Thoughts on the New Year

Another year. Another year of what I didn't want. Tomorrow I will dress, dress in my funky red dress and my boots, and put on the laughing jester. What I want I do not want, and what I do not want I want. I will look forward instead of to the past, but the future is a mirror that cannot resist reflecting. I will dance when the ball falls, and turn my head so others do not see my glistening cheeks or lie and say it is champagne sparkles.

The Beach, Ah, The Beach

It's been a very long time since I have just gone to the beach locally - not on Mexico or in some exotic place, just the familiar shore. If you grew up in the Northeast, you know what I'm talking about - one of those weekends on the Jersey Shore or in Long Beach. Small towns that blend into one another, one main drag lined with small shops and a couple of blocks stretching off it lined with closely spaced, old-time summer cottages. A wide, sandy beach, sometimes framed by a boardwalk. You find your plot of sand, and you set up shop, unloading beach umbrellas, chairs and towels, finding a shady spot for the cooler. Settle in, warm up, and head for the surf. The water's a perfect temp, and even a little rough, with wave after wave cresting as it reaches shallower water. You dive in, and in, and in again, into the wave. Boogie board or body surf, if you time it right you can ride the wave almost back to the beach. The wave throws you under sometimes, and you get sand in your suit and swallow the salty water and come up sputtering - and you turn around and do it again.

Hours later you gather your things and stagger the two blocks back to the house. A shower never felt so good, sluicing off the accumulated sand and suntan lotion. Off to the wine shop and then the small market for some last minute supplies. Grill an enormous grass-fed London Broil and lots of organic summer veggies, and dig in with a big salad, crusty bread, and summery red wine. Finish off the meal with a selection of ice cream and grilled organic fruit.

Things get even better if you decide to spend the night when you find out there's an extra bedroom for you. Then it's time to change and go out on the town - the bar scene's perhaps not quite as enticing as it was 15 years ago, but it's still lots of fun. Back before 2 and sack out to wake up to another perfect sunny day.

Strong black coffee, enormous organic local breakfast sausage links, eggs, sunny side up, give the right energy to hit the beach once again. The surf is calmer today, but still with a big wave once in a while to ride into shore. The water temp is absolutely perfect and you dive, dive, and dive again and then return to sun and sand, with the ceaseless crash of waves giving rhythmic punctuation to the hours slipping by too quickly.

Ride back home in a convertible, wind whipping through your hair and the music makes you want to dance. We don't want the weekend to end, so we go to the butcher, buy enormous steaks, and everyone comes over for a little more grilling, a little more relaxing, a little more wine, and a little more time with friends.

The Best Rainy Day

Under threatening skies I navigate down my one-way street in reverse, necessary to avoid the Greek Orthodox street procession that is the culmination of the three-day long street fair. Collecting friends, we jump on the BQE and into the traffic that slows as we enter Brooklyn and a downpour that will be with us for the rest of the afternoon. I exit at my old haunt, Atlantic Avenue, and we make our way down a crumbling Columbia, then over and down Hicks, skirting the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, until we arrive at our destination – the Red Hook Ball Fields.

With umbrellas, dodging drops and waterfalls from tarps, we listen to a mingling of English and half a dozen Spanishes and breathe in the smells of Mexican, Central and South American street food. For this is why we have come, to sample the freshly made huaraches, tortas, tortillas, tacos de chiles rellenos, ceviche, crispy hot empanadas de carne or queso glistening with hot oil, all washed down with tall glasses of jugo de piña, or the crowd favourite, horchata. Pupusas con chicharron, queso and jalapeño, or frijoles con queso, or calabaza, made by quick fingers dipping in the large bowl of soft masa dough, circle formed around the mound of filling, pinched together and flattened into a disk and thrown on the griddle, made to order while you wait. The crowds were thinned by the rain and the glowering skies rent by streaks of lightning and booming thunder, but that didn’t dampen the spirits of those who were there for the food or to play their weekly game of fútbol.

Slipping through the familiar beloved streets of Brooklyn, stitching the neighbourhoods together, weaving among the half-broken streets on the edges now lined with gentrification rising. Past warehouse shells and factories-cum-condos encrusted with scaffolding, down the narrow streets nearly to water’s edge and the new home of the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory. Dodging thick drops and laughing our way inside the old Bleu Drawes space transformed with ice cream machines and newly exposed brick wall and fireplace. A warm welcome from owner Mark Thompson to his cool treat – smooth, rich chocolate, crunchy butter pecan, intense (decaf) coffee that’s not too sweet. Dense and creamy, it’s Philadelphia-style ice cream, made without eggs and with turbinado sugar that adds a round note of caramelisation to every flavour.

Finally sated, we make our way back across the Pulaski bridge, up Vernon, and under the Queensboro Bridge toward home. We promise ourselves another pilgrimage under sunnier skies, before the summer’s close.

