The Omnivorous Fish

From the new york bureau:

So, there’s a boy. I guess we’ll call him Hot Pants. Anyhow, we went to the (in)famous Una Pizza Napoletana tonight for some $20 pies.

As you might be aware, I know a little something about pizza, probably enough to be dangerous. I can say that I liked it a lot, and I would go back, but it was not my favorite pizza of all time. Hopefully I’ll write more later on the subject, but for now Hot Pants and I are headed to bed.

Listening: “The Barnyards of Delgaty” Old Blind Dogs, from the Album Tall Tails

From early yesterday morning

Living in LA, I often arrive at work an hour or more early, so I’ve been listening to a lot of podcasts, catching up on magazines and watching some movies. This morning I’m watching Oliver Stone’s JFK, and I can’t tell you yet if it’s any god or not, but during the beginning of the movie, I suddenly burst into tears. No, I haven’t reached menopause- I don’t think- but it was incredible to me to watch the nation and the world hold an American president so beloved. I’m sure Kennedy had millions of detractors, but his youth, exuberance and poise held sway over many who didn’t vote for him, my parents included. But today we have a filthy, lying, moronic scumbag running the country, destroying the country, and its people, destroying the principles the country was founded on. We barely live in a Republic anymore; our freedom is forever lessened, our reputation in the world annihilated. Had I been older when he was first elected, I probably would have left. Had he been re-elected this year, I can tell you for sure I would have moved to Vancouver. I wasn’t a huge fan of Bush 1, but he was a competent individual we could follow, someone we could be proud to be led by, disagreements aside. I cannot wait for the day I can be proud to be American once again.

Listening: hokey music from the JFK DVD.

From this afternoon

The movie wasn’t that good, but our president is still a mook.

Listening: Aqua Teen Hunger Force

Today I received an invitation to trade blogrolls with a new site called devour.tv. I declined to do so, but I will give them a free plug, because it led to an email correspondence that made me write up some feelings I have about the New Food Culture that I have yet to express much in the blog, despite how strongly I feel about it. Here is an excerpt:

Since you’ve read my blog, you know it’s mostly about cooking and empowerment of cooking. I try to put 20 years of professional and amateur cooking experience into each cooking post, so they’re meta-recipes, rather than lists of ingredients. Below is the list of “definitive pieces” I point people to.

So, the porn aspect. I’ll give you the long answer, since I think you’ll appreciate it. When I was a kid, I watched Julia Child and Jacques Pepin on PBS. They were educational shows, produced to teach the viewers about cooking. These were documentary: demonstrating a process. Modern cooking shows (IE, everything on Food Network) are pornographic: they are a wanton display of food. If you watch Paula Dean’s show, for example (who, unlike many TV personalities, actually knows how to cook) if she’s making a cake, she’ll start with her pre-measured ingredients laid out, dump them into a bowl, and no matter how skillfully she proceeds to mix them, the process is edited out. Two cuts and four seconds later, the batter is ready: nothing about gluten development, nothing about air content, nothing about leavening, nothing about batter structure, nothing about cooking. If they cut a recipe or two out of the show, or the ‘let’s set the table’ featurettes, or damn near anything they wanted to, there would be plenty of time in the format to include information about cooking. But that’s not the goal. The goal is heavy product placement (all-clad, oxo, kitchenaid, etc) and speedy delivery to languorous footage of finished products, interspersed by more advertising. Some of the content then says “ok let’s cook” but what they mean is “let’s open a package.” So then they’re further encouraging people to eat things that are not food. Of course, Food Network is not a public service. They are a business, in business to make money, not to steward the planet. It is also true that I don’t need to support them simply because I am interested in food.

Now, to give you specific examples in the devour.tv content, I looked at three things: The Telepan segment, the Dueling Foodies congee segment and Pied Piper Chicken with 40 Cloves of Garlic segment.

The Telepan segment had nothing to do with cooking, and very little to do with the dish itself. It was largely a much longer than needed discussion about the details of a dish that the reviewer had yet to taste, followed by a pronouncement that a dish is great without any true detail of its preparation. “Simple ingredients, done just right,” is the reviewer’s summation. How? What? Who? Tell us: the brioche was perfect, the crumb was just right, the butter flavor came through. The mushroom had this texture, this flavor, the egg. No, we are left with the comment “this is the afro of mushrooms.”

The dueling foodies was cute, but again lacked in depth. This congee is too brown this one’s too green, this one tastes like snails, which the editing taunts us to think is overwhelmingly exotic, which of course it isn’t, especially in New York. I have to assume this is a function of editing since we know that David Rosengarten was geeking out the entire time.

