My friends, forgive my absence. I got a job. It's remarkable, really, how much less time you have to ponder the more frilly things when you have to work four whole days per week. For the past few weeks I've been settling into my new schedule as a salesdude at Providence Bicycle. It's a large store with an even larger warren of storage and warehouse space. If we don't have it, it probably doesn't exist. My first day, I got lost and found myself face to face with the Wall Of Bottom Brackets. I expect I will eventually find the Room of Requirement--when I need it most.
I've already learned a great deal about bikes, bike shoes, bike tires, bike racks, and general accoutrements des bicyclettes. But mostly, I've learned that I know nothing. I thought I knew something about bicycles: I am a rank amateur. It's pretty exciting to think about how much I have to learn--how much is out there. Of course, knowing nothing hasn't stopped me from selling bicycles. I know enough to say "Oh yes and here's the Raleigh Detour 3.5 with, ah, lessee... SRAM components, of course. That's good." Luckily, from teaching bike safety classes through LAB and by being a watchful cyclist, I've spent a lot of time watching people ride bikes. So I can tell pretty quickly if the bike is a good fit, which has helped greatly. But still, I have yet to even come near the serious mountain or road bikes. I'm strictly selling hybrids and kids' bikes these days. But I'll get there.
I've been enjoying riding and learning about lots of different bikes. We have a ton of Electra cruiser-style bicycles and they're a lot of fun to ride. There's also a Schwinn adult sized tricycle that I enjoy riding around the store to celebrate whenever I sell a bike. On her first visit to the store, Laura came upon me gleefully tooling around on the tricycle. That thing is awesome. It has a backrest! Love it.
This weekend I am lucky enough to play host to a BMC Streetfire SSX. Triple-butted aluminum frame, Easton carbon fork, full 105, FSA carbon compact crankset and--perhaps best of all--Fulcrum Racing wheels. As Moses said to the burning bush, OMFG. It's a wonderful ride, mannered yet ready to snap. Before you all go worrying about such a nice piece of merchandise in my possession, let me put you at ease: its frame is dented and we can't sell it. Luckily there are plenty more of them out there and for $2100 one could be yours. Of course, if entry-level isn't what you're looking for, I'll be happy to show you something a little more your speed.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
The first harvest
The garden is coming along nicely. We thinned the mesclun mix and harvested some chives, sage and thyme. Our squash and beans are just popping up, while the peas are already six inches tall and clambering all over themselves. The nasturtium are coming up happily, and on Saturday we went to a local plant sale and bought some heirloom tomato and chili pepper seedlings. It's starting to look like a real garden out there. With this harvest, and admittedly I did some noshing earlier, I have now fulfilled my resolution to grow something and eat it. The seeds I sowed at the end of April have now turned into the tender lettuces you see in the picture. They are delicious, and it is a tremendously satisfying feeling to eat something I grew myself. Now I can't wait for the rest of it to come up. On a sadder note, my okra failed to sprout. I think I put it in too soon and the poor things froze. However, I have more seed and plan to put some more in later in the Summer. Also, my scallions made it to about two inches tall and have stalled. I'm going to give them another few weeks, but if they continue to sit on their hands I'm going to pull them up and eat them--and put something else in where they were. Kale, most likely.
Flush with my success, I called my sister in Virginia, who gleefully informed me that she's been getting CSA deliveries for six weeks already. And that they continue into December. Ah, New England...
Monday, May 18, 2009
Chow Rhode Island, Episode 5: Stuffies
"If I gave you some quahogs, would you know what to do with them?"
I didn't want to lie to Uncle Wayne, so rather than tell him that I'd have no idea what to do with some quahogs, I simply smiled expectantly, made some positive-but-noncommittal noises, and followed him to the cooler. He looked at me skeptically and said, "I'll just give you a few." A minute later, I was the proud owner of a bag full of freshly-dug quahogs. After a brief consult, Laura and I decided to use them to make stuffies.
A brief note about quahogs: Everywhere else in the world they'd be called clams. This excellent fact sheet from Rhode Island Sea Grant describes some of the vast array of names these mollusks possess, and the interesting source of their Latin scientific name. Quahogs are big time in Rhode Island. Many local delicacies are based upon these fist-sized bivalves. So it was with great expectations that we brought home our bag of quahogs and made us some stuffies.
Subject: Stuffies
Aliases: None
Major Features: Chopped quahogs, onion, breadcrumbs
Minor Features: Dizzying array of seasonings, cheeses, and preparation techniques
We got some pointers from the locals about how to make our own stuffies, then read a bunch of recipes. Laura and I decided to each make our own variety, but the salient features of each were the same. Shucked, quahogs chopped in the food processor with onion, breadcrumbs, seasonings, and raw bacon, then stuffed back into their shells and baked. Laura did a rough-chopped version with tomato and parsley and I did a "salsa verde" style with cilantro, parsley, capers, and Ritz crackers.
Assessment: Delicious. The bacon rendered during baking and soaked everything through with goopy deliciousness. I also think a dollop of olive oil would have done the trick too, but man they were great. Chopping the meat and some of its own juice in the processor along with the seasonings gave the stuffies a uniform texture and slight tang. Both the varieties Laura and I made were tasty, and very different.
Conclusion: I can't say if these were "traditional" at all, but after reading a number of recipes it seems like what we did was pretty close to what most folks will do. The neighbors seemed to like them. The clam juice really brought everything together. They were very tasty and I would absolutely make them again. I expect that pretty much anything you care to put in your stuffies will be good.
And, as a bonus, I didn't throw up even a little. It seems my childhood clam allergy is a thing of the past. Or maybe I'm still allergic to clams, but quahogs are another thing entirely.
I didn't want to lie to Uncle Wayne, so rather than tell him that I'd have no idea what to do with some quahogs, I simply smiled expectantly, made some positive-but-noncommittal noises, and followed him to the cooler. He looked at me skeptically and said, "I'll just give you a few." A minute later, I was the proud owner of a bag full of freshly-dug quahogs. After a brief consult, Laura and I decided to use them to make stuffies.
A brief note about quahogs: Everywhere else in the world they'd be called clams. This excellent fact sheet from Rhode Island Sea Grant describes some of the vast array of names these mollusks possess, and the interesting source of their Latin scientific name. Quahogs are big time in Rhode Island. Many local delicacies are based upon these fist-sized bivalves. So it was with great expectations that we brought home our bag of quahogs and made us some stuffies.
Subject: Stuffies
Aliases: None
Major Features: Chopped quahogs, onion, breadcrumbs
Minor Features: Dizzying array of seasonings, cheeses, and preparation techniques
We got some pointers from the locals about how to make our own stuffies, then read a bunch of recipes. Laura and I decided to each make our own variety, but the salient features of each were the same. Shucked, quahogs chopped in the food processor with onion, breadcrumbs, seasonings, and raw bacon, then stuffed back into their shells and baked. Laura did a rough-chopped version with tomato and parsley and I did a "salsa verde" style with cilantro, parsley, capers, and Ritz crackers.
Assessment: Delicious. The bacon rendered during baking and soaked everything through with goopy deliciousness. I also think a dollop of olive oil would have done the trick too, but man they were great. Chopping the meat and some of its own juice in the processor along with the seasonings gave the stuffies a uniform texture and slight tang. Both the varieties Laura and I made were tasty, and very different.
Conclusion: I can't say if these were "traditional" at all, but after reading a number of recipes it seems like what we did was pretty close to what most folks will do. The neighbors seemed to like them. The clam juice really brought everything together. They were very tasty and I would absolutely make them again. I expect that pretty much anything you care to put in your stuffies will be good.
And, as a bonus, I didn't throw up even a little. It seems my childhood clam allergy is a thing of the past. Or maybe I'm still allergic to clams, but quahogs are another thing entirely.
Friday, May 15, 2009
A Proper Cup of Coffee in a Copper Coffee Cup
This one, like most conversations about coffee, starts with Johnny Appleseed. Born John Chapman in 1774 in Leominster, MA, Johnny Appleseed was, in fact, a real person. He spent much of his life traveling around the midwest planting and tending to apple orchards and, apparently, wearing a pot upon his head. A 4-quart saucepan by my estimate. So he planted apple trees and tra la la la went on his merry way--but why does that make him a folk hero? People like eating apples, but not that much. As it is, the apples Mr. Seed was planting weren't the kind of apples you'd like to eat. Eating them wasn't the point at all. The point was to make hard cider. Not the hefty boozy stuff we have today, a mild kind of low-alcohol applejack. The reason this was so important was that during those days there wasn't a whole lot of potable water. Turning it into booze was the only sure way to sterilize the drinking water. And so, everyone just drank applejack all the time. And so, you have a population that was just a little bit sauced all the time. And you wonder why Johnny Appleseed is a folk hero.
By now I'm sure you're all wondering "where the hell is he headed with this?" And that's a reasonable question. Like most conversations about coffee, we're headed to the Industrial Revolution. It's 1894. You're an up-and-coming London steel tycoon. You've got these huge factories, sophisticated supply and distribution lines, and plenty of potential employees crowding into squalid apartments and desperate for dangerous, low-wage jobs. But they're all just a wee bit drunk. Getting them to work at 8am is sort of a hassle. What do you do? Replace that applejack and near-beer with coffee, of course. As much as technology, globalization, urban crowding, and the railroads drove the Industrial Revolution, so too did coffee. While it had been available to Europe for over 150 years, for much of that time coffee was seen as an indulgence, or even a sin. Nothing a few hundred temperance societies couldn't straighten out.
I love coffee. Of course applejack in the morning sounds nice too, but then I'm unemployed. I've held two different jobs that involved making straight coffee and espresso drinks, but still (or, perhaps, because of that) I struggle to make good coffee at home. I'm happy to write off my difficulty with good espresso at home for lack of proper equipment. Once you've used a professional espresso machine, my friends, I guarantee--you can never go back. But as for regular drip, I've tried everything. Cheap coffeemakers, expensive coffeemakers, home grinding, pre-ground, French Press, melitta method. Coffee is so simple--crushed roasted beans and water--yet so complex. The type of bean, roast, grind, water, temperature, extraction duration, and method all play a part in this complex dance. Brewing good coffee requires delicacy and precision: two things I lack before I've had a cup of coffee. Our French press broke, so for the past few years Laura and I have been using the melitta method, with which it is definitely possible to produce good coffee. But still, we struggle with consistency. Possibly due to the fact that we rarely buy the same kind of coffee. But I've recently come upon a local roaster, and plan to try and stick to one of their offerings.
