July 2007 Archives

Need a change from your standby rosé? My friend Francis popped open a bottle of this lovely cider for his birthday celebration on Saturday. It has 5.3% alcohol content, but there's nothing hard about this cider. Made from Redfield apples grown in the Berkshires, it's gently bubbly with a round sweetness and a soft mouthfeel. Isn't it pretty in the glass? Like sipping amber perfume. It was perfect between bites of squeaky sheep's milk gouda. I've got to get some for our annual summer trip to Hudson. According to the website, West County Cider is an artisanal cider made with heirloom apples grown using Integrated Pest Management. It's available at Williamsburg's Uva Wines and Spirits for $15.

Name: Jenni Ferrari-Adler

Occupation: Writer and Editor

Borough: Brooklyn

Relationship status: Married

What did you eat today?

Scrambled eggs with scallions. Sautéed shishito peppers and grape tomatoes in olive oli with sea salt. Stonyfield mint chocolate chip frozen yogurt with almonds.

What do you never eat?

Peanuts.

Complete this sentence: In my refrigerator, you can always find:

Sriracha hot sauce. Mustard. Capers. Lemons. Plain yogurt.

What is your favorite kitchen item?

The chef’s knife.

Where do you eat out most frequently?

The Boerum Hill Café for brunch.

World ends tomorrow. What would you like for your last meal?

I’ve been at Diner thought it would be a nice place to be if the world was ending tomorrow. And if the world was ending I’d definitely get the chocolate cake for dessert.

Jenni Ferrari-Adler is the editor of Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant, a collection of short-attention span essays on dining alone. It's the perfect beach read for people like you and me. I especially love the essays from Jeremy Jackson, on the glory of the lowly black bean, and Rattawut Lapcharoensap, who wrote a hilarious food memory about "idiot" ramen.

I'm finishing up at work today, trying to tie things up so I can leave the office at 6 to meet La Doug downtown. All of a sudden, I hear this huge boom.

From my cubicle, to no one in particular:

ME: What the fuck is that?

I look out the window to see if it's thunder, but it isn't thunder. There's plenty of light brightening the sandy brick of the opposite building. But the boom isn't a boom at all. It's a roar. And it keeps going. And going. The building is shaking. Five seconds, ten seconds of this roar pass. The fire alarm starts going off. My co-worker looks me square in the eye and yells, "RUN!"

I grab my bags and wallet and run for the emergency exit. As we run down the eight flights to the ground level, the roar gets louder and louder. I can feel the air getting a little thicker, more humid, as we get closer to the exit. I'm wearing a black wrap that I like to put on when it gets chilly in the office. Its fringe whips around me, getting tangled up with my bags as I fly down the staircase. I wonder, am I going to have to wet it down and use it to cover my mouth so I can breathe through clouds of debris, the way my cousin did when she was walking home from Whitehall St. during 9/11?

I get a glimpse of the people in front of me as they burst through the doors. By this time, the roar has grown. I'm not sure where we get let out, but the building sits on the east side of Lexington, between 41st and 42nd, right down the street from Grand Central station. I'm positive that my fear of working above Grand Central is justified, and that Grand Central has been blown up or something. I think about the Piccadilly Circus car bomb.

I break through the exit's double doors. I look to my right towards the source of the loud roar. I see fat plumes of dirty smoke spewing upwards, ominously tall, obscuring the sky. I make myself believe that I'm looking at Grand Central, that the beige smoke is coming from underground. Is the smoke moving towards me? Is it billowing out like the ash tsunami did during 9/11? I can't tell, but I decide I don't fucking care, I am getting as far away as I can as fast as I can.

[Video found on YouTube, not taken by me. My building is the silvery art-deco skyscraper on the right. You can see it when the camera pans up.]

As I run down the block, away from the smoke, I see an abandoned low-heeled black mule here. A few strides later, I notice its mate. I glance at my own impractical running shoes, a pair of overheated, red rubber galoshes squeezing my pumping calves. I consider abandoning them too. Up towards 3rd Ave., I run past a minivan frozen in the middle of a parking job, its passenger door agape and its seats empty.

