I'm back!

Well, I’m back. I’m exhausted, jetlagged; but I also still have a belly full of baguette, and I can finally call myself half-cultured.



If only I had the forethought to get the apartment all sparkly clean before I left, I wouldn’t have returned to formidable mountains of clothing. Then again, it feels nice to know that the backs of chairs, my chairs, are waiting to be covered in sweaters and towels, just because they can be: while living out of a suitcase was exhilarating, it certainly is no match for coming home (especially when that home has a kitchen).

I think that’s the thing I was missing while I was away: my kitchen, any kitchen. Other people miss the convenience of laundry machines while traveling, but I miss pots, pans, and an accessible stove. (Perhaps I’m not the perfect mascot for feminism?) Every farmer’s market we strolled through in old towns, along coastlines, and positioned quaintly next to age-old cathedrals, I longed to be able to take something home, a few eggplants and tomatoes, say, and try my hand at Nicoise Ratatouille. It was sad indeed, but I got over it. I quickly gave in to being spoiled by the regional food that others had prepared and the local wines they had produced.

And spoiled, I was. What is a girl to do when there happens to be the best crepe stand smack on the way home from a fancy, four course dinner? In all seriousness, she is to get one, slathered (in the best way) with Nutella and copious slices of banana, and enjoy. And then, if she really needs to justify, tell herself that she might only be in Paris this one time, that it would be a travesty to not try the local food, and that the full feeling she has (the one that makes her wish she wore looser clothes) is really just the feeling of Parisian tradition, taking over her body. That by doing this, she might even become French.



Unfortunately, I didn’t become French. (Come to think of it, I was probably closer to becoming an actual crepe.) Over two weeks and a day, I traveled wide-eyed around France, and even popped into Spain for a day or two at the tail end. And I came to realize and wholeheartedly appreciate the way they treat food. The way they respect it. Eating is considered a time of relaxation, of enjoyment, a slowed down version of even the slowest American meal. You’re not even allowed to get coffee to go: when we tried, we were handed espressos with makeshift tops, complete with straws stuck in the top. Hilarious, but also eye-opening. In a country where your coffee is to be enjoyed while sitting and your meals are to be taken seriously, I tried to absorb as much as I could in hopes of taking a little of that home with me. A little, but not the coffee bit. I’m sorry, I like my coffee made with water, and at times, I like it to go. Sorry, France.

Bon Voyage!

So I was hoping to bring you a few more recipes before I left (namely, one with rhubarb, among other reasons because it's the season, and it's delicious), but with the whirlwind of packing and calling credit card companies and checking and rechecking flight numbers, I got caught up, and now, I leave tomorrow. Tomorrow. I haven't even left yet, and I'm already exhausted: I have little to say at this point, other than I hope all of the logistics go smoothly, and that I can bring all of you back some wonderful stories about food, and the pictures to go with them.



So, here's to sturdy planes, croissants, fair weather, and all the many unplanned adventures I may have. Well then, Bon Voyage, I guess, to me!

Foodies in a Foodie Store

I’m easy to shop for. Easy as pie. In fact, I’d love to get a pie as a gift; anything that has to do with food is right down my alley. That is why I love cooking stores, and that is also why I scored myself a modest Williams Sonoma gift card this past Christmas.*

Embarrassingly enough, it took me until just yesterday to use it. This, of course, is due to the massive headache of indecision I get every time I think about spending money in a cooking store, the kind that leaves you with a dull pain of frustration and excitement all at once, and that would land you, had you been a few years younger, sitting smack in the middle of the floor to escape your dilemma. Knowing that I’m not alone does help, if only marginally: I imagine I share this trait of mild insanity with all other foodies out there with slightly shallow pockets.

We’re like kids in a candy store. No, we’re worse. Kids in a candy store quickly reach sugar highs and stomach aches when they gorge themselves: their bodies send up little kid-sized red flags, telling them they’ve had to much. We, on the other hand, don’t have a physical reminder. In fact, it seems the only way to relieve the great headache of indecision is to spend more. We have only our own measly restraint, and that only goes so far. Or we have gift cards with limits on them.

And so yesterday, while I was searching the shelves for gadgets within my price range, I made a great leap in character and decided in favor of practicality. I really really wanted that ice-cream maker. Just as much as I wanted the pasta machine. And, every. Thing. Else. But, I pulled myself together and gathered a few things that would build my cookware arsenal, practically: I chose a French rolling pin (every household needs one of these) and a 10” steel for the fancy shmancy chef’s knife I had gotten for my birthday. Mission accomplished, for now; I still have $18 dollars left. I wonder what I’ll get next.

