Happy Chinese New Year to my Juicy friends. I have promised to write more entries in 2011 Year of the Rabbit. They will probably will be short as we recently moved (again) and as Bartleby is not really in school, just this time period in the afternoon called "half day kindergarten" during which he mostly learns how to act like a normal kid while disguising his superior intelligence.
On a related topic (to both Chinese New Year and the inadequacies of kindergarten in America), I have just finished reading Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by the now very famous Amy Chua. It is a funny and sad book about a mother who takes the idea of her children having a "hobby" way too far. She describes herself and any other parent who pushes her kids to be No. 1 in everything as a "Chinese mother." But I beg to differ. Ms. Chua did seem to fit the definition of Chinese mother until she did one thing. No, it was not calling her daughter "garbage" when she talked back to Tiger Mama. Nor was it threatening to burn her dollhouse if she didn't practice. Not even refusing to allow the kid to get up to pee until she got her little piano piece just perfect. It was the denial of food. Not once, but twice as recounted in the story.
If you know Chinese mothers at all then the one thing you know is that food and feeding of family and children is all important. Ms. Chua obviously likes food. She makes much of the menu she has catered for her daughter's Carnegie Hall debut. Her biggest battle with her younger daughter is over caviar. Yet, her actions with her daughters are contrary to all Chinese foodways. This is a culture in which a standard greeting is, "Have you eaten?" and in whose medical practices nutrition is the first resort in treating disease. As a person who half grew up in a Chinese household, I can say Ms. Chua is not at all a typical Chinese mother (if there is one), but a first-gen Chinese person who really lost her mind. She's lucky she didn't lose her family and I think she knows it.
On another note, the Wall Street Journal recently ran an article about the rising number of rabbits being given as pets in China as it is the rabbit year and their not-so-lucky fates. The article quoted a spokesperson for a vegetarian group called "Don't Eat Friends." I had to chuckle at that. And then guilty remembered the times I've eaten and enjoyed our furry friends and a few others, especially while I was in China. It really does make a difference when you call them "friends".
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Mini Vegetarian Pot Pies
Some of you asked for the recipe for Mini Vegetarian Pot Pies, which I mentioned in an FB post. They are so easy, even the Earl of March could make them as they do not require those pesky things called eggs. You will need a few pieces of equipment:
Baking sheet
A round glass or circular cookie cutter
A cutting board or surface
Non-stick muffin tins (I got 18 pies, but if you roll the dough a little thinner you might get 24)
Oil spray
And some ingredients:
A package of frozen pie dough (two pieces), defrosted
Assorted vegetables for roasting (three or four carrots, two or three potatoes, leeks or yellow onion, one smallish squash or whatever other root veggies you might like to roast)
1 1/2 C frozen peas (because it's just not pot pie without the peas)
1 C white wine
1 1/3 C vegetable broth or chicken broth if you are not a strict vegetarian or making a chicken version
1/3 C heavy cream
1 T cornstarch
2 T warm water
And finally, directions:
Chop up your veggies into a thick dice. Heat your oven to 425 degrees. Put the veggies on the baking sheet and spritz with oil spray. Roast in oven until soft, about 30 minutes. Remove from oven and reduce the heat to 350 degrees. In a medium-sized pot, pour the white wine and broth. Bring to a boil. Add frozen peas and allow them to warm through. Dissolve the cornstarch in the warm water and add it to the pot. Add the veggies. Add the cream. Allow to cook until thickened, about five minutes.
Place the dough on a cutting board and press it out a bit, but don't make it too thin (this is a hearty recipe). With the cutter or glass, cut the dough into circles. Even if you are using a non-stick pan, spritz the muffin tin with a slight layer of oil as you will want the pies to come out pretty. Place one circle of dough into the muffin tin. Add a dollop of pot pie mixture (about 1- 1 1/2 tablespoons) and top with another dough circle. Repeat until tin is full. Bake until the tops of the pies are golden and any filling spilling out is oozy and brown, about 30 minutes. Allow to cool before you turn them onto a plate.
