DES(S)ERT LIFE

#poopstrong

2012-02-17T13:26:00.000-07:00

As some of you lovely readers know, there have been goings-on here in PHX regarding The Husband. I've generally been beating around the issue, mostly because it's not something I enjoy spending a lot of time thinking or talking about. One of the wonderful things about this little corner of the Internet that I carved out for myself was that I didn't have to talk about it; I could use this space to focus on the things I enjoy, the fun things in life that I wanted to share with all 10 of you who read this. This little blog was my refuge from the storm, in a way—a little binary-coded spot where I could ramble on about scones and cats and other lovely frivolous things.

However, sometimes Real Life manages to sneak in anyway. I mentioned the happenings in passing, mostly because I felt an obligation to explain my random and sustained absences. At that same time, though, I realized that as much as I didn't want to talk about it, sometimes I needed to. Pretending as though nothing is wrong gets tiring, even when it comes to infrequent postings on a little crafty blog.

So, rather than pretend any longer, here you go: The Husband has cancer. Specifically, stage IV colon cancer, which he was diagnosed with this time last year, just two months after his 30th birthday. And that The Husband is the man behind Poop Strong, which seems to be blowing up a portion of the Internet.

It has been a long and strange ride since then. He's undergone two major surgeries and multiple chemo treatments. We've made more of the four-hour roundtrip drives between PHX and Tucson (where he gets treatment) than I care to count. It's been scary, exhausting, frustrating, lonely, and disorienting.

However, things have also been inspiring and uplifting and happy. We've been incredibly fortunate in so many respects: The Husband (whose real name is Arijit) has been receiving excellent care; his youth and relative health have made tolerating the intensive chemo much easier; we have wonderful friends and family, who have been amazingly supportive throughout everything; and we're both stubborn and unwilling to back down. Because of all this, we've been able to generally keep living life as usual, and that's not something that every family facing cancer can say.

We've also been lucky in that we have insurance coverage, through Arizona State University (where Arijit is a PhD student in their School of Sustainability). However, in just a year, he has maxed out on his insurance, which has a lifetime cap of $300,000 in benefits. As such, we are now responsible for all expenses relating to this treatment. Thankfully, this should just be a temporary situation, as Arijit should be re-insured in August (either through the new ASU student health plan that is being negotiated now, or by purchasing insurance through the Pre-Existing Condition program offered via the Affordable Care Act).

Until then, though, we need to pay for Arijit's care out-of-pocket. We've been working with the Patient Advocate at the University of Arizona Cancer Center to get his medications at reduced cost and get some of his treatment costs written off, but we estimate that six months of treatment—assuming that nothing changes—will cost at least $100,000.

Strangely enough, we don't have $100,000.

To help offset the costs of treatment, we've started up Poop Strong, a site dedicated to raising money and keeping Arijit on track to get better. We're accepting donations; selling hilarious, poop-and-colon-related apparel; and generally raising awareness of the awesomeness of my husband and the tragedy of our healthcare system. If you're so inclined, stop by, read more of The Husband's story, and give if you can. Even if you can't donate, which we entirely understand, please help spread the word: the more people we reach, the more likely we are to hit our goal. If you're on Facebook, like us here and you'll get access to the incredibly lame poop jokes I post as the inspiration strikes.

Thanks for reading, and for your support. We now return to your regularly-scheduled inanity.

Uzbekibekibekistan

2012-02-13T00:11:00.000-07:00

Holy cats and kittens, y'all—there's brand new excitement over at ye olde sister blog! If you're at all interested in Central Asian cuisine—or, more accurately, my ramblings about Things I Learn on the Internet about former member-states of the USSR and the foods said people may or may not eat—check it out! Vaguely Uzbek(?) chickpea salad with tubers of various sorts! Plus, random facts about Uzbekistan you can use to impress your friends, subjugate your enemies, and seduce any attractive persons in your life. Happy early Valentine's Day, everyone!

Productivity and Other Resolutions

2012-02-12T21:44:00.001-07:00

As part of that time-honored tradition of hurling yourself towards Self Improvement in celebration of yet another successful revolution of the Sun by the Earth, I too have resolved. Specifically, I resolved to be more productive, which encompasses things like increasing my vegetable consumption and reading actual books again and maybe not spending so much dang time on the Internet randomly clicking links, how 'bout it?

Of course, as with most resolutions, I was really on top of this one for about two weeks, at which point I got sick and all of my energy and drive and wherewithal just sort of...dissolved. Other things, like treatment and money and general, low-level fretting, took precedence, and I let myself get swept away by it all.

Enter a much-needed vacation to Flagstaff, where I could lounge around by a fireplace drinking hot chocolate and eating brownies, where I could have adventures if I was feeling sprightly or just curl up under a blanket with a book if I was feeling hermitty. Buoyed by a week of various sorts of energizing relaxation, I feel ready to take on the world. Or at least ready to write the world a strongly worded letter informing it of my intentions to take it on. Progress, either way.

So, here I am, poised at the edge of tomorrow with a happycat in my lap, resolve for resolutions in my heart, and too much chana dal in my stomach (many thanks to The Husband for that last one). In this spirit of new years and renewal and life, allow me to present to you my wee bean:

Actually, there are two wee beans! And several flowers that promise additional wee beans! And none of the other plants have died yet! And all the beets and carrots and onions have sprouted, but the seeds seem to have migrated to the side of the planter, so they'll probably end up all misshapen but WHATEVER, things are growing! Mysteries of life and all that.

While in Flag, I also got the chance to get cracking on some new crafts, specifically double-ended crochet. Thus far, I'm not sure there's much to it other than making variations on a rectangular theme, but more investigations are in order. Just like I need to look into Tunisian crochet and knitting and kumihimo and needlefelting with wool and needlefelting WITH CAT FUR (and yes, I do have a bag of cat hair sitting around somewhere), as well as find our iron so I can start up on the lovely sashiko kits that my lovely friends at Sake Puppets sent me!

It'll be like NCIS: PHX in here: New Craft Investigation Service [in] Phoenix, that is! (Ba-doom tish.)

Yes, friends, I'm cooking up all sort of crafty shenanigans, and productivity is on the menu. Along with beans and murder.

Also, I've made things! Actual finished projects that I can see and touch and feel superior about, until I remember the long list of things I haven't made and am promptly shamed back into humility.

Project the first was a blanket, a gift that was only 3.5 months late. Originally, it was to be a surprise "hooray you survived your 10-hour surgery" present for The Husband, but it's oddly difficult to work on a surprise gift when you're sitting next to the recipient, in a hospital, for 12 hours a day. Or when you live together and your apartment isn't very big and certain Husbands keep conveniently "forgetting" that I'm Secret Crafting and no you can't come out here I DON'T CARE IF YOU NEED TO USE THE BATHROOM YOU SHOULD HAVE GONE EARLIER. As usual, the yarn-addled cat was super helpful.

"Blanket" may be a bit optimistic, given the wonky dimensions (blast you, too-small hook), but after much anger and injured fingers from rage blocking, it's become an acceptable lapghan. Also, go Buckeyes, O–H–I–O, we are terribly unconcerned with the state of Michigan in its entirety, something something etc.

Project number two was also for The Husband, because I am kind and benevolent like that.

It's a hammerhead shark. Feasting upon a head. You know how they do.

Although I think the eyes make it look downright sluggy, I'm generally pleased. Not sure how many bright orange sharks are out there, but evolution is a magical thing, and while I don't quite see the need for an orange shark, given that the ocean is not orange and the whole part of predator coloration is to blend in with the surroundings, far it be for me to say that sharks can't be orange if they so wish. I, for one, would not argue with sharks, as they have been around far longer than I and are also possessed of many rows of teeth.

Des(s)ert Life: Livin' every week like it's Shark Week.

It's Alive!

2012-01-22T17:53:00.000-07:00

I've been lazy on the cooking front, what with my first cold of 2012 knocking me out of commission for several days and The Husband's bi-weekly pump-induced Bed Rest keeping me busy, but there have been some exciting developments on the vegetable front.

We have seedlings!

Yes, things are actually growing! The lettuces are peeking out, as are the tiny wild rocket sprouts next to them.

The pepper cress has officially gone doolally, which meant I was able to harvest some to add to my scrambled eggs and toast this morning. I felt so pioneering!

The interior beans are holding strong; I just have to figure out how to train them to climb up the fake trellis I constructed out of cooling racks and picture wire.

The tomatoes are also making a strong showing. I'm still not sure how I'm going to manage these post-transplantation, but I'll cross that tasty bridge (we're on a bridge, Charlie!) when I get there. First, though, I have to keep the cat from eating them. He's already beheaded at least one tomato sproutling (along with a bean stalk). We contemplated getting him some cat grass, but we don't really want to encourage him to throw up all over the place (even more so than usual).

After much fretting and ruining of heating pads, the some of the peppers have finally woken up, too.

Overall, this little experiment in self-sufficiency is progressing nicely. The cooking greens (cavolo nero, Swiss chard, kale) have all finally sprouted, as have the beets and peas and rat-tail radishes (the vines of which can apparently grow to several feet tall, so that is requires some frantic, not-yet-figured-out modifications).

I'm also growing some potatoes in an old trash can. It actually appears to maybe be working, against all sense of reason and propriety.

Well, something is growing in there. Let's hope it's just potatoes.

And not Cthulhu.

Googling.

2012-01-10T14:04:00.003-07:00

The Husband wishes that I point this out, so here goes: Apparently, the most common search terms that bring people to this humble blog (apart from "life in the dessert"), are "philip glass el diablo," which is the second most-popular result on Google and takes you to this post.

For those of you who are now brought to this post: Welcome! The Husband would like you to know that he really likes Philip Glass. I sometimes confuse Philip Glass with Sufjan Stevens (musically, not visually—they look very different), but I am getting much better at that. Also, we saw his (Philip's, not Sufjan's) opera Satyagraha a little while ago and it was very good. Especially if you watch it in a movie theater while eating quesadillas (me) and wearing sweatpants (The Husband). I got a little sleepy during Act III, but I blame the quesadillas.

Also, for those of you looking for the actual exchange from The Simpsons (season 14, episode 18, Dude, Where's My Ranch, which is coincidentally where I first learned about Level 5 vegans), here you go:

David Byrne:

Excuse me, I've been researching indigenous music of Springfield and couldn't help but overhear your delightfully cruel hate song.

Carl:

David Byrne?

Moe:

Singer, artist, director, composer, Talking Head.

David Byrne:

And I used to wrestle under the name El Diablo.

Lenny:

I thought that was Phillip Glass.

David Byrne:

Yeah, he wishes.

Everybody hates Ned Flanders! And now you know why I don't eat anything that casts a shadow.

2012: The Year of the Vegetable

2012-01-10T13:46:00.003-07:00

...or at least the Year of the Carrot.

Yes, gentle readers, I have started off 2012 on an orange foot, having become enamored of a roast carrot salad that I have made —no joke— at least four times since the new year began, and I plan on making it again tonight. Each time I've tweaked things slightly, but at its heart lies delicious, delicious carrots. The Husband can tell you about how, after I first cooked these carrots, I wouldn't stop raving about them. "They are the BEST carrots I've ever made," I'd swoon. "Seriously: THE GREATEST." I'd bring them up randomly, in conversations that had nothing to do with carrots or vegetables or food; The Husband would mention some depressing article he'd read, or start talking about something sports-related, and I'd chime in with "Remember those awesome carrots I made? Man. Good stuff." I even started babbling about them to one of the vendors at the farmers' market, who seemed both intrigued and frightened. When I eventually got around to making this salad for The Husband, he declared it to the best thing he's ever eaten, apparently supplanting the wee stuffed peppers of yesteryear.

The funny thing about this newfound infatuation is that I don't even like carrots. I keep buying them because they are Good For Me, but then I usually just panic and never use them. Apart from the odd grating in a salad, I can't eat them raw, and I can make only so much mirepoix for soup before life goes from souper to...OK, all I can come up with here is some variant of "pooper," which is too cheap a joke even for me, so feel free to substitute your own, invariably better, play on words, unless you are 11-years old, The Husband, or one of The Husband's friends, in which case, YOU'RE WELCOME that I sullied this fine blog with a lame poop joke.

The basic idea for these carrots comes from Jamie Oliver, whose method for cooking all manner of root vegetables (parboiling, then roasting) I have adopted wholeheartedly. It also takes advantage of Arizona's glorious citrus season, which is currently kicking into gear and which I adore — as much I as love snow and cold weather, there is something sublime about walking home from the farmers' market, while enjoying 60º temperatures and a just-picked orange, in the middle of January. Oh, PHX: you would be so much better if you were properly inhabitable for more than four months of the year!

To make the basic version of this salad, get yourself some good carrots; I like the short, stubby, pale orange ones that probably have a fancy name that I do not know, but any carrot would work (this cooking method also lends itself well to beets and I imagine things like parsnips and turnips as well). Try to use carrots that are all roughly the same size, or cut them into equal-ish pieces, so that everything cooks more evenly. Boil your carrots in some salted water until tender, probably 10 minutes or so, depending on size. While the carrots are cooking, preheat the oven to 400ºF.

Also while the carrots are cooking, get started on making the carrot dressing. In a mortar and pestle (or food processor), bash up a large pinch each of cumin seeds and black mustard seeds, along with a small pinch of salt and pinch of Aleppo pepper (or any dried chile) to taste. Once those are finely ground, add a clove of garlic and a tablespoon of fresh thyme leaves, then mix up into a paste. Pour in a couple of tablespoons of olive oil and a tablespoonish of vinegar (a light one, like white balsamic) and stir up. Once the carrots are done, drain and dump into a large bowl. While the carrots are still hot, pour in the dressing and mix, making sure all the carrots get nicely coated, then put everything into one side of a baking dish (making sure to get all of the flavorful dressing in as well). In the other half of the tray, place a halved grapefruit, orange, or other sweetish citrus, then bang the whole thing into the oven to roast. This should take another 10 minutes, but you know you're golden when the carrots start to brown and caramelize a bit.

While the carrots are in the oven, gather up the rest of the salad parts, which include:

one handful of washed and drained arugula leaves
one-half an avocado, coarsely diced
two small slices of baguette (or other good, crusty bread) toasted/grilled and rubbed with a cut garlic clove, then torn into pieces

Once the carrots are done, leave them to cool and (carefully!) juice the roasted grapefruit/orange/whatever. To the juice, add about an equal amount of olive oil and a tablespoon of fruity honey, then mix. (This will make FAR more dressing than you need, but it keeps well in the fridge in a closed container and is excellent on regular salads.) Lightly dress the arugula, to taste, then place at the bottom of a bowl. Add the avocado and carrots, and top with the garlic bread crisps. Mix up, add more dressing if you like, and enjoy!

Later iterations benefited from the addition of goat cheese, toasted pepitas, pomegranate seeds, matchsticked black radishes, crispy cranberry beans, and/or red/black quinoa. The main thing to keep in mind, here, is texture: the carrots and avocado will all have a very similar mouthfeel, so to keep things from getting too mushy, be sure to balance them out with toothsome foods, like the crispy bread or crunchy vegetables.

Also, I suppose 2012 could legitimately be considered Year of the Vegetable, because it is the year that I finally got around to attempting to grow some vegetables of my own. The Door to Nowhere in our bedroom is guarded by a metal railing, from which I have hung several planters that may, Providence willing, become food.

I am only marginally optimistic about this, given the constraints of location and sunshine (our windows face the inner courtyard, which blocks a fair amount of sun: good at helping keep the apartment cool in the summer, but not-so-good for germinating seedlings), but we shall see what happens.

If nothing else, it gave me a good reason to go to Home Depot, which I love because all the tools and things make me feel super productive and like I could make anything. Which would be true, if I actually had space for such things.

Like a house. Not a one-bedroom apartment that I don't own and can't actually make changes to.

And with that, I leave you with the brilliant observation of Mr. Mitchell Hedberg:

I went to the Home Depot the other day, which was unnecessary... I need to go to the Apartment Depot, which is just a big warehouse with people standing around saying "hey, we ain't gotta fix shit!"

Renters, unite!

(Note: the faint red handprints along the side of the Door to Nowhere are not blood, nor were they left by ghosts of murdered children who haunt our apartment. I hope.)

Wee Peppers: An Update

2011-12-11T22:46:00.000-07:00

I just learned that the wee peppers, so lovingly discussed here, are actually called Mini Bell peppers. Most places suggest that they are good for stuffing, which I guess validates me? Or maybe it was just the oversized chickpeas that were not good for stuffing? MYSTERIES. Where's Robert Stack when you need him?

I'm sticking with wee peppers, though, because it's more delightful. WEE!

Triumphantly, Wee (Pepper) Return.

2011-12-08T22:13:00.002-07:00

Today was a grown-up day, which meant that I made tea when I woke up this morning. I realize that doesn't sound like much, but when you work from home and are sort of lazy and are maybe suffering from shin splints, it definitely counts. (Let it be known that I also did some work and learned about pediatric GERD and had some delicious beet pizza [beetza?] for lunch, so I am on some sort of roll). This is obviously all part of my (half-hearted) attempt to get back onto some type of schedule, so as to round out 2011 on a productive bang.

Fortunately, given how anyone would clearly be exhausted after such a day as this, our fridge is replete with tasty leftovers. After several months of not-cooking and fail-cooking (how I messed up fried rice is still a mystery), it has been gratifying to discover that I can still make proper meals. Perhaps my cooking mojo just went into hiding in October because it too was angry at the 100º+ fall days? And wanted to punish me for dragging it out to the desert by making me go out to eat all the time? Oh, cooking mojo, we need to work on your intimidation skills.

Tasty dinner #1 was a pumpkin soup, which is described here. Tasty dinner #2, which The Husband declared to be The Best Meal EVARRR and I declared to be proof of The Husband's obsession with hyperbole, was wee stuffed peppers, called wee peppers because the peppers were indeed wee.

Pros of wee peppers:

Adorable
Probably cook quicker?
You can eat like twice as many and feel like a giant
Seriously: SO CUTE
Juggling purposes?

Cons of wee peppers:

Impossible to stuff

Of course, the cons of my plan were not immediately apparent when I giddily purchased the wee peppers at the farmers' market, and actually did not become apparent until I was already well into making the stuffing and thus could not turn back. Luckily, I am the sensible sort, which means I just pretended that I hadn't made this realization and just assumed things would work out in the end.

To make wee stuffed peppers, you must first acquire wee peppers. Mine were red and yellow and hidden amongst the huge beets and parsnips. I suppose you could use regular-sized peppers IF YOU MUST, but then they are no longer wee and is it really worth it anymore? (Probably.)

Slice these bad boys in half, lengthwise, and remove the seeds and membrane. Season the cavities with a little bit of salt and set aside. You can probably also preheat your oven to 400ºF, if your oven isn't incompetent like mine.

For the stuffing, cook yourself a couple of handfuls of dried chickpeas with a good slurp of olive oil and a dried chipotle pepper. Mince 10 or so cloves of garlic and, once the beans are done, drain, reserving the cooking liquid. Heat some oil in a saute pan; when hot, add the garlic and 1 T fresh rosemary. Once the garlic is fragrant, add the chickpeas and cook, stirring occasionally, until the they are brown and crispy. While the chickpeas are sauteing, cook up some grains (I used 1/2 c. of a Middle Eastern couscous/quinoa blend, cooked in the bean broth). Mix in one roughly chopped tomato and some diced feta, add the grain blend, then season to taste (depending on the saltiness of the feta). Remove from the heat, because you don't really want the tomatoes to cook or the feta to melt.

By the way, I think the feta is key, and might just be what made this so good. There isn't much going on with the stuffing, flavorwise, apart from garlic and rosemary, so a good cheese is necessary. I fulfilled my bourgeois quota with some local peppercorn goat-milk feta, which was salty and smooth and fantastic. If you aren't lucky enough to get a hold of fancy cheese, it might be worthwhile to add more rosemary, or maybe lemon, to the stuffing, to perk up the flavors a bit.

