Potato Harvest Violence and Perfect Roast Potatoes
Posted: September 6, 2011 Filed under: dinner, side dish 3 CommentsI didn’t see Napoleon Dynamite until it had been out on video for a few months. I remember sitting on a friend’s couch in Los Angeles, watching with a furled brow. I just didn’t get it. I didn’t understand why everyone thought it was so funny. About three-quarters of the way through the film the hilarity struck me. I realized that to the other 10 million Angelinos and most of the world, all things Napoleon were indeed hilarious. It had just gone over my head because it was all so, well, normal to me. I grew up not far from Preston, Idaho, where the movie was filmed. Everything in the movie was familiar. All the aesthetics, the characters, even the fashion. I’ll put my pride in a risky situation to tell you that I even use to wear moon boots to school.
Now that you have the correct visuals in your mind’s eye, I’d like to tell you a story about southeast Idaho. Entertainment doesn’t come easily in this part of the world. There was a movie theater in town. Sometimes an arcade. Sometimes a roller skating rink. For the most part, though, having fun meant coming up with something creative like dropping bowling balls off the college stadium bleachers to see if they would shatter.
For the less creative types there was dragging main. I’m not certain if the concept of dragging main is a universal concept, but I’ll explain how to do it in Rexburg, Idaho just in case. Drive down one side of the street, turn around in the court house parking lot. Drive down the other side of the street, turn around in the Circle K parking lot. Repeat. For hours. Preferably in a fancy pick up truck with ridiculously large tires, a lift, and glass packs to give it an overly obnoxious sound.
If you didn’t know where your friends were on a Friday or Saturday night, you had pretty good chances of finding them by lapping Main Street a few times. If you wanted a boyfriend, you had a pretty good chance of finding one by lapping Main Street a few times. Surely there was a male from a neighboring town looking for love in all the wrong (right?) places as well. In the mood for a brawl? Yup. Head to Main Street. All you had to do was flip the bird at the right (wrong?) person and pretty soon fists were flying.
I spent time doing all of the above activities. In the end I favored the more creative, adventurous pursuits, but there is no denying that dragging main served a few important functions in my life.
One warm summer evening I was sitting shotgun in my friend’s convertible Mustang. Well, it wasn’t really hers. Her father owned the local Ford dealership and there was always a marginally made American vehicle at our adolescent disposal. Usually a Tempo or Taurus, but every now and then she would get to take out something a little more fun. On this evening, we had just made a stop at my house and I was hungry so I grabbed a can of peaches and a fork. In the back seat were two male passengers. My scrawny step-brother, a couple years younger than me, and a cousin visiting from Arizona. As we rounded the corner by Me-N-Stan’s, the local coffee shop, I spotted one of the aforementioned jacked up trucks and immediately my fight or flight response kicked in. I clenched my can of peaches and my eyes narrowed into furious little slits.
The owner of the truck was the son of a local farmer. He and his father were crooks that had swindled me out of hundreds of dollars. The previous fall they employed my best friend and I to help harvest their potatoes. We spent several freezing, miserable days being drug around on a trailer behind the potato truck plucking rotten spuds off a conveyer belt. It was an icy, uninspiring, filthy, horrible job. I took it, though, knowing I could earn some good money and share some quality time and some laughs with my BFF.
Only we never got paid. Every time we would call the farmers to ask where our money was they would give us some lame excuse until eventually we stopped asking. The anger never subsided, however, and when I spotted their truck that night, I acted in sheer brilliance.
I hucked the can of peaches at their prized truck.
A high speed chase ensued. The Mustang should have smoked them, but the driver of the vehicle was no Mario Andretti. We sped through town, darting in and out of neighborhoods trying to ditch them, but weren’t able to get enough distance between us to make a break. For some reason, the driver was worried about the top being down and made what could have been a fatal (literally – trucks are not to be messed with in small towns) error. She pulled into a drive way and parked the car so she could put the top up. It only took a few seconds for the truck to reach us. The driver and passenger flew out of their truck, smoke pouring from their ears, flinging obscenities that would have made the devil himself uncomfortable. In the millisecond it took for them to approach us we all silently wondered who was going to get the wrath of these boys. The girls in the front? The underdeveloped, preppy boys in the back? I didn’t look back, but I wouldn’t be surprised if their teeth were chattering in fear. Our potential assailants were the quintessential small town bullies. Tall ball caps on their heads, mullet hair poking out the back, Marlboro tee shirts with the sleeves cut off (to display their muscly arms) and a pair of well worn shit kickers (aka cowboy boots).
