Vanilla Garlic

Temperamental Disposition - Homemade Honey Mustard

2012-01-24T06:00:00.000-08:00

-Sarcasm: The primary building block of society. Mustard: possibly a distant second?-

“What are you –“

“Doing?” I cut Fiancé off before he could finish his sentence. “Mortar and pestling mustard seeds in my molcajete that actually has more uses than that of a decorative book end.”

“I was going to say ‘stupid,’ but okay, that explains things too. So why aren’t you using the food processor to grind them up?”

“Shut up. I tried that and the blades sit too high to pulverize the seeds and for some godforsaken reason that I cannot fathom I actually don’t own a spice slash coffee grinder to do this. So,” pause to slam in a few more pounds with the pestle against the crack of the tiny black balls, “molcajete.”

-Obviously...-

It was one of those projects I was for some reason suddenly obsessed with. You know how it is. Some random little idea for a recipe, activity, or whathaveyou finagles its way into your brain and without warning you're buried deep in every book about the subject and performing strange experiments in your kitchen.

Out of nowhere last week I was overcome with the urge to make homemade mustard. Not that mustard is my favorite ingredient and slather it on everything I eat. I mean, I like it and I go through a fair share of Dijon. At least, as much as any other average person. Yet here I was in my newly tiled kitchen with polished gas range and any number of fancy bits of equipment beating mustard seeds with a rock like some kind of culinary savage.

-The inhumanity of it all!-

Why I let these urges take control of me I will never know.

Oh wait. I do. Because it’s fun.

Absence and Secret Behavior: Cherry-Coconut Oatmeal

2012-01-17T06:00:00.000-08:00

-We all have our little secret habits.-

Fiance is out for the weekend for his duty with the Army Reserves - an overnighter that he's not sure of the purpose of but that he is unequivocally required to attend. He was up around four in the morning this Saturday dressed in full camo with rucksack slung over his shoulder. He pecked me goodbye and reminded me that, yes, four am was something that existed and that he would be back late Sunday night. Then off he went while I drifted back to sleep.

And what a wonderful sleep it was.

It may sound a little terrible, but I love his reserve duty weekends that include an overnighter or require him to get up so early in the morning that it can barely be justifiably called morning.

-See? Sounds terrible. No loving mate should say such a thing regardless of how true it is.-

But then again it's hard for me to argue with the fact that I get the entire bed all to myself. After all, there's something to be said for sprawling. Tonight I won't have to share the covers with anyone but the cats and they don't complain when I spindle the sheets around myself into a fluffy cocoon of fleece, down, and flannel. No stray elbows are going to knock into my ribs and cause me to wake up with strange indigo bruises of somnambu-happenstance. And, though I adore him, Fiance's snoring is often mistaken for semi trucks downshifting on a highway, which, as you can imagine, doesn't make sleeping easy. Or feasible.

So yes; I slept well last night and I will sleep even better tonight.

About Relationships: Champagne Cheese Plate

2012-01-10T06:00:00.000-08:00

-The following discussion may be easier to read and deal with while eating cheese and drinking champagne due to possible bouts of self-reflection on your part. Just a heads up.-

I had a recent conversation with a co-worker about relationships a subject that we all can assert we know everything about and probably know what is best for everyone except ourselves. Because, hey, let's be honest. It's easier to think you can analyze another person's romantic situation since you're not the one emotionally invested in it (or are you?).

We started discussing various aspects about what makes a relationship work. What do we, as individuals need to do. No situational assessment here. Simply what does a person need to be aware of to make romance more than a fling?

Here's my personal down and dirty opinion.

This Other Person is a Unique Individual:
All those adorable little quirks that you used to fawn over and think were so adorable are about to turn into gargantuan annoyances. No longer will those stray Mountain Dew cans collecting underneath the patio chair become something you roll your eyes at with an “Oh you…” and a wave of your finger in jest. They become a glaring bad habit that begins to scratch at your calves with needle-like claws. Forgetting to clean the cat box, again, becomes tedious. As the odious smells screeches for your attention like a cold fan belt on a winter morning that announces to all your neighbors, “I’m off to work at 6AM! Sorry for the wake up call!” you realize that - holy crap! - you are forever committed to this bad habit.

And you better realize how damn lucky you are. (Just a head’s up: That’s how you are supposed to feel. If you don’t then some serious re-evaluation needs to occur before you strut down that aisle.) If this is the person you truly are willing to commit to then that means accepting each and every albatross about to be strung around your neck.

It means realizing that you will be putting up with their horrible taste in television shows (a new reason to start reading again during those nights when they monopolize the TV with another documentary about mysteries of space or re-runs of Stark Trek: Deep Space Nine). Get ready for the fact that they may not be able to fathom your love of Bravo’s nightly trash-programming and Doctor Who. Accept that they may never fully grasp your obsession with royal biographies and NPR or understand why mayonnaise really does belong on everything sandwich.

Brace yourself that this person’s likes and dislikes may evolve with time. No one is static; frozen in a perpetual state of sameness. They will find new jobs, new hobbies, new friends, new ideas and outlooks. This is all normal – indeed it’s possible that the fundamentals of this person may shift. Yet people are like renovated buildings – the façade may change with new paint and appearances; the supports may shift, come down, and be rebuilt, yet the foundation of that building always remains unchanged.

Your job is to help keep that building in shape. Support it, give it a new touch of paint here and there, and perhaps show it off a bit. In return you get a warm place to live and be happy.

On 2011: Maple-Bourbon Hot Chocolate

2012-01-03T06:00:00.000-08:00

-Because chocolate and hooch are a fabulous way to hitch off the old year.-

Last year on my New Year's post I dwelled on the importance of resolutions. That, no, I don't believe that they're worthless if you pick goals that are both achievable, self improving, and allow for a bit of fun. When accomplished they're small lampposts that illuminate the year in your life. Tiny memories that may not be significant in your grand adventure but that you will remember regardless. Memories to reflect on, skills gathered to call upon, knowledge gained to draw from.

2011's list was short and sweet:

Learn to play mahjong.
Learn to make beef bourguignon.
Learn to make macarons.
Finish the thesis.
Burn a copy of the finished thesis out of spite.
Start that project with Stephanie.
Perfect making crepes.

As of today, 2012, here's how it looks

~~Learn to play mahjong.~~
Learn to make beef bourguignon.
~~Learn to make macarons.~~
~~Finish the thesis.~~
~~Burn a copy of the finished thesis out of spite.~~
~~Start that project with Stephanie.~~
Perfect making crepes.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

-Still, I do wish I had gotten to those crepes. Probably could have found time if it wasn't for all the bourbon.-

Still, it's not complete. This could be viewed as a failure.

Here's the thing about resolutions that I didn't get into last year, though. If you don't do them all, it's not the end of the world. Don't kick yourself if you didn't learn to scuba dive, make homemade sausage, or take that road trip to Santa Fe.

Life won't end.

Things come up. Deaths, births, changes in work, new friends, new projects, new goals, travel... The Unexpected Happens.

Total Clarity. Then You Fall on Your Ass: Cheese Bikkies

2011-12-27T06:00:00.000-08:00

-The remedy for both bruised butt and ego.-

I am not Michele Kwan. Let’s just be clear about that. Hell, I’m not even one of the Peanuts Gang, who all seem to be able to glide across the ice with ever fluid, though somewhat repetitive motions. (I am, however, a far better dancer than any of their lot.)

No, rather my ice skating is as awkward and clumsy as a first date. My knees shake and swivel like a teetering toy top at the end of its run while my arms flail about in unstable gyres. There will be stops made only by the fact that there is a dependable wall - one of Gods of the ice rink that all beginners prostrate themselves on time and again - in front of me.

Yet, I never fall.

Or, well, rarely. I rarely ever fall.

-I'm not clumsy. I just have an endearing lack of self preservation.-

Thing is for all that tottering around the ice and almost taking out a few small children who have no concept of one-way rink traffic I actually have good enough balance to keep my rubber-boned ankles vertical. I blame it on years of gymnastics in college carefully running balancing beams and flying through the air where having a firm understanding of my center of gravity meant the difference between a solid landing and dreadful tumble like a quail shot out of the sky. I can stay up and, given a few minutes to recall my younger years in the 90’s on roller blades, can eventually move with enough grace (for lack of a better word) to look like I know what I’m doing.

Frontwards and backwards, none of it becomes a problem after a good twenty minutes of finding the steels on my feet. You won’t see a lutz or spin, but you won’t see me falling face first.

So, like every year, I had arranged some time to go ice skating. Fiance’ stayed behind on account of, “I don’t want to spend an hour falling on my ass,” which meant I would go alone with my friend Mike who was better on the ice than me and eager to bundle up for a bit of weekend winter sport.

We walked many blocks from Mike's place to the rink allowing the stroll to warm us up. The air was crisper than a wafer cookie and each puff of hot breath hung long in the air like small persistent ghosts following us down the street.

Too Much PC: Curried Popcorn

2011-12-20T06:00:00.000-08:00

-Happy *Insert Proper Holiday Here*-

"Do we need to put stuff up for Ramadan?" asked Pamela. We were putting up the various holiday decorations at work and while she began to string garland through the big Spruce tree I tried my darndest to remember which symbol was which on a dreidel. It was my first job out of college and after four years of spinning the darned thing I still could barely remember which was which.

"No, it was in July and August this year. Lunar calendar, I think," I replied.

"Still, don't we have to represent it?" she asked.

"What? Why?" I tossed the toy onto the table and listened to it playfully whir against the tabletop before teetering over with the symbol for Nun face up.

"To be all PC and all that," she replied.

"It was months ago. That would be like hanging your stockings and breaking out the nog in May. There's no point. Plus, anyone who came in who was knowledgeable about the holiday would realize that it was misguided PC. Or, well, just think us idiots. If we wanted to honestly represent it we should have done so at the right time. I didn't know when it was and we don't celebrate all the holidays anyways. It's not like we lit candles for Diwali or anything this year."

-Totally dropped the Diwali ball. My bad.-

"Well, at least we have a Christmas tree so people know what we celebrate," she said in most self-assured way, as if setting herself stalwart against imagined throngs of people bashing down our door to declare a War on Christmas. "I'm so tired of hearing Happy Holidays, when people mean Merry Christmas."

Pamela is the heavily religious type. Rather liberal on many social issues (you generally are if you work in social work as we do), but still strictly religious. She was the type who wore tacky holiday sweaters with fashionable abandon, pulsed with the thrum of her beliefs, and would lecture you about cursing if you said, "Oh Jesus," in her presence. Still her plump face, blond hair that fell to her waist in wheat-colored wave, violin chord voice, and amber disposition made her endearing to almost everyone.

"But not everyone here does celebrate Christmas. I think that, well, Christmas has evolved into a family holiday for a lot of people. It doesn't have quite the religious connotation I think it had," I replied as I tried to get pencil thin candle to stand straight in the menorah.

"What do you mean?" asked Pamela.

Just. Stop.: Eggnog Upside-Down Fruit Cake

2011-12-13T06:00:00.000-08:00

-Because sometime venting helps me...-

"So how did the parsnip recipe work this time?" asked my friend and cookbook partner, Stephanie.

"Not so good. The first was too rich. The second was tasted like nothing at all. The third actually set off the smoke alarm." I sighed. "Honestly, if this recipe goes any farther south I'll be cooking in Mexico. I am beyond stressed right now."

"Mexican Mac and Cheese? Hmm..."

"Oooh. Yes. Jot that down. But, anyways, Mutual Friend X keeps bugging me. He can't cook at all. At. All. He wants to help test and to be honest I don't think he can handle it."

"Mutual Friend X couldn't handle a shot of raspberry schnapps."

"HA! Awesome. But yeah, when you come up I want your help working on this one because I am about to seriously go apeshit with these parsnips and club a bitch in the throat with one. I highly doubt the publisher wants that sort of PR."

"All press is good press, right?"

"Unless you're a despot or being profiled in People magazine for stretch marks or something."

"Indeed," she concurred.

-In this issue of People: celebrities who need your undying attention.-

Favors: Cranberry Jam

2011-12-06T06:00:00.000-08:00

-A bit of thanks for everyone.-

"So what kind of ceremony were you planning to have?" asked Kate, my and Fiance's friend and wedding planner. A tall brunette with librarian's glasses and a designer's wardrobe poignantly market with Kate Spade (natch) I watched her mentally tick off various aspects of the big day as she took stock of what then, depending on our answers, needed to be done.

"Um, just a short one I think?" Kate gave me a rather concerned glare. I looked to Fiance who had conveniently turned away and proceeded to examine the rather impressive and near-to-scale and intimidating recreation of Stonehenge that our host, John, had built a few years back on a gardening whim so as to appear unaware of the question. I turned back to Kate, "Like, ten minutes long. Or so?"

"Yes, but what kind? Like a sand ceremony or what?" she queried harder, hoping her example would spark some kind of flame in my nuptial noggin. Sadly, her flint was weak. Or, more likely, I lack the tinder.

-Or a bit of both...-

"Kate, I have no idea what the words you are saying mean."

"Okay, how about a chocolate and wine ceremony?" The C-Word got Fiance's attention but he didn't know the question. We met her, this time together, with blank stares. She sighed and rubbed her temples. "Okay, it's a ceremony that uses chocolate to symbolize the bitter times and wine to celebrate the sweet times. Very fun, very unique, very foodie. I'd think you guys would like it."

Fiance and I exchanged looks, nodded, and gave our assent to the planner that yes, that sounded lovely. She then began to talk about processions (we'll have a short one), corsages (just for me as Fiance will be in military dress), wedding party (none, it's a guest list of 50 for Christ's sake), and so on. The bulk of the exchange was poor Kate lobbing darts at the board of our collective likes and dislikes and seeing what stuck.

I began to suspect that my lack of answers to apparently the most basic questions about various wedding considerations was beginning to exasperate her. The entire concept of planning a wedding to us is probably more confusing to us than reading sanskrit, contemplation of the universe and our place within it, and Michele Bachman. Still, she just mostly smiled through the whole thing and like a mother leading a toddler through a crowded place delicately made sure I knew what I was doing and that Fiance and I made sound decisions that would be right for us.

Who knew so much went into one of these hooplahs?

Social Graces: Eggnog & Cranberry Scones

2011-11-29T06:00:00.000-08:00

-Social filters are so lame anyways. Not like scones which are never lame.-

I was raised right and generally like to think I'm with rather decent manners. I never push my way through a crowd, but rather gingerly shoulder my way past to with the appropriate "Pardon me. Excuse me," as is expected. I feign timorousness when the situation is proper and speak out when it is expected or necessary. I hold doors, always smile, and genially try to be cordial to everyone.

Then again, we all have our bad days. I've been that person who gets in the car and takes personal offense when the person behind me thinks I'm going to slow - which I probably am - and decided to go around and get in front of me. I respond with anger, taking this pass as an insult to my ability to drive, and speed up determined to prove to EVERYONE that I am not the slow, inattentive driver I am.

I'm also the type who detests poor phone skills and will deliberately make my revulsion apparent. For example, I may or may not have been taken aside at work and told that it is not appropriate to chastise one of our more annoying vendors for always every. single. time. interrupting me on the phone.

Then there are the days where I don't just completely toss all sense of propriety out to the wind, I club it in the back of the head with a shovel and then throw it in the back seat of my car to be buried in a train yard.

This is what happened yesterday. When I told a baby to go fuck itself.

-Yes, I'm a model human being.-

Now, it wasn't the baby's fault. I admit that he was innocent and not really the problem. His father, who was an ass and whom I did tell to go fuck off, was.

It had already been a bad day. I mean a really bad day. The kind where you a negative energy of pure bitch fury just radiates off of you like heat from fire. Everyone knows to just leave you alone and the obvious scowl is enough to deter questions and well-intended comfort which would only add fuel to the flames.

Yes, it was that kind of day. Thank God, the work day was over and I only had to run to the market for some mussels so I could test a dish for the cookbook. I had called ahead and checked if they had any mussels.

"Two pounds? Yeah. We have plenty."

I asked if they were sure and if they could hold some for me. They explained that no, they couldn't do that for seafood but that it shouldn't be a problem. I told them fine and that I would only be an hour and that they would please just try to keep me and two pounds of mussels in mind.

I arrived, earlier than I had told them and walked up to the fish counter where there were no mussels.

Roommate Hunting: Coco-Banana Bread

2011-11-22T06:00:00.000-08:00

-That one time in life where you have to let strangers into your home. And then live with them.-

"i am would liking to know if te room is still 4 rent? please send picture, address, phone number, full name to me so i can do need some research on the place. please consider the House mine. -Jessica"

Reading it I could actually feel a small part of my brain wretch as small blood clot formed from pure frustration struck it. In fact, I'm pretty sure I lost some grade school algebra in a small grammatically-induced stroke.

I deleted the e-mail that was most likely a scam anyways. I then edited the Craigslist ad I had put up, and with no dramatic rapidity or concern added the word "intelligent" into the description of the would-be roommate Fiance and I were hunting for.

I'm sorry, but if I have to live with someone then that person better have a firm grasp of syntax and punctuation.

The search for a new roommate - a situation brought about through fiscal necessity as Fiance and I were eager to start scrimping away more fervently for a down payment - had never been this hard before. Then again, the last time I was hunting for a roommate the economy was good and Bravo had yet to start airing anything starring an attention-whoring housewife. There were simply far fewer ads on Craigslist to compete with for potential roommates.

Of course, those who did seem to read the ad weren't exactly the ones who fit the description. In fact, I imagine that none of the potential applicants had actually read it in full. I use the word "potential" rather literally. Only one person have I actually deemed to meet and that one was more out of desperation than anything else. For the most part many of the applicants are failing to get past the preliminary phone conversation or e-mail due in part to grammar so blunt you could club a horse to death with it; or phone skills that demonstrate a third grade education, a drinking problem, or both.

-It's what happens when teacher drinks too much before class.-

The ad reads pretty darn simple. Clean gay couple with two cats. No drugs. You pay rent on time. Clean neighborhood. Attic and a washer and dryer are available. So on and so forth. Overall, it's the place I would have loved to live in but couldn't afford seven years ago. Thus, by my standards, it's a room in a house that people should be knocking down the door for.

Instead, I get people who call and ask about thier pet dog.

"The ad did say no pets," I replied. "I suppose if the dog is trained..."

"Well he's an inside dog, but he only poops on the floor every so often. He also hates cats."

"Everything you just said is a problem," I replied.

"The pooping or the cats?"

"Yes."

"You have cats then?" he asked.

I sighed audibly. "It's in the ad that I do. They are indoor cats."

"Can you put them outside?"

There are times, in fact, when it is perfectly acceptable to just hang up on someone and it not be considered rude.

Chill and Warmth: Chocolate & Ginger Cookies

2011-11-15T06:00:00.000-08:00

-Something toasty on a crazy cold day.-

I'm sitting on the floor next to my oven right now typing this because I am frozen. The pilot light has yet to be lit in the new place (and by pilot light I mean odd fuse-like device that needs to be installed in the electric heater; oh if only it were simply striking a match). The only source of heat right now is the layers of sweaters bulking up my wiry frame.

I mean, what else do you do when it is under 40 degrees Fahrenheit in your dwelling?

I am also somewhat relying on the ambient heat given off from my cantankerous oven. It's as senile as the average Floridian retiree and puts out heat based on similar whims. It's something that must definitely be looked at but right now it's at least reliably baking my cookies (double entendre that all you want).

I actually did buy a space heater, though. Some giant ceramic tower device that puts out more heat than an alley cat in August. Unfortunately, it's more intelligent than I am as programing it correctly is more difficult that setting the clock on the VCR my mom had in the 90's.

The whole situation has left me only the teeniest bit absolutely livid right now.

-I would be more upset if I wasn't buried under quilts.-

As I shivered in my new place the only thing that seemed to make any sense was to bake cookies. It would force the oven to (hopefully) grumble to life and heat the kitchen, which luckily has a door to it and therefore I can trap the heat and hotbox myself.

But cookies have another function - that of comfort. What other food turns a house into a home? Indeed, chocolate chip cookies are the first thing I ever learned to make. I have great memories of my mom teaching my brothers and I how to bake them. We'd always do it in fall and winter when turning on the oven and hot cookies was the only sane way to warm us up in our brisk 50 F Southern California winters. (It doesn't sound bad, but when that's what you grow up with that, well, 50F sets the standard of tolerable cold. Now that I live in Northern California where it hits an arctic death of 20F.) We would carefully crack eggs and beat butter, and my mom would pretend not to notice me and my siblings sneaking fingerfuls of cookie dough.

A more innocent time before salmonella scares and kids learned by making mistakes and hurting themselves and not being protected from every little thing, and parents were terrified that the entire would was out to destroy their young.

Settling In: How to De-Seed a Pomegranate

2011-11-08T06:00:00.000-08:00

-A simple meal during a complicated week.-

Moving day is the worst. It’s heavy, tiresome, expensive, and frustrating. The result is a bad back and a strained bank account, neither of which recover quickly and require at least a few days of rest.

But no rest for you! Oh no! Those boxes must be unpacked. Walls must be painted. Nails must be secured and pictures hung for all guests – because you want to show off your dazzling new place as soon as possible – to admire.

It’s tough work. No question about it. Yet it’s probably the part of moving we all actually enjoy. With each box emptied and broken down a small piece of your life comes back into order. A shelf organized brings calm. Clothes hung in the closet means you aren’t hunting for underwear out of stray boxes like some real estate blessed vagabond. The TV unloaded means movies and background noise when you unpack everything else. Let’s not forget the reconnection to society when the cable guy, a veritable angel walking amongst humanity, comes to hook up the Internet. And, of course, what home cook doesn’t love invoking order upon a spice cabinet?

Each little task brings you closer to evolving your house to a home. New adventures, memories, etc., and the fervent hope that things in this space will go well. It’s that time when you can make statements like, “This is where I will be happy forever and nothing bad will happen,” and you can almost believe them.

Though who knows?

-Hopefully, no more disasters.-

As it stands the house is transforming into what Fiancee’ and I want it to be. The living room is inviting with therapeutic bamboo green walls and personal bits of decor that range from framed post-it notes with cryptic dime store philosophy and homemade rorschach prints to the antique Remington Rand I wrote my college applications on. (Oh god, I just dated myself).

The furniture has all been smartly arranged though there is still that corner we’re not sure what to do with. The bedroom is tight; not in square footage but in how eloquently it has been arranged for functionality. Our bathroom is glittering white, almost sterile – which is something I prefer in a bathroom – with hints of azure blue here and there.

Some things are still standing issues. The pilot light still needs to be lit, and, dear landlord, please hurry on that as the air is beginning to chill. A door jam needs to be added in the front room before someone (i.e., me) accidentally pops a doorknob through the drywall like a small wrecking ball. We need another smoke detector because Jesus Christ I will not be almost burned to death in my sleep again.

Writing a Cookbook: Sauteed Persimmons

2011-11-01T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Something without pasta. Thank god.-

Writing a cookbook is an interesting venture. Things are often unpredictable, which is both exhilarating and somewhat exhausting.

Take, for example, the speed at which things move in the publishing world. Sometimes things go achingly slow like the near year it took to cobble together a proposal that Stephanie and I were proud to put our names to. At other times things move at breakneck speed like when we actually sold the book during a hurricane three-day publisher bidding war that literally kept me tied to my phone and e-mail for a good 72 hours.

Details are insane. I'm learning publishing slang. I'm doing my best to go over each recipe with a fine tooth comb only to come back the next day and find new details I forgot to include. I'm familiarizing myself with copyright laws. The contracts are so long and confusing they practically cause vertigo and require steady footing, not to mention reliable people at your back to prop you up and hold a magnifying glass for that print under the dotted line you're so eager to sign. Lucky, the peeps at Little, Brown and Company and my agent, Janis Donnaud, are all kick ass people who I know have my back.

Organization is key. Numerous spreadsheets have been crafted, accounts created, and documents shared. There are notebooks. Literally notebooks. Plural. To keep things in check.

In fact, this organization has been crazy especially when it comes to the many and beloved testers I am so happy to be working with. When Stephanie and I put out a call for volunteer testers we expected a humble number of emails to eek their way to us.

We definitely did not expect 300+ volunteers.

-Words cannot express my shock and gratitude.-

To all the testers out there who are currently testing or waiting to test a recipe, know that we adore you. You guys are the heroes of this book. The organization is stressful but worth it as I've had an amazing privilege to get to know many of you personally as you share stories with me and we converse about cooking, cheese, and our families. We love every typo you find, every recipe quirk, and we adore the great feedback were getting (almost all of it positive).

I know many of you have sent e-mails to us wanting to test a recipe and are still waiting for a response! I beg your patience. Between blogging, my day job, moving, the wedding, and cooking and testing it's been hard to get through the deluge of e-mails I have coming in like a digital tsunami. Know that it's a current I am slowly swimming against and that I will address each and every one in the coming weeks.

And the testing itself!? What a whirlwind! There have been some amazing things coming out of this kitchen. Ingredients like persimmons, truffle oil, arugula, vanilla beans, shallots, and guanciale have all had a place here and each one warmly admitted to the fold like a new member marrying into the family (Ack! The wedding similes are creeping in!).

Admittedly, there has been one or two recipes that have given off an indolent thud as they hit the bottom of the trash can, never to see the light of day. The good with the bad and all that noise.

Oh, but the cheeses. *Sigh* The cheeses...

Sure, my cheese bill may have been more than my rent this month, but it is so worth it. Dolcelatte, Keen's Cheddar, Abbaye del Be'loc, Feta, Nicasio Square, Gruyere, Point Reyes, and chalk-white slabs of Monte Enebro have all had a chance to dance on my plate.

Moving: Maple Pumpkin Cake + Giveaway

2011-10-25T06:00:00.000-07:00

-The only thing I could make amidst the chaos.-

New house. New house.

No, sadly, not my own house. Finances aren't that perfect. Yet. Fiancee and I are renting a house. Our first actually. It feels like we're moving up in the world a bit.

Since this crazy flood-slash-mold issue isn't getting resolved properly anytime soon and the (now ex) roommate is stuck in legal battles with the complex owners, Fiancee and I have decided to finally just cut bait from the whole thing and run.

And running, it seems, usually comes to be a good thing rental-wise. I seem to land in better and better places every time a disaster destroys the last one. When God closes the door in your old apartment (or burns it down, or floods it, or infects it with mold, or buries it under a roof collapse, or explodes it in the neighbor's meth lab explosion), a window in a much better property opens. Or so it seems to be for me.

Maybe I'm just jinxed when it comes to real estate?

-I know I'm not jinxed with maple syrup at least. (Image from The Federation of Quebec Maple Farmers.)-

Either way, the new place is bigger. Huge kitchen with more light than a glow stick factory, a gas range, and a new fridge. No dishwasher (ick) but washer and dryer (yay!). Yard big enough to have - dare I say? - a dog. Or better yet, a lemon tree?!

Unfortunately, the only problem with moving is the move. I frickin' hate it. And though with age comes the luxury of no longer relying on friends with trucks and finally being able to just hire movers everything still must be carefully sorted, boxed, labeled, hauled, unpacked, and reorganized and I just hate hate HATE it.

The back and forth from house to truck? Lord, I practically wilt at thought of it. I may have kitchen hands that proudly bear scars from peeling flats of plums with a pairing knife or boiling sugar, but damn if they aren't dainty things that simply detest carrying heavy loads.

The other thing I loathe besides all those boxes is that they have imprisoned within them the things I need. Particularly my kitchen; all of it properly wrapped in the daily paper and smartly stacked. A few exceptions exist: two plates, some forks, a large bowl, and a baking pan I found under the bathroom sink for whatever reason I can't figure out why.

The Engagement: Persimmon Spice Cake

2011-10-18T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Persimmons announce the arrival of fall, amongst other things.-

I'm told by many of female friends that most women have been planning their wedding since they were little girls marrying off their Barbie dolls. Many of them admit they are, in fact, some of these women. They know the china pattern, the first song, how they'll dance with their father, and what the dress will look like down to a sequin-sewn T. Some women already have their favorite florist on speed dial just in case. I know bakers who attest that some brides in question have called them about cake flavors before even informing the parents about the big news.

The fairer sex may just be a tad crazy, it seems.

Men (well, maybe most men, I can't speak on behalf of my sex or sexual preference) never think about this. I certainly never have past the fact of, "Dear Lord, if I ever want to do one of these giant circus weddings with 300 people please let the flower-and-glitter-laden gazebo I take my vows under collapse on top of me." Because, honestly, I'm not a wedding fan; and though I have been to some rather lovely ones and enjoyed myself I have had no desire to really take part in the whole affair.

Now, apparently, I have to do another wedding. Mine.

Because BF proposed.

And I said yes.