Attempt to stuff the wee peppers. Discover that the chickpeas are pretty much the same size as the wee cavities. Make a giant mess. Have a lot of stuffing left over. Gingerly balance the overloaded peppers into a lightly oiled baking dish, cover with aluminum foil, and bake at 400ºF for about 15 minutes. Uncover, sprinkle on some shredded parmesan, discover that the shreds of cheese are longer than the wee peppers, make a giant mess. Return the dish to the oven for an additional 5 or so minutes, until the peppers start to dehydrate a little and get a bit of color on them. I served the wee peppers on a bed of the some extra stuffing, topped with a dollop of avocado-yogurt sauce (mash one avocado; add a heaped dessert spoon of plain yogurt, a squeeze of lemon, a generous pinch of salt, and some ground black pepper; mix well until smooth). A sprinkle of toasted pepitas are fun, especially if you just have some lying around from a soup adventure.

The peppers keep pretty well and can easily be reheated in a toaster oven or similar (though they can get mighty soft, so keep an eye on them). The extra stuffing also keeps, but the feta chunks will melt when heated up; not a huge loss, but I found the large bites of feta to be appealing, so I might keep that separate in the future. The avocado sauce, however, turns brown and unpleasant with a quickness, so only make what you need (1/2 avocado worked well for roughly 8 wee halves).

Also, because it has been awhile, here's a photo of our little idiot. Yes, he really sleeps like that.

Blogwhoring

2011-09-24T23:45:00.000-07:00

Just a little note to say that there are two—yes, TWO—new(ish) posts up at AW80D: Yorkshire Gingerbread and Kitsune Udon.

Also, my kitchen REALLY smells like pickles. But I'm a little afraid to look at them.

Also also, the other night I had pig's blood sauce. Verdict: salty.

Also also also, here's a shot of the blogging process. Now you know why I'm as productive as I am.

Pickles and Peaches and Pancakes! Oh My.

2011-09-20T22:55:00.003-07:00

Finally got to go to the PHX Farmers' Market yesterday [This was actually several days ago at this point, but bear with me. --Ed.] [Who is this Ed person and why is he commenting on my blog? --Heather], which was one of the things I had missed the most during our extended stay in the TUX (along with sleeping in my own bed and not having to furiously disinfect my hands all the time). It was a strange sensation to be shopping when the giant industrial air conditioners weren't completely necessary, and the Market is even starting to get interesting again, having moved beyond the point where all greens spontaneously combust and the only things that properly grow are chiles and sadness berries.

I'd been itching for some time now to attempt some pickles. Not just any pickles: lacto-fermented pickles. I've become entranced with the idea of idle wild yeasts being harnessed to make my food for me, even if my last two attempts at employing the lazy buggers (for sauerkraut) failed miserably and less-miserably, though saltier, respectively. However, while strolling through the misters, I happened upon some absolutely darling little cucumbers—all short and squat and knobbly, they were just crying out to be purchased and experimented upon and changed from humble cucumbers into Herculean specimens of pickled perfection. (Or explode. Something.)

The first rule of pickling is that ~~you do not talk about pickling~~ you need the right equipment. I am fortunate enough to have borrowed (stolen) a small earthenware crock from my parents' attic, because I am also fortunate enough to have a stepfather whose first wife collected things like earthenware crocks. If you do not have an earthenware crock, I would suggest checking your attic; if you don't have a stepfather whose first wife collected such things, I would suggest asking your mother to get cracking and informing her that there is no dishonor in marrying for pickles.

I rinsed off my cucumbers and popped them into the crock, along with a few dill fronds and some bashed-up cloves of garlic. Cover with a brine made from 2 T. salt per quart of water, then use a weight to ensure that everything stays submerged. If you have concerns that small creatures (such as an incredibly dim kitten) will fall in and drown and ruin your pickles, you can tie some cloth around the crock for safety's sake.

Ms. H's home for wayward gherkins.

According to my Lost Art of Real Cooking, these little beauties need to sit for about 25 days to reach their full pickle potential. They also shouldn't be exposed to temperatures much above 80º for too long, else they will catch pickle Ebola and melt from the inside out. Hopefully a dark corner of the pantry and a marginally-functioning air-conditioner will keep the wee yeasties in line.

[NOTE: The following peach section is dedicated to The Husband. I'm pretty sure he'll figure out why.]

Also, on my wanderings through the Market, I kept getting distracted by the abundance of peaches. One peachmonger told me a tale of a lady from Georgia who doubted the ambrosial qualities of his peaches, but once she sampled his wares, she was so smitten that she promptly bought up a couple dozen. Of course, I had to purchase some—she was from GEORGIA, people! Those folks know peaches.

But here's the thing—I don't even like peaches. I mean, I like them well enough, I suppose, but I'm firmly on Team Nectarine (playing mostly in the underripe division, much to the mocking delight of The Husband). Anyway, they somehow ended up in my bag, and while I can usually rely on The Husband to deal with things like this, he is still learning how to eat again, which leaves me with ~~millions of~~ six ripe-right-now-I-mean-REALLY-ripe peaches and a total lack of interest in traditional methods of peach consumption (i.e., taking a bite and making an ungodly mess with all the juice going all over the place or having them put into a can by a man in a factory downtown).

Racking my magnificent brain, I came up with a solution (at least until I am tricked into buying the damn things again next week): peach salsa! I chopped up a couple of peaches, along with several itty-bitty grape tomatoes and half a red onion, then mixed it all up with some salt, lemon juice, and aleppo pepper.

If I had my little way, I'd eat peaches everyday. (No.)

I think it all would have worked a little better with slightly less-ripe peaches, but it's bright and summery and now I have fewer peaches taunting me (though their voices, I can hear them still), so all is well.

As for Pancakes, he is very happy to have us home and is thoroughly enjoying sleeping on my laptop while I try to do work. Here he is looking vacant, per usual:

and here he's being a VERY HELPFUL CAT while I'm trying to crochet.

SO. HELPFUL. Thank goodness he was around, or else that yarn might have caused quite the ruckus.

PEACHES UPDATE: I've apparently decided that right now would be a fantastic time to come down with my first illness since moving to the desert, which is turning out to be a poor decision on my part. Anyway, given that The Husband is in no position to take care of me, and that actually cooking something for reals seemed way too much effort, I ended up making myself a wee fried egg sandwich to tide me over between bouts of ice cream (which is about the only thing I feel like eating when my head feels like it is chock full of damp sheep). I toasted up some fancy bread, and while the egg was frying, spread on some goat cheese and smashed avocado and added some arugula. Next went my horribly-misshapen sunny-side-up egg (I am no good with eggs), a sprinkle of smoked sea salt, a crack or two of fresh black pepper, and a few heaping dollops of peach salsa. The Husband called me bourgeois, but I was content to control the means of production for this sandwich because at least I was well-fed.

PICKLE UPDATE: My kitchen smells like dill and garlic. Good sign?

Scroungin', or Cooking While Housesitting and Also Really Tired

2011-09-10T00:00:00.000-07:00

Remember how I said I was back? That might have been a lie. I am once again in the TUX, spending my days in hospitals and my nights in either hospitals or hotels.

Things hospitals are good for:

Quasi-experimental surgery
Drugs on demand
Socks with the little grippy things on the feet
Warm blankets
Attractive surgeons

Things hospitals are not good for:

Sleeping
Not contracting diseases
Eating
Olympic-caliber bobsledding

So, I've spent the majority of the last couple of weeks subsisting off of the World Class Dining Service (sic) that the hospital provides (though, to be fair, the options for visitors are much better than the options for patients) and essentially catnapping on foldout couches in between vitals checks and overeager resident visits that occur through the wee hours of the morning. Happily, things are looking good to not be in TUX for much longer and maybe we'll actually get to stick around PHX for more than a night or two and enjoy the double-digit(!) temperatures that are forecasted.

However, before this villainous return visit, I at least was housesitting and actually had the chance to cook for myself on the rare occasions I left the hospital before it was dark. You know how success is 99% perspiration? Well, these dishes were 99% desperation, combined with whatever I could loot from the fridge (supplemented with some purchased vegetables once I figured out where the Whole Foods was) and jerry-rigged cooking contraptions (because it wasn't until about a week in that I figured out where the lids were). And maybe a smidgen of pure terror at what a diet of pop, Sun chips, and mac & cheese was doing to my digestive system.

Dish the first was a vaguely Mediterraneanish salad composed almost entirely of things I managed to steal from the lovely people who were letting me squat in their house. I fried up some chickpeas and broccoli with some garlic, then added little rings of thinly-sliced sweet peppers, halved cherry tomatoes, and a squeeze of lemon. Mix this in with some couscous blend and some surprisingly-good feta cheese, and while it won't win you any roses at the county fair, it will soothe a cafeteria-ravaged stomach.

The second dish was a bit more exciting, mostly because I got to go real grocery shopping for the first time in weeks and got to spend my evening cooking instead of sitting in the surgical ward AND I saw my first-ever coyote on the drive home. This time, undoubtedly inspired by the Asian noodle salad that The Husband so kindly wrote up for me, I sauteed up some garlic, broccoli, peppers (notice a food-trend?) and onion in a little oil and soy sauce, then added some bok choy and spinach and let them cook until wilted. I cheated a little and made some Trader Joe's miso soup mix (about a cup) and poured that in to simmer for a few minutes. The veg were served over udon noodles and topped with some sliced scallions (you may also note some roasted Brussels sprouts, but they were added to reduce the number of dinner plates and simplify transporting dinner from the main house to the casita, and they were very tasty on their own, just drizzled in olive oil and a generous sprinkling of salt and roasted in a toaster over until tender, then blasted under the broiler to brown up, though some of them did soak up a little of the miso broth, and they were also pretty fantastic, but Brussels sprouts are pretty amazing and maybe one of my favorite vegetables, so they're kind of hard to ruin). I was endlessly pleased with myself after this one, though I may just be incredibly easily heartened by not-takeout at this point.

Hopefully, we will be hitting the long, dusty interstate back to PHX (for good!) tomorrow, which means a resumption of normal life and good food and relaxing days (only briefly interrupted by panic over the manuscript deadlines I have hovering about my head, but at least I've learned that there are four stages to sepsis progression and that you can't be an ethical nurse unless you can explain Kantian deontology).

Touched by his Noodley Appendage

2011-09-03T19:52:00.002-07:00

(So, my little trip is over, and I do have some glorious food stories, but need to dig out the photos and actually get around to writing things up. What can I say: being home is distracting. Until then, enjoy another guest post from The Husband—Asian noodle salad, served cold, which seems terribly appropriate given the recent multiple days of excessive heat warnings in the PHX.)

Here’s another one for y’all as you battle the frightening heat…

Once the summer hits here in Phoenix, it’s sometimes hard to convince oneself that turning on the stove or using the oven could possibly be a good idea. When you’re already living in an oven, turning up the heat is a recipe for sadness.

Yet your options at dinner can seem rather limited when you decide to completely eschew the stove/oven. Unless you’re a raw foodist, after all, finding true sustenance without cooking is a challenge. And while my Indian roots sometimes tell me I should go for hot (temperature) and hot (spiciness) food, in order to sweat and cool myself down, my better judgment sometimes jumps in and contradicts that logic, instead suggesting that consuming cold things can be cooling and refreshing. Well, it doesn’t have to be either/or. In these hyper-partisan, divisive times, you can instead choose to be a uniter, not a divider, to take the middle road between raw and cooked, and between hot and cold.

I speak, my friends, of salad. No, not a wimpy substance-free side salad. Rather, a salad with a variety of vegetables, with protein, with cooked elements, with fire and kick and oomph and pizzazz. And most importantly, the ability to cool you down on a hot day.

Wifey has written before on the gloriousness of salad, so there’s no need to repeat her wise words here. Instead, I give you a how-to guide to making a wonderfully delicious, (mostly southeast and east) Asian-inspired salad — a hybrid of sorts that achieves our two goals of minimizing use of heat-producing devices and also cools you upon eating it.

Now, before we continue, I must admit that I’m not so good with recipes — be it following them (Ravi Shankar never gets guff for improvising, so stop sippin’ on the Haterade, you recipe-obsessed fools; live it up a little) or providing others with instructions for making something I’ve put together in my own kitchen. This post falls a bit into the first category and a bit into the second. I think I probably pulled inspiration from three or four different Asian noodle salad recipes I perused at some point or another, and then I just decided to wing it from there and make some (many?) additions of my own. And now that it falls upon me to recount precisely what I did, I’m going to leave you instead with some generic instructions that pretty much ensure you’ll only get vaguely close to my original creation. Though that’s the fun of cooking, right? You get to experiment and do things your own way and come up with something that you want to eat.

With those caveats aside, let’s discuss making a delicious salad. Really, there are three crucial parts: some starchy noodle or carbohydrate-rich base accompanied by a protein to provide substance, a plethora of fresh vegetables to provide crunch and texture and a nice mélange of flavors, and finally a dressing which offers a way to tie everything together with a nice acidic bite and spicy finish.

For this salad, I started with some rice noodles — Trader Joe’s Thai rice sticks, to be specific, though really any Asian rice or bean thread noodles would suffice. Fortunately, cooking up noodles in boiling water doesn’t take too long, nor are you required to stand by the hot stove and observe as they cook, which is an important consideration if you’re trying to stay cool. Once the noodles have cooked, immediately run cold water over them as they drain, both to keep them from cooking further and also to get them to a cooler temperature. (I actually kept the cooked noodles in a bowl with ice, to make sure they were chilled and didn’t dry out.) While the noodles cook, sauté (in a small amount of grapeseed oil, along with a dash of teriyaki sauce, minced garlic, and some pepper flakes) some thinly sliced tofu. Again, not too much supervision required here — just flip the tofu over when it has browned. And once you’ve done that, you’re done with the cooking element. Set aside the tofu, and we’re ready to move on to the cooling and the crunching.

For the veggies, I went a bit crazy and threw together whatever we happened to have in the fridge; in this case, the list included: purslane, amaranth, cucumber, broccolini, a broccoli/cabbage/carrot slaw mix, and jalapeno.

The dressing was originally supposed to be a relatively simply mix of rice vinegar, sugar and lime juice, but quickly got out of control once I realized all the different bottles and jars we had in the pantry and on the fridge door. So I ended up trying to find a tasty balance between rice vinegar, brown sugar, and freshly squeezed lime juice, along with tamari soy sauce, mirin, sweet chili sauce, ground chili paste, teriyaki sauce, minced garlic, thinly-sliced shallots, and a nice bit of ginger. After some very precise kitchen science, I came up with the perfect ratio between those various items.

And finally, for garnish, I used a lot of basil and mint leaves, along with a couple slices of lime, and also a sprinkling of thinly sliced green onions and chives.

When all was said and done, it looked something like this.

A nice balance of cooling and spiciness, and some definite deliciousness was achieved.

Satellite Affiliate Blogging

2011-08-21T21:30:00.000-07:00

I am taking this humble blog on the road! Yes, I am coming at you today not from the PHX, but from the TUX, where I am housesitting for the next twoish weeks. Given the unfamiliar kitchen and my complete inability to find anything therein, the food blogging might be a little light-in-its-loafers, but there are always tamales to be talked about, and I plan on getting my fill. And perhaps this break from PHX will inspire me to get my craft on? WHO KNOWS?

This trip to the TUX strangely coincides with the beginning of The Husband's liquid diet, which is convenient in terms of cooking-in-a-strange-new-place situations (hurrah for leftovers!). Said leftovers were the remnants of the butter and cheese overload that took place last week, one meant to gird The Husband's loins with as many calories as possible to sustain his not-terribly husky frame.

Dish one was bubble and squeak, which has been lovingly detailed here; there was a slight switching of the pitch up, as I used Brussels sprouts and kale in place of the cabbage and spinach. It was a fair bit heartier than the original (which is saying something, given the original's ingredients), and I think I actually prefer it this way. The sprouts and kale are just so much more flavorful than cabbage and spinach, and they also crisp up much better under the broiler.

Dish two in the pantheon of foods that are good but not good for your arteries was vegetable lasagna made with homemade noodles (see here for basic recipe). The general layering strategy here went noodle; thinly-sliced zucchini; ricotta, herbs de provance farmers cheese, and amaranth blend; sliced provolone; noodle; herbed tomato slices; broccolini; shredded mozzarella and Parmesan blend; noodle; basil; provolone; mozzarella; noodle; and finally, fire-roasted tomato sauce. Put all this fantasticness in a baking pan, cover with aluminum foil, and bake for 20 minutes at 375ºF. Once it's all good and bubbly, remove the foil, add some shredded cheese (mozz and parm are always good, but don't be afraid to mix it up) and bake until nice and brown, another 20 minutes or so. Let it sit and cool for 15 minutes, then enjoy!

Both dishes heat up pretty well, though the lasagna is a bit on the dry side—intentionally so, given the small amount of sauce I tend to use—so just make sure to cover it with a paper towel when microwaving. If you're feeling healthy, a wee salad comprised of things you find rummaging through the fridge is a nice touch, but really, don't kid yourself. Apart from not eating it, there's little that can transform this orgy of butter and cheese into something that's good for you.

In lieu of cheesy, buttery photography, here's what the view looked like today

and tonight.

Plus sub-100ºF temperatures in August? I could get used to this.

Ice Ice Coffee

2011-08-15T11:07:00.000-07:00

(It's guest post time here in the desert! The Husband has decided to get into blogging, now [check out his music blogthing here if you're one of those snobby music types who makes fun of the musical choices of others—YES, I ENJOY RICK ASTLEY UN-IRONICALLY, WHAT OF IT?], and even though I still haven't been able to get him to write that chili post, he's deigned to share his thoughts on a few food-related adventures. First up: coffee, the consumption of which I don't personally understand, but hey—different strokes for different folks [or, for those of you lovely readers who are lizards: different drinks for different skinks].)

Hey, look at me: I’m stone-cold guest-blogging up in this joint. Thanks, Wifey, for letting me overtake your blog with a post about, yes, making coffee. Ok, enough dillydallying, let’s get on with it…

Life in the desert can be hot. Really hot.

But friends, I come here not to complain about 110+ degree days accompanied with dire warnings of dangerous heat indices. Rather, I come to help you.

When the temperature is halfway between boiling and spontaneous combustion, it takes a bit of a toll on anything bold enough to venture outdoors to face the elements. Your body heats up very quickly and you soon find yourself sapped of energy—all in all, not a particularly pleasant way to start the day.

However, you are not destined to suffer. For there is a way to partially combat the melting. A very simple way. A way that will not only save your body, but also your wallet.

What is this magical solution, you ask?

Coffee. Yes, coffee. Iced coffee.

Wow, you’re the greatest guest blogger ever. That was a really revolutionary idea there. It’s not like anyone’s ever thought of that before.

Hey, now. Let’s not get too snarky. Ok, sure, there’s nothing too special about what I’ve just told you. You can get iced coffee at any decent coffee shop come summertime. But that is not what I speak of. While your neighborhood coffee shop may indeed provide you with a beverage filled with caffeine, sugar, and coldness, you can do so much better.

Most coffee shops brew up hot coffee at something close to double-strength, chill it in the refrigerator, then pour it over ice when a customer comes in and asks for an iced coffee. Well, that’s bunk. Though that iced coffee may succeed in giving you your caffeine/sugar/coldness fix, why settle for that mediocre product? And why pay two dollars or more for a cup mostly filled with ice—ice that serves to continually dilute your beverage as it melts away?

Allow me to let you in on a little secret mathematical equation handed down to me on golden tablets by The Jeebus: cold-brewed coffee + ice cubes made of coffee = WIN. That’s just a stone-cold fact.

In addition to being delicious and refreshing, the advantage of cold-brewing your coffee is that it tastes less acidic, and the flavor profile is far more robust. You’ll notice fruity and floral notes that you didn’t even know were there.

Well then, time to get on with it and tell you how it’s done. Like with all fine foods, it’s all about the ingredients. In this case, some nice freshly roasted beans. (My Phoenician Phriends: if you get your coffee beans from anyone other than Cartel or Fair Trade, you’re doing it wrong.) Also, it’s about doing some advance planning; cold-brewing means you need to start the coffee-making the night before.

