After passing by the self-proclaimed "first Tibetan restaurant in Massachusetts!"* for two and half years, I finally stepped through the doors of House of Tibet Kitchen, in Teele Square, Somerville. My ladyfriend companion made the suggestion. And what a keen and fortuitous suggestion it was.
Some background: She and I had made a tentative agreement to treat ourselves to edible goodness at least once a month. To those who label us ascetics, pointing and hollaring about self-hatred, not to mention your blatant misquoting of the Bible ("For Yelp so loved the world it reviewed the best curry joints under $10; go forth into the night and eat!"), just calm down. We're starving artists-in-training, and thus must become familiar with the taut pull of our skin against our protruding ribs. I've switched to 1% milk from my preferable skim, if only to stave off social workers from stopping me on the street and asking me if I'd like a nice goose dinner.
Where was I? Oh yes--once a month "dining." There's the inevitable chinese take-out, or a spontaneous ducking into the nearest pub for the eponymous grub. But given our penchant for good eats, and the dusty realms of our pocketbooks, we decided to compromise. I'd now write something about "eatin' good in the neighborhood," but fear litigation from [_________] (name of chain restaurant deleted. Hint: it's a slant rhyme with Trappable Fleas).
This month, we decided to stretch not only our gustatory horizons, but our geographic ones as well. I proffered Brazillian; she declined, perhaps not wanting to nibble cooked meats off a stick, as such a masculine gesture would appear unfit in the absence of recently departed literary giant (and holder of several machismo-related unofficial world records--whether these include the eating of meats-on-sticks, I can't be sure, but I have my hunches), Norman Mailer. In light of her rejection, I sighed, crestfallen. Whatever that means.**
"How about Tibetan?" she asked.
An off-key Mike D. couldn't have sounded sweeter. Somewhere, a gong rang out in the distance. Birds erupted into flight from a pond-surface stand-still. The decision had been made: Tibetan it was.
----(To Be Continued)----
*Which is sort of like the inverse of "last Morman guy to consider polygamy," if you think about that really hard.
** Princeton's online dictionary offers a synonym for "crestfallen" in lieu of initial definition: Crestfallen --adj., chapfallen. Oh! Crestfallen is the same as "chapfallen"! Now I get it.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Passing a Thanksgiving Dinner
Lest you think my topic is about a certain moving of the bowels, let me clarify: I speak instead of that choice, made by the wary eater, to skip a plate full of turkey and mashed potatoes and stuffing and cranberry sauce when offered to them. We know these people by a bevy of names: Lunatics, Crazy Talkers, Pesticide for the Soul, Gastronomical Idiots, Sun-Dried Doodle Berries, The Wrong... I could go on. You know one of these people. You might, in fact, Batali save you, be one of these people. If you read the description above and thought: "Yes. That is me," do not worry. There is still hope. If you read the menu above and thought: "Boy, I truly can't stomach all that food," fear not, for I can save you. And this is how.
You've been eating Thanksgiving dinner much too late.
In years past, my family and I have eaten this annual feast at around, oh, six o' clock. You know, dinner-time. (Note: My house's D.T. is normally around 9:00pm, but that is for another discussion.) It makes sense, really--The pilgrims didn't call it Thanksgiving Brunch, after all! (Note: They called it 'Gratuitous Slaughter of Mainlanders with Wacky Hairdos,' though no official records remain.)
But a few problems occur when you wait so long for such a mammoth meal. You inevitably snack. The cooks are cooking their annual delights; people gather and linger near the kitchen. You sneak a morsel of dark meat here... you scrape a cracker into lump-crab artichoke dip there. You fill your glass, again, with the smooth, thick creaminess of Egg Nog. By the time dinner-time rolls around, you barely have room in your tiny tummy for that first buttered roll, let alone the meat and the taters and all dem loverly fixins'. So my suggestion to you, fair gluttonous warrior -- Eat Thanksgiving Dinner at noon. That's right. 12:oo pm. Call it 'High' if you wish, for you will be soon on all that glorious seratonin coursing through your nourished-by-midday body. I love my breakfast, but sometimes, on those special occasions where long-lost-relatives gather to cook their beloved Cauliflower Casserole and whisk together some potato water and meat scraps into a thick, bountiful gravy, sometimes you need to hold off on the pancakes and tuck into an evening's meal six hours early.
Soon to come: More ideas gleaned from a Very-PA Turkey Day, including Egg Nog Coffee Creamer, and the ludicrous splendor that is Rita's Kielbasa with Pineapple.
You've been eating Thanksgiving dinner much too late.
In years past, my family and I have eaten this annual feast at around, oh, six o' clock. You know, dinner-time. (Note: My house's D.T. is normally around 9:00pm, but that is for another discussion.) It makes sense, really--The pilgrims didn't call it Thanksgiving Brunch, after all! (Note: They called it 'Gratuitous Slaughter of Mainlanders with Wacky Hairdos,' though no official records remain.)
But a few problems occur when you wait so long for such a mammoth meal. You inevitably snack. The cooks are cooking their annual delights; people gather and linger near the kitchen. You sneak a morsel of dark meat here... you scrape a cracker into lump-crab artichoke dip there. You fill your glass, again, with the smooth, thick creaminess of Egg Nog. By the time dinner-time rolls around, you barely have room in your tiny tummy for that first buttered roll, let alone the meat and the taters and all dem loverly fixins'. So my suggestion to you, fair gluttonous warrior -- Eat Thanksgiving Dinner at noon. That's right. 12:oo pm. Call it 'High' if you wish, for you will be soon on all that glorious seratonin coursing through your nourished-by-midday body. I love my breakfast, but sometimes, on those special occasions where long-lost-relatives gather to cook their beloved Cauliflower Casserole and whisk together some potato water and meat scraps into a thick, bountiful gravy, sometimes you need to hold off on the pancakes and tuck into an evening's meal six hours early.
Soon to come: More ideas gleaned from a Very-PA Turkey Day, including Egg Nog Coffee Creamer, and the ludicrous splendor that is Rita's Kielbasa with Pineapple.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
More Impromptu Recipes: Or, How poor young people eat.
Yesterday, I glanced in the cupboard. One box of Magic Stars (generic form of cereal rhyming with 'Mucky Barns'), box of whole wheat thin spaghetti, an old corn muffin. I glanced in the fridge. Half a gallon of 1% milk, some vanilla yogurt, a banana cut in half, still in the skin, browning at the edge. And then I looked to the bottom drawer in the fridge, what I call the "meat locker." Some sliced deli ham, 1/4 chunk of sharp cheddar, half a tub of Roasted Pine Nuts hummus. From a carefully selected array of the above, I made quite a substantial, satisfying meal. I share the recipe with you below, less so that you can make your own Ham, Hummus & Cheese Open-Faced Muffin Sandwich, but that you remain fearless when staring an empty kitchen, and an evening of rumbly tummy, in the face.
Ham, Hummus & Cheese Open-Faced Muffin Sandwich
1 corn muffin, week-old.
4 slices ham, thinly-sliced and smelling "okay."
Small hunk of sharp cheddar, about the size of a print cartridge
3 oz. hummus (quantity approximate, for fanciness sake)
Parkay margarine, scraped from the crevices of that tub surprisingly still there.
- preheat skillet over medium heat
- slice muffin in thirds, length-wise
- drop margarine in middle of pan, or slather on muffin cross-section
- heat muffin thirds for 4 minutes on each side, or until yellow-ish brown (the color of your golden retriever's coat in winter)
- meanwhile, slice cheese into rectangles of desired thickness. Recommended: As thick as the white part of your over-grown thumb nail.
Option a) - slather muffin pieces with hummus, then layer with cheese and ham
Option b) - top warm muffin with cheese, then dollop hummus on cheese, capped with a slice of ham
- pick up as you would a cupcake, eat, and enjoy the thrilling fact that you've made it another day without going to the grocery store.
This open-faced sandwich is a great snack for after a late grad school class, on Saturday afternoon while watching your alma mater's football game on ESPNpi, or any time you wish to impress your friends with your skillet-heating skills. Also: The tang of the cheese and hummus goes surprisingly well with the hearty, mealiness of the corn, and if you've timed it just right, that mysterious translucent coating on the ham will give the dish an unexpected mouth-feel somewhere between "carrot cake" and "chunky bleu cheese dressing."
