tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18648341904642103942024-03-04T22:27:51.254-08:00...and sometimes they cook.Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.comBlogger87125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-11642170265002243032011-09-10T01:05:00.000-07:002011-09-10T01:05:06.873-07:00MovedI've moved to <a href="http://postgradpancakes.blogspot.com/">Postgraduate Pancakes</a>. Well, actually, I just redesigned. All the same posts are there.Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-65562630599473964372011-09-06T10:35:00.000-07:002011-09-06T10:35:01.757-07:00Terrorist Fries and Caprese<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkPF7m7-HlpTvEG9AvFFFTsSjxhfHaRZUeo_Q9n8Ezqhgp6fxqHzU7Nk-Btv4dB8Vtdx02UhibCdUaUs06c7Gbjy-G99-biGjF_dILRx98gPFJWm3exaIV_N1a_r7lH5MCdf1vUBNNFA/s1600/IMG_0753.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkPF7m7-HlpTvEG9AvFFFTsSjxhfHaRZUeo_Q9n8Ezqhgp6fxqHzU7Nk-Btv4dB8Vtdx02UhibCdUaUs06c7Gbjy-G99-biGjF_dILRx98gPFJWm3exaIV_N1a_r7lH5MCdf1vUBNNFA/s200/IMG_0753.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Tonight, fried potatoes and caprese for everyone! I know, you're thinking what is she feeding her poor family? Has she gone vegetarian and taken them down with her? Dear Husband is as suspicious as you are, and even more suspicious of my excuse of forgetting to buy meat today, but the caprese won him over. (Secretly, though, I <em>have</em> been leaning in the meatless direction. It's so healthy, and good for your heart, and I get tired of meat every day. I don't need to worry about what the DH thinks, he never reads my blog, thank God.) It's a hit all around, so colorful and so Italian! Little freddie hates tomatoes, but after I forced him to eat one bite of caprese--a slice of tomato, a slice of mozzarella, and a basil leaf or two--he couldn't stop eating it. I had to slice up some more tomatoes and pick more basil from our little garden to make us more!<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibuA7WrnWvYbxOlOngXxT8-2FNDcumimvsN6PGM-jRhElNiWLpEtxxLvMkHVB3Vj9kim3X8u6K0YHhr3NmqunPCQIGswMYtBVB_8hNJYNGSIiLjb9aLLzGPddjXvoN-s7fCmUOUodSlw/s1600/IMG_0751.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibuA7WrnWvYbxOlOngXxT8-2FNDcumimvsN6PGM-jRhElNiWLpEtxxLvMkHVB3Vj9kim3X8u6K0YHhr3NmqunPCQIGswMYtBVB_8hNJYNGSIiLjb9aLLzGPddjXvoN-s7fCmUOUodSlw/s200/IMG_0751.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">look at that delectable little tidbit,<br />
like a tiny Italian flag</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The tomatoes I planted back in early July have finally been putting on fruit and ripening beautifully. Nobody believed me that they'd grow because I'm a black thumb, but I like to think it's getting a bit grey, maybe. Here they are, deep red, sweet, and with that wonderful tomato smell.<br />
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DH calls the potatoes I make "terrorist fries." That's not an insult. He loves them, but from day one has called them that. To be honest I've forgotten why. Oh yes, the first time I made them it was during the Bush years, and there was all this anti-French sentiment floating around, which he had to mock by calling them Terrorist instead. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUZDXWv43BlrfrxubP_oqnSFZNngY0P_rsO5owZ3GWuTwSdJvHWU4jEpXFWefbSum-xvXLklLWDwXV__cU49l4mmdC13iKGLOrS_jppxAwSZeJJ8alaEvhyphenhyphenmAtU03hRggeYOHRo8l4CA/s1600/IMG_0750.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUZDXWv43BlrfrxubP_oqnSFZNngY0P_rsO5owZ3GWuTwSdJvHWU4jEpXFWefbSum-xvXLklLWDwXV__cU49l4mmdC13iKGLOrS_jppxAwSZeJJ8alaEvhyphenhyphenmAtU03hRggeYOHRo8l4CA/s320/IMG_0750.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<center>~</center><br />
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Well, as fun as that was, I can't really see the point in making fun of Mormon mothers who blog about cooking for their families. Really it would be much more fun to <a href="http://www.salon.com/life/feature/2011/01/15/feminist_obsessed_with_mormon_blogs">read them yourself</a>. I cannot possibly match <a href="http://aspicyperspective.com/2010/09/roller-derby-pies.html">the genius</a> of: "My hubby and I have a new house rule for guarding our waistlines. If you MUST have it, you must MAKE it from scratch!"<br />
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And the end, about my imaginary husband's political commentary (actually my brother's), just sounds like me anyway.<br />
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There is a problem with fall: that it is fall. I don't really need to spell it out for you, but I will. Summer is ending. The light is lower. It's getting colder. The porch is already getting covered in dead leaves. I've apparently given up trying to write semicoherent posts.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD8fOvBe0ARJiUkuq3OiMjRQmdUjoBlgAvdLnVxPtlz-ZONeZArxxh5glHKbhyphenhyphenm_ayEpcncu1FxYatmxflFp15x5SS_bb8-hQX1ZvJJmZMeRd2QLuOr60Goxa3EQcP_u1oMQJwcOxbJA/s1600/IMG_0748.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD8fOvBe0ARJiUkuq3OiMjRQmdUjoBlgAvdLnVxPtlz-ZONeZArxxh5glHKbhyphenhyphenm_ayEpcncu1FxYatmxflFp15x5SS_bb8-hQX1ZvJJmZMeRd2QLuOr60Goxa3EQcP_u1oMQJwcOxbJA/s200/IMG_0748.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Anyway, I'm surprised that I haven't posted something about "terrorist fries" here before. Maybe it was because I didn't want to share the silly name. Really I'm not sure what else to call them. Chips? What does one call thick-sliced potatoes roasted with lots of olive oil. They taste more or less like french fries, but round, and with a somewhat different texture (in part because the potatoes are never Russet, the variety used for french fries). Like french fries or chips they're good with barbecue sauce, or salt and malt vinegar, or this time I used balsamic because I didn't have any malt vinegar.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLBJzLk47yxlqzHE61QOj-0Ske-J80Bp3s76xrPoFt42o20WbQY-GEcD-rXXDTEI6sPqHVLfJUKsipFssc38Q1WPUisYnxNXvPinAgWAuoEKAjgEYREDCr5zX-Tf3hdrXJzEryhEq0vQ/s1600/IMG_0749.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLBJzLk47yxlqzHE61QOj-0Ske-J80Bp3s76xrPoFt42o20WbQY-GEcD-rXXDTEI6sPqHVLfJUKsipFssc38Q1WPUisYnxNXvPinAgWAuoEKAjgEYREDCr5zX-Tf3hdrXJzEryhEq0vQ/s200/IMG_0749.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>There are a limited number of foods I make when I don't really know what to make, and these are one of them. When I need something starchy to go along with odds and ends from the fridge, I often make these. Somehow, throwing them in the oven set to 450 F seems easier than, say, putting on a pot of rice. Their delicacy lies in how thickly they are sliced (about 1cm), which somehow seems less daunting than the subtleties of timing and proportions of water to rice. Sure, I could overbake the potatoes, too, but as long as I check them every couple of minutes, they're very easy to visually assess. When they are browned to your liking, they are done.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM0U6lRDGqinfRJuFbRYhMaINKZw027OY8Gvf0M1qjHiqNYlLHF9T4YTXqmobVShU9nTb8-V1L9q2m3dPxvyAU9r5KAsjekI17qJEsqWzK1v_aIqvZ8h8x_gGQs_fDheDU2wsGC1bH-A/s1600/IMG_0754.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM0U6lRDGqinfRJuFbRYhMaINKZw027OY8Gvf0M1qjHiqNYlLHF9T4YTXqmobVShU9nTb8-V1L9q2m3dPxvyAU9r5KAsjekI17qJEsqWzK1v_aIqvZ8h8x_gGQs_fDheDU2wsGC1bH-A/s320/IMG_0754.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>They are my brother's creation, although I suppose I increased the oven temperature, at first more out of haste than to create the desired consistency. I don't remember exactly how they came about, but I believe it was when we were having a LAN party. If you know what that is, then I need not say any more, and if you don't, you need not know any more. We were making baked beans and tangelo meringue pie, and, well, maybe we wanted something to go with the baked beans. Maybe we had no potato chips, and one of us suggested (it seems like this would be me) that we <em>make</em> potato chips. I think that was it. I remember us saying to each other that they weren't quite potato chips (they weren't crispy all the way through), they were still really good. Good enough to have stuck, apparently.Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-1998989633329687252011-08-28T19:18:00.000-07:002011-08-28T19:25:52.284-07:00BlackberriesWouldn't it be cool if Himalayan blackberries really came from those mountains? Not really, but my brother and I have constructed a whole mythology around it. It's strung together with a kind of botanical personification: The Himalayan blackberry is so incredibly and invasively successful here because its native home is far harsher. Adapted to cold, cold winters and very little water, here it thrives. Like the Himalayas are a bramble boot-camp.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzdx8vSeXr-w3Y3iovgabtOqtK10ckH09_sHdP1R6nK0p8ustG9FFkEobUnUqwWC_QqAXM-RWjYHpgDUkBk6l86h39glW9vEtYVVS5aQdBOOJ7lNP72cJormXq-Yok1AFEq8cr1xanLQ/s1600/IMG_0730.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzdx8vSeXr-w3Y3iovgabtOqtK10ckH09_sHdP1R6nK0p8ustG9FFkEobUnUqwWC_QqAXM-RWjYHpgDUkBk6l86h39glW9vEtYVVS5aQdBOOJ7lNP72cJormXq-Yok1AFEq8cr1xanLQ/s320/IMG_0730.JPG" width="320" /></a>There is a certain logic to this. They are so at home here and so impossibly hardy that they must come from some otherworldly place, and the Himalayas are that to us, rising to elevations we have never visited and on the other side of the earth. There is something alien in the brambles' utter familiarity with the landscape. Nothing native could grow so well--nativity, after all, must be nurtured. These cannot be destroyed. They will come back year after year from dry slashed up root matter forgotten in the ground. Up my street there is a family who for three years chopped them down, pulled them up, burned them, and sprayed them. They still persisted.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyjwc-FvLhixzbNnFTE5tukYAcAgMdbZNBTY5A-ZXn_Zc6B8FjkFhFiYOVMgPWODferszfb5BaRyIA7cbSiM8tNqqRYOhSGnH44816BBbwjTwqxdiU5s_monQikIlGEh_e_syZXhdbRA/s1600/IMG_0734.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyjwc-FvLhixzbNnFTE5tukYAcAgMdbZNBTY5A-ZXn_Zc6B8FjkFhFiYOVMgPWODferszfb5BaRyIA7cbSiM8tNqqRYOhSGnH44816BBbwjTwqxdiU5s_monQikIlGEh_e_syZXhdbRA/s320/IMG_0734.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This year's new canes where they were "removed" last year.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>My brother and I always laugh when a restoration project we're working on as <a href="http://nwbiolog.com/">employees of my father</a> involves pulling up blackberries and planting native plants in their place. We know it won't really work. It's amazing, really, the destruction that these plants excite in people like us. The same people who are melancholy about Arizona's immigration legislation happily engage in what amounts to a campaign of firebombing on an immigrant who was brought here more than 100 years ago. Last year there was a volunteer effort to remove what looks like a multiple acre swath of nothing but blackberries along Ashland Creek. It's doomed, of course, unless the same thing is done every year. This year the new canes have grown quite tall. If anything is clear to me, it's that Himalayan blackberries are here to stay.<br />
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But they are non-native and invasive, and thus the perfect scapegoat. We need them to be our punching bag. Without the millions of brown, slain blackberry canes, the native plants planted there would not be so proudly native. The category of native has been eked out through an extensive labor of killing Himalayan blackberries. And other species, sure, but mostly them.<br />
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But this is all hocus-pocus. To most of us, blackberries are blackberries. We do not know them as native and non, Pacific and Himalayan. They are simply that ubiquitous bramble that in the late summer bears purple berries. They are the landscape that they "invade."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7uf31jLxTmhZuJRxFB5LsrpUzSwt9aspaEL-wGWzTb-ytZG6HiCbed9mGBH7_tFDgjyJxoR89rHYp2ol_MYsODqZWN1oQ9g7eg4XWE49eF9SVg85kwREzW2Cfql0cyb4LLif8EDX5Zg/s1600/IMG_0732.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7uf31jLxTmhZuJRxFB5LsrpUzSwt9aspaEL-wGWzTb-ytZG6HiCbed9mGBH7_tFDgjyJxoR89rHYp2ol_MYsODqZWN1oQ9g7eg4XWE49eF9SVg85kwREzW2Cfql0cyb4LLif8EDX5Zg/s320/IMG_0732.JPG" width="320" /></a>Though I always wondered if perhaps they came from the lower, greener slopes of the Himalayas, I admit that I didn't know until just now that in fact, if we care to deal in fact, they have nothing to do with the Himalayas. Apparently, Luther Burbank, an American horticulturalist, visited India and there found some blackberry seeds in a market. He grew them, liked them, and decided to call them "Himalayan Giant." Wikipedia and others have pinned down the species' origin to Armenia, <a href="http://www.scn.org/cedar_butte/cb-himal.html">someone</a> going so far as to say that the only correct scientific name of the plant is Rubus <em>armeniacus</em> Focke (much taxological confusion surrounds it, called by <a href="http://www.ars-grin.gov/ars/PacWest/Corvallis/ncgr/cool/rub.aliens">several names</a>: "R. <em>procerus</em> Muller, R. <em>praecox</em> Bertol., R. <em>grabowskii</em> Weihe ex Gunther et al., or R. <em>discolor</em> Weihe & Nees") <a href="http://thegardenpalette.wordpress.com/2009/08/19/the-%E2%80%98-black-sheep%E2%80%99-of-the-berry-family/">A gardening blogger</a> went even further, stubbornly (like a teacher's pet) referring to them as "Armenian blackberries." It is undoubtedly true they are of the region of Armenia, but what of destiny? Who is to say that this plant wasn't meant for world domination any more than it was meant for Armenia? To go even further, and <em>really</em> "naturalize" these things, who's to say it wasn't meant to be massacred?<br />
