Hummus...Interrupted

Slow Cooked. And a Little Half Baked

2008-01-06T20:08:00.000-08:00

It’s been a while, and sometimes I wonder if coming back to this is just silly. Grad school, life and daily distractions keep me from writing, and, for that matter, cooking. I haven’t made a fine sauce or a pesto from scratch and I certainly haven’t written much that didn’t end up with a grade attached to it at some point.

Given my present state of artlessness, you may wonder what I have to share. Well, I’ll tell you. After more than a year, there’s a recipe that’s been steeping. There’s a story that’s been growing. After all this time, there’s a blog post that’s ready for posting. You be the judge of whether or not it’s half-baked.

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I used to come home from a long, hard day with fresh veggies, a few remnants of wits in place and a plan. What wits I had would slowly multiply as the flavors of oregano and lemon melded with a little Marsala and some cayenne. By the time I turned off the stove and poured the last glass of malbec, I felt back to normal.

I could taste my daily struggle in that meal. Whether I’d made an airy summer quiche with zest winding through everywhere or a savory soup featuring lentil and cumin in the slow cooker, I could see my direction. My voice came through in the meal I made.

Where’s my voice today? I can still make a pairing that sends my mom off to work with envy-drawing leftovers. I can talk for days on end about why Obama inspires and we need to end the lies that bind us to Iraq. I can prattle about the past and what got us to this point. I can dig my heals in and draw on the wounds of the questioning few who asked if our need to police the world was really brave, or just foolhardy pride.

I can watch polls and bite my nails over the news. But what have I done for world peace lately? I see myself, my recipes and my words as flat. Have I become a crocodile cook, lamenting the horrors of packaged crusts, while I open up a can of marinara?

In the absence of solutions, are we all part of the problem?

Today, I come home after a hard day and cook a meal and pour some wine and don’t feel rejuvenated. I don’t hear the answers I always knew but couldn’t quite reach. I clean up the kitchen and I feel just the same. Floundering and without peace.

How many people appreciate saucy AND homemade?

2006-09-28T18:02:00.000-07:00

The painstaking process of sautéing and stewing and stirring is lost on so many. It’s just easier to use what's in front of you at the grocery store. And there’s no humiliation in taking tomato sauce from a jar, of course. But there is a moderate helping of shame in using ready-made minced garlic and there's out and out disdain in grabbing a can o’ mushrooms and chucking them blindly into your end result.

The problem is that each of these items makes things simpler, easier. The flavors make immediate sense and aren’t hard to understand. Like a party-line idea, they require little or no decision and far less depth of understanding than their homemade counterpart. Simplicity, not to be confused with clarity, is also more foolproof. You know you’ll see eye-to-eye, or stem-to-stem in this case, so why bother challenging yourself?

Why not go with what works and you can just pour into a pan, heat and serve? The old stand-by seems like a viable option, so why would you waste your time cultivating a flavor that has never been in or around a vat?

Because the smell of simmering sauce wakes you up in the night. Because the tester spoon burns your lips, but you can still taste the garlic more than the last time. Because, when all’s said and done, you’ve made something unexpected and true. You’ve taken fresh, independent ingredients and blended them together into something you can truly call your own.

Now’s the time to say that the same is true in life. Simple and easy is boring. Stagnation is bad and everyone should challenge themselves. The problem is that everyone doesn’t live a homemade life. In fact, it might just be me and old Sofia Petrillo slaving over our stoves until the flavor peaks and all is right in the world.

Perhaps the one-dimensional folks and flavors just mix better with the masses. Undoubtedly, Joe Average would walk right by fresh-made mushroom-kale marinara to hit the Prego in a heartbeat. Every now and then, they’ll stop and taste the former, but inevitably return to the flavor they know and feel so-so about. At least it instantly makes sense. Who even knows what kale is, anyway?

So what’s the problem? Should we throw complexity into the mainstream? Should we muddy the waters with kale and creminis? Sometimes I think that I should just give in and follow that recipe, but then I remember the true bliss that just creating can be and know I’ll never give in to the norm.

What to do when you’re a part of the Applebee’s menu

2006-08-20T18:52:00.000-07:00

Smothered Chicken, in fact. Eatin’ good in the neighborhood gone wrong.

At this point, chicken has become the most commonly eaten, mass-produced, homogenous and boring food item in existence. Closer to Spam than its original scavenging self, chickens spend the bleakest existence possible – beakless and jammed into sad little caged lives without choices, options, happiness or much to cluck about at all.

This lot, a life of sadness and stink, is made more depressing by the smothering agents. Covered with boring mushrooms and onions, slathered in the Apple Spec quantity of butter, salt and pepper – definitely not a combination grown in Pennsylvania, the mushroom capitol of the world.

But what, you might ask, completes the feeling of smothered sadness as your plate is laid on the table, steak knife at the five o’clock position? Mild, velveta-style cheddar, that’s what. Derivative cheese atop some boring onions, reposing amid perfect diamondback grill-marked chicken.

The cheese really completes it all, like someone making a plan for your day, leaving you without say. You know the feeling in the pit of your stomach might just be caused by powerlessness over what you’re eating. The feeling that your meal, even with two side choices, has been spread before you in the exact same way as it was for the person one table over. You know now, more than ever before, that your meal is not original, not a reflection of your tastes. Rather, your meal is just a focus group away from every other meal on every other table.

At the end of this silly meal, you find yourself identifying more with the chicken you’ve just eaten than anyone else. You feel cooped up and caged, searching for something real to sustain you. Your mind races. “Get me to the nearest farmer’s market!” you rail. You need something natural, something fresh, something free range. You might even need some Gruyere to offset that flavorless goo you just ate.

Throwing your money on the table, running from their neighborhood to yours, you run in search of something new. You might be the only person running from that hood, but you’re not afraid to carve your own path, past menus of microwaved delicacies towards a freshly stewed mushroom chili. Or maybe a spinach quiche. Whatever you’re running towards, it has to be better than that smothering chicken.

This story is nothing new. Running away from something people tell you to want and towards something your soul craves. Something natural and sustaining. Something with flavor and freshness. Will you ever find the perfect meal? Probably not, but it only takes one, so I’ll go ahead and wait. Waiting for something perfectly blended, grown with care and stewed to a heavenly combination. It’s not so bad to be hungry, waiting for the meal of your dreams.

Nothings Perfect

2006-08-10T19:17:00.000-07:00

Would you go back for more of the best Indian in town after finding a hair?

When I say the best Indian, I mean it. The samosas are like a good kiss, smooth and sweet and an underlying spice that keeps you in the moment. And if those samosas are like a kiss, then the Baigan Bharta is something inappropriate for this blog. For an eggplant lover and leaver, the Baigan Bharta is something amazing, revered and feared.

Bad Baigan Bharta can leave you unable to so much as look at an eggplant. But this Bharta was far from bad. It was something wonderful and sweet, cinnamon and cumin mixing together to keep you coming back for more. Chase it with a cool, post-meal Taj Mahal and you’ve wrapped this little tryst up in perfection.

Just like no restaurant is without flies, no person is without flaws. The result is what you do with that realization. Do you forget the meal, the restaurant and the man as easily as you used to forget your homework? When you’ve found a hair in your Bharta, should you write off the restaurant?

Everybody’s instincts vary, but mine is typically to run. Slam down the plate, throw out some money and get the Aloo Gobi outta there. Whether he’s too into me, jobless, Republican or a liar, the proverbial hair will always send me packing. And I won’t be taking a doggie bag. So now that I’ve sworn off the imperfection, what happens when taste brings me back, peering at that same menu, looking for flavors of the past?