Happy frugality!
Ham, Hummus & Cheese Open-Faced Muffin Sandwich
1 corn muffin, week-old.
4 slices ham, thinly-sliced and smelling "okay."
Small hunk of sharp cheddar, about the size of a print cartridge
3 oz. hummus (quantity approximate, for fanciness sake)
Parkay margarine, scraped from the crevices of that tub surprisingly still there.
- preheat skillet over medium heat
- slice muffin in thirds, length-wise
- drop margarine in middle of pan, or slather on muffin cross-section
- heat muffin thirds for 4 minutes on each side, or until yellow-ish brown (the color of your golden retriever's coat in winter)
- meanwhile, slice cheese into rectangles of desired thickness. Recommended: As thick as the white part of your over-grown thumb nail.
Option a) - slather muffin pieces with hummus, then layer with cheese and ham
Option b) - top warm muffin with cheese, then dollop hummus on cheese, capped with a slice of ham
- pick up as you would a cupcake, eat, and enjoy the thrilling fact that you've made it another day without going to the grocery store.
This open-faced sandwich is a great snack for after a late grad school class, on Saturday afternoon while watching your alma mater's football game on ESPNpi, or any time you wish to impress your friends with your skillet-heating skills. Also: The tang of the cheese and hummus goes surprisingly well with the hearty, mealiness of the corn, and if you've timed it just right, that mysterious translucent coating on the ham will give the dish an unexpected mouth-feel somewhere between "carrot cake" and "chunky bleu cheese dressing."
Happy frugality!
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Tapas and Spanish Wine: An Appreciation
At times such as these, I wish for the ability to type an upside-down exclamation point. Let me suggest to future keyboard creators "Shift+forward-slash." The symbol there now is a vertical line broken in the middle. Here it is: Apparently, it doesn't even show up as it's illustrated on the key itself. Whether broken or un-, do we need this mark? Perhaps I'm naive of the stupendous usefulness of the Broken Vertical Line in subjects outside my narrow interests... maybe, when used in conjunction with some typed-in formula in Microsoft Excel, the B.V.L. magically does your taxes, performs a sonnet, and stirs your child's hot oatmeal until perfectly lukewarm. I don't know. All I'm saying is that the inclusion of an upside-down exclamation point in future keyboards would help me best describe my experience at a certain tapas restaurant in Brookline, Massachusetts, because it was freaking incredible.
Taberna de Haro, at 999 Beacon Street, is a cozy corner restaurant right off the "C" line in front of the St. Mary stop. Saint Mary is right--step inside the glow of mini-hanging lanterns and the open kitchen's blazing pans, aflame with a lucky patron's small dish of choice, and you'll soon be thanking both Him and the mother of His son.
Not that I'm all that religious. But chef/owner/sommelier Deborah is, only her Holy Trinity is the red and white grapes, and fortified Sherries, of Spanish soil. Ask to speak with her, and she'll work with your tastes (and wallet) to find the best bottle of wine for the occasion, explaining to you where it comes from, some history of the vineyard, even replace a popular misconception with the tannin-laced truth. Hers is a bouquet of almonds, cinnamon and rosemary. She may even compliment your lady-friend companion's shirt, and she'll mean it.
So as I don't go all gooey and romantical much more than I already have, I'll simply list and describe the food my companion and I ordered and shared on our recent visit to this highly recommended taberna. My only complaint was that we couldn't taste the dozens of other equally-intriguing dishes on the menu (nor could I understand many of the names in Spanish, as my French language skills only rarely proved helpful, but my lady-friend companion translated, to me, and ordered, to our server, much to her delight).
First, a rather large wedge of potato, tall on the plate and presented almost like a slice of pie. It was soft and near-fluffy, with a sturdiness to the filling that belied its light taste. Hard to describe, and not nearly as dull as this description makes it sounds--if only I remembered the Spanish name. But it went incredibly well with the...
...Fried Bechamel and Ham. Yes, that's right--the rich 'n creamy bechamel sauce of French cuisine, one of the four 'Mother' sauces, basically a thick concoction of milk stirred into flour and butter, was somehow confined into a ball the size of a round kiwi, studded with hunks of jamon (ham), and fried. Slice it down the middle, and your knife will resist the crispy fried surface, before breaking through smoothly and unimpeded, burdened only by the errant bit of salty meat. Cut into quarters, top with a slice of aforementioned potato pie-dish, put in your mouth, and savor.
Then came the Piquillos, the Roasted Red Peppers filled with brandade, a salt-infused cod mash. Though filthy-sounding, I assure you, a smashed up mush of fish and salt stuffed into a pepper and lightly fried is a lovely thing. I was expecting something else, in fact: the same ingredients, yes, but not fried and instead in a pool of deep red sauce, tangy and pungent. That was the Piquillos of my time in the Basque region of France, close to the border with Spain, when prepared by my host family's grandmother. This, while different, was still good, though not benefitting from my preconceived, and altogether tastier, expectation.
Perhaps our favorite dish was also the simplest: a clay bowl of artichoke hearts, in olive oil, prepared as I imagine all fresh vibrant vegetables should be, that is to say very minimally. Not a whole lot was done to these edible pits, the strange contradictory core to this hard, thick-leafed veggie with the unfortunate name of some violent beatnik. And not a lot needed to be done. Take that slice of bread from the table basket and soak up the oily leavings on your plate, the better to optimize all available flavor. And when the final plate comes...
...the selection of five cheeses, nick a small hunk from the milder of them, place it on your bread, top it with a section of artichoke heart, and enjoy the commingling of strong and subtle, wet and dry, soft and solid. Just be wary of the rectangle of deep orange in the middle of the orbiting cheeses. Though you might be wrong, you suspect it's a slice of preserved quince, a fruit often made into jams due to its high pectin content, though with a tart flavor often unpopular with Americans (thank you, 'Food Lover's Companion). It won't be the flavor that will make your lady-friend companion wince: she'll use the word "slime" to describe the texture, and though you'll tease her for her finickiness, you'll see her point, and eat the rest of the cheese without aid of the mysterious shiny centerpiece.
But what an unrepresentative detail to end on! The overall experience was "a delight," pronounced emphatically and with dropped jaw. I yearn to pick mine back up off the floor and take it directly to Taberna de Haro, where the talented cooks will fill it with Spanish goodness. And I hear the sangria ain't half-bad, either.
Taberna de Haro, at 999 Beacon Street, is a cozy corner restaurant right off the "C" line in front of the St. Mary stop. Saint Mary is right--step inside the glow of mini-hanging lanterns and the open kitchen's blazing pans, aflame with a lucky patron's small dish of choice, and you'll soon be thanking both Him and the mother of His son.
Not that I'm all that religious. But chef/owner/sommelier Deborah is, only her Holy Trinity is the red and white grapes, and fortified Sherries, of Spanish soil. Ask to speak with her, and she'll work with your tastes (and wallet) to find the best bottle of wine for the occasion, explaining to you where it comes from, some history of the vineyard, even replace a popular misconception with the tannin-laced truth. Hers is a bouquet of almonds, cinnamon and rosemary. She may even compliment your lady-friend companion's shirt, and she'll mean it.
So as I don't go all gooey and romantical much more than I already have, I'll simply list and describe the food my companion and I ordered and shared on our recent visit to this highly recommended taberna. My only complaint was that we couldn't taste the dozens of other equally-intriguing dishes on the menu (nor could I understand many of the names in Spanish, as my French language skills only rarely proved helpful, but my lady-friend companion translated, to me, and ordered, to our server, much to her delight).
First, a rather large wedge of potato, tall on the plate and presented almost like a slice of pie. It was soft and near-fluffy, with a sturdiness to the filling that belied its light taste. Hard to describe, and not nearly as dull as this description makes it sounds--if only I remembered the Spanish name. But it went incredibly well with the...
...Fried Bechamel and Ham. Yes, that's right--the rich 'n creamy bechamel sauce of French cuisine, one of the four 'Mother' sauces, basically a thick concoction of milk stirred into flour and butter, was somehow confined into a ball the size of a round kiwi, studded with hunks of jamon (ham), and fried. Slice it down the middle, and your knife will resist the crispy fried surface, before breaking through smoothly and unimpeded, burdened only by the errant bit of salty meat. Cut into quarters, top with a slice of aforementioned potato pie-dish, put in your mouth, and savor.
