SMASH AND SNIFF

Ten Days in Puglia, Part 3: The Heel of the Boot

2011-11-09T00:58:00.000-08:00

This was the first time I had booked a vacation home online, sight-unseen. I was a little wary as photographs online or in brochures occasionally accentuate the positive to the point of distortion. But I was also quite intrigued. When I contacted Bruno, the owner of “La Grica” where we stayed just outside of Tricase in southern Puglia, via the HomeAwayUK website, he sent me a link (www.lagritca.it) providing additional information on the location and amenities.

Upon arrival we thought, perfect! This is exactly what we expected based on the photos on the website! The house had whitewashed walls, blue shutters and painted tiles, a thatched roof protecting the large terrace surrounded by olive and fig trees. It reminded me of postcards from Santorini and had the same view to boot – an unobstructed 180 degree panorama of the Adriatic sprawled out before it. I typed “sea view” into my house hunt criteria on the HomeAway site and sea view is precisely what we got.

The inside was basic but sufficient and clean. The terrace was really so amazing that we didn’t spend much time inside. There was even an outdoor shower and a clay pizza oven and grill.

The beach was not right out the front door but was accessible. Being on the Adriatic side of the “heel”, we were on the rockier, untamed side. There were steep winding staircases carved into the rockface every few kilometers where swimmers can make their way down to the intensely turquoise water below. For divers or snorkelers, it is a dream; for parents with young children, it’s a bit of a nightmare. The pathways were steep in places and windy conditions meant strong waves which made getting in and out of the water tricky. Kids would do better on the sandier shores of the Ionian side between Santa Maria di Leuca and Gallipoli.

Speaking of kids, if we were to bring the kids back with us next time, I unfortunately would have to say that we probably would not choose to stay here again – as much as I would LOVE to. The house is located just off of a busy road (although you don’t notice this because the house itself is situated down a windy set of stairs, far below) and while the terrace was perfect for my husband and myself, it would be a bit limited for a few small children who would want to run around and kick balls – all of which would fly over the railing and roll 100 meters through olive groves toward the sea below. Easy beach access or a nice yard would be much more ideal for children. Basically, its not the kind of place you as a parent could relax and let the kids run around unsupervised: steep steps, busy roads, vertical drops – it’s the kind of place where you would want to have your kid on a dog leash. But for 2-4 adults – it is an absolute dream. If we can cajole the grandparents into taking the kids again, we would love to get a couple of friends together and come back here.

Or more. The house has two parts; the lower part was rented out to another couple, a middle aged Italian couple from Rome. We said hello in the mornings and they shared a few restaurant tips with us but otherwise, we were very respectful of each other’s space and we rarely noticed someone else was there.

Bruno rented the house on a weekly basis, from Saturday – Saturday. We explained to him that we would have to leave Thursday, two days early, as we had stashed the kids away with their grandparents and need to get back and he gave us a 100€ discount on the weekly rate – which was incredibly nice of him, as he didn’t have to do that.

Speaking of Bruno, he had the keys waiting in the door for us when we arrived. He came up shortly thereafter to introduce himself, see if we had any questions and clue us in as to where to find groceries, the nearest gas station, and the best restaurant in the area. His house was situated about 100 meters below ours and he instructed us to come see him if we had any questions or problems.

About Puglia itself...

Puglia is best undertaken with a car. Public transport is limited and bicycles require serious quadriceps for the gorgeous cliff-hugging roads. Small, charming towns like Otranto, Gallipoli, Santa Maria di Leuca on the coast offer incredible seafood, nighttime passegiatas that take one back in time through the old winding streets of the walled cities, and soft sandy beaches with turquoise water that locals liken to the Maldives. Small villages on the interior like Specchia, Taviano, and Tricase provide a peek at everyday life on the Salento where visitors can stock up on local produce from nearby farms (Puglia is famous for its vegetable antipasti), homemade salami and cured meats and legendary fresh cheeses like Puglian burrata. At A Casa Tu Martinu, diners (like us) sit al fresco in a gorgeous courtyard garden sampling the bread dipped in vino cotto, a cooked wine sauce, bruschetta melanzane, discs of fried eggplant a top a pomodorini salsa, fresh handmade orrchiette with stewed greens or pasta all ceci, pasta with chickpeas. Fresh produce is also the star on the menu at the many messerie in the area. Messerie are former or current farming estates that boast some of the freshest fare in the Salento.

We usually spent the mornings gasping at the view from our terrace over thick slices of succulent watermelon and strong shots of espresso. By the time we managed to tear ourselves away, it was nearly noon and we would explore one of the nearby towns while everyone was at home having lunch, avoiding the mid-day heat. We would escape the heat at one of the gorgeous beaches – Baia dei Turquie north of Otranto or Baia Verde, otherwise known as the Italian Maldives, south of Gallipoli – from 3 pm onwards. One afternoon, we opted to rent a boat and explored the gorgeous rocky coastline around the Baia dei Zagare, south of Otranto and the cliffs and coves north of Leuca.

Gorgeous beaches, delicious fresh fish and vegetables, stunning views and a very relaxed local vibe is what we experienced in the Salento. Thanks again HomeAwayUK for the opportunity to stay in one of your amazing properties. We will definitely be staying with you again soon!

Ten Days in Puglia, Part 2: A Basilicata Seque and Southward

2011-08-12T01:31:00.000-07:00

Lovely, limestoney, Trani welcomed us into a gorgeous old monestary and fed us fresh fish and creamy gelato.

Had we been staying in an apartment instead of a hotel, we would have hit up this charming fisherman and his selection of langoustine, pulpo, sea urchins and fresh fish.

Sometimes you just stop, right there in the middle of the street, and admire. But keep an ear out for oncoming Vespas. They'll sneak up on you, fast.

In case you've thought about doing one of those "Leaning Tower of Pisa" poses on other monuments, you might want to reconsider, as Ingo cheerfully demonstrates at the Castel del Monte, about an hour outside of Trani and high on Ingo's, "Must see before I die" list.

So, Matera. In all honesty, I had never heard about Matera until I read this article. I am not sure if the city, particularly the former cave dwellings, referred to as the "Sassi" or stones, have attracted many tourists in the past or if the industry got a boost when Mel Gibson' filmed "The Passion of the Christ" here in 2004. But it appears that Matera is poised to become a sort of Disneyland for spelunking tourists. Declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1993, the old cave dwelling side of the city faces a gorgeous arid canyon. The caves were actually inhabited until the 1950s when the Italian government forced residents out because it was an "embarrassment" to have people living in such squalor in modern times. Government high rises were constructed and the former owners were begrudgingly relocated. Begrudgingly because these caves were kinda rad. They stayed cool in hot summers, boasted the first irrigation system in the city and offered membership into a sort of tight knit community that comes from living literally on top of each other.

We booked a room at the Sextantio Albergo Diffuso Le Grotte della Civita which coincidentally, is the primary focus of an article in the upcoming September issue of National Geographic Traveler Magazine entitled "The Towns Italy Forgot". (Another one of those DAMNIT!! WHY DIDN’T I WRITE THIS!! moments). As Miriam Murphy says in the article, it is a one-of-a-kind hotel and she speaks with the proprietors and provides interesting background on the architect’s vision for the hotel and other similar projects focused on resurrecting abandoned villages while preserving their architectual and historic integrity. And although Phillipe Starcke obviously wasn't around back in the day to design bathtubs for the cave dwellings like the one in our hotel room, they do use mostly locally sourced materials, like the dark woods used by local carpenters to make the closets and tables. Or old stone troughs used as sinks.

We wandered the city from one steep slippery stone walkway to the next. Which was a bit of a technical feat being that I was 6 months pregnant – meaning I had to haul around 20 extra pounds and my balance was off - and it was 95 degrees. But the views kept us going, every winding trail offered scenery more spectacular than the next. As much as “jaw-dropping” is an overused cliché, I can’t think of a better word to describe the Sassi.

In a country like Italy, there is very little left to “discover” – the famous works of art and architecture have all been found, documented, restored and displayed. The charming fishing villages have traded in shanties for boutique hotels and waterfront seafood restaurants, the best beaches are covered with “bagni” where it costs 20 euro a day to have the privilege of sitting under one of their umbrellas and on one of their beach chairs, the best restaurants have lines and waiting lists, as do the most significant cathedrals and now even the wild countryside of Tuscany and Umbria boast views that are blocked by sign after sign for the newest oldest agrotourismo accommodations and dining.

Our cave room

Don’t get me wrong, I love Italy. I fell madly deeply hopelessly in love with Italy when I was 16 and went abroad for the first time in my life on a Rotary exchange program. I spent the summer with two families, both of whom had a girl my age who I quickly called my best friend and both of who lived outside of Milan. I was enchanted by the animated language from the lyricism of the words that would be impossible to speak in a straight jacket for lack of use of the hands and entire body. I was thrilled that dinner started with a huge plate of pasta – just started! I looked forward to the afternoon lull following lunch where we’d lay around and watch bad talk shows or just talk. But most of all, I fell head over heels for Massimiliano. And let’s be honest, a short but sweet love affair will definitely taint your view of a place.

The common room

Massimiliano is long gone but my love for Italy remains deep. The way they stock legs of prosciutto and wheels of Grana in gas stations (!) and convenience stores (!), the repertoire of endearing names you are called by complete strangers and acquaintances (Ciao bella! Ciao stella! Ciao gioia!), the stand-up espresso counters and potato chip buffet apperitivi, the nonnas in their one-size-fits-all moomoo dresses and knee high stockings, the way the women will get made up, decked out, dressed up just to go out to the corner store for milk, the multitude of hand gestures that one must learn to actually understand the language, the tolerance for sexist talk shows that have not changed in 20 years. Even the annoying things – especially the annoying things – are endearing. That’s love.

And the touristy stuff is often endearing as well. But not always. If Italy had a Masai Mara, a Chang Mai hill people tour, an overtouristy, voyeuristic, over-hyped, something potentially interesting relegated to the ranks of banal, it would be Alberobello and “trulli” country. Please tell me I am wrong, I so wanted to be enchanted. And I preface my opinion by saying we had only 24 hours to spend in the Valle d’Istria – nowhere near enough time to explore it properly. I would have loved to spend a week in an artfully restored trullo somewhere in the countryside – and I don’t doubt there are many of them and that they are amazing. But I am atalking about Alberobello.

A typical trullo in Alberobello

Just skip it. Drive by. Snap a pic if you want. But don’t stay there. It’s the kind of place where you feel like you got suckered. You will be angry with yourself for falling prey to the trulli scam. At least, that is kinda how we felt. Go instead to Locotarondo for dinner, and stop in Martina Franca for granita at the M Betitto Sorbeteria.

An evening stroll through Martina Franca

Drive by the trullis in the fields, maybe stop by. But do yourself a favor and skip Alberobello. Maybe it’s because we just came from Matera, or maybe it was the family from Long Island who was walking around behind us with a heavily accented running commentary, but the town was just – meh. Everyone wants to sell you something, or provide you with an “authentic” stay in one of their trullis. Just avoid. Overall we were surprised by how “untouristy” Puglia is. At least, by foreigners. Italians discovered Puglia long ago and continue to appreciate its beaches, its food, its towns. But the rest of the world has only just started to catch on. And a great way to take it all in, is to set up shop there for a little while. Like we did. With our HomeAwayUK rental on the Adriatic coast just outside of Tricase, north of the southern most tip, Santa Maria de Leuca. Next and final installment: our amazing little house on a cliff and the southern tip.

Ten Days in Puglia, Part 1: Gargano

2011-07-29T01:36:00.000-07:00

It was a bit of a serendipitous babymoon. A soon-to-expire voucher for a free rental of a HomeAway UK property via this Grantourismo travel blogging contest and my in-laws volunteering without prompting to take the kids for a while was the equivalent of the stars aligning to offer us what will most likely be our last vacation as two before the impending arrival of baby number three for the foreseeable future. I mean, maybe we will be able to do this again when a) baby three is weened b) the grandparents feel up to the challenge of taking on three at once and c) at least one child is old enough to cook dinner, do the laundry and perform CPR, just in case. Until then, we will revel in the memories of a gorgeous ten day get away to Puglia, otherwise known as "the heel of the boot".

We left the kids with tears in our eyes on the beach with their grandparents not far from Ferrara. An hour later, the tears were dry and we had the stereo cranked, the windows down and we were free on the open highway, just me, my man and one baby minus 14 weeks. First stop: the gorgeous Gargano Promontory and the slippery-stoned, peninsula-topped, jaw-dropping view offering town of Peschici.

There were delicious discoveries like little almond paste cookies that Ingo took one bite of and declared too rich, and a sort of Puglian scone, the Pane del Pescatore, a dense bun with sweet raisins and salty almonds that filled us up for the rest of the day. There were also slices of hot dog and french fry foccaccia which we passed on this time around.

After an amazing meal at Porta di Basso where we sat at a table literally ON a CLIFF, I mean one step over the guard rail and it would have been 100 meters straight down into the sea, we headed out the next day to trace the promontory. Cruising by the trabucci, these old fishing nets that reminded me of the ones in Cochin, where you can sit and eat fish from the sea, into the pan and onto your plate.

Stopping over the lunch hour in sweet little Vieste, we continued tracing the coast, stopping occassionally to oggle the view, like this:

And periodically stopping to hike down to some little spot of beach like this:

And then on to the Baia delle Zagare, a little bay and incredible hotel that Ingo had been hearing about from his parents since childhood when they would dump him and his brother at his grandmother's and head down south for a few weeks on their own (sound familiar?). They would occasionally stay at this hotel, a gorgeous place perched up on a cliff with an elevator built into the rock to take guests down to this secluded little expanse of white sand. The only way to get to this bay is to stay at the hotel, have your own yacht to cruise up in OR if you are sneaky like us, talk to someone at the front desk and tell them you are looking for a hotel and wanted to look around the grounds. They instructed us to make ourselves at home and pointed us toward the elevator. The famous elevator! To the famous bay!

Totally dreamy.

Pulling ourselves away from the bay, we continued along the coast, passing exceedingly ugly industrial Manfredonia, which spit us off of the promontory and into Trani:

where we got in just in time to see the sun set over the harbor and cathedral from our hotel room at Hotel San Paolo al Convento, a former convent with limestone walls and floor-to-ceiling windows. Thanks for the tip, in-laws!

From Trani through Matera and the Valle d'Istria and on to the tip of the heel... next.

Oscar's Birthday Week

2011-06-03T08:33:00.000-07:00

Psychedelic birthday cake. Designed and decorated by Oscar.

I am a bit fearful that a dangerous precedent has been set. One birthday. Three birthday parties. One week of sugar induced toddler debauchery and a wardrobe covered in frosting. The kid just turned three years old. Yes, it is every exciting, but judging by the amount of fanfare surrounding the big event, you would think he just married the princess of England.

First, there was the school party. A nutritious lunch was swapped out for a gooey chocolate birthday cake. Toddler approval ratings were high and the change in routine was greeted with rave reviews:

Of course we had to have a family party at home. We added a few friends and had Oscar's favorite meal- pesto pasta with chicken and kalamata olives. When people arrived he kept opening the fridge and asking for his "happy birthday." "When is my happy birthday?" I soon realized that he was referring to the dessert and the singing. Most of what he has grasped about birthdays is 'dessert on fire'. Not a bad start.

Wanting a contrast to the cake he ate a few hours ago at school, I combined a banana split and a sundae: homemade banana chocolate-chip ice cream, sprinkled with salted peanuts, topped with whipped cream and a cherry. Hmmm... a dreamy helping of childhood nostalgia. Diving into this salty, sweet, bitter chocolate, treat transported us all to our happy place.

But the real showstopper had to be the kid-tastic birthday fiesta. Because we are moving back to the US in two weeks, uprooting Oscar from everything he has ever known, we went all out-- Mexican-style. Kid birthday parties are a major event here. The phone book has pages and pages of listings for event spaces solely for kid parties. They are equipped with bounce houses, trampolines, a rig for the piñata, and play structures galore; some have stages for a Backyardigan or Toy Story performance. All provide lots of tables and chairs and a large counter space for a extensive food buffet.

Bounce house: Check.

Look at the way he steps into the swing. Clearly it is not his first piñata bashing.

Why the tables and chairs? Kids don't sit still long enough to eat at a party. And a buffet table? Don't you just need a table big enough to hold a cake and perhaps a tub of ice cream? That is all the kids are going to eat, right? In Mexico, when you invite a child to a birthday party, you are inviting the whole family-- sisters, brothers, parents, cousins, uncles, grandparents, the neighbor who is over playing that morning, etc. They all come. And they expect to be fed and watered. So, those fifteen invitations that went out to Oscar's classmates could bring in 150 guests. And the kicker..... no one ever RSVPs.

So from someone who foolishly tackled it..... if you are ever faced with the challenge of cooking for a large mystery number of adults and children, I suggest you don't. Just call in a taco truck, order the largest cake at the bakery and get your bounce-house on!

In my memory, growing up in the US, birthday parties lasted two hours MAX at this young age. Parents jumped for joy at the sight of a birthday invitation and quickly scheduled their massage, golf game, etc. Kids were dropped off not one second after the designated time. Now….Mexican-style. Two hours in and the party is just getting rolling. Entire families are still arriving. Naps are not an issue in Mexico and a sleep-deprived breakdown is treated with another slice of cake. Guests plant themselves at the tables and settle in for the afternoon. It’s an event. It truly is a celebration; a reason for everyone to get together. My guess is Oscar is going to want the entire town and their extended families at his fourth birthday—and, of course, a piñata!

The Perils of Being Pregnant

2011-05-27T01:01:00.000-07:00

Computer refusing to upload photos but imagine a big plate of raw oysters right here.

The daily temptations of the local specialties shops notwithstanding (from creamy unpasteurized French cheeses, various forms of raw meats from aged prosciutto, salami, tartars and sushi to anything from the deli counter basically), I now have to dodge children and raw vegetables. My rubella antibodies have gone from "weak" during my first pregnancy to below acceptable levels in this one. Apparently this happens. And so, what follows? Yes, a fellow mother from my children's kindergarten just informed me that there is at least one confirmed case of some sort of rubella, aptly also called German measles, currently circulating among the little miscreants. But children are not this pregnant woman's only nemisis: there has recently been an outbreak of something referred to as EHEC, a form of E. coli bacteria that is resistant to antibiotics and causes a series of unpleasant and potentially fatal intestinal and kidney malfunctions. They have just announced that a leading research institute in Germany has traced the source to raw vegetables - the one thing that pregnant women are told to ingest in large quantities. AND they have traced these vegetables back to... yes, of course, northern Germany.

