Jot

Short Ribs

2011-12-19T11:40:00.000-08:00

Short Ribs: part of the ribs of beef excluding the large longitudinal muscles beside the vertebrae, i.e. between the rib roast and the plate (source: Dictionary of Food)

When you're a parent, you often find yourself manufacturing relaxing moments. I get a couple hours to myself on my birthday; there's "Girls' Night Out" when my fellow moms and I drink too many dry cabernets; there's "date night" to rekindle the spousal spark. The essence of these planned excursions is "hurry up and relax." My husband and I went out to dinner (daughter at Grandma's house) and found that we weren't in the mood for a romantic night out. We were tired, we were distracted with the needs of work and home and child. We felt the intense pressure to relax.

The best thing about this date night, though, was the food. Eating the mouth-watering short ribs at the lovely and unassuming Levain (French-inspired bistro in Minneapolis, Minnesota) was to discover them for the first time. Fork-tender and accompanied by an incredible sauce--tangy and sweet and salty--they were pungent with flavor. The hours it took for the meat to become mouth-wateringly rich could be tasted with each bite.

You can't hurry relaxation anymore than you can hurry short ribs. You can't will yourself (or your partner) into a good mood. You can't prescribe a time for intimacy. Short ribs take several hours to tenderize and absorb the flavors. Good advice from the kitchen.

Cafeteria Food

2011-11-16T18:36:00.001-08:00

You know what I mean. Greasy meat, overcooked vegetables, gluey mashed potatoes. The lettuce in the salad bar always is brown around the edges, the slices of cake have always dried out. The soda is watery and the coffee is burnt. The pizza is doughy and the fries are soggy. The sandwiches have too much mayonnaise and the cubes of melon are soft. The tapioca pudding is gooey and the pineapple chunks in the Jell-O have turned orange. The soup has separated and the crackers are stale.
But sometimes the staff smile at you, sometimes they even remember your name. The clunk of the dishwashers is comforting and the smell of the waffles in the morning is homey.
And it's easier than packing a lunch.

Chicken Broth

2011-10-18T19:54:00.000-07:00

My mother raised me on homemade yogurt, granola, whole wheat bread, and strawberry jam. She fed me crunchy peanut butter that separated in the fridge, she laced dishes with wheat germ. She saved leftovers--even just a half a serving. My grandmother can carve a bird until nothing is left but the clean bones, she can make a whole meal out of old eggs, last week's chicken, and a half-rotten tomato.

Yesterday I bought a grocery store rotisserie chicken, one of those modern conveniences that makes a girl feel like she's making half a home-cooked meal. I cut off as much of the meat as I could and stuffed the carcass in the fridge.

Channeling my mother and grandmother, today I made chicken broth. Boil the carcass with some garlic, maybe onion. I cut a few sprigs of sage from my plant that sits outside the back door; it'll freeze over in the next couple nights anyway. A handful of kosher salt and then let it simmer all day.

The cat went crazy, meowing all day like he could smell something good, something he wanted to get his paws on. The broth simmered and boiled and I skimmed the scum from the top every so often. The broth turned rich and golden and the carcass fell apart.

And tonight I made soup, a second meal with the same store-bought food. My mother and grandmother would be proud at my economy, at my gastronomy.

Peel Me an Onion

2011-10-16T20:19:00.000-07:00

I always cry when I slice an onion. I take the knife in my right hand, cut crosswise against the layers, let the juice spill onto the cutting board like tears. My eyes fill, they sting. I can't see, the knife, the onion blurring until I slice by memory. Muscle memory alone can get you through the worst times, can allow you to wield a sharp tool while blinded by watery tears. I dice and chop and mince as though my eyes were dry.

Ginger Ale

2011-10-03T20:43:00.000-07:00

Did you eat too much last night? Drink too much? Do you have a case of whatever it is that's going around? That flu-like illness? I know some people with that. Did you just have surgery? Is the hospital food growing cold on your bedside table? Are you on an airplane and hoping to make a safe landing? Did you get dehydrated from food poisoning? Was it that trip to Mexico or was it just some poor hygiene at the local burger place? Was it hard to resist that fourth glass of champagne? Was it a promotion or a retirement you were celebrating? Did the venison steaks taste too good to be true? Was it a small child with a runny nose who kissed your cheek?

You might want some ginger ale.

Tortilla Espanola

2011-09-23T12:39:00.000-07:00

It's Hispanic Heritage Month. Hispanic Heritage Month is both an honor to those of Hispanic/Latino background and also something of a startling insight that Latinos need a month devoted to them. The word "Hispanic" conveys Spanish origin. Of course, not all Hispanics are of Spanish origin. Some ancestors come from indigenous, German, African, and Caribbean backgrounds. I, myself, know of no Spanish ancestors. My family tree has Italian, French, English, and Scottish branches. Even if I consider myself more Latina than Hispanic, I spent a semester in Spain in college, soaking in the Spanish culture and learning Castellano (the purest Spanish).

A quintessential food item in Spain in the Tortilla Espanola. The Spanish tortilla bears no resemblance to the Mexican tortilla. A Spanish tortilla is like a potato fritata. My host mother Leonisa would make a tortilla at least once a week and this is how you do it: Chop potatoes and then cook in a pan with lots of olive oil. When the potatoes are partially cooked, mix with eggs in a large bowl. Add onion, garlic. Then heat the pan with olive oil (lots of olive oil). Return the potato and egg mixture to the pan and cook until the potatoes are tender, about 10-15 more minutes. Then, using a lid or plate, flip the tortilla and cook the reverse side to a golden brown. Slide out of the pan and slice in wedges like a pie. Buen provecho!

Zucchini Bread

2011-09-15T11:26:00.000-07:00

It's not unlike pumpkin bread with its sweetness and healthfulness and autumn goodness. It's prettier than pumpkin bread, I think, because of its little specks of green. I like it smothered in butter so that kind of cancels out the vegetable serving. I used this recipe with some adjustments:

Zucchini Bread from SmittenKitchen.com
Adapted from several sources
Yield: 2 loaves or approximately 24 muffins (We made 1 loaf and 12 muffins)
3 eggs
1 cup olive ~~or vegetable oil~~ (I used olive)
~~1 3/4 cups sugar~~ 1 cup sugar and 3/4 cups brown sugar
2 cups grated zucchini
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
~~3 cups all-purpose flour~~ 2 cups all-purpose flour and 1 cup whole wheat flour
3 teaspoons cinnamon
~~1/8 teaspoon nutmeg~~ My four-year-old sprinkled the nutmeg, so we definitely had more than 1/8 teaspoon!
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
~~1/2 cup chopped walnuts or pecans (optional)~~ Have you ever met a preschooler who likes nuts in their bread? Me neither.
~~1 cup dried cranberries, raisins or chocolate chips or a combination thereof (optional)~~ Chocolate chips seemed to take away from the zucchini. Not in our house!
Preheat oven to 350°F.
Grease and flour ~~two~~ one 8×4 inch loaf pans, liberally. Line 24 12 muffin cups with paper liners (pink ones!).
In a large bowl, beat the eggs with a whisk. Mix in oil and sugar, then zucchini and vanilla.
Combine flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, baking soda, baking powder and salt, as well as nuts, chocolate chips and/or dried fruit, if using.
Stir this into the egg mixture. Divide the batter into prepared pans.
Bake loaves for 60 minutes, plus or minus ten, or until a tester inserted into the center comes out clean. Muffins will bake far more quickly, approximately 20 to 25 minutes.