Then came the Piquillos, the Roasted Red Peppers filled with brandade, a salt-infused cod mash. Though filthy-sounding, I assure you, a smashed up mush of fish and salt stuffed into a pepper and lightly fried is a lovely thing. I was expecting something else, in fact: the same ingredients, yes, but not fried and instead in a pool of deep red sauce, tangy and pungent. That was the Piquillos of my time in the Basque region of France, close to the border with Spain, when prepared by my host family's grandmother. This, while different, was still good, though not benefitting from my preconceived, and altogether tastier, expectation.
Perhaps our favorite dish was also the simplest: a clay bowl of artichoke hearts, in olive oil, prepared as I imagine all fresh vibrant vegetables should be, that is to say very minimally. Not a whole lot was done to these edible pits, the strange contradictory core to this hard, thick-leafed veggie with the unfortunate name of some violent beatnik. And not a lot needed to be done. Take that slice of bread from the table basket and soak up the oily leavings on your plate, the better to optimize all available flavor. And when the final plate comes...
...the selection of five cheeses, nick a small hunk from the milder of them, place it on your bread, top it with a section of artichoke heart, and enjoy the commingling of strong and subtle, wet and dry, soft and solid. Just be wary of the rectangle of deep orange in the middle of the orbiting cheeses. Though you might be wrong, you suspect it's a slice of preserved quince, a fruit often made into jams due to its high pectin content, though with a tart flavor often unpopular with Americans (thank you, 'Food Lover's Companion). It won't be the flavor that will make your lady-friend companion wince: she'll use the word "slime" to describe the texture, and though you'll tease her for her finickiness, you'll see her point, and eat the rest of the cheese without aid of the mysterious shiny centerpiece.
But what an unrepresentative detail to end on! The overall experience was "a delight," pronounced emphatically and with dropped jaw. I yearn to pick mine back up off the floor and take it directly to Taberna de Haro, where the talented cooks will fill it with Spanish goodness. And I hear the sangria ain't half-bad, either.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Hot 'n Spicy Meets AARP
May 29, 2021: The day the flavor ends. Apparently, the vast majority of people's nerve receptors in those taste-gathering hubs, the nose and tongue, drastically decrease in efficiency after the age of 40. This, according to an article in Sunday's Boston Globe 'Ideas' section by Sacha Pfeiffer, called "Some Like It Hot." Though I'm not sure whether the author is a male or female, I do know this--I cried a little tears for my future self, and his diminished capacity for experiencing the yum.
The point of the article was not to induce everyone to start a Countdown Clock to the moment when all flavor would be dimmed by time's cruel atrophying ways. Nor was it one possible answer to the question haunting all younger-thans, bewildered by the diets of many of their purple-lip-stained elders: Why all the prunes? (That answer can be found by skimming the newest edition of the textbook Gastro-Intestinal Tract at 60: Why Your 'Playground'* Needs Some Grease on the Curvy Slide.) The point of the article was to hypothesis why hot 'n spicy foods seem to crowd the grocery aisles in a way that hasn't been the case in the past 20 or so years. A list of brand-name products kicked up the proverbial notch makes for good reading by itself: Smokin' Cheddar BBQ Doritos; Mo Hotta Mo Betta Cayenne Garlic Hot Sauce; Crazy Mother Pucker's Maniacal Mustard. Seems like every flavorable product out there (foodstuffs manufactured, thereby able to be dusted in a fine, super-spiced flavoring that takes the place of natural, Mother Earth-created taste) has succumbed to some variation on the James Brown 'Too Hot for the Hot-tub!" theme. Chocolate's been given a piquant bite by mixing in chilis with the cocoa. Ice cream and jalepenos have been combined and eaten (and in most cases, regurgitated) with varying degrees of success. Special ketchups are now most popular in their spiciest incarnations.
So the question remains: Why? Pfeiffer wraps up the near-unanimous reasoning in food labs and market research kitchens across the industry--it's because of the Boomers. The Baby Boomers are getting older, and with an increasing amount of disposable income, and for some a wider desire to cook for themselves, or at least spluge at fancier restaurants, the demand for these spicier foods (to counteract their weakened taste-buds) has grown. And the suppliers have responded.
Thus ends the Article Summation section of the post. What I found most intriguing is the description of those types of spice that bust through the decrepit tongues, to still deliver an impactful, powerful burst of flavor. These are a group of flavors labeled "sensory irritants." According to the article, they "hit the body not through taste or smell, but through the chemosensory system, which conveys sensations like touch, temperature, pain, and pressure." This permits an interesting observation--as we age, we seek out foods that smack, heat, hurt, or squeeze us. Do we grow weary and dull from life's constant nudgings, such that we endeavor to find something, anything that can shake us from our repetitious reverie? Throw some Tabasco in that oatmeal, Grandma says. I can barely feel my legs--but those Spicy Nacho chips knock my orthopedic socks off! Maybe these are the ponderings behind an endless array of hot sauces on store shelvees, and why Ultra-Caliente! Chips Ahoy cookies might not be far behind. I'm not sure. But I've got 14 more years of blissful undiminished tasting to find out.
*Assumed reader knowledge: The idiom, "The G.I. Tract is the playground of the emotions."
The point of the article was not to induce everyone to start a Countdown Clock to the moment when all flavor would be dimmed by time's cruel atrophying ways. Nor was it one possible answer to the question haunting all younger-thans, bewildered by the diets of many of their purple-lip-stained elders: Why all the prunes? (That answer can be found by skimming the newest edition of the textbook Gastro-Intestinal Tract at 60: Why Your 'Playground'* Needs Some Grease on the Curvy Slide.) The point of the article was to hypothesis why hot 'n spicy foods seem to crowd the grocery aisles in a way that hasn't been the case in the past 20 or so years. A list of brand-name products kicked up the proverbial notch makes for good reading by itself: Smokin' Cheddar BBQ Doritos; Mo Hotta Mo Betta Cayenne Garlic Hot Sauce; Crazy Mother Pucker's Maniacal Mustard. Seems like every flavorable product out there (foodstuffs manufactured, thereby able to be dusted in a fine, super-spiced flavoring that takes the place of natural, Mother Earth-created taste) has succumbed to some variation on the James Brown 'Too Hot for the Hot-tub!" theme. Chocolate's been given a piquant bite by mixing in chilis with the cocoa. Ice cream and jalepenos have been combined and eaten (and in most cases, regurgitated) with varying degrees of success. Special ketchups are now most popular in their spiciest incarnations.
So the question remains: Why? Pfeiffer wraps up the near-unanimous reasoning in food labs and market research kitchens across the industry--it's because of the Boomers. The Baby Boomers are getting older, and with an increasing amount of disposable income, and for some a wider desire to cook for themselves, or at least spluge at fancier restaurants, the demand for these spicier foods (to counteract their weakened taste-buds) has grown. And the suppliers have responded.
Thus ends the Article Summation section of the post. What I found most intriguing is the description of those types of spice that bust through the decrepit tongues, to still deliver an impactful, powerful burst of flavor. These are a group of flavors labeled "sensory irritants." According to the article, they "hit the body not through taste or smell, but through the chemosensory system, which conveys sensations like touch, temperature, pain, and pressure." This permits an interesting observation--as we age, we seek out foods that smack, heat, hurt, or squeeze us. Do we grow weary and dull from life's constant nudgings, such that we endeavor to find something, anything that can shake us from our repetitious reverie? Throw some Tabasco in that oatmeal, Grandma says. I can barely feel my legs--but those Spicy Nacho chips knock my orthopedic socks off! Maybe these are the ponderings behind an endless array of hot sauces on store shelvees, and why Ultra-Caliente! Chips Ahoy cookies might not be far behind. I'm not sure. But I've got 14 more years of blissful undiminished tasting to find out.
*Assumed reader knowledge: The idiom, "The G.I. Tract is the playground of the emotions."
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
This time, he's gone too far....
From first pour to last:
-Honey Graham Oh's
-1% milk
-Cinnamon Toast Crunch
-Columbia Vanilla Yogurt
-Life Yogurt Crunch
-Magic Stars (generic Lucky Charms)
-More Yogurt
-Raisins
-Fruity Pebbles
-More 1% milk
And? Scrum-diddly'umcious.