A serving suggestion:
Serve with Greek yogurt and a green salad. Or eat them cold from the fridge.
A note about the yield:
You will make about 18 pies and still have filling left over. What to do with it? Freeze it for another day. On that other day, you can either make this recipe again or make one giant pot pie if you aren't in the mood to cut out 36 or so dough circles.
Because this mixture satisfies the need for something creamy, you could also potentially (I say this because mine is still sitting frozen in the fridge) use the filling as a topping for noodles, a quickie veggie lasagna addition, a quiche base, omelet stuffing, or make another quick pot pie variation by putting it in a casserole and topping it with biscuit dough from a can (I can hear my former boss, a truly skilled foodie from the South, cringing, but I saw it in a magazine and can't get it out of my mind).
Baking sheet
A round glass or circular cookie cutter
A cutting board or surface
Non-stick muffin tins (I got 18 pies, but if you roll the dough a little thinner you might get 24)
Oil spray
And some ingredients:
A package of frozen pie dough (two pieces), defrosted
Assorted vegetables for roasting (three or four carrots, two or three potatoes, leeks or yellow onion, one smallish squash or whatever other root veggies you might like to roast)
1 1/2 C frozen peas (because it's just not pot pie without the peas)
1 C white wine
1 1/3 C vegetable broth or chicken broth if you are not a strict vegetarian or making a chicken version
1/3 C heavy cream
1 T cornstarch
2 T warm water
And finally, directions:
Chop up your veggies into a thick dice. Heat your oven to 425 degrees. Put the veggies on the baking sheet and spritz with oil spray. Roast in oven until soft, about 30 minutes. Remove from oven and reduce the heat to 350 degrees. In a medium-sized pot, pour the white wine and broth. Bring to a boil. Add frozen peas and allow them to warm through. Dissolve the cornstarch in the warm water and add it to the pot. Add the veggies. Add the cream. Allow to cook until thickened, about five minutes.
Place the dough on a cutting board and press it out a bit, but don't make it too thin (this is a hearty recipe). With the cutter or glass, cut the dough into circles. Even if you are using a non-stick pan, spritz the muffin tin with a slight layer of oil as you will want the pies to come out pretty. Place one circle of dough into the muffin tin. Add a dollop of pot pie mixture (about 1- 1 1/2 tablespoons) and top with another dough circle. Repeat until tin is full. Bake until the tops of the pies are golden and any filling spilling out is oozy and brown, about 30 minutes. Allow to cool before you turn them onto a plate.
A serving suggestion:
Serve with Greek yogurt and a green salad. Or eat them cold from the fridge.
A note about the yield:
You will make about 18 pies and still have filling left over. What to do with it? Freeze it for another day. On that other day, you can either make this recipe again or make one giant pot pie if you aren't in the mood to cut out 36 or so dough circles.
Because this mixture satisfies the need for something creamy, you could also potentially (I say this because mine is still sitting frozen in the fridge) use the filling as a topping for noodles, a quickie veggie lasagna addition, a quiche base, omelet stuffing, or make another quick pot pie variation by putting it in a casserole and topping it with biscuit dough from a can (I can hear my former boss, a truly skilled foodie from the South, cringing, but I saw it in a magazine and can't get it out of my mind).
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Fill In The Blank
These days, it seems nearly impossible to avoid reading about other people’s money in major print media outlets. And I’m just not above it. I admit it. On Saturday morning I don’t bother with either the newsprint sections of the weekend WSJ or The Financial Times (I read the New York Times on line, so I can savor that wealth digest during the week). I go straight for the magazine sections. Of the two financial pubs, I give more points to The Financial Times, which in its ballsy way, calls its wealth rag “How To Spend It.” Plus, it has this nasty, dishy column written in the style of an Ab Fab episode about the dilemmas presumably real wealthy people find themselves in due to their own shortsightedness and greed. I find it irresistible.
