEr9QOkx7Q0/s1600-h/118_1823.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_emwknrtue18/RlDof6sCnsI/AAAAAAAAAF8/sEr9QOkx7Q0/s400/118_1823.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5066805215819374274" border="0" /></a><br />If you want to go home again, it's best to start out on a sunny afternoon on a late Spring day. You'll need a starting point of course, and the best starting point is always the Champs-Elysees.<br /><br />To get to the Champs-Elysees, go over the ten foot long bridge spanning the trickle of stream that separates Virginia and West Virginia on the long winding road dotted with hayfields, truck repair shops, and small houses, then turn right almost immediately into the new shiny Shell gas station with the Subway sandwich shop and convenience store all enclosed so nicely within it.<br /><br />Here the journey begins.<br />It's best to be dressed right for this occasion of home-coming. Men: bandanas and motorcyle jackets with black sunglasses will do, or alternately overalls with a white T-shirt and workboots. Slouchy-jawed and unshaven is best. If you can't manage this then at least wear a feedcap that has seen better days. Women: jeans and any old top are fine. Makeup and hair are the important parts here. Hair should be long and frizzley with bangs pointing upwards in seeming delight, or short scarily spiked out. No makeup but for dark black all around your eyes with a liquid eyeliner, providing a clear unsmudged intense accent.<br /><br />Drive north and turn onto Bozoo Road. Head up the road past the black cows that always seem to dance to the music on the car radio. Sometimes they ambulate to the beat, other times they wiggle their heads sideways and toss their tails. When the day is a bit chilly the younger ones might prance and butt heads, playing at a big fight. As boys sometimes look like puppies when they tussle and play, these young steer look like boys somehow, boys just stuck in the big leathery hides just pretending to be cows.<br /><br />Go past the sparkling pond that fills an acre and a half in the front yard where the bass and bluegills are always ready to bite. Drive straight out to the little brick church that sits on the top of the hill on the edge of nowhere, where the hills and green and sky just lay beyond till they reach the river and the old ferry some miles past, which is there but which seems like the end of the known universe, looking past the tiny deserted church with its dirt parking lot edged with its broken-down wooden swingset and kiddie slide.<br /><br />Stinking Lick Road is there on the left, the tiny dirt road heading straight back into the edge of the barren-looking woods. Someday someone might actually drive up that road and see what's there. Why would a place be called "Stinking Lick"?<br /><br />The place to go to is the Dairy Bar, and the Ballard Food Store too. Here, the burgers taste like burgers did in 1965, at any Dairy Bar anywhere. They taste like home, like summer, like simplicity and innocence. The french fries are crinkle-cut, the ketchup cheap and vinegary. Let's be clear about this. This is a world away from "gourmet". This is a world away from any sort of pretension, here at the Dairy Bar. "Ice Milk Available" says the old hand-lettered sign on bent posterboard stuck to the wall with yellowing cellophane rectangles of tape. The small square workspace is where all the food is made by the lady that owns the place with an always-present teenage girl assisting, learning to fry oysters, grill burgers, make a perfect swirl of soft-serve.<br /><br />When the order's ready it's squeezed out with a welcoming extended hand through the tiny glass window in small white sacks, while they call out names. And they do know your name. Be sure to keep your ear in good tune though, waiting to be called, for each syllable of your name will stretched into three, lilted into a song with high and low notes sounding through the air.<br /><br />Across the street at the tiny food store, the dark interior is belied by bright toppled boxes of produce and seeds and plants out front. Things look like they have been saved for survival purposes from some past wartime inside the store. The chicken feed is more prominently displayed than almost anything else except for country ham in a large cluttered plastic-wrapped assortment of cuts, and there's the round of hoop cheese around the corner next to the six fifty-gallon plastic garbage containers filled with different kinds of dried beans. They're labelled "new crop" when they are, of course. Pintos rule, and new crop ain't old crop by any stretch of a cook's imagination.<br /><br />Crossing the street, there's always the pickup truck driving by with too many people stuck together in the cab, lurching sideways with hay bales in the truckbed, sometimes followed by a battered horse trailer. They smile and wave through the open windows as they drive past. No, you don't really know them, they don't really know you, but you are here and they are here and that warrants a smile and a wave. You nod and smile and wave back and remember all this, this way of being.<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_emwknrtue18/RlDsHKsCnwI/AAAAAAAAAGc/c9xH30_9_R0/s1600-h/118_1829.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_emwknrtue18/RlDsHKsCnwI/AAAAAAAAAGc/c9xH30_9_R0/s320/118_1829.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5066809188664123138" border="0" /></a><br />There's always the guy that walks out of the store past you as you walk in. He might be tall and lanky, or short and skinny. He's never fat, for he works with his hands on a farm. He bales hay, fixes the vehicles that always break, handles the cattle and the crops and somehow he just never gets fat or pudgy or overfed. He's always there though he may not always be the exact same guy, but he looks right into your eyes, I mean right into your eyes, unashamedly, without hesitation or covertness of any sort whatsoever and he smiles the sweetest damn smile right into you. In that moment an internal breath is taken away along with a sweeping off of your feet even though you know that if you opened your mouth to talk you'd scare the guy half to death being, as you are, an "outsider". But that smile held the beauty of a simplicity that's rarely if ever seen outside these parts, outside places "like this", like the place you've come home to. No measurement, no conniving, no wondering, in that smile.<br /><br />In that smile, you're the girl that sits on the haystack laughing, as the colt skitters sideways at the cat that jumps from the grass to surprise it. In that smile, his eyes say in a straightforward manner, without any twisting torturously around as if under a sharp pin: I'm a good man. His eyes say this without question for he knows he is, without question. The sun rises, the sun sets. The world is as it has been for some long time here and it won't change too quick, no needs to worry about this that the other thing and more. Hay grows and is cut, over and over. Calving season comes regular with reminders of life and death as some calves live and some die, some rise and grow, some falter, and each one is a small perfect thing of beauty. That smile says he's a man who likes you as a woman, without question. It says, "I'll cherish you." And you know he would, for it shows in that smile, without question. He'd cherish you, and how often does that happen.<br /><br />Inside the dusky store a piece of hoop cheese is cut with the heavy battered knife from the huge black wax-edged round set out on the wooden table waiting to be cut by different hands, to be taken home to different homes, to be nibbled on by a hundred different people, each one devouring it crumble by slightly oily torn-off crumble. The plastic wrap is set right there next to it to wrap it.<br /><br />Time to go now. Time to drive back up the other road past the battered sign for the Cashmere Coon Hunt Club, where the guys meet on Friday nights to drink beer and plan that someday soon they'll head out to the woods with their favorite huntin' dogs to hunt raccoons . . . someday soon . . . then past more hills, more green, more cows, more ponds. Time to drive back to where you live which is not here. Time to go back to where you belong a mite more closely than you belong here.<br /><br />You can go home again, even if you don't really belong there, as each tangy crumble of warm orange hoop cheese will remind you. You can go home with the taste of each bite taken into your hungry mouth, touching your tongue as you nibble with little bites till bit by bit the hypnotic, acidic, dense buttery haunting taste is done with. Home is where the heart is, and sometimes you can even taste it. No matter how you're dressed.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-21662297533495647742008-04-12T13:28:00.002-04:002009-01-12T09:52:28.533-05:00Dining Upon the Celebrity Chef<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGsVqDUjR7meMHcXFqs69IBrUrMNWEGiVQfFcc8EUsToL0u-acJXzyPMifXlsxIcBh3uSQLDp14-s4OlG2mVmRPzmOdJfuwi0ngZiCB7NkFxP7r7uG9389uncEYdgIPnVFYGbYspS-jsrs/s1600-h/22792155_34e72ac061_o.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGsVqDUjR7meMHcXFqs69IBrUrMNWEGiVQfFcc8EUsToL0u-acJXzyPMifXlsxIcBh3uSQLDp14-s4OlG2mVmRPzmOdJfuwi0ngZiCB7NkFxP7r7uG9389uncEYdgIPnVFYGbYspS-jsrs/s400/22792155_34e72ac061_o.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188413708255422354" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Photo Flickr - David Wulff</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Today our guest blogger Moira Tuscanaro offers astrological advice on how to choose the chef just right for you.<br /><br />Hello dolls it’s Moira! With Mars in a tailspin it is vitally important for us to focus on what is truly necessary to inform and improve our lives. We must focus on that which will move us to a higher plane of existence.<br /><br />I speak now of Celebrity Chefs, of course. How indeed, could it be otherwise?! Purrrrrrr.<br /><br />Who among us has not wanted to devour one of these tasty morsels?! Who has not spent hours driven nearly mad with a constantly-simmering sense of urgent desire driving one’s thoughts, endlessly thinking of every move they make, wanting so very badly to have been there, to have been by their haute and hunky sides as they smacked that head of garlic or slapped that ever-so-rude runner’s hand?! It is touching to see, this mad passion. And we should indulge it, and indulge it well. Who knows where this passion might carry us? Gazing at the stars is merely the start of the path. Perhaps a side-trip into the kitchen will follow. Meow.<br /><br />Let us speak more of the Celebrity Chef. The food they create is just the tip of the iceberg. It merely serves to pique our interest in them personally. Who they are, what they do, their adventures in and out of money-making deals, whether they fulfilled the request for an order of foie gras in sheep’s milk and whether or not their hair was clean today! This knowledge is vital.<br /><br />Astrology leads us to the higher planes of thought, where can then decide: Are they perfect enough for us? Have they done all things in the right fashion that we need them to? And their testicles – have they both descended? We are so darn pleased and quite excited in an odd sort of way to be recently edified (by a renowned expert in the restaurant consulting field in a story on a certain foodie website) that this knowledge *is* required in this decision-making process! Yes indeedy! We now understand that we must only deal with those chefs with both, descendant.<br /><br />We will not speak of any women chefs here, for they are a breed apart. And besides, nobody ever mentions them anyway. Could this be due to the reason everyone knows deep within their true hearts? That the kitchen, indeed, is where women *really* belong? Mew.<br /><br />Here, then, are your advisements. Enjoy, enjoy! There is nothing more emotionally delicious and truly exciting to the egotistical taste buds than feeling the savory hot juices of a celebrity chef dripping down a happily quivering double chin, particularly if he is live and on the hoof!<br /><br />………………………………………………………………………………….