Fifty-Two Feasts

2010-10-07T01:52:00.000-07:00

Dear readers, thanks so much for checking out my blog. I will not longer be posting here but skip on over to Grub & Grist for mounds of juicy tidbits, ramblings and recipes.

Happy feasting!

The Last Supper, and the first

2010-09-21T15:05:00.000-07:00

I arrived hot and sweaty, hair plastered to neck, drowning in a sea of exhaustion. Pushing my key into the unfamiliar lock I wrestled with it for what seemed like hours, growing ever more flustered by the moment. After much trial and error the door gave way and I tumble into my new apartment, suitcases cascading through the entrance as I collapsed in the hallway.

I had arrived. One day after leaving the plush evergreens of the Pacific Northwest I was in London, plunged into the middle of a bustling, monumentally large, noisy, and vibrant city. It was, to say the least, quite a change from sleepy Whidbey Island.

After blearily reading the note left for me in the kitchen, shuffling down the hall to find my room, and collapsing again onto the bed, I shut my eyes against the lurching, plunging world. Five minutes passed and I noticed that my body was still swaying, even with eyes firmly shut. Perhaps it was the combined effect of transatlantic air travel, a serious deficit of sleep, and little food. (Bored and hungry as I'd been, I couldn’t face the rubbery muck that airlines shamelessly call food, and it wasn’t long before I ran out of tamari almonds and black licorice.)

There was only one solution, and I grinned stupidly at the ceiling as I remembered my planned first feast in the motherland. Just the thought of it gave me the strength to stagger upright, splash cold water on my face, and slip on my boots. Within minutes I had marched outside, located a store and seized upon my objective. Paying for the wax-papered bundle, I strode back to my building and dashed up to the kitchen. Not knowing where the plates were I didn’t bother but simply sat down, tore open the paper, and beamed at my prize. It was a small, heavy, pastry-clad round. Taking a knife, I sliced carefully into the center and drew out a wedge. The thick crust encased a thin layer of translucent jelly and within this lay a center of indistinguishable pinkish-gray meat, not altogether appealing to the uninitiated.

I do not remember the first time I ate pork pie. It was one of those childhood memories that subsides into the shadowy depths of the mind. Yet when I bit into this rather unexceptional specimen as a 25 year old girl newly arrived in London, a sea of sense memories flooded my body. Aunt Jojo’s chickens, the smell of her kitchen, picnics, Granny Bun’s pony and cart, cow shit, hay, New Market high street, the clattering motion of a train, the heavy feel of pound coins in the palm of my hand . . .

The power of food to evoke memory is mysterious. Surely everyone has had the experience of biting into a certain food, or simply smelling a specific aroma that sends them back to another time and place: a brand of hot chocolate perhaps, or mom’s recipe for mac and cheese. No matter their source, these memories are incredibly visceral and strangely emotive.

I sat in the kitchen munching on that evocative pork pie and looking out at an unfamiliar jumble of roofs, trees, and snaking streets. And simultaneously a portion of my past surged through my body, carried by that particular configuration of texture and flavor. It was strange moment, quiet whirlpool in which past and present formed, merged, and dissolved leaving a clearing in my mind and body.

In that moment I knew. I found the answer to the question I’d been asking for months. Fifty-Two Feasts is over. This is the last supper. The project that inspired and sustained me for a year on a rainy island near Seattle is not meant for London. It belongs to another nexus of time and place. And this pork pie is like a benediction, blessing and releasing the project for good.

The pork pie is also a beginning, marking my first meal in this country that feels so old and familiar yet so very new—a place brimming with possibilities and kindling other fires within my mind.

Flames and the Charred Remains

2010-07-14T12:10:00.000-07:00

As we sped home through the dark, bottles and pots clanking in the back seat of the car, our clothing reeking of smoke, my mother and I sat in silence. It was a silence that can hardly be described as companionable; a menacing, prickly silence threatening eruption. We were both exhausted, drained by the elaborate events of the day and by the frenetic activity of the past week.

Utterly overwrought, I felt my every nerve straining for sleep. After two big feasts in seven days, feverish wrestling with my blog, a phenomenally busy weekend at the coffee shop, a half marathon run earlier that day, and too much sangria at my latest feast—a birthday BBQ on the beach—I was in a sorry state. Mum and I snapped at each other, arguing pointlessly and circuitously over invented disagreements, and then retracted again, mute and wary.

This, I reflected, is the dark side of a feast, the side I rarely write about but that surely everyone who loves to entertain has experienced. You have plotted and planned, you have prepped and cooked and served the food. For a greater or lesser span of time you have poured every ounce of your energy into this event. And then, in one mad delicious dash, it is over. For the most part feasts end blissfully, lingering on and slowly sighing out like a retreating tide. And you are left basking in contentment. Yet sometimes these festive gatherings blow out like a candle, leaving you lost in darkness, stumbling in an unfamiliar chaos.

The beach barbecue had been one of the latter, enjoyable while it lasted yet violent in its death throes. I was drained and depleted. In the retreating wake of food, friends, and the communion of a good meal, it was ironic that I felt starkly, earth shatteringly alone. The words of the poet philosopher John O’ Donahue swam into consciousness complete with his lullaby Irish lilt:

One of the lovely things about longing is the way in which it remains so faithful to us. And when you think of different times in your life; you know really good times when you feel that everything you want is on your table, . . . that everyone that you really want is there in your life right now, and you are really happy that they are. And you feel that your life has kind of come together and that you are at one with the call of your destiny and with the subtle kind of wisdom of your soul. And yet it is precisely at such times that another uneasy voice awakens within us; a voice that whispers to you that there is something missing, or that there is someone still missing in your life. This is an awkward voice and it often awakens and becomes audible at the most inappropriate times, often when everything is completely as it should be. . . .This voice at times can bring you to tears and qualify in a frightening way everything that you believe about yourself; the voice that says there is something missing.

Although I have experienced this voice in many places and at many times, it can sometimes form the gnawing vacancy, the dark underbelly, of a feast. Perhaps I am surrounded by the debris, the chicken carcass and ragged beef bones, onion peel and heap of pans. Perhaps I am with several friends or one in particular, or perhaps it’s just me and the dogs—it makes little difference. This voice catches you off guard and brings you tumbling to your knees in one annihilating instant. Every passion has its fire and, necessarily, its antonymic shadow, the charred remains destroyed in ceaseless search for its untamed and untamable fulfillment.
I do not want to make this sound more dramatic than it truly is. The dark side of a feast, its accompanying voices and the sense of annihilation that it produces, all of this emerges and evaporates within moments. Yet to leave it unacknowledged, or worse to repress it, would be to falsify and perilously ignore an insistent, essential truth.

Once a Chef . . .

2010-07-09T10:57:00.000-07:00

Danny hauled up the lid from the barbecue and peered inside. He prodded the coals speculatively, “We’re about there. Whenever you’re ready.”

It was the eleventh hour before my July 4th feast. The guests had arrived, the booze was disappearing at a healthy pace, and I was—as usual—dashing about the kitchen like the proverbial, decapitated chicken. No matter how I strategize, no matter how I meticulously prepare all ingredients, I never manage to evade that frantic 20 minutes before dinner. In a matter of moments the organized calm of the kitchen morphs into a war zone. Everything demands attention; the carrots are in danger of burning and the beets need more heat. The burgers must hit the grill and where is the wretched corn?

Given my state of delirium, Danny’s help was wholly welcome. I forgot to be self conscious around this seasoned chef and instead pointed to a platter. “Corn,” I muttered. He nodded, grabbed the pile of husked ears, and strode out to the grill.

That is the joy of having a chef in your kitchen. Amateurs, bless them, are often helpful, but generally require detailed direction and constant vigilance. Battle worn chefs however, magically find your knives and uncover your roasting pans. They pull your carrots off the heat before the delectably charred exteriors turn to inedible crusts. They monitor the grill and gently remind you when the burgers are hitting that juicy pinnacle of pink-singed perfection. I am jealous of the ease with which they move about the kitchen; their perfectly programmed sense of timing; and their ability to fix what I would consider hopelessly destroyed sauces.

I wondered out to the grill where Danny stood, tongs in one hand, a glass of red in the other. “It’s funny,” he mused, looking down at the grill, “wherever I go I always find myself cooking. . . No matter whose house I’m at, I always end up doing something.”

I nodded comprehendingly, his words confirming my suspicions that love of food, fire, and kitchens is a hard habit to kick. “I suppose it’s a case of once a chef, always a chef.”

“I guess so,” he answered and then prodded a burger with the tip of the tongs. “They’re getting there,” he remarked.

I smiled inwardly. I was good to have a chef in my kitchen. Even if I would always be just a little awestruck, just a little bit jealous of their competence and the grace with which they dance that wild kitchen dance.

Sweat and Cherries

2010-07-07T18:51:00.000-07:00

On an impulse I swerved to the roadside, crammed on the brakes, and jumped out of the car. “Won’t be a moment,” I called behind me as I dashed across the street. I had spied a small, makeshift kiosk backed up to a pickup truck. Under the awning, in wobbly red capitals, a banner announced the goods for sale: CHERRIES! My stomach was rumbling and dinner was still far off and so, after sampling a couple varieties, I bought a little bagful of Rainiers to ward off the wolf.

Thanking the seller I grabbed my bag and began sprinting back across the street. Then I stopped, and struck by a thought swiveled around. “Do you ever give discounts?” I asked the man, “like if I wanted to buy lots of cherries for jam.”

“Well,” he mused, “I do have boxes of what we call ‘seconds.’ They’re the less than perfect fruit, but fine for jam.” He rummaged in the back of the pickup and hauled out a large cardboard box. I scrutinized the wine-red orbs. They looked perfectly fine, with nothing more serious than a few cosmetic nicks and bruises to mare an otherwise healthy appearance. “And how much would this crate cost?” I asked, bracing myself. “Well, I’d say that’s about 10 pounds or so . . . How about 10 dollars?” I was sold.

Speeding home with the cherries bumping around in the back of the car, I thought about my purchase. It is eminently satisfying to score such a bargain, and it could not have occurred in a supermarket setting. There, the rigid standard for appearance is absurd, placing cosmetic perfection above taste, nutrition, or any other more holistic measure of goodness. Thus, it is rarely possible for the consumer to get affordable deals on good—if slightly tarnished—local produce. It is yet another reason to praise alternative trade. Long live roadside fruit stands, farmers markets, and all other rebellious, gritty, and refreshingly real marketplaces!

The next day was my birthday, and I could think of nothing more lovely to do on such an auspicious morning than swan about drinking coffee and making jam. First, however, I had to tackle the mountainous task of pitting 10 pounds of cherries. I would like to say it was an unadulterated pleasure but that would constitute a wild fabrication. Truth be told it was pleasant for the first ten minutes but from then on descended into a morass of monotonous plucking, slicing, and twisting. Within 15 minutes my hands were stained burgundy and after half an hour the knife slipped and slit my thumb, not badly but enough to require a plaster, making further pitting slow and unwieldy. But I soldiered on and eventually reached the bottom of the crate. Surveying the heaping bowlful of cherry halves and the dark fissures in my fingers, I thought wistfully about investing in one of those nifty cherry pitting gadgets.

Sometimes it takes a day of backbreaking labor in the sun to appreciate the virtues of mechanized farming equipment. Similarly, it is easier for those who have never pitted ten pounds of cherries to romanticize an apron-clad grandma sitting contentedly on her porch for hour upon cherry stained hour. That poor woman!

Yet after this tedious endeavor, the rest of the jam making process was far more entertaining—the slow softening fruit, the mound of dissolving sugar, rapid darkening boil, and the suspense of waiting, stirring, and watching for that perfect gel point. Cook the fruit too long and it will begin to caramelize, losing its brightness and intensity. Remove the fruit from the stove too soon and it will never thicken, yielding a syrupy concoction that dribbles pathetically off the edges of your buttered toast.

Successful jam requires patience, a watchful eye, and one simple test of doneness. When you start boiling the fruit, place a few saucers or other small dishes in the freezer. Then, as you think the jam may be ready, take a saucer out and spoon a small dollop of jam onto it. Return to the freezer and check it after a minute or so. If the mixture wrinkles slightly when you nudge it with a finger the jam has gelled and is ready for canning.

Taking a hint from my favorite cherry tarts, I added a light swirl of almond extract to the fruit and sugar thickening on the stove. There are some flavor pairs that are soul mates—bringing out the best in each other, it seems that they were always and forever destined to marry. Cherries and almonds are one such couple. Worrying that I had overdone the almond however, I dipped a finger into the jam. Au contraire, I swooned. It was a divine fusion of flavors, the round richness of cherry fruit made ever so slightly mysterious when infused with a whisper of almond.

That afternoon I slathered the first of my jam onto a teatime scone. It was still warm from the stove—a potent elixir of cherry sweetness—worth ever moment of sweat, stained skin, and tedium.

Feasting the Fourth

2010-07-05T19:36:00.000-07:00

There is a saying in this corner of the world that summer doesn’t truly begin until the 4th of July. Until then, it is assumed by pessimistic islanders, sun and warmth are capricious, and that winter sweaters should not be packed away until fireworks and flags are unpacked. This year however, summer is taking even longer to crawl out of bed and get on with her work.

I arose on the morning of July 4th to chilly air and a fine, gray drizzle. It was an utterly depressing prospect. How can one possibly barbecue under cloudy skies? And what about the sundress I wanted to wear? I stared militantly out at the gloom and almost returned to bed. Yet the day lay before me—crammed with shopping, harvesting, and cooking to do—and curling up under covers was not going to tempt the sunshine. So I braved the cold and donned my sundress despite the damp; it was Independence Day, damn it, and I would celebrate whether nature cooperated or not!

The first order of business was to make baps for the burgers. These milk and butter softened rolls originated in Scotland and make a perfect pocket for a juicy beef burger. The dough is simple and fairly quick to make so they are easy to whip up the morning before a big cook out. After ten minutes kneading, during which I inadvertently powdered my pajamas with flour, I set the round of dough in an oiled bowl, covered it with a damp cloth, and had breakfast.

Next I went to town to search for some last minute ingredients. The local grocery sadly did not stock either padrón or shishito peppers so I had to abandon plans of making pan-fried peppers as an appetizer. File that one away for another day.

Then it was on to the café’s garden where I harvested a massive bag each of beets and peas, as well as a small box of the last, lingering strawberries. Finally I dodged the hungry, as yet un-caffeinated hoard inside the shop, grabbed a large cup of drip, and headed home for the kitchen. There, I spent the rest of the morning readying the vegetables—washing the beets and greens, peeling and chopping carrots, husking corn.

A large part of this time was spent shelling the peas I’d picked earlier. I must say, the laborious process of extricating the sweet, green spheres from their pods gave me a profound appreciation for this diminutive vegetable. It took great effort on my part not to eat every single pea straight from the pod—so bursting with succulent flavor; so utterly and essentially refreshing! Peas are in fact one of those vegetables that freeze so well we rarely bother to buy them fresh. But after gorging myself on this year’s crop, the mere thought of frozen peas is frankly uninspiring. That said, fresh peas take work, and after a good 30 minutes during which both my mom and I sat shelling peas together while watching a 70’s British sit com, our combined efforts only yielded a small bowlful.

The afternoon passed in a flurry of further activity: I made a honeyed butter laced with smoky paprika and chili, finished organizing things, and then abruptly suffered an attack of kitchen fever. This malady is similar to cabin fever, but is caused by too long spent by the stove. It is assails me often when preparing for an elaborate feast. All of a sudden the heat of the oven, the mounds of produce and bowls of concoctions will overwhelm my senses so that I feel as though I am suffocating under their weight.

Over the years I have learned how best to deal with kitchen fever. It used to overtake me and I would find that by mid afternoon I was sweaty, irritable, and heartily sick of cooking. By the time guests were due to arrive I would be positively glowering. Now however, I remedy the situation with a short sharp dose of fresh air. Swapping apron for running shorts, I attacked the street breathing in the warm, humid air with satisfaction. This ritual has become a savior; reviving my spirits and freeing my mind from a culinary fog that can often be sufficient to sour even my voracious passion for cooking.

I jogged up the road a couple miles and then dropped into the woods. The air was cooler there, yet still humid and rich with that potent vegetative smell of soil and growing things. I drank in the aroma, and, as I turned towards home, the air began to tinge smoky with the scent of a hundred barbecues and the stillness rent with the first experimental blasts of exploding fireworks. I felt my fever dissolve to be replaced with a deep sense of satisfaction and anticipation—all the food was ready to roll, and now I had an entire evening of fire, feasting, and friends to look forward to. Perhaps it was merely a case of runner’s high, but as I trotted home I thought to myself, as I so often do before a feast: This is it! Right here, right now.

Strawberries, Memory, and Sweet Summer Tart

2010-07-01T19:01:00.001-07:00

I had my eye on them for weeks; inspecting the sprawling tangle of leaves each time I passed by. The fruit grew from tight green-white knobs in May, gradually plumping and softening, flushing red in the June sun, and finally reaching a startling ripe rosiness in the waning weeks of June. Now the strawberries were ready for harvest and I attacked them with gusto, staining my fingers fire engine red as I picked and ate and picked some more. Eventually, despite eating at least half of my pickings, I managed to resist temptation and cart a bagful home. In the kitchen I presented my hoard to Mother who lost no time in appropriating them and adding them to the contents of a bubbling cauldron on the stove.

“Strawberry jam,” Mum muttered as she stirred in a mound of sugar. I peered over the pot and inhaled. Then I reeled.

The steaming contents plastered the back of my hair to an already sweaty neck. A fan whirred monotonously nearby, Crackers the dog continued panting in the darkest corner of the kitchen. The heat and humidity were cloying, invasive, leaving you no choice but to surrender to their lethargic pull. In this weather you couldn’t do anything with speed. I watched as Mum stirred and stirred, dropping her spoon now and then to minister to an army of jam jars, ferreting in the cupboard for lids, counting them out, muttering to herself, and occasionally tripping over one of the dogs.

From my perch on the stool I stood looking into the pot of ruby colored lava. Gone were the other smells of summer—the dusty dried grasses, the wisteria and clover, the chlorine from the pool still coating my hair, the scent of horses and leather and salty sweat. Instead my nostrils were brimming with nothing but this dancing, heady sweetness of slowly melting berries . . . .

I have always been fascinated by the connection between smell and memory. Who has not been walking absently down the street one moment only to be jolted back in time the next by a distinctive smell? Perhaps it is the perfume your ex wore or the coffee your mom brewed. But whatever it is shoots you right back to another time and place more vividly and emotionally than any sound, sight, or wordy description. Smell is the most cunning and evocative of senses.

That jam my mum made last week sent me sailing back to the sticky Pennsylvania summers of my childhood. All that messy, chaotic abundance of relived experience assailed my being. And then it passed and I resurfaced in the cool drizzle of a June afternoon in the Northwest.

It was that vivid remembrance that rekindled my current obsession with strawberries. And, for the last week or so, I have had a voracious appetite for these emblems or summer. They are one of those edibles that resist the most zealous efforts of industrial agriculture. Yes, you may be able to buy strawberries in January, but they will be hard and anemic—mere shadows of their summer selves. The best specimens are found locally and for a fleeting season. They do not travel well and tend rather to disintegrate into a juicy mess within mile of the field. So my advice is to buy locally and gorge yourself silly while they last. Then wait until next year. Anticipation, as everyone knows, is half the fun.

While I love eating strawberries fresh with nothing but the tiniest sprinkle of sugar to coax out every last ounce of their sweetness, there is one recipe to which I return each year. It comes from my absolute favorite cookbook, Anne Willan’s From My Chateau Kitchen. It is a tart with a sweet crust and luscious almond filling that works not only with strawberries but as a canvas for many a summer sweet. Yet, as strawberries are the first berry, it is a special moment when this tart arrives at the table, piled with a glorious jumble of this sumptuous fruit.

Fresh Fruit Tart

Adapted from Anne Willan

Pâté Sucrée:

1 1/2 c. flour

1/2 tsp. salt

1/2 c. sugar

3 egg yolks

1 tsp. vanilla extract

7 tbsp. butter

Frangipane filling:

1/4 c. butter

1/3 c. sugar

1 egg

1/2 tsp. vanilla extract

1/2 c. ground almonds

Fruit topping:

3-4 c. sliced strawberries, other berries, or sliced stone fruit such as peaches, plums or a mixture or fruits.

Make the shell: Mix together flour, salt and sugar in a bowl. Make a well in the center. Pour egg yolks and vanilla into the well. Dice the butter into large cubes, place between two large sheets of wax paper and pound to soften a little. Add pounded better to the well and mix with the egg yolks and vanilla to form a paste. Slowly add in surrounding flour until it comes together into a soft dough. Work as quickly as possible and don’t over work the dough. Form into a ball, wrap in wax paper and chill in fridge for 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 350F. Roll out dough and press into a tart dish. Poke a few holes in pastry with a fork to prevent air bubbles while cooking. Press wax paper on top of pastry and blind bake for about 12 minutes or until hardened and slightly golden.

Meanwhile make the filling: beat the butter until soft. Add the sugar and beat until creamy. Beat in the eggs, then mix in the vanilla and ground almonds. When tart is blind baked, pour filling into shell and return to the oven for another 12 minutes or so until browned and firmer. Remove from oven and let cool. Top the filling with prepared fruit just before serving.

Perils of the Modern Dinner Party

2010-06-17T22:11:00.001-07:00

One of my greatest pleasures in life lies in preparing and enjoying delicious meals with solid friends. It is, after all, the principle behind Fifty-Two Feasts, this sumptuous project in which I have been indulging for almost a year now. And although I have often eulogized on the joys of dinners, brunches, birthday meals, and festive parties, I rarely reveal my ugly side—my few pet peeves and pent up acidic grievances.

