Carol

The (Northern) Spy Who Came in From the Cold (Storage)

December 23, 2016 by Carol 1 Comment

apples

Apples are probably the most American of fruits. We like apples so much that Bartlett’s Quotations is full sayings about it:
The apple of my eye
An apple a day keeps the doctor away
An apple for the teacher
One bad apple spoils the entire barrel
In fact, apples are as American as, well, apple pie.
And then, of course, is Johnny Appleseed, the man crossed the country spreading seed so that no man would be without hard cider.
But, for all my love of country, I have a confession. For several years, I gave up on eating most of the orbs, and for good reason.
The old standby McIntoshes of my childhood had become flavorless.
Red Delicious can be mealy.
Gala and Fiji are a little too sweet, and Golden Delicious is sickly sweet.
McCouns were great eaten straight from the tree but they have a very short season. Most of the McCouns I’ve bought at the grocery get soft and mushy fast. And, by the way, how do you pronounce the name? is it McCoun as in crown, or McCoun as in coon?)
Bottom line: I’ve been missing the refreshing crunch and sweet-tart flavor of a good eating apple, the kind I used to pick when I worked as a picker in an orchard.
But, wouldn’t you know, just as I was beginning to think that I would never find the perfect apple, along came the SnapDragon. Developed at Cornell University and based on the Honey Crisp, these apples are the absolute best for eating out of hand: sweet, but not too sweet, and crisp, crisp, crisp. Since the variety is fairly new, its availability is not widespread, but I was lucky to discover them at my local Price Chopper.
I now have a reason to come in from the cold storage.
The SnapDragon is now the apple of my eye.

Go West, Young Woman

November 13, 2016 by Carol Leave a Comment

Bonanza, The High Chaparral, Rawhide. I loved all those Westerns, and even developed a teenage fantasy about living on a ranch in Wyoming or Montana. That was, of course, before I discovered that I am highly allergic to horses. And to the hay in the barn. And to the cats that live in the hay in the barn. My dream had to be placed in the file under “denied.”

I digress. Our dear friends’ daughter was getting married, so J and I flew out to Utah for the wedding. We figured that as long as we were traveling such a long distance, it would be a great opportunity to take a few days to explore the area. Well, driving from Salt Lake City through Utah and Idaho to Wyoming brought back all the vast desert and jagged mountain scenery I had gawked at in the movies, on television, and in the pages of Zane Grey novels — but in color. I fell in love all over again.

Winding through the breathtakingly beautiful Snake River Canyon in Idaho’s Magic Valley, I found myself gasping at every turn. Thank goodness we have digital cameras now; otherwise, I would have plowed through dozens of rolls of film.

Then we got to Wyoming and its Tetons. I am without words to describe their majesty. They rise suddenly and startingly from the flat desert, straight up into the air.

We were in the park before dawn to be sure to see the elk rutting. (Hmm. That actually sounds somewhat voyeuristic, doesn’t it?) The fog was thick and, although we couldn’t see much, if any, of the fabulous mountains, we didn’t have to jostle with other visitors. Apparently, most people prefer sunshine.

But! Talk about clouds and silver linings. The bulls, having left their bros during the rut, galloped across the plains with their harems. We didn’t view any fights among bulls vying for the ladies’ affection, but we did view one between two antelope.

The other advantage of the fog was that it was the perfect vehicle to carry the sound of the male elk’s bugling. From our position at the top of a tall peak, we could hear the call bouncing through around the cliffs. Haunting and beautiful. And we had it all to ourselves.

By the time we left the park, the sky had cleared but the road into the park resembled the Southeast Expressway at rush hour.

Fun With Fungi: My Virgin Voyage as a Mushroom Hunter

May 29, 2016 by Carol 2 Comments

Few people, either on foot or in cars, were on the road this morning, but who could blame them? The oppressive heat and humidity had Oyster mushrooms been hanging on for days, with no relief in sight. But the weather didn’t deter us; we were off on our very first mushroom hunting expedition. I had been dreaming about this for months and nothing would stand in my way.

We joined up at Kennedy Park in Lenox with some other folks who had traveled some distance for the hunt and were thrilled when John Wheeler, President of the Berkshire Mycological Society, arrived soon after to teach us some basics about mushrooms and mushrooming. Just as I thought we would embark on our quest, he burst our collective bubble by telling us that commercial pickers had wiped the park clean. But, like a novelist who knows how to devise a good plot, he then redeemed himself by bringing us to another place further down the road.

Birdsong and the babble of running water, along with the occasional snapping twig, filled the woods with cheerful music. The forest floor was damp and fragrant with the aroma of decaying leaves. And slippery. I found long branch to use as a walking stick that turned out to be a wise decision.

We hiked down a hill, over felled trees, under branches, and through said babbling brook. I have to admit I expended more energy attempting to remain upright than I did actually seeking out fungi. Perhaps with practice this will get easier, I thought.

It turned out that John had to leave early to attend a wedding, so we were left to fend for ourselves. Afraid that we would get lost in the woods, we tried to follow him as he ascended the steep embankment with the agility of a gazelle. We realized quickly that we were not going to make it. Remember “slippery?” Well, my feet lost their grip on the muddy slope and as I slid downward, one leg wrapped around a tree while the rest of me continued down the slope. Trust me when I say this was not the most attractive pose I have ever been in, and I pray that nobody had a camera at that precise moment.