<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Aries</span>: Your chef will have a ferocious temper. His enunciations will be fiery and his food will evoke thoughts of Amazonian adventures. His method of recipe development will be to arbitrarily toss bunches of pureed habanero peppers into every pan, after they were hand-chewed to a fine pulp by the easiest-going dishwasher on the staff. His hair will be messy, his chef’s coat bold with brightly embroidered titles. Many sparkling sauces will embolden your chef’s food, sauces made by reductions of as many pounds of wild game he can hunt each night from any slow-moving wait staff. Sharpen your teeth, Aries, and join him!<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Taurus</span>: Pork roast. Pork roast. Pork roast. Passionate pork roast. Pork roast with herbs. Pork roast stuffed with exotic fruits and braised in a fine red wine. Pork roast coated with fennel seed and garlic, wrapped in caul fat, slowly browned then cooked in milk. Your Taurean chef is there to sate you. Meat. Pork roast. Perhaps an artichoke to start, but a small one, enlivened with poached beef marrow and shaved Parmesan to kill off any vegetable flavor. Your earthy Taurean chef will make you so happy that you will be unable to stand up from the table after dinner. Fat, sublime, loving satisfaction will be yours. Take a bite.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Gemini</span>: Look deeply into your Gemini celebrity chef’s eyes. You may notice their innocent, pure gaze. Don’t be surprised when important utterances he allows to fall from his heart-shaped lips are as confusing as dancing on a floor where a pound of butter landed. Pretty, pretty food, though. Food that is easy, light, whimsical, and sometimes threateningly towering. Do not forget to place your napkin on your lap while dining upon the Gemini chef. He is can shatter quickly into a joyous mess of delicious flaky crumbs.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Cancer</span>: Cancer, your star-studded chef attends to the detailed requirements of status with the tenacity of a crab. Hints of his high quality will start outside the door to the restaurant, quiet yet audaciously tenacious reminders. Mind your manners with this chef! His food will not be as controversial as some you might find with the other astrological signs, but you will surely be eating a man who Knows Who He Is. Expect him to taste of the finest old Larousse or an equivalent modern text.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Leo</span>: The Leo celebrity chef will announce himself with a toss of his glorious mane soon after you enter his restaurant! Watch his progress as he magnificently swooshes through the dining room, bowing and graciously kissing each lady’s hand! His food will be flamboyant. Foams that hit your chin as the dish is placed before you and truffles en masse, carved into tiny swans strewn over the baby piranha eggs draped over a flittery filo butterfly will merely whet your appetite for more, more, MORE of him! He will be ever so happy to oblige.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Virgo</span>: Be quiet and be serious. Please wear your best clothes, dear Virgo, as you approach your chef. He is surprisingly skittish though touchingly formal. He will expect perfection from you as you dine every bit as much as he does from himself. Exude a sense of calm reflection as you eat your single perfectly poached mouthful of quail egg on the eighteen inch plate that the staff of three carry with completely straight faces to set before you. Take gentle small nibbles of him before chowing down for highest essence of flavor.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Libra</span>: The Libran celebrity chef is usually so full of charm (when you can catch him awake and not napping under the pastry table) that you might have an intense urge to lick him all over endlessly before diving in. From his kitchen he will seduce you with creations made for the tiny bite. Some of them will look quite silly. Nevertheless, as you laugh, your hunger to really bite him and to really bite him hard, will increase. Indulge yourself. He won’t mind. He will consider it a chance to take a break.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Scorpio</span>: Humble yourself before the Scorpio star chef’s menu creations. There is serious artistic merit invoked in each plate. If you act appropriately, there may be a seven-course meal provided, all for your appreciation. Make lots of happy noises while eating or he may hit you with his sharp tail or tongue.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sagittarius</span>: The gregarious Sagittarian chef is ready to entertain you by whatever means possible! Catch that still-flapping live fish as he throws it into the air towards you to prove its freshness! Tread upon the fresh herbs strewn along the floor towards the kitchen while deeply inhaling the aroma! Join the ranks of laughing wait staff at the bar for a drink or two while you endlessly wait for your table. It is all so much fun to have this happy raconteur of a star-studded chef in mind for a tasty meal. Don’t mind the mess, just enjoy the fun!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Capricorn</span>: Bring a book. Bring maybe two books. This could take a while. If you have enough patience to wait for your Capricorn celebrity chef to finally deliver your whole grain ethically grown biologically unaltered specimen of DNA-checked intelligent tiny portion of poached fish with Arctic sea nettles, it will be worth it. Please keep quiet about the whole thing, and eat him with a sense of duty and an air exuded of undertaking a higher calling. He will appreciate it deeply and in a heartfelt way.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Aquarius</span>: Get ready for glamour with this zodiac sign celebrity chef! Sighing with intense pleasure, he will be ready to strip off his Armani suit just for you to chow down upon him and all the creations on his luxurious menu. Most of them are only there for show, anyway, just to whet your taste. They really were never made by anyone in that kitchen at all. But so what! It is all in fun! Don’t forget to take off his Rolex before you start to nibble. It might give you an unpleasant shock.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Pisces</span>: The mystery that your chef exudes is only matched by the tasty lightness of his food. Often he can forget to make any food whatsoever, being swathed in a lovely daydream of what it is he will put on his menu tomorrow. Nevertheless, this chef has a happy sweetness of taste that all the chefs from any other astrological sign lack, and the kitchen staff always remembers to keep cooking, so who cares?!<br /><br />The stars have offered their advice to you, dear hungry ones.<br />Who exactly are these chefs in person? That is something the stars can not tell you. Only you will know that. Aside from the fact that these chefs are all men. Remember that these astrologic advisements do not apply to women chefs. They are a breed of their own and can not be defined within the parameters of what is flying around in the sky.<br /><br />Only you have the understanding of your own hungers, particularly those that strike when the Moon is full and bright, as it lies omniscient and heavy in the sky as if straining its ears to hear the distant baying of howling hounds. Meow. Prrrrrrr.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-42708596805115492022008-01-05T13:29:00.000-05:002008-01-05T18:31:15.815-05:00Jam Tomorrow, Jam Yesterday<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNw8gvUtZakq023iJLNVU6fqbbDn6e7McVXjD30MWVxlurjXM6GUlGSUz_UQrs0mwAAcEl6YMMqjy4L_IvM07WffdcnNfUhgATDvX1HTEN1Yr9offj1-GEYCmC64mCSD8r8cJg1FpbXGt1/s1600-h/88671157_988ed60a9a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNw8gvUtZakq023iJLNVU6fqbbDn6e7McVXjD30MWVxlurjXM6GUlGSUz_UQrs0mwAAcEl6YMMqjy4L_IvM07WffdcnNfUhgATDvX1HTEN1Yr9offj1-GEYCmC64mCSD8r8cJg1FpbXGt1/s320/88671157_988ed60a9a.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152063633045530706" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> Photo Flickr-ms.Tea</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><div><br /></div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><div> </div>But never jam today.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I know I promised to talk about chili, but as I must follow Lewis Carroll's rules it won't be today.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Instead there is something to read. It is more than good enough to eat. Wander to it if you'd like to read something warming and delicious in words. From Rachel - it's the <a href="http://fastfoodfeminist.blogspot.com/2007/12/mugging-for-santa.html">last comment on the linked post</a>.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I love to read Rachel's evocative writings. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-2043615617250272322008-01-04T08:05:00.000-05:002008-01-04T08:55:14.396-05:00How 2 B A Food Riter<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/67/Engelhorns_Romanbibliothek_-_Karl_Klimsch.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/67/Engelhorns_Romanbibliothek_-_Karl_Klimsch.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><div> </div>Writing about food is becoming an ever-more popular thing to do.<br /><br />Everyone is an expert, too - for who does not eat among us?<br /><br />I'm not sure how people used to become food-writers. Maybe they just decided to do it then did it but today the opportunities to study "food-writing" are growing with the verdant strength of mint in a hot summer garden. <br /><br />Even Stanford now offers an online course in food writing, which is not only listed on a Google search but is also advertised in the sponsored link section.<br /><br />Could this be the wave of the future? Could the best food writing professors at major universities ultimately replace the football coaches in income-earning ability?<br /><br />Admittedly, I'd like to see someone who talks of writing about food making several million dollars a year rather than someone who talks about how to throw balls while tackling each other - but that's just me.<br /><br />Maybe if a dining competition were part of the program it could help. Teams of college students, all well versed in dining (dining, not eating) could fill the stadiums . . . the games scored by how knowledgeable and discriminatory they were in menu choices and table manners. Ah, what a lovely dream.</span><div><br /></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I bet it would improve food concessions and the general state of tailgating, too.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;">.....................................................</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;">Tomorrow: Chili</span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-17159712664873997362008-01-03T08:51:00.000-05:002008-01-03T11:19:55.177-05:00Meeting? Meating?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhif-ktN1ELKFIkes9dEDZM9PHQPRQsvmxXrXKTkKgH3eSS3SLOZOdkpmd1PJ91eTiTY75dC7k54SCujMwDc_ddTtGEQrIg-0c_g23wrqXTwjnhNrucH-bx_tm3b200_B9_DPqu5IwMypOT/s1600-h/1429497355_3ac1f85f26.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhif-ktN1ELKFIkes9dEDZM9PHQPRQsvmxXrXKTkKgH3eSS3SLOZOdkpmd1PJ91eTiTY75dC7k54SCujMwDc_ddTtGEQrIg-0c_g23wrqXTwjnhNrucH-bx_tm3b200_B9_DPqu5IwMypOT/s400/1429497355_3ac1f85f26.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151251454729857090" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Photo Flickr-Jenguin</span></span><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><div> </div><div> </div>If it so happens that you are someone who likes meat, hates meat, or lives in a world where meat exists, you may enjoy taking a gander at <a href="http://www.meatpaper.com/">Meatpaper</a>.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: italic;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">"A print magazine of art and ideas about meat. We like metaphors more than marinating tips. We are your journal of meat culture" </span>is the editors description of the magazine.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Nobody even has to ask where the beef is - the online site offers meaty bites of the corpus of the print versions.</span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-58612209519896294052008-01-02T12:05:00.000-05:002008-01-02T12:19:57.625-05:00Putting Gender on the Table<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7a48WOEETvXNOmJztc9pLrTv6oBpJsEqWw7Rwi9D2ZiFcjB5kKGWLtSU-7ma8eXdiBGoSK7YXj-KwL3AIqgn34rp1m9_fzfvlk_uhDuOsWJGSdDsimrrmTonTMjPmOIxzpN9CIXIKxspS/s1600-h/154767049_f6863a3605.