Goodies First

Offally Similar

I love a nice bowl of tripe-laden menudo and grilled intestines (Argentine a la parilla or Sichuan chong qing, preferably) as much as the next gal, so I’m not exactly complaining about how out of nowhere three blogs have taken up the offal cause. Is it the economy forcing us to take a closer look at cast offs or has nose to tail eating reached a tipping point?

Fork in the Road: Organ Recital
To date, they have eight entries focusing on duck feet, tripe, sheep intestines and trotters, calves liver, pork cracklins, blood sausage, (specifically kiska), liver pudding and head cheese that started back on April 7. The focus is on where to find these delicacies around the city. Relevant to me, perhaps not the rest of the world.

Eat Me Daily: Offal of the Week
Logically helmed by the author of Nose to Tail at Home, one of those pesky cook the book blogs (has Julie &  Julia paved the way for Ryan & Fergus?), this weekly series began April 10 and has quickly covered many classics: liver, trotters, sweetbreads, pig tail and ear, heart, marrow, tongue, kidney, brains, blood and tripe. Each entry includes a bit of history, personal experience and links to recipes.

Serious Eats: The Nasty Bits
So far they only have one entry dated June 29 about lamb’s neck stew and a simple accompanying recipe from The River Cottage Cookbook. I will have to reserve my judgment until I have more to go on. 

Bizarro World

Write what you know? How about write what you hate? It’s not really fair to say you don’t like something if you haven’t even done it, but sometimes scorn is contagious and irresistible. At least to me. So, this Saturday I vowed to be open minded and actually experience popular food-related activities before making any judgments. Opposite Day wasn’t really that painful.

Brunching and trying Stumptown coffee would be easy to accomplish at the same time in 11231. I feel like I cheated a little bit because instead of heading into the maw of the beast, a.k.a. Smith Street, or just walking the three blocks to Prime Meats, we drove to Kevin’s in Red Hook. A true Opposite Day would involve biking the short distance but procuring a new means of transport was too much on short notice. Oh, if I were doing this full force I would’ve found a venue with sidewalk seating, that’s the worst. I’ll sit in a backyard if it’s not crazy hot and humid but there’s nothing less appetizing than dining all exposed on an NYC sidewalk.

 Kevin’s was suspiciously mellow, just a few occupied tables, a same sex couple, single diners, not a stroller in sight, completely trauma-free. I never ever go out to breakfast or brunch because I don’t like getting up early, and yes, to me being somewhere at noon is getting up early. If I truly wanted to experience what I think I loathe I would’ve woken up around 8am and walked a dog, gone for a run and/or bike ride. None of those things will ever happen (I’ll jog, but only indoors). Other non-food related activities that are likely to never happen: yoga, mani/pedi, paying to have my laundry done and bikini waxing.

A rich cheddar cheese and bacon-filled omelet was just what I needed. The bacon was soft and fatty, which I prefer, but if you like crunchy doneness you might be disappointed. The toast was buttered within an inch of its life, soaked through and through.  The potatoes were ok, though I’d like a little more char on the edges. I would never cook food like this for myself in the morning, but I do appreciate the break from my dull weekday packet of oatmeal or Kashi bar.

I’m by no means a coffee connoisseur, despite how it may appear Northwesterners are not born with an exacting coffee palate, I drink a pre-ground brew from Trader Joe’s. I was expecting this coffee to be stronger, however it was subtle, low in acidity and very smooth. I wouldn’t say there was anything unique about the coffee but the large pot for $5 seemed fair. It turns out I don’t really have any problems with Stumptown or brunch as long as they are consumed a non-populous neighborhood.

 

Next stop, the Grand Army Plaza greenmarket. Rationally, I don’t issues with fresh produce and meat from humanely raised animals. I just don’t like crowds and I happen to be very cheap. For a little over $30 I picked up random odds and ends that included: pea shoots, snap peas, sourdough bread, Cato Corner Farm Hooligan cheese, half a dozen eggs, half a chicken, mesclun, peppermint. It was ok, and definitely didn’t kill me but I doubt I’ll be back any time soon. I am trying to look happy in my photo but I'm not sure if I'm succeeding.

My original plan was to go to Hapa Kitchen at BKLYN Yard, which is completely walkable from my apartment. Asian female food bloggers cooking greenmarket sourced food, the Treats Truck and DJs? Can it get any more Brooklyn? No. And I took a pass.

I fully embraced the speakeasy experience, though. Well, sort of. I think I was probably cheating again because I went to Dutch Kills, in the still no-man’s-land of Long Island City. Oh, and at 8pm so there were only two other groups of people and everything was running smoothly, lots of personal attention.

First I tried one of the chalkboard specials, the Water Lily. I will always try something using Crème de Violet, partially because I like the pretty lavender hue (which this didn’t have). The main liquor was gin and I think there was also Lillet and lemon involved.

Next, I asked for something citrusy (I prefer sour over sweet drinks) that uses Peychaud’s Bitters and was given a Pendennis Club, a riff on the Pegu Club that was made from lime juice, gin, apricot brandy, bitters and sugar syrup. It certainly looked girly with its rosy hue but the bitters keep the drink from heading into Sweet Tarts candy territory.

One more, I requested, “something like a whisky sour” and received my favorite of the night, a Silver Lining (rye, Licor 43, lemon juice, egg white and club soda). I love frothy egg white-topped drinks and the fruity-vanilla flavor of the Licor 43 was soft and creamy. I don’t know why vanilla, like pineapple or coconut, seem to make a cocktail seem trashy, there’s nothing wrong with any of those ingredients if they’re balanced. You never see a sophisticated bar using coconut or pineapple, though. Maybe I should ask, or better yet insist on Kahlua, and see what kind of reaction I’d get. (Ok, weird, a New York Times article on coconut cocktails just showed up in my feeds.) Here’s a Silver Lining recipe if you want to try one at home.

I can deal with $9 non-crappy cocktails, the going rate at Dutch Kills, because you can experiment a bit. Yes, they’re all dead serious about the ice cubes, the foam, the pomaded hair and dress suspenders, and old-timey vibe…and it didn’t bother me in the least. It might’ve though if I was paying $12+ and had to wait in line to get in. Go Queens!

Er, or not. After 10pm Opposite Day went off the rails. I took it upon myself to check out the new 18,000 square foot beer garden, Studio Square, in the same general area. This wasn’t Opposite Day material because I would drink beer and eat pretzels outdoors with no prompting. Yet, I was shocked at the mob scene and gruesome clientele. Maybe I’d spent too much time in the rarified dark woody interior of Dutch Kills, but yeah, this was a serious Queensy crowd, tanned, loud and in their twenties. The only bust of the day. I waited the snaking line to use the bathroom, then we left.

Starving after three cocktails on a now-empty stomach that hadn’t seen a thing since brunch ten hours earlier, food was a must. Roosevelt Avenue is a treasure trove but a startling number of restaurants close by 11pm. I started getting panicky and cranky, very much Normal Day not Opposite Day. James wanted to try Jollibee, but they were closing in ten minutes so he ran in and got two Aloha burgers to go. These we saved for Sunday. Now it’s Sunday and I’ve eaten mine (no, I'm not bothered by day-old fast food) so I can say that yes, I do love a pineapple ring on a cheeseburger. Pineapple seems to be a running theme.

Still with burgers in mind, we knew bars would still be serving food and headed up to the Irish part of Woodside and got a pint of Bass and an always awesome cheeseburger at Donovan’s. I hate steak fries, Opposite Day won’t change that, but the medium-rare burger was juicy and perfect with a gril-marked bun and two just-beginning-to-melt slices of American cheese on top and bottom. Donovan’s totally saved the night.

A Porpoise-Driven Life

Are you a chef if you don’t cook? I keep seeing headlines like “Dolphins are Talented Chefs” detailing recent findings that porpoises meticulously prepare and clean cuttlefish before eating them. Yes, it’s impressive that they are smart (and finicky) enough to remove ink sacs and tenderize flesh. But that’s more like being a prep cook than a chef, don’t you think? Raw foodists and ceviche-makers may beg to differ.

Clamming Up

We had time to kill between early dinner/late lunch at Chevy’s (first choice Jose Tejas was ten people deep waiting at the bar. Any time before 9:30pm on a weekend and you’re asking for trouble) and a 9:45pm showing of Gran Torino at the theater next door (it was the only vaguely watchable movie playing. Notorious was sold out and My Bloody Valentine was only in 2-D, lame) so I decided to find the answer to a pressing question I’ve always had. Where do people drink in the suburbs? At Applebee’s and Outback Steakhouse? You occasionally see strip mall sports bars, but seriously, where do people go?

This required detouring off chain-clogged Route 1 and scouring side streets. In this case, Wood Avenue in Linden, New Jersey, my favorite blue collar semi-suburb across from Staten Island. There were actual taverns along the little downtown strip dotted with Polish-Czech video stores and Eastern European butchers. Linden reminds me a little of Roseanne’s Lanford with the addition of minorities (the ratio of black teens to white adults at the movie theater was like 9-to-1).

I couldn’t decide which place to pick. Darkened windows with beer brand neon give little clue to what you might be getting into once you walk through a door. But when I spied anthropomorphic clams, one with a bottle of beer and another chomping on a piece of pizza, I knew Linfield Inn was our bar.

Still, I’m hesitant to walk into dive bars in neighborhoods I’m not super familiar with. Will it be tight-knit and cold shoulders or easy going and friendly? I never ventured into a single old man bar along Fresh Pond Road the three years I lived in another Eastern European enclave, Ridgewood, Queens because I’m just not the type who wins over strangers everywhere they go. I’m not a regular anywhere. (I’m still not sure why my coffee cart guy seems so fond of me [I feel incredibly guilty since moving floors and getting a coffee machine. I only stop by every few weeks now and my absence has been noted]. Maybe smiling and saying please and thank you is enough for some.)