Finally, the Pied Piper, probably the best of them, again edited too much. Let’s calm down the electronic music and let the cook finish showing us the deboning process. He started out being very informative, and then all of a sudden we were somewhere else. Likewise the browning; If I didn’t know how to cook, I’d have thought he turned the chicken pieces over, then immediately added white wine, which of course he did not.

I don’t mean to pick on what you are doing. It is what the pop-culture food world is doing. You guys are absolutely typical in terms of ethos. Even though I’m 29, and I’m supposed to be part of the sound-byte generation, I simply don’t like it. I strive for a little PBS in the noise of the internet. If there are camps, I am securely barricaded in with Jacques Pepin and Lidia Bastianich, with the ghosts of Julia Child and MFK Fisher hanging around. The camp with Giada de Laurentis and Rachel Ray is distant and, to me, destructive.

List of definitive pieces:

Guazzetti:
http://omnivorousfish.com/node/265

Poeles:
http://omnivorousfish.com/node/176

Gnocchi:
http://omnivorousfish.com/node/199

Pasta:
http://omnivorousfish.com/node/209

Empowerment:
http://omnivorousfish.com/node/211

Listening: NPR: National. Public. Radio.

Thanks to the internet, obscure 80s songs stuck in your head are no longer a problem.

http://www.warrenzevon.com/

Yes, he’s still recording.

Listening: Ahoooooooooooooooooooo, werewolves of London!

Well, I’m in Vegas, but this morning I hit Santa Monica Farmers’ Market. A an old, dear friend’s mom is in town, and it’s criminal that I have yet to cook for this woman, so Monday we’re rectifying that. Here’s what I found that really blew my skirt up:

Celery- Yes, not usually much of a fan, but this was no ordinary celery
Nettles- Stinging nettles, but big mofo stinging nettles, perfect for soup
Fava beans- need I say more?
Strawberries- not good enough to kill for, but good enough to get down on the ground and vibrate for
Leeks- beautiful, tiny leeks from Rutiz Farms, home of the Orgasmic Arugula
Green garlic- what’s better about spring, exactly, than green garlic?
French fingerling potatoes- just a hint of chestnut in the flavor- excellent for composed salads
Citrus- holy shit I will never cease to be blown away by meyer lemons and blood oranges at the farmer’s market

So here’s what I have in mind for monday, criticism encouraged:

Mostarda of Celery (this is where celery [though usually fruit] is cooked in a syrup with spices to make a conserve) with fresh ricotta on crostini with my special olives: oil-cured sicilian olives macerated with blood orange juice and zest

Nettle and rice soup with bacon- a venetian style minestra-risotto

Panelle- Fried squares of chickpea flour polenta- palermo style- with a salad of favas, salame calabrese (spicy), ricotta salata and whole chopped (meaning pith and all) meyer lemons

Pork Butt Roast (the top part of the foreleg that I sometimes call shoulder, but is not accurate in English) with braised leeks and Sicilian potato salad (cooked potatoes, extra virgin olive oil, red wine vinegar, frsh mint)

Strawberries alongside Lebanese rosewater-flavored baklava. Yes, Rose, Danny Thomas was one, too.

I have several interesting pink wines laid in to help this process. Let me know what you think of the menu as a whole.

Apropos of nothing, I read this at I Heart Farms today, and although the whole passage is moving, the following bit just struck a chord with me.

I’m sick of dynasty politicians and dynasty wealth. I’m tired of the rich getting richer. I’m sick of corporations ruling and brainwashing, and I’m sick of people having no reason to hope. I want to feel part of that greater America, and I believe we can do it with the “once-in-a-lifetime” leader that Barack Obama is.

I hope we prove you right, Tana.

Well, crap, I lived. Thanks to everybody who came for Easter, from as far away as Simi Valley… sheesh!

Having its roots in a pagan festival, Easter brings to mind the cycle of life for me. There’s still a nip in the air, but here we are, eating peas. There are some dead leaves still visible in the mulch, but there’s enough sun to get artichokes. It’s a time of transition and renewal, much more than New Year’s, which- especially in the Northeast- is a time where gray and cold transitions into grayer and colder. Some lentils and pork don’t quite signify the revolution that a change in weather and new life do.

It’s easy to be philosophical when you spend a lot of time in the garden. To take dirt and some alien seeds and eggshells and mere effort, then to yield- with the forbearance of time- something alive that will perfume the sights and smells and energy of your home, and eventually nourish your body; this is a miracle. It’s especially dramatic, of course to live in California, which is rife with biology in a way that I can’t imagine any other state being. The shifts in temperature, not only from time of year, but from elevation, landform and ocean, along with an abundance of conserved areas not far from- and often within- populated areas make for a surrounding of life unlike any I’ve seen in this country.

artichoke in flower

So, all that said, I still have a mountain of peas to deal with, and- out of nowhere- the strangest craving for meatballs. I haven’t historically loved meatballs, but I figure there has to be a way for me to like something that is made of ingredients that I like. My mother’s recipe reads not unlike a meatloaf recipe, with beef, breadcrumbs, eggs, parsley (always dried, which smells of grass clippings to me and may well be), romano cheese… and that’s about all I can think of. So I said to myself, what could be different?