Take your beans and grind them as you would normally. Put them into your French Press at twice the amount you would use for hot coffee, add water, and give it all a swirl. Throw it in the fridge overnight, and then plunge your grounds the following morning. In the meantime, you’ve hopefully already made frozen coffee cubes, which now reside in the ice tray in your freezer. Pour your overnight-chilled coffee into a mug, and add your ice cubes made of coffee. Now here’s the final step, taking your very good iced coffee to the realm of Total Awesomeness: cream. No, not milk. Nope, not half-and-half. And sure as hell not that non-dairy creamer crap with carrageenan and corn syrup solids; that’s just nasty. Straight up cream is how we roll. (Cream rules everything around me. C.R.E.A.M. That’s recursion, y’all!) Heavy cream. Not the slightly de-fatted light whipping cream. I’m talking the full fat (i.e., full of deliciousness) stuff.

Voila, you’re done. And now you can laugh at those suckas paying for watered-down cold coffee at Starbucks.

(In addition to deliciousness that cures your lethargy and cools you down, there are ancillary benefits of making this delightful concoction. Since you’re making your coffee at home, you’re saving cash monies. And since you’re pretty much making this the night before, you’re saving valuable time in the morning — thereby allowing yourself to get a couple extra minutes of precious, precious beauty rest. These are two very important considerations for those of us who are: (a) cheap, and (b) unwilling to get out of bed in the morning.)

Souper Duper

2011-08-14T12:52:00.000-07:00

My newest post is up at AW80D: gazpacho! Perfect for those lazy summer nights when it's hotter than a catamount in a parka shop on the surface of Mercury.

Or something.

Tiny Plates

2011-08-14T11:37:00.001-07:00

We were invited to a small plates dinner party the other day, which necessitated the making of small plates. Given that The Husband and I rarely partake in any food-related adventure that could charitably be described as “small,” this complicated matters slightly. In the end, we just decided to make regular plates, only less of them, to varying degrees of success. (Actually, the only non-success was the eggplant ravioli, which fell apart in the pan and generally caused trouble. I readily admit that I only half-remembered the recipe, and also skipped some steps in the made-up version of the recipe that exists solely in my mind, so maybe this isn’t much of a surprise.)

As for the more successful plates, The Husband made his glorious hummus, and I whipped up some herbed goat cheese and ricotta-covered figs (which made use of the basil-goat cheese-ricotta blend from the disappointing eggplant failure). I also made the following bean recipe, which I was really quite pleased with. It’s based on a dish from a restaurant in DC that was a regular date-night fixture when The Husband and I were wooing (being wooed? flinging woo?); given that said restaurant is also a tapas bar, it seemed like as good a place as any to nick a recipe for a small plates party. We originally served it plain, but I discovered today that it goes well in a pita pocket with some tomato, pickled peppers, and feta cheese (some leftover homemade hummus is probably a good thing, too).

The original dish called for gigante beans, which given our track record, we strangely do not have. I substituted Christmas lima beans, which aren’t as creamy as gigante beans, but are faintly nutty and, I think, preferable to your bog-standard limas, and they worked well. Given that I used hoighty-toighty heirloom beans, I cannot comment on the feasibility of using canned or frozen lima beans; I would think that, as long as they could hold their shape and still have a bit of bite to them, they would be fine. I don’t know that baby limas would work as well, though—you want a hearty bean that brooks no guff and tolerates little-to-no sass.

To start, cook one cup of dried Christmas lima beans (or bean of your choosing) in whatever method you prefer (I advocate the pressure cooker, as always, because I am incapable of forethought in these matters) until tender. While the beans are cooking, thinly slice eight or nine cloves of garlic (or even 10 or 11—be brave with your garlic, and you can sleep soundly knowing that you are safe from vampires) and chop up a good handful of fresh dill.

When the beans are good and ready, heat up a good couple of sloshes of olive oil in a sauté pan. (Note: When cooking with olive oil, don’t use some fancypants, expensive oil, because the heat will ruin it; I always keep a bottle of mild, moderately-priced Italian extra-virgin olive oil on hand for the few occasions where we are either using (a) a lot of olive oil [see hummus] or (2) cooking with olive oil.) Be generous; you want these beans to be slick. When the oil is ready, add the garlic and stir, cooking just until the garlic is fragrant, then add the beans and stir to coat. Once the beans are glistening, add three-quarters of the dill, along with a good, large pinch of salt, and stir. Cover, reduce the heat to medium-low, and let simmer for five or so minutes. Taste for additional salt (beans can take a good amount), and add the remaining dill. Mix together and serve.

Depending on the flavorfulness of your cooking oil, you might want to drizzle some good olive oil over top, to get that lovely grassiness (which goes so well with the nuttiness of the beans). For a slightly more substantial take, a dollop or two of yogurt (or labneh) mixed through would certainly be welcome, but there’s really no need to gussy this up; your beans are beautiful just as they are.

Also, on the same day I learned that these beans go well in a pita, I learned that Pancakes does not like being near a pool. Have you ever seen a cat hyperventilate? It's disconcerting. However, high on the list of things Pancakes does like is his new tunnel.

I'm starting to regret giving him yet another place from which to launch guerrilla attacks at my ankles, though.

Everybody Gets Beans!

2011-08-09T16:28:00.000-07:00

I am in love with heirloom beans. Having grown up severely bean-disadvantaged (kidney beans and chickpeas being the only beans my family recognized), I have overcompensated in my adulthood by purchasing massive quantities of beans of many styles and stripes. Of course, as with any infatuation, I still want more, but have managed to convince myself that I can acquire more beans only when the current stock has run out.

However, in spite of our heroic attempts, the bean situation remains largely unchanged. This could be on account of villiany, but it's mostly because I've been unsure of the best way to deal with them. Beans are frequently a part of the total dish, but very rarely are the total dish, and so using the heirloom beans in curries or chilis or tacos seemed almost like we'd be missing out on the things that make the fancy beans so fancy. I needed some way to let the very beany essence of the beans shine through.

That's where this recipe comes in. It's based on Jamie Oliver's Humble Beans, with a few tweaks.

First, get your beans. You want meaty beans for this dish, ones that plump up and are full of flavor. I used six different varieties: Ojo de cabra, Rio Zape, Cattle, Anasazi, Roman, and Borlotti. If you also plan on being absurd and using multiple bean types, be sure to confirm that they have the same cooking time. This isn't a huge deal if you like some of the beans mushy, but if you're looking for the beans to retain some kind of structural integrity, this is important information.

All told, I started with approximately one cup of mixed bean. Into the pressure cooker they should go, along with a dried chipotle morita, three or four bay leaves, and a slurp of olive oil. Cook until tender (these will simmer for a bit later, so if they are just a wee bit crunchy, don't panic) and set aside, reserving the cooking liquor.

Next, in a large saute pan, heat a tablespoon or two of grapeseed (or other neutral) oil and, when hot, add a couple of good pinches of black mustard seeds. After they've been allowed to sputter for 10 or so seconds, add some diced onion (around half a small one) and five or six cherry tomatoes, quartered. Stir until the tomatoes begin to disintegrate and the onions go translucent, then mix in several cloves of garlic (finely chopped). Once the garlic is fragrant, maybe 20 seconds, pour in the beans, along with 1/4 c. of the cooking liquid. Stir in a pinch of thyme and rosemary (for a smidgen of earthiness) and let all this goodness simmer together for 10 minutes or so, adding more cooking liquid (or water) as needed to keep everything from getting too dry.

Once all the flavors have melded, add a couple of sloshes of cider vinegar (the exact amount depends on how tangy you want it to be) and a couple of big pinches of salt (they can take it). Taste, re-salt or vinegar as needed, then mix in a drizzle of good olive oil to make everything shiny and luscious. These not-so-humble-anymore beans get on with a good hunk of crusty bread like a house on fire, though fresh tortillas or pita will also do in a pinch. I've made this a couple of times now, and I like to keep some on hand for a quick and hearty snack. It may look like cat food, but listen here, meow—it's good stuff.

Another One!

2011-08-03T19:55:00.000-07:00

There's a new post up at Around the World in 80 Dishes, this time talkin' 'bout pasta. Check it out!

Also, I promise I am not neglectin' this 'umble blog. There are a few posts knockin' about this ol' noggin'—it's just that I am partakin' of GOOD's 30-day no-Internet-after-8pm challenge, and since most of my bloggin' took place post-8 o' clock, I've been tryin' to adjust to daytime bloggerel.

Soon!

via ICanHasCheezburger.com

(Also, I have no idea where all those extra apostrophes came from.)

In Other Blogs...

2011-07-30T16:47:00.002-07:00

By the way, if you aren't following my other Internet incarnation, there's a new post up about gallo pinto and volcanoes and Costa Rica and it's really good so you should read it and then make gallo pinto yourself! Yes!

Also, here is a photo of a chicken in a shopping basket.

This is how I know that my eggs are free range: the chickens come into the store and lay them right before your very eyes. Cluck cluck.

Project Figgy Figgy Fig Fig

2011-07-28T00:31:00.000-07:00

I've decided that, since I have expended more than enough energy complaining about phx summers, I should start trying to look on the bright side and appreciate all those things about months of triple-digit temperatures that are not terrible and utterly soul-destroying. These things include a renewed appreciation for seasonality; mighty haboobs; the fact that a cold beer never tastes as good as it does on a hot, summer day; monsoon season and the awesome thunderstorms that come with it; and figs.

Yes, even in the depths of summer, when it seems more likely that fruits would spontaneously combust than ripen, figs manage to survive. Of course, fig season lasts all of a week, and given that we were in and out of town over the course of June and July, I was sure I had missed it. Imagine my surprise and glee when I saw some figs at the grocery store. There weren't the figs I had been dreaming of, being from California and not totally at the peak of ripeness, but nonetheless I snapped up a couple of packages, visions of figgy delights dancing through my head.

The figgy gods must have been smiling upon me, because when I went to the farmers' market the following day, what did I see? More figs! I obviously bought a dozen and, given the bounty of figs I had received, declared the (smaller, sweeter, riper) phx figs to be for mostly-unadulterated consumption only. These little figgy jewels, along with some fresh nectarines, were coated with a wee bit of olive oil and grilled (on my decade-plus old George Foreman grill, because that's how we roll in city apartments sans balcony) and served on little baguette crostinis of goat cheese and the briefest of sprinkles of black Hawaiian salt (for the figs) and strawberry balsamic vinegar (for the nectarines).

There were more. They were eaten before the camera could get to them.

As for the other figs, they became part of Project Figgy Figgy Fig Fig, which was my attempt at making balsamic figgy jam. I have written about the only other time I tried (and failed) to make jam; even with my less-than-stellar record of jam production, I figured that a figgy sauce would be an acceptable outcome. To be perfectly honest, as long as I did not set the figs on fire, I was pretty sure I'd be happy.

To start, stem and quarter 2 lbs. of figs. In a large, heavy pot, bring the 1 c. water and the figs to a boil, then let simmer for 5 minutes or so, until the figs get soft. Using a potato masher, crush the figs to whatever consistency you desire. Add 1 c. sugar, 1/2 c. balsamic vinegar, and 1/4 c. lemon juice, then return to a boil. Reduce the heat and let the figs simmer until they thicken up, but aren't dry.

Now, the recipe suggested that this thickening process would take 20 minutes. This is a blatant falsehood. Perhaps the original author had magical figs, or was a wizard, or something, but I had to simmer those figs for at least an hour to get the sugars working. See, figs are a low-pectin food, and if you are like me and stubborn and impatient and not about to waste precious figgy time with tracking down packets of pectin, you just have to persevere and TRUST THE FIGS. Rather than go by cooking time, the best way to check for the doneness of your jam is to do the gel test. My method is to pop a small plate into the freezer when you start the simmer; when you think the figs are properly thickened, get your plate and spoon a small dollop of the jam onto it. When the jam cools (you can use the refrigerator to speed up the process), tilt the plate—if the jam doesn't move, it's good to go. If the jam is still runny, leave it to simmer for another couple of minutes and try again. I promise: it will set. Eventually.

After much testing and cursing and fretting, you should end up with this:

Project Figgy Figgy Fig Fig is GO.

Dark, sticky, unctuous figgy jam. The sweetness is subtle, undercut by the pleasant tanginess of the balsamic. With a little less sugar and the addition of some rosemary, it could make a fine savory jam. As it is, it's delicious on toast points with goat cheese, alone on toast, with a little almond butter for a twist on the old pb&j (I call it the Elitist Breakfast), on (or in) scones...basically, it's just good. And it's a nice little reminder of the good life during a desert summer (if you don't melt first).

New Things

2011-07-27T01:00:00.000-07:00

Looking at the ol' post tally, it seems I haven't posted since May. The short reason for this is that I became a very strange combination of lazy and busy (the company that sporadically pays me decided that I should actually work once in a while, and June became the month in which I copyedited ALL THE THINGS); the long reason is the usual combination of things, including two extended trips back East to visit family and the resulting difficulty of cooking when you are not at home and lack of things in the fridge when you are home.

Fortunately, the summer of travel is mostly over, though the Usual Reasons for not posting will be in full force in about a month or so; however, I am hopeful that I can get back into the swing of things, at least for a little while.

Oh, and there has been a major development in the world of this humble blog: I now have a second blog. Yes, I know it seems silly to start blog number two when blog number one is languishing, but I actually think that this dual-blog system will be good for productivity. My overly-ambitious blog conceit, Around the World in 80 Dishes, now has its own place at http://aw80d.blogspot.com. I decided to pull up stakes and move AW80D because I felt like it narrowed my focus too much—it was as though, once I started, it was all I should be posting. Other recipes, or crafts, or whatever no longer seemed to fit, and so essentially nothing was published.

Now that the focus for AW80D has moved somewhere else, I can go back to posting about whatever grabs my fancy here. And I promise that it won't be more odes to salad (at least for a little while).

Salad Days

2011-05-25T00:45:00.000-07:00

(Confidential to Mullins: I'm sorry, but this will, once again, not be the salad topic you were hoping for.)

Oh man you guys, you know what's good? Salads. I have become something of a salad fool these past few months, maybe because I'm trying to fit in as much lettuce as I can before the leaves start to spontaneously combust in the summer heat.

I feel like I enjoy a really good salad more than I enjoy most other foods that are equally really good. It might be because all the things that make for a really good salad are so fragile and ephemeral, as though there is such a small window of opportunity that, when you get it right, it seems all the more magical. It could also be that eating salad just feels good. It's a delightful food indeed that can manage to be both light and refreshing AND hearty and satisfying, which is how I prefer my salad. To mix my metaphors, I like a salad with a bit of meat on its bones.

Though I've always generally enjoyed salads, I have never liked eating salads in public. Not, as the subject of my earlier rant would have you think, because I am forever flustered by the prospect of being human and occasionally looking awkward while I eat, but because, being in possession of ladyparts, I didn't want to be judged as one of those women who only eats salad, or is not comfortable eating anything more substantial than a salad. I don't think The Husband knows this, but when we first started dating, I balked at ordering salads, even if they sounded delicious, because I didn't want him to think I was some sort of delicate creature who subsisted by daintily nibbling at lettuces, especially since I knew that I was really the sort of creature who would eat an entire bag of cheese puffs and spend several minutes happily licking all the processed cheese food powder off of my unnaturally-orange-dusted fingers.

Fortunately, I've gotten over this, and am much happier looking slatternly and full of good food than being proper and starving. And I still enjoy salads. Victories all around!

So, because I am still trying to decide if dinner tonight was good enough for a blog post, I am instead going to share with you my recipe for the best darn salads ever.

Of course, the key part of any salad, that which takes a salad from acceptable to awesome, is freshness. Novel idea, I know — but bear with me. Fresh vegetables actually taste different. I don't just mean better; I mean there is a palpable difference in the flavor and feel of fresh-picked anything. Grocery store lettuce, both in the heads of lettuce and the bagged salads, just can't compare, and this is, sadly, what most people have access to (if they have access to fresh fruits and vegetables at all, an issue which I think is far too frequently ignored in the food blogsphere and is beyond the scope of this post, but one I hope to take up here soon).

My solution? Go beyond lettuce. I use hardier greens, ones that stay fresh longer and keep much better in the fridge. I've gone mad for kale salads, and have recently become enamored of mixed cabbage salads, but chard and collards work just as well; I've also discovered that young arugula keeps magnificently. Another option is to consider forgoing greens altogether, or relegate them to a supporting role, by using more vegetables. I've made fantastic salads using just broccoli florets and slaw (a mix of shredded broccoli stems and carrots), but most any vegetable will do so long as it's sliced thinly. Lately I've been using the aforementioned cabbage (apparently a mix of young Asian cabbages, according to the nice man at the farm table), arugula, and purslane (a succulent green that grows like weeds here in the desert); it's the tail end of kale season, but Red Russian kale made an appearance in most every salad I made between the months of January and April.

Next comes the dressing. For the first 20 or so years of my life, I only ate Italian dressing. While in London, I discovered Caesar dressing, and I went back and forth between the two until I met The Husband, who taught me how to make my own dressing. His version has now become too complicated for me (something about sugar and mustard and it always makes a mess), so I usually just put my greens into an empty yogurt container, pour in a bit of olive oil and some variety of balsamic vinegar, pop on the top, and give the whole thing a good shake (a grind or two of fresh black pepper is always a plus). I've seen multiple recipes that suggest a 3:1 ratio for your oil:vinegar, but mine is usually closer to 1:1, though there is usually a smidgen more oil; I always use olive oil, and rotate between regular, white, fig, and pomegranate balsamic vinegars (with an occasional citrus squeeze when it's in season). As with greens, and so much in life, the key is using the best stuff you can. Quality oils and vinegars aren't cheap, but if you can manage it, they're good investments; they keep forever, and you'll use so little at a time that even a small bottle goes a long way.

Finally, it's the toppings. I'm a relatively simple sort, and apparently part chipmunk, so I favor a mix of nuts and seeds (mostly sunflower seeds, pepitas, and sliced almonds), along with croutons, because who doesn't love carbs? I also have been keeping cans of chickpeas and kidney beans on hand for use in salads, to add a bit more protein and give the whole thing the air of a proper meal. Some people (The Husband; also, communists) enjoy things like dried cranberries, but I don't much care for random bouts of chewiness in a crunchy salad. But, if you're that kind of person, you should go for it. Cheese is also an essential part of any salad, so I top everything off with a bit of grated Parmesan and some crumbles of goat cheese (a recent addition I am rather pleased with). If we kept more kinds of cheese on hand (I know, I know — what kind of Americans are we?), shavings of Cheddar or Manchego would undoubtedly be good, or feta, if you like a salty little something.

I promise there is lettuce somewhere under all that glorious cheese and bread.

There you have it. In summation: salads are good, you should probably eat more of them, and if you're a lady you shouldn't feel bad about eating salads (unless you have legitimate food-relationship issues, in which case you shouldn't feel bad, but you should probably seek out help).

AW80D - Falafel

2011-05-22T00:03:00.000-07:00

I ate my first falafel in college. I know, it's a big shock that small-town Western New York wasn't rocking the crunch patties and flavor sauce back in the day, but it's true. I was a sophomore, at an accepted student event (where you could frequently find me, considering that I was both an indentured servant to the Admissions Office and a fan of free food). At the buffet, there were these little crispy things that a friend swore were delicious, so I tried one. Sweet merciful kittens, it was terrible. Dry and flavorless, I was concerned that I had somehow screwed up and was eating it incorrectly, because I couldn't fathom why my friend would steer me to try something this bad.

Fast forward several years. By this point, I had gone vegetarian, and The Husband (then The Boyfriend) insisted that I try falafel again. He offered to make me some, and we acquired a falafel mix. While these weren't nearly as dry as I remembered, they still weren't good. The Husband insisted that a well-made falafel was good, and that I would probably enjoy one, given how much I enjoy hummus and tzatziki. I assumed he was lying, though I did agree to try falafel a few more times, even though I was consistently disappointed. What can I say: I'm an eternal optimist. (Ha.)

Fast forward another couple of years. We had moved to the desert and were leaving the farmers' market, when we noticed a stall selling Middle Eastern food. We decided to get pita wraps for dinner, but to my horror, the only vegetarian option was falafel. However, the falafels didn't look like the ones I was used to; they weren't deep-fried to the point of carbonization, but instead just lightly browned. Plus, I was really hungry. So I knuckled down and bought one. It was a revelation. I'm pretty sure we had each finished ours before we made it the four blocks home (and if you know The Husband and the speed at which he eats, that's saying something).