-Honey Graham Oh's
-1% milk
-Cinnamon Toast Crunch
-Columbia Vanilla Yogurt
-Life Yogurt Crunch
-Magic Stars (generic Lucky Charms)
-More Yogurt
-Raisins
-Fruity Pebbles
-More 1% milk
And? Scrum-diddly'umcious.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Faux-reos
A few days ago, I stopped by the local grocery store to stock up on post-lunch dessert options: usually, a cookie of some sort, ideally to be dunked in milk, perhaps pre-coated in frosting. I had a hankering... an Oreo hankering. Much to my dismay, a week earlier I had seen the tell-tale orange cream middle of a new, seasonal variety of the chocolate-sandwich cookies: Halloween Oreos. On September 13th. I know, this is an old whine, but hopefully it ages well. As much as I desired the themed cookie, I couldn't bring myself to jumpstart my favorite holiday season a month in advance. Had I been jewish, this sort of mentality would've driven my forebears to celebrate my manhood at the first sign of upright urination.... and I now realize I've somehow gotten off-track. Oh yes: the faux-reo.
Since I could not abide by the pre-emptive spooky cream-filled chocolate cookie, I was forced into generic-brand-buying action. (And I promise never to use four hyphens in the span of a single sentence again.) This particular store sold their own version of Oreos, called "O'mazin' Os." Which, while clever, seems a tad redundant in their use of the product-shaped letter. The package exclaims: "Like Oreo(R) Chocolate Sandwich Cookies? You'll Love Us!*" (The asterisk leads you to the back of the package, with the disclaimer that Oreo is a registered trademark of Nabisco, and C & S Wholesale Grocers, Inc., [makers of O'mazing Os] is not in any way affiliated with Nabisco. I yearn for the day when a brand-name product asks, "Love Generic Fruity Circle-Shaped Cereal? Then why are you paying $2 more for a box with a tropical bird on it? Are you that much of an ornithophile?" or something to that effect.)
Anyway. The verdict? O'mazing Os, while at first appearing to lack the generous cream-to-cookie ratio of Oreos, stand up quite well to the Nabisco version. The chocolate has a solid dissolve-rate, so that when dunked in milk the cookie retains its form just enough to not fall apart, while aborbing enough of the liquid to ensure that soft, almost creamy texture when it dissolves in your mouth. This might have to do with the miniature floral design on the surface of the cookie itself--visually, a nice, subtle touch, with suitable ridges and depth to capture and hold the milk post-immersion, and not as self-promoting as Oreo's eponymous stamp. And something I've learned just now, while doing some research with the remnants of my morning coffee, is that O'mazing Os taste arguably better dunked in coffee--they remind me of one of my favorite ice cream flavors, "Coffee Oreo." Which, admittedly, makes a lot of sense. Just be forewarned: The heat of the coffee will make your cookie fall apart more quickly than when dunked into cold milk, as the faster-moving molecules will disseminate throughout the cookie with greater haste than the slow, lumbering H2cOw. Still, in my opinion, it's worth the risk.
Since I could not abide by the pre-emptive spooky cream-filled chocolate cookie, I was forced into generic-brand-buying action. (And I promise never to use four hyphens in the span of a single sentence again.) This particular store sold their own version of Oreos, called "O'mazin' Os." Which, while clever, seems a tad redundant in their use of the product-shaped letter. The package exclaims: "Like Oreo(R) Chocolate Sandwich Cookies? You'll Love Us!*" (The asterisk leads you to the back of the package, with the disclaimer that Oreo is a registered trademark of Nabisco, and C & S Wholesale Grocers, Inc., [makers of O'mazing Os] is not in any way affiliated with Nabisco. I yearn for the day when a brand-name product asks, "Love Generic Fruity Circle-Shaped Cereal? Then why are you paying $2 more for a box with a tropical bird on it? Are you that much of an ornithophile?" or something to that effect.)
Anyway. The verdict? O'mazing Os, while at first appearing to lack the generous cream-to-cookie ratio of Oreos, stand up quite well to the Nabisco version. The chocolate has a solid dissolve-rate, so that when dunked in milk the cookie retains its form just enough to not fall apart, while aborbing enough of the liquid to ensure that soft, almost creamy texture when it dissolves in your mouth. This might have to do with the miniature floral design on the surface of the cookie itself--visually, a nice, subtle touch, with suitable ridges and depth to capture and hold the milk post-immersion, and not as self-promoting as Oreo's eponymous stamp. And something I've learned just now, while doing some research with the remnants of my morning coffee, is that O'mazing Os taste arguably better dunked in coffee--they remind me of one of my favorite ice cream flavors, "Coffee Oreo." Which, admittedly, makes a lot of sense. Just be forewarned: The heat of the coffee will make your cookie fall apart more quickly than when dunked into cold milk, as the faster-moving molecules will disseminate throughout the cookie with greater haste than the slow, lumbering H2cOw. Still, in my opinion, it's worth the risk.
Friday, September 14, 2007
The Indomitable Oh's
I take no credit for the topic of this post. All royalties and payment should be forwarded onto a Miss __________, lady friend of myself, who spoke of how she ate her cereal yesterday too quickly and was still feeling the effects of the hard, crunchy circles on her mouth.
So here's the problem: Honey Graham Oh's are quite possibly the greatest cereal ever concocted. Each morsel comprises two things--a circular shape, similar to a Cheerio but somehow thicker and heartier, and a filling of granola-y stuff, sweetened with honey, flecked with graham cracker type bits. Imagine the most flavorful Honey Nut Cheerio ever, some mistake off the production line where the nutty and sweet flavor saturated the cereal more than was originally intended, and THEN someone else infiltrated the factory and stuffed each hole with more goodness, crushed up grahams, a glazing of honey, a residue of nuts and oat off the pristine floor of the Nature Valley factory right down the street (hypothetically).
Then multiply that by a thousand. You've got a box of Oh's. But there exists a malfeasance within all this yummy-in-a-bowl. The cereal by itself, you see, is very crispy and crunchy. And hard. Snack on them one, two at a time, and you'll find no cause for alarm. But pour them in a bowl, and spoon a heaping pile into your mouth (which is what you'll do, as you can not resist the aforementioned flavor combination), and the resultant crunching and smacking going on inside your mouth, around your teeth, over your gums, up on the roof of your mouth, may very well cause these gentle insides to sting a bit. The Oh's, delicious as they may be, are a damaging cereal to the soft, giving flesh of the mouth's inner sanctum. Those same oat clusters and honey-laced circles that taste so good wreak havoc with their sharp edges, their pointy hunks of nut or grain. And yet still you chew, and swallow, and scoop again--the cycle repeats; the mouth is sore the next morning. You eat them anyway, 'cause they're so gob-smackin' good.
I offer you this solution. Pre-soak your Oh's. It sounds a bit scandalous, I know: "He told you to pre-soak your oh's? What does that mean, gargle while moaning?" You misinterpret me. Pour those Oh's in the bowl. Then pour your milk on top, ideally until the milk is just visible within the circles of the unfortunate empties. Then go make your coffee. Brush your hair. Work on that stubborn cuff-link on your right sleeve, the one almost impossible to do without help from a second person, enough to make you question the nobility of a profession that necessitates one wearing a sleeve with an impossible fastener. Now go back, and enjoy that bowl of previously dangerous Oh's, now rendered harmless yet still crunchy and delightful.
Other suggestions are welcome. I hope you can find this scrumptious breakfast food in your local Cereal aisle, as they're not available everywhere. Go, seek, find your Oh's. Before they find you.
So here's the problem: Honey Graham Oh's are quite possibly the greatest cereal ever concocted. Each morsel comprises two things--a circular shape, similar to a Cheerio but somehow thicker and heartier, and a filling of granola-y stuff, sweetened with honey, flecked with graham cracker type bits. Imagine the most flavorful Honey Nut Cheerio ever, some mistake off the production line where the nutty and sweet flavor saturated the cereal more than was originally intended, and THEN someone else infiltrated the factory and stuffed each hole with more goodness, crushed up grahams, a glazing of honey, a residue of nuts and oat off the pristine floor of the Nature Valley factory right down the street (hypothetically).
