Sharing is caring

Sharing is caring, my colleague assures me. And my best rejoinder yet for stealing all his printer ink? Homemade brownies.

I find that making desserts is, in general, a pretty fool proof idea. Especially in grad school. Especially when you're looking for an excuse not to analyze the Deweyesque notions of democratic education one more time, because if you do your brain will Deweyesquely explode.

The glory of dessert is something I first learned back in high school, when I never had a pen or was always forgetting my text book. I'd get someone to share with me by offering them the freshly baked whateveritwas in my lunch. There was great success in this method then. Some things never change.

Blangavo

The source of all misery is rejection. It's true even for old fruit. So better to be kind-- when an avocado is nearing the end of its edible life, do whatever you can not to throw it out. Instead, accelerate a rebirth.

Rebirth and acceleration are big reasons why I own a blender. Blenders do a darn-tootin' good job of both accelerating the rebirth of foods that are nearing their throw-away stages, and accelerating my access to newly born foods that are otherwise tedious or just plain boring to eat. Maybe you don't experience this, but when I look at an avocado, I want badly to do something creative with it. Still, I end up just eating it by itself, plain, scooping it out of its thin dark skin with a spoon. Afterwards I look at some eggs longingly. I pick up and put down a pineapple. I close my eyes and contemplate the taste of a blueberry-avocado-cilantro mix. Had I employed a blender, I could have made a morphing. I could have pulverized several foods into one, and made something new of avocado which was also only accessible by straw. Turning food into a one-way road kind of deal (one serving device vs. plate, fork, napkin etc.) is a great aid to those of us already plagued by so much indecision in so many aspects of our non-kitchen lives.


Today, in need of a creative half hour, I actively took my own advice and blenderized. Blueberries, a little coconut milk, agave syrup. Ice, plenty of ice. No forks, no chop sticks. Straw only. Orange slices on top...

....and guess what?

"Blangavo" means "this recipe needs work."

In Food Blogging, a Gender Gap

photo by Ms. Alizanne

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All food bloggers document food -- its recipes, its history, its context -- for a creative outlet, a hobby, or a profit. But most of those people are not men.

In February, the TIMESONLINE put out a piece on the top 50 food bloggers, five of which were male. Matt Armendariz of Mattbites.com is listed as "one of the select numbers."

Women food bloggers are all over the internet. Some are confined to the home-zone by choice, but most are working, oscillating between what was once the call of duty for a girl and what is now considered the dream modern women should want: to be successful and confident enough to "make a home" by herself, by her own financial gains.

Molly Wizenberg of Orangette is a favorite of mine. She is neither a stay-at-home mom, nor someone who straightaway tied herself (wrists, hips and ankles) to the apron as a gimmick. She actually started her food blog in 2005 after dropping out of a PhD program in social anthropology -- so the girl's smart! -- and while she was "on the search" for her next step she began to write, and eat, and then write about eating, and now she has a book and a soon-to-be opening pizza shop in Seattle.

Molly arrived in the kitchen without coercion, and she confirms my suspicion that something about the kitchen is "right" when life isn't. Something about the kitchen is "personal" and "universal" at the same time. And being there as a woman in 2009 is an immaterial thing.

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If there had been food bloggers right after the Civil War, they'd have been the Miss Prim variety. Blogging would have been a lot of lecturing. It would've attempted to moralize, talk of "what the children and/or husband liked," but would have condemned food discussion related, for example, to anatomy (especially brindling at the terms "breast" and "leg")

Today, femme-foodies are open about limbacy, and many other topics, which make it easy for them to turn a food blog into a big discussion about life. Perhaps because of that, the idea that food is "a lot of talking," the movement, the opening of the internet kitchen doors, has perhaps been more effective for one gender over another.

Even though both men and women eat food, and agree that the kitchen is, across the world, an inclusive space, could the desire to talk about food, and connect it to a larger discussion be a gendered thing?

"We all have kitchens," the men seem to say. "We just don't think about it that much."

Ode to Ruth, and blueberries

On my way into town for some beer and groceries, I noticed the engine gauge on my dashboard going berserk. I pulled off to the side of the road and opened the hood. Coolant, all over my foot.

As I stood around waiting for the mechanic to install my new radiator (magically I had pulled off the road and right into the lot of a fix-it garage), I vaguely eavesdropped on his conversation with another customer and mostly stared into space. I was thinking about my future: a dream-life with a perfectly new and always-reliable car; a life with no car at all.

Suddenly, a little girl appeared before me.

"This is for you," she said, offering up a very long-stemmed dandelion. She stared with confidence at her hands as they convened with mine, successfully passing the gift. She stared at my stomach, where, had I been her height, there would have been eyes staring back.

"Thank you," I managed, climbing out of my thoughts, somewhat cloudily taking her in. "That's a beautiful thing."