After I opened the door in the back entrance in the parking lot, I was taken with the sign on the interior door beneath the Bud Light logo pointing out the bar and restaurant on the left and a historical society and reference library on the right. Really? Now we were talking. My photo is blurred because I was paranoid someone was going to push the door into me while quickly snapping it.

A few tables were finishing dinner as we entered and the rest of the clientele was made up of a handful of 45+ year old guys who all seemed friendly with the younger bartenders. A little later two college-aged couples came in together and ordered platters of fried food. A gruff Walt Kowalski (technically, I didn't have this thought until after seeing Gran Torino) type showed up and started busting the bartenders' balls and made me wonder when racial epithets might start flying. A disproportionate amount of customers were drinking cranberry juice and vodka.

I turned down the offer a menu because we’d just eaten, but now I regret not at least seeing what was on it. Was the burger advertised on the sign outside worth trying? And what about those clams? I also regret not having time to stay for a second drink or for the live entertainment promised at 10pm. To date, my only experience with live entertainment near Route 1 was the guy belting out ‘90s covers at Cheeseburger in Paradise.

In 2009, I vow to explore more side streets and independent operators. Ignoring the siren call of suburban chain restaurants won’t be easy but I’m up for the challenge.

Cocktails for the Potentially Non-Jet-Setting

I’ve been sifting through the padded envelopes of old cookbooks my mom has been sending me and reacquainting myself with missives I forgot I even owned.

I decided a stiff drink was order now that I’m sick to my stomach over Suvarnabhumi International Airport being shut down by protesters 36 hours before my heavily planned trip (with three hotels already paid for) to Thailand. Seriously, if this gets fucked up there will be hell to pay by someone, something…I’m not sure who will face the brunt of my ire yet.

Luckily, 1965’s lovely Easy to Make Maidens & Cocktails took my mind off of civil unrest in faraway places. I kind of love the unflattering illustrations that punctuate this charmingly sexist bar guide. Each liquor is assigned a type of maiden with a description of her personality. I’ve always thought of myself as a whiskey girl, despite rarely ordering it anymore.

 I know, I know, American whiskeys are super trendy now. But if you go into a non-dive that’s not a prohibition-era-speakeasy, it seems wrong to order something as rough as whiskey on the rocks. Whiskey sours, my old drink of choice, seem too musty (though I thinking of reclaiming it again). And no one is going to know how to make most cockamamie drinks from days of yore such as the Hot Deck (whiskey, sweet vermouth, Jamaica ginger [I’m assuming that’s ginger beer]) or a Beau Brummel (bourbon, orange juice, prunelle, sugar syrup). What’s a civilized way to drink whiskey? It’s still 2008 so that would probably dictate something involving elderflower liqueur or homemade bitters.

Not a question for today. Instead, I flipped through this book for something unique yet doable with ingredients already on hand was no easy task. I kept getting thwarted by lacking crucial items like Amer Picon, Benedictine or Chartreuse.

I finally arrived at the Café Kirsch. ¾ ounce Cognac, ¾ ounce, Kirschwasser, ¾ ounce strong coffee. Shake with cracked ice and strain into chilled cocktail glass. I did as told and came up with a strangely pale tiny drink. I would up the three-quarters to full ounces. Well, assuming I would make this again, which I’m not sure I will.

The scent was coffee, yet the overall taste was strong and bitter, kind of firewatery with a hint of cherry poking through. This is definitely not for sweet beverage lovers. I’m not sure that it’s for anyone. There was a missing component needed to smooth things over.

Maybe I will tackle pousse cafes next. Now, that’s beyond retro. I’ve always been enamored by the layered rainbow effect, but that seem tricky to get right. I was impressed by Ruth Reichl’s skills when she demonstrated the technique on a episode of Diary of a Foodie earlier this year.

Monkey See, Monkey Do

I love monkey bread. Or at least I think I do, as I haven’t eaten the doughy treat in decades. Only I had no idea that’s what it was called until a few weeks ago when I read a bit on Serious Eats pitting the canned biscuit version (the type I’m familiar with) against a baking mix.

Then, monkey bread popped up again courtesy of Esquire’s nostalgic look back at holidays of yore. 1984 brought us Nancy Reagan’s version, which uses a scratch recipe no Pillsbury conveniences.

Are ‘80s confections making a resurgence? Yes, I’ll reiterate my loathing for ‘80s music for the zillionth time but Reagan-era food? I could get into that. Bring on the taco salad served in fried tortilla bowls and Jello-O poke cakes.

TLC was recently playing some longwinded show, which I’ve since deduced is Home Made Simple where they redecorate a house and teach the inhabitants how to cook and it goes on for an hour. I was just using it as  background noise until I was drawn in while catching a glimpse of what I call Chinese chews (apparently, nothing like these more commonly agreed upon Chinese chews), another treat I haven’t encountered in over 20 years. Melted chocolate and butterscotch chips mixed with peanuts and those crispy chow mein noodles and formed into blobs chilled on a baking sheet.

It looks like some people call them haystacks, but that just isn’t right to me. Haystacks? Monkey Bread? How come I’m only hearing these monikers well into my 30s?

Whole Hog

It seems that whole pig roasts are all the rage (I read about one today on Chez Pim, Esquire just deemed suckling pig as ingredient of the year and I hear that the Big Brooklyn Pig Roast held in my neighborhood last week sold out). And while not trend crazed, I won’t say no to an invite either.

This weekend a meaty fete was thrown by James’ caja china-owning coworker who was giving it a test run in his Bed-Stuy backyard. Home ownership has its benefits.

I had nothing to do with the pig prepping or any of the Latin-style accompaniments. All I know is that the party’s star came from Paisanos in Carroll Gardens and that asking the price would be gauche. Oh, and that it was brined in a garbage bag. I merely showed up with a six-pack and a hunger for pork. The yellow rice, tostones and soupy red beans weren’t too shabby either.

We arrived right after the butterflied animal had been removed from the coals, still pressed in its metal contraption.

It finally decided to get fall-like and an unexpected chill had set in. I hadn’t even thought to wear a coat (it was almost 80 on Wed.) so I stayed close to the caja china instead of sitting down properly. The best part of hanging out near the dying coals, was being able to crisp up fatty slices of skin on the fly. That, however, is not skin on the rack but a steak.

You could take such a creation in many directions. When and if I ever have the space to roast a whole beast, I envision lechon and a Filipino spread.

But Can She Carve a Turkey With Those Paws

Oh my, this video encapsulates all of my loves: chubby Siamese cats, crazy ladies and well, food. When was the last time you saw a feline eating with chopsticks?

via Guanabee

This Takes the Cake

As long as I live I’ll never understand the formula that creates an instant blog hit. I know enough that deceptive simplicity with a singular focus is key (and that I’m all about murkiness and scattered thinking).

The latest blog in funny and to-the-point category is Cake Wrecks, one that I’ve noticed quite a few food blogs linking to over the past week or so.

I immediately thought of my friend Jane who has baked some wonderfully grotesque cakes in her day.

And apparently, this sweet-centric blog has thought of her too. My attention was just drawn to a post about an edible Chinese bound foot beauty of hers that’s provoked a stupendous amount of grossed-out comments, a few bizarrely P.C.

Who knew freakish baked goods could stimulate so much online conversation?

Zero-Calorie Steak

After all this recent beef talk, I was happy to chance upon papercraft steaks. Made in Japan, of course.

You Say Stilcheechon, I Say Stilton

I was confounded by a cheese last month at Gramercy Tavern. When one of the servers brought out an end of meal cheese plate, he ran through the four offerings and introduced a blue with a name that sounded like “stilcheechon” and added, “it’s different from Stilton.”

First I thought salchichon, but clearly it wasn’t sausage, then I started mentally questioning his pronunciation (when I first moved to NYC I was convinced that culantro was a misspelling because I’d never heard of it). He did have a strong accent, which I actually appreciated (it’s nice seeing Latinos and South Asians working front of the house, especially in light of last year’s Boulud lawsuit) and he clearly knew what he was talking about so I was the clueless one.

Later, I tried Googling spelling variations (stilchichon, stiltchichon, stilcheechon) and came up short. But thanks to The Kitchn, my memory was refreshed yesterday. It’s Stichelton. Ok, so either the waiter did pronounce it a little funny or I transposed syllables in my brain, but at least the mystery is solved.

Sure, it ranks pretty low on the scale of life’s great mysteries (I’d rather discover Sasquatch or D.B. Cooper—keeping it NW for you) but sometimes cheese is all I have.

Cafe Culture

Japanese creations never fail to amaze me (I’m still marveling over cucumber Pepsi and vending machine costumes as camouflage against rapists) and sometimes they double whammy me within minutes of each other.

First, I heard about Butlers Cafe where Japanese women can be treated like princesses by cute western men. Kind of Disney and creepy yet intriguing.

Shortly afterward, I was skimming Cha Xiu Bao and became even more astonished by Café Edelstein, a dreamy restaurant where geeky girls are served by faux well-bred, boarding school-educated gentlemen. The types of gay-ish boys featured in Shōnen-ai manga.

I think this is awesome because freakish fantasy services typically seem geared towards males, cosplay restaurants in particular. They just don’t do this type of thing here, at least not for grown women. Little girls have over-the-top American Girl Café but beyond grade school weirdo role playing restaurants certainly aren’t acceptable.

We just get stuck with Medieval Times.

Who Needs a Sugar Daddy When You Have Splenda?

I told you 2008 was going to be my year. First I found out that fruit, my least favorite foodstuff, has little nutritional value. Then I was completely shocked to discover that cocktails brimming with cream, juice, chocolate and/or liqueurs are caloric. Thankfully, mudslides and white russians aren't part of my drinking repertoire.
 