You won’t catch me back at the same restaurant after a bad tasting meal. So what’s so different about a good meal gone bad? The difference is the kind memory. The memory of eggplant lovin’ and a samosa kiss stays. Forgotten was the feeling of run-walking out of the restaurant knowing in my heart of hearts that I would never ever taste that eggplant again. Only the fondness of good meals, Kingfisher and friends remained.

By now you can guess that I’ve gone back. The flavor was just as sweet, smooth and spicy as before. I’ve returned for the piquant goodness that was. It’s different now because no matter what the flavors, I’m wise to it. I’m wise what can be reduced to a restaurant in desperate need of a hairnet.

The bad is never forgotten, only accepted or overlooked. The bad comes to us right next to the good. Since no matter where we go, there will always be flaws and flies, we have to decide, what’s worth forgetting and what is a memory worth.

Still crazy after all these ears.

2006-07-25T20:45:00.000-07:00

I used to bike around the neighborhood. I used to party with the girls on the way to the bars, under-aged, it didn’t matter. Mistakes get made and you realize that you’ve spent way too much time thinking, not knowing. Just when I’ve accepted the passage of another year, that year has passed. I know, I know, the best is yet to come, but what about today and yesterday?

I bought sweet corn and grilled those Silver Queens out in the DC sky. Some friends, the sun, the birds and I sat, looking, watching for the city to surprise us. We didn’t find much, just the amazing smell of cooking sweet corn and garlic cloves. We found tradition and nothing that you find in a pot of boiling water. We found the flavor we hoped for.

Laughing, probably with corn in my teeth, I said again, “We’re not getting any saner.” Maybe it was a story about a kid and her dad singing Roy Orbison on the way to school or maybe something about a lost shoe on 7th Street. They’re all the same story, really. A perspective and an impulse. Maybe a little smile and some embarrassment.

With every passing day, there’s a new quirk, a new thing. The oddball kids have grown into zany girls who more typically entertain for a growing season, only to let yet another field lie fallow. Girls who’ve gone from spinning in the backyard to spinning on the dance floor, maybe even a spinning class. Nothing expected except the unexpected.

Dog days, hot fun, hot dogs, whatever it is, the cliché is nostalgia. I look back and know that I’m not necessarily looking back at days or weeks, but rather time spent being entirely me. Sure, subtract a few forgettable years in junior high and probably one or two nights in high school. Always being me and true to my flavor is something I won’t shrink on.

So, when I look back on corny memories and cookouts, I know that the common thread isn’t the husk or silk, but the person instead. We’ve all got these quiet memories within us, poignant kernels that get sweeter with the passage of time. Silliness of childhood Kick the Can fests mixed with the seriousness of hare-brained schemes cooked up and served.

An afternoon riding around the neighborhood now is just as sweet as it was then. And an ear of sweet corn now takes me on the same light, airy, fresh route today as the first time. This is what summer is for, I guess, with flavors so distinct. Each summer is a little of the past and a touch of the future. Knowing and thinking don’t matter in the summertime, it’s the experiencing that counts.

Taking a lesson in diplomacy from the Swiss (cheese that is)

2006-07-17T19:56:00.000-07:00

Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door

Making a good meal can be liberation. Whether you’re carving out a new recipe or constructing something simple and time-tested, the final product can make you feel a sense of accomplishment (even if that accomplishment is over hunger alone). The construction of traditional lasagna is all about weaving some staples of Italian cuisine together into a tasty, juicy, saucy, cheesy mess of heaven. Building a non-traditional lasagna involves much of the same, but calls on some not-so-staples to be complete.

Not unlike Lady Liberty, my oven called, “bring me your zucchini, your swash, your marinated tofu.” And just as diversity enriches heritage, my lasagna was made better, more complex, by the addition of new flavors. Grilled zucchini, eggplant and squash combined with tasty, summer-basil sauce adding a wisp of open air. The most surprising flavor of all, however, was the entrance of peace and diplomacy.

Yes, I pulled that Swiss cheese across a border, through the Alps and beyond, shredding it atop a layered pan of goodies. I wasn’t sure how it would taste, if I would be good or unsettling. What if it was a cross-border mix that didn’t fuse, but co-habitated like angry neighbors, rather?

This “neutral” cheese ended up bringing something far from middle-of-the-road to my palate. It added a remarkable, yet understated flavor. While at first bite, the gourds had taken hold of the dish; slowly, like a new idea creeping into your mind, the Swiss’s resolve came through to be the most resonant moment of that meal.

Sometimes, when new ideas creep into your mind, they stick around longer than expected. That peaceful cheese, with its resilience through the acidic tomato and flavor-grabbing basil-oregano combo, made me feel inherently diplomatic. Without a doubt, I could stop a war, a battle, or at least a small, embittered argument.

And there it was, laying like a knife in my inbox. Angry words that couldn’t be taken back, only responded to or forwarded on. Spread the negativity? No, I tried something new. Sticking one’s neck out to prevent disaster can be hard, even scary. But the bottom line is that cooler heads will prevail, but only once the temperature has been lowered. Sure, the emotions expressed were honest, possibly valid. They weren’t kind or very well-thought out, though.

How do you explain that the intervention is being acted out on two, equally respected, equally accomplished individuals? How do you de-escalate a situation from diplomatic suicide and make it something salvageable? You stick your neck out and take the blame. Fun? No. But maintaining the peace never is. Neither is standing by yourself on an island, holding up a torch to welcome the masses. You do what you have to do to make it work.

Lasagna Alpine

Please keep in mind that I feel my way through any recipe, making adjustments based on availability and whim. So, follow the following with caution, passion and wit. Don’t box yourself in and know that, like life, not every recipe has to be hard, but it does have to be interesting to be worthwhile.

In this recipe, heavy-hitters like eggplant and oregano abound, but the true star is comes in last. It brings this nearly non-dairy treat up a notch and deserves a marquee all its own. Swiss cheese will surprise you and enrich the flavor here. Try it, enjoy it and make it your own.

Ingredients
1 package lasagna noodles
1 large pasta sauce jar
1 package extra firm tofu
2 eggs
3 tbs olive oil
2 medium summer squash (cut in half inch strips lengthwise)
2 medium zucchini (cut in half inch strips lengthwise)
1 eggplant (cut in half inch strips lengthwise)
¼ lb Swiss cheese
4 garlic cloves (minced)
¼ tsp chili powder
1 tsp oregano
½ tsp basil
1 tsp salt
½ tsp pepper (cracked)
vegan Worcestershire to taste
soy sauce to taste
extra salt and pepper to taste
dry red wine/red wine vinegar

1. Begin by preheating the oven to 375 degrees and salting the eggplant pieces and placing them in the fridge for about 30 minutes.
2. Construct your marinade for the vegetables by combining the oil, wine, salt, pepper, garlic, chili powder, oregano and basil. Mix in strips of zucchini and summer squash. I have a lean, mean grilling machine, so I also preheat that and begin placing the gourds on the grill (let the seasonings stay on, they’ll cook into your gourds).
3. When the vegetables have just softened, take them out and cut them into bite-sized chunks.
4. By now, the eggplant should be ready to be blotted and grilled as well. Mix them into the marinade as well and place them onto the grill repeating the steps used on the gourds.
5. Follow the noodle cooking directions on the box.
6. Begin warming the sauce in a large pot.
7. Stir in bite-sized eggplant, summer squash and zucchini. Make sure to stir in the garlic, oregano, oil, etc. Let simmer.
8. Open the tofu and drain. Crumble into a bowl and add two eggs. Stir together adding a splash of soy sauce and vegan Worcestershire.
9. In a 9 x 13 pan, layer noodles, sauce mixture and tofu, repeat until all ingredients are used.
10. Shred Swiss cheese and layer over the top.
11. Bake, uncovered for 45-50 minutes.
12. Let stand for 10 minutes and relax as the sense of peace and happiness washes over you with each taste-testing bite.

Pro-Choice. Buffeted out.