How not to have a good morning, in 11 easy steps

1. Wake up late for the second morning in a row, cursing the early introduction of Daylight Saving Time, knowing you have to do the following before leaving for work:

a. Make sure husband has signed the post office "You missed a package delivery" notification slip and put down you as the authorised agent to pick up said package at the world's most annoying post office;
b. Discover that said husband has not signed name in the area you carefully circled the night before, but next to the big X on the other side of the page;
c. Call said husband and leave an annoyed, pre-coffee message explaining that he signed the wrong part;
d. Make sure you have copy of marriage license, in addition to picture ID and incorrectly signed package slip, since you have different last names, and the last time you went to the post office to pick up a package for said husband two days before Christmas the overworked postal worker yelled at you and told you you could be anyone trying to pick up what turned out to be a miniature fake tree that was supposed to be a whimsical invitation to a New Year's Eve party;
e. Remember the bag with two packages that said husband also needs to have mailed at the post office. Fortunately, said packages are already stamped.

2. Walk six blocks to post office. As you are passing the bank, realise that you need to speak to the bank manager (for the second time) about the $50 Amex gift card promised to you as an award for opening an account in 2006, which you never received but for which you received a tax statement.

3. At the bank, you wait, pacing, while a man explains is broken English to the bank manager that there must be some mistake about his $4300 overdraft. Finally, you are able to speak to the bank manager, who remembers you, expresses apparently genuine dismay that the problem was not resolved when you spoke to him last month, and promises that it will be straightened out by 6pm tonight.

4. You make you way to the post office, and get on line, with six people in front of you. There are two windows open, one of which is occupied by the man speaking broken English from the bank, who is insisting that he be allowed to add his name to a postal box, since he receives very important mail. You wonder whether it was a $4300 check that went astray.

5. You finally get to the window, where you present the package slip, your driver license, and the copy of your marriage certificate. You watch as the clerk looks at the marriage certificate in bewilderment for at least a minute. Finally, you say, well, since the package is for my husband - "oh!" She interrupts. "This is a registered package. I must see his ID." You scratch your head in mounting rage. The package notification slip says nothing about requiring the ID of the person to whom the package is addressed. "So does he need to come back?" I ask. "No," she replies. I only need to see his ID." "So I can come back with a photocopy of his driver's license?" "No. No photocopies. You can bring his driver's license, passport, whatever. If you come back today I will be here, and you can come directly to my window without waiting on line." Ok, so she was reasonably pleasant.

6. You leave the post office, gibbering into the phone in a rage. You go up the subway stairs, and your rage increases exponentially the moment you realise that because it is suddenly warmer than it should be, you switched jackets this morning, but left your Metrocard and your work ID in the pocket of the heavy winter coat you have been wearing until now because until yesterday it was hovering around January lows at midday.

7. You storm down the stairs on the other side of the subway station, still gibbering and cursing into the phone. Your husband is getting tired of listening to your rage, but you explain that you are not mad at him, but if you don't gibber into the phone, you will punch a light pole and break your hand.

8. You dump the two other packages you forgot to mail while at the post office into the first corner mailbox that you see, because you know you are not going to be going back to the post office that day. You make your way the five blocks back home.

8. As you walk in the door, slightly calmed down, you realise that since you are back home, you might as well pick up your husband's passport and tackle the post office once again.

9. On your way back to the post office, you pass the bank for the second time, and suddenly realise that you have been walking around with several hundred dollars in checks to deposit for at least a week. You go inside the bank, give a harried smile to the bank manager, who says, "what, you're back?" You end up telling him the whole story after you deposit the checks. He smiles in sympathy and says, well, at least the day has to get better, right? Right.

10. You make your way back to the post office, and go back to the window with the semi-sympathetic clerk. You wait as a woman purchases $3000 in money orders and wants to know the pricing for various express mail options to Jamaica.

11. You finallly go up to the window, presumably angering the six other people on line, but not caring, because the woman told you to. You hand her your husband's passport and the package slip, and smile slightly, tensely, finally, when she returns from the back room out of which New Order is blaring, with the small envelope from Hong Kong.

Cipher

Cipher
ground into many
is naught

standing on
hollow ground
the souls of many
all around
cipher ground

cipher stood
on hallowed ground
beyond the edge
without a sound
remains a cipher
left intact
on the ground
all around

dust is ground
into a cipher
enigmatic
with no sound
into your eyes
into your smile
it covers you
in nothing

within us all
is cipher ground

LSM 11/12/02

Always with the Fish Bones

My friend Marta came over for dinner last week. We had decided on grilling fish, which we hoped would be fresh bluefish caught by Jim and his dad. Well, Jim and his dad went kayaking, so Jim returned home a little later than planned.

Fortunately, I had prepared for this eventuality by going to the store and getting some fish. Now, you should know that the thing I like least about my new job is that Grand Central Market is no longer across the street from my office. In it I had my fish monger, my butcher, my cheese store, my specialty shop (foie gras, truffles and the like -- uh, not that I've ever bought a real live truffle), and more. I miss it terribly.

In fact, the nearest good food store to my office now is Whole Foods, clear across Central Park. After my experience tonight, though, I'm beginning to think that's not such a bad option - except, perhaps, when it's 15 degrees out.

Instead of heading west, I headed east in my quest for fish tonight. I was actually aiming for Katagiri, on 59th between 2nd and 3rd. Except I thought it was on 58th, so I walked down past the array of Indian restaurants on 58th, very confused. At that point I was running out of time, so I just went to the Food Emporium underneath the Queensboro Bridge at 1st Ave. Well, I'm sorry, but Food Emporium is kind of like the kid dressing up in its mother's clothes. It's a generic grocery store that doesn't quite pull off being a gourmet market.