And now I’ve read about two studies in one week that allow me to feel (minutely) superior in my choices. Disgusting things: diet soda and saccharin-sweetened yogurt, make you fat. I thought we had already decided that aspartame was evil. I never touch either so god only knows what my flabby excuse is. General excess, I suppose.

I’ve always wished I had something small and radical I could cut from my diet like chips (salty and boring) soda and juice (water has always suited me fine, which might be the most un-American thing about me) or milk and sugar in my coffee (I’ve always taken it black) and not things like bread, alcohol, pork products or candy (I actually have stopped snacking on sweets since January to infinitesimal results).

I am still waiting for the miracle study linking bacon to heart health and general svelteness. That's not so outrageous--isn't lard healthier than shortening?

Roll with It

I don’t know O’Charley’s, a seemingly Midwestern chain, firsthand but their promotional site features a heartwarming tale about a stellar roll that’s kind of the anti-Kogepan crossed with the Zoloft blob.

Now I’m craving warm bread.

Nature's Candy

I love this article, “The Myth of Fruit” from Wednesday’s Guardian. This quote sums up what I’ve thought for some time. And I can get all cranky on the subject and presumably not rile up freaks on the internet, assuming the public is less passionate about fruit than food allergies, their appearances on Jeopardy! and wine bars in Williamsburg (scroll to comments for warm fuzzy fun).

“If you believe the nutrition industry, every week produces some new superfood, often a fruit: blueberries, pomegranates, acai berries. The fact is that fruit consists of water, sugars (normally about 10%), some vitamin C, and some potassium (thought to be good for controlling blood pressure). And that's kind of it.”

I’ve always hated fruit (though I love vegetables) and feel like it’s a chore to eat. The mandarin oranges (I can’t call them clementines—is this an East Coast thing?) Granny Smiths and bananas I’ve been lugging to work the past few months have been killing me.

Fruit juice feels like a total waste of calories and smoothies seem like a joke. Melon is flat-out disgusting and the only food in the entire universe that I won’t eat (well, there’s malta, but that’s a beverage). Minus melon, I don’t mind tropical fruit every now and then, but that’s all. And maybe my problem is that I was raised on bland grocery store produce, though I doubt it. People are always raving about Honeycrisp apples, but to me an apple is an apple and they’re boring.

If I want sweets, I would rather eat real desserts (poached pears and baked apples will not cut it). Nature just doesn’t make candy; that’s as sad as calling graham crackers cookies.

Bad fruit image from Lunacy Beads

The Land of Lean Beef

The term beefcake (as opposed to cheesecake, I suppose) always seemed funny, unsexy and early ‘80s like Chippendale’s dancers and referring to asses as buns.

Beefscapes, on the other hand, are the most awesome food art since that guy started painting on tortillas (and they certainly beat Sandra Lee’s tablescapes). Canyons and valleys of meat? Maybe the Cattlemen’s Beef Promotion and Research Board's new ad campaign is working on me because I’m not a huge beef eater, yet I still find these carnivorous dioramas creepily mesmerizing.

Just get a load of that eye-popping Crumb-Crusted Top Sirloin and Roasted Garlic Potatoes with Bourbon Sauce.

via The Grinder

What Would Honey Maid Do?

I’m guessing that on average I might bake a cheesecake every year and a half. And the reason I know this is because when I went to put my new ¾-still-full box of graham crackers into the cupboard after Thanksgiving, I was faced with two other ¾-still-full boxes of graham crackers. One had an expiration date of December 26, 2004, the other had no expiration date to speak of.

I’m phobic of ancient food, mold and the bugs that always seem to work their way into our dried goods (no matter how tightly I contain our jasmine rice, little moths still sprout inside the air-tight tub, which implies there are eggs in the original bag) so the oldies will have to go. But I hate wasting food, even if it only cost $1.59. No, I'm never swayed by brand names.

 

My first plan of attack was making s’mores using dark orange-flavored chocolate. Using the gas burners wasn’t so successful because it just charred without melting enough. I resorted to microwaving. You do have to be careful because marshmallows balloon up in that mutant Peeps way.

Now I still have half a box left and I’m at a loss. What can you do with graham crackers other than passing them off on little kids by telling them they’re cookies. Graham crackers are so not cookies.

Whenever stumped by a food product, I go straight to the source. What would Honey Maid do? Ah yes, Nabisco would have me crafting graham fruitcake and a holiday house. Which reminds me, my friend Jane just made a charming gingerbread crackhouse. I'm sure something similar could be done with graham crackers.

Wurst Ad Ever

It’s times like this where YouTube fails me. And I'm not savvy enough to make videos from DVRd television, so a still will have to suffice. A few weeks ago I started noticing a commercial for what appears to be a new international culinary program at the Art Institutes. Never mind that AI lacks the cache of CIA, the problem is that they use German cuisine to win over the viewer. Apparently, the students’ cooking is so authentic that they start to sprechen Deutsch. The secrets to bratwurst and kuchen revealed? Sign me up.

What I’m trying to figure out is if the Art Institutes are hopelessly out of touch with gastronomic trends or if they’re cutting edge. Based on the following tidbits from the past month, I declare the Art Institutes eerily prescient.

November 5th: Gridskipper maps out Berlin’s haute culinary haunts.

November 14th: the New York Post posited that a schnitzel revival is underway.

November 18th: The New York Times devoted nearly 3,000 words to neue Deutsche küche, a.k.a. new German cuisine.

November 21st: Eater predicts the lamb schnitzel at newcomer The Smith will be removed from the menu due to being “absurd.” A backlash already?

Someone has to put an end to the whole Spanish avant-garde thing, right?

Deceptively Delicious

Anything super sounds good, right? But as I’ve understood supertasters, it’s really kind of the opposite. More taste buds means more taste perception, which means heightened sensitivity to strong flavors. Because of this supertasters tend to be picky as children (which would correspond with the genetically picky kids  over environment theory) and don’t like bitter things or fatty flavors.

True, bitter is my least favorite flavor profile but I drink my coffee black, like dark chocolate and the brassica family and fatty meat rarely repels me. I didn’t always like what was on my plate as a child, but that wasn’t so much a case of being picky--I just wasn’t so crazy about the food I was served (sorry, mom). I don’t think loathing only two foods in the world—melon and malta—constitutes picky. Pickiness is infuriating. If anything I’m a subtaster, dull-budded, always wanting more.

That’s why I was curious about the supertaster test being offered through BlogSoop. Their theory is that food bloggers would tend to be supertasters and that’s why they’re into food. I didn’t suspect that was the case with me because I don’t fit the finicky, highly attuned profile; I just like to eat and type words that disappear into bloggy ether.

But if I’m to believe the results—you chew a piece of treated paper to see if you taste nothing, mild bitterness or extreme bitterness, and I had foul bile-ish bitterness in my mouth for an hour—I’m super, after all.

Maybe it’s a covert experiment about the power of suggestion. Like if people think supertasting is a good thing than they’ll want to taste the bitterness?  If you peruse the internet, it seems like anyone who has taken various tests (including this whack BBC one) has turned out to be a supertaster.

Sunday Night Special: Steamed Taro with Chopped Salted Chiles

My Hunan salted chiles from a few weeks ago were good and fermented (I’m not sure why fermented food seems desirable but liquids not so much. This very second, I’m 1/3 of a way through my first ever bottle of kombucha and I’m not sure if it’s likeable or putrid. I’m having a very tough time not letting the floaties get to me. A friend was raving about it, but then I reminded myself that in college she used to drink apple cider vinegar like it was soda) so I needed a recipe. I still don’t feel like it’s root vegetable weather but steamed taro didn’t sound like a bad idea.

But I didn’t end up buying taro, even though it’s not too hard to find disguised as malanga in Caribbean-oriented grocery stores. I saw it at Western Beef Sunday, where I picked up this adorable Croatian packet of seasoning that uses a semi-chopstick-like font.

Recently I picked up a frozen bag of something called ratalu at Patel Brothers. As I’ve stated before, I love all things Swad brand (their microwavable vegetable dishes in a box are only 99-cents--aren't Trader Joe's like $2.99?), so these magenta cubes drew me in. I figured they were taro and I could save all the cleaning and chopping (taro contains irritants—if you recall the Top Chef season two finale, Ilan got taken to task for not cooking his taro leaves long enough).

But according to web searches it seems that ratalu is a purple yam. I’m not convinced that it’s the same as Filipino ube yet. That was a strange find because just yesterday I decided that I would use my newish ice cream maker to create ube ice cream for a halo-halo experiment and had been wondering how hard it might be to find frozen (fresh is out of the question). Who knew I had in the house already?

I love it when someone else has already typed a recipe out for me. Steamed Taro with Chopped Salted Chile Peppers was posted on Serious Eats back in February when Fuchsia Dunlop's Hunan cookbook came out.

The one thing I’m not clear on is how the taro chunks are supposed to hold up or if they’re even supposed to. I’ve had taro in Chinese casseroles and it stays in squares. This mystery root turned to mush and I ended up just mashing it into a violet paste that tasted much better than it looked. You have to admit that it’s still prettier than poi.

It sounds silly, but the ratalu, whatever it was, tastes lavender. The flesh was barely sweet, more potato than yam and almost perfumey without being sickening like rose water (a personal aversion). The saltiness and mild heat of the chiles and black beans played off this hard to describe mauve flavor and created a dish that would almost go better with grilled meat than white rice. But I’m not one for double starches.

