Italia: Santa Maria and Donna

Alex and I are roused from our nap by the arrival of Donna and Rick, who have driven the five or so kilometers from their "new" home in Santa Maria, a town whose population dwarfs that of Borseda by at least 150, to pick us up. Donna Polseno is Rick's wife, an incredible ceramicist, and a dear friend of Alex's from art school. In fact, the three of them were housemates back in the day. Though I've been with Alex for over six years, I suddenly feel awkward, like an outsider. However, Donna and Rick could not have been more gracious and kind in sharing their Italy with us, and for this I'm feeling incredibly blessed.

In a nutshell, Santa Maria is an incredibly charming town--much more so than Borseda--which can be attributed to the life-loving people who welcome Donna and Rick with open arms, despite great language barriers. Their neighbors leave them sweet treats and potted flowers along their walkway, perhaps as housewarming gifts.Then there's Bruno and Bruna, who own the inn/restaurant/grocery store/bar along the town's main stretch. We stop to have an espresso and to meet Bruno, who is an aging but not unattractive gentleman, perhaps in his 60s. He speaks not a word of English, and I not a word of Italian. Bruno fills us a few bottles of the house red while we drink our espressos. We make a dinner reservation for the following night, and we head back up the hill to prepare dinner. 

We eat on the terrace, which provides for the most splendid view in all of Santa Maria. Dinner is simple but delicious, as is the wine. In Italy, dining is an affair done with friends and family. It is not rushed. There is not much to say about the food itself this evening, but the company was wonderful. We stay outside enjoying the sky as it changes from golden to turquoise to indigo. I drink more freely here than I do at home. Perhaps this is because in Italy there is no stigma attached to the second or even third glass, so long as it is in some way connected to food. Italians aren't worried about looking like lushes in this way, and I can't help but wonder if their healthier relationship with wine--how and when they drink it--could teach us Puritanical Americans a thing or two. 

It's late and we're totally bushed, so we navigate the windy mountain roads back to Borseda. Tomorrow, Alex has promised to help Rick buy and install a water heater, and Donna and I have plans to visit Carlo just down the road.

Buona sera!

Alex, Donna, and Rick in La Spezia

Italia: Borseda and Rick

Upon navigating through customs in Pisa, Alex (my husband) and I spot his longtime friend Rick Hensley in an eager crowd of family and friends awaiting the arrival of their loved ones. Rick and Alex go way, way back--40 some years--to when they studied ceramics together at the Kansas City Art Institute before I was even born. The three of us hop in a rented Fiat and cruise north on the autostrada for a while, eventually turning off into the mountains maybe 20 km from the Mediterranean coastline. Italian mountain roads are incredibly treacherous, as they are no wider than a bus, they rarely have guard rails, and they have untold numbers of nausea-inducing switchbacks. I am so fearful that I can't look out the window, for fear that doing so will cause us to plummet down the mountainside. It doesn't really matter, though, because the switchbacks are so nausea-inducing that all I can do is crack the window for ventilation and pray that the house is just around the corner. 

We eventually arrive in Borseda, a tiny Ligurian town claiming no more than 40 residents. Rick takes us up to the charming old home he just relinquished ownership of a few days earlier. It now belongs to his American friend, who is gracious enough to allow us to stay there for as long as we are in Italy. The terrace, which is perhaps 20 by 20 square feet, captures wonderful views of the facing mountainside, and as we briefly kick up our feet and relax before a much-needed siesta, I spot some chickens pecking away near the largest rosemary shrub I've ever seen. Truly free-range! 

The jet-lag is too much, however, and Alex and I crawl into bed for a nap. A warm July breeze rustles the old lace curtains and tickles our faces as we doze off to the sweet chirping of birds...

One of the views from our terrace at the Borseda house.

Italia: Espresso

Anyone who's ever been to Italy discovers almost instantly that Italians are crazy about espresso. It's found everywhere--tiny country inns, bars, homes, train station vending machines, continental breakfast bars at hotels--seriously folks, it's EVERYWHERE. I've even enjoyed a shot or two when gassing up; Italians take their espresso drinking so seriously that even the stuff at gas stations is worth drinking.

But foreign travelers be warned--the first sidewalk cafe one encounters upon exiting the train station is going to rip you off big time. In Pisa, we needed to take a minute to orient ourselves to where we were at and how we would get to our hotel. With suitcases rolling behind us, we stopped at a somewhat hip-looking cafe, plopped ourselves down, and ordered two espressos. That's it. Our bill? About 7 euros (roughly $10). Of course in Italy, you aren't supposed to tip your server, so maybe that doesn't seem so outrageous. But walk one block over and duck inside a tiny local caffe (what the Italians call an espresso bar that sells pastries) and you're paying .9 euros for the same delicious shot of espresso that you paid 3.5 euros for at the tourist trap. This time, you may consider leaving your change, so that your espresso actually ends up costing you a whopping $1.50.