And they had the fury.
I decided that since I started this, I better do the fighting. I stood up on the seat and stuck my finger into the face of my enemy and asserted my angsty claim. “You owe me money.”
The end.
The fight ended just like that. The driver ran back to his truck as fast as he’d exited it and it was over. I’m still puzzled by the anticlimactic ending, but man, what a relief it was to see their tail lights round the corner into obscurity. It took a while for our hearts to recover. I never saw a dime of that potato harvest money, but seeing his face when I pointed out his misconduct was priceless.
Dragging main has since been banned in Rexburg and I no longer eat canned peaches. I do, however, giggle every time I make potatoes and remember changing that dude’s pride into a perfect pile of potato mash.
Today, in honor of my Idaho potato infused youth, I’m excited to share with you my favorite spud recipe. It’s delicious and cosmopolitan enough to be served at any table from Los Angeles to Preston, Idaho.
Perfect Roast Potatoes
These are really tasty. I don’t have a precise recipe for this, I just throw them together and they are different every time. Tinker around until they are perfect for you.
2-3 lbs potatoes (russet, red, Yukon – they all work well)
1-2 Tbs olive or coconut oil
sea salt
any other flavoring you like
-Preheat oven to hot (400-450ish…see not very precise)
-Start a large pot of water boiling (enough water to cover the potatoes you’re about to cube). Add salt to water if you’re so inclined
-Rinse potatoes well
-Cube potatoes into whatever size cube you want to go into your mouth. Anywhere from 1/4 to 3/4 inch. Totally up to you.
-Place them in boiling water and watch carefully. We want the potatoes to boil for about 3 minutes, but not too long or they will taste like roasted mashed potatoes…NOT what we’re going for
-Drain the water and return the potatoes to the pan.
-Here’s the vitally important part. Place the lid on the pan. Holding the lid firmly shut with both hands (use mitts if necessary), shake the pan vigorously for 20-30 seconds. We want to create “fuzz” on the surface of the potato. This will create a delicious crust on the potatoes once they’re cooked.
-Place potatoes on a cookie sheet and drizzle with oil. Don’t use too much or they’ll taste fried. Just use enough to coat them all lightly. We don’t want them swimming in oil.
-Season with salt and anything else you want them to taste like. I use Italian seasoning blend sometimes, garlicy BBQ rubs sometimes, rosemary, sage, really anything you have on hand. Parmesan is delicious.
-Stir well
-Bake 25-40 min depending on the size of the cubes and the temp of the oven (sorry I can’t provide more exact instructions). Stir half way through.
You’ll know they’re done when they are crusty and golden on the outside and are soft on the inside.
Serve immediately
Hollow Heart Vegetables
Posted: August 23, 2011 Filed under: dinner | Tags: Asian Food, vegetable Leave a commentA hollow heart may sound like an atrocity when it comes to human beings, but it’s a great quality in a vegetable. Just ask any Chinese person. There is a Chinese vegetable (空心菜) with a name that literally translates into “hollow heart vegetable” because the stalks are hollow. It’s also called “water spinach.” Learn more about it here.
“Hollow heart vegetables” are one of my dad’s favorite foods. He has told me on multiple occasions (usually while munching away on said vegetable) that he would gladly eat them every day without getting sick of them.
In addition to never failing to bring a smile to my dad’s face, this vegetable has another awesome quality: It can be converted into two different dishes. I’m invariably pleased when a food serves more than one purpose in the kitchen. For example, lemons can offer juice and zest. Eggs are not just one ingredient but two — whites and yolks — which are wonderful together, but even more wonderful because they can be separated to serve completely different purposes.
My dad was the one who taught me how to make his favorite vegetable into two vastly different (but equally delicious) dishes: one dish from the sauteed leaves, and a second, very spicy dish made from the stalks.