So, Gretel, you say, “What Has This To Do With Food?” I’m getting there. Last week, the Aesthete section (which is one of those Q&As all the newsy magazines now have with famous or just rich or rich and famous or just notorious people that are thin disguises for product placements) featured the Earl of March. You can Google it, but here is the link, because I love you and want you to be an FT reader, too.
You will notice first the Earl of March is handsome and he is very good at looking right at the camera, which either means he’s terribly self-assured or terribly shy and the photographer had to tell him dirty jokes to get him to sit on that couch and have his picture taken. He doesn’t smile. Presumably because he’s English and they have that teeth thing going. And here I’m going on a William Gibson tangent to say that the Earl of March looks exactly like my mental image of Hubertus Bigend (and that you have to look up on your own because on some things you just have to do your own homework).
You will notice second (or at least eventually or if you are me) that the interviewer asks that most impertinent question “In my fridge you’ll always find [fill in the blank].” His answer appears flippant, but if you parse it, as we will momentarily, well, “curioser and curioser” as my favorite English author would say.
The Earl fills in the blank with “...a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and Grenada chocolate from Rococo in London...” So there’s the product placement, right off the bat. Veuve is in his fridge and on his lips as the brand is very likely (although it is hard to tell exactly for sure from the website) sponsors of The Festival of Speed, held at the Goodwood racetrack, which is the Earl’s event and on his property.
The chocolate, however, gets an endorsement from the Earl, “- it’s absolutely the best, proper dark chocolate.” Not only that, it’s ethically proper as it is fair trade chocolate made from product from a cocoa farm in Grenada. You remember Grenada -- 1783 the Treaty of Paris, 1983 the U.S. invasion of...2004 Hurricane Ivan...2007 host of the Cricket World Cup and nutmeg capital of the world (at least, prior to 2004). So much to look up! Even better, the company is owned by a chocolate-obsessed woman. With three fabulous locations in London (Chelsea, Belgravia, Marylebone (none of which, I suspect are pronounced the way they are spelled) I doubt she’ll bring her chocolates to these shores, but isn’t that what the Internet is for? They ship hampers! I’ve always wanted a hamper that wasn’t for laundry.
The Earl continues, unbidden, and here’s where it starts to get deep (although I think it was intended to be Ab-Fab-by, as answered by his wife or publicist). “I don’t know about staples. I’m not looking for eggs when I go to the fridge, I’m looking for champagne and chocolate.” And it’s there that I’ve been stopped dead in my tracks for the last two weeks.
Of course the Earl doesn’t know about staples. Although, his father is an accountant, so you’d think he wasn’t raised with a silver spoon filling up all of his mouth. But never mind that. The Earl knows what he’s not looking for -- eggs. You have to cook them. They might have salmonella. They are a bother. Clearly, someone else does his cooking. The Earl is always looking for immediate gratification within his clean, stainless steel refrigerators. “Mouth pleasures” as they say on 30 Rock. Chocolate. And something to get drunk on.
I realized I have no damn idea what I’m looking for when I open the fridge. Then I thought, if I did have an idea of what I was looking for in the fridge, for starters, and then extrapolated that to the bigger picture of my life, say, my living room or my office, maybe I’d be more successful, more like the Earl, but with way better teeth. So I keep trying to fill in the blank. What would it always please me to find in my fridge? What would make me cut past all the clutter and reach for joy? I keep asking, asking. There’s no answer, yet. Do you have one?
So, Gretel, you say, “What Has This To Do With Food?” I’m getting there. Last week, the Aesthete section (which is one of those Q&As all the newsy magazines now have with famous or just rich or rich and famous or just notorious people that are thin disguises for product placements) featured the Earl of March. You can Google it, but here is the link, because I love you and want you to be an FT reader, too.