-Tungsten with an abalone shell band. Because I know 99.9% of you want to know. The other 0.01% are my straight male readers.-

So BF Fiancée, has done the deed, the family members on both sides have been called. Cheers all around because I'm the happiest boy in the world right now. I got the Masters, the travel, the book deal, and the boy. Life is good. Like hardcore, knock-on-wood, finding $20 in your pocket, thank you baby Jesus good.

Fiancée and I were having our first night to just sit down and unwind since I had returned to China. We had a lovely night at home watching movies and eating a dish I was testing for the cookbook. Eventually we retired for the night. Suddenly he grabbed me close and he told me he loved me and that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.

Then in the comfort and warmth of our home he got on one knee and asked me to marry him.

Never have I met someone who matches me so well, who can make me laugh, who can charm my parents, who can calm me down when I panic, who thinks about my needs, who sets me straight or humors me when I need it and knows which response to give, who takes out the trash without being asked, who can make a fine cocktail, who supports me in everything I do, who makes my rockets fly, and who enjoys cooking and eating an epic meal.

Scent and Spice: Figgy Chai Muffins

2011-10-11T06:00:00.000-07:00

-I so rarely ever start with lists...-

Some things you may not know about me:

I hate when people call me Gary. Given, I’ll use the name Gary when the kid at Jamba Juice asks me for it as they always mishear me and shout the name Derek when my order is ready. Other than that, no, please do not call me Gary. I will have to punch you in the throat.
I don’t have a type. When I was dating my only pre-reqs were that any potential mates had no criminal history and didn’t do drugs (if it was a hookup then these rules were negligibly a bit more lax). Things like race and body type aren’t huge factor to me; personality is. Points if potential mate can pull off a well-tailored vest.
I would go straight for Lucy Lawless. Unquestionably. BF is aware of this fact and has made his peace with it.
I lick the salt off chips before I eat them. It's a very strange habit and I have to remind myself not to lick my chips in public otherwise people look at me funny.
I find the following distasteful: grocery store tomatoes, Ann Coulter, tabloid magazines, people who read tabloid magazines, western novels, repeats of 80’s comedies, overly aggressive drag queens.
I find the following to be rather enjoyable: repeats of Xena: Warrior Princess, Lucy Lawless (see item 3), the 10th Doctor, Kit Kat bars, Jane Austen novels, overly aggressive drag queens.
I love a fine cologne. Preferably with hints of citrus, sandalwood, raspberry, or any number of spices such as clove or cardamom. Gush.

-Also, I love a good back rub, but that's not the topic of this post.-

The latter is particularly true about me. Combined with item number 2 in that list any man wearing the right cologne can simply cause me to ride right off my wagon and go tumbling into the sheets. It’s rather embarrassing though I can’t say I mind it. Consider Happy for Men my slutty kryptonite in a smart orange-glass flask.

One particular friend knew how to smartly apply cologne using techniques that probably required more forethought than a home loan. He would spritze the air leaving a perfumed cloud of mist to hang momentarily and, before it began to descend, he would briskly walk through it. A quick spray on the wrists so that in case hands went roaming later in the night with some unexpected someone a hint of nutmeg would entice. Lastly, and quite clevery I might add, a small amount on the back of the neck. When dancing closely with said unexpected someone their nose would be enticed by a spot of scent, the prey engaged and caught.

Throughout the night I could smell him and I must say his technique was rather effective.

BF learned from him how to properly apply cologne. He uses the knowledge to its ultimate. Simply enough, cologne, particularly the spices within them, drives me bonkers.

The Cookbook and a Call for Recipe Testers

2011-10-07T10:00:00.000-07:00

I was at a blogging conference attending one of the sessions entitled, "From Blog to Book." I was there mainly out of curiosity as my authorial leanings usually tended to sway more to literary than culinary instruction. I listened as friends and colleagues discussed how they made the transition, the pitfalls and challenges they faced, how they overcame them, and so on. It was all quite interesting and I took it all to heart but felt that, really, none of this pertained to much to me. After all, I had zero desire to write a cookbook.

I explained as such to my friends. I told them that no, I did not want to write a cookbook, nor did I ever want to. It seemed like too much work. Too much hassle.

Until, suddenly, one day it didn't seem like a bad idea. In fact, the project sounded riveting. Still, I realized I didn't want to go it alone. I called my BBFF (Blogging Best Friend Forever), Stephanie Stiavetti, and talked to her about it. We synced up immediately.

We found a subject we wanted to explore. Something that no one else had done. Something that would kick quite a bit of kitchen boo-tay.

It was cheese. Really amazing, artisanal and farmstead cheeses and how to cook some truly modern and epic recipes with them.

So we started drafting a proposal. Then we found an insightful agent with a good eye and plenty of experience who loved it, and who we developed an immediate and genial rapport with. She then found a publisher who was as excited about the project as we were.

And, so, suddenly, it seems I'm writing a cookbook with my BBFF.

Who would have guessed that this would ever happen?

The book's working title is called, Melt: The Art of Macaroni and Cheese and it's been picked up by Little, Brown and Company. The concept behind the book is to present a variety of macaroni and cheese dishes that embody a modern, minimalist approach that allows each recipe to focus on the cheeses utilized and how the other ingredients compliment and are complimented by them. Fine cheeses truly are amazing on their own, but cooking with them brings out new personalities and flavor profiles that are rarely ever experienced. This book presents the chance to do just that. It'll even have pictures by the infamous duo of Matt Armendariz and Adam Pearson.

It's going to be a crazy ride filled with plenty of laughter, excitement, exhaustion, and probably a break down or two (much future thanks to BF's patience on the latter, but he'll be eating well this coming year so I figure it's an even trade off) and I cannot wait.

Recipe testing has already begun and I'm waist deep in notes, cheese, pasta, and far too many dirty dishes. The thing is, though - and readers, this is where you all come in - Stephanie and I need help.

We're looking for recipe testers. Lots of them. People who are interested in trying hand-crafted cheeses, unique recipes, and providing crucial feedback. We can't reimburse and compensate anyone as it's just not in the monetary stars, but we can give you acknowledgement in the book and you can certainly note in your resume, "Professional Recipe Tester." It's a nice start for anyone looking to get in the business.

Anyways, huzzah! I'm so excited about this project I almost pass out!

We're already quite a few recipes in and ready to just go nuts. Fresh produce, special meats, and an array of amazing cheeses from Stilton and Red Hawk to Keen's are all going to be featured and given the star treatment. We hope you'll love these recipes as much as we do.

I'll keep you all posted as things advance. Until then if you're interested in becoming one of our recipe testers and getting a bit more information e-mail Stephanie and me at meltrecipetesters@gmail.com. We hope to hear from you!

Adventurous Eating Starts at Home: Grape & Lavender Galette

2011-10-04T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Adventurous eating doesn't always mean roasted grasshoppers and 1000 year eggs.-

“So I think I’m going to make a grape and lavender tart. I found a recipe on Martha Stewart,” I nonchalantly told BF.

“Grape and lavender? Why?” BF seemed curious about this one. It wasn’t the most straightforward recipe to be sure. In fact, I doubt he had ever seen or conceptualized a grape dessert before. It wasn’t like they were on the menus of every restaurant.

“Well,” I sighed, “to be honest it’s because, One: I’m intrigued by the idea of it. Two: It sounds kinda terrible to me but also sorta tasty. See, the idea of cooked grapes to me actually seems rather unpleasant. Grapes have a flavor that I think is best cold or even frozen -” I love to freeze grapes as a snack, “-and the idea of them being served hot just sounds groady. I imagine them tasting rather sickly sweet and having a texture of hot boiled mash with nasty strings of curled grape skins.”

“I assume the lavender is a part of this, too?”

“Exactly. Lavender is a tricky food. Few people can cook with it well and fewer even know how much to use when they do. I’ve had great experiences when it was used on a turkey as part of a salt rub and enjoyed some whipped cream touched with lavender, but other than that… I dunno. It’s quick to go from floral fragrance to being snuffed out with the fume of a grandmother’s panty drawer.”

“Ew.”

-The grapes I used were Flame, Black Emerald, Champagne, Obsidian, and Concord.-

“Yeah, I thought you'd like that comparison. So, this is just a grand experiment to see if I can get myself to like both cooked grapes and try lavender in a new way. Hopefully it’ll be awesome. It may just be alright. Possibly, it may taste like the sins of a used up, overly made-up, tranny hooker baked in a pie crust.”

“Nice,” he said and turned to leave the room.

“Ha ha! Man, I am on a roll today.”

This wasn’t my first stroll down this particularly unusual avenue of cooking. I had traveled this route many times, mapping out my various culinary distastes and challenging them in all sorts of ways. Too many jaunts down lima bean alley left me to realize that I simply don’t care for them in any way, and that I had my mother’s terrible and overcooked turkey soup to blame for this. A surprise run-in with Brussels sprouts and its retinue of Parmesan cheese and garlic showed me just how much I enjoyed the little cruciferous’ company on my plate. I have had enough encounters with spaghetti squash to know that given the chance I would lock them all up in a cell and throw away the key, the nasty little things. I attempted cooking with eggplant once years ago after being more than a bit nervous of them. These days we’re the best of friends.

So I would try with grapes and lavender.

Guest Post by Stephanie Stiavetti: Crème Fraîche Stuffed Asian Pears

2011-09-27T06:00:00.000-07:00

For the next few weeks I'm taking a long overdue vacation. This is also my first vacation from blogging EVER as on previous escapes I always took my computer. It's one that is soundly needed. I'm touring China and Tibet with my mom and enjoying the sights, sounds, and flavors of locations such as Shanghai, Lhasa, and the Yangtze River. I cannot wait.

As beautiful as China is I cannot blog while there as blogger sites are blocked by the Communist Party of China (as is Facebook, my e-mail, Twitter, etc.). As such, I'm proud to announce Vanilla Garlic's first ever guest posts.

This second of two guest posts was written by my partner in culinary crime Stephanie Stiavetti. Her blog, The Culinary Life, is one filled with Gluten-Free Recipes and plenty of wit. She's also a well-known expert on the subject of SEO and an amazing freelance web and tech guru. So much so she's spoken on the subjects at many blogging conferences and has been hired by many big name bloggers you've definitely heard of.

Now, Stephanie and I agree on a lot of things. However, one of the few things we do disagree on is the subject of pears. I think they kick ass. She wants them expunged from human taste.

Except, that is, for one particular exception...

~Garrett

-Delicious pears and dairy.-

My name is Stephanie and I'm a sugar addict.

My family is bred of fine, sugar-obsessed stock, and as a result, I'm one of those people who finds themselves elbow-deep in a bowl of M&Ms before consciously realizing there's candy in the room.

As I've gotten older health issues have forced me to seriously scale back on my sugar intake, and this unfortunate fact has put a damper on my culinary enjoyment.

Avoiding sugar has been a struggle, especially with tempting blogs (such as this one) occupying my attention every day. Yet summer is an easy time of year to avoid refined sugar because we're surrounded by so much fruit that it's impossible to ignore the bounty of fresh stonefruit, berries, and jams that dominate produce displays. As summer turns cool, though, our natural sweets selection changes. White nectarines give way to apples, and root vegetables start replacing the colorful berries that monopolize local farmers markets from June through August.

While I find it terribly depressing to see summer fruit season end, there's a shining light piercing the early dusk of these chilly September evenings: Asian pears.

First, a confession - I hate pears. HATE them. Their gritty texture makes me want to rip every tooth out of my mouth and hurl them across the room. When I was little, my mom would try to feed me pears and I'd projectile spew them straight into her lap. So, as you can imagine, I was a little trepidatious about trying Asian pears.

I remembered seeing Asian pears at the grocery store as a kid; the produce manager would wrap each individual pear in a stretchy foam sleeve to keep the delicate flesh from bruising as the fruits sat stacked in shoulder-high mountains. I can't tell you how many times my grandmother smacked me up beside the head for stealing those sleeves, sliding them up my arms and running around the produce section like I was the ninja protectress of our local Safeway. As a staunch pear-hater, that was the only pleasant pear memory I had filed away in my mind.

Guest Post by Irvin Lin: Black Garlic & Vanilla Bean Marble Brownies

2011-09-20T06:00:00.000-07:00

For the next few weeks I'm taking a long overdue vacation. This is also my first vacation from blogging EVER as on previous escapes I always took my computer. It's one that is soundly needed. I'm touring China and Tibet with my mom and enjoying the sights, sounds, and flavors of locations such as Shanghai, Lhasa, and the Yangtze River. I cannot wait.

As beautiful as China is I cannot blog while there as blogger sites are blocked by the Communist Party of China (as is Facebook, my e-mail, Twitter, etc.). As such, I'm proud to announce Vanilla Garlic's first ever guest posts.

The first if from my buddy, Irvin Lin. His blog, Eat The Love, has only been around a short time but already possess a cult following for his inventive recipes, engaging voice, and sense of style.

Irvin has done something I've never been able to do: actually combine vanilla and garlic into a unique and musky-sweet dessert.

Bravo, Irvin. Bravo.

~Garrett

-Chocolate, vanilla, and garlic. Together at last!-

I woke up on a sunny bright day in Maui on the sixth day of my month long stay with my partner, AJ. Through saving, planning and a little bit of luck, we had been able to do an extended trip to Hawaii. My partner is a teacher and had the summer off and, for the first time in I don’t know how long, I did not have a day job and could freelance wherever I wanted to.

I logged onto my computer and sitting in my inbox was a message from Garrett, both flattering and pleading, asking me if I would consider writing a guest post for him, as he went off on his own extended trip to China and Tibet. I immediately said, “Of course,” and then went into a minor panic about what to write about.

It’s easy when I’m writing for my own blog (I have no standards there, I just ramble about my own life stuff) but a guest post for someone else should probably be a little more… ahem… well put together. However, I went about the rest of the day in my usual vacation way (going to the beach, laying in the sun, getting slightly sunburned) with that email in the back of my mind, not sure what I was going to write about, but hopefully I would think of something.

-Marbled goodness.-

That day in paradise did not go well. I had a rather adventurous evening the night before, with my partner and I ending up in a new friend’s hotel hot tub and there were large plastic tumblers of wine involved (it all sounded like a good idea at the time, and not the least bit sordid as it does now, in retrospect). I was not feeling so hot at the beach, which of course, was one of the more difficult beaches to get to (why do the gay beaches have to be the ones that you have to climb over treacherous terrain to get to?). When I told my partner I was having gastrointestinal issues – something you really don’t want to have on a remote gay nude beach with no restrooms (did I not mention it was nude?) – we left shortly before what I’m sure was a spectacular sunset. I was too concerned about my stomach to pay any attention to what I might have missed.

I spent the next six hours curled up in my bed, fading in and out of consciousness, while my partner fretted and came in with various beverages and medications for me. Perhaps it was the wine, the not-so-sanitary hot tub, the strong tropical sun that I still wasn’t use to, dehydration, or a combination of it all, but I pretty much felt like I was going to die.

When I woke up right after midnight, exhausted but very much happy to be alive without any real urgency to run to the bathroom, I knew exactly what I was going to write about for Garrett. Black Garlic Dark Chocolate and Vanilla Bean White Chocolate Marble Brownies.

Murderlicious: How to Boil Crayfish

2011-09-13T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Yeah, the title lets you know that these guys met a very unfortunate fate. In my tummy.-

"So did you hear that Sacramento passed an ordinance that lets you keep three chickens in your backyard?" I beamed as I informed my friend Adam of the news. "Sure, I mean, I still need a house to keep them in, but when I finally get one that means I get to have egg laying hens!" For years I had been hatching plans on having hens. I had spent a little time researching various breeds; everything from reading up on their temperments and grooming habits to color of eggs and rate of egg production.

Adam just looked at me as if I had told him I planned to flap my arms and fly to Mars. "Really? I just can't picture you with animals like that?"

"What?" I was practically incredulous. "How so?"

He just stared at me with a wide and knowing smile that said it all. Those birds will kick your ass.

"Oh, I don't plan to kill them. I want their eggs. And when you go for them the worst they do is give you a peck. I mean, Christ, they're chickens. You walk up and say 'Boo!' and they flee for their lives. Plus, I've killed plenty of them before."

"Wait, what?" He seemed confused. Me being pastry person with a penchant for cheese and a reluctance to eat a lot of meat it was understandable.

"Oh, yeah. Plenty of times. You walk in grab one - or, well, catch it with a net or stun it with a pipe to the head - and then grab it by the neck and swing it around your head," a motion I then demonstrated, "until you hear a cracking noise."

-"Oh God, where am I?"-

Adam just stared at me a bit horrified. I gathered he had a mental image of me decimating a chicken's life swinging it over my head like gay cowboy with a feathered lasso.

"After that," I continued, "you drop the body in boiling water and pluck the feathers. Chop off the head, drain the blood, and then break it down. It's pretty easy. It smells and personally I'm not the biggest fan of doing it all, but it's simple enough. And hens are easy. Roosters are assholes who'll fight back and have gnarly talons that'll fuck you up but good given then chance. Seriously, it's a hospital visit for some stitches."

"Really? You do this?" he sat stunned.

"Well, not all the time. Last time was with my friend, Hank. His neighbor has some ancient roosters that needed to be put down, so we went over and killed, plucked, and broke them down. The meat was crazy tough and almost black from being so strong. Here, wait, I have a picture..."

-Yep. This one. Please no cock jokes.-

"Wow. That is you with a naked, dead chicken."

"Rooster," I corrected.

It's true. I don't have a problem killing an animal for my own food. I say a little prayer for the animal and thank it for it's life, and then I do what needs to be done: butcher the begeezus out of it. I eat meat because I like the taste of it. I like the energy it gives me. This is how I choose to live my life.

I just rarely ever cook with meat since I find good meat to be rather out of my budget (a vegetable-focused diet is simply a more fiscal one) and, due to using so little of it, I don't know how to cook it all that well.

Not that I can't get creative with a pint of pig's blood or a good wild duck if my buddy Hank throws some my way. It's odd. I actually know how to cook wild game and chickens better than pork or beef.

Still, most people don't have the gall to kill their own food. It's too personal. We have to accept the fact that when we take a life that we mean to eat we not only devour the flesh but absorb a bit of its anima. We connect to the spirit. I don't mean to sound new age. I simply mean we connect to the fact that we are taking the life of another living, moving, vocal creature.

Though, admittedly, it's probably a lot easier when it's not cute and fuzzy. It's why I think so many "vegetarians" eat fish and shellfish.

And little, angry, hotheaded crayfish.

Cheese and China: Mahon Macaroni and Cheese with Zucchini and Chili Oil

2011-09-06T06:00:00.000-07:00

-How can something so delicious be so divisive?-

“What is that you’re eating?” asked my coworker, Mai. Her hair was popped into a rough ponytail tied too high giving her head a slight pineapple appearance that may have looked silly on anyone else but, somehow, seemed to only further accentuate her demure Hmong features.

In fact, her figure was one of the great mysteries of life. During the course of the day I would watch her finish off an entire meal from McDonald’s, a few bags of chips, half a steer of beef jerky, and an extra large seafood pho that she would horrifyingly sweeten with six or seven sugar packets and made me wonder if she in fact had any sense of taste at all. All this and she would not gain an ounce. I eat a french fry knowing I’ll have to use my lunch break to take a healthy two mile walk in exchange.

Mai also ate a smorgaborg of Hmong food that she prepared herself or with her family the night before; finely minced and chili studded larb hotter than a California heat wave, pickled and roasted pig knuckles, face-scrunching bitter melon stuffed fat with pork and ginger, fermented cabbage redolent with the pungent odor of fish sauce, roasted chicken rubbed with lemongrass, soups filled with herbs and eggs.

-I'm horribly spoiled.-

Even better, in traditional Hmong fashion she always brought extra to work. Since most of our co-workers were unfamiliar with her food and, therefore, more often than not afraid of it I was usually the only person she was feeding. In exchange I brought her homemade pickles, jams, and breads. It was this alimentary connection that ensured we would become good friends early on.

The only thing she didn’t care for in our food exchanges was the copious amount of cheeses I brought in to snack on. Her face would wince as if she has just given herself a paper cut when she got a good smell of them. A particular run-in with a particularly ripe and oozy slab of Taleggio actually cleared her up and out of the room so fast she forgot all the files she had brought with her to my desk. When she finally reclaimed them she made a particular note how the pages now stunk like her husband’s old work shoes.

Today she looked at the offending piece of spoiled milk in my hand and gave me another paper cut wince. A particularly bad one as if she had sliced herself along the fingernail.

“It’s Piave," I said.

“It smells. How can you eat that?”

“Oh, come on. You’ve never even tried it. Plus, this has a mellow scent. It’s not a smell. It's an ah-row-MA!” I pulled out the last word like taffy in an effort to get her to really take in the cheese’s nutty, hay-like perfume in hopes she would deign to try a bit.

“I don’t like cheese,” she mewed.

“All cheese?”

“Well, there is a cheese I buy at the store that comes in a tube and –“

“STOP! No! Stop. That’s not cheese.” I said with only slightly exaggerated exasperation.

“It’s not?” she asked, her pineapple leaf spikes of hair bounced atop her head.

“No. That’s processed cheese-like product. There’s probably little dairy in there. More flour and thickeners than actual milk.”

“But I like it!” she said. She laughed as I sighed in defeat and popped the rest of the classic Italian cheese in my mouth.

The Baby Urge: Pear Coffee Cake

2011-08-30T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Cake accompanied by coffee and the sound of your biological clock running down.-

As it stands now, and much to the never ending dissappointment of my parents, neither BF nor I have any desire to have children.

My parents still see me as the most likely of their three children - all boys - to provide them with grandbabies. They have made this extremely clear to me. The last time my mother came up to visit she was polite enough not to bring it up around BF, but the moment he left to take out the trash?

"So, have you two considered having kids?"

"What!? No. Not yet. I don't know. We still want to finish our educations. Get our careers started. Buy a house. Travel..." I replied.

"I bought my first house when I was twenty-three, and I had your older brother by then. Plus, I was going to grad school," she explains matter of factly as she sips her iced tea.

My Mom: high school track star, debutante, honor roll, and general perfectionist. Currently, in her mid-sixties, she's now retired, traveling the world at least twice a year, and a marathon bicylcist. Incredibly admirable, but she's one of those excrutiating perfect examples that is nigh-impossible to live up to if you're in any way related to her as my siblings and cousins have lamented about her and her brother with his three Ph D's.

-It's the main problem with having successful parents.-

"Traveling with a kid is hard, mom. You know that. You took children to Spain and we were little nightmares."

"No you weren't!" she lies to herself, or maybe she really doesn't remember it that way. "It's hard, but if anything I proved you can do it," she firmly asserts.

"Well, that was you. Plus, I'd probably rather adopt."

"But sweetie," she pleads, "you have such good genes!" It's an semi-narcissistic compliment and argument both my parents make whenever I bring up the adoption idea.

"We're gay. Doing the turkey baster thing is expensive and the mother has rights so it doesn't always work out. Plus, there are plenty of older kids in foster care who need a home. If we adopt it'll be a kid around six to ten. Plus, YOU adopted! Remember?"

"That's true, but you don't get to name the child!" mom wails.

"So?" I say. I've named a few cats and they never come when you call them. From what I hear children are the same once they go past the age of seven.

(Given, if I could, I do have baby names picked out just in case. Aaron or Noel for a boy. Claire or Viola for a girl. Family names for middle names, of course, those being Michael, Brandon, or Suzanne. Else the family string me up for neglecting tradition.)

"Doesn't BF have a sister who could provide an egg?"

"MOM! No! Lord, dad, asked the same thing last week. It's not like asking for a cup of sugar."

"But, honey, you'll miss the best part. The baby stage," she sighs and I can tell she's remembering the days when she was a new mom three times. I think she's mentally blocked the parts where my older and younger brothers were tiny terrors. (By her admittance I was the perfect child.)

Storytelling: Fig & Blue Cheese Galette

2011-08-23T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Something to get teary about. For joy, of course.-

When I was younger I never understood how adults could cry at movies. It seemed so strange to me that some fictional story and people who never existed could emotionally touch a person so much. It was an action I attributed to adult life and gave it little other thought than that.

The first story I cried to was actually from a video game. The lovers were forcibly parted: he would fade into non-existance and she would have to live her life without him. She runs to embrace him one last time but he suddenly fades away and she sorrowfully passes through him falling to the ground where she begins to cry on the floor. My heart absolutely broke in sympathy for her; this girl that never was. I called in sick to school that day and refused to leave my room for the next few hours.

After that, I found that I was easy to emotionally sway. A somber violin chord, the right words, well placed pathos all pulled me so far in that when things came to their teary conclusion I simply cried my eyes out. It happened when I watched the final few moments of Six Feet Under where I bawled and my boyfriend at the time had to come out and comfort me. In fact, those last six minutes still make me misty when I watch them as I think about my own family and mortality.

When I read Yiyun Li's book, The Vagrants, the ending left me almost hollow. It was as if the author had tapped me like a maple tree and drained every bit of happiness out of me - leaving only poignance. The characters had reached out of the pages and into my chest tugging them apart like bits of string from a frayed cloth. Every word was memorable and the book still resonantes with me.

-A good fig does, too.-

Recently, I've become horribly addicted to watching the most modern seasons of the BBC's, Doctor Who. In one of the episodes, Billie Piper's character, Rose Tyler, is forever separated from her love, The Doctor. After two seasons of watching them grow so fond of each other only to be forcibly thrown apart by the universe itself I must admit I was more than a bit melancholy.

Excuse me a moment. I have something in my eye...

Why is this sort of story telling so rare these days? What happened to characterization, story exploration, and plot?

No, these days we get this.

We drown in a deluge of raw sewage that is reality television and poor storytelling. Bad Girls Club, Hell's Kitchen, seasons 2-4 of Heroes, the list goes on and on, and - even worse - gets renewed season after season.

Generally I don't watch a lot of television. Given, I have a few guilty pleasures. True Blood is one, but that's more softcore porn that anything thank you Ryan Kwanten being naked in every episode. I do watch The Real Housewives and The A-List, but only after I've had a glass of wine or two and I've finished a thirteen hour work day. In these cases I don't want to use my brain anymore and, in that regard, reality television certainly has a place in my life. The Daily Show for sure, though I wish John Stewart would take a note from True Blood and get naked every episode as well.

Catch Up: Watermelon Sorbet

2011-08-16T06:00:00.000-07:00

-My family often complains that I never talk to them and am too private (he typed on his blog), so I'm trying to take the initiative to call them more.-

Call No. 1: Brandon McCord. Younger brother.

Garrett: Hey Brandon. What's up?

Brandon: I'm cooking beet greens! They're steaming!

Garrett: Oh so?

Brandon: Did you know you could eat these?

Garrett: Yes. You can also eat carrot greens. Stir-fry them, toss them into salad, or make them into a pesto.

Brandon: Oh, okay, cool. I'm learning to cook more for myself more. It's really fun actually. I have a chicken marinating right now.

Garrett: Very cool. Good for you!

Brandon: What are you doing?

Garrett: Unpacking a yellow watermelon that unf-

Brandon: They come in yellow?

Garrett: Yes, the flesh is. And, unfortuneately, it's not pink. The yellow ones have a slight cantaloupe flavor that I find somewhat distasteful, but this one is mild, so it's fine.

Brandon: Oh. Hey can I call you back? The greens are burning I think. Maybe?

Garrett: How on earth do you burn something steaming? Is this like when you burned jell-o? Did you actually forget the water aga-

*click*

-That would be a yes.-

Call No. 2: Steve McGee. Uncle on father's side.

Garrett: ...Yes, we're a litigious state. Yes, California has traffic that slows down if there's a ratty boot abandoned along the pullover lane. And, yes, California has to rework immigration laws so workers can get here easier. I agree. Yes.

Steve: So how is not Kansas better?

Garrett: It's Kansas. You have tornados, snow, all and all just terrible weather, and the corn outnumbers the state population. Your only claim to fame is Dorothy Gail and that's because she's famous for leaving. Plus, she's not even real.

Steve: Alright. I'll give you that. But the people are nicer.

Garrett: Only in manners. You're a red state. They hate the liberals. "You don't belong here," they would cordially say before berrating my sexuality and support of Planned Parenthood over Kansas-style BBQ and a slice of pie.

Steve: Okay. Probably. But-

Garrett: Steve, can I call you later? I'm chopping up watermelon for sorbet. I'm gonna lose a finger.

Steve: Alright, call your dad.

Garrett: Will do.

*click*

Manners: Pistachio & Vanilla Sables

2011-08-09T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Delicate and proper snackie bits.-

When it comes to manners in my family one is expected to be au fait in the subject. They won't make or break you with us, but by god if you want to rest comfortably in our subconscious opinion of you then knowing soup spoon from dessert spoon is critical. (The egg spoon, too, if you know what's what.)