2006-07-11T20:23:00.000-07:00

In a world full of choices and chances, do we have too many? We ride through life, hungering for a path. But, in our quest for sustenance, has the buffet ruined us for commitment? Today, we can go through life, love and meals never having to choose and always able to go back for more. Will we ever buckle down and choose a dish?

Between mac n’ cheese, green bean casserole and mashed potatoes, the typical meal is one big speed date. We go along, moving from one sterno pan to the next. If we’re waiting for one, mass-produced dish to jump out from under that sneeze guard to please us ‘til death do we part, we might be waiting forever.

Each time that we step up to the plates, taking a new one and maybe even a fresh fork, we really aren’t starting fresh. Just because your plate is fresh, you’ll always have a few crumbs from your past lingering in your mind, and your plate, for that matter. The memories of a stale roll or maybe a little too much thyme in the stuffing will go back with you time and time again.

As we step up, without being able to step back and survey, is it possible to make the right decision? Just a meal, maybe, but do all of these options, bombarding us result in a complete lack of viable options? When we sit between a staffer and a meathead, what can we choose?

I’m consistently underwhelmed by the options presented. Sure, I think to myself, with all of these choices, I can’t help but find something I like. Then, after a meal of fillers, soggy vegetables and brownies of questionable origin, I’m really only struck by the indigestion that remains.

But then, choices can be good. I mean, how can you know what you want unless you know what you don’t? Checking out the buffet of life makes it possible to know that you’re really there for the cucumber salad. I mean, it’s chill, fresh and has just enough vinegar to challenge your tastebuds.

I may end up at the Indian buffet tomorrow. I may be too hungry to wait and just rush up and try everything right away. But after that initial run through dosa, lentils and eggplant, I’ll know what I want my second trip around.

The Perfect Dessert: Is it really that hard to come by?

2006-06-26T18:28:00.000-07:00

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.

Bread-head, the knead to figure things out

2006-06-19T19:20:00.002-07:00

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.

I thought it tasted good, until I knew what it was

2006-06-03T12:27:00.000-07:00

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.

Good friends, bad fly

2006-05-23T20:13:00.000-07:00

There I sat, watching Marcel and his friend Marceau buzz between the steak display and my wine glass. I was overwhelmed by my great luck. I sipped a Cabernet-Shiraz blend from Australia amid conversation between another amazing blend: the Virginia-Georgia-South Carolina friends.

You never know what to expect from a night like this. Big hats, short skirts and a steakhouse. Hopefully followed by beer on a back porch and a long, quiet walk home. That’s just one option. Another option is a wild dance party spurred by Euro-trash music and bad décor. This is only made plausible by the afore mentioned Cabernet-Shiraz (thank you, Australia). Instead of a steakhouse and big hats, maybe summer skirts and too much sun combine with cans of beer and grilled treats.

This choose-your-own evening has one common thread: the friends. Time spent among this crowd of a Puck, a Bridget and an Annie Hall can only mean fun. The food is integral only in that it brought us to the table. The wine could be Yellow Tail for all we care, after enough glasses, we’re happy as toast (with marmalade, of course).

By bringing friends together, an evening of doughy bread, horseradish and mussels (hopefully not flexed) is just as tasty and fulfilling as an evening of the finest coconut curry-laced tofu.

But then, with every meal, there’s always a Marcel. Marcel might be a fly in your wine or a hair in your Pad Thai. Either way, nothing is perfect. Maybe Marcel comes in the form of a socially inept bystander, distracting you from your cool, brisk Miller Lite and the giggles at a dancing “professional.” The quirk only adds to the laughter.

Back to the steak display. Marcel chased Marceau between an obstacle course made up of my wine glass, the butter tray and our menu: a wheeling, wooden cart of various cuts of beef, culminating in a 48-ounce monstrosity that lands the winning diner—or fly—in the “48 Ounce Club”. Good times and great conversation can distract you from dead cuts of beef, but nothing could make up for Sal, the dying lobster. As we watched Marcel buzz by that sad, dying Sal, we hid our faces from Sal’s accusing eyes.

The guilt of our good time was only cured by more wine and Sal, on his bed of beef, wheeling away. On to torment another table, I’m sure. We may have waved good-bye to Sal, but Marcel was with us to stay. He was enamored with the conversation, I’m sure. Memories of times past, plans for summer and laughs at the end of a long week.

As we our night together that night, we all knew it would be something special. What we couldn’t believe, though, was that we would return with a friend like no other, a friendly follower in Marcel. He buzzed along behind us knowing that there may not be Saran-wrapped steak at our destination, but there sure would be good times.

Here comes the beef

2006-05-15T18:57:00.000-07:00

Or maybe the broasted chicken with wild rice and green bean casserole. Whatever’s walking down the aisle, you end up in a face off between side dishes and rolls, the entrée you hoped for decidedly missing. Is there anything stranger than being a stranger in a familiar land? When the extent of your day is fending off drunken Chester chicken pick-up lines, can you fight the urge to ask, “Why does ‘Git ‘er done’ include adding bacon to my string beans?”

Why am I driving down the same road that made sense five years ago, wondering if I can veer to the right, the left or maybe just put it in reverse and tear away? I can ask the question in a million ways, but it boils down to the empanada filling of humanity: Since we’re all so fluid and changing, why am I so blatantly not a part of the mix?

Here I am, climbing down the wedding RV stairs, continuing to wish that I packed a lunch (for the entire weekend). We walked into the neighborhood bar, past the bikers in their leather chaps, underneath the “Chicago Bear Trap” wall hangings and gathered as a wedding party in front of the crowd. The groomsmen had long since eaten the bridesmaids’ sandwiches, so we were hungry. I don’t know what I was expecting, but Louis Rich had thrown up on the table and all that was left was some artificial crab dip and a plate of messy chocolate-mint brownies. Later, as my blood sugar raced from scavenged cookies and brownies, I climbed back into the bridal bus and found myself standing. Again.

As the seated groomsmen passed a flask of Doctor’s and I lurched with each passing turn, I felt blessed to see this wonderful friend begin her new life with her new husband.

Yes, you read right. I felt blessed. This was a girl who took me to the first place in town with a veggie burger for cheap. This was a girl who brought me flowers after a car accident (still one of the kindest gestures I’ve experienced). Over the years, she’s muddled though the foibles of a new vegetarian cook with smiles and the reassurance only the best roommates can bring. This was a true friend.

Now, five years past sharing a great apartment with a pool, we’ve gone our different ways. She’s a homeowner, married to a hunter. Spending her summers grilling hamburgers and brats on the lakeshore. I’m living closer to the Reflecting Pool than any lake and enjoying a Soy Pup on my rooftop grill in the summer smog.

As the opposing viewpoints of high-fastening pants, inappropriate dresses and bad country oil mixes with my high-strung, city-stress vinegar, I find myself accepting the difference as something cultural and experience it that way. We made a perfect vinaigrette this weekend, Wisconsin and I. Compelling me to embrace the past and the different paths we take as lives grow and opportunity knocks us on our…

The joy of being cooked for: Care. Love. Refrigeration.

2006-05-14T19:47:00.000-07:00

Today I received a gift of sweet-real-adorable happiness. After striking out on my own in this big, bad world, I didn’t expect to find myself home. Depending on your definition of home, that is. Among good, strong, positive friends: you’re at home. And today, out of nowhere, I found myself both at home and in receipt of an amazing gift. The gift of flavor.

Flavor is never the same, whether you prepared the meal or had those same ingredients fall into your lap at a restaurant table. Flavor is an adventure. To me, the most surprising meal is the one prepared for me by someone I know and love. No, I’m not talking about fried tofu like Mom used to make. I’m talking about the day I rejoiced in a tasty treat, prepared for me by a trusted friend. I could see in her eyes that this was something special, a test. A test to see if I, the cooker, could become the cook-ee. And how, you might ask, does the dutiful friend transform me into a cook-ee? By catching me off-guard. With simple flavor on a crazy day, she surprised me and brought me back to what I know and love. Flavor. Clear, honest, al dente flavor.