It was delicious with a glass of milk or a cup of black coffee.

Balls as Food

2011-09-08T20:39:00.000-07:00

Balls. I'm not sure that foodstuffs should include the word "balls."

My college roommate, a quiet girl from northern Wisconsin, introduced me to her mother's cheese balls at Christmas freshman year. The cheese ball is a combination of cream cheese, Velveeta, and something else imitation and Wisconsin-y. The whole thing is worked into a ball shape, about the size of a baseball, and then coated in chopped nuts. I think her mother sent Ritz crackers along with the cheese ball. My roommate and I kept it in our little dorm fridge and late at night we would smear the crackers with soft, gummy cheese-like food. I both loved and abhorred the cheese ball. The stickiness, the gluey texture, the oversalted flavor. It was intense, it was slightly obscene with it's misshapen roundness. But at the same time it was simple and homey and took the edge off homesickness that year.

Ben & Jerry's has just announced it's new ice cream flavor, Schweddy Balls. The flavor is an homage to SNL's parody of NPR. Will Schweddy Balls also be homey and take the edge of homesickness? Or will it just be slightly obscene?

Next time you reach for a spherical food item, stop and think.

Potato Salad

2011-08-14T20:09:00.000-07:00

Everyone thinks their grandmother (or aunt or dad or cousin) makes the best potato salad. Mine makes potato salad all summer long, she makes it for my grandfather. Her potato salad is one of his favorite foods, so she'll even make it in February for his birthday.

Her depression-era, Minnesota-based potato salad is simple. Red potatoes, unpeeled. Green onions, celery, hard-boiled eggs. There's a secret, though. Homemade mayonnaise.

My grandmother's mother used to host ladies' luncheons in the thirties. Crab salad and deviled eggs, tomato aspic and homemade mayonnaise. My grandmother's mayonnaise is just egg and oil, blended into an emulsion. A little vinegar, paprika. Salt and pepper.

When I make her potato salad, I hope I'll get it just right, I hope it'll taste just like hers. It doesn't always. Sometimes I call her, we try to figure it out like detectives. I try to get it right because someday I won't be able to call her. I'll have to figure it out alone.

Mrs. Cochran's Chocolate Sauce

2011-08-07T18:02:00.000-07:00

Mrs. Cochran. I've never met her. She was a neighbor or family friend of my grandparents'. It was the Fifties or Sixties. I used to watch my grandfather cook the sauce, let it boil up. Three minutes seemed like an eternity, it always looked like the chocolate would overflow.

1/2 cup cocoa powder
1 cup water
2 cups sugar

Bring to boil, boil 3 minutes.

Add drop of vanilla.

Eat on ice cream.

Corn on the Cob

2011-08-01T18:51:00.001-07:00

It's corn season in the Midwest. This means sticky, humid weather as the stalks "sweat" at night, their moisture seeping into our air. We boil the corn in a big pot of water letting steam fill the hot kitchen. Not too long. The kernels should be firm, juicy, still tender. Young, fresh corn from the farmers' markets are sheathed in green, their yellow and white nubs full of sweetness. Butter from the dairy cows melts off the cob, slides onto the plate, gives something for the salt to cling to, like we cling to these passing moments of summer.

Picnics

2011-07-22T20:19:00.000-07:00

It's summer, time for picnics. I spent much of my childhood on picnics with my grandparents. They knew how to do it. There was a backpack designated for picnics. It wasn't one of these fancy modern picnic bags with melamine plates and cheese boards. Their picnic backpack included: a stack of paper plates, a stash of napkins collected from various restaurants (some slightly used), a pocket knife that had seen a lot of cheese but not a lot of soap, a plastic salt shaker marked "S" with indelible ink, and a flask of wine from the last outing. My grandmother made sandwiches, threw in a coffee can of homemade chocolate chip cookies, and a bag of peanuts. There was usually a root beer for me, the only kid at these events.

Three-Bean Salad and Other Non-Salads

2011-07-13T14:10:00.000-07:00

Salad, in some parts of the country, seems to be a very loosely interpreted concept. No spinach, butter lettuce, tomatoes, or frisée. Instead, you find the Three Bean Salad: various canned legumes, canned green beans, canned wax beans, and a thick dressing. Then there's Jello Salad which includes Jello, canned pineapple, dried coconut, and Maraschino cherries from a jar. There's also Chinese Chicken Salad which is anything but Chinese. Shredded cabbage from Cost-Co or similar, shredded carrots (see previous), canned chicken, Raman noodles (dry, not cooked), and plenty of mayonnaise. Oh, don't forget the canned mandarin oranges. I recently visited a part of the country where these kinds of salads pass for the vegetable course in a meal. There's meat, bread, potatoes, and "salad." I came home with digestive problems.

Fondue

2011-06-19T18:25:00.000-07:00

As a child, my husband always requested fondue for his birthday dinner. Then when we were first married we would frequent La Fondue, a very wonderful restaurant in the Bay Area that was as delicious as it was funky. We loved it so much we bought an electric fondue pot that allowed us to easily cook meats. A Jacuzzi for steak and chicken. Now our four year old wields the fork. We started her on hot dogs and ketchup, but it won't be long before she'll be eating sirloin with papaya mango chutney. And requesting fondue dinner for her birthday dinner.

Something Fishy

2011-06-10T18:56:00.000-07:00

I am not a fan of fish. No matter how much Omega-3 fatty acids fish has, I'm not really interested in eating it. There's something about those eyes, those beady fish eyes. And the scales. Should I eat something with scales?

In junior high, my stepfather took me fishing. I was squeamish. I wanted to be on the beach, swimming, drinking Coca Colas. Anything but baiting hooks. I remember the squish as the worm gets impaled on the hook. And the flapping gills as the fish flops on the bottom of the boat. He made me scale the fish I caught. Tiny translucent fish scales showered over the kitchen that night as I scraped at that poor, dead, glassy-eyed creature.

I'll eat fish that's been cut into uniform pieces (no eyes), pre-breaded and pre-cooked, heated in a 350 oven. Smother a fish stick with tartar sauce and I'll choke it down.

Rhubarb

2011-05-31T10:28:00.000-07:00

Technically, it's a vegetable. Long greenish-red stalks. The leaves are poisonous. Rhubarb grows like a weed in Minnesota's harsh climate. Early summer brings forth the huge, tropical-looking foliage that shades the edible stems.
I don't grow my own, but I can buy it at the local farmer's market. An elastic band holds the stalks together. I take it home and scrub it down, but there is very little dirt.
Chop the rhubarb with a sharp chef's knife. It looks like celery. If you taste a little when it's raw, the strings get caught in your teeth; the flavor is shockingly sour.
Cook it in a pot with lots of sugar, a little water. It bubbles and boils, turns a dusty pink color. The stalks soften in sauce, the sweet and sour blend.
Pour it over vanilla ice cream.