Both sides of the family have a history of strict etiquette training. Cotillion for two years is a minimum. Children should be able to properly foxtrot at the age of six, Cha Cha at twelve, and god help you if you can't Charleston by the time you've graduated middle school.

Furthermore, manners classes are mandatory. I recall spending far too many Tuesday nights learning how to properly seat a lady, make introductions, and tie a tie (bow and straight; always Windsor).

All of it was so boring I would have killed to learn how to half-Windsor a noose and kick the chair out from under myself. Unfortunately, propriety demands that one do this in the privacy of your own home and not in front of classmates.

-For god's sake, kill yourself in private! We're not savages!-

The pinnacle of all the training was table manners. Prim, proper, precise. We didn't simply learn which side the fork goes on, but to differentiate the forks; salad, dessert, dinner, shrimp, fish, even snail forks and their proper places at the meal and when they could be served according to ancient custom was all part of the strict curriculum. Indeed, some of the laws were so odd and arcane (i.e. Brandy glasses must always be placed neither on left or right side of the dinner plate, but the side closest to the host) that one wonders if all this ritual might exist to summon some dark pagan god to brunch.

The instructor, a dour woman with a genteel mien and canckles thick enough to dock a ship to, was thorough to say the least. Not even fourteen, I was able identify nine various types of wine and spirits glasses through her tutelage. Furthermore, she wisely took an international approach and trained us in the proper handling of chopsticks and insisted that we never eat Indian food with our left hand.

Refinement was tested in a final exam: high tea at the Ritz Carlton. Our carriage was graded over steaming cups of Earl Grey and crustless cucumber sandwiches. Still a finicky eater at this age, I was sure that the vile offerings were a test of our vigilance because who on earth would actually want to eat any of it?

-Thank you, miss. May I have another?-

I passed with flying colors, though my acerbic wit in response to the food wasn't appreciated. Sadly, there was no place to escape and work on that double-noose Windsor.

In the end, of course, comes the day we all dread when we realize our parents were right. (Not that we would ever admit it.) So it was with all this training in social behavior. The dancing lessons paid off astoundingly well throughout high school, college, and beyond. Leading a sweet gent to the dance floor for a graceful lesson in the waltz is a fantastic way to sweep him off his feet and take him home. My impeccable manners ingratiated me to the parents of any boy I dated. Damn if a bartender doesn't appreciate the fact I know my port glass from brandy snifter.

Naturally, I don't hold others to these standards of near-ridiculous refinement. Not everyone went through such rigorous training. As long as you chew with your mouth closed, say please and thank you, and veer away from any conversation topics focusing on what you read in People magazine, well, we're just dandy.

Fever: Summer Cheese Plate

2011-08-02T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Perfect when you're healthy, not so when you're sick. I wish, for your benefit, that you are currently the former.-

So there are a few things I hate about being sick. The first is that sickness always seems to happen when your husband, wife, partner, boyfriend, mom, whomever that person in your life is who is by nature of your relationship the designated person to love and care for you when you're a hot mess of viral plague is out of town. It's always a conference, work, family thing that takes them away from your bedside leaving you to stew in your piles of used tissues and to hack phlegm across the stove top as you warm up your canned soup.

As I sat groaning in bed I muddled this thought in my congested head. Once again, BF was away and I was sick. Even worse, I was homeless as my apartment - once thought to be fixed from the water leak - was now a hotbed of mold and remnant water vapor. Furthermore, I was unable to move due to being trapped in a lease with a bullheaded witch of an apartment manager whom the universe had - for some unforeseen reason - not yet seen fit to drop a house upon.

BF was away in Dublin, California, a forgotten armpit of the state that no one has ever heard of. Its location being so far away and so secluded from modern civilization the United States has of course seen fit to put a training base for the army there and bring in BF to learn how to set up the plumbing for a field hospital because, you know, why not?

-He also knows how to set up air conditioning, which will be handy when he has all that government cheese on hand.-

Lucky for me, I have friends who care and who live nearby. The bed I was groaning in was not my own but was that of my friend, Elise Bauer. My personal Florence Nightingale. Her home was once again my halfway house after a disaster.

Even more lucky, she and her charming boyfriend, Guy, a renaissance Frenchmen who knows everything from rental law to how to fix a an old shower head, were kindly keeping an eye on me. Elise comforted me with tea and clean, cotton sheets of a thread count higher than my rent. Guy kept me laughing and roasted marble potatoes and tomatoes into a simple, filling, but easy on the stomach meal.

As I sat in bed watching every episode of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic (which, by the way, is an outstanding show to watch in a fever haze) and coughing up my ribcage whole they spent some of their time picking up homeopathic medicines and whipping up batches of pancakes for me to eat to gain some strength back.

I am truly blessed.

-Guy also encouraged that the French drink a lot to help ease sickness. I think the French are probably on to something with prescribing a shot of brandy to help your sinus headache.-

Now, the other thing I hate about being sick is that I generally can't eat dairy. At all. It just churns my stomach. Yogurt, ice cream, quark, or cheese; it all just makes me want to hurl like a runway model after she eats a potato chip.

Stress Addict: Green Tea-Peppermint Popsicles & Raspberry-Yogurt Popsicles

2011-07-26T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Better than cocaine, right? Plus, it's a natural high.-

I’m addicted to stress.

I only recently figured this out. I was looking in my mailbox freaking out over why a new kindle hadn’t arrived yet. Did the mail lose it? I needed it soon! What if it doesn’t show? It’s hot outside, so what if the heat breaks it? The roads are bumpy and so it could shake apart. I’ll open a box of shattered glass and plastic! How do I even use it when it gets here? It seems so complicated! But?! Oh no!? AUUUGH!

Oh God, I think I’m gonna die…

-I am Anxiety Man. Able to leap to the worst conclusion in a single bound. (I hope I didn't stain the tablecloth for this photo.)-

My friend, Janelle, who was on the phone with me as my poor little heart ran so fast you would think I overdosed it with ecstacy and Pixy Stix, finally brought me back to earth. “Garrett. Stop. Why are you stressing this? It’s not solving anything and nothing can be done right now. Just stop." Her voice was so firm and each word given so much importance and stacatto she sounded like a female version of Allen Rickman.

I paused a moment, more because my heart skipped a few beats and caused me stroke out for a bit than because of what she said, but I thought about it.

Why was I? It was in the mail. There was nothing to be done except wait.

I realized then that I wanted to stress out about this. The adrenaline would flood my body. A neurotic electrical storm would rip through every memory and thought to find any shred – any damnable hope – of a solution. Muscle cells would fire like pistons raging against whatever dilemma was at hand. Stress, for me, was my power. Fuel for destroying my enemies be they human, situational, or, apparently, the United States Postal Service.

You see, in my experience stress brings about solutions.

The saying goes that you shouldn’t sweat the small stuff. The people who say this, usually have a gross excess of time and money, or a sugar daddy. When you sweat the small stuff it’s because the small stuff usually has a solution. Something can be done to remedy the problem at hand.

-Like have a panic attack. I hear mint calms those down.-

For example, when your flight gets cancelled you go into overdrive. You run like a greyhound after a mechanical bunny to the next information booth. You fight everyone else at the airport. They are your enemies; competition for a limited number of seats on the next flight out. They must be destroyed. You plead, yell, cajole, seduce, bribe the poor kiosk lady for the shittiest, leftover seat. Simultaneously, you’re on the phone with a booking agent looking for a backup to that as you e-mail a competing airline for an opening just in case. In the end you might get a flight out and still get home in time to watch a new episode of True Blood.

Sweating the small stuff gets things done. It gets results.

Many of you might not call something like missing a plane small stuff. My belief is anything not world ending is small stuff.

My house burned down? Screw it. I’m going to Mexico. Nothing to be done about it. (This is an example my own personal world ending.)

A meteor careening towards Earth? The end of the world is inevitable and no Bruce Willis on a shuttle with an atom bomb to save us all? Screw it. I’m spending my time at a drug induced orgy and having unprotected sex with strangers. Not like I have to really worry about the long term consequences, right?

Brouhaha: Sautéed Nectarines

2011-07-19T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Sometimes a little inspiration - and frustration - comes knocking at your door.-

Some Mormon missionaries just dropped by the house. I was bemused and excited. Mormons! We hardly get them in these parts of Sacramento. Curious to interact with them outside their native habitat of Utah, I opened the door.

"Hello!"I said, chipper as ever. "I assume you're selling religion?"

The two of them stood there and beamed in their pressed white shirts. Their matching backpacks fitted neatly and neither one wore them carelessly slung over one arm. Their pocket protectors and neatly printed name tags identified them right and proper.

The one of the left, a blonde teen who possessed a nostalgic aura of All-Americanism that was up there with apple pie, smiled back. "Well, not selling. It certainly doesn't cost you any money," he said.

"It's totally free," said the one on the right. His skin was tan from so much bicycling in the sun, in a clear bag he had a bunch of nectarines and a few extra copies of The Book of Mormon.

-Peddling faith with fruit. How novel!-

I smirked at the bag of nectarines. Farmer's Market preaching; Joseph Smith, you clever devil.

"Mormonism, yes?"

They nodded and began their spiel before I could really stop them. I decided to give them a chance to get it all out. They must, I assume, get the door slammed in their face plenty so why the hell not show a bit of sympathy?

To be honest, I have respect for missionaires. Being sent somewhere strange and told to march up and down each and every community preaching faith can't be easy. It requires chutzpah and a type of dedication I'm not sure I can say I've fully ever given to many things, let alone God. The closest thing recently was my thesis, though, when I was young, the desire to know everything there was to know about Power Rangers instilled a certain dedication within me. We all have our priorities.

Still, after two or three minutes I decided to stop him. I didn't want the two getting their hopes up. "You know, I'm sorry, but I'm Lutheran and very, happily, gay. I also know the church isn't too keen on that - the Lutheranism or the homosexuality - so I'm gonna have to pass."

"Oh, no, that's totally not true!" said Apple Pie.

I perked up and wondered if suddenly there was a new form of liberal Mormonism spreading across the land. Had I missed this piece of information somehow?

Appreciation: Peach Barbecue Sauce

2011-07-12T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Because if you aren't slathering your meat in peaches then how else will you appreciate summer?-

As a child, I never really knew where to place my appreciation when it came to my parents and their summer grilling. My mom was the one who went to the store and bought all of the ingredients. She would be the one to make the marinade for our flank steak using her family's recipe. It was mom who would dote over it for the next three days and turn it when necessary to ensure the steak had absorbed all the flavor. On the grilling day mom would put together a salad and a side while my younger brother and I set the table.

After all this Dad would take the meat and toss it on the grill. He would watch it with a certain intensity usually only reserved for work and shotgun enthusiast magazines. In summer he saw grilling as his testosterone-inherited duty.

When dinner was served we would all thank Dad for the amazing work he did at the grill. Mom would be thanked as well, but always second to dad. After all, from my young point of view all I really saw was dad sweating over the blaring heat of the grill. Plus, I didn't like salad so I never really thanked mom for it.

It wasn't fair, but then life seldom is. Mom wasn't about to put down her children's father right in front of the whole family in order to get her proper due. She was reserved and very self-sacrificing that way. She still is. (Well, most of the time. If she's going to get a jab in it'll be a good one; "Mom! I can't believe you just said that!" "Well, it's the truth," she'll say nonchalantly.) As kids, though, nary a peep.

The Temperature Inside: Blueberry Pie with Thyme & Honey + Fearless Chocolate Winners

2011-07-05T06:00:00.000-07:00

-When your karma turns sour, make it sweet with pie.-

I have terrible apartment karma. Faulty buildings seem to lie dormant in my life like a virus, occasionally flaring up with all the intensity and rage of full blown outbreak. No, wait, karma assumes I’ve done something bad to deserve this. Maybe in a past life I was a Saxon who toppled some great tower or other architectural testament to man’s vanity and artistic nature? I’m not sure, but I'm pretty sure I haven’t done anything in this life to warrant this string of luck.

Maybe that’s it? I just have bad luck. A dark cloud of doom and asbestos plaguing me with bad wiring and old pipes.

“Then again,” I said to myself while standing in my bedroom looking at the giant water-filled hole that had been jackhammered in only hours earlier, “maybe it’s just freak coincidence.”

You Can't Sissy Scones: Chocolate-Coconut Scones + Fearless Chocolate Review & Giveaway

2011-06-28T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Scones that use a delightful brand of chocolate.-

I admit that sometimes I'm a baking wuss.

Seriously, I can be such a damn sissy about things that it gets to the point where even I roll my eyes back at myself. When it comes to fluting a pie shell or piping icing I can be a total buttercream drama queen.

Now it's not that I don't mind getting my hands dirty. I garden something fierce these days and I've earned the grit under my nails. I've worked with chocolate and beets until the skin on my hands is stained shades of scarlet and henna so dark you would think I spent my time elbow deep in vats dying textiles under the summer sun.

Still, we all have our particulars. I for one hate making scones.

Personal Religion - Part 2: Blueberry-Apricot Jam

2011-06-21T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Because some things are easier to sort out than others.-

Hovering over the jamming pot is the place I do my deepest thinking. I make jam the labor intensive, slow way. I cook it on medium heat and stir, stir, stir until my hand begins to shake and, even then, I continue to stir, stir, stir. It ensures that the fruit doesn’t sit and scorch and that it all cooks up perfectly - evenly - every time. All this stir, stir, stirring grants me the time to mull over my thoughts, turning them over like shiny baubles lost long ago in the attic and found once again, and ponder their meaning.

The last time I made jam I discussed my history with religion. It’s rare that I ever give a topic more than a single post - my attention span won’t ever really allow it – but my most recent batch of jam left me to thresh out exactly what my beliefs are. Sure, I was raised to be a good, if not relaxed, Lutheran whose practice has waned like a the shrinking taper of a dinner candle these past many years.

So what is God to me now? I wonder...

Mistaken Identity: Blackberry-Rosewater Sorbet

2011-06-14T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Make no mistake about the delightfulness of this spring sorbet.-

-Mission Viejo High School, 1999-

I was exhausted. Somehow I had scrounged enough cohesive thought on my most recent Algebra 2 exam and pulled off a B. The class was the bane of my academic life, an inescapable ding against my otherwise 4.0 GPA. I was getting tutored, studying like a maniac, and otherwise trying my best to scrape together good grades. A B was essentially the best I could do and probably used up the rest of my luck for the next few weeks. I was convinced that the class was completely useless in the long run anyways and couldn't understand the purpose of being beaten over the head with the derivative of a cosecant.

(By the way, to any readers out there who are in high school: Unless you plan to go to college for mathematics or engineering, you will never use Algebra 2, Calculus, or Trigonometry. Ever. At most, you will end up using the basics of Geometry and Algebra 1. Just thought I would confirm this ever-present high school complaint for you.)

As I made my way to the quad I spotted my friend, Tiffany. Her back was towards me but I could make out her tan skin, her short but bouncy curls like thick, winding ribbons, and her varsity jacket.

Tiffany and I were friends who had met in marching band. I was the only male flute player in the woodwind section and she one of the color guard girls. We were good friends who spent a lot of time together; she would teach me to spin her color guard flag, sending it soaring high into the air at dizzying speeds. I loved the kaleidoscopic spin of the colors and the pata-pata-pata-pap of the fabric as it fought against the whipping air. I taught her the basics of the flute and helped her with her English homework, and how to best memorize passages from her literature assignments.

Like any friends we also had out own secret set of inside jokes and private rituals. This included phonetically writing out any Japanese word in English, referring to ourselves "Bot Hitches", and me smacking her ass till it felt like a pincushion for her.

The Tiny Gourmand: Apricot-Frangipane Tart

2011-06-07T06:00:00.000-07:00

-A classic recipe and a new kitten make for an excellent weekend.-

After she bit my finger we realized she had taken on a proper affinity for the name we had given her, our little Zola. Short, of course, for Gorgonzola. We named her because calling her The Kitten for the past week left a bland aftertaste of indifference in our mouths that none of us cared for. The name Zola had given her a sense of character and bequeathed her a piquant chutzpah and certain regality reminiscent of her namesake.

Romantic as I try to make it the name was originally picked out because she smelled outrageously funky when we plucked her stray little self out of the garden like a fuzzy little turnip where she had been hiding under the thick tomatillo canopy. We heard her mewling and lost, separated from her mother and siblings. We quickly went out and carefully - delicately -chased, cornered, and captured her. It was a difficult task considering how tiny and fast she is. She hissed and cried when I picked her up in my Ove-Glove guarded hands. She was scared and terrified of the giants that her missing mother had trained her to fear.

She spent the night wrapped in a warm blanket with a bowl filled to the brim with food and a saucer of water. She seemed to take her sudden imprisonment with quiet fortitude and guarded distrust.

Yet, in less than a day, she softened to us. The next morning I quietly crept into her room. As I cooed to her like a new mother she nervously crawled out from her sheets. She cowered when I reached for her but made no sudden dash. Her hackles were just barely bristled from tension, but she allowed me to pet her. As I stroked her neck and cheek she erupted with purring. It was a soft sound that bellowed from her tiny frame and filled the room. She cradled herself against my chest, looked at me and went to sleep.

-She also enjoys sleeping with Cid.-

The next morning she was dumped into the sink and given her first bath. Scrubbed and soaked she dealt with it with a begrudging quiet like a student being lectured by a teacher he doesn't particularly care for. Though, given her size, it wasn't as if she could escape my hands, which were able to keep her securely in the water. A few minutes later, fluffed dry and fed, she ran into the other room to continue her very full kitten schedule of napping, snuggling, playing, and pooping.

I was smitten with the kitten. Soon, she as well with me. More so with Roommate whom she snuggled mercilessly and whom she cried for whenever he wasn't around.

Her wiles have worked their magic as he has decided to adopt her.

Christ. It's now four cats to three gay men in this apartment. How stereotypical sitcom is that? Punch my pink card because I'm done.

As I type this Zola is attempting to chew my fingers, which is making blogging rather difficult. It makes me miss those first few days of her tepid uncertainty back before she was ricocheting around the apartment with all the vim and vinegar of youth and attempting to devour my hands for another morsel of cheese.

-A perfect sun for a cloudy day.-

Allow me to explain the cheese and finger nipping.

You see, a few hours ago I was nibbling a piece of Parmesan when a small crumb fell to the floor. She instantly pounced on and devoured it out of kittenhood curiosity. (She is, after all, at that stage where kids put everything they find into their mouths.) A swallow and some smacking of the lips and she had had her first accidental taste of human food. Immediately, Zola began frantically scouring the floor for more, hunting furtively like a meth addict searching for a good shard of glass.

I picked her up to comfort and tease her a bit. That was my mistake. My fingers still smelled of cheese. She sniffed them and without any thought chomped down on my fingers with her needlepoint teeth as deep as they would go. She didn’t break skin, but, holy hell, enthusiastic kitten bites hurt. When I yelped she wasn’t even fazed. She smelled the cheese on my breath and lunged for my face licking my lips and greedily sucking up my curdy breath in a purr-heavy frenzy.

You could see it in her eyes, "MORE!" they screamed. "MORE WHATEVER THAT WAS!"

Through the fate of a name and allowing the feline employment of the Five Second Rule I had created a monster. A fuzzy, adorable one that sleeps under your chin and enjoys wrestling an old shoe lace, but a monster nonetheless. A monster with a taste for cheese.

Roommate is understandably concerned.

Zola now seems to be an Eat Beast in training. She follows him around in epic, playful battle. He’s her mountain to climb and his erratic tail her dragon to be vanquished. Eat Beast takes it in stride simply sitting there and only showing protest when she bites his tail a wee bit too hard. He cleans her, takes her to the water dish, and generally looks after her. Still, we’ve made a clear cut policy in this home that she will not be allowed people food ever again.

-How much luck do you really think we're having with that policy?-

Which, you know, is going to be a difficult rule to enforce. She trails after Eat Beast and is taking his unintentional tutoring to heart. When he starts sniffing around a plate of cookies and snatches one away she follows along, takes a bite of his loot, and then decides to go back for a cookie of her own. When he sneaks into the fridge she does the same. She, too, has an unhealthy curiosity for what's under the lid of the butter dish. God help us all.

So, with that, the structured life of our apartment - that of myself, BF, Roommate, and the three cats - was suddenly turned upside down with a rambunctious ten week-old kitten. We couldn’t be happier for it, if not also slightly freaked out since kittens are essentially perpetual motion machines that constantly eat and poop. This one with a particular inclination towards the former.

It’s also not just cheese she seems to crave. She has a taste for apricots, both raw and cooked. Zola is a gourmand in training with a bit more of a discerning palate than Eat Beast. While Eat Beast goes for anything and everything; Zola is a picky, little snob. I can whip out some dime store lunch meat and she won't bat an eye. I roast a duck and sauce it with cherry-balsamic and she's all over me like a hooker on a hundred dollar bill.

-"Soon, little apricots, soon you will be mine."-

So, as we do with Eat Beast, I now put her in the other room when I bake just to keep her out of the way. If I don't she circles the kitchen and has a tendency to get in the way. And, while she still can't jump on the counter, we're trying to instill a sense that even thinking about jumping on on it is a quick way to get hosed down with the spray bottle.

We're also trying to teach her not to try and scale us like a mountain when we eat. I swear, every time I take a meal it's like a race between her and me to see just who is going to eat what's at the business end of my fork. Lucky for me, she's tiny and I'm faster. The bad news is that during our races she has no qualms using her tiny claws to scale up my pant leg and the leg within it.

It's going to take some time to train her. (Dear God, I hope we can train her.)

-Cute and mischievous: A rather evil combination when it comes to kittens, cute people you meet at the bar, and children.-

I do have some hope. She did stay clear for the most part while I crafted together this tart. A simple shortbread crust, frangipane, the first sunny apricots of the season. The fruit was surprisingly ripe in spite of this ridiculously bipolar weather this Spring. Biting into one the juice burst out and ran down my arm onto the floor where Eat Beast and Zola gleefully lapped it up. I lightly lacquered the apricots with a brushing of honey mixed with a bit of rose water before dusting it all with a bit of pistachio to liven up an otherwise homespun treat.

I guess this tart - at least, for me - is a way to celebrate change in life by bringing in something old and familiar. A new kitten, child, job, home... it can all be stressful. These things throw your life into a bit of chaos. Chaos that you revel in, but chaos nonetheless. It's freaky and exciting, and it will make you exhausted. A plain 'ol tart, your favorite cake, or whatever comfort foods you enjoy are ways to mellow things out.

Celebrate the new by ringing it in with the old.

Just be sure that you keep an eye on the new because the second you turn your head it might get sneaky and eat the old.

Apricot-Frangipane Tart
Frangipane recipe adapted from David Lebovitz's, Room for Dessert

For Shortbread Crust
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 cup sugar
pinch salt
1 stick (1/2 cup) unsalted butter, cold, cut into cubes
2 egg yolks
3 teaspoons ice-cold vanilla extract
1-3 teaspoons ice-cold water

1. Place the flour, sugar and salt in a food processor and pulse a few times to blend. Add the butter and pulse until the butter is the size of peas. In a bowl whisk together the egg yolks and vanilla extract. Pour into the flour mixture and process for about 5-10 seconds until clumps form. Do not let it form into a ball. You should be able to squeeze the crumbs together rather easily. If they fall apart add a teaspoon of water ad pulse several times. Test again and repeat if necessary.

2. Turn the dough out on a lightly floured work surface and knead the dough 2-3 times to bring it all together. Pat it into the shape of a disc. Wrap it in plastic wrap and chill for about 20 minutes. Roll the dough out between two pieces of wax paper. (If it cracks, let the dough sit for a few minutes until it softens. Roll the dough into an 11-inch tart plate and press into place.

3. Preheat oven to 375F. Line the unbaked tart shell with foil and fill with pie weights or dry beans to prevent the crust from bubbling during the prebake. Bake for 20 minutes. The foil should come away easily and not tear the dough (if not, bake for a few more minutes). Bake for 10 more minutes. Allow to cool completely.

For Frangipane
4 ounces almond paste, crumbled
1 1/2 teaspoons of sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons all-purpose flour
pinch of salt
1/8 teaspoon almond extract
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into pieces, room temperature
1 large egg, room temperature

While the tart shell bakes place almond paste, sugar, flour, and salt in a food processor and process until crumbly and almost sandy. Add the butter and process until smooth. Add the egg and extracts and process until smooth.

For Finishing the Tart
4-6 ripe apricots, cut into quarters lengthwise
1/4 cup honey
1/2 teaspoon rose water
pistachios for garnish (optional)

1. Spread the frangipane onto the prebaked tart shell. Arrange the apricots into a circle. Bake for 30-40 minutes or until the frangipane is slightly golden and firm. Cool on a wire rack.

2. While it cools heat the honey and rose water in cup in the mixrowave or in a saucepan. Brush onto the apricots, being careful to avoid the crust. Garnish with finely chopped pistachios for garnish is desired.

-Success! Om nom nom!-

Forgetfulness: Blue Cheese-Scallion Biscuits

2011-05-31T06:00:00.000-07:00

-My mind is slipping with age. I forgot just how good these are.-

Somehow, between trying to find new writing jobs that’ll validate that whole school business and taking on a few big projects (that must remain mum), this blog turned five years old.

Is that old for a blog? It feels like it. I wonder if blog years are like dog years, or worse, gay years? (The latter in which 1 normal year is 10 gay years, and then, at age 50, you are required to retire yourself socially forever. These are simply The Pink Rules that we, as a community, have established.) Either way it feels like more. It makes me feel old. I suppose a sure sign of age is the age of your blog, in respect.

Regardless, I just plumb forgot. It happens.

I’m pretty forgetful when it comes to deeply personal information. I forget birthdays all the time. Not just other people’s but my own. It isn’t unlike me to receive a call somewhere in June and hear my mother’s voice, chipper as if she were hawking air freshener’s on TV, wishing me a happy birthday and for me to answer, “What? Is that today?” She assures me of the year, day, hour, and minute I was born and how I was a willful and distempered thirteen hours of labor. Oh, she remembers. Let there be no question. She says now that I’ve been a good son and that my previous obstinacy is forgiven, though sometimes I still wonder.

-I will never, however, forget motherly guilt. (Love you, mom!)-

I also forget how old I am. Constantly. I actually had to fix my driver’s license once because I put the wrong year on some update paperwork. By four years. To this day the DMV still thinks I’m 32 which is quite off (come June 2nd I’m 28, according to the calendar and calculator). BF has to correct me, often, about my age which I misquote with Letheian accuracy both high and low.

It’s not just dates either. I forget all kinds of personal information, e.g., My older brother’s middle name, my license plate number, where I put the key to my lock box, the kennel I picked up Eat Beast at, BF’s middle name, both of my bothers' middle names, it’s all not there.

Lord, I’m too young for Alzheimer’s.

What bothers me is that those memories and facts should be there. I can still trill off the woodwind solo I learned in marching band during my freshmen year of high school. I recall most of the questions on my driver’s test. I can recite whole scenes from Beowulf and my locker combination from the nearby gym I used to be a member of six years ago. Want my mother’s flank steak recipe? It’s up there rattling around my noggin’, pushing out whatever my anniversary date with BF is. For some reason these inconsequential things take hold. They aren’t particularly relevant and memorable things either; just stuff. Antiques in a dusty attic that I never dust off but never throw away. They remain in dark corners staring at me and me back at them with overwhelming indifference that will never lead to action of any kind.

So, yes, I missed my blogiversary. I don’t have an excuse.

I’m sorry, my blog.

-My bad.-

I made you some simple biscuits to apologize. Yes, you and I both like cake. We love it, in fact. Hell, we'd pimp slap the president if it meant a piece of finely-crumbed, ganache enribboned piece of cake.

But, blog, trust me, birthday biscuits are just as cool. Hell, sometimes, even preferred. There’s no drama or history in these biscuits. They're just damn good biscuits. Heck, these are great biscuits. They're biscuits filled with large blocks of butter and a heart-killing pour of buttermilk. The butter melts and steams when it cooks, resulting in a texture that's almost phyllo-flaky as we both know great homemade biscuits should be.

A few roughly hewed scallions add some bitter-sour-sweetness to cut through all that rather joyfully daunting amount of butter. Did I mention the blue cheese? There's blue cheese. Enough blue cheese to make you shiver with glee.

I might even call these biscuits, Amazing Biscuits.

Actually, blog, I'll do just that.

Blog, these biscuits are Amazing. I think you will enjoy them immensely. I think your readers will as well.

There. Happy Birthday, Vanilla Garlic. Sorry that I forgot. I’ll try better next year. Enjoy your biscuits.

Blue Cheese-Scallion Biscuits
Makes about 16 small biscuits. The baking powder is optional. Without it the biscuits are cheesier, but with it they are fluffier.