Then multiply that by a thousand. You've got a box of Oh's. But there exists a malfeasance within all this yummy-in-a-bowl. The cereal by itself, you see, is very crispy and crunchy. And hard. Snack on them one, two at a time, and you'll find no cause for alarm. But pour them in a bowl, and spoon a heaping pile into your mouth (which is what you'll do, as you can not resist the aforementioned flavor combination), and the resultant crunching and smacking going on inside your mouth, around your teeth, over your gums, up on the roof of your mouth, may very well cause these gentle insides to sting a bit. The Oh's, delicious as they may be, are a damaging cereal to the soft, giving flesh of the mouth's inner sanctum. Those same oat clusters and honey-laced circles that taste so good wreak havoc with their sharp edges, their pointy hunks of nut or grain. And yet still you chew, and swallow, and scoop again--the cycle repeats; the mouth is sore the next morning. You eat them anyway, 'cause they're so gob-smackin' good.
I offer you this solution. Pre-soak your Oh's. It sounds a bit scandalous, I know: "He told you to pre-soak your oh's? What does that mean, gargle while moaning?" You misinterpret me. Pour those Oh's in the bowl. Then pour your milk on top, ideally until the milk is just visible within the circles of the unfortunate empties. Then go make your coffee. Brush your hair. Work on that stubborn cuff-link on your right sleeve, the one almost impossible to do without help from a second person, enough to make you question the nobility of a profession that necessitates one wearing a sleeve with an impossible fastener. Now go back, and enjoy that bowl of previously dangerous Oh's, now rendered harmless yet still crunchy and delightful.
Other suggestions are welcome. I hope you can find this scrumptious breakfast food in your local Cereal aisle, as they're not available everywhere. Go, seek, find your Oh's. Before they find you.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
The Grilled Muffin: A Recommendation
You eat your muffins plain, baked once. And you enjoy them. I can appreciate that. I did just the same for many moons... a muffin batter was concocted, filled with all sorts of fillings: berries, cinnamon, chocolate chips. banana mash, what have you. Then it was ladled into baking cups and thrown in an oven, allowed to rise with the heat, cook up into a fluffy yet firm approximation of a mushroomed dome of dough. Yummy when still-warm; very good after being cooled. Nibbled at whole, split down the middle, broken into chunks--The muffin is hard to eat incorrectly.
But there is a better way. To nosh on the once-baked muffin is to enjoy french bread by its lonesome. Certainly, at times this is the preference. Some want their Vanilla, while others opt for the Chunky Monkey. But if you've found your muffins wanting recently, I plead you to consider the Grilled technique.
Split that muffin in half. Spread each side with a thick coat of butter, OR drop a slice of butter in a warming skillet, over medium heat. Or do both. Then, when the pan is hot or the butter is bubbling liquid, place each half cut-side down onto the pan. There will be a tiny sizzle; this is the sound of greatness elevated. An already superb food is slowly transcending its original state, and becoming something much more than the sum of its part. The butter is crystallizing, browning and crunchifying the surface of the cross-section, seeping into the body, infusing the whole with a richness often baked out of the already-butter-rich batter. Your kitchen fills with the pleasant smell of butter and _________ (insert muffin flavor here: sweet banana? apple cinnamon? blueberry crumble? hearty bran? decadent chocolate?). When ready, the cut-side will have developed the deep golden brown of french toast, or grilled cheese. Slide those bad boys into a shallow dish, ideally with a bit of a volume to it, the better to encase the muffin and retain some of its own heat. If heat-retention is a priority, place a bowl over the dish while eating the first half, allowing the rising steam to coat the bowl and keep the muffin warm with its own condensation.
Each bite promises a different sensation. The grilled bits will be buttery, crunchy, hot; the portions kept away from the griddle will be softer, moist, a delightful contrast to the harshness of the grilled edge. Altogether, the Grilled Muffin offers something both accessible and complicated: for me, a delicious newness to a baked good I had enjoyed yet taken for granted in my years of simple-bake consumption. So please, eat your muffins how you wish. But if you haven't already, I implore you to try this revelation of secondary cooking--split, butter and grill, then eat, then swoon over what you've been missing for all these years.
But there is a better way. To nosh on the once-baked muffin is to enjoy french bread by its lonesome. Certainly, at times this is the preference. Some want their Vanilla, while others opt for the Chunky Monkey. But if you've found your muffins wanting recently, I plead you to consider the Grilled technique.
Split that muffin in half. Spread each side with a thick coat of butter, OR drop a slice of butter in a warming skillet, over medium heat. Or do both. Then, when the pan is hot or the butter is bubbling liquid, place each half cut-side down onto the pan. There will be a tiny sizzle; this is the sound of greatness elevated. An already superb food is slowly transcending its original state, and becoming something much more than the sum of its part. The butter is crystallizing, browning and crunchifying the surface of the cross-section, seeping into the body, infusing the whole with a richness often baked out of the already-butter-rich batter. Your kitchen fills with the pleasant smell of butter and _________ (insert muffin flavor here: sweet banana? apple cinnamon? blueberry crumble? hearty bran? decadent chocolate?). When ready, the cut-side will have developed the deep golden brown of french toast, or grilled cheese. Slide those bad boys into a shallow dish, ideally with a bit of a volume to it, the better to encase the muffin and retain some of its own heat. If heat-retention is a priority, place a bowl over the dish while eating the first half, allowing the rising steam to coat the bowl and keep the muffin warm with its own condensation.
Each bite promises a different sensation. The grilled bits will be buttery, crunchy, hot; the portions kept away from the griddle will be softer, moist, a delightful contrast to the harshness of the grilled edge. Altogether, the Grilled Muffin offers something both accessible and complicated: for me, a delicious newness to a baked good I had enjoyed yet taken for granted in my years of simple-bake consumption. So please, eat your muffins how you wish. But if you haven't already, I implore you to try this revelation of secondary cooking--split, butter and grill, then eat, then swoon over what you've been missing for all these years.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
A Beverage with a hearty Thums-Up...
...is called "Thums-Up." And, oh man, is it amazing. Okay, the (soda) pop itself is fine--the smooth bite of a cola with a crisp, citrusy finish. But it's the bottle that makes me rate it eponymously. The glass container is thin and tall, like a slimmed-down Coca-Cola bottle with better posture. And near the top, the logo displaying its absent-mindedly spelled name: a red silhouette of a hand, its thumb extended, blocky knuckles clenched together, all outlined in a chunky white. When you thought it couldn't get any better, that this was the finest use of heated up, compressed sand ever in the universe of mass-marketed sugar water, you notice a message stamped on the bottle itself: "Contains No Fruit." Yes, this Coke cousin, as freshly squeezed as it looks, contains none of the real stuff. For all you healthophiles, take heed: it's caffiene-free, as well.
So why haven't we been inundated with the next best thing since Fresca? "Thums-Up," itself a product of the Coca-Cola Company, is produced in India. I procured my own at an Indian market near my residence in *********, USA. All you Bombay citizens reading this (psfght... sorry, I just choked on the final swig of the cola-y citrus-y goodness), go out and drink up. When I brought the bottle to the counter, the Indian cashier told me, without prompting: "The greatest soda in the world." After experiencing the caramel-colored brew while doing laundry on a lazy, overcast Sunday, I might just have to agree.
So why haven't we been inundated with the next best thing since Fresca? "Thums-Up," itself a product of the Coca-Cola Company, is produced in India. I procured my own at an Indian market near my residence in *********, USA. All you Bombay citizens reading this (psfght... sorry, I just choked on the final swig of the cola-y citrus-y goodness), go out and drink up. When I brought the bottle to the counter, the Indian cashier told me, without prompting: "The greatest soda in the world." After experiencing the caramel-colored brew while doing laundry on a lazy, overcast Sunday, I might just have to agree.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
I'm about to have a bowl of ice cream...
... but I don't have a sufficient foundation. I just ran out of Chewy Chips Ahoy TM cookies. I do have a box of Fudge Brownie mix, but here I am, all by my lonesome, and I'd prefer to preheat the oven with some company to entertain me in the interim. What I do have, are some Cinnamon graham crackers. So here's what I'm thinking: Take one half of the graham, spread some peanut butter (natural) on it, take the other half, spread some frosting (vanilla rainbow chip) over that, and put 'em together. Instant graham cookie sandwich. Hopefully the double layer of cracker will provide enough sustinence to hold up to the ice cream, while the porous nature of the crackers at the same time allows the melted ice cream to seep in a bit, mix with the vanilla of the frosting and peanutty goodness of the PB. Here's the risky part--I'm working with Cookies 'n Cream. Will the sharpness of the cinnamon override the creamy smoothness of the cookies 'n cream? I'm hoping no. But, at this juncture, I just can't tell for sure.