The fire engine sirens seem to be coming from all directions. Cars are gridlocked and not letting them pass. Most people are running. Some people are trying to get on their phones. Some people are taking pictures with their cell phones. A few are crying. I get all the way to 1st Ave. and turn downtown. My run turns into a brisk walk. I am out of breath, but I am not turning around. After many attempts of getting through the busy cell network, I manage to get through to La Doug's voicemail and tell him I'm fine, but what's happening? I call my NY cousin, who also works in midtown, and leave a voicemail for her. I call my L.A. cousin and leave a message for her to call my mom and tell her I'm fine.

I'm dripping with sweat, but I'm calming down. My pace slows. I change into my gym sneakers and stuff my galoshes into my bag. Somewhere in the 30s on 1st Ave., I stop in a deli to buy an extra large bottle of water. Just in case. The deli guys don't seem particularly alarmed.

ME: You should turn on the news. There was a huge explosion at Grand Central.

DELI GUY #1: Grand Central? Terrorists?

ME: I don't know. I haven't heard.

DELI GUY #2: Man, these guys do some stupid shit, and then who has to pay? We have to pay.

The deli guys are Middle Eastern.

I pay, thank them, and head back downtown. Finally, my NY cousin calls:

COUSIN: Hey, it's just a steam pipe or a transformer or something. Alex [her boyfriend] is at home watching the news.

ME: Look, I don't know how they would know that quickly, but if I were you, I'd go home. Better safe than sorry. And don't take the subway!

Doug calls and I give him a brief run down. I tell him I'll walk to meet him at our original meeting place. As I walk further downtown, fewer and fewer people seem alarmed. People are drinking sweat-beaded glasses of wine at sidewalk tables. Cabs are available. Cars are still driving uptown on 1st Ave.

Am I too paranoid? I live in this great city, I am hitched to this post, but sometimes the Big Apple feels like the Big Bull's-eye. The dirty sock color of the smoke, I've seen it before. When I hear an explosion, I know better than to sit it out and wait for further instruction. Michael Chertoff, his gut has feelings. Every morning, Al-Qaeda! Iraq! Iran! Pakistan! Cheney! Troop surge!

A few things I learned about myself today:

1. I'm not afraid to be afraid.

2. In the event of a crisis, you can bet your britches that I will NOT be one of those bitches trying to get cell phone video to sell to CNN. I am running and I am not looking back.

3. I've GOT to bump up my cardio.

We get a lot of swag in the mail at work, sometimes edible swag. The other day, someone had left some cookies out for everyone to try. My co-worker walked by and said, "I better get away from those. They look dangerous." Isn't that an interesting choice of words?

This is an idea I've been obsessed with for a while: food as a weapon, and the ways in which food can be used against people. Of course we have the poisonings, from Snow White and Nero to Ukraine President Yushchenko and the Russian spy Litvinenko. But there's also the Parsley Massacre, in which a Dominican dictator executed Haitians who couldn't properly pronounce "perejil", Spanish for parsley. My friend Johanna was recently in Andalucia, and she told me about a book she read which said that converted Moors and Jews often proved their dedication to the Catholic church by consuming pork and crustaceans with gusto. A hail paella?

I saw this story on BBC the other day about arrests in China after a sting op uncovered solvent-softened cardboard being used in place of chopped meat in steamed buns. The cooks say they don't eat the buns themselves, they just sell them. I see this as an attack on their customers. But how do you get to that point, where you value your clientele so little that you would never eat the food you serve them?

How many dishes have been born of war, like budae jigae, a Korean stew of kimchi, spam, ramen noodles, and sometimes canned beans? Baby booms must happen in the kitchen as necessity and rations collide.

I wonder what role food is playing in the Iraq war. Paging food editors: there's a story I'd like to read about.

