FOOD ON THE FOOD

Pickling Cookbook Winners

Wow, I learned so much about you guys (and pickles in general) from your comments on the last post.  For example, there seem to be a lot of us in love with pickled beets. I dare say we have good taste.  Calamity Jane of Apron Strings writes of the pickled fiddleheads and wild cucumber she made in her Alaskan kitchen.  Gillis raves about the Grillo’s Pickles cart on Boston Common (2 spears for $1 all summer at the Park St. T stop).  Bobbie fondly remembers the giant pickles on a stick at the Wisconsin State Fair.  Pengwenhsd once had a man propose to her upon tasting her homemade bread and butter pickles.  And the favorite jarred brand seems to be Claussen dills (a recipe for a homemade version is here).

But where people got downright poetic was talking about Jewish deli pickles. Fellow blogger Aimee of New To Farm Life writes:

“I'm a pickle fanatic and it is hard to pick just one. But as I was thinking about it, a pure and perfect memory came back to me. I'm about seven years old, and we've gone to New York to visit my grandparents. Mom has dragged us kids around museums all day and we are ravenously hungry. We go into a real old-fashioned New York delicatessen to pick up food to eat on the train home. I've never been in a place like this (West Coast child) and am stone cold fascinated by the deli case with its bright salads, slabs of fish, a hundred kinds of cheese. Up on top of the counter, above my head, is a gigantic glass crock full of equally gigantic pickles. I point it out to brother and sister and we set up a ruckus, clamoring for pickles. The pickles, when we get them, are so big we can't close our fists around them, and they are so briny and crisp and delicious my mouth fills up with water. I can remember everything about those pickles - the snap they made when we bit into them, the warty cool skin of them, the cloudy brine in the jar swirling with garlic and spices. Most of all I remember the feeling of being small and curious, wide-eyed in a new place, with my mother beside me, teaching me, showing me, interpreting the world for me.”

What a fabulous pickle story! 

Reader Ashley writes of her grandmother’s pickles:

“My grandma made the best dill pickles. They were left in their brine on the porch of her bungalow in the Catskills, the center of summer life for Jewish New Yorkers escaping the city heat. The pickles had much of the old country in them, with a garlicky bite and ultra-satisfying crunch. The perfect refreshing summer snack, though I often ignored my mom's warnings, gorged on the salty treats, and woke up in the middle of the night parched.”

Mmmmmm.  Can anybody else use a drink right now?

There were even some requests for other readers’ pickle recipes (some of these requests are my own):

1. Millie’s carrot and daikon radish recipe;
2. The refrigerator half-sour recipe from Pickledbeets; and
3. The pickled shiitake recipe from the Momofuku cookbook that Louisa mentioned (though I just helped myself to that recipe from this fine blog).

So good work, people.  I wish I had 30 cookbooks to give out.  Do we have 30 cookbooks to give out, Storey?  Just kidding.  (Unless we do.) 

In order to be fair, and instead of writing names on pieces of paper and making Husband pull them out of a box like I’ve done in the past, I used a random number generator to pick the number of the winning commenters.  And the winners of a copy of Put 'Em Up by Sherri Brooks Vinton are:

16. Pickledbeets

26. Kate

Winners, I will be in touch.  For the rest of you, don’t worry, there will be other raffles in the future.  I won’t rest until everybody’s won something good.

Get Your Pickles On!

Okay, people, I’m feeling generous again.  Now that school is out and it’s officially summertime, I have pickling on my mind.  Even more so since I started flipping through the new book Put ‘Em Up by Sherri Brooks Vinton, a charming ode to canning, pickling, and other methods of putting food by.  An excerpt:

“…Home food preservation is a natural progression of the Real Food Revival—our increasing demand for food that is grown the way it should and used to be.  We want food that’s good for the farmer, the environment, and ourselves.  Putting up food is part of this passion.  It’s part of coveting the harvest so much that you can’t let it slip through your fingers so fleetingly.  It’s part of cherishing the work of local growers or your own toil in the backyard and wanting to hold on to some aspect of that even when fields lie fallow.”

Well, not so much my own toil.  I prefer to cherish other people’s toil, but I get her point.  Plus pickling is like tasty time travel.  Not only does it yield a healthful, homemade snack, but it also allows you to return to a moment, a place, a memory—whether it’s the sunny spot where you picked your own summer beans or the rainy morning when you finally decided to bite the bullet and boil some jars.  You get to remember those simple pleasures many months down the road while eating something delicious that you thoughtfully put aside for yourself.