While grocery shopping I feel like I am in a minefield: tomatoes about to go off all around me, who knows what's lurking under that lettuce leaf, and the potential pitfalls of choosing the wrong red pepper. ACK! What is a veggie lover to do? Cook them, the experts say. Peel them, boil them, fry them, sauteé them, bake them, just get them hot enough to kill whatever might be on them. But it's summmmmmmeeeeerrr. The season of flip-flops and cut-offs and tube tops and RAW vegetables, of hierloom tomato salads with (raw milk) buffala mozzorella, green goddess dressings made of thousands of fresh herbs, crudités and dips, cold soups made of simple pureed RAW vegetables. Raw, naked, in their natural state. Not baked in cheese and cream, not breaded and fried, not soaking in oil, just plain. Plain delicious.

In the course of my travels, I have had just about every amoeba, parasite and bacteria from giardia to bilharzia and taken every drug from cipro to hard core antibiotics. Of course this is because I've drank water from puddles full of cow shit in Mauritania, risked "Delhi-belly" by sampling the wares of numerous street food vendors throughout India, eaten fish from still water lakes in Afghanistan and kebobs from dodgy road side stands in Jordan; what I mean to say is, I deserved it. I have thrown major caution to the wind when it comes to taking triple-dog-food-dares. And I paid dearly for it. But this time, the game has changed. My intestinal track is weathered and can hack a little EHEC, I wager. But the fetus - I would like to give it a little more time to prepare before exposing it to all of the intestinal evils of the world.

So yesterday as the woman scans my items at the check out counter I am practically blushing. I will admit it: I am a bit of a grocery snob. I judge other people by their groceries. I imperceptibly shake my head at the mother who puts a pile of sugary yogurts, Chef-Boy-Ardee-like ready made pasta mixes and nothing-natural-about-them cookies on the conveyer belt; I feel sorry for the middle-aged man who lays out his mayonaisse-laden deli prepared "salads" and his frozen pizzas; I chuckle as I remember when I was one of those students stocking up on ramen noodles and cheep beer. Total snob, I know.

But as I stand here watching my groceries slide by, I realize I am a conglomeration of all of these people. It's painfully obvious that I've completely shunned the produce aisle, even though signs hang above the arugula, spinach and iceburg saying "E. Coli FREE"; instead, it looks like I am preparing for an impending storm - almost everything is either processed and packaged or pasteurized. Artificially flavored hazelnut cream filled cookies, sour cream and onion Philadelphia and my biggest weakness which I usually deny, those something of Hannover honey mustard pretzel bits. They always give me a stomach ache because I eat too many of them but they are crack-like addictive. Nutritional value of my purchase: negligible. E. Coli risk: 0. Sometimes you have to pick your battles.

Barceloneta: Behind the Scenes

2011-05-24T02:37:00.000-07:00

As promised, more on Barceloneta. First, I won't say too much as you can read all about it in the upcoming June issue of Hemispheres Magazine, the United/Continental In-Flight magazine - either on board or online (yay!). But I will give you all a behind the scenes look at the prep for the piece:

In addition to all of the gorgeous dishes from my previous post, my research also entailed

the chef's smoked rice paella dish - unlike anything I'd tasted before.

And while Nathan and I tucked into all things from the sea, our fellow diners, Freej and Avis,

were giddy to find there was a vegetarian version.

But we were here for work not pleasure (although combining the two in this case was effortless) and so we finished off every last gambas rojas and smoky granule and headed to the open kitchen to stalk the man behind the mission (that being to bring diners to tears with his creations), a chef named Hug. (I'm not kidding.)

Ah yes, fresh seafood with a view of the Mediterranean and sitting down to talk food with adorable chefs, life is hard. But sometimes you just have to soldier through, you know?

Nathan and Freej yawned as Eva and I fawned over this talented cook with stunning blue eyes,

who also, turns out, gives good backrubs. To the pregnant woman. And charms her friend whose boyfriend is standing off to the side rolling his eyes. Ay dios mio. Want some of the freshest, most innovative seafood in Barcelona and a Hug? - his lovely establishment is called Kaiku. Tell him I sent you. Ask for a backrub. Enjoy.

Barceloneta and its Cuina

2011-05-18T05:23:00.000-07:00

I was in Barcelona a few weeks ago, in the lovely seaside, city beach, revamped fisherman's quarter of Barceloneta and it looked like this...

and sometimes it looked like this..

and occasionally like this.

More on Barcelona and its cuina coming to follow shortly...

Bacon Jam: Pig On A Baguette

2011-04-14T12:50:00.000-07:00

I have a guilty secret. I have been keeping quiet for the past two months in fear that I would blurt it out without warning or proper fanfare; however, now I just feel like a greedy hoarder for not letting everyone in on it: Bacon Jam! For real! It exists!

Bacon jam might be the first good thing that has come out of peoples’ obsession with hourly web updates detailing what they are noshing on while sitting in front of their computer. I first stumbled upon these two beautiful words strung together on twitter, which lead to a deeper dive into a few blogs which had recipes for bacon jam, then… I turned to my stash of homemade bacon. A choir of angels sang out from the heavens and I knew how to fulfill this pork belly’s calling: Pork product in spreadable, edible form. Good God, man! Could it be as magical as it sounded?

Oh yes, it is pure nectar!

For my spin on it, I gave it a sort of Mayan-Mexican twist. Cocoa nibs (roasted cocoa beans) impart the essence of chocolate without adding any sweetness. The ancho and chipotle give it a bit of spice and smoky flavor, while the cinnamon adds subtle warmth. I used agave syrup (you can use honey as a substitute) which is a sweet syrup made from the cactus where tequila comes from… hmmmm maybe I should try a batch with a shot of tequila in the mix.

A smear of this smoky, spicy, bitter pork "pate" turns dignified guests into gluttons and beggars. After several bites and lots of moaning, an entrepreneur friend of mine immediately began conceiving of world condiment domination- move over ketchup, now bacon comes in a jar!

Pig On A Baguette

1 # bacon, cut into 1” pieces

1 onion, medium dice

4 cloves garlic, minced

3 tablespoon brown sugar

1 teaspoon ancho chili powder

1 teaspoon chipotle powder (or smoked paprika)

¼ teaspoon cinnamon

1 tablespoon cocoa nibs, ground

¾ cup coffee

¼ cup cider vinegar

¼ cup agave syrup (or honey)

1. Dump bacon into a skillet and cook until fat is rendered and bacon is slightly crisp. Add the onion and sauté for about 3 minutes. Pour out half of the bacon fat. Add the garlic and cook for 1 min.

2. Add the sugar, all of the spices and cocoa nibs and stir over heat for 1-2 minutes.

3. Pour in coffee, vinegar and agave and simmer on low for about 3 hours. Add water during the cooking if the liquid gets too low.

4. Transfer to a food processor and pulse until slightly smooth. I leave it a bit chunky with bacon bits. Serve with baguette and apple slices.

Eating Moscow: Traditional v. Innovative

2011-04-08T01:32:00.000-07:00

If it weren't for the touch screen waiter's monitor, you could be standing in someone's living room in Moscow circa 1979.

A secret restaurant in a Russian housewife's living room? Or a Russian-home-cooking joint and just another quirky thematic restaurant in the vast Ginza Project empire? It is hard to tell the difference upon entrance, after you've rung the door bell on at what looks like a standard Moscow apartment building.

Someone answered the door and we were ushered into the entryway where we were instructed to hang our coats before proceeding to the table. Decorated like an old-fashioned and slightly worn living room, it was cozy and familiar.

Meat jello...

The menu, although authentically Russian was nothing to write home about. It may have been my fault for ordering the meat jello – but I like a challenge and couldn’t pass this one up. The “herring in a fur coat” – a typical Russian herring salad in beets and mayo has also been filed away under things I am glad I tried but don’t necessarily need to eat again. It was fine. But it is not something I will find myself craving after a fast.

Herring in a fur coat

The borscht was good, the mushroom julienne was creamy and warming, the blini with salmon were also done well. As I said, it was all authentic and it was all good. It just wasn’t great. The real reason to go is the atmosphere which was cozy and novel and allowed us to pretend we were getting a home cooked meal – even though there was a group of native English speaking tourists or expats a few tables over.

Mari Vanna is owned and run by the Ginza Project – hear of them? They have over 20 different restaurants and cafés in Moscow and have recently branched out into everything from fitness to taxi service to design to flowers to - sky's the limit - or at least something called "Ginza Sky". And they aim for world domination. They have opened a Mari Vanna in New York City and have plans for other projects abroad, rumor has it.

But out with the old and on with the new...

Ragout: The head chef of this trendy Moscow restaurant is Alexei Zimin, who is also the editor -in-chief of “Eda”, Russia’s only good food magazine according to the critics. The mag covers everything from up and coming Moscow chefs, recipes that range from traditional to innovative and finally, the kicker, the last section offers recipes for foods that can be made with common household appliances (Soup cooked in the coffee maker? Fish poached in the dishwasher? Chicken spatch-cocked between two irons, anyone?).

After stints with big magazine titles in fashion and travel, Zimin decided that if he was going to take the helm of a food magazine he needed a formal education in his subject. He signed up for classes at the Cordon Bleu in London and came back with real chef creds which propelled him from his editor’s office into the kitchen. He currently captains both ships – AH-MAZING.

Ragout was opened by Katya Drozdova, Muscovite restaurateur who also opened Khachapuri, the hip new Georgian establishment that we very unfortunately did not make it to. She is a 30 something mother who has, with these two standouts and other projects in the works, firmly established herself as one of the big names in the Moscow food scene.

dessert

While I tend to shun the hot and trendy in favor of the hole-in-the wall, taco truck, old men in the tea shop type establishments, this is Russian cuisine too I reasoned and so we joined the scensters at Ragout: me, Julie, her friend Ana, my friend Elena, a Russian food and travel journalist based in Italy and her friend Irina, a Moscow fashion designer. Hello lovely ladies! The scene was buzzing, the light coming down in soft spotlights from above, tables pressed close together in rows, the young and beautiful nibbling on seafood risotto or vegetable tempura, tuna tartar with avocado or cod served over white beans and chorizo. But the stand-out of the evening, and I am not a dessert person normally, was the bacon and egg ice cream with salted caramel and brioche. The ice cream tasted like bacon, the “egg” was little bits of apricot, the salted caramel was thick and luscious served on the side in a little pot and the brioche was like a deeply saturated French toast.

The evening was capped off with a visit to the members-only bar Petrovska (Irina was a member) – a soviet nostalgia bar where hipsters mingled with middle-aged foggies – and us - not tragically hip, but not yet foggies. We danced to horrendously bad 70s music, drank vodka with a group of ladies who came of age in the 70s, and then were spontaneously absorbed into a high school reunion in the “kitchen” themed dining room (there were several rooms that were themed to look like a different part of a typical Soviet apartment.

The owners asked for donations and trolled flea markets to find old Soviet nostalgia from people’s homes which make the basis for the decoration. Soviet kitsch heaven.) We danced with a couple of very sweaty 50 year old men and swapped remember when stories even though we had no shared history (fake it till you make it!)

Whether you are young and hot or absolutely not, in search of babuschka's borscht or something you could just as well find in NYC, it's all typical Moscow.

Eating Moscow: Georgian-style

2011-04-05T06:20:00.000-07:00

I attempt to suck out the khinkali juice without squirting it all over my shirt

This is another post in the slowly-drawing-to-a-close Moscow series while simultaneously being a concluding post in the former Georgia series, which I wrote back in June of last year. A reader recently reminded me that I had promised a post on Georgian food and completely failed to deliver. And because Moscow offers some of the best Georgian food outside of the Republic and because I want to encourage as many Georgian food enthusiasts as possible, I go back and now forward to one of the most underrated, most overlooked, most delicious world cuisines - Georgian.

We begin with khinkali. If you are a dumpling fan, you will love these. First, the meat is usually either ground pork or beef mixed with coriander and chilies. Coriander! So unexpected! So delicious! The chilies give it just a little kick, which could be tamed with a dab of sour cream. if you like. Second, the technique. There is actually a “correct” way to eat these adorable little nubbins. Grasp at the twisted knot and bite gingerly into the dough only. A small bite to make a tiny hole through which you will attempt to drink most of the broth that the meat has been stewing in. And I say attempt for two reasons: you will never manage to get every last drop out, which is actually a good thing. Save a drop or two for your last juicy bite. And secondly, as with any technique, this one requires skill – skill that is only acquired through practice. Therefore you would be wise to bow your arms into a square, bring the dumpling into you, flattening the square into a thin oval, ready to spring back into a bow when the broth inevitably spills out. Approach with caution, very slowly. My instructor was Jacob Jugashvili, Josef Stalin’s great grandson who I was put in touch with through a mutual friend. Jacob educated me not only in the art of the Georgian dumpling but also in history – or at least, his version of it. His recounting of events leading up to and following WWII would make historians gasp and would land him in jail in Germany – as he himself pointed out as an example of what a joke he believes democracy is. A painter, a Soviet nostalgist and a historical revisionist (he called himself a “researcher of the truth”) – needless to say, lunch was “interesting”.

One more note on technique, or maybe a rule: don't eat the doughy knot at the end. First of all, they will only fill you up, leaving you less room for the other delicious dishes on the table. And secondly, Georgians frown upon it. You will be told they will make you sick. This sounds to me like one of those reasons mothers make up to prevent their kids from doing something, like, "Fine go ahead and pick your nose but watch out for the sharp-tooth snail!" If you are curious, go ahead and eat one. It won't hurt you. It'll just make you look like a dumpling novice.

See the resemblance?

Khachapuri. My introduction to khachapuri was also sobering – in a completely different way. In the hangover cure kind of way. Out too late the night before with more friends of friends, a British journalist and a Canadian political analyst, the latter of which I met the next morning for a walk and lunch. Andrew and I dragged ourselves around a few city blocks before simultaneously admitting that we both needed an aspirin and hangover food i.e. something greasy and heavy on the carbs. Oh, and did we find it. He smiled when I described my ideal hangover cure: “I know just what you need,” he said.

And here is what we got:

When you say Georgian food, most people will have one of two reactions: a blank stare or “Cheese pizza and dumplings!” The cheese pizza is the khachapuri which comes in different forms, the most common being both stuffed and topped with cheese. For the brave and the hungover however, there is only one way to go – the adjaruli khachapuri. Shaped like a little boat with cheese baked in the center, its also topped with a raw egg and a generous slab of butter. So if alcohol poisoning hasn’t killed you, high cholesterol levels and a coronary blockage will. This dish was too much for Georgian-wine-hungover me to handle. You take a fork and stir the melted cheese, raw egg and butter together into a curdly puddle and then work your way from the outside in, picking off the barnacle of the dough boat which you use as a vehicle to get this soupy mess to your mouth. I might have finished half but I think that’s an optimistic exaggeration.

While khinkali or khachapuri are meals unto themselves, in order to sample more of the cuisine you might skip them (though you shouldn't skip them entirely) or order smaller portions and then opt for a number of the small dishes, mezze-style. And I highly recommend you try as many things as possible. Georgian food is a revelation for vegetarians – so many amazing combinations of spices and nuts, fresh salads and herbs, and cheeses in different consistencies – I really cannot understand why Georgian food has not taken off the way other cuisines have. Small plates to pass like Greek or Lebanese mezzes – washed down with Georgian wine or for the hard core – vodka. It is so easy to see how the supra (Georgian feast) culture has evolved.

A look at what you would find on your table at a Georgian restaurant serving mezzes:

Salads – so many delicious salads, the most common is a simple tomato-cucumber combination topped with either dill, coriander or parsley, oil and vinegar. Simple but so fresh – a necessary counter-balance to some of the heavier sides and khachapuri.

Badrijani Nigvzit – fried eggplant, rolled up and stuffed with walnut paste. To be devoured.

Phakali – this post is inspired by the phakali recipe posted by Melissa at the Travelers Lunchbox. This dish is spinach based and combined with what Melissa describes as the combination that she'd "come to recognize as the country's holy trinity of flavors: walnuts, garlic, and a haunting herb-and-spice blend that offsets the biting freshness of cilantro and tarragon with the bitter, aromatic edge of fenugreek", and I thought as I read this YES YES EXACTLY! Every time I ate this I sat there in silence thinking: WHAT IS THIS?? I MUST KNOW WHAT THIS IS!!! The texture and weight of the ground walnuts, the hauntingly mysterious mixture of herbs - those of which I thought I could identify were estragon, coriander and dill – sometimes together, or separately. You know when you purposely keep a bit of something swirling around in your mouth, wracking your mental index of flavors to figure out exactly what it is you have just eaten in the hopes of attempting to reproduce it yourself? I did that bite after bite. FOR THE LOVE, WHAT IS THIS COMBINATION!?!? This combination is so unique, so specific to Georgian cuisine, I personally know nothing else to compare it to - you will simply have to try it yourself.

Lovely Nick and Nino and the continuation of my Georgian culinary education

Satsivi – a walnut sauce served over chicken, usually cold which comes as a bit of a surprise at first but somehow makes it lighter, refreshing, delicious.

Shashlik – your typical kebab, grilled on a skewer, seasoned and perhaps alternated with onions, tomatoes or other vegetables.

Salguni – a salty sometimes rubbery freshmilk cheese akin to feta but not as crumbly.

And so, so much more.

If you have the chance to Georgian food, I cannot recommend it enough. If you have the opportunity to get to Georgia, ditto. And if you find yourself in Moscow, check out one of the following Georgian restaurants:

Genatsvale

Hachapuri

Tiflis

Nazdarovie!

Eating Moscow: Eliseevskiy Food Market

2011-04-01T05:21:00.000-07:00

In the middle of Tverskaya, the main thoroughfare through central Moscow leading out to the airport, you will find Eliseevskiy Food Emporium, a grand dame of supermarkets. Opened in 1901 by Russian businessman Grigory Eliseev, the store became synonymous with luxury, not only for the imported and hard to find items, but for the architecture and classic Neo-Baroque deco.