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7a48WOEETvXNOmJztc9pLrTv6oBpJsEqWw7Rwi9D2ZiFcjB5kKGWLtSU-7ma8eXdiBGoSK7YXj-KwL3AIqgn34rp1m9_fzfvlk_uhDuOsWJGSdDsimrrmTonTMjPmOIxzpN9CIXIKxspS/s320/154767049_f6863a3605.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5150927932023318578" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> Illustration Flickr-Todd Ehlers</span></span><br /><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><div> </div><div> </div></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It's possible one would rather have sex on the table, but this is a very good thing to read about. Food for the mind.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">From Harvard (wooooo-hoooo!):</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><a href="http://athome.harvard.edu/food/watch/1">Lots of things to think about.</a></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-19593592259212037722008-01-01T16:13:00.001-05:002008-05-11T15:01:22.131-04:00Barry Fig's ChipHard, small, knotted stones rose suddenly, pulsing with pain in the hot wet corners of Barry Fig’s cheeks. A startling, loud squirting noise came from his mouth. Barry had vigorously, and quite inadvertently, salivated.<br /><br />The taste reminded him of rice and sea salt blended into some gummy combination. Damn dream. It had embarrassed him in public once again. He moved away from the counter cautiously, pushing through brightly attired college students and dull corporate drones lined up for chai lattes and cappuccinos. He felt slightly dizzy and moved his hands to grip the cup more securely. As he sidled through the crowd, a glum silent little prayer repeated itself in his mind over and over, “I hope nobody heard that ridiculous noise I made!” But the sudden salivation must have been covered up by the steamy sound of the espresso machines. Nobody seemed to be staring at him. Barry decided to be thankful for small favors.<br /><br />Into the low purple velvet chair he sunk, coffee held close to his chest. The chair squeaked a mild puff of protest as Barry sandwiched his not-undersized bottom fully into its soft seat. Brazilian music percolated a bass note into the warm room that was made so pleasantly bright by natural light that flowed through the floor- to-ceiling windows. A disparate river of voices blended together in happy hip-ness mixed with sharp scent-notes of cinnamon, chocolate, and perfumed soaps. A seamless wave of sophisticated urbanity existed here in this so-familiar coffee shop cocoon . . . the mood was always so smooth, so genial.<br /><br />But today this damn dream was seriously getting in the way of Barry’s angst-free patina. Not even the four-dollar-ninety-five-cent-plus-dollar-tip-left-for-the-barista-with-a-smug-smile caramel macchiato helped erase the urgent discomfort that persistently bit at him.<br /><br />Dodging his pale slightly bulbous blue eyes here and there to be sure nobody was watching he gave a quick hard sideways tug at his fancy leather belt to relieve the tight pressure edging into his gut. The epiphany occurred then, in a shocked demi-second of illumination. It struck him like a big red lobster clawing his nose. It was time for this dream to be made real. He knew it would bring so much to the world. Who wouldn’t love this? It was time. It was past time, really, for the world’s largest potato chip to be built.<br /><br />His macchiato finished with a lip-licking slurp, Barry pushed up with his chubby wrists to leave his chair. Flipping open his cell phone to check the time with a practiced snap of his well-manicured hands, he emerged out into the sunlight. He decided to avoid the subway today – the end of the ride would no doubt be horrible in this heat. He raised his hand into the air, to hail a taxi out to his job on City Island as an assistant designer of elevator electrical panels.<br /><br />Bouncing away on the slippery cab seat during the twenty-minute ride, his mind focused on the details of his dream, how he would do it . . . but it was all rather fuzzy. He needed help with this thing. He didn’t know anything about food. (Except to know what he liked, of course.) He needed money, too, probably, and his credit cards were all maxed out as usual. How did other people do things like this? A large billboard caught his attention. “Nike!” was brazenly splashed across the wide surface. Ugh. No, that wouldn’t do. Corporate support was okay for athletes, but personally he hated all corporations. They were evil. It was corporations that were to blame for most of the world’s ills. It was really sickening that they should have so much money and power.<br /><br />He ran through the list of everyone he’d ever known . . . old friends, people he’d met on the elevator mechanics forum, family . . . but none of them had any money. Christ. How was this chip ever going to be brought into the world? But what about that guy his sister had dated last year . . . what was his name? Roan Haselshnitz! He knew stuff about food. He’d started three restaurants (none of them were still open, but anyway . . .) He’d made a mint. Now there was a really savvy business guy. Kind of guy Barry just naturally detested, but whatever. He’d get his phone number from his sister and give him a call.<br /><br />“Barry, dude! What’s been going on?” Roan was the same as Barry had remembered (a bit too loud and hearty).“What’s Cassie been up to? Married yet?” Barry worked his way nervously through the usual chit-chat. His heart skipped a beat here and there as he waited to get to the point: his dream, his fantastic project! Bent closely over his work desk, he started to doodle a huge potato chip onto the message pad before him, but quickly tore off the pink sheet and crumpled it as once again the familiar sensation began in his always-ready taste-buds.<br /><br />“Roan, dude. I uh . . . need your help, man. It’s about a project I’m working on. You know about food and stuff. And business and stuff. So I need to ask you something.”<br /><br />“Sure, dude. Ask away!” Barry pictured Roan in a leather chair, leaning back, toying with an expensive cigar. He always pictured Roan with a cigar, even though Roan was a non-smoking kind of guy, the sort of guy that was always a bit too thin, too fit, too damn healthy, which was disturbing in some way to Barry. He opened his mouth to tell Roan his reason for calling, his dream, and a hot flash overcame him. He felt as if he were sweating bricks all of a sudden. Somehow, without passing out (yet without really knowing what he was saying) he rapidly burbled words into the receiver of the phone. God, this was hard. It was his dream. What if this guy laughed at him? Or worse, what if he just was totally bored by it?<br /><br />At first when Barry stopped talking, he heard nothing. His blood felt as if it were starting to freeze in his veins, and the image of a frozen Icee flashed into his mind. He felt like he was spinning inside a big metal machine, all scrunched up and cold, palpably soft and over-sugared, just waiting to be expelled through a too-tight plastic tube into the sticky convenience-store atmosphere of real life.<br /><br />“Whoa, man. That’s intense. I like it!” Roan’s voice came to him through the frozen fog. “Everyone likes potato chips. Who doesn’t like potato chips? Man, I almost feel my mouth salivating right now!”<br /><br />Barry smiled. He knew that feeling. That feeling was a good one, as long as you were ready for it.<br /><br />“I’m not in the food business exactly, anymore, Barry,” Roan said. “But I might be able to think of some ways to help you get set up.” Barry was shocked, and a bit worried, for how could the guy help if he wasn’t in the food business anymore?<br /><br />“Most of my business now is done on the web, man. I have a couple of websites that generate income, actually pretty good income. They’re websites for foodies, you can make some good contacts there, dude. I’ll fill you in on the ropes. Your idea. . . will go over big, I’m pretty sure. Write me out a proposal for what you want to do and we’ll post it. We’ll give you a great online name. That always helps. Maybe we’ll even create a guy online to hassle you – that’ll get you the sympathy vote, and maybe even some bucks for backing. It’s a Gulliver’s Travels vs. Pinocchio sort of scene, you know. But we can work it for you. Listen, it’s made me a great income in the past six months. I love your idea!” he almost shouted through the phone with a huge guffaw of a laugh.<br /><br />Barry didn’t understand most of what Roan was saying but what the heck. It sounded cool, and he was really anxious to find a way to build this chip. When Barry clicked off his cell phone twenty minutes later he and Roan were firm friends and new partners in the business of “The World’s Biggest Potato Chip.”<br /><br />For two weeks now, Barry had been posting on Roan’s websites about his project to build the world’s biggest chip. At first he had some positive feedback, but no definite backers seemed to be interested. Each day he would log on to see what responses had come in. Each day things got worse and worse. People were posting ridiculous questions and even coming close to being insulting about his idea. “Posturing nincompoops,” he muttered to himself as he read the posts this morning. “Go fuck yourself.” That was the mantra he muttered each morning, over and over now, as he read the replies. “Go fuck yourself go fuck yourself go fuck yourself.”<br /><br />But today was different. Someone had posted offering what looked like good ideas, along with an offer to help. She had one advanced degree in Marketing and another in Biology. Minx Calipher. “What a beautiful name,” Barry thought. Her posts were full of stuff about who had done what, here and there, in this somewhat limited field of building large food dreams. “Gossipy little bit of strudel!” Barry smiled to himself, pleased at discovering all this new and valuable information. He decided to contact her.<br /><br />Finally, the project was underway. The chip was actually being grown, rather than built. A patent had been applied for in Minx’s name along with Roan’s, for they had provided the funds needed for the project. The only point of contention between the three had been about what sort of potato to use. Barry wanted to use an Idaho. An Idaho was already big to start off with, he figured, and had a sense of safety, and America, about it. Roan argued for Red Bliss, saying that the tensile strength of the potato would prove a good thing in the long run. Minx was for the idea of Peruvian Purples. So stylish and hip! After three days of bitter argument, they decided to leave the decision up to a vote by the members of Roan’s foodie website. Idaho won by a landslide.<br /><br />The plan was to grow the potato chip to its full, giant size, then to prepare it for cooking by spraying all its surfaces with canola oil. It would then be air-baked by a team of chefs, each wielding a hot welding gun gently over the surface of the chip as they walked around and around it, just close enough to cook it to a perfect golden crisp.<br /><br />Journalists called Barry weekly to find out the status of the project (one even invited him to guest judge on the top-rated TV show “Americas Biggest Chefs Spit Bricks”), for this would be the first giant potato chip ever developed with the use of Viagra as fertilizer. Minx, with her advanced degree in bio-engineering, had written a two hundred fourteen page thesis on the subject. Barry had scanned through it but had not bothered to read it, really, as first of all it looked like gibberish to him, which made him feel stupid, and second of all, he trusted Minx implicitly. Who wouldn’t! She was charming, and loved to wear tight low-cut blouses, which made her all the more believable.<br /><br />In the small closed-off room in the basement at Barry’s office building in City Island, dimmed lights were hung at odd angles from the ceiling and the chip started to grow. It had been cut perfectly with a mandoline, an oval orb from an Idaho potato – then placed on a cut-open and taped-down Hefty lawn-and-leaf bag to grow. It was doused with a precise amount of liquid Viagra daily. Barry had taken to gulping a bit of the Viagra too, as Minx visited often. Not that he needed it, he told himself. When his chip came through, she surely would love him anyway.