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It bleeds so deliciously. Well, alright, it really doesn't need to be injured or killed to yield its sweetness. Actually, more likely if you pick the berries <em>you</em> will get pricked. Picking blackberries marks you; your hands become stained violet, berry juice sometimes mixed with a little blood. You come back scratched up but happy.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoPQNFUyIzjB24hWca9KdWGC5ZHPqUaJoL1ovxeQoCMYZ18_g6mlSnaKICaQxoJJwraQG0Ic0XEgCenTdB251FYdOYlFhl0X4v-RTkGQcR3UxzO3Jc-SdVsKnFh7zRdNGNUMGla_oxZw/s1600/IMG_0728.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoPQNFUyIzjB24hWca9KdWGC5ZHPqUaJoL1ovxeQoCMYZ18_g6mlSnaKICaQxoJJwraQG0Ic0XEgCenTdB251FYdOYlFhl0X4v-RTkGQcR3UxzO3Jc-SdVsKnFh7zRdNGNUMGla_oxZw/s320/IMG_0728.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>There are quite a few considerations involved in picking blackberries. The first is water: those bushes that grow near water or are irrigated (like near a grassy field) have fatter fruit. Personally, I prefer the places that provide shade, as picking in the late August weather is liable to kill you. My brother is a proponent of two things for serious picking: the two-by-six and the plastic gallon milk jug. The two-by-six (preferably salvaged from lumber scrap) is dropped on top of a productive but mostly inaccessible patch, and used as a platform from which to reach the berries nobody else could. The milk jug, the top 1/8 or so cut off with a knife, is the preferred berry-collecting device: it has a convenient handle, a large opening, and holds quite a lot.<br />
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Although my brother is now wary of the herbicides, diesel fuel, and god knows what else contaminating the soil near the railroad tracks, the tracks near the middle school used to be one of our favorite places to pick. I remember one day in late August when we drove there in his cream-colored Mercedes diesel (to run biodiesel, of course) as enormous slate walls of cloud grew above us. It was late in the day, and the light slanted yellow from a slit of unclouded horizon. The excessive details added up then to more than they do now: The four of us picked for an hour, until we were pelted with hail. It hurt, and we ran into the car with our various buckets (gallon milk jugs with the tops cut off, yogurt containers, paper bags, who knows what else) full of berries. Like a scene in an excessively nostalgic film, the fun bulged out a little nastily. The hail increased as we drove to the store, making more and more worrisome sounds on the steel roof. One of us (not me) used a newspaper to shelter himself on his way into the store to get oats, butter, and ice cream. Like all memories, it was mostly made up.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ibGboOo4p6vOvFedpKenCbuPExeuvzlO3LuZj12kbA-vE2ivFR7X5MgQhOyu5g2EmmF5QWXabgp3nJFHCybEc-FsH8RCXMsYvNV7SVSyJyyR8Zag-paORHaqNLS3owIhUTlZ9l6V9Q/s1600/IMG_0735.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ibGboOo4p6vOvFedpKenCbuPExeuvzlO3LuZj12kbA-vE2ivFR7X5MgQhOyu5g2EmmF5QWXabgp3nJFHCybEc-FsH8RCXMsYvNV7SVSyJyyR8Zag-paORHaqNLS3owIhUTlZ9l6V9Q/s320/IMG_0735.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>The object of all this youthful running about in a stormy idyll was blackberry crisp a la mode, of course, though we always called it cobbler. In fact "crisp" sounds wrong to me--it couldn't possibly refer to a baked dish of berries topped with (and sometimes lined with) a mixture of oats, butter, and brown sugar. We always made it that way because both my brother and my mother were allergic to wheat.<br />
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Baking a crisp was my goal when I picked today, but there weren't enough berries, and the hours of wandering around in the heat looking for enough berries exhausted me. So I will have fresh blackberries with various dairy products: ice cream, yogurt, (lightly) whipped cream. How terrible.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivjlsItfaf9_b6keMr__9CvoLxOdM3ltwgRl_zXzcV0k9PImCbxUPXhA5LmJYjgWPSctEdsOdDP8rpaUMEsdike8lIx61nlV8fFdRRt2pFfMPB1rJ-K1NFnEDEHFDayHK22HCLfqALdw/s1600/IMG_0739.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivjlsItfaf9_b6keMr__9CvoLxOdM3ltwgRl_zXzcV0k9PImCbxUPXhA5LmJYjgWPSctEdsOdDP8rpaUMEsdike8lIx61nlV8fFdRRt2pFfMPB1rJ-K1NFnEDEHFDayHK22HCLfqALdw/s320/IMG_0739.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Fresh blackberries are yummy, but baking them in a crisp softens their flavor for good reason: The blackberry is a queer tasting fruit. It's not even clear it is one fruit. The same bush yields various tastes: bitter, sweet, gasoline-like, bland and mealy, moldy, almost always a little sour, and sometimes very sour. Sometimes you accidentally eat an ant, which has its own acrid, strangely complimentary taste.<br />
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Much in my life has revolved around blackberries. The first outing an ex (and now friend) and I had together was, I think, picking blackberries. One of my best childhood friends, who is no longer alive, used to eat red, unripe berries from the wall of brambles at the edge of the middle school. He had something to prove, I guess. One summer not too long ago (which probably means something like five years ago) my oldest friend and I made blackberry milkshakes. (Inevitably one of you is now laughing at your own joke: my milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard.) None of these memories are endemic to blackberries, because blackberries do not need endemicity. They pop up all over the place, given just enough water.Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-13415545839202468932011-08-22T15:26:00.000-07:002011-08-28T19:29:32.831-07:00Gluten-Free Baking Part II: Bob's Red Mill Shortbread Cookies and Chocolate Chip Cookies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXQML2GqdFDoKZlytosYZuSfsmgLgBFhsJh53bsUAV2_cbmG9zq7vAFwnxld-nD8jcX3nWFSrZTTveMM3LFIwxgcJo7v5t3-t07N1beLwarzigGFRCwe5tF1PD24-JvOdrkbo0oO_LTQ/s1600/IMG_0726.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXQML2GqdFDoKZlytosYZuSfsmgLgBFhsJh53bsUAV2_cbmG9zq7vAFwnxld-nD8jcX3nWFSrZTTveMM3LFIwxgcJo7v5t3-t07N1beLwarzigGFRCwe5tF1PD24-JvOdrkbo0oO_LTQ/s320/IMG_0726.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I suppose I should have photographed the whole process, showing you everything, plenty for your tactile imagination to chew on. But this isn't <a href="http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/">The Pioneer Woman Cooks!</a> or some other shiny cooking blog. All I have are photos of the baked cookies themselves, which don't much illustrate the difficulty of making them. You can see the paraplegic cat, and a few other limbs broken off. This could've happened at one of a few points: transferring the cut dough shapes from the counter to the baking sheet, transferring the baked cookies off of the baking sheet, and simply handling the cookies to eat them. The package told us, like the chocolate chip cookie mix of the same brand, that the dough would seem dry, and that we needed to squish it together with our hands, and to roll it out between parchment paper and plastic wrap to 1/4 inch. How exactly did we do this without the dough crumbling to pieces? With difficulty. The package suggests using a cookie cutter. It does not suggest the acrobatics involved in getting the cut dough to the baking sheet. We carefully removed the layer around the shapes, trying not to break the shapes themselves, and used a spatula--quickly, quickly--to lift them in one piece (or, if the maneuver isn't executed perfectly, several). Irregular shapes with lots of limbs sticking off didn't fare well. The pumpkins were okay, being essentially a circle with a tiny bit sticking off (the stem).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfRnmK2zPcg_FYEUkh8sHdlg0XJpITO9KbHgSm3WZFfXAkzvV2GSdO7eBotzDxIRfY_gmdx2dvslalhKVW4tku6nHuQSeY5hOdqE04Be4sIrbJ8iAyYDOGTI9knuECLxHd5-zzUexYMQ/s1600/IMG_0710.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfRnmK2zPcg_FYEUkh8sHdlg0XJpITO9KbHgSm3WZFfXAkzvV2GSdO7eBotzDxIRfY_gmdx2dvslalhKVW4tku6nHuQSeY5hOdqE04Be4sIrbJ8iAyYDOGTI9knuECLxHd5-zzUexYMQ/s200/IMG_0710.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>I've never made shortbread cookies, regular or no, but what was the structural integrity these cookies were lacking? Gluten. I imagine regular (dare I call them that?) shortbread dough would stay together easily enough that it could handled with less care than nitroglycerin, and that the baked cookies would not be so delicate that they faint when they see a mouse. (Of course, <a href="http://sometimestheycook.blogspot.com/2011/04/purple-pork-and-night-butter.html">when I saw a mouse in my kitchen at night</a> I might've hit my head I jumped so violently.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoGUFNvDzBFPsVMZoCoiy-7gEXNNJ8xbdmHju4-eGU1hinzKxSfrlyit3XHWLdjRplsEk4X-K6LdIKjjlhe-AQUecofEk9LP7uPnXezKfZi1qx2tBLJAiTYCyDt0Ekf4F8ZlNboH9VRA/s1600/IMG_0723.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoGUFNvDzBFPsVMZoCoiy-7gEXNNJ8xbdmHju4-eGU1hinzKxSfrlyit3XHWLdjRplsEk4X-K6LdIKjjlhe-AQUecofEk9LP7uPnXezKfZi1qx2tBLJAiTYCyDt0Ekf4F8ZlNboH9VRA/s200/IMG_0723.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>I complain, but the shortbread cookies were good, if messy, to eat. How can you go wrong with something that's mostly butter? The texture was a little grainy, becoming not quite the fine paste in the mouth that I'm used to from regular shortbread, but rich and a little sweet, as they should be. A nice tea biscuit.<br />
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Apparently, all legumes taste similar. Bob's Red Mill is partial to garbanzo bean flour in gluten-free baking mixes. Their chocolate chip cookie mix is mostly comprised of it, at which our noses twitched in mild disgust. Garbanzo beans and chocolate chips? Ew. Why not, say, oats? (The funny thing about <a href="http://sometimestheycook.blogspot.com/2011/08/gluten-free-baking-part-i-simulation.html">gluten-free baking</a> mixes is that each has a completely different approach to achieving the texture and flavor desired. Some are mostly rice, some oat, some garbanzo, some teff. Usually the actual ingredients are downplayed; the end result is everything. Which is odd these days, when every "organic" or "natural" product is busy bandying its ("simple," "pure") ingredients.) We didn't trust it, but we did already open the package, so what the hell. The cookies turned out beautifully, melting into the pan in folds of buttery chewiness (sorry, no photos). The flavor was unexpected, but not at all unpleasant. I devoured five in one sitting. I gave two to my brother, who when I asked him what kind he thought they were said "they're peanut-butter chocolate chip, right?"Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-48332600502866463572011-08-21T10:07:00.000-07:002011-08-22T15:28:19.073-07:00Gluten-Free Baking Part I: SimulationI found myself making a strange conversational comment about gluten-free baking today: "Here," I said, "it's more of an experiment, whereas there it can be traditional." The over-there in question was Japan, because the owner of the recently opened Ichigo Cake, who is one of those male Niponophiles who is married to a Japanese woman, mentioned a type of rice-based chiffon cake made in Japan. There is a kind of hysterical traditionalism that the idea of gluten-free baking excdites in me at times. It's not just traditionalism, but a metaphysics of substance: <em>No</em>, I think, <em>how is it bread if it isn't made from wheat?!</em> The whole idea of gluten-free baking is heretical and challenging to this mindset. One tries to make something without the ingredients that have traditionally defined it. There is also the kind of gluten-free baking that adapts to the different qualities of other grain flours, making something entirely new and owning rather than trying to hide its uniqueness. But most gluten-free baking reaches toward realness: seeming indistinguishable from the gluten-based baked-good that it simulates.<br />
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It is because of how it resembles transexual politics that my knee-jerk reaction of "it's not real" seems so backwards. But there is of course a more visceral reason to defend gluten-free baking: for some, gluten really is poison. For my brother it's an allergen, something which makes him mucousy and plugged-up like he has a cold; it causes my girlfriend's immune system to go haywire, damaging her digestive system in its violent wake. (This is my dramatised picture of Celiac.) There are also, I hear, those who vow to go off wheat or gluten for health reasons, even though they have felt no ill effects. I find these people hard to disginguish from those who quaff wheat grass at juice bars. Children have the best neologisms: healthoholics.<br />
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When I said "experiment," i was thinking of a gluten-free bakery that's starting uncertainly in Phoenix (about five miles away), <a href="http://www.giasglutenfree.com/menu.html">Gia's</a>. The small, slapped-together storefront feels harried as you walk in. There isn't an employee at the counter, but a man with a walkie-talkie who I have a feeling is either related to or married to the baker. He communicates with the bakery itself across the parking lot, radioing that we're out of this or that, are you making more? This leads me to think that they have so little startup capital that they must reduce their risk by making tiny, on-demand batches and/or they just don't have the oven space to make enough at once to meet demand. Just opened a month ago, they're stilll figuring out how much of what customers will buy, and moreover are still probably gaining customers as the word of their existence spreads around those that want gluten-free. For the time being they'll just use what they've got. The cash register is a laptop hooked up to a receipt printer. The occasional cashier will come away from the bakery into the shop only when customers are afoot.<br />
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But as well as a business experiment, it's an experiment in baking. They're perfecting their recipes, looking for the right combination of flours and for the kinds of pastries people like. I am told the lemon bars are a hit. Personally I fell for the succulant carrot cake, which I didn't even realize was gluten-free until I felt the texture of rice flour in my second bite. My father had brought some home from the Talent Art Show (this is not some horrible exercise in naming--Talent is a town a few miles north of Ashland) where they were selling cupcakes as teasers for their bakery that was yet to open. There was chocolate and carrot cake. At least one of you is laughing at me, but I'm telling you, the carrot cake was far more tempting. At the time I didn't know its lusciousness (alas, there are only so many adjectives one can use to describe cake) was gluten-free; it was just some delicious cupcake from wherever. This, I suppose, is the simulationist gluten-free baker's dream. Gia's is exactly that. A recent <a href="http://www.mailtribune.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=%2F20110803%2FLIFE%2F108030301">Mail Tribune article</a> says that "Jan Thorsell wants fellow sufferers of celiac disease to feel 'normal' when they walk into her new bakery." The normal customers also get to feel normal cake on their tongues.<br />