In short, the original structure was built at the end of 18 century, when Catherine the Great's Secretary of State invited architect Matvey Kazakov to build a Palace for his wife. The palace was passed down after her death and was eventually transformed into a literary salon where the likes of Pushkin and other writers and artists gathered.

Eliseev bought the building at the end 19 century who added it to his comestible empire which already included the largest grocery store in St. Petersburg.

Originally called the "Eliseev Store and Russian and Foreign Wine Cellars", the establishment opened with great fanfare, including a church service and priests who offered their blessings. Which is ironic because today, the wine and liquor section of the store is cordoned off; apparently, state laws prohibit the sale of alcohol within a certain distance from the church. And an official from the neighboring parish recently realized that technically, the store was within the legally unacceptable distance from their alter. Alcohols sales are currently suspended until the matter is resolved.

Yeah, this is what my neighborhood grocery store looks like too..

And the deli counter...

Although no one can claim to have as many mayonnaise-based salads as the Russians..

Nor, unfortunately, as much caviar...

But we do have plenty of Heinz - which has obviously made its way into the former Soviet Union..

Though my home town grocer's ketchup bottle display definitely does not come with such elaborate columns, chandeliers and gold-flecked molding.

Nor such an extensive smoked fish selection.

Or these gorgeous chocolates with little cherubs on the packaging.

Although the deli looked amazing, the fish, the cheeses, the meats all so tempting, the only thing I walked out with were non-perishable items - chocolates. Four bags of cherubs in various sizes and shapes that I swore would be souvenir gifts for friends and neighbors - needless to say, I have eaten most of them myself. I don't know why I ever buy edible souvenirs "for friends" - they make it to their intended recipients 50 percent of the time - at best.

I guess after hanging out in the store for over an hour oogling the deli counter, drooling over the baked goods, handling the beautifully packaged confections, snapping photos of the enormous chandeliers and the hairnetted staff, we felt compelled to purchase. A small price to pay to visit this palace/literary salon-cum-grocery store.

The beauty! Of the grocery store!

Eating Moscow: Maslenitsa

2011-03-23T03:48:00.000-07:00

Smetana. Caviar. Blini.

We were there just at the right time. Almost. I flew out of Moscow just as Maslenitsa was beginning. Butter festival or Pancake Festival, Russia's version of a Fat Tuesday - the chance for Orthodox Christians to get their dairy in before you have to give it all up for 40 days of lent culminating in the celebration of Easter when they are allowed to get their dairy, meat, alcohol and booty calls on once again.

Chefs like Elmar Basziszta at the Baltschug Kempinski were gearing up for Maslenitsa with "Blini Menus", traditional blini recipes like blinis served with caviar and smetana, an ultra-thick and luxurious kind of sour cream or quark, and more creative variations like buckwheat blini with pan-friend scallops, baked beetroot and truffle vinaigrette, beef consummé with pancake julienne, lamb loin wrapped in garlic-rosemary blinis on grilled bell peppers, blinis rolled with smoked salmon, cream cheese and spinach or topped with forest mushroom ragout.

Basziszta claims that most Russians prefer to stick to the classics. They like traditional dishes served in traditional style, he insists. But the Kempinski caters to an international crowd and the chef reveled in the opportunity to experiment.

For those who didn't make it to the Kempinski due to prior commitments or constrained budgets, there were other ways to get a pancake fix that were less abusive on the pocketbook. Teremok, the popular fast food-style chain and blini specialist also expanded its menu to include a variety of classic and holiday blinis to go. We may have missed the blini stands set up around the Kremlin the following week, but thanks to Chef Basziszta and Teremok, we definitely got our fill of Maslenitsa in Moscow.

Eating Moscow: Café Pushkin

2011-03-18T07:08:00.000-07:00

Where to start, where to start? With a classic perhaps to put things into context. Not only was the iconic, must-at-least-drink-a-coffee-there Café Pushkin architecturally striking, it was somehow able to be cozy despite the slight air of pomposity. It's the kind of place my grandmother might have taken me to as a kid, where I would sit fidgeting, scolded for using the wrong utensil. At the same time, in the late afternoon sunlight, after shedding 45 layers of wool and fleece, it was welcoming, comforting. The downstairs was informal, whereas upstairs one might feel underdressed without a jacket and tie. But the atmosphere, inviting as it was, is not what would keep me coming back. That, would be the food.

The wild mushroom pelmeni ruined me. I don't think I will ever order pelmeni again because none that I will ever eat will be as good as the mushroom pelmeni at Pushkin.

The mushroom julienne, (I was in a mushroom mood, perhaps still reeling from the meat jello the night before, but that's another story) was served in an adorable edible cracker pot - I bit into the lid to see if it was edible. It is - but I would advise against it, I think I cracked my tooth.

The story of this place is equally charming. Back in the 80s, Russian Andrei Delos was a student studying architecture in Paris. After the fall of the Soviet Union he went back to Moscow, intending to stay for a short visit. Bureaucracy extended his stay indefinitely and soon Delos, fluent in French, was giving city tours to French tourists.

The French tourists all seem to have one request: Can you take us to Café Pushkin? They had heard about the café in a popular French song about a Russian tour guide who falls in love with a French tourist and in the song he takes her to "Café Pushkin". Thing was, there was no such thing as Café Pushkin. It did not exist. But after being repeatedly asked about the famous non-existent café, Delos had an idea. The architecture student invested his savings in building from the ground up a café that was designed to look like it may have been Pushkin's house. Decorated in period style, he overlooked no detail. Café Pushkin quickly attracted not only the French, but the Moscovite glitterati in droves. To get in today, you need to push past the hordes of SUVs parked outside, drivers waiting with motors running. The establishment has become an institution and it's established Delos as one of the major players in the Moscow restaurant and club scene.

His latest creation Turandot, has been all over the press lately. Again the design was overseen by Delos' and his keen architect's eye for detail. Built in a "French Chinese" style, the place is opulent, beautiful yet on the verge of becoming gaudy. When we visited, a group of eight adults sat at a table while their children, the girls in white islet dresses with satin sashes (and snowflakes that stay..), ran up and down the stairs and around the dining room as though they were at a picnic in the park. It reminded me of a scene from the Nutcracker, some how so bourgeois Russian - like a dream sequence.

Café Pushkin is open 24 hours - which surprised me - you wouldn't peg it as a 24 hour kinda joint. Apparently around 4-5 am it fills with SUV-chauffeured 20-somethings who are wrapping up a night of clubbing.

For the food, the atmosphere, the people-watching, when in Moscow save your pennies (which you will have had to do to even breath the air in Moscow) and take them to Pushkin.

Red February

2011-03-15T15:24:00.000-07:00

February. The last full month of winter. The last of your already spent patience with the cold, ice, multiple layers, dry skin, frozen toes. And one of the last places you'd probably think to go during this month is Moscow. And yet...

here we are.

Not realizing that I should have said, "Um, let's wait til July!" when my friend Julie called and asked what I thought about a little trip to Moscow during the last week of February, I instead replied by checking ticket prices and googling Russian visa application procedures. And while the next time she calls with a similar proposal, I will most definitely say, "Let's wait til July!", I am glad I got to see Moscow in its fully frozen, minus 18 degree glory. I should come clean and admit that it was minus 18 on the Celsius scale - which I later learned is only about -1 Fahrenheit. As a Green Bay native, -1 Fahrenheit was a typical, if not practically unseasonably warm day in any given January or February. But while I was in Moscow, I wrote emails to family and friends, with the subject heading: "18 F*CKING DEGREES BELOW ZERO!!!!" And it sounds so much more dramatic, more respectable than "ONE F+CKING BELOW!!!", right? But really, once you get below zero, it's just cold period.


Me and my two wool sweaters, long underwear, three long sleeve t-shirts, snow boots, wool coat, and fleece hat outside the Bolshoi

To warm up, we were forced to duck into a number of local establishments like

supermarkets,

pastry closets,

cafés,

bath houses,

subways,

theaters,

and living rooms

seeking reprieve from the cold. And while we warmed up, we stocked up. On pelmeni, chocolates, massages, Soviet nostalgia, khajapuri, blini, opera, fur and matrioshkas. For all of the heavy comfort food, the steaming hot saunas, and a certain camaraderie that comes from frozen masses huddled together, maybe February was the best time to visit after all.

More on all of these places and the things we stocked up on ... next.

Sniff's Grantourismo Top Ten Travel Tales

2011-03-01T06:08:00.000-08:00

Atop Petra

In random order...

Spending the day with Pol Pot's former Head of State, Khieu Samphan and his family at his home outside of Pailin, Cambodia, a stones throw from the Thai border. Khieu is currently sitting before the International Tribunal pleading not guilty for his role in the deaths of 1.7 million Cambodians during the Khmer Rouge regime. During our lunch at his house, he completed denied any responsibility for the events and claimed ignorance.

After an incredible day at Petra, Jordan, we climbed atop the old court building at closing time with my friend Anees and his Bedoin friend who grew up in Petra. We had the park all to ourselves as we made tea and watched the sunset – 300 meters up. Then scrambled down in the dark after the police called to say they found our car in the middle of no where and wanted us to come into the station. Sobering, ahem.

Sharing my first khinkali dumplings with Stalin’s great grandson in Tbilisi, Georgia.

Breaking fast with the men who shovel the coal that warms the bath water in a little cave adjacent to the hamam during Ramadan in Fez, Morocco. We ate stuffed dates while they showed us the hole in the wall where they spied on the naked ladies in the bath.

My three-day overland trip from Dakhla, Morocco via 50 car military convoy through the Western Sahara territory into Mauritania. We then continued from Nouadibou to Nouakchott – it too us four days to drive 400 km through dramatic sand dunes in a Mercedes van, pulling the plaques out, stuffing them under the wheels and jumping back in the van as it was moving, Little Miss Sunshine style.

Getting caught in a rainstorm while sleeping on a rooftop in a small village in Dogon country, Mali. As we climbed down from the roof I burst into a rousing rendition of "Singing in the Rain" which turned into a medley of my favorites from "My Fair Lady", "Oliver" and "Sound of Music". The owners of the roof wanted to reciprocate so they cajoled the children into singing a traditional Malian song for us. They were fantastic and we gave them a thunderous round of applause.

My first trip abroad at 16, a month-long exchange in northern Italy. I fell in love with the food, the culture, the people... and Massimiliano.

My first summer in Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic where my friend Vasek took us floating down the Vltava on inner tubes. We got out every five minutes or so, pulling over at a local bar to grab a Pilsner, a shot of Slivovitz and some head cheese. Then continuing the float, a lazy day around a gorgeous castle and lots of fire wire.

Standing on the rooftop of an old haveli in downtown Lahore, Pakistan during Basant, the annual kite festival, watching the kites dip and dance and fight. Cheering the winners who remained in the sky and sympathizing with the losers whose kites were cut and plummeting.

Driving around the Blue/Hazrat Ali Mosque in Mazar-e-Sharif, Afghanistan on Nowroz (New Years) only to find ourselves suddenly surrounded by a jubilant mob, singing and dancing and playing drums on the hood of our car. We were in standstill traffic, with euphoric revelers ten people thick surrounding us. There was a sudden moment of panic realizing that if this mob suddenly got out of hand, we could be in serious danger. But when we looked at the buzzing mob, we realized there was nothing but good will and good energy. And we were part of it.

This post has been entered into the Grantourismo-HomeAway UK travel writing competition for February. What are you favorite travel memories?

Charcutepalooza: Makin' Bacon

2011-02-14T13:36:00.000-08:00

In an alternate universe there is a better me. I exercise every day, I have hair people envy, I keep bees, diligently tend a thriving garden, make my own soap and pluck fresh warm eggs from the heirloom chickens running around my backyard—all while working on the cure for breast cancer. (In yet another alternate universe lives a fantastically naughty me, who smuggles diamonds, lives a life of international intrigue and dances with pirates, but that is another story.)

When I read about Charcutepalooza, Mrs. Wheelbarrow and the Yummy Mummy’s challenge to support their proclaimed Year of Meat, I saw it as a chance to tango with the better me. Each month they will set forth a charcuterie making challenge. January was duck prosciutto. (Participants are allowed to complete this challenge at any point during the year, given the sneak-up-on-you nature of January.) February is bacon!

A few blocks from my house, huge hogs hang on meat hooks, swaying in the open air, visible from the street. I know this sight isn’t for everyone, but for me it is a beautiful thing. The Boivar Carnicería has been open since 1970 and serves the Santa Tere neighborhood—an old working class area of Guadalajara, lined with low colonial homes, filled with multigenerational families. They receive and butcher 20-30 pigs a day. At 3 pm, they close and go home for a large family meal and a well deserved siesta.

None of the butchers batted an eye when I asked for a slab of pork belly from which to make bacon. I guess I was sort of expecting awe and admiration for taking on such a cool meat-a-licious task, but the butchers were helpful and duly unimpressed. And now I understand why, making bacon is very simple. It is nothing like raising bees or curing breast cancer, it is much more like a week at the spa: a salt exfoliation, followed by a soak in the sea, a rinse and a steam.

Making Bacon
Adapted from the required reading and textbook of Charcutapalooza: Charcuterie by, Michael Ruhlman.

Salt Exfoliation- Mix 60 gr. of kosher salt, 2 teaspoons of curing salt, 30 gr of brown sugar, ¼ cup fresh chopped rosemary, 1/4 cup crushed black peppercorn and 4 crushed bay leaves. Channel your inner masochist and rub your 3-5 pounds of pork belly like a Turkish bath masseuse trying to remove all of your skin. Leave an even coat of salt on all sides.

The Soak- Place the belly in a zip-lock bag or in a non-reactive container just large enough to hold it. It will release a lot of liquid as it cures. Allow it to linger in the saline bath for seven days, gently turning it over every other day, while whispering sweet nothings.

Rinse and Steam- After seven days, it should feel hard to the touch, if not, allow the magical powers of salty bath to do its work for another day or two. Then, rinse in fresh water and put in the oven at 200F for two hours and roast until it reaches an internal temperature of 150F. And, Bravo! Your pork belly has been cured. It is now bacon!

To celebrate our bacon, we made a Mexican version of the BLT: roasted tomatillos, zesty watercress, avocado, thick cut house-made bacon and chipotle aioli spread on a roll. As an afterthought we added a fried egg with an oozy yolk. Immediately after consumption of this near perfect sandwich (and an unnecessary side-of-bacon), I had to lie down on the couch, nursing an upset stomach while running through the all-too-familiar lecture on over-indulgence and self-control. A better me indeed.

Vote for Naughtiness!

2011-01-21T12:39:00.000-08:00

Photo by Sarah Shatz of Food52

My cheeky irreverence to January denial has been rewarded! (See post below.) It seems naughtiness is delicious! I entered my Not-Too-Virtuous-Salad with Caramelized Apple Vinaigrette in last week's Food52 contest, “Your Best Salad with Apples” and it has been chosen as a finalist! Amanda Hesser and Merrill Stubbs (two of my idols) and their test kitchen team picked my recipe, and one other, out of 150 very impressive entries. And, now it is up to YOU to choose a winner! Check out the slide show of the making of the recipe here.

If you haven’t visited the website Food52 yet, you most definitely should. It is a cookbook project- that you can help write. Each week they announce a recipe contest. Home cooks have a week to submit creative, tasty, original recipes. Two finalists are chosen, and then the voting goes to the public. (AhhUmmm... that's you.) The winner gets published in the cookbook! In the meantime, Food52 is a dynamic and creative web resource for original recipes by home cooks and food bloggers. It is hands-down the best answer to that ubiquitous question, “What should I make for dinner?”

So… what are you waiting for? Check it out and don’t forget to click on the tab in the upper right hand corner that says, “cast your vote” and VOTE!

A Not-Too-Virtuous Salad w/ Caramelized Apple Vinaigrette

2011-01-12T08:04:00.000-08:00

Detox. Exercise. Diet. All virtuous proclamations the majority of us suckers ring in the New Year with. Renew. Rejuvenate. Revive. Blah. Blah. Blah. A new start. I am all for it, but I don’t think embarking on a slimmer, vegetarian You has any place, rhyme or reason in January.

For most, January is plastered in snow and ice, making a snuggle and duck for the down covers way more appealing than pounding the treadmill. Tank tops are still months away, osso bucco is tonight’s special and carbohydrate laden veggies are what our bodies crave. Few cleanses are inspired by a well stocked root cellar. It is the time to cure meat and hide the evidence of our wintery bacon indulgence underneath a cozy warm sweater. Save the cleanse and the 5am pre-work run for spring when your body, responding to the natural cycles of life, craves a rebirth. January is a socially created buzz-kill that demands we get off the Dionysus holiday wave of revelry and gluttonous indulgence. Booo! to whoever came up with that plan; I say it is unnatural to come out of hibernation so early. Thus, I proclaim all New Years’ resolutions should be postponed until March.

Still, if you demand a virtuous new You to kick off the new year (which will most likely be forgotten by March), here is a salad that should keep the guilt at bay (after all, it is a salad), but, will not to be such a shock to the system (it has pig product in it) that it will send you into a stupor of bitter resentment. Served with duck breast or a wedge of stinky cheese it will most definitely satisfy your resolution to treat yourself right in 2011!

Not-Too-Virtuous Salad w/ Caramelized Apple Vinaigrette

For the salad:

4 handfuls mixed greens
1/4 celery root, cut into matchsticks
1 gala apple, sliced very thinly into half moons
1 fennel bulb, very thinly sliced
1 cup pecans
4 slices thick cut bacon, cut into lardons

Toast the pecans in the oven at 350 for about 7 min.
In a heavy skillet cook lardons over moderate heat. Stir occasionally until crispy on all sides and reserve on a paper towel.
Place all of the salad ingredients in a large bowl. Pour ¼ of the dressing over the salad and toss well.
Taste a piece of lettuce and add more dressing, salt and pepper-- depending on your preference.