2 cups + 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/2 ground mustard
1/4 teaspoon salt
a few grinds of black pepper
1 teaspoon sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder (optional)
7 tablespoons butter
2 scallions, finely chopped
2 ounces blue cheese
3/4 cup buttermilk
Red, Kosher, Maldon, or Black salt for topping (optional, but suggested.)

1. Preheat the oven to 425F. In a large bowl whisk together the flour, mustard, salt, sugar, pepper, and baking powder if using. Set aside.

2. Dice the butter and toss with the flour mixture until finely coated. Add the scallions and blue cheese and toss until finely coated. Add the buttermilk and mix with your hands until it just comes together. (You will get messy. Just accept it.) Do not over-knead.

3. Form into an 8x8 square on a lightly floured service. Cut into squares and top with a bit of high-quality salt. Bake for 12-16 minutes or until golden.

Personal Religion: Cherry-Rhubarb Jam

2011-05-24T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Prayer in a jar.-

My brother and I were raised to be good Presbyterians. We went to church every Sunday where my brother and I would draw on the back of the pamphlet for that day's sermon and generally cause a fuss for 60 minutes as our parents attempted to shush us into quiet obedience. Eventually, frustrated at the lack of any sort of child-related religious education (read:babysitting), my parents picked us up and moved us to a nearby Luthern church that had a well-dispositioned Sunday school and preteen and teen programs. From then on we were raised to be good Lutherans.

Lutheranism is the Diet Coke of Catholicism: Same great flavor. None of the guilt. What I mean is that we used the same general catechism, the book of rules on how to be a good Christian. Young kids have to memorize it, take classes, and learn to be good people in the eyes of Jesus.

In Lutheranism there are no Saints to pray to, which I liked because from the outside it seemed there were too many of them. I never understood why Mary got respect but Joseph didn't, so for a long time I assumed the Catholic church was sexist against men. (Silly me.) Actually, the Vatican is still a mystery to me in many respects. As a child I interpreted it as a miserly old man with too much money telling people to be miserable for this would make God happy. (Ever since Martin Luther decided to graffiti a church door, Lutherans have always been against suffering and self-inflicted angst.)

Lutherans are generally a very laid back lot. Where as Catholicism might encourage you to say five Hail Mary's on Easter Sunday, we're more likely to drink five Bloody Mary's on any given Sunday. This is probably what influenced the waned sense of piety and religion that I possess today.

Much of this attitude was influenced by my pastor at the time of my youth, Pastor Kim. Our Senior Pastor, Pastor Tim, a disgruntled man in his forties who had the disposition of a codger in his eighties, was a miserable guy. For a Lutheran he was very fire and brimstone, and seemed to have a deep rooted hatred for Buddhists who he insisted were "Dead inside for praying to a stone statue of a man," which made many of the parishioners cock their heads in question as he said this in front of a three story tall, polished wooden cross. Considering all this, you might be able to see why it was odd that of all people he hired to be his Assistant Pastor, he hired Pastor Kim.

-Pastor Tim: Taking the fun out of religion since Westboro Baptist Church and the National Organization for Marriage.-

Kim was blond, sweeter than a Sundae, and sickeningly perky. She was that girl you knew in high school who was prom queen, track star, and got a perfect SAT score. Part of you wanted to hate her, but she was so damn nice to you and everyone else that you couldn't help but give her the utmost admiration.

I recall when I was talking to her one day when I was still struggling with the whole sexuality issue. I was worried that what I might be doing (i.e., liking boys) was sinful. I poured out my heart while trying to hold back the tears, wondering why a God who made me like this wouldn't like me the way I am.

She looked at me thoughtfully, then got up and walked over to the TV that she kept in her office and turned it on. She then bent over and opened the cabinet of the television stand to reveal a Nintendo 64 gaming system.

"You're stressing too much about this. You're fine," she said as she began to unravel the cords from around the controllers and set the system up.

"Really?" I sniffed.

She turned and sighed, "Yes. Look, do you want to do good in the world?"

"Yes."

"Do you feel like you've actually done anything wrong?"

"Um, no?"

"Okay, then just try to be a good person. If you do do something bad then ask for forgiveness from God in a spirit of contrition and you'll get it. After that you go do more good in the world. That's the way to live a holy life. That'll make you happy. That'll make God happy. That'll make others happy. Who you take home to meet mom doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things."

"Uhhh, okay."

"Now, let's play some GoldenEye 007." Then for the next hour she proceeded to whoop my ass at video games, trash talking me the entire time. (E.g., "Maybe you should pray to Jesus not to suck so much!")

-She cheated, too. She would just camp out in a corner with the sniper rifle and - BOOM! - headshot. Every. Damn. Time.-

This sort of attitude reflected that of the entire youth congregation, which I was an active part of all until I left my hometown for college. Indeed, on my last day there when I told all my friends in the Youth Group, people I had known now for over 10 years that I was gay, the general response was, "No duh." A few actually had someone they wanted to set me up with. One person did actually water balloon me in the face, but then again she was water ballooning everyone that summer day.

These days, I'm bad Lutheran. I don't pray that much. I go to the occasional Church service, but my belief is that standing in a church makes you a Christian as much as standing in a garage makes you a car. To me, faith is a personal thing and best practiced alone in your own way.

For me, I guess, cooking is now my Sunday morning routine. The methodical process requires thought, practice, and action. It's the combination and transformation of things. Cooking becomes appreciation of life and what it has to offer.

My kitchen is my church. Here, I feel close to God, my family, and my friends. I attend regularly. The wine is way better than the stuff Pastor Tim used to serve and I generally prefer cookies to communion wafers.

-Also, I sing songs from Glee. Not musty old songs that are sung by a congregation with all the joy of horsewhipping.-

Even more so, the kitchen defines what faith is. In the kitchen there is only so much you can control. At times, you simply have to have faith that your oven won't run too hot or that the fruit you picked up won't be too bitter. Jam requires skill, yes, but it requires faith and knowledge of your ingredients. Coax your jam all you want, but any seasoned jammer will tell you the same thing: the fruit will do as it sees fit. You simply have to accept the outcome and make the best of it.

I've learned some of the best life lessons in a kitchen. In fact, I feel that I've learned them better in the kitchen that in the pews listening to someone preach from the book of Psalms. I learned patience waiting for a cake to rise. Humility when it didn't. Respect in the presence of great teachers. Affability in the presence of eager novices. Thankfulness for bounty, and temperance when gifted with it.

Jam teaches you a lot of these lessons that we learn hovering above a pot with a wooden spoon in hand. And, so, I think God, in a way, is in the food we cook.

God tastes delicious in this jam, by the way. The cherries and rhubarb create a brooding, sweet and sour jam that just rings loud in your mouth and that echoes through you. I encourage you not to skimp on the vanilla as it lends the jam a creamy flavor.

It may not make the most sense or be the most expected way to practice one's faith, but it works for me. Personal religion is just that: personal. We all have to find the way it works best for us. In the end, I feel if you're trying your best to be a good person then you're doing all right in The Universe's eyes. Making food and feeding people is just one of many ways to go about that.

It is certainly the most flavorful.

Cherry-Rhubarb Jam
Makes 5 8-ounce jars

2 1/2 lbs cherries, pitted
1 1/2 cups chopped rhubarb
1 lb.sugar
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1/2 teaspoon butter
1/2 vanilla bean, seeded and scraped

1. Place all the ingredients in a stainless steel or copper pot, or an enamel-lined dutch oven (not an aluminum pot). Let macerate for about 10 minutes. Place a small plate in the freezer as this will be used for testing later.

2. Turn heat to medium-high. The mixture will bubble and froth vigorously. Skim the foam off the top and discard (or save it and put it on cheese or yogurt; super tasty). The boil will subside to larger bubbles, but still bubble vigorously. Be sure to begin gently stirring the jam frequently to prevent it from sticking and burning to the bottom.

3. After about 20 minutes begin testing the jam by placing a small amount on the cold plate. Allow 30 seconds to pass and then run your finger through it to see what the cooled consistency will be. Boil for a few minutes longer if desired for a thicker jam.

4. Ladle into hot, sterilized canning jars and seal leaving 1/4 inch of head space. Wipe the rims of the jars clean before applying the lids. Screw on the rings to finger-tight. Work quickly. Process in a water bath to ensure a good seal. If you want you can skip the water bath and just screw the lids on tight where the heating-cooling process will create a vacuum seal, but the water bath is a surefire method for a secure seal.

*To sterilize the jars, rinse out clean mason jars, dry them, and place them, without lids, upright in a 200°F oven for 10 minutes. To sterilize the lids put them in a shallow bowl and pour boiling water over them.

Hangover: Blackberry Mascarpone Turnovers (Plus Giveaway Winner!)

2011-05-17T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Not sure if I should be ashamed of this post or not...-

The light blazing in between the slats of the window shades forced its way into the room with an unrelenting fury. To look at it was a mistake, my confused desire to confirm that all this daylight meant that it was indeed morning. The sun, in all its radiant indifference, slammed its rays through my eyes and into the back of my skull with shuddering force, like a gladiator swinging a halberd into the torso of his charging opponent.

“NYAAAAGH!!!” I cried and flipped back around to bury my head into the darkness of my pillow. “Why did you open the blinds?!”

“Because it’s ten o’clock and you told me to last night, ‘No matter what,’ so you could get your work done,” said BF who crawled back into bed before slipping into dreamy unconsciousness.

“Damn you and your punctuality. Damn me, too. Ugh,” I sighed. I peeked out from the covers to let a sliver of morning in and attempted to adjust my eyes. After a few minutes, now fully emerged from the darkness of my pillow-topped fortress, I pulled on whatever clothes were nearest to my hand (i.e. what I was wearing last night and had stripped into a pile on the floor, and that the cat had decided to make a bed out of). I wrapped myself up in a blanket and crawled out to the kitchen.

" I have to admit. I was surprised how well I held myself last night," I smirked to myself.

-Seriously, I was.-

The previous night had been the post-thesis celebration. A rather impromptu gathering fueled by food and booze of every sort. It was a grand ‘ol affair that went late into the night with raucous conversation and brazen drinking of the kind that I hadn’t partaken in since I was 22. A bevy of cocktails made with a pitcher of freshly squeezed vanilla bean lemonade and a bottle of Absolut vodka started the night off with a sunny disposition. Eventually the group moved through a few bottles of red wine before diving into a dauntingly large bottle of champagne (my one true weakness). By the time we cracked open the tequila it was a sleigh ride out of sobriety and into the realm of near total shitfacedness.

“Still, I did not overtly swear, fall down, or fondle a single person last night. Plus, I remember everything that happened! I’m quite proud and more than just a bit than surprised with myself.”

"Mmmff," muffled back BF in sleepy agreement.

It’s true. I was. I can be a bit of a handful when I drink. My tipsy-akimbo position is one where one arm holds a drink while wrapped around the shoulders of a friend so I can stay standing, while the other arm takes to task touching any pretty lookin’ fellow who happens by me. Generally, I become the person you try to avoid and who you're embarrassed to have attended with. I'm quite the mess, really.

Somehow, still, by the grace of God, Vishnu, and a Euro-mix heritage that blessed me with a mighty liver I made it through the night without that happening. I think of it as a sign of maturation.

-Glad that whole becoming mature thing is out of the way.-

The hangover itself wasn’t so bad, either. I could move and I didn't wake up in the bathtub with a bucket nearby so already things were looking up. After my body adjusted to morning I was able to adequately go about my business except that I was accompanied by a dull headache. The sounds of the day would be chased by the constant hum reverberating in the front of my skull, a sound like the last trailing tone of a church bell’s bark.

I had set the alarm and the BF to wake me up because last night I had every intention of getting dressed and driving down the Farmer’s Market. As it stood now? Hells no. Whatever plans I had on cooking something elaborate and the story I had started penning to go with it were chucked aside. What for, though, was something I wasn’t quite sure of yet.

Once in the kitchen I plopped down on the linoleum floor and opened the refridgerator door. I zoned out as I tanned in the fluorescent light hoping something would club me in the face with inspiration. I pulled the blanket tighter against me as the cold air curled out and snaked around me. Grabbing my pounding head I wondered if Asprin studded scones would either be seen awesome or problematic. I imagine such a post would lead to a bunch of people unsubscribing to my blog feed followed by a whole new audience hitting the subscribe button.

-Next Week: Cocaine and Cough Syrup Parfaits!-

Suddenly, the sound of a small explosion burst from the fridge. It was, in fact, simply a stick of butter falling off a piece of tupperware onto the floor of the fridge. My addled brain had moved from buring my retinas with light to liquifying my brain with sound. "How lovely," I thought to myself.

The cause of the butter crash had been my cat, Eat Beast. He had already snuck well into the back of the fridge in an attempt to get at a poorly wrapped piece of ham and that his tail had knocked the butter over. As I yanked him out - much to his verbal protest - the Aspirin scones suddenly seemed far more reasonable. Maybe with a dusting of ground Lithium and powdered sugar for garnish?

Pulling out the cat revealed that previously hidden behind his girth sat a box of puff pastry. Near it, a container of blackberries and half of a container of mascarpone cheese.

Turnovers it would be. They sounded like appropriate hangover food.

Having never been one for fast food my usual hangover cure has always been vegetarian Szechuan food. This is put together in the most haphazard way I can think of as cooking and wanting to die at the same time rarely ever go hand in hand and usually results in pretty piss-poor food. I simply smash up some garlic, ginger, and chili peppers and throw them into a wok with shimmering-hot oil. After a quick stir in goes whatever vegetables I can find and chop up without harming myself. (Handling a knife while hungover is never the smartest thing, but I figure if professional chefs in the 80's can do it while coming down from cocaine I can do it while recovering from tequila shots). A few minutes and a splash of soy sauce later I have my meal.

Doing this post-mowed is pretty miserable work. I power through it each time knowing that in the end my stomach will feel better, my head will clear up (at least, somewhat so), and I’ll be able to go back to sleep and feel rejuvenated.

Having no vegetables in the house meant no Szechuan food. That meant turnovers.

-Most problems usually mean turnovers.-

The whole thing came together rather quickly. The filling ingredients were stirred together in a bowl. The puff pastry quickly rolled and cut. The only tedious part was the egg washing and folding. Tedious-ish. Time was pretty fuzzy during all this so I'm not sure if it took five or fifty minutes.

Either way, they got in the oven. I was even able to take pictures, so props to me there. They also tasted pretty darn good. So, you know, more props.

They taste even better when your head isn’t an arena for knife fighting monkeys. Buttery, flakey puff pastry is a welcome sight any morning, and, I can confirm this now, a great hangover cure. Fill it with blackberries and cheese? Well, the jammy and creamy mess bubbling inside them is just dandy.

However, these turnovers are of a simple flavor and not a revelation. Rather, they have a flavor you appreciate when you’re in the proper mood for it. When you are, the turnovers tastes nearly life affirming. When you're reeling from tequila shots they're practically the perfect food; even better than a coffee and a Big Mac. Even, possibly, better than Szechuan food.

After that I went back to bed and crashed for a bit; perfectly content and full of puff pastry. I would sleep the rest of the hangover off happily.

---GIVEAWAY WINNER---

To pick the winner I flipped a coin to choose whether the winner would be chosen from comments on the blog or comments on the Facebook thread. Blog won the coin toss. From that I entered everyone into a random number generator.

The winner is redstrands! Redstrands, please be sure to e-mail me with your contact info so I can send the books your way. Thanks everyone who entered!

Blackberry Mascarpone Turnovers
Makes 24 turnovers

2 7-ounce prepared puff pastry sheets
6 ounces blackberries, chopped
1/4 cup Mascarpone cheese
zest of 1 lemon or orange
1 tablespoon honey
1 egg, beaten

1. Combine blackberries, Mascarpone, zest, and honey in a bowl.

2. Preheat oven to 400°F. Working with one puff pastry sheet at a time roll out the pastry to a size of 9-inches by 12-inches. Cut into 12 3x3-inch squares. Use your finger to paint a the edges of each square with beaten egg (this will help the pastry seal). Place a teaspoon of the blackberry mixture in the center of the squares. Fold over the squares into a triangle shape (for smaller ones, just fold into rectangles, they aren't as pretty but they are easier to fold). Stretch the dough if you need to to close the turnovers. Use the tines of a fork to crimp the edges. Place the turnovers on a parchment paper lined baking sheet. Chill for 5 minutes in the refrigerator before baking, or chill while you prepare the second puff pastry sheet.

3. Whisk a teaspoon of water into the beaten egg. Using a pastry brush paint the turnovers with the egg to give them a shiny glaze. Bake the turnovers for 15-20 minutes or until golden and puffy. Allow to cool for 10 minutes before serving.

-And now for a long nap.-

Finally: Buckwheat Blueberry Waffles + Giveaway

2011-05-10T07:55:00.000-07:00

-Celebratory waffles are the best kind of waffles.-

"I've read your draft. Nice job with your expanded analysis and examples--it helps to clarify your argument. I will leave it in a bag hanging over my office door, so you can pick it up at any time this evening before they lock the building at around 9pm. I am ready to sign off on your thesis! E-mail me very soon to set up an appointment to sign. Yay. Well done."

And there it was. I was done. Four years of work. Twenty classes. Thousands of pages of reading. Hundreds of pages written. Stress, break downs, hysteria. New friends for life. Many mentors who guided me. At the end, a thesis that took three years to write, came out 164-pages long, and 2-inches thick. With this e-mail all the hard work was done.

My thesis has been approved.

I have officially completed graduate school with a degree in English Composition. I can now teach college classes. I am now Garrett McCord, M.A.

Took long enough.

After reading the e-mail I actually spent the first ten minutes crying on my couch with BF congratulating me and holding me as I completely broke down in some of the most exhilarating joy I have ever felt. It was like I had been shot in the chest, but rather than feeling pain I simply exploded with a near existential, completely tear-bearing happiness.

-Bullets. Made of happy. Or something.-

The next day I spent ill. My system had spent the last few weeks addicted to stress. It coursed through my veins pumping adrenaline and fear through my organs and shot a constant flow of electricity searing through my brain. Once my body let it all go it began the process of violently readjusting; heartburn, vertigo, and nausea ensued and left me reeling as if I had just walked off a ship from rough seas. I forced it off with a round of sauce slathered barbecue and far too many beers with friends, followed by a good night's sleep. With that my body finally began to relax and readjust to life post-academia.

My brain and hands however, have not. Independent of the rest of me they still twitch for fervent bouts of stressful activity. I suddenly have 20+ hours of time that I used to spend every week on my thesis all freed up. I'm not sure what to do with myself. I feel like a parolee being released after twenty years, unsure of the world or my place in it anymore.

What does a creature of habit do when the habit is forcibly broken? What do you do when a massive part of your life no longer is? What's left is a void of time and space in your life. In your mind it's a psychic vacuum waiting to be filled.

I called friends. I read a book for fun, though I found myself compelled to highlight and annotate passages here and there. (Old habits and all...) I even spent an afternoon doing sitting on the patio doing absolutely nothing but enjoying myself.

Honestly, I'm not sure how much longer I can stand it.

Stillness, is for other people. Addiction to activity is both a vice and a blessing. It can tucker you out, weather your body, and strain the mind, but it can also produce amazing results. Relaxation is just too crazy-stupid boring.

So, I cooked. My go-to activity whenever I feel out of place.

I whipped up a yeasted buckwheat waffle batter and let it burble and grow overnight in the darkness of the oven. The next day, now doubled in size, the flavors of the flours has intensified and the room smelled yeasty and warm like recently threshed grain. We stirred in a few blueberries for bit of pizzazz in color and flavor.

BF broke out his family's old wafflemaker, an ancient device older than us both and that bears the grizzled appearance to prove it. We scooped cupfuls of the batter in between crusty jaws of the wafflemaker's maw and closed the press to the sound of the creature's steamy hiss.

-I'm not sure how, but it may predate the discovery of electricity and the English language.-

Minutes later and no longer steaming - the classic sign that your waffle is done - the waffles emerged light and crispy. The flavor? Earthy, like birch wood and dry grass. The blueberries, slightly smashed, had released their juices that were cooked into a winey, jammy sauce within each waffle. This fruity filling made the bread of the waffles all the sweeter in comparison.

Smearing them with a bit of strawberry jam I ate in gratitude. Lounging on the couch, my feet propped up on the coffee table, I sighed. It was a bit bittersweet. A huge chapter of life now closed.

"What on earth am I going to do now?" I asked aloud.

-"Examining the Exclusionary Rhetoric of the Slow Food Movement's Recipes and Literature"-

My bound copy of the thesis is sitting on my bookshelf jammed between the various texts I used in my research. Looking back I can say there were a few fun times to all this. There was some diligent eating I got to do in the name of research. A bit of travel. Some interviews with truly engaging and knowledgeable people. Plus, not all of the books I used in my research were dull and academic (though, God, some were so dry they left you parched). A few were thought-provoking and challenged my beliefs about food and culture, and the ways we define ourselves by these things. Written with humorous, sage, and assuring voices these are texts that will be valued tools in writing to come.

(NOTE: THIS CONTEST IS NOW CLOSED) I believe in sharing knowledge, so I'm offering up some of my favorite pieces of research as a giveaway. These aren't boring pieces, either. These are books any food lover can read and appreciate. I'm offering a bundle of the following books to one lucky reader:

Oxford Companion to Food: This book made waves a few years ago when it won a James Beard award. Author Alan Davidson wrote about 80 percent of the 2,600-plus entries, with other authors and subject specialists contributing the rest. The entries, which range from Jewish Dietary Laws to Umeboshi, are deftly written to be clear, engaging, and even a bit witty. Excessive cross-referencing aside (it's easy to start on Offal and end up somewhere on Kangaroo twenty minutes later) the Oxford Companion to Food is one of those books that can answer most food questions reliably and succinctly in a way that the Internet sometimes still can't. You may not read it cover to cover, but you will find yourself referencing it again and again.

Slow Food Nation: Why Our Food Should Be Good, Clean, and Fair: Written by Carlo Petrini, the founder of Slow Food, this book one of the three central texts analyzed in my thesis. The copy I'm sending is one that doesn't have my scribbles and highlights on every single page. Yes, it can be a bit overzealous, long on rhetoric, short on data, and a bit winded; but, then again, I think the same of Pollan's books, too. This book is like Pollan's most pure thoughts crystallized in a more concise manner and with more enthusiasm. It's certainly inspriational, idealistic, carefully crafted, and salient to today's modern food crisises. As much as I knock it in my thesis, I believe everyone should read this book.

Everyone Eats: Understanding Food and Culture: It's hard to express how much I truly love this book. Anthropologist E.N. Anderson presents an anthropological study of food that is both fascinating and informative. While it is an educational text, I imagine most casual readers will still keep this on the nightstand as casual, though highly addictive, reading. Anderson demonstrates how the simple act of eating is anything but simple and explains how food becomes a focus in religion, culture, and identity, and how food functions as a defining agent in a complex society. Every time I pick it up, I seem to spend my next few meals wondering about the meanings behind my the food in front of me. A must read for any avid food literature enthusiast.

-Apologies, but no waffles are included for the winner as waffles are not books.-

To enter the contest, just leave a comment on this post by the end of May 15th. The comment can be about waffles, research, whatever you want. Please, no anonymous comments. You must leave a name or I will be unable to announce you as the winner. You can also get another entry by going to the Vanilla Garlic fan page on Facebook. Just like the fan page and then comment on the Giveaway Thread for another chance to enter. Super easy!

The winner will be announced on my next post, which will go up on May 17th. The winner will then need to e-mail me their address so I know where to ship the swag. Unfortunately, now that I have student loans, I can't afford to send these anywhere outside the United States.

Lastly, I want to say that should you want to read the thesis I am happy to email it to anyone interested. It's boring and academic, so it may not be your thing. If you fancy yourself a foodie, amateur sociologist, Slow Food member, or just someone with a thing for Marxist critiques on cheesecake recipes then it might be right up your alley. Just shoot me an email and I'll send a PDF of the thesis right along. (Leaving a comment does not actually provide me an email address. You will need to actually email me.) If you are a student and you want to read it for your own research I am thrilled to help, but please remember to cite it properly.

Yeasted Blueberry Buckwheat Waffles
Makes about 16-20 waffles
Adapted from Epicurious

2 1/4 teaspoons or 1 package active dry yeast
1 teaspoon sugar
2 cups lukewarm milk
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups flour
1 cup buckwheat flour
2 tablespoons sugar
5 tablespoons canola oil or butter, melted
2 eggs, beaten
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup blueberries

In a small bowl, sprinkle the yeast into 1/4 cup warm water and stir in the sugar. Let stand until foamy, about 10 minutes. Place the warm milk and salt in a large bowl, and then add the yeast mixture and whisk in the flours. Cover with plastic wrap and leave in your stove overnight.

The next morning, add the sugar, oil, eggs, soda, and blueberries. Cook according to your waffle iron's instructions. When the steam stops it's a good indication that your waffles are done.

Suddenly Adulthood: Rhubarb Crisp with Rosemary

2011-05-03T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Rhubarb is never sudden.-

I recently had the terrifying realization that at some point in the past ten years I had become an adult.

Life hadn't sent someone to my home with a bouquet of flower and a handshake congratulating me into the secret world of adulthood. There was no card. No special announcement. We have sweet sixteens and quinceanera to celebrate our teens. First birthday parties are a must for any child, though they don't remember it and most of that cake will end up everywhere except the child's mouth. When women are close to term we have bridal showers where the knocked up is floated on a lily pad and worshiped by her friends before the ritual ooh'ing of the gifts takes place.

Yet, we have no pinpoint for being an adult. It just, apparently, happens.

What's scary is the disillusionment you have about adulthood when you're young and tottering about. As a kid I held the view that my parents just knew everything there was to know about the world via a handbook for adults. They knew what was right and what was wrong. They had lived life and their advice was golden and appreciated. When you had problems your parents are the ones you ran to who instinctively knew what the solution was whether it was how to solve your math homework, what clouds were made of, how to spell the letter "B," or whether Jesus or George Washington founded America (my concepts of time and letters were rather loose at the age of two). Your parents knew how to raise a kid and do it well because adults just DO.

-Bill Watterson, what can't you teach us?-

Horror of horrors when one day you realize they were just making it up as they went along. Seriously! Your parents probably almost killed you a dozen times over because they were just guessing! No book, no class, no anything. They had sex one night and you were a result that they had to instruct through life.

In California you have to take a class, pass a written exam, have 100 logged practice hours, possess a proper state identification, and pass a driving test to get a driver's license but you can go start having a kid right now. When it gets here you are officially responsible for the healthy mental, emotional, and physical development of a helpless human being. There is no preparation for it. It's just your inherent right, and God help you if you screw it up.

Think about it. How messed up is that?

-Pretty damn messed up, actually.-

Adulthood doesn't slam into you like a freight train, either. Rather, adulthood is an assassin, slowly, stealthily stabbing you with the utmost precision over and over. A shiv to the wallet and you now have electric bills and a Netflix account. Needles in the eyes and - BAM! - you need glasses. Soon you're bleeding out in the street gripping onto your library card and wondering how the hell you have a mortgage when it seems that only a few days ago you were listening to music with friends during your last day of summer vacation.

Congrats, you are, apparently, somehow, an adult. You realize there is no book or great secret to it all. You're just bumbling along only now you have a gym membership because you don't have the metabolism of a five year old whose every prerogative involves running around somewhere chasing an imaginary hamster. You get a punch card for your oil changes because the tenth one is free and that is an incentive worth pursuing because that thirty dollars could go towards paying off student loans or buying a nice bottle of wine for dinner. You have responsibilities and no real idea half of the time of how to really go about them.

- Only one punch away from the oil change. Yes!-

So the only thing you can do is make the best of it.

However, adulthood comes with perks. Rated-R movies! Paychecks! Bourbon is a nifty bonus. Even better, you get to do whatever the hell you want in the kitchen.

I never got to have rhubarb growing up. My parents didn't like it, so they never bought it. It was only as an adult I finally picked up those jaunty red stalks and discovered their flavor. My first bite of it was raw. It was as tart as rejection and it nearly made me weep. The farmer who gave it to me laughed and took pity as I attempted to swallow the sour, flossy fibers in my heroic attempt at propriety. He charmingly assured me that it was best to usually cook it in order to mollify the slapping flavor. However, he produced a jar of honey and dipped a small, baby stalk of it into the honey and encouraged me to taste. "This," he assured, "is the exception."

I took a bite and it was floral and candy sweet, the sour was beaten back, mellowed by the humble acidity of the dark wild honey. Since then I can't help but play with rhubarb whenever I see it. I'm an enamored school girl who blushes back at rhubarb. I purchase it every chance I get and always give it my full attention.

My right as an adult, I guess.