On Not Eating

2011-05-27T18:45:00.000-07:00

I love to think about and consume and enjoy food. But for the past week, I've been unable to eat as I surrendered to a fever and body aches and stomach cramps. Normally, I love fresh vegetables, perfectly-cooked steak, delicate pies, and tart apples. I savor red wine and rich cafe americanos. I grocery shop, plan and prepare meals. I make granola, pizzas, banana bread, and risotto. I find new restaurants and hire a babysitter. But this week, food has been as unappealing as having spikes jammed under my fingernails. I've eaten only to fortify: saltines, canned peaches, scrambled eggs.

As I now come out of the fog of illness, I wonder at this disinclination to eat. This lack of hunger, the absence of appetite leaves a vacancy in me. Something is missing, that desire for sensation, that hedonism. I found I even missed the self-control that's usually needed to keep myself from having a third cookie, a second glass of wine. I miss not so much the food, but my desire for food, my joie de vivre, my raison d'etre. And now that I am able to eat again, I find I am more myself. It is not the food, but the desire that keeps us going.

Green Salad

2011-05-11T18:49:00.000-07:00

It won't help you lose weight and it won't make that bikini fit any better. Because, really, what is a green salad? Maybe it's romaine lettuce (with almost no nutritional value), a sprinkling of token vegetables like carrots, cucumbers, mushrooms (a few vitamins, not enough fiber), some cheese (read: fat), and croutons (more fat), topped off with ranch dressing (F-A-T). No. Eating that salad isn't getting you into your bridesmaid dress.

But. But it is just the perfect meal on a warm summer evening when the kitchen's too hot and you're wilted with humidity. The crispness of the lettuce snaps in your teeth, the dressing soothes with richness or startles with vinegar. The cherry tomatoes burst, splattering crimson seeds down the front of your blouse, and the carrots crunch. Let's imagine the vegetables are from the Farmer's Market and the sauteed chicken breast is free-range. Aged balsamic from Italy adds sweetness. Perfect summer. Perfect summer dinner.

Wheat Germ

2011-05-08T07:54:00.001-07:00

My mother added wheat germ to our meals. Little grains of nutrition purchased in bulk at a co-op. Flavorless, odorless, with a peculiar texture. Packed with vitamin E and folic acid, she sprinkled it on casseroles and used it in homemade pancakes. My mother worked for the Extension Service educating young, poverty-stricken single mothers on proper nutrition and food economy. A single mother herself, she was a crusader for soaking lentils overnight and cooking a stew in the morning. She extolled the virtues of leafy green vegetables, dried beans, whole wheat flour and, of course, wheat germ. I tagged along on these home visits and often played with the children, half wishing I could warn them about the coming healthfulness. About the wheat germ.

Happy Mother's Day!

Sacrificial Lamb

2011-04-24T19:14:00.000-07:00

My grandmother serves lamb for Easter. Born an Episcopalian in Minnesota in 1924 , she tells us she serves lamb because "they're so cute -- like bunnies." I was never sure if this was a tongue-in-cheek statement or part truth. Because there is also Easter's proximity to Passover. She never served ham. My grandmother was college educated, but her talents were often limited to the kitchen; perhaps lamb was her way of asserting her political and religious beliefs.

The lamb is slow cooked with new potatoes and carrots rounds. She whisks together a beautiful rich brown gravy. Bright green mint jelly jiggles in its bowl every time the laden table is jostled by relatives. Steamed baby peas suffer accidental drownings in gravy -- another casualty of the holiday.

House-made Risotto

2011-04-10T19:18:00.000-07:00

Risotto. A little bland, but rich. Creamy, but with vegetables. Warm, but fresh. Chewy, but gooey. It's been years since I made my own, but I happened upon a box of arborio rice at the market today. And there was fresh asparagus. And I was craving bacon.

You cook the bacon until the fat is rendered clear and liquid in the pan. Remove the browned bits and then toast the garlic, lightly. Pour in the arborio rice. The grains sizzle and pop in the bacon grease, they become coated and shiny. Add the liquid a little at a time. Today I used broth, but wine is good, too. The rice absorbs the broth and thickens. Little by little. It's not hard, but it takes patience. Wine is good to drink while stirring. Chop the asparagus while watching the bubbling rice. When the rice is thick and creamy, add the asparagus. Everything cooks together, the green pops in the ivory-colored grains. Now for the parmesan cheese. Stir it well. Add a drop of lemon juice, some zest if you have it. Serve and sprinkle with the bacon.

Perfect. Even when it isn't.

Ice Cream Cones

2011-04-08T20:28:00.000-07:00

It's the first warm day of spring. This means it's time to take a walk. To us, taking a walk on a fine evening means walking to the ice cream shop. We chose our house based on its proximity to ice cream shops; there are three within easy walking distance. Tonight we choose one, get the kid on the tricycle, and join the other spring-fevered neighbors for a walk down sand-coated sidewalks.

Sebastian Joe's, a locally-owned ice cream maker, is today's choice. Award-winning ice cream. Raspberry Chocolate Chip, Oreo Cookie, Loco Coco, Green Tea, Coffee Copa. The list goes one, it changes daily. But for that first ice cream cone of the season, I prefer chocolate. Plain chocolate. A sweet, slightly salty, rich flavor. Smooth, no bits of candy or chocolate to interrupt each lick. It's warm enough that the ice cream melts down the side of the sugar cone, dribbles onto the crease between thumb and index finger.

Chicken Soup

2011-03-30T17:20:00.000-07:00

It starts with a fuzzy feeling behind my eyes, then moves to my nose. I'm not actually congested yet, but my throat feels hypersensitive and my balance seems just a bit off. It's the beginning of what might be a cold. "Take your vitamin C," my mother tells me. "Have you tried zinc?" a colleague wonders. I prefer the liquid method.

The thin broth is deceptively rich. A lusty, meaty flavor soothes. Carrot rounds are my favorite, salty celery forms half-moons, green and transparent. Egg noodles? Rice? Maybe the starch is just toast dipped into the broth. Kernels of corn float like little golden islands, chunks of tender breast meat resist mastication. Sharp flakes of black pepper startle the senses.

I go to bed early, I drink my orange juice. Maybe it's just a coincidence, but after a supper of chicken soup, the early symptoms of illness melt away.

Corned Beef Hash

2011-03-25T19:34:00.000-07:00

Meat that comes from a can. The can features a dubious illustration, all red and carnivorous. Corned beef hash has gone out of favor in my part of the country, in my middle-class, liberal circles. Local, organic, and fresh have taken the place of cheap, quick, and filling. My grandmother, a Depression-era, World War II veteran serves Hormel corned beef hash. She poaches an egg to perfection and slides it onto the mound of beef and rehydrated potatoes. A dollop of ketchup, a shake and half of salt and pepper. Breakfast.