At this point, it's important to note the distinction between American and Italian espresso, as well as that between a caffe and a coffee shop. Order an espresso in Italy, and you will get a tiny little cup containing about an inch of chocolate-brown gold. You don't have the option of ordering a coffee, unless you ask specifically for an Americano. In fact, if you ask for a coffee, you will be served an espresso. These places are nothing like Starbucks, so don't even think about ordering any sort of fru-fru drink. Order a macchiatto, and you will find yourself drinking a shot of espresso topped with a dollop of milk foam served in the same tiny cup. You will absolutely not get a 16 oz. wet cappuccino drowning in caramel syrup. Espresso is always served with a packet of sugar and a spoon. You will very likely stand at the bar (there are no bar stools) while drinking your shot, and your barista will stand close by, as if he's waiting for you to order another. Then you leave. No lengthy stays, web-surfing, etc. You will repeat this several times throughout the day if you are like me and can't get enough of this experience.

Try ordering espresso in the U.S. The stuff found here is both more bitter and weaker. Upon returning to the States, I ordered an espresso from my favorite local coffee shop in hopes of recapturing my experience in Italy. I never realized how badly Americans butcher espresso (and prior to my trip, I loved this butchered espresso!) until the barista handed me about 6 oz. of intensely strong coffee with zero crema. For the record, a properly pulled shot is between 1 and 1.5 oz., and contains a beautifully rich "tiger striped" crema. Argh. Couldn't drink it. Order an espresso from Starbucks and the quality is better, but it still lacks the quality of an Italian espresso--too bitter, too big, not enough good crema. *Sigh*

The espresso found in Italian homes is quite different and maybe somewhat familiar to Americans. Italians all seem to have multiple aluminum moka pots--like cheap Bialettis--in various sizes. Drinking this espresso is like drinking mud. It's honest, and in some ways it's good, but it's so radically different from the stuff found in caffes that it's in its own category. I'd rather drink this stuff any day than a poorly pulled shot of espresso, because it at least tastes like Italy. And with home-brewed espresso, you can pour yourself a tiny shot or a huge mug--it all depends on the size of your moka pot and how many people you're serving.

A final note:  after salivating over Italian prosumer espresso machines ever since our return from Italy, my husband and I finally took the leap and bought a Rancilio Silvia, which differs from most espresso machines sold to Americans in that there are no bells and whistles to accommodate user error (such as the thingy in the portafilter that produces crema in a badly constructed pull). Finally! Italian espresso in the States...

Ciao!

Italia

Wanna know the best way to get half-way decent airplane food? Fly to Italy. Seriously. I guess Delta knows that they can’t fool Italians into thinking that cardboard crap tastes good, and while airplane food is, well, airplane food, it really is better quality when you’re headed to Italy—Pisa, actually. 

If this is not enough to persuade you to try hopping on a flight to the boot in the Mediterranean, I understand. But it sure does make it easier to tolerate ten hours spent in a cylindrical aluminum tube speeding 400 mph six miles above the ground.

First of all, I must tell you that Italians require that their entire existence harbors elements of beauty and grace. Just listen to a native speak his language—it’s pure poetry even if all he’s doing is buying a train ticket to Firenze. Another example is the Pisa airport. Tons of flowers adorn the sidewalk at the main entrance—it makes you want to actually hang out for a while. Of course, Italy is simply gorgeous. Beautiful light (even Obama thinks so, in case you care), beautiful vineyards and olive groves, beautiful mountains, beautiful sea. Everything rocks here!

Since blog posts aren’t supposed to be lengthy, I’ll just leave with a preview of what I intend to blog about for a while. 

Our gracious friends, Rick Hensley and Donna Polseno, who are ceramicists who teach every summer at a lovely internationally-acclaimed ceramics school outside of Certaldo, Tuscany, and who allowed us to experience Italy in a way that would have been impossible otherwise. I’m going to write about Carlo, who’s family land claim dates back some 500 years, and who tried teaching me a bit of Italian, who had me pick plums from his orchard to give to Bruna (I’ll tell you about her, too), and who made me the most delectable frittata imaginable. Then there’s the cinghiale, the bane of many farmers’ existence, including Carlo’s, and which tastes delicious if it’s been stewed in wine for a long-ass time. The Cinque Terre and the Mediterranean, as well as Tuscany—Pisa, Firenze, Lucca, Sienna—all have provided us with amazing experiences. But what I really want to write about it the meal I had at Bruno and Bruna’s inn, which is situated in Santa Maria—the one in the Ligurian countryside. Stay tuned!

Ciao!