To prepare the vegetable, pluck the leaves off the stems, put them into a bowl, and wash them thoroughly. Then rinse the stems and slice them; since they have “hollow hearts” they turn into little rings once sliced. After they’re cooked, the stems have a crunchy, not tough, texture. The stems make for a spicy concoction that is delicious on top of rice, served alongside their leafy counterpart.
Two-Part Recipe for Hollow Heart Vegetable
Part 1: The Leaves
The leaves from 1 bunch of hollow heart vegetables
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tsp sesame oil (or regular oil, if you don’t have any)
salt & pepper
Instructions: Separate the leaves from the stems using your hands. Wash and chop the stems, and set aside for part 2. Wash the leaves thoroughly in water and drain. Heat a skillet with the oil and garlic until the garlic is fragrant. Toss in the washed and drained leaves. Add salt and pepper to taste, and stir fry until the leaves wilt. Move on to part 2.
Part 2: The Stems
1 1/2 cups chopped stems
1 tsp soy sauce
1 tablespoon Sriracha chili sauce
dash of salt
a few turns of black pepper
1 garlic clove, minced
1 jalapeno, sliced
1 tsp sesame oil
Saute all ingredients together over medium high heat for about 3-5 minutes. The stems should still be crunchy and green; don’t overcook them. Serve with the stir fried leaves with a side of rice.
Raspberry Rapture
Posted: July 12, 2011 Filed under: breakfast, dinner | Tags: coconut, quinoa, raspberries 1 CommentI can’t get enough of raspberries lately. In case you don’t frequent the produce section of your local market, raspberries aren’t cheap. The hefty price for these luscious berries incites in me a longing to return to the home of my youth where they grow prolifically under an azure Idaho sky.
Sherie, my mom’s next door neighbor, has raspberry bushes behind her house and these neighbors have granted us free reign over their crop. When my babies were still babies, we would wait all spring and pretty far into the summer (it’s Idaho, remember) for those berries to ripen. In our anticipation we would inevitably convince ourselves that pink was purple enough and pop a sour raspberry into our mouths before walking away with puckered faces and broken hearts.
One year raspberry bushes popped up on the other side of Sherie’s house, nearly choking out the flora that was already planted there. No one planted these bushes, but they thrived amazingly on the north (shaded) side of the house. The only thing we could figure is that some cute little birdies perfectly aimed their raspberry seeded poop into this flower bed.
Whatever the case, these berries were mightily abundant at Sherie’s house and it was magical to take my two sweet little girls by the hand and accompany them to the raspberry bushes. We would take big bowls over with an intent to fill them, but inevitably more would go in my kid’s mouths than in the bowls. They were too little and cute to reprimand so I would just smile and cross my fingers that they didn’t give themselves diarrhea. The berries that did make it back to grandma’s house were made into jam, ice cream, and/or pancakes.
Idaho is positively gorgeous in the summer and I’m missing it terribly right now. We’ll be there next month, but until then I’ll be fantasizing about sitting on the porch at grandma’s house, watching the sun descend (I don’t know what it is about the atmosphere there, but I’ve never seen anything to rival a southeast Idaho sunset), surrounded by family with a bowl of fresh raspberries in my lap.
Today I’m sharing two (lucky you!) raspberry recipes with you. They’re both perfect for summer. Raspberry Coconut Quinoa and a raspberry salad dressing. I eat this quinoa (pronounced keen-wah) every day for breakfast. Quinoa, in case you haven’t heard, is the new oatmeal. And the new rice. And the new ____ (fill in the blank with whatever grain-like food you’d like) It’s an ancient food that was recently rediscovered and that is surprisingly high in protein, has all kinds of nutrients, and cooks up fast. You can read more about it here.
Raspberry Coconut Quinoa
This can be served hot or cold and modified to taste. Consider using pomegranate seeds, blueberries, peaches, bananas, etc. Serves 1.
1/3 cup quinoa
1/3 cup milk or milk substitute
1 cup water
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon (optional)
1 tablespoon flaxseed, ground
1 tablespoon (or to taste) honey, agave, or sugar
¼ cup fine shredded coconut (I use the non-sweetened kind)
handful of chopped, toasted almonds
handful rinsed raspberries
Rinse the quinoa in a fine mesh sieve (otherwise it tastes bitter), then place in a medium saucepan with milk, water, and cinnamon. Bring to boil, then reduce heat and simmer for 10-15 min. At this point the quinoa should have a slight crunch when you bite it. Remove from heat and drain any remaining liquid if you want. Stir in the flaxseed, honey and coconut. Mix well and then top with raspberries and toasted almonds. Oh, and you can never go wrong with a big splash of half & half on top.
