Should I dare title a post if I cannot spell the first word without help of spell check, then, when it failed to recognize miserable attempts at it, finally turned to Google who came promptly through with it’s auto-spell check search feature.
I do dare. These are the truths of writing nowadays, and I must get back to it. Writing. Spelling bombs or not, well, I spell check and honor (some semblance of) style guides rules — some days AP, on other Chicago Manual and yet on other, Microsoft Manual of Style. I do still keep a volume of M-W on the bookshelf. It’s dusty. I don’t dust it anymore. Oh, and the hazards of straying from writing, on return, to amble on writing — words wasted . . .
I am at the office today. Yesterday I worked at home for another car-related issue, the kind of car-related issue Gotham folks without garages deal with every couple days, that thank-dogfully I’ll only have to deal with until my garage repairs are finished, ahead of the November-end schedule. Do we know all too well how ahead-of-schedule construction can take an easy turn to the low path. With this, as all things in life now, I harbor no Hope. Hope is the name of a character on Days of Our Lives. I am no Hope. I harbor no such delusions of Hope . . .
The morning was hectic, continued from yesterday’s hectic, and so many recent days’ hectic, this one, for a man who shops the globe for his plum job with Anthropologie clothing, and now a plum pudding gig for Robert Redford. Once I realized I was looking at the same things on the screen, check, check, check, over and over again, in that mouse in its wheel sort of way, sounds of my stomach burst the seal of tunnel existence and off I went to lunch. Nothing glamorous. Most days working at the office, or even when I WAH, typically eat in my cube playing Farmville (I’m nearing level 25 but still cannot ketsup on my beau) . . .
Today, I continued with the recent anti-calorie, nutrient-packed ’self-invented’ diet craze I’ve set myself on. I am a size 28 (aka vanity size six) in jeans, pants and skirts and I don’t like it, not a bit. A four foot high and growing pile of designer and beloved zeros, twos and fours tipped over the weekend, gently crashing to the floor in the direction of the closet. They want back in. They do not want to go off to some unknown closet of an Etsy girl or eBay winner. Again, it seems, Hope may be lost for I ripped clear up the derriere just this morning, in a fit of fleeting deluded Hope, my bff Levi’s who had been a constant companion the past six years. I weep silently as I tap at keys, but in these blues will not return to my old bff . . .
Moshe’s downstairs, though it sells mainly falafel, I’ll tag it a meat truck. The line shuffled quick, not too long before they called me next to order. “Mushroom barley soup with a whole pita and side of pickles.” Food man to the left told me only half a pita, while the man in the middle, money man told me nine fifty. I stared at him like he was joking. He stared back plainly. He wasn’t. He didn’t understand my order. I asked for a whole pita. That didn’t compute. Whole falafel pita computed. The food man to the left knew that and explained to him. Then both of them at once to me, oh no nos, no whole pita, only half a pita. “The boss counts the pitas,” the food man on the left (versus the food man on the right taking someone else’s order who obviously knows how things work with Moshe’s meat truck) followed with more oh no nos. “I’ll pay for it,” opening my wallet to show them I mean to do business. “You want pickles? Six for a dollar. I’ll give you extra pickles.” As if extra pickles will make up for it.
The extra pickles did make up for it. One less half a pita is less the fresh-made starchy pita calories, which is how I got myself into this size six mess to begin with. On the walk of pride back to the building, I muttered to myself but quietly aloud about the politics of the pita, the sheer bu-rea-u-cra-cy of it, “The boss counts the pita,” “One less half pita means one less soup they can sell with half a pita.”
That’s what it’s about. In this economy, there’s no chances taken stocking extra pita halves.
This is dedicated in honor of Gourmet magazine and its editor Ruth Reichl and all the folks who published one classy rag since 01941. RIP Gourmet.
My first chicken dinner
(This post is a contribution by the farmer man who raised the chickens I’ve been writing and talking about for the past several weeks. He was kind enough to let me post what he wrote, about the first chicken he prepared, thus testing to ensure our processing went off without a hitch — no pathogenic organisms to make us sick. –JJF)
Written by Marc Ducharme
Revenge is a dish best served cold, unless of course it is against one of the twenty five frying pan special chickens that have been living in your backyard. Then I would suggest 375°F for 45 minutes.
I miss those little buggers, but I am glad they are gone.
I razed them from day old chicks that arrived by the mail. Fed them, kept them warm, changed their bedding and cared for them. They repaid me by chirping in my basement, escaping from their tub and pooping on the floor. So I built them a coop, complete with a protected outdoor range.
Once outside, their shenanigans continued. One escaped while I was delivering fresh water only to return when he was hungry. Another pecked at me while offering feed. Then they all learned to crow. How annoying, all 25 in unison, especially at 4 am. Their cock-a-doodle-doos even got me in to the local paper’s thumbs down section. Too bad I don’t know who wrote it. They would have 5 gallons of heads, feet, innards and blood from a date I bet nobody could ever top.
Tonight I decided to prepare one for my own feast. I smothered him with barbeque sauce and baked. It was the first whole chicken I have ever cooked which is funny because it is also the first time I ever used my bottom oven. I was not disappointed with the results. I plucked back at the bird pulling tasty bites off and eating them. This was like no other chicken I have ever had. My roosters definitely ate and enjoyed a better life than those things they sell in the grocery store. I am now enjoying a full stomach and silence. The only thing that would have made tonight better, was if that cute hen from Gotham that helped me process the roosters was here to enjoy it with me. I can’t wait to do it all again.
. . .
Five days a week Marc Ducharme goes to the office and analyzes data to predict the future demand for bearings in the aerospace industry. At least that is what his manager thinks. The real reason he analyzes the data, is so he can support his back yard farm as a gentlemen farmer. Currently, Marc has chickens — roasters and layers — and turkeys. Next year he plans to add fruits and vegetables, maybe even sheep.
Bastille day poulets
Pictures are still pending
It was a fine and beauteous day in the ‘burgh for Bastille Day. Sunny and not too hot, with a fine breeze blowing through seated at Monsieur’s picnic table while admiring the lushness of his garden, hearing him tell about the rose expert that visited him earlier in the morning to offer advice on the rose bushes he planted last year which were gifted by the expert’s daughter who is also in the business of roses. The roses in the shade will never do very well, Monsieur told me. They require six hours of sun a day, minimum, the rose expert told him. A C-5A, on its descent into Stewart, flew right over our heads, literally. The giant umbrella over the picnic table and a couple hundred feet of air were all that separated it from us. I still get batty over low-flying aircraft. This one was very low but didn’t seem as loud and screaming as usual, maybe it had something to do with the atmosphere which was light and clear, not sticky and amplifying. I do not know of these things, only detect the sounds and sights while they occur.
What else, besides relax and babble and wonder at the garden picnic table does an older French man and his French-American daughter do for Bastille Day?
Mangeons.
For lunch, our usual spot, Caffé Macchiato, was closed so we opted for the ol’ standby and famille Frémont favourite, Cosimo’s. I know, neither place is French. But the holiday is an afternoon away from the office to spend with Monsieur to eat and laugh about those rolling French aristocrat heads.