<br /><br />And the chip did start to grow. First it extended into a larger oval, then grew even more. It had reached three feet in diameter when something started to change. It elongated into a shape longer than oval. It began to resemble a french fry more than a chip. Barry was extremely upset when he noticed the change, and called Minx to come over to the shop to take a look. He also was vaguely uncomfortable in general and was having difficulties walking because of his daily Viagra cocktails.<br /><br />“Jeez, Barry! What are you worried about?” Minx asked with a warm hint of maternal concern in her voice, when she saw how the potato had grown. She laughed as she tossed her Chanel necklace out of the way in order to put her face up close to the large, strangely-shaped bit of potato. “We’ll just call it the world’s biggest french fry! People love french fries! Maybe even more than chips! Ahhh, we could even make the world’s largest ketchup packet.” She poked with her burgundy-manicured fingertip at the potato and smiled, well pleased.<br /><br />Barry was wordless. His head pulsed with a pain that had started just above his left eye. This was his dream, had always been his dream, and she did not understand it! Sweat beads formed on his forehead and the taste-buds in the corners of his mouth felt hot, burning hot, and dry. They crumpled into sand-like piteous fragments like a taste-reminder of ancient stale Pop Rocks. Without thought, he grabbed Minx’s shoulder and twisted her around, pulling her up as she bent over the table, towards him, grasping her tiny waist and pulling her narrow bony hips up and jabbing into his own rounded frame, while still trying to stand up straight without embarrassing himself.<br /><br />Minx let out a little shriek, pulling her chin so far back into her neck that Barry thought she looked exactly like a french fry herself for a moment. “Barry! Cut it out! I’m with Roan. Didn’t you know?” She pushed him away, hard, and as she did, he grabbed the Hefty lawn-and-leaf bag to try to keep his balance. The bag slid onto the floor and the potato went with it. As it landed on the floor, the elongated huge piece of potato broke into shattered bits.<br /><br />Barry and Minx stared at it, breathing hard, frozen in time and space. Minx was the one who moved first, to start to clean it up. “I’m sorry, Barry. I guess that’s the end of that.”<br /><br />It was the end of Barry’s hopes and dreams. Minx and Roan sold the story of the chip to a scientific journal then used the money to take a trip to Cuba where, Barry imagined, they were smoking small vile cigars and drinking bad rum at this very moment. His dream had been crushed, ruined, and on top of that he’d had to consult a medical specialist to help with the problem that he’d developed from drinking all that Viagra. He couldn’t start over again with another chip, for Minx and Roan owned the patent to the idea.<br /><br />One bright morning, on his way to work a few months later, he patiently waited in line at the coffee shop. A strange woozy feeling came over him. A dream. A new dream. No longer a chip. Instead, the image of a doodle came rushing with a vibrant glory into his mind. A cheese doodle. The biggest cheese doodle in the world. And it would be his. It would be Barry Fig’s Big Doodle. He couldn’t wait to begin. Sometimes, he thought, a chip is just not enough.<br /><br />Barry smiled, and salivated loudly with a startling, loud squirting noise, surrounded by all the brightly attired college students and dull corporate drones lined up for chai lattes and cappuccinos.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-32800565925075674722008-01-01T10:43:00.000-05:002008-01-01T12:06:19.091-05:00Environments Near Far and Virtual<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c8/Kessel_Monkeys%27_Feast.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c8/Kessel_Monkeys%27_Feast.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(85, 26, 139); text-decoration: underline;font-family:Georgia;"> </span></div><div> </div>Kessel's </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Monkeys at the Feast</span><br /></span><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Monkeys at a feast. In ways it reminds me of humans on the information superhighway.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><div> </div><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It's astonishing the ways online environments have replaced real ones in terms of time spent in various degrees, for various purposes. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">In the past year I learned a lot about the virtual experience. On the plus side, there are some people who over time have shown themselves to be rather wonderful people in my life, though I do not know them "in person". On the minus side (but not really for all things learned lead to some sort of hoped-for wisdom) there are some people or environments which (just as in real life) have proved to be toxic in my life.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The toxic in life always startles me. Intellectually I'm ready for it but nevertheless there is always an element of surprise, emotionally. One never wants to see the toxic, of course.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The great thing is that when one departs from a place or person that is toxic the feeling of possibilities increase as if by magic. And of course in reality the possibilities increase too, for there is no longer a struggle of the confusion wrought not by good fairies but rather by imps.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I recently read a post by a new member of a website (or rather the website prefers to be called a "Society" actually) a few weeks ago and it made me laugh aloud. It was this new member's first post and though they noted that they dared to do it in order to contribute their thoughts to the topic, nonetheless they somehow felt "guilty" just for noting their thoughts, and that this had never occurred at any other site, and they could not really put their finger on the "why" of it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">So often I had felt the same way when participating in this "Society". Being versed in management I often wondered how this could happen (for it not only happened to me but to other people I knew and more than a handful of them too).</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Was it an operational flaw? Lack of management structure or accountability? Was it due to the fact that there was no real pay given to management types but rather there was the coin of ego boost attached to title given, the feeling of being part of the powerful (sic) in-group, the bonus of having their essays printed in the literary section of the site? (All good things but not in the real world equating to the variety of professionalism granted when compensation by real money is given for a job done.)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Or was it due to the leader?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I've developed a thesis by watching things over the years: The priest makes the church. The rituals are important, the structure is required - the supporting cast necessary, too - but the final tone of the place is set by the priest or leader.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Why did this person new to the site feel guilty? Why have so many other people been made to feel quite odd and uncomfortable when they do not feel so at other places?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I don't have an answer to that. And can't really find one that satisfies me, for the Society I speak of (or the website anyway, which has named itself a Society), although seemingly transparent in all things operational is in reality opaquely transparent in all things operational. One might think a lawyer designed it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">And goodness knows what lies at the hearts of things lawyers design.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">There are so many other environments, though. Near, far, and virtual. I'm pleased to have found that there are no new members posting of feelings of guilt in any of them I've noticed so far.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I feel like a new woman, having emigrated from a place where I often felt quite uncomfortable. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">In the new year to come, if you feel uncomfortable or unhappy, do consider yourself . . . consider what contribution your own acts may have conspired to have this be so. But do also consider your environment. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Some can be toxic. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">If we are to be monkeys at the feast let's be sure the food is to our tastes. If not, search out another table. Good tastes are waiting, somewhere.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Chomp chomp.</span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-49063165740549736002007-12-31T11:53:00.000-05:002007-12-31T13:08:30.450-05:00Soupy or Savory<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2o849j9X8SvzuUCQiSzbNtwQtw76lrpEs4HrzXNnpshbDSWmohKjfe2mYlnST86J-7ivQ_6yAj_wnI-9duoISwhTSk1cm8x820M8t5xdJ1Ar-GC4xF4mrbNQ5atoW2sHJ21HX0j0ItEIG/s1600-h/261786098_8558a5b5a7.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2o849j9X8SvzuUCQiSzbNtwQtw76lrpEs4HrzXNnpshbDSWmohKjfe2mYlnST86J-7ivQ_6yAj_wnI-9duoISwhTSk1cm8x820M8t5xdJ1Ar-GC4xF4mrbNQ5atoW2sHJ21HX0j0ItEIG/s400/261786098_8558a5b5a7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5150188970015139858" border="0" /></a><span style=" font-style: italic;font-family:arial;">Image Flickr-The Madonna of the Cupcake-Barbara Rich</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Today your soup will be ready to eat. That is, if you did continue to make it rather than just read about it. Either way, it is New Year's Eve - and that means the approach of New Things.<br /><br />Whether one likes it or not, the year forward measured separately from the one past will bring new things. Some pleasant, some not. Some participated in, some just happening to one without any warning or ability to really personally control what happens.<br /><br />Last year at this time I never imagined I would bother to write a "blog". The word blog has always sounded silly to me, but then again names can alter in perception and shift in meaning, all depending on many factors.<br /><br />One of those factors is how often the name is used. Some distasteful names can lose a bit of their fury if used over and over and over till they become almost bland simply from overuse.<br /><br />Some distasteful names never lose their ugliness, of course - for some ugliness is as sticky as the strongest Superglue one can imagine, and will be so as long as "human" beings are human beings.<br /><br />I became a "fast food feminist" when the name was thrown at me - a label, stuck upon me to be shed or ignored, accepted or worried about. At first I worried about it. The label carried a subliminal hate held within it, and that hate had nothing really to do with food, "fast" or not.<br /><br />"Feminist" is the word of power in this name. It shimmers in the air, the word "feminist" with overtones of all sorts of things. It is fearful to many, the word. For women it holds the possibility that if they claim it as their name they might just be the ones that don't get asked to the Prom.<br /><br />The word is a challenge.<br /><br />The word is an interesting challenge, though, and I decided to carry it rather than turn away from it to simper winningly at those who dislike it. Maybe the use of it over and over and over will soften the fear of what is carried within it by those who do fear and hate it.<br /><br />The boy who threw the word at me was a boy. A young man. I hope he grows into a real man rather than the boy he is - for any male person who needs to fear the word is not a man in my sense of what a man is, for Real Men do not Fear Women (whether they are "feminists" or not). They have grown past that stage.<br /><br />Certainly men (and women) have the right to dislike "feminists" as a group (though feminists are not a cogent group of any sort - they are individuals and highly individualistic) but they won't be on my radar as being particularly interesting people but rather, they would seem to me to be cerebrally and emotionally-challenged idiots.