I went through the vegetable section to the back of the store, to the fish counter. The butcher and fish counters were clearly wrapping up for the evening - it was shortly after 7pm. I had been planning on buying a couple of branzini for stuffing with my favourite combination this summer - rub with olive oil and salt, and stuff the deboned cavity with ultra thin slices of red onion and lemon, and sprigs of thyme. I looked at the sections of fillets, mixed seafood and wet scallops with a sinking heart. I didn't see a single whole fish in the entire display case. As I stood there with my head down, a young guy came over behind the counter and said, "how can I help you?" I said, "do you sell any whole fish?" He looked puzzled (bad sign). He came out from behind the counter, looked at what I was looking at, and said, "what do you mean?" I paused. "Uh, like, the whole fish - you know, with the head and tail, not just a fillet." I mean, how else do you describe a whole fish? "Oh." He looked uncertain. After entirely too long a pause, he said, "we have red snapper." "Whole?" I asked. "The entire fish?" "Yes." "How much is it?" He punches into the scale. Punches some more. "$18.99." Uh, no. That's a fillet price, not a whole fish price. Still, I'm curious. "Can I see one?" "Sure." He goes into the back, and brings out a fish with ice particles still on it. It's fresh - the eye is clear, and not sunken. It looks firm. "How much does it weigh?" He puts it on the scale. Just over 2 pounds - over $38. Wow, that's too much for a fish. But what are my options? I waver. "Ok, I'll get it." He puts the fish back on the scale, prints out the price label. "Wait!" I say. "That's not right, to charge me the same price for the whole fish that you would for the fillet." He doesn't seem to understand. A fillet, I'm paying for your work and not for the bones and so forth. "Ok, I can give it to you for $15.99," he says after thinking a bit. I think a bit, too. "I've never paid that for a whole red snapper," I say, and I explain to him further the difference." "ok," he finally says, "what would you pay then?" We finally settle on $12/lb. It's still a little high, but I'm just happy that I've brought him down $7/lb.

So I get the fish home. I unwrap it. I peer inside. No guts - but just about everything else. I've never deboned a fish, and Jim's not here. I've given instructions to him about butterflying a fish from what I've read on the internet, but I've never done it myself. I peer inside again - I see a small dark thing that looks awfully like a heart. Marta arrives. I tackle the fish. I remove various small discreet bits from the cavity. I hack off the tail. I try to cut off the head after talking to Jim and discovering that the main cut should be behind the pectoral fins. I cut off more bits from the inside. I finally figure out how to cut off the head, except the last bit I think is going to be bone isn't, and the head flies out of my hand and onto (fortunately) the counter. The backbone and ribs are still in the body. I have to get them out. I don't know how I do it, but I somehow get the backbone out, but not all the ribs. We'll just have to savour our food (aka eat carefully to avoid swallowing big fish bones). The inside looks all hacked up, but that's ok.

Oh, before I get the backbone out, I decide to descale the fish. I read up on it in the New Joy of Cooking, and soon fish scales are popping all over the kitchen. Somehow we manage, though, and we successfully descale the fish. I am picking fish scales out of my skin and hair for most of the night. Unfortunately, the skin turned out to taste rather fishy, and I didn't enjoy it.

I rub the hacked-up cavity with olive oil and salt, spread out ultra-thin sliced lemon and red onion, and lay down lots of fresh thyme. Next time, I'm going to put fresh thyme on both sides. It's really wonderful.

Heat the grill on high, keep it on high, rub it with oil, fish on, 8 minutes per side. It was perfect. Marvelous. Fantastic flavour (except the skin, much of which stuck to the grill anyway). Perfect with CSA salad of lettuce and grape tomatoes, and, much later, smoked bluefish.

Summer

Some days, the view is obscured by clouds, some days by polluted brume. Sometimes the uneven peaks glitter in the sun as I plunge below the earth on one more day, one more trip. I can get whatever I want, good or bad. I can see whatever I want, be whatever I want, feel whatever I want. I can see beauty and repulsiveness but nothing is average. Nothing except those who don’t care anymore. No one except those who don’t see or feel anymore. It is freedom only as long as you do not let yourself be controlled by it. Its intensity is a drug, just a little bit more, a little bit more, and you find yourself craving feeling and swirl of activity and hot air with little bits of paper that are blown up into your face by the yellow cab that passes too close at your fingertips you cough and dart in front of the bus now it’s a game to gain the sidewalk before the bus gains you and then you push on into the greenery down the hill and the horns fade and the damp smell of fresh earth and flowers looms up and envelopes you and you can run into the grass and fall down and roll through and still its intensity radiates up through the earth and will never let you go as you peer up through the sunlight at the tower glittering in the sun.

Spring? Says Who?

M E M O R A N D U M

To: Spring

From: Winter

Date: March 21, 2006 - [First Full Day Of Spring]

Re: Cancellation

Please note that, effective immediately, you have been cancelled. The regulations do not provide for an appeal of your cancellation. You will be advised of your rescheduling.