Cosimo’s created a new menu. We broke from our usual custom pizza or pasta and salad habit, instead ordered a few appetizers and a side of garlic sautéed broccoli rabe to share. The kitchen went easy on the olio as I requested and was pleased with the result. A risotto crab cake with, I think they used Japanese-style breadcrumb was not too heavy; we both enjoyed the flavours. Little clams in a buttery wine sauce was nice, perhaps a little too salty and could have used a little more lemon and parsley instead. Classic bruschetta was good, cheesy. Ooh. We liked a lot the Italian biscotti crumble with amarena cherries. I imagined its perfection using only crushed biscotti but my teeth made a well-textured bolus of the ingredients.
Dinner was the main event and from whence this chicken series continues. It is posting backwards in time, beginning with the last post on the morning after.
The official chicken taster survived a meal of the first of 23 chickens processed on July 4th. I am relieved, for his sake, and my sake who awates his arrival in town Friday. And am doubly relieved that Monsieur mainly, but I also survived dining on chickens two and three. I suffer a low-grade case of paranoia that if something happens to Monsieur while spending time with him, I would pay in spades on the kharma it seems I’m finally beginning to catch up and make good on. Not to mention, I could only fathom the wrath of little sister if some dire scenario should ever occur.
The chickens, Rhode Island Reds, provided more meat than serving for one feeder per bird. We prepared them two ways and ate only one. The cooked goose that returned to Gotham with me will be prepared a third way, into a chicken salad. I’ll post an adendum for that.
An interesting note, for the yolkavores reading here . . .
The baby chicks travelled unknown miles to MRD’s backyard farm in Southern, central New Hampshire. From his home, post processing, four travelled to my home in Gotham, about 229 miles. From Gotham to the ‘burgh, two birds travelled 59 miles, and one bird returned to Gotham with me, another 59 miles. 347 miles, not including afformentioned unknown chick miles, and miles for high quality grain. Not so bad, compared to the arbitrary but oft-cited 1,500 food miles of your garden variety grocery store provisions.
Bastille Day poulet one way
Serves two semi-hungry Frémonts with leftovers for Monsieur
One backyard-processed Rhode Island Red cut down the middle and put in a bowl with olio, sel, piper, lemon juice to marinade a while
One hot grill (gas, not coals, bah!)
RIR onto the grill for several minutes on each side, turn, several more minutes on each side until well cooked. Elsewhere on the grill, five ears of fresh, yolkal butter and sugar corn, wrapped in foil with double-pats of good butter, grill until they’re done too.
Bastille Day poulet two way
As yet uneaten by either Frémont
One backyard-processed Rhode Island Red in a roasting pan with olio allover its skin and one whole lemon roll-mashed along the counter to loosen juices within and forked along its diameter to releases juices within the birds interior while roasting, sel, piper, crp and rosemary
Chicken, covered loosely with a sheet of foil to avoid burning, goes into an oven pre-heated to 450° — I tend to begin all roasts at this temp. Let roast for about ten minutes, remove from oven and also its foil shield, add more fat (olio or good butter is fine), turn temperature guage to between 325° and 350° and return to oven to let roast another 35 to 40 minutes. Remove chicken and prick with a knife point to ensure it’s roasted well enough. Turn off the oven and return chicken to let finish and slow cool in the residual heat.
A note about backyard raised and processed poulets prepared either one way or two way. These were free-range chickens that the farmer told me were fed on very good grain. They’re muscles are not as tender as the chickens you’d procure from the typical grocery market — the meat is darker and fuller-flavoured, and it is not due to excessive fat. I think a future chicken, if I’m involved in its cooking, which I believe I will be, should be prepared in a roasting pan, not set up on a rack, as poulet two way was, but laying in the pan with liquid (wine, lemon, vegetable?) added to the pan and cooked slowly at a low temperature over a longer period to braise and tenderize the meat.
For yesterday’s dinner, though, Monsieur and I enjoyed eating the sturdier poulet in a more pre-Revolution-style manner — with our hands.
Bon appétit..
Tortilla deux hommes
Pictures pending
Brunch the morning after a long afternoon processing chickens — which I’m tapping about and will post here, pics and all — was not without its chicken product — the egg, several of them. Killing chickens yesterday did not have an effect for our desire for them. Seemingly. Any conflict of conscience was not mentioned at all by any of the chicken processors. Did any of us think about it? Unlikely. Perhaps?
The night before at KC’s Ribshack in Manchester, though, we three very definitively and vocally opted out of the chicken option from the choose four meats for their QQ Pladdas (a bbq shack’s take on the China-American Pu pu platter? By like rhythm and syllables, I tap yes) — a meal for two or more, we were three, and could choose three sides, though the server bravely returned to inform us they were out of cole slaw as of 30 minutes sooner. My response to one friend, who hosted a pulled pork dinner last summer with slaw, and baked beans, ‘The only reason you’d order pulled pork is as a vehicle for cole slaw.’ It was a joke, he got that and like jokingly agreed. It’s probably the other way around, when the pulled pork is done very right — which at dinner last summer, it was. Even without the slaw, we did not opt for the chili side, which my other friend would have liked. He knew, by silence in response to what he told us he usually gets there, he said he knew not to suggest it again. Suppose maybe next time we could try the chili. But if the slaw is available, that will still probably be unlikely.
Morning after tortilla
Serves two hungry roosters and one hen with enough for seconds and/or ample leftovers
Nine fresh eggs, then two more to be sure, makes 11, cracked into a bowl, beaten with a fork and seasoned with cracked piper
Seven fresh New Jersey potatoes, cut in half and thinly sliced with a long sharp knife
One cup fresh spring New Jersey peas, washed, shelled and blanched for a few moments
One half a small container part-skim ricotta forked in small dollops into beaten eggs
Four slices is not enough bacon, zapped in a microwave (The Horror!)
A generous amount of salted butter melted around my cast iron traveled from Gotham (A #8 Griswold, ca. Mid-20th century)
One aesthetically perfect unshelled fresh spring peapod as garni
Layer in some potatoes into the bottom of the slightly warm, buttered cast iron, then pour in a layer of ricotta-dollopy beaten eggs. Next, layer in the bacon, left whole, into rows and top that with more beaten dollopy eggs. Another layer of thin-sliced potatoes and on top more eggs. Pop a bunch of spring peas, then pour the rest of the eggs. Almost lastly, drop plop plop the rest of the spring peas which sink into the abyss of the uncooked tortilla. Top the eggy system with one unshelled fresh spring peapod with its little stem and curliQ at the other end.
Place the cast iron into the oven that all the while prepping ingredients preheated to 450°. Let bake for about ten minutes allowing a skin to form around the sides and bottom of the tortilla. Turn the heat down to 350° and let bake another 20 to 30 minutes. Finish in a low broiler to fix and lightly brown the top. Note here, we might have let it bake too long and could have relied on the heat of the eggy system to finish cooking itself.
When you remove the spring tortilla from the oven, let sit a few minutes to set and take a knife around the side to make sure it releases from the pan (it did!). Cut wedge slices, depending on feeder — smaller wedge for lil’ hen, big and bigger wedges for big guys — and serve on lunch plates with dollops on the side of Dearest Fairway’s new medium-hot salsa.
Bon appétit..
Post blog — Yes, no salt was added and strangely, no shallots were used, but surely, usually they would be, by me, for like recipes.