In the meantime, it's becoming iced coffee weather. Nothing cures a crummy pot of coffee like letting it cool and pouring it over ice. Or, even better, carbonating it. With a Guinness-like head, carbonated iced coffee is a drink that almost bridges the gap between coffee and beer. You can have your Appleseed, and still get to work.
By now I'm sure you're all wondering "where the hell is he headed with this?" And that's a reasonable question. Like most conversations about coffee, we're headed to the Industrial Revolution. It's 1894. You're an up-and-coming London steel tycoon. You've got these huge factories, sophisticated supply and distribution lines, and plenty of potential employees crowding into squalid apartments and desperate for dangerous, low-wage jobs. But they're all just a wee bit drunk. Getting them to work at 8am is sort of a hassle. What do you do? Replace that applejack and near-beer with coffee, of course. As much as technology, globalization, urban crowding, and the railroads drove the Industrial Revolution, so too did coffee. While it had been available to Europe for over 150 years, for much of that time coffee was seen as an indulgence, or even a sin. Nothing a few hundred temperance societies couldn't straighten out.
I love coffee. Of course applejack in the morning sounds nice too, but then I'm unemployed. I've held two different jobs that involved making straight coffee and espresso drinks, but still (or, perhaps, because of that) I struggle to make good coffee at home. I'm happy to write off my difficulty with good espresso at home for lack of proper equipment. Once you've used a professional espresso machine, my friends, I guarantee--you can never go back. But as for regular drip, I've tried everything. Cheap coffeemakers, expensive coffeemakers, home grinding, pre-ground, French Press, melitta method. Coffee is so simple--crushed roasted beans and water--yet so complex. The type of bean, roast, grind, water, temperature, extraction duration, and method all play a part in this complex dance. Brewing good coffee requires delicacy and precision: two things I lack before I've had a cup of coffee. Our French press broke, so for the past few years Laura and I have been using the melitta method, with which it is definitely possible to produce good coffee. But still, we struggle with consistency. Possibly due to the fact that we rarely buy the same kind of coffee. But I've recently come upon a local roaster, and plan to try and stick to one of their offerings.
In the meantime, it's becoming iced coffee weather. Nothing cures a crummy pot of coffee like letting it cool and pouring it over ice. Or, even better, carbonating it. With a Guinness-like head, carbonated iced coffee is a drink that almost bridges the gap between coffee and beer. You can have your Appleseed, and still get to work.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Veering dangerously close to preachiness
I was reading the latest issue of Bon Appetit yesterday. It had a feature called "Eco-Chic" which contained recipes for a multi-course dinner and suggestions for how to serve it. The focus of the piece seemed to be more on the serving dishes (bamboo plates, petrified wood platters) than any sort of eco-ness in regards to the actual food (which contained two meat courses and numerous out-of-season ingredients). Clearly, the "Chic" was the subject and "Eco" the modifier. Something about that title bothered me, and I spent the morning pondering it (as I awkwardly transplanted a clump of chives).
Things that are chic are, by their very nature, transient. Hipness, coolness, chic are intrinsically fleeting, insubstantial. Maybe jean jackets will make a comeback, but right now--ugh. Of course, evolving and revolving style has been a part of human civilization since the beginning (so you're still using stone arrowheads? How quaint), and it makes no sense to bemoan that.
That conflation, that linking of hipness to environmental awareness, that rubbed me the wrong way. Of course, it's good for people to find ways to make and sell and buy things that are less destructive to the environment. It's good to get the Braindead Media Industrial Complex involved in a positive way. I'm not about to stand in the way of every honky in a Prius who wants to serve hors d'oeuvres on a bamboo plate, but what happens when this particular trend runs its course? We have treacherously short memories in this country. What happens when our callow news cycle gobbles up the last dregs of inconvenient truthery, and we're left right where we started? What's more substantial to the human race than the planet upon which it stands? Maybe making environmentally responsible decisions shouldn't just be cool, it should just be life.
Things that are chic are, by their very nature, transient. Hipness, coolness, chic are intrinsically fleeting, insubstantial. Maybe jean jackets will make a comeback, but right now--ugh. Of course, evolving and revolving style has been a part of human civilization since the beginning (so you're still using stone arrowheads? How quaint), and it makes no sense to bemoan that.
That conflation, that linking of hipness to environmental awareness, that rubbed me the wrong way. Of course, it's good for people to find ways to make and sell and buy things that are less destructive to the environment. It's good to get the Braindead Media Industrial Complex involved in a positive way. I'm not about to stand in the way of every honky in a Prius who wants to serve hors d'oeuvres on a bamboo plate, but what happens when this particular trend runs its course? We have treacherously short memories in this country. What happens when our callow news cycle gobbles up the last dregs of inconvenient truthery, and we're left right where we started? What's more substantial to the human race than the planet upon which it stands? Maybe making environmentally responsible decisions shouldn't just be cool, it should just be life.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Chow Rhode Island, Episode 4: Doughboys
Pan-fried pizza dough topped with a heaping spoonful of sugar. Need I say more? I need? Well then:Subject: Doughboys
Aliases: Fried Dough
Major Features: Dough
Minor Features: Sugar
Not to be confused with funnel cakes, which are made by piping soft sweet dough into hot oil, doughboys are generally made with a slab of pizza dough in a (relatively) moderate amount of oil. Sugaring after is delicious and traditional.
Assessment: Crunchy on the outside, soft and chewy on the inside. The sugar clings to and soaks up the residual oil on the outside, forming a secondary crust of greasy sugary goodness.
Conclusion: These are generally enjoyed for breakfast, and therefore usually with store-bought pizza dough. Probably any dough would work, really. Just heat some oil (your choice) until smoking, stretch out a piece of dough (your choice), slap it (gently) into the oil for a few minutes per side, remove, drain, dump a pile of sugar on top, enjoy. Simple, fried, carbs-n-sugar. Best eaten prior to a day working on the farm. I'm kind of a priss about sweet breakfasts, but this was very tasty. Not something I'd eat everyday, though.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
And, just because
I watched the last half of "The Price is Right" this morning. This is what happens when you get up at 4am--by 11:30 you're ready for a beer and some baseball. Instead, I had seltzer and "The Price is Right". But I digress. In the showcase showdown, Scott made off with some drab Armani, the most pedestrian-looking Gucci luggage available, and a trip to Milan with personal-shopper tour of the fashion houses (and $500 to spend--maybe he can get some shoelaces). There was a semester in college when my schedule was arranged perfectly to allow me to watch TPR every day. I was there for the 5,000th episode, where every prize was a car.
In any event, watching television at 11:45am (and, really, television at all) often exposes a fellow to some bizarre things. I assume the network figures its demographic at this time to be elderly and/or infirm or generally insane/desperate, because nearly every advertisement was for some sort of medicine/medical product/hoodoo claptrap that Will Make Your Life Better. During one commercial break, there was an ad for Singulair, powered chair-scooter things (Medicare May Cover The Cost!!), and yogurt with "clinically-proven" poop-makin' mojo (don't even get me started). But, at the end of the break, there was an ad for Manwich. It featured a variety of people, shot in closeup, eating Manwiches and generally boogying to some cheesy music. At no time did this ad suggest that Manwich would Make Your Life Better. Manwich: It's Just Meat in a Can. It made me smile. What does it mean when this is a breath of fresh air?
And, just because, here's a sloppy joe on a Krispy Kreme.
In any event, watching television at 11:45am (and, really, television at all) often exposes a fellow to some bizarre things. I assume the network figures its demographic at this time to be elderly and/or infirm or generally insane/desperate, because nearly every advertisement was for some sort of medicine/medical product/hoodoo claptrap that Will Make Your Life Better. During one commercial break, there was an ad for Singulair, powered chair-scooter things (Medicare May Cover The Cost!!), and yogurt with "clinically-proven" poop-makin' mojo (don't even get me started). But, at the end of the break, there was an ad for Manwich. It featured a variety of people, shot in closeup, eating Manwiches and generally boogying to some cheesy music. At no time did this ad suggest that Manwich would Make Your Life Better. Manwich: It's Just Meat in a Can. It made me smile. What does it mean when this is a breath of fresh air?
And, just because, here's a sloppy joe on a Krispy Kreme.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Springtime brings ominous sounds from the KitchenAid mixer
Today I'm prepping the dough for five different loaves of bread. Tomorrow I'm going to bake and take those loaves to some potential buyers. It seems sensible to start the bread business small: selling a few loaves per week to people I know. I need to find commercial kitchen space before I can sell to the general public, but hope to make that happen soon--there's a farmers' market in the neighborhood that would be a great place to sell bread and make dough. Pun heartily intended.
Perhaps fittingly, just as I am starting to get serious about the bread-making business, our 4.5-quart KitchenAid mixer may be headed for the grave. It's been wobbly for months now, but kneading dough for six loaves today it began making some truly dreadful grinding sounds. It didn't smoke, but the motor casing got pretty hot. Ah well. It had a good run. We should probably replace it with a 60-quart Hobart HL662 (a steal at $14,000!). It can live in the bathroom.
I've spent the ten-to-thirty minute intervals between breadmaking activities today by strolling across the street to the garden plot, which has been showing signs of life. The snow peas are going gangbusters, but so are the weeds. I've been weeding in a somewhat lackadaisical manner, figuring that the weeds will be easier to pull when they're not tiny. Maybe that's a bad idea. In any event, there are definitely peas on the way, and my scallions are sending up tiny shoots as well. The volunteer strawberries take up more space every time I see them, and I can't wait for them to bear fruit so I can A)eat the fruit and B)cut back the plants. I put in the pole beans today, and hope they work out. No sign of any squash or okra plants yet, though. However, given the early success of the peas, I am feeling confident that I will meet my New Year's resolution to grow something and eat it. Yum!