Caramelized Apple Vinaigrette:

2 ounces brown sugar
3 ounces, plus 1 ounce apple cider vinegar
1 small clove garlic, minced
1 gala apple, peeled, cored and medium diced
1/2 lemon
4 ounces olive oil
2 ounces canola oil
1 1/2 teaspoon fresh thyme
salt

In a small skillet over medium heat add 3 ounces vinegar and the sugar. Let it reduce until the color turns a dark caramel color and begins to thicken. You will start to see big foamy bubbles on the surface.
Add the apples and garlic and sauté until the apples are cooked through, about 5 minutes. Stir occasionally.
Remove from heat and put in the blender with 1 ounce of vinegar, thyme, juice of ½ lemon and a pinch of salt. Woosh until blended, then slowly add the oil. Blend until the dressing is emulsified. Taste and season with salt and perhaps a splash more vinegar, depending on your preference. The dressing can be made four hours ahead.

Foie Gras Macarons...

2011-01-03T14:38:00.000-08:00

a ridiculously decadent way to start the new year. Time for detox! Happy 2011!!!

Home for the Holidays

2011-01-02T00:18:00.000-08:00

My Polish sister-in-law, Kamila, sets an extra place at the table and heaps the would-be diner's plate high in keeping with the Polish tradition of preparing for an unexpected guest. Everyone takes a piece of wafer that is broken and distributed and we wish each other health and happiness in the New Year. Kamila's mother passes around homemade motsch, a gingerbread "soup", and makufki, poppyseed cake, both staples on the Polish Christmas table.

My Italian father-in-law pops open a bottle of prosecco and scrambles to stop it from overflowing. I set out a plate of cookies beneath the tree for Santa, my one insistence on an American tradition from my childhood.

Later, we dim the lights and assemble the German feuerzangenbowle - a pot of mulled wine straddled by a metal bridge supporting a sugar cone. Strong whiskey is ignited and ladled over the cone. The chemical reaction sends blue flames high enough to scourge the ladler's eyebrows and we ohh and ahh over the spectacle. As if this show of pyrotechnics was not enough, we light candles ON the tree - a German tradition that has always flabbergasted me. How these extremely practical, risk-adverse people could light a tree on fire is beyond me. But it's gorgeous and it glows as we sing a round of "O Tannenbaum".

Although some of us are far from our homelands, preserving our Christmas traditions by sharing them with our extended patchwork family makes it feel like I am home for the holidays.

This post was entered into the Grantourismo HomeAwayUK travel blogging contest for December. We'd love to hear what you think.

Whipxack Christmas Borscht

2010-12-26T13:06:00.000-08:00

Why do I love borscht? Is it the deep happy pinky-red color? Or because it is so fun to say? “Borscht.” The knowledge that if I go for seconds, I have eaten all of the veggies I need for the year to come? Or because for the past three years, our friends Tricia and TJ have invited us to share in their budding borscht tradition, adding instant family and tradition to our sometimes lonely overseas holiday. Yep, all of the above!

Eating borscht with friends will be a holiday traditions we weave into our own Christmas celebration. Hopefully, more often than not, it will be spent with TJ and Tricia. I asked Tricia to share her recipe, and here it is in her own words:

Last Tuesday, my husband TJ and I hosted our 5th annual Christmas Borscht dinner. The tradition started when we were living in Honduras and celebrating our first Christmas away from home. We were having Christmas Eve dinner with friends who were vegetarian, and we were looking for some Christmasy-yet-meat-free foods. Somehow (we cannot reconstruct the actual mental leap involved) we came up with the idea of vegetarian borscht -- mainly because when served with sour cream and parsley it is the perfect combo of red, white, and green. That first borscht was so dang tasty that we have continued to make it every Christmas season since. We have been lucky to share the last three years of meals with Ashley, Carter and Oscar. In the past we have basically made up the recipe as we go, but I was bragging to Ashley that this year I finally wrote up a recipe for our soup, and she kindly suggested I send it along for a guest -starring role on Smash n' Sniff. Grab your spoons folks, and ignore your families' protests that they don't like beets, or that borscht isn't a Christmas food. You know better!

Whipxach Christmas Borscht

Serves 16(ish)

*You don't have to chop anything too well, since it will all be blended in the end!
**Every time we make this it's slightly different, so feel free to not follow this recipe exactly. (I'm just making it up anyway.)

1 - 1.5 oz. dried porcine mushrooms

olive oil

1/2 lb. white mushrooms, trimmed, wiped clean and sliced

1 large onion, diced

about 6 medium-largish beets, peeled and sliced

4 medium carrots, peeled and sliced

1 medium parsnip, peeled and sliced (we have never used this, but its in a lot of recipes, and if we could get one here in Mexico I'm sure it would be delicious)

6 stalks of celery, cleaned and sliced (some recipes call for 1 small celery root -- go ahead and use this instead of celery if you can find one. We can't, so celery works fine!)

4 medium sized potatoes, cut into chunks (don't bother to peel it!)

1 small white cabbage, cut into small chunks (we have also used red cabbage, depends on what's available)

1/4 cup of tomato paste (we usually use about 1 cup of tomato puree since we can't get the paste)

3 large cloves of garlic, chopped

1/4 cup sugar

1 bay leaf

6 - 8 cups vegetable or chicken broth (we use turkey broth, leftover from Thanksgiving)

1/4 cup balsamic vinegar (we usually only have balsamic on hand, but I bet apple cider or red wine vinegar would be good)

salt, pepper

sour cream

1 bunch fresh dill or parsley for garnish (we usually can't get dill, I imagine it would taste good)

BASIC RECIPE: Throw everything in a pot, cook, blend, serve
FANCIER RECIPE:

1. Soak the dried mushrooms in 1 - 2 cups warm water for 15 minutes. Then drain, squeeze out excess liquid, and save all liquid

2. Heat oil in a LARGE soup pot

3. Stir in the white mushrooms, onion, beets, carrots, parsnip, and celery or celery root. Cook for a few minutes

4. Add porcini mushrooms, cabbage, potatoes, tomato puree and salt/pepper. Cook for a few more minutes.

5. Add garlic and sugar.

6. Add broth and mushroom liquid. It should cover the veggies. If not, add more broth, or some water. Add the bay leaf. Bring to a boil, then simmer, covered, until vegetables are tender (usually 45 minutes to an hour).

7. Remove from heat and remove the bay leaf!

8. Puree everything in a blender (will have to be done in batches).

9. When everything is blended, stir in vinegar, then taste. You may need to adjust and add more vinegar, salt, or sugar. Before you add more vinegar or sugar, follow Ashley's advice and add lots more salt!

10. Serve hot, with a blob of sour cream and dill or parsley (red, white and green!)

11. Makes a lot, you can theoretically eat it hot or cold, but we always eat it hot! This gets better as the days pass! Also freezes well.

Guadalajara Christmas Market

2010-12-19T19:14:00.000-08:00

In mid-November a Christmas market sprouts up behind the fruit and veggie market in the bric-a-brac neighborhood of Santa Tere, a few blocks from my house. Waiting until November to haul out the tree trimmings and nativity figures is a show of great restraint for Mexicans. The encroachment of ‘all things Christmas’ that clogs the aisles of every department store, grocery store and neighborhood tienda, begins its take-over in SEPTEMBER in Latin America. For the past three months, a 10 ft. inflatable Santa Claus has greeted me at the Costco entrance.

I have always felt sorry for every other country in the world that does not have the "Thanksgiving Buffer”—the holiday stop-gap that keeps marketers’ decency in-check until the last Friday in November, saving us from months on end of Christmas music and creepy elves pushing products. But, due to experiencing the magic of Christmas through the eyes of my 2.5 year old, my feelings are shifting and I couldn't wait to whore-up the house with Christmas glitz this year. This is the first year that I have wondered why I can't have a Christmas tree glowing in the corner while we celebrate Thanksgiving.

However, we held out until all of the Thanksgiving leftovers had been eaten, and then hauled out the box marked, “Christmas” and set off to pick out our tree.

The market fills an alley one block long. Venders sell lights fit for a show on the Vegas strip-- ribbon, ornaments and all sizes of figurines: kings, camels, horses, plants, etc., for a nativity scene. (Nativity scenes in Mexico have agave cactuses- the plant tequila is made from- and the devil—is that normal?) Oh, and of course, there are Christmas trees: pink, white, brown, and real.

The scene is a sharp contrast to my childhood memories of Christmas. No one is tapping the snow off of their boots in this temperate climate, no need to keep a hot steaming toddy to your lips to prevent icicles from growing out of your nose; the urban grit is a world away from the spacious Christmas tree lots of the Chicago suburbs. But really, this little alley could be a scene in any Santa loving country: red and green, gold glitz, sparkly glass ornaments, plastic mistletoe, miles of garland, and the bustle of families stuffing shopping bags and wrangling evergreens. Looking around, I realize Christmas has a solid brand, at least from where I am standing, the aesthetic is pretty universal.

It’s beginning to feel a lot like Christmas…..

Are Cupcakes Killing Traditional German Christmas Cookies?

2010-12-14T02:34:00.000-08:00

This article, on the cover of a recent "Kultur Spiegel", a regular supplement in one of the most respected news magazines in Germany, is about "a Christmas drama". American cupcakes are replacing all of our treasured Christmas cookies! the author claims. Seriously Germany? I don't think you have anything to worry about.

Exhibit A: My Local Bakery and Konditorei

Nary a cupcake in sight ... just lebkuchen männer (gingerbread men), Zimtsterne (cinnamon stars), Vanilla Kipferln (vanilla, um, kipferl), Domino Steine (domino stones)...

....various Christmas cookies and cakes....

.. and a personal favorite, stollen confekt, a small pocket of stollen - Germany's answer to fruitcake - filled with marzipan. These are deceptively addictive and so delicious with a cup of coffee - and I speak from experience.

The glutton-free dieter's nightmare continues with another personal weakness, baumkuchen. Layers of light spongy cake dipped in milk chocolate. Also good dipped in coffee for breakfast. Also the reason why I have increased the number of times I go running during the month of December. But soooo worth it.

Exhibit B: The Supermarket

Dear Supermarket Manager, I have a bone to pick with you. I can't take my kids with me to the grocery store any more because of your ingenious little Christmas cookie displays. All that is missing here is a flashing neon sign and Santa himself sitting atop Rudolf while handing out free samples. How am I supposed to get around this? In fact, these displays are strategically positioned at the entrance so that you have to walk right THROUGH them to get anywhere else in the store. I have not made it out once without at least one major tantrum and no fewer than three chocolate Smartie-filled Santas sneaking their way into the shopping cart - at least two of which always seem to get scanned by the cashier before I've realized that I've purchased them. Kids 2 - Mom 0.

Seriously, even if a few people find cupcakes fun, different or novel, the so-called evil plot to overthrow lebkuchen is not going to amount to anything. There are enough stollen purists out there to secure their place on the grocer's shelves for many generations to come, I wager.

Oh sure they look harmless enough, but I swear these little Santas contain hidden mics with recordings of subliminal messages instructing children to raise hell until mom agrees to put at least two in the shopping cart. Talk about evil plots....

Exhibit C: The Christmas Markets

Row after row of baumkuchen spitze, brittle, zimtsterne and other traditional Christmas cookies and cakes for you to mix and match.

The nougat and marzipan dealer. And I say dealer because this stuff is like CRACK. Addictive, sugar high-inducing CRACK. Cinnamon, chocolate, vanilla, espresso, pistachio, hazelnut, with nuts, without nuts. No where else will you find a display of as many different kinds of pure balls of marzipan and soft (not brittle, like the Italian) nougat than at a German Christmas market. Cupcakes? What cupcakes?

Exhibit D: The Enemy

One of a handful of cupcake specialty shops in town, trying to capitalize on the trend - which is credited in great part, claims the Spiegel article, to the popularity of "Sex and the City" in Germany. The one cupcake peddler I spoke to claimed that if anything, cupcake sales were down around the holidays due to the increased competition from all of the other baked good flooding the market. Although those topped with crushed candy cane do seem to be holding their own.

So, defenders of traditional German Weihnachtsgebäck, stollen purists and militant anti-cupcakists, fear not. While the American cupcake may have made a splash as the new trendy baked good, your Christmas delicacies, contrary to reports, are stocked on the shelves and will most definitely remain so for many Christmases to come.

South Indian Local Spice

2010-11-30T19:53:00.001-08:00

Everyone on the bus is staring at me. I always managed to be the local attraction, despite the sari.

In preparation for my semester abroad in Madurai, India, I was given a crash course on customs and cultural differences; I learned to conduct myself as a respectable Indian girl. Upon arrival, my host family dressed me for the part—they wrapped me in vibrant saris with perfect pleats, sparkly stickers called bindis were placed on my forehead, and paisley swirls of henna decorated my body. My wanderings throughout the cavernous carved stone stalls of the Meenakshi Temple taught me how to barter and order sweet milky tea. I mastered the customary southern Indian head wobble, the respectful bow over hands pressed in prayer and only passed items with my right hand.

I stood out like a drag queen in church, and yet I felt my attempts to blend in with the locals were fairly successful—until I ate. With the first bite of my host mom’s cooking I was gripped by an intense panic that the inferno blazing inside my mouth was going to cause my head to spontaneously combust. My taste buds were under attack, my eyes burst from their sockets, a deluge of sweat washed over me. The ability to pass chilies, so intense, from lips to stomach, would require months of pre-game training.

Riding a fresh wave of sweat, the bindi slid down my nose.

Stopping in mid-bite, jaws gaping; four dark brown faces stared at me with expressions of confusion and deep concern. Apparently, "turning pink and crying" while I ate was blowing my cover.

This post was entered into the Grantourismo - HomeAwayUK Travel Writing Competition for November on the topic, "Living Like Locals". We'd love to hear your thoughts in the comment section.

November Project: Thanksgiving Dinner

2010-11-30T15:15:00.000-08:00

Mmmm, looks good. What's for dinner?

The Bourgaroni's fourth annual Thanksgiving Extravaganza

Herb Butter Roasted Turkey

Turkey Gravy

Port Cranberry Sauce

Mushroom and Thyme Gravy

Herbed Ciabatta Stuffing with Chorizo, Shitake and Sweet Potatoes

Challah Stuffing with Mushroom

Marcus' Herbed Mashed Potatoes

Garlic Mashed Potatoes

Whiskied Roasted Parsnip and Apple Puree

Annika's Sweet Potato Casserole

Jiff's Traditional Green Bean Casserole

Glazed Brussel Sprouts and Apple in Brown Butter and Cream

Martin's Steamed Brussel Sprouts

Kai's Corn Bread (by Susanne)

Harissa Carrots

Spinach Gratin

Lowri's Celeriac and Potato Gratin

Butternut Squash and Roasted Garlic Galette

Pumpkin Pie

Earl Grey-scented Flan

Pecan Pie

Chocolate Pecan Pie

Whipped Cream

Vanilla Ice Cream

Whoa. That's a lot of food. But was it enough for 40 people?

Ask Haiko - that's not a peace sign - it's a "second plate" sign.

Enough food for seconds.. for 40? How'd you pull that off?

We put our army of kitchen bitches to work!

A table overflowing with old classics, first attempts, new favorites. A traditional American Thanksgiving prepared by one American, one half-American, five Brits, a Swede and numerous Germans. Guests who were well-versed in the tradition of dankbarzeit, or "thankful time", a new German word created for the occasion that translates as "Jiff's totally annoying insistence on a group of people, some of whom do not know each other at all, publicly embarrassing themselves by stating one thing, sometimes extremely personal, sometimes humorously removed, that they are thankful for", knew what to expect. For the novices, we put together a short film (imovie is soooooo awesome) with examples of things that one could be thankful for - if only I could figure out how to post it here.

In addition to being thankful for not burning the entire building down despite have three ovens going simultaneously all day long, I am particularly thankful for this community of people who gathered with us to celebrate one of my favorite American traditions. Thank you everyone! Same time, same place next year! Danke Schön!!

November Project: Saibling meets Reisling

2010-11-25T02:53:00.000-08:00

Click for larger

First off, HAPPY THANKSGIVING dear smashandsniff readers! I realize that all of you in the States as well as many of you expats are celebrating today and I wish you warm blankets, lots of tag football and Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade action to go with your turkey-stuffing-gravy-mashed-potato comas. I will be eating schnitzel tonight but FEAR NOT: I have 40 people coming over for Thanksgiving dinner on Saturday night. Yes, I said 40. And I will tell you all about it next week. But until then...

On Friday night, Susanne and I went to our local neighborhood wine shop, Weingut Wein, for a fabulous home cooked meal - with 15 other people. Jochen, our local wine expert, pairs the wines with his wife Inka's fine cooking and once a month or so they offer dinners in their wine shop, each course paired with one of Jochen's personally selected wines. This time the theme was Saibling (a fish that is a close cousin of salmon - my German-English dictionary is offering "char","fingerling" and "samlet" as translations - help!) meets Riesling. The saibling is raised in the "altes Land" here across the Elbe river in Hamburg by an older couple who harvest them from a chalk pond. It is a very particular way of raising the fish and as the couple will soon retire and has not yet found anyone willing to take over their chalk farm, it may soon be extinct, at least here. So Inka prepared an amazing four course meal with the Hamburg saibling and Jochen found the perfect riesling pairings.

A hot smoked trout ("forelle") with roasted potatoes and herb apple remoulade.

Inka prepares the plates while Jochen explains a bit more about the saibling harvest and the wines he has chosen to accompany them. I was so absorbed in food and conversation that I forgot to snap a photo of the second course, the cold smoked saibling with orange lentil salad. The fish looked and tasted like smoked salmon but lighter. And while I am not usually a lentil fan, these lentils were a perfect foil for the fish, slightly acidic and sweet.

The cassoulet of hot smoked saibling was similar to a minestrone, lighter than a cassoulet. The smoked fish with the vegetables was fantastic.

And the cold smoked wild salmon (the only fish originating outside of the region) with a dill mustard sauce paired with a very minerally riesling - "mineralisch" in German - it's one of those words that just works so well that I anglicize it, like, "paired with a very mineralish riesling" - and then, oh, wait.... mineralish... is that a... did I just make that up? Whatever, you know what I mean. The longer I live here, the more "Denglish" I speak. Na ja.

The wine crate-stocked shelves served as the perfect and effortless (it is a wine shop after all) decoration as we sat with strangers at tables of four or eight. A couple looking for a romantic evening alone might not appreciate sitting at a communal table. But Susanne and I had a fabulous time with our tablemates - a lovely older couple who drank us under the table.