(I was unable to attend this event. Erin presented a paper she wrote and was kind enough to procure the rabbit recipe and write about it for DP. –JJF)
Written by Erin Laverty
“Take a pipkin…” the recipe begins. “Hmm,” you wonder, “What is a pipkin? A new hybrid berry? An exotic variety of pepper? And where can I get one? The forest? That bottom shelf of the grocery store?” No. As it turns out, a pipkin is a cooking vessel used in 16th century England. And, as you can imagine, they’re not readily found down at your local Williams-Sonoma. Instead, you might have one made by Ken Albala, Food Historian at the University of the Pacific in Stockfish, California, and have the recipe interpreted by him as well, unless you’re up on your Early Modern English.
As part of the Rural Heritage Institute: Food, Farms and Community at Sterling College in Craftsbury Common, Vermont that took place June 16 though 18, Ken wanted to demonstrate what cooking and recipes were like from the time New England was settled.
And demonstrate he did. He started by digging two holes in the ground, one for the fire and one to transfer the heated coals into for cooking. Overlooking immaculate, green-rolling hills where Lincoln and Rex, the college’s draft horses, were playing around, Ken prepared a “Smeared Rabbet” from the Good Hous-wives Treasurie, published in England in 1588. This dish would have been prepared inside, over a hearth, but you really can’t beat a warm June day outside in Vermont. The only thing missing was Ken catching and killing the rabbit himself.
Food historians analyze things like old texts and cookbooks to extract clues about the culture at that time – what do they reveal about trade routes, gender roles, or the economy, for example. By looking at the ingredients and how the dish was served, you get a sense of for whom and when these recipes were written, Ken explained. For instance, there isn’t a lot of seasoning in this recipe, which makes it clear it was intended for the home cook. Recipes for royalty, on the other hand, were loaded with exotic, expensive spices as a demonstration of wealth and power. Ken is one of a handful of food historians. Lately, he has been researching and recreating old recipes such as the rabbit in a pipkin, in order to gain insight into the culture of the era.
We were curious who wrote these cookbooks. Ken explained that most authors were chefs to the royal families and noblemen. Robert May — author of The Accomplisht Cook from 1660 — was the Emeril of his time.
But back to the pipkin. Ken, a potter in his spare time, made it at home out of clay, and brought it with him from California. It’s medium-sized, round on the bottom, and sits on three stubby elephant-shaped legs. It also has a long, hollow handle, and a lid that needs to be sealed for cooking. These elements are central to the outcome of the dish. “The shape and material are important, so it won’t explode in the fire, and I know that by first-hand experience,” Ken said. We all took a slight step back from the fire and kept our fingers crossed.
Ken cut up the rabbit; the onions were quartered. Magically, he stuffed them all into the seemingly bottomless pipkin. Ken squeezed in some juice from unripe green grapes (the verjus). Interestingly, verjus, available in bottles, is making a comeback in the gourmet world. Salt and pepper went in, along with a little water, some butter, and a handful of currants. A flour and water paste sealed the lid to the pot. The recipe specified a “soft fire,” so the pipkin went over coals, not direct flame.
Far from the standard ingredient and step-by-step instructional formula of recipes now, these recipes give choices, and are far less precise than today. “Have you ever had a recipe turn out bad?” someone asked. “When you look at a recipe, it doesn’t seem logical. Every time I change something, it doesn’t work. If I follow the recipe exactly, it always turns out well,” Ken said.
And he was right. The smokiness from cooking the pipkin over the coals came through, along with a richness from the caramelized onions and butter. The currants added a sweetness that paired well with the mildness of the rabbit, balanced by the acidity of the verjus.
Learning about history by reading about it is one thing. But being able to experience it a little through recreating a recipe from the past brings it to life and lends a bit of cohesion between the centuries. Not to mention, with the blend of flavors and spot on cookware, the 16th century British cook had something going in the kitchen!
Recipe as taken directly from The Good Hous-wives Treasurie, 1588
How to smeare a Rabbet or a necke of Mutton
Take a pipkin, a porrenger of water, two or three spoonefuls of vergis, ten onions pilled, and if they be great quarter them, mingle as much pepper and salte as will season them, and rub it upon the meat, if it be a rabbit: put in a peece of butter in the bellye and a peece in the broth, and a few currans if you wil, stop your pot close and seeth it with a softe fier but no fier under the bottome, then when it is sodden serve it in upon soppes & lay a few barberies upon the dishe.
21st century version
“Smeared” Rabbit
The pipkin is ideal for making this dish, but if you must substitute, look for a clay pot with a tight-fitting lid, such as a Spanish olla (available at many Spanish food and cookware stores), a French clay pot or covered casserole, or an Italian pignatta. An enameled Dutch oven may also be used, but avoid a metal pot, as it will heat too quickly. Barberries are small, tart red berries that may be sold (dried) at Middle Eastern groceries.
Ingredients
1 rabbit, cut into pieces
5-6 small onions, peeled and quartered
1 cup water
3 tablespoons verjus (or substitute lemon juice or white wine vinegar)
2 tablespoons butter
1/4 cup currants
Good quality bread, sliced
1 tablespoon barberries (if available)
Instructions
- Preheat oven to 300 degrees.
- Arrange rabbit pieces in pot. Add onion.
- Add water and verjus, and season with salt and pepper.
- Add butter and currants, cover tightly with lid, and place in oven. Cook until rabbit is tender and cooked through but not dry, about 45 minutes – 1 hour.
- Lightly toast bread. Place in bottom of bowls, and serve rabbit over. Sprinkle on barberries (if available), and serve.
. . .
Erin Laverty is a freelance food writer, researcher and recipe developer. She works with The Creative Kitchen, does freelance research for Food & Wine magazine, and is currently working on a book with food photographer Lou Manna. She has also contributed to Kiwi magazine. Erin holds a Master’s degree in Food Studies from New York University and an Intermediate Certificate-Pass with Distinction from WSET – Wine & Spirit Education Trust. She is also a member of ASFS – The Association for the Study of Food and Society. Erin can be e-mailed at: erinlaverty@yahoo.com
Photos by Ulla Kjarval, author of the blog Goldilocks Finds Manhattan
Ken Albala wrote about the rabbit pipkin highjinks and can read about that at his blog in One Bunny on a Bun
Pic still pending.
Finding myself frustrated by things recently. Life and myself, generally, are very well – the best it has been in years (the personal, barring worldwide externalities). But a peeve has been needling at me. It has nothing to do with what I’ll tap here. My notebook is at home, where it belongs, where it is safe. But, this has been pending for several weeks…
It’s been nearing two months since presenting my final project for Food & Culture Studies graduate program. That was back on the morning of May 5th, followed by pink champagne and ‘Le Grand‘ at Balthazar with my muse, my patron, mon père, Monsieur – the only fitting way to celebrate such a feat.
After six years of school, through my so-called re-education, and through the intersession free reads, was chomping at the bit to read and re-read everything I hadn’t gotten to or read thoroughly during class terms. But it has been slow going to say the least. I’m stalled at not close to halfway on the second book, which is Ken Albala’s ‘Beans‘. It’s a fast moving survey, part pop, part academic, though surely more scholarly or teacherly in its language, of various beans from around the world and through the ages. I’m about through with his chapter on favas.
