Codman Farms

I recently moved out of Boston and into greener pastures, but it wasn't until I saw these signs that I really grasped the fact that I no longer live in the city. They were posted on the on-your-honor fridge at Codman Farms in Lincoln, one of the many idyllic places around here to buy no-logo food. We were so excited by our purchase of some incredible looking (and ethically raised) bacon and eggs that we just went and had breakfast for dinner.

But what can I do with duck eggs? Any suggestions?

Tea With A Heart, Part 2

In the rat race to coin the hottest new food descriptor, terms of substance are quickly eroded by the corner cutting of corporations quick to jump on the bandwagon. Take the kind of "free range" chickens that have a door to the outside but whose legs are too weak to carry their enormous, genetically modified breasts. Among these organic snake oil salesman, Tetulia Teas stands out as different and refreshing as a breath of fresh air or nice cup of green.

Tetulia has chosen to label their tea "garden direct sustainable," but that's just the beginning. They're also a co-op whose membership benefits include getting a cow. This cow is paid for not with money, but in milk and dung (for fertilizer), and any offspring may be kept by the owner. The co-op also includes health programs and education both for young people and for area farmers interested in growing organically. The one room schoolhouse in which these classes take place, plus the playground equipment, are all built from bamboo donated by the community. Unlike a quasi-liberated chicken, this company's ideals can stand on their own two feet.

Tetulia is also the first and only organic tea garden in Bangladesh. While that's a far cry from being "local" for U.S. residents, tea is exactly the kind of provision worth using some fossil fuels to import, because you can't really get it here. The only commercial tea garden on the entire continent is in Charleston, is owned by Bigelow, and grows hundreds of varieties of tea only to sell them in one blend. It's a simple black tea that ices well, and the garden is an extremely pleasant place to visit, but it's also proof that you can't always get precisely what you want in your own backyard.

Despite the carbon footprint incurred in shipping, there's a case for using our first world purchasing power to make change in less developed countries. See Michael Pollan on buying asparagus from Argentina:

"You can make a good argument that my purchase generates foreign exchange for a country desperately in need of it, and supports a level of care for that country's land -- farming without pesticides or chemical fertilizer -- it might not otherwise receive."

(Though he adds that it tasted "like damp cardboard.")

Tetulia offers standard black, green and white as well as herbal blends featuring "ayurvedics." These are harvested from the very trees used to shade the tea plants and are used in such exotic flavor combinations as the Tulsi Infusion, with holy basil, and Vaska Laka, with malobar nut and ginger. Then there's Neem Nectar, which their website describes as "a purifying drinking experience from the magical Neem tree or Azadirachta Indica."

The tea bags and containers? Biodegradable and compostable, respectively. Tetulia is no pipe dream either, as it's been around since 2000 and the co-op has over 1,000 members, a figure they plan to quadruple within the next few years. As if it's near angelic qualities weren't convincing enough, they're also offering a 10% discount through the website. Now you really have no excuse.

For every time you walk into Whole Foods and get overwhelmed by the half truths of their many seemingly progressive labels, remember that there are companies like Tetulia out there who are only full of shit in the sense that their members pay their dues in dung.

Tea With a Heart, Part 1

Once upon a time, I thought the kosher laws represented the pinnacle of all things edible. As a young adult, "organic" became my new guiding light as it did for others who had previously thought "gourmet" was tops. In the new post-organic era, producers and consumers alike continue the struggle for that golden fleece, the latest and most potent food related buzz word catch phrase.

When I got hip to the shortcomings of Big Organic (see The Omnivore's Dilemma, especially the part about weeding with blowtorches), I was once again left searching. Fortunately, "local" then made it's debut, or rather the term was newly popularized for what is actually the oldest form of procuring food besides hunter-gathering. To this day it quite literally remains my bread and butter.

But sometimes I want a banana, and that's when I look to "fair trade," having finally realized that the lives of the people who grow my food are at least as important as that of the fruit. Now there's a sign up at the Diesel Cafe that says in big letters (and I paraphrase) "The Coffee You're Drinking Is Not Fair Trade... ...It's Direct Trade!"

As labor practices now enter our criteria for selecting food, the art of labeling marches forward, lead by people with good hearts and even better marketing directors. I'm normally deeply suspicious of marketing, but here I see its power to do good, as it takes a lot to make people forget all the other marketing that they've been pumped with over the past half century. Fortunately, many of us are now swayed by images of genuinely ethnic, smiling women over their cartoon predecessor, Miss Chiquita Banana.

Enter Tetulia, a Bengladeshi tea garden on the very cutting edge of how righteous something edible can be.

