In unconscious synchrony with the autumnal equinox yesterday, I made a Sunday pot of pasta e ceci, the original fall soul food.
Eccola: A healthy dose of garlic, sauteed to pale golden in plenty of olive oil. Add two cans garbanzo beans, drained and rinsed. Sautee for five minutes, stirring occasionally, then add three large handfuls of uncooked ditalini, 2-3 bay leaves, and enough water or chicken broth to cover. Stir as necessary, adding water or broth as it is absorbed and adjusting flame accordingly to keep the pot simmering until the pasta is tender. Let enough of the liquid be absorbed al fine so that the result is moist and creamy, but not soupy. Serve in chunky bowls. At table, sprinkle liberally with freshly grated cheese and red pepper flakes. (Even better, drizzle with hot oil.) Mangia!
It’s a hearty meal in itself, of course, but we paired it with a store-bought rotisserie chicken and a nice green salad. A strong unfussy red wine is mandatory.
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Monday, September 24, 2007
Monday, July 23, 2007
Too elite to eat meat?
May 8
This locavore business that I’m reading about in the New York Times: Is it just the latest fad? The latest someone wanting to make me feel guilty? That’s a Neanderthal response, I know, but why is this stuff always being pushed by people who have it all? The latest thing to be into. Cause of the week. Forget vegan. Or maybe on top of vegan.
In truth I have long had an affinity for eating local, within reason, as my father would say. I detest the idea of eating apples imported from Washington or New Zealand. But to get so religious and strict about it? Devotees of the “100-mile diet” eat nothing grown further than 100 miles from their homes. That means they deny themselves coffee, tea, flour, wine, in addition to most fruits and a good number of vegetables and God knows what all. Olives, for God’s sake. Olive oil. Anchovies. Gin. Chocolate!!
It’s enough to make you want to turn a firehose on these people. How about a less absolutist response? How about resolving to eat more locally instead of all locally? To eat more consciously? More reverently, even. To use less. Live more lightly.
It seems overwhelming, like it could become a full-time job. I’d rather remain in the dark. How can we live at all except by remaining in the dark? And yet Jesus tells us to do otherwise, to recognize our connectedness.
Here’s another excuse: I could never get Lori and Danny to convert. And: how could we give up the convenience? As it is we can hardly get meals on the table. And how could we afford it? This is what I mean by elitist. Slow food.
Doing something is better than doing nothing, right? What could be done? Buying more produce and meat from local farmers. Patronizing Stone Soup, the farmers’ markets. Participating in the vegetable co-op. Using re-usable grocery bags. Eating less meat. Eating less processed food. Being less wasteful. It would take more time, money, and effort. It would mean a commitment, and giving up convenience.
And why? Because it’s healthier? Yes. To eat better? Yes. But more because it uses fewer resources, and is more humane. To feel better about ourselves? Salve conscience?
Poor people “don’t have the luxury” of feeling guilty over how the chicken they’re eating was treated. This is true. But it also may be true that the reason they don’t have the luxury is that we do, and we exercise it ever-increasingly.
If I’m just doing this to feel better standing next to my eco-friendly, evolved, mature friends, it’s not going to work. (This is also a bad reason to try to write poetry.)
This locavore business that I’m reading about in the New York Times: Is it just the latest fad? The latest someone wanting to make me feel guilty? That’s a Neanderthal response, I know, but why is this stuff always being pushed by people who have it all? The latest thing to be into. Cause of the week. Forget vegan. Or maybe on top of vegan.
In truth I have long had an affinity for eating local, within reason, as my father would say. I detest the idea of eating apples imported from Washington or New Zealand. But to get so religious and strict about it? Devotees of the “100-mile diet” eat nothing grown further than 100 miles from their homes. That means they deny themselves coffee, tea, flour, wine, in addition to most fruits and a good number of vegetables and God knows what all. Olives, for God’s sake. Olive oil. Anchovies. Gin. Chocolate!!
It’s enough to make you want to turn a firehose on these people. How about a less absolutist response? How about resolving to eat more locally instead of all locally? To eat more consciously? More reverently, even. To use less. Live more lightly.