But am thinking perhaps is fine time to break from an airs-inducing volume and return to Kurlansky. Though Mark Kurlasky is a well-respected senior member of the food, food writing & journalism, and food history worlds, his works – ‘The Big Oyster‘, ‘Cod‘, ‘Salt‘ as well as ‘Basque History of the World‘, all on my present ‘forever free and escape from 9-5’ read list – were nowhere to be found on any syllabi for classes I took during the entire program. He lives somewhere in Gotham, I’m sure I’ve seen him at some event, but he remains elusive, at least online. Google: ‘Mark Kurlansky’. No contact information available, no Facebook page, no website. His general bio is listed on a publisher’s site. But that is it.
(Thinking of the fresh figs, blackberries and black truffle cheese I am going to snack on when I get home this evening.)
When I started freelancing earlier this month, I was barely trudging through ‘The Big Oyster’. Then, I resumed a lunchtime run at Oyster Bar at Grand Central. I love it there. Creamed spinach with any sandwich special, but is advised to change it up from day to day, or try a bisque or a pan roast, or a fish special – a personal pact required dishes be 15 and under, though I broke that the last lunch ordering a dish for 22, which surprises me, it is very easy to do with dishes upwards of 30. Regardless, be sure to always order the creamed spinach. I’d say it rivals, or is likely better than, Peter Luger’s creamed spinach.
(Wondering if I need witness protection for the last statement).
So, at the start of the present Oyster Bar fettish, er, round, I was just approaching the later 19th century in Kurlansky. Returning to the land of the fiscally solvent, even in cavernous Gotham midtown, found myself feeling very part of this something bigger than myself. Kurlansky knit quite a yarn of Gotham – great and gastric, seafaring, tumultuous, murderous, prostitutionous, wheeling, dealing, always smelly place, be it fresh like, virgin airs of new found land and Gotham harbor, or rotting and blood, piss, shit – as our story progressed through the ages.
It wasn’t Kurlansky at all that begged a synergy with midtown and Oyster bar to read through. I am craving (gasping for air) literature. I’ve been reading about food – its history, culture, agriculture, pulling all-night conspiracy-HFCS reading tirades, nutrition (remember folks, tube feeds do not equal food), cell, mitochondria and their green kin, chloroplasts, for six years (redundant comment, I know, I still cannot quite grasp, ‘no more classes’, for now). There’s a ‘find time for lit’ read list that is so grossly overdue. It includes Twain, Alger, Hemmingway, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, Laurence, Miller, Thompson, Robbins, Murakami, Austen, – even and including the recently published Austen with zombies tome – Sand, Colette, Woolf, Plath; I have also been rumbling over a hankering for the Talented Mister Ripley series conjured by Patricia Highsmith. Doggit. I will read some literary literature!
Perhaps first.. There’s a very important ‘grow my brain at all costs’ read list, including more Brand – his ‘Whole Earth Discipline: An Ecopragmatist Manifesto’ is on pre-order with Amazon, but I NEED to re-read ‘Clock of the Long Now’ that I make reference to often, ‘How Buildings Learn’ which is how I experience spaces around me (literally), and finally get eyeballs to ‘The Media Lab’. More recently, thanks to some articles published on/in Wired (.com/mag), I discovered that another essay I am working on dealing with ‘flat heirarchies’ in the workplace (unpublished, in progress, seeking publisher) is not altogether off target. Though it still lacks eloquence and a firm backbone. The Wired article, from issue 17.06, discusses Thomas Malone’s ‘The Future of Work’; in it he has written on ‘loose heirarchies’. His is a top priority. Thank you for that, Wired.
I will return to Albala and his ‘Beans’ and his ‘Pancake’ too. I will put more thorough eyeballs to his ‘Eating Right in the Renaissance’, as well at Mintz’ ‘Sweetness and Power’, and Shapiro’s ‘Perfection Salad’. I will enter the halls of the truly food-read and finally finish Fisher, David and Brillat-Savarin. Hades, even the pile of Trillin on my coffee table in need of a good sand and refinish sits mostly neglected.
But today, I believe it is time to break out of my shell (achem). From the neat row sitting on the corner of Moby Desk, tonight, I will reach again for Steinbeck. As life has succeeded to keep me where I am, ‘The Long Valley’ will take me to the other home that continues to elude me.
Jennifer Joyce Frémont, 103, writer, documentary filmmaker, famed home cook and food activist, is dead
Jennifer Frémont, a petite, mild-mannered radical who, with the Long Now foundation she was director of for eleven years, overhauled the American agriculture system in the 020-teens, died in New York City. She was 103.
Ms. Frémont collapsed at the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Friday, three days after her birthday, her eldest daughter, Charlotte said.
In 02011, Ms. Frémont won Webby and James Beard awards for her web-blog, Daily Prandium (.com), which she started in 02007 to chronicle recipe stories written about the foods she cooked for herself while living alone in New York City in her early 30’s. Daily Prandium was relaunched in 02009 to include videos of people living personal food ways that reflect the ideal Roman Republic-inspired prandium which she triumphed as one solution to the growing obesity and bad food epidemics sweeping the world at the time. in 02010, she sold non-exclusive syndication rights of Daily Prandium to Discovery Communications.
Ms. Frémont’s 02010 debut book of short stories, “Breaking Bread with Boys” went on to win a Newberry Medal and a second James Beard award for its author. “This is a work of creative non-fiction,” she wrote in the introduction, “with emphasis on creative being something the reader should keep in mind. But this remains a work about my life, whether real or imagined.”
Ms. Frémont married her first husband, AR in her late-30s. They met in 02000 while they were both working for an Internet company, back during the fateful Internet bubble economy. When Mr. R’s first wife passed away suddenly, Ms. Frémont adopted his son and went on to give birth to their first child, Charlotte. Two years later they adopted another son, George, a deaf baby, from a town in Colombia.
When Mr. R died of a sudden heart attack in early 02015, Ms. Frémont said, “I lost the love of my life twice. The trajectory of my romantic heart is complete.” Ms. Frémont said of Mr. R that he was the creative collaborator and driving force behind all of her accomplishments.
Two years later, Ms. Frémont was introduced to AKR by her then editor at Grand Central Publishing. A new era in Ms. Frémont’s creativity was forged in the relationship. During this round of creativity, Mr. R served as muse to Ms. Frémont. “The stories that I see in A give hope for the devoted readers who follow the series.” Before his death from cancer in 02027, Ms. Frémont wrote seven novels for her “Woman at Grace with the Wind” series. The third novel in the series, “Asphalt, Toro” was adapted for an independent film and won an IFC award for best adapted work.
Her son George said, “Throughout her life, the relationships Mum forged and the family that loved her was how she identified herself as a woman, as an artist, as the ‘human animal’ she reminded us we all are.”
“Her creativity came second. She mined inspiration for her works solely from the world peopled by those she loved, who loved her,” Charlotte Millot said.
Ms. Frémont is survived by her adopted son from her first marriage, T, their daughter Charlotte Millot, also an acclaimed writer and Guggenheim fellow, son George Frémont-R, and nine grand-children.
. . .
Post blog
Last year I took a journalism boot camp through NYU’s School of Journalism. Professor ran things as you might expect a hardened newshead to run it. With ample doses of insults about your (my) work and a few vulgar or sexual jokes†. I never encountered a teaching style remotely resembling his in over 23 years of institutional studies. I’m still considering the take-away lessons that will work with me as I pursue a writing career, as a blogger, a familiar essayist and book writer. Taking prof’s class, I also quickly realized that I’m not the hard news sort of writer. Instead of registering for the second half of boot camp this spring, opted for Long Personal Essay with Dr. Perri Klass.