This book is a great introduction to the art of freezing, drying, brining, canning, and otherwise storing your bountiful summer produce for later enjoyment.  Included are recipes for quick and fermented pickles, like dilly beans, pickled beets, and sauerkraut.  Other recipes that had me daydreaming: cherry and black pepper preserves, spicy peach salsa, sweet pepper marmalade, charred chili barbecue sauce, fennel and onion jam, rhubarb jelly, roasted pepper ketchup, and watermelon granita.  Plus it has such cute pictures of hand-labeled jars.  Adorable!

So here’s the deal.  Storey Publishing, a nice little publisher out in western Mass., will give away two cookbooks, one to each of two lucky readers.  And all you have to do is regale me with a story about the best pickle you ever had in the comment section.  That’s right, one more homework assignment before you’re off for the summer.  But if you win, you have to promise you’ll actually make something out of the book.  No entering yourself in the lottery and then letting the book sit on a shelf.  I’ll walk over there and take it back.

Okay, enough with the empty threats.  You have until sometime on Sunday.  Ready, set, go!

Weird Heirloom Vegetables

Today, I have a special guest blogger for you: author Novella Carpenter.  She’s an urban farmer based in Oakland, CA, where she raises vegetables, fruit, chickens, honey bees, rabbits, and dairy goats in the middle of the city.  Novella will be reading from her book, Farm City (now out in paperback), at Porter Square Books in Cambridge this coming Monday, June 7 at 7 p.m., so be sure to stop by for some funny farm stories and a seed give away.  Take it away, Novella…

I can’t help it, I like weird stuff. Like boyfriends who lie in the middle of the floor at a dinner party. Like cats with white paw pads. Like weird fruits and vegetables not available in fine stores. I’ve made it a point to collect strange fruit. I have a Seville orange tree (it’s small and I’ve still yet to get a nary a sour orange off of it). I have a sour cherry tree (we got enough cherries last year for one mind-blowing pie). Every year I graft some antique apple variety to my poor overburdened apple tree (this year it was a Winter Banana).  

Vegetables are no different; I will often wander around ethnic farmers markets with my tongue hanging out. “What is this?” I’ll ask the old ladies nearby, and they will patiently explain about taro root or chayote tendrils. A friend from Los Angeles came to visit and brought seeds for the famous giant radish of Oaxaca. I was so excited, it was as if she had brought me a suitcase full of money. This spring has been a busy one, and I’ve planted some weird vegetables that I wanted to share with you. 

Crapaudine beets (Beta vulgaris)

My sister, who lives in France, was laughing her ass off about this one when she sent me some seeds. We’re into that kind of toilet humor, and she thought maybe the etymological roots signaled that these beets were a, um, stool causer. My sister is always sending me some ancient Roman vegetable information, and these beets were apparently the original beet back in those days, before they became all rounded or striped inside.

Of course, I planted a whole bed of them. After 60 days, the leaves were looking amazing and strong so I went to harvest some for my little farm stand. This is what came out.

So that’s where the name comes from: crappy. No one bought the beets at the farm stand, and so I was left to deal with them. Being thrifty, I recognized the value of those leaves. So I made some beet chips out of them. It was easy, I just tossed the leaves in olive oil, put them in an oven at 350 degrees and cooked them for 7 minutes. They get all green and flat, perfect for tossing with salt and nutritional yeast.  

Next, I had to deal with the pathetic beetroot. I just dropped them into boiling water for a few minutes. I had very low expectations. Turned out, the thin-yucky skin slipped off to reveal a gorgeous mini-carrot-like thing.

The crapaudine beets actually tasted great! Very sweet, more like a carrot than a beet. They had a velvety texture and were lovely in a green salad tossed with boiled eggs. Thanks, Sister! I’ll never grow them for market, though.  

Bleu de Solaise leeks (Allium porrum)

Someone dumped two flats of leeks on my boyfriend. He fixed her truck, and the truck had the leeks inside—and she asked, “Does Novella want them?” Yes, Novella does. She likes free things, especially when they are heirloom leeks. These leeks, true to their name, are blue. Like that violet-y blue that is almost hallucinatory next to the dark earth. Two trays of leeks is a lot of leek. I had enough to sell at my farm stand—and enough to make leek confit.   