I'll be sure to let you (me) know how it goes. Wish me luck.
I'll be sure to let you (me) know how it goes. Wish me luck.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Books I've Read (and you should too) About, or Involving, Food
This just came off the top of my head, y'all (apologies to M. Black):
Fast Food Nation, by Eric Schlosser
As They Were, by M. F. K. Fisher
Between Meals, by A. J. Liebling
The Raw and the Cooked, by Jim Harrison
A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kennedy Toole
The Edible Woman, by Margaret Atwood
Candy Freak, by Steve Almond
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, by Roald Dahl
Eating Mammals, by John Barlow
Neither Here Nor There, by Bill Bryson
Heat, by Bill Buford
Kitche Confidential, by Anthony Bourdain
The Outlaw Chef, by John Thorne
V., by Thomas Pynchon
Oh, there's plenty more. Good reading on good eating is like one of those cartoon drumsticks: The animated dog takes a bite, chews, and takes another, the turkey leg reconstituting itself like a starfish... point is, it'll never run out.
And if you're thinking, "V.? How is Pynchon's debut novel in here? It's not exactly filled with the edible stuff (hard as the story is to chew, notwithstanding)." But remember, Profane and the boys do drink and eat throughout the tale... and look at that title: It's a wishbone! ('boo' goes the chorus)
Dig in.
Fast Food Nation, by Eric Schlosser
As They Were, by M. F. K. Fisher
Between Meals, by A. J. Liebling
The Raw and the Cooked, by Jim Harrison
A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kennedy Toole
The Edible Woman, by Margaret Atwood
Candy Freak, by Steve Almond
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, by Roald Dahl
Eating Mammals, by John Barlow
Neither Here Nor There, by Bill Bryson
Heat, by Bill Buford
Kitche Confidential, by Anthony Bourdain
The Outlaw Chef, by John Thorne
V., by Thomas Pynchon
Oh, there's plenty more. Good reading on good eating is like one of those cartoon drumsticks: The animated dog takes a bite, chews, and takes another, the turkey leg reconstituting itself like a starfish... point is, it'll never run out.
And if you're thinking, "V.? How is Pynchon's debut novel in here? It's not exactly filled with the edible stuff (hard as the story is to chew, notwithstanding)." But remember, Profane and the boys do drink and eat throughout the tale... and look at that title: It's a wishbone! ('boo' goes the chorus)
Dig in.
Monday, August 13, 2007
An Old Debate Gets New Evidence: Please Rise for this Unnecessary Post
There is a small piece (an excerpt from a blog, I believe) in the Boston Globe "Ideas" section of their Sunday paper about the historical accuracy of the phrase "Freedom Fry," that most tragic and ill-founded of American buffoon-isms. Apparently, the fried potato fingers were brought over by an Englishman during a British raid against some incoming intruders (redundant?) onto French soil. Forgive me my lack-of-eloquence at explaining political/military events; my background in History extends to yesterday's dinner [burger, 90% lean, cooked medium-well, served on whole wheat toast, with american cheese, fried egg, ketchup, brown mustard, and a side of baked beans]. The point was, of course, that perhaps the change to Freedom Fries after France's refusal to support the American war effort in Iraq (what a bullheaded, cowardly decision that was... tsk, tsk, Chiraq) wasn't even fresh coinage: The fry was already, somewhat, an emblem of freedom. What does this mean to me?
The phrase still makes me cringe and shake my head slowly, so slowly, for those who decided to take the French out of the fry.
In other news... I changed my blog title. I know, I know... that one person (me) who ever read this is going to be thrust into a world of unknowables and frustration. And believe you me, I vow to make this transition as painless as possible. So Goodbye, "My Name is an Apple...." Hello, "Edible Wrecks."
See, that wasn't so hard, now, was it?
The phrase still makes me cringe and shake my head slowly, so slowly, for those who decided to take the French out of the fry.
In other news... I changed my blog title. I know, I know... that one person (me) who ever read this is going to be thrust into a world of unknowables and frustration. And believe you me, I vow to make this transition as painless as possible. So Goodbye, "My Name is an Apple...." Hello, "Edible Wrecks."
See, that wasn't so hard, now, was it?
Friday, July 6, 2007
"Whoa" -- A Strangeness Observed in Hindsight
An addendum to 'The Problem with...'
---
I just wrote about hot dog buns, dunked in coffee no less, twice in a row with a month and a half between posts. I had forgotten what I wrote about last. Upon reviewing the previous message, I now am met with an important, if unsettling, realization: I need to stop eating hot dog buns in lieu of traditional sliced bread. O Blogger, thank you for this needed epiphanic moment.
---
I just wrote about hot dog buns, dunked in coffee no less, twice in a row with a month and a half between posts. I had forgotten what I wrote about last. Upon reviewing the previous message, I now am met with an important, if unsettling, realization: I need to stop eating hot dog buns in lieu of traditional sliced bread. O Blogger, thank you for this needed epiphanic moment.
The Problem With Hot Dog Buns
The problem with hot dog buns is NOT, as generally conceived, the whole erroneous 'bun-to-dog-packaging-ratio' thing. In fact, the real problem exists within the bun itself. We have a faux-density issue.
The bun seems thick, and dense, like an elephant's trunk, able to pick up liquid and transport it to and fro. Not so. Dunk that hot dog bun (first toasted, then smothered in peanut butter, jam, and nutella) into your hot cup of coffee, and if your dunk is cautious, and singular, you might be able to lift it to your mouth and enjoy the now moistened, soft doughy finger of creaminess and zing that is now deposited in your smiling mouth. More likely, the hot dog bun will have soaked up too much of the coffee, rendering its seemingly stable make-up completely unfit for the carrying of such heavy condiments as PB, J, and/or N. The bun will dissolve; the dipped half might very well split apart at the border between dipped and undipped, and fall right into your mug. Dig out the mess with your fingers if you will, but rest assured, the bun as you knew it is now gone. Your coffee? Forever laden with bits of oversaturated white bread. The morning is ruined. And all because of the problem with hot dog buns.
The bun seems thick, and dense, like an elephant's trunk, able to pick up liquid and transport it to and fro. Not so. Dunk that hot dog bun (first toasted, then smothered in peanut butter, jam, and nutella) into your hot cup of coffee, and if your dunk is cautious, and singular, you might be able to lift it to your mouth and enjoy the now moistened, soft doughy finger of creaminess and zing that is now deposited in your smiling mouth. More likely, the hot dog bun will have soaked up too much of the coffee, rendering its seemingly stable make-up completely unfit for the carrying of such heavy condiments as PB, J, and/or N. The bun will dissolve; the dipped half might very well split apart at the border between dipped and undipped, and fall right into your mug. Dig out the mess with your fingers if you will, but rest assured, the bun as you knew it is now gone. Your coffee? Forever laden with bits of oversaturated white bread. The morning is ruined. And all because of the problem with hot dog buns.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Unknown variation
Who knew that hot dog buns on the east coast were more like folded slices of white bread, as opposed to the midwest (and until-now-thought-to-be-standard) version of the fully rounded off bun?
Secondary question: What is the ideal number of seconds to dunk aforementioned bun, topped with peanut butter, nutella, and blackberry preserves, into a hot cup of coffee?
Answer: Two (2) seconds, or as many dunks. Anything more will result in the bun dissolving and falling into the coffee. Noboday wants that.
Post-script: It just tastes better, knowing that the bun originally came from a Fenway Park vendor.
Secondary question: What is the ideal number of seconds to dunk aforementioned bun, topped with peanut butter, nutella, and blackberry preserves, into a hot cup of coffee?
Answer: Two (2) seconds, or as many dunks. Anything more will result in the bun dissolving and falling into the coffee. Noboday wants that.
Post-script: It just tastes better, knowing that the bun originally came from a Fenway Park vendor.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
TK
Food items I intend on eating in the next few days...