I believe very strongly in tweaking recipes. I know that the magazines vet their work and try their recipes in their controlled test kitchens, but it's in the experimentation that the home cook can learn the most. I may be partially saying that because I've never been very good at following recipes. But I also spend a lot of time with music improvisers, and that's the same spirit with which I want to approach my cooking. All of those musicians are ace musicians who are capable of following the notes on the page, but it's in the anticipation of the next notes that the exciting innovation is made.

Last weekend, I couldn't resist buying a pint of red currants. They are just gorgeous, aren't they? I wanted to make those coffee cake muffins for a co-worker who requested them, but by Sunday night, I didn't have time to run around and get the ingredients. I was limited to everything I had on hand and a few things I could get from the gas station. In fact, I had to go off recipe in several different ways: I didn't have any all-purpose flour, I couldn't get any sour cream, the fruit was different, I didn't have enough muffin tins, and I didn't have milk.

Now if I were Chris Kimball, I would not be making my muffins. Or if I were, I might not feel confident I was making The Best Muffins. While I admire Cook's and their endless anal perfectionism, it's just not my style. And I don't think you can come to the conclusion that there is One Best Way to do everything.

I read cookbooks and blogs in part for instruction and in part for vicarious tasting. But in my own kitchen, I try to make my own music. If you've never tried it, you really should. Maybe your cake will fall, and maybe flavor will flatten a few times. I've certainly had my share of failures. But sometimes, in spite of variables and an uncontrolled environment, you succeed; and most importantly, you learn why you have succeeded.

This recipe produced a finer crumb than the original coffee cake muffins, with a bumpier top. I think the loaf was even better -- golden brown on all sides, it rose five inches high, with currants dispersed perfectly throughout the thick batter.

Red Currant Coffee Cake Muffins and Loaf

1/4 c. sugar
1 pint red currants
1 1/2 sticks of butter, room temp
1 cup sugar
3 extra-large eggs
1 1/2 tsp. vanilla
8 oz. cream cheese
1/4 c. half and half
2 1/2 c. cake flour (dumped into the cups, not spooned in)
2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 6-muffin tin or line with paper cups. Grease a loaf pan. Wash currants and toss them with the 1/4 c. sugar; set aside. Beat sugar and butter together by hand. Add vanilla, eggs, cream cheese and milk. Beat some more. In a separate bowl, sift flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt together. Mix dry ingredients into wet with a light hand til smooth but not overbeaten. Fold fruit in. Scoop into muffin tin and loaf pan. Bake muffins for 25-30 minutes til golden. Continue baking loaf for another 10-15 minutes until golden brown and done in the middle. Makes 6 muffins and one loaf.

I'm in Chicago today, seeing my baby niece. Sorry for the lack of YAWYE this week.

I don't know why I bother brunching out. I tried to meet my friend Kathy at Prune on Saturday morning. We decided to meet at 10, thinking we'd beat the brunch rush. Prune was closed, though (til July 11, so don't bother trying to go), so we wound up meeting at Clinton St. Baking Co. instead. We had to wait half an hour. At 10am! Don't people get hungover anymore?

But today, for breakfast over Wimbledon, I made myself a feast of Russ & Daughters pastrami lox over bagels, tofu scallion cream cheese, awesome Greenmarket tomatoes, and thinly sliced spring onions. For second breakfast (one of my favorite meals of the day), I had tiny local strawberries, raspberries and blueberries, and Tonjes Farms fresh ricotta with a strawberry rhubarb compote I made the other day. With cold-brewed iced coffee. Life doesn't get much better. (I would have liked to see Rafa Nadal win, but I liked seeing Federer weep with gratefulness.)

TIP OF THE WEEK: The best stuff from the Greenmarket right now is all the squishy stuff -- berries, tomatoes, cherries, apricots, and soon, peaches! But how do you get ripe specimens home without making sauce in your shopping bag? The thing that has worked best for me so far are these insulated lunch bags with Velcro closures. (Here's an example, but there are plenty to choose from out there.) Get a couple of them, stack smart (raspberries on top of strawberries, pulp cartons on top of clamshells), and then slide them into the corners of your shoulder bag. Voila!, your soft stuff will make it back without bruising. I only have two, and I bought the berry motherload this week so my tomatoes got a little black and blue, but otherwise, they really do the trick. They're also great for perishables like fresh ricotta or sausages. I have a whole system -- backpack for the heavy, warm temp-friendly stuff like roots, shoulder bag for tender greens, another shoulder bag for eggs, insulated bags, and miscellaneous stuff.