Confit always sounds so fancy. But in the leek confit case, it just meant that I braised the leeks in butter in a low oven for an hour. The leeks just fall apart and become gooey and caramel-y sweet. I like to use them to make leek soup (just add stock) or a leek tart (make a crust). Baby! What’s great about heirlooms like the Bleu de Solaise, is you can save the seeds and you’ll get the same beautiful blue leeks year after year.

Rampicante zucchini (Cucurbita moschata)

There’s a seed company called Baker Creek that is perfect for novelty freaks like myself. The catalog did lead me astray with a couple orders—like the Southeast Chinese cucumbers or the Thai Tigger melons that are never going to grow in foggy Northern California. Still, I love Baker Creek’s line-up. So far, I have one freak that is thriving: the rampicante zucchini.

I was drawn to it because the ad copy promised that I could eat the young squash like zucchini, and if it got older, I could eat it like winter squash. This would really solve the problem of too-far-gone zucchini, right? I also liked the name, but later heard rampicante is synonymous with the more well-known tromboncino, which I think I grew four years ago. It was just okay. Fooled again.  

Alrighty, I’m off to scan the nurseries for weird heirlooms like white tomatoes, padrone peppers, and some freaky perennial spinach.

You can read more from Novella on her blog, Ghost Town Farm. 

We Interrupt These Cookies

If you’re expecting a good post today, you can forget it.  I’ve already eaten all of my cookies, and now I’ve moved on to decimating one or more rhubarb pies, so I’m not to be disturbed.  Still, I wanted to say thanks for all of your nice comments.  Don’t tell the others, but you guys are my favorites!

One thing I’ll mention is that the food fable anthology I was telling you about, the one in which I take colonial American history into my own hands, is available for pre-order through Amazon.  Sometimes I think that pre-ordering a book that hasn’t been released yet can smack of desperation, so if you need to wait three days before placing your order, I’ll understand.  Or just buy it when it’s actually on sale, whenever that's going to be.  I’ll put a link over there in the sidebar so you don’t forget.  Because sometimes, if books sell well, and people like them, they let you write one all by yourself! 

Hope you’re having a nice Memorial Day weekend!

Maple-Stout Marinated Brisket

Ever wish there was a cookbook out there with seasonal recipes and sprawling, high-quality photographs that pay homage to your favorite local growers?  I’m sure there are thousands of these kinds of cookbooks that revolve around California farms, at least one cookbook per farm I imagine, but not so here in Massachusetts.  Here, there’s just one.  (So far.)  (That I know of.)

I’m talking about Fresh & Honest, a beautiful collection of recipes and seasonal sources from Peter Davis, chef of Henrietta’s Table in Cambridge.  The focus is on simple, traditional New England fare with fresh, local ingredients, but he takes that a step further by introducing us to the fishermen, cheesemakers, and farmers that supply his restaurant, including Pat Woodbury of Wellfleet, Bob Stetson of Westfield Farm in Hubbardston, and Steve Verrill of Concord’s Verrill Farm, among others.  Recipes include roasted pumpkin soup, strawberry-rhubarb compote, lobster chowder, red flannel hash with poached eggs, and grit cakes with mushrooms.  It’s such a pretty book (it recently won a New England Book Festival award), that I kind of wish I wrote it myself.  But former Boston Magazine colleague Alex Hall wrote it with Davis, so that’s close enough.  The point is that such a book exists and is available for such greedy little hands as mine.

I’ve been agonizing over which recipe to share with you, and I’ve finally settled on one: maple-stout marinated brisket, one last hearty, meaty dish before we move into summer’s lighter fare.  I know I’m in a minority among the Boston-area, beer-loving public, but I don’t love drinking stout (I’ve discussed this before).  I find its meatiness offensive in a beverage.  But I do like to cook with it, so I planned to use Moody St. Stout from Waltham’s own Watch City brewery to continue the local theme.  But, of course, they ran out right before I got there, so I had to quickly formulate a backup plan.  Twenty minutes later, their Chocolate Thunder Porter caught my eye.  Come to find out, it’s made with local Taza chocolate!  And the fact that it’s a porter, which I do like, AND it contains chocolate, meant that I had no problem helping Husband polish off the rest of the growler alongside this rich, tender, dark-chocolatey brisket.  Win-win.  