The bottom line is that flavor is subjective. Basil added when you know it should be, but wouldn’t have thought to, has more power because you weren’t around for the decision-making process. As I adjust the salt, its impact is more gradual. When a guest first experiences the salinity of my labor, however, I know the result is perfect: they haven’t reached for the saltshaker or for their water glass. I see their reactions, which satiates me. But what about the actual flavors? What about really tasting?

As I become stuffed with preparation, I lose the ability to taste for the food alone. I’m appreciating the flavors in the order I introduced them. I’m wishing I had added just a little more oregano. Why didn’t I buy those chives again? I’m thinking about the options for next time. The neuroses are endless. But for a tornado of a cook, rotating evaluation is everything. Every now and then, however, it’s nice to just sit back and enjoy someone else’s salinity. Sometimes, just experiencing is the only way.

That’s where we need a little help from our friends. The Beatles had it. The pure joy of food made by a friend is incomparable. For one who cooks, nothing is more amazing than being cooked for. Yet, for me, sometimes that truth is illusive:

The reality is that you can find yourself among friends and, without even knowing it, find people who take care of you in ways you didn’t expect. While a new recipe brings about surprising flavors, ideas, and learning experiences, nothing brings about a more wondrous flavor than something prepared for you by someone who loves you.

Woe is the Brussels sprout

2006-05-01T18:36:00.001-07:00

I am a sad, sad case. Children hate me; moms overcook and under-season. Jean-Claude Van Damme aside, I am the muscles from Brussels: the petite sprout with a big heart, flavor to spare and a nutty zing that could make you want a double order. But, many will never know me. Many fear the unique and interesting that they do not understand. Am I doomed to being misunderstood? I fortify and enrich the mind, body and soul with my vitamins. But why, then, am I so disliked?

People don’t understand what it’s like to be passed over at the market. When was the last time someone walked by you and snatched up a head of iceberg lettuce, eagerly paying outlandish prices for something so devoid of nutritional value. Lettuce, that will only hydrate you with its one-dimensional flavor.

They don’t know how they make me feel when they scrunch up their noses at that sulfuric smell. It’s not my fault your mom overcooked me! Chalk that up to not knowing how I like to be prepared. But then, she always wears that ill-fitting tapered pantsuit, too. Just as you cannot blame her for not knowing the Dress Barn sale was a mistake, I shouldn’t be blamed for her not knowing what suits me. I feel their disdain. I know what they’re thinking.

Is it that I’m not big? I’m robust in flavor, that has to count for something. I pack a wallop inside my pretty little head. I’m concise. I bring you complexities and insights that you just don’t see in the behemoth cabbage. My essence is concentrated, real, intense and something you’re not going to find in a larger head.

So maybe there aren’t any Brussels Sprout kids. I didn’t want a doll named after me anyway. What does Xavier Roberts know about good vegetables, I ask you? I doubt he’d know a good stir-fried sprout if it bit him in the cabbage patch.

But this is all going to change. I know that I’m being discovered bit by bit each day. I don’t need a PR firm’s help. I don’t need to bend spinach’s ear to find out how it ended up on every chain restaurant’s salad menu. I certainly don’t have to ask a Yukon Gold rep how it managed to scribble the russet off so many foodies’ shopping lists. All I need to do is continue to wait as chef after chef tries me out. Maybe stir-fried on a bed of mustard greens, maybe with some pine nuts, garlic and vinegar. Whatever the “experiment” of the house, I will soon become the specialty. I have faith.

Children may never enjoy me. I’m sure your mom will never learn the secret. But as the young grow into food snobs, they will develop an affinity for my smooth, nuttiness. The Shake n’ Bakin’ ladies of yesterday will fall to the might of the pan-searing women of tomorrow. The Brussels sprout will win, one taste bud at a time.

In the Pocket

2006-04-24T19:51:00.000-07:00

Maybe it was the endorphins, or maybe the sunshine... As I ended my morning run, I dropped into Murky Coffee. Ever since my office moved on up from Capitol Hill to Downtown DC, something has been missing. I have Murky Coffee beans in my fridge, waiting to welcome me into the waking world as I grind them each day. So the beans aren’t what’s missing. What could it be?

I’d finished up a beautiful run in the morning sun. As I ran down North Carolina, past the soon to open, new “neighborhood coffee shop,” I could already hear the sound of the espresso maker pumping out some of the best espresso for some of the tastiest bean drinks this city has ever seen. The smooth flavor of a soy latte from Murky can’t be beat. Certainly not by a Starbuck’s. And of course, only at Murky do you find Carlos, the one-man, espresso-art-making machine. So maybe it's the talent.

At Murky, the music is always right. Whether it’s the ambiance of Nina Simone drifting by, calming my post-run heart rate like a smooth stretch or The Clash pumping me up for a sweaty dart home, I always feel at home with that crisp white Murky Coffee cup in my hand. So maybe it’s the music.

I keep trying to put my finger on exactly what it is that makes me breathe a sigh of relief when I walk in the door. It’s a sigh like no other. The breath is almost like true relaxation which, for a caffeine addict such as myself, just doesn’t occur. So maybe it’s the wind as I open Murky's door.

Soon, as my spring pattern transitions into my summer routine, I find myself at Murky more and more. You might find clacking away on my iBook outside or reading my Vogue curled up inside in the rain. You might even find me in the company of some unexpected acquaintance. Wherever I am, you’ll find me there. So maybe it’s the familiarity, the comfort.

Odds are it’s everything. When you step into Murky, you might be complex and order a latte with syrup, skim and an extra shot. You might be simple and order the yummy Kenyan roast. You might even be chill and order some tea and a scone. The music could be any variation, from Nina to Nelly. The air could be stale, sweet or shade-grown; it doesn’t matter. I could be rushing in on the way to work or people-watching from behind the rail.

When I’m there, I'm a loyal Murky customer and I’m in the zone. Murky sets the track and I bob my head to its beat like the funky jazz they played last week. I relax or amp up, but whatever I do, I’m in the pocket. I’m ready for whatever Murky throws my way. And I’m looking forward to it.

If life is like a box of chocolates, then I'm ready for a Cadbury Crème Egg

2006-04-17T19:50:00.000-07:00

I celebrate Easter like many eh-Catholics: I give up giving things up for Lent and think about the greatest Easter gift—the Cadbury Crème Egg.

What is an eh-Catholic, you might ask? Someone who knows what they’re supposed to do, think about, say at mass, do to go to heaven; and says “eh.” Sure, I live a good life, but my life only intersects with St. Martin’s Catholic Church to appease my Grandma.

So, for the girl who loves celebration and holiday cheer, what joy can possibly come from the holiday of death and rising? A rooftop celebration, complete with Easter egg races and naptime. But what do I do about the candy? How do I make sure to have all the Peeps and Robin’s Eggs and Jelly Bellys when all I really want is a Cadbury Egg?

Searching high and low, from CVS to Safeway, for a Cadbury Egg was the greatest letdown of all. Like searching for that special someone, that person who sweetens your day, brightens your smile and completes your holiday festivities, and only finding syrupy chickens and weak little beans may be why I’ve stopped looking for the perfect man. Aren’t I entitled to the perfect Easter treat, though?

Cadbury makes a prime example of perfection in their sweet little egg: just the perfect amount of chocolate—a strong exterior that inspires confidence and trust. Then, once you delve just below the surface (perhaps a few dates in) you find a sweet, sensitive interior. Like a sweet boy actually calling when he says he will, the Cadbury Egg’s interior is the pleasant surprise we know we deserve.