Chamomile

2011-03-19T19:49:00.000-07:00

When I was a little girl, the cracks in the sidewalk were laden with tiny weeds. Wild chamomile, my mother told me. Small green plants with miniature yellow button-like flowers. As you crushed the blossoms between your thumb and forefinger, the scent of tea wafted into the warm summer sun.

In Spain, my host-mother brewed chamomile tea for my upset stomach. Manzanilla it was called in Spanish. The stomachache was called "a hangover."

Industrially-produced tea bags are filled with chamomile. I drop a packet into the bottom of my mug. The tea bag floats as the water level rises, steam suspended above the cup, the sweet, dusty aroma hangs in the air, in memory.

Quesadilla

2011-03-09T17:38:00.000-08:00

A camp counselor first taught me how to make a quesadilla. I was thirteen, she was from Mexico. Let's call her Tita. Oil in a hot pan, a fresh tortilla, cheese. Fold and flip. The tortilla browns in concentric circles. The queso drips out and sizzles in the heat, toasts to a crisp. Tita recommended a little Tabasco and even though I don't like spice, I dip each bite in a pinprick of hot sauce.

PB&J

2011-03-04T17:43:00.000-08:00

Three universally American ingredients. It's an old standby, a favorite, a last resort, a go-to lunch. You can mix and match, go high-brow, low-brow. You can smash it and smush it. It's Zip-locked in plastic, it's laid on a plate. It's white-wheat-whole-grain-Wonder. It's grape or strawberry, maybe honey (but don't mention it). The P stands for peanut butter, but for the allergic almond, sunflower, soy might stand in. I've seen it grilled, filled with potato chips, pickles, or bananas. Grown-ups and children, picky eaters and cross-country runners. It's a bit of comfort, a taste of childhood. It's economic, bacteria-resistant. It's a a shameful vice, a secret indulgence, crowd-pleaser.

Funereal Food

2011-02-26T19:46:00.000-08:00

Small buns, both wheat and white; swatches of ham and turkey laid in a herringbone pattern on the platter; mayonnaise and yellow mustard in thumb-sized packets; china teacups sloshing weak coffee; dry shortbread cookies that catch in the throat; a fruit plate, but all the strawberries are gone; salads--Jello, potato, pasta, iceberg; fruit punch that tastes like Kool-Aid; tiny pickles and canned olives; paper napkins balled in sweaty palms, used as Kleenexes because the ones tucked in your purse are shredded and limp now.

Valentine's Chocolate

2011-02-14T20:05:00.001-08:00

I want to say something about chocolate. The way it feels on your tongue, coating it in a swath of silk. The way it melts away, leaving behind a sensuous calm. The way the sugary sweet coating gives way to the more forgiving, almost salty, richness. I want to say something about the way chocolate makes you feel right before you eat it, how you long for it, how your mouth moistens, your lips part. I want to say something about the release you feel when all that's left is sticky fingers and a lingering taste.

Not a Picky Eater

2011-02-03T13:42:00.000-08:00

Cancer isn't a picky eater. It'll take anything. Anyone. Old friends, mothers, sisters, children. My old friend John passed away today. The cancer, the melanoma, ate away at him, used him to grow. So selfish, self-serving. The feeding tube wasn't enough. The thoughts and prayers of those who loved him weren't enough. Special health diets and fresh vegetable juices weren't enough. A strong family and loving partner weren't enough.

Cancer isn't a picky eater. It'll take anyone.

Savoring Food

2011-01-19T16:10:00.001-08:00

I've never considered the mechanisms of eating. Putting the food in my mouth, chewing, navigating the textures and flavors, manipulating each bite with a strong tongue and esophagus. Several times a day, every day, we eat and drink, put food into our mouths and swallow it, allowing the food to nourish us and give us energy and put cellulite on our thighs. This act, this simple act of eating is such a basic human activity, understood from one culture to another, from one diet to another, one person to another. There are a few daily functions of being alive that we all experience and feeding is one of them.

An old friend of mine is battling a voracious cancer and now has a feeding tube. Taking mouthfuls of pasta or salad or chocolate cake isn't possible. His mouth is nothing more than a passageway for nutrition, something to keep him alive. The function that we take for granted has become a casualty of this war he is waging.

For him, take a moment to savor the next bite you take, take a moment to taste it, feel it, consciously experience it. Eat.

Rice Krispies

2011-01-16T14:27:00.000-08:00

I remember a bowl of Rice Krispies getting soggy with 2% milk. The crackling and popping were momentarily amusing, but the taste wasn't worth it. These grains of puffed rice are much better suited to marshmallows and butter than bleary eyes and orange juice. I love the way the marshmallow stretches into threads of sugar as you pull off a bite. The cereal coats the teeth with a film of starch and the sweet thickness stays on your tongue. When they're made right--that is, with plenty of butter--they're almost juicy with fat and each mouthful melts. Does anyone eat them for breakfast anymore?

Oyster Stew

2010-12-23T20:04:00.000-08:00

My grandfather's family--Germans and Scots huddled together in Minnesota's frozen winters--traditionally ate oyster stew on Christmas Eve, a practice that has continued into the twenty-first century.

As a child I disliked the Christmas Eve oyster stew, opting instead for the cold cuts and cookies. I think it was more of a imagery problem than an actual aversion to oysters. For a land-locked Midwesterner, it's hard to imagine a soup made entirely of bivalves.

My grandmother, the cook in the family, never took to oyster stew, and so my grandfather has become the chef on Christmas Eve. He stirs the big pot, pours in quart after quart of heavy cream, ladles it into a chaffing dish.

Now I like to take the broth, minus the oysters. The broth is rich with cream and butter and yet is thin and refreshing. The round oyster crackers make tiny islands that float in lazy patterns on the surface.

Brisket

2010-12-17T09:19:00.000-08:00

When it's done right, the meat falls apart when you just look at it. It crumbles under the pressure of a fork, it melts in your mouth. The aroma of a brisket cooking fills the house from top to bottom with a smoky, primal smell. It gets into the furniture, wafts down on your clothes, stays in the nooks and crannies of the upper cupboards and along the baseboards. The strands of meat (meat that humans were meant to eat - just look at our teeth) give each bite definition, nourish with a caveman's strength. And it's even better the next day. And the next. And the next.

Colombian Coffee

2010-12-01T20:19:00.000-08:00

When I first went to Colombia, my dad was impressed that I drink my coffee black. Children and women, the Colombianas, drink it with milk and sugar, with panela, maybe cinnamon. Not me, not my dad. We prefer to taste the beans at the back of the throat, to coat our mouths in brown liquid, pure as the black dirt of the Andes. My father, when I first met him, first visited him in Colombia, would bring me a mug of black coffee while I was still rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I would sit up, prop myself against the pillows in the narrow bed in his guest room, and take that first sip. The smell hits me before the burning taste. The steam rises and tricks me. The first bitter taste surprises me, surprises me by how sweet bitter can be.