Name: Cecily Upton

One small note before we begin: I want to emphasize, in case it’s not clear from my answers below, how much I love pork--in all its tender and fatty or cured and chewy forms. I think it is one of God’s greatest gifts to this planet, which, I suppose, would mean that I don’t worship to the same God as the Jews or the Muslims (and therefore the Christians? This is getting complicated). I say this because, if, as Ganda reckons, you are what you eat, then I am--proudly, gloriously and unabashedly--a pig.

[Swine is divine. -- Ed.]

Occupation: Photographer/Non-Profit Minion/Reluctant Waitress

Borough: Brooklyn

Relationship status:cecily [at] eatdrinkonewoman {dot} com

What did you eat today?

Note: Since it’s 3:30 in the afternoon, I am going to start with dinner last night and work my way towards the present moment.

Clams and sausage from the Greenmarket with scapes from Hearty Roots Community Farm CSA and sage from my fire escape

Sauteed summer squashes with bacon made by my meat-curing roommate

A meat plate with Dario and Mole sausages from Armandino Batali (my new BFF) and Coppa from the aforementioned, well-endowed in the meat department roommate.

CSA salad of mizuna, arugula, and butter lettuce with tomatoes and carrots

Fresh Greenmarket strawberries, blueberries and cherries [Yay summer! -- Ed.]

Pistachios

Lots of Riesling, Vinho Verde and Hendricks on the rocks with fresh lime juice

Coffee from Café Regular with Half & Half (truly the best cup I’ve had in a long time)

Fried green tomato sandwich with Pimenton French fries from Rose Water Restaurant and a taste of their blueberry buttermilk pancakes with lemon ricotta and pistachios

More strawberries and blueberries

More pistachios

What do you never eat?

There’s nothing I won’t try, but I never eat fast food.

Complete this sentence: In my refrigerator, you can always find:

Film. And butter. The rest depends on my mood, my cash flow (or lack thereof) and the season.

What is your favorite kitchen item?

That dishwasher I’ve been dreaming about.

Where do you eat out most frequently?

Marlow and Sons, Prune, Rose Water.

World ends tomorrow. What would you like for your last meal?

Oysters from North Haven Island, Maine

The meat plate at Marlow and Sons, with their tissue-paper thin prosciutto and addiction-forming finnochio sausage

Meatball sliders from Little Owl (or perhaps some braised pork belly)

The ribeye from Prune, medium rare, with extra parsley shallot butter

A salad made with greens from my CSA with lemon and olive oil

A plate of sliced, perfectly ripe, deliciously juicy tomatoes with sea salt and olive oil

A cheese plate with selections from Ms. Anne Saxelby’s shop

A warm, sticky date bun with caramel sauce and crème fraiche

To drink: a Pimm’s Cup, a glass of grapefruity Riesling, a glass of Collezione Ceci Lambrusco, a glass of Neyers Zinfandel, some mead, and a macchiato, in that order.

And then it wouldn’t matter if the world ended the next day, because I would die of a heart attack right there at the dinner table.

See Cecily's photography here. Visit her blog here.

According to Switched, yer lookin at one of the web's best blogs, as overlooked by PC World! This Tom Conlon is not even someone I know. I swear. More press like that and my Mae may even find out about my blog.

Explaining steamers to Francis:

GANDA: They're about [measuring with index finger and thumb] this big and oblong--

FRANCIS: Like razor clams?

GANDA: No, not quite that long, but they're meaty. And they basically have this thing that's like a penis, and you have to pull the foreskin off before you eat it.

[Pause.]

DOUG: It's not a penis. It's a clam belly, and you don't have to eat that part. I don't eat it.