A Dork And His Pork

Some of you may know that I spent my childhood and college years in and around Lansing, Michigan.  You know, state capitol, birthplace of Oldsmobile, and home to a large and reasonably well-regarded public university.  It wasn’t a horrible place to grow up: there were parks, trees, video game arcades, a good local theater and a few thriving independent businesses.  I’m still thankful for its four distinct seasons, good public schools, and modicum of diversity.  And despite being an early casualty of the auto-industry-collapse Diaspora, I only moved about five hours south, to Cincinnati. While my sister is quite happy and prosperous in Phoenix, I’ve sometimes felt an affinity to one of Darwin’s Galapagos finches, well suited to my surroundings, but completely out of place anywhere but my own native habitat.

Now, despite my grounding in the Midwest, our family did have one other important geographic connection, one which I had to think clearly about when i received a small package from “home” this past week.  My father grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, and all of his side of the family still lives there.  Our family vacations typically involved the twelve-hour trek down I69/65 to visit, sight see, guzzle the absurdly sweet tea I’m only now shaking off an addiction to, and absorb the culture shock of the slower, genteel Deep South.

But Birmingham is also home to my first real Food Memory.  Ollie’s Barbecue.  No matter what the circumstances of our trip south, no matter how much or how little time we had, our extended family always made it a point to go.  It’s one of those traditions kids get caught up in, but by the time I was a teenager I could never wait to go to Ollie’s and sit at the ancient Formica counter top and watch the meat being smoked.
Continue reading »

I am everything Sushi is not.

To be candid, I can barely find my pants in the morning.  There are ketchup packets in my bathroom and I often run into the middle of busy streets without looking.  Matching my socks is a profound sartorial achievement.  I’ve broken two work-desk drawers in the last year.  There are 18 light bulb sockets in my apartment right now, and only two currently host a working bulb.  My 2008 tax returns are still wedged underneath my pantry cart, and I burn my feet whenever I make pasta.

In other words, I am not graceful.  Or elegant, well-composed, balanced, organized, attractive or at all formal. Throw in the fact that I typically don’t care for fish, and you’ll perhaps understand my surprise when the words “we should make sushi” slipped out of my mouth.
Continue reading »

Alternate working title:  Leaven and the Ragged Tiger

It should be no surprise that I am a crappy blogger.  The real question, however, is why. I’m not a bad blogger simply because I seldom post. At the worst, this makes me a LAZY blogger.

Sometimes I rationalize this by telling myself that I have to be “in the moment,” you know, interesting food I feel passionately about, with a humorous storyline and mesmerizing visuals.  A LOT has to fall into place for all of that to be in place, my friends.  But, again, that’s a rationalization.  Sometimes I’m just lazy.

I’m not even a bad blogger because I don’t proofread.  Or verify my links or fix my #*$& WordPress template or present my recipes consistently or make sure my blogroll is current.  This makes me a SLOPPY blogger.   You’ve seen the stove, right?   I’m working on it. I think the real reason I’m a crappy blogger?   I overlook the obvious.  Food I eat weekly The foods that take up most of my intellectual and culinary effort.  Stuff I read about think about, talk about.  I always think I’m at my best when I’m putting my cooking in the context of my “real” life – my struggles with time due to carelessness, my social ineptitude and relational crucibles, my willingness to go hungry rather than eat out of a box.

So, bread.

Continue reading »

It’s funny the compromises we make in the kitchen.  Especially when other diners are involved.

You’ll buy the cheap cocoa when you’re cooking for yourself but spring for the Valrhona when you make a birthday cake.

Or you’ll make creme angliase from scratch when company is coming but you’ll melt vanilla ice cream when it’s “only family.”

And don’t get me started about garnish.  Or which tablecloth I use or whether said tablecloth will be ironed.

It’s fascinating to observe how many different ways the preparation and sharing of food echoes the nuances of your relationships, and how subtle distinctions and  economies of effort play out.   I thought about this this past Saturday when I had David and Laura over for dinner.  It seemed like A good way to kick off the year, and a good way to start to emerge from the antisocial shell I’ve been hiding in for the last few months.

Continue reading »

Editor’s Note:  I’ve since done my dishes.  And cleaned the stove.  (I promise)

If I do my dishes, I can have some flourless chocolate cake.

However.

If I do NOT do my dishes, I’m still going to have some flourless chocolate cake.

This is pretty much the story of my life.
Continue reading »

On this day I find myself thankful for the following:

Continue reading »

There is a certain irony to the way I cook that is never lost on me.

On the one hand, I absolutely loathe pretense, bravado and fuss.  Food is such a huge source of pleasure and comfort, and a huge part of that comfort is the anticipation.  I want to be able to feel the crispy  chicken skin crackling around my molars while every succulent bite of meat dissolves in a garlickey haze above my tongue.   I don’t want to ruin or even compromise that anticipation by being preemptively confused by some foofy sauce I’ve never tried.  Or by having to wonder if the balsamic reduction is going to taste good on my ice cream.  (As if the answer to that question is ever in doubt).

Continue reading »

I’m willing to write off one out of every, say, twenty dishes I cook as a complete and unmitigated disaster.  And usually, afterward, I understand why it happens.  Botched technique,   too much heat, (either in the “caliente” or the “picante” sense of the word) too little attention, or drastically misunderstanding the changes the food will undergo while cooking.   We make a mental note, we salvage what we can, we do the dishes, and, if necessary, order up some Indian takeout.

Continue reading »

Sorry to not post for a couple of weeks, but I had to share this.

I made Concord Grape Jam today, courtesy of Jessie at The Hungry Mouse.

(sidenote: I would never presume to tell you guys how to spend your time online, but if you are not reading this blog, you really should be.  Even if you don’t like to cook, her whimsy and enthusiasm are just infectious. )

Anyway, this jam is not for the faint of heart.  You will squeeze the grapes until your hands and furniture are covered in acid.  Whatever you are wearing will be forever stained.  There will be purple goop all over your kitchen.  And you guys know how graceful I am.  Molten jam, like sugar or deep fried foods… DEATH TRAP.

But OH MY was it worth it.  I don’t know how long this jar is going to last.  I’m going to have to make some cashew butter to go along with this.

Pretty lucky I had some homemade bread, too, wasn’t I. YUM.

There is a trick to walking through a crowded grocery store wearing a sombrero.

You have to be it.  Own it.  Every movement, every gesture, every facial expression must ooze comfort.  I am not talking about cocky bravado - that would reek of overcompensation and defeat the entire purpose.  You must, rather, be simply confident.    Walking around in a sombrero must seem like second nature.   The vapid stares from the other shoppers must fall off you like raindrops upon stone.   The giggles are ignored.  Questions like  “dude… why are you wearing a sombrero?”  meet with a low-key, clever retort.

The only problematic moment of my trip (Kenard Avenue Kroger, for those of you keeping score at home) occurred at the very end of my visit, when I had to ask an 18 year old store clerk where in the freezer case I might find puff pastry.  He looked up at me from behind his fortress of boxes, and his face slowly started peeling back into a surprised smile.

Of course, it’s possible that Kroger corporation has developed a world-class sensitivity training program, whereby front-line staff are drilled in respecting customers for sartorial diversity…

I wasn’t going to chance it.  I just eyeballed him.  You’re gonna laugh at me, punk?  No. You’re not.  You’re going to tell me where the puff pastry is because I wear this goddamn sombrero every time i visit the grocery.  Arright?

I suppose I should back up and mention that I hosted a tequila party this past Saturday Night.
Continue reading »