This Easter, however, just like there seems to be a shortage of sweet men, there’s a deficit of Cadbury Eggs. I went on what seemed like hundreds of first dates between all of those corner CVSs (probably across the street from another CVS and around the corner from a Cosi). Everywhere I turned, however, I seemed to find another Peep or hollow chocolate bunny. This Easter, in the face of empty-calorie candy and men, I’m tempted to ask myself why. Why keep searching for the illusive Cadbury Egg in DC. And of course, in the city that forgot the date, why keep looking for a nice boy?

Just as my confidence in the illusive man begins to wane, there it was, passed over the proverbial cubical wall: a Cadbury Crème Egg. It tasted as sweet as I remembered. The sugar rush to my brain was like the joy of new love. So amazing I didn’t mind when my blood sugar sunk back down, the egg was everything I had hoped for. I may not be compelled to church or sunrise, but I am compelled to indulge in the sweet taste of the season. Does this mean that true love will soon follow? Probably not, but at least I found one good egg. A Cadbury Egg.

Unexpected: the lock-out becomes a lucky day

2006-04-03T19:03:00.000-07:00

I hope I never lose the absurdity of today. A day that was as typical as it was outlandish. It began just another Sunday. Morning set in and I couldn’t sleep—not after a long night working at the bar. Between insomnia and sunshine, I made my way to Eastern Market, thinking about food and guests for dinner along the way. My menu was nonsense. A crazy menu of assorted empanadas, pesto lasagna and salad was in the works. And then, who could have imagined my guests would bring enough wine? The mind races.

At dinner, the food was amazing. The company was a mélange of laughter, smiles and wine. Vegetables were passed around of all flavors, styles and the herbs rang true—accentuating our celebratory mood. How could you possibly end the perfect night? With a lock-out. I was a homeless girl, my lock broken and my friends’ bags inside, behind a locked door; we had to celebrate from without. As we enjoyed our time in my hallway and kept my sanity in the present, I began to think a little about clarity. How do you turn a typically insane day into a lesson?

How do you know whether you’re headed in the right direction? How do you know if you’re living a good life? What do you say when people ask you, “How can you possibly be this happy?” When you’re left raw and open, whether by breakup or broken lock, what do you do?

You live. You feel the flavors; the Italian parsley or Cremini picked yesterday. You taste. When the tasting is an experience of atmosphere, flavor, texture and time, it can be enough. Whether you’re inhaling the last remaining empanada while watching friends dance and waiting for the illusive locksmith or breathing in the calmly energizing dining room of Coppi’s Organic Restaurant, you take in everything and just live. That immediate experiencing of mood and meal brought me face-to-face with the clarity I sought to find.

Taking the clear taste of a pizza made from fresh eggplant, portabella and red pepper, scouted out by the chef at Coppi’s, ensured that I tasted every flavor. I ate tomato so full of flavor that all you needed to do was place it in the blender for a few minutes to have amazing sauce, for me, is like being perched on a DC rowhouse, overlooking your life and knowing, without a doubt and inexplicably, that everything will work out. In a world without rhyme or reason, but with sweetness and a little soul, everything will be alright.

The locksmith got my door open, we found more liquor to pass the time and I will get it figured out (eventually). The bottom line is that, whatever it is doesn’t matter. The moral of the story is that the true "it" lies in figuring out, and not necessarily knowing, the answer. Sometimes, the best we can hope for is just the first spring hug of wind on our arms or the way kale tasted when it's cooked just right.

You say empañada; I say empanada, but what about the dough?

2006-03-26T19:03:00.000-08:00

Everywhere we look there’s compromise to be made. Perspectives, ideas, beliefs, biases and everything in between. When I thought about making empanadas, my first concern was, could they ever be as amazing or as tasty as Julia’s? Of course not, but she’s been at it for years. Once I reconciled that, I moved on to the next, inevitable concern: how do you really pronounce empanada? Do I sound completely ignorant when I leave out the “ñ?” Does it even matter?

Should I just call them homemade Hotpockets instead and openly throw away all credibility I might have had? The glory of Google came to my rescue here. Where else can you find a Spanish-Portuguese dictionary proving that no “ñ” belongs at all?

When I stopped fretting and started making the empanadas, I realized that all of my concerns were pointless when confronted with an imposing mound of flour on wax paper. It’s time. Just do it. Make that dough. And “make that dough” I did. I turned a veritable volcano of flour into beautifully smooth dough. Not without gaining a little perspective, though.

In the beginning, as I poured the homemade vegetable stock cup by cup into my volcano, I was sure this would be a failure. I knew that I would end up with a gooey mess of celery-onion-oregano glue. But somehow, as time passed and kneading became a groove, my glue gelled together. The pessimism faded into optimism, into excitement.

I realize that sometimes in life, we tell ourselves that failure seems logical and success is something we won’t experience simply because we haven’t seen it yet. As the girl who can barely remember to check the mail, how can I be expected to manage this empanada production? When confronted by something as yet undone, how do you know you can do it?

It turns out that the glue holding my life together is a mixture of moxie and preparation. The willingness to do what it takes and the gall to actually try it makes the impossible seem possible. Even with an MIA rolling pin, I managed to put together an impressive stack of equally sized empanada shells. Once you’ve spent an hour convincing flour, vegetable stock and shortening to get along, how do you turn your back when you can just use a can to roll things out?

When I look at my world, I recognize that I wouldn’t even know what an empanada is without having left the comfort of my Wisconsin roots. I mean; anything past pasties and cheese curds just doesn’t make sense. Yet, bucking the system as a rule, I managed to dart away from a life of supper clubs with fully-loaded baked potatoes into the great, wide world where curry and cumin reign hand-in-hand with the eggplant I hold so dear.

I take a look at a life pulled together by shear will and waitressing and I know that a little empanada is nothing to fear. Now if I can just figure out how to broil them without burning the tops…

To brie or not to brie (the conclusion)

2006-03-20T19:53:00.000-08:00

My triumph over brie

Am I older? Not exactly. Wiser? I doubt I’m that either. Nonetheless, without time or wisdom, a lesson has been learned. I left off thinking about a little parmesan and possibly some cottage cheese. Before long, I had started thinking that I might be able to handle going back to dairy. Just here and there, but I might be able to handle it now.

Not long after hopping on the wagon and swearing off the brie wheel, I already began to underestimate the effects that amazing creamy cheese has on me. After months of careful avoidance, there it was again, laid out on a plate: the brie. So what is the lesson learned? Tempting, always, but this time I was wise to that wheel’s whiles. And apparently, once you lose your ability to stomach it, dairy forever haunts you and never gets better. Just when you make that realization, though, that cheese is everywhere.

And here comes the inevitable encounter with the unavailable, but infinitely accessible, man. Like a tray of brie in puff pastry being passed through the room, the unavailable man is everywhere. Just when you think that tray is gone and you’ve passed the test, up comes that waiter again. Was he making a commission each time he went by with that tray? With each dodged-tray pass, my resolved avoidance grew just a little bit stronger.

The illusion of flavor euphoria that brie on fresh sesame lavash produces is one that belies the truth: I cannot handle that cheese any better than I can overlook the fatal character flaw of the unavailable man wishing for freedom and taunting you into believing them.

Now that I’ve gotten past my eating cheese, how do I move beyond other people who not only love the un-digestible, but can stomach it also. I guess the hardest part of knowing what isn’t good for you is watching the person for whom your downfall is an uplifting force. That childish resentment that nags us into adulthood makes us want what we can’t have.

Is the ultimate confidence knowing, not only that something isn’t good for you, but also that others will embrace and enjoy that same substance? The unavailable, but inherently accessible is, in fact, unavailable because it is available to someone else. So, I may not be much older, but I could be just a little bit wiser. I recognize that I will never be able to stomach dairy, be it brie or a cheesy man—it’s not my style.