This weekend I participated in a neighborhood-wide cleanup organized by the West Broadway Neighborhood Association. About eighty of us met in the local park where there were dozens of shovels, brooms and rakes. After a brief visit from the mayor (who rolled up in a shiny black hybrid SUV), we broke into teams and set to work cleaning up the streets. Myself and three neighbors started on our own block, sweeping up and bagging leaves and trash, and raking out the planters in the streets. It was surprisingly time-consuming work; one block took the four of us an hour and a half. Some of the planters were layered with heavy piles of decaying matter. In one particularly unfortunate box I uncovered a plaque that said "Award for Keeping Providence Beautiful 1988", which seemed to confirm our estimate for the last time these planters had been cleaned out. I had some leftover watermelon and cantaloupe seeds from my melon patch at the farm, and surreptitiously added a few to each planter. Guerrilla gardening. Aw yeeah.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
The Scali Has Landed
My friends, I have been remiss in my posts. But I assure you my absence was productive. You see, I encountered a challenge--a nemesis even--that demanded my full attention. What started as an innocuous-seeming request from a potential customer--develop a recipe for whole wheat scali bread--quickly morphed into a nearly uncontrollable monster. An obsession. A bitter quest. There will be blood. And there was. Blood.
For those of you considering franchising the Chow Rhode Island column for a Boston version, you'll have to put scali bread on your list. Scali bread is a soft, crusty braided white Italian bread heavily encumbered with sesame seeds. Hugely popular in the Boston area, it is particularly good sandwich bread (especially with some Boah's Head cold cuts, motto "It's Gotta Be Boah's Head!"). It seemed easy enough to test a few recipes using whole wheat flour, make a few tweaks, and bada boom.
Er, and, technically, that's what happened. But that doesn't make for good blogging. Blood! I bled for this bread! Back to the melodrama!
I started out with King Arthur Flour's recipe, which uses a weird proto-starter. Something between a biga and pate fermentee (remember your lessons?), this starter didn't seem to add much to the flavor and made mixing the dough a pain. This dough was fairly soft, but rose nicely and was happy to be rolled into the three logs for braiding. At this point, I encountered my first serious problem: I don't know how to braid. I consulted my phalanx of bread books, none of which had any helpful information. The closest thing I could get was from "The Bread Bible", where Rose Berenbaum instructs the reader to start at the center of the braid. Gee, thanks. I eventually arranged the logs into a braid, but couldn't say how. The loaf rose nicely, went into the oven... and quickly flattened out like the nation's GDP. While the flavor was okay, the form was a complete failure.
Working off the assumption that the stiffness of the dough contributes to its eventual holding-togetherness, I tried a different recipe that had similar methods but a much lower hydration percentage. This dough was so stiff our poor Kitchen Aid took a few jabs at it, looked at me, and said "Yeah, um, I'm on my break." Heaving away at the dough by hand, I could see the machine's point. This dough, though containing a huge amount of yeast, barely rose at all. Things were not looking good when I divided it and began shaping the logs. It was stiffer than Al Gore on Pants-Off Dance-Off. By the time I'd gotten the logs into loglike shapes, I was fully prepared to throw the whole thing away, but decided that I could at least use the braiding practice. This time it went much better, since I stopped thinking about the actual convolutions and simply let my lizard brain take over. Lovely braid. Baked: terrible bread. I was cranky. And, bitterly going in to hack off the first slice, the knife slid off the surface of the bread and bit deeply into my index finger. As I stood and bled all over the white bathroom sink, I wondered if I should photograph this macabre nadir of my nascent baking career. I did not.
Instead, I made a real biga. This morning I woke up, found my biga had grown to a perfectly gelatinous state, and mixed a combination of whole wheat and bread flour to the point of tackiness but not actual stickiness. Rose it, shaped it, baked it in a hot oven, and voila.
And it tastes great too.
For those of you considering franchising the Chow Rhode Island column for a Boston version, you'll have to put scali bread on your list. Scali bread is a soft, crusty braided white Italian bread heavily encumbered with sesame seeds. Hugely popular in the Boston area, it is particularly good sandwich bread (especially with some Boah's Head cold cuts, motto "It's Gotta Be Boah's Head!"). It seemed easy enough to test a few recipes using whole wheat flour, make a few tweaks, and bada boom.
Er, and, technically, that's what happened. But that doesn't make for good blogging. Blood! I bled for this bread! Back to the melodrama!
I started out with King Arthur Flour's recipe, which uses a weird proto-starter. Something between a biga and pate fermentee (remember your lessons?), this starter didn't seem to add much to the flavor and made mixing the dough a pain. This dough was fairly soft, but rose nicely and was happy to be rolled into the three logs for braiding. At this point, I encountered my first serious problem: I don't know how to braid. I consulted my phalanx of bread books, none of which had any helpful information. The closest thing I could get was from "The Bread Bible", where Rose Berenbaum instructs the reader to start at the center of the braid. Gee, thanks. I eventually arranged the logs into a braid, but couldn't say how. The loaf rose nicely, went into the oven... and quickly flattened out like the nation's GDP. While the flavor was okay, the form was a complete failure.
Working off the assumption that the stiffness of the dough contributes to its eventual holding-togetherness, I tried a different recipe that had similar methods but a much lower hydration percentage. This dough was so stiff our poor Kitchen Aid took a few jabs at it, looked at me, and said "Yeah, um, I'm on my break." Heaving away at the dough by hand, I could see the machine's point. This dough, though containing a huge amount of yeast, barely rose at all. Things were not looking good when I divided it and began shaping the logs. It was stiffer than Al Gore on Pants-Off Dance-Off. By the time I'd gotten the logs into loglike shapes, I was fully prepared to throw the whole thing away, but decided that I could at least use the braiding practice. This time it went much better, since I stopped thinking about the actual convolutions and simply let my lizard brain take over. Lovely braid. Baked: terrible bread. I was cranky. And, bitterly going in to hack off the first slice, the knife slid off the surface of the bread and bit deeply into my index finger. As I stood and bled all over the white bathroom sink, I wondered if I should photograph this macabre nadir of my nascent baking career. I did not.
Instead, I made a real biga. This morning I woke up, found my biga had grown to a perfectly gelatinous state, and mixed a combination of whole wheat and bread flour to the point of tackiness but not actual stickiness. Rose it, shaped it, baked it in a hot oven, and voila.
And it tastes great too.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Broccoli Rabe Pizza
Also known as rapini, broccoli rabe (pronounced, seemingly interchangeably, "rob" or "robbie"), is one of my new obsessions. It's like broccoli, only much more assertive and bitter, and has many dark leaves like kale or spinach or collards. It's great boiled, steamed, sauteed or roasted. Today I made rabe pizza with goat cheese and caramelized onions.
Laura and I make pizza every few weeks, but we almost never apply tomato sauce. Fresh tomatoes, yes, but never red sauce. I generally prefer to infuse a few tablespoons of olive oil with some crushed garlic, red pepper, and herbs, and brush that onto the pizza dough prior to topping and baking. I find it makes for a more crispy and dough-actualized pizza.
Broccoli Rabe Pizza
serves 2
1/3 lb Broccoli Rabe, ends trimmed
1 Medium/large onion, sliced thinly
3 Cloves garlic, put through press
4 Tbsp Olive oil
1/4 Tsp Crushed red pepper
2 Tbsp Chopped oregano, basil, rosemary, cilantro or whatever you have on hand
2oz Crumbled goat cheese (optional)
Preheat oven with stone on middle rack to 550F. Bring a large pot of salted water to boil. Add rabe and cook for three-five minutes until mostly tender. Remove and place in bowl of ice water to cool. When cool, strain, squeeze gently to dry, and roughly chop.
Meanwhile, heat a splash of oil in large skillet over high heat until shimmering and add the onions along with a healthy pinch of salt. Cook over high heat, turning regularly, until generally wilted, about 90 seconds. Turn heat down to medium-low, add one tablespoon of sugar (your choice) and stir frequently until dark brown, adding a splash of wine or beer if it gets dry, about 20 minutes.
Mix the oil, garlic, crushed pepper, herbs, and a teaspoon of kosher salt in a small bowl. Roll or pat out your pizza dough and place on a sheet pan (or peel) covered with cornmeal. Brush the dough all over with the oil, spread out the onions, then add the rabe and optional goat cheese chunks.
Place or peel into oven and cook for 20 minutes, turning halfway through cooking, until the crust is dark brown and mottled. Remove, slice, eat, clean up, go to bed.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
The Rhode Island Accent
The week I moved to Boston there appeared in the soon-to-be dearly departed Boston Globe an article on the Boston accent. The author described the various forms this accent takes, the metro-regional variations. Those wandering R's, fleeing their native words, only to awkwardly attach themselves to foreign bodies, like rebound sex: "lawyer" becomes "lawyah" while "Pedroia" turns to "Pedroier". Like many people, when faced with this bizarre and homely creature, I fell in love.
But the Boston Accent is a slippery thing. Easy to broadly imitate, it's hard to pin down. Even people from the town of Medford can't agree on how it's properly pronounced. Is it "Medfud" or "Mehfud" or even "Medfid"? I needed a Rosetta stone. And that classic catchphrase, "Park the car in Harvard Yard" (which, BTW, you would never be able to do--there is exactly zero parking at, in, or around Harvard) even this old chestnut is riddled with incongruity. While most non-Bostonians would probably give all those A's looong "ah" sounds ("paaaak the caaaaah") it would overlook the fact that most Bostonians would more likely say "aa" as in "cat" for "park", "car", and "yard" but a long "ah" for "Harvard". Getting all this? Or, really, the A's end up being something in between an "ah" and an "aa". My old vocal coach called this vowel migration, and there's a cubic ass-ton of it going around the Hub. I spent eight years in Boston working on that accent, but never was able to nail it down. It was sort of like living in a foreign country, after a few months in the city I started thinking in the accent. I could hear how to pronounce something even if I couldn't quite wrap my mouth around it. I think if I'd stayed for eight more years I'd have it.