(photo courtesy of tetulia.com)

Baked Potato Salad (a.k.a. "More Fun With Mayo")

In the form it usually takes, potato salad is one of the most disgusting foods I can think of. Done well, it's fantastic.

Real potato salad first appeared on my radar in reading Hemingway's (posthumous) memoir A Movable Feast. It contains one of my favorite of his many sensual descriptions of food and drink, one which pre-dates Bittman but exemplifies a thoroughly minimalist love of pure, simple ingredients:

"The beer was very cold and wonderful to drink. The pommes a l'huile were firm and marinated and the olive oil delicious. I ground black pepper over the potatoes and moistened the bread in the olive oil."

I ground black pepper over mine too, but instead of olive oil, it was the remainder of my homemade mayonnaise that imparted moisture and flavor to the potatoes. The potatoes themselves were baked and left with the skins on, which gave them much more substance than those ragged, boiled lumps you usually get. These were the potatoes mentioned in ETBTH 1, and I used a trick on them which I often employ for baking root veggies. When they're about 80% done, turn off the oven and leave them in there until cool. Something wonderful happens.

Eat to Beat the Heat Part 4: A Cool Purée

If you want to get fancy you can use stock, finish with butter, roast and spice your veggies and so forth, but if you want simple, it's this easy: cook a vegetable however you like, then put it in the blender with water and salt.

We blanched asparagus and used some of the cooking water and a pinch of sea salt, whipped it into a fine, velvety liquid, and served at room temperature. Simple, cooling, and as good as you ever need it to be on a hot day. The better the ingredients, the better it will be, so let your farmer do all the work on this one.

Eat to Beat the Heat Part 3: The Pleasures of Waspy Foods

While I'm much more excited by fermented millet mush, I must say that the genre of "waspy" foods can be remarkably pleasant in hot weather. If you find that term offensive, simply replace it with "mayonnaisey."

Here in Massachusetts cucumbers are not in season yet, but neither is 95 degree heat, so I went ahead and made a cold cucumber soup anyway. When I can't go local I get organic, because it's better than not and because doing so generates a pleasant placebo effect. Of course you could argue that eating whatever food we want whenever we want it is one of the practices that has led to higher temperatures, but you wouldn't really have to argue because it's just true.

Many recipes call for seeding the cucumber, but you don't have to. Just throw two peeled cukes into a blender with fresh dill, a splash of white vinegar, salt, pepper, a spoonful of honey and your choice of dairy or even fake dairy, as unsweetened soy milk works fine. One slurp and your internal temperature will plummet.



Served open face and in dappled sunlight, this was the best chicken salad I've ever had. Made from the bird I roasted in E.T.B.T.H. Part 1 and with homemade mayonnaise, this meal proved once again that simple done well can be mind blowing.



I generally despise and mistrust mayo, but making my own demystifies it and produces a much more edible product that the commercial alternatives. Throw a raw egg and canola oil in a blender plus a pinch of salt and lemon juice or vinegar, and - poof! - you've got springy, savory, mayonnaise. Now put on something pastel and enjoy it.

Eat to Beat the Heat Part 2: Ferment and Sin No More

To beat the heat this time around, I decided to cut down the cooking time on some millet by giving it a preliminary soak. For those unfamiliar with this delicious and nutritious grain, you may know it as the little yellow balls in your birdseed.

As far as human consumption goes, it's an oldie and a goody, dating back to ancient China where it was prized for its ability to swell to five times its size once rehydrated. Having a warm bowl of it first thing in the morning makes you remember what "cereal" once meant.

But the heat had another plan for my millet. Thanks in part to the sultry temperature, the millet spontaneously fermented. When I checked to see if it had soaked through, I found it gently bubbling and issuing a pleasant, slightly sour smell. Once upon a time I would have thrown it out, but instead I reached for my copy of Wild Fermentation and quickly learned that a fermented millet porridge known as ogi (or ugi) is popular in various parts of Africa. Say no more.

Fermentation acts as a god given preservative, stretching the life of your food precisely when it needs help staying "fresh." It was hot, the heat sped up the fermentation process, and therefore the millet remained edible - and perhaps more healthful - for a longer period of time. Thanks, wild yeast colonies of Maynard, Massachusetts.

How was it? Great. Imagine the sauerkraut version of grain.

Eat to Beat the Heat Part 1: The Mochi Monster

In this installment of my latest series, I'll be posting about my efforts to cook despite the disconcerting temperature in which the East Coast has been baking.

Last night I decided to fight fire with fire and do some baking of my own. How could turning on the oven when it's 85 in the house help beat the heat? Well, I baked everything for the week in one fell swoop. Doing so not only consolidates your heat into one session, but it also uses less gas. And any time you cut down on your fossil fuel consumption, you help reduce your carbon footprint, thereby combating global warming and keeping such freakish weather at bay. (I hope.)