Primary among these objections is the glittering world of food intolerances. It seems almost fashionable today, like chatting about your sun sign in the 70s. I’m a Cancer, what are you? Today, however, a growing portion of the population recites the litany of their own personal “sensitivities” to break the ice with strangers or form heartfelt bonds with friends. “I can’t eat wheat, gluten or dairy,” Angela chirrups cheerfully. “Oh my God, me too!” Jessica responds with delight. An animated conversation follows, one that is as absorbing to its participants as it is tedious to everyone else.

They discuss each minute detail of their mutual affliction, from the description of physical symptoms to sanctimonious recitations of the food they can “handle:” “I’ll have fruit for breakfast,” Jessica admits, as though even this is a sinful indulgence. “Although nothing acidic . . . . And no fruits with too much sugar or starch. So I’ll have like blueberries with like half a teaspoon of agave.” Angela nods attentively, making a mental to research the symptoms of intolerance to acidic/sugary/starchy fruits. Who knows, it is quite possible that she too is unwittingly poisoning her body with venomous oranges!

At some point during this tiresome conversation you will inevitably encounter a stream of advertising for the so-called natural health and wellness industry; the sharing of information on the hoard of vitamins, minerals, oils, and miracle herbals supplements that these sufferer take on a daily basis to banish their multiplicity of ills. These safety measures, in concert with vigilant adherence to dietary commandments, seem to ward off the grim reaper and enable our heroines—or less frequently heroes—to sail ascetically through the day.

Still fascinated with their own digestive systems, Angela and Jessica continue on to exchange recommendations on brands of alternative cookies, breads, and tofu which meet their stringent requirements. (Wait, cookies? I thought . . . okay it’s too complicated for me.)

And all the while they are massacring my carefully constructed, hand rolled ravioli, gouging out the filling and leaving the delicate pasta torn and stranded on the plate. I offer them salad, thinking naively that this is a safe bet, and after cautiously removing the rounds of mozzarella so fresh they barely hold shape and after picking off the warm, herb encrusted croutons, they take a few, insipid bites. Offers of dessert, however, are received with horrified protestations. Coffee? No, the caffeine keeps them awake. Fair enough. I persevere and suggest decaf, trying valiantly to remain cheerful. Alas there is still the problem of acid. It wreaks havoc on their stomachs. Finally, I win with an innocuous herbal tea; victory at last.

In observing the phenomenon of these intolerances, I have noticed some strange and seemingly inexplicable patterns. Firstly, 90% of the time the sufferers are female. Secondly, from time to time these life threatening allergies disappear late at night, perhaps outside a taco truck at 3 am after an evening of bar hopping. Strange.
After years of observing the patterns I’ve come up with many theories on food intolerances: that they are fashions, here today gone tomorrow, a doctor approved alternative or accompaniment to the more base, materialistic obsessions with designer shoes. They are interesting, distinguishing you from the crowd; they make you “unique.” Or perhaps they are the disguised form of an eating disorder—a manifestation of desperate attempts to control and restrict. Then again they may have deeper roots, flowering today as a modern residue of the puritanical rigidity of early American settlers. Whatever the explanation, it is as fascinating to observe the devotees of this new cult as it is frustrating to have them at your dinner party.

And now I want to qualify everything I’ve just said. Firstly, this is a rant, and rage is notorious for skewing the vision and warping the truth. Angela and Jessica are figments of my imagination, monsters dreamed up from a compilation of the worst behaviors I have witnessed, heard, or read about. Secondly, I am aware that some people have totally legitimate allergies to food. In fact a dear friend of mine is relegated to the sofa for days if she upsets her body with the wrong food. But I hazard a guess that she is in the minority as a genuine sufferer. And the difference is that she is far less loquacious about her condition and refers to it in a completely different way. Basically it sucks when you can’t eat 99% of the dishes on a restaurant’s menu. And she’s been like this ever since I’ve known her. Even at 3 am after a night on the town she still can’t eat wheat.

My own theory is that many of the intolerances people experience today are not caused by the food per se but by the toxins in our food system and the methods for processing and preserving that food. Not all milk, cheese, or wheat is created equal! This isn’t just a wacky theory: Read nutritionist Sally Fallon’s book on the subject, Nourishing Traditions or look into the West on Price Foundation. There is a growing body of research to back up this more nuanced, deeper analysis of food intolerances.

Chili, Chocolate, and Cheesecake

2010-06-16T14:17:00.000-07:00

The cousins were coming to visit. That is to say the highland dwelling contingent from my dad’s side of the family had landed in the new world for a summer of rambling adventures. They did New York, spent time in Maine, and then—quite sensibly—hopped over that great swath of Jesus land separating the east and west coasts of our great country to arrive in Seattle.

I wanted to welcome them with a truly American meal. And what, I wondered, is a more American custom than appropriating and bastardizing a dish from another culture? So I penned the menu. We would eat chili con carne as the main course followed by an all American fat n’ wobbly cheesecake—two ubiquitous dishes that I’d never attempted to execute.

As a complete amateur, I consulted various recipes for chili and found that within the realm of this craft there is constant warfare. Diced or ground meat? Smoked peppers or not? Should one add cinnamon? Chocolate? Bourbon? Beans or no beans? The debates were endless with belligerent voices on all sides. Clearly, the search for any semblance of authenticity would be long and arduous. I shrugged, gathered together what I considered to be the most exciting recipes, and patched together my own chili: ground beef and finely diced pork, medium heat, a little quirky chorizo, and substantial smoke in the shape of both chipotle and pimentón. And beans, definitely beans for the rather prosaic reason that I wanted to stretch this chili to feed ten people. Finally I tossed in a cinnamon stick and some cacao—fantasizing vaguely about the Aztecs . . . . Or is it the Mayans whole handed us this intoxicating combination?

Equally uninitiated in the process of constructing a cheesecake, I decided not to be overly ambitious and instead to follow a simple recipe for white chocolate hazelnut cheesecake from my favorite dessert book entitled—with self confident simplicity—Chocolate. Unfortunately, I forgot to factor in the time necessary for chilling the cake so that when I plunged a hopeful knife into the center and extricated the first slice, the rest of the cake, in a display of defeat, began melting lugubriously in all directions. Fortunately, the sinfully decadent taste and texture of the dessert made up for its aesthetic failings.

All in all the meal was not only a succulent success, but also ridiculously easy to prepare. In fact to anyone looking for easy menu ideas I can safely say this one is a winner. Chili is a one-pot main course that actually improves slightly if made the day before. Serve it with sour cream, crusty bread and a salad—y ahí lo tiene! And as for the cheesecake, it too is quite literally a piece of cake (tee hee, sorry) to prepare and as I learned, it requires a good chill out in the fridge before serving.

Battered and Fried

2010-05-19T21:34:00.000-07:00

“You’ve got Maris Pipers.” I beamed at the potato lady, my new hero. “I’ve been looking for these everywhere.”

“Yes,” she responded brightly, “we have them year round.”

I was at the U-district farmers market on a promising Saturday morning. The sun was lazily making its way out of bed, shrugging off a morning mist and gathering strength for the day’s work ahead. The market had just opened its gates and I was there—unusually bright and brisk for the hour—with the farmers, the dedicated locavores, the foodies, and those unfortunates who had been woken at dawn by bouncing bundles of youthful energy. “One day,” I imagined parents saying soothingly to each other, “one day they will become civilized and require a decent amount of caffeine before erupting into wakefulness. Until then, honey, we’ll just have to muster patience and fortitude.” Having already had my caffeine I was in excellent spirits, made even brighter by the discovery of Heston’s lauded Maris Piper potatoes at the Olsen Farm stand.

Deciding that perhaps H. Blumenthal Esq. wasn’t the only expert whose advice was worth noting, I asked the potato lady which variety she would use for frying. “Bintje,” she answered without hesitation, pointing to a pile of spuds that were in shape, texture, and color very similar to Maris Pipers. “They’re starchy enough to fluff up well but they still get nice and crispy on the outside.” So I bought a couple pound for good measure.

There wasn’t much in the way of fish at the market so I opted for Whole Foods. What would the fish guy recommend? Halibut and rock cod. Since the latter was half the price, I bought 1 1/2 pounds of it and a mere 1/2 pound of halibut, just to test the difference. Potatoes, check; fish, check. A couple hours and a particularly exasperating ferry line later I was back in the kitchen.

The process of frying fish and chips is great fun, but I found the most gleeful part of making this meal was the preparation of the batter, a matter I attended to with child-like delight. It involved concocting a mixture of plain flour, rice flour, baking powder, honey, beer, and—surprise surprise—vodka. So boozy, I knew it would be a winner. The beer is added last, and immediately afterward the batter is poured into a whip-it canister and injected with a cartridge of CO2. The canister is then chilled until you are ready to fry the fish, at which point you simply fire the contents into a bowl, coat the fish, and then fry immediately. The batter is wonderfully aerated and once fried it transforms into a delectably light, bubbly, crispy coating for the melting softness of fish.

And the final verdict on the fish? The rock cod won by a landslide over the halibut. The flakes were larger and more ethereal and the chunks cooked through without drying out. Plunge the battered fish into hot oil, let sizzle for a minute, gently turn over and continue frying until golden brown, about another minute or two. The fish may not be totally cooked but the residual heat from its sizzled envelop of batter with finish it off before it reaches the table.

The Second Batch

2010-05-10T09:00:00.000-07:00

“I don’t vant any nasty soggy chips. I vant mine crisp und light brown.”
(Captured German soldier, in the BBC’s Dad’s Army)

Having consigned Cook’s Illustrated and it’s mediocre French fry recipe to the trash, I turned again to Blumenthal’s instructions. These called first for the use of Arran Victory or Maris Piper potatoes—two varieties I’ve never heard of and could not find at the local shop. So I compromised and opted for the only high starch spuds available: the ubiquitous Russet Burbank.

The first step to Heston’s chips (See note) was to peel potatoes, cut into ½ - ¾ inch sticks, and rinse under cold running water for a few minutes in order to remove excess starch from theirs surfaces. Next he called for a gentle simmer in salted water until potatoes are just cooked through but not falling apart. Then they are laid on a wire rack and left to chill and dry off in the fridge. When cold, a pan of peanut oil is heated to 250 Fahrenheit and the sticks are simmered until just beginning to color, after which they are removed and chilled again. Finally the oil is heated to 375 degrees and the chips are finished at this high sizzle for about 5 – 10 minutes until crisp and golden brown.

It worked like a dream. A near-paradisaical chip: thin, fiercely crisp exteriors and fluffy, feather-light interiors suggestive of edible cumulus clouds. So now my ambition is increasing and I intend to experiment with a variety of high starch potatoes to find the pinnacle of chipped perfection.

Note: Obviously here I am speaking of “chip” in the English sense and using the words chip and fry interchangeably, although there is a difference. A true fish and chip chip must more substantial, plumper, and generally earthy. No doubt there is a place for the thin, elegant fry but in my opinion these should not be seen nestling up to a pile of battered fish.

The First Batch

2010-05-08T11:13:00.000-07:00

Deciding to save Heston and his pursuit of perfection for tomorrow, I attempted a much simpler method of frying potatoes this evening. It came from a spattered old issue of Cooks Illustrated, and I had made a mental note long ago to give it whirl. The author proposes two unlikely components: low starch, Yukon Gold potatoes and cold oil. I blinked. Of the little I had read about frites, two of the most oft preached principles were the use of high starch potatoes and sizzling hot oil. And yet he seemed tremendously scientific about process, so much so that I put misgivings aside and bustled to the store for a bag of Yukons.

Following his instructions precisely, I washed, scrubbed, and dried the potatoes, squared them off and sliced them into ¼ inch sticks. Dutifully I dropped them into the cold oil, turned on a high flame, and waited for a rolling boil. I let them cook until the outsides were beginning to harden. I stirred them and watched with mounting excitement as they turned from creamy white to pale gold and then to warm caramel brown. Then I whipped the finished fries out of the oil and onto a bed of paper towels.

At first the batons appeared perfectly crisp and burnished brown. Almost hysterical with excitement now I flung a bit of sea salt onto the pile, extracted a particularly alluring specimen, and popped it in my mouth. It was very good indeed. But then I eyed the potatoes with growing panic: here I was with a mound of chips and no one to eat them. I tested another and frowned: were they getting soggy? Already?

Desperate for my imperfect yet decidedly edible fries to be shared, I whipped together a Belgium style dipping sauce in the space of thirty seconds, grabbed the plate of fries, and ran out the door. Sprinting across the road I charged though the neighbor’s yard, across to the next street, and down to my friends’ house.

In the course of my obsession, there are times at which I find myself behaving in an utterly bizarre manner. This was one of those times. The door was open and taking this as an invitation I flew straight into the sitting room. Glenn was on the sofa, one hand tapping at a lap top and the other clasping a phone to his ear. Failing to notice these things I shoved my fries under his nose. “Eat,” I commanded. He looked up, politely bewildered, and reached for a fry. “No!” I hissed. “The little ones, the thin ones are crispier. Quick, eat.” Perceiving that I was borderline delusional, Glenn motioned upstairs. “Molly’s up there.”

I galloped up the stairs, banged on Molly’s door, and let myself unceremoniously in. “Try these.” I thrust the dish determinedly towards her. It would have taken a brave soul with courage—and possibly body armor—to refuse these fries with the cook in such a state of blind hysteria. She smiled diplomatically and ate one, then another. Then we trooped down stairs.

Now that I had shared my fries, sanity returned to my muddled mind, only to be replaced by acute embarrassment. I found myself sitting in Glen and Molly’s sitting room, a plate of fries on my lap, wrapped in my tattered, grease stained polka dot apron, attempting to make ordinary conversation. Only it’s not that easy when you’ve just burst into someone’s house and forced fries on them. Returning to the only topic occupying my consciousness at that moment I looked down at the plate: “They’re soggy,” I commented despondently. “I’ll have to try again.”

Lo Que Corta el Bacalao

2010-05-07T17:57:00.000-07:00

This time I’m going deep. Instead of a smorgasbord of food, a tapas party, or roast with battalion of trimmings I am in search of something different for my next feast. I’m in the mood for serious research and the mastering of technique—I want to feast on flawless fish and chips.

As usual with a new idea, it was an odd confluence of happenings that led to the budding of this desire. Firstly, I was given a book that I have long wanted to read: Cod, by Mark Kurlansky. In this beautifully written work, Kulansky follows the journey of this fish as it comes into contact with and later is shaped by human history. It is a fascinating story, surprising in its significance and inspiring in the kitchen. I am still happily swimming in the text, currently drifting by the cod as they unwittingly fuel the fire of 18th century American revolutionaries. But I’m also salivating at the thought of really good battered and fried fish. Secondly, I remain committed to my spring resolution to explore the world of aquatic cookery. On this point, I have been shamefully lazy of late. Furthermore, an old class mate was making fish and chips the other day. “Do you have any tips?” he asked. I had none, having never attempted this wonderful classic, this cornerstone of my culinary heritage. In fact I am woefully ignorant on the subject.

Thankfully ignorance can be remedied, especially now that I’ve got a couple vital tools to aid comprehension: a cast iron fry pot and Heston Blumenthal’s meticulously authoritative cookbook, In search of Perfection, both lent to me by Boss Man, who also generously volunteered to taste test any of my experiments. So, the exploration begins. As the matter of choosing and sourcing the ideal fish is going to be quite a process, I’ve decided in the meantime to start with the chips.

I’ve got a pan, a thermometer, two varieties of potato, and two strikingly dissimilar methods to try. Tonight, let the frying begin! Whatever it takes I am determined to master this meal. The Spanish have an apt idiom for describing who is in charge in a given relationship or situation. It is the one who cuts the salt cod—la que corta el bacalao! That’ll be me, baby.

The Great Cleanse

2010-04-23T15:02:00.000-07:00

Justin and I had arranged to go on a ride. “Let’s go on a long one,” I suggested, full of zeal for my new-found love of cycling. But when I showed up at his house, the place was mysteriously wreathed in silence. I called out several time and finally heard a weak voice reply from somewhere in the bowels of the house. Clunking in with my biking cleats, I made my way down the hall. “Come in,” Justin’s voice murmured feebly. I opened the door to find that my friend, rather than clad in one of his usual stream-lined cycling outfits, was curled up in an easy chair, wreathed in blankets and reading a book. “Oh Justin, hurry up. What are you doing?”

He let out a hollow groan of despair and huddled further down into the blankets. “Oh yes, of course!” I exclaimed, recollecting what he had told me earlier. “You’ve started then, have you? You’re really doing it?”

My friends were undertaking the master cleanse. Having thoroughly flushed their digestive systems with salt water, they were now subsisting on a concoction of lemon juice, cayenne pepper, maple syrup, and water. And they planned to complete ten days of this ascetical penance.

At first I was horrified at the mere idea of a ten day fast. Surely, I mused aloud, ten long days living on nothing but this strange concoction must be bad for the body. And what about having the energy to work? I supposed that even the life-saving elixir coffee was banned under this Nazi-like regime. But they were resolute; they were going to cleanse and that was that. And so I shook my head and wondered at the impenetrable motives that would induce anyone to submit themselves to such a clearly masochistic endeavor. I for one would simply raise a glass of Jameson and ginger to their efforts, fanatical as those might be.

My suspicions that this cleanse was in fact deleterious to the body were confirmed when I persuaded Justin out of his cocoon and onto a bicycle. We had not ridden five miles by the time he began grumbling, uncharacteristically bad tempered. Then later, around mile 18, he dropped out entirely and headed home. Just as I though, I said to myself, legs pumping vigorously. Cleanses are fundamentally a bad idea.

That was on day one of their penance, and since our habitual happy hour beers were now off limits, I saw little of Justin and Glenn until day 7, when they came over to my place for a party. By this point neither looked on the point of death as I suspected they would. Rather they both exuded a radiant aura of crystalline purity. Effortlessly forgoing the sangria and tapas, they chatted awhile, sipping on glasses of water, and then virtuously departed. I was thoroughly impressed.

The next morning as I wallowed in a fog of overindulgence, I began to contemplate the idea of a cleanse. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad after all. And imagine the sense of success and vitality that I might feel after having achieved such a feat. I might even lose those stubborn five pounds I am always vaguely—although somewhat noncommittally—meaning to drop. I did some research and got mildly excited. The master cleanse claimed to cure all manner of ills, improve hair and skin, revitalize body and mind. Maybe, just maybe . . . .

Well I thought, after visiting my friends one evening, (Glenn was almost finished his penance at day 9 and Molly had survived day 3) if I don’t do it now I might never have the guts to try again. So I rushed to the grocery store and bought a massive bag of lemons. Tomorrow the fast would begin.

Like a dutiful penitent I completed phase one of the cleanse, drinking a liter of salt water on the evening before beginning to fast. (This is a food blog and I have no desire to kill anyone’s appetite so will not explain the rationale behind this salt water flush.) Next morning I awoke with a feeling of grim-faced determination. The prospect did not appeal, but I was going to follow through. Usually I am an early bird, ready to leap out of bed with the sun, but today I already felt unusually irritable. What is the point of leaping out of bed if you have no steaming cup of coffee and crunchy pile of toast to leap into! For a while I lay there cursing into my covers. Then, deciding that a bike ride might raise my spirits, I mustered the courage to sally forth. Once on the road, my mood did indeed improve. Spring was in full force, the sky swirling between sunshine and showers, the heavy scent of growth rich in my nostrils. I must make elderflower cordial soon, I thought, sailing down Swede hill on a honeyed, elderflower breeze.

Towards the end of my ride the shower turned into a determined torrent and I arrived home after 24 miles tired, wet, and ravenous. Worse still I was due at work in an hour and my head was beginning to ache from caffeine deprivation. I stood in the kitchen, shivering and staring fixedly at a jar of Costa Rican coffee beans the color of burnished mahogany. Unscrewing the lid I bend down and inhaled deeply. The aroma ebbed softly into my nostrils, wrapping my mind in a warming blanket of solace. That was enough. My cleanse was over. The beans clattered into the grinder.

The only reminder of my great cleanse was a large bowl of lemons that now dominated my kitchen table. And as they invoked a sense of guilt and failure every time I passed by, I decided that they would have to be dealt with immediately. So after work that evening I came home, retrieved Julia Child from the book shelf, and spent the next hour making her classic tart au citron.

After dinner, as I sat at the table half listening to the conversation, I dug my fork into a slice of ethereal, buttercup yellow tart. And as the sharp tang of lemon bit into my palate, I could have sworn that the acid was washing away all impurities, invigorating my body and rejuvenating my mind.

Julia Child’s Lemon Soufflé Tart

A 10 inch, blind-baked, sugar-crust shell (any basic pâte sablée should work)
3/4 cup granulated sugar
4 eggs, separated
Grated rind of one large lemon
3 tablespoons lemon juice
A pinch of salt

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees F. Beat a half cup of the sugar into the egg yolks until the mixture thickens and pales in color. Beat in the lemon rind and juice. Pour this mixture into a bowl set on top of a sauce pan of barely simmering water. Stir until the mixture has thickened and is just too hot for your finger (165 degrees F). In a separate bowl, beat the egg whites and salt until mixture forms soft peaks. Add the sugar and continue beating until mixture holds stiff peaks. Gently fold egg whites into yolk mixture and pour into the tart shell. Bake for about 30 minutes. Keep an eye on the tart and when it begins to rise and color, sprinkle remaining sugar on top. It is ready when a toothpick or knife comes out clean. Serve hot. (This recipe was taken from Julia Child’s book: Mastering the Art of French Cooking.)