Giving up or letting go?

2006-03-13T19:41:00.000-08:00

There are things that are bad for you, but you could eat and like and just suffer for them with mild indigestion. What about the other side of things, food you let go of for your necessity of spirit and respect for life? Nearly three years in, I look back at letting go of meat, something I once liked, as I prepare to let go of something I love; my military-bound brother.

I don’t see as much of him now, living a couple time zones apart, but I think of him always. When I let meat go, I wasn’t seeing much of that either. It was around, sure, but not on my plate. I seesawed for a while, and came down heavily on the side of animals. Protecting them, that is.

After thinking long and hard about meat-packing, animals living sad lives and hormones coursing through all our veins, I knew that the best thing for me was to step away. I forged my own path, alongside the other vegetarians running rampant in the States.

Over the years, I’ve developed into a talented vegetarian cook, and cultivated my love for vegetables and a beautiful kitchen that inspires peace and tranquility. I look around me at all of the amazing food—without meat—and think to myself, who needs to eat flesh to be happy?

That was my decision. My choice. I celebrate that choice and the art of making decisions for myself. But what happens when the stakes are raised; what happens when your choices could kill you? What happens when you’re giving up, by choice, the right to make your own decisions?

When my brother decided to join the Marines, I fought long and hard to stop him. Much like the way my grandmother kept trying to tell me the bacon on my potato wasn’t meat, I tried every trick in the book to change his mind. Just as I saw through the guise of Bacos (posing as breadcrumbs?), my brother looked past my claims of, “just an fyi” or, “thought you might be interested.” He knew I was trying to change his mind.

Just as surely as my stomach will churn when I think of eating chicken, my voice will crack when I think of letting go of this child (man?) whom I love more than myself. But the choice is his. What’s right for him, you or I is only for us to determine.

In time, he may become a great soldier. He may rise through military ranks as I rose from a Morning Star Farms microwave dinner addict to tofu connoisseur. He may also, with his decision-making power gone, fight for his right to critical thought.

The difference is clear: In letting go of meat, I’ve made myself healthier and happier. In letting go of my brother, I’m doing just the opposite. But even as he gives up his right to decisions, I refuse to give up on him.

Do I really want to be able to bake a fabulous cake?

2006-03-06T21:26:00.000-08:00

I am a cooker. If that is a word, then I am one. I would never go as far as to call myself a chef. And I most certainly am not a baker. Knowing that baking a cake is a skill, an admirable talent cultivated through meticulous following of measurement and timing. Wouldn’t it be amazing to add that to my list, the list of things friends, family and colleagues beg me to prepare? Who wouldn’t want to be a master of dessert, the course inspiring to those with an itchy sweet-tooth in need of someone to scratch it with a cupcake from scratch.

I was sure that, provided I worked hard, read the recipe carefully and planned my cupcakes to perfection, that I could do it. I could cook something amazing and fluffy and sweet enough to send my hypoglycemia reeling. What I didn’t take into account was that although it seems the logical next step for the girl who loves the kitchen to bake a mean cupcake, I might not actually want to be that girl.

Sometimes, when you think about the next logical step in life, career, relationship, you think that what makes sense must be what you want. The next logical step for me is to add another this or that to my resume. Could it be another recipe that is baked to perfection? Something that will get me an “in” to a party in need of sweets.

This might be an activity, not a new job. Perhaps this activity will be one that builds my networks and connections with people. If I succeed, they will follow my management like they wind through the line to decadent sweets at Firehook—blindly and with hunger in their eyes. At this point, ask yourself the same thing I asked myself: Is that really what I want?

I bought the ingredients, put together my resume, made a call here and there. I even dressed in business casual on a Saturday. I preheated my oven, took out the hand mixer and asked insightful questions of my interviewer. I brought up anecdotal evidence of my qualifications. Well, just because I made one excellent cake and bake a mean quiche crust (after how many failures?), does not mean that I can make these cupcakes to please these professionals and the prevailing DC sweet-tooth? In all honesty, as I read the recipe and filled my cupcake forms, I knew my heart wasn’t in it.

Stick with something you’re passionate about. Be true to yourself. I no more want to manage mid-career networking snobs in their quest to become high-level boss ladies than I want to add chocolate cupcakes to my mastered-menu-item resume. I will continue to experiment with pesto eggplant and the illusive holy grail that is The Perfect Hummus, but I probably won’t try to pour my heart into cupcake format. Or a bunt pan, for that matter...

What to order for the intuitive cook

2006-03-06T16:45:00.000-08:00

I think I know what a person likes because at one time or another they’ve said, “God, I love red bell pepper. I love its sweetness and flavor accentuation of any dish with the pure addition of flavor, sweetness and color.” When a reveal like that is made, a series of recipes come to mind, forever seared into my memory alongside that person’s tastes.

Of course, the logical winner in my red pepper recipe lotto was a smooth and hearty eggplant puree knowing the red bell pepper folded into the soup and lightly garnished on top would be a hit. But what do I want? In the recipe of love, now that I’ve taken into account the salivation of those around, how do I ensure my essential ingredients are represented?

When you cook to please, seeing that combined look of peace and elation wash over a person’s face brings satisfaction. But what happens when it becomes your turn for peace and elation? You’ve constructing a thoughtfully constructed meal for people you love out of the ingredients they adore. The peace and elation, for this intuitive cook, isn’t in the meal itself, but is in the eyes (whether they are half closed while savoring or wide open in surprise and recognition) of those you feed.

To-go er no?

2006-02-24T05:31:00.000-08:00

Have you ever sat down, with an amazing meal in front of you and said to yourself, “I’m definitely taking some of this home with me.” You purposefully quarter off a portion to save for later, so you can prolong this phenom of a meal into one more sitting.

There are also days that are so perfect, you make them end a little early to preserve the magic. Before the hotter-than-normal spring day turns a little too cold for your skirt and shades, you head home. You’ll find your way home earlier to remember the way the sun felt on your forehead, the breeze felt on your smile.

The meal you loved, savored from first bite to last, you save a few pieces of to eat later, maybe tomorrow. Whatever you ordered, from Prime Rib to Pad Thai, you know if you finish it and hang in like a trooper, you’re biting off more than you can chew. So, somewhere in between yummy in our tummy and loosening your pants, you stop. You’d like to stick around and dance until last call, but you know that leaving a little early, before you’re tired, will make your memory just a little sweeter.

And keep in mind that, just as your memories become more sugar and less hangover, the flavors in your to-go box will grow more complex and refined, a little more of the basil, blending perfectly with the curry, coconut and cumin of yesterday. What a great idea, having your to-go and eating it too?

Friend diet

2006-02-22T06:38:00.000-08:00

A diet is supposed to help rid you of excess weight, baggage and make you feel better because you look better and have more self-control than the person next to you. What happens when you’re experiencing an excess of people? You’re overwhelmed by their problems—added calories. This friend is like a piece of chocolate cake; you feel good helping them, providing comfort, only to have a tummy ache afterwards. You choose to take a break. You have no choice but to purge yourself of the extra friend-calories you’re ingesting.

Even when you’re not hungry, you find yourself eating their emotions, insecurities, dramatic days and nights. They’re layered, with only the icing of your own problems in between. Soon, you’re feeling obese in their emotions and don’t see yourself in the mirror, but instead a magnified view of yourself. I see a person with a complexion that only stress or creamy chocolate can cause. Tired all day from my midnight snacks of concern and worry. Finally, before putting one more bite of sadness and pain in my mouth, I say “stop.” “I’m tired, I’m stressed, I’m worried, too.”