* * *

I mean, really. It was something like 14 degrees this morning with the wind chill. This is not North Dakota - although I have it on good authority that it was a balmy three, count 'em, three, degrees there a couple of mornings ago. I did indeed wear The Hat (tm)* to work this morning, something I normally reserve for days when the actual temperature drops below 20, but since I've never worn it when it's been officially spring, I made an exception this morning. I didn't tie it beneath my chin, though -- something I do when it's really cold that immediately identifies me as Not Cool and Not Russian. But that's ok, because it makes me a Warm New Yorker.

*Yes, The Hat, as it has been dubbed by my friends, is a genuine Russian rabbit fur hat, complete with ear flaps, brought back by my parents from their visit to Moscow in January 1994. (It is only fitting that while they were there, we had one of the coldest, longest cold spells in New York I can remember, while they were enjoying relatively balmy mid-30s in Red Square. I drove them to JFK, so I had the car while they were gone, which led to lots of fun and excitement on the streets of Brooklyn when the car door froze open one day. But that's another story, and another post.)

Words

bicycle ride on the sidewalk
a man brushes his teeth
furiously
over the corner trash can
( so I've heard)
a car winds sinuously backwards down a one-way street
drops of rain
trickle down the panes and
pool darkly on my shoetops

lowering grey skies yield little clue
as to the coming blue
a splash of bright graffito at the top
of vertical brick
how did they get there
the modern spidermen
in their delicate midnight dance
of evasion and challenge

the Broad Way name
once in lights and future same
I walk down the other so prosaic
these lights are tired Christmas lights
twitching feebly in their long decline
reflections dancing dimly in the puddles
lapping at their feet and
suddenly splashed on the casual passerby
who no longer cares
about the bicycle
ride on the sidewalk

Praline Bacon - or Bacon Brittle?

For New Year's 2003/2004, as I think I've mentioned before, Jim and I went to New Orleans, and fell in love with it. We also fell in love with something called praline bacon, which, as I had read in an online description, possibly somewhere on Chowhound, is the "food equivalent of crack." Here's how I wrote it up shortly after we returned from the Big Bacon Fest:

The Day Of The Praline Bacon Adventure, Or What Laura And Jim Had For Breakfast.

Yup. Did it. Had it. It’s legal. Crack is not. Although I’ve never tried the latter, I would say that it is a fair comparison.

So breakfast on this beautiful, unexpectedly crisp Tuesday morning was to be at a little Creole place called Elizabeth’s, in a neighborhood called the Bywater. We didn’t drag ourselves out of bed until close to 10:00, and Elizabeth’s serves breakfast – and consequently praline bacon – only until 10:30. We could see on the map that the street Elizabeth’s was on intersected our street, but we didn’t know which block Elizabeth’s was on. Our host looked it up, and told us it was within a block of our street – but the street itself was a good 10 blocks away. (And that's clear as mud.)

We began walking. And walking. The clock was ticking. We crossed the railroad tracks. And walked. Finally, we spotted Gallier Street. We were only a block away – but in which direction? To the right looked like a dead end at the levee. We turned left. Walked about ½ block – that didn’t look promising, either. It was getting awfully close to 10:30. We turned back towards the levee. And sitting tucked away at the end of the block, at the corner of Chartres St. (which had been completely dug up), was Elizabeth’s. We walked in at exactly 10:30. There was one table for two left, and we sat down. We were in time to hear a waiter say to a woman next to us, “well, if your friends don’t get here before they’ve ordered” (pointing to the table of 4 seated just before us) “they’ll have to order lunch.” He then told the next couple as they came in the door, “breakfast is over, it’s only lunch now.” I snagged the waiter, and with something approaching panic in my voice, said, “we would like to order breakfast.” He said, “No, you’re ok. You’re the last ones.” Jim and I like to cut it a bit close on occasion.

We ordered one serving of praline bacon. Jim then ordered an omelette made with smoked sausage, and I tried to order the same, but in the middle of ordering I forgot that I was supposed to be ordering an omelette, and asked for the eggs to be done over easy. So I got my eggs over easy with sausage, grits and a biscuit. I had a small piece of the biscuit and about ¼ of the grits – both were excellent. The sausage was awesome, with a real kick.

If you are the type who likes the maple syrup from your pancakes to mingle with your bacon, you love praline bacon. It doesn’t matter whether you like nuts or not. I hate most nuts, including pecans (at least, I thought I hated pecans until this trip. I may have to change that). Praline bacon is basically bacon that has been coated on one side with sugar syrup and small pieces of pecans. Deadly. I love it. I will go there again.

I will also report that I now like pecans, in case any of you were wondering. I am even happier to report that Elizabeth's survived Katrina, is open, and, so far as I know, is still serving praline bacon.

I met up with a friend last night for - what else? - a little sushi (funny how something like that happens when you lock yourself out of your apartment and your husband isn't coming home for another two hours and you run into your friend at your local coffee shop), and then Jim finally joined us. After a little sushi and a little sake, and we were parting ways, Meg dropped a bombshell.

"Have you ever heard of bacon brittle?"

Beat. "Uh, bacon brittle?" Yes, she assured us, there really is something called bacon brittle. It seems to be the reverse of praline bacon, in a particularly dangerous kind of way. And she sent us the link.