So you can imagine the eagerness with which I have approached learning about the Rhode Island accent. Although it's only an hour away from Boston (less than the distance from one end of Memphis to the other), the accents are cousins at best. Maybe even second cousins. There are similarities, sure, the basic structure is the same, but in the RI accent there lies a strong vein of what can only be described as Long Island. Those liminal A's from Boston are often replaced with a harsher, more nasal sound. And the R's are often rendered as I's. It is still very much a work in process, and I plan to report to you, gentle readers, as I uncover more. For one thing, I've learned the best place in Providence to hear the Rhode Island accent in its natural habitat: Ocean State Job Lot (an entire blog post in itself). I overheard some amazing specimens there.
I had a moment of clarity the other day while riding up Reservoir Ave and passed a restaurant called Scramblers. Instantly I heard two voices in my head say that word. The Boston voice said "Scrambluhs". And another voice, a voice I'd never heard before, whispered... "Scramblizz".
I smiled. Oh I've got you now.
But the Boston Accent is a slippery thing. Easy to broadly imitate, it's hard to pin down. Even people from the town of Medford can't agree on how it's properly pronounced. Is it "Medfud" or "Mehfud" or even "Medfid"? I needed a Rosetta stone. And that classic catchphrase, "Park the car in Harvard Yard" (which, BTW, you would never be able to do--there is exactly zero parking at, in, or around Harvard) even this old chestnut is riddled with incongruity. While most non-Bostonians would probably give all those A's looong "ah" sounds ("paaaak the caaaaah") it would overlook the fact that most Bostonians would more likely say "aa" as in "cat" for "park", "car", and "yard" but a long "ah" for "Harvard". Getting all this? Or, really, the A's end up being something in between an "ah" and an "aa". My old vocal coach called this vowel migration, and there's a cubic ass-ton of it going around the Hub. I spent eight years in Boston working on that accent, but never was able to nail it down. It was sort of like living in a foreign country, after a few months in the city I started thinking in the accent. I could hear how to pronounce something even if I couldn't quite wrap my mouth around it. I think if I'd stayed for eight more years I'd have it.
So you can imagine the eagerness with which I have approached learning about the Rhode Island accent. Although it's only an hour away from Boston (less than the distance from one end of Memphis to the other), the accents are cousins at best. Maybe even second cousins. There are similarities, sure, the basic structure is the same, but in the RI accent there lies a strong vein of what can only be described as Long Island. Those liminal A's from Boston are often replaced with a harsher, more nasal sound. And the R's are often rendered as I's. It is still very much a work in process, and I plan to report to you, gentle readers, as I uncover more. For one thing, I've learned the best place in Providence to hear the Rhode Island accent in its natural habitat: Ocean State Job Lot (an entire blog post in itself). I overheard some amazing specimens there.
I had a moment of clarity the other day while riding up Reservoir Ave and passed a restaurant called Scramblers. Instantly I heard two voices in my head say that word. The Boston voice said "Scrambluhs". And another voice, a voice I'd never heard before, whispered... "Scramblizz".
I smiled. Oh I've got you now.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Cyclical nature
Spring continues its joyful unfurling. The first sprouts from my hot pepper plants appeared yesterday in their little pots by the window. It was a thrill to see these tiny shoots, the beginning of life. Seeds are amazing.
I planted some of my urban garden last week. I built a little walled bed for my mess-o-mesclun and nasturtium, and put in a few rows of scallion, peas and okra, and a few hills of summer squash and butternut. Later in the season I'll put in tomato seedlings (sungolds, I hope) and kale. Laura has her eye on an unoccupied section of one of the beds for some more flowers and maybe carrots. It was fun to make little furrows with my fingers and lay the seeds in their new homes. I loved seeing all the crazy different shapes and sizes of the seeds. Some were obvious: squash seeds look like the seeds you take out of squash (my lord!), but others were foreign to me. The nasturtium seeds were huge, craggy hailstones, while the scallion seeds were tiny half moons, inky-black. They got stuck in the spaces between my fingers. Soon, hopefully, I'll start to see more little shoots popping up in my garden beds.
We began composting last week. I took an unused municipal trash barrel, hosed it out, and drilled holes all over it. We started it with a few scoops of soil, and a bucket of horse compost, and then started collecting and adding kitchen scraps. I put the barrel in the driveway, on a little patch of gravelly dirt (about as good as we can do at our apartment). We were adding scraps to it on Friday when our neighbor poked his head out the window and asked what we were doing. When we said we were composting, he disappeared, and returned with a bowlful of kitchen scraps. Now all of the neighbors in our and the next building are participating. We're going to need another barrel. It's incredible how much waste we've saved from the landfill after just one week of composting.
Now that I have some little seedlings to care for, I've started a batch of fertilizer tea. My working recipe is this: Take half-full bucket of compost, fill it to the top with water. Let sit for a few days, stirring occasionally. Voila: fertilizer tea. This is my first time using it, but I keep reading and talking to people who swear by the stuff. I'm going to put some in a spray bottle and use it to water my seedlings. It's amazing to think that my kitchen scraps can feed my vegetable garden. Instead of going into a landfill, those onion peels, coffee grounds and eggshells are going to become okra and kale and tomatoes. Life is cool.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Marketing!
The Providence Public Library's edgy new nickname (no doubt to appeal to the young and hip):
Word.
Word.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Book Review: Mark Bittman's "Food Matters"
Last year a friend of mine in DC mentioned that he'd been invited to a vegan potluck dinner. Sounded simple enough, but there were a number of stipulations: Aside from bringing a vegan dish to share (naturally), guests were additionally forbidden from wearing any leather or even, bizarrely, carrying cigarettes into the house. It sounded to me like the least fun dinner party ever. I'm not saying that I require dead animal to enjoy myself, but that degree of prohibition almost for its own sake just seems silly--and potentially self-defeating. Nothing makes folks want to do something more than strictly forbidding it. This is one of the reasons that I have generally found veganism to be obnoxious. In my experience, people for whom the choice to eat vegan is less a lifestyle or diet and more an identity, tend to be people who simply don't like food much--but really do like being uppity. Let's call this Veganism. A common argument made by Vegans (and vegetarians) for not eating animal products usually is some version of "But they're so cute with their big brown eyes!" I call this the Big Brown Eyes Fallacy, and it's a stupid argument. Things eating each other is how life works.
So the irony of the fact that I've recently been moving toward largely vegan diet is not lost on me. Why the change of heart? I still love meat, and will still eat meat--specifically the sublime steak-wrapped oysters at Loie Fuller's--but lately I'm thinking about what I eat differently. About the impact of all the animal products, processed carbohydrates, and sugar (specifically: the typical American diet) has been having not only on my body but also my planet. I've been a fan of eating locally for a few years now, blessed as I am with friends who are involved with food and farm issues, but what provided the nudge that has sent me down a road of significant diet change was Mark Bittman's new book, "Food Matters".
One of the great things about having your own blog is that you can make dramatic statements: Everyone in America should read this book. Go to the library, go to Amazon, steal it, I don't care. There have already been many good books about food and the food system by luminaries such as Eric Schlosser and Michael Pollan, but what really hooked me about "Food Matters" is that it's written by a serious chef and gourmand--a diet book by a man who really loves to eat. I've been a Bittman fan for years; my copy of "How to Cook Everything" is well-thumbed and stained. I read his blog and love his column. So when I first hear him talking on NPR a few months ago about this book, it really spoke to me. I finally picked up a copy a few weeks ago.
"Food Matters" is roughly broken into two sections: A thorough and unflinching description of the American food system and how we got here along with some simple and clear recommendations for what you can do to help yourself and the environment, followed by a set of recipes. Most of the information Bittman covers in the first section I was already familiar with: The gross failure of regulation due to overwhelming influence of industry in policy making. The USDA's perversion of its stated goals. The pernicious effect of marketing. The suppression of real science. Sadly, the story of how we got here in the world of agriculture reads pretty much like the story of America: Public Policy Manipulated to Benefit Private Industry, to the General Detriment of the Population and Environment. Yuck.
Bittman follows this with more specific data about what is happening today. In essence: we're producing too many calories, and way too many empty calories. Factory farming--particularly meat production--contributes hugely to environmental denigration. It takes a massive amount of energy to produce factory farmed meat. A few stats from the book: A steak dinner for four has the same environmental impact as driving an SUV for three hours while leaving all the lights on at home. It takes 40 calories of energy to produce one calorie of meat. It's not enough to call our current food system unsustainable, it's unendurable.
That's not even going into the fact that Americans get over seven percent of our total calories from soda (or the fact that it takes 2,200 calories to produce one 12oz can of soda). The things we eat are often packed with sugar and useless calories even when they're supposedly "healthy". Yogurt, for instance, has had more and more sugar in it recently, until it is now basically nutritionally indistinguishable from ice cream. I had a bit of a crisis of faith myself when reading his explanation of simple starches and he pointed out that white flour is nutritionally identical to white sugar. Mind you--I'm trying to become a bread baker.
So we're eating shit, and it's making us sick (obesity, diabetes, heart disease, cancer). It's killing the environment. We can't hope for change from the government, and certainly not from the same industry trying to sell us all that high fructose corn syrup (aside: Bittman makes a lovely rebuttal to those stupid "corn syrup's just the same as sugar!" ads. It's not. It's much worse). We have to make change ourselves. As Pollan says, vote with your fork.
This is where "Food Matters" gets into the good stuff. Bittman lays out a system of eating that, basically, is just "eat less meat, eat more plants". That's pretty much it. But, unlike "diets", the kind of eating that Bittman describes is not based upon strict prohibition. Eat meat, he says, meat is delicious (Bittman is a butter man), but don't eat it every meal, every day, in huge quantities. Cutting out one meal of meat per week makes a difference. Do what works for you. What works for him is: vegan from dawn until dusk, then anything goes. By allowing yourself to continue to eat the things you're used to eating, you put yourself in a much better position for making real and gradual change to the way you look at all food. His recipes are all well-written and clear. And he makes the reader re-think preconceptions about what we eat when. Does breakfast have to involve sugary things? Does dinner require steak? His recipe for wheat berries "cereal" was my gateway drug to this book, and this way of eating.