Genetically Modified Taste Buds
Posted: June 7, 2011 Filed under: desserts | Tags: Asian Food, Microwave, Red Bean 4 CommentsDo you ever wonder what makes a person love or hate a particular kind of food so much? Is it a strictly chemical reaction, our genes, a stigma attached to that food (i.e. insects or frog’s legs), or some combination of all of these?
I think our food preferences are a mixture of nature and nurture. I have grown to love many of the foods I disliked as a child, but I don’t think I will never get over my aversion to coconut – something my mother says that I inherited from my dad. Actually, nobody on my dad’s side of the family likes coconut.
In November, I visited the aforementioned clan of coconut haters in Taiwan. My aunt was delighted to learn that many of my favorite foods were also her favorites. She exclaimed that it was proof that we were related; it was our blood that made us love red bean, black sesame, and cabbage so much.
Red bean is one of my favorite foods; I would gladly eat it by the spoonful. So would my aunt. And on this trip, I found out that my grandmother loves it, too. She can’t eat a lot of solid foods anymore, but I was happy to see that one of the few edible treats she can still enjoy (in moderation) is red bean mochi — a dessert made from sweet rice flour. It’s soft enough for her to mash between her gums, and she likes sucking on it like candy.
I won’t ever have the privilege of having a traditional, warm-fuzzies relationship with my grandma. I can’t even share a direct conversation with her, since we don’t speak the same language. But when my aunt told her how much I, too, love red bean, my grandma looked over at me with a sweet smile of recognition on her face. I felt closer to her in that moment than ever before.
I know it’s strange, but that day, I felt proud of myself for loving red bean; it was like my taste buds had passed some sort of genetic test with flying colors. Such is the power of food. Which leads us back to the original question: Are our culinary preferences passed down from one generation to the next? I don’t know. But does it really matter? Not really.
Still, if you like mochi, perhaps the chances are high that your family members will like it too. In Taiwan, it’s fairly easy to find street vendors who make mochi from scratch. However, here in America, I’ve noticed that packages of red bean mochi in Asian supermarkets often contain preservatives, since they were shipped from elsewhere.
Avoiding preservatives is always a plus. It’s actually fairly simple to make mochi from scratch. Traditionally, mochi is steamed, but I love the fact that you can make such a seemingly impressive dessert in the microwave.
Red bean mochi - from the microwave.
5-minute Microwavable Mochi
Ingredients
3/4 cup sweet rice flour (mochiko flour)
3/4 cup water
1 tsp vanilla extract (optional)
1/4 cup sugar (optional – feel free to omit if you’re going to fill the mochi with sweet red bean paste)
Corn starch, for rolling out the dough
a plastic knife
Directions
Combine all the ingredients except tapioca/corn starch in a microwavable bowl; stir until smooth. Cover the bowl tightly with plastic wrap and microwave for 5 minutes on high. While that’s happening, sprinkle a generous layer of corn starch on a cutting board or other clean surface. When the mochi is finished heating, it will be opaque and sticky. It shouldn’t be runny at all.
Remove the bowl from the microwave carefully with a towel or oven mitt, since it will be hot. Undo the plastic wrap, being careful to avoid the hot steam as it escapes.
Use a spoon to scoop the mochi onto the prepared cutting board. It will be extremely sticky. Don’t panic if you can’t get it off the spoon. Just do your best. Corn starch will be your new best friend for the next few minutes. Make sure to coat your fingers with it before attempting to handle the monstrously sticky mochi. Cut it into manageable chunks with a plastic knife (amazingly, the mochi doesn’t seem to stick to the plastic much, and it gives a clean cut). You can either eat it like this, on top of ice cream or frozen yogurt (a la Pinkberry), or you can make red bean mochi.