Without further ado: bacon brittle. Because of the wonky way the page is set up, you have to scroll all the way down and look on the left, and click on the more info button. I will leave you with an excerpt from the product description:

It was as if Allen Ginsberg had just read Howl or Bob Dylan had just played electric for the first time. I became fixated on the Bacon Brittle and had to have it for my catalog. If ou or soemone you know claim to love bacon, you must try this. It will shake the earth you walk on. One bite and you'll shake and dance and involuntarily yell out, "Yeah baby, Yeah Baby, Yeah!"

A bit more evocative than "the food equivalent of crack", ¿no?

The Return of Crunchy Flake

*blows dust off*

Why, hello. I did not intend to abandon you precipitously, but I began a new job, and was immediately forced to forgot there was anything else in my life. My air tank ran out a few days ago, though, and while I surfaced to exchange it for a new one, I thought I’d drop by.

Sushi, last night, again at our current favourite, Sushiya, on 56th St., which lately has had incredibly fresh fish. Saba (mackerel). Sawara (Spanish mackerel). Unagi (fresh water eel). Anago (sea eel). Hamachi (yellowtail). Ikura (salmon roe) with quail egg. Uni (sea urchin roe). The hamachi was rich and buttery. The anago had a mysterious, lightly smoky smoothness, less assertive than the unagi. The uni was ethereal sea custard. We drank smooth sake as accompaniment, and finished with a bowl of miso soup. At the end of the meal, Jim looked at me with a glint in his eye. "Let's go to the Rainbow Room for dessert and a drink," he said. We looked at each other. Back and forth. "Ok," he said. "If the check is less than $67.50 before tax, let's go." "Ok, you're on," I said. Wouldn't you know, the check was $67 flat before tax. Random guess, because we ordered most of it without looking at the menu.

So we walked down to Rock Center in the chill air. Walked into that marvelous Art Deco building. "May I help you?" the elevator attendant said. "For drinks," I said. Up the elevator whisked us, to the 65th floor. We were in luck, as a table with a front and center view of the Empire State Building opened up as we arrived. We settled in, and got two glasses of port and a slice of chocolate cake to share. Of course, each glass was nearly the cost of the bottle at a wine store, but we sipped it as we sat back and drank in the sparkling lights shimmering in the heat that rises from the heart of New York even on the coldest night.

When we left, we wandered through the lobby with its oversized, rough-hewn men, sketched in with the desperation and hope of the 1930s. We stood on the brass plate covering the hole for the Christmas tree, and leaned over and watched the few hardy souls skating round and round under the bright lights to tinny Journey. And then we walked, up Fifth Avenue, past the glittering stores full of Western wealth, the Weather Channel truck filming the cold night, past the churches with shivering souls huddled on the steps as their freezing streams of urine trickled and slowed across the sidewalks to the gutter.

Followed By The Wondrous Cranberry Bean

It's funny what a disaster it has become to have your Internet go out. According to my provider, I'm not even supposed to have any connection at all right now. So apparently, this post does not exist.

It's a quick one, though, just to give Cara the satisfaction of an alternate method of preparing fresh, in-the-pod cranberry beans, which were part of our CSA share this week. I'll say one thing about the CSA this year - it's really challenged me to try some things I don't often incorporate into my diet. There are lots of other good things about it, too, but that's another post for another day.

Braised Lamb (or...) with Lentils, Cranberry Beans and Caramelised Fennel

I waffled quite a bit before settling on using lamb for the recipe. The other options I considered were pork shoulder or duck legs. As for cut - I used boned leg of lamb, because it's all I could find. Lamb shoulder would be better, as it dries out less when cooked with low, slow heat. I think this recipe could be made with any of the three meats and still be delicious.

Six servings

2 T extra virgin olive oil
2 pounds boneless lamb roast for braising (preferrably shoulder)
kosher salt
black or green peppercorns

1 large bulb fennel, tough outer leaves removed and rest slivered (need 8 oz. net)

1 onion, diced
1 T olive oil, duck fat or bacon fat
6 oz. lentils

8 oz. fresh cranberry beans (about 1.5 cups; can substitute other types of beans; would be about 3 cups canned beans or a little over a cup of dried beans. Note that if you use dried beans, you will have to soak them properly ahead of time. You're on your own to figure that out.)
1 T olive oil, duck fat or bacon fat

3/4 cup chicken or vegetable stock or broth

4-5 sprigs of fresh rosemary

Preheat oven to 300 F.

Cover lentils with water in a bowl and set aside.

Heat oven-safe Dutch oven over medium to medium-low heat. Generously sprinkle meat with kosher salt and fresh ground pepper. Tuck small sprigs of rosemary into the meat, creating slits if necessary, or using the space from a bone. Add 2 T olive oil to pan and brown meat deeply on all sides. Remove from pan when done browning and set aside, but do not drain fat (if using duck legs, drain 1/2 to 3/4 of the fat. Leave several tablespoons in the pan). Add fennel to pan and cook, stirring occasionally, until it has softened and caramelised, about 10 minutes. Remove fennel from pan and place aside in a bowl. Leave remaining fat in pan and turn off heat until you are ready to assemble the dish for the oven.

While meat is browning, put beans and 1 T oil/fat in a small saucepan, add water to cover, and put over low heat to simmer. Do not boil. Simmer for about 20 minutes, or until beans are tender (I think if you are starting with dried beans this will take much longer; start with this step if necessary). When beans are cooked through (although not completely soft), combine with fennel and salt to taste.