Maple-Stout Marinated Brisket

This is not a weekday meal.  It requires marinating, browning, and long, slow cooking for 6 hours.  Start early the day before you need to eat it. 

1 4-lb. beef brisket
1/3 cup Dijon mustard
½ cup maple syrup (the darker, the better)
2 cups stout (or chocolate porter!)
½ cup red wine vinegar
2 Tbsp. Worcestershire sauce
4 bay leaves
2 tsp. Tabasco sauce (I used way less because that much Tabasco scares me!)
1 cup onion, finely diced

In a medium saucepan, whisk together the mustard and maple syrup.  Add the beer, vinegar, Worcestershire sauce, bay leaves, Tabasco, and onion, and mix well.  Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer 2-3 minutes.  Let cool completely.

Soak the brisket in the marinade for 24 hours in the fridge.  Heat grill and brown over low heat on all sides, being careful not to burn it.  This can also be done in a hot, oven-proof skillet with a thin film of oil.  Preheat oven to 275°F.  In a tightly covered pan, cook brisket in the oven for 6 hours or so, basting with the marinade every hour.  When tender, remove from the oven and let rest tented with foil for 30 minutes.  Slice brisket across the grain and drizzle with pan drippings.  Serve with mashed potatoes and, I don’t know, maybe something green!

Source: Adapted from Fresh & Honest by Peter Davis and Alexandra Hall.

Local Food Sources:
Beef brisket: Chestnut Farms, Hardwick, MA
Mustard: Raye’s Mustard, Eastport, ME
Maple syrup: Williams Farm Sugarhouse, Old Deerfield, MA
Beer: Watch City Brewing Company, Waltham, MA

Toast: An Excerpt

So about that food anthology I’m in, Primal Picnics, which is being released by Whole World Press this spring, I thought you might be interested in sampling one more essay.  Barry Foy, author of The Devil’s Food Dictionary: A Pioneering Culinary Reference Work Consisting Entirely of Lies, generously offered to share an excerpt from his piece on toast.  I think you’ll find it to be far less idiotic than my Indian pudding contribution!

BARRY FOY 

An excerpt from
“Pioneering the ‘Spread on Toast’ Concept:
A Conversation with Louis-Émile Tartine”

Good afternoon, Monsieur Tartine.
Good afternoon. Is that chair comfortable enough?
It’s perfect, thank you.
May I offer you a drink?
I wouldn’t turn it down!
I’m in the mood for a Campari-soda myself. How does that sound?
Make it two.
Here. I hope that’s strong enough.
I’m sure it’s just right. Say, how about a “toast”?
I beg your pardon? Oh, yes, “toast,” I see. Haha, very droll. You Americans! Cheers, then.
Cheers! Well, should we start?
Whenever you’re ready.
All right. Unesco has declared 2008 “The International Year of Toast.” But frankly, I don’t see what all the fuss is about. I mean, it’s only toast.
Get out of my house!

[Unfortunately, M. Tartine abruptly terminated our interview at this point, and within a month he was dead. The following is the conversation as I imagine it, had things worked out as planned. It combines questions I intended to ask with answers that, based on my reading of various other interviews, I feel confident M. Tartine may well have provided.]

Hello again.
Oh, it’s you.
What a handsome ascot! Where did you get it?
I don’t know. Something my wife picked out. She chooses all my clothes.
I see. Well, where should we start? Maybe you could begin by describing the toast of your childhood.
Certainly; I remember it as if it were yesterday. In those days, bear in mind, the word “toast” referred merely to plain, roasted bread.
Any particular type of bread?
It varied. Given a choice, obviously, everyone would have eaten fine white loaves, but in reality only the upper classes could afford them. Working families such as mine ate darker, heavier breads made of rye and other coarse flours.
Was it always eaten toasted?
Oh, my, no! Who would have had time for that?
I don’t follow you.
Don’t forget that this was long before the home kitchen was a showroom for all manner of gadget and appliance, as it is now. When I was young, only the rich had a ready means of toasting bread at home.
So how did you do it?
We didn’t. That was the baker’s job. His oven was the only reliable source of heat in town.
You mean you bought the bread already toasted?
No. It worked like this: You’d buy a loaf from the baker and take it home. Then, when you wanted toast, you’d cut off the desired number of pieces and take them back to him to be toasted. Being the youngest child, I was usually assigned this errand. As the bread toasted, I and dozens of other children waited in a cluster outside the bakery door.
So then you’d take the toast home?
Yes. But one had to run as fast as possible, before it could cool. Unluckily for me, I wasn’t a particularly fast runner, and I received many brutal beatings from my father for bringing him lukewarm toast. My father was a remarkable man.
Tell me more about your father.
Get out of my house!