Having discovered that falafel need not be dry and boring, I decided that I should probably learn how to make them. My method is a bit of an amalgam of various recipes, supplemented with my natural predilection for making things up as I go along. I am a firm believer in using fava beans, as I think they provide a more complex flavor than the straight-chickpea route. I also add bulgur, which according to my (very brief internet) research means they are Israeli, even though the addition the favas sort of negates that. Consider this falafel as a food without a country.

While everything comes together relatively quickly once all the ingredients are present and accounted for, you will need to plan at least 24 hours ahead (to allow the beans time to soak). You can also make the falafel mix in advance, but don't cook the patties until just before you plan to eat, as they tend to dry out.

To make your falafel, put a half-cup each of dried fava beans and dried chickpeas into separate medium bowls. Fill the bowls with enough water to cover the beans by an inch or so, then leave to soak overnight. The beans should roughly double in size.

Next is the most tedious part of falafeling: shelling the favas. Fava beans are shell beans. When found in the wild (or at the store), they need to be removed from the pod (much like peas); unlike peas, the individual beans must also be shelled. The same holds true for dried favas.

To the left: unshelled. On the right: totally nude.

Some of the favas may have split during the soak, but for those that haven't, shelling is easy: using a small, sharp knife, make a shallow cut along the end of the bean opposite the little black line (originally the point where the bean was attached to its pod), then peel off the shell. If the beans are well soaked, the skin should come off without much fuss. You can also purchase already-shelled dry fava beans, but they are more expensive and a bit tougher to find and where's the fun in that?

Once the favas are peeled, drain the chickpeas, give both sets of beans a good rinse, and add them to the bowl of your food processor. Roughly chop half an onion and toss that in, along with a few cloves of garlic. A pinch or two of cumin and some chili powder (I like Aleppo) won't go amiss, nor will a handful of raw coarse bulgur. Tear up a handful each of parsley and cilantro, and add to the bowl. Salt and pepper generously, then whiz the whole lovely mess until it's good and mixed. Aim for a medium grind; if you find everything is a little dry, you can add a drizzle of olive oil or a tiny bit of water, but not too much — you don't want it to be too wet or turn into a puree — the liquid from the soaking should be enough. The resulting batter should be sticky enough that you can easily form a patty, but dry enough to maintain its shape.

Once the mix is ready, heat a tablespoon or two of grapeseed (or similar) oil in a large pan over medium heat; I like one with sloping sides, to help with the flipping. When the oil is hot, add the falafel patties one at the time, making sure not to crowd the pan. Let them cook until brown on the bottom, maybe five minutes, then flip. Cook until the other side is also browned and crispy, and serve. This recipe should make a dozen or so small falafel patties.

Two competing schools of falafel construction: the manageable (mine, below), and the chaos-in-a-pita (The Husband's)

We usually make our falafel pitas with homemade hummus, tzatziki, and cucumber-feta-tomato salad; last time, I added some broccoli slaw for a bit of crunch. Any number of toppings could work: baba ghanoush, tahini, harissa (for some kick), Greek dressing, a squeeze of lemon, spinach, plain yogurt, pickles, relishes... You could also crumble the falafel into a salad, or make larger patties and grill them like a burger.

THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS.

AW80D - Bubble and Squeak

2011-05-13T11:44:00.000-07:00

(NOTE: Apologies for the double post, but Blogger seems to have eaten my previous bubble and squeak post. See, it's so tasty that even internet robots can't resist!)

Bubble and squeak was always going to end up here, it being one of my favorite dishes and also an excellent non-scone recipe for the UK/Ireland section. However, I did not expect it to appear so soon. The original plan was to have most, if not all, regions in possession of at least one recipe before I moved to double representation, but as I have been learning, very little of this blog adventure has been going according to plan. The Husband was recently in need of simple, tasty food, and we had half a head of cabbage about to go bad. So here we are.

Bubble and squeak is, at its core, a recipe for the using up of leftovers, specifically those from a traditional English roast dinner. Similar dishes abound throughout Europe, but the two that matter for the purposes of this post are colcannon, from Ireland, and — I kid you not — rumbledethumps, from Scotland. (RUMBLEDETHUMPS! Is that not just the most delightful thing ever? And now you know why I adore Scotland so.) There are a few minor differences (colcannon substitutes kale for cabbage, and rumbledethumps(!) involves cheese), but all three dishes are basically just potatoes, a leafy green, and copious amounts of sweet, sweet butter. For the etymology nerds out there, bubble and squeak takes its name from the sound that the food makes while cooking. Colcannon is derived from cole, meaning cabbage; rumbledethumps comes from rumbled, for food that has been mashed or scrambled, and thumps may refer to the fact that, originally, this dish was made by bashing the daylights out of the potatoes and cabbage with a large pestle.

I first discovered bubble and squeak in a cookbook I bought ages ago, which was purchased mostly for the introductory sections (discussions various grains, oils, beans, etc., with lots of pretty pictures). I can't remember a single other recipe from said cookbook, and it was given away during the Great Purge of 2009, but because it introduced me to bubble and squeak, I will always think fondly upon it. Godspeed, forgotten cookbook, wherever you are.

My recipe is slightly different from some of the more traditional ones I've uncovered, but its heart is in the right place. It's a very simple recipe, with few ingredients; if you find yourself with leftover mashed potatoes and greens (or any vegetable, really), this should come together in a flash. This means you can also prepare the potatoes and/or the vegetables ahead of time, or even cook the entire dish the day before; it reheats wonderfully. Also, as a side note, one of my all-time favorite cooking shows, Two Fat Ladies, insists that you must use lard or drippings in this dish, as they are the only fats that can heat up enough. This is a load of old rubbish. While I'm sure that bacon fat is wonderful stuff, butter does just fine.

Get yourself a couple of medium-sized potatoes; I prefer russets, but any starchy potato will do nicely. Since I think the skin is the best part of a potato, I give them a good scrub and then chop them into one-inch chunks. (Peeling the potatoes is fine, as is leaving them whole — I just find that chopping them up speeds up the cooking process.) Plop them in a large pot with some well-salted water and boil under tender.

While the potatoes are boiling, thinly slice two leeks and a half a cabbage. Melt a good dollop of butter in an oven-safe pan (I use my trusty 10 1/4" cast iron skillet) over medium heat, and saute the leeks until translucent (a finely-diced clove or two of garlic wouldn't go amiss here, either). Add the cabbage, cover, and cook until tender.

Once the potatoes are done, drain, add a slosh of milk (or cream, if you are devilish) and a good knob of butter, then mash. Lumps are perfectly fine, but just make sure it's easily mixable. Salt and pepper to taste.

When the cabbage is ready, add a few handfuls of spinach and cook until just wilting, which will take but a minute or two. Add the greens into the potatoes, return the skillet to the heat, and add another dollop of butter to melt. Mix the greens and potatoes together until everything is relatively well incorporated, then pour it all back into the skillet. Even out the potato mixture, much like you would cake batter in a pan, and let cook until the sides and bottom have browned. (This is when the bubbling and squeaking will occur; if you find that your dinner is not singing to you on the stove, it's a good sign that the heat may not be high enough.) You can add a few additional dabs of butter along the top of the potatoes, as well as some more salt and pepper, if you'd like.

While the bubble and squeak is a-bubblin' and squeakin' away, turn on your broiler to heat up. Once the potatoes are nicely brown and crisp, pop the skillet under the broiler for a few minutes, until the top is also brown and crisp. Let sit for a few minutes to cool, then serve.

Half a pan of bubsqueak, because we are impatient when butter is involved.

The Husband and I have been known to enjoy the odd bubble and squeak as part of a brunch spread (where it once accompanied potato-leek soup, because we enjoy repetition), but it is also an excellent meal in and of itself, particularly suited to cold, grey days (of either the weather or temperament variety) where warmth and heartiness (and butter) are much appreciated.

AW80D - North Africa

2011-05-09T22:01:00.000-07:00

I sometimes wish that my literature-lovin' heart wasn't so set on the allusions that Around the World in 80 Dishes conjurs up. Not that 80 dishes are too many — it's just not the easiest number to work with when you're dividing something up for a project such as this. Ten regions seemed too few, as though interesting countries would get the short shrift, or there would be no consistency across the regions; 20 was just too many, and would require a level of internal nit-picking that I wasn't willing to undertake. And there are no other factors in between. So, 16 regions is what I settled on, and 16 regions is what I'm stuck with.

If I hadn't been so stubborn and was willing to change up my region tally, North Africa probably wouldn't be its own separate section. Perhaps it's because of the restaurants I frequent, but to me, North African food is just so intimately connected with the rest of the Mediterranean-at-large (the Middle East, Italy, Greece, and, to a lesser extent, southern Spain) that I probably would have lumped to whole shebang together, made a tagine to represent North Africa, and be done with it.

But that seems to be missing the point. The AW80D challenge is supposed to be, well, a challenge. Apart from my (woefully misguided) belief that this blog will bring me internet fame and fortune, I really want AW80D to chronicle my odyssey of food — my questing forth through the seas of culinary ignorance to the well-fed shores of awesome food...island?

So, to reel this wayward and tortured sea-faring analogy back in (oops): North Africa. For recipe-selection purposes, I am generally following the UN definition of Northern Africa: Algeria, Egypt, Libya, Morocco, Sudan, Tunisia, and Western Sahara, with Mauritania added to complete the Maghreb. This is, of course, only a rough guide, and I reserve the right to employ cartographic trickery as needed (they don't call The Husband Sir Mapps-a-lot for nothing). The iconic tagine will hopefully make an appearance, but other than that, I'm still figuring out this entire North African food thing. After the first North Africa AW80D post, a friend from Tunisia pointed out that she's never had preserved lemons, which sort of complicates my "preserved lemons are such an integral part of North African cuisine" line I was pushing.

Well, then.

It seems that I may harbor a few misconceptions about what North African food really is. But this is exactly what AW80D should be — a learning experience. Maybe I should start actually researching things before I go blathering on about them?

So it'll be back to the cookbooks for me, to re-orient my culinary compass and get my tasty bearings. I just hope there don't be food dragons beyond the horizon.

(Ok, I'm done with the nautical references now. Really.)

(Yar.)

Life in the Desert

2011-05-04T00:40:00.000-07:00

Spring is rapidly drawing to a close here in Phx, which means that the days keeping the blinds open and willingly going outside are ending. The weather forecast is suggesting that triple-digit temperatures will make an appearance this week. Summer is nigh.

While, for most of the year, life in the desert can be dusty and drab, the weeks following the winter rains result in a mass greening, where all the cacti and succulents and grasses go bonkers for the hydration and ramp up their photosynthesis in anticipation of several months of dryness. Plants that appeared to be dead and withered suddenly start sprouting leaves, the wildflowers begin to bloom, and the cactus blossoms start to sprout; also, the rivers return (albeit briefly), and the migratory birds start to appear (also briefly). Spring in the desert is quite lovely (unless you suffer from pollen-based allergies, in which case you are in for several weeks of excessive tissue use).

However, the trials and tribulations of the past few months have made it difficult to get out and enjoy the desert winter and spring, and I was loathe to let spring turn into summer without having some adventures to tide me over until fall. Fortunately, the weather gods were smiling this past weekend, and they deigned to give us desert dwellers one final day of pleasant temperatures before the great outdoors switches to the far side of uncomfortable. Given that it was probably the last time I could reasonably enjoy going outside until early November, it seemed an excellent opportunity to get out and have my mini-adventure. Last November, The Husband and I got a family membership to the Desert Botanical Garden, mostly to get a discount on their Las Noches de las Luminarias festival (strolling around a Christmas-light-and-lantern-bedecked garden, drinking mulled cider and listening to carolers, is an excellent way to get into the winter spirit when it is still 80ºF outside). It's one of our favorite places in Phx, and an excellent place to just wander about; even though it's right smack in the city, it's easy to get lost in nature. It's also the perfect one-stop shop for all your blooming desert needs, since pretty much every native Sonoran plant is tucked away somewhere. And there are birds and lizards and wee mammals. Yes.

So, in lieu of recipes I haven't written up yet, here are some pretty pictures from the desert.

Saguaro flowers. The hole in the shortest one is a nest for any number of birds.

Chollas in bloom.

The creosote bushes have transformed into desert pussy willows.

A female Anna's Hummingbird, a common migrant in the desert. (I think - any armchair ornithologists out there with different opinions?)

Paperbag bush, post-flower.

A starling perched atop an agave bloom.

A Round-Tailed Ground Squirrel, hanging out near some agaves.

Now you know why I enjoy spring in the desert.

Golden Barrel Cactus with tiny blossoms.

Old Man Cactus.

Ocotillos (my favorite desert succulent) in leaf and bloom.

Chihuly and palms.

The wildflowers are bloom, too.

A Beehive Cactus flower.

Tiny Mexican cactuses with tiny red flowers.

The yuccas were in bloom, too.

As were the Prickly Pears. You can see the flowerless fruits; when they turn the same color as the flowers, then they're ripe.

Blog Update!

2011-04-27T23:16:00.000-07:00

Because I know that several of you read this blog via blaggregators, I thought it prudent to inform you of some minor changes that this humble blog has undergone. Actually, it's just a single change, but it's new and only appears on the blog proper, so it clearly warrants its own post.

I've (finally!) gotten around to adding labels to all my old posts, and also added a little tag cloud so you can see what I think of everything I've written. Happily, I haven't been using this space to rant very much, though I apparently ramble and talk about my cat a lot.

That sounds about right.

In addition to this minor bit of housekeeping, I have several posts percolating about my cat-obsessed brain, including some about crafts and cactuses, those two ignored blog elements from the subtitle (I don't include tumbleweeds, because I still have not seen one out here, but rest assured that as soon as I do, I will let you all know). Also, The Husband assures me he is diligently working on his musical contributions (though if you know him, you know that playlists are not things to be tossed off nonchalantly, and months [even years!] of preparation go into selecting the perfect songs/artists/albums); I'm hopeful he'll have the United Kingdom playlist ready sometime around recipe 43. Fingers crossed!

And, to close, here's a photo of Pannekuchen looking quite dashing in his blue ribbon (and also like quite the little hunter with his decapitated ninja).

fearsome, this one. rawr.

AW80D - Preserved Lemons

2011-04-22T22:04:00.003-07:00

I will be honest: I'm not sure how I feel about this installment of AW80D. Maybe it's because preserved lemons aren't something that you enjoy out-of-hand — they're a condiment, and thus really only come into their own when combined with something more substantial. It's like a recipe for ketchup (which, admittedly, I've also already discussed), and as such, using this as one of the recipes almost feels like cheating; it's not really a dish, which is what the title of this series suggests I am promising. Also, I'm posting about it before I can even confirm that the preserved lemons are a success, and that seems a little risky. These things take at least three weeks to ferment; what if, at the end of the process, it turns out that I made some horrible mistake and the lemons become sentient and attempt a hostile coup? That's clearly something I should warn you all about, lest you make the same mistakes; I can always update as time goes on, but by then, it might be too late. And I certainly don't want this humble blog to be Patient Zero, infecting you with binary zombie lemon disease, resulting in some terrible dystopian futureworld.

However, I finally decided to do a little write-up, because 80 dishes is a lot and I shouldn't be too picky and should fill up the recipes slots with whatever is available, and besides, the possibility of my creating a new life form seems negligible (though I am not good at statistics, so don't ask to see my data on this matter). Also, preserved lemons are an integral part of North African cooking, something I will almost certainly need for other dishes, and I like the idea of attempting to make all parts of the food I discuss be as from-scratch as possible (one of the many benefits of my privileged life of leisure as the trophy wife of a...grad student?). Also also, preserved lemons seem pricey, and regular lemons are dirt cheap during the Arizona citrus season (which is coming to a close), and this seems like a nice, relatively inexpensive way to keep a little bit of the phx winter with me as the blazing summer months approach.

OK, so, to begin, gather ye lemons while ye may, along with a cinnamon stick, a bay leaf, a few whole cloves, kosher salt, and a suitable ~~boy~~ jar. As you can see, I am using an old sauerkraut jar, because we (I) are essentially packrats who do not part with anything that could potentially be used as part of a grand storage scheme.

If any of the Frank's people are reading, I am open to endorsement deals.

You should always be sure to sterilize your jar before use, because even though the vast quantities of salt should be enough to keep any critters at bay, you don't want to risk contamination with any food that you'll be leaving to sit out for weeks. I filled the jar with boiling water, covered the jar lid (sitting next to the jar in the plastic dish) with additional boiling water, and let them both sit while I prepared the lemons; this admittedly seems like a half-assed sterilization method, but it's worked for me so far. (You can also use a dishwasher, or submerge everything in boiling water, or use a low heat setting on your oven [though I would be careful of this last option if the jar lids are not fully metallic]). Once the jar seems acceptably germ-free, drain and dry, and then add the spices.

On to the lemons. First, slice off the ends of the lemon.

Cutco people! I will totally shill for you if you send me a new knife block. (Corey: this means you.)

Next, you want to slice the lemons into wedges, but leave the base intact.

Like this.

The lemon should be cut into six wedges, then gently pulled apart to facilitate salting. For six or seven lemons, you'll want about 1/2 cup salt (sea or kosher seem to be the preferred varieties; I used kosher salt that may very well have made the trip out when we moved cross-country).

Pre-salting. Tip: Do NOT salt the lemons if you have a paper cut. Ouch.

Rub the salt into the wedges, covering as much of the flesh as possible. Once sufficiently salted, add the lemons to your jar, pushing and squeezing them to extract the juice and pack as many in as possible. Juice any extra lemons and use the juice (or bottled lemon juice) to cover the jarred lemons. Any leftover salt can also be added now. Use the rind from one of the juiced lemons to help push down the lemons (they should all be completely submerged), then screw on the lid.

Ready for the pantry, or perhaps the citrus rebellion.

And there you have it. Pop these bad boys into a cool, dark place and let the salts and acids do their thing. The lemons should be ready to go in three to four weeks; in the meantime, you'll want to give the jar a good shake every day or so to help re-dissolve any salts that precipitate out.

Expect to see these little balls of sunshine-in-a-jar in a near(ish) future post, at which point I will let you know how they've turned out. That, or my fears will be realized and I will be welcoming our new citrus overlords; just in case, I would like to point out now that, as a trusted blog personality, I can be helpful in rounding up others to toil in their underground sugar caves.

Not British, but certainly an invasion.

2011-04-21T23:04:00.000-07:00

Recently, The Husband and I have had the distinct displeasure of playing host to a marauding band of grain beetles that set up shop in our pantry. Grain beetles, as the name suggests, are tiny beetles (only a millimeter or two long) that like to hang out in grain-related foods, especially flours. Fortunately, our flours seem unaffected, probably because we keep most of them in the fridge or freezer, but that did not stop our little uninvited houseguests from making themselves at home in the rest of our food. At last count, beetles have been found in the following: two grains, five pastas, one box of cereal, and several dried chiles.

Fortunately, being of a sunny disposition (ha!), I realized that there was a positive side to all of this: PANTRY REORGANIZATION TIME! (Yes, I have a problem. I know.)

As mentioned previously, we are rich in dried goods. Unfortunately, we weren't particularly rich in storage systems, because apparently our hearty Gladware containers weren't hearty enough to keep these beastly little beasts from colonizing our rices and grains. Part of the problem seemed to be that faux-Tupperware does not close well (or The Husband is just too lazy to close things adequately, because this is obviously not my fault); even in what appeared by be well-sealed containers, we kept finding critters.

Enter Goodwill and its collection of cheap mason jarrery!

I have been wanting to re-do our grains for a while, since before arriving in the desert, but was dissuaded by the prospect of transporting a couple dozen glass jars across the country. But now! Now I had a legitimate reason to indulge my pretty organizational whims. (And, with Saturdays being EVERYTHING 50% OFF days at Goodwill, it was a relatively painless financial investment.)

Here is the result of several hours of grain shifting. I sort of didn't want to eat any of them, for aesthetic reasons. Then I remembered that food is good and all my notions of visually-appealing organization went right out the window.

this is about as artsy as I get.