Milk

2010-11-17T17:22:00.000-08:00

I pour it on my cereal, I drink it with my cafe lattes. I make my daughter drink three glasses a day, I watch her dunk her cookies in it. I just started buying non-homogenized milk. The 1% comes with a thick stopper of yellowish cream at the top. You have to break it with a butter knife or the handle of a fork. Then you shake it until the bits of butterfat mix and blend. No matter how much you shake it, the first pour out of that glass bottle is richer than the last. When I was nursing my baby, the first "pour" was thin foremilk. Foremilk is the first, thirst-quenching milk that babies get. Then, as she nurses longer, the hindmilk comes in thick and fatty. Fills that baby with amino acids and calories. No need for cookies.

Birthday Cake

2010-10-22T19:39:00.000-07:00

Think back. Do you remember your birthday cakes? Were they store-bought sheet cakes with sugar rosettes? Were they spongy cupcakes from the roller rink? Were they homemade with gritty chocolate frosting? Did your mother hide them in the pantry until she loaded them with candles? Were they pies filled with apples and cherries? Were they single slices served at anonymous restaurants? Did the candles drip wax on to the icing, leaving bits of pink and green? Did the ice cream melt into puddles on the plate? Were the cakes layered with raspberry jelly or almond fondant? Did they choke you with their dryness? Did the Crisco frosting coat your tongue with a thin sugary layer? Did you stare longingly at the last piece and wish you could eat it all?

I Want Candy

2010-09-22T17:34:00.000-07:00

White and red striped mints, gooey and chewy Tootsie Rolls, tart and acidic Sweethearts, leathery ropes of licorice. I'm not talking about that fancy dark chocolate. I'm talking candy. Rolos and Snickers and Skittles. It isn't really even food. Sugar and some other stuff. That's all it is. Gummy bears, Swedish Fish, sour peaches. Color, flavor, something to bind it all together. So why is it so good? Saltwater taffy, Bit-o-Honey, jelly beans. I can never walk by an office candy dish without helping myself to a piece. Or two. Werthers, Gobstoppers, M&Ms. I wasn't allowed much candy as a kid. Halloween, Christmas, Easter—that was about it.

Pancakes

2010-07-25T20:10:00.000-07:00

Never from a box. The ingredients are so simple: eggs, milk, flour, oil, sugar, baking powder. If you don't have those things in your cupboards, you probably don't have a skillet either. A whisk helps, but be sure to leave some lumps. First mix the dry, then the wet. The batter is yellowish white. It drips on the counter top, maybe even on the stove. It's okay, you'll clean it up later. The first pancakes prep the pan, the next ones are perfect. Don't let the heat get too hot or they'll get pockmarked as the bubbles cook too quickly. The perfect size is no bigger than a child's hand. Cover them with butter while they're still hot. You might need to pour maple syrup after you flip the ones on the stove. Come back and sit down, eat the first bite. When you're cooking you know you can have the last three that come off the skillet and they'll be fresh, hot, and delicious.

Whisk together:
1 1/2 c. milk
2 eggs
3 T. oil (canola)
1 t. vanilla
Mix with:
1 1/2 c. flour
3 T. sugar
2/4 t. baking powder
dash salt

Steak

2010-06-19T20:13:00.001-07:00

Red meat, tender and dripping. I prefer to see the uniform gray that indicates doneness. Slice across the grain with a serrated knife and pierce each bite with a fork held continental style. I am not a cave woman, but I like a bit of steak once in a while. Crusty bits of black char from a grill's flame, a tangy saltiness and the vivid undertone I like to attribute to grass and hay.

Indian Cuisine

2010-06-05T18:43:00.001-07:00

Despite having been born outside the United States, I've never been particularly adventurous in my eating. French, Italian, generic American. I'll eat those. I love food, but I have too many dislikes to be a true gastronome. I avoid anything with seafood, mushrooms, and eggplant.

The closest I come to "foreign" food is the Indian restaurants now found all over the U.S. The first one I visited was in San Jose, an area with a rich Indian culture. I tried it and liked it. It hardly makes me daring, though. I eat a grand total of four dishes at an Indian restaurant: chicken korma, naan, samosas, and lassi. For anyone familiar with Indian cuisine, you know these aren't particularly exotic or representative. But for me, a Minnesotan with a bland palette, korma has just the perfect amount of richness, subtle spices, and heat. I love anything with a sauce and the korma dripping off soft naan cannot be beat. Samosas with their delicate peas and crispy crust have just enough kick to let me know I'm not eating Midwestern fare anymore.

I love the idea of being an adventurous eater, but even when I visit India Palace or Tandoor or Taste of India I'll probably be ordering something I've eaten before. At least I'm eating. And loving it.

Popsicles

2010-05-24T12:40:00.000-07:00

The ice cream truck rings its tinny bell or plays a distorted melody. He hands out Creamsicles and Drumsticks in exchange for sweaty dollar bills. Homemade orange juice popsicles drip down my hand and arm, end up on my white sundress. Two neon green lime popsicles pull apart in the middle—each of us gets a wooden stick to hold in our sandy hands. Soft-serve ice cream coated in milk chocolate makes a lazy river down a chin, a wrist, leaves a puddle on a pink skirt, on a scarred knee. When all the cold and sweetness have gone, holding the stick is proof of this summer day.

Pasta

2010-03-17T18:38:00.000-07:00

I have a three-year-old who could eat pasta every single night. Spaghetti. Rigatoni. Penne. Whole wheat. Egg. Farfalle. Add a handful of parmesan cheese and she's in culinary heaven. And there's nothing wrong with a little pasta, is there? My own gastronomic history is punctuated with pasta.
The first meal I learned to cook myself when I went off to college and my first apartment? Spaghetti with canned sauce. A little side salad and a slice of bread and I really thought I was living like an adult. Lunch in my host-mother's kitchen in Spain? Spaghetti with a thin, sweet tomato sauce. She knew how to fill us with carbs. Wedding buffet? Pasta salads in the back yard of my mother's house under white tents on a perfect August evening. In Italy on our last vacation before becoming parents? A first course of pasta before settling down to a thick cut of pork for the main course. In our neighborhood Italian deli? House-made pasta so fresh it really doesn't matter what's on those tender noodles. My favorite pasta to make at home? Eighties-style vodka pasta—penne with a creamy tomato sauce that drips with the thickening flavor of vodka and bites back with a bit of cayenne.

huevos pericos

2010-02-28T19:09:00.000-08:00

I had eaten some variation of huevos pericos my whole life--we probably all have--before I found out what they were called. Huevos pericos, as made in Colombia, are prepared by sauteing chopped sweet onions in oil until translucent, adding eggs, and then, when the eggs are nearly cooked, adding chopped fresh tomatoes. A little salt and serve them with rice. Basic, simple food.
I learned to cook them properly after visiting my family in Colombia and I found that huevos pericos are the perfect college student food: cheap, easy, and quick. I cooked them for my husband as a newlywed and I'll make them for my daughter as well.
When you eat huevos pericos--either for breakfast as is traditional or for a quick dinner--you find that the eggs have an added moistness from the tomato. The onions provide just a bit of crunch and zing that complement the sweetness of the ripe tomatoes. Each bite, mixed with a forkful of white rice that adds texture and a foil for the eggs, is a taste of my heritage, my past, my present, and my legacy.