A Feast of Frocks

2010-04-21T16:25:00.000-07:00

They arrive with boyfriends and bags full of clothes. The former are promptly sent to the liquor store with instructions to purchase triple sec for the sangria. Grabbing their bags, the girls and I head up to the boudoir; we must attend to the important business of outfits.

Whenever the occasion calls for festive garb, my girlfriends rarely arrive already in dress. Rather they show up in jeans and scruffy tee shirts, lugging bundles of prospective items through the door. It is half the fun, this process of stripping down and slipping on different constructions of fabric, cut, and shimmer. Within moments my bedroom is a battlefield strewn with discarded boots, belts, and coats and the four of us giggling and tumbling all over the place as we shimmy into slinky dresses, frilly tops, towering heels, and bottom-flattering pants.

Amidst this furor of activity, we yak and laugh and demand opinions from each other. “No honestly. Tell me. . . .Don’t you think it's a bit summery for today? . . . Oh shut up, listen, can you see a line? . . . Look! They’re completely falling out. . . . Oh no, what’s that mark? . . . Shut up Hannah. . . . No it’s not!

“I can’t decide,” I wail plaintively.

“Well, it depends what you’re going for,” Danielle replies. “That dress is verrrry Frrrrench,” she continues rolling her eyes and R’s in a caricature of Gallic mannerisms.

“Yes, that one says cute and sweet,” adds Hannah.

“What about the brown one?” I speculate, “I really like that one.”

Hannah snorts knowingly. “That one just says sex pot.”

“Yeah, you know I am in the mood to wear brown anyway . . .” I remark, innocently adjusting the sleeves. “Yes, I think I’ll keep this on.”

After each outfit has been duly scrutinized, we descend to the bathroom to add the finishing touches to our visages. With all four of us crammed into the tiny space, it is a chaotic jumble of powders, pencils, creams, and brushes. I escape a near collision with Danielle’s blackened mascara wand; Hannah neatly dodges Aleah’s hair straightener. The feasting and drinking will soon begin, yet already I am filled with a sense of delicious satisfaction. I’ve got my girls with me—my dearest, long-time crazy ladies together again. And friends, that is a magnificent feast of its own.

Photography by Hannah Wahl

Anticipation

2010-04-14T21:48:00.001-07:00

Focaccia warm from the oven and redolent of rosemary; butternut squash hummus drizzled in olive oil; rich chicken liver pâté; mussel salad spiked with Thai chilies, lime and cilantro; rhubarb-custard tartlets. . . . The kitchen is silent and permeated with an air of anticipation as I sit here sketching out a menu for the coming celebration.

It is to be a welcome home party for my great friend Aleah and her boyfriend Reilly. These little shits have spent the last seven or eight months in Europe, first ensconced in a canal cottage in the Netherlands, then wafting dreamily around la ville d’amour and regaling all of us, in less fortunately situated locales, with tales of their gastronomic good fortune. (In Reilly’s case this developed into a seemingly ardent obsession with those proverbially smelly French cheeses.) And so, to hail them home in style we are going to hold a festive evening of tapas and drinks.

This feast also marks the midpoint in my journey with fifty-two feasts. To be honest I have more or less lost track of the precise number of feasts to date, but I know we’re vaguely in to realm of the mid-twenties. Time to take an executive decision and declare this to be feast number 26! As I have mentioned before, exact numbers are not the issue; indeed they are quite contrary to the spirit of the project. Who’s to say we can’t feast forever? 26 is a pleasant enough number and I like the metaphorical symmetry that it invokes. Aleah was there at the birth of this blog, at the inaugural feast, but flew off to Europe soon after. Now she is back and I am looking forward to feasting in her company. There are a further 26 feasts to anticipate—a spring and summer filled with culinary explorations even more delectable than the last!

The Excesses of Spring

2010-04-13T15:16:00.000-07:00

The word feast has many nuances of meaning, many of which I have been reflecting on for the past few months. One of these is a certain suggestion of excess; a tendency towards indulgence. It is that sizable slab of butter on your baguette; that third glass of Chianti; that generous ladle of cream on your rhubarb crumble.

This Easter I explored this immoderate aspect of feasting. My studies of the subject began early in the day and—I will steadfastly maintain—were no fault of my own. I had an opening shift at The Coffee Shop on Sunday. Given that it was a holiday, and Easter at that, I felt slightly resentful of my position. Any satisfactory Easter, I commented to a coworker, should begin not by sweating over espresso at 7 am, but rather with a refreshing mimosa sipped in the sunshine at 11 am. Sighing at the injustice of life I went back to my beans.

Eleven o’clock rolled around and I was enjoying a break and when another coworker ambled over and sat down beside me. He wasn’t working that day and we began chatting. Soon I was reiterating my thoughts on Easter mimosas, glad of a fresh ear to hear my woes. He stared at me, eyes glinting and beard twitching with glee. “The Braeburn has mimosas, right next door. Let’s go over. I’ll buy you one.”

I grinned back. “I have 15 minutes.”

And that is what started off the string of excess which characterized Easter Sunday. One glass of champagne and orange juice later I went back to work in a more amiable mood and spent the rest of my shift beaming benevolently at customers and producing ever-so-slightly wobbly latte art. The feeling of bonhomie lasted until I got home, at which point the booze was already flowing swiftly and I had no choice but to join in the toasting. Then there was dinner and accompanied by more wine and finally I finished the evening in style by polishing off my dad’s bottle of Rémy Matin in a fit of pique. He had irritated me by offering the last of his whiskey to my male friends and neglecting to give me even a drop. Simmering with feminist indignation I headed for the liquor cabinet and seized the bottle of cognac. Hah! That should teach him.

As for the main event of the evening, the lamb from Sea Breeze farm was as good as those cheeky smiles had promised: rich, juicy, and aromatic with the windswept freshness of Northwest meadow grasses. This final characteristic was deliciously framed by the sauce verde that I made to accompany it. The recipe for this most excellent concoction came, yet again, from Boss Man. It was as great a pleasure to prepare as to eat. And, after a day of alcoholic excess, the simple task of macerating fresh herbs together with mortar and pestle had a cleansing and invigorating effect on my bleary intellect.

Sauce Verde
2 parts parsley
1 part basil
1 part mint
1 clove garlic
Coarse sea salt
Anchovy fillets
Capers
Dijon mustard
Olive oil
Lemon juice

Finely chop the herbs and set aside. Using a mortar and pestle, combine the garlic, several anchovies, salt, and a smattering of capers and mash into a smooth paste. Add the herbs, a dab of Dijon mustard, and a generous portion of olive oil and whisk together well. Adjust the acid with lemon juice and season to taste with salt and pepper.

2010-04-03T14:36:00.000-07:00

My tiramisu turned out to be slightly uninspiring. I think blame can be laid on the crappy ladyfingers I bought—there was only one brand in the store and they looked, smelled, and tasted vacuous to say the least. Also, they didn’t absorb enough booze . . . or perhaps I wasn’t diligent enough in painting the mixture of espresso and brandy on them? The result wasn’t offensive; it just wasn’t the celestial, palate melting experience I was going for. And, after all that work, Mum (the patron of this feast) decided that two desserts are excessive and struck tiramisu from the menu. So we’ll have to scrape by with a rhubarb-ginger crumble.

This morning we woke early and took a trip to Seattle’s U-district farmers market. We bought eggs with alarmingly golden yolks; cream-rich raw milk; butter the color of buttercups; and a handsome leg of lamb. All this was procured at the Sea Breeze Farm stand—my favorite of all the many wonderful booths at this excellent market. Not only do the boys from Sea Breeze farm offer a sumptuous array of pates, sausages, cheeses, and roasts, they are also quite gorgeous themselves (with an I’ve been up since 5 am milking cows and tossing hay bales about like they weigh 5 pounds sort of aura lingering around their cheeky smiles). And, as if this isn’t enough of an allure, they clearly know good meat. What greater virtues, I sigh and speculate, could a girl want in a man . . . or in a shopping experience.

Faithless Buns and Party Provisions

2010-04-02T12:57:00.000-07:00

The wind whips a thin rain against the windows as I sit in the kitchen on this Good Friday morning—a dogwood winter day. I am still ensconced in my dressing gown mentally preparing for Easter Sunday dinner as I savor the last crumbs of a hot cross bun. When I announced yesterday that I planned to make these religious edibles for Easter, a friend asked doubtfully if I was Christian. Not particularly, I replied. But when there’s a culinary tradition to celebrate I’ll happily convert for the day. Perhaps it was my lack of devotion then, which caused the crosses on my lovingly made buns to dribble pathetically all over the place so that only a mere hint remained after baking. Ah well, the dough itself rose like a dream and the resulting pastries—flecked with currents and redolent of spices—are eminently satisfying.

Easter dinner will be a true spring feast: roast leg of lamb strung with anchovies, rosemary, and garlic; roast potatoes; glazed carrots and onions; a minty salsa verde; and, for my vegetarian guests, a handmade eggplant and tomato lasagna. And I do mean “handmade” as I even constructed the sheets of spinach pasta from scratch. Not that this was a chore however, as I adore the soothing process of making fresh pasta.

For dessert I proposed a rhubarb crumble, as the long pink stems are ready for harvest. Mum had other ideas, her heart set on tiramisu. (Not a big dessert eater, my mother has a definite weakness for any concoction laced liquor: she goes wild over brandy buttered mince pies, crazy over English trifle, and is alarmingly possessive of liqueur filled chocolates.) Fine, I sighed. I would make both desserts. Although, this being my maiden voyage with tiramisu, I insisted on making a test batch ahead, which is currently chilling in the fridge awaiting an afternoon analysis. A full report will be forthcoming.

In the Manner of a Miller's Wife

2010-03-27T09:22:00.000-07:00

Elizabeth David begins fiercely on the subject: “I am always rather surprised” she remarks, “when I read in books and articles that to cook a fish à la meunière is one of the simplest achievements. Simple in conception certainly; but in execution, no.”

I was in the supermarket perusing the glass-fronted fish counter with Lara, my sister in law, as these words sailed into memory. We were both in the mood for something aquatic that evening, and as we gazed at slabs of salmon, jumbles of shrimp and barnacle stained mussels, my eye was caught by a pile of shimmering rainbow trout. I had never cooked trout. However, in my quest to conquer the world of fish cookery, I’d read of a certain French method with fish called à la meunière, a phrase that translates as something cooked “in the manner of a miller’s wife.” I assume that this derives logically from the coating of flour that is applied to the fish before frying. This miller, so fortunate in his betrothed, would naturally possess mounds of flour, which his shrewd and resourceful wife would then use to create a crisp encasement for delicate, butter-fried fish. Et voilà! And yet the redoubtable Mrs. David continues on an accusatory note when writing of this technique:

“Do they think to tell you, the instructors of the nothing-is-simpler school, that the butter in which you fry your sole must be clarified butter, that you must watch your fish like a hawk to see that it does not stick and burn, that to turn it without breaking is a tricky business, that you should discard the remains of the butter in which your fish was cooked, and that you must start again with a clean pan and a quantity of fresh butter, not clarified, and that this butter must be brought exactly to the right point when it turns a pale, hazel-nut colour, no more and no less, and that it must be poured instantly over the waiting fish which must with equal immediacy be set in front of those who are to eat it? Do they even tell you, these optimists . . .?”

Her rhetorical questioning continues with vigor. Yet despite these cautions I decided that trout meunière might just be worth a try. Turning to Lara I suggested the idea. “Oh yes,” she exclaimed, “that’s how my mom used to cook them!”

To go with the trout we decided on spinach sautéed in butter and garlic, and some sort of potatoes, but which? Boiled fingerlings? I mused. My brother Will looked disheartened and stuck out his lower lip in an exaggerated grimace of distress. “Boiled,” he muttered distastefully. So we settled on roast spuds. Also, that he might retain an edge to his canine teeth, Will procured a rib-eye steak, eschewing with another grimace the suggestion of joining us in the fish.

It was another of those deliciously simple meals to prepare: the potatoes quartered, swathed in olive oil, salt, pepper and rosemary went into a hot oven and left us with little else to do but sip wine and argue amiably (mainly about the dubious aesthetic value of my brother’s new sun glasses). As the potatoes neared completion, I set about cleaning and drying the fish. Recollecting Elizabeth David’s stern words I heated a large knob of butter in a saucepan until it dissolved, bubbled and frothed. Then I carefully skimmed off this foam leaving only the honey-colored liquid below so that when cooked our floured fish would not scorch.

As I was about to fry the two fish, my brother came up and peered doubtfully over my shoulder, asking silly questions and generally displaying a lack of faith in my mastery of the kitchen. “Well?” I asked, “Aren’t you going to cook your steak?” we’re almost ready to eat.

“Huh? Me? But I thought you were going to cook it?” I shook my head. “No, I’m too busy. And besides, I rarely cook steak . . . it just doesn’t occur to me.”

Will stared at me incredulously: “You don’t know how to cook a steak? How is that possible?”

“Of course I know how to cook it.” I replied defensively, “it’s just that I don’t actually make it very often . . . and everyone is so picky about their steaks I find. . . .”

The bottom lip began protruding again as Will grumbled around the kitchen at a loss. “Don’t know how to cook a steak? Rachie, that’s something you must learn. You’ve just got to know how to make steak. . . . Well fine, now I have to do it.” He sighed heavily, “but I’m not in the right frame of mind. . . ” Another disgruntled sigh . . . “Well fine.”

Eventually, after more grumbling and inflammatory suggestions that my culinary skills were somewhat lacking in the arena of cow flesh, we sat down to eat. The potatoes, golden brown and infused with rosemary, nestled next to a heap of deep green garlicky spinach slick with butter. Will was content with his steak, but for Lara and I, the plate was completed by a whole trout each, nothing but its head and glassy eye gazing out from the fine nut-colored crust. The clarified butter had done its work and not a fleck of burn marred the outer layer of the trout. I squeezed a generous quantity of lemon over mine ate it slowly, savoring the crisped skin and simple, delicate flesh.

Birth by Blood

2010-03-18T21:44:00.000-07:00

Before embarking on the daunting task of teaching my very first cooking class, I stopped by the café for a heartening Americano. While waiting by the bar, I informed Boss man of the impending class. “I’m a bit nervous,” I admitted, “but it’ll be fine once I get in the kitchen and have a knife in my hand.” I continued airily and grinning: “I always feel in control of things with a knife.”

Once at the local food bank, where the class was to be held, I busied myself preparing the kitchen, searching out necessary equipment, and then waited apprehensively for the participants to arrive. Damian, the man in charge of the kitchen (and former chef himself), plunked a heavy black case onto the counter: “Here you go. These are the sharp knives.” Happy not to have to wrestle with the assortment of dull specimens I’d found, I opened the case and admired the selection. Choosing a sizable chef’s knife I felt that predictable welling up of confidence and courage. What’s a little cooking class to a girl with a razor sharp blade in her hand!

And this sense of assurance only grew as, to my immense relief, a mere trickle of people showed up for the class. They all gathered round, relaxed and expectant, and as I began a marked feeling of ease—even a hint of a swagger—settled upon my being. The first item on the menu was kale salad with raisins, pears, and a honey-lemon dressing. I reminded the students to tear away the rough central stem from the leaves, and then gathered the shreds of green into a bundle and began to casually chop them into slices. I remarked on the virtue of a sharp knife and demonstrated how to make a claw shape with the hand holding the item to be chopped, thus neatly avoiding dicing your finger tips into ½ inch cubes.

Perhaps all of my previous nervousness had fled my brain and settled subconsciously in my hands, or perhaps I was just not accustomed to chopping and chatting simultaneously, but within moment I was contemplating an expanding slash of blood across my right forefinger. I cursed inwardly and slapped a band-aid on the offending extremity, commenting brightly that here was a perfect example of what not to do. I shoved a glove on my hand and went back to work.

Alas, the fates were clearly determined to make me repent for the flippant words I’d used at the café—In control with a knife in her hand? Hah! Some control to be bleeding all over the place—because barely had I returned to the demonstration when I managed to slice into the tip of my left forefinger. (I have to give it to those three old Fates; there was a stylish symmetry to this act of divine justice.) I shuffled back to the band-aids, slipped on another glove, and again girded my loins for battle.

Thankfully there were no further incidences with the knife and I managed to finish the salad and move on to the next item on the agenda: nettle pesto. It was as I was softening cloves of unpeeled garlic on the stove that I glanced down at my hands. To my disgust there was a distinctive red tinge lurking beneath the pale, surgical green of the gloves. The band-aids were clearly not up to their task of damming the flow. So with studied casualness I wondered back over to the boxes of gloves and slipped another pair on top. This seemed to do the trick because I succeeded in finishing the class without actually peppering the pesto, risotto, or chicken with blood. Occasionally I would glance furtively down at my hands, and although a pale pink sheen might just be discerned beneath the double layer of latex, no real blood appeared. Although it was tense towards the end, by which time the vague pink tickles had descended almost to the cuffs of the gloves, teetering on the brink of escape. And all this was made the more annoying given that the cuts I’d been silly enough to get were very minor indeed.

At work the next day I recounted the whole drama to Boss Man. He pounced with alacrity on this easy target, grinning about when we should start the knife skills course and benevolently offering to lend me a book on the subject. But no teasing could get to me now: the nerve-wracking class was over, I had hopefully imparted at least a dash of useful knowledge to the participants, and above all the blood had not escaped my gloves. Considered as I whole, I was content in the reflection that it had avoided becoming a comprehensive catastrophe.

Luxe to Lentils

2010-03-12T18:42:00.000-08:00

There is an unspoken prerogative amongst cooks which permits blatant nosiness when it comes to shopping baskets. I was in the local grocery store this morning, quaintly called the “Star Store,” and just paying at the cash register when Marty ambled up and wordlessly peered over the counter at my purchases. He must have been disappointed as these consisted of only two items, and not very exciting at that: a packet of lentils and bag of poppy seeds.

I explained as he scrutinized the lentils: “I’m teaching a cooking class at the food bank next week. I need to figure out some dishes using their limited stock and I thought about doing something with lentils.” He nodded and prodded the poppy seeds inquisitively. “I’ve got eggs that are about to go off, so its poppy seed pound cake. It’s all necessity cooking today if you know what I mean.” Marty nodded knowingly and trundled off into depths of the store.

When I first began to cook in high school, my approach was one of flamboyant disregard for all remotely practical or economical considerations. Whenever my poor mother made the tactical error of agreeing to let me cook for a dinner party, I would immediately settle down with my cookbooks, pouring over the most elaborate recipes I could find and making lengthy lists of the ingredients required.

“Darling,” Mum would ask, when confronted in one fell swoop by a demand for Spanish saffron, Thai vanilla beans, fresh porcinis, grass-fed filet mignons, Basque Manchego, red wine (and no 2 buck chuck, mind), grand mariner, and 70% Sharffen Burger chocolate. “Darling, is this all necessary?” Eyes moving down the list, her expression changed from concern to indignation: “1/2 pound of pata negra, bottle of balsamic, aged at least 5 years . . . do you realize what this is going to cost?”

I fixed mother with a hard glare. “The balsamic is for dipping. I’m making focaccia remember. You can’t just dip it in some crappy harsh vinegar.”

The conversation would proceed in the same vein, Mother indignant but only occasionally drawing the line. (Black truffles were out. No, not even the littlest, tiniest truffle.) Finally, Mum would part reluctantly with the cash, grumbling about budgets as I headed enthusiastically for the shops.

Naturally it came as a bit of a shock when, as a college student in my first shared apartment, I had to cater for myself on a vastly diminished budget. I remember going out blithely one day, early on in my new life, to the nearby Whole Foods store. It was glorious to wonder about, choosing my own fare, not having to persuade Mum of the merits of cave-aged Gruyere or pink Himalayan salt. The novelty lasted until I got to the register and began staring at the screen as my total mounted higher and higher. I parted with most of my month’s allowance that day, and staggered out of the store, heart palpitating, and mind dimly aware of one thought: Good food is not cheap.

After the initial shock wore off however, I began to embrace the challenge of cooking with less, and slowly, sometimes painfully, I have learned how to be a practical home cook: to use what’s in the fridge, modify recipes to my means, and generally make do. As I reflected after passing Marty in the supermarket this morning, a lot of my cooking is now dictated by these more pragmatic considerations. I still slip up on an irresistible slice of fragrant Stilton or a bottle of seductively silken olive oil, but these purchases are made furtively and savored with all the more relish and reverence.

Sablefish

2010-03-09T22:07:00.000-08:00

It was Saturday; bright and breezy with a new flush of cherry blossoms so pink they made me want to giggle. This spring air imbued my palate with a desire for lighter fare and an adventurous spirit. This season, I announced to no one in particular (including the dogs and my morning coffee), I am going to tackle my fear of fish. Perhaps I’d caught a whiff of sea air on the wind this morning—who knows—but I was feeling confident.

To clarify I am not actually afraid of fish as living creatures (unless they’re the type equipped with fangs and a thirst for human blood) but I do shy away from confrontation in the kitchen. My cautious attempts to date have yielded less than satisfactory results: generally dry, bland, or swamped in a too-heavy sauce. And I haven’t taken the time to learn my way around this aquatic world: the myriad species bewilder and the appropriate seasons confound.

So with this fresh resolution in mind I went to the supermarket. The fish case was a rather deflating sight, but among the sad specimens of previously frozen salmon and graying sole I beheld a pile of gleaming fillets, pale flesh and glistening, silver-black skin.

Back at home with my purchase, I rummaged through a heap of books to find a mention of black cod. I learnt a lot: black cod, also known as sablefish or Alaskan cod, bears no relation to its namesake. Instead it is a rich, oily fish native to the Pacific Northwest. Joy of joys, I was also informed that it is very forgiving in the hands of an amateur fish cook. Perfection.