<br /><br />I leave you on the brink of this New Year with the words I wrote that caused Fast Food Feminist to be as a name thrown in response. A new year is almost here, and with that, new opportunities in all ways. This blog might be continued, or might not be. I've said what I wanted to for the most part, and do not think that detailing my daily eating or cooking habits is something that intensely fascinates me at all, as an activity.<br /><br />As a "blog" instead I may add some links to other things, for lots of people say and write excellent things that are worthy of sharing.<br /><br />A joyful, useful, prosperous and loving (if you can find it or make it) New Year to all!<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">One interesting facet of "fast food" or convenience food, which the US might arguably be said to lead the way in, to our collective (?) detriment, is that it freed a huge female population from the daily assigned chores that had taken them hours a day for centuries, in their roles as homemakers.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">That means a lot, to a lot of people. It means that they can do things besides be in the home, cooking. It means that they can become professional at any other thing they may want to consider, thereby finding ways that their souls can soar. It means that single mothers can work outside the home and put a hot meal on the table (oh no, not gourmet, but edible and perhaps even good) for their children when they get home, quickly. </span> <span style="font-style: italic;">The very fact that fast food or convenience foods exist allows many women to consider the idea of cooking as a pleasure, not something they *have to do* three times a day seven days a week. Naturally I am not speaking of the wealthy here, but of the working class or poor. It means that more women can love cooking as an expression of themselves, as an enjoyable task.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">In one sense fast food may be a collective detriment. It sure ain't "gourmet". But to tell the women of any country that have the opportunity to utilize fast food *or* convenience foods *when they please* that these foods are detrimental to their lives, that really it is so much better to cook slow food, for that "tastes better". . . to my mind, that is a disservice. </span> <span style="font-style: italic;">The "taste" of a thing is not only on the tongue. It is also in the heart and mind and histories.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-73409871075058938122007-12-30T06:50:00.000-05:002007-12-30T07:03:30.763-05:00Day Two - Go for Pizza<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The great thing about time is that it can be what we make it.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Therefore today I am going out for pizza, a good pizza, but one with no pretension.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">There are many recipes for Split Pea Soup at the touch of a google.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">There are many blogs too, with recipes for it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I'll enjoy thinking of them at the pizza place.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Time is what you make of it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">And you are not what you eat.</span></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-91073821107046045272007-12-29T09:14:00.000-05:002007-12-29T10:09:58.549-05:00A Base of Reality<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz2-S3cxSF-6GDj1DhVAvP0ZEJ3ZAQMCiuhgIQXkwbZb8J6_XGOKi1x2-JsHPu3AOvv0EJuK1n9b4XMqXbwTnck-CPP-to9WdeRFyN60P3cs_g9-NuxU8mW_8qxEaOiuGn_RSWDryL1TIA/s1600-h/213006354_c9a5a93ed8.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz2-S3cxSF-6GDj1DhVAvP0ZEJ3ZAQMCiuhgIQXkwbZb8J6_XGOKi1x2-JsHPu3AOvv0EJuK1n9b4XMqXbwTnck-CPP-to9WdeRFyN60P3cs_g9-NuxU8mW_8qxEaOiuGn_RSWDryL1TIA/s320/213006354_c9a5a93ed8.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149410309624244226" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> Photo Flickr-esterase</span></span><br /><br /><div> </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Why make a soup? Why, when there are recipes available for so many other things? Recipes for delights from The French Laundry that hover in minds near godliness (I've heard the chef referred to as a God which was startling as I thought that a chef was a trade or profession myself), recipes from dozens of ethnic foodways (oh let's say "cuisines", it sounds cooler) that dazzle and impress those unused to seeing or eating them every day, recipes complex and gorgeous everywhere that can produce shiny food-porn capable of excellent photo-shots on the kitchen table?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The reason to make a soup is that it is one of the most basic and real foods known to man and womankind.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The reason is that it is a humble thing - something that in times past kept people alive when there may have been not much else to eat. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Another reason is that people (most people, anyway - and I would go so far as to say "anyone who is not really mentally twisted in some terrible manner") love good soup. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Day One: First you must get your ham.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">This is a fast thing for us today, most of us. In past times it was different. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">In past times first you'd have to get a pig. If you didn't have money you'd have to find a husband with a pig or a wife who would bring a dowry of a pig then marry them. That pig would have to find themselves a pig of the opposite sex to make babies with (there is some pleasure in all this work) then have the babies, suckle and wean them. Then the little piggies would have to be raised with pasture or feed, pigslop and fresh water (which means a stream nearby or a trough filled constantly), and maybe even a nose ring installed to keep them from digging ("rooting" is the right word and I often wonder what old-timers think when they see young people with nose rings installed in their young faces) themselves out of the fence somehow built in the heavy soil to contain them.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Once big and fat the pig would need be slaughtered (not a pretty thought) with sharp implements by someone (whoever could do it?) or if it were closer to today's time, a truck would be needed to load the pig on to transport it to a slaughterhouse where the sharp knives and the person who could do it were available. Then the enormous animal could be cut up with the knowledge and skills of pig anatomy into the porky bits most of us know and love.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">After that the ham could be salted, seasoned, smoked over the right sort of wood in the right sort of humidity and temperature, then cured.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Why even think about all this!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Why? Because somehow it makes the soup taste better if you know this, not only to you but to whomever tastes it - even if you just go to the grocery store to buy a ham, flashing the debit card easily through the slot for payment. I assure you it does, but there is no real proof of it. Just try it and see.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Today get your ham. Go to the grocery store or wherever you get ham from and choose it. It should be from the shank end and not too fatty. This is not a ham to serve, spiral-sliced and glazed. This is a ham that has the power to make a soup. It will not be gorgeous but it will be strong and good.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Surprisingly it will also be inexpensive.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">If you do not have onions, carrots, celery in the house pick up those too. And a bay leaf and dry thyme.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The work of Day One is done. The base of reality has been found.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-70615026732341569362007-12-28T11:56:00.000-05:002007-12-28T14:49:17.029-05:00I'm Late! I'm Late! For a Very Important Date!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/83/Alice-white-rabbit.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/83/Alice-white-rabbit.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><div> </div><div> </div>It's a lie. I'm not really late for anything. But time does seem to fly and the decision must be made how to use it. </span><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Cooking, real cooking, can seem to take a lot of time when one is busy - it can seem to take a lot of time even when one is not particularly busy but when one might just want to do other things.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">But home-cooked food does have an attractive savor, a personally-made-to-order delight about it in all ways.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Therefore, for those who can empathize with the White Rabbit glancing at his time-piece, there is the Three-Day Authentic-Homemade Pea Soup.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The Three-Day Authentic-Homemade Pea Soup (which we will now call the TDAHPS which sounds something like a panting desire for something good to eat if you say it aloud) takes no time at all to make although it takes three days. It is a magical soup, a soup that will center your spirit and also, it just plain tastes really good.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">If you eat TDAHPS you will feel thick as a den of thieves. You will feel solid as a pea-souper fog but without the discomfort of not being able to see where you are going. You will be happy because you will have made a three day soup without spending any time, any time at all! (Or very little, anyway. It is all in how you look at it.)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Tomorrow we begin.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">P.S. This recipe will not be useful to any celebrity chef wannabes. There is no Big Name attached to it, no rubbing-off of fame and fortune, no pretense that it will make a home cook "just like those guys" in any way whatsoever. There are no bragging rights held within this recipe and not the merest whiff of haute technique for the haute technique groupie at home. It might, however, be exactly the sort of thing those Big Names enjoy cooking and eating when they go to their own home kitchens from the theatre of their restaurants or television stages. It just might be.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-19669964556795547192007-12-27T09:40:00.000-05:002007-12-27T13:50:52.939-05:00Some Important Questions<div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRWdcn6wK8ETRixAMCmdyA9opM7aYRaXwkEWN_XQhROmyO_QKV3V0RwyirHVmtbd6lwVZJA-RnH7wu4dviua-acwtC_UL68liyCgmaQh-MiwUX-ZWYRYuEFKc0lstmPnpfCM5bJI0MWeIF/s1600-h/504127845_5971f12056.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRWdcn6wK8ETRixAMCmdyA9opM7aYRaXwkEWN_XQhROmyO_QKV3V0RwyirHVmtbd6lwVZJA-RnH7wu4dviua-acwtC_UL68liyCgmaQh-MiwUX-ZWYRYuEFKc0lstmPnpfCM5bJI0MWeIF/s320/504127845_5971f12056.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5148669891622152146" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><div> </div><div> </div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> Image Flickr-Radio Rover</span><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The mailbox is overflowing, so let me try to answer some of the important questions today.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Q.</span> Why do you keep writing up short and simple recipes? Don't you know that complicated and expensive is better?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">A.</span> Scientists are on the brink of proving once and for all that there is no special place in Heaven reserved for those who spend more time and money on food than others, so I am jumping on the bandwagon early.