Sweetened red bean paste is basically made by cooking red beans until tender, and then mashing them with sugar into a smooth, thick paste that is similar to the texture of refried beans. You can buy it at the Japanese market, packaged either in a pouch or tin can. I prefer the pouch because if you don’t finish the package, you can store the rest in the fridge. (Hint: It’s surprisingly delicious in oatmeal.)
To make the red bean mochi, simply squeeze some red bean paste onto a flat disc of mochi dough (it’s OK if it’s coated with corn starch) and shape the dough around the filling to form an enclosed ball – kind of like wrapping a dumpling. Unfortunately, you may find that your fingers will get slightly scathed from handling the hot mochi, but it’s easier to shape the dough before it gets too cool. The mochi can be stored in an airtight container for up to 3 days.
Die Not Rhubarb Pie
Posted: June 3, 2011 Filed under: desserts | Tags: rhubarb pie 3 Comments
My grandparents were the number 10. He was tall and skinny and she was short and round. He was quiet, worked hard, and was humble and grateful for everything she cooked. Sincerely grateful–like he had never had such good food in his life, yet he ate from her magic plates every day. She was feisty and determined and was always at work trying to find ways to improve anything in her life that dissatisfied her. However, no one was dissatisfied with anything she created in the kitchen. There is well known lore about my grandmother that if there were only 5 random ingredients in the kitchen, she would find a way to make something delicious. She was Macgyver in an apron.
As a child I used to sit on the floor in a corner of her kitchen and watch in awe, lulled by the swishing sound of her nylons (or maybe it was a girdle) as she moved from one side of the kitchen to another. Her soft face was always dewy with a thin layer of perspiration. She made everything “from scratch.” She may have even ground her own wheat. I wouldn’t be surprised. They were both from a small farming community in Utah, and even after years of living in different places, they still had a naive country quality about them. They trusted everyone. This made them prey to a few swindlers, but for the most part, it was their greatest quality.
My grandfather was a civil engineer and used to work building bridges and dams, so they moved around with his work. They had 7 kids, and the money was never quite enough, so may grandmother always found a way to make more. When my grandfather was working on a bridge in Eastern Washington, she rented a giant house and took in boarders (other engineers and people he worked with) and their board included meals. I guess if you are already cooking for so many, what’s a few to 10 more?
This meant that the kids had plenty of cooking chores. My oldest aunt spent a lot of time in the kitchen with her mother. At the time, I think she resented it, but my aunt Tanja is also a fabulous cook.
I got the best of both worlds and inherited my grandma’s cooking skills and my grandfather’s metabolism. Which means that I can actually enjoy my own cooking, unlike my grandmother, who was always dieting. I never diet. To me, diet is “die” with a “t.” It helps that I eat healthy and I don’t go crazy over sweets. But this week I did something I rarely do. I made a pie.
I am very snobby about pies. I will only eat a home-made pie with home-made crust. I usually make apple pie if I am going to make one, but somewhere out of the deep unexplainable came a craving for rhubarb pie. Rhubarb is apparently a country pie (most people in the city don’t know what rhubarb looks like–they are missing out). So it took a few weeks of searching until I finally found rhubarb, and I made a pie that would have made grandma break her diet.
I finally found it at Whole Foods
Isn’t it strange and gorgeous? It looks like red celery. It is tart, and so when you add sugar and orange juice to it sings.
Here is the recipe:
1 1/4 cups white sugar (I used organic cane sugar)
3 tablespoons orange juice
Beyond Potatoes
Posted: June 3, 2011 Filed under: dinner | Tags: chicken tika masala, idaho potoatoes 3 Comments
Exotic flavors and foods were not on the dinner tables of those of us who grew up in the quaint farming community of Rexburg, Idaho.
Meat? Yes!
Potatoes? Absofreakinglutely.
Go ahead with your Idaho potato jokes if you want, but for those who grew up there, we knew the joke was on everyone else.
Each October during potato harvest season, the farmers would hire so many students to work the fields that the school board just dismissed the entire school district. Spud Harvest was a two-week school sanctioned vacation wherein students could choose to work on a potato farm or just enjoy a late extension of summer vacation. Those who chose to work would pass ridiculously long hours working on the combine or in the pit sorting good potatoes from the bad, or if you somehow found yourself in the upper echelons of agricultural society, you got to drive truck. Positions within the potato industry are ranked. Truck drivers were the envied few. They were paid more, got to drive (such a teenage privilege), and could listen to music on the cassette player of the truck. Plus, they didn’t get as dirty as the other peons, who would inevitably find dirt in their ears and boogers well into November.