Later that evening I prepared a light meal for my mum and I: sablefish glazed and broiled with balsamic, orange, and ginger (courtesy of the blog Beyond Salmon). This shared the plate with boiled purple potatoes simply dressed in olive oil, and a mixture of garlicky wilted nettles and spinach. Not having the inclination to open a bottle of wine, we contented ourselves with a large Jameson and ginger each a combination that was surprisingly well suited.

The sablefish flaked like a sort of marine croissant—just as luscious and deceptively ethereal on the tongue. It was a pleasing launch into the world fish cookery and good omen for future adventures.

2010-03-01T21:38:00.001-08:00

The following does not strictly pertain to a feast. But I simply couldn't resist the urge to recount this tale of adventure, drama, and resuscitation. . . . and to marvel at the medicinal powers of chocolate and whiskey.

Mountaintop CPR

The Imperial Express carried us upwards into the snow clouds and wind of the Rockies. At 12,998 feet above sea level we were ejected from the chairlift and deposited onto a white platform of snow teetering over the rest of the resort, misted in frost crystals and gusting coils of air. From here the mountain sank beneath us revealing an array of angles from which one might attack the slope. Smooth undulations of piste and swashes of powder, treed meadows and stomach churning chutes; the options beckoned below.

Yet my father, ever in search of a more interesting way down the mountain, eschewed these proffered declines and marched instead towards to the base of a steep rise into the clouds. Beside the path a rickety sign swung ominously in the breeze; “Extreme Terrain,” it read in bold letters, and continued on to definitely wash its hands of responsibility for all those crazy enough to enter.

With various degrees of enthusiasm, the rest of us hauled skis onto shoulders and joined the line of people trudging snail-like up into the whiteness. “Now remember,” Dad boomed into the wind, “you’re at 13,000 feet. Take it easy.” And then he turned towards the hill and began to climb.

Shivering slightly and muttering to myself, I began to stump slowly and rhythmically into the thin air. All too familiar—climbing at high altitudes, weighed down by skis, boots, and mounds of clothing—this was something I had learnt how to do.

As a child these seemingly pointless climbs into the whiteout wilderness had formed the deepest level of hell through which I passed each ski holiday. I hated climbing: My legs ached, my feet dragged, and my lungs pinched under the lack of oxygen. At first I’d protest, throwing a massive tantrum at the beginning of any hike. Then, defeated in my efforts and depleted of energy I’d follow on, bawling continuously and tripping on chucks of ice. Gradually I learnt how to handle these climbs; conserving my energy for the exertion and settling into a steady rhythm of stepping and breathing. And I also developed a taste the rewards of climbing: the feel of untouched powder beneath my skis and the giddy sense of being on top of the world.

So this year as we shuffled upwards I didn’t waste energy on arguments but instead attacked the path. It was tough work; the thin air adept at eluding my lungs, leaving my head light and my heart thumping. Dad, however, was finding the climb even tougher, swaying with the effort and stopping frequently to catch his breath. He seemed to be crumpling under the strain of it and motioned for the rest of us to pass him. I stumped up the remaining slope, relieved to reach the summit but worried about my dad.

Eventually he lurched into view, stumbled over and sank exhausted onto the ground. For a moment I was seriously concerned; Dad is no Spring chicken and neither is he the most athletic of Adamses. However, once I realized that he was not on the point of death the whole situation took on an extremely comical air with Dad sprawled pathetically on the snow, groaning vociferously and frowning wrathfully at rest of us. For some reason known only to himself, he then began slathering sun screen lavishly over his face so that great streaks of the stuff glistened like leftover cake frosting on his nose, eyebrows, and ears.

We looked down at him, stifling giggles. “It’s not funny,” Dad bellowed. “I’ m older than all of you!” But the combined comic effect of his glowering countenance, besmirched face, and collapsed position on the snow was too much for me. I practically crumpled into helpless guffaws.

Then, feeling apologetic and lacking other resources, I offered him some chocolate for energy. He ate it with relish, frowning around at us all the while. My cousin Tom helpfully handed him a flask of whiskey which he then gratefully swigged. So while the rest of us stood by snickering, Dad took advantage of his temporary status as invalid and shouted demands for ever more portions of chocolate and nips from the flask. Like some fallen overindulgent Roman, he partook prodigiously of this potent sustenance before mustering enough energy to rise, regain his composure, and conquer the downhill slope.

2010-02-25T09:17:00.000-08:00

We all need a vacation, even from the best of daily life: Fifty-two Feasts has been doing just that. I have been cooking and eating merrily, but I have not been writing. So now it’s time to recount a few stories—back to the trenches with knife, rolling pin, and keyboard.

February Foraging

It has been an unusually warm winter. Even before January had ended, there were buds on our plum tree and gracefully unfurling crocuses pushing up amongst the brown leaves and twigs in the garden. Yet despite this impending spring, I was amazed while running one afternoon, to come across the sharp green of young nettles beside the path. “Stinging nettles? In February?” I wondered incredulously. I never knew they were such early risers! Kneeling down to inspect these specimens, I brushed a finger ever so slightly across a leaf and was immediately and unambiguously confirmed in my suspicions.

Delighted with this find, I ran on home only to stop for a pair of study gloves, a bag, and scissors. Then I rushed back to the woods (probably an odd sight, clad in running cloths, dish washing gloves, and clutching a scissors like some mad, murderous biologist) and proceeded to attach various nettle patches with gusto. After twenty minutes I had a stuffed shopping bag of the best young plants available and I had by no means exhausted the forest’s profusion of stingers.

At home once more I dealt immediately with the first half of the bag: One large pot, one chopped onion softened in some oil, followed by a couple peeled and chopped potatoes. I washed the nettles perfunctorily in the salad spinner, and then added them, stems and all the pot, covered it all with stock, and simmered until tender. A quick whiz with the hand-held blender, a slosh of milk and squeeze of lemon juice and I had a truly invigorating spring soup.

The next day was my mother’s birthday and she had demanded a dinner of handmade ravioli. She didn’t care what was in it; she just had a hankering for fresh pasta. Ever the dutiful daughter, I decided to grasp the nettle and posh it up into a pesto (an idea I’d attempted last year with great success). I then used this to fill some of my ravioli dough.

Later Mum, Dad, and I ate the ravioli together. As usual with fresh pasta, the simpler the better: we ate them drizzled with olive oil and freshly ground pepper. The pasta outside was feather light and the pesto inside a potent green that zapped your whole being awake.

Nettle Pesto
4 cups packed fresh nettle leaves (smaller stems OK)
½ cup olive oil
½ cup freshly grated Parmesan
½ cup whole pecans or walnuts
6 garlic cloves, unpeeled
1 garlic clove, finely minced
½ a lemon

Blanch the nettles briefly in boiling water (30 seconds r so) and leave to drain. Heat the unpeeled garlic cloves in a skillet until aromatic. Remove, allow to cool, and then peel. Heat the nuts in the same skillet until lightly toasted. Let them cool and then roughly chop. Throw the nettles, minced and whole garlic, and nuts into a food processor and pulse until combined. Add the oil and process well. Stir in the Parmesan and season to taste with lemon juice, salt, and pepper.

For the love, hunger, and pleasure of it all

2010-02-04T21:37:00.001-08:00

He takes a bite and his eyes roll heavenwards. Bringing a hand to his mouth he covers it as if to grasp more fully the flavors that are tumbling around his palate. Sounds evocative of a different sort of pleasure escape his muffled lips and his body seems to melt under the effects of this luscious taste. Watching this reaction with great satisfaction I find that I am beaming uncontrollably.

For me there are only a few greater pleasures than seeing others enjoy my culinary creations. And after much observation and research I know I am not alone in this conviction. We cooks just love seeing people go weak at the knees over something we’ve concocted. Surely it is the same with other creative endeavors: Don’t musicians derive a similar enjoyment from lulling their audience into another, more beautiful world of sound? And don’t dancers wish to captivate your eyes and heart in the arc of their arms? In fact, I would hazard a guess that most people who pursue their passion—whatever that may be—desire to infect others with their own fervent enthusiasm.

It just so happens that my enthusiasm takes the form of pumpkin ravioli, of thyme flecked parsnip puree and towering soufflés, of rich liver pates, salted caramel brownies, cider cooked mussels, bacon wrapped prunes and the list goes on and on. Of course the food itself is only the surface level of pleasure—that vital, tactile work of knives, fire, smell and taste just the peel off the orange. Beneath this outer layer, I love food and cooking because to me there are few activities more life affirming, immediate, and existentially nourishing. In the simplest sense it is a communion.

Food—as delectable and fascinating as it may be—is also the doorway to something less tangible yet no less essential. As the famed food writer M. F. K. Fisher said: “When I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and it is all one.”

Madame Fisher, I’m right there with you!

Oxtails and Vegetarians

2010-02-01T20:37:00.000-08:00

“What are we having for dinner?” Caitlin cast an eager glance into the kitchen as she took off her coat.

I started to reply, happily stirring the contents of a saucepan: “We’re having oxtail,” I began, “it’s been simmering for hours in beef stock, chicken stock, and Guinness. It’s just about . . .” I faltered as a horrifying shadow of a recollection flitted across my mind. “You’re not vegetarian, are you? But it was too late. I already knew the answer. How could I have forgotten! Caitlin nodded apologetically; “I don’t eat red meat.”

“Oh no,” I murmured weakly. “God I am so absolutely bloody stupid.” Just as I was getting settled in to an expose of strident self reproof, another appalling thought surfaced: “Justin eats meat, right?” I begged. Caitlin’s apologetic expression deepened. “Oh no,” my voice croaked while my mind launched into a litany of self-aimed obscenities.

I have long maintained a tense relationship with the concept of vegetarianism, admiring it in theory one the one hand, while rebelling against certain aspects of its concrete implications. Do we have the right to eat animals? I often ask myself as I truss pork loin or carve a rib roast. Is it sustainable for the planet to eat meat? Is it healthy?

The answers to most of these questions are as incomplete as they are uncomfortable. Philosophers can barely agree on the essential nature of rights, let alone how they pertain to animals and our habit of eating them. Nutritionists and doctors are equally divided on the subject of health, one moment extolling the virtues of an iron-rich fillet mignon before swerving erratically to decry all flesh as diabetes on a plate. Environmentalists are a less divided crowd, and it is now generally agreed that eating meat is an inefficient, resource heavy form of nourishment.

So plagued have I been by these questions that I wrote my term paper for an ethics course on the subject. It was supposed to be a persuasive paper, so I chose to preach what I practice and wrote in favor of carnivorous rights. Unfortunately, I am not fully convinced by my own arguments and the question still niggles at the edges of my mind. I have cut down on meat, and buy mainly local, free-range, grass-fed products. But is this enough?

A thorough examination of my conscience reveals a rather unholy, pragmatic motive for my embrace of meat: it seems to be the case that a truly delicious vegetarian feast usually takes more elaborate preparation and more talent on the part of the cook.

As we sat down to dinner I shoved the beets, potatoes, and parsnip puree towards Caitlin and Justin, and with considerable embarrassment, ladled out the fragrant oxtail for the others at the table. “I’m going to make a proper, magnificent vegetarian feast one of these days,” I said firmly.

I was still absorbed in conflicting thoughts as I gently nudged the meat on my plate with a fork. Maybe I could become a vegetarian, I thought brightly. And then the meat slide from the bone in soft, feathery shards. The steam rose upwards carrying an aroma as softly layered as the petals of a flower: there was the sweet, pastured beef, the hefty Guinness and luscious wine, the high, bright red currant. There were delicate hints of thyme and contrastingly rough bursts of pepper—all this bound together by the heat and hours of cooking, so that you didn’t want to dissect the flavors but merely to enjoy the round, mellifluous fullness on your tongue. My thoughts about vegetarianism became more fuzzy and conflicted, before giving up the battle and slinking into a corner to sulk. I would deal with them later. For the moment, I was in no state for rational analysis.

Later, the thoughts returned and prompted me to dig out that old ethics essay. I have included it below as it is a good summation of my thoughts thus far on the subject of meat. Of course philosophy can only take us so far, hence those thoughts, slinking out now and then from the herbaceous corner of my conscience which they inhabit.

Meat and Man: A Carnivore’s Defense

Towards the end of May, as the days grow longer and warmer, America takes part in a long-loved tradition. All across the country barbeques are dusted off and dragged out of storage, grills are loaded with charcoal, guests arrive, beers are cracked, and the carnivorous among us indulge in a perfect orgy of the flesh. We tear sweet barbecued chicken from the bone, bite into juicy burgers, and comprehensively devour portions of animals in a bewildering variety of manifestations. The institution of the summer barbeque is perhaps most unabashed celebration of the pleasures of meat cooking and eating. And often, I have found, also a venue for heated discussions on the morality of eating meat. Here I argue a position that lies in between the blind acceptance of tradition embodied in Barbecue Man, and the misplaced moralizing of the ethical vegetarian, and I argue that it is morally justifiable for humans to eat meat as long as we uphold serious considerations for animal welfare.

First of all, it is important to note that this is not a comprehensive discussion of animal rights; such an effort would necessarily include questions not only of the morality of eating animals, but also their use in medical research and cosmetics testing. These latter debates have many variables and considerations distinct from the debate between carnivores and ethical vegetarians, so I leave them out of the argument.

From the range of views held on this subject two—primarily colloquial—extremes emerge as good poles to stake out the breadth of the debate. Only after dealing with these crude extremes can I focus in on the more philosophically sophisticated arguments.

On the one hand there is the ethical vegetarian who argues that we should not eat meat because animals are owed the same basic rights to life that humans owe each other. Who are we, so the argument goes, to rate our species above another? Does this not display a certain “speciesism?” And is that not frighteningly close to racism or sexism? Surely this is a clear matter of prejudicially favoring of one group’s preferences over that of another. And so the ethical vegetarian would have us release all the cows, chickens, and pigs back into the wild, to their apparently idyllic natural state.

This argument has fundamental flaws in that it fails to analyze a key difference between human beings and animals, but more on this later. Furthermore, it denies the relationship humans have with the rest of nature, effectively scooping our species out of the ecosystems in which we live and assuming that some imaginary purity is possible in which we do not act upon these systems. The reality is that we have a relationship with these ecosystems; it is unavoidable. Merely in virtue of walking, talking, and working on this thin layer of biosphere, we are implicated in “nature” and cannot simply remove ourselves. Of course it is not inevitable that we should eat meat; clearly we have a choice. Yet following the ethical vegetarian to her logical conclusion, we might well end up as ethical “fruitarians,” those who chose to only eat fruit that has fallen from a tree. What about fish? Are they owed the same rights as humans? And perhaps vegetables suffer. Perhaps science has not yet developed instruments keen enough to detect it, but is it not conceivable that anything that is alive can suffer in some way? After all, it is the nature of life to will its own survival. It would be humanly impossible to live on this earth and not destroy other forms of life in the process. The ethical vegetarian, then, attempts to create a sort of moral purity that is logically impossible and denies our relationship with the rest of nature, a relationship in which we act on our ecosystems and in turn they act on us.

On the other hand we have Barbecue Man—the unrepentant meat eater who argues for a carnivorous diet on a basis that is diametrically opposed to our vegetarian. He will point to his incisors and inform us that meat eating is natural: Life consumes life, and the fittest, most ingenious predator is the one who survives. Of all the arguments in favor of meat eating, this is the weakest, but seemingly the most commonly proffered. However, a cursory glance at history will remind us that arguing for the continuance of any practice on the basis of tradition is dangerous and unfounded. Before suffrage many men claimed that a woman’s “natural” place was the home, and her “natural” role confined to raising children and catering to hubby. Tradition is at best an empty argument for difficult moral questions, and at worse a horrendous justification for many forms of repression, inequality, and injustice. In effect this carnivore’s appeal to nature and the so-called natural order has the opposite effect to the vegetarian’s argument, not removing us from our necessary relationship with nature, but denying our unique humanity, denying our unique ability to reflect on our actions and uphold any moral expectations for ourselves.

Of course not all vegetarians and carnivores make such crude arguments for their habits, but these represent the extremes, and frame the wider debate. Furthermore, as I have shown, they both miss the mark on the characteristics of our relationship to our environments and ecosystems: We cannot deny the inherently messy way in which we use life to satisfy our needs, but neither can we deny our humanness by appealing to nature itself as justification for eating animals.

Returning to our ethical vegetarian, one of the primary, and at first glance compelling, arguments she makes is a defense of animal rights. In The Case for Animal Rights, Tom Regan claims that, “when it comes to the case for animal rights, then, what we need to know is whether the animals that, in our culture, are routinely eaten, hunted and used in our laboratories, are like us in being subjects of a life. And we do know this” (Regan, 847). The criteria being subjects of a life is enough for Regan to be satisfied that animals deserve rights. However, he does not analyze what a right truly is, a vital step in establishing whether the term can be applied to animals.

A right is in fact a two place predicate: we have the one who holds the right and the one who owes the right. For example, I have a right to my own hair and you have a duty to me not to come along with a pair of scissors and chop off my hair. Because of this two part nature, a right depends on a relationship, implicit or explicit, between two parties. A right may be explicit, for example, when we consciously agree with another person or representative group to something, such as an employment contract. A is employed by B, so A has a right to her wages and B has a right to A‘s labor. Other rights are implicit, such as in the case of my hair. There has been no official agreement that pony tail chopping is immoral, yet this right and corresponding duty is assumed. Now if my very young niece came along and snipped my pony tail off, I would be upset. I would scold her and explain very seriously that such behavior is not acceptable. I would appeal to her reasoning and ask whether she would like it if I came along and snipped her hair off. However, I would not blame her in a truly moral sense because she is very young and still becoming aware of—being educated about—the social contract between human beings. In fact, rights and social contract theory are inexorably linked.

Imagine that, while picnicking, a bird swoops down and flies off with Smith’s sandwich. If Smith were to yell after the bird, appealing to the violation of his rights, any rational observer would assume that Smith is a little crazy. The bird was simply doing what birds do. The incident may be annoying but it is no violation of rights. More pertinently for this argument, imagine that Smith is walking in the African bush and is attacked and eaten by a hungry lion. How to we characterize this incident? Again, no rational person would claim that Smith’s rights had been violated. We would simply lament the death as an unfortunate, if slightly stupid, accident. Because we cannot generally communicate with animals, much less form any social contract with them, they cannot be said to possess rights.

In response to this argument, Regan proffers the cases of mentally disabled people and children. These individuals may not have the full capacity of reason, yet we respect their rights. Reason, Regan claims, cannot be the criteria for granting rights (843). However, I would argue that these people do hold fewer rights. Yes, we do not snip off their hair or intentionally harm them, but mentally disabled people, depending on the severity of the disability, may be required to live in special institutions, not allowed to drive cars, and limited is various concrete ways. And the case is similar with children. We do not allow them to vote, drive, drink, travel unattended, watch pornography, work more than a certain number of hours per week, sign legal documents and so forth. Correspondingly, they are treated with more leniencies when they break the law, the assumption being that they cannot be seen as fully responsible agents. “Rights come with responsibilities,” parents remind their sixteen year-olds when handing over the car keys. Of course we do grant children and the mentally disabled many core rights, the most important being the right to life, precisely the one I am arguing that we need not grant animals that we wish to eat.

A response to this commonly cited objection is the claim that human potentiality for moral comprehension is a sufficient criterion for inclusion in the realm of rights. In a sense we include all humans in our common moral community because they have some potential of being able to, as Cohen says in re/sponse to Regan, “perform the normal moral functions.” Children generally mature and grasp moral principles while mentally disabled people have some potential (no matter how remote) of overcoming their cognitive or psychological difficulties to comprehend and follow a greater or lesser portion of moral requirements (Wood). Thus Regan’s examples are irrelevant, leading to a mistaken blurring of an essential difference between humans and other animals, and the misapplication of the term “rights.”

Yet having established that animals cannot possess rights does not free us from the responsibility of seriously considering our actions towards them: animals may not, lacking (our brand of) reason, be able to enter into a social contract with humans, but like us they do experience pleasure and pain. This capacity for pain is the pivot on which hinges the hedonistic utilitarian argument for animal “rights.” “Pain is pain wherever it is found” (843) Regan writes, and I think this resounds with most people’s intuition. Whether the suffering is human or animal, it causes us some level of discomfort, reflecting our instinctive desire to avoid pain as an evil in itself.

However, it is important to remember that animals in their natural environment are not exempt from pain. Wolves will hunt rabbits; falcons will swoop down on field mice and so on. It is completely naïve to imagine that if one their predators, Homo sapiens, suddenly decided to universally adopt vegetarianism, these animals would live in a wilderness paradise. Predators prey on the weak, the young, the diseased, and the old. Furthermore, predators often attack prey in a vicious and messy way that results in a painful and protracted death. And since it would be ridiculous to attempt to force our system of morality onto animal populations, this state of nature is an unavoidable reality. Given this reality, I believe that the reasonable course to take would be for humans to breed and eat animals only if we can do so in a way that basically replicates their lives in nature and humanely improves upon their deaths.

This is precisely the argument given by Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall in his encyclopedic book on meat. Although Whittingstall is a chef and farmer rather than a philosopher, he seriously considers the implications of eating meat, concluding that it is morally acceptable under certain conditions, very similar to those I stated above. Furthermore, in discussing our unique human predation of animals, in slaughter houses, he claims that “there is something about it that perhaps should inspire a kind of admiration: the notion of an intelligent social creature using its brain and its technology in an attempt to maximize the efficiency and minimize the cruelty of its predation” (Fearnley-Whittingstall, 19). However, he also notes that we have far to go in our treatment of our “prey.” Beyond constantly working to minimize their suffering at death—by altering our system so that animals need not be shipped long distances, crammed, starved, and stressed before slaughter—we must work to make their lives as natural as possible.