Avocado

2010-02-03T18:32:00.000-08:00

They're ugly. They're bumpy and black. They're squishy and squashy. They're often expensive (at least where I live) and they've got a short short shelf life. But avocados—when ripe, soft, green, and smooth—are pure heaven.

I slice a ripe avocado around lengthwise. I pull apart the fruit and yank out the huge seed with a knife. I take a spoon and scoop out the tender green pulp inside. If it is the perfect ripeness, the back of the spoon will effectively puree it. I add a few drops of lemon juice to preserve the vibrant green and I drench it in garlic salt. That's it. Dip in a blue corn chip and it's perfection.

Hot Breakfasts

2010-01-19T20:05:00.000-08:00

In the children's book Harold's Trip to the Sky by Crockett Johnson, Harold (of purple crayon fame) takes a rocket into space and then comes back to earth to find a hot breakfast waiting for him.
Hot breakfasts seem to be something from the past (although advertisers are always be trying to bring them back in inferior, microwavable forms). Everyone is in a hurry. A hurry to get something to eat, to get out the door. A hurry to wait in traffic, wait for the bus, wait for the work day to end.
As a child, I was a fan of Cream of Wheat. It has an odd, mealy texture, but it holds the brown sugar with ease, and cream thins it into a soupy, warm mess.
Now I prefer homemade oatmeal whenever I want a hot breakfast. My only concession to modern convenience is quick oats. I boil water while my husband makes coffee. And then it's time to drop in the oats and watch them bubble and foam. I'm the only one in my family who likes raisins, but since I'm the cook, I usually add them. I love the way the raisins plump in the heat.
When we sit down to eat, we take turns with the bowl of brown sugar. I like to pour the cream first and then the sugar. I make rivers and moats in the craggy terrain of morning warmth.

A Different Kind of Orange

2009-12-16T15:34:00.000-08:00

Clementines are the size of a golf ball (not that I know anything about golf, but that's what I've heard). Their skin peels off easily, often in one complete disjointed sphere. There are no pesky seeds that turn bitter when you bite into them. Clementines fall into uniform segments and each one is delicate and sweet. Clementines aren't sticky and cloying, the flavor is gentle and hints at a summer that must be happening somewhere else.

First Turkey

2009-11-29T13:07:00.000-08:00

Cooking and food, everyone knows, is closely tied to emotions, to family, to heritage, to culture, and to identity. This Thanksgiving I made my first turkey dinner, made my own identity, staked out my place as a woman who cooks for her family, embraced the disparate emotions of the holidays. I used my grandmother's recipes, those jotted-down notes filled with disclaimers and optional steps and ingredients. Her turkey involves no seasonings, tools, or special equipment. She does it different every time, she tells me in the recipe. Her stuffing comes from a package, but still tastes homemade. Her gravy recipe is vague, wouldn't help if I'd never made gravy before. Even she has admitted to not following the directions she's noted. I made her pumpkin pie and it was as easy as she claims, all from scratch. It turned out as misshapen and lopsided as hers and that's how I know I've done it right. I didn't eat with my family this year, but I could still taste my family's traditions in my grandmother's food that I made myself.

Turnip Turns Up Other Memories

2009-10-30T12:21:00.000-07:00

Do you remember like I do? Do you remember when your son or daughter was just a newborn? Do you remember like I do, the scent of that newborn baby's head. The top of the head where the flesh is soft and forgiving, where a thin coating of fuzz holds the scent of her essence? Do you remember inhaling that newborn scent, a mixture of mother's milk and placenta and dry tear ducts? Do you remember holding that head, that head that wobbles in your grasp? Do you remember like I do, the scent of your baby's head?

That scent came back to me, that moment came back to me suddenly in a rush of humidity and joy. I was cooking turnips. Yes, turnips, that innocuous white and bland root vegetable. No one ever warned me that cooking turnips smells just like the top of a newborn's head.

Brussels Sprouts

2009-10-27T18:27:00.000-07:00

There really is nothing more charming than anything in miniature. So what's not to like about mini cabbages? I remember having Brussels sprouts foisted upon me as a child. Look how cute they are! the adults would coo, expecting me to fall to their diminutive charm. However, it wasn't until I was an adult--and tasted really good sprouts--that I learned to appreciate this ancient vegetable. Brussels sprouts were originally cultivated in Belgium in the 16th-century. Thanks to the Belgians!

My preferred preparation is sauteed sprouts, simmered in cider vinegar with onions and garlic. The tang of the vinegar compliments the vegetable perfectly and helps even out a rich turkey dinner. I recently ate the little cabbages in a restaurant where they were quartered and smothered in cream and parmesan, mixed with a little bacon. I realize that everything is better with bacon, but the tender crunch of the velvety green morsels is what stays with me long after the meal is over.

A Vegetable of a Different Color

2009-09-21T12:53:00.000-07:00

As a member of a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture), I receive a box of farm-fresh vegetables and fruits each week all summer long. My favorite part of the CSA is the element of surprise. It's not like going to the grocery store and picking out potatoes, lettuce, cucumbers. The vegetables appearing in the box each week put grocery store veggies to shame. Purple carrots, yellow cauliflower, pink amaranth, yellow watermelon, and blue potatoes. The CSA is a Dr. Suessian world where no one has to fit into their prescribed skins.

Lemon Meringue

2009-08-11T19:05:00.000-07:00

My grandmother's recipe for lemon pie is written in her swirling script with all the important—or confusing—parts underlined with a definitive stroke. It was her mother's recipe, a pie made back in the days of ladies' luncheons and tomato aspic. The ingredients and proportions are vague: the juice of one lemon, boil two minutes (or three or four).

When my grandmother now attempts to recreate this pie, she makes her perfect oil crust first, easily, deftly. Then she works on the lemon and manages to burn the bottom of the pan. The lemony filling takes on an amber glow that gives it the surprise richness of caramelized sugar. Then she adds the sugar too quickly as she beats the egg whites. I take over with the hand mixer, clutching it until soft peaks finally appear. We decide this is enough and pop the pie in the oven until the virginal white meringue is tipped with golden brown.

It is a sloppy pie, very lemony, not quite set. We all eat this pie with the relish of a family sharing sweetness, sweet love, sweet history, sweet memory.

kohlrabi

2009-06-12T17:53:00.000-07:00

Looking like an alien spaceship, kohlrabi arrives in my CSA box a couple times each summer. Its long tendrils that end in broad leaves stand at attention. The vegetable is usually pale green, but we've had bright purple ones, too. I peel off the tough outer skin and slice it into paper-thin bites. Tossed with lemon juice, olive oil, and fresh greens, it has a gentle crispness and an earthy flavor of young cabbage. I would never write "kohlrabi" on my grocery list, but I relish the surprise when it arrives.