My parents weren’t farmers and were even transplants from more cosmopolitan cities like Salt Lake City and Minneapolis, but we were still slaves to the culinary mores of the community. One of my mom’s favorite meals was simply a pan full of sliced potatoes and diced ham, which was covered with milk, seasoned and baked. That’s it.
The local dining in Rexburg included a JB’s Big Boy, a couple fast food joints and my personal favorite – the Kmart cafeteria. Their grilled (artificial) cheese was magical, and it’s saltiness was perfectly complimented by a Fanta Red Cream Soda. That was my favorite treat as a child.
Despite having naive taste buds, I somehow found my way out of Rexburg and into the world. I remember my first taste of hummus. I was 18. (18?! My kids have been eating hummus since they first knew the spoon). My taste buds quickly matured and soon I was eagerly lapping up pad thai, carne asada, dal, wasabi, tom kha gai and enjoying the biggest party that was taking place in my tummy.
Now, fifteen years later, I’m living in Los Angeles and go on a date with my husband every Friday night. We are trying to discover the multitude of ethnicities this city offers. Last weekend we ate Burmese food. Other recent dates found us at the Hare Krishna Temple cafeteria or eating ostrich at a Mexican restaurant in a Jewish neighborhood. On my list to try are Ethiopian and Syrian cuisine. The world is way too big and food is way too wonderful to limit myself to meat and potatoes, though I’ll never be too cultured or fancy to refuse a baked Idaho potato every now and then.
Rexburg has matured too. You can find sushi and Thai food there now and it’s actually quite good. I can find diverse flavors just about anywhere I go now, but I still love stocking up on “exotic” ingredients and making these dishes at home. Here’s one of my faves. Chicken Tikka Masala. It calls for ginger. I’m pretty sure ginger wasn’t even in our local market. I’m certain it was never in my mom’s kitchen. It’s always in mine.
Chicken Tikka Masala
This recipe was inpsired by my friend, Amber, a fellow spud digger turned Indian food lover.
Chicken Tikka Masala
1 cup plain yogurt
P.S. I found a great article on how to handle ginger
Soup and the Simple Life
Posted: May 18, 2011 Filed under: soup | Tags: Childhood, Eggs, Fish, Soup 3 CommentsAs a kid, I daydreamed about venturing out on my own and living like one of the Boxcar Children. Once in a while, I would even grab a handful of Cheerios and stow it in my room as an emergency food supply, just in case I ever needed to pack up and leave on a whim.
But deep down, I knew I didn’t really want to run away. For one, I was a wuss. Also, I had a wonderful childhood. Now that I think objectively about some parts of The Boxcar Children (for instance, that the children must comb through the dump for “treasures” like rusty spoons and cracked cups), it sounds like a pretty meager existence. But I was far too envious of their meals to feel sorry for them. Under the spell of Gertrude Chandler Warner’s pen, even the most basic of foods — brown stew, baked potatoes, bread and butter — sounded positively mouthwatering. For example:
“Onions!” Henry shouted, running up to the kettle. “I do like the smell of onions.”
“I like the turnips best,” said Violet.
Jessie took off the cover carefully and stirred in the salt, and Henry sniffed the brown stew. It was boiling and boiling.
“A ladle, of all things!” cried Henry. “Where did you get it?”
“I found a tin cup in the dump,” said Jessie. “We used a long stick for a handle and tied it to the cup with a piece of wire. It makes a fine ladle.”
She ladled out the stew into plates and bowls and put a spoon in each one.
“Oh, oh!” said Benny. “I am so hungry. I must eat my supper!”
—The Boxcar Children, Gertrude Chandler Warner
I understand, Benny; I love soup too. One of my favorite soups would have been simple enough for the boxcar children to make, if their boxcar had been located nearby the sea.
You only need three ingredients (besides water and seasonings): fish fillets, dried seaweed, and eggs.