I'm Back! Let's Talk Italy

To all of my (four!) readers out there, I must profusely apologize for neglecting my blogging responsibilities. Most deplorable is my failure to blog about my three-week jaunt in Italy last summer, two weeks of which were spent in the Ligurian countryside engaging in all sorts of activities that would make anyone jealous. Anyway, I'm back now, and I promise to be a more consistent blogger from now on. In fact, I've started a second blog entitled "Diary of a (Recovering) Protestor," which steals a peak at my life as a nomadic protestor around the turn of the century. There will be plenty of self-humiliation of my exploits, so if you are at all humored about what makes a stinky, hippie activist tick, or you're just curious about what it's like to hop trains with a dog or to crash a Presidential candidate's victory party, then tune in...

But back to my true love, which is food.

Making Beautiful Poached Eggs

Not long ago, I took on the mission of learning to make a mean poached egg. After making attempts too numerous to count, I was at long last able poach an egg that would rival the best in a blind tasting. That's just the problem--they were delectable (who knew that the humble egg could be so grand?), but they weren't pretty.

Though I was using the freshest eggs I could get from the local egg lady, half of the whites still managed to coagulate into a disconnected and jumbled mess, and wound up in the garbage disposal. There had to be a better way. That's where Julia Child comes in. I had the good fortune of borrowing The French Chef series from the library, and after she has a similar experience as the one I just described, she proceeds to poke a hole in the egg with a thumbtack, plop the whole thing in the poaching water for a moment, and poaching the little beasties as normal. Her eggs were nothing short of perfection, and given that this was taped during the 1960s, I figured that there weren't any camera tricks at play. So, I subjected my husband to yet another dinner of eggs benedict in order to provide myself with a final opportunity to make the perfectly poached egg. Folks, I'm here to tell you that J.C. is brilliant! Enough said...

Here's how to pull it off. Bring your poaching water to a simmer. You can add a bit of vinegar or salt to the water--different respectable cooks claim that doing one or the other will absolutely destroy the egg. Bullshit. I've tried it both ways, and they both work. Just don't use Real Salt like I do unless you want people to think that you've put sand in your poaching water. Anyway, take a regular (clean!) thumbtack and poke a hole in one end of your egg. Don't worry--the thing's not a little bomb waiting to explode! It'll be fine. Then place the egg carefully in the simmering water, count to 10 (one-onethousand, two-onethousand, etc.) and remove from the water. Immediately crack the egg open into the same water and simmer lightly for EXACTLY 4 minutes. The cookbooks all tell you to push the whites over on top of the yolks, but this makes an ugly mess and is now unnecessary because of the whole thumbtack deal. The result is a perfectly poached, beautiful egg that will leave your readers on Facebook posting comments like, "Kristi, you're so weird." Bon appetit!

A New Take On Roasted Figs

Ever since my discovery of figs in 2002, I've adulterated the less-than-perfect specimens (ie, most of the figs I've come across in Montana) by slicing them in half, smearing them with chèvre, and roasting them for around 15 minutes in my toaster oven. However, as I was flipping through one of my hundred cookbooks this evening, I came across Deborah Madison's recipe in her Seasonal Fruit Desserts that left me wondering whether I ought to refine my treatment of these lovely fruits.

Roasted figs with butter and honey. Yum! But since figs and chevre simply belong together, I felt that the exclusion of the chevre left the poor figs looking naked. So I added some. Then, II drizzled the sauce over the figs, and roasted them for a long while. If anyone really wants my recipe, I suppose that I can produce it for you. But since I don't have many readers, it seems silly to do so. Anyway, to make a long story short, they were simply a revelation! Nothing short of true bliss...

Bread

My food snobbery is at its worst when it comes to artisan bread, especially the baguette. It's not that I can't handle consuming sustenance that fails to be artisan, which I'll qualify by stating that I absolutely love the sourdough sandwich bread from Sweetgrass bakery, a tiny and been-around-forever operation in Helena, MT. It's simply the yummiest bread that comes packaged in a plastic bag on this planet! No, what I find appalling is twofold: (1) bread that's marketed as being artisan that is crap, and (2) an ignorant customer base that actually trumps the virtues of said crap. 

For any non-Montanans, Helena (the capitol) and Bozeman (home to MSU, my grad school) are situated 100 miles apart, and as I live in Helena, I have the good fortune of having to make the commute to Bozeman four days each week. Here's the deal: Helena falls quite short relative to Bozeman with regards to both its restaurant and chocolate shop scene, though it is blessed with having a truly wonderful artisan bakery--the real deal. After traveling through Italy, I can assert with absolute conviction that Park Avenue has crafted a product so impressive that it rivals the best of what I ate overseas.