-Also the right to swear, drink, and make bad decisions for the fun of it.-

This crumble is simple. Rhubarb is the star here. A few strawberries are cast as extras to help make it shine. Just enough sugar tempers its almost rudely sour assault. Rosemary and lemon - a stellar combination when it comes to rhubarb - give it a support and depth and make those an almost certainly adult dessert.

I suppose you could give some to kids if you want. But I wouldn't. Something for them to look forward to when they suddenly realize they're adults, too.

On a complete tangent, I want to bring a little personal something to note. My Blood & Chocolate Pudding post was nominated for Best Culinary Essay in Saveur's 2011 Best Food Blog Awards. I'm truly thankful for everyone who nominated me. You can vote here. However, I ask one thing when and if you do vote: I am honored to be grouped with an amazing bunch of writers, and so I encourage you to read every essay and then vote for your favorite. Give your vote to the best essay!

Rhubarb Crumble with Rosemary & Lemon

For the Crumble Topping
3/4 cup flour
1/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup oats
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, cold and cut into small cubes
1/4 teaspoon salt

Place all the ingredients in a bowl and cut with a pastry cutter or two forks, or use your hands to pinch the butter with the other ingredients. Cut or pinch until the butter is all the size of small peas. Chill.

For the Filling
2 1/2 cups rhubarb, chopped
1/3 cup strawberries, chopped
1 teaspoon rosemary
1 tablespoon lemon zest
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1/3 cup + 1 tablespoon sugar

1. Combine all the ingredients together in a bowl and let sit for 30 minutes.

2. Preheat oven to 350F. Lightly butter a medium-sized baking dish and pour in the the rhubarb mixture. Level it out with a spoon. Spoon on top the crumble mixture and spread out evenly. Bake for 25-30 minutes or until top has browned a bit and the juices bubbles up the sides. Allow to cool for 10 minutes. Serve.

A Personal History on Candy: Earl Grey Chocolate Caramels

2011-04-26T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Proper candy for a refined adult. Or, you know, sugar fix. Whatever.-

Cutting caramel is a methodical practice. Turn the sink on to a mere dribble and wait for it to heat to scalding. Run the knife under the water and patiently wait for the heat to transfer through the tang until the metal radiates in your hand. Quickly clean off the water with a towel and then cut through the brick of caramel. The piping hot knife should glide through effortlessly and leave the sides of each individual bite of caramel nearly seamless and smooth as cut class. Repeat for each cut.

It’s slow going to be sure, but this type of methodical handwork has its benefits. Once the caramel comes into contact with the tip of the knife the heat causes the candy to release a plume of aroma of gently burnt sugar and milk. In my case, also of chocolate and Earl Grey tea which the caramel has made stressed and bold. A scent that, for some reason, reminds me of Vivian Leigh’s voice in Gone with the Wind.

The experience is pleasant and somewhat unique for me. Not because I not only don’t make a lot of candy (I don't), but because I simply don’t eat a lot of candy. I never really have.

Some people might have you believe otherwise. After the fire when I stayed at Elise’s home I filled her kitchen with colorful bags of it for the first week or so, and subsisted on little more than artificial flavors, Red Dye 40, and corn syrup so refined it would make my teeth shake. Elise chastised me about how a food blogger and cook could eat such junk and harassed me until I ate a salad.

(Thing is, when I’m in a state of shock or general depression, that’s the only time I turn to candy. I ate so many Skittles the first few days that I actually got sick. Nowadays when I see a bag of them all I can taste is the rainbow of fruit pain. However, with the rare instance, candy isn’t much a part of my diet.)

-Chocolate Caramel: Seriously hard to make look appetizing.-

Even as a kid I didn’t eat a lot of candy, which, judging by my Halloween haul, you might find surprising. My Halloweens were productive and planned with near military-level stratagem and as methodical as my caramel cutting. I lived in a well-to-do middle-upper class neighborhood where people were more than happy to give you a five dollar bill for your UNICEF box and drop a king-sized Snickers bar in your bag. Our neighborhood, a oblong and lengthy block that was probably a good 3 miles or so with plenty of cul-de-sacs dotting the route was a goldmine with a thick chocolate coated vein running through the whole of it. A legendary route of the kind that kids dreamed of and parents loved. It was safe enough for parents to let their kids wander freely and lucrative enough for kids so that after 10 minutes you had enough candy to last for weeks. Even better, fewer kids were shuttled in from other neighborhoods as we were quietly tucked away in a hidden bubble of Orange County, California. You knew every other kid going door to door and no strangers messed up our time. It was ideal for all who lived there.

My brother and I would canvas the neighborhood early when the October twilight was still bright and casting long, spindly shadows that slunk along with us door to door. Later in the night, once the number of children began to dwindle, we would make a second round in different costumes from previous years. Diet-minded adults eager to get rid of the bags of candy they bought would begin to literally give us handfuls of candy if not outright pour their bowls out into our bags, which were actually-greedily- pillowcases. Eventually we would run back home and drop off one or two heaving pillowcases full of candy off before swiping more pillowcases from the linen closet and heading out for more.

By this point it wasn’t even about candy. It was about the game. Seeing just how much sugar we could milk from people and gather. How fast could we canvass the block and how many times? How much could we run door to door in the nest half hour? How clever could the costumes be? (My last year of trick or treating, at age 12, was a particularly proud moment for me. My coup-de-grace was wearing a death shroud and having a harvesting sickle strapped to my back. With me I carried around an old briefcase that I had painted on the words “I.R.S. Audit Team.” I think nearly every house I went to took a picture of that. The adults didn't stand a chance.)

-People these days look down of trick-or-treaters who can shave. What is the world coming to?-

At home the bloated pillowcases crackled with candy wrappers that demanded attention. Our last haul came in at nearly ten pounds of candy. We knew we wouldn’t eat it all. Our mom, a third grade teacher, would take some to her classroom. Dad would take a sack to the office, usually one he had filled with 3 Musketeers bars he had picked out of the rest. We would all be eating the stuff even up through May until mom eventually just threw it all away, disgusted at the fact she had filled our Easter baskets with Halloween swag.

I would maybe eat four pieces of it a day. I didn’t really want most of it. I just don’t eat, and never did eat a lot of candy. Too many processed sweets and my body practically goes into insulin shock.

However, the one exception were the small caramel candies. The little square of Brach's classic burnt sugar. It was and is even more so today a small-name, old school brand of candy; the kind most kids usually pay little attention to. As if there were nuggets of gold found at the bottom of a stream I panned them out of the piles and chewed up every single one I could find until my jaw went store and every crevice between my teeth was tacky with the chewy leftovers. Caramel was, and is, one of my weaknesses when it comes to candy.

Still, making it is something else. And, unlike store bought candy, you have more control. You know what's going into it and with practice you learn to guide the flavor and texture to taste. So, once in a while, I make candy. The batch will usually last a few weeks as I only eat a piece or two a day. Enough to get a saccharine fix and make the jitters go away.

This particular caramel is unique and may surprise you a bit. The milk is cooked with sugar from the get-go as opposed to being added later in the process. A good dose of unsweetened chocolate is stirred in along with a spoonful of Earl Grey tea. The result is something dark and sophisticated in flavor, the cinema noir of confections. A sparse crust of crushed cocoa nibs add a bit of dimension and textual character to the candies and make them all the more engaging. I've also learned the a small glass of Madiera is deliriously perfect pairing with these.

This is a good beginner's candy recipe if you've never done it before. All it requires is a good eye, a candy thermometer, and some patience. Then, get out your knife and carefully cut the caramel into squares. Enjoy the aroma, and, then, enjoy your candy.

Chocolate Earl Grey Caramels
Adapted from The Essence of Chocolate

Unsalted butter for the pan
1 1/2 cups heavy cream
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons light corn syrup
1 teaspoon salt
9 ounces bittersweet chocolate (99% dark preferable), finely chopped
1 tablespoon Earl Grey tea leaves, finely ground
2 tablespoon cacao nibs, crushed (optional)

1. Line a 9x9 pan with 9x17 piece of parchment paper (the paper will droop over the sides) and butter well.

2. Stir together the cream, sugar, corn syrup, and salt together in a heavy bottom pan. Bring to a boil and continue to cook until it reaches 250F. Remove from heat and let cool for a five minutes.

3. Add chocolate and tea. Stir together and pour into the pan and spread with an offset spatula. Gently press on cacao nibs and let the caramel sit for a few hours.

4. Cut apart into 1-inch squares. Serve or store in an airtight container.

Making Cheese: Paneer, Pineapple, & Cucumber Salad

2011-04-19T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Homemade cheese in a tropical Spring salad.-

“It’s squeaky!” I beamed.

BF paused his video game knowing that if he did not direct his attention to me I would get between him and the screen and ensure the death of his character. I grinned like a maniac and held out a seared piece of cheese prompting him to eat it. He surveyed the unidentifiable food the way a bomb team would inspect a mine field. He then considered me, possibly as crazy, and somewhat hesitantly pressed for more information, “What’s squeaky?”

“The paneer! It’s squeaky!”

My explanation being of no help he dropped his gaze back over to the paneer and studied it.

“It’s cheese. Please eat it. I just took it out of the fry pan and it is extremely hot,” I pushed.

He opened his mouth and I gingerly placed it on his tongue. With his first chew the cheese became audible as the pressed curds began to eek apart as if BF were masticating some terribly scared mice.

“See? Squeaky cheese.” It shouldn’t have been that thrilling or nearly as funny, but it was. I guess when you make your own cheese for the first time you can’t help but contract a dairy high from it.

The past year or so has been a whirlwind of cheese education for me. I’ve devoured any number of books and websites, and even more cheese all in the name of knowledge and whey (or so I say to justify eating an entire wheel of Petit Basque in a single sitting as if it were going to run away the second I stopped swallowing). At this point the science, the processes, and molds and bacterial cultures and the cheeses they're associated with no longer held any mystery. Each became identifiable and precise to me, and could be catalogued in memory and taste. I feel I can hold my own against many more knowledgeable cheese gurus.

However, there are still two things any cheese fiend still needs to do to be taken seriously by the Dairy World: visit a dairy and make cheese.

-The divot is there because I knotted the cheesecloth before pressing. The knot then pressed into the paneer. Lesson for you. Wrap and fold. Not wrap and knot.-

The former is something I keep meaning to do. I'll get right on it, soon. When I find time. Probably. The thing is that something inevitably pops up and bumps this task down the to-do list. Deadlines come up for old projects, research has to be done for new ones, studying, cooking, my attempts to revive the walking dead corpse that is my social life, and let's not forget familial guilt over my lack of visiting or calling are all vying for my unmitigated attention.

Believe me, I want to see happy goats and climate controlled caves lined with rounds of cheese stacked in so high they turn the room into a cultured Greek Parthenon. I want to put on plastic booties and a hairnet and see curds cut. My goal is to go home and curse out the washers at my apartment complex because they can’t get the primordial barnyard funk of so much cheese out of my clothes from touring a room of elderly blues.

Sadly, that will have to wait.

Anyways, making cheese is more doable and makes for a nifty weekend project.

Cheesemaking is one of those skills that many home cooks have lost. You see, cheese is more widely available than it ever has been and, really, there isn’t any practical need for people to know how to make their own cheese outside of personal satisfaction and cooking for cooking’s sake. Why go through the trouble of attempting your own Cheddar when Fiscalini produces a stalwart of the breed. Why raise goats when Laura Chenel has been doing such as damn fine job of it for the past 30+ years? (Plus, in my experience, goats can be total assholes. I've been butted a few times and lost a good flip-flop when a goat decided to make a snack out of it.) Making a blue at home is trying at best, but Whole Foods has a special on Bayley Hazen.

See where I’m going? Home cheesemaking isn’t a necessary skill. At least, not in the practical average American sense.

-Toasty cheese!-

But aren't knowledge and adventure reason enough to give it a go? The desire to better understand your obsession and master it is expected. Kids can memorize every minor detail about 650 pokemon. (Though this makes me wonder why our nation's test scores are so low?) Foragers carry books and sheets of white paper to do spore cap tests in order to identify poison mushroom from dinner mushroom. Coders learn C++ to make more engaging flash games, god bless them. Cheeseheads strain and press their own curds.

I decided to make paneer because it’s about as 101 as you can get for cheesemaking. Paneer is a simple cheese used in Indian cooking and usually made at home. It is also foolproof cheese. Simply heat some milk, pour in the vinegar, then stir, separate, and press. Congrats, you made paneer. It may sound like I’m breaking this down too much but I assure you that changing the oil in your car is more stressful and requires more experience than this.

The taste of uncooked paneer isn’t anything to swoon over. You won’t try it and wax poetics about it and you're unlikely to find it gracing a cheese plate. It tastes like concentrated milk, but, then again, that’s what it essentially is. Of course, the flavor also depends on the milk you’re using. You want to use a really high quality whole milk or top cream whole milk (the latter has more fat). If you use a milk that was made by cows who lived their lives roaming the country side eating grass and flowers and generally playing their happy cow games then it’ll taste better than milk from a factory cow who spent its life praying for a quick death that wasn’t going to happen.

Cook panner and it becomes an entirely different food. Sauteed in a bit of butter or oil the sugars and fats crisp and caramelize. The milk’s origins become loud and brilliant. The paneer takes on a toasty, wheaty flavor that soon submits to the taste of cream and clover. You realize the panner is just as excited as you when it meets your teeth with a cheerful squeak-squeak-squeak of appreciation.

Like other cheeses, paneer can also be flavored to give it character. Some people toss a thread of saffron into the milk as it cooks to impart a bitter flavor and Brahman color. Others mix in some freshly ground and toasted cumin or coriander into the curds before pressing. Cilantro or basil leaves can be wrapped around the paneer before its bundled and pressed in cheese cloth to impart a haunting grassy spice. It’s all up to the cook how to alter and flavor the paneer. Paneer, essentially, reflects the personality of the cook.

Unlike other cheeses, paneer is meant to be used as an ingredient and not as a stand alone cheese. It’s used in curries, wrapped in pastry and deep fried into fritters, sautéed with vegetable, marinated in chilies… paneer is essentially an everyday staple food used in a variety of dishes. It’s also a great food source for vegetarians looking to add some texture and unique flavor to their food. I’ve discovered that it’s also excellent in omelettes, tacos, and tossed in a pasta buried in a garlic-heavy tomato sauce.

This panner recipe is a simple one you can do any night of the week. I've personally found that paneer is fabulous in fresh salads. Tomatoes and greens are great, but tossing it with cucumber and pineapple is a fresh, spring-y salad perfect for warm weather.

Anywhose, give it a try. You'll love it. Even better? You can cross "learn to make cheese" off your list.

Paneer
Do not substitute anything for the whole milk. Cream will result in soft paneer and skim won't yield much of anything. Makes two cups of cubed cheese.

1/2 gallon whole milk
1/4 cup white vinegar

In a heavy-bottomed pot bring milk to a boil over medium-high heat. Slowly add the vinegar and stir. The curds and whey will separate. Pour into a stainer lined with cheesecloth (a thin tea towel could also work). Wrap up the curds tightly. Place in the sink and weight down with a cutting board topped with something heavy like a hefty cookbook or a kettle filled with water. Allow to drain for two hours. At this point you can use the paneer or wrap it in plastic wrap and store in the refrigerator for up to three days.

Paneer, Pineapple, Cucumber Salad
Serves 2-4

1 recipe paneer (see above)
1 tablespoon olive oil or butter
1/2 cucumber, peeled, seeded, and sliced
3 cups chopped pineapple
1/4 cup of cilantro, roughly chopped
juice of 2 limes
pinch cayenne
salt and pepper

1. Dice the paneer into bite-sized pieces. Set aside.

2. Place oil or butter in a pan over medium-high heat. Add paneer, lightly salt and pepper it, and sautee until lightly browned on all sides.

3. Toss together all ingredients. Taste and adjust spice and salt to taste. Serve.

Escape From Anxiety: Strawberry & Wine Jam

2011-04-12T06:00:00.000-07:00

-In order to bring about a calming sensation...-

I peered across the room to the see the clock on the kitchen oven. By this time of day the sunlight was blasting its way into the apartment completely annihilating the dull green glowing time. I finally had to get up from the couch and delicately tip-toe around the piles of papers and research that stacked like a miniature skyscrapers around my feet. Once in the kitchen I cupped my hand to block the light and check the time. 10:32 AM.

“Oh hell,” I muttered. I had woken up at 6 AM to start working and already four hours had flitted away without my notice. My head, buried in the collected works of Karl Marx and Carlo Petrini and fueled by an exaggerated cup of black tea, had been too preoccupied.

My stomach growled a low bass rumble that shook the kitchen. I felt exhausted, stressed, and completely empty. I grabbed a piece of bread and smeared it with a bit of butter before wolfing it down to fill all the nothing inside me. As soon as I swallowed some of it a ripple of nausea took over. I felt my throat beginning to contort and my tongue instinctively taking a sluice-like position. I turned on my heel and threw myself over the sink and spit out the bread I was still chewing. I immediately braced myself for what was sure to come.

I waited. My stomach churned. My diaphragm sent my torso heaving. Nothing came. I waited some more. Nothing.

-Pictured: Not vomit.-

I dragged myself up and wiped the tears out of my eyes. A deep breath followed by another, heavier breath. I forced the rest of the bread down. I washed it all with the rest of my tea, which by now was hoarse and cold but I wanted the bitterness to nullify the lingering gastronomic vertigo that my stomach seemed to be recoiling from.

It was time for a break.

The anxiety attack had been caused by, unsurprisingly, the thesis. I had finally received feedback on my last chapter from my second reader. Most of it was positive, but she had noted a few places where she thought my arguments rested too much on broad generalizations and needed some more concrete evidence, preferably Marxist.

I had avoided learning anything more than the basic premises of Marxist critique and theory during my academic life because I had found it rather dull and uninspiring. Now, at the end of a nine year run of undergrad and grad school, Marx came bum-rushing in right before the finish line to kneecap me with a lead pipe. I had spent the previous 32 hours reading through most of Marx's major works attempting comprehend his theories. (Which, now, I will admit, are kinda intriguing.) I was mentally drained and physically exhausted.

-Is making jam a marking of the proletariat? Is it Petit Bourgeois? These are not questions one asks oneself when trying to prevent sugar and strawberries from scorching.-

I was doing my best to do a three day turnaround on my thesis and get a near-perfect draft to my final reader. With only 5 weeks left in the semester I needed approval or else I was doomed to enroll in a regular semester instead of enrolling in continuous enrollment semester of which I was currently on my last semester of.

Here’s how it works and the situation I find myself in: Each student gets three semesters of continuous enrollment where you aren’t really taking classes. It’s just more time to work on your thesis or project. Continuous enrollment costs about $200. If you go past three you have to re-enroll in a regular semester which costs about $2000.

I’m trying to get the thesis fixed and approved under a tight deadline so I can finish this semester. The reason for the anxiety is that if my reader requests a revision I probably won’t have enough time to fix it and get it to her. I would have to wait 6 more months and pay thousands of dollars in order for her to spend a few hours reading a revision. Her hands are essentially tied as she is disallowed to legally or contractually do any work outside of school time and read it when she is not on the clock else she get in trouble with the school.

I had appealed to the school for an extension, citing that the house fire last January during my first continuous enrollment semester had destroyed most of my research along with everything else and that I hadn’t dis-enrolled at the time simply because it wasn’t on my mind. Homelessness will do that. The graduate department (aka: The Bastards) perplexedly concluded that this was not a valid reason. So now I'm trapped in a web of bureaucratic yellow tape and deadlines. I imagine the dean of the college simply lying in wait deciding on when to plunge its mandibles into my wallet and soul (it’s not a matter of either/or, but of which one first).

-Screw you, graduate studies office. You get no berries. Just the finger.-

I was now on day three of trying to revise and perfect a 160-page document on that not only did my graduation hinder on, but another six months of my life and thousands of dollars of possible tuition money that would come out of my pocket. Hence the anxiety attack.

Staring into the sink I knew that there was only one thing to do right now. I got out my good pot and my canning materials, and pulled out the hefty bag of strawberries I purchased the other day in preparation for this. I would make jam.

Jamming is my mode of escape from stressful situations. It’s methodical work that requires all of your senses and attention. You have to diligently cut and chop every piece of fruit to similar size. You're constantly touching, smelling, observing, and tasting. Jamming requires you to be intimate with your produce as each batch will have a different personality. Yesterday’s may be slothful and bubble for hours in a syrupy mess before coming together, while today’s may be unripe and unruly, and tomorrow’s batch may be quite keen on you and jam with little more than a click of your heels. Each batch requires supervision and an always stirring hand in order to ensure uniformity.

Jam, thank god, requires that you think and focus on nothing else but jam.

This is why I find it to be such a grand escape. Plus, the bonus of jam making in order to escape is the jam. Your effort results in a rich, concentrated fruit that envelopes the eater.

As I pushed the strawberries into the pot I noticed a bottle of Bordeaux sitting on the counter. BF and I had opened it last night and capped the rest off for later. Without much consideration I grabbed the bottle and poured a few steady glugs of it in the pot. I immediately then put the bottle to my lips and finished the rest. It was dark, fruity, and with a taste of berries and pepper; but without exposure to air the wine was also harsh and burned at my negligence. I twitched a little and felt better as my body warmed.

-Booze makes everything better. This includes breakfast.-

Time passed and the jam came together. It tasted as red probably should, full of spring and precociously sweet fruit. I processed it and licked the spoon clean.

The wine began to take hold and the work had relaxed me. My stress began to wash away and my brain relax as it pushed out concerns of superstructures and deadlines and thought about lid sterilization. Ah, lid sterilization. I pondered about how utterly simple and wonderful lid sterilization is. No rhetorical questions are involved in processing jam. You just preform the task with attentive care.

As I write this days later the anxiety is still present, but tamed. My thesis is now sitting in a professor’s office awaiting judgment. I’m still on the verge of throwing up half the time when I think about it or open my e-mail knowing that a fateful e-mail may await me. The well wishes I have received are hopeful, inspiring, and greatly appreciated, but now it rests on my work and the approval of a single individual. I have no inkling on what her impressions will be.

Still, I have jam. I can eat that and momentarily, even for just a split second, relax. Those split seconds matter to me. That is why jamming, then, is so damn important. Any escape is.

Strawberry & Red Wine Jam
3 1/2 lbs. strawberries, hulled and diced
1/4 cup red wine
juice of 2 lemons
1 lb. sugar
1/8 teaspoon butter

1. Place all the ingredients in a stainless steel or copper pot, or a enamel lined dutch oven (not an aluminum pot as this will leach). Let macerate for about 10 minutes. Place a small plate in the freezer as this will be used for testing later.

2. Turn heat to medium-high. The mixture will bubble and froth vigorously. Skim the foam off the top and discard (or save it and put it on cheese or yogurt; super tasty). The boil will subside to larger bubbles, but still bubble vigorously. Be sure to begin gently stirring the jam frequently to prevent it from sticking and burning to the bottom.

3. After about 20 minutes begin testing the jam by placing a small amount on the cold plate. Allow 30 seconds to pass and then run your finger through it to see what the cooled consistency will be. Boil for a few minutes longer if desired for a thicker jam.

4. Ladle into hot, sterilized canning jars and seal leaving 1/4 inch of head space. Wipe the rims of the jars clean before applying the lids. Screw on the rings to finger-tight. Work quickly. Process in a water bath to ensure a good seal. If you want you can skip the water bath and just screw the lids on tight where the heating-cooling process will create a vacuum seal, but the water bath is a surefire method for a secure seal.

*To sterilize the jars, rinse out clean mason jars, dry them, and place them, without lids, upright in a 200°F oven for 10 minutes. To sterilize the lids put them in a shallow bowl and pour boiling water over them.

Sometimes Creativity Wins Out: Rosemary Walnuts

2011-04-05T06:00:00.000-07:00

-You know those recipes that take only two minutes of your time to make? I love those recipes.-

There is no rhubarb to be had in Sacramento.

Seriously, I’ve looked everywhere. I combed the aisles of the Farmer’s Markets and called every super market and Co-Op in two counties and I’ve come up empty-handed.

BF’s sister insists that she just bought some at Raley’s market the other day, but my own queries result in confused produce boys who have no idea what I was talking about and who swore they nary a stalk had graced their aisles. This leads me to wonder if either the produce boys are simply confused or liars. Another theory is that BF’s sister is having a laugh at my own expense. Perhaps she simply doesn’t know rhubarb from red kale? The latter would be most depressing as she’s a professional baker and, thus, she should know better. Furthermore, if this is the case, I would assume her “rhubarb” pie to be just terrible.

It’s April, though. It must be out there somewhere. It’s like hunting for a four leaf clover in a field. You know they exist; you just have to get on your hands and knees and search. Still, I’m not sure I want to pluck every green strand of grass looking for one. Sometimes you just have to call it quits.

This particularly sucks because the last three posts were supposed to feature rhubarb. (Well, four, now.) No firm stalks sitting on any tables or displays signaling to me in neon fuchsia brighter than a 1980’s track suit. I was happy to settle for the pale seawater green variety that admittedly tastes the same but lacks the colorful pop. Yet, there was nothing.

-Pictured: Epic Creativity.-

So, instead, I decided to just get creative. This is something that sometimes works out and sometimes causes small kitchen fires or the shellacking of the bottom of my oven in a black carbon crust that used to be something edible, like sugar or cream.

I began my culinary snipe hunt for inspiration by tumbling through the cupboards checking labels and looking through half used bags of fruits and coconut flakes. Eventually, I was going so far back into the reaches of the pantry that I was practically in Narnia before I remembered that my friend, Blair, an eneologist and farmer with an all-American appearance, had gifted me a huge bag of walnuts from his parent’s orchard.

On the counter below sat a small bunch of fresh rosemary given to me by another friend. Normally, I left rosemary out to hang in the kitchen and perfume the room, something I learned in college as a way to combat stinky roommates. I wasn’t sure what Paul had done to this particular plant but it had to be wrapped up at all times. To free it from its plastic confines was to make the entire kitchen smell like every tree in Tahoe was having an orgy in my kitchen. I love the piney scent of rosemary but this smelled like every nefarious needle was intent on going up my nose and stabbing my brain.

I decided then and there to combine the two. I had plans to serve some cheese as an appetizer to some guests that night having come into a precocious wedge of Nicasio Reserve in Davis and still having a hunk of Maytag blue on hand. I figured a complimentary snack of rosemary roasted walnuts would make for a sensational accompaniment.

-These will also pair well with most other cheeses and plenty of cured meats.-

I gave the rosemary a fine mince before tossing it into a bowl with the walnuts, a dash of cayenne, some olive oil, and a bit of melted butter because why not add butter? A flick of kosher salt and a few grinds of pepper finished it off.

The smell as it baked was warm and coniferous. It was impossible not to be invigorated from it. It was as if the kitchen were converted to an aromatherapy studio and the green perfume made the air seductive and clarifying. Indeed, the roasting walnuts were electric to the senses.

It was hard to remember why I had any longing for rhubarb after these little treats. Salty, verdant, and with a flavor that’s wise and husky like voice of someone’s aging grandfather. So yeah… to heck with the rhubarb. Sometimes creativity and a sack of walnuts just win out.

Rosemary Roasted Walnuts
Recipe adapted from Willow Pond Herbs

1 pound walnuts
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons butter, melted
3 tablespoons fresh rosemary leaves, well chopped
pinch of cayenne pepper
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
a few grinds of fresh pepper

Preheat over to 325°F. Place all the ingredients in a bowl and toss to mix. Spread on a baking sheet large enough to hold the nuts in a single layer. Bake for 20-25 minutes being sure to stir once or twice. Cool on a wire rack for 10 minutes. Serve right away or at room temperature. Store in an airtight container for up to 2 weeks. Makes about 2 cups.

It's Horrid Outside: Potato & Onion Galette

2011-03-29T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Rain, rain, go away. Come again another day. And when you do I will bake. Many tasty to things to make.-

It is horrid outside. "We need the rain in California," I say out loud to Eat Beast who stares towards the garden where the sky is apparently falling. Californians say this phrase to themselves and each other when it gets bad. I tell it to myself every Spring when it starts to come down so hard that the rivers threaten to wash out the many poorly conceived suburban sprawls incongruously built in the many flood plains here in Sacramento.

Listening to the peal of the rain striking the apartment I can’t help but go to the window and join the cat and look outside. The rain is blowing nearly horizontal and I’m worried about all the plants I just put into the ground. I’m praying they don’t get uprooted, broken, or drowned in all this. I fight the urge to check on them. Right now going outside for any reason is not only unappealing but insane It's true that we do need the rain. However, no one said anything about being happy about it.

A large crack sounds and a tree branch the size of a Harley from the nearby Eucalyptus suddenly crashes with a thunderous thud on top of the metal corrugated roof of the parking spots behind my fence. I stare at the branch and am relieved that it didn’t land in my yard on the baby tomatoes plants. Eat Beast's hackles are raised and a moment later he takes off to hide in the closet. And, with that, I decide that it’s time to dice up a stick of butter.