XXtra, XXtra, Read All About It

Cheetos are the only chips I like (yeah, yeah, they’re not really chips in the potato sense) and it’s not like I’m presented with Cheeto-snacking opportunities on a regular basis. But there’s something about road trips that brings out my true junk-loving nature. As kids, whenever my dad (never my mom) would stop at a convenie nce store/gas station , he’d invariably come back to the car with treats not allowed during day to day life, like Hostess pudding pies (do they still make those? Er, apparently not), mini Bama pecan pies (no, I didn’t grow up in the south) and it might have only happened once but I will always remember a can of tooth pain sweet Nehi Strawberry soda. Mars bars were his candy of choice, which have been transformed into the modern Snickers with almonds.

On the longer than anticipated drive down to Key West from Miami (Google estimated three hours, but it took more like five because people drive so freaking slow, which is to say exactly the speed limit. I’ve never seen such a thing around here, and even though it’s infuriating to get mowed down by New Jersey drivers when you’re going 80 m.p.h., it’s more excruciating to be stuck on a one-lane highway doing 35) I managed to avoid gas station candy (but I was lucky enough to run into a CVS and find Great Lash Blackest Black mascara, an item I forgot to pack, mere feet from the entrance and with a dollar off coupon attached to it. You don’t know how good it feels to spend less than four bucks with zero legwork to pick up a necessity). However, we didn’t avoid fried seafood but that’s not for now.

On the way back to Miami, I picked up a Chick-O-Stick, which was kind of blander than I remember and I swear, slightly cinnamon tinged. I love limited edition snacks (they also had blue cheese and buffalo flavored Doritos packed together in the same bag, which was kind of clever) so I was happy to see James pick up a 99-cent bag of XXTRA Flamin’ Cheetos at a mini mart. I hate food that claims to be hot and isn’t. Wow, their “twice as hot!” was no hyperbole. These fiery nuggets were way more heated than either of us anticipated and possibly not good driving food. They induced coughing and I was afraid James might veer off the dimly lit highway into a manatee laden swamp or something.

Five days later, last night, the bag was still in our apartment, maybe ¼ full. I started picking at the Cheetos and they were hot but not as wildly punishing as they seemed on the weekend. Had my palate toughened up or had they lost their kick?

Interblog Mingling

I’ve been so preoccupied the past few days with work work and impromptu trip planning that I forgot to mention my guest post on Gowanus Lounge. My finger isn’t quite on the pulse of new Brooklyn developments (I never know what’s going on even in a three-block radius from my own apartment). Luckily, others have that covered so I can spend more time on the mundane and me-centric.

There Must be Sadder Pastimes Than Grocery Shopping, Right?

I’ve never been able to wrap my head around farmers market fanaticism (though I did pay a brief visit to Grand Army Plaza’s on Saturday and picked up some tomatoes and opal basil). I get my entertainment from wide-aisled, fluorescent-lit mega markets. The Western Beef H.Q. will always be my favorite mainstream grocery store but Stop & Shop wows in other ways.

We really only go when we need to return bottles (though it’s often fruitless since I figured out they don’t take brands they don’t sell, so all our Trader Joe’s and various microbrew brands were rejected). I made a whopping 95 cents from plastic Vintage Seltzer. If anyone knows of any self-serve bottle returns in South Brooklyn, please do tell.

The two bright spots are the baked goods and metal shelves teeming with discontinued items. They used to hide the marked down rejects in the back near the bathrooms but it has been moved so it’s the first thing you see upon entering. You don’t often see price-slashed cast offs in NYC, probably because there isn’t enough room.

I picked up a can of oil-packed Genova Tonno (which I just discovered is owned by Chicken of the Sea) which isn’t half-bad tossed with white beans, red onions and arugula. But it was the Trivial Pursuit Pop Tarts that took top prize from the shelf of misfit food. I genuinely like Pop Tarts so I’m still debating whether I should eat them or save them along with my other just-for-looks snacks like Strawberry Fluff and KC Masterpiece ranch-flavored bbq sauce that I hoard on an Ikea Ivar shelf downstairs.

 

Ready to eat cheesecake filling was new to me. I thought those no-bake Jello “cheesecake” mixes were instant enough. There’s something about this plastic tub that implies the filling will never make its way into a crust and more likely alternate between spoon and mouth.

I couldn’t believe Stop & Shop didn’t have Lofthouse cookies, that’s their one reliable item. But single serve carrot cake and 7UP crème cake (we bought both) made up for the lack of soft cookes.
Do they still have Little Buckets at KFC? Ok, yes they do (I love answering my own question). S&S makes Boston cream, strawberry shortcake and said carrot cake in short stubby plastic containers that remind me of a fast food dessert.

 

A cheap jumble of raisin and nut studded cake, whipped cream and piped cream cheese frosting. For only $1.99, I got three snack occasions out of this.

The Trouble with Fennel Seeds & Couscous

I find it hard to believe that the nation’s still not ready for goat cheese (I knew there was no way Bonnie was going to win over high schoolers with breaded goat cheese on Monday’s Hell’s Kitchen). Which is why I find it strange that anyone would enjoy a handful of whole fennel seeds in their salad.
I never ever eat at Cosi and am not in the habit of spending eight bucks for a salad (though I’m currently coveting Starwich’s pricy citrus duck salad and debating whether or not to run out get it—heck, I’ve got a little birthday spending money burning a hole in my pocket) but it was Friday and I get loopy. I only chose it because it was the lowest fat of the three new low fat salads. And it’s certainly not a low fat meal if you eat the fluffy flat bread that comes on the side.

It tasted low fat, all right. It’s the kind of thing I’d make from Cooking Light and have trouble choking down the next night as leftovers. I liked the idea of tandoori chicken and pomegranate dressing. Those two components were fine. The lettuce was neutral. But toasted fennel seeds were foul. Maybe I was putting too much stock in the arugula-ification (MS Word doesn’t even recognize the word arugula) of America because I was hoping they meant fennel pollen. But they said seeds and that’s what they meant. It could be my own bias because I’m not licorice crazy but the anise flavor was completely overwhelming and the seeds kept getting stuck in my teeth. Sure, a little pinch of candy-coated seeds after an Indian meal is refreshing but you don’t necessarily want repeated mouthfuls. The toasted fennel seed and chicken salad nipped my Cosi experimentation right in the bud.

Ok, I gave in to the Starwich urge and they managed to mess up my plan. I had been looking forward to “tender braised duck, torn peppercress, frisee, shaved carrots, Israeli couscous with orange-cherry vinaigrette” and I almost got all that. I tempered my initial desire for a sandwich and went for a salad instead. At least the couscous would add a little heft (to my meal not my body, duh). But after paying my $9.95 and waiting, it turned out that they didn’t have any of the little starchy orbs. The cashier asked the little Mexican guy making the salad what he’d recommend as a substitution and he ended up adding cucumbers and oranges. Not bad really--I barely missed the couscous. There was some serious foliage tangled up in my plastic container, though.  That peppercress is a tough customer and my plastic knife got a work out. It was certainly worth the extra two bucks to avoid fennel seed overload.

Open & Shut Case

I wasn’t sure what a tinaguis meant literally (and was bothered by the McGriddles-style singular S) but they seem to be markets that set up in neighborhoods different days of the week. Condesa, where I was staying, had one on Tuesday off of Avenida Veracruz and another on Friday around Calle Campeche. I ventured out early (for me) Tuesday morning to see what I’d find.

I never ever frequent farmers’ markets in NYC (though I would if there was one less than five blocks away like this tinaguis) and it’s not like I could’ve done much with raw meat or even fresh fruit and produce since no refrigerator or stove were at my disposal. I was more interested in surveying the cooked food scene, anyway.

I didn’t even attempt capturing vendors and their wares on camera because it’s not my thing. When I was in Kuala Lumpur a few summers ago I met up with some photographically blessed bloggers (EatingAsia, Masak-Masak and others) and tagged along to a few wet markets. A lot goes into those seemingly effortless shots: time, set-up, tenacity. I’m a hands-off peripheral person, which is why I’ve never have spot-on photos and rarely include humans.

Speaking of Latin America vs. Asia, I was almost hoping that I’d get the same feeling for Mexican food and culture that I do for Malay-Singaporean stuff because there’s already such a glut of S.E. Asian boosterism, home and abroad. For no particularly valid reason, I feel like I should have some natural affinity or sense of ownership for a cuisine, and why not Mexican? Yes, it’s strange to want to be possessive of a style of food.

Regional Mexican food is insanely diverse and nuanced compared to many other Latin American countries that rely heavily on the rice+beans+meat combo. It’s a big country. I like what I know but it feels like a just good friends thing where laksa, noodles and curries are full on crushes. I’m no advocate of arranged marriages or learning to love so I’ll have to face the facts. White male hipsters and dorks all over the country are allowed to cozy up to Asian gals, so why not me with food? My... I’m getting off track.

I was surprised to see lychees and such a preponderance of melon, my most hated food (not fruit, food). I managed to avoid most of the guys handing out samples until one literally stuck a small wedge in my hand. I panicked, then wondered if maybe I was missing out on an amazing flavor experience like people who say, “I never liked green beans until I ate freshly plucked from the earth haricot vert in Brittany” or something. I nibbled a piece and yes, it tasted like melon, then I wondered if I was going to suffer fruit-induced bodily harm later in the day.

We stuck with the non-raw stuff and randomly picked a quesadilla stand from the many on hand. I do regret never getting to try a tlacoyo. For both antojitos, some were made with blue corn tortillas, others white. Initially, I wasn’t positive that the narrow oblongs on grills were quesadillas because they were so skinny. I stayed simple and had a chicken and cheese one that I dabbed with lots of deep dark chipotle salsa. I’ve always liked horchata but now get why it’s so good. There’s nothing more refreshing with hot food and weather. It’s like ultra water and serves a need like coconut water.