[TWO DAYS LATER]

Hello.
I’m sorry—have we met?
Yes, I was here two days ago. You were telling me about bringing toast from the bakery as a child.
I’ll take your word for it.
I’m curious as to why people wanted their bread toasted in the first place.
Why? Goodness knows. I’ve never given it any thought.
Were the breads of that era more flavorful toasted, maybe?
Not really. In fact, they were far tastier fresh. Come to think of it, I suppose it was a matter of texture.
Texture?
Good toast has a very pleasing crunchiness about it, wouldn’t you agree?
I guess so, but...
People today have no idea how rare crunchiness used to be! It seems as if everything’s crunchy now: potato chips, cookies, candy bars. There’s crunch everywhere you look. But in those days, yes, we had crispness, plenty of crispness—celery, apples, that sort of thing—but real crunch was a scarce commodity, and toast was about the only affordable source of it for the common man. It was one of our few real pleasures in life. That and worshiping Satan.
Huh?
Haha, my little joke!
I see.
I had you there, didn’t I?
For a moment, I guess...
Hahaha. You Americans!
May we continue?
Be my guest.
So, with your discerning palate, I gather the toast struck you as quite bland.
Not really.
I picture you thinking, “Something’s missing here. Surely there’s a way to make this more flavorful.”
I can’t say that occurred to me, no.
But such drab food...
Good Lord, man, it was only roasted bread! How delicious was it supposed to be? Let’s not get carried away.
Well, then...
Yes? Spit it out!
What about the innovation you’re internationally famous for?
Which one?
You know, spreading stuff on toast.
What about it?
It wasn’t for the sake of flavor?
It had nothing to do with flavor—it happened by accident!
It did?
You Americans!
With all due respect, Monsieur, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop insulting my nationality.
What?! Get out of my house!

***

To read the rest, well, you’ll just have to buy the book!

Hot Stacks

Oh my god, you guys, I have to tell you about this awesome place I discovered. They let you pick out books to borrow, as many as you want, FOR FREE. No kidding. I mean, assuming you return them on time or miniscule charges will accrue. It’s called a “public library” and there’s one pretty much everywhere. There are free slow computers with even slower Internet access, too. Why haven’t we heard anything about these “public libraries” before?

Now that we’ve cancelled our Netflix account, discontinued our magazine subscriptions, and slashed every area of our budget besides mortgage, utilities, and food, I’m starting to explore all of the areas of the public library, not just the book section. Like the public restrooms. Just kidding, but did you know that you can rent DVDs? It’s true! Cookbooks? Of course. Magazines. Well, you can at least flip through them on-site and write out your freelance ideas onto note cards that will later be formulated into query letters that will be systematically rejected by every one of those publications because everyone has cancelled their magazine subscriptions. Apparently, I’m shooting myself in the foot with this whole library thing, but that’s okay because the building has these large, low buttons that, if you aim your cane just right, activate these automatic doors that open right in front of you. AMAZING!

Anyway, I’ve been reading a lot of books lately. First, I read all of the breast cancer memoirs that have been published, both to help me sort out some of this emotional baggage that’s been packed away for six months, and also to see if all of the cancer-related writing that I diverted away from this blog and into a folder in the dank basement recesses of my hard drive could be turned into anything useful. Maybe something that might help somebody else. But no, according to my formal queries. Apparently, cancer’s not funny. Really? It’s not? Thanks for telling me. Also, it’s overpublished. Call us back when you have a more obscure, deadlier disease. Okay. I’ll keep my fingers crossed! Also, nobody reads essays anymore. Are you sure about that? Short-form writing is dead. (cough) Twitter.