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Next, in <a href="http://sometimestheycook.blogspot.com/2011/08/gluten-free-baking-part-ii-bobs-red.html">Part II</a>: a recent joint foray into gluten-free baking: chocolate-chip cookies and shortbread cookies.Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-27670450531633907582011-08-12T20:37:00.000-07:002011-08-28T19:29:51.444-07:00Pizza<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EooElbXF_RU/TkWBI2FO-NI/AAAAAAAADYo/I9oFsjcWtfk/s1600/0812111227.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EooElbXF_RU/TkWBI2FO-NI/AAAAAAAADYo/I9oFsjcWtfk/s320/0812111227.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>My father has decided that "they" call me "Isaac 'Pizza' Skibinski." Not without reason. I've made pizza three times in the past week.<br />
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In the summer I always seem to be drawn to making pizza, despite the fact that turning on the oven when it's ninety degrees outside seems absurd (or, alright, just environmentally insensitive). When it's not delivered to your door as the quintessential late-night food, baked (or rather fried) in "deep dish" swimming with grease, two-inches thick and covered in various kinds of meat, I think of pizza as a summer food. In part this is because I grow basil in the summer (for some reason I've never been one of those enterprising people who grows it in a little windowsill pot when it's too cold for it to survive outside). What is pizza without fresh basil? (Yes, I know, I'm stuck on this.) It's also simply because my image of pizza is a summery image: thin, brightly colored, light(ish), bathed in sunlight.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8O2HdBQITjk/TkWBJ4Q7_eI/AAAAAAAADY0/NW-sGr-PEVw/s1600/0812111208a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8O2HdBQITjk/TkWBJ4Q7_eI/AAAAAAAADY0/NW-sGr-PEVw/s320/0812111208a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>In other words, my love of fresh pizza is slightly sneaky nostalgia for Italy. Even though what I make bears little resemblance to the thin snack I devoured there, it is that which I long for by making these things, I admit. I know it's not cool any more to think of Europe as the gastronomical promised land (unless you're Elizabeth Gilbert), as it was in the 30s and 40s when M.F.K. Fisher was visiting and dreaming of France. Nor is it 1961. Nor am I Julia Child. But let's be honest: I have silly idyllic daydreams of European food. There is nourishment and there is nourishment. I create this delusion that I'm creating Europeanness for myself more via the combining of Mediterranean ingredients than any meticulous attention to technique or finished product. As long as it has the right stuff--tomato sauce, mozzarella, fresh basil, maybe olives--and sort of looks like I imagine it should, I am content.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XVwUdjigj5E/TkWBJfB9OeI/AAAAAAAADYs/RZslxIV3lwQ/s1600/0812111211a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XVwUdjigj5E/TkWBJfB9OeI/AAAAAAAADYs/RZslxIV3lwQ/s320/0812111211a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Generally I put these ingredients atop thin slices of good bread (in Ashland that's hearty, sour New Sammy's Cowboy Bread or La Baguette's French Sourdough, which is so fluffy that it becomes rock-hard stale in two days), and throw it in a hot oven for fifteen or twenty minutes. Recently I've discovered that the Ashland Food Co-op makes pizza dough and sells it in plastic bags. I've been looking for exactly that ever since I left Bar Harbor, where the local bakery sold bags of the stuff as well as the supermarket, but only recently did I actually find it here (because god forbid I, you know, <em>ask</em>). If I were one of the bazillion mothers who blog about what they feed their families, I would say that I have found a relatively quick and easy way to make pizza "from scratch," and wink as if I'm passing on some scandalous corner-cutting secret.<br />
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I wish I could say that their fresh dough is immeasurably better than bread. While the flat bread that comes out of the oven is fresh, its texture is tame and crispy like a cracker, where the bread slices are chewy and crunchy. This could be because I haven't kneaded the dough; it hasn't been stretched into the pizzeria crust I'm wishing for. But it's hard enough squishing the dough into the right shape without kneading it at all. Should I be kneading it and tossing it? Is that the only way to get it to not bounce eagerly back into itself?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5gLOJrd8M10/TkWBKBTSyUI/AAAAAAAADY4/6bLb5TxwqQw/s1600/0812111208.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5gLOJrd8M10/TkWBKBTSyUI/AAAAAAAADY4/6bLb5TxwqQw/s320/0812111208.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I think, however, there is a certain romance in my lazy pizza-crust-making process. I plop the blob of dough into the glass roasting pan (we lack a cookie sheet or anything else more appropriate at home), which has a little olive oil on it. I dust the top with some white flour to keep it from sticking to my hands, and mash it down with fingers and fists. Once it's relatively flat, I begin stretching instead of squishing, until it roughly fills the whole pan. When the oven reaches 475 degrees, I lather and arrange all the ingredients on top of the dough, and bake it.Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-39666437540007180242011-08-05T17:45:00.000-07:002011-08-28T19:30:03.403-07:00Sage & Browned Butter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoXHIWsgTQAHoez3u21Ffrt4nbKLUFtlboL9e7dNJm_7gsA28WdiRsOx-PU72Bjw80IalwVJbbYwCCVj11Z-oC-CpYiVwRPBeVXnPmeJq5Z4NSRg_K8k-7uV-mqzeqY4B36RxD5vvIGw/s1600/IMG_0692.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoXHIWsgTQAHoez3u21Ffrt4nbKLUFtlboL9e7dNJm_7gsA28WdiRsOx-PU72Bjw80IalwVJbbYwCCVj11Z-oC-CpYiVwRPBeVXnPmeJq5Z4NSRg_K8k-7uV-mqzeqY4B36RxD5vvIGw/s320/IMG_0692.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>It never quite stays the same, but the same basic two ingredients do: butter and sage. The butter must be browned and the sage, fresh. Most of the time over these is poured cream, which bubbles into a sauce. But this last, it could be said, just dilutes the flavor.<br />
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It was taken from two friends' repertoires, both of whom exalted it.<br />
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The one loved gnocchi more than the sauce she bathed them in, but aren't gnocchi a vehicle for sauce? She made gnocchi to bring decadence to our poorly deprived college lives of hippie lentil soup and mac n' cheese. The time-consuming and detailed labor of gnocchi were supposed to bring us out of the fraught, gaudy world of a small New England liberal arts school to somewhere more expansive. Like, say, Italy, after which she pined by kneading dough and smooshing it delicately with a fork.<br />
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But the sauce. Her method was to pour some cream into a saucepan with lots of fried sage leaves, simmer it down until it thickened into a sauce, and salt it to taste. This made a sumptuous covering for the pillowy lumps. As such rich sauces are bound to, it drew us all salivating in only to leave us for dead at the table, feeling sick and wanting to collapse into our half-finished plates.<br />
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The other was following a recipe for pumpkin ravioli with brown butter and sage, and was enamored, in her self-consciously understated way. She dropped sage leaves into melted butter and burned the butter just so. This is the base, and sometimes the whole, of every permutation of my sauce.<br />
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I have a kind of paranoid respect for the flavor of sage and browned butter. I don't think it should be messed with. Olive oil is, I feel, an evil addition to it. Other herbs, even black pepper, should be shunned from sage. Garlic is too much competition, and its cloying, under-your-fingernails savoryness clashes with sage's sharp scent.<br />
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The furthest I have strayed from the holy diad has been to incorporate bacon and finely chopped onions. This may have been too far.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuf1ZYq6k4DTpdRQz_hDKZ9iHCw-w1A1LaVOQDPXu4bZA66dNnRhmkk1Z19MvWoCa4NleyvvzOgmn_v-rg663SPLxTa_8WNbGor-1DXbHVUjx6cBuKJdI2HEeaIswLTC_N1ozFqWnV8Q/s1600/IMG_0694.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuf1ZYq6k4DTpdRQz_hDKZ9iHCw-w1A1LaVOQDPXu4bZA66dNnRhmkk1Z19MvWoCa4NleyvvzOgmn_v-rg663SPLxTa_8WNbGor-1DXbHVUjx6cBuKJdI2HEeaIswLTC_N1ozFqWnV8Q/s320/IMG_0694.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I do think that the recipe for pumpkin ravioli had it right: the flavor of sage and browned butter should be paired with something a little sweet. But I rarely do this. I have become more attached to the sauce than its place in a dish. I pour it over any old pasta. Once I even put it <a href="http://sometimestheycook.blogspot.com/2010/08/saucy-leftovers-roasted-chicken-and.html">on chicken and mashed potatoes</a>.<br />
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Once the sage leaves have become brownish and brittle in butter, I often remove them before the cream makes them soggy. These crispy, butter-soaked leaves are hard not to devour on the spot, but I like to sprinkle them as a flavorful garnish.Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-12166335669891701212011-06-12T18:49:00.000-07:002011-08-28T19:30:23.526-07:00Roasted Bell Pepper Obsession<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWRsVMNcc2JFAYweyhrzMu5ln543Z-_CF_0rmZR7lo077A24NCaEVVnhjcQguzsoIoR0OWcwIjEpgJg1VbmZbXOZ9HmmTqsUyxqEV0Aa0lAUd75vEy9f-R-SILtcsy9MTC0BiHUZNWHQ/s1600/IMG_0664.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWRsVMNcc2JFAYweyhrzMu5ln543Z-_CF_0rmZR7lo077A24NCaEVVnhjcQguzsoIoR0OWcwIjEpgJg1VbmZbXOZ9HmmTqsUyxqEV0Aa0lAUd75vEy9f-R-SILtcsy9MTC0BiHUZNWHQ/s320/IMG_0664.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Sometimes I cook a dish not to feed or for a subtle balance of flavors, but out of single-minded, monistic, shameless, worshipful obsession. It works like this: I didn’t need four adjectives to describe this kind of obsession, especially not both of the first two. But to have <i>more</i> of one thing, I need a <i>variety</i> of sameness. How do I create more roasted bell pepper? By adding other things, flavors spinning around a center always just to the side of roasted bell pepper. The center is almost the sauce, everything bound together in cream. The other things are just drawn out aspects of the original: bacon smokey like them, smoked paprika essentially the same as them, but dried and powdered. Then there are those forgotten things: onions and garlic sauteed in olive oil. What metaphor to turn to (the search for which is itself a good metaphor for what it is to organize a dish around a single ingredient)? Melody, harmony, and rhythm?<br />
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<div class="myrecipe"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTF20K9DW01UQ1bdmB7T_nvsT6IM3p2fjDclEFkAp52tsl2PoThOxN9VbBRpxkSJOVbg9IuJUMFxh9lwbpG81nX2_2fPAz6s1ULqC1oyHMByh2pQOD97DpIVe___LthbCjEzN-ORSVQ/s1600/IMG_0660.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTF20K9DW01UQ1bdmB7T_nvsT6IM3p2fjDclEFkAp52tsl2PoThOxN9VbBRpxkSJOVbg9IuJUMFxh9lwbpG81nX2_2fPAz6s1ULqC1oyHMByh2pQOD97DpIVe___LthbCjEzN-ORSVQ/s320/IMG_0660.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>1 pound tiny yellow, orange, and red bell peppers<br />
1/4 pound bacon ends<br />
1 smallish onion<br />
4 cloves garlic<br />
2 tablespoons olive oil<br />
1 cup heavy cream<br />
2 teaspoons smoked paprika<br />
a pinch of black pepper<br />
salt to taste<br />
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Chop onion and garlic finely. In a large saucepan on medium-low sautee onion and garlic in olive oil. Sprinkle with a pinch of salt. Stir every few minutes. Heat a large cast-iron skillet to medium heat. Cut tops off of bell peppers, slice in half, and de-seed. Drop bacon ends into skillet, then bell pepper halves. Stir bell peppers when bottom sides blacken a bit. When bacon ends are a little charred, and majority of bell peppers are somewhere blackened, transfer into large saucepan with onion and garlic. Mix together and add smoked paprika and black pepper. Add heavy cream. Stir every few minutes while the sauce thickens. It should take maybe fifteen minutes to thicken. When it’s the right consistency to stick to pasta, add salt to taste.</div>Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-47608587530444200492011-06-04T02:18:00.000-07:002011-06-04T02:20:13.244-07:00Why I Make PancakesWhile I am not yet eating eggs with a comb out of a shoe, there is dog shit on the porch, mouse shit on the counter, a pile of week-old dishes soaking in putrid water in the sink behind which festers a crust of black mold, and grain moths hatching from and having their way with god knows what forgotten stash of dry goods. There’s no use denying it, I live in a house full of slobby men, and I am one of them. I flee from the mess I can’t stand.<br />
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The sight of the disgusting, somewhat toxic kitchen adds an unhealthy layer to my morning grumbling: I am loathe to cook anything, and for the first hour manage only to put the tea kettle on. On rare exuberant mornings I might wash some of the dishes while the water comes to a boil. Most of the time, though, I just pace around bemoaning the unendurable injustice of having to prepare and eat breakfast. This morning I stooped to a new low by making quesadillas for breakfast. They tasted largely of rubber and heartburn, but there wasn’t anything else around I could imagine being able to stomach.<br />