Fish and Seaweed Soup
Ingredients
2 or 3 fish fillets (a white fish like sole or tilapia works well)
2-3 eggs, beaten
1 package dried seaweed/nori
a pinch of instant dashi powder (optional) or salt
Directions
Bring a pot of water to a boil. Reduce the heat to medium. Add the fish fillets and swirl in a few beaten eggs. Once the eggs and fish look pretty much cooked, rip up a few sheets of nori/seaweed and drop them in until they wilt. Turn off the heat. Season with dashi powder or salt, to taste.
Ladle out a bowl for your supper, and reminisce about those childhood days of wanting nothing more complicated than to be living in a plain boxcar, with your siblings at your side.
tomatomania
Posted: May 15, 2011 Filed under: appetizer | Tags: tomatoes appetizer 4 Comments
This is a for-real heirloom tomato I purchased at the farmer's market. We named it Zipper Butt.
I walk out onto my balcony every day to tell my tomatoes I love them. This is my first foray into gardening. Well, at least gardening anything
that will be ingested. On occasion I’ve helped my mom with her garden and I think I have either partially or fully ruined it each time. Consequently, I’ve developed a fear of cultivating my own crops. It’s too daunting. There’s so much to know, so much work involved. But I’ve also grown uncomfortable with our society’s current means of acquiring food.
Back when we were cave men, or even after we had evolved into an agricultural society, most of our time revolved around food production. Planting the wheat, tending to it, harvesting it, grinding it and baking it so that we could eat the bread and fill our bellies. Now we sit in cubicle farms all day entering data or answering phones so that we can go to the store and buy the bread to fill our bellies. At the end of the day so much of life revolves around keeping that little cavity in our abdomen satisfied.
I live in Los Angeles where the threat of a natural or unnatural disaster is a very real possibility. I keep thinking about what would happen to us if we couldn’t run to the market when we needed food. Most of our grandparents, and even our parents, knew how to cultivate food. Many in my generation are clueless. It’s got me a little nervous. In addition to the disconnect from our food source, let’s think about how much packaging ends up in our land fills every day because of our current system for filling our bellies. Seriously. Pay attention for just one day to how much trash goes into your can as you prepare and consume food. These things have been weighing on my mind lately, so when I saw tomato plants in Costco last week, I purchased one. It makes me a little nervous to try to grow it, but I’m caring for it the best I can and eagerly anticipate enjoying (quite literally) the fruits of my labors.
When my sister was in her collegiate years, she went through a cute little bohemian phase. I recall going to her apartment one day. It was a very charming little place. She lived in an old mansion in Salt Lake City that had been converted into apartments. My sister was quite the little plant whisperer back then. She must have had at least a hundred plants in her teeny apartment. They covered every possible space, and even hung in front of batik-covered walls in little macrame plant hangers (which -in true hippy form- she probably crocheted herself). One day we were discussing her plants over dinner and she told me in all seriousness that the secret to raising such a thriving crop was love. She was always sending her flora an abundance of love. “And,” she added, “they love me back. Sometimes when I walk in the door I can just feel how excited they are that I’m home.”
I’m hoping that an an outpouring of love for my tomatoes will counter my lack of experience or knowledge. I’m trying not to let them know I’m nervous about them because fear and love might counter one another. I really want them to thrive and I want to venture into more horticultural experiences and reduce my dependency on the supermarket. I found five new little tomato buds on my plant today and I positively beamed with delight. I hope they felt it and grew ever more nutritious and delicious because of it.
Pray for us. Or even send my tomatoes some love through the universe. Here’s hoping The Beatles were right when they said all you need is love.
Btw, my sister grew into a lovely -and normal- adult. She has a beautiful home, with just the right number of plants. She still sends them her love, but her husband and children are also now the lucky recipients of it.
My new favorite tomato recipe:
Grilled Brie and Tomato on Crusty Bread
Ingredients
- 1 pint cherry tomatoes
- 1 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
- Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
- unsalted butter, softened
- 6 (1/2-inch thick) slices crusty bread
- 1/2 pound brie, sliced thin
Directions
Heat the broiler. Put the cherry tomatoes onto a baking sheet, drizzle them with olive oil, and season with salt and pepper. Broil them until they burst; set them aside.