You will notice first the Earl of March is handsome and he is very good at looking right at the camera, which either means he’s terribly self-assured or terribly shy and the photographer had to tell him dirty jokes to get him to sit on that couch and have his picture taken. He doesn’t smile. Presumably because he’s English and they have that teeth thing going. And here I’m going on a William Gibson tangent to say that the Earl of March looks exactly like my mental image of Hubertus Bigend (and that you have to look up on your own because on some things you just have to do your own homework).
You will notice second (or at least eventually or if you are me) that the interviewer asks that most impertinent question “In my fridge you’ll always find [fill in the blank].” His answer appears flippant, but if you parse it, as we will momentarily, well, “curioser and curioser” as my favorite English author would say.
The Earl fills in the blank with “...a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and Grenada chocolate from Rococo in London...” So there’s the product placement, right off the bat. Veuve is in his fridge and on his lips as the brand is very likely (although it is hard to tell exactly for sure from the website) sponsors of The Festival of Speed, held at the Goodwood racetrack, which is the Earl’s event and on his property.
The chocolate, however, gets an endorsement from the Earl, “- it’s absolutely the best, proper dark chocolate.” Not only that, it’s ethically proper as it is fair trade chocolate made from product from a cocoa farm in Grenada. You remember Grenada -- 1783 the Treaty of Paris, 1983 the U.S. invasion of...2004 Hurricane Ivan...2007 host of the Cricket World Cup and nutmeg capital of the world (at least, prior to 2004). So much to look up! Even better, the company is owned by a chocolate-obsessed woman. With three fabulous locations in London (Chelsea, Belgravia, Marylebone (none of which, I suspect are pronounced the way they are spelled) I doubt she’ll bring her chocolates to these shores, but isn’t that what the Internet is for? They ship hampers! I’ve always wanted a hamper that wasn’t for laundry.
The Earl continues, unbidden, and here’s where it starts to get deep (although I think it was intended to be Ab-Fab-by, as answered by his wife or publicist). “I don’t know about staples. I’m not looking for eggs when I go to the fridge, I’m looking for champagne and chocolate.” And it’s there that I’ve been stopped dead in my tracks for the last two weeks.
Of course the Earl doesn’t know about staples. Although, his father is an accountant, so you’d think he wasn’t raised with a silver spoon filling up all of his mouth. But never mind that. The Earl knows what he’s not looking for -- eggs. You have to cook them. They might have salmonella. They are a bother. Clearly, someone else does his cooking. The Earl is always looking for immediate gratification within his clean, stainless steel refrigerators. “Mouth pleasures” as they say on 30 Rock. Chocolate. And something to get drunk on.
I realized I have no damn idea what I’m looking for when I open the fridge. Then I thought, if I did have an idea of what I was looking for in the fridge, for starters, and then extrapolated that to the bigger picture of my life, say, my living room or my office, maybe I’d be more successful, more like the Earl, but with way better teeth. So I keep trying to fill in the blank. What would it always please me to find in my fridge? What would make me cut past all the clutter and reach for joy? I keep asking, asking. There’s no answer, yet. Do you have one?
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Steak Out
A few weeks ago, I ate steak out twice in the same week. Since this is a blog and not the Diary of Samuel Pepys (I couldn't resist giving you that link), I will spare you the details of exactly where, how and why. Let it suffice to say that the first steak was eaten at possibly the most expensive restaurant, whose name in Italian and Spanish translates into "mouth", in our fair mid-sized Midwestern city and the second was eaten at Ruby Tuesday. I am going to argue that it was the same menu, although the better experience was Ruby Tuesday and you may think it an odd, strange thing but it was true. Here is why:
Upon entering the Mouth, we were greeted by Generation Y in tight skirt and shiny blouse with lots of hair tumbling over their shoulders. "Hello. We have an 8:30 reservation," said Lincoln, "We're a little early. Can you seat us?" Generation Y looked at him blankly out of four fair eyes and said, "We will seat you at 8:30." Lincoln prompted, "Then we will sit at the bar?" Generation Y pointed to the bar. We were a little taken aback, to say the least. We ordered expensive drinks and were seated at exactly 8:30 in a terrible corner that made me feel like I had tunnel vision all evening.