Such a requirement would mean the abolishment of most modern forms of agricultural production, eliminating all sufficiently “unnatural” methods of raising and keeping animals. Factory farming, with its custom of keeping animals in uncomfortably small spaces would have to go. So too would the massive cow feeding lot, with its habit of keeping the animals in manure ridden enclosures and feeding them on a diet unsuited for their physiologies. The only animal agriculture that could remain, if we followed this moral standard—replication of the animal‘s natural habitat—would be free-range raised chickens, grass fed beef and lamb, and in general animals fed their natural diets and kept in spacious, open environments.

All this reform would cause a drastic reduction in the quantity of meat available and corresponding rise in meat prices (as it is far more space, time, and cost effective to produce factory farmed chickens, for example, than free ranges ones). Doing the morally responsible thing, in this case, would ultimately result in our diets becoming far less meat heavy.

The act of eating meat can be either immoral or moral, depending on the provenance and life history of the animal from which the meat comes. We neither exist in a moral vacuum (we are implicated in our ecosystems), nor are we homogenous with the rest of nature (we have the unique capacity to reason and make moral choices). Aristotle famously defined his own species as zoon logisticon, or rational animals. To deny either aspect of this dichotomous appellation would be to reject a significant portion of our human identity.

Beets

2010-01-29T10:00:00.001-08:00

“I don’t know,” I whined pathetically. “I’m feeling terribly uninspired. Got any ideas?” Boss Man had just inquired into my culinary well being. “Cooked anything lately?” he’d asked conversationally.

I had set a date, invited guests, and all that remained for feast 18 was to decide on the meal itself. An insignificant detail one might think, given my cavalier attitude. But the day was approaching and I hadn’t given due thought to the menu. “Something wintry, warm . . .” I mumbled broadly. Fortunately, Boss Man came to the rescue. All it took was a speculative moment frowning at his coffee roaster and he had a plan: oxtail slowly braised in a rich liquid of stock, red wine, and Guinness. Couple this with a root vegetable puree, and you had an entree. I was beginning to work up some enthusiasm for this feast.

At regular intervals throughout the days that followed, Boss Man came up with additions to the menu: a guild-the-lily mustard cream garnish, suggestions for a variety of different finishes to the dish, more vegetable suggestions. “What have you got as a starter?” He queried one morning. “I, err, hadn’t got that far yet,” I admitted sheepishly. A momentary reproving grin crossed his face, and was followed, predictably, by an answer: Beets.

I decided on a recipe for roasted beets marinated in orange, olive oil, and red wine vinegar, tossed in toasted fennel seeds and topped with goat cheese—a simple, fresh contrast to the rich oxtail to follow. Also, they could be prepared ahead and refrigerated; a host’s dream. So the evening before, I set about the task: roasting the ruby globes whole, wading in their bath of orange juice and covered with foil to capture every ounce of moisture. Once they’d cooled a little from the oven, I took each one and scraped the peel off, their bright magenta dye splashing across my palms and fingers, seeping into the skin. Next the beets were sliced into generous wedges and the marinade poured on top.

I was about to pitch them into the fridge for the night, but couldn’t resist one quick taste. Standing by the kitchen sink, I picked one wedge from the bowl with my still crimson fingers.

Eating beets is like imbibing everything that is sweet and rich in the soil. They taste to me like earth encapsulated in a potent, misshapen orb. The layers of beet slipped apart on my tongue, the texture perfect—firm at first, giving way to a lush juicy sweetness. As usual with taste, an image came welling up into my consciousness: this time I was lying on my stomach, burying my face in the green grass, inhaling my favorite smell on earth: the inebriating aroma of loosened, Spring clay, just after a late frost has released its grip on the land, just after the sun has won it annual victory.

Odiferous Hands

2010-01-26T21:43:00.000-08:00

Feast 18 is going to require masses of stock. The oxtail is simmered in it, the potatoes fondantes are braised in it, and any self-respecting cook knows the importance of good stock. It is akin to rich earth for the gardener or a well primed canvas for the painter; it is vital as foundation to a successful dish.

So after returning from work today, and before slipping out for an afternoon run, I grabbed the remains of a roast chicken and hurriedly prepared it for the pot, tearing off the useful flesh for sandwiches and breaking the carcass into chunks. Peering into the fridge I realized I had nothing in the way of stock veggies. Swearing unceremoniously, I grabbed my keys and headed to the grocery store. As I stood at the cash register, veggies in hand, I began smelling a distinctly chicken-like aroma wafting upwards to my nostrils. It was then I realized, sheepishly, that my hands smelt potently of chicken. I handed over the money apologetically, hoping that the poor girl at the checkout wasn’t suffocating from this powerful perfume. I was sure I’d washed my hands. Apparently, however, I’d been a bit too wholehearted in my ministrations towards the roasted bird.

Home again; I washed my hands furiously before chopping the vegetables and setting the pot on to simmer. The scraggly chicken bones were in, along with a couple carrots and celery stalks, an onion, leek, peppercorns, and bay leaf. Thyme, I thought, dashing out to the garden to see if anything was alive. I wasn’t expecting much, as we’d had a few hard frosts in early winter. Yet scrounging under a tangle of dead grasses and twigs, I glimpsed a couple delicate green sprigs still holding out against the cold under their makeshift blanket of withered foliage. I yanked them out and returned to the kitchen. With this addition to the pot I was satisfied, and left the flame to work its magic with the stock mixture.

Pausing before heading of for a run, I sniffed my hands, checking to make sure they no longer reeked of roast chicken. Thankfully they didn’t. Instead my palms smelt sweetly of thyme. The scent washed across my brain—flooding it with sun-baked fields and calloused bare feet. I sighed, speculating on the wonderful variety of olfactory surprises in the life of a cook. One thing is for sure: you never smell of soap for long.

The Great Patagonian Defeat

2010-01-16T22:05:00.000-08:00

It looked so very simple and graceful in the picture, this Patagonian potato galette: a fine disc of thinly sliced Russets overlapping in concentric circles, golden and crisped to perfection. As I drove back from the farmers market, the provisions for my 17th feast snugly wedged into the back seat, I considered the menu. This was going to be one elegant feast: a boned leg of lamb stuffed with lemon confit and herbs, left to wallow for 7 ½ hours in barely simmering Malbec. Along with this I decided on delicately charred carrots flecked with knobs of melting goat cheese and the ever-so-chic potato galette. As a grand finale I proposed to prepare a recipe for “leche quemada,” a Spanish cousin of crème brûlée. My guests would be suitably awed, I reflected dreamily, by the panache with which I would conclude the meal; caramelizing the sugar-crusted dish at table, using the blazing hot base of a cast iron skillet.

To complete my inordinate glee at the prospect of this performance, I had successfully contrived to drag myself out of a hung-over haze at 8:30 am and shuffle to the farmers market in time to snag the necessary ingredients. This feast was to be the epitome of paradisiacal perfection: locally sourced, posh, flashy, and delicious. That was the dream.

It is the pugnacious tendency of reality to leer malevolently at the dream. But for the lamb itself, the meal was a spectacular series of failures. The carrots, forgotten until the last minute because of my preoccupation with Patagonian potatoes chaos, failed to char satisfactorily outside or soften inside. Furthermore, there wasn’t enough seared goat cheese to make a statement and I clean forgot to toss on the garnishes of dried arugula and garlic chips. But the worst defeat of all was the potato galette. Following the instructions blithely set down by the author of a certain cursed cookbook, I clarified the butter, sliced the potatoes to 1/16th of an inch, and then arranged them in overlapping circles in a sizzling skillet. Everything was coming along right as a trivet until I tried to flip the disc. At this point pandemonium took hold as slices of crackling potato launched themselves in all directions, most missing the aimed for frying pan by yards. The few that did make a successful journey lay in chaos in the butter, all semblance of a galette vanished.

My guest were already sitting drinking wine so I could not give in to the violent urge to wail, stamp my feet, and generally descend into a wholehearted meltdown. Instead, I gritted the old teeth and carried on, although throughout the meal I had to fight the self-pitying tantrum simmering in the pit of my stomach. Luckily the lamb itself was quite good. Had it been otherwise, I would most definitely have caved under the weight of disaster.

Still, one hope lingered in the form of dessert. Surely I could redeem the meal with a stunning tabletop caramelizing act! So I carefully sprinkled the set custard-like concoction with a layer of sugar, placed it on the table, and heated a cast iron skillet on high, as directed by the wretched recipe, until it was smoking vigorously. Then, seized with determination I hauled it off the stove, strode over to the table, and placed the base carefully on top of the circular pie dish containing the dessert. Alas victory was not to be. Despite careful preparation, I had misjudged the size of the dish relative to the size of the skillet’s base. Instead of a satisfying sizzle indicative of the caramelizing process, I heard nothing. Looking closely I realized that the skillet wasn’t even able to touch the sugar, let alone brown it to perfection. Broken spirited I returned to the kitchen and spent a few tedious minutes coaxing a semblance hardened sugar glaze under the broiler.

The moral of the story, I decided tucking my slightly mollified soul into bed, was that the quality of the feast tends to diminish as my desire to impress rises. This time—it is regrettable but must be confessed—I really did quite want to impress. Just a little bit.

Correction (a)

2010-01-11T19:37:00.000-08:00

Fifty-two feasts wishes to note a regrettable omission from the recent post "Butternut Squash and Sage Risotto." Credit for the inspiration of this dish properly goes to Alex Laugharne, a.k.a the dashingly handsome, witty, and spectacularly talented culinarian, referred to by one reliable source as "Jamie Oliver for the next generation." It is our sincerest hope that Alex please accept our humble apologies.

Butternut Squash and Sage Risotto

2010-01-10T20:39:00.000-08:00

Stirring risotto is lovely: the perfect excuse for 20 minutes or so with a relaxing ramble of thoughts.

Note: wine and olives for chef only, not for dish.

My Nigella Moment

2009-12-31T18:34:00.000-08:00

I craved seafood. After the excesses of Christmas, the onslaught of fondue and turkey, roast potatoes, truffles and the horribly inevitable wodge of Christmas pudding, I was in dire need of lighter fare. And so for feast sixteen I decided on mussels to start, followed by salmon baked with mushrooms under a parmesan crust, accompanied by a simple salad and mashed potatoes. Dessert would be unnecessary, I concluded, as there still lurked in the freezer a box of Kurt Walser’s famed chocolate truffles.

It was an absurdly effortless meal to cook and might easily have been prepared in under an hour. Honestly. I realized this as I stood in the kitchen, a bottle of cider in hand—hard cider, bien sûr—and contemplated my pile of ingredients. Mussels open in a matter of minutes, the salmon bakes in a few more, and even a two year old could crank out a pot of excellently mashed tatties with little exertion. There was a lone onion to chop, some parmesan to grate, a bottle of wine to open and a couple cloves of garlic to peel.

With this puny workload, I lit the fire, hoisted Al Green onto the sound system, and dove headlong into a Nigella moment. For those who do not know, Nigella Lawson in an English celebrity chef. Each of these camera-loving cooks has his or her own signature style: Gordon Ramsey has his foul mouth, Jamie Oliver his blue-eyed enthusiasm, and Nigella her languorous breasts. She wafts about the kitchen, never flustered of rushed, idly slicing and stirring, occasionally tasting her creations with slow, conspicuous enjoyment. A friend of mine aptly described her show as culinary porn, complete with soft lighting and creative camera angles.

I’m not saying that on the occasion of cooking feast sixteen my bosom suddenly expanded, merely that I gave in to that most indulgent, serene approach to the kitchen. Nigella like, I meandered about, laying the table, peeling apples, and tasting my mushroom-wine sauce. It was a delicious experience. As much as I enjoy the hurly burly heat of the oven, crashing pans and the rush of attempting perfect timing, it is nice to relax sometimes.

Not long after, the five of us sat down to the first (and best) course: a pot of mussels steamed in cider. I cannot take full credit for this flavor combination, glorious as it was. In the midst of my Nigella moment I stood at the sink, vaguely casting about for a different way to prepare these shellfish. I had the old standby: wine, garlic and herbs. Or my mum’s favorite—adding saffron and crème fraiche to the mix. But I was bored of those. And they seemed to speak of summer rather than a chilly winter’s feast. Then I remembered a conversation with Boss Man. I was proudly relating to him the details of a feast that had centered around mussels. As usual, he had something annoyingly more appetizing to suggest. “At this time of year,” he remarked, “I like cooking mussels with cider and mustard.” I sighed, defeated, and made a mental note.

I don’t remember the intricacies of Boss Man’s recipe, but the apples and mustard stuck, and predictably, it was a winner. The sauce, mopped up with some warm, voluptuous bread, is particularly succulent.

serves 4-6 as a first course

2 lbs of mussels,
a little olive oil
1 shallot, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 apples, finely chopped
1 small bottle of hard apple cider
a few generous spoonfuls of dijon mustard
a loaf of good mopping bread

Heat the oil in a pan over a medium-hot stove. Add the shallots and fry for a minute or two. Add the garlic and stir. Add the apples and stir again for a minute or two. Add the cider and plonk in the mussels. Cover and steam until all mussels have opened. Strain the liquid into another pan, whisk in the mustard, then pour this liquid back over the mussels. Serve immediately in bowls with lots of bread.

The Christmas Party

2009-12-25T13:04:00.001-08:00

Feast 15 constituted a wild departure from all previous events. For one, I cooked for 90 mouths. For another, this was a professional engagement—a paid position as cook for a Christmas party. As such I attacked it with more seriousness and ferocity than other feasts. I was not just playing now; I was planning, scheming, and strategizing. I wrote ingredient lists for the hostess, penned a timetable for the order of food prep, and swept my schedule clean for the job at hand.

When cooking for a sizeable crowd, the task takes on the nature of a ballet production. The first step is choreography: the planning of a balanced, harmonious, and exciting menu. Then you proceed to auditions: shopping for ingredients, gathering together the makings of a great event. Next there are rehearsals, which for me consist of mentally reviewing the order of food preparation. What can be made ahead? How far ahead? What can be peeled, grated, chopped or minced?

I was thinking of this as I stood in my kitchen on the morning of the party. Around me lay the poised elements of a feast. The pates and terrines were chilling in the fridge. The pork was quietly brining in a pan; its stuffing ready to roll. My fridge was heavy with the makings of four quiches: jars of eggy-cream mixture alongside bowls of wine-cooked mushrooms, buttery leeks, grated gruyere, and blanched arugula. Four blind baked quiche shells lay on the counter awaiting their respective contents as I leaned over a batch of white sauce for the final quiche (arugula and toasted pine nut). Not to beat this metaphor to death, but it was kind of like the actors poised silently behind stage curtains before a show.

For once I seemed to have planned everything well and there were no last minute disasters. The nearest I came to panic was after an overly animated flourish of salt into my white sauce. I whined, tasted, and pouted at the offending mixture to no effect. And so grumblingly I made another one. A whole five minutes down the drain.

Despite the absence of catastrophe, the customary adrenaline rush took hold of me as the event approached. When this happens I become a fractious force in the kitchen. Mother was attempting to bake mince pies. Unfortunately for her I had monopolized the ovens for my four quiches and a massive loin of pork. “Couldn’t I just pop these in too?” she plaintively asked. Her hand was on the oven door. I let out an incomprehensible protest and dove in front of it to protect my rising creations.

What followed was not an idyllic picture of a familial domestic scene. I barricaded the oven, animatedly suggesting that she use mine over in the studio. She responded huffily, prickling at this state of affairs—banned from her own kitchen. She stomped through the house and out to the garden, grumbling about the shoddy nature of my oven and the raindrops that were marring her pies as they journeyed to my little cottage next door. “What is going on?” my dad boomed. “It’s like a bloody mad house in here.” Mother and I ignored him, dashing between the two kitchens with baking trays and tea towels, like two petulant beetles scuttling across the garden. And yet, notwithstanding this minor spat, all the dishes where completed and withdrawn from the oven with no further crisis and emotion.

Later, in the wee hour of the morning, I woke with a cantankerous, grumbling stomach. I lay in bed cradling a hot water bottle and wondering miserably if I had poisoned all ninety guests with my food. Perhaps it was the pate or the pork? And then I remembered the mulled wine, and how enthusiastically I had enjoyed glass after glass of the steaming brew. Relaxing after the heat of cooking, I had let the festivities get the better of my normally impeccable sense of moderation. Ah, well. It was a relief, I decided, snuggling back down into bed. I could be consoled by the fact that I would be the only sufferer, and had not inadvertently wreaked havoc with the innards of half our small town’s population. And so, tired and content, I declared victory and drifted back to sleep.

Mince Pies, Cradles, and Christmas Wayfarers

2009-12-04T13:47:00.000-08:00

It is early December, and as I write this morning a hard frost is turning liquid on the leaves. I am waiting to taste the first mince pie of the year. It is an old English tradition, the preparation and consumption of these potent fruit pies, and my mother made them every year throughout my childhood. They consist of a medley of fruit such as dark and golden raisins, currants, dates and apples, along with almonds, suet (I use butter), and a lavish slosh of brandy. This mixture is then allowed to settle and mature for a while—ideally a whole year—before becoming the filling for these little pies.

According to the website of the Mince Pie Club (yes, there’s actually an entire organization dedicated to this festive edible), the tradition of mincemeat pies dates back to the medieval period. At that time these delicacies, true to name, contained large quantities of meat in addition to fruit. They were larger and shaped into an oblong to represent Jesus’ cradle, earning them the name of “crib pies.” When the Medieval crusaders returned from their brutal forays in foreign lands, they brought back spices which were subsequently added to the mincemeat. Gradually the fruit and spice element increased and the meat diminished as the pies became sweeter and smaller. Now referred to as “wayfarer pies,” they were destined primarily as sustenance for wandering guests during the Christmas season.

Out of the oven my pies are the color of golden sand, finely crusted with sugar, and bubbling exuberantly at the edges. I pry one delicately from the tray, lift the lid, and spoon on a knob of brandy butter. I eat mine with a glass of sherry, alone in my little studio with the unfamiliar winter sunshine dancing across the concrete floor and warming my cloud-paled skin. The rich jumble dissolves on my tongue into a toothsome interfusion of fruit and almonds, feather-soft pastry and heady brandied butter. As my fingers pick the last plump raisins off the plate, I think of this as an inaugural feast—December has begun, and with it the Christmas season and its epic amount of feasting.

This year, I decide, December is going to be an awesome odyssey cooking and eating. I am not particularly religious, but rather follow the philosophy that embraces almost any excuse to turn the daily trudge into celebration. Raising the tiny glass, I allow the last trickle of the nutty, amontillado sherry to warm my throat. Here’s to the baby Jesus, God love him!

If you too love the baby Jesus, make some mince pies! Here’s my way of constructing the mincemeat, but it is definitely an occasion for wild improvisation.

½ pound beef suet or butter, finely diced
2 ½ pounds mixed dried fruits such as raisins, golden raisins, currants, and dates (for a Northwest twist I like adding some dried huckleberries or blueberries)
¼ pound almonds or hazelnuts
¾ pound chopped apple
Zest and juice from 2 lemons
1 teaspoon freshly ground mixed spices such as cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice
2 glasses of brandy

Combine all ingredients, pack into jars, and leave to mature. Ideally you use last year’s mince for this year’s pies, making a new batch now to keep until next season, and so forth. I find this adds a comforting sense of continuity and rhythm to this ritual.

To prepare a batch of pies, I use a basic butter-flour-water pastry. Roll this out thinly and cut into rounds big enough to line a tray of muffin molds. Spoon in enough mince to fill each hollow and press a pastry lid on top. Brush with milk and sprinkle with granulated sugar. Bake for about 20 minutes at 375F or until golden and bubbling.

To make the brandy butter, whip up 3 ounces butter until light and fluffy. Slowly add 3 ounces powdered sugar, and beat well. Very gradually, dribble several tablespoons of brandy, tasting as you go. There needs to be enough brandy to cut the fatty taste of the butter, but no more otherwise it will go runny and possibly curdle.

Eat the mince pies hot, with a spoonful of brandy butter slathered under the pastry lid. According to mince pie superstition, you should eat these morsels in silence, and with the first pie of the season, you should make a wish.

Thanksgiving

2009-11-30T19:40:00.000-08:00

May the beauty of your life become more visible to you that you may glimpse your wild divinity.

May the wonders of the earth call you forth from all your small secret prisons and set your feet free in the pastures of possibility . . .

Mum read a blessing by the Irish philosopher, poet, and priest John O’ Donohue. The words filled the room, heavy with the wisdom and humanity of their author, abundant and generous as our table. This was full, creaking under the weight of a day’s worth of cooking. There was a whole ham, warm from the oven and sweet with a glaze of mustard, brown sugar, and whiskey. To escort the ham we had black figs poached in a spicy syrup, creamy parsley sauce, roast and mashed potatoes, peas perfumed with mint, and two whole pumpkins, hollowed and baked with gruyere, cream, and gratings of nutmeg. And these were merely my own contributions to the meal. Danielle arrived around midday and traipsed into the kitchen laden with shopping bags. She roasted a whole turkey, tossed together an aromatic mushroom-sage stuffing, and whizzed up a fresh, garlicky artichoke dip.

All this was done with the non-committal assistance of Danielle’s boyfriend Jacob and Cousin Brad. Brad would peer over our shoulders enthusiastically, and in manner of cooking show assistant he would repeat ingredient measurements and ask a volley of questions. Then quite suddenly he’d take a swig of wine, mumble that his estrogen level was getting dangerously high, and disappear to the gentlemen’s club that was rapidly forming in the sitting room (presumably to replenish his testosterone with televised football and more booze). Jacob’s approach was different. He’d wander into the kitchen having fetched something for Danielle, say something complimentary or encouraging, and then sidle out again. To be fair, however, Brad beautifully sliced the apples for my pie, and Jacob concocted a luscious pumpkin filling for a second pie.