As a result of my efforts, the oven was stuffed with a carnivalesque array of foods. A half chicken marinated in soy sauce roasted next to slices of eggplant, which sat above a tray of pastries, which in turn were next to the baked (baking?) potatoes. Everything was going well until something went awry. Then everything starting going really well...

Examine the introductory photo. Besides the fact that a rhubarb turnover and mochi puffs make strange bedfellows on a single cookie sheet, nothing seems out of the ordinary. Unless you look at it from above.



Because the landlord at my new apartment has yet to install an oven dial with any numbers on it, the temp was running high, so the slightly eggy filling in the turnover seeped out before the pastry had cooked enough to retain it. Like a broken off piece of the bad Terminator from the second movie, it reached out for the nearest thing like it, grabbing hold of a helpless little Japanese rice cake. When I finally pulled out the tray, I couldn't tell mochi from turnover, and the result was delicious.

Many famous foods are said to have been created by accident. Among these are Wheaties and American Cheese, which I'm guessing came into being when a fifth grade class on a field trip to a cheese factory all accidentally dropped their retainers into a vat of cheddar at the same time, giving us that plasticky non-cheese we all know and do not love.

In this case, the strange, new thing that lay between the two baked goods was absolutely divine; fluffy yet crunchy, sweet yet still tasting of whole grains and rich egg. I'll do my darndest to play with it again some time soon and keep you posted, because I really think I'm onto something. Mocheggy, anyone?

Heat: 0, Aaron: 1.

Drumlin Farm

I saw these brilliant lettuce seedlings soaking up the sun at Drumlin Farm in Lincoln, MA while on a local food scouting mission in my new neighborhood. There I also learned that it's okay to eat a little raw rhubarb, which is good because I do anyway.



Part farm, part wildlife sanctuary and Audubon Center, at Drumlin you can see such story book perfect farm animals such as these poofy sheep. Since it is working farm, you can also buy a skein of their wool and perhaps a chunk of their shoulder or butt.

My hunch is that the Audubon funding makes Drumlin a little bit more of a theme park than some of it's down and dirty independent, small scale organic neighbors. Still, it's a great place to pick up some New England agricultural history or fresh veggies. They also offer a winter CSA, which I might have to join so I can stop boring you all with how much sauerkraut and applesauce I eat.

Despite the fact that Drumlin champions old fashioned, local farming practices, the gift shop only sold Good Humor ice cream. How disappointing is that? Only slightly less than having me buy part of your butt.

Shavuot Article

See here for my article and photos in "The Forward" on the many fascinating and cheesy foods for the Jewish holiday Shavuot:

http://www.forward.com/articles/13450/

Sort-Of Local Fruit

Speaking of growing your own nosh, my mom just mailed me this home grown pineapple from her garden in Florida. That means it's local. Sort of.

On my travels I often have the pleasure of snatching up local goodies and then whisking them back to my home base, where they instantly become exotic and therefore taste better. In eating food bought locally but eaten globally, I can have my cake and eat it too, quite literally in the case of the nut cake from the Smokehouse Deli in Cleveland.

This pineapple was grown from the top of another pineapple, a neat trick if you live in a warm enough climate. It arrived just as I moved into a new apartment, and what could be better than being welcomed to a new home with the very symbol of hospitality?

Beer. Fortunately, we had a lot of that while we were moving, too. So much that I was surprised how steady my hands were for this long exposure, purely candlelit photo.

The Return Of Local Fruit

Besides cellared apples and the ginger applesauce Elise and I canned in December, I haven't had a lick of locally grown fruit in months. That's because there hasn't been any. Until now.

When I checked my new strawberry vines this morning, I was shocked to find that not one but three berries had deeply blushed overnight.



I bought the plants a few weeks ago, not really sure what was going to happen with them. Would I find time to replant? Would they even grow? And if they fruited, would I be able to stop myself from eating them all in one sitting? Surprisingly, the answers to those questions turned out to be no, absolutely, and yep.

I was only able to transfer three of the plants to real containers, leaving the rest to languish in the tiny seed tray in which they were purchased. But they didn't seem to mind being left in just two inches of dirt, as those few plants are now heavy with over a hundred berries.

Every time I try to grow a little something to nosh on I find it's that easy. In the case of these strawberries, really all I did was buy them. And when I eat something that I've grown, I still feel as proud as the day when, at the age of five, I sprouted my first few leaves of lettuce. This despite the fact that I gobbled them immediately, thereby killing the plants. But remember that arugula I tried to start in my bedroom last March?