-French Toast Peanut Butter & Jam Sandwich: Like any other PB&J, but the pieces of bread are slices of just-made French Toast. Holy cow.
-Pumpkin Dip: Canned pumpkin, softened cream cheese and powdered sugar, along with a dash of cinnamon and a smaller dash of ginger. Scoop with Ginger Snaps, place in mouth, enjoy.
-Turkey Chili: From a mix sent to me from back home. Apparently, I am meant to add artichoke hearts. Oh, and the ground meat will be pork. Too bad Spring is a-comin', as I do love the hot soups on the chilly days.
-Another Ham, Hummus & Cheese Whiz Quesadilla: That's right, I said another.
-French Toast Peanut Butter & Jam Sandwich: Like any other PB&J, but the pieces of bread are slices of just-made French Toast. Holy cow.
-Pumpkin Dip: Canned pumpkin, softened cream cheese and powdered sugar, along with a dash of cinnamon and a smaller dash of ginger. Scoop with Ginger Snaps, place in mouth, enjoy.
-Turkey Chili: From a mix sent to me from back home. Apparently, I am meant to add artichoke hearts. Oh, and the ground meat will be pork. Too bad Spring is a-comin', as I do love the hot soups on the chilly days.
-Another Ham, Hummus & Cheese Whiz Quesadilla: That's right, I said another.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
In Defense of Spooning Yogurt on Cereal
Milk is enough, you say? Prefer your dry cold cereal with a single dairy product spilled all over? Then I beseech you, listen: Yogurt will take your morning breakfast bowl over the top, to the limit, the next generation of cereals... your children's children will ask you, "Grampie, did you really just pour milk on your Futuristic Fruitie-Oh's when you were a kid??" Don't be left out. Join us. Here's why.
1) Viscosity - It ain't just for motor oil anymore. Milk is all well and good. But there's no denying the fact that it has a singular problem: It's quite thin. Even whole milk lacks the smooth, creamy texture necessary for the ideal bowl. And those extra 8 grams of fat will not make your frosted flakes stick to granola like a good heaping spoonful of Vanilla Yogurt will. Which brings me to my second reason...
2) Flavor - Suddenly, your cereals will have the same variety of added flavors as your Tall Latte Extra Whipped Cream Soy Special something-or-other. You a chocoholic? Add some Chocolate yogurt to your Shredded Wheat for an unexpected taste of the cocoa bean. Strawberry Fanatic? You see where this is going. Me, I'm a vanilla nut myself. Dannon's Light&Fit Vanilla yogurt is relatively cheap by the 64 ounces (I think that's the size... if that's an absurdly large quantity, disregard) and has a nice, soothing not-too-artificial vanilla flavor. Much better than Columbo. And Stonyfield, love 'em as I do, but their yogurt has more gooey texture somehow that just doesn't work with how I like my Cereal+Yogurt combo. Some may enjoy it. I prefer the creamier consistency of the non-organic stuff.
3)Amalgamation - I could have used a better word. But what I'm trying to say is, when the milk mixes with the yogurt, you now have an entirely different dairy conidment working it's moistening magic: neither liquidy milk, nor solidy yogurt, the new combination is an impossibly thick flavored milk, a flowing gush of paradoxically unpourable yogurt (because you don't pour it; the reaction happens already in the bowl). It's a more filling sensation, a more satisfying one. Hard to explain, yes. But most perfect things in this world are, aren't they?
So: please consider adding yogurt to your next batch of ho-hum milk-topped cereal. You and your morning tastebuds will thank me.
1) Viscosity - It ain't just for motor oil anymore. Milk is all well and good. But there's no denying the fact that it has a singular problem: It's quite thin. Even whole milk lacks the smooth, creamy texture necessary for the ideal bowl. And those extra 8 grams of fat will not make your frosted flakes stick to granola like a good heaping spoonful of Vanilla Yogurt will. Which brings me to my second reason...
2) Flavor - Suddenly, your cereals will have the same variety of added flavors as your Tall Latte Extra Whipped Cream Soy Special something-or-other. You a chocoholic? Add some Chocolate yogurt to your Shredded Wheat for an unexpected taste of the cocoa bean. Strawberry Fanatic? You see where this is going. Me, I'm a vanilla nut myself. Dannon's Light&Fit Vanilla yogurt is relatively cheap by the 64 ounces (I think that's the size... if that's an absurdly large quantity, disregard) and has a nice, soothing not-too-artificial vanilla flavor. Much better than Columbo. And Stonyfield, love 'em as I do, but their yogurt has more gooey texture somehow that just doesn't work with how I like my Cereal+Yogurt combo. Some may enjoy it. I prefer the creamier consistency of the non-organic stuff.
3)Amalgamation - I could have used a better word. But what I'm trying to say is, when the milk mixes with the yogurt, you now have an entirely different dairy conidment working it's moistening magic: neither liquidy milk, nor solidy yogurt, the new combination is an impossibly thick flavored milk, a flowing gush of paradoxically unpourable yogurt (because you don't pour it; the reaction happens already in the bowl). It's a more filling sensation, a more satisfying one. Hard to explain, yes. But most perfect things in this world are, aren't they?
So: please consider adding yogurt to your next batch of ho-hum milk-topped cereal. You and your morning tastebuds will thank me.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Ode to a Belgian Waffle
Inspired by this morning's lazy sunday breakfast....
Aunt Jemima mix, fall into my
Toastmaster Belgian Waffler...
Together you do magical things:
Abracadabra, mashed banana,
Chocolate Chips!
Too much syrup?
Nay, do not linger here
Your kind will not mix
with mine.
If only I had a glass of orange juice.
If only I hadn't forgotten my pre-cooked sausages.
A day made tasty by late-morning...
Let my hunger grow again
So that by nightfall
I can eat a second.
-------
Aunt Jemima mix, fall into my
Toastmaster Belgian Waffler...
Together you do magical things:
Abracadabra, mashed banana,
Chocolate Chips!
Too much syrup?
Nay, do not linger here
Your kind will not mix
with mine.
If only I had a glass of orange juice.
If only I hadn't forgotten my pre-cooked sausages.
A day made tasty by late-morning...
Let my hunger grow again
So that by nightfall
I can eat a second.
-------
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Two-Faced French Toast
This morning I had a revelation, somewhat coincidentally based on an old joke from my high school french class. And it was this: One egg is not enough. (an egg = "un oeuf") At least when it comes to French Toast batter.
So I crack my medium-sized egg into a shallow bowl. Something horrible happens--what comes out is not the usual viscuous, clear-ish white with an orange-yellow nucleus of yolk, but some half-addled grossness, an egg over developed in the womb, or burnt by the harmful UV rays of the sun, or left out to curdle and then siphoned somehow back into the shell by mysterious new technologies in osmosis. The white is yellow and chunky, the yolk is not set apart and floating but one and the same with the aforementioned abomination. It leaves streaks in the white bowl when sloshed around. No more description is necessary here. I fear the horrid chicken that produced such a spawn: gnarled claws, mutant beak, feathers pre-dipped in tar. Maybe it was fed ketchup. Who knows.
But none of that is what I wish to discuss. After thoroughly rinsing the bowl, I cracked another egg over it--now we're talkin'. Poured in a bit of milk (8th continent vanilla soy milk... wasn't sure what the soy would do, but I was willing to take the chance), a few generous dashes of cinnamon, and whisked away. Dropped in a slice of Cinnamon Burst bread, medium thickness, poked it around the bowl a few times, and let it soak. I heated up the skillet, an 8" Emeril pan I got for Christmas. (I didn't have the heart to speak my gut reaction out-loud to my mom, giver of the Celebrity-endorsed product: 'Emeril!? Why... why did you choose to get me a pan with Emeril's signature carved into the stainless-steel, stay-cool handle? I want my pancakes to cook in anonymity... I want to pan sear my Boca Burgers in a teflon surface without identity, faceless, eager to distribute heat evenly, not shout and throw garlic over a plate of linguini.' But by then I would have lost her, and she would've felt bad about what was actually quite a nice gift, and what do I honestly have against Emeril? Nothing, really. The pan's been great so far. Bam. Whatever.)