By four o’clock the first guests arrived; Roosje and her husband Dan, an ex chef who came rolling with a gorgeous pate. It looked humble enough from the outside. Nevertheless, having heard talk of this pate for weeks, I knew it was going to be something special. “Dan has ordered a truffle from Italy,” Roosje had revealed to me one day, bubbling with excitement. I was anticipating a masterpiece.

At the party, Dan nodded in confirmation. “Yes, it’s made of chicken liver, goose liver, and truffle.” My knees wobbled a bit. The Champagne was uncorked by my father, with the usual fanfare. The bubbles were poured, clinked, and sipped, and then we descended upon the pate. Here the words for an accurate description fail me. All I can truthfully say is that it was one of those mouthfuls that make your tongue, teeth and taste buds feel as though they are helplessly melting into divine oblivion. It was insane.

Later we sat down to the meal: not insane, but just as a Thanksgiving feast ought to be—the archetype of good home cooking. My favorite dish by far was also the simplest, and is prepared as follows: Cut the lid off a pumpkin and scrape out all the seeds and stringy pulp from the inside. Fill 1/3 full with grated gruyere cheese and pour in heavy cream until 2/3 full. Toss in a knob of butter, a little salt, pepper, and a few gratings from a whole nutmeg. Replace the lid and bake in a 375F oven until the flesh of the pumpkin is cooked through.

For me, it was a novel way of preparing pumpkin, inspired—get again—by the British chef Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, on whom I have a culinary crush. Okay, he’s middle aged and looks a bit like a cave man (in a good way) but he raises his own meat, grows his own veg, and has a wonderfully expansive, unfussy approach to the kitchen. But I digress.

Like the meal, the evening was just as it should be: hours of eating, drinking, and good laughs followed by plenty of lounging, coffee, and dessert—the luxurious business of being pleasantly unproductive. During the waning of the year, Thanksgiving always seems to me the moment of huddling down, of lighting our metaphorical fires for the winter. John O’ Donohue’s blessing echoed in my mind as I went to sleep that night, perfectly in sync with the tone of our evening and this turning of seasons:

May the liturgy of twilight shelter all your fears and darkness within the circle of ease.

May the angel of memory surprise you in bleak times with new gifts from the harvest of your vanished days.

May you allow no dark hand to quench the candle of hope in your heart.

May you discover a new generosity towards yourself and encourage yourself to engage your life as a great adventure.

Feast before the Fight

2009-11-25T14:27:00.000-08:00

Yesterday afternoon, I was in the middle of a peaceful lunch (whole grain bread topped with thinly sliced apple and crumbly goat cheese, shoved under the broiler for a minute or two and accompanied by a simple salad) when I innocently began thumbing through the latest edition of the Economist. I turned a page: “Monsanto, corporate sinner or saint?” the title asked. I read on, hopefully. Gradually my blood pressure began to rise, lunch turned to ashes in my mouth, and I found myself physically shaking with fury. Far from being a balanced and insightful report on the doings of this agri-giant, the author passes softly by the hoard of howling skeletons in Monsanto’s closet and paints a picture of a benevolent beacon of innovation and advancement. Not an infallible creature, but on balance a solid force for good.

Now I will not go into the details of why this portrait of the world’s dominant seed company caused me to erupt into anger and frustration—its reputation is well known. To delve into that closet of dishonesty, corruption, political arm twisting, and fundamental bad manners that Monsanto has displayed over the past decade or so would take too long. Do the research. After my exploration, the verdict appears self-evident: Monsanto is a serious sinner. More importantly Monsanto represents the pinnacle of all that I find despicable about corporate agriculture: the co-opting of power from individual farmers and a spectacular disregard for the importance of biodiversity being just two examples.

By the time I’d reached the end of the article my mind was consumed in anger and frustration. I couldn’t even think about a menu for the evening’s feast. Food, in its pleasurable sense, was farthest from my mind. I stared glumly at my shelves of recipe books unable to pull my brain away from dispiriting thoughts of genetic homogenization, topsoil depletion, and tomatoes bulging with fish genes. Count me out of a world such as that.

And so, in an unusually constructive channeling of anger I went out for a run and tore up the roads. But I didn’t stop thinking about corporate agribusiness. On the contrary I had one of those moments out running, the wind tossing the trees, the sea and my hair. I stopped abruptly at the bottom of a dip, just by an old scraggy apple tree. The road ahead rose steeply. What can I do? I begged my mind. What can I do? And then the words of one social activist—I don’t remember who she was—but when I read her words they took root. I vaguely recollect that she was going to campaign for the rights of Australian aborigines, but before actively storming the fortress, she spent two years living with these people. When questioned about her extensive time in their community, her response ran something like this: “In order win, you have to know what you’re fighting for.” And that is what my feasting is about: the feast is not the real work, it is not my aim. But strangely, as my love of food and feasting deepens, so too has my commitment to cultivating the sort of world in which these simple pleasures are possible for all. Feasting is simply a constant reminder of what I want to spend my career doing: fostering sustainable food systems. And I am inching towards that goal.

It is time for fifty-two feasts to grow up. From now on it’s not just about feasting but fighting. In the best sense of the word: I’m going to fight the way I sometimes fight to drag myself out on a drizzly fall morning for a run; the kind of fighting that reaps plentiful rewards. And yet my aim is never to lose that center, that hearth around which the battlers nourish themselves. It’s like that social activist was saying: you need food before you fight; you need to feast before diving into the fray.

What does fighting mean in the context of these feasts? Well, to start I am going to use more local, seasonal, and sustainably produced ingredients; more plants and less meat. I’m going to spend more energy on sourcing and learning the stories behind the foods I love. The great thing about a fork is that in the same moment you can use it to nourish your body, to make your taste buds squeal in delight, and to change the world ever so slightly for the better.

A Thanksgiving for Nomads

2009-11-19T14:17:00.000-08:00

This morning I recieved a message from my dear friend Aleah. She was in London. “I love this city,” she wrote. “Maybe it’s all the memories from our travels. Do you remember our Thanksgiving chicken?”

Of course I remembered. Fresh out of high school Aleah and I went backpacking together across Europe. Beginning in Spain we ambled all over the continent, from Italy and Croatia, to France and the Czech Republic. We met up with friends, took epic train journeys, saw the sights, and spent an inordinate amount of time in the cafes of Europe—reading, talking, writing, drawing, and simply absorbing our surroundings.

During the final weeks of this odyssey we found ourselves in London, staying in my cousin’s apartment. It was late November and we were cold, sodden and thoroughly ready for home. Gone were the sun-drenched days spent wallowing in Spanish plazas and basking beside Italian fountains. Our backpacks, clothes, and shoes—smart and new months before—had become increasingly gray, tattered, and odiferous. And along with them our spirit of adventure was rapidly wearing thin.

“Do you realize it’s Thanksgiving today?” Aleah was indignant as she stared at her calendar. “Oh,” I replied mournfully, glaring down at my breakfast toast with renewed disgust.

We were both silent for a moment, wallowing in the pathos of our situation. Then Aleah went back to sketching, giving a momentary sniff and flare of the nostrils—demonstrative, I knew by now, of a fit of the grumps.

I brooded for a moment and then stood up. “Well, let’s make dinner then. We have Patrick’s kitchen, I’m sure he won’t mind . . . especially once he sees the leftovers.”

“You mean, buy and cook a whole turkey for the two of us?”

“Well, maybe a chicken,” I admitted, “but still, it’s better than nothing.”

So we made our way to the nearest shop with renewed enthusiasm, and bought the ingredients for a makeshift Thanksgiving meal: a fat chicken, potatoes to mash, carrots to glaze, wine to mull, apples for pie, and even a couple cheeses to start.

That afternoon was spent ensconced in my cousin’s kitchen, listening to music, reminiscing about Thanksgivings past, and preparing our feast. It was perfect day for the meal: a dull gray sky, fine drizzle of rain, and heavy chill to the air.

I don’t remember much about the meal itself (my activities in the kitchen at the time were more enthusiastic than skillful) but it was the idea—the mental image of a feast—that counted. We ate hungrily, drank liberally, and thoroughly revived our sagging spirits. It served as a reminder of where we were: at the culmination of an epic adventure. It was a journey we would remember and talk about for years, as much for the smelly, uncomfortable hostels and nights spent camping out on train stations as for the appropriately raucous nights and magnificent architecture.

This year I’ll be at home for Thanksgiving, but Aleah and her boyfriend will be abroad, installed in their little rental cottage in the Netherlands. I hope they will have a feast, perhaps another Thanksgiving chicken, a pile of creamy mashed potatoes, and a gravy rich enough to wash away even the most remote traces of homesickness.

Tradition and the Table

2009-11-10T15:45:00.000-08:00

Some feasts are humble affairs, others momentous occasions, but the epitome of feasting in our culture arrives each year on the last Thursday in November. I have always found Thanksgiving to be the most satisfying and least stressful annual holiday. While Christmas is smothered under a surfeit of commercialism, New Year’s Eve lies gasping under the weight of forced jollity, and Valentine’s Day inevitably arrives smugly to rub salt into the wounds of your latest breakup, Thanksgiving is a blissful relief. A gourmet’s paradise, it is uncomplicated, unburdened with material expectation, and devoted solely to the table.

“How about something different this year,” I suggested to Mum, while sitting on the sofa, a pile of cookbooks on my lap. “You mean something other than turkey,” she responded, visibly dubious.

“Yes, like a goose or a ham. I mean turkey for Thanksgiving and again for Christmas. . . Gets a bit boring, don’t you think?”

“But its tradition,” Mother protested, “and I love turkey.”

I sighed; even Thanksgiving was apparently not without tribulation—the dull old face of tradition glumly staring down each one of my festive ideas. Why are people like this? Why do they persist in defending endless repetition for its own sake? Now I am a great fan of many culinary traditions: they have given us an excuse to guzzle champagne at the merest hint of celebration, break out the barbeque each summer, and consume endless mince pies with brandy butter throughout the month of December. However, it is often necessary to give these rituals a makeover: a new hair cut, some flashy new earrings. Otherwise they are in danger of becoming utterly insipid and dull.

The annual Christmas pudding saga perfectly illustrates my argument. My family has clung vehemently to our English tradition of serving Christmas pudding as the culmination to the long and abundant holiday lunch. It is a massive, upside down bowl shaped wodge of dried fruit, flour, and booze. And in accordance with custom, it is doused with brandy, lit on fire, and paraded to the table. It is a wonderful moment, the flaming dessert topped with a sprig of holly, making its entrance to enthusiastic cheers from the crowd.

Sadly, this piece of culinary tradition is more style than substance. Or rather it is far too substantial. Everyone dutifully takes a slice, although we’re all far too bloated and tipsy to enjoy it. My strategy is to pile on the brandy butter (butter whipped up with a considerable amount of sugar and brandy), and thus drown out the actual taste of the pudding. It is stodgy, leaden, and alarmingly durable. Few souls have the requisite tenacity to finish their slice, so a lot goes straight to the bin. Alas this is not the end. Mum generally makes two Christmas puddings—so enthusiastic about this tradition that she manages to forget how unpopular they are—and so the family is left not only with the remainder of the first, but a massive second pudding to conquer. As a child, I remember surveying that foul, black-brown slice mutinously at breakfast, in pack lunches, and fried up in yet more brandy after dinner for weeks on end. It sat stolidly in the fridge, in both shape and effect like a glowering, impenetrable Mount Rainier. Sometimes I swear we were still attempting to dispose of it throughout the waning days of January.

This Christmas, I shall probably fail in my campaign to ban the pudding and replace it with a sexier dessert, but I did win a small victory over Thanksgiving meal. It is a rule of thumb that by the judicious mention of certain ingredients, I can convince Mother of the virtue of almost any dish. She simply cannot resist the mention of ginger, figs, anise, goat cheese, gruyere, or hazelnuts. When I suggested a shoulder of ham she remained skeptical, but after my cunning elaboration—a glazed baked ham with spiced figs and parsley sauce—she grudgingly agreed. Now all that remains is to source a magnificent ham and dream up delectable trimmings: perhaps sme gruyere baked squash? Roasted onions? Cranberry sauce? A deep dish apple pie? All this dreaming and scheming is almost as enjoyable as feasting itself.

The Compostion of a Feast

2009-11-03T16:49:00.000-08:00

“So, does this count as a feast?” Alex asked, carefully stripping the fragrant thyme leaves from their stems. “I mean, what makes it a feast?”

I thought about this for a moment, surprised that I didn’t have a clear answer. “I guess it’s a feast when I want it to be one. Yea, this could be a feast . . . I mean, why not?”

Yet I continued mulling over this question; what does make a feast? In these last few months I have consciously created many feasts. Some have been larger, such as the epic meal last weekend or the birthday party for my dad. Others have been composed of simpler food eaten among only a few friends. And then there have been plenty of meals that I have chosen not to rank among my official feasts. Why have these been excluded? They were variously too boring, rushed, small, or insignificant. What they all have in common, however, is that they were not premeditated in the same way as a true feast.

For an answer to Alex’s question I turned first to various official definitions of a feast. Wandering around the gargantuan virtual library of description and delineation, I found several themes crystallize: the word feast collects around it the garments of cuisine and culture, religion and ritual, ceremony and celebration, abundance and enjoyment.

My favorite definition, one among several from the Merriam-Webster dictionary, describes a feast as “something that gives unusual or abundant enjoyment.” I also liked the Cambridge dictionary’s explanation of “a very enjoyable experience for the senses.” The word itself comes from the Latin festus, meaning “joyous.” Pleasure is at the heart of feasting, firmly rooted in its very etymological heritage.

In having to explicitly define feast for myself and this project, I have realized that it is this celebratory intention that characterizes my feasts. On the one hand it is clearly a hedonistic pleasure—people coming together for the sole purpose of gastronomic enjoyment—and I wholeheartedly accept that. On the other hand it is also a defiant statement, a quiet rejection of the forces that would have us speed up our lives, scuttling faster and faster around the hamster wheels of frenetic daily activity with such puritanical zeal that we have no time for friends, feasting, or any of those other proverbial simple pleasures. So really, any meal has the potential to be a feast. And that is my ultimate goal: I don’t just want to cook, host, and enjoy feasts; I want to embody a feasting mentality, an attitude of abundance, and a propensity to celebrate whenever given half a chance and a cork screw.

I lifted the pot of mussels off the heat and stirred in a large spoonful of crème fraiche. We sat down to eat: the seafood aromatic with herbs, garlic, and wine. The wedges of roasted potato fat and well browned, a light fluffy center encased in a fine crisp shell. They were ideal for sopping up the sauce. We sat around the table eating, drinking and talking. “Awww, I wish I hadn’t eaten,” Justin lamented, his hand edging towards the tray of oven fries. “Oh, go on,” Alex prompted, “there’s plenty.” The dollop of mustard I’d added to my plate slid downwards and dissolved into the sauce, accidentally improving it I noticed, plucking another mussel from its shell and popping it into my mouth. I took a sip of cold white wine. Alex returned to the plate of smoked salmon. Justin caved in to the temptation of pommes frites. Yes, I concluded to myself, this is definitely a feast.

Cook by Feel

2009-10-27T22:04:00.000-07:00

Amateurs cook from recipes. Real cooks do not. They have techniques, yes, and an ever expanding repertoire of dishes, but they do not break off from their graceful culinary dance each evening for long periods spent peering over a bespattered cookbook. At most, a real cook will admit to being “inspired” by someone else.

Or so the thought goes. Unfortunately, there are many who fancy themselves above recipes yet lack the skill to carry this off, as my mother firmly noted, citing a certain family member who shall remain nameless. For myself, I have never suffered from this hubris, and although I fancy myself a decent cook, I make no claims as a kitchen choreographer. Rather, I turn expectant eyes towards my favorite cooks and chefs, devout in my study of their books. I will make minor changes, playing with flavors and tuning the recipes in to the season at hand, but only very recently have I begun taking a basic technique and creating my own dish from scratch (my slow-cooked lamb with tomatoes, saffron and cream, which I posted the other week, is one of only a handful of examples). Especially when I’m entertaining, recipes are something to cling to—a framework for the dish, supplying hopefully well-tested proportions, techniques, times, and flavor combinations.

And yet, for the Oktoberfest feast I found myself adrift—only a scribbled paragraph of instructions on what do with the pounds of Bavarian sausage, mountain of potatoes, odiferous mass of sauerkraut, and bottle of Riesling that before me. Boss man had given me directions, but only half of these had transferred to my scrap of paper, and none made any mention of quantities or proportions. How much wine? I wondered. How much chicken stock? How many juniper berries? I’d never cooked with this hardened blue-black berry . . . are they as powerful as cloves?

But there was no use in fussing; I had 14 friends milling about, getting progressively tipsier and demanding dinner. And so I jumped in, dumped the entire bottle of Riesling over the sweating onions, became a real cook for a change. I used common sense and kitchen experience, and felt terribly proud as I stirred and judged and adjusted. By the time dinner was ready I felt euphoric—this was real cooking; an art vaguely on par with musical improvisation or a spontaneous letra of flamenco dance. I loved it.

According to the Bavarian ladies this dish has a name, but I can’t remember what it is. My version was basically a vat of sausages, potatoes, and sauerkraut, infused throughout with wine, chicken stock, and a wafting whisper of juniper and thyme. I will modestly limit any further description to the response from one of my dinner guests, Will (in manner of book praise):

“. . . off the fucking chain. . . ”

Along with the main dish we ate a fairly simple green salad, two types of homemade mustard (beer-caraway, and dried cranberry), apple ketchup, and a massive round of freshly baked Pugliese bread, for mopping purposes.

To finish, I served up two laboriously constructed cakes: one black forest gateau laden with cream, chocolate, cherries, and kirsch, and one caramel-cinnamon ganache cake. These were taken verbatim from recipes. You don’t mess with baking, it’s different. Like science lab improvisation can be disastrous.

2009-10-26T19:14:00.000-07:00

It may be obvious by now, but I have not been sticking to my initial plan of Sabbath feasts. Rather they are happening willy nilly (I love that expression!) all through the week. What can I say? I am spiritually lax and undisciplined. Cheers dears.

Bavarian Bliss

2009-10-23T10:59:00.001-07:00

“Cooking anything interesting this weekend,” boss man asked one morning at work.
“Well,” I answered vaguely, “I was thinking of doing some sort of Oktoberfest themed feast. Not sure what to cook though . . .”

Boss man was silent, staring down at his old German coffee roaster, as if conversing with it for inspiration. Then he looked up, a gleeful gastronomic gleam in his eye: “You wanna know what to cook. I’ll tell you. This’ll really impress them, ok. You’d better write this down.” The man clearly had a plan so I didn’t argue.

“Go to the Bavarian meats shop in Pike Place Market. Go and buy a big piece of smoked pork ribs. Ok? And a good selection of sausages. You’re also going to need sauerkraut, potatoes and a big pot. . . .”

And so, obedient to these instructions, I found myself trundling down to Pikes yesterday morning, bleary eyed from a late night yet still bouncing with enthusiasm for my impending visit to Bavarian Meats. I entered the little doorway, tucked inside the market amongst the candy stores, bakeries and delis, and felt that familiar sense of child-like delight as I stepped inside. This place is heaven, walls lined with mustards and pickles, breads and jams.

I read the familiar labels: the lavender wrapped bars of Milka chocolate sporting its signature contented cow; golden foil trimmed bottles of apfelsaft, and packages of rye bread boasting a plethora of benefits to mind and body. Behind the meat case brimming with bratwurst and bockwurst, knockwurst and landjaeger, bacon, ham hocks and a million other configurations of the flesh, the Bavarian ladies bustled about. I waited patiently whilst they attended to the other customers. This was not something to rush. I wanted their full attention.

When the shop was finally empty I stepped up to the counter. “Now,” said one of the aproned ladies in heavily accented English, peering at me cheerfully with a knife in one hand and a piece of sausage in the other, “how can I help you?”

I was so bubbling with enthusiasm for this cozy shop and its contents that I found I didn’t have the ability to think properly. Boss man had told me what to buy, but I decided that the occasion called for assistance. I explained to the woman vaguely what I intended to make and asked her to pick out the requisite meats. Her eyes lit up as she nodded effusively. She understood, then fired a volley of questions: “How many people? Men or women? Do zay have big appetites? You like spicy sausage? Ok. I find a bacon end to give you. Yes, you throw it in for flavor. I go get my chef.” Within moments another aproned woman emerged from behind a curtain, this one smudged with flour and clearly in the middle of cooking. She listened seriously while I tried to relay boss man’s recipe, and agreed, reminding me to glaze the onion before folding in the sauerkraut, and tossing a final chunk of pig into my bag.

In addition to the meats I bought several jars of sauerkraut. Finally, unable to resist the pull of nostalgia, I tossed in a bar of Milka. Milk chocolate with hazelnuts. The crinkle of the wrapper; the rich, creamy sweetened chocolate and contrasting crunch of toasted nut . . . I floated back to the clean cold alpine air. Snow laden fields, glades, heisse schokolade, fondue, exercise induced exhaustion, muddy boots, chap stick, terrifying drop offs, layers of woolen sweaters . . . ski holidays in Switzerland.

Reluctantly I gathered my bags and prepared to leave the shop. “Do you need mustard,” the lady asked as an afterthought.

“Oh, no thank you,” I replied, “I’m making my own flavored mustards.” She beamed even more broadly and patted my shoulder. “Ah! You are a good girl.”

Butchers, Nerves, and Golden Apples

2009-10-18T21:36:00.000-07:00

I picked up the phone cautiously, knowing that it must be bad news. It was. “Darling,” mother said, “I couldn't’t find any stewing lamb so I got another cut.” I paused, took a couple deep breaths, and attempted to remain rational. “Ok, did you ask the butcher if it’s a good cut for slow cooking.”