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I know it's cliche to talk about the naivete of children, and how we, the unfeeling "adults" should strive to imitate their candor more often in our daily lives. But perhaps because of my surroundings -- a greasy, spare-parts laden garage in the middle of a dusty highway-- something about this particular child and her particular offering struck me as special.

I was thinking about money, the pain of having to fork it over in a sum that would nicely inhibit my freedom in the coming weeks. But then this girl, this flower. This way she told me it was "for me." Not just the dandelion, the car bills. But this experience, this day, this life. And despite all the noise, all the inconsistencies and inconveniences, what remained salient, really, was this little act of human tenderness. And indeed she is what I remembered returning home that afternoon. Not the car.

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Home, I ate fresh blueberries with milk. I ate them in a little white dish, slowly, by the spoonful, with lots of white sugar on top. I tilted the bowl at the end to drink up the last of the milk, which was cool and sweet and only ever so slightly blue.

What do you do with a....

There's nothing like spending a Tuesday night reading a 19th century female bildungsroman to inspire a meal with feminist prowess. In order to make this meal, call to mind the swooning artisan who's paying off his lover's lover's debts (from that Tennyson poem?), and then imagine what that guy's probably not eating. That's what I'm making tonight.

on deck:

lamb chops
farmer's market Swiss chard
blueberries (2 cartons)
$10 bottle Merlot
some sweet potato
some tarragon
some garlic, minced

now the question is: what will I do?

"the room is full of you! -- A something in the air, intangible...And suddenly I thought, "I have been here before!"

Ever since my very lovable friends Norah and Jeff first mentioned the name "Mark Bittman" to me in early spring of this year (and subsequently blew me away replicating his rice pilaf recipe), I wondered about whether or not to refer to him for lessons in cooking. It wasn't until a few weeks ago that the name was mentioned again, and aside from becoming instantly addicted to his blog, I finally ventured to expand my own skills according to his artistry (quel snob? Jamais!)

A colleague and fan of Bittman's no-knead bread recipe helped to suade my ego. He convinced me with his own gourmet novice success that the New York Times could make anyone into a great baker. Not only could I make a whole wheat boule as good as the next guy, he said, or the guy at the Sullivan Street Bakery, but following the Times' recipes I could probably make 5-star chocolate chip cookies too, with relative ease.

What I found in the New York Times Dining archive was this little treasure map for Jacques Torres chocolate chip cookies; cookies which are the best (least dietetic) cookie I have ever baked in my whole life, and an impressive example of what I think a chocolate chip cookie should be.




Proof of the perfection e is in the fact that the dough can be prepared comfortably while talking on the phone, even though that is otherwise perhaps the most annoying thing in the world. (Not just to the person on the other end!) It is uncharacteristic of me to multi-task to that extent, or in that way, and yet while I prepared the dough for these, I remained on the line with the dear and always-engaging Brian for nearly an hour without saying a peep about discomfiture, or abruptly ending the conversation out of frustration, or without dropping the phone numerous times until the battery fell out of it, which happens a lot to me.

No, I was transfixed. During the butter-and-sugar blending process, I was sitting at my table, stirring and stirring, watching the room-temp butter and brown-and-white sweetness slowly commingle then swiftly blend then become this soft, milk-in-your-coffee colored, heavenly-smelling, perfectly whipped cream-stuff, all while Brian talked, and I made sure to offer the adequate "uh huh, uh huhs" to keep the conversation going on my end.

The mixture was so beautiful when I was done, and smelled so buttery and sweet, I almost jarred some of it for later to use as lotion. But didn't.


Ever since I started writing about food for Mark Sisson, I have been trying to eat more like his diet suggests, which means no sugar. None. But the rain provoked me. When it rains, I hunker way down to my old domestic get-cozy-and-warm habits, and I start drinking wine, and I get nostalgic for cookies.

I went overboard this time (too excited about the new recipe) and so the baking of these cookies turned into baking many batches of these cookies, which then turned into a party. I sent an email invitation asking everyone in the building to come to the kitchen and help figure out what to do with all the cookies. And those guys, let me tell you. They are so smart. They knew just the solution.

Gould Gorgeous

Emily Gould now has a food blog. It's great, check it out!

eating toast does not make me better-tempered; I feel evil still

Holy Moly! Not a one left!




There is a farmer's market cart just up route 9G operated by the sweetest, most salt of the earth people you'll ever meet. They sell "second rate" strawberries for less than a buck, and I try to go early not only to get the pick of the litter but to socialize while ogling the other delicious fruits.

I remember strawberry picking as a kid, but not so much enjoying fresh strawberries. Once we got them home my mother would quick cut them up and sprinkle sugar on, which caused them to turn into this soggy, syrupy confection I no longer recognized and wouldn't eat.