This brings me to one of the cookbooks in the Reference Section. These are seminal volumes that we go back to for answers, not necessarily for new inspiration (unless we’re feeling retro/classical). Among these are, of course, The Iliad and The Odyssey, that is to say Mastering the Art of French Cooking, volumes 1 and 2; Larousse Gastronomique; its Italian sister Il Cucchiaio d’Argento; The Joy of Cooking; and baking treatises, like The Cake Bible and The King Arthur Flour Baker’s Companion. These are all stately final-authority type tomes, but there are some more modest books in the category, too. One of them is Marcella Hazan’s Classic Italian Cooking, a book truly ahead of its time, and while it makes no claim to be an exhaustive study of the cuisine, it is a collection of historically sound, well-tested recipes designed to capture the interest of an American audience. The Lutece Cookbook is a similar study of the evolution of haute cuisine in America’s restaurants. These books have something over the encyclopedias that precede them: they give us a solid answer without exhausting us with information. Case in point, Marcella’s Classic Italian Cooking > index > meatballs > answer. The answer? Milk soaked in bread in place of the breadcrumbs. I should have known this, having made many forcemeats exactly the same way, but hey.

So, peas and meatballs. But not together- not for me, anyway, although my old buddy Marianna puts peas in damn near everything. I used to think this was a palermitana (Palermo-style) but I later learned this was a Marianna, in an effort to get her kids to eat something green. I know I talk about Sicilian food a lot, and I love food from all over the country, but I have a special fondness for Northeastern Italy. Friuli, Alto Adige and Veneto- not to mention Istria and the Slovenian provinces that are no longer part of Italy politically- are regions that straddle cultures, truly. Sicily’s food culture is a fascinating sum of its parts, but the Germanic and Italianate influences in the Northeast- although coherent- are distinct.

And the Venetians love their rice. They love rice so much that it would be impossible to say that any way of cooking rice is the “Venetian style” since there are about 30 ways they cook rice that are all more or less “standard.” They even have different styles of risotto. In springtime, when the peas first arrive, people go nuts with the classic risi e bisi, rice and peas. Not exactly a minestra, but decidedly not a risotto, it’s a thick soup of rice, peas, onions, stock and just a taste of pancetta (the salt of cured pork always makes peas taste sweeter). How thick? I describe it like this: you want it to be like a cooking risotto that you’ve just added liquid to, but it has yet to be absorbed.

This is one of those dishes that every Mamma in Veneto will tell you definitively that this is how much pancetta is right and this amount of liquid. However you make it, you can hardly go wrong. It’s a light but flavorful primo that follows the grows-together-goes-together truism: try serving it with grated piave and a young Soave (not Rico).

And really, why not follow this with a rich meatball in a slightly acid tomato sauce? With a little frisee salad, it’s dinner.

Listening: “The Preacher” Jimmy Smith

I’ve been cooking a bunch lately. The Italians were here for a while, and we went to santa monica farmer’s market, and came back with the makings of a pretty wonderful vegetarian meal. We also hit the long beach marina farmers’ market, whih I have to admit wasn’t the greatest. I did meet this interesting Lithuanian guy who lived in Italy and learned olive curing. Now he has a farm not far from here and makes a ton of different cured products, including some wholly wonderful cold-cured manzanilla olives, and olive oil, all from a farm a half hour from my house. Talk about local.

I’m sure I’ll be going back to the Santa Monica market before long. It’s the only thing I’ve seen in Southern California that’s even in the same league as Ferry Plaza or Union Square. And they’re pushing to ban disposable plastic bags in the market, which I am all for. Sometimes it’s nice just to be surrounded my people that you know are of a like mind.

My parents arrived today. The Long Beach Mafia is coming for dinner monday, which is exciting, but I have no idea what I’ll cook. I was hoping to go back to Santa Monica this morning, but it didn’t work out. My mom wants to try a cherimoya, so maybe we’ll hit the LB market tomorrow.

So here’s what we made for the italians’ leaving:

Pinzimonio, that is to say crudite, with three vinaigrettes: orange and balsamic vinegar, meyer lemon, sherry vinegar with garlic; all with extra virgin olive oil. Alfredo made this, and it was fantastic. We had baby artichokes sliced up in a salad with arugula, then red and yellow carrots, green onions, red and yellow bell peppers, (gorgeous) fennel and some cucumbers, all with the sauces. It was great.

