Monday, June 26, 2006
The Perfect Dessert: Is it really that hard to come by?
I spent the morning scanning the market for the right deal, something tasty, sweet and fresh. So often, I find myself sifting through rows, lines and lies to find the truth I’m seeking. I knew what I wanted: strawberries and blueberries to make something inconceivable to the shortcake traditionalist. My Grandma’s amazing, lumpy-Bisquick shortcakes topped by something unheard of to the recipe-on-the-box follower. Sure, by sticking with the box recipe, I’d come out with something good and sweet, but I aimed higher than that.
For those unwilling to be defined by a recipe or designated path, adding a few extras to assert oneself is a given. What could amp-up the tasty, but syrupy strawberry shortcake of my childhood? Some blueberries, fresh, ripe and full of antioxidants: that’s what. The true individual takes something simple and, dare I say, boring to create a flavorful novelty.
So I’ve always found it hard to follow any recipe to the letter. It ends up biting me sometimes, but other times I end up constructing something better than I could have imagined. The building blocks I choose aren’t anything crazy, they’re time-tested, traditional recipes. But I add something new. This time, I blended in some blueberries and a little lemon. When thinking of ways to make something sweet AND tangy, I instantly think to squeeze in the citric acid. The fresh juice and added zest brought out something unexpected and bright. Then, to complete the experience, I threw in a healthy dose of fresh spearmint. It took out the mundane and added a zinger.
All saccharinity aside, I know the world loves its sweets. We put it here, there and everywhere. It makes us happy and our dentists cringe. And, at the risk of Pixie-Stick impalement, I’ll say it: sugar is just plain overused. It slows your dessert down, speeds your mind up and leads to a blood sugar breakdown. How can I balance the need, the want and the flavor? By bringing out what’s already there. This is not hard, when you have the right berries.
So there I was, walking through berry-sellers galore at the market, tasting, pricing and not struck by any berries. As a baker on a budget, the plump, amazing five-dollar-a-basket berries were out of the question. I was in the same boat with most of the blueberries, too. Somehow, claiming blueberries more expensive because they’re the first harvest falls as flat as shortcake made by Hostess. Just as hard to stomach at a DC farmer’s market are berries from California. If I wanted berries that have traveled more than me this year, I’d go to Safeway. The unicorn that I sought was of the locally-grown inexpensive and sweet variety.
On my way home, carrying the next best thing to a unicorn: the golden goose variety, my bag was full of locally grown and loved berries. The best part of my uncompromising flavor was that it did ring true. When we ate it, the tart, tangy, light breezy sweetness left as much of an impression as the sun on our noses.
For those unwilling to be defined by a recipe or designated path, adding a few extras to assert oneself is a given. What could amp-up the tasty, but syrupy strawberry shortcake of my childhood? Some blueberries, fresh, ripe and full of antioxidants: that’s what. The true individual takes something simple and, dare I say, boring to create a flavorful novelty.
So I’ve always found it hard to follow any recipe to the letter. It ends up biting me sometimes, but other times I end up constructing something better than I could have imagined. The building blocks I choose aren’t anything crazy, they’re time-tested, traditional recipes. But I add something new. This time, I blended in some blueberries and a little lemon. When thinking of ways to make something sweet AND tangy, I instantly think to squeeze in the citric acid. The fresh juice and added zest brought out something unexpected and bright. Then, to complete the experience, I threw in a healthy dose of fresh spearmint. It took out the mundane and added a zinger.
All saccharinity aside, I know the world loves its sweets. We put it here, there and everywhere. It makes us happy and our dentists cringe. And, at the risk of Pixie-Stick impalement, I’ll say it: sugar is just plain overused. It slows your dessert down, speeds your mind up and leads to a blood sugar breakdown. How can I balance the need, the want and the flavor? By bringing out what’s already there. This is not hard, when you have the right berries.