Sometime during prof’s class, I asked if we’d be doing anything with obituaries. I am one of those folks who enjoys reading that section of the New York Times. Suppose it ties in with my respect for life and honor for the inevitable end of it. He never did give a lesson in writing obits, per se. But in the weeks leading up to the final exam, he warned us to be prepared for it on the last day of class. He offered no advice for what to prepare or topics to focus on (AP style, the damned Bermuda Triangle of Journalism, etc..). Boot camp style. Life style. Death a’coming style. We just had to be prepared.
With barely vague details, I spent a few hours reviewing the pages of notes I’d typed during each class (nearly secretary style). I knew prof was up to something. He was. The final exam, he finally revealed, was to write our own obituaries. I have my issues with prof, but this was the all time best final exam I’ve ever taken. The above obituary, mine, was written in about twenty minutes that he gave us for it; it’s totally off-the-cuff and I am sure plainly reads of the higher aspirations and greatness I still haven’t given up on myself to accomplish. It was edited in places for reprint here.
Until next time, hold on to your carbon folks..
† A minor addendum per an email I received this morning from prof who claims not all of his jokes were vulgar or sexual. Indeed, most of them were simply very bad. To my (dis) credit, did laugh at them, well, more at him than the joke. But he still got yucks out of me. I hope this satisfies his need for me to be more accurate.
A twitter while I ate at Diner in Williamsburg, Brooklyn this afternoon.
NOTE: Scroll to the bottom of this post and read from the bottom up, in the opposite order that they’re numbered…
1. A fine date with m’self & hunt for inspiration. Ciao for niao.. xoDP
2. Off to Bust’s Craftastik where I’ve missed meeting some friends & other friend’s won’t show…
3. In the area, if you’re a flea freak con moi, check out Luddite down the block towards the water…
4. Just go. Prices are recession-ready enough. You’ll like…
5. Ooh, service really is (esp’ly to femme eats for one), cool chilly 090s ravers indiference…
6. Six for the small, go for the large (nine $)…
7. Like the bloody mary with a whole pipercorn bite burn finish…
8. Am guilty pleasuring Gen-X top fourties.. everytime I see you calling I get down on my knees & pray…
9. My great compliment.. to the egg. over medium just oozing a meniscus tease minus th’ mess…
10. Ramp mayo escarole pickled onion & cheddar on brioche bun w salad (lambs qtr?)(Not. Is spinach)…
11. The dish in question, scroll says.. Eggs Sammy…
12. As intended per salted lip…
13. Impossible to drink without straw from skinny high boy…
14. Sidebar — I hate their ice…
15. Even a brioche sammich’s is still a sammich and sammich’s don’t belong on brunch menus…
16. Why did I order a boring dish? Flavours are fine, pickl-ey & mouthfeely…
17. I’m here at end of brunchh service, alas asperges dishes sold out…
18. It’s all on the specials scribbled receipt-roll…
19. Generic un-diner-like lilputian menu offers next-to-no details…
20. A Gotham resto paradigm
21. Though everything flow’s at a quick clip…
22. Place is shabby fab, just right neo-grunge clientelle & very slow service…
23. Said teeting pedestal is at Diner on B’way in W’burg Bkln…
24. A teetering circular spinning stool at the stone counter for one…
25. Ok. A resto review…
Mumma wasn’t feeling well. Last night, she didn’t make it out to dinner with sister, Monsieur and me. She stayed home and rested and missed out on a lot of yuck yucks. She was still feeling icky this morning, so, I stayed out of the kitchen, except to chop a cup or thereabouts of parsley to mix into the ricotta. It made for a more authentic familia cooking experience too. She wasn’t the only one, as a little girl, colouring, sitting at a table in G(r)am or Nanny’s kitchen while they prepared the meals. I remember sitting at the kitchen table, just like her in theirs, in our little farmhouse on James Street in Harriman (circa 01975 – 01980) while Mumma would be at her stove cooking dinner.
During college, when I cooked in my first kitchens, remember channeling the scent and flavour of what Mum would have cooking on her stovetop. It worked. Somehow I knew how to prepare ingredients and combine them, and at what temperatures and for how long, and folks enjoyed what they ate. Essentially, basics of our familia’s cooking include: garlic, oil, black pepper, crushed red pepper, salt, onions, oregano, sweet basil (fresh from Monsieur’s garden in summer, dried from a jar in the off seasons), capers, olives, anchovy, lemons. Mum doesn’t use them, but I prefer San Marsano Nina canned whole plum tomatoes. We each use our own preferred variations on these ingredients when we’re making Italian style dishes — fish, eggs, pasta, sopas and the occasional meatball or meatloaf. Otherwise, we may run the cultural gamut. I claim my French side favours butter and shallots. My adopted gringa Mexicana favors chilis, cilantro and limones. But then I’ll use whatever my tastebuds tell me to when I get to cooking. They know what they’re doing. Though I admit, dishes I prepare are pretty simple.
Mumma’s solo lasagna
Feeds six at the holiday table with ample leftovers, no fighting, for two sisters and one new hubby (note mine, lil’sis’)
One box 16 sheets flat, no-boil lasagna noodles (I’ve experimented a bit in the past and found that normal boxed and even fresh noodles can be used without boiling first — the moisture of the system cooks them just fine)
One large can or jar of sauce (Again, I’d use Nina whole plums (likely two cans) and dress them as I like them with piper, CRP, garlic, sel,..)
A lotta ricotta
Shaved Provolone
A big bunch of flat leaf parsley (chop it up and mix into ricotta)
Spinach (saute briefly in olio and mix into ricotta, though I prefer not to saute and add fresh separately between sheets; this is Mumma’s gig)
Olio
Sel
Piper
A pictorial directive for assembling and baking the lasagna. Mumma hasn’t proferred up any words to contribute. Feel free to leave comments if you have questions and I’ll try to get her to cooperate some answers..
. . . Repeat above steps so that you’ll make four layers from 16 leafs of pasta, the ricotta/spinach/flat leaf parsley mix, shaved provolone and sauce. . .
Into an oven, preheated to 425°, for a couple hours
Remove and check, lower guage to 375°, return to the oven and let bake another 45 minutes or thereabouts until it’s dark and crispy. . .
Happy easter from Mumma’s cabin on Lake Cayuga..
I’m at Mumma’s at her place way Upstate on Lake Cayuga for the Easter weekend. We do not celebrate it for the religious but for the family of it. Though nowadays, we make up tradition, change, adjust and readjust it as we go along. This holiday, we’re not making up an enormous feast for the six of us that will be at supper tomorrow. The meal will center around lasagna and meatballs. Mum and me just made the meatballs and put them in the oven to bake. Her father, my grandfather, Nick, was a cook (or a chef in some kitchens) who made many meatballs and told Mum it doesn’t matter if you bake or fry the meatballs. Frying takes a lot of time and if you’re making them for a lot of feeders, then baking saves some of it. She said, he said, if you bake the meatballs really well in the oven, turn them over and let them brown, nobody will know the difference. The secret was in the browning. Some of that ‘brown stuff’ gets into the sauce. Mm, yumness.