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After sitting in denial of my bodily needs in front of the computer with a cup of tea, reading new emails or perusing Google Reader for new amusements, most mornings I end up making pancakes. It is difficult to explain why I do this. I, and perhaps you, wouldn’t think that mixing together pancake batter from scratch is the solution for someone who wants non-nasty breakfast with minimal effort. Why not, say, cereal? It is the result of a collection of interconnected, deeply entrenched kitchen habits. I never think to buy cereal. I often buy yogurt, thinking that I’ll eat that in the morning, and I do, but it’s never enough to just eat yogurt. What else do we keep in the kitchen that’s palatable for breakfast? Well, there are eggs. Sometimes, there is bread, and when there is I make eggs on toast. But somehow, even though it is basically the same ingredients, fried eggs and buttered toast are more nauseating than pancakes. Also there is oatmeal, in my mind the least vomitable substance despite looking a bit like vomit, but I made the mistake of buying steel-cut oats. They are delicious, but take about half an hour to cook properly. I don’t get the normal, rolled variety because why buy those when I have the kind I will never use? Basically, I cook pancakes to not think about what to make for breakfast. They are the status quo.<br />
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And when the kitchen is disgusting, it is still somehow possible to scrape off whatever grime is on the cast iron pan and while it heats get out the pyrex measuring cup, crack an egg in, add milk, oil, flour, baking powder, and salt, mix it with a fork, and wait until the pan is hot. It’s a ritual that can happen amid squalor.<br />
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The result is a very starchy, tiring food. Eat a couple of pancakes and you may just want to go back to bed.<br />
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Having written this, maybe I should invest in some muesli.Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-46782013074995427792011-05-19T10:53:00.000-07:002011-05-19T10:53:11.075-07:00Banana Bread: A Recipe in Photos<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaXweUTralQqV25ze1oHPmLoOxTW-aCDw2g-vDTfHEGZWlouv3_XklZ0YAnwMP8m2Mx100jS-p0jfFxb6LzJ5G_9F1s5ZAzDFf7JpccElEPmzV0R7JAOMNLVSG1ggpfZkIn-akwk8w5g/s1600/IMG_0618.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaXweUTralQqV25ze1oHPmLoOxTW-aCDw2g-vDTfHEGZWlouv3_XklZ0YAnwMP8m2Mx100jS-p0jfFxb6LzJ5G_9F1s5ZAzDFf7JpccElEPmzV0R7JAOMNLVSG1ggpfZkIn-akwk8w5g/s400/IMG_0618.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6HPkb-Jjy1CguREpZqZyvH0gNXiSqVhlkFzGdEjnSgytyxVu2LLtmmZO_bUHQpN7ZC0oTMTEL_xdFOFX_jidMzC9u81eucO5qYDJdpEh_2XE6pj69eh7eIJ4RMj0GMx0EjVtWPGOITg/s1600/IMG_0655.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6HPkb-Jjy1CguREpZqZyvH0gNXiSqVhlkFzGdEjnSgytyxVu2LLtmmZO_bUHQpN7ZC0oTMTEL_xdFOFX_jidMzC9u81eucO5qYDJdpEh_2XE6pj69eh7eIJ4RMj0GMx0EjVtWPGOITg/s400/IMG_0655.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-56689132916005958042011-04-29T10:55:00.000-07:002011-04-29T12:01:13.278-07:00Purple Pork and Night Butter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR58NULY36aHoGVTITaaBQ879ix437HQ2ml97YkUn6HVlDij_2yy7dygYq9-uMtxbHRzLZ4Eu1jBrDKG1f26QSaTssK9K1Us7cHEbR3KlwNFV42b7J8dqEy7jMP9aYkvv-CNzrqOFVeg/s1600/IMG_0610.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR58NULY36aHoGVTITaaBQ879ix437HQ2ml97YkUn6HVlDij_2yy7dygYq9-uMtxbHRzLZ4Eu1jBrDKG1f26QSaTssK9K1Us7cHEbR3KlwNFV42b7J8dqEy7jMP9aYkvv-CNzrqOFVeg/s400/IMG_0610.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They were marinated in wine, olive oil, and a bit of salt. After marinating for a few hours it looked like pepto-bismol or Klingon blood. After roasting the wine curdled into tiny, unappetizing purple globs</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCc233kRattfKsQLQDalm08ne5UpfPnqjrrWCypQp5aQjtKeyHyyzDSX6cjgBX4kIY3dCxdgVaCdx7n9IQ7UZaZIwBOPWhD7HDIfKIAagU-5xOFzgyC6PSzoLr8XBZSnKLcWXi31QcJA/s1600/IMG_0611.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCc233kRattfKsQLQDalm08ne5UpfPnqjrrWCypQp5aQjtKeyHyyzDSX6cjgBX4kIY3dCxdgVaCdx7n9IQ7UZaZIwBOPWhD7HDIfKIAagU-5xOFzgyC6PSzoLr8XBZSnKLcWXi31QcJA/s400/IMG_0611.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One night I was scared half to death by a rat scared half to death by me, scurrying off the counter. In the morning I noticed the butter--impressions of its gnawing little teeth.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-11380111213020455262011-04-14T18:32:00.000-07:002011-04-14T18:34:08.676-07:00Drumsticks with Dates<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRmo-R0pvJ70v7gRzqxEh_VvTa0kNte9L8XYsllc7EdZMlYHkCMzPhj2PD2BYTSEMHSVb60lao7zgHXV3fOiZlVmiwyn5xq2IYP-QFKFbdUZKfQ-QEjq3_FBZSY3WKaezLGpqfJw5w9Q/s1600/IMG_0605.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRmo-R0pvJ70v7gRzqxEh_VvTa0kNte9L8XYsllc7EdZMlYHkCMzPhj2PD2BYTSEMHSVb60lao7zgHXV3fOiZlVmiwyn5xq2IYP-QFKFbdUZKfQ-QEjq3_FBZSY3WKaezLGpqfJw5w9Q/s320/IMG_0605.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>There was only one time on this blog when I focused on perfecting a single dish, Tarte Tatin. And even then I was not so much attempting to perfect a single recipe as I was exploring variations thereof. I am habitually scattered. After Tarte Tatin it seems that where cooking is concerned I want to try many things, and not try, try again the same thing.<br />
<br />
Hence while I have been cooking the same core ingredient (chicken drumsticks--they’re cheap) over and over recently, there has been very little <i>work</i> involved. I just try something different every time. What I try is largely dictated by what is around: lemons one day, cherry tomatoes another, and today, dates. The beauty of these things is transient. It lies in the coalescing of an improvisation into something that tastes good, miraculously. Subtlety and discernment are out of the picture. Those finer qualities only take form and may be tasted through repetition. But these dishes, unless they are a disaster, are the best thing at the moment they’re served. Very rarely do they happen again. Yet I write recipes for them.<br />
<br />
<div class="myrecipe"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_5IijiN-l3cQ7Wug9Eq43ITxWezVZnAtmBA25uOvfuIHI2YDoYbSTDIxW5vb1SearEflVoScB3pq1LiawydNud-P4NOPm6jOWR-Cije3CggT-jUwIw2Ul4MSnLaoha3u2Otb0aBloDg/s1600/IMG_0600.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_5IijiN-l3cQ7Wug9Eq43ITxWezVZnAtmBA25uOvfuIHI2YDoYbSTDIxW5vb1SearEflVoScB3pq1LiawydNud-P4NOPm6jOWR-Cije3CggT-jUwIw2Ul4MSnLaoha3u2Otb0aBloDg/s200/IMG_0600.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>5 chicken drumsticks<br />
1/2 onion<br />
1 small carrot<br />
~15 pitted dates<br />
juice of 1/2 lemon<br />
1/2 cup water<br />
2 tablespoons cooking oil<br />
1/2 teaspoon cloves<br />
2 teaspoons cinnamon<br />
1/2 teaspoon black pepper<br />
~1 teaspoon salt<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Q_KV5Nlp4DH4W0lM-7bKmnx5SN0do0K2Srk-jaUTztzVoNpeTlru5lPqQPtRelik4MBsVp_rYwbpBjmctD-lCsoShPYxjOCrZQ5SN-MIMR7UDQPZ3q8laRJUA18ZmrLQHoP0aN2vBg/s1600/IMG_0601.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Q_KV5Nlp4DH4W0lM-7bKmnx5SN0do0K2Srk-jaUTztzVoNpeTlru5lPqQPtRelik4MBsVp_rYwbpBjmctD-lCsoShPYxjOCrZQ5SN-MIMR7UDQPZ3q8laRJUA18ZmrLQHoP0aN2vBg/s200/IMG_0601.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Two hours ahead of time salt both sides of chicken drumsticks--a generous pinch for each side of each drumstick--and let sit on a plate to warm to room temperature. In a small bowl pour lemon juice over pitted dates, add cloves, cinnamon, and black pepper, and mix together with a spoon. Slice onion half in half against the grain, and then chop into small pieces with the grain. Slice carrot in half lengthwise and then chop both halves into small pieces. Set oven to 450 F. Oil a small square baking pan, place onions and carrots in the pan, and put it in the oven. In a large saucepan on medium-high heat with a bit of cooking oil, quickly brown both sides of drumsticks (this should only take a couple minutes per side). Move drumsticks and date-lemon-spice mixture to baking pan, mix everything together in pan, and let it continue to bake at 450 F. After twenty minutes, flip over drumsticks, stir vegetables, add 1/2 cup water, and continue baking. When drumsticks are done and the bottom of the pan has turned to a thick sauce, it is done.</div>Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-38617985047944874522011-04-08T15:32:00.000-07:002011-04-08T15:32:56.229-07:00Sour, Spicy, Smokey Drumsticks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWmZY6M9RweDZQAvUu4Ny3mHbFdfxqCNpFM2Lrfgzdb2x8VpIiDTMK8Q20q17BowBfHH1996EBX6XgFNsm_e3ZfsNvUA0BI_HcvWUnmZ8HLXPkC0BOkGUaC4-rhsJt6yr0N3Xp4F0kxQ/s1600/IMG_0590.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWmZY6M9RweDZQAvUu4Ny3mHbFdfxqCNpFM2Lrfgzdb2x8VpIiDTMK8Q20q17BowBfHH1996EBX6XgFNsm_e3ZfsNvUA0BI_HcvWUnmZ8HLXPkC0BOkGUaC4-rhsJt6yr0N3Xp4F0kxQ/s320/IMG_0590.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>In moments of unfounded, starry-eyed optimism, I think of myself as one who can and will eat whatever. I think <i>I’ll eat the dregs of the pantry, making strange yet nourishing dishes!</i><br />
<br />
What such notions actually lead me to is standing lightheaded in front of the fridge, wanting something even mildly appealing to appear, and making myself sick with toast and butter. It is a terrible thing because not only is everything worse without food in the belly and sugar in the blood, but also in such a state it is impossible to think creatively about what to eat. <i>Just give me something.</i> Having fallen off the boat so to speak, I have been awash in endless Costco food items, which I choke down (whoops, there goes the ocean metaphor) in insufficient and nauseating quantities.<br />
<br />
I realized that cooking for myself in a deliberate way is not an indulgence, it is a way to get myself to want and not just to need to eat. It keeps me in a stream of gustatory desire, so that I do not wither away in disgust. There is undoubtedly some psychological peculiarity belied by my need to control and be actively involved in the process of making food. But the point is, cooking is important, damn it!<br />
<br />
And so we arrive at the last thing I cooked. It is in some way inspired by Adobo, which is not something I have ever made, and have only tasted once. Having been mostly distrustful of sourness in savory cooking, it is now a novelty that I want to explore. <br />
<br />
<div class="myrecipe"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKMzDVdcan40XiJzYpckWgVxR6_w1OqeQvWmZH794Hg0OwVlAtfdcJz8Z2424P2wDv284HYOYrMwXZfkL9i3qxM-A4okm28Y5_dC7_uizZoFsPW4ot0aHeSAXuduAmrK-IQK0zU-HquQ/s1600/IMG_0589.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKMzDVdcan40XiJzYpckWgVxR6_w1OqeQvWmZH794Hg0OwVlAtfdcJz8Z2424P2wDv284HYOYrMwXZfkL9i3qxM-A4okm28Y5_dC7_uizZoFsPW4ot0aHeSAXuduAmrK-IQK0zU-HquQ/s320/IMG_0589.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>2 tablespoons cooking oil<br />
4 chicken drumsticks<br />
1/2 a medium cabbage<br />
1 large onion<br />
3 cloves garlic<br />
3 small dried jalapenos<br />
juice of 2 lemons<br />
juice of 1 large orange<br />
2 teaspoons smoked paprika<br />
salt (1/2 teaspoon?)<br />
<br />
Sprinkle salt on both sides of drumsticks. Cut cabbage half and onion into thin radial slices. Smash garlic cloves and chop into largish pieces. Chop dried japapenos into largish pieces. Juice lemons and orange and reserve juice. On high heat, heat oiled saucepan until oil begins to smoke. Being careful not to burn yourself, lay drumsticks in pan and cover with lid or towl to keep oil from splattering everywhere. Brown both sides (a few minutes on each side) of drumsticks and remove to a plate. Reduce heat to medium-low. Fry garlic and dried jalapenos for about ten seconds before adding cabbage and onion slices and stirring to coat everything in oil. Increase heat to medium and fry vegetables for five minutes, stirring every minute or two. Add chicken drumsticks, blanketing them under the vegetables. Add citrus juice and smoked paprika. Reduce heat to medium-low and cover. Cook for roughly half an hour, or until chicken is cooked all the way through. Salt to taste.</div>Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-61893766165177053542011-04-03T21:02:00.000-07:002011-04-03T21:06:12.048-07:00Over-baked Lemon Cake<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7mAmPDmcSs8a7hGCb5uoFi0qB3JwOZWvxXi0Le4wsAaCrU-7BhJHei0QUBExSZEY_yiLpyx2sIP47jBeeN9Spak5hUTGu5Kl0cTwSr4870LYC7nEjwezPQayE59Hg4DozmXb1oTx3yA/s1600/IMG_0587.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7mAmPDmcSs8a7hGCb5uoFi0qB3JwOZWvxXi0Le4wsAaCrU-7BhJHei0QUBExSZEY_yiLpyx2sIP47jBeeN9Spak5hUTGu5Kl0cTwSr4870LYC7nEjwezPQayE59Hg4DozmXb1oTx3yA/s320/IMG_0587.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Sometimes when things go awry they go right. There was very little that went the way I intended baking this lemon cake. Wanting to make the two-layer yellow cake from <a href="http://sometimestheycook.blogspot.com/2011/03/rooibos.html">the Tick Tock box</a>, <a href="http://kittyinthekitchen.blogspot.com/2011/03/lemon-pound-cake-with-lemon-glaze.html">MinCat’s recipe for lemon cake with lemon glaze</a> looked delicious and like it could become what I wanted. Rather than using a bunt pan, I would divide the batter into two circular cake pans and use the glaze both over the top and between the two layers. It would look like the tiny picture. I do not have even have one circular cake pan. But no matter. Excited about my plan, I bought four lemons. They sat on the counter for almost a week, and my brother informed me that one of them was molding. The mold transformed the urgency of making cake from always present every morning but always put off, to <i>this must happen today</i>. It was only at this point that I actually read the recipe, and discovered that it called for yogurt, which I did not have. I didn’t care, I just wanted to make cake, to use the damned lemons, and to get material for this post. The layering would still happen somehow. I would bake a 9x13 cake, cut it in half, layer the halves on top of each other. I just had to make the batter. Recently I have noticed that I am almost incapable of actually reading a recipe. This time my skimming reduced making the cake batter to: sift the dry ingredients, mix together the wet ingredients (including sugar), and then mix the dry with the wet. I missed the fact that the lemon juice was not one of the wet ingredients, but a part of a syrup that is poured over the cake when it’s just out of the oven, and the rest goes into the glaze. While it was baking I toyed with making the syrup anyway for an ultra-lemony cake. I still had two more lemons, only one of which I needed for the glaze. But the syrup and and the glaze both got tossed out as ideas after I forgot about the cake and left it in the oven for at least twenty more minutes than I meant to. The edges came out a bit burnt. I rationalized that I didn’t want to waste glazes and syrups on such a bungled cake, but I think I was just already so half-assed about making this cake that this one thing gone slightly wrong gave me an excuse to give up on the endeavor entirely. But the thing is, this slightly over-baked lemon cake is good. Unadorned, unpretentious, and refreshingly but not overpoweringly lemony, it goes very well with tea. I’ll try the layer cake when I have the proper pans and all the ingredients.<br />
