A profoundly unprofound post

This will be my last blog post of the week about food. I promise.

"How did you like your meatloaf?" someone in the family asked me as we wrapped up dinner out last night.

"Not too great," said I. "It was ... too ... creamy."

That was the best word I could think of. And pondering this incredibly unimportant detail later, I remembered a comment my Sweetie made to me a few weeks ago. She told me:

"You like your foods to have texture."

That is probably why I prefer big, sharp-edged Doritos to flimsy little Lay's potato discs. Why I like rice pudding, which most people hate. Why crispy fried chicken will always tempt me over the broiled kind. Why I would sell my soul for hash browns but not mashed potatoes.

My Beloved knows me so well. I had to step out while the family was ordering but She knew exactly what to tell the server: I wanted meatloaf. I am a passionate fan of this blue-collar, much-maligned food item. Just not, I realize, of the version they served at Restaurant XYZ.

Too creamy.

Another soul might sing the praises of meatloaf that sort of melts upon your tongue. My meatloaf should have a crispness to its crust, and within ... texture.

In the great, vast universe, this is a detail of less significance than the undulations of a protozoan in a rain puddle. But a blogger can be insignificant now and then, methinks.

(The photo above is from the Food Channel online, a succulent-looking, TEXTURED meatloaf with cheese. http://www.recipebridge.com/recipe/cheesy-meatloaf-MTAxMzYxMTI6Ojo6MTY4)

In praise of parsnips

I travel eagerly the roads of discovery, listening, touching, tasting and seeing, reveling in the joys of being alive.

When I learned by chance that one of the favorite dishes of old Augustus Caesar was parsnips drizzled with honey, I sought out this odd, old-fashioned vegetable and gave his recipe a try.

To this day, I love it. I slice and steam them until they are soft, then drip the honey over them.

How to explain the taste of a parsnip? I find it somewhat similar but superior to the common carrot -- spicier and yet not quite as musky-strong. Do not be put off by its pallid complexion. Certainly don't confuse it with a turnip, which is round, bitter and of a different plant family altogether.

I was excited to discover a recipe for parsnip bread recently. But I was disappointed with the results. The ingredients were quite standard: flour, an egg, oil, salt, cloves, allspice and cinnamon, as well as, of course, two peeled and shredded parsnips.

It also called for a full cup of sugar. I don't care for bread that is "crunchy" with sugar crystals so I halved the amount. If anything, that should have made the resulting dough even less dry than it was. But confronted by a powdery, clumpy pile in the baking bowl, I added about half a cup of milk, nowhere called for in the recipe, until a state of batter was achieved.

The results were still somewhat dry and somewhat flat and quite disappointing. I am sure that good parsnip bread can be made but I will have to find a different recipe.

Humbled

Yesterday I was invited to a lunch meeting with several regional representatives for the kind of work that I do.

Now, if I do say so myself, I consider myself at least as smart as the average bear. So it was very humbling to struggle to keep up with their conversation and to feel, quite frankly, like a six-year-old accidentally dropped off on a college campus.

I will never be invited to join Mensa. From time to time, that is made painfully clear to me.

On a lighter note: I had one dollar with me that day, since payday is still several days away, so my Beloved and I had agreed that I could put my lunch on the credit card.

"Just don't spend a lot," She said.

So I scanned the menu and found the cheapest thing on it, some kind of cheese and artichoke appetizer for six bucks that I could have made at home with a 50 cent jar of artichokes and some Cheez Whiz.

I ate my little meal whilst my lunch companions dined on huge, fancy sandwiches, fries and other succulent fare. I felt sorry for myself but hey, that's life. I also ate most of the garlic rolls in the communal plate since everybody else was busy with their food whilst mine had taken about twenty seconds to eat.

The time came to pay our respective bills.

"I'll cover this, my treat," said the meeting-organizer to us.

NOW he tells me.

Poverty sucks.

Adventures in the Amateur's Kitchen -- enter and dine at own risk

I set my heart on making a new recipe last night, Caribbean Shrimp.

I got home at the usual hour, 6 p.m., and discovered I had no rotini pasta, as called for. I fumed. My Beloved suggested that the "pasta" entry on last week's grocery list should have been more specific, because obviously I had only bought macaroni -- our contribution to the family Fourth of July.