*Thank you, Nammie, for the wonderful gift.

Nothing Better

Sometimes there’s nothing better than throwing on some music and chopping up some vegetables. Cooking alongside music (that is just loud enough so you can still hear your pan crackling) is like the perfect date: lovely company that is always right on time, and never fails to disappoint. Depending on what you’re making, it might even be all dressed up for the evening.

I’ve been listening to a lot of Amy Millan lately. In my kitchen, she is the flavor of the week, and she goes particularly well with wild mushrooms. But lately, her whispery, ever so down-home-country voice has been making me desperate for something comforting. Like a cherry pie, or mashed potatoes, or the home cooked meal I had last night with my parents – because what could be more comforting than old-fashioned potato salad, grilled chicken, and being surrounded by the throes of your childhood? Not a whole lot.



In celebration of my Dad’s birthday and retirement (a smiling congratulations to him), I meandered the 20 minutes of winding, backwoods roads that lead to my parents home, where I grew up, and even though I don’t live there anymore, what I like to refer to as my home-home. My mom had planned for a summer meal just like what I was raised on: simple, unfussy, but better versions of old favorites than you could ever imagine. If there was ever a mother’s home cooking that make you reach for thirds and fourths, this is it. (Really, I’m still recovering.) My parents also have hearts bigger than most, and keep a house that is generally brimming with long, idiosyncratic stories and wonderfully awful puns. You should come over sometime, I’m sure they’d love to have you.



When I got there, there was already music playing in the kitchen, and, as moved by the atmosphere, I grabbed a knife and finished what residual vegetables needed to be chopped. Dinner was lovely, complete with a curled up lab at our feet, and as we talked, it felt just like the old days, only better, friendlier. (Consider this a formal apology for my various stages of teenage rebellion and a hearty thank you for such a saintly pardoning.)

Anyway, here comes the point where everyone is probably expecting a recipe, or two. I want to give them to you, I really do, but the problem is, my mother has yet to email them to me (curse the age of computers!). And in the interest of full disclosure, once I have them, I still may not give them to you. Wait, let me explain: I hope you’ll forgive me, but there are some recipes that are meant to stay in the family, to be passed down like little heirlooms, and by god, this potato salad is one of them. I may deliver on the chicken marinade front, though – that is still to be decided. I can’t help but daydream about the day I’m in my kitchen, all grown up, cooking with an old Amy Millan album on, when my daughter walks in for dinner. I’m going to want to tell her how to make this dish that my mother made before me, and that it exists only in our memories. And then in all likelihood, if she gets my genes, she’ll run and go publish it on her food blog, maybe. But that’ll be up to her.


*Thanks, mom, for being (unlike my lentil salad) very photogenic.

Confessions, and an excuse to gloat

I have a confession to make. And it’s an embarrassing one, so brace yourselves. I’ve never eaten a croissant. There, I said it.

Even though the flaky pastries have such inarguably French roots, I feel like they’ve become a global phenomenon as the gold standard of breakfast fare. When people hear my news, they almost always predictably gasp at the horror of me never having tried one. The thawed fast food excuse-for-croissants have never even crossed these lips. I could say that I’ve been waiting until I’m able to travel to their country of origin to try one – that the American imitations of such a long-heralded French tradition are abominations, but that would be a lie. I wouldn’t know.



But what I will say is that there is no time like the present, or the immediate foreseeable future, rather, to conquer another culinary great. I’m going to France.

I’m sorry, no. I’m going to FRANCE!! That’s better. My first mission abroad will include France and Spain, and it will include me leaving in about one week. My stomach and I are so excited we both might burst. I imagine wonderful cheeses, and wines, both consumed while sitting in or near an ancient castle (this is when my imagination begins to go wild), but I also imagine croissants. The latter being a more realistic daydream than perhaps dining in a castle, I plan on eating my fill with an elevated pinky finger in Paris, and then in Tours, and then in St. Raphael, and Avignon, and Nice. I’ll stop, I’m sorry, I’m gloating. I simply can’t help it.

I have a week to go and what feels like a million things to get in order, but consider this advance warning for my absence. For now, I will continue bringing recipes and stories, and who knows, I might even be able to bring back a few croissants.