On the Rise, the Co-op, Park Avenue

Unfortunately, Bozeman's offerings fall short in this regard.  It lays claim to two "artisan" bakeries, one of which is On the Rise, an "artisan" bakery whose baguettes are, shall we say, sub-par. Though uglier than what's found in Safeway's bakery, their flavor falls somewhere between that and the Community Co-op's version, which is a more distant (but not out of the running) contender for the descriptive label "artisan." But I'll return to a discussion on the Co-op in a moment. On the Rise fails not only in terms of its poor baguette quality, but also in terms of its ciabatta (which boasts a pronounced and unappetizing ammonia scent, the hallmark of overfementation), as well as its croissants. I should have picked up one of the latter as well, just to prove my point. I think that they forgot to turn their ovens on and use real butter when making them. What really irks me, though, is that its advertisements frequently boast of being "voted #1" or whatever, while I'm left to ponder the question of who in their right mind thinks that this shit is actually GOOD???

Park Avenue, the Co-op, On the Rise

The Community Co-op's artisan offerings fall somewhere in quality between Park Avenue and On the Rise, and they are definitely Bozeman's best option for baguettes and ciabatta. As an amateur home baker, I can appreciate the learning curve of baguette shaping, scoring, and baking, and as the Co-op's dabbling in artisan bread-baking is young, I appreciate its efforts--I have no doubt that someday its baguettes will truly be spectacular! In fact, I have seen substantial improvement since it began this venture a year or two ago. If I could offer one suggestion to the Co-op, it would be to stop bagging its bread in plastic when the crust's crispness is essential to the whole bread-enjoying experience. Until then, if I'm forced to buy my bread in Bozeman, I suppose that my best option is to stop by the Co-op early, pick up a baguette, and immediately free it from it's repressive plastic bag. That way, all crispiness is not lost.

It's Been A While

It's been a long while since I've posted anything, but don't think that it's because I lost interest in food! After spending nearly three weeks in northern Italy and in Tuscany this summer, I can conclusively say that I love food even more now than ever!

So why the lull in posts? Well, I've been busy. Graduate school, family obligations, and life have kept me away from the computer. I even closed down my Facebook account (which I've recently reopened after the trauma was simply too overwhelming)! Unfortunately, I remain unable to spend much time composing blog posts because did I mention that I am a graduate student? 'Nough said.

I am having visions of cheese shops like those I discovered in Tuscany, and so will perhaps blog about them in the near future. But for now, I must return to my quantitative methods homework on constrained maximization. FUN!!!!

Till next time...

Merlot, White Zin, & Chardonnay: An Insane (Pending) Tasting

For the past several years, my wine snobbery has forced me to view merlot, white zin, and chardonnay in the utmost disdain. Why? I have no idea. It’s most likely due to the fact that nearly every source of so-called authority has decried them as being suitable only to the uninitiated, if not the garbage pail.

To be honest, I’ve never liked white zin. Ever. Not even as an underage  and opportunistic drinker of anything containing buzz-inducing properties. It’s sweet in a bad kind of way, and aside from a decent rosé, I’ve always viewed pink wines as being pretty damn scary. As for chardonnay, my first (legal) glass of wine was of this variety. I was with my family at Outback Steakhouse in Calumet City, IL, and I had ordered some kind of seafood. My mother, a now-recovering exclusively-white-wine-drinker, ordered a glass of said beverage to complement whatever it was she was eating. So, I copied her. I don’t recall being disgusted by the flavor of the wine, though I do remember thinking that it wasn’t going to be replacing my preference for beer or white Russians anytime soon.

My experience with Merlot was undeniably different. I always liked red wine, and I  happily recall the day  when I was finally allowed to take communion in church as an adolescent. When I became of legal drinking age and was exposed to reds, it was merlot that captured my interest. Mind you, this was back in the ’90s, and I didn’t know any better that I wasn’t supposed to appreciate this stuff. Anyway, I happily drank my occasional glass of merlot until, well, perhaps the mid-‘00s….

I don’t know when I realized that I ought to steer away from the merlots, and steer towards the cabs, the syrahs, and the (red) zins. But I eventually did, and upon befriending Heather—a wine-o, fellow grad student, and single parent (I used to be one of these)—I really began to broaden my appreciation for wine. I thought I was a budding wine connoisseur, shunning the wines that no serious wine drinker would ever try, and developing my palate’s ability to detect the unique bouquet that each bottle possessed, the difference in flavor between a 2006 and a 2007 Layer Cake Primativo, etc. And then I picked up a copy of the Cork Jester’s Guide to Wine.

This post is getting long, so I won’t belabor how this book—written by a wine “expert”—is awesome and humorously mocks wine snobbery. I only mention it because it made me realize how my own snobbery and refusal to recognize that there MIGHT be something worthwhile in a glass of the sweet pink stuff, chardonnay, or the popular-among-idiots-only merlot, was simply forcing myself into the dreaded category of wannabe-wine-o. That’s embarrassing.