In addition to being pretty, the grains are now much easier to use, and surprisingly easier to navigate. The use of glass also makes the food much more visible, which would allow for quicker diagnoses in the future, should the beetles return with reinforcements. The surviving chiles have been jarred, too (though I take some consolation from the face that all the beetles I discovered in the chiles were dead, perhaps killed by their hubris and/or over-estimation of their Scoville-handling capabilities), as have some particularly vulnerable pastas.

So, for now, the pantry is at peace. It seems that our little beetle friends only thrive when there is humidity, so I suppose I can count my blessings that triple-digit days of triple-digit temperatures are nigh, as that should kill anything left in the pantry. It might kill me, too, but hey — at least the rice will be safe.

AW80D - Scones, Two Ways

2011-04-20T22:36:00.006-07:00

You didn't think I was kidding when I said I would just post scone recipes, did you?

Actually, I was. (Hopefully.) But that doesn't mean that a scone or two can't wend its way through this little experiment, right?

I have already written extensively and ramblingly about scones before, but they are a fairly important part of my baking repertoire, so I think it is acceptable to talk about them again.

Generally speaking, I am not much for baking. I am fairly incompetent when it comes to fruit-based desserts (your pies, crumbles, crisps, etc.), and I dislike baking cookies (I don't like the batch concept — I only enjoy baking if everything can fit into the oven at once, a preference that becomes a necessity in the desert summer when the temperature inside the oven is roughly equivalent to that outside my building and opening the oven door becomes physically dangerous). My baking style favors breads (both of the quick and not-so varieties). Fortunately for my cookie-enjoying self, The Husband picks up my baking slack, being both a tough cookie and the baker of tasty ones.

So, scones are essentially my only contribution to the bake-o-sphere that is our apartment, especially given that it is getting a bit too warm to crank the oven up to bread-baking proportions (sigh).

The first batch of scones, a chocolate chip-blueberry blend, was made using my standard scone recipe: the cream scone recipe mentioned in my earlier sconepost. They were tasty, go read that other post and make some, etc. etc.

The second batch was a riff on an oatmeal scone recipe I found in The Best International Recipe, one of those best recipe books from Cook's Illustrated where they make a dozen of everything, with tiny tiny tweaks to each recipe, until they've wasted enough food/found the perfect version (depending on your worldview). I am always on the lookout for new and exciting scones, but oatmeal scones have a special place in my heart (and cookbook), being the first type of scone I ever baked myself (thanks, Joy of Cooking). I fancied these up a bit with chocolate butter and cocoa nibs, which offset each other nicely and also made me feel quite posh and fancy, which lasted until the cat threw up (probably) and I was jolted from my reverie and had to go scrub the carpet.

Cocoa Nib Chocolately Oatmeal Scones

Preheat your oven to 450º F. In a large bowl, mix 1 1/2 cups oatmeal (your standard rolled oatmeal will do nicely), 1 1/2 cups flour (I used 1 cup spelt flour to 1/2 cup all-purpose), 1/3 cup sugar, 2 teaspoons baking powder, and 1/2 teaspoon salt. Add cocoa nibs to your liking, perhaps 1/3 cup? Dice 10 tablespoons of butter, then mix it into the dry/nib ingredients with your hands, smushing and rubbing the butter until the mix resembles crumbs. (It is really quite important that you use your hands, here, because it's the best way to ensure that all the butter gets fully integrated into everything. However, don't muss about at this all day, because the butter shouldn't be so kneaded that it melts.)

In a separate bowl, beat together until well mixed 1/4 cup milk, 1/4 cup heavy cream, and one large egg. Add this to the flour-oatmeal-butter-nib concoction, then mix it all together, starting with a fork and eventually using your hands. It should be fairly moist, but still a bit shaggy 'round the edges. Scoop everything out onto a well-floured board, then pat into a circle roughly one inch tall. Cut into wedges, pop into the over for about 12 to 14 minutes, then remove to a cooling rack. Attempt to resist the temptation to tuck in until they have completely cooled, otherwise they will still be rather soft and will probably fall apart (though you could certainly sneak a small taste, if no one is looking — you have to make sure they are acceptable, of course).

fancypants oatmeal (for me) on the left, commoner cream (for the husband) on the right

(By the way, the first scone I ever ate was a scone called Sconehenge, which I purchased at the snack bar at Stonehenge when I visited it in 2002. It was huge and expensive and rather disappointing. Stonehenge was cool, though. Unrelated, I have also visited Foamhenge, which is somewhere in Virginia. They didn't have any scones there, but hornets had made nests in pretty much every one of the foam blocks.)

EVERYBODY GETS BEES!!!!!!

AW80D - United Kingdom + Ireland

2011-04-06T01:47:00.001-07:00

For the purposes of this little internet experiment in international cookery, singling out the British Isles for some sort of special focus seems an odd choice. After all, those little islands aren't particularly well-known for being culinary hotspots; in fact, they are actually known for being culinary wastelands — foodie laughingstocks, the butt of many a tasty joke. If I really want to highlight a country, why not pick a one with a long, storied food tradition, like France, that mecca for food lovers?

Well, there a few reasons. For one, I find French food — or, more accurately, people who like to talk about French food — almost unbearably pretentious. Not all of them, of course, but as a whole, people who bring up French cuisine in food-related discussions always seem desperately insufferable. I also don't much care for French food; in my experience, it's not terribly vegetarian-friendly, but even when it is, I find it all very dull. I love watching Julia Child, but I don't know if I've ever seen the finished product of one of her shows and thought, "Yes, eating that seems like a very good idea."

Of course, the same thing could be said about the Two Fat Ladies, originators of both one of my all-time favorite cooking shows and some of the most terrifying foods every committed to film. Seriously — peas with lettuce? Lobster and mayonnaise? Jugged kippers? You should not be allowed near a kitchen if your recipe for a delightful breakfast dish is, "get smoked herring, put herring in a jug, pour boiling water over said herring, let sit, drain, serve."

NO. THAT IS NOT ACCEPTABLE BEHAVIOR.

Not all British food is terrible. It's true that, during my semester abroad in London, I subsisted primarily on corn flakes, clementines, digestives, and Cadbury caramels, but that's just as much a product of preferring to spend my limited money on sightseeing as it was quality of food. Yes, things like black pudding are horrifying, but pasties (which I've discussed before) and shepherd's pie and fish and chips are perfectly tasty things. I had a delicious cock-a-leekie soup on the Orkney Islands, and the haggis I had in Edinburgh was...all right; it wasn't bad, but I was surprisingly unimpressed and don't really feel the need to visit that stop on the Sheep Innards Express again any time soon.

One of the things that the British Isles excels at, in my opinion, is anything to do with fruit, specifically jams and desserts. The climate is perfect for an abundance of brambleberries (blackberries, raspberries, loganberries, etc.); the best blackberries I have ever eaten were those gathered along the side of the road during a hike in the Scottish highlands, wherein I stumbled into two different thunderstorms and got lost (all was well in the end, though — I found my bus stop and got to ride back to town with a belly full of berries). I just may get over my fear of baking fruit-based desserts for the purposes of this challenge.

Maybe it was my love of all things British that inspired me to set these countries apart. Perhaps this is my way of correcting my past food mistakes from back when I was in the UK. Or maybe I'm just a masochist who enjoys a challenge. But that's kind of the entire point of this little exercise in food geography: to explore new dishes, to abandon my culinary comfort zone and preconceived notions and try something new. Maybe I'll discover a wealth of treasures hidden amongst the organ meats and gravied vegetables that populate British food.

Or maybe I'll just get weirded out by all the herring recipes and bake five different types of scones.

Around the World in 80 Dishes - An Introduction

2011-04-04T15:03:00.000-07:00

If you actually visit the site to read this humble blog, you may have noticed something a little different, perhaps even new and exciting, happening. (For those of you who read this via Google Reader or some other blaggregator, you should go to the site and look at it; I did not futz around with the widget creator for over an hour so that you could just ignore my hard work.)

I will wait.

(Did you look yet?)

Ok, ta-da! My new (and overly ambitious) blog conceit, Around the World in 80 Dishes, is up and running! Or, at least, the filing system is. 16 regions x 5 dishes = 80 magical meals. Hopefully seeing all those little headings along the side will inspire me to get cooking, now that I have a public shaming system in place where everyone can see my progress (or lack thereof). I am aiming to add a post or two per week to the tally, but that is highly dependent on a number of variables; however, given our previous experience with said variables, that's looking like a pretty manageable goal. My plan is to make each post something more than just ingredients and recipes, to also explore the region and culture and cuisine as a whole. Ideally, each region will get its own mini-introduction, which will talk about the food and flavors, as well as give an idea of what to expect from the dishes themselves.

The regions are fairly arbitrarily determined: I essentially broke each continent down into manageable chunks, trying to keep regions united based on my preconceived notions of geography, culture, and cuisine. I could be totally wrong on some of these; only time will tell. Each region will be represented by five dishes, which I am hoping to make as diverse as possible. The only real outlier here is the British Isles, which I included because I am a huge Anglo-/Scotsophile, and have no problem with all five dishes being varieties of scone or whisky tastings.

Also, in an attempt to make this as much of a family affair as possible (without any hateration or holleration in this dancerie), The Husband has been placed in charge of selecting good music to accompany the preparation and/or consumption of each dish. I hope he remembers that we discussed this way back when and reading this paragraph doesn't surprise him too much.

Also, does anyone know if there are any Scandinavian dishes that do not include jellied, fermented fish? Seriously. I'm a little scared of that one.

We Now Return to Your Regularly-Scheduled Blogging

2011-04-01T19:46:00.001-07:00

(This is a blog post I started writing way back in January, right after we'd returned from our Christmas/India vacation. The point of it was to summarize our entire trip, but it was just as the sickness and doctor's visits were starting, and so I was frequently distracted and never got around to finishing it. I've considered attempting to restart the story, but my memories of the trip are dimmer, now, and I sort of like this little snapshot in time, saved right at the point where we knew something was afoot, but had no idea what it could be. So I'm leaving this as is; perhaps at some point I'll go back and record my impressions of India for posterity [maybe a little prosperity]. For now, enjoy a short story about our cat and a brief glimpse into home life in New York.)

So, rather than prattle on about the intricacies of The Husband's gastrointestinal tract, let me instead share some stories about family, holidays, and the joys of traveling with an angry cat.

PHX-->BUF
Given that we would be gone for over a month and didn't have anyone to cat-sit the little hellbeast for us, we decided to bring Pannekuchen to New York, where I could foist him off on my mother while we did our little bit of globetrotting.

Now, I have to give Pancakes credit, as he wasn't absolutely terrible to fly with. In all fairness, he was probably less trouble than many children. Once we got him onto the plane and stowed safely underneath the seat in front of me, he calmed down, only howling uncontrollably during takeoff, landing, whenever we encountered turbulence, and anytime he could either see or hear us.

After the Dark Times of flight were over, Pannekuchen got to enjoy all that winter in New York has to offer, including snow (consensus: he is not a fan), indoor puddles of melted snow (also not a fan), my younger cousin (probably a fan, given how much they chased each other around the house, possibly encouraged by my suggestion that Pancakes likes to eat children), and, most importantly, other cats. After a rough start and much growling (a noise I wasn't aware he could make), he eventually reached a truce with two of the cats and actively befriended the third, Algaecat.

BFFs

We also got to enjoy all that winter in New York has to offer, including snow, cold, limited internet access, and nothing but Christmas songs on the two radio stations that work (thank goodness for my mother's new car and the free Sirrius radio, which was still always set on one of its 20 Christmas stations). There were Champion of North America Wii bowling tournaments and I repeatedly bested my mother in pretending to play music while also pretending to be a Rabbid.

One of the best parts about going home during the winter is the fact that hearty, winter fare tastes much better when it's blizzarding out, so we made chili and vegetable barley soup and mushroom risotto and Brussels sprout salad and bruschetta and spiced gingerbread and Christmas cookies (the only time of year my mother consents to bake). I ate my requisite bag of cheese puffs and learned that sourdough pretzels are fantastic with hummus. We snagged some lovely, new, hard anodized pots and pans (which I have used and love) and an enameled cast iron dutch oven (which brings our total of heavy-cast-iron-dishes-that-will-be-a-pain-to-move to five). And then we left.

Life, Interrupted.

2011-03-26T22:45:00.000-07:00

I don't generally like poetry, but to start off my first blog post in several weeks, I'd like to quote one of my favorite poems, "To a Mouse, On Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough," by Robert Burns:

The best-laid schemes o' Mice an' Men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought be grief an' pain,

For promis'd joy!

(For those of you not up on your Scots dialect, "gang aft agley" means "often go wrong." Which is a terribly fitting start to this post.)

You may have noticed that this blog has been under a bit of silent running lately. And if you are reading this blog, you probably already know why. Suffice it to say, there has been...upheaval...as of late, and our best-laid plans have ganged aft agley to no end.

I tried to write about everything before, but couldn't find the words. And I've tried again more recently, but the words I found then weren't the ones I wanted; they were the words of someone too close to the situation, someone who couldn't see the forest for the trees and didn't know what she really felt. I had been running on auto-pilot for some time, pushing aside thoughts and feelings that distracted from the task at hand; now that the dust was settling and life was returning to normal, I finally had a chance to let all those repressed feelings come out. And since no one represses good feelings, everything I wrote reflected that. They were writings of sadness and fear, a sadness and fear that, now that more time has passed and I've had the chance to be more logical and reflective, I no longer feel.

To be sure, there are changes — big changes. And when I say that things are returning to normal, I mean they are returning to our new normal, whatever that ends up being. This new normal is a strange thing — so similar to the old normal that it's easy to forget that it isn't the old normal, but with enough differences that it's clear things are not as they were, and that they will not easily, or ever, go back to being the same.

But such as it is with life. Life goes on, and so we go on with it. And while we may have lost some things, we have found even more. We have discovered a strength that neither of us knew we had. We have found a new perspective on life, and an appreciation for the promise and opportunity that every day affords us. We are reminded that we are loved, and that we are truly blessed by the people in our lives. And we have been reminded that, all things considered, we incredibly, incredibly lucky people.

Happily, one of the things that comes with normalcy is more time for blogging. I just started up a pottery class, and so tales of clay and wheels will soon follow. And while we have had a slightly altered relationship with food, there should still be plenty of tastiness to share. We are quickly (more so than I would like) coming up on that part of the Arizona year where turning on the oven is a significant hazard, so I am trying to squeeze in as much fun cooking as possible before it becomes physically impossible to operate any heat-based appliances larger than the toaster oven. I have also decided to get into sandwiches for this very reason, and am contemplating a pickling binge soon. All my original schemes and plans are still in the works, too, so I am expecting great things from this newfound sense of foodly purpose.

Since I'm at a loss for a way to end this, here is an artsy iPod photo of Saguaro National Park. One of the positive aspects of all that's happened is that we'll get to drive through this park more often, usually right as the sun is setting, which is a pretty fantastic way to end your day.

All in all, life is good.

A Quick Question/Rant

2011-01-31T19:13:00.000-07:00

Hi all.

I have been working on a proper new blog post, one full of tales of adventures and glamorous photographs and anecdotes about the cat. However, this compelled me to write.

If you're too lazy/uninterested/technologically outdated to click on the link, it's a blog post from the food/cooking/designer-kitchen blog The Kitchn, talking about how difficult it is to eat a salad.

Really. This is apparently a problem?

I will be honest: I have been eating salads like mad lately. They are quite tasty, and they are especially tastier if you add kale to them (I would suggest Red Russian kale, as it is my favorite of kales, and also because it's a lighter version than your standard curly kales). I have eaten salads, of one variety or another, for several years now; I have never found the practice all that complicated. Hell, even if I had just discovered the concept of salads, I think I could handle it. Apparently, this makes me some sort of wizard, as, at least at the time of this posting, the Kitchn's article has 26 comments from people who are also unable to comprehend how to eat food.

To be fair, the post does specify that the issue is eating salad gracefully. Perhaps I am just uncouth, but unless you are rooting around in your salad bowl like some sort of artiodactyl or snorting up the leaves in lieu of chewing them, you're probably going to be OK.

Of course, because this blog is written entirely by women, with an audience overwhelmingly comprised of women, there isn't any chance that the choice of the word gracefully has any deeper meaning, right? It wouldn't suggest that, at least in public (especially in public), we who are in possession of ladyparts (at least when said ladyparts attach to a ladybody that is well-to-do, or at least not poor) should always maintain an aura of respectability that is almost entirely predicated on our ability to be dainty?

Because no one wants to be seen as unladylike; why, it's only a slight jump from using your fork to scoop up lettuces to ending up a slovenly guttersnipe in some sort of Dickensian workhouse, drinking gin and swearing and yelling at soot-covered urchins.

If you'll excuse me, imma go eat some salad as messily as possible. Now, where's my trough?

With Apologies to Benny.

2010-12-05T20:29:00.000-07:00

Gentle readers! I have been sorely remiss in my blogging, but I have a reason(s), sort of!

See, I am taking the GRE next week, and between pretending to learn math and getting angry at practice tests, I have had neither the time nor energy nor inclination to engage in anything culinarily (a word I just made up) exciting. Also, The Husband and I leave soon for our four-week New York/India Holiday Extravaganza, so we have enacted a moratorium on new food purchases and are forcing ourselves to work though the fridge and freezer stocks as much as possible before our departure. As you can imagine, this complicates starting up all the exciting new blog things I had planned.

However, we still have to eat, and what better way to use up old vegetables than stir-fry?

I used to hate making stir-fries. They never tasted right, things didn't cook properly – for something that seemed so easy to throw together, it was remarkably difficult. That is, until we got our wok. Our glorious, 14-inch, cast iron, solid-as-a-friggin'-rock wok.

gracias, ben y alé!

Seriously, it's pretty awesome. It may weigh somewhere in the area of a metric tonne (imperial weight) and take forever and a day to heat up, but it works like a charm.

Now, I've always thought that pieces of specialized, single-function equipment – things like woks and bread makers and rice cookers and pastry cutters – were entirely unnecessary, and that a good cook could easily improvise and make good food without them. I still believe that about most things, but the wok has converted me. I am a wokist. All hail the mighty wok and its ability to cook food. Thou shalt not mock thy wok. Wok wok wok.

like this, only with woks (also I am not a tiger)

Anyway, so: stir-fries. After some rummaging around in the fridge (which is still packed to the gills with dairy products), I found the following: shallots, garlic, ginger, hatch chiles, red peppers, zucchini, carrots, broccoli slaw, peas, bok choy, and tofu (full disclosure: I might have actually gone out and purchased the tofu and choy, but that was only because we needed some protein and who doesn't love bok choy and don't judge me).

Once everything was chopped, I heated up some grapeseed oil and, once it was hot, added a couple of teaspoons of Gunpowder green tea leaves and let them fry until they began to open up (for those of you unfamiliar with Gunpowder tea, the leaves are tightly rolled little balls that uncurl when you cook or steep them). Then, add the onions, garlic, ginger, and chiles; once they have become fragrant, mix in the tofu and a bit of Chinese Five Spice powder and cook until golden brown. Next come the snap peas, then the red pepper and zucchini. The carrot and broccoli slaw follow (broccoli slaw is this awesome pre-made mix of shredded carrots and broccoli stems that they sell at both Fresh and Easy and Trader Joe's, which has become a fixture in my salads). The bok choy goes in last, and once it has wilted and become tender, you're basically done.

"But Heather," you might be saying, "what about the flavor? Your dish seems to be lacking in tasty essences." And herein lies the trouble I usually had with stir-fries: it turns out that I don't really like soy sauce. In small quantities, sure, but I find it very easy to be overwhelmed by the flavor (and using it as a dipping sauce for gyoza or similar just plain terrifies and confuses me). But I do really like teriyaki sauce, which is what I used here (I added a small amount after the red pepper and zucchini, then some more after the bok choy), so go figure; I also added a bit of Trader Joe's sweet chile sauce (which, incidentally, is what I use for dippings of gyoza or dumplings, etc.). Oh, and at some point you should tell The Husband to cook up some black rice/somen noodles and then throw them in at the end, and also chop up some pickled peppers if you want some extra kapow.