Crème Brûlée French Toast

2009-05-13T18:51:00.000-07:00

Despite the name, there is nothing French about this. It is as homey and American as biscuits and gravy or Pillsbury caramel rolls. The thing that saves it for me is its entirely pedestrian ingredients: bread, eggs, cream, brown sugar, butter. The only thing exotic is the dash of Cointreau you add for that certain j'ne sais quoi.
It is prepared the night before and the egg mixture soaks into the thick slices of boule. When you bake it, the sugar caramelizes and the bread toasts to a golden brown. You serve it upside-down and your guests can't believe the enormous amount of calories that have just been placed in front of them.

Pineapple

2009-03-12T14:41:00.000-07:00

My daughter has discovered canned pineapple tidbits. It is winter in Minnesota and, like the early settlers, we have trouble getting fresh produce. Canned fruits are the antidote to the winter blues, and morsels of pineapple shine like little capsules of sunshine. It is gentle and sweet, sticky on a toddler's fingers. Its fresh-from-a-plantation counterpart whose pale yellow flesh is braided with flavor of summer and heat packs a mightier punch. Eating fresh pineapple makes my tongue go raw and fills my mouth with sweetness. Rings or tidbits, chunks or whole, pineapple is one of those fruits that cross the line between snack and dessert.

Cauliflower

2009-02-24T08:06:00.000-08:00

It's pale, anemic. Can anything so bland have the nutrients we expect to find in a vegetable? Like purple eggplant and orange carrots, cauliflower challenges the stereotype of vegetables and their healthy greenness. But I love cauliflower's nutty flavor, its even texture, and bulbous shape.
I recently ate a heavenly cauliflower puree at the fantastic Minneapolis restaurant, Cue at the Guthrie. It was smooth and white like a delicate mashed potato, but had the faint sweetness associated with cauliflower. The hints of cream? butter? rounded out the puree. It perfectly balanced a balsamic and fig chicken and sharp artichoke hearts.

Blueberry Pie

2008-10-07T10:41:00.000-07:00

I make my grandmother's pie crust. It is delicate and flaky, made with oil instead of butter. The dough is rolled out between two layers of plastic wrap. "One o'clock, two o'clock, three o'clock.." my grandmother instructed when she first taught me how to make a pie. The shell is filled with canned fruit, plenty of sugar, and tapioca. Blueberry competes with tart cherries for my favorite flavor. A real old-fashioned pie. On the top you cut slits to allow the steam to escape. It is the baker's chance to sign her work. My grandmother makes a pine tree. I make a flower. A thick sprinkling of sugar becomes granulated and crusty as it bakes to a rich golden brown.

Red Wine

2008-08-23T19:26:00.000-07:00

I can't believe it's taken this long to get to wine. And when I say red wine, I'm talking about $5-10 bottle you buy and drink without touching your conscience. That wine that has a cute label but you've never heard of the grape source. That wine that is probably a blend of something Australian or Chilean. That wine that just might sport a plastic cork or even a -- gasp! -- screwcap.
This is not wine from France or Italy. It is not wine from California. It is not from Napa or Mendocino or even Byington. It is not wine that is meant to age in a wine cellar and it is not wine that needs to be decanted. It is not wine with a wealthy family behind it, it does not come from a famous movie director. It is not wine that needs swirling or gargling.
But it is still a wine that may sparkle in the glass (assuming you have clean wineglasses). It may still tickle your tongue with that earthy flavor of leaves and grass and dry summer days. It may cling to your mouth after swallowing in a not-unpleasant way that reminds you that you have just taken a sip of red wine. It may still be good enough to pour another glass. And, afterall, at $7 a bottle, you can afford to.

Bing Cherries

2008-06-24T10:07:00.000-07:00

Do you know that feeling when you're eating a bag of potato chips? You can't stop at just one, or two, or three. You keep reaching your hand in the bag over and over and over. You think, Well, my fingers are already greasy, I might as well eat one more.
That's how it is with me and Bing Cherries. I can eat an entire pound in one sitting, one after another, my fingers covered in deep red juice, pulp under my fingernails and a purple tongue. The skin is firm and supple, the center moist and sweet. I deftly chew around the seed and pop it out of my mouth. There is a discard pile or pits and stems when I'm through. Life is, surely, a bowl of cherries.

Meatloaf

2008-06-04T17:43:00.000-07:00

Meatloaf really has a bad rep. Is it that the reference to "meat" is so vague as to make us wary? Or is it the confluence of loaves and meats? The loaf pan, so often associated with breads (see Pumpkin Bread post), can be difficult to translate into a savory dinner item. Despite the name, I actually like most meatloaves. Well, not so much the meatloaf itself, but the sides that go along with it: smooth mashed potatoes, crisp green beans, creamy gravy, or warm butter rolls.

String Cheese

2008-05-21T17:03:00.001-07:00

You know, really, string cheese is one of those mysterious foods like Spam or Lunchables. How does the cheese do that? What makes it stringy? String cheese reminds me of eating cotton candy, another food that replicates a non-food item. String, cotton. Don't get me wrong; I love string cheese as much as the next second-grader. It always tastes better when you peel off thread by thread, the saltiness cheese-essence melting slightly as you chew.

Artichokes

2008-05-10T09:40:00.000-07:00

Every time I eat an artichoke, peeling leaf after leaf and scraping off the meaty flesh with my teeth, I wonder, Who ever thought of eating an artichoke? They are prickly and hard when raw, in the fields they look like strange alien plants like satellites searching for intelligent life. Who, I wonder, was the first one to cook an artichoke, discover the soft and bitter heart, the earthy green flavor of the leaves? I always steam artichokes after slicing them neatly in half, their chartreuse and violet insides exposed to the heat that will cook them until they have transformed from an unfriendly weed into a vegetable that is eaten slowly, deliberately.

Saltines

2008-03-04T09:55:00.000-08:00

Yes, those salty soda crackers most often associated with childhood illnesses. I just had the misfortune to revisit Saltines during a bout of the stomach flu. In those days when the very thought of food is nauseating, Saltines are the harbinger of meals to come, the knowledge that, despite the rancid taste in your mouth and the pain in your belly, you will, someday, eat again. I love the way a Saltine breaks into even pieces when bitten along the grain. The bits of grainy salt counterbalance the blandness of the cracker and makes you crave Kool-Aid or apple juice. While you chew, you can imagine that maybe, just maybe this will stay down. Quite an accomplishment some days.

Pumpkin Bread

2007-11-19T19:47:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving is the time of year when we begin to accept vegetables as something yummy, not something our mothers force us to eat. Sweet potatoes with marshmallows, pumpkin pie, green beans smothered in a cream sauce with crunchy onions on top. This vegetable phenomenon got me thinking about vegetables as dessert. My favorite is pumpkin bread. Bread is a sort of a misnomer since pumpkin bread is closer to a slice of cake than a hunk of bagette. Despite the healthy vegetables (full of vitamin A and C), pumpkin bread is moist, sweet, and spicey. Covered in a thick slab of butter, the sweetness of the bread is cut by the saltiness of the butter. The richness is conterbalanced always by knowing you're getting your vegetables.