So out to the store we went. Saw no rotini at the Dollar Store. Went to the regular grocery. Discovered there to my annoyance (readers, please cover your eyes if ignorance offends you) that rotini pasta is the same thing as "spirals," which the dollar store had had. A fancy foreign label that added about 50 cents to the price.

Got the $#%^ pasta and headed home. 6:45 p.m. Recipe called for green pepper. Minced. Thought we had a whole green pepper. We had one lonely little fragment up in the freezer. No big deal -- Sweetie doesn't like green pepper much anyway.

Never had found the required chili paste anywhere for sale, so tried to find a recipe online at home. Browsed about three that all called for three or four ridiculously exotic ingredients. Decided that chili powder would do just fine. Sweetie reminded me that She doesn't much care for chili powder, so I sighed and halved it.

You must peel and seed the tomato before mincing it, said the recipe. Do you know how hard it is to peel a tomato? I peeled as much as I could before reaching the danger point when a person is very close to simply beating the tomato to death with his fist. Remove the seeds, said the recipe. The hell with that. Who cares if there are tomato seeds in the pasta?

The ginger root was not much easier to peel than the tomato. Somehow, I managed, without also peeling my fingers.

Now things were rolling. Mix this, boil that.

The cheap salad shrimp that we bought, eschewing the pricier normal shrimp, shrank down to the size of watermelon seeds upon cooking. Ah well, you get what you pay for.

Of course, even though we had every other spice ever dried and ground and sold by man, we were out of curry. I ransacked the fridge before remembering that I threw our supply out two months ago because it was at least a decade old. Called the in-laws. They had some. It was about a decade old. "You can have it," Mom-in-law said. "The whole jar. I hate the stuff."

At long last, dinner was ready. Circa 8 p.m.

Sweetie did not like it.

"It's too hot."

"There is nothing HOT in this recipe," I said.

"The chili powder," She said.

Sigh.

I will not be making this recipe again.

India on the corner

I stopped by a place in town yesterday called Taj Mahal.

Yes, I'm very much still in Virginia, USA. This was a grocery store, not the overly-famous masoleum from all the postcards. I wonder if it irritates Indians to have that rather johnny-come-lately building, lovely as it is, be all that most people picture when they think India.

When I stepped inside, a tall man in a turban strode towards me, a Sikh, I am sure. A wave of fragrant spices filled my senses. I told him I had come for chana flour. He swiftly took me to its place of honor upon the shelf.

How I longed to linger, to pick up the boxes and bags of mysterious things that were emanating these delicious odors, and to read the labels and just wander around. But as usual, I was due home and could not.

As I cradled the bag of chana flour in my hands, for a moment I listened to the chatter in Hindi of the other customers, wishing as I so often have for the superpower of understanding every world language.

The chana helped me complete a delicious recipe for deep-fried string beans. As I sifted together cumin, carom, ginger and the other ingredients, home in my own kitchen that night, the sweet, spicy fragrances filled the air and gave me a peek into the pleasures of that faraway place.

My kind of yum!

How about a two-egg, venison, feta cheese, tomato, hot pepper, cumin and paprika omelette for breakfast?

Won't find that at Denny's.

Nice way to start my morning.

A good day to all.

Apple fanatics

I probably looked like an idiot up there in the Blue Ridge Mountains, in a converted barn last weekend, carefully loading handfuls of apples into separate bags and tucking labels into each bag.

But for once I wanted to get home and not just simply have a jumbled mix of the fruits to root through. And unfortunately, I am not an apple expert. Can't tell most of the heirloom varieties apart by sight.

It's fun to be a foodie. Some folks are generalists, like me, jacks of all trades and masters of none. Others, often mocked, are exquisite specialists, who can sip a drop of wine and tell you what vineyard it came from and what hints of leather, oak and grass it yields up to their palate.

My favorite apple this week has been the Staymans -- crisp, juicy and tart. I am discovering that I much prefer that type of flavor to the mealiness of some other varieties.