Et, voila!

noodles! they are EVERYWHERE.

You can also do basically the same thing again tonight, using homemade seitan in place of tofu and peanut satay sauce/seitan cooking liquid in place of teriyaki and brown rice instead of noodles, and maybe adding some dilly beans too if you're truly mad.

IN A PICKLE OF A JAM.

2010-11-23T23:33:00.000-07:00

I am not sure why it is considered a bad thing to be in a jam. I can understand why one would not want to be in a pickle, given the connotations of cannibalism and whatnot, but jam? Jam is sweet and tasty and good on toast and scones. Yes, it is sticky and a bit messy and viscous, but that's never killed anyone (oh wait, yes it has). Though jelly is suspect, as it's just so...unnatural. Fruit is not smooth and shiny, people. It is seedy and pulpy and complicated; let's keep it that way.

Anyway, idioms and jellyrants aside, I have gotten it into my head that maybe I should be canning things. After reading through a few different canning/preserving books, I came to the conclusion that the general attitude towards canning is: OH MY GOD IF YOU DO NOT FOLLOW THESE RECIPES EXACTLY YOU WILL CONTRACT BOTULISM AND DIE A SLOW AND PAINFUL DEATH ALONE AND FULL OF BITTER RECRIMINATION OH AND YOU'RE UGLY TOO. Nevermind that each book has different recipes for the exact same things – there can be only one. That won't kill you.

So I said bupkus to all that and decided to forge my own path into this Brave New World of food in jars. I also decided to forgo a stop at Long-Term Canning Corners and instead get off this I-guess-my-metaphor-is-a-train-now at Just Put It In A Jar Junction. There are two reasons for this: (1) I am lazy, and (B) it isn't like I need more things to put into my already overstuffed pantry.

To start off on my quest (wait – quest? I need to work on keeping these metaphors straight...) to the land of food self-sufficiency, a friend and I staged a little canning party (even though nothing was officially canned). We each brought two recipes to the table: I planned on making dilly beans and pomegranate jam, and she would do apple butter and ginger beer.

(Ed. note: While writing this post, I was suddenly seized by the need for scones, which are now in the oven. And now we return you to your regularly scheduled blog post.)

Dilly beans, for the uninitiated, are green beans that have been pickled like your standard dill cucumber pickle, plus lots of garlic. They seemed like a nice beginner's pickle, mostly because green beans, unlike all but the babiest of cucumbers, fit easily into a regular pint jar, and neither of us were keen on buying several large jars for a single project. Also, cucumber pickles, at least some of them, require fermentation to reach peak flavor, whereas dilly beans just need to sit overnight in the brine.

To start, top and tail some nice green beans, then pack them into jars (somewhat snugly), along with garlic, dill, and black peppercorns (it is easiest to put in the garlic and dill first, or at least in-between batches of beans). Just pour over some boiling brine (about two parts vinegar to one part water, with sugar and salt added – BUT READ THE BOOK OR ELSE THE BEANS WILL GIVE YOU DROPSY OR SOMETHING). The book also said that the beans needed to be processed via boiling to tenderize them, as they were cold-pack vegetables. This is a lie, as boiling beans, even if they are in jars, for 15 minutes will clearly overcook them.

I. AM. A. HUMAN. BEAN.

The pomegranate jam was a trickier customer, and not only because they are tedious to de-seed.

Pictured: an hour's worth of seed removal.

Pomegranates are also low in pectin, which is the fiber in fruits that makes a jam set into a jiggly pseudosolid. Because we weren't adding any additional pectin to the pomegranates, we would have to cook the pomegranates long enough for the sugars (both in the fruit and added to the mix) to do the work instead (if you've ever made fudge or candy, you'll understand; if you haven't, that's a shame because it's a lot of fun). I got the recipe from here, but since I wasn't spending the money for five pounds of poms, I used pomegranate juice instead.

I can't comment directly on making ginger beer or apple butter, because I was caught up in my own food problems. However, I did learn the following:

Apples will dry out if you bake them in the oven
Peeling and pureeing 2 lbs. of ginger is tedious and noisy
Wringing the juice out of 2 lbs. of ginger will make your hands tingly
Dry apples do not work well in a food processor
Tasting ginger beer that only has half the recommended sugar will make your face hurt

In the end, this is what we had:

at least it's pretty.

I cracked open my jar of dilly beans today, and I'm really pleased. It has a nice crunch, and a good bite from the all the dill. The pom jam, sadly, did not set, even though the plate test told me it would. However, it makes a tasty pom sauce, which will potentially be used in an ice cream at some point in the near future. The ginger beer, once it was corrected for sugar and you add a little club soda and mint, was tasty, though super gingery – it's good, but only in small doses (though if you have clogged sinuses, it will clear them good and fast). I still haven't had a reason to use the apple butter yet, so I cannot give a review; perhaps its creator reads this blog and will comment? (Oh, and the large jar in the middle is spiced brandy. It takes a couple of weeks to mull.)

Overall, I'd say I came out 1.75-for-two on my part of the grand experiment – I'm quite happy with the dilly beans, and the pom jam just needs to set to be a total success.

Oh, but I am not done yet!

Remember the shameful bronze of my Dairy Olympics competition-with-myself? I am what you might call a sore loser, so armed with more cream, I tried it again, this time using the proper technique of letting it sit on low heat for hours upon hours upon hours.

Success (mostly)!

There is really no way to make this look very appetizing, I apologize.

This is what two cups of cream looks like after sitting on a low burner for seven hours. The wrinkly yellow skin is called the clout, and need to be removed (that's what I'm doing in the photo, and you can sort of see the fork peeling off a bit). The thick stuff immediately underneath the clout is the clotted cream; under that is regular cream (though not full-fat, because most of that differentiated out into the clotted variety). I say that this version is a qualified success because, while the clotted cream definitely coagulated out, the pan I used was too wide, which made the cream shallow and complicated separating the clotted cream from the thinner cream. It all tastes good, but I wasn't able to skim just the clotted cream off the top; some of the regular cream got in with the clotted when I was spooning it out, so the whole thing is much thinner than it should be (proper clotted cream should be spreadable like butter). It's really quite tasty spooned onto a scone with some pom jamsauce (though it is very messy, since all the toppings have the propensity to dribble off the scone).

This might explain why I felt the need to make more scones at 9:30pm.

While on my pickling kick, I also wrangled up some pickled onions and peppers, which I enjoyed on a grilled cheese sandwich today. I used red onions and yellow hot peppers, and the kick that both give off (though the onion only when raw) is tempered by the pickling process.

peter piper picked a peck of picked peppers and onions and liberty cabbage.

The large purple jar is red cabbage I am trying to transform into sauerkraut (the sour cream cup is just filled with water and is being used to keep the cabbage submerged). Traditional sauerkraut is just sliced cabbage and salt; the salt draws out the cabbage's moisture, then mixes in to make the brine. Sauerkraut is actually a made by lactic acid fermentation, in which various lactobacteria, which are naturally present on cabbage leaves, ferment the sugars into lactic acid, which both provides the sour taste and preserves the cabbage. Once it has stopped bubbling, it should be all set; it takes about two weeks for sauerkraut to fully ferment, so here's hoping my wait will not be in vain (it also gives me some time to finish up the sauerkraut in my fridge).

IMPORTANT-TYPE ANNOUNCEMENTS!
In my constant attempts to keep this blog fresh and new, as well as trying to come up with a gimmick that will finally net me that book deal, I am hoping to start a few new series that will maybe get me to post a bit more frequently and help me maintain some focus so that not every post is a me prattling on?

The first will be titled, "Hooray for Capitalism," where I will take you, the reader, along to some of my favorite food-related stores (as food-based shopping is my second-favorite kind of shopping) in the PHX and its environs. The second, "Around the World in 80 Dishes," will feature me attempting to make vegetarian foods from all around the globe; I'm also trying to get The Husband to contribute suggestions for good music from each place to listen to while cooking and/or eating. Hell, while I'm at it, I may even go back and tag and label some of my previous posts, in an attempt to maybe make sense of this place. Who knows? The possibilities are ENDLESS, except that they really aren't, as while the potential for the human mind may be infinite (though I doubt that it is), human life and our current levels of understanding are very much definite and bounded, which keeps our possibilities within defined limits.

So let's just say that the possibilities are MANY to keep us all from an existential crisis.

(Also, if you have any comments or suggestions of things you'd like to see here, let me know and I'll maybe take them under advisement.)

Philip Glass Only Wishes He Was El Diablo

2010-11-14T21:57:00.001-07:00

Remember that glass class I mentioned? I have actually been making stuff all this time! Problem is, there's a lot of lag time between starting and finishing a piece (especially if you're making plates or bowls and require the use of a mold). Depending on your design (or, as is more often in my case, how well I plan ahead and/or how much glass I have), there could be multiple firings, each of which adds another week to the production schedule.

We've been learning a variety of techniques, but I've mostly just been sticking to the standard "cut straight lines and grind the rest" school of glasswork. Since tomorrow is our last class, I'm pretty much done with any large projects; plates and bowls and the like require at least two classes – one for fusing and one for slumping. Tomorrow I'm planning on just playing around with the glass, rather than focusing on any concrete projects, and we'll see what I come up with. Probably an owl. It's always owls. I feel like I need to redeem my owl-making after that first one.

Perhaps one day I'll sit down and explain some of the different things you can do with glass, once I actually have examples of said things. Until then, I'll just play Show and Tell so you can see what I've been up to.

A sushi plate for The Husband. Sushi plates are nice because they're small enough that I usually have the requisite amount of glass (5"x7.5"), but large enough that it feels like a proper thing to make.

A 4.5" square plate (I think this is technically called a candy dish?) with stringers (glass noodles).

A 7" square plate – white base with translucent blue and green overlay, with clear stringers on top. I sort of wish I had fired it upside down at first (to get the green and blue glass to merge together a bit better), but that would have added to the firing schedule, and I am impatient.

Winter BirdFeet. 12" x 6.5". The feet are broken bits of stringer; the "snow" (it was far less brightly colored before firing) is frit, which is ground up pieces of glass.

Seabirds (sort of). This is the first plate I made, so don't judge it as harshly as the others. The same blue glass as in the 7" plate above, with clear backing. The egg decorations are either frit (the left and right ones), or confetti (paper-thin shards of glass). This is also a sushi plate, but it didn't slump as nicely as the other one; I'm pretty sure it's because this one took multiple firings (back before I knew about this whole two-layers-of-glass-for-plates rule), and the glass shrinks in the kiln.

I have a few more plates in the pipeline, and I'll hopefully come up with a few more exciting non-plate pieces tomorrow. Perhaps another Show and Tell will be called for?

The Dairy Olympics

2010-11-09T15:26:00.001-07:00

Way back when, when the world and this blog were young, I told a tale of leaving cream to sit out overnight and somehow not contracting food poisoning. The story ended tragically: not with E. coli (thank kittens), but with a wasted batch of cream.

This past weekend, I issued myself a Dairy Challenge and decided to try my hand once again at making some fancy dairy things, specifically lemon curd*, clotted cream, yogurt, and creme fraiche. A little bold? Perhaps. And as the title of this post suggests, one of these did not work out. But which one?§

Before I get into all that, though, let me tell you a story. It's about a girl and a boy and a quest for local milk.

Back in the Time Before PHX, The Husband and I lived in New England, in a much beleaguered city affectionately known as The Woo. Now, some people don't like The Woo, mostly because it isn't Boston. I cannot argue this point; The Woo ≠ Boston. But! The Woo did have some nice things going for it, like a bar that serves the best pizza I've ever had, a farm that sold unpasteurized cider and duck eggs, and a professor who would let me play with bird bones just because I asked nicely.

It also had a family-run dairy¥ that sold things like milk and cream, which was really quite helpful as The Husband and I try our darnedest to source as many of our animal products from local farms where we can confirm for ourselves that the animals in question are raised humanely. We gave up meat to remove ourselves from the industrial cattle/pork/poultry system, but battery hens and commercial dairy cows still lead sad lives (if you can call them that) and we try not to support big agribusiness where possible. That was actually my biggest worry upon moving to PHX: from where would I get my eggs and milk? I had considered going vegan, but man, I do love milk. And eggs for baking. It would have been tough.

Enter Superstition Farm. It's a local dairy farm run by the nicest people on Earth who are big into keeping their cows (and chickens, and horses, and everything) as happy and healthy as possible. The Husband and I are members of their dairy CSA, where every two weeks we get milk, butter, cheese, ice cream, and other goodies, all made at the dairy (or their sister ice cream store) with milk from the family cows. They also sell eggs from their free-range chickens, which are so free range they sometimes come into the store. Also also, they let me hold said chickens.

cheep cheep!

So, armed with a lot of cream and milk from the SuperFarm, I set off on my adventures in dairy-based products.

First up, lemon curd. Making lemon curd is a lot like making custard, in that you need to keep the temperature low and make sure that the eggs do not scramble; I like using a modified double-boiler to keep the heat under control. Otherwise, it's pretty simple: just butter, eggs, sugar, and lemon juice.

And a peanut butter jar.

The triumvirate of clotted cream, yogurt, and creme fraiche came next, as they all had to sit out overnight before they'd be ready. Here, a shot of the magic in progress.

dairylicious.

From left to right we have clotted cream, yogurt, creme fraiche. Creme fraiche is the easiest: take cream, mix in cultured buttermilk (like we learned before, only cultured buttermilk will work∞), cover, and leave it out overnight to thicken up and culture.

Yogurt requires a bit more attention, in that you have to reduce milk without letting it scorch and also acquire live active yogurt cultures. I simmered some whole milk with a vanilla bean pod, then added a bit of cream after I removed the pan from the heat. Once the milk cooled (it has to be below 145ºF, and optimally between 104º and 108ºF), I added a dollop of SuperYogurt (full of lively flora) from the SuperFarm and stirred it up. Yogurt also has to sit out in a warmish environment for the bacteria to kick in; using a bowl that retains heat is a good idea, as is wrapping the bowl in towels.

Clotted cream is essentially heavy cream (or a cream-whole milk blend) that has been slow cooked on low heat for hours until the cream separates and clots at the top. The yellowish bit that formed on the bowl in the photo is the "clout" (as they say in Cornwall), the crust that sits on top of the thickened cream.

So, you've seen the picture; which one didn't work out? Well...

The creme fraiche...seems to have turned out all right. It might be a little thinner than the exorbitantly-priced stuff at the grocery store, but the flavor seems spot-on. Given how it's not really eaten on its own, I think the slightly-off texture won't be much of a problem. I consider myself redeemed!

The yogurt...also seems OK. It is definitely not as thick as your store-bought variety, but I am blaming that on the lack of pectin and locust bean gum (so, really, it's Trader Joe's that can't make a proper yogurt without cheat ingredients). The vanilla flavor is (very) subtle, and it's not nearly as tangy as your standard plain yogurt; I think it would go really well with some berries or other fruit.

Which leaves the clotted cream as the shameful bronze of these Dairy Games. Since I didn't have the six or seven hours necessary to cook the cream, and am too impatient to wait for a time when I did, I tried a shortcut method that involved keeping the cream at a very specific temperature for an hour and then letting it cool. However, given that electric stovetops are evil, and our specific stove hand-forged by the devil himself, I think I either over- or under-heated (or both) the cream and it went all hemophiliac on me and wouldn't clot.

Oh, well. I guess I'll just have to console myself with creme fraiche scones topped with lemon curd and/or any of the homemade jams in the pantry. Don't worry about me; I'll manage. Somehow.
__________________________________________________________
*Lemon curd is sort of the outlier here, in that it's not really a dairy product. It has butter, sure, but that's the only cow-based ingredient, and there's not much of it. But let's not nitpick; let's leave that to our fellow primates for their communal grooming.
§DRAMATIC CLIFFHANGER!
¥ It also did things like sell milk in glass bottles, which is awesome. Less awesome is when someone packs the bottles too closely together in the car, and then one shatters and gets milk all over the floor of your car and then your car smells like sour milk for months and people STILL ask you about it.
∞Creme fraiche is so elitist.

happy cats make it harder to blog

2010-11-04T18:38:00.001-07:00

so, i had every intention of writing a fascinating post about the things i made in my glass fusion class that are finally done, or about fun things you can do with free citrus, or about my trip to our awesome butcher and adventures in cooking jowls. however, pannekuchen just woke up from his nap in our recycling box and decided he wanted to be petted, and, well, i can't argue with him. he has this uncanny ability to scootch up onto my chest and thus activate my allergy response by shoving his fur up my nose, and the only way to fix it is to move my computer off my lap so that the cat has more room.

and so, my computer is perched precariously on my knees while pannekuchen sleeps with his head on the trackpad. this complicates blogging, as does the fact that my right hand is now underneath a comatose kitten. all these informational updates will have to wait until pancakes decides it is time for a cat fit and wakes up.

normally i would push him over so that i could still use the computer normally, but given how we had a little accident with the nail clipper today and i still feel a little guilty, i feel like i owe him one. enjoy it while it lasts, little cat; i have not forgotten the repeated attacks made upon my person this past week, and i sort of feel like a sap for being so nice over the fact that i slightly overclipped a nail when he has shown no remorse over leaping upon me and trying to bite me about the head and neck region multiple times.

also, we'll return to our regularly scheduled capitalization and whatnot next time; holding down the shift key and typing a letter are hard to do single-handedly.

Beans and Grains Anonymous

2010-10-31T17:11:00.000-07:00

Hi, I'm Heather, and I have a dried goods problem.*

As I've hinted at before, I have this thing for beans. And grains. I don't know where it came from; like most things, I blame The Husband, as I had never encountered a dried bean before I met him and now look at me.

But, whatever the reason, it's clear that this little issue isn't going away anytime soon. So I decided to document my current bean-and-grain situation, in hopes that visualizing the extent of the madness might help me come to grips with my addiction. As they say, the first step is to admit you have a problem.†

First, the beans:

Also shown: my classy Gladware collection.

There you have it: our 24 varieties of bean.¥ Aren't they pretty? Doesn't it make you want to go out and buy some beans, to marvel in their colors and sizes and...

NO. Must stay strong.

So, yeah - 24 types of beans.

Ok, incredibly nerdy taxonomy‡ time:

Our 24 beany varieties represent seven genera (Cicer, Lens, Vicia, Glycine, Vigna, Cajanus, and Phaseolus). Half of the beans come from the Phaseolus genus, with nine varieties being of the P. vulgaris species (your common New World beans, like kidney and pinto and such). The second largest genus represented is Vigna (beans of Asia), which includes most lentils and azuki beans.

/taxonomy

In addition to beans, we/I have also accumulated a lot of grains, somehow.∆

Celiacs and other glutenphobes - look away!

In columns from left to right, we have: corn (polenta, posole); grains-but-not-really (quinoa, couscous, amaranth); rice; and wheats/other cereal grains (last two columns). For those of you keeping track, spelt is my favorite grain.

Well, now that I've seen my beans and grains laid out like this, I am simultaneously impressed and ashamed.∞ No matter what these photos may suggest, I am really trying to keep this whole bean situation under some semblance of control. Though I'm pretty sure that, in addition to learning old-timey skills for food preparation, having a large store of dried goods would be a helpful bargaining chip in a post-apocalyptic world...£

Next time on "Trips Through the Pantry," perhaps I'll show you my collection of 33 loose-leaf teas. Or my 20-something varieties of dried pasta. Or my 60ish different kinds of spices. Or the oil and vinegar shelf.

Maybe I really do have a problem.