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Also, to set Heaven aside for a moment (goodness knows we have to) it used to be thought in the world of the profane that sacrifice and struggle made a person more worthy and deserving of all the good things that can come one's way. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Women (some, not all) took this notion to heart and have applied it to food throughout history, and it is only in modern times that this concept is being questioned objectively and found wanting. Children do not grow up into finer people based on the fact that they did not eat canned or frozen food while being raised, and grown adults can be absolute assholes even though they may make their bread from scratch and eat only organic free-range happy carrots and purple rice (or alternately, gold Kobe tidbits with silver sha sha sauce).</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Q</span>. What was the best thing you ever ate?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">A.</span> I often remember the mashed potatoes. I ate them at a pot-luck. They were made by one of the ugliest women you would ever imagine to see - her hair was dank and stringy, she was shaped like a very large rotten pear and she did not seem to brush her teeth well . . . there was always yellow stuff curling up in the far corners here and there. But her mashed potatoes were the best I've ever tasted in my life, and she offered them to the world as if they were "just the usual thing". Her husband was a very good-looking man, in contrast to her - and I have to wonder if the mashed potatoes she made gave him his looks or whether the mashed potatoes she made were her soul shown in a covered hot bowl. If so, then she was gloriously gorgeous, going far beyond what surface he or she had to offer. Could this be true?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Q.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">What was the worst thing you ever ate?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">A. </span>It was a casserole. There it sat on top of the stove humbly prepared. It was a combination of grey ground beef, white bread and Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup tossed together then topped with canned pineapple slices and baked. I know this, for I asked for the recipe. This casserole was made however, by a gorgeous woman - a tall leggy blonde with a beautiful smile, a large happy husband and two good children. To put the icing on the cake the family was also devoutly religious and not pushy about it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Q.</span> Have you ever eaten a mythical beast?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">A. </span>Yes. There's myth everywhere in the air and it often sheds onto things without anyone noticing. I've eaten many mythical beasts. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I've even known one or two quite well.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Q.</span> Why the "Fast Food Feminist" thing? Why not "Elegant Sublime Woman Cooks"?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">A.</span> I'll tell that story on New Year's Day.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-40918584600662865492007-12-26T15:48:00.000-05:002007-12-26T15:59:59.148-05:00Painless Crispy Pita Toasts<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDBgSeADTTIt_6HDRCLWtX0Ponh-vPm9lzqp38uGla074sLlmgQBnjHvqSYIzZgrOZNBv7F6ocy-k-CpAVcbPiavr39dYVZwg4SdRN1_T3YNTV59wWlTihQNYZOlTcdAEd82sYPwMr5LF2/s1600-h/40472883_1a73922ac9.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDBgSeADTTIt_6HDRCLWtX0Ponh-vPm9lzqp38uGla074sLlmgQBnjHvqSYIzZgrOZNBv7F6ocy-k-CpAVcbPiavr39dYVZwg4SdRN1_T3YNTV59wWlTihQNYZOlTcdAEd82sYPwMr5LF2/s320/40472883_1a73922ac9.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5148388489659885490" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> Photo Flickr-the15</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><div> </div><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It looks as if it would be great fun to make pita bread in the authentic manner. The fire, the steel, the aroma that must rise.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Today however I do not have the time to start a fire outside. So instead the grocery store shelf will provide my pita bread, and it is usually okay though usually also not great.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I like grocery-store pita better made into crisps then served with a dip - guacamole for example. Or with a soft creamy cheese.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Here's a recipe for pita crisps that are quick and delicious:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><a href="http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/14053">Pita Toasts</a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">This tastes even better if before baking you whisk an egg with a bit of water to brush the tops of the pita then sprinkle on a generous mixture of seeds and herbs - sesame, poppy, flax, thyme, hot pepper, lemon zest or whatever takes your fancy.</span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-11144382991454306062007-12-25T18:46:00.000-05:002007-12-25T19:06:30.135-05:00Raising a Mug to Santa<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_bCW-eO17Uo9vaDcmKTUEdI1xHRgIdfnHykNXKYAQ6Wf0erJz546pn_FVWr7JskrACENFIXxc5QCqwmwUjnrnQjaDfkF0TLHe4-eSs4kdodYEtzaI7RjSeqZQmcUBvHkRKCZRG5_lloEU/s1600-h/75993704_3a02fc87b8.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_bCW-eO17Uo9vaDcmKTUEdI1xHRgIdfnHykNXKYAQ6Wf0erJz546pn_FVWr7JskrACENFIXxc5QCqwmwUjnrnQjaDfkF0TLHe4-eSs4kdodYEtzaI7RjSeqZQmcUBvHkRKCZRG5_lloEU/s320/75993704_3a02fc87b8.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5148063510959433634" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> Photo Flickr-gak</span></span><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><div> </div>The rush to the finish line of the holidays is almost over. The ham has been eaten, the roast beast devoured, the turkey pinched in all the right places and the vegetables admired and maybe chewed upon.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">If the cook is tired it would be understandable.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">In this case, the cook needs something warm, something soothing, something to sink into for comfort and sustenance to meet the dirty dish pile.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Normally I would advise Glogg. It is a Swedish hot fortified wine. But who needs to cook more, I ask you. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Not this cook. So instead take a mug and fill it with two-buck-chuck. Add a pinch of Chinese five spice powder. Add two lumps of demerara sugar, or any equivalent sweet thing. Pop it into the microwave for under a minute, stir and take sustenance. Sitting down, not standing over the sink or inbetween picking up dirty dishes.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">If you wish to struggle for some unknown reason, here is the authentic recipe with all the bells and whistles:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(85, 26, 139); text-decoration: underline;font-family:arial;"><a href="http://www.theworldwidegourmet.com/drinks/hot/glogg-sweden.htm">Glogg</a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">More work really does not make a person more moral, though. I'd rather be quick about it and get on with raising a mug to Santa than be zesting lemons and stirring a pot. </span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-29286365707878364662007-12-24T09:42:00.004-05:002009-05-07T09:16:36.326-04:00More Sugar, Spice and Everything Nice<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnVCwcAbXFt26tDB5CTd3nak56rlgKiuuEJBp4UNqveZITFKOP8oq7qThGacm7RijZXhlxkqjmZWTINaOCsEFfqEG7PR3LVAgdNh_R6n7rem1hiSxgrmQ4YduRSgktC4pfo60Dq1guc6hg/s1600-h/1982035178_a63a4d1399.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnVCwcAbXFt26tDB5CTd3nak56rlgKiuuEJBp4UNqveZITFKOP8oq7qThGacm7RijZXhlxkqjmZWTINaOCsEFfqEG7PR3LVAgdNh_R6n7rem1hiSxgrmQ4YduRSgktC4pfo60Dq1guc6hg/s320/1982035178_a63a4d1399.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5147746250315212690" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq2e9-k57dotWra5BRbtnb0LY9jSswaBbI9G81hmPQTC4gjePFT-JyIsVCr35Of4HtADy_2eDhyphenhyphenBhcJBsWYRVgCJgQ6lxJlvctGcZTccAUVwnwT_f4B1GHKsj7gausGyNTdN5yGhEMXgr6/s1600-h/351231835_943be7631d.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq2e9-k57dotWra5BRbtnb0LY9jSswaBbI9G81hmPQTC4gjePFT-JyIsVCr35Of4HtADy_2eDhyphenhyphenBhcJBsWYRVgCJgQ6lxJlvctGcZTccAUVwnwT_f4B1GHKsj7gausGyNTdN5yGhEMXgr6/s320/351231835_943be7631d.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5147551318929516402" border="0" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Photo Berlin Wall Flickr-siyublog<br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Photo Flickr-Eric in SF</span></span><br /><div> </div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><div> </div>There is spice to talk about. The salt, the smoke, the herbs, the leaves and bark of trees we eat. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br />Since today is Christmas Eve Day, I'll tell a story about something made with spice. A ham.<br /><br />Each time the season of Christmas approaches, I think of this story. It was about a woman, a man, a child, and a ham.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br />And some other things.<br /><br />The machine guns were firm in the hands of the tense guards at the border. They were wary and ready for anything that night at Checkpoint Charlie one day before Christmas Eve in 1989.<br /><br />Nervously passing their hard-eyed inspection we drove on into the gathering dusk to our destination. The tiny house set in the sloping streets of the East German industrial suburb was grim-looking and dark when we first saw it - only the faintest of yellowed lights dimly shone behind the closed curtains. Anna pointed her finger urgently towards the house, after reading the number on the mailbox twice out loud. We pulled into the narrow driveway and sat there together with the car engine still running.<br /><br />“That’s it! He lives there!” Her voice was tight, high timbered, and strangled at the place it hit her heart.<br /><br />Her brother was inside that house. She had not seen him for many years. They had been children when the Berlin Wall was built and the family had been split in two - Anna lived with her mother in the West - growing into a woman with her own children - and her brother remained with his father in the East. There had been very little communication over the years.<br /><br />The door opened and a slight man looked out at the car in his driveway from the threshold. Vaguely outlined, the dusky light allowed enough to see that he was dark and slim, and had a moustache. “Tomas!” his sister cried out. “Tomas!” She almost fell out of the car then ran, stumbling up the concrete walk to the house where she and Tomas fell into each other’s arms. He pulled her into the house. His wiry arms were wrapped so tightly around her that she almost disappeared right into him, blending the two of them into one solid shape.<br /><br />We waited in the dark driveway for a while to be sure all was well. It was quiet and lulling, the wintry night air clear, bright and and heavy. When the door to the house opened and light streamed out into the darkness it startled us. We awoke from what had seemed like a dream. Anna beckoned towards us, delicately making her way down the icy steps.<br /><br />She wrapped her hands around the support of the opened car window. “Please come in and meet my family. My brother would like you to.” We bundled out and followed her up through the snow into the house. It was chilly inside. The only fuel for heat was coal.<br /><br />As Anna gestured us towards the battered sofa (a brightly colored crocheted throw carefully laid over its back) her brother walked into the room carrying a platter of food. Dark thick slices of ham were carefully arranged on one side of the platter, black bread and pickles on the other side. It looked like the same ham we had eaten at the hotel in Bratislava the day before, the same ham we had eaten in the grimy yet elegant café in Prague. No matter what we’d tried to order from the menus, we were served ham for some reason, ham in some guise.