But that’s okay. I didn’t want to write about cancer anyway. Cancer doesn’t deserve it. So I’m back to reading food books, and, my oh my, do I love them. Here are some of my favorites:

• Cod by Mark Kurlansky. Doesn’t this sound like the most boring read ever? About a fish. Well, it’s not. The history and plight of the cod are fascinating and still very important today. If only my high school social studies teachers were able to convey history so enjoyably. Kurlansky also wrote Salt about the humble mineral that changed the world.

• Farm City by Novella Carpenter. A UC Berkeley grad moves to Oakland and starts a small urban farm amid the gangs and crackhouses. First it’s just vegetables, but soon she’s raising poultry, bees, rabbits, and pigs. From dumpster-diving for pig chow to navigating the transition from life to their inevitable death, her writing is full of dry humor and a passionate love of food.

• A Platter of Figs by David Tanis. Written by the co-chef of Chez Panisse, this cookbook is full of relatively simple, seasonal menu ideas that will put your farm vegetables to good use. The photography is absolutely gorgeous and makes you yearn for in-season cherry tomato crostini with ricotta and Vietnamese cucumbers. The Preschooler was fascinated by this book and made me help him read the recipe names over and over and over again. I didn’t mind a bit.

• The Jungle Effect by Daphne Miller. Possibly my favorite so far (though I haven’t finished it), this book examines how certain indigenous diets evolved, from Mexico to Cameroon, and how they relate to low incidences of diabetes, cancer, and heart disease in those same populations. The idea is to examine how some of these concepts can be applied to our diet today to help counteract the negative impacts of a modern, industrialized diet. Fascinating stuff, I tell you. Very interesting psychological insights as well. There are a couple of copies available at the Lexington and Medfield libraries, if you’re interested (you can also request that a copy be sent to your own branch if you’re part of the Minuteman Library Network).

So, what else have you guys been reading lately?

Last Raffle Winner

And the winner of The Devil’s Food Dictionary is…Alexis!

Wow, I couldn’t have rigged that any better if I tried. Alexis is the reigning champion of codeSparrow so far, and I was worried that I’d have to come up with some kind of prizes for that site, too. And I’m running out. We’re down to just my sauerkraut at this point and, given how tasty it came out this time (finally), I’m hard-pressed to share. Plus, is it gross to eat somebody else’s sauerkraut? I hope not since we had our neighbors over last weekend for a sauerkraut bake with pork chops and brats and, now that I think about it, I haven’t heard from them since. Hello?

Anyway, thanks to everyone for participating. I wish I had something for each of you. And thanks to Husband for policing the whole raffling process. He’ll make an honest woman out of me, yet. Maybe.

Suddenly UnScrooge-Like, Part 3

Up for grabs in our next and final raffle is a brand new (dare I say autographed?) copy of one of the best food books out there, if truth and factual accuracy mean nothing to you. I’ve written about The Devil’s Food Dictionary: A Pioneering Culinary Reference Work Consisting Entirely of Lies before, and I likely will again. I will continue to write about this book until it takes its rightful place on shelves alongside (maybe even in front of) Ruhlman and Bourdain and Fisher. An excerpt:

fig Known as "Nature's racy metaphor," the fig is a luscious tree fruit that, at its ripest and most succulent, has a disreputable air of wantonness and sensuality. Figs can be dried into a tasty, durable snack food or incorporated, either dried or fresh, into works of fiction. Adam and Eve are said to have employed fig leaves to "cover their shame" after their expulsion from Eden. Sometime later, their son Cain murdered his brother Abel after the latter publicly joked that a whole leaf was not necessary to cover Cain's shame, but merely a single fig.

See? It’s good, wholesome fun for the whole family!

You may remember author Barry Foy as the guest poster extraordinaire who introduced us to his canned bean CSA over the summer. I came along to his Toot Hollow Farm CSA pickup last fall down a long, long, very long asphalt road in the middle of nowhere, pepper spray hidden in my pocket and firmly in my grasp the whole time, and, let me tell you, it was a delight! Really, you smell it before you see it.

Anyhoo, he just did a book signing thing out in Seattle as well as a radio interview that was pretty funny. If you’d like a chance to win this book, I’ll meet you down there in the comment section.

Misunderstanding Michael Pollan: The Omnivore’s Dilemma, Chapter 7

It's been a while, so let's recap.  So far, Michael Pollan has advocated unlimited unprotected sex, bombing the shit out of as many countries as possible, bringing back the pre-Prohibition days of public drunkenness, and reinstituting enforced busing into our white, white, cowless suburbs.  Now I can understand why he’s earned his reputation as a radical. 