-And get a few other things ready as well.-

Pâte brisée, a fancy word for very buttery pie dough, is something I’ve become rather skilled at making. I learned how to make it from my friend, Elise, and with it gained from her some good advice about it. One particularly important tip is that at the first inkling I have of wanting to make a pie or galette you chop up some butter and toss it in the freezer. (Cold butter is key to flakey pie dough.)

I now whip out sticks of butter for dough at the slightest whim. Pining for an asparagus galette for dinner? I’m on it. Desiring some comfort food because your girlfriend dumped you for some ass with an emo haircut and a tribal band tattoo? Give me an hour and we’ll have pecan pie. Bored on a Friday night? Come to my house. We can whip together a fig and nut tart and do tequila and Serrano ham shots off the neighbor's stomach, and, yes, this is a thing that I did once in college.

Regardless of the situation, just let me butcher and freeze this butter and we'll be golden. Still, more often than not it's the chilling rain and winds that spur me to get down the food processor and get a bowl of ice water ready. I feel that pâte brisée, especially when baking and at its most fragrant, is the fatty, flaky antithesis of late Winter and early Spring storms. Shitty weather puts me in the mood for comfort food and right now something hearty and filling surrounded by crusty, golden, almost regrettably packed with too much butter crust sounds perfect.

I take a stick of butter and chop it up into ½-inch cubes before dropping them in the bowl and cram them in the freezer, teetering on a carton of ice cream between a vacuum-sealed duck and an opened bag of ice.

After about an hour of teasing the cat with his toys (the both of us feel this to be an hour well spent) I toss the butter along with some flour and salt into the food processor and pulse it a few times. This time I’m smart enough to cover with my hand that one spot on the processor where the top and base don’t quite meet. Forgetting to do that means a tall dusty plume of flour will shoot directly into my face like an old vaudeville gag. Usually - naturally - I only seem to forget when I have company or am wearing black. Its always humorous to everyone but me. I usually mutter out four or five f-bombs in a single sentence and change shirts.

-Seriously, though, the ferocity of my swearing is enough to make the bluest cheese blush.-

Once the butter has broken down to the size of peas a few tablespoons of ice water are dropped in and pulsed until the whole thing resembles a coarse meal that easily pinches together. It all gets loosely kneaded into a ball and wrapped up in plastic. The whole process take about 2 minutes. Wham, bam, thank-you-Sam for we have crust.

It chills out in the fridge while I chill out on the couch with the now tired Eat Beast who only occassioanally lifts his head in response to the wind taking down another tree branch. I read a book, he naps on my lap, the dough sets.

The rain continues to beat down on the windows and sounds of wind echo out the fireplace as if some disoriented Jabberwocky lost itself inside and was howling for assistance. Eat Beast tries not to show it but a flick of his ears in the direction of the threatening moan and the sharp pain of his nails gripping my leg tell me he's alarmed. It is tempting to investigate the sound a bit more but a good book and 15 pounds of cat keep me in place.

A little bit later I kick the fat puss off and I start digging through the pantry and fridge looking for whatever ingredients will make for a whatever-but-satisfying filling. As long as the final product tastes good and chases the gloomy overcast of the weather out of the apartment I really don’t care. I uncover a yellow onion, a red potato, some mustard, and some fresh thyme. The scraps from a wedge of Gruyere and some Maytag blue cheese also make the cut. Fine fillings for a savory galette.
-Any sort of cheese you might have on hand will be just fine for this.-

The onion gets thinly sliced and tossed into a skillet with some olive oil and ground pepper. While it sweetens and becomes golden in color like slivers of topaz I start slicing up the potato and shredding the cheeses. BF picks up the thyme and asks if he can help but I take it out of his hands and shoo him away. Stripping thyme is one of my favorite tasks in the kitchen. I enjoy how its aroma wraps around my head and makes me giddy, and I love how it lingers on my fingers for hours after. It reminds me that I was at least somewhat productive in my day. The dough gets rolled out, the fillings layered and tucked in, and I kick the oven door closed.

I slump back down on the couch and willfully ignore the responsibilities I know I should be attending too. The past few weeks have been overkill for me. Project after project, assignment after assignment, let alone the attempts to constantly resuscitate a social life and keep a healthy and active relationship with another human being and three cats have kept me busy.

Today’s depressing weather and that snap of the tree was enough to finish me off. I decided to play hookey from my life that day. I was going to read online comics while a galette bakes in the oven. My chores and have-to’s and To-Do lists would all be there tomorrow, but for now I plan to whip the beasts into their cages and lock the gates. They’ll be just fine left unattended for the day.

The galette finished and it smells like everything old fashioned cooking, warm, golden, and crinkled. It feels like the old fashioned type of cooking you always hear your grandparents wax on about. I imagine that if you could distill their frayed and ancient cookbooks into a flavor it would taste like this. Hot and crunchy, packed with herbs and with just the right tang from the cheeses.

I don’t know if this is French food, but it feels so rustic French countryside. It looks it at least. I imagine it tastes like some part of France I’ve never been to I’m proud of myself as French food isn’t my forte and imagine that Dorie Greenspan and Julia Child would both be quite proud of me.

Potato & Onion Galette Makes 1 Galette galette dough adapted from Simply Recipes
1 1/3 cup of all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoon sugar
4 ounces (1 stick) butter, cut into cubes and frozen
1/4 cup of chilled water (plus a little more)
1 large red potato
1/2 onion
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 1/2 teaspoons fresh thyme, chopped
2 ounces blue cheese
3 ounces Gruyere
salt and pepper
Dijon mustard

1. Put the flour, salt, and sugar into a food processor and pulse to combine. Add the butter and pulse 9 times until the butter is in the size of peas. Slowly add the water while pulsing until the dough begins to form clumps and looks a bit like corn meal that pinches together easily. Empty the dough onto a clean surface, form into a ball with minimum handling. Pat down into a disc shape. Chill for at least an hour before rolling out.

2. Slice up the potato into 1/8-1/4-inch slices and set aside. Thinly slice the onion and toss in a saute pan with the olive oil, thyme, and some salt and pepper. Sauté until soft and lightly colored. Set aside to cool. Shred the Gruyere and crumble the blue cheese. Toss the potatoes, onion, and cheeses together and set aside.

3. Preheat oven to 375F. Roll out the dough out to 14-inches in diameter and of even thickness. Move to a parchment paper-lined baking sheet. Spread with a layer of mustard. Layer on the potato and onion mixture, leaving a 2 inch border. Fold in the 2-inch bordered edge over the filling and pleat the edges.

4. Bake for for 45-50 minutes or until crust is golden and the potatoes are easily pierced with a fork. Serve.

Dirty Work: Berry Cake with Thyme

2011-03-22T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Pretty and picked by someone else.-

My parents did their best to garden and there were plenty of success stories that demonstrated their dedication. Aloe vera, pink thorn, roses of every saturated hue, and ice plant all grew in abundance in colorfully tiled terra cotta pots with relative ease. Looking at the front patio you would imagine my parents to have green thumbs attached to greener hands to match that desginer's eye they both seemed to share. Then again, growing plants native to Southern California's temperate climate was like shooting fish in a barrel with a bazooka. All we had to do was put the plant in some dirt and call it a day. We were guaranteed a lush and vibrant space to enjoy and entertain with.

Where they had difficulty, however, was with gardening food. (When it comes to difficulties, I'm not counting the dogs, who dug up the lawn and various flower beds with near a religious zealotry.)

A number of infant lemon trees were tortured to death with the utmost genteel concern for their well-being. Fed plenty of food, watered with precision, and ensured plenty of sun there was no practical reason for them to groan into a prolonged and probably agonizing death. However, year after year, all that was left sitting in a neatly stone-circled partitions on the back slope were their brittle skeletons crackling their bones against each other in the wind.

The tomatoes had even less success. Like obstinate little two years old they never did what they were told. They would remain stout and stubbornly die out of protest. Every year mom and dad fruitlessly did their best to cajole, bribe, and encourage those tomato plants to do better as if they were derelict family members who you knew, no matter what, were going to disappoint you.

Eventually, dad discovered the Early Girl variety of tomato. Once planted in the Orange County climate they grew voraciously and took over the beds like angry despots. Soon the new problem became fat, green tomato worms who ravenously gorged themselves on the leaves and fruits. My dad, frustrated at his inability to stop them and, I would guess, somewhat at his aging eyesight and therefore his inability to find them tasked my brother and I to hunt them down. Every sunny Saturday we would tenderly flush through the growth turning over every leaf searching for their bulging, yet well camouflaged, bodies. When we we found one we would place it on the red brick wall and violently crush it with a cinder block. Sometimes there were so many tomato worms that we would be able to paint nearly a quarter of the wall's top surface in a fine snot-colored paste.

-And if I found the bugs on this cake I would punish them just the same.-

It was cruel, but we were young boys doing what young boys did. Had it not been for killing of bugs the task would have been even more achingly boring and tiresome. I rarely spent my time outdoors, and while my brother seemed to inure himself to these menial bug hunts I found them insufferable.

I was not an outdoorsy child. However, this was not for the lack of my parents efforts. Years of month-long camping excursions and more than a few doomed hikes with one of the most rugged and unlucky Boy Scout troops to have ever been formed did nothing to change my attitude and demeanor. Rains followed our troop hikes like hungry cats mewling for a meal and more than once did someone misread the map resulting in drudging marches through some unheard of bog in the middle of the desert. I can't even tell you how many times I stepped into quicksand or fell into a swamp or had to chase away rattlesnakes. I was sure that my parents' desire to build character in me would result in my unfortunate and early demise. I often pictured the headlines, "Boy Scout Killed in Camp Tomahawk Throw. Parents Weep." or something equally dramatic, and hiked the rest of the way wondering who would attend my funeral and what they would say.

So, to the best of my ability, I avoided helping my parents garden. This worked out for everyone. I didn't bitch and moan and my parents didn't have to listen to me bitch and moan. It was the soil turnover days, however, I made a special effort to keep away my parents. Especially, dad.

Total avoidance was unlikely as eventually my mother would find me hiding under my bed reading before shooing me outside of the house and confiscating anything with written text on it. An action that, to me, seemed awfully irresponsible of a school teacher. As I was left to my own devices - usually, wondering how she kept her teaching license - I would see my dad with a shovel in his hands turning fresh compost and soil into the beds. The bone white concrete patio around him would be sullen with a coarse crumble of heady soil.

-I think he may have been trying to plant blueberries once or twice. Never. Saw. One.-

I hated the smell of the dirt. When I got close to it my nose and face immediately scrunched in on itself as if it were folding itself into an origami bird. The odor was too unlike the porcelain world I generally tried to remain a part of, one that smelled of lemon pledge and and baked scalloped potatoes from a box, and I found it to be musky and offensive.

Eventually dad would come across a potato bug crawling in the dirt, or as he referred to them, "God's ugliest fuckers," and he would toss it over his head in hopes that it would land in the pool with a satisfying splunk. I would sit there at the edge of the water watching them helplessly wriggle to the bottom where the would settle and, moments later, go motionless.

Admittedly, I enjoyed watching them die. After all, dad was right. They were God's ugliest fuckers. Why God would even create them I had no idea. Mom an dad seemed to agree that they did the world no good and that all they did was destroy their plants. I certainly never saw any birds eat them, though I guess birds found them as appetizing as I did. They seemed to serve no propose in the grand scheme of things so I morbidly cheered on the over-chlorinated death of each potato bug as they drowned.

What I hated about being outside with dad on turnover days, though, was that when I was around he found it far more entertaining to toss them at me. He would slyly pretend to look at his work making show with his spade until I looked away and busied myself upsetting a trail of ants or trying to make a whistle out of a stem of grass. Then once I was no longer preoccupied with cataloguing his movements like a type-A dance instructor (because, honestly, how long can a twelve year old with ADD fixate on a single activity?) he would toss the potato bug across the yard like a beanbag toy and let it bop me on the head.

-As a kid I did, however, manage to grow strawberries in a strawberry pot. Child Garrett: 1. Bug Tossing Father: 0.-

Looking down I would see the poor thing squirming on the ground in panic. Knowing what happened, even realizing it wasn't even on me, I would scream and freak out like a crack-addled six year old girl. I danced and yelped, swatting my entire body as if someone has covered me with spiderweb and lit it on fire.

I assume this both upset and entertained him. He knew I was never going to grow up to be a sports star in high school, or a clinical psychologist like he was, or powerful businessman like his father like he so wanted. I was too cerebral in nature and effeminate in my mannerisms, but he was proud to have at least tempered that with plenty of hikes, pinewood derby competitions, and outings blasting shotguns and killing scores of clay pigeons. Still, had I been rougher, there was no way he would have been able to laugh at my falsetto reaction.

His sense of humor remains a mystery to me. What made him laugh was often irreverent and somewhat nebulous. His mustachioed grin and eyes squeezed shut, his laugh was light and short like my own. Yet I never could seem to understand how to elicit it. It was a dartboard and all I could do was throw, though over the years my aim has improved greatly.

But at me he would laugh at his comic use of insects and sons. I would curse him out as well as a child who didn't know how to swear (at the time I didn't know that fuck was a cuss word, just an adjective for potato bugs) before grabbing it between by thumb and pointer finger and pitifully lobbing it at him. The poor thing would land on the hard concrete and squirm a bit in an effort to recover before dad kicked him into the pool along with the rest of his doomed kin.

-Look at the cake. Do not think about gross potato bugs. Only cake.-

These days, I garden myself. In fact, I enjoy it. Even better is that I have yet to encounter a single potato bug in Northern California. (And, If I eventually do, I will smite it with the wrath of a thousand angry gods since they can't fight back like a preying mantis.)

Just the other day was our turnover day. It seems odd, nearly upsetting, that I look forward to something that I used to take great pains to avoid. Then again, I seem to have more luck with my vegetables than my parents did so the incentive is more palpable. Upon reflecting it becomes even stranger still just how much my personality has changed since I was a kid, yet at the same time its core has probably become only more stubbornly resistant and to some degree or another will always remain the facetious, curious, slightly egotistic, introverted child I was.

Though I apprciate the changes. It's allotted me the chance to grow tomatillos and eat salsa verde for months and given me an appreciation for cake. As a kid, I wasn't a big cake fan. My parents, rightly so, wondered what was wrong with me. I do too.

This particular cake is pretty darn easy and a fragrant way to break up your little gardening party. It's styled in a simple-cobbler, spoon-bread sort of way and loaded with thyme. Thyme, if you haven't tried it in sweets before, is fabulous with fruit. I by no means exaggerate when I call it a life changing combination either, as it was a thyme, peach, and blueberry cake the persuaded me to first try my hand at baking. I find that this cake is better than that one. It takes no time to throw together, either. Just pop it in the oven, attend to your roses or baby tomato plants, and when the oven timer dings you can stomp the mud off your boots and spoon some of it on to a plate. A healthy pour of heavy cream or eager scoop of vanilla ice cream won't do you any wrong either.

Then go, sit, and enjoy the cake and whatever dirty work that you earned it with. Just avoid the potato bugs.

Berry Cake with Thyme
Serves 6-8
Adapted from The Pioneer Woman

1 stick butter, melted
1 cup + 2 tablespoons sugar
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 t salt
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 1/2 teaspoons chopped fresh thyme
1 cup milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup blueberries
1 cup strawberries, quartered

1. Preheat oven to 350F. Lightly butter a large ceramic baking dish. Use something bigger than a 9x9 baking dish. If that's all you have then increase the cooking time. However, bigger is better. I used an 11-inch pyrex casserole dish.

2. Melt the butter and set aside to cool. In a separate bowl whisk together 1 cup of sugar along with the flour, salt, baking powder, and thyme. Whisk in the milk and vanilla extract. Pour in the butter and whisk until incorporated. Pour the batter into the baking dish. Add the fruit. You may have to poke some of it down to fit it all. Evenly sprinkle on the surface the additional 2 tablespoons of sugar.

3. Bake at 350F for an hour. The top should be dark golden. Cool for ten minutes on a wire rack. Serve hot, warm, or cold. Preferably with ice cream.

The Chocolate Chip Heresy: Buckwheat Chocolate Chip Cookies

2011-03-15T06:00:00.000-07:00

-Try not to freak out on me. Just keep control.-

I'm not sure if admitting what I plan to admit will ruin my pastry reputation. I'm afraid that my baking teachers won't allow me the chance to justify myself before deleting me from their phones and that fellow baking bloggers are going to write me scathing e-mails. Any other foodie will disavow ever having met me.

Even you, dear reader, may become quite upset. You may take what I'm about to say personally or as an affront to your family and friends whose baking skills you so admire. I may even offend your sense of taste. Possibly so much that it will shatter and that the resulting chasmic void inside you will be filled with the anger of demonic chefs from the abysmal inferno whose only desire is for the blood of a blasphemer such as I to be spilled.

If that happens, don't worry. I understand. In certain cases I'm sure I would do the same.

Generally, though, I think most people involved in the creation of desserts have personalities as sweet as the tarts they bake. I simply hope you will bear with me long enough so that I can explain myself.

And, so, I make my admission: I love the Nestle Tollhouse cookie recipe.

Love it.

And - here is the part I felt the need to warn you about - I think it is unequivocally the best chocolate chip cookie recipe out there.

*please feel free to rage, troll, roll your eyes, scoff, and turn off your computer at this point*

-Pictured: Delicious heresy.-

Let me start out by saying that this recipe is the one that I grew up with. In fact, it is the first recipe I ever learned. My mom would gather up my brothers and me and she would have us cracking eggs and measuring sugar while teaching us how to properly turn on the oven and use oven mitts.

Throughout the process I would steal fingerfulls of cookie dough when my mom wasn't looking; though I'm pretty sure she knew it was happening. Even so, she would still let me lick the beaters clean once the dough was all scooped. She may have simply been wanting to keep us busy or needed satisfy her own cookie cravings, but I truly believe it was these lazy Saturday afternoons in the kitchen that instilled me a desire to cook. For me, this recipe defined my childhood as much as scraped knees and my attempts to haggle a better price with the toothfairy. ($5 on the last one!)

Knowing this, many of my friends have argued to me that it isn't the flavor of these cookies that I adore, but rather the nostalgia (one of life's greatest spices). I've considered this and must sternly disagree.

Take my mom's tacos. My mom makes amazing tacos. They're some of the best I've ever eaten; spicy, meaty, loaded with cheese, and lightly fried (yes, we fried our tacos). However, one vacation I had some tacos at a roadside in Zihuatanejo that can only be called epic. The tacos were filled with chunks of beef that had been marinated in lime juice and chilies, and the tortilla could barely contain the freshly cut cabbage and tiny boulders of cotija. After one bite I knew that never again would I have a better taco. Nostalgia makes my mom's tacos quite awesome and brings about sighs for simpler times, but nostalgia doesn't make them the best tacos I've ever had.

Not like these cookies.

I've gone through and tested other recipes. For example, when David Leite purported in the New York Times to have the best chocolate chip cookie recipe ever the food blog world went mad with home tests and comparisons. I did my own test and found that they were quite riveting with flavor. I appreciated the butterscotch flavor and flecks of salt of his cookie recipe, but no chocolate chunk epiphany had I. It still wasn't the Tollhouse.

(Incidentally, I'm one of David Leite's biggest fans. The man is an epic writer, comic genius, and skilled baker. Plus, he's one of the sassiest people I know and I appreciate genuine sass. If you're ever lucky enough to have lunch or a conversation with him you're in for a real treat.)

I tried recipes from every other cookbook and blog. Most tasted fine, some were amazing, and only a few were truly disappointing, but none quite matched up. Like a sugar-junkie Goldilocks I dismissed each for subjective reasons. This recipe is too crunchy. This one has too much chocolate. This one has too little salt. I still adamantly stand by my assessments.

-Goldilocks can keep her stupid porridge.-

For me, there was only one recipe that was just right.

In past years I've only made two changes to the Tollhouse recipe. The first is that I always add the baking soda separately from the flour. This results in a softer cookie. (Please, do not ask me why. I have been trying to figure this one out forever. Any chemists reading this please contact me.)

The second change I made is to always let the dough rest for 24 hours. David Lebovitz once advised me to do this and I have never gone back. The flavors have a chance to meld and deepen, which results in a more caramel flavor to the cookies.

These changes effectively make the Tollhouse recipe the Garrett House recipe, but so be it. The changes are so minor I hardly consider them changes at all.

It was only yesterday I made some drastic alterations, though not by intention but necessity. Partway through the recipe - the butter and sugars creamed and the eggs beaten in - I realized I was short about 1/2 cup of flour.

Panic set in. What to do!? Yes, I could run to the store, but damn, I was too lazy! I could send BF but he was playing video games and I had a better chance of success of sending Eat Beast with a note and some change tied to his collar. (And Eat Beast would probably eat the bag of flour anyways.)

-Incidentally, Eat Beast made off with this exact cookie the second I stepped away to get a different lens for the camera.-

Spontaneously, and without much consideration, I decided to substitute some buckwheat flour. I reasoned that it might make for an interesting change and give the cookies a bit more of a nutty flavor.

Of course, the result of this substitution also meant a reduction in the number of gluten bonds in the cookie, and, therefore, the cookies would likely spread a bit more. To counter this I also decided to freeze the dough into logs and then slices them into discs before baking.

See? Drastic. Near cataclysmic changes to the Tollhouse recipe! If this recipe were a movie directed by Michael Bay this would be the part where everything explodes.

That is, assuming that explode means explode in a fiery ball of buckwheaty deliciousness. The addition of the buckwheat seemed to highlight the toasted pecans and acted as a rugged backdrop to the chocolate by exemplifying its earthier flavors. The cookies themselves were soft in the middle and the crisp edges had a pleasant sandiness to couldn't be achieved with using just all-purpose flour.

A satisfying snap and good chew, plus plenty of flavor make these my new favorite chocolate chip cookie. This was a chocolate chip cookie that was just right.

Buckwheat Chocolate Chip Cookies
Adapted from Nestle and from David Lebovtiz' Room for Dessert
Makes 4 dozen

2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup buckwheat flour
1 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup unsalted butter, room temperature
1 cup brown sugar
3/4 cup sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 eggs, room temperature
1 1/2 cup semisweet chocolate chips
1 cup chopped pecans, toasted

1. Whisk together the flours and salt, and set aside. With an electric mixer cream together the butter, sugars, and vanilla on medium speed being sure to scrape down the sides and bottom of the bowl. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating each in for thirty seconds. Add the baking soda and mix in. Add the flour mixture and mix on low speed until just incorporated. Stir in the chocolate chips and nuts.

2. On a lightly floured surface divide the dough into quarters and shape each quarter into a log about 9-inches long. Wrap in plastic wrap and freeze for 24 hours.

3. Preheat oven to 350F. Slice the logs up into discs about 3/4-inch thick. Place them about three inches apart on a parchment-lined baking sheet. Bake for about 10 minutes or until the tops are lightly browned. Cool on the sheets for a few minutes before transferring to a wire rack to cool completely.

Saturday Morning: Vanilla-Maple Granola

2011-03-08T06:00:00.000-08:00

-Up and at them, George McFadden. It's daylight in the swamp!-

“Wake up.”

It’s eleven o’clock and BF is still under the covers trying to sleep. “Trying” is the key word as by this time on a Saturday I, Roommate, and the cats are all going about our business. The cats are bouncing all over the place running into one room to stop and freak out before dashing to the next, I’m usually cooking with reruns of Sex and the City or Xena blasting in the background, and Roommate may or may not be on the phone loudly chattering away like a chipmunk with a megaphone.

This morning might be exceptionally hard for BF as I sit on his stomach and grin at him, plodding him to finally get out of bed. Of course, it isn’t as bad as the mornings where I rush in in an exaggerated chipper attitude, yank open the curtains to let the light in, and beam in a sing-songy voice, “Rise and shine! It’s a beautiful day! It’s the first day of the rest of your life!” and so on. I’m like Julie Andrews on ecstasy. It is hilarious. At least to me.

My mom did this way too many times to me as a child to wake me up for school. Generally, I would just roll over and throw the covers over my head and dream of her falling down a well. If she was really in the mood to harass me she would go the extra step and whip the covers off me and barrage me with kisses, and hugs, and affirmations of how much she loved me. By that point the only thing I was self-affirming was matricide.

As an adult though, yes, being on the giving end of this is endlessly fun.

BF, however, just sort of gives me empty look and sighs. He resigned himself to my eccentricities some time ago. Now he just puts up with it and settles for getting me back at some point when he’s more awake. This usually takes the form of waking me up in some terrifying manner (that time he pretended to be a burglar easily chopped a few years off my lifespan) or creeping up on me and swatting me on the butt hard with enough force to cause physiscits to study us.

Lucky for me, I have food to mollify him.

-Open wide!-

“Open,” I command while pushing food into his face.

“What is it?” he yawns. He scrounges his face trying to adjust his eyes and analyze what is being forced on him.

‘Questions, questions. Too many questions. When I have ever fed you something weird by surprise?” (Weird with warning, yes, many times. Never by surprise.) “Now eat.”

He opens and I pop it in his mouth. He begins to chew and I leave before even getting a response.

I know that he is no longer annoyed. In fact, he’ll probably, finally, wake up and start his day like the rest of us.

“It’s homemade granola!” I shout back before he can ask what it is.

-I mean, really, isn't it obvious what it is?-

I plop back on the couch to watch some more TV as I wait for the granola to cool. The recipe is one of the best out there as far as I’m concerned. I strong-armed it out of one of the line cooks at Grange during my internship there before taking it home and tinkering with it a bit. A bit of vanilla bean, some orange zest, and heavy hand of coconut makes it one of the simplest and most epic recipe in my repertoire. In fact, this granola is downright addictive, which is why I don’t make it all the time. Otherwise, I would be fat from oats and dried fruit.

A few minutes later BF stumbles into the kitchen and begins hunting for the top of the French press. Depending on who unloaded it the night before it can be in one of three places. Today it’s behind the coffee cups. I feel it’s a logical place as opposed to next to the wine glasses where BF puts it, or next to the coffee where Roommate thinks it’s most appropriate. After finding it he puts some water in the kettles and sets it to heat before turning and looking at the tray of cooling cereal.

“That was good granola,” he mumbles out and smiles. He grabs a handful and heads out to the patio for his morning e-cigarette session.

“FANK-voo!” my mouth full of milk and granola. My parents would be so proud to see how those etiquette classes sunk in.

A few minutes later we both sit down for lunch to a bowl of granola and raw, whole milk from the Farmers’ Market. We pop on an episode of Family Guy and let the cats come cuddle up and get a proper start on another Saturday.

Vanilla-Maple Granola

4 cups rolled oats
3/4 cup almonds, chopped
3/4 cup flaked coconut
3/4 cup maple syrup
1 cup brown sugar
1/2 vanilla bean, seeds scraped out
2 T orange juice
2 T orange zest
3/4 cup dried cherries
1/2 cup dried apricots

1. Preheat your oven to 350º and adjust the top rack to the middle of the oven. Place the oats, coconut, and almonds in a large bowl. Whisk together the maple syrup, vanilla bean seeds and pod, orange juice and zest, and brown sugar in a saucepan and place over medium heat until almost smooth.

2. Pour syrup mixture over oats and stir gently to combine and the oats are well coated. Spread out onto a baking sheet lined with parchment paper or foil. Bake for twenty minutes. Cool completely. (If some of the granola is still sticky and wet bake it for another 7-10 minutes.) Break into pieces and add the dried fruit. Store in an airtight container.

For Many Reasons: Blood and Chocolate Pudding

2011-03-01T06:00:00.000-08:00

-Yep, it really is.-

"Do you need some pork belly?"

"That's a stupid question. I always need some pork belly," I replied.

Hank sat down on his knees and started to dig into his kitchen freezer before pulling out a slab of pork belly that weighed more than the pig it came from and handing it to me. "My pork guy loves me, so I sometimes get freebies. This is a bit too much for me to use though."

Hank, an avid writer, cook, and hunter, had decimated a small portion of the duck population this last season. Due to this he had plenty ducks in his freezer and each one of them was plucked, processed, and vacuum-sealed. (If you've ever killed your own bird for food before, then you know that just one is no small task.) Hank's freezer, now packed with birds (not to mention elk, pork, goat, wild goose, and many other of God's tasty creatures), was beyond capacity. To remedy the situation he had called me up to see if I would take some off his hands.

Now, it's illegal to sell wild duck in the state of California, so the only way to get them is to shoot them yourself or have friends who can handle a shotgun. Considering that the thought of crawling out of bed at 2AM to muck around in wetlands on a rainy day sounds as much fun as chewing tinfoil I happily took him up on the offer.