Thanks Jochen and Inka for a lovely and delicious evening!

November Project: December Project

2010-11-23T12:32:00.000-08:00

The season opener. First day of the Weihnachtmarkt season and of course I arrived early and stayed late, kids in tow. Whether they liked it or not. At first, they needed a bit of cajoling. Because it was cold. Like, suddenly really cold. But I had just the thing to get them in the spirit:

My favorite Gypsy Santa band. The same one every year. At the same stand. These guys kill it on a clarinet, an accordion and a tamborine. They draw the hard-core Weihnachtsmarkts enthusiasts like myself. But my kids weren't feeling it.

Amalia was mentally singing along to "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star". Henry on the other hand, shot me a look every three seconds that said, "Get me the f*ck out of here!" Every time the clarinet player took a step in his direction, winked, nodded or just blew, Henry twisted around and grabbed for me in utter desperation.

I realized that I was striking out here and it was essential that they have a good time if I wanted to get my glüwein on this season. There was only one thing to do:

They were toooootallly psyched about the carousel. And more than happy to oblige when a TV news crew showed up and asked if they would go around a few more times for a film shoot. What!?!? I have to drive the SUPER COOL TOTALLY AWESOME FIRE ENGINE WITH BRASS BELLS THAT I LOVE TO RING NON-STOP AGAIN!?!?! Awwwww Mom! Do I have to!?!??!

And just when they thought it couldn't get any better, the Tirolean bratwurst stand. Total contentment. If my plan is working, two budding Weihnachtsmarkts fans are in the making!

As Local As I'll Never Be

2010-11-21T14:40:00.000-08:00

I spent two years living with a family in a hut made of cow dung in Mauritania, West Africa. I learned to speak the village language, Soninké, enough discuss the Koran with my host “father”, shoot the shit with my teenage brother Moussa about American pop culture and talk to my moms about female circumcision. I worked in the millet fields, pulled water from the well and slept outside with my sisters.

The Peace Corps, in essence, is the ultimate exchange program. It’s an opportunity to live more local than you ever thought possible in the developing world, basically being adopted into a family.

One afternoon during the daily tea break, I made fun of Moussa with the requisite insult, “You eat beans!” Everyone laughed. “Ah, Laliya (my local name),” said my mom, Khujedji, “You really are one of us.”

“No she’s not," Moussa shot back. “If anything happens to her, they’ll fly her out of here and she’ll leave us behind.” Khujedji shushed him. But he was right. I had an out.

For me, this was novel; for them, it was real life. I might have lived in the same mud hut, but I would be evacuated if I became severely ill; I’d be flown to shelter in the event of civil unrest and I would never be dependent on a millet crop for my survival.

While I gained a better understanding of daily life than otherwise possible, I would never know what it’s really like to be local.

This post was entered into the Grantourismo - HomeAwayUK Travel Writing Competition for November on the topic, "Living Like Locals". We'd love to hear your thoughts in the comment section.

November Project: Bammy's Turkey Gravy

2010-11-19T07:41:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving 1974: Aunt Nancy, Bammy, and my beautiful Mother.

It has recently been brought to my attention that gravy can be bought in a can. Yes, in a CAN! And people buy those cans and serve gravy from them to people they don’t hate! Ok, I realize that I am sort of naïve about these things and rather than allow the reality of America’s laziness and loss of tradition seep into my consciousness, I happily believe that everyone takes the time to make proper gravy. And by proper gravy I mean the kind that is rich with layers of flavor and silky with the sweat and worry that goes along with making The Gravy.

Gravy is a major stressor. I cannot think of a more important condiment. If you are out of mustard, the sandwich is not ruined; salty crisp chips can be enjoyed without salsa. But Thanksgiving dinner without a thick deeply flavored slathering of gravy? Well, let’s be honest, it is a total failure. A savory gravy can save the driest, most desiccated turkey. I can understand not wanting to have that sort of responsibility, especially when most people will be lazing about with mimosas or enjoying a brisk game of touch football, oblivious to the culinary feats taking place in the kitchen. But consider the alternative: your friend offers to make it and brings over her “famous” fat-free, dairy-free, salt-free gravy (!!!) or worse Aunt Judy shows up with CANS of gravy!

It could happen, but don’t let it.

My grandma, Bammy, is a bit of a gravy nazi and won’t let anyone even think about making the gravy. Along with the mashed potatoes, gravy is her domain. Last Thanksgiving I followed her around the kitchen and diligently recorded a very sacred tradition: The Gravy. So pick up the whisk and take matters into your own hands—be the hero.

BAMMY'S TURKEY GRAVY

2 quarts water

Turkey neck and giblets

1 white onion, chopped

4 celery stalks, leaves included, chopped

3 carrots, peeled, chopped

5 sprigs parsley

7 sprigs thyme

2-3 bay leaves

2 teaspoons chicken base (bouillon)

Pan rich with roasted turkey juices and bits

6-8 tablespoons flour, sifted

Kosher salt and pepper

A few drops of Kitchen Bouquet- This is a very old school ingredient, and can be omitted (however, Bammy would NOT approve). She mainly uses it for color.

1. For the stock, combine the first nine ingredients in a pot and let simmer for one hour, or more.
Pass stock through a fine strainer and reserve the liquid. Trim off all usable meat from the neck. If desired, with a paring knife trim the giblets well. Cut neck meat and giblets into bite-sized pieces and add to stock. Discard all other vegetables and herbs. Cover and put in refrigerator; this step can be done a day ahead. You can use this stock and lots of butter to baste the turkey.

2.To make the thickener, combine the flour and two cups of the chilled turkey broth in a jar. With the lid on tight, shake vigorously until it is smooth with no lumps. (The stock cannot be hot, or else it will be lumpy.)

4. To make the gravy, bring the turkey stock to a low simmer. When the turkey is done, remove it from the pan to rest and skim off most of the fat—but not the turkey juices! Place the roasting pan over a burner or two on the stovetop over medium heat.

5. To incorporate the caramelized turkey bits and flavorful juices into the gravy, pour the thickener into the pan and bring to a simmer. Scrape up the bits from the bottom with a rubber spatula.

6. While whisking, slowly add the stock to the pan. Whisk continuously until all is added—don’t leave the stove, it is very important that you keep whisking! Return to boil and it will thicken to deeply flavored, silky gravy. Add salt and pepper to taste. Pour over everything on your plate!

November Project: Saturation Point, Brief Respite

2010-11-18T00:38:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, I spent several weeks traveling in India on my own. After my very first parantha breakfast, my first thali dinner, I was smittenly blissed out. Why have I not been eating only Indian all my life!?!? I thought to myself. The cardamon-scented biryanis, the rich butter sauces, the ubiquitous lentils, the spicy pickles. And a thali was the perfect way to try a little of everything. I ate at street stands (having been thoroughly warned not to), local hole-in-the-walls, and more upscale Indian-for-tourist type restaurants. But something happened around day ten: I wanted a pizza. I wanted pasta. I wanted a cheeseburger. I wanted anything that did not have a trace of cardamon, garam masala or nutmeg and for God's sake, NO LENTILS.

Yesterday, exactly 17 days in to the November Project, I hit my no lentil point. No more squash, in any of it's lovely variations. No stuffing, no gravy, no root vegetables, nothing gratin. I needed something so completely different, Gegenteil, 180 degrees, several thousand miles and many different languages away from foods that are associated with a cornecopia. And hence, this simple but delicious pad thai recipe, for a change of pace.

(Make no mistake, the November Project will continue apace tomorrow - still have to share the world's best stuffing recipe, port cranberry chutney and spicy harissa carrots with you. And Smash has got a few tricks up her sleeve as well.)

Shrimp Pad Thai by Mtlabor, courtesy of (who else?) Food 52

Serves 2

1-2 tablespoon tamarind concentrate
3 tablespoons fish sauce
1 tablespoon rice vinegar
3 tablespoons sugar
4 tablespoons vegetable oil
8 ounces thick rice noodles
2 eggs
salt and pepper to taste
1 pound medium shrimp, peeled and deveined
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 shallot, minced
1 jalapeno, seeded and minced
small handful honey roasted peanuts, chopped
small handful cilantro, chopped

In a small bowl, combine the fish sauce, rice vinegar, sugar, 2 tablespoons oil, and tamarind concentrate. Stir until sugar is dissolved and set aside. (Jiff's note: mmmm Tamarind! So fragrant!)

Soak the rice noodles in hot tap water for about 20 minutes, or until they start to soften but not fully tender. Drain and set aside. (Jiff's note: I thought these noodles were too think. I will look for thinner ones next time. Also, make sure they are thoroughly cooked; mine were a little too al dente, which works better with Italian pasta that Thai - in my opinion.)

Beat the eggs with a pinch of salt in a small bowl and set aside. (There's lots of things to set aside, aren't there? Makes it easier in the end because the cooking of this dish is fairly quick).

In a large skillet or wok, heat 1 tablespoon of the oil under high heat for about 2 minutes. Add the shrimp and season with salt and pepper. Cook for about 2 to 3 minutes, or until the shrimp start to turn pink with browned edges. Remove shrimp and set aside.

Add remaining 1 tablespoon of oil to skillet. Add garlic, shallot, and jalapeno. Cook over medium heat and stir continuously for about 1 minute. Add eggs to skillet and stir vigorously with a wooden spoon until scrambled, about 30 seconds. Add the egg noodles and toss with tongs to combine. Pour the tamarind/fish sauce mixture over the noodles and increase the heat to high, continuing to toss the ingredients with the sauce.

Add 1/2 of the chopped peanuts and cooked shrimp. Toss noodles for about 2 more minutes. Dish out onto hot plates and top with remaining peanuts and garnish with cilantro. Enjoy! (But remember, it's back to (Thanksgiving) tomorrow!)

November Project: Just Trust Me On This One

2010-11-17T01:08:00.000-08:00

Image via Sarah Shatz, Food 52

So, by now you have noticed a pattern. I confess: I am a serial Food52 user. But the recipes, 99% generated by home cooks and food bloggers are so well written, straightforward and do not contain a mile long list of ingredients. As I have already said, Smash is the trained chef. I am a food enthusiast and very amateur-at-best cook. I have never said I am a very good cook - but I love to do it. I love to create something that makes the entire house smell like home, that makes my guests swoon and that is simply enjoyed and then gone. A sort of Buddhist-like ritual. And Food 52, under the direction of the inspirational Amanda Hesser and Merril Stubbs, is powered by people who share this philosophy.

This Butternut Squash and Roasted Garlic Galette is something I have earmarked, "make this after The Kitchen dinner and before Thanksgiving". And last night I did. And it was diiiiiivvvviiiine. Make this for Thanksgiving. Make this for lunch. Make this for company. Make this for yourself. It is simple in practice, complex in flavor and impressive on the table. It took me a bit longer to do because I had two cranky kids under foot but otherwise, it was piece of cake. Or, ahem, galette.

Butternut Squash and Roasted Garlic Galette by lorinarlock

Serves 4 to 6

Pastry:

3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 cup semolina flour
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
6 tablespoons chilled unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
2 to 4 tablespoons ice water

Filling:

1 butternut squash
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 teaspoons fresh thyme leaves, chopped
1 clove garlic, chopped
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
10 cloves, garlic whole and unpeeled
1/2 cup fresh ricotta
1 cup grated fontina
2 tablespoons grated parmesan

To make the dough: Put the flour, semolina, and salt in the bowl of a food processor. Pulse to combine. Add the butter and pulse to form a mixture that looks like small peas. Add the ice water, 1 tablespoon at a time, until the dough sticks together (to test, remove the top and gather the dough in your fingers. If it sticks together without crumbling, it’s ready). Add the ice water while pulsing, until the dough comes together, being careful not to over mix. Transfer to a lightly floured board and shape the dough into a disk. Wrap tightly in plastic and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes and up to 24 hours.

Preheat the oven to 400°F. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper.

To make the filling: Cut the squash into two pieces to separate the rounder part from the narrower section. Peel the entire squash, cut both parts in half and remove any seeds. Cut all four pieces into 1/4-inch-thick slices. Put in a large bowl and add the olive oil, chopped garlic and thyme. Toss to coat evenly. Spread out on one of the prepared baking sheets. Set the bowl aside. Sprinkle the squash with the salt and pepper. Put the garlic on the baking sheet and bake until the squash and garlic are tender, about 25-30 minutes. Let cool Remove the dough from the refrigerator and roll out the dough into a large circle about 1/4-inch thick. Transfer to parchment paper–lined baking sheet and refrigerate until ready to use.

When the garlic is cool enough to handle, peel and put in the reserved bowl. Mash with the back of a wooden spoon until smooth. Stir in the ricotta. (Jiff's note: this roasted garlic is so sweet and fragrant without being pungent, it's dreamy.)

Remove the pastry from the fridge and spread the garlic-cheese mixture over the top, leaving a 1-inch border. Spread the squash over the garlic-cheese mixture and fold the edges toward the center of the galette. Sprinkle the fontina over the center of the galette. (Jiff's note: I think I used more than a cup of fontina; I operate under the "more cheese is always better" premise). Sprinkle the edges of the crust with the parmesan and bake until the crust is crisp and golden brown, about 25-30 minutes. Let cool slightly before slicing and serving.

Serve with a small side salad of some sort and a glass of Riesling and savor.

November Project: THE KITCHEN'S Thanksgiving-Inspired Autumnal Meal

2010-11-15T00:38:00.000-08:00

Click image for larger

The Kitchen, pop-up kitchen, secret supper club, mobile guerrila restaurant of Hamburg struck again this weekend with their Autumnal Meal.

The fall feast followed an American Thanksgiving-inspired theme, hence the deco included red table clothes and navy napkins with white stars, various varieties of pumpkins, overgrown cinnamon sticks and pomegranates. A fireplace was projected onto a white wall to give a warm glow and a cozy atmosphere in what is usually the back storage room of a lovely Swedish café.

Preferring to incorporate the storage room feel into the decor rather than mask it, drink crates were stacked and used as podiums and serving tables and sekt bottles became an arty backdrop.

As usual, the chefs were too busy plating dishes to photograph them but a few quick snapshot were stolen. Above, the harissa carrots (recipe to follow) which were served in small ramicans on the side of the main course. This spicy Moroccan salad may have seemed like an odd pairing with the rich porcini gravy and earthy truffle mashed potatoes, but served on the side they offered a sharp palate cleansing finale to a rich meal and complimented the spicy chorizo in our new absolutely hands-down favorite stuffing ever (recipe to follow).

The dessert, a "crumbled apple pie a la mode" was a cross between a crumble and a pie. A pumpkin gnocchi starter meant that pumpkin pie was ruled out as a dessert choice; and pecan pie would have simply been too much after such a decadent meal. The sweet cinnamony apples were a perfect finish and the pumpkin seed oil over ice cream - you have to try. Nutty and light, tying everything together like a ribbon on a package.

The Kitchen wishes to thank ALEXANDRA and SABINE, above all, as well as the Larssons, Iris, Ingo, the Schmidts, Hakaka and everyone else who has assisted, fed, taste-tested, loaned, inspired, led, directed and just been there.

November Project: Spiced Date Cake with Mulled Wine Mascarpone Cream

2010-11-12T17:13:00.000-08:00

A cake made with dates and pecans is dangerously close to being a fruitcake. Honestly, I have never had fruitcake, but I am familiar with its legendary status as something you only give to people you hate or someone in need of extra bricks for their house. The dense brown cake, studded with bright green and red gelatinous gems is festive, but a hard sell on a buffet table. So, with the knowledge that you may turn up your nose at this unsexy sounding dessert - I present the absolutely delicious, Spiced Date Cake. It is moist and flavorful and redolent of the holidays: mulled wine, cloves, cinnamon, a hint of citrus, toasted nuts… Ok, so it’s a fruitcake.

The inspiration came from a walnut date cake my friend Sophia served with tea one afternoon. The cake was perfectly simple the way it was, but to me, it cried out to be messed with. I have added pumpkin, various spice mixes, other dried fruits, tinkered with the nut choice, etc. The inspiration for this version comes from Amanda Hesser’s Apician Spiced Dates in Cooking for Mr. Latte. I poached the dates before chopping them and adding them to the batter, then used the poaching liquid in the mascarpone cream. The result is a sophisticated and yummy dessert, perfect for the holidays. It’s not bad with breakfast either.
**Added bonus: It is gluten free, so it will make your non pie eaters very happy!

SPICED DATE CAKE
Serves 9

2 cups red wine, a fruity, medium body wine works well
2 2" cinnamon sticks
1 tablespoon black peppercorns
1 teaspoon allspice berries
1/2 teaspoon cloves
2 cups dates
2 cups pecans
4 eggs
6 tablespoons muscovado sugar
1/4 cup rice flour
2 teaspoon baking soda
1 1/2 teaspoon orange zest
Pinch of salt

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter and sugar an 8x8 pans or a 8” round.

2. Combine the first seven ingredients in a small pot. Bring to a simmer and gently poach the dates for about five minutes. Turn off the heat and leave the dates in the poaching liquid for about 20 minutes.

3. Toast the pecans in the oven, about 7- 10 minutes. After they have cooled, put them in a food processor and chop them until they are like sand, some larger pieces are ok, no need to pulverize them.

4. Remove the dates from the poaching liquid, taking care to leave all of the spices in the pot. Chop the dates very small.

5. Crack the eggs in to a bowl and beat them. Add dates, pecans, sugar, rice flour, baking soda, orange zest and pinch of salt and mix everything together.

6. Pour the batter into your pan and bake for 25-30 minutes. It will feel soft to the touch in the center, when it cools it will firm up.

7. Remove cake from the oven and let it cool before serving. Wrapped tightly in saran wrap and left on the counter, the cake will stay moist for 3 days.

MULLED WINE MASCARPONE CREAM

Poaching liquid from Apician Date Cake Recipe
2 tablespoons honey
1 cup whipping cream
6 tablespoons mascarpone cheese
2 teaspoons powdered sugar
Pinch salt

1. Add honey to the poaching liquid, bring to a boil and reduce by half. Strain and allow to cool. Discard the spices.

2. Whip the cream until it has medium stiffness. Add mascarpone,1 ½ tablspoons poaching liquid, powdered sugar and salt. Whip for about 30 seconds- just long enough to incorporate all of the ingredients. Depending on the wine you used, you may want to adjust the sugar and poaching liquid. However, do not make it sweet. The mascarpone cream can be made 6 hours ahead. Prepare yourself for the comeback of fruitcake!