Although only one member of our party found a single oyster mushroom, we did succeed in netting some wild ramps and wild ginger, so the hike wasn’t a complete bust.

The beauty of exploring nature with the possibility of finding treasure is enchanting, and I think probably addictive, but next time I’ll stick to flat terrain. And I’ve already ordered a couple of field guides to ensure that I don’t ingest the wrong type of fungus.

As the Croatians like to say, “Every mushroom is edible, but some only once.”

Stuffed Sabich Sandwich Satisfies

May 2, 2016 by Carol 1 Comment

Although I had a boyfriend of Iraqi-Kurdish descent when I was young, and spent a fair amount of time at his family’s home, I had never heard of, much less eaten, a sabich. But on a recent visit to Israel I was introduced to this iconic sandwich made with fried eggplant, tehina, hummus, hardboiled egg, Israeli salad, pickles, sometimes a potato, and pickled mango sauce called amba– all stuffed into a pita or rolled into laffa. What was once a traditional Saturday morning breakfast for Iraqi Jews has become an Israeli street food almost as popular as falafel.

If that is true, then why hadn’t I ever had one before? After all, I’ve been to Israel numerous times, an even lived there for a while.

The situation had to be remedied.

So, on my day off from meetings, I wound my way down to Jerusalem’s Ben Yehuda pedestrian mall, curious to try something new. I ordered myself a sabich at Moshiko. The guy behind the counter piled so many ingredients onto the large flat laffa that, when he rolled it up, it threatened to burst. Pieces of vegetable and egg fell onto the counter; he stuffed them back in and sent me on my way.

I found a seat outside at a high-top table, laid paper down and dug in. Now, I happen to have a very healthy appetite, but this particular sabich could have fed a small family. Vegetables slithered out, carrying with them dripping sauce and challenging both my balancing abilities and the dimensions of my mouth.

I got only about a quarter of the way through before deciding to focus my attention on the eggplant. It was luscious, if a bit oily, with crispy edges. After a few morsels I gave up, realizing that I probably would have been just as happy with a simple combination of eggplant, tehina, and some shredded cabbage – in a small pita.

Last night I prepared sabich for dinner using the recipe below, with a few changes, and it was very good. A very helpful hint for frying eggplant: toss it in a bowl with one or two beaten egg whites first. It reduces the amount of oil absorbed into the normally sponge-like fruit. Also, I prefer my eggplant cubed rather than sliced. It cooks faster and allows for more surfaces to be crispy.

http://www.seriouseats.com/recipes/2016/03/sabich-sandwich-eggplant-egg-hummus-pita-recipe.html

Locavore or Faravore?

March 1, 2016 by Carol 1 Comment

Locavore. Locally grown. Farm-to-table. These terms have become ubiquitous among the health conscious, environmentally aware, and food-loving population. It sometimes seems that if you don’t know where that apple was grown, you don’t want it. Somewhat in this vein, my daughter once told me that if she were to eat chicken, she would want to know how it was raised, what it was fed, and that she would even want to visit the farm so that she could confirm its good upbringing. My response was that by the time she had done all that she would have known the bird too well – probably by name – and would never have taken a bite. After all, could she eat somebody whose home she had visited?

But, back to that apple. Where did it really come from? And what about the peanut in your PB&J? Or the eggplant in your parmigiana?

Fascinated almost to the point of obsession, I have spent the past few years researching the histories of some of my favorite foods: their origins, how they got to various points across the globe, and what the people of those places have done with them. I have found — and prepared — not only recipes that include the foods, but all manner of artifacts, literature, and rituals.

The research has been fun and sometimes even surprising. (Who knew that the tomato was the subject of a U.S. Supreme Court case?) And the variety of dishes is amazing. Take the grape. The French, Brazilians, Hungarians, and Mexicans all have different ways of incorporating it into their national cuisines, and all in different ways.

It’s time to make supper now. What shall it be tonight?

Continuing on a Theme of Scoville Units and Decibels

February 10, 2016 by Carol 1 Comment

“Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,

To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.”

(William Congreve The Mourning Bride, 1697)

I think it’s pretty clear from the fact that I write about food that I love it. And, between the dial on my radio, the CD player, and summers volunteering at Tanglewood, summer home of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, it is probably no secret that I love music.

Combining the two can deepen the experience of being with friends and family. Whether a picnic on the lawn at Tanglewood or dinner around the table, music can enhance both the flavors and the atmosphere of breaking bread.

What I cannot abide is the ear-splitting music at too many restaurants. Last month we had an absolutely delicious dinner at a Greek restaurant. When the waitstaff came out to perform authentic folk dances, complete with smashing dishes, we were delighted at the unexpected addition to the evening. However, we were less than thrilled when the decibel level of the accompanying music was set to “deafening.” Worse, when asked to turn down the volume, the manager refused.

As long as I’m ranting, it’s just not cool when the music at a wedding (or bar mitzvah, quinceañera, or candidate’s election night party) is so loud that guests have to repair to the lobby in order to have a conversation. If I go to the trouble to get all farpitzs for an evening out (as opposed to my writing uniform of jeans and slippers), I want to enjoy the glow.

I wonder what Congreve would say if he were to wander into the Hard Rock Café today. His savage breast might just heave up and throttle the inventor of the amplifier.

Phew. Glad I got that off my chest.