So, Heather and I decided to humor ourselves by putting on a tasting of these three beverages in order to determine for ourselves whether they truly deserved to be the social outcasts that they are. We set one rule: to do our homework. No boxed Franzia; learn about what’s out there.

I was in charge of the merlot, and Heather was in charge of the white zin. Celeste was going to be put in charge of the chardonnay, but I don’t know if Heather was ever  able to actually convinced her that our tasting warranted any merit. Either way, it all fell through when Heather go sick on the night we had planned for our tasting. A coincidence? You be the judge. And I moved 100 miles away the next day. I am dying to determine for myself, however, whether all merlot, white zin, and chardonnay sucks. Maybe it’s the true connoisseur who can allow herself to appreciate a glass of the stuff that’s publicly shunned thanks to other wannabe-wine-os.

I will report back after having undertaken this experiment, though I am begging for suggestions…

Papas Arrugadas

A few months back, my husband and I ventured into a tiny Spanish restaurant in Bozeman, MT—Over the Tapas—and at his insistence, we ordered the papas arrugadas. These sublime little salted potatoes were reminiscent of nothing I’d ever before tasted, and I made a mental note to hunt down a recipe for both the delightful morsels of potatoes, and the mojos verde and rojo.

Interestingly enough, my Latin husband who was raised in Bogotá, Colombia, has an abundance of memories of being served papas arrugadas (without the mojo) throughout his childhood. His eyes lit up with excitement when I expressed an interest in replicating the dish at home.

It turns out that these spuds are super easy to prepare. Had I known, I would have made them long ago…

Dump an unfathomable amount of salt into a pot of cold water—seriously, you may easily dump half a cup or more into a few quarts of water. Then toss in a bunch of scrubbed small potatoes (such as new, fingerling, or purple) and bring to a boil. Boil for 20 minutes, and then drain almost all of the water out. Put back over a moderately low flame and toss the potatoes around in the water to coat with the mostly invisible salt (for the uninitiated, it’s invisible because it’s wet). Heat until the water’s completely evaporated, then roll the spuds around in the residual salt a bit. Cover with a clean dish towel for a few minutes off heat. Eat!

By the way, my husband swears that the accompanying mojos are unnecessary, though they truly are delish. I have yet to find a recipe for mojo verde that doesn’t taste like a cilantro-based vinaigrette, but I guarantee that any fresh Indian cilantro chutney will serve as a fabulous complement to the papas arrugadas. Bon appétit!

A Crumpled Chiffon Cake

Writing about both my friends’ culinary talents, as well as their mishaps, has been at the forefront of my mind as of late. Particularly noteworthy was Heather’s incident with a chiffon cake last week, which I have been pondering till this very moment. Heather is a dear friend, perhaps because we both are graduate students at the same university, have daughters the same age (who also happen to be good friends), love exploring wine, and adore sharing food with each other. Though our culinary backgrounds differ somewhat—recall that I am a recovering vegan who is only beginning to explore meat, while Heather swoons over visions of succulent roasts—our individual escapades with food tend to complement the other’s.

Over the past few months, Heather has been wildly romanticizing chiffon cakes. Though I concur that a well-made chiffon cake is indeed delicious, I am at a loss when it comes to understanding her current obsession over them. Regardless, I felt nothing but the utmost empathy when I received her heartbreaking email (complete with photos) about how her beautiful cake, which was to be a gift to her ill mother, crumpled upon falling out of its nonstick pan. The disappointment, the despair!

Because I’m such a good friend, I tried to console her—“You could make a trifle or a bread pudding, and no one will ever know!”—but my efforts were made only half-heartedly, for I knew that it truly was a travesty of an event. However, Heather is a true warrior and in the spirit of never accepting defeat, she left work early and made another chiffon cake. This time, however, she was careful not to be silly enough to drop it on the floor.

The subsequent email, also complete with photos, simply stated, “After taste testing to an audience of 8, we determined the lemon chiffon cake was a success!” And there you have it. 

Balsamic Vinegar

I'm on a mission--that of determining whether the balsamic vinegars in my pantry are authentic, and whether it even matters if they aren't. I'm not a total dumb-ass when it comes to recognizing that any "balsamic" vinegar that contains any ingredient other than grapes is not the real-deal. But it wasn't until I was flipping through one of my cookbooks just the other day when I realized that perhaps what I  had always  been treating as authentic were potential imposters. After all, I've never paid more than $35/bottle (and only once), and I typically buy bottles in the $15 range. 

Of course, my taste buds could care less if the bottle cost $100 or $15. Flavor is key. But what does REAL balsamic vinegar taste like? Since I don't even know whether I've ever tried the real deal, I don't know if I know what it tastes like. If this sounds complicated, I can assure you that it is.