“Oh, there wasn’t anyone there; no one at the meat counter.”

This bloody island, I thought. This bloody country! What we need is a return of the butcher shop; a good old fashioned little shop where the man knows his meat; a place where you can go each week, build up a relationship with the owner . . . chat about different cuts and the best techniques to cook each one. You become a regular; he—or quite possibly she (I’m thinking of making this my own mission)—finds special cuts you want, or bits of offal that no one else uses . . . .

I brought myself back from the pleasant fantasy of a world where every town has such a glorious establishment, back to the harsh reality of the moment. The supermarket and its infantile meat counter. Bah! “Right,” I replied to mother, having stoically suppressed my rant, “it will have to do, whatever it is.”

My annoyance at this inconvenience was magnified by the fact that I was considerable jumpy about this week’s feast. I was cooking for a chef. Well, to be precise, the man is an ex-chef, but still knows his stuff after having spent decades in the food industry. And now he was going to taste my cooking. Help!

I had decided on an old standby, a recipe I developed when a student budget forced me to become friends with the cheaper cuts of meat. The key to these bits of the animal is usually an infinitesimally slow simmer coupled with a good sauce. So my recipe called for some scraggy bits of stewing lamb, slowly cooked in stock, and then plunked into a rich reduction of tomatoes, saffron, and cream. It was a delicious and relatively foolproof production—ideal for this nerve wracking occasion. We would eat it on a bed of couscous and beside a leafy green salad. It would be simple, unpretentious, and stress-free. Or so I’d hoped.

The thing about cooking, you see, is that there are so many factors, so many interlocking pieces. Pull one of these away and the whole structure can come topping down. There are ingredients, timing, kitchen equipment, a neurotic cook—all manner of pieces that can throw the whole meal out of whack. One thing that I’m learning, throughout this project, is the dynamism and creativity needed to become a good cook. I took a few more deep breaths and decided not to worry. Kitchen vanity is not a virtue, I told myself. Neither is neurosis.

My saintliness was rewarded when mother returned with the meat, which I instantly grabbed and scrutinized. It wasn’t quite the cut I’d expected but near enough. Scraggy and worked enough to suit a slow simmer. And after that hiccup the afternoon passed in exactly the meandering, stress-free way I had imagined. I put on some flamenco music, cut the meat into chunks, browned it in some oil over a high heat, covered it in stock and then left it alone for a good four hours. And in the meantime there was little else for me to do besides make the tart tartin.

This too I chose for its dual qualities of reliability and scrumptiousness. It is a rich, caramelized apple tart, cooked on the stove in a skillet, then covered in pastry and finished in a medium hot oven. It has always struck me as a typically French way of cooking—clever and practical with excessively elegant results. You are cooking the tart upside down. So if done well, this method keeps the pastry from getting soggy while allowing you to conjure up a gloriously juicy and succulent dessert. Plus, cooking the apples in a skillet on the stove does a fantastic job of caramelizing the sugars. And finally when you flip the tart for the table, you are invariably faced with a glossy golden disc of fruit. It never fails. Trust me; you have this promise from someone who is spectacularly clumsy in the kitchen.

The food was good. Despite finding my taste buds in hypercritical mode: Are the tomatoes overwhelming? Does the saffron is have enough presence? Should I have added that final slosh of vermouth?

Splashing alcohol into a dish is always my distressed response when the flavors don't seem quite right. Surely a slosh of booze will harmonize it all, the thinking goes. Not very graceful, I’ll admit, but it sooths my worries all the same.

So here’s my recipe for slowly simmered lamb in tomatoes, saffron, and cream. It is provided in the hopes that it may be a soothing solution for kitchen nerves. And if you find yourself fussing about flavors, you can always add splash of vermouth near the end. I’m not sure if t really helps but hey, there’s a lot to be said for the placebo effect.

1 pound of lamb stew meat, cut into chunks
A little olive oil
1 bay leaf
About 1 quart chicken stock
Splash of cream
1 large can or jar of crushed tomatoes
A pinch of saffron stems
Some cream
Cholula or other hot sauce (Shhh . . . don’t tell)
Vermouth (optional)

Place a large, heavy-based pot over a fierce heat until very hot. Add a little oil to coat the pan and then quickly brown the stew meat on all sides (about 30 seconds total). Lower the flame to the lowest heat possible—really, the absolute lowest possible on your stove—and add enough chicken stock to cover well. Add the bay leaf and cover. The meat should be barely simmering, quivering ever so gently. It is vitally important, after the brief browning, not to cook the meat too quickly and it is virtually impossible to cook it too slowly. Allow the meat to quiver for about 3 and ½ hours until all delicate, melty, and tender.

Remove the lamb and cover to keep warm. Drain off most of the liquid, leaving about an inch in the pan. Remove the bay leaf, add the crushed tomatoes, and raise the heat to a boil. Add the saffron and allow the mixture to reduce and thicken to a rich sauce. (For a spicy version add a few shakes of a good quality hot sauce, such as Cholula. That’s totally cheating I know, but Cholula is what I used in a pinch and it worked rather well). Finally turn the heat down a bit and mix in a little cream to thicken and silken the sauce. Season to taste as necessary. Just before serving, return the meat to the pot. This dish is equally superb when served with either a mound of fluffy mashed potatoes, rice, or some herby couscous.

2009-10-13T14:20:00.000-07:00

The BBC food program and I are obviously on the same wavelength. Last Sunday's edition was all about feasting! http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b006qnx3

Passion and Pumpkins

2009-10-12T18:21:00.000-07:00

I am still licking my wounds from a fight I had the other day—a big bloody battle with the beast of doubt. Another weekend was upon me and I was riddled with a fit of feasting blues. Why am I doing these stupid feasts? I thought. No one cares. No reads my blog . . . . and what’s more, most of the time I suck at cooking. I’m one giant, loud-mouthed fake of a cook.

Okay, you get the point that I was in full pouty sulky self-pitying mode. I got home from work and sat in the kitchen. I was supposed to be making pumpkin ravioli, as promised, for my mother’s poetry party. Instead I sat there in front of a big pumpkin, bawling my eyes out. And then, just as I was working myself into a full blown meltdown, something happened. I had one of those moments when, from out of nowhere, I was given a massive emotional kick in the butt. I remembered that man on the radio.

It had happened that morning, as I fumbled through the pre-dawn ritual—kettle on, shower, make tea, get dressed—I turned on the radio just in time to hear the tail end of a most inspiring interview. A man was talking about people doing what they are passionate about. He commented on how we are often quick to make excuses and remain chained to the insipid daily grind. We are content to complain about work and merely couch dream of following our hearts. But now, when the channels of communication provided by the internet have made it effectively free to get your voice out, it is cowardly to play the victim and not pursue your dream. You think you don’t have time? Get up earlier, he growls.

At six in the morning, I shuddered. Get up earlier? Are you shitting me? But then, as the tea made its soothing way into my body, rousing my brain, I began mulling over his words. Within minutes I had to admit he has a point. It is so easy to complain and lack the guts to go after your passion, or to idolize it as an unattainable fantasy. Just like many of the things we want, the fanstasy is far simpler than the fissured reality.

I walked to work with the darkness wrapped around me, layered with dew, apples, and the wet fallen leaves of autumn. I thought about vocation and passion—these ideas with which I have been wrestling for years. Although I don’t claim any expertise in the matter, I have read volumes on vocation, listened to eloquent speeches on the art of pursuing your passion, and debated with friends, family, and teachers on these topics.

Through all this searching certain principles have surfaced. One of these, which strikes a chord within my own experience, and of which I was reminded by the radio interview, is that one’s passion takes work. We often have a Hollywood vision of vocation in which the artist or writer, scientist or teacher wakes up every morning brimming with enthusiasm and conviction. The truth is much closer to what one of my flamenco teachers said when asked about becoming a professional dancer: “It’s about 90% sweat and 10% inspiration.” For me that figure would change to about 95% sweat, doubt, and over analysis, with a measly 5% inspiration.

And yet, despite the odds, I had one of those rousing moments there, sitting in the kitchen in front of that big old pumpkin with my cheeks all wet. It was as if in that gloriously deranged moment the pumpkin was my life: “Are you gonna take me and turn me into something wonderful?” it said, “Or just let me rot?”

In response I glowered at the vegetable, got up and grabbed my biggest knife. Just watch it, pumpkin! Just you watch my dust!

Ancient Kitchen Gadgets

2009-10-07T20:38:00.000-07:00

For a long time now I have been fantasizing about owning my own mortar and pestle. Not just any old specimen, but one of those pale, weighty stone bowls with carved, knobbed handles and a wooden pestle to go with it. For a while I resisted the allure of this ancient kitchen gadget, telling myself it was simply romantic and pointless. After all, I already possess a battalion of tools that can be used to for the purpose of bashing a combination of ingredients together. And I have been muddling along perfectly well with a rolling pin and a bowl for ages.

However, I finally gave myself permission to indulge in this purchase after hearing an excerpt from The Splendid Table. (You know, that public radio program hosted by the woman with an incredibly comforting voice—you can just imagine her bustling about with warming Italian soups.) Anyway, they were discussing the mortar and pestle, pointing out that it has a significantly different effect on ingredients than a blender for instance. Instead of cutting with a blade, it squashes with the blunt pressure of the pestle on the stone mortar, releasing more oils in the process. The techniques are really quite different and each is useful in specific circumstances. For instance when you’re making a mojito, a mortar and pestle would be the perfect choice for muddling the mint, lemon, and sugar together, dissolving the sweet crystals in the acid and releasing the mint’s oil into the mix.

And so, after having my romantic gadget confirmed as a truly useful tool, I gleefully headed for the kitchen shop and bought the biggest one I could find. I am happy to report that it looks exactly like the medieval image I had in mind, adding an air of the apothecary and alchemist to my kitchen. Now, I’ll just have to find a way to use it for my next feast.

Slow Feasting

2009-10-06T11:06:00.000-07:00

Ok, so this slacking is becoming a bit of a habit. I confess that another weekend slipped past with no genuine feasting. However, I’ve been thinking, and have made a decision to be more flexible with my feasting. The goal of preparing and enjoying fifty-two feasts remains, but I am going to take them at a more comfortable pace. After all, the whole point about this project is to enjoy cooking and eating; it runs against the spirit of the thing to stress about deadlines and goals. So what if it takes me two years to arrive at the final feast (which I am already planning—spit roasted pig anyone?) And another thing: I have, in the handful of feasts cataloged so far, realized that the ones I put more energy and anticipation into are simply more luscious and satisfying than those hurried culinary quickies.

Basically this is a long way of excusing myself from feasting this week. No panic, however, as I have several plans bubbling away on the back burner: elegant hors d’ oeuvres for a poetry party, a massive gastronomic homage to Oktoberfest, and a tableful of delicacies for a tea party are all on the menu this month.

Timing

2009-09-30T11:41:00.000-07:00

The more I cook, the more I realize that roasting a perfect joint or making a divine sauce is far less challenging that the wild logistics of timing. That is what I most admire in restaurants—the chef’s ability to multitask in the midst of mayhem and knives, to pass through unscathed and produce something spectacular. And our eminent chef repeats the process ad infinitum.

The magnitude of this achievement was brought home to me on the night of the party. I had spent all afternoon prepping veg and making sauces, organizing pans and strategizing over delivery. By 6:30 I was feeling positively cavalier, a glass of wine in hand, the beef merrily sizzling in the oven and all the trimmings ready to roll. But then something cracked—as it often does. I put the potatoes on to parboil and the water took far longer than I’d expected. We didn’t have a skillet big enough for the spinach. One of the Yorkshire pudding pans vanished into that gapping void of infuriating, untimely kitchen implement disappearances. With the joint up to its prime temperature and resting, things got really hectic. The carrots seemed to cook instantaneously while the Yorkshire puds threatened not to puff to satisfactory size. And the bloody potatoes hadn’t even gone into the oven yet.

As I stood over the potatoes fuming silently, Mother joined me and peered into the pot. “Oh no,” she commented. And then with unusual efficacy: “why don’t we mash them instead?”

And that, my friends, is why I love home cooking and enviously admire the abilities of the professional chef. Your friends are just gonna suck it up and smile if they were craving roast potatoes, but your customers—they will make that painfully aggrieved face (I’ve seen it many times and made it a few) and demand their money back.

So, with the help of Mother and her friend Steph, we made a beautiful, butter-rich mash. And it all turned out pretty much perfectly, even if the kitchen looked as though it were the front lines of a horrific battle. (“How did you manage to get leek on the ceiling?” Jenna marveled). But the food was good: a perfect joint, cooked to a rosy, rare hue, accompanied by the creamy heat of horseradish. The carrots, glazed in a slightly sweet reduction of chicken stock, butter, and sugar rubbed shoulders with leeks in a light white sauce which I had laced with vermouth, mustard, and lemon. Even the Yorkshire puddings rose admirably to the occasion despite my fears.

Ok, I admit that mashed potatoes felt slightly sacrilegious, and I found myself lamenting the loss of crispy roast spuds amongst the soft leeks and tender carrots, but they did the job alright. And across all of this we drizzled the dark and glossy gravy I had made from wine, stout, beef stock and the pan juices from the roast. It was rich and intoxicating with a minute bitter edge which acted only to accentuate the natural sweetness of the meat.

To finish we had a simple apple crumble and basked in a fog of wine and repletion. The key to a good crumble, I’ve decided, is to ban all attempts to make it a healthy dessert. No whole wheat flour or sugar substitutes as these result in a leaden, unpalatable crust (obviously I’m willing to be proven wrong, dear readers, if you have a stellar recipe). No, it’s all about piling on a mixture of white flour butter and sugar. This time I mixed a cup of slivered almonds into the crumble; they gave a nice, crunchy contrast to the melty fruit beneath.

Epic Beef

2009-09-24T19:26:00.001-07:00

Well, I shall never say an uncharitable word against Mother again. She came up trumps, returning from town with a massive 6-rib roast. I spent a good five minutes ou- ing and ah-ing over its lustrous sheen and healthy marbling of fat. Am not sure I have ever before had the luxury of roasting a joint this epic. Better not bugger it up, that’s for sure.

In addition to the beef, Mother also produced a knurly length of horseradish root so that I can make my own freshly creamed condiment and avoid those junky jarred specimens. This is more unchartered territory as I have never seen a whole horseradish, let alone prepared it before. Luckily I am in good hands, clutching steadfastly to the River Cottage Meat Book, by Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, one of my favorite cookbook authors. He calls his version of a traditional English Sunday lunch, “the Full Monty of roast beef.” How could you not like this guy!

2009-09-23T14:29:00.000-07:00

As for the next feast, it will more than make up for last week's failure to launch. The plan is to cook for my dad's birthday dinner; we’ll be 14 people all together. I asked Dad to pick out the menu and he promptly puffed up his chest and boomed in sonorous voice: “Roast beef of old England. With all the trimmings.” So roast beef it is.

Mum is picking up a joint in Seattle today. I got rather stressed about this last night when she asked me to write her a shopping list. You see I like to be the one who picks out the meat. Breathing hotly, I painfully explained to her the importance of getting a good quality joint. It must have the bone in, I stressed. And lots of white marbling throughout. “Do they call it a joint in America,” she questioned. “Won’t they think I’m looking for weed?”

I glared at her coldly. “Not in Whole Foods, mother.”

Fuel for Future Feasting

2009-09-23T11:38:00.000-07:00

Last weekend slipped by and I awoke on Monday morning, dazed and annoyed—I had failed to feast. The cause of this abysmal situation was a combination of too much work and too little planning. I am finding that the most challenging aspect of this project is not the cooking itself, but the logistical arrangements it takes to bring people together for a meal in these frenetic times.

Furthermore, for the first time in my life I have something approaching a full time job; a fact that is imprinting on my mind a deep and abiding sympathy for anyone who tries to do anything in addition to this marvelous feat. As for people who somehow manage to work and, I don’t know, raise a family or something—without going completely mad—I am simply awestruck by the epic magnitude of such an accomplishment. Count me out of ever pursuing the fashionable superwoman track (you know the one: high-powered job and healthy children, a good marriage and the figure of a goddess). I have enough trouble simply balancing on my own, let alone walking a tightrope with dozens of quivering juggling balls. Hah!

So when I finally found some free time, not having invited anyone over to eat, I decided to ban further procrastination and get down to some serious preserving. One could even say, from a very creative angle, that I was cooking—stocking away food for future feasts.

I had a bowl of plums in urgent need to being turned into jam, an apple tree positively groaning with fruit, and I had somehow wandered far from my rhythm of weekly bread baking. Furthermore, I am becoming very slightly bored of the delicious paninis from the café where I work. And, after a good three months of gulping them down on a regular basis, I have decided that my lunches are in need of a little inspiration.

Tuesday afternoon, therefore, was spent fogging up the windows of my little studio: While a ball of whole wheat bread rose on the counter, I peeled, chopped, simmered, and whizzed a massive batch of lemon-laced carrot soup. As this was bubbling I sliced up a mountain of plums and mixed them with sugar and cardamom pods for jam. Next a couple dozen apples from our tree were picked, peeled, cored, quartered and strewed. I wanted to try an intriguing recipe from The Encyclopedia of Country Living, a delightful book chock full of do-it-yourself living, from growing veggies to slaughtering chickens, making soap, and preserving fruit. This recipe was for “apple ketchup,” and called for stewed apples, vinegar, onions, sugar, and a bundle of different spices.

The only problem is that I got over zealous and prepared way too many apples. Now I have jars and jars of this odd yet delicious condiment; certainly enough to last for a good two or three years. Oh well, I think it will be ideal as an accompaniment to pork loin or sausages, as part of a chicken sandwich or to glaze a shoulder of ham.

Anyway, here’s the recipe which I have adapted from The Encyclopedia of Country Living.

Peel, core, and quarter about a dozen apples. Stew these in a tiny bit of water (just enough so that they don’t stick to the pan). When soft, remove from the heat and mash roughly. Measure out the mixture and dump it into a blender or food processor. For every quart of apples, add 1 teaspoon each of ground pepper, cloves, mustard, cinnamon, a cautious pinch of cayenne and 2 chopped onions. Finish with 2/3 cup sugar, 1 tablespoon salt, and about 1 – 1 ½ cups apple cider vinegar. Whiz all this together until silky smooth, then taste and adjust seasoning as necessary.

Now fully engaged in earth maiden mode (bread baking in the oven, jam bubbling away on the stove) I even saved the apple peelings from my ketchup and am now attempting a batch of vinegar. It is a long process and apparently a rather tricky one so I don’t have soaring expectations. However, I promise to report the results—suave success or acidic failure—within the next six months or so.

Devolved Parties

2009-09-17T22:15:00.000-07:00

Apologies for the silence. And no, in case you´re wondering, I have not been nursing an epic hangover for the last few days (I was fully recovered and sparkling crystal clear within just one blessed revolution of the sun, or earth rather). It is merely that life got in my way, in her usual crafty manner. But enough excuses, back to the feast . . .

“Ouu, yay, mashed potatoes, my favorite,” said Jacob as I plunked down a steaming dish onto the table. “No,” I corrected him, bristling. “Its fennel puree. Well, to be exact its fennel puree made with the addition of some mashed potatoes.”

“Like I said, he continued grinning, “I love a good mash.”

I sighed. Any cook—from mom with her mama’s potatoes to the most lauded chef with his signature dish of truffle-infused, sage-rubbed, flash-seared god knows what—knows the importance of wording in the presentation of a meal. So it is rather exasperating to have one’s guests reduce one’s fennel puree to mere mashed potatoes. Bah!

Nonetheless, this slandered puree was a highlight of the meal; a soft aromatic swirl of fennel root and seeds, cream and potatoes. Its herbal-tinged aroma coupled particularly well with the fruity sweetness of the blackberries—a very good combo indeed.

I must, however, admit that the dinner conversation was not as elevated as the food—although just as juicy. Somehow we got onto the subject of high school parties, many of which are treasure troves packed with unrepeatable details of shameless shenanigans. As Danielle pointed out, most of them devolved into nudity. And barely any provocation was needed for the clothing to come flying off. Booze was the most common cause, with that comforting qualification it invariably provides. But even the slightest tipple seemed to be the only proviso we required. And on one memorable occasion we even found ourselves in the paradisaical state after an unusually indulgent dinner at my place. Later, the others claimed I’d put something in the food. Honestly!

The fifth feast continued its downward spiral—despite a saintly dessert of homemade, agave-sweetened raspberry frozen yogurt. By 11 pm we were crowded around my computer watching juvenile yet hopelessly funny videos on You Tube. Don’t ask. Just think Justin Timberlake, unusual Christmas presents, and mother lovers. Still, at least we didn’t end up in the nuddy. It’s good to know we’ve evolved slightly.

Advice on Wine and Flesh

2009-09-12T21:12:00.000-07:00

Flipping through a tomb called Wildwood: Cooking from the source in the Pacific Northwest, I happened upon a recipe which seemed to fit the bill perfectly for my fifth feast. The criteria were threefold: I needed a meal that a) had no wheat, owing to the wheat allergies of several of my friends, b) would not make my wallet shiver (as I am attempting to break a lifetime habit and actually save a spot of money), and c) would be in radiant, self-satisfied harmony with this late summer season. Wildwood provided me with an answer in the form of a recipe for “chicken legs, braised in pinot noir and blackberries, with fennel purée.” Perfect.

Alas, nothing in life is that simple, it seems. I turned up to work on the morning of my feast and my boss, on seeing the cookbook, promptly picked it up and scrutinized the recipe with a suspicious eye (this man has a cooking library of over 3,000 books and a culinary arts degree , so I kinda listen to what he says). “Yeah, I’ve got this book, and I’ve eaten at the restaurant . . . wasn’t that impressed really.”