I've been following a version of this plan for about a week now, and I've already seen changes. I feel different. I'm thinking about food differently. I made wraps the other night, and where just a few weeks ago I would have put chicken in them, instead I roasted some broccoli, sweet potato, and red onion and it was delicious and satisfying. I've even (finally) started buying and cooking dried beans.
There's a great deal more to the book, and once again let me encourage every one of you to read it. "Food Matters" is a book about saving the world, but saving the world through deliciousness.
So the irony of the fact that I've recently been moving toward largely vegan diet is not lost on me. Why the change of heart? I still love meat, and will still eat meat--specifically the sublime steak-wrapped oysters at Loie Fuller's--but lately I'm thinking about what I eat differently. About the impact of all the animal products, processed carbohydrates, and sugar (specifically: the typical American diet) has been having not only on my body but also my planet. I've been a fan of eating locally for a few years now, blessed as I am with friends who are involved with food and farm issues, but what provided the nudge that has sent me down a road of significant diet change was Mark Bittman's new book, "Food Matters".
One of the great things about having your own blog is that you can make dramatic statements: Everyone in America should read this book. Go to the library, go to Amazon, steal it, I don't care. There have already been many good books about food and the food system by luminaries such as Eric Schlosser and Michael Pollan, but what really hooked me about "Food Matters" is that it's written by a serious chef and gourmand--a diet book by a man who really loves to eat. I've been a Bittman fan for years; my copy of "How to Cook Everything" is well-thumbed and stained. I read his blog and love his column. So when I first hear him talking on NPR a few months ago about this book, it really spoke to me. I finally picked up a copy a few weeks ago.
"Food Matters" is roughly broken into two sections: A thorough and unflinching description of the American food system and how we got here along with some simple and clear recommendations for what you can do to help yourself and the environment, followed by a set of recipes. Most of the information Bittman covers in the first section I was already familiar with: The gross failure of regulation due to overwhelming influence of industry in policy making. The USDA's perversion of its stated goals. The pernicious effect of marketing. The suppression of real science. Sadly, the story of how we got here in the world of agriculture reads pretty much like the story of America: Public Policy Manipulated to Benefit Private Industry, to the General Detriment of the Population and Environment. Yuck.
Bittman follows this with more specific data about what is happening today. In essence: we're producing too many calories, and way too many empty calories. Factory farming--particularly meat production--contributes hugely to environmental denigration. It takes a massive amount of energy to produce factory farmed meat. A few stats from the book: A steak dinner for four has the same environmental impact as driving an SUV for three hours while leaving all the lights on at home. It takes 40 calories of energy to produce one calorie of meat. It's not enough to call our current food system unsustainable, it's unendurable.
That's not even going into the fact that Americans get over seven percent of our total calories from soda (or the fact that it takes 2,200 calories to produce one 12oz can of soda). The things we eat are often packed with sugar and useless calories even when they're supposedly "healthy". Yogurt, for instance, has had more and more sugar in it recently, until it is now basically nutritionally indistinguishable from ice cream. I had a bit of a crisis of faith myself when reading his explanation of simple starches and he pointed out that white flour is nutritionally identical to white sugar. Mind you--I'm trying to become a bread baker.
So we're eating shit, and it's making us sick (obesity, diabetes, heart disease, cancer). It's killing the environment. We can't hope for change from the government, and certainly not from the same industry trying to sell us all that high fructose corn syrup (aside: Bittman makes a lovely rebuttal to those stupid "corn syrup's just the same as sugar!" ads. It's not. It's much worse). We have to make change ourselves. As Pollan says, vote with your fork.
This is where "Food Matters" gets into the good stuff. Bittman lays out a system of eating that, basically, is just "eat less meat, eat more plants". That's pretty much it. But, unlike "diets", the kind of eating that Bittman describes is not based upon strict prohibition. Eat meat, he says, meat is delicious (Bittman is a butter man), but don't eat it every meal, every day, in huge quantities. Cutting out one meal of meat per week makes a difference. Do what works for you. What works for him is: vegan from dawn until dusk, then anything goes. By allowing yourself to continue to eat the things you're used to eating, you put yourself in a much better position for making real and gradual change to the way you look at all food. His recipes are all well-written and clear. And he makes the reader re-think preconceptions about what we eat when. Does breakfast have to involve sugary things? Does dinner require steak? His recipe for wheat berries "cereal" was my gateway drug to this book, and this way of eating.
I've been following a version of this plan for about a week now, and I've already seen changes. I feel different. I'm thinking about food differently. I made wraps the other night, and where just a few weeks ago I would have put chicken in them, instead I roasted some broccoli, sweet potato, and red onion and it was delicious and satisfying. I've even (finally) started buying and cooking dried beans.
There's a great deal more to the book, and once again let me encourage every one of you to read it. "Food Matters" is a book about saving the world, but saving the world through deliciousness.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Faith in your work
The other day I was riding my 1983 Trek 400 singlespeed conversion over to the East Side of Providence. The East Side is the fancy-pants side of town. That's where you'll find RISD and Brown and fancy-pants shopping and folks who have been to Federal Hill "maybe once or twice". It's basically the Cambridge of Providence. Unlike Cambridge, however, the East Side of Providence has a hill. A big, steep, nasty F-ing hill. If you take the wrong approach, as I did, the effect will be less of biking up a hill and more akin to slamming into the side of a hill.
I dragged myself up the street, past throngs of pink-haired art students, cursing my existence. Never cross the river onto Waterman Street on a bicycle. Coming back down the hill I made a similar mistake by taking College Street, which is probably even steeper than Waterman. And, like all good steep streets, it has a stop light at a busy intersection right at the bottom (marking the first time I've ever considered getting off my bike to walk it down a hill). The light was red, and as I shifted my weight as far back as possible, and carefully yet firmly grasped the brakes, I couldn't help but think about how I'd just installed new levers, realigned and adjusted these very brakes upon which my life now depended. It was, if not the only moment, certainly the most stark occasion in which I've placed my life directly into the hands of my work. After a brief moment of panic, I took the zen approach; I know how to adjust brakes, these brakes will stop me. They did.
I've been thinking about that moment of zen recently, as I hunch over my seed pots, willing the pepper seeds to germinate. Am I doing something wrong? There are so many variables. When you're working at a desk, clicking a mouse, there is rarely life in the balance. But I'm trying to help make life in the garden, in these little seed pots. It's easy to overthink things when you don't know what you're doing.
Perhaps I'll stop fretting over the pepper seeds when I sow the outdoor garden later this week. On Sunday I picked up a truck full of composted horse manure from the farm, and it now is lying in a thick layer on top of my plot across the street. I'm going to go rake it in today before it starts raining again, and after a little more landscaping I'll sow my lettuces, peas, and squash. What will happen? I have no clue. But maybe it's best I try and be mindful of that zen moment on College Street--what will happen will happen, I've done my best.
Next up: I review "Food Matters" by Mark Bittman (early returns point to: delicious!)
I dragged myself up the street, past throngs of pink-haired art students, cursing my existence. Never cross the river onto Waterman Street on a bicycle. Coming back down the hill I made a similar mistake by taking College Street, which is probably even steeper than Waterman. And, like all good steep streets, it has a stop light at a busy intersection right at the bottom (marking the first time I've ever considered getting off my bike to walk it down a hill). The light was red, and as I shifted my weight as far back as possible, and carefully yet firmly grasped the brakes, I couldn't help but think about how I'd just installed new levers, realigned and adjusted these very brakes upon which my life now depended. It was, if not the only moment, certainly the most stark occasion in which I've placed my life directly into the hands of my work. After a brief moment of panic, I took the zen approach; I know how to adjust brakes, these brakes will stop me. They did.
I've been thinking about that moment of zen recently, as I hunch over my seed pots, willing the pepper seeds to germinate. Am I doing something wrong? There are so many variables. When you're working at a desk, clicking a mouse, there is rarely life in the balance. But I'm trying to help make life in the garden, in these little seed pots. It's easy to overthink things when you don't know what you're doing.
Perhaps I'll stop fretting over the pepper seeds when I sow the outdoor garden later this week. On Sunday I picked up a truck full of composted horse manure from the farm, and it now is lying in a thick layer on top of my plot across the street. I'm going to go rake it in today before it starts raining again, and after a little more landscaping I'll sow my lettuces, peas, and squash. What will happen? I have no clue. But maybe it's best I try and be mindful of that zen moment on College Street--what will happen will happen, I've done my best.
Next up: I review "Food Matters" by Mark Bittman (early returns point to: delicious!)
Monday, April 6, 2009
Barbary
I was riding through the Knightsville neighborhood of Cranston the other day, which naturally got me to thinking about the history of the barber's pole. The history of the barbering profession, which you can find much better explained elsewhere, is fascinating. In a nutshell, barbers were originally tribal healers; evil spirits were thought to enter the body through the hair, and so the practice of cutting the hair was venerated along with its practitioner. Later, neatly-trimmed beards were crucial to success in Athenian society. Fashion trends came and went. In the early centuries of Christianity, the clergy began enlisting barbers to assist in curative bloodletting. In 1163, Pope Alexander decreed that the clergy may no longer practice medicine, thus opening the door for the barbers of the community to assume the central role in caring for the ill. These barber-surgeons not only cut hair, but also bled patients and (bizarrely) practiced dentistry. This seemed to work out great for a few hundred years, until it became apparent that maybe these guys were spreading themselves a little thin. In the mid-1400's there started to be separate schools of surgery, though barbers remained in a position of medical authority until pretty recently.
To the pole. As you've probably guessed, the red-and-white (and sometimes blue) stripes have something to do with blood. The white stripe represents the bandage used to wrap the arm or leg (or whatever) first, and then to dress the wound after the bleeding (that's the red part). So, the next time you pass by a barber's shop, take a second look at that pole. And, if your thoughts turn to the macabre, you're welcome.
