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!!!!
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…
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!
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.
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.