<br />
<div class="myrecipe">1 1/2 cups flour<br />
2 teaspoons baking powder<br />
1/2 cup water<br />
1 cup sugar<br />
3 eggs<br />
zest and juice from 2 lemons<br />
1/2 cup vegetable oil<br />
1/2 teaspoon vanilla<br />
1/2 teaspoon salt.<br />
<br />
Preheat oven to 350 F. Sift together flour, baking powder and salt. Whisk the water, sugar, eggs, zest, juice, vanilla, and oil until well combined. Whisk dry into wet mixture. When combined, bake for roughly 50 minutes, or until fork comes out clean from the center.</div>Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-48448698653572431812011-03-30T19:59:00.000-07:002011-03-30T23:09:14.068-07:00Lemon-Tomato Pork & Asparagus Stir-FryI get stuck on cooking techniques, throwing different ingredients into the same rubric. Lately it is some lower-heat variation on stir-frying. I fry things on medium-high heat until they are browned, and then add a sauce, usually containing something sweet, which cooks a bit and possibly caramelizes while it coats the ingredients.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQSP0FKY9LqGnjKt99qdEpEu25SBevqcXfK29mqsvrF-vUxm9wuFj16oKjgKJjktmdkNMFhgjE6_ZsyIlfQl7AHHl6b6nxM_waJ_xpDe91BxTy09oH-DtX_gWDM2BEG-NSWyABHu5mOw/s1600/IMG_0584.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQSP0FKY9LqGnjKt99qdEpEu25SBevqcXfK29mqsvrF-vUxm9wuFj16oKjgKJjktmdkNMFhgjE6_ZsyIlfQl7AHHl6b6nxM_waJ_xpDe91BxTy09oH-DtX_gWDM2BEG-NSWyABHu5mOw/s320/IMG_0584.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Maybe I liked this because I ate it like finger food with bread and a pool of salted olive oil, or because it was something fresh, not the same crap I find myself eating day after day. If I see another egg, another slice of buttered toast, another pancake, another bowl of yogurt with jam, another grilled cheese sandwich, or another salad of Costco greens, I might vomit. Or despair. Or more likely, something far less dire. That is the problem: alas, one cannot not eat for days and then have an occasional exciting gustatory experience. Life is so hard.<br />
<br />
Strangely, I am not describing this as something disgusting. I’m not even describing it. I’m just saying that I liked it. Who the hell am I?<br />
<br />
<div class="myrecipe">3/4 pound pork chops cut into 1/4inch thick pieces<br />
1 small bunch asparagus chopped into 1 1/2 inch pieces.<br />
<br />
Sauce<br />
3 tablespoons cooking oil<br />
salt to taste (1/2 teaspoons?)<br />
a pinch or two of black pepper<br />
1 1/2 tablespoons brown sugar<br />
juice of 1 lemon<br />
3 tablespoons thick tomato sauce with scallions and chiles (this was something I had made for pasta--approximate using 2 tablespoons tomato sauce, 1 tablespoon tomato paste, and a little bit of hot sauce)<br />
<br />
Combine all sauce ingredients in a small bowl. In a large saucepan on medium-high heat, begin frying the asparagus in cooking oil. After two minutes mix in the pork. Fry for ten to fifteen minutes, or whenever the pork is almost cooked through, stirring every few minutes. Add sauce and mix thoroughly for half a minute as it boils off a bit in the pan, then remove from heat.</div>Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-1072282074571033052011-03-26T22:54:00.000-07:002011-03-27T09:17:42.165-07:00Rooibos<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCPYWKIuyq-BSwr0IcZmauZON5diQ2UIH3vfhGq93aVhgtIyJL17YgIudC9b7frVrEQQH_Y9IfUBmoZHxKblvM0F6aAC3IQRTwlDzrj8D8Iib8EMXnm3xKMAzaY_vcgGJh4MrretuzFA/s1600/IMG_0582.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCPYWKIuyq-BSwr0IcZmauZON5diQ2UIH3vfhGq93aVhgtIyJL17YgIudC9b7frVrEQQH_Y9IfUBmoZHxKblvM0F6aAC3IQRTwlDzrj8D8Iib8EMXnm3xKMAzaY_vcgGJh4MrretuzFA/s320/IMG_0582.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I would never have liked rooibos were it not for Tick Tock's packaging. When I was on a collage meal plan, there were an assortment of tea bags, one of which was Tick Tock. Drawn by the bold white lettering on red, the fact that it said "rooibos" and "caffeine free" at the bottom completely passed by my attention. In other words, I mistook it for a brand of black tea, possibly akin to English breakfast.<br />
<br />
(Not that I actually remember, but mistaking it for proper tea makes a better story than, say, drinking it because I wanted to avoid caffeine and had heard about rooibos. Because the point I'm trying to make is the allure of the packaging, not the benefits of decaffeinated beverages or the goodness of rooibos. But at some point, whether before or after I discovered Tick Tock I’m not sure, I was avoiding caffeine, having decided that coffee did terrible things to me. But even on that point I don’t know: was I reacting against coffee or black tea?)<br />
<br />
It was only after a few days of drinking it that I realized that it tasted a bit strange. And come to think of it the color wasn’t right either. But I kept drinking it because it was Tea Time. I wanted to live the little picture on the box of cake and tea in a black pot.<br />
<br />
Let us obsess over this picture. The picture’s small circular frame doesn’t show much, but what little it does suggests a whole scene. Although the framing feels somewhat incidental, the necessary elements of Tea are there: a teapot, two cups (not one), a milk pitcher, and a sugar bowl. The blue-stripe teaware is ornate yet rustic and set on a wooden table. The cake, too, straddles fanciness and simplicity. Yes, it is layered and trimmed, but one does not have to be a patisserie to make this cake, just a cook. I am tempted to say that this is colonial Tea rather than English Tea, which is not particularly surprising because this brand makes much of its being “from the founders of rooibos,” who of course were in South Africa. So the picture may be imagined as an image of how “the founders of rooibos” drank their rooibos back in 1903. Before Tick Tock came to bring us rooibos, we are to understand, there was this scene.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDBOxkoxoD2DwGbnp24s-_x1E3-eNax-G2ipweINrjGQBKKvpJ-U5l2cF_rAmolTlVsY0rCfQ6TGMeQ9gy1zvNDSYEPqA9jszUkWZ_cy-AFC1GWyQULTrN7woECB1sv2NyLcoeGLDmfw/s1600/2230526195_7ffa733080.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDBOxkoxoD2DwGbnp24s-_x1E3-eNax-G2ipweINrjGQBKKvpJ-U5l2cF_rAmolTlVsY0rCfQ6TGMeQ9gy1zvNDSYEPqA9jszUkWZ_cy-AFC1GWyQULTrN7woECB1sv2NyLcoeGLDmfw/s1600/2230526195_7ffa733080.jpg" /></a></div><br />
But I’m interested in the cake. It takes up a great deal of the frame. And I can’t seem to read its three-dimensional aspect. The problem is the top, which looks like icing, except that it has these strange dark swirls in it, and the top edge is irregular. So perhaps it’s a very fluffy topping, like a meringue. Except that while the left edge and the shape of the top edge suggests that the cake is sloping, the cut on the right shows it to be straight. But if the top of the cake is flat, why are there dark swirls, and why is the top edge irregular rather than smooth?<br />
<br />
More than anything else, though, I want to know what kind of cake this is. Because obviously whoever painted this must have had a type of cake he or she was painting. All I can say is that it is yellow.<br />
<br />
I think it’s time to make a yellow cake and drink rooibos brewed from loose leaves, longing for my longing for Tea.Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-67766161972981666412011-03-21T21:11:00.000-07:002011-03-21T21:11:51.479-07:00Caramelized Onion Tart<div class="myrecipe"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCnVsTG1Uzx5mdbG0gDp5gNzoivxtu4axPvyaCqdZOQ4AEH4P7lHdvO2HghNPu4haCbRF2RSA6mGAWoVviaX8I4qTB82bLlPlCmbS-vB33UV-nGsG4EdWDgFPAxwrayLpAguqKWSk3uQ/s1600/IMG_0572.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCnVsTG1Uzx5mdbG0gDp5gNzoivxtu4axPvyaCqdZOQ4AEH4P7lHdvO2HghNPu4haCbRF2RSA6mGAWoVviaX8I4qTB82bLlPlCmbS-vB33UV-nGsG4EdWDgFPAxwrayLpAguqKWSk3uQ/s200/IMG_0572.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>3 large onions</div><div>3 tablespoons olive oil</div><div>pinch of salt</div><div>1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper</div><div>1 tablespoon brown sugar</div><div>1 tablespoon lemon juice</div><div>1 tablespoon tamari</div><div>2 tablespoons water</div><div>1 unbaked tart shell</div><div><br />
</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii2P2VF-m007RLqz_tjYZTQ7XujQ2gbl08XrBP5_SfoslNNXxIUDhSYV6IiYKvLBVyzoXJ0Q0X203owB7F2oDzrf2nutg_PhlxRKNsB1Pich4hznPOySZJN0zy3_iXHxAai4MIHBjgZQ/s1600/IMG_0575.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii2P2VF-m007RLqz_tjYZTQ7XujQ2gbl08XrBP5_SfoslNNXxIUDhSYV6IiYKvLBVyzoXJ0Q0X203owB7F2oDzrf2nutg_PhlxRKNsB1Pich4hznPOySZJN0zy3_iXHxAai4MIHBjgZQ/s200/IMG_0575.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Slice onions radially into slices roughly 1/2 inch wide at their widest point. In a large saucepan on medium-high heat, fry onions with olive oil, brown sugar, salt, and black pepper. Mix to coat onions with oil. Stir and scrape pan every few minutes, allowing the onions to brown between stirring. After roughly ten minutes reduce heat to medium. After roughly another twenty minutes reduce heat to medium-low. It's not important to be exact about these timings; the important thing is to have the heat at such a point that it deeply browns but does not quite blacken the onions. As the onions brown and reduce, they burn more easily. When they're mostly dark brown, add lemon juice, tamari, and water, and scrape pan thoroughly with spatula to deglaze. Remove from heat. Spread caramelized onions evenly in tart shell. Bake at 400 F for ~30min.</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvbJQdYa8R5BpK3KwIt4el9coc9M8Pd80vEoZGgpAFwZQpVPiXnkGn31VO9qYqecTTZlY31zoddNCuMGQDFxPRYs8eC2fyLDUzyA5n5Sa7MoAZ7NXHto675034GZi7zqG-xf1i09DmPA/s1600/IMG_0578.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvbJQdYa8R5BpK3KwIt4el9coc9M8Pd80vEoZGgpAFwZQpVPiXnkGn31VO9qYqecTTZlY31zoddNCuMGQDFxPRYs8eC2fyLDUzyA5n5Sa7MoAZ7NXHto675034GZi7zqG-xf1i09DmPA/s400/IMG_0578.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-1302585622035646702011-03-18T09:47:00.000-07:002011-03-21T21:20:36.270-07:00A Particularly Rough Day in the Life of a Saucepan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnVxZcwZ754f2vi1Dxn4S0PqFo_-PXNo1XasEIpPGf24FtKixsUBqHcpKvg2AVJKUv_R_3b72-8YqHEKTwrOJ9i26Q9r5GS0ek4YAxAQEiEtP6dJOVPrZotNAeAnG7SseREsOY7hVzjw/s1600/IMG_0542.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnVxZcwZ754f2vi1Dxn4S0PqFo_-PXNo1XasEIpPGf24FtKixsUBqHcpKvg2AVJKUv_R_3b72-8YqHEKTwrOJ9i26Q9r5GS0ek4YAxAQEiEtP6dJOVPrZotNAeAnG7SseREsOY7hVzjw/s200/IMG_0542.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Sometimes, I wish I could taste. Almost every day I'm filled with substances that my owners find flavorful. And sometimes I imagine what it would be like to be them. But I know that it is their place to taste, and mine to hold and to heat. Well, no, I don't actually heat--something else heats me and I heat the things my owners eat.<br />
<br />
I have my good days, and I have my bad days. It's hard to know which are which. There are the days I luxuriate in the darkness of the cupboard, and days I reach a several hundred degrees, containing fireworks of oil and water within my walls. Of course, there are those times I'm left in the sink filled with grime and water for hours or days.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-_fs4q8oyRvF36Hpl-8La0ArVz5knld4O_KjnneNx30rhjb9WZ76LA_SWvLuayhlJySQruNn-ukHEFE-3pisRKDhSfmPHkV31TZ6qszUM2kxd0UFrRk0VyXV-iocHQofsh1YBh5FCiA/s1600/IMG_0547.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-_fs4q8oyRvF36Hpl-8La0ArVz5knld4O_KjnneNx30rhjb9WZ76LA_SWvLuayhlJySQruNn-ukHEFE-3pisRKDhSfmPHkV31TZ6qszUM2kxd0UFrRk0VyXV-iocHQofsh1YBh5FCiA/s200/IMG_0547.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Today was nuts. I was not in the sink an hour before being scraped clean in a rush and thrown back onto the heat. It takes some time for me to warm up. My owner threw slabs of butter onto my surface, and I turned them to golden puddles. I don't normally melt butter at this temperature. It was bit invigorating. Sugar weighed down on me. This is why I'm made of metal, and not, say, paper. A paste of sugar and butter scraped me like sand as he mixed it. But it takes something much worse than sugar to actually scratch me.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgufnEzZH0anKmYIhd7UWA96fbpS91741xN9lYwefJrwzpCKJXRAiXUVsgRxmpE3dZJfWZkrSfJvHwuiw03tHKCexN7Pl2iA005mgYF_LsaP6gZ2XJFebuvLFzOKtHmZ5bbbBgOvyGo3A/s1600/IMG_0550.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgufnEzZH0anKmYIhd7UWA96fbpS91741xN9lYwefJrwzpCKJXRAiXUVsgRxmpE3dZJfWZkrSfJvHwuiw03tHKCexN7Pl2iA005mgYF_LsaP6gZ2XJFebuvLFzOKtHmZ5bbbBgOvyGo3A/s200/IMG_0550.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>There were apples, too. It all became molten soon enough. Wet apples clung to my surface and, cringing, I burnt them. At such moments I feel a pang of regret and anger at myself or at my owner, I can't say which. It is his neglect but my flesh. I got the feeling he was being especially negligent today, because rather than carefully maintaining the arrangement of apple pieces held within me, the spatula was flung every which way as he mixed them into a messy pile. Beside me I heard the frantic motions of a rolling pin. It did not take long for the molten sugar to begin to burn. There is something in the way it bubbles that gives it away. Atop me he threw brown scraps of dough like the ad-hoc furs of some barbarian. Most of the gaps were closed before I was thrown in the oven.