Our waiter, however, was lovely. He recited the evening's features in dulcet tones and left us with the menu. The menu at Mouth is divided into three sections by discreet little asterisks: * an appetizer/salad, ** a first course ***a main course. There were no prices. At first, I thought it was a throwback to the days when a lady was given a menu without prices to spare her knowledge of the price of her meal. Then, I read further. The entire menu was prix fixe, sort of. One could order a choice of two courses and dessert ($55) or three courses and dessert ($67). But, if one desired veal there was an up-charge. And if one specifically desired steak, there was a serious up-charge to $88 because * it was a 32 oz. New York strip ** it could only be ordered for "the table" and *** therefore it became the main course for everyone who would partake of it (in this case, Lincoln and myself). I was quite aware of the price or potential price of my meal.
Quickly checking to make sure I was still in a restaurant and not a Volvo dealership, I did the math and decided that the best deal going was the steak. The steak, after all, came with a salad/first course and three sides. By splitting a salad and first course and the steak entree we would spend less than say, Mrs. Obama visiting Spain. We had an excellent wine but the steak, although ordered medium rare, arrived so bloody and undercooked Mr. Andrews would have fancied it (I won't make you look that one up in the diary, the excerpt is provided below in footnote 1]). The sides were nicely-sized portions and completely unmemorable. We walked out of there for around $200 with a doggy bag of steak. And merry we were. But not really.
Later in the week, I found myself at Ruby Tuesday with Bartleby and She Who Is Not Named Phoebe and my parents. Everyone, also named Generation Y, greeted us nicely. There was a table ready, no waiting, no tunnel vision. A sling was brought for the baby's car seat, as it was observed she was snoozing. Our lovely waitress described no specials, but happily took our drink orders. I opened the menu to find it blissfully asterisk-free. Although there was an up-charge on certain of the Signature Sides, including Lobster Macaroni and Cheese, which I noticed because Mouth's menu had sensitized me.
Despite our earlier steak feeding (or maybe because of it) I was craving steak. Perusing the menu, I determined that the steak was also the best deal on the menu. I ordered the nine-ounce sirloin, medium. It came with a basket of cheddar biscuits reminiscent of the endless cheese puffs at Fogo de Chao (where everything, including steak, is endless and never served bleeding rare), but slightly sweeter. I selected two "Signature Sides" - creamy mashed cauliflower and fresh grilled asparagus (new!) that came with my meal. I did not want lobster macaroni and cheese, so no need to pay the up-charge for that, but it wouldn't have broken the bank had I desired it.
She Who Is Not Named Phoebe woke and ate almost all of the mashed cauliflower. Bartleby enjoyed some of my thin, toothsome grilled asparagus along with his hamburger and a cheesy biscuit or two. I walked out of there for $15 (with tip). No doggy bag necessary because we ate everything. And I WAS merry.
Now, you may be saying that Clever Gretel is getting old, has lived in the suburbs too long, is loosing her edge etc. but I think what is happening is that the lower end is watching the higher end, capturing the best of it and throwing out the rest. So there was no Maldon salt on the table and Ruby Tuesday's wine list probably lacks an Aglianico that would bring down the house, but give it time. Keeping it real is what keeps people coming back.
So, home to supper and to bed. Just like Sammy.
[1] "and merry we were, but it was an odd, strange thing to observe of Mr. Andrews what a fancy he hath to raw meat, that he eats it with no pleasure unless the blood run about his chops, which it did now by a leg of mutton that was not above half boiled; but, it seems, at home all his meat is dressed so, and beef and all, and [he] eats it so at nights also." The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday, October 17, 1667
Upon entering the Mouth, we were greeted by Generation Y in tight skirt and shiny blouse with lots of hair tumbling over their shoulders. "Hello. We have an 8:30 reservation," said Lincoln, "We're a little early. Can you seat us?" Generation Y looked at him blankly out of four fair eyes and said, "We will seat you at 8:30." Lincoln prompted, "Then we will sit at the bar?" Generation Y pointed to the bar. We were a little taken aback, to say the least. We ordered expensive drinks and were seated at exactly 8:30 in a terrible corner that made me feel like I had tunnel vision all evening.