For the record, the "balsamic" vinegars currently in my pantry are: Napa Valley Naturals Balsamic Grand Reserve Vinegar and Organic Balsamic Vinegar, Lucini Gran Riserva Balsamico, Spectrum Naturals Organic Balsamic Vinegar, and Rapunzel 100% Organic Balsamico Bianco. All claim to be produced in Italy, though some are actually bottled in the States. Upon quick inspection, however, it's apparent that three of the five are imposters--after all, they contain both wine vinegar and must. Agghhh!!!!!!!! I am embarrassed to admit to having been a fool.

So now I'm looking at the remaining two contenders: the Lucini and the first of the two Napa Valley Naturals. Are they for real? From what I've read about authentic balsamic vinegar, the real deal boast their authenticity in a myriad of ways, and it would appear that given this, my contenders , simply put, are fakes (http://oilandvinegar.cruets.com/finding-the-right-balsamic/).

Do I really care? I don't know. I NEED to try the real thing. I need to taste the standbys with the best of the best. And if Lucini holds its own, then I will pride myself on only having to spend $15 for a decent balsamic. It's worth noting that while some product "fakes" taste as good or better than their authentic counterparts, many do not (perhaps a future post will delve into the attributes and uniqueness of real Parmigiano-Reggiano). Since I'm an unemployed graduate student (on sabbatical), it may be quite a while until I will be able to afford to perform such a tasting. But perhaps during my upcoming three-week escape to Italy, I will be able to snag a few bottles to report back on to myself and my two other readers.

The French Culinary Institute

I'm so dreaming of attending the French Culinary Institute in New York. How could I not, now that I'm in possession of its instruction manual, which it claims represents a quarter of its actual course? So, tuition is a wee bit cost-prohibitive at $40+ for a 6-month intensive. However, the mere fact that for the first time ever in my entire 33 years I have found the idea of consuming kidneys appetizing speaks volumes of my enthusiasm to study amongst the culinary elite. I am now considering cooking my way through this masterpiece in order to learn a thing or two about being a real cook, and if I maintain this enthusiasm post-move (btw, I am in the process of moving, which is why I've been a lazy nincompoop and haven't posted anything for over a week!), I will undoubtedly blog about my adventures. Oh, and if you have either seen or read Julie and Julia, you must be forewarned that this book contains an entire section on aspics, complete with photos.

Day 7: Ponderings on Monday’s Coq au Vin

At around 9:30 on Monday evening, the heavens opened and the seas parted as I experienced the first bite of my very own coq au vin. Not only was the sauce delectable, but so was the coq itself! Actually, it was a poulet because I didn’t have an old rooster just waiting around to be butchered and subsequently simmered in wine, but since when would you ever expect a recovering vegan to be technically correct when it comes to meat, anyway?

As I poured through my 98+ cookbooks in search of the perfect coq au vin recipe, I quickly realized that though I possessed about a handful that would (presumably) be delish, none called out to me as being “the One.” So, I did what any irrational carnivorously-challenged individual would do and I combined attributes of three of the best recipes with a healthy dose of my own ideas in order to create my very own unique recipe for a French classic that deserves to be left alone by the culinary-challenged home cook. And thank God I did!

Here’s the deal: recipes for coq au vin tend to fall into two categories—those that reduce the wine prior to adding the chicken, and those that do not. Julia Child’s falls into the latter category, while Cook’s Illustrated and (most of) James Peterson’s versions fall into the former. Each has its attributes, though not reducing the wine prior to adding the bird will leave a dish with a distinctively raw wine flavor, since the chicken will finish cooking before the wine is adequately reduced. There may be more to it than this, so if you are really curious about it, just google it. Anyway, when coq au vin was really coq au vin and not poulet au vin or whatever the French actually call it when it’s made with chicken instead of rooster, the poor old bird’s meat was so tough that it required larding and a good three hours of simmering in the wine to tender it up, which would have eliminated the raw flavor of the broth. Why would Julia Child—the Master Teacher—ever direct us to prepare this dish in such a way so that the resulting broth is less-than-stellar (she does call for chicken, after all)? My guess is that she does not require first reducing the wine either due to simplicity’s sake for the American housewife—her target audience, or due to possible forgetfulness that simmering a rooster for three hours will affect the flavor of the sauce differently than will cooking a chicken for 30 minutes.