A tasty little problem.
__________________________________________________________
*Hi, Heather.
†The second step is probably to not buy two more pounds of beans while at the Ferry Market in San Francisco last weekend. But it's not really my fault - I was there with a friend who is definitely a Bean Enabler. You can't just expect me to not buy anything when she's standing there buying $30 worth of beans, now can you? No, you can't.
¥Eagle-eyed readers with a rudimentary knowledge of numbers might notice that there are 25 containers in this photo. However, two of the faux-Tupperwares contain the same type of bean; once is a spiced bean, and the other is plain. Thus, there are actually only 24 distinct varieties of bean. So don't write me angry letters.
‡This (taxonomic classification) is what I do every week at the museum. It's either a short bit about bean genera or a long rumination about the complexities of mollusk taxonomy. I figured getting dorky about beans would go over better, but if anyone's interested in gastropod identification and classification, I can talk about that. Oh lord, can I tell you about that.
∆ I think it has something to do with gnomes. Grains - ??? - PROFIT?
∞Impshamed? Ashpressed? Lupus?
£ Seriously, if society as we know it were to collapse tomorrow (or Tuesday, depending on your level of optimism re: mid-term elections), I could survive pretty well on all the stuff in the pantry (assuming I had access to potable water, a pan, and someone to make fire, since I don't know how to use a lighter. Or a match. Maybe I should start learning how to summon flame with flint and tinder, or else knowing how to make butter isn't going to be much use when the lights go out and the darkness creeps in, eyes glowing and fangs bared, the wind howling a night dirge to a moonless sky.).

It's Janet - Miss Jackson if you're pasty. (UPDATE)

2010-10-19T22:10:00.001-07:00

Ok, first things first: this post is about pasties, the food (where "pasty" rhymes with "nasty"). Not the other pasty, which rhymes with "hasty" and is only occasionally edible.* Make sure you remember this, or else this post will get confusing and probably rather weird by the end.^

So, pasties.¥

The pasty is, essentially, a self-contained pot pie. Originating in Cornwall (or Devonshire, depending on who you believe), it was a common food for Cornish tin miners who were unable to come back aboveground for lunch. The thick, dense crust, which was folded over the filling and crimped closed, made the pasty easy to eat with one hand, which is quite useful when you're hundreds of feet underground and covered with dirt and soot and arsenic.§ The dirty bit at the end, where the miner had been holding the pasty, was then discarded; this not only prevented the miner from consuming arsenic and dying of poisoning,ˇ but the leftover bit of crust was believed to appease the mine demons.‡

I am not a Cornish miner.◊ But, I do certainly like mouse books, which is of course where I first learned about pasties.± They also come up in another series of books I enjoy, this time about a cat who solves mysteries, sort of.∞ Anyway, these cat books take place in northern Minnesota (or Michigan or something), where pasties˚ are common. So it comes up a lot, and this is where I learned the pronunciation and the traditional filling (steak, potatoes, onions, rutabaga).

I decided to finally attempt to make pasties€ after a visit to the Cornish Pasty Co. in Tempe. I think I got the Vegetarian Cottage Pie, but don't actually remember. Whatever it was, it was pretty tasty, but I definitely came away thinking I could make it myself. Also, after the day of chili and cornbread (and pie), I had decided that, PHX weather be damned, I was going to start using my oven and eating like it was autumn, even if it killed me.

Finding a good pasty recipe is a complicated undertaking, mostly because of the small handful of variations and the vehemence with which those variations are defended by their respective camps. This is a good place to start (and possibly be overwhelmed) with your own pasty making.† (The sweet pasties at the bottom of the page also sound tasty - like a portable fruit pie, but vastly superior to this.) I actually got my crust recipe from here, because it seemed a bit lighter; I was pleased with the result, but am thinking that a proper shortcrust would be good too. As for filling, I was distinctly untraditional: I blanched and mashed some potatoes, carrots, and cauliflower, then added that to a pan of onions, garlic, bay leaves, rosemary, cremini mushrooms, and peas (a slice of smoked Gouda cheese went on top of one of the pasty fillings, too). We ate them with a bit of homemade ketchup and were full of autumn (sort of) cheer.

Also, sorry - no pasty (of either variety) photos today (I forgot to take one). Instead, I offer a picture of Pannekuchen tangled up in a ball of yarn.

Not a magic cat.

UPDATE: If, like The Husband, you know nothing about music from albums that have sold more than 2,000 copies and are thus sellouts, this title is a reference to the 1986 Janet Jackson song, "Nasty."
*But significantly more related to the person in this post's title.
^Though the other pasty (the...article of clothing?) would be relevant to the crafty nature of this blog. I could turn it into a side business: Hasty Pasty, for the stripper on the go!
¥The food. Stay with me here, people - we've got a lot to get through.
§No old lace, though. Too frilly and murdery.
ˇSooner than he would just by being covered in arsenic all day, I suppose.
‡No, really.
◊Or minor. Or myna.
±Again, I am talking about the food. The quests that the mice go on are not for sparkly tassels so that they can go about topless; besides, they are mice and they don't have the same social mores as humans so don't worry about it anyway.
∞And before The Husband gets on here and starts making fun, let me just say that the cats themselves to do not actually solve any mysteries; their owner, a wealthy former newspaper reporter, does. The cats cannot talk; they are normal cats. Though one of the cats is sort of magic, but not really - even if he has extra whiskers and that might make him more perceptive and/or magical, he just does the things that cats do and his owner connects the dots and then the bad guys somehow get caught. If you've ever owned a cat, you would know what I'm talking about if I had any idea how to actually describe what I mean.
˚I am mostly referring to the food, but since I have never been to northern Minnesota or the UP, I cannot comment on the popularity of the hasty pasty.
€I give up. Pretend this is whichever one you want.
†Also, be sure to check out the Star-Gazing Pasty recipe at the bottom of the page. Trust me. Ignore the bit about herrings if you need to.

apparently all caps is not acceptable title behavior.

2010-10-15T22:50:00.000-07:00

Faithful readers!* I have been remiss in my blogging, but I have a reason!

So, remember when I went to New York and it was autumn and lovely, and I mentioned how Arizona decided to tone it down a bit when I returned so that I could go outside and not get too stabby?

Yeah, that's over now.

Since I've gotten back to PHX, the temperature has decided to hover perilously close to 100º, which is exactly the same thing that happened this time last year, when I first arrived in Arizona.^ I had all these grand designs for fall cooking and baking, but the heat broke my resolve. Fortunately, The Husband stepped up his game, and we decided that maybe, just maybe, if we pretended like it was fall and we made fall foods, perhaps we could trick the weather into changing.

And one of the great fall foods, of course, is chili with cornbread (with smuggled apple pie, oh yes!). I had asked The Husband to write about it, because he made it, but he responded, "Blearghª, it's just chili." So, herewith I am going to try to re-create the chili-making.

First, choose 10 or so varieties of bean from our almost nonsensical collection.‡ Next, because you are clearly anticipating a long, hard winter that will require sustenance, through several handfuls of each bean type into the pressure cooker. Put pressure cooker on the stove, then check email and Google reader. Once beans cook, start chopping tomatoes (or use canned tomatoes, whatever), and dig out the frozen corn and peppers. Chop some (a lot of) garlic too, and some onions, and throw everything into a pot and let it simmer. Go read a few blog posts and comment on Facebook. Put in spices. Taste, then add more. Yell at NPR story. Add some more pepper, because everyone has tastebuds of steel, right?∆ Spend 20 minutes sifting through prodigious music collection to find perfect album for chili. Serve. Go get more milk, since your wife drank both your and her glasses before finishing even half her dinner.

So, yeah, it was spicy. But! It was tasty, especially when you add some sour cream and avocado and cheese, all of which cuts the mouth-burnination quotient greatly. There was also green sweet cornbread (made with honey and blue cornmeal) and fig-cranberry-apple-ginger pie. I don't know much about the construction of these two delights, other than that the pie contained Jonagold and Pippin apples (Pippins are kind of my new favorite apple, by the way); if you want the details, you'll have to ask The Husband. Or just raise a ruckus, and perhaps he'll cave to peer pressure and finally write the damn post himself.

Next up, pasties! (Not those kinds, pervert - this is a family blog.)

*All five of you!
^Happy One-Year-and-One-Day anniversary, PHX! Except that it's not happy, because you're a punk and like trotting out heat waves like show ponies.
ªAt least, I think that's what he said. It is very hard to transliterate guttural mumblings.
‡Please note that this makes up less than half of our total bean hoard. Like I've said before, we (I) have problems.
∆Wrong.

A NEW YORK STATE OF MIND

2010-10-05T21:54:00.003-07:00

Summer in Arizona, to be blunt, is terrible. It is truly horrifying to wake up at 8am and have it already be 95ºF, and for it still to be in the triple-digits at 11pm. Two weeks without air conditioning in the car didn't help matters; it actually got so hot in the car once that my eyes STARTED BURNING.*

The other problem with Arizona summers is that they drag on.

I thought I smelled brimstone.

Seriously, they seem to never end; you'll be taunted with a day or two of pleasant (read: mid-90s) weather, and then your dreams will be crushed with an extended heat wave. So, in an effort to retain some of my quickly dissipating sanity,∞ I went home to WNY for some family time and a much-needed respite from the heat.

And New York did not disappoint. My first day home, I woke up, made a cup of tea, and sat out on our back deck and crocheted for a couple of hours. This was what I was working on:

Let us hope certain family members do not read this blog, or else the jig is up!

And this was what I saw whenever I looked up from my yarn:

Is it still leaf-peeping if it's my backyard?

The next day was cold and rainy, which was pretty much exactly what I was hoping for. You know what's good on a cold, rainy day, apart from yet more tea and several hours spent reading whilst cuddling with cats?

This.

After much cajoling, I managed to get a ride down to the Cider Mill, where I acquired a cinnamon sugar doughnut, a buttermilk doughnut, and a quart of cider†. The cider was gone within a couple of days. The doughnuts barely lasted 30 minutes.

That night, as part of my on-going effort to teach my family the value of vegetables, I improvised a little vegetable barley soup, full of good things like kidney beans and turnips and cabbage and broccoli and onions and carrots and celery (and barley). I also got to bust out the crock pot, the likes of which I haven't used for years; the soup turned out good, after an extended cooking to get the beans to soften (crunchy, undercooked food seems to be a trend, here). With a good hunk of crusty bread, it's a pretty solid way to end a chilly day. Also, the weather started cooperating.

It's nice to be back in a place where one can stand in the middle of a main road and not get run over.

This was also the night where I taught one of our cats to play tetherball.

Not very athletic, this one.

It was a good game, until the RattyCat fell over and refused to get back up.

Friday involved more tea, more cider, a trip to the farm stand, the worst allergy attack I've had in months, the consumption of A LOT of Benedryl, an 8pm bedtime, and 12 hours of sleep.

Fortunately, this left me well-rested for Saturday, when my mother, my grandmother, and I drove up to the Finger Lakes to go to the Windmill (a large outdoor flea/farmers'/craft market) so I could get some good apples, visit wine country, and go to the best ice cream place in New York.

We used to go to the Windmill a lot when my family would go camping on Keuka Lake, the smallest (and most y-shaped) of the Finger Lakes. My brother accumulated quite the Pog collection from there¥, and I always buy lots of vegetables and baked goods from the Mennonites. This time, not only did I get some excellent apples, I also got this sweet apron:

Me? Owls? What a surprise.

Apron Owl is watching you master cakes.

and adopted this hand-carved decoy, named Rutiger, who joins Declan as our guard ducks.

Quack.

Onward we went to Seneca Lake, where we visited my favorite winery and I loaded up on my favorite wine.^ It's also quite pretty there, up on the hill overlooking the lake.

Mmm, future wine.

We also stopped at a couple of other wineries, but enough booze: what about the ice cream? Well, after over 150 miles of driving (and several missed turns), we arrived.

Oh, my mother will be displeased with this photo.

This is it. Cayuga Lake Creamery in Interlaken, NY. (Incidentally, we saw our third Finger Lake of the day: can you guess which one it was?)ª

The ice cream selection:

The ice cream:


Don't be thrown off by the forced perspective: the ice cream cone was not as tall as the building.

This was mine: after much indecision, I decided on a scoop of sea salt caramel on top of a scoop of gianduia in a homemade waffle cone.

The verdict? Delish. And pretty reasonably priced, too; they were substantial scoops, and I actually feared I wouldn't be able to finish mine.£ Was it worth it? Opinions most likely differ amongst the travelers that day, but I'm certainly glad I went.‡

Sunday morning found me waking up well before dawn to catch my flight home. Arizona decided to greet me with sub-100º temperatures, which I appreciated. The Husband and I have already planned an apple pie-baking day to celebrate my glorious return (and my bounty of apples), and Pannekuchen seems to have made a new friend.


Not shown: five seconds later when Pannekuchen tried to bite Rutiger's beak.

*Also, having to wear mittens when it is 115ºF so you don't burn your hands on the steering wheel while driving? What? No.
∞I'm going to say it looks like this:

†This is normally where I would go off on a ranting tangent about how unpasteurized cider is so much better than pasteurized, and how things have never been the same since the fascists took unpasteurized cider off the market just because a few kids and/or old people got sick or died or something, but it's not like there wasn't a warning on the label and I drank the stuff for years and never got sick and the problem is today's kids being all mollycoddled, and besides a little exposure to bugs or bacteria is good for you and GET OFF MY LAWN, WHIPPERSNAPPERS. But I won't.
¥Seriously. One summer, that's all he bought. I'm still not sure that he ever knew that Pogs were used in some sort of game; if he did, he certainly didn't know how to play it. We keep a lookout for them, as the stall is still there (though it now sells marbles and rulers and cassette tapes).
^The 2008 Lemberger, if you're curious.
ªIt was Cayuga Lake. If you didn't figure that out, you might want to go back and re-read the previous sentence.
£I lead a rough life.
‡Not least because this means that I am now winning in the (unspoken?) competition between The Husband and I over visiting all of these ice cream places. IN YOUR FACE, HARD J!

GLASSY EYED AND BUSHY TAILED

2010-09-27T22:55:00.000-07:00

Two posts in as many days? Batten down any hatches and break out the canned goods – we are clearly approaching the End Times, here.*

Actually, not really.∞ I'm just heading to New York tomorrow to experience a bit of proper autumn (planned activities include: picking apples and cooking stews and wearing sweaters and playing in the rain and tasting wine and eating at the best ice cream place in New York [according to USA Today, at least] and generally enjoying life outside of the parched oven that is Phx), and since the internet connection there is measured in double-digit kilobits/second, I probably won't be able to post much unless I leave it running overnight.˚

So, before I go, I thought I would actually talk about something that relates to the "craft" part of this humble blog's subheading.

As long-time readers know, I'm taking a glass fusion class at the Phoenix Center for Visual Arts. Eventually we'll be doing things like working with glass powders and metals and etching, but right now all I know how to do is (a) cut glass, and (b) grind glass. But that's enough to make a few things, which I thought I'd share (and to serve as a useful point of comparison for what will hopefully be vast improvement).

OK, first up: a little glass physics. The ideal thickness for glass is two layers; if you stack more than two pieces together, it will flatten down (and out) to two layers thick. To illustrate this, we cut 1" x 1" squares, then stacked and fired them.

1, 2, 5! Five pieces of glass!

From left to right, we have a stack of five glass pieces, counting down to a single square on the right. A single piece of glass is the same size as two stacked pieces (going back to the whole "glass loves two layers" thing)^, and it expands from there.

Next are two examples comparing tac fusing with full fusing. Tac fusing heats the glass just enough for pieces to stick together; full fusing melds the pieces together.

A contented sigh, in glass form

The A is tac fused, and the H is full fused. Tac fusing creates texture and maintains the original shape better, while full fusion is sleek and shiny.¥

Of course, I tried to make an owl.

This owl has cleavage.

This is what happens when you don't properly balance/attach the cover glass and it slides off in the kiln. I still love him, though. He's...special.

See, my owl is scientifically accurate.

But! I can rebuild him! We have the technology!¶ Next week, I'll saw off the overhanging bit at the bottom, even out the edges with the grinder, and add some glass to fix the lumpiness. I have another owl going into the kiln tonight; hopefully this one will be a bit more owly and a bit less, um, horrifically misshapen.

And that is Glass Fusion 101. Next week I'm going to learn how to cut curved lines, which is terribly exciting. However, we are getting closer and closer to the time when I have to go buy my own glass, which doesn't really excite me. Ah, the life of an artist, I suppose.

If I'm not too busy jumping into leaf piles and having bonfires, I'll try to write up some of my adventures in Actual Seasons Land and send them to The Husband to post, if only to taunt those of you reading this in the desert. And then, when it's 60ºF and sunny in January and I'm walking back from the farmers' market with just-picked oranges, I'll taunt the rest of you.

*Make sure you pay close attention to this post, because I might cover a lot of information and I don't want any of you left behind.
∞Hopefully. Phx is all dry washes, so I can't be certain that rivers aren't running red with blood.
˚I recently learned that my hometown is technically part of Appalachia. Our shoddy internet access makes more sense now.
^Science! Again!
¥Tic-tac fusion leaves behind fresh breath with only one-and-a-half calories.
¶The Six-Billion-Dollar Owl (Adjusted for Inflation)! This Fall, on Fox!

PRACTICE SAFE EATING: ALWAYS USE A CONDIMENT.* (ALSO, FOOD PORN, BUT NOT THAT KIND OF FOOD PORN, SICKO)

2010-09-26T18:14:00.001-07:00

Right now, I have a potato rösti in the oven, which will hopefully be a tasty brunch on a ~~crisp~~ disconcertingly hot autumn Sunday.

But I am not here to discuss potatoes. I am here to talk about condiments, specifically ketchup and mustard, specifically specifically how to make them.

Now, the funny thing about this is that I've never actually liked ketchup or mustard† (or any condiment, really, save for maybe aioli, and I'm not sure that's even really a condiment in the same sense as ketchup or mustard, though it is mayonnaise, which is a condiment, which I also dislike, so I JUST DON'T KNOW). BUT, I do like a challenge, and the concept of making ketchup and mustard seemed so quaint and useless that I obviously had to try it.

MUSTARD
I've recently come to accept mustard as an ingredient in things (what with mustard seeds/oil comprising its own food group in the Bengali food pyramid), though I'm still suspicious of mustard on sandwiches and hotdogs, but given how I don't really eat sandwiches or hotdogs, I don't worry too much about it. We used to have tiny jars of Grey Poupon in the fridge for use as an emulsifier in salad dressings, but one day we ran out and decided, "Well, we have pounds of mustard seeds – why not just make mustard?".§

Now, if you have ever had that talk with your parents about Where Mustard Comes From, you'll know that making standard yellow mustard (akin to the kind that my parents seem to keep in the fridge for years) is very simple: take mustard powder, mix water, maybe add some vinegar if you're feeling sassy. Voila!—Mustard. However, I decided to make wholegrain mustard, because I am hardcore and like spending three days to make food I may never actually eat.

This is what the mustard looks like.

Yay for hoarding jars!

As for taste, I actually have no idea. We haven't needed any since we made it (during the Time Without Mustard, we moved away from emulsifying salad dressings, and haven't yet gone back). But it looks like mustard and smells like mustard, which means we are at least two for three here. (Still, I'm a little scared of it. I've taken a sniff, and it sort of burns my nose; I'm a tiny bit concerned about what it will do to my esophagus.)

KETCHUP
Though I had my ketchup consumption limited when I was young, my mother did not do the same with my younger brother, who took to ketchup with a will that I have not seen equaled. He put it on everything; he probably would have put in on salad, had we ever eaten any, or pancakes, if that wasn't disgusting even for him. I'm sure that part of my aversion to ketchup stems from his overenthusiasm. I have terrifying memories of washing off plates simply covered in ketchup, like some horrible crime scene where the french fries or mac and cheese suffered a gruesome fate at the hands of a deranged psychopath.

So you can see why I was so excited to make some.

I've occasionally tried ketchup since then, often by accident and usually when I'm sharing a plate of fries and my half gets infiltrated by the Red Menace. I still can't see the appeal of ketchup – it's overly sweet and, for something made of so many tomatoes (and classified as a vegetable for the purposes of school lunch pyramids), it tastes nothing like tomatoes. And I like tomatoes.

While back in New York this summer, I started watching re-runs of Jamie at Home, a cooking show about the exploits of Jamie Oliver and a loveable hobo^ as they garden their way into good food. (Or something.) It is probably the food-porniest food porn I've ever seen, all about soft-focus shots of Jamie cooking at his wood-fired grill, or close-ups of fresh fruits and vegetables from the garden, or (clearly re-dubbed) sounds of food sizzling in hot oil, or slowly-panning money shots of glorious-looking food on adorable rustic plates. None of the food is too fancy; the focus is more on using great ingredients simply so that the natural flavors shine through. Turns out that Joliver (as we call him) had a ketchup recipe, one with lots of tomatoes and not much sugar and some interesting ingredients. I used the recipe from the cookbook companion to the show, and while the tomatoes were simmering, The Husband and I sat down to watch the episode in question ("Pickles and Preserves").