Our waiter, however, was lovely. He recited the evening's features in dulcet tones and left us with the menu. The menu at Mouth is divided into three sections by discreet little asterisks: * an appetizer/salad, ** a first course ***a main course. There were no prices. At first, I thought it was a throwback to the days when a lady was given a menu without prices to spare her knowledge of the price of her meal. Then, I read further. The entire menu was prix fixe, sort of. One could order a choice of two courses and dessert ($55) or three courses and dessert ($67). But, if one desired veal there was an up-charge. And if one specifically desired steak, there was a serious up-charge to $88 because * it was a 32 oz. New York strip ** it could only be ordered for "the table" and *** therefore it became the main course for everyone who would partake of it (in this case, Lincoln and myself). I was quite aware of the price or potential price of my meal.
Quickly checking to make sure I was still in a restaurant and not a Volvo dealership, I did the math and decided that the best deal going was the steak. The steak, after all, came with a salad/first course and three sides. By splitting a salad and first course and the steak entree we would spend less than say, Mrs. Obama visiting Spain. We had an excellent wine but the steak, although ordered medium rare, arrived so bloody and undercooked Mr. Andrews would have fancied it (I won't make you look that one up in the diary, the excerpt is provided below in footnote 1]). The sides were nicely-sized portions and completely unmemorable. We walked out of there for around $200 with a doggy bag of steak. And merry we were. But not really.
Later in the week, I found myself at Ruby Tuesday with Bartleby and She Who Is Not Named Phoebe and my parents. Everyone, also named Generation Y, greeted us nicely. There was a table ready, no waiting, no tunnel vision. A sling was brought for the baby's car seat, as it was observed she was snoozing. Our lovely waitress described no specials, but happily took our drink orders. I opened the menu to find it blissfully asterisk-free. Although there was an up-charge on certain of the Signature Sides, including Lobster Macaroni and Cheese, which I noticed because Mouth's menu had sensitized me.
Despite our earlier steak feeding (or maybe because of it) I was craving steak. Perusing the menu, I determined that the steak was also the best deal on the menu. I ordered the nine-ounce sirloin, medium. It came with a basket of cheddar biscuits reminiscent of the endless cheese puffs at Fogo de Chao (where everything, including steak, is endless and never served bleeding rare), but slightly sweeter. I selected two "Signature Sides" - creamy mashed cauliflower and fresh grilled asparagus (new!) that came with my meal. I did not want lobster macaroni and cheese, so no need to pay the up-charge for that, but it wouldn't have broken the bank had I desired it.
She Who Is Not Named Phoebe woke and ate almost all of the mashed cauliflower. Bartleby enjoyed some of my thin, toothsome grilled asparagus along with his hamburger and a cheesy biscuit or two. I walked out of there for $15 (with tip). No doggy bag necessary because we ate everything. And I WAS merry.
Now, you may be saying that Clever Gretel is getting old, has lived in the suburbs too long, is loosing her edge etc. but I think what is happening is that the lower end is watching the higher end, capturing the best of it and throwing out the rest. So there was no Maldon salt on the table and Ruby Tuesday's wine list probably lacks an Aglianico that would bring down the house, but give it time. Keeping it real is what keeps people coming back.
So, home to supper and to bed. Just like Sammy.