It seems overwhelming, like it could become a full-time job. I’d rather remain in the dark. How can we live at all except by remaining in the dark? And yet Jesus tells us to do otherwise, to recognize our connectedness.
Here’s another excuse: I could never get Lori and Danny to convert. And: how could we give up the convenience? As it is we can hardly get meals on the table. And how could we afford it? This is what I mean by elitist. Slow food.
Doing something is better than doing nothing, right? What could be done? Buying more produce and meat from local farmers. Patronizing Stone Soup, the farmers’ markets. Participating in the vegetable co-op. Using re-usable grocery bags. Eating less meat. Eating less processed food. Being less wasteful. It would take more time, money, and effort. It would mean a commitment, and giving up convenience.
And why? Because it’s healthier? Yes. To eat better? Yes. But more because it uses fewer resources, and is more humane. To feel better about ourselves? Salve conscience?
Poor people “don’t have the luxury” of feeling guilty over how the chicken they’re eating was treated. This is true. But it also may be true that the reason they don’t have the luxury is that we do, and we exercise it ever-increasingly.
If I’m just doing this to feel better standing next to my eco-friendly, evolved, mature friends, it’s not going to work. (This is also a bad reason to try to write poetry.)
Saturday, April 21, 2007
No nukes
It has been at least six months since our microwave oven conked out. Remarkable how little we’ve missed it. Left-overs heat just fine in a pan on the stove—just add a little water—and “nuked” coffee tastes of metal anyway. The only other thing we used it for, besides occasional defrosting, was popcorn. That, too, is better done in a pot: It comes out less dry and airy, and more flavorsome, and you aren’t a hostage to additives.
Lola’s mom wanted to buy us a new one. She couldn’t survive without hers, and our deprivation seems unimaginable to her. My folks, too, are in the habit of using their “micro,” along with their George Foreman grill. They use it most to heat water for tea, which may be the perfect example of how modern gadgets can take the soul out of cookery. What could be more satisfying, more peacefully engaging, than the simple ritual of preparing tea, or coffee, the old-fashioned way?
Lola’s mom wanted to buy us a new one. She couldn’t survive without hers, and our deprivation seems unimaginable to her. My folks, too, are in the habit of using their “micro,” along with their George Foreman grill. They use it most to heat water for tea, which may be the perfect example of how modern gadgets can take the soul out of cookery. What could be more satisfying, more peacefully engaging, than the simple ritual of preparing tea, or coffee, the old-fashioned way?
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Impatient, ungrateful, critical. And happy.
An epic account of a very ordinary evening.
On Wednesday we went to the taco dinner put on by the Catholic students of “Mission Mexico.” They’ll be spending Spring break at an orphanage in Tijuana, and this is one of their major fundraisers. For us it’s a cheap dinner and a chance to socialize a little, as well as a good cause. Dante enjoys it, and so do Lola and I.
The dinner was held downtown, in the basement of St. Aelred's Episcopal. We had arranged that I would walk there from work and Dante and Lola would meet me. They arrived first, as I had hoped they would. Dante spotted me through the glass door, yelled “Dad!” and ran to hug me, and of course my heart melted. While he was still squeezing my neck, however, I looked up to see Lola counting her money. “Do you have any cash at all?” she asked weakly. Immediately I felt a wash of anger short-circuit the moment's tenderness. “Uh, no,” I shot back, shaking my head. Yet again, I was thinking, she has not thought things out. As though I never make a mistake. She continued, miserably, to recount a stack of wrinkled bills.
We were three dollars short. Lola timidly approached the ticket table, me looming behind her. Dante was oblivious, darting and jiving in the long hallway, running his fingers along the wall. The girl taking money was oblivious too. “Do children get in free?” Lola asked her, cringing slightly. The girl rolled her eyes, waived us in. “Go ahead,” she said wearily. Whatever. Uh…no sanks, as Dante would say. It was a fundraiser, after all. “I’ll go out and look in the car,” Lola said. “Wait here.”