Butter the bread on both sides and top each with several slices of brie. Broil until the cheese is bubbling and slightly browned. Top with the tomatoes. Serve with some soup or salad or just eat it all by itself for a light meal (and by light I’m not talking caloric).
The Hearts of This Blog
Posted: May 13, 2011 Filed under: Uncategorized 1 CommentThis blog and the forthcoming cookbook/memoir collection has been gestating– or to use a food metaphor– ripening for a few years now. It all started with Emily. She came to Memoirs Ink as a young intern and English major at UCLA. She didn’t have to do an internship, but she wanted real life writing business experience, so she took the initiative to find one herself by searching that great mecca of all things Craigslist. By the laws of serendipity she found my post. During our whole interview Emily giggled nervously. I wasn’t sure about her, but I didn’t have a million people applying for my unpaid internship so I hired her. It turned out to be one of the best things I ever did.
She was my first intern ever, and even though I had been an intern once, I still felt somewhat guilty about having what basically equated to a slave. I wanted to do right by her and make sure that she got some good experience and mentorship out of her time with me. So I asked her what her hopes and dreams were. She didn’t know for sure. She knew that she loved food and she loved writing, especially memoir, but she did not want to be a food writer.
I wasn’t sure how to help her with the food part of her dream, so I focused on mentoring her in her writing. But somehow food became part of our work. It would usually start like this.
“Have you ever tried _____?” Emily might ask randomly about some food or spice or dessert.
“No. What are they?’
“They are so yummy….” Emily would go into an inner world and be having an experience that I couldn’t have. But it got me thinking of my own favorite gustatory pleasure of the week.
Soon we’d both be hungry.
I worked out of a home office, so when we needed to take a break we could easily cook up a snack. Often these breaks would turn into hours of culinary experimenting. We rolled homemade sushi, we learned how to grind up lemon grass, slathered butter on warm bread, and arranged shrimp on a mound of rice with a moat of curry. Always, before we ate, Emily would have to take a picture. I later learned that she takes pictures of just about everything she eats. Most of the girl’s hard drive is probably pictures of food.
Here is a picture of Emily taking a picture of food.
I have always been a good cook, but becoming a single mother and running a business, I had begun to let my story affect the menu. Emily brought that love of cooking and food back into my life and even enhanced it. Soon my assignments to her included looking up a recipe for this or that.
Emily brought many great things into my life and to Memoirs Ink. But sadly, interns move on, and she did. She graduated and moved to New York, despite my pleas to stay. Now at last, years later, I found a way to rope her back in. When I realized Memoirs Ink needed to do a cookbook with stories, I knew Emily had to be part of it. And I am so excited for you to hear her thoughtful, beautiful and delicious ‘voice.’
Another inspiration for this project, besides my stomach, was Rachel.
Rachel and I have a long history of acquaintance, but didn’t become friends until we both divorced and then, through years of regular 144-character updates on Facebook I learned how cool she was. She is witty, observant, and despite the challenges life has handed her, still wide-eyed with wonder at things. Mostly she is wide-eyed at me and the idea factory that is my brain. It is always interesting to see yourself again through another person’s eyes. I kinda love her. And as she told me once, kinda=really. Why I asked her to be a part of this project was because I’m amused that she went from wanting to write a book about divorce to wanting to write a cookbook with a paragraph in it that said don’t marry an idiot.
Me and Rachel out to dinner.
Me, I’m just a regular girl who likes to write. I am president of a company called Memoirs Ink. I live in the land of plenty (Los Angeles, California) where I can go to a farmer’s market every day of the week. I grew up eating from my mother’s garden, but didn’t come of age culinarily until I was 20. I like to make up words (like culinarily), surf, eat beautiful organic food, write, read, ride my bike, and dance around with scarves. I give and receive love through food and physical touch. Even though I live in the city, I will one day own a goat.
Recipe for Felice’s Love
- Healthy yummy meal made with love just for me
- Sunshine
- Warm/Cool Breeze- (in season)
There is nothing so wonderful as someone cooking me a healthy yummy meal and my enjoying it outdoors in nice weather. Hugs optional. Adjust where necessary.
emily
Felice
Rachel
Nourishing Narratives: Memoirs that Get to the Heart of the Platter 