Along with Nick’s meatball baking technique, today we are channeling the recipe of G(r)amma, Nanny–her mother, Catherine–her mother’s mother, and all the way back up the ancestral line of meatball and lasagna making women-folk, to prepare our meatballs. Mum let me know, though, that it was more on Nick’s side of the family that were the lasagna makers, not G(r)am’s so much. But they were all meatball makers..
Mumma’s version of G(r)amma-ray, Nanny and Catherine’s meatballs
(pronounced, while making them, as meat-a-balls-eh)
Should make enough meat-a-balls-eh for six at Easter dinner with some leftover to take home
Two and a half pounds of fresh-ground beef, about half and half 95% and 90% lean (G(r)am would use a pound of “chopped chuck” which was about 85% lean)
A few cups of Progresso Italian breadcrumbs
Half or quarter cup, “until it’s just enough moisture,” of whole milk, “or whatever you have,” Mum said (We don’t make wet meatballs; they’re going in the sauce later)
A cup or two of parmesan (lowercase p) grated cheese
About four tablespoons of fresh-grated good quality Parmesan (uppercase P) cheese
Five or six large cloves of smashed and chopped garlic
About a cup of chopped flat-leaf parsley
Sprinkle plenty of Spice Classics Italian seasonings
Sprinkle enough McCormick black & red pepper blend hot shot
Sprinkle some McCormick oregano, crushed red pepper and sweet basil (Mum smiled at me and said, “You can never season too much”)
Preheat oven to 450°
Put the ground meat in a mixing bowl and with a fork, fork the meat to begin breaking it up. Add in breadcrumbs and fork to mix them together. When I took over mixing, after chopping the garlic and parsley, mixed the ingredients by hand. So you can do either, whichever you prefer, but this is a document of how Mum and me made the meatballs today.
Pour in some milk to help mix the breadcrumbs and meat. Next, the parmesan cheese amd mix; add the chopped garlic, mix; add the chopped parsley and mix. Next grate the Parmesan cheese right into the bowl and mix. Sometimes between adding ingredients and mixing, Mum would get a sneaky smile and add in the seasonings.
Now with chopping garlic and parsley complete and these added and mixed a bit into the meatball mash, begin mixing the ingredients by hand. Use the right hand, keeping the left clean to pick something up as needed without contaminating it. Inspect the colour of the meatball mash. Traditionally, in our family, a lot of breadcrumbs were used to make the meatballs go a lot further, and to add flavour. Add more breadcrumbs and mix and see that the colour is less fleshy-red and a bit more lighter-pink, even a bit tan in colour. The garlic and parsley were rough chopped so there’s uneven bits throughout the mash.
Line a pan with aluminum foil.
Once all the ingredients are added and mixing the meatballs mash is done, begin rolling meatballs. G(r)amma-ray, Mum tells me, made very small meatballs; another device for making them go further. “You’d think you were getting a couple meatballs but you really were only getting one,” Mum said. If you have a case of OCD, there is no place for it in rolling meatballs today. Roll some normal meatballs, maybe about two ounces or thereabouts; roll some little meatballs, maybe at about a half ounce or thereabouts. Laugh at the meatballs and enjoy yourself.
Wonder whether G(r)am and Nanny made meatballs together. Probably not. According to Mum, they both liked to be in charge in their kitchens. Tradition would have it, as Mum was a witness, to watch while G(r)am or Nanny made meatballs. A little plate of little meatballs with a little sauce on the side would be given a little girl version of Mumma. But she never got her hands into the meatball making, until she made them in her own kitchen. Thus, a new tradition of multi-generational meatball making is born on the day before Jesus rose like Easter bread on Sunday.
Pack the meatballs closely together in the baking pan so they all fit. Once the pan fills up with meatballs, sprinkle some breadcrumbs over top. The remaining little meatballs will line the sides of the pan and sit on top of meatballs where there’s just enough space for them. Spray some olive oil on the meatballs and sprinkle with more breadcrumbs.
Take pictures of mother and daughter smiling, or serious (like G(r)amma-ray was about her meatballs), each holding their collaborative meatball creation, tightly packed in a pan, before sending them into the hot oven to bake.
Let meatballs bake for a while on the center rack in the oven. “Just look at them while they’re browning,” Mum said to look and see when to turn them. The little ones on the top will brown quicker and need to be turned first. We also made quite a lot of meatballs, some extra, so be sure keep an eye on them. “They can brown a lot, but don’t burn them,” Mum said and asked me to keep watch while she showers.
Keep the meatballs in the oven baking until they’re brown. Tomorrow, we’ll put them in the sauce and let them cook for a couple hours. Try not to sneak too many meatballs before then. It might help to not brag about meatballs to sister when she returns from town, unless she’s not eating meatballs nowadays, in which case, rave on an on about your delicious meatballs.
At some point, turn the oven temperature down to 400°. Maybe the meatballs were quite moist, or maybe the oven is ”off”, but they are taking a couple hours to bake. “It must be too much moisture,” Mum is thinking out loud. Overall, it seems they need to bake a couple hours. A lot of propane is going into these meatballs–they are not ‘green’ in that sense.
Buon appetito..
Pictures as promised…
Bouna notte..
It’s still cold out and my hands are slowly and only barely recovering from how dry they become in winter weather. But on my way back from Mum’s lake place, in Whitney Point, before the turnout to route 81, I spot’d an ice cream stand. It was open for business. Hurrah! It’s just springtime and folks were all wrapped in coats. Well, to me, ice cream is a winter food — the fat and sugar are good for keeping, well, fat and warm. Regardless of my habits, ice cream stands remain a summertime pastime.
Still screaming, still foolish..
Avis was not working the day I arrived again at the little market hanging at the edge of California’s wild and wooly Central Coast. But when I spotted this in the cooler, couldn’t help myself and took the picture. Yes, I admit it reminded me of the mad drive on 1 through and despite fog, wind, rain and falling rocks over a year earlier. I have moved on from the madness of that heart’s hope dashed. This year’s trip gifted me kindly of love, compassion and community. For real and plain as day.
I must get back to the chapter I went to write, in solitude — ha! It is an ambitious one, for a novice writer to weave two stories, parallel in place separated by two periods in time, with two distinct sets of experience, emotions, meals and spirit. I think when I write and edit it successfully will come away a better writer for it.
An excerpt from Joseph Campbell is posted on Esalen’s website. Before heading west, it struck at the fear and doubt and anxiety I felt that nearly drove me to stay home. Glad is a lousy word for one mistake thankdogfully I did not make.
“I don’t know where it is—but I feel just now pretty sure that it isn’t in books. — It isn’t in travel. — It isn’t in California. — It isn’t in New York. …Where is it? And what is it, after all?”
Just a day or two into my seven days bliss, my answer to it became clear as day.
It’s in me. It is me.
It has a lot and everything to do with compassion and love and community. The ‘things’ given me I will practice sharing with others.
Big hugs and deep warm wet kisses to new friends and lovers..
On this chilly late-winter morning, a group of women from the NYU Food & Culture Studies program set out on a cultural eating tour in Harlem. The objective was to feed on the flavors of Senegal and Soul–in three hours! The mission was accomplished with gastric ease.
Following is a visual-twitter essay of the event. The original tweets were posted as the morning’s feeding progressed.
Harlem walk & eat’a’bout of a bakers dozen ladies from NYU food & culture studies. . .