The strawberries I bought from the cart down the road this week are beautiful, right from the patch, barely bruised. Fresh and red and petite. Ever since I got my hands on them I've been itching for an opportunity to eat them in something else.

Reviewing my week's diet (that is, looking in the fridge to figure what's not there anymore) I'd say I've been lacking in carbohydrates. The decision to borrow Molly Wizenberg's recipe for strawberry scones this morning was easy. I forgot the egg, but they still turned out beautifully! Thanks, Molly!

For the recipe, click the link above or head over to her site and just have a looksie. It's worth it even if you never end up making the scones.

the mutable cacao

Do you know that feeling when you find out a belief you've held is wrong? That feeling came over me when I tried to make salmon the other night.



I returned to the apartment late, put on slippers and looked out the window through the rain. The glow of distant houses filled the night. I looked in the fridge. There was some salmon. There was some pasta uncooked. I had a bad craving for hot chocolate. Hot hot food. Warmth. Golden inner light. Food light. Chocolate salmon pasta. Stomach. Eats.



Usually, the fatty omegas and protein in salmon prevent my brain from getting to this point, where I'm going all wrong and losing perspective on the cooking ingredients that are available in the house. If I had already eaten salmon that day, I would have discovered what to do much more quickly. As it was, it took some time. I came around.

I realized salmon can be cooked with cocoa. Hot chocolate salmon. How splendid. We forget that cocoa powder is not sweet. It's bitter. It can be mixed with things that are not sweet. Mixed with dry mustard, for example, and some olive oil. And put on the outside of fish. Omega fatty acids for the brain, flavonoids for the heart, all in one meal.

I didn't eat it with anything else. I didn't eat it with hot chocolate. I didn't need to, it was so delicieuse. Not even leftover wine would have made it better. And now that I've had it on salmon, I'm not sure I'll really want to go back to cocoa the old way. Warning: you might not either.


To make Spicy Cocoa Salmon you need:

• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• 1 tsp cocoa
• 1 tsp dry mustard
• 1/4 tsp cinnammon
• 1 tablespoon ground cumin
• 4 oz. filets of salmon

1. Heat oven to broil. Mix all dry ingredients (cocoa, mustard, cinnamon and cumin) in a small bowl using a whisk.
2. Rinse salmon filets. Add oil to the cooking pan and coat filets on both sides with the oil. One at a time, coat filets with the dry ingredient mixture.
3. Broil for 4-5 minutes or until salmon is cooked through.
   

Trans Fat for Good Breath?

You don't eat your friends, right, so you don't care what their bodies are made up of (only what's in their heart).

Likewise, you don't expect your food to be there for you when times get rough.

But food labels are different than social labels. They're supposed to be limiting. They exist to inform in one specific area: ingredients. Food goes into your organs (unlike your friends) and allows or destructs certain functioning. You need to know what's in it.

If you've educated yourself about nutrition, you already know this. If you haven't, you're probably still buying a lot of trans fats and high fructose corn syrup, suffering undiagnosable aches and pains, and playing roller coaster with your health and weight (or will be soon). More than that, you probably have no idea that foods with "0 g" next to the Trans Fat column on the label doesn't actually mean the stuff is trans-fat free.

If you're a "sometimes" reader of labels, the advice in this blog is especially for you, because it's likely that if you bother to read labels at all, you are only thinking to read them on foods you consider "staples." Which means the last place you probably check is chewing gum. Guess what? It's there.

Food processing plants and product engineers are extremely sneaky. I mean inconceivably sneaky. They're their own CIA. If I hadn't been training myself for years to wear hyper-label spectacles every time I'm near food, I wouldn't have guessed either that they were putting trans fats in my favorite gum.

About a year and a half ago was when I first discovered that Orbit, the best gum I ever bought (judged solely by how well it disguised my coffee breath), was using partially hydrogenated vegetable oils in various flavors of their product. I had been chewing the peppermint kind (free of trans fats, high in aspartame) but found myself at an unfamiliar bodega in Brooklyn once where peppermint was unavailable. I turned to "Mojito Mint," squinting at the label.

What I found was trans fat, first ingredient. So I put it down and picked up the next one (Raspberry Spasm, or something) and what I found there was the same. I looked through all the other weird flavors and couldn't get away from the stuff. I left the store empty-handed and went home to brush my teeth.

Since then, I have pretty much sworn off gum altogether. And when it comes down to it, that's best. If you can help it, don't buy mints, breath "tape" or any of it. All the food companies that are trying to eliminate trans fats from their snacks are just transferring it to stuff that's already entirely bad for you, like gum and candy, whose labels people are less likely to read because they buy it whimsically at the checkout.

Drink enough water, keep coffee to the mornings, brush your teeth more often, and you'll be fine. If you're popping gum when you're hungry, just eat real food. And if it's the kind with labels, read them.