<br /><br />Ham was everywhere in this part of the world, but this ham - Anna’s brother’s ham - though it may have been the same as the others, tasted somehow quite different.<br /><br />It had the texture of leather - tough, over-salted and difficult to chew. Yet it was a ham of some merit and distinction in that particular season, in that specific year, at that exceptional time.<br /><br />As we left that night the starless sky smelled of coal and snow and hope. The car seeped little bursts of heat as we backed down the driveway, Anna waving to us with her brother’s arm firmly around her shoulders. We turned for one last look before driving away towards Vienna. Anna’s fourteen-year-old nephew (who had told us as we all chewed together on the tensile ham with crisp pickles and soft thick bread that he wanted to be an astronaut when he grew up) ran from the house out to our car. As I rolled down the window he thrust a few thin cardboard boxes into my hands. In English (for he could speak it enough to translate for his father) he called through the window.<br /><br />“Here, please. Take these – we make them right here in this town. My father makes them. Happy Christmas!”<br /><br />I looked down through the thin cellophane front of the top box. Scrolls of white and gold glitter gleamed from delicate glass Christmas tree ornaments tucked into the sagging paper box. We drove off into the dark night. My fingers kept running over the rough glittery embroidery in the moonlight and the taste of tough spicy impossible-to-chew ham lingered on my tongue. It was not the sort of ham I would have bought if I'd had a choice.<br /><br />Yet surely </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">it was a ham of some merit and distinction in that particular season, in that specific year, at that exceptional time.<br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-73353860677979862082007-12-23T13:17:00.000-05:002007-12-23T13:46:07.265-05:00A Real Veal Question<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU9WNKDDUKFlTWdGkvxffwbHK-9q0TrjSFrA0jfOadsnG-W1XYI0L-OSzxQM5AGPh1xun8k2CdMTC8P7koU2QwX-vYLsd8OM-8Wi2ftMxHE6Qt-6XCYukGkDO3Ex5Z8KwuBP_dJxEE4eFP/s1600-h/124208455_90c7525eb3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU9WNKDDUKFlTWdGkvxffwbHK-9q0TrjSFrA0jfOadsnG-W1XYI0L-OSzxQM5AGPh1xun8k2CdMTC8P7koU2QwX-vYLsd8OM-8Wi2ftMxHE6Qt-6XCYukGkDO3Ex5Z8KwuBP_dJxEE4eFP/s320/124208455_90c7525eb3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5147239104871868258" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> Photo Flickr-Hypnotic Aubergine</span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><div> </div><div> </div><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">An e-mail came with a question:</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: italic;font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: italic;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: italic;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I am making lasagna for Christmas (no meat) and I wanted to accompany it with veal. For 15 people, veal roast seems prohibitively expensive. I can get veal stew cubes and scallopine. I don't want to do veal parm - too redundant. Any suggestions? I was looking at Marcella Hazan's recipe for veal spedini - but it looks like my choices of veal are limited and the cuts will be too tough. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">If you can reply, I would be grateful.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Joyce</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: italic;font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">My favorite veal recipes often seem to include artichokes, Joyce. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I've found a recipe online which might work within your criteria.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><a href="http://www.foodreference.com/html/sauteedvealmedallions.html">Veal with Artichokes, Lemon and Thyme.</a> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The only note I would make is that if you can not get fresh baby artichokes frozen ones are preferable to canned. Actually if only canned are available I wouldn't bother to make it! :)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">With the lasagne alongside, I would simply add a tossed salad of baby greens (or for something more elegant add orange segments and red onion slivers) for a wonderful, interesting, and very festive meal.</span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-54415859398748284402007-12-23T09:57:00.000-05:002007-12-23T16:18:14.926-05:00Sugar: Many Ways of Sweetness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHqVgrBYcfseIDP8xb7enTCoGZMZtLTzlt-4ynmXaqALOsSBrZDpSpE2Ai_NynHf47RHOaykmfVLr6DAgO7oUmMVb63WHxVCAwdq1hF6_KMqBNGgHV5gRsHxafl8HcxheRdlIPshQ2RRx5/s1600-h/321683204_b8e39dac7c.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHqVgrBYcfseIDP8xb7enTCoGZMZtLTzlt-4ynmXaqALOsSBrZDpSpE2Ai_NynHf47RHOaykmfVLr6DAgO7oUmMVb63WHxVCAwdq1hF6_KMqBNGgHV5gRsHxafl8HcxheRdlIPshQ2RRx5/s320/321683204_b8e39dac7c.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5147183618189371218" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><div> </div> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Photo Flickr-Phil Gyford</span><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Are there different ways to be "sweet"? Women are defined in general presumption to be like the rhyme "sugar and spice and everything nice" (whether we wish to be or not)(personally I have no problem with the sugar or spice part but that word "nice" does tend to grate on my nerves)(nice nice nice blech)(reminds me of how guys sometimes look at a girl and say "Smile!" to her. Pah. Smile yourself, my friend.)</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Does sugar have more than one flavor or bite?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I decided to look to sugarplums for wisdom.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Sugarplums are thought of as a Christmas sweet - though many people have never seen or tasted one. What are they?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Fast Food Feminist put on her detective hat to find out.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><a href="http://www.foodreference.com/html/fsugarplums.html">Food Reference.com</a> tells us that sugarplums were originally sugar coated coriander, rather like the sugar coated seeds which many know from the end of a meal at an Indian restaurant. In olden times these were called "comfits". Comforting things.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><a href="http://www.andysorchard.com/ao-sugarplums.shtml">Andy's Orchard </a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">tells us that Queen Isabella and Benjamin Franklin loved sugarplums. I'm not sure whether that fact will make me run out to chow down on some, though the examples shown are well-rounded and solidly bourgeois and even look as if one alone might make a delicious meal.</span></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><a href="http://www.godecookery.com/friends/frec74.htm">Historic Gode Cookery</a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">has a different take on the sugarplum, saying they may have been actual plums preserved in sugar. I wish sugar could preserve me, too, but so far there is no proof that this could occur.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The <a href="http://www.avonlea-traditions.com/am_2_9.php">Christmas with Anne of Green Gables </a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">website has an excellent recipe for sugarplums made in the Victorian fashion (always so jolly, you know) that includes crystallized ginger, which I personally adore. It's pretty fast to make, too.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Those who prefer the intellectual gourmandism of <a href="http://forums.saveur.com/showthread.php?p=624">Saveur Magazine</a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">will likely swear by the recipe provided in their forums.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">There is a blogger named <a href="http://sugarplumsweets.blogspot.com/">Sugarplum</a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">who this year did not make sugarplums at all but who instead provided sweetness in life through cranberry-pistachio bark, a recipe I too know and love, as much for its fastness as for its foodie-ness and imagined femininity though of course one does have to imagine a bit to guess at that.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><a href="http://diaryofakentuckycook.blogspot.com/">Kentucky Cook</a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">knows sugarplums as wild plums to be gathered from the fertile earth, then to be carefully laid out, sugared and dried. A simple feast, an earthy thing of honor.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The women who write in the <a href="http://www.traditionalwitch.net/forums/showthread.php?t=1756">Traditional Witches Forum</a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">speak of the same ingredients and technique for sugarplums as Saveur does. Which brings to mind the question: Does a rose by any other name smell as sweet? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Playing on the sweetness and light of sugarplums, </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><a href="http://www.wholefoodsmarket.com/recipes/vegetarian/tofu_sugarplum.html">Whole Foods Market</a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">gives us a recipe for Sugarplum Tofu with Udon. Another way of sweetness, this one with a corporate relations link at the top of the page.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Sugarplums are many things, of differing varieties. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Therefore sugar apparently is as you like it, if we follow the wisdom of sugarplums. </span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-19861346207203864952007-12-21T10:34:00.000-05:002007-12-21T10:51:08.962-05:00Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice (Burger King Too)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/6e/K%C3%B6ket_av_Carl_Larsson_1898.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/6e/K%C3%B6ket_av_Carl_Larsson_1898.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><div> </div>Sugar and spice and everything nice, that's what little girls are made of.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Debating this issue could take some time, then equal time would needed for snips and snails and puppy dogs tails.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The press of the season is upon us and dashing about here and there must happen instead.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Ho, ho, ho. Meeeeeerrrrrry Christmas!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Tomorrow and over the next few days I'll write about some sugary spicy things. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">In the meanwhile the decision must be made: While we're out shopping and meeting and greeting, what will we eat? Shall I pack a picnic basket all cozy and sweet (and time-consuming)? Will we go to an independent small restaurant and risk the usual fifty-fifty chance of having a meal that is terribly inconsistent besides not being inexpensive? Shall we go to Starbucks and get sick and disgusted while at the same time being subject to highway robbery for the silliest drinks known to man or woman? Or will it be a chain restaurant where the dog food is glossed over with colored ink and warmed up for our pleasure.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">After consideration of all of these options, the fast food feminist's choice just might be Burger King. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-21681892984388810412007-12-20T09:20:00.000-05:002007-12-21T10:34:23.801-05:00The Goose is Getting Fat<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/08/Anderson_Sophie_Christmas_Time_Heres_The_Gobbler.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/08/Anderson_Sophie_Christmas_Time_Heres_The_Gobbler.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><div> </div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Christmas is coming the goose is getting fat </span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Please do put a penny in the old man's hat</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: italic;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">What do fat geese, pennies and old men have to do with being a fast food feminist?