To the pole. As you've probably guessed, the red-and-white (and sometimes blue) stripes have something to do with blood. The white stripe represents the bandage used to wrap the arm or leg (or whatever) first, and then to dress the wound after the bleeding (that's the red part). So, the next time you pass by a barber's shop, take a second look at that pole. And, if your thoughts turn to the macabre, you're welcome.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Chow Rhode Island Update
I think I turned a corner in my development as a Rhode Islander this weekend. My parents were visiting so I took my father to the Olneyville NY System. We sat at the counter and I ordered us each a hot weenie all the way. They were delicious. It was a beautiful day. Everyone at the joint was in a good mood. With two sodas, the tab came to $6.58. I could get to like this.
As I've been pursuing my Chow Rhode Island mission, I've encountered expected trouble deciding what counts as a Rhode Island-specific foodstuff. Some things, like hot weenies and coffee milk, are pretty obvious. But other things, often pastries of Italian origin, seem harder to categorize. And then there is the issue of local branded food, such as Del's frozen lemonade. Does Del's per se count as a RI food, or frozen lemonade in general? In the course of wrestling with such issues I realized that it's time to make a Chow Rhode Island Master List. I expect this list will change from time to time, but it's a start. Feel free to suggest additions.
Chow Rhode Island
Standards
Hot Wieners
Coffee Milk
Jonnycakes
Clam Group
Stuffies
Clams Casino
RI Clam Chowder (the third kind of clam chowder)
Clam Cakes
Baked Goods
Pizza Strips
Spinach Pies
Branded Foods
Frozen Lemonade - Del's vs. Mr. Lemon
Cabinets - The Awful Awful
Shrouded in Mystery
Dynamites
That last one has me most curious because it seems from my research that the Dynamite is the one delicacy most likely to be made at home. A very unusual local treat in that regard. And, best of all, the recipes I've found look terrifying. So I'm going to attempt to eat all of this stuff. The possible wrench in this plan (aside from heart disease) is that, at one point in my life, I was allergic to clams. It's been well over a decade since I've eaten a single clam. But for you, dear readers, I will face down this nightmare from my past. I will eat quahogs, and I may vomit all night from it. And then, when the dry heaves have left me, I will crawl to my computer and write all about it... on the next installment of Chow Rhode Island.
As I've been pursuing my Chow Rhode Island mission, I've encountered expected trouble deciding what counts as a Rhode Island-specific foodstuff. Some things, like hot weenies and coffee milk, are pretty obvious. But other things, often pastries of Italian origin, seem harder to categorize. And then there is the issue of local branded food, such as Del's frozen lemonade. Does Del's per se count as a RI food, or frozen lemonade in general? In the course of wrestling with such issues I realized that it's time to make a Chow Rhode Island Master List. I expect this list will change from time to time, but it's a start. Feel free to suggest additions.
Chow Rhode Island
Standards
Hot Wieners
Coffee Milk
Jonnycakes
Clam Group
Stuffies
Clams Casino
RI Clam Chowder (the third kind of clam chowder)
Clam Cakes
Baked Goods
Pizza Strips
Spinach Pies
Branded Foods
Frozen Lemonade - Del's vs. Mr. Lemon
Cabinets - The Awful Awful
Shrouded in Mystery
Dynamites
That last one has me most curious because it seems from my research that the Dynamite is the one delicacy most likely to be made at home. A very unusual local treat in that regard. And, best of all, the recipes I've found look terrifying. So I'm going to attempt to eat all of this stuff. The possible wrench in this plan (aside from heart disease) is that, at one point in my life, I was allergic to clams. It's been well over a decade since I've eaten a single clam. But for you, dear readers, I will face down this nightmare from my past. I will eat quahogs, and I may vomit all night from it. And then, when the dry heaves have left me, I will crawl to my computer and write all about it... on the next installment of Chow Rhode Island.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
A discursive bit of ranting
But the greatest change we need to make is from consumption to production, even if on a small scale, in our own gardens. If only 10% of us do this, there is enough for everyone. Hence the futility of revolutionaries who have no gardens, who depend upon the very system they attack, and who produce words and bullets, not food and shelter.
--Bill Mollison, Introduction to Permaculture
It seems a bit uppity to begin singing the praises of growing your own food when I have yet to actually grow anything, but our general detachment from the source of our food has bothered me for years. So many of us living in the developed world quite literally cannot feed ourselves. If all the Stop 'n Shops, Whole Foodses, and sketchy bodegas of the world suddenly disappeared, I might be able to survive, but more likely I'd just starve. This is something I am determined to change. It seems completely ridiculous to me that in regards to satisfying the most basic necessities of life I am essentially helpless.
Of course, I am a product of my world. There's no need to get upset about the fact that I would be hard pressed to survive without the public water system, because it's simply never come up. I'm not saying I want to get all "Man vs. Wild" on you, just that it's time to move in the direction of more sufficiency.
I recently saw an Exxon advert that featured Exxon engineers extolling the virtues of their new gas-extraction techniques. In the ad, one fellow states that "One way to put downward pressure on energy prices is to make more energy available." As in drill baby drill. This company and its employees were paying good money to put an ad on TV telling me that their solution to the energy crisis is to pour gasoline on a burning house. Beyond the obvious preposterousness of this concept (So you're addicted to crack, hmm, how about if we make crack cheaper? Yeah, that'll get you straightened right out), what most struck me about this ad was the focus on new technologies as a key to a brighter future. This fetishization of technology is something that I thought a lot about during my brief stint in the alternative-energy industry.
The fact is, we already have the technology to be constructing significantly more efficient buildings. Some of this technology isn't even "technology" at all: the orientation of a building, the thickness of its walls--these make huge differences in the indoor climate. Why are we building huge uninsulated boxes with no windows to simply then pump them with huge amounts of fossil fuels? The means already exist to reduce our energy consumption by an order of magnitude. Eat a little bit less meat, grow a little bit more food: you're making an impact.
So, well, none of us are likely to be building an Earthship anytime soon (though it sure would be sweet), but we can put a pot of tomatoes out on the scraggly side yard at our apartment. And maybe we can start composting and building up that scraggly side yard with yummy compost. And maybe in a year or two we can move somewhere a bit more rural and get some chickens. And a Skystream. And maybe a few dairy cows and some cheese making equipment. And an outdoor wood oven for the wholesale bread operation. And a hoop house for the microgreens...
Anybody want to come along?
--Bill Mollison, Introduction to Permaculture
It seems a bit uppity to begin singing the praises of growing your own food when I have yet to actually grow anything, but our general detachment from the source of our food has bothered me for years. So many of us living in the developed world quite literally cannot feed ourselves. If all the Stop 'n Shops, Whole Foodses, and sketchy bodegas of the world suddenly disappeared, I might be able to survive, but more likely I'd just starve. This is something I am determined to change. It seems completely ridiculous to me that in regards to satisfying the most basic necessities of life I am essentially helpless.
Of course, I am a product of my world. There's no need to get upset about the fact that I would be hard pressed to survive without the public water system, because it's simply never come up. I'm not saying I want to get all "Man vs. Wild" on you, just that it's time to move in the direction of more sufficiency.
I recently saw an Exxon advert that featured Exxon engineers extolling the virtues of their new gas-extraction techniques. In the ad, one fellow states that "One way to put downward pressure on energy prices is to make more energy available." As in drill baby drill. This company and its employees were paying good money to put an ad on TV telling me that their solution to the energy crisis is to pour gasoline on a burning house. Beyond the obvious preposterousness of this concept (So you're addicted to crack, hmm, how about if we make crack cheaper? Yeah, that'll get you straightened right out), what most struck me about this ad was the focus on new technologies as a key to a brighter future. This fetishization of technology is something that I thought a lot about during my brief stint in the alternative-energy industry.
The fact is, we already have the technology to be constructing significantly more efficient buildings. Some of this technology isn't even "technology" at all: the orientation of a building, the thickness of its walls--these make huge differences in the indoor climate. Why are we building huge uninsulated boxes with no windows to simply then pump them with huge amounts of fossil fuels? The means already exist to reduce our energy consumption by an order of magnitude. Eat a little bit less meat, grow a little bit more food: you're making an impact.
So, well, none of us are likely to be building an Earthship anytime soon (though it sure would be sweet), but we can put a pot of tomatoes out on the scraggly side yard at our apartment. And maybe we can start composting and building up that scraggly side yard with yummy compost. And maybe in a year or two we can move somewhere a bit more rural and get some chickens. And a Skystream. And maybe a few dairy cows and some cheese making equipment. And an outdoor wood oven for the wholesale bread operation. And a hoop house for the microgreens...
Anybody want to come along?
Friday, March 27, 2009
In praise of pre-ferments
This is what your poolish looks like when it is ready to be used. It started as a gloppy batter, and over the course of 8-10 hours, rose to a puff and then just started to fall--you can see the creases in the face of the poolish that indicates it has just started falling. This is the time to pounce.
What's that? What's a poolish, you say? Why, I'm so glad you asked! I poolish is just one of my favorite pre-ferments. A pre-ferment, also referred to as a starter, is essentially a very short-term sourdough. Mixing a small portion of a bread recipe's ingredients and allowing them to ferment before actually starting the bread adds another layer of flavor to the finished product. There are many different types of pre-ferments, all variations on the same theme. A poolish is a goopy mixture of around 1/3 of the total amount of water and flour, with a small fraction of the yeast. A sponge is a batterlike substance incorporating 1/3 of the flour, half the yeast and all of the water. Then you've got your pate fermentee, aka scrap dough, which is pieces of fully kneaded, salted, and fermented dough. There are also bigas, the Italian version of a poolish, which are stiffer and more doughlike.