It was when I spied the woman with a giant metal tamale steamer and plastic cooler on the corner in front of the OXXO that I got excited. From a distance she appeared to be stuffing something in a bolillo (roll). Was this a new sandwich species? In my stilted Spanish I asked, “¿es un tamale en pan?” paired with a smiling yet confused expression. A younger woman who might’ve been a family members confirmed with a “si,” and they both laughed like they also thought it was funny.

Fun is good, especially when it comes to sandwiches. I used to think Hawaiian was a wacky torta style but in Mexico City it appeared by be as commonplace as VW bugs on the street. Much weirder were tortas Rusa and Kentuky that I saw listed on a few signs.

shut tamale sandwich

open tamale sandwich

The tamale lady then rattled off a list of tamale choices; dulce and mole are the only ones I recall now. I chose mole because a sweet tamale in a roll just didn’t seem right, though I know they eat ice cream sandwiched between bread/brioche in Singapore (I still can't get over the awesomeness of these insane colors--I'm a sucker for any edible that's unnaturally hued) and Italy. Savory starch encased in starch immediately brought chip butties to mind, but really mealy bready snack is more akin to a vada pav or panelle sandwich.

All three of those brown on brown treats are greater than the sum of their parts, so too the tamale sandwich. It’s not until you really get a few inches into the creation that all of the components make themselves known. You do spend a bit of time just chomping on corn and wheat products before getting to the meaty, moist heart of the beast. I didn’t see anyone adding condiments, thought that would’ve seemed logical. Such a multi-facted monster does exist and it’s called a mother-in-law sandwich.

Red Hooks & Barbs

Welcome to another edition of talk (to myself) therapy. Last week I came to terms with trendy Macanese food, now I’m trying to come to terms with the rise of the Red Hook ball fields and the public (ok, the blogosphere) rallying to preserve them. I should care if the little guy gets put out of business, especially when the little guy crafts tasty snacks. Yet the more I hear about something, the more I begin to loathe it even when it’s worthy of constant comment. Sometimes I worry that that’s a horrible self-defeating attitude I need to rid myself of, then I read funny, possibly made up letters and feel vitriolic and at peace.

The Latin American food vendors in no way approximate the oversaturation of Shake Shack or Momofuku Ssam—there’s no attitude or ridiculous waits. And most importantly, I just live up the street. But I don’t even feel like going if it’s going to be douche central. I thought about taking my visiting mom and stepdude this past weekend but the Charles Schumer and friends save our salt of the earth artisans spectacle ensured that I’d steer clear. We went to Coney Island and Totonno’s instead.

It's Rampant

I’ve had no time to think lately. While I get my concentration back, here are a few new (to me) items that have caught my fancy.

Not ramps. I’ve never bought ramps, though I’ve possibly eaten them twice. They’re just an onion-like vegetable, I don’t need to hear about them endlessly. Maybe it’s because I only recently got hip to RSS feeds but like every other post popping up in my reader is ramp related. Ramps. Ramps. Ramps. Ramps. Ramps.

I’m pretty sure that Flying Goose chile sauce isn’t brand new but I’d never noticed the pastel tipped bottles until a few weekends ago at Pacific Supermarket in Elmhurst. From a distance it just looked like regular Huy Fong, a.k.a. rooster sauce but this is a different brand with amped up flavors like lemongrass, extra garlic and galangal. Very cool.

I also discovered Chimes during this same Chinese grocery shopping excursion. I usually do a sweep through the snack aisle for wasabi peas, shrimp chips and Japanese mixed rice crackers but I don’t always scrutinize the sweets. Maybe Chimes have always been there. I was struck the subtly old-fashioned packaging rather than the cartoony, bright hued bags I’m used to. It looks like they’re Indonesian and that the design was well-considered. These individually wrapped ginger chews come in plain, mint or peanut. I’m not fanatical about ginger’s strong bite, but with peanut? Genius.

I like to take notes and it’s not always easy finding a small inoffensive pad. I haven’t seen these Serrote notebooks in person yet but they seem right on and feed my woodgrain fetish. Yes, I know they’re pricier than a Mead spiral but in the scheme of things paying a few extra bucks for paper is pretty harmless. Urgh, they’re backordered here in Brooklyn.

Even though it’s a little too big for everyday lugging and I can’t wear it over my shoulder, which is important for ear to iPod reach now that it’s warm enough to not have coat pockets, I like my new Target bag that I bought in the Bronx last week. But I’m being driven insane because it’s nowhere to be found on their website. I think they have a horrible search. Wicker only brought up baskets. I went to Handbags & Accessories and tried browsing by color: brown, with no luck. I tried browsing styles: casual totes, oversized totes, and then canvas. It should be in the Rafé section because it’s a Rafé bag, but it’s not there either. The only photo I could find was from last week’s Time Out NY. It’s #6, $148 cheaper than the next cheapest bag in their spread.

I know next to nothing about Mexican slang and I’m not much of a streetwear gal but I do find this B is for Beaner shirt highly entertaining, mostly because I’d nearly forgotten about the existence of the word beaner. I’ve never heard it in NYC. Actually, I don’t think I’ve heard it since the ‘80s. I also don’t think I was ever called a beaner because I didn’t look like one but my best friend in fourth grade did call me “burrito butt” after I called her “rug head.” There’s nothing like the insults of nine-year-olds.

Double O

I finally got my damn macaron. I popped in Financier last Friday and was sad to see no pistachio/green cookies left. I had to choose among chocolate, lemon and raspberry. Pink seemed next best. I do see their appeal, there’s a pull between the light outer shell and the soft, moister interior. Kind of like a drumstick. I’d rather eat a piece of chicken, though poultry certainly isn’t as pretty.

Last night I was watching DVR’d Jacques Pepin doing macaroons, and yes, they were the macaron style, though he pronounced the double oo. But they weren’t smooth and preppy looking. His recipe created a big rustic chewy looking thing, simply filled with jam. And then he heavily dusted with cocoa powder. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to these things.

$38.10 Worth of Thanks

Being the last Wednesday before Thanksgiving where you can do actually something about what you’re being told by food sections, it’s been a turkey barrage. I’m not turkey crazy in the least but I’m starting to feel the bland, meaty tug, especially since last year I went out for dinner and ended up missing picking at leftovers over the three-day weekend.

At work we were trying to find historic turkey prices and I was moderately surprised by the statistics coming from the American Farm Bureau. They’ve pegged the cost of this year’s Thanksgiving dinner for ten at $38.10. That is totally doable if you have simple tastes but otherwise it’s kind of a sad meal. They’ve broken it down by individual items so you can see how they’ve arrived at the figure. I’m thrifty as hell and yes, New Yorkers tend to be out of touch spending-wise (I don’t need to re-remind you about New York magazine’s cheap $500 holiday party for eight do I? Ok, I do.) but come on, a 59-cent relish tray of carrots and celery?  That’s dietetic and depressing.

$1.86 for a 30-oz. pumpkin pie mix and $1.89 for two pie shells…eh. While there’s no way in hell I’m coughing up $28, you can still make a quality dessert from scratch for under $5, ten dollars if you live it up. And no, most people including myself, don’t use fresh pumpkins for pies but a home made crust likely uses ingredients already in your house: flour, eggs, shortening, butter, salt, sugar, water or some variation of these. Extras like nuts or whipped cream add to the price, but only marginally. Even if you’re tempted to buy a ReadyCrust (I used to totally covet the chocolate crusts in the store when I was a kid. I could so imagine a green misty grasshopper pie in the preformed shell) read what the New York Times has to say about crust perfection.

So this year I plan on cooking some basics but probably not until Saturday and likely only for myself (Thanksgiving proper I’ll be working so no prep time and that evening I’ll have a few holiday orphans over for a turkey-free slumber party). I envision a small poultry item, stuffing of some sort, a green vegetable and possibly a potato-based dish and that’s it. I might even forgo dessert because there’s already enough sugariness in the house. But I suspect I’ll still overspend the $38.10 average.

I was just looking at heritage turkeys you can order through Fairway and even a small one, at $5.99/lb is around $70. People have been heritage gaga for the past few years. I’d like to give in to history and wild birds but this isn’t the year for financial risk. Maybe I’ll get my taste of Bourbon Red or Standard Bronze in 2007. It’ll be an antibiotic-free free-range vegetarian fed turkey for around $25 and I’m guessing I can put the whole meal together for less than the price of one heritage turkey, tasty as it may be. I’ll add it up next week and see.

Johnny-Come-Latelys

The food blogs never stop coming. Even though I’m working my way through recent American food history (I’m up to California cuisine and budding stardom of Wolfgang Puck) with the thoroughly engaging The United States of Arugula, it’s still baffling to me that 2006 has become the year of the “professional” food blog. Rather than exciting, I find it exhausting. Sure, it’s fun to poke around all of mainstream latecomers for different perspectives but there are only so many hours in my already oversaturated day. Plenty tends to make me tired rather than invigorated (though yesterday I was incredibly irritated by Jose Cuervo gold being the only tequila choice at the liquor store next to Costco. 1,000 mezcals would’ve been overwhelming but one is ridiculous. Costco was also out of frozen scallops and chicken wings. I was cruelly reminded why we food shop in NJ despite the outrageous $9 Verrazano Bridge toll).

The new entrants are:
Village Voice’s Eat for Victory
Gourmet’s  Choptalk (epi-log is not new)
Yahoo Food (more portal than blog)

New York, The New York Times and Chow hit already. Time Out NY is behind but they’ve been focusing their energy on TV and radio programs (oh, I guess they have a CMJ blog). The NYC dailies? They might stay resolutely old school. I didn’t even know that the New York Post had blogs until the other day (they appear to be limited to sports and travel) and I work at the damn paper. Half the employees there have trouble handling email (seriously, having to print out articles for anyone under 70 is beyond lame and makes me genuinely angry) of basic internet search engines so my faith is not with newspapers.