November Project: Polenta, Sausage, Apple Stuffing (gluten free)

2010-11-11T00:05:00.000-08:00

I know I posted this same stuffing last year. But it is super rico and I am making it again this year, so I thought I would post it again.

The stuffing that always tastes the best is the one that tastes like mom’s. I was never able to eat stuffing growing up because of a gluten intolerance. Then I hosted my first Thanksgiving dinner. Curious what all of the fuss was about, I decided to recreate my mom’s stuffing with polenta.

Carter protested loudly and insisted on making the Stouffer’s Stove Top Stuffing he grew up with. My brother, Brady, and sister-in-law, Christiana, came to visit for Thanksgiving that year. Brady had heard the rumor that I was getting “all fancy” with Mom’s stuffing and proclaimed that I was going, “TO RUIN Thanksgiving!” Needless to say, Carter’s box stuffing was not touched and not a crumb of the polenta stuffing was left. The crusty polenta squares are not just a substitution, but a welcome improvement on an already delicious dish! This stuffing is so good, even Grandpa won’t miss the bread!

Polenta, Sausage, Apple Stuffing

Serves 6 (as a side dish)

4 tablespoons unsalted butter
4 cups homemade vegetable stock
1 cup dry polenta
½ cup parmesan cheese
1 cup celery, medium dice
1 cup white onion, medium dice
1 clove garlic, mince
¾ cup leek, medium dice
1 ¾ cup Granny Smith apple, medium dice
1 pound spicy Italian pork sausage, casing removed
2 teaspoon fresh thyme
1 teaspoon fresh sage
1 healthy pinch of ground cinnamon
Salt

1. To make polenta: Bring vegetable stock to boil and season with salt. Slowly add the polenta and stir constantly for about 25 minutes. When the polenta begins to pull away from the sides of the pan, it is finished. Add the parmesan, stir until it is melted and fully incorporated. Taste and add salt if needed.

2. Grease a baking dish with butter and pour the polenta into the dish. Make sure the polenta is about an inch deep, and put into the fridge to cool for 2 hours. The polenta can be made and set a day ahead.

3. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Once the polenta is firm, turn it out on to a cutting board and cut into 1” cubes. Grease a baking sheet with butter and transfer the polenta cubes to the baking sheet. Brush the polenta with melted butter and put in the oven until the polenta browns and begins to dry out, about 30 minutes. Check it half-way and flip polenta squares with a spatula to brown another side.

4. While the polenta is browning, melt 2 tablespoons of butter in a sauté pan. Add the sausage and break it up with a wooden spoon. The sausage bits should be the size of the polenta squares and smaller.

5. After some of the pork fat has begun to render, add the onion, celery, garlic and leeks. Stir occasionally. Season with salt.

6. When all of the sausage has cooked through, about 15 minutes, add the apples, thyme, sage and cinnamon and check the seasoning. Sauté for 5 more minutes; stir to incorporate all of the ingredients.

7. Combine the sausage mixture (along with all of the fat and juices from the pan) and the toasted polenta in a bowl. This can be done hours before serving.

8. Put stuffing inside of the turkey, or put the stuffing in a baking dish and put back into the oven for about 20 minutes, or until the sausage begins to brown.

November Project: Starter, Again

2010-11-10T05:07:00.000-08:00

The final product: Gnocchi di Zucca e Amaretti con Sage Hazelnut Pesto.

Let's go back to the beginning.

Sage, Hazelnut, Ricotta Salata Pesto from melissav at Food 52

1/4 cup sage, chopped
4-5 tablespoons olive oil
1 clove garlic, smashed
1/3 cup hazelnuts, toasted
1/4 cup + 2 TB ricotta salata, crumbled or chopped until a medium fine crumble
salt

(1) Warm 3 TB olive oil, sage, and garlic in a small pan over very low heat just until the oil bubbles. Pour in a small bowl, reserving the garlic clove.

Side note: the above garlic clove is WAY too big. I would use about a quarter of it. My pesto was completely overpowered by the garlic.

(2) Place the toasted hazelnuts in mini food processor along with the garlic clove and process until a fine crumble and add to the bowl (alternatively, you can do by hand or in a mortar and pestle).

(3) Add the cheese to the bowl along with 1-2 TB more olive oil and stir until combined and salt to taste. This is not a traditional pesto - more nutty than herby and not so much oil.

Another side note: ricotta salata is not just fresh ricotta that you salt. I wasn't sure what it was until the Segnora at my local Italian deli explained it to me - and told me that she doubted I would be able to find it anywhere in the city - unless I wanted to order 10 pounds of it from her supplier. I politely declined, called around, and eventually did find it. It is something akin to a peccorino - but not exactly.

As this is the case, I dropped the gnocchi out of the water and into a little sage butter before the pesto. If you are serving this as a starter, I recommend only six - eight smaller or medium sized gnocchi as they are quite substantial and you don't want people to fill up before the bird comes out of the oven.

The taste testers approved. Aside from the garlic and the portion size, their feelings about the plain pumpkin gnocchi vs. the pumpkin amaretti gnocchi were divided. It's what one would call a geschmacksache in German. A matter of taste. Though we all thought the amaretti were slightly denser in consistency - which can be corrected by adding less amaretti or less flour.

Buon Appetito!

November Project: In Search of the Perfect Starter

2010-11-09T00:58:00.000-08:00

I have been trolling various cookbooks, websites and the annals of my own brain as well as asking family and friends and the greater www, for the perfect fall starter: one simple smallish plate that is visually gasp-inspiring and sensorily moan-inducing. Readers, what would turn you on?

For me personally, the answer would not be squash. Yet, I keep coming back to it again and again. I have ruled out a soup. I love soup, do not get me wrong and I personally enjoy soup as a starter but I cannot get over the feeling that soup is a boring starter. Send me hate mail. Tell me how wrong I am. I know, really I am on your side. But I just can't bring myself to do it. There is some sort of mental hurdle that stands firmly it.

But the squash hurdle is one I can navigate. I am going there. With my mad scientist coat on I am going to combine two different butternut squash recipes to see how this might work: a Pumpkin Gnocchi recipe, adapted from a friend with Sage, Hazelnut, Ricotta Salata Pesto taken from the Caramelized Butternut Squash Wedges with Sage, Hazelnut Pesto from melissav at Food 52.

Jiff's Gnocchi di Zucca (e Amaretti)

1 medium sized Hokkaido squash - to yield 2 cups pumpkin puree

2 cups Flour

2 cups Parmesan cheese

1 tsp Salt

1 tsp Nutmeg

1. Quarter your the hokkaido, scrape out the seeds and put them on a cooking sheet in the oven at about 375°F for 40 minutes or until soft. Scrape out the flesh and let it sit in a siv until it has cooled. Then give it a whirl in the food processor until smooth but not runny.

2. While it is cooling, mix 1.5 cups of flour with the salt and nutmeg.

3. Make a little well in the center of the flour mixture and insert pureed pumpkin and Parmesan in the center.

4. Work the flour into the puree until you have a nice dough.

Optional: to do the gnocchi with Amaretti, crush them up and throw them in with the flower mixture.

5. Cut the dough into 4 or 5 pieces and roll them one at a time into little stretches of rope. Cut the rope so that you have 1 inch pieces of pillowy-soft gnocchi.

6. Put them on a semolina dusted baking sheet or tray and stick them in the freezer for two hours or until you are ready to cook them.

7. To cook, bring a pot of salted water to a boil and throw them in. When they float up to the top, take them out. They are now done and ready to be dressed.

Tomorrow, to top them: Sage, Hazelnut and Ricotta Salata Pesto. And taste testers weigh in.

November Project: We Interupt Our Regularly Scheduled Program..

2010-11-08T11:37:00.000-08:00

I stepped away from the Thanksgiving planning ever so briefly to run down to Andalucía for the olive harvest. Highlight: learning loads about olive oil production and why you and I and everyone else should only buy organic produce.

Olive groves as far as the eye can see in Andalucía. Did you know that Spain is the world's largest producer of olive oil? I didn't. Did you also know that 50% of exported Italian olive oil is not actually produced in Italy? I didn't know that either. Half of what is labeled "Product of Italy" is grown outside of Italy, and a large percentage of that oil is imported from Spain.

One final lesson: do not attempt to sneak olive oil into your carry on luggage. My little bottle of liquid cold made it through Madrid's security check, but I missed my connecting flight in Zurich and the Swiss don't mess around. They busted me and took it while I pleaded, in vain. "At least take it home with YOU then so that SOMEONE gets to enjoy it," I shouted at the hauty x-ray technician. I swear she smirked as she dropped it in the garbage can.

Tomorrow, back to Thanksgiving and my own trial-and-error gnocchi di zucca recipe.

November Project: Truffle Mashed Potatoes

2010-11-05T13:51:00.000-07:00

During the two years I worked in the kitchen at La Toque, my holidays were filled with the sweaty camaraderie of my fellow chefs and perfect plates passed out to paying strangers. New Year’s Eve, Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, Easter- I always had to work. We slaved away over steaming pots and searing meats rather than swooning table-side over a decadent chocolate molten cake with the ones we love. Holidays weren’t a total wash. I was always well rewarded for my servitude on these sacred days with unlimited oysters, spoonfuls of caviar, black truffle crème brûlée, rare wines and special occasion bubbly. Eating unceremoniously hunched over my cutting board, I would often take pleasure in my unique position to create marvelous celebrations for others.

But working on Thanksgiving! That is just sacrilege! Can you imagine calling a restaurant and making a reservation for dinner on the fourth Thursday of November, without even thinking about the poor sods who have to give up their day of gluttony and leisure to make that happen!? Who are these people?!

So there I am, shuffling unwillingly into the cold, sterile kitchen, miles away from my mom’s kitchen-- warm with sunlight and crowded with family, or my own kitchen with its turmeric stained countertops and lightly greased stove. The background drone of commercial oven fans was grating compared to the smooth sounds of Willie Nelson that my dad would be playing on the stereo.

But really, who cares about me? You are most likely wondering what a five-star restaurant in Napa Valley serves on Thanksgiving. Turns out, even though the customers are heathens—who, by going out to eat are disrespecting America’s greatest tradition—they still want turkey, gravy, and mashed potatoes. And, honestly, that is all that I remember of the menu: brined turkeys oven-roasted like your mom makes, rich stock-based gravy and BLACK TRUFFLE mashed potatoes. Those potatoes made it all worth it. I would forsake Thanksgiving dinner at my family’s well-worn dining room table for a plate of black truffle potato nirvana any time!

The cream, butter and mellow earthiness of the mashed potatoes are a perfect vehicle for the distinct life-changing flavors of the freshly grated black truffles. Their pungent aroma, heady and transformative, wafts off the plate like an invitation to sweet dirty sex, which I guess would be better suited for a Valentine’s Day menu, but I guarantee, no one has ever complained.

BLACK TRUFFLE MASHED POTATOES

1 recipe of your most delicious classic mashed potatoes
black truffle (a little goes a long way, but don’t be stingy)

1. Your mashed potatoes should be made with lots and lots of butter and cream. Don’t skimp, it’s Thanksgiving and you have truffles in the fridge! I would make the smooth and fluffy variety, not the chunky rustic-style. Definitely “mash” the potatoes with a ricer. Mix them as little as possible- agitation makes them gummy. Season with kosher salt.

2. With a microplane (very fine grater), grate the truffle into the mashed potatoes. Use a heavy hand. I really do not think you can overdo it.

3. Serve the best mashed potatoes anyone has ever had in their lives and try to be humble.

November Project: Roasted Butternut Squash Coconut Curry Puree/Soup

2010-11-03T03:08:00.000-07:00

Image via Sarah Shatz, Food 52

For me, and perhaps for many, soup is the quintessential fall food. A bowl of seasonal vegetable(s), roasted, simmered or sautéed with herbs, pureed with a homemade stock that has perfumed the house when you made it yesterday and perhaps mixed with cream or topped with a bit of gooey melted cheese. Throw a crusty baguette in the oven for 10 minutes before you are ready to eat and watch the butter melt on the bread as you spread it on. Dip in and mmmmm, heaven.

Fall for me is often associated with root vegetables like parsnips, rutabega, celery bulbs and Jerusalem artichokes. And of course squash. This recipe for a roasted butternut squash coconut curry puree/soup intrigues me - the coconut and curry are more South Asia than traditional Thanksgiving but I do like to serve a few dishes that people might not be expecting. I have never served soup at Thanksgiving dinner before mainly because it's a hassle - it means I have to add bowls and spoons to the list of dishes and cutlery - and when this means I need to round up an extra 30 bowls and spoons, the idea quickly becomes a fleeting thought, relegated to the pile of recipes to come back to one day.

BUT, for the Thanksgiving dinner I am preparing as a three-course sit-down, it may be more feasible. My only concerns: Is soup a boring starter? If I am planning on a dessert that involves pumpkin in some form, would this soup/puree be overkill? If I used this as a puree instead of a soup, what could I set on top or along side it? Readers - I ask for your advice.

Roasted Butternut Squash Coconut Curry Puree/Soup by Testkitchenette

Serves 6

2 tablespoons coconut oil
2.5 medium butternut squashes, cut in half and seeded
2 large yellow onions, chopped
1 red pepper, seeded and chopped
1 jalapeno pepper, seeded and chopped
4 garlic cloves, chopped
2 inches fresh ginger, peeled and chopped
1 tablespoon naturally brewed soy sauce (tamari)
1 tablespoon red curry paste
2 teaspoons garam masala (preferably) or curry powder
1 14 oz. can coconut milk
2 cups low sodium/no sodium vegetable broth
salt and pepper to you taste
1 handful cilantro, chopped

Preheat oven to 375F and lightly coat a large cookie sheet with olive oil.
Sprinkle each half of butternut squash with salt and pepper and lay cut side down on cookie sheet. Bake for about an hour until fork tender. Let cool for a bit and peel skin off, I used an old grapefrut spoon but you could use a paring knife. Cut into chunks.
While butternut squash is roasting you can get started on the soup. In a large heavy bottomed pot heat up coconut oil at medium heat. Add in onions, garlic, and ginger and saute till onion turns transluscent (about 8 min.). Add in red pepper, jalapeno, season with salt and pepper and cook for about another 10 minutes (stirring and taking care not to burn). I started with 1 tsp of salt and a few grindings of black pepper.
Add in soy sauce, red curry paste, garam masala/curry powder and stir to coat. Add in coconut milk, veggie broth, and 2.5 of the roasted butternut squashes and stir to combine. I used my potato masher to further mash up the butternut squash.
Bring to a boil and simmer for approximately 30 minutes. Puree if desired in batches in blender. Return to pot and add extra broth depending on how thick/thin you want it to be and season to taste. When ready to serve, sprinkle the cilantro over it.

November Project: Two Thanksgivings

2010-11-02T04:16:00.000-07:00

Ok, y'all. It is even more dringend - urgent. I am cooking two Thanksgiving dinners this year: my traditional family and friends dinner and a pre-Thanksgiving dinner with a few modern twists. Recipe testing begins immediately. And I think I am going to start here: Mashed Potatoes with Caramelized Onions and Goat Cheese.

Image via Sarah Shatz, Food 52

They look pretty amazing, no? I am drooling. But would they go well with turkey? Or would they be too tangy? Would it be better to stick to something more traditional, buttermilk, garlic.

Sonali's Mashed Potatoes with Caramelized Onions and Goat Cheese from Food 52

Serves 4

4 tablespoons unsalted butter, divided use
1 tablespoon olive oil
1.5 pounds yellow onions (approximately 2 large onions), thinly sliced
Kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon sugar
3 pounds Russet potatoes, peeled and cut into 1-inch pieces
1.5 cups half and half
1 clove garlic, smashed
1 bay leaf
3 ounces goat cheese
Black pepper

To make the caramelized onions, heat 2 tablespoons of butter and the olive oil in a large sauté pan over medium heat. Add the sliced onions and stir them to coat with the fat. Add 1/4 teaspoon salt and the sugar and cook, stirring frequently, until onions are golden brown and caramelized, about 30-40 minutes. If the onions get too dry, add a small amount of water to deglaze the pan. Set aside.
Place the potatoes in a large pot of cold, salted water. Bring to a boil and cook until fork tender.
While the potatoes are cooking, heat the half and half, garlic, bay leaf, and remaining 2 tablespoons of butter in a small saucepan over medium heat.
Drain the potatoes and return them to the hot, dry pot. Stir them over low heat for 2 minutes until they are dry. Pass the potatoes through a ricer into a large bowl. Gently stir in the hot cream mixture a little at a time until the potatoes are smooth and creamy (discard the garlic and bay leaf). You may not need to use all of the liquid. Set aside a small amount of the caramelized onions for garnish and stir the remaining onions into the mashed potatoes. Crumble the goat cheese into the potatoes and stir to combine well. Season with salt and black pepper to taste.
Spoon the mashed potatoes into a serving bowl and garnish with the remaining caramelized onions. Serve hot.

The November Project

2010-11-01T13:16:00.000-07:00

At 2.25 years old, my twins are finally at an age when they are beginning to understand and appreciate tradition. They have learned to sing "Happy birthday to youuuu!" although they still occasionally sing it to themselves. They tear into wrapped presents, and show great restraint when watching someone else open a gift. They swarm around the chocolate Santas already stocked in the grocery store and yell, "SANTA! HO HO HO!" before they fall upon them. And as of yesterday, they have a deep love for Halloween, or at least for asking strangers for candy. Watching them divvy up the spoils last night, skillfully bartering with friends to exchange a package of gummi bears for a coveted chocolate bar, I had flashbacks to my own childhood.

After scouring the neighborhood, house to house often through three foot snow drifts (back when it used to snow...), we would reconvene in the living room by 7pm, emptying pillow cases filled with mini Baby Ruth bars, circus peanuts and candy corn, Twizzlers, and the occasional tooth brush from the neighborhood (smart ass) dentist. We'd shed our costumes, outfits that mom often made herself, projects she worked on painstakingly for weeks, and sit by the fire, admiring the towering mountain of sugar we had amassed before mom would make us put it all in a big Tupperware container; she would ration out a few pieces each day, depositing them into our school lunches.