ANYway, I drop some magarine in the pan (again, this is entirely my mom's fault, this penchant for fake butter.... I'm slowly trying to ween myself off of its partially hydrogenated fakeness, but Parkay is in the fridge, so Parkay it is), throw the soaked bread on the sputtering surface, and go make my coffee. Flip the bread, a lovely brownish eggy crust formed, the bits of cinnamon from the bread peaking out, eyeing me. Our apartment is cold, so I place a plate on top of the pan for about 15 seconds, to take the chill off, then spatula the French Toast onto the room-temperature plate, slice it into the requisite 7-8 vertical columns to allow for ideal syrup absorption, and take a seat with my Boston Globe Sunday Magazine.
Here's where I approach my "point." I had readied my second slice of Cinnamon Burst bread to engorge the leftover batter, but there wasn't enough in the shallow bowl. So, hoping to stretch out, or extend, what I had, I took my "Vanilla Nut" CoffeeMate creamer and dripped a little into the bowl to mix with the remaining batter. Dropped a tad more soy milk in there. Whisked it up. The mixture was lighter, more "milky" (quel shock) but I lay my bread in the bowl and let it sit while I enjoyed the first cooked slice. I read a cover story on Bill Cosby's dissertation on how Fat Albert can save the plight of Black America and their children. Interesting stuff. I myself watched the show as a kid, and though I didn't know much of racial inequality at the time (nor my privileged position as a middle-class white kid living in a suburb of Detroit), holy cow did I want that squeaky magical pen that talked. You know the one. But I'm growing more tangential by the moment. Pardon the ever-furtive gaze; the periphery is always an alluring subject. Not sure why this is. I welcome your suggestions.
So, the bread soaks up all nice and yellow on one side, but the other side is half-coated in a strangely bright white coating--surely this is not Toast as the French intended. I cook one side to a lovely eggy brown, but the other merely crisps, as it would in the toasted. So I do what I do on toast: spread the crispy side with peanut butter and a raspberry jam, half the bread, and dunk it in my coffee. French Peanut Butter & Jam Toast sticks, dunked in coffee, eaten over an essay on the enduring lesson of Fat Albert. 'Twas a good second portion, but, as I found out, when making French Toast batter is concerned, one egg is not enough.
So I crack my medium-sized egg into a shallow bowl. Something horrible happens--what comes out is not the usual viscuous, clear-ish white with an orange-yellow nucleus of yolk, but some half-addled grossness, an egg over developed in the womb, or burnt by the harmful UV rays of the sun, or left out to curdle and then siphoned somehow back into the shell by mysterious new technologies in osmosis. The white is yellow and chunky, the yolk is not set apart and floating but one and the same with the aforementioned abomination. It leaves streaks in the white bowl when sloshed around. No more description is necessary here. I fear the horrid chicken that produced such a spawn: gnarled claws, mutant beak, feathers pre-dipped in tar. Maybe it was fed ketchup. Who knows.
But none of that is what I wish to discuss. After thoroughly rinsing the bowl, I cracked another egg over it--now we're talkin'. Poured in a bit of milk (8th continent vanilla soy milk... wasn't sure what the soy would do, but I was willing to take the chance), a few generous dashes of cinnamon, and whisked away. Dropped in a slice of Cinnamon Burst bread, medium thickness, poked it around the bowl a few times, and let it soak. I heated up the skillet, an 8" Emeril pan I got for Christmas. (I didn't have the heart to speak my gut reaction out-loud to my mom, giver of the Celebrity-endorsed product: 'Emeril!? Why... why did you choose to get me a pan with Emeril's signature carved into the stainless-steel, stay-cool handle? I want my pancakes to cook in anonymity... I want to pan sear my Boca Burgers in a teflon surface without identity, faceless, eager to distribute heat evenly, not shout and throw garlic over a plate of linguini.' But by then I would have lost her, and she would've felt bad about what was actually quite a nice gift, and what do I honestly have against Emeril? Nothing, really. The pan's been great so far. Bam. Whatever.)
ANYway, I drop some magarine in the pan (again, this is entirely my mom's fault, this penchant for fake butter.... I'm slowly trying to ween myself off of its partially hydrogenated fakeness, but Parkay is in the fridge, so Parkay it is), throw the soaked bread on the sputtering surface, and go make my coffee. Flip the bread, a lovely brownish eggy crust formed, the bits of cinnamon from the bread peaking out, eyeing me. Our apartment is cold, so I place a plate on top of the pan for about 15 seconds, to take the chill off, then spatula the French Toast onto the room-temperature plate, slice it into the requisite 7-8 vertical columns to allow for ideal syrup absorption, and take a seat with my Boston Globe Sunday Magazine.
Here's where I approach my "point." I had readied my second slice of Cinnamon Burst bread to engorge the leftover batter, but there wasn't enough in the shallow bowl. So, hoping to stretch out, or extend, what I had, I took my "Vanilla Nut" CoffeeMate creamer and dripped a little into the bowl to mix with the remaining batter. Dropped a tad more soy milk in there. Whisked it up. The mixture was lighter, more "milky" (quel shock) but I lay my bread in the bowl and let it sit while I enjoyed the first cooked slice. I read a cover story on Bill Cosby's dissertation on how Fat Albert can save the plight of Black America and their children. Interesting stuff. I myself watched the show as a kid, and though I didn't know much of racial inequality at the time (nor my privileged position as a middle-class white kid living in a suburb of Detroit), holy cow did I want that squeaky magical pen that talked. You know the one. But I'm growing more tangential by the moment. Pardon the ever-furtive gaze; the periphery is always an alluring subject. Not sure why this is. I welcome your suggestions.
So, the bread soaks up all nice and yellow on one side, but the other side is half-coated in a strangely bright white coating--surely this is not Toast as the French intended. I cook one side to a lovely eggy brown, but the other merely crisps, as it would in the toasted. So I do what I do on toast: spread the crispy side with peanut butter and a raspberry jam, half the bread, and dunk it in my coffee. French Peanut Butter & Jam Toast sticks, dunked in coffee, eaten over an essay on the enduring lesson of Fat Albert. 'Twas a good second portion, but, as I found out, when making French Toast batter is concerned, one egg is not enough.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
My Name is Not Red Delicious
Hi,
My name is Jonathan. I like food. And though I've been weary of these web log dealios (I much prefer Frosted Cheerios), I also have made too many fantastic sandwiches not to share them with you, the nebulous mass of unphysical space out there. The hope in writing this is threefold: 1) that I get to speak my mind on all things edible, such as the various strengths and weaknesses of certain cereal combinations, and you, the aforementioned intangible pair of eyes, can absorb this knowledge happily, or glances over it, sees no mention of Famous Actress X or Hunky Male Model Y (or their celebrity spawn XY) and forges ahead, undeterred. Either of these options are fine. As with most of these expeditions into online keyboard-crunching, this is a purely solipsistic venture. But you're welcome to peek over my shoulders. 2) Practice, practice, practice. And 3) I'm allowed the opportunity to quote Roland Barthes whenever possible. "Writers are on holiday," he says in his collection Mytholigies, "but their Muse is awake, and gives birth non-stop." So consider this space a dual-purpose delivery room, where you receive both crates of Tropicana Medium Pulp Orange Juice with added Calcium, and, um, the infinity of my inspiration's goo-covered babies. Moist Towelettes available upon request.
My name is Jonathan. I like food. And though I've been weary of these web log dealios (I much prefer Frosted Cheerios), I also have made too many fantastic sandwiches not to share them with you, the nebulous mass of unphysical space out there. The hope in writing this is threefold: 1) that I get to speak my mind on all things edible, such as the various strengths and weaknesses of certain cereal combinations, and you, the aforementioned intangible pair of eyes, can absorb this knowledge happily, or glances over it, sees no mention of Famous Actress X or Hunky Male Model Y (or their celebrity spawn XY) and forges ahead, undeterred. Either of these options are fine. As with most of these expeditions into online keyboard-crunching, this is a purely solipsistic venture. But you're welcome to peek over my shoulders. 2) Practice, practice, practice. And 3) I'm allowed the opportunity to quote Roland Barthes whenever possible. "Writers are on holiday," he says in his collection Mytholigies, "but their Muse is awake, and gives birth non-stop." So consider this space a dual-purpose delivery room, where you receive both crates of Tropicana Medium Pulp Orange Juice with added Calcium, and, um, the infinity of my inspiration's goo-covered babies. Moist Towelettes available upon request.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