-You won't find chocolate and blood pairing together in too many other recipes.-

"Do you want some headcheese, too? I made it this morning with that spare pig head I had," said Hank nonchalantly.

"My God, I love you, Hank." Seriously. How can you not love someone who makes his own headcheese?

He cut off a piece of the head cheese slab and wrapped it up and plopped it in my bag where he had also put four ducks, the pork belly, some crab meat, a few homemade Chinese-style sausages, and a near bushel of candy-striped beets from his garden. A veritable bounty of meat and produce. The dainty half-pint of homemade kumquat-vanilla bean marmalade I had brought as a gift now seemed somewhat inadequate.

"I've also got a gallon of pig's blood if you need any," he casually noted.

I peered into the fridge to see a gallon jug whose crimson pitch contents, though perhaps not the source, were immediately identifiable. In any other house one would start wondering where the sacrificial glyph drawn with the ground bones of wayward children was and if there was time to call the police. Of course, this sort of ingredient sitting in the fridge was pretty standard fare for Hank's kitchen, so the only question I had was why there was so much.

"The guy I got it from only sells it in gallon quantities. I only needed a small amount for this pasta I made," he pulled out a ball of burgundy-colored dough wrapped tightly in plastic wrap. I had an image of Hank as Sweeny Todd except that instead of meat pies on Fleet Street he had been given a slot on the Cooking Channel to make Italian food.

-This is probably the most disturbing picture I have ever taken.-

"What on earth would I do with that? I bake and do sweet stuff. Seriously, what does a baker do with pork blood?" I threw my hands up into a relegated gesture and laughed.

"I dunno," said Hank as he looked at it, "make it into a pudding?"

It was one of those moments where you can feel creative impulse shock your brain. I stopped a moment before replying. "Hmm. You know what? Why not? Throw some in a jar. Maybe I can do something savory with heavy cream and make it all pretty and pink. I'll tell people it's strawberry." We laughed, though I admit I did consider this and how funny of a prank it would be.

At home I started to do some research on blood-based desserts. For the most part the only results I could pull up was an unidentifiable Taiwanese blood and rice cake that sounded generally unpalatable in flavor and an Italian dish called sanguinaccio. The sanguinaccio seemed to have potential.

A quick explanation: sanguinaccio is a special Lenten-treat in various parts of Italy and often made by local town butchers. It's a pudding made with chocolate, pine nuts, cinnamon, cocoa powder, and - yes - the blood of a freshly killed pig.

My research dug up a few pictures, descriptions, and recipes that shed some light on the recipe. Reactions and opinions were mixed; older generations revered it while the youngins' weren't having it. It seemed that it was a dish that was rarely eaten and often poorly made, which resulted in a gritty texture and metallic flavor. Still, it proved that pudding was a possibility.

I decided to simply take a more traditional pastry path and form my own interpretation of sanguinaccio. I made a basic chocolate pudding recipe, but cut out some milk for the blood and added some heavy cream to make up for the loss in milk fats and sugars. A heavy hand of chocolate and cinnamon would round it all out. Sanguinaccio is made only with chocolate and blood. I hypothesized that lack of milk to bind them together is why the results can be so texturally displeasing.

-Next time, I may try this with a bit of orange zest or Chinese five spice.-

The cooking was a bit unnerving (the cooking blood had turned the milk a dark brown color long before I even added the chocolate). It also didn't help that BF kept hovering and quoting the Weird Sister's from Macbeth.

"When are you going to add the eye of newt?"

"Go away! You're not helping!" I yelled back nervously.

"Feeling squeamish?" he prodded.

"I'm either cooking or performing dark witchcraft. What do you think?"

Admittedly, I was a bit freaked out. Blood is the lifesource of animals. Yes, we may eat their meat which may have blood in it and that we often call juices to assuage ourselves, but how often to we really sit down and focus on, as Hank described it so eloquently in his post, the anima of the animal? More so, how often do we ever just eat it in its pure form? Probably never for most of us.

That is until you spend ten minutes over a pot stirring and whisking it together with milk and sugar. It's pretty much in your face by that point.

The pudding seemed to come together rather well. The cream and blood soon smoothed out into a perfect pudding consistency. I added in the chocolate and vanilla and gave the pudding a quick stir before straining the it into a bowl and letting it chill.

The result?

Pretty darn fabulous. It's a rich chocolate pudding with a smooth, though slightly silty texture. You don't really taste the blood. Instead, it just gives the pudding weight and density. It did add, however, a slight minerally and savory flavor in the back; a barely inescapable whisper of umami.

The real experiment of this recipe was partially to challenge myself and to push the limits of pastry. Could something as savory focused as blood be turned into something dainty and sweet? I'm pleased to say, yes.

More than that, I wanted to practice what I so often preach about eating responsibly. Hank is the most responsible eater I know. He kills his own meat and uses practically every single part of the animal. Like most people, I usually go to the store and get whatever cuts I want. I've killed and processed my own chickens and rabbits before, but I still feel generally disconnected to my food - especially dairy, eggs, and meat. Pastry people rarely have this opportunity to bond with the sources of more primal foods based on the nature of our work. There is little life and death involved in locally grown apricots and freshly foraged elderberries. This pudding was a chance to reconnect with food at a visceral level.

Pork blood isn't exactly easy to come across, but if you do find it for sale or know a guy who killed a pig I encourage you to make this pudding. It will challenge your ideas on pastry and your general understanding of what makes good food and how it can be approached. Aside from that, it's a flavorful dish that eaters will remember.

Blood and Chocolate Pudding

1/4 cup cornstarch
1/2 cup sugar
pinch of salt
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
2 cups whole milk
1/2 cup fresh pork blood
1/2 cup heavy cream
6 oounces semisweet chocolate
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

1. In the top of a double boiler or a large metal bowl whisk together the cornstarch, salt, and sugar. Slowly whisk in the milk, blood, and cream. Place over simmering water and stir occasionally being sure to scrape down the bottom and sides. Use a whisk if lumps form. As it cooks the blood will turn from red to dark brown. This is normal. After about 10-15 minutes it should thicken and coat the back of a spoon. Add the chocolate and stir until melted. Take off the heat and add the vanilla and stir.

2. Pass the pudding through a fine-mesh strainer into a bowl. Place a piece of plastic wrap over the surface to prevent a skin from forming. Chill for 30 minutes. Serve with freshly whipped cream.

-Thank you for not unsubscribing to the blog. Next Week: Something that's not blood.-

Technology Moves Faster than Sarcasm: Buttermilk Pudding with Spiced Mango Sauce

2011-02-22T06:00:00.000-08:00

-Buttermilk: Better than those groady cancer sticks.-

BF smokes. A lot. It’s fine, really, I’ve made my peace with the fact. I no longer notice the fact that he smells like an immolated hobo and the mountain of cigarette butts only begins to bother me once they’re overflowing out of the ashtray and are filling a few empty Mountain Dew bottles.

His smoking only really bothers me when he quits. The problem being is that a few months later he usually picks it up again. My senses, now used to a smoke-free environment, are then besieged by tobacco clouds and I’m put off by the nose-scrunching chemical stink clinging to him. Until I become inured to it once again, a process that takes about a week, I am a romance-free zone to BF.

He’s trying to quit now. Again. I applaud him for it. I do. However, it’s a halfhearted applause, the same kind you give to other people’s children at a talent show. My hopes that this round of quitting is permanent are low. He’s tried everything. Patches, gum, books, aversion therapy, and my favorite, cold turkey, with its accompanying bitchy mood swings and foul grimace. This time the method is more modern. To be honest, its a bit too new on the market to know what the outcome will be.

It's an electronic cigarette.

-Sauced in two different ways: with compote and syrup, and with a mango sauce with diced mango. Of course, some chocolate or lemon curd would be equally awesome with these.-

Yes, I’m serious. The thing is actually plugged into my laptop charging as I type this. I didn’t even know what to think the first time he attached it to its USB connection. It may also have Bluetooth and be able to turn the cable box on and off, though I’m unsure.

If you aren’t aware electronic cigarettes are the latest in anti-smoking technology. Essentially, it’s a tiny vaporizer composed of a battery and a chamber that holds a nicotine-laced water-based liquid. When you breath air in through the end of the cigarette it passes through the nicotine chamber which superheats it and releases it as vapor into your mouth and lungs where it is absorbed into the blood stream. The vapor is mostly harmless to the lungs (minus, of course, the nicotine itself) and possesses none of the extra toxic chemicals, ash, or heat as smoke from a regular cigarette. The user is rewarded with a dose of nicotine. Furthermore, the feeling and sense of a cigarette is maintained. Vapor is breathed in and out, the motions and feelings are similar; all and all it is supposed to imitate the total experience of a cigarette. BF perkily tweets that the replacement vapor liquid is also far cheaper than actual cigarettes.

Given, the vapor smells a bit like someone left a piece of cheese out overnight, but it is better than the alternative. However, electronic or not, BF still has to smoke it outside.

Still, there does seem to be a stigma about them. A sort of embarrassment. Maybe it’s the fact they whistle a little bit when you use them? Maybe the newness of it all hasn’t been accepted into mainstream?

-WARNING: Do not plug into a USB port.-

I noticed this the first time I saw him use it. As we walked down the chilly streets of Sacramento in winter on our way to dinner I wrapped my hands around his arm and snuggled close for warmth. He began to smoke with his free hands and as I looked he seemed to be covering up the cigarette. I would have understood had there been a strong wind or something but there wasn’t so the action seemed odd. Then again, I realized, when did he even light the damn thing? We had only been out of the car for a minute. To do so would require ninja-like stealth and reflexes, of which his are minimal and utilized only in bouts of Call of Duty 3 on the Playstation.

“When did you light a cigarette? What are you smoking?” I asked.

“I didn’t. It’s electric.”

“They make those now? “

“Yep.” He took a puff and the end of the stick began to glow bright neon blue, like the color of a laptop’s power button and with the psychotic brilliance of a road flare.

Oh, did I not mention it glows bright neon blue? Yeah, it’s as if you’re puffing a giant Vegas billboard telling everyone to stare at your once-a-smoker face.

I stared. Then smiled and laughed before looking him in the eyes with what can only be called a look of total smarminess. “You’re hiding the glow from that cigarette aren’t you?”

“…Maybe.” He smiled and rolled his eyes to the side of the other street in the way that one might envision a child who has been playfully caught with a hand in the cookie jar.

We walked a bit farther before I – unable to let something this funny go – continued my harassment. “So what do you call this? If you smoke cloves you’re a hipster. Pot makes you a pothead. Hookahs make you a bored college student in the liberal arts. What do e-cigarettes make you?”

“I dunno. So let’s leave it at that.”

“A faux-douche? Hyper trendy? An overworked Apple employee?”

-To be fair, Apple employees probably use electronic pot.-

Boyfriend sighed and put the cigarette back in his pocket and opened the door to the restaurant for me. The proper act of a gentleman that signaled to me that he was gracefully ending the conversation. Darn. As a writer I really wanted a good description for people who used electronic cigarettes.

Lucky for me my friend, Holly, gave me an answer after I recalled my dilemma.

“It’s called being a pussy,” she declared before finishing off her wine.

Maybe so, but at least I’ll give BF credit where credit is due. He is trying again and I’ll do what I can to reward and encourage him. Generally, this means desserts of any sort, though chocolate is preferable. Still, after a few weeks of chocolate-heavy recipe testing I decided to go down a different path and give him something styled and plated. Two things I despise doing for a dessert that I’m not putting together at a restaurant. I hate plating at home. It strikes me as tedious and I’d rather just eat than go for pretty-points.

I went with a simple buttermilk pudding flavored with vanilla bean, topped with a perky step of spiced mango sauce, and diced fresh mango. Easy to prepare and sunny in flavor it seemed to be a polar contrast to the dismal cloud of smoking and the comedown from nicotine addiction. It would, hopefully, brighten his mood and attitude about smoking a bit. (He did suggest topping the pudding with a lit Marlboro Light, but I assured him that the flavor pairing wouldn’t work.)

This dessert is as easy as it comes. There’s only about 5 minutes of actual active work on your part. Either liquids are being cooked, chilled, or strained somewhere in between. It’s a dessert that lets you go about your business as it does its thing. Perfect for lazy cooks like myself.

I'm not sure that pudding can compete with a nicotine vaporizer when it comes to helping someone kick a habit (or start a new one?) but either way, the taste is sensational and certainly worth a go. Plus, no one calls a person who eats pudding a pussy.

-Pictured: A better option than cold turkey?-

Below is the recipe for the spiced mango sauce. My buttermilk pudding recipe can be found at Simply Recipes. My recipe for the compote of dried fruit can be found on Epicurious.

Spiced Mango Sauce

1 ounce fresh ginger, peeled and sliced
1/3 cup packed brown sugar
2 cups mango juice
strip of lime peel
1 cardamom pod, crushed

Put all ingredients into a saucepan and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer for an hour or until reduced by half. Strain, cover with plastic wrap, and allow to cool before using on pudding. Hot this sauce is wonderful on pancakes, waffles, or crepes. Store in an airtight container for up to three days.

Seeking Approval: Chocolate Carrot Cake

2011-02-15T06:00:00.000-08:00

-Can you guess how?-

In recent weeks I’ve learned that I crave two things in my life: approval and recognition. The two often go hand-in-hand and though they can be separated they are best enjoyed together.

Recognition without approval has another name: infamy. Never a good thing. The consequences usually being jail time, tears, or landing in a situation that my father would refer to as “totally screwed in every which way.”

On the other hand, approval without recognition is a fickle thing. How much pleasure can be reaped from the situation and its worth as a whole when its based on opinion and personal belief? Are you happy with the satisfaction that a job well done is its own reward? Some people are. Sometimes and in some cases that’s just fine enough for me.

However, I find that people do well with recognition for their hard work. Honey versus vinegar and all that. Parents worldwide can avow that positive reinforcement simply proves more effective, and any human resources manager, heck, anyone who has ever worked a job ever can tell you that people are more motivated to work when they’ve been praised and given positive, constructive critique. Even a smile, thank you, or simple "Good work," does wonders for a person's inspiration and self-esteem.

Together they create an epic and nearly unrivaled sensation. There is nothing better than being appreciated for competence. It boosts the ego, enriches the soul, and inspires us to do more and go farther than we thought we could.

Situations where neither one are received are disheartening, as if you’ve been told to beat a drum that doesn’t make any sound. The delivery of the message that no, you/your work/your passion aren’t approved of and that what you are/what you have done isn’t recognized is like being shot in the chest with a .48. You feel the life drain right out of you only to rise up as some dark cloud casting a pallor over your empty husk.

-Knobby, awkward, colorful carrots from the Farmers' Market. So awesome that they don't care what you think of them-

It. Is. Miserable.

Recently, my thesis experience has been somewhat reminiscent of this - both the good and the bad. Assembled of hundreds of hours and years of work the thesis no longer feels like it exists just for a diploma - a state acknowledged and governor signed approval that I’m a smart guy. (For without it, how will I ever know if I am!?) Rather, it feels like an extension of me.

At this stage I am seeking the approval of my thesis committee, people I hold in high regards and assume know more about everything in my field of academia than I ever will. Essentially, they hold my thesis in their hands. (Given, in the broad view of things the thesis is all in my hands, but at certain points I have to simply let go and allow others to do their part.) Currently, they are reading my thesis chapter by chapter, and returning it with notes and critique. With each part I turn in I hope that they will enjoy it and give it to me with the go-ahead to continue.

My professors are honest and straightforward. In my world their word is final. While at times this may unnerve and even frighten me these are the reasons I asked them to read my thesis. I respect their knowledgeable approaches. It is because of this respect that I crave approval and recognition so badly from them. That, and, of course, graduation.

Recently, I received feedback via e-mail on my first chapter. The first thing I noticed was the length. It was epic, like a book of Psalms. My eyes began darting around plucking up small, disorienting keywords like pieces of broken glass off the floor. They were words like "problem," "concern," and "unclear."

-Chocolate and carrots. Add some spices and booze and you are so go.-

My breathing became shallow and quick as I attempted to read the e-mail in whole but found myself barely able to focus on a single idea. All I knew was that it seemed I had failed and my professor was displeased. With conflicting feelings of reluctance and desperation I pushed through the rest of the notes. It was like slowly pulling off band-aid. Each sentence was a sting that made me hesitant to continue. This, however, was worse - while you may choose to simply rip-off a band-aid in one quick tear-jerking tear, there is no equivalent for reading an e-mail from your professor.

Then, suddenly, at the end was a tiny blurb; barely even a paragraph: “Keep up the great work. You can bring the next chapter to me.”

I swear, my heart skipped a beat.

Approval and recognition achieved! It was if God himself had come down from the sky just to tell me how awesome he thought I was and asked if I wanted to go out for nachoes and beer. Yes, that little bit might not seem like much (like I said, my professors are succinct), but it meant the world to me. It was what I needed to hear.

I went back to the beginning of the e-mail and read through it with a new attitude examining the advice and comments that had been diligently and carefully written down for me. It was all practical, feasible, and a completely fair assessment of the work I had turned in.

The following day I submitted in the next chapter and went to work fixing the previous one.

-Honestly, sometimes, I wish I had stayed in genetics back in college...-

Still, I found the emotional turmoil of the situation draining. I had exhausted every ounce of energy I had in an adrenaline-fueled panic and was running on empty. When i find myself in such a situation I find that making cake is not only merited, it's darn well therapeutic.

This cake is sort of a motley character. It seems to be unable to decide what it wants to be; a chocolate cake, a carrot cake, a bourbon cake, maybe a spicy tres leches cake with some pizazz? Either way I find it best not to dwell and simply to eat.

At the same time I might very well say that dwelling can be beneficial. Time is this cake's best friend and the more of it that goes by the deeper the flavors become. I suggest you consider soaking it with heavy cream or bourbon. While the liquid soaks dwell on the accolades that will undoubtedly be heaped upon you once you serve the cake.

Sweet approval and recognition.

Blogging, work, school, hobbies, proposal, projects, friends, families and relationships. We seek approval for them all and from them all. We want out friends to recognize our struggles and family members to congratulate us for overcoming them. Isn’t dating the search for approval and recognition crystallized into something solid and far too tangible? (If so, then, is a successful relationship the embodiment of achieving them?) It's a constant search. Thesis wise, there is still a lot of mountain to climb.

Either way, I hope that you are getting the approval you seek and the recognition you deserve. If for some reason you aren't make this cake and serve it to whomever. Or, if you don't have whomever around, just get a plate of your own and pat yourself on the back.

Chocolate Carrot Cake

3/4 cup All-Purpose flour
1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 heaping teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 Tablespoon freshly grated fresh ginger
Zest of one orange
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups grated carrots
1/4 cup vegetable oil
1 cup sugar
1/4 cup plain whole milk yogurt
2 large eggs
1/2 cup cream (optional)
1/4 cup bourbon (optional)

1. Preheat the oven to 350ºF. Butter and flour a 9×5-inch loaf pans (or line it with parchment paper.

2. Sift together the the flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, baking soda, ground ginger, and salt (do nto skip this step as likely your cocoa powder will have large clumps). In another bowl, mix together: the carrots, orange zest, and ground ginger.

3. In a large bowl, whisk the oil and sugar together. Once the sugar and oil have been combined, whisk in the yogurt until the mixture is smooth. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating until the batter is smooth and light. Add the carrot, orange zest, and grated ginger.

4. Add the flour mixture to the egg mixture in two additions, folding in until just combined. Pour into the prepared pan.

5. Bake for 30-45 minutes, until well-risen and firm to the touch, or until a cake tester comes out clean. If the top begins to get a little overdone, place a piece of foil over it to prevent burning.

6. Cool the cake in the pan on a cooling rack. You can serve this right away but it is best to keep self-control and let the cake sit for a day or two wrapped in plastic wrap to allow the flavors to intensify. This cake is great on its own but cream or bourbon can be added. 10 minutes before serving pour the cream or bourbon over the cake and allow the cake to soak up the liquid. (Do not use both as the bourbon can curdle the cream.) Serve slices with a little extra liquid for good measure.

And, so, we try again...

2011-02-08T06:00:00.000-08:00

-Macarons: Batches 1 through 3.-

I figured that the last time my knees were scuffed up this badly was probably in grade school. It was a guess. Honestly, I couldn't remember when I had last injured my knees like this, but it felt like the right guess. After all, grade school is the age kids scrape their knees and take sob starting falls into crab grass-covered soccer fields or blazing hot blacktop playgrounds, right?

My rear hurt just as much, though rather than scratched and bleeding it was heavily bruised. When I finally had a chance to admire it in the mirror I saw that it was swollen and mottled in various shades of indigo and brown. It felt as tender as a hammered ribeye.

Of course, I knew ahead of time that this was what would happen when I joined the gymnastics club. Then again, realizing and feeling are two different things. This is especially true when you realize that every position is uncomfortable to sleep in at night.

I had joined the gymnastics club in my freshman year of college. I had also joined the fencing club, which, incidentally, had led to its own injuries; those being a sore wrist and multiple whip like welts across my arms and torso. Both left me looking and feeling like I had joined the rugby or street kickboxing clubs instead, but I was determined to see through two of my life long goals: learn to sword fight and learn to do a standing back flip.

The former was going quite well as I had a natural knack for it and picked it up at an astounding pace. Within the year I was the second best fencer on campus bested only by a tiny girl raised in a former British colony in India who seemed neurally connected to her foil and was faster than thought. In four years I never won a match with her, but I could trounce any of the others.

-Progress is measured in smaller victories and new discoveries.-

Gymnastics, however, wasn't going so well. This is probably to be expected though as - with the exception of a tiny tots class my mother enrolled me in when I was six - I had never done gymnastics at any point in my life. I was also six feet tall and towered above everyone else in the club. (Gymnastics, I've learned, is a sport for short people. I assume all that jumping and landing on their feet for years stunts their growth.)

My first week in I was treated as an oddity but welcomed for the most part. While the more experienced members in the club usually spent their practicing pikes and layouts a few of them took turns coaching me on the first two basics: walking on my hands and the proper technique for falling down in every conceivable manner.

The hand walking was to help me find my center of balance with the ultimate goal to be able to walk a perfect square without rotating my body. Essentially this meant facing the same direction while making a box, which required skill walking on your hands frontwards, backwards, and sideways all while staying perfectly straight and pointed. It was quite difficult and more often than not I ended up tumbling down halfway through.

This then leads to the importance in learning to fall down properly. When doing anything complex in the air, any sort of mishap can lead to a fall that may result in serious injury or death. Considering the fact that I'm so accident prone that it's a wonder BF hasn't simple strapped a pillow to my head and padded all the sharp corners in our apartment I considered learning to properly fall down and gently roll out of it in order to protect my porcelain-delicate self a top priority.

For a month I walked on my hands and fell down for three hours a day, four days a week. My hands were bruised, elbows torn up, and my tuckus felt like a pincushion. However, my face and neck were unscathed. I had begun to master falling.

-Earl Grey macarons with vanilla bean buttercream. Ethereal; like tasting only the most heavenly of clouds.-

Many times, after a particularly rough tumble, I would simply lay down where ever I was and observe from the floor the people I was happy to call my fellow club members. I would watch the guys hop on the rings where they would twirl and tuck like a piece of ribbon in the air. Sometimes the girls would line up at one corner to tumble on the mat where, after a short run and a jump, execute a series of back-handsprings and whips that were powered by seemingly inexhaustible momentum until they petered out into a well-coiled aerial that left me breathless. I especially enjoyed the more experienced members' power tumbling as their hands and feet repeatedly stuck the spring-loaded floor with such force that it sounded like an artillery gun. On the floor I could feel the vibrations of each impact pass through me and I was excited by it.

Eventually, I stopped falling down. I was able to walk around with ease, and even gained the confidence to hand-walk over balance beams and stair rails. It was like I had discovered a long dormant super power and had to demonstrate it to everyone. A few time I hand-walked through the Student Union. At this time in college I had pink hair and usually wore a dog collar which probably made it seem like the all-punk circus was in town.

As time went by I gained more skills. I crashed, tumbled, and burned out more times than I could count; and each week I came home with bruises as fresh as summer strawberries and cuts the color of them. Still, I learned to do more and more. By graduation, I could not only do a standing backflip but had perfected my pikes, become skilled at the trampoline, and could do the splits.

I still generally shied away from the giant bar and rings as after my first experience where I ripped open the skin and flesh on my palms -something I was told would happen frequently. This, however, left me more time to round-offs and jumps; something I eventually gained a reputation for. My height was still a problem and I wasn't as flexible in my back as the others, but my height gave me the lift and leverage the others couldn't achieve and I could easily and literally jump over each and every one of fellow club members and while I knew they would always be years ahead of me I knew that this skill was mine alone.

I've lost these skills now. Years of no access to a gymnastic gym have tightened my tendons and rusted my limbs. If I try to do the splits, hell, if I even try to reach my toes it takes a concentrated effort, assuming I can make it at all. These days I usually get bored halfway there and go to the kitchen to make pie instead.

Or, more recently, macarons.

I recently called over Trina, BF's sister, who is a pastry chef here in Sacramento to help me make them. Neither of us had before and we figured between our combined pastry knowledge and armed with a copy of Hisako Ogita's, I ♥ Macarons, we felt pretty confident that we would be able to figure it out.

-Pistachio macarons with cherry blossom buttercream. Fresh egg yolks caused the batter to spread. We knew this would happen but wanted to test it anyways.-

The thing about Macarons is that they aren't necessarily difficult to make. The basic methods and techniques are simple enough. However, it takes mastery acquired through years of experience and skill to make them perfect.

Needless to say ours were not. On some the feet flopped, others were wearing smart, pointy caps when we wanted to see their shiny bald heads instead, and one batch spread out so wide we worried that they would be mistaken for pancakes. Only a few actually turned out looking like something out of the cookbook, and certainly none of them were cookbook cover material. A few were just goddamn fugly.

"But they're beautiful on the inside!" I told myself.

Looks aside they tasted amazing. Better, in fact, than most I've had at many fine bakeries. We made three different flavors: Earl Grey with vanilla bean buttercream, pistachio with cherry blossom buttercream, and chocolate with nutella. Each tasted as complex and sweet as a bell choir, and their delicate texture and barely toothsome shells seemed to strike all the right chords as if someone began plucking a harp strings in your chest.

They still need a bit of work to make them perfect and I picture many more batches will be made in the future. There are no bruises involved; just too many leftover egg yolks which isn't so bad. After all when it comes to baking and failing all you can do is get up and try it again.

-No recipe this time. I don't want to give one until I can get the recipe perfect and be able to answer any questions you might have.-

Aversion: Chocolate Espresso Shortbread

2011-02-01T06:00:00.000-08:00

-No aversion to these at all.-

Unlike my friend, Janelle, who has an intense aversion towards Peruvian flute bands and movies where large-breasted teenagers have their organs band sawed off by psychopaths, I find intense fascination in them. Should she hear either one in the background she will go out of her way to locate its source and then proceed to get 200 yards away from it and whip out her MP3 player in order to drown it all out. Don't even try to get her inside a Hot Topic store. It's like she's afraid the droves of hipsters will beat her to death with lead pipes decorated with Rainbow Bright decals.

On the other hand I do everything in my power to avoid various objects, people, places, and ideas. I'm no different from my friend, or in that matter anyone else.

Personally, I use every fiber of my being to avoid disappointment, hearing about astrology as a means of guiding your life, ironing my clothes, prolonged small talk, court TV, the state of boredom, and the state of Wyoming. I also have a tendency to steer clear of guys who wear too much Abercrombie & Fitch clothing. (This, though, is easily mitigated if they're wearing Abercrombie & Fitch's cologne, Fierce, which usually encourages bouts of heavy purring in me.)

The sources of aversion are numerous; they can be icky, painful, traumatic, unknown, or far too familiar. Other times it may be trivial such as my disinclination to check the mail, which I'm sure must piss off my mail carrier as he tries to cram yet another day's bills and fliers into a too tiny mailbox.

Of course, some sources of aversion are extreme and with proper grounds. When I graduated college I fell into a job at a local non-profit. The work had moral glitter and I enjoyed the fact that while it made me look selfless when people asked what I did at parties, really, it was a comfy job that paid well and had good benefits. The only downside of that job was my ex, Will, from my freshmen year of college, worked there.

-Nibby doughs are happy doughs. Plus, they make for a great Valentine's Day cookie.-

We had broken up years ago for many reasons. He was the first person I had ever dated and he pressed for marriage while I was still eighteen. I felt that I could be tied to a table and suffocated with pillow and still not be as smothered as when he called me six times a day. Saran wrap could take a lesson on cling from him. I in turn had only dated this one person. I wanted freedom, so, I cheated. I cheated a lot. The relationship was a velvet prison, too comfy and familiar to leave, so I found a way to ensure that he would break up with me.