That aside, I invited my friends Heather and Celeste—both fellow wine and food snobs—over for dinner, which I had planned to be ready by 7. Do not underestimate the length of prep this dish actually necessitates; I began marinating the bird around 3, and was moderately busy for the next 6 hours! Anyway, all was good, since we shared a bottle of rosé with wedges of Winey Goat and Piave Vecchio during the final prep, and since my tardiness allowed for me to pass on the job of making mashed potatoes to someone far better suited to the task (Heather). During this time, I also managed to turn out an over-baked crème brûlée, which I am blaming on a faulty oven thermometer. Heather brought over the salad of greens, pears and chèvre doused in vinaigrette, as well as the rosé and a bottle of red, which we polished off while lingering over our coq au vin and crème fraiched-mashed potatoes. By the time the overdone crème brûlée was produced, I think that we were probably too happy from the wine and the otherwise gracious culinary gods’ blessing bestowed upon us during dinner to care. Finally, Heather and I did the dishes, and it’s worth noting that if you ever move to Bozeman, you should become friends with her so that you have an excuse to cook good food and have MAJOR help restoring your kitchen to pre-meal status. All she asks for in return is good conversation and a glass of wine.

Needless to say, dinner was a hit, my kid loved the stew, and I’ve decided that because of my obvious talent for preparing a tasty coq au vin and less-than-tasty crème brûlée, I ought to author a cookbook. Lol! Till next time…Bon Appetit!

Day 6: Coq au Vin with the Girls

I’m excited about tonight’s dinner of coq au vin, especially because I will be sharing it with a couple of girlfriends. Since I can’t find the perfect recipe, I’ve decided take the best attributes from the contenders and to create my own. Considering that I know nothing about cooking meat, this strategy seems the most (il)logical, no?! For the record, I’ve chosen James Peterson’s Glorious French Food, Cook’s Illustrated’s Best Recipe, and Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

I will provide updates and pictures, but probably not till tomorrow. Till then, enjoy the mental images evoked from the notion of a recovering vegan modifying a classic French recipe in order to improve it :-)

Mastering Hollandaise

In all earnestness, I am here today to tell you that I have become the Master of Hollandaise! I can claim such a title because I have perfectly whipped up five successive batches of the silky golden emulsion, and because my picky 7 year-old (finally!) asked for more.

Using a double boiler or a saucepan filled with an inch of water and with a heatproof bowl set on top (do not let the water touch the bottom of the bowl), bring the water to a low simmer, while vigorously whisking 2 egg yolks with a tablespoon of cold water until super foamy and thick in the bowl. Once the water begins simmering, it will take maybe 3 minutes to get to the thick-enough stage. Melt 2/3 of a stick of butter and VERY slowly whisk in a couple of drops of it until fully incorporated. Whisk in a few more the same way, and keep doing this until about 2/3 of the butter has successfully been incorporated. The remaining butter can be added in a slow but steady stream. By the way, this process takes about 1 ½ minutes. Add lemon juice to taste—start with a couple of teaspoons, and if you have any, freshly cracked white pepper. If it is a little bit runny, whisk less vigorously over the heat until it thickens to an acceptable level. Pour over poached eggs or roasted asparagus, serve as a dip for artichokes, or dunk in chunks of quality bread. The absolutely critical things to remember or else your hollandaise will suck are: (1) never stop whisking; (2) make absolutely certain that the water doesn’t come to a rolling boil or touch the bottom of the bowl; and (3) VERY slowly incorporate the melted butter—it will curdle if you don’t. C’est magnifique!

Day 5: A Rant About Alfredo

During my tenure as a grocery buyer for Real Food Market (Helena, MT), the bane of my existence—the single item that I had to force myself to reorder time and time again as I gritted my teeth in sheer disgust—was an alfredo sauce packet that was produced by Simply Organic. I simply detested this particular food product, despite the fact no one was forcing me to consume it personally. I had never even tried it! But I knew that its creation must have been a gift from something evil. By now, perhaps you are wondering what in the world I’ve been smoking, and I would concur that this sentiment is completely legitimate.

(Organic) maltodextrin. Silicon dioxide. (Organic) potato starch. (Organic) butter flavor. I’m not a food purist—these ingredients in and of themselves are not the cause of my disturbed feelings towards this particular product. What does evoke such psychological distress? It’s the directions one must follow to arrive at the finished product: heat milk, butter, parmesan cheese, and sauce packet, and toss with noodles. Yes! You must supplement the packet’s contents with these ingredients! You know how to make from-scratch alfredo sauce? Heat cream, butter, parmesan cheese, and toss with noodles. You don’t even have to add maltodextrin, silicon dioxide, potato starch, or “butter flavor”! To whip up authentic alfredo, it literally takes two minutes of prep, assuming that you grate your own cheese from a wedge and don’t obtain it from an oversized green and yellow shaker can. If you happen to be a poor soul who hasn’t yet realized that dairy fat is not the enemy, I guess that you could use milk instead of cream and margarine instead of butter. But if this is you, I feel sorry for you as much as I feel sorry for Twinkie-eaters and consumers of Big Macs. Regardless, you haven’t saved a minute of time by buying a mix, you’ve wasted about $2, and you’ve majorly compromised the integrity of your dinner.