Dante was getting tired of waiting. I was fit to be tied. “Let’s go. Help mom,” I snapped after a couple of minutes, but he didn’t want to go. I had to cajole him. Out in front of the church, Lola was rifling the van, all the usual places: the ashtray, the overheads, the undersides of the sun visors. Nothing. I could feel my face curdle into a sneer. “We’ll have to go to the bank,” Lola said, straining. “Hop in, Dante.”
I brooded all the way to the ATM and back. Tried half-heartedly to cut through the mood with a prayer for forbearance, it being Lent, but I was enjoying my righteous anger too much—even though I knew that to hold it much longer was risking a backlash. I held my tongue, but sighed exasperation when I had to step out into traffic in front of the bank. Lola was not responding.
Finally we were back at the church, paying our money, standing in line. The line was long. The room was crowded with students eating. The girls began to notice Dante, to point, to smile. Soon he noticed them. With only a little encouragement from Lola, he launched into an enthusiastic demonstration of the Chicken Dance, which he had learned earlier in the day at his pre-school afternoon enrichment class. More pointing. More smiles. Laughter. I folded my arms, forced a smile. The boil had been lanced, and the anger was draining. Lola apologized for not bringing enough money. “It’s okay,” I said quietly. Then, “Geez, this line is moving slowly.” She rolled her eyes.
When at last we sat down with our plates I quickly polished mine off, and soon felt a stitch from the fat and the additives. It was all canned stuff, and not even Goya. Mountains of stiff orange machine-shredded cheese, a white plastic bucket of imitation sour cream. Hard corn shells packed in cellophane that crumble at the first bite, leaving you with a handful of shards and greasy meat. Naturally I went back for seconds.
When I got back to the table Fr. Gary was visiting, talking to Lola about Dante, trying to talk to Dante. “How’s your dinner?” he asked. “Good,” Dante said. “How old is he now?” he asked Lola. He does this every time he sees us. Our conversations have never gone farther, and although he knows our faces, it’s clear that Fr. Gary doesn’t know our names. For some reason, though, (maybe it was the kitchen work that awaited him), he was in an expansive mood. He talked on about the Mission, the orphanage, the ragged little boys he sees again every year, the way they paw at his pockets for the bubble gum he keeps there for them, the time two of them doused him with a bucket of water. He was sitting right next to me, and I couldn’t help but focus on the thick tufts of hair protruding from his nose, the way he had just scarfed a taco while standing over the garbage can, the stories I’d heard of his laziness.
At last he got up to leave. “Have to go wash the dishes,” he said, mock incredulous. Soon Lola was done eating, and after a while Dante was done too. The room had almost cleared out. We got up, lingered briefly over the photo displays from previous Mission trips—they all included a group shot from an “R&R dinner” at some cantina in Rosarita—and talked to a few students about the clothing Lola had gathered to donate. She gave two of them hugs as we left; they thanked us for coming. I squatted to tie Dante’s shoe. He quickly rounded on me, a favorite move, and jumped on my back, arms round my neck. “A ride, a ride,” he chanted. I stood, slowly, and hoisted him up. We walked down the long hallway and out into the evening.
On Wednesday we went to the taco dinner put on by the Catholic students of “Mission Mexico.” They’ll be spending Spring break at an orphanage in Tijuana, and this is one of their major fundraisers. For us it’s a cheap dinner and a chance to socialize a little, as well as a good cause. Dante enjoys it, and so do Lola and I.
The dinner was held downtown, in the basement of St. Aelred's Episcopal. We had arranged that I would walk there from work and Dante and Lola would meet me. They arrived first, as I had hoped they would. Dante spotted me through the glass door, yelled “Dad!” and ran to hug me, and of course my heart melted. While he was still squeezing my neck, however, I looked up to see Lola counting her money. “Do you have any cash at all?” she asked weakly. Immediately I felt a wash of anger short-circuit the moment's tenderness. “Uh, no,” I shot back, shaking my head. Yet again, I was thinking, she has not thought things out. As though I never make a mistake. She continued, miserably, to recount a stack of wrinkled bills.