That relationship, as a whole, was like a Melville novel. It started out with potential, but it was boring, tedious, and by the end left me wondering why I had stuck with it as long as I did. The breakup was efficient, though, not without crying, and I found myself pretty well over it by the month's end.

Still, the prospect of working with and seeing Will on a regular basis was about appealing as having a colonic preformed with industrial strength drain cleaner. I took great pains to avoid him at work; I took lunches late, I prowled around corners, and I sat on the other side of the room at staff meetings.

During times we had to interact we were cordial to each other for the sake of professionalism, an often under-appreciated savior. However, throughout the conversation we sprinkled in insults and snide comments that only the two of us would recognize. In fact, each public passing was like a coded game of the dozens for us. If we didn't dislike each other so much this game might have even been more fun than it already was (to me, at least).

-As tasty as these are they're a bitch to photograph.-

I realized that this intense aversion started to go too far when I actually hid in a broom closet to dodge him. Almost immediately after I hid myself, naturally, he was stopped by his supervisor and pulled into a conversation. I spent about twenty minutes trying to stay silent with a mop handle jabbed into my kidney. You may say I could have just walked out but after anything more than thirty seconds in a broom closet it's pretty safe to assume that there isn't any excuse you can make that won't cause people to question if they should invite you over to their next party.

I'm not sure why it was like this. I had faced him before on numerous occasions and had weathered it fine, even politely. Maybe after all this time I had begun to feel guilt? Maybe I simply was tired of the uncomfortable looks and false pleasantries? Maybe I just didn't want to see his stupid face? Either way, I simply didn't want to be around him.

Of course, not all aversions are as deeply personal. Some are simply based on intensely focused displeasure. Cooking is no different. There are some culinary tasks I just avoid at all costs.

I do my best to avoid cooking fish. This isn't because I don't know how, but because I never remember how to clean or cut them and I don't want people who think I'm a good cook to know otherwise (though with this confession I guess that's no longer a problem). I keep my distance from lima beans. My mother's cooking has ensured that they and I will never be on speaking terms.

If I can avoid it I won't bake anything in a waterbath, as a combination of poor coordination and boiling hot water never seems to work well for me. (This fact alone means every baking instructor I have ever had insists on making me get over this fear of mine. The result usually being an accident and the aversion increasing.)

-Perfect with a glass of milk which will help dilute the sheer amount of caffeine you'll inject into your bloodstream.-

Lastly, and maybe most surprisingly, I tend to shy away from cooking with chocolate. Don't confuse this with me saying I dislike chocolate. I enjoy it quite a bit. However, if I'm given the choice to make chocolate chip cookies or prepare a simple jam or fruit tart I'll go with the latter. In addition, when it comes to messiness, fruit is generally the cleaner of the two and, yes, that does factor into the decision for me.

This is all much to BF's lament as he prefers chocolate to fruit, even to cigarettes, which is really saying something assuming he could hear me when he smokes outside on the patio.

Going through the last few posts I noticed an exceptional focus on citrus and cheese and as much as I love that I need a break from it myself once in a while. I actually craved something musky and bitter, something crunchy, and chocolate seemed the way to go.

Chocolate shortbread with espresso powder seemed the right way to go. To say these cookies have only a shot of espresso is misleading. It's more like a buckshot of espresso in the torso. The right amount of chocolate and espresso give these a nice bang. Crushed cocoa nibs add a little more crunch to the sandy texture of the shortbread and make a simple, but intense cookie.

This isn't to say I won't still avoid chocolate when it comes to baking. It's a given that I will, but it's always nice to have something rich and reliable to fall back on when I'm feeling forward for cocoa.

Chocolate Espresso Shortbread Cookies

Adapted from Elizabeth Falkner's recipe in The Essence of Chocolate

1 cup all-purpose flour
3/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 heaping tablespoon espresso powder
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup cocoa nibs, crushed with a rolling pin
12 tablespoons unsalted butter, room temperature
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

1. Preheat oven to 325F and line two baking sheets with parchment paper.

2. Combine flour, espresso powder, cocoa powder, and salt in a bowl. Set aside.

3. Cream the butter and sugar together on medium speed for 5 minutes, being sure to scrape down the sides and bottom as needed. Add the vanilla and mix for 30 seconds. Add about half the flour mixture and mix on low speed. Scrape down the bottom and sides and add the rest of the flour mixture. Once incorporated mix at medium speed for 2 minutes. Mix in cocoa nibs.

4. Lay out a sheet of parchment paper and place the dough on it. Cover with another sheet of parchment paper and roll out to 1/4-inch thickness with a rolling pin. (You can also lightly flour a work space, but I find my method far easier, cleaner, and the shortbread keeps a sandy texture by not picking up the flour.) You may find the dough getting too soft. If it does, place it in the freezer for ten minutes to firm it up before you continue rolling. Cut into desired shapes and place on baking sheets about 1 inch apart.

5. Bake for 15 minutes, rotating the pans halfway through baking. Remove the pans and allow to cool for a minute or two before moving to a wire rack to cool completely.

Makes 3 dozen.

Scavenging: Lemon Curd and Lemon-Ginger Scones

2011-01-25T06:00:00.000-08:00

-Say what you want about scavenging for food. The results speak for themselves.-

It was called buzzarding for two reasons. The first and main reason was because of the obvious comparison to buzzards and their scavenging ways; how people would circle trays of food in a constantly tightening the gyre until they descended upon them and picked at whatever meat and bones were left. The second was because they would be buzzing all over the school like cracked-out crazy people trying to find a free meal.

The second was apt enough but it was the first that made the term so humorously endearing, so identifiable, and heaped onto you a feeling that you really were some sort of unclean beggar hiding in the shadows and waiting for the best opportunity to take, or, in some cases, outright steal.

Anyone who has gone to college can identify with buzzarding. Others call it freeganism, while some may simply call it scavenging, but all students have done it. As a student constantly expending energy through studying, Frisbee football tournaments, dating dramas, classes, all night parties and the inevitable mornings after that are first defined by the phrase “I am so hung over,” only to immediately be followed by, “God, I am so hungry,” food is a constant need at all hours of the day.

I don't think any student ever intends to debase themselves to hunting for food like a starved hyena. It goes against the notion that you're one of the educated elite that has to show it through dignified words and actions. However, when you're damn near poor and living off student loans and ramen then you learn to be okay with swallowing your pride for some free eats.

-Fresh Meyer lemons picked fresh from the Break Room.-

Regardless of the reasons why, buzzarding is a habit all college students must learn. If change cannot be found under the couch for a run to In-&-Out then buzzarding kicks into overdrive and the famished 20-something must put aside ego and hunt for food. It’s natural instinct.

Instinct or not, though, skills can be developed in order to hone the hunt for food. In college my roommates and I constantly kept on the lookout for flyers anoouncing events where food would be offered and we eagerly awaited various campus events where a buffet would be present. I snuck into club meetings that I was not a member of (the list of clubs I crashed is extensive ranging from the Communist Club, the Future Farmers, and far too many emo poetry readings with the Poetry Club who always had amazing mochas freshly made by one of its members that brought an espresso machine to meetings). I even made friends with plenty freshmen who could get me into the Dining Commons for free.

Encouraged by a friend, I was even an active volunteer for the Jewish community center. I wish my motives were wholly altruistic but damn it if these people didn’t know how to make a mean maror. I stayed on and assisted when I could knowing there was the promise of bagels and, sometimes, fresh challah. I eventually stopped volunteering, though, through a combination of guilt brought upon by a Lutheran upbringing and accidentally interrupting the prayer at Shabbat dinner by trying to quietly inhale a broiling hot latke without anyone noticing only to horribly and audibly burn my mouth.

I had other methods of feeding myself. I hoarded, God, I hoarded. Stocking my mini-fridge with filched food was like playing a game of Tetris every time I opened it.

-While tasty on toast and scones I find lemon curd to be just as amazing on waffles, pancakes, ice cream, and even on the side to some leftover grilled chicken from the fridge.-

Lastly, since Davis is an agricultural town with a plenty of middle-to-upper class suburbs, there are plenty of fruit trees to raid if you know where to look. The first time that my roommate came home with a pillowcase filled with tangerines I chastised him for taking someone else's fruit. He argued that the tree was in the front yard and he only took what he knew were tangerines that had been sitting on the ground for the past few days. I checked the tree the next few days and, sure enough, plenty of fruit did drop and the owners never picked it up, let alone picked the fruit from the tree. The next week I went with him pillowcase in hand.

These days when I hear tales from my friends about how strangers are constantly swiping their fruit I gasp and chide these criminals with a wave of my finger as if they were in the room with us. (I am a hypocrite. I know that and I’m fine with it in regards to this issue. I stole from neglectful strangers. These people are stealing from friends who furtively pick the fruit on their trees with the intention to eat every single one. This is what I tell myself.)

-Scones are just so easy to make. I wonder why I don't make them more often?-

Of course, after college and having become a food writer one would think that I would have left these habits behind like the scratched up card table I ditched in my first post-college apartment. Sadly, this isn't the case. I still scavenge for food wherever I can find it. I don't think it will ever matter just how well-fed or well-off I am or become because if there are snacks nearby, be they in the form of veggie plate or candy bowl, I plan to slam down on it like the hand of God.

These habits aren't privy just to college students. If you've ever worked in an office environment you know what I mean. Leftover doughnuts from a meeting? No need to announce it over the loudspeaker. Your co-workers know. They can smell free food in the air the way a shark can smell a single drop of blood from a mile away. All you have to do is put them in the Break Room and back away before the wolves decend upon it. Be quick about it too, or you'll lose a finger.

-If I knew in college what I know now. Not just about food but other stuff, too. I know I would have skipped a lot of bad dates.-

This is just as true at my new job back in the non-profit world. I brought my new co-workers some cupcakes (from Esther's, naturally), a sort of "Thanks for welcoming me" gift, and before I could blink all that was left were crumbs and torn up cupcake papers - a practical baked goods Blitzkrieg.

Don't worry though. I showed them.

At the end of my third day, I found an entire sack of Meyer lemons. Written on a piece of paper taped to the wall next to them was a note, "From the tree. Please take." So I did.

To justify my actions let me explain that after an entire day the sack was still nearly full. Most people, it seemed, didn't know what to do with almost ten pounds of lemons.

Amateurs. I made that bag of lemons my bitch.

-Regular lemons or even limes would be just as delightful in these recipes.-

Much of it went to pitcher after pitcher of lemonade. The rest of the juice and zest was quickly prepped and tossed into containers in the freezer for future baking projects. I've also been promised even more lemons, so you can anticipate that many cans of vanilla bean and Meyer lemon marmalade is in my future.

However, what I was feeling like that night I got home - what I was really craving - was lemon curd. Really sour, creamy, lemon curd with enough spark to start a car. And, perhaps, some lemon scones to smear it on. Yes, lemon on lemon. The best kind of lemon treat. Even better? Totally a valid breakfast option even though, and let's all just admit this to ourselves, they're totally dessert.

I realize the only difference between by buzzarding then and my buzzarding now is that I know how to better utilize my pickings. Years ago I would have just tossed produce that went old and uneaten. Now it gets poached, baked, stir-fried, canned, and churned into ice cream.

I'm a smart and proud scavenger these days and the results prove it.

Lemon-Ginger Scones
Adapted from Molly Weizenburg's A Homemade Life

2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons cold, unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
4 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons grated lemon zest
1/4 cup chopped crystalized ginger
1/2 cup half-and-half, plus more for glazing
1 egg
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

1. Preheat oven to 425F. In a large bowl sift together the flour, baking powder and salt. Using your hands, rub the butter into the flour mixture until it looks like coarse meal. Add the sugar, lemon zest, and ginger and whisk to incorporate.

2. Stir together the half-and-half, vanilla extract, and egg in a bowl. Add to flour mixture and stir gently to combine. The dough will be shaggy and sticky. Using your hands squeeze the dough together into a rough mass. Turn out onto lightly floured countertop and knead a few times just to bring it together. As soon as the dough holds pat it into a circle and cut into wedges.

3. Place wedges onto parchment lined baking sheet. Brush with extra half-and-half. Bake for 10-14 minutes, or until pale golden. Cool on wire rack and serve warm or at room temperature. Store in an air tight container for up to four days.

Lemon Curd
Adapted from Cindy Mushet's The Art & Soul of Baking

3 large eggs
3 large egg yolks
1 cup sugar
3/4 cup lemon juice
6 tablespoons cold, unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes

1. Fill a large bowl halfway up with ice water. Place a strainer over another bowl set it aside. Fill the bottom of a double-boiler with at least 2 inches of water. The water should not touch the top part of the double-boiler. (You can do a makeshift double-boiler by using a pot and a metal mixing bowl.) Bring to a rolling boil.

2. In the metal bowl or top part of the double boiler whisk together the eggs, egg yolks, and sugar until well blended. Add the lemon juice and stir together. Place bowl over the boiling water and cook, stirring constantly, but leisurely, for 7-10 minutes being sure to scrape the bottom and sides frequently to prevent the eggs from scrambling. When the curd is thick and holds its shape (you should be able to lift the whisk and when the curd falls back down it should remain distinct on the surface) take it off the heat.

3. Immediately pour the curd through the strainer and into the bowl under it to catch all the bits of scrambled egg (there is always some). Add the butter to the curd and let sit for a minute to melt before stirring it in. Press plastic wrap onto the surface of the curd to prevent a skin from forming. Place the bowl of curd into the bowl of ice water. Once curd has completely cooled, use or store in the refrigerator until needed for up to a week.

Something Different: Pairing Blood Oranges and Cheese

2011-01-18T06:00:00.000-08:00

-I apologize but licking your screen will not stop the cravings. Please stop doing that.-

It had sat there, almost begrudgingly, in its small plastic container for nearly three weeks which is almost 3 years in cheese years. It had been the only survivor from a small Christmas brunch and while I had meant to attend to it the poor cheese always seem to bear the brunt of my schedule and timing. So now it sat in the corner hidden slightly behind the carton of 2% milk. It was so far back it even peeked over the jar of preserved walnuts, which is a sure sign of neglect in my fridge.

I hadn't necessarily meant for this to happen to the cheese. Just like many of my friends who I never seem to make enough time for it just never to seem to properly fit into my dinner plans or social schedule (or lack thereof). The tiny nub wasn't enough to throw into a pot of macaroni and cheese and by the time I finished cleaning the dishes from the leek gratin is when inspiration for a gratin with blue cheese struck an hour too late. Oh, and it would have been perfect in that wheat berry salad with dried apricots, but I was making it for eight people. What I would give for culinary powers of Jesus to feed the masses on mere crumbs, or to, at least, be able to spread this humble chunk of cheese a little thinner.

It happens all the time though, neglecting food. You might think it difficult for BF and me. Our weekly shopping budget is about $22 a week not including the occasional dry and canned goods run. We spend it smartly at the Farmers' Market picking up produce, eggs, and bread. We often come home with plenty of food, yet, more often than not we can't seem to eat it all.

We cook every day being sure to make plenty for leftovers for lunch the next day. We have friends over for meals, and I usually end up feeding Roommate and his BF should they be here. The occasional impromptu dinner party seems to occur every so often as well, which allows me to revel in the comfort and friends and whip up a last minute dessert that thankfully uses up some more of that fruit we bring home or are constantly gifted by friends with trees.

Yet, we have so much left over somehow. Greens go as limp as dozy cats, their rigid fibers sapped of all strength and left with the tactile texture of slightly damp silk. Carrots lose their backbone and bend to anyone's will. And celery? Well, its snappy personality becomes sickly. More than once has the bread gone moldy to the point that it looks like a mighty fine cheese as opposed to a hearty sourdough. Milk goes chunky and buttermilk goes rancid (yes, it is possible).

-Blue cheese and blood oranges... who would have thought?-

Still, this cheese had seemed to live. I pulled it out and inspected it through the foggy plastic. No growth, well, none unwanted at least. Blue cheese grows more distinct with age as the flavors ripen and the culture spreads and intensifies. However, fuzzy or oddly colored blue cheese is a sure sign of spoilage. Strangely enough a month in the back of the fridge produced no obvious visual discouragement.

I popped the top and expected a wave of rotten odor to wash over me smelling like a middle school gym locker room and the poor choices you made in it. Instead, the smell was pert and alive with the scent of wet hay, nettles, and cream. It was reminiscent of a rainy day on a dairy farm whose buildings are crept over dust and clover.

This blue cheese, a Fourme d'Ambert, one of France's oldest cheeses (made as far back as the rule of the Roman Empire) and AOC protected, is a classic end-of-the-meal blue often eaten with dessert wines such as a sweet Sauternes.

When it had first arrived for the brunch weeks ago it was still young. Age had given it body and character. Overall, it was creamy and slightly nutty with a salty twang that vibrated through your tongue as if someone had plucked a string on a guitar. This cheese was vibrant and strong.

As amazing as it tasted I still wasn't sure what to do with it. Not enough pasta for mac and cheese. Honey seemed too simple. No crackers in sight. Damned if I wasn't out of wine yet again in order to make a good pairing.

-Moro blood oranges are just plain prettier than other oranges.-

Then the fruit bowl filled with dark skinned Moro blood oranges caught my eye. "Citrus and cheese..." I pondered. "That's a thought." I knew that marmalades were a popular option with blue cheeses but I never gave much attention to the idea of pairing fresh citrus with cheese. Generally, I've always believed the whole lactic acid / citric acid combo always leads to an upset stomach, but I figured that there surely wasn't any harm in trying.

I segmented the orange and placed the supremes on a piece of slate with the cheese. A nibble of both and suddenly each revealed its secrets to me. The sweet, burgundy juices from the Moros tempered the salt of the blue, while the blue's cream accentuated the Moro's often underwhelming sourness into something perky and candy-like. I had stumbled onto one of those perfect cheese matchings made in Heaven.

A whole different world of cheese pairings seemed to open up. I ran to the fridge for some goat cheese and smeared some over the tiny wedge of orange. The salt in a creamy goat cheese caprichio polished the sugars in the blood oranges and made them shine and, unlike with the d'Ambert, the citric acid was given the fortitude to cut through the fat in the cheese creating a uniquely different experience.

Invigorated by the rush of new possibilities with these ruby-hued oranges I went to the store in search of a interesting, Brie-ish cheese. I was wholly convinced that the blood oranges and a semi-soft cheese would be absolutely bangin'. However, I wanted to find something not so salty either as a traditional Brie might be.

-Loma Alta cheese is like a firm Brie.-

You see, BF got me some pink Himalayan salt blocks for Christmas. The blocks are carved from boulders of salt quarried in Pakistan and run a number of lovely shades from cherry blossom pink to moody garnet. When food is laid down on the block it cures and picks up a delicate flavor of salt that pronounced and a skosh minerally. Furthermore, in regards to photography, I was convinced that the blood oranges and cream colored cheese would look stunning against the pink stone.

I picked up a wedge of Loma Alta, otherwise known as Black Mountain. Loma Alta is a semi-firm, organic cheese made from cow's milk. It's produced by Nicasio Valley Cheese Company in California. The taste is somewhat like that of an everyday Brie but not as oozy and less salty. It's a buttery cheese that stands up to brusque pairings.

I peeled and sliced a Moro and carefully laid down the slices on the block for about a minute (allowing any wet food to cure on the block for too long is a sure way to ruin your food as it simply absorbs far too much salt). The cheese, which I gathered would cure more slowly, had already been sitting on the salt block for about five minutes.

A slice of salt cured orange was almost enough to make me gag. Thinking to myself that this was a failed experiment I took the oranges to the garbage disposal. I stopped halfway to the kitchen though, "I suppose..." I mumbled to myself before turning around. I popped one of the orange slices in my mouth and winced as the salt assaulted my tongue, as quick as I could I threw a slice of cheese in my mouth and, as if someone had opened the windows to a stuffy room and let the air rush in, there was refreshing calm. The cheese provided balance. The Loma Alta sang with the salt and created a mellow pairing with the orange that was soft and simple. Even the cheese by itself, having cured on the salt block was not longer a simple semi-firm Brie, but now a complex creature full of nuance and rich, fruity flavors.

-Salt: Making everything better since forever.-

It seems that blood oranges had found a place of permanency on my cheese plates from this point on. Anyone I've presented these pairings to seems to agree, especially where the blue cheese is concerned. It was an unexpected discovery to say the least but certainly a pleasant one. The pairings themselves have lead to enticing new recipe ideas. I've now been eating salads composed of blood oranges and roasted beets with a bit of blue cheese or chèvre scattered about the plate for good measure. Hot toast smeared with Brie and topped with marmalade or slices of blood orange and a flurry of kosher salt is an epic appetizer for any meal.

The lesson, if there is one, is to always look around and see what works. If you have any leftover cheese in your fridge explore your pantry and fruit bowl. Open that jar of Nutella, get out the honey, whip out the celery and see just what works. You might be surprised by something different.

-If you cannot find blood oranges then any other good juice orange would be just fine too.-

Impulsive: Candied Pomelo Rind (Pomeloettes)

2011-01-11T06:00:00.000-08:00

-Rushed decisions may lead to citrusy results.-

I don't really do impulse. Too many times have impulsive, even rash decisions caused me to suffer the brunt of my own ineptitude or carelessness. A lack of profundity invested in any venture, adventure, or misadventure nearly always comes back to haunt you. Furthermore, the ramifications of such lack of foresight can be long-reaching and severe.

Take, for example, the time I made a on-the-fly decision in college to try ecstasy. I was with a bunch of friends and we had - impulsively, I might add - decided to go out dancing. I slipped into the skinniest pair of jeans I owned back when I was a size 28 waist and threw on a fabulous long sleeve shirt. After a short drive we arrived and quickly downed an extra large bottle of Gatorade and coconut rum in the car (I have a policy against paying $8 for a glass of vodka and pineapple juice).

My friend Anna suddenly produced a small Ziploc bagged filled with five tiny white tablets. Each was engraved with the image of a small bird. "They're called White Doves. They aren't as long lasting as a Pink Cowboy," she said with an assumption that any of us could really tell the difference. "They only go for a few hours. Trust me, though, that this thing will have you rolling all night," explained Anna.

"Oh. Um. Well... why not?" I replied. "You only live once, right?" Honestly, that thought going through my head was the shortest trip ever made in Sacramento. She dropped the tablet in my hand. I placed it on my tongue and washed it down with another chug of the Gatorade-rum cocktail.

Inside the club we began dancing as the speakers pumped out heavy techno remixes of Madonna's 80's singles and colored lights flickered around the room. Considering our surroundings it seemed that it would be near impossible to tell when or if the ecstasy kicked in or not.

-Pomelos, if you aren't aware, are a type of citrus fruit popular in Southeat Asia. It is often used in salads and desserts.-

"So when can you tell if it's doing anything?" I asked Anna as I sipped my drink.

"Oh, you'll know," she replied. I wasn't sure if she had heard me as she seemed hypnotized by a nearby gogo dancer like a cobra watching a charmer's pipe. I let the question drop.

"Oh. Okay. Well, if I start acting weird let me know. And, god, why am I so thirsty? This is like my third pineapple and vodka. Also, it's like a zillion degrees in here."

"You're feeling it."

"What? God, I am loving this music. It's really hot in here. Ooooh, look at that guy. I'm going to go introduce myself. Wait, I have to use the restroom first. Hold my drink."

So began a night of hyper-intense ADD, beyond shameless flirtation, and copious amounts of rough groping with total strangers. It might have been fun. I'm honestly not too sure. I only have flashes of memory from that night.

The next morning I woke up on my couch with a blistering headache like someone had trapped me in porcelain room with the world's loudest freight train before taking that train and repeatedly striking me in the skull with it. My shirt was gone and a note was on the table from Anna that explained that my friends tried to find it at the club but hadn't had any luck. In my pocket were three phone numbers and one more was written on my shoulder in black sharpie that was signed, "Harmit. Call me for another sometime. ;)" which concerned me as I didn't know a Harmit or what the first one he referred to even was.

I spent the rest of the day fighting off dehydration and resting in a quiet room listening to a Project Runway marathon. Harmit's number would remain on my back for the next week and a half. I never did call. It seemed that was an impulse worth ignoring.

Of course, this isn't to say all such jumps aren't without any sort of merit. The risk is sometimes worth the payoff. Like a game at a baccarat table the chance to win big is present and palatable. This may be something small such as taking a back road to work and learning later that your regular freeway trip is blocked for miles due to a shoe in the road (if you drive in California you understand what I'm saying). Other times it might be taking a huge risk in the way decide to present a major project to your peers and find that it paid off.

Still, I'm generally not an impulsive person. I do planning. I am an avid fan of forethought. When it comes to pros and cons of any decision I weigh more things than a scale at Weight Watchers. I carefully consider each situation and major purchase I make. Simply enough, I've regretted more than my fair share of bad decisions and I'm skeptical, even fearful enough, to tread as lightly as possible in order to avoid disaster.

-The major challenge in eating pomelo is getting past the thick rind and tough membranes.-

Another example: Back when I was in boy scout camp as a teenager, I learned to question the impulse to do a back flip off a high dive because landing a full-flat belly flop from twelve feet in the air hurts like crazy and will leave your entire chest swollen and bruised for days.

The reason I followed the impulse to begin with? Well, I had preformed plenty of back flips before and when you do land them it's just so damn awesome. One big flop doesn't prevent me from doing more flips in the future.

I still follow my impulses once in a while and take a jump. I recently bought a nicer than I needed mahjong set in order to finish some of my resolutions for 2011. For me, that's just crazy as any old set would have been just fine if not more frugal.

However, where I am most impulsive is with food. When my stomach is involved there is no filter. No careful consideration. I just say okay and chew.

When I was in Mexico last year with some blogging buddies we took a tour of an outdoor market. As we wandered down stalls of fresh fish, butchers, and piles of heirloom mangoes none of us had ever seen or heard of before we did out best to eat everything we saw. Dozens of vendors were making fresh bread, musky batches of mole, tacos filled with vibrant salsas slathered over mountains of minced fire-grilled tongue, pickled radishes and jalapeños, and dry cured sausages. We ate everything we could and abandoned any warnings of not to eat strange foods in foreign countries. We avoided the water but devoured everything else in sight.

Take me to a dim sum restaurant and nothing is off the table. Steamed tripe, flash-fried chicken feet, congealed blood, dumplings of every kind are just some of my favorites. I'll happily spit out bones and chicken nails onto my plate and reach for the next dish before sloshing it down with another cup of hot tea or soy drink.

-Pomelo juice is perfect for any breakfast.-

So it is at the farmers' market. I shop in season throughout the year and at the Asian farmers' market that means there's always some new sort of produce I've never seen before being sold for cheap. Duck tongue herb, fuzzy melon, daikon, mugwort, Kav Ywm, Lauj Vag, pennywort, and loquats have all found their way into my shopping bag. I take them home and cook them and sometimes they taste delicious and other times not so much. The adventure is in the tasting, eating, and cooking.

Last week I was mulling around the market and came upon a bulbous pile of pomelos. Nearly neon in color and fragrant with the smell of flora and citrus they seemed to call my name. I had passed pomelos by before in previous years but never picked them up. Fearing they were too similar to grapefruit, the one citrus I simply don't care for, I avoided them. That day, however, I was feeling mighty impulsive.

When I got home I thought against cooking with it. I wanted to simply taste only pure pomelo. I decided to juice the flesh and candy the skin. Simple, unadulterated pomelo.

I was surprised to find that it tasted like grapefruit only sweeter, without the tongue seizing bitterness that so many varieties of grapefruit can have. It was mild and subtle. The juice made for a refreshing drink, but the candied peel, both sweet with just a whisper of bitter as opposed to the berating bleat of bitter in candied grapefruit rind, was decadent and full of zing. A sour note runs through each strips that's fresh and even slightly minty.

If you have the chance to pick up a pomelo be impulsive and grab one. It's a jump worth taking.

Candied Pomelo Rind (Pomeloettes)
1 pomelo
3 cups sugar
water

1. Peel the pomelo, taking care to remove as much of the thick, white pith as possible. The pith is very bitter and may require some delicate work with a pairing knife to remove. Set the fruit aside for another use. Cut the peel into 1/4-inch-wide strips.

2. Fill a small pot with water and bring to a boil. Add the pomelo peel and blanch for 1 minute. Drain the water and remove the peel. Repeat this step three more time. This will remove some of the bitterness from the rind.

3. Fill pot with 2 cups fresh water and 2 cups sugar. Dissolve sugar over medium-low heat. Bring to a boil and add the rind. Reduce heat to medium-low and reduce until the rind is translucent and almost no liquid remains. About 1 hour.

4. Remove the peel from the pot and dredge in granulated sugar. Cool and dry on a wire rack overnight. Store in an airtight container for up to one week.