Meanwhile, heat nonstick skillet over low heat. Sweat the diced onion and 1 T minced rosemary in 1 T olive oil/fat until translucent; do not brown. Add lentils and water to cover; stir gently and raise heat slightly to bring to a gentle boil. Let cook for 10-15 minutes, or until lentils have just started to get tender.

Assembling the dish

Pour entire contents (lentil mixture, including water) of skillet into Dutch oven. Add broth. Scatter fennel and beans over top of lentils. Add 1 T minced rosemary and stir in gently. Place meat into center of pan, nestling it into the legumes and liquid. Lay two sprigs of rosemary on top of the meat. Cover, and put into oven until meat is tender. The time will vary greatly. If you get stuck like I did and have to use leg of lamb, cook no longer than about 1 hour to 1 hr. 15 minutes. Duck legs will take about an hour or a little longer for falling-off-the-bone. A lamb or pork shoulder should be cut into perhaps 2" chunks, and may take up to two hours. Or leave whole, and cook longer. Adjust seasoning and remove rosemary sprigs before serving. Serve by ladling some of the legumes and liquid into a wide bowl, placing slices or chunks of meat on top.

Like I said, because I used leg of lamb, the meat ended up being a little dry. But it still tasted delicious, and there was a depth of flavour to the lentils and beans that was deeply satisfying.

This is close to being a blueprint rather than a recipe. It's a great cold-weather dish, and I'm looking forward to trying different variations as real cold weather sets in.

The Wondrous Lima Bean

I found a way to make lima beans taste good, says she in wonderment. I’ve always hated lima beans – those mealy, tasteless things that serve no purpose other than to put lumps in your food. It helps if you start, as I did, with fresh, in-the-pod lima beans from your local CSA. Or is that shell? I guess peas have pods.

So anyway, the first task is to figure out how to extract said lima beans from said encapsulation. It’s not as easy as it sounds. I finally resorted to cutting around the flat edge of each shell thing with a pair of kitchen shears. A pound of beans in the shell yields . . . just about 4 ounces of beans. Yup, a 25% yield.

The next conundrum was how to cook them. I’d been toying with the idea of a puree or a soup. Anything to get rid of the mealiness. A puree would involve various steps, and I just wasn’t in the mood. So I started by steaming them for ten minutes, then turning the flame off and letting them sit while I figured out what to do next. Jim and I both tasted one, and we were surprised by the fairly crisp texture and buttery taste. Never encountered lima beans like these before…. But don’t they call them butterbeans in the South? Light starts shining from the dim lightbulb in the distance.

Time was passing. I threw a knob of butter into the sauté pan, added a pinch of kosher salt, and threw in the beans. Tossed it all together, and tossed again once things were sizzling nicely. I let them brown a bit, and turned the heat down. Covered them. They kept cooking, browning. The meat wasn’t done. I turned the heat all the way down, thinking about the fact that undercooked lima beans can contain a compound of cyanide. Not something I particularly want to serve myself for dinner.

So. I finally decided that the beans were going to be way overcooked, and started to plate them. Perfect timing – the meat was finally ready. But how were the beans? Well. They were absolutely amazing. Each bean was caramelized on the outside, softly crispy skin yielding under gentle pressure to reveal a miniature puree in each bite, butter matching butter. No mealy in sight.

I still have my doubts about lima beans frozen or, or, how else can you buy them? Canned? I’ve never even looked. But the next time I’m given the opportunity to get fresh limas, I won’t hesitate.

Astorians for Hurricane Relief

Astorians for Hurricane Relief.

We're trying to do our small part to ease the pain and suffering so many have been experiencing. People in the community have been amazing at stepping up to the plate. So if you feel like coming to Astoria tomorrow night - or next Sunday, or on November 6, come check out some great entertainment. You'll be helping a lot of other people if you do.

Friday, Oct 7, 8 pm
Music, spoken word, and dance by various artists
Waltz-Astoria
23-14 Ditmars Blvd.
Astoria, NY
$10 minimum donation

Sunday, Oct 16, 6 pm
Music, spoken word and dance by various artists
Freeze Peach
22-00 29th St (Ditmars Blvd & 29th St)
Astoria, NY
No cover, proceeds from 4p-8p will go to charity

Sunday, Nov 6, 8 pm
The Josh Irving Quintet
Mezzo Mezzo
31-29 Ditmars Blvd.
Astoria, NY
$15 minimum donation
Free Buffet & Silent Auction

Bread and Cheese

I dreamt last night that we flew to Sidney, Australia for a two week vacation. A most vivid dream down to the bug spray on the airplane. I was most distressed to wake up and discover that I was still at home.

I’m trying to figure out whether this dream may have been influenced by the fact that a friend of mine is flying to Paris on Sunday. I know, not Australia, and not even close in oh so many ways. Given the choice, I’d probably pick Paris just because I know it and I miss French food sometimes so much that it’s a physical sensation. And please don’t suggest I can get it here. I can get very good food here that is reminiscent of food in France, food that is made by people from France. It helps tide me over (yeah, that’s been going on now for 10 years and counting ), but it’s not quite the same – particularly if you’re talking about basics like bread and cheese.