We were three dollars short. Lola timidly approached the ticket table, me looming behind her. Dante was oblivious, darting and jiving in the long hallway, running his fingers along the wall. The girl taking money was oblivious too. “Do children get in free?” Lola asked her, cringing slightly. The girl rolled her eyes, waived us in. “Go ahead,” she said wearily. Whatever. Uh…no sanks, as Dante would say. It was a fundraiser, after all. “I’ll go out and look in the car,” Lola said. “Wait here.”
Dante was getting tired of waiting. I was fit to be tied. “Let’s go. Help mom,” I snapped after a couple of minutes, but he didn’t want to go. I had to cajole him. Out in front of the church, Lola was rifling the van, all the usual places: the ashtray, the overheads, the undersides of the sun visors. Nothing. I could feel my face curdle into a sneer. “We’ll have to go to the bank,” Lola said, straining. “Hop in, Dante.”
I brooded all the way to the ATM and back. Tried half-heartedly to cut through the mood with a prayer for forbearance, it being Lent, but I was enjoying my righteous anger too much—even though I knew that to hold it much longer was risking a backlash. I held my tongue, but sighed exasperation when I had to step out into traffic in front of the bank. Lola was not responding.
Finally we were back at the church, paying our money, standing in line. The line was long. The room was crowded with students eating. The girls began to notice Dante, to point, to smile. Soon he noticed them. With only a little encouragement from Lola, he launched into an enthusiastic demonstration of the Chicken Dance, which he had learned earlier in the day at his pre-school afternoon enrichment class. More pointing. More smiles. Laughter. I folded my arms, forced a smile. The boil had been lanced, and the anger was draining. Lola apologized for not bringing enough money. “It’s okay,” I said quietly. Then, “Geez, this line is moving slowly.” She rolled her eyes.
When at last we sat down with our plates I quickly polished mine off, and soon felt a stitch from the fat and the additives. It was all canned stuff, and not even Goya. Mountains of stiff orange machine-shredded cheese, a white plastic bucket of imitation sour cream. Hard corn shells packed in cellophane that crumble at the first bite, leaving you with a handful of shards and greasy meat. Naturally I went back for seconds.
When I got back to the table Fr. Gary was visiting, talking to Lola about Dante, trying to talk to Dante. “How’s your dinner?” he asked. “Good,” Dante said. “How old is he now?” he asked Lola. He does this every time he sees us. Our conversations have never gone farther, and although he knows our faces, it’s clear that Fr. Gary doesn’t know our names. For some reason, though, (maybe it was the kitchen work that awaited him), he was in an expansive mood. He talked on about the Mission, the orphanage, the ragged little boys he sees again every year, the way they paw at his pockets for the bubble gum he keeps there for them, the time two of them doused him with a bucket of water. He was sitting right next to me, and I couldn’t help but focus on the thick tufts of hair protruding from his nose, the way he had just scarfed a taco while standing over the garbage can, the stories I’d heard of his laziness.
At last he got up to leave. “Have to go wash the dishes,” he said, mock incredulous. Soon Lola was done eating, and after a while Dante was done too. The room had almost cleared out. We got up, lingered briefly over the photo displays from previous Mission trips—they all included a group shot from an “R&R dinner” at some cantina in Rosarita—and talked to a few students about the clothing Lola had gathered to donate. She gave two of them hugs as we left; they thanked us for coming. I squatted to tie Dante’s shoe. He quickly rounded on me, a favorite move, and jumped on my back, arms round my neck. “A ride, a ride,” he chanted. I stood, slowly, and hoisted him up. We walked down the long hallway and out into the evening.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Sunday Dinner
I roasted a chicken, using a Mark Bittman recipe I cut from the Times maybe ten years ago. It’s a bare-bones approach (he is "The Minimalist," after all) that hinges on two things: high heat (450F) and preheating the roasting vessel to “jump-start” the cooking of the dark meat, so that everything comes out even. You simply put a cast iron skillet in the oven, turn it on, and salt and pepper the bird. When oven and pan are hot, you plop in the chicken, breast side up, and shove the pan back in the oven. What could be easier? Bittman suggests thirty minutes for a three-pound bird. Mine was four and a half, so I set the timer for 45 minutes, to be sure of doneness. I can’t stomach chicken pink at the bone.