But nothing changes. In fact, once I took that piece of despair cake out of my mouth and put it back on the plate, another serving of whipped uncertainty was placed neatly on top. What now? How do you look someone’s pain in the face and put it down like a piece of unwanted cake?

The problem of adulthood is that everything can’t be remedied with sugar anymore. A German Chocolate friendship ends up leaving you lethargic and sad, when the sweet is gone and only a low blood sugar is left behind.

Soggy Quiche, Open Mind

2006-02-15T19:07:00.000-08:00

Did it really turn out?

The perfect quiche. How do you describe this amazing flaky crust, smooth filling, with the perfect variety of vegetables? That is, the perfect variety without having too many flavors colliding and grappling for your tastebuds’ attentions. You may do everything right. You may have each ingredient prepared perfectly. You may have spinach barely wilted, scallions freshly cut, cleaned and fresh from the farm—all of this should make the perfect quiche. I’m convinced you can taste the difference between free range eggs and styrofoam crate, beak burned eggs from the Pick N’ Save.

You may work your whole life taking each, careful step to ensure that your ingredients are fresh. You try to be perfectly ripe, but not yet turned and certainly without too many preservatives, but what happens when you don’t turn out exactly as planned? If the presentation isn’t exact, is the end result still a masterpiece?

I made a quiche the other day that tasted great. I adored each bite, each flavor, each moment. But the crust was all wrong. The crust, a vegetable one, with carrots, broccoli and parsnips playing in my mind, tasted amazing. Not as doughy as my last crust, I was sure I had it right this time. Just as planned was the only way. I thought it would be amazing, perfect, magic. Maybe a little too much pressure for one crust, but I expected the best.

I was certain I had the bull by the horns, or maybe the egg by the shell. With bravado, I added the vegetables and filling and then remembered the key. The forgotten step: the boundary. The thin layer of cheese that separates the permeating vegetables from the crust, keeping the crust strong, crisp and intact. Funny how you put things into place and they come out a little soggy. Almost like that perfect hair day. I think it rained, but splashing around was fun. Of course the mushrooms soaked through and made my beautiful crust a pile of goo. I hope the parsnips at least tripped a little bit, but I doubt it.

The thing was, my quiche was amazing. It may not have turned out like a cookbook (or storybook) quiche, but it turned out. It had the perfect blend of flavors that only a crust battling to hang on can have. Perfection or not, while my quiche may not have belonged on the Food Network, it was mine. It was mine and it was good.

Unwitting Prime Rib Consumption

2006-02-12T19:33:00.000-08:00

As an independent, working girl, I have to do certain things to get by. Anywhere from staying home on a Friday night to muddling through the rigors of a passionately emotionless job. Making sense out of the compromise is hard, but I have plenty of time to do so with fabulous Friday facemasks and red wine to grease my thinking cap. How much compromise is too much? Where and when do I stop being me, lose a piece of my heart and become a broken branch in the organizational flow chart?

As a vegetarian, I am frequently limited in my ability to prepare food for the carnivorous appetites of those around me. I balance my inability to digest meat with my desire to see the pleasure of a meal well-cooked on people’s faces. Is fish enough?
I can’t go as far as ground round, but what about boiling turkey for the ever-requested chipotle turkey chili? Can I even still season this former specialty? The answer is yes. I can take a step outside of my comfort zone and into the unknown area of vegetarian cooking meat items while plugging nose and holding breath.

Are the two even similar? Being motivated to gain experience and pay bills versus being motivated to please the palates of those around me are different, yes, but the slippery slope of preparing meat to, Mother Earth forbid, eating it. I don’t have any problem drawing that line. Seasoning be damned! If the tastebuds of my guests suffer, that is a risk I am willing to take.

But where do you draw the line between unethical employers, poorly run organizations, undefinable goals and personal comfort? When am I going from cooking meat for management to joining in one unending, unethical prime rib dinner? Maybe its time to move on to another kitchen.

The day I lost egg salad

2006-02-11T10:47:00.000-08:00

So, as a child, there was always a meal that we could have as a last resort. We could always count on a tasty hard-boiled egg salad sandwich if menu creativity and cookbook surfing failed. I was never really in the mood for it, but when my mom finally took the toasted Wonderbread out of the toaster oven, we were ready to dig in.

As the independent girl; unable to commit, unable to decide and unable to compromise, I was sitting away and thinking to myself, “well as a last resort, I could always end up with...” Growing up with a backup menu prepared me perfectly for this life. Just as a child I had a last resort meal, I’ve also always had a back-burner guy. Sometimes, I was even excited for the backup. A few times, I may have even planned ahead to indulge. I could never follow through, I don’t like mayonnaise that much. But knowing it was there always made my menu choice not seem so bad.

Even when I ended up accidentally consuming fish sauce or worse, going out with a government attorney, I always had that backup. I always knew I had a tasty dinner and a guy that made me laugh on the back burner, waiting to be brought up front.

So what happens when your back-burner guy jumps to the front of someone else’s stove? What happens when my egg salad sandwich becomes someone else’s quiche? The problem with a girl who is entirely too willing to pop someone from front and center to the back burner, is that sometimes flavors don’t gel together back there. When left unattended, your back burner meal can turn and you end up being separate, as separate as white and yolk.

What do single girls have in common with peel n’ eat shrimp?

2006-02-06T06:38:00.001-08:00

Something I see more and more as I move away from keg parties filled with belching college guys, half naked girls (should or shouldn’t they be wearing that tight dress?) and football playing in the background and I begin to attend keg parties filled with belching guys, belching babies, pregnant women and everything in between, I realize that I may be the only thing that has remained constant among all of these slightly similar objects.

I am the single girl. I am the girl who is written about frequently. I may have even become a cliche, a fabulous one, but a cliche nonetheless. I am a dying breed. I am like the peel n’ eat shrimp on the food table. Everyone sees me, knows I am a delicacy, and wants to make sure that I am not a leftover at the end of the party.

They see a friend talking to me (is he single, or does he have an overbearing girlfriend? No matter, pass her around) and try to make sure he gets more. “Don’t let that one get away, eh?” they say, trying to make sure that neither I nor the peel n’ eat shrimp go to waste. Is that keg, then, my cocktail sauce? Something that accentuates my taste and adds a little horseradish bite? I have plenty of bite on my own, thank you. I need no attached man or woman to hoc me around to single friends. In fact, quite often, the peel n’ eat shrimp are claimed on their own merits.

Can a good, dark beer be the light at the end...

2006-02-01T15:48:00.000-08:00

What does it really mean, the luck of the Irish? As yourself that question after you’ve spent days in Las Vegas, searching for the ever-creamy, meal of an Irish dark beer. What it means is long after you’ve abandoned the strip for the one Irish bar you can find, you may just find yourself a winner.

Now, I’m not knocking making eyes at a keyboard player over a bottle of Beck’s Dark. I’m not knocking the faux-flirting with a guy who probably has a long-standing relationship with the too-choreographed guitar player and his decidedly gay vibe. And after a few, I even convinced myself that our waitress’ breasts were real. Thankfully, no amount of alcohol, short of absynth, could make me believe the woman practicing her pole twirling shimmy in the Bellagio showroom, had been a natural recipient of the uneven orbs on her chest.

I’m not even discounting Newcastle Brown Ale’s syrupy ability to pass hours as you wait for a traffic-ridden dinner date at a casino bar. Newcastle Brown Ale helped me choke down a horrendous bean burrito and some awkward conversations with a fifty-something bartender rotating between fatherly caretaker and lecherous propositioner. Dark beer, unlike any other mixture of barley and hops, can make an unbearable exchange just a little better.

Whether the a biting hop-y flavor distracting your mind and tastebuds away from yet another swing dancer in the hotel lounge’s advances or a complex, nutty flavor making you remember great summers of the past and helping you get through the inane conversation of your present. Dark beer gives the East Coast-Midwestern transplant an opportunity to stand out, on the peripheral.