I don’t eat a lot of bread, so when I do, I want to make sure it’s good. I will have a reason to be eating some good bread in about two weeks, when said friend going to Paris comes back from Paris with some good, stinky, runny, raw cheese. So I am on a quest over the next two weeks to find the most authentic baguette possible in NYC. NYC has a fair amount of “crusty, artisanal” stuff, but that tends to lean heavily towards the San Francisco school of breadmaking. Don’t get me wrong, it can be great stuff, but it’s not what I’m looking for.

So I’ve hunted around a bit. That is to say, I’ve sat in my chair and typed words into the box on Google and pressed Enter. I’ve amassed quite a list. Some of these I’ve eaten before, some I’ve heard of, and some are new to me. So far, I’m going to be checking out Balthazar, Payard, also Amy’s Bread and Sullivan St. Bakery, although I think Amy’s is too San Francisco, and Sullivan St. is too Italian. Uprising Bread? Tomcat Bakery? Orwashers? Le Pain Quotidien??! A chain?

The Mysterious Squash

What is round like a small pumpkin, and beige like a butternut squash?

This slightly mysterious (well, as mysterious as a squash can be) squash was in our CSA batch of vegetables this week. The dry-erase board informed us that we could choose one winter squash, between two varieties: butternut or pharsi. Yes, that’s how it was written. I asked our CSA leader what pharsi squash was.

"Well," she said, "it’s pretty cool, actually. Farmer Bill told me when he came today that he spent some time in Nepal, and he brought back these seeds with him. He called it pharsi because he found it in Nepal."

Beat.

"Um," said I, "isn’t Farsi spoken in Iran, not Nepal?" My brain floundered wildly for a link and came up empty handed (mixed metaphor intended). Dunno, she said, that’s all the information she had.

Well, whatever the little beige ball was, it certainly seemed to have an interesting provenance, so I chose a nice one over the equally nice looking, but now somewhat plebeian, butternut squash.

This evening after dinner, I turned to my old friend Google (who turned 7 today, I think. What is that in people years?) Googled Nepal squash, and got quite a bit of information on Nepalese Racquetball. Tried removing the word racquet, which helped a little, but not much. On to various searches using squash, winter squash, Asian winter squash, etc. I finally decided to try pharsi squash. Of course, it asked me if I meant Farsi, but I assured it I did not. And wouldn’t you know – the first two results contained just the information I was looking for, never mind that I think they are the only two results on the entire Internet containing the information I was looking for. Two is enough, and now I can eat my pharsi with my mind at ease, so long as it's either jeth or asoj.

Ethnobotanical Notes on Thangmi* Plant Names (PDF)

phatu (I can’t reproduce the little dot under the t)
Nepali pharsi
pumpkin, summer or winter squash, marrow,
Cucurbita maxima; Cucurbita pepo
The leaves are collected as fodder for domesticated animals, but are also eaten by humans as a vegetable curry. The large fruit is also made into vegetable curry when it ripens between the months of jeth and asoj, and the dried seeds are eaten as a peanut-like snack. The fruit is believed to contain agents which help fight jaundice when eaten raw.

*Thangmi is the name of a language spoken by a small ethnic group in eastern Nepal called the Th­ami (with little lines over the a and i like straight tildes).

Warning: Cape Does Not Enable User To Fly

I was cleaning the kitchen floor today (don’t faint), and I started thinking about French fries. No, there weren’t any lurking in obscure corners. It all started when I read the WARNING on the back of the lemon ammonia bottle, the one about not combining ammonia with any product containing chlorine bleach, because if you do it will “CAUSE THE RELEASE OF TOXIC GASES THAT CAN BE FATAL.” (As an aside, why do they try to add “aroma” to straight ammonia? It’s not like there’s any hope of actually making it smell any less noxious.)

I love how, in this litigious society, where they have to put warnings on Halloween costume Batman capes that it does not enable the user to fly, they still leave chemicals casually on supermarket shelves that, if combined with other common supermarket chemicals, can create chlorine gas. Yes, as in World War I weapon. That’s not the only chemical reaction that can occur, but the others aren’t any better, as far as I can tell – like the one that creates hydrazine. That is basically rocket fuel.

So where do the French fries come in? This month, the California Attorney General proposed labelling French Fries and potato chips with a warning that they contain acrylamide, “a chemical created in frying or baking starchy foods that a Swedish study linked to cancer in laboratory rats.” Mmm, no. First off, other studies indicate that the tiny amounts humans consume from their diets is not enough to lead to increased cancer risk. Second, do we really need another really, really stupid warning in our lives? (While they’re at it, if they’re going to label French fries, I think they should label dihydrogen monoxide, too. Dangerous stuff, that.)

So while I was cleaning the floor, trying not to breath (no, I didn’t add any bleach; I didn’t need to for it to smell bad), I thought about the French fries, and I thought about ammonia and bleach cohabitating on the supermarket shelves. I think we can all agree that French fries aren’t exactly the healthiest things to eat. But they weren’t used as a weapon in the First World War.

What?

What’dja say?

Les frites belges vont t’attaquer! Run away!