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRCIrM-rTqqD14EgnyTgzYcHtdD97YIyW-JbUyaibhlmTSHE-oxGYz8wZdjse2X5EQrEWTv3Qq_FJWv5oI3Rkuy0scoUQ26A-SN8B51AjMA-jyE0TEDeDCQP858KSkGE_e9C2ZV2Jopw/s1600/IMG_0553.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRCIrM-rTqqD14EgnyTgzYcHtdD97YIyW-JbUyaibhlmTSHE-oxGYz8wZdjse2X5EQrEWTv3Qq_FJWv5oI3Rkuy0scoUQ26A-SN8B51AjMA-jyE0TEDeDCQP858KSkGE_e9C2ZV2Jopw/s200/IMG_0553.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Waiting in the oven is different than the usual kinds of waiting I do--waiting in the cupboard, waiting in the sink--because, like him outside in the kitchen, I am anticipating being removed from the oven. In the cupboard and in the sink I don't get so anxious because I know I could be there for a long time. I'm never in the oven for very long, though I never know exactly how long. I keep wondering if the crust is browned enough, if he will be satisfied with how the crust looks. He opened the oven at least a dozen times during my stint in the oven this time.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIkq8q9qtCFfsrIHueFhjN4FsxYpqzX2zlqiuYkAFbSrdloai7dH8eLa1Go0qKqsykx5IwyDkLMSVLqCzGb5kClr_XJMiJAEE4IiCIaNCRW-cVlnlZW2Yn6c1bsm5hVJHytukdTnnMlQ/s1600/IMG_0556.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIkq8q9qtCFfsrIHueFhjN4FsxYpqzX2zlqiuYkAFbSrdloai7dH8eLa1Go0qKqsykx5IwyDkLMSVLqCzGb5kClr_XJMiJAEE4IiCIaNCRW-cVlnlZW2Yn6c1bsm5hVJHytukdTnnMlQ/s200/IMG_0556.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>When he finally did take me out, he ran a knife along my walls, as he usually does, to detach the crust. I do wish he would find a better way to flip me over. It makes me nervous being spun about like that, although honestly at some level I hope he does slip, drop everything including me (I'm metal, I can take it), and spill burning tart all over him. But yet again, he didn't. He did burn himself on my handle though. I suppose you could say I burned him. But really, he should've known better. I wonder why he's so clumsy today.<br />
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Like I said, just a quick scrub and I was put back at it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisks4OIyyb227hPbB5-unUQQnFcVH6O5munsW7NVV3NdmevLcgWUWOQEiwJOyk3Kjyf_tV_173-rSRI2hkbTqL03sLICbID1lfX7cgrZLtmP9FKfCBGbT8R_xojtdXAuz_fQK2DkRqgQ/s1600/IMG_0558.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisks4OIyyb227hPbB5-unUQQnFcVH6O5munsW7NVV3NdmevLcgWUWOQEiwJOyk3Kjyf_tV_173-rSRI2hkbTqL03sLICbID1lfX7cgrZLtmP9FKfCBGbT8R_xojtdXAuz_fQK2DkRqgQ/s200/IMG_0558.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSPpq9JWBtwnO9uhSsenDc5oUZUagdb1EWFkbiAGFpmu2VwZi495GvmD34Qhg7xyXTrfXlmy05j6EHuQpYhwi6PzrP7rCAg7Idu1_HeImWIK6VZMlXVkWu-A1WIB9S1TrPC3cnAwTr0Q/s1600/IMG_0565.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSPpq9JWBtwnO9uhSsenDc5oUZUagdb1EWFkbiAGFpmu2VwZi495GvmD34Qhg7xyXTrfXlmy05j6EHuQpYhwi6PzrP7rCAg7Idu1_HeImWIK6VZMlXVkWu-A1WIB9S1TrPC3cnAwTr0Q/s200/IMG_0565.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>As the ripping sounds of vegetables being sliced apart reverberated through my metal curvature, I became increasingly hot. Oil slipped across me, pooling on one side. This is why I have walls. My owner dropped the sliced vegetables onto me, and I made them sizzle. I could feel them slumping and sweating against me. What does a shallot taste like? A heap of broccoli interrupted my speculations. He didn't let the shallots develop their flavor, he was hasty. He usually leaves onions, which are similar enough to shallots, sauteeing for much longer. He was acting strangely.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhge4UsQ9n0EvCBPEX20Um5Xagwe9AfdtAq1ELB-N67n4jCxyCmFSJAoGs4zhZWF8TAs62aRbJc_9VQGHryteC-8IypiOAxDuioLeq5IXsxrMSwWHGsrv4FVJ2oU2G_5puXZMM-bN4AHA/s1600/IMG_0567.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhge4UsQ9n0EvCBPEX20Um5Xagwe9AfdtAq1ELB-N67n4jCxyCmFSJAoGs4zhZWF8TAs62aRbJc_9VQGHryteC-8IypiOAxDuioLeq5IXsxrMSwWHGsrv4FVJ2oU2G_5puXZMM-bN4AHA/s200/IMG_0567.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>The vinegar and olive brine barely touched me, becoming puffs of steam on contact. He covered me up, trapping clouds in my interior. Water collected in droplets inside my cover, and streamed down the sides. More water was splashed in from a cup, and more. Vapour spat out my sides.<br />
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The flour he sprinkled in just turned to tiny lumps. My task was basically done, then just a container into which more was dumped: shrimp, salt, pasta. For a moment he slides me back onto the heat, but takes me off again. That's it. I've been left in the fridge ever since. I'm used to waiting.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgohpUipzJA5FJ5k-kZaTzH0DzqNi-R55wCM-mKZBpO1iXx7AdwWiX8nw9d5Pcd3OEl9UdwgWR2Lh3_VgyRTfmCru0tABjJ1Q4FGPEe3xz-KBIkspkad1JZHSUR3xNc0lRtDFJhc1FlQQ/s1600/IMG_0571.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgohpUipzJA5FJ5k-kZaTzH0DzqNi-R55wCM-mKZBpO1iXx7AdwWiX8nw9d5Pcd3OEl9UdwgWR2Lh3_VgyRTfmCru0tABjJ1Q4FGPEe3xz-KBIkspkad1JZHSUR3xNc0lRtDFJhc1FlQQ/s200/IMG_0571.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-50211278101708996512011-03-15T11:36:00.000-07:002011-03-15T11:36:27.659-07:00Caramelized Onion, Olive, and Mozzarella Tart<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsV-EWUd5tundiH2ULOLj6MWMT1dQwTUvFsqcczinNAUq_4WSt8s8UrnHeC-Chc1tzLm1cVDLaVog15qtjFSmQCN8d13dE-Oz6hVc2FiZJlpsHR6lZanwHXidADuu-8OCSub6gs8qn-w/s1600/IMG_0536.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsV-EWUd5tundiH2ULOLj6MWMT1dQwTUvFsqcczinNAUq_4WSt8s8UrnHeC-Chc1tzLm1cVDLaVog15qtjFSmQCN8d13dE-Oz6hVc2FiZJlpsHR6lZanwHXidADuu-8OCSub6gs8qn-w/s320/IMG_0536.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>This tart went from whatever to tantalizing to whatever. I wanted to make it because I wanted to write a blog post about it. But I soon became interested in the process of making it although I was not particularly looking forward to the result. Chopping and cooking the onions helped me think; the world became spacious with the sound of frying onions. But I was not salivating yet. That happened when I put the assembled tart in the oven. I <i>wanted</i> to eat it. I rejoiced: this was an achievement. Was it as good as I anticipated? No, not really. Too much of too thick of a still somewhat doughy crust. The whole thing was just ridiculously heavy, and I thought the cheese actually detracted from the caramelized onions. And I’m not sure the olives were necessary. If I made this again I would use four onions instead of two for the same size tart, I would not use whole wheat pastry flour in the crust (I ran out of all-purpose flour), and I would not add olives or mozzarella. And wine might be a nice addition. Or something else a little fruity. Maybe tomatoes, or even apples.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>In the morning the cheese has hardened into a tough, dry scab. This tart has a very short shelf life; it lasts from the time it begins baking until it’s tasted. But I nibble on the caramelized onions, which never needed to be packaged and garnished at all.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQDMzyyXeam4u010Z1Fx0nAulIYifXlDhiGj35OeZCHgQqKINccDWPiv64ii3XIo3lyQJ4AWRxazMP1oRlHO_s4SLLZia9fccZfPEZGj6jbW4zVj24kL5h50yssVQnylglNhs3VM04UA/s1600/IMG_0528.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQDMzyyXeam4u010Z1Fx0nAulIYifXlDhiGj35OeZCHgQqKINccDWPiv64ii3XIo3lyQJ4AWRxazMP1oRlHO_s4SLLZia9fccZfPEZGj6jbW4zVj24kL5h50yssVQnylglNhs3VM04UA/s400/IMG_0528.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-64776792696912157642011-03-10T15:03:00.001-08:002011-03-10T19:02:34.864-08:007th Annual Oregon Chocolate FestivalBooths, whether they are in a market or in an event, whether selling food, trinkets, or political causes, have always frightened me. I think this has to do with how supermarkets taught me to approach transactions. In a supermarket, the closest one comes to interacting with the seller is in the checkout line, and there the cashier hardly cares what one buys. I have a feeling of relative freedom in a supermarket because nobody is watching me, or at least only a very general someone. I am just one among many customers in the store at any given moment, and no employee is really in charge of the place; they just work there. In a small shop, on the other hand, I find myself running toward some secluded corner first, to collect myself before, if i have to, making the foray to where I can be seen. There is nothing keeping the employee or proprietor of a small shop from being interested in whatever I’m doing, even though, in all likelihood, they are not interested. Booths are the worst: everything I do can be seen, and we might even chat about it.<br />
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When I see booths I think of the two open markets that happen weekly in Ashland’s warmer months. Markets of this sort in the U.S. today are part of a more general trend of rejecting bits of postwar capitalism in favor of The Way Things Used to Be, or taking the Old World to the New. The boons of the 1950s have become the horrors of the new millennium: processed foods are bad, supermarkets distance us from our neighbors, agricultural technologies are poisonous. The list goes on, and each horror has given rise to a burgeoning alternative. Although some of them are more <a href="http://www.farmboat.org/about/">nostalgic museum pieces</a> than anything else, these are all good things, I think. But even if the rigors of economics accept them, I’m not sure I entirely can. The mores of the supermarket have been encoded into my being.<br />
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So when I discovered that the chocolate tasting part of the Chocolate Festival consisted in visiting a bunch of chocolate vendor’s booths, I was scared. What was I to say? How was this interaction supposed to happen? How could I approach the booth without its occupants noticing? Would they be annoyed that I obviously wanted to eat their samples and nothing more?<br />
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I clung to the water spigot, downing draughts of ice water as if it were booze and I were drinking courage. Then I began walking around and around trying to work up the nerve to approach a booth. I was grateful for the vendors who, without preamble, thrust chocolatey things into my hands. Sometimes there were conversational spielers who asked me questions, brave souls. Not trusting my capacity to keep up my end of the talk, I would flee from these when first possible.<br />
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One time my flight led me up the hotel’s stairs, trying to distance myself from the festival, only to reencounter it. There was some sort of barely polite spat between a chocolatier, or maybe a chocolate company representative, saying that the Chocolate Festival screwed up the description of his company. Or something. Or it was put in the wrong category. Or he entered it into the wrong category, and thus lost the contest. Part of the Chocolate Festival is a judged chocolate contest. It’s a big hullaballoo, I imagine. He called the mistake “very embarrassing for me.” They argued for ten minutes, saying the same things over and over, while I sat on the stairs a floor above them. Nothing could be done, there was nothing he seemed to want or could want other than to let them know that they will never be forgiven. And the staff he was bitching at, in turn, could only apologize for their alleged error, and self-justify.<br />
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But down the stairs among the booths, any dissonance between chocolatiers and festival is invisible. In the end it is largely self-destructive to try to signal one’s dissatisfaction with the means of enunciation one is given. Although occasionally it can be quite lucrative.<br />
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Somehow, despite my skittishness, I managed to make my way to each booth. Well, I was guided through the gauntlet by a Chocolate Festival veteran. She said she has “plenty of taste but no standards.” This also describes my relationship with chocolate rather well. I am by no means a connoisseur, but some things I sampled at the festival, for whatever reason, I reacted viscerally to. Everything there tasted like chocolate--well, okay, the raw chocolate didn’t quite--but some things surprised me. Some of the most memorable bites follow.<br />
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There were the delightfully gooey, dark truffles from <a href="http://www.bransonschocolates.com/">Branson’s Chocolates</a>. I completely agree with their purveyor who said that’s how she likes ‘em, disdaining the stiff variety of truffles.<br />
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There was <a href="http://www.lilliebellefarms.com/">Lillie Belle Farms</a>’gorgonzola chocolate spread. Contrary to their cute purple logo, they revel in trendy chocolate juxtapositions. There was chocolate with bacon, chocolate with tons of hot chili, and chocolate with local gorgonzola cheese. This last was like milk chocolate, but sharp with mold and saltiness.<br />
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Then we move on to the weird and the nonchocolate. Linda Shumate of <a href="http://premrosedibles.com/">PremRose Edibles</a> was quite insistent on having everyone try her rose preserves. “It’s like eating rose water,” I said, which she seemed to find somewhat insulting. ”Which one?” I think she thought I was humoring her and that I hated the stuff, but actually I love it. It is a piece of high confectionary (or in the parlance of this blog, “<a href="http://sometimestheycook.blogspot.com/2011/01/pastrys-conspiracy.html">pastry</a>”) to simmer down enough rose petals to create a heavily perfumed preserve. Or whatever is done with the rose petals. I’m ignorant as to how it’s made. I imagine the arcane, perverse chemistry of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0396171/">“Perfume”</a>.<br />