In finishing an article on Shavuot (more soon), I recently learned that this Jewish holiday is also known as the "Festival of First Fruits." Amazingly, the holiday falls less than a week from the day my berries ripened. Guess we are good with numbers.

Ginseng Oolong

Pictured above are the leaves of a ginseng oolong after one rinse and one brewing cycle. I was too eager to drink this tea to capture the leaf in its most recognizable form, which is dry. In that state, the shape of the rolled leaves combined with the dusting of powdered ginseng root give the tea a nuggety, Raisinet like appearance.

By now you may have noticed my disdain for flavored teas. It's proportional to my love of teas that magically happen to taste like other things, like Peachy Dan Cong (peaches), Gyokuro (roasted chicken), and Puehr (a cave). Deceptive flavors coaxed from nothing but camellia sinensis are still the most impressive to me, but there is a place for quality additions, both historically and as a matter of taste. This tea is such a one.

The slightly sweet, earthy flavor of the ginseng blends perfectly with the mineral and floral tones of the oolong. The two work together as in a dance, complimenting each other with neither taking the lead. Compare this to the modern flavored teas I so loathe. You'll find them increasingly at places like Teavanna, now in a mall near you, where you'll taste blends such as the "cookie-like" Almond Biscotti Black Tea.

Oreo No-No

In my book, Oreo starts with a few strikes against it. First off, it's one of the many freaks of modern food science designed to disguise as much government subsidized GMO corn as possible. I also have never liked the texture, at least outside of ice cream. But now I have a new reason to hate the Oreo: it purports to be a tool for racial healing.

In a commercial I recently saw before the unfortunate experience of watching Iron Man, a white man shares an Oreo with his apparently mixed race, Spanish speaking son. The father dopily tries to follow along as his son describes how to eat an Oreo in Spanish, eventually speaking a few shaky words himself. They then share the cookie, thereby closing the cultural gap between them as though it were nothing more than vanilla "cream," which of course is actually sugar and hydrogenated oil, or until recently, lard.

I found two things unsettling about this commercial. The first is the fact that they now subject you to full commercials before a movie. The second is that the advert fails to mention that foods like Oreos are in large part responsible for the plague of diabetes and obesity affecting many lower income, often Spanish speaking families.

Forget local, sustainable and organic; households such as the real life equivalent of the family in the commercial have less and less access to anything that isn't heavily processed. For instance, vegetables. What do they have? Oreos. And now anyone from such a community who saw Iron Man will be that much more likely to eat one.

Also, does Nabisco think their cookie has the validity to become a symbol of racial harmony because of its color scheme? Guess Seinfeld was right.

(photo courtesy of Steve Gorlin)

The Miracle Berry

After reading this piece in the Times, I once again want to encourage anyone within striking distance of Miami to visit the Fruit and Spice Park. There you can behold (and probably sample) the miracle berry discussed in the article for yourself. A small, West African fruit with the power to make sour taste sweet, it has apparently become the catalyst for the food orgies of some Manhattanite gluttons.

I'm told that the folks at the Fruit and Spice Park sometimes allow chemo patients to harvest their crop to enhance their sense of taste and stimulate their appetites, which is perhaps a more noble use than that of the "flavor trippers."

(photo courtesy of Kinky Solutions.)

Potato Chowder (With Bacon)

Chop onions and garlic and brown both with bacon, some of which you should remove to reintroduce later for texture. Add roughly cubed potatoes, about two for each eater. Toss to coat, add a mixture of half milk half water. Wait.

These were nice Maine taters, and the bacon was locally raised and locally cured at Lionette's, one of the most hard core (and delicious) fixtures on the Boston local food scene. And generally it goes without saying that I'm using local, seasonal ingredients. In fact, you'll pretty much only hear about it when I don't. Think of it as a public confession.

We cooked the chowder until the taters were tender, then added sea salt and a little more freshly ground b.p. than you think you need. That dose of pipperine can really turn what could be considered comfort food into an eye-opener.

Ladle it out and crumble on that nicely crisped bacon from before. That, a simple salad and a slice of bread is dinner.

Last Chance for La Tene

Stay tuned for a longer post on the tale of La Tene, but for the time being, know that this incredible, local to Boston, artisanal chocolatier has only 10 boxes remaining of its final batch. This despite the fact that it is hands down the finest chocolate I've ever tasted.

Tea and Food contributor and La Tene founder Brendan Gannon recently sent out an e-mail with the following message:

"Sad to say, la tene chocolatier is closing its doors. The last batch of chocolate is done and being boxed up. It has been a tremendously rewarding experience, and I look forward to continued involvement in the fine chocolate world. Thanks for your interest and support, and thanks for being a chocolate person."