First stop is Mannas on 125th near Lenox Blvd. . .
Family style eats include:
sweet potatos, corn bread, mac’n'cheese, stewed & roast chicken, collards, okra, bread & banana pudding. . .
I think that covered most of the menu, there… now onto Young Spring Farm market two doors down. . .
Ah, so sweet fried plantains to snack & walk & drinks: coconut water, peanut carbonated something, Jamaican vanilla soda, and a 4th-something. . .
the 4th is confirmed, tamarind. . .
Heading down Lenox towards Little Senegal on 116th. . .
checking out Under D Tree, closed, for next time. . .
Portions are massive at Sea & Sea–fried catfish (x2), clams (x2) a 1 conch on the way, 1 ea would suffice. . .
Even for 13 food studies feeders. . .
Daily Prandium does not imply that my Harlem eat-a-bouters are cold fish, I simply love fish packed on ice. Well, it makes me sad to see fish dead, but I love the aesthetic of it.
Ah, clever, take a bowl, pick your fish & veg & they’ll steam it for you. . .
Mmm, the conch does go well with the butter & Old Bay seasoning–a fine ‘vehicle’. . .
And the food hens are on back on the street hoofing it to our next feeding. . .
Amy Ruth’s, a friendly rival of the more famously known Sylvia’s. . .
Reviewing the menu to decide on two dishes. . .
One fried & one smothered chicken & waffles please. . .
I’m opting not to brave the sunny chilly not-so-mean Harlem streets waiting for our to go. . .
No photos allowed at the warm lightly spicy smelling shop where they butcher their own Hallal meats. . .
Three more tamarind juices while we wait. . .
(Halal) Sunugaal Meat & Poultry is at 119 West 116th Street. . .
Ok. This eat’a’bout is no yolk!. . .
A loud, definitive smothered wins it in the chick’n'waffles-off. . .
Now it’s cupcake madness at Make My Cake @ 121st & Adam Clayton Powell blvd. . .
In the spirit of Harlem-ese, It’s off da’hook YoO!
Red velvet w cream ch frosting-1 w a 1 w/o nuts, 1 coconut, 1 choco-choco, 1 lemon, & 1 strawberry. . .
the latter-est, strawberry, wasn’t very good, but the red velvet unofficially wins it. . .
These cupcakes are rich! Fat, starch & four bones a pop!
But the rent’s probably re-di-cu-lous for this pink frosted oasis in Harlem. . .
Ah, more too-cuteness @ Lee Lee’s bakery near Frederick Douglass Blvd & 118th street. . .
The decor sports an early 0’90s Laura Ashley floral & lace in reds roses pinks & white. . .
The rugelach would make any Bubby verklempt. . .
Sadly, my afternoon eat’a’bouting ends early–traffic court in Roscoe later. . .
A belly full of Harlem yumness, $12. . .
Sharing is caring with a bunch of great food studies friends, priceless. . .
(Sorry, couldn’t help myself!)
See you rolling on 17. . . Until then, buen provecho..
Buen provecho..
DISCLAIMER & WARNING:
If you are a rabid animal-rights-type vegetarian and/or don’t have a stomach for some less delicate events in life, please do not read this. . .
I started using Twitter recently. I’ve been using Facebook since last year and making regular, about-daily, sometimes more often status updates for all of my friends. Then very recently, discovered I could make more frequent status updates on Twitter and a/ not annoy all of my friends, or in some cases, it seems, even lose some friends on Facebook for what may be an annoying string of updates from one person, and b/ I could create ‘micro-narratives’ — a string of ‘tweets’ related in their content, but short, brief to tell a little story. I am still new to this new medium and haven’t quite figured it out yet.
Though earlier today during the later afternoon, I think I tapped, er, tweeted, the first interesting micro-narrative. After lunch with Monsieur, while we sat in his kitchen before I headed back to Gotham, while the poodles barked their not quite exercised enough due to lousy weather and my even lousier health (ongoing & brutal winter cold from hell) and very excited heads off, and while my new, still-wet from tromping in fresh snow, fuzzy-lined L.L.Bean boots were planted — with feet still in them — on the carpet near the door, he started to tell me a story about his days in Algiers.
I don’t quite remember, or know, what I said, or what went through his head that inspired today’s story (after re-reading & re-compiling the ‘tweetscript’ here for you, I do recall, but read on to find out for yourselfs), but I captured the first lines of it on Twitter as he told it to me. The remainder of the story, achem, I recorded with my Treo handheld.
Since today’s tweets on my page will disappear into time and tweet’s ether, here it is for you, in order, or reverse of how it appears on my Twitter page:
BEGIN TWEETSCRIPT:
‘Choux croute is actually an Alsasian dish. . . about 6 hours ago from mobile web
Choux croute gifted from Pete next door was eaten in two meals. . . about 6 hours ago from mobile web
Missing peppercorn were added for the second meal. . . about 6 hours ago from mobile web
Goupie en croute is named after choux croute. . . about 6 hours ago from mobile web
I am a doughy substance that covers a pate when baked. . . about 6 hours ago from mobile web
But it doesn’t have to be doughy, it depends on the kind you use. . . about 6 hours ago from mobile web
It can be a very fine thin, light pastry crust about 6 hours ago from mobile web
Fingers crossed tante Catherine must have the recipe for choux croute, cassoulet ‘that’s delicious’. . . about 6 hours ago from mobile web
‘We used to go hunting for partridges in Algiers’. . . about 6 hours ago from mobile web
‘They were so big, so fat and the Captain De Rames used to cook the pate en croute. . .’ about 6 hours ago from mobile web
‘We were in the middle of nowhere. You have no idea. It was delicious. The best restaurants. . .’ about 6 hours ago from mobile web
‘couldn’t have done any better. . .’ about 6 hours ago from mobile web
‘Yeat. The good old days.’ about 6 hours ago from mobile web
Mamie made a poached fish for me one year, on the long burner in the long pot just for this dish. . . about 6 hours ago from mobile web
‘Do you want to talk about something else in Algiers? Something we shouldn’t talk about. . .’ about 6 hours ago from mobile web
‘The fish we used to catch. We used to catch them with hand grenades. . .’ about 6 hours ago from mobile web
‘Concussion grenades. we used to catch some real big fish. . .’ about 6 hours ago from mobile web
‘it was pretty interesting. we stayed too long but it was a good experience. ..’ about 6 hours ago from mobile web
‘we used to eat donkey, and goat. we would eat everything. we would cook them in the oil. . .’ about 6 hours ago from mobile web
Couldn’t keep up typing. Rest of today’s oral history — Algiers — was recorded. about 5 hours ago from mobile web
:END TWEETSCRIPT
A couple notes about it. . .
The tweetscript began while Monsieur had already started telling me about his neighbor, a man who owns a restaurant. He made a dish of choux croute and sent some over for Monsieur to enjoy. Most of the story is tapped in ‘parenths’ and was more or less quoted; I tapped on the tiny keyboard while Monsieur spoke. A line or two was in first person, as in referring to me, the Daily Prandium blogger. But it was Monsieur telling me and I just translated it that way.