What I’ve Got Isn’t Enough

My heart was in my throat a few weeks ago as I watched Katrina churn inexorably towards New Orleans and Mississippi, and tonight I’m holding my breath again as Rita is causing the water to rise once again, and threaten still more places beloved by many. I’ve never been to most of these places, so the only vision I have of them is what is shown to me through the miracles of modern technology. It’s not enough, of course – there’s not enough technology to save the cities and towns and houses and trees, and maybe even the people, and my memory isn’t enough, because it doesn’t exist. Jim and I went to New Orleans for New Year’s 2003/2004 and we fell in love with it. New Orleans spoke to my heart; I hope it will live to speak to me again. I hope all the places loved and being lost tonight and tomorrow and the next day and the next will speak again to those who will strain to hear.

I wrote the following shortly after returning from New Orleans.

A short break from weather. work. wistfulness. streaming unconsciousness that is dreaming.

Walking these streets in the madhouse, to paraphrase Natalie Merchant, is an apt description of Bourbon Street just after the New Year’s ball has dropped in Jackson Square. Our bicycle and kayak guide, Veda, told us that some people tell her that they find New Orleans has a distinctive smell, and it makes them uncomfortable. They don’t like it; to them, things smell ever so slightly rotten – a miasma, perhaps, reaching over several centuries of tropical vegetation, disease, and death.

To me, the smell of New Orleans was instantly familiar and comforting. I grew up spending part of every February on St. John, USVI. Some of my first, and best, memories are from that small, beautiful island. Away from Bourbon St., New Orleans smells like St. John, smells like the Caribbean, like the tropics.

Bourbon Street is its own world of dizzying sights, sounds, feelings, smells. The sights of bright lights, waved 2-for-1 or 3-for-1 signs, this bar, that bar, the other bar, the topless bar, the topless-bottomless bar, the backs of bands playing to their audiences within. The sounds of bar barkers, live music from every other bar spilling out onto the street, the Rolling Stones mingling with Jimmy Buffett with blues jazz karaoke George Thorogood U2 songs you haven’t heard since college and don’t need to hear again. The feel of college kids bumping against you barely missing the slosh of beer from their cups, wending your way through the crowd the feel of slippery unknown beneath your feet hoping you don’t skid, the feel of music entering your bones, the feel of beads hitting your head from a balcony above the feel of too much drunkenness. The smell of beer, vomit, stale air wafting from bars that seldom see the light of day. Now that’s a miasma.

Less than half a block from Bourbon Street, though, and all of the above begins to fade into the ether. Languid tranquility returns, and the buildings and balconies, with lush overhanging plants, take on an otherworldly essence, glowing in the late afternoon sun or fading with the light. Slightly crumbling, subsiding, leaning, buildings, luxuriant ferns overhanging intricate delicate wrought iron balconies. A beautiful tropical urban decay. Walking quietly down streets as clop clop of horse and carriage goes by a shutter opens and a man sits on his stoop and begins to play the guitar laughter spills from the restaurant two doors down as people live and laugh and eat and love.

Tonight It Was Sushi

But would you believe I didn’t have any crunchy flake? Well, that’s not entirely true, since we had soft shell crab tempura as a starter. So there. All in all, it was your basic sushi and sashimi meal, although two things stood out – one good, one problematic. The first was that the uni was the best I have ever had. Perfect, really. Absolutely clean flavour, not iodine-y, faint brininess, and the texture was just melting custard that melded with the rice, and oh.

The other concerns fish identification. Generally speaking, I think it’s a good thing when sushi chefs can properly identify the fish they are serving. You know, kind of like an Italian chef knowing the difference between spaghetti and linguine, and a French chef knowing the difference between béchamel and hollandaise. Among other sashimi, Jim ordered hirame, or fluke, and I ordered tai, or red snapper. Our plates arrived . . . and it was clear to us first by looking, then by tasting, that I had the fluke and Jim had the red snapper. We called the waitress over. She didn’t know, and she took my plate, with a piece of each side by side, over to the sushi chef. They conferred, and she returned. She pointed to the fluke, “This one is red snapper,” and pointing to the red snapper, “this one is fluke.”

We go fishing. We catch fluke on a regular basis. On a regular basis, we make sashimi out of the fluke we have caught. We know what it looks like, and what it tastes like. The sushi chef mis-identified them. Like I said, problematic.

Open House New York rocks!

I was very excited that the site list for Open House New York was posted today. The only problem is that one weekend is too short. This year, I am finding the Brooklyn list the most intriguing. The Brooklyn Navy Yard and Floyd Bennett Field are both open, and there’s a Gowanus Canal canoe tour. (!) The Pratt power plant is open again, you can go to the top of the Grand Army Plaza arch, and peer inside the Montauk Club. The question is: will it be possible to do them all? A couple of them you can reserve in advance, which is good, since last year half our time was wasted waiting on line to see the Highline. I shouldn’t really say wasted, because it was worth the wait, but still.

And in other news, New York City has signed a contract with a Spanish company to provide “20 freestanding public toilets on city streets,” to quote the New York Times. Wow!! Twenty!! And what do you think are the chances that one will be installed near the stinky, smelly (yes, both) alleyway I have to pass on my way to and from the subway? Don’t answer that; it’s a rhetorical question. I think the only tourists around here are the ones I bring.