I then made pasta with potatoes, that is alla messinese, because as I discovered, pasta con patate is usually a casserole or a minestra. The way I learned to make it is entirely different. It’s basically a quick saute of oil, garlic, capers and anchovies. Add some diced boiled potatoes and long pasta and you’re all set. Maybe a little pasta water. It’s simple in the extreme, but wonderful if you start out with excellent ingredients, like the Russian Banana potatoes and Barilla pasta that we had.

For our main course we had gratineed asparagus, which apparently grows here in February. Although it wasn’t the greatest asparagus I’ve ever had, it was quite good baked with Argentinian knockoff Parmiggiano cheese and a squeeze of lemon.

All that led to the Sicilian tour de force, Crostata di Pignoli, or pine nut pie, with chocolate and blood orange. It’s a thick, sweet crust with a custard of eggs, pine nuts, chocolate, orange zest and grand marnier. It bakes in a bread oven (or on a pizza stone) which crisps the crust and aids in browning. When the center cracks, that puppy is done, and I assure you oohs and ahhs. Maybe I’ll create a recipe for that one…

Ok, off to do a bit of reading before bed.

Well, I’m in Oklahoma City.

Crazy, right?

Well, it’s as bleak as you think, visually, but it’s not as overrun with jesus-crazies as you might think. Well, downtown isn’t so much; of course 5 miles from where I am the church-to-person ratio reverses.

We ate at this chain place called Melting Pot, which is apparently all over the place, but I’d never heard of it. As you might have deduced, it’s a fondue place. Let’s face it, fondue is fun, no matter how crappy, and it was fun. The fondue was ok. Not crappy, surely, but not exactly life-changing either. Like many mediocre restaurant experiences, it makes me want to go home and make fondue.

Anyway, I had a great time with the Art Guy, and I’m ready to head home and get ready for the onslaught of visitors. Check this out:

9-10 Feb: Good friend from NYC pitstopping on his way to vegas
11-15 Feb Another friend from NYC treating herself to some beach time
16-23 Feb: The Parental Units invade
25-29 Feb: The Artist (not to be confused with the Art Guy) is coming from Philly to hide out (from reality)

Needless to say, we’ll be cooking.

See you in LA.

Listening: “Get Up” Green R.E.M.

…you’re just a wolf in sheepskin.

Name the song. Come on, this is an easy one.

It’s just after noon and I have to say, today has been pretty much perfect. I got up, took a shower, got on the bike, did a few miles on the beach, ran some errands, then had breakfast. There’s the barest chill in the wind and the sun is shining, and I couldn’t help but wonder what today would have been like if I still lived in New York.

Well, it would be fucking gray and cold. I’d be in Washington Heights where there’s no place to eat and no one I know, and I probably would have gotten up, gone to starbucks, maybe taken a bath, maybe hung out with my super for a while, then trolled the internet for somebody to have sex with, probably give up, then screwed around online for another couple of hours, all the while wishing that I had gone somewhere, but it was so fricking cold I wouldn’t really have wanted to.

Here, I could hop in the car and be hiking in the mountains in an hour.

But, you might say, in the same time or slightly more you could be hiking in Westchester! Yeah, except I would have to lug anything I brought to the car around the corner (if I’m lucky, possibly like a mile away) or drive the car around and risk a ticket and pissing everyone on the block off while I went and got my shit, then gone up to the trail that is full of fucking litter and crap from all the assholes that frequent it, and once I got home again, driving around in circles for an hour or more looking ofr a parking spot, after which I’ll have to lug my shit back to my building and up the stairs. Oh, and did I mention it would be freezing?

Besides, you don’t go hiking every day. I do however, ride my bike on the beach every day, which I can tell you, improves your outlook considerably.

Speaking of outlook, I ralized something kind of funny last night. As many of you know, I have always had the fantasy of living in an open industrial space, IE, a loft. One big freaking room with a screen around the toilet in the corner. I was talking to This Guy (heretofore known as the Art Guy) about it and kept asking him if he thought it was a good idea, and I realized something: I was asking his permission. Not that he has some sort of authority, but in some bizarre way I don’t completely understand, I felt like I wasn’t allowed to live in a loft, or to have creative pursuits, or even to wear Vans, as silly as that sounds.

Permission, though, is something that I don’t have a lot of experience with. I’ve made more than one important decision in my life based on the criterion “will this annoy my parents?” And now that I realize that that’s what I’ve been doing, it’s easy to jettison those constraints. So guess what. I looked at a loft.

I’m still kind of painted into a corner with the whole house-apartment situation, but when the apartment sells (knock wood) I’ll be able to regroup a little. And, if I can rent the house out for close to what I’m paying for it, it actually makes financial sense to then rent a live-work loft, because then I can write off both properties.

Crazy, huh?

Listening: Jets to Brazil “Starry Configurations” Orange Rhyming Dictionary