In fact, I was puzzled to find a review online for the Grimes heirloom variety, my lunchtime selection for today, which called Grimes a spicy, rich, crisp and sweet delicacy. I feel quite inclined to disagree. It tasted like a ho-hum, so-called Red Delicious disguised with a yellow skin.

http://www.orangepippin.com/apples/grimes-golden.aspx

It is said that Thomas Jefferson was never without an apple. His favorite, the Esopus Spitzenberg, is almost impossible to find these days, and I was disappointed that the orchard we visited last weekend, just a few miles from Monticello, didn't carry it.

Sunday Morning Cyber Journey

I tore open the foil-paper packet and inhaled the spicy, familiar fragrance of McCormick's taco-seasoning mix. Is there anyone in America for whom tacos are not a happy, comfort food?

I don't eat tacos in the morning, typically. This was preparation for a church event tonight.

While the beef and seasoning were bubbling together on the stove, I took a cyber journey. Tracked down Hunt Valley Maryland in my atlas, from whence came my savory packet -- just a stone's throw from I-83. Meaning I passed by it the last time I drove down from Pennsylvania.

Then I found the McCormick website and browsed the history of this venerable company, started by Willoughby McCormick in a Baltimore basement in 1889. The quintessential American success story.

I liked the details on the company's C-Day charity ideas and its support for reading, and of course, its efforts to research the health benefits of spices.I signed up on its site for coupons and recipes.

Later, I found a column of Baltimore nostalgia, including the tale of the demolition of McCormick's landmark plant in the city. Surely that was a painful day for the city, economically and otherwise. The column is at: http://www.citypaper.com/bob/story.asp?id=5946

The company's hq is now in Hunt Valley, as I mentioned, and is apparently a peculiar juxtaposition of bland corporate architecture and delightful fragrances scenting the air.

Next time I'm up that way, I am going to see if I can drop by.

Celebrating the Avocado

Life should be about celebration, of all that is good. The Creator gave us eyes,ears, fingers, noses and brains for a reason.

I declare today, July 7, Avocado Appreciation Day.

This weird but tasty fruit is another gift from the New World, like tomatoes and chocolate. Doesn't taste anything like a fruit. Not tart. Not sweet. Not juicy.

You either love it or you hate it. And guacamole, its most typical performance, is, like chili, something you enjoy with the tastebuds, not the eyes. Think too hard about what the green goop looks like, or ask a ten year old boy for ideas, and you probably won't finish your serving.

Don't look up the etymology of the word "avocado," either, if you are of a Puritan mindset.

You looked it up, didn't you? Serves you right.

Avocadoes are a reminder that God has a sense of humor or perhaps that He/She got a little bored with making fruits that were all basically variations on one theme.

Eating June Bugs

So I watched last night perhaps the best two "Bizzare Foods" episodes I have ever seen. Was an incredible reminder that one does not have to hike into the Burmese rain forest to encounter fascinating cultures and foods.

First in Maine, then in the Appalachians -- practically my back yard -- the narrator, Andrew Zimmern, cruised through lands of stunning beauty and antiquity. I really appreciated how he sought out and spent time in Cherokee country, talking about and sampling America's "original cuisine" -- such things as trout seasoned with sumac berries.

Ever craved eating a roasted June bug? I didn't before last night. Now I am very curious. They are described as having a rich, sweet,walnutty taste.

In doing a little more research on the subject, I found another great blog to enjoy:

http://intotheborderlands.blogspot.com/2008/06/eating-brown.html

Who ARE these people?

When droughts hit, I read officials who implore us not to wash our cars more than once a week.

I think I last washed mine a year ago.

Now this, from the New York Times:

"...Extrapolated to all Americans in the age group studied, the new findings suggest that over the course of a decade, the deaths of one million men and perhaps half a million women could be prevented just by eating less red and processed meats, according to estimates prepared by Dr. Barry Popkin, who wrote an editorial accompanying the report.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/28/health/28brod.html?_r=1&em

"To prevent premature deaths related to red and processed meats, Dr. Popkin suggested in an interview that people should eat a hamburger only once or twice a week instead of every day, a small steak once a week instead of every other day, and a hot dog every month and a half instead of once a week."

Hey, I love me a burger and I love me a steak. But WHO eats a hamburger every single day? WHO eats steak every other day? WHO are these clueless carnivores with fat wallets and fatter bellies?