As a grocery buyer, I decided that customers simply didn’t understand the simplicity of making fettuccine alfredo from scratch. So, I left a pouch full of recipe cards so that they could quickly be enlightened. Not a chance. This product continued to fly off the shelves, and shortly after this failed experiment, I transferred out of the grocery department because good buyers don’t try to convince their customers not to buy their products.

This experience—though at least 5 years old—still haunts me….

Day 4: Julia Child Read to Me—I Must be Schizophrenic!

Most evenings, I like to unwind with a book and a glass of wine, and last night’s book of choice was Julia Child’s very own Mastering the Art of French Cooking (for the record, the wine—a budget one—was  Altos Malbec, 2009). Now, I simply ADORE reading cookbooks just as other people enjoy reading novels. Christ—I have at least 98 carefully selected titles in my library, none of which possess names such as “Gourmet Microwave Cookery” or “Cooking with Splenda.” But last night was different, as Julia’s uber-charming and enthusiastic voice was instructing me not to fear the duck, should I be preparing to bone it, which is admittedly both entertaining and unnerving due to the paranoia it evokes of undiagnosed schizophrenic tendencies. I suppose that this is the consequence of having watched her construct a soufflé on PBS.com earlier in the day. 

Needless to say, having Julia Child read me my bedtime story is not at all unwelcome, provided that she opts to read an excerpt from Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

P.S.—if you are really lucky, tomorrow I will tell you all about the brand new itty bitty quasi-dutch oven that I bought today.

Day 3: Reflections on Boef à la Bourguignonne

Now that I’ve recovered from my boldly-going-where-no-recovering-vegan-has-gone-before-induced giddiness of making my first ever boef à la bourguignonne (which arguably was amplified by slightly excessive quantities of Italian wine), it is pertinent that I embarrass myself over my cluelessness surrounding meat.

It was sort of a rash decision on my part to prepare boef à la bourguignonne, and since my bank account was still in the red and because I did not have an army to feed, I did what any graduate student of economics would do: I minimized costs in an effort to maximize the returns to my endeavor. I calculated that with the year-old half-pound lean cut of stew meat I already had in my freezer, I could just pick up another half-pound or so of a fattier cut from the co-op in order to yield the quantity of beef that Judith Jones calls for in a single serving of said dish. After all, I already had plenty of bacon and the requisite garnitures. It’s also worth noting that I prided myself on recognizing that using a fattier cut of meat would make a better stew. Score! I was going to get away with preparing a dish worthy of serving to our beloved President Obama for a mere $8. As a budding economist, I also prided myself on noting that the cost of the year-old meat and garnitures were sunk costs and ought not be included when calculating the marginal cost of last night’s dinner. As if you care.

Well, what Judith Jones, James Peterson, and Julia Child don’t assume is that their reader is an idiotic recovering vegan who doesn’t recognize the inherent problems associated with combining fatty and lean cuts of beef in a dish at the same point in the cooking process. So they don’t warn you that your garnitures (translation: pearl onions, mushrooms, and whatever other veggies you might throw in when the stew is nearly done cooking) will break down into mush before the lean cubes of meat lose any of their toughness, and the fattier chunks of meat are nearly tender enough to fall apart from the tap of a wooden spoon. Ah, the sheer frustration of being a dumb broad when it comes to cooking meat.

I will note that I did possess enough intelligence to pull out the garniture before its inevitable disintegration, since graduate students of applied economics must be smart because they have to take a lot of hard math courses and use weird Lagrangian equations to solve maximization problems. See, I must be really smart because I understand what I just wrote. Do you? Anyway, after my friend Heather came over in anticipation of being served a delicious snack of boef à la bourguignonne upon her arrival, she proceeded to poke and prod the meat, informing me that the lean chunks would not be tender for another couple of hours. Hours? WTF?! We decided to eat the stew anyway, avoided the tough chunks of meat, and blabbed on about what girlfriends blab on about until around one in the morning. As she was leaving, we made a date to begin a meat-education course for me on Sunday. I think that she’s going to show me how to roast a chicken or something. Cool! I’ve never done that.

Despite the fact that half of the meat was virtually inedible, the rest of the boef à la bourguignonne was fabulous! I even licked the wooden spoon and my fingers after scraping them around the pot's inner surfaces. Seriously, I don’t lick spoons or fingers that are covered in meat juice—spoons and fingers are normally only meant to be licked if they are covered in cookie dough—but this was so damn good that I couldn’t help it. I will be making boef à la bourguignonne again someday soon, though next time I will be smart enough to use only a fatty cut of beef.