Halloween for me heralded the beginning of the real holiday season - the Thanksgiving/Christmas season. Thanksgiving meant heading up north to our (other) cousins' cottage where we would play football in the snow all afternoon while my mom and aunt slaved away at the stove. We would tuck into the turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberries, green bean casserole and pecan pie around 5 pm, the kids and adults at one long table. I'd have already prepared my soliloquy when it came time to share one thing I was thankful for. We would retired to the living room after dinner for a raucous game of Family Feud, the board game.

My family rituals frame my childhood memories. And now that I am a parent myself, I realize how important it is to carry on these traditions - not only because I enjoy them, but for my children, for their memories. And while they may not really be old enough to remember going trick or treating last night, they woke up talking about it this morning. And when we look at the photographs, we will talk about it again. And when we remind them about the time we carved a face into a pumpkin and got chocolate from the neighbors, they will ask when they get to go again.

And so it is for the kids (and mostly probably, admittedly, for ME), that I begin planning my 4th annual Thanksgiving Extravaganza. For the fourth year in a row, I will squeeze over thirty people, mostly Germans, into my living room and present them with a traditional holiday spread, scenes from the Macy Thanksgiving Day parade and will force them, and some do need serious cajoling, to participate in what has become known amongst past participants as Dankbarzeit, literally, thankful time, and for the record, a German word of my own invention.

Only a madwoman would take on cooking for 30 people on her own and I like to think I still have some of my wits about me. Therefore, I assign recipes to anyone who asks, "Can I bring anything?" Yes, they get assignments. This is not a free-for-all potluck. German kartoffelsalat is NOT allowed on my American Thanksgiving table. Last year, diners paired up and together made a double portion of their assignment - garlic mashed potatoes, stuffings, pumpkin pies, gratins, and more. SO, the November project will be a prelude to Thanksgiving, a love letter to one of my favorite American holidays, and an incentive to prepare my recipes, decoration and logistics. I would also love to hear from YOU - variations on a traditional recipe that have become staples at your Thanksgiving table? A recipe that you tried that was a huge success or a miserable failure? I need to know! After all, I have traditions to create for these two....

Dia de los Muertos

2010-10-31T12:17:00.000-07:00

Watching people mourn their loved ones, whether they are drinking tequila while doing it or not, seems like a bizarre way to spend an evening, but we were in Mexico and it was Dia de los Muertos, so that is what we set out to do.

The large indigenous population of Patzcuaro promised all-night cemetery vigils and ghoulish revelry—eating, drinking and dancing with the dead. Hoards of Mexican and international tourists flock to the colonial lakeside town every year, and we were among them—sitting in traffic, miles from our destination. Anxious to get out from under the shadow of the tour buses, we took a spontaneous turn down a narrow road, following close behind a mud crusted pickup truck over-flowing with bright orange marigolds. A canopy of colorful paper flags hung low over the crumbling residential street which dead ended at an inconspicuous cemetery.

Buzzing with activity, the cemetery had a cheerful mood. Families were scrubbing tombstones and landscaping graves with fresh flowers and candles in preparation for a night of remembrance and rejoice with their deceased loved ones. Adoration and tenderness were channeled through their deeds. A vibrant blanket of marigold petals was laid out to welcome the souls home. Our serendipitous turn had derailed us from the spectacle of Dia de los Muertos and gave us an intimate peek behind-the-scenes. Leaving the iconic glamorous skeletons and sugar skulls far behind, we had the privilege of experiencing the true spirit of the holiday.

This post has been entered into the HomeAway UK Grantourismo travel blogging contest for October. We would love to hear your comments.

Breaking Fast

2010-10-31T03:30:00.000-07:00

The Fez medina

We didn’t intend to fast. Trolling Fez’s medina during the holy month of Ramadan, we found sweet shops shuttered and restaurants baron. Shortly before sundown, our rumbling stomachs encouraged us to follow a group of Moroccan women carrying Tupperware containers as they weaved through the narrow alleyways. Their final destination: a soup shack.

We nuzzled in between diners at the countertop and were promptly presently with a steaming bowl of harira. Behind the counter, a man stood over a 40-gallon tub, ladling spoonfuls into containers for the women to take home to their families; for those of us who didn’t have families waiting, the camaraderie at the countertop among fellow fasters emulated a familial bond. We spoke little as we sat elbow to elbow, spoons poised at our lips, eyes fixed on the setting of the sun, which was broadcast on the television screen above. As the last glimpse of the glowing orb disappeared, the cook exclaimed “Aiwa - Bismillah!” In the name of God! And 50 people crammed in a closet-sized restaurant simultaneously slurped.

As everyone handed in empty bowls and zipped up jackets, we smiled at each other. The cook asked if we had fasted all day too and when we said yes, the other diners nodded in approval. For a few minutes, we were part of a collective ritual of breaking fast, and in doing so were adopted into a new family - if only for the three minutes it took to slurp a bowl of soup.

This post has been entered into the HomeAway UK Grantourismo travel blogging contest for October. We would love to hear your comments.

Flying Jacob

2010-10-21T13:35:00.000-07:00

Chicken breast + Bacon + Bananas + Whipped Cream + Peanuts + Chili Sauce = Flygande Jakob, Swedish for Flying Jacob. (Though known in some parts of the country as "Jumping Jacob").

Yes, a Swedish dish. Though the combination of bananas, chili and peanuts made me think, "West African?"

As the story goes, the dish was named for its inventor, Swedish freight pilot Ove Jakobssen and published by his chef friend in the magazine, "Allt om mat" in 1976. It became an overnight sensation and took Swedish households by storm. A family favorite in Sweden to this day, although every family apparently has their own slightly different version of the recipe.

The rather odd sounding combination reminded me of the sandwiches (remember peanut butter and marshmallow fluff?) and casseroles (the excellent macaroni, canned tuna, frozen peas, canned cream of mushroom soup and - the best part - crumbled potato chips - variety) I used to eat as a kid growing up the Midwest.

They may have sounded odd, but they tasted fantastic.

And so did the Flygande Jakob at Café Frau Larsson. The recipe came from Frau Larsson herself, i.e. it is the one Annika's Swedish mother served to enthusiastic eaters at the family dinner table.

If anyone is interested in Frau Larsson's fabulous recipe, perhaps Annika will share it. Otherwise, below is the original recipe, published in 1976 in "Allt om mat" (issue 13).

Original and traditional Swedish Flying Jacob (serves 8)
Ingredients:
4 rotisserie chickens
1 tsp Italian salad spice
4-5 bananas
4 dl double cream
2 dl "ketchupish" chili sauce
2 packages bacon
1 dl salted peanuts

Instructions:
1. Set oven to 225 degrees celsius.

2. Strip all the meat of the chickens and put in an oven pan. Taste the chicken and if needed season with salt and pepper. Sprinkle the salad spice on top.

3. Peel the bananas. Cut them first once in half and then split them length wise making four pieces of each banana. Put on top of the chicken.

4. Whip the cream lightly and mix with the chili sauce.

5. Distribute cream and chili mix over the chicken and banana. Bake in oven about 20 minutes.

6. Meanwhile, cut bacon to small pieces and fry until crispy.

7. Spread crispy bacon and peanuts over the baked chicken.
Serve with a salad and boiled rice.

Delicious!!!

Wednesday Snapshot(s): The Virgin Is Coming! The Virgin Is Coming!

2010-10-13T13:05:00.000-07:00

A grumpy, yet surprisingly festive pilgrim.

Yesterday Carter, Oscar and I joined hundreds of thousands of pilgrims in the Procession of the Virgin of Zapopan. October 12th of every year the Virgin returns to her home, The Basilica of Zapopan, from her grand church tour. Starting in June, she visits every church in Guadalajara for a week, inciting mini-fiestas along the way. Her last stop is the Cathedral of Guadalajara and from there she is escorted through the (roughly) five miles of urban boulevards by revelers hoping for a miracle or just a good time.

Schools are closed for the day and with so many families milling in one relatively concentrated area, the vendors are out in force. There is no celebration in Mexico without an impressive showing of ice cream carts, taco trucks, fry vats, card tables loaded up with slices of flan, wheel barrows pushing containers of fresh fruit, donuts and sticky sweet coconut macaroons.

Due to the crowds, our late start, and the sinful culinary offerings tempting us at every step, we didn't actually make it to the church. My faith was tested by a street taco, and (surprise!) the street taco won! My opportunity to worship in the local tradition of walking on my knees from the gates outside the church to the front pew was blown by tacos barbacoa. (It is said that some walk on their knees for the whole procession, but apparently the die-hards were way ahead of me, because I didn't see any one with such pure devotion.) What I did witness and could totally get on board with was lots of eating and drinking in the streets!

The paper reported a turn-out of 1.8 million people!

To You, Frau Larsson

2010-10-07T02:56:00.000-07:00

Zimtschnecke at Frau Larsson's

This post goes out to my friend Annika who, last week, opened her own Swedish café in Hamburg, Frau Larsson. In doing so, Annika did something that few of us do: she not only talked the talk, she walked the walk. I've listened to her describe her idea for a Swedish café for the last three years - the concept, what she would bake, the menu, the decor, a location. And I'd respond with plans for my American style breakfast place - french toast, eggs benedict, etc. And I still talk about it, - that AND my cookbook-slash-test kitchen restaurant AND my import shop with textiles from women's coops in Afghanistan, and and and....

But last week, Annika OPENED FRAU LARSSON. She did it. She realized a dream. And I am so very proud of her.

Frau Larsson: Kaffee, Kuchen, Köttbuller - coffee, cake and swedish meatballs. Sounds better in German...

Frau Larsson's sells delicious Swedish specialties like Blabärssylt (that's blueberry jam to you and me)

And Swedish mustards...

And of course, a mean latte macchiato..

Congratulations Frau Larsson! Wishing you many full tables, happy customers and permanent place on the Schinkelplatz scene!

Afghan Heirlooms

2010-09-30T13:10:00.000-07:00

Qabili pilau and sabzi

Technically I was not supposed to be there. My Afghan colleague Najla invited me to dinner and I gladly accepted the invitation. Riding in an unarmored car to her home in Karte Parwan, one of Kabul’s residential neighborhoods, where the outer walls were less than ten meters high and there were no armed guards outside, was breaking all the rules of security protocol.

Due to the volatile situation and cultural restrictions, I had limited contact with my Afghan counterparts despite the fact that I lived in Kabul. Therefore, this invitation was more than just dinner, it was a window into the lives of the people I worked with everyday, but otherwise had little access to.

Najla and I took a seat on the toshaks, cushions laid out on the floor in the living room. Her nieces ran in giggling, gracefully balancing trays with tea and sweets and depositing them on the floor in front of us. I attempted to follow Najla’s lead and gracefully fold my legs beneath me but wound up shifting every few minutes, uncomfortable and awkward.

“I didn’t tell you, but this is a bit of a special occasion,” Najla said. “My eldest brother has just returned from Pakistan. We are finally all together in Kabul again!” Najla’s family fled Kabul like so many other residents of the Afghan capital during the civil war that engulfed the city in the early 1990s. They made their way over the Pakistani border into Peshawar where they stayed in camps until they returned after the fall of the Taliban.

The room slowly filled with family members and everyone squeezed in around the plates that began pouring from the kitchen: dark green sabzi, stewed spinach, banjan borani, delicious fried eggplant topped with tangy yogurt and paprika; aushak and mantu, hand made dumplings filled with either leaks or ground meat and covered with yogurt, lentils and mint.

But the centerpiece of the meal was the qabili pilau, the dish that heralds a special occasion. The faint brown rice was redolent with spices including cardamom, cinnamon, nutmeg and anise. While the fragrance was synonymous with a special holiday meal, the combination of the soft carrot strings, the sweet, robust raisins and succulent chunks of lamb made this dish feel more like comfort food.

When I inquired about the spices, Najla was coy. “The exact mixture of spices in the pilau varies from family to family,” she said. “It’s always slightly different and,” she paused, “it’s top secret,” she smiled mysteriously. “What you are eating is my mother’s recipe, which she learned from her mother, which she learned from her mother….” She trailed off.

Passed on from generation to generation, the family qabili pilau recipe is an heirloom. It is an oral history, something that they carried with them when they left everything else behind. As most Afghans at some point in their lives have been internally displaced or refugees, like Najla and her family, this recipe is more than just a meal - it is remembrance.

Girls' School in Herat

Shah-e Doh Shamshira Mosque, Old City, Kabul

Stunning Band-i-Amir lake, Bamiyan Province, Central Highlands

Buzkashi, game traditionally played on Nowroz, or New Years, with players on horseback and a headless goat as the ball

Women in burqas visiting the sick at the Blue Mosque in Mazar-i-Sharif

Outside boys' school, Herat

Shopkeepers at prayer, Jalalabad

Herat's Friday Mosque

The "kite runners" - boys chasing kites at the King's Masoleum, Kabul

This post has been entered into the September Grantourismo HomeAwayUK travel blogging competition.

Wednesday Snapshot: A Crust Is a Crust, Is a Crust......

2010-09-29T07:26:00.000-07:00

I had no idea tortillas had crusts! What a discovery! The innate loathing and childhood rejection of The Crust knows no cultural boundaries. Yesterday, my neighbor’s son was at our house and I offered to make him a quesadilla. The above was what he left on his plate. Crispy with grease, cheese oozing out the sides I couldn’t understand why the edges had been systematically discarded. When I questioned his mother, she airily responded that he never eats the crusts. Crust? On a tortilla? Where did that come from?

One could deduce from this fascinating anthropological discovery in my kitchen that kids in all cultures are totally insane and their picky nonsensical food prejudices are not random whims to make us crazy, but perhaps encoded in their DNA. How could this be learned behavior? Where does a Mexican kid learn that crusts are pure evil and then apply it to his culture's answer to bread?

P.S. He also said, “no gracias” to the salsa, and dipped his quesadilla into ketchup (!). Kids are weird in any culture.

Wednesday Snapshots: The German Currywurst Museum of Berlin

2010-09-22T13:44:00.000-07:00

As promised... The Deutsches Currywurst Museum in Berlin. A temple for pilgrims who worship at the alter of the wurst.

Your relatively steeply priced (13 Euros!) entrance ticket includes access to all exhibits as well as a tasty little currywurst sample at the little bude (vendor) that you have to walk through to exit the museum (clever!).

The decor includes giant drops of faux ketchup coming down from the ceiling and life-sized fries. To help illustrate the different variations of currywurst, replicas have been constructed, safely protected behind this glass should you temporarily forget that they are plastic and attempt to sneak a piece.

A colorful diagram of the various spices that go into the curry ketchup...

A brief history lesson that includes Herta Heuwer, who Berliners believe invented the currywurst just after the war - part necessity, part ingenuity, and part flirtation with an admiring British soldier. There was a brief mention of the fact that Hamburgers have their own Ms. Heuwer who they believe invented the currywurst... but they didn't dwell on her. Hmmm, a little bias on the part of the museum's home town, or am I just more of a proud Hamburger than I like to believe I am?

And a map of Berlin, currywurst bude by bude, indicated by little pieces of wurst made of cork and silver forks displaying the bude's name. Nicey.

My mom and stepdad, the kids and I will be heading to Berlin next week - my mom hasn't been there since she was threatened by mean German guards at Checkpoint Charlie in the 60s and my stepdad has never been - and the Currywurst Museum is high up on our list of things to see in Berlin.

Fall Equinox Germanified Chicken Soup

2010-09-21T02:53:00.000-07:00

Oh, it's that time of year again. Today is the first calendar day of Fall, my favorite season (or it was my favorite season until I moved to Hamburg where Summer is Fall, but that's a rant for another day). Besides the vibrant autumnal hews, the crisp but not cold afternoons, the clearest skies of any season, the crunching under foot, warm sun on rosy cheeks, American football tailgates, wool socks and turtlenecks coming out of "winter clothes"-marked boxes, hot apple cider - there are infinite reasons to love this season.

Not the least of which is fall FOOD. Which for me, means SOUPS AND STEWS. Mmmmm, chicken and vegetables simmering in a pot all afternoon, filling the house with the smell of cures for colds and celery. Roasts bathing in their own juices and a few robust onions thrown in for good measure - left in the oven ALL. AFTERNOON. LONG. to slow cook to the point the meat falls apart when the strings are cut. And the best part, coming home after a long walk through the foliage and opening the door to be hit by intoxicating smells that make the neighbors believe that I've been home all afternoon slaving away. Honestly, there are few things I love more than someone else in my kitchen cooking for me. And soups and roasts that you can leave on the stove or in the oven all day, cooking on autopilot, it's like a little fairy chef has snuck in to the kitchen and whipped up something while I've been out. Am I making it clear how much I LOVE this concept?

So in honor of the start of Fall and the Fall food season, a German take on Chicken Soup:

First of all, Germans make Chicken Soup soooooo easy: your grocers has "Suppen Huhn" - soup chickens, specifically tailored to go into your pot for soups or stock. And they ALSO have "Suppen Bund" - celery root, carrots and leak all bound together by a rubber band - all the veg you need for a veggie stock. Those Germans - so practical! Bring your chicken, veggies and water to a boil and then turn it way down, cover and let simmer. Add salt and pepper to taste at the end. And to really Germanify your Chicken Soup, just add:

Mmmmm Semmelknödel, what a find you were. Knödel are basically dumplings and I was craving some of the soup dumplings my mom used to put in her chicken soup - bisquick style. You can make the knödel yourself of course - and I am working on learning how and sharing a recipe with you - but you can also buy them in this little box, boil them for ten minutes and throw them in your soup. They are a bit heavy compared to soup dumplings, as the package illustrates they are usually eaten with meat and sauerkraut - (and we will get to that too) - but I thought they worked well with this hearty soup.

This might be overkill, but I also added another miracle of Germanic cuisine:

Oh Backererbsen, how I love you. "Soup Pearls" is the English name given on the package, while the German translation is "baked peas" and the French is something akin to "nut pasta". They are little balls of baked goodness (completely devoid of any nutritional value to be sure) that add that missing crunch to your soup - should you have been thinking, "You know what this soup really needs? Something CRUNCHY!" I know I was thinking that at least. And the kids love them. Kind of like crumbling soda crackers over your soup.