The Chocolate Fruit

In the tropical parts of the world, the local folk enjoy a fruit called Black Sapote or the Chocolate Fruit.

The fruit flesh is "rich, dark brown colored and custard like ... with a sweet, nut-like mild flavor... when the pulp is blended with milk or ice cream, it tastes like mild chocolate ..."

I want me some sapote!

http://www.thefruitpages.com/chocolatefruit.shtml

Strange trivia: Molasses on the Move

"It is not often that a fateful tragedy occurs that centers around a food, but unfortunately, in 1919, one such event did occur.

"The event is referred to as the Great Molasses Flood and occurred when a molasses storage tank holding over two million gallons of molasses broke, and its sticky content came pouring throughout the city streets of Boston, Massachussetts, traveling as fast as 35 miles per hour and creating a thirty foot tidal wave of sweetener.

"Unfortunately, this was not a sweet matter as twenty-one people died and significant amounts of property was destroyed."
-- from www.whfoods.com

I have learned from multiple sources this week that -- except in the form of urban tidal waves -- molasses is very good for you. It is rich in iron and other minerals, and also assists in the absorption of calcium. Unfortunately, it happens to be one of those foods that people either love or hate. Fortunately for me at least, it does not fall on the list of all the foods in the world that I don't like, which consists of the following:

1. Mayonnaise
2. Radishes

An old book I am reading recommends that one stir it into milk. Instant malted milk -- not bad at all. I tried it for the first time yesterday and intend to make a habit of it.

Of barley, beasts and the decline of the kitchen

I clicked onto a fascinating article today, about a show that I have never watched, which is apparently becoming a huge fad in America these days, no pun intended: The Biggest Loser.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/04/dining/04loser.html?em

At the bottom of the story, this alarming statement is shared:

"The decline of home cooking worldwide, is an underlying cause of obesity."

The article describes how these terribly obese people are weaned from bad habits and introduced to actual food that doesn't come salted in a vacuum packed bag. They learn about spices and fresh produce, and how to savor the flavors that Mother Nature has made, not some factory in New Jersey.

Americans by the millions, it is said, have begun to forget the basics of how to use their own kitchens. And apparently this is the case in other "developed" nations as well.

Well, I, too, eat fast food more than I should, thanks to my work schedule. Had a burger just last night. But being able to cook in my own kitchen, when I get the chance, is a treat for me, not a terror.

I can vouch for the fact that some of the ingredients I try to purchase for recipes, are nearly extinct or virtually unknown. I had the devil of a time trying to find barley a few years back. The grocery stocker had no idea what it was. Barley -- a basic grain eaten by human beings for 10,000 years! C'mon!

I spent a full year trying to track down cracked wheat for a bread recipe.

I'm not talking about beluga caviar or rafflesia fruit, for Pete's sake. I'm talking about grains - staples of the human diet, things any peasant worth his woolens, with a farthing in his grubby paw, could have hefted home from market in the old days and with which the goodwife in the cottage could have whipped up something tasty.

We were once a people who hunted our own game, built our own homes, boiled up our own soap, churned our own butter. We've left our roots behind. Some of that is not a bad thing -- if I had to hunt beasts in the forest to fill my belly, I wouldn't get much else done on behalf of society.

But we neglect our culinary skills at our own peril.

I just may start watching this show.

In Praise of Olive Garden

Rolling back to work from paying a lunch-time bill, worrying about the squealy fanbelt and whether or not the district Christmas Party next week will be a logistical success or a horror fest, I caught sight of the Olive Garden Restaurant in town and remembered a warm summer afternoon spent there with friends.

What is with the snootie people who refuse to grant that place the status of a real Italian restaurant? What is it with the foodies who poke fun at it in their fancy magazines? Olive Garden sends its culinary staff for training to Italy, for crying out loud (sorry, Chase)-- which may be more than some poseur pricy places can say.

Only a redneck yokel would confuse their menu with real Italian food, the snobs say, a beer-belly redneck that couldn't tell you the difference between burned biscotti and Brussels sprouts.

Well, reckon I done mewtated into one o' them there yokelly-types then, because I enjoy a meal at Olive Garden now and then. I also appreciate the prices. Maybe that's what annoys the snooty folks. Can't stand to see the kind of people who have to keep driving on a squealy fanbelt until payday enjoying the privilege of fine cuisine, Olive Garden style.