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">A lot, when Christmas approaches.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">When Christmas approaches, old men young men and women of all ages must think about eating or making food. Christmas consumes and is consumed and even creates consumers just by its existence.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Geese are a traditional food for some people at this time - the image of a golden roasted goose set in the middle of the table by Mom to be carved by Dad as the young children with beaming faces eagerly clasp their hands on their linen napkins to avoid being too much trouble is one set in the mind for the ages.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">We won't mess with goose, though (nor the idea of that perfect diorama shown of human life) - not today. Instead from the goose we'll take the idea of foie gras.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Foie gras is a "slow" food to those that make it initially, in the fields, on the farm - regardless of one's take on whether or not it is a "nice" food. When it arrives to the consumer though, it is a fast food as not much needs to be done to it to make an awesome quick bite. The only problem with foie gras is that most people simply can not (or will not) afford to pay for it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">We can include other poultry in our thinking perhaps, as fast food feminists. Chickens are poultry, too - and a faux foie (say that quickly five times) can be easily and inexpensively made. Richness is important -texture - in foie gras, so this recipe has a lot lot lot of butter. Eat it with caution rather than abandon, though it is truly delicious.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">If you have people around who like the idea of eating liver, here is the recipe:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Chicken Liver Pate</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Ingredients</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">1/4 lb. butter (1 stick)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">1 C chopped onions</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">1/2 C chopped shallots or scallions</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">2 cloves garlic</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">1 lb. chicken livers, drained cleaned and dried</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">1 1/2 tsp. salt</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Pepper to taste</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">3/4 tsp. dry thyme</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">1/3 C sherry</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">1/2 tsp. allspice</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Cayenne (pinch) </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">1/4 lb. butter (1 stick) slightly softened</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Action Plan</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">1. Heat one half the stick of butter, and saute the onions, shallots or scallions, and garlic till soft.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">2. Remove onion mix from pan and add the other half stick of butter. Clarify the butter. * (To clarify butter heat till the milkfats rise to the surface then skim them off and discard them.) Saute chicken livers for five to six minutes over medium to high heat - adding salt pepper and thyme. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">3. Remove chicken livers from pan. Deglaze pan with sherry.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">4. Mix onions, livers, and deglazing juices. Chop roughly by hand or use food processor (carefully, while watching texture) if you like a smoother blend. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">5. Chill in refrigerator.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">6. When mixture has cooled, cream the additional stick of butter and add to pate, blending well.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">7. Chill again and serve with crackers, cornichons, and sliced radishes. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">8. Goes well with champagne.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">If you are around people who do not like to eat liver, this fast pate can be replaced with oven-baked mini corn dogs accompanied by mustard as a dip. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">It <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">is </span>Christmas after all, and I have heard that Jesus has love for all people, even including those who like to eat mass-produced freezer-section corn dogs.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It's not about the goose, in other words. It's about the old man's hat.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-81526034952906425772007-12-19T08:25:00.000-05:002007-12-20T10:08:50.935-05:00What Is a Fast Food Feminist, Anyway?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdrmcLxWGf-ZrSvWmSFdL9erclk2QCB2PjwEQz_Taz8i068fMVQ85qQwyOxXel0q-Oe-81oIlYCW-XWAedqHTGsvddWdwWpAKKfrmsux8ZmT0wTAAn1eWpcpcjAQXDn9NvfbWpdRY-F9Kz/s1600-h/265116705_007da56b14.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdrmcLxWGf-ZrSvWmSFdL9erclk2QCB2PjwEQz_Taz8i068fMVQ85qQwyOxXel0q-Oe-81oIlYCW-XWAedqHTGsvddWdwWpAKKfrmsux8ZmT0wTAAn1eWpcpcjAQXDn9NvfbWpdRY-F9Kz/s320/265116705_007da56b14.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145683076875233058" /></a><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Photo Flickr-kithfan21</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><div> </div><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">A fast food feminist can come from any walk of life. It is an inclusive category of person - you can be one at any age, you can be any sex, you can like any sex or even not like any sex at all if that is how you like to be.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">You must be engaged in three things in order to be a fast food feminist. You must be engaged in fastness, you must be engaged with the food you eat, and you must be some sort of feminist.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">In order to be categorized as some sort of feminist you must be interested in the welfare of those who are feminine. In this case when one is speaking about someone who is feminine one is speaking about women grouped by gender or by sex who live in the real world - one is usually not speaking about a concept or an idea or an ideal. Some sort of knowledge is presumed to be held as a feminist about the history of women as a group - from times long ago up to the closer-to-present time, when now in some places women are allowed to legally be considered people and not chattel or possessions.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">In order to be categorized as being engaged with the food you eat you must be willing to look beyond simple teeth-gnashing hunger into the more expansive categories that engaging with food involves. Memory, culture, social mores and psychology are just the tip of the iceberg (those things that exist in the North Pole, not the lettuce though certainly we can discuss lettuce later!) along with an interested and discriminatory palate that does not consider a plate of food a trough to be analyzed mostly for size, quantity, and price.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">In order to be categorized as being engaged in fastness the thought of how to best spend the limited hours of life must consume at least part of the thinking process each day, with the pros and cons of "faster is better" or "slower is more fulfilling" or "finish what you started" or "first things first" or "how can I talk on a cellphone, send IM's, watch the news on TV, keep up with my work, and keep my hair perfect at the same time" sometimes entering into the thought process to be sifted, sorted, and ultimately decided or not.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">That just about describes what a fast food feminist is. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It's not only about "fast food".</span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940460574743566258.post-26049987836968330552007-12-16T07:58:00.000-05:002007-12-20T10:09:47.616-05:00Fast Food Feminists - Are They Born or Made?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZiVx5FTIMHbK91WTHj4j0kGBAUE-w-HO5oB2jEVdBeZlSfcs0rZTGlbxvAzb_rlZAzIRXGJdvZ_YIPMbY7lbSXY69aXcFKEnOhiM1LAh-J6xhsbEH6PC4ZPhcDHFNWV-BrfKU3tgmEnDF/s1600-h/827494369_e205ee4ca3_m.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZiVx5FTIMHbK91WTHj4j0kGBAUE-w-HO5oB2jEVdBeZlSfcs0rZTGlbxvAzb_rlZAzIRXGJdvZ_YIPMbY7lbSXY69aXcFKEnOhiM1LAh-J6xhsbEH6PC4ZPhcDHFNWV-BrfKU3tgmEnDF/s320/827494369_e205ee4ca3_m.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144565702478472978" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Photo Flickr-CherrySoda!</span></span> <br /><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The question often comes up: "How did you become a fast food feminist? Were you born that way? Or did something happen that made you become one?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The answer to this may be different for each fast food feminist and since all feminists of any tenor are as different as snowflakes are from each other, the answer is not a simple one.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">In my case, it's doubtful I was born as a fast food feminist. There are no instances recorded of my having refused breast milk (though I do believe it was not offered - in those days the idea of breast-feeding a baby was considered a rather disgusting thing to do in my mother's social group), no tales of my having pushed aside a fresh ear of corn on the cob to reach for a can of cream corn, no times when a home-made beef stew was dissed in favor of a bag of Doritos. None of these things happened that would hint at a fast food feminist made by nature as opposed to nurture.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Even later there were no marks of my being a fast food feminist. Not when I learned to cook, when I baked bread in the French manner in an oven with baking stones eagerly purchased and spray bottles excitedly filled, not when I boned a goose and made four purees of various things to stuff and tie and roast it while basting with a mixture of a difficult-to-find brandy mixed with goose stock made from giblets and aromatic vegetables and fresh herbs. You certainly would not imagine that I was a fast food feminist when I was a professional chef - my kitchen was run with the best of ingredients cooked as perfectly and classically as one might want who might want these things. No frozen or canned vegetables - no cake mixes or bought pastries - no spice blends or any other similar things were part of my professional kitchen.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Later as a wife and mother still the mark of fast food feminist could not be found as I merrily cooked three meals a day each day including getting up at two in the morning to make lovely hot meals for my hard-working husband whose job as a restaurant manager kept him working late shifts (and, as I discovered later - busy entertaining the waitresses in certain vital carnal ways before returning home for his gourmet meal which he insisted he really needed and so loved in the wee hours of the morning as the children slept, as I rather groggily sauteed onions and tossed herbs here and there into the pots and pans while listening to his tales of the difficulties of his job and how his boss was a jerk) and the thought of boxed cereal did not even then enter my mind as a fabulous option for my children's breakfast when I got up to make that four hours later.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">By looking closely at these examples it appears that in my case, a fast food feminist was not born but rather made.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The instance of this is clear in my mind, and I will tell you all about it.</span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2