But with each failed attempt to find Guinness, I grew less and less optimistic. What does Las Vegas have against the creamiest of darks? Save your meals for the buffets, they say! Too many vitamins in there, you won’t find Centrum in this city either! Ha! With each empty dark, my outlook grew darker. Dark enough, you might ask, to be considered Guinness? Perhaps.

Finally, after swearing off the strip, I climbed over a sea of over- and under-weight gamblers with sad eyes and bad toupees to find the promised land—an Irish pub! Surely, they would have some Guinness here! Relax, they did. Guinness that flowed free, provided you gambled as you drank. I put in my five dollar bill and plunked away at my video poker screen. As I prepared to say goodbye to my last seventy-five cents, I hit the big time! Royal Flush! Wooohooo! Big money, no whammies! Only when I finally had that smooth, euphoric Guinness in hand could I turn $5 into $188. The moral of the story is that the reason the house always wins is because they keep the luck of the Irish out of your hands.

To brie or not to brie

2006-01-17T07:21:00.000-08:00

Like a riding segway, this posting is a lazy girls way of expressing her deepest guilts: dairy and too much fun out. Is a dairy hangover better or worse than the hangover from a long night out? Brie taunts me like an unavailable man calling me trouble. They only say you’re trouble to make you prove yourself. The brie and the man sit off to the side, daring me to have a cracker. Of course I know I can’t eat it, but why shouldn’t I? Just a taste, right? Is that enough? What do you do when, say you can’t control yourself after that first, smooth bite?

I look at the tray, knowing it is a mistake, that my stomach will hate me tomorrow, even the next day probably. I can even sense myself battling, the Clash circling my head—Should I eat? When all is said and eaten, of course I end up standing next to the plate, enjoying every last bite of brie. Trying to stop myself only makes makes me eat more in the end.

The difference? Dairy and that unavailable man? I looked myself in the mirror, bloating and all after my brie-ndulgence and liked the person looking back at me. This morning that was not the case. Hummus can’t help me now.

Isn’t amazing how things that are bad for us draw us in? I find myself drawn to the brie because I like that I can’t control myself and that I will have too much and that it will hurt me in the end. I find myself like a moth, drawn in and unable to resist. What ever happened to the sanctity of soy? I must begin a non-dairy lifestyle. Dairy free may not be exactly what I want, but in the interest of self preservation, I will swear off all dairy.

Except cottage cheese. And yogurt. And maybe a little parmesan...

Hummus and World Peace, how do they go together?

2006-01-01T14:22:00.000-08:00

Okay, I know I compare hummus to all sorts of things far greater in importance than the simple garbonzo, but humor me and let me show you how hummus and world peace coincide:

I find it particularly important to point out that although my ultimate goal is the perfect hummus, I recognize that it is no more likely to actually find that than it is for all conflict to end on earth and for us to achieve peace on earth. That doesn’t mean I can’t try.

Peace and harmony are a true blending of opposing, coninciding, similar and completely opposite goals, ideals, people and cultures. Not the melding into one, merely the coexistence and acceptance. For example, not that hunter gatherers in southern Africa should become South Africans, but rather that they should maintain themselves and be accepted while recognizing the outsiders’ points of view. This seems simple, but it is not.

What is simple, however, is that, like humanity, hummus is about coexistence of markedly different forces. Ingredients, not people and flavors, not cultures must come together without becoming each other.

Is making hummus the same as living life?

2006-01-01T14:18:00.000-08:00

Although certain essentials, ie the chickpea, the tahini, the garlic are present, every hummus must be just a little different and find its path just as we, as people and preparers of the homemade hummus, are. My path has taken me here and there, to adventure and beyond. Similarly, the batch I made with the perfect mix of lemon and cayenne, went beyond adventure to a spicy place no roasted red pepper can ever hope to go.

As we make mistakes in life, a bad haircut, for example: we can remedy them with time. The same holds true for a hummus that is a little uneven in its tahini-lemon balance. Choosing something you know is bad for you (a boyfriend or a pairing with bad feta), is not only something your mother warned you of, but can also leave a bad taste in your mouth.

Which is worse, a bad hangover, or the memory of hummus gone awry? I ask this because the next day you may be seen swishing back Dewars, but will there be a plate of hummus or a bowl of salsa next to it? The time it take to recover from a hummus-preparation debacle may be shorter than the time it takes to move past your cheating ex-boyfriend, but nothing is more healing in the event of the latter that a perfectly prepared plate of hummus with clear, crisp, yet smooth flavors that are simpler for your pallatte than any man on your soul.

Hummus, music to my belly

2005-11-28T07:16:00.000-08:00

Classic hummus? Is that meant to imply that new-age hummus is an option? If so, does it come with Zen beads or perhaps a loverman candle for my lonely heart? I tried to decide what variety of hummus to take home and make into a tasty dinner in a room filled with do-wop music and tried to keep in mind that “classic” hummus was probably the best selection for the mainstream Frankie Lymon-filled evening in store for me.

I’m not one to shake things up by combining an edgy, roasted red pepper hummus with a night of dancing on the Sly. No, no. I prefer to save the controversial hummus for the days when I have some of The Clash on my mind. Likewise, when I’m in the mood for JT, I seek out a smooth, relaxing clear flavored homemade hummus. If I plan on throwing on Steamroller, I try to throw in a little basil as well.

As I stare down the Isle of Options, I change it all: to Funk. I grab the Extra Garlic and turn my cd player on to Musicology and jam to myself all the way home.

In this strict definition of what hummus best accompanies which song, how can we possible explain sampling? What about the ever-popular Mash-up? Perhaps layered hummus is the only answer. Regardless, I throw my classical view of hummus to the wind and dive into some hummus that may make my breath more funky than Prince ever could.

Have we forgotten the soy bean? the overlooked friend of hummus

2005-11-04T08:27:00.000-08:00

Please ask yourself? When you think of hummus, do you think of soy? Until today, I didn't. Well, in the most unlikely place, I found the most unlikely hummus: edamame hummus.

An interesting innovation on the standard chick pea (inspirational bean that it is) variety, this was offered as a special feature at the Duck & Dumpling, Raleigh's posh asian spot for tasty tofu by another name. The atmosphere and wine list belied the unbelievable find that this hummus (when ordered spicy) would bring. I imagined the combination of tahini, lemon, olive oil, wasabi and edamame with the freshest cucumbers since Eastern Market Sunday would be tasty and interesting, but never like this. This, being a smooth, lighter, but crisp with clear flavors and heavenly taro root chips. Although not classic by any means, the next time you think to yourself: how can I experiment with hummus (as so many often do, I'm sure)? Think outside the garbonzo and look to the bean. Let us all come together and spread the love to the pinto, soy, kidney and black beans. How about some hummus with soul? Let's make us up some black eyed pea hummus!

The holy grail? Searching for tasty hummus.

2005-11-04T08:04:00.000-08:00

As I begin this quest of epic proportions and search for the essentially unfindable, I must ask myself: does anyone really know what good hummus is? Does anybody really care...about hummus? The question blazing in my taste buds is where can I find a hummus so crisp, so creamy, so fresh and full of "spices" that I would be compelled to grab the recipe and run.

My search begins in our nation's capitol, Washington, DC the place where Mediterranean tapas restaurants abound and there is one, respectible falafel joint. A great place to begin as the ethnic food community in DC is every-expanding and changing to fit the interns, outcastes and administration. Is it a french bistro owned by bulgarians? Perhaps a indian, now thai (only if the name is Thai Me Up or similar). But what does it all mean as the coconut milk curries give way to the apple and raison sauteed spinaches and lamb, lamb, lamb? It is the question I plan to answer in my travels, trials and tribulations...

...in search of the perfect hummus.