Risotto

2007-03-18T08:44:00.000-07:00

I just had risotto last night. Since I don't like mushrooms or seafood, I rarely get to order risotto in a restaurant. For reasons unknown, risotto tends to be served with at least of those, if not both. Last night, however, the culinary gods were smiling on me. Risotto flavored with lemon, served with pine nuts, golden raisins, and the most incredible cream sauce I've ever tasted. You might think that risotto is creamy enough....the butter and broth creating its signature richness. The sauce, just dribbled around the edge of the bowl, was like eating liquid velvet. It added just a hint of cream and smoothed out the almost gummy rice. And as if the sauce weren't enough, the raisins added a surprise sweetness every few bits, complimented by a crunch of pine nuts. When I finished, I couldn't help asking, "Would it be rude if I licked my plate?"

Shrimp

2006-05-30T15:49:00.000-07:00

Everyone loves shrimp. Everyone but me, that is. I never can understand other people's fascination with these bug-like morsels. The pink flesh is just a little too fleshy, making me think of living, breathing creatures and not something I'd like to pop in mouth. And even though it's been years since I've even eaten a shrimp, I can still feel the meat resisting my teeth as I try to bite into it. And then the task of chewing this spongy, rubbery mouthful. And that's just the texture... The smell is nauseating. Fishy, acquatic, muddy. You can almost smell their fear and surprise from their deaths. I don't want to eat anything with eyes.

IZZE

2006-03-22T20:37:00.000-08:00

Eight and a half week pregnant. And nothing compliments my pregnancy cravings and aversions like an ice-cold bottle of IZZE.

Saltines? Try IZZE Clementine. Chex mix? Definitely IZZE Blackberry. Potstickers? IZZE Grapefruit.

Next week? I'll try the other flavors.

Cranberry Juice

2006-01-19T12:27:00.000-08:00

Does a child ever ask for cranberry juice? It's always grape or apple, the more popular juices. But is it ever 100% cranberry? It's always sweetened with apple and grape juice. But that doesn't make it any less sour. Cranberry juice looks like cherry Kool-Aid--not the one given to the believers at Jonestown. It touches your tongue, smooth, cold. At the same time it's like drinking a chalkboard.

Pommes frits

2005-09-10T13:08:00.000-07:00

If you've never tasted actual French French fries, you've only eaten fried potatoes. Pommes frits are generally sliced thinly into matchstick-sized morsels. If they're done right, they are slightly juicy with good olive oil and have a sprinkling of fine salt covering them. They aren't greasy, they just glisten with oil. They are sleek yellow, tinged with golden brown tips that crunch.
You will never eat pommes frits with catsup.

Caprese Salad

2005-07-11T12:53:00.000-07:00

Garden fresh tomatoes, firm buffalo mozzerella, huge leaves of fresh basil. The beautiful colors of the Italian flag alternate together to make the most delicious salad. A dish so wonderful it could almost be dessert. Thin slices of tomatoes and cheese and basil leaves are all drizzled with goldren greenish olive oil and dotted with balsamic vinegar so aged it's as sweet as sugar. The perfect summer food.

Grilled Cheese

2005-01-20T13:41:00.000-08:00

A grilled cheese sandwich on white bread with yellow American cheese, not real cheese. The outside is greasy and golden brown, a crisp buttery armor over soft white bread. The cheese is bright yellow, creamy, salty. It coats my tongue and teeth with saltiness and a sticky residue. The bread is juicy with butter, I lick off my fingers and taste dry crumbs and immitation butter flavor. I need some KoolAid to wash it down.

Café Latté

2004-11-20T16:10:00.000-08:00

The first thing that makes a café latté better than any other cup of coffee is that I don't have to make it or clean up afterward. I go to a coffee shop on some street corner, I pay money and they make me a warm, wonderful caffeinated beverage.

I can tell how hot it is before my lips even touch the cardboard rim. I bring it up to my face several times before I have the courage to tip it far enough back to actually taste it. The first taste is all texture of creamy foam, more heat than flavor. The second sip finally hits milky coffee, so hot and strong. As it cools I can take larger gulps, the silky consistency of the espresso and steamed milk go down easily.

By the time the paper cup is three-quarters empty it is already getting cold. I don't mind because it tastes so good I can drink the last few sips at room temperature.

Acorn Squash

2004-11-15T13:02:00.000-08:00

Bright orange, sticky, gummy, earthy smells. A small pile of acorn squash sits on the edge of my plate. I have been forced to try some and how it has sat there, hunched over, daring me to eat it. After the creamy mashed potatoes, virginal white. After the salty hunks of turkey, so tender it melts in my mouth. After the bitter broccoli, little forests. The squash is cold as slush, the edges drying out. A pat of butter doesn't melt, the spoonful of brown sugar stays crystalline. I put a microscopic morsel on the tines of my fork and slowly bring it to my mouth. I put the fork in my mouth, but I can't get myself to actually touch the cold, damp mass with my tongue. At last, my mother's watchful eyes on me, I drop the squash into my mouth. I hold it suspended on my tongue, not letting it touch the rest of my mouth. I feel ready to gag. I try to swallow several times. Finally, down it goes. A glass of milk: relief.

Creme Brule

2004-10-27T16:25:00.000-07:00

The pefect creme brule has a rich creamy custard. It is a pale yellow color from the fresh egg yolks. When the creamy custard reaches your tongue it is rich without being heavy. It is delicately sweet. The carmelized sugar crust is a golden brown and cracks like ice on a lake in the spring. The sweet and bitter of the crust balances the richness of the cream. The sharp, glass-like texture cuts through the custard. You follow the last bite with a sip of espresso.

Tuna

2004-10-02T09:49:00.000-07:00

Tuna salad. Tuna casserole. Seared tuna. When I was growing up I my mom made me tuna, but it wasn't in any of those forms. She made a tuna sauce that went on a baked potato. I remember it being an unappetizing grey color. A cream sauce with bits of fish in it, the fish having no fish flavor whatsoever. A creamy, salty, grey goop spread on a baked potato. With cooked corn on the side. No matter how ugly and unappealing it seemed, it always tasted good. Rich creaminess, salty bits of meat, the smooth starchiness of the potato. And when you're eight you wash it down with a glass of milk.

Tomato Aspic

2004-09-27T21:58:00.000-07:00

Only a great-grandmother could have made anything that has tomatoes in it and comes in a jello mold. Cold tomato aspic was part of family dinners when I was a child. I can still see that fascinating perfect ring of jelled tomato. It had the shape and consistency of jello, but reminded me of Campbell’s tomato soup. The flawless ring with its scalloped ridges was usually decorated with a bed of iceberg lettuce and dollops of homemade mayonnaise. Green, red, and white.