But what would be really sad is if you don't hurry up and order one of those ten boxes here:

http://www.latenechocolate.com/

Elise's Birthday, Part II

In regards to Elise's birthday festivities, Jay asks: "But what did you make for breakfast in bed the next day?" Scones, of course.

You may recall from one of my post-San Francisco posts that she has a thing for making scones. While the Sun-Maid dried dates we got at Star Market didn't compare to the fresh ones from the San Fran Far-Mar, they were still superb. As was the batch with lemon zest. Elise makes a moist scone, almost like the love child of a scone and a biscuit.

In addition to contending with the plasticky dates, we also had the task of doctoring up supermarket fruit. Though the strawberries in the kitchen garden are coming along quite nicely, I know that we're not supposed to be eating pears and apricots in New England in May. Still, it was her birthday.



I popped the apricots in the oven for maybe seven minutes just to loosen them up a bit. The pears got a spritz of lemon, a dusting of powdered ginger, and just a pinch of brown sugar. The strawberries weren't as much like styrofoam as these freaks of nature usually are. Of course they were organic, but they were Big Organic.

Also, I forgot to mention that we had marrow bones the night before. Here's proof:

My Mom's Banana Bread

I recently received the following comment: "Aaron, I saw your post on "bitten." Can you share your mom's Banana nut tea bread?!!" Well, Anonymous, your wish is granted:

(From BETA SIGMA PHI INTERNATIONAL COOKBOOK)
1 1/2 cups sifted all purpose flour
1 tsp soda
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 c butter
1 c sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp vanilla
1/2 tsp lemon extract
1 c mashed bananas
1/2 c thick sour cream
1/2 c chopped nuts

Sift flour soda,salt together. Combine butter,sugar,eggs, flavorings. Cream until smooth. Add bananas, sour cream, nuts and flour mixture. Beat until well blended. Turn into a greased loaf pan. Bake at 350 for one hour. You can substitute 1/4 cup buttermilk for sour cream.

If you think you've had better banana bread than this, you're wrong.

Elise's Birthday Dinner

Next to "I love you," my favorite three words to hear from my girlfriend are "make me that." Like a dog that can cook, I like nothing better than to take an order for someone I'm deeply loyal too.

When she walked in, she was first greeted with a tray of thematically appropriate appetizers. These included olives and pickles, which she always had on her birthday as a child, and the spiced cheese leyden, which has cultural relevance because of her Dutch roots. There were also Ak-Mak, which is just kind of a thing for us. Then came the oysters.



Two each of three different native Massachusetts varieties. I like mine straight up, but she requested freshly grated horseradish, which I was all to happy to provide. You'll note that the one in the background is not in focus: she grabbed it as the shutter snapped.

For the main course, I fulfilled her request for an arugula salad (with roasted almond slivers and apples soaked in vinegar) and "super creamy" mashed potatoes with garlic and rosemary, into which I dribbled a little truffle oil.

The entree was left up to me, and it turned out pretty impressive if I do say so myself. Inspired by Mark Bittman's latest video, I butterflied and flattened a boneless skinless chicken breast, probably the only I've bought since I started caring about food. I stuffed this with a mixture based on a cornbread that she'd baked earlier this week. I rolled the whole thing up, and because it was for her birthday, wrapped it in giant slabs of bacon.

She's also had an angel food cake for every birthday that she can remember. That kind of dessert is the opposite of my forte, but I gave it a go last year with decent results. This time, I nailed it. It was moist and fluffy with more flavor than these pithy things usually can hold, thanks to freshly grated nutmeg, a glug of vanilla, and good, dark Fair Trade sugar.



I imagine I'm only going to get better at it, year by year.

Yet Another Reason I Like to Make Kombucha

If you don't know by now, I like making kombucha as much as I like drinking it. Maybe more.

According to my local tea vendor, kombucha's origins date back to Chinese Taoist alchemists who were searching for an elixir for mortality. After centuries, that elixir is now available at your local Whole Foods in raspberry and guava flavor. But it's very satisfying to make at home, and if you're in the Boston area I'll even give you a mother to get it started.

In addition to providing an expensive, trendy food product basically for free, home brewed kombucha also makes me feel productive. No matter where I am or what I'm doing, I know that my big glass jar at home is quietly bubbling away, growing stronger.

One thing I realized on my last batch was that I love the sheer volume of the procedure. So much of modern home cooking is in tiny portions that you forget that old recipes call for ingredients by the gallon, or animal. I love making a stockpot of tea proportionally to the amount that I love to make a cup. Stirring my witches brew with a big wooden spoon, I can't help but feel a little alchemy in the air.