The Icing on the Cake

Last week I become mildly mesmerized by these demonic tots (that I found via Gawker which they found through Cityrag. I seriously still don't understand the whole blog attribution thing, possibly because I'm not a blogger at heart. Why couldn't I just directly talk about things on Plan 59? Am I linking to be proper, to give props or what?)

It made me think of one of my favorite photos that comes from 1964's The Seventeen Cookbook. That red-sweatered guy watching his cohort pondering a strawberry shortcake is totally up to no good.

Shrugging it Off

New things I discovered on my way to and while in Montreal.

Dulce de Leche Oreos: I always find something great at Wal-Mart. This time I got a cheapy chocolate-colored velvet shrug (I know, I'm not fond of that weirdo short length either, but I'd brought a too-slinky top to wear out later without realizing how chilly it was north of NYC and needed something brown to match my skirt and to just kind of cover up my upper arms and chest. There's something demented about wearing a $10 jacket to a $300 meal, but it makes more sense to me than people spending hundreds on an item of clothing and starving, which is very New York) and a box of new limited edition dulce de leche Oreos.

Unfortunately, they just kind of taste like sugar and not much else. I'm not one for declaring anything too sweet or too rich, but these just hurt my teeth. The fact that they've been in my possession for a full week and I've only eaten two is a testament to their lackluster performance as a cookie. To be fair, I don't really like most prepackaged cookies anyway (same with canned soups). When M&Ms went all melting pot and introduced dulce de leche candies, I don't think they were that successful either.

Dark Chocolate Kit Kats: We had these in 2004, but I don't think they've stuck around. Initially, I was confused by two different dark chocolate Kit Kats at Couche-Tard (that name will never cease to make me chuckle). One was noir (just because it was in French) and the other was Xtra or some such. The only clue to their difference was the little picture on the front of the packages. Noir had dark chocolate on the outside and Xtra had dark chocolate and a chocolate wafer, hence the Xtra (I also found out that there's a cinnamon limited edition in Canada). Anyway, they tasted typically Kit Katty. I was hoping they'd be more like British Kit Kats, which use a creamier better tasting chocolate. I don't know why American (and apparently Canadian) mainstream candy bars always taste so bland and waxy.

Cheese: We took our chances on some random cheese from a European type deli that's down the street from Schwartz's whose name I can never remember (we ended up there last time too). I'm sure we could've tracked down more exquisite varieties at a proper fromagerie, but our choices ended up being more remarkable that I would've expected. In fact, I've eaten bread and cheese for dinner the past four evenings. That can't be good for you.

I always have to pick a blue but don't love the extreme sharp styles. Geai Bleu (blue jay) from Brigham, Quebec, just looked mild and it turned out to be smooth and creamy. I also like to have a soft cheese and settled on Cendré des Prés because I couldn't figure out why it had a black stripe through its center. It turns out that's from maple wood ash, which sounds kind of creepy but isn't. James likes straightforward hard cheeses and isn't into adventuring so I talked him into getting a raw milk Comte Juraflore like we'd been served two nights before at Anise. I honestly don't know what the taste difference is between a raw milk and pasteurized variety, but this Comte is crazy-you can't stop at one slice. I should buy an FDA approved wedge for comparison.

(Battered Fried) Beans, the Magic Fruit

I was initially disturbed by that TGI Friday's commercial promoting their "radically new appetizers" where they poke fun with some hippy girl lamenting, "Why would you go and fry green beans? What's next? Holding air hostage?" I was like oh jeez, now they're battering deep frying vegetables (and frying mac and cheese and parmesan crusting quesadillas and calling them Sicilian).

Uh yeah, like the Japanese have been doing with tempura for, I don't know, centuries and they're ok (demented porn, shut ins and suicide fixations, aside) And the Japanese aren't generally fat so fried green beans must be good for you. Of course, tempura is served with a soy based dipping sauce and Friday's appetizer comes with something creamy and 99% fat like Cucumber-Wasabi Ranch.

On the Asian note, dry-fried green beans are amazing. I've used this recipe from Fuchsia Dunlop's A Treasury of Authentic Sichuan Cooking before. She also includes a pork-less version which is better than you might expect.

I also got all knee jerky yesterday when I kept seeing subway ads for ABC's new series, Ugly Betty.  The image of a "fat" Hispanic actress combined with the word ugly didn't sit well with me. But from what I've gathered it's a re-working of a wildly popular Columbian telenovela from the early '00s that's since been a hit in Mexico, Germany, The Philippines and elsewhere. I was reading message boards and people seemed worried that "Columbian humor" wouldn't translate. Now I'm wondering what exactly passes for humor in Columbia. Isn't Nina Garcia, Elle fashionista/Project Runway judge, Columbian? She seems pretty un-funny so my hopes are not high.

The gist seems to be kind of a Devil Wears Prada without the makeover transformation, like the ugly girl stays ugly and prevails. Once again, I have my doubts. The only other show I can think of with a "fat" major character, Less Than Perfect, (love how it needs to be pointed out in the title that she's not ideal) eventually slimmed down.

I've never watched Grey's Anatomy but was bored enough to sit through two freaking repeats last night and I totally don't get its appeal at all. I do like that Patrick Dempsey (and Chris O'Donnell-I was just thinking about him a few months ago, not because I particularly like him, I was trying to think of a male actor who seemed big and then disappeared like Teri Hatcher who went from Lois & Clark to doing C movies with Henry Thomas and now is hot again) is getting work and that they've cast that Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancé guy as a Seattle bar owner, but that's about it.

Oh yeah, I also wanted to see Sara Ramirez, the blubbery actress that everyone was boo hooing about last season. I finally got a glimpse and I'm still not convinced that she's fat. I mean, she's fat like America Ferrera's fat (and she appears to have easily shed 20 pounds since her Real Women Have Curves days), which only means not boney. I'd rather be a fat Mexican than that blonde actress who plays a doctor who always looks like she's crying, been crying or about to cry.

Ham, Bread & Pupu

* Funny, Sunday’s New York Times Consumed column was about jamon iberico, my minor fixation from the recent past. Expect countless articles on the subject as we get closer to the hams’ maturation date possibly some time next year.

* I’ve never been a grocery store label whore. Sure, chemicals and additives are bad but I’m not obsessive about fat grams or sodium content (though I should because heart disease and diabetes are totally waiting in the wings). What I didn’t know that really disturbs me is that virtually all store bought bread has high fructose corn syrup in it.

I was looking at all the hyperbole on the plastic bag of Kirkland white bread that James loves to buy from Costco and one of the sentences screamed, “no corn syrup.” And I was like duh, because I hate unnecessary health claims like putting “fat free” on mustard or chocolate syrup like it’s a new formulation when common sense would tell you these items never contained fat in the first place.

But on my last visit to Western Beef I was surprised to see that every single brand of bread, white and wheat, hot dog buns and hamburger rolls contained corn syrup. No, Western Beef isn’t a bastion of the organic or artisanal. They’re mainstream and rough around the edges—that’s why I love them. I don’t even eat white bread with any regularity, but it still irks me that something as basic as bread should have so much crap in it.

* There’s really not enough Polynesian in the city (or anyplace in the U.S. anymore). And Waikiki Wally’s doesn’t count. I’m determined to check out King Yum, a tiki hut holdout I somehow heard about for the first time a few months ago. The only trick is trying to convince people to come out to the furthest reaches of Queens with me for a pupu platter.

I was discovering Guatemalan food yesterday near the next to last stop of the F train (I finagled a ride because I’m spoiled) in Jamaica. The air on that block was spiced with Indian food (it could’ve been Bangladeshi or Pakistani—my nose isn’t that discriminating) but I didn’t have time to explore any of it because I was too busy eating salpicon, the craziest Latin American dish ever. It’s almost exactly like Thai larb, but not hot--kind of like Carroll Gardens Thai food, now that I think about it. I got papaya salad from 9-D Saturday night and I don’t think there was a single speck of chile in the whole damn thing. It was like the shredded fruit had been doused in limeade and peanuts, which is just unnecessary and wrong. Remind me to stop attempting Thai food in Brooklyn.

*  I just noticed Halloween candy is in full effect at Eckerd and I'm assuming the same is true everywhere.  I originally noticed a candy corn display right after my birthday but before I went on vacation so that had to be late July. Is it now normal to advertise items intended for the last day of October in the middle of summer? I really don't approve of how they changed the Peeps spooky cat from purple to brown, either.

Clams & Tomatoes: Interspecies Friends?

I don't normally give much attention to the office vending machine (though I've always been wowed by the one that dispense Good Humor ice cream bars) but it's one of the only things to look at while waiting for my coffee to brew or drip or whatever it does that takes an eternity to come out (they have this fancy Starbucks contraption that grinds your beans on demand and makes a fresh cup, but it takes its sweet time).

The other day I couldn't help but notice the word Clamato staring out at me. Who knew they made Clamato tortilla chips? (They being Poore Brothers, who also make T.G.I. Friday's chips and Cinnabon cookies.) And who on earth would've thought it was a good idea to put them in there? I strongly doubt that it was a request. In the past I've seen handwritten, taped up pleas for more Baked Lays (maybe all those fake fats are the source of the office's apparent bowel incontinence problem). I'm not a chip person, but I am almost curious enough to see if they're really color crayon red like on the package and if they actually taste like tomatoes and clams.

The odd thing is that a bulk of the internet references to this bizarre snack food also mention vending machines so it must be some corporate-geared thing.

Clammy tomato goodness from iamgracie on Flickr.