You can add a pre-fermentation step to any bread recipe. The easiest way is Rose Berenbaum's sponge method, as follows:
Mix together all of the water, 1/3 of the flour, and 1/2 of the yeast (and any fat and sweeteners), in a bowl with a whisk until well beaten. The mixture should be a medium-thick batter; scrape down the sides of the bowl. In another bowl, mix together the remaining flour and yeast, and gently scrape this mixture on top of the sponge, so the four-yeast mix covers the sponge like snow on a frozen lake. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and let sit for at least one but up to six hours. You can also put it in the refrigerator overnight, but take it out one hour before mixing to allow it to come to room temperature. Then mix until it just comes together, autolyse, add the salt, knead, and off you go.
What's that? What's a poolish, you say? Why, I'm so glad you asked! I poolish is just one of my favorite pre-ferments. A pre-ferment, also referred to as a starter, is essentially a very short-term sourdough. Mixing a small portion of a bread recipe's ingredients and allowing them to ferment before actually starting the bread adds another layer of flavor to the finished product. There are many different types of pre-ferments, all variations on the same theme. A poolish is a goopy mixture of around 1/3 of the total amount of water and flour, with a small fraction of the yeast. A sponge is a batterlike substance incorporating 1/3 of the flour, half the yeast and all of the water. Then you've got your pate fermentee, aka scrap dough, which is pieces of fully kneaded, salted, and fermented dough. There are also bigas, the Italian version of a poolish, which are stiffer and more doughlike.
You can add a pre-fermentation step to any bread recipe. The easiest way is Rose Berenbaum's sponge method, as follows:
Mix together all of the water, 1/3 of the flour, and 1/2 of the yeast (and any fat and sweeteners), in a bowl with a whisk until well beaten. The mixture should be a medium-thick batter; scrape down the sides of the bowl. In another bowl, mix together the remaining flour and yeast, and gently scrape this mixture on top of the sponge, so the four-yeast mix covers the sponge like snow on a frozen lake. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and let sit for at least one but up to six hours. You can also put it in the refrigerator overnight, but take it out one hour before mixing to allow it to come to room temperature. Then mix until it just comes together, autolyse, add the salt, knead, and off you go.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
A few random comments
I lay in bed for a long time this morning, trying to suss out the difference between de rigeur and apropos. They both generally indicate correctness, but in what manner each? The best I could figure (aka convince myself of) was that when something is apropos it is fitting for an occasion--appropriate, if you will. Whereas de rigeur seems to me to be more strictly correct. For example:
"Jimmy, wearing a tuxedo to the prom would be apropos. Wearing trousers, however, is de rigeur."
Of course I could easily, and in less time than it took to type out these musings, look up the actual definitions of these words and be done with it. But I shan't! Nay!
*****************
The garden is already sprouting weeds, volunteer garlic from the neighboring plot, and strawberries. I spent some time in the morning sunshine finding rocks and logs to build out the perimeter of the plot. I'm picking up a truckload of composted horse manure on Sunday, and plan to pile it on as deeply as possible. Granted, I also plan to share the compost with whomever helps unload it, so I've a bit of an internal dialectic going between wanting a deep rich layer of compost on my plot and wanting help shoveling it out of the truck. Helpfully, I did buy myself a shovel. It's my first non-snow shovel, and I couldn't be more proud.
*****************
Last night I braised some pork spareribs Laura and I picked up at the Pawtucket (pronounced "p'tucket") farmers' market. They were so delicious I've decided to write down the recipe. As always, quantities are approximate.
Cider-Clementine Braised Spareribs
Serves 2
2 lb Pork spareribs (about six ribs), cut into two-rib segments
1 c Apple cider
3/4 c Clementine juice (from three clementines; feel free to use oranges)
1/2 c Soy sauce
1 Small onion, diced
1 1/2 tablespoon Asian chili-garlic sauce
1 thumb-sized knob of ginger, peeled and sliced into rounds
2 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon coffee syrup
Preheat the oven to 275. Heat a little oil in a Dutch oven over medium-high until shimmering. Pat the pork dry and season with salt and pepper. Brown pork, two minutes per side, in batches if necessary, and remove to a plate. Lower the heat to medium-low and saute the onion until translucent. Add the chili-garlic sauce and ginger, and continue to saute for another minute. Add the cider, juice, soy sauce, sugar, and coffee syrup and bring to a simmer. Return the pork to the pot, put the lid on, and place in the oven for 1 1/2 - 2 1/2 hours, turning every 45 minutes, until the bones slide out of the meat.
Remove the pot from the oven and remove the pork from the pot. At this point you can let everything cool and refrigerate for up to two days, and/or proceed. Skim the fat from the braising liquid and strain the remaining liquid. Return the braising liquid to the pot and bring to a boil. Reduce by 1/2 or until thickened. If necessary, make a slurry with 2 tablespoons cornstarch and water in a bowl and whisk in to the sauce to thicken (I had to). Season to taste.
Return pork to the pot with the sauce and toss to coat/warm. Garnish with sliced scallion.
"Jimmy, wearing a tuxedo to the prom would be apropos. Wearing trousers, however, is de rigeur."
Of course I could easily, and in less time than it took to type out these musings, look up the actual definitions of these words and be done with it. But I shan't! Nay!
*****************
The garden is already sprouting weeds, volunteer garlic from the neighboring plot, and strawberries. I spent some time in the morning sunshine finding rocks and logs to build out the perimeter of the plot. I'm picking up a truckload of composted horse manure on Sunday, and plan to pile it on as deeply as possible. Granted, I also plan to share the compost with whomever helps unload it, so I've a bit of an internal dialectic going between wanting a deep rich layer of compost on my plot and wanting help shoveling it out of the truck. Helpfully, I did buy myself a shovel. It's my first non-snow shovel, and I couldn't be more proud.
*****************
Last night I braised some pork spareribs Laura and I picked up at the Pawtucket (pronounced "p'tucket") farmers' market. They were so delicious I've decided to write down the recipe. As always, quantities are approximate.
Cider-Clementine Braised Spareribs
Serves 2
2 lb Pork spareribs (about six ribs), cut into two-rib segments
1 c Apple cider
3/4 c Clementine juice (from three clementines; feel free to use oranges)
1/2 c Soy sauce
1 Small onion, diced
1 1/2 tablespoon Asian chili-garlic sauce
1 thumb-sized knob of ginger, peeled and sliced into rounds
2 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon coffee syrup
Preheat the oven to 275. Heat a little oil in a Dutch oven over medium-high until shimmering. Pat the pork dry and season with salt and pepper. Brown pork, two minutes per side, in batches if necessary, and remove to a plate. Lower the heat to medium-low and saute the onion until translucent. Add the chili-garlic sauce and ginger, and continue to saute for another minute. Add the cider, juice, soy sauce, sugar, and coffee syrup and bring to a simmer. Return the pork to the pot, put the lid on, and place in the oven for 1 1/2 - 2 1/2 hours, turning every 45 minutes, until the bones slide out of the meat.
Remove the pot from the oven and remove the pork from the pot. At this point you can let everything cool and refrigerate for up to two days, and/or proceed. Skim the fat from the braising liquid and strain the remaining liquid. Return the braising liquid to the pot and bring to a boil. Reduce by 1/2 or until thickened. If necessary, make a slurry with 2 tablespoons cornstarch and water in a bowl and whisk in to the sauce to thicken (I had to). Season to taste.
Return pork to the pot with the sauce and toss to coat/warm. Garnish with sliced scallion.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Sowing seed
It's Spring, people. Spring is one of my very favorite things. Like, at all. It's definitely in the top three. And while it's been chilly outside these past few days, I can feel the wind has less bite. The sun is reasserting itself. 26 degrees feels more like 32, and 32 feels like 40. The trees are budding, the piles of dog poop on the street are starting to wilt. Spring!
I started my hot pepper plants today. On the advice of the nice lady at Pezza's garden center, and the seed pouch, I'm starting them indoors in adorable little seed starting pots. The pots are made of peat themselves, and can be placed directly in the ground when the seedlings are ready to be planted outdoors.
After reading way too much material about how to start seeds indoors, I became discouraged by the need to find a location in our apartment that is warm (the seed packet says "very warm"), sunny, and inaccessible to our pack of marauding felines. In the end, I chose very sunny and sorta warm. Once they sprout I'll move them to less-sunny, less-warm, but totally cat-free lodgings. Following the recommendation of a few sources, I covered the box with plastic wrap, which I hope will both help keep in moisture and generate some more warmth.
I bought a bag of organic seed starting mix, which smells wonderful, and piled it into the seed pots. Then I opened the bag of pepper seeds and, pouring them onto the counter, thought to myself, "Why, they look just like pepper seeds!"
After I finished with the sowing, I sat down to a breakfast of leftover homemade General Tso's Chicken and bit down on a hot pepper seed. I took the seed from my mouth and examined it. "Whoa," I thought, "I could totally, like, plant this."
I can only hope that this gardening experience will be full of such beautiful and humbling realizations.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Chow Rhode Island, Episode 3: Coffee Milk
Of the 27 states that list an Official State Beverage, 12 of them claim milk. Milk. I can see that in the big dairy states, but, well, I suppose I can't name all the big dairy states. A quick consult with my Secretary of Agriculture (aka Laura) was inconclusive. So I'll refrain from ragging on all you milk-guzzlin' states. Indiana, sensibly, selected water. Nebraska: Kool-Aid. I'm not even touching that one.Rhode Island, my new home, chose to take on the traditional milk, but with a savage twist. My friends, I give you..
Subject: Coffee Milk
Aliases: None
Major Features: Coffee syrup, milk
Minor Features: None
At some point "back in the day" clever soda jerks began experimenting with different flavorings. Being a former soda jerk/bartender myself, I can empathize with the desire to try something new (beer frappes!). Eventually, sweet coffee syrup became fashionable, and after a few corporate mergers, the Autocrat brand emerged as the ne plus ultra of Rhode Island style coffee syrup. Despite living less than an hour from Rhode Island, I had never seen Autocrat, which also makes regular coffee, until I crossed the border. Maybe there are parts of Connecticut--or Attleboro--where you can get this stuff, but it seems to be pretty well contained to the Ocean State. Well, then, what is coffee syrup? Mostly, it's our good friend high fructose corn syrup.