So there I was, walking through berry-sellers galore at the market, tasting, pricing and not struck by any berries. As a baker on a budget, the plump, amazing five-dollar-a-basket berries were out of the question. I was in the same boat with most of the blueberries, too. Somehow, claiming blueberries more expensive because they’re the first harvest falls as flat as shortcake made by Hostess. Just as hard to stomach at a DC farmer’s market are berries from California. If I wanted berries that have traveled more than me this year, I’d go to Safeway. The unicorn that I sought was of the locally-grown inexpensive and sweet variety.
On my way home, carrying the next best thing to a unicorn: the golden goose variety, my bag was full of locally grown and loved berries. The best part of my uncompromising flavor was that it did ring true. When we ate it, the tart, tangy, light breezy sweetness left as much of an impression as the sun on our noses.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Bread-head, the knead to figure things out
One defining characteristic of bread, according to Webster's, is that it is life-sustaining. A substance so inherently associated with basic life, that I can’t stop myself from comparing it to another intrinsic piece of existence unfortunately missing these days: Peace. Of mind or on earth, no matter how I slice it, I’m trying to find a clue.
In a world without rest, sense or meaning, merely mastering basic bread can give you a little peace. A kind of awareness of yourself and the sustenance you’re creating. The kneading, the leaving to itself, the eventual golden brown, lovely-warm, fluffy sense of who and what you are - bread is something that makes sense.
As I seek to understand the world in which I live, I can’t help but measure out the lunacy I see each day. Headlines, line-ups (on tv or otherwise), leftovers and the Christian right - how do you make sense of things you can't really believe exist? I need to simplify things and bring it back to the ingredients in my bowl.
So here I am, stirring up what really matters. As important as this step is, though, all the measuring and considering and contemplating the appropriate amount of this or that just wasn’t a whole lot of fun. But now, as I knead, I begin to appreciate the things I see each day. With some Monk spinning and a steady rhythm, I just enjoy. Working along, having fun and releasing frustrations, I knead out the problems of today and they flake away - like the beautiful breadcrumbs I’ll end up with if I get it right.
After all that fun, I’ll probably sit back, cover the bread and feel slightly buzzed and optimistic that things will work out all right. I might even go back one more time for good measure and punch out any remnants of negativity. Whew. Give it a little break, leave well enough alone and accept that your work here is done, I’ll tell myself. Now it’s time for the real answers to come. All of this work doesn’t mean anything if it doesn’t fluff in the oven.
There it is - my problem - baking away. I hash out the details here and there, watching the top brown and the sun set. In just a little while, that bread will cool off and settle, as will my mind. When I cut into that first, perfect, airy slice, I’ll know that I’m back. It took a few steps, but I mastered the bread and gave my mind a little of the sustenance it needed.
In a world without rest, sense or meaning, merely mastering basic bread can give you a little peace. A kind of awareness of yourself and the sustenance you’re creating. The kneading, the leaving to itself, the eventual golden brown, lovely-warm, fluffy sense of who and what you are - bread is something that makes sense.
As I seek to understand the world in which I live, I can’t help but measure out the lunacy I see each day. Headlines, line-ups (on tv or otherwise), leftovers and the Christian right - how do you make sense of things you can't really believe exist? I need to simplify things and bring it back to the ingredients in my bowl.
So here I am, stirring up what really matters. As important as this step is, though, all the measuring and considering and contemplating the appropriate amount of this or that just wasn’t a whole lot of fun. But now, as I knead, I begin to appreciate the things I see each day. With some Monk spinning and a steady rhythm, I just enjoy. Working along, having fun and releasing frustrations, I knead out the problems of today and they flake away - like the beautiful breadcrumbs I’ll end up with if I get it right.
After all that fun, I’ll probably sit back, cover the bread and feel slightly buzzed and optimistic that things will work out all right. I might even go back one more time for good measure and punch out any remnants of negativity. Whew. Give it a little break, leave well enough alone and accept that your work here is done, I’ll tell myself. Now it’s time for the real answers to come. All of this work doesn’t mean anything if it doesn’t fluff in the oven.