Bowl Me Over

I know I can't be the only one bothered by KFC's new Famous Bowls. And it's not like I have good taste either (I'm totally fascinated by Crunchwraps and stuffed crust pizza). There's just something very wrong about this overloaded combination. Fried chicken, corn, mashed potatoes and gravy all seem innocent enough when compartmentalized on the plate, so it must be the crowning glory, the three cheese (which three, pray tell?) blend.

The completely unnecessary addition of cheese (hey, except in that stuffed crust) is the hallmark of any good American fast food invention. It's like the recipe developers just weren't satisfied with cramming a typical KFC meal in a bowl and calling it a day (not too long ago Taco Bell went this same route with their Border Bowl). It had to have that extra oomph, and in many cases oomph equals cheese.

My other personal peeve with this dish is that it's one of those crammed convenience meals that might psychologically feel like you're eating less than a normal plate full of food because it's all squished and combined. I like my food to last a long time so superficially it seems more satisfying. I hate how in NYC (or maybe other places too) they serve bagels filled to the gills and halved like a sandwich. I always pull mine apart (and occasionally remove some of the cream cheese-I know, blasphemy) so it takes twice as long to eat. Ok, maybe I'm the one with the problem. I like to eat a lot and it's a trick I can play on myself that works.

I've always had an unabashed problem with mayonnaise, though I will admit to gaining an appreciation for the emulsified spread served with French fries, especially if it's freshly whipped up. I mean, it's just egg and oil, so what's the big deal? I will concede that mayonnaise has its place…in small doses.

Yet, I'm disturbed by Hellman's Easy Out! because it's encouraging excessive use of the questionable condiment, just what I've rallied against for like 30 years. Did consumers really cry out for easier access to mayo? The commercial shows a huge dollop being squeezed onto a wrap, akin to shaking hot sauce on a burrito. Not the same.

Now, squeezable cranberry sauce? That's bizarre on a totally different level. Inoffensive, yet odd.

Newborns: Cake & Pretzels

I’ve recently discovered two new treats that have made my day. (And no, Coca-Cola BlaK isn’t on my list, though I actually like it better than plain cola which isn’t saying much because most cola type beverages upset me.).

Entenmann’s Ultimate Celebration Cake
It practically jumped off the shelf at me at Western Beef. Really, it’s just a yellow cake with chocolate frosting and circular sprinkles, but it’s so damn festive. It brought me joy on three separate occasions in the past week or so (that’s the benefit of junky preservative-laden snacks—they keep in the fridge for abnormal lengths of time). Watching Sunday night HBO can be a celebration, managing to make it to six o’clock without hurting others (or yourself) can be a celebration. Life can be one big freaking celebration. Thank you, Entenmann’s.

Snyder’s of Hanover Hot Buffalo Wing Pieces
Pretz has nothing over Snyder's. They already make those peculiar ochre honey mustard nubs that I find disgustingly tasty. They must put something extra in those artificial flavors to increase appetite. I’m able to resist Dorrito dust, but Cheeto powder has an allure. Wasabi peas too—I can eat a whole bag in one sitting, and almost did just that on Sunday.

But buffalo wing pretzels?! Is buffalo flavor the new ranch? That’s outrageous. The pretzel cubes are shocking orange and initially too tangy, but then you get a little spice and the vinegary quality is mitigated when the blander pretzel middle breaks open and mixes in your mouth. Not bad. And next thing you know, you’ve reached into the bag like ten times. Just imagine dipping these pieces in blue cheese dressing.

My Way or the Fairway

Everyone has priorities in life. Me, I took a day off work to check out the new Fairway in Red Hook. I almost spontaneously gave my notice yesterday, which would've been severely stupid since I have zero job prospects at the moment. The only thing that kept me from walking out was the promise of a shiny, new Fairway to visit the following day. Seriously...I never claimed to be un-pathetic.

It's odd because in a car, it's only like five minutes to get to the end of Van Brunt St., but walking it seemed like more of a haul, maybe 30 minutes or so. I took the BQE foot bridge that's across the street from my apt. and then proceeded to get twisted around and ended up over off Lorraine St. where all those busted stores and laundromat are, at the end of the projects. Even the nasty now shuttered Court St. Key Food that the entire (blog) world hated would be an improvement over the Red Hook grocery situation. The Fairway is like a massive jump from shitty to super with never having spent any time in the mediocre middle.

I'm guessing I made it there around 10:35am and I was completely surprised by the lack of massive crowds. Not that I'm complaining, I'm severely pushy people-phobic. Of course, there was lots of rampant shopping cart banging and blocking and the usual slow movers and gawkers. But it was manageable. For a while, there might've been more press than public.

I got overwhelmed and only ended buying a Vitamin Water (lemon-lime perform because you know, I'm a high performing individual). Now that I'm back home and settled in, I wish I would've bought some snacks (there aren't any real grocery stores in Carroll Gardens proper since the Key Foods went bust. Jeez, I can't believe I've managed to bring up that abominable store twice in one post).

I've posted more images on Flickr (yes, I've started buying into the whole Flickr mania--though I could still take or leave You Tube) if you're interested.

The parking lot was about 85% full

They had just wrapped up a stirring rendition of "New York, New York"

 
The Brooklyn Eagle and either a co-owner or the landlord (I've seen this same man with two different names attributed to him in newspapers--maybe the landlord and owner are both large gray-haired men in overalls?).

ho I tCheeses of the

world

A cute alternative to the typical laughing cow cheese. I think the text was in Hebrew.

I'm not cheese obsessed, I was just trying to find something for price comparison. Blue Castello, one of my middlebrow favorites, was $4.29 (or $4.59--my mind is blanking) which seemed spendy. It's only 99-cents at the East Village Cheese Shop, but then theirs is also half-rancid half of the time.

The bakery scene. I managed to abstain from the free cookies

No crowd for meat

Awesome. The world has totally gone squeezable crazy. I mean, is there such a high demand for convenient cranberry sauce?

Bounty of produce. They had some nice looking heirloom tomatoes, but I wasn't on a mission to buy.

Just a lone mopper on this aisle

In case you were interested. I've always been scared of grocery store bathrooms so I didn't go in.

Firemen love dry aged meat. Isn't there a beefcake joke in there somewhere?

There was a mob for free samples of jumbo shrimp, off to the left.

No lines at checkout--I wonder how long that'll last.

Sundays & Sundaes

Sundays suck, they've always sucked, and the older I get the more they seem to suck. There's just something dreary about a Sunday. As a kid, I remember them being gray and rainy and the tv shows were bad, no cartoons, all current events, sports or depressing fare like Grizzly Adams (the wistful folky theme song; the premise, a man on the run for crime he didn't commit; the era, 1970s masquerading as 1850s —so downtrodden and dirty). Obviously, this was pre cable tv or internet. I read in bed a lot during the afternoon. Now, I have other distractions, but there's still something dread-filled about a Sunday. I don't understand the whole "having a case of the Mondays" (what a poignant phrase) because by Monday you're already in the thick of it. Sunday you have a whole day to dwell on the awfulness of the impending week. Saturday I wake up no problem, but Sunday I often lay in bed well past noon, not really tired, but reluctant to get up because it means the weekend's end is drawing near and it's too much to bear. Melodrama aside, it's true. Motivation is tough even though it tends to be sunny in NYC. (Sometimes music helps—I'm very keen on the Envelopes today)

Today was balmy enough, and it was the opening weekend for the soccer and food stand extravaganza in Red Hook. I mean, it's only about a 12-minute walk from my apt. and it's not like you can get a decent taco anywhere in BoCoCa (oh, yes I did). After one massive huarache, I was done. I could've squeezed in an arepa, but didn't want to go overboard as I'm known to do.

The word huarache is amusing to me because if you recall huaraches, the sandals, were popular somewhere in the '80s. And my dad who had like zero accent (he would occasionally put the emphasis on the wrong syllable, but that's about it) would pronounce huarache with an insane amount of precision and Spanish flair. You know, like when newscasters speak standard English and then call Chile chee-lay. Every time my dad would theatrically say hurache, my sister and I would bust a gut and try and find ways to work the word into conversations just to get him to say it again.

Instead of going the more meat and corn route, I went wild and bought a baggie of fruit, which is very unlike myself because I rarely eat fruit. Nature's candy (what a crock) just doesn't do it for me, I have to force myself to eat it (I bought a bag of tangerines yesterday with the notion that I'll bring them to work as healthy snacks, but I see that lasting about one day). But I love the Mexican style of preparing mangos, which is actually very Thai right down serving the slices in a plastic baggie with disposable fork (dispensing beverages this same way, but with a straw, seems very precarious, however. See random person's photo for example). They sprinkle the fruit with salt, chile powder and lime juice (actually the Red Hook vendor used bottled lemon juice, but same idea) and you get that crazy salty/sweet/spicy effect. It's almost like you're not even eating fruit, which is a plus in my book.

So, my Sunday afternoon was tolerable but now it's starting to get dark out and night time means Monday is mere hours away and that's a hideous thought. At least I have some leftovers from yesterday's Sripraphai excursion to look forward to later. It's not a good thing when food is the only exciting part of your day (my cat is the same way. Do you think pets get their owners' personalities? Like Caesar, James's cat, is kind of prickly, keeps to himself and is not one for idle chit chat. The cat won't meow to save his life. Sukey, my cat, is talkative and constantly meowing and complaining and is obsessed with eating. In fact, she's starting to get a feline gut)…or life, for that matter.

I'm Too Excited to Sleep

Actually, I can always sleep, no problem. I've never understood those Ambien addicts. I just get in bed and close my eyes and I fall asleep. But my wholesome sleeping habits aren't issue here. Though I haven’t noticed it in a few weeks, I was most disturbed when maybe a month ago I discovered that Disney World had dug up that extremely old commercial where the little boy at the end says in a peculiarly endearing voice (I’m only ever swayed by the use of pipsqueaks in advertisements maybe 2% of the time) “I'm too excited to sleep.”