(**Thankyou, Google Image Search, for allowing me to find lovely croissant picture that is better than one I could ever take.)

Legal herbs, and a great big pile of vegetables

I’ve been thinking a lot about herbs lately. The legal kind, mind you; leave it to me to daydream about thyme and basil instead of the illicit, much more devious derivative of hemp.

Needless to say, when you live in an apartment, the closest thing you can get to growing your own produce in time for summer is a nice little indoor herb garden. I think I might start my own, and soon, before it becomes too late. Summer produce can hold its own all season long, but herbs always just make everything a little brighter – they function like little taste boosters, the well-meaning accomplices in whatever you happen to be cooking up.

Under some great spell of luck, the owners of the restaurant where I work took a chance on me and my very green culinary aptitude last summer, when I was allowed to work in the kitchen. Among close calls with open ovens, too many band-aids and burned fingers to count, and cheesecake recipes done four times over, there was also the invaluable experience of getting to know the garden that we harvested almost all of our produce from. I especially enjoyed this; not only because it proved a much less dangerous task than honing my knife skills on buckets of onions, but because I became familiar with a world of new vegetables, flowers, and of course, herbs.

After a few weeks of being sent out back with little direction other than “grab a few golden beets” or “we need kohlrabi,” I gradually started becoming efficient. I would no longer bring back weeds when asked for dill or stand in the middle of two rows in the garden, desperately staring, trying to will any and all French breakfast radishes to appear before me. The herbs in the greenhouse, as you can probably imagine, proved to be the most deceiving of all: the scheming plants all looked identical to my untrained eye, all just a general sweep of little green sprouts.

Things improved drastically when I started taste testing. I quickly recognized the familiar flavors like basil, dill, and parsley, and got to know some herbs that strayed from the kitchen classics. One such herb, that I have since found to be quite underrated, is tarragon. It smells only slightly of licorice, and has a flavor that is both bit bitter and earthy all at once; it also happens to work quite will with mushrooms, which is exactly what I decided to do – since I promised you a great bit pile of vegetables to brighten things up around here.



I based my dish loosely on Epicurious’ “Asparagus with Morels and Tarragon,” but I found myself missing quite a few ingredients (and the thick wallet to buy morels), so what resulted is more of a suggested ingredients list:

As much asparagus as you can possibly eat (white or green, or both)

Mushrooms (I would recommend using varieties with slightly more flavor, like Shitake and Porcini, but the plain old button mushrooms would certainly do the trick)

Shallots, minced

Olive Oil

Tarragon

Fresh Lemon Juice

Fleur de Sel and Cracked Black Pepper

I started by trimming the asparagus and cutting it into 2-inch sections, and then I blanched them in a great big pot of boiling salted water. (The more salt, the better – it should smell like the ocean, but not quite as nostalgic.) From there, all that is required is sautéing the shallots in oil until translucent, tossing in your mushrooms, and at the last minute, adding your asparagus and seasoning. I bet this would be even more lovely finished with a touch of cream, or perhaps a poached egg on top.

A Colossal Toss Up

I’m trying to decide if being a food critic would be entirely the best job ever, or alternately, the worst.

I’ve been thinking about this, of course, ever since I heard that Frank Bruni was leaving his post as the NY Times critic. If you haven’t heard, he has written a book called Born Round, and in order to promote it he must officially unveil himself; thus, he must step down as the elusive Times critic.

But, who would want a job that prevents you from being yourself, one that requires a disguise in public? Then again, who wouldn’t want a job that pays you to eat at some of the nicest restaurants in Manhattan multiple times and awards you with formidable power on the restaurant scene? I can just imagine telling the Times, quite deviously, that I still wasn’t sure after two visits to New York’s swankiest new restaurant, and that I needed to go again to complete my “research.” But wouldn’t running to the bathroom between each course to jot down notes take all of the pleasure out of an industry whose sole intention is to please? You can see I’m experiencing somewhat of a dilemma. It’s a colossal toss-up.

In the end, for me, enjoying meals at restaurants wholeheartedly, rather than mixing business with pleasure, trumps wigs and sunglasses. Because who wants to suppress all forms (visceral and otherwise) of reaction to delicious food so as not to be noticed by suspicious matire’d’s? Not I, that’s who. I’d like to retain the right to moan or giggle or even curse when I taste something extraordinary. To me, that's the best part.

What does everyone else think?