If You Watch One 20 Minute Video About Food...

Watch this one:

http://bitten.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/05/15/whats-wrong-with-what-we-eat/#comment-6698

In typical Mark Bittman style, he lucidly and entertainingly outlines a very simple solution for much of what is wrong with the modern Western diet, and therefore the world. The short version: eat half as much meat.

Sautéed Skate Wing

Skate wings originally attracted me because they fit nicely into my ideal food criteria: unusual, inexpensive, and unprocessed. Since then I've gotten them pretty much any time it's occurred to me, and I've never regretted it.

When I first bought one of these watermelon slice shaped pieces of the ray family, the fishmonger regarded me strangely. Finally, he spoke up:

Him: Are you French?
Me: No.
Him: Haitian?
Me: No.
Him: Then what are you? No one else likes to buy these things.

Why, I cannot imagine. Perhaps the shellfishiest fish, skate wings have a texture that it downright lobster-like though the flesh shreds apart like a Jewish mother's brisket. I simply dredge in flour and sauté in oil, or if I'm wise enough, butter. You can deglaze the pan with a splash of balsamic and reduce it, or dribble a little soy sauce over the finished product. That's Chinese broccoli in the background of the photo, but you can also serve it between bread for an extraordinary fish sandwich.

One strange thing about the skate wing: it sometimes leaves a feeling in my mouth not unlike a miniscule dose of menthol. Either it's a mild allergic reaction or just nature's way of letting you know your specimen is slightly past it's prime. Either way, it's pretty weird, but has never stopped me.

However, I just read that many skate are considered "Critically Endangered" by the World Conservation Union and are listed by the Marine Conservation Society as a "fish to avoid." So as much as I've loved eating them over the years, this one will have been my last.

Good luck, little skates.

Savory Oatmeal

Oatmeal is one of the many foods that, as an adult, I've tasted again for the first time. That's because what we called oatmeal growing up was in fact a packet of sugar with perhaps a few oats thrown in for effect.

Any time a dish that isn't a dessert is served on the sweet side, you should be skeptical. Remember, sugar hasn't been around in our part of the world forever, so its presence often implies an altercation of the original. Just compare what "cereal" meant a hundred years ago to what it means for American kids today.

My earliest memories of oatmeal involve pouring hot tap water into a pulverized, artificially "apple and cinnamon" flavored, pre-cooked powder. I first went savory when a Scottish friend told me of his native oat preparation (egg, black pepper, cheddar), and I will never go back.

Many times a week, I cook whole oats on the stove top in a 2:1 water to oat ratio. When they're just cooked through but not yet mushy, I take them off heat and enjoy with coarse sea salt, tons of black pepper, and a generous tablespoon or so of oil. The oats are so large and toothsome that I often eat them on a plate, with a fork. The ancient simplicity of the meal - a grain and oil - is almost Biblical. It's hearty, it's fortifying, and it's real food.

Far Away Food Blog

I received this blog in a comment from Edamame, called Japanese Foods and World Food Culture. Check it out if you're interested in seeing what a Japanese food blog is like, or if you'd like to see how accurate google translate is.

Mussel Risotto

If you have arborio rice and one other ingredient, really almost anything, you've got a hearty, inexpensive, universally well regarded dish. The basic idea for this version is to steam your mussels, remove them, and then use the liquor to flavor the risotto. Of course at the end, you reintroduce them.

I started the pan with about a bulb's worth of halved garlic cloves, which once browned ended up looking a lot like mussels. I tried to grate in some black pepper, but the cap fell off my mill, so I ended up with whole peppercorns. It's not for everyone, but I liked the element of surprise: you never knew when you were about to bite into a little pepper mine, and what you thought was a mussel might very well turn out to be garlic.

For liquid I used chicken stock made a few days prior. I've been told to warm the liquid so that it's temperature wouldn't arrest the cooking each of the multiple times it was added. But once the stock was warm, I thought "why not keep going and reduce it a little?" Then I thought "why not add the mussel shells to the stock?" Then I thought "what if I have chicken syrup before the risotto's done?" -- in which case I'd have to finish with water. I know, it's a disgusting thought.

In the end it was a race between the two pots, but everyone was a winner. Except the mussels.

Brunch: A Photo Essay

This weekend has actually felt like a weekend, thanks in large part to the privilege of getting a lot of time in the kitchen. Elise and I took our sweet time this morning, whipping up blue corn banana pancakes and an avocado and parmesan frittata. You could say the theme was "warming tropical fruits in oil before pouring something on top of them." For instance, the above bananas.



The guinea pig pancake.