Happy Fall Equinox to All!!

Viva Mexico! Viva la Revolución!

2010-09-15T00:27:00.000-07:00

Probably not Hidalgo's exact words, but definitely what the gente will be joyously shouting for the next few days!

Viva Mexico! Viva la Revolución! Over the next four days Mexico will celebrate the bicentennial of their independence from Spain (the birth of the country) and the centennial anniversary of the revolution (freedom from a thirty year dictatorship and the creation of a new democratic constitution).

Tonight at midnight the Mexican version of the “shot heard around the world” will ring throughout Mexico! In cities and towns throughout the country, a key official will ring a bell and shout the traditional declaration, El Grito de Dolores, and of course, mass revelry will ensue until the wee hours of the morning kicking off the actual holiday: La Independencia de México observed on September 16th.

El Grito de Dolores (The Cry of Dolores) was the battle cry of the Mexican War of Independence; proclaimed September 16th, 1810 by the priest of the people, Miguel Hidalgo in the small town of Dolores. Hidalgo ordered the church bells to be rung and gathered his congregation; he addressed the people in front of his church, encouraging them to revolt against the Spanish-- to take back their country, their land and their beloved Virgin de Guadalupe.

This year is especially festive, as both barrels are locked and loaded. One hundred years ago, the Mexican Revolution began on November 20th with troops of campesinos crying out for "¡Tierra y Libertad!" (Land and Freedom!). Dictator Diaz was successfully overthrown and characters like Francisco “Pancho” Villa and Emiliano Zapata were emblazoned in the history books and iconized in taquerías the world over.

The government has been making a big deal of the event: building monuments, marking several routes along highways throughout Mexico that were traveled either during Mexico's War of Independence or the Mexican Revolution, President Calderón will perform the Grito in Mexico City to a crowd of millions, and many more events and fairs for history bufsf and the patriotic. In a show of solidarity and revolutionary fervor, I am going to come tearing into the plaza on my stallion, guns a-blazing!

Elote: Mexican Street Corn

2010-09-07T12:53:00.000-07:00

Would you believe me if I told you there was no sweet corn in Mexico? That’s right. I said No. Sweet corn. Mexico. I know, crazy talk, right? Well, sadly it is true. Mexico is a country void of lemons and the summer corn smile characterized by sweet yellow kernels stuck between happy teeth.

As is well known, Mexico is the Land of Corn; unfortunately, the only variety grown in the vast fertile fields is extremely starchy -- perfectly suited for pan de elote, tortillas and masa, rather than right-off-the-cob indulgence, or so I thought until I discovered elote. Elote simply means corn. Interestingly, it is also the straightforward name given to the complex punchy flavors of grilled or boiled cobs served up street-side. The charred, roasty-toasty cobs are punctured with a skewer and slathered with a combination of condiments such as: salt, chili powder, butter, lime, mayonnaise, crema, cotija cheese, and epazote. Alternatively, the cobs are boiled in huge vats, the kernels cut off the cob tumbling into a plastic cup; while smacking your lips, you choose which creamy, spicy, sour, salty offerings of flavors you want to parade into your mouth.

While oogling giant hotdogs wrapped in thick fatty slices of bacon sizzling away on a greasy flat top in a square in Cuernavaca, I spotted several stands with bubbling cauldrons of corn on the cob. While I have immense respect for those lining up for the pork party, I gravitated towards the bright smile of a woman dropping shiny yellow ears into the salted boiling water. She handed me a cup of steaming corn. This being my first time, I didn’t hold back. Overwhelmed by that same urge that drives your spoon into every topping at the ice cream sundae bar, I piled it all on. My immoderation was rewarded. Crunchy kernels burst with a mild corn flavor; the creamy mayonnaise-y crema was spiked with piquant lime, subtle heat from the chili and the salty cojita cheese amped-up all of the flavors resulting in a manic scarfing of deliciousness.

Why not rev-up the last of the summer corn with a Mexican street corn rendition? You will not be sorry; this is seriously addictive stuff. Make twice what you think you will nosh and don’t be surprised if those hot dogs go uneaten.

ELOTE: Mexican Street Corn

4 ears sweet corn, grilled with a good char or cut off the cob and roasted in the oven (with a bit of olive oil and salt)
2 tablespoons cup mayonnaise
2 tablespoons sour cream
1/2 teaspoon lime juice
1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper or chili powder
Kosher salt
2/3 cup crumbled cotija cheese
Lime wedges
Extra cayenne pepper or chili powder, for garnish
Fresh finely chopped epazote or cilantro for optional garnish

If going the whole cob: Crumble cheese onto a plate large enough to fit an ear of corn. In a small bowl mix the mayonnaise, sour cream, lime juice, cayenne pepper or chili powder, and salt. When the corn is cooked, brush each ear with some of the mayo sauce then roll in the cheese. Garnish with a sprinkling of chili powder and cilantro.Serve warm.

If pure kernels are your thing: After the kernels caramelize a bit, take them out of the oven and put in a bowl. Stir in mayo, sour cream, lime juice, salt, cotijo, and chili powder and mix well. Heap onto a serving platter and garnish with a sprinkling of chili powder and cilantro. Serve warm.

Alejandrina

2010-08-29T15:07:00.000-07:00

The day I met Alejandrina, Hurricane Felix was whirling our way. The category five hurricane was rapidly gaining momentum and was predicted to hit land within two hours, on the North Coast of Honduras, twenty kilometers from Alejandrina’s simple home.

Usually I relished interviewing clients, and today shouldn’t have been any different. Alejandrina’s courage and steely determination was inspiring; against the daunting odds of poverty, she was building a better life. On her third loan from the Adelante Foundation’s micro-credit program, she had created a profitable clothing re-sale business. With the earnings, her goal to fortify the house she and her husband built had been realized—rotting wooden planks were switched out, two cinder block walls were constructed, a leak-proof metal roof replaced the dilapidated jerry-rigged tarp covering.

Proudly showing me around her two room abode, Alejandrina appeared unshaken by the tinny voice broadcasting a clear warning from the radio: Stock up on canned food and clean water, Felix is coming!

A queer, ominous light streamed through the unprotected windows. The dark brooding sky hung over us like an evil force preparing for battle. The air was hair-raisingly still. Raw fear electrified my being; I needed to get home.

Hastily fleeing to my car, I couldn’t help wondering if Alejandrina’s house would survive nature’s imminent smack-down. She met my uncertain gaze with the confident smile of a warrior. Decades of adversity mapped out across her face. Three years later I’m still awed by Alejandrina’s unflappable fight against life’s unrelenting storms.

This post was entered in the GranTourismo HomeAway UK Travel Writing Competition for August: Portrait. We would love to hear your thoughts in the comment section.

Valiko jan

2010-08-29T07:13:00.000-07:00

In May, I observed municipal elections in the predominantly Aremenian state of Samatshke-Javakheti in the Republic of Georgia. My observation partner, Ruslan, was Kazakh and spoke fluent Russian – as did Aremnui, our interpreter and Valiko, our driver. When the three of them spoke Russian, I patiently waited for an abbreviated explanation of a 15 minute conversation or a joke that was lost in translation. Likewise, when the three of us would speak English, Valiko would turn up the radio. There was a disconnect between Valiko and I based solely on our inability to communicate directly with one another.

On the eve of the election, after we finished mapping the routes to the polling stations, we stopped in the sprawling countryside for an impromptu picnic. Valiko threw out a wool blanket, cranked up some Armenian pop music and offered us all bread that his sister-in-law had made fresh that morning. He opened a bottle of cognac, passed small glasses around and gave a toast with the typical flare that Georgians are famous for.

“Cheers, Valiko jan.” I used the diminutive “jan”, a familiar ending added to one’s name akin to “dear”, a custom I picked up in South Asia that I noticed was also used here.

Valiko froze. A huge smile plowed across his face. He squatted down on his haunches. “Jan?!?!?!?” He echoed approvingly. This little word bridged a cultural gap that volumes of Russian could not.

“To you, Jiffer jan”, he said. We smiled and clinked glasses.

This post was entered in the GranTourismo HomeAway UK Travel Writing Competition for August: Portrait. We would love to hear your thoughts in the comment section.

The Iconic German Currywurst

2010-08-23T00:06:00.000-07:00

German currywurst. To some a snack; to others an institution. To the untrained palate it is nothing more than a hot dog with spicy ketchup. But to connoisseurs, it's a delicacy - depending on where you find it.

Last October, I was in Berlin for a short stint and wanted to make sure that I got in one plate of Berlin currywurst. Lowri and I jumped in a cab and I asked the driver if he knew "this one currywurst place in Prenzlauerberg, under the S-bahn tracks, near Schönhauserallee".. that's all I had to go on; no name, no address. To our surprise, our Algerian cab driver, who became quite chatty when he found I out spoke a bit of French, refused to take us there.

"Oh yeah, I know the one you are talking about," he said. "But you don't want to go there."

Me: Um, actually, yes we do. Right there. To THAT one. We want to eat currywurst THERE.

Cab driver.: No, no. Not THAT one. It's dirty. You don't want to go there. I'LL take you to THE BEST currywurst stand in the city.

Me: Well, OK. I guess. I mean. I've already had the currywurst at THAT place and I thought it was great and others swear by it as well but if you know a better place....

Cab driver: Oh, I do.

Me: So, it's your favorite currywurst then?

His face shot up in the rear view mirror, eyebrows askew, feigned shock.

Cab driver: MINE?!?!? I don't eat that sh*t, I'm Muslim. But you know, it's what they say.

Me: Right, OK.

About 25 minutes and 20 Euros later, we arrived at Biers 195 on the Kudamm - one of Berlin's most beloved shopping addresses. My fears that the driver only took us there for a larger cab fee quickly dissipated as I took my first bite. The wurst was juicy, the curry sauce had just the right amount of kick and the fries were also good. Plus points.

So, this episode - in addition to a run in with the "Curry Queen" in Hamburg, where the curry mixes are prepared by a Michelin-starred chef and the sausages include, in addition to traditional pork, venison and Kobe beef - more on that another time - and the incessant debate between Berliners and Hamburgers about who owns the dish, led me to the Currywurst Museum of Germany, in Berlin, one lovely summer day last month.

And I will tell you all about it.. in my next post.

Wednesday Snapshot: Street Food Cravings!

2010-08-18T01:23:00.000-07:00

A food market in Patzcuaro, Mexico.

Cravings are a common side effect of living abroad and I ferociously fed my longings for sushi in LA, big juicy American burgers in Montana, my mom's Wisconsin-style brats in Chicago and anything Asian whenever and wherever I could get it. But, in the last hours of my stay in the US, as I was scarfing obscene amounts of seductively succulent peaches, nectarines, plums and cherries in order to get my fix for the year, (I have yet to meet an acceptable stone fruit in Mexico) my stomach began gurgling for the street food tucked in the alleys, lining the markets and parked outside the night clubs in every city and barrio of Mexico.

Cravings by nature cannot be squelched. Of course they can be temporarily appeased, but soon their point of obsession changes, and vamos, they are off on another tangent, doing their duty to keep me up at night dreaming of bites of pleasure usually not in my cupboard.

As you may have guessed, my cravings can be cruel. However, they always have good intentions, and this time, they guided me off the plane and towards crispy fat tacos eaten at a card table, covered with bright Mexican oil cloth and washed down with an orange soda..... Now, if I could only have another one of those drool-inducing peaches.

Home

2010-08-16T12:19:00.000-07:00

I traveled Home three times this summer, always arriving at a different place. Living between two countries, having belongings stored in various friend’s garages with the promise, “we’ll only be gone two years” turning into three, four, five years… creates a sense of place in the world that is neither Here nor There. I relish that nomadic sense of wonderment: without place or permanence. In my early twenties, the perceived ability to jump on a plane and start an adventure far away from potential roots grabbing hold was how I defined myself.

As footloose and fancy free as that propelling philosophy is, I have always given credence to Home. It is the leaving Home and the coming Home that makes the part in between: adventure. Without these bookends to help process and digest the experience, the journey cannot happen. You must leave what is making you feel lost to find yourself; say good-bye to what is winding you up to feel refreshed; flee the routine to live the unexpected. Returning to a starting point puts a journey into perspective, helps you appreciate the time you have taken to explore, relax, learn, and reset your compass.

View of the Bitterroot mountain range from the porch.

The wooden porch, wrapping around my parents’ yellow farmhouse in the Bitterroot Valley in Montana, has become a Home my soul seeks. I first felt its power after returning from a year of backpacking around Africa and Asia. Under the forgiving expanse of the Big Sky, I began to process the enormity of what I had done; I felt the accomplishment of setting off alone with a one-way ticket to Bangkok in hand; and the temporarily debilitating fear of what I would do next. Carter and I were married beside a creek nearby, and after Oscar was born, we checked in with the peaceful rhythms of Montana to get to know each other and begin life as a family.

The second Home we visited this summer is my original starting place, the house in the Midwest where I grew up. The loud echo of cicadas and familiar summer-time smells of cut grass and BBQ accompanied Oscar and me on our walks into town to the old-fashioned ice-cream parlor where I spent my allowance as a kid. Driving through the shady streets is a tour of firsts: first time riding a bike, first play performance, first kiss… But it is my family that makes this place Home. They are my anchor, and without them I could never travel so far.

Sharing sweet memory lane with the next generation.

Carter and I are still searching for the place we, as a family, will call Home; the Home that will set Oscar’s compass. For the time being it is Guadalajara, Mexico, and that is the Home we have journeyed back to after our summer of checking in State-side. But this Home does not go deeper than the mortar and bricks around us. Coming back to this starting point, I realize that Guadalajara is part of a continuing adventure. We pay rent, own a car and lots of furniture, but these things do not make a Home. Our existence and our community is transient in nature; the sprawling urban canvas does not cradle my soul and ground me with its energy, but instead keeps me searching.

Wednesday Snapshots: London's Borough Market

2010-08-11T02:21:00.000-07:00

Borough Market, my very favorite place to spend Saturday mornings and linger into the afternoon in London.

Not exactly Googlemaps but an adequate chart of the market to help you find your way around.

Pig Day! It's a good day.

Or a few meat pies..

Washed down with a little Pimm's to go - sigh - only in Britain..

A bacon cheese and bubble bap will cure any hangover, I promise.

The meats...

And the cheeses.

An overwhelming selection of fungus..

and curries.

Amen! Cheers Borough Market!

American Summer Vacation Series 2010: Coach's Secret BBQ Rib Sauce Recipe

2010-08-09T05:37:00.000-07:00

Want to make these? All you need is a little of this:

Let's break this down, shall we?

Figaro Liquid Smoke Hickory Barbecue Marinade

One half lemon

Bull's Eye (or your favorite) Barbeque Sauce

Kitchen Bouquet Browning and Seasoning Sauce

Lea & Perrins Worcestershire Sauce

Light Brown Sugar

Roundy's Louisiana Style Hot Sauce

Hamm's Beer

Now, I am sure your favorite bbq sauce, hot sauce, or beer could be substituted to taste but this is what my stepdad, who we have always called "Coach", puts into his sauce and he is constantly being badgered for his recipe. Unfortunately for those of us who would like to replicate his sauce, this recipe is of the "oral history" variety i.e. it's never been written down and when pressed for precise measurements, Coach will simply eye-ball it, demonstrate and say, "About that much". What I can tell you is that the base is the bottle bbq sauce, the brown sugar is thrown in in hefty cups full and the rest is a few pinches, squeezes or splashes.

Good luck!

Welcome Food52!!

2010-08-03T08:47:00.001-07:00

Ancho Chili-Cinnamon Chocolate Bark: My recipe, which will appear in the soon-to-be-released Food52 cookbook.

I am absolutely giddy from the awesome honor of being a spotlighted cook by Food52! Regular readers know by now that I have a huge crush on Food52 and greatly admire the careers of Amanda Hesser and Merrill Stubbs. Wait, so they read Smash and Sniff….. That just made my year!

A warm welcome to the Food52 community! Thank you for stopping by. Please, grab a piece of chocolate bark and peruse our little blog which celebrates a childhood correspondence between my cousin and I. Crumpled letters filled with the secret ramblings of youth have evolved into Smash and Sniff, the blog. Today we are less about boys and joy rides and more about culture, cuisine and kids.

If you are new, check out a few of our favorites!
My Tortilleria
The Incredible Edible Smut: Huitlacoche
Mazamitla and Cajeta de Helado
Dispatches from the German and Mexican Grocery Store (A Series)
More Than Just Fisch
Duck fat in Deutschland

American Summer Vacation Series 2010: Wisconsin Walleye Fish Fry

2010-08-03T01:25:00.000-07:00

Walleye. The state fish of South Dakota and Minnesota. A fish native to most of Canada and the northern United States, especially around the Great Lakes, is a favorite in Iron Country, Wisconsin near my mom's home (she is surrounded by small lakes and equidistant from Lakes Superior and Michigan). In Germany, a fishmonger might have a close cousin, the pikeperch or zander on offer. Because of the walleye's nocturnal feeding habits, mom's neighbor Mike went out in the middle of the night to catch a few of these freshwater fish from the adjacent lake. We made sure they didn't go to waste.

Not just pan fried, deep fried. This is Tom, another neighbor, who brought over his gas tank and deep fryer. The guys sat outside in the driveway discussing the upcoming dear hunting season while the breaded fillets bubbled and sputtered in a vat of oil. They came out after everyone opened their second bottle of Spotted Cow beer, golden brown, sweet and flaky.

Fish fries are a beloved tradition in the Midwest. Stemming from the large Roman Catholic population in Wisconsin, and perhaps also attributable to the Scandinavian ancestry of many Wisconsinites, fish fries were offered by most "supper clubs" and local restaurants on Fridays throughout the Lenten season before Easter, when the faithful were prohibited from eating meat. They were so popular that they continued after Easter, throughout the summer; in fact, in many places you can find a fish fry any time of the year. And they're not just for Catholics anymore.

Add a salty orb of butter to the piping hot corn on the cob and a spoonful or two of mom's homemade potato salad, top the fish with a bit of impromptu tartar sauce (mayo and pickle relish) and here you are - a bit of summer in Wisconsin on a plate.

Be sure to stop by next time you are in town!