There it is - my problem - baking away. I hash out the details here and there, watching the top brown and the sun set. In just a little while, that bread will cool off and settle, as will my mind. When I cut into that first, perfect, airy slice, I’ll know that I’m back. It took a few steps, but I mastered the bread and gave my mind a little of the sustenance it needed.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
I thought it tasted good, until I knew what it was
Ever been tricked into eating something? Ever been the one who believes in something or someone but when the truth is presented in its rudest and crudest form, been shocked and disgusted by the very flavor that made you salivate?
The soup was to die for. My grandmother’s famous soup that I remembered from childhood. She took every vegetable the Germans love and cooked it in a broth sublimely flavorful with just the right amount of salty oil. It was wholesome without being overbearing and rich without being decadent. It brought substance with russets and egg noodles, and she even threw in some snow peas and zucchini to be exotic.
She made it for me, she said. She made it special, for the vegetarian. She left out the chicken and stock and bones and assorted poultry items. I really needed some soup. Living in the city—food options aren’t the problem. But sometimes, you need a little taste of home. I raved about this soup as I ate it. I thanked her with my ooooh’s and aaaaah’s. And then I found out: she pureed the chicken. She hadn’t substituted vegetable stock for the stock she normally used.
“I had to hide carrots from your uncle for years this way,” she said, confident that I’d survive and maybe even convert back. The regression didn’t happen. I was left only with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that an illusion had been played out like a trick in my mind.
You think you know a person, a friend. You smile when they’re happy and hug when they’re sad. You laugh, sitting at a table, shocked and bemused with the absurdity of it all. But what happens when you realize the person you’ve cared for and loved is not what they seem. You discover their words are the illusion and the trick played is that they aren’t kind. The same things that once made you smile and shake your head now make you wonder how you got here and what’s the quickest escape.
But, as usual, you probably have no exit strategy. There’s no way to stop eating that soup without making your grandmother cry. There’s also no way to cover up the fact that instead of pureed poultry, this person has been grinding you down with each word. When you take a step back and hear them mock your recipe, you know that everything good might just be bad. You know that, boiled down, this person will reveal their meat.
When you see this, know this and recognize the flavor for what it is, how do you step back and stop it? How do you, without abandoning the past, present and future, be true to yourself? Sticking to our “guns” is not in the nature of a peace-loving vegetarian, but I plan to arm myself with a smile, some eggplant and plenty of salt and vinegar.
The soup was to die for. My grandmother’s famous soup that I remembered from childhood. She took every vegetable the Germans love and cooked it in a broth sublimely flavorful with just the right amount of salty oil. It was wholesome without being overbearing and rich without being decadent. It brought substance with russets and egg noodles, and she even threw in some snow peas and zucchini to be exotic.
She made it for me, she said. She made it special, for the vegetarian. She left out the chicken and stock and bones and assorted poultry items. I really needed some soup. Living in the city—food options aren’t the problem. But sometimes, you need a little taste of home. I raved about this soup as I ate it. I thanked her with my ooooh’s and aaaaah’s. And then I found out: she pureed the chicken. She hadn’t substituted vegetable stock for the stock she normally used.
“I had to hide carrots from your uncle for years this way,” she said, confident that I’d survive and maybe even convert back. The regression didn’t happen. I was left only with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that an illusion had been played out like a trick in my mind.
You think you know a person, a friend. You smile when they’re happy and hug when they’re sad. You laugh, sitting at a table, shocked and bemused with the absurdity of it all. But what happens when you realize the person you’ve cared for and loved is not what they seem. You discover their words are the illusion and the trick played is that they aren’t kind. The same things that once made you smile and shake your head now make you wonder how you got here and what’s the quickest escape.
But, as usual, you probably have no exit strategy. There’s no way to stop eating that soup without making your grandmother cry. There’s also no way to cover up the fact that instead of pureed poultry, this person has been grinding you down with each word. When you take a step back and hear them mock your recipe, you know that everything good might just be bad. You know that, boiled down, this person will reveal their meat.
When you see this, know this and recognize the flavor for what it is, how do you step back and stop it? How do you, without abandoning the past, present and future, be true to yourself? Sticking to our “guns” is not in the nature of a peace-loving vegetarian, but I plan to arm myself with a smile, some eggplant and plenty of salt and vinegar.