Alas, this time Bittman’s minimalism turned out to be a bit excessive. Before twenty minutes passed L noticed smoke seeping from the oven. I opened the door and choked on a cloud. The bird’s skin was already brown, and the bottom of the pan was swimming in grease, which popped and spattered everywhere. I turned the oven fan on high and opened the kitchen window, but every time I cracked the oven door another billow of smoke rushed to the ceiling. I covered the pan loosely with foil, thinking that might catch the spattering and prevent burning grease, to no avail. Out of tricks, and hungry, I just hunkered down and willed the oven timer to get to zero, alternately cursing Bittman’s cavalier omission ("Warning: Burning grease!") and praying that I wouldn’t set off the smoke detector. In the middle of this ordeal I dimly remembered trying this recipe once before, probably ten years ago—and why I had never tried it again. Thus was reinforced the utility of making notes on recipes, and also that of throwing flawed recipes away.
In the end the bird turned out fine, better than fine even: 45 minutes produced breast meat so moist and juicy I was afraid it wasn’t done, though it had easily run the meat thermometer to 165F. L claimed it was the best chicken she’d ever had. The dark meat was done well, too. Still, despite the results at table, I don’t think I’ll try this recipe again--not indoors, or at least not in winter. My eyes are still smarting from the smoke.
P.S. It’s not often that my having made polenta ranks as an afterthought, but yeah, I made that too. Stirred it for a good 45 minutes while watching the chicken, not constantly, but every couple of minutes over a very low heat. When it was finished I swirled in some Parmesan cheese. It was thick, creamy, and rib-sticking good, nothing like the wretched pre-made stuff that comes in tubes, or the instant variety you buy in a box. The gulf between these impostors and the real thing is akin to that between instant coffee and good French pressed.
I also made some hot oil: red pepper flakes simmered briefly in olive oil which is then allowed to cool, so that the pepper infuses. My father remembers his grandfather keeping a bowl of this simple dressing on the table always, and drizzling it on everything. It added zip to the polenta, caro nonno!
Alas, this time Bittman’s minimalism turned out to be a bit excessive. Before twenty minutes passed L noticed smoke seeping from the oven. I opened the door and choked on a cloud. The bird’s skin was already brown, and the bottom of the pan was swimming in grease, which popped and spattered everywhere. I turned the oven fan on high and opened the kitchen window, but every time I cracked the oven door another billow of smoke rushed to the ceiling. I covered the pan loosely with foil, thinking that might catch the spattering and prevent burning grease, to no avail. Out of tricks, and hungry, I just hunkered down and willed the oven timer to get to zero, alternately cursing Bittman’s cavalier omission ("Warning: Burning grease!") and praying that I wouldn’t set off the smoke detector. In the middle of this ordeal I dimly remembered trying this recipe once before, probably ten years ago—and why I had never tried it again. Thus was reinforced the utility of making notes on recipes, and also that of throwing flawed recipes away.
In the end the bird turned out fine, better than fine even: 45 minutes produced breast meat so moist and juicy I was afraid it wasn’t done, though it had easily run the meat thermometer to 165F. L claimed it was the best chicken she’d ever had. The dark meat was done well, too. Still, despite the results at table, I don’t think I’ll try this recipe again--not indoors, or at least not in winter. My eyes are still smarting from the smoke.
P.S. It’s not often that my having made polenta ranks as an afterthought, but yeah, I made that too. Stirred it for a good 45 minutes while watching the chicken, not constantly, but every couple of minutes over a very low heat. When it was finished I swirled in some Parmesan cheese. It was thick, creamy, and rib-sticking good, nothing like the wretched pre-made stuff that comes in tubes, or the instant variety you buy in a box. The gulf between these impostors and the real thing is akin to that between instant coffee and good French pressed.
I also made some hot oil: red pepper flakes simmered briefly in olive oil which is then allowed to cool, so that the pepper infuses. My father remembers his grandfather keeping a bowl of this simple dressing on the table always, and drizzling it on everything. It added zip to the polenta, caro nonno!
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