The same idea, much evolved.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, I love the subtle saturation of both color and flavor that a touch of heat imparts on an avocado. We put the slices in the pan with a little oil for just a few seconds, much like the bananas, then added the egg mixture.



The finished product.



We got an excellent crust under the maximum heat of the broiler, thanks to the marriage of egg and parmesan. You could fork and knife it like this:




Or pick it up like a little slice of crustless, sauceless pizza.



Because everything we were eating was cooked in oil, halfway through the meal things started to feel a little heavy. That's when we busted out the Iggy's and arugula, and made little frittata crostini. (Though Camille's probably going to tell me that's incorrect.)

The Magic of Glace de Poulet

What turned these distinct and not particularly interesting ingredients into a satisfying, well rounded dish? A does of that magical ingredient known as demi glace, a.k.a. reduced stock. (Or as Camille has informed me in the comments section, "glace de poulet.")

Much like a serial killer, I've gotten into the habit of hanging on to my carcasses and finding interesting uses for them. For instance, the remains of my roommate's Whole Foods roasted chicken became a stock, which in turned was cooked down to a demi glace, which in turn transformed this dish from dull to, well, super-chickeny.

So instead of having a bunch of ingredients that didn't necessary go together (green beans, sweet potato, leftover lamb shank), I had a well rounded dish unified by the dominant flavor of the d.g. Serve it over pasta, eat it like a stew, call it a ragout or what have you, but there's no better way to turn a handful of random leftovers into a dish that can actually hang.

And it's not at all difficult to make: all you have to do is throw your chicken (or any other meat or even veggie scraps) into a pot of boiling water instead of the garbage. I know French cooking terms can be intimidating, so just think of it as "chicken syrup."

Okara "Soysage"

One way you can look at the last era of American food is a test of the effects of bounty. What happened when we, a thrifty, pioneering people, were suddenly given never ending supplies of food and water and garbage that magically disappeared when placed on the curb? The answer: all hell broke loose.

Just in the past six months, fuel costs have soared to record highs and the price of wheat has tripled. The global food crisis is no longer a matter of sympathy, as we can now empathize with all those peoples around the world who we've so thoroughly screwed in procuring the cheapest, most consequence free food in human history. Of course this has been happening for decades, but it wasn't until my access to affordable fuel and bread came into question that I realized how hard we've socked ourselves in the gut.

However, hope remains. I stayed over with some friends in Maine last night, and for breakfast they served up a hot batch of okara soy "sausage," aka soysage. This hearty, flavorful and highly nutritional meal was made entirely from the by-product of their new soy milk maker. They put in the beans, out comes soy milk, and from the remaining solids they're able to make a whole other food.

While soy is a relatively new crop to our shores, their thrifty use of it is nothing fresh. Not only has okara been a staple in many Asian countries for centuries, but their making it in the U.S. represents a return to the way we've always done things, here and everywhere, for all of history. In a way, it's a good thing that we're losing our magical ability to consume whatever we want, whenever we want it, turning up the air conditioner on those increasingly common record temperature days. God is finally taking away our toys, so we're going to have stop playing with our food.

Fortunately, unlike other revolutions (ie: the French one), the food revolution promises to be delicious. It was tough convincing racists to adopt Civil Rights, but it shouldn't be as hard to convince people to eat food that happens to taste a whole lot better.

Save us, soysage.

Both Tea and Food

http://bitten.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/05/06/recipe-of-the-day-broiled-fish-with-green-tea-salt/

Margarita Pie

No, that's not a term of endearment for my girlfriend. The name is in no way misleading: it is in fact a pie made from a margarita.

I had it after a show in South Paris, Maine last night where it was listed on the Cinco De Mayo menu of the local watering hole.

This drink was also offered, but for some reason the name put me off:



The pie was basically a frozen key lime with crushed pretzels in lieu of a graham cracker crust. It wasn't as bad as it sounds, which isn't saying much.

If you're going to eat dessert at a place like the Smiling Moose, your odds are much better with a classic than with a gringo bastardization of a Mexican dessert that doesn't exist. In fact, their gingerbread was great. Just look at that foamy, melty whipped cream*!


In the end I definitely got the dose of local color I was looking for. Especially when I and my traveling companions were accosted by locals upon leaving, being asked repeatedly "where's the party?"

*By "cream" of course I mean ultra pasteurized, homogenized milk plus stabilizers, preservatives, growth hormones and antibiotics

Think Globally, Drink Locally

Continuing on the epicurean wonders of Ithaca, I am proud to announce that the bar known as Korova now carries the local cider Bellwether on tap. This is a bigger deal than you realize.