After all this, and on our seventh date, the last place I expected him to take me was McDonald's.  But okay, Michael Pollan, if you're buying.  A large fries, please.  Oh, and a strawberry shake.

In the last chapter of the corn section, Pollan drives home the point that corn is in everything we eat (remember the two-bit ho?).  From the meat that has been fattened on corn, to the corn syrup used as a sweetener, to the cornstarch and corn flour used to bind and bulk, to the fat used to fry.  Whether you're buying a prepackaged meal at the grocery store or grabbing a quick bite at a fast food joint, you can count on about 60% of the calories, on average, to come from corn.

Still, even Michael Pollan admits he isn't immune to corn's cunning charms:

"I ate a lot of McDonald's as a kid....  I loved everything about fast food: the individual portions all wrapped up like presents...; the familiar meaty perfume of the French fries filling the car; and the pleasingly sequenced bite into a burger—the soft, sweet roll, the crunchy pickle, the savory moistness of the meat."

You're really speaking my language, Michael Pollan.  Keep it coming.

"Well-designed fast food has a fragrance and flavor all its own...this generic fast-food flavor is one of the unerasable smells and tastes of childhood—which makes it a kind of comfort food.  Like other comfort foods, it supplies (besides nostalgia) a jolt of carbohydrates and fat, which, some scientists now believe, relieve stress and bath the brain in chemicals that make it feel good."

Uh-huh, tell me more.

"...but after a few bites I'm more inclined to think they're selling something more schematic than that—something more like a signifier of comfort food.  So you eat more and eat more quickly, hoping somehow to catch up to the original idea of a cheeseburger or French fry as it retreats over the horizon.  And so it goes, bite after bite, until you feel not satisfied exactly, but simply, regrettably, full."

Well, that was downer.  Note to Michael Pollan: if you're trying to sex me up, use more descriptors like "meaty perfume" and "savory moistness."  Still, I know what he means.  It’s like eating cheap chocolate.  I can eat 25 Hershey bars and still hanker for more, but give me a single, well-made truffle and I'm good.  (Congratulations, Hershey.  I guess you win.)

Anyway, this concludes the Corn section, thank god.  It’s only been six months.  Now we can move on to the section we've all been waiting for: Grass.  (Pass the French fries.)

The Devil Is In the Details

Rejoice Devil’s Food Dictionary lovers, your prayers have finally been answered.  The complete Devil’s Food Dictionary by Barry Foy is out in book form, just in time for my birthday and the birthdays of other more prominent religious figures. 

What do I need another food dictionary for, you might ask?  I already have the Food Lover’s Companion by Sharon Tyler Herbst, and she ROCKS. 

She does rock.  No question.  But let’s see what she has to say about cannibals:

Actually, she seems to have forgotten to include an entry for cannibals.  Tsk, tsk, tsk.  But not Barry Foy.  Let’s see his definition:

“Cannibal: A person who engages in the culinary equivalent of incest, that is, a hunter-gatherer who hunts and gathers other hunter-gatherers, usually while they are out gathering, because they tend to be less alert at that time than when they are out hunting.  Cannibals often consume particular parts in hopes of magically improving their own corresponding parts.  For example, a warrior might eat an admired rival’s heart so as to increase the boldness of his own heart.  In a similar spirit, he might make a meal of his neighbor’s nubile and attractive wife.”

I’m sorry, what were we talking about? 

Oh yeah, buying this book.  If you know anyone who loves food, or hates food, or has a love/hate relationship with food, then this is the book for them.

I’ll leave you with one more to ponder:

“Love: The universal nutrient, adaptable to all human cuisines.  This affordable, easy-to-use substance enhances the nutritional value of virtually any dish.  Dissolved easily in water, wine, milk, oil, gravy, mayonnaise (store-bought or homemade), soy sauce, lard, ghee, or even Vegemite, it can be added either during or after food preparation and has an extremely long shelf life.  Significantly, love’s beneficial effects operate without regard to the skill level of the cook; in fact, many people look back fondly on dishes—sometimes whole meals—in which love was the only appealing or even palatable ingredient.  Best of all, love does not stain saucepans or kitchen countertops.”