The stories he’s told me over the past couple years are fascinating. I call them Adventures with Monsieur — as in, Monsieur’s life has been and still is quite an adventure. There is one recipe he told me about that is turning into a leitmotif in all three writing projects I have begun. Since I mentioned these projects, I will tap that they are book proposals. One is creative non-fiction and the other two are purely fiction. I believe some of these stories will figure well with the creative non-fiction stories.
So with this, Daily Prandium is finally revived, and with this I will bring you my obituary. . .
Bon nuit..
Feliz festives, folks,
I realize the site’s been on hiatus since the election. I was focused on a class that sent the food muse to quick boil pastas and snacks; nothing worth writing about. Though, someone did mention I could write about a downward spiral into less-than-prandium-worthy foodways. I opted not to.
Now the semester has ended. I’ll be posting my ‘final exam’ tomorrow. It’s rather amusing, so come back and move your eyeballs along it — left to right, down, left to right, repeat.
For now, if you’re new to Daily Prandium, take a look at the recipe stories published over the past year. . .
Buen provecho..
9:45 AM EST—It’s morning on election day. Some major fog has rolled in over the Hudson. I suppose because it’s a warmer day. Temps are currently at about 54°F out and looks sunny up above. So, hopefully this blanket will burn off by noon. Or quicker, in time for a mid-autumn ride with the top down on our merry way upstate.
I’ll be updating this post throughout the day while the poodles and I spend the afternoon and evening with Monsieur Père de Poire in the ‘burgh.
Note—we will not be voting for the same candidates. It should be interesting. We will keep our focus on food.
Take a look at the election project I contributed to.
In the meantime, I’m off to V O T E..
11:14 AM EST—A snippy, old Republican poll inspector did not approve of my signature. “I suppose they didn’t teach penmanship when you were in school,” he said. Actually, they did. And actually, I had the best penmanship in my class. Good thing I’m no shrinking violet and it was not my first time voting.
Off to the upstate lands where things are more purple on the state electoral map..
11:28 AM EST—So far today, I’ve heard from friends and family in Germany and France. Usually, for country-wide events, friends allover the world send their regards. Two flags on the map is a fine way to start to the day.
..
Oh my, here are the videos I created for the journalism class during the fall term.
I am looking forward to the inauguration on Tuesday.
Change is..
[This post was updated January 18, 02009]
Somebody couldn’t help themselves. This wad of balloons was tangled up a lamppost on a friend’s street. Somehow, finding lost balloons seems to me to be a good omen or good something. Once in a while there will be one floating across the Hudson. There have been days and days in a row when I’ve spotted drifting lone balloons. Once, days went by. On the first, there was a red, the next a blue, the next a green, and on the last, a yellow. I imagined if I spotted orange and purple balloons, I’d have the rainbow and maybe luck enough too to ca-ching it on a lottery ticket. No such luck came to me then. Luck said, “I will not return to you until you finish studies with a piece of paper in hand.” Then I’ll be granted one lucky day. Looking forward to it. Note to self at 19, life is not a piece of cake. And this indeed is the real thing and not some dress rehearsal. You and that flame haired one thought you were cute that night pigeon navigating Gotham streets pontificating that one.
Bon nuit witches and warlocks..
Buen provecho..
One of my French cousins is a priest in Singapore. Recently, he married two friends there. It happened to be on the same day my sister married upstate. He e-mailed to share with us the homily he wrote for them. In it, he spoke of the journey of two pilgrims. . .
“It all starts, they said, when an angel (like Raphael for Tobias and Sarah, cf. Tb 8,5-7a) makes us discover a fellow pilgrim with whom we want to do this journey: journey of learning to grow in love by sharing our lives and opening our hearts to one another, day after day, joy after joy and difficulty after difficulty.”
There is a display at the Museum of Natural History that explains this story for me. It resonates with me in a way that makes courtship, marriage and family-making seem to be an imperative at an evolutionary level. I imagine their steps and matched pace were set in time as a present and perhaps even as a lesson.
Dogspeed..
The photo was snapped around 6 PM EST Saturday in between rain showers. For a few minutes that evening, the sky turned a glowing blue. It seemed to cover the clouds, Palisades, bridge and river. Strange atmosphere. Beautiful. Sublime? No terror involved. Just awe. Something else, I don’t know what to label it. Blue works.
Bon nuit..
Q was planning to eat one prune for dinner tonight. My plan was to starve through an afternoon of interviews in Harlem and then capture the video to an external drive on campus in the evening. As usual, the technical aspects of dealing with video were a pain in the derriere, but it worked out just fine.
Passing through Harlem on my way downtown, at least five Mexican joints caught my eye and triggered the ol’ craving centers. Beans, rice, guacamole claimed my mind and taste buds. So much for being a good frugal one and waiting to return home to prepare some simple pabulum or other.
Q’s recommendation for Mexican eats near campus and near a long time haunt, “triggered some sleeper response,” in him. So, we enjoyed an early-in-the-week beer grumble and comer.
When the failed prune plan was mentioned, it triggered some nostalgia response in me. The first alimentary school* I attended served warm, stewed prunes in their own juice with lunch. The cafeteria ladies prepared them. I think I remember watching them stirring prunes in a pot. Most of the kids laughed and hated them. But I managed to rally a few buddies who enjoyed them too.
They’re so simple to prepare.
Homemade stewed prunes
Serve enough to enjoy a small snack with a friend
Place a handful of good, dried prunes into a saucepan and fill with cold water, just enough to cover the prunes. Heat on a medium flame until they plump. In this weather, serve warm; in warmer climes, serve chilled. If you’re fancy, add a dollop of fresh cream or crème fraîche.
Maybe they’d go well with plain yoghurt. But would that make the eater like some old lady?
Buen provecho amigo Q..
* Yes, I was being punny.
It has been raining on and off all afternoon, with a couple major showers and some big winds blowing through. It isn’t too cold, but is the perfect day for comfort foods—meatloaf, smashed pots and gravy.
Buen provecho..
It’s nearing that time again. I suppose a month is not too soon. But I enjoy making Thanksgiving dinner and started thinking about recipes. The table’s going to be on the quiet side this year, so it might be best to stick to the basics—the turkey, stuffing, gravy, homemade cranberry sauce, potatoes, sweet potatoes and green beans. We shall see.
Gobble gobble..
It’s cold
Not biting
Smell’s burning outside
I breathed it in here
I did
Deeply
Head up, nose into it
Ribs opened sideways
And pulled it in
Coals glow there
Something plastic thrown in the fire and melts on a log
Beers tipped
Passed smokables around a pit
I hate fuzzy white bunnies
Or move over and avoid them
Album changes in a low room through the window
Some kids start moving with it
Outside here, it’s asphalt
Piss marks little man won’t bother with now
Curb near Two Tree hosts a small gathering of leaves
Pads his stream
Until it’s too contaminated
Trendsetter
City dog
Not broken slate slabs, gravel or a leaning wall
Not slow and low is the tempo
Along a dirt drive
It’s dark
No moon’s up yet
Lazy man won’t come out
Then the earth ‘ll have to kick him on his way ’round noon tomorrow
Inside here, I stay wrapped
To get this tapped
Breath short breaths
And keep that smell in my nose
I know
It’s that time again
Every year it’s the same
Witch and brew
But that’s not my crew
A glass raised in stead
This concludes the cairn series, until and unless the urban-cairn maker decides to throw some more rocks together. Until then..
Bonne chance..
Ciao..
Bon nuit..