“Oh,” I replied, slightly deflated. I had been so excited about this meal. “So you don’t think it’ll be any good then?”

Boss man smiled apologetically, and explained. “Well, you see this recipe is basically a twist on coq au vin, which is made using an old bird. The tannins in the wine work on breaking down the tougher muscle, you see. But we don’t really get old birds here, so the wine might be kinda hard. Know what I mean?”

“Yea, of course. That makes sense.” I felt fully deflated by now.

But a minute or two later boss man was back. “What you could do,” he began and then paused, qualifying with a sideways smile, “not that I want to interfere. Am I interfering? Good. So, what you could do is cook the wine down a while. Cook it with some good chicken stock and maybe a little mirepois. That’ll soften it up a bit. Then use that liquid to braise the meat. It’s just a thought,” he finished, with a deprecating shrug of the shoulders and another half grin.

And so, obedient to the advice of my new culinary mentor, I pushed the offending cookbook aside and followed his instructions. The result? Luscious, fork tender flakes of flesh, all stained purple with blackberries and softened wine sauce. The meal? Well I’m tired and hung over so that story is for tomorrow.

2009-09-10T20:21:00.000-07:00

What in the name of Joseph, Mary, and the baby Jesus am I going to cook tomorrow? Help! Am experiencing an unfamiliar case of kitchen block . . .

Best Roasted Beets

2009-09-08T11:42:00.000-07:00

This last week, I found myself whisking up the fourth feast for a table full of family friends. Tapas, I decided. (Strangely I am a paragon of decisiveness in the kitchen, despite my wavering, often fickle nature in the rest of life.) I chose a couple traditional Spanish dishes, including albondigas (juicy, herby meatballs with an accompanying mayonnaise) and champiñones al ajillo (a pungent plate of garlicky mushrooms). Then I picked out a beautiful Mediterranean potato salad drizzled with an olive oil, balsamic, anchovy, and caper dressing. Add to this a butter-simmered green bean and olive salad as well as a pan of flash-fried calamari, and I almost had a meal. But we needed just one more nibble . . .

Rooting around in the fridge to see what else lay in store, I found a couple beets. Perfect! Roasted beets topped with soft crumbled goat cheese. Taking a tip from the Culinary Institute of America’s text book, I discovered an easy solution to my long-time beet roasting struggle. Previously, I had simply treated beets in the same way I treat potatoes: peel and chop, place on a baking sheet with plenty of oil and seasoning and bung them into a decently hot oven until done. Only this method is sadly unsuited, I have repeatedly discovered, to the chemical composition of beets. Please don’t ask for a technical explanation, I was a liberal studies major for a reason. The result was always a pan full of shriveled leathery morsels that looked and tasted profoundly unsatisfactory.

The key, I discovered, is to first cook the beets in water. This way they cook through, becoming tender while maintaining their cheery plumpness. Finally you drain off the water, pump up the oven and finish them off with a hot, oily roasting.These specimens were a revelation: a soft, rich center cocooned in a thin, crispy coat. So, here’s a recipe that will raise the often beleaguered beet to its rightful place in the roasting family:

Ingredients:
A couple pounds of beets
A few good glugs of olive oil
Salt and pepper
A couple ounces of soft goat cheese

Peel, quarter, and dice beets. Place in a large pan and pour in enough water to just cover bottom of pan. Cover with foil and cook in the oven at 375° F for about 45 minutes or until just cooked through. Remove beets and raise roasting temperature to 450° F. Drain off water and return beets to the pan with enough olive oil to coat. Season the beets with salt and pepper before returning them to the oven until nice and crisp. Sprinkle with crumbled goat cheese before serving.

2009-09-02T22:26:00.000-07:00

For the record, I adore my girl friends to death, so don't take this the wrong way darlings . .

Women, Men, and Dionysus

2009-09-02T21:31:00.000-07:00

Cooking in another person’s kitchen, no matter how well equipped and enticing that space may be, is a momentous challenge. Somehow I don’t feel the same smooth confidence and panache, but am constantly searching for utensils and sparring with the unfamiliar stove. Furthermore, while at home I always cook with the contents of my pantry hovering at the back of my mind, this is not possible in a foreign kitchen. That dash of smoked Spanish paprika is not there when it would lend the final touch to a dish; and those good old standby jugs of chicken stock are conspicuous by their absence. It is as if the cook is a violinist and the kitchen an unfamiliar instrument.

Yet despite this handicap, and with the help of the gracious Danielle (who calmly suffered me charging into her kitchen armed with a huge cast iron skillet and causing a decent amount of mess and chaos), we managed to whip together a passable meal. I say only passable because of my own silly mistakes. Instead of long-grained white rice (the proper base for a paella), I grabbed aborio from the supermarket self, so that we had no choice but to make a slightly clumsy Italian-Spanish mutt of a dish: a sort of bastardized paella-flavored risotto. (These sins are necessary to confess in the hopes that I shall be given absolution by the gods of gastronomy .) Yet the contents of my skillet were decently edible by the time the four of us gathered on Danielle’s patio for dinner. The stock and wine thickened grains of rice providing a bed for flash fried jumbo shrimp, paprika dusted squid, and steamed mussels. It’s hard to completely bugger it up when you’re working with fresh, high quality seafood. And although It wasn’t true paella, by any stretch of the imagination, neither was it a total disaster.

So we sat munching our meal on the rooftop deck, looking across as the sun set behind Green Lake and its industrious power walkers. Aleah was leaving. This fact, combined with the crisp tang of fall in the air, lent a slightly subdued tone to the evening. We ate, chatted a bit, drank a little wine, and parted: Aleah to finish her packing, the rest of us to get on with our daily lives. And I couldn’t help concluding reluctantly on the drive home, that this farewell girls night was a meal. It was a decent meal rather than an authentic feast.

Later, I mused on the secret ingredient in a feast. What is it that turns ordinary food into a sort of communion? I know it cannot be reduced to the quality of the meal, as I have eaten exquisite dinners in decidedly frigid, un-feast-like settings, and conversely I have dined on the most basic of food in an abundantly festive environment. No, food alone does not make a feast. Perhaps, I though jokingly to myself, men are the secret ingredient? After all, this girls night was the first of my fifty-two feasts that has not felt like a true feast. Yes, I continued thinking, more seriously now. It makes sense, in a deliciously politically incorrect sort of way. Men tend to have bigger appetites. They tend to worry less about calories and demolish food with more abandon. They also bring a sort of subtle balance to a gathering, a grounded solidity that I somehow feel is lacking in a purely female environment.

Of course, perhaps I have simply outgrown girl’s night, shocking as the thought may be. Last time, I wrote about the unique nature of this ritual, of how it sustained me through the trials of high school and beyond. Perhaps I have finally grown up; familiar enough now with the landscape of my own femininity, so that I no longer need the sisterhood of fellow explorers constantly by my side.

I am not sure what the secret is (so don’t get too cocky, you men out there). Yet there is an intangible difference between a meal and a feast. The latter has a sort of magnanimous flavor, don’t you think? It has an epic expansiveness about it. I guess it takes a while to seduce Dionysus, the god of wine and abundance--but that’s the quest I’m on, friends.

Brownies, Bridget Jones, and Boys

2009-08-28T11:30:00.000-07:00

Today I woke up at 6:30 (for no good reason other than that my body is a puritanically early riser) and after battling against consciousness for a few militant minutes, surrendered to the day and went down stairs to make some tea. An early morning “cuppa,” while still enveloped in a dressing gown and sporting eccentric bed hair, is one of my favorite moments of the day. And this morning was particularly scrumptious as I had the pleasant work of figuring out what to make for my third feast, coming up tomorrow evening. It is going to be a farewell meal and Girls Night for one of my dearest friends, Aleah, as she is heading off next week with her boyfriend to spent the next six months or so in Amsterdam (lucky buggers.)

Girls Night has become an institution among my Seattle friends and I. It all began in the rollercoaster years of high school, when we would ban all testosterone for an evening each week, watch goofy romantic comedies, paint our nails, compare notes on boys, sex, and love, and eat copious quantities of brownies with whipped cream.

This ritual was a balm for me, a haven of secretive femininity in which we all dared to confess our gravest sins and giggle over our silliest escapades. There was a unique dynamic created, in that space of undiluted feminine, one that wove between the therapeutic and the gleefully silly, yet was always supremely nourishing.

Over the years our evenings have often gone into hibernation, as we have all been sprinkled across the globe at different times and variously absorbed in our own lives. Yet Girls Nights still happen, more of a marking of passages now, than a weekly ritual. We’ll have one when someone’s leaving or returning, when a lot of shit slaps one of us across the face, during brake ups to sooth wounds, or when someone’s got a new guy and we want all the juicy details. As for tomorrow, I’m sure it won’t be the last Girls Night, but it’ll be bitter sweet nonetheless.

And so, as I leaf through recipe books this morning, I’m looking for something as warm and round and encircling as these evenings have always been for me. . . . Something communal and summery . . . I’m thinking a big skillet of seafood paella and a leafy green salad, some albariño wine and stewed peaches for dessert. We’ve come a long way from brownies and whipped cream, gastronomically at least.

Playing with Pasta

2009-08-24T17:35:00.001-07:00

The pork loin was in the oven and the guests had begun flocking to the back garden. In a sudden fit of turtle-like effacement I found myself not wanting to socialize but instead to hide in the kitchen, ensconced in a voluminous Swedish apron, rolling fresh pasta. However, several junior guests would not allow this, and soon I found myself the center of a small cluster of wide-eyed on-lookers. They were mesmerized by the process of rolling and cutting the pasta dough, watching intensely as I threaded, folded, and threaded again; gradually transforming the rough ball into a paper-thin sheet which I then shredded into strands of fettuccini.

Elijah, a little boy with a head of tight black curls, hurled a volley of questions at me: what was I doing? Why did it have to be rolled so many times? Was it not thin enough yet? And he appeared so entranced when I finally shredded a sheet of dough, that my heart and desire for hermitage melted and I offered to let him have a go.

Alas I should have remembered that children are sticklers for equal distribution of goods and services, and I soon found myself teaching the whole cluster of kids how to roll pasta. Now I don’t consider myself to be one of those women who is inherently good with kids, or particularly motherly, but as I helped the determined little Phoebe press a wad of pasta through the machine I suddenly found myself immensely gratified by the whole process. Perhaps the rather maternal Swedish apron I wore (which looks more like a frilly Mexican peasant dress than anything else) was subtly influencing my mind; or perhaps my raw wrangle of emotions was responsible. Either way, that evening socializing with children seemed a haven of comfort and sustenance.

Later I took off my apron, bolstered my courage with a glass of red, and went outside to socialize with the rest of the guests. But looking back on the evening, the thing that really etched itself into my memory is standing in the kitchen with those eager kids, playing gleefully with dough and rolling pasta together.

Trussed

2009-08-22T11:06:00.001-07:00

This morning I awoke to find Mum and Dad in the usual state of pre-entertaining frenzy: Dad out in the garden at sunrise with the weed whacker and Mum flitting around the house with various cleaning implements like a deranged, house-proud humming-bird. Taking stock of the chaos, I offered to get breakfast from town: croissants from the Swiss Bakery and coffee from Useless Bay Coffee Company, (otherwise referred to as my place of employ).

After breakfast I chopped together the fruit stuffing, placed it in between the halves of marinated loin, and then trussed the two pieces together with cotton twine, thinking absentmindedly that this process must be reminiscent of cinching up a pair of corsets on a corpse. Not that I have ever done such a thing, naturally.

Salt and Brine

2009-08-21T21:50:00.000-07:00

I have a much-thumbed tomb on my cookbook shelf, entitled The Food Lover’s Companion. It contains thousands of definitions of ingredients and culinary terms. Under the letter B, the definition for brine reads thus: “a strong solution of water and salt used for pickling or preserving foods.”

As I prepare a flavored brine for pork loin, as I crush fennel seeds and toss sprigs of thyme into the boiling salt water, I think about this mixture and how it perfectly mirrors my mood tonight. Numbed by half a bottle of red wine, I am partially pickled myself. And my lips still taste the saltiness of the tears that have been coursing down my cheeks. I want not just to marinade this pork loin, not just to use the sand-paper salting to tenderize this flesh. More that that I wish I could tenderize my heart. It feels hollow and hard and mean inside my chest. But some ingredients can’t be brined; some relationships resist preservation.

Hot Sauce and other Thoughts

2009-08-18T16:37:00.000-07:00

By the time I came in to the café for work on Sunday afternoon (I earn my bread by bashing coffee beans around and grilling sandwiches at a small artisan coffee house), our feast was already famous.

¨That homemade hot sauce sounded amazing¨ Jeff commented, as he layered cured meats onto a length of baguette.

¨What? . . . Oh, yeah, Sean’s brew. It was like bloody smelling salts,” I replied, grinning.

It had indeed been a potent concoction. “What’s this?” I asked Sean, bending over the stove and taking a hearty sniff at the pot only to find my nostrils assaulted with a powerful battalion of spices and vinegar. Spluttering and sneezing, I staggered back from the stove and lent against the counter until my vision cleared. “Oh, that’s just my hot sauce,” murmured Sean, quietly stirring another pot. “I got inspired to try making one while I was reading that book, the one about the history North Carolina barbecues. ¨I never knew that there was this huge debate about Eastern versus Piedmont styles of cooking. Apparently they’re like the Israelis and Palestinians of barbecue. They‘re not kidding.”

Back in the café, my thoughts began to wander from homemade hot sauce and on to the prospect of another feast . . . What would I make, I mused, shoving a tray of dishes into the industrial washer. I had promised Sean to make him British style pork pie, a delight that is sadly foreign to most people in this country. Maybe this weekend? And perhaps I should take advantage of the ripening blackberries that are rapidly blushing purple in this hot August sun? Blackberry infused vodka, I mumbled indecisively to myself.

I often spend days or even weeks in a delicious delirium of menu indecision.

A Precarious Ganache

2009-08-16T20:20:00.000-07:00

“Oh shit, oh bollocks . . . It’s separating. Look, the chocolate and cream is going all icky. I think it's something to do with milk and butter fat in the cream,” I mumbled. “I must have heated it too much. Bugger.”

I could feel my body beginning to tense up and my brow furrowing deeply. Not now, I silently begged the universe, please God don’t let my chocolate ganache turn into a complete disaster. Not after such a glorious meal.

We had just finished wreaking havoc on the food. The big cast iron skillet that had, only an hour ago, been weighed down by Sean’s epic chicken pot pie was dog-licking clean, my burnt carrots with thyme and melted goat brie were reduced to a couple remaining orange wands, and the beef, peppers, and collard greens were in a similarly diminished state. Conversely, our bellies were happily full of the feast. But I had sternly admonished my guests to save a corner of space in their interiors for the two desserts which I had so carefully prepared. But now, alas, the evening’s perfection is in danger of being spoilt by th mischievous and uncooperative ganache icing destined for the almond chocolate mousse cake.

And then I paused. Just as I was heading headlong into on of my kitchen meltdowns, I suddenly stopped. No, this was not going to work. I was categorically not going to spend the next year cooking as a competitive sport. It’s the very first feast and you’re already forgetting what this is about, one of my more balanced and sane inner voices said. Now, just calm down, breath, and remember that everyone is having a lovely time. A broken ganache may bruise your culinary ego, but no one else really gives a shit.

As if in confirmation, Cory, who had been strumming idly on his guitar, suddenly broke out into song, everyone else lolling about on the sofas and chairs, airing their distended bellies and sipping cups of espresso. And so I just let go. I put the offending ganache into the freezer for a time out, took a swig from my glass of Pimm’s (a cooling, gin-based English punch), and beamed around at everyone in the room: Bennett was deep in philosophical conversation with Kammie, the usual knowing grin playing at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Aleah and Reilly were curled up together on the couch, and Cory’s little daughters were running about like colorful, mobile Easter eggs, all blond hair and summer dresses.

After pottering about the whipped cream and peach tart, I went back to the freezer to examine my ganache. To my utter delight, a small miracle occurred. As I took the mixture out onto the counter and began beating it, the lumpy globs of chocolate and swimming pools of butter disappeared, morphing into a luscious, silken gloss.

Perhaps the Pimm’s had clouded my mind, but as I iced the cake, I thought about the year ahead and decided, with great satisfaction, that the magically mended ganache must be a very, very good omen indeed.

Cheers. And another sip of Pimm’s to that!

The Kitchen

2009-08-14T22:00:00.000-07:00

The inaugural feast is approaching (this Saturday night which may seem like cheating but, as Sean reasoned, we plan to be eating long into the wee hours of Sunday morning), and my fridge is groaning under the weight of marinading beef and pork, ears of corn, bulging bags of veggies, and the makings of two desserts: an almond chocolate mousse cake and a French fruit tart (my favorite recipe from Anne Willan's From My Chateau Kitchen cookbook). Am just hoping the kitchen can take this much weight for the next 24 hours. Breath . . .

The Beginning

2009-08-13T11:44:00.000-07:00

Sunday August 9, 2009. I sat transfixed, eyes wide and riveted on the massive cinema screen. Meryl Streep took a bite of buttery fish and tossed her head back in a wild chortle. Julia Child laughed. My soul squealed in delight. This was categorically, without a doubt, my film. It was one of those films that come along so rarely, one of those whose protagonists reflect something incredibly essential within you.

I didn’t merely identify with the two main women in Julie & Julia, I felt myself fused to them. And for that hour and a half I seriously believed them both to be my cinematic and culinary soul mates: the unadulterated love of food and cooking, the contrasting banality of daily life, their secret life-sustaining dreams, and above all their hunger.

In this movie, Meryl Streep plays the famous America cook, Julia Child, who studied the length and breadth of French cuisine while living in Paris with her husband. Then she brought this seemingly unattainable refinement to Americans in her formidable work Mastering the Art of French Cooking, as well as through her TV cooking show The French Chef.

But Julia is only half of the story. The other character is a modern-day American woman who is grappling with the age-old conflict between dreams and reality. Having given up on her vision of writing with nothing but a shelved, unfinished novel, Julie now lives in a shitty little apartment in New York with her husband and cat, while slogging away daily at an unfulfilling, frankly demeaning, cubicle job.

In the end Julie is rescued by her love of cooking. She needs a project and a deadline, so she takes on the momentous challenge of cooking every one of Julia Child’s 524 recipes within one year. And, after many kitchen catastrophes, marital upheaval, and some insanely good food, she accomplishes her goal. Oh, and becomes a legitimate, celebrated writer in the process.

I once heard someone say that jealousy is nothing to be ashamed of; it simply reveals what you truly want. I like this interpretation of what I had always assumed to be a dirty emotion. And it greatly comforted me as I walked out of the cinema with my boyfriend. Because, in addition to having a new movie to add to my top ten list, and in addition to having two new fantasy soul sisters, I was wildly, stomach achingly jealous of both Julie Powell and Julia Child.

* * *

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid there’s about a 45 minute wait,” the hostess apologized. Hmmm . . . Sean and I looked at each other, sighed wistfully at the dining room—at the people crammed around little wooden tables, each laden with hot, thin-crusted and fire licked pizzas—thanked the hostess and trudged back out onto the street.

“Well,” murmured Sean, “there’s a new Thai place we could try.” So we headed down the road and ducked through a doorway into the surreal world of Long. Both famished by now, we ordered eagerly from the rather wifty waitress who glided up to our table and absentmindedly recited the specials. And then we waited for the food; reminiscing fondly together about the latest meal we’d cooked at Sean’s place.

“That chicken,” I murmured, lost for adequate words to describe the divinely barbequed wings, the sweet-spicy, subtly nuanced marinade, and the impossibly succulent flesh. “And those potatoes,” Sean added, remembering the crispy, rosemary roasted wedges, each of which gave way on the tongue to an ethereal, interior lightness.

“You know,” Sean mused, “there’s just something about good home cooking . . . you just can’t beat it.” I nodded eagerly. This was our favorite subject: the strange and inexplicable superiority of home made meals over even the most decadent, elaborate restaurant fare. But just as we were warming to the topic our entrees arrived.

I took a bite. “Oh no, murmured Sean, setting his chop sticks down, “you don’t like it do you.”

“What? I mean, well, I didn’t say anything yet,” I argued defensively.

“Yeah, well I could tell, by your face . . . .you, you made a sort of grimace.”

I sighed and poked at the noodles. "Huh, didn’t know I was so transparent. Well, to be honest no, it’s well, kinda flat, if you know what I mean." He nodded sympathetically: “It’s just like we were saying. Mine’s not that great either.” We finished hurriedly, paid the bill, and fled.

Returning to the car, we paused briefly to duck into a deli and buy some chocolate. This would serve to drown out the residue of our unfulfilling dinner and to raise our spirits. It always works. “We should cook more of our own food,” Sean said, slipping a comforting arm around my waist. “Definitely,” I agreed, “a lot more.”

* * *

And that is how I come to be embarking on this crazy adventure—tossed out to sea by a strange mixture of jealousy and desire and love. Jealousy of two semi-fictionalized female heroines, desire to apprentice myself to the craft of writing, and a deep, all consuming love of food and cooking. So, raise your glasses my friends: to a year of food, feasting, and friendship.

An Explanation

2009-08-13T11:41:00.000-07:00

Why am I undertaking such a laborious endeavor, one with the potential of starving my bank balance and fattening my hips? The reasons are manifold; many are irrational or at least highly eccentric, while others are still, no doubt, hidden in the recesses of my sub-conscious, waiting for a prime moment to reveal themselves. However, for those who need a better answer, I have attempted to outline below the immediate preceding to this mad adventure. Good night and good feasting!