For fans of sickly sweet ciders like Woodchuck and Cider Jack, this may not seem like news. However, the U.S. has come a long way since its early days, when cider was the most popular alcoholic beverage. Flash forward to 2008, when you can get virtually any beer you want from any number of far away countries in almost any bar. Our taps read like an Epcot brochure, with brews hailing from such exotic locales as Japan and Jamaica. But cider? Uncommon.

While small craft American beers have made a tremendous comeback in the past few years, cider's popularity has greatly dwindled. I remember touring New England as a kid in 1987, and my dad ordering Sam Adams (in moderation) whenever he had the chance. That's because back then, at least where we lived, the only alternative to Bud was Miller. And brands like Red Dog and Icehouse were still just a glimmer in the eyes of the evil marketing wizards who spawned such tasteless poisons.

But in beer's upswing, our old friend cider has for the most part been left high and dry, in the sense that no one has been getting high from drinking fine, dry cider. Hence my double take when I saw a locally produced cider on tap at Korova.

Since local apples are a whole lot easier to come by than local hops and barley, if you see a cider like Bellwether on tap, you're odds are good that it reflects a deeper kind of local than beer: one which has in it's interests your region's trees.

I'm hoping that Korova's Bellwether tap is part of the larger trend in which Americans are remembering how much better it is to consume things that we ourselves produce. My hope is that real cider will ease into the niche created by brands like Woodchuck as smoothly and effectively as the coyote has taken the place of all the wolves we've killed. In fact, here's my first prediction since coquito: you're going to see a lot more cider. That goes for fancy French cider on wine lists, and hopefully for affordable, local cider at your neighborhood pub.

Only then we can honestly say: "the cider house rules!"

Review: Ca Phe House

Sorry, I don't know how to do accent marks.

Ithaca, NY has so many interesting and affordable places to eat that I suspect the Roman goddess Abudantia hovers above it, doling out leases for inspired restaurateurs from her horn of plenty. In other words, for such a small town, it has some great restaurants.

That observation rings only more true now that Ca Phe House is on the scene. While they do serve the infamous Vietnamese coffee, Ca Phe house is not a false cognate for coffee house. Instead, it's an excellent place for Banh Mi, aka Vietnamese sandwiches.

Not only does Ithaca now have a Banh Mi shop; it has a Banh Mi shop that sources as many organic and local ingredients as possible. As one Cornell professor put it, "they're making their own local, organic mystery meat!"

My companion and I ordered the Special and the Mack. They were so good that they made us feel like we ourselves were special, and the Mac.

The Mac comes with a somewhat disorienting amount of differently textured meats.



This includes ham, sausage, pork loaf, and in case the pork loaf isn't enough for you, paté. Yet the sandwich is lightened considerably by shredded, zingy, pickled veggies and razor thin slices of raw jalepeno. The Mack is so named for the two fillets of canned mackerel slapped between halves of a baguette. Okay, so that's probably not local, but it's surprisingly good for a canned fish sandwich.

In addition to being great and featuring local ingredients, Ca Phe is also incredibly cheap. Sandwiches are six or seven bucks, but they could easily pass for eight dollar sandwiches.

Roasted Sesame and Carrot Soup

Another dish that falls into the category of "made entirely from things on hand at the house I was house sitting for."

Clearly I'm not the first to say this, but the more I learn about something, the more I realize there is to learn. Take roasting nuts and seeds. For years I've thought that a quick brown in a dry skillet was all there was to it. Until my last read of the Trout Point Lodge Cookbook, which recommends a slower, lower heat -- about 20 minutes. All this time I've just been searing my nuts, but their method allows the heat to penetrate to the core, providing a full and thorough roast. Reminds me of the NYT article about how we use heat.

In other words, I roasted some sesame seeds and learned something about myself. I then browned several split cloves of garlic and threw in the chunks of carrots, giving them a literal flash in the pan. Soon after I added water, simmered, and waited. Of course there was sea salt and freshly ground b.p., and towards the end I added a small handful of chopped, fresh tarragon. Partly because I like it, partly because I'm fascinated by the way the licorice flavor compound spans different plant species. With few ingredients and no additional purchases, we had a fantastic dish that served as the cornerstone for the meal.

All you really need to make carrot soup is to steam carrots and then put them through a blender with the cooking water and a touch of salt. All you need to make the ever so popular carrot ginger soup is to do the same with ginger. But I rarely make the same thing twice, and the sesame seeds were calling me. They imparted a depth of flavor that you rarely get without good stock. Sesame seeds: shortcut to soup.

They also made this usually bright dish a little earthy and heavy, so I topped each bowl with strips of crisped leeks and a blob of everyone's favorite yogurt (this week), Fage.

Now that it had texture and tang, all it needed was to be slurped.