Seeing it made me feel like I was going insane because I know that thing must be at least a decade old. I swear, my sister and I used to laugh at that commercial and we haven't lived in the same city and watched American TV together since 1994. That kid probably has kids of his own by now. At the very least, he’d be in college.

It’s not a classic like that Mikey Life cereal deal, so I don’t think they’re trying to capitalize on nostalgia. And I can’t imagine that Disney World is so cheap that they’d be forced to re-use a twelve-year-old commercial. There’s nothing distinctly dated about it, the hairstyles are kind of neutral and the family is wearing pajamas rather than clothes so there’s little giveaway there either.

  Slightly less baffling, but no less confusing is how I keep seeing Sonic ads when there aren’t any Sonics even remotely near NYC. And they're not planning on coming here any time soon, if I'm to believe their map. The nearest location is 123 miles away in Ephrata, PA. Isn’t that wrong somehow? Aren’t ads sold in targeted markets? When I first moved here I went nuts every time I saw an ad for Friendly’s because I’d never heard of such a place and it sounded so likeable. You know, friends and ice cream, it doesn’t get any better. But the only one in NYC, at least at the time, was at a Staten Island mall. I did end up going almost two years later (scroll to 6/13/00 if you’re that bored/curious--it was too much trouble to import ancient entries by date) and it was a bit of a freak show. I’m not sure if it’s worth a two-hour drive just for Tea & BLT.

Haute Shit

You’d think that I understood PR, especially since I’m now apparently working in the industry (corporate clients, not fun stuff), but I don’t, except to say that someone must be putting in extra hours for Vosges Chocolates. It’s not like they’re new (I did buy a friend a box for her birthday a few years ago), yet every Valentine’s candy related article I’ve read (ok, it’s not like there are hundreds of them) in the past few days has mentioned the company famous for using ingredients like wasabi and naming a collection after million dollar sperm donor Vincent Gallo.

Of course, now I can’t recall any of these mentions except from Apartment Therapy’s The Kitchen, Gothamist and yesterday’s Critical Shopper column written by that scary gazillionaire who lightheartedly wrote, “Until December I had not really eaten chocolate for about 10 years. A gift of chocolate was, I believed, a veiled and hostile gesture to make me fat.”

It’s inane omissions like that, that forces me to read the New York Post. Post columnists wouldn’t write about denying themselves chocolate for a decade. Food phobias like that drive me batty, I just can’t hear or abide that kind of nonsense. The kind of person (woman) who thinks that presents of chocolate are hostile is beastly. It shows the inner workings of their fat and sugar-deprived minds because a run of the mill individual would likely be happy with chocolate unless they were diabetic or allergic. That someone would even conceive of candy as mean spirited implies that’s the sort of passive-aggressive way they’d act out. Like not-so-innocently giving someone a dress a size too small, “oh, I didn’t realize you were a six.” Ew, because a six would be really huge and disgusting to someone who hadn’t eaten chocolate since Rent debuted on Broadway (and thinks Alphabet City--or for that matter, uses the phrase Alphabet City--is actually filled with kooky singing and dancing squatters).

Ok, I wasn’t intending to go to town on Mrs. Kuczynski. My original dilemma concerned Vosges founder Katrina Markoff. I’ve been having all these issues lately because I just can’t seem to settle on anything career-wise. No matter what I do, I end up loathing it. So I ask myself like a What Color is my Parachute retard: what would I like to do? Not work in an office, for starters. I’d like to have a product I could sell, but I’m not sure what said product would be. Unfortunately, I’m the opposite of entrepreneurial, have zero business savvy and an empty bank account. So, I’m always awed/annoyed by people who have successful food ventures, and look for the back story.

Like, obviously you couldn’t open a giant flashy candy store inside one of NYC’s most famous department stores if your father wasn’t a wealthy well-known fashion designer. I don’t know the Vosges woman’s background, but when I read things about people my age (usually younger, though, which is even more distressing) who go to France and study at Cordon Bleu, apprentice with renowned Spanish avant-garde chefs and travel around the world for months on end just trying new flavors, I can only assume that they don’t work for a living.

Where others see a fun, fascinating multi-faceted person, I see an irritant. I’m sure Katrina Markoff is a perfectly nice human being, I haven’t seen anything unpleasant written about her (in fact, this piece about Vincent Gallo being mean to her makes me like her more). I’m the one with the problem. I’m just miffed because I’m tormented 9-6 daily while others flit around the globe and make candy.

Yapping About Noodles

S.O.S. I've been stuck in a culinary wasteland since starting a new job around E. 55th and Third Ave. a few weeks ago. I miss Yagura and Café Zaiya, where you could eat like an emperor for $4.50. (I'll also admit to missing a lighter workload, which meant more web posting).

Now I'm in the land of the mediocre $10 salad. If I weren't so thrifty I'd go for the tasty looking offerings from Starwich (despite a minute pay increase I'm still firmly in librarian compensation zone. I don't know what it'll take to get me to raise my $5 lunch budget. Well, I a few years ago I was a strict brown-bagger, so I have loosened up a bit). If I wasn't half-heartedly watching my weight I'd try these "cheeseburkers" at the newish Burke in the Box at Bloomingdale's.

To my amusement, I am one block from a peculiarly tucked away Outback Steakhouse. It just seems really out of place, I can't even imagine who goes there. "No rules, just right," right? What if I started eating Bloomin' Onions for lunch? That fits neither my healthy nor under five bucks requirements (ouch, the onion blob is $8.49 at this location--it's $6.29 in most of NJ, which I only know because they actually post menus by location on their site)

To get back on task, I was meaning to write about how on day one, I scoured menupages looking for a nearby noodle shop. So far, I've settled on Master Yap, which is Chinese rather than Japanese, which is fine, I love roast meats, but it's just not the same. I crave  dashi broth and chewy udon, and while Yagura's chicken did include skin, it just somehow felt better for you than a heap of sliced pork.

Master Yap's meat is so red with dye that it stains the broth and noodles pinkish orange (if you get rice vermicelli or chow fun) which seems wrong. There is a little bok choy and bean sprouts tossed in so you can pretend it's counter balancing the pork fat.  But the broth is ho hum, and at $4.99 it goes over my limit with tax, though only minutely. I spruce it up with a little chile oil. I'm still not in love with Master Yap, but it has saved me from Pax, Au Bon Pain and Houston's, the biggies around my block.

What a Sap

I’m so mad that I missed the maple syrup smell again. Last time, I guess it just passed me by. Yesterday, I was home sick and sad to hear midtown sweet scent reports. I’m not even a big fan of maple, it’s just the principle.

Which reminds me of one of my first NYC culture shocks: no maple bars. Seriously, I had no idea this was a regional thing, every grocery store and chain like Dunkin’ Donuts (which are all going out of business on the west coast, despite thriving out here) carries maple bars. It's not like the NW is exactly teeming with maple trees, either. The closest I’ve come in the last seven years has been maple dips at Tim Hortons in eastern Canada. They were typically round with a hole, not long and bun shaped, but the treat was still coated in tan, tree sap tinged icing.

While I’m on a maple nostalgia trip, there was a weird incident in first grade where we’d had maple bars for lunch. And then while playing handball during recess afterwards, this other girl named Krista (Hagen, I think) who came in the middle of the year so she was weird, smiled and her teeth were all brown and maple-y like they were frosting coated. It was kind of obscene, I tried not to stare too hard at her pearly beiges. The thing is, it turned out that her teeth always looked like that and I’d just never noticed until that moment. How did a six-year-old’s teeth get so rotten?

Have You Had Your Protein Today?

It’s easy to pinpoint a few things I’m not thankful for: McGriddles® and Tyson Protein, not that I’m against fast food breakfast sandwiches or chicken strips. It’s just the wording. There’s something weird about naming a product in the plural. I can’t even recall the exact storyline in one of the new McDonald’s commercials, but at the end the clueless guy who can’t seem to get that the girl sitting across from him likes him says, “I guess it means that I’ll have to buy another McGriddles.” Urgh, I know it’s the registered name, but it’s just playing into that horrible habit where people add S’s where they don’t belong, like when someone says Nordstroms or Peter Lugers.

Most Americans are already far enough removed from where our food originates (not that I’m a farm girl, by any means). And more and more I’m hearing people using non-food terms for food. Maybe it started with the Atkins craze when breads, grains and pastas (amongst a host of seemingly innocent items) became an abstract enemy simply lumped together as carbs. Now, protein for all forms of meat (and presumably tofu), is becoming unappetizingly ubiquitous. That new Tyson campaign where middle aged folks apparently start playing basketball and hang gliding after eating poultry products, has a tag line exclaiming, “have you had your protein today?™” Gross. Did you know that Tyson is “the world’s leading protein provider and America’s most trusted protein brand”?

Oh wow, I should’ve guessed that there was something religious to this whole puritanical pleasure-denying, functional approach to food. Just in time for the holidays, Tyson is offering a booklet of mealtime prayers. I do have a certain fascination with prayers, but there’s something offbeat about them being on a mainstream commercial website.

What I am thankful for is an intrepid and tenacious mom who managed to track down a couple of Jones Soda regional packs with the coveted salmon pate flavor. I haven’t seen them here in NYC (though I did get the standard set at Target) and from what I gather, getting them in the Portland, Oregon suburbs was only slightly less tricky. It took trips to Thriftway, Fred Meyer (not Meyers, as even I’m wont to say) and a couple of phone calls to finally find them near her trailer park (yes, I said trailer park) on the Beaverton/Hillsboro border. Score. I’m not cracking them open until my dinner party next Saturday, so I’ll reserve comment until then.