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Finally there was <a href="http://www.zorbasrawchocolates.com/">Zorba’s</a> raw chocolate green tea ginger truffle, which is as much a mouthful in taste as its name. It was more than visceral. It eviscerated. Its green powdery coating puckered my mouth with intense bitterness. It tasted not of confectionary but of medicine, and made me feel like I had been given an inebriating dose of healthfulness. I felt dizzy. It was spectacularly awful.<br />
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There were a lot of raw chocolatiers at the festival. Jen Moore at the <a href="http://www.jemrawchocolate.com/">Jem Chocolates</a> booth was chatty. “Have you ever experienced raw chocolate before?” she asked as I chewed on my sample. Of course. I should have guessed that one doesn’t have, taste, or try raw chocolate, one <i>experiences</i> it. She went on to tell me that raw chocolate is rich in nutrients. I blinked. Silly me, eating chocolate for pleasure. Roasting chocolate brings out the tannins she said, and hides the nuttiness of raw chocolate. She was one I eventually fled from. It turned out later that my ambivalence was as visible as I had feared. The second time I found myself there she said I (unwittingly) gave “good feedback.”<br />
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But I think, unlike booths, I dislike raw chocolate on principle. Every raw chocolatier seems to deal in the discourse of Truth. Processing and cooking chocolate corrupts its true healthful nature and noble flavor, turning it sour with tannins. I do find raw chocolate’s flavor refreshing in contrast to conventional chocolate’s intensity, but raw chocolatiers seem eager to take the word ‘raw’ literally and convince us that it’s better because it’s <i>more real</i>. Maybe I don’t understand because I just haven’t put enough effort into overcoming my entrenchment in industrial comforts. Maybe if I <a href="http://www.theblissbar.org/about-us.html">wrapped my head in hand-spun cloth, dressed entirely in Indian imports, renamed myself, and converted to Sikhism (in that order and not the reverse)</a>, I too would feel raw chocolate’s goodness.Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-3959591270528156192011-03-09T21:46:00.000-08:002011-03-09T21:46:33.185-08:00Brown Sticky Asparagus<div class="myrecipe">~24 asparagus stalks<br />
2 cloves garlic<br />
3 tablespoons butter<br />
3 tablespoons maple syrup<br />
1 tablespoon soy sauce<br />
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Smash garlic cloves, peel, and then chop finely. Chop off hard ends of asparagus stalks (~2in?). Melt butter in large saucepan with a thick bottom on medium-high heat. Throw in garlic and fry until golden brown. Remove garlic to a small bowl, keeping as much butter in saucepan as possible. Pour maple syrup and soy sauce into small bowl and stir together. Begin frying asparagus in saucepan. Coat well with butter. Stir every two minutes. The goal is to get them brown or charred on as many sides as possible, and to cook them until soft. Once they are soft enough to your liking, pour in liquid mixture, remove from heat, and stir asparagus around to coat them. The liquid should boil off very quickly and caramelize a bit from the latent heat of the pan. Serve immediately.</div><br />
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</div>Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-72500835847094822392011-03-04T01:10:00.000-08:002011-03-04T01:10:19.594-08:00Soup of Leftovers and Throwing Stuff in the Oven<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5NjJrcUNofNiab531VcXYcquG6_vkq_qSLoVMhgjR4r-bO4PDdY1yBic6TpEH0p_DqgPg4ef1fbXuecah2bbqlFSa_Qjrw59ytz21GutG_VlU8NjEKMHHYsS6lG0ib6KSX5i5LLGddg/s1600/IMG_0501.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5NjJrcUNofNiab531VcXYcquG6_vkq_qSLoVMhgjR4r-bO4PDdY1yBic6TpEH0p_DqgPg4ef1fbXuecah2bbqlFSa_Qjrw59ytz21GutG_VlU8NjEKMHHYsS6lG0ib6KSX5i5LLGddg/s200/IMG_0501.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Let’s talk about how meals happen. Because we are sitting down to a nice chat, and you’re the most indulgent listener ever, just dying to hear whatever half-baked spiel that crawls out of my mouth. You see, dear reader, for the most part making food happens out of desperation for me. I am horrible at planning ahead, and when I’m busy as I have been recently, I do the cognitive equivalent of grabbing whatever is within reach. Or I literally grab the nearest things in the kitchen. At such times, some basic forms of cookery are necessary frames to keep it all from getting too unmanageable both mentally and logistically. The past two days indicate that apparently I have at least two such shortcuts on hand: make soup of leftovers, or throw things in the oven. Probably I don’t have them on hand or in head at all, but somehow, thankfully, they happened.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJD1AEYuyyWLxGHOqhN-GUXt6aTX1DXdL3axOrGeRBmbUJqBo_d5ZL8qtwtKBLMLlyzL-fUtixzhqZZu69JPbgCZ-6Ncfszw0WCLx0zIKTGhV-Kof9Zbwny4LK0L3gIGpZOB_X71E5HA/s1600/IMG_0502.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJD1AEYuyyWLxGHOqhN-GUXt6aTX1DXdL3axOrGeRBmbUJqBo_d5ZL8qtwtKBLMLlyzL-fUtixzhqZZu69JPbgCZ-6Ncfszw0WCLx0zIKTGhV-Kof9Zbwny4LK0L3gIGpZOB_X71E5HA/s400/IMG_0502.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEycDk7crHxYMSlYvJr0HavNKX3nvvi22gVYEfeBq-kyYe53gpd9YmwVKveDYiiDllVm1oQhCUC3wCC2Og8rpezU86DafEM01KkV7OuJO7MVdF34I3z6C3KIpwixEoP57ulFx3QRVYHQ/s1600/IMG_0505.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEycDk7crHxYMSlYvJr0HavNKX3nvvi22gVYEfeBq-kyYe53gpd9YmwVKveDYiiDllVm1oQhCUC3wCC2Og8rpezU86DafEM01KkV7OuJO7MVdF34I3z6C3KIpwixEoP57ulFx3QRVYHQ/s200/IMG_0505.JPG" width="200" /></a>Soup is probably the most well-trod way of using up leftovers. A lot of various things suddenly become commensurate when thrown in a pot of water or stock. I made soup of leftovers because I saw refried beans, fried kale, cooked ground beef, half an onion, a tortilla, and some mushrooms in the fridge, and I thought “soup!” And of course because it’s me, before any water came into the picture I browned onions, mushrooms, and garlic in some oil. And there was quite a bit of chili powder. And some possibly ill-advised cumin. (I couldn’t help but think of the<a href="http://www.planetclaire.org/quotes/gossipgirl/season-two/remains-of-the-j.php"> overpowering odor</a> of Rufus’s chili.) I know, these details outside of a recipe have you rapt, don’t they? Little did you know I’m trying to snuff you out in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Pedant-Shuffly-John-Bellairs/dp/1887726071">a blizzard of Irrelevant Facts</a>.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimrhX42IR515EANj1Lt1VejNabnNpqBXVMqaUWuG-Qyi2dP0IHugFJSg9qdy9TMoj22CNlwJPuuxvYKo4qYTIL3lWExVHOb1e8h-GQZEUNlyrIHELqpvWTuqwRli0cvWuDzIZsm809xQ/s1600/IMG_0507.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimrhX42IR515EANj1Lt1VejNabnNpqBXVMqaUWuG-Qyi2dP0IHugFJSg9qdy9TMoj22CNlwJPuuxvYKo4qYTIL3lWExVHOb1e8h-GQZEUNlyrIHELqpvWTuqwRli0cvWuDzIZsm809xQ/s200/IMG_0507.JPG" width="200" /></a>A tangent: I actually have no clue what I’m doing when it comes to seasonings. (Or, well, anything really, but seasonings especially.) I am either falling into strange habits, experimenting blindly, or being minimalist (salt, pepper). The thing is, I only understand how flavors go with other flavors in the negative. If I’m putting things together I’m thinking <i>sure, I guess this might taste good together, maybe</i>. But suggest to me a combination and often you’ll get a response of “ew,” or an extremely ill-masked dubious look. I apologize for this particular knee-jerk of mine.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-LC1Hlw5PsHtjrR-qfhliBCCY-AxPTBibwqOTTJKXitTGImM_i8HH-AzamJUUPDSg82FRXSgiuC2MQq0C1U17MPadEyeoy7Jyt2QWVzKeVLCw7b16cG5gZVf_138Qm6oectRIuebO2g/s1600/IMG_0508.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-LC1Hlw5PsHtjrR-qfhliBCCY-AxPTBibwqOTTJKXitTGImM_i8HH-AzamJUUPDSg82FRXSgiuC2MQq0C1U17MPadEyeoy7Jyt2QWVzKeVLCw7b16cG5gZVf_138Qm6oectRIuebO2g/s400/IMG_0508.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXXVneu3Pb1_GBihBpZNaJctDVLnwPWZvm0mZhKchN-xRx7oBj7Qa_GVoIw-1oR3keq6kYbm98dPKSl5a1GYqZZ7JGxULWq_hA8OMtzsyt9zHBOv7deygef8EOAOOuBQuotUMbwLrTKw/s1600/IMG_0509.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXXVneu3Pb1_GBihBpZNaJctDVLnwPWZvm0mZhKchN-xRx7oBj7Qa_GVoIw-1oR3keq6kYbm98dPKSl5a1GYqZZ7JGxULWq_hA8OMtzsyt9zHBOv7deygef8EOAOOuBQuotUMbwLrTKw/s200/IMG_0509.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Anyway, throwing stuff in the oven seems initially like a wonderfully lazy option. But I always end up babying the stuff. Tonight the stuff was pork chops, onion, red pepper, and mushrooms. Pork chops cook quickly, apparently, because they were done in about half an hour, at which point I thought <i>nooo they must be browned!</i> and turned the oven to broil for five minutes. Then I put them on a plate, and continued to bake the soupy vegetables. Of course, I may as well have put them in a pan on the stove for all the stirring I did. Must’ve opened the oven five or six times. The problem was that the vegetables released a lot of water, thus stewing the pork chops rather than roasting them, and thus no sear. Maybe pork chops roasted with vegetables is just not to be. The only viable method I can think of is to suspend the poor things on a wire rack above the roasting vegetables, and basting them in the vegetable juice a few times. But that just sounds wayyy to involved. Although it can’t really be more involved than what I did this time.<br />
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Sorry, no recipe. Come on, you don’t really want a recipe for Soupy, Overcooked Pork Chops With Roasted Vegetable Topping, do you? There was once a time when this blog was about perfecting techniques and recipes. It has since devolved into me babbling about whatever the hell I feel like, sometimes connecting it to what I happened to have cooked recently. The defining change is that intentionality has left. I no longer cook things to post them on my blog. I cook what I cook, and sometimes take photos to keep the possibility of blogging about it open. In this case I forgot to take a photo of the roasted things, and instead you just get these photos of the uncooked ingredients arranged in the pan to go in the oven.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinvFbkCxRDmV8GniKRWar_cCBliWxZEDwaOMpONDbFvADJ5Ex7MVXurIcXr2zWkTyPKn0pUsHBfOL6CbuIMRIztCxOzf-nl6PqQt7OcO5v83xIY0FYEls0A6YclanP6TDqxouDMrmdbQ/s1600/IMG_0512.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinvFbkCxRDmV8GniKRWar_cCBliWxZEDwaOMpONDbFvADJ5Ex7MVXurIcXr2zWkTyPKn0pUsHBfOL6CbuIMRIztCxOzf-nl6PqQt7OcO5v83xIY0FYEls0A6YclanP6TDqxouDMrmdbQ/s400/IMG_0512.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDp4OKC41yEqz1zZZ1_PSIJVv9CoLv7SjYRLiHTe4289R5Ggw4OHevb9BXQBDTQNSdRNSv9qL1-6Y8kkDwIS933Ccy6ekqjudEByoEDMln3JbO867enft2CmCKOZUZ7m9H0ZIXymAk0A/s1600/IMG_0513.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDp4OKC41yEqz1zZZ1_PSIJVv9CoLv7SjYRLiHTe4289R5Ggw4OHevb9BXQBDTQNSdRNSv9qL1-6Y8kkDwIS933Ccy6ekqjudEByoEDMln3JbO867enft2CmCKOZUZ7m9H0ZIXymAk0A/s400/IMG_0513.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-86222811277176285572011-03-01T01:15:00.000-08:002011-03-01T01:15:27.485-08:00Scraping the Bottom of the Barrel: Photos<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheCokWXso4MlhaNQTg-tASdhUW5bJSDNf6d74N9Qk66eFtBiTBZ1hLxrmo8JqTQy8L2WSxCtACNVNgJQfmV-0nVnA_ux5hbXfMk0ZL9jpz_dVy6TUNRsPEwOv0fWgSYV08gofudkjPIg/s1600/IMG_0340.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheCokWXso4MlhaNQTg-tASdhUW5bJSDNf6d74N9Qk66eFtBiTBZ1hLxrmo8JqTQy8L2WSxCtACNVNgJQfmV-0nVnA_ux5hbXfMk0ZL9jpz_dVy6TUNRsPEwOv0fWgSYV08gofudkjPIg/s400/IMG_0340.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beets and Parsnips.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNer1xCnF2RGkPDvtI0hoh_M1A7v_-aCrsignsk0_jBT0KYDKLoyQalzzGfOp4gQOLFDaX7t84KpDLX-S3TIf4wColL5eza2CP6mtrzeu_YlIKDmELwAN9A3JBg-kYwTm5V8AQn4nzgA/s1600/IMG_0342.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNer1xCnF2RGkPDvtI0hoh_M1A7v_-aCrsignsk0_jBT0KYDKLoyQalzzGfOp4gQOLFDaX7t84KpDLX-S3TIf4wColL5eza2CP6mtrzeu_YlIKDmELwAN9A3JBg-kYwTm5V8AQn4nzgA/s400/IMG_0342.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beets and Parsnips, roasted. Ugh, what a phase.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo_kmiC_Bg3-UCw2UZVJE0OVXJsXuYaga18_HFA0d1smlpeeO3yd2BUwgolEEt9n7zA-kPeTPuIJGSzn5KMwHahhfkagTk0XHpUhOgzUIYiKcbtwJJX91-mS0bTEevHP0PGpMxeDJBPA/s1600/IMG_0181.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo_kmiC_Bg3-UCw2UZVJE0OVXJsXuYaga18_HFA0d1smlpeeO3yd2BUwgolEEt9n7zA-kPeTPuIJGSzn5KMwHahhfkagTk0XHpUhOgzUIYiKcbtwJJX91-mS0bTEevHP0PGpMxeDJBPA/s400/IMG_0181.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the many pear <a href="http://sometimestheycook.blogspot.com/search/label/tarte%20tatin">tarts</a> that never made it here. Or maybe this one was apple?</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfANTnXLLhpJ8R6TPlPw5lnJig1jqZPIo7p6X5I6gIy14KxDIKddpuYeSLvjUSQDMVqrUBDG16diWipvMwFH0Cxp7SGluDcz8zXY6FCNXQkWeFhQW6aFAUT4CMQEk2GhycWtNEQL6Icw/s1600/IMG_0183.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfANTnXLLhpJ8R6TPlPw5lnJig1jqZPIo7p6X5I6gIy14KxDIKddpuYeSLvjUSQDMVqrUBDG16diWipvMwFH0Cxp7SGluDcz8zXY6FCNXQkWeFhQW6aFAUT4CMQEk2GhycWtNEQL6Icw/s400/IMG_0183.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the strangest meals. Those two white patties are ground turkey with egg, flour, chiles, garlic, onion, and... some other stuff, possibly. Those are just boiled potatoes to the right. The sauce, really, was the tasty part: spicy brown butter sage cream sauce.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1SLXDE5acnULE67z0nkSRvxlJvyNqcYDuhb9ktstOzzSoN4lVWQbp8EsPDycZkRgpM8y-Iug4R1LbmEi3P0WLjjnF-9SnaDRV_359Z9cog6-zJkBxUSnJo5Hz3HPtxTxGdRR3CAnefw/s1600/IMG_0410.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1SLXDE5acnULE67z0nkSRvxlJvyNqcYDuhb9ktstOzzSoN4lVWQbp8EsPDycZkRgpM8y-Iug4R1LbmEi3P0WLjjnF-9SnaDRV_359Z9cog6-zJkBxUSnJo5Hz3HPtxTxGdRR3CAnefw/s400/IMG_0410.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What happened to the <a href="http://sometimestheycook.blogspot.com/2011/01/inedibles-beet-cake-and-boiled-turnip.html">beet frosting</a>? It frosted a nonwheat spice cake.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2vSrxXHvvrqL6sawDFZpPGUTxKU4RJStjd9m8MwXACbOwiNPTiwYmHFcoYwo-ViTUVjbqmzsWawEsa1rkbmxDnlygiBTz1HKXDQJGj1Yxd8xIvxlunvmOh6LEF8ixExYwG3Yw8OqYBQ/s1600/IMG_0427.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2vSrxXHvvrqL6sawDFZpPGUTxKU4RJStjd9m8MwXACbOwiNPTiwYmHFcoYwo-ViTUVjbqmzsWawEsa1rkbmxDnlygiBTz1HKXDQJGj1Yxd8xIvxlunvmOh6LEF8ixExYwG3Yw8OqYBQ/s400/IMG_0427.