***
[1] "and merry we were, but it was an odd, strange thing to observe of Mr. Andrews what a fancy he hath to raw meat, that he eats it with no pleasure unless the blood run about his chops, which it did now by a leg of mutton that was not above half boiled; but, it seems, at home all his meat is dressed so, and beef and all, and [he] eats it so at nights also." The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday, October 17, 1667
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
A Note On Trader Joe's
I am going to assume that most of you Juicy readers heard the story about Trader Joe's on NPR or read it in Fortune Magazine. I am feeling too lazy to find it and link out to it, so Google it yourselves. Anyway, a number of people commented to me that as Jews they were trying to decide if they were going to have an issue with their favorite grocery store being owned by Germans or not. None of them wanted to give up shopping at TJs, but they felt kind of guilty. For myself, I own cars made by the Axis (a Honda and a VW), so I was certainly not going to throw stones at my glass house. My response to my co-religionists was "Absolvate" on the Deutch issue. The Trader employs Americans and does it fairly by providing reasonable wages and benefits. Also, many an American company produces their food.
However, I do think we should take issue with TJ and his alter-egos (Giotto, Ming, etc.) on how much food he purchases from other countries. I'm not against sharing the wealth, but do we Americans need to eat Canadian tomatoes and bread (oh, it's good, though)? Or apples from New Zealand (I don't care how good their fujis are)? Or Peruvian asparagus? Personally, I have boycotted their nuts (mostly cashews) from Thailand because I hear that nuts from southern Thailand may contain lead. I would like to see the Trader rely more on our homegrown resources, sell foods when they are in season and not bother with the mid-winter imports to give us consumers more choice in that realm.
Soapbox done.
However, I do think we should take issue with TJ and his alter-egos (Giotto, Ming, etc.) on how much food he purchases from other countries. I'm not against sharing the wealth, but do we Americans need to eat Canadian tomatoes and bread (oh, it's good, though)? Or apples from New Zealand (I don't care how good their fujis are)? Or Peruvian asparagus? Personally, I have boycotted their nuts (mostly cashews) from Thailand because I hear that nuts from southern Thailand may contain lead. I would like to see the Trader rely more on our homegrown resources, sell foods when they are in season and not bother with the mid-winter imports to give us consumers more choice in that realm.
Soapbox done.
Flank Steak - Yes, You Can Roast It
I don't know what my deal is, but I've never roasted flank steak before tonight and I ended up with a most impressive dinner for a Tuesday night. Maybe you have, but I've mostly grilled, broiled, pan cooked or stir fried mine. Maybe you're wondering what the heck a flank steak is and how it differs from, say, a hanger steak? Well, you can look that up here. At any rate, to make this easy and impressive rolled roast do this:
Preheat your oven to 375 degrees.
1) quickly chop up some old challah, black and green olives, parsley, celery and onion. Place in a bowl. Toss in some yellow raisins (or you could use brown) and splash over some olive oil. Mix briefly, with your hands.
2) sprinkle flank steak on both sides with salt and pepper. Spread bread/olive mixture onto top side of steak. Roll and tie with string. Cover with foil.
3) roast until done, about 30 minutes and let rest, covered, for about 15 minutes.
Serve with roast potato and salad.
Preheat your oven to 375 degrees.
1) quickly chop up some old challah, black and green olives, parsley, celery and onion. Place in a bowl. Toss in some yellow raisins (or you could use brown) and splash over some olive oil. Mix briefly, with your hands.
2) sprinkle flank steak on both sides with salt and pepper. Spread bread/olive mixture onto top side of steak. Roll and tie with string. Cover with foil.
3) roast until done, about 30 minutes and let rest, covered, for about 15 minutes.
Serve with roast potato and salad.
The Briar, The Rose and The Bagel
Not long ago, I spent a teary-eyed hour reading food news on the Internets. Yes, I said tears. I usually turn to food writing for cheer, but these two articles reminded me, yet again, how deep a subject we are treading on when we write about food.
First, I read Michele Kayal’s essay Learning Who You Are Through What You Eat about handing down her Syrian culture to her daughter through traditional foods. I could almost taste the yebrat and lahem’ajeen (I’m not Syrian, but I have fond memories of goodies made by my best friend’s Lebanese aunts and, of course, the Northside of Chicago -- Lawrence and Kedzie to be exact. Head on over. It’s next to the bakery). Kayal also has a lovely blog, The Hyphenated Chef, which you Juicy readers should check out.