What am I missing?

Terroir: It’s my word of the day. I’ll forgive it for being French. It means “how something conjures up the landscape.”

The word applies to such things as fine cheeses, wines, etc.

When I open up the little jar of Hungarian paprika that I keep in my fridge, I experience that sensation, I remember the hot summer sun beating down upon me in that gorgeous place, the bustle of Budapest and the stillness of its vast, pastoral countryside.

I can indulge this sense like any foodie in the realms of cheese, chocolate, heirloom vegetables and hot sauce. But there is one world that I have never entered, and that sometimes I wonder about: the land of libations.

My family has a history of alcoholism. So we don’t drink. On the plus side, I don’t have to worry about DUIs or doing stupid things that I will regret in the morning. But still – I have lived all my years without any idea what champagne tastes like and without the “terroir” of an English ale, a French merlot, a Southern mint julep or even a sip of Tennessee whiskey.

And sometimes I wonder. I spent such a happy time in Hungary but never sampled its legendary bikaver (bull’s blood) wine or the herbed bitter Unikum, the Magyar national drink. I did see plenty of people who did indulge a little much – and it wasn’t a pretty sight.

Closer to home, mead – honey wine – is making a comeback, according to an article I read recently. Hmm. Guess I’ll miss that fad.

Stalking the collards man

I saw him out of the corner of my eye today, driving a pickup truck piled high with collards. I know his haunts and I followed him until he parked.

So it was that I parted with three dollars and he parted with three luscious pounds of greens, piling them up in a paper sack while his beautiful white dog made friends with me.

It is so much more fun to shop for one's comestibles this way, instead of in some stark and soul less monster market.

Spring and summer will bring many more such opportunities, and one can buy everything from mushrooms to honey.

The pot is bubbling and boiling now, with a tasty pork knuckle tossed in for seasoning.

Pie on my mind

Supposedly, people with lame blogs resort to writing about their dinner. I don't know who thought up that rule, because I like reading about adventures in gastronomy -- and there wouldn't be an entire television channel and a dozen magazines devoted to the subject if others didn't feel as I do.

Today I got a craving to make a pie -- a steamy, savory chicken pie. I thought about it all afternoon -- and then I did it.

I diced up a couple potatoes and a chicken breast, some celery, peas, garlic and onion and then simmered it in chicken stock with pepper and a little dried thyme from the garden. I was afraid that if I just poured the raw ingredients into the pie shell, it would be done long before they were. I thickened the mixture with a little corn starch and water, then spooned it into a pie shell and baked it about 1/2 hour at 400 degrees.

The crust was just browned and the filling not too dry, not too soupy.

Odd ingredients

Inscribed on the ingredient list for the bag of chips I munched this morning was this oddity:

Disodium guanylate.

Since guany- sounds disturbingly close to the word for the stinky stuff that bird colonies deposit on tropical nesting grounds, I felt compelled to do some research.

No connection.

DG is the disodium salt of guanosine monophosphate.

Wikipedia informs me that it: Is also known as 5'-guanidylic acid or guanylic acid and abbreviated GMP, is a nucleotide that is found in RNA. It is an ester of phosphoric acid with the nucleoside guanosine.

GMP consists of the phosphate group, the pentose sugar ribose, and the nucleobase guanine. Guanosine monophosphate is produced from dried fish or dried seaweed.[citation needed]

Guanosine monophosphate in the form of its sodium salt disodium guanylate (E627) is a food additive used as a flavor enhancer to provide the umami [savory] taste.

I wonder how "they" discover stuff like this. Do scientists in gleaming labs boil bits of fish and seaweed down to the bare molecules and then taste the distillates?

Cheesemaking

Name something that typically smells foul, is made from decayed food and that almost everyone alive, even small children, love.

It is cheese, of course.

I did some research a while back on how to make my own, since it seemed absurd to me how much cheese costs.

I got as far as learning that it takes 11 gallons of milk to make a pound of cheese before I realized one reason why the stuff is so pricey.

Check out this article by another brave soul who went a lot further than I did: www.breadandmoney.com/docs/cheese2005.html