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A biscuit made entirely with yogurt for liquid. Yogurt had the effect of keeping it a little <i>too</i> moist. It was also very dense.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgITwKBzgaASH82NXlLTw76tSY_wwuqek1oVcF-OnzOGJed_fCNe1SkS7mClg4Z9gvbgazlXfaVtz9WZ_fL14sPvHnhv9Ve0LRsuHr74qfSDmPTd5Ak_Oogc1JHm100VsuWvgSTGK0Waw/s1600/IMG_0490.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgITwKBzgaASH82NXlLTw76tSY_wwuqek1oVcF-OnzOGJed_fCNe1SkS7mClg4Z9gvbgazlXfaVtz9WZ_fL14sPvHnhv9Ve0LRsuHr74qfSDmPTd5Ak_Oogc1JHm100VsuWvgSTGK0Waw/s400/IMG_0490.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Collard green stems with olive oil, garlic, paprika, and red wine vinegar.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP1NgUlycO8TwthlfLvIZfhtpR42wFQrJXFSHgVmM-nT4TuSKAAwrdogcnw-PzBM8sebRLNJmeD5QE12BHSmlwcUk9xEmwsWGDSuer5WMsknyT2Cs6KGLKVoFSNhbX_VV8csaWtXcVfw/s1600/IMG_0498.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP1NgUlycO8TwthlfLvIZfhtpR42wFQrJXFSHgVmM-nT4TuSKAAwrdogcnw-PzBM8sebRLNJmeD5QE12BHSmlwcUk9xEmwsWGDSuer5WMsknyT2Cs6KGLKVoFSNhbX_VV8csaWtXcVfw/s400/IMG_0498.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Using wikipedia as a guide, stir-frying is my favorite thing these days. This red cabbage and bok choy was stir-fried with soy sauce, lemon juice, brown sugar, hot sauce, garlic, ginger, and sesame oil. That omelete is <i>yellow</i>, isn't it?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-27784982763300807132011-02-26T20:40:00.000-08:002011-02-27T22:16:50.048-08:00The Cooking Blogger's NondilemmaI began composing this post, including this sentence, in the shower, which both is and is not an ideal place to compose something. It’s ideal because there aren’t many distractions and because there is no actual page upon which what I’ve written is visible. It is possible to crystalize by editing and editing, without really having to edit anything because nothing is set down. But the problem with composing things of any length in your head like this is that they never come out onto the page as you’d hoped. For one thing, it’s very easy to forget what you never actually wrote. Writing in general is not much different; composing in the mind rather than on the page just delays the problem.<br />
<br />
Sometimes writing this blog is a pain. It has to be thought about (tragic, I know). It’s not anything like, say, Alicia in “The Good Wife” typing out an additional argument to a Legal Aid appeal in 48 minutes with a crowd looking over her shoulder and talking over each other to give her information. It is at least somewhat believable that one could actually do such a thing because the form and content of the document would be largely, I imagine, determined in advance. (Law students, correct me on this?) This blog, on the other hand, while it has vaguely defined a genre for itself, has not really settled into a consistent form, and its content often comes from intangible sources. Generally I just cook something, take a few harried photos, and hope that something a little bit interesting will suddenly befall me when I finally sit down to write about it. Often coming up with something to say about whatever I’ve cooked means writing in the most over-the-top way.<br />
<br />
But what tires me about this blog is not the actual writing. It's that sometimes when I cook I think <i>must I really think about what I’m doing?</i> One of the pleasures of cooking, to me, is losing myself in a nonlinguistic activity. If I’m to post about what I’m cooking, not only do I probably have to take mental notes on techniques and measurements of ingredients, but I have to (well, okay, I want to) think of some way to frame the post other than “I cooked this. It was interesting. Some things went well and others did not.” This turns cooking into a queer experience: I have to create the frame and be within it at the same time. I get tired of being in-frame.<br />
<br />
I may be making a mistake in, well, framing the problem this way. While being split between inside and outside, observer and actor may be awkward, is there really any time when one isn’t?<br />
<br />
I have experienced the fatigue of framing in another way, through photography, in which there is literally a frame. I always say that I got tired of photography because I didn’t like that my vision was turned constantly into a search for a good composition. The problem as I saw it was that whether I not I had a camera, photography never really went away. Photography was a scene of anxiety: I didn’t want to miss an opportunity for a good photo. This put me in a very odd relationship with the passage of time. While every new moment afforded the possibility of a photo, I didn’t want each moment to pass because even when I took a photo to record the moment I was never sure it was the right photo. But I think what I ultimately ascribed my dislike of photography to was how it demanded that I objectify my visual experience. Things seen were there for one purpose: to be photographed. From inside my photographer’s gaze, I felt that this collapsed the experience of seeing. My complaint was that I didn’t want to see for a purpose, I wanted to just see. I wanted out. There is something paradoxical about this. In the politically naive way I approached photograph y, it was the most purposeless way of seeing possible. It created a fascination with form for form’s sake. But this purposeless seeing, I thought, became unbearably purposive. So I stopped, and considered myself free from the frame.<br />
<br />
My idea regarding both cooking for a blog post and photography, I suppose, is that there’s a great blossoming of depth and complexity when I step out of my framing mechanisms. The problem is that this blossoming can only be felt in relation to what I want to distance myself from. So a few nights ago when I made dinner and I thought how sick I was of this blog business, I had a nice, peaceful time cooking. Cooking can be a good time to reflect in a non-deliberate way on things other than cooking. And while cooking my world consists of more than cognition; I feel, smell, and taste ingredients. But because I insist on an ill-defined idea of “the grass is always greener,” I have to wonder if what I liked about the experience was any positive feature at all, but rather what it was not. It was not a cooking experience destined for a blog post. (And here I am writing about it.) I liked the way the distance from blogging felt. It felt like privacy, which is not something that can be felt on its own; one can only feel private <i>from</i> some form of visibility.<br />
<br />
Facebook is a massive nexus of transparency. It’s monstrous, and turns its users into monsters. We are there to be seen and to peer at others. Thus not posting anything on Facebook feels like privacy. But if there were no Facebook, I could not have privacy from it. And it produces privacy in another way: you may show all sorts of things about your life there, and yet live outside of your publicity. You may live bits and pieces of a private life because it is so publicized. Similarly, because I write a blog that is largely about my life, I am afforded privacy.<br />
<br />
(If I say “privacy” one more time you’re going to kill me, aren’t you?)Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1864834190464210394.post-73983634982894034532011-02-22T12:00:00.000-08:002011-02-22T12:03:15.295-08:00Pankeggs (and American Breakfasts)The older I get, the more finicky I become about breakfast. Mostly I poke at it, trying my best to take seriously what only seems like an abstract need for food in the morning. The food often seems too rich, like it’s trying to <i>feed</i> me. Awfully presumptuous of it, don’t you think? Breakfasts in American restaurants are the most offensive in this regard. Their menus full of terrifying practicality, like every customer is in a state of emergency and has got to GET SOME FOOD IN THERE, stat. They don’t waste time on trivial things that aren’t dense with protein, fat, and carbohydrates. And they would never dream of skimping; they err on the side of making you explode. Don’t they understand that breakfast is a time of nausea? It’s in the name. Following a fast, one does not gorge oneself on bacon, eggs, butter, potatoes, and coffee. One might be very hungry, but one needs to ease into the fact of eating. One needs to be seduced. The purveyors of American breakfasts seem completely ignorant of the erotics of eating. To consider the mediative process by which food gets from plate to stomach would be, what, too French?<br />
<br />
(I know, I just romanticized Frenchness. Sigh.)<br />
<br />
Nonetheless, this morning I made <a href="http://chewonthat.blogspot.com/2007/06/pankegg.html">pankegg</a>. It’s one of those gimmicky breakfast foods that fuses a fried egg with some starchy substrate. Actually I can only think of two such foods: egg-in-a-hole and pankegg. Yeah, alright, so maybe it’s not a whole genre.<br />
<br />
<div class="myrecipe"><u>Pancakes</u><br />
1 egg<br />
~3/4 cup milk<br />
2/3 cup whole wheat pastry flour<br />
2 teaspoons vegetable oil<br />
pinch of salt<br />
1 teaspoon baking powder<br />
<br />
<u>Pankeggs</u><br />
3 more eggs, one for each pancake<br />
<br />
In a medium bowl combine egg, milk, and oil. Add flour, baking powder, and salt. Thoroughly whisk everything together. Let stand for five minutes while the pan heats on medium heat.<br />
<br />
Oil the pan. Pour pancake onto pan. When there are lots of bubbles, remove it to a plate, uncooked side up. Crack an egg into the center of the pan. Immediately place the pancake on top of this, uncooked side down. Cook for a few minutes, so that the yolk in still runny. Serve egg side up. Repeat for remainder of pancake batter (should make 3).</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvDyA7wj3bC5_3iXnXiWrmQhxCDXA3VmDWolsz3gU5PSRjH2nxyknl9g0VVZnHLrupeK34mBa3ygP_e5mZJbvPgAA-2uw3rsqJip7VGXKu5BogFEnvEXbDBY83dzcSGQ217eUgAwGxSA/s1600/IMG_0476.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvDyA7wj3bC5_3iXnXiWrmQhxCDXA3VmDWolsz3gU5PSRjH2nxyknl9g0VVZnHLrupeK34mBa3ygP_e5mZJbvPgAA-2uw3rsqJip7VGXKu5BogFEnvEXbDBY83dzcSGQ217eUgAwGxSA/s400/IMG_0476.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Match cut to the second to last photo?</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHodEU283WP8w1DsC-1n6I0W6NJV81erj59nIOBGBD-KBGcbFY3A8KIYM4-7H0BNBXSReptkCuI4j_p_rwM457LDz11dd5-6ABbs5yQPEMADsXHW6ng0hweuakoknoQWvFexg-bC6dGQ/s1600/IMG_0477.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHodEU283WP8w1DsC-1n6I0W6NJV81erj59nIOBGBD-KBGcbFY3A8KIYM4-7H0BNBXSReptkCuI4j_p_rwM457LDz11dd5-6ABbs5yQPEMADsXHW6ng0hweuakoknoQWvFexg-bC6dGQ/s400/IMG_0477.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There isn't roughly 3/4 cup milk like the recipe says. I just fill the<br />
measuring cup to the 1 cup mark.</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEl7tJljVI2yMMBYR4mZztQUkowe0q7ACXEgifke6pUMXBuEEdg5gWXpGDlxXUYgozbaJUdgMYVDlV9ai471Zh0vHyJ3Xv17Pf0DeUEaLEJNuoAVMb4ohvrCwI1kvmxWMVrthC3c87-A/s1600/IMG_0479.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEl7tJljVI2yMMBYR4mZztQUkowe0q7ACXEgifke6pUMXBuEEdg5gWXpGDlxXUYgozbaJUdgMYVDlV9ai471Zh0vHyJ3Xv17Pf0DeUEaLEJNuoAVMb4ohvrCwI1kvmxWMVrthC3c87-A/s400/IMG_0479.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtI6l68f0XYAw0eM8RsQwXhtboHfDzgLfHyT-mB_mfTFhb9pTk2DBTFAt7dX_uQrbr_rmThHRHuggarAgFJveQS7jHpz5ePIH60mqOdk-NYLfFRata4JjQPCQfkv9PbZ8FCHd4hDl9dQ/s1600/IMG_0480.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtI6l68f0XYAw0eM8RsQwXhtboHfDzgLfHyT-mB_mfTFhb9pTk2DBTFAt7dX_uQrbr_rmThHRHuggarAgFJveQS7jHpz5ePIH60mqOdk-NYLfFRata4JjQPCQfkv9PbZ8FCHd4hDl9dQ/s400/IMG_0480.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDg2X7flAofvrbOgBDYxmOCe-XV8_dqLTNnRIr7evMSkw6Jks_39E9gX5prKdbZPZayBooo9XDe230XHUaFJMeHDXXl0ggmrS3dTr4Q3w9M08ZDut3kVJ336vQd-9Z6ap2dwDC9xT6zA/s1600/IMG_0482.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDg2X7flAofvrbOgBDYxmOCe-XV8_dqLTNnRIr7evMSkw6Jks_39E9gX5prKdbZPZayBooo9XDe230XHUaFJMeHDXXl0ggmrS3dTr4Q3w9M08ZDut3kVJ336vQd-9Z6ap2dwDC9xT6zA/s400/IMG_0482.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tierra del Pancake-o</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnPpGhBg7QaaoHMKvDdDP7ov4n-zxZ09WrkCneryTn8R8rehcBbj8yQzeQgdVZd-FjHJWl3_ghVqlVAqQ2QscgFPo4WLAZFDlqiNKHaiK2yBXAXi4btY4HoHYtPZLZuRb1iR8GSA1sA/s1600/IMG_0483.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnPpGhBg7QaaoHMKvDdDP7ov4n-zxZ09WrkCneryTn8R8rehcBbj8yQzeQgdVZd-FjHJWl3_ghVqlVAqQ2QscgFPo4WLAZFDlqiNKHaiK2yBXAXi4btY4HoHYtPZLZuRb1iR8GSA1sA/s400/IMG_0483.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's true, taking this photo allowed the egg to cook for too long without<br />
the pancake. I'm sure it was cold and alone for those ten seconds.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9q18LzV2Dqwr23A3hCdbwrxAEV9T4V5bkt6hs7-FLd44GOnqAfAlli-PMr2n11ju7PtXrXk028GyHC-H88dNVDaObvyaWmby9jI3fcWJBFImjdEUbrKmcfDuLjIKR4NDkUCJeQCfaEg/s1600/IMG_0484.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9q18LzV2Dqwr23A3hCdbwrxAEV9T4V5bkt6hs7-FLd44GOnqAfAlli-PMr2n11ju7PtXrXk028GyHC-H88dNVDaObvyaWmby9jI3fcWJBFImjdEUbrKmcfDuLjIKR4NDkUCJeQCfaEg/s400/IMG_0484.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pregnant pancake!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqNbMowotj2J7ynDwSzfSSPss96p3hq2-wXnXivqhbueJr1DqpVcmp-GymK8dsJLiNcg19DlVKEc8E8oEyzgX9-MU6SZDhxS7hXhKNsQo6aMbLY6aGCm-e4dDKuWWr1c7d0x3d4L3Ucw/s1600/IMG_0486.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqNbMowotj2J7ynDwSzfSSPss96p3hq2-wXnXivqhbueJr1DqpVcmp-GymK8dsJLiNcg19DlVKEc8E8oEyzgX9-MU6SZDhxS7hXhKNsQo6aMbLY6aGCm-e4dDKuWWr1c7d0x3d4L3Ucw/s400/IMG_0486.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little known fact: eggs scream at frequencies we can't hear.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh4u1FeAYoHi-i1xuvXJFv3-l1IMhCtRbS96VAcHNGDHET1JtO2q0YHkMSgNH-wTKxkeFfRXtmMyb428NRt_8UkFTTWBiLIVgjhYlC4wX13AhTtekQOqdpOelVdn09XP8vmKQoArfKnw/s1600/IMG_0487.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh4u1FeAYoHi-i1xuvXJFv3-l1IMhCtRbS96VAcHNGDHET1JtO2q0YHkMSgNH-wTKxkeFfRXtmMyb428NRt_8UkFTTWBiLIVgjhYlC4wX13AhTtekQOqdpOelVdn09XP8vmKQoArfKnw/s400/IMG_0487.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ugh.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Isaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05502265457306601115noreply@blogger.com0