As if that weren’t enough, I then read this article in the New York Times about movie critic Roger Ebert, who is still cooking, although he can no longer eat or talk, due to cancer of his jaw. The process of cooking seems to help him stay in touch with his most fond food memories even as he is given over to “ghost pain” memories of foods and flavors from his past.
We all know, at some level, that food and memory are the briar and the rose, but these two articles gave me new perspective on the topic. As I was pondering these stories, I had to drive my kids to Indianapolis. I stopped, as requested at Marx’s bagel store (Kenwood Road in Blue Ash, Ohio). As I put the bagels in the car, I noticed the bag was warm, which always makes me remember the warm paper bags of bagels my father would bring home from Wriggler’s bakery (used to be on Millburn Avenue in Millburn, NJ. Shout out to me if it’s still there) on Sundays. It’s the same warmth as holding new baby around her bottom.
About twenty minutes in to the drive I was caught in stand-still traffic (this almost never happens in southeastern Indiana). As soon as it broke, the kids announced that they were hungry in their various ways (She Who Is Not Named Phoebe started crying and Bartleby tried negotiating for McDonalds). I pulled off the highway and over to the edge of a field. I went to the back seat, mixed formula for Not Phoebe and reached into the warm bag to give Bartleby a bagel. I ate my bagel as I watched the setting sun turn the grasses gold. I observed the clouds in the sky. I thought how this would always be known as “the time we got stuck in traffic, but we had a bag of warm Marx’s bagels in the car to eat.”
Now the bagel and the field, and the sun and the trip with the kids are all linked and, because of these readings, I was aware of the linkage in the moment when it happened. I was watching the process, letting the briar and the rose climb and entwine.
First, I read Michele Kayal’s essay Learning Who You Are Through What You Eat about handing down her Syrian culture to her daughter through traditional foods. I could almost taste the yebrat and lahem’ajeen (I’m not Syrian, but I have fond memories of goodies made by my best friend’s Lebanese aunts and, of course, the Northside of Chicago -- Lawrence and Kedzie to be exact. Head on over. It’s next to the bakery). Kayal also has a lovely blog, The Hyphenated Chef, which you Juicy readers should check out.
As if that weren’t enough, I then read this article in the New York Times about movie critic Roger Ebert, who is still cooking, although he can no longer eat or talk, due to cancer of his jaw. The process of cooking seems to help him stay in touch with his most fond food memories even as he is given over to “ghost pain” memories of foods and flavors from his past.
We all know, at some level, that food and memory are the briar and the rose, but these two articles gave me new perspective on the topic. As I was pondering these stories, I had to drive my kids to Indianapolis. I stopped, as requested at Marx’s bagel store (Kenwood Road in Blue Ash, Ohio). As I put the bagels in the car, I noticed the bag was warm, which always makes me remember the warm paper bags of bagels my father would bring home from Wriggler’s bakery (used to be on Millburn Avenue in Millburn, NJ. Shout out to me if it’s still there) on Sundays. It’s the same warmth as holding new baby around her bottom.
About twenty minutes in to the drive I was caught in stand-still traffic (this almost never happens in southeastern Indiana). As soon as it broke, the kids announced that they were hungry in their various ways (She Who Is Not Named Phoebe started crying and Bartleby tried negotiating for McDonalds). I pulled off the highway and over to the edge of a field. I went to the back seat, mixed formula for Not Phoebe and reached into the warm bag to give Bartleby a bagel. I ate my bagel as I watched the setting sun turn the grasses gold. I observed the clouds in the sky. I thought how this would always be known as “the time we got stuck in traffic, but we had a bag of warm Marx’s bagels in the car to eat.”
Now the bagel and the field, and the sun and the trip with the kids are all linked and, because of these readings, I was aware of the linkage in the moment when it happened. I was watching the process, letting the briar and the rose climb and entwine.
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