Assessment: The recipe from the syrup bottle calls for 8 ounces of milk mixed with two tablespoons of syrup. Prepared thusly, coffee milk looks, smells, and tastes like a melted coffee frappe. There is a slight corn syrup mouth-coating finish. The coffee flavor is slight but good.
Conclusion: I'm not entirely sure when you would drink this. Personally, it just made me wish I were drinking an actual coffee frappe, or an actual cup of coffee. It definitely tastes coffee-y, and coffee milk would be an excellent gateway drug for coffee. If you're tired of your daily chocolate milk, or want your kids to get a taste for java, coffee milk is an excellent choice. I may explore other uses for the coffee syrup--or I might just throw it away. If I wanted to make coffee milk, I'd just brew some coffee and add it to a bunch of sugar and milk. But that's not the point of this exercise, now, is it?
Friday, March 20, 2009
Lappy 486
My new used computer arrived yesterday. It's a MacBook 2.4gHz, black. Blacker than the darkest night. Blacker than the black market, the black Visa, and Ultradark Material. I've named it Strindberg.
Setting up this computer is reminding me of how integral (pernicious?) computers can be to the home life. Currently I'm syncing my iPhone, calendar, contacts, all that stuff. Earlier I set up the external iTunes library, the MIDI controller, the wifi. Imported Firefox passwords. I still have to do the printer--but who prints these days anyway? It's remarkable to think about how much stuff we have that is now dependent on the computer. I don't listen to cd's anymore.
Telling Strindberg to find the iTunes library on my external hard drive has given me the opportunity to poke around my mp3 collection. There's the usual "oh I haven't listened to this in years" but also the occasional "oh lord no need to own this anymore". My favorite is discovering music I didn't know I owned. There's Ani DiFranco in here? And when the heck did I get six Tortoise albums? The Erykah Badu album I'd forgotten even existed ("Worldwide Underground"). An entire Tom Waits album that, because the tracks didn't have an album name listed, never appeared when I sorted his music (probably "Swordfishtrombones"). Harry Potter 1, 2, 3 & 6. A single INXS track ("Suicide Blonde"). What the heck is Hollertronix?
Now I'm excited to dig through my photograph library. What bizarreness will I find there? "Hey what's in this grainy old shot? Huh... looks like some sort of grassy knoll..."
Setting up this computer is reminding me of how integral (pernicious?) computers can be to the home life. Currently I'm syncing my iPhone, calendar, contacts, all that stuff. Earlier I set up the external iTunes library, the MIDI controller, the wifi. Imported Firefox passwords. I still have to do the printer--but who prints these days anyway? It's remarkable to think about how much stuff we have that is now dependent on the computer. I don't listen to cd's anymore.
Telling Strindberg to find the iTunes library on my external hard drive has given me the opportunity to poke around my mp3 collection. There's the usual "oh I haven't listened to this in years" but also the occasional "oh lord no need to own this anymore". My favorite is discovering music I didn't know I owned. There's Ani DiFranco in here? And when the heck did I get six Tortoise albums? The Erykah Badu album I'd forgotten even existed ("Worldwide Underground"). An entire Tom Waits album that, because the tracks didn't have an album name listed, never appeared when I sorted his music (probably "Swordfishtrombones"). Harry Potter 1, 2, 3 & 6. A single INXS track ("Suicide Blonde"). What the heck is Hollertronix?
Now I'm excited to dig through my photograph library. What bizarreness will I find there? "Hey what's in this grainy old shot? Huh... looks like some sort of grassy knoll..."
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
A few photographs of Providence
There's a lot of interesting stuff in this town, so I'm starting small. I took my camera on a stroll down Washington Street, and back up Broadway. Here is some of what I encountered. I'll upload more of these to my flickr page.
An orchid blooms in the window
Washington Street, West Side
Waiting for the bus
Broadway, West Side
Washington Street, Downtown
Partial renovation
Washington Street, Downtown
Cathedral Square
An orchid blooms in the windowWashington Street, West Side
Waiting for the busBroadway, West Side
Washington Street, Downtown
Partial renovationWashington Street, Downtown
Cathedral SquareChow Rhode Island, Episode 2.1: Return to Jonnycake Mountain
Why? Why didn't you tell me? The secret to jonnycakes is boiling water.
Starting with boiling or near-boiling water precooks the cornmeal, giving the jonnycakes bold corny flavor and mouthfeel. By adjusting the amount of water, you can make hearty thick cakes or lacy tender crisps. Sugar is good too. Boiling water makes the difference between dry bland mealcakes and tasty, interesting jonnycakes. Unlike my first attempt, the second batch of jonnycakes I made were actually something you'd want to eat.
Vance's Rhode Island Jonnycakes for two
1c cornmeal (preferably stone ground)
1.5c boiling water
1 tsp kosher salt
1 tsp sugar
Mix together to form a smooth paste, adjusting amount of water to preference, and spoon by the tablespoonful onto a hot lightly oiled skillet. Cook 3-5 minutes on the first side, flip and cook another minute. Eat promptly.
Starting with boiling or near-boiling water precooks the cornmeal, giving the jonnycakes bold corny flavor and mouthfeel. By adjusting the amount of water, you can make hearty thick cakes or lacy tender crisps. Sugar is good too. Boiling water makes the difference between dry bland mealcakes and tasty, interesting jonnycakes. Unlike my first attempt, the second batch of jonnycakes I made were actually something you'd want to eat.
Vance's Rhode Island Jonnycakes for two
1c cornmeal (preferably stone ground)
1.5c boiling water
1 tsp kosher salt
1 tsp sugar
Mix together to form a smooth paste, adjusting amount of water to preference, and spoon by the tablespoonful onto a hot lightly oiled skillet. Cook 3-5 minutes on the first side, flip and cook another minute. Eat promptly.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
A bit of earth
My friends, welcome to my garden. The owners of empty lot across the street from our apartment lease plots to the neighbors, and I was lucky enough to get one. This plot is about 9' x 5' oriented generally East-West, and, aside from a few strawberries along the Western edge, currently uninhabited (save for the zillions of friendly insects and microbes). With Laura's help, and a bit of luck, I will grow things here... and eat them. This will be my first attempt to garden--indeed, to grow anything aside from some spider plants and one hardy yucca tree. It is safe to say that I know exactly nothing about gardening. Laura and I received two books about this subject for our wedding: "The Urban Homestead", which, though it covers many fascinating things aside from gardening, is a great book and sparked my interest in growing my own food, and "Gardening at the Dragon's Gate" which I have just begun reading and so far is fascinating and terrifying (in that "oh my lord I have no idea about anything" way). I'd like to get my hands on a more basic gardening book at some point. But still, it's very exciting. Laura and I have already started strategizing about what we want to plant and, more perplexingly, when.
I look forward to an educational season. First step: get my hands on a truckload of horse-poop compost. Then: bean teepee.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Travel and technology
I'm off to Boston for the Celtics game tonight, and my computer is in the process of catastrophically failing. So, gentle readers, sit tight and I'll be back as soon as possible. In the meantime, annoy everyone around you with this amazing drum simulator.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Mentholatum and the passage of time
When our society has reached a point where we're giving out free antibiotics at grocery stores, maybe it's time to re-think our approach to healing. I'm not necessarily advocating a universal "walk it off" method of healthcare, but I do believe that we'd all be better off if instead of reaching for a prescription now and then we'd just rub some dirt on it.
This attitude might explain why I'm so attached to Mentholatum. Boasting nearly primeval ingredients of menthol and camphor, Mentholatum is the stuff you find on grandmothers' bedside tables, usually right next to the witch hazel. Although sometimes it has to fight the Bag Balm for a prime spot. Of course, what more accurately explains my affection for Mentholatum is that it's awesome. Goopy, pungent, sinus-clearing, this stuff is good for what ails you: chapped stuff, stuffed-up stuff, you name it. Mentholatum also has another characteristic not often found in consumer products these days: longevity.
I was in college when I bought my first jar of Mentholatum for myself. Following my mother's habit, I wrote the date of opening on the jar: December 18, 1998. Last week, I finished that jar of Mentholatum. One ounce lasted me just over ten years. This jar is so old that it has a metal lid. Nowhere on the label is a website. It got me wondering about what other two-inch-high objects I've managed to carry around with me--not to mention use nearly every day--in the ten often tumultuous years of college and post-college. I came up empty. I have a few t-shirts that are from the same era. Some pots and pans. The Cuisinart. But nothing I came close to using on a daily basis.
The Mentholatum company in upstate New York (USA! USA!) is still going strong, and last week I placed an order for a new jar of Mentholatum. This time I went for the big dog: three ounces. I got out a sharpie and carefully wrote "3/7/09" on its plastic lid. I might be 60 by the time this thing is empty.
This attitude might explain why I'm so attached to Mentholatum. Boasting nearly primeval ingredients of menthol and camphor, Mentholatum is the stuff you find on grandmothers' bedside tables, usually right next to the witch hazel. Although sometimes it has to fight the Bag Balm for a prime spot. Of course, what more accurately explains my affection for Mentholatum is that it's awesome. Goopy, pungent, sinus-clearing, this stuff is good for what ails you: chapped stuff, stuffed-up stuff, you name it. Mentholatum also has another characteristic not often found in consumer products these days: longevity.
I was in college when I bought my first jar of Mentholatum for myself. Following my mother's habit, I wrote the date of opening on the jar: December 18, 1998. Last week, I finished that jar of Mentholatum. One ounce lasted me just over ten years. This jar is so old that it has a metal lid. Nowhere on the label is a website. It got me wondering about what other two-inch-high objects I've managed to carry around with me--not to mention use nearly every day--in the ten often tumultuous years of college and post-college. I came up empty. I have a few t-shirts that are from the same era. Some pots and pans. The Cuisinart. But nothing I came close to using on a daily basis.
The Mentholatum company in upstate New York (USA! USA!) is still going strong, and last week I placed an order for a new jar of Mentholatum. This time I went for the big dog: three ounces. I got out a sharpie and carefully wrote "3/7/09" on its plastic lid. I might be 60 by the time this thing is empty.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