Of course, the recipe in the book is not the same as the one on TV. Well, the ingredients are the same, but the methods differ; the recipe I give below is a combination of the two, using what I think makes most sense. Either way, the ketchup was a success; we made some grilled potato chips for our first tasting, and I really enjoyed how the tomato taste shone through, and was complimented by the acidity and sweetness of the vinegar and sugar.

Strange-looking honey.

HA! Take that, Heinz. Ketchup does not need high fructose corn syrup, thankyouverymuch. It also doesn't need to be a non-Newtonian fluid.¥

RECIPES

MUSTARD (from here, which you should totally buy because it is awesome and will teach you how to forage for limpets)

Ok, to make wholegrain mustard, take 6 T. brown mustard seeds, mix in 2/3 c. white wine vinegar, and let it sit out for 3 or 4 days (the longer it sits, the hotter it gets). After it's done soaking, use a mortar and pestle to coarsely grind the mustard seeds and vinegar (just enough to crack the seeds – you aren't making a paste). Grind 1/4 c. yellow mustard seeds in a spice grinder (or use mustard powder if you're lazy, not that I'd judge you or anything...) and mix this into the mustard/vinegar blend, adding another 1/4 c. white wine vinegar, 2 T. honey, and 2 tsp. salt. Pour into a small jar, and store in a cool, dry place.

KETCHUP (adapted from here, to compensate for Jamie Oliver's inability to remember his own recipe)

1 large red onion, chopped (everything can be roughly chopped, since it'll all go into a food processor later)
1/2 fennel bulb, chopped
1 stick celery, trimmed and chopped
thumb-sized piece of ginger, peeled and chopped
1/2 red chile, de-seeded and chopped
2 cloves garlic, peeled and chopped
bunch basil, chopped
1 T. coriander seeds
2 cloves
1 tsp. black pepper
2 lbs. roma tomatoes, chopped
3/4 c. + 2 T. red wine vinegar
1/3 c. brown sugar

In mortar and pestle, grind up the coriander, cloves, and black pepper. Add this, along with all the onion, fennel, celery, ginger, chile, and garlic, to a large saucepan and saute 10-15 minutes, until soft. Add the tomatoes and 1 1/2 c. water; bring to a boil, then simmer until tomatoes break down and the liquid has been reduced by half. Add basil leaves, mix, then remove from heat, pour into food processor/blender, and whiz until well-blended and pureed. Put the sauce through a fine-mesh strainer into a clean saucepan, then add the sugar and vinegar (NOTE: I didn't think this was enough vinegar, so I added some cider vinegar as well, to taste), bring back to boil, and simmer until it reaches the consistency of ketchup. Add salt and pepper to taste, then spoon into sterilized jars. Close tightly and keep in a cool, dark place – it should keep for up to six months.

*Bet you never heard THAT witticism, or any variation of same, before.
†This is a lie. I used to eat ketchup constantly when I was a wee little one. But one day, my great-aunt told my mother that, if I was allowed to wantonly eat ketchup on everything, I wouldn't eat food that didn't have ketchup in it. So I was cut off from ketchup, and by the time I was allowed to eat it again, I wanted no part of it. This general sass continues to this day.
§Because this is how normal people think. Right? Please say yes.
^This is another lie. He's not really a hobo. I think.
¥Science!

THE STONE OF SCONE OF DESTINY (MOUSE EDITION).

2010-09-19T01:03:00.000-07:00

So, as promised: scones.*

Scones are dead simple and tasty quick breads that, like most things I love, come from Scotland (see also: Robert Burns, bagpipes, Loch Ness monsters, men in kilts, scotch, etc.). Scones are also a key component of cream (or Devonshire) teas, where they are served with jam or clotted cream and oh my goodness PEOPLE IT’S REALLY TASTY.

They are such a quick bread, in fact, that an old Scottish saying suggests you can start a batch when you see unexpected guests at your gate and they will be done by the time said guests make it to your door. I will be honest: I’ve never produced scones that quickly (unless we’re talking about a very long sidewalk or very arthritic guests), but you can certainly get one of the simpler recipes from start to mouth in about 20 minutes. This is especially nice when it’s 10:30pm and you really want a cookie, but you aren’t patient enough to wait for your Husband to go make you some, so you just whip up a bannock of scones and all is right with the world.

All right, so this is a scone (a figgy chocolate balsamic scone, to be precise).

yummers. (photo courtesy of The Husband)

And this is the Stone of Scone.

yummers?

The Stone of Scone, also known as the Stone of Destiny, is a slab of red sandstone upon which the ancient kings of Scotland were crowned. Or at least they were until 1296, when Edward I (henceforth known as Edward the pommy bastard) invaded Scotland, took the Scone…err, Stone, and scarpered back to England where he immediately had the Stone installed as the seat in a fancy new coronation chair just so he could wave his arse (a bit more literally) in the general direction of the Scottish people. Since then, all English (and, after the Act of Union in 1707, all British) monarchs have been enthroned on the Stone. As part of a goodwill gesture, Elizabeth II had the Stone returned to Scotland in 1996; it now resides in Edinburgh Castle, though it must be returned to London for all future coronations.

Now, you may be wondering just what was the point of this little history lesson? Well, the Stone of Scone and proper scones are similar in some respects (in that they both come from Scotland and have been co-opted by the English and have the word “scone” in there somewhere), and I wanted to prevent any confusion right from the start. Besides, if you ever try to crown a monarch on a regular scone, you’ll just end up with a case of the royal crumb bum, and no one wants that (also, trying to eat the Stone of Scone will probably result in broken teeth and/or a night in a Scottish gaol).

All right, but what do mice have to do with scones?

OK, have you ever read any of the Redwall series, by Brian Jacques? If you haven’t, you should. Wait – actually, you should first pretend to be 11-year-old me (or, let’s be honest, 27-year-old me) and THEN read them, because I make no pretensions about any of these books qualifying as great literature, but they are well-written and a rollicking good time and there is NOTHING wrong with a grown woman strolling into the children’s section of the library and borrowing five or six of the books (so don’t judge me).

If I were to take off my Lackadaisical Blog hat and put on my Serious Literature hat, I could argue that these books offer a fascinating insight into a world of moral absolutes and rigid social structure, which can also be read as a trenchant commentary on the traditional British class system, but really: they’re books about mice that fight against rats. After the first few, the plot ceases to be exciting (SPOILER ALERT: good always wins), but the plots aren’t the point – it’s the way the stories are told that makes these books. Jacques is a master craftsman when it comes to building up a setting and characters, and even if it’s the same story over and over, it never ceases to be fun.

Of course, anyone who’s read the books knows that the feasts are legendary. Pages will be dedicated to describing all the varieties of food (who knew that woodland creatures were such good cooks?), and that is where I first discovered the mysterious wonder called scones. I actually purchased The Redwall Cookbook (STOP JUDGING ME) solely for the scone recipe, but was pleasantly surprised by the other recipes as well, for things like trifles and crisps and fools and tea breads and cakes and puddings and cobblers and shortbread and assortlekajoeia;fjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj…

Sorry. I drooled into my keyboard a bit there.

Anyway, just read the books because they are awesome. And if you happen to be nibbling on a fresh-baked scone and drinking some hot tea while you’re reading – well, I can think of few better ways of spending your time.

RECIPES
I have two recipes I tend to use: one for sweet cream scones (to be eaten plain), and the Redwall recipe, which is best with some jam or cream. The cream scone recipe can be found here; I usually mix it up by adding chocolate chips, any number of dried fruits, lemon zest, etc. The Redwall version is as follows:

1 3/4 c. all-purpose flour
2 tsp. baking powder
heaped 1/4 tsps. of ground cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg
1/2 tsp. salt
2 tbsp. unsalted butter, chilled and cubed
2 tbsp. sugar
2/3 c. milk

Basically, you follow the same procedure as the cream scones (mixing dry ingredients, rubbing in butter, etc.), only preheat the oven to 450ºF and bake until brown (12-14 minutes).†

*To sound like a true Scot, this should be pronounced “skons.”
†You can also make scones on a griddle, called a “girdle” in Scots. It’s really quite appropriate: given how much butter/cream/DELICIOUS FAT is in scones, you’ll need a girdle after a while.

THE OL' PESTO CHANGE-O.

2010-09-16T23:17:00.000-07:00

Pesto and I have a long and semi-complicated relationship. I first attempted to make pesto during my senior year of college. I had given up meat for Lent (a harbinger of things to come?) and a friend and I decided to have a meatless dinner. I offered to make pesto, and, long story short, it turns out that fresh basil and dried basil aren't the same thing and you can't just straight substitute one for the other in a pesto recipe. I can't remember what happened to dinner that night; I think my lovely friend gamely tried to eat some, whereas I took one bite, almost threw up, and maybe ordered pizza.

Fast forward some odd number of years, after I had moved to DC and inherited the food processor that my mother took when she left her job (or got as a wedding present – the story varies). Enough time had passed since the dreaded Pesto Tragedy of 2004 that I felt confident in giving it another go. Long story short (too late), fresh basil is tasty and my love affair with pesto was born.

Even though my love for pesto has waned a bit over the years, we are still on good terms. In fact, there is almost always pesto in the freezer, as it is my and The Husband's* go-to dinner option when we are feeling lazy and uninspired and can't be arsed to cook but still want to act like grownups and have something more than cereal for dinner. However, we sometimes resort to pesto pasta more often that we'd maybe like to admit, which leads to feelings of resentment, which leads to me feeling pretty apathetic towards making pesto, AGAIN, even though I bought the basil and we clearly won't use it in anything else.

That's the problem with pesto and I; pesto often becomes an afterthought. It's what I make when I have leftover basil (and there is ALWAYS leftover basil). I never seem to make it because I want to; I make it because basil starts to go bad the second you get it home and I'm tired of wasting food, so I begrudgingly whip some up and then throw it in the freezer and forget about it.

However, tonight I actually wanted to make pesto, if only to replace the unpleasantness that was the lemon basil pesto from a month or two ago (lemon basil has its place, but it's not in pesto). One of the stalls at the farmers' market yesterday had basil and arugula; it was bag-your-own, so if you could cram it into a bag, it was yours for $3. After much furtive glancing around the market to ensure that no one was watching as I stuffed already overflowing bags with more and more leaves, I sauntered off with a tidy sum of greens and a hankerin' for some pesto.

I ended up with two types: your standard basil and pine nut (extra garlic, natch) and an experimental version of arugula pesto, this time using toasted pepitas, a bit of spinach (to cut the spiciness of the arugula) and basil oil. I had some of the arugula pesto on whole wheat fettuccine (with chopped tomatoes and Parmesan) for dinner, and I was terribly pleased with myself. The rest has been dolloped out into an ice cube tray and popped into the freezer; once it hardens, the individual cubes of pesto are transferred to freezer bags, and voila! We have single-serving portions for the future. MAGIC.

(I had taken some photos of the pesto to illustrate the fascinating color differential between the basil and arugula versions, but the basil pesto looked thoroughly unappetizing; I tried to adjust the color, but fixing the basil meant that the arugula looked radioactive. So, instead, I offer you this photo of our cat, Pannekuchen. He is lounging on our copy of "How to Cook Everything Vegetarian," so this photo is relevant to my post and I'm only partially cheating.)

Let's be honest: he is a cat, and this is the internet. This will always be relevant.

Next up, a long and rambling story about mouse books and the resulting obsession with scones.

*In Wyomingese: The Husband and I's.

WHEREIN I CHEEZ MY DAIRY (ALSO, SHARDS OF GLASS)

2010-09-13T23:25:00.001-07:00

You know how, when you're doing research, you're supposed to use primary sources more than secondary sources, because that way you get to formulate your own conclusions and sound brilliant instead of citing lots of footnotes and having your thesis advisor repeatedly ask you why you're not doing close readings of the poems?*

Well, lately I've been enchanted with the idea of doing the same thing with my food and trying to make various simple things from scratch. This is mostly for the sheer novelty of it all, but I've also been on this self-sufficient/survivalist bent where I'm trying to prepare myself for the downfall of civilization and build up a skill set so I can barter my way into one of the better post-apocalyptic societies. Of course, there are flaws in this plan, since I can't keep cows in downtown PHX and there's a world of difference between a butter churn and a Kitchenaid mixer; as such, my plans rely heavily on (A) my local dairy also surviving the apocalypse and (B) there being a reliable source of electricity in our dystopian futureworld.

But I digress.

So far, my excursions into the wonderful world of dairy-making include butter (pour cream into mixer, turn on, forget about until it starts sloshing) and ice cream (pour batter into mixer attachment, turn on, forget about until it starts clicking). Both have been successful, but since our dairy CSA gives us copious amounts of butter and ice cream every week, I needed a new challenge.

Enter creme fraiche.

For the uninitiated, creme fraiche is a lot like sour cream, only a bit thicker and with a more restrained tang. It can be used just like sour cream, and is also found in pasta sauces and in some baked goods. More importantly, it is right expensive, so it's not something I can just toss into my basket while I'm roaming around the local Fresh and Easy trying to figure out what the cut-off number is between "acceptable" and "besotted lush" in regards to buying cheap wine.

ANYWAYS, I picked up a pint of cream and a pint of buttermilk and decided to try to make some magic. Essentially, all creme fraiche is is cream plus buttermilk, left to sit at room temperature until the bacteria get feisty and it thickens up. I am normally of the opinion that dairy left out over night = horrible stomach ache, but I had eaten some sourdough starter (not recommended) and didn't die, so I figured I'd give it a shot. I mixed one cup cream with half a tablespoon of buttermilk, gave it a stir, and set it on the counter. In theory, I would wake up to creme fraiche, which would then lead to figgy chocolate scones, which would lead to joy.

In actuality, I woke up to cream that had resisted all efforts to change, save for the addition of a slightly sour smell. "Perhaps it hasn't sat long enough," I thought. "Maybe it wasn't warm enough to kickstart the bacteria." (This is FALSE, given how it is summer in the desert and it is never not warm enough for anything, except maybe for nuclear fusion.) So I left it out all day.

When night fell, I gave the bowl a stir, and I discovered that while a thick skin had formed on the top, the rest was still just plain cream that smelled a little funny. I had cheezed the creme fraiche.


this lolcat will never stop being funny

So, there were no scones in guhlersville, for mighty Heather had struck out; or, more accurately, she hadn't paid close enough attention to the recipe to realize she needed cultured buttermilk, not just the leftovers from making butter. Fortunately, I also have recipes for scones made with cream and buttermilk, of which we are in great supply. Tomorrow I will drown my sorrows for my lost creme fraiche in sweet sconey goodness, and will start on plans to make cheese (which I will hopefully not cheez).

ALSO! I started my glass fusion class tonight. Here is what I have learned so far:

1. Glasswork is an expensive hobby.
2. Over the next 10 weeks, I will cut myself. Probably frequently.
3. Apart from me, no one under the age of 50 takes art classes.
4. The softening point for glass is 1100º F.

Next week we will actually start playing with glass, so I'll let you know how that goes (assuming I don't slice off a finger/limb in the process).

*FYI, the appropriate response is "Because I don't actually like poetry, and I especially don't like overanalyzing word choice in poetry, and besides Robert Burns is pretty straightforward about how much he loves the ladies and Scotland and more ladies and the simplicity of farm life and OH DID I MENTION THE LADIES and the point of my thesis is to examine the various ways his entire body of work can and has been co-opted, so if I were to focus on every line of every poem, I would never graduate."

THE PROBLEM WITH BLOGGING: I SOMETIMES FORGET TO BLOG (PLUS A RATHER LONG STORY IN WHICH I ANTHROPOMORPHIZE CORN)

2010-09-07T23:07:00.000-07:00

Here's the interesting thing about blogging: you need to remember to actually write things, otherwise you're less a blogger and more a lazy person who happens to have a blog. And laziness will not net me a book deal, nor will it bring me fame and wealth and UNSPEAKABLE POWER. So, I need to get kraken. I mean, cracking.

cracker?

All right, so I don't have any recipes per se, because I am not-so-good with remembering those sorts of details when I'm in the midst of cooking. I also don't have any photos, because (a) I am too impatient to dig out my camera and waste precious moments between the food being ready and the food being in my stomach, and (b) my camera (or our lighting) gives everything a yellowish tint, and I don't want you thinking that all of our food is afflicted with jaundice. (Given these qualifications, I am clearly well on my way to food blogging success.)

BUT, I do have a story. A story of meat, and corn, and one woman's attempt to learn from the mistakes of others and make a damn fine meal for herself.

The Husband had decided to skitter off and feign interest in professional sports, so I was left to my own devices for dinner. Since I would be dining alone (so, so alone), it seemed like as good a time as any to tackle the pork ribs that had been sitting in the freezer. (NOTE: Yes, I am usually a vegetarian. It was one of the three or four times a year when my bloodlust rises up and can only be satiated by hunks of sweet, tender flesh. Stop judging me.) I had also just received a shipment of mole powder, so the choice was obvious: braised pork mole. In addition to the spices and chiles, I decided to add some Roman beans (because we have too many beans - seriously, I HAVE PROBLEMS) and – this is where it gets interesting – some posole.

My friend Soups has written about her adventures with posole, so I thought I knew what I was getting myself into. I bought pre-treated corn (it said CORN FOR POSOLE right on the bag), I soaked it overnight, and I planned on an extended cooking time. After making up a sauce with garlic, onions, roasted chiles, Mano y Metate's Pipian Rojo mole powder, tomatoes, tomatillos, and vegetable broth, I quickly seared the ribs, threw everything (pre-soaked beans and posole included) into a pot, and boshed it into the oven at 300 degrees. After four hours, I removed the pork to a cutting board to cool, then moved the entire operation to the stove, where it simmered for an hour. I de-boned and cut the pork (more like pulled apart the pork, since it was so tender and fall-off-the-bone and buttery and it all sort of made me question this whole vegetarian thing). I popped the pork chunks back into the mix, salted and peppered, and let the whole shebang cook for another hour.

Now, at this point, it was 7pm. I was starving. I took a taste.

The pork was still fantastic.
The beans retained a bit of their meaty texture, but still melted in your mouth.
The mole sauce had just the right amount of bite and sweetness, with some smokiness from the roasted chiles.
The posole...?

The posole was crunchy.

SIX HOURS. That's how long it had been cooking. Six hours of roasting and simmering and filling the apartment with delicious aromas, and still the posole taunted me.

Now, under normal circumstances I would have left the posole to simmer all night if I had to, all the while muttering dire threats and suggesting that, if the food didn't cooperate, I could not be held responsible for what might happen. But I had bar trivia obligations in two hours, still hadn't showered, and needed to eat something, as English pubs are not known for their vegetarian-friendly fare.

So, I gave in. I ate the crunchy posole.

Overall, it wasn't terrible. Apart from the chewy bits, the whole thing was quite tasty; I originally ate it over rice, but it was even better the next day with a hunk of crusty sourdough bread.

The score so far: posole 1, Heather 0. But I still have a lot of posole left, as well as three other mole powders and a hill of beans. And a pressure cooker.

There will come a time when our paths will cross, posole, and I assure you: I do not intend on being defeated again.

DEAR GOD, I'VE DONE IT.

2010-09-01T23:22:00.001-07:00

After much hemming and hawing and sitting on this URL for months, I've finally decided to start typing things here. I have grand designs that this little blaggity blog will become a repository of great things, mostly of the "incredibly witty observation" or "trenchant insight" variety; however, I am also easily distracted by shiny objects (seriously, I'm like a magpie here...ooh, magpies have pretty iridescent feathers...wait, what?), so we shall see how long this little social experiment lasts. Hopefully this will be a place where I'll talk about tasty foods, thrilling crafts, things I find interesting, and other navel-gazing observations from the scorching desert.

If nothing else, I'll try to at least post photos of our adorable cat - lord knows the interwebs are lacking in cute cat pictures.